Has it come to this?

One of the first emails I opened this morning was from Oak Norton, the guy who exposed the leftist leanings of the administration of the Alpine School District. I think I've posted a link to his website here a few times (www.utahsrepublic.org) a few times. He keeps on top of important issues here in Utah, most of them dealing with the schools, and he periodically sends out emails on these topics. Our legislative session ends next week, so today I wasn't too surprised to see an email from Oak asking people to contact their reps and senators about three pieces of legislation still needing to be acted upon. The first one on the list is on the list is: HJR 5 - Joint Resolution on Parental Rights and Fundamental Liberty. I clicked on the link to check out the resolution, and the first thing that jumped out at me is that the primary sponsor of the resolution is none other than my own Utah representative, Chris Herrod, whom I am supporting in his run for the U.S. Senate. This resolution urges congress to propose the Parental Rights Amendment to the states for ratification in the U.S. Constitution to protect the rights of parents in raising their children.

http://le.utah.gov/~2012/bills/hbillint/HJR005.htm

It takes my breath away to think that our country has come to a point where we have to consider getting the states to pass resolutions or bills to try to add a specific amendment to the U.S. Constitution to protect the rights of parents to have the primary say in the raising of their children. Did you know that a sophmore Utah representative, Carl Wimmer, wrote the legislation that became the tool by which the 26 states have been given standing in the case now before the Supreme Court to overturn Obamacare? Without that legislation, almost certainly there would be many fewer states who could have been included in that case.

I don't know what the chances are that Chris's resolution will pass (and thus beginning the process of process of garnering support amongst other states to write such an amendment), but the fact that we have to even consider it is appalling to me. And I'm so grateful for forward thinking representation in our state legislature.

He who can’t understand your silence will not understand your words. ~Unknown

Sometimes words won’t come, or the words that do can’t express what one wants to say. Sometimes the words are there, but cannot be spoken and must remain locked in one’s heart.

That’s when listening with the heart is the only way to hear.

My Family

Brody, Carter, Gayle, Bill and Kennedy.

Poetry in Motion

Sitting on the sidelines of a soccer field today watching Kennedy guest-play on a team coached by Gayle's college roommate, I overheard some people behind me talking. Kennedy's name had been mentioned.

"Who's Kennedy?" one asked.

"She's a guest player. She's the little fast one."

I smiled to myself. Yep. That pretty much describes 11-year-old Kennedy. She was definitely the smallest player on the field, and a year younger than most, if not all, of the other girls. But fast she is. She runs like a gazelle. She leaps across the field, zigzagging to wherever she needs to be. If you blink, you may miss her.

Kennedy was a full term baby, but she weighed under 6 lbs. She was born screaming. Feisty. But sweet. Determined. But kind, and champion of the underdog. Unless the underdogs are the opposing team. Then, not so much. She likes to win. As a baby and toddler, she earned the nickname of "Houdini" because she could escape any restraint, which has translated to being able to slip through small openings in packs of aggressive soccer players with the ball in her possession, and "Mighty Might" because of her sheer determination at anything she attempted. There was no stopping her. There still isn't.

At another soccer game a few months back, I overheard a teammate's father call her "The Streak".

Today, she earned that nickname again when a teammate who was being pressed on the other side of the field passed the ball to Kennedy. She seized the ball in the open, moved like a flash toward the goal and launched it over the goalie's head into the net. Her grace and agility, the ease with which she moved, the absolute perfection of her lithe body, brought tears to my eyes. Poetry in motion. That's Kennedy.

Picky, Picky

I told her I wasn’t picky. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that isn’t true.

On a whim, I walked into the hair salon next to where I work out in the morning. I love the girl who has been cutting my hair in her home for a few years. She is a sweetheart and gives a good haircut at a reasonable price. I wasn’t really shopping for a new stylist, but when I couldn’t reach her the last time I needed her (for a couple of weeks), I panicked and started looking around, “just in case”. She did finally return my calls, and cut my hair. But the seed was planted: I need a backup.

So back to picky. I told the girl at the desk I wanted to schedule a haircut with someone who can cut thin hair and make it look good. I have cowlicks, too. I told her I wasn't picky. Jana will cut my hair this afternoon and we’ll see.

When I left the salon, I realized I really am picky. Yes, I want a good haircut, but I really want more than that. I want new hair…thicker, that’s more brown than gray that doesn’t have to be “touched up” from a bottle. I’ll keep the gray streak in front, it’s kinda cool, and I earned those little badges of courage one at time. I want a new face. You can leave the smile wrinkles, but I’d really appreciate your erasing the frown wrinkles. I want a new body, too. Younger, thinner, the way it was about 40 years ago. I’ll keep my stretch marks from pregnancy -- they are reminder of the wonder of new life. I’m willing to work for the thinner part. I know there are no free lunches (oops, the food reference just slipped in there).

So Jana, we’ll start with the new hair style today, but let’s be thinking about the rest, ok?

The Experiment

Leroy was never my favorite person at work. In fact, for a long time, he was my least favorite. But, in the end, he taught me an important lesson, and I will always be grateful.

The mini-man, missing only the hand-in-the-front-of-the-jacket portion of a Napoleonic pose, flung open the glass entry door of the NCR branch office at 2116 Madison Avenue and passed the front office staff without a word or glance. We ignored him, too, because we had learned that as often as not, an encounter with Leroy could suck the sunshine right out of one’s day.

Leroy was a senior cash register salesman, with his own territory and expense account, and from time-to-time, a junior salesman working under his supervision. In his 50’s, he was several inches under six feet tall, somewhat stout though not fat, with graying sandy-colored hair. His wife, Jane, was perhaps a little taller than he, a pleasant woman, a necessary recipient of my pity. They had no children, but Jane was a stay at home wife, and she occasionally shared recipes with us office girls.

I was in my early 20’s, young, holding my first real job, burdened with the mistaken notion that we respect those older than us or in positions superior to ours simply “because”. Leroy displayed no compunction claiming that counterfeit respect. The truth was, I was afraid of him. Better to be ignored by him than engaged by him. More than once he had reduced one of us in our office to tears by bullying over some unimportant matter. I had succumbed to one of his tirades myself. Although Irma, the branch manager’s secretary and big sister figure to us younger girls, armed me with protection (don’t cry, get mad!), I found that my best defense was simply to look through Leroy as if he didn’t exist.

I ignored his self-important entry that day as I did most. But once again, after he had passed by, I felt a niggling, uncomfortable feeling that as unpleasant as he was, I didn’t enjoy disliking him. Our worst encounter was at least months, maybe more, behind us. The emotional pain he had inflicted was now not even a dull ache, but just a subconscious bad memory. Still, the sight of him reminded me that I was not on good terms with all people. A thought came to me, I wonder what he would do if I was nice to him. I decided to experiment.

The next day he again blasted through the front door and marched over to the cabinet at the counter where we filed salesmen’s mail and messages. He snatched a handful of small pink telephone slips from his folder, put on his reading glasses and began shuffling through them.

Mustering up courage with a silent deep breath and my best casual voice, I ventured, “How was your day, Leroy?” He went on reading for a few seconds, then looked up at me, tilted his head down and glared at me suspiciously over his glasses. “Why do you ask?”

I shrugged. “No reason, just wondering how it went. You were in Port Clinton today, right?”

He hesitated, seeming to weigh the possibility that I had ulterior motives. Evidently convinced that was not likely, he replied, and we momentarily engaged in casual conversation about the customers he had called on. And then he walked down the hallway to his office.

Well, that was interesting, I thought. He was almost pleasant.

Each time I repeated the experiment, it became easier. There were no further brow-beating, humiliation-inducing outbursts directed at me or at anyone else amongst our office staff. Leroy had been disarmed by kind words. My feigned interest in him became genuine after awhile, and when he passed away suddenly a few years later, I was truly saddened. He had become my friend.

I'm still alive

But you'd never know it by checking in here. I'm so bad. This won't count as a real honest-to-goodness blog entry because it's going to just be stream of consciousness. So if you bore easily, move along. This will be boring.

I'm cleaning the basement storage area. Well, only as a second thought to what I'm really doing down there: looking for something I wrote in 1995. I'm sure it's in one of those boxes marked "old files" or "family history" or "misc papers". There are several of those. I'm almost sure I saw the needed 1995 paper the last time I perused some of those boxes about 4 years ago. And I'm under pressure to find it. It's for Bob, for his retirement.

As I was mining the boxes, I came across one marked "old calendars and other stuff" or something like that, and found many years worth. Do you keep old calendars? Why do I? Is it something deepseated like throwing out the calendar is like erasing those years? I keep a journal, so there is probably a record of the important things I did on particular days. But the calendars show the daily grind stuff. Ok, I may never look at them again, but it's really hard parting with them. The one from 1978 -- I remember the calendar well and recognized it on sight: was given to my by Missy Long, a dear friend from Ft. Hood -- on that calendar are recorded all but the first appointment that I had with the missionaries who taught me the basic principles of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. June 17 is marked "quit smoking" (past tense). I remember that night. Elder Poulsen asked me to remove the cigarettes from the package, tear them up and flush them down the toilet. Then he asked me to autograph the package and give it to him. July 20 is marked "Baptism 8 PM" The beginning of a new life. The calendar is the tangible evidence of those sweet days. The writing on the tablet of my heart is still there, too, but can't be touched by my hands or seen with my natural eyes.

I'm going to bring one box of "old papers and family history" upstairs to go through sheet by sheet because it's the most likely to be hiding the paper I'm looking for. I removed the lid and found a stack of research, documents, notes, and memorabilia. If one sheet at a time is removed and placed into a file cabinet that I already have set up to organize such things, that's one box that won't have to go back into storage. That will make more room for a box of newer treasures.

Where's my sister when I need her? She's so good at throwing out. I even tried to call her to ask her "permission" to get rid of a bunch of old table linens that belonged to Aunty Mary and Grandma. I know I'll probably never use them again, if I ever have. I mean, there are probably more than 50 cloth napkins of many varieties. Place mats. Beautiful old linen tablecloths that are way too large for the table I have, but that I would hesitate to use anyway because ironing them is a major project. Stuff I haven't used in at least 10 years. Kathie would say, "Get rid of it, Pam." Period. No discussion. That would make it easier.

I think I need a nap.

Fighting the Mid-winter Blahs

How often do we end a brief, casual conversation with a friend, "Let's get together soon," or "We'll have to get together," and then forget to follow up on that great idea? I'm sorry to say I do far too often. Intentions are sincere, but life gets busy, or the doldrums set in, and the phone call just doesn't get made.

In December, Lynne and I ran into Venise in Costco, a friend from our neighborhood who I haven't had much of a chance to visit with in the past several months. She and her husband were in the middle of moving out of our immediate area, fortunately only about a half hour away. Still, it wouldn't be the same not to bump into Venise at church or at Day's Market down the street from time to time. I said, "We really need to get together for lunch one day soon." We all agreed, and said maybe in January, after the move and after the holidays.

A week or so ago I bumped into Helen, a mutual friend of ours, and caught myself saying the same thing, "Let's get together for lunch soon." And the conversation with Venise came back to me. I knew I had to follow up.

Today we met at Brick Oven -- Venise, Helen, Lynne, Cindy, Annette, Faye and me. Annette, who we call the Cupcake Lady, came with a cute woven vine basket filled with attractive and yummy chocolate cupcakes decorated with tiny red hearts on the generous chocolate frosting wrapped in clear plastic cups and cellophane bags tied in festive red ribbon. (Weight Watchers points value? Have no idea, but surely there's a rule somewhere that says if it's from a dear friend at a special lunch, there are no points.)



We had asked for a round table so that we could all take part in every conversation (Grandma always said I was afraid I'd miss something, and I guess she was right), and they put us in the back corner of the Banquet Room. Hmmmm, I wonder if we looked rowdy. Here's our cute waiter, Kris. You can ask him.



We spent an hour and a half visiting and laughing. A little "problem solving", too, like helping Annette to find a good ring tone for her cell phone, and talking about fun places and activities for this summer's Youth Conference. But an hour and a half really isn't enough time, so we talked about making this a monthly gathering. There's nothing like good friends to blow away the mid-winter blahs. Come spring, maybe we'll be meeting out on Lynne's yard swings.

Kris was still smiling when we left and helped us out by taking our picture, so maybe we weren't too obnoxious.

Why I love snow

1. I can see where my kitties go when they don't know I'm watching.

2. It's white. I love white.

3. It's pretty on the tree branches.

4. It covers the brown grass of winter.

5. In Utah, it fills the reservoirs so we will have much needed water the rest of the year.

6. It gives me an easy way to exercise -- at least when I shovel snow, I'm actually accomplishing something.

7. It makes skiiers and snowboarders happy. I am neither, but if I were, I would "love" snow even more.

8. Snow provides good picture opportunities.

I'll add more as I think of them... please feel free to add your own reasons in the comments section.

Learning from History

Subject: Cry for Me, Argentina

From an email, author unknown


Think, remember....


In the early 20th century, Argentina was one of the richest countries in the world. While Great Britain 's maritime power and its far-flung empire had propelled it to a dominant position among the world's industrialized nations, only the United States challenged Argentina for the position of the world's second-most powerful economy.

It was blessed with abundant agriculture, vast swaths of rich farmland laced with navigable rivers and an accessible port system. Its level of industrialization was higher than many European countries: railroads, automobiles and telephones were commonplace.

In 1916, a new president was elected. Hipólito Irigoyen had formed a party called The Radicals under the banner of "fundamental change" with an appeal to the middle class.

Among Irigoyen's changes: mandatory pension insurance, mandatory health insurance, and support for low-income housing construction to stimulate the economy. Put simply, the state assumed economic control of a vast swath of the country's operations and began assessing new payroll taxes to fund its efforts.

With an increasing flow of funds into these entitlement programs, the government's payouts soon became overly generous. Before long its outlays surpassed the value of the taxpayers' contributions. Put simply, it quickly became under-funded, much like our Social Security and Medicare programs.

The death knell for the Argentine economy, however, came with the election of Juan Perón. Perón had a fascist and corporatist upbringing; he and his charismatic wife aimed their populist rhetoric at the nation's rich.

This targeted group "swiftly expanded to cover most of the propertied middle classes, who became an enemy to be defeated and humiliated."

High taxes and economic mismanagement took their inevitable toll even after Perón had been driven from office. But his populist rhetoric and "contempt for economic realities" lived on. Argentina's federal government continued to spend far beyond its means.

Hyperinflation exploded in 1989, the final stage of a process characterized by "industrial protectionism, redistribution of income based on increased wages, and growing state intervention in the economy..."

The Argentinean government's practice of printing money to pay off its public debts had crushed the economy. Inflation hit 3000%, reminiscent of the Weimar Republic. Food riots were rampant; stores were looted; the country descended into chaos.

And by 1994, Argentina 's public pensions -- the equivalent of Social Security -- had imploded. The payroll tax had increased from 5% to 26%, but it wasn't enough. In addition, Argentina had implemented a value-added tax (VAT), new income taxes, a personal tax on wealth, and additional revenues based upon the sale of public enterprises. These crushed the private sector, further damaging the economy.

A government-controlled "privatization" effort to rescue seniors' pensions was attempted. But, by 2001, those funds had also been raided by the government, the monies replaced by Argentina 's defaulted government bonds.

By 2002, "...government fiscal irresponsibility... induced a national economic crisis as severe as America 's Great Depression."

We've seen this movie before. The politician's populist plans NEVER work, because power corrupts and government bankrupts everything it touches. For those that will listen, history shouts over and over that we cannot sustain the wild spending and government takeover of business, banking, health care, and continue to inflate unfunded entitlement programs! Like history tells us, it will be utter and complete disaster!!!

Today's politicians are guilty of more than arrogant stupidity; they are enslaving future generations to poverty and misery. And they will be long gone when it all implodes. They will be as cold and dead as Juan Perón when your children and grand children must ultimately pay for the blind arrogance of politicians!


THINK AMERICA! WE ARE ALLOWING POLITICIANS FROM BOTH PARTIES TO REPEAT THE FAILURES OF HISTORY!

*********************

This may be an oversimplification of a very complex history of a nation. Still, I think Edmund Burke's statement, "Those who don't know history are destined to repeat it," is worth considering, not just with the Argentine example, but with all world history.

Pam

Daisy's Depressed

How do I know? Because she just lays in her box in her box and meows at me when I go into the laundry room. At least she's still talking. She doesn't seem pressed to get outside for a change of scenery, which she does when she's herself. I don't blame her at all. It's as dark outside as it is in the basement laundry room. And it's cold out there too.

I bet she'll snap out of it when the sun comes out.

A Special Treat

Our friends, the Crookston family, invited us to the matinee program of the Timpview High School Ballroom Dance Company Winter Concert, A Classic Christmas. Their son and daughter, Ryan (16) and Megan (14/15) are members of the company.

We have a special relationship with the Crookstons: Doug and Ryan are our Home Teachers Cindy is my personal friend (and a fellow Ohioan, I might add). I've been a Primary leader while three of their children (Megan, Amy and Timothy) were in Primary. Their oldest daughter, Julie, is a freshman at BYU this year, but we've gotten to know her, too, when she was in high school.

The whole family, plus Julie's roommate from BYU, came to see Megan and Ryan dance. We were excited when they invited us to go to the Ballroom Christmas Concert today. We've never been to this kind of a program and it sounded festive. And we were not disappointed.

In fact, Bob and I were both amazed. The entire company was outstanding. There were 23 numbers on the program and a total of 101 performers, not including two groups of junior dancers from the Canyon Crest and Rock Canyon elementary schools. Dances performed included foxtrot, rumba, waltz tango, swing, polka, cha cha, and more. The choreography was impressive as were the many costumes. Moods to match the music were created by special lighting and for one number, misting.

Ryan's and Megan's performances were flawless. Though they participate in ballroom dance competitions as partners, in this program they each performed with their respective teams. Ryan said his favorite was the number called "Hot Stuff", a disco hustle. He was so cool! Megan's favorite number was "Carol of the Bells" a Viennese Waltz, in which she and the other girls wore gorgeous long red and white velvet and satin dresses, truly reminiscent of an era gone by. Megan is tall and slender and this number accentuated her beauty and poise.

After the program, Megan and Ryan came out front to see their family. Here are a few quick snapshots I was able to get:

Little sister Amy with Ryan


Ryan and Megan



Ryan and Megan

I wish I had thought to get a picture of the whole family.

Thank you, Crookstons, for a wonderful afternoon. We love you!

Why Do I Need to Be Here?

I try to honor copyright laws, but I'm hoping since I'm not posting this for profit, that the writer and publisher of this beautiful story will not mind my doing so.

From the December issue of The Ensign, our Church magazine.

Why Do I Need to Be Here?
Megan Robinson, Utah, USA


Megan Robinson, “Why Do I Need to Be Here?,” Ensign, Dec. 2009, 66–67

A week before Christmas in 2007 two of my children were diagnosed with strep throat and ear infections. Jacob, age 5, whined all the way to the pharmacy for his medicine, and Beth, 19 months, was especially clingy.

When we arrived, we were greeted by a long line at the prescription counter. While Jacob tugged at my leg and complained about his ear, Beth wiggled out of my arms. I thought she would stay beside me, but as soon as she was free, she ran straight to an elderly gentleman sitting on a bench near the line.

The man was looking at the floor, his face resting in his hands. I called after Beth, not wanting to leave the line, but she approached the man anyway and bent down to look up at his face as she grinned and giggled.

I then sent Jacob to get her. He grabbed her hand and tried to pull her away from the man, but she refused to come. Then she started pushing on the man’s forehead in order to get him to raise his head. As I grew agitated, Beth took off her untied shoes and shoved them into the man’s lap. He sat up and smiled.

“Beth!” I called.

“It’s all right,” the man said in a tired voice. “I’ll tie her shoes for her.”

I grew a little nervous as he began putting Beth’s shoes on her. When he finished, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her on the head. He was slow to let her go, so I quickly left the line to rescue my daughter from this stranger.

As I approached, I noticed that he had tears in his eyes. Concerned, I sat down next to him.

“I have to tell you something,” he said, staring straight ahead. “Not more than a month ago my wife died, and about an hour ago I found out that I have terminal cancer. I came here to get medicine, and I have been contemplating my life and thinking that I might move along the inevitable. I didn’t think I could bear going through Christmas and the pains of cancer without my sweet wife.”

He said he had been praying, asking God, “If I need to be here for something, You better speak now, or I’m going home to end things.” Before he had even said “amen,” Beth began pestering him and calling him “Grandpa.”

“Now I know why I need to be here longer,” he said. “I need to stick around for my grandkids. They need me.”

I threw my arms around him and could not help but weep. I then got our medicine. Beth, who had seemed so ill only moments earlier, kissed the man on the cheek and bounded away with Jacob and me, waving and saying, “Bye-bye, Grandpa.”

I didn’t ask his name, but I will never forget that even a young girl who pesters an old man can be an answer to prayer.

My MamaCat

She hobbles over to where I sit at the kitchen table tapping away on the keyboard of my laptop computer, nudges my leg and waits for me to reach down and pet her. Which I do without hesitation. She sits patiently, soaking up the ear- and chin-scratching until I resume what I was doing. She settles at my feet. After watching her move around our house since she moved in with us, I have concluded that MamaCat is protecting me.

My relationship with this kitty goes back several years. She was born to a scraggly, malnourished feral cat who disappeared shortly after teaching her two kittens they could find food at the Warrens' Carport Diner where we left food out for our cats. Bob and I simultaneously named her "Wolfie" one day when she peered at us over the fence from our backyard patio. She was black verigated with small splotches of orange, and she looked rugged -- like a wolf. She was "he" to us until the following spring when she plumped up and suddenly slimmed down, and we discovered a litter of kittens under our deck. Wolfie became MamaCat.








A few weeks later, MamaCat brought her family to the Carport Diner, as her mother had done with her. Shy and hesitant at first, eventually bold and untouchable they came. It was a busy summer for us, and the thoughts I had of taming them got lost in the shuffle, and we soon found ourselves swarmed in feral kittens who were quickly becoming cats. One morning we knew they had to go. While they still had a chance of adoption, Bob called animal control and borrowed a trap. Silently rooting for the kittens, I kept score. Kittens 1, Bob 0. They outsmarted his efforts. Kittens 2, Bob 0. I was impressed, and had to share my glee -- kept score online with my sister and niece on our family website. I'm afraid that jinxed the kittens. From then they were quickly gobbled up by the trap one at a time. Bob put the trap and kittens into the car and delivered the them to the animal shelter. When he came back with the trap, I was puzzled.

"She has to go, Pam. We can't have her putting out kittens several times a year, " he insisted.

"Bob, they'll euthanizer her. She's wild. She doesn't have a chance," I pleaded.

The argument went back and forth, and finally he succumbed. "Ok, but you have to tame her enough to catch her and take her in to get her fixed."

I promised. And I started working immediately on the taming of MamaCat. After a short time, I could touch the top of her head while she ate at the Carport Diner. If I moved too quickly, she panicked and retreated. But she knew I was her friend. And I knew she was mine. Daily we met there and visited together while she ate.

One fall morning I stepped outside to feed her and was surprised that she wasn't waiting on the other side of the carport for her breakfast, a recent habit. I looked around, called "Kitty, kitty? Where are you, MamaCat?" I was puzzled. Something was wrong. I walked to the front yard, and almost immediately, I spied MamaCat sitting in the street by the curb in front of the house across the street. As I slowly approached her, I talked to her softly hoping not to spook her. I expected her to run as I had never approached her like this before. But she didn't. She just sat there looking at me. I stooped down and reached my hand out to her. She sniffed it, but still didn't make any effort to escape. There was no blood, but I knew she was hurt. I touched her cautiously. We were becoming friends, but she was a feral cat, unvaccinated, and I had no assurance that under stress she wouldn't go into defense mode. Something about the position of one of her hind legs wasn't right. She was going to have to see a vet. I came back home and quickly found a box the right size to confine her for the ride and returned to where she sat in the gutter. After talking with her quietly for a few minutes, and petting her to keep her (and myself) calm, I slowly picked her up. Her one hind leg dangled lifeless, her body tensed at this first experience of being held by a human, but she didn't struggle.

Now I had my own struggle. I knew her injury was not minor. Veterinary care is not inexpensive. I needed reassurance. I called Bob at work and told him what had happened. His reaction was not surprising, but maybe it was what I needed to strengthen my own resolve. "Put her to sleep, Pam. She's a wild cat. I'm not paying for a vet for a wild cat."

"But she trusts me, Bob. She's not wild anymore." -- I was definitely stretching the truth here.

"I'm not paying for it."

"That's ok, I am. I can't put her to sleep. She trusts me. It's probably not a serious injury. I can't put her to sleep because of a broken leg."

So off to the vet we went, MamaCat and me. Dr. Dicou took us right away, and after a visual evaluation, she told me what I already knew, that MamaCat had a broken leg. The extent of the injury was more apparent when Dr. Dicou put the xrays up on the screen. The break was very close to a joint and would be hard to repair. And even with surgery, there would be no guarantees of a permanent fix. She might need her leg amputated. We could skip the repair, if I chose and go right for the amputation. No, I said, let's try to fix it. A veterinary orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Smith, was called and would do the surgery as soon as he could. I went home and waited for the news.

The call came sooner than I expected. Dr. Smith said he had taken a look at the xrays and found that her other hind leg was also fractured. To repair the fractures, he would need to put pins in to pull the bones back in alignment and hold them together. He confirmed what Dr. Dicou had already told me: because of the break(s) being so close to the joint, there was no guarantee the surgery would work. And of course, the fee for the surgery went up considerably with the second break. What did I want to do? What did I want to do, he asked? What did I want to do? Mostly I wanted not to have this problem, nor have to make such a huge decision on the spot. I had to err, if I were to err, on the side of this sweet kitty. "Do it," I told him.

A day or two later, MamaCat was released to my care. She had to be confined so that she wouldn't walk on her legs any more than necessary. We kept her in a kennel in our living room, near the dinette, where she could see us most of the time. She required pain medication and antiobiotics several times a day. She was a good patient.




MamaCat's legs seemed to be healing, and upon Dr. Smith's instructions, we allowed her out of the kennel a few weeks later for short periods of time. Daisy and Oreo were house cats at this time, but after their initial inspection of the newcomer, they seemed to prefer to ignore her. I confined them in the basement when I let MamaCat out for exercise. She didn't run from me, she couldn't. But she was still very shy.

One day as I picked her up to put her back into the kennel I felt something sharp on her leg poke my hand. Closer observation showed the screw holding her leg together had become dislodged and was poking thru the skin. I was horrified. I called Dr. Smith immediately and he said to bring her in. Another surgery, another recuperation. A few weeks later, it happened a second time.

We took her to Dr. Smith's office in Sandy. I sat quietly in the exam room with MamaCat waiting for him to come in. He ordered xrays. He brought them in to show me what was happening. The bone in the leg that had been most severely damaged had become diseased somehow and would not hold the pin. I was in emotional agony. She had come so far, had been through so much pain and discomfort. How could I put her through any more? Should I? Or had Bob been right in the first place? Should she be euthanized? I asked Dr. Smith what he thought. He hesitated then said, "If she's just a feral cat and you have no feelings or attachment for her, then maybe euthanasia is the right thing. But, we can amputate this leg and she will be just fine." I was also thinking about another vet bill, although Dr. Smith had generously not charged me for the second surgery. I wouldn't expect that kind of continued generosity. He must have read my thoughts because he added, "If you want me to amputate her leg, there will be no charge. I'm in this with you to the end."

So MamaCat endured her third surgery, and returned home a few days later to her kennel in the living room. Round three recuperation was underway.

This time, there were no setbacks. She healed completely. And, just as Dr. Smith had promised, she adapted very quickly to being a three-legged cat. For her protection, (we thought), we moved Daisy and Oreo outside. A kind of role reversal just took place. She was the live-in cat, and they had become the yard cats. MamaCat was still basically a feral cat. She scattered away on her three good legs when she saw us coming. She would come to me if I stooped down and talked to her softly. Fast moves still spooked her. She allowed Bob to live here, but she wasn't about to be his friend. If he looked at or spoke to her, she made a quick getaway.


MamaCat, 6 months after The Accident

Little by little she became more at ease. There were no major turning points, but a gradual acceptance of her new life and of us as her family. There was only one milestone that was notable, and it happened two or three summers after The Accident. In that time, she had finally accepted Bob as a necessary evil and didn't always run when he came into the room. She even let him pet her occasionally, if he didn't move fast or speak harshly. But if a stranger came into the house, she hobbled up the steps and hid under our bed until she could no longer hear the stranger's voice. The summer of 2006 my sister Kathie and her husband Carl came to visit. MamaCat made herself scarce, coming out in the open to eat and use her box mostly at night or while we were away. One morning, Kathie and I were sitting at the kitchen table and while we were engrossed in our conversation, MamaCat quietly came in and sat at Kathie's side. When we noticed, we glanced at each other, the surprise apparent on both our faces. Kathie slowly reached down, speaking softly calling her by name, and touched her head. MamaCat accepted her affection. Other than the times that I have held MamaCat and let Brody, Kennedy or Carter pet her briefly since then, Kathie is the only person other than Bob and me to touch her.

In the beginning of her house confinement, when Daisy and Oreo lived in, MamaCat seemed to realize she was the newcomer and the house cats were unthreatened by her. They guardedly passed each other, and an occasional low growl was heard from one or the other. But no obvious hostility. That is, until Daisy and Oreo were banished to the outside. Each day that went by, MamaCat became closer to me, following me around during the day and sleeping in our room at night. One day it occurred to me that if she wasn't at my feet, she was often laying by the door of the room I was in, facing outward. That she might be "guarding" me seemed possible. That hunch was validated one day when I let Daisy come in to go to the basement. MamaCat suddenly attacked Daisy as she ran straight toward the basement. Fur flew. Cats screeched and hissed. But in the end, there were no injuries, except Daisy's pride. This had been her home, and now she was humiliated by some punk three-legged cat
half her size.

I don't remember when MamaCat decided that rather than sleeping under our bed, she wanted to sleep on it, but one night she came to my side of the bed and tried to claw her way up. Even though her one hind leg had healed enough to walk on, it is not fully functional and she cannot leap as other cats do. I reached over and lifted her onto the bed. She sat quietly for a moment not quite knowing what to do. She licked my arm for a few minutes. Then she put her face in mine and gave me one little lick by the corner of my mouth. Thus started our nightly ritual of "bath and a kiss". So she really is My MamaCat. She gives me a bath, and tucks me in with a kiss each night.

There's something about an empty space

on a pedigree chart or family group sheet that begs filling in.

My cousin, actually my second cousin, sent me an email and asked if I would send her the information I have on her branch of my family -- our shared ancestry -- for a cookbook she is making for her granddaughters. A few years ago I had put the information on a Baker Family website on MyFamily.com (which I highly recommend, by the way). After trying to get other distant cousins, all of whom I know personally, involved in the website and sharing pictures and family memories, I found myself the main (actually, pretty much the only) active participant, and I didn't renew the site and thus it is inaccessible.

MaryMargaret was my most enthusiastic follower, and she has a robust interest in our shared folk. So when I got her email, I was excited. I went to my electronic records and created the pedigree chart to print out for her. Uh, oh. There are lots of empty spaces. Hmmm. I'm sure I had more on this family here -- I thought I had the marriage date of Uncle Herb and Aunt Sadie -- I think I remember seeing it somewhere.... Places of birth for all of my grandfather's brothers surely was Oregon Township, Lucas County, Ohio. But the blanks seduce me with their barreness. I wouldn't dream of filling in a blank on a pedigree chart or family group record without the official piece of paper that proves that the names, places and dates are more than a figment of my imagination. But it sure bothers me that they are empty. Especially when I keep thinking that somewhere in one of these stacks of paper are the very documents that would allow me a clear conscience to fill them in.

I've emailed the pedigree sheets and to MaryMargaret and asked her to help me fill in the blanks for her immediate family. But I think I'm going to have to do some digging.....

What is it?

Or more importantly, maybe, is how old is it? I'm trying to clean out my freezer, one package at a time. I think this is leftover spaghetti sauce. I'm thawing it and will give it the taste test.

If I don't show up for church next Sunday, you'll know what happened.

Bear Hollow

I'm only the grandma, but feel fortunate to be included in the back to school picture taking ritual. I don't think I've missed one in 7 years since Brody started Kindergarten.

Today was Carter's first day of preschool this year, a new school called Bear Hollow, and he was very excited. (and very photogenic)



Here he is with his bear, which he named "Barry" this morning:


Hmmm. Is this a GQ pose?


Not long after I snapped this one, he told me "Enough pictures, Grandma." Why? At this point I had only taken about 24.


This one, taken as he got out of the car at Bear Hollow, almost looks like he was having second thoughts about this, but I assure you, he wasn't.




Mama and her boy. Makes my heart swell with love. Two of my very favorite people in this whole world.

Tuesday

We're staying with the kids while Gayle and Bill are out of town for Bill's work. Yesterday (Friday), I was getting ready to go somewhere, and Carter was going with me.
"Go use the bathroom," I reminded him. Then I was sidetracked by something I was doing. A few minutes later, he was lollygagging in the livingroom.

"Go use the bathroom," I reminded him again, since it didn't seem like he had left the vicinity since my earlier plea.

"I already did," was his answer.

"When?" I asked.

"Tuesday."

Great Grandpa Redd

Every now and then, Carter has asked me about my dad. "Where's your dad," he asks. I tell him, "My dad lives in Michigan, and when we go there this summer, you will meet him." Carter is very interested in family relationships, who people are, and where they are. (Remember, Carter is the "dad" of his own son, Alex, the water balloon baby.)

So there we were in July at Platte River Campground, all of us hanging out in our pine canopied family room. Dad and Ula arrived from nearby Interlochen for their annual camp dinner with us. Dad had barely escaped the car when Carter walked over to him, took his hand and said simply, "C'mon".

Carter led Dad to Kathie & Carl's campsite next to ours where all the toys were, handed Dad a paddle and engaged him in a game of catch. I know, and am absolutely sure, that was the first time in over 50 years that my father played ball.

That I had my camera in hand is a tender mercy of the Lord. I will never forget the sweetness of what I witnessed in these few moments. With or without the pictures.

A boy and his (sister's) dog

Today was back to school for Brody and Kennedy. I'm totally in denial that my grandson is in the 6th grade, and my little granddaughter is in the 4th! They were babies only last year....weren't they? I went over to their house this morning for their annual back-to-school early morning picture taking episode. Each year it has been an "Event" with new clothes, new backpacks, big smiles, and lots of excitement. This year, it was different. The excitement wasn't there. We snapped a few quick pictures and off they ran. Carter never even came outside to be a part of it.

Another missing "person" was Smudge (the cat) who has been in every back to school picture until this year. I wondered if anyone but me noticed...






Carter will go to pre-school in a few weeks, and I know he will be excited and will pose as much as we ask, and will jabber about going to 'cool, like he did last year. For today, he was content to scoop up Lola, his sister's new puppy, who will be "his" while she is in school each day.