4/22/10

Scrapbag

Sometimes of an early morning, as I stir and stretch, my mind drifts in the stillness of a new day and I begin to wander through the homes where I have lived.
Today, it’s my childhood home—a lovely Tudor-style single family that my mother and father had built just before the end of WWII. It was a split level, unusual for its time, with four bedrooms, a bath and a half, a family room, laundry room, basement and attic. It cost $12,500. We moved in the summer of my fifth birthday.
I enter through the milk chute. In those days of home delivery, it was a handy place for the milkman to stash the bottles, but also provides an emergency hatch if you find yourself locked out. For a few years, anyway, until you get too big..
Once inside, I’m standing in the laundry room—a full sized room with washer/dryer, double laundry tubs and a whole wall of built in cupboards and closets. I envy it now. In winter, the popular feature is the Mitten Rack. I think my dad built it. It comes out from the wall with arms on either side to slip on soggy mittens after a day on the slopes.
Through a short hall is what we call the Pine Room, paneled in knotty pine. It houses our upright piano and also a wonderful vent in the wall that pours hot air out between the couch and bookcase. In one corner is the infamous Dragon Vase, which I inherited. With good reason. I used to stash my old apple cores and tangerine peels in it.
Up a level is the kitchen with its family table in front of a picture window. There are glass shelves on it that hold an assortment of knickknacks. I can almost taste the mashed carrots and baked potatoes that kept our insides warm in winter and the exquisitely decorated birthday cakes.
On that floor is the dining room, scene of Sunday dinners with family, as well as Thanksgiving. Also, the living room, traditionally furnished with a cheery fireplace. In front of the picture window, I see our German feather Christmas tree, decorated to within an inch of its life. It’s a comfortable place and used quite a bit. In Lent, I see us all kneeling to say the Rosary, and in a sadder time, it holds my father’s casket.
The major staircase, where I learn the words “newel post,” leads up to my parents’ bedroom and mine. For a time, I shared it with my sister Kathy, six years younger than myself. I think we may have engaged in a few hostilities here and there. There is a cubby hole in my bedroom. I think it was to keep blankets in, but it was also great for trying out my brand new super-duper glow-in-the-dark decoder ring as soon as it came in the mail.
Up a few more stairs is a landing and a full bathroom. It’s there I construct my May altar to the Blessed Mother, with strings of blue and white crepe paper and vases of sweet-smelling lilacs, tulips, and lilies of the valley.
Off the landing is my brothers’ bedroom with its plaid wallpaper and my older sisters’ room, with its huge walk-in closet where I once hunted for Christmas presents in early December.
All windows have storms on them in winter to keep out the cold. However, at the bottom is a slot that can be moved up to expose three holes that let in the crisp night air.
The attic tops the house. It’s where our Christmas tree is kept, and the old glass-fronted bookcase that holds my dad’s medical books. I love thinking of the fact that it now holds our son’s medical books.
I cast my mind around one last time, spying the fruit cellar in the basement where my mom keep the jars of tomatoes, from which she makes the most awesome spaghetti sauce, simmered for hours in the deep well in our stove. I see the screened-in back porch so good for summer sleeping without mosquitoes, and the detached garage and double drive-way where I once practiced three point turns because nobody could go out and work on my driving with me. Sheltering the yard is the huge split-trunk maple I brought home as a small twig from Aunt May’s house. I climb it and sit among its branches once again.
There are other houses that I will wander another day, perhaps none with quite so many memories. Satisfied, though, for the moment, I rise and start the day.

Scrapbag

The Arizona sun feels warm on my face and my whole body is just sucking up all the Vitamin D it can absorb. Peering out from my sandals, my toes look the happiest they’ve been for months, even though a pebble occasionally jumps up from the trail to lodge under my foot. After enduring piles of snow for the past two months, everything feels delicious.
Moving ahead, trailing behind, or amiably ambling next to me are my two brothers and three sisters. We’re exploring the fascinating Desert Museum outside of Tucson. It’s a museum, zoo, and botanical garden all in one and I’ve been making the acquaintance of some animal species I’ve never encountered before, such as the somewhat pig-like javelina, which roams wild and like our deer, can do a number on local landscaping. In one cage is a roadrunner, running, of course. The video on my camera isn’t fast enough (or I’m not) to capture him, but he climbs up on a pile of rocks and poses for a still shot. One of my sisters comments that until recently, she thought a roadrunner was just a cartoon figure. That’s not an uncommon belief, I’ve discovered. But he’s real enough. Just doesn’t go “meep-meep!”
As we wind around the museum’s paths, we also encounter a variety of cacti and other desert flora. Some of it is in bloom, although they do say in a few weeks, it will be quite colorful. (Which seems to be the story of my life, at times. Either too early or too late.) We find a hummingbird garden and see a mother hummingbird sitting on her nest. Also, a bird sanctuary, which sports quail and other birds unknown to easterners. We see a wolf, rattlesnakes, a gila monster, bobcat, birds of prey, and iguana, to name a few, before deciding that our feet need a rest and head for the charming open-air restaurant and lunch.
We are spending the week in Tucson, the six of us. Every day is a new adventure: the Saguaro National Park, Sabino Canyon, the Mission of San Xavier, the Tubac art colony, Biosphere 2, Old Tuscson (an old West movie set), and the Kartchner Caverns. At night, we relax and have a happy hour, during which time we dredge up all the old stories/arguments and do a lot of laughing. Then we eat dinner, followed by a soak in the hot tub (or gene pool, as my brother calls it) until bedtime. For a bunch of old—well, a bunch of seniors, we’re doing pretty well. In fact, we are mightily blessed.
This is the third time we’ve taken a “siblings trip,” the first about ten years ago, right after we officially became orphans. Ranging from our 60’s to our 80’s, we live a fair distance from each other and so it makes sense. We’ve been gravitating to the Southwest, which is fine with me. Yes, at times tempers flare and the old “I did not!” “you did, too!” surfaces. Kids, take note: some things really do never change.
But generally speaking, we’re family. And in the long run, all that counts.

Scrapbag

SCRAPBAG

Hate taking pills?
You’re not alone. None of us likes to think of our body as less than perfect, and unfortunately, the older we get, the less perfect it is. At some point in our lives, most of us will face the fact that we need a little help if we want to hang around awhile.
I’m not talking about tossing down an aspirin or Tylenol once in a while for a headache or sore toe, or maybe a few of the big boys after major dental work or open heart surgery. It’s the every day, maybe several times a day, for the foreseeable future pill popping that’s the most irritating, and the type that everybody in their 30’s and 40’s claims they are never going to succumb to.
Hah!
About ten years ago, I could answer the question “What drugs are you taking?” pretty easily. In fact, the nurse used to look up and say, “Is that all?” Well, no more. The vials in my bathroom are now lined up like a platoon of those Chinese terra cotta warriors all around my sink.
Let’s say your doctor has given you the good news (you’re alive) and the bad news (it’s questionable how long). And say you’ve finally gotten to a grudging acceptance. You fill the prescription, only to have a new host of problems arise. Your bottle might have a little label that says “take with food. Pretty easy. However, what if your doctor adds yet another drug for that or another condition. Which, of course, says, “take on an empty stomach,” so taking them together is not an option. And that’s if you only have to take one pill a day. But what if one is once, but the other is twice of three times? It’s easy to see that as things add up, you’re going to have a scheduling issue similar to Amtrak.
Fear not. Medical science is wonderful. Even now, they are trying to come up with ways of reminding you about your meds so that you won’t have to worry. The Wall Street Journal recently published a story about some of these developments. One company is considering putting what is known as a “GlowCap” on top of your prescription bottles equipped with a wireless transmitter that plugs into the wall and which “emits a pulsing orange light” when it’s time to take your pill. “After an hour,” the Journal article goes on, “the gadget starts beeping every five minutes, in arpeggios that become more complicated and insistent. After that, the device can set off an automated telephone or text message reminder to patients who fail to take their pills.”
OMG! as they say. And what if when, as has been known to happen, I completely forget the entire morning array? I can see my bathroom looking like a “Q” performance of the Trans-Siberian Orchestra. And if I happen to be a complete no-show there (i.e. I’m off running errands), Verizon would be absolutely delighted to put through those calls and texts on my cell phone. At an additional charge, if I go over my allotment of minutes that month. There are other options, too, including a micro-chip that you swallow and which alerts you to a missed dose, an iPhone app, or even a personal call from your pharmacy if you haven’t renewed your prescription lately, asking if you need more information.
A brave new world, indeed. Best option? Stay as healthy as possible. And invest in pharmaceuticals.