Perspective

Our house in Caldwell had floor to ceiling windows on the sunny side. In Spring a robin flew directly at one of the windows many times a day, knocking himself out, and falling to the ground. I wondered why knocking himself to the ground didn't teach him to stop this behavior, why he kept doing it. I thought at first he wanted to get inside the house.

Days and days he did this, and I finally I decided upon a reason that made sense to me. It was because he could see his image in the glass and had fallen in love with himself. He wanted to be with that beautiful bird.

I wrote a poem about it and expressed that idea in the poem. I took it to my writing group. My friend told me she had the very same experience one year. Her conclusion was nothing like mine. She concluded the robin could see his image in the window and wanted to fight that other bird. His flying at the window was an attack.

That also made sense to me. I'd like to think I'm right, but it's likely she is.

Here at Greenwood Circle

It's quiet now. Thirty minutes ago four dogs were barking, maybe five, all at once. I have made a count of the dogs in my immediate neighborhood. Eleven. Three of my neighbors have two each. Is that really necessary?

I did not go outside to see why the barking, just stayed in here muttering about it.  When I did go out a few minutes ago to get my mail, the new little dog next door yipped and yapped and full on barked, as he/she always does if I come outside. Always is misleading. That dog has only been here for three days, and I don't know whose dog it is. Dash doesn't seem to mind the companionship. I mind the barking. It's persistent. I explained to the little dog that I was here first and he has some nerve barking at me. I'm the one who belongs here. He's the  newcomer, and, after all, who is he anyway? He paid no attention to my explanation. Typical.

I get a little tired of Dash and his frequent squirrel chases. They're never silent, but at least I know what's going on and sometimes even hope he catches one. It's the big ugly dog on the other side that I can't tolerate. He's loud and intrusive. I don't see him, and I'm pretty sure he can't see me, but if I step outside, or if anyone comes near this part of the block, he starts up. He has super hearing and smell, no doubt. I have been known to tell him to shut up. Rude, I know. Beneath my dignity, I know.

Swell, he has started up again, and his pal chimes in. Something has started them all up again. Hardly worth writing about.

I have a life, so don't tell me to get one.

Encounter In The Bathroom

Spiders can hear. At least I thought so when that white spider crawling down my bathroom mirror answered my quiet "Well, hello" by ducking behind the mirror. I wasn't close or loud, and, by the way, I wasn't speaking to make friends. I had murder on my mind. I pounded on the mirror, shoved a narrow comb behind, trying to scare him out. No luck. I came away from this morning encounter convinced that spiders can hear and their hearing is good.

I came away a bit worried, too. Was home for that spider behind my mirror? This is a big mirror. No lifting it from the wall.  Would the spider sneak out at night and do something nasty? Would I wake up with it spinning a web around my face? Given its size, I felt sure it could bite. Would I never find it? Would I one day discover a whole line of baby white spiders traipsing across my bathroom ceiling?

Well, the day was upon me. I could not hang out in my bathroom, stalking a spider who might be smarter than me.

That was Thursday morning. Saturday came, and I was changing the bedding on my bed. I pulled down a quilt from the top shelf of my little bathroom closet and there was the white spider, hanging on a string of web attached to the top of the door. It scurried upward and disappeared. I tried to reach up there with the toilet wand, make him come down again. No luck.

Now I was really worried. This guy (don't know the gender, of course) gets around, probably knows my bathroom better than I do. And he likes it here. Or she. I spoke to him again, louder this time and let him know he was not welcome in my bathroom. Or in my house, for that matter. What do I pay those Orkin people for, anyway?  I think he heard me, or I thought he did. But he made no reply and didn't show himself again for about a half hour. 

At that time he made a fatal mistake. Yippee!

He was sitting on the wall above my hamper. This time I said, "Oh, there you are," but not out loud. I didn't want him to hear me and run away. I quietly grabbed some toilet paper, moved close, and got him. The toilet received him, and he was gone.

So I am relieved. But because I knew I wanted to write some kind of report on this personal triumph, I did some research on spiders and their hearing capabilities.

There are no such capabilities. Spiders cannot hear. They don't have ears. They feel vibrations. So say the people who know these things. I suppose they have dissected spider after spider to discover that they have no ears, but how do they know spiders feel vibrations? Have the spiders said something about that? Not to me they haven't.

Not Bragging, Just Sayin'

Today I pulled the quilts off my bed, folded them, put them in storage.

Remade the bed--no easy job--putting on a blanket and different quilt.

Checked my email thrice.

Played, and won, of course, a game of Just Words.

Played, and lost, a game of Solitaire.

Scolded myself for wasting my time.

Stepped outside and kicked a lantern on.

Mixed up five little bottles of protein drink and took them to the outside fridge.

Cleaned two sinks, two toilets, parts of one bathtub, the parts I could reach without falling on my head.

Weighed myself. I know, I know. Shouldn't weigh myself every day. But, hey, the scale is right in front of the toilet, so why not?

Killed the spider who has been trying to make my bathroom his/her home--spiders can hear, you know.

Took a bath in the partially cleaned tub. It wasn't terribly dirty.

And now it is 7:58 AM.

It's Not Just About Electric Trains, But It Is About That

All my young life I wanted an electric train. Not that I thought about it every day, but I thought about it often. Certainly at Christmastime I hoped, and I know I spoke of it to my mother more than once. I never got one. Was I told that electric trains were not something girls could have? Don't know. Perhaps I just figured that out later, based on my experiences with "boys get everything; girls get to watch," trying to find a reason for never getting one. My older brothers never had electric trains either, but I don't know if a train was something they ever wanted.

It may have been a money issue. Our family was big, five children, and we weren't wealthy, although I never heard any talk about not having enough money. But perhaps money was too scarce to afford expensive toys like trains.

And there's the question of where you keep the train and where you set it up to run. I can only think of setting it up on the dining room table, but that would be terribly impractical. We ate at that table. And we played ping pong on that table. I'm still amazed that our mother let us do that.

Obviously, I'll never have the answer, no matter how much guessing I do. I don't remember if my own children ever asked for electric trains. I do remember hearing complaints about what so-and-so had. You know, "Why can't I have that?"

Why I think of this now, I'm not sure, except that last night was another sleepless night, and I do mean sleepless. That's what you do on such a night--think, worry, remember. All sorts of things pop into the brain.

Everyone has a story. Believe me.

Quonelia Epa. It's a Samoan name, the name of the young woman who walked near me last week. Monday, to be exact. She began talking to me, which is something I do, talk to people I don't know, and so I liked her right away. We were headed to the same class, as it turned out, "Women and the Gospel of Luke." It's a big campus, so we had a few minutes to talk, and when we got to the Hinckley building, Nelia wanted us to sit together. I was glad.

She was at BYU that week for the same reason I was, Education Week. We were two of the 23,000 who came for five days to learn. She was scouting out the place, too, finding out that she really does want to go to school there, and because she is a bright young woman and was nearly finished with the application process, I thought it very likely she would soon be a BYU student.

But the story is not so simple.

She is 26, lives in Hawaii, has Rheumatoid Arthritis, and, even if she is accepted to BYU, must go home to Hawaii and work to save money so she can pay for school. Clearly, she is patient and determined. If she gets in and is a conscientious student, which, in my brief acquaintance with her, I became convinced she would be, she will graduate and be the first in a large Samoan family to do so.

I did not see Nelia after the two classes we had together last Monday. I will likely never see her again. But I love her, though we are strangers, and my hopes are that she will be well and able to do all--and I mean all--she wants to do.

Isn't it peculiar that such things can happen? A few minutes with someone can show you that you share much. Nearly fifty years difference in our ages, different skin color, hair color, cultural heritage. And we will never meet again. But no matter. We are friends.

What To Do About It? Part 2

But we do want to be known. It's part of being human. And yet we hold back. We want to be private about some parts of ourselves, too. Is that not right? Or is it only a matter of trust, of finding the person you can trust with your soul?

I said it was a contradiction. We often contradict ourselves, we human beings.

But wait. Do I have to take it all back? Because of Facebook, and MySpace and Instagram and Google+ and whatever else, which facilitate the revealing of those very personal stories, of secrets. And millions of us feel quite comfortable these days telling everything to the internet, to the air, to strangers--yes, I know, they're all our "friends." And, I suppose, Facebook and other social network facilities have caused us to believe our stories are of interest to strangers, to everyone. More's the pity. Because they're not really.

Facebook aside, and interest aside, have you never found yourself telling your story to someone on a plane? That stranger who seems to be listening, seems to want to know what you will say next. And you show your soul to this person you do not know. Or perhaps you have been on the other end. You have listened as a stranger poured something you thought terribly personal into your ears?

Perhaps we simply want to hear it or see it told. The story that means the world to us.

Obviously, I have not settled anything here, and obviously, I contradict myself from beginning  to end. Besides, there is much more to be considered. For instance, I haven't even brought up the subject of how fragmented and disjointed our lives are, which must have bearing on something.

I have figured out one thing. It's about me. This is about me. I cannot speak for anyone else.  And, speaking for me, I have no intention of laying open my soul, writing my story, on Facebook. Or even, I suppose, in my own journal. 

Yet there is something in me that wants to tell it, write it, before I die. To someone.

What To Do About It? Part 1

Shall we (not in the sense of "Let's do," but rather in the sense of "Is this what will happen?") go to our graves with our sweetest thoughts, our deepest feelings, our hopes and aspirations left unspoken, unwritten, unknown by anyone outside ourselves? I believe my husband did. I believe I will.

Yes, I have blogs, and I post to them. But much of what I write there is superficial. I have kept a journal sporadically through the years and have filled little note pads with whatever came to  mind. Even so it is not "an hundredth part." And sometimes not even the real part.

And who on this earth will, not shall, ever read it? No, an hundredth part or not, I do not see all that I have written being read. That is why we write, isn't it? And, trust me, no one is listening.

Besides, and here is a contradiction, I have never said or written what is in the deepest part of myself. Never written those secret thoughts or confessed those secret deeds. I write what is on my mind, or what comes into my mind. With limits. Perhaps it is self-censorship or simply good judgment. Whichever, it's a fact that there are self-imposed limits.

I believe we want to be known--not by everyone--by those few people we love and trust. I do not know if I speak here for others or for myself alone when I say we want to be known, but that has long been my belief. Oh, how could I forget? I know people who will tell everything to anyone and leave nothing out. I am not one of those.  

Ponderables

• I misplaced my phone today. When I had a home phone (land line) I never misplaced it.

• I made yum-yums today. They require 12 whole graham crackers. I had only 11 3/4. The yum-yums are just fine. Maybe I'll change the recipe.  Just kidding.

Back story:The first time I tasted yum-yums was decades ago. My mother-in-law made them. They're good. We all like them. So I began making them

In those days, graham crackers came twelve to a package. Three packages inside the box. So you could just crumbled up a package. You see that, of course.

One day I bought graham crackers and found Nabisco had decided to put only 11 crackers in each package. Oh yes, they still charged the same--or more. Made me mad. And you can see what it meant to making yum-yums--not that I make them all the time. I don't.

Then one day it was ten to a package. Brother!

So how do you think I feel about nine crackers in the package? That is what we have now. Nine.

• Okay. I'll mention mayonnaise. Quart-size jar. Well, guess what. The jar is no longer a quart jar, which means I no longer get a quart when I pay for what kind of looks like a quart of mayonnaise. If you look at the bottom of the jar, you will see that they make a large indentation in it so that it will hold only the 30 ounces they're now selling for a lot of money. This is Best Foods I'm talking about. And Kraft, too. The jar of Kraft mayonnaise says this on the label: New jar, same amount of mayonnaise. Same meaning 30 ounces. Oh this kind of stuff is not new. Just crummy.

The Big Wind. Think Bigger.

Who knows about the weather?

Richard says being a weather person--you know reporter and prognosticator--is the only job where you can be wrong most of the time and still make a good living at it.

Maybe. I'd list doctors next. But let's pretend I didn't say that.

All of this to introduce my post about last night's big wind. And I already know you're not thinking big enough. When things finally died down, about nine o'clock, I saw leaves all over the lawns and pine needles and pine cones and those other nasty little pine things everywhere--lawns and driveway.

But wait. It gets bigger.

A branch from one of my ash trees had been blown off, one end sticking in the ground, the other propped up on the chain link fence. The branch was big, and you're not thinking big enough, maybe fifteen feet long. And I can't know how such a big branch could break off, and I can't tell which of the trees it broke off from.

Andrew sawed and cut and I carried sections of it to the trash can, which is now full. But neither of us thought at first that we could get all of it in one can. We did, though, and the thing is cleared away.

Thank goodness for Andrew, because I worried about it much of the night, thought we'd have to borrow somebody's chain saw. He used the little Back Saw, which in my hands would have been useless, and the long-handled pruner, and we pulled and so on.

And

If you ask me which musical instrument I prefer, I will always say, "the piano, of course."

The violin is fine, all strings are fine; horns, fine; woodwinds fine. I have no use for the flute, however, but that may be another story.

It's the piano. Perhaps because I grew up hearing it in my home. My mother played and taught piano for most of her life. I didn't love her lessons, but I loved it when she played, and I always liked hearing my older sister Janeen practice and play, too.

So, if you ask me which musical instrument I prefer, I will say, "the piano, of course."  

I know. I said that already. I'm saying it again, just so you will be sure I mean it, because for me, it's the piano, always the piano. Get it? I'm listening to the Brahms Piano Concerto No. 2 right now. It is glorious.

That said, as we say these days, I heard something on BYU campus a few years ago that surprised me. What surprised me was its pure beauty and how much I loved it.

The musical selection announced was O, Divine Redeemer, Gounod's magnificent, pleading prayer to the Savior to have mercy, to save.  The words are perfectly matched to the music.

See, I know the piece well, have sung it many times and heard it sung, seen my mother direct it, have directed it myself.

But this day, as the piece was announced, one man went to the organ and another man stood with his saxophone. I thought it an unlikely pairing, thought the saxophone an unlikely soloist for this piece. And where would be those words I wanted to hear? In short, I was doubtful.

You know what is coming. I'm about to tell you how wonderful that rendition was, how deeply moving, how that mellow, pleading sound went straight into my soul. How it brought tears to my eyes and brought the words to my mind. It's a long piece of music, but that day it was not long enough. I could have listened to it all again.

I loved it.

I could see that the saxophone player loved the music and I heard that love in his playing. I could hear the same love in the organist's playing. What a perfect duet. How unusual. How beautiful.

That love, the way musicians have of losing themselves in the music, of getting their hearts involved, was--and always is--crucial to the performance and to my hearing and deep feeling for the music that day.

So, for me it's the piano, but I am not closed-minded on this matter.

Andrew

My son Andrew was born two days and 44 years ago. I baked some bread for him the day before and took it to his house, where he had been all day because of his foot. But this is not about that, although I do think he should have the foot x-rayed. Not exactly about his foot.

This is about him, Andrew, my fourth child, third son. I should say our son, his dad's and mine.

Yes, my mother was visiting when Andrew was born, and, of course, she had to leave the next day to go home. She had already been with us for more than a week. Can I help it if a baby is born at an inconvenient time? Inconvenient for my mother? No. I think the fault is my oldest child's. He came a week before his due-date. But no one else did, even though we always thought it might happen again.

My mother was in the hospital with me, got to hold Andrew and look him over. She liked him. Of course. He was a healthy, big boy, weighing 9 lbs 10 oz. No cinch to deliver but worth the work. Andrew was good looking and good-natured. I have told elsewhere of my foolish mistakes regarding feeding him. It is too painful to recount, recount again, and so I won't. I will say that Andrew, when his mother finally gave him enough to eat, grew and kept his good nature, for which I am so very grateful. Not kidding about that. What a good boy.

Andrew walked at eight months. Something I thought was pretty remarkable. I have photos to prove it, so don't doubt me.

I'm not sure Andrew would approve of what I'm about to say. But here it is. He is a sweet boy. It's that word, sweet. But I'm his mother, and I can call him a sweet boy. He's a man, I know, but he has a sweet, kindly nature. He's gentle. And he's smart, a problem solver and a wise money manager. These qualities are important. All of them. Important to me.

Andrew went back to school some years ago and finished. That's important, too. While in school, he developed a love of literature, mostly the British novel. I suppose one day he'll read some American stuff, but I don't really care. I think he likes British literature because it appeals to his temperament. And he likes how smart the people were--characters and authors.

I am proud of my fourth child. He's a good dad and a good husband and other good things. Like a good athlete, although he can't prove it right now. His foot, you know. But he played many sports and did them well. I remember. I know he does, too. And I will always see him running down the street in Boise, reaching the finish line ahead of his dad those many years ago. I love that boy.

The Name Is Lola

Yesterday was my mother's birthday, March 2, 1899. That's 116 years ago. The number shocks me, but the way I remember her has no number attached. She is without age in my memory.

Isn't that the way we see ourselves? Inside we are simply who we are, and I say that person has no age.  Only when we're forced to examine our lives in some way do we have to acknowledge the reality of our age. Of our aging.

About my mother--we all called her Mama, and that is how she signed letters to us. My dad often called her "My Little Mama" and nobody minded that, although I have heard people who know a lot say a husband should never call his wife Mother or Mama or whatever.

Again, about my mother, I was taller than Mama for a long time, like from age 11 on.  We all were.  It wasn't difficult.  She was short and conscious of her height, I know, because she used to say, "Short girls are never beautiful, Carol. Only tall girls with long necks are beautiful." 

For a while, I thought she was talking about me, encouraging me to grow tall. I already had a long neck, but I don't remember seeing it as a mark of beauty.

Now I think she must have been talking about her own lack of height.  Actually, in the grand scheme of things, her size doesn’t matter, but it’s part of what I remember, a point of pride, really, because she was so much person in that little bundle.

Maybe she was trying to make me think she wasn't beautiful, one of those things mothers say when a glance in the mirror brings them up short. (No pun intended.) If she was no beauty I never knew it.

My oldest daughter was born on my mother's birthday, 69 years later. We lived in Caldwell, Idaho, much to my mother's disapproval. After all, her parents had moved away from Idaho for her sake, Utah offering education, and music education in particular, not available to her in rural eastern  or rural western Idaho. And my parents had moved us to California for similar reasons. Wonderful decision, I say.

Well, Caldwell notwithstanding, my mother was visiting, asking those important questions I would also hear at other times. "Can't you have this baby, Carol?" Mama had come early, probably my fault, and needed to go home. I did what I could. I walked, and at my doctor's appointment I mentioned my mother's need for an expeditious birth. Was there any way to bring that about? Of course, I knew there was not. Babies come when they come, or so I thought.

But he gave me some tiny pills I was to put, one at a time, between cheek and gum--no not tobacco--buccal pitocin.

As I recall, he didn't explain much--or anything--to me, and obviously I was too ignorant and too trusting to ask.

Any woman who has been induced knows that the labor, or what feels like labor, may begin, but the contractions are not quite contractions. The pains get you nowhere or next to nowhere. But finally, two days later, I think, just barely on my mother's birthday, my first baby girl came to this earth. Of course, I named her Lola, after my mother.

Like the original Lola, this Lola plays the piano very well. Very well indeed. And she is a natural teacher, very bright and capable. Unlike her grandmother, who was 4'9" and maybe another 3/4 inch, maybe, the Lola I raised is tall. I am proud of her 5'7" and very happy to say she has a long neck.

Something About It

If your cardiologist says, "Someone wants you to live," what does it mean? That he did not expect you to live? That you nearly died during that first procedure? The anesthesiologist (I guess that is what she was) said, "You went too far under. We had to bring you back." And what does that mean, exactly?

Dr Reddy and I first met after Chad, the head of the ICU, had seen on my heart monitor a 14-second episode of Ventricular Tachycardia and had come into my room to tell me to sit down and to tell me how life-threatening such episodes are, especially if they last for longer than 14 seconds, like for 30 seconds.

When Dr Reddy came in, he mentioned the episode and told me the same kind of thing, a warning. It was then, I think, that I told him, "I didn't come here to die. I want to live." He said something like, "When it's our time to die, we have very little power over that." Or maybe he said we have no power. And I, being a bit alarmed by such a statement from the heart doctor, said, "But don't you have things you can do to help me live?" He said, "Yes. We do."

So. I am alive. Two stents later and flight cancellations and Alyce and Saxby flying out to Bountiful to visit me and Lola driving down to drive me home and food from many good people here and several sleepless nights--like last night. I call my recovery a slow recovery, which is not yet complete, but I am here and finally writing something about these first two months of 2015. The months of my humbling by way of heart attack and by way of my Heavenly Father saving my life.

"Don' t thank me," said Dr Reddy. "Thank God." Which I do daily. I thank Him for my life, for Dr Reddy, for my sister and brother-in-law who--I don't know how to say what they did for me, but I know that they took me to the Emergency Room. Crucial. And they just took care of me.

I thank Him for all who cared for me there, in the two hospitals, and here. For all who have prayed for me and fed me and helped me in my house and called and visited. And I ask Him every day to continue blessing all those people and me. Blessing me and healing me and making it so I never forget.

Because, as I realized today, we spend our lives learning from the things we experience. Learning important lessons, and then we forget what we learned. I don't ever want to forget this, what my Heavenly Father has done for me, so I keep praying to remember.

I'm still here.

If I could, I'd write in the east Indian accent of my doctor, Dr Bhavananda Reddy. Some of his words I missed at first, but we spoke many times, and my ears adapted.

Here is one of his sayings that I will remember always. "You have got to stop hating doctors and medications!"

My reply: stunned silence.

I could say he was right. I have felt disdain for some, only some--okay, most--doctors much of my life, and for auto mechanics (they both get paid even when they guess wrong) and have, for a fact, hated medications.

But

I'm taking them faithfully now. And I love Dr Reddy.

One more. When I thanked Dr Reddy, he said, "Don't thank me. Thank God!"

My reply: "I am thanking Him."
You may notice my use of exclamation marks when I quote Dr Reddy. There's a reason for that.

Of course, there's more to tell. Like about who actually saved my life. I'm still here.

Carol Speaks

I have tried to write a blog post since I came home from Utah.

It's difficult.

I may have to just say something like, "I'm still here." There. I've said it.

But I don't know if I have more readers than one. That's Linda.

All right. Here is the direct word. I got home from Utah 1/31. I went for three days, stayed for 16 days because . . . wait for it . . . I had a heart attack. Two procedures; two stents. I'm trying to get well. Good to be home. My sister and brother-in-law were so kind to me. I turned their family room into a not family room.

When I get stronger, I'll tell the story.

In the meantime, I feel very grateful and very humble.

Open letter to Canada Post

What is wrong with you people?
Why does it take more than two weeks for you to deliver a card or letter or package? I'm sure what I send to Canada gets to the border in one or two DAYS.
Then what do you do with it?
Can you not read?
Do you have no little trucks to carry the mail?
Do you have only one employee?
Do you simply not give a fig?
Do you steal the stuff that looks good?
Do you even know what I'm talking about?

I am exasperated, frustrated, and fed up with you, Canada Post.

And I mean it.
Carol Schiess

At Curves this morning . . .

. . . two women, both over 50, were talking about movies they had seen recently. I came in at the middle of their conversation.
#1: The theatre was nearly empty. I wondered if they're going to make it.
#2: Did you like the movie?
#1: Yes, and I really liked Gone Girl.
#2: Oh, so did I.
#1: I don't like fantasy or transformer stuff or anything like that.
#2: I've seen my share of transformer movies. I used to take my son until he was old enough to go by himself.
#1: Oh, yes.
#2: But I like stuff that is semi-true.
Me: Then you must love President Obama. (I didn't say it. I wasn't part of the conversation.)

*     *     *

Have you ever done metathesis?  I have, as a joke. But today it just happened to me. Accidentally. My friend Patricia came into Curves about the time I was leaving. We spoke briefly. 

When I was going out the door, I said, "Bye Trapicia."

Of course, I corrected it, but it shook me up a little bit. She assured me I'm not losing my mind.
I believe her.

Corrected

I asked for it, and I got it.
My sister Lucile reminds me of the chicken casserole my mother made with crispy Chinese noodles on top. Here's my side: it sounds familiar, but I don't remember it.

And I don't remember that she left a casserole in the oven every week for us when she went off to teach piano lessons in Mar Vista.

I do not doubt Lucile or her memory. In fact, I wonder why I don't remember.

*     *     *

New subject. Another friend has died. Evelyn. If the weather and roads allow, I will go to her funeral Saturday morning.