Cancer

“Better to light one small candle than to curse the darkness.” – Chinese Proverb



Our world is awash in pink this month – pink merchandise, pink newspaper pages, little pink ribbons are everywhere, on everything. “Think Pink” is the theme for October because it is the official breast cancer awareness month and, while I’m all for a cure for breast cancer, I’m not sure I’m a fan of using it as a marketing tool.


It seems a little crass to me – like the reality that breast cancer kills women and effects hundreds of thousands of lives each year fades into the background when what we’re focused on is buying things that have pink ribbons on them in an effort to show we care.


Please, don’t get me wrong. I’ve never had cancer, so I can’t pretend to understand how people whose lives have been touched by it, in any form, think or feel when the topic of “cancer awareness” comes up. I’m only talking my version of the talk because I’ve never walked their version of the walk. From my perspective, though, no one should profit from the exploitation of the merchandise marketing power of an illness – any illness.

I have a friend who is dying of ovarian cancer. It has metastasized throughout her body and she does not have long to live. She is younger than me, has a long-time husband and a daughter who has just started college. I can’t imagine what they’re going through…


I met Joanne at the hospital, where we worked together for years. She is a strong person, opinionated, talented, never afraid to speak her mind. She has a loud laugh, a dry sense of humor and a very tender heart. She’s the kind of person you could exchange terse words with in one situation and then find yourself laughing with and hugging her a short while later. And, as devoted as she was to her work, her devotion to her family, especially her daughter, is clearly greater.


Her daughter was a talented dancer, actress and singer in high school and Joanne was always proud of her accomplishments. And, as tenuous as a career in show business might be as a goal, Joanne’s daughter is now well on the way to making it a reality, I’m sure in part because of Joanne’s strong belief in her talents and support of her dream.


It took the cancer a long time to knock Joanne back and she fought and kept fighting a difficult fight. At work, when she was still well enough to work, she was always brave, strong and upbeat, laughing loudly about her recent hair loss or surprisingly curly hair re-growth or whatever sign of the battle had most recently appeared. When the cancer got to the point that conventional treatments were no longer effective, she went out of state for experimental trials. And, no matter what the latest news was – and, it was often not good – she never stopped smiling, laughing and being brave.


I stopped by to see her in the hospital last week and there she was, the same Joanne – joking about how hard it was to get her hospital gown snapped correctly, laughing, smiling and asking me about my life. It broke my heart. How can I think I have problems when this strong, delightful, tough, tough woman with so much still ahead of her is attending “end of life” classes and getting ready for yet another round of chemo?

I felt small, sad, humbled and inspired sitting across from her as she perched on the edge of the bed and talked about how much she’s looking forward to her daughter’s Christmas visit. I so wanted to do something, to help in some way - but how? Anything I had to offer seemed insignificant in the face of the challenges Joanne faced.


Then, it came to me; I could offer her a photo session. She hates pictures of herself and I hate pictures of myself; we have that in common. I wasn’t sure if she’d go for the idea, but I offered anyway and she surprised me by immediately saying, “Yes.” It’s not that a photo session is a big deal; it’s not. It’s just something I could personally offer.

We all want to be part of something big, something good - something like finding a cure for cancer; and there’s all kinds of cancer. Just because Joanne’s cancer doesn’t have a color or a month or big merchandising campaign behind it, doesn’t mean she can’t use a show of support, even if there’s no little ribbons involved.


It’s easy to go out and buy things. It’s not so easy to look around, see someone who’s struggling and ask yourself what tangible thing can I offer? Maybe it’s a ride to a medical appointment or an offer to clean the house. Maybe it’s making food or doing a load of wash or cutting the grass. Is there something they’ve always wanted to do, but never got the chance? Is there a way to make that happen?
 
My bet is reaching out will feel better than whipping out that debit card; let’s try it and see.

Blind Bird

“God finds a low branch for the bird that cannot fly.” - Turkish proverb



I am a sucker for animals in distress - always have been. The tough thing about helping an animal is I never know how it’s going to turn out. Some rescues have happy endings, others are very sad; the point is I have to try.


My latest rescue is a male House Finch who, up until recently, I called Blind Bird. Like all House Finches, he is social, spending his time in a small flock that nests in the trees near my side porch. And, like all House Finches, Blind Bird loves bird feeders. His favorite feed is sunflower seed, so I keep one feeder full of those, just for him.


I think Blind Bird hatched this year, because when I first started noticing him, he was small and brownish gray. As the summer progressed he got bigger and his head and chest turned a pretty shade of dark red. According to the bird book, male House Finches are typically more orange-red, but since Blind Bird looks, acts and sounds like the other House Finches I’m sticking with my theory that he is one of them.


I first noticed Blind Bird because he was slow to fly away when I came up to replenish the feeders, and even from a short distance away, I could see his eyes were matted and dull, like he had some kind of eye infection. Having suffered the heart break of watching baby bird after baby bird die, after falling from a nest and being “rescued” by me, I resolved to let nature take its course, so all I did in an attempt to help Blind Bird was make sure finding food was never a problem for him.


Blind Bird seemed to function alright. He could flit from his bird feeder to the nearest tree and he had a voracious appetite. Maybe his immune system just needs extra time to tackle whatever’s wrong with his eyes, I thought week after week, as Blind Bird came and went, always with same sick-looking eyes.


Then, last week, Blind Bird’s health took a turn for the worse. When I went out to refill his feeder, I found him sitting completely still, puffed up like a very sick bird does. His eyes were crusted completely shut and he didn’t seem to be able to hear because he didn’t move at all when I got close enough to see how bad the situation was.


A short debate in my mind followed. Try to save Blind Bird from what looked like certain death? Or, just let him be like I had so far. The decision was quickly made when my old tom cat slinked around the corner – health-wise, Blind Bird obviously had nothing to lose and if something didn’t intervene, he’d be cat dinner tonight.


Because these things unfold the way they do, I was, of course, due to cover a school board meeting for the paper in less than an hour…Clothes not changed, hair not combed, no makeup on, I threw the cat in the house and ran up to the attic to retrieve the cage I keep for bird rescues. Wash it, line it, fill the water and food then rush back outside hoping Blind Bird had flown away. Nope, there he was, still sitting there completely still, as if quietly waiting to die.


I grabbed Blind Bird and put him in the cage, shut the cage in a bedroom safe from the cats and dogs, changed my clothes, combed my hair and makeup-less but on time, made it to the school board meeting. Thankfully it was a short one, because all I was focused on was getting back home to start Blind Bird’s treatment plan.

After washing all the gook off, I dabbed some antibiotic ointment on each eye, put a drop of antibiotic syrup in his beak, gave him some water and put him back in the cage. Then I wrapped the cage in a thick dark towel and stashed Blind Bird on the upper porch, safe, secure and warm for the night.


The next morning I was hesitant to lift the towel, so sure a dead Blind Bird is what I’d find. But, there he was, hopping around, looking a whole lot better than he had the night before. Another treatment and out went Blind Bird to hang in the cage near his favorite bird feeder for the day.

This was my routine with Blind Bird every day for the past five days and today he’s looking pretty sharp. His eyes are all cleared up, he’s active and he’s regained his cheery chirp. Tomorrow, after one last morning treatment, I’m going to let him go and in anticipation of this, I’ve started calling him Free Bird.


Of course, there is no guarantee that my tom cat won’t get Free Bird or that he won’t fall victim to some other peril; nature offers no guarantees. At least he’ll face whatever lies ahead with a healthy body and a pair of good eyes. He’ll also have the comfort of being back with his friends. All during Free Bird’s recovery, other House Finches perched on his cage and chirped to him, as if offering encouragement. I like to think that made all the difference.

Dogs

“You think dogs will not be in heaven? I tell you, they will be there long before any of us.” – Robert Louis Stevenson


My old dog Raffi is dying and that makes me very sad. He’s had a good long life, but for the past few years he’s been plagued by arthritis and an ever-growing number of inoperable tumors, so maybe it’s time for him to go, but, I don’t feel that way. He still likes eating and barking and sitting in the sun; he still takes a lot of joy from living, so every day he’s still with us seems like an extra blessing.

Raffi is a chocolate Lab mutt, rescued from the pound as a puppy. His purpose in life was to be a companion to my Rottweiller Pru (another rescue) who had apparently been raised with other dogs because she didn’t like being alone. Pru took to Raffi the moment we brought him home, showing her approval by quickly bouncing him, then rolling him over and giving him a good long bath with her tongue. From then on, they were best friends.


Wherever Pru went, Raffi followed, and wherever Raffi was, there you’d find Pru. Being raised by a rambunctious Rottweiller was no easy assignment and Raffi took more than one hard hit to the head during their daily play sessions. He never seemed to mind, though, and always came back for more.


Probably because of all the mild head injuries, Raffi has never been the sharpest tool in the shed, but he’s always taken a simple pleasure in life that seems to elude more complex dogs. Raffi likes barking and eating and sitting in the sun. He’ll lie on the porch for hours watching the birds and squirrels. And, he loves hanging out with his people and sleeping soundly in the middle of whatever’s going on, on his big dog bed.


We got Raffi when our kids were still in high school and he spent afternoons during his early years sitting alertly in a big arm chair next to one of them or their friends after school, smiling and looking around animatedly, as if he was listening to the conversation or helping them play the Nintendo game. Surprisingly, years later, when one of those kids – now adults – drops by, Raffi jumps into that same arm chair, like, “Aren’t you going to sit with me?” It’s the only time he does that; I think it’s because he recognizes them, even all these years later, and remembers what good old times they had.


The thing about a dog like Raffi is being around him is so easy. He’s a giver, not a taker, and all he’s done every day of his life is show up ready to contribute. He doesn’t ask for much in return. He doesn’t want to be the alpha-dog; he’ll let the other dogs get petted and fed before him every time. He’ll even sleep on the hard floor if another dog wants his bed.


“It’s alright, I don’t mind,” Raffi would say if he could talk. “I just want everybody to get along.”


Pru was older than Raffi and she died several years ago. Unwisely, an effort to calm my grief, I went right out and got two more pound puppies – both female, both black, both mutts – nothing special about either of them except they were at the right place at the right time. And, while Raffi has never taken to them the way he did Pru, he’s done a good job of being their old uncle – letting them nip at his ears when they were little and wrestle with him now that they’re grown.


One of the dogs is a Lab-Beagle mix, all bark and no brains; the other’s a little herding dog, nervous and high-strung. And, while they jostle for position in the house, tear things up and bark at everything that goes by, Raffi just keeps on keepin’ on, calm and steady, simple and now slow, never making any waves.


Lately Raffi’s taken to fits of happiness, where all of the sudden, out of the clear blue he’ll come up and start nudging and smiling and asking for love, wagging his tail and barking a bit – like he just wants to share how happy he is to still be alive. He’s like an Alzheimer’s patient – the rare and joyful kind who likes saying, “Hi!” and waving at everybody.


I don’t know how much longer Raffi will be with us, but I’m sure going to miss him when he goes. That saying about dogs is so true in Raffi’s case – if I were only half the person he has always thought I am, I would be a better person than I am today. God speed, old friend, God speed.

No More ER

“Please take a moment to locate the nearest exit, keeping in mind it may be behind you…White lights lead to red lights, which indicate exits.” – Airline safety guidelines


For the first time in eight years I will not spend Monday in the emergency room. No, I’m not accident prone, it’s that I’ve been working in a busy ER, first as an EMT, then as a social worker since the fall of 2002 and a long Monday has always been my one of my shifts.

Becoming an EMT was something I’d always wanted to do, so when both kids went to college I became certified. It took nine months and was pretty grueling. I was old enough to be the mother of most of my classmates and while they gloried in learning about what to do in the most unimaginable and possibly horrible circumstances, I worried about how I would handle things, once the practice ended and the people not breathing or the blood on the scene was real.

It turned out I never quite got over those worries and the fear that someone would need my help and I would freeze and not be able to give it haunted my two years as an EMT. While adrenaline made the people I worked with come alive and work faster and more efficiently in all those “Codes” (heart attacks), “Code 3 Calls” (running lights and sirens) and MVC’s (road accidents), I prayed for a quiet day, each morning, on the way to work.

Having no sense of direction didn’t help. The joke in our family is, “if Mom says go right, go left,” and that’s generally a successful way to navigate. So, the stress of writing down how we got to a scene, so I could reverse it in my mind and find my way back to the hospital was intense – especially when the situation was serious and I knew my paramedic partner would be too busy saving lives in the back of the truck to scream directions at me.

I like to think I would’ve been a better EMT if the ambulances I worked on had GPS, the way they do now. Maybe with the directions taken care of I could’ve been less fearful on the scene?

Anyway, in spite of the best efforts of my kind and knowledgeable coworkers, I wasn’t a very good EMT, so when an ER social worker position came open, I jumped at the chance to wear civilian clothes again and know that no lives depended on me.

The emergency room is a strange place – always open, always bright, always the same temperature, often completely out of tune with what’s going on outside. There are no weekends or holidays. It is a world focused on 24/7 availability, 365 days a year – the doors are always open, no exceptions. Of course, ER workers take time off, but it comes with the responsibility of making sure your shift is covered, so that the big ER machine won’t even notice one of its cogs is gone.

The emergency room is a place of portals – odd portals that most people experience only rarely in their lives. People die there and are born there and lose total touch with reality there. To listen to some of the mental patients, you’d swear there were demons haunting those halls…

The emergency room is a place of intense emotion – people saying “goodbye,” people making difficult decisions about “further measures to be taken,” people hearing horrible news about illness, accidents and death. It is also a place of great hope, great light and amazing inspiration. While some people sink to their deepest depths within those walls, others rise to whatever challenge they’re facing with such courage, strength, grace and faith that it brings a tear to even the crustiest old ER worker’s eye.

It’s strange to go to a place where things that literally change people’s lives forever happen, and talk with your coworkers about what’s in your lunch, how your kid did at little league, or what was on Facebook last night…Challenging to remember that everyone in those ER rooms is having a really bad day. On a good shift, it’s easy to connect with that; on a bad shift all you want is for your replacement to arrive.

I don’t know how many people I’ve called to deliver bad news about an accident, illness or death. I don’t remember how many families I’ve been with while someone they love suffered or died. I can’t begin to count the number of sandwiches, warm blankets, cups of coffee, teddy bears, color books and stickers I’ve handed out. There’s been an awful lot of them - all memorable in their own way, yet forgettable, too, as sometimes that’s how you keep showing up at such an intense place day after day.

I’ll miss the ER, even though I’ll still be covering shifts when coworkers need time off. I’ll miss the stories and the intensity of the work. It’ll be a challenge to remain as humble and thankful as that place has kept me, but the white lights have lead to red lights and it’s time to see what comes next.

9-11

“Where were you when the world stopped turning that September day? Did you shout out in anger…Did you look up to heaven for some kind of answer…or did you just sit down and cry?” – Alan Jackson lyrics


The events on September 11, 2001 did not touch me personally, but to this day I can’t hear Alan Jackson’s song, “Where were you when the world stopped turning?” without a lump forming in my throat and a tear coming to my eye.

On that day in 2001, Mr. Clark and I were driving down the east coast towards home, having just dropped our daughter off at art school in Providence, Rhode Island. It was an emotional trip – our youngest child now in college, so many hopes and dreams at stake, all so very far away.

We got the news of the terrorist attacks in a spotty manner over a few hours time. The radio in the truck we were in didn’t work very well and we were on a stretch of road where reception wasn’t good. First we heard something about the Twin Towers being hit, later something about an attack. On down the road, we heard a scratchy report about a plane crashing into the Pentagon; then another plane went down in Pennsylvania…all domestic flights; no way to know how many were injured, missing or dead. What in the world was happening?

The next town we came to was Nags Head, North Carolina, so we stopped for lunch and to figure out what was going on. We went into the first restaurant we saw – a fish place. You could’ve heard a pin drop - all eyes tuned to TV behind the bar. We had no way to comprehend the things we were seeing…a kind of a shock set in. Good Lord! is this real?

We immediately called our daughter and to our great relief, she immediately picked up. She was in the campus book store buying art supplies. Far from television, radio news or reality, she had no idea what was going on. We debated going and getting her, bringing her back home – after all, who knew if there were more attacks planned?

She vehemently told us she would be fine and promised that if “something else weird” happened, she would follow a contingency plan we had yet to work out, to get to someplace safe where we could come pick her up…How crazy was all this?

That evening we came up with a plan that involved our daughter going to an old friend’s house within easy driving distance of Providence. It was inland, not close to any potential terrorist attack points. Our daughter’s roommate had a car and we made the girls promise they would keep the tank full, so that if they had to leave quickly, they could.

The next day we stopped at an Army surplus store and I put together an “Emergency Box” of things I thought a girl faraway, within reach of a potential terrorist attack, might need: a gas mask, some water purifier pills, some pepper spray, food rations, a first aid kit, a small fire extinguisher and one of those all temperature blankets. I also enclosed $100 bill with the strict instructions to leave it in the box in case of an emergency.

My daughter called when the box arrived. “You’re freaking me out, Mom,” she said. “Baby, the whole country’s freaked out,” was my reply.

I was in technical school that fall of 2001, training to be an EMT. (Working on an ambulance had always been my fantasy, so I made it my mid-life crisis/reality once both kids went off to college.) We talked a lot about 9/11 during and after class. We wondered if we could handle rushing into a building everyone else was rushing out of. We wondered if we would have the courage and stamina to work tirelessly hour after hour, day after day, month after month the way those heroes at Ground Zero did. We wondered if we had what it takes to simply show up at a wreck scene, stay calm and do what needs to be done. We wondered if we would graduate…

I did graduate and went on to work on an ambulance for the next few years. My daughter graduated, too. I remember feeling proud and relieved that the $100 bill was still in that unopened “Emergency Box,” as we packed her up to move her back home. And, I remember being sad as the aftermath of 9/11 unfolded – war; sickness for the Ground Zero rescue workers; pain and unending sadness for the families of those lost in the attacks.

Now, there’s a hoopla about a “mosque” (or is it a Muslim community center) proposed near Ground Zero. There’s a big debate; everyone has an opinion; emotion is running high. What is the “right” thing for those Muslim Americans to do?

President George Bush put it clearly and, in my opinion got it right, when he said, during a speech to Congress and the nation on September 20, 2001: “The enemy of America is not our many Muslim friends…Our enemy is a radical network of terrorists and every government that supports them…Americans are asking, ‘What is expected of us?’ I ask you to uphold the values of America and remember why so many have come here. We are in a fight for our principles, and our first responsibility is to live by them. No one should be singled out for unfair treatment or unkind words because of their ethnic background or religious faith.”

Crown Vic

“Not what we have, but what we enjoy, constitutes our abundance.” - Epicurus


Because it’s the only car we have that has air conditioning, I have been driving a 1993 Crown Victoria all summer and I will admit, that has challenged my sense of what really matters stuff-wise.

I came up in the hippie days of the mid-70’s, in Boulder, Colorado where the atmosphere was nothing if not laid-back, hip happenin’ and super chill. Needless to say, “things,” as in possessions, weren’t considered important in the big picture of who one was or where one was going.

I have pretty much kept to that philosophy during my adult life. Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Clark and I like nice things - it’s just that we’ve never prioritized acquiring them. When the choice came up between a new sofa or a trip we always picked the trip, and, for the most part, have no regrets about that. Our kids grew up well-traveled and unfettered by concerns about what kind of shoes they should wear or what label was on their jeans.

There have been some embarrassing moments – moments when we rethink our modus operandi with regard to possessions. One example comes around when we get a new piece of furniture, and by new, I mean something only gently damaged from one of those “scratch and dent” furniture outlet stores. Proudly, we bring the new item home and put what it replaced out on the curb for someone else to pick up and use. Sadly, more often than not, our things sit on the curb for a long time, unclaimed until the city hauls them away as trash. Ouch! That chair never looked that shabby when it was in the house.

Car-wise, we have always been a fans of the 10-year-old “retired luxury car,” as Mr. Clark calls them – an old Volvo or Mercedes, top of the line in its day, fallen victim to a newer, even more luxurious model. One of the ways I “car shop” is to spot a pretty ride in traffic and say, “Look! In 10 years that could be mine!”

Because of Mr. Clark’s period of unemployment when the recession began, we have fallen behind on our 10-year rule. Our current fleet consists of a 1994 Volvo sedan, a 1995 Volvo wagon, and the Crown Vic. Both Volvos have door and window issues, as well as no A/C. And, the poor Crown Vic was badly burglarized one Thanksgiving holiday weekend, while our son-in-law was using it in Atlanta. In two back-to-back incidents, it lost its front seat, its back seat, all four door panels, a bumper and the dome light. We were able to patch her together again, but her seats don’t match, her dome light hangs down and her windows no longer work.

Poor Crown Vic! About all she has going for her is that cold A/C, which feels like heaven on a hot summer day. Never mind how shabby we look and we do look shabby - did I mention her paint is badly faded, as well?

“Why not get some things fixed?” you might ask. Well, after that prolonged period of unemployment, the last thing Mr. Clark and I feel like doing, now that those pay checks are coming in again, is spend money - better to rebuild the savings, after all, who knows what the future might bring?

By the end of last week, however, I had lost my ability to focus on abundance and was at the end of my shabby possessions/Crown Vic rope. I had more errands and driving to do than usual, as well as a couple of photography appointments in Atlanta. Because I was so embarrassed about my ride, I arrived at those client sites red-faced and sweaty, having hiked in from a remote parking spot - classy, really classy! I had started complaining loudly about the state of our fleet; then I volunteered at the monthly food distribution the Benevolence Ministries hosts at Holly Hill Mall.

It was a much needed eye-opener for me. The line was longer than usual and it was hot, really hot. Luckily there were plenty of volunteers and things went quickly. And, as I hauled food to people’s cars, my perspective gradually returned and I became thankful again. Here were folks living out of a car that wasn’t as nice as the one I was complaining about. Here were handicapped people, out-of-work people, elderly people, young people and kids – lots of kids – lined up in the heat waiting for the brief respite from need and worry that a box of free food can bring. So many sad eyes, so many people having such hard times…

As I cranked up the A/C in the old Crown Vic and headed for home, I said a prayer of thanks for the abundance in my life – an abundance that allows me to, at times, complain about having things like that good old car to fall back on.

Anniversary

“More marriages might survive if the partners realized that sometimes the better comes after the worst.”  - Doug Larson 


      Mr. Clark and I just celebrated our 31^st anniversary which sounds like we’ve been together forever to some and to others, like we’re just starting out. I have to admit, saying I’ve been married for that long surprises me. Just a short while ago we were two hippie kids saying our carefully written, not-too-binding vows over carrot cake; now we’re a couple of middle-aged folks with grown kids. Where has all the time gone?
      We began our journey together on August 19, 1979. It was a glorious day for the casual outdoor wedding we had planned – friends and family, nothing big, to be held at a little house we rented in the mountains outside Boulder, Colorado. It looked like something from a Woodstock film clip – all the men sporting pony tails or big, bushy Afro’s, wide ties and even wider lapels; the women in flowing gowns with colorful flowers in their hair. 
      The house we lived in was by a pond, so the ceremony was on a dock my dad built especially for the wedding. We were married by the same judge who married my dad to the wife he still has, and my brother to the wife he still has, so there was, apparently, some luck in having him officiate.
      Mr. Clark rented a white tux with tails and I wore a sexy little off-white number I’d found in a thrift store for $35. Our entire wedding budget was $300, a gift from my dad, so we had to be creative.
      A friend who sold flowers from a cart at outdoor concerts (but hoped to own a flower shop someday) said she’d arrange the flowers, if we’d buy them. A couple of friends who worked in restaurants (and wanted to be chefs someday) said they’d make the food, if we’d buy the ingredients. Another friend (who wanted to be a photographer someday) offered to take pictures for the price of the film. Yet another friend, this one a waitress with dreams of becoming a pastry chef, made a marvelous carrot cake that was so delicious the top tier still tasted good when we pulled it from the freezer a year later.
      As you can see, we were young and Mr. Clark and I weren’t the only ones bringing hopes and dreams and a wish for good luck to our wedding that day...
      The ceremony was short; we made promises to each other we thought we could keep – no ‘til death do us part – just some nice quotes and sweet sentiment to see us through the next few years, because that was as far as we could see. Ed’s parents were divorced and so were mine; my brother was in his second marriage; and, most of our friends vowed never to marry, making statements about true love not needing a license.
      We didn’t have a registry and we didn’t get many lasting gifts because, frankly, no one expected us to last. Instead, we had a honeymoon fund and our guests gave enough for us to spend a week in Cancun, Mexico, back when it was still a sleepy little fishing village. We slept in an open beach hut in “hamacas matrimoniales” – two hammocks hanging side by side - and had a wonderful time.  
   Fast forward a few years and our kids arrive – two of them, bam, bam, 15 months apart; then on to those wonderful, tiring, every-hour-is-filled child-raising years. Before we knew it, we were celebrating our 10^th anniversary; 20 years together found us in Georgia with kids graduating from high school. By our 26^th anniversary both kids were out of college and our daughter was married. Next came our son’s wedding, followed by some very quiet time in our marriage. What to focus on now that our obvious job together was done?
      When Mr. Clark’s job fell prey to the recession, times got pretty grim; nothing like a little “for worse” to make “for better” seem pretty far away. And then, right when we were about to give up hope, “better” came back. Mr. Clark landed a good job and we were able to see a future again.
  If you’d asked me on that dock that day if I’d still be standing next to Mr. Clark 31 years later, I probably would’ve said it doesn’t matter – so lovely was the “now” we were living in. Marriage has turned out to be a better surprise and a longer adventure than I expected. It’s been a deeper, richer, more challenging experience than I could ever have imagined. We’ve shared times of closeness and of great distance. And, all along the way we’ve been well-blessed and enjoyed more than a few bits of good luck.   
  Once the glue that children provide is gone, you find yourself asking yourself if you’d renew those not-so-binding vows, eat another slice of carrot cake, and stick together to see what comes next; for Mr. Clark and I the answer was, “Yes.”
      Our daughter gave us a framed picture of a heart with the words, “Mom and Dad, tied together by stuff too difficult to explain to someone new,” calligraphed on it; what a lovely anniversary gift and so true.       

Dumb!

  “FEAR is an acronym…for “False Evidence Appearing Real.” – Neale Donald Walsch

      I don’t know about you, but I’ll sleep better tonight knowing they’ve found the six freshmen/new students (out of 5,700 total) at UGA who lack citizenship documentation. Another threat to society, routed out! The numbers aren’t out yet on the total number of illegal aliens calling themselves Dawgs, but according to the state university system’s residency verification committee, of the 302,000 students enrolled in Georgia’s 35 state-funded colleges and universities, 230 don’t have the proper paperwork. That is one half of one percent – whew! Another close call averted.
      Given the economic trouble our state university system is wrestling with, I hope the chancellor’s committee was made up of volunteers, but something tells me it wasn’t. I wonder how much money this student citizenship witch hunt cost us in terms of lost time and wages paid to the folks at each institution of higher learning who had “verifying student documentation” added to their job descriptions? Something tells me we won’t hear about that because what’s important now is that we stay scared and angry over “all those illegals” taking advantage of our valuable resources.
      Never mind that they’re paying out-of-state tuition ($35,000 at UGA this year) or that that they’re buying books, eating food, paying rent and contributing to our ailing economy by spending money in other ways. What’s important is that those students are taking spots that should’ve been reserved for U.S. citizens…well, that may be.
      But, let’s look at it another way. I read a newspaper editorial this week that posed an interesting notion. The gist of it was that if we are going to deny access to state-funded resources like universities and colleges to students who lack proof of citizenship, why not take our patriotic fervor a step further and deny access to state-supplemented resources to industries and businesses that employ illegal aliens?
      What? We can’t run a poultry plant without access to water! No more cheap construction labor? We’re in a recession right now – we can’t pay the kind of wages an American expects. And how about all those businesses barely scraping by - but still able to do so - based, in part, on their dependence on illegal workers? With unemployment as high as it is, shouldn’t all of our jobs go to U.S. citizens? It makes sense. So, where are the politicians willing to make sure our already existing labor laws are enforced?  
      I am tired of hearing politicians pontificating about fear-based initiatives and running hate and anger-based campaigns. The problem of illegal immigration and who is entitled to what is way more complex than any of the solutions being proposed and if we continue to settle for simplistic sound bites rather than difficult but necessary action, shame on us, too.
      There are things we should be scared of here in Georgia – things that actually kill people, like heart disease, cancer, strokes, accidental injury and highway death to name the top five. Those are the things really threatening us in significant numbers – not people without the right paperwork stealing our school desk seats. Where are all the bills to tackling those very real problems?
      While we’re singling out groups to deny resources to, when will we see a candidate run on a platform that includes making it legal to deny obese people access to state-funded resources because their health issues cost us tax payers a lot of money in Medicaid and unpaid-for medical bill expenses each year? Why not appoint a special committee to identify and aggressively deal with dead-beat dads – the unemployed or self-employed ones who are flying below the child support collection system radar? Let’s deny them access to state-funded resources, too. (That could actually turn out to be a popular political platform plank, as it would also reduce the number of women and children using state-funded resources simply because their child support isn’t coming in.)
      While we’re legislating lunacy, let’s force employers to take some of those jobs they freed up by firing all their illegal workers and give them to those dead beat dads and financially strapped moms…Anybody want to get on the news by proposing something like that?
      The point is there is a narrow, fear, hate and anger-based focus that may get news coverage and gain votes, but it doesn’t solve complex problems. And, most of the problems our state and nation face right now are quite complex. Comprehensive long term solutions require difficult and potentially unpopular actions and until we start demanding that from our politicians all we’ll get is the kind of tabloid-splash drivel that this big tracking down of “all those” illegal alien students has become – something that generates a lot of noise, but tangibly effects only one half of one percent.
      We deserve better, but it is up to us to get it. “The key to change is to let go of fear,” Rosanne Cash said; I couldn’t agree more.  

Bad and Worse

“Democracy means simply the bludgeoning of the people, by the people, for the people.” – Oscar Wilde  


      I believe in democracy and take my duty to go to the polls very seriously, but for the past few years (actually more than a few years) voting has become like eating at my mother-in-law’s house where two casseroles known as “Bad” and “Worse” are routinely served.
      Take this year’s races. By the time you read this we will know the results of the run-off election, which means (because our current political landscape is like a buffet where the only choice is fried chicken) most of the races will have been decided. My bet? Some version of conservative Republican freedom fighter will have won. Which version? It hardly matters because they’re all so much the same.
      Actually, there was one candidate I was almost impressed with - Frank Ginn, vying with Shane Coley for the State Senate, District 47 seat. In addition to having a great last name (“Ginn, a tonic for troubled times” would’ve been my slogan suggestion) he had an intelligent, easy to use website where he used a few buzz words that were different from the other candidates.
      Of course, he included the standard arsenal of conservative catch phrases that seem to be required, at least in local races (Ginn vs Coley and Rob Woodall vs Jodi Hice for the US House District 7 seat) but, Ginn also used words like “manager,” “efficiency,” “empower,” “team building,” and “problem solver.” He said his top priority is to “grow jobs” and help families. He mentioned protecting water resources and improving roads – two refreshingly non-lofty goals as compared to his opponent’s promises of “liberty and justice for all” and “real solutions for real life.” Ginn also talked about “expertise,” “work ethic” and “improving our lives at home,” striking a humbler, more realistic tone than his opponent, who called himself a “battle-worn constitutional conservative.”   
      (As an aside, both guys want to improve education, which is paid for by those taxes they both want to cut…) 
      In the US House District 7 race, it was hard to find a “Bad” in all of that “Worse.” Woodall has the experience of having been Rep. Linder’s chief of staff, but his plan to introducing four bills on his first day in Congress seems a little unrealistic. Maybe he could eliminate birth right citizenship for the children of illegal aliens and freeze federal spending on the first day, then defund and repeal TARP and “Stimulus” and introduce The Fair Tax bill later in the week…
      As for Jody Hice, he lost me during his Ten Commandments crusade and that move from pastor to talk show host seemed a little shady; but the icing on the conservative cake for me was his billboard campaign – the one where he changed the C in Obama’s “Change” to the hammer and sickle from the Soviet Russian flag. There’s grandstanding and then there’s just plain wrong…
      I yearn for the days when I had a choice in the voting booth – back when there actually were two parties and that was okay. In order to run for office these days (and have more than an iceberg’s chance in hell of winning) a candidate must be A, a Republican; B, a conservative; then C-Z, embrace the following: be pro-gun and Pro Life; promise to lower taxes and be willing to fight for all those personal freedoms we’re currently losing; at least claim to be principled and promise to defend Conservative values; support Arizona-style immigration laws; decrease the size and scope of government; and, be comfortable with fear. Fear is a big component in politics these days – it’s important that we all stay very, very scared.
      In case you can’t already tell, I’ll be voting for Roy Barnes for governor in November. Maybe if a few of us die-hard Democrat dreamers keep voting, eventually there will be something to vote for besides elephants. Maybe the Yellow Dogs and Blue Dogs and Boll Weevils will come out of hiding and maybe a few more Gypsy Moths will see the light. Then we’ll have something to choose from besides “Bad” and “Worse” at that all-you-can-eat-fried-chicken-only-buffet known as a voting booth.    
      Now, before you get your conservative undies all in a bundle, remember, this is just my opinion – nothing more. And, isn’t it a blessing to live in a country where we can still voice our opinions freely – no matter how misguided to others they may seem?  

A Refreshing Trip

“One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.” – Henry Miller  
      There’s no place like home but it sure is nice to get away - especially when home is as hot and humid as ours has been for so long. Mr. Clark and I just got back from five days in San Francisco and it was heavenly - if for no other reason than the highest temperature we encountered was 68. It was windy and cool to the point of being crisp; we actually had to wear sweaters most of the time – imagine that!
      It was a business trip for Mr. Clark, which meant I had a good bit of time by myself, which is fine. I do things I would never do with Mr. Clark like taking cheesy tours, browsing really tacky souvenir shops, visiting old cathedrals and cemeteries, taking lots of “arty” pictures and sampling tourist cuisine. (Mr. Clark is a more experienced traveler who likes to research his destinations, so when I’m with him we do things the travel bloggers recommend and try to hang more with the locals.)
      This trip started with a night at a hostel in the old keeper’s house at a lighthouse just down the coast from the Bay Area. This was a dream come true for me – a real bucket list item - as lighthouses are one of my favorite things. The lighthouse (Point Montara) and the hostel sat atop a high cliff with a little trail leading down to the beach and rocks below.
      It was windy and beautiful and we slept with the window open, so we could hear the surf all night. And, in spite of having to share the thin, hard, way too small for two old people, plastic hostel mattress on the bottom bunk of a much too small bed, in a very tiny room, we slept like babies. We didn’t even mind that we woke up stiff and sore the next morning - it was all just so coastal and quaint.
      One of the first things you notice in California is that everyone is thin and fit and most of them have a (recyclable, of course) card board to-go cup of coffee in their hands. I guess this is because it is chilly and there are coffee places everywhere. The little town near the lighthouse (Half Moon Bay) where we stayed was no different. I counted six coffee houses within 2 blocks of the main strip mall – which had two coffee houses of its own. If you’re looking for a glass of sweet tea or an All-You-Can-Eat buffet in this land of super health you’re out of luck, but if it’s coffee you want, no problem!
      From the hostel we went to the complete opposite accommodations-wise. The next night we cashed in some of Mr. Clark’s business travel points and stayed at a fancy hotel called The Mark Hopkins, located at the top of Knob Hill, the highest hill in the downtown San Francisco. Our room was on the 14^th floor and had a fantastic view. And, the bed? Like a huge, feather-filled cloud. I don’t suppose anyone has ever woken up stiff and sore after sleeping there.
      That evening we walked “The City” (as people from there call it) and had a wonderful time taking in all that sights, sounds, tastes, smells and scenery San Francisco is known for, then slept like babies, again, in that grand hotel bed.  
        The rest of the trip Mr. Clark was in meetings so I walked the entire “What to See in San Francisco” tourist map on my own, photographing and snacking my way through every quadrant. I don’t know how many miles I hiked, but I enjoyed every step. It’s a friendly city, low key and easy to navigate. The people are easy going and the atmosphere isn’t the hustle and bustle you’d expect. There are a lot of foreign tourists and it’s interesting to listen to their languages and see how they are dressed. And, as I mentioned, there are plenty of coffee places. It’s strange to be in the middle of the after work rush hour, right downtown, and be surrounded by a sea of people all carrying a cup of coffee….
        Traveling, even a short trip, gives me a fresh perspective and I always return home feeling refreshed and renewed. Now, if only we could get a little break in this heat, I’ll make it on through to sweater weather here just fine!
 

Grace

“Then, when it seems we will never smile again life comes back.”  - a greeting card  
      I have a tendency towards depression and all of this heat has really been getting me down. I have no tolerance for it. Even as a child in the drier, cooler summers of my dad’s Eastern Colorado wheat farm, I wilted and became cranky and sad when the sun got high. And, as much as I like my life in Georgia, after 21 years I am still completely surprised and demoralized by what humidity does to the temperatures here.
        Like me, Winston Churchill had a tendency towards bleakness (his may or may not have been climate-based) and he called his depression the “Black Dog.” I have always liked that notion of these sad feelings that come and go. Thinking of them as a black dog gives them a familiarity that takes some of their ominous potential away.
      For years my Black Dog has visited in the dark cold months of the New Year – January, February, sometimes staying on into March. This winter he didn’t show up and, while I briefly wondered why, I was glad to have dodged his particular brand of bullet for once. And, so I moved quickly on to simply enjoying the time without him on into early summer. Then the heat hit – robbing us of those lush mornings in the garden and lovely, leisurely evenings in the yard. It got so hot, so quick that we’ve not even opened some of the citronella buckets I bought in anticipation of all that wonderful time outside.
      Then, who should show up at my door, all hot and thirsty, clearly ready to settle in for a nice long stay in my air conditioning? My Black Dog. We’re in about our sixth week together and I’m getting tired of his company. The thing about a black dog is that it can blend in and make itself scarce, so you almost forget it’s there until you stumble on it in the night or trip over it as you get out of a chair. And, if the black dog in question is The Black Dog, every time you bump into him, there you are, all down in the dumps again. Like a real black dog, my Black Dog follows me everywhere, padding along softly at my heels, making it hard to remember all the good things in my life.
      Fortunately I work part time in an emergency room as social worker and that gives me a perspective that helps keep my Black Dog in line. For example, yesterday a woman about my age was brought in unresponsive. Her worried and tearful boyfriend found her that way in the morning when he tried to wake her up.
      It turned out she had a bad brain bleed, the result of untreated high blood pressure. She had been out in her garden yesterday evening, the boyfriend said, and when she came in she “looked real hot.” He said she went right to bed and sometime in the night, a vessel in her head popped and there she was on a breathing machine - her prognosis very poor.
      One of my jobs in the ER is to call families when something bad happens. So, I called that woman’s family and one by one they trickled in, surprised, upset, sad, angry, calling on the Lord to fix what had just happened. It’s a difficult thing to watch – people processing a terrible event. But, it feels good to help them in a small way, water, a cold cloth, a hand to hold, a shoulder to cry on, a small box of Kleenex, another explanation of what the doctor said.
      During this I hear a lot about the patient and his or her family. Some of it is good; some of it isn’t so good; some of it’s downright appalling but it seems to help people to talk about it all. This particular woman was estranged from her family because they didn’t like her boyfriend and some of the habits he shared with her. Initially there was a lot of tension between the family and the boyfriend – so much that they couldn’t be in the same room. It took awhile, but by the time I walked them all up to ICU, they had decided to be okay with each other so that they could all pray for her.
      They had moved from focusing on the bad things to remembering the good – something that most families end up doing by the time it’s time to go up to ICU or call the funeral home. And, that’s when it hits me – every time I deal with one of these families – how precious life is and how suddenly and unexpectedly it can be snatched from us. One evening I’m working in my garden; the next day I’m in ICU surrounded by doctors and nurses shaking their heads.
      It’s the bad times that really bring out what people are made of and a surprising number are really strong, with the ability to be positive and true. In a way, my Black Dog is like those bad times; he shows me how dark everything is and then follows me into the light, leaving me alone to enjoy it for awhile while he takes a nap under a shade tree. 
      Anne Lamott said, “I do not understand the mystery of grace – only that it meets us where we are and does not leave us where it found us.” It’s the same thing with that ole’ Black Dog – maybe I should start calling him Grace.  

“After 20 years of marriage, I’m finally starting to scratch the surface of what women want. I think the answer likes somewhere between conversation and chocolate.” – Mel Gibson


They say money can’t buy happiness, but in some cases it can. One such case is the recent purchase of my new Dyson DC 14 – All Floors vacuum cleaner. As I have mentioned before, our house is in a bit of a shambles as the result of years of neglect and too many pets. It doesn’t help that the house is old and leaky and the heat and air system has some loose tubes and broken vents. It also doesn’t help that neither Mr. Clark nor I are very big on cleaning; there’s always a lot of other things we’d rather be doing and we usually do them.


For years I’ve burned through inexpensive vacuums at the pace of about one a year. Our environment is just too tough; they can’t survive it. Due to Mr. Clark’s period of unemployment, the vacuum I just retired was three years old and more than worn out. I swear it actually added dust and pet hair to the floor, rather than sucking it up. I could create the illusion of having cleaned by using my old vacuum to blow the dust balls up under the furniture and into the corners nobody sees. But I was definitely not making any real head-way.


Recently I started sweeping rather than using the old vacuum; that was pretty much of a bust, too. All I was doing was rearranging the dust bunnies in hopes that would help in some way. It didn’t; things were getting pretty grim, especially in the rooms with upholstered furniture and area rugs.


My daughter got a Dyson for Christmas from her in-laws and boy, did I envy that gift – especially after I heard about the miracle it worked in her pet-filled, much littler but just as old house. My sister also got a Dyson for Christmas - same deal, lots of pet hair in her life (she’s a professional pet-sitter with wall to wall carpet) and that gift generated nothing but rave reviews…I wanted a Dyson and I wanted one bad.


If you’ve suffered from vacuum cleaner envy or lust, you know that a Dyson is not cheap. They come in several models ranging in price from $200 to over $500. That’s a lot to pay for a vacuum; but, the continued chatter – not only from family, but once I brought the topic up, from people at work - about how a Dyson will change your life had me on board. The only issue was how to afford one?


Shopping the sale papers on Sundays for great Dyson deals became a pastime of mine, as did perusing Craig’s List and the want-ads. Apparently once you get a Dyson, you never get rid of it because there are no used ones for sale, and the sale paper prices just weren’t dipping down into my price range.


After attempting to do a thorough cleaning of our kitchen last week, I announced to Mr. Clark that I was going to start buying one lottery ticket a week in the hopes of “winning” myself a Dyson. His response was to tell me not to spend more than $1 per ticket; when he added that he thought our old vacuum worked just fine, I promptly went out and bought a $5 lottery ticket, then set our old vacuum on the curb, hoping it would find a new home with some clever (and obviously desperate) vacuum repair person.


“There, take that!” I thought, “Now I have to get a new vacuum because the old one’s gone!” Too bad that $5 ticket was a loser…


Maybe he got tired of listening to me read Dyson sale prices aloud on Sunday mornings or because he really is a very nice guy who genuinely wants me to be happy, this past Sunday Mr. Clark came up with a plan that got me my Dyson.


“Why don’t we use the money we’re charging the Estonians (see prior columns) for rent this summer (a whopping $10 per week), plus my Best Buy gift certificate (the one our daughter gave him for his birthday), kick in some extra and get you a Dyson?” he asked.


It just so happened he had beat me to the sale papers that day and found the Dyson of my dreams, deeply discounted “while supplies last,” in the Best Buy flier. And, before mentioning it to me, he’d checked on-line and found one available at the Mall of GA. There it was - my Dyson dream come true! And, Mr. Clark had put it all in place – now that’s true love.


I’ve been cleaning all week and the thrill of my Dyson has not worn off. It seems our house was in even worse shape than I knew, but my Dyson is up to the task and the two of us are having a really good time together. I have joined the legions who can honestly proclaim, “My Dyson has changed my life!” Thank heavens for Mr. Clark, who even after 30 years, continues to understand exactly what I need and do his best to get it for me – even if what that is, is a really nice vacuum cleaner.