%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |  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
[Click For More Info]
For wonderfully creative and imaginative writing](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/type-Journaling-2180.gif) |
| Last summer Bill and I went on a diet. Somewhere around this spring, we plateaued. We still have plenty to lose, but the talking scale keeps saying about the same thing every day. So something needed to change. My daughter did really well on Nutri-Systems years ago, and so I thought we'd give it a try. Portion control is difficult, and I thought this would be a good way to have that under control. Just eat what they send. We agreed to do that. This huge, 50# package arrived today, filled with stuff and a label that says, "Call this number before opening the package." Okay, I called the number. It wasn't instructions, or anything useful, just cheerleading. Maybe that's useful, but it wasn't what I expected. Inside the box, the printed material was not much better. Nowhere was there a page that says, How to get started with the actual diet. There was a booklet that told you that on the first day, you should make yourself a priority. The second day had similar advice. By the end of the week it suggested meditation. I'm not kidding: there was no content here! All we have to go on is the food diary, with the allowables the same on every page to be filled in. For breakfast, there's the Nutri-System breakfast choice, plus 1 oz of dairy or protein, one fruit, and, for men, one ounce of low-glycemic carbohydrate. There is a short list at the back of the diary that describes what these categories include. In other words, to make this easy, food-provided diet work, I still have to come up with a slice of bread and an egg without fat added and a fruit for breakfast. For lunch, I need to provide a tiny salad, a fruit, a low glycemic carbohydrate like an ounce of beans, in addition to the entree. Shoot, if I'd known I'd still have to figure it out myself and provide these tiny additions to make up a full lunch, I'd never have bought the plan! We still need to figure out where to put all these things too! This whole thing does not make me very happy.  |
| Play is something most adults don't get enough of. We seldom even have the opportunity to be truly playful. Our activities, our sports are all so competitive; and if we don't compete with others, we compete with ourselves for our own personal bests. We flew to Newberg and had a birthday picnic in the park with all Hap's wife's family. Lucy and her friend both took their bicycles, and I'm sure she put at least five miles on hers during the afternoon. Pretty good for a girl who just turned six and just learned to ride within the last month! She is a ridin' fool! This afternoon we dropped Bill and Hap off at the plane; and while they were doing the pre-flight, we went back to the house to get the gold fish we'd forgotten. They are too large for their little tank, although pretty darn small by ordinary goldfish standards. They're about the size of little goldfish crackers! Their tank is one of those vertical cylinders, and the poor fish were probably doomed to die of old age swimming mostly up and down.Katie took me out on the back porch, while Lucy whizzed around the cul de sac on her bike, no longer requesting me to watch. Katie asked if I wanted to play "Mom and Honey." Of course I agreed. "I'll be the Mom," she said. Of course. We were standing in front of her little plastic kitchen, and she began opening all the doors, looking. She held out a turquoise plastic rectangle that I couldn't identify and asked if I wanted a remote. (I had a little trouble understanding her word, plus I don't keep my remote in a pan in the oven.)  I said yes, so she pretended to push some buttons for me. (I had a little trouble understanding her word, plus I don't keep my remote in a pan in the oven.) Not knowing what to do next, unless I wanted to watch pretend TV, I pretended to be hungry.She said, “All right, honey, I will fix you lunch,” and rumbled through the cabinets some more. I said I’d like a hot dog, and could she put some water in a pan and cook it. So she turned on the tap in the little pink sink and filled the pan with imaginary water. Then, since I gave her directions, she put the pan full of hotdogs on the stove to cook. (She may have only had hot dogs cooked on the grill or in the microwave—I thought about that later.) “Here’s your hot dog, honey,” she said, and she squirted imaginary mustard on it. She fixed one for herself too, and we sat down and ate them. Then it was almost time to go, and I said, “Don’t we need to do the dishes?” Katie answered, “They’re all clean.” I said, “No, we just used them. We’ll have to wash them.” She smiled at me, with her sparkly little smile, and said, “Imagination.” The goldfish traveled in the back of the plane in a large ziplocked bagful of water. They were not too unhappy with their cramped quarters, and were ecstatic to be swimming so fast. (If you consider the speed of the plane, they were going about 120 miles per hour most of the way.) When we arrived home, we released them into our pond. They took off in four different directions, explored the place thoroughly and surfaced for food. The koi in residence couldn't have been less interested. Whew! |
| If the dogsitter doesn't call, we'll be flying out of here early tomorrow for a quick turnaround trip to celebrate Lucy's sixth birthday with her. Since the picnic is planned for five o'clock, we probably won't get home in time for me to blog tomorrow. I've never had a blue month yet, I don't think. Not that it's worth worrying about, but I'd hate to miss out so very early in the month. If she does call, we can spend the night and then maybe stop some place interesting for lunch on the way home. It's hard to find places though that are near small airports. We lucked out on the way home from California when we stopped at the Fresno Executive airport. It had an old terminal that was being renovated, filled with maps and photos of famous flyers, and a good little diner. We'd stopped at Redding on the way down, and its Chinese restaurant is well known to pilots. Flying somewhere for lunch is called "going for a hundred dollar hamburger." There's even a book by that name. Know any good spots on or near your local airfield? |
First of all, I'm not angry with anybody today, and, as far as I know, no one is angry with me. It's been a beautiful day in the high 70's/low 80's, perfect weather for the Labor Day Southeastern Washington Fair parade. I didn't get there in time to see Bill with the Civil Air Patrol unit, but didn't know that until an hour later, when the last entry marched past.  Well, maybe I'm a little miffed that my dog-sitter hasn't called to say whether she can take care of Seamus tomorrow and Sunday, but it's my fault for calling so late. No matter whose fault it is though, I'm a little miffed about that. Anger doesn't have to be justified to be real. For lack of another topic, and because I do have another comment to make, I want to write more on the subject of anger. I have been around, living in close proximity, to some people whose anger flares easily. They seem to think it's important for them to let off steam, like a pressure cooker that may otherwise explode. They've always told me how much better they feel afterwards for having cleared the air. Duh! It's about like having someone sneeze without covering their mouth. Great to get it out, but not great to be in the way of. If the anger is in absolutely no way directed at me, or at anyone with any of my same shortcomings, I can sometimes duck and let it blow on past. But if the other is true, if the anger is directed at me, directly or indirectly, or something I feel stupidly guilty about, I feel either like the victim of it or I want to retaliate. Nothing makes me mad faster than having somebody be mad at me. Or push me around. Or, here was my mother's ploy, pretend to be irritated by someone else while pointing out my own faults. I guess she thought it would be easier on me that way, and wanted to avoid confrontation. There. That's it. I'm back to my sunny day. Hope I didn't get sneeze all over anybody. |
| Why did it make me angry to be told I needed to call home? That happened last week when Bill dropped me off for a meeting at church. I'm sure I told him I could get a ride home, and that I'd call if I needed a ride. He's sure I didn't say any such thing, and he was out there waiting for me twenty minutes after the meeting ended because I was talking to people. Now, the fact that he'd been out there for an hour, having misread the time the meeting was to end, and having forgotten his book-- those were his problems. Why do we get angry, especially when it isn't the reasonable response? That’s a question Mavis Moog  brought to mind in her blog, and I think I’ll pursue it. I grew up in a family that didn’t show anger often, and didn’t act it out in any ways that I can think of. Mother’s brow would furrow, and she’d talk louder and faster as she hunted for the yardstick to paddle me. Daddy would become solemn, but not withdrawn, and would declare to me that my behavior was out of line and must stop. It was a decree not to be quibbled with. On the other hand, I’d argue with Mother every chance I had. It wore her down. As an adult, I didn’t recognize my own anger in any ways other than the two patterns my parents had. I didn’t think I got angry very often, except at the kids, and I was embarrassed and ashamed at how often that happened. I wanted to be more like my dad than my mother, but I couldn’t get the solemn decree thing to work for me. I was forty before I figure out that my main anger response, in a situation where I wasn’t the parent, was to cry. Lo and behold, crying didn’t mean sadness! That was amazing. Sometimes it meant I was frustrated, but more often it was when I felt attacked. That seemed to come up often. I was defensive about so many things. The other circumstance that makes me cry is when I’m wrong and can’t do anything to change it. Mad at myself. Like when I backed into the telephone pole. I didn’t want to accept the idea that I could be so careless; and yet, if I hadn’t had a hunch that that was true, I probably wouldn’t have felt so defensive. So, fair or unfair, I hate not to live up to some people’s expectations, and particularly my own. |
| Bill's "procedure" went well today, and he was at home playing on his laptop by 1, so I was free to make some patient visits. The first was a man in his 90's who appears to be quite "with it" but isn't. At one time he bought a red rock quarry and invented a new saw to cut the rock out. Last week I took him a feature article from the paper about the painted rock formations and fossil beds south of us, and asked if it was near his land. It was to the north, he said. He proceeded to read the article, which identified the geology as about 30 million years old. Knowing that he is part of a church that believes in the literal reading of the Bible, I asked him how the article sounded to him. He said it sounded about right, except for the time frame. So I asked how old he thought the fossils were, and he said, "Only about 15 million years." He went on to tell me that he believes everything he reads in the Bible, and it's hard to make some things fit, but he does it. That seems pretty sad to me, to have to force science into a mythical pattern in order to feel okay about it. But it didn't bother him, so who am I to say? I wonder where his "15 million years" figure came from, but his Alzheimers is too far advanced to make any sense about it. Today he was in the mood to sing, and he sang "The Red River Valley" several times for me. He was pretty good at "America" too. My second visit was to a lady who recently moved into a care facility; and last week when I saw her, she was unhappy about it. This week she's seeing little tiny imaginary babies, some boys and some girls, on her legs-- fly-size evidently, from the way she picks them up between thumb and forefinger. It makes me so sad; but, once again, it doesn't appear to bother her at all. Who am I to say? Tonight I fixed barbecued ribs and coleslaw for Bill, who endured a clear liquid diet all day yesterday in preparation for this exploration today. The slaw had a little too much vinegar, but the ribs were a little too bland. I hope it evened out for him. It did for me.  |
| First, I want to thank all those who gave me information and/or resources about Asperger's and the other conditions in the autism spectrum such as Pervasive Development Disorder.. My morning's trip to the wheatlands was a pleasant journey. I have no more patients in the outlying areas, but today's trip was back to the cemetary on the hill for a funeral. No bell bedecked mules pulling wagons this time, but we could see and hear the big combines climb the land behind us. I wondered if the woman who died had owned it. I know she and her husband had owned and farmed a lot of land in that area. The only thing of note from the funeral was the music. Two fiddles, two guitars and a banjo played The Red River Valley, Shenandoah and Will the Circle Be Unbroken? The liturgy was Roman Catholic, and the relatives actually shoveled dirt into the hole to cover the urn holding her ashes. I didn't see any wheat still standing, and the stubble had turned from a silvery, pale sand color to a toasty brown. A few fields had tilled the stubble back into the land, but conservation measures prohibited that in all fields. In some, the straw was cut short and baled; others were, or will be, seeded right there within the shelter of the old wheat stalks. Other fields had been burned, which kills the weed seeds and is very controversial. Most of us hate the smoke, but some farmers insist. It's only burned on clear days where the smoke won't hang in the air. Because I had a 3:30 appointment, I hung around in town doing some shopping and waiting for the time to arrive. Then got a call that the patient had had a bad day, and his wife was overwhelmed and canceled the visit. Too bad, because yesterday she was so anxious to meet me. Well, it will happen. I just wish it had been today. Bill has a colonoscopy tomorrow morning, and I'll have to plan my day as time permits. He has to be there before 8, but may not get in until after 10, depending on what's scheduled ahead of him and how it goes. |
| Jeff Doaks, not his real name, has cancer. His doctor expected last year that he would not live out the summer. Here he is, nearing this summer’s end, looking better than before. He remains a hospice patient, because his doctor insists he is still dying. Jeff refuses to see it that way. Has his denial helped him stay alive, and even have a better quality of life than before? Who is to say? It appears that way, and he doesn’t plan to change his attitude. The crisis in Jeff’s life now involves his granddaughter Gracelyn. Gracelyn is eight, and getting ready for school to start again. Last spring, a social worker from Gracelyn’s school told her parents, Nita and Bob, that she suspected that Gracelyn suffers from Asperger’s syndrome, a mild form of something in the spectrum of autism. Nita and Bob refuse to accept that possibility. Maybe it sounds like a behavioral problem or a mental disorder to them; but whatever the reason, in their minds, it has a stigma attached to it that they are afraid of. Jeff, a retired educator, is grieving. He doesn’t know how to get his son to see that Gracelyn needs help, and could get it if only her parents would seek help for her. An official diagnosis would be needed to begin the process. Asperger’s wasn’t around in Jeff’s day, but he’s read up on it. Gracelyn doesn’t have all the symptoms he’s discovered in the literature, but she has a number of them. He’d always thought that Gracelyn was lacking in social skills, and shyness didn’t seem to explain it adequately. She has had noticeable sleep difficulties from the time she was a baby. She was a little slow at learning to talk, but most of the experts discount that as a predictable symptom. Her vocabulary is good now, and that’s not a surprise with Asperger’s children. They are often brighter than average. She does have an unusual voice, a lack of inflection, which falls in the list of things to look for. But most of all, she doesn’t relate well to others. And, smart as she is, she doesn’t seem to have good common sense. “Sometimes it’s as if she hasn’t heard anything I’ve said,” Jeff told me “although she does pay more attention to me than to her classmates and the neighborhood kids. But then one of them will tell her to come here, and she’ll walk right into the street to go there, without ever looking.” That was at the beginning of the summer when he related this to me, and it’s exactly what happened. The paperboy was coming, and he saw Gracelyn on the porch. He called to her, “Here’s your paper,” and she walked straight into an oncoming car. She was not hurt badly, but she was terrified. She ran to her grampa, who held her, trying to comfort her. She put her fingers in her ears, as if to block out the sounds, and rocked her body back and forth in his arms. Jeff tried so hard to get her to understand what happened without placing blame, but he wasn’t sure if she ‘got it.’ “It’s as if she’s in her own world sometimes,” he said. I talked to a speech therapist friend on Sunday, and she told me about children she worked with who have Asperger’s. She said they have a hard time relating to the world around them, and especially to other people. She said she works with them to help them develop “scripts” to understand how things happen. She said those children are often more visual learners, and so can work better with pictures to go along with explanations. If they have a lot of help, especially when they are younger, when their social skills are just developing, they’ll make much better progress as adults. “By the time their hormones are raging, it’s harder to get them to listen,” she said. A social worker who is a co-worker of mine said she suspected her oldest daughter to have Aspergers. Her husband, a high school teacher, disagreed, but went along with some testing before the girl began school. She was found not to have Aspergers, but to have some form of social development disability. Cathy said that her daughter was in a special program for three years and that it really taught her the skills she needed. She still needs to know exactly what to expect, to have a schedule all planned for each day, and finds disruptions more difficult to deal with than some children. But she has friends, learns well, and enjoys life. |
| I'll try to get something written tonight after Bill leaves for his meeting. In the meantime, I want to thank Kåre Enga in Montana  for my new merit badge, ![Merit Badge in Friendship
[Click For More Info]
For reading and reviewing my poetry.](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/general-Friendship-650.gif) for being the 500th person to review one of his super poems. And I'd like to thank Mavis Moog for the stunning green awardicon at the top of my blog. |
| I'm sitting on the back deck with a nice breeze, watching the hummingbirds whip around the trumpet vine and, occasionally, the feeder. The fountain in the fish pond makes a vibrant sound, accompanied by the wind in the trees. Our tamarack, almost in silhouette by this time of evening, looks to have made a permanent change in shape this year, its top having been dragged down too often from the weight of the grape vines on the nearby arbor that continually reach up and grab hold. It's free of the climbing nuisances at the moment, but still it's top third leans twenty degrees to the right. Bill is inside doing post-flying things on his computer. We flew to Spokane for a late lunch with Lenore and George and the twins. Lenore starts school this week, and will at last begin to see the benefit of her M.Ed. on her paycheck. Right after we called her to plan the flight, Hap called from the Oregon coast to ask us to come over there. Darn. They have a friend's house to stay in for the weekend. If we'd known sooner, we could have all planned to go. As it is, I have to be in church tomorrow, and it will be too late to go afterwards. I've thought of several things I wish I'd done this summer, and this coming weekend, Labor Day, will be the last chance this year. I wish we'd flown to Coeur d'Alene and met the kids for a day at Silverwood, with its fancy waterpark. As we drove home from the airport, past the big sign announcing the $300 million jackpot for the lottery, we played our usual game of declaring that it was ours. We've won it, of course, we just haven't looked it up yet. So, what will we spend it on? A house on the beach in Florida, maybe Daytona, to be near the grandson expected in January. And one in the northwest, in the mountains maybe, but near an airport. Heck, maybe we should just buy a little airport! And a faster plane. But I'd want to be near some place big enough to have a personal trainer, cable modem service and a good swimming pool. Oh, I guess with 300 million, we could have our own indoor swimming pool, couldn't we? What would you do with 300 million? |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
