Church Lady Chronicles

The beginning- Getting used to my new Universe

2023-02-08T15:32:00.001-05:00

Getting Used to my new Universe-

The few times I drove up here to visit, I was terrified by the traffic -ruling 95gangs. 295, 495, 9595- such a rude group of ruffian highways that demand drivers to push hard and move fast. ALL THE TIME. People drive as if they just won the lottery or they lost and are mad about it.

At home, it was easy to avoid traffic by being the early bird at the grocery or getting gas. Here it is obvious any early bird was bullied right out of town long ago. I learned that going somewhere at 9am is easier than 6am because many people have landed their crafts at work. The next window that works is 1:30 to 3. After 3, forget it. I have managed to find back ways to almost everywhere I need to go, and I find some relief in knowing there ARE back ways. I'd much rather be found in a ditch than to be discovered after being run over beyond recognition on the highway. It's the little things.

My comfort zone has been about one mile in diameter. I have always been able to walk to work, grocery, church, CharGrill, or Snoopys if I wanted to. I remember feeling that a 30-minute trip required a passport, so I rarely went outside of my zone. Here, 30 minutes is a blink.

I had a huge fear of not doing things right that were really important to do when you move, and the anxiety/paranoia won out over the brain fog. What if I messed up getting a new driver's license? Sensibility tends to disappear when anxiety rules and my inner voices reminded me I was in or near WASHINGTON, DC-where the FBI lived, and Quantico was just over there so, ugh.

On top of everything else, I was figuring out Social Security retirement and Medicareless. What if Social Security decided to drop me. I mean it could do that, right? I only knew Social Security as something that came out of my paycheck but now, It WAS my paycheck. And the only insurance I had known was the one you paid for through work, and then you went where you needed to go and paid a co-pay. This Medicare- didn't. It didn't Care, and certainly did not/ does not make much of anything easy. How does that make sense? You work all your life and when you finally reach the age of not having to work, you are expected to still have an active mensa brain so you can figure out how to manage these foreign bodies. What I lost in brain speed I picked up in joint pain and wrinkles. The tradeoff is not really fair. So, I surrendered. It allowed me to embrace inappropriate humor in non-humorous situations. Thankful. Thankful Thankful.

I eventually was able to get most of the Things-I-don't-want-to-do list done online, so car insurance, bank account, library cards, and other minutia was doable despite my crazy inner voices. Slowly, I felt myself being open to some positives in learning about this new world when I discovered this state did not require annual inspections on cars! I was foolishly relieved. What that really means is that cars are inspected once, and they follow a very long list that covers things the people who make the cars don't even know. So, when I took my car to get its one-time inspection, I walked out $800 poorer. My little car drove as if it had been violated, and I don't blame it. It took a few days to find the celebration in that once-in-a-lifetime car inspection. I settled on relief that it was over.

The girls walked me through so many other littlebig things, and that helped. I began to settle, sort of, but not really for a long long while. At any rate, I was glad to have nonsensical perspective back.

Arrival

2023-01-21T15:16:00.004-05:00

I arrived to open arms, smiles, and lots of happy hugs. Respite care came in a package of delightful little ones who acted like this was exactly where they expected me to be. My daughter and son gave me their room and had brought a few pictures they had confiscated over Christmas that I had not even missed in my frantic packing- until I saw them hanging on the wall. I felt the love and I felt wanted.

I was so thankful, but I would not realize the many small and major shifts I had caused in my own person for a good year. I needed time to forgive myself, too, for not being able to adjust as easily as I thought I could. Being with the girls and son-in-law was easy. So easy and right. Once my feet felt the ground, the every dayness gave me challenges I hadn't really thought about. I left a life of living alone, and stepped back in time to my most favored era, except now, I was 30 years older, so the pace knocked me flat a lot. Figuring out how people schedule, eat, and how to find my way around,.. You know, the myriad of things you have to learn when you land on another planet and in another time. Even in the midst of certainty that this was what I needed to do, I still wondered who stole the path?

The positives were as healing and reliable as the tides. I got lost a few times while trying to figure out new walking routes, which made me feel low, but often the grandgirls would be waiting for me to return, and it eased the anxiety. One morning I heard a distant, "Minny!" as I was heading back, and there were two little girls waiting for me on the front porch in their pjs. Sometimes, I'd sing part of a song when I got close and I could hear their voices from their bedroom window singing along. These offerings of acceptance and interest made me feel so much more at ease.

The grown-ups in the house had no expectations of me. I think it took a while for them to believe I had actually made the move. As hard as I tried to force some kind of expectations from both daughters and son, they just didn't have any other than they were glad we were able to be together. I wore myself out trying to pitch in cleaning, figuring out how to follow their system of laundry, doing dishes, whatever I could guess to try, but these attempts were always taken as unexpected surprises. Well, with the exception of one habit I had brought with me.

Raising 4 children, working and trying to manage life during those early years, I developed a habit that did not drop off after the chicks had flown the coop. Before I had children, I was a real planner. I kept multiple to-do lists. I found great power in checking things off of my list. When I had my first daughter, I realized this old way was not possible and over time, my lists dwindled in number and length. By child #4, I had one list and it had things on it like- get up or brush teeth. get dressed. I mean, the desperation for that sense of accomplishment was vicious!

Similar situation with household tasks. There may be piles of laundry to do, and beds unmade, but by golly, I was going to go to bed with a clean kitchen and no dishes left out. So I started picking up the random plate or glass when I spotted them left behind. As the girls grew older, the left behinds often had a good reason to be there, but still, like a robot with power on, I'd walk by a table and pick up a glass, and put it in the dishwasher. Then, later, "Mom, where is my water glass?" It became a joke among the girls and the habit remains alive and well, and was one of many quirks that followed me here.

I recall hearing my son-in-law, asking to anyone within hearing distance, "Where's my cup?" "Anybody see my glass?" "Where's the leftover half taco? I wasn't done with it." Depending on who was home, the answer would come- "Check the dishwasher" "MOM!" Eventually, they came up with a great plan and put a small tray inside the glass cabinet and made sure I knew that any glasses there, needed to stay put. Same with leftovers. I learned that late-night snacks were often the tail end of dinner crumbs. This may seem silly to say, but I had accepted the habit I had acquired, with good reason initially, over time, despite the fact that it was not needed anymore. The thing was, my son had not grown up with someone who kept confiscating his food and drink, yet, he never got angry. Maybe he looked on it as a game, because sometimes, I would see him rushing for a cup before I could get it, or saying to me, "Please don't throw away this nugget." I love him more for that.

So much to learn. How and who was I now? Look out, because here come the trials and tribulations of aged learning, friends.

Times are changin' Back to writing. THE MOVE

2023-01-12T10:18:00.000-05:00

Wow, stepping out of the Twilight Zone took longer than I thought. Are you still there? I'm hoping so. After my last entry, life kept happening. Day in, day out. I got my vaccines when they were hard to catch a hold of, and I kept working. In the quiet. Every day. I made masks until my Singer wouldn't sing anymore. I mailed them to everyone I knew or heard of. It was fun while it lasted.

I had a lot of time to think in those days, those long, scary quiet days. The news kept saying "It ain't over yet" and I began to realize that we didn't know when or if it would ever be over. The chemistry at the church was rapidly changing.My boss and I shared a retirement timeline. We had agreed to step off the pier together. We learned about Medicare together, well- what one can learn about that tangle.

As my 17th anniversary approached, I reminisced about the many stories this job has given me. Many I haven't even started writing yet. I loved the interactions with members, making new friends, learning so many new things, and I loved that I changed the Church Secretary Job into a Church Caretaker job. I stretched the job description like a Stretch Armstrong to meet the needs of the shifting church. It was good, and hard, and awesome and not so awesome. I could see the needs had changed during the Covidity, with a change in administration, several familiar folks retiring,lots of changes to come and one day, I just knew it was time.

We all are experiencing the damdemic- then and now. We have no choice, as we are in it. IN IT. so we have been actively participating in history being made. Similar to my thoughts on what was behind that fateful Fall I took in 2016,I realized there was something significant in this worldly chaotic tumbling.

Most folks I knew had created safety bubbles where they could actually be in the company of someone else and that brought with it some sense of a long lost normalcy. Families became even more important than love makes them anyway. I had formed a couple of tiny bubbles- I spoke to my therapist outside, met my regular Wed night dinner friend outside, and walked during lunch with a friend, but we had to talk real loud due to social distancing and well, let's just say the neighborhood learned pretty quickly about our topics of sharing. Sometimes, when we walked, I'd notice a face at the window, or someone pretending to work in their yard- sign to us a nod or a thumbs up or a shake of the head to let us know their opinion on our discussions. ugh. weird.

I did not have family I could reach out and touch. Time dragged through the fear of the times, but in the places my daughters lived, time was speeding by. The Fall had taken me out of much availability for the births of both of my grandgirls. Three years of surgeries and healing and more surgeries and more healing kept me from being as connected as I wanted to be. So, time and I had a talk and one day I knew what i needed to do. and I did.

I gave my two weeks notice, and took some time to adjust to the changes from working most of my life to not working.

The holidays brought us together with distance and masking and when they drove off for home, I waved, picked up my aching heart and made a plan. There were so many avenues of unknowns in this decision, I was sure Raleigh DOT had drawn up the plans, so you can understand my anxiety and concerns.

Making a change such as the one I was hanging onto meant pulling up roots that had been planted 52 years ago when I moved here. It meant leaving behind friends I loved and places I knew. It meant giving up my penchant for rescuing plants and starting Messy Chef somewhere else where no one knew me. New walking routes. It meant starting a new life called retirement. What was That? Different. That's what it was- Different. All of those things are big things. How could I walk through that? I was scared but for the one thing that was even bigger. My girls. My big girls, my little grand girls, my son in law who was brave enough to marry into a family of girls. So- I decided to break it up into tiny pieces and big breaths.

As in my previous move, I took time every day and put freebies on my front porch, took throw aways to the dumpster, and put what was going with me in the spare room. I sold furniture until I had only one chair to sit in. I talked to moving companies and decided to go with a person from church who had started a business called POOF. I ordered tons of bubble wrap and packing tape. I got my vaccines. and I left the place I had lived in through high school, marriage, raising a family, Messy cheffing, and plant escapades.

The damdemic times were my cover. No fanfare, last lunches, long reminiscent talks. I just drove away and pushed my scared spirit into the passenger seat so I could drive. She cried for me, and slept alot while I drove home to my girls.

P.S. Pandemic/schmandemic- I'm talking REAL problems here, people

2020-09-16T14:22:00.006-04:00

I got a haircut- sort of; more of a clean up trim.... A couple of weeks ago, and this is my second try at growing it out past this impossible stage. We'll see. I can almost tuck it behind both ears and my next appointment is in 6 weeks. It helps that the weather is cooler. Getting my hair cut always feels like such a luxury, but essential as well. Before my last visit, I was so excited that my hair felt "long". I could make a ponytail out of some of my bangs. If you call using an orthodontist's (for braces) rubber band and a pinch of hair a ponytail...Geesh, talk about denial. So my wonderful stylist said, "Look at you! let's keep it going!" and she trimmed and I went home and two days later I was begging to come back. We had a lovely bout of August days with 135% humidity and I broke down. Couldn't take it. I called the stylist helpline which is somehow the same number as the shop. The cheerful girl who answered listened carefully to my emergency request, then covered the phone and said something like, "This chick sounds like she's coming off of sugar or chocolate, she sounds desperate, what should I do? " I heard a mumble, some garbled exchanges, and Ms. Cheerful-to-a-fault said, "Sure. She has another opening in September." Reality is hard to face sometimes, and sort of a lot of times since Spring. "Well, actually, my next appointment is before that, so I guess I'll just wait."She hung up, but not before I heard her say to, I'm guessing, my stylist, "You were right, that did the trick!" then click. Rude. Didn't even try to talk me away from my own scissors. Hmph.

So, of course my angst settled, and now, I'm trying again. We'll see. Still, I'd like to see Ms. Cheerful try to grow some bangs out sometime, oh yeah I would.

P.S. Call me paranoid, I don't care

2020-08-28T16:23:00.002-04:00

I'm old. Not quite as old as sand; close to dirt, though. I've worked since I was 10, first co-babysitting, then on my own, then nannying some, and you know the routine- the first "real" job, then the first career, raising my girls, yadayada and now, I'm near the end of all that. I'd do most of it again, but not in this life, thank you.

I was recently, and for a time, repeatedly reminded of my mortality when, 4 years ago, the universe thumped me on the back for no good reason, and I realized, "Oh, I may not always be upright. Huh." Then the asteroid named COVID hit, and well, just well. I listened to the warnings for certain conditions and aged folks, whew, that's not me, except now it IS me. DRAT! On the other hand, I also get a few random discounts for things here and there. Yay discounts. Then here comes Murphy and his daggone Law, skulking around corners, hiding in the shadows, trying to be invisible. Well,I SEE YOU MURPHY AND YOUR- 'S- LAW AND I WON'T HAVE IT ! I WILL NOT! PLEASE STAY AWAY, PLEASE!!!

The thought occurred to me that this little engine that could has almost reached the retirement roundhouse and if I get ALMOST there and am kidnapped by Covidility, I will be SOOO Mad. I have worked hard to be able to not work hard. I have saved and pinched and hoped and planned for days when I can visit my favorite people when I want to, I have looked forward to watching my little grandgirls grow, reading stories, cuddling, not following any particular schedule as I choose, thank you. I want to read out back at home in my PJs.(Well, I already do sometimes, and it's awesome!)

Ergo, I am very vigilant in keeping my distance, washing my hands, and wearing a mask. Actually, I think it is safe to say I'm going above and beyond expectations. I keep my distance from others, AND myself whenever possible, I wash not just my hands, but my whole body in a special, hot, salt water disinfectant dunking tank, most every day,(very very much, why, I'd say exactly like lunchtime walking in the heat and humidity of our NC summertime), and I wear a whole body mask whenever possible, probablymaybe. In addition, I have made many masks for friends and family and enough for me to wear a clean one every few minutes. Groceries are delivered, I've requested an absentee ballot, and when at home, I try to embrace nature's offerings of peaceful quiet and calm. Still, I do not feel protected.

I don't know that there is a for-certain warranty for good covid-free health. If there is, Amazon doesn't carry it. If Amazon doesn't have it, its likely nobody does. So I am trying to be cautious and extra careful. I listen to Dr. Fauci, now that he has opps to speak again, and I listen to the Governor of New York, he's been through it, right? I want to know where vacations are, where you've been, who you've been with, etc, and don't even look my way without a mask on. Call me paranoid, I don't care. I don't want to inadvertently share invisible obnoxiouscovidbug with anyone and it's not worth it to take a chance on getting it and possibly missing out on things I might look forward to and don't even know what they are yet.

My gut tells me we're in this new time for a while. Until we have a vaccine that helps at all, I don't see how we can be anywhere else. I need to see my tribe, my home, my girls. I'm driving up to see their faces and I've decided to stay in a clear trash bag so I can still see them, but risk free. No wait. That is not a good idea. I mean one needs to breathe. Maybe I'll up the prayer and gratitude train and hope for the best, still so scary, still so hoping we have all been as careful as I think we have. Oh, man...

Gone are the days of having chicken pox or measles and announcing to the neighborhood so all the kids can come get it together. This. Ain't. That. I'm not really sure exactly What This Is, but I'm afraid and that's okay.

P.S. Dashboard delicacies ....It's the little things

2020-08-26T11:14:00.002-04:00

Many years ago, in an effort to make summer at work feel a little like summer vacation, I brought a cooking method I had used with preschoolers to work. Dashboard cooking. When I first used this fun method of treat making, my girls were little and I was teaching preschoolers.

I was driving a Toyota Previa, still my favorite van of all time. That car had a dashboard you could take a nap on, it was so long- and deep

The summer heat was on and I decided to give my idea a try so I parked in the sun. Inside, I had the kids put saltines on a cookie sheet, along with a couple of chocolate chips and a couple of tiny marshmallows, then we marched outside in "two straight lines" like Madeline, and they watched as I placed the cookie sheet on the dash. By the way my glasses fogged when I opened the car door, I guessed the temp was warm enough to do the job.

We came inside and continued our play for a bit. We ventured out a couple of times to check, and the children could see into the dash from the steps. They were curious and excited. I was ready for some chocolate. It wasn't long before the marshmallows mellowed, and the drops looked like drips. The children sat on the steps as I removed the mini s'mores from the car and we ate them surrounded by the magic of the moment. It was awesome and repeated often.

I have written about bringing this idea to work already, but due to the strange season, I had neglected to do so this year, and summer has had plenty of heat! I kept hankering for something familiar, soothing, comforting, fun, but could not name it until suddenly it hit me! We need to cook in the car! I asked the boys at work if they were ready to help with making muddy buddies, and they all volunteered, so that was our first treat this year. A couple of things tickled me about this year's car cooking-

I brought the ingredients and the metal cooking bowl.The boys helped put the ingredients in the bowl and I took it out to the oven. When it was ready, I let them know and gave each a job. One to hold the bowl, one to hold open the zip lock bags, one to pour the crispix into the melted chocolate and peanut butter while I stirred. The crispix helper, who was here last year took great care in his pouring. He knew what the finished product would be, so he let me stir the crunchy cereal into the chocolate gently and waited until it was coated before he sprinkled more in. He had experience. He had experience in this random activity that was simple and fun and he came back this year to do it again. It made my day, it really did. The other fun part is seeing someone for the first time, be a part of the process. So fun.

One staff member pulled up as we were stirring in the sun, and later said she realized we were making muddy buddies and really looked forward to the treat. I guess I like the fact that adult professionals still have a place for a little fun.

We made butterscotch haystacks next, and on both occassions, the bags were empty by the end of the day. My boss came in and asked what we were making on my dashboard because he noticed the metal bowl sitting there in the sun,and remembered we cook in my car in the summer like it’s a normal thing to do. I like that

P.S. Summer wisps of those who were here before

2020-08-14T16:07:00.001-04:00

Well, I'm thinking we are continuing on a snail's pace trip to something. I don't expect any part of this pandemica to eventually bring us back to normal, or something we may have once thought as normal. Remember when things were normal and we called them cray cray days? pffffffft. What. Were. We. Thinking, eh?

At any rate, there is a ripple effect of our days' microscopic shifting, and the church ghosts are restless. Faint conversations this week, a little instrumental backdrop that comes and goes, Afternoons especially. I wish I had some 3D glasses or some such that could let me see the layers of what goes on here in that spirit kind of way.

Don't they know that it doesn't take much to rattle the living? We've lost a few beloved folks over these hard days. Some are waiting to go to their final resting places, is it antsy-ness that I sense? Members-gone-by- not understanding why they can't check in to their chosen spots here? IDK. I'm pretty sure some who are here, are missing the visits from family and friends who used to come by to sit with them in the peaceful Columbarium - inside or outside closer to nature and traffic. Maybe the conversation is among those folks. Strength in numbers, hey, I hear you! Visiting hours will return one day, they will!

Visits will return when it is safe; programs, groups, and group worship in person, too. I won't say be patient, because it wouldn't help those who are DONE with all this, but I will say this- With the efforts I've seen happening here, the time and creativity staff are pouring into the days here, well, it's enough for an old Church Chick like me to notice that maybe God does work in mysterious ways sometimes. I'm seeing connections being made between people who missed out on that before this virus came upon us. I'm seeing new and different ways to see and feel the presence of something bigger, aren't you?

Every day, even now, I hear and see staff stretching their minds and wills to see what may be missing and to find ways to meet those needs when conventional means aren't available right now. It's really amazing from where I sit. It really is. Embrace, embrace, embrace and remember how loved you are every minute of every day no matter what! In person, not in person. On the phone, or video. Snail mailing is back in fashion, and writing someone can be its own form of meditation. Getting a letter in the mail can feel so comforting, uplifting, too. Collecting, delivering, waving as you go by, lots of reaching in to reach out.

I'm not meaning to sing the lemonade out of lemons song here, don't get me wrong. I have a friend who calls that thinking Pollyanna- I'm not feeding you that, or anything really, other than my own observations that something bigger is at work here. Something bigger is with you ; I see it happening through the efforts of a magically talented staff. I just hope you, and me, and us- can let go of shoulds, supposed tos, whens and I wants, and feel the moment. This one. This one minute.This is the one I appreciate, and you are all in it with me.

P.S. Neighbor living the life despite Covidity

2020-08-14T13:41:00.005-04:00

I have a neighbor who has absolutely made the most of her small backyard space. I like watching to see what she will do next?! She had a raised bed garden for a few years, then she added a fence border to her postage stamp space and next thing I knew, an umbrella was up! I enjoy watching the extra conveniences appear as the need arises. Earlier this Spring she added a table and wicker couch; a few chairs just for fun. Her divinely decorated space offers the right amount of comfort for just about any season. She has a small fire pit looking thing with a chimney for cold nights, and now she's hung up decorative lights around the fence. So cool. But the best and most favorite amenity to date is this-

Yes, friends, this woman has somehow found a single size pool!, She keeps a chair float in it so she can relax in cool spashy comfort and the water depth is perfection. When not in use, she covers it with a single size fitted sheet. I had to share the brilliance of this neighbor! She told me with all the rabbits around this year, she traded in her garden bed for a float and comfort space, and man, it is inviting! That is making the best if I ever saw it!

P.S. Wake up walk rambles cont'd.

2020-08-12T12:33:00.002-04:00

The alley car- this is a small, once sportsy car that stays parked deep into the overgrowth along the back alley that runs behind my apartment. It has been covertly hidden underneath a thin, pale cover, untouched, since I moved here a few years ago. As some things do after being still and stationary for long periods of time, it became invisible to me. I stopped noticing it and wondering about its story until this morning when a rip in the worn out cover caught my eye. A fabric tear that revealed a bit of headlight. Hmmm. I hesitated and looked for evidence it had recently, or ever, been moved, but except for the impressions in the grass made by the bunnies who were with me today, nothing looked amiss. No tire tracks, no blood (Of course I cannot be certain of that, since I forgot my spray bottle of luminol this morning.)

Why would someone hide an innocent car, and why for soo long? While I stood staring at the poor thing, I felt a sense of relief. Was it glad it was hidden? Did it feel safe under such rampant growth and did the fabric feel more like a beloved nunu (a blanket, usually made by someone who loves you)? or was it just hidden in a fabric disguise? I did not sense crime or murder and mayhem here. No, it felt like intentional hiding, or maybe the mystery of the hidden car was inviting curiosity. I ruminated as I walked through the stagnant and hot haze of this August morning.

On my way back, I realized that the way the little car was backed in made it hard for most passers-by to see- EXCEPT - except if you lived directly across from it. It was then that the story unfolded in my heart. This car had belonged to Uncle Carl who lived on a farm in Minnesota 83 years ago. His family and four generations back had settled and worked this farm diligently until Uncle Carl became ill.

Uncle Carl's nephew, Abie, loved, loved, loved his uncle! Abie's mom, who had left the farm when she was 18 (In fact, she couldn't get away fast enough when she became of age, "If I have to snap another bean I'll scream I tell you, I will!") brought Abie to the farm every summer to stay with Uncle Carl and Aunt Jenna. Abie's mom was a teacher, and she spent her summers working on her Masters Degree, in hopes of eventually providing a better life for her lovely son, Abie. He enjoyed the farm life, the animals, the gardening, and even the vegetable preserving. The summers at the farm made for a great childhood for Abie. It gave a balance to his life. He was a studious child, he helped his mom during the year when she was so busy teaching, grading papers, and together they made a nice team, but by school's end every year, he was ready for a change and time spent on Uncle Carl's farm gave him that.

He learned to drive the tractor one year and got so good at it that his uncle let him drive his old truck around some of the dirt roads around the area. The big blue barn, though, was where the dream drive stayed. Uncle Carl had a cool car that rode smooth and drove fast. Sometimes, Abie and Uncle Carl would hit the highway in it and drive for hours, cranking up the radio and singing loud and long! Abie spent many hours just sitting behind the wheel in the barn, pretending he was driving all over creation. Although his uncle never let him drive that car, he told Abie that one day, the car would be his, and he taught him how to change the oil, replace belts, and how to wax it to shiny perfection.

When his uncle became ill, Abie worked extra hard to help around the farm. Uncle Carl would sometimes miss the early morning cow milking, so Abie made sure the cows were milked and he collected the eggs, crated them, too. Aunt Jenna took good care of her farmer husband, but it wore her out, to bits. Good days were fewer, hard days came around more and more often. Even so, summers spent with those two were memorable and dream-worthy.

One winter's night, back in Seattle, Abie woke up to the phone ringing. He heard his mother's voice, then heard her crying. He got up to see what had happened and she said Uncle Carl had gone to see his maker, and Aunt Jenna was selling the farm and was going to live in Hawaii, where she had secretly always wanted to be. The mother and son sat on the edge of her bed, side by side all night, neither saying a word. Sadness filled the dark room.

A few months later, Abie came home from school to see something familiar parked out front. Could it be? For real? There sat Uncle Carl's magic car! Abie's mom said, "Finally!!!!" and she excitedly handed him an envelope with his name on it. Inside was the title to the car and Abie's name was listed as "owner". He couldn't believe it. Every time he drove that car, he felt his uncle's presence with him. Abie took as good a care of that car as ever, and he drove it all through his years in high school and college. Eventually, the miles added up and the car wore down, like Uncle Carl had.

Abie could not let it go. When hard days came around, Abie tinkered with the engine or washed it , shined it up, and he always felt better after that. Abie felt Uncle Carl talking with him like they used to so many years ago. The memories were fresh and present.

When Abie moved into his first apartment, he had the car towed and parked it right off the alley, in the brush where no one would really notice it. Abie backed it into a spot that he could see very clearly from his kitchen and his bedroom. Abie lived there for many years, and even when he got old and feeble, he remained clear on that car and what it meant. He used his cane to help him get across the alley some days, then the walker. When the ramp was added to the deck, he used his wheelchair to get to the beloved car, just so he could sit and look and remember.

One day Abie didn't visit the car. He didn't visit the next day or the next. The neighbors began to worry. They called for a welfare check, the friendly police obliged, but he was nowhere to be found. A month went by, then two. Where was Abie? He never was found, but- in the early spring, something very peculiar made itself known.

Neighbor Audrey was walking her dog and noticed a sparkly something that seemed to be coming from along the alley. As she approached she saw that the little old car was bright and shiny and new again, as if by magic! She cleaned up her dog's poop and ran to tell the neighbors of her discovery. They surrounded the shiny vehicle and made a pact. They knew where Abie was and this is where he would stay, so they got some faint colored fabric and covered the car and vowed to never move it.

One by one the neighbors either died or moved and the story of Abie was almost lost until today! Maybe I'll buy a new fluff of cover for it so it can bring good juju for a while longer, we could sure use it.

P.S Windshield what not

2020-08-06T13:51:00.004-04:00

I mentioned some time ago, and more than once, my car windshield had a crack in it that needed attending, repair, and finally the obvious- replacement.

Last week, a young man who reminded me of Mr. Clean (with hair), came to the church in search of a staff person's car window that was needing assistance and repair. The staff person was not me but I called upstairs for the staffer who needed that help.

While we waited for the staff person to come down, this man began chattering on about his business. He was a walking advertisement and proud of it."My company has been around longer than sand!! We love our customers, and we love our work! Yes, ma'am, we even come to YOU, so you don't have to come to US".....

"Well, that's a great service," I mumbled into my mask.

"We're in, we're out, we clean up and skeedaddle, you should call us anytime you have glass trouble, ma'am. We're happy to help- all about the customer, yep."

"I will remember that when I decide to get the crack in my windshield fixed, thanks, Mr. Clean and handy."

"Ohhh, so you've got windshield trouble? Has that been going on for long? Because you need to not let that kind of thing go tooo long, it can run and crackle the whole blame window at any minute. Let me take a look, we'll fix you right up!"

"Well, actually, I've been tracking it alongside our state stats on the virus growth. They both started out low, then when our graph started creeping up with virus cases, so did my windshield crack! Every day I watched the news and looked for a curve, but no- our numbers just kept growing. Same on my car. Then one day, when I cranked up the car, I noticed what may have been the beginning of a curve. A CURVE!!!! I was so excited I couldn't wait to get to work and check our stats! We were still headed for the stars; I was bummed. A few days later, as the windshield curve kept curving, it started looking like it was going to flatten, and I was relieved. Sadly, our virus cases have not stayed in tandem with my windshield, but for a while there they did, and well, it gave me hope!"

The chattering Mr. Clean stood perfectly still. His chattering had vanished, likely it had taken flight through his open mouth. A silent moment crept by. The staff person came down. "Church chick, what's with the windshield guy? Is he okay?" I looked over at Mr. squeaky Clean and snapped my fingers a couple of times. "...Huh?" I pointed to the staffer and motioned the staffer to show our visitor to his car.

They headed to the front doors, but Mr. Clean glanced back at me every few steps. I windshieldwiper-waved at them and went back to work.

Tomorry, my car, Callie, will get new glasses, or really just one big one. I'm excited for her!

P.S. Short and sweet

2020-07-20T13:07:00.000-04:00

Well, those who know me know I'm not a strong traveler. My girls are a great draw to get me out, but those trips are on hold until viral things get better. I've written of some of my travels. Anyway, I need to get away from day to day chaos for a bit, and I looked far and wide to find a place I might call home for a few days. At long last, I found it! Nearby, has a back patio with shade to rest and read if I want to, A stocked kitchen, clean linens and a TV with access to a ROKU. There is even a work room with yarn and a sewing machine that guests are welcome to use. Free parking and a W/D. Who knew such a place existed? There is no pool but a lovely bathtub, too! Greenway, and lots of walking trails as well. They support the Art of Cocooning, which was the ticket for me on deciding to take this place!
I'm glad I made my reservation early, whew.

So I'll be away from sharing stories for a bit, but will have some catching up to do when I get back.

P.S. Wake up walk gone rogue

2020-07-15T13:47:00.070-04:00

I started adding to my walking schedule by taking a wake-up walk as early as I can see daylight.
Considering the proven danger of caffeinated thinking, adding the wake-up walk right after coffee puts me out of reach to act on the caffeinated thinking ideas when they kick in. whew. After a few wake-up walks, I began noticing something new- something that doesn't greet me during Sahara lunch walks, or even during after -work melted asphalt walks.

I think it is called something like nature, Mother Nature, maybe? She says good morning with a gentle breeze and that same breeze helps me up hills and hurries me back down. The movement of air is so gentle, I imagine butterflies surfing along with me in the cool morning serenity. The same squirrels I fuss at when they raid my neighbor's bird feeder daily look cuter, harmless. The bunnies who snack on new leaves in my neighbor's garden scamper soundlessly in the grass as I pass by. Sometimes they freeze and I pretend I don't see them. It's a pleasant way to start the day.

Another new tidbit I've noticed is the creepy looking, hidden, and covered sporty car off of the alley, but that story can wait-

This morning I found myself exploring a crime. A made-up crime.

THE RECLUSE'S MYSTERY HOUSE- This is a house that is a little pushed back from the street on a bigger lot than most along my morning trek. The front of the house has a lot of floor to ceiling windows so you can see the piles of boxes and papers and possibly decayed bodies in plain sight.

His car, that stays parked on the street over a time- old oil drip, hasn't been washed since the murder many years ago that we still don't know about, or rather, that I still haven't seen in the news.

This morning as I walked past the gunk covered car, I decided that he could not get all of the blood off of it, so for years, he's not washed it and he's made a point of parking under trees that drop sap, and branches that house birds with intestinal issues- great cover!

Mr. Recluse also has a VW bug pushed to the side of his yard into the overhanging trees. It too, is covered, but unlike the suspicious sporty car that is not in today's story, this hidden item is but a memory he can't let go of. This car belonged to his dead wife. They put many miles and laughter on and in this car over the years.

In the middle of a long and mostly blissful married life, Mr. Recluse discovered Mrs. Recluse was really a fugitive on the run. When he first met her and her VW, she said she had just slipped into this country. She had stuffed 540,000,000$ under the wheel wells, inside the spare tire, behind the headlights and inside the seats. He didn't question her story of being an heiress fleeing a constrictive family. In fact, Mr. Recluse, who had been an unsuccessful reporter (reporter jobs are not so great or successful for reclusive types) began writing her story, calling it fiction- and it became a best-seller such that he never had to write another, and together they lived simple and fulfilling days, many of them. Not a care. No worries. and then-

A stranger began appearing about. Sometimes he would walk past the house or simply stand across the street and stare at their yard. He took notes, glared through opera glasses, and guzzled bottle after bottle of sickening Orange Crushp, but the most suspect thing he did, the thing that set off Mr. Recluse's inner fire alarm was this- In the middle of a North Carolina summer, with temps in the triple digits, and humidity dripping like hot rain, the stranger, who had a full and thick black beard wore long-sleeved black shirts, a black fur jacket, and black boots along with black gloves, a black ski cap, black aviator sunglasses and - black shorts that were very short. It was obvious this man's body was unfamiliar with the powerful (albeit vitamin D laden)NC summer sun's rays. From a distance, with his two boney legs sticking out of his dark overlays, he looked like... an eleven.

Mr. Recluse took all measures to keep his wife from noticing the bazaar stranger. He put in a new driveway on the back of the house that exited the street behind them so there was no reason to pass by the front of their own house, ever. He moved the mailbox out back, had the paper delivered out back and the trash was already back there, so.... He hired a (Speedy-R-Us) construction team to completely gut the inside and move all functional spaces to the back of the house as well until only the full front windows remained unchanged. He placed solar panels in front of them that blocked any view of the front yard and street. He was thorough. He didn't want to worry his beloved and he wanted to find out who this persistently peculiar guy was.

The day came when he could not stand the sight of the #11 guy another minute. Mr. Recluse stormed across the street carrying an empty black trash bag. "Who the heck are you and clean up your disgusting soda bottles, will you? Don't you know that shit will kill ya?" He socked the stranger in the gut with the trash bag.

"OOPH!"The stranger began picking up the bottles, filling the bag fairly quickly. "Or Keshay su su mow gral" He mumbled under his breath. "A Agaynobu, eeka zoolar!!" his agitated voice screamed.
Lucky for Mr. Recluse, his reclusive years had given him much time to learn new languages and he spoke Conversational Alien fluently. "She is NOT who you say and You better stay away!"

The stranger stood up, held the full bag of bottles over his head, then slammed it to the pavement before turning and walking his #11 legs away.

"Hmph, Well, that oughta take care of him!" Mr. Recluse said to himself as he headed back home. He entered the back door that was now the front door, he felt the weighted gaze of his wife's eyes on him. "What did he say, that man?"
"What man, lovey?" he looked into her eyes, solid.
She waited. He realized. She knew.
Mr. Recluse surrendered, "He wants his money back. He called you Keshay. I told him he was wrong, that we've been together for many years. I told him he was mistaken."
She stood looking at her best part of life and felt the tears tumbling over and down her face.
He held her. "It doesn't matter who you were or what you did, I know your heart. If what he thinks is true, you had some good reason and that is all behind you now. We are all that matters. Your kindness and acts of good have helped so many people, places, and things! It doesn't matter."

"He will kill me, as he tried to so many years ago, he is ugly with hate, and he hates the sun."
She wilted in his arms. "He came to this planet and stole my father's body. He pretended he was my papa and built a fortune selling a soda the color of the world he came from. He called it Orange Crushp and over time he forgot he was but borrowing a human form, he became bound to it, so I stole his money and hoped he would return to wherever -.

They carried each other to the back porch swing and spent the afternoon, reminiscing about happier times. They ate hot dogs for dinner and went to bed early, both knowing that even their love could not keep vile and evil away.

In the morning, Mr. Recluse awoke to find the mattress imprint where his wife had slept. He leapt up and searched the house for her, but she was nowhere inside. He put his slippers on and headed outside.
There. There in the VW lay her lifeless body. On the ground beside her door were 6 empty Orange Crushp bottles.

Like a maniac he ran around the yard screaming "Marge! Marge! my Marge! NO!" In his panic running, he came upon more empty bottles. They led him to a sewer drain. The rageful Mr. Recluse caught sight of two white sticks slowly going down the hole. #11! He lunged for the legs and pulled out the stranger who was screaming mad, alien language. Mr. Recluse's frantic panic deafened the sounds. He dragged the man to his car, pushed him up against it and started pummeling him with angry fists. With each pummel, the man cried out in alien language and then suddenly he went silent.
He slumped down the side of the car leaving a huge crimsonorange swath.

Mr. Recluse stepped back. The dead man was bleeding out from every pocket in his jacket, shirt, pants, and boots. He had clearly been carrying. Carrying many bottles of Orange Crushp. All that was left were shards. He had died,(In addition to the pummeling), by the very thing he made his gazillions from.-borrowed body gazillions that is. Mr. Recluse stuffed the body into the back seat. The fabric soaked up the blood. (He thought he had paid for Scotchguard treatment when he bought the car, but clearly, they had scammed him on that at the dealership.) He got in the car and drove to the quarry. He dragged the body out and slung it over the edge. Once he heard the landing body- thump, he looked down and saw thousands of slivers of glass reflecting the hot summer sun like crystals, bouncing off of the glassy rocks that surrounded the quarry lake.

Mr. Recluse walked back to his car. It wasn't until then that he noticed the splatters and sugary splashes of orange and red all over the sides, dripping down the windows, hood and trunk.He drove home and parked under the mulberry tree in the back yard that was now the front yard.

By the time new construction moved into the neighborhood, taking away his back driveway, the car was covered in dirt, mold, spit, pollen, sap, mulberry flesh. He moved it to the back that was now the front again, and parked it on the street. He could not bear to see his poor wife, who was still sitting in her car, in a continuing state of decomp, so he covered her car and pushed it into the side yard under the trees where it still sits today, Over time, he addressed the occasional complaint from neighbors regarding his property's odorous matters by simply saying, "Compost at its best, friend. Compost at its best." No one ever seemed to question the reply despite the fact that his yard stayed in shambles.

This morning when I passed by, I decided that after many years of grief and sorrow, the lonely widower got rid of the solar panels and became a hoarder. A mid-life career change may have started out as a refreshing shift for his emotional well being. Collect a few things, then a few more, then stop taking out the trash then, then, then. From the looks of things as I walk by now,I'm not so certain about the growing mountains of stuff inside being anything so benign as a mid-life career change, so I try not to look his way, I never carry a crushp, and I walk by fast in my every -day -of-the -year-black pants, just in case he still harbors some pent up rage.

Oh sure, you might say, Church Chick, there are so many holes in this story. This is not even close to a perfect murder. ...and I would say, maybe not in this story- but tomorry is another day. .....

P.S. The ghost is back, they call me the stream whisperer, and other misc dots and dashes

2020-07-10T13:57:00.003-04:00

Not long after we closed the church, I was privy to experience the church ghost. I already wrote about this- but I haven't seen him since, until this week. Actually, I think I've experienced two somethings, although I'm sure these walls and the earth beneath them must hold so many more shadows and the imprinted essence of people who have passed through this plane of existence. I didn't see this time, I heard.

Twice, I have heard the organ playing. The first time it happened, I ignored it until I could not concentrate on my work because of faint, but steady music playing in the sanctuary. I gave the melody a concrete excuse of "Oh, that's not really what it seems to be, why the AC is just blowing notes like a nose squeaks sometimes, oh well... la la la la la " then I went back to my work.

This week, it happened again. I am so close to recognizing the tune that I found myself humming the notes that floated into the lobby where my post at the front desk sits. I thought, "I didn't even see the organist come in today! Sneaker.." I stood up and walked around my desk and headed toward the sanctuary. I noticed the lights were not on anywhere in there; not at the organ, either. Nobody home. Music, poof! gone. The melody faded into forgotten.

I attributed the musical hallucination to COVID- the catch-all for just about anything awry at the moment. "Pfft!" I shook my head and settled back into my nest,. I didn't think a thing about it until just now.

Yesterday, a staff person reminded me that after our previous organist passed away, his presence and an odd sense of 'something' hung around for a while. The organ played itself on at least one occasion. I had forgotten that. Those days seem so far away from where we are now. His sudden death was such a shock, but she remembered how I had predicted something wasn't right based on his stream. Yes, you read it right, it appears I am known in some circles as a stream-whisperer. Now, stop it. Go clean up the coffee you just spit out and I'll wait. . . . . . . to continue. . . . . . .

My first, and most beloved office is mentioned in many of these fun chronicles, in fact, I still miss that cozy spot that backed up to an alley and sat right next to the men's room. Although I usually kept old time radio shows broadcasting faintly in the background ,as white noise, while I worked, apparently I also began to notice, by the stream noise next door, who was in the men's room and how they were doing. Please, please know how embarrassing this is to share, but it's time I just told you of yet this other thing you'll need to accept about me, the quirky church chick.

It's not like I kept notes on the daily visitors to the restroom on the other side of my office wall! Good Gosh No! The awareness of stream patterns just sprinkled into my subconscious; it slowly dripped in over time and then patterns appeared and before you knew it, I could tell you who was arriving next, and who just left. I could guess pretty closely who needed to hydrate more, who didn't flush, and who didn't wash their hands after. WAY more info than I ever wanted to know about people I had to make eye contact with daily. Really, it was an unforeseen and unexpected burden, but what was I to do? Some things can't be UN-KNOWN. I sure can't put that on my resume and expect to be hired- anywhere. Except maybe Quantico, I mean, sure DNA is a brilliant and miraculous tool, but stream whispering may be in the top ten of best tools to catch criminals with one day, mark my words.

At any rate, our talented organist who isn't alive any more did have stream issues and I worried about what it meant. Then, one day I found out and said, "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh, oHHHHHHHHH, man, saw that comin' and I didn't even know."

So after that, he stayed a while- IN THE SANCTUARY, sometimes in the robe room, then, he just wasn't there anymore. Til now. Maybe he heard us talking about him- maybe he remembered that he missed the organ he helped plan. At any rate, he's been here today, playing again. Everyone was at lunch- out of the building. Well, everyone except the two of us. Maybe I'll get brave and comment on the melody the next time he stops by.

P.S. The Lighthouse Keeper

2020-07-09T11:30:00.000-04:00

The years in this job have given me many hats to wear. The church website and the little sign outside my office both say someone with my exact name is the Church Secretary, though from day one I never claimed that as real. I used to have a label that said church secretary wannabe on my mail cubby and that seems to fit better, even now.

Every few years, in -house changes like major church renovations, organ building, gym building, etc...have altered what my job looks like. The variety has been interesting in a good way! Enter Covid19. No bulldozers or cement trucks but huge changes, still ongoing! Over time I incrementally moved my office to the front desk and shifted my tasks to meet the needs. I'm busy- just a different kind of busy.

I've been holding down the fort here at the desk for a few months, and well, I'm ready to do something else, so I've decided to create a new job for myself. I'm going to try being a Lighthouse keeper. Maybe I can hang out on the steeple with my binoculars and keep a watch on the neighborhood. Maybe I'll see the mailman coming, "Hey Bobby!" or watch people walking their dogs, or catch people trying to go maskless. I can carry a megaphone up there with me and shout out, like sort -of -a -little- maybe,- like God would, straight from the steeple- "OH LO, DOWN THERE YOU UNMASKED CREATURE!" Seriously, though, I halfway expect to eventually see someone with a mask tatooed on their face. That hasn't happened yet, but the day is not over...

Maybe I'll catch someone NOT picking up after their dog!"I THINK NOT, OH THEE,THOU,THEY!" or maybe I can encourage runners when they hit the long, slow hill. "WWMD? KEEP RUNNING! THAT'S WHAT! YOU CAN GET TO THE TOP OF THE MOUNTAIN, YOU CAN!"

I'd really like to take a big flashlight up there and shine light circles across the ocean of homes in the neighborhood all night, but I'd get dizzy in a hurry and I'm afraid the neighbors would complain and we sure don't need any more complaining around town right now.

P.S. In this minute...

2020-07-03T09:04:00.002-04:00

I feel some weird sort of shift. No doubt, I feel something not quite stagnant. Still, our country and all it contains is riddled with unknowns- unanswerable, uncertainties, unsolvables lurking in the midst of this slight shift. I wonder if we are to use this time to look within, rethink who we are, where we are and how we can bring some springland fairyness to this troubled planet. Maybe, maybe not. It sounds good, but the truth is, I'm still practicing staying in this one minute because in 60 seconds, it will be a different minute that brings its own -everything. Sounds like I'm skipping out on some intentional opportunity to grow, but actually, trying to stay in this one minute, and then doing it, again and again, DOES promote some sense of something better than sitting frozen behind a curtain waiting for the world- that used to drive us crazy -to come back. That ship, filled with sick folks, has sailed, friends.

Different is a word that keeps tagging alongside me in this minute and is a constant reminder that even if it doesn't feel like it, this time we are in is NOT immutable; still. I'm feeling that with a vague confidence that when things change, sometimes we need any bits we can muster together to weather the differentness and learn to adapt. So that's what I'm doing; mustering and weathering. Indulging in a fresh tomato sandwich with Dukes and Wonderbread feels much more appealing, but is just as messy.

I'm trying to get used to new vocabulary like "community spread" (not a new margarine) and COVID-19 (sometimes I envision that word looking like the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey- It does stand between our past and our future, right?)

Every morning, along with the weather, I check "the" graph for our daily case/death/hospital numbers and then I trek outside to look at my growing front windshield crack that is trying to curve and flatten much better than the graphs. Maybe I should put a mask on the front of my car so people can see what a difference it can make. "Honey, did you see the crack on that car windshield? It seems to be flattening!" Honey mumbles, "Must be the mask." Then they both pull theirs out of their pockets, and put them on, and switch to sign language for the rest of their walk.

If Google had a satellite program that would show us time away and up close, that might be cool. Wait. Maybe not so good to know on a whim. I think, for now, I'll keep working on This.One.Minute.

P.S. New Show coming your way!!!

2020-06-30T13:36:00.001-04:00

So, I think I'll send out this idea I've had in my head, that randomly arrived from nowhere, to Universal or CBS. I know it sounds farfetched, but you never know when these impossible things may happen upon us, right? I think PG-13 at the least.

This season, on our newest Science Fiction reality show, The C-19
Pilot: Pandemica 2020
E1:Honeybee killer hornets
E2:Hurricane days and weird weather ways
E3;The night their routines went missing
E4:Mercury in retrograde
E5:When singing wasn't safe anymore
E6:Truth eruptis
E7:Held hostage by forced emotional isolation
E8:The torture of a sports-less season
E9:Unstoppable reruns
Season Finale : The day the sand came over the ocean

P.S. Some days are just like that

2020-06-18T11:26:00.000-04:00

Some days are just like that-

My boss has been working harder than usual to help this congregation feel loved and appreciated. I say harder, but in truth there aren't many things that are easier right now. Pre-pandemic days he would be visiting folks at the hospital; welp THAT ain't happen' right now. People would be in and out of his office like bees in and out of the honey hive. You can hear the echo of a pin drop in the stairwell these days. When I try to mimic my normal morning check-ins with him,(that aren't as needed of late) my voice echoes off of the dust that has accumulated on and around the collectibles that fill his office. The figurines look lonely and narry a tissue has been used or offered in months.

He and the other pastors have been delivering the UPPER ROOM magazines, talking to people on the phone and of course, ZOOMING like mad. This week he asked if we had a wheelchair that a member could use, if so, to please let him know and he'd be happy, no THRILLED to deliver it. The man is desperate for human contact- if I had wondered before, I didn't after that-

We found one and sent him on his way- expecting him back sooner rather than later. Tick. tick. tick.
Late afternoon brought him back, disheveled and wide-eyed. "How'd it go?" I asked when I saw him come in.
"Well, this is one for your blog, church chick!" and I thought it might be, so here you go.

He had rolled the chair from the church to his car, finagled and fiddled with it until he finally figured out how to fold it and then -oof!- lifted it into his car. He drove to the member's house and unloaded the burdensome wheelchair, fought with it to open, and rolled it up to the house. He knocked on the door. No answer. He called and someone finally came out, so glad to see him, they didn't even notice the chair! After a few minutes, he made mention of the chair he probably wished he could be sitting in, and the cheerful member casually said, "Oh! that's not for us- that's for a friend who needs it, would you mind?" He graciously accepted the request, then rolled, folded, and pushed the awkwardly shaped chair back into the car and headed to the 'friend's' house. It was way over there somewhere, so he asked Siri to tell him how to get there. "Well this road is closed and that one is blocked and the other one has a sinkhole in it, so which one do you want?" She answered his simple request for directions as if she really cared, which we know she didn't. Doesn't. She's not real, yet her voice resides in many of our phones. So he tried roundabout ways under bridges, over railroad tracks, then through frightful forests until he finally arrived at the 'friend's' house and once again, dragged that wacky wheeled monster out of his car where he very well could have plopped right into it and wheeled his way to their door, but being the Senior Pastor, he once again, pushed it to the door, up the hill and over the pebbles where it was grateful to rest somewhere other than his car, then he headed back to church.

What a fiasco! a comedic distraction! Yesterday, Mr. wheelchair showed up outside the front doors. It had been returned, yet abandoned in a rush to drop and go, go, go. We brought it inside, Gillian gave it a detail cleaning, and parked it back in the closet where it resides. She closed the door and went about doing other work. A few times later that afternoon, I could have sworn I heard sighs of relief coming from that closet. Sometimes, it's good to be home, even to a church wheelchair.

P.S. Well.... walking talking and other sundry blabbers

2020-06-16T12:30:00.001-04:00

Recently, my daughter let me know that sometimes these posts are hard to read, visually. She offered to update the look of it all. I, being the independent and tech-savvy writer, said no thank you. Big mistake
I've changed the look of it a few times, lost all posts, found them, lost the ability to write a new one, found 'new post' and put it back, changed colors, fonts, and now, well, now I am seeing double.

I'm going to ask her to work on it, after all. It's the smarter thing to do in days that I feel anything but smart. I feel messy. That is comfortable for me, and accepted, thankfully, by those who love me. Gratitude for love and acceptance in days like these. yep.

It's summer, even though the calendar says with a smirky font, "Yeah? Just wait, heh, heh, heh." I try to walk during a late lunch most days, so when I get back, and I'm red-faced and dripping, I've only an hour to be offensive to those around me. Then, when I get home, I can just be home. It's a plan that works for me. I've got a Tuesday friend and a Wednesday friend who join me, and those workdays are better because of their company. I wrote of these walks in the early pandemmy days. We maskwalk with great distance and take turns leading on the hills. We have a good system in place.

I've found walking buddies are a lot like friendship- there are all kinds, and variety makes it refreshing and interesting. A long-standing friend will sometimes meet me halfway and we walk to stay caught up with the misery around us. Another will text on a weekend morning, and depending on how far she wants to walk, I'll text her when I'm getting close to her house and we'll chat our way to a shaded chair and share this and that. Often, I'll walk after work with my pal who doesn't care if we walk or sit or anything. She is so easy, especially after work. It's because of these lovely friends, that my body is on the move again, and you may say, "So what?" Well, let me tell you, people there are very stringent walking rules with me, and they do not suit everyone, and so they make these friends all the more special.

1. No pressure
2. No expectations
3. Flexible

Canceling at a moment's notice just because is A oKaY
Topic of conversation is fluid, route negotiable, and frequent stops are encouraged.
However, whatever, whenever- all are well and good

I remember when I could not walk a few steps without help. It takes a village, sometimes one at a time.

P.S. First Staff Retreat, part 2

2020-06-11T10:16:00.001-04:00

Call fail. Self talk fail. I saw a mail truck paused beside a nearby mailbox. Maybe I could catch a ride with the mailman, only I felt pretty sure he had been murdered and his body hidden in the woods; I was clearly headed toward desperation. I saw a dirt path off the culdesac. Maybe the mailman's body had been dragged down there. I shook it off and let curiosity take the lead. I followed the path. It led down to a small dock on the lake. Although it was still warm, the tourist season was over, and it was obvious no one was around on this sunny day. I stood on that dock alone.

The next thing I knew, my shoes were off, and I was hitting the water in my underwear. In a splash, I was treading water. I looked up at the dock. There they sat. My phone, my panic, my pounding heartbeat. I swam away from the dock, trying to reconnect my mind and body, and that went well until I realized I was quite a ways away from the dock, so I turned around and kicked hard to get back to it.

I climbed out, sat a minute in the warm sun, put my clothes back on, and returned to the staff retreat a new and renewed church chick. I could hear the conversation still going on as I approached the house. I went in, returned to my pad and paper on the floor, and picked up a marker. The sudden silence was deafening. The talk had stopped. Without moving my head, I looked at my boss, who was staring at me. I didn't have to see the others, I could feel their eyes on me, too. "So, did you go for a swim?" My head dropped to the carpet. How did he know? I could not have been gone long. My eyes caught my drip-path. Oh. My hair was taking over for the panic sweat from before and the pad was getting a little puddly, too. It wasn't until then that I realized the imprint of my underwear was soaking through my dry clothes."I was just getting a bit of fresh air/ uh water, too."

Just when I thought I was in hot water-"I want to go down to the lake! Me too!, Let's go!" Next thing I knew, the whole crew was either in the water, or stripping down to go. "Church chick, aren't you coming?"
"No, thanks. I've already had my turn. I'll be the lookout."

That wasn't the last staff retreat we ever took, but for me, it was the most memorable. Added plus is, I didn't get fired. Does it get better?

Looking back at this memory, I think to myself, For all these years, I have expected to be fired. I keep showing up, and they keep not firing me. If I make it to retirement without being fired, I guess I'll be firing my own self. Go figure.

P.S. The first staff retreat, part 1

2020-06-09T13:16:00.001-04:00

Well, I'll admit that although I've been open and honest with chronicle stories, there are a few that I've held back on, but since I'm on the downhill slide of this career, I'll try not to worry about this share bringing me one step closer to having a pink slip in my mail cubby. I could claim pandemic insanity at work, but those who know me may say, "Really? Really, church chick? You want to claim pandemicville for your no-sanity? Nope. We know better."

Although I loved the chaotic years of raising my four girls, and although I work in a ginormous church with thousands of members, many who pass through my office daily- I am an introvert by nature. I manage well at work seeing people a couple at a time, but put me in a room full of them, and I can shrink faster than saran wrap in the microwave. So, when I attended my first overnight staff retreat, 16 years ago,my anxiety grew by ten thousand. Logical self-talk did no good. "You like the people you work with.""Just not all together in confined spaces for any length of time."
"It's simply a few hours there and back.""You mean 5 days there and 5 days back."
"It will all be over before you know it.""Yes, self, yes. That's exactly what I am afraid of."

I needed a survival plan; I sought out help. A church chick friend told me to call her if panic took over, I had meds that read "Use in case of panic", and my therapist said, "Can't wait to hear about it. We'll have lots to talk about when you come back!" I found no comfort in any of those words, however. The day drew closer. I felt as ready as I could possibly be, which wasn't saying much. My plan was to take a panic pill and hold tightly to my phone the whole way there and back. Yes, that would work.

12 of us ( or was it 50?) boarded the biggest church vehicle, and rode the 2+ hours through winding roads, hills, and valleys, finally ending up at the end of the earth. The "retreat" house overlooked a lake,and it sat on a culdesac in the depths of the deepest forests of nowhere. Lovely. Why was I the only one who noticed we were all at huge and dire risk of, well I guess of things known only to a panic-minded church chick?

We settled into the living room, some in chairs, or on the sofa, and I found a great location on the floor, mere seconds from every exit. I clung to a giant easel pad and a handful of markers. My security team (paper pal and markers) parked on the carpet with me and the staff conversations began. I took notes, wrote on the pad, and occasionally took a breath. Somewhere in there, any hint of focus and concentration that had arrived with me, skipped out of town. I heard a woodpecker that sounded like he was in the room with us, but no one else seemed to notice. A few minutes later, it turned into a drumline, right in the room with us all, why didn't anyone else hear it? feel it? or was that my heart pounding?Then it started to rain, inside! Right onto the pad I was taking notes on! OH NO! Wait.maybe that was sweat dripping from ....me, the note taker.

My writing blurred, but people kept talking. Somewhere, a clear voice amongst the mixed conversation said, "Churchick- Save yourself! Get up and Get OUT of here NOW!" I looked around the room but no one saw the gremlin on the wing of the plane, thank you Rod Serling. With huge huge efforts to appear smooth and savvy, I got up and said, "I'm just going to stretch my legs. Be right back." My boss nodded and their conversation didn't miss a beat. I trembled out the door without tripping over my Gumby legs or were they Mr. Bill's? (Oh Noooooo!) Once outside, I dialed my church chick support friend but the call refused to go through. No amount of bad words or harsh threats could push that call through. Dag. No signal. We can reach out into space to call space aliens, but I could not, for the life of me, make a darn call for help. Sheesh. My adrenaline had eaten up any hint of medicated calm, oh boy. Ohhhhh

I roamed around the culdesac talking to myself, who refused to listen. I realized that if I did not do something drastic to cut the cycle of panic, I was going to be in real trouble. No one could hear me scream, no one could get my call, oh boy I was deep in IT.

P.S. Caffeinated thinking

2020-06-05T10:38:00.001-04:00

I am a one cuppa coffee girl- First thing, and I enjoy it like the Old Maxwell House commercial. When my girls were young, I would still get up before they did, and I'd have the best-part-of-waking-up- is Folgers in my cup, or whatever the brand was at the time. Even though I live alone, I still have that special alone alone time every morning....but over the years I have come to understand something very very important. Caffeinated thinking. For 30 minutes after my cup, I can change the world, be anything, do anything, go anywhere, make fabulous plans! But I have learned not to act on any of those marvelous ideas.Usually, I write them down and put the list aside until later or else big trouble can come in the door.

Ex. Coffee time. Oh! I think I'd like to run a marathon, look up when the next one is and sign up! Then by noon, I'm weary just climbing the steps at work...or- Hey! think I'll start a knitting group! we can meet once a week and I'll make dinner and it will be so fun! In reality, I leave work thinking that making a meal for a group after a long day working and being fun and friendly seems impossible. Solitude is my group. Or-

Oh! Let me look at sales online! I can buy birthday gifts early, get what I need for the upcoming season! yay! I know to restrain from pushing "check out", but occasionally there are mistakes made, usually when I am extra tired (as in these pandemical days).

One early morning a while back, I had slipped into caffeinated thinking and I put several things in my cart from a couple of different stores. Some things in two sizes so I could see which was right. Later that day when I was checking email, I noticed confirmations of several orders! I panicked! I went back and saw my cart was empty. DAGGIT! Too late to cancel, I even went online to customer service and was informed they fill orders quickly and it was too late. So I received several packages over the next few weeks. I returned most of it but was surprised at some of it as I did not recall some of the items. I tell you this, friends, to warn you. BEWARE OF CAFFEINATED THINKING- Don't trust it or your checkbook may be very upset.

On the other hand, I've got some overalls now,(I wore my other ones out years ago, although that look has come back so their worn- outness probably would have been valuable now. Maybe enough to cover my inadvertent shopping)

And I'm set for sweaters to go with my leggins this winter, and I'm in good shape for t shirts for now.

I can't help or stop any of the frenzied chaos going on right now, but this, THIS, I can do. Don't succumb to caffeinated thinking. Just walk away. Do it. You can always thank me later.

P.S Mercury? Seriously? NOW????

2020-06-02T12:41:00.001-04:00

Mercury is in retrograde. Rats. I knew it was coming, but still, Rats. Just what we needed right now, on top of everything else going awry.

Wait! ......Well, shoot. Full moon on Friday. Perfect. Okayyyyy. Let's see- pandemic, unbelievable murder on the street, dangerous expressions of anger, hurricane season, Mercury doing its thing, full moon.

Well, that's 6, yet I find no comfort in that menial multiple of 3.

It all seems so green monkey, our world right now.

P.S. How do you know you are out of order at home/work

2020-05-19T15:58:00.002-04:00

You find yourself stopping at a 4 way Stop Sign waiting for the light to change, including getting irritated that you have waited through two cycles. When this happened to me last week, I immediately thought to add it to the list of pandemic weirdnessity, but on my way home I realized I had done this on more than one occasion when most was well in the world, so... nevermind.

Feeling fearful when more than a few blocks from home.

Driving through an invisible border outside your comfort zone and noticing maniac drivers who are out to get you and your car. Truth is the crazy drivers have always been there, you were desensitized due to pre-pandemic normal living emersion.

You sometimes forget to fill out your timesheet daily because Time.Just.Runs.Together.

You keep a tally of how many rolls of TP you have on hand.

You have misused a permanent marker to draw 'use this much' lines on the sanitizing gel container so you can track appropriate use, you keep a cute little notepad tally of disinfectant wipes used, wipes left. (Call it math already) Also, you keep a ruler handy, just in case you need to rap a wrist or remeasure on the fly.

You don't realize you are wearing a mask until you put a second one on as you leave the house. Note to self: There has been no research proving double masking helps avoid the wickedness any better than single masking, but there have been documented cases of what is now called the Dumbo syndrome in folks who double-mask regularly. Do you really want to wear a giant -ear flattening headband? I didn't think so.

On the upside of over-masking, though, are the times you don't realize you are doubled as you nearly asphyxiate on your walk. The obvious cause does not present itself as a possibility until after you have, amid panic, ruled out heart attack, being strangled by an invisible stranger, or drowning in the mother of all panic attacks. The flailing limbs knock off one of masks and when you are reoxygenated, a wonderful sense of relief dissolves the adrenaline until the next time. Relief is a good thing.

The excitement of the upcoming weekend fun of Friday night and Saturday wanes because there is no difference between Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, or Saturday with the exception of Sunday due to online worship services. However, even mentioning worship services being online as a regular thing makes them irregular.

Mother nature isn't helping clear this foggy thinking right now. She keeps giving us March and April chills and winds, but the calendar says May. Wait. Maybe I'm looking at the wrong calendar- BRB....... Nope, that's not it.

You develop a sudden interest in history. I've heard it repeats itself, and here we still are, so somehow we must survive this crud as we have other historic cruds, stuff, hard times. Not a lot of luck yet on finding answers via the past to help me push through a little longer in present-day times, though. The documentaries on the Spanish flu are scary but I did notice the mask patterns seem to look the same now as then, though today's masks may be a little softer, not so much starch. so, hmmm. The Civil War, thank you Ken Burns, is all about a different kind of sickness-one that no masks help at all, I wish the mentality of 'We are all in this together' would have been alive then, but all I can see left from that time are ghosts in Gettysburg and I can't even go there to ask apparitions for advice, shoot. NOT THAT kind of shoot. Just dag.

The Biblical similarities continue with Stink bug overpopulation (anyone knows that stink bugs are the modern day locust).

The fact that you are now looking for such similarities.

Watching another staff person forget how to sign their name- in- out- on a letter, all of it.

Trying to drop off the mail at the post office, only to find the 'ready to go' outgoing mail drawer is full of addressed but empty envelopes that have no postage.

I'm glad it isn't just me. Of course, I realize most of these examples ARE me, but who's counting?

Ability to retain information. Repeating thoughts and statements. Ability to retain information. Did I say Repeating thoughts- dammit!

P.S piss poor reenactment of yesterday's tissue tailing walker

2020-05-14T09:55:00.002-04:00

A loyal reader commented on yesterday's tissue tail post, something like- " No picture?"
Alas, sometimes the most picture-perfect opportunities appear when a camera is out of reach.
I acknowledge this to be a piss-poor substitute, but here is, in fact, a similar still-photo reenactment by one of my most popular office residents, Godzilla, and a critically important friend, WatchBear, who, just by coincidence, was given to me many years ago by the same loyal commentator.

Not nearly enough flapflying in this pic, but still-

P.S. Unavoidable mid -week post. You shoulda been there...

2020-05-13T14:23:00.002-04:00

A staff member came by for a meeting today. For a few minutes and from a distance, we chatted. We talked around the obvious- fear, illness, death, and stuck with weather words.
"What are you doing in a tee shirt and shorts in this crazy weather? " I asked from my sweatered self.
"It is a surprise to be so chilly in mid-May, I'll give you that." He kept glancing at the front door, waiting for his meeting members to arrive so they could sit far apart and yell out important meeting minutia.

I got up to stretch my legs and walked toward the front doors, hoping to see some warm sun, but all I saw was a nondescript man walking past the church trailing a very long contrail, of sorts. Behind him coming from the backside of his pants, mind you, and waving like a dragon's tail were at least 20 squares of ... wait. wait a minute. No. I looked at my friend and gave a wilted point towards the door. Silently, I mouthed "Did You?"

My friend was staring at the flowing tissue trail too, his eyes and mouth bass wide. I pushed open the door and sped to the sidewalk. The Charmin vision was nowhere to be seen. Had I imagined it?
"You did see that, right?" I panted through my mask.
"That tail was pretty aerodynamic, he could have picked up speed." He chuckled.
I rushed to the corner, hoping he (1) had been real, and (2) was still in sight. "Well, if it was Charmin strong, maybe, but probably not Northern or Angel Soft. Either one of those would have just weighed him down, slowed his pace." I spotted him in the distance-tail in arms; I saw folds of fluff white, bouncing for dear life. "I see him!! He's holding his tail now!" and then, well. then. I watched as he placed the collective toilet tissue tail on a shrub as he passed by. My shoulders drooped and I turned back toward the church doors. I sighed, "It's just sad now, what a waste."
"What do you mean?"
" I mean, it's like he doesn't even know or care what he just threw away?"
" I'm still not following you."
I put my hand on his shoulder of air from 6 feet away."Man, we coulda bought a beachfront cottage with a tail like that."