Inch One Hundred Nine: Lares and Penates

Lares were Roman deities who protected, among other things, crossroads and boundaries. Within a household, they protected all of those within the boundaries of the family line. Penates were the guardians of the pantry and wealth of the family, related to Vesta, the goddess of the hearth. Together, they were often worshiped in a family shrine.

Lares and penates. My desk and study are full of them.

A painted china pig, with chipped ears and one penny rattling around inside of it, a pig that was old when I first claimed it as my own as a child. A little ceramic owl, chosen from a collection of owls at calling hours for a friend who wanted her owls to go out into the community after her death. A little soft plastic Pegasus that will make its way into my novel. A  papier-mâché fish, which opens to reveal a cache of paperclips. A string of little wood houses, a few small rocks from Lake Superior, a skeleton Frida for Day of the Dead. A geode holding a dime won over a poetry bet and a piece of paper with a quote about poetry. A small framed picture of Warren.

If you sit at my desk and look at the walls and at the back of the door, which serves as a wall to my left, you will see more. There are photos and postcards of places I have been, poems,  two articles on writing, one of which is Neil Gaiman's thoughts about it. There is a cover off of the University of Chicago Magazine, showing a street sign for University Avenue covered in snow. On a bookshelf on the other side of the door are photos of Sam, Ben, Alise, Ramona, and Warren. Behind me in the small bookshelf: a Mason jar with marbles, a heavy glass horse head bookend I have had as long as the china pig, my engagement gong.

Years ago when I moved out of the house and into my first post-marriage space, I had a small study tucked into a walk-through space. My desk, a table, looked out onto an urban rooftop that could have graced any Edward Hopper urban painting. On the wall next to my desk, I taped anything that caught my eye. Quotes, photos or bits of photos, magazine pictures of Mini Coopers, buildings. By the time I moved out, I had covered a good six square feet or more of the wall. My study today is a variation of that wall.

My writing habits have changed over the last decade plus. I deliberately created this space but I rarely write—in the sense of creation—there. In the old days, the days of the apartment above the streets, I would make notes on buildings, put on headphones, and, often starting at 11:00 p.m. or later, bang out a 2500 word article on architecture while listening to Queen. Now I most often write in pen, usually somewhere other than my desk, then turn it into a column or a post while sitting at my desk surrounded by my lares and penates. This post started out on a concert program, while Warren played timpani up in front of me. I will carry this program home, carry it up to my study, and turn my scribbles into print.

When I read articles about decluttering and simplifying, my desk and its surrounds could be called clutter by the authors. Too much clutter.

And maybe someday I will feel that way. But for now I see lares and penates, guarding my desk, guarding my home, guarding my loves.

Inch One Hundred Eight: Hard Times

I just finished rereading The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck's powerful Great American Novel. I have read it cover to cover four or five times since I was a teenager. This was my first complete reading in many years.

What hit me hardest this time around was how little has changed. Or, more accurately, how far backwards we have slid in this country.

The Grapes of Wrath is half the story of the Joad family, sharecroppers whose lives are upended and broken by the Dust Bowl and the Great Depression, and half Steinbeck's pointed commentary on the times in which he wrote. The novel came out in 1938. America had not yet climbed out of the Great Depression. Hunger, homelessness, poverty, lack of medical care, xenophobia, discrimination: Steinbeck saw and captured it all.

An evening into the book, I cried out to Warren, "Steinbeck could be writing this for our times!"

Just before beginning Grapes,  I read Eviction: Poverty and Profit in the American City by Matthew Desmond. It is a searing look at the private housing industry operating in the poorest parts of a city (in this case, Milwaukee, Wisconsin), at the landlords who make money off of the poorest of the poor, at the tenants who scrounge by (or not) in that market. There are no heroes, there are not necessarily villains in the sense of Evil Grasping Landlord. But regardless of your political leanings and your personal views about poverty, it is a book that will leave you shaken.

Steinbeck and Desmond would have much to talk about.

In my community, I continue to see the effects of the Great Recession, which six years later is still doing damage. Our local food banks have grown, the free medical and legal clinics stay busy. The safety net that politicians and administrations on both sides of the aisle hacked to bits only contains the slimmest of strands. More and more juveniles coming through our courts and more and more families in our schools have been homeless at some time in the last twelve to eighteen months. Like Steinbeck, I defy anyone to blame it solely on the individuals without shelter. As he so clearly captured in Grapes, while individuals are responsible for the choices, good and bad, they make, there are factors beyond their control, the economy and the political climate, among them, in which individuals, especially the poor, the marginalized, and the disenfranchised, have no say and over which they have no control.

The Grapes of Wrath come out 78 years ago. John Steinbeck died in 1968.  Here it is 2016, and the book still rings true, still reads hard, and still burns the conscience.

Our country today would make Steinbeck weep. And then he would pick up his pen with even greater urgency and anger and write a new book.

Inch One Hundred Seven: A Shining Light in the Long, Slow Slog

Frances, from Bread and Jam For Frances by Russell Hoban 

What I am 

Is tired of jam.

That lonely little plaint was sung by Frances, the badger created by Russell Hoban (edited by the amazing Ursula Nordstrom) when she got her wish to have bread and jam every single meal every day.

I am not tired of jam, but I am tired. Tired to the bone. Tired to the bone marrow.

It is truancy season and my hours at work are taxing. I spend much of my week in different schools throughout the county, mediating attendance issues with families and schools. When I am in my office at the courthouse, I am working doggedly to keep up with the flood of paperwork related to truancy season. Winter is when I pile up more comp time than I care to think of and winter is when I say to friends and colleagues asking me to join them for coffee or something similar, "I'll try but I don't know if I can make it work." While I type this, I think of the friend who I promised I would try to send her some open dates for this week (the one just ending) when we could meet for a quick cup of coffee. It didn't happen. It is hard to lift my eyes and thoughts to tomorrow, let alone another week.

I saw Tim, my oncologist, briefly on Wednesday. There has been a lot of emotional and medical ripples from Mayo, from Tim, and from other events in Cancerland. The short version is that, for now, we are staying the course on the treatment regimen I have been on since last August. (I'm being deliberately vague about this because my monthly column in The Myeloma Beacon will not run for another 10 or 11 days, and it delves into greater detail.) But when I saw Tim, I said as we were finishing the appointment, "you know, this is just a long, slow slog." Tim thought a moment, then nodded in agreement.

"Yes, it is."

Having a slow moving, incurable, terminal cancer is a long, slow slog. I am still working. I am still volunteering. I am still doing some of my regular activities. But the myeloma and the treatment are wearing me down. It is like being nibbled on constantly.

Hence my thoughts of Frances and her being tired of jam.  I am just tired, period.

The great thing about Frances is that there is always a happy (or at least satisfactory) ending. And the great thing about my weeks is that there is usually a bright and shining moment, or several of them, in the midst of all the weary moments, the ordinary moments, and even the plain old good moments.

One of the brightest moments this week was the Treatment Court graduation at our Juvenile Court. Treatment Court is actually two courts: one for juveniles who have committed offenses due to alcohol or substance abuse, and one for adults who have lost custody of their children because of the parent's substance abuse. A Treatment Court participant must go through a series of phases along with intensive supervision and support. It can take a year or longer.

At Wednesday's graduation, seven individuals graduated.

The graduations are wonderful because of the palpable air of accomplishment in the courtroom. The graduates are proud that they have made it this far. They know there are others who have washed out. The staff is also proud. Each graduate represents a large investment in time and direction and commitment by participant and court and providers. Graduation is a big deal and I never grow tired of attending the event.

This one was extra special because of the presiding magistrate, Lynne Schoenling. Lynne made an opening statement about how proud she was to see everyone graduate. It is one of those moments where a person's passion comes to the surface and radiates throughout the room. As I commented to Warren later, the only thing missing was her enthusiasm shooting out from her fingertips as she talked, because it certainly was clear in her voice, her body language, her words, and her brilliant smile.

It was a shining moment indeed. And it buoyed me.

I am exhausted and worn more days than not. I am sick more days that I am well, sickness now being an almost daily feature. It is a long, slow slog across a long plain.

But, oh, the wonders along the way! And this week the wonder was Lynne.

Inch One Hundred Six: Common Ground

I did not recognize the number registering on my cell phone, but I took the call all the same.

"Ms. Nelson? This is Mike from [non-profit organization] and I'm returning your call."

Ah. I had left this group a voicemail earlier in the day regarding a notification of a $35.00 pledge made over the phone by my Aunt Ginger. In my message, I had said I did not accuse them of  doing anything wrong, but be aware that my aunt has dementia and has little awareness of the frequency of times she donates by phone or mail. I asked them to cancel the pledge and remove her contact information from the group's fundraising banks.

Mike was quick to say that the organization would remove my aunt's information from their donor data base.

Thank you.

That should have been the end of the conversation, but Mike wanted to keep talking. Not about his organization, but about dementia and the harsh toll it extracts. He related two stories involving elderly friends with dementia.

You could hear a palpable sadness in Mike's voice.

"It's a terrible thing, dementia," he said, finally winding down. He reiterated that he would make sure the organization would remove my aunt's information, thanked me for contacting the group, and thanked me for listening.

When I finished the call, Warren said, "What was that all about?"

What was that all about? On the surface, it was a non-profit that took a pledge from a sweet, elderly lady who forgot the call and the promise within a minute or two of hanging up the phone. Kudos to Mike and his group for recognizing that and righting the situation.

At a deeper level, it was a thread of sameness between Mike and me. We stood on common ground, the ground of dementia and what should have been a routine call became a chance to empathize and connect with someone who knew that ground.

Watching dementia make inroads on Aunt Ginger is sad and wearing. She continues to be self-sufficient in personal matters (hygiene, housekeeping, attending church); both her doctor and I keep tabs to make sure she is not losing those areas of capacity. But other details, especially of money and time, are increasingly too complex. She is frustrated with the growing memory gaps and losses. As of late, I have watched and listened as her sharpest memories, those of her youth, grow soft and worn around the edges. Bit by bit, the dementia is erasing who she was and recreating almost daily who she is now.

That is the reality of dementia.

In the end, it was just a phone call from a non-profit organization recognizing it had to undo a pledge. in the end, it was just a guy sitting out in California, doing his job.

In the end, it was just Mike, performing his job, then taking a deep breath and saying, "I know how hard it is with dementia."

Inch One Hundred Five: Small Notes

I was in Rochester, Minnesota, or in transit to and from the same, for much of last week. This week I have been dazed from the travel, dazed from the intensity of work (it is the heart of the truancy season and I am mediating attendance issues in schools throughout the county, usually several a day), and dazed from just the rush of things: oncology, legal clinic, work, home, truancies.

So this will be neither a long nor a complex post. Simple accomplishments, once I stagger home from work or from the infusion center, are about all I am capable of. Today, that meant getting laundry done, doing a very, very light grocery shopping, and tending to a handful of tiny tasks. I have letters to answer and other work to do, but it all has to wait. When it becomes too much, I retreat to a book.

One thing we ("we" meaning Warren and I) did do today was attend the annual Delaware Lions Club pancake breakfast. We took along Aunt Ginger, and had Warren's son David meet us there. Ginger loves outings like these and she loves pancakes. She ate with enthusiasm and pleasure. Because of her advancing dementia, she would look at someone walk by, then turn towards me and say "That person looks familiar. Who is it?" After about the tenth inquiry, I laughed, hugged her, and said "Ginger, everyone looks familiar to you."

I just finished reading the collected letter of Ursula Nordstrom, the children's literature editor at Harper for a huge chunk of the 20th century and a woman who broke through the male-only world of publishing and rose into the upper echelons of the business. The book is called Dear Genius and I loved it so much I found a used copy on Amazon and bought it just so I could return to it time and time again. Nordstrom edited E. B. White, Maurice Sendak, and Mary Stolz, among others. As my friend Margo pointed out (and thank you, Margo, for telling me about the book), one of the few major children's writers of the mid-twentieth century Nordstrom did not edit was Beverly Cleary.

Right now, though, I am reading In The Slender Margin by Eve Joseph. Subtitled The Intimate Strangeness of Death and Dying, it is holding me spellbound.

As I said, a short post. A simple post. More later.

Inch One Hundred Four: Dunderhead Moment

It was the phone call from Sandy at my dentist's office that tipped me off. Delaware County, my employer, had recently switched dental insurance carriers. My dentist was in the process of updating the records of all county employees. When Sandy tried to pull me up in the new carrier's system, she had no luck. She left me a voicemail to tell me of the problem.

Her voicemail triggered an email to the insurance specialist in the county's HR office. Had I missed an enrollment notice? Was there a blunder at the insurance carrier's end? If I had goofed, was there any chance of my picking it up now?

About ten minutes later, Cindi in HR called back. When she said she wanted to talk to me over the phone and not put it in an email, I knew what was coming. Sure enough, I had blown through the end of the year emails alerting us to a change in carrier and the need to enroll anew. And, no, there was no opportunity to enroll again until open enrollment next December.

"I sent out several emails on this," she said. "I'm sorry."

I assured Cindi it was not her fault. I remember the emails. I remember not reading far enough into the emails to realize I had to submit a new enrollment. Oh, trust me, I knew where the error was, and it wasn't on Cindi. Or the insurance carrier.

It was on me. What a dunderhead moment that was.

After I hung up, I sent Cindi an email thanking her for her quick response. Her enthusiastic "Thank you!" in immediate response tells me she doesn't get too many employees thanking her for dismal news.  I next emailed Warren and broke the news to him. His response was "ugh."

I'll say.

I then called and broke the news to Sandy. "I goofed," I said. "I'll be uninsured this year."

You could hear Sandy wince. She gingerly asked if I intended to keep my appointment for my semi-annual teeth cleaning in March.

Absolutely. I have a long, complicated dental history, courtesy of an incompetent dentist in my youth and exacerbated by eleven years of myeloma. Trust me, I will keep my regular appointments, even though I have to shell out of pocket for them.

Warren assured me when I got home that night that it was not the end of the world. He's right. When I put it into perspective, it is truly a first-world-grateful-I-can-afford-dental-care problem. And in light of what I wrote about just recently, my tendency to fixate on financial issues as a response to a Mayo trip, I have to laugh. I think the Universe was telling me to keep up the extra frugal meals for another ten and a half months.

I can hear the leftovers calling as I type.

Inch One Hundred Three: Small Moments

This has been a week of small moments of great reward. Here are two of them.

One of the jobs I do at court is help facilitate a class for juveniles called "Victims Awareness." The class is a five week long program to help young offenders learn skills in making better choices, accepting responsibility for their actions, and developing empathy for others.

Earlier this week was the fifth and final class of the current group of youth. I made brownies and brought a plate of them to the class. One of our students, a young man who has had a rougher way to go than many, lit up.

"Brownies? For us?"

It was a very small class. Everyone, including the adults, took a brownie or two. The plate ended back up by the young man.

"May I have another?"

"Sure."

A few minutes later:

"May I have another?"

"Sure."

By the end of the class, checking with everyone else to make sure no one else wanted any, he had emptied the plate. He grinned and said, "Those were great!" before bolting out the door.

It was just a plate of brownies, and made from a box to boot. But judging by his reaction, you'd have thought that plate had held the world.

The second small moment was the kind of moment you have in small, tightly knit, downtown communities. Margo and I were sitting in a coffee shop, talking fast in the very limited time we had, when the young woman who works there came up to us.

"Does this belong to one of you?"

She held up a caramel colored knit scarf, fringed, with a decorative button.

I lit up.

"My scarf! Thank you!"

The scarf was a present from Warren two Christmases ago. A few weeks ago, on a bitterly cold day, I had worn it to my office, then wore it when I left the building for a mediation at a middle school. It wasn't until later that night that I realized I no longer had the scarf. I could remember wearing it to the school, but not after that.

The next day, after checking my office, I emailed the principal with whom I had met, asking her if I had left behind a scarf.

No, she responded. She said she'd keep an eye out for it in the lost and found.

Great. The lost and found piles at middle schools are massive monuments to the inability of young pubescent minds to keep track of their personal belongings. And knowing I would be back at that particular school in a few weeks, I resigned myself to pawing through mountains of abandoned and neglected items.

Instead, here was Gina, holding out my scarf, remembering us from that same day, and asking us if it belonged to one of us. "When I saw you two there, I remembered seeing this scarf with you."

She could have handed me the world and I would not have been more pleased. When I left, I stopped at the counter.

"You have no idea how happy you made me," I said. "You just made my day!"

Gina beamed. I beamed. My scarf was back and all was right.

I felt just like our juvenile earlier with the brownies.

Thank you! Thank you!