The Case of the Extra Foot Bone

My husband began having problems with his left foot during the summer after mowing the center of the long driveway. He attributed the pain to wearing the wrong shoes, and eventually the problem seemed to heal itself.

Last Thursday he was "wrestling" a big, heavy tractor tire. I could see him through the kitchen window and went out to yell at him, "Knock it off! You're going to hurt yourself!" I was right, of course. A few hours later his foot was red and swollen, and he could barely stand on it. On Friday he went to work on crutches, and I called my favorite orthopaedic surgeon, Dr. Heninger for an appointment.

Before we went in yesterday (on our federal holiday off work), I told my husband, "I can tell you this has something to do with your posterior tibial tendon--the old PTT." Well, guess what...I was correct. The diagnosis after x-ray is that while he was blessed with an extra bone in his foot where the PTT attaches, his very strong PTT tore a piece right off the extra bone! Now he's scheduled for surgery on the 22nd. While it's not ideal for him to be having surgery while I'm away from home, there were two considerations that weighed in favor of plowing on: 1) we've already met our deductible for this year (due to my own surgery and physical therapy expenses) and 2) we're going to Pennsylvania for Christmas and Paw Paw needs to be healed before wrestling with the grandkids.

We've said it before and we'll say it again: Getting old is not for sissies, even if you do have extra bones.

Sisters Retreat II, or Gatlinburg Gala

My three sisters and only sister-in-law, who ironically is the only one of us bearing the family name, met for our second annual retreat September 9 in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. Also in attendance was a good friend who is unofficially adopted into the otherwise exclusive group.

Our accommodations were outstanding! Sometimes when you book lodging based on internet information, what you get is not necessarily even similar to what you saw in the images online. This time the photos were an honest portrayal of the article. We were delighted and very comfortable in our huge cabin ("lodge" seems more appropriate). Because this was post-vacation season (two days after Labor Day), we had virtually no neighbors. A group of "bikers" arrived on Friday, but our observations of them were that they were dentists or CPA's. Sister 3 (by birth order) could tell that by the way they parked their Harleys.

We spent our days roaming through the shops in Gatlinburg, Pigeon Forge, and Sevierville (Dolly Parton country), looking at pottery and other assorted craft items. There was a classic car show going on, so it took nearly as long to drive through these small towns as it did to travel from Indianapolis to Gatlinburg, a 400+ mile trip. One afternoon we hit the outlet mall. In the evenings, we mostly ate and sat around on the deck overlooking the magnificent Smoky Mountains. A good time was had by all, even though Sister 3's strawberry rhubarb preserves were confiscated by the TSA people at BWI Airport when she tried to carry them on in her bag back to Chicago. I managed to arrive home with my pumpkin butter rolled up in a pair of jeans inside my checked luggage.

Now, where will we be in 2010 for Sisters Retreat III? While we discussed the options, no decision has been made. Bar Harbor, Maine?

Murder in the Kitchen

On Friday morning before Bryan left for work, he murdered an intruder in our kitchen.

For several days I found little clues (tiny, tapered, and black) on my counter tops (yuck!) left by the culprit. When you live on the frontier, you can expect wildlife of all kinds. Fortunately, most do not actually come into your house.

We put out some poison, a green cylinder of stuff that reminds me of dried out Play Dough. During the night I heard a racket, and discovered the next morning that the poison was missing.

While I was putting away clean dishes, I opened the door of the cabinet above the range. Much to my surprise, there was a furry little critter in a large glass mixing bowl, staring at me. If he'd been dressed in a chef's hat, I may have mistaken him for Ratatouli.

"Come quick!" I called to Bryan. I grabbed a round baking sheet and slapped it on top of the bowl, although I think at this point the prisoner was already trapped.

I won't go into detail about the execution, but it involved water. Considering the other alternatives, such as tossing the prisoner to the cat, I feel this was a humane method of disposal. I wonder if he was a relative of the one that chewed through our electric line to the pump.

Good-Bye, Michael

There will probably be more Michael Jackson music played today throughout the world than any other day in history. He left a large legacy and many memories for all of us. When I taught seventh grade English in a rural Indiana school in 1972, about half the girls in my class had crushes on Donny Osmond, and the other half on Michael Jackson. Both young entertainers were 14 that year.

When "Thriller" came out, we rented the video and shared it with Bryan's dad and mom. That proved to be a mistake; they thought it was "lewd". We thought it was remarkable.

When I remember Michael Jackson, I see him as he looked before the surgeries and the strange behavior that defined him in the later parts of his mysterious, complicated life. I focus on that wonderful voice and the moon walk, and the good that Michael Jackson did in the world, as I hope the Lord will do in my case when I leave this earthly life.

Yet More on the "Water Issue"

On the 9th day without water, I thought things were resolved. However, as Murphy's Law predicts, the solution was not as swift and easy as we'd anticipated. Eventually, after about six visits from the Pump Man and the enlistment of two Electrician$, the diagnosis was a break in the power supply. That may not sound so serious, but our well is a thousand feet from our house. And, the electric line is buried 3-4 feet in the ground. Were we faced with digging up the entire line to find the problem?

Fortunately, one of the Electrician$ had an expensive (just how expensive, we'll learn, I'm sure) device that, when stuck into the ground, detected EXACTLY where the line was leaking juice. When Bryan got home from work on Thursday afternoon, he used the front loader on his tractor to expose the wire. Friday morning the Electrician returned, spliced the line (that appeared to have been gnawed by a rodent--no doubt executed on the spot and justly so), and the Pump Man finished installing the new pump.

On the 19th day we had water, and it was good.

Big Yellow Taxi

Nine days ago, on May 31, 2009, water ceased to flow at our house. Oh, the canal water still surges past the front of our property and under the bridge, but there's no merry sound of water being sucked down the drain or the toilet flushing. True enough, Bryan had been watering the garden regularly, but we have two 1500 gallon reservoirs that should not have gone dry. Our well was commissioned only about three and a half years ago, and we are not in a drought.

On Saturday the well digger who dug our well came. The diagnosis was that the pump at the well head was not operating. Of course, since we didn't opt for the "extended 5-year warranty" at the time we purchased the pump, our warranty was for only three years--not three years, five months, and seventeen days. (The product information claims that it is not uncommon for this particular pump to work for twenty years. Yeah, right.) Today, at a cost to us of only $1385, the well man is installing a new pump.

Having taken sponge baths for days (and even more days for Bryan since he didn't have the privilege of escaping to a luxury hotel in Kansas City for a week), making a 30-mile round trip to a hot springs resort to take a real shower, spending hours in the laundry mat doing five loads of clothes, filling 2-liter soda bottles and plastic milk jugs with water from work and church to haul home, and flushing the johns with water from 5-gallon buckets hoisted out of the canal, I don't think I'd mind spending $5,000 to see water come out of my kitchen sink faucet!

So, in the words of Joni Mitchell: Don't it always seem to go--you don't know what you got 'til it's gone. Amen to that.

Kansas City! Kansas City, here I come....

It's been awhile since I took a business trip--to Atlanta last fall. Next week I'll be in Kansas City, MO, traveling on Monday and returning home on Friday. One of my good friends from work will be on the same trip, so I'm looking forward to palling around with her in the evenings. I think we're booked on the same flights, too. This is an instructional 3-day session they call "Train the Trainer." When I get back to work the following week, I'll be responsible for passing along all the tidbits of knowledge I glean during the class in Kansas City to a number of others who will teach our professional CPE in August. Based on the trickle down theory, I'd better pay attention next week.

Preparing for a trip entails a little more for me than just making sure I have clean underwear and packing my bag. I can't remember much about what it was like to go on a business trip when I had five kids at home, but the amount of preparation that is required to leave a husband is considerable. For one thing, there is a requirement that he take a dessert to work each and every day as a substitute for lunch. I'm not talking about some Little Debbie snack cakes, mind you. We're talking HOMEMADE. He likes variety, too, so that means at least two different desserts so he can alternate. Recently his group had a carry-in and he advised me that, since I have a "reputation to uphold", I'd better come up with something that measured up to their expectations. Once when I was too busy to make something and sent some left-over store-bought Cub Scout treats, he reported that everyone wanted to know what horrible thing he'd done to be in the dog house.

David Archuleta--Yes, David Archuleta!

For Mother's Day, my son and daughter-in-law gave me the David Archuleta CD. From the first time I saw that boy on American Idol, I have been a fan. I have also suffered untold derision for expressing this adoration to my family. Yes, true enough, I am a 59-year old woman, a grandmother, an educated individual with a responsible job. Perhaps my tastes should be more refined and mature, but David Archuleta is just so dad-burned cute and talented! "Sweet" is trite, but that's what David Archuleta is.

When David Archuleta speaks, he is an awkward, bumbling, pubescent boy. When he opens his mouth to sing, however, he is transformed instantly, magically. If I were sixteen or seventeen (oh, let's be honest--even twenty-five) and lucky enough to be in the audience when he sang "Touch My Hand", I might sprint up on stage and touch his hand!

I'm actually old enough to be David's grandmother. Imagining my own little grandma going ga-ga over, let's say, Elvis Presley in 1959 when she was 59, or my no-nonsense mother having a little infatuation with Jon Bon Jovi in 1989 when she was 59 makes me smile a bunch.

Going to the Field

When I say, "I'm working in the field tomorrow" I don't mean on the John Deere plowing the back 40. In my occupation, field work is going outside the office to accomplish a task. Utah is a big state, and I'm starting to realize how far a person can drive in one day.

Here is a short list of signs I take no pleasure in seeing when I'm on the road, in the field:

• Runaway Truck Ramp


• Exit 127--No Services
  
• Exit 129--Ranch


• Brake Check Area


• Chains Required
  
• Elevation 7125 Ft


• Falling Rocks

On the positive side of being in the field, I can listen to the radio, CD's, and enjoy some awesome, diverse scenery. Yesterday I saw about a million acres of sagebrush, a breath taking canyon, and a fabulous lake.

Blue Sweater Revisited

My lovely daughter has pointed out to me that the origin was not Old Navy, but rather American Eagle Outfitters! I checked the label, and my goodness gracious, she's right. No wonder I haven't been successful finding a replacement at Old Navy.... This reminds me of the TV commercial about the man and his son who go to Norway to discover their roots, only to find that, once they arrive, the family tree originated in Sweden. At least Norway and Sweden are close geographically.

Blue Hooded Sweater

Sometimes it's the smallest, must unassuming things that give us the most pleasure in life. For example, a couple of years ago when my daughter lost a ton (well, not that much) of weight, she brought me a big bag of cast-off clothes. Among the items 35 years too young for me was a navy blue, cable knit sweater with a hood. It zips up the front and has a couple of deep pockets. Little did I know when I pulled it out that it would become so dear to me, so essential, so necessary!

My home office is in the basement. Although it is plumbed and has furnace ducts, and the walls are studded in, it is basically a big, cold cavern. Even when I turn the heat on down there, it probably doesn't exceed 60 degrees. To achieve a comfortable 70, it would cost us $3000 to heat it for the winter. One morning I grabbed the Blue Sweater, and it's been my constant companion since. Sometimes I even wear it in the summer because my office is never warm.

As with any child's "blanky," Blue Sweater is beginning to show signs of age and wear. I pluck tiny balls of yarn off the floor and have resorted to rolling the sleeves up because of the fraying. Every time I'm close to an Old Navy, Blue Sweater's origin, I look for a replacement. I fear I will not find one that will meet its perfection. What else would afford pockets just right for my personal and business cell phones? In what will I find comfort and warmth?

I may think seriously of retirement when Blue Sweater ceases to exist.

Book Club---or Ponzi Scheme?

A few weeks ago I received an envelope in the mail with the return address of an old friend in Indiana. Usually I hear from her at Christmas, so I was indeed curious. Inside was a single sheet of paper, a somewhat tired photocopy, instructing me to send a paperback book I have enjoyed to the person whose name and address appeared on the back of the instructions. Then I was to send copies of this letter (with my Indiana friend's name and address on the back) to six people who enjoy reading. The promise was that I'd receive 36 books.

In the past I've received chain-letters with promises of recipes and dish towels. Never once have I acquired a single item in the mail as a result of my participation. How would this be different? I can't explain it, but book lovers must be a special breed; so far I've received two very nice books (one is a hardback), and one of the recipients of my letter told me yesterday at work that her aunt is mailing me another. Whoa.....

So, now I'm trying to make mathematical sense of this process. I sent one book. Getting even three books in return far exceeds even the miracle of compound interest. Maybe I'm suspicious and jaded about "get rich quick" and "too good to be true" propositions since I deal in my work with the sad consequences of being sucked into scams. Did I unknowingly participate in a Ponzi scheme? I think I need to develop a schematic of this process. What if a person were to initiate multiple letters like this, and then sell the crop of books received on eBay?

Perhaps I should just stick to reading the books.

Good Reads

While I was recovering from my foot surgery, I found much more time to read than normal. I won't waste time and space commenting on the books I'd give "thumbs down" to, but I will recommend a couple of worthwhile works, in my opinion.

Fannie Flagg's little A Redbird Christmas was a delight, as well as Can't Wait to Get to Heaven.

Tallgrass by Sandra Dallas was thought provoking. The effect of a World War II Japanese internment camp on a small southeastern Colorado town is seen through the eyes of a thirteen year old girl.

I've just begun She Got Up Off the Couch (and Other Heroic Acts from Mooreland, Indiana) by Haven Kimmel. She is the author of A Girl Named Zippy (Growing Up Small in Mooreland, Indiana). I feel a kinship with Haven Kimmel; we share small town backgrounds, although in her view, a town the size of Williamsport (population 1200) dwarfs minute Mooreland with its mere 300. (I've added her blog to my list.)

And Yet Another Birthday

On Monday I celebrated/endured another birthday--the end of the fifth decade of my life. One happy consequence is that now I'm only one year away from being "eligible" to retire. Also, many restaurants will be giving me the "senior discount" this time next year! (Oh, a sad state of affairs when that's something to look forward to...)

The birthday caused me to think about the days of my youth in Williamsport, Indiana. I looked on Google images to try to find photos of places from my past, and I was surprised to be able to find so many.

The hospital where I was born was the former home of a Prohibition-era bootlegger. Only the bottom floor of the building still exists, along with several more modern wings added over the years. This is also where I had my tonsilectomy in 1961--and nearly bled to death at the tender age of 11.

When I was very young, I remember walking over one of the "Twin Bridges" on Monroe and Fall Streets in the dark with my parents, returning to my Grandma's house on Boyer Street after having seen a movie at the theatre "uptown." The sound of the falls terrified me, and the stench was overwhelming. In those early days in the 1950's, the falls were not only the highest in Indiana, but also the state's largest open cesspool. Fortunately the environmentalists cleaned it up later.

I attended Williamsport School from 1956 (as a first grader--we had no kindergarten in those days) through second grade. Then we moved to Attica, Indiana, for three years. I completed 7th through 12th grades in the old Williamsport School, graduating in May 1968. The building was demolished in the 1980's, I think, and a new elementary school was constructed on the site.
In 1974, all three of the Warren County school districts consolidated into the Metropolitan School District of Warren County (my first professional employer--but that's a story for a future posting).

In Recovery

Day 8 of my post-op recovery. On January 15, I went under the knife again for the 5th time in my long life. This time it was for PTTD, posterior tibial tendon dysfunction. Wondering how a perennial couch potato acquired such an athletic-sounding problem? It's a long story, but boiled down to a few words, it's the sad result of neglect.

I have a big, bulky splint on my left foot that gives the appearance that it's at least 4 times its normal size. On Wednesday I visited the doctor so they could change the dressing and check for any signs of infection or rejection of a titanium implant between two bones to, hopefully, put my deranged foot back into a more normal configuration. It looked good, if two bloody incisions with hairy stitches can look good. The nurse proclaimed, "It's beautiful!" Dr. Heninger, a wonderful young man about my oldest son's age, came in and agreed whole heartedly. I go back next Wednesday for stitch removal, and hopefully the okay to start some weight bearing. (I don't do well with crutches. Most couch potatoes don't.)

My wonderful husband has been waiting on me, literally hand and "foot", during this ordeal, to the extent of even carrying me on his back to the truck to take me to my doctor appointment! He'll be happy with a swift recovery, too.

Back to the Salt Mine

My vacation is drawing to an end, so I won't be able to devote as much attention to my blog as I have during this first week of its life. Ah, I did accomplish something on my long, long list while I was off work, even though I still have 102 pages of my book to re-input. (I marvel at the people I know from work who have retired and complain about being bored with nothing to do!)