What Matters

Close to five years ago, our world got turned upside down. An unknown, unseen critter spread like wildfire across the continents, arresting our brains, bodies and mental health. I remember being horribly scared, reading and researching to discover how to be prepared for the worst. I had a plan to sequester the sick, even down to duct-taping doors shut against the sickroom. Ken was out in the middle of it with his job at a building-supply place...thousands of people breathing by every hour. He would stop on his way home and get our groceries. Each day when he got home, I begged him to strip down and throw his "contaminated" clothes in the washing machine. I washed, yes, washed the groceries. I slathered myself with sanitizer (which cost a fortune) and stocked up on N95 masks. We had virtual church for awhile, and sometimes just sat on the front porch and listened to the neighboring pastor yell angrily from his perch across the street. I'm not sure he's read his Bible in context, because God has more than one side. He is both love and truth, and much, much more. 

We were scared. Well, not Ken. He refused to be afraid, put his boots on every morning and went to work, mask hanging off his ear. He wasn't stupid, but didn't let anxiety draw him up into a twist like I did. I am still grateful for that leadership, and I slowly began to relax and realize that I couldn't put life on hold. Better to live or die, than to shrink up into a corner. 

Here we are, these years later, but still affected by what happened. Our social lives changed, our trust changed, we became more cynical and way more attached to our devices. We learned that we could drill into this little 3x6 inch screen and have all the entertainment, information and music we ever wanted. We all contracted ADHD in short order, unable to focus for longer than a few minutes. In places where we were required to wait -- doctor's offices, the queue at the DMV, the fast-food line in our cars -- we pulled up our phones and lightning-scrolled through reams of information and sound bytes. No need for eye contact or interaction with other humans. They were busy doing the same thing. News, weather and "truth" were all obtained and possibly manipulated by various entities. We gathered like moths to an enticing, warm flame, unaware that we might be burned. 

I'm trying to quit all that, but it is nigh impossible. My business, contacts, emails, calendar, maps and news all feed through that little monster. It's marvelously convenient and helpful, but like all good things, too much is counterproductive. I'll do better one day, only to spend most of the next day in the ozone of social media and not get my kitchen cleaned up or the laundry done, much less talk meaningfully to anyone. I'm usually busy, but when I'm filling in the spaces with basically meaningless drivel, what have I done with my life? It takes over when we least suspect it. So enticing, the quick fix of all these bites of information. 

Over the course of a trip with a good friend, my phone refused to work. A few stray texts drifted in, social media was nonexistent, and there seemed to be a fence between me and any incoming or outgoing calls (even though I paid the extra for access). I lost three client deals because I was just not there to do them and couldn't communicate. When the boat landed and I assessed the damage (which was considerable), I agonized, chewed, fretted and summarized what happened, including my faults in this scenario. Then a pleasant, settled and happy balm spread through my heart. I had a week without interruption, time with an old friend, laughter and contemplation and good, old-fashioned human interaction with her and also the many kind people on the trip that we encountered.  We lived to fly another day, clients got what they needed, and the world didn't stop turning. Joie de vivre.   

Float, Sweat, Laugh...

My good friend, Patricia (we wore our fancy names), and I cruised to the Bahamas this last week. After navigating the Miami airport and figuring out where all the food was on the boat, my ankle started to hurt. Specifically, my Achilles tendon, which swelled up like a big goose egg, along with much pain. Pat insisted I go to the medical station on the boat, where they promptly gave me a shot of something and hauled a wheelchair into the room. Yes, I spent my vacation being pushed around by my friend. I was heartbroken, because we were on this cruise to give her a much-needed break from the care of her husband and the weight of the loss of her son. Here she was, taking care of yet another human being.

The wheelchair was tragic for a minute, then became our ticket to the front of the line everywhere we went. Everything became an adventure, meandering through the halls and restaurants. We got dropped off at Coco Cay, an island where we floated all day in a giant lagoon-shaped pool, sipping cool drinks and talking about everything and nothing. The next day, they dropped us off in Nassau, where we had rented scooters. I thought, "That was fortuitous -- now I won't have to worry about the wheelchair. I'll just scoot all over the island!" Word to the wise: Don't ever assume you're paying for actual things, if you can't see them. We were scammed on the payment of the non-existent scooters. My heart was sick, as the sweat dripped down my back and our hopes for the day were dashed. No wheelchair, no scooters, no fun. As we sat dejected on the sidewalk, a nice fellow walked by with a laminated flyer in his hand, a flyer with pictures of scooters. He looked skeptically at us, saying that he didn't recommend us renting that type of vehicle. But why?! He said the word Mama several times, in that delightful Bahamian manner, specifically stating that he would not put his own Mama on one of those scooters. For a small price, he had two of those granny-devices that you see in grocery stores and such. He was certain we would be happier on them than a gasoline-fueled accident waiting to happen. We were highly offended at first, and then thought about my pitiful ankle and so opted for the granny-mobiles. He gave us instructions, an extra battery apiece, and then we were off. In short order we were hooting and hollering at every corner. They were so small, we could navigate inside stores and alleyways. There was a fella hawking Cuban cigars and said we should follow him. You would think I would have learned not to do these things. The further we got from the main street, the more I began to question my sanity. But alas, we were not kidnapped or robbed that day. He probably took one look at us and decided we already knew about the dropping-dead tricks and were way past caring what means it would take to protect ourselves. Don't mess with Mamas who've already plowed the back fourty. We wended our way to the beach, where a golden-toothed gentleman promised to watch our granny-mobiles, then yelled at us when we touched a lounger as we climbed over the sea wall - "This is a private beach!" We floated for an hour then didn't tip the guy because he never once looked at our bikes. We tipped ourselves and howled with laughter, dripping wet and hungry. Eventually we found a restaurant full of very jolly people, where there was a shouting DJ, playing horrid and loud music. He offered free shots of alcohol to anyone who would stand on their chair. There had to be a hundred folks in that place, and 98 of them stood on their chairs. We were content to eat nachos and laugh at the crazy people.  Then there was the straw market, where we found ourselves deep in the bowels of a building with a sweet vendor girl, full of the same stuff that we saw all over Nassau.  The wheels of my Yaya-mobile wound around a decrepit tarp and we like-to have pulled the whole place down. There were expletives from ancient Bahamian women, but we escaped with trinkets and bags anyway, losing what was left of our cash. On the way back to the pier area, an old man sitting on the street was singing. He had been serenading me all afternoon, waved us over and asked who we were voting for, Trump or Harris? He then sang my choice as his buddy strummed a guitar. We were laughing so hard, my ribs were beginning to hurt. 

I've known Patricia for around 30 years, but never knew that she was a Jedi. For the duration of the cruise, she would wave her hand and tell people what to do and they would simply do it. We encountered servers, customer service staff, strange characters on the streets and security personnel. All of them obeyed her, with a smile on their faces. We whizzed through lines and got most everything we wanted. Everywhere we went, they kept remembering our names, as if we were memorable.

The last night, we opted for showers and our room, preparing to leave the next day. There were photos to share and things to talk about, the fatigue took over. Lights out and alarms set, then the quiet... One of us, in the dark, started talking about the trip, about all the absurdities and foibles we had encountered. Before long, the cackling started. I was concerned about making too much noise, but the mirth was overwhelming. You only get so many of those nights, where the windows open and the gales of laughter make the troubles fly away like giddy seagulls. 

Yes, there was some money spent, some troubles had, some sweat spilled, some tears shed. Life is short. Laugh when you can.   

Floaty Thoughts and Bucket Lists

The water is beckoning. It's so stinkin' hot right now, who wants to take walks around in it? I should, but I don't. Still needing to exercise and having crabby knees and joints, I took the literal plunge and joined the pool in Carrollton. I get wet, cool, and can't even tell I'm sweating. It takes two hours out of my day, but who's up at that time anyhow? Swimming is much nicer on the bones, but gives a fantastic workout. I did this years ago and lost a good many pounds just by treading water in the deep end. At that time, there were deep-water aerobics classes, where ladies strap on a flotation belt and float around. They would mock me because I wasn't in their class. I was in my own lane, over my head, with no flotation belt. I wasn't doing laps but I was wearing myself out just keeping my head above water. Don't be a mean girl. 

Over this last month, I started meeting up with a girlfriend (not a mean girl) three mornings a week and we yap while we manage to stay afloat. An hour goes by quickly when you're distracted. This week, I had to go it alone and it wasn't nearly as easy. I took up chatting with one of the lifeguards and it helped. A very good plan. My body is already starting to feel better, walking is easier, and I think there's hope for the cranky parts. This is all in preparation for more water and lower A1Cs.

Speaking of water, Monday, I get on a big boat with an old friend. She lost her 30-year-old son last year to suicide, a hugely unexpected twist in her life. Meanwhile, her husband is declining way earlier than anyone could expect. He can no longer turn himself or do basic tasks. She had to put him in a facility where he could be helped. As we were grieving over that one recent day, nearing the anniversary of her son's death, she said, "What I would love right now is to just get on a big boat somewhere and float." I said, "I'm your gal." So we got to planning and are leaving day after tomorrow for a short cruise. We chipped in extra for the balcony. Our idea is to simply laugh, cry, rest, laugh some more.  We are not going to worry about calories or the advent of anything chocolate. We will think about that tomorrow. Or next week...

I thank God for the goodness of water. Of course, we can't live without it. But the cooling, buoyant properties of water have always made my insides feel serene (except when plunging into murky lake water, there's that, but I ain't doing that again). Is there anything so pleasant as slipping into a cool, clean pool and letting the cares of the world drift away? I'm a mermaid, undulating my fins, left alone with my thoughts, no phone, no TV. In these days of multiple assaults on my brain, with social media and Netflix marathons and endless news feeds, it is really nice to have an excuse to disconnect from everything and help my body (and brain) in the process. 

I spent many, many years teaching children to swim and then lifeguarding. I've been musing about the idea of taking (expensive) training to become a certified ISR swim instructor, where I'd teach little kids and even babies to float, to be safer in the water. A friend of ours lost her baby to drowning, and these things are weighing heavily on my mind. I have 12 (#13 in the oven) grandchildren too. Even though I've taught some to swim, I can't help but think about taking it further. Musing on that this week. Bucket lists and goals...and mermaids.  

Maggie, Part Deux

Not long after we moved to Villa Rica, there began to be talk about using golf carts on the streets. We were going to be the next Peachtree City. We'd pop over to the local grocery store and I would see people tooling around from the subdivision around the corner. That seemed like a fun idea, and since we lived right in town, I had visions of grandkids and I whizzing about in our own little vehicle. Golf has never been a realistic game for our family -- it seems to me a mysterious life full of money, lots of clingy, collared sports shirts and boring conversations about imaginary birds. All over a little tiny ball that has to cover lots of ground and drop into a miniscule hole. No offense to those who have attained the ability to play it. They say it's almost addictive, it's so enjoyable. I've known a few Golf Widows. 

I've also found that there's an entire culture around the carts that carry people around to those little holes on the golf course. There are utilitarian ones, though those are inevitably the ancient models that are still limping. Very rare and apparently expensive to maintain. Why not just take out a second mortgage on your house and get a new one? Well, we don't do new. We do cheap. 

I began scouring Facebook Marketplace for a used golf cart. Some slick Eastern European gentleman in Peachtree City persuaded me to purchase one such ancient E-Z-Go model. The charger didn't work once I got it home, but he did at least provide another one. That should have been a clue. Ken named her "Maggie" -- a shortened version of the name of our house (Magnolia Rose). She started out a scuffed-up navy blue, with all sorts of plastic curtains hanging around her. A few years later, when our son Daniel and his family lived with us, he stripped all the extra stuff off her, painted her a jaunty red and black (even with him being a Tech fan) and applied party lights and safety gear. We began acquiring stickers from the places we visited and plastering them to her red self.

You take your life into your own hands when you decide to travel the streets of Villa Rica in this manner. The grandkids think it's the best thing since sliced bread. They know the drill: buckle up buttercup and hang on. I have been known to resort to the sidewalks when traffic is high. We're supposed to only travel on the 25 mph streets, but sometimes have to cross the other ones. It's high adventure on a Saturday night. Lunch dates with girlfriends and my family often include a whirlwind tour of the town. It's so much fun I can hardly stand it. 

There's been a great deal of prayer involved with Maggie. You're never quite sure that she's going to make it back. I've found myself stuck in the middle of traffic or on the side of the road too many times. It is no fun to be hauled off the street by any of my enterprising sons who seem to always have ropes and contraptions available in their trucks for such breakdowns. Why would we get a trailer or a wrecker, when it's so convenient to just pull Mama home with a handy vehicle? Somebody has to steer for that, and you can guess who that is.

Over the years, we've put a good bit of money into keeping her limping. Lately, she's been completely MIA because none of us could figure out what was wrong. We finally surrendered and took her to the shop, where she stayed for weeks without a diagnosis. $250 and a lame repair left us worse off than before, but a different shop and two days later we had the answer. Her engine was fried and the repairs were not worth it to us to try to keep her going. After much gnashing of teeth, we traded her for a new model, the "Eco" model, which sounds like it might have something to do with economy but I don't think it does. We don't buy new, but yes we did. What it does have is sparkling, state-of-the-art everything and a two year warranty. Maybe I won't be as easy a target for big trucks barreling around the corners of our town now and we can keep our little ones a bit safer when we take to the road. 

Either way, everyone's delighted and wanting to take a spin. Golf carts are a whole lot slower than motorcycles, so I have a new idea for a bumper sticker: Check THRICE - Save a Life - Golf Carts Are Everywhere. 

I sincerely doubt it's going to help.