Perfectly balanced meal

Tangerine, pomegranate, pear, cheese and popcorn. Yup. A perfectly balanced meal.

See? Three kinds of cheese even. And cookies for dessert. Calcium, Vitamin C, antioxidants, fiber ... we're pretty well covered, wouldn't you say?

I'm going to get used to this new schedule. Sleep in until 8:30 (or 9:00), breakfast in bed, naps, reading, watching movies, more naps, dinner served in the living room (fashionably late - after a loooong late-afternoon nap).

Snifffffffff ... a crustless green onion quiche is coming out of the oven now for New Years Eve brunch. Oh, my nostrils are in heaven. I am so blessed!

My Christmas Break

For those of you who haven't already seen these and commented on Facebook ... here are those non-gory photos I promised yesterday.

This is post-surgery. The doc said I had a bimalleolar fracture. And no ligament tearing as I was initially told. So that's good news!

Now going back to the ER, here's my ankle right before I went off to X-ray. I made Sharon take photos. It doesn't look so bad, does it? Just a tiny little bump. Whaaa ...? Not supposed to look like that? The X-ray tech wouldn't tell me what she saw in the X-rays, so I asked if ... there were more pieces and parts than were supposed to be there. She glanced furtively around the room and whispered, "there are more pieces." Oh.

And here's a close-up of the medial surface. Just a tiny scratch, eh? Still, the abrasion and swelling here impacted the procedure. If you want details, please post questions in the comment section below - or e-mail me.

Not this leg! The other one! Part of the pre-op package is a sterile pen to write on the body parts the surgeon is to leave alone. The nurse only marked my left ankle. I was thinking I should write a big "No" on my forehead. But I didn't.

My yellow-orange Oompa-Loompa leg post surgery. How the heck do you get that gunk off?? Ew. I so need a pedicure.

Word is I'll be released today for the long recovery at home. I learned how to use crutches yesterday and then got my own fancy set. Did you know crutches have lots of auxiliary uses, too? Oh yeah. But thanks to my new tools I can go to the bathroom all by myself. It's like I'm two all over again.

So many lovely visits and calls and messages yesterday! I am truly blessed to be so loved. Thank you, everyone!

I just had ice cream. Not my idea - my feisty 77-year-old roommate suggested it when the nurse was in here. I thought about it for about two seconds and said, "Sure! Why not?!" We both are all messed up on our sleep schedules. Do you think Lizz will bring me Chunky Monkey or Whirled Peace at  4:30 a.m.? When I was pregnant with her I used to get up in the middle of the night and eat nonfat yogurt with honey and granola. I don't think they had the ban on honey for expectant moms back then.

Hey, "Non-traditional uses for crutches" and "weird things pregnant ladies and/or patients do in the middle of the night" might be fun topics for Shiny Things. Hmmm.

Benched for the season

So the good news is that I'll have lots of time to reminisce with family over the next few weeks and populate Tuna on Wheatley with tons of great stories.

This one began on the second day of Christmas.

Toward the end of a beautiful walk with my neighbor's son's dog, I descended the steps of the court house and promptly did a fancy little dance on the ice that landed me flat on my well-padded backside. I heard a lovely snap-crackle-pop type sound and felt a painful twist. While I'd had twisted ankles before, this was kind of different from anything I'd experienced in my fracture-free 43+ years.

As I was lying there gazing at the sky, being thankful that I hadn't whacked my head and yelling for the dog, whose leash I'd let go, I noticed that my foot dangled at an especially odd angle above me. Not too sure why I held it over my head,  but I soon discovered that this was about the most comfortable position. Except for that dangling part.

Ruh roh.

Rummaged in my pocket and pulled out the cell phone - hooray for cell phones! Didn't think this was 911-worthy, but was pretty sure a visit to the ER was going to be necessary. So I called my sister - and while she was on her way to rescue me - the neighbor, who I figured was beginning to wonder where I was. I did not want her to come out, because keeping her from risking slipping on the ice was the whole point of my walking the dog (C is recovering from knee surgery).

While waiting for dear sister Sharon, who seems to always be rescuing me in some way or another, I dragged myself from the foot of the steps to the parking lot and a bench where I could pull myself up. I'd quickly discovered back there by the steps that I couldn't put any weight on my right foot. And I didn't want Sharon to walk across the slippery pavement.

While I was in the middle of my dragging, yelling for the dog, who'd gone off to Hoover up all the pet poop and other goodies in the vicinity, a woman in a nearby parking lot yelled over to me, asking if I was OK. I told her I'd slipped on the ice and my sister was coming to take me to the hospital. As she approached to help me, the dog came between us, which I think scared her a bit ... so she yelled "be right back!" and disappeared. Moments later, right after I'd pulled myself up on the bench, she reappeared with a man in blue in tow. Was surprised to see blue and not brown (I live nearest the sheriff's department, plus the court house, bail bondsmen, bars and a zillion churches). At almost the same moment, C-who-was-supposed-to-stay-safely-in-her-house  pulled up and leaned out the window dangling a bag of meat to help lure the dog back. And as we all yelled for the dog, Sharon pulled up.

While the police officer helped C with the dog, Homeless woman? Jesus in street clothes? Lots of speculation about the nameless woman. But whoever she was helped me to Sharon's car. The police officer then came over to assist with loading my functioning and non-functioning parts. And then he disappeared. How odd ... thought for sure he'd want to do a report with the incident on county property and all. Wouldn't you think? Though he'd asked what happened, he didn't even take our names.

Off to a surprisingly unbusy ER. Couldn't believe it - a slippery Saturday night in Saginaw. I looked pretty interesting on arrival. Leaning to the left (I'd discovered that if I supported my damaged ankle against the good one, it stabilized it just enough to minimize the sharp, shooting pains going up my leg.) My entire left side and backside were wet from the great snow scooch, making it look like I'd peed my pants, which I promptly announced to all that I had not. While they were checking me in, a nurse asked what was on my face. I reached up and felt the dried paint from the face painting part of my excursion with the small people earlier in the day. Yep, with the mismatched socks I'd hurriedly pulled on before taking the dog for her mid-day walk earlier the same day and my greasy handprint decorated wet pants, my whole ensemble was pretty priceless.

Here are the high points of the 24 hours that followed: X-rays, diagnosis of some sort of bimalleolar fracture (or similar), admission, ORIF (open reduction internal fixation) surgery ... and learning to successfully use a bedpan.


See all the fun ahead as I fill in the gaps and then continue the story the next few months? So much to look forward to! When I was told last night that I couldn't walk or drive for two months, I got into Scarlett O'Hara mode: We'll think about that tomorrow. Which I guess is today. 

Benched for the season. There go all those nice plans for daily walks, sledding, ice skating and more. But this story is already chock-full of to-be-continued potential, and especially God moments. Plus we have non-gory pictures to share, which Lizz is uploading .... so stay tuned!

Casa Al Dente

I'm probably mixing two languages there, with that headline.

When I was in college - the first time - at Michigan State University, I moved a lot. But the place I lived the longest was an old house I shared with several friends. It started with four of us and then grew to seven at one point, I think.

Anyway, it is this place where my family remembers visiting me.

I had read that a good way to tell if pasta is done was to stick it on the wall or the ceiling. If it sticks, it's al dente. The perfect tooth-fulness of done-ness.

College students practically live on pasta. It's cheap. Beyond the culinary implications, my housemates thought plastering kitchen surfaces with pasta was a perfect decorating technique. So we had all shapes and sizes of pasta hanging from the ceiling and stuck to the wall near the stove. The entire time I lived there.

The last time I was in East Lansing I drove down our old street to see if the house was still there. I was sort of amazed to see the ramshackle dwelling still standing and wondered if the post-1987 tenants continued the tradition we'd begun.

I apologize for the absence of an image on this post. I know I have photos of that old house ... but WHERE did I put them? I'll look again later ... gotta get ready for work now.

Bunches of Muffins

When I was a very small girl, my brother and sister had a dog named Sandy. I don't remember Sandy much, other than what I've seen of her in pictures. (Click here to see Sandy in my sister's arms.) Then when I was maybe 8 or 9, I was given my very own dog. Her name was Muffin.

I loved Muffin, but I quickly learned that owning a dog was hard work! Just managing all that input and output is a huge job. And I was in charge of both ends.

Muffin was 110% mutt. (Honesty time: The photo above is of my friend Brillo. Muffin was a bit more mutt-like and larger.) She was high-strung. Loved to runrunrunrunrun all around the house. And always peed on the floor when Dad got home. I think he expected Muffin to behave in a calm, civilized way that was counter to her nature, and that made her extra nervous.

Muffin was medium-sized and, I thought, perfectly suited for riding. She didn't mind playing dress-up. She was cuddly and snuggly and my best friend.

Other than peeing on the floor, and chewing up our shoes and escaping and making us chase her down the street a few times a day, she was a very good dog.

Some months after we got Muffin, we went to Virginia to visit family for a couple of weeks. For the life of me, I can't remember if it was at Christmas - or if it was a summer visit. But what I do remember is missing my dog the whole way home. I remember bursting into the house and yelling, "Muffin! Muffin! Did you miss me? Come out, girl!" I looked in all her hidey places. And then, someone - my dad? my mom? my sister? told me that Muffin had gone away. She'd been taken to a nice place in the country where she could run and play outside and have a wonderful time and we wouldn't have to worry about her being hit by a car. Oh, I was furious. F.U.R.I.O.U.S. I felt betrayed. And incredibly alone.

Perhaps a month or so later, we got the news that Muffin had been hit by a bus on a country road.

So that was Muffin no. 1. My first pet and only dog. A series of hamsters and guinea pigs followed over the next several years - bunches of Muffins.

Stitches in Time

When I was about three, I woke up one drizzly spring morning and decided I needed to wear a cape. And test my super powers. I cannot tell you why a three-year-old dressed in a polka-dotty dress and a calico cape was able to walk out of the house (and around the corner) without adult supervision. Perhaps mom was painting? The point is, I did. (I don't have a fat lip in this photo, so I think it was the Christmas before the events in this story took place.)

I have this surreal misty memory of opening the back door and stepping out into the cool drizzle. And skipping around the corner to my friend Kristine's house. Where we proceeded to jump off her porch into the bushes, testing out our capes. I think hers was a blue towel.

On one of my flying leaps I apparently slipped. And somehow caught my lip on a big nail somewhere. Ohhhh ... it was nasty. And loud. Kristine was screaming bloody murder. I probably was, too. I remember her mom running out of the house with a towel over her shoulder (she'd been washing the dishes). She took one look at me,  clamped the towel over my bleeding lip and ran around the corner with me in her arms to my mother. We only had one car, which my dad had taken to work. So another neighbor had to drive us to the hospital so I could get stitches.

This is where the memory gets a bit fuzzy. I remember the numbing stuff they put on my lip was very very bitter. I remember freaking out that the doctor was going to use what looked like a GIANT CURVED KNITTING NEEDLE to sew my lip back into place. And it was going to hurt and I thought maybe I would be just fine as is. I think my sister was on duty at the hospital that day and somehow found us in the ER. I also vaguely remember my brother being in a car accident and being wheeled in on a gurney right next to me. And my sister had to run frantically back and forth, tending to the two of us. But that might be mixed up with another memory. Perhaps they can help me sort that out? I was very young, after all.

My mom had - and a dear aunt has - stitches in the same spot - scars on the same side of our mouths. Connecting us like stitches in time.

Hooked on Bonnets

When I was in second grade - at least I think it was second grade - our teacher read us Little House in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I was instantly hooked. I wanted to be Laura Ingalls.

My mom, who always nurtured my imagination, created for me two very authentic calico dresses with matching sunbonnets so that I could dress like Laura. My sister bought me 100-year old lace-up boots that had been re-soled. This was not just for dress-up time. This was my wardrobe. If Laura had just two dresses, I could be fine with that, too.

If you can imagine, I was an odd child. So I had no qualms trotting off to school dressed like a young girl from the prairie in the 1800s. For Christmas one year my amazingly gifted mother created a life-size Laura doll for me. Seriously - she was exactly my size. Here she is - a bit bedraggled today - but isn't she cool?

Look at her little booties with the vintage leather and buttons! Look at her little bloomers and heavy leggings (I'm sorry, Laura, had to hike up the dress a little to show your fans). The elastic is shot ... actually, poor Laura needs an overhaul. Sadly, I did not inherit my mother's sewing talent. Or her sticky tuna fishes or whatever Cathy said today. When I had to sew the patches on Lizz's Girl Scout sash the night before her fly-up ceremony? I used staples.

Poor Laura spent a few years in a plastic tote, but she's out now, stirring up memories. Laura was the little sister I wanted. My companion. My confidante. I even took her to school for a while and my teacher let her have a desk near me!

Oh - I have to find those photos from the Sesquicentennial when our whole family won Best Dressed Family or something like that. I found those not too long ago when cleaning out my dad's house. Now where did I put them ...?

Out from under the rock

Since this is the family story blog, I've been searching the archives for memories. Then I came across the About Me thing I did on Facebook ... thought that might be a good start. What I really need are all those good juicy stories about my mom and other family members out there ... hello, fambly: Are you listening?


Let's see ... how do all good stories begin?


Once upon a time, a small girl child was found under a rock in a city called Saginaw. Her first 5 years were filled with magic and wonder (and a few visits from firemen and trips to the E.R.). She had three imaginary friends to keep her company during the day, but they went away when she started school. 


The little girl's first glimpse of real life was at the age of almost 11 when her mother died. In the decades that followed, she was surrounded by the love of her family, made many friends and learned many good things - hitting a few rocky patches along the way. Went to college, studied life, changed her major about a dozen times, brought a beautiful baby girl into the world, held 27 jobs ranging from bartender to lab assistant to art studio manager and truck driver to copywriter. Finally went to Europe and bought a house (in the U.S., not Europe) at the age of 39. Also began the reverse aging process.


Story to be continued ...


P.S. My mom and dad always said they found me under a rock when I asked where I came from. Thought that was kind of gross --- under there with all the slugs and slimy things. But sort of cool at the same time. Where did your parents find YOU?

Going Crackers

I have no reason for inserting this photo except that I just found it. It's a little figure in my backyard - used to be the base of a birdbath - that I discovered the first spring in our house when I was tidying up our secluded, tangled Secret Garden-esque retreat. There's another little cherub that was tipped over with just its little hand poking out of the ivy. Kinda freaky.

Anyway, I pulled out my "raw material" notes from my sister's ramblings earlier this year. Here are her recollections of the Cuban Missile Crisis.

We were at the Buckingham Apartments in Arlington during the Cuban crisis. One day, mom came home quite agitated. It wasn’t a payday but she said we needed to go to the drugstore.

We bought a transistor radio and batteries.

Then, we had a treat - a grilled cheese and soda at the counter. That was the kind of treat we usually only got on payday.

Soon after, big military trucks came to our apartment building. Our building had been designated as one of the shelters. The trucks brought food and water for our complex - cases of crackers and barrels of water.

The storage area was fenced in with chicken wire and had a door and a lock. Mom was trying to explain that we were going to war. I always associated this with the turquoise transistor radio.

Well, those crackers stayed there forever and it eventually attracted mice and rats.

In 2000 when people were freaking out about Y2K I thought about those boxes of crackers from when I was a little girl. So what'd I do? I bought crackers every time I went to the store. I had at least 10 boxes at one point. Then they got stale so I fed them to the birds.

Photo Evidence

Gosh, it's been more than six months since I've posted here. Kind of disturbing that the most recent post has that lovely photo of me in labor almost 20 years ago, below.

Since this is the place for me to tell the family stories, I'm moving the update on the upstairs bathroom/bedroom painting project on over here. Get caught up here first, and then come back and see the pretty photos. And to learn more about my fine home repair skills, read this story.

All caught up now?

Now, you may enjoy the "after" photos. I seem to have no control over where they show up on the page. Sigh.

Eric Schantz is the artist who painted the giant irises here. He's been in the news a fair amount for his public paintings around Saginaw - painting boarded up buildings, Arson Watch signs, murals and more. Just Google his name with any of those key words. I just told him I wanted to eradicate the ugly wallpaper here - and to paint some flowers. I came home from work one day to find floor-to-ceiling irises. It's even more impressive in person.

Here's Eric's bathroom ceiling/wall masterpiece. See? You can't even tell were the giant crater was. The blue on the ceiling is the blue I used on the door. I shouldn't just say it's "blue." It had some really fun name, like Serendipity. In fact, the paint names were key selection criteria.

I replaced the old yellowed plastic switch covers with porcelain ones. It's the details ...

I have no idea what happened to the lighting here. The golden glow is lovely, isn't it? That's the original sink. The cabinet and little shelf were probably installed in the 70s when the last owner bought this house. There's a lot of evidence that they did a ton of work then - like new wiring, refinishing the woodwork downstairs, installing new windows upstairs, painting trim throughout the house SAGE GREEN ...

Current status of project:

Still need to put a doorknob on the little cabinet below the sink. This requires me going ALL THE WAY to the basement to get the drill. Or something. (Didn't John B. do a fabulous job on the little cabinet? If you need a carpenter, I highly recommend him. That man is a master craftsman - and does amazing technical drawings, which is how I first met him through my job. While he was helping me with various projects around the house I learned that he grew up in my neighborhood AND was one of my dad's students. I'm sure there's a story there ... in any event, dad would be so proud.)

Need help hanging the light fixtures I purchased. Yes, Virginia, I had all summer to do this. Lizz knew better than to point it out more than 27 times. They look fine in their boxes, I think. The time will come ... Oh, I might want to have someone help me re-hang the door. It won't shut all the way. (Refer to fine home repair skills and bathroom doors above.) I painted the door blue, by the way.

I think I need to hang the other porcelain towel hook somewhere.

There are a few other miscellaneous to-do's that aren't really worth mentioning. We'll just sweep them under the rug ... oh wait, a rug would be a nice touch, wouldn't it? I saw the cutest Pottery Barn monkey rug the other day that has just the right colors. There's a simple geometric design with a stylized happy monkey face in one corner ... not Curious George or anything like that.

Always looking for family stories to share here ... I picked Sharon's brain earlier this year and have to revisit those notes. It might be time to bring out her memories of the Cuban Missile Crisis.

My Favorite Gift

I always get a little weepy and nostalgic on March 16. At 7 p.m. or so, I'll remember the night I bent over my giant pregnant belly to tie my tennies before going for a walk. Then feeling like I just peed my pants. I remember thinking to myself: "Oh great. Just lost bladder control. Swell." And then: "Oh! This is it!" Because 19 years ago on this night I went into labor. And early on the morning of the 17th brought a beautiful baby girl into the world.

Last night I was e-chatting with a friend and mentioned that my daughter's birthday was on St. Patrick's Day and she told me I should buy myself a gift. Her thinking was I should get a gift in celebration of my anniversary of being a mom. I like this friend.

Oh - note the time in the picture above. I found this picture tonight around 10:40. Freaky, huh? Of course, it got me rummaging around in the photo box, so was not able to post this post immediately, but that would've been cool. I was in full-blown labor at that time 19 years ago. And do you think I can find any photos of the sweet little baby? Not tonight. But I'll keep looking. I think the really cute ones were pulled out for the graduation party display and I'm not sure where they are now.

So back to the gift thing. I went to a kitchen gadget-type party earlier this evening at another friend's house, and with the economy and all really had no business buying anything, yet figured I'd been given permission to give myself a little gift! I bought darling little prep bowls so I can pretend I'm famous and my sous-chefs chopped and pre-measured my herbs and veggies for me. And I bought pink Himalayan sea salt.

As much fun as that was, my favorite gift of all time is the one I've given to the world. I'm unabashedly proud of her, and am looking forward to spending the evening with her tomorrow in Ann Arbor.

The Big Boo-Boo

A couple of us have been joking at work about being butterflies ... alighting ever so gently on the surface of projects rather than digging in and questioning as we typically do. Of course, you do know about the potential impact of a butterfly flapping its wings.

Thinking of butterflies made me remember the butterfly costume mom made for me one year. I keep hoping I'll find it because it was really really nice.

Our Girl Scout troop always had a contest at Halloween for the best costume. One year, mom had this great idea. She would make me a butterfly and she would be the cocoon and I would fly out and make an entrance at the party.

Oh, my costume was fantastic – wings of lavender silk left from the mother-of-the-bride dress mom wore for Sharon's wedding, probably. She painted on colorful spots and I think there may have been a bit of glimmer and glitter. I wore a black leotard and tights, slipped my arms into the straps on the back of the fancy wings, then donned fancy deely-bopper antennae. Smashing.

But the cocoon just wasn’t turning out the way mom envisioned. She made an armature out of chicken wire and tried various approaches with brown netting. Finally, frustrated, she said “I’m just going to be the big boo-boo.” So she made a nifty sign saying just that and hung it around her neck.

I won the prize for the best costume and mom won the booby prize.

Leaping Lee's Landing

It's now been over a year since I said goodbye to my dad. After several intense months of doctor visits, ER trips and hospitalizations, moves from his home of 38 years to assisted living to "rehab" to a memory care facility ... and then his unexpected death and all of the accompanying plans, tasks, memories and emotions, I jumped back into a life that hadn't had the courtesy to slow down and wait for me to catch my breath. I suppose that's a good thing in many ways - a reminder that life doesn't end with a death.

So in the year that I've had to brew and stew, I've reflected often on the many little bright spots and even humor our family found during what was a really tough time but also an opportunity for joy, celebration and great healing.

On the morning of Dad's funeral, I was enjoying a pleasant conversation and cup of java in the kitchen with Uncle Lee, his brother. I remember thinking how lovely it was to be surrounded by Martins in the Martin House. Especially on this day. I've always adored Uncle Lee and I'd always thought the two siblings were polar opposites. But I was beginning to believe the bond and the similarities they shared were much greater than any of us suspected.

Leaning to look out the kitchen window but not noticing the hidden first step down to the back door and basement (who designed this place?!?), Uncle Lee lost his footing and tumbled down the five stairs to the landing. For about a nanosecond, I stared in horror at the little pile of uncle crumpled there. He'd had a knee replacement a few years back and a hip replacement after a motorcycle accident in France when he was a teenager (many decades ago). And due to a heart condition, he was taking blood thinners. All-around, not a good combination for falling down stairs.

So after a brief freak-out in my head, I yelled for help, we got him off the floor and I remember Sarah shouting "Nancy broke Uncle Lee!" (I think to nurse Betsy in Texas, whom we quickly consulted). Once we determined he could walk and nothing seemed to be broken, there was a collective sigh of relief and we resumed getting ready to go to church for the service. Swelling and internal bleeding were our big concerns, so anti-inflammatories were pushed and he sat on bags of frozen peas and edamame at opportune times throughout the day.

My sister and brother and E and I were all overwhelmed at the outpouring of love from friends and family who came to pay their respects and who surrounded us with their love and care in the weeks prior to and the months following Dad's death. At the funeral, I shared aloud a reflection that I think surprised many people. And I'll never forget the priceless looks on their faces when the Hallelujah Chorus played (Dad would have been so pleased - he requested it).

The day after the funeral, Nicholas and Brandon ripped out the old subfloor under Lee's Landing (not related to the fall - the floor had rotted in places and needed repair even when I bought the house). I was so touched that my nephews would do that for me. And it adds to the specialness of that little 3x3 piece of floor.

One evening during the funeral weekend, E tucked Ashton into bed and then climbed in with him to share Great Grandpa memories, and so Ashton could ask E great theological questions. Like how Great Grandpa fit in that little box he'd built that now held his ashes. (And how he could be there AND up in heaven at the same time.) The wise 3-1/2 year old didn't seem to question the truth of these things, he just wanted an explanation.

Fast forward about six months, I finally finished the new floor of Lee's Landing, and had a sturdy gate and railing installed to facilitate getting up and down the kitchen stairs ... and to help reduce the potential for loved ones young and old leaping unintentionally like Uncle Lee.

Figuring it was an occasion for a party, I held a viewing for the local family members and we christened Lee's Leap and Lee's Landing with cocktails and juice boxes. Molly and Sammy put the gate to the test by standing on and shaking it wildly with their feet wedged between the rungs, while they threw stuff down the stairs.

As I sit here sipping my coffee, I think of all that surrounded the naming of Lee's Landing, the months leading up to Leap Day and all the years before that. I miss my dad more than I'd ever thought I could (especially when I was a teenager and was certain I really didn't need him at all), but I'm preparing myself to leap to the next thing life has in store ... with a few more detours here and there to reflect on all that has helped me land where I am today.

Testing Gravity

One of my favorite Yogi Berra maxims is, "if you come to a fork in the road, take it." I'm a firm believer in taking every fork in the road I can find - especially on vacation. And when there's a law of physics to be tested ... by golly, I'm up for the challenge.

On a trip home from Virginia a few years ago, E and I decided we needed to check out Gravity Hill - one of those tourist attractions you see advertised in the service plazas along the Pennsylvania Turnpike and on road signs. We thought it might possibly rank up there with the Giant Ball of Twine and Man-Eating Clam, but were intrigued nonetheless. Anything to delay our return to the real world.

At one of our stops, we picked up the funky retro brochure, which was one of the most complete - and entertaining - guides to an attraction I've ever seen. Cleverly written and chock-full of helpful hints (including etiquette and safety hints for the Hill and activities to do once you arrive), this was a darned effective bit of literature. The best part is, the experience was even better than the hype.

True to the detailed directions, New Paris (another part of the appeal) is waaaayyy off the beaten path. But what gorgeous, verdant rolling hills - God's country.

When we arrived, we took turns lying down in the road, following all safety precautions, natch. We poured water on the pavement and watched it flow uphill. The car did, too. Really! We followed the directions and went on to find the unmarked gravity hill up the road. Amazing. You have to experience this place to believe it. Or maybe you have to believe it first to experience it. Either way, it's sort of like faith.

This was so much better than the overpriced, disappointing detour to Hershey a few years earlier. With that excursion, we were promised - and fully expected - the aroma of chocolate would greet us as soon as we drove into town. Ha. We hung our heads out the windows in anticipation - only to be smacked in the nostrils by a fragrance we named Eau de petrol et manure. And there's no Charlie and the Chocolate Factory-like tour with chocolate waterfalls. (Too many concerns about terrorists - who knew our chocolate supply was at risk?) We'll never forget being herded (in our unsatisfying and ultimately sobering tour) past the "where cacao comes from" displays. As I recall, the best part of that trip was seeing what I thought looked like marshmallow fields - giant tarp-covered mounds of hay along the highway - all ready to be harvested.

Oooh, that reminds me: We should try rolling marshmallows on our next visit to Gravity Hill.

Sharing Memories

Today is the one-year anniversary of Dad/Grandpa's death. Here are more posts about her grandpa from E's blog.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

My grandpa passed away last Monday. The funeral preparations have been made and done with. Family has arrived and gone. Countless food dishes have come and been eaten. Sympathy cards have piled in. Our answering machine has been full. I feel surrounded by love and support; I really do, and it has been an utterly amazing blessing.

I know he is at peace, but to be honest, I'm still struggling with his death, and think I will be for a while. He was such a large part of our lives, of my life, especially over these past months, and this is the longest I've ever gone without seeing him, talking to him, or writing to him.

I miss his presence. I miss his voice. I miss the twinkle in his eye when he winked. My grandpa was a teacher--by profession as a woodshop teacher, but foremost as one who was always learning and wanted to spread it to everyone around him. Every new thing he learned was something everyone got to hear at least twice. His causes--collecting pop can tabs for the local chapter of American legion, St. Jude's Children's Hospital, Saginaw Valley State University--were dear to his heart and always on the tip of his tongue. His passions for history and other cultures spread too. He got a black belt at age 66. He took physical fitness and computer classes at the local university. His daily question for me was, "What did you learn today?" It didn't matter whether it was a school day or not.

My grandpa was one of the first who taught me to question. I remember once when I asked him why the "p" in raspberry was silent. After looking it up, he decided it wasn't silent after all--we'd all been wrong! He had me tell everyone I knew, and he spread the word too. Eventually, of course, our supposition was proved false, but I will always remember what it felt like one of the first times I felt like I had been part of making a discovery that no one else had made.He was stubborn, but so am I (and at least I know I have a legitimate source for it!) He swore, yelled, lashed out, but taught me patience. I think I will always know that I learned how to nurture from him first.

I'm sure there's more to come..."You are Mine" played with Grandpa's pictures during visitation ... with the pictures of me as a child smiling and laughing with Grandpa. For someone so active before the rapid onset of dementia, these words seem so fitting, "I will call your name/embracing all your pain/stand up, now walk, and live!"

All cliche aside, God has called Harry E. Martin, Jr. back to life.



Aug. 12 2007
Simple Things
My mom and I spent tonight with Sammy & Ashton. It's so much fun to be with them and watch them grow. Ashton baked us pancakes with bugs, or at least started to but got distracted in taking all of "my toys" away. "You can't play with toys before dinner, Zizzie." Oh, that's right, I forgot. *sigh*


Tomorrow we're going to go over and spend some good time with Grandpa. He has, for the most part, been much more peaceful over the past few weeks. I think some of it is resignation. I think some of it is just mellowing out? I think a big part of it is that we've spent more time with him. We've been taking him out for dinner a few times a week or sitting around with him while he eats his at home. Everytime we go anywhere it's the "best he's ever had." (It's great to hear him talk like that.)


I talk to him at least three times a day. The first call is usually to see if he's taken his pills for the day, the other two or three or four usually because he forgets we've already talked. But sometimes it's nice to talk, and it's nice to hear that he's happy. As of the last doctor's visit, the doctor still didn't have a firm diagnosis. The only firm thing is that he can't drive although we're hoping to make that more official through Secretary of State. He's on two pills right now. One is for his thyroid and the other Aricept, is used for Alzheimers patients. We know he has some type of dementia, but sometimes it would be nice to have a firmer diagnosis. It seems like things would have a clearer path then, but I guess there really never is a clearer path with this. The family goes through a parallel struggle with the family member--a struggle to accept the person as they are now, not before, to be patient, to care even the twentieth time a story is told, to provide the absolute best that can be given.


We pray and we wait. We pray and we wait and we love.

Sunday, August 19, 2007
We got home from church today to find my grandpa's pajama pants and bathrobe on a chair by the stairs to my room and him curled up in my mom's bed sound asleep.


He's home now, at least for a day or two.

Monday, August 20, 2007

My grandpa's tucking in at our house tonight in preparation for a 5-6 hour session at Covenant tomorrow and the next few days also. The procedure is meant to measure fluid levels in his brain, which if at a certain level may be adding to his memory loss. If they do detect raised levels, a surgery can put in a stent that will keep them closer to desired levels. I'm hoping it goes well. It's just another step along the way I suppose. We're doing our best to keep him at comfort though.

Aug. 26, 2007
My grandpa has completely shut down this past week. He won't do anything unless someone does it for him, and he's been so resistant and bitter. He's a new man everytime I see him, mostly sleeping away the day to avoid his own head. I don't always know what to say or do. Sometimes I wish I could just hold him in my arms and hug him to somehow make it all go away.

Remove the Sage to Reveal All the Pine

(Sing to the tune of Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme)

I bought a 101-year-old house a few years ago. The old oak woodwork in the front of the house is beautiful, but almost every bit of wood trim - and the doors - in the rest of the house is covered with sage green paint. I think the previous owners got a deal in the '70s. So the summer after we moved in, I was determined to strip all that green away, down to the Southern Yellow Pine. I began with the downstairs bathroom door. (And to be perfectly clear: We ripped out the lovely green carpeting shown in the photos above before we moved in.)

E figured I spent at least 20 hours refinishing that door. Removing all the hardware (but leaving in the lock mechanism) was one of the most time-consuming parts of the job, but I wanted to clean off decades of gunk. As I so often do, I procrastinated finishing the job and rehanging the door until it was absolutely necessary. I tried convincing E that we could tell the Japanese student who was soon to arrive and spend the school year with us that in America we don't have bathroom doors. Since our future guest had been in Seattle a few weeks and was pretty savvy in general, we decided that wouldn't work.

So before E was to be picked up for a babysitting job, we set about the rehanging project. To save time, I didn't put the doorknob back in. I figured I could do that after the door was in place. E helped balance the heavy door while I aligned the hinges and dropped in the pins. The door shut neatly, and just as we were giving each other high-fives, we realized our boo-boo and screamed, "Noooooooo!" Armed with a screw driver and ball-peen hammer, we tried to nudge the pins back out. I poked and prodded the lock mechanism to no avail. The only opening to the outside world was the 3-inch hole for the doorknob and the tiny little vent in the shower.

Our only hope for rescue was the babysitting gig. We'd left the back door unlocked, so figured my sister would come let us out when E didn't respond to her honking the horn in the driveway. Only moments after we had comforted one another with that thought, the phone rang. Plans changed: no need for a sitter.

Ruh roh.

It was a steamy 98 degree day, and that windowless room was beyond tropical, so we stretched out on the floor to allow our melting brains to think.

After more than an hour, I realized our only viable escape plan was for me to knock out the thin, lower panel on the door. With the ball-peen hammer. We crawled out and I ran to get the doorknob assembly, which I promptly reinstalled and then opened the door properly. Since the door panel broke out in long pieces, I was able to fit it all back together later like a puzzle. In retrospect, I wish I'd thought to put a towel over the hammer to reduce the number of ding marks on the door. And I should have used glue, since the "puzzle" fell apart once in the winter when the wood had dried out. Our exchange student helped me glue it back together. (By that time, she'd heard the story plus experienced a few of her own so the little craft project didn't phase her in the least.)

Removing the (rest of) the sage to reveal all the pine is taking a little longer than I'd hoped.

Where Love Stares Us in the Face and Begs a Response

I asked the Amazing E if I could post some of her entries on grandpa/dad from her blog. It's interesting to see how her entries fill in the gaps in my own memory.

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

We spent the evening over at my grandpa's house again. Sometimes even the better part of me wonders what we're doing over there as we've been spending more and more time over there to keep things going. We tidy things up and he gets upset. We tidy things up and he forgets and puts things back where they were in the first place. Paid bills get reopened. Clean clothes are a non-issue to him.

He often brings up the past as in to shove it in others' faces. Even simple misunderstandings make him lash out. He's stinky, irritable, revengeful, forgetful, confused, stuck in the past, and difficult most of the time. So why? He's a part of the family - yes. Someone has to look out for him - yes. We care about him -yes. But why?

Maybe because this is what love really is. Because really when we think about love we think about the sacrificial parent pacing the floor late at night, rocking a baby on half the necessary sleep, nurturing a child. On the way we think a dedicated family at a grandparent's hospital bed side with the grandma/grandpa softly speaking words of love and encouragement.

We think about the success stories. About teachers transforming classrooms. About 75-year anniversaries. About 1 Corinthians 13--a love never impatient, unkind, jealous, boastful, proud, ill-mannered, selfish, irritable, revengeful, dishonest. And yes,of course this is love. This is love in abundance. But what is love the rest of the time when it's not quite saintly enough for us to take notice? Where do those stinky and easily resisted pleas for attention and care reside in our lives?

I think sometimes we, or at least I, get too busy to stop and wait. We like helping people, but we're helping them in the rush to get to the next thing, even when that next thing is often helping someone else. We don't think we'd ever follow a request to help an elderly citizen across the road by rushing them through traffic so fast that they collapse on approaching the curb and then rush on to hand a few dollars to a bewildered man standing outside the gas station asking for money and then run back to the car to rush home to make dinner. Of course not. But love is not neat, and love takes a lot of time. With my grandpa, much of the irritation comes in thinking people are in too much of a rush to take notice, much of the hurt, past and present, and thus the hurt he passes on are an effort at healing from feeling left out of the loop too long.

He's forgetful,and we rarely take the time to remind him. He doesn't change or clean because there isn't always someone coming, or somewhere to go, and he doesn't want to bother taking the time for just himself. Once in a while I realize what I'm missing with him. Tonight we brought dinner--McDonalds, no less,but sustenance all the same. I finished my food, opened up the newspaper to read bits to him until it ran dry, and then I just sat. For once, I didn't rush him through his story or make sure he kept eating. I stopped myself from moving to the next thing. I stopped myself from running, and I listened for over an hour as he talked about growing up and his family and a pet horse named Esquire and kids at school. I listened as he forgot his story and started from the beginning, and I smiled and asked questions anyway. He forgot he had food in front of him, got up and left, came back was surprised at the food, started his story again,and I listened anyway.

I moved him to the kitchen and started to clean off the table so we could begin on transferring his scrapbook to new pages when I get back from North Carolina. I found layer upon layer of lottery tickets and intricate prediction charts and decades of brochures but underneath,there were older planner pages where his patient lettering taught mine, calendar pages he made out for me to cross off the days until holidays and summer vacations, menus I had made him for breakfast and lunch on those vacation days--And somehow, tonight was one of those nights when I really saw him. This is a man who has shown his family a lot of hurt,and they, for the most part, have tried to look past it to help the man he is now but with a slanted glance and a bit of a rush to get by with the help without any extra hurt.

I'm certainly younger. I've received a much lighter load.I've fought a less uphill fight. I've known the hard man, but I've also known the soft. But I still bear a good deal of the rush, and I need to make a greater effort to try. He needs attention. He needs love. He needs to feel worthwhile. I need to give him that chance.

Memories of Dad

We're nearing the one-year anniversary of Dad's death, February 18, so he's been in my thoughts lately. Here's the reflection I shared at his funeral almost one year ago.

I’m the youngest – or as Dad called me most often – “his little girl.” Jay was “my son, of whom I’m so proud” and Sharon … “the little mother” (or, most recently, “big mama”). You’ll have to ask her about that later.

I think my earliest memory of Dad was running to the door when he came home from work when I was a little girl. Some of you may be surprised to know I wasn’t always a charming, innocent, well-behaved little girl. And Mom frequently had to use the phrase “just you wait until your father gets home” because Dad was the disciplinarian. So I’m not sure how often I ran to the door … I just remember that I did. He reminded me of that many times when I was a teenager and we didn’t always see eye to eye.

I remember when Dad planed wood and made “curlies” – I loved those shavings. I put them in my hair and pretended I had blond curls. I also loved that smell of fresh sawdust and wood shavings. That and Aqua Velva make up the “Dad” smell I’ll remember.

I remember:

• Learning to swim in the bathtub – bathing suit, snorkel, flippers and all
• Dad as the sea monster at Green Lake with his creepy Darth Vader mask and snorkel
• After our mom died 31 years ago, he was “Dr. Daddy” when I was sick. Much later, when I was at MSU and had my wisdom teeth out, he came down to Lansing, took me for the extraction and stayed with me afterward and brought me milkshakes. I know my daughter, Lizz, has lots of “Dr. Grandpa” memories. Most recently, when Dad/Grandpa was at Shattuck Manor (last fall), Lizz had a headache when we went to visit one day. He had her lie down on his sofa with a cool washcloth on her head. He was so happy to help her feel better and even remarked on that later.
• When I finally bought a house at age 39, Dad was so happy to be able to “help” me and share his vast knowledge of home repair. Oh boy. We can tell stories about pulling up tack strips and “fixing” toilet seats.

Since Dad was a teacher, I think he’d want to know that I learned some things from him. He never stopped being a teacher.

I learned the importance of:

• Asking questions – at work, I’m still known as “the questionator.” When I was little, I asked him what the greatest number was. Also, I always had to visually show him how much I loved him, sort of like “the fish is this big” with my hands so far apart. When he told me the biggest number was infinity I opened my arms … and connected my hands at the back to show him “I love you infinity.”
• Education
• Naps
• A good book
• Laughter
• Prayer
• Being honest about your feelings
• Staying young at heart
• Patience
• Slowing down
• Paying attention to the details
• Forgiveness

(By the way, I have not mastered all of these things, but I have learned of their importance.)

I also learned:

• How frost forms – apparently, I left our big basement chest freezer open one too many times as a kid and it got kind of frosty. So one day, he dropped me off at Hoyt Library for a few hours to research how frost formed. I had to write a paper, with references. I was always much more careful after that.
• I learned the importance of finding just the right word
• And that there’s no such thing as “good enough”

I learned the importance of:

• Sharing memories so others can help you when you can’t remember anymore
• Spending time with someone even if they’re grouchy, a little annoying and maybe a little smelly
• Not wasting food
• Forming relationships
• Counting your blessings
• Making time for what’s important … Dad never said “I don’t have time” – he might have said “that’s not a priority” but he said you always make time for the important things
  
  These last months have been a whirlwind. We always thought Dad would out-live all of us because he was so healthy, so into physical fitness. When Dad was at Transitional Care in December, he got very emotional one day when we were visiting and wanted Sharon and me to tell his kids, grandkids, nieces and nephews how very, very proud he was of all of them and how much he loved them. Sharon and I just told him: tell them yourself!
  
  I’m sad to see you leave us so soon, Dad, but I hope you’re having fun with Mom, Grams, Gramps, Paul Lance, Great Great Grandmother Julia and other loved ones who have left us. And while “God bereft us” for a little while, you will be remembered and will continue to be part of our lives.
  
  Dad, I love you infinity.
  
  Postscript: Dad left a list of the hymns he wanted played at his funeral. We were able to find a spot for almost every one, including the Hallelujah Chorus and Christ the Lord is Risen Today. Not only was the funeral during Lent, but those just aren't tunes one often hears at funerals! I'm sure Dad had a chuckle at the turned heads and shocked looks on people's faces.

Every Buddy Needs a Burner

Sharon was rattling off old stories the other day. For over an hour. I think it was therapeutic for both of us. Most of the events in the stories happened way before I was born (I'm the baby after all). So hearing them helps connect me to my brother and sister - and to the mother who left us all far too soon.

So, as Sharon recalled ...

When I was in Girl Scouts, I learned to make a Buddy Burner. Oh, it was just the coolest thing! You take a large coffee can, flip it upside down and cut a trap door. Then you insert a tuna can.

(Can you picture this?)

Next, you make a cardboard wick for the tuna can and pour in paraffin. This becomes the heat source.

So you can fry an egg or hamburger or whatever on the top (which used to be the bottom) surface of the coffee can.

I just loved it. I made a hamburger on it and was looking forward to making something else during spring break.

Did I tell you how cool this thing was?

That year, our spring break was really rainy. It just rained and rained for days. There were worms everywhere and they just smelled horrible. Well, you won't believe this. One day, I caught Jay and a friend frying worms on my Buddy Burner.

Ugh. Bleaggh. It was so gross. I'm not sure what they did with the worms, but that just wrecked the Buddy Burner for me.

The Family Sea

I'm a firm believer that bath time should be fun. And educational. I was just reminded of this while talking with my niece whose voice was nearly drowned out by the gleeful giggles and splashes of her two boys in the background.

What can you learn in the tub? Oh, lessons about cause and effect. Properties of (wet) matter. And maybe other things that matter - like family and how we're all connected.

My sister just reminded me of the Family Sea at Mama Darkey's house. The Family Sea provided great entertainment for us kids. It helped us all to know our place in the world. Our mom was the oldest (and fanciest) of Mama and Papa Darkey's "school" of colorful contact paper fishies. On our side of the sea, a daddy fish (probably wearing a toolbelt) swam alongside her, and then behind both of them were the big sister and brother fish, with the littlest (me) swimming among the bubbles.

Each of our aunts and uncles had their own color-matching schools of fish, but everyone swam together, basically in the same direction, fanning out across the wall and around the room.

It started with great-grandmother Lellah (Mom Mom) and great-grandfather Prentiss (Paw Paw). As long as I can remember, the Mom Mom and Paw Paw fish wore halos. And as time went on, halos were added to a few others. Mama Darkey's house in Virginia was sold to developers and demolished to make way for Lellah Court around 2003, but the Family Sea lives on in our memories.

I think every kid today has to do a geneology project in elementary school. This strikes fear in parents' hearts. So many of my generation were not raised with a solid awareness of our ancestors. We may live far away from grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins.

I'm wondering where I can start a new Family Sea. There has to be a perfect wall waiting somewhere ...

The Seat of Learning

We've been cleaning out our dad's house. It's painstaking work - plus every dust particle disturbed dislodges a fragment of memory.

When we first began to tackle the garage, our efforts seemed futile. After weeks of hauling out recyclables, barrels of kindling, piles of firewood and stacks of good lumber, rusty folding chairs, old garden hoses, newspapers, bags of dirt, boxes of sawdust and abandoned woodshop projects, it looked like we'd barely made a dent. Behind sheets of OSB and plywood, we found pieces of our old kitchen cupboards leaned neatly against the walls. I looked up into the rafters and there were the countertops with the daisies painted over the cigarette burns (our mom's special touch). The wooden ceiling panels from my sister's old bedroom were sandwiched in there. Crates full of empty bottles never returned to The Pop Shop. Pieces of foam insulation. And there, in the corner, was the telephone desk.

Covered in sawdust and cobwebs and a little scraped and battered, but nothing a good sanding and coat or two of paint couldn't fix.

My brother and I just stood there staring at it. Couldn't quite believe it was under all that.

When I was growing up, our house was in a constant state of remodeling. I don't have any significant memories of the little white desk whose seat folded neatly into itself. At one time, it sat in a corner of our kitchen, holding the telephone and piles of phonebooks. I always thought it was kind of cool, but it didn't really fit with the Danish-modern design plans for our 1920s bungalow. So when I was in college and getting ready to move to a house off campus with friends, dad gave me permission to take the desk to East Lansing. I knew it had been mom's, so that made it a little bit special. It went with me to a few other apartments - even to Buffalo. Somewhere along the line, it apparently found its way home.

J chuckled. He remembered the desk in its youth. But seeing it on this day evoked a specific memory: of our pretty young mother chatting gaily on the phone while perched at the desk in the hallway of their apartment one afternoon. With its shiny white enamel, smart, space-saving design and slender legs, the telephone desk suited our chic mama perfectly.

On this particular day, J had just learned about a fantastic pool with underwater lights that allowed the swimmers to see where they were going. "What a brilliant idea!" he said to himself.

The boy who stuffed beans and pennies up his nose had a plan.

So while mom chatted and giggled, and doodled on her notepad on the little desktop, J began to run water in the deep, claw-footed tub. Next, he trotted down the hall in his birthday suit, wearing swim goggles and gripping a desk lamp. He figured it took mom only about a nanosecond after he left her line of sight to catch on to his plan.

Then she caught him just as he was hoisting a leg over the tub ... and right after he'd plugged in the lamp.

"Man, that was the worst spanking I ever got," he said. "I gotta have this desk."

I had to agree. Oh, and I'm pretty sure this is where the phrase "naked as a jaybird" originated.

Tuna on Wheatley

My sister tells the Tuna on Wheatley story the best. After all, she was there. If I can get a video of her telling it with the hand motions, I'll post it later.

There have been times in my life that I've been accused of being a little hotheaded. If that's true, I guess I can say I come by it honestly.

Well, here goes - the first in one of our family's many stories - told in no particular order. Imagine this one in my sister's voice.

In the summer, one of our favorite meals was tuna salad with diced apples, with hot peas on the side. Presentation was always important to mom, so this was arranged prettily in a large oval dish. (It didn't matter that sometimes we were so poor we had to have water on our cereal - dinner needed to be presented.)

Our mom and dad were separated, and we lived in the second-floor apartment in Alexandria we'd lived in together as a family of four. Now just three, mom was doing her best to hold things together financially and otherwise.

On one particularly sweltering evening, as we were getting ready to sit down to our tuna and peas masterpiece, there was a knock at the door. Still holding the dish with our dinner, mom opened the door to a man who said, "I tax your furniture." (He was not a native English speaker.)

The funny little man kept repeating the phrase until mom bopped him over the head with the dish. Holding his head and covered with a fragrant glop of tuna, apples and peas, the man looked at mom with astonishment - surprised at the assault but also the elegant woman who'd inflicted it upon him. (Mom was always very prim, posh and proper in a Jackie-O sort of way.) Then he staggered down the steps to the landlord's apartment to call the police.

This was one of the most exciting events of our lives - and in the lives of those in our little apartment complex! We all got to ride in the police car. Mom sat with her chin up and her hands folded primly in her lap, the picture of dignity and refinement as my brother and I waved jubilantly to the curious onlookers who lined the sidewalk.

The officers at the police station were so kind and gentlemanly, pulling out the chair for our mom and speaking gently to her about what must have been an unfortunate misunderstanding. Best of all, my brother and I were given a little bag of chips and a bottle of Coke - an unheard-of treat.

Mom worked as a legal secretary for some well-known D.C. attorneys, so it was only a short while before they posted bail and we got to go home. I later learned that Mr. Wheatley (the repo man) dropped the assault charges.

The next day, "Tuna on Wheatley" made the front page of our local newspaper. Oh, a proud and historic moment that was. I can't believe someone in our family didn't frame that article.

And that's the story of how our beautiful, Southern-belle, white-glove-wearing mom got herself a teeny-tiny little police record.