Like a Kid on a New Bicycle

Took my bike to get tuned up today and got a bunch of gizmos put on too. I could have installed every one of them myself, but I am mechanically challenged enough that I would screw something up. The shop charged me next to nothing for the installation and I figure I helped their economy a little by letting them do it. The main thing was getting new tires. My old tires are mountain tires and I never rode this or any bike through actual mountains. The closest I ever came to that was when I used to ride my bike around the paved bike path at Lake Peru. There is one hill that you have to climb if you want to do the whole loop, but I always walked my bike up and down that.

I almost got a new helmet, but thought I'd stick with my old one for awhile.

I miss the days when I would ride without a helmet, the wind blowing through my hair--but these days, wearing a helmet is pretty important around here.

So I go to a nearby Starbuck's (I know, again) and sat and did a couple of crossword puzzles and graded a few papers.

As I walked in I found a familiar scene. It was like watching myself or an actor playing myself and an elderly woman playing my mother.

Parkinson's Disease.

A middle-aged man sitting with his elderly mother, drinking coffee and eating pastries in silence. She had the sad, drawn face my mother often wore--a symptom of Parkinson's. She was dressed up to go out--sometimes Mom would do this for the simplest trips, usually to go to the doctor.

So they sat in silence, mostly. An occasional word--the son trying to get his mother to talk. After about 20 minutes, they got up, he said "thank-you" to the barrista and headed for the door, his mother walking slowly behind him with a walker.

It reminded me of a time when I took Mom on an errand--again, probably a doctor visit. She still lived in her house at the time, but it had become more difficult. Her world had shrunk to three tiny spaces: Her bedroom, her den, and her bathroom.

Her hallways had become long journeys from one point to the next. It could take her ten minutes to get from her bedroom to her chair in the den. It could take her that long or longer to get to the bathroom when she needed to get there. And, of course, there was the trip back to her bedroom at night.

And transferring from her wheelchair took that much time as well.

She used to like to like to travel, when she was able.

A friend from her church gave her an electric wheelchair that had belonged to their mother, and that made things easier.

When we'd visit for Sunday dinner, we'd end the night by taking her to her room and setting her up so the transition from wheel chair to bed would be easy. When that became too difficult, we'd help her into bed. She would watch TV until she dozed off.

At that point, we had visiting caregivers who would help her in and out of bed during the week. But they were expensive and we could only afford a few hours a day. Eventually, of course, we had to put her in assisted living.

But back to our errand: On our way home, she asked if I would take her to Starbuck's. We went through the drive-thru window. I had asked her if she wanted to go inside, but she said she wanted to stay in the car.

We parked and she asked me to roll down the windows so she could feel the breeze. I realized that, at this point, she could no longer go outside on her own and just wanted that breeze while she was out of the house.

So we sat in silence. Once she muttered "That feels so good."

After that, when on errands, I'd ask her if she wanted to stop somewhere on the way home. And we'd sometimes go inside--but sometimes we'd stay outside with the windows down, sitting in silence as the breeze blew through my mother's hair.

Cooking with BABoR

1. Chop two medium-sized onions
2. Mince four clove fresh garlic
3. slice one cup fresh mushrooms thick
4. Layer in crock pot
5. De-skin four bone-in chicken breasts
6. Place on top of vegetables
7. Pour in 1/2 cup of dry white wine
8. Sprinkle with 1/2 teaspoon each dried rosemary, oregano, thyme, cayenne pepper
9. Add one bayleaf
10. marinade in refrigerator over night
11. Wake up next morning, but not too much
12. Put on bathrobe
13. put marinading chicken crock in pot.
14. plug in
15. feed dogs
16. take shower
17. get dressed for work
18. put pop tart in toaster
19. Put water for tea in microwave
20. Note, while not yet fully awake, that crock pot appears to be set on too high temperature
21 Turn temperature down to lowest setting
22. eat pop tart drink tea
23. go to work
24. forget about chicken, except when anticipating how tasty it will be when you get home
25. return home after work
26. having forgotten about the chicken, stop by MacDonald's and get a Big Mac Combo
27. What the hell, get an extra big Mac
28. Arrive home
29. Fire up the computer and eat your first Big Mac
30. Try to figure out why you eat Big Mac's in the first place
31. eat your second Big Mac, not because you like it, but because you paid for it
32. begin to notice a faint death-like odor
33. remember the chicken
34. return to your crock pot
35. observe the chicken and lack of evidence of its cooking
36. remove the lid
37. note the lukewarm, disgusting chicken laying there like a corpse
38. note that, when you turned the heat down in your still half asleep fog, that you actually turned the setting to OFF
38. begin to throw the chicken, spices, and vegetables into the garbage
39. remember that tomorrow there is a potluck at work
40. Remember you signed up to bring a main dish
41. It is now too late to fix anything
42. set crock pot to LOW this time
43. allow to cook over night
44. take to the potluck
45. HAVE FUN, BUT DON"T EAT YOUR OWN CHICKEN
46. The next day, insist that you got sick after the potluck and that you think it was the lasagne someone brought to the pot luck

I Sight a Predator

As I hiked the Roob at dusk tonight, I spied I furry little bunny who had just hopped across the road and up into the bushes ahead of me. Just after that, about five yards ahead of me, I spied what I thought might be another bunny--but, by the length of its furry tail, realized was a fox. Whether it was hunting the bunny, I know not. It wasn't much bigger than the bunny.

Anyway, it didn't seem to notice me at first. Once it had crossed the road into the bushes uphill, it stopped and looked at me as I kept walking. Once I passed it, I stopped, turned around and stared back at it. There we stood for a few minutes, staring at one another. It was a fox alright and, even though it was almost dark out, I could see it very clearly.

We were probably no more than 20 feet apart. If he had wanted to, he could have leaped from the hill and gone for my jugular. If I had wanted to, I could have thrown a rock and hit him.

I ended our showdown and walked away.

I've seen coyotes, deer, various birds of prey, raccoons--but never a fox until tonight.

A Sound of Thunder

I did something in class yesterday that I have never done in 26 years of teaching.

I farted in class.

It was during 4th period and the room was dead quiet--the students working more quietly than any classroom full of teenagers had ever worked. I was at front and center, my back turned to the class as I checked my wall calendar. If there had been a spotlight on me it couldn't have been more obvious who did it.

I could feel it looming inside of me and thought I had it under control, but somehow relaxed and it happened.

It wasn't very long or loud--more like the sound of a bubble bursting. But I know that at least a couple of girls in the front row heard it. When I turned around, trying not to look like I had just farted, they were both hiding their faces behind their books, trying to suppress their laughter.

Every move I made must have looked like I was trying to appear to have not farted. I tried not to look at the two girls for fear my eyes would betray me. I then looked at the girls for fear of not looking at them would make it look like I had done what I had done. I walked around the room, acting nonchalantly, but the cloud of guilt followed me.

Since no one else laughed or looked up, I'm pretty sure that only those two girls heard it. I'm sure that someone will write about this incident in their yearbook.

Another career milestone.

A Mighty Wind

I've told most people this story, but those of you who don't live around here shouldn't be cheated.

My friend PJ's mother died just before Christmas. They held off on the memorial service until shortly after the holidays.

Like my friend Do, PJ's family does not adhere to tradition when it comes to celebrating a life. Where Do and her family take a musical approach, PJ and his family prefer a lot of speaking. A harpist provided music and PJ's vegan friend Dick provided guitar and raspy singing, but testimonials ruled the day.

Cut to the chase: As PJ closed the memorial, he asked that we all stand for a moment of silence in honor of his mother--that we pray, meditate, or just think of our favorite memory of his mother. Just as the crowd fell silent, someone released a hushed but potent fart--loud enough for only a few of us to hear. I looked up and met the startled gazes of four or five others--all of whom immediately averted their eyes back into meditation mode. I felt the urge to giggle, but suppressed it.

PJ ended the moment by saying "Now we hope you hold your memories of Mom gently in your heart."

Again, as if paid to do this on cue, the phantom farter released again.

This time, I kept my head bowed and I chuckled quietly. I couldn't help it.