from the porches

sunday driver

 

I am learning how to become a Sunday driver.

For four months now I have been driving like a bat out of Hell to and from Gainesville.  But now I am relearning how to drive.  Yes, that's right!

If you pass a dirty, white Acadia and are cussing under your breath . . . or perhaps you may be yelling profanities at the driver of the dirty, white Acadia. . . well, then friends . . . that person you may be cussing might very well be me.

 

You see.  One has to drive 20-30 miles an hour if one expects to see something worth taking a photograph of, and unfortunately for you, that one is me.

Truett likes to take rides every day.  It doesn't matter if we've spent hours in Gainesville or if I have driven seventy or eighty miles in the early part of the day; I take Truett for drives around our country roads so he can see pretty things. 

"Drive slow," Truett tells me.  "I can't see anything with you barreling through the roads."

 

It has taken me four months to realize that Truett is now in my position as a passenger, and I am in his as the driver.

I have so many pretty photographs that I was allowed to take because Truett drove 20-30 miles so I could see something pretty or unusual; and I owe him the same opportunity to experience the beauty of our communitiy.

 
I am learning to become a Sunday driver.  Now a days, I even pull off the road and take pictures myself now that I'm learning to drive slow.

after glow

 
View from Magnolia Parke Rehab Center in Gainesville, Florida.

Today Truett reached a new level in his rehabilitation.  He had a substitute physical therapist. . .the cute one, I may add; but a PT that was a true taskmaster.

Craig told Truett he was going to walk today, and I put a smile on my face.  However, Craig went on to say, "You are not going to use your walker."

Gulp! 

Yikes!

Now, like any protective mother, I put in my two cents worth, "He can't do that."

But Craig proved me wrong.  

Craig's philosophy: "First, you learn to walk and then you learn to walk holding onto things."

 
So Craig sat on a rolling stool in front of Truett and placed his hands on Truett's hips and thighs as my husband walked for forty minutes (with rests in between).  Of course Truett listed to the left and listed to the right and wobbled in between with his arms outstretched to keep his balance.  Just like toddlers do.

Meanwhile, I pushed the wheelchair behind Truett; and everytime Truett leaned left or wobbled, my body stiffened.  I was a nervous wreck for fear he would fall.

But Truett did it! 

It wore him out, but my husband reached a new level.  "Thanks, Craig.  See you on Thursday!"

 
But not only that. 

Tonight Truett attended a Lion's Club Meeting in Lake City, his favorite charitable organization.  After four long months, Truett finally got to spend time with his buddies. 

I wasn't home to give Truett a kiss good-bye when his friend, Barney, picked him up; but I was definitely waiting in the carport the instant I saw headlights pulling into our driveway. (Just like a mother waiting for her teenage daughter to come home from her first date).

Truett, at this moment is sleeping in his recliner and I'm reveling in the after glow of progress made today!

Truett is reaching new levels and I am so proud of him.

long time coming

 
It's been a long time coming. . . having our grandchildren for a sleepover. 

In fact, the last sleepover we had with them was December 17, 2010.  Way too long not to experience the joys of young children.  The laughter.  The pestering bickering.  The wisdom from young minds. . . and the endless questions about our world and the universe we live in.  And I must not forget the knowledge that my grandchildren have learned since December 17, 2010.

 
Oliver is four years and seven months old.   A regular chatterbox, if I might add.  But Oliver's voice is like the sound of Angels to my ears.  "Nana, are there skunks on this driveway?  You know skunks are stinky!  I hope there aren't any skunks on this road."

 
If only I had a tape recorder to preserve the memories of these special days.  Maybe, that's why I feel the need to blog.

 
 And then there's my dear Madeline.  Seven years old and about to become a second grader.  I did notice one thing about Maddie this sleepover.  When I said, "You have to walk quietly by the puppy pen," she threw her hands out and exasperatedly exclaimed, "BUT WHY!  I'M NOT AFRAID OF THE PUPPIES!"  And it was at that moment that I thought I saw an early teenager in her.  You know.  The "attitude!"  And I just chuckled!

 
Oliver and I retreived the newspaper for Granddaddy this morning when we saw a giant footprint.  Of course, the writing teacher in me caused me to inquire, "Oliver, whose footprint could that be? Could it be Bigfoot's?"

"Nana, who's Bigfoot?" Oliver asked.  So I told him.  (Sorry, Merry Jennifer and Sam.  But imagination has to start somewhere, even if it is scary.) 

Needless to say, Oliver and I surmised it must be Uncle Clay's footprint and not Bigfoot's, but most definitely not a skunks footprint."

 
Madeline, on the other hand is way more interested in cute little sweet adorable kittens. . .eight in all.

 
 And of course, puppies, especially Maggie.

 
Now you don't have a sleep over at Nana's and Granddaddy's without spending some time writing stories. . .or alphabet letters.

 
That's right. The teacher in me never leaves.

 
Okay, folks.  Lontsum is really lonesome.  But any elementary teacher could phonetically figure that one out. 

 
Yes, this sleepover was a long time coming and I loved every second of it!

 

the best part

 
Just thought I would keep family up to date on what's happening around the George house. 

Truett is making good progress.  He is now able to deal with business and  actually went on a sales call, with the help of his shop foreman.   Furthermore, Truett has written several job proposals.  This is a good thing, considering three months ago, while at Shands Rehab, he couldn't read seven sentences and put them in correct sequence.  Mostly, any difficulty Truett has now is because of his visual limitations, so sometimes he cannot see where to put a comma, etc., when using the computer.

 
Also, Truett is making his snacks at night; and except for the occasional bump in the night, I am able to get some well-deserved sleep.

But here's the best part.  Tonight Truett cooked steak for my mother and me.  The other day at rehab, after Truett walked, using his walker, about three hundred feet, he then saw the Occupational Therapist.  He had met all his goals set by her and she asked us what goal we had in mind for Truett for the next several weeks.

"Well, I want him to be able to cook agin!" I blurted out.  After all, Truett is the better cook between the two of us; and I had fussed at him about not helping out when I knew he was capable of doing more.  I guess I was really saying, "The honeymoon is over and I need a little help around here."

So Truett practiced standing at the "rehab kitchen counter" and pretended to reach for bowls, etc.  Then last night my husband told me he would cook steaks tonight. 

 
So, late this afternoon I laid out kitchen utensils, Montreal Steak Seasoning, a grilling pan and a plate in order to help accomodate Truett with the cooking.  Then I took Clay to the store and I got a phone call from Truett wanting to know when I would be home.  "In two minutes," I told him.  When I walked in the house, Truett wasn't in his recliner nor the bathroom.  He was in the kitchen.

"I had an accident," he said.  "I broke something."

 Well, he didn't have to tell me that because I could see for myself.  White pepper was spilled all over the kitchen floor.  

"How did you do that?" I asked.  And that's when I saw The Gator, a tool I had bought for the school children to pick up trash with when I had car rider duty a couple of years ago. . . wait. . . that was only last year.

 
Now, I'm no genius, but I knew exactly what had happened.  Truett was taking the easy way out pulling spices out of the spice cabinet with The Gator instead of standing up like he knew he should!

 
Well, you know who had to vacuum up the white pepper and you know who immediately reprimanded Mr. George. 

However, I will tell you one thing.  The steak melted in our mouths.  Could it be because I didn't have to cook it?

 
"Say what, Punky?  You smell pepper?" 

But, all in all, the best part is "I got a little bit of help!"

By the way, the next goal I have for Truett is to have him stop telling people that he can't walk because I clearly saw him walk.  He should probably say, "I can't walk without using a walker and someone beside me!"

disability act

 
Tonight Mom and Truett and I were eating Pizza from Hungry Howies simply because Truett and I had been to Gainesville all day long and my wonderful husband said, "Don't cook.  Just order pizza."

So I did.

But, while we were chowing down on our pizza tonight, Truett dropped a napkin on the floor, and immediately I thought, "Pick that up."   (Ah, ha! There's still the teacher in me!) 

So I said to Truett, "Pick that up."  

But Truett just laughed. 

And that's when I felt a hot flash.

After a few seconds, I began laughing hysterically because it reminded me of 1975 when I was teaching at Niblack Elementary School in Lake City. . . way before the Disability Act was enacted by Congress.

 
That's true.  I was teaching sixth grade and I had a boy in my homeroom class.  This boy had muscular dystrophy and was in a wheelchair most of the day; however, he wasn't totally limited to it.

No.  This child was mainly spoiled rotten by his divorced mother!  His mother told me so ; and furthermore, I was not to put up with any of his crap.  I was to treat him like any other student.

Well, for nine/tenths of the year, I catered to this wheel-chair-bound middle-schooler. (That, alone, should give you a few clues about the difficulity I had as a teacher).

Now, mind you, this child's mother told me, "I understand you are the best.  Don't take any shit from my son!  Treat him like he's a normal child."

So, I did.

Nope.  I tried.

Really, I did.  But, in the back of my mind, I always thought, "How pitiful."

Until one day, probably about May 13. 

You know. Near the end of the school year when ALL TEACHERS HAVE MET THEIR LIMIT; and this teenage child threw his pencil on the floor and said, " I can't get it."

 
Well, I'll have you to know, that I told that child to get out of that wheelchair and get that pencil off the floor or I would FAIL him. 

Mind you, thirty other students had watched this child with a disability abuse me all year.  You know.  "Yank my chain!" 

But, I only had a few more days, and I had had it!

Then the whole class quietened.

Total silence.

And then. . . .

the boy child unbuckeled his seatbelt, climed out of his wheelchair, retreived the pencil. . .

And the class APPLAUDED!

And I WON!

However, tonight I picked up Truett's napkin.

So, I'm wondering how much teacher I have left in me?

What do you think?

 

 

 

 

 

 

unload & reload

 
 
I am learning how difficult it is to have a family member being disabled, especially when it comes to finding handicapped parking spaces. Sometimes I see people hop out of their cars in one of these reserved spaces and I want to yell, "HEY! YOU CAN WALK!  WE NEED THAT SPACE!"   

I'm also learning about handicapped friendly doors.  You would think all doctors' offices would have that handicap button that you mash and the door magically opens, but they don't.  The best doors are the ones that push inwards, not the kind that have to be pulled open; otherwise, one of us ends up contorting their body which is no longer limber, so the other one can roll through. 

 
Unload. 

This morning Truett went to rehab where Zachary, the PT, had Truett walking on a treadmill.  I posted a picture on Facebook which showed Truett all harnessed up walking on the treadmill.  Many of you commented about the great progress or how wonderful that he was walking; however, he can only walk under strict supervision, or being harnessed.  Zachary was reminding Truett that we walk from heel-to-toe so that's what Truett was practicing.  Then I found myself standing up and paying attention to how I walked.  Zachary was right:  heel...toe...heel...toe. 

Reload.

 
We certainly didn't plan our day right today because after rehab Truett and I had four hours to kill before his eye surgeon's appointment.  "What do you want to do?" I asked, and Truett suggested we go look at something pretty.  So we headed out to Micanopy, a lovely town.  Then we drove to Paynes Prairie.  "Great," I thought.  I can take photographs."  But Truett decided he wanted me to roll him out on the dock.  "Jeeze! That means I have to unload that wheelchair and load it back up!"  Then I felt guilty.

Unload.

 
"Okay, come on," I said.  Then I felt all better.

Reload.

 
Next, we decided to have lunch at Red Lobster, which, by the way, have unfriendly doors. 

Unload.

We ate, and I loaded the wheelchair back into the Acadia. Whew!  Unloading it is fine.  All I do is yank on it and pull and hope it doesn't land on my toes as it lands on the pavement.  But, reloading the wheelchair is a different story.  I don't think I'm tall enough or don't have long enough arms or something, so I struggle and struggle and in it goes!  Whew!

Reload. 

One hour and fifteen minutes left.  "What do we do now?" I asked. Then Truett suggested we go to Books-A-Million.  "Crap!" I bellowed.  "That means I have to unload and reload that wheelchair!  UGH!"  Once again, I felt guilty and said, "Okay!  Let's go!"

Unload.

Reload.

 
Truett bought a large magnifying glass and three books.  "Uh, Truett.  Why are all those bruises on your arm?  Could it be that you race through the house with your scooter on full speed, banging into walls?"  Poor baby!

 
Finally, we went to the eye surgeon's office. 

Unload.

That's when I realize  my husband can't be left alone for more than ten minutes in a doctor's office before he starts rummaging around.  "Hey,look at this," he says.

 
 
Finally, the doctor saw Truett for about five minutes and decided the stitches will come out of Truett's eye next week, the same day as rehab, only four hours later. 

Reload!

At last we made it back to Fort White; but I told Truett that next week we're not running all over the place with me unloading and reloading that wheelchair.  Nope.  Next week we're going to a movie! That should kill at least two hours.

  

 

no more pirates

 
There are no more pirates in my house.  Truett had eye surgery to lift his bottom eyelid to protect his cornea which was caused by the Bells Palsy.

 
Does this keep Truett from slamming into the walls with his scooter!

Not on your life!

However, Truett is making remarkable progress.  He is actually dealing with a couple of stained glass jobs, as painful as it may be because he insists on typing the proposals himself. . . with one good eye and now with one squinched up eye.  But hey, that's better than one totally patched up eye.  Right?

 
The opthamologist surgeon actually put rubber on his eyelids which we ice down several times a day to keep the swelling down. 

Boo! Bells Palsy!

When I look at Truett's left bruised eye I am reminded of an Athabascan Indian story told to us when we went to Alaska.  Here's the story.

An Athabascan Indian, a Texan and a Georgian were talking.  The Georgian said, "Yeah! I had to lay the law down to my wife.  I told her I wanted three home cooked meals a day and the house cleaned when I got home.  My wife saw clearly what needed to be done, so the next day my wife had baked ribs and potatoes , asparagus and squash . . . and the house was spic and span." 

"Is that right?" said the Texan.  "I'm going to lay the law down too!" 

So the next day the Texan said, "Yep! I told my wife I was tired of Billy Bob coming home with notes from his teacher about his bad behavior and bad grades at school.  So she said she would handle it.  Sure enough, she saw clearly and Billy Bob came home with excellent marks and a good report.  A man has to do what a man has to do!"

Well, the Athabascan Indian decided he had a few issues at home that needed to be dealt with, such as a filty house, no home cooked meals and slovenly children.  So he decided to deal with it like a man.

A week later, the Athabascan Indian, the Georgian, and the Texan met at the diner again.  "Well, how did it go?" the Georgian asked to the Athabascan Indian.

"I think it went pretty well," the Athabascan Indian said.  "On the first day I couldn't see anything at all.  On the second day I still couldn't see anything at all;  but on the third day I could see a little bit out of my left eye."

 
I know I probably screwed up the joke, but when I look at Truett's left eye, I am reminded of the Athabascan Indian and his joke.

I love this man.  Now we have to work on that Bells Palsy smile of his!  

moms and sex 101

 
As a mom, we can all identify with making that decision to discuss sex with our children.  Do we or don't we?  And if we do, what do we tell them?  How much do we tell them?  At what age do we tell them?  These are hard, difficult decision that moms and dads have to make when raising children; and so often sex education 101 begins with our pets.  You know.  The difference between a boy and a girl pet.   In this first picture, you may remember Ears Flat Back,  aka Molly. Because Molly was so aggressive and playful as a kitten, well, I just assumed she was a boy.  But, she wasn't; therefore she had kittens.

 
Now this is a photograph of Bull.  Bull is one of Molly's kittens.

 
And this is Simon, another of Molly's kittens.

So here's the story about the sex part.  About two months ago I asked Clay to tell me if Molly's kittens were boys or girls.  If there were any girl kittens, then I would have to find homes for them or give them to a shelter.  If they were boy kittens, then I figured they would fend for themselves and find a home with girl kittens on somebody else's farm.

Clay said, "Mom, they're all boy kittens."

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Yes," Clay answered. "That's why I named this one Bull and that one Simon and the other one Pete." Hmmm, sounded reasonable to me.

But I didn't trust Clay's judgement 100% because I did not want a yard full of cats.  After all, I make the mistake in thinking that Ears Flat Back was a boy just by his/her actions.  Also, It took me years to become yard-cat free and I didn't want to fall into that trap again of naming, loving, and feeding yard cats. 

So I said, "Clay, turn those kittens upside down now and look.  Right now!  I need to know if they are girl kittens or boy kittens."

So one-by-one Clay flipped two little black kittens and one spotted kitten upside down to check the sex of each.

"Yep, Mom!  They're ALL boys!"

 
Now I'll digress as you take a look at Bull's kittens. 

Truett and I agreed early on in our marriage that he would have the sex talk with Clay and I would have the sex talk with Merry Jennifer.  My part was easy.  When I thought the time was right, I told my daughter that I thought she was old enough to learn about female stuff.  She cut her eyes at me and stated, "Mother, I know all about it!  I learned about it at school."  Who knows.  Maybe she said she learned all about sex from her friends, but it didn't matter because I was off the hot seat.

 
You can only imagined how shocked I was to find that Bull, (the black and white kitten), had kittens of her own.

"CLAY! GET OUT HERE NOW!" I screamed.  "YOU TOLD ME THESE KITTENS WERE BOYS!"

"Well, I guess I was wrong, Mom," he answered as he headed back to his house.  "But, that's easy.  We'll call this one Bullette and the other one Simone."

 
Now I'm wondering if Truett had his sex talk with Clay at all.  I guess the sixth grade teachers didn't teach it either because at this moment I have at least eight baby kittens that I will have to find homes for.  Four from Bull and four from Simon!

Sex 101 from this mom and dad evidentally was a bust!

chasing doves

 
My day was not one of those stellar, calm, peaceful days.  No.  It was a day where I got up early and drove Truett to rehab.  Zachary, the physical therapist, worked Truett hard today on a treadmill.  Zach worked Truett so hard that Truett threw up in a rehab wastebasket.  "Poor baby," I thought.  "We just want you to learn to walk again."

 
After we got home from rehab, I had to immediately take Clay, my son, to a doctor's appointment in Lake City.  I can think of no greater pain than spending time with a thirty-four year old person who flits from having a band to getting a GED, and in the next breath, wanting to buy a plastic semi-automatic rifle that shoots plastic BB's so he and his friends can play 'war'.

 
My entire day was spent catering to my loved ones. . . driving and driving and driving.  And with a note on that topic, have you noticed the price of gasoline lately.  $74 dollars to fill my Acadia!

 
But, finally I arrived home, only to realize I had purchased salmon because it helps reduce belly fat compared to beef or chicken.  Do you for one moment think I felt like cooking salmon?  Not on a bet.  In fact, Truett has ALWAYS been the cook of the finer foods.  I've always been the cook of macaroni and cheese or Hamburger Helper. So here it is, 5:30 and I have to cook salmon.  Upon entering the house, I quickly told Truett, "I don't feel like cooking tonight.  We're having sandwiches; and Mom, you can have leftovers!"

 
However, a more sensitive part of me said, "Just cook the darn salmon!"  So I did, with Truett's instructions; and my friends, it was delicious.  Of course the veggies were Paula Deen microwavable, plus leftover yellow rice from last night's supper. 

 
Meanwhile, the pharmacist called and told me Clay's prescription was ready, so I headed to the car when I spied a somewhat large pile of beige poop, with a cat cautiously walking around it.  So I tiptoed a little closer, staring at the pile until something clicked in my brain, "That's not poop!  That's a coiled up snake!"  Well, luckily Clay was within hearing distance when I yelled, "CLAY!  GET OUT HERE!  I WANT YOU TO SEE SOMETHING!".       So Clay came running with his semi-automatic plastic pellet rifle in hand, paused and began pelting a very, very, long corn snake!  In the meantime, I rushed to the car and backed out of the carport in record speed, the whole while hoping I didn't back over Clay, the snake, or the cat.

 
I imagine you are wondering where this story is going.  This story is about the most peaceful part of my day.  The part when I drove Clay to Wal*Mart to buy a plastic semi-automatic rifle that shoots plastic pellets.  I dropped Clay at the door and told him I would search for a parking space.  Of course, I couldn't find a close one and I ended up about a half-acre away from the entrance.

 
 
And that's when I saw this beautiful dove that flitted from cart to pole to cart to pole.  I pulled the car over, grabbed my camera and started taking pictures. . .and my friends, chasing this dove was the most peaceful part of my day, even though I had to hear my son ranting, "Mom!  Where were you?  I've been waiting for ten minutes!"  And I thought, "I don't care!"

Thank you, God for the dove!

 

wood stork