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Tammie’s Sweet Lamb

Aug27

Tammie texted me, “When are you having your hair permed?”

I responded, “My appointment is in half an hour.”

My daughter messaged, “I’ll talk to you later, when you’re a curly-haired lamb.” I chuckled. Tammie liked to compare me to a lamb with curly fleece whenever I get a perm.

 Before leaving the house, I peeked into a mirror. What I saw fully displayed what I hate about my hair. Baby-fine strands were lying limp, flat against the forehead, sticking to sweat-beaded skin. I grumbled, “I hate my hair right before a perm, especially when the weather is hot and humid! It’s hard to believe that just yesterday, I washed, moussed, and set my hair.”

At the appointed time, Lisa, my hairdresser, greeted me cheerfully as she ushered me into her salon chair. Looking at our reflections in the mirror, I wanly smiled and admitted, “Not feeling good because you’re having bad hair day is a real thing. For the last two weeks, I’ve been counting the days till my perm. I feel messy and unattractive.”

Lisa professionally examined my flat tresses and commented, “Your hair is thick and healthy, but very fine and has very little body. The ends of your hair show that you had a perm four months ago.”

Shrugging, I said, “I’ve had my hair cut three times since the last perm. I thought all of it was gone. But it doesn’t matter, because today I’m having another perm!” With a chuckle, I confessed, “I like feeling like a curly-haired lamb.”

Expertly wrapping sections of my hair onto permanent rods, Lisa asked, “Aren’t you and Tammie leaving for an Alaskan cruise soon?”

I eagerly responded, “The cruise is in two weeks. I enjoy traveling with Tammie, so I’m looking forward to it.” With all my hair wrapped around the curler rods, Lisa applied the permanent solution. The next step was waiting for nearly half an hour before the hair wrapped curler rods were rinsed and the second solution applied to my hair.

During the wait time, I thought about the cruise, hoping I wouldn’t ruin our fun by being motion sick on the ship. To prevent this, Tammie made sure our cabin was in the middle of the ship, plus I’d asked my doctor for Scopolamine patches.

Why would a person who suffers motion sickness go on a cruise? For me the answer was easy. I want to do normal, fun activities. Once, while on vacation with my daughter, we stayed at a hotel with a water park. I enjoyed floating on the lazy river. Then Tammie suggested, “We should do the water slide.” I glanced up. The entrance to the slide was towering four stories above. Like a lamb being led to slaughter, I meekly agreed, “Okay.”

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Fishing For Memories

Aug20
The best fisherman guide…ever!

Placing a box filled with family photos on the floor next to my chair, I assured my daughter, Tammie, “The picture you want will be in this box.” Reaching in, I pulled out an envelope marked “2006”.

Looking over my shoulder, Tammie shook her head and declared, “It’s not in that envelope. Those are from the fishing trip that Daddy, you and I went on after I earned my master’s degree.”

Quickly shuffling through the first few pictures, I slowed down to study ones that were taken while on the boat, right after catching fish. I sighed, “Weren’t those fishing trips to Canada with your Daddy wonderful?”

Sitting on the footstool next to my chair, Tammie agreed, “I loved the fishing vacations I got to go on with you. The place we stayed at was so beautiful, and we always caught fish!”

Chuckling, I pointed out, “I think Arnie took great pride in his fishing guide abilities when his wife and daughter caught fish.”

Studying a picture of herself holding a walleye she’d caught, Tammie asked, “What ever happened to that resort we stayed at?”

I shrugged and admitted, “I don’t know. The man who owned the resort was a bricklayer from Minnesota. Terry worked at home during the winters and then spent the summers in Canada at Moose Tracks Cottages. Around the time your Daddy died, I heard that Terry had sold the place.”

“Wouldn’t it be fun to go fishing again?” Tammie asked wistfully.

I nodded and admitted, “When I was younger, fishing seemed so boring. But the fishing trips we took to Canada were fun once I learned how to fish.”

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Licking a Dirty Banana

Jul16
Macaroni and Cheese (Mac) playing with his still new banana cat toy!

“Rasp! Rasp! Rasp!”  A repetitive sound pulled my attention away from the article I was reading. I glanced around my living room, and then with a frown closed the magazine on my lap. Whatever had made that sound was nearby. The dry scratchy noise made me recall the time my mother scraped a knife across a slice of bread that got too dark in the toaster. After having scraped off the darkly toasted breadcrumbs, she buttered and ate the crisp bread.

Peeking behind my chair, I saw my cat Jerry playing with a cat-toy that my daughter forgot to take home after one of the visits she’d made with her cats. Looking blissful, Jerry rubbed his face against the old, soiled toy. Stopping mid rub, he began to lick the stained canvas. His moist, textured tongue dragged across the dry canvas. This made the rasping sound that I’d heard earlier. My mouth watered and I shivered convulsively.

The toy had started out many years earlier as a bright yellow, plump banana, made of canvas and stuffed with catnip. Tammie’s cat, Mac, loved this toy and often rolled around on it and licked it, just like Jerry was doing. After being played with this way for years, the yellow color faded, and the middle had turned brown, as if it really was an over ripe fruit. The banana was no longer plump, either.

I should have thrown the old cat toy out, especially since Mac is no longer among the living. But I have trouble getting rid of things that can still be used. I’m more like my mother than I care to admit. Just as my mother had scraped off burnt crumbs, buttered and ate the bread, I’m frugal. Besides, Jerry obviously isn’t repulsed by Mac’s dried saliva!

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Panning for Gold

Jul9

I carried two cups of tea into the dining room and placed one on the table in front of my daughter Tammie. Glancing up at me, she questioned, “Did you put sweetener in mine?”

Sitting down across from her, I admitted, “Your tea might be sweeter than you like.”

Taking a sip, my daughter raised her eyebrows and chuckled, “It is pretty sweet!”

I offered, “Would you like me to get you a fresh cup?”

“No, it’ll be fine.” Tammie assured me. “I want you to stay at the table with me so we can discuss where we will go for our vacation this year.”

Cupping my cold hands around the warm mug of tea, I confidently suggested, “This is the year we should go to Alaska.”

With a broad smile, Tammie commented, “We’ve talked about going to visit Alaska for the last dozen years. Somehow, it just never happened. Why do you suppose that was?”

Nodding, I admitted, “The idea of going there has always appealed to me, but we never could agree on what we wanted to see or do while in Alaska. We talked about going salmon fishing on the ocean, but I felt really reluctant about it. This year I’ve finally realized that fishing would be fun to do if Arnie were still with us, but not for us to do alone. A fishing trip like that was something he would have absolutely loved, but that doesn’t mean we have to do it! We also talked about Alaska’s gold rush history and how much fun it would be to try panning for gold in a stream. We never investigated finding a guide for that.”

             Tammie added more reasons why our plans to visit Alaska other years just never worked out, “We never could come to an agreement about which cities to visit, where to stay, nor how long to stay.”

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One Job

Jun18

I picked up my long-handled clippers from the garage and walked across the lawn towards one of the pine trees in the backyard. Sunday afternoons are for relaxing and not working, but I looked forward to cutting down the unwanted clumps of false elderberry bushes and other invasive saplings growing under the trees. This one job done on a Sunday afternoon would be easy to do, and a pleasure to have out of the way.

Visiting and checking on flowerbeds around the backyard on this pleasant early summer afternoon was a joy. Birds warbled happy tunes to announce that they had returned from their winter vacations. A busy little wren sang to warn other birds to stay away from his nest. An oriole singing from a tree top sounded wistful, like he was begging for jelly to eat.

Arriving at the tree patch, I stood looking at the plethora of weeds growing in profusion under the pine’s branches. I wondered where to start. The area had never been touched by a lawn mower. I ducked under the closest tree’s bottom branches and boldly waded into the tangled mess. My goal was to cut down the tallest and bushiest first. Instantly, a legion of no-see-ums rose up and swarmed across my face, neck and hair. The small, biting midges got behind my glass lenses and in my ears where they buzzed frantically and bounced against my skin like pinballs in a pinball machine. Sputtering, I spit out the no-see-ums that were trying to get into my mouth.

Swatting at the small insects was futile; they moved too fast. Suddenly, my one, small Sunday afternoon job felt like a hard-fought, protracted war and I was a stubborn soldier who refused to leave until the job I came to do was done. The enemy crawled all over my arms and legs. Dozens of midges started to take samples of blood from my hairline. I leaned over and quickly lopped off the bushes and invasive trees.

            Once I’d accomplished my goal, I rushed to escape. Taking a hasty step forward, one of the plant stem stubbles stabbed me in the ankle. Gasping, I limped out of the bramble onto the lawn. My leg hurt and blood trickled from the wound.

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Precious Essence

Jun11

I wrote a history book twenty-five years ago. It told when, how, and who made Saint John the Baptist Church in Marshfield become the first Catholic parish in our newly formed Central Wisconsin city 125 years before. To accomplish this, I borrowed a friend’s Publisher program. Being relatively new to computers, and totally without instructions on how to use the program, I went to work making a desk-top book.

Saint John the Baptist Church will celebrate 150 years as a parish in 2027. Father Thelen, our current pastor recently asked me if I was interested in updating my history book for that event. I instantly felt panic. I’d changed computers at least three times since 2002. Would I still have a copy of the book?

The word serendipity came to mind when I looked in my file cabinet and saw a CD labeled; my documents 2004. A friend visited me one evening, two years after I wrote the history book. She told me I should occasionally make a copy of what I had on my computer, so if it ever crashed, I would have my work saved. Computer CDs were new to me, but Val had one with her and proceeded to make a copy of my writing program. It was the only time I have ever made a copy of my computer’s contents.

My lack of computer experience and total lack of knowledge of the Publisher program turned making the book into a major struggle. One unsurmountable technical difficulty I had 25 years ago, was how to put pictures into the book. Unable to solve this problem, I ended up taking my digital book stored on a floppy disk, to the printer and proceeded to physically lay the pictures out where I wanted them. Surprisingly, the printer let me do this, and even more surprisingly, the book turned out. I returned all those photos and original documents to the church rectory and parishioners.

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Feeling Connected

May21

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.”

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The 266th Pope

May14

After the death of Pope Francis, I watched news reports on television regarding his funeral, mourning period, and conclave. When the reporters were shown at Vatican City in Rome, they were often standing in a crowded Saint Peter’s Square, describing the mood of the crowd. Seeing the familiar landmarks behind the reporters was like recognizing someone I loved but hadn’t seen for a long time. With a shiver of equal parts of joy and disbelief, I remembered how my daughter and I met and shook hands with Pope Francis at the top of the Basilica steps during a trip we took to Rome in September of 2023.

A deep and abiding respect for the Pope had been instilled in me by my Catholic parents. The Pope is more than just the head of the two-thousand-year-old Universal Church. He is responsible for making sure all the doctrines set by Jesus and entrusted to Peter, the first Pope, never change.

 The hot September day Tammie and I met Pope Francis, started with us rushing to Saint Peter’s Square in the early morning hours. When we arrived, there was already a huge line of people that stretched for blocks. Tammie wondered out loud whether the line was for tickets or to get in. Either way, the length of the line filled us with dread since neither of us could bear standing for very long.

We approached a guard stationed by a metal crowd control barrier to ask where to go. He simply moved to one side and motioned us through. We joined a much shorter line to pass through x-ray machines under the colonnade. Once inside Saint Peter’s Square we met colorfully dressed Swiss Guards. Each one we approached, motioned us forward. We got closer and closer to the stairs leading up to the entrance of the Basilica. I said to my daughter, “This can’t be right.” I felt like we were mistakenly being given seats of honor. We ended up sitting on banquet chairs lined up in rows alongside the canopied dais where the Pope would appear. As I looked around at the people sitting around us, I began to understand how we got to be there. This part of the audience consisted entirely of religious and handicapped people. Behind us was a section filled with young men and women dressed in their wedding dresses and tuxedos.

After Pope Francis’ address was repeated in seven different languages, he began to shake hands with the people surrounding the dais. I was in total disbelief! I would get to shake the 266th Pope’s hand! I found his voice to be soft and pleasing to hear and his eyes filled with so much love! After shaking hands with my beaming daughter, Tammie, the Pope affectionately reached up and patted her right cheek.

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She Went

Mar12

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.

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Oh, look!

Mar5

Using the computer mouse, I clicked on an arrow icon. A new window popped open. I saw the picture of a beautiful, dew-kissed strawberry and heard a woman’s pleasant voice saying, “Oh, look! A strawberry.”

In slide projector style, the picture changed to a slightly shriveled strawberry. The pleasant woman’s voice slurred, “Oh, look! A strawberry!” The next picture was of a strawberry starting to mold. The woman could barely enunciate the familiar words. Finally, there was the picture of a strawberry in the process of becoming a gooey puddle. The woman only made a few feeble sounds. It was as if her tongue had turned into wood.

Frowning, I wondered, “Was this meme showing the effects of a stroke?” Having worked all my working years in a hospital, I would have instantly called for a nurse if I saw this happening to a patient! When I asked my daughter about it, she laughed and assured me the meme was just putting a voice to things deteriorating. In the days that followed, I noticed that similar memes used the same words, but instead of rotting strawberries, they showed progressively uglier dogs or cats.

My skill in navigating modern technology is growing. However, there is so much about online culture that I will never understand. Also dampening my growing pride in my tech skill is the realization that my skill is very elementary: it could be compared to a baby’s first, wobbling steps. Most ten-year-olds today have more tech savvy than I will ever have.

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