Heat, Humidity and All That Jazz

I am on vacation this week. I had grand plans to start ridding our lives of unneeded stuff this week. Starting in the attic and working my way down through as many rooms as possible, in the time I have, purging unwanted, useless and unnecessary items. All in preparation of our anticipated departure from the city next fall. (This may seem early to begin this process, but we have loads of stuff and it always takes Raymond awhile to get onboard. Therefore an early start is necessary for maintaining sanity and our marriage) 




The grand plan took a minor hit over the weekend when I was feeling kind of sick and managed to sleep away a major portion of Saturday into Sunday. The good news was that all that rest and vitamin c intake, seemed to do the trick, physically. But into each well laid plan must seep the continuing drama of heat, humidity and 90 degree temps! What in the name of mercy is going on? It's too hot to visit the attic, let alone work in it! 




Yesterday, I managed to get laundry done and vacuum the downstairs before the heat of the day became oppressive. Since we have AC only in our bedroom, we attempt to cool the house down the old fashioned way. During the day, we keep windows closed, as well as blinds and drapes. We have ceiling fans in the living room and the sunporch and a pedestal fan in the dining room just to keep air circulating. Late in the evening, when the temperature is supposed to begin to drop, we open windows, and turn on two window fans, one in the attic and one on the second floor. We allow these two fans to pull air through the house by having them exhaust air to the outside and thereby pull cooler air in through the open windows. In theory this works.  It has worked well in practice, too, over many hot summers. This year, not so much! I mean, by 6AM the house does feel somewhat cooler, but then the heat and humidity arrive en force and the whole cycle starts all over again! 


I do not function well in heat. Never have. But this year seems unbearable to me. I mean, if I lived in Key West, I might expect this heat & humidity on the last day of August! But I live in a supposed "temperate zone"!


So far, I've wasted four of my eleven days off. OK, maybe "wasted" is too strong a word. Lists have been made. I spent time with Vinny today and also did some photo editing. But the purging has yet to begin. Tomorrow AM is a scheduled trip to Raymond's doctor, followed by lunch with Jen, Kira & Luke and visiting with them as well. Perhaps by the end of the week more normal temperatures will reign and I will be able to begin divesting our home of some of it's extraneous stuff! 


But I can guarantee that I am not entering the attic until we have nighttime lows in the low 60s!

Where I Stand

It occurred to me this AM that not everyone who knows me knows of the life transforming event that took place several years ago.  What made me begin to ruminate on this was a casual comment by an internet friend in response to my comment that "God is good" and "Prayer is powerful".  I realized that her comment was not meant to inflame, nor to critisize, but it did cause me to discern a need to explain my faith, at least a little.

This is my story, in part.  Go back with me to springtime, 1994.

It was the Saturday before Easter and Raymond's parents and siblings, their spouses and children were gathering at his parent's home in Conneaut Lake, PA. Due to having no dogsitter available for Jake and Blue, the plan was for me to drive Raymond up and return home for a quiet weekend alone with the dogs. Raymond would get a ride home on Sunday afternoon from his brother. For loads of reasons, I was thrilled by this plan. Looking forward to quiet time and planning to attend an Easter sunrise service in the local park, I throughly enjoyed the ride home, singing along with the radio and anticipating peace and quiet.

On my way down Mairdale, a street that runs along a local park, I stopped to watch a herd of deer browsing and felt thankful to have happened upon the sight in the city! Maybe I could get used to living on the North Side. 

I spent an uneventful evening reading and playing with the dogs, who had lots of energy after being in the car for over 3 hours for the drive up to and back from the lake. I ate what I felt like eating, watched TV, and was generally thrilled with my plans for peace and quiet. 

During this period in my life, I was also searching. I 'knew' there had to be more to life than working, paying bills and living in a place I hated, even though I wasn't sure what 'it' was. Part of my search was the need for something deeper, and I thought, something spiritual. Since I was a fallen away Catholic, I thought that perhaps, attending a sunrise service, out in nature, on Easter Sunday morning might be a place to begin.  So, I went to bed, full of anticipation, setting my alarm for 5:30AM.

When I arose the next morning, I was no longer filled with anticipation. Rather, I was deep in despair, for no apparent reason.  I do not remember coming downstairs to the living room, but I do remember that I had begun to cry.  Actually, I began to sob uncontrollably. Did I feed the dogs? Did I make coffee? I do not remember. I do remember, at one point, looking at the clock and realizing I had been crying for hours!  The thought formed in my head that this was how my life would be...tears, sobbing, emotional pain that I couldn't escape from.  There seemed, in my mind, to be but one solution. I should kill myself. No drama in making the decision, it just seemed like the next logical thing. Can't stop hurting, then simply end your life. It all seemed so matter of fact.

Then, I looked down at Jake and Blue who were laying at my feet. These were dogs I loved like they were my children. They went everywhere we went.  Plus, I was their caregiver. Not that Raymond didn't love them, too. He did. But, I was home with them since leaving my job at a nursing home. Raymond loved them, but he never remembered to fill the water bowl. I was the one who fed them and made sure Jake got his thyroid meds twice daily and they both got their heartworm preventative and gave Blue her Bendryl when her allergies kicked in in late September.  Raymond would never remember everything! My dogs would suffer if I wasn't there to care for them.  

OK, the answer came to me in a flash, a micro-second! "I'll kill the dogs, too." Again, no drama. Simple, Matter-of-fact. Like it was the next logical step. 

Even as the thought occurred to me, I heard a voice say, "YOU"LL DO WHAT????!!!!!"

Those simple words were enough to snap me back to the moment and make me realize how deep into the depths of despair I had fallen. How could I even think such a thought? 

I have no memory of exactly what I did next, but in the morning, I called my PCP and made an appointment for that afternoon.

As I sat on the exam table, telling my story, sobbing, yet again, the pain of actually thinking how  close I had come to ending not just my own life, but that of innocent creatures who loved me and depended on me was overwhelming.  My doctor, a kind, gentle man looked me in the eye and said, " I want to put you on Prozac."  There must've been a look of horror on my face, because he quickly added, "Please, let's try it for a month. If it doesn't help by a month's time, we'll try something else."  My look of horror must not have been subsiding, because his next question to me was, " Would it make you feel any better if I told you I've taken it and it helped me?"

I started the medication that day.

About three weeks later, Raymond commented on how I seem to have "changed".  I remember that my reply to him was, "This must be how normal people feel all the time." He asked me what I meant by that. The only way I could explain it was by comparing then and now, before Prozac and after. Before, I felt like I was at the bottom of a well. I knew there was light somewhere in the distance above me, but it was so far away, I couldn't even really see it. And the wells sides were so slick, that I couldn't climb out. I was stuck at the bottom, unable to climb, even if I tried.  But, now, three weeks later, I was in the light! The medication had somehow managed to lift me from the depths of that slick sided well where I had periodically found myself trapped. 

In thinking about that day of dark despair, I am convinced that there really was a voice that day. I think there was a spiritual battle going on in my living room. I think the voice I heard was that of my creator.  I had become so entwined in my emotional pain that the enemy used that to his advantage. My Lord and Savior knew me so well, that he knew exactly how to shock me back to reality, simply by saying, "YOU'LL DO WHAT?????!!!!!!"

I wish I could tell you that's when I came to faith in Christ. But it wasn't. For several more years, I searched. But I know that the voice was the beginning. And I am forever grateful for a God who loves us each where we are, but, as Max Lucado says, "Loves us too much to let us stay there."

So, my dear internet friend, yes, I know that drugs are good, but believe me when I tell you, so is God! 

   

Lists, lists and more lists

The plan is for us to leave Pittsburgh in September 2011.  Between now and then there are so many tasks that need to be accomplished, that I am in need of multiple lists. The big things that need to happen include, but are not limited to: downsizing all our possessions; digitizing all photos, music and important paperwork; re-homing our chinchilla; buying an RV and selling our house.

The downsizing has been ongoing for the better part of at least a year.  Some things that we simply cannot bear to part with, will be stored for a little while in my brother's attic.  For me, that includes many of my lighthouses and Labrador retriever items, while for Raymond, it means a bookcase made by his Dad especially for him along with some books and three orange crates full of vinyl LPs.  I think, in time, we will both be ready to leave these items behind as well, but the time is not now. One of the great things about RV living is that the motor home includes most everything you're going to need as far as furnishing, so there's no need to keep that love seat, or dining room table.   

The process of digitizing has also begun, but at a woefully slow rate. One hindrance to the process is that before scanning our pictures to the portable hard drive, we must first sort through the numerous boxes and rid ourselves of crappy, or ugly, or, as in the case of my sunsets & sunrises, multiples. Most music that we already own has been transferred to our iPods, with the exception of many of those LPs that Raymond won't part with. We have the technology available to transfer them to our hard drive, but it is an extremely time consuming process. Plus, since many of those albums are in less than perfect condition, they bring along hisses & pops that you won't get if you simply download them from iTunes.

Buying the RV has proven to be a challenging task.  We thought we knew what we wanted until we began to actively look. After many, many false starts, we think we have found the RV of our dreams, but time will tell. We hope to visit the RV show in Hershey this fall to finalize our plans.

Re-homing CC, our chinchilla, is going to be a heartrending undertaking. It requires the admission that perhaps our adoption of her was more hasty than we thought. She needs to be re-homed because she deserves a more appropriate home than we are currently providing. In addition, the motor home we will purchase simply will not have enough room to accommodate a cage of the size and weight of hers. That said, even if we weren't moving into an RV, she still deserves a more chinchilla friendly environment. 

The biggest thing on any of our lists is the selling of our house. We have lived here for over 20 years, but have never been "real" homeowners.  By that, I mean that when Raymond worked nights at UPS, he had neither the time, nor the energy to keep up with such a large house.  As for me, because I never wanted to live in this house at all, I fear I became a bit passive-aggressive where the house was concerned.  I spent too many years simply hating the house.  Then, when I was a stay at home wife, I had the delusion that watching all those home improvement shows on HGTV, PBS, et al, somehow gave me skills that I didn't really possess. And lastly, there's the bad trait that many in my family have...we never finish what we start. There. I said it. They say that admitting your failures is the first step toward recovery, right?  Anyway, the house is far less than perfect, actually far less than good. Our neighborhood is still in a downward spiral (see previous post) and I can't imagine that anyone is actively seeking to move into it. That scares me more than anything else about the whole process; who might buy our house?  I'm praying that God will send just the right person, at just the right time. 

Now that I've committed this to paper, I suppose I had better get started on those lists...

Continuing Urban Adventures

Perhaps urban living is becoming too much of an adventure. This past weekend shots were fired just outside our house.  Nobody was injured - this time!  I heard one of the responding police officers refer to it as "like the shoot out at the OK Corral".  The people involved are, by general standards, kids.  I am not certain of their ages, but it is safe to say they are under 25, and maybe a good deal under.

It is a frightening experience to hear young people arguing outside your open window and threaten one another. It becomes frightening on an entirely different level when, after the threat, you hear several gunshots in rapid succession.   

My neighbor's car was hit by one of the gunshots. Another hit the garage of the business next door to her.  This woman is a quiet neighbor with little kids who, thankfully,  were not at home when the incident took place.  If they had been, innocent children may have been wounded or killed because her kids are often playing in front of their house, or riding their bikes in the area that was the line of fire.

I am not scared; I am angry and astounded at these latest events.  When did  it become the norm for arguments to be settled  with guns?  I heard these kids outside my window yelling at one another. Much of their conversation was unintelligible to me.  But, it certainly didn't sound like the kind of fight that would lead to shots being fired. To be honest, it sounded like the kind of thing that might end up with a punch or two being thrown. The last quote I heard before the gunfire was, "Come on, _____, don't make me hurt you."  It never entered my mind that this kid planned to "hurt" the other with a gun!  That's the part that astonishes me.

The part that makes me angry is that they have guns at all!  How easy is it for a young person to get a gun?  Apparently very easy!  And how is it possible to have so little regard for life that an argument escalates to gun violence?  I am angry that people no longer feel safe to sit on their front porches. I am angry that the Mom little kids across the street will think twice before allowing her kids to play in front of their own house now.  I am angry that  this is happening and that we all feel ill equipped to deal with it, because it is so far outside of our experience.

One step at a time

One step forward, two steps back, as the song says, "you never get anywhere like that".  That's the way I'm feeling right now.  

We have been planning for the future.  We have set dates by which we would like to be on the road, full timing in an RV.  We thought we had finally made a choice as to the type of RV and an approximate idea as to our budget. Then, we read some more articles and ordered more books.  Now we're back at the question of Class A or Class C? 

More storage in a Class A?  But if we get rid of our stuff, will we really need extra storage space? 

The idea of the bed over the cab in the Class C is appealing to both of us.  It seems like the perfect "extra" space where one or the other of us can get away to read quietly or listen to their iPod.  

Perhaps I'm being too rigid in my thinking. Perhaps I need to relax a little and stop being so focused on making the 'correct' choices.  I spent nine years in therapy trying to undo a lifetime of black or white thinking and sometimes it seems as if I learned very little in those nine years! 

Some of the current angst is brought on by an ad in our local Craigslist.  It is a 31', 2001 Class C with 40000 miles, being offered for a very reasonable price. My panic is being caused by 1) my fear that we will miss the RV that is meant for us and by my inability to act and 2) my worry that we will love it, but will be unable to secure the required financing. Fear and worry the two biggest bugaboos to my decision making process! How I wish I were one of those spontaneous folks who just go with the flow and make adjustment as they go. 

So why am I so locked into the mindset that every choice has to be the right one?  Why not call Mr Angelo, make an appointment to go see and drive the local RV?  One step at a time ... If it seems correct for us, then the next step will be to visit our bank ... Maybe by seeing and driving this Class C we'll also know whether a class C is right for us. 

OK, I think I'm feeling a little better...one step at a time.

Pancreatitis?

Raymond isn't feeling well.  He hasn't eaten or had any beer all day.  Normally his having consumed no beer would be a good thing, if only it didn't indicate that he's feeling physically unwell.  He has a strange eating schedule when times are good, but the fact that he had no desire to eat at dinner time was odd. That's when he brought it to my attention that not only hadn't he eaten all day, but he hadn't had any beer either.  This is extremely out of character. 

Only one thing makes Raymond stop drinking and that one thing is a bout of pancreatitis.

He hasn't had one in over two years. Maybe this is a reality check.  We have both stopped thinking about his pancreas. Well, I have anyway. 

The fact is that according to our PCP, Raymond should not drink at all and should give up slathering his food with mayo and should NEVER eat another hot dog. Raymond continues to do all those things.  The man has never met a fatty meat that he didn't like!  And for the past two years, his pancreas has gone along with the program. 

I'm a little bit worried.  I haven't suggested an ER trip yet.  

During the last bout, the ER visit was an incredible waste of time.  Apparently his body has become so adept at adjusting for the irregularities in these times, that his blood work appeared relatively normal and the ER doctor wouldn't admit him or prescribe any intensive pain relievers.  Our PCP had predicted that this would happen over time. We are blessed that she knows Raymond so well, because she gave him a prescription for a few major painkillers knowing that he would only take them as needed.  Those pills got him through his last attack two years ago.  Between several days on a bland diet and the pain pills, he made it without having to be hospitalized.

He just took 1/2 of one of those two year old painkillers.  It's his last one.  Here's praying it works. 

Relativity

No, not the theory of, something so much more random.  I was awakened at 6 AM by the wind whipping through our bedroom window.  Thinking that this was the start of the cold blustery weather promised by local meteorologists, I hauled myself out of bed and made the rounds through the house, closing open windows and turning off fans.  At one window, I leaned out into the weather and thought that the breeze wasn't too cold, yet.  I even briefly, (very, very briefly) considered that it might be the perfect time to take Greyla for a walk. But, the thought that struck me and caused the title of this ramble, was that if I were in Corolla, NC, I wold think that this weather was perfect for walking on the beach, or spotting the wild horses. 

The temperature was about 60F, and the winds were gusting fiercely at times. My perfect beach walking weather!  The same conditions occur here in Pittsburgh and I feel the need to close myself inside.  What peculiarity in my constitution makes me think that the exact same weather conditions are perfect if I'm nearer to the ocean and 530 miles south? 

Makes me think of the bumper stickers that read: "A bad day fishing is better than a good day at work".  A bad weather day is better in NC than in PA!  But, in NC, I don't even think of it as bad weather!  Then why oh why am I still here in PA? 

Loss and Balance

LOSS and BALANCE

A friend and her friend's posts on FaceBook recently got me thinking about how we deal with loss, especially as it impacts us with regard to our pets and animals we love.  So, if some of this seems familiar, you may have read it on FaceBook.

My friend has a flock of chickens and loves them each individually.  More times than she would like recently she has found herself in the unenviable position of having to cull a sick hatchling. She has also had to have some very sick chickens put down. All of this is very painful and has her questioning her "toughness".  She has gotten some wonderful support from people who love her, but none of that makes it any easier when she finds herself in an untenable position. 

It got me to wondering about how we cope with the loss of beloved animals in our lives.  Do we toughen up?  Do we simply learn to accept the grieving process?  Do we actually become "better" at grieving?  Lacking a scientific study, although I'm sure there are some available, I decided to look inward to how I've survived the death of four dogs of my own, a cat of ours, and the loss of several dogs belonging to others with whom I bonded in some special way.

I have found it extremely difficult to achieve that balance of toughness and the total abandonment to love my critters and still survive their deaths. 

When my first dog, Blue died I was in shock for a month and then came the tears and pain. She had been the first dog Raymond and I had together and she traveled everywhere with us. She was 14 when she began to exhibit serious health issues and died not long after being diagnosed with both a liver tumor and renal failure. I worked in a Veterinary Clinic at the time and because of demands at work and the Christmas holiday season, I buried my feelings for the first month.  Then, I found myself at a Veterinary Convention at a seminar on "The Human-Animal Bond and Grief".  The speaker was excellent, but half way through her presentation, I had a total emotional collapse and found it difficult to stop sobbing. Though we also had two other dogs at the time, Jake and Baxter, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had somehow let Blue down.  Jake was more honest to his emotions. Blue had been 3 when we added Jake to our family.  She was less than impressed, but he idolized her.  She eventually learned to tolerate Jake, but for him, Blue was always the leader and his buddy. When she died, Jake was present and circled her body, sniffing her and licking. He then went into what I can only describe as a depressive period.  He lost interest in food and toys; spent many hours sleeping; spent less time with his dog friends in play activities. After three months we began visiting shelters because it was clear that Jake "needed" a black dog to help him get over Blue.  That was when we adopted Katie.

When Jake died, I was inconsolable and still cry because I miss him. He was my heart dog. He lived with us from puppyhood until leukemia took him from us in 1999. He was 14 when he died. He was "my dog", although he was lovely to everyone he ever met,  human, canine, feline and rodent. I learned many lessons from Jake, both in his life and in his death. I learned that I can be loved unconditionally by a creature with paws and fur and forgiven when I mess up. But, the pain of losing him caused me to harden my heart a little.  Just a few weeks after Jake's death, my husband was turning 50 and expressed the wish for " a black female Lab". As fate would have it clients at the Vet Hospital where I worked had a litter and there were several black females. Thus, Greyla came to live with us, as "my husband's dog", as I was quick to point out to EVERYONE! I just couldn't open myself up to love her with total abandon. It was too soon after Jake. It has taken me nearly 11 years to recognize the fact that she is, in fact, my dog. Not that she and Raymond don't have a special bond, but down deep, she's really Mommy's girl.   

Baxter was a rescue and lived with us for six years and though I was comforted by the fact that he was well loved in those six years, losing him was painful. He came to us as an answer to my desire for a third dog.  We had Blue and Jake who were thirteen and ten, respectively when Baxter arrived. He was six. He was so happy to have a home and yard and people who took him everywhere they went, that he was thrilled to be low man on the doggie totem pole. And though he finally got his weight up into a normal range for a Lab, he always thought he was a lap dog, which was fine with me. It was very hard to lose him when he was 12 due to a brain tumor. He had quirks which we were never able to correct or even understand, but he was a love. We were almost always a three dog household when Baxter was with us, so maybe that insulated me somewhat from some of the pain I felt at losing Blue and Jake. Or maybe I had already begun to close myself off. I do know that when Baxter died, and we were suddenly a two dog household, it didn't enter my heart or mind to add another. We had our two black girls, that was enough.

In January 2009, we sent Katie across the bridge to reunite with Jake, Baxter and her many doggie friends who had preceded her in death. With Katie, I found that I had walled away a portion of myself as protection, so that when she died, I realized how detached I had been from her, emotionally. I loved her, but I never fully let her into my heart, in spite of the fact that she lived with us for over 12 years and, as with our other dogs, she had traveled everywhere  with us. It was only in letting her go that I realized how much she and I both missed. Perhaps that's when I began to really let Greyla in more completely. 

We have also had a cat. When you work in a Vet Clinic, it seems inevitable that even if you are not a self professed "cat person", you will end up being charged with the welfare of a cat sooner or later. The cat that became ours was a three week old abandoned kitten. Since the placeI worked at was only open in the evening and on week ends, it was determined that I should take the kitten home with me, since we had no other cats and wouldn't have to worry about isolating her.  My plan was to wean her and find her a good home.  Then, I brought her home. My husband fell in love! My oldest dog, Blue, attempted to nurse the kitten! My other dog, Jake, guarded the entrance to the sunporch where we kept her litter box and basket!  Spike became part of the family for the next ten years. She died in an unfortunate accident while we were away on vacation.  And I shed no tears for Spike when she died, which is sad and embarrassing to admit. Am I that hard-hearted?

I have shed tears for cats, though, as well as for rats (the pet variety) and loads of dogs whom I have known in one capacity or another, and some that I have never met, but have only read about.  And I have shed tears for my friend who loves her chickens, gives them all names and finds herself dying a little when she must make hard decisions about the flock.

It has been suggested that perhaps we learn some balance in our loving-grieving cycle as we go through life. It has taken me a long time to really let Greyla into my heart, as I have previously mentioned. But, at least I finally have. Though I fear when her time comes I will again be inconsolable. 

Balance? I can't seem to find it.

More Memories

Perhaps my nostalgia was stirred by a friend or two, perhaps by the season, either way I have found myself remembering things lately that had been tucked deeply into my memory banks.  My Grandma Balkovec, whom I called Gram, has been chief  among my remembrances. 

My Gram lived on the same street as I did, only six house away.  When I was very young, my grandparents lived there with three of their six children.  It was a refuge for me. Although I don't remember much interaction with my Pap-Pap, I remember lots of time spent in the company of Gram, especially in her kitchen.  The fact that three of her adult unmarried kids lived in the house with Gram and Pap-Pap gave me some sense, I think, of what a family really was. I was born when Gram's two youngest daughters, Rose Marie and Mary E, were  sixteen and thirteen respectively.  These were my Daddy's baby sisters. A third sibling, my Uncle Joe E, was an older, unmarried brother, my grandparents second child. 

Their house was small, but it was theirs. It consisted of a living room, dining room and kitchen on the first floor, with three bedrooms on the second floor, along with a bathroom. I'm really not sure where they put six kids when their three boys and three girls were growing up. Two of the bedrooms were average sized, but one was very tiny.  By the time that I remember, in the mid 1950s, my two Aunts shared the front room, my Uncle Joe E had the tiny room and Gram and Pap-Pap had the sunny back bedroom. I loved those times when I got to stay overnight and sleep in my Aunts' room.  I remember the sound of Uncle Joe E's clock radio going off in the morning and hearing the strains of "Yellow Bird" coming from his room. 

Gram was a caretaker, in that she took care of her family. She cooked, she cleaned, she did laundry, she ironed. She cared for others in addition to her family, too. I remember her cooking lunches for the School Sisters of Notre Dame for many years. Their convent was across the street and they taught at the elementary school which was also across the street. I remember Gram spending a lot of time in her compact kitchen.  She always had yummy smells emanating from there. Roast with gravy and mashed potatoes, apple strudel, stuffed cabbage, potica, kielbasa, even liver and onions, all delicious aromas. Except for those times when she was preparing an item my Pap-Pap liked called, rather ominously, blood pudding.  On days when that was cooking, I wrinkled my nose at the smell. 

One of the best scents came only twice a year, at Christmas and at Easter.  These were the times when she made homemade Potica.  This delicious yeast bread was made with an incredible walnut, honey, butter, sugar and milk filling. There may have been a "secret ingredient", as well.  The bread was rolled to the perfect depth (which I have never been able to master) and spread with just the right amount of filling, then rolled and placed into a large snail shape in Gram's largest roasting pan.  The smell was like heaven's own bakery while it cooked. I marvel at her ability to mix and knead and punch the dough for this incredible bread and to spend an entire day making it.  Especially, when I think of how her hands and back must have ached with the effort, considering her arthritis. And I don't think she made just one large loaf, although I can't say for certain, but I remember there always being plenty to share.  And I never remember her complaining.

Grandma was a short woman, as I remember her; perhaps five feet tall.  She was plump, but not really fat.  She had a warm smile.  And although there was often tension between my Mom and folks in my Dad's family, my Grandma never said a harsh word within my hearing about my Mom, or anyone else, for that matter. She was a woman of faith and lived her faith in her day to day life. She prayed. She had an Infant of Prague statue in the living room.  She was kind.  She gave Grandma hugs.  She called my Grandfather, "Joe", in a voice that conveyed love.  When my Aunt sang "The Shrimp Boat Song" and teased me by looking out the window and telling me the shrimp boats were coming, Gram would always tell her, "Mary E, stop scaring the poor child."  I had no idea what a shrimp boat was, but it terrified me that one was coming!  


I remember such random things, but I can't remember the color of her eyes, which makes me sad.

I never knew how she and my Grandfather met. I never knew how they ended up in Lawrenceville, or came to live at 216 57th Street, or how they survived the depression, or  even the correct spelling of her maiden name.  I never asked where her parents came from, or who her Aunts and Uncles were. I never asked her to teach me to speak Slovenian, which was the language she and my Pap-Pap often used to speak to one another.  I wish I had been more interested in her life when I had her here. Some things I've learned about her include that she was born in Ontario, Canada.  According to census records, she came to the United States when she was an infant.  But, Ontario is a huge province and I have no clue where exactly, she was born. I do know that her Dad went to Ontario to work as a logger.  But, that's a story for another time.

I remember such randomness as the fact that Gram ironed sheets and socks.  She grew flowers in the high backyard that looked down into the cement yard outside her kitchen.  To this day, when I see snow-in-summer creeping over a wall, I think of Gram.


Snow-in-summer


I remember there was a prayer book that I really wanted after attending a retreat, and Gram gave me the money for it.  I recall the night she died.  I was standing at the top of the stairs when Joe E came to tell my Dad, "Mom died."  It was December 19, early in the evening and she had been wrapping Christmas presents, when she told my Pap-Pap that she was going to go lie down for a little while. When someone went to check on her after a couple of hours, she was dead. I remember thinking for many years that that was the best way to die.

I remember a few days after her funeral, as I was heading to the neighborhood store, popping my head in the door of her house and yelling, "Gram", before it hit me that she was no longer there.  Old habits are hard to break.  It was always my habit to stop and yell, "Gram, do you need anything from the store?" when I was going for my Mom.  I remember that Gram's house stopped feeling as warm and welcoming after her death.  By then, one of my Aunts was married, but one Aunt, Uncle Joe E and Pap-Pap continued to live together. It wasn't long, I think until my other Aunt also married, leaving just Pap-Pap and Uncle Joe E in the house. Although, my chronology may be off, since my memories don't lend themselves to such details.  I do know that was when their house really stopped being a place where I felt welcomed and loved. And, although my grandfather may have loved me, he was not of a generation that made such pronouncements. So, I drifted away from my Dad's family.  


Grandma, my Gram, was the soul of that family.  When she was gone, I think the family lost it's heart; lost the ability to function from a place of faith and love and nurturing.

I had hoped to post a picture of Gram with this remembrance, but I don't have one.  When I do manage to get one, I will be proud to display my Gram, Rose Balkovec, for all to see.  Until then, know that she had kind eyes and a warm smile and that she loved and was loved.

Memories

Yesterday was the beginning of the week known as Holy Week in Christianity.   I remember this week as a busy one for  the women of my Grandma's age group as I was growing up.  It was a week filled with Easter preparations, both physical and spiritual.  There were special services at our neighborhood church to commemorate the passion of Christ.  There was baking to be done.  And toward the end of the week, families would gather to dye Easter eggs.

The reason it was a busy week for the Grandmas was because in my neighborhood, the Grams were the ones who did the baking, mostly a rolled nut bread which we called, Potica.  I remember watching my Gram, as she shelled pounds of walnuts, then ground them in preparation for making a cooked filling for her potica, which included honey, butter, condensed milk, sugar and lots of time and dedication.  My Gram was a short woman who suffered from arthritis, yet she mixed, pounded, rolled and never complained.  My memories of her include her smile and her ability to make me always feel welcome around her.

But, I digress.  The women of my Gram's demographic, didn't just prepare for Easter in their homes.  They prepared our little church, as well.  They cleaned and polished everything.  This was in addition to all they did in their own homes.  My house was directly across the street from the church, so I had a front row seat to see the women come and go during the week.  I also saw them as they came with veils over their heads to pray.  But one of my clearest memories is of these same women coming to church on Saturday morning before Easter, carrying their baskets containing the foods they would be serving for Easter dinner.  This was the blessing of the baskets.  I never attended this blessing service and I am sorry now that I never did.  But, I remember sitting on my front porch, watching the women who were probably younger than I am now, as they carried their bounty into the church to be blessed by Father Matthew Kebe. 

I was reminded of this memory by a dear friend this past week.  It seems that though she is a good deal younger than I, she has found a church which still offers this blessing of the food on the Saturday before Easter. It warmed my heart to know that somewhere, someone continues this tradition.  And while thinking about it, I was also warmed by memories of Gram.  I am grateful for both the reminder and for my friend.

Matt Smith

2010 January 25  Thoughts

Today marks the fifth year anniversary of the death of Matt Smith.  Matt was, for those who never met him, in the words carved into his headstone, "a minister of the gospel".  He was a loving husband and father.  He was a mentor to many.  He was also a neighbor.  But most importantly, to me, he was the 'Minister of Community Outreach' at the church I used to attend.   In his position as such, he and I worked together twice yearly on a project called The Children's Clothing Closet, which offered gently used donated clothing at an affordable price (a buck for a bag) to the many families in our community.  We spent time getting to know one another during drives to picked donations at suburban churches in the early days of his arrival in the neighborhood.

I had come to faith in Christ just months before Matt came to our church.  As such a baby believer, I had questions, struggles and baggage.  Matt  was always available to answer questions, offer scripture to soothe struggles and baggage, to pray for and with me and to generally be a cheerleader.  I wonder at his ability to juggle all the roles in his life without ever seeming to forget that first and foremost he was a child of the living God!   I counted Matt among my friends, although something his brother, Chris said after Matt's death made me wonder how many people made that assumption about their relationship with Matt.  Chris said that if Matt was in a room with ten people, seven would say he was their best friend, and the other three would wish he was.  That seems a tribute to Matt's ability to make friends across all barriers and to his uncanny capacity to make everyone feel accepted and comfortable.

Though I was never in one of Matt's bible study groups, he was one of the leaders when all the groups met together usually once or twice during our study, depending on the length of the study.  It was during one of these times that Matt asked everyone the question: Where do you see yourself in 5 years with relation to your faith?  It was the first time I had the courage to tell anyone that I saw myself on the mission field at some point in the future.  The following Sunday in between our Sunday school class and service, Matt took me aside.  He shared with me a brochure from our sister church, North Park, detailing three mission trips available to participate in that summer.  As I read the pamphlet my eyes were drawn to "The Dublin Prayer Conference", but I read about the other two trips, one to Appalachia and one to Russia and said, "I find myself wanting to go to Ireland, but the Russia trip would probably be more of a sacrifice."  Matt asked me why on both counts and after hearing what I had to say, told me his ideas.  He explained to me that his first thought for me, had been the Dublin Prayer Conference.  There's more to be told about that, but it is for another time.  Matt was an encourager, and I had rarely encountered that before in my life.

Matt made time to befriend my husband, even though my Raymond is not yet a believer, nor a member of the church.  Raymond is a sports fan, a former football, baseball and softball player, and has a wide knowledge and appreciation of music.    Matt used these common interests to lay the foundation of his relationship with Raymond.  That and the fact that they were both incredible carnivores!   Both Raymond and Matt were the kind of guys who when given a casserole containing, veggies, meat, and carbs would ask, " Where's the meat?"  simply because they liked and wanted a piece of meat on their plate.  Matt made an impact on my husband.

When Matt got sick, it was hard.  When Matt died, it was a devastating blow to our church and our community.  But, it was also an example to all of how to finish the race while keeping the faith.  Matt was one of those special souls who come into our lives every now and then.  He taught all of us something.  Most of all, he left a Matt shaped hole in most of our hearts.

Cowboy & Wills - A Love Story

Cowboy & Wills: A Love Story by Monica Holloway

My rating: 5 of 5 stars Wonderful memoir. Impressed upon me our responsibility to listen to our children because sometimes they intuitively know what they need and it's our job to interpret whether the need is fundamental or peripheral. View all my reviews >>

Late Night Thoughts

2010 January 24

An immense feeling of sadness has slowly been encompassing me for the last several hours, to the point that I feel the need to cry.  Where this comes from is a mystery to me.  Well, maybe not a total mystery.  I finished reading A Big Little Life  tonight.  It was another joy-filled book that made me laugh out loud at times, just as Cowboy And Wills did.  And, although Cowboy & Wills  made me cry throughout the reading, there were no tears with Trixie until the end chapters of her Big Little Life.  Still the lingering effect of C&W was amazement and a glimpse into possibilities.  And though the message of A Big Little Life was to live in innocence and in each moment, the feeling that stays with me at the moment is regret.

I regret that I have not been a better mom to Greyla.  Granted, she is nowhere near  as intelligent or intuitive as either of the dogs in these memoirs, I wonder how different she might have been had I been more present for her.

She came into our lives a mere two weeks after Jake, our 13 year old Lab passed away.  Jake was my heart dog.  He & I were connected deeply and my grief was overwhelming.  My heart was never really open to Greyla, for many years, because my loss of Jake was an unhealed wound.  I am only beginning to see how I allowed my pain to isolate me from this dog.  My excuse was always that Greyla was meant to be Raymond's dog, since he requested that our next dog be a female, black lab and since she arrived for his 50th birthday.

Greyla is nearly 11 now.  Is it too late for me to be a 'good mom'?  I hope not.

Thoughts on the Love Dare, Day 7

This is a paragraph from  the Day 7 " Love Dare" that hit me right where I live:

Love chooses to believe the best about people.  It gives them the benefit of the doubt.  It refuses to fill in the unknowns with negative assumptions.  And when our worst hopes are proven to be true, love makes every effort to deal with them and move forward.  As much as possible, love focuses on the positive.

In my defense, I do try to focus on the positive with my husband and with the children I care for and maybe even some of the people I know.  But, with regard to the general population, I have lately come to realize that my thoughts lean to the negative.  I rarely choose to believe the best about people I don't know.  I rarely give a stranger the benefit of the doubt.  My initial response is to fill in unknowns with negative assumptions.  It seems like day 7 is giving me a little trouble.

As to how I respond to situations where the worst has actually happened, I'd have to say that on a scale of one to ten, I may be in negative numbers.  Seriously, no pun intended.

Is the answer as simple as the Love Dare would have me believe?  Well, The scripture at the end of day 7 is:  "If there is anything praiseworthy -- meditate on these things. (Philippians 4:8 NKJV)"  Not always an easy thing to do, but certainly a worthwhile thing to do.  Kind of reminds me of the plaque that hangs in my living room that says: "Faith makes things possible, NOT easy".  So, while I accept the challenge of day 7, I know that it will take me more than a day to work through this dare, especially as it relates to the world around me. I will use my experience in learning to focus on R's goodness to teach me to look at the people around me differently.  I will use the hope in God's Word to guide me when it seems impossible to change.  And I will study the example of Jesus.  When I look around my neighborhood, I'll try to see the best in those whom I've previously judged harshly.

Negativity, harshness, snap judgments come very easily for me.  Changing may not be easy, but it is possible.  What I ask of you who read this and interact with me, is that you hold me accountable.  If I begin sounding like "mean jean", bring it to my attention.  Reference this blog, if you must, but help me to stay on track.  We're truly all in this together, and I will probably need your help to affect a real change. And, if you are a praying person, pray for me.

Thoughts on...

THE LOVE DARE

Since last week, I have been semi-following a challenge issued by the morning DJ s on KLOVE.  It involves a 40 day study called "The Love Dare".  Each day there is a reading and a dare which is meant to help make improvements in important relationships in your life.  For the purpose of the book, it is supposed to help with your relationship with your spouse.  The application could be made to other relationships, as well.  As I have been attempting to follow the principles put forth each day, I have been frustrated.  The strain comes from how difficult some of the challenges are for me, while my husband seems to have a lock on things.  And he's not even doing the "Love Dare"!  

Maybe a little background is necessary.  I didn't even suggest that R, my dear husband, participate.  The "Love Dare" grew out of the movie "Fireproof" and has gained momentum via Christian outlets.  R has never even heard of the movie, or the book.  I decided that I am not the best wife I can be to him, so I sought to improve the way I relate to him by participation in this 40 day challenge. 

Day one asked that you say nothing negative to your spouse.  That's harder than you think!  Day one was a little tough for me.  I had to be vigilant and keep my normal negativity reigned in.  R, who, again knows nothing of this challenge, is the kind of person who says nothing if he can't say something positive,  so for him there's no big deal.  Day two held onto the previous day's dare and added the performance of at least one unexpected act of kindness.  Before I was even aware of that days challenge, R had gotten up, gone out into the bitter cold and cleared the car for me, since I had to work and it was his day off.  Day three asked that you call your spouse with no agenda other than to say you're thinking of them.  R called me at work, something he rarely does. 

Keep in mind that my husband knows nothing of this "Love Dare". So why is he better at each dare then I am?  We know the answer.  He's already kind, thoughtful, compassionate, positive and loving.  I am a work in progress.  He's not the one who NEEDS the "Love Dare".  I need it to become the kind of wife R deserves.

Thoughts

Today I am supposed to be taking down all the Christmas decorations. Well, actually, they should've come down on the 7th, after the Epiphany, but I said I would do it over the weekend. Yesterday, I said that I was taking the day off & would do it today. So far today, I thought about it, but haven't done anything. This is the exact route of procrastination I seem to follow each year after Christmas & New Year. Generally speaking, I have a 'peak' energy day sometime around the second or third, when my internal voice says, "let's take down all the decorations!" But, since as a child (many l-o-n-g years ago), we always left the tree and all decorations up until after Father Matthew Kebe had come by on the feast of the Epiphany to bless our home, it feels wrong to take everything down before the 6th of January. Forget the fact the saintly Fr Kebe has been gone from this world since I was in high school. Forget the fact that since Fr Kebe, no one has blessed our home(s). There is a deep, inexplicable tradition within me that will not be denied.

Why? And where does this come from?

Why does it seem somehow disloyal to my past, my upbringing, my Slovenian Grandparents and what my dad would expect, to take down the tree and all the trappings before January 6? It's not like my dysfunctional family, either immediate, or extended, is immersed in tradition. I can barely get them to drive the 15 minutes to my house for any holiday. Maybe it's part of my rebellious spirit; I'm clinging to what we always did, in resistance to what seems to be the norm these days - put the tree up right after Thanksgiving and take it down on New Years. Maybe.

I don't really have an answer to the "why" or the origin of the feeling. Right now, I'm simply thinking that maybe another cup of coffee will be the magic motivator. We'll see.

Adventures in Urban Living, Part 3

As we left Part 2 of our adventure with Ratzo, the huge rodent

who had taken up residence in our home, we were waiting for

him to get hungry enough to sample some of the yummy dried

fruits, nut butters and whole nuts we had diligently glued to

the rat traps. I had forgotten to mention that Kevin, the

exterminator, was fairly sure Ratzo had gained entry via our

doggie door. I have been petitioning for removal of the doggie

door for several years, but the hubby is sufficiently opposed

to the idea, as to make it a huge issue. Those of you in a

relationship know that you must choose carefully the things

about which to make an issue, so I have thus far, caved on

doggie door removal. However Kevin did give me fresh

ammunition should the subject arise again,which seems

inevitable. Kevin has removed raccoons, rats, stray cats,

squirrels and chipmunks, all of whom have considered a

doggie door an open invitation to join the family.

But I digress. Back to the waiting.

The wait went on for some time and we actually began to

think that Ratzo had eaten the poison and left our abode

in search of water. Why we would think that shows just how

self deceptive we can be! The dog has a huge self-waterer,

plus there are two bathrooms in our house, both with open

(most of the time) toilets, plus there is a small pond in the

yard, not more than fifty feet from the doggie door. But

that was what we chose to believe. It was easier than facing

humiliation at the paws of Ratzo. Daily checks of the rat

traps continued to fruitless. (Well, actually the fruits

remained in the traps, but you get my drift)

In the midst of this self deception, came a Friday afternoon.

Raymond had been home all day and was being domestic by

cooking dinner. I walked into the house around 6 PM. Even

before my 'hi, honey' kiss, I asked, "What is that smell?"

Raymond explained he was making dinner, which included

cabbage. OK. It was a very cold day, leading into a very cold

weekend. Our boiler was working at capacity to keep our

radiators dispensing heat in our drafty old house. Ratzo was

not even a blip on our radar.

We had dinner, played Scrabble and vegged out in front of the

TV watching Seinfeld reruns till bedtime.

In the morning, Raymond was up, as is his habit, at 4:30 AM.

I stumbled downstairs about two hours later. As I hit the

bottom of the stairs, my senses were assaulted by a horrific

stench! Raymond, who is smeling impaired and thinks I

have super human olfactory capabilities, said, when

questioned, "That's just the cabbage from last night". I

didn't think so. I mean, would the smell have gotten

stronger overnight? As I walked around sniffing like some

sort of demented human-bloodhound combo, I noted

the smell was, indeed, stronger in the kitchen. How could

he have been reading and watching Sports Center with this

overwhelming stink in the air? As my quest for the source

of the offensive odor evolved, I noted that while it was strong

in the kitchen, it definitely increased in intensity in the area

near our old fashioned wall-mounted kitchen sink. There is

a short radiator under the sink and when I bent down to sniff

in that vicinity, I almost threw up. Further investigation with

a flashlight showed that the originating source of the odor was

indeed, a large, dead, bloating rat! He had died under the

kitchen radiator, was swelling in the heat and was wedged

under the back, near the wall. He was still intact, but might

not be for much longer, if we didn't get him out soon. I reached

behind the radiator, my hand triple ensconced in green plastic

newspaper bags, but I couldn't get a good grip. Raymond went

to find a length of scrap wood to push Ratzo from under the

radiator, back toward the back wall and a space where I might

be able to pick him up. I was a little concerned that if I yanked

too hard, his head might detach from his body and that was to

be avoided at all costs! Raymond poked under the radiator

and moved Ratzo from under the radiator into the smallish space

between the radiator and the wall. Allow me to point out that

Raymond had first acted as the reach and bag person, but the

smell had made him retch, so I took over the reach and bag

operation. I managed to grab him, flip the plastic bag inside

out, and tie it, a movement well known to city dwellers who

practice the move when picking up after their critters when

walking them. We then triple bagged the sucker and boxed

his remains before placing them in the outside trash bin. I

actually did a dance of joy that Ratzo was dead. I mean,

I was in a celebratory mood! As I proceeded to clean and

disinfect the kitchen, I was singing a happy little 'Ratzo's

dead' ditty. Raymond was very quiet. Later, as we had coffee

Raymond showed his true colors. He said, "I'm really sorry

we had to kill him."

At first, I questioned his sanity.

I asked what his alternative would've been.

Then, finally, I let it go.

This is one of the reasons I love Raymond. He has more

compassion, even for the Ratzos of this world, than most

other people I know. Sometimes, urban living can be a trial,

but as long as Raymond and I are together, it's a trial I can

deal with. And although Raymond is compassionate,

I am practical.

There in lies the balance ...

... and the danger for all those Ratzos out there!