Library politics

June 12, 2013

A crowd of children, from barely walking to racing in the rain, are jumbled in the Riverside library. The male librarian announces the free lunch for kids and enthusiastically adds they would be accompanied by the St Paul mayor. A few of the children murmur in recognition, as he skirts through the front door and down the stairs. The kids race down to the basement like red ants to an open honey jar, to grab their brown bag of processed food. I am not sure what the mayor is sharing but a number of young men tromp back up the stairwell, minutes later, with cheese sticks in hand. They hover over a friend’s shoulder as he hunts and pecks next to me. I turn and ask the boys with wild brows to tell me what is going on in the cellar. The youth, sitting in his hard, upright chair gasps since I was talking with him while rapid-fire typing and he glances over to see if I am, in fact, writing “real words” and checking for errors. None.

Reminds me of the little guy on the bus who asked if the thick novel I was reading is a chapter book. “Yes,” I chortled, “it is.” Then he requested to look at the pictures. I told him there aren’t any and one day, sooner than he thinks, he will be reading books like the one in my hand. He just shook his head in disbelief.

John John from upstairs is down to “play” with the animals. She decides to brush my hair when I take it down from the clips. “Wow, your hair is nappy! Does you comb it out when you get a weave?” “I don’t think I have ever had a weave,” I reply. She gave me a pinched look as though she felt sorry for me.

Queen of complaints

June 11, 2013

I have become an expert complainer. A lemony smile graces my face more often than not. My philosophy of  value stemming from hard work, must have been a product of genetic engineering, like having hazel eyes and a strong jawline. Physical labor is rewarded with financial gain and “thank you” is a result of a job well done. Well, neither of those have proven to be true. Not exactly. One bad fall and two subsequent surgeries make me consider an alternative to that viewpoint. I realize I can hardly rely on my corporal work, which I swore meant toiling until my arms become numb, and I would be assured a consequential fortune. The Zen Gardener (infamous for his lack of communication skills in English,) knows for sure, that he is only paid after wrestling with the tall grass and gnarly branches. If it happens to be pouring down rain, his check is delayed until the water stops and work continues to completion. There are no sick days, no holiday paychecks.

At 53, I am discovering a life-time battle with my Self. On one side, a knight, who calmly represents confidence and intellect, the other a diminishing impatient brawn. Who wins out largely depends upon the reaction and response I perceive from my efforts. A marketing proposal, informational interview, telephone conversation regarding a job, email request for business or telepathic pleas, all generated from my end.

Depending upon the words that come back at me, I am elated, sullen, joyful, morose, accepting or disheartened. How did I catch onto that idea, like the plague, when a few of the others in the brood failed to take on those values, the certainty that I had to be physically laborious versus using my qualified brain? The parental units didn’t seem to have more time for those that plowed through a higher education nor take any interest in what I was studying. When I left college, as a Junior, a few credits short of graduation, neither my father nor mother appeared thunderstruck nor called me to have a conversation about it. They could not be bothered. Of course, that is what my combative 21 year old self declared. I suggested it didn’t matter what they, nor anyone else in my life decided about me, grabbed onto “I am on my own” as a life preserver. Indeed. What does it take to strip off the foam pack and make my way into the waves with trust, self-belief and perseverance? 

A circle of trustworthy people, occasional devoted support, shared conviction and plethora of resources would be the ticket, I believe.

Call her Paul

June 9, 2013

An unnamed cat lives in our house. I am in awe of her resilience. When I look at her sweet, crooked, mixed-up little face, she emits the tiniest of meows. She was abandoned by a departing family, with two other cats. The next door neighbor took them all in and soon discovered both of the females were pregnant. “Whatever her name is,” guestimated to be just about a year old, was dropped off with the other ditched cats at the Coon Rapids Humane Society. Since “The Cat Living In Our House” has similar coloring to several others in the shelter, they moved her to the St Paul asylum. The kittens were separated from their respective mothers and put up for adoption at four weeks of age after spending time with the foster family. “Cat” claims to be accustomed to dogs and other felines, is now spayed and up-to-date on her shots and has a complimentary vet visit to her name. Last Thursday she hid under my bed for a few hours, after coming face-to-face with Tyrus, then came out from hiding and pretty much ignored the huge hound. She is a bit curious about the great outdoors, sits in the window at length, yet doesn’t seem interested in escaping when the outside doors open. I could anthropomorphize and declare she feels “saved” in our household. We aim to fatten her up and keep her indoors. No sense tempting fate in the great wide world.

When I mentioned to a friend who was here visiting that the cat had not been christened with a name yet, he asked if cats really respond to a name. Many of the animals in Brasil do not have names, especially on farms.

Some of my friends have changed their names after having an epiphany or taking a metaphysical/spiritual course. Not certain what name I would choose. The doctor informed my parents they were having their first boy, after three girls so they were to call me Paul. Didn’t turn out as expected. Silly doctor. I’m sure my mother and father were very disappointed. They got their first son just shy of a year after I was born.

Maybe we should call the cat “Paul.” What name would she choose?

Gardeners delight

June 8, 2013

A gardener came to attack the grass taller than my boot. He rapped on the door and when I failed to open it in ten seconds, began ringing the doorbell in desperation. The orange extension cord snaked-in through the crack and I had to meander around the house to find one that was capable of accepting a three prong plug. Luckily the cord could have wrapped around the house three times so he could cut the grass and trim without having to move the magic cord. Hours later, another knock then the expected doorbell ringing ensued. A pleasant enough looking fellow who could not speak more than a handful of English words but could mime his thanks left with a generous wave of his hand. The truck was full to the brim with leaves, branches and grass, a mower and weed-eater strapped precariously on top, ready to teeter off at the corner. I attempted to obtain his contact information for future clean-ups but he simply nodded and smiled at me numerous times and made the universal phone call gesture. Ok, I will phone when I am ready, though I doubt his telepathic message would generate enough of an English translation for me to accept the call. Mute as a Zen Master.

It depends

June 7, 2013

My bladder is letting me down. Now I understand that I have to get up, struggle down the wide open space to the hallway, through several doors, around the corner, in time to unbutton, unsnap, unzip and swing around to ungracefully grasp the sink ledge to plop down on the commode even before I realize I have to urinate. There is absolutely nothing graceful about it and I find myself yowling in frustration, more often than not, because I have not “made it” in time. I strip off my pants or shorts, and underwear with disgust and fury at my enemy, the bladder. The loss of control infuriates me. There is utter helplessness when my body starts to let me down. The clothes in the hamper then pile up and I begrudge the need to shuffle down, accompanied by my peg, and my bladder, to the basement and start the laundry. It is one thing to drag the basket behind me down the staircase and yet another to haul it the opposite direction.

My bladder puts me at an even greater disadvantage when I am riding in the car, heading out of town, or simply across town. Am at its mercy. My foot has to be perched on the seat next to me like a hateful cousin or ungracefully on the dash, still wrapped in a large bandage to keep the wounds sterile and dry. Keeping hydrated and iced is imperative, fulfilling my foot physical therapy exercise quota is also a necessity while worrying about financial matters, checking emails and glancing at job on-line perhaps three times per week. The home internet company has yet to relay any further information about the connection request and the modem has gone AWOL. 

My bladder is my companion in these few days flying solo and I resent its movie choices. What can I do? The library is too daunting a journey and I may not make it there without having to use the bathroom.

In the meantime, I refuse to wear Depends.

Navel contemplating

June 6, 2013

A few more weeks of non-weight bearing then I will be training for a triathlon. Not really.

A sedentary life has atrophied my left calf considerably. Arm pits ache from the rigorous strain of crutching and upper arms feel like Popeye's though, more than likely resemble Peewee Herman. I have not seen him for quite some time so I cannot compare at the moment.

I am anxious to be able to drive my 5-speed vehicle, though I am not certain just how far I will be able to get in one go. Perhaps as far as the Wisconsin border.

It is yard/garage sale season and, since I am in a new neighborhood, would love to traipse around and check out the deals. Soon, I will be on my own in the duplex (save the dog) and there will be opportunity for frantic calls to my daughter to pick up half-n-half on the way home from work. Darn.

The wheels are turning and choosing to move forward with my own service business again appears most likely. It won't keep me from perusing the job sites and applying for the ones that peak my interest, just for the sport of it.

I will be alone with my own thoughts this weekend and aim to take inventory and see where that takes me.

Tripping

June 5, 2013

My father met my mother at a dance. She snuck out of the window of the nurses’ dorm to go to the party with her best friend. From across the room, as in the movies, my crazed mother casually pointed and noted, “That is the man I am going to marry.” Mom and dad met that night and rendezvoused roughly four times after that before they married. Together until she died thirty-eight years and eight days later, they made a good go of it.

I listened to dad’s stories from his Navy to college life, meeting mom and subsequent jobs until the time he retired. We had a lot of ground to cover, literally and figuratively since the drive is over four and a half hours. The dog panted with anxiety in the back, despite the Rescue Remedy I gave him, and we stopped several times to let him out to wander and have a drink.

When Tyrus refused to accept a hard bagel, toasted many days prior, dad recounted a story of a crew of men, out for a day of pheasant hunting. As they stopped for lunch, the dog’s owner took out his sack of sandwiches, offering one to the dog who turned his nose up at the meal. The man tossed the bag out into the brush stating “If the damned dog won’t eat it, why should I?” We got a good long chuckle out of that tale.

As I mentioned before, I get turned around in the blink of an eye, took a wrong turn and ended up south of where we live so the Holiday clerk was of great assistance in getting us back on track. The map doesn’t have updated streets so it makes it more difficult to manage the directions from the passenger seat. Tyrus wasn’t any help either.   

Back home after a week of lake life is cumbersome. At least the electricity is in working order now and the modem has yet to arrive so that is on my agenda for today.