https://pulsevoices.org/stories/the-screening

            So, I had the surgery, the surgeon sewing that tendon back in place. (Who knew you could use needle and thread on a bone?) I’m thankful for the nerve block that lasted the first one and a half days because even with it, the pain was fierce. The ice machine helped, though not significantly. The oxycodone they gave me helped as well, though I limited myself to half a pill twice a day and stopped it altogether after three days. No way was I getting hooked on that.

            I lived in my recliner the first two weeks, eating, sleeping, reading, hurting. I got up to use the bathroom and take an occasional shower, but those movements were brief. I learned to wipe with my left hand, let my husband soap and rinse my hair, and wrote with my left hand (legible, though not pretty). My arm was in a sling 24/7, except for the few minutes I ventured into the shower and the three times per day that I did the recommended exercises: swinging my arm like a pendulum, lifting it up and down. Painful, so very painful.

            After a couple weeks, I transitioned to the bed at night, supported by a wedge cushion and extra pillows under the damaged arm. It was rough, sleeping flat on my back without the ability to roll to one side or the other. But I survived, doing little every day but reading and dozing.

            An inkling of freedom came after six weeks when I was allowed to ditch the sling and proceed to physical therapy. And wow, did that ever help! Sure, it hurt to extend my arm more in different directions, but the therapist’s massaging of my shoulder and arm helped tremendously. After my first session, I even dared to drive the car. 

            I resumed my walking routine, enjoying it more than ever before. I don’t know why it’s taken me until age 71 to realize that Fall is my favorite time of year. The beautiful colors have buoyed my spirits each day, reminding me to thank God for His wonderful gifts: trees, rocks, leaves floating through the air, the roaming deer, mountains peeking through clouds, the ability to walk outside and see it all.

            My therapist measured my range of motion, comparing my uninjured arm to the one requiring surgery. She talked with me about how I typically used my arm and quickly gathered that playing the piano was important to me. She asked my favorite kind of music to play. Classical, of course. Beethoven, whose powerful music allows me to pound away my stress. Though I suggested it would be a while before my arm was strong enough to play Sonate Pathetique with the intensity it required.

            As soon as I got rid of the sling, I was at the piano, stretching my arm to reach high notes. And did it hurt my shoulder? You bet. But I was determined to reach those ending notes of Clair de lune, so I kept at it. Doable, as I played with a light touch, but still painful.

            Have I tried Beethoven yet? No. But I chuckled when I learned that my therapist wrote in my chart that the goal was “Beethoven by Thanksgiving.”

            That’s worth working for.

            They’re called urban deer, these animals that roam my neighborhood. Many people consider them a nuisance since their tendency to eat flowers and trees negatively impacts landscapes. To me, they’re a gift. The small spotted babies, white tails flipping, are the picture of innocence. They look at me with black, unblinking eyes, unafraid. I minimize my movements to keep from startling, not wanting to frighten them, but at the same time hoping they will fear humans. Hunting season, after all, is just around the corner.

            Yes, hunting season, a disconcerting time of year. I have family and friends who hunt and confess I have difficulty reconciling their sport with my love of these animals. I understand if their actions serve to put food on the table. I eat innocent chickens and cows, after all. Hunting simply for a trophy, though, seems cruel and unreasonable. Go shoot some targets, boys.

            The animals graze close to the street where they show no hesitation in stepping out and slowly crossing. They don’t shy away from passing vehicles, unaware, I suppose, of the harm they might come to if hit. Like children, they don’t fear the worst—probably can’t imagine it.

            I’m the opposite, always preparing for that worst-case scenario, endless possibilities streaming through my mind. Not wanting to be caught off-guard, I live in a constant state of anxiety. I’m sure that has served me well at times, maybe preventing tragedies of my own. But anxiety gnaws, eating you from the inside, and that can’t be healthy.

            I believe God is in control and I’m in His sovereign hands. At the same time, that trust doesn’t blind me to the what-ifs. I pray that God would strengthen my faith, that He would give me a deer frame of mind. Innocence without fear.

            Sounds like heaven.

Though I loved seeing my grandparents, my favorite place to stay during our visits was at Uncle Leonard’s house where I could spend time with my cousins Frances, Johnny, and David. Frances and my sister Debbie were a bit older, so they tended to hang out in Frances’ room for girl talk. Pretty boring. I, on the other hand, felt right at home with the boys.

My memories are varied, but vivid. Having boy-cousins to pal around with was akin to having brothers, something I never experienced. Other than taking Sunday afternoon walks through the woods with my dad, I’d become acclimated to doing indoor girl stuff: cooking, sewing, and the like. It was great to get a new perspective.

Johnny liked to draw pictures of a guy in a lab coat with wild hair, a mad scientist who I took to be Johnny himself, a self-portrait. As smart as Johnny seemed, I fully expected him to make great scientific discoveries, though if he has, he’s never told me about it all these years later. Of course, we haven’t kept in touch too well, so anything is possible.

We liked to roam the big, rocky hills behind my cousins’ house, but always had to be wary. Most of the boulders were owned by a neighbor who didn’t like kids on his property and was apt to appear at any time, said the boys, with his shotgun. I don’t recall encountering him, but I was sure he lurked behind every rock. Did that make me feel bold and daring? You bet it did.

There was a yard a couple doors down littered with neglected apple trees. One time, the owner left a basket of rotten green apples in his yard. David rounded up firecrackers from somewhere and, sneaking into the yard after dark, we put one in each apple, lit it, and then threw the apple into the sky, trying to hit bats. It seemed like fun…until one of the dazed bats got tangled in my hair. That put a stop to it. No more good times with apples and flying creatures.

David and Johnny sometimes turned their garage into a haunted house with flashing, colored lights and things dangling from the ceiling. They would lead me through, eerie music playing, and since I was told to keep my eyes closed, I nearly jumped out of my skin every time something brushed across my face. They were scaring me to death, yet I counted on them to protect me. 

Ever heard of scrapple? It was some sort of meat Uncle Leonard made that we would fry up for breakfast. I had to Google it to learn its ingredients: fried pork scraps and trimmings combined with cornmeal or flour and spices. Hmmm. Doesn’t sound very appetizing, but it sure tasted good to the younger me.

I have memories of more than adventuring with John and Dave. There was the West Virginia State Museum located in the basement of the Capitol building in Charleston with the one and only exhibit I remember: the dressed fleas. Yes, you read that right. Dressed fleas. Remnants of some long-forgotten flea circus. The tiny insects had to be viewed through a microscope. I was amazed that someone was able to dress them in clothes, until I finally understood that the clothes had been painted on. Still….

And I can’t leave out Blenko Glass in Milton, West Virginia, a maker of hand-blown glass since 1893. My parents always delighted in seeing the craftsmen at work and took me often to watch. I’ve had a couple of their double-spouted pitchers for years and suspect I’ll acquire more of their artful pieces on my soon-to-come next visit.

I’m preparing now to relocate to West Virginia, something I never anticipated, but necessary if I want to stay close to my grandchildren who just moved there. Will I see those cousins I enjoyed so long ago? I’ll be in Charleston, about an hour’s drive from Huntington, close enough for visits. Cousins renewing acquaintances with cousins. Second cousins meeting second cousins (my children), and third cousins meeting third cousins (my grandchildren) for the first time.

It could be a confusing mess, but if I reconnect with my cousins, make new memories with my grandkids, and get to see those dressed fleas again….it’d be heavenly.

            I stopped eating chocolate for six months while following an anti-inflammation diet. The diet included eliminating sweets and increasing consumption of protein. It seems the protein saved me from the expected chocolate withdrawal headache, so I thought I was home free. But then I realized I couldn’t think. I would sit down to write, and nothing would come from my empty mind. Words that earlier excited me now seemed dull and lifeless, giving no impetus for self-expression.

            My brain wasn’t receiving signals from my chocolate sense, which is, apparently for me, a requirement for healthy mental function.

            Typically, when a person lacks a certain sense, the remaining senses become more acute in a positive way. When I go without chocolate, though, the result is not positive. My sense of hearing increases maddeningly; the slightest sound is liable to make me blow a gasket. Not a path to increasing harmony in the home or workplace.

            So now I’ve fallen off the no-chocolate wagon and am thinking more clearly. Happier? Certainly. Enjoying all my senses without putting any of them into overdrive serves me well.

The East is where I’ve spent most of my life, my familiar stomping grounds, but how I will miss the beauty of Montana. I am in awe of this place where I’ve striven to be rooted. “Bloom where you’re planted,” the old saying goes and I’ve tried to do just that, to become established where I am. I’ve been here two and a half years, hardly enough time to become fully rooted, but I’ve given it my best shot.

There’s much to miss. The endless azure sky, gazing beatifically through the clouds, makes my heart feel at rest. The enormous billowy clouds in various shades of white and gray, floating above my head and sitting on the shoulders of the huge mountains that surround Missoula take my breath away. Those mountains have rounded contours that were carved by a receding glacial lake, but beyond, I can glimpse the Mission Mountains, the higher, more rugged peaks, teeth outlined by snow.

‘Tis a delightful place to be rooted.

During childhood, my family moved frequently which impacted my ability to make friends, to feel comfortable in school, and to feel that I had a home. That’s why place is important to me, why I’m a homebody, able to sit happily and comfortably in the place I call home. That’s also why it’s hard for me to leave.

I ponder where I should be rooted. In a place? In people, specifically, in family? Or should I simply be rooted in God and God alone?

Jesus said, “If anyone loves me, he will obey my teaching. My Father will love him, and we will come to him and make our home with him.” (John 14:23 NIV) That sounds like a true home.

Jesus goes on to say, “I am the vine; you are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing.” (John 15:5 NIV) Abiding in God, being rooted in Him. “He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand.” (Psalm 40:2 NIV) 

I can think of no better place to be rooted.

I looked quizzically at my granddaughter. “The music sounds like yellow?”

She nodded and went on to explain that she and her younger brothers had been assigning colors to things. She gave the days of the week as an example.

“Mondays are blue. Light blue.”

“Interesting,” I said. “What else?”

“Fridays are green.”

“Green as in go?’

“Yes. Fridays are green…and skinny.”

I gave her comments a lot of thought and then finally turned to Google to see what I could learn about senses triggering other senses. It’s an actual thing, called synesthesia. Webster defines it as a subjective sensation or image of a sense (as of color) other than the one (as of sound) being stimulated. Wikipedia says it’s where stimulation of one sense results in unexpected stimulation of a second sense. It can cause a person to experience a color when listening to certain music—thus explaining Hannah’s sensing yellow because of a section of music. In a similar way, words can trigger the sense of taste.

It’s no surprise then that Hannah said of the six bookmarks she made for my birthday, they were for “all the delicious books” I’m reading. The bookmarks, strings with beads at each end, were of different lengths and colors. The shortest, nine inches long, displayed blue beads and a tiny white seashell. Next in line, at eleven and three-quarters inches, came one in turquoise and green shades, anchored by a small silver fish. Then came the bone marker at twelve inches, beads in brown and ivory made out of, if not pieces of bone, its closest match. And then came the purple horse-charm marker, at fifteen and a half inches, followed by the camel-charm marker in shades of purple at sixteen inches. Finally, came the starfish marker, measuring sixteen and a half inches.

Friends asked if a book’s genre determined the bookmark I chose to use. Nope. Maybe my senses aren’t all that sensitive, since the length of the marker is my biggest motivation.

Dangling things disturb me. They’re not neat and orderly, in a prescribed place. So, I’ve chosen the bookmark that most closely fit each book I’ve read, leaving only the beads exposed and none of the string to swing about in unwieldy ways.

I never have liked loose ends.

My fears grew in my teens when I nearly drowned in the ocean. I’d dogpaddled out to a sandbar one day with no problem, but when I attempted it the next day, the tide was in, the water deeper, and I tired before reaching the sandbar. When I stretched my feet downwards to rest, I couldn’t touch bottom and started splashing wildly, my face being mercilessly hit by waves, head going under. Fortunately, a nearby swimmer saw my panic and towed me to shore. 

When my kids were little, our family joined a neighborhood pool. After all, it was a fun activity to fill the summer days and they needed to learn to swim. While encouraging them to not be afraid of water, I would force myself to put my head under as I held each of their hands rather than my nose. We’d move in a circle, singing ring around the rosie. When we got to ashes, ashes, we all fall down, under the water we’d go. Pure torture for me, so I seldom did it and was always quick to resurface, but it helped the kids grow comfortable when submerged. They also had better outcomes with swim lessons than me. Mission accomplished.

With the kids now grown, I have no reason to get back in the water. If we take our grandchildren to the pool, George splashes with them and I watch from the side. He’s an experienced swimmer and scuba diver, the perfect one to help them get comfortable. I’m content watching over the towels and car keys.

George would love to go on an ocean cruise, but I’ve told him he would have to go with a different wife. I refuse to be so far out in the water that I can’t see shore. When walking on the beach, if I even get wet, it’s never more than my toes. Sharks, you know.

Heaven help me if I ever get swept up in a flood, like what recently stormed through the Appalachian Mountains. People drowned and homes and businesses were destroyed. The stuff of nightmares.

It may seem odd that water is the only liquid I consume. I don’t drink coffee, tea, alcohol, or sodas. Only water. It refreshes me and quenches my thirst. But apart from drinking it, I stay away from it. Don’t much like taking a shower. And don’t ask even ask about a bath.

There’s no better water rescue than flat refusing to get in.