How we Hurricane

First, Hurricane Florence is not funny.  There are a lot of people who are suffering.  The storm has literally crawled across the Carolinas at a pace slower than one walks.  It has been seven days in the news before she even stepped a toe into the Piedmont area, in the form of light showers and winds.  Our coastal brothers and sisters have flood waters to contend with and no power.  Yes, we had plenty of time to prepare.  Yes, we waited and waited.  And yes,  here in the Piedmont, we’ve had way fewer effects than anticipated, praise God.  Still, rain continues to fall.  Rivers continue to rise.  Branches and trees continue to topple.

Saturday morning came, and with it the steady rain.  Cancellations abound, and many of us hunkered in.   Sue-on-the-corner sent out a text inviting us to gather at her home for Trivial Pursuit, Baby Boomer edition, sans board.  Just as we did when she invited us all for a Snow Day Film Fest a few winters ago, we  gleaned our cupboards and fridges of crackers, cheese, snacks, and the obligatory wine.  Two times a charm, Sue is now our official “Inclement Weather Hostess.” 

We thought the Baby Boomer version of Trivial Pursuit would be a piece of cake for four of us.  Our fifth player had no chance in hell, anyway.  She is a Julia Roberts lookalike, the lovely, Dr. Loli, here from Argentina to do a fellowship at Wake Forest Baptist Medical Center.  She stays with Sue-on-the-corner (not to be confused with Sue-‘round-the-corner.)  Loli not only is not anywhere near a Baby Boomer,  she has a cultural disadvantage, but we were to discover that we all were disadvantaged when it came to Robin, the actress, who knew every song, entertainment, and news question.

Since we had no board, we made up our own rules, and after a few rounds, we saw ourselves being trounced by Robin, who finally ended up answering all the questions, anyway.  We then turned to good old conversation, solved the problems of the world, and compared American life, death, and television with that of Argentina.  Snacks gone, wine drunk, daylight ebbing, we rugged up in our foul weather gear, and headed for home. 

And that’s how we hurricane here in our little neighborhood. 

Guess which one is our Baby Boomer Trivial Pursuit Champion.

Photo, courtesy of the Lovely Loli.

 

 

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Hunkering Down for a Hurricane

 

Well, this is a new one for me.  I’ve written about snow storms in the South, but so far, hurricanes have been for those other people on the coast.  Apparently, not this time.  We are expecting Hurricane Florence to hit sometime after the next forty-eight hours, and she is supposed to be a doozy, heading straight inland with 80 mph winds.  (I’m bordering the bright orange to orange colored areas.)

I wasn’t especially concerned until my sister in Greensboro texted me.  Here is what she said, paraphrased, “You better get yourself ready, and those fur babies of yours, too.  Get gas so you can escape.  Have their carriers ready.  Make sure you have light, and fill a cooler with ice.  Also have cash, and food.  Fill your bathtub with water.”  Okay, so some of that could have sounded more urgent in my own mind, and some could’ve come from my brother, as well, and oh, the TV.

So I had to ask…escape?  Escape where?  What’s the cash for?  What’s the gas for?  What do I put in the cooler, for heaven’s sake?  And the bathtub of water?  Won’t be drinkin’ that.  A wine stock-up, I can see, but that wasn’t on the warning/preparatory list.

The tub water is for flushing.  Oh, yeah.  Good plan.  The gas and cash are in case a tree takes out my roof, and I have to take the “kids” and stay in a motel.  Food,  also, a good plan, and ice cream won’t hold.  The ice and cooler’s for wine, I guess, though I’m good with room temperature.  So maybe it’s for milk and hard-boiled eggs.

Now I’m getting sort of nervous, and then my neighbor tells me when Hugo struck back in the day, she was without power for six (6!) days.  So I’ve gathered up all my yard art and bird feeders to save them from blowing all over the yard.  I’ve turned my deck furniture on its sides, and yes, I got gas, cash, and will fill the tub tomorrow.  Hoo-boy.

I just hope all this is for naught.  Meanwhile, I may just be making a wine run, as well.

Knees

It’s back to school time.  And though it’s just first weeks, I found myself subbing and surrounded by young people.  That led me to thinking…

It is amazing how the human body is designed.  This first came to my awareness when I broke my dominant right wrist back in 2011, in the depths of my brokenness.  Yes, pun intended.  Wouldn’t you know that I had to actually, really break something, to get my attention.

Anyway…I had an elbow cast which locked my arm at a right angle.  I couldn’t do much of anything with my right hand…couldn’t brush my teeth, fasten my bra, and even more personal self-care tasks.

All that made me think at the time of the miracle of engineering, by which we were put together.  It’s a God thing.  And it all came to mind when I thought about knees, this past week, as I watched kids rapidly run up and down three flights of stairs.

I was subbing for the Middle School, and I had stair duty.  The upper school really is upstairs.  At dismissal, the kids leave by the stairwell, and my spot was the mid-tier.  Hoo-boy.  You should see the way those kids go downstairs!  Those feet and knees move at super speed!  I used to go downstairs that way.  I remember.

Nowadays, I often go down the steps one at a time with the same foot.  Mostly, it’s slow, sometimes I go right left, but I always hold a rail.  I have a fear of pitching forward.  It’s all in the knees.  And the quads.  I’m fairly light.  I’m fairly agile.  But…hello, 70.  Body parts just wear out.  Knees and legs don’t lift the body, or let the body down, as it were, like they used to.  Falling is a reality.

It’s good to notice what used to be, and appreciate a good working body that is now.  The kids next door and my nieces and nephews remind me of agility and the spontaneity of life.  As for me,  I just want to be able to move, yes literally move through the rest of  my life.  Oh, welcome back to school!

Because…Friday.

Wait in the Waiting Room

“Wait” is my year word for 2018.  Who knew I would need such a word on which to rely?  Well, I guess we all know who knew.  But it wasn’t me, at the time it came to me.

I, along with my sister, have spent the entire month of August in waiting rooms at Wake Forest Baptist Medical Center, right here in Winston-Salem.  Baptist is a teaching hospital, and according to the standing adverts in several now familiar waiting rooms, rated the “best in the state” and “one of the top in the nation” in neurology, according to U.S. News & World Report.  That rating has been a source of consolation, but I am going to tell you, the waiting rooms would not receive such accolades.

There are waiting rooms, and then there are waiting rooms.  I never knew there were so many kinds of waiting rooms.  There is one for everything…for the CT scans, for the blood draws, for the EKGs, for the families while their loved ones are in surgery, for the doctors’ appointments, and for admissions and for discharges.  There are waiting areas, not to be confused with actual rooms,  for the transport vans to arrive and drop.  I think there are waiting rooms for the waiting rooms.

My step-dad is enduring a medical crisis, and Baby Sister and I are his “go-to” people.  We’ve developed a criteria for a good waiting room, and here is it, in no particular order:

Good magazines.  Up-to date, but Field & Stream doesn’t cut it.

Snacks.  Close by, not three floors down, and seven corridors to the left and right.

Comfortable seating.  Preferably a recliner or two.  Definitely a sofa or two.

Available blankets and pillows.  We would greatly appreciate the warmed up kind, please.  Those places are like a butcher’s freezer.

Attractive wall art.  I guess cows are acceptable.

T.V. with working remotes.   NOT tuned and locked in to Fox News, for Lord’s sake.  A loop of all seasons of Big Bang Theory might be nice.

And frankly, a complimentary cocktail bar would be a real perk, but I’m guessing that is just crazy dreaming.

Our Five Star ratings go to the Neurology Waiting Room, 4th floor, Janeway Tower and the Family Waiting Room of Surgical Services.  They both have huge windows overlooking the city to the west and the helicopter pad.  We can see the comings and goings of the emergency chopper, the weather, and  feel like life still moves forward.

I have to say that Family waiting at the Neuro ICU, Ardmore 5th floor, is pretty good, too. Maybe four stars.   There’s a little kitchen with microwave and fridge.  One family we talked to had set up a nice little camp at one end of the lounge.  They’d been there a week, and were from out-of-town.  There is always someone who is worse off than you, if you look around.

Meanwhile…we “wait.”

 

 

 

 

Bathing Suits…

Remember those days when “sun bathing” was a summer activity?  We used baby oil as suntan lotion.  Sometimes we used cocoa butter, and ended up smelling like we’d just left Hersheys, Pennsylvania.  We’d lay on our towels on the beach every Saturday and Sunday, occasionally going into the water.  Remember our “healthy” glow, the supple skin, the bikinis, the sundresses.   Yeah.  Me, neither.

I never appreciated my tight, youthful skin.  Nowadays, the skin is lose.  A few folds, even, if truth be told.  A little cellulite, or maybe a lot, some curves where curves aren’t meant to be.  And then there is the pooch in the belly area, even at a near lifetime low-weight.  The spider veins are prominent.  It’s  not some thing I ever expected to happen to me.  Yet, here I am, and glad to be so.

I bring up all this, because I was thinking about bathing suits.  The Australians call them “cossies,” for bathing costume, and I think the term today is “swim suit.”  Because… swimming.  In my life, I’ve had two bathing suits that I loved.  One was my little girl suit.  It was what today we would have called “color block” with part black with small roses, and part white with small roses.  I suntanned through the roses, and had polka-dots on my bare skin.  The other was my teen suit which was blue and white striped.  I ended up with stripes suntanned onto my bare skin.

A year ago, I had to go suit shopping.  Not a fun activity.  Frankly, one of the turn of the last century middy/sailor/full body cossies would have been best.  They, unfortunately, are no long available at Costco or Target, where I was shopping, because it was the end of the season.  SO, I bought these two suits.

I ended up not participating in the swimming event for which I bought the suits.  I’ve never worn either.  I doubt I ever will, but…you never know.  I may wear them when I go to Australia the next time, and swim in the sea pool.  No one knows me there.  Or to water aerobics.

Or not.

 

The Southern Drawl

I didn’t grow up in the South, but as we say, “I got here as soon as I could.”  When I moved to North Carolina, the first time, in 1964, I admit, I was totally culture shocked.  I found myself having to ask for translations of our English language, much like I have to do with my Australians.

People “cut on” the lights, and “toted” their sacks, and got a “buggy” when they went to the grocery.  More than the phrases, though, was the delivery…the soft sounding vowels and the dropping of the final “g” at the end of gerunds.  Then I moved away after a dozen years, and when I would order (times before online ordering) from Hanes on the phone, I would engage the operator  just so I could hear her talk.  I would tell her I was homesick for her accent, and she would remind me that I could come back anytime.

When I finally did come back thirty-five years later, I knew that Thomas Wolfe was dead wrong…you can come home again.  I also found that the Southern Drawl, as I had known it, has been watered down.  The influx of transplants, like myself, has changed the accent, and I am hard pressed to find the voices of my misspent Southern youth.  Still, I never get tired, even at my age, of being called “Baby Girl” and “Darlin’.”  The lights are still “cut on,”  the “buggies” are still stacked at the grocery, and the sacks are still “toted,” thankfully.

During the time that I was away, I was never accused of having a Southern accent, though I was accused of having Southern pronunciations…specifically, “m’arm” for my arm.  Imagine my surprising myself just yesterday, when I was talking to a friend, and I actually found myself saying, “All y’all,” with the accompanying arm swoop, I might add.  I knew I was slipping into a drawl when I would say, “Hail Mary, fulla Grace,”  but “all y’all” even took ME by surprise!

Yes, I got here as soon as I could.  And I prolly got back here, as soon as I could, too, bless ma heart.

 

 

 

 

Wisteria

I love a good vine, and there is no better vine than Wisteria.  It’s the viney-est vine I have ever come across.  I first saw Wisteria at a beautiful place in Sedona, Arizona called L’Auberge.  I was enchanted by the gigantic clumps of purple flowers that flowed down from the most amazing arbor, covered.  It would have made a great wedding canopy.

My Wisteria is more like something from a science fiction movie.  I have literally had nightmares about these vines creeping through my summer windows while I slept to overtake me in my bed.  The other day, I wasn’t sure if my wisteria would even wait until the night.  I was sitting on my bench in the front, catching a break from yard work (a.k.a. weeding), when I looked over to see this…the reaching, stretching, waving tendrils coming right at my face.  Chilling.

My sister planted Wisteria, on purpose, to grow up over her deck.  It was like Kudzu, and eventually came up through the floorboards.  My Lake sister did the same thing.  Again, on purpose.  She looked at me the other day, and said, “I’m going to regret it, aren’t I?”  Ya think?

My Wisteria comes up randomly in the yard.  I mow it.  Two years ago, I got so tired of the Wisteria War, I bought a trellis, and stuck it in the ground.  The picture above is the result.  Remember those Sedona grape-y bunches of flowers I was so enamored of?  Never seen ’em on my vines.  I think L’Auberge had some Disney-type person that went out and pinned up a massive amount of bouquets for the entertainment of the visiting public.

I do love a good vine, but I desire flowers on mine, and it’s just not happenin’ with my Wisteria.  Not happenin’ with my Trumpet vine, either, but that’s another story.  Hoo-boy.