I Guess I am Part of the Problem

  Yesterday morning, thanks to a loud and annoying cat who will soon be up for adoption should anyone want him, I was up at 5:30.  By 7:00 AM I realized I was missing the avocados for my appetizer I told my sister in law I would bring.  Not that the day would crumble around us without my fabulous dip but after two cups of tea and being awake that long it became like that itch you cannot scratch.  So I threw on my coat , grabbed my shopping bags and told the two of three children awake I would be back soon and left with the warning to not wake up their father. 
   Once at the grocery store it was so quiet and peaceful, there were about three of us there at that hour.  I decided to not just get my one item and hoof it home, why not shop for the coming week?  I was alone, I had a list in my pocketbook I had intended for another day over the weekend and even had some coupons!  It was like hitting the lottery.  So I ambled through the store, enjoyed taking the time to look at items, figure out it the coupon was beneficial or not.  Going slowly enough that I was not doubling back in the store several times because there was no one to distract my attention from he task at hand, not even someone else's kid!
   It wasn't until I got the register and saw the very unhappy faces of the both the young woman at the register and the young man bagging my stuff that I realized I was what I claimed not to be.  I was a Thanksgiving day shopper.  I tried to smile and pretend I had no idea it was Thanksgiving.  I tried to pretend it wasn't 7:30 in the morning.  I tried to pretend I was the anti- Thanksgiving day shopper I have claimed to be.  I shrunk down into myself and pulled the collar of my coat higher, wishing for a pair of sunglasses, trying to hide like a celebrity.  I wished them both a happy Thanksgiving because I thought it was the least I could do and it was met with grumbles.  I can't say that I blame them.
   When I got home I confessed to my husband and stated," For the record , even if I am missing something next year I am not shopping on Thanksgiving Day!"  His answer," How many holidays have you worked over the years?"
   He is right.  I won't count the number of Thanksgiving dinners I missed or left early.  The New Years' Eves I missed or Christmas Eves and Days I was working but although I never enjoyed leaving my family on those days, at least when I got to work I understood that the people I was serving had to be in the hospital, it wasn't their choice to be away from their families.  They weren't out shopping for the best deal, shoving and pushing their way to the latest electronic gadget they just had to have.  They were there because the most important part of their life; their health was ailing and they needed me and my colleagues to help them get better.
   Holidays in hospitals and nursing homes have a festive atmosphere, as festive as it can get I suppose.  Families of the loved ones they are visiting almost always bring treats for the staff.  The staff bring treats for the staff.  One place I worked we had a whole dinner set up, each of us bringing in something to share.  It was always hard to leave my family but it always felt good when a patient was happy to see me.  I had many apologize to me because I had to work. I never grumbled because I never felt that angry about it.
   There is a difference.  I heard someone say it was good for our economy to have stores open on Thanksgiving, that all those people working would get over time and they probably needed it or they would turn around and spend it therefore helping our economy more.  I think it is sad that our lives have dwindled down to the greater good of the economy and not the greater good of our society.  Perhaps that woman at Wal-Mart cashing you out already works 60 hours a week and now instead of that one day she can sit with her family she is working yet again.  Over time in your bank account isn't nearly as long lasting as over time with your family.
   So next year I will not even head out to the grocery store on Thanksgiving morning.  I will not be part of a growing trend on our society that feels buying gifts and spending money is the only way to be happy or make others happy.  I will stay home and even if we're missing the turkey we'll make the best of it and be thankful for the blessing of what we have and not rush out to get what we don't have.  In the end the people who love us is the greatest gift all year round.

                                          It's a Dog's Life

One bright Saturday morning in may thirteen years ago my husband to be awoke early and cheerfully said "let's go see some puppies." And even though we have known each other since the 6th grade I had yet to learn that "let's go see" translates to "let's purchase, buy, bring home" as I did learn several years later when he went to "see" about a boat and that boat wound up in my driveway..but that is a story for another morning.



That sunny morning we drove to Massachusetts. I knew he was interested in getting a dog. I wasn't against the idea. I love animals and had wanted a dog when i was growing up. I was excited. But I will also say we were 6 months away from our wedding day. In retrospect a puppy was not something we needed at the time. We arrived at the breeders home and my husband sat down on her kitchen floor and a puppy, all clumsy and wobbly fell into his lap. My husband looked like a five year old. His grin spread wide like the Grinch when his heart heart grew five sizes that day. A half hour later we were driving home and an hour later little Phoebe threw up all over me and our relatiosnhip was over before it even had begun.

Phoebe, it turned out was a lot of work. Which puppies are if you are not familair with puppy training. It is almost equivalent to having an infant in your hosue, which I can say because I have now had both. Phoebe was up at 5 am ready to play and run. We would take her for very long walks and still her energy was not drained. Mine in contrast was. She needed to be walked twice a day and trained and trained and trained some more. It wasn't what I thought it would be. I was a busy woman. I had flowers to order, bridesmaids to corale and a full time job. I really couldn't understand why the dog had to stop and sniff every little blade of grass , the same blades of grass she had jsut sniffed less then ten hours earlier. I thought Phoebe would just go with the flow. She would follow commands and obey the rules because that is what dogs did. I had a very Lassi-esque idea of of what owning a dog would be like and Phoebe was not living up to the expectation. What made matters worse was Phoebe's ambivilance towards me. She was always delighted to see Greg. She would come when he called. She would sit and stay when he commanded. I could call her until the sun set, until the moon was high and she would just look at me , as though I wasn't saying anything she could understand. My husband said it was because my voice wasn't low enough. But I knew the truth, she didn't like me enough to be bothered.

From the beginning Phoebe and I had a casual relationship. It was obvious to her because she was a smart puppy that I wasn't going anywhere and she would have to share my husband. So when he wasn't around she would reluctanctly respond to me and I in return would bride her with treats off my plate and lots of cheese. She loves cheese. a year after we were married we moved to our first home in Nw Britain and Phoebe became a wonderful protector. She had and still has a fierce bark and yellow eyes that can look menacing if you don't know her. She managed to scare away people who wanted to sell us things we didn't need and people who wanted to help us get saved. She barked at the mailman until he threw her a bisquit and she barked when someone came past the house.

Our life moved along and with each new baby Phoebe adjusted. She never growled or snapped. She was walked less and given fewer treats but still she barked fiercely at strangers and stayed close. When we first moved to Portland another dog wandered into out yard as I was outside playing with the boys who were 1 and 4 at the time. Before I knew what had happened Phoebe had this intruder pinned to the ground. We were her pack and she would give all for us. And yet I still felt like she wasn't living up to my expectations of how a dog should be. She was happy being in another room. She only wagged her tail for my husband and rarely showed affection towards the kids. It felt disappointing. I felt let down.

And it took a simple conversation with my husband to bring it all to light. This spring my husband and I did what we have done for the past several years. We flip our garden soil, we pick out plants. We buy annuals and vegetables. We plant and in the beginning I help to water and weed. I like to dig. I enjoy making holes in the ground and placing plants in. I enjoy picking out colorful flowers and arranging them in pots. But as time goes on I forget to water and I forget to weed. I once joked to a friend , who is like my husband, an avid gardener; that I love perrenials because they just show up year after year. How hard can gardening be? Gardening is not easy. There is a science to knowing what plants need, how much sun, water, shade. The truth is I do not enjoy watering, or weeding. I enjoy the look of the garden but not the work that goes into it. My husband came in the house a couple weeks ago with a few tomatoes. I said "wow look at those! Tomatoes already?" " He nodded and looked just slightly aggravated. He said "yes already and you would know that if you helped to weed once in awhile." I nodded back but then I realized he was asking me to be something I am not. I am not a gardner. I have tried. But a true gardener loves the whole process. A true gardener enjoys picking the weeds, deadheading and keeping plants fed. This is not who I am.

I smiled and said" The truth is I don't like weeding. I would rather sit in your pretty garden and read a book while you do the weeding." He looked genuinely disappointed for a moment but his smile returned. It has taken several summers of frustration for my husband to realize he did not marry a fellow garden enthusiaist. I promised to stop digging holes and planting perenial beds that he would have to later weed. I also added " I do have other good qualities you know." " Yes ," he said' You do". Although at that moment he was probably working hard to conjure up a few.

We have the tendency, I believe to not always accept people for who they are. To somehow take the base model with the idea that we can add what we want as time goes on. That with a little extra work we can make someone fit into the mold we have created in our minds of who they should be. Sometimes we do this before we even know someone well and sometimes even after we have known someone for a length of time. We say things like " I love him but". "She is great excpet". There should be no "except" only acceptance. the truth is relationships only work when we accept people for who they are. We accept their strengths and weaknesses, love them for their talents and try to over loo where they may fall short. Whether someone is organized or constantly in disarray, affectionate or unable to display affection, a true gardener or one who just enjoys the beauty of the garden, each relationship we have feeds some part of our soul. Inspirational writer jonthan Lockwood Huie says "happiness lies in accepting everyone in our lives exactly as they are. We cause ourselves untold misery whenever we believe others to be imperfect and try to change them." We can focus on people's weaknesses, sometimes it is easier then finding their strengths but really don't we all know our own wekanesses? I could list some of mine for you but the list seems to grow each year. She talks too long when given a captive audience" so I will move on .
 
Phoebe grew old without us noticing and last Decemeber we rescued a puppy in the hopes of giving Phoebe a little boost. it worked for awhile and she still has some spark in her even though she is now 13 years old. Ellie , our very large Great Pyrenese/Lab mix is a loveable , clumsy mutt. She comes when I call. She follows me from room to room and her excitement in seeing our kids is beautiful until she knocks them down in her enthusiasm. I have spent more time with Ellie and done most of the training myself. I read books and watched many episodes of "the Dog Whisperer".My conversation revolved around postive reinforcement and calm, assertive energy. It finally dawned on me that Phoebe wasn't being a bad dog. That Phoebe loved my husband because he was the one who sat on the floor and welcomed her into his life. My husband was the one who walked her with patience and trained her with his kindness, while I jsut wanted an instant Lassie. I wanted the beauty of the garden without all the work.

Ellie is a lot of work. She gets into trouble. stuffed animals have lost eyes and dolls have lost arms and legs. I have quickly tossed these chewed items into the trash, making me either an accomplice or an enabler. She is after all still a puppy. Which is hard to believe since she is about 100 pounds. Looks can be deceiving. I find myself reminding my husband how Phoebe was when she was a puppy and I know that even though I have joked for the past 13 years that Phoebe has only tolerated me, we have been intricately connected by those we love. And that even though she was not living up to my idea of what a dog should be she has always been true to herself. Phoebe is now a gentle old dog who still wags her tail for my husband and comes to me when I open the cheese drawer. but she is who she is.

And I realized as I watched Ellie, our new puppy dig up our back yard while Phoebe just watched that I had misjudged Phoebe all these years. I had held Phoebe to a standard that she has never been wired to live up to. Yes she is a dog but not all dogs are created equal. She has not been the affectionate, lassie-esque dog I thought she should be and so each day I set her up for failure in my eyes. Each time she didn't come when I called, each time she would run when I said "stay". She had failed. When in truth I had failed her. I did not understand that just she is not only a dog she is also her own person. She has a personality and she has likes and dislikes. Yes she and ellie are very different dogs. Ellie wants to sit in your lap and Phoebe is happy sitting in another room. Ellie will wag her tail fiercley for anyone and Phoebe only wags her tail for my husband. She has always loved him most and intead of admiring her for her good taste in men, I resented that she wasn't the dog I thought she should be.

　

　

Cesar MIlan, The dog whisperer says " you do not get the dog you want, you get the dog you need." I suppose this is true of people as well as dogs. People come into our lives because we need them. We need the gifts they have, we need the lessons they can teach. I needed Phoebe to teach me humility, to show me that we may all look similar and we have mechanics that make us move and think and feel in a similair way but within those mechanics are the intracies of emotion, gender, humanity. We cannot live without one another.

We thrive on the love , support and intimacy our relationships allow us. It is up to us to treat one another with kindness and respect. For love is patient and love is kind. When we welcome people into our lives we should do so in a way that does not set them up for failure but rather brings their strengths to the surface because we all benefit when our talents are encouraged,nutured and shared.



Our realtionships spread before us something akin to gardener's empty bed in spring. We will reap what we sow.
  

Phoebe and Ellie, enjoying a walk

Ellie and me

   I had the privilege this summer to deliver the message to our congregation while our minister was away.  The following post is the first one.  I thought I would share it with my readers.  Enjoy.


This summer we will explore our senses. Today I was asked to talk about taste. I thought it would be an easy thing to talk about but I found it a very broad subject. There are five tastes bitter , sour, sweet, salty and savory. I thought perhaps I would discuss bitter versus sweet. But that is really self explanatory isn;t it? We know what it is to have a sweet life and what it is to have bitterness. We see it , we read about it perhaps we have experienced a little a of both in our lives.



In reading and preparing for this morning I thought more about my experience with food, what tastes I have come to enjoy and what tastes I am pretty sure I will never enjoy.

My culinary experience as a child was not wide ranged. I enjoyed peanut butter and jelly, mashed potatoes, pickles. Things that were crunchy but not necessarily nutritious. When I was very young we had a well meaning neighbor who dropped a dinner off for us. My mother was in the hospital so this neighbor brought over a tuna casserole. My father warmed it in the oven and scooped a pile onto my plate. Oh no, whatever that was sitting on my plate was doing things to my stomach I just didn't understand. I didn't eat it. As a parent I can now understand the frustration I am sure my father felt, being in a hurry to get to the hospital to see his wife, having two daughters who were turning their noses at a meal he was thankful he didn't have to prepare; but I held firm. WHen he dropped us at another neighbor graciously helping out, she greeted us at the door with small bags of chips. "Karen cannot have that," my father said," She didn't eat her dinner." I am sure a knowing look passed between the adults but it didn't matter. It is nearly 40 years later and I stand by that decision. So I guess you can say I was not hungry enough to enjoy what I thought would most certainly be bitter to taste.

My taste stayed simple over the years. I didn't experiment much. I didn't like strawberries for their texture and I didn't like fruit that was soft and juicy. I didn't eat tomatoes and I didn't even know what asparagus was. It wasn't until after college that I tried to be more adventurous. While living in New Jersey I met a wonderful young nurse who was from the phillipines. SHe introduced me to sushi and I never looked back. I realized how much I could be missing by not at least trying something new. When I moved to Tuscon I was introduced to Tex-Mex and a wonderful herb called cilantro. And another world opened up. Black beans and re-fried beans. The sweet , the salty and the savory! While living in MAryland a friend invited me to dinner at his home. His father, who was also from the Philipines made a chicken and rice dinner that I can still taste if I concentrate. Filled with garlic and sesame and soy sauce and not Uncle Ben's rice but a jasmine infused delight. What fun eating had become!

But I had not ventured into cooking. It seemed rather complicated. I was able to boil water and make spaghetti. I could cook some chicken and steam brocoli but to try anything fancy was beyond my scope. I had cookbooks. Betty Crocker and The Joy of Cooking. But where do you find exotic ingredients to make a recipe work? How do you prepare meat so it is tender and not tough and chewy? Cooking, it seemed was a lot of work.

It was many years later when I was a new mom. Drake was an infant. It was a cold winter and I was not used to being home with nothing in particular to do. Drake was a calm and easy baby, my how things can change, but he was and if I enjoyed shopping we could have hit every mall between here and New York. But I don't . So we got cable instead. And I discovered Food Network! I am a visual learner. Things come so much easier if I can watch it happen then copy it. In school I would read about a medical procedure but until I could see it in action it didn't make much sense and so it was with cooking! Oh the excitement of watching someone bring the food together step by glorious step! It opened my culinary curiosity. I learned to chop, saute, mince and sear. I started to describe food as creamy, succulent. I told people I was letting the flavors "marry" when I described my food preparation. I bought a fancy knife and saute pan. I discovered what a lemon could add to a recipe. I learned how to "zest" and I made fresh lemonade. What is sour when you bite it becomes sweet with a little effort.

My husband was very happy that winter. His taste buds had always been more adventurous than mine but now he was coming home to cilantro pesto pasta with shrimp, soy seared scallops and home made hot fudge. Even meatloaf became an occasion with thyme and bacon added to the recipe. Most dinners were successful. But even when they weren't he ate them. I learned that silence meant I had hit the joy button in his stomach and a polite, " This is good." really meant "you don't need to make this again" . And that is okay because it was and remains a learning process.

It was around the same time my taste buds were trying to expand and reach out to new flavors, my spiritual side was calling out. I was working for a company that sent me from hospital to hospital to fill in where there was a staffing shortage. I enjoyed the experience and with each new town I found a new church to try out. I tried Lutheran, I tried Baptist, I tried some not so traditional. Some were engaging and welcoming and some not so much. In Georgia my good friend Paula invited me to church with her, a large congregational church that was welcoming and I enjoyed it. But in all these trips to church I never onced opened a Bible. I don't know why . I guess I didn't think it was necessary. Or perhaps it just seemed too large , too omninous. I had watched The Ten Commandments with my mother when I was young. I got the general jist. I tried reading the Bible once when I was in HS and I couldn't get past the Old Testmament and all the names and who was the son of whom so I gave up.

There was no Bible Channel to bring it all to life. The visual side of me just needed someone else to bring meaning to all the words.

I have Bibles. I have several. None of them are mine. I have my grandmother's confirmation Bible given to her on her confirmation day June 1914. I have my grandfather's Bibles. And a Bible given to my mother by her grandfather. But all of these are of sentimental value, they are worn and near falling apart. So the words sit unread. In 2001 I joined a congregational church and left the work to someone else. it's like eating out, you get the benefit of someone else's knowledge and experience and you walk away with a full belly. .

This past winter I attended a Bible study a friend was hosting. On the very first morning we sat in her comfortable living room surrounded by food she had prepared . Normally I would have been asking her about her food where she got the recipes how she prepared each item but it was her Bible that had me intrigued. It was huge! So much bigger than any of my sentimental Bibles and I thought this Bible study may take longer than I thought. When I asked her about her Bible she gave me a smile filled with joy, " it has an index" she said. " A what?" An index she explained so when she wanted a Bible verse she could look up a word and find a verse that might speak to her, bring meaning or understanding in a difficult time or express the joy in her life. She handed the Bible to me and I opened it. Nirvana! It had pictures! Photographs, maps, diagrams and an index. just like you would look up peppered flank steak in your cookbook you could look up "faith", which I don't necessarily recommend unless you have lots of time to burn. I had found my cook book Bible! I had found a version of food network for my soul! I ordered the same Bible. When it came my husband flipped through it. He stopped at Mathew 6:25, his favorite verse. "Therefore I tell you do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food and the body more than clothes?" Simple , to the point and how my husband lives. Being a man who prefers a recipe with less than five ingredients, one Bible verse pretty much sums it up.

Now it didn't seem so daunting. Finding a scripture was at my fingertips. "Gracious words are a honey comb sweet to the soul and healing to the bones." It is like having hot fudge at your finger tips, okay almost like having hot fudge.

We need to feed our souls just as we feed our bodies. We have to balance the sweet and the sour in life. Life is not full of all or one. There is a CHinese proverb that says " Sour, sweet, bitter, pungent must all be tasted." And it is true. We cannot appreciate the sweetness if there is not some sour or bitter along the way.

On my husband's 40th birthday I arranged a small dinner party. I prepared tyler Florence's horseradish crusted prime rib and Rachel Ray's "you won't be single for long Vodka cream sauce", which I can tell you from personal experience is true to its title. One of our friend's who was coming for dinner asked me a week or so before when I told her what I was preparing inhaled sharply and said " aren't you nervous it won't come out right?" " I simply said no. it was hard to explain the faith I had in Tyler Florence and Rachel ray and in Pizzeria Davinci should it all go wrong. (when in doubt , order out) And so it is in the journey we take with God.

Faith is not a sprint, it's more like a marathon. Just as you wouldn't crank the oven to 500 degrees in the hopes of roasting the chicken quicker. You don't just wake up full of faith. Faith comes in bits and pieces, it comes from following the words given to us. The Bible is our cookbook for life. It gives us the words we need to be successful, to be joyful. There are more than a hundred versus with the word joy in them. I didn't know this until I had an index.

And so we don't bite the lemon just because there is a promise of lemonade. We take the time to slice, juice, zest and add sugar. We follow the recipe with patience and the reward is sweet. Julia Child said " you don't have to cook fancy or complicated masterpieces-just good food from fresh ingredients." And that is how we can live our lives. The Bible is filled with recipes to see you through the complicated and the trying. To find a joyful life you just need to take the time, follow the instructions and the rewards will be there for you to taste.

Amen

Good-bye 182

In 2001 my husband and I purchased our first home. We had a patient real estate agent that took us through so many homes we said no to I half expected her to fire us. She didn’t. She paid attention to the things we did like and what made us say, “Are you kidding me?” Thankfully she had a good sense of humor. And her patience paid off for all of us. She found a perfect cape, yellow and sun filled with a small yard in a cul-de-sac neighborhood. I did a drive by when she gave me the address and I was smitten even with the over grown bushes and peeling paint. It looked like an antique home with its center chimney and eight over eight windows but was only a little older than me. I was in love.


We moved in on a warm day in May. Friends and family turned out to help us. The kitchen had no dishwasher and the stove was a behemoth of white enamel, original to the home. The walls needed paint but we had Dutch doors in the kitchen and a corner toilet in the small bathroom, which was quaint and a great conversation piece. The full bath had pale yellow tile on the walls and smaller yellow tile on the floor. The vanity ran almost the full length of the wall with a place for a chair. The living room was one large room with a fireplace in the middle. There was a screen porch with stone tile and large windows bathing the large room with sun and warmth. We had struck gold on our first home.

A few months after we settled in our neighbor came over while I was in the yard and began chatting about how nice it was to see the house with some life in it. She gave me the history. An older couple bought the land and had the house built in the late 60’s and by older she meant a couple in their 30’s with no children. She looked at my apologetically, realizing I was in my 30’s. She explained the couple lived in the house for a few years when the woman became ill and then passed away. The husband lived alone for a short time. The house stood empty for many years until it was purchased by a young couple. The couple we purchased it from, according to my neighbor, was never home. They were both executives with Nordstrom’s. It didn’t surprise me because the house barely looked lived in and the stove was immaculate. We had wondered because although the house was clean, it hadn’t been given much love.

Two weeks ago my childhood home sold. My father had it on the market for quite some time. It was outdated, as was the charming cape. I tried to see it through the eyes of someone who would walk in, looking for perhaps their first home. I suppose there isn’t much that is charming about a raised ranch with a brown tiled bathroom and shiny off white wall paper but then my vision is blurry from the moments chiseled into my memory along with the tile and the wall paper. Perhaps charm can be over-rated. Wall paper covers every wall and the downstairs has wood paneling. My pink rug is still there along with the dainty rose wall paper I picked out. The trees in the yard, pine trees from various Christmases, over growing and crowding out the yard I ran through as a child, jumping into leaf piles and playing tag with friends.

The new couple is probably moved in now. The wall paper being stripped and the paneling pulled down. The walls will be freshly painted and new voices will pepper the rooms. Perhaps they are as excited as my husband and I were when we moved into our little cape and painted the walls and planted new shrubs. It feels wonderful to give a home a fresh beginning and decorate it with your life. I hope my childhood home gets the same revival.





When my father first put the house on the market he did offer to sell it to us. I won’t say my immediate response was no. I am too sentimental to just wave the offer away as though it were a fly trying to land. I did give it some thought and the more I thought the more I realized I would have lived perpetually in the 70’s or worse in the 80’s. No one should have to re-live the 80’s. The past is something I am all too good at retrieving but not very good at letting go of. And retrieving too far into the past doesn’t leave room for the present. I also realized as my father moved much of his house into my house; coolers, Tupperware, furniture, that it is not the walls that hold the memories. The memories follow us and shape us and comfort us. It is not necessary to live in the past to appreciate it and retrieve it …once in awhile.

Summer Memories

As a child I spent many summers at a small beach community on the Connecticut shore. It has been years since I have done anything more than visit for a day. My husband, preferring the Cape was never convinced that a piece of heaven could exist along Connecticut’s shoreline. I managed to convince him last summer that a week would be all it would take to make him a believer; it took less than a few hours.


I suppose there are a few communities left that have playgrounds and tennis courts and activities for kids that don’t require a mom to lug everyone back and forth all day long. But this community holds a sweet spot in my heart. My kids can do what I did, ride bikes, swim, go crabbing, play on the playground and I can see them at all these activities from my front porch. Of course I don’t think they fully grasp what a gift this is. I am sure I didn’t grasp how lucky I was to spend lazy summers bike riding , playing in the sand and eating a diet of corn on the cob and ice cream. Now as I bike around the years slip from my body, dropping a decade here and a decade there until I am freckle faced, toe headed and not to mention quite a few pounds lighter. I ride past cottages we rented, some updated, some not and can see through the windows and find myself playing “war” with my patient mother and two decks of cards, eating ice cream with my cousins and washing sand and salt off my tanned skin in the outdoor shower.

I can hear the waves lapping gently on the shore at night like a lullaby softly singing me to sleep. The thick hum of voices and laughter of the adults who came to visit my parents rings in my ears all these years later. Afternoons were spent swimming and digging in the sand until the six o’clock whistle blew and my father would have to concede that another beach day had come to an end and mom would be waiting for us. He would station me in the metal bike seat, no helmet, no belt and I would wobble behind him as he steered us home, his unbuckled sandal straps flapping all the way.

I would play with children I saw one month out of the year but we would pick up where we left off. We would make drippy sand castles and hunt for sea glass. We would wrap ourselves in towels and our feet in kelp like Roman sandals, and then parade up and down the boardwalk. Babies slept on blankets and the sweet smell of Coppertone coconut oil blew across your face with the breeze.

A group of older women sat near us each day. Their beach chairs creating a half circle facing the water and their voices chatting until the sun itself became tired. One woman had short cropped hair, white as a pale moon and silver bangle bracelets running up her arms. Her skin hung from her bones like dried kelp, brown and wrinkled, yet there was something innately attractive about her. Her whole being seemed one with the sand and the ocean as though she had been born from it. I watched for her arrival each day it signaled the completeness of my beach experience.

These women were perhaps grandmothers then. They may have been resting from their many summers of swimming, sand castle building and crabbing with their own children. I never knew their names. But I am sure their grandchildren are here somewhere. Time moves forward and although it does feel a bit like a time warp and 1975 is swirling around in my own mind, I can see the changes. Kids are now parents, parents now grandparents. The beaches are the same, the charge in the air each morning as the sun rises and the salt air blows in through the windows and the echo off the water of voices as people begin their day with a bike ride, a run or a walk with an old friend.

As I sit on the beach, my three year old perched on my lap, I am fully aware that to some young girl I am the older woman, perhaps slightly dried out by the sun but on the inside I am 5, digging in the sand and breathing in the salty sweetness of my childhood.

I have been a nurse for nearly 20 years. It is hard to believe, especially considering how many years I have lamented over what a hard job it is. I remember a few years into my career as Florence Nightingale complaining to a friend about my job. 

I said I should have picked something else. His response was, “If you weren’t a nurse, you would be a social worker, you have to help people.” That wasn’t what I was going for in the sympathy department, but he had a point. I am pretty sure I was the only kid in high school packing a First Aid kit.  

Over the years I have been yelled at, sworn at, kicked and thrown up on, the latter two being not unlike my other day job as mom. I have emptied bed pans and given bed baths. I have spent more time with other people’s bodily fluids then I have with my own.
I have measured and examined and tested stuff better left without description should you be reading this over breakfast. I have also been hugged and thanked.  I have been trusted and confided in. I have held someone’s hand as a doctor gave them bad news and cried with husbands, wives or children after their loved one passed on.

Over 20 years, I have had a cast of characters walk through my life. People I know I never would have met if I had not been assigned to care for them. Over 20 years, I have had a cast of characters walk through my life. People I know I never would have met if I had been assigned to care for them.
As I was working as a home-care nurse several years ago, I had the chance to realize how truly special my job is by walking through the door of an elderly couple’s home on a humid August day. The house was pretty beat up on the outside but that hardly prepared me for the inside.
On first inhalation, when I entered the house, I was overcome by a stale smell of mothballs and cat urine. The wife who greeted me was about 4 feet tall with white hair pulled into a tight bun at the top of her head. She was thrilled to see me and for a moment I thought perhaps she thought I was a cleaning service.

She escorted me to her small kitchen where her husband, my new patient, sat. He greeted me with as much enthusiasm. He held out a thin hand and grasped mine rather tightly and smiled broadly.
I looked around the kitchen and saw dishes piled up in the sink and stuff on the counters. I gingerly sat on the chair. I pulled out my paperwork and started my usual spiel on how home care works. They listened intently and only after they asked if I would stay and help did I realize all they cared about was having me there.

They weren’t listening to all the mumbo jumbo I was spewing out at them. The husband did need my help and I realized as the visit progressed how scared he was and how scared she was for him.
They had been married for nearly 60 years, which seemed then and even now a wildly unobtainable goal. They were gentle and loving toward one another and found humor in almost anything. After my second visit, the wife dubbed me “Hollywood.”

At the time, I wore sunglasses that were tinted blue and my hair was very long and blonde. I guess I was as close to Hollywood as they were going to get. I had to make several visits with them before they were both comfortable with what they had to do. I always saved their visit for last. The smell seemed to stay with me and although I never really enjoyed being in their home, I truly enjoyed their company.

They were always happy to see me. They never complained about a late-day visit.  They were never angry and they only did what I asked of them and never ran to their computer to show me what they found on WebMD that made my visit nearly obsolete. The wife was forever dusting off a knickknack from one her shelves and trying to give them to me. Thankfully we were not allowed to accept gifts. She whispered once she wouldn’t tell anyone and tried to put a glass cat in my bag.
I blocked her like a lineman and explained I could get into trouble. She backed off. She certainly didn’t want to get me into trouble. 

On my last visit, I started to explain to them that I didn’t need to come any more. The wife looked rather shocked and the husband started ringing his hands. I was pretty sure I had explained in the beginning I wouldn’t be around long. Medicare doesn’t like you to overstay your welcome.
I came to understand that my first visit where I explained I wouldn’t be around long had gone completely over their heads. They had been too worried and all they wanted at that moment was someone to help them, show them what they needed and reassure them it was going to be OK.
Eventually the look of shock left them and the wife ran into the living room to dust off a glass elephant the size of my nursing bag. The husband grabbed my hand and gave me a long look with watery blue eyes. He told me I was wonderful and that he would miss my visits. They both hugged me goodbye and I closed the door, leaving behind the stale smell and the glass elephant.
I will always remember that couple and the smell in the house and the way the husband held my hand. It made me realize that even though I don’t always love certain tasks that come with my job, I do love being able to help someone. I had judged them by the contents of their house when I first met them.

I almost lost sight of what I was there for. That couple wasn’t worried about how I looked or how I dressed.They just needed me to be a kind soul and help them. I understood as I closed the door behind me it didn’t matter what was inside the home, what mattered was what I brought through the door and what I left behind.

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