Song of the day: The Prayer- Part I David Foster and Carol Bayer Sager
"I pray you'll be our eyes, and watch us where we go. And help us to be wise in times when we don't know"- David Foster and Carol Bayer Sager
Dedicated to Anna Sellers
This morning Dad had an appointment to have blood work done. This was one of the conditions of his release from the hospital last Wednesday. I had spoken to my sister this morning, who gave me a list of things to ask about, things to make sure of, etc;. She is a thorough person, and has been a steady and dependable "rock" for Mom and Dad throughout all of this. Mom has a dental appointment downtown later on and prefers to ride the bus, due to parking issues. She gets a bit flustered at times. She has not complained, but she can not be all places at once. This one is easy... I offer to take Dad to his appointment. Truth is: I should have volunteered earlier.
This loads one more brick onto my pile of well-deserved guilt. (This also means I am just two bricks shy of what is required to build a small cottage; complete with patio.) I need to be more conscientious...like my sister. On the way, I need to stop by an ATM. I have no real cash in my purse...just a few coins rolling around with the lint in the bottom of it. "Something" tells me not to go to the ATM; at first quietly, and then a bit louder. I telepathically try to reason with "Something" that I have no money. "Something" also asks me if I really need to stop. I realize that I do not, relent to my inner intuition, and do not stop. Sometimes it is good to follow instincts. No, I take that back…for me… all of the time. Whatever it is, and for whatever the reason, I feel as if I am getting more and more in tune with …with… Well, you know.
I get to Mom and Dad's house on time and find that Dad is ready to be taken to his 10:30am appointment. We arrive at the doctor’s office around 10:26am. Within moments of arrival, the technician draws his blood. (I believe that they are called phlebotomists now) The whole thing is over in a matter of minutes. I speak to the receptionist and secure an additional appointment for him to see his doctor on Wednesday. I have her to make out two appointment cards… one for Dad, and one for me. When we get back home to Mom and Dad's, I find Mom getting dressed and ready to go catch the bus. We check the schedule, and the bus leaves a little after noon. While Mom gets ready, Dad and I talk. He reaches into his wallet and hands me a twenty dollar bill. I try to refuse it, but he insists. I eventually thank him and take it. I do not have to stop by an ATM, after all. I also whisper a "thank you" into the air.
It is almost time for Mom's bus. I tell her that I will drive her to the corner and wait for it with her. We get to the corner and I tell her to stay inside of the car. It is cold outside. I will stand and wait for it for her. When I see the bus turn the corner, then she can get out of the car. She reluctantly agrees, and I stand and wait. In a dark blue windbreaker jacket, standing on the corner in the biting cold and wind, I feel like a chocolate popsicle, dressed in a blue wrapper. I have my hood over my head. In the meantime, cars go by...not one woman in any of them. Mostly younger men. With this hood over my head, it is difficult for them to determine my age, and so many of them slow down to try to take a look at my face. I will admit that, although I’m fairly nice looking, once they see my face and realize that I'm not some "sweet young thing", they hurriedly speed off. Those who dare to linger are treated to my "you-really-don't-want-to-mess-with-me" face. I have been told that I can produce one of the best of its kind...and so they linger no more. Besides,... I've got my Mama in the car, so there!
Standing on a corner, waiting on a bus gives one a lot of time to think. This same spot is where I used to stand daily, and wait for the bus almost thirty years ago. Yes, it has been at least 26 years since I've stood on this corner. I breathe out, and try to make little white cloud circlets with my breath. In my mind, I have been transported back to a time when I was younger. It also just so happens, that I am standing on a crack in the sidewalk. As soon as the "younger me" realizes that she is standing on a crack, an old poem comes to mind. Instinctively, she steps away from it and looks at her mother, still sitting in the car. Mom appears to be fine. Thank Goodness! Her back isn't broken. I see her little gray-haired head, as she sits upright and bundled up, in the passenger seat of my car. At that moment, the "younger me" is immediately jolted back into present time. It is again December 1, 2008 and I am 50...and one half years old. (Remember how important "1/2" was when you were four?)
I then begin to look down at my shoes. My shoes. Oh, the shoes. These athletic shoes were given to me, and had once been the property of a person whose name graces schools and buildings throughout the country, as well as popular products used by just about everyone today. I also remember once having been given a jacket with the family name monogrammed on it. Most people seeing me wear it would immediately have thought that I bought it from a store that made products bearing the same famous name. They would never have in a million years guessed that the jacket belonged to the actual man himself! I knew this man personally. Our family knew this man personally. When "The Boy" was born, he gave him this HUGE Winnie-the-Pooh stuffed toy. He has since left this earth, but he was a kind and gentle soul; who never allowed his wealth, power, or position to influence how he treated people. Wearing his shoes, makes me feel that I am part of some great and wonderful secret. I have, quite literally, walked more than "a mile" in these shoes. There is a story in all of this, but it is not mine to tell; and even if it were, I am almost certain that I would not be the one to tell it.
The Prayer - Part II
Dedicated to Anna Sellers
This morning Dad had an appointment to have blood work done. This was one of the conditions of his release from the hospital last Wednesday. I had spoken to my sister this morning, who gave me a list of things to ask about, things to make sure of, etc;. She is a thorough person, and has been a steady and dependable "rock" for Mom and Dad throughout all of this. Mom has a dental appointment downtown later on and prefers to ride the bus, due to parking issues. She gets a bit flustered at times. She has not complained, but she can not be all places at once. This one is easy... I offer to take Dad to his appointment. Truth is: I should have volunteered earlier.
This loads one more brick onto my pile of well-deserved guilt. (This also means I am just two bricks shy of what is required to build a small cottage; complete with patio.) I need to be more conscientious...like my sister. On the way, I need to stop by an ATM. I have no real cash in my purse...just a few coins rolling around with the lint in the bottom of it. "Something" tells me not to go to the ATM; at first quietly, and then a bit louder. I telepathically try to reason with "Something" that I have no money. "Something" also asks me if I really need to stop. I realize that I do not, relent to my inner intuition, and do not stop. Sometimes it is good to follow instincts. No, I take that back…for me… all of the time. Whatever it is, and for whatever the reason, I feel as if I am getting more and more in tune with …with… Well, you know.
I get to Mom and Dad's house on time and find that Dad is ready to be taken to his 10:30am appointment. We arrive at the doctor’s office around 10:26am. Within moments of arrival, the technician draws his blood. (I believe that they are called phlebotomists now) The whole thing is over in a matter of minutes. I speak to the receptionist and secure an additional appointment for him to see his doctor on Wednesday. I have her to make out two appointment cards… one for Dad, and one for me. When we get back home to Mom and Dad's, I find Mom getting dressed and ready to go catch the bus. We check the schedule, and the bus leaves a little after noon. While Mom gets ready, Dad and I talk. He reaches into his wallet and hands me a twenty dollar bill. I try to refuse it, but he insists. I eventually thank him and take it. I do not have to stop by an ATM, after all. I also whisper a "thank you" into the air.
It is almost time for Mom's bus. I tell her that I will drive her to the corner and wait for it with her. We get to the corner and I tell her to stay inside of the car. It is cold outside. I will stand and wait for it for her. When I see the bus turn the corner, then she can get out of the car. She reluctantly agrees, and I stand and wait. In a dark blue windbreaker jacket, standing on the corner in the biting cold and wind, I feel like a chocolate popsicle, dressed in a blue wrapper. I have my hood over my head. In the meantime, cars go by...not one woman in any of them. Mostly younger men. With this hood over my head, it is difficult for them to determine my age, and so many of them slow down to try to take a look at my face. I will admit that, although I’m fairly nice looking, once they see my face and realize that I'm not some "sweet young thing", they hurriedly speed off. Those who dare to linger are treated to my "you-really-don't-want-to-mess-with-me" face. I have been told that I can produce one of the best of its kind...and so they linger no more. Besides,... I've got my Mama in the car, so there!
Standing on a corner, waiting on a bus gives one a lot of time to think. This same spot is where I used to stand daily, and wait for the bus almost thirty years ago. Yes, it has been at least 26 years since I've stood on this corner. I breathe out, and try to make little white cloud circlets with my breath. In my mind, I have been transported back to a time when I was younger. It also just so happens, that I am standing on a crack in the sidewalk. As soon as the "younger me" realizes that she is standing on a crack, an old poem comes to mind. Instinctively, she steps away from it and looks at her mother, still sitting in the car. Mom appears to be fine. Thank Goodness! Her back isn't broken. I see her little gray-haired head, as she sits upright and bundled up, in the passenger seat of my car. At that moment, the "younger me" is immediately jolted back into present time. It is again December 1, 2008 and I am 50...and one half years old. (Remember how important "1/2" was when you were four?)
I then begin to look down at my shoes. My shoes. Oh, the shoes. These athletic shoes were given to me, and had once been the property of a person whose name graces schools and buildings throughout the country, as well as popular products used by just about everyone today. I also remember once having been given a jacket with the family name monogrammed on it. Most people seeing me wear it would immediately have thought that I bought it from a store that made products bearing the same famous name. They would never have in a million years guessed that the jacket belonged to the actual man himself! I knew this man personally. Our family knew this man personally. When "The Boy" was born, he gave him this HUGE Winnie-the-Pooh stuffed toy. He has since left this earth, but he was a kind and gentle soul; who never allowed his wealth, power, or position to influence how he treated people. Wearing his shoes, makes me feel that I am part of some great and wonderful secret. I have, quite literally, walked more than "a mile" in these shoes. There is a story in all of this, but it is not mine to tell; and even if it were, I am almost certain that I would not be the one to tell it.
The Prayer - Part II
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