OFF ON AN ADVENTURE

Just a quick post to say goodbye! Tomorrow morning is the Autism 5K in Minneapolis; and then, as Peter, Paul, and Mary would say, "I'm leaving on a jet plane, don't know when I'll be back again . . . "

Be sure to eat your vegetables and say your prayers while I am gone. Signing out . . .

STALLING FOR TIME

Since the purpose of this blog was to document my daily walking (thus the “2 to 4 a Day” title), the last two months have been a blatant, out-and-out, shameless stalling for time.

I’ve told you about my new grandson, about my elderly parents, about flowers and picture projects and big walleyes. I’ve told you about birthday parties and field trips and poetry contests. I've even stooped to telling you about sheet creases, for gosh sakes.

And yes, sometimes I whined about my bum knee.

I’d walk one day and have to take the next day off to rest the knee. I’ve purposely kept my walking routes close to home in case of a knee malfunction—sometimes walking in circles and squares and spirals, just so that I’m never more than a few blocks from my house. And I’ve resorted to the treadmill again (for those of you who've glanced at “Last Movie I Watched,” you probably noticed a larger-than-normal turnover in that section).

But I’m happy to report that I can once again tentatively, legitimately blog under the title “2 to 4 a Day.” With the help of my new unattractive-yet-functional knee brace (see below), I am regularly managing two miles a day, and sometimes throw in a little more for good measure. On Mother’s Day, my daughter and I walked three miles on the Central Lakes Trail (hurray!). And in four days, I am determined to walk that Autism 5K (3.1 miles) around Lake Calhoun that I had originally intended to run.

To tell you the truth, I don’t know if my knee is a whole lot better than it was a few weeks ago. I do know that walking does not make it worse, which was my original fear. And I think a person gets used to aches and pains after awhile, accepting them as the norm, and moving on with life.

I suppose if I stopped to listen to my knee at any given time, it’s still there, protesting any type of an activity like a whiny, overtired child. But just like anything annoying—person, place, or thing—after awhile, it’s best to just tune them out. Life’s too short to listen to my niggling knee.

I’ve got places to walk, you know. The world is full of wooded paths to ramble and hidden lanes to explore.

SHEET CREASES

Everybody gets sheet creases. You know, those lines on your face you see in the mirror right after you get out of bed in the morning. The pillow case folds and wrinkles underneath your facial skin, so you are left with those tell-tale marks. Sheet creases. You know what I’m talking about. Everybody gets them. No use pretending you don’t.

What I didn’t realize is that the older you get, the longer it takes for those sheet creases to relax back into plain-old, ordinary, regular-looking skin.

In your teens, the skin practically pops back out before you finish brushing your teeth.

In your twenties, the skin normally regains its smoothness before you have to be at work or school or wherever you need to go that morning.

In your thirties, forties, maybe even your fifties, the skin boings back eventually. It may take awhile, but you never doubt it’s going to boing back.

But now that I’m in my sixties, there might be a new twist to the story.

Last Sunday morning, Tom was a reader at 8 a.m. church. I got up at my usual 6 a.m. so there was plenty of time to get ready--I thought. What I failed to take into consideration was that this was the morning of the extra-deep, industrial-strength sheet crease. I noticed the Grand Canyon-esque wrinkle slashing across the left side of my face in the mirror while I got ready. But then I forgot about it again as we went to church, came home, and made breakfast.

I ended up back in front of the bathroom mirror again at around 10 a.m. Imagine my dismay when I saw that the pesky sheet crease I had noticed at 6 a.m. was still emblazoned across the side of my face. Like Al Pacino in Scarface. Like Seal. Like Harry Potter’s lightning-shaped blaze. There was my sheet crease for all the world to see.

I figured as long as I’d made it that far into the day (and that everyone around me at church had seen it and knew exactly what it was), I would make lemonade out of my lemons and attempt a personal record. How long could I keep this sheet wrinkle on my face without it popping back out?

I think I set a new record: an eight-hour sheet crease. That would be a personal best. I admit that I purposely was very, very careful not to have my face make sudden movements: no laughing, no crying, no shock, no delight.

Eight hours. I’d like to see any of you young whippersnappers with your youthful elastic skin top that.

SEEMS LIKE JUST YESTERDAY

Doesn’t it seem like just yesterday that I posted a picture of Colbie coming home from the hospital?

Remember her little pink hat? Remember how tiny she looked in her car seat? Remember how peacefully she slept?

And now her brother Luke is coming home, looking so tiny and serious in his car seat.

How can that possibly be when it was only yesterday that Colbie came home from the hospital?

Where did that time go? There's that Warp 10 speed again.

THE PROJECT THAT ATE MY OFFICE

If my current life was a movie, I think “The Project that Ate My Office” would be a fitting title. I have outgrown my desk, moved my stacks to the bed, and finally, in desperation, set up a card table in the middle of the room.

Remember my ambitious goal of scanning the old family pictures and giving copies of them to all my siblings? It was my way of saying to them, “I’m w-a-a-y too irresponsible to be in charge of these family heirlooms all by myself.”

I’m trying to sort and organize the pictures in a logical way: 1) my father’s family, 2) my mother’s family, 3) my father and mother from birth until 1941 when they got married, 4) pictures that show their family growing over the years, and finally 4) individual pictures of each of the six children in my family.

My oldest sister has approximately a bajillion pictures from birth through college graduation. She had so many that I finally ended up scanning them six at a time to save space. My brother, second in line, has about a half a bajillion pictures. Even my next older sister, third in line, has at least a quarter of a bajillion pictures documenting her life.

Below: Six of the approximately ten katrillion baby pictures of my oldest sister. Seriously, Mom and Dad, did you just lie around all day taking her picture?

It’s we three youngest sisters who are in trouble, photographically speaking.

First of all, we are rarely photographed alone. We’re always mixed in with a mob of older siblings or cousins or company visiting from California. It was like my parents were afraid to be alone in a room with a camera and any one of the three of us.

Below: Rare photo of “The Three Little Ones” in 1957.
Second, we must have had leprosy or the bubonic plague because whoever photographed us always stood at least a half-mile away while forcing us to stare directly into the sun. In most of our pictures, we sisters are off on the distant horizon, squinting at the camera. This explains, perhaps, why all three of us were forced to get glasses at a fairly young age.

Then came the early 1960s. My dad, who never bought anything at full price in his life, decided to buy a brand new Polaroid Land instant camera. He probably got such a good deal because it was the original beta model, before Polaroid had worked out all the bugs.

Right: Oh, that’s what the pink goop was for!

I suppose the fine print on the Polaroid camera box warned us that failure to smear the tube of sticky pink goopy stuff on the pictures after they emerged from the camera would result in streaked or faded pictures. (Note to my siblings: whoever of us had the job of goop-smearing is fired.) Whatever the reason, those 1960s pictures did not survive the test of time. An entire decade of family pictures are ghostly, discolored, streaky photos that require imagination to interpret. But since those were our awkward years, maybe it is better that way.

I had thought this project would take a week or so. Now I’m just hoping to be done by the end of May—which, by the way, is National Photography Month. Freaky coincidence.

I’m usually a little on the OCD side in regard to my surroundings. I like things neat and spare. That in itself is an incentive to invest in some overtime and put this project to bed (or, rather, get this project off the bed and back into plastic storage boxes).

JUST IN TIME FOR MOTHERS’ DAY

Colbie wasn’t entirely sure how she should react to the news that her new baby brother arrived this morning at 9:52 a.m.

“This will be a good thing, right?” she seems to be asking. “I’m going to like this new arrangement, aren’t I?”

Yes, Colbie. It will be a good thing.

And welcome to the world, little Luke.

Grandma and Grandpa sure wish they lived closer to you. But then, that's why they invented airplanes. We'll see you soon!

THIRD GRADERS, LANCE ARMSTRONG, AND REGRETTING FAILURE

I spent the day yesterday helping chaperone about 75 third graders who were taking part in a day-long camp at Voyageur Environmental Center in Mound, Minnesota. I was assigned to help herd “Group C,” consisting of 24 very enthusiastic, very energetic 8- and 9-year olds.

As you know, third graders aren’t exactly my area of specialty. So I was given a glimpse of third-grade humor when one of the camp counselors, a “lumber-yack” named “Yohnny Yohnson from Visconsin” welcomed all the “tird graders” to his environmental session on logging in Minnesota. As soon as the Scandinavian pronunciation of “tird graders” fell from his lips, the kids started with the elbows and tittering: “Turd,” “turd,” “turd,” they whispered and giggled to each other in delight. Yohnny Yohnson just grinned at them. He was no fool. He knew exactly what tickled third graders’ funnybones.

The kids were dressed in all kinds of outdoor attire. It was a windy, cloudy day with the temperature in the low 50s. Most at least had a hooded sweatshirt. But there were shorts, sandals, hockey jerseys, blue jeans, sun hats, stocking caps, sweaters, and even a plastic grocery bag from Cub Foods—you name it and some kid had it on.

However, all day long, there was one shirt I couldn’t seem to shake. Every time I turned around, there was that pesky third-grade girl in her gray, long-sleeved tee-shirt. At first I couldn’t quite make out the words; there was so much printing on the back of the shirt that it was hard to read. Third graders sit still for approximately two seconds at a time and third-grade girls just love to hang all over each other. So between the moving and the fabric wrinkles and the draped arms of classmates and the fine print, it took me three or four tries before I got the whole message. This is what it said on the back of that little girl’s shirt:

"Pain is temporary. It may last a minute, or an hour, or a day, or a year, but eventually it will subside and something else will take its place. If I quit, however, it lasts forever.” – Lance Armstrong

For some reason, that girl’s shirt reminded me of an incident a few years ago when some members of my family decided to climb Camelback Mountain in Phoenix. Everybody climbs Camelback Mountain when they go visit Phoenix. I knew I could do it because I was a walker, a hiker, and a darn-stubborn woman.

But to this day, I can recall what that rock looked like about three-quarters of the way to the top—the rock where I stopped, sat down, and declared I couldn’t walk another step. My legs were like rubber. I couldn’t breathe because of the altitude. I just sat down and quit. Everybody else kept going, and there I sat, waiting for them to descend again. After I had regained my legs and my wind, I was embarrassed and regretful. But by then, it was too late. I had missed my chance.

I remember what the sky looked like that day because I had plenty of time to look at it while I waited. I can’t think back on that day on Camelback Mountain without feeling regretful, and I know now that I might not ever get a chance to try again. Like Lance says, “ . . . If I quit, it lasts forever.”

Next time I chaperone a bunch of “tird graders,” I’m going to stand behind someone wearing a “Lookin’ Like a Fool with Your Pants on the Ground” tee shirt. My mom-jeans are always neatly pulled up right around my waist, snapped nice and tight. I could read that shirt without any of those annoying conscience pangs that haunted me throughout the day yesterday, with Lance Armstrong gently reminding me that sometimes if we quit, we don’t get another chance.

WE JUST COULDN’T BRAG

When I stopped by to visit my parents today, I mentioned that Tom and I were going to Minneapolis on Monday to help chaperone a field trip at the school where my daughter is an elementary school social worker. Each spring, she helps plan an outing for all the third graders to a nearby environmental camp for a day of learning and fun.

Me: Last year when I helped chaperone Shannon’s camp, I was really proud of her. She was so organized and efficient. And the kids just loved her.

Grandpa: We couldn’t say we were proud of you kids. We would have been criticized.

Me: Why would you have been criticized?

Grandma: People just didn’t brag about their kids back then. It wasn’t right.

Grandpa: We knew you were all above average, but we had to say that you had trouble with this or that in school. It was expected.

Me: That doesn’t seem fair. Why did you have to say we had trouble?

Grandma: You didn’t want people to be jealous—in case their kids were having trouble in school. So we just didn’t brag about our kids.

Me: Maybe there just wasn’t that much to brag about. I seem to remember that we got into trouble a lot.

Grandma: No, you all behaved very well in public. You were very good children.

Grandpa: It was the paddle, you know, the one without the ball. (He made some up and down motions with his hand.)

Me: Ping pong?

Grandpa: Without the ball. And no rubber string. The paddle.

Me: Ah! The paddle! So did you learn that trick from your own parents? Did they scare you into behaving with a paddle?

Grandpa: No, my father was soft-hearted. Once my mother was mad at me for teasing the girls [his sisters]. She made Pa take me out to the woodshed. But after we got to the woodshed, Pa and I just stood there. He didn’t paddle me. He couldn’t do it. We never mentioned it to Ma.

Me: Did your pa warn you not to tell?

Grandpa: No, Pa didn’t say anything. I just knew I shouldn’t mention it to Ma.

Me: Maybe your dad could afford to be tender-hearted because your Grandpa Martin and Uncle Carl [my dad’s grandfather and bachelor uncle who lived with the family] were so tough on you kids.

Grandpa: Sometimes when Grandpa and Uncle would get after us children, Ma’s face would be bright red, she’d be so mad at them. But she never said a word. I think that’s why Pa joked and laughed with us so much—to make up for Grandpa and Uncle.

Grandma: Your father was cheerful. My father was stern.

Me: Did he ever take you kids out to the woodshed?

Grandma: He didn’t have to. He just looked at us and we knew we’d better behave. If he was reading the newspaper and we were acting up, he just laid that newspaper down and gave us that look. [She shivered.] That was all it took. We behaved.

Me: What about your mother? Was she tough on you?

Grandma: She just nagged. We behaved so she wouldn’t nag.

Grandpa: [thinking] Ma had a buggy whip laying on the top of the window frame in the pantry.

Me: Did she use it?

Grandpa (looking thoughtful): I don’t remember that she ever used it. But we knew it was there. When you have six kids, you have to have some way of keeping them in line.

Me: I suppose if parents used ping pong paddles and buggy whips today, they would be in big trouble.

Grandpa: I suppose they would. It must be harder to make kids behave nowadays. Sometimes talking doesn’t get through to them.

Grandma: My father was always in charge, even when my brothers were grown up. When my father got older, my brothers did all the planning and field work on the farm, but Pa kept the checkbook and his billfold locked up in his safe.

Me: I suppose that was the way he could stay in control.

Grandma: He was in charge, all right.

Grandpa: We didn’t go to Europe. Instead, we took you kids with us to a restaurant once in awhile. You always behaved at the restaurant. Some people go to Europe. We took you to a restaurant instead.

Me: [slightly confused, trying to make whatever mental leap my father had just made] Um--that was good of you to spend your money on buying hamburgers and milk shakes for us instead of going to Europe. And I’m glad we behaved at the restaurant. We were probably just scared of the ping pong paddle at home.

Grandpa: No, you were good kids. We just couldn’t brag.

Grandma: No, we would have been criticized.

Full circle. We had come full circle. Time to go home.

My parents in 1941--before they started having children. Not a ping pong paddle in sight.

DECISION TIME

It’s May 1st, decision time. If you were with me in January when I made my bold yet ill-fated decision to run in the Minneapolis Autism 5K on May 15, then you were probably also with me when I reported on my knee failure in March. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, count yourself lucky. You can skip this entry and spare yourself hearing about one more old-lady ailment.

After injuring my knee, I decided to hold off making a decision about running in the 5K until May 1. I figured by then, I would know—one way or another—if my knee would miraculously heal or whether I would have a weak link in my otherwise goddess-like, jock-machine of a 61-year-old body.

Well, it’s May 1, and I have a weak link. But I have decided that my knee is recovered enough to walk the 5K. I just will not be running it.

After this experience, I will no longer take any well-performing body parts for granted. For years, I just assumed that my left knee would always be there, doing what it was supposed to be doing: bend, straighten, bend, straighten, day after day, ad infinitum. No more. I’ve learned my lesson. Every day that the knee feels like it’s improving, I heap on the praises: “Wow, left knee! Way to go!! You are really coming along.” And on the days I feel it slipping backwards a little, I say encouragingly, “Come on, left knee! You can do it! You’re a champ. Think positively.”

I’ve also tried to pay more attention to body parts that in the past I would have ignored because they weren’t causing me any problems. When was the last time you thought of your elbows, for instance? Yet, they’re hard-working hinges that don’t get any credit. “Yea, elbows!” I’ll shout in a random, Turrets-style moment, startling fellow Target shoppers. “You guys are the best!”

And when was the last time you gave any credit to your liver? Or your spleen? Or any number of other internal organs that just do their jobs, day after day, without complaining? For example, I’ve decided that May 13 is going to be Gallbladder Day, and I’m going to go out of my way to thank my gallbladder for its many years of faithful, uninterrupted bile-secretion service. "Go, gallbladder! You rock my world!"

So the decision has been made. My left knee injury scared me. It made me realize that even though I’ve been walking 2 to 4 miles a day for ten years, that privilege could be taken away from me overnight. I’m only one injury away from an idle life on my faux-leather couch clutching the TV remote control. It made me re-appreciate an important life activity that I had begun to take for granted.

So, here’s to May 15 and appreciating that I will be able to at least walk those 3.1 miles!

You’ll have to excuse me now. I’m on my way to Hallmark to buy a thank you card. It’s Vertebrae Day, and I’ve got about 33 extremely special vertebrae that I need to thank for their years of faithful spinal service.

LATEST PROJECT

More than ten years ago, four plastic under-the-bed storage boxes full of old pictures found their way to my basement. They were a “gift” from my parents when they downsized in 1999, moving from their house to an apartment.

You’ve seen some of the pictures in this blog—the old black and whites, some of them dating all the way back to the 1800s. Most of the photographs in the boxes were pictures my parents had taken, but many were passed down from their parents. My Aunt Clara’s pictures even ended up in the mix after she died in 1995.

Retired people are required by the laws of common decency to have projects to keep them occupied. So these four boxes of pictures have become my latest project. I’ve started scanning some of the pictures so that all of my siblings and their children will have access to this photographic family history--whether they want it or not. I don’t want to show up at a family reunion one day and see someone wearing a tee-shirt that reads, “You got all the historical family pictures and all I got was this lousy tee-shirt.”

All this week, I’ve been sorting, organizing, stacking, piling, (and even throwing) until the four plastic boxes were reduced down to two plastic boxes.

Yesterday I started scanning.

I found that my father has exactly 12 pictures that represent the first 24 years of his life from his birth in 1917 to 1941 when he got married. My mother has exactly 15 pictures that represent her life from her birth in 1918 to 1941. (Compare that to a baby born in 2010 who will have 800 digital photographs taken prior to leaving the maternity ward of the hospital two days after its birth.)

My goal is to reduce these piles into one neat electronic storage device that can be copied for any family member, whether child, grandchild, great grandchild—or all the great-greats that will follow:

Occasionally I’ve stumbled across treasures such as the two pictures below, taken of my three older siblings in about 1948 or so, before I was even born.

I’ve got 150 years of family history spread out all over my office, the priceless pictures that create a link between the great-great grandparents who came over from Norway in the 1860s to the current family in 2010. Treasures. I know I have possession of the real family jewels.

YOU BE THE JUDGE

After people retire, their telephones start ringing for an entirely new reason. Besides the usual family, friends, telemarketers, wrong numbers, etc., the newly retired start getting these calls:

“Would you be interested in volunteering to . . .” fill in the blank.

Last week alone, my retired husband Tom was asked if he would: 1) Help unload a truck at the food shelf? (yes) 2) Run for county commissioner? (no) 3) Read at mass next Sunday? (yes) 4) Check on a lake cabin for an out-of-town friend who is coming up for a fishing trip? (yes)

I am much less popular than Tom and only got two phone calls: Would I be interested in running for parish council? And—would I be interested in helping judge a poetry writing contest for grades 5-12 in the school district’s Student Showcase Celebration?

First of all, regarding the parish council offer, I haven’t checked lately, but is hell frozen over?? I distinctly remember saying after I retired from teaching that I would only voluntarily attend another meeting in my lifetime when hell was firmly frozen over. I detest meetings. I loved to teach but felt that every moment that I spent in meetings was the time equivalent of being stretched out on a rack in a castle dungeon. While having my fingernails ripped out. While having boiling oil poured on my skin. Did I mention that I hate meetings?

But the poetry writing contest intrigued me. I have a degree in English, but it’s a different kind of English. You know, the technical writing, business writing, practical writing, add a pie chart, put in a spreadsheet kind of English. I did take the mandatory poetry classes in college, but that was 8 bazillion years ago. That was back in the old days when onomatopoeia and alliteration and rhyming were really big. I wasn’t even sure if they were still big.

Still—occasionally it’s nice to have a reason to comb my hair and put on some of my dusty old teacher clothes for a day. Just a day, that’s enough.

And it was surprisingly fun to read those poems and talk about composition and execution of theme and creativity with three other judges who had also said “yes” to the telephone call. And it felt good to talk about sensory details and figurative language and vivid images, even if the poet we were discussing was a fifth grader.

It felt good to put on my slightly out-of-date teacher clothes and feel a little smart again. Just for old time’s sake. Just for a day.

BIRTHDAYS

Back in 2003, when my dad was about to turn 86, he kept warning us not to plan a party. His own father had died at age 85—just one day before his 86th birthday. So using male logic, my father had it in his head that he, too, would pass away before he turned 86.

“Don’t plan a birthday party!” he kept insisting back in 2003. “I won’t be here.”

In the recent weeks leading up to April 25, 2010, my father kept saying, “Don’t plan a birthday party. I won’t be here.”

“Where are you going?” I would ask him, being a smart-mouthed daughter. “Are you taking the senior bus to the mall?”

He would give me “that look” that fathers can give their daughters to let them know they’re skating on mighty thin ice. Mighty thin.

So on Sunday, we celebrated the 93rd birthday that my father insisted he wasn’t going to have. He must have decided to bypass the mall trip and showed up at the party instead.

So much for male logic. What he chooses to forget is that his mother lived to the age of 101.

So what’s the lesson in all of this? It’s like the old saying, "If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans."

Happy 93rd Birthday, Dad!

LONELINESS AND WORD SUBSTITUTION

Tom is gone for three days. No, not fishing, although that would have been a logical guess. Actually, he is down near the Twin Cities attending a silent auction.

Aw, NUTS! I did it again. Tom is not in the Twin Cities attending a silent auction. He’s at a silent retreat.

Why do I keep doing that?

Yesterday, Tom and three other men from our church got into a car and drove to Demontreville near Lake Elmo where they are attending a silent retreat—not a silent auction.

I can’t tell you how many times in the past 24 hours I have flashed a mental picture of Tom walking around a table, adding his name to the bid list: ‘Oooooh! $25 for a Joe Mauer autographed bat,’ or ‘John, did you see these crocheted pot holders? They’re already up to $7.50. Do you think that’s too much? Should I put in a bid?’

‘No!’ I’ll tell myself sharply. ‘Silent retreat—not silent auction.’

Jesuits silently praying in a chapel. Men listening to inspirational speakers and learning how to practice the spiritual exercises of St. Ignatius Loyola.

Nobody is bidding on Joe Mauer bats and crocheted pot holders.

Gosh, I wish I could get that out of my head: silent retreat, silent retreat, silent retreat. Tom is at a silent retreat!

Although I could use some new potholders.

90-YEAR-OLD LOGIC: DID YOU FOLLOW THAT??

I usually stop to visit my 91- and 93-year-old parents for a while every day. Sometimes I leave uplifted because they’re bright and ‘with it.’ Other days I leave a little confused by their logic.

Grandma: They were training in a new girl [a certified nursing assistant] today.

Me: Really?

Grandma: I can tell she’s not going to be a good one.

Me: And how can you tell that when it’s just her first day?

Grandma: She stood with her arms crossed.

Me: Her arms crossed?

Grandma: She was supposed to be watching the other girl, and the new one just stood with her arms crossed.

Me: Well, I suppose she was told to just observe the first day.

Grandma: The good ones can’t help it. They just pitch right in and work. They don’t cross their arms.

Me: I hope you give the new girl a chance.

Grandma: Oh, sure. But she won’t be a good one. She crossed her arms.

Grandpa: Whose alarms?

Me: No, arms—not alarms. Arms. The new girl—Grandma said she just crossed her arms.

Grandpa: The new girl has arms?

Grandma: Remember at dinner? She just stood there and crossed her arms. And didn’t smile. She won’t be a good one.

Me: Maybe you could at least give her a chance? Maybe she was very nervous and serious her first day on the job.

Grandma: We had to work hard when we were kids. I can tell which girls had to work hard at home when they were growing up because they know how to work when they come here [to the assisted living].

Me (trying to change the subject): So what were you expected to do when you were kids?

Grandpa: Who has a kid?

Me: No, when you were a kid. What work were you expected to do when you were a kid?

Grandpa: I was tall and skinny—six feet tall when I was 13 years old.

Grandma (to Grandpa): I remember when you grew so fast at that age that they couldn’t keep up to you with pants. During Norwegian School one spring, your father told my mother that you grew out of a pair of pants every week.

Grandpa: I grew fast.

They both stopped to think about that awhile. Finally, my mother spoke.

Grandma: Do you remember when Irving jumped twenty feet off the side of the silo because he thought the silo was falling down?

Grandpa (laughing): He was putting up pipe on the side of the silo during silo-filling. It was a windy day. He looked up and saw the clouds moving by the top of the silo and he thought the silo was tipping over—so he jumped.

Grandma: Uffdah, he didn’t realize it was the clouds moving instead of the silo.

They both laughed.

Me: Was he hurt?

Grandpa: I don’t remember that he was hurt.

Grandma: Just his pride. Everybody teased him about that—“The silo is falling, Irving!” (She laughed.)

Silence.

Grandma: We worked when we were kids. I helped my aunt feed the men during threshing. We didn’t cross our arms. The new girl won’t be a good one because she crossed her arms.

I think that’s where I came in.

EXTRA HOUR

Without my usual 2 to 4 daily miles, I have (drum roll) an extra hour, give or take, every single day.

I know, I know. Extra-hour envy. Some of you are so busy that you would kill for that extra hour a day. In fact, I can remember other times in my life where a 25-hour day would have been welcome, especially back in the 1980s and 1990s when I was a working mom with a job, three kids, and only two hands. So if I could figure out a way to give that hour away to someone deserving—or even put that extra hour on Craig’s List and sell it—I would.

However, my time is my time, and there’s no way to hand it off like a relay baton to someone who needs it more than I do. It’s mine to use productively or waste as I choose.

So far in the past five days, I’ve spent that extra hour: eating, reading, lollygagging, moping, loitering, whining, diddling, hemming, hawing, and frittering. Oh, and I’ve also loafed and lounged a little.

Since the point of this self-imposed knee rest is to rest my knee, I have purposely not done things like clean the garage, plow the South 40, or rearrange the heavy furniture, all of which need to be done. I have also not done non-knee-straining activities like feeding the poor and visiting prisoners. To say that I have not used this extra time wisely would be humblingly accurate.

I last walked on Tuesday, April 13, so on Wednesday, April 21, come hell or high water, I am going to give it another try. It seems to me (with my vast personal knowledge of orthopaedic medicine) that my knee has improved somewhat. Three more days of self-imposed abstinence might help me turn the corner. Or at least it might allow me to walk around the corner.

Keep your fingers crossed that these days of frittering and squandering a perfectly good hour are almost over!