Archives

Bat Bouncer

Jul5

I lifted the lid off a pan on the stove, and a cloud of steam billowed up from it along with the mouthwatering smell of well-seasoned meat. I turned the burner off so that it wouldn’t burn. My husband walked into the kitchen just as I was checking the other kettles on the stove. Arnie exclaimed, “Supper smells great! How soon do we get to eat?”

Turning to face him, I announced, “The carrots and potatoes are tender, so we can eat right now if you’re ready.”

While Arnie washed his hands, I called our middle-school aged children to join us in the dining room and placed our meal on the table. I had worked all day at the hospital, so I was happy that I had been able to produce an appealing meal for the family before anyone became grumpy.

Just as I finished my meal, a dark shadow swooped through the room. It was there and then gone in the blink of an eye. Frowning, I wondered what I had seen. Arnie had been about to take a bite of the buttered bread in his hand. Still holding the bread close to his lips, he looked around and concluded, “There’s a bat in the house.” Fourth grader Tammie and eighth grader Niki screamed.

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Sneaky Snackers

Jun28

A ruby-throated hummingbird whizzed past my head so closely I imagined that I felt the light touch of its whirring wings. I watched the small bird land on my sister’s nectar feeder and hungrily plunge its beak into a red flower feeder-cup to drink. I leaned back in my deck chair and eagerly questioned, “Did you see that?”

My sister answered as she handed a glass of wine to me and sat down, “Those small birds are sassy and totally fearless when they know there’s nectar in the feeder.”

I took a sip of wine, enjoying the balmy evening air in the shade of my sister’s house. All around the perimeter of her deck were pots and plantstands filled with a large variety of blossoming plants. Glancing around at the three nearby bird feeders, I commented, “I love how close your feeders are to the deck. That makes it easier to watch the birds.”

Nodding, my sister agreed. “It is nice, but something other than birds have been after the feeders. If I forget to take them in for the night, I find them on the ground in the morning, usually in pieces and licked clean. The shepherd’s hook holding the oriole feeder is bent.”

After watching two aggressive hummingbirds fight over the feeder, I pointed out, “It would be interesting if you could set up a trail camera to see your nocturnal visitors.”

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Haymow Cats

Jun21

Daddy swung a bucket strap over a Holstein cow’s back and leaned down to hook it below. Being a well-seasoned milking cow, the old black and white bovine never flinched. I stood behind her in the barn’s center aisle chattering non-stop as I watched, enjoying the smells, the sounds, and the way the cows acted. My father good-humoredly smiled, nodded, and looked pleased as if he enjoyed a talkative six-year-old’s company while he worked.

Mom called me Daddy’s shadow because I followed him everywhere on the farm. Starting school limited the time I could spend with him, but school supplied more topics to talk about as he worked. This typical summer evening took place in 1957.

Stepping out from between the cow to be milked and its neighbor, Daddy picked up the Surge milk bucket on the limed walkway next to me and hung it on the strap under the cow. Connecting the vacuum tube to a vacuum valve installed on the stanchion, he then leaned over to introduce the inflation cups to the cow’s teats from where they dangled on the lid of the vacuum bucket. He did this slowly, one by one as to not startle the cow. The teats quickly slipped into the cups by suction.

Stepping out from between the cows again, Daddy pulled a washcloth from a bucket of water and stepped between two cows across the aisle and began to wash mud off the next cow’s teats and udder. Just as he was finishing, the milker on the cow across the aisle began to make loud squealing sounds. The cow brought up her hind right leg, as though she didn’t like the tickle caused by the loss of suction. But she didn’t kick as some of the cows would. Moving quickly, Daddy stepped next to her, removed the inflation cups, and checked to see if she was finished milking.

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Gardening Grandchildren

Jun14

Help was on the way. I rushed to the backyard hoop garden to uncover the rototiller. Each year after tilling the garden, I wait for the engine to cool off, then wrap a large blue tarp around the machine and tie it with a sturdy cord. As if unwrapping a long-anticipated Christmas present, I impatiently untied the knot in the cord and pulled the tarp off. I worried that this would be the year the ancient machine would finally give up its ghost. Although I generally only work the garden soil each spring, this old rear-tine rototiller does such an excellent job, that my garden thrives each year.

Tugging and rocking the unwieldy machine, I moved it out of the corner where it had been stored since last spring. I wanted there to be room around it to pour in fresh gasoline and to pull the starter cord. The minute the engine was started, I planned to grab the handlebars and till the hardened soil.

When I was younger, I could start the tiller myself. But each spring for the last several years, I’ve failed. I can’t pull the starter cord fast enough. This year I decided not to even try. I called someone for help. When the volunteer arrived a few minutes later, he pulled the cord twice and the faithful old engine powerfully awoke from its year-long nap.

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Well Adjusted

Jun7

Tammie slid into my car behind the steering wheel and methodically adjusted the height of the seat and moved it closer to the steering wheel. After changing the angle of the seat and tipping the backrest forward, she started on the mirrors. Each one had to be angled just so, to allow her to see everything as a safe driver. Once her requirements were met, she turned to me and cheerfully asked, “Ready to go?”

I love driving into town to do short errands, but dislike long distance driving to unfamiliar places. So, when Tammie offered to do the driving on our vacation to the tip of Door County, I happily accepted. We both looked forward to visiting The Clearing in Ellison Bay once again.

We planned to spend an enjoyable week being creative among other creative people. Since we had successfully convinced my sister Agnes to join us, we were more than usual excited and happy to be attending another session at this school of arts. This summer Tammie and Agnes took the watercolor classes while I registered as an independent student to work on a long-anticipated writing project.

The Clearing has three to four classes each week, starting in early May through October. The classes range across all the disciplines of arts and crafts, for example, photography, writing, and blacksmithing. The small campus has rustic cabins equipped with modern amenities. Three, five-star, restaurant-quality meals are served each day. The fire rings and trails along wooded cliffs overlooking Green Bay are awe inspiring. Some veteran visitors fight for the privilege to spend a night in founder Jens Jensen’s primitive cliff-side house.

Located on 128 acres, The Clearing was purchased in the early 1900’s by Jens Jensen, a famous landscape architect. When he began his search for a place to start his landscape architecture school, he insisted that it face west, overlook water, and be located on forested high ground. Since ‘The Clearing’ is far from Chicago where he had his offices, Jensen called his slice of paradise, ‘The Clearing’, saying that it was a place where students could escape the pressures of urban living to clear their minds.

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Determining Intent

May31

A warm blanket of sunshine covered the floor next to the stairway window. I padded over in my stocking feet to look out into the backyard. The sun-warmed floor felt good under my feet because the brick house where I live is always cool in the mornings, even on hot summer days. I was disgusted when I discovered my view of the lushly green backyard was marred by a huge, ugly smear of bird poo on the window glass.

Complaining to my daughter Tammie, I whined, “You should see the huge splotch of poop a bird dumped on the window glass. I can understand bird droppings found under their roosts, but this…this…” I sputtered, “This had to be intentionally done! It couldn’t have been easy to get it to fall so perfectly in the center of the glass and have it dribble in such a way as to make it look like the wing of a white moth.”

Laughing, Tammie questioned, “Are you telling me the bird dirtied your window glass on purpose?”

“Well, maybe it was an accident.” I grudgingly admitted. “I don’t think I have an angry bird in the backyard who’s carrying out a vendetta against me. After all, I keep my birdfeeders stocked with suet and black sunflower seeds all winter.”

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Naughty Fingers

May24

New technologies challenge me. Until 2016 I was afraid I wouldn’t know how to use a smart phone. When I finally took the plunge, my daughter Niki set it up and trained me. Very carefully, she explained and demonstrated how to open the apps I wanted. She showed me how to use the calculator, flashlight, and camera. There was so much more to learn, like how to get back to the homepage, and how to recognize the sound the cell phone made when a text came in. My daughter also helped me pick out a notification sound for phone calls.

As my daughter was preparing to go home, I noticed the cell phone’s screen was black. Hoping to wake it up, I shook it. Niki took it out of my hands, again. After swiping up, a keypad appeared. She punched in the numbers we agreed would be my secret code. Suddenly, my phone was awake and interactive again. I nodded, happy that I knew what to do when I needed to use the device.

An hour later I decided to sit down and play with my new toy. I swiped up on the black screen and the keypad appeared. I typed in my secret code and waited, but nothing happened. The numbers just sat there like small numeral guards protecting Fort Knox. I fretted, “Why won’t it open for me? Did I somehow break the phone?”

Driving to my daughter’s house, I tearfully explained, “Niki, I think I broke it.” She took the cell phone from my hands and tapped in my code. It instantly opened for her. I stuttered, “But, but, if there isn’t anything wrong with the phone, why couldn’t I get it to open?”

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The Rowboat

May17

I stepped out onto the back deck and realized I didn’t need a jacket. The sunny spring afternoon was warm despite there being a few drifts of leftover winter snow dotting the yard. Folding my jacket over my arm, I commented to my daughter, Tammie, “I’m bringing the coat with me. When the sun goes down, it’ll get chilly.”

Tammie, who was a few steps ahead of me, turned and asked, “Which car should we take? Yours or mine?”

I apologized, “I’m sorry, I should have filled my car’s gas tank when I was in town the other day. As it is right now, my car doesn’t have enough gas to get to Wausau and back. Let’s use your car tonight and mine for the rest of the weekend.”

Niki, my other daughter, had invited Tammie and me to join her at a cooking class put on by Grebe’s store in Wausau. We happily looked forward to attending without a stop for gas first. Without another thought, we got into Tammie’s 2016 Mazda.

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Contamination

May3

My new friends were waiting for me near the elevator. Last night we had been shown an underground tunnel that led directly to the hospital without stepping outdoors. We giggled nervously as we walked through the spooky, dimly lit underground hallway. Having graduated from high school just a month earlier, we were all there for the same reason, to take a nursing assistant class. We hoped to be hired by the hospital when we finished the class.

Three days earlier, during the weekend, I moved into the former nurse’s dorm at Saint Mary’s Hospital in Wausau. I loved the room that I shared with another girl. The large, south-facing windows, beds on opposite sides of the room, two desks in the center and plenty of closet space provided all we needed for sleep and study. Two floors below on the main floor, was a large kitchen for residents to share and a large lobby gathering room. During the weekend, girls who had moved in before us showed how to get to our classes by using the underground hallway and an easily accessible flat roof top to use for sunbathing.

The nurses teaching the nursing assistant classes introduced their young and very inexperienced students to bed baths, bedpans, urinals, and normal hospital routines. Early in the program, we learned bedside care by taking fresh water to the patients and emptying foley catheter bags. Our teachers reinforced their frequent reminders to wash our hands by showing a film about how contamination spreads.

The film was an animated story showing a nurse visiting a patient to change his surgical dressings. Until the dressing change, the pictures were just in black and white. To show that the dressing was soiled with infectious drainage, one color was added: red. The nurse didn’t wash her hands after the change. When she poured a cup of water for the patient, the cup and water pitcher handle turned red where she had touched them to show they had become contaminated. The curtain pullcord turned red when she opened the curtains for the patient. She left a red handprint on the door when she left the room. As other workers came into the room to do things for the patient, they touched the same things the first nurse had touched and many other things. By the end of the film, everything in that patient’s room was covered in red smudges, showing how they had unwittingly spread contamination.

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Jury’s Verdict

Apr26

While I had planned to arrive on time, before 8:20 a.m. I arrived at 8:25 a.m. feeling flustered. My pride in being punctual was wounded. Walking into the courthouse felt as if I were checking through TSA at an airport. A policeman took my purse and coat to be x-rayed. The metal detector alarmed when I walked through it, causing the officer tending the machine to lean forward and look down at my shoes. He grunted, “Buckles”.

Approaching a desk with a “Jurors Check In Here” sign, I apologized, “I’m sorry I’m late. I didn’t allow enough drive time.”

The jury attendant smiled reassuringly and said, “You’re just in time.” He led me down a flight of stairs to a room where about two dozen people were waiting. Within moments of my arrival we watched a film showing what was expected of a jury member. We were instructed to speak clearly, never nod our heads, say yes or no, answer only what was asked. Then we were led up a few flights of stairs to a courtroom.

As I slowly made my way up the steps, I thought to myself, “It isn’t even 9:00 a.m. yet and I’ve gone up and down six flights of steps. It’s a good thing my knee is doing as well as it is.”

The courtroom was large but there were no spectators in it. The case to be tried involved a young man contesting a DUI (driving under the influence) charge. A rap of the judge’s gavel signaled the start of the proceedings.

21 potential jurors had been summoned for the jury pool. In the following hour we were asked several questions to gauge our partiality, reducing the number of people qualified to serve. Questions like, “Have you or a member of your family ever been charged with a DUI?” If anyone raised their hand the next question was, “Will you be able be impartial in this case?” If they answered no, they were excused. Remaining potential jurors were approved or rejected through a collaboration between the prosecutor and defense lawyers. A DUI charge is a civil case, not a criminal one, so only six jurors were needed instead of the more familiar 12.

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