Seven Hours. Just Seven Frickin Hours!

Steve got his spinal injection this morning. It's his second this year. The first was just outside the vertebrae, his doctor believing it was arthritis plaguing him. That one lasted two blessed hours of relief. Only. The doc considered that a failure. It should have lasted months.

Today the doc decided to treat the pain as being caused by spinal stenosis, a different shot, different location, slightly different symptoms. Again, the expectation was for it to last several months, and could be repeated regularly to keep his unrelenting back pain at bay. He got it at 11, under anesthesia, meaning no food or water for 8 hours before time, and I had to stick around to drive him home. 

As if I'd be anywhere else!

He walked out pain free! He was a little loopy from the anesthetic, but who cared? As the hours went on, optimism grew. Hope crept in.. We even discussed possibly taking a more scenic route heading north, not just the fastest one to get him to where he could lay back and relax as much as possible as soon as possible. Enjoyment versus endurance.

It's a few minutes after 6 now, our time. He just got up and went to lay down. The pain is coming back, and he wished to have that one last walk down the hall as pain free as possible before it came crushing in again.

Seven Damn Hours!

Not Our Fathers' Varnish Job

I've been taught by experts, as well as some who thought they were. I've painted large parts inside of several houses, some "hobby" creations (aka almost recognizable furniture), and have respectably wielded a brush on most of those occasions. Always, always, like a mantra, was the need to blend new and old surfaces so there are no brush marks left, nothing drips, everything is evenly covered.

I doubt a single one of those fussy people ever varnished saguaro ribs.

The varnish was free, a donation from a friend of Rich's who conveniently works in wood himself and has a renter who does creative things with cactus and sells them. I'm talking about the woody skeletons left behind after they died, of course. The varnish included a dark stain, not my first choice but the price was right. So was the advice his renter provided, noting that cactus wood is thirsty. Very very very thirsty! Seriously thirsty!! Whatever you put on it gets slurped up almost immediately, well before drying of course. I presume it's that characteristic which keeps desert plants alive, that ability to slurp and store liquids rapidly. Apparently it works after death as well.

Yesterday I had 7 pieces of skeleton to varnish, and today, after more sawing and brass-brushing, had another 8. Yesterday's pieces got two coats. You think they exhibited the least bit of shine this morning? LOL! They had dried a tad lighter in shade than when completely wet, but still a very matte finish. Hardly an indication that they'd been sealed at all. 

Today I really slathered the varnish on the fresh pieces, left them on the chicken wire to drip, then started right in with the first of those again for their second coat. The first one had already been soaked up, just as rapidly as yesterday's. Varnish levels in the container were dropping so I made sure to give them everything I could while I could.  With a second coat applied, and still having varnish left, coupled with very little desire to drag it all out to a third day, especially considering how stiff the protected-from-air brush was this morning and having no more plastic gloves for my hands, it was today or never. So I slathered them again, all but finishing up the varnish. (It's air drying out now until garbage day.)

The point of this is, however, that the surface of saguaro ribs is very three dimensional. Its grain has patterns in all directions, not by color but by grooves in a variety of patterns and depths. If you are ever in this position, prepare to sacrifice your brush, since there is more jabbing and stabbing to spread the varnish than there is smooth stroking. Lots more! Especially since there are channels nearly half an inch deep which have openings to the surface much smaller to stab your brush through. Best to apply it while still dripping varnish so it runs down in to be spread immediately later than try to do anything resembling a neat job. Coverage is key, especially if your piece is going to be outside in non-desert conditions, and more especially if those conditions include freeze-thaw cycles. Besides, all that slurping up is going to suck whatever whats to run, drip, or pretend to leave brush marks while it still is wet. You won't see any of that once it's dry.

In hindsight, I was pretty prepared for the sloppy application, but not quite enough. I wore old clothes where whatever happened to them didn't matter, wore plastic gloves so I could hand-hold the pieces, and was barefoot out on the front slab, so no worries about shoes either. An old resin patio table covered (nearly) with newspaper ad circulars held the varnish, it's lid for brush resting, and most of the drippings. Not quite all. I could have spread the newsprint out better, but I didn't care about the table in the first place. A few drips of varnish landed on the concrete, but again, I don't particularly care. I presume a few more years of Arizona summer sunshine and foot traffic will pretty well take care of those as well. Worst case it can be either painted, or astro-turfed again. Astro- turf hates bare feet however. The cardboard from the broken up box caught most of the drips from today's varnishing while the ribs dried on chicken wire above, though it did catch all yesterday because I was working more "old-school" in being careful with the varnish than today. The brush actually looks pretty good - must have accidentally bought a good quality one! But it's going to dry stiff and well varnished, just because I'm done. I'll buy another when needed.

Tomorrow or Wednesday I'm going to pick out the ribs to haul north for windchime assembly this summer. Amount of solvent odor left will be one major determining factor, since we'll be living with them in the car for three days and the windows will not be open because of the AC. The rest of the finished ones will find a summer home, hopefully safe from theft and mischief, though it's impossible to predict that after last summer. I'm not finished cooking all my glass, but I'm done for now. I tried some glass fusion with a few pieces yesterday to see how they turn out. If I like them, I'll probably use most of what's left to make more like that. But all will need to be drilled, and that will wait another three months. Today I just need to hit the club and pull the last two batches out of their kilns, then pack them away with others that aren't drilled. Since my Ukrainian bead order arrived in time (!!!!) there's one wire and bead project left to do as a gift for somebody down here, and then it can all be packed away or packed for travel.

And there's still all those lists to make!

Hey, you don't think I've been avoiding that, do you?

On A LIghter Note, Rubbing Cactus

The glass cooking is progressing well. A few pieces are turning what should have been lovely colors into black, but I'm told that's a hazard of the art. Many many more are turning out splendiferous. (Hey, it's a real word. Google it.) The new batches are mostly much easier to drill. Unfortunately the dremel decided to go on vacation. A new power cord to replace the one that heated up enough to melt its rubberized covering is in the process of being ordered. Luckily for me, the pieces I have already drilled should be enough for 5 or 6 chimes sets that I plan to put together on my own vacation. Apparently I just may have over-used it. Most people in the club just sit at its table and make one hole for one project at a time. It may not be made for steadier use.

Note to self: next fall just drill a few pieces of glass each day: really, a few, like 3 or 4. Each day. If I'm there when other members are working, they'll always be interrupting me for stuff anyway. How do I...? Where is ...? Can you...? What's the policy on...? When is the next...? It's why previous presidents slip in after hours in order to get something done, like I do now with the glass, or do lots of things at home like most of my wire work. My predecessor is currently into lost wax casting for sterling, and both shuts that room door shut with a "Do Not disturb" sign that you DO NOT IGNORE unless the building is burning, and comes in after hours with another member doing the same thing. That process is much more dangerous than what I'm doing and you have to have two there. Perhaps three. More is too crowded for safety again.

I talked to the RIGHT PERSON finally in the club, a fellow officer who does lots of fused glass work herself. She imparted two very valuable pieces of information. First, how easy it actually is to run a second small kiln the club has, so twice as much cut glass gets cooked at a time. When it was first explained, the workshop instructor went into so much detail about what other buttons are for which you don't use for what we do, that I got totally lost. Turns out what is involved after loading and locking it is... pushing one button. Many times, since each push gives a new readout. If you pay attention, it tells you this is in Program 4, used for fusion, how high it heats in its next step and how long it stays there before heading higher again. Fine if you need to know. Or, just keep pushing that button until it reads "ready" and push one more time till it says Go. Or something. But it starts humming so you know it's cooking.  Make sure the fan is on to vent fumes, not from the glass but the kiln paper under it. Turn out the lights, shut the door, and walk away.

For how long? That was the second valuable piece of information I got. Usually we start it any time one day, return to the club the next and empty it. What we can actually do is start it at, say, 8 AM, then empty and reload it at 8 PM. When you first open those kiln doors it's likely to still be warm, but it will tell you how much. When I got there this morning both were registering around the one hundred teens. AKA summer outside in Phoenix.  I just opened them first thing, went to cut glass for my next two loads, and returned in about 15 minutes, pulling out the slabs holding my newest glass pieces comfortably with bare hands before sliding the new slabs in and pushing buttons again. Now instead of one load, perhaps a dozen pieces per day, I can do four times as much. I should be through all I own in time to store away for fall. These pieces will get drilled just a few at a time in the fall until there are enough for more chimes before the holidays for those who won't get theirs during a personal summer visit. After that I'll be making my own.

The wire and accessories for summer are all packed already, drilled chimes bagged by color, so the only thing left is what they will hang from. It will be unique. The class instructor provided each of us an old wooden spoon to hang ours from. Hmmmmmmm. Ri-i-i-ight. I had a different idea.

When we bought this house, back in a fence corner, prevented from our access by an overgrown ocotillo and a clump of overgrown yuccas, all very spiny and ornery, was about a 3' skeleton from a saguaro cactus. You know, the ones that live a hundred hears before they send up their first arm from their trunk, grow maybe 40 feet tall, and are the icon of the Sonoran Desert? The ones everybody dug out of the desert for their home yards before they became protected? We had a piece of a trunk from one of those. Long since defleshed, it was stood upright in that back fence corner where only the neighbors could see it through the fence. Until last winter.

Having grown used to ignoring it, I was prowling the yard one day last winter when I noticed it lying on the ground. What the? One of the neighbors was doing yard work and knocked it over. One of his tools went through the chain link and unbalanced it. He apologized, but I thanked him for tipping it. I had Rich go fetch Steve's long handled grab stick and drag it out. In the process it broke into three vertical sections, each combined of multiple ribs. It sat out in our yard waiting for... something. A purchaser? An idea? He placed an ad, but nobody seemed to want a broken up, bug-holed, who knows how many years old one. An idea then was needed.

Life continued on, until wind chime workshop day. And a puny wooden spoon. I had something better. Or at least hoped I had. Time to go check how intact it remained. Lots of it looked pretty rough, but the main bits of ribs were solid and lightweight, an almost contradictory combination. I suddenly didn't want them stolen so I loaded them in the only secure place where I wouldn't be making (another) mess inside the house: my car trunk. They were so light I could carry the whole of them through the back yard into the carport. Setting them down so I could access the hatch door was more of a drop, and suddenly I had many more than three sections. Those ragged parts looked even more so. But there was still promise, or so I hoped.

Today was time to finally face facts. I reached in and after much thought pulled out a 3-rib section. I noted in places it was a 2 rib section. Rich provided a bucket and a hand saw, but not the labor. He was pulling weeds, and besides, this is my project. A half hour's work removed one third of the length, proving that despite its lack of heft it has plenty of strength. Sure, smaller loose pieces fell off into the bucket, some even onto the concrete where I sat working, but I continued taking off the other third of its length. In the process, several individual ribs fell away. 

Finished sawing I examined them again. They were dirty. Part brown desert dust, part blackened wood, dirty. Rich brought me an old old old brass bristle brush, most of which's bristles from long hard use were curved over on top of themselves. My work turned the black to grey, the brown dirt to tan wood with a very unique grain pattern to it. The brass didn't scratch the grain like a steel one would have. Once all the easily removed bits still clinging were removed, what was left retained both beauty and strength. These will be excellent tops from which the chimes will hang.

Tonight, after cycling glass in the kilns again, when the sun has set and the air begins to cool back into the 90s, they will get spar/acrylic varnish brushed over them, then set to dry. I'll be working outside under the front door light, and have already set up a spot for them to dry. Seems I was a bit lax in clearing out the old small chicken wire cages from the front yard I'd had set around some new plantings to keep the rabbits from their preferred feast - anything brand new from the nursery which had been well fertilized (yummy) and watered (tender!). It never matters if they will ignore the same plant after a couple years adjusting to AZ climate cruelty. The new ones are irresistible. Last summer they managed to push up all the cages I set out and eat the plants down below dirt level. 

The cages themselves are about perfectly sized to surround a 2 liter bottle. Old tent stakes crisscrossed through the mesh hold any two together, and five in a row with an old cardboard box beneath should be the perfect drying rack for them, laid across the tops. It's not pool walking night so I should have enough energy to get at least some of them done. Then we can pack them up in a few days, hopefully without them stinking up the car.

I Can't Even...

It's way too common. But that's been true with the first one, years ago, and each since. None are acceptable. They should never have targeted kids, much less in schools, but I guess those are the easy victims, the ones who "give shooters their 'names' ". We almost are getting numbed to them, just taking a mental note that this time it wasn't us, wasn't our dead and injured, unless we weren't lucky this time. We shake our heads that schools these days have to have active shooter drills the same way we grew up with duck-and-cover drills to "protect" against atom bombs, but still believe that at least the shooter drills will offer something more than imaginary protection.

Wrong again.

But this time was particularly egregious. All those good guys with gun, the ones we hire and put into uniforms to protect and serve, failed us spectacularly. They protected themselves, served nobody. Somebody, somewhere, "decided" that the shooter was barricaded, the kids were OK, and they could wait to go get him until reinforcements arrived, because the 20 cops or so on the scene "might get shot".

Yeah, that comes with the badge, doncha know. You might get shot. You have guns, vests, adult know-how (supposedly), and a job to do. But somebody might get shot, something so many cops are afraid of these days that they shoot first, killing people armed with a candy bar or a cell phone, or maybe for just not respecting them they way they "should" and turning away.

The kids inside have none of that equipment and training, though some of them seem to have been smarter than you. There was the girl who kept calling 911, asking for the cops to come, why won't they come, the shooter's still there? There was the girl huddling next to her best friends bloody body, smearing herself all over in her friend's blood so the shooter might think he'd already killed her too. There were the boys hiding under a table with a cloth over it, keeping silent, only to hear one of the cops in the hall, once they'd finally come in, call out to the kids to call back to him if they need help, and when one child did answer instead of keeping silent she was targeted by the shooter and killed.

Uvalde Texas is a town with not only regular cops, but an 11 person SWAT team. There is no mention of the latter turning out. Instead there was a Border Patrol squad who took an hour to get there from wherever they had been. There was a mother who implored the cops to go in who got handcuffed, a father who tried to enter the school who got tased instead. And there are reports of cops who went in and got their own children out during that hour delay. To be fair, some did go in and clear kids out of rooms the shooter was in, but meanwhile kids were bleeding out in the two adjoining classrooms where he and his victims still remained. Some of them might have survived.

Don't forget, there is an NRA convention this weekend not to far away from this town. The manufacturers of the specific weapon the shooter used pulled out of it, informing media that their product had been "misused", when of course the shooter used it exactly how it was intended, by shooting the most people possible in the shortest amount of time with the least danger to himself. It is a weapon of war. Sold to anybody. Because this is 'Murica. We're all at war, or so we're told by certain TV networks and media outlets, and all who aren't "us" are the "they" you're fighting. The NRA takes advantage, a long ways from its original purpose of promoting gun safety, instead protecting the safety of gun manufacturer's bottom lines, and spouting nonsense like "a good guy with a gun...." 

They even want teachers to become those "good guys with guns" because somehow a teacher is the ideal role model for that position. Because, you know, a trained person for educating our children who has been denigrated for years, had their budgets all but removed and their salaries frozen or at least made to cover basic school supplies for their classes, is somehow now also supposed to be armed and capable enough to blow away a shooter before one can get to our kids without accidentally shooting our kids as well. You can bet they'll make the teachers pay for those guns themselves too, don't you think?

Well, plenty of supposedly "good guys with guns" were just as scared of that AR-15 as an elementary school full of kids who were trapped inside with the evil person wielding it. They failed to respond properly, failed to own up to their mistakes for two days. Apparently the phrase so many people believe in is a failure too.

I can't even watch the coverage of these shootings any more. But it seems I just can't escape it either.

Taking A Side With Limited Information

I confess: that's me this time. I have one person's account,  and the only information given to me was by her. She's a party in the issue and I'm taking her word for what the situation is. I don't know the others. I shouldn't know the others. That would be a violation of their privacy, their confidentiality. But it's a story I heard Wednesday night, pool walking, and I'll pass it on to you, who won't know the people involved either. It's about risk, and hope, and it touched me. I can't wait to find out more.

The person telling us the details, unlike the rest of us last night, is still working. She's a social worker, specializing on working with children who for whatever reasons have been either removed from their families or need a competent adult present when they go visit a parent for a few hours. Her days can get long, as lots of travel is often involved, and we seldom see her at the times we are there, but last night she was, as always, welcomed back into our group.

The family in question has no involvement by the children's mother. Reasons were not given. The older child, I'll refer to her as the big sister, doesn't see her father either. Again no "why" is given. She is in foster care with her younger brother, who has a different father who lives in another state. At this point the plan is to reunite little brother with his father, and he has applied to take the older sister as well, keeping the siblings together. 

But there's a hitch in that giddyup. Big sister doesn't want to go. She is attached to her foster family, who have indicated a wish to adopt her. Neither big sister nor the foster family wish to have a long term connection with little brother. He has multiple disabilities, and frequently acts out violently. The court hasn't ruled yet, and big sister needs to get the courage to inform her attorney and the judge that she does not want to leave her foster home and go with little brother. His relatives are strangers to her, and worse from her point of view, little brother and all his problems including his violence are way too familiar. The foster family is not allowed to push her in any direction. But the social worker does have the authority in her position to inquire and advise her what might be the best for her, primarily involving speaking up for herself. It requires her learning to value herself and respect her own needs, not selfishly as she may believe, but simply because despite what's happened to her, she too has value. The social worker's opinion is that older sister will wind up being little more than the primary caretaker for her abusive little brother if she goes to his father's family. Instead she needs to finish growing up in an environment which supports her, her needs, her goals. A good option is available to her if she asks for it, according to our friend.

So hearing that much, having no reason to believe more information needs to be presented, I've got an opinion. I'd love to hear when we return after summer vacation that big sister is living with her foster family and getting ready to be adopted by them. Before parting ways the other night, I asked our social worker friend to be prepared to let us know in the fall how it turns out. I almost can't wait.

Fighting The Glass

I must have gotten the wrong kind. That, or the kilns are cycling wrong, a periodic but known event. But then again, some of what I'm fighting with turned out perfectly.

I refer to my recent setbacks in making glass wind chimes. All started out well enough, encouraging me to make a big thing of it. I got more glass, cut it, popped it in kilns and hardened it. At least some of the new glass got slightly too hardened. OK, who am I kidding? It got WAY too hardened.

All this last week I've had problems with drilling holes in the pieces. It hasn't mattered which shape of diamond drill bits I used. Many shapes work, though our instructor had a favorite. I got my own set, since tools with high club usage tend to get worn out quickly, not to mention bent, warped, broken, or "disappeared". When I started having issues, I retired the one bit I'd been using, even though it still showed plenty of diamond left. The new bit didn't have much better luck. I tried a different shape, then yet a third shape.

Normally, the bit is set on the glass at a slight angle, held by your hand braced against the pan of ice water you drill in. Withing 3 or 4 seconds, the bit makes itself enough of a dent that the drill (dremel)  can be tilted up to vertical and then bites straight down through. Patience is required, but a hole takes 3 to 5 minutes. Only.

Everything I tried this week became a non event. One kind of glass never set that first hole but kicked my rotating bit scuttling over the glass, leaving nothing more than what looked like a bug trail meandering over the surface. Again, same. And again. OK, other kind of glass from same "bake". The first bite took longer than usual but eventually dug in, then went nowhere. I timed a hole for 20 minutes, could barely see any progress, and when probed the hole only went in a millimeter. In the process the cord coming out the back end of the dremel became too hot. I gave it up. No need to wreck a tool.

I'm hoping I can find a club here which uses laser drills. A fairly inexpensive membership, or a payment to the club, might be an option for getting holes in the glass, one or two per piece, depending on its location in the chimes. I haven't thrown them out yet. It's a lot of glass. Perhaps they can be wire wrapped by somebody, though not for wind chimes as the wire will keep them from clinking against each other. They're too big for jewelry, too irregular to set in decorative paving stones. By now I even doubt they can be used for breaking in a wild tantrum. 

Not that I have any plans for one, of course.

At least not yet.

I'm not completely discouraged, of course. I did find a selection of smaller pieces online, promised to be shipped here by midweek. Each is different, though from the same shipper there is only a single shipping charge, so it pays to get whatever I'm interested in at one time. Each is large enough to give me 5 or 6 pieces, if I can get my plan right and they break where scored. (Translation: if I can score them properly!) It will be simple to run one kiln's worth of samples, a couple pieces from each set so none completely lost if the kiln fritzes, and test drill them next day while the next kiln batch runs, and still get them ready to bring with me before packing so I can put them together over the summer with all the materials needed.

My only question to myself right now is how much stress do I want to pack -get it? pack? - into the next week-plus of time in order to get ready to leave? At least the driving is relaxing.

No Answers... But No Delays Yet

I've had this odd thing going on, a pain nobody can explain. It comes and goes, no rhyme nor reason for it that anybody can figure, so nothing they can do for it. On the plus side, there's nothing happening that should delay our northbound vacation. So at this point, it's only Steve's docs who can postpone our heading north. And we're just not that optimistic that they'll be in any rush on his behalf since they haven't been so far.

I was in to see my cardiologist earlier this week, along with the guy who pops in with his suitcase of technology to check out my pacemaker. It was a special visit for him, called in to coincide with an annual report from the cardiologist after an echo, aka sonogram of the heart. The latter is just fine. (They love my blood pressure too.)

The reason for calling in the pacemaker tech was that this odd pain is happening in that area. It's hard to describe, except that it's sharp but mild, steady but intermittent. Confused? So are we. It occurs under the skin but outside the ribcage, in the area where the pacemaker sits. I describe it as sharp in the sense that it's not the dull muscle ache type of thing, very localized in either of two locations, about an inch away from the corners of the pacemaker, to my upper left or lower right. It's steady in that it doesn't pulse, like something directly connected to the heart beat. I've gotten that kind of pain before here and there, often connected with an infection and the pulse pushing on the tender area. This isn't that. My first thought when it started happening a few months back is that a teensy bit of current is leaking from its leads, or something similar. I can feel it if I gently press on the chest in either location, and it starts in faintly several seconds later and builds a bit. It can last half a minute or a couple hours. I can be sitting still watching TV or working on my laptop and not touching the affected area at all even though that can precipitate it. 

While the pacemaker is being tested absolutely nothing abnormal shows up on his equipment. In fact, he finds its activity to be totally normal for what it's doing, kicking in a few beats here and there, still needed fairly rarely over the course of months. There is no indication of any excess current being drained off, so they have no worries about "springing me" for travel. This even after I defined "north" as Minnesota, not just, say, Flagstaff. So far as they are concerned, it's a non event. Even though its event is increasing in frequency. It's just like taking your car in to the mechanic and it refuses to act up until after you drive away.

We discussed other possibilities. Could I be reacting to some material in the pacer or its leads? I have a nickel allergy after all. It's why I have titanium knees rather than stainless steel. It my body fighting some part of it? Not their field of expertise, of course. Also not something they have any concern over. Neither do I, or not seriously, knowing the pacer is doing its thing and the pain isn't severe. We'll just have to wait and see what happens.

Now it's time to start making those lists for packing: clothes, meds, dog needs, electronics, supplies for projects to be worked on up north. Then things to do here before leaving, like bug destruction while they try to invade in our absence. Things to stock up on.  What not to shop for  because we can't eat it before turning the fridge/freezer off. (I hate throwing out food, from leftovers to condiments.) Things to pack. Notices to send out for address changes including absentee (primary) ballots, credit card renewals which don't get forwarded but happen during traveling months, and of course for regular mail. Route planning - depending on where fires pop up at the last minute and which roads are blocked. Motels to book: see route planning. And most important for any scheduling, see what Steve's doc has to say. That's next week.

Right now it's breakfast time.

Tornado!

It had been a lovely late afternoon session of pool walking and I was cooled and relaxed as I came in the door. I was greeted with Steve informing me he had news, really big news. Since the dog needed to go out, I told him I'd do that and them be ready to listen but first , could he tell me, good news or bad?

Bad. Really bad.

The next few  minutes had me wondering what could possibly be that bad. My mind immediately went to somebody in the family having an accident, another stroke, another miscarriage.... Possibilities were endless. So was the dog's perusal of the back yard, as a puppy had been brought in just a few days ago and she diligently sniffed deeply and from all sides where he'd done his thing in her territory (!!!) before she finally covered it up as dogs do. Again.

As I finally sat down, he informed me Jessica had called, a friend from back in Minnesota. She's an endless source of medical disasters, and we tend to take them in our stride, be as supportive as possible from 1800 miles away until we head up in the summer and can spend time in person, and do what we can to help her cope. What could be worse enough that he prefaced his information that way?

A tornado had hit their house, putting a tree limb through it, destroying the ramp she needs to get in and out, but mainly sending somebody's roof through her front windows! Further, she informed him that it had also hit the town my son Paul lives in, Shafer, before going on into Wisconsin. On the bright side, all her family were OK. The boys had been sent home from school because an earlier storm that morning had taken out the power to the high school - a logical result of all the power lines out on the county road fronting the high school being on the road fronting the high school.

Once he finished telling me what he knew, adding she'd gone to bed (time zone difference) and I shouldn't call until morning, I put in a likely pointless call to Paul to find out how he and the house and yard had fared. Paul doesn't answer his phone, When he gets home from work, it goes on the table with his keys, and he heads down to a back room to play one of those video games where various avatars form teams and battle other teams, etc. While he's doing that, nothing else is important. So, either that, or he was out doing what he could as damage control to house and yard. No way to know. Not then.

I had the choice of calling the local sheriff's department, the phone number long memorized, but I was sure they would be swamped with really important calls, and I'd be an unwelcome bother. I decided to call the city clerk in the morning to see what the local damage was. She's somebody I've known since back to my Mayoral days, when she was employed as assistant city clerk. We'd also shared about an hour up in a 104 foot high aerial bucket back in the 1990s, me with a city camera getting photos of a joint fire department exercise, she invited because her husband was the one from the other town's fire department who was running their aerial. One of our town's residents had an old house needing to be demolished, and invited the fire departments to do the honors and get in some real practice. Together they started and put out fires in that house several times while we watched with the best view of anybody, until finally letting it finish burning while they protected the surroundings. A new residential development sits there now.

Since I had to wait, I started googling, hunting for information. The news about the morning high school power outage from the first storm was there, along with photos. Everything else was still warnings of possible severe weather that afternoon, in other words, what had already happened. No joy there. I also found mentions of hail damage, with a dozen shots from one news station of photos viewers had sent in, all of hands holding huge ice balls. (Nobody gets creative these days.) It also was apparently morning storm news. While Steve emailed a fishing buddy also in the general area to see 1: if he'd even answer that evening, and 2: whether he was OK and knew more than we were finding out, it became bed time. It would all have to wait for morning.

By 5AM, Steve was already up and had a reply from his fishing buddy. The buddy was fine and sent two links to news casts now on You Tube of the afternoon damage. Everybody seemed to focus on a tourist attraction, a hugely oversized adirondack chair, nicely colored red for the cameras to focus on, one of several around the chain of lakes, set out in public spaces for tourist photo ops since about 5 people could sit in it, which had been blown across a local lake. One estimate was it had "sailed" over a hundred yards. The downed electric lines were shown again, and then I was looking at the backs of buildings I pass going to my friend's house. Did they go to the end of the lane and show some real damage? Of course not. Instead a neighbor was pointing to his empty wagon, explaining how he'd raked all the day until the storm and now the storm had taken it all away, leaving a clean bare wagon. Like that was a hardship! The also referred to the buildings as sheds. They're garages, idiots! Sure, small, one car detached ones, but nonetheless, garages.

Since my friend should be up by now, I called to talk to her in person. She verified it had been an actual tornado, as several neighbors had reported seeing one (as well as several reports of sightings throughout the county.) People had been by to tarp over the open end of their house, the insurance company had been contacted, and they had enough in the savings account to cover a fairly high deductible. She filled me in on more details. The ramp still had a bent piece attached to the house, making ordinary use of the stairs under the platform impossible. She'd called the county and was waiting to see how long it would take them to replace it. Or what they would do since it was medical equipment they'd provided. Meanwhile she'd gone out the front door, one they never use, and only last year had trimmed back the brush that had grown around it. There is a steep drop from front door to street, difficult for all but the most agile, and the back door with the ramp connects the parking space to the living room, so the reversal of function was perfectly reasonable. Since nobody had used those front stairs, nobody knew they had rotted. So on top of everything else, she went through the wood. She's scraped, bruised, and is thinking about whether she needs to go get an x-ray to find out if she broke something in her leg. It's a comment on her medical issues that she can't tell if that happened. She'd broken a bone in one of her legs a couple years back and didn't find out until a month or so later. It took two years and three surgeries to get it healed, albeit crookedly.

Meanwhile their living room has to be blocked off from their dog, as the floor and furniture is covered in glass. The whole south wall and much of the east one were windows. Everything on that end of the house will have to be replaced. There is another room with couches and a TV so she has a place to relax. If she can. Medical caregivers come to her, and right now there's no easy way for that to happen. Her husband's taking a week off, and promises to remove the vestiges of the ramp first thing so the old stairs there (concrete if I recall) are useable, though their former railings were removed when the ramp was put in. She hopes, in absolute need for her to get out of the house, that she can navigate them somehow with a cane. I'm thinking one of her grown sons on either side as well. 

Once that call ended, I called the city clerk who had time for a nice chat. Shafer was pretty much missed, though she joked that a lot of the debris sitting out from some water system construction throughout town had conveniently been "cleaned up" by the storm. There likely will be branches down here and there, possibly trees as well, as that is happening more and more these days. She noted that when storms come through now, they tend to be more violent, high winds and a lot of rain in a short time. Welcome to climate change! So while somewhat reassured, I'm still waiting to hear from Paul.

Best Mother's Day Bouquet Ever!

It came in the mail . Email, that is. My youngest, the one who bought my house from me and lets Steve and me live there in the summers, sent it. It came in the form of three photos. It's "our" yard, the the one we together spent years in, planting a huge variety of bulbs, mostly daffodils but also crocus and scilla, scattering the divisions into new locations, adding new varieties, scattering violet seeds from what started as a literal handful of plants from the previous place, over so many years and so widely that for a couple of weeks nearly the entire lawn is purple. After around 10 days the purple lawn becomes purple-and-yellow as the dandelions start to take over. It's a byproduct of delaying mowing long enough for the violets to scatter their new crop of seeds. And truly, we never mind the dandelions. The neighbors do, but we don't care about that either.

In all those long springs, meaning up until that first delayed mowing, crocus bloom in various colors, a few snowdrops still struggle through, some very determined tulips still manage to emerge, lilies of the valley perfume the neighborhood, and the summer flowers show their green beginnings. I'm sure other flowers pop up in there too, but it's been so long since I was up there before June I'm sure I've forgotten them. I do miss their parade of colors.

Last summer, if you've followed this, you know I did a large amount of yard work, eliminating weed vines, weed trees, weed bushes, weed flowers, weed ferns (they'll be back), dead cranberry bushes, all the dead parts of a barely surving dogwood, weed thistles, paring back the lily of the valley, cleaning up a daylily patch which had become full of dropped birch branches along with vines intruding, pulling baby junipers out of the lawn proper. There was a lot more of course, including even planting some new varieties of daylily, hoping to find some which duplicated a particular shade of purple I'd just discovered they now come in. It seems endless to write of it, but each morning for an hour or two I was happily outside, in a labor of love restoring beauty to the yard, as well as a celebration of my health and growing ability to move, well balanced and sure footed, growing in stamina. 

If the pictures he sent are representative of the rest of the yard, my labors paid off. Big time. Note that I fully expect to repeat my endeavors this summer, or the "jungle" will takeover again. Some spots were starting to even as I was finishing up my summer.

The first photo is a of lone daffodil, two shades of yellow, darker in the trumpet, emerging from a solid patch of green and blue. My first thought was violets, but a closer look showed scillas, solidly filled in around it. Oh, I should have remembered their timing better: of course not the violets yet.

The next shot is along the south side of the house, where blueberries were planted, with daffodils in front. Grass invaded almost as soon as everything went in, but the daffodils are now thick enough through there that grass is almost gone. Other weeds will fill in again but for now it's all daffodils. The early ones are white, fairly flat blossoms with flat yellow trumpets, as well as more of the two-tone yellow ones. Later ones in this patch as well as in borders around many more planting rows and all through the front garden will be all sorts of colors and shapes, even doubles. One can see greens, oranges, yellows, whites, and apricots when those bloom. But now is just the early ones. This warmest, most protected row blooms first.

The third shot has no daffodils, but is a wide shot along the south border of the front yard. One can see the bare trunks of very mature lilacs at ground level. Late in the month these will explode with the 8 or 9 colors we planted them in, though it will be tempered more than a bit by their having been pruned down to six feet last spring, their first major pruning since being planted. If not this year then next year should bring a stunning display. Since this shot angles back to the back yard fence, a couple of those bare trunks belong to pink flowering honeysuckle bushes. Turning the corner at the fence, crossing past the fence gate it also shows the surviving cranberries. Hostas will come up along the entire area except the gate with it's volume of traffic, separating plantings from lawn, showing a late summer sprinkling of lavender blooms along their route.

The bare trunks aren't the focus of this photo, however, just its framing. Covering the ground for about 4 to 8 feet coming into the yard from those trunks is a solid, if irregular, patch of blue scillas. Thirty years work and maybe a dozen bulbs can work wonders!

It's not just the flowers, it's the years of memories, the work side-by-side, their sturdy endurance, and memories of the promises to come as seasons change, all coming together in these shots, which make these my best Mother's Day bouquet ever!

Once Upon A Friend... And Other Abortion Issues

I used to have a friend, a woman, with whom I kept in fairly regular contact years ago. We first met in a support group, where I found out she could be very supportive when I was having an emotional meltdown over some past traumas. We'd occasionally meet after work for supper at some fast food place or another - neither of us having large budgets -  and chat for a couple hours. I watched her youngest child grow up, heard about her oldest's newest baby (such a cutie!) and how much she hated the baby's very old-fashioned name. 

Several things happened over the years. I moved to Arizona. She changed her email address from the old  msn.com one, and I didn't get the new one. Christmas cards tapered off. I'd invited her and her husband to the commitment ceremony Steve and I had, and was shocked to realize she had no clue my knees were so bad by then that we saw fit to celebrate with a 2-scooter ceremony, but she'd asked the question when I had three other things on my mind and demands for my attention, so I never quite got around to answering, and once I had the time, discovered they'd already left for their long drive home. The next day was a work day for both of them. I spent it getting ready for that honeymoon trip.

We did have a couple points of disagreement, and she was the first person I actually discussed these viewpoints with. She opposed capitol punishment in all circumstances. This was not so long after the Oklahoma City bombing that I still couldn't be bothered to mind that Timothy McVeigh was sentenced to die for killing 168 people by bombing, including small children in a day care. I did/do get the racial inequities in its application and generally believe it unnecessary, unfair, and expensive.

She also opposed abortion. Period. I was then and still am firmly in favor of it being legal, safe and available to all women, period. With proper sex education and available contraception, it should also be rare. I would never want to take that difficult choice away from any woman. Things happen, difficult choices must be made, and that decision should be between the woman and her medical provider. These days it's safe enough to have an early abortion by getting pills( in the mail), as has been done now since 1988 in other countries, more recently here. Note here that our difference of opinion is not  something which ended the friendship, unless it did so on her part. We just drifted. But our discussions helped me form my own viewpoints.

Much misinformation  - OK, call them outright lies! - has been distributed about abortions by those opposed and thinking they have a right to say what happens to other women. One of the latest and most reprehensible is that ectopic pregnancies, deadly if untreated by removing the cluster of growing cells which will never become a baby, can be removed from where they have lodged and then "planted" in the uterus. It simply never can be done. Period. Ever. But some states in their self righteous ignorance insist on laws requiring treatment for this deadly condition to be only reimplantation into a uterus no longer receptive of cells which are now incapable of forming placental attachments anyway. But they push "let's punish the doctors who actually know medicine and  the women who are victims of this deadly event." Truth and science be damned.

Under the latest laws being put forth and passing in "red" states, placenta previa, another deadly emergency which absolutely requires an immediate - not just quick, but immediate! - removal of the fetus in order to save the woman before she bleeds out, if in fact it can be done in time at all, not a guarantee by any means, would mean the doctor would be preforming an "abortion" and thus liable for prosecution and imposed consequences. This is usually what these zealots often refer to as "abortion up until the time of birth." The doctor gets to "choose":  try to save a life, maybe even two in rare lucky events, or just save themselves legally.

I have been reading a lot this last week of various accounts, both first person and by medical professionals, with their vast stores of experiences in the real world, of all the things which can go wrong during pregnancies, often resulting in maternal deaths. A large number of them include an already dead fetus, where there is nothing to "save." Others a threat to the life of the mother, for a whole cluster of different reasons, and all requiring removal of the fetus. By new legal definition, these life saving interventions would be illegal abortions, some categorized as murder, requiring punishment of the medical staff and the usually grieving mother. Even a "normal" miscarriage will be treated with suspicion, despite how common they in fact are, including my own first pregnancy. Under new laws, women could be required to "prove" they are natural, and how the hell does one do that? For that matter, could you "prove" a stillbirth, like at least one of my grandmothers had, was natural?

Take away the medical piece of a need for abortion. Many of the new laws, set to go into effect the second the leaked Supreme Court decision goes formally into effect, give no relief for incest or rape. Not even for children, and in case you haven't kept up, 9 year olds these days are capable of becoming pregnant. Their bodies are only prepared for fertilization, not for 9 months of the damages a pregnancy will cause. But these laws would require them to go through the pregnancy.

Unless they were born into a rich family of course, because the wealthy will always find a way to travel to a place where safe abortions are legal for their "precious." I guess poor girls and women, those getting raped by brothers, uncles, fathers, grandfathers, just aren't precious enough.

I'm also looking at women who for whatever reason decide to get an abortion. It doesn't have to be my reason or your reason. It's theirs. IT'S NONE OF MY BUSINESS! NOR YOURS! And certainly not the government's. It should be easy to do, in terms of the mechanics of it. I'm not suggesting it's an easy choice but that doesn't matter. I'll never need one, but that doesn't matter either. It should be a medical service that's available, and without all the nonsense requirements imposed upon it these last few years like an internal ultrasound, i.e., mechanical rape. That's not a medical requirement, just viciousness. There should be no requirement to read all kinds of propaganda first, get shamed, and then have to return for another visit. For many that means time off work, likely unpaid, travel expenses including for the oft required overnight stay, childcare expenses if there are existing children, and etc. There should be no requirement that the doctor performing the procedure have admittance rights at a local hospital because EVERY PATIENT who needs to has the right to enter a hospital for treatment if there are complications after an abortion, just like after an accident or for an illness or whatever brings them there. If I'm in a traffic accident, I'm not grilled about where my doctor practices, nor is my care held up until they can verify anything about my doctor(s). 

As long as I'm ranting, does anybody reading this think the loss of women's rights will stop at abortion? The so-called argument being presented rests on privacy not being in the Constitution. Abortion is not the only privacy issue. How about birth control? Same sex marriage? Interracial marriage? Divorce? Where you choose to live? How you choose to dress, beyond decency norms. What you choose to read? To eat? Where and what you choose to tattoo on your own skin? These and more should be private decisions. But once that ball starts rolling, what else can be taken away on the new "precedent"?

All this is coming from an extremist religious part of our nation. They believe all abortion is a sin and insist on making it a crime. Where do they get the right to impose their religion on my body and those of every other woman in the country? Or is that right implicit in having justices who lie their way onto the court unchallenged, just for that purpose, the end result of a 40-year plan to take individual rights and give them away to the government? For that matter, is it even the end?

GOTV !   GOTV !   GOTV ! Get Out The fricking Vote!!!!!!! Because they're already working on taking that away too.

The Fun of Freaking Out A TA

I don't know his name. Never cared. But the way the university system works is the Professors teach the book stuff and get paid, and the teaching assistants are usually working on their advanced degrees and taking over the work, i.e., the labs, for points or something. I doubt it's for money. But then, this happened way back in 1976, when I was taking night extension classes at the U after work.

I waddled into organic chemistry lab in late September, my pregnant belly stretched way out to there, leading the parade that was me at the time. The TA was several years younger than I, and turned a bit white at the sight of me.  I grinned to myself. He was soooooo young!

He almost visibly gulped as I remember it, though that could be the storyteller in me that put that detail in. He hesitantly asked my when I was due.

"Yesterday" was my calm, mischevious reply. Technically it was true, as far as my official doctor was concerned. Paul was conceived on January 2nd, his father being too drunk to perform on New Year's Eve after a neighbor's party, too hungover the 1st. We were actively trying, however, now several months after having my IUD removed. So, this being child #3, this was a day after my officially assigned 9 month due date. What I knew, from previous experiences, and couldn't convince any medical person that I actually knew what I was talking about, was that I carried my babies for 10 months! All three of my pregnancies had exactly one day when conception was possible. It was a kind of hell waiting that extra month to meet Stephanie, but much easier planning for that extra month with Richard. I had plenty of time to go yet with Paul, and fully expected to be in that lab, watching that TA blanch each night I came through his door still thoroughly pregnant, in fact even more so than for the previous lab, with secret relish at his discomfort.

On October 21st, as I set my books down and bent over to open my drawer of supplies which was located at floor level, when I pulled on the handle my water broke. Just a little bit, nothing requiring a mop up, but enough to announce what was coming. I calmly shut the drawer, stood up, waddled over to where the TA was, announced I was leaving to have this baby, and could  he please tell me where in this building a phone was so I could inform my husband and midwife to meet me at the hospital?

Where he'd looked uneasy before, he now looked terrified for a moment. Then he remembered there was a working pay phone down on 1st floor. (Lab was on 3rd.) Did I need him to call me an ambulance? He was almost panicked, likely wondering if I was going to give birth right there on the floor and make him watch or even help or something.

Oh Gee, now I have to take care of this guy too? I managed to take the extra minute to reassure him that I would be fine, it was just a short walk across campus to the hospital where I was already pre-checked in. I could see he wasn't reassured, but also watched him choose to believe me and get back to teaching his lab class. I was no longer his worry. I swear he stood just a bit taller.

I made it to the phone and made my calls, by some miracle having the quarters necessary. I then started a surprisingly comfortable walk across campus to the Mayo building, then up to 5th floor. The rest of the process turned into an emergency C-section late the next afternoon, the details of which I will forgo providing, but the two or three days' absence I'd promised the TA I'd be back to class after didn't materialize. It was a hospital stay of 8 days, and a couple more at home before I showed up at chem lab again. I got a long look - aimed at the belly of course - from the TA and a comment that I'd missed a quiz and he'd thought (hoped?) maybe I'd dropped out. My prolonged absence didn't do my grade any good, but I managed to pass despite it. 

Every few years I wonder for just a moment what tales he had to tell about that pregnant lady in his lab class. And I just grin. He's probably planning his own retirement by now, possibly has his own kids, unless I scared him out of it. I just hope he grew up.

Repost: Survival Guide To Knee Replacement

I originally posted this 8 years ago. After rereading, and the passage of time, I made a few adjustments, including one suggested by the woman who ran the Joint Club that helped me and many, many others through the process. 

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Heather's Survival Guide to Knee Replacement Surgery:

This is written as a reminder to me, both for the things I will have forgotten between knee surgeries, and to refer to if I do it again in a dozen years or so. If you know anybody in the same situation, feel free to pass it along. I've already stolen or adapted many of its ideas. Note most of what is here also applies to hip replacements, with the additional requirement never to bend tighter than 90 degrees at the hip, (chairs and toilets!) or dislocation may occur, requiring a hospital visit.

Preparation:  This is optional surgery, so you will have time to prepare. Use it.

Start at home. Check out your chairs. Any one you use should be high, firm, and have sturdy arms. Never go for a rocker, being both unsteady and turning itself into a low chair as you lean forward. If you have access to a lift chair, even just renting one for a month or two, do it. It has a wide variety of positions for comfort, and moves you during that time when you are unable to do so yourself without major pain. Firm (fiber filled, like cotton) extra seat cushions can turn an otherwise suitable but low chair into an acceptable one, but check it out first. Squishy (foam) cushions are useless. The seat should reach and stay knee level or a bit higher. Consider a rolling chair for the kitchen so you can roll back and forth rather than walking and standing while you prepare food, do cleanup, etc. Again, side arms and an extra cushion on the seat will be invaluable for standing up again, and roll it so the back is to a wall or cupboards so it doesn't go out from under you and dump you on the floor.  You still can't get up from the floor, even if you weren't hurt in the process. Get a good grabber stick to pick up what’s just out of reach.

Find a folding chair with arm rests and sufficient height (cushions again) to take with you when you go somewhere. Don't ever assume your friends will have what you need, or have a clue how to properly help you out of their low chair or couch. I personally recommend Coleman's steel camping chair, sturdy enough for even my weight and with a mini table attached to one arm. Along the same lines, find out where usably high toilets are, or stay home  unless the visit is so short it won't be an issue. Just because a public restroom has support bars and claims to be handicap accessible does not mean the seat will be high enough. You don't want to sit there a mere foot off the floor until you either have completely healed or are willing to face the pain of standing up from it. Arizona is particularly lacking in seat height. Minnesota is much more knee friendly.

If you don't have a handicap height toilet at home and have been considering it, now would be the time. Either way, get a toilet seat insert which raises the height and provides sturdy side arms. Safety bars near the toilet, tub and shower, as well as stairs, should be installed. If your community provides walkers and bathroom aids free for a couple months, use the service.  The walker is a must. The shower seat is optional: it can take up all the room inside a smaller shower and turn into more of an impediment than a help. Ours sits outside during a shower to hold the towel and/or clothes up off the floor, then stores out of the way inside the shower when done.

The incision area needs to be kept dry for about three weeks. I didn't chose to go through the wrapping with plastic and tape routine, especially with my tape allergy, just to take a shower I wasn't quite ready to stand all the way through anyway. The first couple weeks I learned to either accept being grubby or cleaning with a washcloth in the stinky spots and leaning over the kitchen sink to shampoo. Check out your sink, planning how your walker fits into the process.

Scout out the house for pathway hazards. Small area rugs and clutter are easily tripped over. If you have large rugs, decide whether they will be a problem or lay flat and unmovable and are easily gone over. Train dogs and cats to move quickly out of your path by walking now with your walker and noisily tapping it on the floor as you go, and beware of lap sitters, especially if they have the habit of accessing your lap by climbing up over your legs and knees. The lap blanket comes in useful here.

Practice moving. Take the walker around the house, making sure pathways are always wide enough. That box that got moved or the new chair may not be in the way when it's just you going by, but it might block the walker. Also note whether anything catches the feet/wheels and figure out if you need to change it or how you lift vs. slide the walker past it.

Learn to sit in the car by backing into the passenger side doorway (you will not be driving! At least not until you can go more than 8 hours past your last percoset before turning that key.) and planting your butt on the seat before any leg goes in. Then lift each leg under the knee with your hand and place it inside, noting where the door frame is in the way. For the first couple weeks, any slight bump hurts. Get out of the car doing it all in reverse, pushing yourself up and forward off the seat back and door frame into a stand. If you think you can just stay home, forget it: plan on heading out to three PT sessions a week for a while.

You will need to strengthen certain muscles in preparation for coping with the surgery and learning to use your leg again. You should be given instructions. They boil down to different ways of straightening the leg, pulling the heel in towards the top of your thigh in a tight bend, increasing leg circulation by flexing your ankles, and strengthening your arms to aid in standing up. DO THEM! No matter how much your knees hurt before surgery, DO THEM. Painkillers are available. When you need to quit anything resembling blood thinners before surgery, including aspirin or ibuprofin, ask your doctor for a substitute that works for you such as percoset. Failing to follow through on PT, either before or after surgery, can make a strong negative impact on your recovery. Basic core / back exercises like leg lifts also help.

Note here that not all painkillers work for all people. It has been discovered that this is genetic. There is now a DNA test available (which Medicare will pay for?) that will determine, for example, if your body will metabolize Tramadol so fast it's already out of your system in ten minutes, thus useless. I'm one of those, just like I metabolize alcohol so fast I'm instantly giddy but my hangover has started on the way home. Also not fun.

Practice getting out of all chairs, as well as the car, by bringing your hands back as near to your torso as you can and pushing yourself up from the arms: those muscles will be needed for months so start strengthening them right away, even if you're coping with rotator cuff injuries. (My old injury actually has improved in function from this way of standing. No guarantees for y'all.) Include getting out of bed and off the toilet seat in your practicing. Tiny bathrooms also need logistical practice getting in and out with a walker. Adaptations may include sideways or backwards walking, even parking it outside and using counters and walls for support. Find out. Learning when you're in a hurry to reach the toilet means you're too late.

Since you'll be slower getting to the bathroom regardless, panti liners or more absorbent items may be in order. Their plastic seal will increase your nasty body odor. Mind your personal hygiene. Consider baby wipes. This also may be a good time to install a bidet adapter in your toilet. Your wastebasket will also grow odors quickly, so have a small one lined with plastic (shopping) bags so the contents can be regularly sealed off and tossed.

Minimize your need to move for after you get home. Stock up on food items that take minimum preparation. Despite your feelings about taking care of the environment, get a good supply of paper plates and napkins to minimize dishwashing chores. Make sure your regular prescriptions are filled ahead, there's enough toilet paper, tissues, light bulbs, etc. You won't want to go to the store if you can possibly avoid it. You might stock up on cash so you can send somebody else to buy things on the latest list.

Check your wardrobe. You'll be wearing shorts for a bit, even in winter, and they'll best be baggy for easy on/off, and full of pockets for carrying little stuff while your hands are busy with the walker. A lap robe or small blanket will be a must, especially if surgery is in the winter. But even during summer, your ice packs and inactivity will help chill you down temporarily. Sometimes too temporarily. A light sweater or sweatshirt that's easy on/off can also be handy for minor changes.

Your foot will be hard to reach for a while, so keep dressing quick and easy. If you don't already have some, get a large package of cheap ankle socks and consider slip-on shoes. Or keep those ugly hospital socks with the non-slip stripes. You will not be tying your shoelaces yourself for a few weeks. Barefoot or non-skid slippers may become the new you, at least indoors. Make sure those toenails are trimmed before surgery as you won't be doing it again for about a month. Maybe more. Accept that those legs will be hairy for a while.

Make sure your bed is freshly changed and laundry done before surgery. Again, you won't want to bother for a while after. You won't be sweeping floors, vacuuming, or doing much of any housework for a bit, and only the light stuff when you start in again, so either tolerate the result or arrange help.

Your doctor will likely require you to take iron supplements to build up your blood supply before surgery. These cause constipation. So will the narcotic painkillers for afterwards. Lay in a supply of stool softeners or other favorite laxative, and vitamin C. One of the additional and lesser known benefits of vitamin C is that when you take more than your body needs, like for healing from surgery, you cannot OD, your body excretes it. In fact, a test for what dosage is right for your nutritional needs is that when you reach too high a dosage C causes diarrhea. Increase till you reach that point and then back off. A little experimentation will determine your optimal dosage.  As a cautionary note, when it's time to decrease either iron or the narcotic, decrease the dosages of the laxatives a day ahead or so, or be wed to the throne.

Since your dressing will need changing periodically, lay in a supply of gauze pads, enough to cover an 8-10" incision. Rather than tape, find some stretchy gauze rolls to hold the pads in place. Think of it as a sleeve. They are loose enough to bend with you, can be lifted and/or shifted to examine how healing is progressing, and snug enough to stay in place as you move around. They have the added benefit of no medical adhesive for those of us who are allergic to it, or who just hate having your hairs pulled off with the tape. You can easily tell if you've gotten an infection by seeing how red the incision area is. A little red for a while is expected. A lot, and spreading red, requires immediate attention. So, for the first weeks, does a fever, so get - and check - a thermometer.

Once you know when your surgery is scheduled, clear your schedule. For the first month after, not only don't plan on going anywhere, but actively plan not to go anywhere, other than medical appointments. You'll be surprised how quickly you lose whatever ambition you had. You'll also tend to wind up paying for whatever you do for at least two days afterwards, whether it's the increased level of PT exercises, housework, swimming once it's allowed, or a trip in the car. For the second month or so, leave anything on your schedule as optional, to be decided in the moment. Stamina will eventually return, as you slowly increase activities like walking, but you won't have any now. Plan on that.

Get that haircut, the one that makes styling all but unnecessary for a few weeks. It may be the ponytail without the split ends, or the do so short it hardly matters when the wind blows. Just because you can shampoo over the sink doesn't mean you will want to as often as necessary to keep it up to your usual standards, especially if it requires fussing with after cleaning.

Your surgeon and/or hospital will require a visit with your primary care doc plus lab tests to verify you are OK for surgery. This is usually 3 weeks out. They will also schedule your first follow-up PT sessions, and your follow-up return visits to the surgeon. If you are lucky, they will also sponsor something like a "Joint Club" where you can get detailed information on what to expect and how to prepare. Don't miss one of those appointments! A calendar with large enough spaces to write each appointment in (including address and phone) is a big help, as life will become very complicated for a while. Make sure your partner/helper is aware of any need to drive you to your appointments, or find a circle of people to commit and take turns. If you don’t have a partner/helper, arrange not to live totally alone for about a month.

Prepare ice packs. Easy and cheap DIY recipe: 2 bottles cheap dish liquid, 1 bottle isopropyl (rubbing) alcohol. Mix 2 measures soap to 1 alcohol, pour into quart zipper bags. Wrap in thin cloth like dishtowel, then set into gallon zipper bag. Set in freezer until needed. Reusable. The towel/double bag method keeps them intact despite other additions and subtractions to your freezer shelves. Make at least two so one can chill while the other is in use. You may want more. When you no longer need them, their contents can be reclaimed for dish washing: it's just soap plus alcohol, both of which clean and sanitize your dishes. However, you may be thoroughly sick of the smell long before that point, as it creeps out even from double sealed bags. You might also want to set them inside a cake pan or similar so if/when one does finally break, it doesn’t go all over. A lot of food can get spoiled that way. (Trust me!)

For The Hospital:

Pack light. You should be there two or three days. You will be an orthopedic patient, not a sick patient, and most likely will need shorts and shirts rather than the bare-ass gown. They will provide non-skid footwear. Do bring your cell and charger. Don't bother with a book. You won't be reading because the anesthesia and painkillers will keep you from concentrating or even staying awake long enough to get anything out of it. You likely won't watch the TV there either for the same reason. Plan on sleeping, eating, PT, changing your bed position, visits from medical staff, sleeping, traveling with assistance to the toilet and back to bed, washing your face once a day, sleeping, taking meds, practicing walking, and sleeping. Nearly all of it hurts. Despite the meds.

Find out your PT schedule and get your pain shot or pill about 90 minutes before for maximum effect. If they offer you a menu, choose about half your usual fare, both because your appetite will drop and peristalsis is affected by the anesthesia. You don't want to get too much food backed up in your plumbing while you wait for it to work again. The first day or so, you will be holding so tight onto your walker that you won't have the third hand needed to wipe yourself, so get over any embarrassment  about receiving help to do so. No, you can't do it while sitting because they have this weird cup in there to collect all your urine for inspection and it literally gets in the way of your hand. Once your balance and leg strength return you can manage wiping yourself again. I expect guys have it better but I haven't asked whether they ask for a shake or just stand and drip. Nor will I.

Going Home:

Make sure you get that painkiller ahead of time (90 min.) just as if you were going to PT. There is enough torque on that new knee that getting in/out of the car will be at least as painful. Also get a prescription to hold you a couple weeks or so, until your next doctor visit, and plan on having to show up in person at the pharmacy to get it filled.  This will be a test of your ability to get in and out of the car, and using the walker - brought from home - in real life. Good luck and try not to scream and scare the kiddies. If you can shop in a place with motorized carts, do so, as it will be a very long walk  for you otherwise. (Have you ever noticed that stores plan for you to walk past half their merchandise to reach the pharmacy in hopes that you'll buy some of it?)  Have whoever drives you there bring the cart out to you, no matter what the store policy is. Stand up into your walker, then take the step or two to the cart, and vice versa. Don't try to hop on the good leg. Not for one single step.

At Home:

Use that walker for at least the two weeks they initially want you too. It may take longer, or you may feel independent of it sooner, but don't push it. You need the healing time, where you still have to stop and think where and how you use that leg. Falls are a disaster.

Settle into your comfy chair with your feet up and use that first ice pack. You may need a thin towel between your skin and the pack. In fact, plan to need one: since lots of your nerves will have been severed, you will not be the best judge of what too cold (or later, too hot) will be. You don't want to add to the damage that's already been done to skin, muscles, and tendons when they split everything away apart from the bones so they could work on them. This will be where the most of your pain will be coming from now that the bone spurs and stuff have been removed. Think of everything as having been sprained, torn, bruised.  It doesn't need to be made worse. It can still take a year to completely heal. So test that temperature on a similar tender spot, like the other thigh.

Settle on a time schedule for your painkillers that works with the rest of your routine. You will often be too foggy to remember whether you had that last pill at 3:30 or 5:00 today, or whether that was yesterday, so keep to as much of a routine as possible. If you get one of those 4 x a day weekly pill holders, you can pre-fill it and then look under each flap to check on all your meds. Be aware your screwy new sleep schedule will try to mess it all up for you.

You will still sleep a lot for weeks, partly from the anesthesia still in your system, partly from your painkillers, partly just because you are recovering from major surgery. Don't fight it. You can sleep in your recliner, lift chair, or flat in your bed. If you are a side sleeper in bed, a small pillow between the knees is recommended. I haven't found one thin enough to be comfortable, and suggest substituting a few folds of a soft lightweight (baby?) blanket for cushioning. After six weeks you might not even need that as you find comfortable positions for your legs.

Your dreams will be weirder than usual. Nightmares more vivid. Actions more vivid. You may find yourself often waking from a dream with your arm outstretched reaching for some dreamed item,  feeling it in your hand. Don't let it bother you. Things will normalize, especially as your painkiller dosages decrease. If you find yourself sleepwalking, make sure the car keys are where you can't find them! Of course the pain should wake you up promptly before you get that far, fingers crossed.

Find little bits of time for your home PT. If I do it before bed, I am wakeful for at least an hour, so I try to do it sooner. First thing in the morning isn't for me because I'm in a hurry to get some food in me that I need before taking my painkillers. Priorities, you know. I like doing most of them on my bed, after coming out of the bathroom instead of on the way. Priorities, you know. I modify some of the exercises to fit my surroundings. There is no good place to pull the knee back into a tight bend like they have at PT unless I have the elastic band handy, but if I lay on my back, thighs vertical, letting the knee lower the rest of the leg, gravity pulls it down for me. If I get myself into a spot where I can't lift the foot up again, I can just roll over and slowly straighten the leg on the bed.

The tight bend is the hardest for me. If I'm sitting where my feet swing freely, I can use the other leg to push the exercising one back into position, especially as I'm first recovering. In fact, early in the recovery I've found a stick with loops at both ends is useful in moving the leg when I can't. My hand goes in one end loop, the other slips around the foot, and I pull, lift, or whatever it takes to get that leg where I need it, whether as part of PT or just a comfy position to rest in. I don't know where to get one of those. It helps to be married to somebody who got one when he had one of his knee replacements.

If your years with bad knees haven't already taught you to do this, learn to lift the blankets up off your legs before rolling over so they don't get caught up in them. You can't effectively or painlessly move the covers aside using the recovering leg for a long while.

Keep that lap blanket handy to your chair. You can be too warm one minute and chilly the next, and 5 minutes under the blanket overheats you again. Your ice pack will cool the whole of you down to shivering, but keep using them because for the first few weeks they are great for reducing swelling and controlling pain. After that you may find gentle heat, like from a hot shower or a gently warmed hot pack, may ease pain by loosening up those tendons, same as an athlete stretching and warming up before the run or whatever. My best results are from heat before activity, cold after.

That blanket can also keep your knee protected from the rest of your environment, things which might apply pressure as you rest them there, or the dog or cat which insists it belongs in your lap because it has missed you. For the three days you were gone. For the ten minutes since it was last there.

Reading is still more challenge than not, but improves with time. TV can be problematic as well, as you drift off mid-episode. Some recording device, like TIVO or a DVR, is helpful if you can keep others in the house from erasing what they think you've already watched just because you were physically present when it was on.

Your appetite is still likely to be suppressed while you are on the narcotics, so don't be shocked when it's two hours past lunchtime and you never noticed. I won't say it's a weight loss plan, partly because of the lessened activity and partly because once you come off the narcotics the appetite returns with a vengeance.

You will wear tight elastic socks out of the hospital to help prevent blood clots in your legs. They will tell you how many weeks you should wear them. As for me, the first time they had to come off  for something, they stayed off because 1: like everybody else I hated them and 2: I couldn't reach my feet far enough and for long enough to be able to pull them back on. This is a case of my saying, "don't try this at home." And also, "results may vary." I was very conscientious about doing my ankle flexing exercises to increase circulation and hopefully avoid any clots forming.

Energy levels will be up, down, all over the map, different than what you thought they were half an hour earlier. Bedtimes vary by the day. If you make plans, be sure you and those around you understand you may need to break them without notice, the same level of notice your body gives you. Be aware that your body will be doing odd things  for a while, like the hot/cold cycling, long after you figure that it should be all over. My surgeon explained that it is because of the anesthesia, a conglomerate of very strong chemicals needed while they take you apart and put you back together, and they don't flee the body instantly once the surgery is done.

So give yourself time. And have a medical help-line number handy when you have a question about whether something is to be expected and just muddle through with it or apply a certain treatment, or whether you need to seek in-person medical help because whatever it is, it's important.

I try to wean myself off the narcotics after a few weeks. The first two weeks are absolutely the worst, and you need to move around, so take whatever is offered during that time and be grateful. It makes it bearable to do something as basic as rolling over in bed, or flexing and straightening the knee, not to mention PT. Living still seems worthwhile. Then you can start to decrease dosages, space out pills, substitute a dose of anti-inflamitory for one pill. At 5 weeks - which may vary for others, or with a second knee - I was on ibuprofin, 600 mg. two or three times a day, and one 5/325 percoset around supper time. If I've been at all active, both my legs absolutely ache by that time from mid thigh to the ankle, and the one pill carries me through the evening and a night of sleep, with low enough pain levels that by morning I'm back to ibuprofin again. In fact, sleeping the night through makes such a difference that when I feel an afternoon ache coming on I preemptively head to bed for a nap so I can put off the evening percoset as long as possible.

Strategies vary as time progresses. It may help that the knees were so bad for so many years that I'm grateful for even a little improvement. Then again, every little improvement makes me impatient for the next and the next until it's over, and I have to keep reminding myself to be patient. Or I could just go take another nap.

Long Term:

One effect of the surgery may be RLS - restless leg syndrome. Nerve damage is one cause. It should fade as nerves heal, but I treat it with ibuprofen when necessary, and getting some sleep as soon as it hits. Results may vary, of course. 8 years later I get it about twice a year.

Jane Elizabeth Price Maxson: In Her Own Words

 Introduction: 

I lived with my paternal Grandmother Elizabeth for several months when I was 5, along with her youngest daughter Agnes, Agnes's husband Larry, and my cousins Ron and Marilyn. Grandma had her own apartment in the lower level of the three story house in Minneapolis, and we respected her privacy, visiting occasionally, but I was never allowed to simply drop in. In retrospect I wish I had known her better. I clearly recall the shock at finding out her actual first name was Jane, as she never used it. Then again, hating a name runs through the family, with my father, daughter and self hating our middle names. Daddy disavowed "Dufty" so vehemently he literally swore to the army on penalty of perjury that D was a "middle initial only", I use Maxson as mine, and my daughter doesn't use hers, possibly because the first person she met with that name poked her in the eye, causing her first word to be "Ow!"

This was written in 1932 by my grandmother, the Welsh contribution to the family gene pool. It was rescued in 1989 and transcribed originally by my Aunt Edith, the middle of her three daughters. I didn't receive a copy until I was already a grandmother myself and Grandma was long gone. There are a few issues with the document I received, starting with the fact I am no longer in possession of the original. Even if I were, it was written on a ribbon typewriter (of course) and ribbon ink can smear when rubbed, as well as fading as that part of the ribbon gets reused a few times. After all, not everybody is/was wealthy enough to be able to buy a virgin ribbon for everything they typed. These days the equivalent would be a toner cartridge at that stage of near emptiness where you can remove it, shake it a bit, then continue printing for a few more pages, repeating until it finally must be replaced. That said, the copy I had was a Xerox copy, so what was made for distribution will not have faded any further, which I shot pictures of before passing it on. Even with that, some errors exist in what can be read in Edith's version, including the age Elizabeth lived to, which was 92, not the 95 Edith claimed in her intro (not included). Edith herself lived to be 97 and 4 months, something my own father, John, felt very competitive about, managing to live to be 97 and 6 months to the day!

I connected with my brother's family who had an original and re-transcribed it, emailing me their pdf copy, since I also managed to skip shooting one of the middle pages. The last page is numbered 12. I took 12 different shots. Counted them even. But I overlooked the fact that the first page is a letter sent by my Aunt Edith, introducing the document to each branch of the family she sent a copy to. As she had 9 siblings, it was a lot of paper, and a lot of work on her part, since Grandma wrote in a little notebook. I have no idea what Grandma's penmanship was like*, but Edith transcribed it from the handwritten version, and her intro mentions that Grandma ran out of room in her notebook so the end is on different paper. Edith offers it as one explanation of why Elizabeth stopped writing when she got married, while also commenting that bearing 11 children and raising 10 of them may have contributed as well. My aunts, uncles and father each popped out at about 18 month intervals.

[* I have a theory about that. Running through our family, left handedness skips to every second generation. My brother and I got it, my granddaughter has it. I seem to recall Elizabeth had it, and if so she would have been forced to change hands to write, as everybody was in those days, and further forced to try for perfect penmanship. The result could have been very interesting.  Also note that inserts throughout in these straight brackets are not from the original document written by my grandmother.]

*     *     *     *     *

Jane Elizabeth Price Maxson’s (1878-1970) Autobiography
written in 1932 and originally transcribed by her daughter Edith Maxson Bjornstad in 1989

It was in January, 1878, that I became part of the population of the city of Troy, NY. My father, David Price, had been born in the same city just 36 years before. His parents had left Wales after their marriage and had come directly to Troy, where they spent the rest of their lives.

Their three older children were born before they immigrated, and four others were born in Troy. My grandfather Price died in middle age, and I know very little about him. He was always employed in the rolling mills after coming to America.

My grandmother Price, (Elizabeth), was a quiet little woman, very energetic and sensible, a great Bible student, and a very remarkable Christian. She lived to be 92 years old. She learned English after she came to America. It was my duty as a child to carry on a correspondence with her after we left Troy, and her letters to me always came promptly. I felt the importance of this, and since I was named for her, I considered her my own private property. There is a portrait of her in a white cap with strings, which is in my brother Archie’s possession. In the picture, she is a little middle aged woman, dressed to look like an ancient, which was the quaint custom of those Civil War times. Her face shows much character and gentleness. She often took us children to walk on Sunday mornings, so that our father and mother could attend church. She usually took us to a hilltop overlooking the Hudson River where we could watch the big boats. She always called the whistle of the smaller boats the engine, and the great big one was always the (here the writing is not clear, but it seems to be “hull engine”) much to our delight. I was only five when I saw her last but that memory of her is very vivid to me. I loved her very much.

My mother Ann Dufty, was born in June, 1848, in Kidderminster in Worcestershire, England. Her father was a great student and reader. I do not know whether he ever had any formal education or not. Education in England in his day was a hard thing for a poor man to get. He was a market gardener. He and his wife, Sarah Watson, had 16 children, three pairs of twins. Infant mortality was great in those days, and they were able to bring up only nine – six boys and three girls. (You notice I say only nine.) I am very proud of my mother’s family. They were all well read, pleasant, high minded sort of folks. Several of her brothers were musical. My uncle Robert Dufty had a baritone voice as beautiful as any I have ever heard, and Uncle Arthur sang a very good tenor. These two sang for years in a male quartette [sic] in Troy – a quartette that was in great demand. Another uncle was for years the pipe organist in one of the big Baptist churches in Troy. These three brothers always took all the money they earned in choir and organ work to go down to New York and take lessons to improve their music They were all very handsome men. There is a picture of my sister Ruth’s of five of the Dufty men in young middle age – a remarkably fine looking group of men.

Two sisters were married in England. The Duftys left England when my mother was 24. They too settled in Troy. That is a coincidence I always have been glad about. I am glad my father and mother met and married. I do so heartily approve of both of them. You dear people knew my father in his old age – but it is a matter of regret to me that none of you, my best friends, knew my darling mother. One cannot just go around saying “I had an ideal mother” and so I have oft wished that you had known her. A minister high up in the M. E. church (Bert D. Beck) preached at our church in Richfield [Minnesota] one morning several years ago, and he was surprised to find my husband and me in the congregation. He had been in our class in college. In commenting on his surprise at seeing us he spoke of having known my people. “Mrs. Maxson’s mother was a queen,” he said. That remark was often made. Once Bishop Edwin H. Hughes said the same thing. Mother was very beautiful, tall, brown-eyed, with lovely soft wavy hair, and a wonderful English complexion. I never saw finer coloring on any woman. She had beautiful hands and tiny feet. My father told me just before he died how proud and surprised he was when she consented to be his wife. He had much competition, he said, especially from a Baptist minister who wrote poems to her. They were married Feb. 1, 1874, and lived in a little brown house that had been Grandmother Price’s. I saw this house six years ago.**

[**This was probably in 1926, when Francis and Elizabeth Maxson went to Philadelphia for the sesquicentennial of the Declaration of Independence, when the date corresponded with Francis’ birthdate, which was July 4, 1876. That would make the writing of this autobiography in 1932, six years after 1926. So far as I know, this was the only time our parents went east, and this time was one when they were able to go without any of the children along! EMB]

The neighborhood is hardly respectable anymore – and the house, while still standing, looks shabby and very old. It must be 75 years since it was built. I was thrilled, nevertheless, because there it stood on this side hill, just as I remembered it, and there was the little garden at the back, where mother always had flowers, marigolds and four o’clocks and the deliciously fragrant English honeysuckle which she always planted wherever she lived.

They lived in this house about eight years. Here my brother Archie was born, then I and then my sister Ruth. Archie was my mother’s pride and joy, her first born, her only son. I think something of the English idea of primo-geniture must have lingered in her mind because he was the most important child. As a child I bitterly resented this. I could not see why he was in any way my superior. I utterly admired him, but I refused to bow down and pay him homage, as Ruth, and later little sister Frances did. Thus early I developed into a rank feminist. I do not want you to feel that my mother was guilty of partiality. A fairer-indeed woman never lived. But, oh, how I wished that I were a boy instead of a girl!

Archie was the handsome member of our family. He had beautiful black eyes and crisp black curly hair, now white, but still beautiful.

I was only 15 months old when Ruth was born. We were like twins, sharing everything, dressing alike, doing things together. It is strange, now that we are both married, that we have seen so little of each other.

We lived in Troy only till I was five years old (1883). There are three or four memories of that part of my life that stand out. One is a Christmas tree at Grandmother Dufty’s, a real English Christmas when I was three. All her American children and grandchildren were there. On the tree for me was a little green majolica plate Grandmother had brought from England. Ruth received one just like it. They were in the shape of a grape leaf. Mother had a large oval shaped fruit dish to match. It was this large one which two years ago my sister Frances refused to sell for $1000, the offer of a rich New England woman. I have told you that story.**

[**I have the small plate, now, slightly chipped, but carefully preserved. EPM]

Another memory is of how I used to sing. Mother had a lovely soprano voice and a good memory, and always sang at her work. I learned songs from hearing her sing.  One song, an anthem, I learned at the age of three, and sang at all family gatherings, collecting quite a few pennies and nickels to put in my bank. It went like this: “How beautiful upon the mountains” and so forth. Rather an odd song for a three year old. My adoring relatives all predicted a brilliant future for me. What a disappointment I must have proved to them! It is often so with infant prodigies. 

The other memory I have of my life in Troy is of a wonderful time I had with my father one afternoon in early summer. Mother had gone to a funeral of some relative and Father stayed home to take care of me. We went on the horse cars out into the country and picked daisies. My father and I were wonderful chums. He treated me like a little princess. It always has humbled me to think how my father idealized and loved me. It was this afternoon when I first realized that I meant anything to him that he was the dearest person in the world to me. I was only four years old. This is the one perfect afternoon of my whole life. It is strange how often the memory comes back to me. We stopped on the way home and bought some fruit and candy at my Uncle Sam’s market.

Another day, a Sunday morning, comes back to me, a memory just as vivid but not a happy one. I had a beautiful new hat, a Leghorn poke bonnet with a blue plume draped around the crown, and blue bonnet strings to tie under my chin. I loved it, and when I wore it to church the first time I took it off and insisted on swinging it by the ribbons in the aisle so that everyone could see it. Mother said no, but I kept on and got a very well deserved spanking when she got me home. I had other spankings – a few – but this is the only one I remember. I thought at the time she had a perfect right to spank me from her point of view. I was not repentant, however. I felt that I had really enjoyed swinging my hat in the aisle, and that, on the whole, the experience was well worth the spanking.

My father was engineer in the rolling mill at Troy – a mill that made nails. The mills shut down at Troy, and father was “idle.” Now we speak of being out of work or unemployed, but then it was idle. That word had a sinister sound to me even before I knew what it meant. If a man was idle everyone pitied him and it was too bad for his family. Father went to Greencastle, Indiana, to work at the mill there. His brother Reese had been there for several years and was doing well. Father was in Greencastle for several months before Mother and we three children joined him. [fall 1883? GAM] The trip was a very wonderful experience for us children. For years we children all felt a little superior about it. So many of our playmates had never had even a short ride on a train.

I loved the ride – the ease with which I learned to stand up and walk when the cars were in motion, the wonderful shining water cooler where we could quench our oft-recurring thirst with ice water, the fine looking dignified gentlemen that wanted me to sit by him while Ruth sat sedately in the seat with Mother and Archie. I always did like to talk to gentlemen and this one told me all about his little girl at home – and I told him everything I knew, while he gave me flattering attention. Ruth and I had beautiful new dolls and we had pretty new dresses and hats and coats, just alike. We changed cars at Buffalo at night, and somehow I felt that was tremendously exciting and important and edifying.

We stayed at Uncle Reese’s house for a week or two until we located. They had a horse and buggy and a sweet apple tree. When an apple fell, Prince, the horse, and we children would race to see who could get the apple first. He liked them too.

Father worked at the nail mill only a few months and then he took the position of engineer and superintendent of buildings and grounds at DePauw University. We went to live in a little yellow house owned by the University and close to the college buildings. I hated the looks of the house, though it was comfortable and decent. I disliked the color and the shape. But we lived there until the year I entered high school.

Just across the street, in what I then considered a marvelous mansion, lived the president of DePauw, Dr. J.P.D. John. His daughter Alma, a tomboy, the despair of her impossibly prim and dignified mother, spent most of her time at our house, where she could breathe a little more easily. She made the journey across the street in three leaps from her front porch to our organ stool. Ruth and Alma and I lived in our old apple tree which was in turn school room, art gallery, millinery shop, hospital, riding academy, concert hall and luncheonette. Here we ate green apples with salt and planned our remarkable futures. Alma is a minister’s wife now. I have not seen her for 35 years. I’d love to.

Under this tree we gave ice cream socials, cutting juicy chunks of ripe pears for ice cream, and long slices of tomato for watermelon. We lit our tables with Japanese lanterns made of hollyhocks tied together at the outer edge of the corolla, thus making little receptacles in which we imprisoned lightning bugs in sufficient quantity so that some of them were always illuminated. We cut out paper dolls in huge families – we wrote poetry and edited a paper. We made a miniature cemetery with moss sod where we buried the bird with a broken wing. We dressed in long dresses and did up our hair. We read stories aloud (the Dotty Dimple series, the Prudy series – James Otis and J. T. Trowbridge.) We went barefoot, and we dug a furnace and roasted potatoes and boiled eggs. Mother entered into it all and helped in everything.

Mother sang us the funny little songs she learned at the Episcopal infant school in England, and as soon as we could talk we memorized poetry, songs and Scripture. Wordsworth was a favorite and we loved to recite “The Pet Lamb,” “We are Seven” and the Ten Commandments.

At six I started to school at the third ward building, the upper floor of which was the city high school. Going to school was my chief joy in life. I loved all my studies except arithmetic and all my teachers but one, and I still hate her, although she has been dead for many years. She pinched my arm once when I was in third grade – for turning around in line - and I was so angry I have never gotten over it. She was a sister of the man who was at that time lieutenant governor of Indiana. When he was a little boy, he had accidentally chopped off her two middle fingers. She used her thumb, forefinger and little finger to pinch with, and I used to wish he had cut off all her fingers. I wonder if teachers realize what a long memory a little child has for undeserved punishment and other evidences of a teacher’s ugly disposition.

When I was 11, my sister Ruth, 10, and Archie, 14, our mother presented us with a baby sister [Frances] , to our genuine amazement. Nothing in the way of an event in my life has ever equaled this. She was perfect, we all idolized her and she did not become spoiled. She was my own child, I felt. I agonized because she was not strong and I was so afraid she would die. She is living now in Middleboro, Mass. I hope she will come to see me sometime so that I can show her to you. 

Over an otherwise happy childhood hung a shadow that grew heavier and blacker. That was the doctrine of inbred sin. We lived a block from the Locust Street M.E. church, nearly all of whose services I attended. I early gathered the impression, which grew, that I was a sinner. I knew I was. I suppose everyone is and knows it. But in all the evangelical churches of that time, the extreme blackness of that guilt, and the danger of it formed a great part of the body of the preaching and teaching. Fire and brimstone, while only mentioned occasionally were a very real menace to the unredeemed. The smell and fumes lingered in the background of the happiest hour. I grew to have a great fear – a terror of “falling into the hands of an angry God” as Jonathan Edwards said so long ago. I’d wake up in the night wishing I had never been born, feeling that my case was a desperate one. If I had told Mother she would have set me right. Her faith was sunny and serene, but I could not tell her. It was not till I was 18 years old and a freshman in college that I had the sense to go to our pastor. He was considered too liberal in his views by some of the older officials of the church. I shall never cease to be grateful to him for helping me to reorganize my thinking into something safe and sane and happy. Fear went out of my mind then and I have never harbored it since.

When I was 10 the Maxson family came to live in Greencastle and their son Francis came to our school and entered our fifth grade. He was then 12 years old. He was a fine boy and always had his lessons. There was no nonsense about him. In fact we girls all thought that such frivolities as the existence of girls in the world never entered his head. He has since often assured me that even at that age he was aware of my existence and it was only a short while thereafter that he selected me, in his mind, as the future Mrs. Maxson. It was just seven years afterward that I had my first hint of it, the week after I graduated from High School, in June, 1895, when he asked me to attend his class banquet as his guest. After leaving the eighth grade which we finished together, he had been sent to DePauw Preparatory Academy and I to Greencastle High School. Our commencement was a week before his. I remember with glee my undignified conduct on the day he asked me to go with him. He had waited for me as I came home from my music lesson. My music teacher lived next door to his father’s house, and he knew what time I left there. I was astonished. He was not a ladies’ man. We girls all liked him but he was to our childish romantic eyes a confirmed bachelor (aged 19).

I made lightning calculations, that my graduating dress, a white organdy, and my white shoes would be just the thing to wear and said I’d love to go. It was not quite my first date, but nearly so. Mother would not let me go out with boys while I was in High School.

I went home and told Ruth I was going to the academy banquet with Francis Maxson, and she and I danced around and giggled. If he had seen us I fear it would have been all off.

It was just five years and six months from that date that he and I were married and moved to Minnesota.

*     *     *     *     *

[ Note my grandfather became superintendent of the Richfield, MN school system, dying in 1934 (according to my father, but disputed below) from a UTI, well before the existence of penicillin. My own father, John, had to leave college at that point in order to help support the remaining family at his home. He in turn married Gladys Murial Brogren on May 4, 1941, having finally gotten a job paying enough to get her father's permission, got drafted for WWII, served in Europe, returning home on New Years Eve 1945. My brother Stephen arrived in October of 1946, and I in September of 1948. Steve married George-Ann Davis, who added the notes below.]

 Genealogical notes by George-Ann Maxson Dec 2011

John Dufty (1812-1883) married Sarah Watson (1814-1894) in Worcestershire, England; immigrated to Troy, New York in 1872.
They had 16 children, including 3 sets of twins, but only 5 boys and 4 girls survived. Two of the girls married and stayed behind in England.
Children immigrating: Arthur, Robert, 3 other boys, Anne Dufty and a sister

John Price (1818-ca 1880) married Elizabeth ___ (1815-ca 1910) in Wales; immigrated to Troy, NY in 1842.
They had 7 children, three remained in Wales, 4 were born in the US.
Children in the US: David Price, William, Samuel, Reese

David Price (1842-1932) married Anne Dufty (1848-1923) in Troy, NY. They had 4 children: Archie, Jane Elizabeth Price, Ruth, Frances

Alvin Milton Maxson (1836-1913) married Samantha Jane LeSourd (1845-1885) in Indiana. They had three surviving children: Francis Maxson, Lena and Bertha.

Francis Eddy Maxson (1876-1935) married Elizabeth Price (1878-1970) in Indiana.
They had ten surviving children: Archie Milton, David Curtis, Jeannette Miriam, Norbert Price, Edith Mary, Francis ("Tanny") LeSourd, Agnes Elizabeth, John Dufty Maxson, Paul William, Donald Edward.