Dick

There was a day when one could be named Dick, and called Dick, and no hilarity ensued. Actually, I’m not sure anyone was ever actually named Dick—probably it was Richard—in fact I don’t even know why that was ever shortened into Dick. But hey, it happened.

Sister #2 was a beautiful wild thing—white-blond until she reached adulthood—she (and all three of us actually) were kind of untamed in early childhood, untaught about do-unto-others kind of stuff. We’ve been told that we stood inside the picket fence of our babysitter once yelling “hey you son-of-a-bitch” at passersby. I am innocent—I couldn’t yet talk when that happened, but I was there. I learned at my sisters' hands about do-unto-others, as they did unto me—some mild physical stuff (I could run away after all), but mostly verbal, horrible emotional abuse that I could not run away from and it sticks to me still to this day. And it was abusive but there was also truth in it to the point that I wear clothes I’ve had for 20 years because I can’t stand to try things on in a store, catch sight of myself unexpectedly in an unfamiliar mirror or window reflection. To glimpse a photograph of myself cripples me for days. There are other limitations to my life directly attributable to my childhood with these two (or three if you include my mother), but hey, who doesn’t struggle with this stuff? Maybe it’s a good thing, but I will tippy-toe around conversations and interactions always in an effort to never hurt anyone’s feelings because I know how awful it feels. Until a certain point has been crossed; until I know that there’s no hope there.

Many times during those years, at some point though, Sister #2 would recognize when they’d gone so far that I could not live if I believed what they said, and she would apologize or make up for it in some way. Sister #1 never regretted any of it. If anyone outside the family would try to pick on me, sister #2 would attack them. She was afraid of no one. So, although I could not depend on her in any regularity, I knew that in her way she cared for me. And yet, as I began to have relationships with boys, she could not resist just appearing there, next to me, and letting me see that she could have them if she wanted, and once I saw that, she would go on her way—leaving me alone, the guy ruined for me.

A major reason I married my husband was that he never noticed her, even when she tried that appearing trick.

Anyway, Sister #2 went through a number of very cute guys—they all fell in love with her and she messed with them as it pleased her, switched them around as it pleased her, and they faithfully remained there, waiting for their turn to come around again. However, after a short marriage to the guy she married right out of high school, she went home on a vacay and decided it would be okay to date a former beau while she was there and before she returned to hubby. Hubby did not agree and they were divorced. Set loose, she came to Seattle and joined me where I was living, just before I lucked into my first job which changed my life forever.

Men continued to fall in love with her—one met her at her bus stop one morning and told her he’d seen her there for several mornings and just had to tell her she was the kind of girl he’d always dreamed of meeting.

However, somehow, somewhere she met Dick. Now she was never hung up on male beauty—her most serious beau in high school was a quite ugly guy with whom she fell deeply in love and at 16 or so, they asked my dad if they could get married. Well, of course, the answer was no and my parents made it hard for them to continue to see each other so they kind of drifted apart onto other relationships. She never forgot him though and 30 years or so later, while standing in line to get into the fair, she recognized his voice behind her talking to his wife, and turned around and hugged him and visited awhile. Neither one would have been recognizable visibly to the other, but his voice was.

Anyhoo, at some point she met Dick, an older guy in his 30s (she was 21 or so), white-blond if he’d had any hair, ponchy, and unattractive, but for some reason he did it for her. He got her pregnant in a few months but he was immune to her and when he found that out, he was gone. Our mother’s only advice to her was “Well, you’re not coming home.” (I’ve never disputed that both sisters have their own very legitimate issues with my mother’s parenting). Sister #2 then agonized over whether to seek an abortion. She continued agonizing over this until one day when I called her at work and she wasn’t there, I immediately knew where she’d gone (she’d told me previously someone had told her of a doc who would do abortions, in a medical building I was familiar with). I left work and ran there and met her as she was leaving the building—she was crying a little and said he’d told her it was too late to do anything. I was sympathetic but inside thrilled because I was looking forward to the arrival of this little one, and completely unable to really grasp the difficulties involved. And in the long run it did turn out alright—she had a girl with red curly hair, a temper to match, and my sister’s beautiful features. Although when my sister’s friends and I first saw the baby, an hour or so after birth—all we could see was Dick. On this baby’s wedding day we held her down to apply just a touch of mascara and lipstick—neither one of them could ever stand makeup—and, oh God, she was even more stunning. And she remains today one of my favorite people. And the reason I decided to have babies.

I don’t remember now if I’ve mentioned that sister #2 and I fell out after she abandoned my mother and me a few weeks after my mother’s stroke, wanting her life back, and refusing to help or accompany me as I tried to look after the house, and keep my mother from going crazy by being there with her every weekend while she was in the nursing home. I complained about this to my daughter via e-mail and somehow, although I NEVER use the “reply to all” key in e-mail, inexplicably did click that as I forwarded an excuse-filled response from sister #2, and commented to my daughter on how useless sister #2 was. This hurt her feelings and she’s not spoken to me since.

And eventually Sister #1 recruited her and made her part of the plan to sell my mother’s house immediately and become joint owners of my mother’s bank account (from which I was paying her bills, etc.). I don’t know if they ever would have taken any money from it—I didn’t wait to see.

Well, the other shoe finally dropped, and they received the letter from the attorney telling them thanks for their help but my mother had decided to handle her assets in a different way, and that now I was the only one on the POA.

Sister #1 sent me a letter, filled with her specialty, cruel words. I am rotten, greedy. I’ve obviously spent much time manipulating an old lady into doing things my way. She is going to inform our mother that she wants to be removed from the will and never wants anything to do with either of us again. I read this, and it made my heart pound, not with pain, but with pleasure—I have for the first time ever affected this person.

And yesterday I saw the letter she’d sent to my mother—a shorter one where she told her never to contact her again in any way, and that she’d known since age 4 that she didn’t like my mother. My mother pored over the letter, sadly laughing a little at the drama of it, and finally saying “Well, of course I don’t like it, but I can stand it.” She has no plans at this time to change her will, but will wait awhile to decide that. Maybe replace sister #1 with her children.

I still don’t understand Sister #1’s logic—she wanted to sell assets even though the proceeds would have belonged to my mother while she still lives. But since she was stopped, she wants to remove all her chances of ever getting anything? I don’t get it.

There has been only silence from sister #2. I may be fooling myself. But I have hopes she may be salvageable.

Fall

Woke up yesterday about 7:10 a.m. Saturday. Slept in. It was very, very dark for daytime, and the sky was dark grey with solid cloud-cover. Or, it seemed more than cloud cover, there were no holes to look through to see real sky. The air was moist and heavy, and not quite cool (mid-sixties, I would guess). I opened a couple of windows, but nothing was moving. For once my nose was not stuffy—I imagine any pollen in the area would have already fallen to the ground, soaked and swollen with the moisture, unable to threaten anybody’s membranes at this point. This is how you have 100% humidity without actual rain.

I love it this way. This is my Washington. Rain forest atmosphere. The colors though—the leaves! It’s hard to understand that fall signifies a death of sorts, as the trees lose their leaves and become skeletons until spring. Because until the leaves fall, the colors are exaggerated and appear full of LIFE. If I’d taken all the pictures that I was tempted to, it would have taken days to get to my mother’s house. I only took one. I would like to walk down this wide, grassy path because it looks like only gentle love and sweet content would be in such a place.

At times like this, it seems like the world is gift enough.

Later in the day when we were safe inside, there were several short but powerful rainstorms. And in one day, most of the spectacular leaves were on the ground. Covered the entrance steps, and the little gardens on each side. We’ll leave most of them there until after real winter is over—they protect vulnerable plants from freezing.

waiting for the explosion

There has been no reaction from the sisters yet. It’s like waiting for a bomb to go off. I don’t handle this kind of stress well.

My mother’s attorney asked me not to help her answer his questions, and he had her tell him what her assets are and what she wanted. She said, of course, she did not want to sell her home and the ESs were trying to do that against her will. And some other things that reassured him she was capable of making the decision of removing them from the POA. Then, when it was typed up and ready to sign, he again conversed with her in front of the witnesses. He asked her about her grandchildren, and she described each of our children who are all gorgeous (I agree with that). Thank goodness he didn’t ask her to name them all. So the witnesses and the attorney were all convinced that she could make this choice. Since it has to be filed at the court house, it will be a while before we get the new one, naming only me and my daughter as alternate should I choose not to do it (or get hit by a bus or something) (a bus driven by my sisters). She forgot to mention that they had hijacked the bank account, but he was convinced without that.

He asked us if we wanted him to notify the ESs and we said yes. He said well he could write them a mean letter or a nice one and we agreed that it should be a nice one saying thanks for your help so far, but your mother has decided she wants to handle her assets in a different way. And he threw in “your mother loves you very much and would enjoy seeing you more often.”

I like that because I think it will confuse the hell out of them. But I don’t know if that letter has gone out yet.

I did go to the other branch of the bank and remove the property papers from the safe deposit box that they still have access to. I was hugely relieved that everything was still there.

I am not afraid of anything they might say to me or try to do to me (I think we’re all too old for physical stuff but I believe I can whup ‘em if necessary). But it would not be pretty—not the kind of girl fight most people enjoy.

But still, I feel horrible and full of dread. When anyone at work gives me something complicated to do, I’m tempted to hug them, just for the distraction from my awful thoughts and feelings. I keep telling myself it’s all okay now, it’s over, the bank account is safely changed, etc., and if bills come in before I get the new checks, I can pay them myself and pay myself back later. And yet I’m not comforted by that. I can’t get past my anger that they would do such a thing—use the POA to do things against my mother’s wishes, and trying to hijack the bank account. And once I get worked up about things, I can’t calm back down even when the problem is over. I took a vicodin last night and nothing hurt except my racing mind, but I couldn’t stand feeling that way.

Anyway, didn’t want to leave this hanging, but I guess I’ve got no choice. If something does happen and they don’t kill me, you know I’ll put it out here.

SQUASH

I have a long-standing history of hating anything squash-like, yellow or orange. However, I love stir-fry stuff and have come to love zucchini (in stir-fry and also I love zucchini bread but not enough to make it). Zucchini IS squash, but it is green so I can stand it. It’s best when just barely cooked. So a while back I had only zucchini in the house and nothing else much interesting to stir and fry but I was hungry for a veggie so I thought I was just going to sauté it but suddenly found myself slicing it into half-inch coins, dipping it in egg, and then seasoned flour and frying it. It is delicious—even though it’s one of those things you must stand there and pay attention to, turning it continuously, until brown and tender (about five minutes). So nummy! Almost worth having to stand there long enough to get it prepared, eat it, and then wash all the floury plates, bowls, and forks and countertops and unbelievable mess that you have also created. Try it!

And now, back to my life. I have just one warning for you all--PICK YOUR SIBLINGS VERY CAREFULLY!!!!

The other day I was reconciling my mother’s bank statement (I take care of her bills and stuff since her stroke two years ago). I had postponed it a couple of days until I was in the right mood, and finished it and was about to file it when I noticed something that had never been on the statement before—it showed CO-OWNERS: EVIL SISTER #1 AND EVIL SISTER #2. My heart stopped.

The Durable Power-of-Attorney that names all three of us (but I’m the only one who does any work)—they took that document to her bank and added themselves to her account (signing for my mom as the POA allows them to do). Well, I hadn’t planned to go there that day but of course then I had to. The POA becomes invalid at the time of my mother’s death. We knew that would be a problem but didn’t know what to do about it, and I at least just figured we’d have to wait until after probate to pay her debtors, if any. I had learned that problem could be avoided if we were co-owners, but it didn’t occur to me to do that, partly because the thought of being in any approximation to my sisters is just so icky and I’m so busy at work it’s hard to get time off.

Anyhoo, I walked into the bank and told them I needed to be added also as a co-owner. They said sure, but you’ll have to fill out this card, then the bank would have to mail it to each sister in turn for her signature. I couldn’t understand that since we supposedly have equal power under the POA, but now that they were co-owners and I was not, all three (ESs and my mother) would have to approve adding me as a co-owner. As a co-owner, you CAN access the account even after my mom’s death. Well since they will not communicate with me, they weren’t likely to sign that card, and anyway HOW DARE THEY!!!!!!!!!

So, I did the only thing I could do. I went and got my mommy. I think the bank knew they’d done something bad—they should have contacted me or required all of us to be there (assuming they thought my mother was totally incapable of understanding anything). Well, she’s not incapable in that way, and she’s plenty mad, and she made it clear she did not want them to have access to her bank account. So they opened a new account where I am joint owner and moved the money out of the old one. And told us they will not honor that POA anymore.

We have an appointment with her attorney tomorrow where we will create a new POA with only my name on it. At least that’s our plan. Maybe there’s a better way to do it—we’ll see what he says.

A ton of work must be done now—I need to get her pension companies to send their payment to the new account, and update all the automatic pays made to utility companies and such—I figure no more than a million phone calls and three or four days will do the trick. I’m always so fearful of contacting those pension sources in case something will happen to interfere with her payments, but there’s no choice now. I’m not happy about it but when I think of how the ESs will feel when they realize that account is no longer open, that almost makes me smile.

I also have to sneak back to the bank and remove the important property papers from the safe deposit box they bullied me into opening a few months ago—unless the ESs have already removed them. I do have copies that I made of everything before I put it in there but one never knows how effective copies will be if needed to prove anything. The box is in a different branch of the bank, and besides I just didn’t think of it until after the visit to the bank.

The ESs want to sell the house now, and I kept telling them you must talk to our mom about this. They never did, although as I said before they went to the house once several months ago with a realtor for a looksee. About three weeks ago they did show up at my mother’s apartment, and told her to move everything she loved out so they could clean it up and sell it. She said nothing in response (I could have strangled her myself when she told me that later). She is so disappointed and hurt that they so rarely visit her, that she doesn't know what to say when she does see them. They weren’t there longer than 15 minutes or so. However, my mom did write them a letter a week or so later that said she did not want to sell her house or property now and that she’d do anything she could to keep that from happening. That elicited no response from my sisters.

Anyway, what for me was supposed to be a four-day holiday has turned in to a very busy time.

I need candy.

The fun continues.

my brain hurts

Summer’s almost over here. We had one week in late July where our temps hovered for about five days at the just under 100 degree mark. We don’t really deal with heat well here. We are big babies. The local news was about nothing else. All local stores ran out of fans and air conditioners. Then one night it cooled down. As I sat in my un-air-conditioned house, with my one little fan pointed at me, sweating buckets, having to sit up straight because leaning against anything stopped the movement of air against my skin, I could feel the difference as it occurred, as the temperature lowered, even though it remained sunny and hazy out. It was weird—you wouldn’t think the change could occur that fast, that it would take longer than that just for the buildings and the concrete on the highways/sidewalks to release the heat. But it did work that way—there was no breeze but placing the fan in a window helped remove the heat from the house, and on the outside, the heat just went away although the appearance of the surroundings remained the same. It was as if we were released from a tyrant of some sort, and we could breathe again. This was good practice for me though, and preparation for my trip to Kansas—when I got there, they had rather unusual low temps, in the 85-90 degree area—and it was okay! I only complained when my son would throw us all in his old, un-airconditioned pick-up and drive off, forgetting to open the windows (the control on my side didn’t work) until I croaked “air!!!!” He’s used to it, you know—and one day he even wore a long-sleeved cotton shirt over his t-shirt which I think he did just to annoy me. But still, no prob.

But now it’s seriously cool up here—still no rain, but very cool temperatures, and we’ll be lucky if we can reach 70 today.

I have to go to work tomorrow. I can hardly believe this. I’m not really ready—although I am getting bored. I enthusiastically worked on the garden last week, digging out a rose bush that was about three years old, working hard to produce a rose a year, and finally while I was looking at it one day, the classy part of the rose graft just lifted off as if it had never really been attached. I have three roses that have done this, and I will replace all of them with those clumps of decorative grass as while this is the part of the yard that gets the sun the roses need, it’s also the rockiest part of the garden with soil that just won’t let enough water penetrate to keep them wet enough. And I will try containers for my roses, and see if I can keep them from freezing in the winter.

I have sixty-three billion sprinklers I’ve bought over the years to try to water successfully but still none of them reach the right areas. The only way that really works is for me to stand there with the hose. I was standing there with the hose one day, watering, and noticed that some tiny bees appeared, and seemed to be irritated by my watering. I thought to myself, hmmmm, those look like the little sweat bees I used to see in Kansas. And continued watering until one of the little buggers stung me on the knee. Damnnnn—it’s amazing to me how the sting increases in pain long after you’ve swatted the bee away! I still have a red mark there and this was weeks ago. This is the part of the yard I usually water from a distance because a big snake lives there also so I just can’t go there anymore. Luckily I had placed a soaker hose there before the temps were high enough that the snake would come out, so I’ve had to depend on that to keep a poor rose that produces beautifully alive, in spite of the rocky, shallow soil. So I’ve posted some pictures of the part of the yard I’m not afraid of, and the part of the yard I am scared of. Hard to believe it’s the same yard, but I just can’t go into that one part.

When I started my vacation, I had just plowed through the worst part of the year at work—the preparation for the new fiscal year, during which we have to spend everything RIGHT NOW or it will be lost to us. So it was a frantic flurry of scheduling trips and making air reservations, doing paperwork for monetary awards, etc. Somehow my department has ended up with about three hundred employees and only one of those, me, does this type of paperwork. It was also the month of the year where I was also supposed to do annual training about such things as privacy act, security training and other time-wasting, soul-killing required stupid useless training, but there was no way I was able to fit that in. Somehow I’ll have to do that while also catching up with everything waiting for me when I get back. So, while I’ll be glad to see the people again, I won’t be so glad that they will probably be waiting for me, waiving urgent things in front of my face. Usually, though, I am reassured to be so needed, rather than arriving to find out they’ve learned how to get along without me—one of my constant fears.

Here’s two things I did recently that have made me doubt my ability to handle all this—I booked and PAID for my airfare twice. I don’t think this is my fault—I think I first looked on Cheap Tickets to see what was available, but you can’t see that unless you actually enter dates and locations and numbers of travelers—once I found one I liked, I exited the website without paying, of course, to call and coordinate with my son to see if the dates/times were doable for him. Then the next day or so I re-entered the website, selected the dates/times I wanted, and paid. I am guessing it also held on to my previous entry, and charged me for both of them. I did think “Wow, Cheap Tickets aren’t so cheap!” But I hadn’t flown for awhile and didn’t know if that cost was out of line or standard for the time. Of course, I saw the two charges to my VISA bill, but didn’t closely scrutinize, assuming the charges were one for the departure and the other for the return. Not until I got to the airport to check in did they point out there were two reservations in my name. Of course after I returned, I talked with them on the phone, but according to them it is not fixable, now that the reservations have been used. It won’t break me financially but it pisses me off.

Then a couple of days ago—I ordered some books on line. And I ended up ordering an audio book because I didn’t look closely enough. I was able to easily exchange it at the local store, but Good Lord, if this is the way my mind works now, I’m certainly going to be short of the brain power needed by my job.


I have been thinking to myself, as I see how so many people are losing their jobs, and being unable to find ANYTHING new, and wondering to myself how have I been so lucky not to be facing that terrible fear and uncertainty. I am profoundly grateful that I happened to have lucked into my current situation. I am profoundly grateful for my lack of adventurism, that made me fearful of trying far-out schemes that required investment of all I had, and a great deal of luck. Many friends and relatives told me over the years that they wouldn’t have been interested in working for the government, but rather wanted to try their own businesses, playing the stockmarket, and depending on selling themselves and their ideas to potential investors. I never had that personality—I have never been the type to even be able to talk my way out of a traffic ticket—I knew I could not do it that way. My way to my modest success was to be a drone—it was not hard for me—as I said in my earliest blog, the praise for my work was the first I had ever received and I ate it up, and worked faster and harder for more praise. And I got it, and I kept at it, and was happy for it. But the drone work I do is not easy, not simple to do, and sometimes I bitterly think it has ended up designated as drone work because the higher ups CAN’T do it and are terrified to try, but then I realize their jobs consist of other duties, like being doctors and such, and they can’t do that stuff AND the drone stuff, for gosh sake.

With every business failing, and the car dealers not-so-patiently waiting for their clunker reimbursements (and this delay in their reimbursement is really scaring me—where on earth is the money for that reimbursement going to come from and does the delay mean they've given up trying to find it), I’m not so sure anymore that my own job is not vulnerable. I’m scared, and while thinking about all this stuff, I felt a very brief understanding of how it must feel to be unemployed now, and to find one’s retirement is also gone, and to be facing foreclosure, and repossession of cars and other goods. A brief understanding because it’s just too awful to contemplate for very long, isn’t it?

So, I’m not going back to work with a rested, clear mind, ready for the challenge. However, I will be too busy to be thinking about anything but the work, and for me, that’s a good thing.

old radios

Look what I just got from my mom’s house—this is/was my grandmother’s radio. This would have been the center of family entertainment when my mom was young, and even when I was young, as TV didn’t come along until I was around 10 or so. Err, well it was around and being developed but we certainly didn’t have one until about then.

As a kid from a logging town, I love wood things and I have always admired this piece. The radio of course is not in there anymore—a friend of my mother’s put doors on the back and shelves inside so that it makes a nice desk, but when you use it that way, you can’t see the beautiful front of the cabinet. So I just have it sitting there, being useless but beautiful. I will replace the cloth behind the speaker opening with gold fabric, maybe, so the art-deco filigree-like cutout design will show better.

Here’s another of these, not quite as pretty but still cool—also hollowed out to be a cabinet but again—can’t see the front if you use it that way.

And a small radio, on the shelf, which actually does have the radio inside. If you plug it in, it produces quite a nice static. The tubes light up, and if you leave it plugged in, well, I’ve never done that because I’m afraid smoke might start rising from it, but I love this piece too. I had ambitions to refinish it years ago but thank heavens I never got around to it because I’ve since learned that is the worst thing to do as far as value goes.

Do these things bring memories to any of you? They sure do to me

vacation

Well, the death of Billy Mays kind of gave me computer PTSD (except for the delayed part) on top of Farah, Michael, and whoever else went at that time that I can’t remember right now. I actually got fearful of even checking my e-mail for awhile. However, one day while avoiding news on the computer, I learned how to download music and buy it! When I think of all the CDs I have with one song in 15 or so that I like—well, that was fabulous. I hope this doesn’t lead to my financial ruin.

I couldn’t seem to blog because I had nothing interesting to talk about.

And I still don’t, but that’s never stopped me before, so I’ll mention that I was gone for a week during which I flew out of here to go to . . . Kansas. My son and I tried something different—we didn’t even leave Kansas City—my son and his two daughters and I stayed in a motel there near a giant water park and see if we could figure out how to have fun. Neither of us are good at this—having fun. The first night I was there I lay awake nearly all night worrying that we might not find the water park, if we did find it, we might not be able to figure out how to get it, it might be too crowded, too expensive, it would be closed that day . . . Of course, when we got there, they (the park people) make it perfectly understandable about how to get in there and where to pay and how much and all. I wasted a whole night’s sleep, but that’s just how I roll in most situations.

A few months ago my son phoned me at work—this is so scarey—calls at work are always BAD. So I was somewhat relieved when he told me his wife had left him. I tried to comfort him but inside I was thinking “Oh thank GOD, nobody is dead.” And I was certain she’d come back at some point. She did not—quite quickly, within three months, the divorce was final. They share custody—he actually has the kids more often than she does—and he likes it that way. In fact if it were not that way, I would be horribly worried about him. I think both adults are both more content this way. The girls seem to be doing all right at this point. They are 7 and 8. And this is why we were able to just stay in Kansas City and act like crazy rich people (for a very limited time) rather than travel on to his small, hometown where there is not much to do.

The two girls—they are like clones actually—one exactly like my son and his dad’s side of the family (slim, compact, freaky intelligent and in her case, adorable), and one exactly like her mom and although her mom and I of course are not related by blood we are very similar (so granddaughter is not slim, but is very pretty, all emotions and short on social abilities—she lacks the “cool” gene. She instantly loves everybody and offers her heart without reservation and you fear it’ll get stepped on).

However, the younger daughter has a way of saying “this is going to be the best day of my life . . .” and I think the day at the water park came pretty close to being that—a water park in that heat is the perfect place to be. Whereas in my part of the country everyone avoids the giant bucket spilling over, in Kansas everyone runs to that area and waits for it. We went down every slide there, all sizes, (even the most timid daughter tried EVERYTHING and loved it) then went into the wave pool (kids wore life-jackets—I could have used one myself as the first time, treading water during the waves, I swallowed a considerable amount of water, even though I am an excellent swimmer)—later I got an inner tube and there is nothing more fun than sitting in one and enjoying the movement of the waves. We were there for at least eight hours. We had forgotten sun block—the kids were already brown from being outside everyday, but we big ones were unprepared. A bottle of sunblock was $16 if purchased there. A hamburger with nothing on it except meat and cheese was $5+. Towards the end of the day I had to seek out what little shade there was, and had put on my shirt to avoid anymore burning. I didn’t stay out of the water, just went in half dressed, and it helped considerably. I was mentally prepared for those prices and it didn’t bother me. It was great fun.

Kansas City is beautiful, we went to the street market, sought out everything about Jesse James in the area near Kansas City, found a little place called Liberty, KS and visited an old jail there which is now owned by the Latter Day Saints because Joseph Smith was imprisoned there, (and they built a beautiful little white church over it) and found that tour very interesting. Arrived at Jesse James’ home and farm too late to get the tour there, but before that toured the bank he robbed in Liberty. And on another day did the tour of an old steamship that went down in the Missouri filled with goods for the settlers—that was also great. The ship was dug out of a farm field that was left there after the Missouri River changed course over the years—and the tour consisted of looking at all the goods it carried which had been cleaned and restored. The only way settlers could get anything was via these steamships at the time—it was the Walmart of that time.

My son’s daughters are my country grandchildren. My daughter’s daughter is my city granddaughter because they live here in the jaded NW.

Before I left, I innocently decided to download some beautiful pictures of my beautiful city granddaughter from my camera and discovered some photos of myself I had taken when my mouth and chin was still swollen from the periodontal surgery (in case it stayed like that forever and I needed to sue someone). Alas, the swelling did go away. And there were also some four-generation pictures that my mother always insists on when she and I and my daughter and granddaughter are together—my son-in-law took them. Have I mentioned that I never NEVER look at pictures of myself (I might APPEAR to be looking at them when someone insists they’ve taken a good one of me, but I don’t really look). Well, these caught me off guard before I could do the blind stare I do when I have warning, and OMG—well, when I think of the HOURS I spend trying to make my hair look one way or another, mostly like MORE, and then I see a picture of myself and –well, I am not going to put any more effort into that project. And I won’t even bother mentioning how I didn’t know I was THAT big. Oops I did mention it.

I do blow dry my hair or else it dries into weird waviness. But that’s it. While in Kansas, in the motel, my son said he liked the way it looked—I hadn’t even combed it yet. Actually I hardly bothered because in Kansas with the humidity and the wind—well, it’s just silly to spend time doing that. I am reminded again though of the value of a good haircut—if your hair is spun around in the wind and humidity, if you go inside, it should fall back into somewhat of a normal do. And at this time it does. I must give my hairdresser a bigger tip next time. The salt and pepper color makes it look like I’m gray on purpose. My favorite thing about it is the color.

I’m getting over the shock of seeing the pictures to some extent. And packed my camera to fill it with pictures of my other, beautiful country grandchildren. Most in our messy motel room because it was impossible to have fun in a waterpark or on a tour and still keep track of a camera, wallet, and such (besides, that camera strap, around a sunburned neck—painful!) I got lots of great pictures—inasmuch as they are always either fighting or hugging each other, each picture contains a story. Their mother is a twin so she always wants to make sure they get equal whatever it is—this has made the girls hypervigilant about that and, since I don’t have to live with it all the time, it can be comical as they get upset about the silliest things. But like I said, the next minute they are cuddled together reading a book—they act as if they also shared a womb.

It was a great adventure.

I have this week at home to catch up on gardening, housework, mail, etc. Inexplicably when I washed my hair yesterday I ended up fiddling with it, trying to make it stand up, and spraying it. What's wrong with me?