Bad weather rolled in yesterday afternoon, leaving behind icy, slushy, slippery roads for the commute home last night. It was slow going and it took twice as long to get home as the usual forty-five minute drive. Most everyone was being very cautious, leaving a car length or two between them, everyone except the guy directly behind me for a three mile stretch of interstate highway. He tailgated me as if I had a choice to get out of his way, so close I could not see his headlights in my mirrors. I was in a long, steady stream of cars headed toward the bridge creeping along at less than five miles per hour, each of the more polite drivers allowing cars to merge in ever so slowly as they came off the ramps. I tried tapping my brakes lightly several times to warn him to back off, to no avail. Then I tried stopping altogether for a few seconds hoping he would take the hint. But no, not this dumbass. I finally had to resort to sign language. The kind of sign language I knew he would understand, the kind that I know could get me into a bad situation. I couldn't stop myself from opening my sunroof, lifting my arm through it into the twilight and giving him my finest one finger salute. Then I stopped my car again and waited. I let the traffic move ahead of me until I had about a twenty car-length distance in front of me, while I held my hand in the air, defiant. If he was going to stay on my ass I was going to slow him down even more. I know I shouldn't have let him get to me, that I could have created a worse situation, but if he had rear-ended my car and I had actually had to get out to exchange insurance information it would have been a bad scene. I have no patience for idiots like this. He finally got the message. I eased my car along just a bit and he backed off. Some people are just slow learners!
Another situation I despise is when some employees think they shouldn't have to come into work if the roads are slick or snow-covered. Why is it that some people think they are more important than their coworker who would be called in in their abscence, because in healthcare we will be open no matter the weather. I had an employee actually call yesterday afternoon to say she probably wouldn't be able to get in today. I reminded her that it is her responsibility to make any necessary arrangements to ensure she was there...allow extra driving time, make different childcare plans, park at the end of her driveway to reduce shovelling time, etc. And if necessary, we could arrange for someone to pick her up and bring her to work. She didn't seem to think that was fair. I asked her how she thought it would be fair to make someone else who is scheduled off come in to cover for her. How is it fair that someone else should have to take the risk on the road in her stead? Or how is it fair that she would leave our center understaffed when she is aware of the policies covering bad weather, policies written to protect our patients? Exactly what is it about her that she feels she should be exempt from these policies while everyone else is not? Because she has a child? Not buying it, most of the other employees have young children. Should those who don't have children or whose children are grown have less worth and more responsibility than her? Absolutely not, she chose this line of work and the responsibility that goes with it. If she doesn't like it I suggest she find a new vocation.
So much for my ranting today, just had to get it off my chest. I guess I am getting crotchety in my old age and I find it very difficult to deal with people who are so self-centered as above. I personally am scheduled off today and I will not be answering my phone or taking my car out of the driveway, thank you. Have a nice day!
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Monday, February 11, 2008
Child Labor of Love
It is Monday morning....again! Another workweek begins. I arose early this morning and walked into the kitchen to start the coffeepot. I was disappointed when I was faced with a pile of supper dishes that I hadn't done last night, having temporarily forgotten that I had dozed off on the sofa while reading and had gone to bed early for a change, leaving the mess as a wakeup call. So I rolled up my sleeves, filled the sink with hot, sudsy dishwater, and began to clean up. I used to hate to do the dishes, a rather mindless chore, but now it is not so bad. I enjoy seeing the instant results of a task accomplished. Maybe that stems from the fact that there are so many other things in my life that never end. My desk at work is never totally clear, these kitchen cabinets seem to be taking forever to paint, the boxes of items waiting to be sorted through to declutter my house is monumental. So there is a tiny bit of pleasure to be had in this simple act, and some happy memories, too.
As I washed each dish I thought of all the times I had to share this chore with my little sister when we were growing up. We would stand at the sink, side by side, where I was assigned to wash and rinse, while she was responsible for drying and putting away. For the most part we got along during this process, singing childhood songs together, talking and laughing as we worked. Sometimes we aggravated each other, my little sister chiming in with a different song while I was singing another, each of us raising our voices louder and louder trying to outdo the other, until one of us protested to our mother. She would threaten to make us, meaning me, finish the dishes alone, so a compromise would ensue, my little sister usually getting her way. I would make up for it by continually pouring water over the dishes in the drainboard to make her job a little more difficult. Ah, sisterly love! I didn't realize or appreciate what was happening at the time but we were bonding and learning in spite of the arguments. The time we spent standing there was time we spent getting to know each other better, sharing our secrets and our dreams. We learned how to work together as a team, setting the tone for our work habits in the future. We learned how to deal with conflict in an effective manner. We learned to appreciate each other, for it was much more fun to do the dishes together than alone. We became something more than just sisters, we became friends.
When my daughters were growing up they had similar experiences, though they may remember them differently than I do. My oldest may say she always did more work than my middle child, and it may be true to some degree. I guess I expected more out of her simply because of her age. That is the natural order of things. But once she left home for college, my middle child had to assume her role so it is all relevant to timing. I know they have fond memories of growing up together as I do with my little sister and I am glad that they are friends.
Children won't realize what a gift parents are giving them by making them do household chores together, that there are a multitude of life skills and bonding opportunities packed into these simple tasks. They won't realize that it would be easier for parents to give in and do the chores themselves than to listen to the arguments and complaining, robbing their children of the chance to learn and grow together. Only when they grow up and move away will they realize and appreciate this childhood labor of love.
As I washed each dish I thought of all the times I had to share this chore with my little sister when we were growing up. We would stand at the sink, side by side, where I was assigned to wash and rinse, while she was responsible for drying and putting away. For the most part we got along during this process, singing childhood songs together, talking and laughing as we worked. Sometimes we aggravated each other, my little sister chiming in with a different song while I was singing another, each of us raising our voices louder and louder trying to outdo the other, until one of us protested to our mother. She would threaten to make us, meaning me, finish the dishes alone, so a compromise would ensue, my little sister usually getting her way. I would make up for it by continually pouring water over the dishes in the drainboard to make her job a little more difficult. Ah, sisterly love! I didn't realize or appreciate what was happening at the time but we were bonding and learning in spite of the arguments. The time we spent standing there was time we spent getting to know each other better, sharing our secrets and our dreams. We learned how to work together as a team, setting the tone for our work habits in the future. We learned how to deal with conflict in an effective manner. We learned to appreciate each other, for it was much more fun to do the dishes together than alone. We became something more than just sisters, we became friends.
When my daughters were growing up they had similar experiences, though they may remember them differently than I do. My oldest may say she always did more work than my middle child, and it may be true to some degree. I guess I expected more out of her simply because of her age. That is the natural order of things. But once she left home for college, my middle child had to assume her role so it is all relevant to timing. I know they have fond memories of growing up together as I do with my little sister and I am glad that they are friends.
Children won't realize what a gift parents are giving them by making them do household chores together, that there are a multitude of life skills and bonding opportunities packed into these simple tasks. They won't realize that it would be easier for parents to give in and do the chores themselves than to listen to the arguments and complaining, robbing their children of the chance to learn and grow together. Only when they grow up and move away will they realize and appreciate this childhood labor of love.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Wishful Thinking
As I get older I tend to reflect on the things that have somehow gotten away from me that I always thought I would do. So I am making a list of things to do before I die (hopefully not for many, many years):
1. Clear all the clutter out of my home so my children won't have to sift through it after I am gone.
2. Write a book. I am currently working on one. It is strictly for myself, not necessarily for publication. And no, I cannot tell you what it is about.
3. Learn to play a musical instrument. I always wanted to play piano but I have no room for one so I would like to try the guitar instead.
4. Take a pottery class. To bring life to a lump of clay, to feel it take shape in my hands.
5. Take dance lessons - ballroom & swing. Great fun and great exercise too.
6. Take art classes - drawing, painting, sculpting. Hoping to find an outlet for my creativity.
7. Study architecture. Buildings fascinate me.
8. Earn a bachelors degree. In something, anything. I need to challenge my mind.
9. Document our family histories to pass on to our children and grandchildren.
10. Travel. To all 50 states. And all over England so I will know my grandchildren's heritage.
11. Volunteer. To feel that I have made a difference in someone's life that I would not have had the opportunity to otherwise.
12. Take a carpentry class. I would love to learn how to build furniture.
13. Try my hand at glassblowing, woodturning, weaving, stained glass. Just to better understand the processes.
14. Go to an Antiques Roadshow appraisal fair.
15. Run the mini-marathon during the Derby festival.
16. Go horseback riding at least once a year.
17. Take a trip with just my daughters to wherever they would like to go.
18. Have my grandchildren spend 2-4 weeks with us every summer, once they are old enough, so we can get to know them well in spite of the distance.
19. Throw a wonderful surprise party for my husband, one he will never forget.
20. Write about everyone I love, telling them what they have meant to me.
21. Go on the blues cruise mentioned in my last post.
22. Start the secret enterprise that my younger sister and I have been discussing. We need investors.
I know the list is long and time flies by quickly so I will read it daily to remind myself to get on with it. What do you have on your dream list?
1. Clear all the clutter out of my home so my children won't have to sift through it after I am gone.
2. Write a book. I am currently working on one. It is strictly for myself, not necessarily for publication. And no, I cannot tell you what it is about.
3. Learn to play a musical instrument. I always wanted to play piano but I have no room for one so I would like to try the guitar instead.
4. Take a pottery class. To bring life to a lump of clay, to feel it take shape in my hands.
5. Take dance lessons - ballroom & swing. Great fun and great exercise too.
6. Take art classes - drawing, painting, sculpting. Hoping to find an outlet for my creativity.
7. Study architecture. Buildings fascinate me.
8. Earn a bachelors degree. In something, anything. I need to challenge my mind.
9. Document our family histories to pass on to our children and grandchildren.
10. Travel. To all 50 states. And all over England so I will know my grandchildren's heritage.
11. Volunteer. To feel that I have made a difference in someone's life that I would not have had the opportunity to otherwise.
12. Take a carpentry class. I would love to learn how to build furniture.
13. Try my hand at glassblowing, woodturning, weaving, stained glass. Just to better understand the processes.
14. Go to an Antiques Roadshow appraisal fair.
15. Run the mini-marathon during the Derby festival.
16. Go horseback riding at least once a year.
17. Take a trip with just my daughters to wherever they would like to go.
18. Have my grandchildren spend 2-4 weeks with us every summer, once they are old enough, so we can get to know them well in spite of the distance.
19. Throw a wonderful surprise party for my husband, one he will never forget.
20. Write about everyone I love, telling them what they have meant to me.
21. Go on the blues cruise mentioned in my last post.
22. Start the secret enterprise that my younger sister and I have been discussing. We need investors.
I know the list is long and time flies by quickly so I will read it daily to remind myself to get on with it. What do you have on your dream list?
Friday, February 8, 2008
Blues Escapism
With David Bromberg playing loudly on the stereo I began brushing paint on cabinet doors. I think I could listen to him sing all day, with his quirky lyrics telling tales of love, music, travel, and drinking in his bluesy, guitar-picking manner. It made me long to be sitting with my husband in a smoky blues bar in a seedy part of Chicago or Memphis or New Orleans, drinking whiskey until I could sit no longer then jumping up to dance like a fool, inhibition lost to the rhythm. When my husband tired of dancing we would sit at our table, feet tapping and bodies swaying, letting the music wash over us. Afterward, we would catch a cab back to the hotel, holding hands and laughing, his easy smile making my heart quicken. Music has become a common bond for us over the years, my husband always excited to introduce a new artist to me. We have enjoyed going to concerts and blues festivals in the region, seeking out blues clubs and bars in distant cities, sometimes just the two of us, other times with friends and family. We dream of going on a blues cruise one day, a week of relaxing and reveling to the sound of the music under the giant night sky as we rock and roll with the waves. We would slip away from the ship at each port, exploring the islands, browsing in the shops, and lingering over lunch. Back on the ship we would attend the jam sessions and the autograph sessions with the assorted blues talents, buying as many of their CDs as we wanted to add to our growing collection. Stretched out on lounge chairs, we would bake in the sun and then cool off in the pool, alternating between reading and napping, re-energizing for another night of blues. This is our dream. The current reality is that my cabinet doors are now painted, the chore made enjoyable by the music on the stereo and the dreams in my mind. Without both, life would be much more boring.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Hostage
I arrived home in the late evening hoping to relax after a long day of work, ready to crack open the book I have been reading. No sooner had I gotten settled into my chair, a glass of soda and slice of cake nearby, when I was taken hostage by an uninvited intruder. My husband had just gone off to bed and I was just beginning to unwind, the droning sound of the television barely noticed in the background, when suddenly the intruder was there, demanding my immediate attention. I had heard throughout the day that the intruder was on the loose in the area but hadn't given it much thought, dismissing it as just another news story. Now here the intruder was ordering me into the hallway, where I was then joined by my husband who had been summoned from the other end of the house. We were told to remain there until further notice. We sat in the hall quietly, shoulder to shoulder, wondering what would happen next, the sense of danger looming. There was an angry commotion and then the house went black, the power cut, darkness sliced by flashes of light, indicating the intruder was still here. I wondered what possesions the intruder would steal away from us or worse yet if we would be harmed. My hand slipped into my husband's as we sat silently, listening. The minutes ticked away ever so slowly as we waited to see what would happen next. After an hour we were released and the intruder was gone. We surveyed the house in darkness, relieved to be unharmed. The storm had passed, the tornado siren ceased, and we could finally take our wind-weary selves to bed.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Love at First Sight
To my firstborn child. You were small and fragile, I was young and unsure. I couldn't fathom the love I would have for you until I first laid eyes on you. At that moment you stole my heart, completely and forever. With your tiny hands tightly fisted and your blue eyes bright and alert, you changed my life in ways I had never understood possible before this moment. Here you were, so small and so dependent on me to nourish you, to love you. I was elated and petrified at once, dumbstruck by what a tremendous responsibility it is to hold someone's life and future so completely in my hands. You were perfect, with your cap of brown feathery hair and your beautiful little face, your tiny mouth opening and closing like a baby bird waiting for a feeding. No matter what else the future held, I promised to do the very best I could for you. You were, overall, an easy baby, only crying out when you needed to be fed or changed or cuddled. I marvelled at every milestone met, happy that you were progressing normally in spite of the mistakes I made along the way. We both grew together. I am so proud of the wonderful young woman you have become, with your radiant smile and great personality, your intelligence and efficiency, your humor and your kindness. Though you have left the nest to fly on your own, you will always be my baby bird. I love you. Happy Birthday!
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Relics and Renovation
Yesterday I spent the day out with my husband and another couple, good friends from our hometown. We had lunch first in a very nice little deli in a not so nice neighborhood, the area I worked in for seventeen years. The deli sits on a visual dividing line. West of it the old city is trying slowly to make a comeback, its beautiful but time-worn victorian homes being renovated into duplexes and condominiums, the neighborhood trying to regain some of its former elegance and pride, teetering in its effort to hold back the crime and decay. East of the deli the neighborhood has lost its battle, with its boarded up businesses and crumbling houses, its homeless and its addicts roaming the streets, its children growing up too fast into a bleak future. I felt very much at home and found myself watching out the deli window for the familiar faces of some of the street people I had come to know over the years of working down here, wondering if they were still alive, wondering even more how they had wormed their way into my heart in spite of all the problems and extra work they had caused me as the manager of a business in this area. Lunch was very enjoyable, the savory soups and fresh-baked breads delicious as anticipated, the conversation pleasant, and then we were off for an afternoon of antiqueing.
We decided to check out a familiar antique mall in its unfamiliar new location. After finding it and parking, we went in to browse through its four floors of goods. The building is situated on a corner lot at the fringe of the downtown area, with much better access and parking than its former location, but I found it lacking the ambiance that the old location had. Gone are the creaking, groaning wooden floors and the grimy, dirt-caked windows keeping the sun at bay. Instead we walked on concrete and sunlight streamed through the large windows, shining truth on the assorted goods. Gone are the ancient pipes and exposed ductwork hanging high in the ceilings, clanking and clattering like weary bones, barely able to keep up with the demands of the weather. Instead we wandered in a comfortable warmth, jackets folded over our arms. Gone are the buckets lined up along the floor on rainy days to catch the leaks, threatening to baptize anyone not paying attention. Gone are the worries of the precarious state of the old brick building as it rattled and shimmied when the trains rolled by on the nearby tracks, making one consider taking cover. In its stead was nothing, nothing to make you stop to wonder about the structure. Gone was the antique feel of the building itself and with it the sense that one might actually find a treasure hidden somewhere deep within its recesses. I am saddened that I will no longer be able to wander quite so deeply into the past, to get lost in the memories that come naturally when stepping foot inside those doors.
As we browsed, meandering off in our own direction and meeting back up in the next aisle, I happened across a rather unkempt older man, a bit of an oddity compared to the other patrons. He wasn't particularly dirty but rather unruly in his appearance with a patch over one eye, his hair askew and his white beard long and curly, his plaid shirt untucked and hanging below his jacket. He was mumbling something about an object sitting inside a cupboard and at first I thought he was speaking to me. I glanced around but there was nobody else nearby and I thought perhaps he was speaking to his wife without realizing she was no longer beside him. Then he turned and I met his eyes gazing through me, not really seeing me. I smiled. He continued to mutter and shuffled off to the next booth. I wondered if he was just a street person who had wandered in but he continued to talk to some imaginary figure as he picked up one item after another, pondering its age and value, always putting it carefully back on the shelf or table that it belonged on. It seemed he must have done some antiqueing in the past with someone special who was now lost to him and so was carrying on as if she were still here. I thought briefly if this is what I would find myself doing in my future if I were to ever lose my spouse. Would I continue on with the activities that have brought us so much pleasure as a couple, seeking solace in the familiarity, letting the nostalgia shield me from the anguish of loneliness? I was reminded that we should all be careful not to judge too harshly what we don't understand.
I bought three books and a cigarette dispenser that I found amusing even though my spouse and I don't smoke. We met back up with our friends and headed across the river to a restaurant for drinks and dinner. With our bellies full and our moods light we drove back to our home where we discussed the items we had admired but left behind and looked over those that we had purchased, mostly books. We traded thoughts about books we are currently reading and had a slightly heated discussion about politics, shared updates on our families and looked at photos of grandchildren on our computers. All in all, it was a very pleasant day, as it always is when we are together. We will do it all over again another weekend, in another setting, enjoying the slower pace our favorite pasttime has allowed us, spending time with our friends.
We decided to check out a familiar antique mall in its unfamiliar new location. After finding it and parking, we went in to browse through its four floors of goods. The building is situated on a corner lot at the fringe of the downtown area, with much better access and parking than its former location, but I found it lacking the ambiance that the old location had. Gone are the creaking, groaning wooden floors and the grimy, dirt-caked windows keeping the sun at bay. Instead we walked on concrete and sunlight streamed through the large windows, shining truth on the assorted goods. Gone are the ancient pipes and exposed ductwork hanging high in the ceilings, clanking and clattering like weary bones, barely able to keep up with the demands of the weather. Instead we wandered in a comfortable warmth, jackets folded over our arms. Gone are the buckets lined up along the floor on rainy days to catch the leaks, threatening to baptize anyone not paying attention. Gone are the worries of the precarious state of the old brick building as it rattled and shimmied when the trains rolled by on the nearby tracks, making one consider taking cover. In its stead was nothing, nothing to make you stop to wonder about the structure. Gone was the antique feel of the building itself and with it the sense that one might actually find a treasure hidden somewhere deep within its recesses. I am saddened that I will no longer be able to wander quite so deeply into the past, to get lost in the memories that come naturally when stepping foot inside those doors.
As we browsed, meandering off in our own direction and meeting back up in the next aisle, I happened across a rather unkempt older man, a bit of an oddity compared to the other patrons. He wasn't particularly dirty but rather unruly in his appearance with a patch over one eye, his hair askew and his white beard long and curly, his plaid shirt untucked and hanging below his jacket. He was mumbling something about an object sitting inside a cupboard and at first I thought he was speaking to me. I glanced around but there was nobody else nearby and I thought perhaps he was speaking to his wife without realizing she was no longer beside him. Then he turned and I met his eyes gazing through me, not really seeing me. I smiled. He continued to mutter and shuffled off to the next booth. I wondered if he was just a street person who had wandered in but he continued to talk to some imaginary figure as he picked up one item after another, pondering its age and value, always putting it carefully back on the shelf or table that it belonged on. It seemed he must have done some antiqueing in the past with someone special who was now lost to him and so was carrying on as if she were still here. I thought briefly if this is what I would find myself doing in my future if I were to ever lose my spouse. Would I continue on with the activities that have brought us so much pleasure as a couple, seeking solace in the familiarity, letting the nostalgia shield me from the anguish of loneliness? I was reminded that we should all be careful not to judge too harshly what we don't understand.
I bought three books and a cigarette dispenser that I found amusing even though my spouse and I don't smoke. We met back up with our friends and headed across the river to a restaurant for drinks and dinner. With our bellies full and our moods light we drove back to our home where we discussed the items we had admired but left behind and looked over those that we had purchased, mostly books. We traded thoughts about books we are currently reading and had a slightly heated discussion about politics, shared updates on our families and looked at photos of grandchildren on our computers. All in all, it was a very pleasant day, as it always is when we are together. We will do it all over again another weekend, in another setting, enjoying the slower pace our favorite pasttime has allowed us, spending time with our friends.
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