"Trust in the Lord with all your Heart
and lean not onto your own understandings.
In all thy ways acknowledge him
and he shall direct thy path."
(I put it back on the refrigerator, beneath the calendar.)
Wednesday, February 27, 2019
Prayer
I was clearing off the refrigerator today, and found this prayer Dorothy gave me during some hard times. It's been on the fridge, beneath the calendar ever since.
"Trust in the Lord with all your Heart
and lean not onto your own understandings.
In all thy ways acknowledge him
and he shall direct thy path."
(I put it back on the refrigerator, beneath the calendar.)
"Trust in the Lord with all your Heart
and lean not onto your own understandings.
In all thy ways acknowledge him
and he shall direct thy path."
(I put it back on the refrigerator, beneath the calendar.)
February 27, 2019 8:00 a.m.
Tuesday, February 26, 2019
Monday, February 25, 2019
2/28/73 Addendum
Thursday, February 21, 2019
February 28, 1973
David was 28 months old and weighed 27 lbs. when he was attacked by a large black German Shepherd on the porch of the Valley Falls Post Office. We sensed the end of winter so he was wearing a new hooded jacket with pockets instead of his usual one-piece snowsuit. He, Marilyn, and I entered the post office by the south entrance, which was then a flight of about 3 steps. The dog's owner was inside chatting with Gloria, the postmistress. The dog was evidently anxious for his owner to come out because he approached us as we were climbing the steps, greeting us in a friendly-seeming manner, and jangling his chainlink collar with tags. I herded the kids against the wall, because I was afraid he'd knock them over and off the steps in his enthusiasm.
We entered the building and his owner and Gloria were still chatting even as we left with Nana's mail. Marilyn was three and liked to use the combination to unlock Nana's mailbox. (The combination was B-FG-B with a full reverse turn after the first B.) We left, after exchanging greetings. Marilyn was ahead of me carrying the mail and David was a few steps behind. I turned to take his hand to help him down the transom and on to the porch, but instead he stuck his hands into his pockets, a new thing then. So the three of us were on the porch headed toward the steps on the right of the building, to where I'd parked my car across from the library.
I heard a fierce snarl and turned abound to see David lying on his back with the large dog biting at his head. The dog must have run off when I turned because I don't remember chasing him off, but I'm sure there were screams. I carried him, bleeding profusely, into the post office. Marilyn must have been close behind. I know she dropped the mail because someone retrieved it and brought it into the post office.
Gloria and the dog's owner were horrified at the sight. Gloria brought me back into the office area. Since David's entire face was covered with blood, I asked her to check to see if his eye was still there. She looked, said it was, grabbed a box of kleenex and laid the entire contents on his forehead. She called the Rescue Squad* and then she called Dave at work and told him to get to the hospital. Of course, he wanted to kill the dog himself right then, but she got his priorities straightened out.
The ambulance brought us to St. Mary's. A woman stopping to get her mail drove Marilyn to Nana's. At the hospital, they put out a call for a plastic surgeon, so he had to be sedated. David was quite calm as long as I was there, but it was a sad sight when they had to take him away to the operating room to sedate him for the surgery. He was strapped to the gurney, but so little that the straps couldn't contain his body, so one of the nurses had to hold him down. He wanted his mother.
Dr. Price arrived to do his work, and our pediatrician Dr. Grattan showed up, wondering why we hadn't called him; he found out by checking admissions on his regular schedule. He said that by the force of the wounds, the bites would probably have been fatal if anywhere else on his body. A toddler's skull is the strongest bone.
Dr. Grattan took immediate action. There was no question of "dangerous dog" and how many bites were allowed. He said that a dog attacking a small child with no provocation and in a public place was not acting normal. He declared the threat of rabies, even though the dog was up to date on rabies shots. Quarantining the dog would not be an option. Results would not be available for at least 10 days, and the dog's teeth had penetrated David's skull, so waiting could be disastrous.
As it turned out, the dog was euthanized, and was negative for rabies. The owners had tried to hide the dog at another location, but Dr. Grattan was health Officer and issued a warrant or summons or whatever and they had to surrender it. Dr. Grattan didn't regret the seizure though: he said a dog that would do that should not be alive.
David had over a hundred stitches in his head, the type that had to be removed later. He stayed in the hospital about 4 days, running a fever from the infection, and he also suffered a chipped tooth While there, with Dorothy and Gus visiting, he transfixed the parents of other patients by explaining in vivid detail what had happened. He was almost completely accurate, though he said when he was in the ambulance, he heard a siren and believed it was the sheriff coming to arrest the dog.
* A master proofer issued correction that 9-1-1 was not operational in 1973.
We entered the building and his owner and Gloria were still chatting even as we left with Nana's mail. Marilyn was three and liked to use the combination to unlock Nana's mailbox. (The combination was B-FG-B with a full reverse turn after the first B.) We left, after exchanging greetings. Marilyn was ahead of me carrying the mail and David was a few steps behind. I turned to take his hand to help him down the transom and on to the porch, but instead he stuck his hands into his pockets, a new thing then. So the three of us were on the porch headed toward the steps on the right of the building, to where I'd parked my car across from the library.
I heard a fierce snarl and turned abound to see David lying on his back with the large dog biting at his head. The dog must have run off when I turned because I don't remember chasing him off, but I'm sure there were screams. I carried him, bleeding profusely, into the post office. Marilyn must have been close behind. I know she dropped the mail because someone retrieved it and brought it into the post office.
Gloria and the dog's owner were horrified at the sight. Gloria brought me back into the office area. Since David's entire face was covered with blood, I asked her to check to see if his eye was still there. She looked, said it was, grabbed a box of kleenex and laid the entire contents on his forehead. She called the Rescue Squad* and then she called Dave at work and told him to get to the hospital. Of course, he wanted to kill the dog himself right then, but she got his priorities straightened out.
The ambulance brought us to St. Mary's. A woman stopping to get her mail drove Marilyn to Nana's. At the hospital, they put out a call for a plastic surgeon, so he had to be sedated. David was quite calm as long as I was there, but it was a sad sight when they had to take him away to the operating room to sedate him for the surgery. He was strapped to the gurney, but so little that the straps couldn't contain his body, so one of the nurses had to hold him down. He wanted his mother.
Dr. Price arrived to do his work, and our pediatrician Dr. Grattan showed up, wondering why we hadn't called him; he found out by checking admissions on his regular schedule. He said that by the force of the wounds, the bites would probably have been fatal if anywhere else on his body. A toddler's skull is the strongest bone.
Dr. Grattan took immediate action. There was no question of "dangerous dog" and how many bites were allowed. He said that a dog attacking a small child with no provocation and in a public place was not acting normal. He declared the threat of rabies, even though the dog was up to date on rabies shots. Quarantining the dog would not be an option. Results would not be available for at least 10 days, and the dog's teeth had penetrated David's skull, so waiting could be disastrous.
As it turned out, the dog was euthanized, and was negative for rabies. The owners had tried to hide the dog at another location, but Dr. Grattan was health Officer and issued a warrant or summons or whatever and they had to surrender it. Dr. Grattan didn't regret the seizure though: he said a dog that would do that should not be alive.
David had over a hundred stitches in his head, the type that had to be removed later. He stayed in the hospital about 4 days, running a fever from the infection, and he also suffered a chipped tooth While there, with Dorothy and Gus visiting, he transfixed the parents of other patients by explaining in vivid detail what had happened. He was almost completely accurate, though he said when he was in the ambulance, he heard a siren and believed it was the sheriff coming to arrest the dog.
* A master proofer issued correction that 9-1-1 was not operational in 1973.
"Our Town"
"Does anyone understand the beauty of life while they live it?" Wilder's character answers that maybe poets and saints do, to some extent. But the truth of that is too painful to bear, even for the dead. Thus is the theme of one of the most heartbreaking works of literature.
I'm neither saint nor poet, and it's not my 12th birthday, as was chosen in the play as to be an ordinary day to relive. I'll choose a lazy summer day somewhere in the 1970's, a day when nothing of monumental importance happened:
I'd been to my mother's house, as was an ordinary and daily occurrence. There'd been people all around, as usual---kids in the backyard, the adults going about their daily chores, alternating with resting on the outdoor lawn swings under the cherry tree and engaging in idle conversation. Of course there were animals and a sandbox and a crude trail wending around the maple tree and up to the garden gate, the product of endless tricycle and big-wheel tracks.
There were no errands to be run this day---no trips to the grocery store or to doctors' offices, no bills to be paid. So I put my youngest child in the carriage which was kept at my mother's house, left my older children playing there with their cousins, under supervision of three adult relatives, and went for a walk. The simplest of activities.
Down the sidewalk, past the Valley Inn where someone, seated at the bar, in mid-day, called out my name in greeting. I waved and kept walking, the only appropriate response, considering the circumstances. A little way further, another greeting called out, this time from Gloria and Bonnie, who are having one of their frequent sidewalk discussions in front of their houses. I push the carriage up the hill until I reach the house where Emma is sitting on her front porch. No casual greeting this time, but an order. "Come on over here. I need to hold that baby." I go to the porch, put the baby in her arms, chat for a while, and move on.
We go past the house next door, where Mary and Martha, the twin sisters who live there, will soon be conducting a week-long Bible School session which the kids will attend. I've never been quite sure what the religious affiliation was, but the classes are serious and sweet, and there are treats at the end. All the little cousins will attend, but they won't get there by the sidewalk route. They will scramble up the little hill leading from their Nana's back yard right into the site where the Bible classes will be held, where there is seating arranged for them.
After retrieving my child from Emma's arms, I hear my name called again, from across the street. This time it is Alma, who wants to see the baby, as well as talk a little bit about this and that. I push the carriage across the street. Alma asks if I had arranged the baby's hair in a single curl across the top of his head. I admitted I had, and she said she used to do the same with her son.
So we continued, baby and I, up the street, around a few blocks and back to where we started. A day when nothing of importance, nothing memorable took place, just the passing of a spontaneous and effortless day. One can not even express in words the present value of such an ordinary day.
I'm neither saint nor poet, and it's not my 12th birthday, as was chosen in the play as to be an ordinary day to relive. I'll choose a lazy summer day somewhere in the 1970's, a day when nothing of monumental importance happened:
I'd been to my mother's house, as was an ordinary and daily occurrence. There'd been people all around, as usual---kids in the backyard, the adults going about their daily chores, alternating with resting on the outdoor lawn swings under the cherry tree and engaging in idle conversation. Of course there were animals and a sandbox and a crude trail wending around the maple tree and up to the garden gate, the product of endless tricycle and big-wheel tracks.
There were no errands to be run this day---no trips to the grocery store or to doctors' offices, no bills to be paid. So I put my youngest child in the carriage which was kept at my mother's house, left my older children playing there with their cousins, under supervision of three adult relatives, and went for a walk. The simplest of activities.
Down the sidewalk, past the Valley Inn where someone, seated at the bar, in mid-day, called out my name in greeting. I waved and kept walking, the only appropriate response, considering the circumstances. A little way further, another greeting called out, this time from Gloria and Bonnie, who are having one of their frequent sidewalk discussions in front of their houses. I push the carriage up the hill until I reach the house where Emma is sitting on her front porch. No casual greeting this time, but an order. "Come on over here. I need to hold that baby." I go to the porch, put the baby in her arms, chat for a while, and move on.
We go past the house next door, where Mary and Martha, the twin sisters who live there, will soon be conducting a week-long Bible School session which the kids will attend. I've never been quite sure what the religious affiliation was, but the classes are serious and sweet, and there are treats at the end. All the little cousins will attend, but they won't get there by the sidewalk route. They will scramble up the little hill leading from their Nana's back yard right into the site where the Bible classes will be held, where there is seating arranged for them.
After retrieving my child from Emma's arms, I hear my name called again, from across the street. This time it is Alma, who wants to see the baby, as well as talk a little bit about this and that. I push the carriage across the street. Alma asks if I had arranged the baby's hair in a single curl across the top of his head. I admitted I had, and she said she used to do the same with her son.
So we continued, baby and I, up the street, around a few blocks and back to where we started. A day when nothing of importance, nothing memorable took place, just the passing of a spontaneous and effortless day. One can not even express in words the present value of such an ordinary day.
Wednesday, February 20, 2019
The Climb
Almost to the top of what most likely will result in a pyrrhic victory. For two years the path embarked on met with many rejections. I don't like being denied any more than anyone else, even when the rejection is couched in civil language with offers of assistance for any future endeavors, just not this one.
With each denial, I would harbor the thought of giving up, but always tried again, after the wounds healed a little. What was to be the final rejection took place about a year ago, on a cold March day. All sources had firmly suggested that I would need legal help to proceed with any hope of success. There are scores, if not hundreds, of law firms who exist just for this purpose, but I was finding that most of those I sought out specialized in the trendier claims, and those of more recent origin, especially those which have a proven rate of success: Agent Orange exposure, PTSD, and sexual assault. Attorneys have their staffs set up, with specialists in each area. They are averse to digging ground for more arcane and less known incidences.
No one encouraged me to initiate the process, so all the rejections fell on me. Sob, sob. As it came to be, the final rejection gave me the most encouragement. I had filled out countless applications for consideration. I say countless only because I didn't keep track of the number, but there were a lot.
On this particular cold March day, one of the attorneys I'd contacted, this one located in South Carolina, called me in person, not via the usual email, if a response came at all. First he told me he was sorry, but the claim was not in his area of expertise. I said OK, thanks. A while later he called me back again, and said he would think about it. OK, thanks. Later that evening he called me again. (I pictured him sitting in front of a fireplace, sipping wine.) He was rather intrigued, he said, but felt it would be a difficult and time-consuming case. His initial reluctance was because he took only the cases he felt strongly he could win. I knew this was true of most of the law firms. He said he felt bad if he had totally discouraged me and would try to help.We chatted for a while and he took it upon himself to tell me that the medical opinion I had gotten was worthless. He said that Dr. B. knew nothing, that he charged too much and took every case that came along. He said he'd appeared in court with him and that Dr. B. made it difficult for everybody there. He said Dr. B. had no proficiency in either the law or medicine, and that I knew more than he did. If I weren't the modest sort, I would have agreed, because I'd already pretty much found that out for myself. He advised me to procure another medical opinion, preferably from one of the veteran's personal physicians. He was leaving town on business, and would get back to me later, and after he'd received the additional medical opinion.
This never happened; I never heard from him again. I had already tried the personal physician route, and found that personal physicians shy away from this type of involvement as if it were the plague. Definitely not in their wheelhouse. I did take the suggestion to search for another medical nexus opinion, and eventually found, a few months later, the remarkable Dr. Remington Nevin, and within six weeks, the claim was approved.
Even though the South Carolina lawyer in essence turned the case down, or at least deferred it, this rejection encouraged me to keep trying. His was the only human touch throughout the entire process. And he called me three times in one evening and spoke kind words. Solitude makes for strange potential attorney-client relationships.
With each denial, I would harbor the thought of giving up, but always tried again, after the wounds healed a little. What was to be the final rejection took place about a year ago, on a cold March day. All sources had firmly suggested that I would need legal help to proceed with any hope of success. There are scores, if not hundreds, of law firms who exist just for this purpose, but I was finding that most of those I sought out specialized in the trendier claims, and those of more recent origin, especially those which have a proven rate of success: Agent Orange exposure, PTSD, and sexual assault. Attorneys have their staffs set up, with specialists in each area. They are averse to digging ground for more arcane and less known incidences.
No one encouraged me to initiate the process, so all the rejections fell on me. Sob, sob. As it came to be, the final rejection gave me the most encouragement. I had filled out countless applications for consideration. I say countless only because I didn't keep track of the number, but there were a lot.
On this particular cold March day, one of the attorneys I'd contacted, this one located in South Carolina, called me in person, not via the usual email, if a response came at all. First he told me he was sorry, but the claim was not in his area of expertise. I said OK, thanks. A while later he called me back again, and said he would think about it. OK, thanks. Later that evening he called me again. (I pictured him sitting in front of a fireplace, sipping wine.) He was rather intrigued, he said, but felt it would be a difficult and time-consuming case. His initial reluctance was because he took only the cases he felt strongly he could win. I knew this was true of most of the law firms. He said he felt bad if he had totally discouraged me and would try to help.We chatted for a while and he took it upon himself to tell me that the medical opinion I had gotten was worthless. He said that Dr. B. knew nothing, that he charged too much and took every case that came along. He said he'd appeared in court with him and that Dr. B. made it difficult for everybody there. He said Dr. B. had no proficiency in either the law or medicine, and that I knew more than he did. If I weren't the modest sort, I would have agreed, because I'd already pretty much found that out for myself. He advised me to procure another medical opinion, preferably from one of the veteran's personal physicians. He was leaving town on business, and would get back to me later, and after he'd received the additional medical opinion.
This never happened; I never heard from him again. I had already tried the personal physician route, and found that personal physicians shy away from this type of involvement as if it were the plague. Definitely not in their wheelhouse. I did take the suggestion to search for another medical nexus opinion, and eventually found, a few months later, the remarkable Dr. Remington Nevin, and within six weeks, the claim was approved.
Even though the South Carolina lawyer in essence turned the case down, or at least deferred it, this rejection encouraged me to keep trying. His was the only human touch throughout the entire process. And he called me three times in one evening and spoke kind words. Solitude makes for strange potential attorney-client relationships.
Tuesday, February 19, 2019
Sunday, February 17, 2019
Tuesday, February 12, 2019
Valentines 2019
Monday, February 11, 2019
"Hello, Grandma"
"I have a secret to tell you. I went to a wedding in South Carolina, and I was in an accident. I broke my nose. I was arrested and am in jail. Can you help me out?"
Weather Report(ers)
I wish someone would wrap a scarf around the neck of the next weather reporter who advises us to "bundle up." Not too tight, just tight enough.
Sunday, February 10, 2019
Gullibility Factor---Tax Forms-wise
First of all, the highly vaunted claim that for many if not most, you will be able to file on a postcard-sized form. Yes, the form is smaller, but you need 2 of them and so that takes 2 sheets of paper instead of one. And be sure to wear your glasses and arm yourself with a fine point pen, because the print is smaller, and the spaces are cramped. More than before.
And more to follow, as I get deeper into the process. I'll wait for a while.
And more to follow, as I get deeper into the process. I'll wait for a while.
Thursday, February 7, 2019
CBD Horror Either Way
CBD CBD
CBD== cannabidiol (One of 70+ compounds in the hemp family)
CBD==Corticobasal Degeneration
Both of these terms are relatively new to me, though in the last few months I have received numerous ads for the former, CBD Oil. I delete them instantly. I wish I could extinguish the second mentioned as well, but that is impossible.
Today's TU carries an article on hemp oil finding a way into food. It printed a most repulsive recipe ever, even without the addition of CBD oil: a duck egg poached in rosemary and spiked with CBD oil. The chef works at Yawning Duck Culinary Services. That is the most off-putting restaurant name I can think of. I wonder if those who chose that title knows that poultry yawn when they are sick. Have they not heard of "the gapes."
(I'd write more, but my ailing keyboard makes it difficult. Sprite begone.
CBD== cannabidiol (One of 70+ compounds in the hemp family)
CBD==Corticobasal Degeneration
Both of these terms are relatively new to me, though in the last few months I have received numerous ads for the former, CBD Oil. I delete them instantly. I wish I could extinguish the second mentioned as well, but that is impossible.
Today's TU carries an article on hemp oil finding a way into food. It printed a most repulsive recipe ever, even without the addition of CBD oil: a duck egg poached in rosemary and spiked with CBD oil. The chef works at Yawning Duck Culinary Services. That is the most off-putting restaurant name I can think of. I wonder if those who chose that title knows that poultry yawn when they are sick. Have they not heard of "the gapes."
(I'd write more, but my ailing keyboard makes it difficult. Sprite begone.
Wednesday, February 6, 2019
Keyboard Cleanse
I can tell you that it's a lot easier to pop the letters off the keyboard than to put them back on.The alcohol Q-tip regimen seems to have worked for the most part. Dr. G. may be right about not drinking soda. Just a little spilled Sprite from a tipped can results in a serious coating of gunk on the keybed. Though I suppose it could be buildup from futile attempts at spraying with Windex and GreenWorks. A new keyboard may be in the near future. Time will tell: it always does.
Monday, February 4, 2019
Truer Words were...
When I was a high school junior, we had a young English teacher who in a rare deviation from our other teachers, would sometimes veer off the course laid out in the syllabus, and embark on speculation. One day he put forth the opinion that when a person has children, the life focus is off the parent and on the children.
Even to a teen, that made sense to me because at the time I was reading The Forsyte Saga, a novel which delved deeply into the generations of the Forsyte family. And sure enough, it was turning out to be true: the reader invested a lot of time and attention to the characters in the first saga, who were destined to become secondary characters when their children entered the picture. The older characters were no longer as interesting, and became increasingly irrelevant. I thought the teacher had a valid point.
Life intervened and the proposed thesis played out. The anticipation, excitement and adventures of life surface and are explored, only to be subsumed when other newer lives take precedence.
(I spilled Sprite on my keyboard several days ago, and have been unable to clear its effects. Typing is tedious. Will have to return later...)
Even to a teen, that made sense to me because at the time I was reading The Forsyte Saga, a novel which delved deeply into the generations of the Forsyte family. And sure enough, it was turning out to be true: the reader invested a lot of time and attention to the characters in the first saga, who were destined to become secondary characters when their children entered the picture. The older characters were no longer as interesting, and became increasingly irrelevant. I thought the teacher had a valid point.
Life intervened and the proposed thesis played out. The anticipation, excitement and adventures of life surface and are explored, only to be subsumed when other newer lives take precedence.
(I spilled Sprite on my keyboard several days ago, and have been unable to clear its effects. Typing is tedious. Will have to return later...)
Saturday, February 2, 2019
Sunday Morning Comin' Down
We were on vacation and driving through one of the southern states, maybe South Carolina, when a warning light went on in our car's dashboard. After a while, when the light persisted, we decided to get off the interstate and get the problem checked out. Dave drove off an exit and into a town. It was a Sunday, in summer, and not a single business was open. To say there was not a soul around would not be even slight exaggeration. The kids were young then and so were we, youngish anyway, so not that much into nostalgia. But in one of those "slice of life" memories that now frequently pop up, I can hear Dave saying, "This is what is meant by Sunday morning coming down."
Of course he was referring to the hit song of Kris Kristofferson, the Harvard student and Rhodes Scholar who was a leading songwriter, singer and actor of the time, despite being a well-known renegade.
A few weeks ago, I saw a video of him in performance with Lady Antebellum singing "Help Me Make It Through the Night," one of Dorothy's favorite songs. It was haunting, for a lot of reasons. I've viewed it many times since, and all I can think of is a comparison to the Lion King.
I haven't thought of Kris Kristofferson in years, and it's always a shock to see what age does to a person. But there he is singing away, plaintive voice, a little croaky now, but the brilliance still shining through. What struck me most though is the deference shown to him by the Lady Antebellum band. The lead singers show so much respect and appreciation for Kris when he sings his part of the song that I see him as the aging lion. Then the lead singer takes his part with the booming voice of youth and virility. The contrast is inevitable. And sad.
***I looked up the life of Kris Kristofferson: he is now 82 years old and has been suffering from memory problems. At first attributed to dementia or residuals of his wayward life, his family learned recently he tested positive for Lyme disease. Reflecting his usual phlegmatic outlook, Kris's attitude is what difference does it make.
Of course he was referring to the hit song of Kris Kristofferson, the Harvard student and Rhodes Scholar who was a leading songwriter, singer and actor of the time, despite being a well-known renegade.
A few weeks ago, I saw a video of him in performance with Lady Antebellum singing "Help Me Make It Through the Night," one of Dorothy's favorite songs. It was haunting, for a lot of reasons. I've viewed it many times since, and all I can think of is a comparison to the Lion King.
I haven't thought of Kris Kristofferson in years, and it's always a shock to see what age does to a person. But there he is singing away, plaintive voice, a little croaky now, but the brilliance still shining through. What struck me most though is the deference shown to him by the Lady Antebellum band. The lead singers show so much respect and appreciation for Kris when he sings his part of the song that I see him as the aging lion. Then the lead singer takes his part with the booming voice of youth and virility. The contrast is inevitable. And sad.
***I looked up the life of Kris Kristofferson: he is now 82 years old and has been suffering from memory problems. At first attributed to dementia or residuals of his wayward life, his family learned recently he tested positive for Lyme disease. Reflecting his usual phlegmatic outlook, Kris's attitude is what difference does it make.
A Dream--Read at your own risk
It was a nice day and I was walking in Valley Falls. I decided to stop and ask Barbara if she wanted to walk with me, and she did. We walked to the upstreet corner house where Sharon and Bob lived, or did so in the dream. Their home was open and inviting, with people coming and going, calling and such. Sharon invited us in. and she sat with us in a small corner room.
We made conversation and I inadvertently mentioned Chad as if he were still alive. Realizing my mistake, I apologized, but Sharon was gracious and understanding, and we agreed that her grandson resembled him. Sharon invited me to come see her tulips when they were in bloom, showing me the bulbs under the windowsill awaiting the time to plant.
I asked her if she'd heard from Ruth, and she said she understood that Ruth and Mike were selling their house, and she assumed that it was because they were wanting to travel extensively. I was surprised.
After a while in the visiting room, Sharon left to join her other visitors. The room we were in seemed to have grown smaller and somewhat removed from what was going on. So I decided it was time to leave. And here's where the dream stopped making sense to me. Barbara said she wasn't ready to leave yet, so I left her there, sitting alone in the room.
We made conversation and I inadvertently mentioned Chad as if he were still alive. Realizing my mistake, I apologized, but Sharon was gracious and understanding, and we agreed that her grandson resembled him. Sharon invited me to come see her tulips when they were in bloom, showing me the bulbs under the windowsill awaiting the time to plant.
I asked her if she'd heard from Ruth, and she said she understood that Ruth and Mike were selling their house, and she assumed that it was because they were wanting to travel extensively. I was surprised.
After a while in the visiting room, Sharon left to join her other visitors. The room we were in seemed to have grown smaller and somewhat removed from what was going on. So I decided it was time to leave. And here's where the dream stopped making sense to me. Barbara said she wasn't ready to leave yet, so I left her there, sitting alone in the room.
Friday, February 1, 2019
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