Oh, Holy Night

Gramma, 

Drove an hour to see two of my grandchildren perform in the annual "holiday" music program.   It has become commonplace in many schools to avoid any reference to Christmas.  The music teacher has been with the district for three years.  She is young, energetic, and innovative with her selections.  This year, it was very jazzy. 

The singing also involved actions, with hands, entire body movement and sometimes instruments.  There was a song about lighting a candle for peace.  The lights were dimmed.  Three kids with flameless candles lit the candles of other students, who in turn spread the light until they all held lit candles.  It was a somewhat mournful song, almost a lamentation of the futility of hoping for peace. 

Tears ran down my face as I though of the children of Aleppo being murdered, their last vestiges of hope and life being witnessed on social media.  Their parents pleading for help, the world watching.  No savior arriving.  No peace for them. 

For more than a month, Veve has been telling me they have been practicing a super secret song they can't tell anyone about.  She was very excited about it.  She is in the third grade.  I didn't pry.  The third, fourth and fifth grade sang their separate songs.  Then they performed together. 

The teacher was visibly nervous.  The auditorium was dark.  She told the crowd that she hoped we would like it.  She didn't know how we would receive it.  The kids worked very hard to make this happen.  As she tuned her guitar, I heard what I thought were the first frail notes of what I couldn't believe was coming. 

The kids began with soft voices, as if they were far away.  "Oh Holy Night, the stars are brightly shining, this is the night of our dear Savior's birth...."  Their voices rang out louder and louder.  The music teacher sang solo for two verses while the kids did the chorus.  Her voice conveyed a passion for what she was doing.  My eyes were leaking again.  You could hear a pin drop when it was over. 

I was among the first to stand up.  Somebody had dared to put Christ back in Christmas in a public school.  I wondered if she had gotten permission for this.  Would it become necessary to sign a reinstatement petition? 

The quality of the children's voices was beyond their years.  I would guess there were some unfamiliar with the Christmas story.  I wondered if in the process of learning the words, they were helped to understand.  Had the teacher taken a chance on overstepping boundaries to explain it?  Whatever happened here and whoever was in on it, Wow, just Wow. 

Super Moon

Gramma,

My super-size corgi is on a diet.  She is also on a hunger strike.  This morning I told her to step away from the dog dishes.  She knows the command.  I offered her a separate bowl of diet kibble that only she could access.  Refusal.  My corgi's have a lot of cat-like behaviors.  She walked away without even trying to vie for the prime morning spot under my desk.  I guess we aren't speaking.  I will give her a few days before I change tactics. 

Last night was the "Super Moon."  I went outside to watch it come up through the tree line.  I've been sick with something upper respiratory, so went to bed early.  The moon glow falls across my pillow as I drift off.  I planned to be outside before dawn to watch it finish the night.  Too late.  The cat weighs me down. 

My barking cough kept me from my dentist appointment.  I planned to not get dressed, maybe even go back to bed and read a book.  It's grey and dreary, but not cold.  I half-heartedly make a to-do list for the week.  I don't want to do anything.  I waste time on the computer.  Then, Bob shows up.  He used to own this house.  He lives in Colorado.  He has the gate code.  He will try to get an invitation to dinner and several nights of free lodging.  He has his a new little pound puppy with him. 

Our conversation is punctuated by my frequent coughing.  Bob quit playing Santa years ago because the kids always got him sick.  He tells me he will be in town through Thanksgiving, almost two weeks.  As usual, he repeats himself.  I nod and cough.  He tells me what he has been up to and that he has brought a car load of things for his step-kids.  Dave texts me while we are visiting.  I look at the phone and smile. 

I tell Bob that I need to let Dave know I got his text about working late.  I text him, "Bob is here."  And, I smile, because Bob drives him nuts.  He shows up without warning and stays without an invitation.  He helps himself to whatever's in the fridge.  He sits in Dave's chair.  He expects that I will cook three meals and dessert.  My phone is lighting up with Dave's texts.  "Fuck."  "Not staying at the house."  "Four dog limit."  "Hello." 

I snap Bob's picture.  His dog is sitting on the back of Dave's chair.  Good thing I can't laugh while coughing.  I hit send.  "FUCK," Dave responds.  I smile as Bob keeps talking.  I tell him Dave says hi.    Bob decided to leave.  I didn't even have to encourage him by telling him I needed to go back to bed.  I could have offered him some home made apple pie or something to drink, or dinner later in the week.  He will likely be back before he heads home. 

I text the neighbor that he is in town.  She says, thanks for the heads up."  They too have gates, and he does not have their code.  He will knock on other doors, looking for food and shelter.  I like Bob well enough.  I am more tolerant than Dave when it comes to this kind of intrusion.  My eyes glaze over and the mind wanders after awhile. Dave fumes. 

The next morning I went to feed Mr. Peepers, my canary.  Bob's dog had  left me a dog bomb and wet spot by the cage.  I had promised a friend recovering from back surgery that I would clean her house.  There was no other day I could do it.  While I was there, Bob called her.  She did not pick up.  We listened to his message inviting himself for a get-together.  I came home, still sick, exhausted, and too tired to drag the carpet cleaner upstairs. 

I'm a little jumpy.  I heard a car door slam outside and said "Oh fuck," to myself.  He's back.  It was the mail lady delivering Christmas gifts I had ordered online.  I look at my calendar for the next week to see how much stuff I have going on, real excuses.  Then I figure out how many other excuses I need to make up, just in case. 

Seven Week Shit Show

Gramma, 

It's been a seven week shit show since I last posted.  My daughter-in-law is raging hormone pregnant with number three and ornery as a billygoat kept from his harem.  She has been punishing the five-year-old and the eight-year-old for their age appropriate transgressions by not letting them visit gramma.  They are driving her nuts.  Way to shoot yourself in the foot.  I would have jumped at the chance to be rid of them.  We had it out.  I called her a very bad word and she heard about it.  It was accurate, but for the sake of the grandkids, I apologized to make nice. 

Then I had a bike accident.  A friend in our bike club rear-ended me when we were taking off from a stop sign.  Both our bikes went down.  My right foot was trapped under the floorboard with about 800 pounds of weight on it.  My bike was weighted down by the bike that ran into me.  There were two riders on it, so more weight.  The other bike, which was stuck on my tailpipes,  had to come up first. 

When my bike was lifted off me, I had to lay on the road while the pain subsided.  We were about seventy miles from home.  I asked Dave and the other guy to help me up by grabbing me under the armpits so I didn't put weight on it.  I didn't take my boot off for fear that I wouldn't be able to get it back on.  It hurt, but I rode my bike home anyway, stopping for a few beers on the way. 

Two weeks later, I had ex-rays done.  With two fractured toes and a fractured ankle, I went home with a mechanical walking brace.  It is man-sized, and I hate it.  Feels like I'm dragging a log around.  I don't wear it consistently, but I wore it through the airport on an emergency trip to Denver.  It got me better seats on the way there and back. 

My daughter's boyfriend put her in the hospital.  She had a black eye, concussion, dislocated jaw and he had pulled out plenty of hair.  The doctor gave her the name of a good plastic surgeon. 

Her boyfriend called before I found out about this.  He was distraught and told me my daughter was on meth and seeing a Mexican guy with tattoos on his neck.  She wasn't making her condo payments and hadn't been to work in awhile.  My heart sunk to the pit of my stomach.  He didn't know why she was doing this and he wanted to get her some help.  He wanted to work things out.  He had been crying non-stop over their broken relationship.  He didn't understand.  He had done so much to help her.  Then he says, "I shouldn't have done it, but I hit her." 

After a long, pregnant pause, I asked "Why did you hit my daughter?"  Because she just kept pushing me and pushing me and pushing me.  And he was crying.  After I hung up, I called my daughter. Reluctantly, she admitted that she was in the hospital.  She didn't want me to come out.  She sent a picture to her brother.  I asked him to send it to me.  She was the face of domestic violence.  Ashkahn had made it sound like he had hit her once.

He kept frantically calling and texting both of us while we were on the phone.  He wanted to know if I knew anything, if I had heard from her.  I said I had not and that she rarely responds to my calls or texts.  He knew that was true.  He just wanted her to get help.  I said, I will be out to get her some help." 

to be continued....

Fear

It stormed last night.  The Wicket was hiding under the stove when I got up.  She wouldn't even come out for a meat stick.  She snarled when one of the other dogs made off with it.  Wicket is such a meatloaf that I was concerned about her being stuck.  Fear can get you into places not easily escaped.   There may have been tornado sirens.  Dave and I sometimes hear them, but go back to sleep because we can't care.  

Frog Symphony

Gramma,

The spring frog symphony has arrived.  Warm up begins around nine, working up to a crescendo about 11:00.  This is one of my favorite sounds.  It takes away the constant noise in my head and redirects it to a magic place where nothing matters, almost like laughing gas.  Yesterday it rained, so the air was intoxicating, an amazing pairing of sound and smell.  I lay in bed, euphoric as I drift off to sleep. 

My mind races most of the time, much like the  breaking of billiard balls on a pool table--off in every direction, free associating forward, backward and sideways in time.  There is background music with this, most often an Italian piece that drives me up the wall.  I could take more meds, but I don't want more side-effects. 

My nighttime bi-polar cocktail would take a horse to the ground.  I can't sleep without it.  Even so, I wake up any time after two, and often need a booster to help me get back to sleep.  Before I had my dosage upped, I often heard indiscernable voices, like a radio between stations.  I could tell what kind of music it was and when there were commercials or the announcer was talking, but nothing  clear, too much static. 

Another of my favorite sounds are the windchimes hanging from shepherds hooks around the yard.  This too, takes away the pervasive racket in my head.  Chirping birds at the feeder below my window is a calming morning distraction.  The smell of fresh cut grass and new mown hay is  therapeutic.  If these feelings of serenity could be bottled, we would all be happy. 

I love the smell of pot, but ingesting it makes me dopey, incoherent and worst of all, inert.  Unproductive is intolerable for me.  The kids found my night time baked goods under my bed and that was the end of that.  Dave always asks first before eating any cookies stored in the freezer.  Some of my friends are incredibly functional on high dosages pot, others, not so much.  Beer helps. 

When I'm on my way off the planet, I want these sounds and smells to herald my exit.  And mainline the beer please.  I look forward to the day I am greeted by all the animals I loved and can again apologize to those I failed.  Meanwhile, I am sustained by these little bits of heaven. 

Fountain of Vanity

Gramma

Upon return from California, I hit the ground running towards the Fountain of Vanity.  Less than a week left before the big incision revision.  Two years past, I found this highly esteemed lady plastic surgeon on the internet.  She was plastic surgeon of the year in a Minneapolis/St. Paul Magazine Best Of issue. So that you don't end up looking like a Picasso, I cannot emphasize enough the importance of doing your homework before you let someone rearrange your face. 

As I spend all summer riding motorcycle and digging in the dirt, I had eons of sun damage, including some precancerous spots.  Dr. Jess suggested I do a laser burn on my face.  "You'll look ten years younger," she said.  "It can be done in my office," she said.  "It will be painful, but you will save a couple thousand dollars by not using a hospital," she said.  "You will probably hate me for a little while, but the results will be worth it."   

Dr. Jess showed me some before and after photos of clients who had experienced this procedure.  "It will be painful and you will hate me for awhile," she said.  Ten years younger was the hook. 

"You can't hurt me.  I have given birth and gotten divorced," I replied.   

I cannot emphasize enough how painful this was.  As I was screaming at one point, Dr. Jess opted not to laser my nose.  Afterwards, my face looked like it had come into close contact with a UFO.  It hurt worse than road rash.  Afterwards, you must have a fairly sterile environment to come home to.  Every few hours there is face cleaning of debris (dead skin), and reapplication of Aquaphor, which gets goo in and on everything.  Unless you are into sado-masochism, I highly don't recommend it.  At one point, I could not quit throwing up.  Poor Dr. Jess was on the phone 40 miles away listening in horror as I re-enacted scenes from The Exorcist. 

Dr. Jess assured me that a lower face lift would be a walk in the park compared to the laser treatment.  And so it was that two years later I had enough money in my "Emergency Facelift Fund" to go through with it.  The sagging of my neck and lack of definition in my jawline was a constant source of psychological torture for me.  I played with my face nearly every day, pulling the wrinkles tight in perverse ways that made me look "Fast".  Yes, I am pathetically vain and make no secret of it.  I often referenced my "Emergency Facelift Fund" in relation to whatever catastrophe depleted it or a Craig's List sale that added to it.