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About Diana

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Chicago: August 1984 and July 1985

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Intro: From June 1984 to September 1985 our family of five plus two dogs traveled around the country in a three-quarter-ton reconfigured cargo maxi van pulling a thirty-one-foot trailer. Our trip began in Bellevue, Washington. We quit our jobs, took our three teenagers out of school, sold our two-story house, packed ourselves into the trailer, and took off on a grand adventure. Our 15-year-old nephew, Wally, accompanied us the first summer (four teens).

We had no cell phones, no computers, no GPS. We were off the grid. We didn’t even have seat belts. We traveled 50,000 miles crisscrossing the U.S. four times. Planning for the trip included library research and correspondence with all the Secretaries of State of each state we intended to visit. I had folders full of information about each state. Needless to say, the teens were not thrilled with the idea of spending fourteen months 24/7 with the old folks and missing a whole year out of school with their friends.


We went to all the contiguous United States, three provinces of Canada, and dipped into Northern Mexico a couple of times. After Christmas, we took a Caribbean cruise stopping at Jamaican, Grand Cayman, and Mexican ports. The objective was to show our kids their country, all the nooks and crannies, all the cultures and quirks, visiting museums, state houses, historical sites like Civil War battlefields, national parks, as well as small towns. We tucked in a few theme parks, and professional sports when a team was in a town we passed through. We endeavored to meet people in each region that make this great land. I am beginning to piece together our stories from letters, journals, photos, and memories. This is a snippet from our journey. These stories are taken from letters and journals written during the trip forty years ago and do not reflect the places as they may be today.


Chicago: August 1984 and July 1985
As we drove around the country we tried to stay on the “blue roads”, so named in the 1982 book by William Least Heat Moon, Blue Highways. It was one of the sources I used to plan our odyssey. That meant we were away from main highways – the red roads, arterials – instead using the minor, less traveled, roads that took us through small-town America. On paper maps – we didn’t have GPS or internet – the blue roads look like the veins of the human body, tiny but necessary for travel and commerce, the lifeblood of the nation. Big cities are very much alike but small towns are unique to their region and citizens. Of course, in order to visit major sites we needed to go into major cities.


We went to Chicago twice, once on an eastbound trip and once again on a westbound stretch. Both visits were too short. Some states we visited twice and some states, like Texas, seemed endless and it took us forever to get across.


Our family first visited Chicago in August 1985. At this point, there were five of us, Ken, me, and our three kids. Our nephew had to return to Bellevue before school started for the year. The closest campground we could find was in a town called Mokena about forty-five minutes south of Chicago proper. We parked our trailer there and ventured into the city. The late August weather was warm and sticky. Everyone wore shorts and short-sleeved shirts, except me. I had on a sundress.

We drove through the city and around the perimeter where we admired the Chicago River and the architecture of the buildings along it. We walked the Magnificent Mile with all the big stores such as Saks Fifth Avenue, and Bloomingdales as well as chic boutiques like Armani, Burdeen’s, and Gucci, none of which we went into. We saw the great Shedd Aquarium in its beautiful building filled with unbelievable beasties, amphibious and seagoing marine life. There are things there you cannot even imagine until you see them; plants that look like animals and animals that look like plants. The intelligent and curious octopi alone are worth a whole day. They interact with the public. I wish every large metropolis with a waterfront would take a lesson from Chicago. They made the lakeside a people-place with parks, museums, a planetarium, beaches, marinas, fountains, and gardens – all for everyone to enjoy. Their waterfront isn’t blocked off by factories, warehouses, or docks – it’s beautiful, clean, and fully accessible.

One of our friends told us we had never eaten real Italian food until we had food in Chicago’s Little Italy. So we set out for some REAL ITALIAN FOOD. Our local guidebook said that the Italian community in Chicago centered on Taylor Street. Consulting the map, we took ourselves to the west side of town. As we toured the neighborhood, we noticed large numbers of citizens loitering around street corners and sitting on stoops. The local occupation appeared to be indolence. There were dozens of boarded-up stores with Italian names even though the people on the streets didn’t appear to be Italian. Countless residences were rundown or abandoned.


While Ken drove, I pointed out Mama Rosa’s, Little Luigi’s, or Georgio’s as possible places for dinner. He shook his head.

“I wouldn’t leave our van on the street in this area,” he said. “I wouldn’t feel safe walking down the street with our family. We’re not eating around here. Look up something else, somewhere else.”

He turned back on Taylor Street toward downtown Chicago. I was not to be deterred. We were going to eat in Little Italy, no matter that the area had undergone a cultural transformation. We passed a restaurant, Bocciola della Rose (Italian for rosebud), with a fenced and gated parking lot. Three prosperous-looking senior citizen couples were entering.

“How about that place? The parking lot is gated and there is an attendant inside the fence. Don’t you think that would be safe?” I begged.
“Ok, we’ll try it.”

We quickly went around the block and returned to the gated parking lot where a young man of Italian descent, Guido, told us he would park our van and watch it until we finished dinner. Smiling from success, we proceeded into the dark narrow little restaurant which had a small bar as you entered the front door.

I led the way and, as the rest of our group appeared through the door, a tiny wizened lady rushed down behind the bar shaking her finger and head at us saying in very broken English, “We no serva the short.” It took three repetitions of this phrase for me to realize that she meant we were improperly dressed for her establishment. Sure enough, looking around we noticed all the men were wearing slacks and shirts with ties, some even had jackets and the women were all in dresses. – NO SHORTS. Imagine our chagrin after coming thousands of miles to eat in Little Italy, then finding its character altered and somewhat intimidating, then finding, with some reservation, a suitable place to eat and being turned away as undesirable. We left to continue our quest for Italian food in the Chicago loop. We ate our spaghetti and meatballs in Miller’s Pub on Wabash Avenue. Good American pub food, highly recommended and they serve shorts.

Our second visit to Chicago was, unfortunately as brief as our first visit the previous August…rush, rush, rush. We were there only a couple of days. We went to the top observation level on the 103rd floor of the world’s tallest building (at that time), the over 1,400 ft. high Sears Tower.


Visiting baseball parks to see professional games was part of the agenda on our trip. On Friday, July 12, 1985, we attended a Cubs vs Dodger game in the best ballpark we’d seen – Wriggly Field – a gorgeous real grass field, ivy covered brick outfield walls, and sunny blue skies. This is the city where fans fought for tradition – no lights at Wriggly. All games were played during the day. (The big business of baseball being what it is, that has changed. Lights were installed in 1988. Night games are played there now.) We stayed around after the game to talk to the winning pitcher, an L.A. Dodger from the Seattle area, Tom Neidenfurer. He won the game 7-4. Our friend Dickie Pederson had gone to school with him in Redmond, Washington and asked us to say hi to him if we crossed paths on our journey.

We returned to the Italian restaurant, Rosebud, which refused us service the previous visit because we wore shorts. This time we were properly attired and were served; cannelloni for Ken, lasagna for me, and spaghetti with meatballs for the kids. We were not disappointed. It’s a classy place with great food and a mellow musical accompaniment. Another evening, we went back to Miller’s Pub on Wabash. The local tavern filled with regulars who consumed large quantities of pasta, wine, and beer, while watching sports on TV had become our favorite, offering more comfort than class.


The next day took us to The Dells in Wisconsin and on to Appleton where my grandmother, Bessie, was born. She left home at nineteen to be a Harvey Girl and travel across the country to Wyoming where she met the love of her life. I wrote about her in my blog post of September, 2023. Travel and adventure run in my blood. I’ll add more stories to our journey as memories bubble up.

The “Little Woman” Steps Out

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Courage is not the absence of fear but the action in the face of fear.

Courage is being the only one who knows you are afraid.

In the 1960s, the women’s movement was beginning to heat up again after a lull of about thirty years. During the 1880s women’s rights were asserted along with freedom for slaves. That resulted in legislation promoting the equality of women in society. There was a pause in progress during the Depression of the 1930s. Women were actually fired from jobs in order for men to have work. Men were deemed to be more important in the workforce and women were relegated to their “natural place” in the home, tending children and husbands. Then along came WWII, women again became essential in the workforce to keep our economy moving as men were shipped overseas to war. When men came back from war, women were reluctant to cede their place as wage earners. The war of the sexes ensued and the 60s were marked by legislative and social battles along with commentary from both sides staring into the gender gap. 

I, on the other hand, followed the path prescribed by society in those days, a homemaker. Being a mom was what I loved most. The role of stay-at-home wife and mother was the norm and the expectation of women. Married women who worked outside the home were still unusual. The only jobs offered were as teacher, nurse, store clerk, waitress, or secretary. Nothing much was required from me in the wide world except to keep a pleasant home for my husband and raise healthy children.

Where do I fit into the scenario of assertive women? It was accidental. I never considered myself a part of the feminist movement.

Ken worked two jobs for over a year to get the $900 downpayment for our house which cost $16,950. We had a monthly payment of $130 per month for principle, interest, taxes, and insurance – a third of his take-home pay after he quit the second job. It was our first home, a three-bedroom, one-bath, 1,000 sq. ft. mansion. We had two children, a baby and a 2-year-old, at that time. We moved into our house in a small community of Woodinville, Washington near Cottage Lake in December 1967, a neighborhood of one hundred very modest, indistinguishable homes. During the summer of 1968, I noticed some problems in our home. It was under warranty. I notified the builder, Miller Homes, and was virtually patted on the head and told, “There, there those are just normal things to deal with in a new home.” I did not believe them.

Ken said he didn’t believe it either. I called the Fire Department and asked for an inspection. They came out and found several code violations including that the vent over the stove was not connected to the outside. There were insulation, structural, and safety issues. I contacted the builder again with a request for someone to inspect the house and fix the problems. I was ignored. I ruminated on what I, a lowly 22-year-old housewife, could do to make the builder pay attention and fix our warranty problems.

I decided my lone voice was not enough. I typed up a petition of grievance, took the inspection report I had, and went door to door to each of the one hundred homes to ask people to check for problems and to sign the petition if they wanted warranty repairs done. I also told them I was going to picket the nearby new neighborhood where our builder planned a Grand Opening. I asked if anyone would like to go with me. I had 100% of the homeowners sign the petition and four people agreed to come with me on a Saturday to picket with our petitions.

I made signs out of butcher paper and markers for my car and the cars of the other volunteers. “DON’T BUY A LEMON.”  “BUYER BEWARE” “READ THE WARRANTY”. I wasn’t real sure of the law and I didn’t want any sign that named the builder or made direct reference because I didn’t want to be sued. I planned for us to park across the public street from the Grand Opening and stand by our cars with the signed petitions of grievance and the inspection report. I figured we’d attract enough attention that people would come over just to find out what we were complaining about. Maybe it would inform their decision to buy a Miller Home.

On the Saturday of the Grand Opening, all the people who said they’d go with me backed out. My husband was staying home with our two babies. A dilemma. Was I brave enough to go by myself and take the consequences alone? I decided I had to because I promised everyone who signed the petition that there would be action.

I did as planned. A little unsure of myself at first, I wondered what the reaction would be. Most of the people going into or out of the model homes walked across the street to hear what I had to say. I gathered courage from the response of prospective buyers thanking me for the information. After about thirty minutes, the sales manager came over and told me to leave. I declined. I was on a public street and told him he couldn’t make me leave. He said I would face legal action. I still declined, saying our next step was to complain to the State Association of Contractors. Finally, three men came over and said if I would leave, they would take a copy of the petition to the builder. I gave them a copy and left.

On Monday morning, my husband received a call at work. The builder told him to tell me to stop harassing their new home site. Imagine, telling a husband to silence “the little woman” who was making a nuisance of herself. Ken, my very strong, supportive husband, told them I was my own agent and he was not going to say any such thing. He said I had every right to do what I did and would continue until our demands were met. He went further to repeat we would report the builder violations to the State Association of Contractors if they didn’t comply.

The following day a representative of the builder came to our house and, sure enough, a swarm of construction workers went from house to house fixing the warranted problems that had cropped up in the homes. It took a few weeks to complete their tasks, but everyone was finally satisfied. I didn’t have to picket again. Once I knew I wasn’t going to be shot or sued, I enjoyed the attention and the hoopla created among the men. They took me seriously – no more dismissive attitudes.

Monsoons

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Late Summer 2024. This is the best time of all in the desert when luxurious rain drenches the parched earth. Rivers and washes flow. The hills and mountainsides turn dark green. In summer most places in the U.S. dry out, the earth turns yellow and brown. But Tucson blooms. The delicate trumpet flowers of Texas Rangers flaunt various shades from the soft lavender of a morning sunrise to deep purple vibrations of a shiny eggplant. Succulent plants flower, pink, orange, red, and white.

Texas Rangers

This is the time I love the most. I have never understood why people head for the north country during summer in the desert. It is absolutely the most glorious time. The desert comes alive. Yes, it is hot, very hot. People don’t stay outside in 103 degree heat just as they don’t stay outside in 15 degree cold. Our hottest month is June and it tapers off through September. Only 50 or 60 out of 365 days are unbearably hot. Those are mercifully interspersed with cooler days of monsoon or mini-soons. We have become soft and civilized. Natives of this land lived and survived outside for generations. We leave an air-conditioned home, get in an air-conditioned car and go to the air-conditioned place of choice. Unbearable days are spent in air-conditioned homes, stores, restaurants, and offices. Movie theaters are kept at icy temperatures requiring a sweater as you watch your favorite stars act up on the screen.

I walk in our nature preserve almost every day, rain or shine, hot or cold. In summer, I set off early before the sun takes full command of the sky. I pause in shady places to examine the trees, meadow, and flowers around me. I come home drenched in sweat but so happy to witness the changes in the desert. In winter, I leave later in the morning and eschew all the shadows to take full advantage of the warm sunshine.

Most humans are comfortable with temps in the 60s. Anything below 80 degrees makes me shiver and requires long underwear. It is not because I have adapted to Southern Arizona. I’ve always been this way. I froze in Seattle for forty years, with temps rarely above the 60s. I’ve come to my comfort zone in Tucson.

Mama Quail with her brood

Bunnies become fat and sassy. Therefore, the coyotes have wonderful feasts and fill out their bellies as well. Plump quail parents shepherd their tiny eggs-on-legs babies across the path. Snakes are out warming their cold blood along paths and walkways. Best to avoid them although most are harmless. We do have the occasional rattler. Happy lizards and geckos of many types skitter through the brush. I stop to take photos of any cooperative critter. Javelina are most amenable to pose for me, so I have scores of javelina family photos.

Funny Bunny posing
Javelina Family

Ooooo – clouds have gathered, thunder booms, the branches of our big mesquite are bowing in the wind outside my window, and fat drops of rain splatter the walkway. The temperature fell from 101 to 78 in 30 minutes and humidity went up from 14% to 51%. I’ll go now to enjoy the show.

Cactus Flowers
Rattle Snake sunning on path
Horny Toad

The Shark and Me

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I must confess, I am not a cleaner. My house has been kept tidy for years by an army of lovely women who like to clean, clean, clean. It is very low on my priority list. Since we retired, Ken said it was no longer in our budget to have housecleaners. He stepped up and said he would do it. Now we share some of the tasks because I like to keep the kitchen ship-shape so I can cook, which I love to do.

I recognize that clean is a relative term. One person’s clean may be another person’s squaller. My mother for instance was a clean freak. She loved to clean.  She had a full-time weekday job but it was her passion to spend hours on the weekends keeping things spic and span, washing everything from knickknacks to floors, woodwork and walls, dusting, mopping, etc. She derived great joy from her efforts.

As a young married, I tried to emulate her cleaning regimen but was never able to summon the passion. As our family grew, I drudged through a succession of small abodes in those early years like I was slogging uphill through mud. It never made me happy like it did her. Everything that was cleaned was dirty again within minutes. Ugh, I hated it.

I developed a skin condition called psoriasis. At that point, I was mom to three children under four years old, and with all the diapers (back in the day before paper diapers – everything was washed), kid cleaning, and house cleaning, my skin rebelled. I’m sure it had something to do with my reluctance to clean – a deep psychological kickback. The skin on my arms and legs cracked and bled. They were irritated, itchy, and painful. It began to creep up to my chest and neck. Then along came my knight in shining armor. My doctor pronounced that I was sensitive to dust, household chemicals, rubber gloves, even water used too much would make my delicate skin break out. In short, I was allergic to housework and if I didn’t stop soon the disease would become chronic. Well, I couldn’t stop cleaning my children so it was obvious that I would have to stop cleaning my house. Ken agreed to immediately hire a house cleaner. Within weeks, my skin condition cleared up completely and has never returned.

Ken was good to his word at retirement and shouldered most of the housework. Sixteen years later, Ken had to go into the hospital. It was supposed to be an overnight or maybe two-night stay but turned into three nightmarish weeks. At first with my attention totally on Ken and his physical wellbeing, I ignored the house. I kept the cat boxes changed. I didn’t cook so there was nothing to do in the kitchen. I was home only a few hours at night and that was spent trying to sleep.

I began to notice large clumps of black fur, white fur, brown fur. It is summer. The cats are shedding. I never saw that before because Ken would have the vacuum out whenever anything landed on the floor. I haven’t touched a vacuum in fifty years and hadn’t a clue how to start it. I needed some guidance so I could clear out the fur that was becoming ankle-deep. I imagined that when Ken came home it might be waist high at the rate they were going.

Ken said it was so easy and gave me a rudimentary lesson. I went home, and pulled the vacuum from the closet. That’s when I noticed it was named SHARK. The ominous theme music of JAWS ran through my head. Why was it not named Mrs. Trilby or Mr. Pristine – making one think of helpful servants, not a predatory monster.

Me and Shark had to get acquainted. He is an upright kind of guy, at least three and a half feet tall. In order to get his wheels going he needs to be clicked out of his military posture into a more relaxed sloping position. The problem I had was that his upper part (the heaviest section) when released, wobbles, swirling right or left and back again. He has very little control over his own movements when clicked out of his upright posture. Ken says he weighs about fourteen pounds, but I swear I was wrestling fifty pounds as I tried to get Shark to straighten up, mind my commands, and go in a steady line. He has three levels so he can pound on carpets or glide on tile and something in between. I had a hard time getting the correct setting while keeping his body from spinning around. I was holding the handgrip with two hands, like grasping the dorsal fin of a rampaging Great White as it veered this way and that.

AI-generated picture, not an actual photo

On my first try, I managed to sweep up a clump or two of fur but stopped as I started sweating. It just can’t be that hard. It was late at night, and I was really tired, I reasoned. The next day I tried again and didn’t get much better except I had Shark on the right setting.  Three days later, I left the hospital early (before dark) and got home determined to conquer the damn vacuum. I pulled Shark up to my chair and had a talk with him. I explained that Ken was ill and couldn’t be his partner in the cleaning dance. He would have to accept me and be patient with my clumsy steps. I tried not to blame him since, after all, he is a machine made by some satanic engineer, but it was difficult to keep from crying. I begged his indulgence as I pushed the start button.

It worked. He was rather more accommodating as I went from one room to another. We seemed to have reached détente. I wouldn’t say buddies, but at least noncombatants. The floor was beginning to reappear. Just as I was feeling downright successful, Shark tripped me. He wrapped his cord around my ankle and almost sent me down. I recovered, pulled the cord from the wall socket, and unwrapped my leg.

“Why?” I asked.  “We were getting along so well.”

Shark didn’t look the least bit chagrined. He stood there in that nonchalant posture daring me to blame him for my ineptitude.

“You just wait until Ken gets home. He’ll make you obey.”

I swear Shark shrugged.

DIANA – the magazine

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I had so much fun with this idea, that I passed it on as a prompt to our writer’s group. The prompt was to envision yourself as something other than a person. Tell your story as if you were a building, a musical instrument, a machine, or any inanimate object. I chose a magazine.

Diana – the magazine

This magazine has been in print for seventy-eight years and witnessed many important events of the late twentieth and early twenty-first century. The slick glossy cover has transformed over the years. It has a more homey feel now.

The magazine has all the requisite sections including:

an Opinion Section where thoughts about current politics and local events are offered and discussions are welcome;

the Food Section offers luscious recipes of all kinds (the editor reserves the right to modify them at will);

the News Section where the daily events are downloaded and recorded for posterity;

the Puzzle Section where the conundrums of everyday life can be sorted and resolutions proffered;

the People Section is where relationships are explored and developed, gossip is encouraged if it has a positive vibe, and Grandson news is at the top of the page;

a write-in Advice column is active;

a Pet Section includes articles about cats, dogs, horses, guinea pigs, hamsters, rabbits, and bearded dragons. Recently added are articles about wildlife including javalina, coyotes, bobcats, deer, and a variety of birds. We may have to start a new section called Nature;

an Amusement Section contains articles full of unbounded happiness and optimism with lots of laughter and good humor;

during the 1980s and 1990s, the magazine had a robust Travel Section with mainly national and some international reporting. This section has been devoid of recent articles (travel having lost some of its former luster with delays, restrictions, and bullshit), but the management hopes to include more in the future;

the Sport Section contains sailing, skiing, horseback riding, and baseball articles with Baseball reporting the most invigorated at present (basketball news is rejected). Walking, as a sport, developed as physical limitations to the machinery producing the magazine became evident;

the Music Section explores popular music from the 1940s through 1990s, an emphasis on the 1980s, a modicum of present-day composers and singers, with a nod to the classical genre, especially Debussy and Vivaldi; Elvis, Sinatra, Alan Jackson, and Jimmy Buffett are prominent contributors;

a very active Literature Section features interviews with contemporary authors, along with reviews of books old and new, both fiction and nonfiction, and special interest in history. Stories and poems are published in this section;

a Wisdom Section was added in 2000 in acknowledgement of and engendering discussion of all things of a spiritual nature; a response to the natural facts of our human condition as we age;

a supplemental In Memoriam Section is published semi-annually in recognition and appreciation of those who made significant contributions to the magazine over the years but have moved on to a cosmos beyond this.

This magazine was initiated in Wichita, Kansas in 1945 and thrived there under loving development for about twelve years. Then the headquarters moved to Bellevue, Washington for a period of forty years. A co-editor was added in 1964. Then three satellite editors came on board in the late 1960s, adding extra depth and heart to all the articles produced.

When the machinery started locking up due to the cold and damp in the early 1990s, the magazine relocated to Tucson where it is currently ensconced in a more conducive environment. We plan to continue publication for the foreseeable future. The times they are a-changing, and we look forward to an interesting second quarter of the twenty-first century.

This magazine will no longer be featured at the front of the magazine section of the newsstand, taking a more unassuming place for discriminating clientele near the back.   

*photo is AI generated.

Living and Learning

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Every day brings new opportunities to learn. Sometimes they come as bangs on the head, not literally but emotionally. Sometimes they are more gentle, as an answer to a question you didn’t know you had. These past few weeks have brought so many of both kinds that it has been difficult to keep up.

My husband went into the hospital for brain surgery in May. He has Parkinson’s disorder, a complicated and hard-to-diagnose movement and cognitive disorder that, once contracted, is a life-long companion. There are many approaches to living with Parkinson’s. Each person must research and decide what works for them in the daily battle to make life as normal as possible. It is an individual decision, and it is important that family members and others close can buy into the tactics.

Parkinson’s affects more than just its target human. It affects those around them. The natural reaction of a Parkinson’s sufferer is to withdraw. Withdraw from family and friends and the world at large. Not because it is embarrassing to tremble and shake and move like a sloth but because those outward physical symptoms make others uncomfortable. The uncontrollable shaking of limbs can, at first, look funny. Just stop it. The unnatural movement of the head can cause derision because in the world of normal movement, the head and mouth are controlled, and shaking only happens when someone is acting silly. Speech becomes faster, softer, and nearly unintelligible at times. It is as though the tongue swells, the vocal cords become slack, and the brain cannot moderate the pace of words. Communication is difficult. I, as a “second-degree” Parkinson’s sufferer, had a hard time accepting that my husband’s involuntary muscle contractions were going to be a part of everyday life. Ken is a lifelong athlete. From childhood into his 70’s, he participated in sports. Moving and controlling his body has been a hallmark of his existence. He was an elite athlete in school and signed a pro baseball contract with a bonus right after high school. After he was injured and could no longer play pro ball, he continued in amateur athletics, playing baseball, softball, basketball, tennis, golf, etc. He was always on the move, a big strong guy.

My husband lost the use of his right hand a few years ago. He is predominantly right-handed in everything. He couldn’t feed himself using his right hand. He couldn’t do the simplest of tasks, even blow his nose with a tissue, using his right hand. He learned to be more adept with his left hand and eventually that was affected. How is it that a simple task you never think about becomes impossible? Not just difficult, but impossible. His right hand might as well have been cut off. It was useless. More than that it was annoying, moving uncontrolled. The disorder enlarged its landscape to encompass his head, his jaw, his left arm, both legs and feet. By midafternoon every day he was exhausted by the constant uncontrollable movement of his body.

I was amazed at the grace with which he accepted his disorder. He did not display anger or ask “why me?” He worked hard every day to find ways to use his body with its limitations. He continued to do as much as it allowed him to do even though it took much much longer. He assembled two occasional tables I ordered from Amazon that came in pieces. It was a simple thing he would have done in fifteen or twenty minutes but took hours. He had to stop every few minutes to allow his hands to calm down. The concentration on movement exerted to place a screw and turn the screwdriver caused stress that would send him into a tsunami of unintended movement. He was resolute not to let Parkinson’s win. He did it and we have two very nice tables in our family room. An Olympic accomplishment with Parkinson’s. Brave, determined, and persistent are his pronouns.

We have always walked. Well, in younger days we jogged. Just a few years ago we’d go seven miles in a circuit of our neighborhoods. Usually, we walked three miles at least three or four times a week. Ken’s walk became slower and more tortuous. It was hard for him to move his feet. He said they stuck to the ground. His walk became a shuffle and his back became stooped. He still walked our street, about a mile, each day but it became slower and slower. He had to stop several times and his balance was iffy. Of course, falling is a horrible secondary problem that can happen. If he fell, he couldn’t get himself up and I certainly couldn’t lift or move him.

After exhaustive research over a couple of years, Ken decided to have DBS surgery, Deep Brain Stimulation. Two electrodes were placed in either side of his brain connected to a lead that goes into a device implanted subcutaneously in his upper chest. It is sort of like a pacemaker for the heart, but it controls the brain. He had the two-part operation last month. After some weeks of healing, his stimulator was activated a few days ago. It is a success! His tremors have been substantially reduced. His movement is freer. His walking is improved. He is fully able to do daily tasks to take care of himself. He is even back to cleaning out the cat boxes. He is not all that he expects to be and there will be more appointments over the next few months with the neurologist to tweak the settings as his body adapts to the implants. It is another step along the Parkinson’s journey. It is not a cure. There is NO cure for the disorder, but it will allow him to have an extended period of time, several years, with minimal or no outward symptoms.

Along the way, through nearly three weeks of inpatient care, we both learned patience. Not just the word but the actual fact of patience. In the hospital, the very busy staff tried to keep up with requests. Push the button and someone will be in to help you…go to the bathroom, sit up, get back to the chair, get back into bed, get a drink of water, take a pill, etc. The time between the button push and the actual help could extend to what seemed forever. It is called “hospital time”. We learned to honor hospital time. We knew the nurses and techs had more than one patient to attend. My instincts are to “just do it”, whatever was needed, but when I was there, I could get him food and drink and that was about it. I was not allowed to transfer him or help him get up, or take a short walk, because of liability issues. An alarm was put on his bed so if he moved to get up it screeched – jailbreak, jailbreak. The staff took it that he had fallen out of bed and dropped everything to get to him. Not a good look when all he wanted was to get tissue from the table that was too far to reach. Patience.

We are deeply grateful to the talented surgeon, Dr. Julie Pilitsis, and her stalwart team of neurologists (too many to name here) who came up with solutions to the challenges of Ken’s Parkinson brain. We feel blessed that the DBS option was available and worked for him. Thanks to some very dedicated therapists, we also learned the difference between the Parkinson brain and the normal brain. When Ken thought he was talking normally, Parkinson was deceiving him. When he thought he was taking normal steps, Parkinson was deceiving him. He had to realize that his perception was being modified by Parkinson. It was an ah-ha moment for me too. He wasn’t being purposely obstinate when I said to speak up. He thought he was speaking clearly. He is signed up for outpatient therapies, but we are on “insurance time” waiting for a slot to open for him in a month or so.  Until then we have improvised a regimen at home. He wants to recover the strength he lost over the time he was inactive. He is doing physical, speech, and cognitive therapy every day to regain vigor and relearn things we used to take for granted.

Our eight-year journey with Parkinson’s continues.

Wish

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A writer can find inspiration in anything. As I was taking my walk this morning, I noticed a small piece of paper lying at the edge of the street. I picked it up. Litter, you know. I’ll throw it away when I get home. Then I looked at it. WISH. It looked like it was from a student’s vocabulary worksheet. Inspiration! Why did I happen to find the paper? What did that word say to me? There are messages even in trash. What is a WISH?

Will
Intent
Spontaneity
Health

I continued to walk and these words came to mind. Will, Intent, Spontaneity, Health. To make a wish come true you need Will. Intent is a reason, a goal, to keep the dream alive. To be able to fulfill the wish you need to be Spontaneous as options appear before you. And of course, you need Health to enjoy the WISH when it is achieved. I’m sure I’ll discover a story in there at some point. Stay tuned.

You may think of other words that speak to you about WISH. I’d love to know some of them.

Do What You Gotta Do

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Nellie Mae stepped back into the cook shack after ringing the big brass bell that hung between two poles at the edge of the back porch. It was a call to breakfast for the men in the peach orchard. Her bare feet scuffed across the wood threshold into the cook shack. She figured she had about fifteen minutes before they appeared in the yard to wash at the pump. They had been hard at work since just before dawn with only the bread and cheese they grabbed to start their day. She made breakfast by about eight each morning. The merciless Kansas wind that awakened with the sun had subsided to a heavy breeze as the day ripened. It was mid-July, the second picking of the trees. They liked to be finished by two when sweat from the heat and humidity blinded their eyes. Nellie Mae’s dad and five brothers made up most of the crew. Four hired men helped through harvest season.

The long trestle table at the end of the room was set for ten with big tin plates, cups, forks, and spoons. Each man carried his own knife. Coffee was made. Cream was in the pitcher. A platter was heaped with chunks of ham, fried fatback, and twelve pieces of fried chicken left from yesterday’s dinner. A big plate of butter sat between two jars of blackberry preserves. Four dozen biscuits were piled in a red woven cloth basket at the end of the table. Sausage gravy bubbled in a small pan at the back of the wood-burning stove. The oatmeal was ready and all she had to do was scramble the eggs. The chickens gave thirty that morning.

Nellie Mae gripped the big handles on the hot cast iron pot with two towels to move it to the side of the wood-burning stove so she could begin the eggs. One hand slipped and the pot fell to the floor. Oatmeal spread in a slow ooze. Nellie Mae jumped back and looked around for a solution. No oatmeal was not an option. She didn’t have time to cook up a new batch.  She grabbed the wide trowel she used when making bread dough and quickly scooped the oatmeal back into the pot, setting it on the stove. She took a jar of left-over cinnamon she had grated for cookies two days before and dumped it into the pot. Dust and cinnamon look roughly the same. Then she added a generous pour of maple syrup and stirred the whole thing quickly. She moved it to the counter beside the stove and got her pan out for the eggs, scrambling them with green onions fresh from the garden. The floor was sticky where the oatmeal landed so she dragged the oval braided rug from by the door to the front of the stove. She knew she’d be washing the floor as soon as the men returned to work and before she could start fixing dinner. She served dinner at three.

The first one through the door was Uri, a hired man from Germany. Prussia, he insisted. He was slender built and shorter than her husky red-headed, blue-eyed Hutchison clansmen whose ancestors arrived from Scotland generations before. When she first met him, Nellie Mae thought he was Cherokee with his swarthy complexion, nearly black hair, and hawk-like nose. Her brothers respected him because, even with his slight build, he was as strong or stronger than any of them.

Uri carried a bucket half full of blackberries. He handed the bucket to her. He looked directly at the rug then his snappy brown eyes smiled at her.

“Just came up to pick berries for breakfast,” he said in his slight accent. With a head nod, he indicated the window across the room from the stove. Blackberry bushes grew on that side of the cook shack among the windbreak trees.

“Thanks,” she replied. A niggling feeling of being watched came over her. Passing by the window, had he seen what happened with the oatmeal?

“I think I’ll skip the oatmeal today,” he said with a wink.

She heard the men in the yard washing dust and sticky peach juice from their hands. One by one they filed in scuffing their feet at the door where the rug usually lay. It was there to catch the dirt and debris from the orchard before it could get all over the house.

“Whadya do with the rug?” William, her eldest brother asked.
“My feet got cold while I was cookin’,” she answered, not daring to look toward Uri.
“Get some shoes on, girl.”
“Too busy.”

They took places on long benches at two sides of the table. Nellie Mae scooped a helping of oatmeal in bowls for each man, except Uri. A quiet giggle bubbled up in her every time she looked at him. She could tell he was stifling a laugh too.

“Not sure I like what you did with the oatmeal today,” her taciturn father commented. “Too sweet.”
“It suits me right down to my toes,” her youngest brother, Ben, chimed in.

The Encounter

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Recently I was on my way into one of the mega hospitals in Tucson to visit a sick friend. At the entrance are two sets of sliding glass doors. I was entering the outside set and could see a woman holding an infant carrier coming out through the inside set of doors. I readied my smile and words of congratulations on her little treasure. As she came closer the words died in my mouth and my smile faded when I looked into her face. It was a mask of infinite sorrow. I’m sure she didn’t even see me through the tears that threatened to overflow onto her cheeks. I glanced into the infant carrier and saw only a wadded pink blanket. My mind began clicking away at the incongruity of the baby carrier and the sad face when I saw the sign inside the lobby. This hospital is a Safe Haven newborn drop-off site. A place where an infant less than 30 days old can be left, anonymously, no questions asked. The baby is cared for, then placed into the arms of a loving family who wants it.  Arizona passed the law in 2001 authorizing such safe places to avoid unwanted infants being abandoned to die.

This was a hard post to write. Understanding the difficult reality for other people takes me out of my secure, happy existence and makes me once again realize how very fortunate I am. That encounter lasted less than 30 seconds and a dark blue cloud hung over me the rest of the day and, in fact, I still feel it when the memory passes my mind. I harbor a deep sadness for the infant who was put in a Safe Baby box, instinctively aware that the mother she had been a part of for at least nine months was no longer with her. I felt empathy for the woman who made the heartbreaking decision only she could know and understand that she had to give up the child she carried inside, under her heart for nine months. I am grateful for compassionate lawmakers who sanctioned these safe places to save innocent infants, giving them an opportunity to thrive in families that want to raise a child. A mixed blessing.

The Storyteller – A Beginning

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Once upon a time…

There was a little girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead
And when she was good, she was very very Good
And when she was bad, she was Horrid.

That was a rhyme my mother told me many, many times when I was a child. I believe she meant it to describe me. Of course, I think of myself as a totally sweet, big blue-eyed, curly-headed little girl with a streak of adventure. I’d do almost anything on a dare. But I was also kind to animals and did mostly what I was supposed to do. I think the operative word there is “mostly”. I strayed occasionally although not really on purpose. I didn’t INTEND to be naughty. It just sneaked up on me.

I remember very clearly a time when I caused some chaos – unintentionally of course.  I was in first grade, six years old. I walked to school each day with my friend Billy Baird who lived next door. He would come to my door, or I would go to his in the morning and we’d set off together for the three blocks to Woodland Elementary School. One day, I stopped by his house and his mom told me Billy was ill. He had a cold. She asked me to tell our teacher that he would not be at school for a day or two. I was a bit miffed because I had something really important to talk to Billy about. I went to school and when I arrived, a funny thing happened.

My teacher asked why Billy wasn’t with me.

“Well,” says I. “Billy had a terrible accident. He is very sick, has a bad high fever and broke his bones and wouldn’t be coming back to school maybe for the WHOLE year.”

Our teacher was very worried, a reaction I expected. At recess, I repeated the story to other classmates expressing great emotion and concern. They too were curious about what happened. I declined to give any other details, telling them I’d let them know more later. I think I believed I could get some mileage out of that attention if I continued to add to it daily.

After school, I walked home. My nanny gave me my snack and I played outside and all was well until my mother arrived home from work.

“What exactly happened at school today?” her voice was stern and accusatory.
“Ummmm.” I couldn’t think for the life of me why she was mad. “We played skip rope at recess. I got to do double dutch,” I offered.
“What about Billy?”
“He didn’t go to school today. He was sick.” I still wasn’t catching on.
“How sick was he?”

Now a light was dawning.

“Aaaaaa.”
“Did you tell your teacher he was in an accident? Did you tell her he’d be out of school for the rest of the year?”
“Aaaaaa.”

Now remember – this was in olden days before instant communication and cell phones. How in the world did SHE know what I said at school?

“You told a lie, Diana. A whopper. You have to apologize to Billy’s mom, the teacher, and the whole class.”

My knees turned to jelly. My insides churned. “It was just a story.” I stammered.

“It was a lie and many people were concerned”, she repeated. “Your teacher was very upset and after school called Billy’s mom to find out what happened to Billy. Mrs. Baird, called me at work and let me know what you did. Now you have to face up to it and let everyone know you are a liar.”

She marched me next door to tell Billy’s mom I was sorry. Billy stood behind her with a big smirk on his silly face. I stuck my tongue out at him as my mom turned to leave after a brief conversation with Mrs. Baird. I went to bed that night hoping the angels would take me to heaven.

Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
If I should die (please, please) before I wake
I pray to God my soul to take.

I survived the night and, with extreme reluctance and a very dry throat, walked to school with my mother to tell the class that I told a story. No, Mom insisted, I lied.

It seemed an injustice to me that my story was more interesting than Billy’s, but I was being punished. After all, I didn’t hurt Billy. He was fine. No harm, no foul. He went back to school the following Monday (I didn’t walk to school with him) and everyone crowded around HIM telling HIM I had lied about his cold. HE was the big deal, not me. It took a few days for the storm to pass. I was shunned by all except my best friend Lois who forgave me instantly. Finally, everyone seemed to forget about it and life continued in its pleasant middle-class suburban way. But the storyteller in me grew and grew. And now I can write stories, and no one can stop me.  Did I learn a lesson? Guess not.