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Monday, April 29, 2013

Steve Parke, a man for the ages.

Every so often, a man comes along who is comfortable in his own skin.  I rarely actually meet such a man, but here you see one!  Let me introduce you to Steve Parke.  And see that guitar hanging off his shoulder?  He can play that!  And he can sing!  And sometimes he lets me sing with him.  Usually that happens when he is at the Peace Flotilla at the nature center in the fall.  Everyone goes down to the river to launch the floats and we wail away.  Here he is at the courthouse steps where the faith leaders were  holding a rally to ask for civility in our discussions on gun control.  Steve is a retired minister and is often found at any gathering for anything that even faintly resembles civil rights and that means any civil right for any human, animal, or anything that comes up.
And he plays that guitar and sings for Mothers Day Out at our church.  He is now working on publishing his second album.  Don't know what it is called, but do know that I will be in line for one of the first ones sold!  Then I can sing along with him all day!
He can travel to Ireland in search of his roots, come home with a slide show of epic proportions and make us all feel like we had gone there with him!  Ireland is beautiful and he is proud of his roots!  Steve is one of the best story tellers I have encountered and I have known a few!  He is at home in the coffee shops, nursing homes, church meetings, ski slopes, gym, river walk, and anywhere he points his little nose.  And girls, he is single!
 
 
But at our fundraiser at the church last Saturday, Theresa caught a side of Steve that we had never seen.  Now I am not sure that he was setting at this vanity because he was thinking about purchasing it, or just wanted to get off his feet for a break, or what was in his mind, but we got quite a kick out of this and I did promise him that I would present him in a good light.  I at first thought he had a necklace there, but if you look closely it is his phone.  His shirt has a Coors Light advertisement on the back.  He did not wear the one I like that says "Well, just because beer makes everything easier." 
So I present to you Mr. Steve Parke, retired from the work he did at the State Hospital, retired from active ministry, but always on hand to help his fellow man, brighten our day, or pet a stray kitty on the street.  A Godly man and one loved by everyone whose life he touches and touching more lives then even he knows!
I will let you know when his new album is out and will make it available in my store if he lets me, or if he doesn't, I know how to photo shop and that cell phone may turn into a tube of lipstick!
Love you, Steve!
 
 
 
 

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

Ever had a colonoscopy? Want one? Niether did I!


This is Debbie and her darling Hammer yesterday morning.  It was my date with destiny for the colonoscopy, which I had fought tooth and nail for years.  As luck would have it they had driven in the night before from Longton to attend a funeral in Pueblo.  Picked the one day of my life when I was not allowed to eat anything, thus I was not cooking.

This is my daughter Patty who had driven in from Lakin, Kansas specifically to take care of me during the time I would be incapacitated, and to drive me to and from the hospital.  So, I was in good hands.

If you have ever had this procedure, you will recall that visiting on the night before was a challenge at the very best.  They did fend for themselves in the eating department, which I think means they probably did not eat.

Now let me just go on record here as saying at no point in time did I ever WANT a colonoscopy, but some where along the line it became a power struggle between my doctor, who shall remain nameless,  and me.  I had a perfect doctor before him.  Dr. Riechert.  I never seen him.  If I had a problem, which is rare, I called and he fixed me up.  Silly stuff like poison ivy, pleurisy, and the occasional renewal of the thyroid prescription.  But, unfortunately, he took better care of me than he did himself and after his demise, I was on the hunt for a new doctor.  Enter Dr. Nameless.

Since he was now the man who was in charge of my health care, I thought I should at least meet him.  So I made the appointment and we met in his office, both of us fully clothed.  Nursie took my vitals and he checked the chart when he came in.  The following conversation ensued.
"So are you in any pain?"
"No, not a bit."
"I see you have high cholesterol.  I will give you Lipitor."
"I tried it once.  Didn't like it.  Like the high cholesterol better."
"You do not need a pap smear.  Do you want a colonoscopy?"
"Do I look like I want a colonoscopy?"
"Why are you here?"
"I am here because you are my new doctor and if perchance I end up flat on my back in the ER, I want you to be able to say, 'Oh, I know her.  She is my patient.'  I require very little maintenance, but I do need a family doctor."

Thus began our patient/doctor relationship, which over the years included one pap smear, and several referrals for the mammogram (which was invented by a frustrated husband some where) every year or so.  He did finally talk me into Zetia for the cholesterol problem, which I managed to tolerate for almost 2 years.  But the colon business was just a formality of "Do you want a colonoscopy?"  "Do I look like I want one?"  In all fairness, I felt rather sorry for him trying to doctor someone who does not want doctored.  Finally he asked if I would do the "poop test" and since that was non invasive, I agreed.  Now this is where my life spiraled out of my control, so listen and learn.

Nobody told me, do not eat red meat for 4 days before you do the test.  Nobody told me, do not eat beets or anything red.  And since I eat damn near anything except cooked apples, I ingested probably anything that crossed my path prior to the "taking of the sample with a paint brush".  (Playing in my poop is not something I normally do just for the record)!

To make a long story short, of course it came back positive.  Of course I was going to have a colonoscopy.  My insurance insisted on that.  So that is what I did yesterday.  Now I am here to tell you that Sunday I was not allowed to eat food and could only have clear liquids.  Eating is my passion and I did not enjoy that at all!  Sunday night was the worst experience of my life.  I had to drink a gallon of the most foul stuff I have ever encountered in my years of drinking and I have downed some pretty gross stuff on my way to a good drunk (if there is such a thing as a good drunk).

Now, I am happy to report that I passed with flying colors, and have two pages of pictures showing nothing but the cleanest colon in town.  My kitchen floor should be so clean!  My friend stopped to see me on my way into the hospital and decided I looked "fit" and after work came by to reassure himself that I had indeed survived and was amazed that I showed no signs of being any worse for the wear.  I tried to look pathetic, but could not pull it off because I had to laugh at him.  Bless his heart.

So in closing, let me tell you this... if you find yourself facing this, not to worry.  It is a piece of cake.  If you survive the night before you can survive anything.  And so I can continue my march down or up the road with that behind me and when I see the doctor again, I shall remind him that I am one of the healthiest old ladies he will ever encounter and not to make me take any more tests!

Thursday, April 18, 2013

And where do I put thier memory?

This is the braid that was cut from Grandma Haas's head when she entered the nursing home only a few days before her death in  1955 (as I recall.)

Now I do not want you to  think I have some sort of hair fetish, because I do not.  Mother had kept Grandma's braid for many years and when she passed it was given to me because I was the only one who knew whose it was or how it came to be in mother's possession. 
 
I recall the day I came home from Plevna High School and found I did not live there any more.  Grandma was not well.  We knew she had a light stroke.  It was her second.  When I had gone to live with them, she was using a walker and Great grandma Hatfield who was 99 years old at the time, was taking care of her.  I was there to help lighten her burden.  I loved both of those old ladies almost beyond belief.  They taught me to crochet and to read the Bible every night and pray before I took a bite of food or dared to raise up out of my bed in the morning.  Actually, it was not a bed.  I slept on the couch because they were worried that if I slept upstairs in one of the beds that something drastic could befall me.  I could fall down the stairs if I walked in my sleep.  The house could catch on fire and I would perish.  Some one might creep up the outside of the house and carry me away.  Any number of things could befall me, so I slept on the couch.  When cousin Carl would come to stay a night, I had to sleep on the settee behind the stove because he was taller and I fit just fine on that little thing as long as I drew my knees up to my chin.  Cousin Carl was a hoot!  He played basketball and I worshipped him.  (As I look back on my life I find I have loved and worshipped a lot of people.)
 
So back to that day.  Aunt Mabel and Uncle Goll had come from Coldwater.  Aunt Mabel was grandma's sister and she was married to my grandfathers brother, Uncle Goll.  That made all of us kids double cousins.  Sad as it seems, I have no idea where any of them are.  Course, they have no idea about me either!  I really think most of them are reaping their rewards up over my head.  Aunt Lola, mother's sister, was there.  Uncle Frank, Uncle Ray, and Uncle Charlie had all been consulted.  The decision was made to place grandma in the nursing home and Great grandma would return to Coldwater with Aunt Mabel.  (She remained there until her death at the ripe old age of 104.  She was in complete control of body and mind until just a few days before her death.)
 
My mind is not clear as to the sequence of events.  I know grandma was placed in the nursing home.  I may have remained with Aunt Mabel and Uncle Goll and Great grandma until grandma died just a few days later.  I do recall being in Plevna  and in school when she died.  The funeral service was held next door at the Congregational Church of Christ.  After the burial I returned to Nickerson and never saw the inside of the house again.  I know Aunt Lola emptied it out and mother received a small gray hassock full of crocheted doilies.  I thought that was so sad. 
 
I have been back to visit the town, but it has changed so.  The high school is torn down and all that remains is the gymnasium.  But in the gym was also the kitchen where Mrs. Crawford taught home economics.  It was in that room that she informed me I would never be anything important, because I was nothing like my beautiful mother.  And I flunked cooking under her tutelage, which I found ironic since I have owned and managed very nice restaurants most of my adult life and am a very good cook.  And she was wrong about me not being like my mother, because I am.  I just never made the beautiful part, but all the rest is there for the world to see. 

This braid was cut from the head of Bret Mercer (nee Cavendar) when he came to live with us in 1998 (as I recall).

Bret was our grandson.  When he was first born he spent lots of time with us.  Then his parents divorced and took new mates.  Bret still spent time with us.   When he was a tiny boy, he always wanted a "Kenny Mercer haircut", which we gave him.  He disappeared from our lives for sometime and when he returned he had very long hair.  As circumstances some times happen beyond our control he ended up coming to live with us and the first thing he wanted was his hair cut.  We of course gave him what he wanted.  So this is a symbolic hank of hair here.  We ended up adopting Bret and this remains in my top dresser drawer with the one from Grandma Haas.
 
So my question here is this:  What do I do with these mementoes?  I can not just throw them away.  That would be sacrilegious as far as I am concerned.  So I keep them in the drawer and take them out very rarely.  Grandma's is very dry and brittle.  Bret's is still supple and filled with color and highlights.  But what about 10, 20 or 30 years from now when someone is going through my belongings and they come upon this hair?  Will they know what it is?  I could put a note in with it, but do I want to do that?  It is a quandary.
 
For the time being, I am just going to put them back in the drawer and forget I seen them.  Grandma's especially brings tears to my eyes to just look at it.  It is like spun gold and the head that produced it is so dear to me ...... 
 
 


 

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

Oh, this is so damn cool!!

This was sent to me by my friend, Mark Bosworth, who runs the Photography Museum in St. Louis, Missouri.  I copied the letter so you will know all I know:
***
Lou,
I thought you would appreciate this one.  In our collection we have a glass plate negative of Lincoln.  The negative was made in 1859 from a 1858 ambrotype portrait of Abraham Lincoln. The original print no longer exists according to historians in Springfield, IL. and as stated by Mr. Loyd Ostendorf, famed author and historian of Lincoln.  
The original print was made by Preston Butler of Springfield IL.  Six cities lay claim to where the photograph was taken.  The negative was taken by A. R. Nicholson of Peoria, IL.
Attached is a photograph we took today of me holding the negative.  I am really enjoying working on this museum project.
Mark  
 
The International Photography Hall of Fame has the copyright on the image.
 
***

Now, I ask you, is this amazing or what?  Click on that above and it will get bigger.  Then look at it real hard and know that in 1858 Abraham Lincoln posed for this picture.  At that point in time photography was pretty new, especially when you stop and think that today we point and click then load the digital image on a new media device and there are no such things as negatives. 
 
But the part that fascinates me is that some one was just a few feet from this man and there is a record of this meeting in glass.  Mark is all twittery because he will be holding the grand re-opening of the Photography Museum in St. Louis on September 3 of this year.  See, it was his job to go to Oklahoma City (?) and pack it all up and move it to St. Louis, where he lives.  That is an opportunity few people get!
 
Mark was a very good friend of Sherman's from way back when.  One of Sherman's most treasured possessions was a picture of him taken when he was 50 years old standing behind his Norton Motorcycle.  Mark had printed the picture on special canvas.   When Sherman gave the picture to me, I knew I was very special.  Today I have the picture and Mark has the Norton.  He completely restored it and brought it to Pueblo so he could take Sherman's picture behind it 30 years later.  I have a copy of that picture also.   
 
This story is told so you will all know just how devoted this man is to the art of photography and the preservation of the art.  And how blessed Sherman Schroeder was to have such a devoted friend.  Greater love hath no man.

 

Saturday, April 6, 2013

The peach tree over the shed

It is spring and so I am looking out my office window at the Cherry tree that has bloomed there for many years.  Never had a cherry, but blooms any way.  Beside it is the Apricot tree.  And in the front yard is the bare place where two Peach trees used to be.  Only one of them ever made peaches although they stood side by side.  The one on the east bloomed, but was barren.  Oh, but the one on the west had the biggest, juiciest peaches God ever put on this big earth.  Bushels of them.  And the wind would thin the peaches and we still would harvest enough to feed us and enough to can for the winter.  In Colorado, that only happens about once every 7 years because it inevitably freezes.  Eventually the bores got bad and the trees had to be taken out and burned.
Ah, but the Peach tree I am thinking of today was back in Nickerson, Kansas, 60 years ago.  It was out the back door and across the drive.  It had probably been a seed that was thrown down and grew to adult hood hanging over the back of the shed.  It seemed to be the only fruit tree that I recall, except for the Mulberry  tree that kept our feet dyed purple all summer. ( And for the record, the birds all pooped purple that time of year.)
But back to the Peach tree.  In Kansas we had better luck with things not freezing in the spring and that Peach tree was no exception!  It did not fascinate the other kids nearly as much as it did me.  I would wait for the blooms to dry up and then search for signs of fruit.  I was always rewarded at some point in time with tiny peaches "setting on".   Now trust me here...if you have ever lived in a small town, you know that there is not a lot to do.  We could lay in the weeds and spy on the neighbors, chase the chickens, walk around the block, or we could watch those peaches growing.  Mother was forever telling me, "You don't be eating those until they are big and change color.  You will have the worst belly ache of your life."
Well, now that was like throwing gas on the fire.  The more she cautioned me, the more I could taste that peach.  (Oh, mother, if you are looking down on me, I do not blame you in any way.  You tried to save me from myself ) 
The cemetery was about a quarter of a mile from our house and that was another favorite place to play.  I remember once flying a kite and it got loose and sailed over the cemetery, but the string caught in a tree.  It was too high up for me to climb and get it loose so I had to leave it.  The next day it was crashed and broken.  So much for the kite.
Mother always planted a garden and one of the main things she grew was Yams.  She planted them on top of furrows and ran water down the ditches.  I remember once it was my job to run the water and I was standing on a board watching the water run in and a big spider ran up my leg and I killed him on my knee.  I have always been terrified of spiders and that did not help me get over it either.
Back to the Peach tree.  I controlled myself pretty well, but when the peaches were about the size of  a small tangerine, I thought I could see a hint of color on them.  Had to hold it up to the light and turn it this way and that, but, yes it was a little less green on this side.  So I bit into it.  The first bite was not near as sweet as I thought it should be, so I took another bite and then picked another peach in case it was sweeter and had another bite or two.  To make a long story short, I am here to tell you that my mother was dead on about the effects of green peaches.  As I recall, there was a lot of severe pain and a goodly amount of diarrhea.  Mother was sure that my appendix were ready to burst and she was trying to find a ride to the hospital when one of my dear sisters reported that the "Peaches are ready cause Louella ate a whole bunch of them today."  There went any salvation I had of getting rid of this stomach ache in any way but letting the green peaches work their way through my system.
Odd part of this whole tale is even today Peaches are my favorite fruit.  And when the harvest comes in from the western slope, namely Palisade, I am in hog heaven.  Or should I say Peach heaven?  If ever there was a food fit for the Gods, it is a nice ripe, juicy sweet Palisade Peach.  I have heard that a Georgia Peach is the best fruit on earth, but give me a western slope peach any day.
I have come a long way from the ragged little urchin eating green peaches, nursing sick calves and burying birds under the neighbors tree, but that little girl still lives in the recesses of my mind with the tattle tale sisters and the ornery big brother.  I have heard it said that you can not go home, but I am just not sure I ever left.  I am many miles from that ramshackle house on Strong Street in Nickerson, Kansas, but in the blink of an eye I am up in that Peach tree, or in the hay loft jumping out into the hay pile, or shucking corn in the field behind the house.  Memory is a wonderful thing.

Another year down the tubes!

Counting today, there are only 5 days left in this year.    Momma nailed it when she said "When you are over the hill you pick up speed...