coming out of my shell

coming out of my shell
Showing posts with label determination. Show all posts
Showing posts with label determination. Show all posts

Friday, April 28, 2023

I found that red dress

I found it. Not just a red dress. I suspect the dress I now own might be the same Talbot red dress that I show Dora wearing in my post. Of course I don't mean it is Dora's actual dress from 2016, I mean it is one just like it. I found it on ebay for $30.  Can you believe it? Perhaps tenacity is a virtue?

Now I just have to invest in shape wear so I don't look lumpy when I wear it. I have two months, maybe I could lose 5 pounds? Whatever it takes. By all that is holy, I'm wearing this blankety blank dress.  

And ladies, could I get away with wearing black shoes with this red dress for a summer wedding? When I was a teenager in the 1960's, one didn't wear black shoes in the warm weather. Black shoes were cold weather shoes. Yeah, that's how long ago I actually thought about fashion. 



Sunday, March 7, 2021

Taking chances

After six weeks of bother and bliss, the watercolor class is over.  I learned a lot about watercolor, and a good bit about myself.

I was surprised to enjoy homework and deadlines.  The structure forced me to face my fears and gave me specific types of challenges to face. Now I'm on my own. Very Scary.

When 9-year old N last visited us he brought his recorder. He approaches learning to play the instrument with the exuberance of youth. Unabashed and unashamed about imperfections, he told us he practices so he can get better. I congratulated him with a hearty "Practice makes perfect." What an old hypocrite I am!

Since the class ended I have been drawing, well, a little. Drawing is my comfort zone. I'm happy to be making art after all these years of avoiding it.  I may be rusty, but I know I can draw. Unfortunately, the terror of painting continues. 

My ego is my enemy. I need to embrace mistakes. It is the only way to learn. In an act of faith, I took one of my drawings, inked in an outline, erased the pencil lines and proceeded to paint.  The result was clumsy, but why wouldn't it be? I'm still learning. And who cares, really?  Sometimes the goal is the action, not the result.



Thursday, February 6, 2020

Getting back up

Like so many of you, I am fighting despair after the Senate acquitted Trump. We knew that was going to happen. Still, it sure has hit me hard. How about you?

Despair seems like a normal and reasonable reaction to injustice. We all feel it from time to time. Unfortunately, it is an emotion that will not sustain us. Despair won't make us stronger or happier. Left to it's own devices, despair will consume us. Then we lose. By all that is righteous and good, I want to win.

(I'm trying to give myself a good talking to.)

I've used the boxer analogy before because it is beautiful to me. It is the only sport I might be tempted to watch on TV.
The fighters with the most "heart" are the ones who never give up. Sometimes they get knocked out, but there is always the next fight. Who knows what might happen next?

The odds are that 50% of future events will be good ones over a sufficient period of time. Nothing stays the same. History is cyclical. Blah, blah, blah. You know what I mean, those platitudes are actually shorthand for the truth. 

Now I'm going to go read a sword and sorcery fantasy and veg out for today. Maybe I'll make some cookies, or putter around in the garden. I think we all need a little R&R. We should be back to normal soon.


My uncle and my father about 1937

Saturday, February 1, 2020

Evil is as evil does

I read a post on Facebook yesterday that gave me pause. It began: "Today Democracy Died!" I was moved by the strong emotion; however, I don't agree.

We are all disgusted by that sham of a trial in the Senate. We ask ourselves, "How can there be a trial if witnesses are not called, and evidence not presented?" Well, the answer is simple, there can't be. That was not a trial.

When the Senate votes to acquit down party lines, it will  be a vote of shame. History will record it as such. Donald Trump will not be exonerated simply because he was not removed by the Senate. The House impeached him, and that impeachment stands forever. He can never escape that great truth. He was impeached.


We knew the Senate would do this, and that Trump would not be removed from office as a result. This is awful, but not a surprise. The thing we must do is persevere, organize, register voters, and vote to remove him in November.

Call me a political literalist, but Democracy is not something that can die. It is an idea, a political construct, a governmental norm for many enlightened nations. I take comfort in history. Yes, evil exists, but it never triumphs in the end. It only rises to the top when we allow it.


Let's vote for a Democratic nominee who can actually beat him, and who has the ability to bring this country together. Enough with the division and hate that evil thrives upon.

Friday, September 27, 2019

Knee jerk reactions: part 2 Get down!

Alone in the ER cubicle with my fractured knee sticking up in the air, I settled in to that "place where there's no space or time." I detached as one might reasonably do to avoid traumatic pain. And by "settling in," I mean settling in for the long haul, the inevitable. There was no quick fix for this.

As reality would have it, a couple of doctors came in and introduced themselves as part of my surgical team. They were there to bring my knee back down.  Shudder.

A doctor is going to want to bring a knee down fast. They know the pain will be excruciating, but they want to minimize the time. Understandable. They began, and I have to tell you it was the worst pain I ever felt. Halfway down, I made them stop.

I looked at one of the doctors and said, "I'm so sorry, but I just don't think I can do this." Hahaha. I really meant it, too.

She wandered off to get even stronger drugs. The other doctor and Tom were on either side of me. I thought, "Forget this, I'm doing it myself." And I did. I didn't ask permission, and I didn't listen to what anyone around me was saying. I used my good foot to push the foot on my bad leg forward slowly, slowly. I followed the path of no pain. If it hurt, I'd push it in a slightly different direction. After a minute or two my whole leg collapsed into a normal extension. I'm not saying there was no pain, but it was minimal compared to what I experienced when they were trying to shove it down in place.

The doctor was amazed. He said "I've never seen anything like this." I was SO overly proud of myself that I pretended I didn't know what he was talking about. Oh, the games I play. 

Friday, October 19, 2018

If you are in it for the long haul

If you are in it for the long haul, you have to pace yourself. 

It is important to know when to rest, when to breathe deep, and when to look away. From time to time we must step back in order to come back swinging. Not only is that okay, it is essential.

And don't forget pleasure! Pleasure and joy play a role in sustaining a long struggle. Those are the moments that remind us life is worth living. Balance requires joy.

What is life but a series of obstacles that must be overcome? One can always surrender, it's true. But where is the fun in that? What is more important in your life than fighting the good fight? 

Struggle is the great work. If you can maintain hard work and committed living for the long run, in spite of the pain, you will have lived a heroic life. I guess there are some who don't particularly want to be heroic. I don't really understand that mindset, but I know it is a valid choice. Lots of good people live quiet lives. Do I envy them? Yes, some days I do. They remind us of what life could be like if life was normal.


For many of us, for whatever reason, life will never be normal. You are the people I'm talking to right now. Pace yourself. 

Being normal is overrated

Monday, October 15, 2018

Weed 'em out

It's hard to keep up with the weeds in my perennial beds. The summers in Central Florida are long, hot and oppressively sunny. It is impossible for us to get out there between June 15 and October 15 and weed. Instead, we mulch heavily in spring and hope for the best until Halloween approaches. 

We've been trying to use pine straw mulch because it is natural, native, and good for our acid-loving plants. Okay, we do it because we're trying to be politically right-on. However, I'm finding it similar to using herbal meds for physical issues. It sounds good but just doesn't work. Getting rid of weeds may require a sturdier mulch, and more of it. I'm sorry to say this. I really wanted to be kind and gentle, but those weeds must go. Time to get serious.

We've had a ridiculous amount of rain in the past few months so our hopeful, once thick and massive cover of pine straw has broken down quickly. Weeds are not smothered, they poke through the straw. They seem to benefit from the pine straw as much as our azaleas do. They grow and multiply. We're going to have to dig out an entire bed of Louisiana iris to get to the weeds and start again. This time I'm going to spray the tubers with water to try and wash out the weed seeds before replanting. That'll show 'em, right? 

Weeding is a fight that may never be won, but must always be fought. 

Reminds me of politics. 



Thursday, March 8, 2018

Aches and Pains

I ache from gardening today. I am battling a specific flowering plant propagating via underground suckers AND volunteer seeds. It is called Mexican Petunia, a non-native perennial that was here when we bought the house. Mexican Petunia is choking out my canna lilies! This  formidable enemy will take me a long time to vanquish. I have fought this particular battle many times before with invasive plants. I am not worried. I will prevail. I know what to do. Although it is a frustrating struggle, it has to be done. Can be done. Will be done. I am sore, but that's why God invented ibuprofen, right? 

Time is the forgiving nature of gardening. One does not have to do all the maintenance at once. I take as much time as I need to get the perennial beds ready. I take longer now that I am older than when I was younger. I love getting my hands in the dirt. I love digging things up with large, impressive gardening tools and metal implements. I love cutting plants back with both large and small "cutting tools." Mmmm, "cutting tools!" I am a cold-hearted weeding machine. Bring it on!

Here's to spring, my friends. She is already here in Florida, and soon will arrive for you, too. I promise.

See - my yellow canna is being invaded by the beautiful, but greedy Mexican Petunia!






Friday, February 23, 2018

Cultivating strength

Whimsy alert. Read no further if you aren't up for the indulgent ramblings of an old hippie chick today.

I admire strength, but what exactly do I mean when I say "strength?" Well, it doesn't have anything to do with lifting bar bells... I think true strength is a mental muscle involving character and resilience. It is the spark that keeps us going, keeps us accomplishing things, keeps us coming back even when we are exhausted. True strength is that desire to continue living despite the cruelty and meanness that would have us surrender to despair. 
 

Do you love lists as much as I do? If so, feel free to add your own in the comment section. Here's a quick list of what I think of as true strength:

1. Battered women who eventually leave their husbands and start their lives over.  

2.  Children who grow up in dysfunctional families and, despite physical, emotional and sexual abuse, grow up to become good people who raise good children.  

3.  Men who are kind and good in a freakazoid culture trying to intimidate them into becoming selfish and violent.

4.  Those of us who can admit we have a problem and then seek the help we need.

5.  LGBT people who refuse to live a lie


6.  The people who love LGBT people, and support them, despite family pressure to do otherwise.

7.  Introverts who find a format for speaking out that works for them.  (There is more than one way to do the right thing.)

8.  Extroverts who use their power for good and don't forget the power of humility.  (The second part is equal to the first)


9.  The students at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida who stood up and shouted to the world #NeverAgain when their classmates were gunned down in cold blood. They are actually at the top of my list right now. I love those kids.

True strength involves thinking and feeling. It requires that we become more human. As you will notice in the tarot card below which is called Strength, the woman is closing the mouth of a wild animal. She is restraining her lower self; taming it. The blue mountain in the lower left represents the great work - human evolution and personal growth. The infinity sign over her head is an occult symbol for the number 8. It is also called Splendor because by the time you get to 8 on the the tree of life, you've accomplished a great deal.

Strength isn't something that comes naturally to us. It must be cultivated, watered, mulched, and fertilized.  Let's get to it before we die of thirst.



Strength: 8th Major Arcana from The Pamela Colman Smith Commemorative Set.




Wednesday, December 20, 2017

That Damn Gingerbread House

OMG! (loud and breathless, like a teenage girl) I had the all-time worst experience making a gingerbread house with my grandson.

I received a text from daughter, M, saying little N wanted to build a gingerbread house. M, a wise and subtle mother, replied "That sounds like a Grandma thing." She texted me with the good news. Taking a deep breath, I ordered a kit. I hoped it would arrive broken beyond repair. But no, apparently I was one of the lucky few who received a kit with all pieces intact. I took that as an omen.


I picked N up from school yesterday. We began to build the cursed thing. Grandpa helped. That meant Grandpa and I (both ex-managers) embarked on an epic power struggle to get the damn thing to hold together. Initially this involved frosting, but later degenerated into heat guns, glue, and holding that sucker together for an interminably long time. Nails were considered. All while N jumped in his seat talking non-stop.

We used up the kit-provided frosting trying (and failing) to get the damn house to stick together. I made more. N (aka, my shadow) insisted we divide it up into four small bowls so he could use all 4 types of food coloring. He already had the food coloring out of the pantry. Then we returned to the construction zone where T had given up on the blasted house. It was my turn. I used Elmer's glue (and plenty of it) to stick that sucker back together.

As I held it together hoping for the glue to dry, N dumped about half the candy decorations in two of the frostings. He is lightening fast. I guess in his 5 year-old mind he imagined he could frost the roof with the candy infused glop and the candy would stick out. A genius, thinking outside the box! But he had not considered they would just be buried in the frosting. I was holding it all together and couldn't stop him, although I yelled really, really loud. We really have to get that kid's hearing checked. Not sure WHY he didn't hear me.

Finally the roof stayed on! He decorated. Alas, as we stood to look at his handiwork, one side of the roof slipped off in slow motion. He lost interest and went inside. There was no way I could stop. I re-glued the hateful roof and propped up each side with boxes to keep them in place. Two hours later N's father, MV, came to get him. I  took the boxes away from the sides of the roof. It held! N was delighted. I'm pretty sure he thought I was a miracle worker. I was happy, although my blood pressure was rather high.


After they left I took the following pictures:


Not the best gingerbread house you've ever seen, but dammit! it was a house. At last I could relax.  Unfortunately, gravity rules supreme. Here's how it looked this morning:
I surrender. 

Saturday, November 18, 2017

Goodness Gracious!

Wow!  There sure are a lot of slimeball sexist pigs out there.  Right? 

Everyday it seems like a new one is being called out.  There are so many that no one seems to know what to do with them all.  Hold them accountable, I say!  If it ruins their careers, so be it.  Some of them ruined the careers of the women they dehumanized (think Harvey Weinstein), and I'm a firm believer in the punishment fitting the crime.  Make them apologize publicly at the very least.  Force them to consider their actions and how it impacted on the lives of the women they victimized. THAT's how one "begins" to atone for one's sins - by fully understanding what one has done. Begin being the key word. 

It is good to be sorry for your sins, as long as it is real and changes you for the better.  It is a step in the right direction and may keep you from burning in the fires of hell for eternity (big mytho-poetic smile here). And for those who are still trying to lie and pretend all those women are making it up, sheesh - that just doesn't fly anymore.  Bring on the investigations, regardless of party, or title, or relationship.  Let the chips fall as they may.  


We have been moving backwards the past year. Change, however, is the nature of reality.  Eventually we will stop moving backwards, the political dynamic will re-set, and we will start moving forward again.  I can't help but think it is already happening.  Am I an optimist or a realist?  You tell me. 

Monday, October 16, 2017

Say no to snark

I have noticed a preponderance of snark on social media since the election. Perhaps you have, too? Snark is defined by my computer's dictionary as "snide and sharply critical comments." You know what I'm talking about. It is the online equivalent of giving someone the finger...

Personally, I hate snark. It makes my skin crawl when I hear it, and it makes me want to punch someone out when they use it against me. It seems people use snarky comebacks because they think it makes them appear strong and smart. It doesn't. It makes them appear rude and childish. When you use your vast intelligence to come up with a pithy reply designed to destroy your opponent, then you have wasted your words. But most importantly, you've done no good.

The best way to convince someone to change their mind is to listen to them (as respectfully as you are able to pull off...) and THEN start engaging in discussion, strategically. The best way to shut someone down and push them away is to throw snark at them. Because who is going to want to listen to you if you have accused them of being less than human? 

How do I know this? Because I was once trained in the art of persuasion by an international representative of a large and famous labor union. She could convince anybody of anything.  It was a gift that some people have. If you don't believe me, then follow a successful salesperson around for a day. Salespeople take a lot of abuse and disrespect everyday, but they keep trying to find a way to connect - to make that sale. 


Okay, okay, we all have certain friends or relatives we absolutely cannot listen to or argue with. And social media has brought out the troll in way too many angry, lonely, and desperate souls. Unless you have an advanced degree in psychology, just step away from those folks. Detach. Don't waste your time. Don't surrender to the snark side. It's a slippery damn slope that will deliver you to straight to cynicism. And, well, that's kinda like burning in hell.

I want the world to change for the better. I want to win. The only way to do that is to get strategic. We can do this without sacrificing our humanity.

Don't just react. Take the time to think. 









Wednesday, June 21, 2017

Cynicism

I understand cynicism. Really, I do. I just don't happen to like it.  It seems...cowardly.

You know, like when there is a spirited election coming up and the two candidates have radically different approaches to solving public problems.  There is always someone who will smirk and say "All politicians stink, that's why I don't bother to vote."  When someone says that to me, what I actually hear in my head is "I don't know right from wrong, I don't want to think about the issues, so I am just going to act like nothing matters. I hope you think I'm cool"  I don't.

It is easy to be distrustful and negative. Life is simpler if you tune out the noise of the modern world. The hard part is listening to all that noise and trying to make sense of it.
The truth is, life is complicated and requires a certain amount of intellectual rigor to figure out right from wrong. Mainstream American culture encourages citizens not to think. The more passive we are, the more compliant we will be.  Don't fall for it.

This is why we are thrilled by heroes. They seem to have thought long and hard about right and wrong. They are incorruptible and keep going when the going gets tough. They take a stand. They DO things. They give us hope, and inspire us to be our best selves. Doesn't everyone want to be a hero? If not, why?

Here's a sweet little piece from an Emily Dickinson poem to help us all recharge our batteries:


We never know how high we are 

Till we are called to rise; 
And then, if we are true to plan, 
Our statures touch the skies—

Okay, I needed that. Now I am going to go plant some seeds. 



Sunday, May 14, 2017

In My Mother's Day


This is my second Mother’s Day without my Mom.  She had her weaknesses, as we all do; but now I only remember her strength. She was often resourceful and independent.

In March 1964, when I was 12, we moved back to Northern Indiana after a 3-year interlude in the Pacific Northwest. My Mom wanted to go "home" where she had family. There were 6 kids in 1964, and none of us wanted to leave. However, we had to go. My Dad flew back ahead of us to begin work at his new job and get things settled for our arrival. Mom single-handedly packed and shipped our belongings, and we set out in an old 1958 Ford station wagon for the Promised Land.  My oldest sister was a senior in high school with only 3 more months to finish. She stayed with a friend’s family until after graduation.

My Mom drove 2,225 miles from Seattle, Washington to Northern Indiana with 5 kids between the ages of 2 and 14, and a cat, in that car. The two youngest were still in diapers. We drove down Washington State to Oregon, eastward to Idaho and Wyoming, through the Rocky Mountains. After that we traveled through the flatlands of Nebraska, Iowa, and Illinois. Northern Indiana was home. My mother had always been fearless, but never more than on that epic journey when she took us home.

We didn’t stop at restaurants - too expensive. Back then, people didn't really eat at restaurants as casually as we do now. We stopped at small groceries and ate sandwiches at rest stops. Once, when we stopped to eat, the cat got out of the car and ran away into the farmer’s fields that were ubiquitous along the highway. We loved that cat, and looked long and hard. Eventually, Mom said we had to go. We were shattered as we silently drove away. However, a couple miles down the road Mom inexplicably turned the car around and went back for the cat. It was a heroic decision, and this time the darn cat had the good sense to come when called. We were more careful about keeping her safe after that.

Large chain motels didn't exist in the early 60’s to my recollection. Instead, motels were small and unique, “Mom and Pop” businesses. I remember staying overnight at one motel with a series of small, one-room cabins lined up next to each other. We all stayed in that one room. It took us 7 days to get to Indiana. The car broke down in Plainview, Nebraska. We stayed at a motel for two days while it got fixed. It was fun. We were not in school and it was mid-March. That felt strange in the middle of the semester, knowing that kids all over the country were in school leading normal lives. I felt like an outlaw on the run. It was a bit disconcerting, but exciting.

Towards the end of the trip, we started running out of money. There were no ATM’s or credit cards. Mom had a certain amount of cash, and that’s all we had to get where we were going. One night she decided to save money by not renting a motel room. Instead we all slept in the car: toddlers, tween, teenagers, mother, and cat. She parked late at night in a gas station parking lot, intending on gassing up the car when we woke the next morning. It was a cold night and, dontcha know, the car engine froze up. Early the next morning the car would not start. The owner lived above the gas station’s garage. We banged hard and long on his door to wake him up so he could come out and help us, which he did. At first he was angry, but when he saw the sorry lot who woke him up he softened. He helped us, and he didn’t charge a dime. People can be so kind. It is important to remember that.

I remember feeling like a vagabond. At that moment, we did not belong anywhere except in that old station wagon, traveling with our brave mother. She was our home. Eventually, we arrived at our destination and went directly to my paternal grandparent’s house where we were loved and celebrated.

My Mom was amazingly strong during that trip. She was confident, determined and never complained despite the many hardships. I guess one might say she persisted. I believed she could solve any problem that came our way, because she did. I trusted her in a way I have never trusted another human being since. It was a grand adventure that provided experiences and memories I would not trade for love or money. For many years, she was everything to me. I hope I told her that. 



Thursday, March 30, 2017

Change is hard

In March 2014, we left New York State and started the long drive to Central Florida. Had things gone as planned, it would have been incredible. There are people for whom things go as planned, but T and I are not of that ilk.

We spent the winter downsizing, organizing, packing, and getting the NYS house in shape to sell. We went to Florida twice to find a house to buy. We put an offer down and it was accepted.  We were simply waiting for the closing, originally scheduled for late February. We put the NYS house on the market and it sold within a week.

We booked movers for March 24, before the snow melted. Over the years, we had created one beloved perennial bed after another on that quiet property, bordered by state lands. That was the hardest part for me, leaving the land. I thought it would be best to leave while the flowers were dormant and the beds were covered by snow.

Had we closed as planned, it would have been a fun move. Unfortunately, we were buying a foreclosed short sale from Fannie Mae. At the end of February they ominously postponed the closing for a month. 

Towards the end of March, two days before the movers were to arrive, we got a tearful call from our Florida realtor. Fannie Mae "just" discovered they did not have clear title to the property and they were CANCELING the sale.

We had already sold our house, all our belongings were boxed up, and we were set to get out of town before the snow melted. At THAT point we were still excited and ready to rock and roll. We decided to leave as planned (minus a clear destination) and rent a cat friendly place while we started the house search again from scratch.

We spent one week in what my husband fondly refers to as the crack motel, then moved into an old travel trailer in a RV resort. All our belongings were in storage. We stayed in that cramped little space for 3 months. W
e nearly lost our minds before we finally bought our house.

Here it is, three years later. I found my mind.

I will always miss the land and the endless variety of colorful flowers that grow up North. However, Central Florida has a different kind of beauty; subtle, primal, and wild. We have alligators, for crying out loud! It feels like home.



Some of our garden beds in Central New York

The quiet, natural beauty of a state park in Central Florida

Wednesday, November 23, 2016

Stand!

In an alternate reality I would have made a good soldier. I have a gift, at least I think it is a gift. I don't react to crisis in the moment. Instead, I fight. It isn't until a few days or even a week later that the gravity of the situation fully hits me and I collapse. 

I am exhausted with worry about all the things happening in the world right now. This will pass.  Not the worry, not the need to fight; those are going to stick around for a long, long time. I am talking about the exhaustion. I know fatigue is a natural reaction in times of great loss and extreme stress, so I am not particularly concerned about how I feel right now. I have been taking it easy the past few days, trying to get some rest. Today I have to get up off the couch and start tackling Thanksgiving preparations. That will be a good reason to re-enter polite society. 


My oldest sister, Sister C, shared this with me right after the presidential election. I find this song by Sly and the Family Stone as inspirational now as I did in the late 1960's. It is going to help me stand up and get on with my life. It reminds me how good strength feels. It reminds me that in the dark times of the soul, artists create art, musicians create music, actors allow us to see the world through another person's eyes. They turn their pain into art, and they uplift us all in the process.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving in the U.S.A. Like so many of you, I will be thankful for my family. Today I am thankful for Sly Stone. Enjoy.


Sunday, November 13, 2016

That time Baby Sister healed the sick

I read (click here) about a medical condition called delirium that can result when older people have surgery. It mimics dementia, but is usually not permanent. This happened to my mother (Teresa) in 2007 when she had back surgery at age 81.

She was fine going into surgery, but a very different person woke up. Angry, distrustful, paranoid, and confused, she thought her children were out to get her. We still laugh (to abate the horror) about when she lay in the hospital bed pretending to read the newspaper. She was actually furtively monitoring my brother (Big D) and Baby Sister. How did we know? Her eyes darted back and forth over the newspaper, which was upside down.

Her doctor knew what was going on. He admitted her to the rehab side of a nursing home for a few months to recover her senses and get back on her feet (literally). However, Mom forgot she was too weak to get up by herself or walk without a walker. Consequently, she kept falling. That made her an insurance risk for the "home." She also refused to follow directions, hallucinated, and was uncharacteristically rude. They labeled her as a dementia patient, even though that was not what she was suffering from.

This took place in Indiana. About a month into her convalescence I went there for a week to help my siblings convince the rehab center that Mom needed further physical therapy. The rehab people thought she was a goner. They were ganging up on Baby Sister, urging her to end therapy and permanently admit Mom to the long-term care part of the nursing home.

Baby Sister was Mom's principal caregiver. She was not ready to give up on Mom. Our mother had Parkinson's Disease. We knew the time would come when she would need to go into end-of-life nursing care, but if Baby Sister (an absolute powerhouse of a woman) thought it wasn't time yet, well, we sure weren't going to argue with her.

The rehab people gave up on Mom. They stopped making her try to walk to the dining hall, keeping her in a wheelchair instead. Baby Sister knew that meant Mom would never walk again, meaning she would never go home, meaning she could be forever traumatized and unable to care for herself. So Baby Sister decided to make Mom walk.

I was there the first time Baby Sister pulled Mom out of the wheelchair and positioned her in front of the walker. It was a little disconcerting, but Baby Sister is no one to trifle with. If she says "Walk!" the lame will walk! It took forever to get from Mom's room to the dining hall. One of Mom's aides passed us in the hallway. I heard her mutter under her breath, "Damn, Teresa is WALKING!"

A couple months later my telephone rang. Who should be on the other end but my sweet, sweet Momma, back from LaLa Land. She wanted to hear how I was doing. She had no idea how long she had been "gone" and remembered very little about the past 4 months. She was back in her little apartment, walking with a walker, happy, fiesty, and ornery. Our Momma was back. Thanks Baby Sister, for never giving up.

To be continued...


Mom in 2009.  She died in 2015.