Billy Graham

Dr.Stephen Pirris

Big day coming up Thursday, October 14th. I’m heading back to Mayo Hospital for another spine job. Unlike a boob job or any other kind of “job”, this go-round will be even more challenging than my last experience in February. From T-9 to S-1, my surgeon, Dr. Pirris from Pittsburgh is going to shore up my ailing lower spine with more rods, screws, bone and glue. The glue really beats those staples any day. SOOOOOOOOOOOO, this weekend I am headed out of town for a day trip with my buds Joyce, Shirley and Mary Jo for a mind diversion and special day with my friends. We are headed to Bunnell, FL to enjoy looking at fabric and having a special lunch before I head for that drug induced hell of hospital germs and such. I can’t say I am looking forward to being served breakfast in bed since “Diners-Drive-Ins and Dives” WOULD NEVER do a show on Mayo Clinic cuisine. I WANT THE SAME FOOD THEY SERVED REV. BILLY GRAHAM when he was a patient there. Trust me when I tell you, they didn’t feed him what they fed me...At least, I hope not. It sounds so tasty on the extensive menu I get to order from each day, but GGAAAADDDDDDDDD it’s some kinda bad.

 It was probably his "birthday" every day at no extra charge.

From the Mayo Website:

"Gourmet Menu"

"We are happy to help you celebrate a birthday, anniversary or other occasion with a special meal. The gourmet menu offers lobster tail, filet mignon and other delicacies. Modifications can be made to accommodate special diet limitations. There is an additional charge for this service."

You can think of me, but don’t worry about me. I’ll be

under the watchful eyes of  Lon and Andy and the rest of my great family and maybe even some big hunky Physical Therapy guys if I’m lucky. This go-round may end up with a post-vacation stay at Spa Brooks, but if it does, there will be more hunky PT guys there. I’m hoping to lose some pounds and gain some height (maybe two to three inches) which will improve my pathetic BMI. Here’s the formula I am counting on adding height to:

You can figure out your BMI (Body Mass Index) with this formula:

(Weight in pounds) divided by [(height in inches) x (height in inches)] x 703

Once you've determined your BMI, use the following chart to determine where you fit in:

Below 18.5: Underweight  (not likely)

18.5 - 24.9: Normal (never)

25 - 29.9: Overweight (oh yeah..we're getting there)

30 and above: Obese

I think we all know where I fall without getting out the calculator.

Here's a 360 degree tour of where I will be:

So wish me luck again and know I remain optimistic and as always, that this too shall pass and add another adventure to my already too good to deserve life. I‘ll have some really great x-ray pix after this one!

Ivan Browning, Old Valentines, Women in My Life and Where is Bosnia?

A few years ago, I was driving by the San Marco (formerly  known as Southside) Public Library on Hendricks Avenue with my friend Viviane Weil. I began to tell her a story about my 6th grade teacher at Englewood Elementary named Mrs. Jacobson and all the time I had spent at that library alone in the evening looking for things to write about for an on-going report I was expected to do on Yugoslavia. Lucky for me, it was just Yugoslavia back then. There is quite a bit more involved now since it became  Croatio, Serbia, Montenegro, Kosovo, Slovenia, Bosnia, Herzegovina and Macedonia. As our current president might say, "Not many people know that..."  I for one have always wondered why I missed learning about these countries in my high school geography class in 1966. Now I know.

I am still embarrassed to say, I didn’t give my 6th Grade project my all and spent much of my library time looking at Life Magazine, American Girl and National Geographic. I also spent much of that time thinking about a boy named Ivan Browning.  Upon turning in my report at the end of the school year I failed to provide the teacher with any of the newspaper clippings that I was supposed to be collecting about my country. I wasn’t in the habit of reading the Times-Union back in those days and unbeknown  to me, all kinds of things were happening in Yugoslavia in the early 60’s. I’m talking earthquakes, alignment with the Soviets and Tito, the dictator, were always in the news. As you might suspect, Mrs. Jacobson HAD been reading the Times Union and after telling her I couldn’t find one single article about Yugoslavia in the newspaper, she emptied out an envelope on her desk with dozens of clippings pertaining to Yugoslavia that I just happened to miss while not reading the paper. If Ann Landers or Dear Abby didn’t print it, I didn’t know it. Little did I know that within about twenty minutes after talking to Viviane about Ivan Browning and Yugoslavia, I would again be able to relive the most horrifying moment of 6th grade with the very same 6th grade teacher, Sheila Jacobson.

I attended Englewood Elementary School for half a year after moving back to Jacksonville from Gainesville. My father had rented a house on Welaka Road just off of Emerson until he could get us back to the Lakewood-San Jose area. I included in my reminiscing  to Viviane a lengthy narrative about my old neighborhood and this really tall, good looking kid named Ivan Browning. Looking back now, my 6th grade mind was actually thinking Ivan and I would surely get married. I even met a 6th grade girl in another class who also had a crush on him. Nell  told me in no uncertain terms that he was hers and to forget about him. Sixth grade girls back then had only two things to worry about….exactly what was Kotex used for and who would I be getting a Valentine from on February 14th in the Valentine shoe box I had decorated meticulously in “Art” for this extra special day at school. Keep in mind that in 1960  Kotex was pretty much IT as far as feminine hygiene went. It was a taboo topic, NEVER advertised on TV or radio and hidden high up on the tippy-top shelf at the A&P. 

Viviane and I had just left the American Cancer Society office where I had taken her to work on the Cancer Society Fashion Show scheduled to be held at Belk’s Department Store that year. Viviane wasn’t driving anymore and I was more than happy to get her out of the house to attend the meetings she missed so very much. As the former Fashion Coordinator for Jacobson's Department Store, fashion was  Viviane’s middle name. As we approached Lakewood, I asked Viviane if she would like to stop by the yarn shop before heading home. I knew Viviane hadn’t been there in awhile, so left we turned.

By the time Viviane and I finished looking over the yarn and knitting patterns, the shop has become filled with customers and a particular customer was at the register picking up a piece of needlework she had left at the shop for framing. I overheard her giving the clerk her name and I swear, standing within five feet of me was my 6th grade teacher who I had been talking about in great detail not twenty minutes earlier.

I HAD to speak to her and after introducing myself, Sheila Jacobson apologized for not remembering me. I related my mortifying newspaper clipping story to her about Yugoslavia and the newspaper clippings she had saved just for me. After we determined what year I was in her class (me using a calculator), she told me that she remembered only one kid from that class and that kid was Ivan Browning. I began to laugh.

Mrs. Jacobson had retired from teaching many years earlier and asked me what my life’s work had been. She said that my chosen career was a great choice and she was pleased. Her parting words to me were wonderful. With a singing tone she said, “’I’ll bet you can read, too!

As for Ivan Browning, I never saw him again, but found out that he is a Facebook friend of a friend and looks a lot different after fifty years. He is still very tall. The other 6th grade girl competing for his attention was dear Nell. She is still a friend mine and we continue to keep in touch. If it weren't for Ivan, I probably wouldn't still be friends with Nell.

I don't know how these situations happen to me. I'm am consistently amazed at my mind that can remember that decorated Valentine shoebox from the 6th grade and with the same mind (well, almost) walk into a room and in a split second forget why. I really don't like getting old.

The Painted House

In 1983 I married. In 1984 I bought a house. In 1985 my son was born and in 2001 I retired from my lifelong job. In 2010, I am finally getting my living room and dining room painted. I’m finally getting new carpet. For most people, this might not be one of those beautiful life changing events that you cherish the rest of your life. But for me, I’m getting that same warm fuzzy once in a lifetime feeling about  newly painted living room, dining room and hallway walls. Not to forget, new carpet and new furniture. So why is this a big deal for a girl who has just about everything in life a person could ask for? I wish I knew. I can only blame it on my own laziness.  >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

My old walls tell a story, like most probably do. The patched hole (but never painted) that Lon’s recliner made when he leaned too far back and the corner of his chair crashed into the wall leaving a head sized hole. He was holding Andy over his head in the baby airplane position and each time he would lift him up high over his head, Andy would let out a giggle that sounded like a symphony. He was about six months old. My brother repaired that hole for me.

The big six foot scrape across the wall of the foyer was the result of my long gone sofa that I purchased from an estate sale of the Flagler Hotel. While I owned the sofa, the long scrape was hidden by the sofa. Because it had old wooden casters, it used to slide against the wall wreaking havoc. After parting with the sofa, the brown line was a constant reminder of the missing sofa. The reason Flagler College was unloading many of the original hotel furnishings, was because most all of it contained live, active dry wood termites still munching away at sale time. That sofa was the first piece of antique furniture I restored. It was also the last. I’ve told that story too many times, so I won’t go there again. That very visible waist high long brown scrape down the wall line is finally gone.

My picture of Ringo Starr posing as the sister in Grant Wood’s “American Gothic” was covering up another unpainted drywall repair that I think was caused by someone’s fist.  I wasn’t home when that happened so I never got the real skinny on that incident. I do know that the person who made the hole now knows how to repair drywall. I always wanted to hang this favorite drawing that I bought from the old "Some Place Else" bar and restaurant just after it first opened. They sold it to me right off the wall above the booth I was eating in. I didn't expect it would ever be prominently hanging in my living room to cover some one's bad temper.

There are a few ankle high tantrum dents near the laundry room caused by a kicking and screaming kid who was in a bad mood at the time and the proverbial hand marks down the hallway from dirty little (and big) fingers. These are now gone.  Whenever I hang a picture or painting (and I have many), I don’t measure and plan for the hanging. I just hammer in the picture hanger and hope for the best. My final hole usually has six or seven holes surrounding it sort of like the bulls eye of a bad marksman. The one hole dead center is always the last one I make. All the extra holes are gone now too.

Near my kitchen wall, I measured the growth of my son with a pencil and a ruler. Since he ate like a horse and grew like a weed, his growth spurts show on the wall, but I mostly remember the smile on his face each time he was taller than the last mark. The last mark is probably 6’ 2”. I jotted down the dates and heights (which also include measurements for Leola and Stella) and plan to re-write them on the newly painted wall.

Picking out the colors for my new walls was difficult. I deal with color in my quilting and you’d think I would know exactly what I wanted for my walls. I started out with several purples and used the small samples from Lowe’s to see what purple would look like. That was a no-go. I then switched to green shade that looked like pale celery on the paint card, but on the wall, came out looking like that green stuff spewing out of Linda Blair’s mouth in “The Exorcist”….another no go. "I must have been on drugs"

I gave it all a rest for awhile hoping that the walls would speak to me and was really discouraged when they remained silent until one day an impulsive shopping trip to Tuesday Morning resulted in a beautiful $150.00, 8’x10’ wool area rug with all of the colors that I love. The soft terra cottas, muted blues, soft yellows and greens in the rug became my starter pallet.

The main reason I bought the rug was to cover up some big obvious stains on my carpet, thinking that I would never be able to re-carpet the house. I used the colors in the area rug as my color pallet and finally, the wonderful process began. While picking out a new recliner for Lon, I ended up with another new recliner for myself, two new sofas, new carpet and newly painted walls. The new colors are called “Opium” and “Ingliss”. They are peachy…literally and they are beautiful.

My painter, Jack,  referred to the original color of my walls as “dry wood primer” and if it weren’t so pathetic, it would be funny. He did a wonderful job, showed up each morning at 9 o’clock sharp and brought along with him his good disposition and bologna and cheese sandwiches for his lunch.. The new colors are called “Opium” and “Ingliss” (?????). 

The “Carpet Man” has been standing by eagerly waiting for my call that the painting is finished and the furniture store is holding my new furniture until the carpet is down. He sent his two carpet experts to the house post haste and after piling all my furniture in to the kitchen and laundry room, set out to finish the job. I’m glad I wasn’t here to witness the preparation phase. When I arrived home from visiting the physical therapist, phase one was finished. I naturally tried to practice some Spanish with one of the carpet “professionales”, but had no luck there. He was either the quiet type or from a region in Mexico that didn’t speak my FCCJ Spanish. It didn't help that my husband kept telling me to give it a rest either. These guys could have at least cleaned up after themselves. The motor on my vac cleaner shut itself down due to excessive fuzz overload. The manual for the vacuum suggested a thirty minute cool down time and the vacuum would be as good as new. None the less, these two men worked very hard and seemed eager to please me, the customer. Laying down carpet is not a job where the word “ergo” comes into play. These guys use a carpet stretcher operated by the force of a knee kick that will surely have them limping way before their time and most assuredly will have no medical benefits to visit a doctor in fifteen years when this knee kicking contraption has done irreparable damage to every carpet worker's meniscus. Back in the day, laying carpet for your father's carpet business would have been a dream summer job. I know for sure that today, a young person today having already experienced his first "sports" injury would say, "No way, José." to this job. This is precisely why the men doing this job are named José.

I will not miss my carpet of outdated color or its dust, dirt and spilled coffee stains that marked a path to a “certain someone’s” easy chair. I will miss the stained area in front of the television where my son grew up eating his dinner while watching “Jeopardy” and the spots and stains he left behind after meals. I guess that marked his territory. He used to put a piece of newspaper under his dinner plate to keep the carpet clean. The newspaper ink left more marks on the old carpet than Andy ever did!

This morning after I got out of bed, I walked in to the living room and felt like I was Dorothy in "The Wizard of Oz" after her house landed post tornado. I opened the door from Kansas black and white to the vivid color of Munchkin land. Only Coroner Meinhardt Raabe wasn't there to sing to me.