In my dream, it was time to go home from work. I had enjoyed working my hospital shift but suddenly realized that I had never cared for one of my assigned patients. Patient vitals needed to be taken and then charted; hours of overtime started to accumulate. I heard someone talking and wished they’d be quiet so I could finish my work. Coming to consciousness, I realized the talking was coming from my bedside alarm clock set to radio.
I have always detested the sound of a buzzing alarm clock. Since retiring, I have my alarm clock radio programed to automatically turn on at seven thirty in the morning. Despite this being a full two hours after the time I had to get up for work, I seldom get up right away. The privilege of retirement means I can enjoy laying quietly, relaxing and listening to the radio for another half an hour or more.
The big news that morning, the eighth day of May, was that the conclave in Rome had finished its first full day. According to the news reporters, there wasn’t a single Cardinal candidate that stood out as the most likely one to be chosen. I slipped out of bed thinking, “The conclave will last at least two more days. It’ll be hard for the Cardinals to get a majority vote.”
There were several goals I wanted to accomplish that day. First, I sat down at the dining room table to drink a cup of tea, and jot down a to-do list. A message from my daughter Tammie popped up on my phone. It said, “There is white smoke! We have a new Pope.”
I cleared clutter off the dining room table and put away a coat that had been draped over a dining room chair. Returning to the kitchen, I placed a bowl in the dishwasher, closed it and turned it on. The sound of a vehicle pulling into the yard made my cats run to hide. A swirl of cool spring air accompanied my younger grandchildren as they trooped into the house. Luke sniffed appreciatively as he commented, “I can tell you have a loaf of bread in the oven. It smells great!”
Hugging Luke, Jacob, Gemma and Blaise, I announced, “You can eat some of the fresh bread as soon as it cools off a little.” My daughter Niki followed the children into the kitchen, carrying a large pan. Smiling, I instructed, “My bread is finished baking, so I’ll take it out. Then you can put the pork and sauerkraut in the oven. I’ll turn the temperature down, so it doesn’t dry out.”
Niki turned and spotted a loaf of sweet bread on the kitchen counter and asked, “What’s this?”
I explained with a shrug, “I saw a recipe for rice bread on Instagram the other day and I had to try it. I put dried fruit in it.” Seeing the questioning look on my daughter’s face, I added, “It’s ok, but I’ve thought of a few tweaks I could give the recipe to make it better. I’m going make it again.”
When Niki left for her appointment, I gathered art supplies and sat down at the dining room table with my grandchildren. I explained, “I saw an interesting craft on Instagram the other day and I want to do it with you.” For the next hour we made spring blossoms using white, absorbent paper and Q-tips. After putting spots of marker color on the petals, we put the stems into water and watched as dampness spread and made the color bleed beautifully out to the ends of the petals. The craft was fun, and we enjoyed the rainbow streaks of color.
When it began to rain, I wandered into the living room. Unable to work in her flowerbeds, Mom was already there, comfortably cuddled in her rocking chair with a lap robe over her knees, reading a woman’s magazine. Stretching out on the linoleum floor next to Mom, I listened to the rain softly pattering on the cedar tree and lilies growing alongside our house. After a muggy morning, the gentle breeze coming through the window screen, scented so beautifully by green plants and the earth, felt like a bit of heaven.
I spotted the shoe box Mom used to store family pictures on the floor next to Daddy’s favorite chair. Remembering his smiles and head shakes as he went through them last evening, I decided to spend my rainy-day afternoon looking at pictures. There were many of them but not in order. Old pictures and new ones were all jumbled together, so I began to sort them. Being twelve years old and having looked at the pictures often through the years, I knew almost everybody in the pictures, even those taken of my older siblings, before I was born, when they were very young.
Mom had somehow pulled together enough money during the war years to buy a black square, box-camera called a Kodak Brownie. She’d made good use of it. Everyone in the family recognized that having a camera was a luxury. Although the pictures were never put in a photo album, they were often looked at and enjoyed.
Being the baby of my family, an inordinate number of pictures were taken of me. I made a pile of my favorite ones: the one with me on my belly to watch close-up how our cat ate; three-year-old me wearing a polk-a-dot dress and chasing a small flock of guinea hens past the old house; me being held up by my brother Casper, high among the branches of a heavily blooming apple tree. Some pictures showed me looking like a cute toddler, but pictures of me as a tiny baby were much different. One of my infant pictures had caught me on the back lawn, crying with my mouth wide open and my eyes closed. As a baby I was fat and very bald. I stared at my image in disbelief. It was like I saw this picture for the first time. My preteen sensibilities were jarred. What a very ugly baby I had been!
I felt totally comfortable with my husband and often shared funny asides and comments about life when we were together. Arnie usually laughed at my observations, but sometimes exclaimed to me, “You and your weird Altmann sense of humor!” Despite his negative description of my family’s humor, I got the distinct impression that Arnie loved it, was sometimes bewildered by it, and even, at times, secretly admired our outlook on life.
A sense of humor is a personality trait that allows people to understand funny things, appreciate jokes, and in general, see the funny side of life. I don’t think living a perfectly happy life necessarily produces happy, joke-spewing people. If you have a sense of humor, it will show up even in the darkest of times. When I gave birth to a baby with an obvious birth defect, I joked, “At least we know we brought the right baby home from the hospital. There was no way there could have been a mix-up. Ours looks different!” This is an example of ‘dark humor.’
Does everyone in a family share the same type of humor? Not always, but I know my daughter Tammie shares my dark humor abilities. She once said she never worries about anyone stealing her winter coat from public coat hooks because, “Not many people can use a short-armed coat!”
Is a sense of humor trait something people can learn, soak up, or discover like a treasure? I’m not sure, but can verifiably report that, if that is possible, that is what happened to me and my family. During the 1950’s when the lean years of the depression and war was over, Daddy bought every Donald Duck comic book written by Carl Barks as they were published. At first, each of these comic books cost only five cents a copy, which was very affordable for our farm family.
We loved these comic books because they contained references to geography, history, literature and science. The humor Carl Barks infused into the duck family’s experiences was sublime and clean. We read and reread each issue. Our meal-time discussions sometimes centered around the duck’s latest adventure. One of our favorite, playful family insults was taken from one of the stories. The horrid Beagle Boys had been outsmarted by the wily old duck once again. Holding Scrooge by the feet, upside down, Beagle Boy number 716-617 angerly shouted, “You rich pig of a duck!”
Daddy jumped out of the family car when he saw us approach. My brother Billy sat in the car’s backseat calmly eating fried pork skins. Clearly relieved to see us, Daddy fussed, “I worried that you might be having so much fun shopping, that you’d forget what time to come back to the car!”
Mom assured him, “I had fun, but I remembered you wanted to get home at a reasonable time. You start your evening chores at 4 p.m. every day like clockwork. Then you milk the cows.” Betty, Mary and I got into the car. My three siblings and their purchases were packed in the backseat, while I wedged myself between Mom and Daddy in the front seat along with more packages. As we pulled away from where our car was parked, I worried that Daddy was in such a big hurry to get home to do barn chores, that he would skip my favorite part of a shopping trip to Marshfield. I leaned against him and begged, “Please Daddy, can we stop at Clover Cream for ice cream?”
With a twinkle in his eyes, Daddy cheerfully responded, “I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream!” I knew his answer was ‘yes!’ He liked the rhyme, which was from an old-time song, and often said it when we asked for ice cream.
Living on a farm 12 miles from Marshfield, we seldom went shopping in the bigger city. Most of our supplies came from Stratford, a small town only three miles from our farm. However, with Easter Sunday being three weeks away, Mom determined that we needed to visit Marshfield to buy new hats and gloves to wear to church. We found what we were looking for, and more!
After supper, Mom hid one of her shopping bags in a closet. I smiled, realizing it contained Easter Bunny treats. Together, we admired the pretty hats Mom had bought. I especially liked my new lavender spring jacket, because last year’s jacket was too small.
I stood by the night-darkened window, watching rain drops gather and trickle down the screen. I sadly asked my husband, “Why does it always seem to rain when a person has something nice planned?”
Arnie irritably responded, “You can’t change anything by watching it rain. Get back into bed and forget about it.”
A flash of lightning and a roll of thunder accompanied my return to bed. Needing to unwind before going to sleep, I pointed out, “This rain is coming too soon after we almost got trapped in Canada by gully-washing rainstorms. It’s hard to believe that we got home from that experience just one week ago!” A gentle snore made me realize Arnie wasn’t listening.
I usually love lying in bed at night and listening to a summer thunderstorm passing through the countryside. Watching the flashes of lightning and listening to the gentle rolling thunder and pattering rain on the windowpanes make me feel cozy. But tonight, it just made me feel uneasy.
The event that I was worried the rain would ruin wasn’t just a simple occasion that could be postponed to another week. This weekend the church Arnie and I attended was celebrating 125 years since its formation. A picnic with lots of food for all the parishioners was planned. Someone had arranged games in the park across from the church for the children to play. The parish was celebrating our patron saint’s name day in conjunction with the quasquicentennial anniversary. In preparation, the church building was given a much-needed restoration leading up to the occasion. In addition, I was excited about the debut of the parish history book that I’d worked on for the past year. I looked forward to seeing it in print!
When the alarm clock rang at five o’clock in the morning, I lifted my head off the pillow to moan, “No, no, no!” My husband, Arnie, grunted unhappily, but sat up on the side of the bed.
Reaching over Arnie gave me a shake. He growled, “Come on, get up! I’m tired too, but I want to get to Canada before it gets dark tonight.” After having worked so many hours in the last few weeks, we were both tired. All I wanted to do was to start our vacation by sleeping in.
Our drive north began silent and grumpy, but as the sun rose higher into the sky, tiredness left us. Cheered by the anticipation of spending the week fishing together, our happy comradery returned. Passing through International Falls into Fort Frances we stopped to buy bait for the fish we planned to catch.
At a bait shop on our way out of town, Arnie bought four dozen minnows. The shop owner put them, along with a great deal of water in a large, clear plastic bag. This clammy, bag-o-fish ended up riding on my lap so I could keep it safe until we reached our destination.
I’d gone fishing in Canada with Arnie for the last three years. This time we were going to a new location. The cabins we usually rented were always very basic and plain, having no luxury features, so I wasn’t expecting anything different this time. Arnie had made the reservations for this trip without having ever visited the camp or lake. After turning off the main highway onto a side road and driving a long way, I asked, “What’s the name of this resort and the name of the lake?”
Stopping to study a map, Arnie said, “The place is named ‘Moose Track Cottages’ and it’s on Lake Despair.” The name of the lake didn’t sound promising. Seeing the disconcerted expression on my face, my husband quickly added, “The man who owns the place is a bricklayer in Minnesota during the winter and runs this place in the summer.”
We pulled in at Moose Track Cottages at 4 in the afternoon. Terry, the owner was there to greet us. Bright, early June sunshine made the lake shimmer, and a gentle breeze caused the tree leaves above us to rustle soothingly. Pointing to a small building near the shore, Terry said, “That’s the fish cleaning house.” Close to it was a brand-new dock extending out into the lake. It seemed unnaturally long-legged and stood high above the water. Terry explained. This part of Canada has been having a drought, so the lake’s water level is low right now. I hope we get rain soon.”
Leading us to a cabin that had a small deck along one side and a big one on the back, Terry opened the door, and I stepped in. My jaw dropped open. The place looked fantastic! The kitchen had a modern, full-size refrigerator, stove and dishwasher, lots of counters and cabinets. A gas fireplace in the living room was flanked by two sofas and rocking chairs. Through a sliding glass door, I saw a gas grill we could use on the back deck. The cabin had two bedrooms and two bathrooms. I gasped, “I love this place!”
Arnie had our boat in the water by 6 P.M. and was ready to go fishing. I caught the first fish, a small northern we didn’t keep. Arnie pulled in a walleye we kept. I felt relaxed and happy. In the quiet, we heard the water lap against the boat and birds in the trees singing. An eagle screeched in the distance. Looking up at the sky, I commented, “I see mare’s tail clouds overhead, and on the horizon, there are thunderheads. My brother, Billy, would say this means it’s going to rain.”
My sister Agnes held up her Corning Ware tea pot and asked, “Would you like a cup of tea?” Suzie, Agnes’ black pug hopped around me on her hind legs, begging for attention. Her funny little face with her pink tongue lolling about, gave her the appearance of a small, friendly clown.
With a smile, I assured my sister, “I never turn down a cup of tea!” Dropping down on a chair at the table, I leaned forward to pet Suzie. After getting a few good pets and a scritch behind her left ear, Suzie trotted over to the kitchen counter and barked.
Placing two cups and spoons on the table, Agnes scolded, “You’ve had enough cheese, Suzie!” To me, she confessed, “That dog is so spoiled. I was snacking on cheese before you came and let her have a little. She knows there’s some on the counter, and she thinks I should give it to her!”
Knowing that I like dark chocolate, Agnes opened a bar for us to enjoy with the black tea. While we visited, a small fruit fly flew into my sister’s face. She sighed, “Fruit flies are so annoying!” I nodded. I had them in my house too, since I love fruit and often have various types on my kitchen counter.
Because it was such a pleasant fall afternoon, before I went home, my sister and I walked around in her yard to look at her flowers. Suzie followed us, snuffling the ground, obviously reading the scent of wildlife who used her territory at night. Agnes said, “I think it will freeze tonight so we better take in plants that are on our back decks.”
During one of my visits to Agnes during December, she swatted at a small flying insect and complained, “My house is too chilly for fruit flies. These must be soil gnats from the potted plants that were out on the deck all summer.”
I questioned, “What’s the difference between fruit flies and soil gnats?” Neither of us knew the answer to my question. All we knew was that they had different appetites and had different habitats. It was time for me to visit Mr. Google again.
Georgina was waiting at the elevator when Sandy, Mary and I got there. A metallic ‘ding’ announced the arrival of the car. We stepped into the lift, giggling about that day being our first day of work and each showing off the new pink uniforms we were wearing. Mary crossed her fingers and nervously intoned, “Here’s hoping we don’t get fired on our first day!”
In June, right after I graduated from high school, I took a nursing assistant course at a Wausau hospital. The hospital hired me and all the students who successfully finished the classes. For those who needed them, the hospital also provided nearby dormitory rooms for us to rent. Their nursing school had closed a few years earlier so the dorm building was empty.
During the weekend before our first day on duty, we discovered that there was a tunnel corridor between the dorm basement and the hospital basement. Taking this unusual route to arrive at work added heady exhilaration to our already overly stimulated nerves. Sandy said, “I heard there’s a tunnel like this between the hospital and the pediatric ward.”
Having visited the pediatric ward a few days earlier, I commented, “It’s weird that the children’s ward is set apart from the rest of the hospital. I wonder why it’s like that?”
“I know the answer to that!” Georgina excitedly announced. “During the 1950’s that was where this hospital cared for polio patients. Polio was contagious and having those patients separated from other hospital patients prevented it from spreading.”
The waitress placed a cup of tea on the table in front of me. Vapor from the hot liquid rose and I leaned forward, appreciatively inhaling the comforting scent of black tea. Carefully guiding the cup close to my lips, I realized the tea was as hot as molten lava and set it back down again on the table.
Two young women walked past and sat down in the booth next to mine. Once they were given the Coke they’d ordered, they began to talk about a party one of them had attended. Party girl eagerly confided, “Amy and DJ got into a big public fight at the party. In front of everyone he went, ‘I saw you flirting just now with Matt! Don’t you realize I’m twice the man he is?’ Amy was like, ‘Oh Yeah? You really think you’re something! But I want you to know, you’re no prize.’” Party girl’s friend concluded, “Geez! That sounds like an old married couple fighting!”
The waitress placed the salad I’d ordered on my table and refilled drinks before returning to the kitchen. As I ate, I thought about the conversation I’d overheard and wondered when people had started to use the word ‘went’ instead of the word ‘said’. This has been going on for several years, and it’s easy to fall into. I’ve caught myself using this word myself. Other words people use instead of ‘said’ are ‘goes’, ‘like’ and ‘all’. For example, he ‘goes’, or, he was ‘all’, or, he was ‘like’.
The English language is rich. There are over three hundred words that can be used instead of ‘said’ such as ‘mused’, ‘questioned’, or ‘demanded’. The words ‘went’, ‘goes’, ‘like’ and ‘all’ will probably eventually be added to that list.
Life Lines 