Dream Gardening

I am a dreamer.  I've said it many times.  One would think that would be something I'd outgrow but evidently not, because I still find myself day dreaming about all the great accomplishments I am capable of doing.  For instance, my dear Daddy was a great gardener.  There wasn't any thing he couldn't grow.  When I was a child our backyard could have been a show case for Better Homes and Gardens magazine.  Dad spent hours in the winter drooling over seed catalogs.  Early spring well before the last frost Dad and Mom could be found sitting at the kitchen table with Dad's garden plan drawn to exact dimensions and seed packets scattered around them in deep discussion of what was to be done next.  The whole neighborhood knew of his green thumb and one by one came by for a tour mid summer when his garden was in it's glory.

When I bought my first house all by my lonesome self some 17 or 18 years ago I dreamed of having a beautiful country garden like my father's.  No, I take that back.  Mine was going to be even lovelier if that was possible.  I went right out and bought every gardening magazine available and spent hours like my father drooling over the shiny magazine pictures of gardens all over the U.S. of A.  When I had my first family barbecue I proudly took Dad on a tour of my backyard explaining in great detail the plants and landscaping designs I had envisioned.  Dad being Dad pointed out to me that I was over planting and I would not have the time to keep up such a complicated plan.  No way was he going to burst my bubble.  I went right out and bought seven trees (3 fruit to feed the birds), 10 bushes (2 with berries to feed the birds), more annuals and perennial than I can count and 3 grape plants (also to feed the birds).

Half died before I could get them in the ground.  I had no idea it took so much hard physical labor to have a beautiful yard.  The first two summers I slaved over the yard no matter how hot and miserable I was.  Then as with most of my scathingly brilliant ideas, my enthusiasm fizzled out.  Two of the seven trees died several years ago.  Two died this year and are waiting for me to cut them down and put them to rest.  Only three of the ten bushes have survived.  Actually the yard is a wasteland to weeds.  I have come to appreciate weeds - except poison ivy.  They do not require constant attention and actually produce lovely flowers.  The grandchildren think Grandma grows the very best wishing flowers - they believe their wish will come true if they can blow off all the white puffy seeds from the dandelion with one blow. 

One would think I had learned my lesson after that complete disaster but no the dreamer in me will not be squelched.  Last summer I decided I needed a small pool under my little apple tree.  I thought I'd never get that hole dug.  The hole eventually got dug and a plastic box was set inside the hole.  I never did figure out how to set up the water pump necessary to keep the little pond from becoming stagnant.  Yes, you are right.  I now have a green slimy nasty water filled hole in my yard with signs around it informing the grandkids of its potential danger. 

The summer is just beginning.  Being an optimist I am once again dreaming of how I am going to fix up my yard.  Don't give up on me yet.  I'll keep trying until they lower me in my grave.  Hopefully I have a lot of dreamy summer days ahead of me.

The journal page featured here is probably one of the easiest and quite possibly the most fun of the journal pages to make.  I simply went through my collection of pictures cut from magazines and glued them on the page to create a collage.

Women are Super Heroes

My baby sister called me yesterday to do a little ranting and raving.  She knew there was nothing I could do to help her but also knew if I could I would.  Actually if she would let me I would drive to Texas and knock a few heads together and point out their errors to them but baby sister will continue to be a martyr for the next few years until her children all leave the nest.  Knowing this, I let her pour her heart out to me.  Sometime the weight of our burdens are much lighter when they have been communicated to another person who can relate and will listen and even though they can't fix the problem, they can sympathize.

Why is it that so many women think they are NOT suppose to be happy?  Women are super heroes whose sole mission in life is to save the world and then do the wash and take out the garbage.  Not realizing that their lives are in the garbage because they allowed everyone to walk all over them.  It just doesn't make sense to me and yet I have done the same thing more times than I would like to remember.  We burned our bras and saved the whales then came home to do the ironing while our men barbecued.  And we had to beg them to do that.

Nothing seems to have changed in a hundred years.  My mother was the perfect example of the American housewife and all four of her daughters learned from her.  However, my mother did not work outside of the home and her four daughters were forced to work so that their families could have all the things that now seemed required to make the family happy.  No wonder the divorce rate has gotten so out of hand.  If men do not learn to take on their share of the home responsibilities, marriage will become a thing of the past.  Revolutions do not happen over night.  This battle has been going on for years and woman will win this time.

The page featured is a pencil drawing, painted with watercolors and fluid acryllics then story added in ink.  Obviously I have never had art classes yet my crude art work is effective in telling my story.  It took me a long time to throw out my desire for perfection and just go with my emotions.  Your art journal is your haven for expressing yourself.  Release your inhabitions to the wind, let your inner child come out out to play.

What's your Play Personality?

Dr. George Sheehan was one of my heroes thirty some odd years ago.  He was a doctor of medicine but that is not why I looked up to him.  Dr. Sheehan was a 70 year old athlete - a long distance runner.  No, more than that; he was a long distance runner and a philosopher.  He wrote sports articles and several books about the joys and rewards of being an athlete.  He was a student of the classics, of Aristotle and Plato, so his writings reflected the wisdom he learned from the old philosophers.  One thing he pointed out to his readers of every book -of which I read them all - was the power and importance of play in ones life.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.  No, I don't believe Aristotle ever said that.

Stuart Brown's book about play, Play: How it Shapes the Brain, Opens the Imagination, and Invigorates the Soul is dedicated solely to play.  Brown says there are 8 types of play personalities.  I hadn't thought of it that way, but it does make sense.  I love to play but some play does not interest me at all.  For instance golf is an American favorite but I find it boring and rather tedious.  Just not my cup of tea. But set out my art journal and paints and I'm in Hog Heaven.  I could play all day.

Brown's 8 Play Personalities go like this:

1) The Joker:  Makes people laugh, plays practical jokes.  (My son, Scotty)

2) The Kinesthete:  Loves to move, dance, swim, play sports. 

3) The Explorer:  Goes to new places, meets new people, seeks out new experiences (physically or mentally)

4) The Competitor:  Loves all forms of competition, has fun keeping score.  (My brother, Bruce)

5) The Director:  Enjoys planning and executing events and experiences, likes throwing parties, organizing outing and leading.

6) The Collector:  Loves the thrills of collecting whether it be objects or experiences.

7) The Artist/Creator:  Finds joy in making things, fixing things, decorating, working with his or her hands.  (me)

8) The Story Teller:  Loves to use imagination to create and absorb stories, in novels, movies, plays, and performances.

I had not considered a couple of the categories.  I never thought of collecting or organizing affairs as play but after I read his description I could understand why these things would be playful to some people.  Not me, but that is all right.  I am definitely the artsy/crafty personality but I am also an explorer.  What is your Play Personality?  Want to come over and play with me?

When I worked on this page I was feeling sorry for myself.  Les had been dead for just a few months and I was tossing and turning unable to sleep in the bed we once occupied together.  The background was quickly thrown together by swishing pastel fluid acrylics around on the back.  Once dry I glued on the paper doll images from Mary Engelbriet's magazine.  Quit, easy and effective. 

Sisters Escape to Eureka Springs

As I have said before, my sisters and I are very close.  We try to get together once a year for some sister bonding and girl fun.  Several years ago we chose Eureka Springs Arkansas as our destination.  Eureka Springs is one of America's quaint little villages that now thrives due to its tourism industry.  The town was once a thriving community because of the lure of the magical healing waters of the springs.  Back in 1886 when the present day Crescent Hotel was built people came from all over the world to be healed by the mineral springs.  The Crescent Hotel was originally built as a hospital and health care center by Dr. Norman Baker.  Dr. Baker was quite theatrical and liked to perform his surgeries in front of the hospital so that local citizens could watch his procedures.  Fortunately he was eventually closed down but not before he mutilated and killed many poor souls.  The hospital is now a magnificent old hotel.  The once lovely old Victorian homes in the area are now bed and breakfasts offering wonderful home cooked meals and relaxing massages.

Two of my sisters and I headed to Eureka Springs, not for the healing waters but for adventure.  It is said that the spring water flowing beneath the hotel is high in energy attracting lost spirits.  The Crescent Hotel is considered to be America's most haunted hotel so naturally we made reservations to stay there.  Besides the unfortunate people who put their lives in the hands of the sadistic Dr. Norman Baker many others died in the hotel.  One of the most colorful characters who died there was an Irish construction worker who fell to his death from the roof landing on the future site of Room 218, considered to be the most haunted room.  Michael, the worker was known as a prankster and it is said that his ghostly spirit enjoys playing pranks on the guest of room 218.  Naturally we asked for that room but it was already taken.  Darn!  However because of our interest we were given the room next to it where the ghostly figure of a small boy has been seen chasing his ball.

The morning of our arrival to the now elegant hotel we headed for the lower level where The New Moon Spa and Salon is located.  We had this mini-vacation well planned - first full body massages, next hike and exploration of the area, followed by the ghost tour and last but not least pizza in our haunted room waiting for our friendly ghost's visit.  At the spa we were greeted warmly by the pretty young lady at the front desk.  While we waited for our masseuse she guided us on a tour of the modern facilities. (Which happened to be next door to the morgue.)  There were several private rooms with attached showers so that all three of us could have our massages at the same time.  Sue had opted for the hand and foot massage and exfoliation treatment.  She explained that her feet deserved a little pampering after all the years of work standing on concrete floors.  I do believe she was right.  Mary was scheduled for an aromatherapy body wrap with deep exfoliation and a soothing foot and scalp massage.  Personally I wanted to get down and dirty so I chose a sea science mud body wrap to eliminate toxins.  The sessions varied in length of time depending on the type of massage we were to receive; Sue's being the shortest and Mary's the longest.  We were each led to our private rooms with soft music to help us relax.  I was instructed to remove all my clothes and lay face down on the massage table with a sheet draped over me.  The young female masseuse quietly came in the room when I was ready and in a soothing voice explained the procedure of applying warm mud over my entire body (except my hair).  She then gently applied the mud and massaged my body as she went along.  I must confess it was the best massage I have ever had (also the most expensive).  She gently rubbed the warm silky mud from my toes all the way up to my nose.  When she was finished I was instructed to lay there and relax for as long as I wished and afterwards I was to shower off the mud and join my sisters where we first met.  As I was lying there I could hear the male masseuse in the next room giving Mary her massage.  That is when I came up with one of my scathingly brilliant ideas.  No more relaxation for this girl.  I had things to do.  I quickly showered and dressed but rather than join Sue I tiptoed quietly into the room where Mary was being massaged by a handsome young man.  The young man looked at me quizzically and before he could speak I placed my finger to my lips to shush him.  Mary had a scented mask over her eyes so she had no idea what was going on.  I leaned over her and deposited a big kiss on her lips.  At first Mary just looked stunned and then she queried, "David?".  David and I burst into laughter as she pulled off her mask to see me standing there.  Later she said the massage wasn't near as soothing after the kiss because David couldn't stop laughing.

After the massage and lunch we took a hike and explored the area as planned.  We enjoyed ourselves but we were anxious for our adventure.  Would we really see ghosts or were these just stories to lure the tourist there?  Finally 7 o'clock arrived and we followed a well versed man around the hotel listening to the many stories of mutilation by the infamous Dr. Baker.  Dr. Baker claimed he was able to cure cancer.  Two stories vividly standout in my mind.  One of his patients purportedly had brain cancer.  Out in the courtyard where the town's folk had gathered to witness his claims he drilled a hole in the ailing man's head and then proceeded to pour Eureka Springs mineral water into the cavity made by the drill.  He then announced to the surprised crowd that the man was healed.  Not surprisingly, the man died a few days later.  Another time one of Dr. Baker's patients had cancer on an arm.  The hospital also served as an insane asylum.  Dr. Baker cut the cancer ridden arm off; then cut the arm off of one of the insane asylum's inmates and sewed his arm onto the cancer patient.  Dr. Baker was astounded when the arm rotted off.  No wonder ghosts walked the halls of the hotel.  Ghastly stories.  With the stories fresh in our minds we headed for our room to eat veggie pizza, tell ghost stories and wait for our ghostly visit.  We stayed up as late as we could keep our eyes open watching and listening but finally gave up and went to bed, disappointed.  No ghosts.  We did have one experience that could have been the ghost of the construction worker.  As each of us took a shower the warm water abruptly turned cold and a few seconds later warm again.  Was Michael playing around or was it the old plumbing in the hotel?  I guess we'll never know. 

We all slept soundly and spent the next day shopping at all the quaint little shops in the town.  The shop keepers were friendly and full of suggestions of places to see and places to eat.  We went home tired from walking up and down the hills in the town.  Tired and yet refreshed, if that makes sense.  Refreshed and ready to make more plans for other adventures.

The death of a mother's son

I'm not exactly sure why but for the last few weeks I have been letting things slip by me.  Perhaps it is because I knew I would was going to start work once again -- although 3 days a week for 3 hours certainly shouldn't bite into too much of my personal time.  Still I didn't really know how much time I would spend on the new job.  I wasn't told to expect 3 days a week or 7.  Therefore I went on a few short trips before my big day at the new job.  I am not one to let a good time slip away.

However the piper must eventually pay.  Today was my pay back day.  I started the day writing out checks to pay bills.  The big one to Kurt Prenzler CPA and County Treasurer was a bit painful to write but I reminded myself how fortunate I am to own my home and to have an IRA to get the money to pay my real estate taxes.  Millions of people are not that fortunate.  That knowledge eased the pain somewhat as I wrote the check.  Next I wrapped a couple of packages to be mailed to family, sorted mail into stacks to read and to throw away, washed dishes and clothes, read my e-mail and finally got cleaned up to go to get fingerprinted.

I don't understand why bartenders are required to be fingerprinted but Muny management says it is a requirement so I made an appointment at St. Louis University to be fingerprinted once again.  I have been fingerprinted twice before because I worked for a bank and a brokerage company.  I understand the two previous fingerprinting requirements but for a bartender?  I know, stop your belly aching and get on with your story.  The point is I had to go to the post office to get a money order to pay for the fingerprinting --$52.20, yee gads-- and to mail the packages.  The big black lady who waited on me was so friendly.  I liked her immediately but then again, who don't I like? (I could name a couple of people but they really aren't worth wasting your or my time on.)  Maybe I liked her because she said she like my hair color and then added how lucky I was to have such a beautiful natural color.  It has been so many years since I last saw my natural color I no longer remember what it looked like.  I digress, again.  The nice lady asked the usual questions; do I need stamps, insurance on the packages, anything fragile, etc.  I told her no, one package was a small gift to a sweet little niece who had badly cut her ankle and had to have emergency surgery.  We discussed how sad to start her summer vacation like that and then she told me a much sadder story.  A friend's son had tragically been killed.  A young 19 year old.  She said the boy was bad and that people were saying good riddance.  This warm compassionate woman wasn't thinking of the wasted life, she was concerned for her friend, the mother of this young man.  Her friend was all alone.  All she had was this worthless son.  How sad.  This mother will grieve the rest of her life for her only child.  We mothers are like that, you know.  Good or bad, that child was her baby.  A baby she carried in her womb for 9 months.  For 9 months she talked to him and told him how much he was going to be loved.  For 9 months she yearned to hold her precious baby in her arms and kiss his sweet tiny hands and feet.  For 9 months she dreamed big dreams of this baby's future.  Then the day of his birth arrived and for 19 years she loved him and cared for him the best she knew how.  She will now grieve for the rest of her life wondering where she went wrong.

My day started with all the mundane little things that must be performed day after day.  Then quite by chance I met a woman who was hurting for her friend and my perspective of the whole day has changed.  How blessed I am to have my children and grandchildren in my life.  They aren't perfect and they have many problems, but they are alive and well and facing the day to day challenges to the best of their abilities.  The way I would?  Of course not, but they are trying and whose to say my way is right?  After all, I am divorced and living alone with very little income.  Who cares, this girl is happy in the knowledge that I am loved.

Fun Job at The Muny?

I have been retired for three years now and for most of that time I have enjoyed retirement.  After all, what is not to like about all that freedom?  Freedom to get up when ever it pleases me, freedom to come and go as I please, freedom from the tyrannical boss and freedom from the new kid on the job whose favorite phrase is "that's not in my job description".  I have more time to enjoy my precious grandchildren, to read, to be with girlfriends, to paint and to travel.  Yet I keep having this nagging thought way in the back of my mind that says there is something missing in my life.  I may be wrong but I think that annoying thought is pushing me back into the job market.  If that is true, then what do I want to do?  What type of job is right for this 61 year old woman who really only wants to have fun?  I guess that is the answer - a fun job.  I have heard there are a lot of fun job opportunities.  Is that just another urban myth or can someone go to work each day and have a really good time?  Perhaps an internship abroad - see the world on someone else's dime, or a chance to work on a dude ranch, or a cruise line.  Maybe I could be bouncer at an all male strip joint.  I can just see it now, some 6 foot tall amazon woman who looks like she is on steroids decides she wants more than a quick feel for the dollar she has forced into the g-string of the eye candy hunk dancing for the ladies' pleasure.  All 5 foot of me grabs her and forces her out into the street.  Yeah right, she'd be sitting on my face while she continued to fondle the hunk.

So back to reality.  I decided to start my thrilling job search close to home, the wonderful St. Louis Muny.  I have gone to The Muny since I was a child and have always found it to be fun, so why not work there?  Seven weeks of listening to great musicals, meeting and talking with lots of people and working with some fund loving kids.  Sounds like a job right up my alley.  Good thing I am not doing this for the money.  The job only pays minimum wage and I had to buy my own uniform and pay to get a very painful hepatitis A shot.  I figure after paying $43 for the Hep A shot, $20 for 2 bright orange polo shirts and visor, $28 for 2 pairs of khaki pants and the gas to drive back and forth to St. Louis, I should just about break even by the end of the season.

I'm not sure why but instead of hiring me as a cashier (27 years of banking experience) I was hired as a bartender.  But what the heck, I've met a lot of bartenders and none of them impressed me with their great intelligence so I figured I could handle it.  And I did.  My biggest fear was pouring beer.  I just knew I would never master keeping the foamy head to a minimum.  What a surprise - it only took two tries and I had it mastered.  (Steve is an excellent teacher.)

Is it the fun job I was seeking?  No, but I didn't dislike it.  I was disappointed that I was unable to hear the musical because of all the noise in the food stand.  Other than that, the job was as I imagined it would be,  The people attending the show were there to have a good time so they were all pleasant even though the 90 plus degree weather was stifling.  The young people who worked in the food stand with me were all very nice and helpful.  I will continue to work there until the end of the season.  Tonight was Legally Blond.  That really isn't one of my favorites so I didn't mind that I could not hear it.  Perhaps I'll be able to come up with an arrangement with management so that I can listen to my favorite musicals.  That shouldn't be difficult for someone who has as many scathingly brilliant ideas as I do.

Sisters

I am blessed to have three wonderful sisters; sisters who know how to take a truly rotten day and turn it into laughter and sunshine.  These three women are more precious to me than words can express.  It is understandable why Susan would be special to me.  We are twins.  She has been with me since the day I was born.  We are separated now by two hundred miles but I am quite certain there will come a time in our old age when we will once again live together and stay together until one of us dies.  The other two sisters are younger; Mary by eleven years and Tina by sixteen.

Now that we are adults the age difference is as if it does not exist.  We are now both sisters and best friends and as best friends we confide our most intimate secrets with one another.  Men brag and blow about their lives as if they are the announcers in a sports arena, where as women share their lives.  They share the life's tragedies and sorrows along with the joys and laughter.  That is simply the nature of women.  All three of my sisters and I have married, divorced the bastards, bore beautiful children who have blessed us with joyous moments and heartaches.  Through the roller coaster rides of our lives we have always known we had each other's backs at all times.

Occasionally I meet a woman who has no sisters or who is estranged from their sister.  My heart goes out to these women.  I am blessed with many girlfriends along with my sisters.  These women I love and I would take a bullet for.  Thank you ladies for helping to make my life beautiful.  Without you I would be such a lost soul.

Granddaughters' Dance Recital

The Looking Glass Corvette Club had planned to drive to the Wisconsin Dels for 4 days.  Darrell was kind enough to invite me to come along with him.  I have had few opportunities in the past to travel so I jump at every chance to travel to foreign lands.  Wisconsin may not sound foreign to some but for this girl who until the age of 21 had only been in 2 states (Illinois my residence since birth and Missouri, only because it is a short 20 minute drive from my home) Wisconsin is a foreign territory.  The trip sounded like fun but my two youngest grandchildren were going to be in a dance recital during that time period.  Grandma would have been in big trouble if she decided to go on a road trip rather than support my sweet girls.  Darrell generously volunteered to cut the trip short to get me home in time to witness the grand event.  Therefore I was able to participant in both events.

And what a grand event it turned out to be.  The little girls danced to the music from Disney's animated movie, Finding Nemo.  The children in the program ranged from the age of 2 up to high school.  Each dance number had 4 to 7 little girls performing their routines.  My two little fish were dressed in bight sea blue costumes and performed two dances for the audience.  Both girls had a brief shakeup when they lost their footing and fell.  Fortunately they took it in stride and bounced right up and continued the routine as if nothing awkward had occurred; unlike their grandmother who would have turned into a little turtle, ducked into her shell never to be seen again.

My sweet girls were totally awesome but the two year old babies stole the show.  This was the dance studios first attempt to have two year olds in a dance recital.  There were 7 precious baby girls lined up on stage in pale pink leotards, tights and tutus.  Each baby girl had her hair pulled back into a tight little bun (what hair there was).  One little girl was scared and crying when she was led out on stage.  She pulled her stiff tutu up to her face to wipe her wet eyes and snotty nose.  It would have been sad if it hadn't been so funny.  Then the music began and 7 pudgy little toddlers twirled, pointed their baby toes and swung their little arms to the rhythm of the music each one at her own pace.  They absolutely brought the house down with both laughter and clapping.  I laughed so hard tears streamed down my cheeks.

When I was four (the age of my 2 granddaughters) my twin sister and I were flower girls for the Franklin Illinois High School Homecoming.  We were so scared we forgot to throw out the rose petals as we walked in front of the 1955 King and Queen of the Franklin High School.  I can't imagine what we would have done if we were asked to perform for the audience.  Probably cry like the little 2 year old.  I know pride is suppose to be a sin but I just can't help myself.  I am so proud of my two little granddaughters.  They were awesome!

The little blue alien

A little blue alien came to visit me yesterday.  The young woman who brought the little alien to me, claimed this was Princess Anna.  Grandmothers can see through even the best disguise.  The alien came dressed all in blue: blue t-shirt, blue tutu, grey blue tights and blue tennies.  Even her hair was tinted blue.  So how did I know this was an alien not my charming granddaughter, the one and only Princess Anna?  Her little pointy ears were blue.  Yes, her face was white but her ears were blue.  When I questioned her she had a clever answer, but wouldn't you expect an alien to be clever?  In her squeeky little alien voice she told me, "Oh Grandma, it is only blue dye.  It washes off."  Yeah right, and what have they done with my granddaughter?

Ghandi

There is a story about Gandhi that says during one of his famous hunger strikes a man came to beg him to eat.  This man pleaded with Gandhi saying he would stop fighting if only he would save himself and eat.  But Gandhi knew that this man was in much pain because the men he was fighting had killed his daughter. Gandhi told him he would only eat when this man embraced his enemy.  The poor tormented father dropped to his knees in tears.  How difficult it had to have been and yet he did as Gandhi ask.  Gandhi was such a wise sage.  He knew this man would never be whole again unless he faced his pain and learned to forgive.

That is what I am trying to do today.  For over two decades I have held disdain in my heart for my mother-in-law.  There had been times when that disdain turned into hatred.  You see, my mother-in-law was an alcoholic who introduced my son to the demon when he was only a child.  As a teenager he bragged that he could keep up with his grandmother's drinking.  Wow, was I supposed to be impressed?  My son is now 40 years old with a wife and two children depending on him.  He is constantly in my prayers.  He does not know how I worry that he will have an accident while driving home from the bar killing himself or someone else.  He does not know how concerned I am about the welfare of his children, my grandchildren.  For all these years I have blamed my mother-in-law for what my son has become.  I am now facing the truth.  My mother-in-law was an alcoholic.  She was not the mean wicked woman I saw.  That was the alcohol.  Alcoholism is a disease, a disease that is past down through the genes.  If she had not introduced him to alcohol, someone else would have.  I must now forgive her and stay strong and happy for my children and grandchildren.

Angels among us

Into each life there comes pain.  There are days when we may think it is more than we can handle, after all we are just small human beings.  Just mortal souls searching for a way to survive.  What does God expect from us?  Our pain comes in so many forms and we aren't hit with just one but many.  It may be a business venture turned sour, a loss of a job, your career, a child stricken with a deadly disease, a tornado slashes through a home taking with it not only the roof and walls but precious family photos and mementos, divorce, alcoholism, a child lost in a foreign war.  The list goes on and on.

We humans are amazing.  We can overcome each and every obstacle thrown in our path.  The power is in our hands but sometimes the pain is so deep it feels impossible to dig out of the hole.  I recently participated in the MS Mud Run.  The most difficult part of the 6.2 miles was the mud pits.  Pits dug 4 to 5 feet deep filled with muddy water.  It was easy to slide into that slimy mess but nearly impossible to get out without the help of someone else in that pit or someone outside of that slimy hole.  I dug my fingers and toes into the side of the dirt holes but could not get a good solid hold.  Just when I thought I would make it, I'd slip and be sucked back into the sludge.  Yes, I was in a hell hole and every time I thought I was just about to free myself the devil grabbed my foot and pulled me back under the murky muddy water. 

That is how life can be.  Fortunately we have angels looking after us ready to offer their hand and to pull us to safety.  God knows some of us need more help than others.  Obviously I am one of those people and He has blessed me with many many angels.  The angel who has been watching over me for the last few days is Marie.  She is a loving compassionate nurse who has dedicated her life to caring for others in one form or another.  She is also a friend of over thirty years.

Two weeks ago I was driving past her home with a world of troubles on my mind when I happened to see her getting out of her car.  I had a deep desire to embrace her, but not really sure why.  I stopped the car suddenly and ran to her.  Poor girl, didn't know what hit her.  Right there in the street I held on to her and poured my heart out to her.  The angel that she is, knew what I needed.  We have spent quite some time together since then.  She has become not only that special friend I have had for so many years but also my counselor. 

Angels are among us if we will just open our eyes and hearts to see them and let them in.  They will bring us peace.  Thank you, Marie.  I love you.

I love my doctor

I am re-reading Annie Freeman's Fabulous Traveling Funeral. I don't recall crying so much when I read it the first time but then I think my doctor had me on anti-depressants at that time.  I went off the meds because I felt sad but was unable to cry.  Now I cry at the drop of a hat.  (I collect vintage hats, no wonder I cry at the drop of a hat.  Can't stand to see such charming beauty dumped on the floor, dirty, smashed and forever lost to unappreciative hands.)  There I go digressing again.  The point I was getting to was the author describes a female gynecologist that sounded remarkably like my female gynecologist.  In my book, Dr. Christina Midkiff is one of the most compassionate understanding doctors that ever lived or ever will live.  Not that I have had a lot of doctors in my life but she is tops.

Kris Radish's description of the doctor in her book goes as follows:

"The doctor with the gentle eyes and hands that glide like only a female doctor's hands can glide.  A female doctor who knows what it is like to have objects the size of a toaster oven inserted into a vagina.  A doctor who knows that the soft placing of a hand on a knee or arm or even on the side of a worried face before an examination can make a woman feel safe and protected.  The hands of a doctor that take their time and move slowly with the orchestrated sounds of a female voice.  The assurance and that kind voice of knowing because she has been there, felt that, winced at the exact same moment when something so unnatural moves into a natural place."

I have been to four gynecologist in my adult life.  Three of the four were men.  The first were there strictly for the money.  My annual visits were short and sweet.  He swept in with barely a word, thrust a cold metal object up my vagina and was gone.  The second doctor must have taken his internship with the first.  The third was a real piece of work.  He told me I had a beautiful body and stroked my naked back during an examination.  Needless to say that was the last time I went to that doctor.  I don't think he practices medicine in this area any longer.  I wonder if that is because of his unprofessional behavior or he just retired.  It has been been years.

One day I was complaining to a girlfriend about my experiences with male doctors.  She suggested I give Dr. Christina Midkiff a call.  My friend said Dr. Midkiff actually sat down across from her and discussed her health issues.  She never once felt rushed and always welcomed her talk with her not just as a patient but as a woman friend.  Gee, what a concept.  My first visit to Dr. Midkiff was exactly as promised.  Before the initial examination she sat and talked with me about any concerns I may have.  This kind gentle soul actually seemed to hear my story.  Thus was the beginning of our professional relationship.

One day that relationship changed.  My body was changing faster than my mind could take it all in.  I was going through menopause.  I thought it would be a time of rejoicing.  No more monthly bloody messes, no more PMS.  I had heard all about the hot flashes.  It couldn't be that bad.  I raised two kids, divorced, bought a house and remodeled it alone.  I certainly could handle hot flashes.  What I was not prepared for was the mood swings and the depression.  The PMS was kid stuff.  One morning while driving to work I started crying uncontrollably for no reason.  The tears flooded down my face so hard I had to pull over to the side of the road.  When I was finally able to get to work I called my daughter who was working for Dr. Midkiff at that time.  She got me in to see Dr. Midkiff immediately.  By the time I had gotten to the doctor's office I had finally gotten some control over my emotions.  Wow was that short lived.  When Dr. Midkiff walked through the examination room door I broke into tears once more.  Dr. Midkiff then surprised me by swooping me into her loving arms and held me.  She held on to me as I held on to her until I could once again regain my composure.  She then sat there holding my hands while I apologized for my behavior.  This wonderful woman then reassured me that I was not going crazy.  Besides getting me medical help she gave me her business card and on the back of the card she wrote her beeper number and her private home phone number with instructions to call her anytime night or day.

I have not had to call her for any emergencies but it is reassuring to know that she would be there if I needed her.  Since that day Dr. Christina Midkiff is not only the most wonderful compassionate doctor I have ever had, she is also my friend.  Whenever we meet, whether at her office, at a fund raiser or simply out shopping she always greets me with a warm loving hug.  Not a limp unfeeling hug, but a bear hug that says I am happy to see you, my friend.