If you’re feeling blue…

If you’re feeling blue
And you don’t know what to do
Climb in
And get behind the wheel

Take a little spin
Thru the McDonald’s drive-in
And buy
Your rear neighbor a meal

You will start to smile
And feel better in a while
You’ll be
Surprised how good you feel

Sometimes all you need
Is to help someone in need
Try it
And help your heart to heal

Feisty

For the first and the last time, in a single day, I pushed Mom in a wheelchair.  It was the first time that she’d left the hospital and had been too weak to walk out on her own.  It was the last time because I nearly killed her in the elevator.  Well, that’s her side of the story.  My side is less graphic in nature.  Let’s just say, for the record, that (1) I’d never pushed a wheelchair before, that I can remember.  (2) Modern technology has given us the means to fabricate super-duper smooth-rolling wheels.  (3) Pushing a wheelchair is no where near similar to pushing a grocery shopping cart.

She fought a valiant fight.  Chemo duration:  19 Months.  It was during Month 4 that we learned her cancer was treatable, not curable.  Kinda put a dent on Christmas that year.  Our family gift exchange consists of everyone bringing a random present, then we draw numbers and choose based on our place in line.  The gift Mom chose was a set of bath products that contained a bottle of shampoo.  “I won’t be needing this,” she joked.  She’s a feisty one.

She was in the hospital for two weeks.  We blamed the doctors and nurses, but in reality, it was most likely the cancer/chemo wreaking all the havoc.  It was easier to blame The Humans.  We could see them coming and going, not administering her meds quick enough to suit us.  We couldn’t see The Cancer.  It was easier to blame what our eyes could see, rather than what our minds could imagine.  It was way too convenient for me to pester the heck outta the nurses when they didn’t immediately enter the room right after Mom pushed the call button.  I’m a feisty one.

We were sitting in her hospital room, talking and waiting impatiently to be officially released, when the topic of ironing came up.  She loves to iron.  I detest it.  She irons pillowcases.  I do not.  She irons bed sheets.  I definitely do not.  Grandma used to iron pillowcases.  I remember the sizzle of the hot iron and the heat from the steam as she pressed the white cotton into crisp smooth submission.  Each pillowcase was hand-embroidered with colorful flowers – blue and purple with green leaves.  They don’t make them like that anymore.

“Why do you iron sheets?” I asked Mom.  “I’m particular,” she said.  “But it’s unnecessary.  They get wrinkled as soon as you lay down,” I replied.  She just smiled and shook her head, but I knew what she was thinking.  She ended the friendly argument by not replying.  It was a true because-I-said-so moment.  She’s a feisty one.

I don’t know what to write…

I don’t know what to write
I don’t know what to say
I’m feeling kinda stressed
It’s been a nutso day

The telephone won’t stop
My inbox won’t calm down
I’m tempted to run off
And drive halfway ‘cross town

I wish I had the nerve
To just walk out of here
But I need this job and
I’m not the next Shakespeare

So I will get a grip
And do my very best
To get through this Friday
And treat it like a test

A test that I must pass
For bills I have to pay
I want to keep my house
I need a place to stay

It’s now the afternoon
I’m wide awake right now
A spider hit my desk
The size of a small cow

This is so very strange
This little poem of mine
So back to work I go
I think I’ll be just fine

 

Sticks

As a very young girl, I spent many a Saturday afternoon outside helping my parents with yard work.  I usually got the chore of picking up sticks.  Mom seemed to love it.  She was always picking up sticks – even during the work week.  I didn’t like picking up sticks.  It was boring.  I wanted to use the push mower.  It looked like so much fun.  I begged and pleaded with Dad and finally wore him down.  He started up the mower for me, and I took my first swipe around a large stump.  Weed-eaters didn’t exist back then.  We used a pair of manual hand-clippers around the trees.  (Squeeze hand.  Clip grass.  Get a hand cramp.  Squeeze hand.  Clip grass.  Is that a blister?)  It took forever.  I figured if I could get close enough to the stumps, I could alleviate that chore.

So, in my first swipe, I totally succeeded.  I got very close to the stump.  And, with my second swipe, I created a wide, deep line straight through the middle of the bright green grass.  Dad sprinted in my direction, frantically waving his hands in the air.  (OH NO, IS THERE A BEE BEHIND ME?)  He grabbed the mower handle from my hands and quickly turned off the engine.  He never said a word.  He simply looked at the close-shaven line that ran through the entire back yard and shook his head.  Later that morning, we headed to the hardware store, and Dad bought a new mower blade.  I didn’t understand why we needed a new blade.  Ours was working perfectly earlier this morning.  It wasn’t until a few days later, when the wide, deep line turned a drab shade of yellow that I understood what had happened.  Even then, Dad never said a word, but it was years before I was allowed to use the push mower again.  I was banished back to the sticks.

Fast forward to present day.  Mom is tired.  The chemo is wreaking havoc.  She’s frustrated.  I’m anxious.  Dad’s worried.  There must be something I can do.  I research her symptoms online, write down the list of recommended foods, and go shopping.  I take the food to Mom, but she’s not hungry.  I hover.  They send me shopping for more supplies.  I return and hover some more.  This is nothing I can do.  NOTHING.

I call her every day, twice a day.  Two days later, she tells me she’s called the hospital ER for advice.  She won’t go to the ER, and she won’t call 911 for an ambulance.  I should go visit her again, I think.  Maybe I can talk her into going to the hospital – then again, maybe not.  I already know how that discussion will go.  Mother knows best.

I walk outside.  The bright sun is warm on my face.  Daffodils sway in the breeze.  In the yard, I see sticks.  We had some wind the night before.  I start picking them up without thinking.  My hands become full.  I walk around to the back yard and get the wheelbarrow.  I spy a dead limb on a nearby shrub.  I walk over with the intention of snapping off a single twig, but half the darn plant breaks off in my hands.  I have a mini-meltdown.  My handsaw is nearby.  I slash.  I hack.  I sever.  I carve.  I chop.  (I get out my thesaurus!)  Five minutes later, the shrub is gone.  Only a small stump remains.  I feel better, but I’m not sure why.  Mom is still sick, and I can’t fix it.

Looking back, I remember how Mom loved to work outside – picking up sticks, planting flowers, pulling weeds, growing a garden full of vegetables.  And, suddenly, I think I understand.  (Light bulb!)  It was something she could control.  Something she had created.  The crap of life continued, but she made her part of the world just a little better, a little brighter.  Mother knows best.

I Must Not Cuss Behind the Bus

I must not cuss behind the bus
I do not want to be
Responsible for teaching kids
New vocabulary

I must not cuss behind the bus
For they will surely see
The words my lips so rudely formed
Shouted impatiently

I must not cuss behind the bus
Since I’m the one to blame
Procrastination has left me
Hanging my head in shame

I must not cuss behind the bus
Instead my plan shall be
Befriending my alarm clock to
Promptly awaken me

I will not cuss behind the bus
Because I’m on my way
Ahead of the child-laden coach
To start my busy day

 

for Sue

We met virtually in Corporate America amidst deadlines and downsizing.  I was a home-based trade show planner, working with a small team that was mostly located in another state.  She worked out of one of the company’s many satellite offices, in customer service.  If our trade shows needed books, she was our contact.  When procedures changed, she and I acted as each team’s representative to trouble-shoot issues, update procedures, and communicate the details to those who needed to know.  She took care of us.  If our books didn’t arrive, it was only because of planes, trains or autos.  When she was out of the office on vacation, we literally panicked.

We exchanged pleasantries via email, but neither of us had time to truly socialize.  When I got downsized the second time (there was also a first time, but that’s for another post), I made a point to say good-bye.  It was at that time that I learned she, like me, enjoyed nature photography.  That should’ve been my first clue.

A few months later, I ended up back at the same company (also another story for yet another post, or better yet, an entire new category), and she was still there.  I managed the trade shows.  She managed the orders.  Work went on.  Then, the real fun started.  Massive lay-offs.  Her job was sent overseas.  A few months later, my job was simply eliminated.  Both of us were angry, shocked, scared, angry, sad, stunned and angry.  Once again, we had something in common.

Three years later, we still email each other all the time.  We vent.  We cry.  We encourage.  We vent some more.  We get over it.  We move on.  We digress.  We vent again.  She understands my sarcasm and dark sense of humor.  She’s upbeat and positive and always helps me look on the bright side.  I’ve tried to do the same for her.  (I doubt I succeed.  I’m getting grumpy in my old age.)  We have new jobs now and have met new colleagues.  We have issues with our new colleagues and ask each other for advice.  We discuss men, children, our lives and our weekends.  We’ve become the best of friends.  “Sisters from another mother”, she says.

We’ve never met.  I’ve never sent her a photo of myself or vice versa.  We aren’t even Facebook friends.  None of that matters.  In this day and age of online (instant) communication (gratification), we’re like vintage pen pals.  We’re both busy with life, yet we take the time to reach out.  Why?  It’s simple.  She gets me…

for Mrs. R.

This is my very first post.  It’s all mine.  It belongs to no one else.  I can write whatever I want.  I’ve always wanted to write.  According to Stephen King, if you want to write, then write.  My friend, Sue, says I should write.  Okay, here I go…

My first true words of encouragement came from my high school freshman English teacher.  She gave us a poetry assignment.  We were supposed to write in various forms and about present-day topics:  haiku, politics, rhyming, not rhyming, one really cool poem made of seven lines with each line containing the same number of syllables as our home phone number.  Talk about fun homework!  I typed each poem on a separate sheet of paper.  (Yes, I said typed.  On a typewriter.  Not a computer.  I’m old.  Hush.)  Then, I cut out each poem and glued it to a sheet of brightly colored construction paper.  (Do they even sell construction paper anymore?)  I stapled the pages together, making a book, and anxiously handed it in.

When the teacher handed back our graded assignments, I was eager to read her comments.  I couldn’t stop smiling when I saw her handwriting under my haiku:  “Your haiku is very worthy poetry”.  I did a little dance in the hallway.  She also gave me information on a state-wide poetry contest.  I entered the contest and won third place for that haiku.  I still remember the day I received the winner’s announcement.  I did a little dance at the mailbox and skipped all the way up the driveway.

It didn’t need to be first place.  That’s not what mattered.  What mattered was that someone liked what I had written.  Someone.  Liked.  What.  I.  Had.  Written.  At that age in high school, we all wanted everyone to like us.  Personally, as an only child, I couldn’t stand it when someone didn’t like me.  It crushed me.  Thankfully, I’ve outgrown that feeling.  Well, I’ve almost outgrown it.  A few more years and I’ll nail it for sure.

Okay, so my very first post is almost complete.  Do I care if you like it?  Yes.  And No.  In my opinion, the real question should be:  How do I feel about writing this?  Pretty darn good.  I’m writing.  For real.  I’m published.  I didn’t solve world hunger.  I didn’t bring about world peace.  This isn’t chapter one of the next New York Times best seller.  And yet, my heart feels a little less heavy.  My mind seems a little less anxious.  Hey, you’ve got to start somewhere…