Free at last

Paul is about to retire after almost 40 years in public service, 20 of those on the federal bench. He has served with intelligence, decency and fairness. Wow are we proud of him.

So how does he feel about retiring? He's over the moon. Like a kid on Christmas Eve. He literally started the countdown more than a year ago.

Funny how we used to feel bad for people retiring. "Those poor old people." Now it's "Free at last."

Naturally there are occasional annoyances connected to retiring. Somewhere out in the Net Universe commercial organisms also have received word of Paul's retirement. Our mailbox and his email box get daily pitches for insurance, financial management, reverse mortgage, etc. He tries not to think about the gross violation of privacy. There really is no such thing as privacy anymore.

Last week, however, he got a proposition that seems to violate both privacy and good taste: a deal on pre-paid CREMATION!! Really?

This morning Paul made a joke about it. Of course he did. It will take more than the suggestion of his own death to dampen the prospect of not having to work anymore. Of not having to answer to an early morning alarm or to a superior. Ever again.

After 40 long years plus the years he worked as a teen and young adult before he became a professional, he has earned the right to sit back and breathe free.

Dr. Shady

I love this state of Texas and its people. So many different cultures and traditions and perspectives surrounding the meaning of life.

I was reminded of this at a doctor's visit yesterday. I get sinus infections a couple times a year and use a walk-in clinic, not my regular clinic. Way faster. This clinic is owned by a nut. Certified eccentric. I really am grateful for the service provided, but always hope I get any doctor but her. No such luck yesterday.

Through the years I have heard about her remarkable family and their import in the Confederacy. High achievers. Smarties. Did I mention the Confederacy? 

I made the mistake of wearing a Stanford University t-shirt. My husband's line when he wears his and is asked if he went to Stanford: "Yes. To the bookstore to buy this t-shirt."  I repeat this line, she laughs and continues to talk about research there regarding diabetes and Alzheimer's. I'm all in; this is fascinating stuff.

"Don't say anything. The liberals will twist it."

Say, what?

I don't know about reverse doctor-patient confidentiality and if writing this violates some code, but I doubt it because I have no earthly idea what she was talking about anyway as far as liberals ruining the research.

I have come to expect such ranting against liberals from this 70-something doctor, but have never had the guts to contradict. Something I will never say: "I am a liberal and you just spilled the beans to the enemy. Ha!"

In truth I adore this woman. She has built a spectacular business that I will continue to use, and other family members will as well. Her staff is as diverse as any office - or more so - that I've experienced. She gets liberal points for that. I just won't ever tell her.

It's gonna be ok

I heard this morning that bars were opening early tomorrow in D.C. for the spectacle of watching former FBI Director James Comey testify before a Senate committee about what Trump did or did not say.

They are calling it a kind of Super Bowl. 

I, too, am excited about the prospect of Trump being creamed. I worry, however, that it could be like last year's actual Super Bowl. The Atlanta Falcons all but beating Tom Brady's Patriots. It was really a done deal. Until the Patriots came back and changed what we thought was history.

The lesson for me is that tomorrow's super bowl may not have the happy ending I seek. But that is OK. I am patient. I can wait for Trump's crushing defeat because I know it's coming, just as I know the sun will rise tomorrow. It's coming.

But say for sake of argument that it doesn't happen. I can live with that, too.

You see I met the most amazing millennial today.  I can't reveal too much other than to say good is winning over evil. Maybe not at the ballot box, but most certainly in every day life. I saw and heard for my own eyes and ears. This young woman, unknown to most everyone, is making remarkably unselfish choices. She has chosen the well being of someone else over her own comfort. She has placed love of other over love of self. And in such an organic and authentic way. As you hear her story, each piece fits so smoothly that at the end of the conversation you are entranced by the grace of this lovely woman. 

And inspired and grateful and ... yes, encouraged that it's going to be ok.

Love indeed trumps hate every time.

I'll have a hamburger, hold the proselytizing

I was standing in line at a popular burger place with my granddaughters ages 5 and 7.  One was ordering the cheeseburger - plain and dry. The other wanted both a hotdog and corndog. As a grandparent, it is my prerogative to say "yes" to all or none of their requests.  So while a wish for a double order of dogs seemed excessive, it was a no brainer for me to grant.

This place is filled with picnic table seating. Long rows of picnic tables side-by-side. When it's busy, you get a grab-bag of meal mates. Some are friendly, some are not. Either way works for us.

After our order, we head to the fountain drink area. My 5-year-old insists on doing everything herself. Again, an easy granny call. I can even proudly say she never once heard, "be careful." She hears that all day long.  No need to pile on. In fact, that's the point of having grandparents. They do NOT pile on.

I had noticed a seemingly lovely woman enter by herself and now coming over to the drink area. She said to me, "I've never been here. It's really different."

"It's fun. The food is wonderful." Then, feeling overly blessed, I invite her to sit with us if she wanted.

"Over there," I say pointing to the 7-year-old already seated. She followed the direction of my hand but said nothing. No acknowledgement. "Only if you want to .. you're probably getting to go.." Still nothing. I was too forward and had frightened her. No matter. In moments we would be eating hamburgers and hotdogs and French fries.

I was seated a couple of minutes with the girls waiting for my name to be called to pick up our order, when the lone ranger - rangerette? - walked over and sat beside me. Ok. She decided to accept after all. I begin casual chit chat.

"Are you from here?"

"All my life. Grew up here. It's very different now. Where do you fellowship?"

It's been a long time since anyone has asked me that question. Used to be commonly asked here in the South - in the 90s.

"I don't," I tell her.

Her response: "I'm a poet for God."

This woman's idea of breaking the ice is not the same as mine.

Next thing she has her phone out showing us a picture of "Jesus when he's not on the cross. ...I like the pictures when he's not on the cross." My granddaughters are so brilliant. They admire the picture and smile at her explanation. I think the 7-year-old threw in a nod.

I'm not offended by anything this woman presented to us. I was also glad to be a buffer between her and my granddaughters who pretty much dropped out of the conversation once the food arrived.

This woman, who showed no real interest beyond her own life, represents for me a large number of people who long ago lost the ability to think for themselves. She lacked imagination and curiosity. Life is easier and safer for her that way. I can safely say that about her even though we interacted for less than an hour.

I am not sure what was learned or gained. I hope maybe she experienced something she has been missing in her life: kindness? simple pleasure of greasy food? strangers who don't criticize even though they don't embrace?

It was for sure the perfect setting for such an encounter because everything seems better when you're eating the perfect hamburger!!

Squirrel lives matter

The critter appeared confused as she stepped into oncoming traffic. Too far away to warn, I held my breath as the little furry cuteness began her trip across the busy residential street.  A few drivers braked, but not all. For sure not everyone could see her. In my mind I braced for the scream and blood and crunch of cars and more screams ... and did I mention blood?

She made it. How on earth, I don't know.

This scenario happens almost every day with squirrels. I wonder what the stats are on squirrel pedestrian deaths. I mean it seems this time of year the slaughter multiplies in numbers.  No kidding it's not unusual to walk our lovely neighborhood with the dogs and have to navigate squirrel carcass.

When my Jenny, now 33, was about 9 years old, she actually marched outside our home with a sign that read "Slow down you're killing the squirrels." Adorable, right?  And she swears it worked.

Jenny is still that adorable, but it would be difficult to tell her the "success" likely is owed more to a couple of neighbors (that we know about and likely many more) who regularly shoot to kill. For them squirrel season starts when one of the buggers steps foot in their backyard.

Over the years we often think about our sweet Jenny's campaign to save the squirrel - and all animals really. She once drew a picture for a school assignment of her pet graveyard at the house: snakes, lizards, mice, fish, and I don't remember them all. There were a lot. I thought, as a mom, there must be no other child so kind hearted.  Until now.

I just found out through my neighborhood social media site that there exists multiple places in my city called squirrel sanctuaries.  Squirrel Sanctuaries!!! Imagine, if you can, how soft of heart a person/persons must have to nurture such places. They provide instructions on how to humanely catch them and where to take them. Squirrels!

Going forward I now have a new measure for kindness. The litmus test will be whether one is pro-squirrel life or anti-squirrel life. Indeed I will respect all views. I just will give more points to those who, like my Jenny, believe squirrel lives matter.

Ready or not

This is darling Ellie. She belongs to my grandchildren, as evidenced by her costume. Ellie is staying with us this weekend because her masters are going to Oklahoma. Ellie and my grandkids grew up with another chocolate lab, Memphis. He died recently. Very sad. We couldn't stand the thought of Ellie being all by herself. Typically when they leave we go over and feed and water the dogs, just as they do for our dogs. Now that there's just one ... she must stay with us the whole time.

Our Sam the bossy border collie's hospitality will be tested. I am hopeful. 

Who's in charge?

Samantha is a 3 1/2 year-old border collie. She is loved and well cared for; and she pretty much rules Paul. She is not shy about letting him know it's been 10 minutes since he threw a tennis ball.

Sam was adopted on Paul's 60th birthday so she really belongs more to him. When he is home they are inseparable. They have this nonverbal agreement that Paul will walk her a couple times a day in addition to throwing a thousand tennis balls in the backyard and front room. It works. For them.

I don't want to say that Paul refuses to train Sam. It's just that he refuses to train her. The problem, from my perspective, is Sam's behaviors on walks: she pulls, she lunges at passing vehicles, and she barks and sometimes growls at passing neighbors and their well-behaved dogs.

Occasionally I try to discipline. Mostly when Paul is out of town, as he has been for the last few days. Sunday I took her to a busy park with all kinds of traffic, people and vehicle. I planted her at an intersection and we practiced exposure therapy.  Her behavior told me she was terrified. She had about the same look as one poor woman who got the scary lunge and growl greeting as she walked past us. Which explains the reason I felt the need at times to apologize to people and say (lie) that Sam's a rescue dog I was attempting to train. 

"She'll learn!" one kind, kind woman yelled to me.

So this morning on our walk around the neighborhood, I still was feeling that encouragement gifted to me at the park. I holler "good morning" to a couple of women across the street from us, one I know very well.  Elaine. She has her dog off leash (must be nice), but leans down and connects him to a leash as we approach. She is familiar with Sam.

"Paul working?" (Neighbors mostly are used to seeing Paul with Sam and Mika)

"He's out of town. I'm trying to train Sam!" I point to her shortened leash just before Sam lunges at the women and dog.

"Good luck," Elaine says with a tone that means "fat chance."

Ok. Fair enough.

I still won't give up on Sam. Paul isn't home until tomorrow and it's time for our second walk. So here we go ... just not by Elaine's house.

Cold Deniers

Texans do not do cold. Mostly, they're in denial. No matter how far in advance the cold is forecast,  practically no one is prepared when the temp dips below freezing.

Last night I attended a season opener for girls' high school soccer. Tuesday Night Lights. (I'm the only one who calls it that). Naturally soccer arrives at the same time as the cold. Every year. Every damn year.

Seeing as I grew up in South Dakota, I knew how to dress for cold weather starting with my trusty jacket that was tested for its warmth on peak of Mt. Everest. I'm pretty sure that's what the tag said. I add a wool scarf around my neck before zipping the coat all the way up. I already am wearing wool socks and wool hat. Last thing to put on is my thinsulate gloves. Finally, I then grab the heaviest, therefore warmest, blanket in our house and set off.

The game already has started by the time I take my seat on the frozen aluminum bleachers. No worries, I have that blanket. Settling in, I notice a group of high school kids seated just above me. They are huddled together. For real seeking human warmth from each other. Why? Because they don't believe in the cold. Why else would they not see fit to pack a jacket when they left home 10 hours earlier?

I couldn't stand to see these kids suffer so I walked my blanket up to where they were sitting and handed it over, telling them to share. A scolding wouldn't make any difference with these cold deniers. I will just have to pack more blankets next time.

End Times? Sure, why not

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.

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.

Memorial pictures

 I've wanted to post some pictures from my parents' memorial.  It was June 18, the date of their wedding anniversary in Lakeside, Montana. We spread their ashes in Flathead Lake. They spent likely their best years in this beautiful place.

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."

 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

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.

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.

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.

 

 

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.

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!

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.

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. 

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.

 

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