Ben's 1st Trip to the Dentist

My daughter-in-law films and blogs the funny things their children do as they happen. Thirty years ago we didn't have digital cameras and an internet, with social media so handy for sharing the highlights of our little comedians' days. I'm still pulling up memories to record here, for the future amusement of our grandchildren. I hope they enjoy this one when they learn to read.

Anyone who knows Ben today would assume correctly that he's always been bright and inquisitive. He has an eye for detail and a question for everyone. His first trip to the dentist was no exception. We took him to a special children's dentist with a great reputation for building rapport with kids. Since my experiences with military dentists left me with a lifelong fear of being in that chair, I wanted my children to give this dentist a try.

I don't remember his name, but I'll never forget the hour he spent with my son. He sat him in the chair and took his photo with a Polaroid camera, then allowed Benjamin to pin it to the bulletin board. Once back in the seat, Ben was presented with a tray of tools to examine. The good dentist explained each tool, and how he was going to use it. He had me standing just out of sight in the doorway, where Ben couldn't use me as a safety net, I was told, but I would feel secure in his well being.

As the fairly long litany of tools and their uses came to a close, the dentist leaned over and said to Ben, "Now, do you have any questions?"

"Yes," Ben said very seriously. "Who made God?"

There was a short period of silence and then the dentist said, "I mean about your teeth or what I'm going to do." Ben said he didn't, and then the dentist came out to talk to me for a minute, leaving Ben with his laughing assistant.

"Why did he ask me that? I've never had anyone ask me something not related to teeth before!" He wasn't quite angry, but obviously frustrated. I honestly didn't know, so I suggested he ask Ben. He didn't. Maybe he was afraid of him—I'm not sure.

When Ben came out, quite content with his first visit to the dentist, I asked him myself. "I wonder about who made God, and he said I could ask a question."

Children expect us to know whatever they don't for a long time. They ask so many questions. The really smart ones can be a terrifying responsibility. That day I laughed while he couldn't see me, then I tried to answer him. I think today I might suggest we google it.

I was surprised to find, when I called for his next checkup, that the dentist had unexpectedly retired. I've wondered through the years if the Ben's visit could have pushed him closer to his decision. No, I don't suppose so...

A Frock is a Dress

My husband knows I have a sense of humor. Occasionally he understands it. There are times I get the blank stare of incomprehension. That's acceptable. Once in a while I'll make a play on words that he'll misunderstand to the point of anger. At times like that it's best to let him calm down before I try to explain.

Of course, I'm thinking of one particular time. We were expecting our youngest son, Benjamin. In fact, we were expecting him at any moment, while still cautiously enjoying square dancing together. Money was tight, but we always dressed up. My secret was my sewing machine. I could turn old curtains or a table cloth into a square dance dress and matching shirt and tie for John.

The mid-dance break gave John an opportunity to leave me surrounded by friends while he surrendered to the lure of punch and cookies. Some of my fellow dancers had suggested I start making square dance clothes for pregnant ladies, since nobody else was doing it. They thought I should open up a shop, or just have a line of clothes that could be sold on consignment at the one square dance shop in town. John walked up to the group just in time to hear me say, "A store would be great. I could call it The Mother Frocker."

He grabbed me by the arm and dragged me from the room. He wasn't smiling. He was furious. He didn't want to hear that a frock is a dress, so a frocker is a person who makes a frock. As far as he was concerned, I knew what it sounded like, and that was all that mattered.

It's been over 30 years. I doubt he even remembers it. I'm still laughing.

One Day In Bed

That's what I want. As a start, that's what I want. What I really want is one day in bed without anybody noticing. No phones will ring. No one will come to the door. I won't be sick, or injured.

John will magically find and heat leftovers when he gets hungry. He won't discuss it with me. He won't notice if I'm not eating. Or writing. He won't lose anything I need to find, or spill something I need to clean. The house will remain cool, quiet and dim.

We could begin our trip Monday or Tuesday. John could pack. Yeah, right. I realize that's more than I could expect. So is a day in bed.

Robert Browning said it best. "A man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?" Do you suppose there are beds in heaven?

Teenaged Girls—Even They Don't Understand Them

Like little boys who long ago would dip a special little girl's pigtail in an inkwell, thinking that somehow she's going to understand it as a symbol of love, teenaged girls often have strange ways of showing they're attracted. I can't believe I'm going to tattle on myself.

Seventh grade. I was plump, unknown, the newest kid among new kids on a military base in Virginia. Up to that point there were few important things in my life. I loved books, getting straight A's, knitting and music. Those things were all portable, and in my life that counted. That mattered. That lasted.

We lived in a duplex with three bedrooms. My parents got one room. My two brothers shared one, and my sister and I shared the other. Our room also shared a wall with another family. Actually, the wall was shared with the bedroom of their high school aged son. My newly teenaged heart was suddenly alive with hope.

He failed to notice.

I realize now that I didn't have a chance with him. He was a senior, several years beyond me. I was his little sister's age. We gathered to play RISK on occasion, and he treated me like a sister. Not what I wanted. My little brother tagged along. Not what happened in my dreams. He went out on dates, driving away in his dad's car. I watched from the upstairs bedroom window. Not what I was scripting in my fairy tales.

So what does a young teenager do to really get his attention and let him know how very aware she is of him? We did have one thing in common. We were both musicians. He played clarinet, and was very serious about his daily practice. I was very serious about mine as well. I played accordion. Loudly.

The walls were thin. I started practicing whenever he did. Different songs. Accordion versus clarinet. It's rather like bagpipes against a piccolo. I didn't win his heart, but luckily he was a worthy young man with a sense of humor.

His high school graduation and acceptance at Annapolis saved him from too many further machinations. I can actually only think of one. Discretion... I'll just keep that one to myself.

Mother's Day Digest

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The video says it all. My kids love me. It's been quite a day. (Thanks for the video, Ben. We know you'd never exaggerate...)

Mother's Day wasn't high on my list of potential happy occasions this year. Losing Jeremiah still weighs heavily on me, and the thought of my daughter-in-law having her first childless Mother's Day, one that should have been celebrated with a baby ready to turn six months old, took most of the steam from my sails.

None of our three sons would be here in Colorado for the day, and I won't get to see my Mom for two more weeks. I knew that there would be phone calls but other than that—a regular Sunday.

It's been said before: Oh, ye of little faith. It was still dark outside, and John was in the shower when I walked through the living room toward the coffee maker. The oversized square envelope on my recliner startled me. A card from my husband? He just doesn't do that on Mother's Day. John has always assured me, "You're not my mother." I sat and read one of the most touching cards I've ever received.

We arrived at church a little more than two hours early. That sounds hard to do, but once a month our church combines services, skipping our regular early service to meet at the late service. Today it ended up taking almost twice as long. It was moving, and we enjoy it, but came out starving. John and I went to lunch, forgetting that we'd wait in long lines on Mother's Day. So we left for church at 7:30 and got home at 3:30, eight hours later.

I do have to add one little thing from Ruth, my daughter-in-law in The Netherlands. Today on her blog she entertained us all with another funny story about her 4-year old daughter. Now that Ruth and Ben are the proud parents of three little ones, with a 2 year old daughter and 2 month old son, we get a lot of funny stories. Today Ruth wrote:

Ashley just said she wants me to have another boy again when my body heals. We asked if she likes boys better. She said, "No. Because girl, girl, boy, boy. And then girl, girl, boy, boy again until Mommy's an old lady!"

So now I'll either be up late doing the homework I had planned to catch up on for my online class, or I'll be up in the wee hours doing it. Does it matter? From John's card, to the calls from all three boys, and the unexpected email from Tighe with the book store gift card in it (he knows me so well) this has been a Mother's Day to write about. I wasn't expecting that.

Trusting My Own Opinion

I've been taking an online course given by Margie Lawson called Deep Editing and Rhetorical Devices. It came highly recommended by a couple of my writing friends. It's definitely giving me more and better tools for my journey toward publication of my novel, A Different Song.

This is my second online class, and since I've really just started rolling with this one, I'm getting a good process going. I'll work on a class lecture, do the homework assignment related to the new tip, trick or tool, and then go back to the spot where I left off editing my novel. I'll read the next chapter, then go back and edit using what I've learned in the class up until then. It definitely is working for me, and I'm learning to trust my own opinion more. I also have an edits partner. We mail homework assignments back and forth, and our comments hopefully help each other keep things tight and on track.

Today I was reading one of my chapters. I call it Facing the Fire. It was my first read-through in a while. Sitting at the computer, I was unaware when John walked into the room and stood next to my chair. I didn't see him as I continued reading. I didn't see him as tears rolled down my cheeks. I didn't see him as emotional despair swept me away from home and computer, lying half broken beside the injured bodies of two beautiful people who wanted only to die.

"Is it that bad?" John asked, tearing me out of my story world.

I didn't see him for long, as I reached down and grabbed for the electric flyswatter I keep by my chair.

Taking Little Kids to the Cemetery

For some reason I recently remembered when our three sons were small, and we drove from our old home in Ventura County, California, to the San Fernando Mission Cemetery where my dad is buried. (Daddy died at the start of my Junior year in high school.)

That day we brought along little spades and things for the kids, aged about 1, 4, and 8, to help as we pulled weeds and cleaned up around the headstone a bit. Of course we stopped and bought flowers before we arrived, and talked to the boys about where we were going, and why.

Ben, the youngest, was oblivious to anything but playing with the water and dirt. Tighe, as oldest, was fairly familiar with the routine. We didn't get to the cemetery too often, but he had heard stories about the grandpa who was buried there. He had come out with us more often than either of his brothers. He knew we would always leave flowers and a flag. My daddy had been military to his bones.

Jeremy was finally old enough to pay attention on this trip, though, and for the first time he questioned me.

"That's my grandpa under there?"

"Yes, Son."

More weeds were pulled as he thought about the concept. Jeremy was often serious and quiet.

"Is he going to grow again?"

"No, Honey."

He looked at me with one of those befuddled looks only a child can give a really dumb parent.

"Then why did you plant him?"

There are a few questions a parent just can't stop laughing long enough to answer.

I'm Being Punished

I can't think of what I might have done to deserve this, but our furnace went nuts yesterday, and started indiscriminately pumping out heat. John has since figured out that it's not actually the furnace. It's the heat pump, which is the thing that changes from heat to air conditioning. That means that every time the thermostat tells it the house is too hot, it switches to cold air. Since it's not working, it just pumps out hot air.

It's 95° in the house. I've had about eight cold showers, and if anyone comes over, I'll have to either run and hide, or run and put clothes on. I think of anything over 80° as a punishment. (What did I do this time?) Obviously, he tried to fix it himself first. Then it occurred to him that he'd better call for help and found himself on the receiving end of Memorial Day weekend messages. Perhaps someone can call us back Tuesday. Oh, wait. I have physical therapy at the crack of dawn on Tuesday. No one will be here to answer the phone.

I don't think I'll be doing a slide show tonight. I think I'll go take another cold shower and stretch out under the ceiling fan again. It's a good excuse to take off this hot air cast. (Please, God. Don't let the power go out. I really need the fans right now...)

A Day in the Life

Has anybody seen the download cable for my digital camera? I know where it should be. I know where I thought it was. I even know where I figured I put it. Yes, those are three different places. It's not in any of them. I could have left it in the console of the car, but it's dark out there—and raining. And I hate to remind John that he was going to help me find my car keys, so I could I borrow his? Again?

Maybe I don't need to download photos tonight. Perhaps I'll think of it earlier tomorrow. Nobody's going to read this tonight anyway, right?

Besides, I have to go to town tomorrow for physical therapy on my foot. Plantar fasciitis. Fun stuff. I can check in the car then without making an extra trip. No one will notice that I didn't put pictures in here again. Of the elks. Of the snow. Of the beautiful hills. Sigh.

Haircuts and a New Chinese Proverb

Many people make up statistics. I tend to make up Chinese proverbs. It's far more fun. Tonight I was discussing my friend Ambrosia with her sister. I've met her sister, but just in passing. Unfortunately, Ambrosia, who does my hair, hasn't joined the technology generation. She doesn't own a computer, and although she belongs to Facebook and has an email address, she never logs on.

I leave her messages she doesn't get. We laugh about it when I finally catch up with her. It doesn't change anything, but I tease her about it all the same. Tonight I went to her Facebook page and noticed that her sister was listed as a friend. Since I'd met her, I went to her page, figuring I'd send her a message asking her to rattle Ambrosia's cage for me. What followed was about an hour of back and forth messages—more fun than I've had online in quite a while.

The summary conclusion her sister made was that Ambrosia was underpaid at her present salon, and that she should leave for a better place where she would get more money. (Perhaps she was thinking that Ambrosia would buy herself a computer then?)

I wrote on her message board, "If she leaves, I go with her. She knows that. I was one of her first customers. I belong to her now. It's a Chinese proverb, you know. If you save someone's hair, they belong to you for life."

Political Correctness

I'd like to thank my sister-in-law, Betty, for the following information. It was too good not to share.

There is an annual contest at Texas A&M University, she tells me, calling for the most appropriate new definition of a contemporary term. 2009's winning term was Political Correctness, which was defined as follows:

"Political correctness is a doctrine fostered by a delusional, illogical minority and rabidly promoted by an unscrupulous mainstream media which holds forth the proposition that it is entirely possible to pick up a turd by the clean end."

The first time I butted heads with political correctness, my oldest son was somewhere around the third grade. He's 36 now, so it's been around awhile. We got a letter from his teacher regarding library privileges. I had the family in stitches by reading it aloud at the table, word for word. I wish I had saved it. It was hysterical. I'll paraphrase.

"If your son/daughter fails to bring his/her library book back to school during the day that he/she has library period, resulting in his/her library book being overdue, he/she will no longer be allowed to check out library books when his/her class makes their weekly trip to the the library. He/she will still accompany his/her class to the library, but must read ..."

You get the point. Suddenly the male pronoun, which all of my life we had been taught was for either male or unknown gender was suddenly not good enough. Then we no longer had a mailman. Or a chairman. Suddenly men were afraid to hold open a door for me. Well, if you see me coming, go ahead and hold the door. I don't particularly want to be equal. I'm not as strong physically. I have other talents. We don't need to be the same. I don't plan to be politically correct. I'd rather be appreciated for who I am and what I think. I won't pretend for you. Please don't pretend for me.

Missing the Olympics

I remember having skates just like the ones shown above. I sat like a little snowball in my parka, strapping them on my shoes and then shuffled off onto the ice. I was about four years old, and very proud of myself. It was my turn on the ice. I wasn't good enough to play with the real hockey players, but we had our own plastic pucks and sticks and we sure thought we were playing. The fact that our skates had four blades on the bottom didn't bother me a bit. In fact, I believe I was in third grade before I actually got my first pair of real figure skates.

Watching hockey during the Olympics this year, I realized how much things have changed. Aging has certainly changed me. My eyesight has probably been the most obvious change, other than size. Now I can actually follow the puck better when I watch the game on the radio. Think about it. The radio announcers know how much you can see on the airwaves. The television commentators assume you can see just fine. If given a choice between being given back my high school figure or my high school eyesight, I'd be throwing away my glasses. (Could we toss in that sharp hearing, too, please? No? I didn't think so...)

I got used to staying up late, watching the Olympics. I'd sit here and think, "I can do that...in my dreams." Of course, I can also fly in my dreams. I've been doing that since I was tiny. I always figured that most people have flying dreams. Maybe you don't. I always have. To me, it's more like swimming through air than what a bird does. I don't flap my arms or anything. I glide. People below me don't know I'm there. I'm fast. I'm silent. I hear things. Keep an eye on your ceilings. I'm not sure it's not actually happening. It's not an Olympic event, though.

But the skating. I always knew it took somebody a whole lot more coordinated than I've ever been to manage what they do. By the time they're done with their three or four minute programs, I'm practically hyperventilating. And I rarely agree with the judges. Was there anyone who thought that the Phantom of the Opera skate routine wasn't going to win? Just me? Well, maybe that's why they didn't ask me to judge this year. I'm available for 2014.

So I sit here, four hours after John went to bed, wondering why I didn't save some of the Olympics to watch later. Even with as bad a job as NBC did televising them (sometimes an hour between skaters, which was really a sad way to run things) I still enjoyed watching them. Too bad they didn't organize them better for the viewer. Why did I have to watch them all during the two weeks they were on? I could have just left them on the DVR and watched them slowly over a month, made them last.

Maybe in two years, when the Summer Olympics are on, I'll try that, because almost any book I own is better than almost anything else that's on television...

BYU International Folk Dance Ensemble Comes to Town

My friend Sherrie sent me an email to let me know the BYU International Folk Dance team was coming to several cities in Colorado. I emailed back quickly to let her know we had already ordered tickets. It went over my head that her niece, Erin, whom I had met several times, and really enjoyed, was part of the Mountain Strings band accompanying them.

What a great performance. John and I were truly entertained. Now, I love music and dance. My tastes are eclectic, and my iPod has some varied (some would say strange) offerings. I'd wager Sherrie's going to make a comment on that. She loves to poke me about my music. Nobody knows my music, or something like that. Anyway, John loves music as long as it's country, and dance as long as it's somewhere else. I can't believe he agreed to go. Maybe it was the way I worded it? (Wow, John! Guess who's going to be at the Fine Arts Plaza in Fort Collins? I'm going a week from Saturday at 3 o'clock. Do you want to come with me, or should I just go by myself? Order two tickets? Will do!) Call it priorities or pick your battles. I wasn't going to miss this one.

He not only enjoyed it, his foot kept rhythm during the entire performance. He wouldn't let me take the accordion player home, though. (Gee, John... I just wanted to play with him.)

It was so good to see Erin afterwards, too. She's got a smile that lights up a room, and seemed stunned to see us there—rather like when you see your banker in the grocery store and can't figure out where you know her from? She never knew we had left California. To have me hail her from the aisle in Colorado after the show was somewhere between an out of body and an out of mind experience, I guess.

I do wish I had been up on the stage with the musicians, though. That's the only thing that would have improved the show for me. Watch the show a couple of times, then jam with the musicians. I could play the guitar. I could play the accordion. I'm learning banjo (very very slowly) and could sure use a jamming partner there. We could just have a grand old time. Then I'd cook for everyone. I think the whole band could fit in our basement. Let's see. Two fiddles, one bass, banjo/accordion, mandolin (Erin), guitar, and percussion... don't think I missed anyone. And the substitute (me). Yep. We'd all fit.

Can you imagine them getting back to the college and going to the Dean (or whatever) and saying, "So sorry, sir, but we seem to have lost the band in Colorado." It's just too bad that Schmath isn't still with them, playing her bass.

Wake up, John. Can we go to Longmont for their next stop on 7:30 on Tuesday night? Please?

Rhetorical Questions in Church

Very seldom is there an unexpected belly laugh from an entire congregation. At least the pastor knows everyone is paying attention.

Today both the scripture and the sermon were on the boat ride Jesus took with Simon Peter. Poor Simon hadn't been able to catch any fish all day, and James and John in their boat hadn't done any better. Jesus had been preaching on the shore and then went out in the boat. He told Simon to lower his nets and they caught so many fish the boat nearly sank.

As he spoke of this, the pastor paused and looked at everyone. "But Jesus wasn't really trying to catch fish, was he?" he asked us. "What was he hoping to catch?"

A little girl's voice piped up loud enough for everyone to hear, "Lobster?"

I love it when kids that small are really listening and feel free to engage in the the greater conversation. We couldn't help but laugh, since it was really funny. Still, I hope her parents had the sense to really talk to her about the story when she got home. I hope she continues to add her voice to the service. We all loved it, but none more than me.

The Annual Tax Dramatics

Please won't you do this next year, John?

I don't want to do it.

Well, neither do I!

But you have so much experience, honey...

I always know when he calls me honey that he's either about to tell me something he knows I don't want to hear, or he's forgotten my name. I don't think he's ever really forgotten my name, but I always remember my dad singing that famous old song, "Let Me Call You Sweetheart, I Forgot Your Name." I was a teenager before I heard the correct lyrics. I wasn't terribly surprised, though, knowing him. After the fiasco with "Walking In Our Winter Underwear," I didn't trust any of his lyrics...

Well, back to the taxes. That was the topic, I believe. After hours with this annual nightmare, I find myself asking the same old questions. Does everybody lose receipts? Forget to mark the mileage after a 3,000 plus mile business trip? I had to go through a stack of gas station receipts that (luckily) we always write mileage on, to figure out the ending trip mileage by the date when we stopped to fill the tank just before arriving home. Numbers that should be so easy to plug in sometimes took me an hour to find today. That just shouldn't happen.

Then, of course, there were the two hours of work I did adding up the separate columns of medical expenses. Mileage goes in one column. Prescriptions go into another. Doctor bills get tabulated together while lab tests and mammograms, that sort of thing are another category. Glasses and things are separate. You can't just add these things together, you know. They go in different slots. Another slot is for your health insurance costs. At the end of the two hours, when I plugged in all the numbers, we were about $150 underneath what we needed to have it make any difference.

I could go on. Perhaps I could make it sound funny, but for some reason I'm just not laughing. I called my friend when I'd had enough and decided to quit for the day. I told her I was grumpy and disgusted that it had to be this complicated. She laughed, as I figured she would. She's good for me. (Thanks, Sherrie.) Then she was quiet while I complained that tomorrow I qualify for Social Security. So do I get a check? Oh, heavens no...

I just qualify tomorrow. That means I'm old enough tomorrow, so the paperwork had to be done two months ago so it can be processed this month. So do I get my check next month? No. It'll be official next month. I'm not sure what that means. Official. It's government language meaning we're going to make you wait another month and a half. I'll get my first check the middle of April. They actually sent me real numbers, though, and if I live through October of my 112th year, I'll get back everything I've paid into the program and can start collecting what my employers contributed. Now I'm tired.

Forward This to 10 Friends in 15 Minutes...

My inbox fills with email, and I check it frequently throughout the day when we're home. I love it, but will admit to a few things that really make me nuts. Since we all have things that tend to push our buttons, I finally feel the need to push back a bit.

The first thing I don't want to see when I open an email is that I'm one of forty addressees, and all their email addresses are there with mine for everyone to see. I don't usually know the rest of the people, and It's been forwarded several times. By now there are two hundred email addresses at my fingertips. If I were an unscrupulous person, I could probably think of many things to do with this new database of contacts. It also means I need to scroll way down before I get to the actual message.

It only takes a moment or two to copy and paste into a new email to be sent, and your list of addressees can be placed in the BCC box. That means blind carbon copy, which might only make sense to us older folks, but it means that nobody sees who you sent it to (or their addresses) except the sender. It also means the person opening the email gets a nice clean copy.

My second hot button is getting really great stories that aren't true. Hasn't anybody ever heard of snopes.com? Whether it's an inspirational story, a political rumor or a letter supposedly written by a famous person, please check its validity on someplace like Snopes before passing it along to hundreds of your friends. If you send me an unverified story, believe me when I say that I will check it out and do a "reply to all" (since you didn't do a BCC, I can let your entire email list for this mailing know at once) to inform them if it is a fake.

My final and biggest pet peeve, causing more frustration with email than anything else I deal with, is that little sentence near the bottom of so many emails. It cheerfully tells me to forward this email to a certain number of friends within a certain number of minutes. It implies that if I don't, I'm either not a patriot, not a Christian, not interested in supporting our troops or beating breast cancer. Or it will promise me treats, rewards or blessings as soon as I do forward it to so many in a certain amount of time.

If you send me something that says that, it won't ever be forwarded on, no matter how otherwise impressive it might be, unless I can remove that entire statement. And I rarely send anything to more than three people. I don't have "group lists," and if you receive something forwarded from me, you'll no doubt understand that when I read it, it made me think of you—either your sense of humor, your political leanings, or something you as an individual might need to hear.

I treasure the email friends I have, the blogs I read, and the connections we are able to maintain across so many miles. Email and the internet give us so much. I'm just begging for a bit of responsible mailing practices. Now, if you will just forward this to everyone on your contact list within fifteen minutes, next Tuesday you will receive...

Dealing With a Broken Rib

Perhaps I should have titled this post, "What Not To Do With A Broken Rib." The number one thing I would not recommend doing is coming down with a chest cold. Every cough, sneeze and wheeze feels like it's pulling that stupid rib apart all over again.

John is a big fan of soap and water. I'm a proponent of hand sanitizer. When he came down with a head cold just days after I broke the rib, I asked him to please use the hand sanitizer. "Sure, okay." I know what that means. It means, "Don't bug me. I'll do what I want—it's good enough." Thanks for the cold, John.

Other things you probably don't want to do while you have a broken rib include very simple stuff—like breathing. Breathing is good, though, and that's the reason they no longer bind your rib cage when you have a break. People stopped breathing in deeply enough because of the bindings. Like the pain isn't going to stop you? (Just breathe through it or you'll get pneumonia, the doctor said.) Ouch. That would be fun.

Climbing stairs isn't much fun because the legs are connected somehow. It's complicated. Everything you move seems to connect to that rib, pulling it the wrong way. Is there a right way? Bending over is difficult, but getting back up is almost impossible. Luckily nobody is aiming a camera at me while I use walls and chairs to return to an upright position after retrieving something I've dropped on the floor. It's easier when John's around, since he'll gladly pick things up for me. Unfortunately, he's been hiding in his HAM room downstairs pretty constantly since we got home. Maybe he comes upstairs while I'm sleeping. I've been doing a lot of that since I got sick.

Between the pain pills and the first chest cold I've had in at least four years, I think sleeping is a miracle. I'm not a good sleeper usually, but this week? Wow. I'm setting new records. One thing I've noticed about sleeping (and pain medicine definitely adds to this) is that it really cuts into a person's reading and playing time. Every time I get out of bed I expect to be healed. Mind over matter. I think I'll go back to bed and check again in about six hours...

Visiting the ER in Rifle, Colorado

If you need an emergency room, I don't suppose you could find a better place than Rifle, Colorado—unless you're near the McKee Medical Center in Loveland, Colorado. I'm intimately familiar with just how great that one is, too. They treated me quickly, professionally and gently. They were very nice, sympathetic and thorough. Who could ask for more? They even gave me food with my pain medication.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I did manage to break a rib. It also appears that one of my kidneys is swollen, but all other tests were negative, so no blood in the urine means the kidney will be fine once the swelling goes down. I hit hard, huh?

I was told not to go skiing (an easy enough instruction to follow, since I've never skied before) or do anything stupid... well, I promised not to ski, and to do my very best on the 2nd part, which made the good doctor laugh for some reason. I was being serious.

It's well past time for another pain pill, my first since leaving the hospital room, but Betty's going to feed us first. Everyone's being good to me, and there have been relatively few snide remarks about how I was hurt. Relatively few. Most of them from relatives. Oh yeah. Everyone here is a relative.

70% of All Home Accidents Happen in the Bathroom

Here's something that happened during the wedding trip that I intentionally failed to mention. The first night at the Grand Desert, an absolutely fabulous time-share where Pat and Betty so generously arranged for bride and groom, best man, and parents of the groom (us) to stay, along with them, I had "a bit" of an accident.

I actually hate to admit what happened, and I've tried to pretend it was going to go away by itself, but now that it looks like John will be taking me to the emergency room in Grand Junction tomorrow, I'm going to admit my stupidity. I got up during the night to go to the bathroom. That's a typical, normal thing for a sixty-something year old person to do. What I forgot, I guess, was just how big these rooms are. The bathroom was no exception. I turned, doffed my PJ drawers and sat where I thought the throne was.

Suddenly I was on the floor and my back had been slammed by the porcelain beast. I think I have a semi-permanent "Toyo Toto" bruise, and my tail bone, back, neck and shoulder really hurt, but I wasn't going to ruin the wedding for something that I thought was so stupid—and minor.

Four days later, though, and the bruise is beginning to fade, but I'm concerned about the dramatic increase in pain right next to my spine, just above the right side of the waist. It's gotten bad enough that I'm now having trouble breathing and doing little things like walking and raising my arms. I'm no doctor, but it seems like the pain should diminish with the bruise...shouldn't it?

I'm pretty sure I'll feel better just knowing what's going on inside me. I've always said I have an American Express Medical Degree. "This is your body. Don't leave home without it." Anything else I leave to the professionals. I do know I'm pretty tired of hurting, though.

Conversations With Ashley

I'm not a trouble-maker on purpose. When I talk to my granddaughter Ashley, it's just really easy to forget that she isn't even three yet, although she's closing in on it now. Her conversational skills are just so sharp that you never know what's coming up next with her.

About a month ago we were talking on the phone. Since they live in The Netherlands, that's the only way to stay close. Grandma gets lonesome. Grandma picks up the phone. I did remember to say hello to Ruth, my daughter-in-law, first. Grandpa doesn't always remember to do that. Then I asked if Ashley was available to talk. That's when I sometimes get in a bit of trouble—or cause it.

While we were talking, I casually mentioned that "when we go on the big cruise ship together, we should send your Mama and Daddy off on a date together, so you and Kate and Grandpa and I can play together on the ship by ourselves for awhile. Would you like that?" I had it in mind to give Ben and Ruth the opportunity to go on one of the more difficult off-ship excursions, like the Frasissi Caves off the port of Ancona, Italy.

Ashley thought it was such a fine idea that a couple of weeks later Ruth told me that she had to explain daily to Ashley that, no, they hadn't forgotten to get on the cruise ship with Grandma and Grandpa yet. That wouldn't be happening until May 1st. "Every day!" she said to me. "Buy her a calendar," I told her.

I think I did it again today. We were talking, Ashley and I, and she was very excited about having made a sleeping bag out of a blanket. I let her know that Grandma also has a sleeping bag.

"You do, Grandma?"

"I sure do. It's blue and green."

"It is?"

"Yes, and it's very silky soft."

"Where is it?"

"It's rolled up in it's own little bag in the garage."

"You keep it in the garage?"

"Yes, on a shelf."

"Okay. Tomorrow I'll come see your sleeping bag."

"Oh, Ashley. I wish you could, but I live very very far away. It would take a really long time on the airplane to get here."

"That's okay, Grandma. I like long days on the airplane. I'll come tomorrow."

I don't think Ruth hates me. She never acts like she does, but I know she's a very patient woman, raised to act with Christian forbearance. She probably knows that I don't (usually) mean to cause trouble. I'm just a fun kind of person. She could always call my bluff. Stick Ashley on the plane... I'd meet her in Denver. Well, maybe we should wait until she gets Ashley potty trained, now that I think of it.

I can hardly wait until Kate's old enough to have a turn on the phone with Grandma...