MAINTENANCE REQUIRED

June 9, 2019 / middlesisterkathleen / 8 Comments

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MAINTENANCE REQUIRED

I got brave last week and decided to write about my hometown, something that was daunting, but I am glad I did it. I sat on the idea for almost a year. The idea for this post has been with me for over six months, and while it tells private stories, it is a shared concern. We decided that even if we can help one person get the medical attention they need, then it must be written. We remain well, and in our usual style, we will try to make you laugh about a heavy topic. There aren’t many pictures–trust us, this subject matter is best not pictured.

When I bought my car almost three years and 70,000 miles ago, the display on the dash told me how fast I was going, miles per gallon, how much gas left and more information than I knew what to do with. The computer was set to tell me when the next maintenance was due, as it already had 36,000 miles. It did just that, and it was time to be serviced. After the first oil change—undertaken by my husband, of course, the Maintenance Required message remained. According to the owner’s manual, it required a simple, simultaneous pressing of two different buttons to reset it, so that it could remind you again in 10,000 miles.

Except that it wasn’t simple, and it didn’t work that way.

“I’ll figure it out later,” I thought to myself. Meanwhile, I got the same message every time I started the car. Maintenance Required stared at me from the dash display until I hit a different reset button, and it went away. I kept track of the mileage in my head to know when the next oil change was due, and I simply let it go. For over two years, I simply let it go on.

For over two years—over three, to be exact, I didn’t go to the doctor. My beloved doctor, Dr. S., the woman who delivered my children and had been our family doctor for over 20 years, left our small city for greener pastures. I can’t say I blamed her, but it broke my heart. Perhaps I denied that she was actually gone, something I could easily do because none of us needed her—thank you, God. I knew in the back of my head I needed to find a new doctor, but it was easier to, well, just not go to the doctor. We had urgent care clinic calls for minor things, and that suited us well enough. Plus, it’s always handy to have a nurse practitioner in the family–my stepson’s wife was one.

Until that little voice told me to figure it out. A woman my age needs to have regular doctor visits, and Dr. S. is gone and she’s not coming back.

I began to get real about that, and asked around. I had heard good things about Dr. J., and I decided she would be a good fit. She is likely young enough to be my daughter, which is probably a good thing—she will hopefully be practicing for a while.

Since it had been over three years, I got the whole shebang checkup, soup-to-nuts. I had always skated through all my previous visits, so I thought this one would be no different. I had no major concerns. To overcome my little white-coat fear, however, I pictured myself walking with a spring in my step to the car after the visit, smiling, enjoying the sunny day.

Something you never want to hear from your new doctor on your first visit is this: “I’m not sure what’s going on, I am going to send you to a specialist.”

I got in my car without a springy step, without smiling, and even though the sun was shining, I had a dark cloud hanging over my head.

I started the car, and the metaphor did not escape me. There, glaring at me from the dash was the ominous message: Maintenance Required.

I should have done the required maintenance on my body sooner.

This was a Thursday. Mercifully, the specialist in her practice had a cancellation Monday morning, and I was first in line. Dr. J. admonished me with this wise and timely advice I’m sure many doctors give: “Don’t get online and try to figure this out on your own over the weekend.” Wise words they were, and I listened to her. I am so glad I did, because after it was all over, I did check it out.

I didn’t have time to search the internet anyway, because I spent the weekend picking out my funeral outfit. (This got an eye-roll from the invincible Gail when she previewed it for me.) Thanks to Suzanne; she did her best to talk me down from the ledge–I backed up a little, but stayed there for most of the next three days. She kept me sane. She has a way of doing that; she has been there, but gave up that particular breed of madness after she was diagnosed with cancer. More on that later.

As if Monday mornings aren’t hard enough, this one was among the most dreaded. At the same time, I couldn’t wait to get it over with, just to know what I was dealing with. The not knowing is the hardest part.

The specialist, Dr. A., came with high recommendations from trusted friends and family members, and I wasn’t let down. On that dark Monday morning, it took her only a moment to lift my self-imposed death-sentence: “Oh, it’s just a _______ ________. And just like that, it was over. I was going to live.

As I walked to the car, the sun shone brighter than ever.

Just three weeks later, I was awoken at 6:30 a.m. by a sharp pain in my upper back. It crawled up my neck, and started down my left arm. It was unlike anything I had ever felt. I got up, thinking “this is weird,” but since it was Christmas Eve morning, I didn’t give in to the idea that maybe something was really wrong. I had too much celebrating to do. Besides, that kind of high drama and poor timing only happens in the movies.

The pain subsided, and I went running as I always do. I decided that if I felt short of breath during my run, or if it got worse, I would probably reconsider.

It was a little tight, but I felt pretty good. I could breathe, so I let it go. And besides, I’m a runner. I’m in good shape, so this kind of thing really can’t happen to me…

Until 11:40 that night, when it woke me up again. This time it was sharper, more intense, and crawling further up my neck, down my left arm and across my back.

But it was Christmas Eve, and I didn’t want my holiday celebration to be marred by a little heart attack. I knew, though, that this pain was nothing to fool around with. The pain fit the bill for a woman’s heart attack, except there was no shortness of breath, no crushing weight on my chest and no upset stomach. Still, I knew I must not ignore it.

This night was reminiscent of the night I first gave birth. My husband was asleep, tired out after building our house after work hours while I built the baby. It was this same time of night, and he was particularly tired tonight like he was that hot day in May. I knew it was time to go to the hospital then, and I had to wake him from this deep sleep. We made it with plenty of time to spare before the baby arrived.

This night, Christmas Eve—only 15 minutes now until it was officially Christmas Day, I contemplated leaving him a note. The pain was lessening, and I could probably make it there by myself.

“Merry Christmas, honey. I think I may perhaps be having a little heart attack, but I didn’t want to wake you. I went to the E.R., and I’m sure I’ll be back soon.”

But I did wake him. Our boys were playing cards in the basement, and I let them know, as casually as possible, that I was simply having a little chest pain, and I think maybe I’d better go have it checked out. They knew it might not be that simple.

It was no Silent Night in the ER. The man around the corner and down the hall required the attention of not only the two security guards on staff, but three policemen as well. The nurses said it wasn’t anything special just for Christmas, just a typical night in the ER.

But I think I fared better than that guy. I spent almost four hours there, and was pronounced with a healthy heart—a wonderful Christmas gift. After my follow-up visit to my new doctor, who, at this point, must be wondering what on earth she signed up for when she accepted me not long ago, determined it to be a strained muscle. I had jacked up that shoulder by napping in a less-than-comfortable spot the day before. All the awful things were ruled out, and my healthy heart remains just that—healthy.

Usually it’s the little sister who imitates the big sister. This time, however, it was Gail imitating me. Nine days after my ER visit, Gail ended up in the ER of her small-town hospital with chest pains—her first ER visit ever. Now, if you know Gail, you know she doesn’t easily give in to pain or suffering, so this must be big stuff. She, too, knew it was time to high-tail it there, knew not to mess around with this kind of pain.

She was dismissed after the required testing, with a follow-up to the visiting cardiologist in two weeks. She was admonished by him to make some lifestyle changes, and come back in two months, which she did.

Her heart remains healthy, too.

I remember going to my former doctor, Dr. S., for my annual exam shortly after my parents died.

“It’s strange,” she said, listening to my heart, “You can’t hear a broken heart.” She was so kind and sensitive to my heartbreaking situation, and I will be forever grateful to her for her help in those dark days. I am grateful that she made my visits something I almost looked forward to, because she was so caring and empathetic. She took care of me and my family for all those years, and we were fortunate to have her.

Suzanne was diagnosed with thyroid cancer almost seven years ago—on her birthday. She said she was dismissed by two doctors–an ENT and a radiologist– who told her there was nothing wrong when they checked out her symptoms. Still she knew, in her heart, that something was not right. She found a doctor who found the problem. She persisted. She listened to her heart.

Suzanne remains healthy, too.

Sometimes, women are not easily persuaded to take measures to take care of themselves. We are typically more concerned about taking care of everyone else. That’s our job, for many of us. Yet, if we don’t take care of ourselves, no one else likely will.

See your doctor on a regular basis. If you are not as lucky as me to have great doctors, then find one you like. You are the customer, and you have that right.

Listen to that little voice. Listen to your intuition. Listen to your heart, because these places are where true wisdom lies. No one is wiser about your body than you. Suzanne knew, and she exercised that wisdom. I am so glad she did.

Wisdom is power. Knowing what you are dealing with, and how to deal with it is easier than torturing yourself with the unknown.

I knew when I felt the pain that I thought was a heart attack, that it was unlike any other, and it fit the bill—at least in several ways. During the follow-up visit to my new doctor, I expressed that I felt a little foolish for causing such a stir over a muscle. She reinforced that I did the right thing by going to the ER, and that she would have sent her own mother or sister there herself if they had those symptoms.

Lastly, if Gail herself, invincible, unbreakable Gail, went to the ER with chest pains, then it’s okay if you take yourself to the doctor for your concerns.

After the last oil change, the Maintenance Required message no longer showed up on my dash. My husband, in his MacGyver-like wisdom, figured out how to clear the message. It is now set to display again when it’s time for more maintenance.

It was that easy. Just like it was that easy for Dr. A. (the specialist) to take care of my issue. If you are putting off your health issues, it may just be that easy for you, too.

The Sisters of The Sister Lode hope so. We are living proof that the required maintenance is worth the trouble.

Thanks so much to everyone for the support and comments from last week’s blog. We all know that Tipton is an incredible little town!

THE LITTLE TOWN THAT COULD

June 2, 2019June 5, 2019 / middlesisterkathleen / 20 Comments

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THE LITTLE TOWN THAT COULD

I had planned to write this blog since last summer. I wanted to pay tribute to our small hometown, this little town that built us; this little speck on the map that is Tipton, Kansas. I wanted to paint a picture of this little spot that would honor the place where we grew up, the place that gave us roots and not only a strong foundation, but faith, a sense of community and a place we always knew we could come home to. But how does one pay tribute in words to a place that defies explanation and understanding? If you know about Tipton, you know what I’m talking about. If you don’t, I will do my best to paint that picture.

For my readers who know Tipton, especially those who live or did live there, let me just say this is daunting. Just as there are no words to aptly pay tribute to, say, Mother Theresa (a most humble saint), or President Eisenhower (my favorite), I am really not up to this task, but I don’t think I ever will be. I sat on this idea for almost a year, probably because I didn’t feel worthy. I didn’t think I could give Tipton the justice and honor it deserves in words. Early last week, I decided it was time. I had wasted enough time thinking about it, and it was time to just do the best I could. It will be next Sunday’s blog, I committed in my mind.

Then, just two days after I made myself that promise, our hometown was on the evening news.

My husband and I were eating dinner, watching the 5:30 news on Tuesday of this week. It had been interrupted for quite some time due to severe weather coverage around the state, including some in Osborne County, close to Tipton. Osborne County, where our family farm is. I have lived in Kansas nearly all my life, and I have only seen one small tornado. My favorite weatherman was covering this growing storm system with his usual conviction and competence.

“There is a large tornado on the ground five miles southwest of Tipton.” Our family farm is about five miles southwest of Tipton. One of our brothers lives there now with his family, having recently built a new home there.

He was no longer my favorite weatherman. I was no longer hungry.

I wanted to call or text my brother, but I knew they had more important lifesaving measures to take at that moment, and a call from me was not a priority. We watched the radar, and heard “Tipton” about a dozen times as he continued to track the storm.

“If you live in or around Tipton, you should be taking cover immediately. This is a powerful storm. Go immediately to your shelters.” I now hated this weatherman.

The seconds and minutes ticked by like hours, while I hoped and prayed for what would have to be a near-miracle. The track of the storm was likely to reach our farm, followed by our hometown.

Selfishly, I prayed a little harder for our farm to be spared than I did for the community. I cannot deny that. But, as our community taught us from early on, “We’re all in this together.”

Mercifully, it missed our farm, but then it headed toward Tipton. I diverted my prayers, 100% full-on for Tipton.

When it was all over, there was property damage, but nobody was hurt. Thank you, God.

**********

According to Wikipedia and the 2010 U.S. Census, there were 210 residents in my hometown. It reached its peak population in 1980, when there were 321 residents counted. We were three of them.

Wikipedia typically profiles any famous people from any town they list. There were none noted from Tipton. There were no claims to fame listed for our hometown, just a simple description of this small Kansas burg.

It began as a burg, Pittsburg, to be exact. Apparently, there was already a Pittsburg, Kansas, so the name was changed to Tipton, after Tipton, Iowa, the former home of a local resident.

This is all news to me. I am embarrassed that, at age 53, I didn’t already know this. I should have known this from my youth. If anyone has any corrections or additions to this information, please let me know.

So, on the surface, Tipton’s just an Average Joe kind of small town.

Except that it’s not. No way, no how.

***********

If, just like the many potluck dinners one attends in a small town, life can be considered a giant potluck dinner, whereby everyone has to bring their best dish to the table in order to partake, then we learned this from early on, not just on the farm, but in our community as well.

Helping out for the greater good of the family and the community were values that were instilled in us more by deed than by word; quite simply we knew we had to do our part in order to be a part first of the family, then the community.

This lesson has served us quite well, as we know that no matter where we go or what we do in our lives, we must give our best with the gifts we were given.

***********

Both our grade and high schools began as private Catholic schools, as the community was predominantly German Catholic. When I was in grade school, elementary grades ceased to be part of the diocesan Catholic school system, and the local school district absorbed our school into its public school system. The high school remains a private, Catholic high school, funded by fundraisers and an endowment program that is well managed in order to provide this invaluable education.

I may be bragging when I say invaluable, but I think I have reason to do so. Our school continues to be consistently recognized statewide for its math program and our speech and drama department, among other programs that are noted to be top-notch for any school, especially for a small, privately-funded parochial school.

Even when the graduating class has only three members, it still goes strong.

About 15 years ago, due to declining numbers, the public school district that served our grade school voted to consolidate with another school, effectively shipping the elementary graders to the next town.

No way, no how. The community appealed to the Catholic diocese to re-develop a Catholic grade school, but—as I understand it—the numbers won. Not enough kids, not enough money. Therefore, there would be no returning affiliation with the diocesan Catholic school system.

Taking matters into their own hands, the community rallied, and began their own private Christian school. Keeping the elementary children in the community was paramount, and where there was a will this strong, they found the way.

With some state funding, grants and an endowment of its own, it continues to go strong. The elementary kids complete their coursework in this new building,

then go on to high school next door in this old building.

All seven children in our family graduated from this high school. Now, some of our nieces and nephews have already, or will graduate from there too, as well as completing grade school next door.

The Main Street of Tipton boasts thriving businesses, including a grocery store with locally famous sausage produced there, a restaurant, a bank, hardware, library, dance studio, manufacturing company and a service station.

The dance studio was once the grocery store.

Old School Seals, a specialty service providing wax seals, stamps and letter sealing is nationally recognized. If you head south on Main Street about four miles, you will find Ringneck Ranch, a pheasant hunting ranch that is also nationally famous among pheasant hunting enthusiasts.

***********

I have no words to express my gratitude for the education and upbringing I received in Tipton. It is an indelible mark of honor, and, as well as the academic knowledge from our stellar school system, the sure knowledge that whatever our gifts are, we have the power and responsibility to bring them to the potluck table of life to make the world a better place.

*********

I can barely stand to put it in the printed word, but our nation suffered another unspeakable loss this week at the hands of a mass shooter. This time it took 12 innocent lives in Virginia. The first news reports detailed the horror, but since then, the focus I have noticed is that the community has rallied, insistent that this will not define us. They are reaching out to each other—whether or not they knew them previously—to help each other heal the wounds and move forward. This is only possible when the human group comes together with a unified goal to move forward, picking up the pieces to start again.

Much of the Midwest and Southeastern United States has experienced unprecedented flooding in the last month. As human groups are known to do, residents of the areas affected have come together to help anyone who is affected, whether or not they know them. Humans can be so cool like that.

After the tornado in Tipton Tuesday night, the community rallied. There were no injuries—thank you God, and no homes were destroyed, but there was damage to property. Enough damage that those affected required help. Without hesitation, everyone else stepped up to lend a hand, followed by a meal for all.

The potluck effect once again prevailed. Everyone pitched in, bringing their best to the table. The humans in Tipton are so cool.

Young and not-as-young alike pitched in. This is the potluck effect being taught by deed right here.

I remember when our dad was hospitalized in Wichita after heart surgery. He was not yet retired from farming and it was in the fall at milo harvest time. Dad obviously wasn’t able to be there, and our brothers couldn’t do the job alone. Area farmers stepped up with their combines, donating their time, fuel and other operating expenses in order to get the job done. On the farm, harvest simply must be done when the time is right, or it may not get done at all. Weather often dictates that, as well as crop maturation.

It’s the farmer’s code; they all know that any or all of them would do it without a second thought when any one of them is in need. I think Dad got a little teary in the hospital when we told him that harvest had been taken care of. I’m getting a little teary as I write this—in a good way.

***********

Wheat harvest is the pinnacle of the year on the farm. I never miss at least a day each year in the harvest field—except the year I spent in Philadelphia.

Last year when I was on our farm for harvest, I took the following pictures of our hometown:

St. Boniface Catholic Church. We were all baptized and brought up in this church. Dad walked me down this aisle 25 years ago. Our parents’ final profession of faith was here at their funeral.

We chose the grade school as one of their memorial benefactors. This brick honors them in the memorial garden between the two school buildings.

The locally famous grocery store on Main Street.

Looking south on Main Street on a Saturday afternoon during harvest. All the action is in the wheat fields.

Formerly known as the Knights of Columbus Hall–and still known to me as that–the Tipton Community Center serves as a meeting place for celebrations, fundraisers, family gatherings, funeral dinners and basketball games.

The southwest corner of Tipton. The building on the right was once our grade school, now it is part of the manufacturing plant. The tiny ribbon of white road on the horizon is the road to our farm.

I drove this road west out of Tipton thousands of times on the way to our farm. Entering Osborne County at this road, there are four more miles to our farm. It is always a beautiful sight coming and going.

***********

Our family gets together for holidays, sometimes at Gail’s house, sometimes at my house, and sometimes on our brothers’ farms—both on the one we grew up on, as well as our youngest brother’s farm a few miles north. Our parents moved off the farm and into nearby Osborne in 2000, so our visits to them before they died were in Osborne, not Tipton. Their funeral was in Tipton, and the outpouring of love and support from the community was beyond words.

I don’t spend a lot of time in Tipton these days, but when I do, the old familiar feeling of home is there. Claiming Tipton as my hometown always brings a swelling feeling of pride inside of me.

I meet many people in my work, and I often have the opportunity to visit at length with them. When the “Where are you from?” topic arises, and when they have heard of Tipton as many of them have, a warm smile always shows up on their faces. And then they proceed to tell me who they know from Tipton, or perhaps that they attend our annual Church Picnic, which is known far and wide as the most remarkable Church event in the area.

My family has been away on vacation for the last several years during that time, so I haven’t been back for a few years. Nineteen years ago, I was pregnant with our last child. The due date was announced on my first prenatal visit–August 4^th. There were two things glaringly wrong with this prediction for me. First, the words pregnant and August should never be used or even inferred in the same sentence. Second, that meant I would miss the Tipton Church Picnic. That due date clearly wasn’t going to work for me, so, just like his older brother, my second-born graciously arrived eleven days before his due date.

Thank you, God. We went to the picnic, baby in tow in my arms—my sweaty arms. Fun was had by all. More importantly, the proceeds from this event keep the high school operating. True to Tipton form, everyone brings their best to the table for this event, whether it is one’s donation of time, money, effort or food—or all four. Without question, everyone pitches in, and another year goes down in the Tipton history books.

***********

As I write, my mind keeps going in multiple directions, continuing to come upon more things that need to be said. I’m already over my self-imposed limit of 2,000 words, but there is just one more thing I need to say:

Earlier in the post, I used a forbidden word. A word, I recall from our upbringing both in my family and in our community, that was forbidden. The “H” word. I said I hated the weatherman. We were allowed to hate someone’s actions, but we were not allowed to hate them. I’m sorry, weatherman. I don’t hate you. You were simply doing your job. You were bringing your best to the table.

Perhaps this simple rule is what makes Tipton so unique. Perhaps, even though Tipton continues to be a speck on the map, and the population hasn’t yet returned to 300, we know there is no place for hatred. Perhaps that is why this little town could, still can, and still does.

Thank you, God.

FROM SEA TO SHINING SEA

May 27, 2019May 27, 2019 / middlesisterkathleen / 2 Comments

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FROM SEA TO SHINING SEA

The words Thank you for your service are powerful words, and when they are used to thank a service man or woman or veteran for their service and sacrifice for our country, they never fall on deaf ears. I just wish there were stronger words to offer them.

Today is Memorial Day 2019. It is a day to honor our fallen soldiers, but every day is a good day to honor our veterans as well. It is also known as Decoration Day, in honor also of our loved ones who have passed. I don’t normally post on Monday evenings, but I have been away for a week of vacation at one of our shining seas, and I feel compelled to write. Having seen parts of our country that I never have, my mind has been expanded. And, once the human mind has been expanded, one should do all they can to keep it that way.

Our trip took us to the southeastern United States, a part of the country rich with history; ripe with insight to offer anyone who opens their mind to it. We toured an antebellum mansion, taking in its grandeur and learning of its history from the knowledgeable tour guide. We took the driving tour of several others around this relatively small historic town.

The beauty of these mansions could not be denied. What was apparently denied, or at least not overtly acknowledged in the tour, was the travesty of the extreme racial injustice perpetrated in the name of slavery that allowed these wealthy landowners to amass incredible wealth, affording them this lifestyle.

As I age, I am increasingly grateful for the liberty in all its forms I am privileged to enjoy. I have never known anything but complete freedom to do as I please.

“It’s a free country,” was a phrase I recall hearing from other children, and using it as a child, not really having a clue what it really meant at its deepest level. It was used as defense when we needed to justify an action that another child may not have liked.

It is indeed a free country, and for that, we have our military—past and present—to thank.

“Thank you for your service,” I am offering to anyone who did, or currently does defend our country, no matter what position they held/hold in the military. I am so grateful. I wish I had stronger words.

**********

I spent much of my highway time on the trip in the back seat of the car while my husband drove and our youngest son rode shotgun. I set up camp back there with books, magazines, my Kindle, a pillow and blanket, as well as colored pencils and markers to go with the color book, and a giant bag of road trip snacks. With these essentials in my little nest, my life on the road was good. My sisters were the only thing I wanted to bring, but couldn’t. Somewhere along the way, I sent them this picture:

At the last moment before I left home, I grabbed a book I had only just started, but put aside for whatever reason, probably to read the other dozen or so I had already started before that one. Something told me to grab it, so I did.

My firstborn shares my love of sociology, and he had this book as required reading for one of his classes. I had heard of it, so when I saw it in his stack, I borrowed it.

Like traveling to a new place, some books have the power to expand the mind. This one did for me. I once heard that we should not say we are going to read a book; rather, we are going to visit a book.

This was a wonderful visit, with some of the material making me focus more strongly on the power of kinship that our United States—or any country’s—military has on its members. The feelings of belonging, responsibility and contribution to the country usually overpower the feelings of fear, self-centeredness or apathy, thus forging the bonds of concern, care and allegiance most soldiers have toward each other, as well as toward their country.

One point in the book—as I understand it—is that many soldiers actually miss combat when they return home. These strong bonds are not felt in the civilian life, and they feel alone and misunderstood among their families and society as a whole.

The power of the group cannot be denied. This is the essence of the study of sociology, which is probably why this book appealed to me. I didn’t fully realize the power of the military group. I will likely never realize the sacrifices they made for me, and for all of us in this free country.

Another awareness I took away from the book is that while the thank you for your service is the right thing to say, we should also strive to find more ways for veterans to contribute in the work force, because most of them continue to feel the strong need to make a difference for the group.

Humans are like that, especially in times of crisis. We bond together as a whole to get through hardships and crises, then go back to our own relatively solitary existence. Unfortunately, there is a dire need, but as an affirmation of the good that exists in the human soul, many people in the Midwest are joining forces and helping each other through the flooding that is currently devasting much of my state of Kansas, and much of Missouri and Oklahoma as well. This was taken out the car window on the way home Sunday south of Tulsa:

The mighty Mississippi was flooding as well.

Getting through hard times with the help of friends and even strangers keeps my faith in humanity going, even in my darkest days. Speaking for myself, I leaned on my immediate family when we lost our parents, but the outpouring of love and support I felt from friends, and even people I didn’t know got me through. May anyone who has been devastated by the flooding feel this love and support as well.

***********

I saw this sight on my porch first thing this morning:

It was as if the live bird was telling the ceramic bird he had the power to simply fly away, so why not just take off? “Why are you just sitting there like that when you can fly wherever you want to?” it seemed to say.

It reminded me of the picture I took outside our fourth-floor hotel window on the second leg of our trip in Natchez, Mississippi. The mighty Mississippi River is in the background, with the bridge from Louisiana pictured.

The metaphor of the bird on the wire under the United States flag silhouetted against the beautiful sunset struck me so profoundly, and still does.

In this historic town where slavery once was the order of the day, freedom should carry a more direct meaning for all of us. Thanks to the sacrifices of our military, we all can fly away almost as easily as the bird on the wire, or the bird on my porch.

Too many of us—myself included at times—remain enslaved only by our own thoughts and fears, thus paralyzing us from taking off and finding the freedom we yearn for. We are like the ceramic bird, sitting there frozen.

May the sacrifices of our soldiers and veterans be the voice that reminds you that it is indeed a free country, and you do have more power to fly than you may think.

To all veterans and to current members of our military, THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE. I wish I had stronger words.

The shining sea at Gulf Shores, Alabama

Available online and in bookstores as well–I highly recommend visiting this book.

COLLEGE TOWNS AND CONCERT QUESTS

May 5, 2019May 5, 2019 / middlesisterkathleen / 2 Comments

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COLLEGE TOWNS AND CONCERT QUESTS

I wasn’t scared of anything when I was preparing to leave home for college. Not the leaving, not the moving, not the adjusting. Nothing, except for one thing: driving in that big city.

My hometown boasted 321 people at its zenith in the 1980 census. Therefore, the traffic was minimal, if existent at all. My earliest driving experiences were on the farm, in the wide open. I recall this thought clearly: “How am I ever going to learn to drive in that Hays traffic?”

Mercifully, I did learn to drive in that Hays, Kansas (population 16,301 in 1980 census), traffic when I moved there in 1984, spending the next four years at Fort Hays State University. I spent the next four years out, and then I went back for two more. Suzanne spent 1988-90 there. One of our older brothers spent four years there as well, with his last year overlapping my first year. Our youngest brother attended there as well.

I always feel a pull; a magnetism drawing me back there when I visit. The memories are good, and there are many. So, when I visited there this weekend to attend an event with family and friends, I felt compelled to write about it. I write about the things I love, and I am still smitten with Hays. I know I said I was going to take some time off, but when something is begging to be written about, I write about it.

Coincidentally, Gail visited her college town this week, too. She lives only thirty miles from it, and her daughter now attends Colby Community College, where Gail attended from 1978-80.

Gail’s husband celebrated his birthday last week, and they went to Colby to celebrate with Lydia. Gail and Lydia took advantage of this generational photo op.

Hays boasts a hometown, home-made brewery/restaurant in it’s downtown.

It is our favorite place to dine when we visit. This treasure wasn’t there when I was, but it is across the street from a favorite hang-out from way back:

So, when the guys were getting lost in the stories and reverie from the years they spent together there,

I took a little walk down to campus.

My old dorm still stands, changed only a little on the outside. The inside is now coed, and stepping back inside was a step back in time.

It still smells the same.

I crossed this bridge perhaps several thousand times on my way from my dorm to the quad, and the cement and wire, I’m sure, are still the same as they were 35 years ago.

I attended most of my undergraduate classes in this building.

I got a bit more serious when I went back for a master’s degree; I had no choice. This building kept me from the light of day for most of my graduate student career.

A chunk of my readership hails from my hometown, with many of them and/or other family members having attended FHSU. Not only is it a solid school, it is close to my hometown—90 miles. The college is named after the army fort that was active there from 1865-1869. It was an important frontier post during the American Indian Wars of the late 19^th century. It is now operated by the Kansas Historical Society as Fort Hays Historic Site.

One of its claims to fame is that it provided the college education for the world’s second-oldest college graduate. Nola Ochs, a western Kansas native, graduated from FHSU in 2007 at the tender age of 95. She passed away in December 2016 at age 105.

While researching this online, I found out that her record was eclipsed just this year, but no further information was available. I will certainly keep you abreast of any new news releases regarding this, because, as you know, I am enamored with useless trivia.

Speaking of such trivia, you may want to know the difference between the terms college and university. I sure did, so I’m certain you will want to know too: Colleges typically provide undergraduate (bachelor’s), four-year degrees, while universities provide undergraduate as well as graduate (master’s) degrees.

You’re welcome.

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As I write Sunday afternoon, I am anxiously awaiting Gail’s arrival. She fulfilled one thing on her bucket list wish to see Bob Seger in concert Saturday night. She and her friend Karen traveled to Tulsa, Oklahoma, to catch him before he hangs it up at the end of this tour. This legendary music man will celebrate his 74^th birthday tomorrow, May 6^th.

They are stopping here on their way home west, just over the halfway mark of this seven-hour trip. I don’t even have to ask her if it was worth it.

We hate to brag, but the sisters of the Sister Lode are experts in the Life is short so do it now way of life. We’ve told you this before, and we will likely tell you again. Several posts ago, I mentioned that Bob’s concert was one of the things on Gail’s list, Because a seven-hour jaunt didn’t deter Gail, and because this is his farewell tour, she made it happen.

We learned the hard way that at some unknown point, tomorrow won’t come for our loved ones and eventually for each and every one of us as well. Because of this lesson, we have made good things happen in our lives. For that awareness, we are grateful.

So, go to college—or not. It’s not for everyone. If you did, and you have warm memories from your college town, go back and visit when you have the chance. Go to your favorite concert—if you want to. Go on that cruise or take that art class. Re-connect with that old friend you have been meaning to call. Grab the mic on the karaoke stage. Whatever it is, do it now. Make some new memories.

There is something to be said for bucket lists and for old time rock and roll, because it never forgets. Neither do college towns.

GAIL AS GUEST BLOGGER

April 28, 2019April 28, 2019 / middlesisterkathleen / 6 Comments

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I wrote last week that my posts may be sparse in the next month or so, due to the many weekend activities, plus, I need a little breather. I hosted Gail as she took her artwork down the road to a show in Abilene. Along with a friend, I helped her there on Saturday. The rest of the weekend was filled with Gail-time, which never fails to entertain. This weekend was no different.

Wanting to add her own contribution to the blog posts–however short and sweet, she wrote this for me in my hiatus. Gail takes fun wherever she goes, as this post shows.

Kathleen didn’t write this time, but I decided to. Yes, it was a busy weekend; but no matter how much work I have to do, I always make time for fun. There really wasn’t much time for writing, what with the show all day, then coming back to her house with our friend for an evening of cooking and eating lasagna, which turned into a night of story-telling and laughter with her husband and son, perhaps a few drags on a cigar, dancing, and practicing on each other with a taser–it’s best to know how to use that thing before you actually have to. (Kathleen didn’t partake of the last three.)

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She turned in early–like she always does–so she missed the 11:00 p.m. ACDC concert on DVD in the basement two floors below her. She said she heard it loud and clear.

Fun was had by all, which, after all, is what it’s really all about.

Take care and make sure to have some fun of your own. –Gail

Thank you, Gail. You’re an amazingly talented artist with your tin and wood, as well as your words. Your ability to share fun and laugher is perhaps your highest art form.–Kathleen

PEELING POTATOES

April 21, 2019 / middlesisterkathleen / 4 Comments

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PEELING POTATOES

Today is Easter Sunday, and I want to offer you the warmest Easter well-wishes. The day is almost over as I write, but my hope and prayer for you–and for myself–is that the spirit of Easter may live on every day of the year.

It is fitting that we celebrate Easter in early spring when new life abounds. The grass and trees are green again, and renewal is all around. The great circle of nature begins once again; the promise of warmer days is being fulfilled. Like Easter, you could even consider it a miracle.

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I spent the weekend with family. Yesterday, both Suzanne and I traveled north to the home of one of our brothers who lives near our family farm, where another brother lives. Three of our four brothers were there; Gail was in Denver where her college-age son was playing volleyball for his school’s men’s club. Our gatherings are always a bit more subdued without Gail, but, alas, she will be in our small city next weekend.

Today–Sunday–I traveled south to celebrate with my husband’s family. More food and festivities followed, and family ties were celebrated.

I prepared and proffered deviled eggs today; yesterday I brought Mom’s famous potato dish to our family gathering. As I stood by the kitchen sink peeling potatoes, I thought about Mom, and the thousands of potatoes she peeled for our daily meat-and-potatoes meals on the farm. Thousands of potatoes, peeled as an offering of love for her family. The more I peeled, the more I thought about her. The more I thought about her, the more I felt her there, and it was sweet-bitter. She wouldn’t be joining us physically for Easter, but she would indeed be there.

And she was. So was Dad. Whenever we are together, they are there.

It’s that simple. It only takes potatoes and a little bit of tuning in.

The renewal miracles of Easter and nature are always there for us if we simply tune in.

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I had a great birthday this past week. It, too, was simple. Good food, family and friends; even a little bit of cake on my face–thanks to Suzanne and our friend Tanya.

Thanks to all who helped me celebrate, and for all the well-wishes. Please be sure to celebrate your next birthday, no matter how simple your celebration is.

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I’m spending the rest of Easter Sunday simply, which means I am keeping this post short. I didn’t even post all three pictures at the beginning from our three Thanksgiving celebrations since the blog started; I only posted one.

Sometimes, less is more. Sometimes, less than 500 words is better than my typical 2,000-plus. Sometimes, something as mundane as peeling potatoes can bring unexpected joy, if we are open to it.

And sometimes, the most beautiful pictures taken are of the scenery we may overlook at first, like I did with this one until Suzanne pointed it out from our brother’s yard.

My next six weeks are filled with weekend activities, and my posts may be hit-and-miss. As always, I appreciate all of you who take the time to read my blog posts.

Happy Easter today, and every day.

IN CELEBRATION OF BIRTHDAYS

April 14, 2019April 16, 2019 / middlesisterkathleen / 4 Comments

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IN CELEBRATION OF BIRTHDAYS

When we were kids, our parents always celebrated our birthdays. Up until at least age 18 while we lived at home, Mom would be sure to make a cake of our choice, a special meal—again, our choice, and at least one small gift.

When we turned ten, each of us got to have a full-on party, complete with gift-bearing friends invited. Just one big party, and it was enough. We anticipated the big decade mark for the party we would get to have in our honor.

Our younger brother was born on Christmas Eve. Mom always made sure to observe his birthday that day, but she would sometimes plan a celebration later in the year–I remember one in July–so that his birthday would not be overshadowed by the holiday.

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I’m going to put it right out there: I am having a birthday this week, and I am so excited. I always get excited about my birthday. I know it’s because our parents celebrated the day we arrived on the earth, into our family. As an adult, Mom would call me at 4:15 p.m. on my birthday, the exact minute I was born.

This year, I am completing my 53^rd trip around the sun, and I am not one bit ashamed to admit that. Then, the day after my birthday, I will embark on my 54^th sojourn, as time will not stand still to ask me if, perhaps, I’d like to take a little respite. I embrace and welcome the opportunity to keep traveling.

Gail and Suzanne are on the same page with me. We all agree birthdays are to be proclaimed, noticed and celebrated. They do it for theirs, so I am taking pride in telling the world IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!

Here I go again. I’ve been up on this soapbox several times before, and I am getting back up on this perch again to tell you yet one more time:

AGE IS A GIFT. Which is why I celebrate. The old joke about how it’s better than the alternative is trite, but true, at least for those we celebrate with on earth. Last week, however, I wrote about what lies beyond this plane, and all three of us agree it is something way better than this. So, technically, we don’t really believe birthdays are better than the alternative. Again, as the country song says, “Everyone wants to go to heaven, but no one wants to go right now…”

Age is a gift to be unwrapped and enjoyed, just like any other gift. Just as it would be an insult to the giver to complain about a material gift, it is an insult to the Giver to complain about being given another year.

This board was posted on the wall in the employee area of one of the long-term care facilities I travel to, with anyone welcome to comment.

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I meet some incredible people in my work as a speech therapist in health care. I have honored some of them in the past by printing their wisdom, and, just in time for my birthday post, I met another one last week. She will soon be 90 years old. She lives alone, independently, as she has for years.

“I can’t wait to be 90. I know some incredible people who are already there, and I can’t wait to join them,” she said.

If I feel it is appropriate, I often ask these elders what their secrets are to aging successfully. Clearly, it was appropriate to ask her this question.

“I’m continuing to be me. I’m not allowing age to change me.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been discouraged. I don’t let things get me down. I can’t change getting old. What am I gonna do? Sit in a chair and rock away?”

As final words of wisdom, she offered this: “If you haven’t done what you want to do, do it now. As soon as you can.”

We’ll call her “Ruby.” She is a gem indeed. I could tell you about the unique and interesting hobbies she still engages in, but that may very well be a HIPPA violation, as they may identify her due to her uniqueness.

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I decided several years ago that the best gift I get each year is from Mother Nature. Just in time for my birthday, she typically gets the verdant green on the ground, and the leaves hung on the trees. All for me.

Several years ago, she didn’t quite make it in time. My gift arrived a little late. This year, however, it appears she is going to deliver in time.

The Bradford Pear trees are in full bloom in our neighbor’s yard.

Mother Nature and Father Time have become my allies; I no longer try to fight them. It’s pointless. I have struggled more with Mother Nature lately; perhaps I need—yet again—to try to take Gail’s advice from last week about savoring whatever weather she brings. Western Kansas got a spring blizzard last week; Gail’s small town shut down school and some other community operations. The next day, the snow was gone.

Father Time, on the other hand, is now my friend. I used to despise him for bringing another hash mark on my birthday tally, but I am old and wise enough to now know that every year, every month and week, every moment of every day is a gift.

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I always have, and still do—for the most part—think that women need to embrace the lines and wrinkles that age brings. They are typically hard-earned and well deserved. Surgery and expensive cosmetic treatments and procedures are a form of denial, and simply embracing the change is the healthiest and most natural thing to do.

That is, of course, until it is my face showing the age.

Last week, I looked in the mirror, and just like that, seemingly overnight, I had jowls. I wasn’t even sure that was the right word; I hadn’t paid much attention because I really hadn’t cared until now. I looked it up—being the word nerd I am—and sure enough, indeed they were jowls, arriving just in time for my 53^rd birthday.

This rude awakening coincided with my haircut appointment. I had a few minutes to read her magazines before it was my turn, and I picked up a popular magazine from a few months ago that highlighted the fads of 2018.

I’m not one to jump on any bandwagon, so I had never even heard of a jade roller. There it was, being debated as useful vs. useless to tighten and shape skin on one’s face.

This interested me more than a little bit. Some of the work I do—including some I did just yesterday—involves exercising and tightening facial muscles after a stroke. The gentleman I saw had a recent stroke, and his left side was weak, including his lips and facial muscles. He was losing liquid out of the corner of his mouth, and this becomes a functional problem that I treat.

So I did.

Knowing the value of stimulating facial muscles, I continued to research the jade roller. Apparently, jade has been used for centuries for its seemingly magical healing qualities. The jury appears to be out, but from my professional experience, this type of stimulation may be worth considering.

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I don’t need a party or widespread attention on my birthday. I’m still getting a lot of mileage from the 50^th birthday party three years ago. It’s not too early to begin planning for Gail’s 60^th, which will be in just ten short months. Suzanne will have a big one in 16 months, and we will certainly blow the roof off for both of those.

I do have one request for a gift from you: Please celebrate your own birthday. If you don’t think it’s important, then you have some work to do. Start by figuring out where that crazy idea came from, and work to change that. Observing the day you arrived on earth is not ever to be dismissed as unimportant.

If “Ruby” is going to celebrate her 90^th birthday, you’d better celebrate yours, too, no matter how old you are.

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I don’t have grand plans for my birthday, but I do plan to do what I please—for the most part. Perhaps a dinner with my family, perhaps soaking up some rays that Mother Nature is predicted to deliver that day, reading, napping and even a little work—if I have to.

These freedoms to do my thing are the best gifts of all—along with Mother’s Nature’s touch outdoors. That doesn’t mean, however, that I haven’t treated myself to a few goodies as well. I don’t really need anything, but I indulged a few small wants.

The wants include the jade roller. I don’t need it, but I am curious. Plus, it was only 12.97 on Amazon…I will give you my product review in time. Until then, I will do my best to embrace the jowls, and all the other gifts that age brings.

Happy Birthday to my birthday buddies: Charlie— a college friend born on the same day in the same year; Lois—a former co-worker, my new friend Glenda, and Libby—one day before me, a former co-worker as well. My cousin Theresa celebrates one day before as well. Happy Birthday today–Sunday– to Tammy. Happy Birthday to my sister-in-law Melissa; she celebrates on tax day. Happy Birthday too to Nesha; she lives in my small city now, having been born one day after me in the same hospital. We were buddies in the hospital nursery. My niece celebrates two days later, and so does my friend Nicole.

Whenever your birthday happens to be, Happy Birthday to you, too.

GAIL-ISMS

April 7, 2019April 7, 2019 / middlesisterkathleen / 4 Comments

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GAIL-ISMS

Our mom had a penchant for collecting quotes, sayings, quips, cartoons and words of wisdom on paper, and she saved them in this box:

I have frequently referred to them throughout my blogs, and, for us, they never fail to inspire.

Dad has his own wisdom as well, and I have shared that with you in many posts.

If you are a regular reader, you are likely aware that Gail, too, has her own wisdom. So does Suzanne. I sometimes try to disguise my input as wisdom; I hope I have given you some small bits worth your read.

This post, however, focuses on Gail’s words of wisdom. She has much to share, and she has agreed to do just that today. Suzanne has agreed to share hers another time.

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Gail and her daughter Lydia stopped by my house this afternoon on their way home west after spending the weekend east in Kansas City. Gail’s son Wyatt was there playing volleyball for his state university’s men’s club volleyball team.

He’s one of the best blockers on the block.

Because Gail had spent the weekend in a gymnasium with multiple volleyball games going on, she was in a competition state of mind. Her first offering was this:

“Winning or losing, play your best until the end of the game.”

And whatever “best” means, remember this: “Always give 100%, but not everyone’s 100% is the same. Don’t compare yours to someone else’s.”

I talked to her while driving home, and she offered this:

“Drive defensively, but be courteous. Two or three car lengths won’t make a difference to your destination. This, of course, works the same way in life. Be kind. And don’t rush all the time. It doesn’t help.”

After an enjoyable weekend with three of her four children—her oldest daughter joined them—reflections on fun were appropriate:

“Don’t be afraid to have fun. The more you have, the more you can share.”

Someone close to her recently quit smoking, a task they simply decided to do. Gail believes in the power of mind over matter.

“Make the choice to control bad habits that are controlling you.”

And for those who have had bad habits, or made regretful mistakes in the past (that would likely be most of us), she offers this:

“You can’t change the past, but you have the power to cultivate a present and future that doesn’t reflect your past.”

If only we could edit out the bad parts like I did with this blog just before I posted it, or crop out the unfavorable parts like I did with the pictures, life would be so much easier.

As we sometimes do, Gail and I spent a while discussing the books we are currently absorbed in.

“As Dr. Seuss says, ‘The more you read, the more you’ll know.’”

I am currently re-reading a fabulous memoir written by a Kansas farm girl much like us, but with struggles we never experienced. She has made a name for herself on the bestseller list, and rightfully so. She will be speaking just 45 minutes down the road from my small city next week, and I will be there.

“Always have something to look forward to,” is timeless wisdom from our mother. I am anticipating a great evening.

And speaking of our mother, it has always been a priority for us to live a life of peace and harmony in our family, not just to honor Mom’s message at their funeral, but because it is important to us. We have all lived long enough, however, to know that some families can be sticky creatures, and keeping peace within them may not be an easy task. To that end, Gail offers this:

“Families can be made or chosen. Either way, living in peace with them should always be a priority. It’s worth the work.”

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Suzanne stopped by my home while Gail was here, and we had a great visit, as always.

The words of wisdom that resound most frequently with me from both Suzanne and Gail involve the weather. It’s a big no-brainer that complaining about the weather does absolutely no good, but Gail and Suzanne seem to have a better handle on this than I do. They love the wind; I loathe it. They accept the wind and the cold; I complain about it.

Notwithstanding the return of the winter-like temperatures predicted for mid-week next week, it appears that spring is indeed springing.

Yellow is one of my favorite colors, and it seems to be nature’s first harbinger of the warmer temperatures soon to come:

The forsythia blooms are always a brilliant yellow

Some people call them weeds…

Daffodils never disappoint

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I feel my spirits lifting; the sun and the heat revitalize me, and make me love Kansas once again. It was a long and difficult winter for our area; the cold, gray, wind and ice relented just enough after each storm to herald yet another round. My soul began to feel drained and weary.

The late winter weeks dealt me several cruel blows, as I lost a handful of beloved patients that, in my fairy tale mind, really weren’t going to die. Ever. But they did. I am no stranger to death taking people from me, but these losses wrought me and hollowed out my already-weary soul. I couldn’t have done anything to help them in the end, much like hundreds of other patients I have lost.

Somehow, though, these few have stuck with me.

“Grief is for the living,” a wise friend told me years ago, and that, too, has stuck with me. I know in my heart of hearts that their suffering is over and they have no desire to come back here, so I must let them go in my heart, just as I did with Mom and Dad.

Gail has no fear, not even of death. She embraces it as a certain eventuality, having no control over its ultimate arrival. I like to say I don’t either, but I can’t put myself on par with her.

“Like the weather, death is a fact of life and it’s going to come. It does no good to get upset about either one,” Gail said.

If Heaven is indeed a place of happiness and joy beyond our wildest imaginations, then hopefully, I’m in. Paraphrased from the wise words of a country singer, “Everyone wants to go to Heaven, but no one wants to go right now.”

If Heaven is like a theater, I’m pretty sure my parents have front-row seats. I’ll take a seat in the nosebleed section, if that means I made it. Gail and Suzanne will likely have floor seats, probably somewhere in the middle. It will be a gigantic theater, but I’m sure it will be easy to find the people you want to see.

Like my patients. And, of course, Mom and Dad.

Happy Spring from The Sister Lode

WHEN COUNTRY WASN’T COOL

March 31, 2019 / middlesisterkathleen / 6 Comments

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WHEN COUNTRY WASN’T COOL

I couldn’t play a musical instrument to save my life. Yet, every day, music saves my life. Every day, at almost every moment when I can, I have music playing. It fills me up, calms me down and transports me to magical places. Very simply, it makes me happy.

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When my stepson was in college, he came for a weekend visit. As he drove up the driveway, his music arrived before he did. I was standing outside with my firstborn; he was about 12 years old.

“Wow, his music is loud,” I said.

“Mom, that’s what it sounds like when you pull up, too,” he said, in his usual poker-faced style.

I was busted. I didn’t deny it either.

I’m pretty sure I still sound like that when I pull up, and it’s worth it to me.

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I am writing at 8:00 p.m., Saturday, March 30^th. Happy Birthday to our dad today; he would have been 85 years old. Last week, I posted that I wanted to celebrate his birthday in a big way: by going to the Willie Nelson concert in Newkirk, Oklahoma, a mere 2 ½ hour drive from my home. However, since it is now 8:11 p.m., and the concert started at 8:00, clearly, I will not be going to the show.

I went to the website to check into purchasing tickets, and the show venue reported the bad news: SOLD OUT. The secondary sellers had some left, but for their inflated cost worth a month of groceries, I decided having had seen him three times already would have to suffice—for now. The iconic Willie is one of my all-time favorites—obviously.

So, in his honor, I loaded up my five-disc CD changer with Willie CDs—I own eleven—all day. I had my own concert in my home.

Gail is the CD queen. In her CD-purchasing heyday, she built her collection up to about 700 CDs. I may own perhaps 200. Suzanne—ever the minimalist– said she owns only enough to fit into a shoebox.

Gail stores most of the CDs in old suitcases…

Gail has vinyl too–this was her first purchase, followed by this sampling:

Our oldest brother got his first turntable in the early 70’s, and Gail reports she was hooked. It was a top-of-the-line Pioneer system. T-Rex and Badfinger were the two bands she remembers most clearly from those early days of her newfound love of music.

Gail kept most of her vinyl, even replacing some of her favorites with the same one on CD. She began her CD collection sometime in the late 1980’s, I think. Several years later, needing an adventure, I spent 1990 in suburban Philadelphia as a nanny. Gail, Suzanne and I were not as close then as we are now, but we were still tight. We kept in touch by phone—the land-line kind—and I recall very clearly a phone conversation Suzanne and I had, I think in the fall:

“I’m kind of worried about Gail,” Suzanne said. “ I think she’s gone off the deep end with this new country music thing. There’s this guy, Garth Brooks, and she listens to him all the time. He has this song ‘Friends in Low Places,’ and she just loves it.”

This was the beginning of “New Country,” and Gail’s tastes were obviously on the cutting edge. Suzanne and I just didn’t know it yet.

We have our favorite country artists, both new and old. You know who my “old country” favorite is already. Suzanne doesn’t have a clear favorite, old or new. Gail also had a spell of Kenny Chesney fever, having gone to several of his concerts.

Being Gail, she found a way to express herself, even among thousands of other fans. She and a friend saw him in Kansas City, and made a sign that read “KC in KC.” They followed him to Oklahoma City, and made a sign that read “KC in OKC.”

Coming from Gail, this shouldn’t surprise you. She finds a way to express herself, and it usually draws positive attention.

I am a concert goer, too. Having been bitten by the bug with the Beach Boys live as a teenager, right here in my small city, I have always loved to hear my favorite musicians live, sometimes more than once.

None of us knew at the time, but the woman about my age singing with her family band at a wedding dance I went to with my college roommate when I went to her southern Kansas farm home with her in 1985 would become famous. She was Kansas’s own Martina McBride. Obviously, some wonderful women came from that neck of the woods; I credit Marilyn as my inspiration to become a speech therapist.

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I have seen Martina McBride two other times, and she has the biggest, most beautiful voice I have ever heard coming from such a tiny woman. I am biased, but I think her version of “How Great Thou Art” is the best recorded version of all time. If you haven’t heard it, check it out. You won’t be disappointed, especially when she hits the high notes at the end.

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I have seen Phil Collins twice, and I would love to see him again. Mary Chapin Carpenter is another one I have seen twice, and will drop everything when she comes around again. I have about a dozen CDs from each of them.

Having crossed Billy Joel, Jon Bon Jovi and Bruce Springsteen off my ‘Buffet’ list, that leaves Van Morrison and Jimmy Buffet as must-sees.

Our small city boasts a beautiful art-deco theater in its downtown, offering unparalleled acts like The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band from just ten days ago. Among the other stars I have taken in there include: Steve Winwood, Dave Mason, Jackson Browne, Lindsay Buckingham, Jewel, The Mavericks, Cheap Trick, Rob Thomas, Weird Al Yankovic, George Jones, Don Williams, Phil Vassar, Rick Springfield, Willie Nelson once, as well as his son Lucas Nelson in a separate show, and Martina McBride one of the two times, then again down the road a few months later in Manhattan, Kansas.

Music is a healing balm, providing the brain with stimulation that cannot be achieved in any other way. In my work with stroke patients, I have encountered several talented, certified music therapists who provide musical stimulation to the injured brain. The results are always positive.

Music—specifically special songs—have the power to transport us back in time to a place filled with memories, as if we are returning there physically. Every time I hear Boston singing “More Than A Feeling,” I am immediately transported back to May, 1982. And that’s all I am going to tell you about why I remember that song.

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Our living room remodel that I recently wrote about cramped my style in several ways, chiefly the loss of my in-home CD player.

Our five-disc changer, along with the rest of the components sit in this Hoosier cabinet that my husband refinished. It sat in our grandmother’s garage for years, having been carted from one home to another after a previous resident left it in their newly-acquired home years ago. Wanting to pass it on, and knowing my husband was the man for the job, she gave it to us. It began as a dilapidated treasure, but he restored it to its present state of beauty:

The components are in the bottom,

And the CDs are in the top.

I had to suffer through several months without my CD music, but mercifully, I was able to play Amazon music through my Kindle. It is now back where it belongs.

We even have speakers wired through to the back porch so we can enjoy the music when I am tending to my redneck clothesline,

Or when we are enjoying our redneck backyard pool.

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I remember Mom and Dad’s vinyl. I wish we had kept some of their records, but it simply wasn’t practical then. With Gail’s help, we recalled a few of their favorites: Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, Eydie Gorme, Eddie Arnold, Mama Cass and Helen Reddy.

I didn’t question this cover as a child, but perhaps I should have. I do now.

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Suzanne, ever the one who is happy with simple, doesn’t have a Buffet list for concerts. She is simply happy listening to her 70’s and 80’s music on Spotify. Having Sirius satellite radio in my car, I find my favorite stations are the 70’s and 80’s songs as well. Those songs are the soundtracks of our youth.

Bruce Springsteen, “The Boss,” is one of Gail’s concert quests. Having seen him once, he is the one show I would choose to see again if I could. He delivered three hours of non-stop rock with every ounce of energy he possessed in his early sixties, pausing only for ten seconds of silence to honor his recently deceased saxophonist, Clarence Clemons. Perhaps we should make that a priority for us to see him.

I have the Bruce station on preset in my car.

As well as Bruce, Gail has always wanted to see Bob Seger. Sadly, for us, he recently announced his upcoming retirement from touring after 56 years. Perhaps it’s not too late to work on that dream as well, as he still has a few dates left.

Music. Live or recorded, let it fill you. Let it move you. Let it be a part of your day, every day. It is a gift to be opened and enjoyed. Whether it’s Bruce or Willie, Bob or Martina, or whoever you enjoy, their gift to all of us is their musical talent.

If you possess a singing talent, or perhaps you can play a musical instrument, then please share your gift with the world.

I’m always available for a private concert.

Happy Spring from the April Fools!

MIDWEST FARMER’S DAUGHTERS

March 24, 2019March 28, 2019 / middlesisterkathleen / 5 Comments

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MIDWEST FARMER’S DAUGHTERS

I’m all about celebrating birthdays. Gail’s was last month, and we honored her in several posts. Suzanne’s is in August, and she will be feted as well. And, just so you don’t forget, mine is coming up next month.

We recognized Mom’s birthday in January, and now it is time to celebrate Dad. He would have been 85 next weekend, and I like to think we would have had a big party for such a big birthday for such a big-hearted man.

We had a giant party for his 70^th birthday. We had one planned for Mom on her 70^th, but the weather didn’t allow it. We never did make up for it, and I wish we had. Yet another reason to keep celebrating them every day of our lives.

So, in his honor, we are celebrating his farmer heritage, which also gave us our farm-girl heritage. We wouldn’t trade it for all the riches we never had, and likely never will.

If you knew our dad, you knew this about him: he loved to talk—to anyone, he spoke his mind—even when it didn’t make him popular, he called a spade a spade and he was a man of his word.

He worked the land, and he worked it hard. He knew the value of hard work, and, along with Mom, he taught this value to his seven children. And we are forever grateful for that lesson.

Dad’s favorite tractor was his Farmall “H”

Life on a farm in a family of nine people brings many tasks; work that simply must be done. Ground to work, crops to plan, plant and harvest, livestock to breed, feed, care for, take to market and perhaps butcher, machinery to maintain and a multitude of other obligations to the land that must be met in order to have our needs met.

And they were always met. Perhaps not our wants, but always our needs. Nine mouths to feed was not an easy task. Having beef and pork in the freezer—and chickens to butcher in the earlier days, I recall (more on this torture later)—was the most fundamental building block of our meal planning and preparation. Despite the toughest of times in the farm economy in the 1980’s, I don’t ever recall a time when there wasn’t enough food to go around. I remember an abundance, to be exact. We always had a garden planted in the spring (Mom didn’t enjoy gardening much, but she knew it was part and parcel of the package), we had fruit trees—apple, pear and cherry (more on cherry picking later), and in our small-town grocery store, we had a running credit account. I remember the folded, lined card that was produced from the box under the counter that constituted our “bill.” It was ongoing, and it was a wonderful service the grocer provided for many families in our community. We simply initialed it when we made a purchase large or small, and somehow, Mom and Dad always had the money to pay it off.

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As an only child, Dad inherited the family farm without question. He was the third generation to farm our family land, and now two of our brothers farm the land he left. Two of our nephews show promise to be fifth-generation farmers, and for this, we are so grateful.

The land is more than just property, and farming is more than just a job. The land is part of our heritage, and farming, if it is what you love doing, is in your blood. It is a lifestyle, not just a job.

Perhaps it would have been different if any of us three farm girls had fallen in love with a farmer, but none of us did, and neither did any of us marry farmers.

We would have made good farm wives, though. Gail, being the eternal Swiss Army Knife in whatever job she finds herself in, was the Jill-of-all-trades, (and master of all) both indoors and outdoors. She could drive a tractor, truck or combine—and often did. She also could cook and bake, clean and do laundry, change diapers and take care of whatever younger siblings needed care, which was five of us.

Me, I was mostly inside. I never learned to drive any farm machinery, but I could—and still can—bake and cook. I remember folding clothes, a task I rather enjoy now. I still enjoy baking, and I will cook when I have to. I was also in charge of taking out the trash, which was mostly burned in barrels just across the fence near the chicken house. Speaking of the chickens, they were my responsibility, and I loathed them. My husband occasionally jokes about getting me more chickens, and I tell him “I hope YOU enjoy taking care of them.”

Gail reminded me that the chickens were initially her idea. When she was in the eighth grade, apparently she felt she needed more responsibility, so she set up the chicken operation. She quickly became disillusioned with the idea, and since she had plenty of other tasks to complete, the responsibility fell on me. Thanks, Gail.

To further illustrate my distaste for chickens, I must share this story:

Our grandpa—Dad’s dad—lived in town five miles away and would often come to the farm to see how his progeny was continuing his legacy. (I think he was pleased.) He accompanied me into the chicken house once to feed them and gather the eggs. My routine was swift and mindless, as I had performed it hundreds of times. So mindless, in fact, that I forgot he was in there with me. I got in and out quick, locking the door from the outside when I left.

Several hours later, one of our brothers heard a faint “Hey! Help!” coming from the direction of the chicken house. They let him out with no apparent harm done.

I was only an observer of the chicken’s demise when it was time to butcher. I know firsthand where the phrase “like a chicken with it’s head cut off” comes from. I wish I could un-see that, but it’s burned on my brain.

Suzanne’s responsibilities included a lot of mowing. She also kept the cats and dog fed and watered—we always had one dog, and several cats, and some indoor duties as well.

Come June, we were all involved in cherry-picking. (Ugh.) I remember groaning at Mom as she woke us up early to beat the heat when it was time to pick the cherries. We picked most of the morning, and pitted most of the afternoon. I grew to despise that job, too. Now, however, I am thrilled to finally have a producing cherry tree in our backyard thanks to my husband’s efforts.

Last year’s harvest

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I am eternally grateful for the opportunity to have grown up on a farm: for the lessons the farm taught me, for learning about nature from the seasons, the weather and the animals, for the chance to get dirty and dusty—and especially muddy, for learning how to climb trees and how jump safely into a hayloft or out of a swing.

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We delighted in the muddy squalor the heavy summer rains sometimes left us, just like our boys did when they were kids.

More than that, I am thankful for the women we became from our early years on the farm. Each of us spent our first 18 years on the farm before leaving for college. We learned how to work hard to make our way in the world, because, for us, there was no other way. Looking back now, we would have it no other way. We learned early and often that in farming, and in life, there are no guarantees.

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Spending a day in the harvest field every summer is still a priority for me.

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My husband and I had the opportunity last week to take in an amazing concert in the beautiful Stiefel Theater in the downtown of our small city.

Playing together for 53 years, The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band put on a show we will never forget. Much of their music has a sense of fun and lightness, such as one of their most notable songs—”Fishin’ in the Dark.”

They were talkers as well as singers, often explaining the meanings and origins of many songs. Another one of my favorites hit home for me after they explained the origin.

“Nowhere To Go” is a heavier song, a 1988 hit that tells the story of a farmer who lost his farm due to the ailing farm economy. The 1980’s was a devastating decade for many Midwest farmers, due to extremely high interest rates, record debt for land and equipment, record crop production which subsequently lowered the grain prices and the grain embargo against the Soviet Union.

“I’m a workin’ man with nowhere to go…”

I was in high school in the early 80’s, and I remember clearly the specter of the auction block lingering around us and many other farmers in our area. I recall that several of the farmers lost their farms, and I remember the very real concern that it could happen to almost every farmer.

My heart broke for those who lost their farms, and mercifully, we were able to hold on to ours. I will be forever grateful to my dad and my brothers for their hard work that helped us survive these toughest of times.

The lead singer of the band went on to talk about his friend Willie Nelson, who, along with John Mellencamp and several other musicians, started Farm Aid. Their goal was to provide their musical gifts in concert to raise money to keep American farmers on the land.

Nelson and Mellencamp then brought family farmers before Congress to testify about the state of family farming in America. As a result, Congress passed the Agricultural Credit Act of 1987 to help save family farms from foreclosure.

Farm Aid continues as an annual event; this year’s concert will mark 34 years in operation.

In the process of sorting and rearranging during the remodel, I rediscovered this book that I stacked under some other books, never reading it. I am reading it now.

My husband and I are Willie Nelson fans, having seen him in concert three times. Dad’s birthday is next Saturday, the same day Willie plays live just across the Kansas border in northern Oklahoma.

Happy Birthday Dad. I think it’s time to celebrate.