BOOMERS IN THE OC

THE NADS INVADE TEMECULA. GO NADS!

2011-11-02T13:24:00.000-07:00

WE HAD A GREAT TIME IN TEMECULA THIS PAST WEEKEND WITH GOOD FRIENDS, OLD AND NEW. WE GOLFED, ATE A LOT, WENT WINE TASTING, AND OF COURSE LAUGHED AND LAUGHED. SOMEONE ALSO FORCED EVERYONE TO WATCH A COUPLE OF VIDEOS ON THEIR IPAD. NEW HOBBY...MAKING VIDEOS ON IMOVIES. (GET YOUR MINDS OUT OF THE GUTTER).

HERE WE ARE ON OUR WINE TASTING EXPEDITION WITH "KING TOUR WHERE WE TREAT YOU LIKE ROYALTY". SOME OF US CHOSE TO TASTE OLIVE OIL AND BALSAMIC VINEGAR INSTEAD OF WINE. HANGOVERS SEEM WORSE THE OLDER YOU GET.

IT WAS A FUN WEEKEND AT THE TEMECULA CREEK INN.

GO NADS!

WE'RE NOT DEAD...OOPS, OLD YET!

2011-09-19T14:12:00.000-07:00

I'm back home after five days in Palm Desert with Hubby and three days in La Quinta with friends. I had a lot of time to relax and reflect, and one of the things I reflected on was this "getting old" thing. I used to chuckle to myself when I'd hear "old" people say, "I don't want to live in one of those senior places with all those old people". Now I understand completely. I'm still 40. Well, not really, but in my mind I'm 40 and 40 I shall stay. Actually, 50 was okay, too, so if I have to age I'll get to 50 and then stop.

Awhile back I changed my status from "working part-time" to "semi-retired". Right about the same time I joined a swimming aerobics class that consisted of primarily "really retired" seniors. I also started taking courses at the local university in their "gerontology" program for seniors. I dropped out of both and have taken up art classes in a private studio and spent the summer there with children and younger women. I'm soon going to start a "low impact" aerobics class with my former trainer who told me I can't call it the "old people" class. I'm also going back to "working part-time" status. Why? I'm not old, that's why.

This weekend in the desert was a "blast" to quote my nearest and dearest. Our friends, Rich and Teri, invited us along with Tom and Darlene and Tom and Amy, to stay in their lovely home in La Quinta. We ate, drank a little wine, laughed, bobbed in the pool, talked for hours on end about anything and everything, and played lots of cards. I think we solved all of the world's problems this weekend, if they would only listen to us. Yes, we talked about social security and medicare, and a few aches and pains, but it really wasn't much different than when we were all young and talking about things that went along with earlier ages. All of our conversations were spirited and lively. It was great fun. And the weekend proved that we're not old yet.

Labor Day Boomer Weekend

2011-09-04T22:15:00.000-07:00

No, I didn't go to Yellowstone this weekend and I didn't take this picture, but isn't it gorgoeous? I just might have to paint it.

Okay, big weekend in boomertown OC. Friday night we went to "the club" and had dinner with Tom and Amy in celebration of their 39th wedding anniversary. We sat out on the patio, listened to music, and visited with various other friends, then we went in to have a lovely dinner. On the way to "the club", hubby and I had a little discussion about, "Did you every think we would be Country Club People?" Actually, I never did. I didn't even give it a thought. I grew up in a working class family and we lived from paycheck to paycheck. Funny thing is, when we talk with others at the country club, we all grew up the same way. Boomers kind of fit into that era where we were able to work hard, make lots of money, and live the life our parents weren't able to. Interesting.

Last night we went to dinner at a lovely couple's home in Laguna Niguel, where two other couples joined us. They were high school connections of my "hubby". Wonderful people. We sat on the balcony of their home, drank our cocktails and watched the ocean sunset, then went in to one of the best dinners I've had in a long time. I did tell "hubby" he'd better start saving some money because we're due for a major remodel in Fullerton. Especially after seeing this house. OMG!

Tonight I cooked dinner for two former colleagues of my "hubby" and their wives. We had a great time eating, drinking, laughing...we seem to do that a lot in the OC.

Tomorrow the familia is coming over for dinner. We're BBQ'ing tri-tips. One for Andy and one for the rest of us. Hey, that's the way it is when there's a teenage football player in the family.

Lovin' life in the OC.

BLUE BOOMER

2011-08-29T13:44:00.000-07:00

I had a nice week and weekend with the golf group. The guys played in a three day tournament and the girls were invited to join them for dinner two evenings. It's a great group of people and we talked, laughed, ate, drank, and whiled away the hours sitting on the balcony of the country club. Since we're boomers, the guys sat at one table smoking their cigars and telling golf war stories, and the girls at another talking about our lives as empty nesters and retirees or semi-retirees.

So why am I feeling so down in the dumps today? I hate to even admit that I am down. I have so many things to be grateful for, but once in awhile I just can't help it. I've done a lot of thinking and I've decided I'm not so alone in feeling this way. I kind of got the feeling from some of the other girls that they feel a bit the same way.

I miss a lot. For some reason I'm really missing my dad today. And I miss my kids. They're all grown up and living their lives and I miss having them around. I miss taking them to their ball games and practices. I miss the noise in the house and the chaos. It's just too quiet around here. Even my dog is a senior and he sleeps most of the day. I miss the big family celebrations we used to have. Everyone crowded in together all talking at the same time.

I've thought about how it was to be a child without responsibilities and a senior without responsibilities. As a child, I didn't remember wanting anything more than to just be able to play with my friends, read my books, run around outside, and go to school when I had to. If I had free time, the more the better. I didn't long for anything else. As a senior, I have the freedom to play with my friends, read my books, walk around outside, and go to school at the senior center when I want to. But now I find all of this freedom sad at times. I suppose I should be enjoying it more, but at one time I was needed...a lot. Not so much anymore. But now that I know what it was like to be needed, I really miss it a lot.

HOMELESS IN THE OC

2011-08-19T14:28:00.000-07:00

I was walking to my car in the Costco parking lot, cart loaded up as it always is when I shop there, when a young man approached me. I thought, Aha, maybe this is my first homeless person interview coming right up! I forgot all about the frozen salmon and the tri-tips that could get a head start on cooking in the bright sunlight.

The man looked Eurasian. Around 5' 9 " tall and about 150 lbs. He was very clean and well groomed, and in fact looked like he'd just stepped out of the shower. His hair was long, dark with a few gray strands, had bit of curl and was freshly shampooed. He wore a spotless white tee shirt with advertising on it, wore clean denims and shoes with very little wear on them. I looked at his arms and drew on my nurse experience and I didn't see any drug track marks. He was calm and didn't appear to be under the influence of any drugs or alcohol. Needless to say, he didn't look very homeless to me, but I figured I'd ask him a bunch of questions anyway, once he'd asked me for money. He wouldn't look me in the eye at first, rather shifted side to side. As I showed interest in him and his problems, he faced me square on and looked directly into my eyes. My conclusions at the end of the interview was he'd told me a number of lies, some untruths, but there was a lot of truth in his story as well. While he was talking, there were times when the words flowed out of him from the depths of his being and I could tell those parts were true. Other times not so much. Here goes:

"Excuse me, ma'am. I wonder if I might ask you a favor. You see, we belong to the church around the corner, and we're homeless. The pastor of the church told me he'd get us into a room if I could raise $200. I'm short $55. That's all." He looked down at the ground.

"Where are you living now?" I asked. "And who's we? Are you married?"

"Yeah, it's me and my wife and two kids. They're 5 and 6. We live in Pearson Park right down the street. We have a little spot behind a flower planter that we've sort of carved out as ours. No one knows we're there."

"Do your kids go to school?" I asked.

His head shot up at that and he looked me straight in the eye. He had a bit of fear on his face. "No, why? Is that against the law?"

"I don't know about that. I'm just curious. I'm a writer and I'm interested in people, that's all." I smiled at him.

He smiled back. "You're a writer? Maybe you can write a book about me and then I'll get rich."

"Why are you homeless? Did you ever work?" I asked.

"Oh, yeah. I had a good job in IT at Boeing and I got laid off. They laid off 1500 people. I used to make $48 an hour. I had everything I needed. I can't find a job anywhere now. I've applied at every single store in this area and I can't get a job. I even applied at Chuck E Cheese. I'll do fast food, anything to get back on my feet. My mom lives in Texas and I have a sister in Washington but we can't go there. They have their own financial problems and they don't want us. I tried to talk my mom into it, but she says no."

"How old are you?"

"46. Pretty sad, huh? Here I am a 46 year old man out asking people for money. I'd rather work any day than live like this," he said, looking me straight in the eye.

I noticed again how clean he was and knew it was time to ask. "So, I noticed you're very well groomed and your clothes are spotless. How are you able to do that when you're homeless?"

He didn't have a good answer for that question and didn't look me in the eye. "Well, uh, sometimes the church people let us in to take showers and wash clothes..."

"You know, it's kind of a coincidence but I had a man ask me for money the other day over in Henry's parking lot. He also told me he just needed a few more dollars and he'd have enough for a room? Your stories a similar. Why do you think that is?"

"I don't know, but those other guys only want money for drugs. They'll tell you anything."

I remembered my food and started loading my car.

"So, do you think you can help me out with a little money?" he said, hesitantly.

I reached into my wallet and pulled out some bills. "Here you go. This is for talking to me so I'll have something to write about. Good luck to you and your family. I hope you find work soon."

"Thank you and God Bless You. I hope I do, too. Only $45.00 to go and we'll have a room."

Somewhere in between these lines lies the truth.

Writers on the Loose in the OC, on Mission Viejo Lake

2011-08-15T21:27:00.000-07:00

I just returned home from a Monday night writer's group meeting. Tonight we met on Mission Viejo Lake, thanks to KAS, who lives in the area and rented a boat for us. We all met at KAS's home. That's where things went a bit wrong. We were to meet at 4:30 PM. Diane didn't arrive. We were to get on the boat at 5 so we decided to leave without her (and her dessert). We'd gotten on the boat and set out to cruise the lake and a young man from the dock called to say Diane had arrived. We turned around, picked her up, and set out again. It was quiet, relaxing, inspirational. Well, not all that. That was the original goal but with this group things tend to go awry. We discussed the last book we read, CUTTING FOR STONE, decided on the next book through a long process of elimination, VISIT FROM THE GOOD SQUAD, then tried to agree on a date for our "writer's retreat". No luck. Also no luck on a decision regarding our group writing project. Oh well, next week.

Terrill volunteered to drive the boat. That's where things really went wrong. She ran over a buoy, killed the boat, and we drifted into a private boat dock where we then called the lifeguards for help and passed the wait time by eating our dinner. We argued a bit with each other, disagreed a lot, swore a bit, called each other names. Great fun!

I love this group of dynamic women. We are as individual and different as different can be. We get together and there is so much creative energy anything can happen. It's so energizing and such fun.

Actually, the boat got easily fixed and there wasn't any permanent damage to anything. Hope KAS will plan this again some time!

PS...that isn't me sitting in the driver's seat. It's Terrill, the boat killer.

Who killed George and Lynda Taylor?

2011-08-12T23:34:00.000-07:00

On March 18, 1999, my husband and I, along with our youngest son, David, had gone to the premier of a movie "short" a family friend was in in Hollywood. We drove together, and after the movie was shown, our friend's son invited David to go to a post premier party. My husband and I left David in Hollywood and went home to bed.

In the wee hours of the morning, the telephone rang. Every parent's nightmare. I awoke and answered the phone to hear a stern detective ask to speak with my husband, who was the presiding Judge in the Norwalk courthouse at the time. My mother's fears kicked into gear and I questioned the detective, "Where are you calling from? What is this about?" The detective was calling from San Bernardino, which made no sense to me since we'd been in Hollywood. My heart was beating faster than it had ever beaten, and I of course was concerned that this somehow was related to our leaving David in Hollywood. Finally, when the detective refused to talk to me anymore, I handed the phone over to my husband.

My husband quickly learned that George had returned to his home in Rancho Cucamonga following an evening law event, and as he drove into the garage, he was shot to death by someone lying in wait. Lynda was inside the house, sewing dresses for their daughter's coming wedding, and as she ran into the garage to investigate the noise, she was also shot to death.

The shock and dismay overwhelmed us. My husband began calling the court staff in George's courtroom to inform them of the murder and to warn them to increase their own safety.

Here we are, 12 years later. The case hasn't been solved. Actually, it's a cold case and is all but forgotten. But not to me. I remember George and Lynda Taylor. We weren't close friends, but my husband and George were colleagues and we met at social events. They were very nice people. Just like I'm a nice person. And they were struck down in the dead of night. It's been 12 years.

Today my husband and I finished his home office. I hung pictures. George Taylor is in those pictures. Tomorrow we are attending a wedding of another Judge's daughter. Then we are going to the annual Norwalk Judge's BBQ. It's a huge reminder that someone killed George and his wife Lynda. That someone most likely had to do with a case he was presiding over. And that someone is still at large.

Something about this whole case just doesn't seem right. It makes me wonder, if my husband and I were murdered would it matter?

WALK? OR RIDE? WAYS TO ENTERTAIN YOUR DOG

2011-07-31T12:15:00.000-07:00

This is Willie Dog Pratt. He's my 12 year old golden retriever with a summer haircut. He's a very young 12, you wouldn't know he was that old except for his white face. I got him from a rescue organization in 2007. He's been a great dog. Willie and I go for a walk every morning. Sometimes it's just up and down the cul de sacs in our neighborhood for 30 minutes, other times we walk on the nature trail, and some days we go to the park with a lake and ducks. There are a lot of distractions there though, so I don't head that way often. We stay healthy by walking, walking, walking.

The neighbors directly behind us have two golden retrievers and a bernese mountain dog. For those of you unfamilier with that breed, they're a gorgeous dog and can weigh up to 120 pounds. I never see these dogs being taken out for a walk. Instead, the neighbor lady loads the three up into the car, opens the windows (each dog gets a window) and slowly drives them around the neighborhood and out onto the main street. I think she drives around a large block making only right turns, and isn't gone long.

I laugh every time I see her big gray car going slowly through the neighborhood, each dog's head hanging out a window. I do feel badly for the dogs. They're big, working dogs and should be out getting exercise. One day I walked by with Willie and the neighbors grandchildren were in the front yard. They asked to pet Willie so I stopped. Son the neighbors came out and we talked about our dogs. They were surprised Willie was as old as he is, and I told them I attributed it to his regular exercise. They said one of their goldens was terribly arthritic and it was hard for him to walk. I saw them one time after that, walking one of their goldens. That was the only time.

I think my choice is the better way to go.

HOMELESS IN THE OC

2011-07-26T20:59:00.000-07:00

Each day, I drive by numerous homeless, or supposedly homeless folks on my way to and from work or play. Fullerton, California is a good place to be homeless. On the coldest nights, it isn't very cold. There's a park nearby in Anaheim that has become a home base for many homeless folks. They stand on the major street corners, near the freeway on and off ramps, with their cardboard signs claiming they are homeless, out of work, disabled vets, trying to feed children, needing just a few dollars to carry them over, hungry, etc........ Yes, I'm one of those people that hand my money out the window of the car. I always have and I always will. A little voice in my head says, "There but for the grace of God goes I." I think that voice is my Grandma Grace's. She always helped those that were down and out.

I'm not naive. I know some of those folks are scammers, and some others could get a job if they really tried. I also know there are mentally ill folks out there, too. But it isn't up to me to sort them out.

I want to know their stories. I would love to sit down and talk to them, one at a time, and really find out why they're there, living in the park on La Palma in Anaheim, and "working" at the 91 Fwy. and Lemon and Harbor Blvds. I'm considering taking a notebook, and a few $10.00 bills and striking up conversations.

The truth is, people love to talk if they know someone is truly interested in them and willing to listen. I'm truly interested and willing to listen. I'm a good listener. I've been told that a lot. I listen, keep secrets, and I don't judge. I just listen. Maybe I'll do it.

Personal thank you to my Doctor

2011-07-25T14:24:00.000-07:00

It was all in a day's work

To her

Snipping the diseased part

Of my body

Little did she know

The change

Her day's work would make

On my life

I'd become imprisoned

Caged

Unable to live life as I'd

Known it

Chained to my home

The bathroom

Unable to do what

I wanted

She assured me she could do it

She'd done many on her own

She had no doubts

Neither did I

Here I am fifteen years later

Able to live

To do

To create

To enjoy

To travel the world

To help others in need

I hope she stops every now and then

And knows

The impact she's had

On me.

Boomers and Jerry Springer: The Opera

2011-07-24T21:06:00.000-07:00

I bought tickets to the Chance Theater at a silent auction for the last three plays in the 2011 season. The first one was JERRY SPRINGER: THE OPERA. I enlisted the hubby to go, and asked Tom and Amy if they would like to go, too. Amy said yes so I got two more ticket to the Sunday matinee. We planned to meet Scott and Georgia, our friends and honorary producers of the play for dinner following.

I, having watched a Jerry Springer show or two in my lifetime, kind of knew what to expect...or thought I knew. Amy and I sat next to each other, and the guys sat next to each other. It's sort of a boomer thing. Don't ask. Anyway, the show started out in typical Jerry Springer fashion. The air was blue with foul language. Dysfunctional folks were on stage. The first skits were the "I have a secret" type. There was the usual "I want to be a pole dancer", "I'm having an affair with your best friend AND with a transexual at the same time, but I still love you and want us to be together", but the final skit was a little over the top. A handsome young man and a pretty young woman, very obviously in love, come out and the handsome young man reveals his secret. It seems he wants to be the "BABY" in the relationship...literally. He wants to suck on a pacifier, wear diapers, poop his pants, and have them changed by his fiance. EWWWW! Up until now, Amy and I are yucking it up, finding the whole thing pretty funny. It was then I noticed "hubby" and Tom weren't laughing very much. Intermission came and I found out just how much they were offended.

I don't know about me. I suppose I should have been more offended than I was. It seems as I get older, I'm less offended than when I was younger. I thought it was a hoot. Oh well. What do I know.

Scott and Georgia met us for dinner, having already seen the play twice. They greeted us with, "Are you guys still speaking to us?"

I FORGOT WHAT I WAS GOING TO POST!

2011-07-22T21:09:00.000-07:00

Oh yeah, now I remember. A big problem with us boomers is that we can't remember from moment to moment. I've been out of town for a week. My husband was gone for four days. We missed our friends, so today I called Amy to see if she and Tom wanted to meet at the Harbor Mexican Cafe for dinner. She said "sure, we'll meet you there at 6:30". Later I received a message from Amy saying that SHE'D FORGOTTEN that she'd made arrangements with her girlfriends for dinner tonight and she'd have to cancel our dinner. Even later, my husband (he who must remain anonymous), talked with Tom who was surprised we'd even thought about having dinner at the Harbor Mexican Cafe. He thought the Harbor Mexican Cafe had closed two weeks ago. Funny thing...it had...then it reopened...then it closed again...now it's open again for real! I had sent Tom emails providing him with updates during the crisis, but HE FORGOT. Anyway, my husband and I had dinner. I had meant to call the Tom and Darlene to see if they were available, but I FORGOT! Just as well. My husband ate, almost fell asleep during dinner, and now he's snoozing in the recliner chair while I'm typing
away. However, I forgot why I was posting. I think it had something to do with my new hobby, painting. But maybe it had something to do with my 99 cent books on Amazon.

Also, I sent a picture to post, but I FORGOT HOW TO DO IT!

TEHAMA GRACE: HOME AGAIN, BOOMER STYLE

2011-07-20T20:23:00.000-07:00

My son, Bill and I just returned from a week visiting Tehama Grace country. My mother, brothers, nephew, niece, her husband, and her children live in the area around where Tehama Grace was set. Bill and I had a great little vacation. Along with seeing all the family, we visited Sutter Buttes, the ranch country around Elk Creek, the Sundial Bridge in Redding, Mount Lassen Park (thank you brother Larry for arranging the road to open through the park the day before we all took our tour). We also made a few trips to Chico, California, one of my favorite places. We ate at Madison Bear Gardens, bought fruits and vegetables at the Thursday night street fair, and Bill visited the Sierra Nevada brewery several times!

Driving home, it occurred to me that going to Orland, Chico, Vina, Elk Creek, reminded me of my childhood in Iowa. I love the peace and quiet, the farmland, animals in pastures, birds singing, and sitting on the front porch in the evening petting the front porch kitty. It soothes my soul.

Interesting boomer aside...I purchased my cemetery plot while there. I know, I know, kind of creepy, but the cemetery is almost sold out. It's on a small hill, outside of Orland, California, and overlooks pastureland filled with cattle. Stony Creek bubbles slowly by. As a girl, I visited my Uncle Tom and Aunt Grace when they lived in Orland, before my parents moved there. I rode horses over that land, swam in Stony Creek, and dreamed of my future. My Dad is already buried in Graves' Cemetery. So is Uncle Tom and Aunt Grace.

On a lighter note...TEHAMA GRACE is now available as a 99 cent ebook from Amazon.com. I hope you enjoy it. This book is appropriate for all ages. Remember, you can download the Amazon Kindle application onto your computer, smart phone, ipad, and multiple other devices FOR FREE. And my books are all just 99 cents! Such a deal! (Except for Let Them Eat Cake, which is still under contract with the original publisher. It's worth the money, though. Good book if I do say so myself!)

OC BOOMER IN PALM SPRINGS

2011-06-12T15:22:00.000-07:00

We went to Palm Desert this last week and stayed in our timeshare. What a relaxing week. We did all the boomer things. Napped, read, sunned, ate, drank wine, tried new restaurants, golfed, visited with our boomer friends. The first weekend, Dick and Jane went out with us. Some years ago we'd gone on a trip to India and met another couple who got married while they were in India, then invited the four of us to their wedding for friends and relatives when they returned home. We hadn't seen them since, but we called them this trip and the six of us got together to eat, drink and reminisce. After Dick and Jane went home, we played a bit of golf, I cooked dinner for cousins that live in Palm Springs, and a family friend who lives in the area, too. We did a lot of comparing of physical ailments while downing our wine. That's another boomer thing. Did I say we napped? Every day. I painted a bit-my new hobby-but didn't get any writing done. This is boring, even to me, so I'm going to go take another nap. I think my brain is still on vacation.

DECORATION DAY

2011-05-30T13:54:00.000-07:00

When I was a child growing up in Iowa, Memorial Day was called Decoration Day. Decoration Day started after the Civil War to honor those that died during that war. Somewhere along the way it became Memorial Day. On that special day, the females in the family rose at dawn to pick flowers from gardens, arrange them in jars and tin cans that had been covered with fabric, and load them into the car for the trip to the cemeteries. Then they would pack a big picnic basket of food to take with us. Everyone climbed into the car and off we'd go to every cemetery within driving distance where our ancestors were buried. And there were lots of them, on both sides of my family. At each stop, Mom or Grandma-when she was alive-would choose the appropriate flower bouquets and we'd tend each grave. Tending meant pulling any stray weeds away, tossing old dried up flowers or plants, arranging the fresh ones, then reminiscing about the people buried there. This is how I've learned most of my family history. Traveling from grave to grave, hearing stories of pioneers traveling from the east coast to Iowa to make their homes. I also heard stories about the military service of my ancestors, even back to the American Revolution. I can close my eyes right now and see myself standing amongst those graves. To me it was beautiful, and an event I looked forward to all year.

Now, Decoration Day is Memorial Day, and more than remembering and honoring those that have gone before us, it's a day to gather friends together to barbeque, drink, and celebrate the unofficial beginning of summer. I've talked with other boomers who used to visit cemeteries, but our children have little interest in doing so. Too bad we've lost that tradition.

Thank you to all those service members who have honored us all by serving in our military.

Boomers: Choices

2011-05-25T22:48:00.000-07:00

I drive five hundred miles alone

With the music I love feeding my soul

And I find myself again

Tucked away in a corner of my heart

For safekeeping

There I am

Curled into a ball of disappointment

Wrapped in the shell of someone I don't really know

Waiting

Choices I've made

Roads I've taken

It's too late now

But I wish I'd known

How far they were taking me from the girl I once was

Once upon a time

I was fearless

I didn't bow to anyone

Even as a tiny child

I said I'll do it myself

When did I allow someone else to take over

How do I get my life back before it's too late

I wonder

How did I come to the point

Where safe was the way to go

I vowed

I'd never be one of those

No, not me

I wouldn't give up on myself

I was far too strong

I knew it wasn't the right thing to do

And yet, here I am

Having done exactly the thing I said I wouldn't

Where do I go from here

How do I gather the strength to say

Enough, I've had enough

I'm taking my power back

If that means I'm alone, then so be it

And so, a small fire starts to burn inside

A flicker of hope

Maybe it's not too late

I may still have time

To become the person I want to be.

Mom and Me, Going to the OC

2011-05-20T20:39:00.000-07:00

This was taken at the Buddhist Temple in La Habra Heights a year or so ago when Mom came for a visit. Tomorrow we're heading for the OC again. Mom doesn't live in the OC, but visits often. This past Wednesday, I drove 500 miles in my rented Impala. I love the drive every now and then. This time I took lots of CD's I hadn't listened to in months, maybe years, and I listened to music all the way. I stopped every 2 hours to stretch my legs, refill the coffee mug, and fill the car gas tank. I left rain in the OC and it was gone by the time I reached Harris Ranch. Blue skys, beautiful mountain views, and acres of crops all around. Gorgeous. I arrive on Wednesday in time to visit with my nephew and brothers. Thursday Mom and I drove to Chico and did a little shopping, lunch, and went to the cemetary outside of Orland to visit Dad's grave. Yes, we boomers do some grave visiting every now and then. Friday we went back to Chico to visit cousin Jennifer, then visited the Glenn Fair. Fun. I visited the animal barns until I'd had enough of cow poop, the we came home to get ready for the trip tomorrow.

It seems so peaceful and quiet here, the birds sing all day long, and I can sit on the porch and pet the stray cats that have taken up residence here. Yet, brother Larry had to go out on a call last night to report on a murder in Hamilton City, just 10 miles away. Not so different from home.

Back to the OC tomorrow. We boomers burn up the highways.

PILES AND LISTS

2011-05-17T18:19:00.000-07:00

Yes, piles. But not the kind you immediately thought of. I know there are "those" piles that boomers can relate to, but the kind I'm talking about are the kind in the picture.

Recently we went on a boomer retreat, otherwise known as a golf tournament weekend. While the boomer guys (known either as Dicks or Tims) were slaying dragons on the golf course, the boomer girls (Janes and Sallys) were having a tea party while watching the royal wedding (champagne and mimosas were also included--we are boomers), going to the movies to see the one about the old guy that ran away to join the circus, and then we lunched. During our lunch, we got on the subject of piles and lists. It seems in every boomer family there's a pile maker and a list maker. You can see by the picture that I have a pile maker in my household. The pile rule is the piles must stay in certain places. The office being the main one, then a corner of the kitchen table, and perhaps part of the kitchen counter. When the piles start growing and expanding, the non-pile maker in the household must lay down the law. I know, I know, pile and list makers are very organized. One of the Jane pile makers did admit to just moving her piles around and rearranging them but never throwing anything away.

My favorite story from that enlightening lunch was one Jane told. Dick and Jane had married when they were older after both having lost their spouses. One day, Jane had to go in for a minor surgery. Dick drove her to the surgery center, dropped her off, and promised to come back for her when she was ready to go home. Though he's quite forgetful, Dick did return as promised, and when Jane got into the car she noticed a yellow post it note on the steering column. It read simply, "Pick up wife." Her name wasn't even on it. Just "wife". Jane will never let Dick forget it.

Boomers in the OC. Well, maybe this was actually Egypt. But I'm an OC Boomer!

2011-05-16T11:51:00.000-07:00

Here I am in Egypt. The pyramids at Giza to be exact. My husband fixed me up with these two handsome fellows, but they couldn't come up with enough camels to buy me, so I got to come back to the OC.

This is one of the many things we OC boomers do. We love to travel all over the world and come back to the OC to share our tales and pictures with those that don't go with us. Usually we do so in one of the many fantastic restaurants here in the OC, and drink a bottle or two or three of wine while we're regaling all with our stories. Like when we were in Egypt, there was a church bombing in Alexandria shortly after we left, and there was a terrible bus accident involving Americans while we were there, too. We ate strange fish, and were forced to drink only Egyptian wine-when we could find that. Wine is hard to come by in a Muslim country. A revolution broke out shortly after we'd returned home. I hope we had nothing to do with it, but it seems there were protests and revolutionary activity when we were in Kenya, too. Hmmmm.

I hope you all enjoy my boomer blog. Look out boomer friends. I'm on the lookout for funny stories. None of you will escape. I may change the names to protect the innocent.

As an aside. I really like the newest Viagra commercial with the cowboy who gets his truck stuck in the mud and unloads his horses from the trailer to pull the truck out. Makes so much more sense to me than the Cialis commercial where he's in one bathtub and she's in another. I'll never get that one.

FREE BOOK: CORNFLOWER BLUE

2011-05-15T14:28:00.000-07:00

Chapter 1

Alone on the platform, Misty Dawn James watched the Amtrak train she’d just disembarked pull away from California’s Fullerton Station and disappear into the night. This was supposed to be the beginning of her new life, and she’d never felt so alone.

The train station parking lot was crowded with cars circling for spaces, and Misty found it difficult to maneuver while carrying her bags.

“You look a bit lost. Would you like some help?”

Misty jumped, startled. She hadn’t heard anyone approach. “I...I’m looking for a pay phone.”

“Where are you going?”

Misty was unable to answer for a moment. The strikingly handsome, tall young man standing in front of her caught her off guard. He had black hair, dark brown eyes, and a sparkling white smile.

She pointed in the direction of The Old Spaghetti Factory. “The ticket clerk in the train station said there was a phone in the restaurant.”

“You don’t want to carry those bags over there. Use my cell phone.”

He handed her his phone, and waited patiently.

“Are you sure? I’ll pay you.”

The young man laughed. “You don’t need to pay me. I have no social life since I’m always either at school or work, so I have lots of minutes I never use.”

Misty took a piece of paper from her pocket and dialed the number written on it. She listened to it ring several times and was about to give up when it was finally answered.

“Aunt Marigold? I’m here. Can you come get me?” Misty asked.

“Where the hell are you? Your parents are going crazy with worry.”

“In California. I’m at the train station in Fullerton.”

“The train? Why didn’t you fly?”

Misty turned away so the young man wouldn’t hear her and whispered into the phone. “I wanted to see the countryside, that’s why. I’ve never been out of Iowa.”

“Why didn’t you tell your parents where you were going? And why didn’t you give me some warning?” Marigold didn’t wait for an answer. “Never mind. I’ll be right there and you can tell me the whole story when we get you home.”

Misty handed the cell phone back to the handsome man. “Thanks a lot. My aunt is coming to pick me up.”

“You’re welcome. Wait over there under the light so you’ll be safe. I would wait with you but I have to go start my shift.”

Misty felt a shiver of apprehension flood over her. “Should I be worried about being out here alone?”

“Your eyes are as big as saucers. You look scared out of your wits.”

Misty swallowed hard before speaking. “I’ve never been in a big city. I kind of grew up sheltered. Is it dangerous here?”

“Not really. Fullerton is safe, but you kind of stand out.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Actually, you look innocent and kinda vulnerable with all your suitcases and bags piled around.” He touched her shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. “Look, if your aunt doesn’t show or anything, come and get me. Just ask for Esteban. I’m sorry I have to go.”

Misty watched him jog across the parking lot towards The Old Spaghetti Factory. When she couldn’t see him any longer, she lugged her bags back to the sidewalk under the light to wait for her aunt.

If you would like to read more, visit my website at www.kathypratt.org and send me your contact information. The first 25 people to respond will be sent a free copy of Cornflower Blue.

THE DASHING YOUNG MAN ON THE FLYING TRAPEZE

2011-05-11T13:20:00.000-07:00

One evening I arrived at work, walked onto the ward, and was greeted by the sight of Mr. Sims swinging himself by both arms while hanging from the trapeze bar over his bed. I looked towards the nurse's station and saw that the RN, Mrs. Brown, was on the phone. I hoped she was calling the doctor to help Mr. Sims.

Mr. Sims was a tanned, wiry little man who lived in the Imperial Valley in California, close to the Mexican border. He was a farmer and grew alfalfa, barley and cotton on his acres. He'd been involved in an accident with farm equipment and lost both of his legs just above the knees. He was admitted to our unit to be fitted with artificial legs, rehabilitated, and ultimately sent back home to his farm. Mr. Sims was a humble man, quiet, and very polite. What we didn't know about him was he was also a closet alcoholic. He'd kept that little tidbit of information from us during his admission interview. Him swinging naked from the trapeze was our first clue he might be having DT's.

Mrs. Brown called his family in Brawley and they confirmed that Mr. Sims was indeed a drinker and had been without alcohol since coming to our hospital three days earlier. Perfect timing for withdrawal. Mrs. Brown then called the doctor on call and received orders to give the patient Paraldehyde injections. Now there are much better medications, but in 1968, this was all we had. Paraldehyde was a thick, viscous solution, that smelled to high heaven of a strong chemical with a little vinegar mixed in. The odor is very distinctive and can be smelled on the breath of anyone who takes it. It had to be drawn out of the vial using large bore needles, and then injected slowly into a large muscle. Guess who got that job?

I drew the medication dose up in two syringes, enlisted the help of several nurse aides, and went to Mr. Sims bedside. There was no reasoning with Mr. Sims, so we had to pry his hands free from the trapeze bar and get him back onto the mattress. This was no small feat. Mr. Sims was little, but he was powerful from all his years of farm work. We finally got him down and turned onto his stomach so I could inject each syringe fully into the large muscle on his backside. He screamed like a banshee throughout the whole procedure, but eventually settled down and went to sleep. Within a couple of days he was back to being his normal, polite and kind self. We couldn't resist teasing him a bit about his flying trapeze act, though. He did recover, get two new prosthetics for legs, and went back to Brawley to his farm. I hope he didn't start drinking again, but life experience tells me he most likely did.

AMAZON KINDLE AND STUFF

2011-05-08T13:18:00.000-07:00

I've just published Miss Dairy Queen on Amazon Kindle as an ebook. I've decided to become my own publishing company. Me and Amazon are doing this together. And I'm going to sell every book I write for 99 cents! 99 CENTS! Doesn't get any better than that. Miss Dairy Queen was formerly titled Cornflower Blue, so if you bought it, don't buy this one unless you really like the cool cover. I love those calves! I'm also selling Medicinal Remedies and Bless us Father for 99 CENTS. I'm working on a sequel to Miss Dairy Queen, California Gals, and it should be finished this summer.

Here's the scoop on Amazon Kindle books. In order to buy and read them on a device, you must be a registered Amazon user, register your reading device, and you must download the Kindle application onto your reading device. Following is a list of reading devices in addition to the KINDLE itself:

iPad

iPhone

iPod touch

MAC

Blackberry

Android-based devices.

When I got my iPad I gave Mom my Kindle. My husband registered his iPad on my Amazon account, and I also registered my Verizon Droid on Amazon. We all share books that way. I buy one book and can download it onto all 4 devices.

And yes, I DO read books on my Droid. I always have it with me and have been stuck in waiting rooms many times and am grateful to have a book to read. Okay, I know I'm an addict. But hey, there are worse addictions.

Please, please, please buy and read my books!

Dance as if No One is Watching

2010-11-16T11:12:00.000-08:00

Recently we were in Palm Desert for a week. My favorite area is downtown Palm Springs. We went to one of my favorite restaurants, Las Casuealas, the second night we were there. We sat outside, enjoying our drinks and dinner while listening to music performed by a group that did music from "our era". I watched couples dancing. I felt like dancing but it wasn't really a "dancing" evening, so we continued eating, drinking, conversing and listening to music. After a bit, I noticed a woman close to my age was on the dance floor all by herself. She was a very good dancer and the fact that she didn't have a partner didn't stop her. She swayed to the music, waving her arms gracefully, all the while smiling contentedly. She was dancing as if no one was watching, but I was. And, I was envying her her freedom to do exactly what she wanted when she wanted, not held back by convention or fear of being judged by others as being "that odd woman dancing by herself". Once upon a time I was that woman, but not anymore. Oh, to be able to Dance As If No One Is Watching.

Please check out BLESS US FATHER, my latest novel, on Amazon.com Kindle application. It is only 99 cents. MEDICINAL REMEDIES has also been reduced in price to 2.99.

Tehama Grace is Finished...last chapter

2010-10-27T16:39:00.001-07:00

Autumn turned to winter. The grape vines had dropped all their leaves and stood dormant in the fields. The rains hadn't started yet and the days were still warm, though nights had gotten quite chilly. Little work needed to be done on the ranch and many of the hands had left to go back to look for work elsewhere.

Now that there were three women in the house, the chores got done quickly and the rest of the day was free to do with as they pleased.

Jesse and I usually took the horses out for a ride after the morning chores were done, then he'd go into town to work on Mrs. Shupe's house. According to him, she'd grown quite fond of him and had taken to calling him her grandson. She'd send him home at the end of each day with home baked breads and cookies. He'd share them with me and Shep under the big tree after supper.

Emily and I had settled into a comfortable relationship, though it was quite different from before. Instead of taking on a mother role, she acted more like she was my aunt or godmother and deferred all decisions on what I could and could not do to Mother.

Pa and Mother spent long afternoons driving around the countryside looking for a ranch to buy. Mother had bought another horse and buggy shortly after getting to Vina, not wanting to have to borrow Emily's again. Some days they were gone for hours, and I hoped they wouldn't choose a ranch so far away from Vina. I would miss seeing Emily, Jesse and Shep too much.

Late in the afternoon of one lazy day, while Emily and I sat knitting by the fire, I heard the sound of Pa and Mother returning up the drive. I put my knitting down and went out to meet them.

"Hello there, daughter." Pa took his hat off and waved it to me. "We've found her, all right."

"Her?"

"Our new home. Rancho Paraiso."

I clutched at my throat, happy that we would soon be in a new home, but hoping it would be nearby. I held my breath.

"We reached an agreement with the former owners, and just as soon as the money is transferred from Wells Fargo, Rancho Paraiso will be hours," Mother said, getting down from the buggy. "Let's go inside and I'll tell you all about it."

I exhaled and followed her into the house, my heart thudding against my chest wall.

Mother got a cup of coffee from the pot on the wood stove, and brought it with her to a chair near the fire where Emily sat knitting.

"Good news, Emily. We'll be out of your way soon. We've found a ranch to buy." Mother sipped at her coffee.

Emily didn't answer for a moment, and kept her eyes on the work in her hands. After a bit she said, "Going to be awfully quiet around here."

"You could go with us," Mother said quietly. "There will be plenty of room for you and Grace and I will need help."

"Mr. and Mrs. Gerke couldn't do without me."

"Well, certainly they would have a difficult time finding a replacement..."

Emily raised her hand. "No. I can't leave here, but thank you for the offer."

"Well then, we'll just have to visit often. We aren't going to be but a few miles away."

"Oh, Mother, where?" I was so relieved I couldn't wait any longer.

"Why, just a few short miles north of Vina, on the road towards Tehama. The Southern part of our ranch borders Vina Ranch. The east border of our land is the Sacramento River. We'll have about 13,000 acres. It was originally one of the Mexican Land Grant Ranchos, but now the family is selling off half of it. It will be just the right size for us to start our cattle operation."

I looked at Emily and saw that she had a contented look on her face.

"It will be good to have women friends as neighbors. I'm pleased." Emily put her knitting in the basket. "I'm going out to fee Shep, then I believe I'll retire to my room to read. You and your family have a lot to talk about."

Shortly after Emily left, Pa returned, followed by Jesse.

"Did you tell her all about it?" Pa was looking at Mother expectantly.

"Not everything. You and Jesse sit down and I'll make you sandwiches."

"Not for me, ma'am." Jesse rubbed his stomach. "I'm gettin' fat as a tick. Mrs. Shupe stuffs my face every time I go there."

"I could eat a bear," Pa said. "Give me his share."

"Is there a house?" I asked.

"Why, there's at least three houses. One main one. It's a big old thing, kinda like this one. A wood farmhouse. Then there's another smaller wood one, and a long old bunkhouse. We'll need a lot of help in the beginning." Pa took the sandwiches Mother handed him and bit off a big chew.

It dawned on me that Mother had mentioned a cattle operation. "What do we know about cattle?"

"Not a lot, Grace, but we can certainly learn and we'll hire the appropriate men to help us." Mother was gazing at Jesse. "I don't suppose you know about cattle ranching?"

"Me?" he asked.

"Yes, Jesse, you."

"Well, yes, ma'am. I grew up on a cattle ranch. I've wrangled since I was just a little guy."

"Then perhaps you'd like a job as our foreman." Mother leaned forward and looked into Jesse's eyes. "Are you man enough for the job?"

"I put in a good word fer ya son," Pa said, then took another bite of his sandwich.

I noticed Jesse blushing in pleasure. He looked at the ground and rubbed his palms together in thought. "Yes, I s'pose I am man enough at that."

"Well then we've got us a deal," Mother said, extending her hand to him to shake. "We'll move in early December. You can come when you're ready and once we all get settled we'll plan out our operation."

"Ma'am, this is just about the best thing that's happened to me in many a year, and I thank you. I'm going to call it a night."

We all said our good nights and Pa decided he was going to retire as well. Mother set to cleaning the kitchen, then got out her book to read.

"I'm going out to check on Shep."

"All right, dear. Don't be long. It's dark outside now."

I got my shawl from my room and wrapped it around my shoulders. The moon was full so the path that led to the old oak tree was well lit.

Shep was lying on a pile of leaves underneath the tree. He was snoring softly but woke when I approached, his tail thudding on the leaves sending them into the air. I settled down next to him and took his big head in my lap. He sighed contentedly as I scratched his ears. Maybe Emily would let me take him, but then again he was a good watch dog and she was here alone a lot. I was sure Mother and Pa would let me have a dog of my own. I had a horse, and a dog was less trouble than a horse. We would need dogs on the ranch to help with the cattle, too. Why, I'd have lots and lots of dogs.

Most importantly I had my family back together again. It had been a long haul, but we'd made it. And Jesse was coming, too. Not as my husband as he'd wanted, but there was plenty of time for that in the future. I looked into the sky, saw a shooting star, and made a wish.

TEHAMA GRACE

2010-10-25T14:28:00.000-07:00

Here I am, in Ireland, flying a Harris Hawk. Such fun. Lots has happened since my last post. We had our Ireland trip, came back, I had carpal tunnel surgery on my right (typing) hand, then came down with severe asthmatic bronchitis. Whew! Much better now.

The good news is, the http://www.textnovel.com/ contest is almost over. I almost have Tehama Grace finished as well. (Now that I can type again). Wish me luck in the contest, please! If I win, I get $1000 but more importantly, a chance for agent representation and a chance to get published. That would be wonderful. I love Tehama Grace and believe in it. I could do a whole series of Grace stories! Maybe I just will.

TEHAMA GRACE/TEXTNOVEL CONTEST FINALIST

2010-10-05T10:02:00.000-07:00

Hi Everyone,

My novel Tehama Grace is now a FINALIST in the Textnovel Contest. I'm so excited. Please go to http://www.textnovel.com/ and vote for my story by signing up and clicking on the little fist. Thank you all so much.

Darkness

2010-09-15T14:18:00.000-07:00

I feel the darkness descending on me. It's been away for a long, long, time, but now I think I'll allow it to visit for a bit. I'm in need of a bit of introspection. It fuels my creative energies. Like Hemingway. Not to say that I'm really like Hemingway. Just dark right now like he was. I've been shelving my negative thoughts at the advice of the positive minded gurus I listen to on the radio. Sometimes you just have to let the sadness in. This is a sad world and I've witnessed more than my share of sadness. Not in my personal life per se, but in the lives of others that have touched me.

Since I started working for hospice 16 years ago, I've kept a journal of all the patients I've cared for. I finally stopped adding to the journal, there were just too many deaths, but last night I looked through it. All those faces came back to me in an instant. They haven't been put as far away as I thought. All that pain and suffering.

TEXTNOVEL CONTEST

2010-09-06T10:44:00.000-07:00

Woo Hoo! Both of my novels were noticed in the Textnovel Contest. Bless Us Father received an Honorable Mention.

TEHAMA GRACE is in the semi-finals. Please, please, please go to http://www.textnovel.com/ and vote for Tehama Grace. Be patient, sometimes that website loads slowly.

Thank you all!

(This is me, borrowing a grandchild.)

SOMEONE PLEASE SCRATCH THAT ITCH!

2010-09-03T21:51:00.001-07:00

My evening shift was going along smoothly until the nurse’s aide ran into the medicine room to tell me she wasn’t going anywhere near one of the patients she was assigned to because there were worms all over his bed. I stopped what I was doing, locked the medication room door, and went to investigate.

The patient was a young man in his early twenties who’d been in a motorcycle accident. He'd suffered a severe head injury and numerous broken bones. The unit I was working on was the amputee and fracture ward, so once his condition had stabilized in the acute care hospital, he’d been transferred to us for rehabilitation. He was recovering some from the head injury and was starting awaken from his coma, but not enough to understand where he was or what had happened to him. His right leg was in a cast from his toes to the middle of his thigh and was suspended in the air by traction that was connected to pins running through the bones in two places.

I approached the bed and noticed he was extremely restless and agitated. When I pulled the sheet back to inspect his leg, I found there were indeed many crawly things coming out of the top of the cast, hence the source of his agitation. Maggots. Hundreds and hundreds of maggots had hatched and were now crawling around on his skin and out the top of the cast. There were so many of them they were now falling onto the floor.

Three of the nurse’s aides were standing nearby, watching me expectantly. I told them they couldn’t just leave him like that and the worms were not going to hurt them so they needed to clean him up. I went back to the nurse’s station to call the doctor, and when I turned to check on the aides, the three were still huddled together and looking at me like I was crazy.

I placed a call to the doctor, an overworked and crabby resident who probably hadn’t slept in days, and told him the problem. He wasn’t familiar with the patient and didn’t think the situation was in any way urgent enough to bother him with. He told me not to worry about the maggots, there was probably an open wound under the cast that was infected, and the maggots would clean the wound out by eating all the dead tissue. He said to send the patient to the cast room the next day to have the cast removed and replaced.

Glancing back over at the young man who was writhing in bed in obvious discomfort, I knew this situation may not be urgent to the doctor but it certainly was urgent to the man lying in the bed. I went back to the medication room and opened a corner cupboard where I knew little used medications were kept. I took out a can that had been sitting there for months and looked at the label. Ether. I’d heard stories from older nurses about using ether to kill maggots in wounds, so I made a decision. I took the can back out to the patient’s bedside, opened it, and poured the contents inside the cast. Within seconds, all of the maggots outside of the cast were dead, so I assumed the ones inside were dead, too. The young man settled down and went to sleep after the nurse’s aides came to change his sheets and make him comfortable.

He went for a cast change the next day and I feared that when I came back to work there would be many questions about how the maggots had died. To my relief, no one asked me anything when I reported for duty the next evening.

Happily, this young man recovered from all of his injuries and was able to walk out of the hospital on his own. I’m sure he had a long recovery period, more because of his head injury than the broken bones, but hopefully he went on to live a full life. And I hope he stayed off motorcycles.

THE NIGHT I'LL NEVER FORGET

2010-08-31T19:57:00.000-07:00

In the early 1980’s, I spent many nights working in the intensive care units of hospitals in Orange County. My children were small and I’d found a way to work and still be home with them during the day when they needed me. My husband would come home and care for them in the evening on the nights I worked. My shifts were twelve hours long, from seven in the evening to seven in the morning, and I was able to make the same amount of money two days a week that I made in a forty hour work week at my prior job. I worked for a nursing registry that sent me to different hospitals each night, and this particular night I was working in Garden Grove.

Each hospital had their own distinct way of handling the registry nurses. Some of the charge nurses would assign the registry nurse the easier patients to care for and give the more complex patients to their own staff. Other charge nurses would give the registry nurses the most difficult assignments and let the regular staff take it easy.

The charge nurse in the Garden Grove Hospital assigned the most critically ill patient to herself, which was a tremendous relief to me. The patient was a twelve year old boy who had been hit by a car earlier that day and suffered a horrendous head injury. His head was swathed in a huge white turban of gauze and his eyelids were bruised purple and swollen shut. Drainage tubes emerged from the gauze and were connected to a glass bottle which was filling with pinkish liquid indicating it was cerebral spinal fluid mixed with blood.

A tube was inserted through his mouth and into his lungs, and connected to a respirator that did all the breathing for him. Intravenous lines ran into both his arms and a foley catheter kept his bladder empty as the clear yellow urine slowly drained into a bag hanging on the side of the bed.

The boy didn’t move a muscle, and the charge nurse rarely left his side. The ICU was a tiny one with only four beds, so we were all in close proximity to the critical situation and were there to help when the need arose. She would call one of us over to stand guard when she absolutely had to take a bathroom break, but the rest of the time she was the one right there with him.

His parents and older sister wandered in and out all night long. They’d stand by his side and stroke his hand, speaking softly to him, crying and hugging one another.

Around three in the morning, the boy’s heart monitor and blood pressure readings changed significantly, letting us know that he was dying. We rushed to the waiting room and called for his family to come in. They stood at the bedside as he died, weeping uncontrollably. His sister cried out, “Do something! He can’t die. He’s the only brother I’ve got.”

Oh, how I wish we could have done something. All we could do was watch and weep ourselves. It was out of our hands. I can’t think about that little boy or his family without tears coming to my eyes still.

I walked out of the hospital at the end of my shift and thought I would never set foot in one again. Be still, my soul.

APPALACHIA IN ORANGE COUNTY

2010-08-30T13:04:00.001-07:00

In my part-time work as a hospice nurse I’m often sent to see patients I know little about. I view it as an adventure and also as an opportunity to put the pieces of a puzzle together. One day in early summer, I was sent to see an elderly lady in Orange County, California, who was dying of end stage dementia. The only information I was given was her name, address, and telephone number. I looked it up on my street map since it was in the days prior to GPS, and made my way there. I turned into an ordinary working class neighborhood of one story ranch style California homes, located the street and found the house number on the mail box at the curb.

This particular house sat at the end of a long driveway and was obscured from view by many fruit trees and tall weeds in the front yard. I retrieved my medical bag and notebook and started down the drive. Lined along one side were several junk cars that seemed to be slowly rusting into the ground. The house came into view and seated in a rocking chair on the front porch was a very fat, old, toothless man smoking a pipe. He smiled at me as I walked up and told me to “just go right on in the house”.

I opened the door and stepped inside. I’d only taken a couple of steps when I had to stop, not sure whether what I was seeing was real or a hallucination. The house was dark, dirty, and dreary. What were formerly drapes now hung at the windows in shreds that resembled ropes. To block out the light, someone had taped big pieces of cardboard to the windows, and old sofas lined the walls of the living room. Once my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I realized there were bodies covered with blankets lying on the sofas. Various bodily noises were frequently being emitted from these lumps under the covers, the odor in the house attested to the origin of the noises.

Trash, newspapers, and junk were piled everywhere. I wondered where I would find my patient in all of this, then finally located her lying in a hospital bed in what would have been the dining room of the home. She was clean and her clothing and bed linens were clean as well, much to my surprise and relief. I took a disposable plastic barrier from my bag and placed it on top of a stack of newspapers so I had a sanitary place to put my bag and notebook. I was getting ready to examine the patient when I heard footsteps coming down the hall. Expecting to greet the patient’s son, I was dismayed to find myself face to face with a man wearing only a towel. He’d apparently just come from the shower. When I inquired if he was the son, he said no, and shouted out the son’s name.

Soon, Billy appeared. He was a younger version of the elderly man on the porch. Billy wore overalls that were filthy, and he didn’t have a shirt, so I was treated to the sight of major chest hair and pretty foul body odor.

Billy greeted me with great enthusiasm and said he was just about to get his mom up to the commode by her bed and then I could do my exam. He lifted the lid of the commode, and I was again dismayed to see it was filled almost to the brim with bodily waste. Apparently it was the real source of the odor in the house. Billy explained without apology that the toilet wasn’t working so he couldn’t empty the contents of the commode. I didn’t bother to ask what the rest of the residents of the house did when they needed to use the toilet.

I finished my exam, checked the patient’s medications, and gave him some more supplies to help him care for his mother. I stood up to write my nursing notes as I balanced them on the patient’s chart, as there wasn’t a clean place to sit. I exited the house as soon as I could.

Billy met me outside with a paper bag. He thanked me for the visit and told me there were homegrown tomatoes in the bag. I thanked him for the gift and said homegrown tomatoes were one of my very favorite things, and I took them to my car. Once home I scrubbed them with soap and water and laid them on paper towels in the kitchen to dry. That’s where they stayed until my husband decided to eat them, telling me I was being silly not wanting to touch them. I couldn’t bring myself to take even one bite, and still wonder what kind of fertilizer grew such beautiful tomatoes.

Day One of Diet and Exercise Plan

2010-08-27T09:00:00.000-07:00

Here I am in Yosemite, hiding half of me behind John Muir. Today is the first day of the rest of my life. Heard that before? Well, it is. Today I am starting my training program to climb up Mt. Sinai in January 2011. While in Yosemite this week I started on the "Dan Diet" and lost three pounds. The Dan Diet consists of eating one sensible meal a day, and two snacks consisting of fruit. One day we split a spinach salad for lunch and we also nibbled on pistachios during the day. Thank goodness the Dan Diet also allows red wine or I'd be in big trouble.

Okay, I need to loose some serious lb.'s before this walk up the mountain which is 7,500 feet altitude. My knees and feet are bothering me. It's time. Also, we did some hiking uphill in Yosemite and I got really winded. The altitude was only 5,600 feet where we were hiking. Big wake up call.

Here's the plan: Dan Diet, walking 30 minutes a day (for the dog), and doing serious cardio on the exercycle and the eliptical when it arrives. I'll keep you'all posted. (You'all primarily being me, since I think I'm probably the only one that reads this. Maybe I should title this blog Dear Diary?)

Side Show Mary

2010-08-20T09:37:00.000-07:00

Mary, a lady in her late thirties, was admitted to our unit for help with weight loss. She’d been the circus fat lady for one of the major big top circuses for a number of years, but once she’d gotten so heavy she wasn’t able to walk, she became bed bound in her home. A family member finally called the fire department and when they arrived, they sawed around her door to make it wide enough to get Mary out, and then brought her to our hospital. When she arrived, we weren’t able to get an accurate weight but knew that she was well over 750 pounds. Our transportation gurney weighed 250 pounds and when we loaded Mary on and took her to the freight scales, the needle buried on the other side of 1000 pounds.

In those days, there weren’t any king size hospital beds available for patients so the engineering department of the hospital bolted two hospital beds together for Mary. When we needed to provide Mary with care, we would have to climb up onto the bed with her; otherwise we couldn’t reach far enough across her body to properly bathe her. Bedpan time was a major event. It took several nurses to get the pan positioned correctly underneath her and then to get it back out again and clean and dry her.

Mary, who loved to eat, was placed on a 300 calorie diet. The weight immediately started melting off. Saturday was weight day and it took most of the staff to get her loaded onto the gurney and pushed to the freight scales. The hospital was very old and our unit was on the second floor. The elevator was also old and a bit temperamental. We were all afraid to get on the elevator with her, so we devised a system of pushing Mary in so her head was facing the door and she could push the elevator buttons herself. Then we would run down the stairs to the first floor and greet her when the elevator doors opened. We used the excuse that the elevator was too small to hold all of us, and we never let on that we feared it would break under the strain of her weight.

I remember the day the needle on the scale finally dipped below the 1000 pound mark, meaning that Mary weighed 750 pounds. We all cheered and clapped, and Mary even offered up a little smile for us. From then on we were able to monitor and chart her progress. The doctors had set a goal of getting her down to 300 pounds so they could perform a new surgical procedure on her. That goal was met nine months after Mary’s admission to our hospital, and an intestinal bypass surgery was performed. A large portion of the middle of her intestines was bypassed so that a good amount of the food she ate was not absorbed. Complications were terrible and she had chronic diarrhea and electrolyte imbalances. Sadly, six weeks after having undergone the surgery and now weighing 250 pounds, Mary died from liver failure. We now know that intestinal bypass surgery had a 50% mortality rate. I still feel a deep sadness when I think about Mary spending so many months eating almost nothing, finally being able to once again get out of bed and walk a short distance and losing two thirds of her body weight, only to die of complications from an experimental surgery. And that was more than forty years ago.

I'm With Anne Rice on This One

2010-08-09T09:14:00.000-07:00

I read an interview recently with Anne Rice on why she's now finished with organized religion, and I'm with her. There have been a lot of last straws for me...the book to the left explains one of the last straws (http://www.textnovel.com/). Among other last straws is the Pastor that transferred to our church a few years ago. He's lost a lot of parishioners because of his "it's all about me" style of preaching. I'm so sick of his strutting and pontificating that I can't stand it any longer. The last, last straw for me, though, is the Nun who was excommunicated for being on the ethics committee in her hospital and agreeing to allow the termination of a pregnancy on a woman who was going to die if it wasn't done. The woman was only 11 weeks pregnant but had three young children at home. An 11 week old fetus cannot survive outside the womb, so there would have been two deaths for the family instead of one. I think that was the last straw for Anne Rice, too.

Okay, well maybe I'll give organized religion one more chance. We've attended an Ecumenical Catholic Church twice now and I'm really liking it. I feel closer to God in that small church than in the big one where the Priest has taken over. This church is truly a community. Or so it seems so far. I've always got Kabbalah on the side........

NO WINING...Nurse Story

2010-08-02T09:42:00.000-07:00

THE LIONESS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THE STORY, BUT SHE SURE IS BEAUTIFUL EVEN AFTER HAVING JUST EATEN A WART HOG. I TOOK THE PICTURE!

Millie was ninety-five years old and on Hospice for end stage cardiac disease. She and her daughter, Dena, lived together in Millie’s home. Millie was weak and fatigued, but didn’t require a lot of care when she first came on service. She was mentally very alert and I enjoyed my visits with her immensely.

We’d discussed her smoking when she’d first been admitted to the hospice program. She’d tried to quit over the years and she and her doctor had agreed that there wasn’t much point in quitting now when she was at the end of her life. My opinion was the same, and I let her know that. Dena didn’t want her to smoke in the house, so she’d made a little area in the garage for Millie to go to when she wanted to smoke. Millie went out a few times in the day and evening to have a cigarette.

One day, shortly after I’d arrived for the visit, Dena walked in from the garage carrying a wine glass. She said, “Mother, how many times do I have to ask you to bring your wine glasses back into the house?”

At this, Millie’s head whipped around and she looked guiltily at me. “I like to have a glass or two of wine in the evening, is that all right?” she asked.

I smiled and patted her hand. “I like a glass of wine in the evening, too. If it’s okay with your doctor, it’s okay with me.”

Millie breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, I’m so glad you don’t think badly of me. What kind of wine do you like?”

“Oh, my favorite is chardonnay.”

“That’s my favorite, too!” she said, beaming. “Would you like a glass?”

I chuckled at this and said, “Not right now, Millie. I’m working and can’t drink on the job. Thank you for offering, though.”

She smiled, too, and said, “Oh good, because I would have been really worried if you’d said yes.”

Vodka Gimlet Anyone?

2010-07-31T13:10:00.000-07:00

OKAY, THE PIG HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THE STORY...I JUST THINK SHE'S CUTE.

One of the first nurses I worked with when I started on the evening shift was Carrie Ellen Hair, a 72 year old woman who had never married. This was in 1967 and we were still required to wear white dress uniforms and nurse’s caps, but Carrie Ellen looked like she was stuck in the 1930’s. She was a petite, slender little woman who wore her short graying brown hair in a bob. Her white nurse’s uniforms were starched crisply. They buttoned at the neck, and the long sleeves buttoned at her wrists. Her skirts stopped at mid-calf length. Perched on her head was an enormous nurse’s cap with several black stripes running horizontally and a school pin tacked on one of the “wings”. She wore white support stockings and white nurse’s shoes. Her fingernails were cut as short as they could possibly be, and she never wore a trace of makeup.

Carrie Ellen ran a tight ship on the ward, too. She bustled around and made sure everyone was doing their assigned jobs. She didn’t tolerate slacking off on the job. The hospital was a county hospital and there were a number of slackers that worked there, so they kept Carrie Ellen quite busy.

I was a Licensed Vocational Nurse at the time so I was either the treatment nurse or the medication nurse, depending on the whim of the other LVN I worked with. I was the new kid in town so I just did what I was told. I worked hard and was a fast learner, so over time, Carrie Ellen took me under her wing and became my mentor.

Carrie Ellen was such a prim and proper little woman that I was shocked the evening she invited me to her apartment after work for a vodka gimlet. She whispered the invitation to me and asked me to please never tell anyone about it. I went, and enjoyed a frosty vodka gimlet in Carrie Ellen’s tidy apartment. She told me about her life and family in Texas, and made me promise again not to ever let anyone know she had an occasional drink. I suspected it was more than occasional because they tasted pretty darned good.

A couple of years later, Carrie Ellen retired and moved back to Texas to be near her family. She kept in touch for awhile and had gotten a part time job working in a nursing home in Texas. She just couldn’t give up her nursing career. It was how she defined herself and she would have been lost without it.

Review: Let Them Eat Cake

2010-07-29T17:52:00.001-07:00

Once Upon A Romance's Review Of...

Let Them Eat Cake by Kathryn Pratt

onceuponaromance.net

________________________________________

Reviewer: Robyn Roberts

Title: Let Them Eat Cake

Author: Kathryn Pratt

Publisher: Awe-Struck E-books

ISBN-13: 978-1-58749-676-9 (e-book)

Print version available later this year

Genre/Sub-genre: Historical Time Travel Romance

Year/Setting: Present day France, 1789 France

Overall Rating: 4.25

Sexual Content Rating: Sensual

Language (Profanity/Slang) Rating: Very Mild

Violent Content Rating: None

Kathy's Website: www.kathypratt.org

Anna Mulligan is on the trip of a lifetime. She’s an ICU nurse on a hospital-sponsored trip to Paris. It’s been her lifelong dream to visit Paris, especially Versailles. Her ancestor lived in Versailles with Marie Antoinette just prior to the revolution. Her last name had been lost over time and Anna is hoping to get some geneology information.

When Jeff, the handsome ICU intern, turns out to be on the trip, her heart skips a beat. She has had a secret crush on him since they met. Maybe this is her chance at love. When his female traveling companions join him, Anna is devastated. She is determined to enjoy her Parisian trip with or without Jeff.

From there, the reader gets a wonderful tour of Paris and her sights. With vividly descriptive scenes, I felt like I was actually in Paris. After working out a misunderstanding, Jeff and Anna appear to be headed down the road to true love. When she suddenly disappears into the mist and walks into the hamlet at Versailles in 1789, she’s not sure she’ll ever get back to Jeff or the present. She meets Jeff’s ancestor (Gefforoi) who is madly in love with her (or her ancestor). Trying to keep out of trouble while finding a way back proves to be challenging. Gefforoi is pursuing her and wants them to marry. She turns him down not knowing what will happen to her. Will the real Anne-Marie reappear while Anna is still stuck in the past. Will marrying Gefforoi in the past alter her future with Jeff? Can she ever get back to Jeff?

I was amazed at the turn of events at the end of the book. It kept me on my toes and was a surprise to the last page. I found Ms. Pratt’s portrayal of France to be historically accurate and captivating in her descriptions. Both times were so well described that it didn’t feel like a time travel book, it read more like a traditional historical novel with contemporary elements. The story reads very smoothly and doesn’t feel choppy in the time travel. Ms. Pratt has a well-written story with engaging characters who will leave you wondering about the possibility of genetic memory.

Robyn

Illegal Immigrants

2010-07-23T09:59:00.000-07:00

They invaded my neighborhood this morning. At least 50 of them. Right in my own backyard. In my tree no less! Eating my food that grew in my yard. Who invited them and where'd they come from?

There are lots of rumors about the origin of these invaders. Some say they were released when their prison caught on fire. Others say they were kept by individuals who tired of caring for them and let them loose. Or, they tired of being caged and escaped at the first opportunity. The most common theory is...gasp...they crossed the border from Mexico!

But you know, I don't care how they got here. I'm just glad they're here. I love their bright colors and loud squawking early in the morning and evening. And I delight in the way they talk to each other in their own special language while they're eating the seeds from my tree. Then they fly off in a big group looking for a new place to congregate. They make me happy and add to my day.

I love them. I welcome them. And, I'm granting them amnesty!

Tehama Grace, A Novel

2010-07-22T17:28:00.000-07:00

This novel is being posted chapter by chapter on http://www.textnovel.com/. It's free to sign up to read books on this site, and they don't send you spam by email or share your email with anyone else. If the first part I'm posting here interests you, please check it out on Textnovel.

September 1863

Hot dry air blew across the flat expanse of land. A dust devil whirled toward us but made a quick turn before showering me and Pa with debris. September in California was a poor time to be traveling, especially since much of the time we were walking. I was just fourteen years old when we made the trip. It would change my life.

I stopped to readjust the coolie hat I was wearing to keep the sun from hitting my face and gave silent thanks to the Chinese woman who'd given it to me days before when we’d left Coloma. Mother always told me to be careful not to ruin my pale complexion with too much sun. Even though she wasn’t with me, I could still hear her saying, "You have the best combination of creamy white skin, black hair, and sky blue eyes."

"Pa, I can't go any farther. It's too hot in midday. Can't we rest under a shade tree until evening?"

"No Emily Grace, we cain't. We're nigh about there I 'spect according to the directions the rancher gave us a ways back." Pa took a rag from his pocket and mopped his brow. "We got to keep on 'til we find water to quench our thirst."

I knew Pa was right so I forced myself to stand tall, brushed the dust from my brown muslin skirt, tied the hat tighter under my chin, and trudged onward. I still didn't know why we were heading for the town of Vina in Tehama County. I’d been happy living in the gold camp along Sutter Creek, but Pa had suddenly pulled up stakes and away we went. I didn't know when we would be going back. My stomach churned with worry that I'd never see Mother again.

I wondered why Pa didn't tell me anything. After all, I was practically grown up.

"Daughter! Here're the tracks. Get your head out of the clouds," Pa said, shifting the pack he carried on his shoulder and stepping up onto the railroad tracks.

Picking my way carefully along the railroad ties, I followed behind him.

"Pa? How is Mother going to know where we are when she gets back to Coloma?"

I thought I saw his shoulders tense at my question but he didn't answer, so I wasn't sure he'd heard. "Pa?"

"I heard you, girl. Yer Ma ain't comin' back," he said, turning towards me, his blue eyes flashing in anger.

"What do you mean?" My breath was coming in short gasps and my stomach had tightened into a hard knot.

"She up'n left for San Francisco with our gold three months ago. She'd a been back by now if she had a coming back plan. She's livin' high on the hog in old Yerba Buena now, I expect." He turned his back to me and resumed walking down the railroad tracks.

"But Pa, Mother would never leave us. She loves us. Something must have gone wrong. Aren't we going to San Francisco to look for her?"

Silence.

"Pa?"

"Hush, girl."

ALCOHOL? THERE'S NO ALCOHOL HERE.

2010-07-21T11:16:00.000-07:00

Here's another story about my early nursing years. Hope you enjoy it.

Alcohol consumption was against the rules in the rehabilitation hospital. Still, it frequently appeared and was hard to keep under control. Most of the patients we cared for were young men who had their body images violently altered through accidents and injuries. In those days, doctors didn’t believe in medicating or sedating, so the patients did it themselves with alcohol.

The original buildings were built in 1888 and the wards I worked on were probably built in the 1930’s. They were long open wards with a nurse’s station in the middle, dividing it in two. Each ward held 60 patients. A hallway in the center connected our ward to the one next door and there were outside doors at each end, so it was easy for people to sneak in and out if they wanted to, and the patients had free run of the grounds until bedtime.

If we suspected a patient of drinking, we were allowed to search through all of their belongings and dispose of any alcohol we found. I don’t know how many bottles of whiskey and vodka I poured down the drain during those years, but it was quite a lot.

One man fooled us all, though, and it wasn’t until the day he was getting ready to go home that I got him to confess his secret to me. I joked with and cajoled him as he packed his belongings, and when he started to empty out his nightstand, he pulled out a large bottle of blue mouthwash and handed it to me. The label read Micrin Mouthwash, but when I removed the cap and sniffed, it was obvious it was pure alcohol. All the months he was there he’d managed to continue to drink by adding blue food coloring to vodka and keeping his mouthwash bottle full. No one was ever able to trick me with that one again.

Nine Lives

2010-07-20T19:41:00.000-07:00

Today I was discussing the rash of recent kidnappings with a friend and I told her a little about when I was kidnapped. I've told this story in the presence of my husband so many times that he now just rolls his eyes. Dan, if you're reading this, don't roll your eyes.

Anyway, when I was five, we lived in an apartment above the Western Auto Store in Adel, Iowa. I used to play on the sidewalk and all the merchants knew me. My dad worked in the Auto store. One day, two young men were walking along the sidewalk and stopped to ask me if I wanted to go for a ride. I said I did but I had to ask my daddy. I opened the door to the store and said, "Daddy, these two nice men want me to go for a ride with them...can I?"
Daddy didn't answer so I took that as a yes and off we went. They drove me around the town and out to the park next to the river. They parked the car and talked together in low voices. Then they turned around, took me back and dropped me off in the alley behind our apartment. It wasn't until years later I was told a family friend was following behind the car after he'd seen me in the car with the men. Guess I was pretty lucky.

Some other near misses I've had:
1. Almost choked to death on bacon when I was a toddler.
2. Ate a whole bottle of "nerve pills" as a toddler.
3. Fell in the road in front of a tractor and almost got my head run over by the wheel.
4. Flew off an ATV on my head while driving as fast as I could, almost breaking my neck.
5. Car-jacked at gunpoint.

Wow. I've got 3 lives to go. Maybe I'll make it to 100 after all!

Life Lessons

2010-07-19T10:11:00.000-07:00

When I was now in the third grade, my new best friend, Karla Porter, happened to live in a nursing home. Her mother, Catherine, owned a big, two story house on the edge of town. The family lived in the upper story, and Catherine housed elderly patients on the first floor. Since I lived just a block away, Karla and I were in and out of the house every day. We’d wander through the hospital beds on the first floor, looking for Catherine or for something to do to keep us out of the trouble we invariably got ourselves into.

Sometimes Catherine would assign us small chores. One of those was to retrieve the eating utensils that Daisy had hidden away in her room. Daisy was an elderly woman with some kind of mental illness. She seemed to have multiple personalities, and spent most of the day carrying on conversations with these different personalities. She lived in a small bedroom that had to be kept locked to keep her from wandering off. When the utensil supply ran low, one of us girls would stand outside Daisy’s big bay window and distract her while the other one ran in the room and quickly grabbed the silverware from Daisy’s many hiding places. The one that was in charge of distracting Daisy had a big responsibility since she’d become very angry at the girl that was stealing the silver, and smack her over the head. I was usually in charge of distracting her since Karla was much faster at swiping the utensils.

Karla’s mom, Catherine, and my mom, Kathryn, were our Camp Fire Girl’s den leaders. The meetings were always held in the nursing home so Catherine wouldn’t be too far away from her charges. We spent much of our grade school years playing in the nursing home and my mom worked there occasionally when we needed some extra money. I wasn’t really surprised when years later my mom decided to become a nurse, and then Karla and I chose nursing, too.

Catherine Porter thought it was important for us to learn about all aspects of life. Later on in my life I grew to questions some of her ideas, but as children, we went along with the ride. One of those rides took Catherine, Karla, and my mother and I to the Clarinda, Iowa mental hospital grounds. It was an all day trip and I remember we didn’t even get out of the car. We parked in a parking lot and a few of the residents of the hospital who were allowed to roam the grounds, peered in the car windows at the four of us. To this day, I don’t know what the purpose of that particular field trip was, but I’m sure Catherine thought she was teaching us something important.

My family attended the First Baptist Church in Indianola, Iowa when I was a child. Church services were conservative and dignified, and our preachers were not of the evangelical type. Catherine seemed to think I was missing out on something, so when the tent preachers came to town, she would take Karla and I with her to the revivals. I guess she thought we would benefit from being saved, but no matter how many times we “went forward”, we never became “one with the spirit”.

The summer of 1962, my family moved to southern California. Later that year, Catherine sold her nursing home and moved her family to southern California, too. Catherine’s had a husband, Russell, who was more than twenty years older than her. She was the one who supported the family and made all the decisions and when she decided to move to California, they moved. Though we attended different high schools, this move made it possible for Karla and me to remain best friends and for Catherine to continue trying to give us life lessons.

She made one more attempt at “saving” us after moving to California. They lived in Artesia and Catherine found an evangelical church there and started attending regularly. One weekend when I’d slept over Saturday night, she woke us up on Sunday morning to get ready for church. We tried to protest but to no avail. We were sent to Sunday School class before the church services, and that went well. But then we were ushered over to the church and the fun began. This particular church encouraged participation by all members, and it heated up into a frenzy pretty quickly. When a very pregnant woman started speaking in tongues and fell to the floor in a quivering heap, it was too much for us. Karla and I started giggling and soon were doubled over with laughter, tears streaming down our faces. An embarrassed Catherine ushered us out as quickly as she could, and never forced us to attend church with her again.

I loved to do hair when I was in high school and soon became the hair expert. I was often called on to help my friends tease and pouf their hair into the elaborate styles of the early sixties. My friend’s mothers would also pay me to comb out their hair, tease it, and restyle it between their weekend hair appointments. By this time, Catherine had found work in a nursing home in Whittier, California. They were having a hard time finding a hairdresser to come in and do the patients hair, so she hired me. For one whole summer I posed as a hairdresser, cutting, shampooing and styling all the little gray heads in the nursing home. Now that I’m older and wiser, I realize how illegal it was, but at the time it was just a lot of fun and the little old ladies loved me.

Catherine wasn’t the only source of my introduction to nursing. In high school, I became a candy striper and worked at Whittier Presbyterian Hospital. I started out working in the central supply area, putting together admission kits for patients. The other candy stripers and I would fill plastic bags with wash basins, emesis basins, tissue boxes, Cepacol mouthwash and body lotion. The work was boring but you had to start there and prove yourself or you’d never be allowed out on the floors with actual patients. After awhile, I earned my way onto the floors. I filled water pitchers, delivered dinner trays, changed the water in flower arrangements, and had plenty of opportunities to interact with patients. I loved the atmosphere of the hospital and couldn’t wait to become a nurse.

The summer following my high school graduation was precious to me as it was the last months of my childhood. In order to enter the Registered Nursing program in September of that year, I would have to take chemistry during the summer and I preferred going to the beach and lying in the sun. My mom had gone through the Licensed Vocational Nursing program during my senior year in high school, so I decided that would be good for me, too. Karla and I applied to and were accepted into the Licensed Vocational Nursing program instead of RN training.

I was eighteen and Karla seventeen when we started our LVN training program. We dressed in our white starched blouses, yellow starched pinafores, white nurse’s cap, and white stockings and shoes and were on our way.

I’m amazed now that we were mature enough to make it through the program. Sometimes it didn’t seem that way. We were always professional and worked hard when we were out on the floor with patients, but we were in trouble a lot during our classroom hours. We found it extremely difficult to be quiet and pay attention, and did a lot of giggling and talking in class. Fortunately, each of us was the favorite of one of the instructors. The head of the program liked me, but didn’t like Karla, and one of the other instructors liked Karla, but not me. We were always being protected by someone. It also helped that we were both excellent students and quick learners and the patients we were assigned liked us, too.

One incident could have gotten both of us in really big trouble if we’d been found out. We were practicing injections in class one day. We were using large needles to draw up sterile water out of a vial and inject it into oranges in order to practice our technique. Some of the others weren’t catching on as fast as Karla and I, and we got bored pretty fast. I don’t know who started it, but we started squirting each other with the water in the syringes. I was spraying Karla and she tried to hit me. The needle jabbed into her arm and I was still pushing the plunger of the syringe. It squirted enough sterile water into her arm to raise a lump the size of a golf ball. When we realized what had happened, we looked around quickly to see if anyone noticed, then turned our attention back to the oranges.

Twelve months passed by and we graduated, took our nursing exams, and got jobs. I was nineteen and Karla eighteen then. She took a job in a nursing home and I went to work at a one thousand bed rehabilitation hospital operated by Los Angeles County. My education really began there.

Be Still My Soul

2010-07-18T09:52:00.000-07:00

We come into this world with a huge imperfection...an enormous hole in our soul. It is our job to learn how to fill this hole. Some try to fill it with alcohol, drugs, sex, food. Others with mysticism, psychic encounters, meditation, AA, shopping, or self punishment. This book is filled with stories of the people I have encountered in my life’s journey, and how they have helped to fill the hole in my soul.

THE MAKING OF A NURSE

Grandma Grace died on August 4, 1954. I was six years old and stood outside her bedroom with my nose pressed against the window pane watching my Grandpa cry, his face in his hands.

I walked around the side of the house to the porch and found my dad holding Mom in his arms while she cried on his shoulder.

“Your grandma just passed away,” Dad said to me.

“I already know,” I replied,

Dad gave me a puzzled look, turned back to comfort my Mom.

I understood a lot despite my young age, having spent most of that summer in 1954 at my grandparent’s home while my mom and my Uncle Richard helped care for Grandma during her final days battling leukemia. I’d watched my family give Grandma pain medication, bathe her, turn her over, change her clothes, and empty the colostomy bag she’d worn for many years.

I liked that she was in her own bed in her own home. I also liked that my brother and I could go in and climb up on the bed and visit with her on the days when she felt well enough. On the days that she didn’t, I’d stand outside her window and wave. She called me her little butterfly at the window.

As sad as it was for me to lose my beloved grandmother, the way she died seemed so peaceful and natural that I’ve carried the memory of it with me my entire nursing career.

Impotent Fury

2010-07-15T16:58:00.000-07:00

Following is a story about my early years of nursing. I'd gone into nursing right out of high school and started my career at the age of nineteen. Here I am, ...years later (lots of them!) still at it.

I was a nineteen year old Licensed Vocational Nurse, fresh out of training and assigned to the amputee and fracture ward of a large rehabilitation hospital in Los Angeles County. One of my charges was an eighteen year old man who was in the hospital to be fitted with artificial limbs following a horrible accident.

His accident happened when he was running away from home and hopped a freight train to “get him as far away as he could possibly go”. At some point in the journey, he fell off the moving train and was sucked underneath the wheels. He suffered a head injury; his left arm was cut off just below the shoulder, his left leg at the hip, and his right leg just below the knee. The heat from the moving wheels cauterized the open wounds so that he did not bleed to death. The head injury resulted in him having frequent, very violent grand mal seizures during which he always bit his tongue and bled profusely. His speech was also affected and he spoke in agonizingly slow sentences.

Following his recovery from the acute injuries, he was sent to us to be fitted with prosthesis for his right leg and his left arm, the goal being to make him a bit more independent. If he could stand on the right leg, he could get in and out of his bed and wheelchair on his own.

John had a temper that frequently exploded. It was rumored that some time earlier, in a fit of rage, he had smothered his baby niece to death with a pillow. I was never able to find out if that had truly occurred or not, but in all the time he was a patient on our unit, I never saw or met a family member.

He would wheel himself around the ward using his good right arm to propel his wheelchair. This resulted in that arm developing into a hugely muscular lethal weapon. We all knew to keep far away when he was having one of his frequent fits of temper. If he got hold of you with that arm, it was extremely difficult to get loose, and often, he aimed for the throat.

Since I was the youngest woman around, and he was a young man, he would follow me around all evening like a puppy, trying to stay in my good graces. I could usually get him to cooperate, even when he was in a foul mood. One night, he was really getting on my nerves and was being terribly rude. I told him he needed to go to the hospital library and check out a book on Emily Post so he could study proper etiquette. Little did I know this would come back to haunt me.

A month or so later, I was taking my evening dinner break in our small break room off of the nurse’s station. Patients knew they weren’t supposed to disturb us while we were on our break, but rules mattered little to John so I wasn’t surprised when he wheeled his chair into the room. I was enjoying a dinner of fried chicken until John spoke.

“Miss...Judkins. Don’t...you...know, you’re not supposed...to eat chicken...with your hands...you’re supposed to...eat...it with a knife...and fork.”

I haven’t been able to eat fried chicken since without thinking of John and the night he one-upped me.

North From Alaska

2010-07-14T12:25:00.000-07:00

I'm writing a book of stories based on my nursing career. I've decided to share them on my blog. Here's the first:

June, a 67 year old woman on our hospice program for lung cancer that had metastasized to her bones, was in tremendous pain, both physical and spiritual. The physical pain was due to the cancer, the spiritual pain due to the hole in her soul. She’d had several failed marriages and her three children hadn’t grown to be the successful individuals she’d hoped for. Her oldest daughter, Julie, wasn’t allowed inside her home because she would steal anything she could, including money and the drugs we prescribed for her mother. June had custody of Julie’s three year old son due to Julie being confined in prison for drug abuse and grand theft. Now she was out but apparently hadn't been rehabilitated.

June’s second daughter, Betty, lived with her, along with Betty’s two young sons. Betty also had a criminal record and was on house arrest for one month during the year I was seeing June. Her arrest was for forging checks. The Judge decided on house arrest so she could supervise her two sons and care for her mom. Betty was a pleasant though ineffective caregiver. She probably had attention deficit disorder and didn’t understand the instructions I gave her on how to care for her mom. When Betty’s charming and handsome husband, Eric, was released from prison after his most recent stay, he also moved into the house. Betty’s attention then turned to keeping Eric happy, and she did little to care for her mom.

After much prodding from me and the hospice social worker, the family contacted their brother, Mark, who lived in Alaska. Mark arrived along with his girlfriend, Debbie, and moved into the house with all the rest of the family.

I arranged a meeting with Mark for the day after his arrival. When the door opened, I was greeted by a bear of a man with the most beautiful blue eyes I’d ever seen. They didn’t look like they belonged on this man, but if the eyes are the windows to the soul; I was soon to learn this man’s soul was as beautiful as his eyes. His gray hair was long and stringy, rather thin on top, and a huge gray beard that hung halfway down his chest. It stopped at his enormous belly that looked as if he had a full term baby inside. He was fond of going without a shirt and the sight of his huge stomach and tattooed arms took a bit of getting used to.

However, Mark was a natural caregiver. He cooked for his mom, fed her when she couldn’t eat, took her to the bathroom, bathed and kept her in clean clothing and bed linens. He monitored her medications carefully and kept them under lock and key. Though he had spent time in prison on drug charges and was currently on parole, there were never any drugs missing once Mark took over his mom’s care.

Many times I would arrive to find Mark grieving over the impending loss of his mom and the many regrets over the choices he’d made in life. On those days, tears would fill his blue eyes and pour down his cheeks once they’d dropped off his long, curly black eyelashes. All I saw when I looked at him were his eyes and what lay behind them. I knew the rest of the world would probably never get to know what a tender, loving man he really was.

One day I arrived for my visit and Mark answered the door wearing sunglasses. After a few minutes, he asked me to take a look at his eye, saying it was bothering him. When he took the glasses off, I gasped at the sight of his formerly blue left eye that was now completely black. On closer inspection, I found that his pupil was completely dilated. He denied injuring it and when I pressed, he finally confessed he’d put his mother’s “eye drops” in his eye since it was irritating him. Puzzled, I asked him to show me the eye drops. He came back with the bottle of Atropine eye drops, clearly labeled with his mother’s name and the directions for her to take the drops orally for congestion, which is standard practice for hospice patients. Atropine is normally used to dilate the eye for eye exams, but we use it to dry up excessive secretions when people are dying. Knowing that there wouldn’t be any permanent damage to Mark’s eye, I burst out laughing before I gave him the lecture about never using someone else’s medications. I then went on to explain that his pupil would eventually go back to the normal size but it would probably take several days and he’d need to wear the sunglasses until then. Relieved, he finally smiled a sheepish grin. When I visited the next week, his pupil had indeed returned to normal size.

Several times during the months Mark cared for his mom, I wrote letters to the Judge in Alaska to whom he was supposed to report during his parole, telling him about what a good job Mark was doing and how much he was needed in California. I never heard back from the Judge, but he didn’t order Mark back to Alaska, so apparently my letters worked. I wonder now where Mark is and how his life is going. He was truly a special person hidden behind a burly, and pretty intimidating façade. This big grizzly bear man was really a teddy bear underneath.

Ulcerative Colitis Sucks Big Time

2010-06-14T11:39:00.000-07:00

This is me. Way back when. Back when I didn't have Ulcerative Colitis and didn't think I'd ever have any illness. My first symptoms started when I was in my middle 20's, after my first son was born. The Dr. treated me with Librax for "nerves" and it went away. Off and on over the years the symptoms came back. Then in 1994, for whatever reason, UC came to stay. I tried every drug and treatment available, and after the last treatment with a chemotherapy drug gave me pancreatitis, my GI Dr. advised surgery. In 1996 I had a total procto-colectomy and J-pouch procedure done (big words, I know--even bigger surgery). My UC was CURED! Gone forever! Or...so I was told then. But now, I have a new Dr., had a thorough evaluation by flexible sigmoidoscopy, and lo and behold, the UC isn't gone after all. Oh well. I still feel relatively good and I do have my life back still. I'm able to do everything I enjoy, and I can travel. Big time important! But, arthritis has flared up along with the UC flare up and it isn't much fun. Now I'm on medications again. Hope not for long. Hope the J-Pouch holds. Hope there aren't more surprises in store. Hope is the thing with wings that perches in the soul......(Emily Dickinson)

Bless Us Father, a novel

2010-03-03T15:12:00.000-08:00

The accounts of priestly sexual abuse challenged my faith in the Catholic Church. At first I was extremely angry and wasn't going to attend church anymore. Then I started thinking about the victims and how their lives played out. BLESS US FATHER was born. You can read the entire novel on http://www.textnovel.com/, either on your computer or on your phone. Please check it out and vote for me. Bless Us Father received an Editor's Choice award in the contest and if chosen, could have a chance at being published.

I've now gone back to church.

Great-Grandpa's Chair

2010-01-30T12:05:00.000-08:00

I can't believe the last time I posted was September 2009. The small rocking chair on the left is one that's been in our family for over a hundred years. My mother had it in her home and it was stuck away in a bedroom and broken in places. I traded her a brand new rocking chair I had in my house for it and after several hundred dollars in restoration, it's now sitting in my living room. And the best part is, it still has all the old squeeks! The restoration didn't ruin it. The rocking chair was originally purchased by my Great Grandfather Walter Kimzey. He was born in 1860 and died in 1936. Lots of my family members were rocked in this chair when they were babies and young children. I have a favorite memory of my Grandmother, Grace, rocking me in it.

When I was around five years old, I was staying with my grandparents and had been allowed to play with the little girl across the street. When my Grandpa, Bob Kimzey, came to get me, I refused to go home and instead I climbed on top of the little girl's bunkbed and got back in the corner where he couldn't reach me. Finally, after what must have been a long and embarrassing time for my Grandpa, I got down and started for home. On the way, Grandpa swatted my bottom a couple of times for being so disobedient. Though I certainly deserved it, and it didn't hurt anything but my feelings, I was shocked that my normally mild mannered Grandpa had spanked me. When we got back in the house, I was crying like my heart was broken and Grandma picked me up and rocked me in the old chair. While she rocked, she told me what a mean old man Grandpa was to have spanked me. Grandma was really ornery. I did feel guilty because I knew I'd deserved the spanking, but I sure enjoyed Grandma's sympathy

Grief: I Cried Today

2009-09-23T19:06:00.000-07:00

My dad passed away on February 28, 2007. I'll miss him always but the tears come less frequently now. Today I put a Jamey Johnson CD in my car player and was fine until his song, You Should Have Seen it in Color played. The tears started at the line, That's me and Uncle Joe just tryin' to survive... You see, I had an Uncle Joe. He and my dad were orphaned as young boys and they did have to try and survive together. The next line that did me in was, That's me and Grandma in the summer sun...that rose was red and her eyes were blue... Yes, my mom and dad got married in June. She wore a red rose and her eyes were blue.

The tears were pouring down my cheeks now as I tried to navigate around the trucks on Southern California's 605 freeway on my way to make visits to hospice patients.

My dad had a hard life. He was a lonely boy when he joined the Navy and sailed off to WWII. He did have a good life with my mom, and had his own family that was with him when he died, but I still mourn for that little boy that lost his parents so young and always had a big hole in his heart. He grew up in the generation that didn't whine and complain, and he never did, but it still makes me sad to think about how many tough times he had to indure in his life. I wonder if he ever knew that I aspired to be like him in a lot of ways. Probably not. I didn't ever share that with him.

Dreams of La Palma

2009-09-11T08:52:00.000-07:00

If I'm really lucky, I wake up in the morning remembering the dream I had during the night. I was lucky this morning. I have some very odd dreams. Last night was a good one.

Dan and I, along with our friends Tom and Amy, traveled with a group of tourists to the country of La Palma. Now, I realize there isn't a country of La Palma, but my country was somewhere in either Eastern Europe or Russia. It was a pretty desolate place and definitely wasn't a first world country.

We arrived in La Palma and Amy and I immediately got separated from the group and began wandering about. Fortunately, the residents of La Palma spoke English. At one point we passed a nail salon and the manicurists tried to coax us in for a pedicure. We didn't have time, though, because we had to find our group. We walked and walked and ended up alone in the countryside. We heard wolves howling nearby and were certain we were going to be eaten alive. We rounded the crest of a hill and met other people who were standing there looking at the wolves. Thankfully, the wolves were on the other side of the fence.

Once we made it back to town, we entered a hotel that had many conference rooms. I heard President Obama speaking but we opened door after door and couldn't find him. We then went back outside as a parade of Orthodox priests filed by. They wore the usual robes and stoles, but their robes were a beautiful ocean blue color. We followed them for awhile thinking they would lead us to President Obama and our tour group, whom we were sure was watching Obama, but we lost the priests.

The dream finally ended with us finding Dan and Tom sitting in a restaurant eating lunch. Dan had already ordered my lunch and it was still sitting there.

End of dream. Crazy, huh?

My Muse Founds Its Way Home

2009-09-09T16:13:00.000-07:00

I'm ready. I've got my title. I've got my main character. I've got the setting. Now I just need the time to start writing. I think Karen should hurry up and come back to work so I can cut my hours back down. I'm getting tired.

I don't know where my muse has been, but it's back. Maybe it traveled around the world, but more likely it traveled through California because we've settled on Tehama county for the setting. It's probably been sipping wine at the Vina Monastery.

Tehama Grace is the story of Amelia Grace Jameson, a fourteen year old girl abandoned by her father at the Gerke Ranch in Tehama.

Stay tuned.

My New Diet and Writing Plans

2009-09-08T17:48:00.000-07:00

Okay, here we go. This is a little schizophrenic but I just seem to need to have a lot going on in my life. I have a new diet plan. It's very simple and so far it seems to be working. I've lost several pounds. Want to know the plan? Eat anything you want but only eat half. That's it. If I order a meal in a restaurant I take half home. When I cook at home I only serve myself half of what I would in the past. I don't feel the least bit deprived. My goal weight is 145 pounds.

My latest writing venture is Textnovel.com. Since I've been unsuccessful selling Bless Us Father, I've gone the serial route and am posting it on Textnovel. You can either read it on your cell phone or your computer. Pretty cool, huh? Maybe someone will see it, love it, publish it.

I'm also just getting ready to start my next project, TEHAMA GRACE. I've been doing tons and tons of research and am ready to put pen to paper. Well...put fingers to the computer keyboard and tap away.

I'll keep you posted.

Posting an entire book on a blog

2009-08-13T20:24:00.001-07:00

I'm wondering about posting an entire book on a blog, chapter by chapter. Has it been done? I have a completed manuscript and am thinking about going for it.

I'm working through my block. My muse hasn't found me yet--probably on a prolonged vacation in Tahiti which is one place I would like to be. I'd love to be lounging on the sand, drinking tropical drinks one by one, and bobbing in the water when I get too warm. Maybe some sun-drenched god-like creature would come by every now and then and rub sunscreen into my already roasted skin. Perhaps someone could fan me every now and then, too.

In the meantime, we just returned from the Harbor Mexican Cafe where you can "sit anywhere you like my friends" and I had a couple of glasses of wine and a chicken tostado. I had a hard day with hospice. The 45 year old man is close to dying but still hasn't gone. I let my guard down today and shed some tears while I was visiting. I don't do that too often. I'm supposed to be strong for the family, but I couldn't help it. They're all so wonderful and loving and I feel so bad for them. My next three visits were okay. One of them, an 87 year old lady, I learned is an RN too, and worked for 50 years in a lot of the same hospitals I've worked in. Small world.

Now it's time for me to sign off so I can recoup for tomorrow whatever lies ahead. I'm formulating my next story while I'm driving around during the day.

Muse! Where are you?

Count your blessings.

2009-08-12T20:18:00.001-07:00

I woke up at 5:45 AM, worked out with Al and the "girls", walked the dog, showered and dressed, and drove to the "mandatory meeting" at Kaiser. I'd been able to grab a cup of coffee, nuke some soy bacon, and read a bit of the paper before I drove to work, so I already knew Kaiser was laying off 1800 people in California. 1200 in Northern California, and 600 in Southern. I had a good idea that's what the meeting was about.

I was right. The administration staff announced that positions had to be eliminated due to the lack of growth in membership Kaiser has had since 2005. Three positions in the hospice department were being eliminated. None of them clinical staff. All administrative and support staff. What does this mean to us? The clinical staff will now be working even harder to absorb the duties previously performed by those individuals. And you know what? We're all happy to do it if it means we're still working. We'd already lost about 20 clinical staff earlier in the year. We know the drill. Smile and keep on keeping on.

But what about the 1800 people that are now without jobs? I and those around me left the meeting with a heavy heart knowing there were others that are now with out a job. I hope they all have some sort of a backup plan. I hope their significant others are employed. I hope, I hope, things turn around soon for all of us.

Reality Check

2009-08-11T17:46:00.000-07:00

Today I put my hospice nurse hat on and went to work. There's nothing like it for putting your life in perspective. I'm going to stop sniveling now and move on.

My first visit was to a palliative care patient that isn't dying any time soon. I love to visit him. I fill his pill boxes, check his vital signs, talk with the caregiver at the facility, then he and I sit and visit. Today he really wanted to go out for some Jack Daniels even though he hasn't had anything to drink in 9 years and he's 92 years old. We laughed a lot and then he kissed my hand when I had to leave.

My second visit was also to a palliative care patient to change a dressing on her leg wound. It was also a nice visit. She's a pleasant lady with a bit of dementia which gives her a bit of a childlike innocent quality.

Then I made my third visit to a 45 year old man dying of a brain tumor. He's married to a wife who loves him a lot. He has a teenage son and a preteen son who are having problems accepting that Dad is going to die. He's one of 8 kids, and all his brothers and sisters are around the house, too. And his uncle is there. Thank God for the uncle. He's a retired hospice Dr. and he's the glue that is holding the whole family together. He looked really tired today when I was there. I hope he doesn't have to do this much longer. I left that home with a heavy heart and drove back to my own home.

Enough introspection and wallowing in my self pity for having lost my muse. He'll either come back or he won't. I have bigger things to do.

What's a writer to do?

2009-08-10T12:11:00.000-07:00

There's much discussion going on among my various writer's groups regarding the current state of publishing. It seems we who have chosen to go the ebook route are still being treated as the "red headed stepchild". We can't join PAN, submitting to RITA is next to impossible, RWA doesn't respect us, etc., etc., etc....

Here's the deal. In order to be a published writer you need to get published. In order to be published you need to be accepted by a publisher/editor. They tell you you need to be published in order for them to consider you. They suggest you get an agent. You query agents. They mostly want writers that have already proven their worth by being published. They suggest you attend conferences and meet other writers, editors, and agents. They suggest you attend classes and learn the craft. Join a critique group. You spend lots and lots of money. You do all of the above and you still can't get published by any of the BIG GUYS. You write your books. Revise your books. Give your books to friends and family to read. Of course they all love them. So, the ebook world opens up and it looks like there's a whole new ball game out there. You submit your previously rejected, many times revised works and Woo Hoo! They accept them and you're now a published author! You promote, promote, promote. It's hard to do and takes a lot of time, but you do it. You sell some books. BUT, you can't sell enough to get into PAN. Then someone tells you that you need to go back to square one. Change your pen name. Disconnect yourself from your ebooks that didn't sell enough to make you respectable. But don't stop writing! Keep on keeping on!

Okay, okay, so I sound a little bitter. It's all part of the "working through my writer's block" process, I guess. Really. I'm almost there. I do think I need to remove myself from my Yahoo groups. It's getting to be a real downer.

Oh yeah, the dog is Willie, my golden retriever and constant companion while I'm working at the computer. He's always right here by my side. Is he my muse?

Searching for my muse

2009-08-09T13:21:00.000-07:00

I ran across this logo from Night Owl Romance. They reviewed my ebook, LET THEM EAT CAKE, and chose it as a top pick. My muse was around then.

During my writing hiatus, I've decided to work full time at my other job as a hospice RN. When I began writing, my plan was to replace nursing with writing. I thought I'd be there by now. Maybe I'm not supposed to replace nursing with anything. Maybe I'm supposed to continue my work as a hospice nurse. I did have a good week last week despite the man that chose to misplace his anger at his wife's illness and take it out on me. Boy did he bend my ear! Oh well, the rest of the folks I saw benefitted from my visits. 1 bad one out of 20 isn't so bad.

Back to finding my muse...my thoughts are turning to historical California. I recently finished a book, CALIFORNIA WOMAN by Donald Knapp, and it was full of history about California. It was such fun to read because I've been to all the places he wrote about. I'm especially drawn to Northern California where my mom lives, near Chico. I guess I'll do some more research and see if my muse finds me.

Enough thoughts for today. I'm going out to float on the pool and meditate.

MUSE: MIA

2009-08-08T14:46:00.000-07:00

My muse is gone. Packed up and left me. Skeedaddled to who knows where? Will my muse return? Is this just a short vacation or have I been dumped for good?

Okay, my writer friends tell me I just need to write. It doesn't matter what. Journal, write on table cloths in restaurants (well maybe not), somewhere, anywhere. Writers write. That's what we do. So here goes.

Maybe my muse left because I don't know what direction to go in? I really enjoyed writing MEDICINAL REMEDIES, LET THEM EAT CAKE, CORNFLOWER BLUE, and my stories for our Kaiser book, CARING: MAKING A DIFFERENCE ONE STORY AT A TIME. I agonized over BLESS US FATHER and haven't gotten it into print yet. So what next?

I think perhaps I need to go in another direction. I don't like formulaic romances though I certainly enjoy romance in my books. I'm not chic litty. I'm not terribly passionate about telling nursing stories. What did I enjoy the most? LET THEM EAT CAKE. I enjoyed researching the history of France and weaving the romance into it. I had the most fun writing that book.

Hey! Maybe I'm getting somewhere. Okay, enough for today. Are you proud of me Terrill?