Yesterday I had the treat of seeing the caterpillars of tiger swallowtail butterflies on a stand of Queen Anne's Lace in a friend's field. I had decided to sit and wait with Howie while the group at a cookout took a short walk to let dinner settle. Thanks to Teresa for telling me they were there and showing me just the plant where the group saw them! I was so excited to get more pictures having to do with these flying jewels. :)
The cookout I mentioned was a really nice time. Several of my hubby's coworkers are gardeners, and they decided earlier this year that each would have the others over for a cookout during the summer. So, this first cookout was held at Rick and Susan's, and we so liked just sitting back and enjoying the gardens at their place. They have some cool and unique stone sculptures, including a bench made of huge slabs of stone. They told us the stone had been carved from giant bolders; the company which sells the stone has the boulders brought into the facility on railroad cars, then slices through them with giant saws. That must really be something to see!
They put the bench in their garden in memory of a good friend who died a few years ago; he used to visit and loved to wander their property and enjoy the land. I think that's a marvelous tribute. I told Susan it reminded me of the piece Robert Fulghum wrote about a bench he saw at a cemetary. I'll find an excerpt sometime and post it here. In the meantime, you can pick a copy of the book its from up at Amazon.com for 75 cents (used).
July 23, 2002
July 21, 2002
I am so excited! Today I got a second chance at some butterfly pictures, and this time the butterfly stuck around. It wasn't the pretty black one today, but rather a tiger swallowtail. He let me get within 6" of him and take shot after shot. Those echinacea must have been awfully tasty to keep him still for so long. They pictures came out great and I'm really happy with them. Until I get them on my site, I've posted them in this journal entry at Dave's Garden. Enjoy, and feel free to poke around the other entries there. The site's my second home. :)
July 20, 2002
Emma, our greyhound-mix puppy, has a small brown splotch on the white portion of her forehead. This is not a natural splotch. When I mentioned it, Howie said "Oh, I spilled coffee on her." Yes, our dog is a carpet. I took her coffee-stained head in my hands and kissed her nose, crying "we can't have a white dog any more than we can have a white shirts, for the stains!" Poor puppy, I must wash her head.
Uh, oh....Maybe my family is right. I just learned I am 65% Internet Addict
I am pretty addicted, but there is hope. I think I'm just well connected to the internet and technology, but it's really a start of a drug-like addiction. I must act now! Unplug this computer!
Take the Internet Addict Test at fuali.com
Oh yeah? So take the test yourself! ;o)
I am pretty addicted, but there is hope. I think I'm just well connected to the internet and technology, but it's really a start of a drug-like addiction. I must act now! Unplug this computer!
Take the Internet Addict Test at fuali.com
Oh yeah? So take the test yourself! ;o)
July 19, 2002
I'm beta testing YACCS's comments service. So, I'd appreciate it if you would leave a comment today.
I stayed up until nearly 7:00am today, editing photographs, working on my website, and just puttering around. I just wasn't tired, so I figured I would enjoy the night. When I finally did sleep, it was the sleep of the dead. I slept straight through until 4:00pm, and it felt wonderful. I feel no guilt for sleeping in at all, because that's the first really good night's (or day's, but who's counting) sleep I've had in weeks and my body and mind both feel refreshed. Aaaaaaaaah.
When I looked out the front window this afternoon, I saw a pretty black butterfly noshing on one of our pink delight buddleia. I dashed inside and got the camera and strode toward the door as I turned it on and set it to its macro mode. I opened the front door just in time to see that butterfly flitting toward the back yard. Still, even without a butterfly, it was overcast, but bright light and I took some shots of the perennials out front. Thunder rolled, and the sky turned very grey. Oh, God, I thought, please let us get a good rain. It was then that one of those rare and cool weather things happened; I heard the rain start pouring a ways off, then saw it come slashing down out of the sky, but it was down the hill from me. As I watched, it came rushing toward our house in a torrent, covering the yards between us like a forest fire licking through dry grass. I fled for the porch and, once inside the front door, turned to look back outside.
The butterfly alighted on the porch rail, four feet from me. And then the rain came, and he skipped away in the raindrops.
What a tease.
I stayed up until nearly 7:00am today, editing photographs, working on my website, and just puttering around. I just wasn't tired, so I figured I would enjoy the night. When I finally did sleep, it was the sleep of the dead. I slept straight through until 4:00pm, and it felt wonderful. I feel no guilt for sleeping in at all, because that's the first really good night's (or day's, but who's counting) sleep I've had in weeks and my body and mind both feel refreshed. Aaaaaaaaah.
When I looked out the front window this afternoon, I saw a pretty black butterfly noshing on one of our pink delight buddleia. I dashed inside and got the camera and strode toward the door as I turned it on and set it to its macro mode. I opened the front door just in time to see that butterfly flitting toward the back yard. Still, even without a butterfly, it was overcast, but bright light and I took some shots of the perennials out front. Thunder rolled, and the sky turned very grey. Oh, God, I thought, please let us get a good rain. It was then that one of those rare and cool weather things happened; I heard the rain start pouring a ways off, then saw it come slashing down out of the sky, but it was down the hill from me. As I watched, it came rushing toward our house in a torrent, covering the yards between us like a forest fire licking through dry grass. I fled for the porch and, once inside the front door, turned to look back outside.
The butterfly alighted on the porch rail, four feet from me. And then the rain came, and he skipped away in the raindrops.
What a tease.
One last thing before I slumber: Blog Haiku. This is terrific stuff, from the beautiful and simple page design to the collaborative haiku efforts of people everywhere. Kudos for taking two art forms and combining them, taking them to the next level -- oh-so-much-better than peanut butter and chocolate. Well, close, anyway. And that's really something coming from this girl. ;)
Well, it was bound to happen. I stumbled upon a TechTV fan site: TechTVTechies.com, and I took a quiz which tells me which Screensaver I am. Screensaver as in person on TechTV's "The Screensavers". And the drumroll, please....
Actually...All except for the getting sympathy from women part, it's pretty accurate, LOL. I *love* TechTV. The geeks on that channel are brains, but also great at improv. "The Screensavers" is our favorite show -- Those guys make my husband and I laugh aloud, every show.
Take the
Which
Screen Saver are you? quiz.
It's the quiz with oomph!
Created by Rachel (oomph)
and John (woobyslj)
Actually...All except for the getting sympathy from women part, it's pretty accurate, LOL. I *love* TechTV. The geeks on that channel are brains, but also great at improv. "The Screensavers" is our favorite show -- Those guys make my husband and I laugh aloud, every show.
Having read Big White Guy's "Squidgy Pickle Incident", I was doubly amused when I found something aberrant in my pickle jar. There I was, minding my own business, getting read to top off a lovely cheese and Miracle Whip sandiwich with a few bread and butter chips.I unscrewed the lid on a new jar. With my fork hovering over the contents, I saw it. A smiley face. In a pickle slice.
It was just too weird. There they were: two little round eyes, a perfectly-centered nose, and....AND...A crescent shaped mouth. I laughed aloud (something actually not that unusual for me). There was a split second where I just knew I should take a picture of that pickle. But no, I didn't. I ate the evidence with my sandwich. And it was good. Of course, I called my husband at work and said, "I found your pickle", thinking he'd done it as a prank. He is a prankster, after all. But he had no idea what I was talking about.
Then, I turned to my friend Pangie and asked her if she'd messed with the pickles last time she was over at our house. After all, she is known to mess with my desktop wallpaper. She replied that, though it did sound like something she would do, no. I even called my mother and asked her if she and dad had pulled a joke on us. No. Was it at the factory, then, that someone gave a pickle slice its happy countenance?
Weirdness continued, weeks later. I opened another jar of pickles - this jar being dill pickles - and saw another face. This one, unlike the first, appeared surprised. It had eyes, a nose, and a round mouth. Triumphantly, I marched into the office to show my husband. "Those are holes from the seeds," he declared. And then he proceeded to snatch that puppy from my hand and eat it. Again, no evidence! But I swear it was a face.
I can see it now: "Woman sees face of Jesus in Dill Pickle Slice" Yeah, THEN they'll all believe me.
It was just too weird. There they were: two little round eyes, a perfectly-centered nose, and....AND...A crescent shaped mouth. I laughed aloud (something actually not that unusual for me). There was a split second where I just knew I should take a picture of that pickle. But no, I didn't. I ate the evidence with my sandwich. And it was good. Of course, I called my husband at work and said, "I found your pickle", thinking he'd done it as a prank. He is a prankster, after all. But he had no idea what I was talking about.
Then, I turned to my friend Pangie and asked her if she'd messed with the pickles last time she was over at our house. After all, she is known to mess with my desktop wallpaper. She replied that, though it did sound like something she would do, no. I even called my mother and asked her if she and dad had pulled a joke on us. No. Was it at the factory, then, that someone gave a pickle slice its happy countenance?Weirdness continued, weeks later. I opened another jar of pickles - this jar being dill pickles - and saw another face. This one, unlike the first, appeared surprised. It had eyes, a nose, and a round mouth. Triumphantly, I marched into the office to show my husband. "Those are holes from the seeds," he declared. And then he proceeded to snatch that puppy from my hand and eat it. Again, no evidence! But I swear it was a face.
I can see it now: "Woman sees face of Jesus in Dill Pickle Slice" Yeah, THEN they'll all believe me.
July 18, 2002
Breaking news from the Gosh, I Need A Life department:
I just realized today that I've come to recognize the various chewing sounds the dogs make. Emma, especially, tends to lay on the floor behind my recliner and chew whatever's close at hand. The Nylabones are very hard plastic (AND bacon flavored, might I add), and they make an appropriately irritating tooth-on-bone scraping sound when being gnawed. Rope, the dogs' beloved rope bone, squeaks as the fibers are pulled between Emma's teeth. Hot Dog Squeaky toy is a rubber squeaky toy, so that's not hard to figure out. Oh....And when Rabbit is treated for his numerous dog-induced injuries and sent back to the front lines, well, he's easy to discern thanks to the squeakers embedded his body.
The wisdom of this last toy was obvious after Emma systematically destroyed three other fuzzy squeaky toys. Rabbit has very long legs and ears, providing an excellent flop factor, as I dubbed it. He can be shaken roughly by any appendage or ear and he has a suitable dead-animal flop the dogs both seem to enjoy. (How do they fling their heads and necks around like that without getting a major dislocation, anyway!?) The second reason Rabbit was an exellent choice is the three separate squeakers in his body: one in his ample midsection, and one each in one foot and one hand. The advantage of this redundancy? Even if the dogs dismember this fella, they still have at least three squeaky toys, nomatter how odd the parts look when separated from the whole.
Any other sound - especially that which sounds like plastic wrap, tinfoil, plastic yogurt cups, tuna cans or, worse, like something too small to produce anything but lip-smacking sounds - is cause for immediate investigation. A twist tie or paperclip, though fun, can be deadly.
I found out from my second doctor's appointment that the discrepancy in my ultrasound versus the CT-scan is almost surely due to adhesions (scar tissue) that have formed at the site of a 1992 surgery. An ultrasound does not show them, but a CT-scan does. It's nice to know my pain is validated -- this has been going on for more than two years and getting worse, and it hasn't just been my imagination or low pain tolerance.
Anyway, I go back to see the surgeon on July 25, and by then this OB/GYN will have spoken with him and discussed what the best course of action will be for me. I wonder now if the surgeon will be able to do the surgery as outpatient. The hernia is up high, just above my belly button, but the adhesions are very low in my abdomen and in my pelvic area. So....I guess I just wait and find that out next Friday. It's my birthday, incidently, and I just can't wait to sit in a waiting room on my birthday, LOL. ;) But I do feel relieved after seeing the OB/GYN this week and hearing what she said.
I have to say, I have the best husband in the world, too. He went with me to the OB/GYN's office, not only to the waiting room, but to the exam room as well. I was really nervous and didn't know what to expect to hear, so he was willing to brave the estrogen-laden environs and be my ever-lovin' support. His only complaint was the glaringly obvious lack of mens magazines. He forgot to bring his computer geek magazines with him, so he instead perused the titles on the tables in the waiting room.
There were oodles of ladies' magazines strewn about on the tables: Child, Parent, Town & Country, Working Mother, Fit Pregnancy...But not an Outdoor Life or Car & Driver to be found! Not even a People Magazine, that staple of doctor office waiting rooms everywhere! What is UP with that? Surely a few men darken their doorstep every week, and why shouldn't they have something to occupy their minds while conversations around them drift toward things like When was your last period? How long did you bleed? How heavy was the flow? and other frank discussions of feminine hygiene and parts.
My man really did make a sacrafice. ;)
Anyway, I go back to see the surgeon on July 25, and by then this OB/GYN will have spoken with him and discussed what the best course of action will be for me. I wonder now if the surgeon will be able to do the surgery as outpatient. The hernia is up high, just above my belly button, but the adhesions are very low in my abdomen and in my pelvic area. So....I guess I just wait and find that out next Friday. It's my birthday, incidently, and I just can't wait to sit in a waiting room on my birthday, LOL. ;) But I do feel relieved after seeing the OB/GYN this week and hearing what she said.
I have to say, I have the best husband in the world, too. He went with me to the OB/GYN's office, not only to the waiting room, but to the exam room as well. I was really nervous and didn't know what to expect to hear, so he was willing to brave the estrogen-laden environs and be my ever-lovin' support. His only complaint was the glaringly obvious lack of mens magazines. He forgot to bring his computer geek magazines with him, so he instead perused the titles on the tables in the waiting room.
There were oodles of ladies' magazines strewn about on the tables: Child, Parent, Town & Country, Working Mother, Fit Pregnancy...But not an Outdoor Life or Car & Driver to be found! Not even a People Magazine, that staple of doctor office waiting rooms everywhere! What is UP with that? Surely a few men darken their doorstep every week, and why shouldn't they have something to occupy their minds while conversations around them drift toward things like When was your last period? How long did you bleed? How heavy was the flow? and other frank discussions of feminine hygiene and parts.
My man really did make a sacrafice. ;)
July 17, 2002
Whew, okay, now the date header is working. I messed up the blogger button and will have to copy that code back into my template, though. In the meantime there's a link, at least. And still have to get the comments working. Anyone recommend a good comments service or script that's easy to use? I'm using enetation.com's service now, but I'd really prefer something which would e-mail the comments to me as they come in. Drop me an e-mail if you have any suggestions.
Well, it's getting there, this page. I was bashing my head against the keyboard trying to figure out how to add a column to this page using HTML, when it occurred to me: I own FrontPage 2000. D'Oh! I know it adds all its own junk, but I found I could still just copy the blog template into the HTML section of a new page in FrontPage, then go to the "Normal" tab and fiddle to my heart's content in WSYIWYG, then toggle over to "Preview" tab and check it out. When things looked right, I'd just toggle back over to the "HTML" tab, copy the code, and paste it back in my blogger template. Voila! It worketh! And with no FrontPage extensions. I am a very happy camper. :) Now I need to figure out this comments stuff.
July 16, 2002
No, you're not going crazy. Well, okay, I have no way of knowing that, actually. But you're not imagining things if you think my blog is transforming before your very eyes. I've been tweaking a template I found at blogskins.com and having some trouble getting my table to be three columns. I want a column in the black space to the right of this entry. Aaaaaaargh. My favorite tech support gal is away from the computer for a while, so I'm muddling through this myself. No comments working yet, either. So e-mail me if you want to say hi or leave a comment. :)
I see another doctor tomorrow to try and figure out what's causing the pain I've been having. I'm ready to just get things moving - If I have to be admitted for exploratory surgery, so be it. If I don't, then I'm ready to have the outpatient hernia repair done. I just know I am really tired of waiting; this in-limbo feeling is yucky.
Clueless at the Movies
My DH and I went to see a movie with our friend Jeff tonight. Our intention was to see Bourne Identity. We bought tickets for that, walked in the cineplex, and managed to wander cluelessly into the wrong theater! What we saw was Minority Report, which was excellent. I saw a preview of this movie months ago in a market research survey I took for Greenfield Online and thought it looked really interesting, and it proved to be so. The basic premise is three people, known as precogs (as in precognitives), see murders which are going to occur in the future. Technology allows the police to view the thoughts of the precogs in audiovisual form, where they search the images for clues as to where the murder is going to take place. They then dispatch cops to prevent the murder, and the would-be killer is arrested for intending to murder. They precogs are never wrong. Right?
I won't give anything away. There were a couple of inconsistencies, but they were far outweighed by a good, complicated plot and great acting. There's also a scene which I really loved, being an avid gardener. Remember Little Shop of Horrors? Well, that ol' boy has nothing on this one lady's work. Anyway, no spoilers here. Just suffice it to say we walked out of that theater so psyched and talking about it!
Walking into the wrong theater was one of the best mistakes we've ever made. :)
July 15, 2002
I'm feeling blue today for a few reasons. I can't really go into details, but one good thing has come of it. I realize I need to culture my relationship - my friendship, really - with God more. Though I am a social person and get along well with people (nobody's a stranger, you know the type), I don't have many really close friends. I have a pretty small circle of people with whom I feel really comfortable and with whom I want to spend my time. It isn't that I dislike others so much as this:
In a nutshell, I appear to be really outgoing, and I am. I just don't let people in very easily.
The thing is, though, I depend on the people in my life too much. God wants me to get to know Him, but I tend to gravitate toward my (for lack of a better word) "earthly" friends instead of God. Nurturing human friendships and having a vital relationship with God is great, but not one at the exclusion of the other. So when my happy norm of friendships is upset - be it by absence, sickness, you name it - I am left twiddling my thumbs and feeling bereft. I don't know what to do with myself! God wants to fill that gap, I know. But I have such a hard time really trusting Him with my heart sometimes.
If you've read my entries here, you know my relationship with my "absentee father", is not good, and I have no good father memories associated with him. So it's hard to trust God as Father. It's hard for me to really trust people, too, but people are just so much easier, in a way. You can look 'em in the eyes, see their expressions, hold their hands, hug 'em, and pat 'em on the back. Even my good friends from the Internet - many of which I may never meet face-to-face, are often more real to me than God. I can chat with them in word or type through this marvelous network tying the globe together. But God is so "out there" to this believer most of the time. I know there's the Bible, but even it just feels like a one-way conversation to me when I'm down like this. People give me the two-way communication I thrive on; but I need that with my Maker, too.
I am a Christian, and I've seen God work in my life. I have no doubt He's real, but I just wish He were more real to me. I know the only way to get to know people is to spend time with them and learn about them...I need to get past what keeps me from doing that with God. He already knows me, after all. It's not like I'm apt to say something inappropriate or shocking to Him. I need that communion with Him to sustain me.
In a nutshell, I appear to be really outgoing, and I am. I just don't let people in very easily.
The thing is, though, I depend on the people in my life too much. God wants me to get to know Him, but I tend to gravitate toward my (for lack of a better word) "earthly" friends instead of God. Nurturing human friendships and having a vital relationship with God is great, but not one at the exclusion of the other. So when my happy norm of friendships is upset - be it by absence, sickness, you name it - I am left twiddling my thumbs and feeling bereft. I don't know what to do with myself! God wants to fill that gap, I know. But I have such a hard time really trusting Him with my heart sometimes.
If you've read my entries here, you know my relationship with my "absentee father", is not good, and I have no good father memories associated with him. So it's hard to trust God as Father. It's hard for me to really trust people, too, but people are just so much easier, in a way. You can look 'em in the eyes, see their expressions, hold their hands, hug 'em, and pat 'em on the back. Even my good friends from the Internet - many of which I may never meet face-to-face, are often more real to me than God. I can chat with them in word or type through this marvelous network tying the globe together. But God is so "out there" to this believer most of the time. I know there's the Bible, but even it just feels like a one-way conversation to me when I'm down like this. People give me the two-way communication I thrive on; but I need that with my Maker, too.
I am a Christian, and I've seen God work in my life. I have no doubt He's real, but I just wish He were more real to me. I know the only way to get to know people is to spend time with them and learn about them...I need to get past what keeps me from doing that with God. He already knows me, after all. It's not like I'm apt to say something inappropriate or shocking to Him. I need that communion with Him to sustain me.
July 13, 2002
I just realized last night that an older version of my blog was still at the main gardenwife.com page. That made things kind of confusing, considering those entries quit prior to July 4th! That's remedied now that I have a basic splash page up. Hope it didn't make your brain hurt too much in the meantime. ;)
This evening I caught up on a little blog reading at Bus Girlie's site, and one of her entries really threw me for a loop. It isn't that anything she wrote ticked me off, offended my sensibilities or made me want to write my congressman about something. Actually, she describes driving past a really bad auto wreck and mentions how the family members must be wondering where the people are.
In 1989, the year I was a senior at the local tech college and didn't yet have a car, my grandparents drove me to campus in the mornings and picked me up in the afternoons. One afternoon, they were late in arriving. For my chronically early grandpa who couldn't stand being made to wait, this was really unusual. I stood out in the May sunshine, glancing at my watch every so often, and waited. Finally a friend on his way home asked if I wanted a ride.
We drove toward my town, and on the way we looked down off the expressway to a sidestreet below and noticed a car wreck. By the time we got home and my mom's landlord came running out to tell me I needed to get to the hospital, I knew the feeling I'd had was right on. That mangled piece of metal was my grandparents' car. I hadn't recognized it when I saw it by the side of the road, surrounded by EMT's and squads. Maybe I didn't want to recognize it.
Shirdan drove me to the hospital. He was driving stickshift, but held my hand at the same time; I can still feel his warm hand when I let myself remember that day. We arrived at the ER and I walked around until someone noticed my questioning look -- doubtless a familiar look there -- and took me aside. Again the touch. Only this time it came in the form of a little grey-haired ER nurse. As I cried out "Where are they? Where is my grandma?", that little nurse took my hand.
She said, "Honey, it was a really bad car wreck. Your grandma was hurt really, really bad.....She didn't make it." All the while patting my hand. At the time I don't think I even felt her touch. But I remember it now, over a decade later.
My mother, who'd received word separately, was there, too. I don't remember who got there first. I remember clinging to her and crying, some of the few tears I shed during the whole ordeal. Grandpa was hurt, but would make it. I can't imagine the anguish that must have pierced his painkiller-induced grogginess! His wife was dead! He was obviously in pain, but he made his (and her wishes) clear when he uttered two words: "No wake".
They ER was ill-equipped to handle his injuries, so he was sent to a hospital in Columbus. My mother and I followed the ambulance, ambulance chasers in a somber sense, and arrived a few minutes after the squad brought him in. And again we waited. Another ray of light appeared in the form of my friend Rosa. She appeared and enveloped me in a big, squishy Rosa hug. Thank God for full-figured mamma types. :) Again the touch. This time in the form of Rosa brushing my hair. Right there in the ER, she got out a hairbrush and brushed my hair. She and I have lost touch through the years, but I vividly remember that tenderness.
Grief is such a strange thing. My grandpa had to stay in the hospital for quite some time, and missed grandma's funeral as a result. Mom and I, propelled by shock I suppose, were the most "together" at the funeral home. We went around comforting others. Grandma was an English teacher, and active in her church's ministry with developmentally disabled adults, and the calling hours preceding the funeral saw many unfamiliar faces filing through the room. All of them had been touched by her. But still we walked and ministered and shared good memories. I still don't know if it was shock or if it was just God's comfort. I suppose they're equal in most ways.
I hardly cried. Relatives converged on my grandparent's house to gather and reminisce and take care of "business". But grandpa was still in the hospital, so being there in that house with all those people not normally there -- that was surreal and awful. One day during all of this, I retreated to the woods which abutted my grandparents' property. There, in my familiar and safe getaway, a bed of pine needles in a pine grove, I sat cross-legged in the softness of that spring day and howled out my grief. It was so raw.
But then I was done for a while. My teachers at college were all very understanding, especially my accounting teacher. Alex Roletta is his name, and his wife Lois and he used to drink coffee and talk with my grandparents at the doughnut shop. Again the touch. His eyes were so sad and sincere when he spoke his condolences to me. You don't have to touch someone physically to touch her heart.
Grandpa lived until 1990, as I recall. He tried to be brave and keep some normal routines in his life, but it was hollow and meaningless without her. It was for all of us. They had a big picture window in their livingroom, and as far back as I could remember, they'd stand with their arms around one another waving to us as we backed out of the driveway to leave after a visit. After her death, we'd pull in the driveway to see a different inner world at that house, with my grandpa slumped in his recliner watching TV or dozing. I was young and selfish, hurting and confused about things of my own, and couldn't face the rawness of the pain there, so I avoided the house. I feel terrible about that to this day, even though I know why I did it.
It wasn't all doom and gloom, but there was a shadow cast over everything. He came to my graduation, though. He beamed, so proud. I know he was thinking of how proud my grandma would have been. We started going to restaurants for holiday dinners. It was painful trying to be cheerful on those days. I think all of us would have rather just stayed home and denied the holiday was even there. It just felt so empty.
When he was in the hospital later, with congestive heart failure, I visited him. I'd just sit and read while he dozed or watched TV. Again the touch. This time, it was just the action of being present that touched. My mom told me later how he loved how I'd just sit and be there. He hated small talk, so that's the best gift anyone could give him.
Writing this is so painful; I've never actually thought about it and put it down in writing. I've related bits and pieces to those close to me, but never the whole story and the incredible import of the little things which transpired over its course. I am saddened to think they never got to meet my wonderful husband or my step-dad. Tears did not come easy to me then. Today, especially as I write this, they flow freely when my heart is touched.
But there are many gifts I carry with me to this day. I love nature, especially birds. I love to read -- I have to read. I am excited about learning. Oh, when I think of the fun they both would have had on the web...Once they got over the technology of it, they'd have loved it. Okay, now I'm smiling again, and I think it's a good place to stop.
In 1989, the year I was a senior at the local tech college and didn't yet have a car, my grandparents drove me to campus in the mornings and picked me up in the afternoons. One afternoon, they were late in arriving. For my chronically early grandpa who couldn't stand being made to wait, this was really unusual. I stood out in the May sunshine, glancing at my watch every so often, and waited. Finally a friend on his way home asked if I wanted a ride.
We drove toward my town, and on the way we looked down off the expressway to a sidestreet below and noticed a car wreck. By the time we got home and my mom's landlord came running out to tell me I needed to get to the hospital, I knew the feeling I'd had was right on. That mangled piece of metal was my grandparents' car. I hadn't recognized it when I saw it by the side of the road, surrounded by EMT's and squads. Maybe I didn't want to recognize it.
Shirdan drove me to the hospital. He was driving stickshift, but held my hand at the same time; I can still feel his warm hand when I let myself remember that day. We arrived at the ER and I walked around until someone noticed my questioning look -- doubtless a familiar look there -- and took me aside. Again the touch. Only this time it came in the form of a little grey-haired ER nurse. As I cried out "Where are they? Where is my grandma?", that little nurse took my hand.
She said, "Honey, it was a really bad car wreck. Your grandma was hurt really, really bad.....She didn't make it." All the while patting my hand. At the time I don't think I even felt her touch. But I remember it now, over a decade later.
My mother, who'd received word separately, was there, too. I don't remember who got there first. I remember clinging to her and crying, some of the few tears I shed during the whole ordeal. Grandpa was hurt, but would make it. I can't imagine the anguish that must have pierced his painkiller-induced grogginess! His wife was dead! He was obviously in pain, but he made his (and her wishes) clear when he uttered two words: "No wake".
They ER was ill-equipped to handle his injuries, so he was sent to a hospital in Columbus. My mother and I followed the ambulance, ambulance chasers in a somber sense, and arrived a few minutes after the squad brought him in. And again we waited. Another ray of light appeared in the form of my friend Rosa. She appeared and enveloped me in a big, squishy Rosa hug. Thank God for full-figured mamma types. :) Again the touch. This time in the form of Rosa brushing my hair. Right there in the ER, she got out a hairbrush and brushed my hair. She and I have lost touch through the years, but I vividly remember that tenderness.
Grief is such a strange thing. My grandpa had to stay in the hospital for quite some time, and missed grandma's funeral as a result. Mom and I, propelled by shock I suppose, were the most "together" at the funeral home. We went around comforting others. Grandma was an English teacher, and active in her church's ministry with developmentally disabled adults, and the calling hours preceding the funeral saw many unfamiliar faces filing through the room. All of them had been touched by her. But still we walked and ministered and shared good memories. I still don't know if it was shock or if it was just God's comfort. I suppose they're equal in most ways.
I hardly cried. Relatives converged on my grandparent's house to gather and reminisce and take care of "business". But grandpa was still in the hospital, so being there in that house with all those people not normally there -- that was surreal and awful. One day during all of this, I retreated to the woods which abutted my grandparents' property. There, in my familiar and safe getaway, a bed of pine needles in a pine grove, I sat cross-legged in the softness of that spring day and howled out my grief. It was so raw.
But then I was done for a while. My teachers at college were all very understanding, especially my accounting teacher. Alex Roletta is his name, and his wife Lois and he used to drink coffee and talk with my grandparents at the doughnut shop. Again the touch. His eyes were so sad and sincere when he spoke his condolences to me. You don't have to touch someone physically to touch her heart.
Grandpa lived until 1990, as I recall. He tried to be brave and keep some normal routines in his life, but it was hollow and meaningless without her. It was for all of us. They had a big picture window in their livingroom, and as far back as I could remember, they'd stand with their arms around one another waving to us as we backed out of the driveway to leave after a visit. After her death, we'd pull in the driveway to see a different inner world at that house, with my grandpa slumped in his recliner watching TV or dozing. I was young and selfish, hurting and confused about things of my own, and couldn't face the rawness of the pain there, so I avoided the house. I feel terrible about that to this day, even though I know why I did it.
It wasn't all doom and gloom, but there was a shadow cast over everything. He came to my graduation, though. He beamed, so proud. I know he was thinking of how proud my grandma would have been. We started going to restaurants for holiday dinners. It was painful trying to be cheerful on those days. I think all of us would have rather just stayed home and denied the holiday was even there. It just felt so empty.
When he was in the hospital later, with congestive heart failure, I visited him. I'd just sit and read while he dozed or watched TV. Again the touch. This time, it was just the action of being present that touched. My mom told me later how he loved how I'd just sit and be there. He hated small talk, so that's the best gift anyone could give him.
Writing this is so painful; I've never actually thought about it and put it down in writing. I've related bits and pieces to those close to me, but never the whole story and the incredible import of the little things which transpired over its course. I am saddened to think they never got to meet my wonderful husband or my step-dad. Tears did not come easy to me then. Today, especially as I write this, they flow freely when my heart is touched.
But there are many gifts I carry with me to this day. I love nature, especially birds. I love to read -- I have to read. I am excited about learning. Oh, when I think of the fun they both would have had on the web...Once they got over the technology of it, they'd have loved it. Okay, now I'm smiling again, and I think it's a good place to stop.
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