beth anderson

Relics

“Any relic of the dead is precious, if they were valued living.” Emily Brontë.

Back in the 1980s, one of my three jobs entailed working weekends at a horse stable. It was hard, but mindless, work and always satisfying. My love of horses is lifelong and I appreciated the ability to be around them. In those days I carried a small buck knife, the kind where the blade folds into the handle. At the stable it was useful for many things including cutting the strings on bales of hay, opening bags of feed, cutting up apples for horses, and many other useful tasks.

Little did I know it would come in handy for other reasons. My full-time job back then was working in a bank in the downtown area of a city. The cost of parking was outrageous so many of us parked quite a distance away requiring a 20-30 minute walk. This was not a nice area to walk. Standing at a stop light waiting to cross the street one morning, a local man next to me (who had been following me) pulled out a sizable knife and started cleaning his fingernails while eyeing my purse. So, I pulled out my much smaller knife and started cutting up an apple. I looked at the guy and said, “handy things to have no matter the size.” He ceased following me at that point.

Fast forward a few decades. When I was teaching, a very slim box cutter resided in my desk drawer. It was mostly useful for opening boxes, cutting paper and trim for bulletin boards, etc. But it was calming to know it was there, especially after the Columbine massacre. I’m certain I was the only one who knew of its existence. It sits in the desk of my home office now that I’m retired.

Cleaning out a drawer the other day, I found a few small penknives. These were the early precursor to multi-tools but many just had one small blade. It seemed to be customary for men to have one in a pocket throughout the late 19th and early 20th centuries. My paternal grandfather, first-generation American born in 1896, always carried one and it never failed to fascinate me. When I cleaned out my father’s apartment after he died, I found several of them. They were mostly my grandfather’s and showed they were well used. Looking at them and handling them always brings a smile to my face. My Papa wasn’t a warm and fuzzy guy but his stories were interesting.

Today I drove my almost 95 year old mom to an appointment. Returning her to the assisted living facility I noticed she had a bit of a white hair growing out of her chin. Yes, ewwww, but it’s part of our future I’m afraid. I produced a small set of tweezers from my pocketbook and got rid of the offending hair. My mother was enthralled by my tiny Victorinox “multi-tool” and wanted to see the gadgets. It’s small so it didn’t take long and she was mesmerized by the toothpick, the tweezers, and the scissors. Hard to think such a small object has saved the day so many times.

I do have a larger multi-tool that stays at home. Though it could be a good weapon merely by being in my purse if I swung it to thwart a bad guy. The tool has some heft and could make someone see stars if it clanged them on the head. Don’t think that possibility doesn’t cheer me.

It’s one reason I’m loathe to get rid of some stuff. Just handling it brings back memories, mostly fond. I’m a person who feels memories are very important regardless if they’re good, bad, or ugly. They are part of one’s own being. I think many of us kept a small box or container of some sort with our “prized” possessions. We could look through it and remember. I’m always reminded of a song from my youth when I think about this. Jim Croce had such a way with words and we lost him all too soon. “If I could make days last forever/if words could make wishes come true/I’d save every day like a treasure…”. “Time in a Bottle”

The Alone Girl and sour grapes…

We haven’t had a visit from the Alone Girl in a long time. She visited the other blog but the password disappeared and so did the blog. The blog owner was silly enough not to save the posts. Lessons learned the hard way.

The Alone Girl tells us she is still working hard to grow up. Too many of life’s challenges have worn her down and allowed her to believe she is less than she is. She excels at listening and offering her thoughts to others. But it’s a rare moment that she allows the same treatment for herself.

You see, the Alone Girl has always been on the outside looking in and never quite belonging. With the exception of her first six years on Earth, turmoil has dogged her relentlessly. Individuals handle turmoil differently. The Alone Girl seemingly handled turmoil beautifully. On the exterior she maintained a remarkable stoicism.

She tried to do all of the right things, despite never feeling like she was “normal.” She wasn’t one to dress up. She stuck her nose in books but wasn’t quite like all of the other bookish kids. She wasn’t musically inclined and couldn’t sing. She often wondered where life would take her, her primary skills were reading and sports.

As the Alone Girl traveled through adolescence, the once confident, happy-go-lucky kid became more unsure and afraid of life. She did well in school but constantly berated herself for not being able to focus and study like the other kids. She was attractive and well-built but was rarely asked out. Her home life was far from that of her peers.

Though the Alone Girl is aware of Jay Gatsby’s greatest fault, thinking he could go back and re-create his happy times, it didn’t stop her from reaching out to “old friends” and trying to reconnect. Life marches on and they were not as interested as she. Again, the Alone Girl was left to wonder why she wasn’t good enough once again.

Grace, humility, and time have allowed the Alone Girl to morph into more of her own personality. For the majority of time the Alone Girl presented a facade of what she was expected to be. One of the greatest ways she resisted was by not conforming to being a girly girl. She is most comfortable in sporty togs, though she has a good eye for a tasteful appearance. And though her body tells her she is aging, she defies the horrific-looking roadmap of veins on one leg by wearing shorts a majority of time during nice weather. Her legs are well formed and she prefers to thumb her nose at the superficial veins. She also loves the water and never fusses over wearing a bathing suit.

Throughout her life, the Alone Girl has encountered some odd medical issues. She navigates the course with her perpetual fortitude . But curiosity spurred her to look into her biological family origins. Yes! Horror! The Alone Girl was adopted! Well aware she could be opening a Pandora’s Box, she undertook a journey over a few years. But, she found the details of her true origins.

Easiest to investigate the maternal side, due to geographical proximity, the Alone Girl met several relatives and/or spoke over the phone with them. She says she recognizes many of her traits among that side of the family. The paternal side proves more of a mystery but that will be partially unraveled within a few months. You will have to wait until she reveals that info, if she chooses to do so.

What she says is the most refreshing thing is that she is embarking on a new personal journey as she nears her 65th birthday. She continues to develop her creativity, something she was often told she didn’t have in her youth. It’s somewhat accurate, she just hadn’t discovered what appealed to her. Having access to books and access to sports (volleyball, basketball, and tennis) was enough for her at that point. She was a hard hitter in tennis and it was very therapeutic to use her imagination while smashing those tennis balls!

Why the sour grapes? There aren’t any. The Alone Girl never envisioned raising a family due to her fear of passing along her issues. She would not have wanted to create a life who might inherit the mental health stuff. It’s been her life, she deals with it, it will never disappear. There are times when it’s more bearable. She doesn’t want to belabor the issue nor does she feel the need to describe it in detail. For those who insist she just pick herself up, get over it, and move on, she likens it to having to put together a complex item but only having access to far fewer tools than is necessary. You can cobble it together but it will break often with use.

So, is she bitter that she doesn’t live the “age old” life as a mother, wife, grandmother? Not at all. She is happy for those who embrace that lifestyle and are happy with it. She asks that people don’t look down their noses at her type of lifestyle (and hush, you know they do). While she isn’t able to always understand your lifestyle, she tries and rejoices in your happiness.

The Alone Girl is forthright and speaks her mind. Instead of trying to fit in, she does her own thing. But she is also intuitive and is able to recognize people who likely have unresolved issues. She will probably mention it to you because she cares about you and your inner peace. This does not always go well. People think it’s sour grapes on her part. The Alone Girl feels deeply and cares. People aren’t able to see that and jump to incorrect conclusions.

But when people feel the need to “brag” about all they’ve done or all they have, something is out of balance. If in balance, folks don’t feel this need. And if a person mentions a certain negative event, situation, person over and over, it’s a sure bet there’s more to that story.

At this point, let’s let sleeping dogs lie. Just try to think outside your own sphere once in awhile. It’s appreciated and may be useful to you. Given my penchant for words, let me share some of Maya Angelou’s with you. “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

Give those words some thought. They’re simple words, yet they convey a profound idea.

Trust me, there are those who will rejoice in the extra pounds, glasses, etc. If that’s what works for you, so be it.

Words and their effects…

Words are amazing things. They can build you up, they can cut you down. They can express beauty, they can describe horror. They can be melodious, they can be blunt. The marvel of words is they may be pretty much whatever you want them to be.

Words cascade through my head like the chocolates whizzing by Lucy and Ethel on the assembly line. So many end up left in the dust on the floor. There just isn’t enough time to use them all. No one said I had to use them all, but I hate to waste them. Words are so expressive but one doesn’t visualize a writer creating a fabulous sentence and then breaking into a celebratory dance like some sports star. Watch some music videos and live vicariously through the expressions of the musicians as they experience their music. Come on, we all sang into the handle of the hairbrush as kids. It was fun!

When I write, I write. It often pours out in a huge rush and I’m exhausted when the words stop. And then I think, who even cares about my writing? Then I recall it shouldn’t matter who cares. I write for myself. I write because my life wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t. I write because I can.

I go through phases. For days at a time, I will listen to a specific type of music. I’m not musical in the sense of being able to create it but I very much enjoy listening to music. I don’t have a favorite genre, my tastes are eclectic. But there are times when only well-crafted music will satisfy. Those moments often coincide with my frustration with writing. When I can’t get the words to come out as intended. Hemingway famously equated writing with bleeding. Sometimes I just need to draw the blood.

Music isn’t just melody. It’s also the lyrics. In my mind, neither is more important. They’re equal. And when the words are tight and the rhythm is right, I can be brought to tears. And then the bleeding can commence.

An example of a song that has this power for me is Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” Now, the song has been vastly overused in films and covered by many artists. I like a few of the covers as well as Cohen’s own version. The beauty and play of his words is amazing. It may be enjoyed superficially and it may be enjoyed for the complexity of its depth, or layers of depth. Cohen’s writing is literary in quality and intellectual in its makeup.

My favorite covers of this song? For their fabulous harmony and diversity, Pentatonix can’t be beat. I’m such a sucker for a good tenor, or two. My preferred female cover is kd lang’s version. I’ve always enjoyed her ability to flat out sing. She doesn’t need to embellish her singing in any way. It’s strong and comes from the heart. Aside from Leonard’s version, another where the emotion is palpable is Rufus Wainwright’s version. Each of these creates tears for me in different ways. And that’s the beauty of it. These artists aren’t acting out a version of a song, they’re living it. Those emotions are coursing through their veins.

I know that feeling. I crave it.

“Your faith was strong but you needed proof/You saw her bathing on the roof/ Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew her”

“And I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch/But listen love, love is not some kind of a victory march”

Memories of June…

The month of June is meaningful to me in many ways but the date of the 25th stands out for two important reasons. It was my grandmother’s birthday and the date of my high school graduation.

Meet Charlotte Conklin. She was born on June 25, 1888, in New Haven, CT. Her grandparents (on both sides) had come to New Haven from Ireland. Charlotte was the oldest of three. Her siblings were Roland and Margaret. Apparently her mother was a big fan of Victorian literature, hence the names.

Young Charlotte was outgoing and pretty. At 15, she had the opportunity to attend a unique program at Yale that trained young women in the field of business. She became an excellent secretary. In her early 20s, she met a young medical student from Yale. Though the story is shrouded in a bit of confusion, the end result of her being heartbroken was clear. Apparently the young man, from a “nice” family in the Boston area, may have been expected to marry a local girl. Even though my grandmother had travelled to Boston and met his family, he proceeded to marry the local Boston gal.

He was always known to us as the “doctor.” My grandmother did not talk about it much and it was obvious it had hurt her deeply. Because I’m a nerd and love mystery and research, I’ve done a bit of a look into his life. My mom and I couldn’t remember his complete name but from various bits and pieces of information, I discovered him in a 1908 Yale yearbook.

His life was one of success. A successful orthopedist, his first wife died at a reasonably young age. He remarried. There were children. They were well-known and respected in their societal strata.

Devastated by her loss, my grandmother threw herself into her work. She also helped her brother, Roland, start a pharmacy business and did the books for him. Though she was heartbroken, she did date but not seriously. Then she met an IRS agent while working in a federal building in New Haven. The man was from Albany, NY. It was this man whom my grandmother married. Both were older, she was 38 and he was 45. My uncle was born the next year, my mother the year after. I never met him as he died when my mother was 11.

My grandmother was always “old” to me. By the time I knew her, she was fairly crippled by arthritis. She was not one to do any sort of play with me and my brother. But she was a wonderful cook and played the piano beautifully, whether following sheet music or playing by ear. My posture has never been great and I can remember walking the length of her house with a book balanced on my head. It was not one of my better pursuits.

My nana also regaled me with stories from her past. She loved New Haven and her friends and cousins. By moving to Albany, it pretty much isolated her from them. I don’t think her life turned out as she’d imagined. Yet she loved her husband and her children. Things were not always easy for her but she persevered (Irish stubbornness?) until a month shy of her 99th birthday.

I always remember her with fondness. My home contains several of her possessions which helps me keep her fresh in my mind. She was a lady, through and through. Her manners were exquisite and she had a lovely New Haven accent when she spoke. She was 86 when I graduated from high school on her birthday although she did not attend the graduation ceremony. The mid-70s hadn’t yet heard of handicapped accessibility. She waited at our house in the company of a family friend until we returned and then we celebrated both occasions.

Each June 25th is bittersweet. I loved my nana but I always smile when I think of her, despite the tears that also form. Graduation from high school created such a feeling of unexpected trepidation in me. That’s another story for another time. I’m going to keep smiling and thinking of my nana and her sweet and gentle ways.

My grandmother, Charlotte Conklin Pringle ca. 1920

The little things…

“Enjoy the little things in life, for one day you’ll look back and realize they were the big things.” Kurt Vonnegut

For most of my life, I’ve found joy and beauty in the little things. A bird on the wing. A wave creeping up the sand, inviting me to play. A bee gathering pollen. My soul is stirred by so many small things at times I think I may burst with joy.

My essence is triggered by my senses. An image may cause my heart to flutter. A scent may envelop me in a blissful calm. A sound may trigger memories. Many times I’m so moved by what I experience it’s hard to contain my emotions. It’s also difficult to find like-minded people. So, I keep it inside and enjoy my own thoughts.

I’ve always been a “thinker,” a dreamer. I was the student always gazing out the window, distracted by anything visual, but always listening. It’s given me powerful insight and honed an almost bottomless depth of emotion. It’s also spurred me to “do” more.

When I was teaching I often told my students that each of us possesses our own set of gifts. We should not compare ourselves to others because each of us is unique. I believed what I told them to be true as each child who sat in my classroom brought something singular to our shared experience. What was missing, in my belief, was me. So easy to recognize in others, but near impossible to discern for myself.

I’m “growing” into my gift(s). I’m learning it’s okay for me to have them and to acknowledge them. I’m tentatively becoming comfortable in sharing them. I’m opening my future to include them.

Remember the little things. A shared glance, companionable silence, the sun poking through the clouds. At any given moment we do not know how we may be impacting others. For twenty five years I tried to stand on my head each day to make connections, to inspire, to matter. And now it’s time to let it ooze in dribs and drabs, in spurts, in torrents. Fear and trepidation aside, it’s time to live with purpose and authenticity.

N.B. – this is a work in progress. My intent will become more apparent in the coming months. I’m looking forward to it. As usual, I sidestepped as I wrote, always willing to follow the tangents in my thoughts. I’d intended to write more about Vonnegut, one of my perennial favorites. Another time. “So it goes.”

Photo credits: Beth Anderson

Just bleed…

“There is nothing to writing. All you have to do is sit down at the typewriter and bleed.” Ernest Hemingway

The title of this post and the photo accompanying this post may seem incongruous to you. Did you read the caption under the photo? It will make the connection though it’s not obvious.

This quotation figured prominently in a colleague’s classroom when I was teaching. I looked at it thousands of times throughout my 25 year career. Now, several years later, I see it. For a quarter of a century, I willed it to speak just to me. Several years have passed since I retired and out of nowhere came a whispered message.

Over the years I’ve read a fair amount of Hemingway. Was it a favorite activity? Not so much for me. On the surface he’s an easy read. It’s while reading between the lines that it becomes challenging. If you know even just a little about Hemingway’s life, you know it was difficult. It was a life of extreme adventure, manly pursuits, failed marriages, endless wandering. Add a serious car accident and two plane crashes to his constant inner turmoil. It adds up to 61. The writing was unable to stem the bleeding. Hemingway took his life.

In my mind, the “bleeding” symbolizes cathartic floodgates. In truth, writing is often a release of emotions that flow through my arm and out of the pen. In that regard, it is representative of blood. Emotion becomes tangible through the mechanism of ink — ribbon ink for Hemingway, pen ink for me. I’m a tactile person and feel a sense of release as I propel a pen across a sheet of paper.

Ok, ok, but what about the trees in the picture? There is so much that draws me to that photo. On the surface the towering spires of the trees are impressive. The trees are long-lived and still reach for the sky. They may be seen as a symbol for strength and endurance. It is up to the viewer to choose what they may mean. The mist and reflection of the sun could mean any variety of things. I choose to see light and hope emerging from troubled thinking.

I did not take the photo. I have used it before and given proper credit and was given permission to use it. Do we sense a story behind this? Of course there is. But it isn’t a story for today. “Dreams/So they say/Are for the fools and they let ‘em drift away…”. Many of my dreams have drifted away. Now is my time to realize some of them.

Lyrics credit: “We May Never Pass This Way Again”. Seals and Crofts

“Say hey”

“Say hey” is an expression used as a nickname for the great baseball player Willie Mays. Willie used the word “hey” quite a bit but no one really knows how the nickname came about. Real baseball fans know little facts such as this. Avid baseball fans talk baseball constantly, regardless if it’s baseball season or not.

Baseball is truly an American game created by a brash young country, just as we developed jazz music and tap dancing. Of course, it’s become a bit of a global enterprise but its roots grew throughout the cities and rural areas of the US. Early newspapers paid great attention to baseball regardless of the level of the league. Look up a newspaper from the early 1900s and read the wonderful reporting of the game. You’ll be able to feel the sun on your face, smell the peanuts, and hear the crack of the bat.

It seemed each small town had at least one team. There were loads of different leagues which gave many men the opportunity to play. We all know that not everyone makes it to the big leagues. Many spend entire baseball careers in the minors. I surmise that if one just loves to play, it’s the opportunity to play that matters.

Case in point…a young man, born in New Haven, CT, played organized baseball from 1895-1911. Mostly a third baseman, he also played at second base. Not a stellar hitter, career batting average of .250. He played on many different teams. Here are a few: Augusta Kennebecs, Bristol Bellmakers, Reading Coal Heavers, Schenectady Electricians, Albany Senators. There were a few more. He also had the chance to be a player/coach with the Albany team.

Also due to his association with the game, one of his daughters married a major league player named Johnny Cooney. Johnny played mostly for the Boston Braves and Brooklyn Dodgers. A lifetime immersed in the game of baseball. It’s kind of the stuff of some kid’s dreams. His name was Mike Doherty and he was my great-grand uncle.

As a baseball fan, I would have loved to talk to him but he died a few years before I was born. When I was a kid, the circumstances surrounding baseball were a bit different. Many games were played during the afternoons. If we were lucky we owned a transistor radio with an earplug to listen surreptitiously to a game. Many of us went to sleep at night with the transistor under our bed pillow so we could listen. It was exciting!

Take some time to look at how baseball developed and was supported by small towns as well as big cities. It was accessible to the public and affordable. It could be played wherever there was a field and players. In the early years, players shared equipment. It was more of a pure game until greed took over. Regardless, today was Opening Day and I’m looking forward to the season.

Out of the ashes…

It was thirty six years ago that a devastating event occurred which would change my life drastically…for the better. How is that possible? Sit back and I will share my tale.

Psalm 130 begins with this powerful line, “Out of the depths I cry, O Lord…”. Through these words we gain a glimpse into anguish. All human beings suffer a variety of miseries throughout their lifetimes. As is often the case, how we deal with these challenges may have a great impact.

Long story short, I slipped on black ice. I sustained a torsion fracture to my ankle and tore all of the ligaments. Isn’t that special? Surgery ensued and I then spent two weeks at Mom’s Rehab and Training Camp. Each day was a routine. When I awoke, a breakfast tray was next to the bed. After a bird bath, stuff I’d need for the day was piled into my pillowcase and tossed down the stairs. I followed by bumping my bum on each step.

Once downstairs I crutched to the kitchen and propped my casted leg on a kitchen chair while I washed my hair in the sink. My ankle was so damaged I was never able to have a walking cast because the ankle would not achieve a 90 degree angle bend. I then settled on the couch in the living room, combed my hair and usually had to take a nap by then.

Lunch was in the fridge. Since I couldn’t carry anything, the seltzer bottle went into the pocket of my sweatpants, a piece of fruit in the other pocket, and the sandwich in its baggie hung from my clenched teeth. Lunch lasted all of five minutes which left all afternoon for tedious television, rampant reading, and necessary napping.

After two weeks I had gained enough strength to return to my small apartment. A friend would bring me bags of paperback books weekly that she’d bought at garage sales. My newly-retired dad kept me supplied with seltzer and Lean Cuisine. We listened to many baseball games over the radio.

I was alone a great deal. I’m a thinker. I knew in my heart how much I was not suited for my current “career.” I started making some phone calls. I learned I could get my Master’s degree, do my student teaching, and receive my certification all in two years. Hmmm, not bad. But did I want to teach? Yes, I did. I knew it was hard work as I’d watched the effort my mom put into her teaching.

So, I called a friend to take me over to SUNY Albany to meet with a representative in the School of Education. I arrived late, and was a sweaty mess. I hadn’t factored in all of the walking needed to access the building on campus. Crutching was much more difficult as an adult. But, I apologized and we had a productive meeting. I wouldn’t be able to walk on my leg until a screw was removed but that was taking place at the beginning of May. There was a short summer session beginning mid-May and I signed up for my first course.

Another long story short. I moved back home due to the financial burden of paying for school, worked part-time at my despised job until I finally left to do my student teaching. Was it easy? In some ways, it was. I had set routines. The coursework wasn’t difficult but extremely tedious. Most classes were at night. Student teaching was exhausting but exhilarating. I received my degree in the two year time period, despite working full-time for many months.

So, I’m proof that after having a succession of lemons thrown at you, you can make lemonade. Becoming a teacher was the best thing I ever did. It wasn’t easy, but nothing worthwhile ever is. Teaching was not easy. It required hours and hours of preparation. But again, it was worth it. My life was influenced by so many wonderful adolescents and I learned as much from them as they did from me. I’m thankful I was given the gift of time to think of my future and for the strength to make the necessary changes.

When it all falls down around you, get up and keep moving.

Take a breath, if you’re able…

Words are my thing. I live to write. It’s true that I haven’t blogged in a very long time. Mostly it’s due to working on another writing project that makes my head tired. I’ve started a few posts but didn’t follow through on finishing them. Such is life.

There are times when my being is so full, I have to skim a layer or two off the top. My frustration is ample and it’s necessary to release some of this bilious exasperation. I have a great deal of interaction with doctor’s offices due to my medical issues and those of my elderly mom. This past week I experienced an overdose of medical office experiences.

As a frame of reference, a few years back I was consistently feeling unwell. Malaise, lack of energy, overall fatigue, etc. It took almost two months to figure out what was wrong and it was pretty much by accident. However, I am keenly aware of the pervasive assumption once medically-affiliated folks read my chart and spot the depression and anxiety diagnoses. I cease to be a physically ill individual. Yes, this is a generalization but I’ve dealt with this for forty years now.

Since I have a variety of “invisible” chronic illnesses, my stoic appearance belies my daily reality. Look, I’m aware that there are a myriad of folks who deal with very serious and traumatic illness. It isn’t my intent to take away anything from them. On the flip side, it also doesn’t mean that many of us are dealing with day-to-day piddly-diddly stuff. If you can’t see it, it doesn’t really exist, right? And Lord knows, if you have mental health issues everything is all in your head, isn’t it?

I’ve been wanting to get back into the swim. Start slowly with water aerobics and build up to lap swimming. I miss the water. But in the last few months I’ve been having some problems with being short of breath after even minor exertion. Process of elimination for me so I started with the cardiologist. Long story short, I did a treadmill stress test the other day. I should say I attempted one. I failed. Was shut down after three minutes. Embarrassed and mortified at “failing,” I was at least gratified to see an oxygen saturation of 89. Not in my head this time. My BP also skyrocketed. Nothing is worth doing if not done well, am I right?

Handful of hours later, I received a phone call from my doc. And after almost twenty years, I’m still addressed by the formal form of my first name. “Blah blah, a concern but not really blah, blah adjust these meds blah blah wait a minute blah blah just double your blood pressure med blah blah I’m leaning toward it being pulmonary. I will send in a new scrip for the increased dose. Bye.“

Yes, my life has been reduced to staring at the phone. No mention of a follow up. In my opinion, my resting BP which is slightly elevated doesn’t warrant a doubled increase. However I didn’t go to medical school. I only went to teacher school with just a Masters degree in English, ewwww I hated English class is the usual reaction.

Angry and frustrated, I hoped my thoughts would be clearer the next day. Ironically I saw my primary the next day for a different follow up. I mentioned my recent experience. My blood pressure was still slightly elevated but my primary was shocked to hear my med was to be doubled. I left feeling more undecided.

Here’s the deal. This is a rant on todays current state of affairs regarding our health insurance companies. They’re all about the money and could care less about our health. Hey, that’s similar to our politicians. Never mind. Our doctors are not allowed to spend time with their patients. They are driven by time, a precise amount of contact time allowed by the health insurance companies. It does not give them time to know us, to listen to us, to understand us. No wonder things are missed, mistakes are made, people like me are frustrated.

It won’t keep me from advocating for myself or from asking questions. While I do not like having my questions or thoughts dismissed, it’s really the only option because that’s how it works these days. It leaves too many things swirling through my head. Dylan Thomas, one of my favorite poets, reminds me “Do not go gentle into that good night.” Once a bit of a door mat, I am no longer. I will speak for myself and I will be heard.

As to the state of health care, this feeling comes to mind. “Is that all there is, is that all there is?” I haven’t been able to adopt Peggy Lee’s suggestion “If that’s all there is my friends, then let’s keep dancing/Let’s break out the booze and have a ball/If that’s all there is.” Sadly, dancing would leave me short of breath and drinking would raise my blood pressure!

I will continue to “rage against the dying of the light.” And as the Chairman of the Board used to sing “I’ve been up and down and over and out/And I know one thing/Each time I find myself/Flat on my face/I pick myself up/And get back in the race.” Man, I love words. The next time the impersonal “blah blah” talk starts, I will channel Joe Biden and think, “Will you shut up, man?” Hopefully the words will stay in my head and not exit my mouth.

The holidays and uncle Ro…

I’m guessing we all have some specific holiday memories. Mine seem to encompass the entire month of December. Could someone explain why our twelfth month derives from the Latin word for ‘ten’? Ok, yeah, yeah, blah, blah…Roman year to Anglo-French and ta da…December which was once the tenth month but isn’t anymore. Clear as mud.

If you live in the northeastern US, the twelfth month can be wicked. However, it also sports some pretty cool holidays. My birthday in early November was far enough removed from 12/25 so it didn’t impact gifts. Though I like the cold less and less, I do enjoy being out in it as long as I’m dressed properly. Walking during a snowfall is one of my favorite activities. I’m not talking a blizzard, just a nice snowfall. It’s SO quiet and that always amazes me.

There are many things I associate with the month of December. The solstice occurs on the 21st and days begin to get longer. I do not like the prolonged darkness of the winter months. While December may be dark and overcast, the most challenging months of January and February are yet to come.

Back to December. In my youth, December meant the appearance of ribbon candy and the bowl of unshelled nuts in the living room. If it was an especially righteous year, the grandparents showed up with petit fours. Only one of those items remotely appeals to me now and I’m ashamed to admit it’s the bowl of nuts.

While I enjoy some holiday sweets each year, I grow tired of them quickly. Maybe it’s the film on my teeth left from the sugar. Maybe it’s the fact that if I indulge, I have to use more insulin. Maybe it’s just that I’ve eaten my fill. How sad would that be? December used to be a month during which I baked a plethora of holiday sweets and treats. Now I make very little. That said, there’s a pan of fudge cooling in the kitchen.

December makes me think of cold, red faces and runny noses and laughter. As a young child living in Vermont, winter was no big deal. Until our uncle Ro passed away. He was my mother’s uncle, so my great-uncle. I never met him but he’s been talked about enough that I feel I know the essence of him. His name was Roland and I’m thinking my great-grandmother may have read too much Robert Browning.

Uncle Ro passed on December 1, 1964. My mother drove from Burlington, VT to Portland, CT for the funeral, always dicey in the winter months. Sure enough, she ended up driving home through an ice storm. We had several inches of snow in Burlington and were spared the ice. My mother turned into the driveway that late afternoon, her car encased in a few inches of ice. It took a while to get the car door open, just to get her out. My father drove her car to the large indoor service garage (heated) at his business and it took two full days for all of the ice to melt.

Looking back, my mother must have been terrified. She said she was afraid to stop because she thought she wouldn’t be able to get home. We were happy to have her home.