tonight's gift

translation: Carsyn 5 [i.e. 5 years old]. I like to come to anna's house to read a book. from carsyn to anna.
As he handed this note to me, Carsyn sternly instructed me that I must keep it. I don't think I will have difficulty doing as I'm told . . .

feeling festive

I am currently obsessed with this creche . . . and I am absolutely thrilled with the fact that I am now its proud owner. My grandmother was lamenting the fact that she had acquired a large new decoration and, intrigued at her description when I carted the box out of the car for her, I pulled it out to see for myself. Oddly enough, considering my general dislike of extra "stuff," my laziness when it comes to decorations, and my spare inclinations in aesthetic decor, I instantly fell in love with it. M grandma generously offered to part with it, and I now am trying to decide upon the perfect spot. Mom is visiting me at the moment [I cried when I saw her, missing hr so much: no simple tears either: I was a blubbering mess of boo hoos!]; but she has not helped much with the placement inspiration--she claims that I am the one who knows about such things, not she. So I am still trying to place it: any ideas from those of you familiar with my place? ;-)

for auld lang syne

A request from my Aunt for some of my Zambia photos has left me sentimental from looking through my photo files . . . so in honor of said sentimentality, here's one of the shots that didn't make it to my blog.

intruders, of the less serious variety

I belong to a privileged minority of folks who enjoy what they do. I love my job [most of the time, that is ☺]. More importantly, however, my job is good for me. Hopefully I am good for it as well . . .
But what I find myself enjoying lately about it is the way in which it forces me out of my routine. I have a tendency to create structured routines no matter what my phase of life my be: this routine can change drastically from one phase to the next [i.e. American librarian to teacher in the Zambian bush], but upon transitioning, I rapidly develop a new routine. This is a good thing, and I do it because I need to . . . but it can become a bit neurotic at times.
So I love the fact that my job involves “surprise” encounters. It certainly holds its fair share of regular, scheduled tasks [writing/producing the newsletter, getting new residents settled, updating files, etc]. But the most interesting/challenging tasks—and definitely the most amusing ones—often come from the unexpected events . . .
As I often do, I made a house call instead of simply making a phone call, to see if Ms. Emily wanted to sign up for the next holiday event. When I knocked she opened the door more promptly than I am accustomed to, making me step back a bit, pausing as I tried to remember how I had planned to address her [I generally compose questions before actually asking them].
Before I had a chance to say anything, however, she ushered me in the door with a comment as to how “relieved she was to see me.” My emergency-radar jumped in here, as she was one of the residents I had not yet met—I assumed, then, that she must have some urgent need for assistance.
Once the door was closed behind me, and I was safely insider her apartment, Ms. Emily lowered her voice and leaned towards me, wide-eyed, as she explained that she had been just about to come to the office. She paused, lowered her voice slightly more, and hushedly exclaimed, “Gophers!”
“What,” I queried, thinking I must have heard her wrong.
But I had not. It turns out that Ms. Emily was terrified of the “gophers” she had seen in her apartment. Translated, thanks to some further questioning and investigation, this means that Ms. Emily had seen a rat. Ahhh, of course, I thought, once I had solved the mystery and duly reported the infestation . . . and I smiled to myself at my private joke. Considering the way I have been replaying the image in my mind of her “Gophers!” revelation, I think this will be just one of the many mental files this job offers that serve as reminders that sometimes real life is just too darn funny to take too seriously. A good reminder for all of us who are prone towards the stressing/worrying tendencies!

a lifetime dream

Thanks to a kind friend, who made the journey when I could not, I have just now seen, for the very first time, a photo of my father's grave . . .

on this day

I remember, this day--November 30--in 1988. On this day, I awoke excited--no, more than that--I was ecstatic. I was running through lines of the Christmas program in my head, eagerly rehearsing for the program that night. You see, tonight we were performing for our families, for my family. They were on their way by this time, I knew, beginning the drive early that morning that would bring them along many lonely dirt roads, winding through villages and across open plains, to arrive here.
It had been 3 months now since I last saw them, when I boarded the little Cessna on the grass strip of our village, clutching my stuffed bear in one arm and holding my sister's hand with the other. We stood there waving goodbye one last time on the boarding stairs, and then waved again out the window as we sped along the airstrip and lifted off into the air. I loved that moment of lifting off in the airplane--and have ever since--the exciting rush of becoming airborne and soaring faster and faster through the air.
That day, however, my excitement of the beginning was tinged with the sadness of knowing I would be away from my family for many nights now. The days were always full of learning, fun adventures in the bush with friends and with various creatures to be discovered and trees to be climbed. The nights were the hard part, though, when I fought the tears that often came in spite of my fierce will, silently dampening my pillow while I stifled the shortened breaths that may give away my tears to the classmates sleeping near me in rows of bunk beds.
The 3 months since that last flight had passed quickly--3 months of good books read, math problems solved, geography discovered, play weddings acted out in free time, and all manner of grade 4 activities. I had also turned 9 the previous month, and knew my family would now celebrate my birthday and my brother's 4th birthday 3 days earlier, as soon as we made it back home. While on a shopping trip in South Africa, my Dad had acquired our first car, so the decided to make the road trip instead of Helen and I flying home as we had always done before. So, I knew they were loaded up in the Isuzu, along with 2 village friends--a teenage student of my Dad's and the Zambian pastor he worked with in our Church.
So that afternoon, after various activities designed to keep all us boarding students preoccupied so we wouldn't be bouncing off the walls with the excitement of our families' arrivals, we all filed out the drive-up area to await the first arrivals. I had in my mind the perfect picture of what to expect, so as each vehicle arrived, I craned my neck to see my mom's long arm waving out the window and Alex's goofy grin peering out from her lap. But the cars came, parents claimed their clamoring kids, and my picture-perfect arrival still had not appeared. Finally, a lady I recognized as the mom of some friends who lived fairly near us went over to our Dorm Mother and said something to her, gesturing in our direction. She then came and told us to go ahead and get ready for the program--not to keep waiting for our parents there.
I was disappointed, but assumed they would arrive at any moment, so just kept waiting as we practiced our songs. My mental image just altered itself to adjust to a late clamor of hugs and kisses rushed in before the program started . . . but the program came, began, and ended, and they had not arrived. The next morning we were taken to the Cessna, and told we were going to go back to the village by flight after all. This time I imagined the whole family standing there on the airstrip, coming into focus as the plane landed, with eager smiles and waves--still, no. The parents of a classmate took us in their car instead--so of course I changed my expectation once more, this time thinking they were taking us to our house where the family would be, picture-perfect, waiting in front of our little home.
Instead we arrived at their house. Auntie Elaine (according to British habit, all family friends were "Auntie" and "Uncle" to us kids) finished up dinner preparations while we helped set the table. And then, instead of sitting down to dinner, she asked Helen and I to come and sit with her on the couch--"Anna, Helen--I have some really sad news . . . your Daddy went to heaven . . . " Before the sentence was finished, I had burst into loud sobs, Helen looked at me and started crying, and Auntie Elaine and her daughter were both crying and hugging us.
I don't remember any mention of the rest of the family at that point--nor did I wonder, as far as I can remember. The rest of the day, of the week, of the month, passed in a sort of a fog, in which my memories are clear but displaced, as if each memory was plucked from its proper place in the continuum of time and placed instead in some never never land of homeless moments.
I remember falling asleep with fitful dreams, waking up convinced I had dreamed reality, and that Daddy would walk in and comfort me any moment. I remember being reunited with my brothers, staring at Alex's discolored and misshapen head, and carting Ian around carefully in his body cast, propping him up against walls . . . supporting him and holding his modesty blanket over his midsection as he pinned the tail on the donkey at his belated birthday party. I remember visiting Mom there in the Zambian hospital, horrified at the sight of my strong, active, beautiful mother lying there on the stretcher bed unable to move herself. At one point during a visit, the nurse had to turn her over so that she wouldn't get a bed sore. As she did so, she let go of the sheet and mom was briefly exposed to us all in the room. I didn't know whether to blush, sob, or scream--I wanted to just run away, to disappear forever into the endless, dreadfully beautiful African wilderness. I hated seeing mom like that, and dreaded the visits . . . and I hated myself for feeling that way, thinking there must be something wrong with me if I didn't want to see my mother . . .
Somehow, time passed. My Daddy's funeral passed in a blur of friends, strangers, languages I didn't know, and wails I knew only too well. As soon as mom was strong enough to be transported, we were shipped to the U.S., where hospitalization and then physical rehab came for her. I hid in my books--in beautiful worlds of fantasy--to the extent that my grandmother still teases me for always having my "nose stuck in a book" as a child.
And eventually Mom was well enough to take over the care of the 4 of us again. I still don't know for the life of me how she did it--a paraplegic supporting and caring for a home of her own and 4 not-always-angelic children. She did it well . . . she loved us well.
On this day, when we were children, Mom beautifully commemorated the anniversary. She would buy what looked to me like hundreds of helium-filled balloons, bringing them home so that the house was bursting with balloons. Then she tied note cards to the string of each one, and told us to write notes on them--as many as we wanted, and whatever we wanted to say to a stranger. I remember writing things like "Jesus loves me this I know . . ." and "My Daddy died on this day, and he is now in heaven with God, because he loved God. I do too." I wrote silly notes, but meaningful ones, longing, in all my childhood intensity, to somehow tell the world that I had a great Daddy, and that some day I would see him again.
I still catch myself, when I am still enough to listen to the deeper desires of my heart, craving moments of remembrance of my Daddy, and eagerly clasping to memory any tidbits about him that people from his past may be able to share with me. And thankfully, my own mind clamped down firmly on all the memories I had of my times with him, out of a personal need for them and, I suspect, out of a nagging suspicion that someday, somehow, there would be a greater use for, outlet for, it all.

why not dance?

Break dancing for Thanksgiving? I don’t see why not: I mean, we all must be thankful for the ability to dance, are we not?
It was not the first time I have attempted this variety of dance. It was, however, the first time I have done so in front of many people . . . I think it may have also been the first time I have unabashedly done it in front of adults [rather than just children, since the last time I remember busting a move was with my students, as a home schooling teacher].
And I know for a fact that it was the first time that it has been a part of my Thanksgiving celebration.
This morning, before my family gathering, a friend and I attended the community meal—this year a rather chilly affair, at the outdoor pavilion. There turned out to be a wonderful abundance of volunteer help, so all were well-fed and [hopefully] well entertained. I add that small clarification as I must admit to being a part of the entertainment:
My planned participation was simply vocal, chiming in with a few Thanksgiving-appropriate tribal songs I picked up in Zambia. But as I do when I sing, I had to dance a bit as I clapped; and I explained that one of the songs was much better when it included a chorus line of dancing vocalists.
So it seemed fitting that the next performing group was a quartet of break dancers. And I was simply one of several who, when given a good beat, simply cannot help but dance—especially when watching skilled folks who are already doing so . . .
And so we danced.

Sunday drive

The time I get to spend with the Burundi refugees is all too short lately. But I am grateful for the time I had, pre-job, for daily visits that built a foundation allowing for easier relationship building even when so limited in quantity. So as time passes, and we grow more comfortable with each other, it seems that this comfort lends itself towards more frequent moments of spontaneious laughter. This afternoon I drove them home from Church, now that they have been placed in local subsidized housing units. My poor little Pearl didn’t know what to think with four extra bodies piled into her . . . I don’t think I imagined the extra creaks and groans mixed in with her usual gear shifts and clutch adjustments. But she carried us safely—and happily—to their home. It being my first time there, I relied upon Petronie's unique brand of direction-giving: a mixture of wildly waving gestures and blurted orders of “Stop!” “Go!,” “Here!” and “No!” Considering it all, we managed the journey surprisingly smoothly.
Once parked in front of their apartment, as the rest of the crew bounded towards the door, the elderly Evode stopped and looked back at me in the car. He said something and then walked back to me. I expected him to give another goodbye handshake, as I have grown fondly accustomed to his hearty and repetitive greetings and goodbyes. But I realized he was saying something else, trying to tell me something specific. I was afraid something was wrong: were they locked out? But no: I saw that Faransine was already traipsing in the door, dancing as she sang the refrain from one of the day’s songs.
And besides, Evode was smiling awfully broadly as he gestured . . . I rolled my window down and listened as he beamingly gestured towards their apartment door. “Numba!” he said, pointing to the sign. “Numba!,” he repeated. Then it hit me. He was proud of his progress in the language, and was simply showing me his newest word: “Number.” I laughed and shook his hand “Goodbye” again.
The drive home was a happy one; I was energized by the vibrant love these friends so freely offer me. And I was honored that Evode—a man whom I suspect to be a deep well of experience and wisdom—was so set on sharing his small victory of learning with me before I left them for the day.

facing a fear

It was odd to discover that I still cannot bring myself to look at a dead body. For as long as I can remember, I have had this fear—rather inexplicably considering my usually abnormal lack of fear in normal fear-provoking circumstances.
Losing out first resident—in my tenure on the job—I found myself deliberately avoiding a direct look at the frail body lying on the bed. Mr. C had died rather suddenly, having been vibrant up to this point. He was known as “the screamer” thanks to his habit of shouting at the top of his lungs [literally] even if you were standing within a foot of him. His deafness coming late in life, he had never quite grasped the reality of what his own hard of hearing meant: so he did what came naturally and spoke at an all-out shout: it’s actually a wonder he could maintain the roaring decibel level he seemed to consistently manage. So I had grown accustomed to bracing myself each time I approached him, prepared to be blasted by a bellow of a request to call his brother, or to get him a cup of coffee. But Mr. C’s apparent liveliness hid from many of us the truth that he was in the latter stages of prostate cancer; so his abrupt death was no surprise to his family.
When I entered the bedroom to discuss logistics with his case worker, it caught me off guard to feel my heart beat more rapidly and my breathing become shallow. I was instantly afraid: a sudden and illogical fear of looking at his dead body.
It’s not as if I have some scarring memory of seeing death in my past; I never saw my father’s body. And when my Opa died, his expression was utterly peaceful. He wore such a normal expression that Oma had even kissed him before realizing that he was gone.
But for all the funerals I can remember, I have tried desperately to avoid the viewing parade. Granted, I also find it a rather disturbing practice in general; but I can understand how some bereaved people find it comforting. I simply am afraid of seeing death face-to-face like that, so on the occasions when I could not slip unnoticed out of the viewing line, I simply averted my eyes discreetly so that I made every semblance of going along with the flow without actually looking . . .
I suppose it should come as no great surprise to realize that it is a strange thing to be faced with our fears in life.

the ichthus

"drive" safely

1. Drive at a slow speed. Faster speeds are for outdoors only.
2. Always yield the right of way to pedestrians. Remember, neither of you know what the other is going to do.
3. Make eye contact with pedestrians and speak your intentions such as, “Passing on your left” or “Passing on your right.”
4. Keep a space cushion of at least three feet around you at all times.
5. Slow and stop sooner than you think necessary.
6. Back up only when absolutely necessary and always look behind you first.
7. Keep your hands, arms, and feet inside the chair when in motion.
8. Never try to crowd inside an elevator with others. Politely ask them to step out to allow you to enter safely, or wait for the next empty elevator.
9. Always wear your seat belt on ramps and outdoors.
10. Travel up and down on slopes, not sideways.
11. Avoid holes and drop-offs.
12. Never attempt to drive over any obstacles over 2 inches high.

Today I learned that driving a POV is a lot harder than you’d think—it also, coincidentally, is a whole lot of fun. I was quite bad at it, veering wildly in my efforts to steer. And I was worthless in the Obstacle Course, demolishing the walls of the pretend elevator, and knocking down all the cones. But all in all, it was definitely a successful afternoon of Motorized Driver Safety class. I think my personal lack of skill provided some amusement to the residents ☺
And in case you needed to know for future reference, I thought I’d provide the cardinal laws of driver safety—that is the list posted above. A couple other topics that came up were “keep your batteries charged” and “don’t drink and drive.” In fact, we were all seriously warned, a “motorist” was recently issued a DUI for wheelchair-operating under the influence!

speaking of names

Due to the nature of my past work and life experiences, I am accustomed to being given nicknames. Some come as a result of memory lapses, some come from teasing, and some from sweet, and greatly appreciated, affection [this I can attribute to the loving side of children's inherent openness].
My most recent work has offered several new ones, some of which I know the root of and some I do not. All I enjoy . . . so far!
Here are a few of them, along with the best elaboration I can offer:

"Little Miss Africa" -- The first newsletter I distributed included I section in which I introduced myself as the "new face" around the facility. I also gave a shortlist of the places I had lived before now. In a low-income residential facility, deep in the Heartland, the mention of Zambia, Africa rather understandably stuck out to some of the residents . . . to those who are literate, mind you!
"Miss Bonjour" -- For a reason unbeknownst to me, one lady mistook my name for "Bonjour" when she was using the telephone in my office and needed to give the name of her social worker to the Department of Human Services. She asked me, a moment later, if that was how I said my name. I corrected her, but the actual pronounciation did not stick in her memory. Since then, each time she needs to say my name, she calls me "Miss Bonjour." This has become so natural to her that she simply does not think to question any more if it is indeed my name. What I find ironic about it all is that she has no way of knowing that French is one of the languages I know: the one I know best. So I figure it is a nickname I was destined to have :-)
"Tulip Toes" -- I haven't the slightest idea where this came from, but yesterday I arrived at work to find Jo waiting for me to arrive. And as I approached the office she smiled and waved from down the hall: "Well there she is--hey, Miss Tulip Toes!" I waved back, shrugged, and laughed to myself, figuring I would just leave that one be :-)

just another work day

As I vented about the day over dinner this evening, it occurred to me while speaking that my workplace sometimes feels surreal even to me. It is my real, every day life, and yet the daily reality of it is certainly beyond any daily-ness I have ever experienced before . . .
Since my last post a certain resident [about whom I have written, if you are a regular reader] has had a warrant put out for his arrest. So when I saw him the next day, I did my citizenly duty and called the police [mind you, the words I just used to describe the action do little to convey agitated, nerve-wracked state of mind I was in at the time].
The next day I arrived at the office and was relieved to discover that he was incarcerated. This news encouraged me greatly, as I assumed this would be the end of it, for a little while at least.
But today he was back, roaming the halls as usual; I was told that his mother had bailed him out.
Oh, and I got another call from the DA's office, requesting contact information for one of our residents. When I realized it was the individual's mother he was asking about, I assumed it pertained to our resident sex offender. But the officer knew nothing about that turns out he was calling about her: she is now being investigated for using a fraudulent check to post bail . . .

all in a name

It is a delight to watch a five year old burst into peals of loud laughter at the image conjured up by the words of a fairy tale; it can also be an amusing surprise to see the source of that laughter. Carson's laughter last night over the rhymes of Dr. Seuss was easy to understand, but tonight it caught me a bit off guard. We had settled on the story of "Lazy Jack" from my Child's Book of fairy Tales, in which little Jack has a series of amusingly confused efforts to heed his mother's advice. Carson was understandably tickled at the idea of Jack carrying a donkey upside down on his shoulders. But he also literally rolled on the floor when I told how Jack had carried meat home from the butcher by dragging it behind him with a rope--now what Carson laughed so hard about, though, was not the image itself but the word used . . . for some reason, he found the word "mutton" to be the most hilarious thing he had apparently heard in quite some time!

job description, schmob description

Today I cut Miss Mary's hair. My intent in going up to her apartment was to have her fill out an application, as she was one of the residents with some mobility issues whom I knew would struggle to come down to sign up for the annual "commodities." When I got up there, however, she mentioned that she was bothered by the way her hair always fluttered into her eyes. She wanted to get it cut but wondered at the cost of having someone make a house call to do that: or at least that's what she replied when I asked if she wanted it cut.
So I said that I could actually do it for her, if she wanted, having spent my college years as a bit of a word-of-mouth hairdresser for all my housemates and friends. I started to feel guilty about offering to do something that I am technically not supposed to do [it falls under to social worker-speak term of "direct service" that I am meant to provide help acquiring but not do myself]. But then I thought more about it and realized I did not in fact feel it was wrong for me to do in this case. As it was, Mary had an immediate need that I could provide quite readily, in very little time. She is planning to move out soon, and as she is one of my favorite residents I am anxious to make the most of what time there is left. And frankly--more selfishly, as far as reasons go--there was nothing I would rather have done with a portion of this day.
It was one of those sweet moments in life when time slows to a blessed stand still. Combing the wisps of baby-fine hair as I knelt beside Mary, I marveled at her beauty, and told her as much. As I am always a bit nervous when I cut someone's hair, I was relieved to see that the result was quite lovely. And I was thrilled at her ready smile when I held up the hand mirror to show her the end result . . .
No, I definitely have no qualms about the non-working time I spent while at work today :-)

lest i forget

I was growing increasingly frustrated today as I spoke with Miss Charlotte’s sister today. It began as what I assumed would be a straightforward conversation. After visiting Charlotte for a check-up last week, I had nearly keeled over as I walked in. Her apartment was filthy with a build-up of human waste and insects, and the odor completely overpowering. And she had no idea. She was even soiled herself, yet she spoke with me in a relatively coherent conversation, chattering on in a blissful oblivion to her surroundings.
As we have volunteer student nurses who come periodically, I made sure she had a visit the next day and I spoke with the nurses afterwards. They told me what I suspected they would: that she could not take care of herself any longer. Up to now, Miss Charlotte has been headstrong in her independence, so I was relieved to hear the report that she had also admitted to them that she knew she needed to move out of her own place . . . “It’s definitely time for her to go to a nursing home,” they concluded as the nurses left my office.
The first step in this move is to contact the family, so I made a few phone calls to her relatives and was referred to her main caretaker—her sister. Each day I had left a message for her, since that day, explaining the situation, telling her it was up to her now to make the decision, and asking for her to call me back. But I still had not heard from her today; I was thrilled, then, to hear her answer the phone this time.
My excitement promptly turned into frustration. She almost brushed me off immediately, saying she was tired today and would call me later. Not trusting a return call, and anxious to get something moving, I quickly explained to her my reason for calling [she had told me she did not check her messages so had not gotten any of my prior ones]. My assumption was that she would immediately realize the urgency of the situation and respond accordingly. Instead, she told me that nursing homes “didn’t take care of anyone,” and their food was awful. She said she’d just try to find someone who would come and help Charlotte in her apartment.
I tried to explain to her that the waiting list for in-home care was a year and a half long at this point, and that Charlotte was really needing more than that anyway. She repeated her feeling about nursing homes, citing her bad experience with one in particular, and rushed off the phone. Before she hung up, I convinced her to promise to call me back as soon as she heard back about the in-home care; she clearly was not going to consider a nursing home.

What was so distressing to me was that she was not truly concerned about the needs of her sister; all she cared about was her own idea about nursing homes. Had she had the financial resources to afford top-notch in-home care, that would be one thing. But this was a lady who occasionally came to visit her sister, and who had refused to help financially [when I called to tell her that her sister did not have a mattress—hers being soiled beyond use—she had told me she couldn’t afford one, and couldn’t do anything about it at the time. I had been left to scramble with a hunt at all the donation locations to try to locate a mattress by the time she was ready for bed that evening].
In short, I was left with the unmistakable impression that Miss Charlotte’s sister simply did not care enough to do what needed to be done.
The normal procedure in this case is to let the family make the decision, which means taking the individual to the hospital. The hospital then refers them to a nursing home, so that Medicare has the “official” word to cover the costs.
In this case, I need to decide how long to wait for Charlotte’s sister to respond. If she does not, I’m afraid I will need to have Adult Protective Services intervene, in lieu of Charlotte’s family. It is distressing to think of having the state do what the family should be doing for her. But the alternative is worse: the idea that no one cares enough to make sure that she is not left alone in her increasing senility and infirmity.
I left work today saddened at the lack of care that is so prevalent in this world. And then I reminded myself that I probably need to be faced with such blatant selfishness in order to take care to guard against my own such tendencies. I pray that I can spend a lifetime cultivating a heart that is willing to break over all that is heartbreaking in life as we know it.

p diddy's got nothing on ms. b

Thank you, Hon--You just saved my butt . . . and you know it's a big butt!
She said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world to tell someone, and I guess I deserved it, having just followed her instructions to help her precarious position in her wheelchair: I braced myself behind her, grasped the elastic waistband of her pants, and hoisted her up to shift her into a better position. My coworker later berated me for attempting such a thing, as the last time she had done it, she had enlisted the aid of a male nurse. Ah well--it seemed to work alright this time!

why not eat salsa with a fork?

Once church was over and my laundry finished today, I decided to squeeze in a late afternoon trip to the museum: I hadn't yet seen the temporary Moser exhibit and am always eager for the chance to take flash my membership card :-)
So while walking downtown I passed a man sitting outside, talking. He sounded just like any weekend leisurer until I realized he was not holding a cell phone [is that a sign of the times, that his lack of a cell phone rather than the fact that he was alone is what struck me as odd?]. I soon recognized him as one of our local not-quite-sane city dwellers, so it wasn't a terribly surprising sight as far as daily encounters go.
It was, however, an uplifting one. At the time I was rather weary of dealing with landlady issues, as my household is currently in transition. And I was extremely weary of the work issues, Friday being another day of experiencing the vibes of pure hatred I can do nothing about. I cannot tell the residents the truth of the situation, so for all they know, I am a meddling newbie who came in and started a wild rumor about that nice man who stays with his mother. He has now been told he has to leave the building and, if he has any questions, should direct them towards his parole officer . . .
But what I was going to say [when truth broke in with all her matter-of-fact about the ice storm] was that seeing this eccentric man today lifted my spirits unexpectedly. He sat there contentedly talking to his "friend," while sipping a corona and eating forkfuls of salsa from the jar.
So as I continued on my way I grinned at the refreshing thought that we all have a bit of a "crazy" in us. And, sometimes, I think it is the craziness that keeps us sane.

Feliz Dia, ANNA

HAppy birthday! I hope you had a great one- would love to see pics of the party...if you take some!! SO you;re working at a nursing home? How´s your readjustment been to life in the States?
Love susan
Abrazos

if you've ever wondered . . .

. . . what folks who spend their days working with the elderly do when they are gathered together for a nationwide conference: in this particular case, I can vouch for one group who holds serious health care, mental support, and caregiving sessions during the day. But by night, you can find us singing "everybody dance now," dancing with our heads while our bodies morph into digitally mastered dancing genii. Or at least that's what three of us did just now--and I have [safely held hostage] a video to prove it :-)