30 June 2009
I remember Aunt Sharon and Uncle Gene's home based on this wallpaper, and green shag carpet, and the strangeness of a split-level home layout, which no one in my whole hometown had. Oh, and Deron and Dawn each had their own bedrooms, which I coveted terribly.
I would guess this photo is late 1974/early '75, with Dawn not yet a year, me a year and a half (in the center, with the fancy hair bow), and Deron less than 4. Does that sound right, cousins? At any rate, there is little in this world that reminds me more of the innocence of childhood than these kinds of pictures.
If it makes either of you feel too exposed, let me know, and I'll remove the post. But I hope you both know that even though it's been years since we played together, I think of you both every day.
26 June 2009
25 June 2009
But I love this peony. The bush was here when we moved in, and despite my constant, insistent neglect, it continues to bloom every spring. It smells sweet and looks like a crazy rose-peony hybrid, and I am so happy to see this prettiness every year.
I've been blogging for 3 1/2 years. Sometimes you have to recycle topics, people. Cut me some slack....
23 June 2009
When I worked at the nursing home as a nursing assistant, we would occassionally be reprimanded by our bosses for taking more than our allotted 15 minute breaks. That was the hardest job I've ever had, and sometimes, when you had your feet up and a cold soda, it was hard to get back out on the floor. But we did try to keep everything kosher, honest. One day, one of the RNs wrote in the day book that by taking 20 minutes instead of 15, we were "stealing from the residents." Now, I suppose in a way that's true. We could've been caring for the elderly instead of reading People magazine. Then again, those five extra minutes may have been just what we needed to recharge enough so we could face another supper of serving pureed fish, or dealing with unimaginable amounts of bodily fluids.
Wait, I'm digressing. My point is, I write this blog for a lot of reasons. I write to keep my loved ones informed, and I write to (hopefully) entertain sometimes, and I write because it's better than talking to myself. But if you, dear readers, don't comment? Ach. I'm not even talking every time...just once in awhile. Say, once every 5 or 6 posts. If you can't do that, then you're stealing from me. And if you keep it up, I may soil myself and blame you.
21 June 2009
When I was in fifth grade, William Wainwright rounded third base and headed for home, where I was the catcher in kickball. I was more than willing to take one for the team, and when he put his head down and bowled into me, I flew up in the air and came down on my left hand. By the time I got over to the carpeted, moveable gym steps, my wrist was so swollen I could barely see my watchband. As he helped me get the watch off, Mr. Timmer, our phy-ed teacher, solemnly told me I must have a bad sprain, because broken bones don't swell this much.
My aunt Beverly drove me to Halstad, where our old-school Dr. Brown had his practice. (My dad was in the field, I think, or nearly so, and my mom had to teach). My wrist had more than doubled in size, and it was throbbing, but the consensus was still that it was just a bad sprain. We waited for Dr. Brown for almost three hours, and in his exam rooms with too-thin walls, we heard him discuss with the elderly patient who got seen before me the state of her houseplants. I was only ten, but I knew that wasn't cool, even if my arm WAS only sprained.Finally, the nurse took me for an X-ray, and both she and Doc Brown were shocked to see both bones in my arm were broken. No wonder it hurt so much. My ulna was so badly broken that the doctor wouldn't even set it for me. They slid my x-ray into a manilla envelope and sent us off to Moorhead.
By now it was 5 pm, so mom was done teaching, and someone had tracked down dad. I don't remember who drove me to the hospital (did I mention my arm hurt?) ?), but I remember the nun who was my nurse at St. Ansgar's, and the long-faced white haired doctor who explained why they would put me under: the bone was so far apart, they thought they might have to do surgery, and to try to set it while I was conscious would be too unpleasant. I remember feeling very small in the big hospital bed, with Mom and Dad and Jess all standing around, trying not to look too concerned.
In the end, no surgery was needed. They popped my bone back together and wrapped me up in an old school plaster cast halfway to my shoulder. My family got to come and see me while I was in the recovery room, and I guess Jess, who was only in third grade at the time, was understandably freaked out. I don't remember this, but I guess she was saying sweet sistery things to me, and I did not reciprocate. In fact, I think I may have sworn at her.
I'm sorry, sissy; I didn't know what I was saying. And now I know what it's like when your sister is just out of surgery and kinda goofy in the head, and you're just sooo relieved that she's okay. I love you. Can I be there when you eat your first corn on the cob?
14 June 2009
But soon she was running like she'd been doing it her whole life.
Oh, summer: I do love you.
My research says that those caterpillars can grow to 18-36 inches long. Dang. Also, because it always makes me sad when annuals die, I'm happy to see I can convert it into a houseplant come fall. AND it's supposed to propogate easily. What a dreamy addition to our garden! Thanks, Auntie Jess, for the crazy plant. I love it.
13 June 2009
09 June 2009
Here is her handy-sister hand on the worn handle of a saw our great-grandfather used. (Those are his initials, see...) The wood is worn smooth where his hand held it, and the crisp edges of the wood are soft from his sweat and the heat of the work. The blade is still sharp enough to cut through thick pine branches. Together, we made quick work of it, and aside from letting me take these pictures, I don't know that she thought much about being the fourth generation in our family to use this gorgeous saw. As she worked, though, I saw our father and great grandfather cutting their own tree branches from their own trees. And it made me glad.
Okay, first of all, people tell V she has beautiful hair all the time. I usually invite them to come over and comb it in the morning and see if they still think it's pretty. But no one has ever asked if it's real before. At first blush, it's just the same sort of thought: whoa, she's got a lot of hair for such a wee girl. But then I started thinking about it. What if it hadn't been real? That would mean that either I'm that rare mother who shops religiously at Saver's but puts her kid in a wig for vanity purposes, or the child is sick. Either way, is it appropriate to draw attention to this? Shaun said I should've burst into tears and started rambling about chemo and remission...
Instead I guffawed and said, "Oh, heck yeah. It's real." And we went about our bargain hunting.
I'm thinking, though, of getting her a crew cut before next Monday. Just to see people's reactions.