There is a distasteful story I remember from my days in nursing school. This one has nothing to do with patients, but with a fellow classmate. In order to protect the innocent, I will call her Abby.  I do not remember a lot about Abby – except for this one incident that I have not forgotten in four decades.

Our three story dorm had a small kitchen area on the center floor that we could use to fix a home cooked meal if we wanted. Since many of us were hours away from home and some of us (like me) did not own a car to get home, we looked forward to any tasty treats that were concocted and shared from that kitchen.

Several of us had been invited to meet in the lounge area, adjacent to the kitchen, at 3:00 pm. on a Saturday afternoon. Rumor had been circulating for a couple of hours that Abby was in the kitchen baking a homemade pie from scratch. The rumors were confirmed when we stepped into the lounge area and smelled the aroma of sweet baked peaches. Brunner’s (our med-surg textbooks), care-plans, and visits to the library were momentarily forgotten as we licked our lips and settled into the soft couches and matching chairs.

Abby, with the help of a couple of classmates, began handing out the small paper plates of beautifully golden crusted pie. Those receiving the first plates held them in their laps, waiting for all of us to be served. When it came to homemade goodies, we had an unspoken code of culinary conduct – no one should be privileged to take a bite before another.

“Dig in,” yelled smiling Abby when the last person had been handed their plate. We did just that, but just as quickly, grim, grotesque facial distortions plastered our faces.  We spit the terrible taste from our mouths, muttering various words of dislike and displeasure. The sweet taste we had eagerly anticipated had been replaced by one of the most nasty to ever cross my lips.

Several of us thought this was some sort of premeditated joke Abby had played on us. As it turned out it was an honest mistake. Instead of reaching into the sugar canister for a cup of sugar, she had reached into the salt canister. After our disappointment subsided, we were able to laugh about it and encourage Abby who swore she would never bake again.

Salt (in moderation) is an important staple in our kitchens. The average American consumes a teaspoon and a half of salt (3400 mg of sodium) per day. Even though too much salt (as us girls found out) is detestable; too little or no salt makes for a  blah dish.

It is interesting to note that just as people around the globe have different ideas on most things, salt is no exception. The Yanomamo people of the Amazon Rain Forest get by on one tenth of a teaspoon of salt (200 mg of sodium) per day. On the other end of the spectrum are the people of northern Japan; consuming a whooping eleven teaspoons of salt (26,000 mg of sodium) every day. I’m thinking they may have liked Abby’s pie!

Table salt is what first comes to most people’s minds when the word “salt” is mentioned. But salt is used for so much more than that as the following chart displays:

Sixty-eight percent (blue) represents salt used for making industrial chemicals, twelve percent (red) is salt used in water conditioning, eight percent (orange) is used in highway deicing, six percent (green) is used in making fertilizers, and the final six percent (yellow) is our table salt. Overall, there are more than 14,000 different ways to use salt.

Without salt, we would have a very different world. When used in appropriate amounts salt is a very useful compound. Even the common phrase “salt of the earth” means fundamental goodness.  The expression originated in the Bible and was spoken by Jesus in Matthew 5:13 when he told his disciples they were the ‘salt of the earth’ (fundamentally good) and encouraged them to be a positive influence in the lives of those around them.

I can’t think of a more flattering description than to hear folks depict a friend, family member, co-worker, or neighbor as “salt of the earth,” just as Jesus referenced his disciples. Who do you think of as “salt of the earth”? Do you come to someone’s mind when they are asked that same question?

Until next month….keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

 

 

My husband and I like to watch “Jeopardy” after we clear the dinner dishes and wipe up the kitchen. It’s not that we know many answers/questions,  in fact we feel fortunate if between the two of us, we are able to answer a half dozen correctly. But there are those categories that we do better at. I get excited if there is a category that is medically or biblically oriented. I can often come close to ‘running the category’ in those two subjects.

This past week I lit up when I saw the category “The Human Body”. “Oh, boy,” I smiled and settled into my spot next to Stan on the reclining loveseat. I pulled the lever to elevate my feet, threw the fleece blanket over my legs, and settled in.  I anticipated a favorable outcome, so be it if it was only in one category.   I eagerly waited for the contestants to move off of “Classic Albums”, and “The Calendar” of which I hadn’t bothered to even guess the answers. “Come on,” I pleaded, “pick human body.”  I couldn’t wait to redeem myself!

Then it happened. The contestant in control, moved over to MY category. I beat the contestants in answering the first two clues.  Great….I was on a roll. Third clue: In relation to organs in the body, sinister refers to this. What? I leaned in and read it again. I could not remember the word sinister ever mentioned in my nursing studies  – except to describe the one instructor that gloated on writing difficult questions into her tests. And in forty plus years of experience, I could not recall anyone relating organs to sinister.  This must be a geographical  clue, I thought – something that is relative to California where they film “Jeopardy” and not Nebraska, Wyoming, and South Dakota where I had practiced. There was one small consolation – the three contestants were in my boat – none of them rang in. Alex Trebek seemed to get some satisfaction over enlightening us with the answer as he tipped his head downward, lifted his eyebrows upward, and spoke  slowly. Sinister organs are those organs on the left side of the body.

Really? I had never heard such a thing.  In an effort to solidify my hunch that this was a geographical issue, I  grabbed my phone and tapped on the  Facebook icon. I was determined to find out if any of my Midwest nursing friends had heard of this before. I was quite confident that most of them would be as much in the dark as I had been.   Okay folks, I wrote…who knows what it means when you are referring to a sinister organ?

Within seconds (too soon for anyone to look it up) a nurse I had worked with fifteen years earlier (in Wyoming)  wrote one word – left. Well…she was probably watching “Jeopardy” too. In her next entry she wrote simply: OS/OD. Left eye/right eye. Excuse the pun – but this wasn’t looking good for me.

I knew the initials OS and OD were abbreviations for  some long, difficult to pronounce  Latin words that would mean left eye and right eye.  My friend typed back: Sinister/Direct. Hmmm…not exactly Latin or unpronounceable. My friend didn’t bother to tell me what the “O” stood for. That’s okay – I had my smart phone.  Oculus – an eyelike opening. I was glad something was finally making sense. But, even with these reminders, I could not recall ever learning the actual words that “OS” and “OD” stood for. The one thing I did remember was a very useful “little ditty” a military nurse taught me about “OS” and “OD” and how to remember which eye belonged to which letters.  “OD stands for Officer of the Day,” she had said without hesitation,  “and they are always right.” Now, that is something that stuck with me!

This Jeopardy experience encouraged me to delve deeper into why we remember some things and not others. I learned that our minds have a property known as “brain plasticity” and are always changing depending on our environment and what our needs for learning are. One article explained that our brains go through a natural synaptic pruning process, much like we give our rosebushes  in the fall.  Neurons that are rarely or never used eventually die, but new stronger connections are formed based on what we need at the time.  Based on the assumption that my nursing instructors had taught us about oculus direct and oculus sinister, I may have dismissed the information as unimportant as long as I knew what the commonly used abbreviations meant. When the doctor wrote an order for two drops to be put in the patient’s “OD” I knew exactly where to place them – thanks to my military friend.

Now that I’ve retired from nursing, there are bound to be neural pathways that have been active with medical facts and knowledge that will be pruned back. But, I’m looking forward to the new pathways that are forming.  I already see it happening  in my line dancing class. I’m not sure why the wonderful ladies in my class didn’t send me hiking when I started a year ago. Oh my….I was an uncoordinated newborn filly in a ring of sophisticated thoroughbreds. Now…well, I’m no species to write home about yet…but I’m standing securely on my own two feet and having a great time.

Until next month…keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

 

 

My Saturday morning chores were finished…at least to my liking. My mom had descended the stairs to the basement a few minutes ago with a laundry basket of dirty clothes, leaving me to dust…and plot my getaway. She would have to sort the clothes into two piles, add soap to the machine, change the settings, and wait long enough to assure the old machine was going to function. I had at least 10 minutes to grab everything I needed and be on my way through the sheep pasture and beyond to the creek. I kept the guilt at bay by taking another quick swipe at the TV screen with the lemon scented rag.

“Mom,” I  hollered from the top of the stairs, “my chores are done, I’m going down to the creek.” I wouldn’t have had to announce my destination; she would have guessed. The creek is where I hung out whenever I could. But, if she had come up the stairs to find me nowhere around, it would have increased her suspicion of a haphazard job. I was pretty good, even at 10 years of age, at  piecing together how my parents would react to a situation. If I had gone AWOL, Mom would have pursed her lips and embarked on a mission  through the house, striking her investigative finger through patches of missed dust. It would have been pointed out to me later with a few consequences attached.  By announcing my departure, she might not think anything but the best of me and carry on with her morning chores, oblivious to the hasty dusting job.
I scooped up my Big Chief tablet and a couple of lead pencils, along with some corn from the freezer above the refrigerator. I stuffed the kernels into a sandwich baggie and then stuffed that into my pocket. My fishing pole and small tackle box had been strategically placed outside the back door, earlier that morning.

Most times it was easy enough to catch one or two…sometimes even three of the big carp that hung out in the deeper holes along the bank.  After threading a few kernels of corn onto my hook, I would plop down cross legged and wait for the big red and white bobber to disappear. On the occasional days when there was a lack of interest on the fish’s part, I wasn’t bothered.  Writing was just as good as fishing, and there wasn’t a better time or place to do it. The warm sunshine on my back and the gentle sound of water racing downstream triggered my imagination and soon a page was filled with poems or stories.  I dreamed that someday I might see my name in print; maybe I would even write books like Laura Ingalls Wilder.

My parents complimented me often on my writing skills; and my grandparents oohed and ahhed over all of it. But when it came time to think of college and a career, I began to hear promptings of what my elders considered a more stable line of work.  As graduation from high school neared, I heard less about my writing abilities and more about solid occupations like nursing and teaching.

I didn’t know what it would take to be either one of those, but when my grandfather became seriously ill and needed emergency surgery, I found myself enamored by the nurses that took care of him. They were pleasant, helpful, and beautiful in their white clothes – from the top of their heads to their white shoes. They reminded me of cheery angels and I made up my mind – I would like to be one of them. (  I’m sure I heard my Mom applauding and agreeing wholeheartedly.)

And so it was. I soon found out that nursing was much more than being friendly and beautiful. It was an intense, demanding job, but often rewarding. I always liked the idea of making a difference in people’s lives, and nursing gave me that opportunity. Writing was put on a back burner, but not forgotten.

Last week, I turned the pages to a new chapter. I removed my stethoscope from around my neck, hung it in the closet, and closed the door.  Forty-five years have marched by since my parents wisely steered me to a vocation they knew suited me and would sustain me.  On the last day of the job, I couldn’t help but shed a few tears. Four decades is a long time to have your identity secured in one thing.

It’s only been a week, but already, I’ve been asked numerous times what my plans are for retirement, and I have an answer. “I’m going to chase a dream – a childhood dream. I’ll be working at establishing my new identity – Author.”

As I consider my talents and blessings, it occurs to me that this isn’t a time to mourn what I’ve had in the past. This is a time to celebrate what I have in the present and what I will accomplish in the future. The following quote by an unknown person says it best:

You fulfilled all your professional ambitions.

Now is the time to achieve your personal aspirations.

Retirement is the start of life’s golden phase.

Give your childhood dreams one final chase.

Until next month…keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes, depending on whether we are on the giving or the receiving end of a thoughtful action, it can determine whether we see the deed as something small or something great, beyond measure. I was on the receiving end of someone’s selfless gesture this last month, and it stirred my emotions and brought tears I couldn’t control. I consider it a rare “touch from heaven.”

Although the completion of the story occurred less than thirty days ago, the curtain went up 41 years ago in a small hospital in the middle of Nebraska. I was a young nurse in the midst of being transplanted from the large six floor hospital I had trained at to a small twenty bed hospital. In the rear view mirror I waved goodbye to Lincoln, Nebraska and through the windshield said “hello” to Cozad. The green and white sign on the edge of town announced a population of 4225.

Cozad Community Hospital sat in the center of town. As is usually the case for newly hired RN’s in a small facility, I was given a job on the night shift.  It was here that I met Marilyn, one of two aides that consistently worked the 11pm-7am shift. I knew from the first moment I met her that we would become friends. She had a sweet, welcoming smile and warm, friendly eyes. She seemed to sense the fear I felt being the only RN in the building, so unlike my job at Bryan Memorial where several consulting nurses could be found on any floor.  I don’t remember the words she said, but I remember what I heard: All will be fine. We’ll help you.

Marilyn wore her hair in small, tight curls. Hints of gray protruded around the edges. Her complexion, however, was smooth and clear, making it difficult to estimate  her age. It was only this month that I learned she was five years younger than my mother. I also discovered for the first time that we shared the same middle name – Ruth. I supposed we had talked about everything on long, endless night shifts, but Marilyn was a quiet person and a doer. She not only answered call lights, but she also straightened the linen closets, scrubbed the chart racks, and made the best lettuce salads. (The night shift differential consisted of the rights to the kitchen key and whatever we could find in the refrigerator.)

In 1984, eight years after our arrival in Cozad, my family loaded my Dad’s stock truck with all we owned and headed to Wyoming. Thirty three years have slipped by since that day we glanced back and saw our last sunrise ascending over the Cozad water tower.  We’ve had little reason to return to Cozad in these thirty three years since leaving, but the few times we did, it was a must that I see Marilyn. On my last visit, she no longer lived in her modest home, but in a senior apartment where things were easier to manage and folks checked on her every day. Her hair had succumbed to total gray and she used a walker to steady herself, but she welcomed me with that same sweet smile that I remembered from our very first encounter so many years ago.

Christmas cards had become our annual correspondence over the last 33 years. Marilyn would  write whatever she knew about the co-workers we had both worked with at Cozad Community Hospital. In exchange, I would send her pictures of my family and highlights of our lives. The shaky handwriting on the envelope of this last year’s Christmas card gave me suspicion that things were not as good as usual for Marilyn. As I read through the letter, Marilyn expressed gratitude that the West Nile Virus had not been worse.  As it was, it had left her with balance difficulties, tremors, and vision problems.  I examined the piece of lined paper a second time and could imagine the fortitude it must have required for Marilyn to form each letter.

***

On returning from vacation this last month, I sifted through the pile of mail that had accumulated in a week’s time. A 6 x 9 inch postal envelope caught my eye and I pulled it from between the other various pieces of mail. I recognized the shaky handwriting immediately and saw from the return that Marilyn’s niece had helped her. I settled down at the kitchen table and opened the envelope, eager to find out what was so important that Marilyn would be writing before Christmas.

My breath caught as I pulled a funeral folder from the envelope and saw Marilyn’s picture framed beneath the words ‘Celebrating a Life’. A steady stream of tears tumbled from my eyes as I again saw the struggle in the handwriting. Even in death, Marilyn was doing for others – she knew I would want to know. I pulled a note from the envelope that had been typed by  her niece, Beth.  Aunt Marilyn requested that I forward a copy of her Funeral Bulletin to you as you were very special to her. She passed quietly in her sleep in the early morning of August 15, 2017 at Cozad Community Hospital.

I was overwhelmed with the graciousness of my friend, that I seldom saw in recent years, but thought of often. It touched me that she had thought of me, even as death stood on her step.

On occasion I think about the folks I hope to spend time with in heaven…family, close friends, and those that have impacted my life like Corrie and Betsy ten Boom.  But today, my wish is to sit on the golden bench with Marilyn. I want to tell her how much her thoughtfulness meant to me. With a smile, she would say, “It was just a little thing.” I would shake my head and say, “No, Marilyn. You gave me a gift that caressed my heart…the greatest kind of gift.”

The bench visit will have to wait. For now, I’ll have to be content with knowing I was given ‘a A touch from heaven’.

Until next month…keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Folks in the Nebraska Sandhills are resourceful people. I grew up there, and if you’re not born with a resourceful bent, you soon learn to be that way. Living 25-50 miles from the closest town makes for a convincing teacher.

Resourcefulness is essential  for time management, and sometimes even survival. But it doesn’t stop there for Sandhillers. They also apply the concept of resourcefulness to leisure activities.  My sister and her husband manage the family ranch and this is what she has to say about it. “If there’s not more than one use for something, it’s probably not worth having.” Stock tanks are no exception. Now, you might ask (if you’re not a Sandhiller), what could you possibly use a stock tank for besides holding water that flows from the windmill so that the cows can drink?  The answer is – for fun!

I was privileged to take part in “tanking” two weeks ago when my son and I traveled to the ranch to visit family. After returning from church on Sunday we took a vote.  Tanking won over napping, three to one. After careful inspection of the two used stock tanks in the corral, we chose the one with a tar repaired crack traversing the diameter of the floor, over the one with an eight inch chunk of metal missing from the bottom. We loaded the steel tank and our other equipment into the back of the horse trailer and off we went. Just below the first culverts we rolled the tank down the slight bank and into the Calamus River that winds its way lazily through the ranch. I climbed in first.

Two of us positioned ourselves (somewhat precariously) on overturned five gallon buckets. One of us sat in the plastic lawn chair that had been tossed in when we loaded up. Johnny insisted on seating himself (even more precariously) atop a short step-ladder so he could watch for sandbars and barb wire fences. We deemed him “Captain of the Ship.”

As we steered our way down the river with the two old dilapidated wooden oars we had brought along, it didn’t escape our notice that a small trickle of water was finding refuge inside our craft. We didn’t pay it much mind, knowing that our excursion would only be a couple of hours. A little bit of water in the bottom of the tank wouldn’t be of any consequence.

Tanking is a natural social event as everyone faces each other. A cooler of refreshments sat in the middle of the four of us as we hunkered down for a relaxing, peaceful afternoon.  The vessel rotated back and forth gently (for the most part) under the authority of the current. This gives the passengers equal opportunity to see what lies ahead at times, but also gives a retro view of things passed.

My sister, Connie, and I both had our identical cameras on our laps, waiting for that beaver, deer, or blue heron to appear around the next bend. John and Caleb occasionally steered us clear of sandbars or pushed us further from the bank with the oars.  John – the captain that he is, and always thinking of his crew – brought along his cell phone. At the end of the journey, he would call his son-in-law to pick us up and transport us back to our vehicle.

What a gift to be able to enjoy a warm, pleasant afternoon on the river with family! Partly cloudy skies kept us cool and a slight breeze kept the mosquitoes and deer flies away. We continued leisurely down the river, chatting about whatever came to mind, and forgetting any worries.

Down around a few more bends, one of us remarked that his feet were damp. The water level had risen above sole level. Our craft was taking on more water than we had anticipated. John grumbled that his new boots were getting wet. (He was now wishing he had stayed home for that nap he had voted for.)   I didn’t bring it up that wearing new boots on a water expedition might not have been the wisest choice.

Connie, on the other hand, had a brilliant idea. Inside the cooler she had packed a wide mouthed two-quart size plastic jar with water in it. She retrieved it from the cooler, dumped the water overboard, and then promptly passed the jar to me.  It was as if I was expected to start dipping away at the water on the bottom of the tank. She, on the other hand clutched her camera, taking pictures of everyone else’s activity.  I refrained from reminding her that I also had my camera, but instead, dutifully placed it inside the cooler and began to bail.

Nearly an hour later, we were closing in on the end of the journey. Two culverts lay ahead that we would not be able to pass through. All eyes were on the bank ahead of us now, searching for a tree limb or bush we could grab onto so we could disembark easily. That’s when Old Faithful erupted – not from a natural artesian well nearby, but from the center of the craft! The geyser of water shot up along the previous repaired tar line. Everyone – except the camerawoman, of course – grabbed buckets and started to bail, and bail, and bail. Five gallons of water thrown overboard with each dip.  When river water crested the top of our vessel and poured in over the side, Captain Johnny lamented, “This isn’t looking good.”

Within seconds our tank sat at the bottom of the river with us still aboard. Caleb grabbed his aunt’s camera from her hands and held it up at arm’s length, saving it from damage. My camera, on the other hand, was still in the cooler; rocking between us like a bobber on a windy lake.  I grabbed the cumbersome chest in hopes of keeping the lid above the water line. The captain and his wife were the first to abandon ship. No criminal charges have been filed due to the fact that they were closest to the bank and their actions seemed justified. As soon as I could, I passed off the cooler to them . I was helped ashore by the captain’s outstretched hand and Caleb’s shove. I darted for the cooler, yanked open the lid, and grabbed my camera case. It was damp, but miraculously, the camera inside was dry and functioning. The captain’s cell phone (also in the cooler) did not fair so well – as lifeless as an orchid in a North Dakota winter. Three drenched adults packed up all the equipment – minus one tank – and started the  trek back to the vehicle. One drenched adult carried her camera, posed and ready.

Would we do it again? Absolutely! It had been years since I had laughed to the point of a gut wrenching side ache. And as far as I could tell, everyone else was having just as much fun. Next time, will we enlist the services of an outfitter’s company and be supplied with an undamaged tank, brightly colored carbon fibre ores, and a contract to ensure our safety?  Heck no – that’s what made the trip memorable.  None of us are likely to forget our trip down the river on August 20, 2017. How could we? Connie has a “boat load” of pictures to remind us!

Don’t bother to call John and get his rendition of the story; more than likely you won’t be able to reach him. Last I knew his phone was still buried in  rice on the kitchen counter.

Until next month – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

 

 

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