My daughter wanted this information from me last time we got together, and I think I'm the last one who has it. Or some of it. What I got came in bits and pieces, some from a liar, some from drunks I was trying not to pay attention to at the time, and some from someone who later denied it all.
There used to be a really obnoxious saying about having a (N-word) in the woodpile. I don't know if it's still in use in places. It was from back when "everybody" still cared about being "pure" white, and referred to the idea that when the master was away, some black man snuck into the mistresses bed. Even to suggest that was literally a deadly insult. Or perhaps it meant that enough masters had forced themselves over the generations into their slaves' beds that the African blood became so diluted that the offspring could "pass" for white and had successfully slipped into white society, though perhaps with some question about skin tone or features that there might be some suspicion that the blood wasn't quite "pure". When society follows the "one drop rule", any such suspicion became important. And the expression expanded to include Asians, American Indians, anyone not of northern European descent.
Fast forward to the mid 1960s. It was the dawning of the Age of Aquarius, as the song went. The civil rights struggle was finally bearing major publicity, and some fruit. Liberalism was just becoming cool, and a little extra something in the ancestry mostly went from being a scandal to a delicious semi-scandal. It was becoming - in some circles - "Hey, guess what I've got in my family tree?" It was said conspiratorially, gleefully, fearlessly. Times really had changed, at least for many, especially if that little something extra was the family rumors passed along of some mysterious Native American blood.
This was how I heard it from Paul, during the courting period. There was no suggestion of which ancestor it might have been, or how many generations back, or which one of the many nations had contributed to the gene pool. It was further removed by suggesting it had happened back when the family had lived up in Canada before coming into the United States, possibly around the same time the family name had changed from Rouseau to Rosa.
Paul's brother John chimed into the discussion once, when we were all gathered at the family farm in Fairmont for some holiday of other, likely Xmas. He referred to the old family Bible, the traditional record of births, deaths, marriages. In it was a listing that so-and-so had taken himself a wife, along with a date. The theory he proposed was that no one deemed "heathen" could ever have their name placed in the family Bible back then, and this was the way to record the event, as well as a way to provide legitimacy to the offspring of that marriage.
There was no other record of who this woman might have been that the family knew about. Even the Bible is no longer available to the family for research. Many years back, a distant family relative asked to borrow it for some genealogy research. Permission was given, the Bible used and returned, and when the family next went to look at it - possibly years later - they found that a similar one had been substituted with no family history recorded inside. John has since denied ever knowing of her, believing in her, or telling the tale of the stolen Bible and what it contained though at the time he spoke as a witness to the entry.
Bob and Lylah, my parents-in-law, are no longer here for corroboration. During those long ago family discussions, I don't remember that they contributed much. Then again, after five boilermakers each, or some similar amount, I'd long since tried to quit listening. The stories just got repeated more often and louder, the drunker they got. Being the only sober person in the room has its social drawbacks. I probably missed a lot that could have been interesting. However, there is one thing that stands out: every time that particular story came around, they never denied any part of it except that there was proof. Which, of course, there wasn't. Not by then, anyway.
Once Lylah died, a number of years after Bob succumbed to the effects of the treatments for mouth cancer, John inherited the farm house. His plan was to offer the contents at auction, then have the house demolished, building a new one on the site to live in with his wife Pam. Nobody knew then how little time she had left. Before the auction, they offered to my family the chance to go through their library and take away whatever we wanted to of their books. Were they sure? Really, really sure? Any? We gratefully hauled off a carful. In the process we noted a very old picture, in a modern frame with matting, on the wall over one of the bookcases where it had been ignored for years. In it was a couple, in very outdated dress and stiffly posed, and on the paper backing were a whole series of names. It started with Matthew Rosa, and from the number following there were either the couple's many children - whose names have coincidentally been passed down through the family - or the actual names of the descendants over the generations in order, oldest to most recent. There was nobody left to ask. However, as I recall the last three names were Harry, George (in some order), and Robert. Those were the recent generations.
But one thing stood out plainly to us: the woman in the picture was very obviously an elderly Native American (or Canadian?), dark, wizzened face poking out above the European-style dress. I like to think it was his defiant way of proclaiming to the world that wouldn't accept his wife according to its conventions that here, indeed, was his life-mate, and the rest of you be damned!
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Uff Da!
I used to think I was a cynic. I have had my moments. I've dealt with them many ways, including poetry, such as it was. But I heard something on MPR this morning, on Morning Edition, that hit me like a slug in the stomach. I've tried researching it for facts and names, but this idiotic search engine is more interested in sending me to Wikipedia than to anything actually useful. So this comes with all kinds of disclaimers.
The topic - at least as much as I paid attention to - was about Islamic poets, time in prisons, changes in society. I'm thinking it was Iran they were talking about, but I started paying attention late. There was a long poem quoted about somebody after 10 years in prison. Then they switched to modern poets, young poets, now writing with criticism towards the mullahs and their control on society. A name was given, but I'm handicapped by not "hearing" properly foreign names, so no retention. I will try to reproduce the poem from hearing it once, and having to drive another mile before I could pull over and write it down. There will be mistakes. Consider it my best effort to paraphrase the translation as read on the air. I apologize for its imperfections, and hope you can still feel the impact. If anybody is a better researcher than I and wants to offer corrections, they will be gratefully accepted.
I live
Like the child who knows not why it grows
Like the bird that knows not why it flies
Like the wind that knows not why it blows
Like the fish that knows not why every stream
Ends in a frying pan.
The topic - at least as much as I paid attention to - was about Islamic poets, time in prisons, changes in society. I'm thinking it was Iran they were talking about, but I started paying attention late. There was a long poem quoted about somebody after 10 years in prison. Then they switched to modern poets, young poets, now writing with criticism towards the mullahs and their control on society. A name was given, but I'm handicapped by not "hearing" properly foreign names, so no retention. I will try to reproduce the poem from hearing it once, and having to drive another mile before I could pull over and write it down. There will be mistakes. Consider it my best effort to paraphrase the translation as read on the air. I apologize for its imperfections, and hope you can still feel the impact. If anybody is a better researcher than I and wants to offer corrections, they will be gratefully accepted.
I live
Like the child who knows not why it grows
Like the bird that knows not why it flies
Like the wind that knows not why it blows
Like the fish that knows not why every stream
Ends in a frying pan.
The 96 and 1/2 Birthday
It started for him two days ago, when he announced he was now 96 and 1/2. I informed him it was a couple days yet. He's keeping track. Some days he's keeping track better.
Tonight on my way home I stopped and picked up some chocolate cupcakes with chocolate frosting and sprinkles. They come in a plastic container that holds way more than the four needed to celebrate. Not a problem. Really. The "boys" have offered to help.
Paul dug out a birthday candle and lit it, then brought it over to his grandpa in his chair. We suggested he make a wish, and he said he thought if he did that, he wouldn't have enough air left to blow out the candle. Considering how oxygen-rich his air is, I wondered if he could anyway, or if the flame would flare up as he blew. It did go out, just before the end of his first long breath out, trying.
Then we got to remind him that the paper on the cupcake needed to be removed. That was after his first bite. We all had our cupcakes, and then went on to other things. No presents, no singing, just a "We remember."
There might not be another.
Tonight on my way home I stopped and picked up some chocolate cupcakes with chocolate frosting and sprinkles. They come in a plastic container that holds way more than the four needed to celebrate. Not a problem. Really. The "boys" have offered to help.
Paul dug out a birthday candle and lit it, then brought it over to his grandpa in his chair. We suggested he make a wish, and he said he thought if he did that, he wouldn't have enough air left to blow out the candle. Considering how oxygen-rich his air is, I wondered if he could anyway, or if the flame would flare up as he blew. It did go out, just before the end of his first long breath out, trying.
Then we got to remind him that the paper on the cupcake needed to be removed. That was after his first bite. We all had our cupcakes, and then went on to other things. No presents, no singing, just a "We remember."
There might not be another.
He Is Not Either a "Good Man"
One of the things that bugs me is the idea put out there that the hatemongers of the media world, once you take the mikes and cameras away and meet them on just a personal level, are in reality good people, just entertaining us with lies, hate, and fear in a way that draws them bigger salaries. It's not really who they are.
Bullshit!
The part that really galls me is hearing this line of crap from liberals. People I otherwise respect can be so stupid this way. Sure, the Hannitys and Becks of the world have the capability to be charming and sound rational, on occasion. This does not make them "good people" who just occasionally behave badly. This is like saying, "Oh that Joe, nevermind him, he's only a pedophile on Tuesdays!" These people have power to (mis)inform and persuade millions of people, and they use it at best recklessly and at worst willfully for evil.
Yes, evil.
Remember that little inconvenient commandment about not bearing false witness?
So to say these people are really OK off the job is like saying that the man who travels and solicits whores but stays faithful and attentive to his wife when at home is really a "good husband."
Just because you only sell your soul to the devil on a part-time basis, it doesn't make you any kind of a good person. Period.
Bullshit!
The part that really galls me is hearing this line of crap from liberals. People I otherwise respect can be so stupid this way. Sure, the Hannitys and Becks of the world have the capability to be charming and sound rational, on occasion. This does not make them "good people" who just occasionally behave badly. This is like saying, "Oh that Joe, nevermind him, he's only a pedophile on Tuesdays!" These people have power to (mis)inform and persuade millions of people, and they use it at best recklessly and at worst willfully for evil.
Yes, evil.
Remember that little inconvenient commandment about not bearing false witness?
So to say these people are really OK off the job is like saying that the man who travels and solicits whores but stays faithful and attentive to his wife when at home is really a "good husband."
Just because you only sell your soul to the devil on a part-time basis, it doesn't make you any kind of a good person. Period.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Bison, Tumbled
Since the annexation, Eichtens sits in the very western edge of Shafer now. They still carry the Center City address, though, and the planned conversion of fields into commercial/light industrial area is waiting on the recession to end in all ways and jobs production to start up again. Meanwhile, it's still the restaurant/ store and field of bison that you see as you drive past on Hwy. 8.
On a commercial note, I love shopping there for bison, elk, and other meats, and some of the varieties of Gouda made in their own cheese house. I can also recommend their breakfast, since Steve and I had a lovely one there sitting at a table for two right next to the fireplace a while back.
Since before I moved into the area, they've had a bison statue sitting out by the road to help advertise the place. Some days it's the only one you see, since the live ones are way back and on the other side of the rise. Most of the time, however, it's the real ones that are worth watching, especially as the babies arrive and start to grow. They're easy to spot, light reddish brown instead of the adult black-brown coat. But the statue occasionally provides its own entertainment.
First, I figure he's a Scandinavian bison. He's got startlingly light blue eyes. This alone provides cause for reflection.
Nearly every winter there'll be a light snow, leaving white across his back for a few days. Then you'll get a day or two of just-above-freezing temperatures, giving a brief thaw and a solid refreeze. During that time, the snow, and all the dirt collected in it, will form a yellow icicle hanging from the lowest spot under his belly - yes, his - to the ground. It never happens when I'm able to stop for a picture, but my inner child delights in it. Every time.
A couple weeks ago we had a day of heavy winds and super low pressure. The meteorologists tried to come up with all sorts of names for the low pressure area, since it was likened to a land hurricane. Never mind them. I was amused by the results of the wind. It was strong enough to tumble this several-hundred-pound bison statue from standing to laying down about 25 feet away from its original site. It lay there several days, until finally it was stood up again. I noted that they didn't bother to move it back to its original spot but left it standing over where it had lain. Luckily, it had not been visibly damaged.
On a commercial note, I love shopping there for bison, elk, and other meats, and some of the varieties of Gouda made in their own cheese house. I can also recommend their breakfast, since Steve and I had a lovely one there sitting at a table for two right next to the fireplace a while back.
Since before I moved into the area, they've had a bison statue sitting out by the road to help advertise the place. Some days it's the only one you see, since the live ones are way back and on the other side of the rise. Most of the time, however, it's the real ones that are worth watching, especially as the babies arrive and start to grow. They're easy to spot, light reddish brown instead of the adult black-brown coat. But the statue occasionally provides its own entertainment.
First, I figure he's a Scandinavian bison. He's got startlingly light blue eyes. This alone provides cause for reflection.
Nearly every winter there'll be a light snow, leaving white across his back for a few days. Then you'll get a day or two of just-above-freezing temperatures, giving a brief thaw and a solid refreeze. During that time, the snow, and all the dirt collected in it, will form a yellow icicle hanging from the lowest spot under his belly - yes, his - to the ground. It never happens when I'm able to stop for a picture, but my inner child delights in it. Every time.
A couple weeks ago we had a day of heavy winds and super low pressure. The meteorologists tried to come up with all sorts of names for the low pressure area, since it was likened to a land hurricane. Never mind them. I was amused by the results of the wind. It was strong enough to tumble this several-hundred-pound bison statue from standing to laying down about 25 feet away from its original site. It lay there several days, until finally it was stood up again. I noted that they didn't bother to move it back to its original spot but left it standing over where it had lain. Luckily, it had not been visibly damaged.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Not a Concussion?
There's been so much talk of concussion and TBIs in the news lately, between sports and war injuries. Most times they list symptoms, and sometimes I say, "But that was me!" Yet they said it wasn't at the time.
It was second grade. I was attending Nevis school, nearly an hour bus ride each way since we lived on a resort down at the far end of the route. The school then - I haven't gone past for easily 50 years - boasted a sidewalk all along its front, with a small rise of ground and several steps into the front door. (This was so long ago that postcards cost two cents, and letters 3 cents to mail. I recall tagging along to pick up stamps in the Nevis post office.)
Winters were truly cold then, that far north in Minnesota. There was no global warming, and -30 was fairly common. We dressed for it better than kids do today, and were in better position to take what advantage of the cold that we could. The huge hollow in back for the athletic field made great winter sledding. You couldn't bring sleds on the school bus however, so somebody left large pieces of cardboard for us to cling to however we could while sliding down the hill and then trudging up again for the next one to ride. In fact, the cardboard was so popular that it was used on plain grass as well, though it wasn't as slick.
But during lunch breaks, there wasn't enough time to go all the way back behind the school to enjoy sledding. Kids adapt. Somebody turned the slight rise in front of school into a short ramp by piling snow to shape, then pouring water over it. On the frequent sub-zero days - or more likely nights, since I never saw such activity during school hours - the water would freeze nearly as soon as it was poured, reinforcing the snow shape rather than melting through it. Behold: we had an ice ramp! Instant slide, which all but the "babies" stood in their boots to slide on. Only about two feet long, it seemed safe enough, and all those using it were certainly having fun. In fact, it was such fun that using it conveyed status, and/or only those with status got to use it. Some of us just stood around and stared, enviously. So when I was offered the chance to use it, of course I stepped up.
Now, I need to explain something. I was pretty naive for a whole lot of years. My parents were busy people, running a resort, and finding winter jobs to keep the family going. I was a good kid by staying out of their way and staying out of trouble. Assumptions were made about how I was growing up. One of them was that their common sense was also my common sense. Even when there was no background experience or conversation to warrant such assumptions. So I got myself into trouble. A lot. I was into exploring my world, and if I couldn't see a good reason not to do something, especially with a bunch of my peers egging me on, I went ahead and tried it. It had the expected consequences.
One early bus ride, some of the older kids - boys of course - challenged me, declaring me to be too stupid to know the difference between boys and girls. Well, I did so, and told them so. They demanded proof: what is it that boys have that girls don't? I have no clue where, but I had learned that word, even though I doubt it was ever spoken in our house. We, and the culture, were pretty repressed back then. Since I couldn't allow those boys to think I was stupid, I answered their question: "a penis." Of course my folks heard about it almost as soon as I was off the school bus (How could that be, eh, big brother Steve?) and I was in trouble. I learned not to say that word ever again. Well, until much later anyway.
Remember the movie "A Christmas Story"? The one where the kid gets dared to stick his tongue to the flagpole in sub-zero weather and it sticks? Well, I was that kid too. It didn't stick long, because I jerked it off right away, but I did accept the dare. It really, really does happen. Both the tongue sticking part and the naive kid trying to fit in accepting the dare.
Along the side of the school and going way back the width of the athletic field, there was a grove of pines, planted no doubt for privacy, conservation, and windbreak purposes. During recess, however, it was our playground. It was also a good walk back to the school if you had to go potty, thus spoiling recess time. Not only would you miss whatever was going on now, you might not get back at all before recess ended. I had a dilemma: I needed to go but didn't want to leave.
Well, my classmates had a solution for me: go right there. I kinda thought I shouldn't, but they insisted it was all right. After all, they wouldn't tell. Well, why not? After all, on the resort, both my brother and my dad did it, turning their backs to us and using trees to go on. Mom had shown me how to squat down out in the woods when the occasion arose. And these were woods, right? So I did.
And of course the kids told - barely waiting until I was finished. The whole school knew and never let me forget it. My teacher knew and had a private chat with me. My parents knew and had something more than a chat with me. I was totally disgraced. Moving to a new town late in third grade was something of a relief.
Any wonder I still have some trust issues with the herd of fellow humans?
But that naive kid is still who I was when faced with the ice slide. Everybody else was doing it and having a great time, and now I could too. I never gave a thought to balancing or center of gravity or anything else, like whether standing on a slippery ice ramp was actually a good idea. So I put both feet on the top...
And next thing I know I'm lying on the concrete sidewalk, face up, kids gathered around me. I have no idea whether I lost consciousness or just memory. But, hey, I had to get up and get out of there so they could have their ramp back, and hey, just how stupid and clumsy was I, anyway?
Enough, apparently.
I wandered back into the classroom and put my head down on my desk. I felt terrible, and closing my eyes helped. Mrs. Christianson had written the afternoon's lesson on the board, and I tried to read it, but the letters made absolutely no sense. I wasn't even alarmed by suddenly being rendered unable to read. It just made me feel sicker trying, so I stopped trying. Nobody was around, so the peace and quiet was exactly what I thought I needed.
When an adult did wander in, asking if I was OK, I tried to explain that I couldn't read. It couldn't have made much sense, because she left again with no impulse to do something about what I'd just said. Eventually the class returned, and the combination of my head still on my desk and my renewed statement that I couldn't read, got me an escort to the nurse's office to lay down.
I recall hearing later that I'd been one of those kids who use show-and-tell time to spin the most outrageous tales to get attention, so when this seemed a little weird, it was at first ignored. Why hadn't anybody said something? As soon as I heard that comment, I quit spinning tales grounded in my need for attention and started looking for real things to talk about. Being branded a liar was a horrible thing, and not getting attention when it was really needed was nearly as bad. (Such were my priorities at the time.)
Next thing I remember was being in the hospital, nurses bending over me, waking me up and telling me not to fall asleep. Of course, that was exactly what I did the second they left. Mom was there, having had to take time off work for me, so I knew I was really in trouble this time! She kept waking me up too, with the same results the nurses were having. I heard the word "concussion" repeated, with finally the verdict that I didn't have one. At that point I was finally allowed to go home, to sleep without interruptions.
Oh, and the class got a new art project for the afternoon: writing me Get Well cards. They were brought to the hospital before I was released, and I managed to stay awake long enough to read some of them. I finally could, again. I actually remember one of them, or rather its sender, a boy named Gary Plumley. He made it sound like he actually cared, not just completed an assignment as quickly as possible. I still remembered the name when we met again as parents of kids on opposing teams in a swim meet many years and many miles later. And he remembered mine.
Huh.
I was vaguely disappointed by the verdict that I didn't have a concussion. The symptoms seemed important enough to me to warrant some kind of label, especially since they were enough to send me to the hospital. And today, with our increased sensitivity to TBIs, I think it might finally earn the name.
Now if I could just manage to quit falling on the dang ice!
It was second grade. I was attending Nevis school, nearly an hour bus ride each way since we lived on a resort down at the far end of the route. The school then - I haven't gone past for easily 50 years - boasted a sidewalk all along its front, with a small rise of ground and several steps into the front door. (This was so long ago that postcards cost two cents, and letters 3 cents to mail. I recall tagging along to pick up stamps in the Nevis post office.)
Winters were truly cold then, that far north in Minnesota. There was no global warming, and -30 was fairly common. We dressed for it better than kids do today, and were in better position to take what advantage of the cold that we could. The huge hollow in back for the athletic field made great winter sledding. You couldn't bring sleds on the school bus however, so somebody left large pieces of cardboard for us to cling to however we could while sliding down the hill and then trudging up again for the next one to ride. In fact, the cardboard was so popular that it was used on plain grass as well, though it wasn't as slick.
But during lunch breaks, there wasn't enough time to go all the way back behind the school to enjoy sledding. Kids adapt. Somebody turned the slight rise in front of school into a short ramp by piling snow to shape, then pouring water over it. On the frequent sub-zero days - or more likely nights, since I never saw such activity during school hours - the water would freeze nearly as soon as it was poured, reinforcing the snow shape rather than melting through it. Behold: we had an ice ramp! Instant slide, which all but the "babies" stood in their boots to slide on. Only about two feet long, it seemed safe enough, and all those using it were certainly having fun. In fact, it was such fun that using it conveyed status, and/or only those with status got to use it. Some of us just stood around and stared, enviously. So when I was offered the chance to use it, of course I stepped up.
Now, I need to explain something. I was pretty naive for a whole lot of years. My parents were busy people, running a resort, and finding winter jobs to keep the family going. I was a good kid by staying out of their way and staying out of trouble. Assumptions were made about how I was growing up. One of them was that their common sense was also my common sense. Even when there was no background experience or conversation to warrant such assumptions. So I got myself into trouble. A lot. I was into exploring my world, and if I couldn't see a good reason not to do something, especially with a bunch of my peers egging me on, I went ahead and tried it. It had the expected consequences.
One early bus ride, some of the older kids - boys of course - challenged me, declaring me to be too stupid to know the difference between boys and girls. Well, I did so, and told them so. They demanded proof: what is it that boys have that girls don't? I have no clue where, but I had learned that word, even though I doubt it was ever spoken in our house. We, and the culture, were pretty repressed back then. Since I couldn't allow those boys to think I was stupid, I answered their question: "a penis." Of course my folks heard about it almost as soon as I was off the school bus (How could that be, eh, big brother Steve?) and I was in trouble. I learned not to say that word ever again. Well, until much later anyway.
Remember the movie "A Christmas Story"? The one where the kid gets dared to stick his tongue to the flagpole in sub-zero weather and it sticks? Well, I was that kid too. It didn't stick long, because I jerked it off right away, but I did accept the dare. It really, really does happen. Both the tongue sticking part and the naive kid trying to fit in accepting the dare.
Along the side of the school and going way back the width of the athletic field, there was a grove of pines, planted no doubt for privacy, conservation, and windbreak purposes. During recess, however, it was our playground. It was also a good walk back to the school if you had to go potty, thus spoiling recess time. Not only would you miss whatever was going on now, you might not get back at all before recess ended. I had a dilemma: I needed to go but didn't want to leave.
Well, my classmates had a solution for me: go right there. I kinda thought I shouldn't, but they insisted it was all right. After all, they wouldn't tell. Well, why not? After all, on the resort, both my brother and my dad did it, turning their backs to us and using trees to go on. Mom had shown me how to squat down out in the woods when the occasion arose. And these were woods, right? So I did.
And of course the kids told - barely waiting until I was finished. The whole school knew and never let me forget it. My teacher knew and had a private chat with me. My parents knew and had something more than a chat with me. I was totally disgraced. Moving to a new town late in third grade was something of a relief.
Any wonder I still have some trust issues with the herd of fellow humans?
But that naive kid is still who I was when faced with the ice slide. Everybody else was doing it and having a great time, and now I could too. I never gave a thought to balancing or center of gravity or anything else, like whether standing on a slippery ice ramp was actually a good idea. So I put both feet on the top...
And next thing I know I'm lying on the concrete sidewalk, face up, kids gathered around me. I have no idea whether I lost consciousness or just memory. But, hey, I had to get up and get out of there so they could have their ramp back, and hey, just how stupid and clumsy was I, anyway?
Enough, apparently.
I wandered back into the classroom and put my head down on my desk. I felt terrible, and closing my eyes helped. Mrs. Christianson had written the afternoon's lesson on the board, and I tried to read it, but the letters made absolutely no sense. I wasn't even alarmed by suddenly being rendered unable to read. It just made me feel sicker trying, so I stopped trying. Nobody was around, so the peace and quiet was exactly what I thought I needed.
When an adult did wander in, asking if I was OK, I tried to explain that I couldn't read. It couldn't have made much sense, because she left again with no impulse to do something about what I'd just said. Eventually the class returned, and the combination of my head still on my desk and my renewed statement that I couldn't read, got me an escort to the nurse's office to lay down.
I recall hearing later that I'd been one of those kids who use show-and-tell time to spin the most outrageous tales to get attention, so when this seemed a little weird, it was at first ignored. Why hadn't anybody said something? As soon as I heard that comment, I quit spinning tales grounded in my need for attention and started looking for real things to talk about. Being branded a liar was a horrible thing, and not getting attention when it was really needed was nearly as bad. (Such were my priorities at the time.)
Next thing I remember was being in the hospital, nurses bending over me, waking me up and telling me not to fall asleep. Of course, that was exactly what I did the second they left. Mom was there, having had to take time off work for me, so I knew I was really in trouble this time! She kept waking me up too, with the same results the nurses were having. I heard the word "concussion" repeated, with finally the verdict that I didn't have one. At that point I was finally allowed to go home, to sleep without interruptions.
Oh, and the class got a new art project for the afternoon: writing me Get Well cards. They were brought to the hospital before I was released, and I managed to stay awake long enough to read some of them. I finally could, again. I actually remember one of them, or rather its sender, a boy named Gary Plumley. He made it sound like he actually cared, not just completed an assignment as quickly as possible. I still remembered the name when we met again as parents of kids on opposing teams in a swim meet many years and many miles later. And he remembered mine.
Huh.
I was vaguely disappointed by the verdict that I didn't have a concussion. The symptoms seemed important enough to me to warrant some kind of label, especially since they were enough to send me to the hospital. And today, with our increased sensitivity to TBIs, I think it might finally earn the name.
Now if I could just manage to quit falling on the dang ice!
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Election Wrap
It's been over for a day now. I'm trying to keep some kind of hope now that the crazies have convinced the disgruntled low-information voters to vote for them and the rest of us to stay home.
Republicans threaten to turn over every stone to try to overthrow the governor's race during the recount that's almost guaranteed, talking about it as if it's somehow their "right" to "have their turn" after the Coleman-Franken race. They forget that's not what it's about. It's about counting all votes which have been properly cast. And it''s about $4 Billion in federal dollars that Pawlenty refused but Dayton will have the chance to accept for our state if he's sworn in by January 15th. Of course there will be all attempts made to drag it out, justified or not.
My granddaughter turned 18 the day before the election, and had the chance to cast her first vote. Congratulations! I can't think of a better symbol of coming-of-age. I know of one of her choices - possible the only one she was fully decided upon - and it wasn't on the winning side. I can only hope this does not discourage her but instead inspires her to keep on trying, studying the issues and candidates, and above all, voting.
As for my contest... As I put it to Steve when I called him with the results, this means that I can now win the lottery and we can head to Arizona to enjoy balmy ice-free winters right away, instead of sticking around here for another 4 years, or the 8 before normal finances allow for the move. (Well, of course, this is after discharging my duties to my father. His cold has him so miserable that several times a day he expresses the likelihood, if not the wish, that he won't last the day. I just do the next thing on the list to take care of him, tell him I hope he feels better soon, and ignore the doom and gloom.)
And I hope the city decides it likes its choice. I'm not about to go hanging out in the local bars chatting up everybody for their support for another go-round. It wasn't worth it this time either, which is why I didn't bother.
There is one positive: as soon as I'm actually home during daylight, I can look at the newly shingled roof. It got finished today. I anticipate an improvement.
Republicans threaten to turn over every stone to try to overthrow the governor's race during the recount that's almost guaranteed, talking about it as if it's somehow their "right" to "have their turn" after the Coleman-Franken race. They forget that's not what it's about. It's about counting all votes which have been properly cast. And it''s about $4 Billion in federal dollars that Pawlenty refused but Dayton will have the chance to accept for our state if he's sworn in by January 15th. Of course there will be all attempts made to drag it out, justified or not.
My granddaughter turned 18 the day before the election, and had the chance to cast her first vote. Congratulations! I can't think of a better symbol of coming-of-age. I know of one of her choices - possible the only one she was fully decided upon - and it wasn't on the winning side. I can only hope this does not discourage her but instead inspires her to keep on trying, studying the issues and candidates, and above all, voting.
As for my contest... As I put it to Steve when I called him with the results, this means that I can now win the lottery and we can head to Arizona to enjoy balmy ice-free winters right away, instead of sticking around here for another 4 years, or the 8 before normal finances allow for the move. (Well, of course, this is after discharging my duties to my father. His cold has him so miserable that several times a day he expresses the likelihood, if not the wish, that he won't last the day. I just do the next thing on the list to take care of him, tell him I hope he feels better soon, and ignore the doom and gloom.)
And I hope the city decides it likes its choice. I'm not about to go hanging out in the local bars chatting up everybody for their support for another go-round. It wasn't worth it this time either, which is why I didn't bother.
There is one positive: as soon as I'm actually home during daylight, I can look at the newly shingled roof. It got finished today. I anticipate an improvement.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
