How Many Old People Does It Take to Change a Light Bulb?

    How many old people does it take to change a light bulb? Apparently, more than two, because Michael and I haven’t succeeded yet. The bulbs in question are actually tubes — fluorescent tubes — for the main fixture in our kitchen. Everyone has one, right? About two feet wide and four feet long, with four tube lights that provide most of the functional illumination in a kitchen.

     The four long neon tubes in ours have been faltering for a couple of weeks now. At first, they would dim and flicker occasionally, then settle down and illuminate just fine. Recently, one tube died and the kitchen got darker. When we got down to a single working fluorescent tube light, I hated working in there at night. I asked Michael to fix them: it was really too dark, even with the over-the-sink lights and the laundry room lights turned on. Michael turning on the microwave light as I complained did not much help either the lighting or my mood.

    Coming home from an event one day, I found the ladder in the kitchen and the cover off the fixture. Good, I thought, we’re going to have light again.” One tube had been removed; none of the other tubes worked at that point. I tracked Michael down in his office and commended him for working on the lights.

    “I’ll need to run to the hardware store for bulbs,” he told me. Easy enough, Home Depot and Lowe's are both within two miles of our house. Of course, one has to work up the motivation to soldier on and actually go to the store, so the ladder and cover got in the way in the kitchen for about a week.

    The next time I left Michael home alone, I returned to find new bulbs on the dining room table, one two-pack opened and loose. “I’m going to need some help with these. I couldn’t get them seated correctly by myself,” he said. “Fine, just let me know when you’re ready.”

    And so today, a Monday some days after his first attempt, he got back to it, but without waiting for me to finish lunch. Before I could join him to give whatever help he needed, I heard a crash, followed by appropriately loud cursing. The very thin glass of a fluorescent tube had scattered everywhere, and it took both of us sweeping in both the kitchen and the dining room to clear away the bits.

     “What can I do?” I asked. 

    “I can’t get the bulb to seat in the ballast,” he said. “If you could work on one end while I work on the other, that’d be great.” 

    So I dragged out the stepstool and climbed up, ready to insert and twist. I mean, that’s really all there is to it, right? Over 48 years of marriage and several different homes, we have replaced fluorescent tube lights numerous times. Mostly, Michael has replaced them, but I do know how to do it.

    But not today. He got his end in fine, but mine would not for the life of me insert far enough into the slot to twist in place. “Something’s blocking this side. It won’t go in all the way. Let’s switch sides, maybe you can do it.”

    Michael climbed down, I stepped across to his ladder, and he walked around to the stepstool and climbed up. All right, we were ready. It was going to work this time, I knew it. My confidence lasted right up to the moment I felt Michael’s end slip and heard another tube break. Fortunately, I still had a grip on my end, so we only had half a broken tube to clean up.

    At this point, Michael suggested that it was time to get track lighting for the kitchen. After all, fluorescent tubes were a thing of the past. I couldn’t agree more, but there is one thing special I want on the new track lighting for our kitchen. An installer. 

Ciao

Don't Look a Gift Bag in the Mouth

This afternoon, someone left a plain, navy blue, paper bag hanging on my front door. To say this was unusual would be a gross understatement. It’s been since my childhood — when people left May Day baskets of candy and treats on doorsteps — that any unexpected goodies appeared out of nowhere at our house. But the bag was meant for me: a handwritten note attached began “Ms. Devereaux [sic].”

(Point of clarification, there is no A in our Irish version of the surname Devereux. The sender obviously doesn’t know me well or doesn’t pay attention to nit-picky details. But kudos for getting Ms. right!)

 A quick perusal of the note revealed that the Salvation Army had delivered this bag as a thank you for completing a recent survey they emailed to me. Imagine if every one of the multitude of companies that bombard you daily with requests to complete their surveys sent gifts afterward? Responses would skyrocket.

The bag included flyers about their estate planning/future giving program and a handful of treats: two Halloween-sized bags of Skittles, one gummy and one regular; a retractable red measuring tape suitable for a sewing room; and two miniature red Salvation Army bells like the ones wielded over their Christmas kettles. The bells had split rings attached, presumably so you could slip them onto a key ring. I immediately put one of them on the font drawer that hangs on my office wall and houses a variety of tiny treasures I love. The other is beside my laptop awaiting deployment.

I am a big fan of the Salvation Army. In 1973, I was a pregnant graduate student whose husband had left her with no visible means of support. It took me a bit to get my life in order, take a leave from school, find an interim job, and support myself until Alexandra was born several months later. During that lean, mean period, the Salvation Army gave me groceries and I have been grateful ever since.

Every January, when we distribute our charitable contributions for the year, the Salvation Army gets a chunk of money. I have been giving to them faithfully for literally decades.  And I will continue to give as long as I can. I don’t say this to brag, just to explain why I might have been picked to get an unexpected gift hung on my front door today. And why they might have included some brochures encouraging me to continue giving after I die.

My immediate reaction to this lovely, unexpected token of appreciation was, “Why are they wasting money on this?  Why don’t they use the money to provide services to needy people?” Munching my way through both bags of Skittles, I did a little research on donor premiums, as they are called in the solicitation business. (Aside: Skittles gummies are surprisingly tasty!)

According to 2018 research by three Texas A&M professors (It's Not the Thought that Counts: A Field Experiment on Gift Exchange and Giving at a Public University | NBER), donor premiums do not generate more money for the organizations that give them out. In fact, they cost more money to give than the amount they generate. But charities must think that showing appreciation to donors will benefit them in the long run or why would they do it?

I do admit to feeling some warm fuzzies when I look at the tiny Salvation Army bell. I kinda wish I had a little kettle to go with it. And the gift did prompt me to write this blog, which might get them a smidgen of notice from a few people. Possibly, I will look over their brochure before I recycle it — not promising.

Maybe the Salvation Army likes me as much as I like them. Maybe they’re happy that my life turned out well enough that I could become a donor. Maybe I am WAY over thinking this and it’s time to stop looking a gift bag in the mouth. (Forgive my abuse of a venerable adage, but I couldn’t resist.)  Time to just say thank you, Salvation Army, the treats were lovely.

Ciao

 

 

Vaccines on My Mind

Vaccines are on my mind. Or, rather, the vaccine-deniers are on my mind. I have been appalled by RFK Jr. ever since he opened his mouth to run for president. (I had the good fortune not to have noticed him before then.) I have been appalled by vaccine-deniers since I first heard of them a few decades ago.

Most people do not have the associations with public health that I do because most people did not have a microbiologist for a father. My father worked for the North Dakota Public Health Service his entire career. Hired out of college, they sent him to the University of Michigan - Ann Arbor for his master’s degree. After, he went to work in the lab in Grand Forks, my hometown, and eventually ran it. Ultimately, he took over as director of the public health services at the state offices in Bismarck until his retirement. He worked in public health for 45 years.

His work had a big effect on me. First of all, as you might suspect, hygiene and food safety got a prominent spot in our household. No hands had better go unwashed! His lab tested all the milk products from regional dairies. The technicians would sample a tablespoon or so of milk, cream, ice cream, etc. from every batch. They sent the remainder home with Dad because he had a big family to feed, so we always had lots of dairy products. We also got pets from the lab: white mice.

Dad’s lab ran the tests on all animals in North Dakota suspected of having rabies, which is done using the animals’ brains. Whenever someone – usually farmers or hunters – ran across a potentially rabid creature, they would send the head to the lab by special courier. It could be any time of the day or night. Dad would get a call and go retrieve the specimen.

If it came at night or over a weekend, he’d store the package in the extra refrigerator in our basement. We were all accustomed to having specimens in the fridge from time to time. Dad used this to his advantage. When my grandmother sent homemade goodies that he wanted to save from the depredations of his large family, he’d wrap them up to look like specimens and put them in the basement. “Don’t open that box, it’s a head,” he’d tell us.

Okay, by late elementary school or high school, we’d grown pretty confident these packages were not actually heads … but not sure enough to risk opening them. Many a powdered sugar doughnut escaped early consumption because of this. Once the package was open, he kept it locked in his gun closet, which he could have done in the first place. I think he just enjoyed teasing us.

Polio was raging in my early childhood. I remember going with my neighbor Susan to whirlpool treatments for her withered leg. I’m sure it was actually physical therapy, but at 6 or so we didn’t know that. I suppose I was there was to entertain Susan while she sat in what looked like a horse trough of swirling water for her treatments. We had fun being silly together. I remember wishing I could get in the metal tank, too. It looked like fun.

When the polio vaccine came out, my dad had early access because of his job. One Sunday afternoon, he and my mother took the little kids — I was the oldest little kid — to visit their friends, the Culmers. Dr. Culmer and his wife Vangie played bridge with my parents while us kids goofed around. The adults, of course, drank as they whiled away the afternoon. To the kids’ great surprise, when the card game and libations were done, my dad collected us and Dr. Culmer gave us all polio shots!

I remember running away and being dragged back, probably kicking and screaming. There’s nothing like getting a jab from a slightly inebriated family friend when you’re not expecting it! But, really, we were probably some of the luckiest kids in town because we got protection from polio very early on.

Measles vaccines came along later. In my day, everyone got the measles. It was miserable and inconvenient for most people, but life-altering for others. Remember Helen Keller? Blind, deaf, and mute because of measles as an infant. Some kids were maimed by the disease, some died. My three older brothers had measles at the same time. While Mother was tending to them and running our household, I apparently contracted a mild case that no one noticed. I don’t remember having the measles, but everyone said I must have. In today’s world, where measles is again a danger, I really hope I did.

I do remember having chickenpox. I was eleven. I got them on Easter weekend, and my grandmother died the same day. And I remember when my son got them. He was in high school, so only 20 or so years ago. Little Tori got them from Nick. We all have a few chickenpox scars and I’ve been lucky enough to get shingles — a direct result of having had chickenpox — as well.

Now days, no child, in America at least, need ever contract polio, or measles, or mumps, or rubella, or whooping cough, or chickenpox again. No child need contract HPV, which causes cervical cancer and throat cancer, among others. My husband had HPV throat cancer in 2016. He survived after an excruciating treatment regime that you really want to avoid!

We did it. We found a way to save so much misery and loss in our world through science. And my dad was one of those scientists. I’m proud of him and happy for the safety of future generations.

But wait! The anti-vaxxers are refusing to get their kids protected. And by doing this, they are threatening the protections that we have built into our society. They are lying about vaccines and the vaccination process to scare people away from protecting everyone through childhood vaccination programs. My father is rolling over in his grave. And to make it worse, some people in my own family are anti-vaxxers who children have never been protected. I pray it doesn’t happen, but those kids, like all the other unprotecteds, are at risk of illness, disability, and death.

What has our world come to that the government agencies tasked with the health and welfare of our people walk away from proven protections? It is worse than a shame. It is a crime.

 Ciao

Relishing my Grandma-hood

These charming mice appeared in my mailbox on a birthday card from my 11-year-old granddaughter. The accompanying message said, “I’m so glad you’ve stuck with me for all my life.” Oh, Sweetie! So am I and how could I not have?

 Her little brother’s card, with rocketship graphics, said, “I love you so much my heart flys to neptune ♥”

These two cards are a continuous delight and I’ve been reflecting on grandparenting since I opened them. (Not that grandparenting has been far from my thoughts lately, since we are regularly babysitting for our 3-year-old grandson these days.)

 I never had a “grandma.” We called one of our grandmothers Grandmother Gustafson and the other one Florence. In grade school, I made a brief foray into grandma territory. Helping Florence with the dinner dishes one evening, I ventured to call her Grandma. Florence pivoted towards me and proclaimed in a stentorious voice, “You may call me Grandmother or you may call me Florence, but I am nobody’s Grandma.” Point taken, Florence.

 My mother told me she preferred to be called Mother rather than Mom, but she was, nonetheless, Grandma Jeanne to her hordes of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. It went without saying that I would be Grandma Lane. I could picture it, too. I would be the Grandma the kids loved to visit when they were little and confide in when they were older. I even saved my kids’ picture books and stuffed animals for their future kids’ visits to Grandma’s house.

 In a twist of fate, the first grandchildren I got were my stepson’s kids. Because his mother had disappeared with him when he was a toddler, and kept him hidden his whole childhood, I didn’t meet him until good fortune and Facebook reconnected him to Michael in 2009. By that time, he had already married and had two children, then 6 and 9, who had ample grandparents in their daily lives. Consequently, we have a warm and loving relationship with them as Lane and Michael, not Grandma and Grandpa. Because they live in Oregon and have never visited our home, my book and toy collection didn’t get used with them.

 Grandma-hood finally arrived when our son had his children, those delightful creatures whose birthday cards I quoted above. Unfortunately, he had the temerity to move to New York City to fall in love and have a family. Visits happen regularly, but more often us traveling north then them traveling south, and so the books and toys still have gotten little use.

 Our oldest daughter, who lives practically next door by Houston standards (8 miles), skipped children. Our youngest daughter, who lived a 5-hour drive from us at the time, had three. I began to believe that my stash of goodies would finally be put to regular use.

 I’ve had one special toy put aside for a future granddaughter for many years: our youngest’s My Twin doll, which we gave her for Christmas in elementary school. As the name implies, it had the same facial shape, same skin tone, same eye color, and same hair style as our daughter. They looked alike right down to the glasses they both wore. We invested in look-alike clothes for them and I enjoyed the turned heads that followed them around whenever we went out. When she had Heaven, and later, Hayden, I expected that the My Twin doll would eventually move in with them.

 Tragically, both Heaven and Hayden died in a house fire in 2022, on Hayden’s first birthday. Heaven was just days short of 4-years old. Our grandson came along a few months later, a beacon in the darkness. Now that our daughter lives in Houston, we are regular overnight babysitters. It delights me that the books and the toys finally get plenty of use. I’m into my Grandma-hood!!

 When our daughter outgrew her doll, I sent it back to the factory’s doll hospital and had her reconditioned. Looking like new, she has sat in my closet in her custom case, with her special clothes, for 20 years, waiting to be loved again, but I don’t think our grandson will appreciate her. And I’d be mighty surprised to get another granddaughter at this late stage in the game. Giving the doll back to our daughter is fraught. I worry that it will painfully remind her of what will never be.

 Problems for another day. Today I’m basking in the wonders of grandchildren near and far who love me! I love being loved by them. I am so glad to be a grandma.

 Ciao.

 

In Celebration of Friendship

 

    One’s 75^th birthday is their Diamond Jubilee. I had the good fortune to attain my Diamond Jubilee yesterday. And I had the precious opportunity to celebrate it with a few close friends and family at a luncheon today. Some of my friends knew one or two other people there; some knew no one but me. Nevertheless, conversations took off like they were all friends already, with laughter and chatter filling the room. That’s what happens when creative people gather, and my friends are definitely creative!

     The theme for the party? Friends. A local home baker created these cookies for the occasion. The diamond for my Diamond Jubilee, the peridot green icing for my birthstone, and the sentiment from my heart.

     It is good to have friends and to find time for them. It can’t all be luncheons and parties, of course. There isn’t time or money for that in most people’s lives. But phone calls, cards – yes, mailed!! – and even texts, if you are just too rushed to do more, are good ways to stay in touch. An occasional coffee klatsch is fun. Try taking in a movie with a friend. Just connect; it’s invigorating.

     My abbreviated post today is in celebration of friendship and in appreciation of the people in my life! They make it all worthwhile.

     Check in with a friend today!

 Ciao

 

Exploring Grief

It has been a difficult week. Since I am surrounded by sad events, I’ve decided to explore grief.

 A week ago, we found out that our nephew’s 11-year-old daughter has a life-threatening medical condition. She will require a lung transplant as soon as she’s stable enough. Because of her young age, there are probably several transplants ahead for her.

 A good friend died in May and we attended his Celebration of Life yesterday. Celebrating a life doesn’t mean you wouldn’t rather have your friend alive and well. In fact, it made me miss him more by reminding me of all we’ve lost in losing him.

 Our son’s family left town for a vacation yesterday. Last night, he had such severe pain that his wife took him to the ER. There’s a kidney stone lodged in his gall bladder, an extremely painful condition, I’ve heard. He’s awaiting final diagnosis, but it will probably require surgery. Although I expect everything will be fine, I worry. Life is fragile. A niece the same age died unexpectedly last January.

 When I got the news about my great-niece, I tried to tell Michael what had happened and I couldn’t. Literally couldn’t. It triggered such anguish in me that I could not get the words out of my mouth without sobbing. We played a ridiculous game of charades as he tried to guess what I was failing to tell him. It went on long enough for me to compose myself and give him the rudiments of her story.

 I know where this overpowering grief comes from: the losses of my mother, in October 2021, and of my two little granddaughters, in 2022. That pain is seared into me.

 But what about the five stages of grief, you ask? Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance identified by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross in her 1969 book On Death and Dying. Shouldn’t I be moving through those stages, resolving my grief?

 Ha! The joke’s on all of us. Cody Delistraty, author of The Grief Cure: Looking for the End of Loss points out that Kubler-Ross’s work applied to the dying person, not to the survivors left behind. And even for the dying person, it was never presented as a lockstep path forward, although people seem to believe that wholeheartedly. The Five Stages of Grief Are Actually Wrong. Here's Why.

 I am tired of loss. I’m especially tired of losses that are not part of expected life cycles. My mother was 99, after all. She did not die untimely. But our extended family has had four untimely deaths – two younger adults and two children. I pray that I don’t face any more of those.

 Ciao

To Hell with Aging!

 

On August 17, I turn 75 years old. That’s a BIG number! Does it mean I’m old now? When do people get old? What’s the calculus between old and young?

Last night I made an impromptu run to Kroger at 10:15 to pick something up. When I arrived and parked on a lot almost devoid of cars, it felt a bit spooky.  I forgot the store only keeps one door open at night, and I parked near the wrong door. As I exited my car, I looked around, checking out the surroundings. There’ve been a lot of carjackings and juggings in Houston and I didn’t want any trouble.

Hmm. Looks scary with no people around. Am I safe? I mean, I’m an old lady … Hmm. Am I an old lady?

I immediately thought about myself at 23, head up, shoulders back, arms swinging, striding purposefully down the sidewalk near my home in Laclede Town, the avant-garde, mixed-use apartment complex I lived in when I went to graduate school at Washington University in St. Louis.

Here I am, shoulders back, head up, arms swinging, striding purposefully across the lot, just like 1973. Is that old walking? No, it is NOT!!

Feeling a little cocky – just try something, amorphous villain, I’ll clock you good with my purse! – I strode into Kroger, bought my item, and walked back to the car, safe and sound. But the question of oldness didn’t leave me. What does it mean to BE old?

The classic indicators:  you’re frailer, slower, unsteady at times. You have under-performing quads and hamstrings that make it hard to pick yourself up. You suffer innumerable aches and pains. Unexpected confusion hits you at times. You have fatigue but can’t sleep.

I recognize all those signatures of aging in myself, but here’s the rub. I’ve had them for 36 years! At 39, I received the devastating diagnosis of Systemic Lupus Erythematosus. In a transaction I’ve immortalized in my recently finished memoir,* I told the doctor I had heard of two kinds of lupus, one that was a skin disease and one that kills people. She replied, “You have the kind that kills.”

That rude introduction to my future unnerved me, but lupus did not kill me, at least it hasn’t yet. What lupus did was give me all the attributes of old age decades before I should have had them. It’s been a rollercoaster ride of incapacities, impairments, and infirmities interspersed with periods of relative well-being. I feel thankful for every day I’ve had, whether in pain or not, to share a life of love with Michael, to watch our children (and now grandchildren) grow up, to find personal fulfillment.

And where does this reflection lead me? To hell with old age – I reject it! I won’t claim young, but I’ll claim steadfastly to standing upright and moving forward despite all the years in my tally.

*My memoir is The Requirements of Love: Forging a Family Against the Odds. It hasn’t been published yet, but I’m working on that.