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 |  Just play: don't look at your hands! |
What a dumb title for a person who never got a single star  on her piano lessons!Daily practice is the thing though: the practice of noticing as well as of writing.  However, I'd much rather play duets than solos, so hop right in! You can do the melody or the base part, I don't care.  Just play along--we'll make up the tune as we go. I'll try to write regularly and deliberately. Sometimes I will do it poorly, tritely, stiltedly, obscurely. I will try to persevere regardless. It seems to be where my heart wants to go, and that means to me that God wants me there too. See you tomorrow. ![Merit Badge in Journaling
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| I'm suffering from too many emotions today, and so I should pick one piece, a nice one, to share. But maybe I'll have to rant a little first. The meeting I went to last night got side-tracked. Granted, it was about pastoral care, and the topic was definitely connected to the care of one of our people. Still, I felt uncomfortable and by the end of the evening was riled up and angry. Two weeks ago there was a national church training in Yakima on the topic of cultural sensitivity. I had a funeral to be part of, and did not go to the training. It was evidently excellent, and I can see now that I should have gone, because I'm not feeling very sensitive. A black woman, Lorna, left our church this summer because of a remark made by a man in a study group. The man was relating a time when he was talking to a group of people and said their enterprise didn't have a "Chinaman's chance" of succeeding. There were Chinese people in his audience. The black woman, who is very shy, said she was hurt by that, but then went on with a task. Later, she left, very upset because no one had denounced the racist remark. She did the same thing ten years ago in a group I was in charge of. Another woman, Nan, in the group had just returned from the burial of a very Southern relative in Atlanta. Her cousin, very Old South, made a racial remark. Nan did not repeat the remark, but only said it had made her very uncomfortable and she hadn't known what to say or do, as she was accepting this cousin's hospitality. Lorna was very upset that the remark was allowed to stand, and she left church for several months. In both cases, people called and tried to apologize, tried to do whatever was necessary to soothe her wounded feelings, to no avail. She felt as if she had been "run over by a truck." This group was exceedingly distraught by the incident, and everyone talked about what a hard life she had lived (married and now divorced from an egotistical, white, college professor whom I know nothing about but suspect he was a jerk.) They said that we don't know how awful it is to be a minority, most often a token black person in our community, and all that is true. Various people mentioned other sensitivities they'd witnessed: a camp cook who quit when a camper asked for "squaw corn," someone who was offended by the verb to gyp because it came from the word gypsy. Even more difficult are the times when people are hurt, not by carelessness, but by outright hatred, because of their race or ethnicity. Yes, I can't imagine how awful it is to have someone take one look at me and lock their car doors because I might rob or rape them. I can't imagine how it would feel to have strangers be afraid I was a terrorist, or a child molester, or even a welfare cheat. On the other hand, I think Lorna has taken this thing too far. Yes, we're not supposed to blame the victim. But doesn't she have some responsibility to confront people effectively herself, to learn to do so despite her shyness? As one woman said, "You mean, if I'd said my children were behaving like wild Indians this morning, she would have been offended?" The answer was yes. We cannot dismiss the subject as stupid PC stuff, "political correctness" that some have such disdain for. We must learn not to tell sexually offensive jokes except to our good friends whose tastes we know. We certainly must learn to pay attention to our audience, no matter what we're saying. It's good manners, and good sense. I want to say that if someone didn't intend to insult me, I should overlook it. But that's not quite true either. If I want them to be aware that fat lady jokes could be hurtful, I'd better be able to tell them so, in a way that isn't retaliatory or rude. I think such unintentional remarks should certainly be forgiven. At the same time, we do need to learn to be more sensitive. How would we like it if the words were aimed at us? Maybe I'll get to the nice story tomorrow. After all, it's only October! |
| Remember how we thought it was funny that October only had 30 days in the WDC calendar? Guess what, now it has 31! But, oops, WDC, it's November! (Watch: they'll probably get this 'typo' corrected and y'all will wonder what I'm talking about. The current calendar says October instead of November.) Oops. I've been online half the day hunting for motels for the Thanksgiving weekend, and at each site I have to switch the availability calendar from October to November to mark the days I want. Guess I forgot what month we're really in.... |
| What can you do, if anything, about stinky people? I just came from the grocery. As I walked down the produce aisle, I passed three people who were all coming toward me: a large, unkempt man and woman, evidently his wife, and a smaller woman in sweats and hoody who appeared neat. Seconds later there was a terrible odor. I mentally pegged the man and planned to avoid going the same direction he was headed until the air had cleared out. It was really bad! Then, as I was on my way to the checkout line, the woman in the hoody wafted by, and I knew for sure where the smell had come from. I hoped that she did not follow me through the checkout line, and even considered what I could do to make my line one she would not pick. I could leave my cart in search of a forgotten item; I could exclaim loudly that the prices weren't right on some of my items; if worse came to worse, I could drop a jar of mayonnaise. {i:laugh} Of course, I wouldn't do any of those things, but I gave it a thought. I think she picked another lane, but I didn't want to look around in case she caught my eye and was encouraged to come over. Then, of course, I chastised myself for being so unkind. There are plenty of poor people in the world who don't have washers and can't afford to go to the laundry. There are people who don't have bathing facilities even. Then I thought of my co-worker, Arlene, who slept in a tent much of last winter after her house burned down, and who still has no running water. She heats water in a 20 gallon percolator, cools it with jugs of water she hauls from town, and has an improvised shower which works quite well. But then she is bright and able, even at 71. The first stinky person I remember was in 5th grade, a girl in my gym class who looked much too old for that grade and was the first girl I'd ever seen in a slitted, straight skirt. She had large lips, and wore gobs of lipstick, and tight sweaters with little knitted angora collars that tied in the front. And she had B.O. b-a-d. (That was my mother's term for body odor.) My friends and I all talked about her, and probably said nasty things near her for her to hear. I don't remember doing it, but we probably did. Or maybe we even gave her some deodorant. I'm sure the health and PE teacher spoke to her, but I don't remember any of it having any effect. Today I didn't want to be unkind, but I did wonder if this lady knew she smelled. I'm always giving people the benefit of that particular doubt: maybe they don't know, and it would be a kindness to tell them. You know, like the old line from The Graduate, "I have just one word for you son, and that's 'PLASTICS.'" I could sidle up to her and whisper, "I have just one word for you, and that's HYGIENE." But, I didn't see her again and wouldn't have said anything anyway. Years ago, when I was working nights at a psychiatric hospital, the police brought a street person in because the weather was turning quite cold. (This was before people were called "homeless.") The man had been dumpster diving, if not living in there, and he was riper than anyone I'd been around before. (I actually think today's lady was on a par with him.) For the intake, I had to have him remove his belt, which he could hang himself with, and his boots, so he would be less likely to run away. When the boots came off, I gagged. I couldn't help it, and I apologized. He was very nice about it; he didn't take offense. When the belt was removed, his pants fell down, and he didn't have any underwear. He was embarrassed, and pulled them up quickly. I immediately got him a blanket to wrap around himself, in case he needed to get up again, or whatever. I was embarrassed too. He told me he wasn't crazy, and that the police had explained they were just bringing him in to have him checked out, because they were worried about him. He could spend the night, or some of it, in a bed where it was warm. I offered him a hot bath too, which I thought would be a rare treat. It was not. He explained to me very patiently that he lived the way he wanted to. He didn't like "walls." And, if it was all the same to me, he didn't like baths much either. The only thing he wished he had was a cigarette. That was back in the days when I was a smoker, and I offered him my mostly full pack to keep. He thanked me and allowed himself to take one to smoke then, and one for later. That was it. Shortly afterwards, he was released. If not his modesty, he at least kept his dignity. So I know that some people can't help smelling, and some don't care if they do. Maybe some even like it, or at least, like the distance they get from other people, or the negative attention. Nevertheless, I always include some nice soap and some laundry detergent in my bag of groceries to take to the Pantry Shelf. I know lots of people like to smell good. |
| When I brushed my teeth Monday morning, I hit a sore spot behind my last molar. By mid-morning my eye was hurting, then half my head. Tuesday it didn't get better, and my neck was stiff too, so I got a chair massage. Wednesday I got in to see my dentist, (easier than my doctor) who took an x-ray and said he thought it was a sinus infection. So this is my second day of antibiotics, and I still feel lousy. I went to the second session of Renovare last night, feeling blah at best, and found myself quiet and pretty inarticulate. The first exercise had already put me off when I read it at home last week, and I had decided to be honest about my reaction. The exercise was: Which of the following roles of Jesus have you experienced most often and understand the best? Jesus Christ as my Savior: he forgives my sins and sets me free...as my Teacher: he teaches me wisdom and guides me into truth...as my Lord: he lives at the center of my life...as my Friend: he understands and comforts me. All of that sort of falls into my category of "Jesus, my buddy" who I walk with and talk with, (and as a Presbyterian minister once added, "and he chucks me under the chin.") That whole "relationship with Jesus" idea has become so over-sentimentalized in my mind that it's a real turn-off. I believe in God. I understand the completely man-made doctrine of the Trinity, and the Son's place in the Godhead. I have tried to get into thinking of Jesus in any or all of the above roles: savior, teacher, friend. I can do it, but it doesn't come natural to me. It's quite easy for me to envision God in those roles, or the Christ that is to be found in every person, but not the man Jesus. I tried to explain, but was not very eloquent. Two people tried to help me, which wasn't all that much help. I wasn't asking to change. Two of the women in the group were very outspoken. The charismatic woman, who is very bright and articulate, and offered help in a way that was not condescending, was one. The other is an older woman, the mother of a friend, who took exception to several of the points in the book, and did so with a great display of knowledge of church history. The woman who started the group for us and will bow out when we're going on our own, didn't know what to say. The knowledgeable woman called me later to report that the leader had tears in her eyes, and that she herself felt quite bad about having been so argumentative; she said that she did want to continue in the group and she would not talk so much in the future. In the group, and afterwards, I felt a little overwhelmed. Facts of church history, etc., do not come readily to my mind. I didn't dispute the words of the author until Jane called them into question; now, I realize they did give me a surprise when I read them. Altogether, it was out of my comfort zone. At times in my life I've seen that as a clear sign for growth. Maybe I'm just getting old, but growth doesn't sound as interesting any more.  Nevertheless, this is the beginning of a new day, and, I hope, not a glum one. Here's an article that is much more interesting to me, by Scott Peck, (author of The Road Less Traveled) on the stages of spiritual growth. It has a lot to say about people who are not religious, even atheists, as well as those who are. It's long, but if you even read the first page or so beyond the introduction, I think you'll find the material interesting and surprising. http://www.hsuyun.org/Dharma/zbohy/Literature/Special/StagesOfSpiritualGrowth.ht... |
| No topic today, so I've had to go looking again. Here's what I found in blogs around town. A lurcher is poopy, Alfred is droopy, and dragonfly’s making a list. Nada’s been ‘necking,’ CC’s ‘what-the-heck’-ing, And somebody hopes to get kissed. Tor has kept hopping, Bugzy’s birthday is whopping! Anyea has keys without locks. Ken’s Pen reports courts: Cracks versus snorts. Scarlett’s at home  on the rocks. Yea for Mavis, who rescued two dogs. Perk up, Alfred. Good dragonfly: you'll do it, and then some! Heal up fast, Nada. Hail CC and the gang. Congratulations Tor: you hopped out of that one. A BIG HAPPY BIRTHDAY FOR THE BUGZ! Anyea, you're so creative! Ken. thanks for keeping us thinking about important things that go on in the outside world. Poor Scarlett! I'm hurting for you and your lost vacation. There were a bunch of other newsworthies too, but I couldn't make 'em rhyme. Here's my only news. Tomorrow the writers' group meets, and it occurred to me that if I want to submit anything seasonal for winter, I'd better get at it. So I'm taking these two old pieces to read for the ladies tomorrow, then will send them off down the e-road somewhere later this week. "Life in a Vacuum"  "The Existential Snowman" |
| Oh-oh, I'm in trouble. I've been cruising blogs for some ideas to write about. I've got nothing to say about frogs, potatoes, nip and tucks, and navel lint collections, but I guess I'll have to try. Tater Tot, the frog, was having a terrible day. His friends all called him Tater because he lived in a pond by a fast food joint, and the tidbits that were overlooked by the seagulls were his, all his. He had become a little, uh, tubby. The tubbier he got, the more he wanted to sit by the side of the pond singing out "Belly-deep, belly-deep," and the less he cared to hop about. Now, you might argue that frogs are not vegetarians, but Tater was. Even as a tadpole, he'd looked at flies for dinner with disgust. Sure, it was fun to catch them, but eat them! Yuck! Tater's friend Lulu was being honored next week at a ceremony at City Hall. Tater was going to have to hop into a tux, and his old one was much too small for him now. Whatever could he do? He couldn't disappoint her. She deserved a fit frog for an escort. After all, Lulu Hopper was the first frog in Muddy-Frogwater to learn to read. Once just a tadpole in the window well outside the old Carnegie Library, Lulu was never far from books. One summer while hunting flies, Lulu hopped up the steps behind a girl whose friends were straggling behind her. As the girl held the door open, scolding the group for being so slow, several flies flew past. Lulu saw her opportunity and in she went behind them. It was a strange, new world for Lulu inside. Tables, chairs, shelves and books as far as she could see: nothing looked familiar. At least there was some water. A small bowl of it had been put out for the library cat who was nowhere to be seen. Three or four humans stood peering at the shelves, picking out books to take home. They’d read a page or two and then tuck the book under their arm or put it back and go on to another. Lulu was careful to stay out of their way because they certainly weren’t looking where they were stepping. To the left of the door was a wide rack for magazines, and Lulu hopped up on it. She could see better from there. By this time she was curious. The only time frogs paid that close attention to anything was when they were on the trail of a fly. Something else was happening here, and Lulu wanted to find out what it was. The giggling girls descended on the magazines, and Lulu sat very still. She had chosen a Yard and Garden picture to blend into, and she watched and listened as the girls turned pages and exclaimed. “Oh look, a frog!” a girl in a pink sweater squealed. Her big hand reached out, and before she could do anything Lula was caught. “Hello little froggy. What are you doing? Trying to learn to read?” Pinky held her loosely, and all the girls clustered around her to see. “Oh isn’t she cute?” they cooed. Lulu didn’t know what to do, so she did nothing. “I could teach you how to read,” Pinky said. She spread the magazines on the table and set Lulu down beside them. “Maybe I should start with some children’s readers,” she said, and the girls all left to go gather some. This was Lulu’s chance. She could escape while there was no one watching her, but she didn’t. She stayed, and in the course of the summer, they taught her how to read. By fall the clever librarian set up a display of books facing the window well, and Lulu began to teach other young frogs to read without having to face the perils of people's feet and the heavy library doors. Next week Lulu would get an award for being Muddy-Frogwater's first literate frog, and Tater wanted to be beside her. So he pond-ered his options. He could go on a diet of nothing but navel lint for a week, or he could go to the local plastic surgeon for a tummy lift. Tater shook in his boots, that is, if he had boots, at that thought. He'd seen Jimmy, the plastic surgeon, before, when he caught Tater's father and hauled him off to biology class for a little experimentation. No sir. It was gonna have to be navel lint after all. Good thing Tater was a vegetarian. He was used to veggie-burgers, and veggie-chops with his tater tots. Navel lint wasn't really much worse. He exercised too. Every day he swam the pond five times, and did twenty pull-ups at the end (but that was mainly because he had a hard time getting his fat belly out; he kept slipping.) At the end of a week, Tater was in great shape. His tux fit him like second skin, and he was ever so proud to stand beside Lulu at the ceremony. In fact, he was so excited, he was hopping up and down. Oh well, this ends my blue month. Sorry if I've turned you all sickly green. Thanks for putting up with me, even when I don't have anything to say.  |
| Just warning you: this is a heavy subject. The folks who continue reading are likely to be only the ones who find my attitude sacrilegious, and they’ll be angry. The rest will probably be uninterested quickly. That’s okay. Come back again some other time. I won’t write much on this topic, not in public. Last week I joined a new group, just forming, of Renovare. I did so for some of the same reasons I mentioned regarding P.E.O. sorority, a women’s group that promotes women’s education. I need some closer ties to people who aren’t my family or my co-workers. It’s too easy for me to huddle away at my computer whenever I can, letting the rest of the world go by. I'm of an age when I need to be forging stronger bonds of friendship. This isn’t to say, at all, that the friends I’ve made here at WDC don’t count. They (YOU) count greatly, maybe too much. They are comfortable, and comforting. But they don’t require enough of me, don’t make me stretch and grow in quite the same way. They don’t make me, physically, reach out to help. I do having a feeling of accountability toward them, but in a different way, an easier way. I’m needing something more, in addition. I guess I’m not quite sure what it is or why, but I’m trying several different things. One is P.E.O, another is a writers’ group. Renovare is the third. Renovare is an ecumenical movement for Christian renewal and formation of spirituality. It was begun by Richard J. Foster, whose books Celebration of Discipline, Finding the Heart’s True Home, Prayer, and Freedom of Simplicity are well known. I have very mixed feelings about joining this group, and did so because they asked for only a 9-week commitment. Even with that, I’m not sure it’s fair to anyone else to have me there. I’m too much of a skeptic when it comes to organized religion, even though I’m a part of it. That’s two strikes against my being there. A book I’ve just begun is one that a Buddhist doctor recommended to me years ago. I bought it, but just found it again on a shelf, unread. I don’t know why I never got around to it. He wanted to discuss it with me. Maybe I was too intimidated to do that with him. He’s a brilliant, sharp-tongued man who “does not suffer fools gladly.” Unfortunately, he's no longer in the area. The book is A History of God, by Karen Armstrong. In the introduction she talks about her childhood faith, becoming a nun and then leaving the order, but continuing to be interested in the subject. She said that “God had never really impinged” on her life, although she had made every effort “to enable him to do so.” When she began to research this topic, the ways humankind perceived God throughout history, she learned something that she wished she had learned thirty years before. “It would have saved me a great deal of anxiety,” to have heard from eminent monotheistic theologians that “instead of waiting for God to descend from on high, I should deliberately create a sense of him for myself.” She went on to say that these same men told her that “God did not really exist—yet God is the most important reality in the world.” I completely understand what she’s saying. That’s why maybe I don’t belong in this small Renovare group of people who may be shocked by this attitude, or worse, brought down into confusion and a loss of faith by it. On the other hand, maybe that’s why I do belong there, to deliberately create a better sense of God for myself. Someone I've read recently was writing about a childhood experience of attending a church where a famous preacher was speaking. Despite the man's fame, the writer instantly felt he was a charlatan. When she went to another church to hear another well-known preacher, she was convinced that he was a holy man. I understand that too. I have been around a few people who I consider to be really whole (holy) people; and it is very impressive, in a way that just being religious is not. I want to know more about being whole. |
Er, sorry there. We Tivoed CSI (or maybe it was NCIS?) and went downstairs to watch Gray's Anatomy on the little TV by the ironing board. Then we saw about half of the new show that followed it, kind of a corporate male version of Desperate Housewives that promises to be entertaining as well. We taped the second half and went to bed. I can't stay up till 11 and still get Bill's breakfast and lunch made in the morning. I just keep sleeping.  Anyway, back to the canoe ride. It was the first week of August, and the water in that very cold, deep lake was as warm as it ever would be. The nights had the nip of approaching fall in the ai. The combination of warmer water and cold air gave us this mysterious mist hanging above the water, not so thick that you couldn't see where you were going, but, still, gave the scene a sense of privacy it might not have had otherwise. Intimacy. The only sounds were of the water as it was parted by the paddle and the drip as the paddle reached forward for another cut. Sometimes there was a creak in the seat as Dean shifted his weight, and a silenced swish as the boat surged forward. There was no rule about keeping quiet, but it became our custom, to move as silently as we could and not talk until we returned to the dock. Sometimes I paddled too; sometimes I just sat there, gliding through the mist as we navigated around some tree stumps that stuck out of the lake, or beneath willow branches as we headed up the creek. There was a beaver dam under construction, and we occasionally caught a glimpse of those furry little guys who were "as busy as beavers." Often a heron would light on a stump, or a deer might come down to the water's edge to drink. At those times, we would hold our paddles still and watch until something else disturbed the creatures and they left. Dean kept an eye on his watch, and turned us around in time to see the sun cresting the ridge on the other side of the lake beyond the campground. Then we'd paddle home with slivers of sunshine coloring every ripple and reach the dock by the time it was fully up. There's a chant in the Book of Common Prayer called the Benedicite, or the Song of Creation. My morning excursions into the mist covered water always made me think of parts of it, and if I could have remembered it all, I would have sung it, right there and then, regardless of the customary quiet. Here's a part of it: O ye Heavens, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever. O ye Waters that be above the Firmament, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever. O all ye Powers of the Lord, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever. O ye Sun and Moon, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever. O ye Stars of Heaven, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever. O ye Showers and Dew, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever. O ye Winds of God, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever. O ye Fire and Heat, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever. O ye Winter and Summer, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever. O ye Dews and Frosts, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever. O ye Frost and Cold, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever. O ye Ice and Snow, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever. O ye Nights and Days, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever. O ye Light and Darkness, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever. O ye Lightnings and Clouds, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever. O let the Earth bless the Lord : yea, let it praise him, and magnify him for ever. O ye Mountains and Hills, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever. O all ye Green Things upon the Earth, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever. O ye Wells, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever. O ye Seas and Floods, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever. O ye Whales, and all that move in the Waters, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever. O all ye Fowls of the Air, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever. O all ye Beasts and Cattle, bless ye the Lord : praise him, and magnify him for ever. And, to answer the questions you left me yesterday, one morning I did fall in the water, trying to get in smoothly and push off. (We went anyway. I put a sweater on and insisted I wasn't cold, and then spent a long time by the fire afterwards warming back up.) And yes, I did fall in love too. And it all turned out okay. |
| There's nothing worth writing about today. The first patient I went to visit, way out of town, was gone in the truck with his foster dad. The second, way out of town in the other direction, had his next door neighbor there, and she talked continually about her favorite restaurants in New Orleans, while he paced. So, here's a scene from my past which Bugzy's blog brought to mind. The first year that I was part of the program staff for senior high summer camp I mentioned that I had never been canoing. A big,tall, male counselor whom I had just met invited me to go with him. It was his habit, he said, to go every morning just before sunrise, and it was harder to paddle without someone in the front of the boat. He joked that if I didn't come with him, he'd have to find a rock to weigh down my seat. I'm not a morning person. Once I'm up, I really like morning, but that first step is hard to achieve. However, there were a lot of crows that had extensive conversations that just wouldn't wait till the sun was up, and so I was awake anyway. The campground is a fantastic piece of property on a point in lake Coeur d'Alene, across the bay from the public dock and accessible only by boat. Up from the public dock, at the end of the bay, is a creek that goes a short ways before it gets too shallow to travel. It was still dark when we met at the boathouse and got our paddles and life jackets. We talked in whispers as he instructed me about what to do next. Dean picked out a canoe, and we carried a canoe to the water and slid it across the pebbles that made up the beach. He motioned for me to climb in, and he pushed off and nimbly hopped in with one fluid movement. (Interrupted. I'll be back in an hour. Have to watch the opener of Gray's Anatomy. OR CSI? NO, don't tell me they're opposite each other!! Now what will I do?) |
| I'm not a very social person. Maybe 'sociable' is the word I'm hunting for. I spend a lot of time at work talking to people, but I don't hang out with a lot of people in my free time. I'm happy to go to the grocery, go home, make supper, do laundry, read a little, write a little, and love Bill. However, I know I need more friends. I used to have friends when I worked at the hospital, but I don't have enough in common with them to still have much connection. I never was much of one to party with the girls, except when I was divorced. Anyway, a lady I like and admire asked me last year to join her sorority, and I agreed. I thought we'd be moving to Pendleton within a year or so anyway, so I'd try it out. Flash: adult women's sororities are a lot like college sororities. I was in one then and didn't care too much about it either. I will say that the aims and the pledge, etc., mean a lot more to me now than they did then. There is a value in thinking of these ladies as sisters, having none of my own. They are mostly all at least ten years older than I am-- actually, I can think of only one exception-- and they needed "new blood." They need, as I will need someday, ladies who are still able and who will come visit, go out to lunch together, share their joys and sorrows. Most of the year I've been unable to attend meetings for job related reasons. We'd have an in-service that day, or a funeral, or new admits who had to be seen quickly. Today, the first meeting since May, I made a special effort to get there. It was at the house of a woman I didn't really know, and was I ever impressed. She is an artist, a painter, a weaver, a decorator, a clothes designer, a fantastic gardner. She put on a program about knitting with knitting machines, and I could hardly believe her beautiful clothes. They were St. John's patterns, using St. John's yarns, a 80-20 blend of wool and rayon. She used to live in California and she and a partner had their own business. She showed us a coat with the body made of someone's old mink and the sides, collar and sleeves knitted. She said Nieman's had sold then for $1700. We went to lunch, about twelve of us. Two attractive women in their forties walked over to our table as we were eating, and one said, "Oh, aren't you all the sweetest little roses I have ever seen! A whole bouquet of you!" I couldn't believe it! The ladies at the end of the table were some of the oldest, but nobody deserves to be patronized like that. I don't know if they minded or not. The rest of us did though. |
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