Well, dear hearts,
It's the day after Easter. We made it through Holy Week. I took the coward's way out and didn't attend any of the Holy Week services. The week before I overdid and suffered a mini-relapse of the mono tiredness, so now I'm back to napping or at least lying down in the afternoon for a while, and trying to remember that if I don't take care of me, no one will.
The latest essay is about a new friend I have made via the internet, Susan Bardwell. She writes a column (among other things) for The Angleton Journal, an online publication...well, I'm getting ahead of myself here.
The Angleton Journal publishes on Mondays, and I just read Susan's column and found that we both told the story about how we became friends this time. I, being a coward, quoted her extensively in my column; she, being a Real Journalist, did not quote me, although I noticed my name is spelled wrong.
Oh well. Years of newspaper articles and funny checks have taught me to be tolerant of misspellings of the name. I always said I married Rick so that it would take less time to misspell my last name(Tuel), but then I ended up pretty much keeping my maiden name (Litchfield), so the opportunities for spelling errors abound. It's OK. Hear me, Susan? IT'S OK. Life improved so much after the "Richfield" gas stations went away that I don't care anymore. Up until then I spent a lot of time telling people, "Litchfield, with an 'L.'" As in la la la.
So, for a good time, check out Susan's column. Web link included in my essay. I don't know if it will post as a weblink - you might have to copy and paste the address. It's worth the effort. She's fun.
Sometimes I wonder why Texas looms so large in my life. My mother was born in Texas (Corsicana) and grew up there (El Paso). I've never been there myself, but I know I have relatives there whom I've never met, and I have friends there and friends from there. I'm going to have to go someday. The farthest south I've ever been is Albuquerque (yes, Peter and Trylla, I mean to go there again, too).
I've been singing this morning, playing guitar, working out chords to a song I wrote 24 years ago that changes from G to A flat in the last verse, and every time I play it I have to figure out the chords for the last verse anew. I only performed it once in public, on piano, and didn't change key. It's a good song. You'll hear it someday. Then I moved to the piano and sang a couple of airs from "The Messiah," alto pieces and one soprano piece to stretch the lazy vocal cords a bit.
Also took the dog for a short walk this morning, about halfway down the incredibly steep hill that comes up to our neighborhood and back up. He ate a lot of grass. I called him a lot of names because he kept getting tangled up in the leash and getting me tangled up in the leash.
And right now I'm going to go have lunch, a bean soup that was supposed to be chili but isn't.
Bean Soup that isn't Chili
Put 2 T. olive oil in a cast iron skillet, turn on low - medium.
Chop up an onion and saute it in the oil until it is transparent and limp.
Add one-two pounds of ground beef or turkey (mine was beef) and fry on medium, stirring the while, until meat is all crumbly and brown.
Season with one tablespoon of chili powder and two teaspoons of cumin, and mix.
Now you can do whatever you want with the meat/onion/spice mixture. The first night I made tacos. But to make the soup:
Put the leftover meat/onion/spice mixture into a soup pot. Add:
1 can of kidney or black beans (rinsed and drained)
1 can of garbanzo beans (rinsed and drained)
2 small cans diced tomatoes (no flavoring)
1 can of water, or as much as needed to make it all liquid
Stir, heat, and eat. Gets better as the hours go by. I ate mine with Solenas tortilla chips and little chunks of avocado.
Life is so damn good.
My friend Alice is having surgery today; it's serious. Please keep her in your thoughts and prayers. Thank you.
blessings & love & hugs & grace & peace
Mary
A Couple of Smart Alecks Discuss 60s Rock Stars
One of the great things about the internet, besides keeping in touch with friends and family far away, is making new friends whom you might not have met otherwise.
The last few months I’ve had a crackin’ good correspondence with a woman named Susan Bardwell, a writer who lives down in Angleton, Texas. She is a friend of Laurie Heath, who is the daughter of David and Jane Shepherd, who were my sons’ band and first grade teachers, respectively.
Dave and Jane thought that I might enjoy reading Susan’s stuff, so they gave me the link to her column in the Angleton Journal, an online publication that Susan and her husband Micheal put out down in Angleton, Texas. And yes, that is the way Micheal’s name is spelled, and yes, I do enjoy her stuff, and you will, too. Here’s the web page address:
http://www.weeklyjournal.net/index.shtml
Scroll down to Susan’s smilin’ face, next to which you’ll see her byline, S.K. Bardwell. Click, read, and enjoy.
Besides being smart aleck writers, we are close enough in age to compare and contrast cultural icons. I mentioned that I used to dance to Grace Slick’s original band, The Great Society, in San Francisco during the summer of 1966, and I didn’t think Grace Slick was that slick of a singer.
Susan wrote: “What I remember most vividly about Grace Slick was seeing her on a televised New Year's Eve concert many years ago…It was awful, I was embarrassed for her. Her voice was OK, but never struck me as being awesome, and evidently it didn't hold up well. Janis (Joplin), of course, is still big in Texas. Beaumont, which was evidently quite glad to see her leave when her career started, has a statue of her now. I never was mad about her, and I didn't care much for Jim Morrison, either. Loved Hendrix but when he died, I was just kind of put out - couldn't someone teach classes to these people on how to do your drugs without dying?
“The only star I ever wept for was John Lennon. “
Mary replied: “Grace Slick never was that great a singer, I thought, so I suppose it's not a surprise that she isn't one now. Janis Joplin: maybe you had to be there. Recordings never captured the power of her live performances. I've never seen anyone more electric. Jim Morrison: another electrifying performer (I saw The Doors at the Avalon just before their first single, “Break On Through to the Other Side” hit the charts), but as a person he was kind of an oaf, and I enjoyed the hits but never loved him like I loved Janis. I still don't get why so many people thought he was a great poet. I thought he was a legend in his own mind, and a lot of people bought it for some reason.
“Hendrix - a freakin' guitar genius. Saw him at the Monterey Pop Festival in June 1967, when he returned from England and began his conquest of the states. The most delicious part of that came years later when I was watching the video Monterey Pop with my two sons, and Hendrix's performance came on, and when it got to the part where he put the guitar on the floor and set it on fire, I said, ‘I missed this part because everyone jumped up on the chairs and I didn't move fast enough, so I was stuck on the ground looking at everyone's back.’ My sons' two heads swiveled around and they stared at me goggle-eyed, and one of them said, ‘You were there?’ Well, yeah, I was.”
That was one of the sweeter moments of parenthood.
John Lennon – ah, what a loss. I could weep still. There is nothing I can say beyond that. So I’ll stop there.
If you want to know how Dave and Jane Shepherd are doing down in Hollywood as Jane pursues her acting career, check their blog:
http://home.mindspring.com/~shepherd2/sheptrek/index.html
Monday, March 24, 2008
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Easter at Last
Well, kids,
The name of the latest essay is "Easter at Last," but it isn't Easter yet. In fact, tomorrow (as I type this) is Palm Sunday, the beginning of Holy Week, the great annual trek through Christ's return to Jerusalem, his betrayal, crucifixion, and resurrection. It's a roller coaster ride, and the focus for most of the week is on his betrayal and death. By the time you get to Easter, if you do it all, every service of the week, you're pretty exhausted, quite frankly, or so it has been for me as a choir member.
This winter has been a long lesson in not doing anything, and I'm not "doing" Holy Week this year - not all of it, anyway. Although as I say that I realize that each day I'm liable to think, "Well, I'll go to tonight's service." And maybe I will. I'm just not going to feel obligated to drag my sorry butt to church regardless of all circumstances.
My friends Becky and Tara wanted to take me to England this May to celebrate my sixtieth birthday, but at this point I feel sure I'm not going. I don't have the stamina to do all the walking, shopping, and "doing" that would require, and I see no sense in spending a lot of money to go to England and then be too tired to leave the B&B. What's the point?
And Rick and I were talking today, and I remembered that I've always thought I'd go to Europe with him, to visit Kaiserslautern in Germany and Salzburg in Austria and Rome in Italy, all places where he lived or visited when his dad was in the Army 40 and 50 years ago. Rick says he'd like to sail across the Atlantic one more time (standard travel arrangements for military dependents back in the day). So I'm going to look up what sort of steamers might take passengers to Europe and how much that costs. And I will tell Rick he can't break into the lifeboats and eat the emergency rations, like he did when he was a kid. A lot of that stuff, he says, dated from World War II, and had lost some of its zing, but he and his buddies were kids and ate it anyway.
I'm not terribly proud of this essay - it was past deadline and I needed to write something, to be honest, and this is it. Sorry. But for what it's worth, here it is. All the usual blessings & love to you.
Easter at Last
In the Christian Church, Lent is a time of preparation for the resurrection of Christ. The celebration of that resurrection is called Easter, which was named after Eostre, or Eastre, the Great Mother Goddess of the Saxon people in Northern Europe, according to The Venerable Bede, (672-735 CE) a Christian scholar, in his book De Ratione Temporum. “Eastre” was also the ancient word for spring.
We observe Easter in the spring, when all of nature is beginning to throw her annual bash of blooming, pollinating, fruiting, mating, birthing, and bringing the young to maturity. There will be time enough to sleep in the fall. Right now it’s all life, all the time, thrusting and grunting like characters in a romance novel.
It is a time of year (at least in the northern hemisphere, so apologies to my readers in Oz where autumn is closing in fast) when you can’t miss the metaphor of life reborn out of death. Everything that is dull and brown and looks dead becomes lively and green and in some cases downright aggressive.
I’ve been out in the garden a bit the last few weeks, whacking back the brown stalks left over from last year’s abundance. I’m in a new house which I know has a delightful garden, and we moved in after last summer’s blooms had gone so this year is a time of discovery and surprise.
The heather and primroses by the sidewalk welcome us when we come home. Today I saw three daffodils and one grape hyacinth in bloom, and the big hyacinths are coloring up fast. I’m finding roses I didn’t know were there.
I thank Reva Sparkes, the owner of the house, for planting this wonderful garden, and her gardener, Shirley Burton, for tending it. There are bulbs coming up, and wallflowers, bugleweed, rose of Sharon, columbine, daisies, rhodies, lavender, and a lot of plants of which I do not know the names. Shrubs and trees are covered with buds that are about to burst. It’s going to be a riot around here in a few weeks. Reva says that when the lilies in the pots on the back deck bloom, I’m not going to believe the beauty.
I’m not much of a gardener myself, though not from lack of loving gardens. I’ve always enjoyed gardening in the abstract: reading about it, thinking about it, buying seeds, and dreaming of displays that look like the photos. But gardening, like housework, is something I do in a sporadic fashion. Usually my mind is on something other than the inside or outside chores. I was one of those kids in school of whom teachers wrote on the report card, “Daydreams a lot.”
I’m grateful to still be here.
I’m grateful for all the good in people’s hearts that shows up when you most need it.
I’m grateful that the stone that sealed the tomb was rolled aside, showing us that our perception that death is permanent is an illusion: look, here is life again.
I’m grateful for this beautiful garden to which I’ve come.
I’m grateful for my own returning health after a long winter of not being able to do much (mononucleosis; thanks for asking. And no, I did not have any fun getting it).
I’m grateful for my good heart, and for your good heart. This beautiful world can be mean and cruel, but we are here to walk through it together.
It’s Spring. Here is life again, my friends, here is Easter at last. Now let’s get out there and live.
The name of the latest essay is "Easter at Last," but it isn't Easter yet. In fact, tomorrow (as I type this) is Palm Sunday, the beginning of Holy Week, the great annual trek through Christ's return to Jerusalem, his betrayal, crucifixion, and resurrection. It's a roller coaster ride, and the focus for most of the week is on his betrayal and death. By the time you get to Easter, if you do it all, every service of the week, you're pretty exhausted, quite frankly, or so it has been for me as a choir member.
This winter has been a long lesson in not doing anything, and I'm not "doing" Holy Week this year - not all of it, anyway. Although as I say that I realize that each day I'm liable to think, "Well, I'll go to tonight's service." And maybe I will. I'm just not going to feel obligated to drag my sorry butt to church regardless of all circumstances.
My friends Becky and Tara wanted to take me to England this May to celebrate my sixtieth birthday, but at this point I feel sure I'm not going. I don't have the stamina to do all the walking, shopping, and "doing" that would require, and I see no sense in spending a lot of money to go to England and then be too tired to leave the B&B. What's the point?
And Rick and I were talking today, and I remembered that I've always thought I'd go to Europe with him, to visit Kaiserslautern in Germany and Salzburg in Austria and Rome in Italy, all places where he lived or visited when his dad was in the Army 40 and 50 years ago. Rick says he'd like to sail across the Atlantic one more time (standard travel arrangements for military dependents back in the day). So I'm going to look up what sort of steamers might take passengers to Europe and how much that costs. And I will tell Rick he can't break into the lifeboats and eat the emergency rations, like he did when he was a kid. A lot of that stuff, he says, dated from World War II, and had lost some of its zing, but he and his buddies were kids and ate it anyway.
I'm not terribly proud of this essay - it was past deadline and I needed to write something, to be honest, and this is it. Sorry. But for what it's worth, here it is. All the usual blessings & love to you.
Easter at Last
In the Christian Church, Lent is a time of preparation for the resurrection of Christ. The celebration of that resurrection is called Easter, which was named after Eostre, or Eastre, the Great Mother Goddess of the Saxon people in Northern Europe, according to The Venerable Bede, (672-735 CE) a Christian scholar, in his book De Ratione Temporum. “Eastre” was also the ancient word for spring.
We observe Easter in the spring, when all of nature is beginning to throw her annual bash of blooming, pollinating, fruiting, mating, birthing, and bringing the young to maturity. There will be time enough to sleep in the fall. Right now it’s all life, all the time, thrusting and grunting like characters in a romance novel.
It is a time of year (at least in the northern hemisphere, so apologies to my readers in Oz where autumn is closing in fast) when you can’t miss the metaphor of life reborn out of death. Everything that is dull and brown and looks dead becomes lively and green and in some cases downright aggressive.
I’ve been out in the garden a bit the last few weeks, whacking back the brown stalks left over from last year’s abundance. I’m in a new house which I know has a delightful garden, and we moved in after last summer’s blooms had gone so this year is a time of discovery and surprise.
The heather and primroses by the sidewalk welcome us when we come home. Today I saw three daffodils and one grape hyacinth in bloom, and the big hyacinths are coloring up fast. I’m finding roses I didn’t know were there.
I thank Reva Sparkes, the owner of the house, for planting this wonderful garden, and her gardener, Shirley Burton, for tending it. There are bulbs coming up, and wallflowers, bugleweed, rose of Sharon, columbine, daisies, rhodies, lavender, and a lot of plants of which I do not know the names. Shrubs and trees are covered with buds that are about to burst. It’s going to be a riot around here in a few weeks. Reva says that when the lilies in the pots on the back deck bloom, I’m not going to believe the beauty.
I’m not much of a gardener myself, though not from lack of loving gardens. I’ve always enjoyed gardening in the abstract: reading about it, thinking about it, buying seeds, and dreaming of displays that look like the photos. But gardening, like housework, is something I do in a sporadic fashion. Usually my mind is on something other than the inside or outside chores. I was one of those kids in school of whom teachers wrote on the report card, “Daydreams a lot.”
I’m grateful to still be here.
I’m grateful for all the good in people’s hearts that shows up when you most need it.
I’m grateful that the stone that sealed the tomb was rolled aside, showing us that our perception that death is permanent is an illusion: look, here is life again.
I’m grateful for this beautiful garden to which I’ve come.
I’m grateful for my own returning health after a long winter of not being able to do much (mononucleosis; thanks for asking. And no, I did not have any fun getting it).
I’m grateful for my good heart, and for your good heart. This beautiful world can be mean and cruel, but we are here to walk through it together.
It’s Spring. Here is life again, my friends, here is Easter at last. Now let’s get out there and live.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Your Cheatin' Heart Will Tell on You
Dear Hearts and Gentle People,
It’s getting to be spring, and my next entry will talk about that, but right now we’re having rain, wind, and sun, in no particular order, but changing very swiftly from one to the other, and if that ain’t spring I don’t know what is.
The good news is that my latest angiogram showed very little heart disease. My meds have been adjusted, and so far the chest pains have been in abeyance, maybe even because the angiogram looked so good. I had the procedure a week ago yesterday, and I’m hoping the bruise will go away someday. You haven’t lived until your whole thigh has turned purple.
It seems like a lot of my friends (and I) are dealing with the attrition of advancing age. Damn it.
But before we discuss mortality much more, here’s another Lenten meditation based on a hard story from the Book of Acts. The most pleasing feedback I’ve had on this piece is, “I’d read the Bible more if you had written it.” Fortunately the canon has been closed since the 4th century or so, and I will be spared for other endeavors, like essays, letters, emails, and maybe even a romance novel. We’ll see.
Read on.
Your Cheatin’ Heart Will Tell On You*
Continuing a Lenten study: The Fifth Chapter of Acts.
After Jesus was crucified, resurrected, and taken up to heaven, the Jewish sect of his followers was growing fast. Some people were selling pieces of land and giving the money to the disciples. Apparently discipleship didn’t pay any better then than it does now.
Well, Ananias (not the Ananias who laid hands on Saul/Paul. Another Ananias) and his wife Sapphira sold some land, but they decided to keep part of the proceeds for themselves, and give the rest to the disciples.
When Ananias brought the money to Peter, Peter said, “Ananias, you low life, double dealing, shekel sucking scum – why did you listen to Satan and lie to God?”
Ananias, upon hearing this, fell down and died. A few young guy disciples carried him out and buried him. This is told so matter-of-factly, you wonder if it didn’t happen all the time. “Oh, look. Someone else died. Better take him out and bury him.”
Sapphira, waiting at home, was wondering where Ananias was, and went around to Peter’s house to make inquiries.
Peter asked Sapphira a trick question: “Did you sell your land for such and such a price?” “Why, yes,” answered Sapphira, for that was what she and her husband had agreed to tell Peter. This was the wrong answer.
“Sapphira,” said Peter, “How dare you? You and your husband are a couple of scheming liars. Look, here come the guys who buried Ananias, and they’ll bury you, too.” And Sapphira fell down dead, and the boys carried her away and buried her, too.
Moral: Lying to God = Death. Being honest with God = Life.
I would like to see this done as a CSI episode. The bodies of Ananias and Sapphira are discovered by a passing pita vendor who spots a foot sticking out of a hastily dug shallow grave. The authorities are called in, in this case a top notch team of Roman forensic specialists who study the bodies for clues as to the manner of their demise. They find no wounds, no signs of illness or poisoning, but they look around and find a trail of fresh dirt that leads to Peter’s house.
They question Peter, who tells them that Ananias and Sapphira lied to God, and as a consequence were struck dead. The Romans are flummoxed. They have no evidence to pin the killings on anyone, and have to come in with a verdict of “death by God.” Not being Jews and having no knowledge of the Hebrew Scriptures, they are unaware of God’s long history as a serial smiter, but they can’t come up with any other answer. They close the case, shaking their heads, and go back to other more earthly investigations, except one who takes early retirement and moves to an island out in the Mediterranean, where he strolls the shore every day, occasionally picking up an empty sea shell and asking, “And you? What killed you? Was it God? Ha ha ha.”
Seriously, folks, the story of Ananias and Sapphira packs a heck of a punch, whether you take it as a literal story of what happened to two people who thought they could look righteous while making a tidy profit, or as a metaphor for what happens when you don’t turn your life over completely to God (your higher power, truth, reality, or, insert your label here: ___).
People get away with stuff all the time in this physical world, and have no regrets or remorse until and unless they get caught. When it comes to the accounting of your own soul, you can’t cook the books and get away with it. In the bigger reality, there are no secrets, and you can’t get away with lying. Pretty scary, huh? Yeah. That’s why God wins so few popularity contests.
*Your Cheating Heart, by Hank Williams. © 1952 by Fred Rose Music, Inc.
It’s getting to be spring, and my next entry will talk about that, but right now we’re having rain, wind, and sun, in no particular order, but changing very swiftly from one to the other, and if that ain’t spring I don’t know what is.
The good news is that my latest angiogram showed very little heart disease. My meds have been adjusted, and so far the chest pains have been in abeyance, maybe even because the angiogram looked so good. I had the procedure a week ago yesterday, and I’m hoping the bruise will go away someday. You haven’t lived until your whole thigh has turned purple.
It seems like a lot of my friends (and I) are dealing with the attrition of advancing age. Damn it.
But before we discuss mortality much more, here’s another Lenten meditation based on a hard story from the Book of Acts. The most pleasing feedback I’ve had on this piece is, “I’d read the Bible more if you had written it.” Fortunately the canon has been closed since the 4th century or so, and I will be spared for other endeavors, like essays, letters, emails, and maybe even a romance novel. We’ll see.
Read on.
Your Cheatin’ Heart Will Tell On You*
Continuing a Lenten study: The Fifth Chapter of Acts.
After Jesus was crucified, resurrected, and taken up to heaven, the Jewish sect of his followers was growing fast. Some people were selling pieces of land and giving the money to the disciples. Apparently discipleship didn’t pay any better then than it does now.
Well, Ananias (not the Ananias who laid hands on Saul/Paul. Another Ananias) and his wife Sapphira sold some land, but they decided to keep part of the proceeds for themselves, and give the rest to the disciples.
When Ananias brought the money to Peter, Peter said, “Ananias, you low life, double dealing, shekel sucking scum – why did you listen to Satan and lie to God?”
Ananias, upon hearing this, fell down and died. A few young guy disciples carried him out and buried him. This is told so matter-of-factly, you wonder if it didn’t happen all the time. “Oh, look. Someone else died. Better take him out and bury him.”
Sapphira, waiting at home, was wondering where Ananias was, and went around to Peter’s house to make inquiries.
Peter asked Sapphira a trick question: “Did you sell your land for such and such a price?” “Why, yes,” answered Sapphira, for that was what she and her husband had agreed to tell Peter. This was the wrong answer.
“Sapphira,” said Peter, “How dare you? You and your husband are a couple of scheming liars. Look, here come the guys who buried Ananias, and they’ll bury you, too.” And Sapphira fell down dead, and the boys carried her away and buried her, too.
Moral: Lying to God = Death. Being honest with God = Life.
I would like to see this done as a CSI episode. The bodies of Ananias and Sapphira are discovered by a passing pita vendor who spots a foot sticking out of a hastily dug shallow grave. The authorities are called in, in this case a top notch team of Roman forensic specialists who study the bodies for clues as to the manner of their demise. They find no wounds, no signs of illness or poisoning, but they look around and find a trail of fresh dirt that leads to Peter’s house.
They question Peter, who tells them that Ananias and Sapphira lied to God, and as a consequence were struck dead. The Romans are flummoxed. They have no evidence to pin the killings on anyone, and have to come in with a verdict of “death by God.” Not being Jews and having no knowledge of the Hebrew Scriptures, they are unaware of God’s long history as a serial smiter, but they can’t come up with any other answer. They close the case, shaking their heads, and go back to other more earthly investigations, except one who takes early retirement and moves to an island out in the Mediterranean, where he strolls the shore every day, occasionally picking up an empty sea shell and asking, “And you? What killed you? Was it God? Ha ha ha.”
Seriously, folks, the story of Ananias and Sapphira packs a heck of a punch, whether you take it as a literal story of what happened to two people who thought they could look righteous while making a tidy profit, or as a metaphor for what happens when you don’t turn your life over completely to God (your higher power, truth, reality, or, insert your label here: ___).
People get away with stuff all the time in this physical world, and have no regrets or remorse until and unless they get caught. When it comes to the accounting of your own soul, you can’t cook the books and get away with it. In the bigger reality, there are no secrets, and you can’t get away with lying. Pretty scary, huh? Yeah. That’s why God wins so few popularity contests.
*Your Cheating Heart, by Hank Williams. © 1952 by Fred Rose Music, Inc.
Friday, February 15, 2008
It’s for You
Lent has begun, and the focus of my Lent this year will be “call.” Right now the calls most of us are getting are recorded messages from or on behalf of Presidential candidates. That’s not the kind of call I’m talking about.
I’ve started reading the book of Acts, also known as the Acts of the Apostles. The reason I wanted to read this book is because it contains the story of the conversion of Saul. Perhaps you’ve heard this story, but I’ll go over it for those of you who are a little fuzzy on your Bible.
In first century Palestine there was a man, Saul of Tarsus, who took it upon himself to persecute the followers of Jesus of Nazareth. He imprisoned many people in Jerusalem, and then he thought he’d do the same in Damascus, so he headed there with a few friends.
But something happened on the way to Damascus. “Suddenly, a light from heaven flashed around him. He fell on the ground, and heard a voice saying to him, ‘Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?’” –Acts 9:3-4, NRSV
It does not say in the Bible that Saul was riding a donkey, so I can’t say the Lord knocked him off his ass in order to knock him on his ass, but there, I worked it in.
Anyway, Saul was pretty freaked out lying there in the dust, not least of all because he realized he was now blind. “Who are you?” he yelled. The voice replied, “Why, I’m Jesus, the one you’ve been persecuting.”
Saul’s friends saw him fall and heard the voice speak to him. I get the impression they were standing with their mouths hanging open. The voice told Saul to get up and continue to Damascus, where he would be told what to do. His companions took him by the hand and led him to Damascus, where he waited for three days in the house of Judas (no, not the traitor Judas, another Judas) for further instructions.
In Damascus a Christian named Ananias laid hands on Saul, and said, “Brother Saul, the Lord Jesus, who appeared to you on your way here, has sent me so that you may regain your sight and be filled with the Holy Spirit.”
Immediately “the scales fell from his eyes,” Saul could see, and he got up, was baptized, and had dinner. He changed his name from Saul to Paul and went on to quite a career preaching, teaching, and writing, including the letters that make up much of what we call the New Testament. You may have heard of him.
That’s a pretty dramatic call. Most of us don’t get knocked to the ground or blinded when we’re called. Most of us don’t hear a voice giving us instructions, but all of us are called.
The universal call is to become the best version of whom you were created to be, but during your life you are called to do specific things, like make a CD of Celtic hymns, for example. Answering your call is what leads you to do things that might not seem reasonable to someone else, or even to you.
There’s usually not much money in answering a call. Paul supported himself making tents. He thought it was important not to be a financial burden to anybody. So answering a call may not make a lot of practical sense, but it does make great spiritual sense.
What value can you place on encouraging people, or lifting their hearts along the way? At the end of your life do you want to look back and say, “I never did anything I didn’t get paid for,” or, “I sang one song for one person that helped her that day.” I know most people would vote for the money, but some of us will always come down on the side of the song.
How do you discern the difference between being called, and being crazy? Well, a call might tell you to give your life to God and do good in the world. Craziness might tell you to do violence to yourself or others. That’s a basic difference. You need to check out your call with a sane spiritual advisor. It is best not to tackle these things alone. It’s too easy to get lost without more perspective than your own.
You might have a hard time thinking there is something greater than yourself that wants you to stop being such a self-centered doofus and do your part, however small or large, to be a better person and make the world a better place. Sometimes God knocks you on your ass, or to your knees, or shows up where you least expect to be found, and you can’t explain it but you know your number is up, and you have been called. Try to be graceful, and go forward one step at a time. You may never know what effect you have, but what you are called to be is faithful, and that’s all you need to know.
Here. It’s for you.
I’ve started reading the book of Acts, also known as the Acts of the Apostles. The reason I wanted to read this book is because it contains the story of the conversion of Saul. Perhaps you’ve heard this story, but I’ll go over it for those of you who are a little fuzzy on your Bible.
In first century Palestine there was a man, Saul of Tarsus, who took it upon himself to persecute the followers of Jesus of Nazareth. He imprisoned many people in Jerusalem, and then he thought he’d do the same in Damascus, so he headed there with a few friends.
But something happened on the way to Damascus. “Suddenly, a light from heaven flashed around him. He fell on the ground, and heard a voice saying to him, ‘Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?’” –Acts 9:3-4, NRSV
It does not say in the Bible that Saul was riding a donkey, so I can’t say the Lord knocked him off his ass in order to knock him on his ass, but there, I worked it in.
Anyway, Saul was pretty freaked out lying there in the dust, not least of all because he realized he was now blind. “Who are you?” he yelled. The voice replied, “Why, I’m Jesus, the one you’ve been persecuting.”
Saul’s friends saw him fall and heard the voice speak to him. I get the impression they were standing with their mouths hanging open. The voice told Saul to get up and continue to Damascus, where he would be told what to do. His companions took him by the hand and led him to Damascus, where he waited for three days in the house of Judas (no, not the traitor Judas, another Judas) for further instructions.
In Damascus a Christian named Ananias laid hands on Saul, and said, “Brother Saul, the Lord Jesus, who appeared to you on your way here, has sent me so that you may regain your sight and be filled with the Holy Spirit.”
Immediately “the scales fell from his eyes,” Saul could see, and he got up, was baptized, and had dinner. He changed his name from Saul to Paul and went on to quite a career preaching, teaching, and writing, including the letters that make up much of what we call the New Testament. You may have heard of him.
That’s a pretty dramatic call. Most of us don’t get knocked to the ground or blinded when we’re called. Most of us don’t hear a voice giving us instructions, but all of us are called.
The universal call is to become the best version of whom you were created to be, but during your life you are called to do specific things, like make a CD of Celtic hymns, for example. Answering your call is what leads you to do things that might not seem reasonable to someone else, or even to you.
There’s usually not much money in answering a call. Paul supported himself making tents. He thought it was important not to be a financial burden to anybody. So answering a call may not make a lot of practical sense, but it does make great spiritual sense.
What value can you place on encouraging people, or lifting their hearts along the way? At the end of your life do you want to look back and say, “I never did anything I didn’t get paid for,” or, “I sang one song for one person that helped her that day.” I know most people would vote for the money, but some of us will always come down on the side of the song.
How do you discern the difference between being called, and being crazy? Well, a call might tell you to give your life to God and do good in the world. Craziness might tell you to do violence to yourself or others. That’s a basic difference. You need to check out your call with a sane spiritual advisor. It is best not to tackle these things alone. It’s too easy to get lost without more perspective than your own.
You might have a hard time thinking there is something greater than yourself that wants you to stop being such a self-centered doofus and do your part, however small or large, to be a better person and make the world a better place. Sometimes God knocks you on your ass, or to your knees, or shows up where you least expect to be found, and you can’t explain it but you know your number is up, and you have been called. Try to be graceful, and go forward one step at a time. You may never know what effect you have, but what you are called to be is faithful, and that’s all you need to know.
Here. It’s for you.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Island Legends: The Secret Ferry
This essay is a re-run. It originally ran in the Ticket in March 2003. I’m going to see if Rick’s cartoon will show up in the blog if I copy and paste it. (It didn't)
It’s Monday, January 28, 2008, and life is good. Not much snow at our house, but plenty in the Northwest vicinity, and I am about to go up to Thriftway to load up on provender. Half and half and Pepsi for Rick in this case.
Stay warm, friends.
Island Legends: The Secret Ferry
A friend said to me today that I had promised my last column would be funny, and it wasn’t (it was about tornados), and it was about time I wrote something funny.
Noted. Before the tornado hit Vancouver I had planned to take that issue off and re-run the following column from about five years ago. So now I’m going to take this issue off and re-run this column, and I hope that it is funny to at least some of you. Here goes:
A few years ago, one Sunday morning, a Big Important Businessman was having brunch at Sound Food. His cell phone rang. He answered it, and received a Very Important Business Call.
He needed to get to an Important Business Meeting on the mainland. He went up to the hostess and asked, “What’s the quickest way to get off the island?”
The hostess told him to head north on the road outside the restaurant until he came to the ferry dock, and wait for the next ferry to arrive, and he should be able to get off the island in an hour or so.
The Big Important Businessman was distressed. An hour? That was much too long. He had Important Business and had to get to the mainland right away, and wasn’t there a quicker way to get there than the ferry?
No, the hostess told him, the ferry was the only way off the island.
“OK,” he said. “I know how things work in places like this. Where is the secret ferry?”
“The what?” asked the hostess.
“The secret ferry,” he said. “The one only you islanders know about, so you can get off the island any time you want to.”
The hostess was non-plussed. She explained that there is no secret ferry, only the public state ferries that come to the north and south end ferry docks.
The man refused to believe her. He insisted that there must be a secret ferry. She was concealing the information because we islanders were selfishly keeping it to ourselves and didn’t want anyone else to know. He was too smart to be tricked, he said. He wasn’t born yesterday, he said.
Finally, in exasperation, the hostess said, “OK, OK, you’re right. I can’t fool you. There is a secret ferry.”
He smiled in victory. “Where is it?” he asked.
So she told him how to drive down to Manzanita Beach.
He left, and did not return.
End of story.
A friend told me that story in the supermarket. She said she had heard it from the granddaughter of another friend of mine. I called the grandmother and asked her where she got the story, and she said it came from her son, Fred, who was working at Sound Food when the incident happened. Soon thereafter I ran into Fred and asked him about the story. He had been the cook at Sound Food that day, and yes, that is basically what happened, although he wasn’t sure if the hostess, whose name was Nanette, sent the man to Manzanita or to Point Robinson. He said that for a while after that the Sound Food staff joked about Bippies, or “Big Important People.”
This was a fairly easy story to track because I knew all the people in the chain of telling. I wanted to track it down because it sounded like an urban legend, but it wasn’t. It really happened.
You can check out urban legends at http://www.snopes.com/. Island legends are easier to trace. For example, I believe that the late Joe Chambers once set a middle of the night ferry-dock-to-ferry-dock speed record of 9 minutes. Friends were posted at intersections to prevent collisions en route. He wasn’t late that night.
It’s Monday, January 28, 2008, and life is good. Not much snow at our house, but plenty in the Northwest vicinity, and I am about to go up to Thriftway to load up on provender. Half and half and Pepsi for Rick in this case.
Stay warm, friends.
Island Legends: The Secret Ferry
A friend said to me today that I had promised my last column would be funny, and it wasn’t (it was about tornados), and it was about time I wrote something funny.
Noted. Before the tornado hit Vancouver I had planned to take that issue off and re-run the following column from about five years ago. So now I’m going to take this issue off and re-run this column, and I hope that it is funny to at least some of you. Here goes:
A few years ago, one Sunday morning, a Big Important Businessman was having brunch at Sound Food. His cell phone rang. He answered it, and received a Very Important Business Call.
He needed to get to an Important Business Meeting on the mainland. He went up to the hostess and asked, “What’s the quickest way to get off the island?”
The hostess told him to head north on the road outside the restaurant until he came to the ferry dock, and wait for the next ferry to arrive, and he should be able to get off the island in an hour or so.
The Big Important Businessman was distressed. An hour? That was much too long. He had Important Business and had to get to the mainland right away, and wasn’t there a quicker way to get there than the ferry?
No, the hostess told him, the ferry was the only way off the island.
“OK,” he said. “I know how things work in places like this. Where is the secret ferry?”
“The what?” asked the hostess.
“The secret ferry,” he said. “The one only you islanders know about, so you can get off the island any time you want to.”
The hostess was non-plussed. She explained that there is no secret ferry, only the public state ferries that come to the north and south end ferry docks.
The man refused to believe her. He insisted that there must be a secret ferry. She was concealing the information because we islanders were selfishly keeping it to ourselves and didn’t want anyone else to know. He was too smart to be tricked, he said. He wasn’t born yesterday, he said.
Finally, in exasperation, the hostess said, “OK, OK, you’re right. I can’t fool you. There is a secret ferry.”
He smiled in victory. “Where is it?” he asked.
So she told him how to drive down to Manzanita Beach.
He left, and did not return.
End of story.
A friend told me that story in the supermarket. She said she had heard it from the granddaughter of another friend of mine. I called the grandmother and asked her where she got the story, and she said it came from her son, Fred, who was working at Sound Food when the incident happened. Soon thereafter I ran into Fred and asked him about the story. He had been the cook at Sound Food that day, and yes, that is basically what happened, although he wasn’t sure if the hostess, whose name was Nanette, sent the man to Manzanita or to Point Robinson. He said that for a while after that the Sound Food staff joked about Bippies, or “Big Important People.”
This was a fairly easy story to track because I knew all the people in the chain of telling. I wanted to track it down because it sounded like an urban legend, but it wasn’t. It really happened.
You can check out urban legends at http://www.snopes.com/. Island legends are easier to trace. For example, I believe that the late Joe Chambers once set a middle of the night ferry-dock-to-ferry-dock speed record of 9 minutes. Friends were posted at intersections to prevent collisions en route. He wasn’t late that night.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
January 22, 2008
I Do Not Abhor a Vacuum
Sound the trumpets! Stop the presses! I have vacuumed!
Amazing, isn’t it? A chore I took for granted for so many years, and now that I’m old(er) and ill, it’s a triumph of will and physical recovery. Yay! I was able to vacuum up all those pesky little pieces of paper that fall from the shredder onto the floor when I empty the basket into the recycling bag! I can see the rug again.
Then, while I was at it, I whisked over the major walkways: front door, living room, kitchen, big bedroom; and finally, my ultimate goal: the pieces of hair on the master bathroom carpet from that impromptu trim I gave myself yesterday. No, I don’t know why the bathroom is carpeted. Seemed like an iffy idea to me, but there it is.
And now I’m exhausted, dizzy and weak, and am paying attention to those responses to the workout and I am stopping.
Some of my friends would howl at me for doing this chore – the ones who have been telling me not to blow my recovery by overdoing. Another friend, who doesn’t seem to grasp that I have really been seriously ill, would be pleased that I have done something productive for a change.
These diametrically opposing views give me the strong hint that I’d better pay attention to what I need and what’s right for me, because the opinions of others will vary.
Last night I got back to typing up my old essays for the first time since we moved last October. The plan has been to put together a collection in a book, and offer it for sale, the idea being that we have some retirement income to supplement the inadequate Social Security for which we will eventually qualify. I have been too sick – too exhausted, not to mention the chest pains – for the last four months to do a keystroke of this productive activity. Everything I used to do has gone by the wayside, except for writing my column. Other than that, I’ve been resting and knitting and occasionally making dinner. I’ve been looking at the unpacked boxes, and watching the birds feeding on the back porch.
Birds feeding on the back porch: Oregon juncos are the great majority by far. Spotted Towhees come in second, and Steller’s Jays. And gray squirrels. Occasionally a crow comes by and chases everyone else away, but crows are too smart and too wary and as soon as someone moves inside the house and it detects the movement, it flies away. Then the songbirds flock back.
I have seen house finches and perhaps purple finches, pine siskins, house sparrows, maybe a chickadee, and either a fox sparrow or a song sparrow. It didn’t stick around long enough for me to make a positive ID. I keep meaning to bring my binoculars in from the car so I can take a closer look at the feeder’s visitors.
I enjoy watching them. It’s a good pastime for a person recovering from mononucleosis, as I am, and I feel like I’m learning something, which is a good thing at any age.
It was 31 degrees F out on the back porch this morning, and the deck was an ice rink. Thank heavens for the 3-tab roofing panels that the previous occupants put down. Last night at midnight I tuned into the Northwest News Channel to check up on how cold it was, and noted that over in Ephrata, about six miles from where my cousin Nancy lives, it was 2 degrees F. Some other places were in the minuses. Yep. The Northwest is definitely in the deep freeze.
And as long as it is, I’ll stay inside and cook up some stews and soups to warm the inner person. And type up a couple more essays. And for a good time, check out this website my sister-in-law Barbara forwarded to me this morning:
HEMA is a Dutch department store. The first store opened on November 4, 1926, in Amsterdam . Now there are 150 stores all over the Netherlands . HEMA also has stores in Belgium, Luxemburg, and Germany . In June of this year, HEMA was sold to British investment company Lion Capital. Take a look at HEMA's product page. You can't order anything and it's in Dutch but just wait a couple of seconds and watch what happens.
This company has a sense of humor and a great computer programmer.
http://producten.hema.nl/
I Do Not Abhor a Vacuum
Sound the trumpets! Stop the presses! I have vacuumed!
Amazing, isn’t it? A chore I took for granted for so many years, and now that I’m old(er) and ill, it’s a triumph of will and physical recovery. Yay! I was able to vacuum up all those pesky little pieces of paper that fall from the shredder onto the floor when I empty the basket into the recycling bag! I can see the rug again.
Then, while I was at it, I whisked over the major walkways: front door, living room, kitchen, big bedroom; and finally, my ultimate goal: the pieces of hair on the master bathroom carpet from that impromptu trim I gave myself yesterday. No, I don’t know why the bathroom is carpeted. Seemed like an iffy idea to me, but there it is.
And now I’m exhausted, dizzy and weak, and am paying attention to those responses to the workout and I am stopping.
Some of my friends would howl at me for doing this chore – the ones who have been telling me not to blow my recovery by overdoing. Another friend, who doesn’t seem to grasp that I have really been seriously ill, would be pleased that I have done something productive for a change.
These diametrically opposing views give me the strong hint that I’d better pay attention to what I need and what’s right for me, because the opinions of others will vary.
Last night I got back to typing up my old essays for the first time since we moved last October. The plan has been to put together a collection in a book, and offer it for sale, the idea being that we have some retirement income to supplement the inadequate Social Security for which we will eventually qualify. I have been too sick – too exhausted, not to mention the chest pains – for the last four months to do a keystroke of this productive activity. Everything I used to do has gone by the wayside, except for writing my column. Other than that, I’ve been resting and knitting and occasionally making dinner. I’ve been looking at the unpacked boxes, and watching the birds feeding on the back porch.
Birds feeding on the back porch: Oregon juncos are the great majority by far. Spotted Towhees come in second, and Steller’s Jays. And gray squirrels. Occasionally a crow comes by and chases everyone else away, but crows are too smart and too wary and as soon as someone moves inside the house and it detects the movement, it flies away. Then the songbirds flock back.
I have seen house finches and perhaps purple finches, pine siskins, house sparrows, maybe a chickadee, and either a fox sparrow or a song sparrow. It didn’t stick around long enough for me to make a positive ID. I keep meaning to bring my binoculars in from the car so I can take a closer look at the feeder’s visitors.
I enjoy watching them. It’s a good pastime for a person recovering from mononucleosis, as I am, and I feel like I’m learning something, which is a good thing at any age.
It was 31 degrees F out on the back porch this morning, and the deck was an ice rink. Thank heavens for the 3-tab roofing panels that the previous occupants put down. Last night at midnight I tuned into the Northwest News Channel to check up on how cold it was, and noted that over in Ephrata, about six miles from where my cousin Nancy lives, it was 2 degrees F. Some other places were in the minuses. Yep. The Northwest is definitely in the deep freeze.
And as long as it is, I’ll stay inside and cook up some stews and soups to warm the inner person. And type up a couple more essays. And for a good time, check out this website my sister-in-law Barbara forwarded to me this morning:
HEMA is a Dutch department store. The first store opened on November 4, 1926, in Amsterdam . Now there are 150 stores all over the Netherlands . HEMA also has stores in Belgium, Luxemburg, and Germany . In June of this year, HEMA was sold to British investment company Lion Capital. Take a look at HEMA's product page. You can't order anything and it's in Dutch but just wait a couple of seconds and watch what happens.
This company has a sense of humor and a great computer programmer.
http://producten.hema.nl/
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Heart Test
Went and had my heart tested today and what I learned first was that I have got to do something about my hair. It doesn’t affect the functioning of my heart, but it makes me flinch when I look in a mirror. Fortunately I have a lot of hats now.
The heart test had a couple of parts, and ended up taking about three hours.
First I was injected with an isotope, and sent back out to the waiting room to wait for my heart to light up. Tech Kristen told me that I would be radioactive until sometime tomorrow, and she would give me a little card saying that I was radioactive because of a medical test in case I ran afoul of Homeland Security when I went on the ferry. She forgot to give me the card, but I did not run into Homeland Security, so it was all right.
I sat in the waiting room while waiting for the isotope to circulate and counted cranes – the construction cranes hovering over building sites in Seattle, at least the ones I could see through the west-facing window. I counted eleven. It’s amazing to me that more of them don’t fall over, like the one in Bellevue last year. They are so large, and so unwieldy.
In the fullness of time I was called in to be photographed. This involved lying in a chair that tilted back, putting my left arm up over my head, and my right arm at my side. I broke my right arm up by the shoulder a few years ago, and can’t lift it up over my head any more. Kristen wrapped me in a blanket tightly to hold my right arm secure.
Then the camera hovered over me. It had two screens at right angles to one another, so that when it was over me it was like being under a tiny pup tent. A tiny pup tent that probably cost tens of thousands of dollars, I’m guessing. It was a “LEHR (Low energy, high resolution) Collimator.” This means it was a nuclear camera that takes really, really good internal pictures. I memorized the name because I had lots of time to stare at it while lying still for the camera. I learned this evening when I looked it up that this is not a brand name. It’s the kind of camera it is. The really, really good kind.
I was supposed to keep perfectly still while the nuclear camera moved around me. The camera began in a position straight above me, and then moved every minute or so about an inch counterclockwise.
The first series was blurry. Kristen told me I had a bowel in the way. Did you know that your bowel cozies up to your heart? I didn’t. Anyway, they sent me back out to the waiting room to drink water and walk around, and then I went back and they did another series.
Now it was time for the stress test. Whooptie! On to the treadmill! But because I have terrible knees I didn’t have to do the running treadmill test; I just had to walk while they injected adenosine, a drug designed to make my body stressed as if I was exercising.
Another tech named Leo fitted me up for this, putting those sticky snaps around my ribcage and collar bone, and then hooked me up to the EKG machine. Kristen started the injection and the treadmill, and we were off. Or I was.
An ARNP named Chris (a guy) ran the readout machine while Leo watched me and took my blood pressure every minute or two. It was a good blood pressure: 120/70 to start, falling to 110/60 as the stress drug took effect and dilated my veins. The EKG was pretty good, too.
They were watching me closely because it is, after all, a stress test, and one of the effects I was warned about was possible heart attack and/or death. I had neither of those, though the drug made me feel weird and unpleasant, as Chris told me it would.
When the test was over the drug quickly dissolved and I felt better fast, and Leo and I got to discussing last night’s American Idol show.
Yes, I sometimes watch American Idol.
Then I went and had some post-stress test pictures taken. Back to the chair, the blanket, the immobility, the pup tent. I spent my time wishing I’d pushed my glasses up on my nose before the test began because everything was blurry, and eavesdropping on a discussion the techs were having about how to make pie crust.
Pie crusts are a challenge. I’ve made crusts that were flaky and light and melted in your mouth, and then again I’ve made crusts with the consistency of a hockey puck. When I found out about ten years ago that my mother, the queen of the pie-makers, bought the ready-made kind at the store, I switched to those and haven’t looked back.
Again the pictures weren’t good enough, and I was told to go down to Starbuck’s and get something to eat, and come back in 20 minutes. I heard and obeyed, and went down and had a blind date with an egg salad sandwich and a cup of black decaf (not good – tossed it after a few sips).
One more time under the camera! By this time I had used up all my ability to hold still and was grateful when the tech told me, “We’re finished!” and I could leave.
So I did, and headed down to Costco to get dryer sheets and olive oil, and ended up getting that and a lot more, then headed for the ferry, where no one came near me with a Geiger counter, and came home to watch the second night of American Idol.
I’m supposed to hear about the test results in three days, which puts it into next week. I’m feeling better than I was over Christmas, and I’m glad this process is underway. I’m also glad I’m not in my 20s and dreaming of going on American Idol. I wouldn’t make it past the audition, if I dared to make it that far.
The heart test had a couple of parts, and ended up taking about three hours.
First I was injected with an isotope, and sent back out to the waiting room to wait for my heart to light up. Tech Kristen told me that I would be radioactive until sometime tomorrow, and she would give me a little card saying that I was radioactive because of a medical test in case I ran afoul of Homeland Security when I went on the ferry. She forgot to give me the card, but I did not run into Homeland Security, so it was all right.
I sat in the waiting room while waiting for the isotope to circulate and counted cranes – the construction cranes hovering over building sites in Seattle, at least the ones I could see through the west-facing window. I counted eleven. It’s amazing to me that more of them don’t fall over, like the one in Bellevue last year. They are so large, and so unwieldy.
In the fullness of time I was called in to be photographed. This involved lying in a chair that tilted back, putting my left arm up over my head, and my right arm at my side. I broke my right arm up by the shoulder a few years ago, and can’t lift it up over my head any more. Kristen wrapped me in a blanket tightly to hold my right arm secure.
Then the camera hovered over me. It had two screens at right angles to one another, so that when it was over me it was like being under a tiny pup tent. A tiny pup tent that probably cost tens of thousands of dollars, I’m guessing. It was a “LEHR (Low energy, high resolution) Collimator.” This means it was a nuclear camera that takes really, really good internal pictures. I memorized the name because I had lots of time to stare at it while lying still for the camera. I learned this evening when I looked it up that this is not a brand name. It’s the kind of camera it is. The really, really good kind.
I was supposed to keep perfectly still while the nuclear camera moved around me. The camera began in a position straight above me, and then moved every minute or so about an inch counterclockwise.
The first series was blurry. Kristen told me I had a bowel in the way. Did you know that your bowel cozies up to your heart? I didn’t. Anyway, they sent me back out to the waiting room to drink water and walk around, and then I went back and they did another series.
Now it was time for the stress test. Whooptie! On to the treadmill! But because I have terrible knees I didn’t have to do the running treadmill test; I just had to walk while they injected adenosine, a drug designed to make my body stressed as if I was exercising.
Another tech named Leo fitted me up for this, putting those sticky snaps around my ribcage and collar bone, and then hooked me up to the EKG machine. Kristen started the injection and the treadmill, and we were off. Or I was.
An ARNP named Chris (a guy) ran the readout machine while Leo watched me and took my blood pressure every minute or two. It was a good blood pressure: 120/70 to start, falling to 110/60 as the stress drug took effect and dilated my veins. The EKG was pretty good, too.
They were watching me closely because it is, after all, a stress test, and one of the effects I was warned about was possible heart attack and/or death. I had neither of those, though the drug made me feel weird and unpleasant, as Chris told me it would.
When the test was over the drug quickly dissolved and I felt better fast, and Leo and I got to discussing last night’s American Idol show.
Yes, I sometimes watch American Idol.
Then I went and had some post-stress test pictures taken. Back to the chair, the blanket, the immobility, the pup tent. I spent my time wishing I’d pushed my glasses up on my nose before the test began because everything was blurry, and eavesdropping on a discussion the techs were having about how to make pie crust.
Pie crusts are a challenge. I’ve made crusts that were flaky and light and melted in your mouth, and then again I’ve made crusts with the consistency of a hockey puck. When I found out about ten years ago that my mother, the queen of the pie-makers, bought the ready-made kind at the store, I switched to those and haven’t looked back.
Again the pictures weren’t good enough, and I was told to go down to Starbuck’s and get something to eat, and come back in 20 minutes. I heard and obeyed, and went down and had a blind date with an egg salad sandwich and a cup of black decaf (not good – tossed it after a few sips).
One more time under the camera! By this time I had used up all my ability to hold still and was grateful when the tech told me, “We’re finished!” and I could leave.
So I did, and headed down to Costco to get dryer sheets and olive oil, and ended up getting that and a lot more, then headed for the ferry, where no one came near me with a Geiger counter, and came home to watch the second night of American Idol.
I’m supposed to hear about the test results in three days, which puts it into next week. I’m feeling better than I was over Christmas, and I’m glad this process is underway. I’m also glad I’m not in my 20s and dreaming of going on American Idol. I wouldn’t make it past the audition, if I dared to make it that far.
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