Changed

May 28, 2013

Compassion is overrated, don’t you think? I waited outside the library this morning in the drizzle. Upon spotting a figure through the glass I knocked on the door. The heavy-set woman with frizzy brown shoulder-length hair ambled to the door with a scowl on her face. She didn’t bother to mask the problematic request to come in out of the unexpected disastrous weather and sit to await the opening of the building in 20 minutes. The door closed once again while she evidently went to ask the Powers That Be if I could be allowed on the premises. “OK, this is not what we usually do but you can come in.” Wow, I am blown away by the sympathetic glare!

A crumpled wad of receipt and coins were pressed into my hands at the Office Max while faxing several documents. The "benevolent and generous" young man answered the telephone, interrupting his explanation of the mass of complicated buttons in the process to send off a long-distance paper. I am greatly appalled by the inability to understand the value of service. As a lanky wisp of a girl at eleven, I was taught how to count back change to a customer, smile even when I felt like crying when the customer asked for several dozen coney dogs, five root beers and seven orders of fries while a small village gathered behind him to order their own gob of food. The customer is always right was our adage and no one was to question that philosophy. It was with pride and conviction my parents trained their crew to serve the masses at the A&W in Middleton, Wisconsin. Has the commitment to the client gone by the way of the dinosaur?

We link the hands with our children, open the heavy oak door for the upstairs neighbor with loaded arms, grasp the end of a leash, shake hands with new friends, pull out a chair for the elderly man at the library, and lend a hand to a friend at the Laundromat. We are one, bonded.  

Friends that are girls

May 27, 2013

I get to take advantage of the relationship between old friends today. Such a fabulous kindred spirit friend of my friend, a conversation goes flying from the start. We take off and soar around our catching up, wondrous stories of who we are and collaborating on what we are able to do in a new community and what we offer in support and commitment to thriving in the Cities.

Speaking at the speed of light and absolutely thrilled about the possibilities and opportunity that projects out of our mouths.

Quirky paths that cross, intersect, cooperate, integrate, mix, section, focus and pan out to toss the line out yet again.

Women have so much to offer one another, powerful, successful, attractive, do-whatever-it-takes-to-make-it work souls. This tête-à-tête creates a synergy for a inexplicable friendship, part of a single unit that produces results. Thank you!

Lunchbunch

May 23, 2013

Does anyone know just how far four blocks actually is? My arms are still trembling as a result of crutching from the library, seemingly spitting distance away from the house. I sat a bit on a welcoming stoop, a bit farther on cement blocks of stairs then leaned insufferably just a block away from my destination against a rigid light pole. My bad leg tingles as though it has been asleep throughout this entire journey and is just now waking up to join in on the fun. I had the leg promiscuously propped up on a chair as my companion, at the quiet and serene library, drowning in sensible indoor/outdoor blue/gray carpeting with firm wooden chairs, and quite a number of computers available for internet use.

Lunchables sound good right now though I have never had the opportunity to taste one, I am craving the foodish items housed in a neat plastic tray, divided logically into sections of pseudo cheese, dim crackers, machine-cut wedges of fake meat and nibbles of carrots or something that might resemble a vegetable. The children on the commercials seem so cheered and satisfied with their Lunchables, begging their mothers to purchase them for a month of tomorrows.

I settle for a small bowl of roasted veggies accompanied by squash soup that did the trick after a hearty drink of fresh water and hot tea to follow. Tyrus had been lying in the sunshine since my arrival, awaiting the mail carrier while a woman with a small child voiced her complaint that a “Big dog shouldn’t be allowed to run loose” though he was miles away from them, clearly minding his own business. Poor Ty, a victim of his vast size. 

Asked the wide but helpful frizzy-haired woman behind the yawning  library desk if they happen to have a reading program for the neighborhood kids during the summer months. I would like to volunteer, I suggested, and spread my wealth of adventure through books. As a young grade school child, I checked out the absolute library limit each week, stacks of books about animals I could barely get home on my own fruition. Anything would do from Where the Red Fern Grows to Old Yeller, Rascal, Black Beauty, Rin Tin Tin, Swiss Family Robinson, My Friend Flicka, little people who lived in the floor of someone’s house and created such mischief, etc…the details get buried in my brain somewhere behind all of the cell phone numbers, Social Security number, old addresses, bank account numbers and multiple languages.

My brain feels full, how do I get rid of some of that to make space for the rest of my life? I just now acquired yet another library card with a six digit number password. Impossible to file it all away and have it readily available in a split second. I filled-out an application to be a volunteer through the library and hope the phone numbers for my references that spilled-out are correct. Maybe chocolate would help.

Drowning in mutiny today. I do not want to stay off the phone. I have used up all of the free minutes for the month and am informed I have ten more days in this trap. Why can’t the company give me a complimentary birthday 24 hours? The next step up is over $100. Talking to myself or Tyrus just isn’t the same as complaining to my friends and family over the phone. Oh well, internet access will certainly help the yearning to be insubordinate

I left the house and no one would know where I am. The house phone would ring endlessly, echoing through the rooms but you had to try back another time and eventually you could speak with your friend. No cordless wonders, long curly cords followed you as far as they could stretch into the hall and behind a closed door to speak in privacy, a busy signal prevents you from getting through and again, you have to call back, no call-waiting, no forwarding, no three way conference options. It was a different ballgame, how did we get to this place of adjusting to the fear of being out of communication? Snippets of information cross the screen, more often than not confusing the recipient with incomprehensible words and phrases. Twice as many text messages required to clear up the mumbo jumbo. Ahhh turns into Hajr?

Dog and suds

May 26, 2013

The washer downstairs runs endlessly, spinning out of control from 11:30pm on Friday to 6:30pm on Saturday so obviously something is amiss! Convinced Taelor to trek down to the basement to open the washer lid only to discover the tank is full of foamy water, and the dial is not cycling. She turned the knob to draw off the water and spin, with a great squeak. Filmy water gushed out from the bottom of the ancient appliance and onto the cement floor going mainly in the general direction of the floor drain. Taelor looked pretty sheepish upon her return with our basket loaded with soiled laundry to be cleaned elsewhere. Sigh.

A few miles down the road from here stands a dilapidated white building, cornering two streets. I am fortunate to have a great friend who is willing to lug my overflowing basket of clothes to sit and wait during the wash and dry cycles, occasionally checking them to sort out the dry articles, fold and haul everything back home. The change machine was out-of-order so Sarah drove across the street to hawk a five spot for a handful of quarters. Shocking to discover the machines set me back a mere $1.25 per washer and about the same to dry.

A few heavy-set people scattered in the broken seats, chatting and glancing our way strategizing about snatching rolling carts to lug their precious cargo from washer to dryer across the aisle. A glance up now and again lets them know there is still time on the machine and they can relax a few more minutes. My fashion-statement boot always draws one person in for conversation. “Did you break your foot?” I want to wail in song yet a simple story of a fracture in South America flies calmly out of my lips. A small man with tight-buttoned black shirt, wide forehead and pleasant smile relayed his personal story of broken limb and rapid healing process. He has full range of motion and looks pleased about his progress in a few short months. I am cheered more than I can tell you and want to kiss him in delight.

Connecting with an old friend, Sarah who came to spend the weekend from a nearby town. We discuss issues and challenges such as nutrition, mothering techniques, disappointments, parents and their foibles, the broken path ahead, fears and trepidation, desires, dreams, commitment strategies, movies, the Twin Cities, traveling, our past relationships, things that make a difference as we inhale our adventure at the tired Laundromat. I can’t recall the last time I had to do laundry away from the house. Sara’s little dog, Max came along for the ride and has such different energy than my Tyrus. They get along well though one is 105 pounds and the other nine.

My friend and I talk about our profound stories well into the night, surprising ourselves at just how long we can stay awake at our maturing age. 

Booted

May 24, 2013

Takes extra effort and a great amount of time to be fiscally challenged in our society. If one does not have internet service, a charged and generous plan on their cell phone, a physical address, lease on an apartment, Social Security card in-hand, all the time in the world to take the city bus around to Timbuktu and back to get to where you need and wish to go, valid Driver’s License and an excellent English vocabulary, you are in serious jeopardy of not getting assistance. I waited for 14 minutes, using up valuable cell minutes for this month, to finally speak with a Centurylink representative to help me set-up my internet service. Yes, just hi-speed internet, no cable (don’t own a television) no home phone service, no messaging capabilities, just the internet, sans bundling. I believe the sales rep sincerely wished to call-in his best recruit to help me see the light…obviously I will be put on some sort of nut-case list and my personal data distributed to the cell phones carriers. I’ll check into a hotel in the future and the clerk will be startled by the urgent, flashing red message that pops up on the screen to warn them I am a non-consumer, and considered dangerous, to be avoided at all costs.

The surgeon seems to like the looks of my progressive healing ankle this afternoon and I do as well. It is the first chance I have had to look at it since a week ago Monday. All of the healthcare attendants are amazed that I had the operation on the 13^th.  The sutures are cut out with a great deal of painful skin stretching, and gasping noises shockingly emitting from my mouth. I take it someone was very precise in their stitch-tying and makes it impossible to tug and tie the short ends to remove at a later date. Lucky me.

I have a Darth Vader looking black boot that blows up from points on the sides. It is outstandingly firm and prevents me from bumping my healing foot. Four plus weeks of non-weight bearing remain with a fashionable thunky boot and crutches. I did find a knee wheel of sorts at the Goodwill/Easter Seals down the street from the No Kill Cat Shelter in St Paul. Of course Taelor had to stop to peer-in and admire the felines that beg for homes through their pathetic cages. One in particular made her whine in agony since the shelter is closed until 6 and she cannot pet the flame point/tabby cat. She has to settle for staring at him/her through the glass and wait.

At least ten degrees cooler in our duplex than the great outdoors. We lounge on the loveseat with wool blankets and thick socks to watch a film on Taelor’s laptop or hover over the popcorn bowl while twitching in the chill. She is off to work for the rest of the evening and I don weighty sweat pants and triple layer on top. This is a similar climate to Port Townsend, damp and a bit windy from the coast…sans sea water, of course. We had a fire lit in the wood burning stove in Washington from September until the end of May. I settle-in for a long night of reading and writing, leg lifts, and ankle turns here in West St Paul. Taelor will post this for me from work tonight, taking time during her break to send it out. I am very fortunate to have that option. Thanks Taelor!   

Digest with Dad

May 25, 2013

My dad is the best. I always hang up the phone feeling good, really good. I can’t really refer to what happens on the phone as a conversation, generally it’s resembles a monologue.  If you know him at all, he’s the strong, silent type, man of few selected words. I end smiling like an clown and feel shining to the depth of my soul. The Silver Fox, his alias for a time, has my great respect. He is a whiz when it comes to car problems, like the Click guy on the radio, I can even badly mimic the odd noise and he comes up with several options to experiment with. He was a businessman in his time so we have a lot to talk about whether it is marketing or strategies or plain old gossip about the intricacies of a project gone bad…then again, it is usually I who does most of the latter. He’s not one to blather about a scandalous lout of a client but I am not above that in the least!

Dad is getting to be the age where he has to make some pretty tough decisions about where to go for the rest of his life, what to do with all of his unfinished projects (of those, there are many) and how to go about getting everything in order. Thankfully, I have experience with the process, on a professional level, assisting folks to make hard decisions about what to keep, toss (very little) give away, sell and pass along to family or friends. Once the choice is made to leave, getting down to the nitty gritty of stuff, it is afar less of an emotional roller coaster.

One of my most recent clients filled her car with the most prize possessions and told me to take care of the rest. Two weeks later, I had a folder filled with sheets from each recipient and their stories of items Gladis had contributed to their challenging lives, things that made all the difference in the world to them. One woman in particular, I’ll call her Carmen, a lovely Hispanic woman with two cute as can be children, 3 and 5 that were fleeing a domestic violence scene, bolted with the backpacks on their shoulders, one change of clothes and toothbrushes. They ended up with the beautiful vanity, newish big screen tv and VCR, stunning antique glass hutch that Carmen cried over in great joy, sharing with me she had never had anything so beautiful in her life. We were all touched and near tears, changed for the rest of our lives after knowing of her situation.