A Good Man

They say you just can’t keep a good man down. That could have been said about my friend, Pete, who died from cancer last week. I met Haral Pederson at work eight years ago. He told me that his friends called him “Pete” so he was always “Pete” to me.

The memorable thing about Pete is that he had a life well lived. He lived fully right up to the last days of his life. He was a great example of hope and perseverance. He enjoyed his garden, his painting, his gambling and his ice cream. He kept going, he stayed active, long after most people would have confined themselves to bed.

I remember lots of things about Pete:

I remember him telling me that he snuck away from his wife, Julie, in the middle of the night to go gambling at the casino. A couple of years later, after he was so sick he couldn’t drive; I said “I guess you’re not going to be sneaking off to go gambling anymore.” “No, I guess not,” he said.

I remember how long he kept coming to work after he was sick. He said it made him feel better to be there.

I remember when I took him out to Pappadeux’s for lunch shortly after he found out that the cancer came back, again. He said, “I don’t want to talk about cancer,” and so we didn’t.

It was my mission to cheer him up. I told him many of my secrets. I told him things that I would never dare to tell a married man from work. I told him how I thought there might be a serious relationship in my future with the guy in the office next to him. I broke all of my rules with him. I thought, “What difference does it make? This guy is going to die soon and he will take all of my secrets to the grave.” Then when he seemed to be getting better, I told him, “After everything that I’ve told you, if you don’t die, I’m going to have to kill you.” I needn’t have worried, he lived for several years after that but he never betrayed my trust.

The hopeful thing about Pete’s story is that a person can be ravaged by cancer but not give into it. He knew that cancer would take his life, but he never let it take over his life. He lived his life as long as he possibly could. He didn’t ask for sympathy, he just wanted to keep living.

He kept living by always having a goal. A few years ago, he wanted to live long enough for his daughter’s wedding. He rode his wheelchair down the aisle and gave Erika away in July, 2005. She got pregnant the next year and he wanted to live long enough to see his granddaughter. Aubrey was born in July, 2007. This past fall, September 2008, he wanted to go to the beach one more time. His son, Trey, went with him to Destin Beach, Florida. In December, Pete told me he wanted to go to the casino again. His brother took him soon after that. Earlier this month, he was lying in bed during our visit because he was too weary to sit up. After we had been there an hour, he said, “Let’s go get ice cream.” He seemed to think that he was perfectly capable of getting out of bed and taking a ride to Braum’s. I convinced him to let my husband, Marty (the guy who used to be in the office next to Pete) go and bring us back some ice cream. When Marty returned, Pete ate a big bowl of chocolate almond.

When I was a kid I remember seeing a book on my dad’s shelf. It was a book by Norman Vincent Peale entitled “Stay Alive All Your Life.” That book could have been written about my friend, Pete, because that’s what he did.

A Stitch in Time

Do you think that you are a procrastinator? Do you keep putting off things that you know you ought to be working on? I know that I am a procrastinator. I just finished a project that I started 12 years ago.

In 1997 I was a happy, stay-at-home mom. My two kids were in school and I finally had some time to myself during the day. I started quilting as a creative hobby. I made about five quilts for friends at church who were having babies. I decided that it was time I lavished some of my talent on my own children, so I started a quilt for my son. He was 12.

I chose his old blue jeans as the quilting material. This involved ripping open the double seams of his jeans, pressing them, cutting them into strips and then sewing them back together. I tried a tumbling block pattern. I liked it because if the light and dark pieces are chosen correctly, it gives a three-dimensional geometric effect. I sewed a sample block. It involved 60 degree angles and precise piecing. The result was a pattern that was much too complicated for bulky denim fabric.

Next I tried a Roman Square pattern which was three rectangles sewn side by side. Simple pattern with minimum seams, it was perfect. Then my world fell apart. I went through a divorce and suddenly had to face single parenting and rebuilding my career to support my family. All thoughts of quilting flew out the window.

A few years later when I had a week off at Christmas, I ripped apart more jeans, cut more strips and sewed a few more squares. During the rest of the year it was hard to find the time and the project box would sit in the top of the closet until the next December. Some Christmases, I didn’t get the box out at all. Every summer I would say,
“I’ll finish this in time for his next birthday.”
After his October birthday passed, I would say,
“I’ll finish this for his Christmas gift.”
Several Christmases passed and I said,
“I’ll finish this for his high school graduation.”

In between I made progress on the quilt. I cut out and sewed all 88 of the Roman Squares that I needed. He became engaged and I thought,
“I’ll finish this for his wedding present.”
I didn’t make the wedding deadline. About five years ago I had a flurry of activity and got most of the rows completed. I laid them out on my bed in the order that they were to be sewed together, but my vacation time ended. I rolled up the rows, and put them back in the box. The next time I sewed a few more rows together and then had to roll them up and put them away again.

In November, 2008 I said,
“I am going to finish this quilt.”
I thought that I could get it done by Christmas.
It was a normal December: hectic and overloaded with too many activities, so I said,
“I’m not going to stress myself out by pushing to get this done by Christmas, but I will get it done.”

So, every spare moment after Christmas I crammed in a little sewing time. I got all of the rows of the quilt assembled. I returned to work after New Year’s. I kept sewing in the evenings. I sewed on the side triangles and the border. I worked on Saturdays and assembled the quilt top, batting and backing. In desperation, I temporarily abandoned writing in my blog and machine quilted the assembled pieces. Then I sewed on the outside binding.

I finished the quilt on January 26, 2008. On the following Saturday I handed over a wrapped package and I said,
“Son, this is your graduation, wedding, Christmas, and birthday gift for the last twelve years.”
My 24 year old, married son, father of my three year grandson said,
“Thanks, Mom.”

Old Fears

Public humiliation, unemployment, and sudden death are all scary issues for me. I try to be an optimist, but when I lay my head on my pillow at night I worry.
“Will I forget to dress in the morning and find myself at work in my underwear?
Will I have a job next month?
Will I have a heart attack in my sleep?”

These are the fears that creep into my mind. But for my three year old grandson, Addison, these issues are of absolutely no concern. When he comes to my house he wants to chase the dogs. He wants to play games with Grammy. He wants to go to the playground. He is a carefree, happy child. Mom and Dad go to work, pay the bills and search for health care. He has no such concerns.

Playing Mr. Potato Head was his primary concern when he came to visit me the other day. His parents sat bored on the sofa for 15 minutes while Addison and I traded hats and shoes and tongues for our Potato Head Pals. Finally his parents realized that their presence was not required for this activity so they rose from the sofa.
“We’d better get going if we are going to make the 5:30 movie.”
Addison’s Potato Head concentration was broken and he realized that Mom and Dad were leaving and he needed help with a wardrobe problem.
“My pants are soaked.”
“Addison!”
He hung his head while Mom and Dad removed his wet clothes.
“How could you wet your pants? You know better than that.”
Addison shrugged his shoulders and looked at his feet.
Grammy escorted Addison to the bathtub and Mom and Dad left for the movie.

Marty and I dread wide awake grandchildren at bedtime, so to induce sleep; I gave Addison some hot chocolate at 9 o’clock. I read him a story and pointed him toward the bed. His feet and head stretch the netting on each end of my portacrib, so I let him lie down in the queen size guest bed. An hour later, as I lay in bed in the dark I realized that the too small portacrib has an advantage that the guest bed does not, plastic sheets. I hoped that he would find his way to the bathroom in the middle of the night if nature called. I tip toed into his room the next morning and slid my hand around under the covers. To my relief, everything was dry.

Bryce is the bright, inquisitive grandson of my best friend. She takes care of him during the week while his mom goes to college. She knows much more about kid things than I do since she is a full time grandma. I am only a weekend warrior grandma. She recommended we take Addison to lunch at a nearby McDonalds. Bryce likes this particular restaurant because it has a fire engine inside, not a real fire engine, but an outside shell that contains tables and seats. The whole indoor playground has a fire fighting theme. He likes the fire engine and the slides but he refuses to climb to the top of the 20 foot play structure. He explained to Grandma.
“There are firemen stuck to the wall.”
“How cute,” I thought. There are pictures of firemen in the top level of the playground and his 3 year old brain thinks that it is real men stuck to the wall. Despite this warning, I decided to take Addison there anyway.

Addison squirmed and pulled on my arm as I tried to decide on our food at McDonalds. He had spotted the fire truck and the playground and his mind had no room for anything else. Marty took over the food acquisition while I found a table in the fire truck. Addison stood on the seat and looked over the side of the fire truck at the playground. He saw other kids who were climbing and jumping and sliding.
“Grammy I want to go play,” he pleaded.
I was going to be a good grandmother today and uphold his parents’ rule.
“No playing until after you eat your lunch.”
He moaned. He tried to climb over the edge of the fire truck. He stared longingly at the other kids.

After what seemed like an hour and a half, Marty arrived with our food. The fight to keep him inside the fire truck morphed into a fight to get him to eat his hamburger. He took tiny bites and begged to go play. I relented and told him he could play if he just ate half of his hamburger. His face was tortured and twisted as he choked down the last two bites.

He sprang out of the seat and onto the playground as soon as I gave the OK. He happily climbed up the stairs and flew down the slide. He ran back and forth and spoke to all of the children. He jumped up and down on the rubber play surface.

He ran over to our table to get a drink. He squirmed and jumped up and down as he was drinking. Pa Paw quickly interpreted his symptoms.
“Addison, come with me to the bathroom.”
“NO, Pa Paw. I don’t have to go!”
He bent over as he twisted his legs together.
“Yes, Addison, we’re going now,” and Marty dragged him off to the bathroom.

Marty chuckled a few minutes later when they returned from the bathroom. Addison scurried back up the stairs while Marty talked.
“He was in the bathroom at the urinal relieving himself at obviously high pressure when he turned and gave me an incredulous look.
“Pa Paw, I really did have to go!”

I looked up at the high walls next to the playground. I saw what looked like the physical remains of deceased firemen. Flat uniforms suspended above empty pairs of boots on either side. The headless forms were topped by worn out firemen’s helmets.
“Yuck! What happened to those guys?”
I remembered Bryce’s fear. His 3 year old brain must have reasoned that at the top of the stairs was a speeding carousel that would fling you against the wall. Maybe he thought the firemen were left hanging there on the wall to warn the children.

It occurred to me that public humiliation, unemployment and sudden death might be just exactly what a three year old worries about.

By the Numbers

Numbers are entrenched in my brain. My mind is constantly manipulating numbers that I see. License plates, highway signs, building addresses, time on the clock, all become math problems. Numbers are real, concrete things that my brain can relate to.

Driving down the road, numbers that I see fill my head. The exit sign for highways 287 and 820 becomes a math problem. I add 287 and 820 in my head. I calculate 1107. I glance down and read 5:23 on the clock. My mind thinks 5 divided into 23. The result is 4.6. Cars passing are not Chevys, Fords and Hondas. In my brain they are a series of license plate numbers. All of this is a secret dialog that goes on in my head. Before I speak, everything I say is translated back to the language of the real world. But what if one day my internal translator broke. How would Marty communicate with me?

“Veronica, it’s after 7. What time do we need to be at the theater?”
“6 3/7”
“OK, 7 times 6 is 42. 7 times 3/7 is 3. 42 plus 3 is 45. So, we need to be at the theater at 7:45.”
I nod my head. He helps me put my coat on and we step into the garage.

“My car is almost out of gas, but it’s a pretty night and your moon roof is broken. Which car do you want to take?”
“X25CBN”
“My car. All right, we’ll stop for gas on the way.”
He opens the passenger door of his car and I get in. We head down the road.

“Check the traffic on your phone’s navigation system. What is the best route to take?”
“2 ½”
“The choices are 360 and 820. 8 divided into 20 is 2 ½, so 820 must be the route.”
He has correctly translated my answer again.

Twenty minutes later, we approach the theater.
“Can you check the address of the theater? I can’t remember if it is 1530 or 1560 Main Street.”
“4”
“1560 it is. Here we are.”

He pulls into the theater parking lot and opens my door. I feel intense guilt for him having to translate everything I say. I blurt out.
“Why do you put up with me?”
“3”
Three? My mind races. What could he possibly mean? Then I think back to our dating days. We had a secret code of affection when we were around other people. When we held up three fingers, it stood for three little words.
I love you.

Christmas Letter

It isn’t even Christmas yet, and we have already received our gift. Marty got a job. A year ago, he decided to taper off from his contract work in Houston. He wanted to find a job nearby so he could be close to wife, kids and parents. He’s been looking all year and it’s been a long journey but, on December 14 he started a new job as an imbedded software designer in Fort Worth, Texas.

We started 2008 with great optimism. Marty had a few very strong job prospects in January and in April. Each time it seemed as if he had the job sewed up, then it mysteriously vaporized. Every morning he started his day by searching the online job listings and sending in applications. But after a few months, we decided there had to be more to his life than this.

He began purchasing self paced training modules for computer applications that he wanted to learn. He spent weeks learning C#, dsPic processors and Java. He also did some short term contract work. He worked two different times for Weatherford International. The first time he did firmware troubleshooting and the second time he did a Photoshop project. He also occasionally returned to Houston to work a few days.

The rest of the time he was at home. This turned out to be a really good thing. Over the course of a few months, our house required the fence mended, toilets reworked and the roof replaced. Every time, Marty was there to set appointments, greet the repairman and oversee the work. No need to schedule appointments on Saturday, go in late to work or take a vacation day, he was available to handle it.

I started depending on him to help get me ready for work every day. I tend to cut my time very close and I am always rushing in the morning: throwing some food together for my breakfast, feeding the dogs, grabbing all my stuff and running out the door. It started slowly as Marty took over feeding the dogs. But soon he was buttering toast for my breakfast, carrying my things to the car and sometimes even driving me to the carpool lot.

The other way that we took advantage of Marty’s increased free time was by taking three vacations. In April we visited “A” towns in Texas: Abilene, Amarillo, Arlington (Dr’s appointment) and Austin. One highlight was visiting my cousins, Laura and Terry Browder. Terry runs several outstanding, upscale guest houses in Abilene collectively called the Sayles Ranch. We took a second vacation in July to Illinois to attend the Hobson reunion. We rode in Marty’s car with Marty’s daughter, Carmen, her 1 year old, Julianna, and her 3 year old, Shane. Amazingly, we traveled well together. Carmen rode in the back seat between the two kids. She was occasionally awakened from a nap by a finger in her eye when Shane got bored, but otherwise she was ok. Our third vacation was in November to the Lost Maples in the Texas hill country.

Another class that Marty took was on writing and book publishing. I took the class also and was inspired to begin writing a blog. My blog inspired Marty to begin a website cancerreportdaily.com. It is a collection of late breaking news articles related to care, treatment and discoveries about cancer. He spent several weeks building a quality, easy-to-use website. He updates it once, or more, a day. Just about the time he got ready to roll out his website, he applied for one more job. Evidently this was the one that the Lord had been saving for him, because he was hired 10 days later.

We are both ecstatic. Marty is relieved to be earning a steady salary. He is excited to be at work again. Now we will have a little more leeway in our budget. We can begin saving again for car replacement and future retirement. Also, we both are looking forward to buying new shoes. There is just one drawback to this whole Marty job thing. Who’s going to pick up my dry cleaning?

Messy House

I have let this house intimidate me for too long. For too many years I have let perpetually growing grass and constantly accumulating dust strike fear in my heart. I’m not going to take its abuse anymore. I am going to fight back.

Everything was fine when I first moved in. We were happy then. The house had just been built and all of the paint was new. The appliances were all clean and in good working order. The carpet was fresh and fluffy. I loved my house.

We got along great for the first six months. Then I began to notice a change. The air conditioner didn’t seem to be cooling very well. I tried adjusting the thermostat but it just wasn’t meeting my needs. I began to check around. I soon discovered the problem. The filter was clogged.

I went to a heating and AC counselor. “Your air conditioner needs its filter changed every month,” he told me. “Otherwise your relationship will get stale.” That was just the beginning. Soon the house was demanding that I repair the torn siding and decorate the interior. In the summer, it began asking me to water the foundation.

At first I thought that I could keep up. I set up a schedule and regularly watered the lawn. I vacuumed the carpets and cleaned the bathrooms every week. Then the paint started peeling. I realized that I was in over my head. Our relationship slowly deteriorated.

Every time I drove into the garage, the house seemed to mock me. “See the evidence of your neglect.” The paint around the garage door was peeling. The garage door keypad had lost its cover and the battery slowly swung underneath, suspended only by the wires. As I pulled my car in, I had to steer to avoid the freezer and fertilizer spreader that stuck out from the wall. After I parked, I tried to open my door, but the tool chest was in the way. I restarted the car and pulled forward until my bumper snugly fit into the hole that I had previously knocked into the wall. Only then did I have enough room to open my door.

I ran into the house, hoping to escape my guilty feeling. I collapsed into a chair and stared blankly at the ceiling. As my eyes came into focus, I could see the crack that I had failed to repair last year after the upstairs plumbing leak. Guiltily, I dropped my eyes to the floor. I let out a sigh. Then I saw the linoleum that I had torn when I dragged the dog cage across it. I quickly averted my glance to the window in the back door. I was greeted by missing paint where the dogs had scratched to get out.

That’s it! I’m not going to take it anymore. I refuse to be trapped by you, house. I won’t let you bury me under a mound of dust and guilt. I’m going to do what any self-respecting homeowner would do.

I’m going to clean out the garage.

The Name Game

My kids never knew how good they had it. They were allowed to like their middle names. I never called them by their middle names when they were in trouble. I didn’t name them after 8th century Greek poets. I didn’t saddle them with some quirky family name. I gave them nice, normal middle names.

I always thought that a middle name should be like an insurance policy. Suppose one day you wake up and you think “I want everyone to know that I’m not a kid anymore. I want to go by a different name.” Well, if you have a good middle name, you can start calling yourself by that name.

What if some politician who shares your name is involved in a messy scandal? You don’t have to go on sharing his tarnished name, you have a back up. You have a little insurance policy in your middle name. You can switch to it anytime you like. No legal paperwork required. It’s already there on your birth certificate. All you have to do is start using it. Anybody can do it. Anybody at all. Except me.

I hate my middle name. Veronica Sue. That does not sound very pretty. How about Veronica Elizabeth? That has a nice, regal sound to it. Why didn’t my parents name me that? The name Veronica Ann could flow easily off the tongue. (I didn’t get that one because my greedy, older sister took it before I was born.) But Veronica Sue sounds like a discord on the piano. Two notes that just shouldn’t be played together.

I like the Veronica part. Sue is even fine by itself, but Veronica Sue is just too, well, it’s too southern. It goes too well with Billie Joe or Billy Bob or Bubba. Buddy Holly (another southern name) made Peggy Sue a household name, but you can’t sing Veronica Sue to the same tune. I’ve tried it.

The worst part of growing up with the name Veronica Sue is that it is the name my dad used for me. He thought it was a compliment because I was named for my well loved cousin, Sue. He even made a rhyme out of it. I know. Veronica Sue does not rhyme, but when you say Veronica Sue Jungle-oo, in a twisted sort of way, it does rhyme. That’s what my dad called me.

My dad could not carry a tune. But there were some times when he just burst into song. Sadly for me as a teenage girl, they always coincided with one of my friends calling. My dad would answer the phone. As soon as he heard it was for me, he would lower his hand holding the phone and sing out flatly, but merrily “Verooonica Suuuuue. It’s for you.” (What can I say, my dad liked rhymes.)

The phone being two feet away from his mouth did not in anyway impair the ability of the caller to hear his voice. When I picked up the phone, there was inevitably hysterical laughter on the other end. “Is that really your name? That’s the funniest thing I ever heard,” was the response. My friends learned that the surest way to make me mad was to call me Veronica Sue.

I always liked being a Veronica. You hear the name more often now, but when I was growing up, there were no other Veronicas around. I always had a unique name. I was the only one.

That’s why I was very surprised when years ago I met a waitress with my name. My husband had said my name as I left the table for the ladies’ room. “Is her name Veronica?” the waitress asked. “Yes, it is,” he replied. “That’s my name too,” she said in a surprised voice. She continued,” But I don’t go by it. I much prefer my middle name,” and she pointed to her nametag. “Sue.”