Ann Shields on Letting Go

Electronic Addictions

Have you noticed how compassionate the world of social networking is?  Well, all you have to do is acquire friends on Facebook and a new caring community opens up before you. 

 It is my new addiction.  First I check out my email messages, then veer off to my Facebook page.  Someone in the shadows of that site monitors me.  This is not paranoia, but what else explains the occasional jog to remind me to write on someone's wall.  Why?  Is that person lonely?  It is like acquiring a new guilt probe that won't let me ignore anyone.

Okay, so I write on the wall.  But next thing I know they are reminding me to suggest new friends for a newbie, lest they be lonely, too.  Okay, I go down the list of mutual friends and check them off.  Satisfied, I want to say to whomever is monitoring my E-Life. 

The addictive partof this electronic society is the knowledge I am acquiring. Isn't knowledge equal to power?  That means that I am more powerful.  I am learning tons of stuff about family members across the country.  Like the granddaughter who is having love problems.  When I see her pop up in a picture of her alone, I know things are not going well.  Next thing I see is her and her beloved in a together pose on her site.   It's back on again, I think.

Then another 'across the country' family member is rallying about a cause against child abuse for children.  So I join the cause.  Why not?  I also find I am a fan of the NPR program, Wait, Wait, Don't Tell.   And since I am sponsoring a young woman from the Congo through Women's International Organziation, I learn more about the injustices facing women in third world countries.  But if knowledge is power, why do I feel so powerless?  'Tis a dilemma.

Another thing about Facebook is the variety of psychological quizes that lure you in.  I discovered recently that my long deceased father is watching over me from heaven, that I was born on a Sunday, and the sexy lady celebrity I most resemble is Audrey Hepburn.  Also, my Halloweeen costume would be Raggedy Ann.  So who am I, sexy Audrey or Raggedy Ann?  No wonder I am subject to vertigo. It is a dizzy world out there.

Meanwhile, my list of 'friends' grows daily. Here's the question:  Do I have to send them Christmas cards or will a poke on Facebook suffice. I just got my first thank you note on my wall for a shower gift.  That's about as casual as it gets.  So,  think I'll just poke everyone on my list with Merry Christmas in caps.  That's shouting inE-speak, you know.  :)

So Says Sassy

 

 

 

 

California Chaos

We have been getting phone calls from worried friends and family about the California fires this week.  Over 125,000 acres burned, two firefighters died, homes lost.  People uprooted and devestated.

Meanwhile, we sit in our cozy coastal home reassuring friends and family across the country that we are safe.  As they watch the fire swirl and blaze on television screens, without geographical expertise, it appears the whole state is ablaze. We almost feel guilty that we are unscathed.  Not even smoke and ash has dusted our community.  Not yet.

After all, we live on an earthquake fault.  Anything can happen.  Strange we are so complacent.  I guess when you live on the edge, the edges get softened.  So, stress becomes less stressful, and the daily routine of life blunts the possibilities of imminent danger.

I wonder if that is how life feels to women living with and abuser.  It must be too stressful to be on alert for the next blow, the next accusation or blast of unreality coming from the abuser.   I remember as a child watching someone beat his fists into the breasts of a family member while we stood by helpless.  Why did she cower, whimper, then go home with him for more?  Was her reality finally acceptable?

The recent headlines about the kidnapped 11 year old who spent 18 years with her captor is mind boggling.  When does unreality become the new normal?  Hard to fathom when finding out more details of this prolonged captivity in substandard condition.  Seems incompetency reigns supreme here among the defenders of the law.  But what do we know?

Only that we all live on fault lines, some along geographical lines, others on fragile health, or rocky relationships.  Thankfully, many  hold on to the strongest ties that bind us together.  Faith and love and kindness. 

For everybrutality we read about there are countless acts of selflessness and generosity.  For ever violent act of nature, we are protected by the bravery of other.  When tremors stir the ground beneath us, we hold on and wait.  We lose loved ones and await the birth of a new baby.  Life is good and we are blessed.  

We choose to believe that this is so.  Maybe that's my fault.

So says Sassy

Rambling through the Brambles

Lately, most of my thinking has been done in fits and starts.  Our calendar is splattered with doctor visit, lab tests, physical fitness routines and intermittent lunches with friends.  Oh yes, also meal drops where the 'center of the universe' lives with his mother, father, one cat and one dog, plus a critter from another planet.  An iguana, I think.

Ocassionaly, I am ruminating on some idea that could work into a blog, but life interferes.  I get these flashes of wonderment.  Like, why is there no elevator in LA Fitness where I work out?  I mean, there are these winding stairs that go up to a sea of treadmills, but you have to walk up there to get to them.

Another why:  Why did my fitness guru quit last week to work for a totally out off the wall outfit dealing with automobiles?   Not fair. I have this irrationally feeling of having been dumped.  I complained about this to my husband who gave me this odd look.   

Another thing.  How come, just as I decide to get a library card and save money from my addiction to Barnes and Noble, when I read that they are think ing of cutting libraries in my town?  Well, not totally, but making some cuts.  Seems like I always come to the party too late.

Kind of reminds me of my penchant for catching on to the new fad, when it suddenly goes cold.  LIke when I finally went to mini skirts and fashion police decided to lower the hemline to midi's.  Not trendy enough, I guess, which when you realize that I once had a column on fashion for a very brief period in the L.A. Times, Ventura Section, may explain why that whole section got dumped along with the columnists.

Here's another puzzle.  Who are the mapmakes that give you instructions to a sleep center in Oxnard that you need to hire a private investigator to find?  My husband is scheduled for tests at a sleep center tomorrow night so we went for a trial run this morning to find the place.  Only got lost three times.  I can only imagine the nightmare of trying to find the place in the dark at 9 p.m. when we are to drop him off.  I say we because I have drafted Ryan, the father of the 'center of the universe' to take us to the center where we will dump 'Des the sleepee'  and where I will retrieve him on Monday morning at 6 a.m.

Reason for the aforementioned test is to see if he has sleep apnea.  I personally doubt it.  But I am considering slipping a tape recorder in his pajama pockets because his monologue during sleep is pretty interesting, just not intelligible.  Believe me, I have tried.  I finally gave up the night he said I was growing a tree trunk out of my back.  Never mind the psychological implications here.

To get serious now, I attended a memorial service this afternoon for  a church member who died after a four year struggle with ALS.  I came away with my faith soaring from the rembrance offered from his widow.  She must have been surrounded by angels holding her up while she stood on a celestial ladder.  Her eloquence, dignity, humor and solid faith in the face of her loss  was beyond awesome.  She is my new hero.

Now, I have to end this rambling and gather up a few things for my husband's sleep over.  I'm getting lonely already. 

So Says Sassy

 

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow Blog

     When I was young my dad had a mustache.  One morning, this strange man showed up at breakfast.  Dad had shaved it off and I went yelling to my mother.  He looked naked.  Well, his face did.  He grew it back and looked like Clark Gable again, at least to me.

     Hair brings out strong emotions in people.  Back in the hippie days, you were considered a pot smoking rebel-if you were a guy with hair down to your shoulders.  Today, hair can be any color or length on any gender, from purple to black spikes.

   Doesn't bother me.  Whatever.  Didn't even bother me when one grandson showed up as a freshman in college with blond dreadlocks.  I thought he looked cute.

   My son sports a neatly trimmed, graying ever so gradually.  His wife likes it.  So do I.  My stepson's beard is shaggy and drive's his dad crazy.  He wonders wishfully if it will ever come off in his lifetime.  But it is just hair after all, I try to tell him. No big deal.  Our New York grandson's head is shaved.  Looks good on him.  But it still takes him forever to take a shower when he visits.  Go figure.

    We were at the local Mcdonald's the other day and my husband said, 'Excuse me, Maam,' to get the counter person's attention.  Much to his chagrin, Maam turned out to be a guy with this adorable face and hair below his shoulders, pullled off to the side in a rubber band.  Everyone laughed and teased him but he just grinned good naturedly.  He gets that a lot he said,

   I asked him how his parents liked it.  They are cool with it, he said, then qualified by wriggling his wrist and saying, not my dad.  But he swears his mom is jealous of it.

   I cut my husband's hair.  He hasn't been to a barber in over 36 years.  My job these days mostly require that I get a neat look around his ears and the back of his neck.  We have dispensed with side burns.  His hair is low maintenance.  Mine reqires regular perms, a misnomer if there ever was one.

   When I go off to get a perm, his predictable remark is, 'didn't you just get one?'  Hard to explain that permanent doesn't really mean it when it comes to hair.   He is lucky I don't do the color thing and have let my hair gray just the way nature and my mother intended.  Then he'd have to schedule visits at the hair salon to see me.

   Since he is follically challenged, he gets annoyed by all the television commercials that deal with the flowing tresses of women.  Like who cares, he says.  It's one of those running remarks in a marriage that requires no answer.

    My women friends have other hair issues, too.   Sitting around the other night some of us got into topic of chin hairs.  A casual survey categorized us into tweezers, shavers, waxers and a few other torturous options.  Whichever method, those little ubiquitous rascals strayed anyway.

    Of course, there are men who seem to sprout nose and ear hairs in abundance and you wonder what is it with the ear hairs anyway?  Thankfully, I don't have to deal with that since it's already a nuisance putting my hearing aid in place in my ear and tucking the little wire carefully out of the way.

    By the way, I lost my first one, but that is a digression too far off the subject. I would have mentioned the lost hearing aid long ago, but since I had already confessed to losing my date calendar and my digital camera, I figured people would be whispering about my stability soon enough.

    Back to the hair theme.  My gal pals and I got into the subject of the disappearing follicles on various sections of our bodies,  and the laughter was raucous.  Women take disappearing hair much more lightly then men, I've noticed.  But then, we can be touchier about weight issues.

    Once, a group of writers were at my house for a critique session and one of them leaned forward during a hush and said, 'Ann, you've gained weight." in a tone of mock surprise.

   Well, I wasn't Sassy in those days, so I couldn't just flatten her.  But I did manage to say, ever so sweetly, "thank you for noticing."

    That group dispersed over the years along with my erstwhile friend.   You can take only so much honesty in this world.  Just ask our politicians. Oh, and by the way, John Edwards hair is much too adorable.  I'll take Barack's anyday.

So Says Sassy

   

   

   

Kittens Rebel

Our loving little kittens have become rebellious teen-agers.  I blame it on Des.  He campaigned mercilessly for their release into the freedom of the back yard.  First, I balked.  Then he constructed this monolithic structure, I refer to as the stockade.  It is about 10 by ten, about 10 feet high, encased in wire fencing with a cute little door and a latch.  Inside this structure, he built wooden ramps and a kind of maze. 

The theory:  We would carry our little darlings out several times a day and put them in this stockade.  The first time we did it, they climbed the wire trying to get out, then stared at us from the inside.  We went in with them to show them how much fun it was.  They raced for the gate, but we got there first.  Des said they would get used to it, so began a vigil of us on the outside sitting on chairs and watching them stare at us from the inside.  We gave up.

Next we took them to the vet and had them micro-chipped in case they escaped our clutches.

Finally, I gave in.  Our New York family would be visiting and various doors from the inside to the outside would be constantly opening and closing.  The kitten/cats were allowed to roam in the backyard.  Des was ecstatic.  The cats were too busy stalking grasshoppers to notice how happy he was.    Once they climbed the fence and discovered all the dogs that lived below our bank, they roamed the ledge and taunted the dogs. Such a lovely chorus of frustrated dogs.  So cute, our little darlings.

Well, the New Yorkers came and left, but the cats are now indoor/outdoor cats forever more.  They scamper between the calla lillies and taunt us now when we see dusk descending and try to lure them back in the house.  Such fun.

The other night, Des and friend Jeff were out in the moonless night with flashlights, pleading with the little darlings.  Des said, don't worry, they will come back.  Yeah right!

One negative backlash of all this freedom. He did notice, while enthusiasm dripped from his vocal chords, that the cats don't seem to want to sit on our laps much anymore.  Well, duh! I said.  Have you noticed how that word covers so much emotional depth?

Anyway, there is a new rule around here.  We capture the cats if they happen to be so foolish as to wander into the house before 5 p.m.  Both of us race to block the little cat doors, slide the door to the porch shut and catch our collective breaths.  They are inside now for the night, so there!

Thinking of this teen-age rebellion, I recalled very little of that with my children.  Although, I do recall once when I was awakened around dawn, and turned to Des and said, wow, David is really up early this morning.

Des said, rather dryly, I think he just came home.

Oops.  Sorry David.  I did promise not to mention family in my blogs.  But wait, That promise was to Judith.  Sorry about that.

So says Sassy.

Ban on Reading...Bad for Your Health!

Three days after Angioplasty, I am calmly reading the morning newspapers, all three, since we are news junkies.  The headlines scream at me.  Angioplasty is no better than current drugs available to heart patients.  Thanks a lot!.

As I take a deep breath, I plunge into the articles.  This is after I took a 500 mg niacin pill yesterday after protesting statin drugs and my cardiologist made me promise to try niacin.  Talk about flushing, blushing and all the rest.  Plus, first I read the fine print with all the possible side effects of niacin.  Bad move.  I took it anyway.  Today, I will do the same, since I promised my cardiologist, who I will not name since I think he is great and I might slip and call him Dr. McDreamy, which he is by the way.  But since we go the same church and I know his wife, maybe that is not a good idea.

But I digress.  And really, this is a sneaky way to get out all my frustration with news, studies while gaining attention and empathy for my latest jaunt into our local hospital for this heart procedure.

Last week, my HMO generously allowed me to see my cardiologist after my primary care doc - whom I shall not name because he is sweet and caring and has too many patients already - anyway, the Primary Care guy sent an urgent request to said HMO that I see said cardiologist due to sleepless nights peppered with chest pains.

It worked.  Got into see McDreamy on Thursday, he thought angiogram was the only way to see what's happening, made arrangements with the hospital.  On Friday morning, I am on my way to the hospital at 5 a.m. driven there by Joyce, our niece, another serndipitous event.  Why, you ask?  Because she and husband Marv happen to choose this week to visit us from Brocton, New York to help out with stuff.  But that's another story.

Friday, at the hospital, I am whisked off the the Cath Lab and the angiogram shows I have a blockage.  Big surprise.  The docs confer that angioplasty is needed, and why not do it right now, while I am exposed, my groin is open for viewing and so let's do it.  So faster than Alice slipped down the rabbit hole - or is that another metaphoic story? - I am prepped and that old familiar feeling  spreads over me.  No, not love.

It is the cute little catheter reaming it's way up towards my heart with a balloon...without happy birthday written on it...and voila, it opens stuff up and the two docs admire their work.

Looks good they say.  Let's leave it like that and forget stents and other such debris that might stay in there permanently.  I just grin weakly, but, hey, morphine will do that for you.

So they stitch up the tiny incision in my groin and send me off to recovery.  I am thinking they must have left the balloon in there, but discover later, when a great nurse, Cheryl Madrid, who used to be Cheryl Allen and went to Ventura High School around the same time as my children, ......wait, that is way too long a sentence for a writer, which I am.

So back to Cheryl in Recovery.  I am hers for 12 hours and she is terrific.  All this time, I am to lie flat, not raise my legs or my spirits, just not wiggle, lest the groin incision get restless.  Just to impress me, they say, that all the blood flow in my artery could leak out and I could die.  I am definitely impressed.  Talk about making a point.

So all day Friday I am one with Cheryl in the cath lab and finally, at 10 p.m., they say I can raise my head, actually, I can eat something gluten free, sideways.   And after that, they send me off to the ICU where my new nurse is a great guy named Will, from Atlanta.

Will and I bonded immediately.  First, he asked if he could call me Ann, then as he inspected my groin incision, he went to Sweetie.  I said, great, that's what I call me.  Sometime during the night I was 'darlin'  and when I told Will he was cute, he said, 'takes one to know one.'  Did I mention that he added a dollop of morphine to my drip.

Lest you think this has all been fun and games, I did still have chest discomfort during that night, but Will was there for me.

Cut to Saturday morning.  Do I get to go home today?  A blond nurse named ??? show up and I said 'where's Will? His shift is over, he's gone, she said.  What?  Who told him he could go? She laughed hysterically and said that was a good report on Will and would be sure to tell him.

New nurse said another cardiologist from the practice will make rounds soon.  No Dr. McDreamy?  Nope, the other one is on call--this is Satuday.   I am bereft.  No Dr. McDreamy and Will is gone.  Talk about rejection.  Isn't that bad for the heart?

Anyway, I look up and my heart nearly stops beating because leaning in the doorway is McDreamy, to see me after all.  Tears well up.......in my eyes, not his.

The news is good.  I can go home if I sit up, and walk around the nurses station without collapsing.  I do it in a heart beat, well several heart beats.  A call is made to Joyce who picks me up and takes me home to my husband, two kittens and Marv.  I am armed with papers and instructions.  Too boring to detail for you.  Get your own experience and we can share, even form a group.  Whatever.

I am home........even went to church on Sunday with Joyce and Marv.  My husband issues dire warnings about overdoing.  But when I walk into church and see mouths agape and get hugged and hugged and felt love wash over me, forget those warnings.  My heart is happy.

Then I read this morning's newspaper about angioplasty and it gives no better results than drugs.    I tell you, there ought to be a law against printing the news.  I think I will write about it.  Hey, I just did.

So says Sassy...grateful to the core.

Remember My FAther

Yesterday would have been my father's birthday.  He would have been 98,  but his heart gave out at 64.  No small wonder.  Beyond genetics, his gambling addiction stressed him beyond repair. 

Lately, I have chosen to forgive him for the chaoctic life I grew up under.  I put his picture above my computer and I tell him so every few days.  I have also focused on the good stuff of my childhood now.

He was a small built man, compact and neat with a trim mustache and soulful brown eyes that could coax money out of friends who believed him in spite of better sense.  He was a master mechanic, a body shop manager in Chicago and then in L.A.  Everyone liked him.  He was 21 years old when he married my mother...she was 20.  I was born the day before their first wedding anniversary.  Their one and only child.  I thought he looked like Clark Gable and my girlfriends told me he was cute.  He did have big ears.

When I was 7 yrs old I went by train with my maternal grandmother and uncle to visit Cleveland relatives.  I asked for a blue bicycle for my birthday.  These were depression years.

When I came back home, there was my blue and white girl's two wheeler.  He had found one used, painted it up and had it waiting for me.  I knew he would do it.  He usually kept his promises to me.  Not so my mother when it came to quitting gambling.

But then I was his enabler - a word I never knew existed.  I hid the mail from my mother in a special place we agreed upon down in the basement, so mom wouldn't see the finance company bills.  It was daring work, fraught with anxiety.  Especially on Saturdays when she was home from work and I had to get to the mail from the slot first and get it downstairs.  A close call, some days.  I wrote a short story about it called "Saturday's Child," another of my unpublished stash.

He helped me get my driver's license when I turned 16.  Accompanying me to the DMV in Chicago where you could buy most everything one way or another.  I stood at a high counter answering the questions, my father standing near me.  I nudged him about a question I had problems with...he whispered something and suddenly an arm swooped over my shoulder, grabbed the questionnaire and hustled us out the door.  'You want her to get the license,' said the gruff guy.  My dad nodded, slipped his hand into his pocket, pulled out money and all three of us got in the car.  I drove, the examiner filled out my answers and my dad just grinned in the back seat.  I passed the test and was now a licensed driver.

My dad could fix anything.  Clever with his hands, quick with his mind.  The only son in his Italian family to graduate high school.  With more education, he could have been somebody.  But his friends growing up were the sons of  mafia biggies..always willing to loan him money on credit to bet on horses.

He taught me how to find the floating bookie along the main thorofare to place bets for him in wadded up paper with paper money and the names of the horses that would make us rich.

He and and I were pals when my mom worked the swing shift in a factory.  We would listen to the radio together and he was certain I would be one of those quiz kids one day, I was so smart, he would tell me.  I believed him about that, too.  When I graduated from the 8th grade at 12, winning the American Legion Award, he sat proudly in the audience next to my mother.  See, you are smart, he said.

A somber, quiet guy.  He liked to laugh, but not often.  My mom called him 'good time Johnnie'  not in a complimentary way.  On Sundays, the alley behind our house would line up with friends who need their cars tuned up...and he would always oblige.  My mom steamed.

On the other hand, he also ran a floating dice game in the alley and a poker game in the basement where everyone in the neighborhood would congregate.  Even the Irish cop nearby, who would drop in for his weekly take of the action. Dad had his own take, too.  So my mom was cajoled.

He would look at my mom in a bemused way, saying, 'there is Gracie, always with a rag in her hand."  My mom, fastidious in her housekeeping, controlled the inanimate things she could control, like dirt and dust bunnies.  She could never control my dad.

On that last ride to the hospital in the Valley, his heart failing him rapidly, he told my mom, 'there's a guy who will ask you for money I owe him.  It is in my pants pocket.'  My mom told me this and I could hardly wait for that guy to approach me.

When I visited my dad that last time, he told me, "I've made my peace...but I worry about your mother." 

"She's strong, dad, she'll be fine." I said.

I wish I had said more, like, don't worry, dad, I'll see that she is all right, and don't worry dad, I forgive you, and most of all, I love you."  I felt I failed him.  So now I am remembering  the good stuff.

By the way the guy he owed money to never showed up at the funeral. But tons of people who loved him did.  Me above all.

So says Sassy -aka Ann Marie

Meet the Tekkie

My husband wanted to buy me a bracelet for Valentine's Day.  I opted for a wiress cell phone.  Not that easy, said my cell phone server.  I wasn't eligible for a new phone until April of 2008.  My current cell phone is not programmed for wireless connections.  So, how much to just buy a new cell phone?  $200!  What?  No Way.  Decided i would just stick with my old one and try to use the head set connected to the phone while driving.  Never happens, though and my near misses in traffic would have my dead mother leaping out of her grave to throttle me.

Meanwhile, my sweet husband, said get the new one anyway.  Really, I demurred daintily.  Yep, he says most manly.

Well, a very persuasive tech rep on the phone, suggested I could get the price of the new phone lowered by going from my single plan to family plan.  Mind you, my electronically challenged husband has never used a cell phone, nor would he ever, he vowed.

Of course, that didn't stop us.  So, now I have the family plan, two phones, two separate phone numbers, and a fancy blue tooth ear piece that resembles a stick of gum, colored white to match my hair.

Got it overnight, free delivery.  Opened the box, actually ripped it apart.  First problem, the phone rear end was bare naked.  No battery.  Battery in a separate cellephone container.  Getting it out of the cellephone was easy.  Putting it on the phone took one hour and one trip to a Verizon kiosk convinced they had sent the wrong battery.  The guy in the kiosk, smiled, snapped the battery on the phone and grinned.  He was probably ten years old.  All tekkies are ten years old as observed through my cataract imlanted  eyes.

I made him snap the battery out and in again.  See, mom, simple, was his cocky look.

Okay, drove back home with my phone intact.  Next step, getting the blue tooth and the phone to interact.  Scanned the manual for three seconds and they talked some tekkie language like I had to pare the two.  I think that was shortand for compare.  I stared them down, the white piece of gum and my phone but they didn't mate.  Not ever.

Back to another kiosk.  Only an idiot would go to the same one.  The guy, more mature - probably at least 12 years old- did the 'pare' thing.  See, no problem.  And it only has to be done once, so never  have to do it myself.

I sailed out of the mail with my phone in my pocket, and the blue tooth around my ear and called my daughter.  She wasn't home so I left a message and thought I disconnected the connection.

She called me later to ask why I had left 3 phone messages on her machine.  Not me, I said.  Yes, I did.  Didn't remember that my blue tooth came with a call back feature, so the phone kept dialing her, without my persmission or knowledge.

No.  I didn't go back to the Kiosk.  I am busy reading the manual.  Until I do, apparently all my new phone will do is call my daughter who sounded a little snappish if you ask me.  But then, she will never know I said that because when I told her I am a blogger now, she said, her home is blog free.

That means she vowed never to read blogs.  Not even her mother's.  She'll be sorry.

I told that to my son, who is more laid back than my daughter and he just laughed.  It just confirmed for him what he always suspected.  'She's kind of weird, he says.'

Boy, wait until she doesn't read that.

So says Sassy.

Swimming Fears

I never learned to swim.  There, I said it.  My grandchildren were shocked and my status may have dropped in their eyes.  On the other hand, I did regain some status after I told them Shel Silverstein was my classmate at Roosevelt High in Chicago, and I showed them in my yearbook where Shel said I was swell.  Swell was the operative compliment in the late 1948.

But this fear of swimming has dogged me my whole life.  While other fears have been overcome, from agoraphobia to fear of flying.  Flew to Europe last year, went clear to the top of the Eiffel Tower for pete's sake.

I blame it all on Pee Wee, my 12 year old grade school classmate.  She drowned in the Lincoln Park lagoon with all of us watching.  Who knew she couldn't swim?  None of her classmates, jaws dropping, could save her either.

In the ensuing years, swimming was not on my radar,  My family didn't do picnics, we had no lakeside cottage or hung out at Lake Michigan.  My father's spare time was spent at the local pool hall when he wasn't chasing down the floating bookie to bet on a horse.  My mother spent her after-work hours stretching the budget and spying on my father.

I aced high school without learning how to swim, even though it was a requirement for graduation.  A puncture eardrum and a note from my doctor was my exemption. I graduated with my non-swimming status intact.

Living in a California coastal city, the water has closed in on me.  At our beach, I wade safely up to my ankles collecting seashells and driftwood.

Whenever my husband mentioned ocean cruises, images of the Titanic flashed in my head.  We did cruise up the Columbia and Snake rivers on a paddle-wheel vesselt that barely stirred the water.  Serene and soothing, I felt seduced by the water.  Barely. 

Family visitors from New York primed me to go whale watching.  Yikes!  Were they kidding.  But I did it.  Twenty-six miles across the sea, as the song goes, we traveled on a 135 foot catamaran to the San Nicholas Islands.  I took great shots with my digital camera of whales, dolphins and sea lions.

I gathered my puny courage and contacted a well known swimming instructor in town and asked if she could teach a terrified woman of a certain age to swim.  Of course, she said.  So I bought a new swimsuit, goggles and went to my first class.   Noisy, boisterous children and toddlers were already in the water on that first night.

A few beginners joined me.    They wanted to improve their strokes.  I wanted to keep from drowning  Clinging to the edge of the 3 foot section, my feet never left the bottom of the pool.

Gradually, I managed to push off into the extended arms of my instructor.  I sank and sputtered.  We tried floating face up, barely able to last a few seconds before sinking again.

Okay, we would try something different, my instructor said.  Did I mention that she was a benevelent tyrant, a drill sargent in a former life, surely?  She ordered me to float face down, totally immersed in the water.  Was she serious?  I flailed around, gasping for air.  She yelled at me to put my head down and keep my arms and legs still. 

I can't breath, I gasped.   Just blow bubbles, she yelled.  Face down, I tried, but still bobbed up for air.  Blow bubbles and hum, commanded my drill sargent.  I kept trying.

Five classes later, I still couldn't swim, but at least I didn't mind getting my face down in the water.  I held my breath, blew bubbles and hummed back and forth across the width of the pool.  You floated, she yelled, giving me a high five.

That final night of class, I awakened at 3 a.m. with severe chest pains reverberating clear up to my ears.

My doctor diagnosed the problem.  Apparently, I had strained the muscles in my neck due to the ridiculous effort--his words--at holding my breath too long while bubbling and humming across the pool.  He whipped out his prescription pad and wrote the message to my swim instruction.  No more swimming lessons due to a medical condition.  Talk about deja vu all over again.

I phoned my old classmate in Chicago later to ask if she ever learned how to swim.  No way, she said.  Why not, I asked?  Are you crazy, she shot back.  PeeWee drowned, remember?  I didn't point out that it happened sixty years ago.  Some memories last forever.

But here's the thing.  I hate not being a swimmer.  So now I am creeping slowly back into the water.  I take a water aerobics class, at first clinging along the edge and now doing jumping jacks in the center of the pool, in water not deeper than 3.5 feet mind you.  My instructor nicknamed me Angel.  I don't know why, but that's my name in the class.  She says I am always smiling.  She is kind and encouraging and doesn't make me blow bubbles or hum.

What's more, my husband and I are scheduled to go on an ocean cruise in May up the coast and into Alaska's Inland Passage.

Still, can't swim, though,   my feet touching  the bottom of the pool.  but who cares?  My grandchildren still love me, and I an angel to my instructor.  Even my husband thinks so.  Although just the other day he pointed out that I had 3 swimming classes left at Ymca where I signed up another time in a flush of bravado.

Instantly hyperventilating, I gave him an angelic smile.  PeeWee smiled back in my head.   

So says Sassy.

Kittens in Heat

Well, there will be no current affairs for our two kittens, Murfi Sunshine and Misty Moonlight because their fate has been sealed.  This morning, the Vet declared Murfi better after antibiotics so no more testing.  We set up the appointment for their neutering on Thursday, the day after Valentine's Day.

The Vet said Murfi is 'way' in heat.  No kidding.  Having grown up in Chicago and never been allowed a four legged pet by my fastidious mother, I never had a cat in heat, or any living thing other than my teen age children.  So what do I know.

This event will happen none too soon, since Murfi is making strange sounds from deep within her throat, and Misty hugs her constantly, when she is not licking the top of my husband's shiny dome.

That's it for the affairs going on at our house.

So Says Sassy