Staying Positive

This rambling "journal entry" is mostly about my health, and keeping a positive outlook is one of the best health-savers there is, I think. It helps me stay on a diet that is good for me, and motivates me to take a quick 25 minute walk most week-day mornings, both of which also make me feel good and boost that positivity.

Yesterday I finally made it into the clinic for a brief check-up and prescription renewals. I had been out of my thyroid medicine for nearly six weeks - a big no-no, but due to poor planning on my part, the prescription ran out at a time I couldn't pay for a doctor visit. I was really beginning to feel the effects, too - fatigue, depression, difficulty staying on task, reduced mental functions! Thank goodness I had not gotten to the point of hair loss. I'm planning now NOT to be in this predicament again!

I had forgotten that depression was a symptom of hypothyroidism. The FNP seeing me reminded me of that when I dithered embarrassingly about possibly needing to go back on the antidepressant I haven't taken for so long. Whew! I won't be starting that up again.

I was irritated at the guy for his lack of "bedside manner". He didn't introduce himself, he looked at what he was writing instead of at me, he asked me questions like when did we check your TSH (lab) last, when a more accurate answer could be obtained by flipping a few pages in the chart. Like I can really remember! (Memory difficulties and irritability are also hypothyroid symptoms.) I will take my pills daily for a month, then go back in for the lab to be sure of the correct dosage. Actually, he took care of my needs quickly and efficiently without acting pissed at me for being off the medication, which he had every right to be.

At Wal-Mart, while waiting for my prescription to be filled, I wandered around the store. I went to look at sports bras, but hadn't found them yet when I was distracted by sleepwear. Then I thought I'd get Jack some new socks, which he really needs, in the men's department nearby, but *bling!* ended up with a nice casual shirt for him instead. I did get a couple of cartoon dvd's and some slippers, both of which were planned purchases, and a few groceries on my list.

(Part of my purpose in writing about this is so I can compare my abilities or lack thereof in a couple of months. Meanwhile, I choose to be amused at myself.)

More positive notes:

I still highly recommend getting this book: Chef MD's Big Book of Culinary Medicine. Most useful to me has been looking up what foods to avoid or to eat more of to help with specific ailments. I believe I am successfully treating, with diet, conditions that would otherwise have led to more doctors, more drugs, and more expensive medical procedures.

My daughter tells me that the basic, no-frills, gym membership at Planet Fitness is only $10 a month, and you get the use of all the equipment! I had always figured a gym membership would be out of my reach. It's a little far away, distance-wise, since I don't have a car. I'm working on a plan to get me there at least two-three times a week.

I'm noticing a much more positive outlook in Jack as well since the new year began. He seems happier, is showing an interest in planning with me for the home projects we need, and we spent a weekend working outdoors together. I'm not really sure of the reason for this. They do say, "if you want your mate to change, change yourself."

Finding a New Friend; and Losing Him

This is about Harley. He is our two year old (three in April or so) who came to live with us after being abandoned as a puppy, and grew, and grew, and grew. Harley is a 200+ lb. St. Bernard with a large pit bull mix brother who he can't play with (because he'll kill him) and a medium-large white and black spotted sister who does play with him, but also plays with the other dog.

Today Harley thought he had found a new playmate. He came running around from behind our old mobile homes all excited, opened his mouth and dropped a mouse on the ground. Then Harley proceeded to bounce back and forth in a playful manner while the terrified mouse ran first one way and then another. Then... so sad... one of his big front paws came down... splat!... on the mouse. And friend mouse played no more.

Harley was quite stunned, and soooooo sad. He sniffed the mouse all over, then sadly walked away, looking back a couple of times with a confused and sorrowful expression. As he sniffed his way around the yard, he kept looking back at the scene of the accident. And before coming back inside, he stopped one more time to look at the mouse, and pay his respects, sort of.

Times like these, I wish we had adopted Rosebud, a distant half-sister of Chelsea, who hung around every day when our house was being built. Then everyone could have a playmate all the time.

(FOUR DOGS??? What am I thinking???)

Eau de Chatte; or The Cat Came Back

It wasn't the cat's fault. It was partly Jack's, and mostly mine.

All the laundry gets hung or folded and put away at our house, except the last load. It gets left in the dryer, and we just pull out the specific garments we want to wear until the next laundry day when the dryer is needed again.

Last evening we rather spontaneously decided to go out for fish and chicken and left hurriedly, with Jack going out the south living room door and me exiting through the bedroom and laundry room. As I passed, I noticed the dryer door slightly ajar and reached down and closed it. Jack had gotten his khaki pants out that morning. It needs to be kept shut, I thought to myself irritably - we probably have cat hair all over our clothes.

We went to Long John Silvers, enjoyed dinner and rang the bell, then brought home leftovers to share with the dogs, who also enjoyed it.

Leana, the cat, was a no-show at bedtime. She's been roaming a lot at night lately, so with no worries, I snuggled in to enjoy my first night's sleep of Christmas break - I don't have to get up at 5:00 am again until next year.

So quite some time after 5:00 this morning, after letting the dogs out and back in, I was just sliding back under the blankets when I heard a scratching at the door. I raised my head and checked - yes, both my doggie roommates were in bed. Ah, there's Leana, I thought. As I reached for the door to let her in, the scratching came again, behind me. You guessed it at least two paragraphs ago. My cat was inside the dryer and had been trapped there for twelve hours.

Our clothes are all ruined, I sighed. One of the absolute truths of life: you can't get cat pee smell out of anything.

WRONG! It's hard to believe, but after sorting the peed-on from the not-peed-on clothes and soaking and washing both groups separately (figuring one was definitely salvageable, and what the heck, I might as well try washing the others too), ALL of them are now clean, dry, and not-smelly!

Maybe because she's just a sweet old lady cat, not a damn tomcat or a queen in heat. Maybe because I got on it really quickly, soon after it happened. Or maybe my not-so-good nose is deceiving me, and the first really warm day in the spring, I'm going to find myself downtown smelling like cat pee.

(Jack sniffed them, too, and declared them cured, but I have to remember his nose has been broken twice and doesn't work that well either.)

Leana has been very purry and cuddly almost all day. Until now, ten minutes to bedtime, and I don't see her anywhere. I might have just a teeny bit of trouble falling asleep.

A Woman of Class

My paternal grandparents moved west from Iowa in the early 1900's. I'm not sure when exactly, but my father was their fourth child, and the first one born in New Mexico, in 1909.

I believe Grandma came from a fairly well-to-do family, and she may have "married down" a bit when she wed my Granddad, who was a carpenter. In any case, they had a nice home with nice furniture, some of which he made. Their fortunes changed when he fell ill with tuberculosis and was unable to work. Doctors told them he might have a chance if they moved to a dry climate, and like many others around that time, they packed up their household goods and moved to New Mexico with three small children. With what little money they had left, they bought a small two or three room house.

Granddad was bedfast, and the family now had no money, so Grandma went to work in a laundry and in a bakery to support them. Between jobs, she rushed home to check on her husband and children.

"Oh, Vi," he groaned, "my back just hurts so..." He was unable even to change positions in bed without help, and the children were too small.

 "Papa's not dead yet," they would say when they met her at the door.

 Their father's health slowly improved. He was never again able to do a full day's work, but he found small jobs to do at his own pace, for the local lumber yard and for the city. Grandma was able to quit the laundry job.

The children contributed, too. They learned how to work at home, and as soon as they were old enough, they industriously sought chores outside the home that people would pay them to do. And every penny was brought home to their mother to help meet the needs of the family. It was this kind of work ethic that earned the family the respect of the community and a higher social standing than one would expect at their level of poverty.

Grandma also made sure that, despite their reduced circumstances, all of her children knew that they were "somebody", and more was expected of them in the way of character, hard work, education, and service. More was expected of them than of others. They must never forget that they represented the family in everything they did. I don't think she ever told them, you are a better "class" of people than some, but she made sure they knew they were not a lower "class" than anyone.

The oldest girl, after high school, went to work for the telephone company and paid for her sister to go to teacher college, and they both paid for four year college educations for their youngest sister and oldest niece. My father took his younger brother under his wing in a business partnership, and served his community in city government.

 My much older brother was the last grandchild to grow up under the influence of our matriarch grandmother, who passed away about the time he graduated from high school, and I was about three. He attributes to her a feeling he refers to as his "superiority complex". He does have one, but not in a bad way, if you get my meaning.

 I still have some thinking to do before I can say how much of my grandmother's influence trickled down to me. I think I'm often a character, but not always classy. It must be in the blood somehow, though, because my daughters are amazingly fine young women.

This week three of them were at my house for breakfast, for my second daughter to meet her new niece, my granddaughter, for the first time. The bookcase under the window was made by my father, the baby's great-grandfather, who was also a pretty good carpenter. And the table was shipped on the train from Iowa by my grandmother, the baby's great-great-grandmother, over 100 years ago.

Skipping Rocks and Puppy Dog Tales

Today is my cousin Don's birthday. I will always remember the summer he went on the road with my family, and we had our birthdays in Del Norte, Colorado. First there was my birthday, when Billy gave me a sparkly elephant pin that I treasured for years. The next day the puppies were born, and then the next day was Don's birthday. He was 16 and I was 11.

There were five of us kids that summer. It could've been the best summer, had I not been the youngest and smallest, and still a child. The others were all teenagers and found it both necessary and convenient to lord it over me most of the time. Billy was 13 and very tall and good-looking. He had been my friend the summer before, when there was no Patty or Don, and my older sister kept strictly to herself and her teen magazines and nail polish. This year Patty, 14 going on 20, was traveling with her aunt, who was somehow related to the show's owner. And Don had come with us. The four older kids formed a close-knit group, exploring the towns and hanging out during the daytime hours, shooting the bull and listening to Billy's large and complete collection of Elvis records before the show opened in the late afternoon. I was forced into the unhappy position of a tag-along little sister, and they never let me forget it.

Thankfully, I had Susie, a little reddish-brown dachshund who had joined our family in Lovington at the end of May. Daddy had parked the trailer in an actual trailer park for the week, and we had hot and cold running water and a small grassy front yard just as if we actually lived there. I had been playing with the little dog all afternoon and was already calling her Susie, when Daddy came home from a long, hard day of setting up the rides.

"Hello there, Susie!" he greeted her, his eyes sparkling and his face crinkling in a smile as he leaned down to pet her. He looked so happy, I recall, realizing now what a special treat it must have been for him to have his family with him for the summer now, after a long spring, during which we would arrive Friday night to work the weekend and leave Sunday evening to be home for school on Monday morning. When Daddy opened the screen door, Susie hopped right into the trailer, the first jump onto the floor and the second jump onto the couch, where she settled happily as if she belonged there.

I played with the little dog every day. Surprisingly, my mother encouraged it. Leave that stray alone, and whatever you do, don't feed it, or you'll never get rid of it, was a lesson already ingrained in me for life. She had observed what I didn't: when I was otherwise occupied, Susie roamed the neighborhood begging for food and affection. Children abused her, holding her upside down and beating her with a stick. On tear-down day, when Mama had finished cleaning the concession trailer and house trailer and all was packed for the move, she suggested we take a walk. We walked around the block with Susie, and Mama spoke to people out in their yards, and even knocked on a couple of doors. No one could say for sure, but everyone believed the dog had belonged to some folks who left her behind when they moved out of the trailer park.

When we left, Susie went with us.

In Roswell, the rides were set up on a busy parking lot beside the main thoroughfare, and it was dangerous for a little dog to run loose. Daddy told Susie and me to come with him, and we carried her right into Sears, where he bought her a nice leather harness and leash. She stepped along at the end of that leash like a show animal, head and tail held high; she was a little princess of a dog, and everyone who saw her smiled.

After Roswell, we traveled north to join the big carnival Daddy had booked us on for the summer. The weeks went by as we moved from town to town, and it became apparent to my parents why someone had abandoned such a fine little dog. Susie's middle grew until she became a big round ball with a head and tail and little short legs, and she had to be lifted into the trailer and up onto the couch. She gave birth there on a old folded blanket, and my sister and I watched and encouraged her. "You can do it, Susie!"

("How do people have babies?" I asked Mama. "The same way," she replied, matter-of-factly.)

Daddy had to help the last one out, which was breech and stillborn.

Since she was my dog, I named her puppies: Sweetie Pie, Sugar Plum, and Honey Bunch were pretty reddish-brown pups like their mother; the others, who were different shades of tan with brown markings, I called Billy, Patty, and Ringo.

In just a few weeks, we were back home for school to start. For the first time in four years, my best friend and I were in the same class, where we made two new close friends, and were all cheerleaders for one of the sixth grade football teams. In the afternoons when I walked home, I was met by six excited, wiggling puppies! Life was good.

Sugar Plum and Honey Bunch were given to good homes. Billy and Patty went with some people visiting our neighbor, and we long enjoyed reports of their wonderful lives on a farm in Arkansas. Susie and the last pretty little girl puppy, Sweetie Pie, just disappeared one day. We never knew for sure what had happened to them, but neighbors had seen the city dogcatcher's truck skulking about. For many years after that, the dogcatcher and families all up and down the street where he lived had pretty little dachshunds in their yards, and my mother muttered almost under her breath yet still in her deep, angry voice, "...them pretty little dogs...that thievin' SOB...!"

Ringo, the one puppy who was not especially pretty, was the only puppy left, and went on to live his own life stories.

************

I'd like to go back and visit Del Norte, where so many memories began. The Rio Grande was just outside of the town, within easy walking distance of the lot, and Daddy took me there and taught me to skip rocks across it. Sometimes during the week when the teenagers were being mean, I walked to the river alone and skipped rocks while daydreaming and thinking faraway thoughts. I had never thought of the Rio Grande being anywhere but in New Mexico while on its way to become the border line between Texas and Old Mexico, far south of where I lived. It was a surprisingly big river in Colorado, unlike what I was used to seeing in Albuquerque and further south where river water was diverted for irrigation and other purposes.

Forty years later I taught the oldest and youngest of my daughters to skip rocks across the Rio Grande on the edge of Texas in Big Bend National Park.

It's Raining!

I can't believe it's raining! Thank you, Don*! I really didn't believe any moisture would make it this far north in Texas. I'd like to be out in it, dancing, glorifying, but there's this dog sitting on my foot.


We were out on the porch and I was noticing some small, but puffy, gray clouds floating around, when CRACK! THUNDER suddenly boomed and even rolled a little. It's been so long, the dogs have forgotten. Frankie and Harley hurried from their respective spots in separate yards to where I sat in my chair by the connecting gate, and Chelsea... Well, Chelsea actually tried to climb up in my lap! She's a little too big for that now. She was almost too big the last time she did it, frightened by fireworks on the Fourth of July three years ago as a six month old grown pup.

Now it's over. I'm so wishing for more, and more, and more to soak into this dry, dusty yard of mine.

Chelsea still hovers, licking my feet, pawing my leg, lying against my foot - any and all reassuring contact with Mom.

I'm about to disappoint her. I'm going back out and try and attract some more. A rain dance, perhaps. 


 *Tropical Storm Don, now giving some relief to parts of south Texas and Mexico.

My Quilt Journal

This morning I started a new blog to share and write about my quilts. I'm not sure how to direct you to it other than type the url, or suggest you go to my profile and click on that blog.

http://fabricofourlives-byjudeann.blogspot.com

I like blogger, and am figuring out what I want to do here. This quilt journal is a must. Judyism, my original blog, will trend more toward memoirs - the telling of stories from my past experiences that make me "Me". There will be at least one more blog to come. I'm not sure anyone is actually reading me yet, including my "followers", but that's all right now. I just need to write about stuff. And if others - family, friends, quilting buddies and dog friends - find it interesting, that will make it fun.