Her Antonia and Change

While all of you are enjoying predictable rotations of the Seasons, those of us in Idaho, are getting what we deserve: SUN. That's right. If it didn't cool off at night you might think you were in one of those Southern states. The birds migrating that direction, are taking a vacation here, in Idaho.

(Unfortunately, there are at least two Falcons taking advantage of this small respite in their travels, but the majority of the birds are enjoying South-Eastern Idaho. And the Sun birds -those of the older gens that bail out of Idaho for AZ- left already missing this just in the next back yard:

photo by padre

and this:

same trip

oh, and this!

again, same trip.

Enduring the cold and wind is a hard earned price to pay for such pleasures.

So when my garden, flowers and the roses at grandma's got a chance to go brillaint with bloom...


I took advantage and soaked in every second I could.





Wild-life photographer, Padre, pulled the air-conditioners early, when we'd been faked out with some Idaho spring-like weather a few weeks ago, so I am finally able to see through the kitchen window and out onto my confused garden.

Despite this small mix up in feelings, the trees know what good 'ol mother nature is up to. (hot flashes)


(I love the color of spicing things up, especially in salsa- which I can't eat or dance the salsa.)

therefore signaling the first signs of change. Which here mean, break out the long under wear, mittens, and fight for the spot under drive way's eave if you know you have to be out of here early the next day for work and don't want to chip of the windshield.

My anemic sunflowers



droop over the tomatoes,


that are doing very well. Good thing they did not become Mammoth sized or else it would have been difficult to have grown a crop.

There are 6 stalks of corn. Yes, we planted late and it was cold and confusing for the small patch of corn and I didn't help them more than once, soooo....

But the raspberries have grown rampant! sigh.

Only those with these high maintenece plants know the pain. Window minus air conditioner meant I could see the little gnats bob up and down in the evening sun. It, and other circumstances, took me to Willa Cather's: MY ANTONIA.


(The same white rose from a few days ago.)


Cather's ability to put into words an otherwise yawner of a landscape, romanticized the rolling fields of Nebraska and the journey of a young man from losing to his parents to finding beauty in being re-located there along with a young Bohemian girl named Antonia.

This is a spoiler alert! so if you haven't read this book get it now and then finish my post. My thoughts don't go to the first part of the book but always to the sunset, the final pages. Where the grown boy comes back to Nebraska to visit. He is unhappily married but a success in the work force. He collaborates with a friend who also knew this magical girl. Who was able to make the connection with the blue sky and the main charachter's blue eyes as she learned Enlish in the tall grass.

The girl, who grew to be a beauty, is seen by the man from a far off carrying water in a bucket to the trees in her orchard. Married, surrounded by children this woman who previously was buxom, now resembles the landscape- flat- but unlike the drought that is happening at the time, she is surrounded by life. Lots of children many who have the features she once had.

Tears come to my eyes when he describes the changes in her. And they have symbolically gone with me since I read this book. So as the yard has changed with the weather and I have changed with some good weathering... that book and the scene around me comes into focus.




Her beautiful white teeth are colored and some are missing. Yet, the smile remains,and ANTONIA shines through
.
these outward changes as brillaintly as when he'd first met her. And in my mind she epitomizes a woman. Graceful with the droughts and changes in life. Tough as nails and nurturing, carving something from nothing.



So summer is past! the wind is whipping up outside and clouds are accumulating in the sky that was wide open blue just yesterday!

And I wonder: What does the next summit hold?

"Well, Hello!" Awhile After the Adioses

My last post had a lot to do with Good-byes, what you learn from them. The poem is somber and I was convinced, at the time, the author, Veronica, must have written it after saying good-bye to her tonsils.

Or to her favorite blush, rationed over at least a couple of years, that fell out of her purse while exiting her car and giving the road a Mary Kay an azalea hue once the compact shattered on the ground.

I actually picked up a couple of pieces of the blush and put them in a bag. sad. now I just pinch my cheeks.

She must have lived in Idaho or some other cold, unpredictable locaton; planted a garden and waited for a summer that never really came; pulling her palm sized Sunflowers (that got as big as my hair in 7th grade last year- big) early.

But awhile after the post I realized, that despite having lived in a bi-polar climate, you learn to plant those gardens in your own soul and that happens by focusing on every: "HELLO!!"


Most of you know that I can converse. Even under the dire strains of tonsillectomy, brink of losing my voice; I will risk all to talk with another person.

I really try to ration my energy, but am hopeless. Being a Professional Patient, lends to this as I commute to a different state by public transit and sit by an exorbanant amount of different personalities, and on occassion: pet.

One day on the job, started with a breathtaking sunrise. The gloomy weather with its rain from the previous night had set up a mesmerizing sunrise. As I drove to the station I stared at the swirls of gold, smokey blue, purples and pinks whipped up like Jell-O Pudding in front of me.

The fresh smell of just watered pavement met my senses as I climbed aboard my shuttle, grateful the best seat available, and my spot was open. Being prompt to board with nothing but a carry on back pack helps.

I got to listen to the driver's choice of music: country while God painted a picture across the sky as we exited town and headed south, to The Office (hospital where the specialists reside).

My first: Hello! Took place even before God had finished his portrait, the strains of sunshine broke through the puffy clouds and through the window, onto my face as I introduced myself to my next door seat comp: Young man, Private Willis (name change) just out of the military. But I don't know this right now. Just that he is up to the task of standing up and down in his seat by the door. But I offer to let him sit next to me so as to avoid the poor choice in seating.

Slim and obviously fit he reminded me of the Blue Angels pilots: 3 or 4% body fat indexed.

When you are crammed that close into a shuttle you need extra hands to help you with all of your carry on stuff. Thankfully, Private Willis held my make-up bag as I tried to find a place for it in the red messenger bag I'd overstuffed for my day trip.

"Wow, these shuttles are big compared to when I used to ride them." Bostonian military boy says to the kind, husky driver.

I stop mid-file: Big? This isn't big I am thinking as the young man held onto my make-up and I rifled through my purse passing through pads like manila folders with my fingers searching for chapstick.

"This is the SMALL one." I tell the young man as I smear on moisture to my chapped lips. "There are buses, with 45 feet worth of aisle to pace or have a child run up and down and visit the restroom, size. This isn't big."
relieving him of my weatherd Clinique gift bag from years ago.

"When did you last ride???" I inquired while pursing my lips together to spread the relief.

A long time ago he said. So being the inquisitive person I am I ask when and why and what are you doing saying such a thing this morning before the sun has even passed the purple hills to the east of us????


Mentioning that he'd just finished a tour in IRAQ a little under a year ago after being in 6 years he hadn't been to visit one of his parents in awhile.

No wonder the build. I immediately couldn't look him in the eye. Thanking and telling him that I was grateful for people like him.

I could feel his eyes bore into me as if to wonder: really? how so? Or was he thinking of certain moments while being in Iraq and now he is holding my make-up bag and listening to me tell him to put his seat belt on: "It would be a shame that you survived being over there only to go down in a shuttle accident. "


Clay, that is his name, that I finally found out an hour into our personal conversations, tells me that he is just visiting, lives in Boston, but has visited here ever since his father and mother divorced. Lived in California, New York and just finished his time in the military. hence, the low body fat percentage, clean cut hair, and perfect posture.

We talk candidly for an hour and my voice heads south but he still listens and responds to my inquiries. "How did you feel each day? Where were you? What is it like?"

All the while I think:

He would have been a great person for Rockwell to paint. He told me about his "tour" in Iraq but first the division of infantry to me as if that would tell me a whole lot. explains infantry duties to me, and I am re-assured I would be a BAD candidate for the military.

"You have to think positive, each day." He said looking off into the hills for a bit. those who couldn't, wouldn't, or were forced into several tours one after another until it bacame mandatory, can struggle. Then there are the guys who can roll with the punches. Adapt to new tours even to different countries. Like Afghanistan.

Eventually, I get a bit emotional. And tell him about what I do to try and show gratitude or teach to J about the blessings we have here.

I can feel his eyes upon me as I tell why I am grateful, what I am trying to do so that his efforts and others, aren't in vain; but I can't look up until the sphill is over.

Eventually the conversation turns to the everyday; The river he fished in with his Dad, me telling him to climb Table Rock, and eventually why I am sitting with a huge pack on my lap, bundled up like I am going to Alaska and riding next to him.

We talk about health care, lab mice that finally have helped find a cure but the obstacles still in the way for my disease, and eventually, my make up is on and he can quite having to hold different items for me.

Crossing the border and stopping for gas and grub, I take off a few layers, because we are now in sunny, warm weather. I lose the socks I'd had on with my patent leather sandals. The scarf wrapped around my neck gets shoved behind it or comfort and the fleece jacket becomes a pillow.

I learn about GI and Montgomery Bills, the choices these boys face about quiting the military and the difficulties with going to Iraq vs. Afghanistan.

The little boy in school by now, is on my mind, My mind goes to the mother and father of this young man who'd been in the 4th infantry and their gratitude that he made it home, alive. Comparing it to another mother whose son did not.

I told him about that young man. How it affected me.

I had to remind him again to put his seat belt on after the break.

He buckles up and shakes his head;guffaws a breathy sigh of air like he sees a few bombs go off and here he sits cavalier with out a seat belt OR he can't believe he is next to such a mom.

Eventually, we shake hands, I thank him for an enjoyable ride, luck in his doctorate engineering degree, and he gets off at his terminal; not knowing he would be the topic of my post.

alone, I ride up to hospital on the hill that holds all the hope for me and the hords of others that don't know it yet.

I am early so I stroll passed the beautiful blooming impatiens next to the patients out in the glorious sun. Soaking in each ray I slow my pace and let the sun hit my pastey white skin that isn't even SPF-ed for the day.

Into the glass windowed,, vaulted foyer I hear the reverberations of the black baby grand playing and I am in a floaty mood. Hustle and bustle around the front desk continues but a peace permeates with each ivory key bouncing off eachother's different health problems, nursing staff, white coated smart looking Doctors and researchers. And the guinea pigs that walk in with the HOPE that their life can be improved; despite all the pain, anguish, futility, exhaustion, etc. etc.

But I am a seasoned patient, know my way around and can move ghost- like through the crowd taking in the others. The ones that don't look up from there determined destination or are physically unable, entrenched in such health matters that their little cells can't take in anything else but what is goin on inside.

40 minutes early, I linger in the hall, to look at the newly remodeled walls holding vibrant art and the portraits of people. Donors. Some sitting singly in a chair or standing important -like next to a chair. Life like paintings show older couples together, others real pictures of couples in fine clothing standing or sitting in their home or the woods.

They look educated, some kind, others deeply smart. I read their bios. hanging on the wall next to the picture.

Some have passed, struggled with their own health issues and donate their estates toward various chairs etc. Some left widows or widowers. One lost a grandchild and she is painted next to her donor grandfather. I whisper to each a thank you and head toward my unit: Hand a right and see the same My heart whispers a thank you to the people who help.

Evnetually I round the entry way into clinic 3 and sit down with those who check me in, ask the same insurance questions, and confirm any changes etc. but that day we talk about energy drinks. One of the Drs. came out and said: "Those are made with Bull urine."

I look up from my paperwork and the secretaries laugh. One is Vegan the other vegetarian and always has good hair for a guy.

Finished with my secretarial duties, I take a seat below the TV so I can see those who come in, pull out my Yiddish book: Born to Kvetch start to read while I try to ignorethe History Channel program on Satan. sheesh.

A skinny woman comes in accompanied by a man. Wearing a cotton cap over her bald head, shoulders hunched and arms hugging herself for warmth even on this hot day she checks in with the front desk. She has a tube needing fixing. It must be a pik line I think and shudder at the thought. The man speaks for her, and I watch until her small tall frame turns and our eyes meet. I smile. Weakly, she smiles back.

And so it goes. Often, you meet people with just a glance, feel their pain or a small portion of it and can nod or somehow express the: "I understand." Or I feel for you, here, take a bit of my heart cause it aches for you. Some take it. Others are too far beyond anything that you could possibly conceive as far as health concerns, and like the military man, I can't look them in the eye. But are averted and moist.

The mother that comes in with a child in a wheelchair, holding two other kids on her hips, a purse, and a look of determination or that of someone asking: throw me a bone!!!! comes in. I always smile. that's all that is left to give. Or that has lasting value.

I don't have zillions to leave or a chair to lead for cancer research; just a smile.

I am glad that I don't have to go to Iraq Or Afghanistan. Yes, I feel like I am being pelted physically, but at least I am home, have family to enjoy, and a nice warm bed with the roof over my head.

All of this gratitude could not have come with out saying: Hello! and looking to learn from each encounter. You never know who you might meet or who is sitting next to you. I love being what I learn from introducing myself, and getting to know another person. It takes away from the sting of good-byes and is part of planting that garden inside you Ms. Veronica talks about in her poem.