Embarrassed at a Whole New Level

            This past Wednesday evening for prayer meeting at our church, our pastor approached me before the service started and said, “Wow, you’re famous now.” I thought, “Did someone read one of my books and tell him what a great job I did?” I’ve written three books about a fictional retired homicide detective from the Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania police force. It was a possibility, but no. I posted on my Blog spot in the middle of March about a family that are being called to be missionaries to the cold, icy country of Greenland. J. R. Wright visited our church on deputation, trying to collect support for them while they brought the Gospel to the natives of Greenland.

            While he was talking about the things that he hoped to accomplish in assisting another missionary family in Greenland, he was specifically talking about starting a boat ministry to reach the small villages that can only be reached by sea. It was then that my phone rang. I had forgotten to shut off the ringtone and of course, it interrupted J.R.s presentation. My ringtone is the theme song to Popeye the Sailor Man. Toot, toot. To say I was embarrassed is an understatement, as I fumbled to remove my phone from my pocket and silent its ten to fifteen second serenade.

            The service went on, with no help from my interruption. At the end when we were greeting the Wright family, I said to J. R. that I considered the seafaring song as a blessing on his boat ministry. I posted this in the next day’s blog and said that I hoped he forgave me. When I saw him that evening, that was basically the first words out of his mouth, he forgave me. I gave him my business card as an author and writer. He found and perused my Blog spot.

            Now, back to me as a famous person, the Wright family’s newsletter updating a world full of churches that during his deputation, he had been interrupted by a man’s phone playing Popeye the Sailor Man and he considered it a blessing on his proposed boat ministry. My accidental, embarrassing, faux pas has now gained worldwide fame. I’m sure that J. R. is asking his readers to pray that I don’t forget to silence my phone for a church service, again.

            For anyone who may need a blessing from Popeye for their boat ministry, please let me know. If only my blog and my books would gain recognition that quickly. (SIGH)

Dreams Can Come True

            Last night, I dreamed. I rarely remember my dreams and what I dream are usually not worth remembering, so it surprised me when I recalled it when I woke. It was a premonition dream, a dream that came true. I could vividly hear the burner on my natural gas stove spitting instead of the normal hiss of the flame. It is a sound that tells me the tank is nearly empty and it will be time to close the valve to the empty tank and open the other. I didn’t think anymore of it, until I decided to make lunch and turned the knob on my stove.

            The flame of the burner was small and made the spitting sound of low pressure in the tank. It was a déjà vu moment. It was a dream that came true.

            My Grandmother Miner’s dreams often came true. One of the t two I remember was the one that she told about working in her flower garden. She dreamed that there was a snake in the flower bed. Instead of reaching in with her hands, she used a hoe to part the plants and there was a snake.

            The other one that she shared was one that was so very weird and unusual. She said that in her dream, she saw a car drive down their farm lane and as the vehicle went by the house, the driver had no head, ridiculous, right?

             She was asleep and heard a car driving down their farm lane. The front porch was about six feet below the roadway. Grandma left the porch light on and as the car passed by, the porch roof cast a shadow against the side of the vehicle. The angle of the cast shadow fell across the driver’s shoulders, putting the area of the man’s head in deep shadow. It made him look as though he had no head.  The man had a head, but the image matched my Grandmother Miner’s dream.

            I’m sure that she had more dreams that came true, but these are the two that I remember.

The Ugly Blouse
I'm posting an older story about an incident that occurred while I was a nurse at Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania for two people. One person  at church today  asked if I posted stories from the hospital and another asked about a necktie and I shared this story with her. The post should satisfy both.

Nancy, a statuesque blond, was one of the switchboard operators. (She was the operator who volunteered to stay over when the hospital was struck by lightning. Thanks Nancy.) She was a friendly person who was quick to laugh and always ready to help. Because the switchboard was in a part of the hospital where there were limited phone to use, I would step inside to use the phones there. She was on duty when I stepped inside to answer a page.

When I had finished talking, I said, “That’s a nice blouse, Nancy.”

The blouse was black with multiple, vibrantly colored geometric shapes.

“What, this old thing?” she snapped.

I was taken aback. I had never seen Nancy short tempered. I thought it was something that I had said. I tried again. I had only meant to compliment her. “I just meant it was pretty. I didn’t mean anything also other that it was a nice blouse.”

“I’ll tell you what,” she said. “If you think it’s pretty, I’ll give it to you for your wife!”

I was exasperated. I guess she took the compliment the wrong way. “It was a compliment. I don’t want your blouse. I thought it was nice.” I turned and left before she could say more.

I forgot about the whole incident until Nancy’s wicked sense of humor came home to roost at Christmas. A few days before the actual holiday, I stopped by the switchboard. Nancy was on duty. She said wait. I have something for you.”

She bent over to her side and groped inside her carryall. Pulling out a long, thin box that was covered in bright Christmas wrapping paper and a big red bow, she said, “This was for you. Go ahead and open it.” She gave me the box.

I didn’t think anything unusual. I worked closely with the people at the switchboard. All the calls, pages, and searching for telephone numbers created a bond. They had a small tabletop Christmas tree. I would buy a small gift for each of them and stick it under the tree. (I always personalized the gifts, buying things I knew they liked. For two it was elephants, another liked memorabilia for Princess Dianna of Great Britain, and one angels etc.) So I initially thought that it was a gift because I had bought one for her.

As I reached out for the gift, she said, “Go ahead. Open it now.”

I placed my census sheets on the desk and pulled off the ribbon. I could see her smiling as I started to rip off the paper off the flat folded box.

It was light. The carton was about five inches wide and about twenty inches in length.

I have ties for all occasions. Some ties I have purchased and some that friends in the hospital found for me. Patients and staff seemed to like seeing me wear them. I was thinking that it was another tie for my collection.

It was a tie and what a tie it was. There in the box was Nancy’s blouse, repurposed as a neck tie. It was the blouse I told her that looked nice. I was tongue tied. (That in itself was unusual.) I held the tie up into place in front of my shirt. The black blouse with the vivid colors was now a tie. She had found someone to redo that blouse and sew it into this neck tie.

Nancy said, “I told you I was going to give you that blouse. She looked at the tie held up to my chest and said, “Damn! That blouse looks better as a tie than it did as a blouse.

Nancy has passed away now. I still have the tie. Even before she retired, I would wear that tie for New Year’s Eve. The black cravat looked great against a bright yellow shirt or a deep purple shirt. Black trousers completed my New Year’s Eve attire. I only wear it once a year. Thank you, Nancy!.

Write On

            Yesterday, I posted a sad date blog that was not in keeping for my usual days to place a story on my site, but it was an anniversary and I was feeling a bit down. Today I want to step away from that and make a few comments on my writing. I am in the midst of writing another group of stories about my main character, Tommy Two Shoes and his wife Cora. It is slow slogging. Some of the ideas remain buried and undiscovered in the recesses of my brain. I am also trying to sort through things in my house, so I don’t have to call The Hoarders show.

            I posted that I attended a craft show in White Oak and sold twelve books as well as meeting several new people that I can claim as newfound friends. They were for the most part, other vendors that surrounded me. I did have one woman who bought the second book that I wrote, because she had read the first. After she left, I remembered that I donated a book to the Norwin Library and that was probably where she found it. I’m sure that one of my books hasn’t started to make the rounds at flea markets yet.

            I was called the other day by a woman from the Mt. Pleasant Library with a woman’s name and phone number that wanted to buy my books. This had never happened before and when I shared it with fellow writers, it had never happened to them either. I called her back and left a message on her answering machine and waited. I was concerned that she hadn’t called back. Perhaps I copied her number incorrectly. No, she called me Wednesday. She had been ill. She wanted the books for her mother who likes mysteries and somewhere back through history, we are related. I will find out more today.

A Very Special Anniversary

            Today is a very special anniversary. It is a date that I don’t like to celebrate, but an anniversary none-the-less. March 23, 2003, my beloved wife, passed away. She had been feeling ill with upper respiratory symptoms for about a week. Her wheezing was getting worse and I gave her no choice, it was time to be seen in the emergency department. After much testing, it was determined that she had fallen victim to the silent killer, ovarian cancer. It had quietly invaded her body to the point, little could be done. Ten days later she was in the loving arms of Jesus. Cynthia “Cindy” Beck had passed through the veil from life into death and heaven beyond the shadows.

            The irony of the date is the second anniversary that I am forced to celebrate. It is the anniversary of my mother, Sybil June Beck.  After many years of her mind and body being held captive by the insidious disease of Alzheimer’s disease, she died on the third anniversary of my wife’s passing. March 24, 2006, we knew that she was free of the shackles of the terrible disease that stolen her mind and ravaged her body for so many years. It had gotten to the point that she couldn’t remember how to eat.

            There is sadness, but there are also blessings. In the brief window Cindy was so ill, she had no pain. It was difficult for those left behind, but in retrospect, she didn’t have to suffer the agony and pain of so many cancer victims.

            After so many years of not knowing what was going on around her and the horror of having her memories swallowed up and lost into the black hole of Alzheimer’s, my mom was free and able to be the wonderful woman that we remember.

            Though neither are still here, their memories live still in the hearts and minds of those who knew them.

Awake and Trying to Go Back to Sleep

            I was awakened by a wrong number and a run to the necessary room for my old man bladder. I’ve had just enough sleep, not to be tired and yet my eyes feel like the sandman has used a dump truck last night. Sometimes, when I have trouble getting to sleep, I think of the story I want to write about a hunter/ trapper and his adventures, just finding his way through the wilderness and forests of western Pennsylvania. Because of the terrain, the weather, and the areas of game, his shelters would have been scattered and of different materials. Some would be little more than to keep off the rain and to reflect the warmth of a small cook fire. Others would have to be snug and able to ward off the frigid temperatures and winds of winter.

            Coming home to the relative comfort of a cave or a sod fronted rock overhang would always start with a fire to warm the shelter and to cook the meal. Water was the next essential that needed to be fetched. Whatever game that had been shot or trapped would need skinned and the hide or pelt handled to preserve it. The meat would have to be butchered and cut into pieces to be spit roasted or tossed into a kettle to cook with whatever herbs, salt, and any dried vegetables.

            While the meal was cooking, it would be necessary to make a place to sleep. Small branches of hemlock would be spread on the ground to keep the bear skin bedding off the cold floor and the branches would add a springy softness as a mattress.

            For these more permanent dwellings, firewood would have already been collected and stored against the harsh winter weather. It was difficult to gather wood in the deep snows and ice of those frigid months. The wood would be brought in to last the night.

            By this time, I usually fall asleep and never finish my fantasy, but it is comforting to be able to have these repeating scenes. It is almost like counting sheep for me. Maybe someday, I will continue with the story, finding a wounded native American at my door, like Robinson Caruso and be able to write a book on the wilderness of western Pennsylvania.

Making New Friends and Selling

            Saturday, I went with some friends to another craft show to sell our books and to meet the public. Much of what I do, is to pass out my cards and give them a quick idea about the mysteries that I write about a retired homicide cop from Pittsburgh Pennsylvania. His nickname is Tommy Two Shoes, a name that he got when he had to wear a pair of mismatched pair of school and it stuck with him. I have become the official barker for the group, talking to the potential customers and getting them to draw near, sharing my spiel with them. Once they come closer, the chances of selling rise much higher.

            I have become more gregarious since I retired from nursing and have pursued a second career of writing. A writer must sell themselves as well as their books. I reacquainted myself with an Italian lady who was at another show. It was so nice.

            The woman to the left of our table was an actual book seller. She sold books from major companies, mostly children’s books. She was Jewish and I was able to find out more about her religion. The table across from us sold baked goods. There was a pile of individual cheese cakes of a myriad of flavors. There were cookies of all sorts and banana nut logs.

            The table behind me to my left was a lady who made jewelry out of natural stones, silver wire, acrylic encased that hung on silver chains, Each piece was different, reflecting the shape of the stones. The table behind and to my right were manned by two women and a youth, still in high school. They sold wreaths of various sizes and were composed of ribbons, colored burlap, and flowers. I had a blast teasing and feeding the young man. I brought several snacks with me. He asked that I put his story in one of my books. I’m not sure that I can, but I can try a limerick for him.

            Nathan, a young man was bullied.

            His name was abused and sullied.

                        But due to his charm

                        And his pitching arm

            He later filled the Pirates’ need.

Saint Patty’s Party

            I was invited to a Saint Patrick's Day celebration and meal at a fellow writer and friend’s home in Laurel Borough near Ligonier Pennsylvania. Although she and I are politically polar opposites, we are still able to coincide peacefully. She is very liberal, while I am conservative. She is semi-retired nurse, while am fully retired. Her writing tends to lean to romance novels set in the British Isles and Ireland while mine are more local about a retired homicide detective from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The stories that she writes are small vignettes of the countryside and capture the speech and customs of that land. Both of our writings include mysteries that have been formed in the creative spaces of our minds.

            The party goers included six writers total and her brother and his wife. The oldest of the authors writes non-fiction inspirational stories of the wisdom learned in her lifetime. One of the other writers pens lightly disguised political satire and humor. Another author has written several self help books on poetry, childrens books, and has helped her cat to publish a book on how to train humans. The final writer has written as a reporter and journalist for a newspaper, keeps several blogspots, and in the middle of an historical novel.

            We gathered around the large dining room table to savor the favorite Irish dish of corned beef, cabbage, and potatoes with a few carrots to add color to the fare. The main course was served with slices of Irish soda bread with raisins and butter. The dessert consisted of chocolate cupcakes with swirls of green icing, thumbprint cookies, and chocolate chip, mint ice cream.

            Several types of wine and a Guinness beer was available for those who partake, but I was happy with my orange soda. We remained around the table talking, relaxing, and laughing for the remainder of the evening. In our lives today, we often ignore events like these and I am glad that on occasion in the middle of a fast paced world, that I was offered the opportunity to slow down and enjoy time with friends.

Embarrassed, Sure

            We’ve all had moments when we’ve been embarrassed, put our feet in our mouths, or committed some sort of faux pas. We are human after all.  One of the first that comes to my mind was an occasion while I was dating my wife-to-be, Cindy Morrison. It happened one Sunday afternoon. It was the first time that I had been invited to have Sunday lunch with the whole family. Roast beef, mashed potatoes, and corn pudding filled the table and soon filled our stomachs. Eating slowed and conversation increased in the relaxed atmosphere. I opened my mouth to say something and a small burp escaped.

            That was embarrassing enough, but when Cindy’s dad, Bud scowled and said, “How dare you burp before my wife?” My ears began to burn and I am sure that I blushed. I had a choice. I could either wilt and slide under the table or I could make a joke of it and laugh at myself. I replied, “I didn’t know that it was her turn.” A small look of surprise crossed his face before he began to laugh.

            Last night at church for the mission’s conference, I had another incident. I forgot to shut off the tones for my cell phone and of course, someone called me, right in the middle of the visiting missionary’s sermon. Earlier, J. R. Wright, the missionary on deputation to go to Greenland shared his desire to go there, establish churches, and expand the boat ministry.

            Now, comes the coincidental part. My cell phone plays Popeye the Sailor Man. I chose it because I served in the Navy and if my ringtone sounded when I was out, I knew immediately that it was mine. I fumbled for at least ten to fifteen seconds to get it out of my pocket and to silence it. J. R. stopped and said that he’d never had that tune play while he was speaking. The old feeling of sliding out of sight returned, but after the service, I apologized and said, “Consider the ringtone interruption a blessing on your boat ministry.”

            I will have to wait until tonight to see if I have been forgiven.

Some Sundays

            Some Sundays, like today, are extremely busy from the time a wake until the time I grab a snack and take my medications before bedtime. In the morning, I check my e-mail for something exciting, Snore. Then, I do a quick buzz through of Facebook. I check my blood sugar level, pour and take my meds, then grab a bite of breakfast. Breakfast foods are not my forte and I may eat cold pizza or reheat the rehydrated and cooked Lima beans with a slice of bread.

            Showering, shaving, and doing all of the other bathroom necessities complete, I decide what clothes to climb into for church and Sunday school. This Sunday was the beginning of our missionary conference. We have two missionary families that are visiting. The first are the Minions. No not the odd yellow ones, but real live people. They have been drawn to our Canadian neighborhood of Labrador.

            Labrador has a special place in my heart. Five of us travelled there, probably eighteen or twenty years ago with another young man who wanted to be a missionary there. After driving to the northernmost point of Newfoundland, we rode the ice hardened transport ship, the Northern Ranger to Nain and back, visiting the many small villages and towns along the way. I especially wanted to hear the testimony and the desire of the Minions for this harsh land that is nearly void of the Gospel.

            The next family that will be speaking and sharing their testimony and calling to the country of Greenland will be the Wright family. They will be joining the Shull family in Greenland to help spread the Gospel there. The Shulls have started the only fundamental church in the entire country. It is remarkable that these young people have accepted the daunting task of settling in a non-hospitable environment to share the love of God with these people.

            The darkness in these Arctic areas lasts almost twenty-four hours a day, every day in the winter months. Because there is so much gloom, it reflects in the people using alcohol, drugs, and having a high suicide rate. These problems are very prevalent and a very real hurdle to overcome or to positively influence. I had a taste of the dark winter when I was stationed in Iceland for a year. The lack of sunlight definitely has an effect on the body and spirit of a person.

Sometimes Saddened

            We all have times when sad thoughts swarm around us like bees on lemonade, and I am no exception. There are times that I am drawn back into memories of past events that sadden me. Not all have to do with the passing of loved ones, sometimes it is just the passing of time, when a child gets married or a graduation or even moving out on their own. In ways, they are part of normal life when a child tries its wings and leaves the nest, but it made my life a little emptier.

            Deaths are a hard event to deal with. I was saddened at the passing of a loved one, but I have willingly left them go. Truthfully, there was nothing I could do to keep them here, it was just that I allowed my feelings to open up the grasp and allow them to pass away. It gets to a certain point that death is a blessing. The passing from this sickness and pain filled world into a world of peace and joy beyond the sunset. I try not to reminisce about the exact point of death. That is the painful, empty spot in the journey, but the life that was lived to that point. Rather focus on the many remarkable things that were done in love, caring, and hope for the future.

            I just passed another milestone. My birthday was 9 March and I am fast approaching that departure point. I don’t know how long I might live, but I plan on loving my children and grandchildren until that time occurs. I want to leave them memories that will keep them smiling, long after I have gone.

            The major reason that I started this blog spot was to pass on these stories of life that I remembered or were passed on to me by my parents and in-laws. I know I have been told many stories that I have forgotten and unless someone jogs my memory, these tales of our family history will disappear. They will be lost to future generations.

            Most of the things that I share are not earth shattering happenings, but insights to the everyday occurrences that pepper our family’s past. Some of the tales are pleasant and some, not so pleasant. I try to write the essence of what I’ve been told, usually without my pronouncement of judgment.

            Sadness, happiness, gladness, joy, life, death, all of these things go into the melting pot that is the basis of life. I don’t want to get too maudlin or too philosophical, so I will leave you all with the thought, sunshine would be so much less without the occasional rain shower.

Hints and Tints of Spring

            Yesterday, Was a remarkable day. After the darkness of winter, the piles of dirty snow, and the chilling winds, it was a most welcome and refreshing change to have sunshine and warm zephyrs surrounding me. The longer daylight hours are a preamble to the promises of spring and the days of summer beyond.

            Outside the delicious warmth and freshness to the air greeted me. I was almost tempted to dance on my front lawn, but the fact that I can’t dance very well and that my neighbors already think I am odd, kept that impulse in check. I didn’t want to give them a reason to call the boys with the strait jackets.

            Earlier, as the sun peaked over the horizon, I was awakened by a slowly building symphony of robins, while a ring-necked pheasant strutted in the back yard, crowing loudly. They were soon joined by the “Take two. Take two,” of a mourning dove. The frog peepers sounding their soprano reed like pipings to the chorus. I am happy that the neighbors haven’t brought the rooster to the coop beside of their building in the field behind my house.

            On the gentle slope beside my driveway, the leaves of my miniature tulips had emerged, reaching toward the sun and two of my crocuses have shown their colorful faces, one a bright orange-yellow and the other a soft purple. The grass is becoming more green, shaking off the browns of winter and the buds on the tips of the trees and beginning to swell, pregnant with the thoughts of spring. Yes, there are hints and tints of springtime all around.

Old Ladies and Craft Shows

            I spent Saturday morning and early afternoon at the St. John’s church near North Huntington. It was held in their gymnasium. Tables were set up, with wide aisles to allow shoppers easy access to the handmade items for sale. It was an interesting mélange of crocheted, stitched, and crafted articles, everything from pillows, to potholder/ tea towel creations. Floral wreaths, stitched canvass items, placemats, runners, and of course the jewelry. Some of the jewelry was crocheted multiple with a fancy piece of broken plate, cup, or other pieces of jewelry attached as an ornament.

            The table my two friends and I spread our books on, was located close to the door and between the minimally heated gym and the chill from the outside, it was necessary to get up and walk frequently to restore the circulation and feelings to the toes. I shouldn’t complain, each of us sold three or four books. I passed out many of my business cards and met a lot of people.

            There was one old, frizzy, white-haired Eye-talian lady, as she pronounced it, who sat directly across from me. We had a great time talking and joking.  I could have put her in my pocket and drought her home..

            I met another woman who was celebrating her ninetieth birthday, happy birthday, Evelyn. I made a special trip across the gym to serenade her. It made her smile. She had things to sell, Christmas themed crocheted Mr. and Mrs. Claus.

            The drivers, to and from the event were just careless. Several times, I though sure I was going to be sideswiped by vehicles where the drivers were hugging the white traffic lines. When I was just getting over the Tuesday walk through the Deathly Hallows of whatever illness I had, it was a bit nerve wracking.

            By the time I got back home I was tired and fell into bed for a much deserved nap.

            So far, my appointment book looks like the dance card for the most popular gal at the USO and I keep getting invitations for more and more things. Whatever happened to a restful retirement where I can settle back and read a book?

I worked at Monsour for a year before changing hospitals. In the old hospital their surgical intensive care unit directly above the morgue. I was told that during the night shift, nurses in the unit would often hear babies crying. These nurses were very credible witnesses and I had no reason to doubt what they were saying. I didn’t work the night shift often and only rarely worked in the surgical intensive care unit, so I can’t confirm what they had heard.

This hospital was located along a busy four lane highway. The road ran right past the front door of the emergency department. Accident victims were often brought into the emergency room for treatment, no matter how severe the injury.

It was highly likely that babies and children, as well as adults had died in those accidents and were placed in the morgue until the coroner would release them. At that time there were no air rescue helicopters to fly survivors and some victims would die because the advanced care of larger hospitals wasn’t readily available.

The deceased were brought to the hospital as well. The coroners requested that the dead be taken to a hospital to be pronounced by a physician. Most hospitals have stories of ghosts, spirits and of unexplained sightings or sounds.

***

The owners were brothers. One of the doctors was admitted for a chronic back problem. His private room was near another room that held a confused patient who was noisy and called out frequently. He would moan and then yell loudly. The noise continued all that day and evening.

When nightshift started, the man’s loud vocalizations must have annoyed the doctor, because the physician with a “back problem” came out of his room and took a gurney from storage and pushed it into the noisy man’s room.

The doctor dragged the confused man from his bed and onto the cart. The disappeared into the elevator without assistance.We were in a quandary.

Minutes later, we got a telephone call, saying that one of our patients was in the middle of the main lobby on a stretcher. They knew by his identification band that he was ours. He was crying out and disturbing others. He had been pushed to the first floor and abandoned by the doctor. When the doctor came back to the floor, he requested medication for his back pain and disappeared into his room.

We didn’t know what to do. So we called the nursing supervisor for guidance. She reassigned a room for the confused man on another floor.

***

Someone in administration, called saying be expecting a woman being brought in by car. The family thought she might have had a stroke and I was told to wait at the emergency entrance, under the concrete portcullis, with a wheelchair. I was instructed she was to be a direct admission and to which floor and which room to deliver her. I felt foolish standing outside waiting, but orders were orders.

About ten minutes later a new, powder blue, convertible Cadillac whipped into the driveway and under the canopy. It stopped right outside of the emergency room doors. On the door, in white script, someone had painted the owner’s initials.

Before I could take the few steps to the car, the chauffer put the car in park, jumped out of the driver’s seat, and came around to open the passenger’s door. Pulling it open so I could slide the chair up to the gap, the muscular driver almost physically lifted the fragile-looking, silver haired woman from the car seat and into my wheelchair. I settled her feet into the foot rests and started to back her away from the car.

The chauffer said nothing and I whisked the lady away to her private room. Registration came to her room to admit her. There was no waiting for her in admissions.

I chose not to be too inquisitive about the whole hush-hush affair when I sawt the chauffer climb out of the car to open the door.had a leather strap that ran across his one shoulder and the bulge under the opposite arm pit.

I learned a long time ago, in the Navy, not to question or argue with the powers-that-be in administration or a large chauffer with a bulge under his arm.

Ailing

Just so you don’t believe that I forgot to write a Blogspot, I’ll write a few lines. I have been sick with a major sinus infection. I went to my doctor Tuesday and he ordered an antibiotic for me. I came home and had my daughter pick up the prescription. As soon as she came, I took the one pill. After that I went upstairs and didn’t come back down until this morning. I did drink fluids, but didn’t eat or take my meds.

Yesterday was a blur. When I would check my phone, it would say that it was pm even though I thought it should be morning. Two times over the past two days, I fell both times it was almost as if I blacked out. I went all rubbery and couldn’t control my muscles. That is why I didn’t take my meds or come down stairs to eat.

I’m feeling a little better today and actually made some oatmeal. I’ll share more later.