Friday The 13th

                           

                                         M U D G I E

Oh sure, she may look harmless enough. But that's probably the dimples talking. Tip of the iceberg. Let me tell you what she was really like.

My mom kept the world turning. Someone had to. 

A master of organization, she was relentlessly industrious, working nonstop to have a spotless home and a successful family. No nonsense. None. She never let up. 

Even at night when she read us bedtime stories, I sensed the pressure... she would read so fast to get through the book or chapter or nursery rhyme that she barely stopped to catch a breath. Each story was pretty much likeagiantrunonsentencewithnopunctuationtoslowitdown. Grimms' Fairy Tales on steroids. 

So my impression of her early on was of someone who could not savor the moment, to say the least. Always on the move. A woman on a mission. Life seemed to be an endless chore, but with hyper energy equal to the task. Chop chop!

>

(Ok, so here's evidence to the contrary, where it looks like we're relaxing. Can you say "posed"?)

Wait a sec, did I say no nonsense? Wasn't she the one always spouting-

"I never saw a purple cow,

  I never hope to see one.

  But I can tell you this right now,

  I'd rather see than be one."

Uh huh.

Or how about this one?

"Mother, may I go out to swim?"

"Yes, my darling daughter.

  Hang your clothes on a hickory limb,

  But don't go near the water."

A little wacko, no?

But the woman had high standards. And a schedule. A place for everything and everything in its place. Home sweet home. She dusted and vacuumed first thing in the morning, and then again just before Daddy was due home. Twice a day! Who does that? 

Dinner was at exactly 5 o'clock when he came through that door. Not a minute later. Every day. Without fail. Not that he would have cared, he was so easygoing. 

Waiting to dust our hardwood floors during TV commercials Saturday morning when we were watching cartoons. Ironing piles of clothes began at 3 or 4 am. Friends could only come over to play outside, not ever inside the clean house. Maybe these were ubiquitous societal expectations in the 50's? 

When we did dishes, one of us girls would clear the table, one would wash, one would dry. Mom would stand there with an extra dish towel in hand, just in case an errant drop of water dared mar the countertop. 

If we objected to the oversight, or anything else, she made it perfectly clear that "This is MY house. You will do it MY way. When you get YOUR house, you can do it YOUR way!" No equivocating. 

So when I got MY house, I did it MY way, and my kids were NEVER allowed to dry any dishes NO MATTER WHAT! Boy, I sure showed her.

Perfection must have seemed attainable in those days. Yep. We were organized. O.R.G.A.N.I.Z.E.D. 

Oh, You  Must Have Been A Beautiful Baby....

Who can blame her?  It could have been DNA. Possibly she was innocent at birth. The verdict's not in yet. She appeared to be one of the fairly more benign ones in her early youth, but that's the female species for you. You just never know. They can go off the wall at any time. Just ask my kids.

Mudgie & Dort

Maybe it started when she became an ace tap dancing performer. You know, the pressure to never miss a beat. Shuffle, shuffle, tap, tap. Even have to shuffle fast, and no missteps. The show must go on!

Mudgie in charge...and a 1-2-3-4

Or maybe she honed those let's move it along, BOOM! BOOM! skills when she became the drum majorette for the Hawaiian Guitar Band in High School. Guess she wasn't content to just play the music. She had to lead the music. Did I mention she loves a parade? At any rate, she marched us along our merry way in a John Sousa kind of way. The girl had energy. And determination.

STRUT IT!

Here's the thing. Evidently in her High School yearbook, it said she was the sweetest girl ever. 

Wait a second, this same woman who would give you the evil MOM FACE when you somehow innocently upset her and would threaten you with, "Wait till your Father gets home!"--- that one? The one who intentionally scheduled all those spankings? Who would lock us out of the house all day in the summer (truth- all moms did back then!) Or would dig her nails into your arm when you were a teenage reprobate?

Why yes, she did have quite the temper. There were just a few melodramatic scenarios that aged well, and over time we joked about. My favorite was the time she caught me sneaking out of the basement window one night. I had moved down there in High School to claim my own bedroom as a quasi adult. The basement was unfinished and I slept on a cot, but the privacy was priceless. 

Well of course, I snuck out at night. Summer nights. For years. Took a chair over to the basement window and climbed right out. 

But I promise I never did anything the least bit wrong and didn't get caught until that one night, home from my junior year of college. And did she ever have a major meltdown! She was furious, nuclear grade furious! Dad had just had Hernia surgery, and she was emphatically screaming at me that if he ever found out, it would kill him, just kill him! She turned around and stomped up the stairs, yelling, "Ern! Ern!"

 What? Not my finest moment. Miraculously, he survived. Me too.

The most notorious incident was long before that, years before. Dad precipitated the encounter with disaster by going to the office Christmas party and taking a drink! Against all odds! Yes, apparently not a Shirley Temple! 

Did he not read the family instruction manual that we absolutely DO NOT DRINK? Actually, who needs an instruction manual, it was in our blood, our very DNA. No alcohol was our unspoken mantra, maybe Susan B. Anthony was in our family tree! 

Anyway, something went awry, and Minnehaha went on the warpath. She put us little girls in the back of the car and drove to Wing Park to crash into an oak tree and annihilate us all for sweet and swift revenge. 

Wait, a minute there, why not put him in the car... we didn't have anything to drink? Didn't even know what one was. Luckily she missed the trees and we got home safe, maybe not sound. 

No idea how long he had to pay for that unforgivable mistake.

Well the heat of passion can certainly lead to some interesting outcomes. We all have our moments. And the impact was less life and death, more life lessons... still have never had a drink. Fortunately, I took a page from this and decided to live a mellow and serene life making sure my passions never got out of control. 

Why no, you can't ask my kids, they're busy. 

(In retrospect, us Sholes girls all think of this as one of the most hilarious episodes of all time.) 

Yet this was the very same person when I was but little, who would randomly stop the car to pick wild violets together from the roadside. 

The same person whose best friend had long phone conversations with her every single day... her sister, Dort. They only lived 6 blocks away from each other, but the phone was invented for these two! They called each other, "Kid." And boy could they talk. And talk. And start all over the next day.

Dort & Mudgie

The very same person who laid out on the couch after dinner every night and had me tickle and rub her back for maybe 25 cents an hour and dazedly grant permission for all sorts of whatever I wanted. I was the only one to do so, and I think I could have gotten away with just about anything as she drifted off to sleep. Just about. At least, until she woke up.

One thing I learned from Mudgie is the importance of the little things. She would knock herself out keeping the house fastidiously clean, sure, but that was taken for granted. She had this habit of switching it up every month. So I would be caught off guard coming home from school to find the couch had moved to yet another different place in the living room. 

Rearranging furniture is not in my skill set. But it did seem to keep things interesting, and it didn't cost a penny back in those more frugal days. 

A special touch for birthdays or good report cards, or whatever special achievements, would warrant her putting out a red carpet on the front porch steps that day in honor of one or another of us. The neighbors must have figured we were such VIP's! Wow, how I wish I had adopted that tradition! 

Always busy adding personal little touches to our lives, one thing that garnered her some attention beyond just the family, was her penchant for decorating the large picture window in the living room. It featured a generous wood window seat, so she would fill that with vignettes for the holidays and season changes, or whatever grabbed her fancy. 

A large 3 foot doll would be dressed in a Halloween costume with a wheelbarrow full of pumpkins and surrounded by cutout autumn leaves dancing on invisible thread. Or perhaps dressed in Easter Bunny gear next to an Easter egg tree in the Spring. Maybe standing next to an actual school desk in September when it got to be that time of the year. 

Cars would slow down to notice her creativity as they drove by, and it was something she so enjoyed doing. 

 

She painted an entire wall in the kitchen with blackboard paint and kept chalk for us to scribble random words or silly art designs. And she would have messages she wrote higher up the wall. Pretty cool!

We didn't always go along with her easily of course, but she usually triumphed. We were a handful and pretty darn hard on her. After years of that, one day out of the blue she jumped on top of the kitchen table and with her hands in the air chanted loudly, "I AM WONDERFUL!  I AM WONDERFUL!"  

We were beyond stunned. Weird, but pretty impressive.

So let's get one thing straight. Purple. Her reputation for purple being her favorite color has become legendary. 

Ironically, I remember being bewildered as a little girl that Mom would tell me her favorite color was sky blue pink, and so she would take me outside and show it to me at sunset. She was right! Technically, I guess blue and pink combined would make purple. 

Funny enough, I don't remember her wearing purple much, but nobody, and I mean nobody, ever rocked navy blue and white like this one! Classy, stunning! 

One thing Mudgie didn't rock was elevators. She couldn't really, because she wouldn't get in them. Claustrophobia prevailed. 

But she did rock fruit. You could often find her eating an apple... core, seeds, and all. Isn't that just bizarre? And now I do that. What can I say?

Truth is she was born a Leftie. And you know what they say about left-handed people! Maybe she was just born stubborn enough to demand a lot out of life, a lot from herself. Amazingly, she had the most beautiful handwriting ever. Seems an accomplishment for somebody right handed, miraculous if left handed. 

She was also born with a head of thick black hair. So thick in fact that she had to go to an actual barber periodically to have it thinned out. (Funny thing is that she never dyed her hair, and for 9 decades it stayed thick and black except for some stunning gray sideburns.) 

And did I mention a remarkable singing voice? After all, what can move you more than beautiful music? Gifted a lovely soprano voice, she's always made the most of it and filled the house with song. "Indian Love Song" (sung at her wedding), "In The Good Old Summertime," "Deep Purple" (guess that comes as no surprise), "September," "I Go to The Garden Alone" (her favorite of all, even though she wasn't religious in the least and it's about Jesus), and probably countless more, especially from the 1940's. Maybe you can listen to oldies on YouTube?

Of course, the two that she will always be most known for in family lore are "The Hokey Pokey" and "Show Me the Way to Go Home." How can you not smile at those every single time? I mean that's such a powerful legacy. (So much so that the family, all of us, got up at her memorial service and performed The Hokey Pokey, and did the same with "Show Me..." at the end of it.)

But then she always had her biggest fan in the audience anyway. Her Ernie. Always on her side. Once a sweetheart always a sweetheart back in that day. She got him young and trained him well. They were a happy couple.

"To Have And To Hold From This Day Forth"    Sept. 21, 1943

The only thing truly amiss in her world was something so dreadfully awful, so forbidding and disgusting, that she could never even say it. She just pretended that the "S" word didn't exist on planet earth. Which was fine, the universe seemed to cooperate.

SHHHHH!!!

Until that vacation one year in Lake Tomahawk, Wisconsin. A handful of us kids were splashing around in the lake when one of the adults on the pier spotted it. "Water moccasin!" And there in the midst of us, slithering on top of the sparkling water, an "S" word. Gasp! I had a broken arm and couldn't swim with the heavy cast, so kind of figured I'd be the logical human sacrifice, taking one for the team. 

But not to worry, the cute teenage boy who worked at the resort, Cisco, jumped in and got hold of the "S" word and killed it. My hero! He proudly displayed the dead, but very much still moving, reptile on the pier. I still remember my Dad's absolute awe. Awe and disbelief that Mom didn't pass out. Or worse!

But she'd throw me a curve ball every once in a while. Totally out of character, to my young mind, she would let me keep wild orphan bunnies I'd find in the yard, hairless and about the size of a pinkie finger, in the garage. She let me feed them every hour or so with a medicine dropper, and she would take over and nurse them through the nights. Sooner or later they would all die anyway, but it felt important trying. Didn't seem organized somehow.

Baby bunnies

Then at about 11 or 12 years old, I was dumbfounded when after visiting my cousins' farm, I fell in love with an abused and abandoned dog they had rescued, and couldn't let go. Aunt Joyce brought me back to town with the little dog in my arms. Just knew we'd both be shot, my Aunt and I. Even the dog. I knew there was no way my Mom would even let us in the door. 

But... SHE LET ME KEEP THE DOG! Who'd have thought? Never give up hope! My mom seemed to tolerate Tami for some reason, and that was all that mattered to me.

One day, after Tami had been with us a couple years, I started to come downstairs much earlier than usual. And I heard mom's voice, softly cooing to the dog in baby talk. What? Had aliens landed and possessed her? (Do aliens even know baby talk?) Who was this woman? It was a mystery. Made me smile. And sneak back up the stairs. 

Every once in a while after that, I would stay hidden on the stairway some mornings and listen. It was such a discovery... my mom was human! Not just the vacuum cleaner/cook/bad cop. I actually found myself kinda liking this person, who pretended to be so tough. I now knew better. It was our little secret.

TAMI

Tami got really sick when I was about 14. Really, really sick. No hope sick. But I couldn't bear to lose her. My parents let me make the decision on my own, no advice, no pressure. After a few days I couldn't bear to see Tami suffer so. We got in the car and drove to the Vet's. No one said a word. When we got there, with still not a word, they let me go in the building on my own, Tami in my arms. I held my sweet baby as the Dr. administered the shot, and she stopped quivering and heaving in my arms. It was an honor to be there with her, for her. A true spiritual experience. 

Somehow letting me handle that on my own made me feel respected and understood. And that was a gift my parents gave to me without ever being asked. The Vet left me alone with Tami and her sudden stillness, and when I was ready to leave, I brought her out in my arms to my waiting family and we went home and buried her under our willow tree.

As much as a stickler for rules and order as my mom was, I have to give her credit for allowing me to make choices along the way. Like when I announced I was taking Catholic instruction and intended to be a nun, she freaked out, but didn't make me quit working at St. Jo hospital or meeting with the priest. Or did I tell them about that?

"NO," I couldn't go to St. Ed's for high school, and "NO," I absolutely couldn't be baptized as a Catholic, because what if I married and had half a dozen kids then? Oh, the horror!

 

ME & MINE

When I shifted my attention to the Mormon Church, I think it was a relief. We knew nothing about that, so who was to know that it would end up they were into lots of kids as well? Despite being worried about me getting married and having beaucoup d'enfants, she was maybe even more worried that I wouldn't get married at all, and that I would end up never leaving the nest, so she let me start dating way too young. 

Thank goodness I wasn't really interested in boys till later, and didn't fall in love till the ripe old age of 16.

Of course we all need to have standards with all that, and so about 13, I was unequivocally told that "A lady doesn't smoke." Well my Dad did, and I was quite used to being around it, and thought older girls were the Epitome of Elegance with a cigarette dangling from their lips, flicked from their fingers. So I stole a couple of Dad's and tried it a couple nights that summer. Nothing but a sheer failure at it, embarrassingly enough. Fortunately enough.

But what was even worse was the night of my very first date, my Mom instructed me just before going out, "Be sure you come back the same way you left." 

I couldn't understand what she meant at all. Come back through the front door? Walk in the front door backwards? Was this some kind of code? Some kind of test? I really couldn't pay much attention to my date, because I was trying to figure out what she meant and if I would be in trouble somehow. Am I the only one who can't translate cryptic?

Fast forward decades and decades, and I would end up perplexed when we would be talking on the phone and Mom would say, "I want to go back to the horse and buggy days." 

Reality check. Knowing that cars had been around for awhile before she was born, this yearning would leave me a tad exasperated. But I'd bite my tongue. 

Ironically now that I'm older, I sometimes hear myself saying, "I want to go back to the horse and buggy days."

This woman had a lot on plate as time went on. Battling severe Migraines, Diabetes, Fibromyalgia, Cancer. Becoming a widow in her 60's. Life, you know. And she would call me to check on my life, full of challenges as well. Especially as I became a widow in my 50's. 

She wanted details. Many of them were not fun to share. At the end of every call she would end it with, "Nobody has a rose garden." Every call. I didn't always appreciate that hard truth. 

Now I do.

Yet she would find a way at times to send a card with a lucky penny she had found, and a check to brighten the day. Little thoughtful things were her modus operandi.

Regrets? I've had a few, and yet only one is worth mentioning. When I was six, Mom came home one day from the hospital with a new little baby. Dianne! I was beyond excited as she told me to sit in the rocking chair and then she put this little cute, so soft doll in my arms. As I held this angelic package on my lap, it took my breath away! 

Unfortunately, it didn't take my words away, because immediately I sputtered, "Ohhh, she is so cute, I could just eat her!" 

Last time I was ever allowed to hold Dianne. (Happily we reconnected as adults and now have a close relationship, although if you notice, she may keep me at arm's length.)

Bottom line, the biggest lesson, the greatest thing I take from my Mom's example, from day in and day out, from year to year, and to forever and beyond, is FAMILY. It all comes down to family. No. Matter. What. Begins and ends there. In a nutshell, in a word, that's it. That's all it's really about. 

And that's everything. That's always been her life. She has always been there for each and everyone of us, wanting the best for each of us, doing the most for each and everyone. And I think it's kind of like that vampire thing, where she's turning us into the very same thing! That's some DNA!!!!

Now that I have reached an overly ripe age, I find that my Mom has become a different person than this Drill Sergeant I once suspected her of being. The lady who I once thought didn't understand anything at all now has this all encompassing, unassuming wisdom. 

And the woman I was sure had no sense of humor and was the only other person on earth besides me who absolutely could not tell a joke is now the silliest person I know and keeps me laughing with her off the wall stories and unexpected crazy remarks. 

But the strangest thing is I was driving along a little while ago, talking to her on my cell phone in a spirited discussion like usual, when all of a sudden we AGREED on something! I had to pull off the road....

Look, if life were fair, I would have inherited her pretty singing voice, gorgeous handwriting, relentless thoughtfulness... or at least those dimples. But there you go. I got hammertoes and no sense of direction instead. That will be the basis of my lawsuit someday. When I'm feeling lucky enough to find a good attorney. But Mom, she's just plain lucky every day. Especially....

 

Mudgie was born on Friday the 13th, graduated on Friday the 13th, has 13 letters in her name, now has 13 grandchildren and one to grow on, and so on. Considered Friday the 13th her lucky day, and that consequently she is one lucky woman. 

She has always worked really hard at being lucky. Mom ran the show, and she took it seriously. Dad gave her free reign and whole-hearted support. They were quite a team. I look at my sisters and think, what a marvelous job they did. We were four very lucky girls every day. Still are.

                                                         VERY, VERY, VERY, VERY LUCKY

(Autumn, 1989)

Melinda, Mom, Dianne, Dad, Jan, Cindy

A Rose By Any Other Name

When I was first married, I never really gave much thought to having children and becoming a mom, but when that did happen, I never realized much ahead of time that we would end up having to come up with so many names. So it became a quest.

The 4 girls' names have a nature theme in common, however accidentally that happened, but the only thing the boys have in common is that they don't have girl names. Maybe you could tie the first three together with a Biblical/Book of Mormon slant, but it would be a stretch to fit the fourth in that. Unless you figured "Wayne" was possibly the name of some prophet of one of the Lost Tribes, or say, one of the Gadianton robbers. Hmmm, guess it's best to just share the facts.

We were living in Germany when our first son was born. I had liked the name “Jay” for a long time because I had babysat as a teen for a family of 3 boys, the youngest of whom was an irrepressible toddler named Jay. He was a handful, capricious and unpredictable. It kept it fun to have to deal with his energetic personality. So I had fond memories and thought I'd like having a Jay of my own to chase after (I was a lot younger then). But Poppas wanted to name this baby just the initial “J” if it were a boy, because he thought it was cool that his own father's middle name was simply “H." I wasn't ready to go along with just an initial for a first name, so we were stymied.

A few weeks before the baby was born, one of my former roommates from BYU sent me a letter telling me that she had married, just had her first child and had named him Adam. Botta Bing Botta Boom!  Immediately I liked that--- it had dignity and class and wasn't a name that was very common then.  Obviously it had been sent special delivery to us at exactly the right time. So I set out to steal it. And that I did; we named him Adam.  And we were very happy.

Three years later, our second son was born. We still liked the J approach, but this time we chose Jared because that too just had more dignity than “J” or “Jay” for his grownup years and it seemed downright masculine. And we could use “J” for a nickname and have the best of both worlds. Then too it was a little unusual at the time, so it was a perfect choice for us. And we were very happy.

When we were expecting our 6th baby, I became obsessed with a hymn titled “I Walked Today Where Jesus Walked," one of the most beautiful hymns I had ever heard. And one powerful line in that hymn goes, “ I saw the mighty Jordan," that's the river where Jesus was baptized, and all I could think of was having a son who was literally Jordan--- flowing with might and goodness. My heart was set on it, so when he was born I revealed his name, having kept it my little secret till then. And we were very happy. 

By the time our family was preparing for our 8th, and final, baby, we had checked out a lot of names through the years. I think I was leaning towards the name Blake or Ryker for a boy, but I don't think I got any support for those. Then about a month or two before the baby's due date, that little pistol in our family, Willow, noticed that somehow we had managed to have 2 “A's," 2 “T's," and 2 “J's" so far in our repertoire, and ONLY 1 W, amazingly enough! She absolutely insisted that the new baby had to be a “W”, and she was adamant. If you knew her, you'd understand. Relentless actually, though I couldn't find any "W" names I liked, she wouldn't back down. So I decided on Whitney for a boy or a girl.  “No, No--- Not for a boy!” they all screamed. Can't fight City Hall.

It was getting closer and closer to the time for the baby to be born, and one night I had a dream, and it was clear that it would be perfect to name this baby Wayne, for his father. At first, Dad said not, because we had never liked the idea of “Jr.” for anyone, but he eventually relented because it was actually his middle name we were using. It was more than an appropriate choice because when this little baby boy was born, he was an exact duplicate, the “spitting image” of his Dad. And we were very, and finally completely, happy.

Blame Mother Nature

I grew up in Illinois along the Fox River where there were lots and lots of trees. What could be better? In my backyard there was a large weeping willow tree that I thought of as exclusively mine.

Oh, how I loved that tree... sitting under it, climbing it, just seeing its graceful form swaying in the breeze. I could get lost in its branches when I would climb up into its arms to read a book, or think, or hide and escape from the world. In the winter its long icicled branches would shimmer in the sun as they danced in the winds. That's a whole lot of bling!

When I grew up, I continued to love trees and nature. I named my four daughters for the beauty I found in nature because I thought they were such breathtaking creatures when they were born. Afton was named for a beautiful river in Scotland (there's a really pretty song about that). Willow was named for my cherished childhood tree. Treesje's name just reminds me of trees because of how I spelled it (although years later we found out it actually means “little” in Dutch), and it ended up "Tree" became her nickname. Go figure!

Torrey was named for the most rare Torrey Pine tree that I fell head over heels for in San Diego... in all the world they only grow in San Diego and Santa Rosa Island.

Torrey Pine

I would like to think the girls like their names, but if they don't, it's not my fault. Blame Mother Nature!

Burned!

So isn't every kid's favorite holiday Christmas? And isn't it all because of Santa Claus? So it was for me in my younger years. And I developed a burning desire to SEE the old man and thank him in person one year. Burning!

You may have discerned the truth that my parents were disciplinarians. Early bedtimes were their religion, Christmas Eve or not. I knew there was no room for negotiations here, so when I was around six years old, I decided covert operations were my only option. After my two younger sisters, Jan and Cindy, fell asleep in the bedroom, I cautiously, silently inched my way down the stairway.

Holding my breath as I invisibly passed the living room where my parents were occupied, I steathily entered the darkened kitchen. I didn't want to make ANY noise, so opening the broom closet door or anything else was out of the question. The stove was between the refrigerator and the basement door. My only hope! I impossibly wedged myself in the 3 or 4 inch space between the back of the wall and the range (I was skinny!), figuring I would be able to catch Santa scarfing up the milk and cookies. I wondered if I could catch on fire and burn to death if I accidentally touched a wire behind the stove and there would be spontaneous combustion to deal with, but self immolation was a worthy price to pay for the privilege of being the one who got to really really meet Santa in the flesh on his rounds, right? It was a plan! My glorious, giddy plan!!

It HAD to work. I stayed in my dark, confined hiding place for hours, breath by breath anticipating the immortality the coming moment of this imminent encounter would impart. Mind boggling! Still, I guess I fell asleep there finally. The only thing I remember is the horror at being discovered! "What on earth are you doing there?" my mom's voice punctured my North Pole dreams. They pulled me out from behind the stove, and in the dark escorted me back to bed. Oh, the humiliation.

But as we passed the living/dining room I could sense something had changed. Dramatically. I must have noticed the "grocery store" and accoutrements while passing in the semidarkness. Santa had come on my watch! And I HAD MISSED HIM! My one and only chance. I was sick and overwhelmingly excited at the same time. I knew my parents would never let me get away with such a daring attempt ever again, knowing what a devious little devil I had become. Christmas loomed a heartbeat away and had suddenly morphed into the most ominous event of my life. I wasn't even sure if my whole stocking would be full of coal when I got to check it later.

It wasn't. And my sisters and I had the best Christmas ever playing store. But in all the years after, I had to settle for desperately looking for Santa's sleigh in the sky, fully knowing that an up close and personal Christmas Eve rendezvous was ever beyond my devious little reach again.

Confessions

In a way, we had a lot of freedoms as kids that most kids now could never even dream of. Lots of free time, and the freedom to roam. Not only did we not have to tell where we were going when we left the house to play outside, we didn't have to say when we'd we back. Guess it was assumed we would eventually get hungry, and our stomachs would keep track of the time. No arranged play dates, no cell phone summons. Coulda played a few houses down or a few blocks away or walked to Grandma's house or the store. Nobody worried, in fact, my mom often locked the doors so we couldn't come back in and she could have some peace. It was a perfectly SAFE world.


It was safe in ways that seem really unsafe now. Like the dangerous practice of burning piles and piles of leaves in the backyard in the fall---that singular, wonderful smell.

In fact, who'd heard of pollution? There was no trash pick up. You burned your trash in a metal can in the backyard! The original fire pit. Yep, we'd even roast our hot dogs AND marshmallows on sticks over burning piles of trash when we wanted to barbecue. And we lived! All of us!!

As for eating healthy, I think the only vegetable we ever ate that wasn't out of the can was raw potatoes with a little salt. Everyday when getting home from school, that was our snack. Every day. I know I must have had a carrot or radish here and there, but pretty rare. But then in the summers, it was all more than made up for by that amazing ubiquitous sweet corn.

Illinois was nothing if not a cornfield, and we would drive out to the country for fresh corn. When we got home, I would have to shuck it right there on the driveway, and wrap the husks and silks in newpaper, so no mess came in the house. My mom was a fastidious housekeeper, cooking a less elevated art in her book. But oh, how delicious was that sweet corn. Not possible anymore to find anything that tastes that good. Simply. Not. Possible.

If I Live To Be A Hundred....

As a little girl, I was so curious about God. At times I wondered if He were a combination of a Magic Genie, who could grant every wish, and the Ultimate Boogeyman, could make your life agony anytime you crossed the line and misbehaved! Sometimes I was scared of Him, sometimes grateful.   Deep down, whatever my fears and hopes, I had a trust that He was good and loving, probably because I had a father of bone and flesh who was just like that, but a dollop of that faith came from a special song that left me sure of it.

I came to know that God can care about even the smallest things, just like I cared about the tiny woodland violets I would seek in the Spring.

And that sometimes the evidence of doing little things is His way of showing love that is personal and oh, so tender. I think of it as leaving His signature, because no one else would have, could have, known how meaningful those little special touches would be. They may not always come as the answers we seek to prayers; often we are left to grow through our struggles, but there are times that they do. When I heard this song, I knew sometimes they do. If we are aware, the important little things and the important big things, like scarlet ribbons, will come to us in a time and way that is just right. Even if we wait through a very long night.

So if I live to be a hundred, ever will I know from where, come the ribbons, and the blessings---blessings, blessings everywhere.

Listen then, to a child's prayer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SVfgrGrVxGs&feature=related

Scarlet Ribbons

I peeked in to say good-night
And there I heard my child in prayer
"And for me, some scarlet ribbons
Scarlet ribbons for my hair"

All our town was closed and shuttered
All the streets were dark and bare
In our town, no scarlet ribbons
Scarlet ribbons for her hair

Through the night my heart was aching
Just before the dawn was breaking
In our town, no scarlet ribbons
Scarlet ribbons for her hair

I peeked in and on her bed
In gay profusion lying there
Lovely ribbons, scarlet ribbons
Scarlet ribbons for her hair

If I live to be a hundred
I will never know from where
Came those lovely scarlet ribbons
Scarlet ribbons for her hair

Over The Top

Who can say when moments like these will happen? Moments where the whole world appears so beautiful, so perfect, that it seems both unreal and at the same time more real than anything you've ever known.

Even though I was barely 5 years old, I was keenly aware that day as I was walking home from kindergarten that something definitely out of the ordinary was happening. All alone, as I looked up into the sky, I was aware of seeing a blue I had never before imagined. More than cerulean. Deeper. Yet translucent. More intense than any Crayola crayon ever invented, any wave that ever crested, any priceless jewel ever coveted. I didn't just see blue---it was part of me, or I was beautifully part of it! And the white of the clouds in contrast, so brilliant, so pure. It too blended with my very being. The trees were greener than green, and so alive I could see vibrant life in every leaf. I melted into the warmth and exquisite glory of the sun, the gentle breeze was my very essence. It seemed as though time had finally stopped, and yet the world had just truly started, all fresh and beyond words to describe it, only to feel it. I don't know if I ever really thought of God before that day, but at that moment I knew He existed, and was perfect. I loved him wholly. I was never more alive.

Ever after, I began searching for Him, whom I had really already found. Paradox has since been my marker for truth in that journey. There are some moments, some days where the overpowering beauty and inspiration of it all is a resplendent gift for which to be ever grateful.

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know." (John Keats)

I Love A Parade

I love a parade. The marching bands, the floats, the horses, the kids... a good parade is a stirring, exciting event. I always cry at parades. I love a parade! In the summer when I was little, there were even parades that kids could be in. Bikes or wagons or doll carriages would be decorated; sometimes elaborately, sometimes with just crepe paper woven through the wheels and streaming from the chassis. We would line up on a sunny day and ride or walk or be pulled along through the parade route to the delight of the onlookers on the sidewalks.

And being in one was an entirely different experience than watching one though. You know. You prepare, you practice, you line up early. You wave. You blush.

My mother was a creative soul, and so her ideas always translated into a clever "float." When I was just 10 months old, I was dressed as the littlest bride, and with a 4 year old neighbor boy dressed as my groom, took our first cruise as "newlyweds" through Elgin on his festooned little metal car. 

Awwwwwwwwww....

That was my debut into the wonderful and wacky world of paradedom, and I was rewarded with 25 dollars! Big money in that day, though I may have had to split it with my bridegroom if that was a community property state back then.

So this became a passion for my mother, and I was coerced into this every year as a little girl. And even though I'm sure I wished my Mom would get another hobby, there were those silver linings. As I remember, my favorite was the year I was 5 years old and was "Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary." Do you know that nursery rhyme,"How does your garden grow?" Anyway, I was floating along on my garden float/wagon and somehow won the BEST prize! Thank you judges! 

Elgin Courier News circa 1951

My prize was a full bred collie puppy, just like Lassie, a famous dog with her own TV show then! Something my parents definitely didn't want. Hmmm, I named her Sugar Baby, and loved her to the max! However, she was a handful for my Mom and we eventually gave her to some people with a farm so she could have a freer lifestyle. Or we could. But I was sooooo happy while she was mine.

Another highlight of getting Sugar Baby was that winning entailed an appearance on TV with her. We went to Chicago with the other winner and introduced our dogs to the viewing world. It was such a thrill because we were interviewed by the host clown during the breaks from my very favorite Show, "Flash Gordon"... he was a superhero and my very first crush. It couldn't have been a bigger deal to me. So wearing the costumes I was coerced into had a huge payoff.

The One, The Only FLASH GORDON!

Sometimes our moms can get us to do really goofy things, you know. And sometimes, it can just be very, very worth it. FYI.

The Lesson

Every summer the Elgin Watch Factory, the big company my Dad worked for, had a big company picnic.  Hundreds and hundreds of people having fun. The year I was old enough to help in the refreshment stand promised to be the best yet. I expect I got sodas or chips or ketchup for people basically, but I felt terribly important. Probably 8, give or take, I thought I'd been promoted to head honcho, CEO, almost an official adult. I knew it wasn't the same as getting my driver's license, but I didn't figure I'd ever live long enough to see that day anyway---it seemed impossibly far away. And I felt so useful, so needed. Maybe they couldn't even have the picnic at all without my significant help....

It was such a success in my eyes, that I couldn't wait till the next year, when I imagined I would practically run the place. So when the summer finally rolled around, I was anticipating another great triumph. That year though, people were building a home in the vacant lot directly behind us. At that point, only the foundation had been dug out---a huge, cavernous hole in the ground that held a mysterious appeal all its own. It had been exciting to see the dirt being carved out of the ground by the men in the big bulldozers. And what kid could resist such a compelling attraction?

It was a drawing point for all the neighborhood kids, a gathering place. That Saturday morning while we waited for the signal to get in the car and leave for the company picnic, I moseyed over to the big hole in the ground to join a couple of neighborhood kids. It had been raining quite a bit the last few days (heck, it rained almost every day in the Illinois summers) and I had on my rubber boots. I joined my friends and sat down on the edge. Sooner than I could blink, one of my boots slipped off my foot and disappeared into the muddy waters below. We tried to think of ways to retrieve it, but it was so far down there, and there was no apparent way for any of us to make it down, much less back. I felt panicked, but eventually had to face the music and go tell my parents what had happened---it was pretty hard to look nonchalant in one boot. My mother was furious that I had been so irresponsible. They came to see if they could rescue my boot, but there was no sign of it at all. It had totally drowned.

And so too had my chances of going to the picnic. My parents decided the family couldn't go because of this outrage. My sisters and I were devastated. We hardly ever got to go to such huge affairs, and it seemed unbearable to have to forfeit this rare opportunity. So we secretly put in a call to my Grandma Lucy to come to our aid.

Grandma, who maybe had been to our house once or twice that I could remember, showed up shortly thereafter, much to my parent's amazement and chagrin. She pleaded our case, but the judge and jury had decided and the sentence had been pronounced. They were immovable. An absolute tragedy.

And so we spent the day at home in abject boredom and genuine self pity. Years later, I wondered
if my parents were disappointed at not being able to go to the picnic themselves. But I found out that they meant business, and would stick to their guns, no matter what the cost. Parents who unequivocally mean what they say. Who'd have thought? It was the hardest, and yet one of the best lessons I learned early in life. And I never, ever forgot it.

"Muffy", The Beginnings

When I was a newborn in the hospital, I was exposed to a staph infection in the hospital when I was born and became very sick. So I had to spend the first chapter of my life in the hospital. Huge boils and eczema covered my whole body... I looked more like a baby alligator than a baby human, and the nuns who took care of me in the hospital told my parents that a grown man would be screaming in pain if he had the same condition. So I was a hard baby to take care of, even when I was finally well enough to go home again.

My Mom and Dad had to be very careful that I only ate certain things that were safe for me. When
they would go for walks to get ice cream, they would have to hide their cones behind their backs whenever I turned around in the stroller to check on them. No wonder that it's a stretch for me to share ice cream now... I had to wait so long to get my first lick, and I figured everybody was invited to that party except me!!

I don't know if that was the reason I was a bald baby or not, but Goldilocks I was not at the beginning. To cover my baldness, my parents would have me wear lots of hats and scarves. Because I so often had a babushka on my head, my very first nickname was “Babushka Pete." Not exactly flattering, huh? But appropos for the little Bohemian, I guess. At some point they must have wanted something that identified me as female, so I was re-dubbed “Mitzi." Definitely an improvement. But soon a cat with that same moniker moved into the very neighborhood, and it was passe for me. So we moved on to “Muffi” for some obscure reason that's not part of the legend anymore. But those are the humble beginnings of Grandma Muffin....

Olé!

Just. an. ordinary. day. Wednesday. Dr.'s day off back then. Think the baby was due on the 10th. But on Wednesday, the fifth of May, I woke up feeling a little different than ever before, and for the first time in my life was "leaking", so to speak. TMI?  When I called the Dr.'s office, the nurse said to come in and she would check me out before sending me to the hospital. Obliging me, I drove right over. Between contractions.

Whoops, must not have been contractions. Perhaps something I ate? With a smug, patronizing smile on her impudent young face, Miss WhynoIhavenothadanykidsyet assured me that indeed my water had not broken and I wasn't in labor at all, but had just reached that age and point where I was no longer in control of my bodily functions. After all, this was my fourth shot at childbirth, what did I expect? As she turned to make the call to arrange for me to enter the Nursing Home, I hung my head in shame, stood up and crossed my legs as I kind of did a scissor step out of the office. The intermittent agony I felt the rest of that day, I would categorically dismiss, after first scolding myself for being deluded enough to even dare imagine I was actually having any pain at all. Late that afternoon I sat on a dining room chair, paralyzed by figment-of-my-imagination #10 pain, yes, but more so by denial. 

Then my husband came home. He was bigger than I was, and determined a hospital trip was in order. Now. Still, I wouldn't leave until my 3 little ones were under someone's protective wing. And there was the rub. Failsafe failed.

When it was time for baby #4 to be born, I was experienced enough to TRY to plan ahead. Things hadn't worked out the last two times we were stork blessed for anyone other than us and the stork to have been a lot of help, but this time was going to be different. I may be slow, but I had learned.

Plans are plans and then there's life. So I had backup Plans A-Q. Plan A=my Mom would fly out from Chicago once I went into labor. Life=unexpected hysterectomy, no go. Plan B=my Aunt Joyce was flying out from O'Hare. Life=my 90 year old Grandma, who lived with Joyce, had a heart attack, was hospitalized, looked like the end was near. Plan C&D=two of my nieces across town were available and eager. Life=they were available any other time (Church activity conflict, I think). Plan E&F=the neighbor's two teen age girls, who had babysat for us before and were on alert. Life=they were either out of town or kidnapped by a gang of nefarious mountain goats. Plan G-not a plan, just a desperate last minute call to a babysitter I had planned to never see again (she had ignored my instructions previously of keeping kids confined to the fenced backyard.  Result: Afton was mauled by a vicious German Shephard).  Life=her mom refused to let her come as they were leaving on vacation in the morning.

I think there may well have been much more alphabet soup in those plans, but it was 30+ years ago, right, and who's counting? Anyway, you get the idea. When the pains got to under two minutes apart, I finally capitulated and called the good old Relief Society President who came over and got me in the car before she would have had to cut the umbilical cord. Later she had her teen age son and daughter, Jenner & Gina Marcucci, come over for the balance of the time till Dad could return home later that night.  Phew!

But the point is we finally got to Swedish Medical Center in time anyway! Actually awaiting her debut in the labor & delivery room, I started on a runaway monologue, chattering away like my tongue had finally been loosed after a marathon accruing pent up verbs and nouns instead of miles. It was embarrassing but I was on a roll. Maybe that's where Willow's facile gift with non-stop verbal prowess had its roots.

I don't remember many of the other details, just being stunned by the beauty of that serene, delicate little face when she appeared, and falling head over heels in love with that flash of miracle that would change out lives. Our own Cinco de Mayo princess! (She hates that, which is why I go out of my way to mention it. Someday when she closely examines the fine print on her birth certificate, she'll see her real middle name is Maria. Yes! When her cousin Kris stole Willow's original middle name, Adair, we had to put something in the empty space on her birth certificate and it began to confuse her. Kris is already confused because she used to be Heather, but that's another story; everyone's crazy in this family).

At any rate Willow is not officially a Cinco de Mayo kind of name. Unless. Unless you translate it. Then you have "También". You know, that might not be so bad. An extra syllable, yes, but it kinda flows. Seeing as I was adamant in refusing to let anyone dare to nickname her, because I thought "Willow" was beautiful in and of itself, I never delved into alternatives. After all "Will" just seems so masculine for a pretty little girl, and "Low"...I mean what kind of a nickname is that? Nowadays her husband calls her "Will" and it always makes me cringe, like she's another buddy on his basketball team or something, you know. Maybe one of these days I'll spike his punch and whisper changes in his ear, "Tam" or "Tammy". Sounds more feminine, don't you think? Course this little angel grew up to be all girl and I s'pose you could call her "Bill" or "Tommy" or "Late For Dinner" and it wouldn't matter. May even works well to point out the contrast, like in Johnny Cash's song, "A Boy Named Sue". Whatever. Personally, I love the name. Willow. Personally, I love the girl. Willow.

The rest of the story hits on manifest destiny as well. Because we loved the name as soon as we first heard it. As newlyweds we moved into our first apartment in Seattle next door to a stunning couple, Sherry & Mike Kampros, who had a beautiful tiny newborn, Willow. So when we were expecting our first child a few months later, Willow was our hands down name of choice if we were to have a girl. Enter two very opinionated mothers, his and mine. Guess we lacked the courage to override the naysayers and so we lost out on Willow and it took a few more years and a few more pregnancies till we developed enough backbone to do what we wanted and name our own kids. So we got our Willow. Finally. And the interesting thing is how it worked out with her birth and personality according to the Celtic tree horoscope profile. What with her name being that of one of my all time favorite trees, check out the following for May 5 and see if you don't think it's appropriate.

According to ancient Celtic lore, there is a magical tree associated with each month of the year. Find out which one is your helper and learn valuable information about your personality from the wisdom of the trees–including the planet and gemstone associated with your Celtic tree horoscope.*

December 24 – January 20: BIRCH
Planet: The Sun
Gemstone: Rock Crystal
Birch people tend to be hard-working and ambitious, with strong leadership qualities. You are generally loyal and faithful, although you may tend to hide your feelings.

January 21 – February 17: ROWAN
Planet: Uranus
Gemstone: Peridot
Rowans tend to be idealistic and original, a free-thinker filled with the fire of idealism. You are probably unconventional, artistic, and ahead of your time, imaginative and humanitarian in your outlook.

February 18 – March 17: ASH
Planet: Neptune
Gemstone: Coral
Ash people are good communicators, witty and spontaneous, and generally curious about life.

March 18-April 14: ALDER
Planet: Mars
Gemstone: Ruby
Alders are filled with courage and affection, loyalty and determination. Your energy is considerable, you enjoy physicality, and love to play.

April 15 – May 12:WILLOW
Planet: The Moon
Gemstone: Moonstone
Willows tend to be in touch with their emotions, intuitive, and adaptable. Underneath the appearance of hesitance, willows possess great flexibility and inner strength, along with a strong will.

May 13 – June 9: HAWTHORN
Planet: Vulcan
Gemstone: Topaz
Hawthorns are spontaneous and sometimes impatient, possessing great confidence, creativity, and charm.

June 10 – July 7: OAK
Planet: Jupiter
Gemstone: Diamond
Oaks tend to be self-confident and responsible, optimistic and proud, with ample charisma and a strong philosophical streak.

July 8 – August 4: HOLLY
Planet: Earth
Gemstone: Red Carnelian
Holly people are cautious and practical, reasonable and filled with personal integrity, sensitive and protective.

August 5 – September 1: HAZEL
Planet: Mercury
Gemstone: Amethyst
Hazels are very perceptive, idealistic, and artistic. Wisdom and creativity are especially important to hazel people.

September 2 – September 29: VINE
Planet: Venus
Gemstone: Emerald
Vine folks are very sensitive and self-critical, gentle and romantic. You can be quite authoritative, and harmony is of great importance to you.

September 30 – October 27: IVY
Planet: The Moon
Gemstone: Opal
Ivy people are social and loyal to their friends, kindly but sometimes restless, and, although appearing hesitant, actually very strong.

October 28 – November 24: REED
Planet: Pluto
Gemstone: Jasper
Reeds tend to be fearless and stubborn, uncompromising and independent, imaginative, loyal, and sometimes jealous.

November 25 – December 23: ELDER
Planet: Saturn
Gemstone: Jet
Elders are energetic, self-disciplined, although disliking routine, open, spontaneous, and self-sufficient.

(*Inspired by The White Goddess and other works by Robert Graves.)

What do you think? Doesn't that just nail it? Meant to be?

Happy Birthday, Princess Cinco de Mayo! May all your piñatas be full and the papier-mâché muchas weak. From one adoring Gringo.

Elgin State Hospital Part VI

Elgin State Hospital

So this is the last post, last thing I have to say about Elgin State Hospital and my interlude there as a summer nursing intern. You know, there isn't even an Elgin State Hospital anymore. It's now a Mental Health Center, and much smaller. And I don't know if that's a good thing or not.

Once upon a time, it was so very, very resplendent. The rolling grounds were a thing of beauty, in sync with the benevolent intentions of providing a haven for broken souls to heal.

Here's a more recent YouTube video of its history in honor of its 150th anniversary. Fascinating, at least to me! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UHJLZMyK38M

Some good things from there and then I have taken with me. Some great examples. Like Pat's family. An example I have long remembered. I loved Pat, though highly anxious about things in general, she was lucid, intelligent and a practical doer. She was middle aged, and had been married briefly when young, though not happily. Think she said they'd eloped on a train? Or maybe she met some guy on a train to Denver and got impulsive. I'm wanting to blame the train somehow. Anyway, no kids. Following her divorce, things were rocky and she didn't think she could handle the outside world on her own. I'm not sure how long she had been institutionalized. Probably longer than I'd been alive. But every second Sunday afternoon her ex and his second wife would bring their family to visit Pat.

In all my experience at this institution, I never saw more than a handful of visitors... total. Forgotten, forsaken, I would think that covered many of the abandoned souls I saw there. I'm sure some people got visited, just sayin' I never saw it much at all. But this ordinary and, to me, remarkable man and woman unfailingly came with picnic lunches and gave this woman a life! I can't imagine how easy it would be to forget your divorced spouse of long ago, with no shared children to tie you to one another. And to be a second wife and willingly set aside a couple weekends a month year after year to visit my husband's ex? I'm not sure I have that bone. But I'm hoping for a transplant, because I know who I want to be when I grow up.

This was a hard place in many ways. Tough lessons along the way. Things to learn. Like I am indelibly, eternally in contempt of psychotropic drugs, I scorn them vehemently, even if they help a few, the damage humanity has suffered is so egregious that they should be wiped from the face of the earth. And I'm saying that as nicely as I can. 

Then. Kindness is #1, sense of humor #2. I do know the most enduring thing I took from my time there is the even deeper realization than before that we are indeed all human, all deserving of love and attention, even respect. We are all responsible for each other. And the most valuable lesson learned there for me was that those who got involved in looking out for the other guy and got out of their own little worlds were the happiest. Who's to say that was possible for everyone to do? I'm not sure some could even make that choice. 

Actually I'm sure that was a bridge too far for many. But it became apparent that those who could break out of their own private concerns, obsessions, worlds if only momentarily, and reach out to help others in even the most trivial of ways from lighting a cigarette for another, to sharing your sweater or sandwich, were no longer living in hell at that point, though their bodies may well have been imprisoned in this bizarre scenario.

I think I need to borrow a page from their books. I trust all these years later they, and those they loved and served, are held very close in God's arms. Perhaps they always were.

Elgin State Hospital Part V

Part of being trusted to take care of others who on some level cannot take care of themselves means really protecting the vulnerable. And who is more vulnerable than the dead? And the "mentally incapacitated" dead at that?

Don't think so?

One beautiful and perfect Sunday morning I woke up and quickly got ready for work. When I got to the cottage I was assigned to, it was just to be me and this portly little Grandma type aide for the day. She busied her bespectacled self with paperwork and I got in motion getting the gals ready to go for breakfast. But when I tried to rouse one woman to get up and get going, my chipper admonitions seemed to fall on deaf ears.

Whoops, drop the "f".  Change that to dead ears, because I immediately realized she was no longer with us as I neared the bed. It was shocking, seeing as this was a really nice normal seeming woman in her late 30s who had just checked herself in for a week or two of self imposed rest. Who does that? Nobody I had ever heard of. Maybe it was cheaper than Howard Johnson's, and at that place it was pretty much guaranteed that no hovering relatives would show up to visit and use the pool. I remember reading she had a 10 year old son, and I was devastated for him.

I went and told my colleague and she must have called someone. But I don't recall anyone coming. Not a doctor, not an ambulance, not a soul. For awhile. That's how Sunday mornings are at such places... skeleton crew! Somehow it was up to me to pack the body then and prepare it for removal from the premises. I was not unaccustomed to dead bodies, having worked in hospitals since I was 13, and I had dealt with some aspects of being there when death came, or in the morgue thereafter. Whatever, it had never been my task heretofore to stuff cotton into body cavities to keep "things" from coming out. Well, that was then and this was now. So I stuffed my first body. But that's not the weird part.

It didn't get a little surreal until "they" came to pick up the body and take it to the Elgin State Hospital Morgue. I was told I got the honor of accompanying the body there to protect it. The driver, a cordial old man, and two more trusted male patients showed up to get us. Ok, I got in the dated ambulance/hearse with the body bag and the 3 men. The morning was still fresh and achingly gorgeous, birds were gaily singing, and the total disconnect from reality came as we disembarked from the vehicle and the driver unlocked the door to the vacant building.

The sunshine behind my back evaporated as the door was locked from the inside so we would have no interference as we completed our mission. As we started down those stairs to the dark basement morgue, it grabbed me that here I was, a little teeny bopper, with 3 strange men- possibly VERY STRANGE- and I was protecting a female corpse from necrophilia, or molestation, or just improper stares. "But who's going to protect me?" something inside me wailed. I was going down, down, down into the bowels of an empty building surrounded by other empty buildings, no human beings around who could even begin to hear a scream, and I knew I was at the mercy of 3 large and possibly disturbed adult males.

They deposited the body without incident and moved away. One of the guys grinned at me sideways and then... suddenly! Slowly I turned, step by step, inch by inch.... 

Ok, not exactly. But it was a little hard for me to breathe easily till we got to the top of the stairs and he unlocked the door so we could emerge into that welcoming sunshine again. No harm done. To anyone, dead or alive. By the time we got back to my Ward and they dropped me off, I may even have had a regular pulse. Heck, it didn't matter, I was just grateful to have a pulse!

So I'm older and wiser now, and if I'm ever in that situation again, I'm going to insist we draw straws to see who the body escort is. And if I get the short one, I'm not gonna play.