Bleeding Hearts

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My attempt at creative floral shots. ha!
Which do you like best?

Driving Dramas

I needed to drive to North Carolina to visit my grandson and to bring home some things I had left at their house which could not come on the plane. Grant did not have the time to make such a long trek, and I really did not want to make that drive without Guinness accompanying me as my bodyguard. Karin was not fond of Guinness and never wanted him to visit. But Steve's attitude is more lenient, and he welcomed Guinness saying that Kevin would love him.

My route took me south of Erie, Pennsylvania, on 79. I noted a big rig ahead of me driving erratically, sashaying from lane to lane. Then I noted an SUV attempting to pass the truck. The trucker jerked into the left lane cutting off the SUV. The SUV moved to the right lane and tried to pass again. The monstrous truck took his half of the road out the center. The SUV couldn't win at this game, so slowed down, moving back from the truck. Now that the rig had trumped, he drove more sanely. I was now close enough to see the license plate -- PT0068ON. I sped on past the truck praying he wouldn't be mad at me. I noted that his ugly dark blue devil cab was barreling down behind me, so I went faster. I thought -- if I am stopped for speeding, I will tell the cop to go after this wild trucker. As long as I stayed twenty miles over the speed limit, I increased the distance between us. Eventually, he was off my horizon.

On the way home a week later, I was headed to an college friend's house in the panhandle of West Virginia sandwiched between Ohio and Pennsylvania. My GPS guided me off the Interstate in Ohio and onto a small, scenic river road. At first, it was only two lanes, but it eventually became four lanes. Cruising my usual ten miles over the speed limit, I passed an ugly, old black car with three guys in it. The driver pulled out of the right lane and started tagging me. I assumed that he perferred that I be stopped for speeding instead of him. After a while, he was not just following me, but was tailing me. I considered touching my brakes to make him back off, but didn't which may have been fortuitous. I was becoming annoyed with his tailgating, when Guinness awakened and stood up. Immediately, the car passed me, not to be seen again.

When I told Grant the story, he thinks the car was stalking me. These red necks saw a Lexus from Canada with an older woman -- an easy target and one who likely had money. The usual technique is to bump a vehicle, causing it to stop, giving them the opportunity to rob or worse. After he planted that idea, I remembered that the car had passed me at one point, then pulled into the right lane allowing me to pass them again. They were probably getting a good look at their prey. Thank God for Guinness!!!

Does AAA mean The Amos and Andy Auto Show?

Last night, I returned Aunt Donna to her retirement complex at 9:30 after having spent a delightful day together. As I drove out of her parking lot, something was definitely wrong with my son's Honda Odyssey I was driving. As I pulled onto the street, I again felt the unusual sensation that the car was not right. At the next entrance, I drove back into the parking lot, then noted that there was a yellow caution light on the dash. I pulled out the manual to see what it could be: low tire pressure. I got out of the car to see if a tire had a visual problem. The driver’s front tire was flat to the rim! I pulled under a street light where no other cars were parked and called AAA. They said it would be 45 minutes before they could get there. First, I awakened my son to tell him I had a flat and would not be back to his house until late. He said he would come help me if I needed him, but I assured him he could go back to sleep as AAA was on their way. I asked him where the spare was and he explained how to get it out. Then I awakened my husband, Grant, 1500 miles away. He wanted me to call him back when it was fixed and again when I reached Greg’s house. I told him I would only call if I had more trouble, because I wanted him to sleep! He was leaving early in the morning to catch a plane to come here.

I did not want to disturb Aunt Donna; she was probably crawling into bed by the time I finished my phone calls. I had no book to read, except the vehicle manual. I looked up how to get the spare tire out, then snoozed until the phone rang at 10:20 to say they were on the way. Shortly before 10:30, I saw a very long flatbed tow truck barreling down the street with its lights flashing. It zipped right past me, plus it was so large that I assumed it was not my rescue vehicle. A minute later, it returned racing past me again. This time, I saw it turn in down the street a ways, and knew that they couldn’t find me. My phone rang. I answered with. “You can’t find me; can you? You have sped past me twice now.” I explained again where I was and they were beside me in seconds.

The passenger jumped out of the cab – a short, nerdy-looking guy with glasses whom I will call Amos. I showed him the tire and told him where to find the spare. He had trouble figuring out how to get into it, so I offered him the manual turned to the right page, which he accepted gratefully. I would have assumed that a tow truck person would know how and where to find the spare in every type of vehicle! Meanwhile, the driver, whom I will dub Andy, appeared – a huge African-American. Greg later told me that there always is a bouncer type of guy on a tow truck team, because their clients usually are in a very bad mood as result of an accident or major malfunction, having their vehicle impounded, or other situation where they might need to be aggressive with a belligerent client. Andy thought the tire looked just fine and that they should try to pump it up. Amos didn’t agree but went along with Andy. Amos tried to attach the air hose and held it in place. Andy said, “You don’t have to hold it. Here,” and showed him how to attach it. Amos was impressed. Andy asked Amos to sit behind the wheel to tell him when the dash light went off indicating the tire was full. I told them that I doubted that would happen, because we had to take my Lexus to the dealership to have them turn off the tire pressure light after adding air. I was envisioning the tire exploding due to these goons. When it was full, Andy asked Amos to drive the car backwards bit by bit so that he could check for the leak. He was sure that it was a slow leak and that it would be fine to drive on, back to Fort Worth – 30 minutes away on the highway. I was becoming a bit uncomfortable with that thought! Fortunately (if that is the right word), the tire flattened again within minutes. Amos told me to the side that he wasn’t going to let Andy send me home with a defective tire on. Then Amos was going to jack up the car, but had difficulty with the jack, so Andy had to do it. I asked, “How long have you two worked together?”
Amos replied, “He’s my brother-in-law! He married my sister. On their wedding day, I kept telling him, ‘Just say I do; just say I do.’”
They switched tires, and Amos couldn’t figure out how to let the jack down without Andy’s help. They finished at 11:00.

I thanked them for their assistance, and they were polite and gracious in their responses. They indicated that I was the nicest client they had had in a long time. Greg had told me the same thing – that their normal client would not treat them with any respect. I was home at 11:30. Grant called as soon as I was home – not happy that I had left him hanging. But I wanted him to sleep!

I am always grateful for God’s benevolent care. The flat happened at the most convenient spot possible, and the entire fiasco was uneventful.

My Vision of Karin

In the first month after Karin’s death, I had nightmares about her. Like my mother, my dreams often include my deceased relatives, but not Karin yet. Before awaking this morning, I dreamed that Steve had emailed me several files of journals which Karin had written that he found on her computer. I was thrilled to receive these, but before I read them, I had more of a vision of Karin than a dream. She appeared before me wearing a purple floral dress similar to a Laura Ashley one she had in high school. We hugged tightly as I sobbed and sobbed. She comforted me saying it was OK. I asked how she was, and she told me not to worry about her, that she was fine. While hugging, I could see her indistinct face in a mirror. She said that she was no longer in pain, and, to prove it, she bent, twisted, and twirled her body around before leaving me.

Maybe my brain is ready to introduce her into my pleasant dreams. And I did dream about her again last night (Ap. 8). She was helping to plan her funeral -- not particularly pleasant, but very Karin. She wanted a white hearse, so we blew that one.

Grant received my email about my dream, called, and said the HE dreamed about Karin for the first time that same night! She had just become engaged to an unknown person. We were very happy and excited for her. Greg came in; she told him; he made a typical snide comment, then hugged and congratulated her. :-0 And we are not together! He is at home and I am in Texas.

Borderline Stress Test

Early Tuesday morning, May 2, I left home with Hershey, my constant companion, to spend a few days with my family in Michigan. While driving, I called my sister-in-law. Her granddaughter answered. We had not talked in ages, so we gabbed a long time, then I had my usual lengthy chat with my sister-in-law catching up on each other’s activities including my current trip. After we said goodbye, I realized that the 401 had narrowed to two lanes on each side, thus I had not even seen London plus missed my exit for Sarnia. I was on my way to Windsor, and stuck with driving through Detroit.

As I pulled up to the US customs booth, the agent said, “Hello. How are you today?” I thought that was a rather cheery greeting especially at the Detroit border crossing where they are known for their officious inflexibility. I replied, “Fine.”

He took my passport. “Do you know your license plate number?”

“1 N..,” I hesitated because my husband had bought new personalized plates for me in April using my middle initial instead of maiden name initial, so I had to think. “MW, I think. They are brand new.”

“Have you seen a doctor recently?”

“Yeeeees,” as my mind was swirling with outrageous thoughts: Good grief! Why would he ask that? Is my health record connected to my license number? Is Big Brother watching? Were the results from my SPECT Cardiolite stress test yesterday so bad that they think I may have a heart attack while driving and have notified the authorities to watch for me on the road?

“Did you have a bone scan?”

“Yeeeees.” Then I added, “My bone density is very good for an old lady of my age.”

“I am sure it is.”

Another agent walked up to me. “Have you had a stress test lately?”

“Yeees, yesterday.” Unsettling thoughts were exploding in my brain! “How would you know that?”

“You are radioactive. Would you please pull up to that man over there. You will need to fill out some paperwork inside.” The indicated individual waved me in his direction as the second agent walked my passport over to him. I was directed to drive between two posts and make a tight circle around back to him. I still had not figured out what was going on. After completing the loop, I joked, “I can do it faster. Do you want me to drive around again?”

“No. That was good enough. Will your dog bite me?”

“No, but he will lick you.”

After he directed me to accompany the second agent into the building, I confessed, “My stress test yesterday was very stressful, but this is too.” They concurred. As I walked in, he drove my vehicle between the posts. Later I deduced that they were verifying that it was me, not my vehicle, which was radioactive.

Inside, they offered me a chair as three agents surrounded me, one with a Geiger counter-type machine which he held close to my body and backed away. I asked how long I would be radioactive. “Usually about three weeks.”

“Three weeks! I have to cross the border again on Thursday! Aah, but the Canadians don’t care. They usually don’t even ask my citizenship.” The female agent explained that Canadian border agents receive the same training that they receive. I remarked, “I guess I don’t look much like a terrorist threat to them.”

One of them questioned where I was going and why. I explained, “I am on my way to my brother’s in Rochester Hills, and my dog is going to see my nephew who is a vet. He is the only vet who understands his allergies.”

The door opened, and the agent returned my car keys, stating, “You were right.”

“You mean he licked you?”

“He sure did.”

I was then given my passport and released. The female agent continued chatting about dogs and canine allergies as she escorted me to my car.

I wonder what my blood pressure was during that episode.

Three days later, while driving toward the Port Huron/Sarnia crossing, I was feeling unsettled about what might happen at the border as I recalled an incident from the previous month. It was blizzard conditions as I approached Customs. The Canadian officer asked for my license number. “I don’t know it!”

“Why don’t you know it?”

“Why should I? No one ever asks for it.”

“Then get out and tell me what it is.”

“If I do that, I will have to pull either forward or backward. Which would you like me to do?”
In a huff, she stormed out of her booth, and went to look. “Is the storm preventing you from seeing my plate with your cameras?” No answer. But she released me.

I pulled into the stall at Sarnia. The customs officer queried where I live and how much I was bringing back. Period.

The Putnam Family Myth

My mother told me many times that she was the favorite grandchild of her maternal Putnam grandparents. It only stood to reason. She was the first grandchild, and she, Etha L. Moses, was named for her grandmother, Etha V. McCoy Putnam.

My great grandfather died before I was born, as did my great grandmother – by only three days. Her death was Christmas Day, and I was born on the day she was buried – December 28. She was the only person who was told what my name would be if I were a girl – Nina May, making me the namesake of my grandmother, Nina May Putnam Moses, the daughter of Etha Putnam. That was a significant piece of information to ruminate in my young mind as I grew up in Etha Putnam’s world.

Nina Moses, my grandmother, inherited her parents’ home. She sold it to my parents and held the mortgage for them. We moved in when I was an infant. The furniture, knickknacks, linens, dishes, and carpets in my childhood home were a mix of my parents’ purchases and the items the three Putnam heirs relinquished. I used Etha Putnam’s insulin bottles, which I found around the house, as milk bottles in my play kitchen.

Repeatedly, my mother related stories of her wonderful, loving grandparents and the special things they did for her. For Christmas one year, the Putnams had purchased Lane cedar chests for their three granddaughters. Grandma and Grandpa allowed my mother to have a peek at the gifts before Christmas as they wanted to see her reaction privately. They gave her a loving note, which she saved in the bottom of her chest, explaining where to look in their house to find her gift, and reminding her to keep it a secret until Christmas Day. They privileged my mother in many ways, warning her not to mention anything to her siblings or cousins. My mother adored these grandparents. Who wouldn’t love grandparents who made you feel special above all others?

Following my mother’s death, the genealogy bug bit me. As part of my research, I asked living relatives their memories of our family. While reminiscing a few years ago, a cousin told me some suspicions of family dealings. This cousin surmises that Great Grandpa Putnam made a special monetary gift to their family, because, as this cousin said, “My [parent] was the favorite grandchild.” I was shocked! I declared that my mother was their favorite.

None of the grandchildren were alive at that moment of discovery, but I was constrained to ask the other great grandchildren if they had been told that their parent was the favored grandchild. They had! Frank and Etha Putnam had succeeded in convincing each grandchild that he or she was the most special one without their ruse being discovered before all of the grandchildren were gone. Plus, each grandchild was so convinced that they were the favored one that they passed that information on to their children.

My initial reaction to this knowledge is that they were appalling grandparents to have lied to their grandchildren. That was a dangerous game to play with young emotions. Their fib compelled their grandchildren to have more love and respect for them. I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if the grandchildren had found out the truth – that they were all loved very much, but not exclusively. I am quite sure that if I had been told that, I would have taunted my brother in our regular disagreements with, “Naaa naa n’na na… I am Grandma and Grandpa’s favorite grandchild!” And then, when the truth was discovered, my internal explosion would have destroyed my love for and my faith in them.

The real truth is that they told each grandchild that they were the favorite one, because they were! I am sure that they loved each grandchild individually. All six grandchildren died knowing they were the favorite. Now that is a beautiful story.