I am beginning to get why someone might be drawn to extreme prophesy such as end times. After last week's presidential election of someone whose name I can't yet bring myself to say out loud, the idea of an apocalypse at this moment seems quaint.
I promised my oldest - age 7 - grandchild we would be celebrating the first woman ever elected president in these great United States. Her mom says when she was told it didn't happen, she was confused. She was also told her grandmother was very sad and had been crying.
Her response: "If Mare is gonna' cry all day, I am too."
I can't let that happen. We have talked and I told her we have to stay positive even when things don't turn out the way we want.
I didn't tell her we can also resist what goes against our values. She will learn that lesson soon enough.
As the shock wears off I think about my father who fought in WWII against many of the same principles our next president seems to advocate: White superiority, Christian superiority, male superiority. Ok, he didn't fight for that last one. But his daughter did.
I'm sorry, Dad. We let you down this year. But you will be happy to know your daughter and some of your grandchildren are heading to Washington, D.C. to march with thousands of like-minded patriots the day after inauguration. We will make our voices heard; and I hope make you proud.
Thursday, November 17, 2016
Thursday, November 3, 2016
I have a lot to live up to
I've thought for some time that my pedigree is pretty good. If that sounds boastful, so be it.
By pedigree I mean the quality of folk who came before me. My parents and grandparents and great-grandparents. Except for a great-grandfather, every single one of my ancestor - to my knowledge - were decent, honest and hard-working. Now that great-grandfather may have been that, too, but he disappeared from the family under mysterious circumstances. Oh, and add tight-lipped to that list of characteristics of most of my forbearers.
Both my parents died this year so I've been drawn to the family story. I attempted to glean family lore from my mother toward the end of her life, but sadly it was beyond her cognitive ability by the time I sat down to take dictation. Still she provided glimpses. While dates and places were irretrievable, people and personality were not.
My maternal grandparents grew up in Minnesota; my grandmother Madge in the rowdy Twin Cities and my grandfather Carl in pastoral rural Minnesota. They really could not have been more different. Madge was gregarious and quick witted; Carl was shy and painfully earnest. Madge hailed from strong women; her single mother - Mary Ellen - stood barely 5 feet tall and ruled all in her purview. Today's Tiger Moms would quake in her presence. As did Carl I imagine.
Carl's parents came through Ellis Island in the mid-1800s and settled in Minnesota alongside thousands of other Norwegians. On one census, his father Han's occupation was listed as day laborer, as was the occupation of most of his immigrant neighbors.
So where did these two meet? Standing Rock Reservation in South Dakota. They both left their homes in Minnesota to teach on the reservation. The tall and shy Carl must have been emotionally upended by the beautiful Madge. A woman who equaled him in intelligence and shared his passion for teaching.
I would give just about anything to be able to write about this most glorious coupling. Who made the first move? Legitimate question given Carl's shyness. But alas, I never got the chance to ask those questions. Carl died when I was in second grade; a good 15 years before my curiosity about things other than myself arrived. Madge lived in Oregon her later years. The last time I saw her was at my wedding, again when I was more preoccupied with myself.
I do know Madge would leave her career as a teacher to raise her and Carl's three sons and two daughters. My mom recalled a normal upbringing. I doubt that. Living in tiny towns, the kids were mostly AWOL from the house until suppertime. Afterwards, my mom describes a most wonderful family routine. After dinner cleanup, the seven Eskelsons scatter, as in go their separate ways. Some to their bedroom, others to living room or front porch. For the next hour or so that loud house stood silent. It was reading time. Books after dinner every night.
I love this image. I understand so much better why my mom was so smart. She had Carl's shyness so not many people knew how brilliant her brain worked. These two young people venturing forth in the world truly on their own. Understanding the value of education and how it can lift a person of any measure. Quality people.
When I was in my mid-30s and still living in South Dakota, a woman I knew in a bipartisan political group learned I was related to Madge and Carl. She said she loved them. They were active in the state Republican Party. Wow. My grandparents were real people. How come I didn't know that?
My grandparents were not only real people, they were quality people. They are a big part of the reason I can say I come from solid pedigree.
Quick fact about Carl: he served in WWI.
Quick fact about Madge: she may have stopped being a teacher, but she never stopped teaching. She tutored children in reading when she was in her early 90s.
That's a lot of good in just two people. My people.
By pedigree I mean the quality of folk who came before me. My parents and grandparents and great-grandparents. Except for a great-grandfather, every single one of my ancestor - to my knowledge - were decent, honest and hard-working. Now that great-grandfather may have been that, too, but he disappeared from the family under mysterious circumstances. Oh, and add tight-lipped to that list of characteristics of most of my forbearers.
Both my parents died this year so I've been drawn to the family story. I attempted to glean family lore from my mother toward the end of her life, but sadly it was beyond her cognitive ability by the time I sat down to take dictation. Still she provided glimpses. While dates and places were irretrievable, people and personality were not.
My maternal grandparents grew up in Minnesota; my grandmother Madge in the rowdy Twin Cities and my grandfather Carl in pastoral rural Minnesota. They really could not have been more different. Madge was gregarious and quick witted; Carl was shy and painfully earnest. Madge hailed from strong women; her single mother - Mary Ellen - stood barely 5 feet tall and ruled all in her purview. Today's Tiger Moms would quake in her presence. As did Carl I imagine.
Carl's parents came through Ellis Island in the mid-1800s and settled in Minnesota alongside thousands of other Norwegians. On one census, his father Han's occupation was listed as day laborer, as was the occupation of most of his immigrant neighbors.
So where did these two meet? Standing Rock Reservation in South Dakota. They both left their homes in Minnesota to teach on the reservation. The tall and shy Carl must have been emotionally upended by the beautiful Madge. A woman who equaled him in intelligence and shared his passion for teaching.
I would give just about anything to be able to write about this most glorious coupling. Who made the first move? Legitimate question given Carl's shyness. But alas, I never got the chance to ask those questions. Carl died when I was in second grade; a good 15 years before my curiosity about things other than myself arrived. Madge lived in Oregon her later years. The last time I saw her was at my wedding, again when I was more preoccupied with myself.
I do know Madge would leave her career as a teacher to raise her and Carl's three sons and two daughters. My mom recalled a normal upbringing. I doubt that. Living in tiny towns, the kids were mostly AWOL from the house until suppertime. Afterwards, my mom describes a most wonderful family routine. After dinner cleanup, the seven Eskelsons scatter, as in go their separate ways. Some to their bedroom, others to living room or front porch. For the next hour or so that loud house stood silent. It was reading time. Books after dinner every night.
I love this image. I understand so much better why my mom was so smart. She had Carl's shyness so not many people knew how brilliant her brain worked. These two young people venturing forth in the world truly on their own. Understanding the value of education and how it can lift a person of any measure. Quality people.
When I was in my mid-30s and still living in South Dakota, a woman I knew in a bipartisan political group learned I was related to Madge and Carl. She said she loved them. They were active in the state Republican Party. Wow. My grandparents were real people. How come I didn't know that?
My grandparents were not only real people, they were quality people. They are a big part of the reason I can say I come from solid pedigree.
Quick fact about Carl: he served in WWI.
Quick fact about Madge: she may have stopped being a teacher, but she never stopped teaching. She tutored children in reading when she was in her early 90s.
That's a lot of good in just two people. My people.
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
Memorial pictures
Their granddaughter Kara traveled the farthest - from Denmark. Others came from nearby in Montana as well as from Texas, Washington, South Dakota, and Nevada. Their five surviving children were there, having been preceded in death by their eldest son Frank. Grandchildren and great-grandchildren lent a noisy and joyful backdrop so loved by Frank and Shirley.
I had talked to my mom just months earlier about what she would want done with her ashes. She approved of the idea of spreading hers with Frank's in Flathead Lake. In fact she said "that would be very nice." And it was.
Ashes sinking slowing into Flathead Lake.
Flathead Lake, Montana, where the folks lived for about 20 years.
Family and friends at community library, of which they were founders.
From left: John, Andy, Charlie, Mary and Jim. Surviving children.
Frank and Shirley were preceded in death by their eldest son, Frank.
Refreshments at local brewery after the memorial.
Spreading the ashes.
Left to right: Eric and Angie Lochridge, Jenny and James Cole, Ethan and
Emma Lochridge. Standing in front of Frank and Shirley's A-frame "tree house."
Emma Lochridge. Standing in front of Frank and Shirley's A-frame "tree house."
Hanging out in Lakeside rental.
Double rainbow the day of the memorial!!
Jan Ernst playing cribbage.
Dawn and Jim Lochridge
Randy Long and Jan Lochridge-Long.
Jenny Cole nursing James with Shirley's "lunch ladies."
Oldest (sorry Charlie) and youngest (James) family members at memorial
Plaque in library.
Kara Lochridge
John Stickney and James Cole
Charlie doling out ashes
Dock where we spread ashes
Andy Lochridge and Brenda Morris
Two Johns: Lochridge and Stickney.
Walking to the public dock.
Lorie Lochridge and Jenny Cole
Eddy Lochridge
Dan and Lorie Lochridge with John Stickney
Irelyn, Delaney and Teya Lochridge.
Dawn, Eddy and Danny Lochridge
Sunday, August 21, 2016
I am seeing a pattern
I realized something today. My approaches to working out and house cleaning are very similar.
My Dyson vacuum cleaner was on the fritz this morning so naturally I wonder if it's time to get a new one. I'm in the kitchen thinking about this and, looking at a dull floor, wonder if a new steamer is in order, too. I know we got one a couple of years ago, but think maybe we loaned it to one of the kids.
Truth is, I am a sucker for any gadget that makes cleaning house easier. There is a collection of mismatched broom attachments in my laundry, mostly of the dusting variety. The kind that will dust overhead fans and hard-to-reach ceiling moldings. I don't need them anymore because my Dyson has a cool attachment for that. And some day I might even try it out.
I have been wanting to get that Swifter box that's all over TV recently. You see the ads: the older couple, the couple with kids and pets, etc. A box appears on their doorstep and, like magic, their floors and overhead areas are dust and pet-hair free. I must have that box.
It hits me today that I have accumulated a good number of gizmos and gadgets for cleaning just as I have accumulated machines and what not for working out. Examples: two unused treadmills, a row machine the kids now have, stationery bike, jump ropes, free weights, resistant bands for every part of the body and the list goes on. All neglected while they inhabited my house. Same with the sham wow (we really did have one!), the floor steamer used maybe a half-dozen times, and the untold number of magic dusters magically disappeared. It is a pattern. It's me avoiding the hard work.
So I stop thinking about a new vacuum and employ broom and dust pan to the worst areas. I end up getting more done than I planned. Paul diagnosed the problem with my Dyson and has a filter arriving via Amazon in a couple days. Best of all, I got some good insight.
To be honest? I still want that Swifter box.
My Dyson vacuum cleaner was on the fritz this morning so naturally I wonder if it's time to get a new one. I'm in the kitchen thinking about this and, looking at a dull floor, wonder if a new steamer is in order, too. I know we got one a couple of years ago, but think maybe we loaned it to one of the kids.
Truth is, I am a sucker for any gadget that makes cleaning house easier. There is a collection of mismatched broom attachments in my laundry, mostly of the dusting variety. The kind that will dust overhead fans and hard-to-reach ceiling moldings. I don't need them anymore because my Dyson has a cool attachment for that. And some day I might even try it out.
I have been wanting to get that Swifter box that's all over TV recently. You see the ads: the older couple, the couple with kids and pets, etc. A box appears on their doorstep and, like magic, their floors and overhead areas are dust and pet-hair free. I must have that box.
It hits me today that I have accumulated a good number of gizmos and gadgets for cleaning just as I have accumulated machines and what not for working out. Examples: two unused treadmills, a row machine the kids now have, stationery bike, jump ropes, free weights, resistant bands for every part of the body and the list goes on. All neglected while they inhabited my house. Same with the sham wow (we really did have one!), the floor steamer used maybe a half-dozen times, and the untold number of magic dusters magically disappeared. It is a pattern. It's me avoiding the hard work.
So I stop thinking about a new vacuum and employ broom and dust pan to the worst areas. I end up getting more done than I planned. Paul diagnosed the problem with my Dyson and has a filter arriving via Amazon in a couple days. Best of all, I got some good insight.
To be honest? I still want that Swifter box.
Thursday, August 18, 2016
Dew Drop Inn
Love is in the air this time of year every year since 1978. That's when Paulie and I got married. August 19 to be exact.
This morning he texted me a "Happy Anniversary" one day early. Awwww. I texted back a more accurate "Happy Dew Drop Inn Anniversary." For every wedding day story, isn't there always a night before the wedding day story? We sure got one.
August 18, 1978. Think about that. Bee Gees were singing about Stayin Alive, the most popular arcade game was Space Invaders, Jimmy Carter was president, and Garfield the cat was first introduced in newspapers. It was a long ass time ago.
We both had just graduated from college at the University of South Dakota and chose to get married in Montana because that's where most of my family lived. My folks managed a campground about a mile from Glacier National Park. A nice place to gather. The number attending the wedding was small as it was quite a trek for most of our friends.
Paul was represented by three childhood pals from the Chicago area where he grew up. For them, it was more reunion than wedding, which is typical for these kinds of events. Still, they took seriously their obligation to throw a goodbye to single life party for their friend.
Hello, Dew Drop Inn.
The chosen party spot was a local dive bar in the middle of nowhere just off the main road about a quarter mile from the campground. As I recall, I had stayed back at the campground with family members - my parents, five brothers, a sister-in-law, niece and nephews, aunt and uncle, grandmothers, and mother-in-law. Once things wound down, I along with my brothers and sister-in-law headed out to join Paul and his friends at the Dew Drop Inn.
My two younger brothers were not of age. One snuck in through the kitchen. That makes me laugh thinking about that. Today he's the brewer of great beers. The youngest was left out in the cold. And it was cold in Montana when we were there to get married. Snowed the day of the wedding. Snowed!
Back to the Inn. We gather tables together and commence celebrating. Lots and lots of drinking. Paul's friends kept them coming for my soon-to-be husband. He was smashed. I was getting there, too. I can only recall having maybe one of the best times of my life in that moment in that Montana dive. That was about to change.
"Are you Paul?"
We all look up to see a 6-foot mountain dressed in overalls. No way to process.
"Are you Paul from Chicago?" Now he's looking directly at his subject sitting next to me. His tone has silenced the table, none of us prepared for what he was about to say next.
"You got my 16-year-old daughter pregnant," he says as he rounds the table toward our side. I think I went blank. I hear lots of shouting but no words. Then my oldest brother Frank begins a chorus of "You got the wrong guy. You got the wrong guy."
By this time Mr. Mountain is standing next to Paul. I instantly insert myself between them and join in my brother's chorus, "You got the wrong guy," all the while I am lightly tapping this behemoth on his face. Why? I have no earthly idea.
While this was happening, a group of manly men, locals, were eager to join in the commotion. To prevent a real tragedy, someone responsibly ended this obvious (to everyone but me and Paul and four of my brothers) pre-wedding gag. Mr. Mountain then broke character and wrapped his arms around both of us, squishing me so tightly my glasses broke. In half.
Mr. Mountain turned out to be a tourist from California. Of course, Paul's friends had put him up to it. I don't recall much of anything else from that night, but we did have a lovely wedding the next day. Below is one of my favorite pictures from the day. My parents, Frank and Shirley, in conversation with Paul's mom Lew. The newly weds only have eyes for each other. Notice I am not wearing glasses.
This morning he texted me a "Happy Anniversary" one day early. Awwww. I texted back a more accurate "Happy Dew Drop Inn Anniversary." For every wedding day story, isn't there always a night before the wedding day story? We sure got one.
August 18, 1978. Think about that. Bee Gees were singing about Stayin Alive, the most popular arcade game was Space Invaders, Jimmy Carter was president, and Garfield the cat was first introduced in newspapers. It was a long ass time ago.
We both had just graduated from college at the University of South Dakota and chose to get married in Montana because that's where most of my family lived. My folks managed a campground about a mile from Glacier National Park. A nice place to gather. The number attending the wedding was small as it was quite a trek for most of our friends.
Paul was represented by three childhood pals from the Chicago area where he grew up. For them, it was more reunion than wedding, which is typical for these kinds of events. Still, they took seriously their obligation to throw a goodbye to single life party for their friend.
Hello, Dew Drop Inn.
The chosen party spot was a local dive bar in the middle of nowhere just off the main road about a quarter mile from the campground. As I recall, I had stayed back at the campground with family members - my parents, five brothers, a sister-in-law, niece and nephews, aunt and uncle, grandmothers, and mother-in-law. Once things wound down, I along with my brothers and sister-in-law headed out to join Paul and his friends at the Dew Drop Inn.
My two younger brothers were not of age. One snuck in through the kitchen. That makes me laugh thinking about that. Today he's the brewer of great beers. The youngest was left out in the cold. And it was cold in Montana when we were there to get married. Snowed the day of the wedding. Snowed!
Back to the Inn. We gather tables together and commence celebrating. Lots and lots of drinking. Paul's friends kept them coming for my soon-to-be husband. He was smashed. I was getting there, too. I can only recall having maybe one of the best times of my life in that moment in that Montana dive. That was about to change.
"Are you Paul?"
We all look up to see a 6-foot mountain dressed in overalls. No way to process.
"Are you Paul from Chicago?" Now he's looking directly at his subject sitting next to me. His tone has silenced the table, none of us prepared for what he was about to say next.
"You got my 16-year-old daughter pregnant," he says as he rounds the table toward our side. I think I went blank. I hear lots of shouting but no words. Then my oldest brother Frank begins a chorus of "You got the wrong guy. You got the wrong guy."
By this time Mr. Mountain is standing next to Paul. I instantly insert myself between them and join in my brother's chorus, "You got the wrong guy," all the while I am lightly tapping this behemoth on his face. Why? I have no earthly idea.
While this was happening, a group of manly men, locals, were eager to join in the commotion. To prevent a real tragedy, someone responsibly ended this obvious (to everyone but me and Paul and four of my brothers) pre-wedding gag. Mr. Mountain then broke character and wrapped his arms around both of us, squishing me so tightly my glasses broke. In half.
Mr. Mountain turned out to be a tourist from California. Of course, Paul's friends had put him up to it. I don't recall much of anything else from that night, but we did have a lovely wedding the next day. Below is one of my favorite pictures from the day. My parents, Frank and Shirley, in conversation with Paul's mom Lew. The newly weds only have eyes for each other. Notice I am not wearing glasses.
Friday, August 12, 2016
Poetic tribute
Poem read at my parents' memorial by great-grandchildren, ages (approx.) 7, 9 and 10.
GREAT Grandparents
By Irelyn, Teya and Delaney Lochridge
G is for
Grandma muffins she made all the time, with 3 little raisins on top in a perfect design.
R is for
Reading us our favorite books, they would sit with us and read for as long as it took.
E is for
Eating cookies galore, Grandpa was always the first one to want more.
A is for
Always wanting to help clean up from dinner, if we would have raced, we know Grandpa
would have been the winner.
T is for
Target to where we would walk, where grandma would always let us pick out our own pair
of socks.
G is for
Goofy jokes Grandpa would always tell, I've heard them so many times I know them well.
R is for
Really, really sweet, like the candies, cookies, and ice-cream Great Grandpa and Grandma
would always give us to eat.
A is for
Amazing athlete Grandpa always will be, he played basketball with us well after he had turned
Ninety.
N is for
Nothing but nice all the time, they always had patience even when we would whine.
D is for
Dominoes that grandpa love to play, he always reorganized them when Delaney put them
away.
P is for
Playful They played games all day, we never wanted to leave we always wanted to stay.
A is for
All the time we visited and played, we wish it could have always stayed that way.
R is for
Remembering the time she used to play, cat with Delaney almost all day.
E is for
Every time Grandpa started to tickle, Delaney would fall to the ground with an enormous
giggle.
N is for
Never forgetting all the love that they gave, the smiles, the laughter, they're very special way.
T is for
Walking to the community room together, where all of their family and friends would gather.
S is for
Special in our life, they were huge part, we will always keep memories of Great Grandpa
and Grandma close to our hearts.
and Grandma close to our hearts.
Thursday, August 11, 2016
Day One
Day one. Beginning something can be exciting. Wiping the slate clean. Forward ho!
It also signals a long road ahead. Hard work. Change.
Today is day one of my latest attempt to get healthy. It really started yesterday with a visit to a new doctor to talk about weight management. It's his specialty and he had come highly recommended.
Immediately he identified areas that needed to change. And there are so many areas: high blood pressure, heart disease, pre-diabetes, depression and of course obesity. Vicious cycle.
Starting today I will be injecting myself with Saxenda to treat Type 2 diabetes. It just happens to also curb hunger and has shown to be valuable in weight loss. He also added a medical vitamin called PoDiaPN, which works on the nervous system. Something about folic acid and metabolism. It was a lot to take in. He did say something about mounting evidence that this could be valuable for someone like me.
I go back in three weeks, when we get to see what was running around in the four tubes of blood extracted in his lab. Can I say how convenient it was to have onsite lab? I was the only person in line.
Until my next appointment it's on me to move forward. Three meals a day five to six hours apart, no snacking (handful of almonds, spoonful of peanut butter if necessary), no food after last meal, protein for breakfast (no toast). And mild exercise.
Can I do it? I believe I can.
It also signals a long road ahead. Hard work. Change.
Today is day one of my latest attempt to get healthy. It really started yesterday with a visit to a new doctor to talk about weight management. It's his specialty and he had come highly recommended.
Immediately he identified areas that needed to change. And there are so many areas: high blood pressure, heart disease, pre-diabetes, depression and of course obesity. Vicious cycle.
Starting today I will be injecting myself with Saxenda to treat Type 2 diabetes. It just happens to also curb hunger and has shown to be valuable in weight loss. He also added a medical vitamin called PoDiaPN, which works on the nervous system. Something about folic acid and metabolism. It was a lot to take in. He did say something about mounting evidence that this could be valuable for someone like me.
I go back in three weeks, when we get to see what was running around in the four tubes of blood extracted in his lab. Can I say how convenient it was to have onsite lab? I was the only person in line.
Until my next appointment it's on me to move forward. Three meals a day five to six hours apart, no snacking (handful of almonds, spoonful of peanut butter if necessary), no food after last meal, protein for breakfast (no toast). And mild exercise.
Can I do it? I believe I can.
Tuesday, August 9, 2016
How do you spell relief? O-l-y-m-p-i-c-s
Isn't it magic how you can get completely absorbed in a sport you never thought you cared about, such as shooting or fencing. And women's rugby, a first-time event in the Olympics.
We are drawn in not so much by the sport, but by the athlete. Awed by their self-discipline and inspired by their singular mission: to represent their country, medal or no medal. And this year there's even a team of refugees that includes a young Syrian woman who swam a boat filled with refugees to safety. Her performance in Olympic waters wasn't good enough to advance, but it sure inspired the world.
The Olympics this summer deeply contrast with another competition: our never-ending presidential election. I personally have Trump fatigue. I know others have Clinton fatigue. For me, it's time to step back. This morning I deactivated my Facebook account. What was left of it anyway after already un-following half of my friends. I am sure I won't be missed.
So thank you, Olympians. You represent what is good and you inspire hope for the future. It's pretty hard to be cynical watching a young woman who was born to an addict and then rescued and adopted by her grandfather and step-grandmother in Spring, Tx., compete on the world stage.
Nope. Nothing conspiratorial about Simone Biles and the rest of the incredible women's gymnastic team. Except that they may be conspiring to bring us all to tears!
We are drawn in not so much by the sport, but by the athlete. Awed by their self-discipline and inspired by their singular mission: to represent their country, medal or no medal. And this year there's even a team of refugees that includes a young Syrian woman who swam a boat filled with refugees to safety. Her performance in Olympic waters wasn't good enough to advance, but it sure inspired the world.
The Olympics this summer deeply contrast with another competition: our never-ending presidential election. I personally have Trump fatigue. I know others have Clinton fatigue. For me, it's time to step back. This morning I deactivated my Facebook account. What was left of it anyway after already un-following half of my friends. I am sure I won't be missed.
So thank you, Olympians. You represent what is good and you inspire hope for the future. It's pretty hard to be cynical watching a young woman who was born to an addict and then rescued and adopted by her grandfather and step-grandmother in Spring, Tx., compete on the world stage.
Nope. Nothing conspiratorial about Simone Biles and the rest of the incredible women's gymnastic team. Except that they may be conspiring to bring us all to tears!
Monday, August 8, 2016
Dental correctness
I have to leave in about 30 minutes for a root canal followed by a fitting for a crown. Been there done that many times before. Still, it's not something high on my can't wait to do list.
First, I am having to pay over 2 grand for the root canal and crown. Odd that I don't mind the crown work as much as the rooting. The rooting does cost twice as much.
Maybe if we tweaked the wording it would make it more acceptable. Crown is a nice, strong word. Who doesn't want a crown? Positive connotation.
But root canal. Really? That is about as negative a connotation as it gets. How about nerve recovery? Not specific enough. Get your bite back procedure? Too wordy. Tooth restoration? We boomers seem to be fond of the word restoration. I know I am. If anything on my person can be restored, count me in.
Ok, so now I have to go because I am having tooth restoration procedure this morning.
I feel better already.
First, I am having to pay over 2 grand for the root canal and crown. Odd that I don't mind the crown work as much as the rooting. The rooting does cost twice as much.
Maybe if we tweaked the wording it would make it more acceptable. Crown is a nice, strong word. Who doesn't want a crown? Positive connotation.
But root canal. Really? That is about as negative a connotation as it gets. How about nerve recovery? Not specific enough. Get your bite back procedure? Too wordy. Tooth restoration? We boomers seem to be fond of the word restoration. I know I am. If anything on my person can be restored, count me in.
Ok, so now I have to go because I am having tooth restoration procedure this morning.
I feel better already.
Thursday, June 9, 2016
Say what?
As my very young male server showed me to my table this morning, I thought for a moment he called me "dear."
Naw. That would just be insulting and patronizing and, worst of all, insincere.
I had driven out of my way after an early morning assessment in Plano to try a local restaurant called The Egg and I. It had good reviews and with a name like that, come on.
"Can I get you something to drink, dear?"
Turns out there's nothing wrong with my hearing. Ugh. There he went, violating one of my pet peeves, thinking his phony baloney endearment is folksy. It's not. Some servers can pull it off, but typically these servers are closer to my age. You know the type, they have that server cred. He most certainly did not. In another 20 years, maybe.
Usually I like to over-tip. Instead I decided to subtract a dollar for each fake endearment. So I hope he enjoyed that one extra dollar.
Ok, on paper that sounds lame. Next time I will say something. Maybe.
The food was excellent. I give it 3.5 out of 4. The grits were almost perfect, which is a difficult feat. Shows the chef cares. I had the open-faced veggie omelet. Too much cheese, but crispy around the edges, which was nice. The English muffin could have used less butter. The coffee was primo. I had the dark roast. It was as good as any high-end coffee shop. I look forward to another breakfast there.
Naw. That would just be insulting and patronizing and, worst of all, insincere.
I had driven out of my way after an early morning assessment in Plano to try a local restaurant called The Egg and I. It had good reviews and with a name like that, come on.
"Can I get you something to drink, dear?"
Turns out there's nothing wrong with my hearing. Ugh. There he went, violating one of my pet peeves, thinking his phony baloney endearment is folksy. It's not. Some servers can pull it off, but typically these servers are closer to my age. You know the type, they have that server cred. He most certainly did not. In another 20 years, maybe.
Usually I like to over-tip. Instead I decided to subtract a dollar for each fake endearment. So I hope he enjoyed that one extra dollar.
Ok, on paper that sounds lame. Next time I will say something. Maybe.
The food was excellent. I give it 3.5 out of 4. The grits were almost perfect, which is a difficult feat. Shows the chef cares. I had the open-faced veggie omelet. Too much cheese, but crispy around the edges, which was nice. The English muffin could have used less butter. The coffee was primo. I had the dark roast. It was as good as any high-end coffee shop. I look forward to another breakfast there.
Tuesday, June 7, 2016
A new day
Feeling patriotic. I made this (I say with pride as I am not generally that crafty).
The sun is shining. The birds are singing. Sami the border collie just had a cute exchange with a squirrel trespassing on her turf.
I wonder what a squirrel says when they do that chatter thing? Do you think it's loaded with f-bombs? I do, likely followed by a "bless your heart" as they lithely scamper away up the fence or a tree all the while still making their presence known. At least here in the South that makes sense to me. In Jersey they probably say "fo-git-about-it" while raising their middle squirrel finger. In my home state of South Dakota I imagine a more polite "uff-dah" while escaping certain death by barking.
Back to my point: I feel lighter today. My disposition sunnier, like the actual weather today after weeks of clouds and rain. But it's not just the change in weather. It's something bigger than that. One might even say the news is YOUGE.
For the first time in the history of these great United States of America a major political party has nominated a woman for president. I had almost given up hope to see it in my lifetime. I am going to take a couple of days to let the history of this moment sink in. Madam President. Holy shit!
I know Grandma Eskelson would be OK with this Democrat, Hillary Clinton. A life long Republican, she also was among the first group of women allowed to vote in a national election. She would totally get it.
Wednesday, May 4, 2016
Where's the family value in FMLA?
My daughter Jenny sent me a link to a story she really wanted me to read. It has sat untouched in my email for days. FMLA, or Family Medical Leave Act, just wasn't sparking my interest, but because it sparked hers, I finally opened it today. I am glad I did.
It's well written with historic references. My favorite kind of article.
It took me back to the days when getting pregnant meant no more job. I remember those days. Male boss to pregnant woman: Have a nice life. See yah.
That attitude remains, but FMLA at least protects women and their partners for 12 unpaid weeks of leave. Well, that is if one is lucky enough to be among the 59 percent of workers eligible for FMLA because their workplace has 50 plus employees. The other 41 percent are outta luck. Wait, what year is this?
The author writes about the legislative origin of FMLA. The process described was akin to watching sausage being made: ugly. She rightfully credits Democratic Congresswoman Pat Schroeder of Colorado for getting the whole thing started. I liked that part as it's been eons since I had the privilege of reading about one of my heroes.
Schroeder speaks about her disappointment with FMLA's lack of progress. She initially proposed six months with pay but accepted the 12 weeks unpaid leave as a place to begin, believing it would expand into something more family friendly. Twenty years later, FMLA is frozen where it began. Nothing has changed.
It's frustrating and personal. Both my daughters - Andrea and Jenny - are teachers who have gone without a paycheck during maternity leaves - two for both. Jenny bought some disability insurance that helped cover some, but not all, of her leave. Currently on leave, she is paying the district out of pocket for health insurance because there's no paycheck from which the giant and unfeeling computer can suck out money automatically. Andrea has never taken more than a six-week leave. But, get this, after she ran out of sick days but was still at home recovering from C-sections, she was CHARGED 300 bucks a day (deducted from her pay!). All the while her full-time substitute teacher was paid just $90 a day. It would seem, and I am not as brilliant as my daughters at math, but there's $210 a day for a couple of weeks unaccounted for here.
Stepping back down from my soap box, I accept that there are differing perspectives. I get we have, as a nation, placed undue burdens on employers to provide social nets such as health insurance and pensions. But it's not like those things aren't already calculated into the bottom line. And what about all the tax cuts/incentives that more than make up for worker support? Corporate welfare? Don't get me started about public institutions and wasted money.
Maybe the hang up is in a rickety and aging business model mindset that says any worker leave is bad leave and must be resisted. Certainly not supported or encouraged. Ever. To those who hold a negative opinion about paid leave, I say consider thinking about it as you would a sports team. Take the Dallas Cowboys for example. Tony Romo sat out most of last season. Was his leave paid? I'm pretty sure it was. No worries because Jerry Jones made sure the team had backups. This may be a bad example. Point is, did Jerry lose money? Hell to the no. Did he value Tony even during the time he wasn't working? He never stopped seeing Tony's value to the team, and rightfully so.
A deep bench or access to talent has always been an option for employers. Always. A company that has dozens of workers is smart enough to figure out how to fill a job gap. There is no need to make it harder on families because they want, well, to have a family.
I, as always, have hope. In fact we may be on the verge of realizing a paradigm shift in regards to worker leave. The FMLA article also pointed out that a whopping 12 percent of workers actually now get paid during their entire 12 weeks of leave. Like the Cowboys, these workers are seen as valued even during their leave, which translates into increased loyalty and productivity. Again, this may not be the right example.
You get the idea. While the 12 percent number may not exactly be crushing barriers, at least it's a starting point. Now, where have we heard that before?
FMLA article:
http://mashable.com/2015/01/25/maternity-leave-policy-united-states/#VXgW8VrnOkqR
It's well written with historic references. My favorite kind of article.
It took me back to the days when getting pregnant meant no more job. I remember those days. Male boss to pregnant woman: Have a nice life. See yah.
That attitude remains, but FMLA at least protects women and their partners for 12 unpaid weeks of leave. Well, that is if one is lucky enough to be among the 59 percent of workers eligible for FMLA because their workplace has 50 plus employees. The other 41 percent are outta luck. Wait, what year is this?
The author writes about the legislative origin of FMLA. The process described was akin to watching sausage being made: ugly. She rightfully credits Democratic Congresswoman Pat Schroeder of Colorado for getting the whole thing started. I liked that part as it's been eons since I had the privilege of reading about one of my heroes.
Schroeder speaks about her disappointment with FMLA's lack of progress. She initially proposed six months with pay but accepted the 12 weeks unpaid leave as a place to begin, believing it would expand into something more family friendly. Twenty years later, FMLA is frozen where it began. Nothing has changed.
It's frustrating and personal. Both my daughters - Andrea and Jenny - are teachers who have gone without a paycheck during maternity leaves - two for both. Jenny bought some disability insurance that helped cover some, but not all, of her leave. Currently on leave, she is paying the district out of pocket for health insurance because there's no paycheck from which the giant and unfeeling computer can suck out money automatically. Andrea has never taken more than a six-week leave. But, get this, after she ran out of sick days but was still at home recovering from C-sections, she was CHARGED 300 bucks a day (deducted from her pay!). All the while her full-time substitute teacher was paid just $90 a day. It would seem, and I am not as brilliant as my daughters at math, but there's $210 a day for a couple of weeks unaccounted for here.
Stepping back down from my soap box, I accept that there are differing perspectives. I get we have, as a nation, placed undue burdens on employers to provide social nets such as health insurance and pensions. But it's not like those things aren't already calculated into the bottom line. And what about all the tax cuts/incentives that more than make up for worker support? Corporate welfare? Don't get me started about public institutions and wasted money.
Maybe the hang up is in a rickety and aging business model mindset that says any worker leave is bad leave and must be resisted. Certainly not supported or encouraged. Ever. To those who hold a negative opinion about paid leave, I say consider thinking about it as you would a sports team. Take the Dallas Cowboys for example. Tony Romo sat out most of last season. Was his leave paid? I'm pretty sure it was. No worries because Jerry Jones made sure the team had backups. This may be a bad example. Point is, did Jerry lose money? Hell to the no. Did he value Tony even during the time he wasn't working? He never stopped seeing Tony's value to the team, and rightfully so.
A deep bench or access to talent has always been an option for employers. Always. A company that has dozens of workers is smart enough to figure out how to fill a job gap. There is no need to make it harder on families because they want, well, to have a family.
I, as always, have hope. In fact we may be on the verge of realizing a paradigm shift in regards to worker leave. The FMLA article also pointed out that a whopping 12 percent of workers actually now get paid during their entire 12 weeks of leave. Like the Cowboys, these workers are seen as valued even during their leave, which translates into increased loyalty and productivity. Again, this may not be the right example.
You get the idea. While the 12 percent number may not exactly be crushing barriers, at least it's a starting point. Now, where have we heard that before?
FMLA article:
http://mashable.com/2015/01/25/maternity-leave-policy-united-states/#VXgW8VrnOkqR
Tuesday, May 3, 2016
Trump's time is coming
I didn't think it possible to have soft feelings toward Ted Cruz. But it has happened in just the last few minutes.
Donald Trump is accusing Cruz' father of having JFK assassinated. He says he is shocked that a photo showing Rafael Cruz standing next to Lee Harvey Oswald two weeks before Oswald shot the president is not front-page news. That statement is cunning and calculated and cruel and cowardly.
Cunning in its deceit. Trump is exceptionally skillful in this area of achieving one's ends through unscrupulous means.
Calculated in its delivery. FOX News obligingly allowed Trump to call in by phone to its morning show to drop the bomb without challenge. Smart move.
Cruel to the Cruz family in its disregard for anything resembling the truth.
Mostly, that statement is cowardly coming from a grown man who lacks the conviction to stand and defend the statement. Instead he uses FOX News to be his defender and then victoriously stands back to watch Cruz squirm as the story grows legs.
My hope, and for sure I am hopeful, is that Trump will get his in the general election. I'm not talking about karma. I'm talking about Hillary.
Donald Trump is accusing Cruz' father of having JFK assassinated. He says he is shocked that a photo showing Rafael Cruz standing next to Lee Harvey Oswald two weeks before Oswald shot the president is not front-page news. That statement is cunning and calculated and cruel and cowardly.
Cunning in its deceit. Trump is exceptionally skillful in this area of achieving one's ends through unscrupulous means.
Calculated in its delivery. FOX News obligingly allowed Trump to call in by phone to its morning show to drop the bomb without challenge. Smart move.
Cruel to the Cruz family in its disregard for anything resembling the truth.
Mostly, that statement is cowardly coming from a grown man who lacks the conviction to stand and defend the statement. Instead he uses FOX News to be his defender and then victoriously stands back to watch Cruz squirm as the story grows legs.
My hope, and for sure I am hopeful, is that Trump will get his in the general election. I'm not talking about karma. I'm talking about Hillary.
Monday, May 2, 2016
On a shame-loss diet
I am obese. It's not a nice word. I would prefer plumb. Maybe if we replaced the word with something nicer, people would be less judgmental, including those of us who are .... pick one: chubs, plus-sized, heavy, stout, plump.
I have spent most of the last 20 years feeling shame and embarrassment about my expanding girth. It hasn't helped. And now because I likely have less than 20 years left of my life, I am committed to shedding not the weight, but the shame.
The advantage I have in this mission is total and absolute acceptance from my immediate family. First there's my darling husband - and supplier. He likes to bake and watch people eat. And it turns out I like to eat what other people bake. After 40 years, it most certainly has added up.
My loyal children. I would take a bullet for each and every one of them. They have always been kind in words and generous in their support. I currently am doing Weight Watchers with two of them. While my stated goal is losing shame; I still want the health benefits of shedding some pounds. So do my back and knees!
Now enter the grandchildren. My oldest doesn't want me to change body size. She has said that many times. Kids hate change in general; they also like those bear hugs, and for sure the larger the grandma, the squishier the hug.
I understand how I got here. I've known for years and years. Like for most of us over-sized people, it's a combination of factors: addiction, emotions run amok, DNA, fridge and pantry filled with homemade treats.
For me going forward, how I got here is beside the point. In the words of our next president, "What difference does it make?!"
I am plump and dammit I am OK with that!
I have spent most of the last 20 years feeling shame and embarrassment about my expanding girth. It hasn't helped. And now because I likely have less than 20 years left of my life, I am committed to shedding not the weight, but the shame.
The advantage I have in this mission is total and absolute acceptance from my immediate family. First there's my darling husband - and supplier. He likes to bake and watch people eat. And it turns out I like to eat what other people bake. After 40 years, it most certainly has added up.
My loyal children. I would take a bullet for each and every one of them. They have always been kind in words and generous in their support. I currently am doing Weight Watchers with two of them. While my stated goal is losing shame; I still want the health benefits of shedding some pounds. So do my back and knees!
Now enter the grandchildren. My oldest doesn't want me to change body size. She has said that many times. Kids hate change in general; they also like those bear hugs, and for sure the larger the grandma, the squishier the hug.
I understand how I got here. I've known for years and years. Like for most of us over-sized people, it's a combination of factors: addiction, emotions run amok, DNA, fridge and pantry filled with homemade treats.
For me going forward, how I got here is beside the point. In the words of our next president, "What difference does it make?!"
I am plump and dammit I am OK with that!
Thursday, April 21, 2016
"I love you, too"
I write this about my late mother from inside the New York City Public Library, a more apt
place to memorialize her than a church sanctuary. Reading was her religion.
I wasn’t close to my mother for most of our lives
together. No awful drama to point
to. No abuse or spoken hostilities. Really,
no extreme display of emotion one way or the other. You see, Shirley was
Norwegian, second generation American Norwegian. Being reserved was in her
DNA.
Her paternal grandparents immigrated from Norway in the 19th
Century, settling in Minnesota. Her father Carl Eskelson married Madge Shirey
of Minneapolis during the first part of the 20th Century. They had
five children: three sons and two daughters. My mother was number four, born in
1927. The Eskelson clan grew up in the
north central part of South Dakota within the boundaries of the Standing Rock Reservation, part of
the Great Plains region. That means flat
and windy; hot in the summer and freezing in the winter. The one saving grace for the area was the great
Missouri River, which contained the region’s east side.
Both Carl and Madge were teachers. Carl became superintendent of schools for a
time. I am not sure what town or area he covered. I do know that every one of
those five children were smart. Really
smart. And my mother may have been the smartest of the bunch.
That likely could have been the rub from the beginning. I was no Einstein in school. I fell somewhere
in the middle, consistently average.
During childhood I also drew attention, which definitely was in violation of her Norwegian principles.
I was the only girl in a family of six children. It didn’t always make a
difference, but in some matters it did. I got my own room. Big advantage. My
grandmothers paid more attention to me than they did my five brothers, which made me feel special. Another Norwegian no-no. I got fewer
hand-me-downs, too, translating into precious little money being spent on me and
not my brothers.
Another seeming wedge between us was the weight I gained
throughout my adulthood. She actually spoke up about that a few years ago. “I
decided I have to say something,” she said. I nodded in approval to her
suggestions that I eat less and exercise more. For my health, she said. I was
hurt and wish at the time I had had the foresight to see it coming and be
better prepared for a more layered conversation. I missed that opportunity. I never lost the weight and we never spoke of
it again. That doesn’t mean the issue wasn’t present during future visits.
I have often wondered how different my mother’s life could
have been if only she had been born a little later. I don’t know that she would have had
children, given a choice. She could have
devoted her time and energies to running a library. That really was her calling. When I think of
my mother happy, she has a book in hand. I still see her sitting sideways in a
chair, legs dangling over an arm, book open.
The Shirley I knew is a different person others knew. I
guess being the only daughter placed expectations on the relationship that were
never realized for either of us. It’s
hard to explain. There was an unspoken disappointment throughout the years,
from both of us. I know that I was often an idiot, saying the wrong thing in an
attempt to impress. Like the time I
brought up the subject of genital mutilation.
I know, just writing this makes me question my sanity. It was relevant in my work at the time, but
surely not appropriate to discuss with Shirley.
For her, it must have felt like an assault.
Our relationship will always be the most complex of any I
have or will ever have. I loved her and
respected her and I believe she felt the same about me. We just never reached
that ultimate goal of great friends.
I began to worry about Shirley’s mental capacity a little
over a year ago. Really worry. It wasn’t just the ordinary stuff like
forgetting where she put something. It was forgetting people and places and words. When I visited her in Montana in
June of 2015, I saw a confused and vulnerable woman. And thin. Her weight was just below 100 pounds. She was living alone by this time; several months earlier my father had been placed in a memory care facility.
One evening during the visit, I was hanging with my brother Jim and sister-in-law Dawn when I got a call that the Missoula police were
at Shirley's apartment. She had called 9-1-1 to report me missing; she was worried because she hadn't heard anything from me since I took off on my bicycle earlier that day. This, of course, had not happened. I explained to the
officer that Shirley was experiencing a delusional episode and please let me
talk to her. Shirley would not budge
from her story. “No! You should have
called.”
It was from that moment I, with my brothers, began preparing for her to come to
Texas where I could manage her care. She arrived late August, two months after the June episode.
It was incredible to have my mother two miles
away instead of 1,600. Of course it was a different Shirley. She was unencumbered and – maybe this is my
bias – liberated. She loved her
beautiful apartment. Meals served three
times a day at the dining room just down the hall from her room. In the first few weeks, she gained 10 pounds.
We had just enough time to establish a favorite café, get a
new wardrobe, and meet great-grandchildren for the first time. She sat at our Thanksgiving table for the
first time ever. She had also taken up walking every morning outdoors around
the apartment complex. Sometimes other residents would join her but she
preferred to walk solo because “they walk too slowly.”
Late December Shirley seemed to just fall apart, physically
and mentally. Multiple trips to the doctors, one to the ER, did nothing to slow
the progression toward her death. During that time, I found a few lists she had
been writing down. Mostly lists of names. Precious names. Names of relatives,
her brothers and sister and other paternal and maternal cousins. She knew. She understood she couldn’t trust
her own memory to hold onto them, so she wrote them down.
Caring for my mom those last weeks was the greatest gift I
could imagine in this world. We had all kinds of fun: eating out, listening to music, watching old movies, playing games, putting a
puzzle together. It was as if we finally
fit as mother and daughter. No pretense,
no judgment. Real love. We both felt it. One time leaving her after a visit, we
kissed and hugged as usual, but this time she held on a little longer.
Shirley was Norwegian to the end. When paramedics came to
her apartment early in the morning of Feb. 8, she told them not to bother. She was fine.
"No, I don’t need to go to the hospital," she said. This from a prone
position on the floor beside her bed where she had landed after falling in the early
morning hours.
I don’t need to go into further detail about her death. It came about 24 hours after arriving at the
hospital. She left this world peacefully, listening to Beethoven. Her last
words, I utterly and selfishly can say were to me.
“I love you, too.”
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