Petri Dish

Outside the window of your rehab/nursing facility, chilled by damp air and a cold breeze, I attempted to use
brainpower laced with heart to make a decision.  Overhead the grey clouds like impenetrable stacked
membranes hid the sun that at that very moment was enticing people in Florida to ignore the warnings
that the beaches are Petri dishes breeding the coronavirus.  Pressing close to the tinted glass of your
quarantined room, curving hands like an awning over my eyes, your figure dozed in a wheelchair near
the unlistened to animated blue screen. A slumped head, a slackened mouth, stretched neck muscles
leaving your chin as the support tripod. Dropping the palmed canopy, I wanted a moment before
knocking on the translucent barrier as I made an effort to envision being with you inside the 12 x 12 space with
the knowledge that we are not being allowed to leave the room.  The receptionist relayed this
information as if everything will go on perfectly fine. How can that be true? Is she daft to suggest that
any human will be ‘fine’ mandated to their room? The other consideration is how can living in a
building with hundreds of compromised humans be safer than taking you home? What the heart wants may not
be an action that is right.    

Last Saturday,  you had called me, ‘It’s a nightmare in here’ that was your first reaction when room
quarantine was enacted.  Staff had isolated all patients to their room where meals and therapy were
forevermore to take place.  No visitors, no dining hall, no Starbucks (even though there was seldom a
person manning the cafe), no using comfortable furniture to sit in quiet windowed areas where we
could pretend that you were somewhere you wanted to be instead of a rehab joint.  These were all the
reasons I had selected the facility … all those reasons were now off the decision plate. The mental
gymnastics halted … coronavirus had halted this for every family. Later, at the lobby door, I was
stopped by the attendant, you parked in the wheelchair at the hall corner waiting for me.
' For the safety of our patients, I cannot let you in' the receptionist chirped.

Glancing your way then eyeball to eyeball, the intensity of your message signaled: I want to come home.  
You reiterated this vocally to the executive director, who had bustled out of her office with the
heightened commotion. 'How do I know he is safe' I had asked.
'We screen every worker before they come in by taking their temperature', the answer matter of fact.
On that day, I talked you down...you could not walk.  How was I to care for you? Knowing your
stubborn nature I made my best plea, I could totally envision you breaking out not giving a shit where
you were going as you headed down Eleven-mile road in a wheelchair. Thankfully, you listened to
reason. 

Now a week later, the facts had changed, with the assistance of a walker, you can walk … laboriously,
cautiously but definitely...walking.

Your action, walking, changed the spectrum, the colors had separated like a rainbow, I had to focus on the green.
If the world as we know it locks down, would you be better off at home than in a community of
compromised bodies, weakened protoplasm, Petri dishes not of their own choice, but still a rich
environment to propagate the coronavirus?  A simple 'Six degrees from Kevin Bacon' game with dire
results.

What is the responsible action to take?  That past Saturday examining you from the vantage point of
the lobby door I had debated:  Should I bust through the secured door and wheel you out? Then
what? You could not walk.  The surgeon’s wound was beginning to heal on the outside of your
buttocks where the partial hip replacement is attempting root, the severed muscles forming what is left
of the back of your trunk had not healed. The prior October (2019), your second stroke (major stroke sixteen
years before) was followed by thirty-five days combating a staph infection contracted from an infected pic
line that had left you weak.  You had only begun the journey to gaining strength when your hip broke
separating the socket ball from the femur bone. Excruciating pain - an 11 out of 10 is your description and you are a stoic man not prone to exaggeration. You recalled that you did not fall. Later, the surgeon explained that when a person cannot bear full weight on their leg - as you have not - the blood flow is hindered over time causing brittle bones.  You could have simply turned and the bone snapped. This could happen again. And, I am afraid.

Will I be able to take care of both of us?  Do I have the strength yet one more time to take this task on?
Do I want to? Your health care has been a sixteen-year journey often with me pushing against the
heaviness of being your caregiver. 

Last week before schools closed in Michigan and our careers went into a holding queue, a co-worker
commented: 'You are the unluckiest person I know'.   I read too much about the world to think I am the unluckiest person. Daily, I stood at the edge of a mirky, black swamp of your health needs testing the water before jumping to the nearest dry spot. But, there have always been dry spots. Living in middle America surrounded by luxury and experiencing a full belly, I would feel shame to ever enter into the sinkhole of feeling ‘unlucky’.

There is exquisiteness that cannot be denied. Take, for example, breathing, the in and out of being connected to a larger whole. The intense fight a ventilated coronavirus victim battles to continue to breathe demonstrates the desire to stay in this world with family and friends. Knowing this confirms that 'doing my part' includes not falling apart.  

Thoughts return to you sleeping in a wheelchair. We are seventy years old this year 2020, for better or
worse (and there have been many 'worse'), we have struggled to stay together. I know exhaustion.  And, the
yang emotion of getting up renewed.  

You woke. My mental exercise dissipated as life experiences often had to put us on opposite sides of the
invisible but real spectrum. I paused.

Then smiling, pretending inner strength, holding up my cell phone, signaling you to
answer the ring.  Moving the chair with your one good leg, you maneuvered to the side table where the cell
phone sets beside a half-filled plastic urinal. The decision wasn't just yours. I also chose the Petri dish of two.

Aside: On the day of discharge as I waited in the glass lobby for the nurse to give me your prescriptions,
three people with white coats rang the entry buzzer. I listened as the receptionist tried to take their temperature.
They took turns examining the instrument. No, she wasn't sure she had another. And, interestingly, they
continued past the desk..a matter of fact.

Mirror Mirror

I recently read The Courage to Teach by Parker Palmer.  In the twentieth anniversary copy, Palmer challenges teachers to be open, reflective and communicative with other teachers. “The resources we need in order to grow as teachers are abundant within the community of colleagues.  How can we emerge from our privatization and create a continuing conversation about pedagogy that will allow us to tap that abundance? Good talk about good teaching is what we need to- enhance both our professional practice and the selfhood from which it comes” (2017 p. 149).  

Self-reflection is the beginning step to open helpful conversations with other teachers.  As I self-reflect, the questions I need to discuss come to the forefront. Teaching is a craft and being a master takes years and years of revisiting material and lessons that have failed my students.  Failing at a presentation can become a teachable moment when I am honest with students about my reflections. Perhaps I asked too much before the students were ready? Perhaps I did not ask enough? Hearing what students have to say about their experience a lesson not only is respectful of the learning process but also of the students.  Making the adaption to working in an elementary school when most of my career has been at the middle school and high school level has been wrought with self-reflection. What can I change in a lesson that will allow the joy of learning to shine? This experience is both humbling and strengthening. There are many times that I am asking too much.  Being able to admit this has from my observations created a learning atmosphere of trust between self and students.

Seifert and Sutton remind us that teaching is work “Keep in mind,

though, that a major part of the effort needed for action research involves the same sort of work—observing, recording information,   reflecting—that is needed for any teaching that is done well” (372).  Self-reflection and open honest conversations with the intention of understanding the subtle, complicated nuances of learning and the uniqueness of humans we work with (students and the adults) are the true steps necessary to mastery...these steps never stop.  

After self-reflection (that I recommend daily), I find mentors in books.  Reading has buoyed the creative spirit within as I work in a huge ‘system’ that is overwrought with the need to test and measure. The human spirit is alive in students and I see evidence in many children that their ability to be innovative is squashed in the day to day schooling routine.  When I feel particularly deflated, reading books such as Parker Palmer’s feeds my soul. The spiritual dimension of learning (the mystery) is often overlooked in our professional development. It is not the lesson itself but how the material is impacting the inner being of the child. I want my students to know that I care passionately about what we are exploring.  And, openness to respect where students are at the moment of teaching is the underlying framework. Palmer challenges teachers to self reflect “How does the quality of my selfhood form-or deform-the way I relate to my students, my subject, my colleagues, my world? (2017 p.4)”.   

I fail weekly but am successful enough times to keep going.

Resources

Palmer, Parker. (2017) The Courage to Teach Twentieth Anniversary Edition.  San Francisco, 

California:  Wiley.

Seifert, K. and Rosemary Sutton. (2009) Educational Psychology Second Edition.  Zurich,

 Switzerland: The Global Text Project.

Vulnerability

Whenever I have opened heart, mind and will to vulnerability, a space of tension is created where creativity and connection to humanity (or a particular human) can begin.  

Three weeks ago, I attended a leadership retreat during which the Quaker practice of deep listening took place.  My responsibility was to speak for fifteen minutes while a group of listeners take notes and ask questions that contained no advice or judgment.  Questions were to help me internally work through what my initial problem/discussion point was  based on the hope that internally each learner knows the correct path when taping into authentic self.

What I gleaned from this experience was:  

First, talking about a professional/personal problem while eight folks sit around me with tablets and pens is vulnerable. Second, talking for 15 minutes about self with zero feedback is emotionally excruciating.  Third, it is difficult for listeners to listen without putting their own spin or desire to give advice into play. If a person did ask a leading question the group mentor gently intervened and properly redirected how questions in the scenario should be framed.  

This experience was work for everyone involved as we discovered that

deep listening is intense and difficult. The other caveat for participants was that we were not to discuss ever, unless I initiated. At the conclusion of session - there was an exact time schedule adhered to - each listener gave me their full notes (which I am not ready to read yet).  

Afterward, the retreat continued with a weekend of lectures and meditations. Nothing else was said to me.

What I learned was how refreshing exposing vulnerability is when I know nothing is going to be said back. Being deeply listened to helped me expose authentic self and from this, opened my heart to possible connections.  

I've watched Brene Brown’s Ted Talk on vulnerability, I know that being vulnerable is difficult. Developing the courage and heart takes practice as our culture works hard to suppress.   I agree with Brown, if I want deep connections and a sense of worthiness, vulnerability is a necessity.

Who Knew?

I have been working as a publishing consultant for a group of writers in Milford, Michigan.  They asked me to write a foreword to their anthology.  I am sharing this foreword with you.


In the summer, I live on an island with no street lights. Walking the lane at night requires the shimmer of the moon or a flashlight in order to arrive at my destination.  Words on a page can be like that providing a ray of connection from one soul to another spanning time and place.  There are many celebratory and dark days in life; writing can offer hope, observation, remembrance, and understanding.

For the past three years, I have had the delight of facilitating a weekly Creative Process Workshop held in the Milford Senior Center.  Each attendee desired to reflect on life through the art of writing.  At first, meetings focused on the mystery of inspiration.  In preparation for each session, I researched what published authors had to say about the creative process, listening and recording ideas.

The home assignment was to sit before a blank page and trust that a unique voice would beam within.  As insight channeled through, the writer guided their pen or fingers on the keyboard to document, without judgment, every word until the page was ablaze with words.  At the next discussion, writers would read aloud what they had written and listeners would offer their thoughts.  By reading-out-loud, the writer could hear what was missing.  Changes were made, the re-writes began with one word, two words, and then full sentences until pens or keyboarding were energized beyond what we previously believed possible.  The Milford Writers had something to say and they trusted their muse to guide them.  We became charmed by the process.

After the first year we took a break to enjoy summer.  In the fall, the writers returned.  Notebooks filled.  We discovered that often the topic we thought we wanted to write about was not the story that clamored to be heard.  That insight was noted and those stories became alive on the page.

Personally, I have experienced joy working with this group.  No matter what was happening in life, Tuesday with the Milford Writers delivered possibility laced with an adrenaline rush.

Their anthology is an act of trust and should be read as work in progress.  This is their first publication.  Authors of the essays do not feel like they have arrived at their destination.  Instead, the stories are being shared with the hope of illuminating a path for themselves and perhaps a reader or two.  The title Who Knew! evolved from the surprise and pride experienced while producing this work.  Who Knew?

(Who Knew! can be ordered from Amazon.com or CreateSpace.com)

Your Voice is Music to My Ears

“Our culture changes at an astounding velocity, so we must change or pay a price for remaining the same. “   (Edmundson, Mark.  Why Read?)

Change is constant and to understand, analyze and evaluate, what is behind the current reality, we have to read.  Recently, a friend mentioned that her son hated to read.  This did not surprise me.  Each semester during my career as teacher/librarian, I would ask students what their favorite school activity was.  More than half ranked reading at the bottom. 

During our discussion, my friend asked if I had any advice for her son. 

 ‘Why don’t you read to him?’ I suggested.
‘Shouldn’t he be responsible for reading alone?  He is a teenager.’

Not necessarily, reading should be fun, an active curiosity about what we enjoy.  Teens have been told what they 'have' to read for so long throughout their schooling that many have shut down.  One way to capture their attention is to read to them.

There are several other benefits to reading aloud.  People enjoy being read to.  This experience is similar to listening to music.  Historically, there is an oral storytelling tradition; we are captivated by narration.  In the past, families gathered around the fire and entertained each other with tales of adventure.  Not a bad idea, throw a log in the fireplace, and create a mood on a dark, cold night.  With the perfect book in hand, read out loud.  We don't have to dig up the habits of our ancestors to make this point though, consider the popularity of audio books, video, and music.  We are internally wired to listen to cool stuff.  Why not be the voice that your teen enjoys hearing?

Reading aloud engages both the reader and the listener in the written word.  Be prepared for potentially amazing conversations.  A meeting together that has meaning unlike the following deep conversation that I am sure you have had:
‘How was school?’ 
‘ Fine.’
Sound familiar?  There is nowhere to go from that closed dialogue.  Reading side by side will give you better options.

Teens are busy; finding time to read and contemplate is not at the top of their activity list.  As my grandchildren move into the teens, I have to admit that it is difficult to experience meaningful, reflective moments with them.  Reading together can break through this barrier. 

The hook is to select a book that is extremely interesting to them.  Find an author that writes in language that will captivate a young mind.  This should not be ‘teaching a lesson’ time. Your teen will learn something but it should evolve within them from the images in their mind's eye; this is subtle.  No matter what topic they are attracted to, I can almost guarantee a magazine or book addresses that material. 

Reading is like any skill.  Here is an example:  I may want to play the piano; I may envision myself seated at the keyboard charming an audience with my artistic performance; but, if I do not practice, playing is not going to happen.  Reading is the same.  Find a book that excites them.  If you begin the reading, and the book is the 'right' one, the teen will be motivated to continue.  Trust me on this, those who hate to read think that there is nothing in a book for them.  Once enticed, they may be grabbing the text from your hands.  Maybe that's taking this too far, the grabbing, but they will be stilled, enchanted and listen.

What if they totally raise their backside in a huff?  No way; we are not reading!  Ask your teen if she thinks that all of her teachers are brilliant?  (Keep your tone smooth, calm, nonjudgmental.)  She’ll look at you with suspicion thinking that certainly you are daft for asking.  Be quiet.  Let her be the first to speak.  Believe me, the answer will be a resounding:  ‘No.’

Of course, not.  You can honestly agree with her assessment from your own educational experience. 

If students do not learn to actively select their own reading they are doomed to know only ‘what has been said to them’.  They have admitted that all teachers are not brilliant.  Suggest that you'll find an expert for them on any topic.  If they like skateboarding, read a book written by Tony Hawk.  If they like carburetors, read together about the design and how to reassemble.   The most talented people in any field write about their subject.  If you have a local bookstore, they will help you.  And, the library is free.  Try asking there and be surprised with how helpful a librarian can be.

Reading is an opportunity to explore what the genius on a particular subject has to say.  Reading lets us get the full account – both sides are published on any current trend or news story.  This search will not take too long on the internet.  Examine the credentials of the writer, the point of view – who they may be working for, and then… explore.

There are a couple of reasons to consider a book selection over a magazine choice.   A book takes longer to write.  The information has been scrutinized and has withstood ‘the test of time’; having said that, if the subject is cutting edge, a magazine may be the best choice.

 Ask your teen to try once with you...make sure you KNOW what they are drawn to. Buy the book (or go to your library) and schedule time to read together at home.  If you are at a loss, get the book that the last movie your teen raved about was based on. You will be pleasantly surprised at how receptive they are when the topic is their choice.

I am a reading advocate.  Most of my mentors have been people that I have not met personally; our intimate relationship, the author with me, has developed over time through language.  Reading has changed me for the better.
At this holiday time, give the gift of your time.  Read-aloud-time.  So, light the fire, supply their favorite snack, and give a memory that will not be forgotten.

Gandy Dancer

During a luncheon date, I shared that I sew a couple times a week.  Often every evening, on wintry nights when the sun has been shrouded with a dark, sable wrap by six o’clock.

“Every night?  What are you sewing?  My friend’s surprised tone slid up at the question mark.

I shrugged, “Lots of things.  I’m not great,” I took a sip of wine.  “Simple projects.  I like straight lines and uncomplicated patterns.  Most often I make quilted throws, curtains, pajamas for my grandkids.”

We were eating at a restored 1886 Rail Depot in Ann Arbor.  Outside the dining room an engine noisily clattered over the tracks pulling a string of heavy railway cars … clickety clack, clickety clack.  The glass seemed to visibly bow as sound waves bounced against the oversized windows; even the table moved. I instinctively closed my fingers around the delicate stem of the wineglass.  Choo choo!    

In the wake of the caboose, a sacred quiet settled over the dining area.  Our waiter returned setting a scrumptious Michigan cherry, walnut, blue cheese salad in front of me and a steaming bowl of creamy lobster bisque for my friend.  Simultaneously, eyes met across the white linen table top, and spontaneously with a clink of crystal, we toasted.   Cheers!

After savoring a bite oozing with sweetness of cherries spiked with the edgy smack of aged cheese, our conversation vibrated from fabric to art, and as always, we talked of the books we were reading. 

On the way home, her initial question about sewing pulsated.  Why do I sew? 

A while back, I lived for a year without my sewing machine and had been caught unaware by the feeling of inner loss.  I missed the studio I had designed … a place of my own where I could work.  Being away from the workplace where I safely exposed my artistic vulnerability was painful.  I became aware that participating in the creative process is integral to my well-being.  For me, sewing is a harmonious, spiritual expression and the intensity of the effort allows me to thrive. 

Stitching and working with a multiplicity of color and texture is a tactile experience that offers endless design possibilities.  Each stack of fabric is an invitation to journey to an unidentified end.  The array of abstract pigment, viewed in my mind’s eye, are replicated by arranging rough, smooth, and coarse textures and then, sewing them together.  At the moment when I picture where I am headed, where the fabric wants to go, at that wakefulness, I am aware of an adrenaline rush.  This unique titillation of every nerve ending permeates my senses motivating me to complete the work.  

Once a year, I take inventory of the leftover materials, discarding some, re-evaluating unfinished projects, prioritizing and consolidating.   This act of taking stock is useful reflection and promotes upcoming creativity.  During the sorting process, I organize cuts of fabric in groups of like color and textures.  As a result of last year’s inventory, that included ripping a variety of cotton into rectangular strips, I completed my first hand-sewn quilt.  Hand sewing had unexpected gratification similar to how I feel when I write an essay in long-hand.  The process kept me close to the work.  Using a machine is more like the rhythmic clickety clack of a train.  Hand sewing is gliding without noise.

I have stitched together pieces from other projects to celebrate what has been while looking forward to what can be.   A variety of choices can be re- arranged producing something beautiful and useful.  Like a recent rag quilt made of leftover fleece from every pair of pajamas made throughout the past ten years.  This quilt was backed and edged, hand bound, with flannel offering a cozy, warm fabric to snuggle in.  Upon completion the comments filled me like a delicious soup on a dreary day.  Look, that’s the material you made my pajamas from Grandma!  There’s a piece of my baby blanket!

A few months ago, I was given some gorgeous fabric that had been custom drapes.  I re-made into curtains.  This endeavor was satisfying and, although not the same since Scarlet made curtains into a dress, reminded me of that scene in “Gone With the Wind” when she looked at the drapes and knew the material could be something else.   Five windows in my home are now accented with what another person was sick of.  And, no one said:  ‘Frankly, Susan, I don’t give a damn’.    With each task; the design, the cutting, the pinning, the sewing, the final detail touches, I am keenly aware of balance… a peace infused into the chaotic, hectic business of living. 

Clickety clack, clickety clack, I am pulling a thread through time.  In the future, I can hear voices acclaim:  Mom made this or Grandma made that as a comfortable quilt is thrown over cold feet or wrapped around a new life. 

Gandy dancer is a slang term for a railway worker who laid and maintained the track.  When I die, and my spirit leaves this noisy life, chug, chug, chugging, aside memories, my sewing and writing will be left behind with intent, to help those I love steady their wine glasses in the wake of what was ‘me’.  It may be winter outside, but inside different houses my loved ones will be snuggled under soft, functional pieces of art.  If they are mindful, they will be alert to a vibration, a vibrato … the energy of me in each stitch … clickety clack, clickety clack, clickety clack.  Cheers!

You Can’t Teach an Old Dog New Tricks

 

Losing a library item aggravates me.  Not only for the simple fact that the item must be paid for, but because I know “it”, the illusive cause of frustration, has to be, must be, somewhere.  Inanimate objects do not metamorphose into animated rebellious minions.   I know this even though that subject, minions – loyal servants to a powerful being, who are recruited in a plot to take over the world, is the theme of the lost DVD. 

Several defensive thoughts came to mind when I read the library email notice informing me that there was no disc in the returned plastic case. No DVD?  I had watched from my car as my grandson opened the metal door and dropped it into the return bin.  I had put the DVD inside the container myself … hadn’t I? Yes, of course I had.

Outside the neighbor’s dog barked pulling me away from the computer.   At the front door, his entire body quivering in anticipation, was George on his daily round for a doggie treat.  I am not proud that at that moment, I considered the black French bulldog and the vindication “the dog ate my homework” came to mind.  Going to the library and blaming the dog – this was not my dog – even if I had a dog, the fact that the idea popped into consciousness was unsettling.   Really Susan?  I offered the treat to the sweet little furry visitor and followed this action with the admonition, “Now, go home George.”  As I shut the door, I recalled that once my grandson’s dog literally ate his homework.  And, telling his teacher did not save him.  What was up with these childish thoughts?  There are no library police. 

Even though from time to time I revert to illogical reasoning, there are certain truths that living has made clear.  The Velveteen Rabbit did not become real.  If I kiss a frog, it will not croak into a prince.   There are not vampires that bite.  (Yes, there are people who would like to suck the blood out of me, but that is another story.)  And, a DVD does not walk away.

There is a magic mirror in grandma”dom” (dom as in kingdom not as in dumber and dumber).  And this sage reflection told me that I would find the movie if I slowed down and retraced the trail of the DVD.

 Okay, forget the slowdown part, my search was frantic.  A where the hell did it go kind of search ensued.   First, I pummeled through the car, the trunk, under the seats… yes, I mean thrashed, a definitive neurotic kind of searching.  In my mind’s eye, I could see the disc being put into the plastic holder.  The case must’ve opened when dropped into the bin.  That was it; the movie was loose in the bottom of the outdoor return receptacle. 

Back at the library, I am proud to report that wisdom of age did keep my behavior in check.  By my age, the basket of miscalculations and personal screw-ups is overflowing.  (My culprit cup runneth over is clearly an understatement.)  So, at the checkout/return counter, I politely asked if perhaps the DVD was discovered loose in the outdoor receptacle.  Why no, if it was, we would have seen it.  I refrained from asking to check the bin myself.  (Yes, I wanted to.)  I did scrutinize the movie section, this effort produced two DVD’s.  Perhaps the Shelver put my DVD in the wrong case?  Why I thought that a duplicate case with the same title could miraculously store the lost disc is beyond explanation. 

“We would not have put two discs in the same container,” the desk assistant politely clarified.

Still she unlocked the cases and showed me (with a little more flourish than I deemed necessary) that I was wrong.  As she clicked the plastic shut, she kindly suggested that perhaps my grandson had slipped it under the couch because he wanted to watch it again?  That had happened to her … or so she said.  Or, could it have been put away with my personal DVD’s?  I was getting annoyed with this happiness and kindness.   Surely, she was not suggesting that my grandchild would hide the DVD?  I shared that I had looked everywhere.  She continued explaining very sweetly that if I could not find the DVD the cost was $22. 

“If I find it cheaper on Amazon, could I purchase and donate to the library?” 

For a variety of reasons, the answer to this was: No. 

Okay, I’m admitting that $22 was enough to make me pause. What is the cut-off mark?  If she had said $9.99 or $12.55?   If those amounts had been uttered, would I have pulled out my change purse?  At any rate, $22 was enough to inspire me to renew the lost item.  I handed her the empty case.  “Oh, no.  We can’t take a case with nothing in it.  You have to keep that.”  She slid it back toward me.  “The movie needs to be returned in it.”

Back at home, I was like a dog on a bone (or homework), I would not let the loss go.  $22.00 was twenty rentals from the RedBox, an eyebrow wax, lunch out with friends, a fairly decent bottle of wine.  For me, there was a lot at stake including my integrity as a former librarian – which I did not admit to the counter clerk.  And, I should be applauded for biting my tongue when she declared the impossibility of cataloguing a cheaper item found on Amazon.  Yes, of course an item can be processed by hand entry … whatever, I was well behaved and kept the information to myself.

Oh, please! I scolded myself … it is only a movie, but an obsessive compulsive nature had over taken grandma wisdom like a past lover or a straightjacket … hmmm, interesting comparison.    I re-searched the car, the DVD collection at home, and the couch sporadically throughout that day until the setting sun enhanced the horizon with a copper glow. 

Finally, I resolved to pay the money.  I did deliberate if I could make installments … a couple of bucks a week would lessen the mistake.  Or would it draw it out?  Enough foolishness; just add this to the blunder pile and move on.   Losing a DVD does not even nudge the measurement needle in comparison to other personal slip-ups.  Get over yourself and pay. 

On my “To Do List” stop at library was noted.

I slept well.

This morning, I was folding a blanket that I had swaddled around me while watching Lady Hawk – a movie in which the characters did metamorph - when a glint of silver shimmered beneath edge of the couch.  This gleaming curve contrasted against the carpet bringing me to my knees to retrieve.  Are you kidding me?  I was sure that I had looked in that same place at least five times. 

Okay, I give.  Bite me Baby!  Let me kiss a frog.  Yes, a stuffed rabbit lives in my hometown. 
And, that she, is going to the library this morning for her $22.00 refund.

Surely, a certain sweet, little minion would not have slipped the DVD under the couch?  Hmmm.  

As I adjusted the driver’s side mirror, the image of George lifting his back leg on my rear tire stopped me from starting the car.  This is how I am repaid for your daily treat?

I opened the car door.  “Go home George!”  He vigorously shook his muscular rump and scurried away.

As I watched him leap to the safety of his own yard, and truly he hops like a jack rabbit, I had to consider my $22.  Is it too early to buy a bottle of wine? 

Here is a final grandma truth:  It is definitely five o’clock somewhere!