Pop

“Pop” passed away this week. He wasn’t my “Pop” – he was my son-in-law’s. And, he sure played a big role in my son-in-law’s life. I can’t recall a single conversation about his family that my son-in-law didn’t include something about Pop, which is quite something, considering my son-in-law is nearly 30, with a wife and a life of his own.

I only met Pop a few times; the things I remember about him were his wise, kind eyes – with more than a hint of humor in them – and, his deep, deep Southern voice. He had that kind of Southern accent the rest of the country wishes they had - slow, soft, rolling, no hint of a twang.

While I have only heard a little about the Pop who was the grandpa of my son-in-law when he was a boy, based on how close they remained, they must have had some pretty good times. There were tales of a trip to Estes Park, Colorado with Meme (Pop’s wife of nearly 60 years) and Pop; and, tales of time spent in their trailer on a lot in the mountains nearby. It sounded like there was always lots of good food and plenty of laughter and more than enough Tom-foolery to go around…

As an adult, my son-in-law would sometimes receive the gift of a shirt – one Pop had worn “back in the day” - that somehow fit his grandson perfectly, and had that hint of “retro” that made it a fashion find. Pop’s jackets and suits had the same effect, as they were doled out, with seeming perfect timing, as my son-in-law came of age, and became a man.

The week my daughter and son-in-law were married was full of sweet stories and gestures on both family’s parts. I remember, in particular, the excitement with which my son-in-law came over early one morning, carrying an old photo in an antique-looking frame. It was of Meme and Pop on their wedding day, and, young Pop bore a more than striking resemblance to his grandson, our groom, my son-in-law about to be.

“See,” he said with unabashed excitement. “I look just like Pop!”

Also that week I got to hear the story of Meme and Pop, from Meme. She said they were in the second grade together, and one day Pop brought his duck for show-and-tell.
“He had on short pants, and he was standing there, so proud, just holding that duck,” Meme said. “I knew right then, he was the one for me.”

They were sweethearts for 77 more years, with Pop passing on just before their 60th anniversary. She said Pop used to bring her funny little treats, like a bag of cherries or a piece of gum…maybe that’s why my son-in-law used to appear at our door, when he was still courting, with a single rose, or several gardenias, or some other pretty sweet-smelling treat – usually picked from Meme and Pop’s yard.

Men like Pop are the unwavering, ever present, cornerstones of families lucky and blessed enough to have such a guardian, champion, director and friend. And, men like these set such strong, solid examples that it is hard for their families not to follow in their foot steps and raise strong, solid families of their own.

These Pops, Grampas, PeePaws (or whatever they are called) are the first to offer a piece of candy or ask you to come sit in their lap, and the last person on this earth you want to hear a word of disappointment or correction from. Those of us lucky enough to have had such a force in our lives work hard to follow in those big footsteps, even after Grampa or PeePaw is gone. And, we miss them – their laughter, their humor, their gifts of old clothes and wisdom, for so very long after they’re gone.

So, rest in peace, Pop, and know that you affected so many, so profoundly – even those like me that barely circled around the edge of your life, and your family – were touched by the way you loved and were loved so deeply.

Some men leave a bigger hole than others, when they go; and, that is the case with Pop. Our hearts and prayers go out to each family that has lost their “Pop,” as it is a hurt that eases with time, but never, ever, really goes away.

Weddings

Partners…tied together by stuff too difficult to explain to someone new.”

One of my jobs is wedding photographer, so I have the privilege and honor of seeing a lot of couples tie the knot. And, while all weddings are similar in goal, each is unique in execution.

Some weddings are very laid back and casual…maybe it’s a second marriage, or maybe the couple is so low-key and in love that they are able to remain focused on what really matters - which is that they are having a ceremony to formally and publicly unite their hearts, minds, and lives – to be followed by a party to give their friends and family a chance to celebrate that decision with them.

Other weddings are such complex three-ring circuses that even Barnum & Bailey couldn’t keep things on track. One that comes to mind involved 6 attendants each for the bride and groom, 12 junior bridesmaids and groomsmen, 4 ring boys and flower girls, and 4 long divorced-some-remarried-with-new-children parents.

Another involved a groom who had, to his credit, been a UGA football player, so he had something like 15 groomsmen, to the bride’s 9 bridesmaids. They traveled in “pods” (as the wedding coordinator called them) down the aisle, because the groomsman-to-bridesmaid ratio was so generous that one bridesmaid preceded two groomsmen down the aisle…A lovely wedding that, but so many people!

Some weddings are multi-cultural or racial, which makes for great pictures, as the two cultures bump up against each other in honor of the union that has just occurred…One family brightly clad in the formal regalia of their customs, the other dressed in the prim and proper pastels their celebrations demand…

Those weddings are fun because there are two different kinds of food, and two different types of music, and many (for each of the two cultures involved…) potentially unsettling traditions that, in the spirit of the event, have to be experienced…Christians being spun in the air in chairs by Jews…Ceremonies ending with the smashing of glasses and signing of documents called Ketubahs…Women in saris and a bride’s body painted with henna - little sparkling dots called “bindis” on her forehead…

Before one of those weddings I learned it is a tradition for the henna painted all over the bride’s body to include the groom’s initials, and that him looking for his initials is a bit of wedding night ice breaker…Pretty good tradition, I’m thinking, given the obvious wedding night jitters I’ve seen on the nervous faces of some of the couples I’ve photographed…

The ceremonies are all different, too – some pastors and officiants are more inspired, involved and joyful than others…There is the minister (or in one case, married pair of ministers, which I thought was really sweet) that has watched the bride grow up, maybe having even baptized her as an infant…And there is the hired officiant for the destination wedding who is no more known to the couple than “Adam’s Tom Cat” (as my Gramma would call a complete stranger.)

One of the “Adam’s Tom Cat” officiants had a really nice message during the ceremony, as he had the couple not only hold, but look at their hands being held together.

“Look at these hands you hold today,” he said. “For these are the hands which will hold yours on the best and worst days of your lives…These are the hands you will hold when you are sick and when you are well…When your children are born and when – God forbid – something wrong happens to them…These are the hands you will turn to for comfort, your whole lives long…And, they are the last hands you will hold, as you leave this earth, thankful that you had each other as company all the days of your lives…”

Wonderful message, that…And, there was a really inspired, fired up minister at a multi-cultural wedding talking about how hard marriage is, and that “what you are doing today is agreeing to be the loudest voice at the 50-yard line” when your spouse succeeds, and “the only voice left in the dark stadium where everyone else has gone home” when your spouse fails…He talked about how what makes a couple a couple – each couple special unto itself – is the private time, jokes and laughs that no one else knows about.

“I guarantee you that today, and tomorrow, and the next day, and many days after that, something will happen between the two of you to cause you to laugh - deep belly laughs – and no one else will notice or have been there. But years from now, something will trigger a memory of that event and that laughter, and you will both smile – no matter how old you are, or how long you’ve been married…That is the friendship and union you are entering into today,” that minister said.

And, what a fine thought that is…For all of us old married couples and all of those newlyweds being photographed…A club, exclusive membership, only you and your best friend for life get to belong…Forever, or at least “’til death do you part”…What a grand adventure, and what a fun thing to get to experience each time a couple chooses me to capture those particular memories…an honor and an privilege.

Waving Girl

Florence Martus, also known as “The Waving Girl” of Savannah, was a small, slender woman who was known to wear long flowing skirts and always have a Collie at her side. She lived with her brother George, the light house keeper on Elba Island, at the mouth of the Savannah River from 1886-1931. And, for all those 44 years, she greeted ships as they came and went from that busy port.

By day, she waved to the ships – and the sailors on board – with a kerchief. At night, she used a lantern. And, mariners the world-wide fell in love with her.

The imagined story was that she was engaged to be married to a seaman - much like the ones she waved so enthusiastically to – but one day he left, never to return, presumably lost at sea. Nothing could keep Miss Florence from hoping for her beloved’s return, and so she turned to waving to every ship that passed by, still wishful that someday, she might see her sailor waving back, from the deck of some ship long at sea…

And, while Miss Florence’s love, if he ever existed, didn’t come back, the thankful horn blasts from the ships passing kept that “Waving Girl” waving. And, it turns out, she did some saving, as well.

In 1893, at the age of 25, Miss Florence and her brother George reportedly braved hurricane conditions in their low, flat-bottomed row boat, to save several men from a sinking craft. Shortly after that, she and George rescued all but one of the crew of a government dredge that had caught fire and was rapidly sinking.

According to Savannah historians, George and Miss Florence George attended church regularly, and visited town once a month, for supplies, library books and mail. The mail the “Waving Girl” included letters, gifts and poetry from mariners all over the world.

In 1931, George, at the age of 70, was forced to retire from keeping the Elba Island lighthouse. This meant that the “Waving Girl” was forced to retire, too. She and George moved to town. News spread quickly about the “Waving Girl” being able to wave no more, and shortly after Miss Florence and George left their island cottage for good, she received $523 from well-wishers world-wide – a huge sum during the Great Depression.

Miss Florence continued to keep Collies, attend church regularly, read library books, and gather her mail, but those who knew her have said she never really took to life on the mainland all that well.
In 1938, some 3,000 people turned out for her 70th birthday celebration – a city-wide event that she was quoted as calling, the “grandest day” of her life. In 1943, at the age of 75, Savannah’s “Waving Girl,” died, after a short bout of pneumonia.

A 20-foot bronze statue of “The Waving Girl” was erected in Savannah’s Riverside Park in 1972, near the island where Miss Florence spent most of her life. The same artist who did the memorial of the Marines raising the flag on Iwo Jima was commissioned to the work. An anonymous donor contributed most of the $50,000 it cost to have the statue made.

And, don’t we all wish he was a lowly seaman, now wildly successful, who fell in love with the “Waving Girl” as he passed by on some ship where he served as a young deckhand back when they were both young and fair?

On my first trip to Savannah, the statue of “The Waving Girl” caught my eye, and I have loved Miss Florence’s story ever since – both the real and the made-up parts. Imagine living on a small island with your brother for years and years…the only thing breaking up your days being the passing of ships, and the appreciative toot of their horns, in response to your kerchief in the wind, or your lantern in the dark of night…Imagine rescuing sailors from sinking ships…and, always having those elegant Collies at your side…Imagine the gifts and poems and letters she must have received…

There’s just something so marvelous about a juicy, old-fashioned story like that…Now days, Miss Florence wouldn’t wave or probably even go out of the house. She would simply Twitter as ships passed by, hoping that a few of the sailors on board were her followers (or Tweeps), so they could receive her Tweets…Someday that may be the stuff of which fine stories are made, but for now, please, let me have the story, and the statue, the Collies, lanterns, light house and kerchiefs… In spite of the need to stay current, my old imagination just works better that way.

(Thank you to Erin Rossiter of the Athens Banner-Herald, for filling in the gaps in my knowledge of Miss Florence’s story in “The Long Wave,” the 5.17.09 paper.)

Glory Bound

“When I hear that trumpet sound, I will lay my burdens down…I’ll be travelin’ far from home…I’m waiting for that train to come. I know where she’s coming from. Listen can you hear her on the track? When I board I won’t be looking back…Hallelujah. ”
- from “Glory Bound,” a song by Ruth Moody

I was an EMT on an ambulance a few years back. One of the things you do a lot of on an ambulance is haul elderly people back and forth from the hospital to their home or nursing home. These trips become more frequent as a person’s health declines, and after a while, you begin to know these passengers pretty well – and, how they look health-wise.

One thing I observed is, as a person’s health begins to seriously fail, the person takes on an increasingly transparent look - as if they are slowly becoming more of a reflection of themselves than the real thing.

Much to the amusement of my paramedic colleagues, I tried to explain what I was seeing in these patients as being “like a really well-worn T-shirt – a favorite that’s been worn and washed a million times. There’s no holes in it, but the cloth has gotten really thin, almost like you can see right through it...” Many laughs generated there - but, to me the phenomenon is real. And, I still see it happening around me today.

In fact, a beloved and elderly neighbor of mine seems to become slightly more translucent every time I see her. In her case, the translucence may come as much from her rock solid faith in God, and her excitement about that faith, as it comes from failing health, as she’s actually doing better physically than she has in a long time.

The other evening I was sitting with her, chatting, enjoying the birds singing and the cool spring air. Somehow the topic turned to heaven and how her face lit up! It lit up so brightly it was almost aglow, and in that instant, her translucence became really obvious.

She began to tell me about how she hopes to see her sisters in heaven, and how much fun it’s going to be to be able to move about quickly again. We joked about her needing running shoes in heaven, because she’d have so much ground to cover…What a joy-filled conversation it was - my neighbor so sure of her next stop, and me, so uplifted by her version of what heaven would be like.

I went home that night, and sat wondering for quite awhile – out in the dark yard, stars shining brightly above – what it would be like to be that sure of where death will take you…How comforting that must be. My faith is strong, but I’m still really afraid of death, and the details of what comes next are pretty hazy in my mind…

At the hospital, in the emergency room, where I now work as a social worker, you see death relatively often. It comes in many shapes and forms, and is kinder to some than others. In a “good” death, the person is elderly and has lived a long, full life. He or she has family gathered around. They seem close to one another, and their faith is strong. Often the person who is dying knows he or she is about to pass, and often there seems to be an uncanny peace about the process.

It is not uncommon for the dying person to focus on a part of the room where no one is standing, and begin to talk to someone in the family who has already died – as if they were at the bedside along with the living. In these cases, one of the family members will explain that, “Mama’s been doing that a lot lately - talking to my brother, as if he’s still here. He’s been gone for nearly 25 years - died in a car wreck when he was young. I’m not sure why she thinks he’s here, but she sure has been talking about him a lot lately. Before now, it’s been years since she’s spoken his name.”

Sometimes it’s a parent, or a spouse, or a sibling the dying person sees and begins to talk with. Occasionally, it’s just a “beautiful angel, surrounded by light”… According to the scientists, when a person is very sick, or about to die, their blood and brain chemistry changes, and they hallucinate. There are no long lost relatives in the room, no angels – only messed up potassium levels and such…

That may be, but I prefer my version, where a person on their way from this world to the next begins to make a transition…and a little while later, loved ones who have already made the trip show up to guide them…I sincerely hope my neighbor has a good many years left on this earth, but it makes me less sad to think of her going, whenever that occurs, knowing that she will be greeted by her sisters, who will be holding running shoes for her to don, once she passes those pearly gates…or boards that train…or simply fades away in a cloud of comfortable, old T-shirt-like translucence.

Cardinals

“Say it’s only a paper moon sailing over a cardboard sea, but it wouldn’t be make believe if you believed in me…” from Paper Moon, by Harold Arlen, E. Y. Harburg and Billy Rose

There is a pair of cardinals raising two babies in a nest right outside my kitchen window. First the mama built the nest, then she sat on her little eggs for the 12-13 days cardinal eggs take to hatch. During that time we rarely saw the dad, as he is much more skittish than she about the humans gawking from the other side of the glass.

The babies hatched three days ago, and the couple has been busy feeding them since. According to my Google search, the babies will be fed primarily by Dad until they leave the nest, 9-11 days after hatching. Mom, it seems, will be busy building nest #2 during this time, as cardinals attempt two broods during each mating season.

Google also said both parents can feed their young until the babies leave the nest, then Mama will go off and build a new nest for their next family. Our cardinal couple seems to be following that model, as the mama still spends a lot of time in the nest with the babies while dad flits in and out feeding them.

Cardinals mate for life and I like that idea. It makes this little couple’s efforts seem even friendlier and more heartwarming. It’s nice to imagine them, building nests and feeding babies together for years to come.

Other animals that mate for life include: gibbon apes, wolves, coyotes, barn owls, beavers, bald eagles, golden eagles, condors, swans, cranes, angel fish, pigeons, red-tailed hawks, anglerfish, ospreys, prairie voles, black vultures and termites.

Contrary to common lore (which seems to have originated with the “Friends” episode, in which Phoebe says Ross is Rachel's "lobster"), lobsters do not mate for life. They have a tender mating ritual, but the male also mates with almost every other female in the area. So much for lobsters and true love…

Right now Mr. Clark is packing my lunch for my 12-hour hospital work day tomorrow – the human equivalent, I guess, of what Mr. Cardinal has been doing for the past few days…

Marriage is a strange thing, in that it just keeps surprising you. You walk down that aisle, say, “I do,” agree to mate for life, and away you go – with no idea of what lies ahead. Sometimes it’s pretty good stuff - other times it’s just disastrous.

Mr. Clark and I signed on for the long haul together 30 years ago. And, we’ve had some very good times and some pretty bad ones. The thing that always kept us together was our kids. The act of raising our children and enjoying each other as a family always seemed more important than whatever trial or tribulation was driving us apart.

Ironically, the biggest trial and tribulation so far – Mr. Clark’s now 10 months of unemployment – occurred after our little cardinals left the nest. In fact, our little cardinals were already married and settled into lives and nests of their own, when the parental nest took the hard hit.

I know it’s supposed to be “for better or for worse,” and “for richer or for poorer,” but it’s a lot easier to talk that talk, than walk that walk. And, as much as we both have tried to stay focused on the positive, and remain optimistic about the future, there have been some pretty bleak, dark and angry times here in the Clark house, as the economy continues to crumble and Mr. Clark’s job search continues to net only occasional contract work.

If you had asked me at various points along the course of our marriage, if I would still be with Mr. Clark under our current circumstances – children grown, money all gone, no job or security in sight – I’m a little ashamed to admit, but in all honesty have to say, I would’ve said, “No way.”

But, here we are – at about as low a point as two people who still have their health can be - and, we are doing just fine. Like those cardinals outside the kitchen window, Mr. Clark and I just keep on, keepin’ on. Realistically, those baby cardinals have a very poor chance of surviving to adulthood, but that doesn’t change the care with which their parents feed them or shelter them from the wind and rain.

I don’t know what the future has in store for Mr. Clark and me. I certainly hope it involves a job for him, but in this economy there are no guarantees.

What I’d like to envision for us is the same thing I like to imagine for the cardinal couple outside the kitchen window – some successes, a few failures, only a bit of heartbreak, and a continued joint effort forward…

It’s a daunting notion - mating for life – but, if the cardinals (and all those other creatures) can do it, so can Mr. Clark and I.

Mr. Green Jeans

“The best way to garden is to put on a wide-brimmed straw hat and some old clothes. And, with a hoe in one hand and a cold drink in the other, tell somebody else where to dig.” Marina Schinz

Michelle Obama has nothing on Mr. Clark. He’s been planning his kitchen garden since late November, when he brought home a copy of Grier’s Almanac he found for free somewhere, and began reading it aloud.

Mr. Clark is nothing, if not an optimist, so he sees his recent period of unemployment as (among other things) an opportunity to “do some things I’ve always wanted to do, but never had the time for…” Apparently, growing his own Victory Garden is one of those things.

He started by planting rye grass in my garden plot. Now actively planting grass in the garden goes against every thought I’ve ever had about gardening, but apparently rye grass actually improves the soil, so filling your garden with it during the off season is a good thing. Imagine my horror, watching, as a thick blanket of bright green shoots gradually took over the very garden bed I’ve battled to keep grass out of for years.

Next came the seed starting. Mr. Clark found a bunch of old seed starter trays in the back shed and painstakingly filled them with some potting soil (also discovered in the back shed). Then, he bought some seeds (I wouldn’t let him use the ancient seed packs he found in the back shed…), planted them, and in no time, had transformed his home office into a verdant nursery for baby plants.

As seedlings often do, though, they got leggy before it was time to put them out. (That is one of the many reasons I’m a plant girt – as in go to the store and buy a few already grown plants, when it is time to put them out…) But, cheery outlook never to waver, Mr. Clark thinned and watered and tended his leggy little buddies until it was near time to put them out.

In the process of turning the rye grass under, my own personal Mr. Green Jeans strained a knee ligament so badly he had to use a cane for a week or so…But, he did get the soil turned and was so excited about that, he jumped the gun a little and put the seedlings out just before that second-to-last cold snap.

“But the almanac said it was time to put them outside!” was his woeful cry. Plan B, plant seeds in the ground, which is what Mr. Clark did, just before that last cold snap.

“Let’s just wait and buy some plants,” has been my stance all along. But, unemployment also fosters thrift, and Mr. Clark’s position is, “that’s just too expensive…Do you have any idea how cheap seeds are, and how many of them come in each pack?”

So far, Mr. Clark’s radish crop is looking pretty good. I can’t say the same for the English peas, basil, and mixed greens. But, there’s hope…after all, it’s been pretty cold up until this week.

Given my lack of enthusiasm about his efforts so far, Mr. Clark was excited to read aloud every word of a recent USA Today article that stated the average home garden (not sure of the size...) costs about $75 to plant, and yields around $600 worth of food.

“$600 worth of food!” he cried. “I’m going to get some more seeds!”

His current plans include planting beans, cucumbers and zucchini from seeds. He has consented to the purchase of tomato and pepper plants. He’s also really excited about finding a white eggplant plant, like the one he read about in the almanac.

“Bloom where you are planted,” has been a favorite saying (and goal) of mine since we moved to the South, some 20 years ago. And, I have to give Mr. Clark credit for being way better at that than I will probably ever be. He accepts new experiences and challenges with enthusiasm, and tries ever so diligently to turn any lemons life hands him into lemonade.

I don’t know if his Victory Garden will yield anywhere near $600 worth of food, but it sure is inspiring – watching him hack away at it, ever the optimist, believing in the grand potential of each tiny seed, rather than opting for the boring, expensive surety of the already-grown plant.

Thanks, Monster!

“A monster cannot survive in an environment of gratitude.” - Hawaiian healing wisdom

A good friend e-mailed me the other day - her husband has been laid off. Another “old guy” information specialist joins the ranks Mr. Clark has been among now, for the past 10 months…At my daughter’s job, they just laid off two of the six women who work there…The wife of one of my son’s good friends was let go last month…And, so it continues - the downward spiral of our economy and the upward spiral of unemployment…

Let me tell you, month after month of unemployment will wear you down…The bills pile up, the reserves dwindle…Mr. Clark continues to apply for jobs and work his network, to little or no avail…Some contract work has thankfully, recently come in, but the toll of month after month of worry, doubt, fear, anger and discouragement is a large one.

Finally, something has to give - either reality or attitude-wise - because if it doesn’t, everyone in the house will go crazy. I hit my wall a few weeks ago, and what triggered it (in addition to an ever-increasing depression, punctuated by fits of anger, and an overwhelming sense of worry about the future…) was a column I read in the Athens Banner Herald.

It was by Tom Camp; the title was “Gratitude in the recession.” In the column, he talks about visiting Hawaii, in particular some native healers of the Lomilomi tradition. One healer spoke about how “a monster cannot survive in an environment of gratitude.” The monster the healer was referring to was a tumor. Columnist Camp added fear to the list of other monsters we face, and he’s right.
Camp goes on to talk about how “fear blocks gratitude,” and how fear gets in the way of awareness of the grace that goes on all around us all the time – the simple acts of kindness and small offers of generosity.

“A mind stuck on anxiety about the future misses the wonder of the present moment,” he said, and something about that – and the notion of actually being able to take control over the monsters dominating my life - really hit home.

Here I was, coming down to the kitchen every morning, bringing a cloud of black worried negativity with me - so anxious about the future, and so tired from another night of bad dreams or tormented non-sleep, that I couldn’t even taste my coffee or hear the birds singing outside.

I was angry that my world was falling apart, and there seemed to be no end in sight. I was demoralized because (at least by the look of Athens or Atlanta traffic) everyone but Mr. Clark has a job. I was snapping at people at work and losing my temper way too often. The coldness permeating my heart was making those around me shiver…My monsters were alive and well, and I was the one feeding them.

I had let my house, my mind and my attitude become an all-you-can-eat buffet of negativity for any monster that wanted to stop by…And, while the monsters of fear, worry and unemployment were thriving, Mr. Clark and I had slowly begun to die…

The Lomilomi healers made it clear. It was time for a radical environment adjustment, and there was no one to kill the monsters in my life with gratitude and kindness except me.
So, I began to look for ways to be grateful, rather than angry. And, it turns out, once the monsters have been put on notice (and a diet), being thankful is not all that hard. Even the unemployment has brought us blessings.

Mr. Clark used to travel all the time, and it’s been nice to have him settle into the place he’s always called home, but never spent much time at. I used to do most of the shopping, cooking, cleaning and bill-paying. Since Mr. Clark has taken over these things, we eat better, cheaper, and what finances we have are in much better order. (I still keep a tidier house…)

We used to harbor the delusion that jobs with nice salaries and benefits were guaranteed, which led us to overspend and use credit cards too much. Now that those days are over, our lives are simpler and more under control.

“An environment of gratitude fosters generosity and resiliency,” Mr. Camp wrote, and it’s that word “resilient” I really like. Things could get much worse than they are now – indeed, they might. But, remembering to be aware and thankful for what we do have will certainly help keep those monsters of fear, worry, anger and negativity at bay…And, that will most surely allow us to be more resilient with whatever the future brings.

R U an Idiot?

Driving home from Athens on 316 last Friday afternoon, I was traveling in a pod of speeders, all going slightly over 70 mph, sticking together in a group so that, maybe “the other guy will get the ticket.”
Most of the drivers appeared to be UGA students, going home to Gwinnett, Cobb, Fulton, and other counties for the weekend. Young men in ball caps driving 4-wheel-drive pick-up trucks, SUVs or Jeeps…Young women, sunroofs open, hair blowing in the wind, driving sporty little cars or sporty little SUVs…The common theme was the UGA and Bulldog paraphernalia all over the vehicle.

The other common theme – and, this theme included me - was that we were all doing something else while we were driving - talking on a cell, fiddling with the radio, texting…This while traveling at high speeds, performing an elaborate ballet of lane changes, passing and tail-gating, vying amongst ourselves for who would “get there” first and fastest. This, folks, is very dangerous.

According to an article in the February, 2009 issue of Oprah magazine, entitled “Text at Your Own Risk,” 77% of the respondents to a recent survey said they’d texted while driving. 16% had texted during a funeral (Lord have mercy) and 11 % admitted to texting “during a romantic interlude.” Good Lord! As a society, what have we come to?

In this same article, a neuroscientist named Rene Marois, PhD, was quoted as saying, “The human brain has a crippling inability to do two things at once,” despite our brains using some “100 billion neurons to process information at rates as high as 1,000 times a second.” The article went on to state that a recent British study found texting while driving “slows reaction time more than being drunk or high.”

And, there we all were, sailing down 316 at speeds of 70-75 mph, happily texting away, as if this behavior is sustainable. I can say, based on 5 years experience as an ER social worker, this behavior is not sustainable. Wrecks happen, and when they do, way too many of them are devastating. So, what form of lunacy has me participating in this particular form of road idiocy? Based on my “5 years experience as an ER social worker,” I should know better.

Along the same lines, but a little lighter and more amusing, I listened to an NPR podcast the other day. It was “WNYC on Demand” - “Radio Lab” was the show. The topic was “Choice,” and, like the article in Oprah, it made our minds sound pretty feeble.

They were talking about memory tests conducted by a psychologist named Miller in the 1950’s and they referred to the “Magic # 7, plus or minus 2.” Apparently, the average human mind can only hold 7 digits, plus or minus 2, which is why all of our significant numbers like social security, birth date and phone numbers, are around 7 digits, plus or minus 2.

According to Dr. Miller’s research, the brain is anatomically organized into two systems – the rational brain and the emotional brain. These two brain systems are often at war, but the thing that really pushes them over the edge is a tough choice. Rational brain can pretty much hold its own until it has too much to handle, which in the case of our brains, is something as minor as trying to remember 7 digits while making a choice.

In a classic, and often repeated study, Dr. Miller gave subjects a number to remember - some had only 2 digits, others had as many as 7. The subjects received the number in Room #1. They were to memorize it, go to Room #2, and recite it. Easy enough, right? But, on the way to Room #2, a twist occurred.

The study subjects were approached by a friendly young woman offering them either a “big, fat, juicy slice of chocolate cake,” or a “nice, healthy bowl of fruit salad” as a reward for taking part in the study.

It turns out, in an overwhelming number of cases, the people charged with remembering as many as 7 digits chose the chocolate cake, while those whose task was to remember only 2 or 3 digits chose the fruit plate.

Why? Because as Dr. Miller, and numerous others after him have found, it only takes 6 or 7 digits to mess up rational thinking in the human brain. Rational mind knows that fruit is better for you than chocolate cake – less carbs, less sugar, all in all much more healthy, and in general, a way better choice. But, if rational mind is kept busy remembering 7 or so digits, emotional mind can take over, and basically scream, “We want chocolate cake!”

What this all has to do with a pod of texting traffic traveling way too fast last Friday afternoon on 316? I’m not sure, except to say that we all, too often, fall to the temptation to do too much. It robs us of the pleasure of living moment to moment. It robs us of the safety of simply driving (even if it is too fast…) It robs us of the ability to choose the fruit plate over the chocolate cake…Don’t get me wrong. I’m a big fan of chocolate cake, but maybe even it is best enjoyed without cell phone to text on in hand...

More from the ER

It was another busy night in the ER – not crazy busy, like it was during flu season, but busy enough to make the hours fly by. Last night was sick kid night, with way too many treatment rooms occupied by sad, red-cheeked or pale-faced, feverish, vomiting or dehydrated, tearful, fearful, injured or just feeling really crummy children.

There was the little girl with the broken arm – a fall off her playset – so brave and strong, smiling at staff and her worried parents, as the x-ray machines and doctors and nurses came and went… Several tiny ones with fevers came in – little babies, so new to this world that it’s hard to remember any human is ever that small…The vomiting toddlers, all flush-cheeked and sweaty - angry, scared and unwilling to let any of strangers in scrubs come anywhere near. That’s the age for stranger danger, and boy! do their parents have a hard time of it, listening to their wailing near hysteria, as IV lines are established, and fluids, shots and medicine are given…

One particularly sad story involved an 11-year-old boy who got hit by a car while playing at a friend’s house. The boys were riding bikes, just after dark. They weren’t wearing helmets, lights or reflective clothing. A car hit one of them from behind…I didn’t hear exactly how the accident occurred, but I know the boy suffered a severe head injury and had to be transferred to Scottish Rite in Atlanta.
Heartbreakingly brave, tired and so alone, was the new mother of twin girls – less than two weeks old. One of the twins was vomiting and had bad diarrhea; the other was fine. Two tiny pink bundles, beautiful, long fingers, pursed lips - so fragile, so precious, so well-dressed, so young…The mom looked very tired. She said she hadn’t had any sleep in three days, and was “pretty much doing this alone,” tears welling up in her eyes. Apparently, the dad cut out shortly before the twins were born and her family lives far away…

There was a brave, perky, precocious little Hispanic girl who needed stitches in her hand. Even though the hospital provides interpreters, she insisted on talking to the doctor and nurses herself, saying “I can speak English by myself.”

There was the very worried mother an autistic girl, summoned by her daughter’s teacher after the child had a seizure at pre-school. Mom arrived at the ER 10 minutes before the ambulance, and she was kicking herself for not going to the child’s school instead.

“They told me to come to the hospital, but I should’ve gone there instead,” she said, starting to cry. “I should be with her…She shouldn’t have ride with strangers alone…”

The next ambulance brought a little girl with diabetes who had stopped eating earlier in the week, so her blood sugar was all messed up. Her mother was also worried and very tired-looking. She became tearful – this time happy tears – when the doctor told her the girl was sick with an easily treatable infection and the antibiotics should have her eating again in no time.

I had to do a CPS (Child Protective Services) report on a little boy who suffered a badly broken arm after “falling off his mother’s bed.” The mother seemed attentive and the child was clearly “high energy.” But, the severity of the injury did not match the story, so the Department of Family and Children’s Services will have to check into it…That little boy rode off to Egleston, in Atlanta, laughing, and yelling, and using his good arm to shoot his little foam-shooting ice cream cone (an ER freebie) at everyone he encountered as his gurney rolled down the hall to the ambulance bay.

All so precious, all so frail, all so sick or injured when they arrive…many, thankfully, so many, so much better when they leave…It makes us happy to see a little one who came in really sick leave, smiling, waving, saying, “Bye-bye!”…It makes us sad to see a tiny one flown out on a helicopter, surrounded by fancy equipment and nurses in flight suits…We are infuriated by the abuse we see…And, deeply affected by the occasional, but devastating infant or child death…

My “baby” turns 26 this week. And, while I am so proud of the young woman she has become, my memories of her growing up remain quite vivid. We were well-blessed, in that she only had one trip to the ER, after a fall off a three foot wall, when she was two.

I still remember the sight of her tiny, briefly lifeless-looking body, lying at the foot of that brick wall. I remember how her short and so very precious life flashed through my mind, as I scooped her up and called 911. I remember the joy I felt when she came to a few moments later, and the relief I felt when the ambulance arrived….Her fall turned out to be nothing, but it felt like a lot that day…

That’s the thing the ER teaches me every shift – and, challenges me to remember every day – life is so fleeting and full of unexpected accidents and illnesses. Every day that passes calamity-free is a good day, no matter what else is going on.

Angels Unawares

“Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” -- Hebrews 13:2

I believe in angels and I like the thought of “entertaining them unawares,” so I do a lot of that. There is just something so magical and hopeful in wondering if the latest cat I rescued or homeless person I slipped an extra sandwich to, is really a visitor checking in on us, from above…

One of my favorite “angels unawares” was Dr. Crags – a weathered old, nearly wild tom cat that appeared on my porch one cold day, a couple of years ago. He was skinny and very motley-looking, gray, with a sort of a crooked face. Scarred and very tentative about the prospect of getting food off my porch, he looked like he’d had a rough life.

Initially, Crags wouldn’t eat while anyone was around. But I left food out for him, and he became a regular visitor. A little later he would stay on the edge of the porch while I put some canned food out for him, eyeing me carefully out of his one good, dark golden eye. Still later, he would actually come to meet me, ravenously gobbling the wet food as fast as I could dump it from the can.

About a year ago Crags got hit by a car or attacked by something, and half of his face was nearly pulled off. His foot was injured, too, and he looked like he was in a lot of pain. There was no way I could grab him to take him to the vet – so far he hadn’t even let me touch him. So, I asked the vet for some strong antibiotics, which I slipped into Crags’ food each day. Because I wanted him to be sure and eat the pills, I switched him over to the whipped cream and baked chicken diet my house cats get, when they have to take a pill. You’d thought poor ole’ Crags had died and gone to heaven, watching him wolf down that chicken and whipped cream so enthusiastically twice a day, in spite of his maimed face.

It took three rounds of the antibiotic, but Dr. Crags eventually healed. And, in a few months his face was almost normal again – maybe a little bit more crooked than before, but fluffy and gray and well-healed. Crags continued to make his way across the street twice a day for months, and I grew fonder and fonder of the sight of him, sitting quizzically there, on the edge of the porch, looking wisely at me through his one good eye.

As time went on, Crags let me pet him while he ate. And, because he ate it with such relish, I continued to feed him mostly whipped cream and chicken. He got such pleasure out of it, and, what if he was an “angel unawares?” I wanted him to give a good report about our hospitality.

Eventually, he even developed a bit of a purr – not really a purr – more of a low grumbling sound, but coming from Dr. Crags, while I petted him, it felt like quite an honor.

The last time I saw Dr. Crags was five days after Christmas. He came for his usual meals and sat for awhile in the sun on the porch, and then he disappeared – never to return. I don’t know what happened to him, but I hope it was a quick and painless, or easy peaceful death.

There have been other “angels unawares” over the years. There was Beezer, the blind, 14-year-old poodle I rescued from the pound. She had a broken foot and very bad breath, but there was something bigger than her ancient tiny self staring out of her cataract-clouded eyes… Pru, a badly buckshot Rottweiller - also rescued from the pound – healed and loved and protected us for years, a deep wisdom and patient love shining from her big brown eyes… Bud, a motley old Silkie rooster with a funny-looking feather mullet certainly had more going on than just watching over the hens I used to have... Countless other creatures - and people - over the years have made me wonder…”Is there more going on here than just the misfortune you seem to have fallen into?”

There is a sad, dusty, almost ethereal demeanor to those who may be angels unawares…a depth to the way they look at you…an almost unearthly wisdom in their eyes….

It’s hard times out there. There may be laid-off people, and foreclosed-on people, people who can’t afford their medicines, and recently-made-homeless pets joining the ranks of those angels unaware who cross our paths in need of help or care…

”Let brotherly love continue,” is how the Apostle Paul started his letter to the Hebrews. (13:1) May we remember that, and give help, and take help, from whatever angels come our way.

Black Dog

My neighbor just had her door painted a lovely shade of lavender, and against the also freshly painted periwinkle blue walls of her home, that lavender looks very nice…The daffodils are blooming again, all over our county - on the roadsides, in front of houses, in abandoned lots and in fields where animals graze…And, sometimes, even in the middle of a gray and windy, or cold and rainy, day the sun comes out for a while…giving us hope that Spring will soon return.

This is a difficult time of year for me. It always has been.

The holidays are long gone, but the Sun (at least consistently shining) seems very far away. The weather is too often cold, wet or gray, and hope is hard to come by…In the old days, the way I feel during these bleak end of winter months was simply known as depression.

Now these feeling are called S.A.D., which stands for Seasonal Affect Disorder. The notion is that we are depressed because our bodies aren’t getting enough sun to produce adequate Vitamin D, which means we need light boxes, and time in the sun, and antidepressants, and vitamin supplements, and a therapist, and whatever….

I have tried all of those things with limited success. And, so, I am left dragging myself from early January to mid March with a focused determination even a military hero or a cancer survivor might appreciate.

The famed author William Styron called his depression (I don’t know if it was seasonal…) “The Black Dog,” and I like that analogy. For years, I tried to fight my depression…conquer it…apply reason…bring it to submission…None of that worked.

I’ve also tried prescription drugs…no luck there either. It seems the Black Dog will let you harbor the delusion you’ve actually conquered him for a few months, but, invariably, he comes creeping back, stronger and more wily than before, in spite of the meds…

My latest and most successful approach, (success being a relative term with regard to S.A.D. and its many ramifications…) is to simply accept and coexist with the Black Dog during these bleak - but finite – few months he is in residence.

I acknowledge that he is here - watching me, always present. But, I do not let him take control.
And, he sits there, in the corner, lapping up my weak, sad, depressed energy. He knows his stay is temporary, but he enjoys it anyway.

It’s odd to think that one can develop an on-going, surprisingly predictable and respectful relationship with one’s depression, but, over the years, Black Dog and I have managed to forge that.

He lets me work, and feed the bright red cardinals in my yard, and gather daffodils by the roadside. And, I let him stay there ever present and watching, on the couch near my computer desk, in the back seat of the car, at my feet while I cook, on a rug near the fire.

We know our time together is temporary. We know he’ll leave again when the April Sun returns and the dogwoods begin to bloom. There is no need to force things…

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not advocating going off psych meds to get to know The Black Dog. Depression is a serious thing that can affect people, and their families, very deeply.

I’m just saying I’m glad my Black Dog and I have found a way to co-exist until hope returns again – and, it always does. In the meantime, it’s not such a bad sound – the sad, but familiar thump of a Black Dog wagging his tail at the foot of the bed, on one of these cold harsh nights.

Send me someone human

It was really busy in the Emergency Room (ER) tonight (I am a social worker there, two 12-hour shifts each week …) And, based on what’s been going on in the ER for the past couple of months, whatever you’ve been reading about the state of our economy is true. We are in a recession, approaching depression, as great – if not greater – than the Great Depression of the 1930’s.

Suicidal thoughts and attempts are up. Domestic violence is up. Assaults and DUIs are up. Child and elder abuse and neglect are up. Lots and lots of sick people can’t pay for their medicines. Folks who have been tottering on the edge of not managing chronic conditions like high blood pressure or diabetes for years are throwing in the towel - they can’t afford their prescriptions and the sliding scale clinics are booked weeks, if not months, in advance…

I don’t know what our new government is going to do about all this, but when you hear that our health care system is in crisis, you hear right.

Tonight there were two suicidal teens whose family situations I had to evaluate for abuse…Several folks off their meds for a month or more, due to lack of money, ended up in the ER – two with such high blood pressure it ‘s a miracle they’re still alive…The waiting room was full of sick, sad, angry folks waiting over two hours to get back to an ER bed, and a bill most of them cannot afford to pay…Staff was cranky…Patients were cranky…I was cranky…The atmosphere was one of tension and a whole lot of folks feeling overwhelmed…

It is hard, in this type of situation, to be consistently caring and calm. Human frailty takes over. We get tired. We get tense. We snap. Nurses who are usually incredibly kind and caring become cold. Doctors who are usually pretty nice people become harsh. Social workers (like me) who are usually giving and tolerant lose interest…and, that is what happened tonight.

Request after request came in…The phone I carry rang incessantly... Everyone wanted something – for nothing, from me…I got yelled at a bunch of times…So many people, having such hard times, no end to their misery in sight…

I understand this mindset because I have worked in the ER for five years…and, more personally, because my once well-employed husband has been out of work now for seven months…I am working three jobs trying to keep us barely afloat, and there is no light, as yet, at the end of our tunnel…I understand where these angry, sad, sick, suicidal, desperate, hopeless patients are coming from…and, in spite of that understanding, at times, I snap.

I wasn’t particularly empathetic the whole shift tonight, but as the 12th hour became the 13th, and a 21-year-old, drunk “John Doe” came in, just as I was getting ready to go home, whatever kindness left in my heart died.

This young man had been found “down” in some bushes on a dark street, unaware of where he was or how he got there. His wallet was completely empty – no ID, no video store card, no scribbled girl’s phone number on a piece of napkin – nothing. The only thing in his pockets was a Chapstick…no car keys, no pocket change – nothing.

As tired as I was of serving humanity for this night, I couldn’t leave him unidentified until the 7 a.m. social worker came in, so I went to talk with him about who he was, what had happened, and who I might call to come be with him in the ER.

The conversation went poorly.

He (like so many are…) was an angry drunk, all accusatory and defensive, not cooperative at all…
I (like so many ER staffers approaching the end of a long hard shift can be…) was less than patient.
He gave me an address, and a phone number, and begged me not to call his mom, whom, apparently, he still lives with…Then he said it.

“If there’s any more questions, send me someone human to ask them. I can’t deal with you anymore. You’re too cold.”

Wow…kicked in the face with a reality check by a drunken 21-year-old. And, he was right. I hadn’t really been much of a human to any of the people I’d dealt with this night…That’s what all this unemployed, uninsured, what-am-I-gonna’-do-next, what’s-gonna’-become-of-us energy does….It saps us of our humanity.

When we read that crime, and domestic violence, and suicide, and depression, and child abuse, and substance abuse, and all manner of other problems are up, it is important to remember – just as this ER social worker did not do tonight – that we are all in this together. There is nothing good, true or constructive to be found in harsh judgement, coldness and impatience…The only thing that may help us through these very rough times is remembering our own – and others’ – humanness.

“Send me someone human” is a fair request, and one that we all, when times get even tougher, should be entitled to make… Let’s hope someone doing better than I did tonight, is there to answer the call!