Travel

Dubrovnik

July 21, 2017 Sally2 Comments

On one of our first nights in Dubrovnik, I told Leah that finally I was starting to understand parts of Isaiah 60, the scripture I’ve been trying to memorize for months.

We don’t have any walled cities near where I live. I needed to walk the walls of Dubrovnik to “get it”.

Foreigners shall build up your walls… (Isaiah 60:10)

One of our guides told us that back when the city was being built, men coming to trade were expected to bring stone to Dubrovnik and the women eggs. Stone for building. Eggs for the mortar that would hold it all together.

Your gates shall be open continually;
day and night they shall not be shut… (Isaiah 60:11)

The gates were, most definitely, open. The drawbridge was down, the moat dry. In fact, part of the moat had been turned into a playground.

Swallows screeched and soared above us down the narrow streets. Pigeons nested right in the walls. Every time I saw them, I thought about this verse.

Who are these that fly like a cloud,
and like doves to their windows? (Isaiah 60:8)

I know that the Isaiah passage is actually talking about Jerusalem, which is the city I most want to visit. How Leah and I happened to end up at Dubrovnik was serendipity.

But I’m so thankful.

It wears the scars of recent violence —

Inside the Franciscan monastery in Dubrovnik

But the bustle and busy-ness of the place tell a different story.

Violence shall no more be heard in your land,
devastation or destruction within your borders;
you shall call your walls Salvation
and your gates Praise. (Isaiah 60:18)

One day, I pray, we will have no more violence.

In the meantime, I’m thankful to have visited Dubrovnik.

Life

Postcards

July 3, 2017 Sally2 Comments

I hope Leah doesn’t mind, but we’re going to spend some of our evenings dashing off postcards from the former Yugoslavia.

Mary found my postcard list in my travel folder. It has names, addresses, and boxes to check off, so I can have that sense of accomplishment.

“I don’t know who some of these people are,” she said as she read through the names.

“They’re people I met on the internet,” I told her.

I know, it goes against all the internet safety rules, but I didn’t respond to phishing letters or meet these people in sketchy chat rooms — they’re fellow bloggers. I think I’m allowed to use a little common sense.

I sent one an email the other day, worrying all the while that I would seem like a stalker. Her response was so heart-warming. “Thank you SO so much for contacting me – you’ve rather made my day,” she said.

That’s how I felt when my former classmate reintroduced himself to me at the grocery store. That’s how I feel when someone does some little nice thing. That’s how I hope my postcard recipients will feel when they receive a note from Croatia or Bosnia.

A few years ago at Laity Lodge, during an informal conversation around the fire pit, one woman shared how special it makes her feel to receive a hand-written note from someone.

“I’m holding something in my hands that they held in their hands,” she had said. “They took the time to write something for me. They wrote my name and signed their name. It’s a gift of time and thought.”

During the A-to-Z Challenge this year, I stumbled across a blogger who daily posts snail mail that she has sent or received. I look forward to seeing Hawwa’s Mail Adventure‘s in my inbox every day.

I contacted her to see if she wanted a postcard from Bosnia or Croatia, and she replied that she had never received a postcard from Bosnia — so I put her on my list.

I sent a trial run postcard to her — just a collage I had made.

She received it — and put it in a post! I was honored.

Last week I received a postcard back from her.

I held a postcard that she had held in her hands. She took the time to write something for me. She wrote my name and signed her name. It was a gift of time and thought.

And I appreciated it.

Life

A New Slider

June 28, 2017 Sally5 Comments

Taking out the door totally opened up the room.

Over the years, the room slowly become the repository for everything. I mean, the attic was pretty full and the stuff had to go somewhere. This is an American problem.

When we hoed the room out at Christmas — when the feng shui (Frank Schwa) was all wrong — we discovered that the slider no longer closed properly and was, in fact, warped. The bleak midwinter is not the proper time to change out a slider. It’s the time to keep the door shut and locked. And the 40 year draperies mostly drawn shut — because, if we’re going to be closed up and closed in, we might as well go for broke.

A Christmas tree in front of the slider (and draperies) years ago

But when the workmen took the old slider out last week, we had a whole new room.

The draperies, or what was left of them (they had somewhat disintegrated when Bud took them down), went straight to the trash.

Now the sun pours in.

I’m tempted not to replace the drapes, at least not during the summer.

This morning, I sat in the room with a whole new feng shui. Sunny. Bright. Inviting.

A doe and her fawn nibbled grass outside the window. I wished I had washed the windows or not had the screen in.

Instagram should make such filters — just to keep things realistic.

Still, Frank Schwa would be happy with the room.

Travel

My Next Travel Adventure

June 27, 2017 Sally14 Comments

I’m letting go of the wheel again.

For one week, while we were in France, I didn’t drive at all.

Thankfully.

We relied on other drivers.

The guiding principle for that trip was to make everything nice for my father, so we had a car-and-driver take from the airport to the door of our hotel, even though other ways may have been less expensive. The same driver picked us up in Bayeux and drove us to Paris a few days later. For the record, I would not ever want to drive in Paris.

My next trip is more about the adventure.

My first trip to Nashville was a solo adventure. I flew to Nashville and used public transportation to get around the first day. I had to change buses downtown, an adventure in itself.

I loved the bus ride. It reminded me over and over that I was no longer in New York. The people around me, mostly working people on their way home, spoke in the lilt and drawl that is distinctly southern. I loved eavesdropping.

When I walked from the bus stop, I used a map I had sketched on the little notepad in my hotel room. It took me through a charming tree-lined neighborhood to the church. During my walk I let go as best I could of the worries I was carrying. It was perfect alone-time before meeting a bunch of strangers-now-family.

But this next trip is shared adventure.

Hopefully Leah, my travel companion, will not get too frustrated with me.

I still am not 100% sure how I’m getting to the airport in Newark, NJ. I’m not worried, though. I’ll get there.

From Newark, I fly to Frankfurt. A red-eye.

In Frankfurt, I’ll meet up with Leah.

“How will I find you?” I asked her.

“Uh — we’ll be at the same gate to Dubrovnik,” she said.

Oh, yeah. That.

Once we get to Dubrovnik, though, how will we get from the airport to our Airbnb?

Our hostess mentioned several options: taxi, uber, public transportation. Guess which one appeals to me?

We’re taking a bus to Mostar. That’s been booked.

But from Mostar to Sarajevo, we want to take the train, and I can’t figure out the schedule. Guess we’ll have to wing that part, too.

What’s an adventure without a little flying-by-the-seat-of-the-pants?

Are you up for this, Leah?

If I was driving, though, that would be a totally different adventure. Let’s not do that.

Faith

Paper Prayer

June 22, 2017 Sally7 Comments

Please, God, don’t let me become a paper snob.

Thank you for my expensive journals with paper that doesn’t bleed through, but remind me that words written on a napkin or the back of an envelope are no less important than those written in a Moleskine journal — just harder to keep track of.

I love that watercolor paper has both a rough and a smooth side, but let me not look down upon those who have yet to discover this wonder or on watercolor papers that lack this attribute.

Help me remember that the lesser grade papers are not lesser in importance, but may require gentler handling or may be suited for a different purpose.

The variety of paper in this world is astounding — paper towel, parchment paper, wrapping paper, newspaper, brown paper, filter paper, toilet paper, loose leaf paper, rag paper, wood pulp paper, even elephant poo paper. Thank you for each one, although I don’t ever see myself using the elephant poo paper.

I worry about becoming a pen snob, too, so tomorrow, can we talk about writing instruments?

Amen.

elderly · family

Surgery

June 21, 2017 Sally12 Comments

Each member of the surgical team looped through the room. An introduction. Name and date of birth requested. The why-are-you-here question.

My mother didn’t know the answers when I had sat in the same spot with her some years before. I helped.

My father knew — for the most part.

“Did you have anything to eat this morning?” the anesthesiologist asked.

“Not too much,” he answered.

“He had nothing,” I said.

“Has the surgeon marked on you yet?” a nurse asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” he answered.

“Yes, he did,” I replied.

“Can you tell me about your other surgeries?” the surgeon asked.

“It’s been years and years,” my father answered.

“Last August he had a VP shunt put in, and a few years before that he got a pacemaker,” I answered.

He knew his name. He knew his birthday. He knew what the surgery was.

All in all, I’d say he did pretty well.

A few weeks ago, he had had an episode of chest pain that landed him in the Emergency Room. They ask a different set of questions.

“Are you still a full-code?” the nurse had asked, but then she looked to me for the answer. It’s an uncomfortable question.

“Well, I’m not ready to cash in yet!” my father answered.

“Would you like to be placed on life support?” she asked.

“I’m not going to live forever, you know,” he replied.

His mixed responses were confusing, but he and my mother had both very clearly written out their wishes many years ago. I told his doctor and she asked that I bring in a copy to put in his chart. Just so it’s there.

Last night, I went for a walk. The fields were fifty shades of green. The timothy alone was a full palette of color — spring green, grass green, grey green, a whispery pale green at the very edges of the flower-head.

The fields whispered with the breeze, carrying along its little breaths like a melody passed around an orchestra. The meadow swayed and danced, and the only audience for this performance was the deer, the red-wing blackbirds, and me.

When the Bible talks about grass, it’s usually in reference to transience.

“The grass withers, the flower fades…” (Isaiah 40:8)

The comparison isn’t that man will last forever. We are just as transient.

A surgery day is a time to remember that.

It’s a time to pause. Even if we’re not ready to cash in, it’s okay to remember that we aren’t going to live forever either.

*****

The surgery went well. He’s already home. He’s not ready to cash in yet — and neither am I.

family · Life · photography · Travel

Red-Winged Blackbird

June 16, 2017 Sally13 Comments

The red-winged blackbirds begin check-check-check-ing at me as I walk down the road.

With dog, without the dog — it doesn’t matter. I’m a threat and they need to let the world, or, at the very least, their fellow blackbirds know that danger approaches.

They sit on fenceposts, telephone wires, tree branches, cattails, and other tall weeds.

I have stopped on multiple occasions to try to snap pictures of them. I either end up with a tiny speck of a bird or empty wires, branches, etc.

They flee from the fenceposts when I stop walking. I can’t focus on taking a picture while walking. My phone is my camera, nothing fancy for zooming in. Walking pictures are a mess.

Frankly, I’ve given up on photographing them.

For me, the red-winged blackbirds must be enjoyed from a distance or in my periphery. As abundant as they are, they are also too elusive for me to photograph well.

Sometimes life is like that, don’t you think? It simply can’t be tackled head-on. We can’t stop and savor each little thing, but we can enjoy the brief moments as they pass.

Now the birds that have taken up residence in our birdhouse tease me in the same way. One tiny nondescript bird sits on the chimney of birdhouse, singing merrily, until I get out my phone/camera. I look to find the camera icon on my screen, look back up, and she’s gone. Either both birds in the pair are blasé brown, or I haven’t seen the mister.

I need to improve my mental camera when I see them or my memory of their song or create some other method if I ever hope to identify these occupants.

Or, maybe I need to stop worrying about it and enjoy the moment.

Does everything have to have a name? Does everything have to be captured and held?

In our instant electronic gadgety techno age, we’ve lost the looking-out-of-windows and being-in-the-moment.

Sometimes I wonder if children riding in the car down the east coast of the United States even see the Pedro billboards. Or, in rural Nebraska or Iowa, if they see the monotony of corn fields. Or is that when they’re busy watching Frozen for the umpteenth time?

Because if they miss Pedro and the corn, they’ll most certainly miss the many red-winged blackbirds check-check-check-ing from the fencepost.

Life · Writing

First Aid

June 14, 2017 Sally2 Comments

I took a lot of first aid classes back in the day.

First Aid.

Advanced First Aid.

First Aid and CPR.

First Aid for lifeguards who work at camps in the middle of nowhere.

First Aid for ambulance dispatchers.

Okay, I may be making some of those up. But I WAS an ambulance dispatcher at one point in my life. And I worked as a lifeguard at more than one camp in the middle of nowhere. I think my title at one was lifeguard and the other was Aquatics Director, which sounded lofty and important, but I basically did the same job at both camps. Lifeguarded.

My grandmother came to visit me at one of the camps where I lifeguarded.

My one rescue in all my years of lifeguarding was at a camp. A little boy with Down Syndrome zipped past me while I unlocked the gate to the pool. He jumped right into the deep end. His eyes widened when he realized he couldn’t touch the bottom, and, as he floundered there, I reached in, grabbed his arm, and pulled him to the side. I actually didn’t need any lifeguarding classes to do what I did in that moment. It was all instinct. After that, his counselor made sure he had on his lifejacket before they headed to the pool.

Once, when I was coaching high school girls, I had a swimmer that had donated blood earlier in the day. Her puncture wound from donating opened while she was swimming and started bleeding. A lot.

“C’mon out,” I told her, and placed my hand firmly over the wound to apply pressure.

Meanwhile, another swimmer started feeling light-headed from the sight of the blood. “Stay at the wall,” I called over my shoulder to the woozy girl as I walked the bleeding swimmer to a bench. A couple of swimmers stayed with Woozy.

I wondered where the lifeguard was when I saw her hurrying toward me, pulling on latex gloves as she came. I looked at my hand on the girl’s arm. I was holding the arm up while she lay on the wooden bench. I had blood on my fingers. There was blood rivulets down her arm. A trail of blood drops led from the pool to the bench.

The lifeguard stopped. She blew her whistle and cleared the pool, helping Miss Light-Headed out and shepherded the girls away from all the blood.

My first First Aid classes had been pre-AIDS and pre-blood-borne-illness precautions. My instincts and early classes kicked in long before I thought about getting gloves on. Apply pressure and elevate.

I don’t know if that makes me a good responder or a bad one.

I guess I’m a gut responder.

Then I spend the next ten years second-guessing myself.

Back to Bleh — this morning I thought, I’m going to look at the Daily Prompt, and if I’m inspired, I’ll write. The prompt was “Puncture,” and I immediately thought of Sucking Chest Wounds — doesn’t everybody?

I had learned about them in First Aid a long time ago, and found them fascinating, although I always thought it a little silly to learn about them because they fell into the category of Probably-Information-I-Will-Never-Use.

The initial title for this post was “Sucking Chest Wounds,” but when I started writing, well, you see what came out. Nary a word about sucking chest wounds.

Bleh.

And no good conclusion.

Double bleh.

Writing

Bleh

June 13, 2017 Sally29 Comments

“Everything I write is stupid,” I told the girls the other night. “I need to just stop.”

Of course they gave the obligatory, “No, Mom. We like it.”

But I was all phooey-on-everything.

Laurel said, “What if you just didn’t write every day?”

Now there’s a novel idea.

Some things feel a little wrong to write about — like my father’s decline. As cathartic as it was to write about my mother, the catharsis isn’t there this time. It documents, I suppose, like this morning’s conversation —

Dad: I had the strangest phone call this morning. I answered the phone and nobody was there.

Me: What phone did you answer?

Dad: The phone in my bedroom. It rang at 7 AM.

Me: You don’t have a phone in your bedroom.

Dad: Well, nobody was on the other end.

It’s such a sad documentation.

A lot of other things fall into the does-anyone-really-care-about-this category.

Like the indigo bunting that flew into the window the other day. While it lay stunned on the deck, I took this picture, so I could look it up to identify it. When the cat came trotting up the ramp, I ran out the door to shoo her into the house so she wouldn’t bother the bird. Then I picked up the bird and moved him to a safer place. He perched on my finger after I scooped my hand beneath, and he weighed about as much as popped popcorn. I placed him where I could see him from inside. About an hour later, he flew away. A fascinating story — with no point at all.