Superwoman Falls Down

I knew I was taking on too much.  But, I really thought I could swing it.  I refused to see several potential snags with my master plan.  Honestly, looking back, I’m not sure what I was thinking.  

You see, I do my volunteer bus driving two Fridays per month, and on this particular Friday, my real estate partner was going to be out of town and he had already scheduled a closing for this day.  I should have been tracking all this ahead of time, watching the date fast approaching, seeing “Dan on Vacation” on my Google calendar, right next to “Drive the MORE bus!”.  But, I wasn’t tracking.  Not at all.  The “couldn’t be changed closing”, combined with the fact that I hadn’t driven the bus the past two times they needed me (one time was their scheduling issue - the other was due to my own kids’ conference schedule, and I felt super guilty and it took three volunteer coordinators to talk me down from my self-deprecating shame and yes, I do realize that this is a problem), caused me to have a large lapse in sanity and reality and attempt to make all this work.

So, here’s the breakdown.  I needed to get all the Burmese elders (have I mentioned how much I love and adore these people?) picked up at their various domiciles throughout Frogtown and East St. Paul, and dropped off at the MORE School (1.5 hours tops), drive the bus back to Lyngblomsten Nursing home (10 minutes tops) grab my own car and drive down to Edina to the closing (25 minutes tops).  Please note that when I say “tops”, this reflects my own distorted, denial-infused thinking as I worked all this out in my head.  And as I look at this now and do the math, I see that there really was never any way I could have made it to the closing in time and I was completely, utterly, fooling myself to think I could have.

Here’s why.  The bus can’t be picked up until 8:00am.  I sort of knew this (ok, I had directly been told this) but thought maybe it wasn’t an exact time...  And when Sister Stephanie emailed me the list the night before, stating that “almost everyone was coming” because they were going to be having the Christmas party and giving them all gifts, I knew (or should have known) damn well that it meant for a longer than usual route on the bus.  I vaguely remember thinking that I’d get there and pick up the bus at 7:45am and when my sensible daughter Hannah suggested that I just take the bus to the closing, I reminded her that this wouldn’t be fair to the folks who pay for the gas on limited, non-profit funding and it was my responsibility to take my own car to the closing.  Oh, Gina, you “wanna be altruistic” fool, you. 

So...  7:45am became 8:00am and I’m off to get the elders

And...1.5 hours tops, became this:

EVERYONE, and I mean EVERYONE was not ready.  I call them on the phone and say “MORE School” like I’ve been instructed to do.  The idea is that even if they don’t speak English, they’ll recognize “MORE School” and will come rushing down because they are expecting the ride they’ve just arranged with the translator the day before.  This usually works.  Really, it does.

Not this day, though.  This day, I’m waiting at every stop.  I’m calling and saying “MORE School” and proceeding to engage in one half of two completely separate “one-way” conversations.  I’m talking and the other person is talking, and we don’t understand each other, so why are we still talking??  This is actually funny, and if I could speak Karen, I’m sure we’d all have a big laugh about it.  Eventually, I say I’m sorry (why do I say this to someone who doesn’t understand me?) and hang up.  I then proceed to wait various lengths of time in case someone comes out.  Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t.  This took some time.  My master plan was rapidly failing (but I still refused to see it).

I get back to the MORE School with the first group and explain that I have about half the people I was expecting.  I also give Dah Wah (the translator) my phone number, which she proceeds to use while I’m out on my second pick up.  You see, it seems there are several people who didn’t make the list and can I pick them up, also?  I just couldn’t say no.  I couldn’t!  They were going to be getting their Christmas gifts today!!  What, I’m supposed to say... No, I can’t pick up that elderly Burmese refugee who has been looking forward to this event for weeks and likely lived in a refugee camp just outside of  what is now known as Myanmar (Burma) for who knows how long after having traveled miles on foot with little provisions to escape further persecution by the military regime and certain death in their home village. Nope, not gonna be saying that.  So, I look at the clock and refuse to accept the fact that it is now 9:45am (the closing is at 10am, remember?).  I send a text message to the buyer, who I am supposed to be representing at the closing, stating that I might be “a little late”.  Seriously, Gina.  Get a clue.

Another important fact worth noting is that I now have to go to the bathroom.  And if you know me, you know that my bladder doesn’t have a particularly large capacity.  And it seems I’m almost always looking for a bathroom.  

So, here I am, dropping off the last group of elders, and I should really go into the MORE school and use the bathroom before heading to Edina (in the bus, because of course I realized about 7 minutes prior to this that there was no way I was going to be able to get my car, so screw the gas and the non-profit budget and all that.  And now my so-called altruism has somehow morphed into this ugly entitlement about using that gas - after all, I am juggling a couple jobs and a bunch of kids and still trying to volunteer and what is a little bit of extra gas and mileage on the bus really going to matter anyway?  Not my proudest moment, this one).  But, I don’t go in, because I’m afraid they will ask me to go get someone else, and as we’ve already established, I am completely incapable of saying no.

Now I’m off, speeding down the freeway toward Edina and the closing.  Here’s a visual of the bus:

I’m attempting to return several work calls and hoping that I don’t sound too unprofessional amidst the wind noise from the swing-out bus door and rattling of the wheelchair lift.  As I approach the parking lot of the professional building in which the title company is located, it occurs to me that I will have to park the bus at the far back part of the lot, due to its size and the now obvious fact that the lot is, for the first time EVER, at complete capacity.  Of course it is. This presents a definite problem, because speaking of capacity, my bladder is now way beyond it.  As I maneuver the bus at an inappropriate speed into the lot, I take a quick mental measurement of the distance from where I am about to park to the door of the building, then adding in the additional distance to the bathroom inside (with which I am well acquainted).  Here is the equation:

Parking Lot + Hallway Inside + Current Bladder Status = Gina is going to pee her pants

So really, I’m faced with very few options here.  And, might I add, I will have to go right by the windows of the closing office, where they are likely to see me running toward the bathroom, “holding myself” like a 5-year-old who waited a bit too long.  And there is also the fact that it is now 10:30am, and unless my pipe dream of the closing being hopelessly delayed has come true, I am likely to run into the attending parties, in which case I’ll have to stop and chat and actually pee my pants in front of them.

None of these are acceptable scenarios, so I take a quick emergency survey of my surroundings and decide that my travel coffee mug is the only reasonable choice I have.  I think I remember that I drank all of the coffee earlier, but I can’t even think clearly, I HAVE TO PEE SO BAD, and so I grab the mug, rush back to the middle aisle of the bus (which is furthest away from the window areas), say a brief prayer that nobody is anywhere near the bus and looking (but I’m truly unable to care anymore), and begin to pee into the travel mug.  The relief I felt is, well, indescribable.  Well I mean, I could describe it, but contrary to what you may believe about me, I do try to impose some limits on myself when writing.  And now, I started thinking how well this was going.  Why hadn’t I thought of doing this before?  I’m a survivor!!  I can handle all of this after all!!  I’m distracted with my own self-satisfactory joy and relief and it causes me to overlook the fact that something is going very, very wrong until I look down and see a river of urine-coffee heading down the aisle of the bus.  

Yes, I’ve overflowed the cup.  Shit!  

And I will spare you every ugly detail of the clean up that commenced.  But I would like to give a shout out to the amazing soul who bothered to leave that rag on the floor by the driver’s seat on the bus.  And I’m sorry you’ll never see it again, but, surely you understand...

When I at last entered the main office of the closing company, there they were, my buyer, the listing agent and the closing agent.  The sellers had already left (the closing was LONG over), but the listing agent needed his lock box, which I had picked up for him and, believe or not, I remembered to bring (the day started out with a lot of pre-planning and the best of intentions, remember?).  I’m falling all over myself apologizing and then we mercifully go into the obligatory small talk about the holidays and traffic and pets people have.  I sheepishly give my buyer client her Home Depot gift card and when I have a moment alone with her, decide to take a risk.  I tell her the whole story (minus the pee incident).  She laughs heartily at the bus story and even harder when I point out the actual bus at the back of the parking lot.  Somehow, my lateness is excused and acceptable because I was doing volunteer work and boy am I relieved and hoping she won’t tell all her friends not to use me as their Realtor because at the very end when you need someone with you at the closing table, who knows if Gina is or isn’t going to show up.

I still have to take the elders back, and when I return to the MORE School, I apologize to Stephanie for not coming in earlier, explaining that I was really late for a meeting.  She is upset that so many of the elders made me wait, and parades me in to the room (where they can see me, she says...), and she proceeds to give them a bit of a tongue-lashing (via the translator) about being ready when the ride gets there.  She also tells them that I was late for my own important meeting and I pretty much want to crawl under the nearest rock.  Stephanie, stop holding these wonderful people accountable!!  Why’d you have to say my meeting was important like that?  Geez.  She says to them that I am nice enough to take time out of my day to drive them and they need to be ready and when I call they need to immediately come out to the bus.  I would have done the exact same thing to support my volunteers when I worked at a non-profit, but damn, I hated every minute of being on this side of it.

They all got home safely.  A few folks stammered out apologies in broken English (kill me now).  And I, once again, learned a million valuable lessons from the elders (without having really even spoken to them), that are truly a gift to me every single day.

Oh, and I also learned that my driving Fridays are days that I will commit to nothing else.

Old Friends

It's been a rough year.  And on this Thanksgiving Eve, I know that I have an awful lot to be thankful for, that's for damn sure.  Last April, I was in the midst of all sorts of chaos, but I had the amazing and wonderful fortune to have recently reconnected with some old friends.  I wrote this then and would like to publish it now.... thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to those wonderful women.  They know who they are...

We start out in the living room, or kitchen maybe.  Pots and pans strewn about, playing dress-up with a sibling or two, if we have any.  Eventually, we migrate to the playground or park.  Our parents say things like, go talk to that nice little girl over there, she can be your friend.  Eventually we take the lead.  Mom, can I go play with my friend?  Can my friend come over?  I want to have a birthday party and invite all my FRIENDS!

The teen years are difficult.  We love our friends.  We hate them.  They make us so mad!  They have an easier life than we do.  They sleep with our boyfriends.  They like someone else more.  They have better hair.  They have boyfriends who take them away from us.  They have a car!  We worry that they have an eating disorder.  We are embarrassed of our home life and don’t want our friends to see it.  We wish our parents were more like their parents.  

Eventually, off we all go, anxious to get on with our lives.  We have no idea what these lives will bring.  We don’t realize how hard it is going to be.  But on we go, leaving it all behind.  For some of us, that somewhere is a quick family and marriage.  Maybe dreams will wait until later.  Maybe dreams will change.  For others, that somewhere is anywhere but where we were.  Get out, start living!  The more the better.  Drama? Bring it!  We can handle anything.  Our parents are alcoholics!  Our siblings are a mess!!  We will do better.  Won’t we?

Once in a while, we get together, but less and less as the years go on.  We sometimes think of the old days together, but over time it is really just a fleeting memory here and there.  Yes, we get together for a class reunion once or twice.  But, nobody talks about the real stuff.  We are busy trying to be what we think we should be.  What we thought we WOULD be.  Maybe we don’t want to think so much about the past anymore.  We’re moving on!  Life changes, damn it!  

Babies are born.  Weddings are planned.  Degrees are obtained.  Job interviews are had.  On we go, hoping it’ll all work out just the way we’d wanted.

But it doesn’t, does it?

Marriages have ended.  Children have gotten sick.  Loved ones have died.  Hearts have been broken.  Jobs have been lost.  Dreams are uncertain.... We wanted to give up sometimes.  We gave up sometimes.  But in the end, we kept on keeping on.  We picked up the pieces when were weren’t sure we’d live another day.  We cleaned up vomit and urine and shit when we didn’t feel like it.  We smiled and said I love you, even when we weren’t sure if we did.  We got dressed and went to work, even when all we wanted to do was crawl right back in bed and have somebody hold us and say it would be OK.  There wasn’t always somebody to hold us, and it wasn’t always going to be OK.

So now, here we are.  Middle aged.  Middle aged!!!  We are strong.  We are beautiful.  We have sagging bodies.  Aches and pains that we never imagined we’d have at this point.  We worry.  Our mental health is fragile at times.  We have disappointed people and we’ve been disappointed.  We are more realistic.  We are confident enough to not give a shit about the little things as much anymore.  We’ve all spent so much of our lives trying to figure out who the hell we were supposed to be, or regretting not becoming who we thought we SHOULD have been.  

In so many ways, our lives are so much bigger.  And yet with each passing day, don’t they get just a little smaller?  The number of people we can really trust.  Smaller.  The number of things that REALLY matter.  Smaller.  

The older I get, the more time I spend in my head.  This is saying a lot for an extrovert like me.  Oh sure, at a party, I’m the loudest.  Big mouth, funny girl, jokes galore.  But truly, all I ever wanted was to feel safe.  To feel loved.  To have real friends and real people in my life who I could trust.

So I sit today, reconnecting with those ghosts from the past.  Those girls have become women.  They’ve been to hell and back, just like me.  They’ve succeeded, but they are still broken and they are not afraid to admit it.  I don’t have to be somebody else with them.  They will love me.  Years can pass.  They will still love me.  I can disappoint them.  Still, they love me.  I know that I can tell them my deepest, darkest secrets and sins and regrets and hopes and dreams and unrealistic expectations.  Still they will love me.

Today, my friends make me the luckiest woman I know.

They Don't Want Us To Fly

It’s early morning.  We should have left the night before, but Hannah had a concert we didn’t want to miss, we didn’t plan well and it turns out it’s a lot harder to get a flight anywhere than it used to be.  And last time we flew, it wasn’t exactly a planned trip (see Dark Days post..)

I’m out of it, as I always am in the morning.  We didn’t make coffee, figuring we’d save time/cleanup and grab some at the airport.  We’ll have plenty of time, since Gerd made the decision about when we’d leave (I would be running late if left to my own devices).  We got a great tip about Park-N-Fly and we drive in, noting how friendly the guy is at the gate for 4am (Gerd thinks this is nice and of course he’s right, but I’m secretly annoyed at early morning cheer of this type).

The sign in the Park-N-Ride van tells us that our courteous driver is Ron B.  Ron is definitely courteous, except that he is searching, searching, searching for someone in the parking ramp that never does appear, causing him to circle the van endless times around the ramp and we nearly throw up on the floor.  But, at last, we’re on the way to the terminal and coffee awaits.

We have a discussion about checking our bags and because we don’t want to be ‘that couple’ on the plane (we are so naively altruistic, we will discover later), decide to check them.  Boom, $50.  OK, no big deal we say (even though we’re both mentally beginning to add up the costs of this so-very-close-to-Christmas “getaway”).

Now it’s time for security.  I want you to know that I DO make an attempt to mentally prepare myself for this experience, in the hopes that I will not have to go off on a tirade later about the injustice of taking off our shoes and hats when the pepper spray I had last time passed through in my purse, unnoticed.  I try. I really, really TRY to get my head into a cooperative place.  First step, get past the “guard” so we can queue up and proceed to scanning.  The patch on his shirt says, “Integrity, Team Spirit, Innovation”.  Here is what these stand for:

Integrity:  We will do everything we can to strip you of your own integrity before you actually board the plane.

Team Spirit:  We will work together as a “team” to humiliate and anger you, all the while feeling the protection of our “team”, knowing that if you fly off the handle or make inappropriate jokes or comments, other “team” members will simply escort you away, and we’ll never have to see you again or care about why you missed your flight.

Innovation:  We will continue to find new and improved ways to create a slow, problematic experience for you.  In addition, just when you think you’ve been embarrassed and violated more than you surely ever want to be again, we’ll take it to the next level.  

Which they did.

I was distracted and bogged down with the details of separating items in bins, taking off my boots and my hat (if it’s convenient ma’am, the guard says - well, no, as a matter of fact, it is NOT convenient for me to remove my hat, but you aren’t actually going to give me that option are you?).  There are so many rules about the bins.  Who comes up with this shit?? Gerd is talking about a sign that says where to put the computers and I haven’t had any coffee and FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, why are they directing me to this space-age looking body scanner?  They tell me to raise my arms above my head - what the fuck did I do, anyway?  Am I a criminal now?  Well, I might as well be, because I have made the HUGE mistake of wearing a shirt with sequins and beads to the Minneapolis/St. Paul International Airport.  

They bring me out of the scanner and down a short carpet and tell me to put my feet on the “foot” pictures printed onto the carpet.  I’m not really appreciating how far apart my legs are when they are in the foot pictures - I’m getting the feeling I’m about to be frisked.  The young, awkward guard, who never meant to have a career this exceedingly depressing, says to me:  Unfortunately, ma’am, you did not clear the scan.  There are a few concerning areas in your abdominal area (What?  Is it cancer? How much time do I have?) and we need to rescan you.  A lady by the Star Trek scanner looks at him, rolls her eyes, and says she can try again but she is sure it isn’t going to change “the results” (Yep, I definitely only have six months left to live).  Arms up, hold still ma’am, this won’t hurt a bit, do you have an updated will, where do you want to go on your final vacation, sorry you couldn’t see your kids graduate from High School, and back down the carpet to the foot pictures.  Here is the guard again with his apologies about how I didn’t pass the scan.  Now, they are calling for a female guard to take me into a private room for a body search.  I just knew I was going to get frisked.  I look over at Gerd, who is calmly collecting all his belongings from the conveyer belt and probably harboring a swiss army knife and lighter and who knows what else but he sure didn’t wear a shirt with sequins, did he?

Now, I’m pissed.  I don’t appreciate being treated like this, and I want to say so, but I’m afraid they won’t let me get on the plane.  I’ve seen the made-for-TV-movies.  You don’t act out in the airport.

The female guard and her bitch sidekick (who nods, but doesn’t talk) swing us by a station of some sort, where she puts on gloves and tells me she is ‘testing’ them, to show that they are all clear.  I have no idea what she’s even talking about.  Gerd is now off to the side chatting with another guard.  We walk by them and I do the “raise the roof” gesture, because what else are you going to do to break the anxiety and humiliation of the moment.  The guard asks if I just raised the roof and laughs and I think for a minute she’s ok.  Into the private room we go.  I’m informed that she will be checking my entire body and yes, that INCLUDES areas that are private and sensitive.  There are places on my body I don’t even want my husband to touch - are you kidding me right now????  Do I have any areas that may be painful if touched she wants to know?  There are opportunities for jokes here, of course, but I sure better not say them.  The questions are coming so fast, I hardly even know how I’ve answered, but I do remember her saying that when she touches my private areas, she’ll use the back of her hand.  Wow, really?  Thanks for that.

She proceeds with the frisking, and let me tell you, other than the female doctors & nurses who delivered my babies, I sure didn’t think I’d ever be this TOUCHED in these places by another woman (not that there’s anything wrong with that...).  I’m feeling completely discombobulated and she and bitch sidekick test the gloves again.  I ask what she’s looking for on the gloves and she says chemicals.  She then proceeds to explain that all this security has been ramped up because of the recent “Underwear Bomber” incident in Amsterdam.  I have no idea what she’s talking about, so she elaborates... She says there was a guy who got on a flight and had a bomb in his underwear.  He attempted to light it, it burned his crotch and pants, and he was then taken down and beaten by the other passengers.  I feign interest in this story (when really all I want to do is GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE) and she says - no lie!  Look it up!  OK, now we’re what?  Friends?

Here’s the deal.  I DID look up that story.  It’s from 2009.  And frankly, I fail to see how the story justifies the ridiculous, unnecessary humiliation I felt on this day at the airport.  I am a relatively well-adjusted adult woman, who has never been the victim of physical or sexual abuse and it took ME a while to get over this experience.  What might it be like for someone else?  An abuse victim?  A mentally challenged person?  Or, as my victim advocate friend pointed out, what about KIDS?  We teach them that they shouldn’t let anyone touch their private areas.  Oh, except for those STRANGERS at the airport, let THEM touch your privates!!  Bullshit, that’s what this is.  And if all these security measures are keeping us safe, how come people keep getting killed and crotch-burned with plastic explosives and terrorists are still hard at work terrorizing.  Sorry, but we’re getting a lot of things all wrong and we don’t seem to be getting much right, if you ask me.

After this, and the subsequent tirade I went into, that I never wanted to have to go into, and Gerd sure didn’t feel the need to have me go into, we made it to the gate.  Oh, you bet there wasn’t time for coffee after that security delay, doing nothing to improve the sour mood, that’s for damn sure.  We got into the line to board, and just as we were about to get onto the actual plane, a flight attendant came out and stated that it was time to start checking bags people, because they were about out of room in the overhead compartments.  I look behind us at an endless line of people with bags the same size as the very bags we just checked at the customer service desk. I ask the flight attendant if they will have to pay and she says no, it’s free.  Are you kidding me, I say????  We paid $50 to check our bags and all these people get to check for free, after the entire boarding process has been delayed while people attempt to cram their too-large bags into the plane????  Seriously??????  And she says yes, and “you didn’t hear this from me, but always check your bag at the gate”.  I wanted to like this woman, because she was kind of edgy and had a cool New York accent, but I hated her at that moment.  HATED HER!!!!!

Of course we were in the VERY last row of the plane (on this AND the connecting flight), where the seats don’t even recline and there is just a wee bit (shit ton) of engine noise. Thanks, Priceline.

They don’t want us to fly.

Of course Gerd’s LOOOONG leg (the other one was folded up into who knows where) was extended out into the aisle, where they had to ask him to remove it because it was in the way of the beverage cart. I guess he should have what, checked it?  Put it in the overhead compartment?

They don’t want us to fly.

Because if they did, on the return trip home, they would have let us try to carry on our bags (even though we knew they were probably too big for the little connecting flight aircraft we were boarding), so we could check them at the gate FOR FREE.  Nope.  Another $50.  

They don’t want us to fly.

Because if they did, they wouldn’t have changed our departure gate during the 4-hour layover in Atlanta.  By the time we noticed, ran through one giant gate, took the tram, and ran through another giant gate, it was too late.  We were told the plane was already gone (technically, it was still 20 minutes before take-off).  The guy goes on the intercom saying maybe we (along with the many other people who also missed the flight and are out of breath after recent panicked dashing through the terminal) can catch another one.  Oh sure, Delta, we’ve been down this road with you before and we KNOW you’re going to try and charge us.  So we went to customer service, where they chastised us for being at the airport for this many hours and still missing our flight.  Please, people.  We can only take so much shaming in one week!  So they finally give us new tickets, tell us to be to the gate at least 45 minutes early (at this point, the flight is scheduled to leave in LESS than 45 minutes, by the way).  And of course, the tickets they gave us require yet another gate change/dashing/tram ride/dashing.

They don’t want us to fly.

Remember when we were little?  Remember meeting the pilot and getting your “wings” pin?  Remember free meals?  Sure, they were bad, but they were free!  You never knew what you were going to get!  It was all part of the experience.  Sure, they sexually discriminated when hiring what were then called “stewardesses” and only hired them if they were skinny and pretty, but remember how much FUN it all was? 

What happened?

It’s like they don’t want us to fly anymore.  

But we will.  We will fly, because like childbirth, the hellish experiences we endure to travel to other parts of the country or world fade in our memories over time.  We swear we’ll never do it again, never put up with this kind of pain, but we will.  The excruciating memories will become fond, and we’ll tell our stories with a chuckle, as we plan our next vacation...

Dark Days

It's that time of year.  Time to turn back the clocks and figure out which relatives we can tolerate spending our time with this holiday season.  Time to scrutinize the finances and decide if we can take a trip, any trip at all will do, to get us out of the godforsaken climate when the temperatures plummet to places we don't like to think about during the off-season.  Time to reflect back on events from the year as we craft the annual holiday card.  Time to wish we had lost the 10 pounds during the summer so we could be eating and drinking and hibernating all we want right now instead of dieting and suiting up to go out running in a cold autumn morning.


This year has been a tough one, for a variety of reasons.  And as I reflect, I find it very difficult, yet seemingly necessary, to go back to the darkest of dark days in March.  One minute you're playing Scrabble with your husband, having a glass of wine and chatting about the cabin getaway you are leaving for the very next morning.  The next minute, you're text messaging your ex-husband in Florida, who has just taken your daughter to the emergency room with a yet-to-be-determined diagnosis.  Most of you know the rest.  Emily nearly died.  I wrote, as I helplessly sat in the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport (along with all the excited spring break travelers...) waiting for the plane to take us to Emily.  At that point, we were told she had a brain tumor.  It wasn't a tumor, it was a blood clot, swelling rapidly and threatening her life.  But at the moment I wrote this journal, that's what we knew.


March 16, 2011 in the wee hours of the morning....

He is talking, talking talking.  Situation. Family emergency.  We don’t really know what is happening.  Reserving plane tickets.  It echoes, echoes.  I can’t be living this life.  I”m trapped in a box, unable to help, unable to comfort, unable to ask questions.

Emily is sick.  Bloody nose leads to headache leads to throwing up and more headache leads to mixing up words and not making sense.  ER visit leads to urine and blood tests leads to elevated white cell count but no fever leads to cat scan leads to a brain tumor.  

Brain tumor.

Brain tumor.

My baby is thousands of miles from me, flying in a helicopter to a hospital where they will help determine the type of tumor she has and how to treat it.  I am in the living room,  in my bedroom, on the toilet, in her bed, clutching her clothes.  They smell like her perfume.  There is her colorful bear, on the floor.  She has had him since she was a baby and I need to bring him to her.

Where is Gina?  Is she all right?  

They are worried about me.  I don’t want to be touched.  They comfort me, rub my shoulders, talk about how much it sucks. I don't want to be touched.

Mike and Becca are coming here to drive us to the airport.

Who fucking cares?  Everyone needs to do something to feel better.  I am still in the box.  Pacing.  I am a hamster spinning on a wheel, going nowhere.  My phone doesn’t ring enough.  I am addicted to information.  Non-updates will do.  I don’t care if you have answers to the questions, just let me ask them.  

I close my eyes.  How can I send Emily my love.  Can she feel it??  I can almost feel her.  I want her.  Where is she????

At last, she is medicated enough to talk, the headache isn’t so bad now.  She is cheerful.  You don’t have to come, mom!  I have had quite a night!  I sure have a story to tell my family about my vacation!  She has no fucking idea what is going on.  I am holding onto this moment for dear life.  She is Emily.  Just plain her.  She didn’t like the smell of the helicopter.  Of course she didn’t!  The people are nice, but she really missed her dad.  

We are in line at the airport.  Shoes off. Computers in a bin.  Keys out.  Liquids under 3 oz.  I am worried about the pepper spray in my purse, and I am not worried.  You wanna go, people?  Let’s fucking go!  I didn’t remember to leave my fucking pepper spray behind as I prepared to go to my daughter, just diagnosed with a brain tumor.  Still, I like to follow the rules.  I hate to be called out for being stupid and forgetting these American rules that are here to keep us all safe.

I walk through the body scanner arch and the guy let’s me know that I look absolutely exhausted.  Thanks fuckwad.  Long night running on my hamster wheel trying to imagine my life without my daughter.  Not everyone here is off to Spring Break Daytona Beach.

We gather our belongings.  The one time I am actually carrying something that could debilitate several people on the plane, including the pilot, I walk free and clear.  I briefly recall that my dad couldn’t pass the “identifying objects” test when he applied to be airport security and wonder if he would have caught my pepper spray.

We move toward the gate.  Endless moving walkway.  All the stores are closed.  Too early even for coffee.  We walk on and on.  Out of the hamster wheel.  Toward Florida.  I see a woman walking with a strange gait.  I wonder, did she have a brain tumor when she was 14?  Did it render her unable to carry herself properly.  OK, that I will take.  That is a problem we can deal with.  Did she lose her legs to a terrible farm accident, chained to a life with prosthesis and never getting to kick her own legs in the swimming pool?  Why does one person get one problem and another person get something else entirely.  Why do some people seem to get all the problems, others none and some of us are pretty fucking lucky.  But not all the time, really.

I can’t help but think about the stages of grief.  Oh, I don’t really remember them.  Something about disbelief, it can’t really be true.  Isn’t that first?  I am definitely there.  Then, bargaining.  Is that a stage of grief or just something about bargaining with God?  I can’t remember that either.  All these things seemed really important, yet so “somebody else’s life” just yesterday.  Either way, I am ready to bargain.  I would love to trade places with Emily, for example.  Why can’t I have the tumor instead?  Or, how about we take a bunch of other problems in exchange for this one.  I don’t know - financial loss, house fires, I would even take another fucking divorce.  Just not this.  Please not this.  But, you don’t get to pick, do you?

They are gathering around me.  Coffee in hand (the shop must have opened).  Smiling faces, are we going to Disneyland?  Restless toddlers in strollers.  Oh, honey, let’s get you a snack.  Should I go let them know that they’d better fucking enjoy these moments, because one day they might be running on a hamster wheel, thousands of miles from that sweet little cherub, while he is mixing up his words and riding with strangers in a helicopter over St. Petersburg.  

What is that next stage of grief?  There must be something before acceptance.  I know that I had a feeling on that people mover.  I wanted to freeze the moment.  Because at that moment, Emily didn’t know what is going on, and we just had a normal conversation.  At that moment, she isn’t in surgery, she isn’t mixing up words, her head doesn’t hurt so bad.  At that moment, we don’t know if this is cancer, if she will have surgery, if she will ever walk and talk again, if she will live.  Freeze the moment, or fast forward this endless fucking night.  I can’t decide.  It must be one of the stages of grief.

I just asked my husband if he thinks they’ll serve booze on the plane.  He asked if I was planning on having a drink, and I said I thought a cocktail to wash down some Dramamine might just be the thing.  He asked if that was safe.  Safe?  Nothing is safe anymore.

They keep chiming on the loudspeaker about how the threat level is orange.  The threat level has been orange for years.  What does this mean?  Green we’re good.  Red we’re fucked.  But orange?  Orange is like a perpetual state of “maybe”.  And isn’t that really just it.  One day, we’re all bowling.  Or eating pasta and talking about our day.  One day we are planning on going camping and sorting the socks in the clean laundry basket.  But it can all just change in an instant.

So, there it is.  And you already know that it ended better than this.  Certainly better than we imagined at the time. She lived.  She made an amazing recovery.

Post op and crabby!!

Drugged up and on the beach, like every other spring breaker, right?

Gina and Emily at a wedding in October 

Take somebody you care about and wrap your arms around them.  Tell them how much you love them and hold the moment and hold it tight, dammit.  Because that moment could change in an instant.     

Blue Collar Girl

There are days when I shower, style my hair with a round brush, put on makeup and wear jewelry and high heels.  I show houses, I go to closings, I attend meetings with bankers, I sign leases, and I try to stay on my best behavior.

And then, there are the days when I go to work at the investment property.  These are great days.  First of all, I don’t have to decide what to wear in the morning.  There is really just the one choice - the grubby, paint stained, unflattering clothing that I always wear to “the job site” will do just fine, thank you.  And, I get to wear my work boots!  The hair will simply be tossed into a hat with braids, and there will be no shower and no makeup whatsoever.  I know I look like shit, but I’m going to work, dammit!!  REAL work!!

I always arrive much later than the other contractors.  Sometimes it is because I have errands, but mostly I am just SO not a morning person.  When I arrive, there they are, the “guys”, listening to their music, all dusty and dirty, bantering, transforming whatever space they’re working on.  They have questions for me.  I love this part!!!!  We walk around and figure out how the kitchen should be laid out, whether a room needs a ceiling fan, which colors go where and discuss the various budgets and costs of things.  Then, I get to whatever work I’m going to do.  Oh, yes, I’m SO much less capable than they are.  But, I’m there, working along side them, usually removing wallpaper or painting a porch or doing landscape work.  

Sometimes I have to borrow their tools.  AWESOME!   I always ask them if they need anything when I run to the hardware store.  I realize that even if they did need something, they would likely never entrust me to actually choose and purchase said items for them, but I just love offering.  I’m part of the group!!  I don’t have to be on my best behavior, because they actually appreciate it when I swear like a truck driver (until they find out what my husband does for a living and then they get all nervous and start apologizing and I hate when that happens).  Some of them are crabby and weird, but mostly, they are just great.  And lately, I have begun to feel that they actually like having me around sometimes.  For example, I had a detailed conversation about potty training and “poop” the other day with one of the guys and I’m pretty sure none of the other guys would have been as enthusiastic about the topic as this mama was.

At the latest project, things have not been smooth sailing.  We’ve been robbed and vandalized.  The guys are so supportive.  A couple of them have "connections", which we’d never actually use, but just knowing that they know “thugs” somehow makes me feel better.  They tell me about auctions where we can pick up replacement tools for cheap and offer to let us use their tools.  I love these guys!!!  

Sometimes I hurt myself.  I’ve punctured my leg by kneeling on a nail, more than once:

When this happens, they always have bandaids for me, and I am sure to act strong and brave and not make a big deal about it even when inside I’m secretly calculating when my last tetanus shot was and considering the lead paint dust and mold particles which have surely entered my body and are causing blood disorders and God only knows what other problems.  But, I can research all that online later.  Today, I’m working!!  I’m one of “them” and I’m sure not going home crying over a nail in the leg, that’s for damn sure.

Sometimes there are toilets available at certain points during construction at these projects (if not, it becomes necessary to acquaint oneself with the nearest reasonable public toilet, especially when you’re a girl and have given birth several times and aren’t getting any younger...).  The current house had bathrooms which needed to be completely gutted, including the toilets.  The plumber left one operational (I use this term loosely) toilet in the basement, right in the middle of the big open space.  No doors, no privacy, really no way of any kind of knowing when somebody is about to come down the stairs and see you hovering over this:

Yep, folks.  I have peed in that toilet.  Multiple times!!!  And other than the day when some water splashed up onto my butt cheek, sending me into a whole separate frenzy of anxiety, I will have you know that I’ve mastered the entire process.  I dash down when they are all busy with power tools upstairs, I hover, I flush-with-foot, I pretend like I don’t notice the sign that says you have to shut off the water when you’re done (so I don’t have to touch anything at all) and I dash back upstairs.  I’ve (knock wood) never been ‘busted’ mid-pee.  Can you not see how I’m part of the gang??  I just fit right in.

There is, however, one important distinction.  With very few exceptions, I have certain “standards” about my food at the work site which they seem not to have.  Example:

Please note that while this apple doughnut from Sarah Jane’s bakery in NE Minneapolis sits on this DIRTY water cooler next to the bag of OPENED Mediterranean dried apricots, there is dust flying all around!!!  People are scraping lead based paint and mold and stirring up dirt from a house that has been contaminated with animal feces, piles of who knows what else and these guys are NOT EVEN WORRIED ABOUT GERMS!!!  Notice that even my purse is zipped shut, so as not to contaminate its contents and right after I took this photo, I actually made the decision to remove the purse entirely from that room.  

So maybe I won’t ever exactly fit in.

But still, I just love my blue collar days...

Halloween

Just read a letter from my son's Junior High Principal regarding Halloween.  Here is the policy for students wanting to dress up:


The expectations for those students who would like to dress up for Halloween is as follows:

a) Costumes must be in good taste and not offensive to gender, religion or race. 

b) Student attire which is disruptive to the learning process or is a danger to student

health and safety or causes an interference with school-related activities will not be tolerated. Those students whose costumes/dress does not meet criteria will be asked to correct the situation. Those students who refuse will be referred to administration.

c) Students will not be allowed to use colored hairspray in the building. 

d) The no hat policy is in affect. 

e) We will not allow facemasks or face paint. 

f) Absolutely no weapons, fake weapons, or items used to look like weapons.

Pretty much sounds like no fun at all, doesn't it?  Isn't the POINT of Halloween to distract from our daily activities?

So, I guess Jake won't be going as this:

Still Life with Monarch on Dog Shit

The plants are confused.  It’s mid October in Minnesota and they should be happily dying back into the ground right now, sleepy and content to wait it out while we all endure yet another grueling and much-too-long winter.  But there’s a hot wind blowin’ through these parts.  We are breaking records, with temps soaring into the 80s and my garden babies are thinking it must be time to try again...

This oriental poppy bud should make me happy.  I fucking love to garden!!!  But I resent the poppy for blooming like this in October.  I resent the anxiety it creates....what if the frost comes quickly and the confused plant doesn’t have time to die back and it dies altogether and all the time I spent nursing it and creating compost for it is wasted and I have to start all over again??  I would like to be taking a fall hike or going to the apple orchard, but I am compelled, I simply MUST keep this poppy watered, because look at it, all optimistic and ready to create, bloom, exist!!!!

Damn it.  

And how about this Cardinal Flower, acting like it’s time to pop out of the ground when I just bought it at the Farmer’s Market a couple weeks ago and it was supposed to wither away, thank you, and come back strong NEXT year.  

Excuse me, plant life.  I think we missed something here.  It’s called WINTER!

Don’t get me wrong.  You KNOW how much I love summer.  But the thing is, for an avid gardener, we need a break.  We can’t keep this momentum going all year round.  We have to have that moment when we say, “Screw it!” - I’m DONE.  I will NOT deadhead another marigold.  I will NOT mix up another container of Miracle Gro.  I will NOT water that Dogwood (that was half eaten by the Japanese Beatles, anyway) even one more time.  I won’t!!!  As much as we love it all, we have to give it up at some point.  Surrender.  It is part of the process.  It’s a relief!!  Why else do we live in this godforsaken climate if we can’t have a little break once in a while???

But here we all are this October, watering, clipping, harvesting, trying to keep the “will to garden” going.  We need massive quantities of bug spray, because even though it hasn’t rained for weeks and our National Park areas are burning up with wildfire from the drought, the mosquitos have evidently found a watery place to continue hatching.  We are hot, and we should be wearing long pants and shirts to protect us from the thistles and nettles that have overtaken the garden, but we are hoping for that last little bit of color on our skin so we take risks with tank tops and shorts and end up with rashes and scrapes and bites of all kinds.  We pick ourselves up off the couch again the next day with our sore backs and head outside, preparing the gardens for next year, knowing we’ll be glad next spring, when we again have the energy and interest for all of this.

It’s funny, isn’t it?  Remember last February, when the Burpee Garden Catalog came in the mail and we paged through it expectantly?  Remember when we started drawing out the plans for the garden and ordered up more plants and seeds that we needed or could have possibly used?  Remember when we scrolled through our garden photos from past years, desperate to remember it all, as the arctic air whistled through our storm windows and we huddled by the fireplace with our coffee?  Remember when we paid extravagant prices for tulips at the grocery store, just so we could have a little piece of that garden on our kitchen table??

My neighbor pulled up to the garden on her riding mower as I was collecting what was left of the rotten, stinking tomatoes to put in the compost.  She commented about how much they had enjoyed the tomatoes we had shared with them and I told her I was sorry that I couldn’t keep the plants going any longer but I am DONE!  She suggested that maybe next year I don’t need to plant quite so many tomatoes.  I started stammering some explanation of how I really do love it, I like making spaghetti sauce and of course I have to plant 16 tomato plants and soon I realized that I really just should stop talking because I have gone beyond any sense of reason with my garden and I promptly changed the subject.  And she, not being a gardener, will surely think I’ve gone completely off my rocker when she sees me head out next spring, yet again, to do it all over.

There was a “Hail Mary” moment over the weekend, mind you.  A last little we-will-keep-enjoying-this-massive-high-maintenance-hobby-of-a-yard-we-created moment.  Our friends from down the street came over.  We fed them bruschetta with jalapenos and cherry tomatoes from the garden.  We mixed them Mojitos with fresh mint from the garden.  We drank the wine they brought that had something to do with Minnesota that I can’t remember because I had quite a bit of it.  We fantasized about cleaning up and weeding the community entrance to our neighborhood, which has been let go since the association is defunct (Sasha and I will actually do this next year when I can think about it, but right now, I throw up a little in my mouth when I drive by there, just looking at it...).  We momentarily basked in the glory of all that we have tried to create, in the name of community and fresh and organic and locally grown goodness.  

But still.

So I walked outside this morning, having mustered up the energy to water the newest of the 190 trees we have planted since moving to suburbia.  A monarch caught my eye, perched on a giant pile of Lola’s dog shit.  Let’s face it, dog shit in the yard is not beautiful.  It conjures up visions of scraping it out from the 1st grader’s shoe after he smashed his foot into it and walked through the house, because of course he didn’t notice the smell or the mess.  It causes resentment...who was supposed to pick it up and looked the other way?  Who mowed the lawn last?  A person could go on and on, really.

But, the butterfly!  Oh, the gorgeous, peaceful and gentle butterfly.  I do love the butterfly.  And perhaps the monarch on this dog shit is my reminder that I need to keep finding the beauty in it all.  The confused plants, the dried up lawn, the stinking tomato innards that splattered on my leg when I stepped in the wrong spot, hell - even the dog shit.  All beautiful.  All part of life.

And now, can we please get some cool temps and rain, already?

Driving the bus

It’s a chilly September morning, as I head out for my third day on the job driving the bus for the MORE School in St. Paul.  No, it isn’t a giant school bus.  No class endorsements or special licensing needed.  But, it does have those back-up sounds and requires a certain level, of, shall we say, courage.  Blind, I-rarely-think-things-through, nothing can stop me, you only live once, thank you Art Fruncillo for teaching me how do drive so well, courage.

This is volunteer work, and I’ve agreed to do it twice a month.  I’ve been donating to the MORE School for years.  But increasingly, I felt the need to do more than roll into the MORE School’s questionable neighborhood in my pimped out minivan, to drop off dish towels and other items that are no longer good enough for my advantaged and spoiled family, but someone in an entirely different situation would be thrilled to have.  So when an opportunity was advertised to drive some MORE Elders to their social group, I jumped at the chance.  As is my custom, I went all in before asking very many questions.  It turns out the entire thing is organized through Lyngblomsten Nursing home near the State Fairgrounds in St. Paul, as part of their SE Asian ministries (somewhat amusing, considering none of the SE Asian folks actually live at Lyngblomsten - how could they possibly afford an American nursing home?!?!).  Lyngblomsten, of course, has an extensive volunteer program, complete with volunteer coordinators who need to hold training sessions and give tours and make requirements in order to justify their paid “Management” positions.  I’ve worked at a non-profit.  You people are not fooling me.  So, I endured the meeting, and the tour, and the required physical (yes I can press my foot against your hand, thus proving I can press my foot on the gas pedal of the bus) and the drug test.  Can we get on with the driving work, please?

Going in on my first day, I wasn't giving a ton of thought to the actual people I’d be driving.  I was pretty nervous and focused on trying to navigate this bus through Frogtown and the east side of St. Paul.  Compounding my stress was the fact that I left the entire sheet of directions at home, prompting a call to my husband who scanned the document and I spent the whole first day trying to read the directions off my phone.  I wondered what these lovely elders in the back thought of the ding dong housewife-type looking at her iphone the entire time.  Do they know, or even care, that looking at my phone while driving is illegal?  Are they worried about their safety?  I fleetingly thought about all they have likely endured to even get to this country, and hoped that my nervous smile was enough to give them some semblance of comfort...

As my volunteer work has progressed, there are really two separate experiences with this work.  One is the bus.  The other is the people.

The Bus:

OK, it isn’t that big a deal, really.  It’s like the “little bus” that the special kids rode to school when you were a kid.  You know you've made fun of the short bus, don't try to deny it.  But, let me tell you, it makes me jump each and every time I hear branches crashing into the top because I’ve forgotten how “tall” I am!!  Here is what it looks like:

And there is this one driveway off Hoyt Ave - pretty steep, leads up to an apartment building and becomes a narrow parking lot with the building on one side and a row of garages on the other.  I pull up, the folks get on and I have no choice but to back DOWN the driveway, between garages, parked cars, dumpsters and the possibility of SE asian toddlers dashing out and getting smashed under my tires (of course this would never happen, because these kids have learned to be savvy, unlike American toddlers who would surely die, followed by a parental lawsuit even though they were not supervising said toddler and were actually inside the apartment building watching Dr. Phil).  You can’t turn around and look out the window, people!!!!  You MUST use the mirrors.  Sure, the backup sound is repeatedly going, “Beep, beep, beep”, but is anyone really paying attention?  The last person I saw in a vehicle looked so strung out from the night before, I don’t know if they would notice the beeping sound as they are looking down to pull the cigarette lighter out of the dash.  Sister Stephanie, who runs the Elders Program at MORE School, says why don’t I just have the elders walk down the steep drive so I don’t have to back up like that.  What??  I’m not making these lovely people walk down the driveway.  They’ve done their time!!!  Why live in America if you can’t enjoy the advantage of curbside pick up?!!?!?  They deserve to be picked up at the top of that driveway, dammit, and as I back up, I always send a little prayer of thanks to my wonderful father for forcing me to drive on black ice and in rush hour traffic during rain at the age of 16, giving me enough courage to do this thing.

**Note:  But for the love of God and all that is good and decent, if you ever see my bus coming down that driveway as you are driving down Hoyt, please, I beg of you, stop and give me some damn room.  

There is a certain camaraderie I feel with other drivers of large vehicles.  Look at us!!  We are way up here in these tall rigs doing important work - taking people where they need to go!  Picking up garbage!  Trimming trees!!  I always give them a big wave and a smile.  They often look perplexed at my enthusiasm.  Sometimes, I resent them.  Oh, look at THAT lady driving a different nursing home bus...she has somebody in the passenger seat holding a map and helping her with directions..  Bitch.

Eventually, I get them all safely to the MORE School.  This takes two separate routes, because the bus only fits 14, and there are always more folks than that.  The real trick is getting them back home.  They all want to pile on the bus and we are trying to organize the route and talk through the translator and my phone is ringing with a work call and somehow Sister Stephanie has them all on the bus and I circle the people I need to drop off and thank my lucky stars I have an iphone with a great map application and the rest of the folks go and sit down in the grass, smiling and happy to wait for as long as it takes me to get back and can I just tell you this:  I love these people.

The People:

I brought, shall we say, a certain "urban ignorance” to this whole situation...  I thought I was so smart, beyond saying simply “asian” or “SE asian” and knew that these folks weren’t Chinese or Japanese or Vietnamese.  I was sure they were Hmong.  I based this on a very basic, not-that-educated assumption (in this case, I made an “ass” out of me, by the way).  They live on the east side, they must be Hmong.  So anyway, I really wanted to reach out to them somehow.  Most of the elders say hello, goodbye and thank you in English.  Some of them even speak a bit of English.  But, I wanted to greet them in their own language.  So, I thought I was all clever and went online to look up how to say “Good Morning” in Hmong.  This is what I found:  Nyob zoo.  Ok, I know that you can’t possibly pronounce this phonetically, I’m not THAT stupid.  So, I will ask Daphne, who is awfully friendly and speaks pretty decent English.  I show her the words on the paper as she boards the bus and she is confused.  I wonder if she can read.  I’ve made a terrible mistake.  She then says something I can’t quite understand and we have yet another awkward smiling and nodding moment.  I squeeze her hand, she sits down and we move on with the route.  I stick with English “Good Morning” for the next couple riders.  But then Rosilin gets on the bus, and she is just so darn nice, I want to give this another shot.  I ask her how to say “Good Morning” in her language and she responds with sounds that I tried and tried to duplicate.  Highly unsuccessfully.  My mouth just couldn’t seem to form the sounds.  Which got me thinking of that clicking language some Africans speak and the "rolling r's" in Spanish that I also can't do.  We get back to MORE School and I chat with Sister Stephanie, relaying the issue with the language.  She says, Oh, you must have been trying to speak Hmong.  These folks are Burmese and they speak Karen (pronounced Ca’wren, emphasis on the last syllable).  All my pride-filled liberal-minded best intentions came crashing down into a puddle of sheltered-suburban-shame.  Suddenly, I was “that woman”.  I might as well have said, “They all look the same, anyway, don’t they”.  Holy shit!!!!  But Stephanie is so nice, she says, that was really great of you to try.  Good morning in Karen is pretty easy, she says.  She then repeats what Rosilin tried to teach me, but with her clear, clipped Minnesota vowels.  Here is how it goes:

good morning: ghaw luh a ghāy (Stephanie said it ‘Go La Gay’)

So, at that point, I only knew that they were Burmese.  I didn’t yet know that in Burma, they have one of the worst health care systems in the entire world.  But you know what?  These people don’t seem like sick elderly people.  They are not getting wheeled down the hall at Lyngblomsten to get their hair done.  Oh, no.  They toss their beautiful gray hair into a bun and hobble onto the bus, most often assisting someone else who could probably use a walker or cane, but sure doesn’t have one.  Sometimes they RUN to the bus - why??  Maybe so as not to waste my time, or the other elders’ time.  When they have to wait, they SIT ON THE GROUND!  Can you imagine driving by an American nursing home and seeing the folks sitting on the ground?  These people have LIVED.  I desperately want to know their stories.  

I also didn't yet know, that first day, that since independence from Great Britain in 1948, the country of Burma has been in one of the longest running civil wars that remains unresolved. The country has been under military rule under various guises since 1962, and in almost constant conflict.  But these elders are peaceful, loving, generous of spirit, warm, friendly, appreciative.  They hold out their fingerless hands with pride, spreading love and good faith wherever they go.  They smile and reach for me in thanks, even when they are blind and missing an eye.

I didn't yet know, that first day, that the effect of military rule in Burma has been a severely impoverished and underdeveloped nation, despite a wealth of natural resources.  Burma has rated as the second least developed nation on the United Nations Development Index.  Which perhaps explains how these folks can walk out of an apartment building that I would consider living in squallor, with a huge, grateful smile on their faces.

I didn’t yet know, that first day, that peace, democracy and the most basic human rights do not exist in Burma. Millions have been forced to flee due to military rule and are scattered all over the world longing for the day when they can return to their homeland and be re-united with their families and live in peace.  Will these elders live to see that day?  Unlikely.  But, here they are, caring for grandchildren, participating in social groups, working harder to tend community gardens and plant flowers to beautify their surroundings than anyone in my own advantaged suburban community ever does (myself included).


Sometimes the bus is lively and they are all chatting.  Other times it is quiet.  I was whistling my default tune the other day ("Dream a Little Dream of Me") and one of the elders was whistling her own tune, which I didn't know.  How is it that this woman and I are here together, our lives intersecting on this bus, whistling our tunes.  During these moments, I am in love with life.


But I still have to back that damn bus into the garage.