A Fun and Novel Evening

Allison, one of my most favorite nurses, is moving across the country to live near her family.  This is great for Allison, but not so great for us.  We will really miss her!  There have been several “Farewell” get-togethers, but for one reason or another I haven’t been able to attend any of them. Finally, there was a gathering on an evening when I wasn’t working.  Yay! A bunch of my colleagues were going to meet at a karaoke place.  It was even nearby, so that Laura and I could walk.  On our way, we saw a nice bee sitting on an onion flower and enjoying the sun,  and then we

stopped at the Seattle University chapel – a little island of light and tranquility in the midst of the neighborhood hubbub.

When we arrived, the atmosphere was very different from that of the onion and the chapel.  

This was a new experience for Laura and I.  Everyone else was about 400 years younger than we, and lives in a totally “other” musical world. 

We felt a little "out of it."

Neither of us know any popular music after 1962.  We wanted to sing Hank Williams or Elvis, but they seemed to be out of favor with the younger set.  We sang “Your Cheatin’ Heart,” and got booed off the stage.  We blamed this on the fact that it was in a bad key.  The younger set was fabulously talented!  What a happy surprise this was, although I don’t know why it should have been.  My coworkers are an amazing bunch, both in the great care they give our patients, and in their many faceted “at home” lives. 

Apple and Allison selecting the next selection

Ron and Maria checking the options

JuYeong giving it her all!  She was fabulous!

Jarrod emoting exquisitely

Darling Apple delighting us

Jarrod and Andy between sets

Maria, Apple, and our dear departing Allison

Thanks to Laura for many of these photos.

A Medical Day (or two)

The ephemera of cougar dreams

I’m sitting here, trying to think of something interesting to tell you, but am stumped! I’ve had a sort of nice and sort of crummy week.  On Friday last, I did something to my poor knee and have been limping around ever since.  My discomfort reached its apex on Monday, and I actually made an appointment with a doctor.  I have gone voluntarily to the doctor for things other than routine maintenance about three times in the last thirty years, so that will give you a clue as to how much I dis-enjoy it.  I don’t enjoy the routine maintenance either, of course, but it is one of life’s ordeals which must be endured.  And I have cut that ordeal to the minimum.  Ugh.  The knee doctor, selected at random from a roster of unfamiliar Sports Medicine names – actually, he was the one with the first opening – was hyper-adorable.  Had I been forty years younger, I would have been in love.  But, I am not forty years younger, so I forwent (is that the past tense of “forgo”?) the tender passion.  As hoped, he said, “Keep off it, and it will get well soon.  Nothing critical.”  As also really, really hoped, he said, “Here is a note forbidding you to go to work for a week.  Call me if it isn’t better, and we’ll make it longer.”  Maybe I was in love after all.  Does this make me a cougar?  He was very young!  A baby, in fact.

Speaking of cougars, the last time I worked, I had an elderly patient with a very bizarre hairdo which looked like a bright golden swimming cap. The nurse giving me bedside report explained that the patient had this hairdo because she was a cougar, and the patient confirmed this.  I was thinking that this meant that the patient was a WSU fan, and I couldn’t understand what the hairdo had to do with that.  I was reluctant to ask about this, and so just pondered for a while.  Suddenly, hours later, as I was talking to her about her knee, I realized that I had the whole “cougar” thing wrong.  She was quite another sort of cougar.  We both thought my mistake was funny, and then discussed the joys of cougardom.  Later in the evening, I was in a different patient’s room double checking a unit of blood for a transfusion with another nurse.  It takes two nurses to do this, and it is quite the little ceremony.  A mistake here would be such a disaster, so every unit of blood is checked about ten times by two people each time before it ever gets to the patient. We make the patient spell her name, state her birthday, and then double check all the other paperwork that comes with the unit.  While we were comparing names, dates, blood types, and unit numbers, I heard Elvis singing in the background.  When we were done, I turned to the tv and saw a cop show.  “I thought I heard Elvis,” I said.  “You did,” they explained. I didn’t quite ever take in how Elvis got on the modern cop show, but it was clear to everyone else.  They asked if I was an Elvis fan.  This is the sort of thing that a music snob like me doesn’t really like to admit. I hemmed and hawed, but it quickly became apparent that we all loved Elvis.  The patient, in fact, had been a real groupie and had been to many concerts. Then Virginia, my nurse friend, pointed out that the patient’s birthday was the same day as her own.  I pointed out that it was the same year as mine.  “Why,” Virginia said, “we are all monkeys!”  The patient’s husband said that he was a monkey too. “Wow!” Virginia said.  “A room full of musical monkeys who all love Elvis.”  We thought this was as funny as the cougar hairdo. 

Lucky LeCompte -not a cougar

 I couldn't think of any relevant photos, so I named the top one so as to make it relevant, and Lucky LeCompte, while not a cougar, is a feline, making him tangentially relevant. 

Another Fun Day

Channeling those "clever girls," The Twins!

When I asked Rebecca if she wanted to go to Jurassic Park with me, I was a little surprised when she eagerly said “Yes!”  I was even more surprised when she said she hadn’t ever seen it.  “Yet another movie classic I missed,” she said.

Rebecca is a tremendous movie buff, and has been since she was a wee tot when she adored Errol Flynn and Ronald Coleman.  No, she is not eighty years old, but we went to old movies at the University every Friday night for years and years. When she was about eight, we went to see “The Charge of the Light Brigade.”  About ten minutes into the movie, she had to be taken home because she had read the poem and knew how it was going to end.  She was hysterical at the thought of Errol Flynn riding into the Valley of Death.  She has been brave ever since though, and has never had to be taken home again.  I, on the other hand have had to be taken home from quite a few.  Rachael, the same!  We seem to be a family of movie wimps.  Rebecca, of course, left in sorrow, which is another thing altogether.  But Rachael and I both had to go home from fright.  That is, in fact, why Rebecca had not seen Jurassic Park.  It came out during her enforced movie hiatus – Rachael’s youth - a period when we could only go to the most absolutely unscary  and benign movies.  And even then, we made a few errors.  Once a movie had lobsters in a grocery store aquarium and it was too much for sensitive little Rachael.  When Rachael received “Beauty and the Beast” for a birthday present, (now one of Rachael’s top favorite movies,) Rebecca confiscated it for several years, knowing that it would be way too horrifying for her. Now that Rachael is braver, it’s one of her favorite movies.

So, Rebecca, knowing my tendency to movie fright, was a little leery of going to a scary dinosaur movie with me.  “I’m not afraid of dinosaurs,” I told her.  “It’s zombies that I can’t abide.”  She thought this was silly, but I explained that dinosaurs present no current danger, while one can’t be really certain about zombies.  She disagreed.  She said that dinosaurs are much more plausible than zombies, and therefore much more scary.  Be that as it may, I loved our movie afternoon, and didn’t get really frightened at all.  It was a gas film, as they say in the Auld Sod.  I’m so glad The Twins encouraged me to go!

Shopping Days

Ballyfree bowl and mug

Thirty years ago, shopping for dinner fixings in Ireland was a daily challenge, and often an adventure.  The corner grocery store where we bought rice and tinned food was a tiny shop with shelves up to the ceiling.  We brought in our list and handed it to the grocer.  He was a lovely fellow who always had the time to inquire about our day, or ask about “herself” when Rebecca was in school instead of helping me with the shopping.  Checking our list, he would climb up the ladder to gather our purchases for us. The bill was totted up on the brown paper bag.   He was amazed at how often we bought rice, and assumed that this was an American thing.  Why didn’t we eat more potatoes, he wondered.  Well, I’m a potato fan, but the potato crop that year was a bit of a flop and the potatoes were not at all appealing. They were aged hard things that didn’t cook up nicely at all.  We even read of potato trucks being ambushed and their cargo stolen.  We loved to shop with our friendly grocer, but he didn’t have most of what we needed so we usually had to venture further afield to assemble the ingredients for a complete meal .  The butcher shop down the street had dead cows hanging outside, gathering flies.  We didn’t go there, of course, and in fact, had to cross the road to avoid the stench of aging meat.  But a bit further on was a bakery where we bought our daily bread and our delicious teatime cakes.  Other provisions required trips to town.  We went to the vegetable store, the spice store, and were delighted to find a health food store where we could get dried beans and rice varieties beyond Uncle Ben’s.  We had several favorite delicatessens, and were thrilled when we found one which sold olives.  Once I was about to board a bus in front of the vegetable store when the clerk came running out and grabbed me.  “We have just gotten some Romaine lettuce,” he said. “I know that all Americans like Romaine.  I saved some for you!”  Actually, we preferred the usual Irish variety of lettuce, but I bought some anyway.  It’s the thought that counts, you know, and what could be more thoughtful than that? Then there was the Ballyfree egg store!  There, of course, one bought eggs, but also one could turn in the little Ballyfree emblems from off the egg cartons, and redeem them for Ballyfree crockery.  I was mad for the crockery, and as we were enthusiastic egg eaters, I collected the emblems quickly.  I first got a little egg cup, then another.  The egg cups were not that cute, but they didn’t require many emblems.  I got a mug and a bowl (very cute), but the thing I really lusted after was the milk jug (super cute.)  This took a LOT of emblems.  Could I get that many before the end of our Irish sabbatical?  My friends all bought Ballyfree eggs and saved me their emblems for me.  The number of my emblems grew!  Finally, one triumphant day, I turned in my more than seventy emblems and got the long coveted milk jug.  It was one of my finest treasures, and I delighted in serving milk for our tea in it.

Ballyfree milk jug from  etsy shop.  Already sold! 

I served milk in it for several years, but then one fateful day, a certain little girl who shall remain nameless, was doing something naughty.  I said, “Stop that” You’ll break my Ballyfree milk jug!”  But she didn’t stop! Crash! I was devastated. Usually, I was not angry about accidental breakages if they were really accidents.  But when one says to one’s child, “Stop that or this terrible thing will happen,” and then it happens, one is more inclined to be bitter.  It’s horrible, but I was bitter about this for years! Years! 

Angelic Becca has tried to atone by getting me several lovely milk jugs over time, and I love all of them.  She got me the green one shortly after the disaster, and it is actually quite a bit prettier than the poor Ballyfree one, but still….   Now it is very aged so I no longer use it for milk, but have it on display in my kitchen.  I think loving thoughts about my darling girl every time I look at it.  The autumn leaf one is a somewhat more recent gift, and it too seems too nice and delicate to use, so it is also on display. But then ….. we were wandering through the Metropolitan Market recently, whiling away time before the opera, when Becca spotted --- the perfect milk jug!  Cute, but not to beautiful to use! Not too delicate looking, and just the right size! I am happy every time I pour milk from it into my tea.

A Running Day

Feeling fit after our trot!

Rebecca and Rachael are both convinced that I am an out of shape bag of flab and on the verge of extinction unless I start up an exercise regime.  This seems to be a constant theme with them, and they are both after me to get into shape! 

Years ago, I worked in a clinic where they did all sorts of diagnostic tests.  If the test didn’t involve x-rays or needles, I was always happy to volunteer as a lab rat while they tried out any new equipment.  This was usually a lot more fun than sitting at my desk.  My favorites were new MRI programs, because one could actually take a little snooze in the giant tube and enjoy all those soothing noises. Once, they got new exercise stress testing equipment.  I suspected that sitting at my desk would be more fun than trying this out, but they were persuasive. Very persuasive, as they knew that everyone else there was on to them, and would refuse!  Later, after an exhausting and humiliating session on the stationary bicycle while wired onto all sorts of hideous machines, the doctor in charge said to me, “You’re not really fond of exercising, are you?” I was mortified and immediately took up swimming every day.  The first day at the pool, I did seven laps and then thought that the medics might have to come and assist me, gasping, out of the water. 

Rebecca finally nagged me and nagged me to start a fun (!) running - actually slowly trotting - program with her.  She drug me to the running shoe store where I unwillingly bought an extremely ugly pair of shoes, (see above photo,) and we went on our first trot.  We went quite a bit further than I expected, and when I staggered home, I felt much as I had years before, getting out of the pool after my first swimming ordeal.  My vision was blurry, my legs were trembly, my hands were shaky, my heart was pounding, and muscles that I hadn’t thought of in years were screaming.  I considered of taking an ibuprofen to help with recovery, but Becca said that ginger would be better, so we both had some.  Instant relief!  It was sort of a miracle.  Ginger cures everything that Tiger Balm doesn’t. 

The second day, we went even further.  (“Far” is a very relative term here. Becca and Rachael go for miles and miles.  I go for blocks and blocks.)  But I now I am a tiny bit enthusiastic and am looking forward to our next trot!

The REI foyer where we went to buy supportive undergarments for our exercise regimen.

A Lovely Day

April 27, 1963

They have hardly changed at all!

Fifty years is a long time, no matter how you cut it!  And today, our friends June and Roger, a beloved part of our choir family, cut the cake at their fiftieth wedding anniversary party.  First, they renewed their wedding vows at a lovely ceremony at which the choir sang some of June’s favorites.  Coincidentally, they were some of my favorites too.  I’m always really, really glad whenever we sing “I Was Glad,” and this was a very glad occasion.  “Laudate Dominum” is, I think, one of the most beautiful things ever.  The choir sing exquisitely, despite there seeming to be a very high pollen count in the Cathedral.  I knew this because quite a few of them were seeming to have allergies.  There were hankies out and a lot of sniffles.

The top of the cake!  The rest was already eaten by this time!

Laundry Day

Tobias and friend

What a handsome fellow my kitty is!  Don’t you agree?  I’m sure you do!  Here he is, posing high up atop my washer and dryer with my precious plastic rat.  The rat was a gift from my jokester friend Samos years ago.  Once, when visiting, (Samos, not the rat,) crept upstairs and left the rat under my bed where it would leap out – at least I thought it was leaping out – the first time I looked under there.  Then he (again Samos, not the rat,) asked me to get something out of one of the storage bins I keep there. When I looked under the bed and saw the rat staring out at me, what a fright!  Actually, having had rats as pets, I am a rat fan.  He knew this, so he also knew that I would get a good start, but that I would not be too freaked out.  We all thought this was a great joke!  

Later, I put the rat in my pantry-laundry room where it still resides.  Then, it was in a very conspicuous spot on a shelf near the door.  Once when I was having a number of friends for breakfast, one of them, a macho, take charge fellow, opened the pantry door to get out the HP sauce, saw the rat, shrieked, and started beating at it with whatever it was he had in his hand.  Most likely, his egg spoon.  Rebecca and I were thrilled that our rat had had another sensational effect!  

Rebecca too is a rat fan.  Her little hooded rat, Sammy, was a darling family pet for years.  He was a very sweet and well behaved rat, living in a big cage next to my bed where he would join me when I was reading in the evenings.  He was a scrupulously clean rat, keeping his cage quite tidy, using only one little corner for his loo. He loved to sit on my shoulder as I read in bed of an evening, to receive the occasional sunflower seed treat, and to take the occasional nibble of one of my books.  Oddly, he only nibbled on the German books.  We speculated that perhaps Germany produces more tasty paper.  He frequently joined us at meals, going from plate to plate, sampling whatever we were eating.  Once, as we were eating breakfast, and Rebecca was telling us a fascinating story, Sammy, noting that we were all rapt in Rebecca’s tale, seized his moment.  Rebecca looked down at her plate, and her entire fried egg was gone.  Sammy had somehow picked it up and carried it behind the teapot where he was ecstatically munching in it.

Here is another pic of my handsome lad, looking like a great horned owl. Taken by Tobias's friend Samos.