Where Did I Put the Damn Thing

Russ called Sunday morning to ask if I needed anything from Publix. After I read off the few items on my list, he said when he got home he'd take care of depositing the check I received last month as part of a settlement with  Met Life. The depositing had to be done online; I don't have an account at a bank here in Columbus. Because of the social distancing rules here at Covenant Woods, Russ can come no further than the entryway between the two sets of sliding doors.

"Put the check on the table out there, and I'll pick it up when I drop off the groceries," he said. "And I'll need your user name and password."

"They'll be there waiting for you," I said.

They were there when Russ arrived, but they hadn't been waiting. I handed the envelope with the check and log-in information to Shirley, who was working at the desk, and I asked her to put it on the table. Just as Shirley went out one set of sliding doors, Russ came in the other.

What took me so long? I'd made the mistake of putting the check in a safe place, a place I was absolutely certain I wouldn't forget where I'd put it. The second I got off the phone with Russ, I grabbed a sheet of paper to jot down the user name and password. And I didn't stop there, I also put down the answers to the security questions the bank's computer sometimes asks me. Then I opened the drawer to retrieve the check. The place I'd put it so I wouldn't forget where I'd put it. It wasn't there. For fifteen minutes, I searched and searched to no avail. It wasn't long before my biggest concern wasn't finding the check, it was finding a way to tell Russ I'd lost the check, without feeling like a certified idiot. The last possible place I thought it might be was in my checkbook. But, why would I put it there? I don't know, but I did.

The moral of this story? Never put important items somewhere you're sure you'll never forget having put them there.

.

What's in a Name?

Picking up my mail was delightful: no bills, no junk mail, just one official looking envelope. Back in the apartment, I opened it and found a check for $4,800, a settlement of some sort involving Met Life. But there was a problem: I do all my banking at the bank I banked at in Ashtabula. I did have an account at a bank here for a while, but I seldom used it. OPERS and Social Security were sending all my money to the bank up North and it didn't seem worth the effort to have them send it to the bank here.

The question was, how do I get the check out of my greedy little hands in Georgia and into the bank in Ohio? The Internet, of course. I pulled up the July 1st email from the bank that let me know a check had been deposited in my account. I skipped over that part and looked for the link to the site to link up with if there is a problem. 

A click of the link brought up a page that asked for my user name and password. I dutifully typed them in, clicked on "Continue", and waited to be directed to a site with the answers to my questions. Instead, a group of red letters told me something was wrong. It did not recognize the stuff I'd typed in and told me to type in my user name and password. Carefully hunting before pecking each letter, number, or symbol, I reentered the requested information. They again responded by telling me something was wrong. "Enter your user name and password!" I did, for a third time, another big swing and a miss.

Below the red letters telling me to get my act together and enter my user name and password was the number to call if there was a problem. There was, and I called. After pressing a series of numbers in response to a lengthy list of questions, I was permitted to speak with a living, breathing human being. He began the conversation by asking a series of questions in order to be certain I was the person I said I was. 

The question I found most interesting: "What was make and model of the last car you purchased?' "Chevy Aveo," I told him. He went straight to the next question, giving no indication of the correctness of my answer. But I knew I was right. I'm proud of that old Aveo. I bought it in 2005. Seven years later, when I moved down here to Georgia, I gave it to Russ. Eight years later, in 2020, the Aveo is still getting Russ were he needs to go. OK. the car's longevity has more to do with the care Russ gives it than his father's astuteness in purchasing it. But there is plenty of credit to go around, and I'm claiming my share.

Once convinced that I was indeed Tom Harris, the guy on the phone turned to my difficulties with the bank's website. "What's your user name?" he asked. My answer elicited a "Wait a minute," "We have your user name as . . ." One syllable into my user name and my stupidity was obvious, even to me. I'd been typing in the user name and password for my credit card. 

After admitting my nitwittedness, I asked about depositing the check in his bank. "Do you have a Smartphone?" he asked. Alas, my phone is dumb. Russ, being so much smarter than his old man, has a Smartphone and has downloaded an app from the bank's site. Wish us luck.

Setting Things Straight

Saturday evening, as I squandered yet another hour cruising the Internet, my phone beeped, letting me know a text awaited my attention. The text was from the credit card folks. A pending charge to my card seemed suspicious. Did I want them to pay it? It was a small bill. $30, but it was from a company I'd never heard of. The text told me to answer either "yes" or "no". 

I took the third choice and ignored the text. It says on my card that I've been a cardholder since 2003. In those seventeen years, the company had never sent me a text for any reason. Granted, the only other time they got suspicious was on a very un-Tom like shopping day. Russ took me several places that day. I used the card to fill Russ' gas tank, fill our stomachs with lunch, get a few things at Target, then to get a new laptop to replace the one I had spilled water on a few days before. The laptop was too much for the credit card's suspicion detectors, and they wouldn't accept the charge. The clerk called the credit card company, and I was able to convince them that I was who I said I was. 

There was also the matter of the phone number the text said I could call if I had any questions: It wasn't the same number my card said to call with questions about my account. Someone was trying to scam me, I was sure of it. And I neither called nor texted the credit card company, forgot the whole thing.

Although, I didn't forget it for long. Monday, an email from Publix's pharmacy lurked in my inbox. Did I want to be notified by email when my prescriptions are ready for pickup? Well, of course. There used to be a very dedicated computer that alerted me that my meds were ready. Every time Publix had a bottle of drugs with my name on it, the computer called me. "Hello, this is the Publix Pharmacy in the Milgen Plaza," it said,  "A member of your family has one prescription ready for pickup. The amount due is [exoribant]. If you have picked up prescriptions in the last 24 hours, please disregard this message."

Recently, however, the computer has been less than dependable. I think this is because it has been given more work to do. Now, two weeks before my supply of atenolol or bupropion is about to run out, the computer calls to ask if everything with the drug remains the same. When I push the number that means "yes" to the computer, it tells me it will call back when the prescription is ready. Ha! It might call back, but more often it doesn't. 

Getting an email notification seemed like a great idea, and I quickly set about typing in the information needed to get on their email list. When I finished that, I was told there was a prescription for atenolol ready for pick up. Would I prefer to pay for it now by credit card? Another great idea. Russ would have to pick up the atenolol for me. If it was paid for before he got to the Publix Pharmacy in the Milgen Plaza, he could just get it and go.

Of course, to do that, I had to type in the credit card information. I did, only to be told that the information was not correct. Hitting the wrong key isn't unusual when I'm at the computer, so I tried again. No luck. And there was no luck on my third try, nor my fourth attempt. Maybe I should call the credit card company. I did, using the number on the credit card, not the one in the text.

Once satisfied that I was Thomas Harris, I was told there were five suspicious charges. My panic subsided when the list of questionable charges was read to me. The first was the item from Saturday's text. The other four were my unsuccessful attempts to pay Publix for the prescription. 

"We're going to send you a new card," the woman said. "Destroy your old card. The new card should arrive in five to seven days." I did, and the new card arrived yesterday.

Monday evening was notable for another reason. The Columbus Clinic called to remind me I had an appointment to see my primary care doc Wednesday morning at nine o'clock. Trouble was, I knew I had an appointment Wednesday morning at the Amos Center for an ocrevus infusion at 8:30. Ocrevus is one of the few drugs that has had some success slowing the progress of primary-progressive MS. Each infusion takes four or five hours. I couldn't do both in a day, let alone finish at the Amos Center in time to get to the Clinic a half-hour later.

However, the gods of motor vehicle maintenance were looking out for me. On Monday the Covenant Woods bus wouldn't start and was towed away. Tuesday morning, Dennis, the bus driver, told me that the bus might be ready Wednesday, or it might not. What did I want to do? Rescheduling the appointments seemed like the best way out, And, I wouldn't have to face the embarrassment of telling the people in the doctor's office that I had been stupid and careless. "Can't make it. The bus is in the shop." And, as things turned out, it was still in the shop Wednesday morning.

Odd Moments

I was roused from my waiting-room drowse when a woman called my name. She was shuffling folders as she  searched for someone named "Thomas Harris." She looked toward me, I nodded and guided the wheelchair through the maze of waiting patients. Then I followed her down a hallway to an examining room. She moved a chair to make way for my chair and watched as I eased into the space she had created. "Can you move a little more to the left?" I did, at least I thought I did. But my effort got no more than an "I guess that will do," from her. She asked if there had been any changes to my medications and if I had fallen in the last month. I answered "no" to both  questions. "OK, Someone will be with you in a minute," she said and left.

Five minutes later, there was a gentle knock on the door and a nurse let herself in. She took my temperature, clipped a small plastic device to the index finger of my right hand. A moment later, she took it off, looked at it, and said, "Good." Then came the blood pressure.

"I really like your shirt," she said, as she pumped up the band she'd put on my arm. "I love that color blue. It looks so good on you and it goes so well with the silver in your hair."

I mumbled a halfhearted "thank you."

"Your blood pressure looks good," she said. "125 over 68."

My blood pressure hasn't been that low in 20 years. Obviously, the remark about the silver in my hair took the life out of me.

*                    *                    *                    *

As Katie was leaving the dining room, she stopped by a table and handed a newspaper to the woman sitting there.

"Here's the Sunday paper," Katie said. "It's all here but the comics. I guess I left them in my apartment. I'll go get them for you."

"Don't worry about the comics," the woman said. "I never look at them."

"You don't read the comics?" Katie gasped. "That's my favorite part of the paper. They make me laugh, and I love to laugh. Don't you like to laugh?"

"I like to read the obituaries," the woman said.

*                    *                    *                    *

The woman looked to be in her twenties, and she seemed more than a little confused. She looked at the papers in her hand, looked at the sign with the first-floor apartment numbers down the hall to the left of the elevator, and shook her head. She walked to the other side of the elevator, glanced at the papers in her hand, looked at the sign with the first-floor apartments numbers in the hall to the right of the elevator, and shook her head head.

"Are looking for something?" I asked.

"I'm supposed to go to apartment 205," she said.

"The elevator is right there," I told her.

"Oh? I need the elevator?"

And Now to Bed . . . ?

With the clock nearing 10 o'clock last night, I told myself, "It's time for bed." As I got ready to retire for the night, my bowels said, "Not so fast, Bucko, we've got some business to take care of." Once my big butt was out of the wheelchair and properly positioned on the commode, I got to work on one of the crossword puzzles stashed nearby. Twenty minutes later, the puzzle was done, and the bowels hadn't done shit. For the next fifteen minutes, the bowels received my undivided attention. I might as well have done another crossword puzzle.

Satisfied with their little joke, the bowels were now quiet. My gut now undisturbed and my eyelids getting heavy, the time had come to get off the pot and into bed. That would require getting myself from the commode to the wheelchair, and that proved to be a problem. Getting my arse off the commode wasn't difficult, getting it on to the chair was another story.

I gripped the chair's armrests, pulled myself toward the wheelchair, got my backside off the toilet, and pivoted in order to get the butt aligned with the chair. Alas, my legs were not up to the task. As soon as the old gluteus maximus got between the toilet and the chair, the legs faltered, and the butt began sinking. My arms, getting absolutely no help from the legs, were not able to stop my slow descent to the floor, and, as a result, I got wedged between the toilet and the wheelchair. On the plus side, I was able to reach the chair's controls and move it back. When I did, I ended up lying on my side, with my head against the laundry hamper. Once I got my legs sorta untangled and sorta stretched out, and my pants up far enough to avoid embarrassing myself and others, I was about as comfortable as I could be given the circumstances.

I pressed the button on the I've-fallen-and-can't-get-up pendant Covenant Woods gives each resident. In a few moments, John, the night security guy, was in the apartment, standing over me and assessing my plight. Given the lack of space in the small bathroom and my inability to be of any help, he opted to call for EMTs to get me back in the wheelchair. 

Ten minutes later, there was a knock on the door and four EMTs entered my humble abode. One came in the bathroom to take look and figure out the best way to get me off the floor and back on to the wheelchair. "Here, hold on to my arms," he said. He got a hold of me as best he could, and with me clutching his arms, he lifted me off the floor. A second EMT came in the bathroom to help, and then a third. It was a struggle, but they managed to get me back on the chair. They asked me several times if I was hurt (I wasn't) and if I needed any more help (I didn't). I thanked them for their help, and they went on their way.

They were hardly out the door when I started asking myself if I had been too hasty when I told them I didn't need additional help. But I managed to get up from the wheelchair and on to the bed without incident.                                                                                   

An Uneventfully Eventful Thursday

Thursday morning, I made my weekly trip to Publix. This week, in addition to the groceries, I needed to have a prescription filled. When I picked it up, the woman behind the counter said, "Your insurance doesn't cover this. It's normally $168.34, but we're giving you a discount: it will be $37.85."

I paid, well, I promised to pay the credit card company the $37.85 and proceeded to Check Out Lane 4 to pay for the groceries. I didn't pay much attention to the clerk ringing up my haul; my mind was on drugs. Giving a guy in a wheelchair a discount is a wonderful thing, but a 75% discount? Come on. The woman had to be joking about the actual cost. But if she was, that smile, that goofy grin which should have shot across her face when she saw the relief come across mine wasn't there.

Back in my apartment, I looked at all the information that came with the small bottle of bills. It showed the price at $37.85, there was nothing about how much the insurance paid, and there was no mention of Publix Pharmacy's generous discount. Thirty days from now I'll need to have the script refilled. What will the price be then? One hundred sixty-eight dollars, or thirty-eight dollars? I'll let you know in a month.

Long about one o'clock that afternoon, as I was headed outside, my next-door neighbor was coming in. "How did you like the Christmas card?" she asked.

"What Christmas card?"

"The one I put on your door."

"There wasn't a Christmas card on my door."

"I'm sure I put one there. I walked all over the building last night, taping Christmas cards on my friends' doors. Maybe I missed you. I was awfully tired."

"Well, thank you so much. I really do appreciate the gesture. It's so nice to have friends."

"Don't worry," she said. "You're going to get a card from me."

An hour or so later, hungry for a cookie, I set out for the Nook. Going out my door, I noticed an envelope taped on it. It was the card my neighbor promised me. Then, as I was on my way down the long hallway after supper, another woman who lives a few doors down from me handed me a card.

"How nice. Thank you," I said.

"Oh, that's not from me. Someone put it in my box by mistake."

When I opened the card, I discovered it was from my next-door neighbor. From no card to two cards in just a few hours. When I saw my neighbor Friday morning, I thanked her for both cards.

"Both cards?"

"Yea, the one you put on my door yesterday afternoon. And on my way back from supper last night, Ruth gave me a card. She said someone must have put in her box by mistake."

"I didn't put any cards in the boxes. I probably dropped it, and someone spotted it on the floor and put it in the wrong box by mistake."

Thursday evening, after watching Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune, I started reading The Book of Lies, by Brad Meltzer. I got the book from the library here at the old-folks home, hoping to find a book I could get lost in. When I got to page 18, The Book of Lies took me to a very familiar place: the Conneaut Community Arts Center on a Thursday morning eight or ten years ago.

Chapter Three begins:
"'Cal . . . I need help!' Roosevelt screams.
My tenth-grade English teacher once told me that throughout your life, you should use only three exclamation points. That way, when you put one out there, people know it's worth it."

In the Arts Center, at our weekly class, eight of us are seated around a table listening to Suzanne Byerly, our teacher, read from the things we wrote. Inevitably, somewhere in our scribblings, there is an exclamation point. When she reaches it, Suzanne stops, looks at the person who wrote the piece and says, "You do know, we're each allotted just three exclamation points in our lives."

The writing class was an outstanding experience, and I am indebted to Mary Lewis for getting me involved in it. Suzanne was a wise and wonderful teacher, and the others in the class were all friendly, helpful, encouraging, and great company. I can't thank Mr. Meltzer enough for taking me back there for a few minutes Thursday night.

Blasts from the Past

I sit down at the computer every day, sit there for hours, accomplishing nothing most days, and less than nothing the other days. It has been months, many more than a few months since I've sat down to write and actually written. With that in mind, I have resolved to write at least 250 words a day.

At least 250 Words a Day

There, that takes care of today.

*                    *                    *

Every now and then I'll hear something that sounds out of place. Not out of place in terms of propriety, but out of place in terms of time. A word of phrase that wouldn't have stirred the least bit of curiosity or garnered the smallest bit of my attention fifty or sixty years ago.  In 2019, though, the words are fascinating relics of the past.

At dinner, one evening a month or two ago, Dee Dee, our server, was singing softly as she cleared some dirty dishes from the table. I thought I recognized the song. "Nah, she's too young," I told myself, "She's never even heard that song." But, I had to know for sure, and when she brought us dessert, I asked if she had been singing "Que Sera, Sera." "Yes," she said. "I really like that song."

I can't say, "I really like that song." But it was unavoidable in the mid-50s and early 60s. In addition to the DJs sending it our way at every opportunity, Dad picked up the sheet music on his way home one night so Mom could play it on our organ. As a result, the moment Dee Dee said she had been singing "Que Sera, Sera", the song became my constant companion for the next three days.

When I was just a little girl

I asked my mother, what will I be

Will I be pretty

Will I be rich

Here's what she said to me

Que será, será

Whatever will be, will be

The future's not ours to see

Que será, será

What will be, will be

The lyrics moved into my brain. Over and over, repeating and repeating, ad infinitum, they pushed everything else out of my brain - not that there is ever much in my brain. Alone in my apartment, I sang "Que Sera, Sera" over and over again. The neighbors never complained, but they're all hard of hearing and probably couldn't hear me. 

It wasn't long afterward that Doris Day died. Did my singing do her in? Quite possibly.

 A week or two after getting back to 2019, my mind found itself wondering what decade it was again. After a morning ride through the parking lots, I was about to go inside but stopped to allow two women to come out. A middle-aged lady came out first. The moment she passed from the air-conditioned lobby into the Georgia sunshine, she said, "Mom, it's awfully hot out here."

Mom took two steps into the outdoors before issuing an emphatic "Aye yigh yigh!"

"Aye yigh yigh," where did that come from? From several decades past, that's where. At least, it's been more than a few years since I'd heard anyone say those words. Strange.

The Wood Bee

The blimp-like wood bee

Buzzes, hovers, rises, falls,

Darts away,

And returns

To buzz, hover, rise, and fall,

Before crawling back into the fence.

Skirting the Issue

          Often, despite a slew of more important things to do, I squander an hour on the web perusing lists of sarcastic quotes and sayings. Without a gun nor an imposing physical presence, my plan is to ward off attackers with a tidal wave of biting, peppery, impertinent wisecracks.

          Last night, during another search for acerbic ammunition, I was transported to the Bethel Park Junior High School. Poof! It was 1962, and I was in Mr. Lebedda’s eighth-grade American history class. He was going over the details of a paper he had just assigned.

          “How long should it be?” someone asked.

          “Well, I had a professor once who always told us, ‘Your paper should be like a woman’s skirt: long enough to cover the subject, but short enough to keep it interesting.’”

          The sarcastic saying on the web that took me back 57 years? “A paper should be like a mini skirt: long enough to cover everything, but short enough to keep it interesting.” Proving once again that a quality smart-ass remark stands the test of time.

To Bed, Perchance to Sleep

According to an article on the National Multiple Sclerosis Society's website, a person with MS is up to three times more likely to experience sleep disturbances than the general population, and nearly twice as likely to get a reduced quality of sleep. In a section titled, Are You Sleep Deprived?, it says if I answer "yes" to even one of the four questions, I might have a problem. My answers would be one "yeah, maybe a little", and a "Yes! Yes! Yes!" for each of the questions.

"Are you, sleepy, grumpy or 'down' much of the day?" I am often sleepy, but not often grumpy - in my opinion, anyway - or down. Maybe I'm wrong - I am once in a while - but when I have those feelings during the day, I'm quick to attribute them to boredom. Then I think about it and wonder why it is so difficult for me to read or write for more than a half-hour at a time. Could be my writing bores me, but the writing of others seldom did in the past.

"Do you fall asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow?" Yes, absolutely! And I love it. Sleep never came quickly. I went to bed, shut my eyes, and my mind got busy. It overflowed with thoughts on a myriad of subjects: things that happened that day; things I had read; something I had heard; a television show; the news; the Pirates, Steelers or Penguins; the weather; wild sex; how to be a better person. With very, very, very few exceptions, I was still awake an hour after my head hit the pillow.

Now, I get in bed, get comfy, and get to sleep within minutes. The MS diagnosis came in 2006, and within three or four years, getting into bed put me on the express to Dreamland. The article says that could be a result of having to work harder and struggle more as a result of MS. Even so, I enjoy it when sleep arrives promptly.

"Do you sleep less than 7 hours most nights?" Time was when seven or eight hours sleep was the norm. Back when I was gainfully employed, I relied on the alarm clock to rouse me in a timely manner. These days, I seldom need to get up early, but I'm often awake in the wee, wee hours of the morning. Many nights, I'll get in bed at 10:30 or 11 and wake up at 1a.m. Sometimes I can get back to sleep. But most nights I can't and give up trying by 3 or 4.

"Do you still feel tired even after getting 8 or more hours of sleep?" You bet your sweet bippy I do. This body ain't easy to move, and it seldom moves at all once sleep comes. So, on those nights when I get the recommended hours of sleep, every muscle in my legs is beyond stiff and approaching rigid; my balance is questionable; my sinuses ache and I'm so tired, if my wasn't bladder clamoring for attention, I'd sleep for another two or three hours.

Until this morning, dealing with sleep and/or the lack of it hadn't caused any problems. But, it sure did Tuesday, when I had an 8:55a.m. appointment for blood work at the Columbus Clinic. I was to be in the Covenant Woods' lobby at 8a.m. to get on the bus that would take me there. I hit the sack at 11 Monday night, woke up at 1:30 Tuesday morning, tried without success to get back to sleep and quit trying at 3:30. After getting dressed and tending to my urinary needs, I had a glass of water, fired up Mr. Coffee, and reminded myself that the banana on the counter was out of the question. "This,' the person who called to remind me of the appointment said, "is a fasting lab. Nothing but water and black coffee after midnight."

While the coffee brewed, I checked my email, took a look at Facebook, and started to work on a crossword puzzle. When Mr. Coffee was done making all those funny noises, I filled my cup, set on the table, and fell asleep. I fell directly to sleep, did not pass go, and did not regain even a sliver of consciousness until Amy's voice came through the intercom.

"Tom, are you going to the doctor today?"

"No. That was yesterday."

"OK."

Why did I say, "That was yesterday"? I have no idea. I remember saying it, but I wasn't trying to make excuses for not being in the appointed place at the appointed time. It was 15 or 20 minutes later when my mental fog lifted just a bit. I realized it was Tuesday, I had an appointment, and Dennis was already on the road, taking residents to their appointments. Then, still in the wheelchair, I fell asleep again and remained asleep or occasionally half asleep until 3:30 this afternoon.

It is nearly midnight now, and I'm not tired. With all the sleeping I did today, that's not a surprise. But, I'm not hungry, and all I've eaten was a banana and a bagel. My liquid intake for the day has consisted of two small glasses of water and three cups of coffee. I should be hungry and thirsty. But I'm not.

The Resident Journal

This is the current issue of The Resident Journal, minus the pictures. Chuck Baston, a Covenant Woods' resident, came up with the idea, and I was recruited to be the editor. The Resident Journal, a monthly - more or less - has been printing the work of Covenant Woods' residents since May 2015. This month's issue is a little thin, it is usually eight to twelve pages.

_______________________________________________________

The Resident Journal

Covenant Woods, Columbus, Georgia

July 2018

America

By Kate Larkins

From Maine to California

We planted golden grain,

In rich and fertile valleys

And mountainous terrain.

Through drought and depression

We’ve tilled our native land.

We fought our wars, grieved our men,

And triumphed once again.

We fought off varmints, plagues and flood

And daily fight inflation.

We’ve filled the bins and stocked the shelves

To feed a hungry nation.

So bless us, Lord, this special day,

As we bow our heads in prayer.

We thank you for the guts it took

And the guts to hang in there.

The Resident Journal                            July 2018                                    Page  2

Dresser Tops

By Chuck Baston

The subject of this little essay is unusual and can use a bit of explanation before we get into its heart and soul. “Dresser” is that wonderful piece of furniture in the bedroom, whose spacious drawers hold hosiery and underwear, sweaters and shirts, and miscellaneous items galore. Unfortunately, it seldom has room for all we try to put in it.

Having taken care of the drawers, we come to the top of the dresser, which is our subject. Though you probably do it every day, now is a good time to look at what is displayed there. A survey of dresser tops, I’m sure, would find the greatest array of items ever conceived, everything from Indian scalps to false teeth.

What are we likely to find on a dresser top? Photographs are often the No. 1 dresser top item; pictures of loved ones, of those still with us and of those who have passed. There might be trinkets on the dresser that hold loving memories of family and friends. One of Aunt Tillie’s garters might be there, or grandpa’s old mustache cup. There might also be a hand mirror, a comb, a brush, a small mirrored jewelry tray, a small chest for jewelry or other keepsakes. And maybe some souvenirs from visits to Disney World, the Statue of Liberty, or Niagara Falls.

You see! Dresser tops can be very interesting and may provide insight into the personality and interests of its owner. It may hold a major clue to a personal trait the owner doesn’t want made public.

So, it pays to be careful what we display on the dresser. On the other hand, you see the items on your dresser every day and derive pleasure from them. Be sure the items on your dresser give you a smile every morning and each night before you turn out the light and enter your land of memories.

Happy dreams!!!

The Resident Journal                            July 2018                                    Page  3

Radiating Love

By Violet Hayes Conner

How amazing is Calvary Love! When transformed by Calvary Love, the heart undergoes miraculous changes.  One dies to self and discards the grave clothes of sorrow and the blemishes of unrighteousness.  A new person emerges with a new joy-filled heart, full of His ever-present redeeming Love.

His marvelous Love radiates into families, creating an awesome bonding. Friendships flourish when renewed hearts share in His Presence.  How amazing is this bonding and promoting love and goodwill among families and friends.  The heart greatly rejoices!

Radiating Love knows no bounds.  It flows from love-filled hearts clothed in flowing garments of praise.  Be adorned with His glorious praise and radiate the beauty of His mantle of Love!

The Resident Journal                            July 2018                                    Page  4

The Long, Hot Summer

By Tom Harris,

Day after day the high’s above ninety,

The humidity is one-forty-four.

I’d like to say with class and nicety

That I can’t take this stuff anymore.

But daily that darn heat-index rises,

And saps my respectful vocabulary

The heat kills the nice words, and my surmise is,

What’s left will draw the constabulary.

Yes. I do try to be understanding

Of Mother Nature’s mysterious ways.

Yet, on days when I’m out standing

In Sol’s searing, sultry, scorching rays,

It is difficult to keep a civil tongue,

And polite chatting is impossible.

Within seconds I’ve burst a lung,

Shouting words and phrases reprehensible.

As Grandma said, “It’s hotter than Hades.”

One moment outside and I am an ember,

I’m wishing hard for a day in the eighties,

Which maybe we’ll have in November.

_________________________________________________________________

Help! We need writers. If you have an essay, story or poem you’d like to share with your friends and neighbors, pass it along to Alisha, Annie, Penelope, Tom Harris, or drop it off at the front desk, or email it to tharris508@gmail.com. If you have an idea and would like some help getting it on paper, please ask. We are always glad to help.

Pop?

Alisha, the activities director, asked me to play Reader's Digest editor and condense an article on spring health tips she'd found on the web. She needed a few paragraphs for the monthly calendar. "Can you work your magic with this?" she asked, handing the printout to me. "Oh, baby, if it's magic you want, it's magic I've got," I said to myself. "Sure, when do you need it?" I said to Alisha.

The article was the usual list of suggestions for improving one's health: eating better, getting outside and enjoying the pleasant weather, exercising more. The last item, staying hydrated, isn't unusual in this type of article, but this time it grabbed my attention. "Don't be tempted by those cans of diet pop in the refrigerator," it said. In the second paragraph, it warned of the ill effects of "sugar-laden pop."

Pop? I grew up in the environs of Pittsburgh, where sugar-laden carbonated water is"pop". It wasn't until I went off to college in Buckhannon, WV that I realized not everyone went to the vending machine for a can of pop. The folks not from western Pennsylvania went to get a "soda". During the nearly forty years I lived in Ashtabula, "pop," as a synonym for "soft drink," all but disappeared from the thesaurus in my brain.

When "pop" popped up in the article, I jumped to the conclusion that it was the product of an organization located in the greater Pittsburgh area. I combed the article for some mention of the website it was taken from. Unfortunately, that information did not appear in the printout Alisha had given me. However, going through the article a second time all but eliminated the possibility of the piece coming out of Pittsburgh. Two dieticians were quoted several times each in the article; one was from somewhere in Alberta. the other from British Columbia. Those wily Canadians are speaking Pittsburghese, eh.

Tom, Urine Trouble Now

Back on February 27, I saw Dr. Verson, my neurologist, to discuss my Ocrevus experience. The doctor had all the details of my visit, a week earlier, to the John B. Amos Cancer Center for my first infusion of the first drug approved for the treatment of primary-progressive MS. I didn't get fully infused. About the time half of the Ocrevus had found its way into my veins, I got itchy and my blood pressure dropped. The nurses at the Amos Center called Dr. Verson, who told them to shut off the Ocrevus and keep an eye on me for an hour. Once the Ocrevus was stopped, I quickly got back to normal,

Before I left the Amos Center, a nurse told me Dr. Verson wanted me to call his office the following day. I did and made the appointment for the 27th. The doctor asked if I wanted to continue with the Ocrevus treatment. I did and made an appointment for Tuesday, March 6. In the back of my mind, such as it is, there lurked the thought that an infection might be lurking in my urinary tract. And as the sixth drew closer, the urine got cloudier.

When I saw Dr. Miller, my primary care guy, in the fall, he put a specimen jar in a sealed plastic bag so I could bring my urine with me when I go for blood work. On Monday, the fifth, I called his office, told them of my concerns, and asked if I peed into the cup at home Tuesday morning, could Russ then rush the sample to the lab. That was fine. Then I called the Amos Center and canceled the appointment for the sixth.

On Thursday, Dr. Miller's office called to tell me, yes, I had a UTI, and the doctor would send a prescription to the Publix Pharmacy in the Milgen Plaza. Friday morning, I got a call from a recorded voice, "Hello, this is your Publix Pharmacy in the Milgen Plaza. A member of your family has one prescription ready for pick up." Saturday morning, a member of my family - Russ - picked it up.

The instructions on the bottle read, "Take one pill twice a day." I considered asking Russ, once I've taken that one pill, how do I retrieve it in order to take it a second time? But he would have rolled his eyes, shaken his head, and said,"Oh, Dad," in a disgusted tone of voice. Instead, I took a pill and started doing the math. There were fourteen pills in the bottle, at two a day, that was a seven day supply. Ergo: the pills would last through the following Friday.

They did; right through Friday and the weekend and into this week. Now, I know I forget to do things once in a while, and I expected to find a pill or two left in the bottle after I took what should have been the last one Friday evening. After taking the "last pill," I looked in the bottle and counted six untaken pills. "That can't be," I said to myself. "Obviously, somebody at the Publix Pharmacy in the Milgen Plaza can't count." Monday evening, I went to get the last pill. I got the pill, but it wasn't the last one. After I took it, there were still three pills in the bottle. "Damn things must be reproducing," I thought.

Wednesday morning, I took what should have been the last one for the third time. Strangely enough, it was the last one. So, now the pills are gone, and, from what I can tell, so is the UTI. Monday, I'll call the Amos Center and get an appointment to finish what was started all those weeks ago.

Notes from the Home - February 21, 2018

I went to the Amos Cancer Center, Tuesday, to get my first infusion of Ocrevus. I left there not quite fully infused. Last year, Ocrevus became the first drug approved for treating primary-progressive Multiple Sclerosis. Late last summer, Dr. Verson ordered some blood work, which I thought was the first step toward getting the Ocrevus infusions. Whether I misunderstood, or someone dropped the ball, nothing happened. A few weeks ago, however, someone from his office called to set up an appointment for more blood work, this time to test for hepatitis B.

Two days after my encounter with the phlebotomist, a woman from the Cancer Center called to make an appointment for me to get the first infusion. We set the date for February 9. At 8:30 that morning, I phoned in my cancellation. I hadn't slept well, and my legs were weaker and wobblier than usual. Russ was going to provide transportation, and I was afraid he'd also have to give me a lift off the ground when I fell getting from the manual wheelchair into the car, and when I got out of the car at the Cancer Center. And getting there might be the easy part. The night before, I saw on a Facebook site of MSers who are getting Ocrevus that weak legs after an infusion aren't uncommon. Poor Russ, I thought, it might be easier for him to push me home than try to get me in and out of the car after the infusion.

Covenant Woods provides transportation to and from medical appointments on Tuesday and Wednesdays. My motorized chair fits nicely on the bus, too. But the Ocrevus infusions take several hours, and I needed to find out from Dennis, Covenant Woods' bus driver, the time I needed to be done in order to get a ride back to the Woods. "Four or four-thirty," he said. The following Tuesday, I called to reschedule the appointment. I gave her a quick explanation of my situation and told her I needed to be out of the Cancer Center by four. The best way to be sure they would finish with me by four-thirty would be to tell her I had to be out by four.

"Well, would Tuesday, February 20th, at 10:30 work?" she asked.

"Will I be done by four?"

"You'll be done by 2:30."

"OK, Tuesday the 20th at 10:30, right?"

"That's correct."

Dennis got me to the Cancer Center at the designated time. At 11:15 a young man, who will graduate from the Columbus State School of Nursing in the spring, stuck a needle in my arm, while the nurse supervising him complimented me on my excellent, easily accessible veins. Then another nurse hooked up a small bag of steroids to the IV and had me take a Benadryl and one other pill.

"We'll give that stuff a half hour to get into your system, then we'll start the Ocrevus," she said.

A few minutes before noon, the nurse was back and explained that the IV would start slowly and speed up at regular intervals. Doing a quick calculation in my otherwise empty head, I determined that between the IV and the hour afterward that they keep you for observation, I wasn't going to be out of there by four o'clock.

"If I'm not out of here before Dennis clocks out, I have no way to get home. This chair is nearly as big as my son's Aveo."

"You don't have to stay for the hour of observation," she said.

"This is the first time for me, and I know people sometimes do have difficulty after an infusion. I'd rather come back on a day when we can get an earlier start."

"What if we can get another ride for you?"

"That'll work for me, All I want is a way home."

"OK, I'll call some people and see what we can do."

A few minutes later she came back to tell me she had talked to Dennis, who told her 4:30 was the latest he could pick me up.

"As long as you get me out of here by 4:30, I'll stay."

"It's a deal," she said as she turned on the IV.

It all went well. I read some, slept some and read a little more. And I spent more than a few minutes looking at the IV bag to be sure the amount of Ocrevus in it was declining. At 1:45, my back started to itch. Not all of the back, just a streak below the shoulders, were my back met the chair. I couldn't scratch it, so I wiggled around as best I could to relieve the itching, The wiggling didn't produce the desired effect. And after ten minutes of it, I realized I was beginning to itch all over.

When a nurse came by, I told her about the itching. She lifted my shirt and looked at my stomach. "There are spots all over your stomach," she said and went to tell the other nurses. One of them called Dr. Verson's office.

"He said to turn it off and for us to keep you here for an hour to make sure you're OK," the nurse said when she came back. "And he wants you to call his office tomorrow to set up an appointment." I had difficulty processing what she said, I was getting woozy and felt as if I might pass out.

At 2:30, the Ocrevus stopped dripping into my bloodstream. Within minutes, I felt much better. For the next hour, I sat and watched the clock. Periodically a nurse came by to check the spots on my stomach. They were gone by three o'clock, and I was gone at 3:30.

I called Dr. Verson's office this morning, and I'll see him Friday at 9:30. When I called, the woman I talked to told me to come in at one on Friday. I then called Russ to make sure that would work for him. He said that was fine. Two minutes after talking to Russ, the phone rang. It was the woman from Dr. Verson's office. "He wants you to come in at 9:30," she said. Another call.to Russ, and being an agreeable and flexible young man, he said he was fine with the new time. It will be interesting to hear what the doctor has to say.

*                    *                    *

I'm dropping things more frequently these days. It is frustrating, but picking up what I drop provides a little exercise and sometimes a sense of accomplishment and pride. Saturday, cottage cheese topped with some cherry tomatoes sounded like a good lunch. Getting the cottage cheese into the bowl was easy-peasy. And I had every reason to expect that getting the tomatoes on top of the cottage cheese would be just as easy. It was. But, as I picked up the container of unused tomatoes I dropped it. There were tomatoes everywhere, thousands of them, I tell you, thousands of them. 

OK, there were fifteen or twenty tomatoes on the carpet, but someone had to pick them, and that someone was me. With a steady hand on the joystick, I moved the wheelchair from tomato to tomato, reaching down and picking each one up. When I had them all back in the plastic container from which they had fallen, I surveyed the carpet, expecting to see a big red splotch, the remains of a tomato I'd unknowingly run over. But there were no splotches. I had cleaned up the mess without making a bigger mess in the process. Damn, I'm good.

What Would Granddad Think?

I never knew either of my grandfathers; they both died before I came along. Nonetheless, I often find myself thinking about my dad’s father these days. My grandfather was an extraordinary letter writer, and the letters he wrote to Dad in 1942 and 1943 are a family treasure. Dad gave the letters to Nana, and no Harris family gathering was complete until the letters were brought out and a few of them read aloud.

In one letter he said he grew up taking one bath a week. Then, “your mother” insisted he take two baths a week. And now, “your mother and Jane” were telling him he should take a bath every day. In the middle of another letter a page is covered in ink. On the following page, in the style of a play-by-play announcer describing a running back moving from one spot in the house to another, he explains how the ink got on the paper. One of the letters is an essay on the fanny.

The letter I keep thinking about these days begins, “The headline in tonight’s Sun-Telegraph is ‘Allies pushed back 5 miles in North Africa.’” (That is not a direct quote; I don’t have a copy of the letter and I’m relying on my memory.) My grandfather then told Dad that had the Allies pushed the Germans back, it would have gone unmentioned in German papers. Or if it was, it would have called an Axis victory. I don’t remember if he used the term “strategic redeployment,” but that is what he was getting at. My grandfather went on to tell Dad that press freedom was one of the things we were fighting for. That we were stronger because of our freedoms, including freedom  of the press.

So I wonder: what would my grandfather say about the current president and his calls to silence those who disagree with him?

Curmudgeon's Day

Monday is Curmudgeon's Day, and I plan to properly celebrate the occasion.

Oh, yes, I’ll be cantankerous,

Nasty, mean and rancorous.

My words will all be slanderous;

My attitude so awfully cancerous.

And I’ll be feeling rapturous.

Telling folks they look cadaverous.

A man shouldn’t act that way;

Is that what you’d like to say?

Well, it doesn’t matter anyway –

’Cause Monday is Curmudgeon’s Day.

A Stormy Night

As I got dressed this morning, I noticed a drop of dried blood and a small scratch on my right shin. How did that happen? It wasn't there seven hours earlier, when I got out of my pants and into bed. "Must have scratched it during the night," I thought. But, how? There was nothing to scratch it on. Perhaps I had an itch and scratched it. Perhaps. Given my lack of agility, though, the effort required to reach my lower leg while lying in bed is unlikely to be forgotten in a hour or two.

Wait. There was that kiss. A few minutes after midnight, I was awakened by a gentle kiss on the cheek.

"Who are you?" I asked the lady seated on the edge of the bed.

"Stormy," she said.

"Stormy?"

"Stormy Daniels. My name has been all over the TV news and the Internet."

"You're not that Trumpian trollop everyone is talking about, are you?"

"Yes. Yes I am," she said.

"What are you doing here? Why are you in my apartment?"

"Let me show you," she said, getting out of her clothes and closer and closer to me.

And for the next two hours, Stormy did show me. A lingering kiss left me ready to bask in the afterglow. But Stormy couldn't stay.

"I guess you've heard, The Donald gave me a check in the six figures after our little tete-a-tete."

"Well, I can give you a check in the three figures, as long as two of them are to the right of the decimal," I said.

"That won't be necessary. I feel like I should pay you."

"Huh?"

"You ever look at The Donald's hands? How small they are? Well, they say a man with small hands is small somewhere else, too."

"Are they?"

"It's always been the case with the men I've known, And I've known more than a few men," Stormy said.

"Where do I rank among the men you've known?"

"There might be one or two as good as you. But in my experience there are none better than you."

Obviously, my leg was scratched when Stormy and I were passionately rolling around on the bed. That's my story, anyway, and I'm sticking to it.

Notes from the Home- January 18, 2018

FAKE NEWS ALERT!!! Any current reports of me being full of shit are false, fake, bogus, counterfeit, fabricated, fictitious, forged, fraudulent, phony, spurious, and untrue. It is possible that I was full of shit last week, though I doubt. And, there is a chance, though small, that I will be flush with feces in the future. But for this week, any reports of me being full of crap are full of crap.

The flu stopped by Covenant Woods and nestled up to me. He was content to cause discomfort and considerable achiness for three days. But on Sunday, and especially Monday, he led me on a series of hurried, unpleasant jaunts to the bathroom. Four bowel movements in twenty-four hours, each one smellier and messier than the one before.

It was a shitty situation. Before going to bed Monday night, I cleaned off myself, the wheelchair, and sundry surfaces as best I could. Tuesday morning, I could not call Russ and ask him to pick up some sterilizer and deodorizer - he was sick, too, maybe because he had been to see me over the weekend. What was a boy to do? I turned to Alisha, who is the Covenant Woods' activities director. I do a little proofreading for her each month. The last time I proofed something, Alisha said if I ever needed something from the store, she'd be glad to pick it up for me.

Good to her word, Alisha did my necessary shopping. When she returned, she put the change on the table and showed me the Pine Sol, Lysol, Clorox Disinfectant Wipes, and Pro Chem Spotless she'd purchased. Then she proceeded to use them with a vengeance. It was as though the haz-mat unit was on the job. She even wiped the almost two-years worth of accumulated dust off my wheelchair. Wow.

As of now -Thursday afternoon - my biggest concern is getting my legs back to what was normal for them a week ago. Whether as a direct result of the flu, or perhaps because I stood up as seldom as possible for several days, the old legs feel older and weaker than before. Transferring from the wheelchair to the bed is now more difficult, in terms of both strength and balance. And while I haven't fallen while clinging to the counter as I pull up my pants, I keep thinking I will.

The left leg is not cooperating at all. Not that it ever did. In the pre-flu era, however, I could pick up my left leg and put it across my right knee. With it there, I put a sock on my left foot. After getting a sock on the right foot, I hoisted the left leg again, put it across the right knee and got my foot into appropriate trouser leg. With the pants started on the left, I moved to the right leg. Once trousered, I got the left leg off the ground sufficiently and at the proper angle to put my shoe on. There is a brace on the left shoe, which makes putting it on difficult in the best of circumstances. Warren and Curtis, the night security guys, have helped me every morning. Good thing, too. Otherwise I'd be sitting in bed all day.

This morning, I darn near got that sinister limb to get where it was supposed to go. If Russ is feeling better this weekend, I'll ask him to come over so we can work with the leg. Maybe we can get a leg up.

Lust to Dust

One night when I was nearly drunk,
I sez, "Sweet Lass, ain't I a hunk."
She looked astounded,
Said, "You've come ungrounded.
Why you're a tub of flabby gunk."

That chick had lots and lots of spunk,
But would not join me in the bunk.
She said she was proper
And my plans came a cropper.
I guess I'll go become a monk.

On and Ennui Go

The word "ennui" has been on my mind lately. Whenever ennui pops into my otherwise vacant skull, I think about it.  Ennui is the only word I can remember the exact moment I came to know it. Of course, there are a lot of words I know I learned while sitting in a class. I might recall the class where I picked up a word, but I wouldn't be able to relate the details of the moment the word became part of my vocabulary.

And many words work their way into my vocabulary as I read. But I cannot recall what I was reading when I came upon this or that word. The most memorable word in this category is "exacerbate". I must have been forty at the time that word got my attention. I have no recollection of what I was reading - book, newspaper, magazine, who knows? When I saw the word, I consulted the dictionary. Like so many other words I've looked up in the dictionary, "exacerbate" would have quickly fallen out of my vocabulary, except "exacerbate" suddenly became a hot word. In the papers and on the TV news, every situation was being exacerbated due to one thing or another.

There is no uncertainty about when and where I learned about ennui. It was a summer evening in the early 1960s, and Mom was sitting on the milk box by the front door, working on the crossword puzzle in that day's Pittsburgh Press. I stepped outside, sat on the door step, and began hassling her. "Do you need my help?" I asked several times. Finally, she handed me the paper and said, "OK, see what you can do."

I looked at the clues for the spaces not yet filled;  every one of them stumped me. So I moved to finding Mom's mistakes. She didn't make many mistakes, but there was always a chance she would. If she did, I wasn't likely to find it. But she made a very obvious error that day. Well, I thought she did.

"You goofed," I said.

"Where?"

"Right here."

"That's not a mistake," she said.

"Yes it is."

"No it isn't," she said, getting testy.

"Come on, E-N-N-U-I is not a word."

"It is so. It's 'ennui', and it means lazy or listless."

"Oh," I said, as I got up to go back in  the house and consult the dictionary. I was determined to prove her wrong. But the lexicographers agreed with her.

Dictionary.com defines ennui as, "a feeling of utter weariness or discontent resulting from satiety or lack of interest; boredom." That would be me these days. Maybe it is the short days. For some reason, nightfall coming early seems different this year. I can feel the darkness setting in, and it doesn't feel right, like the world, or at least my world, is contracting.

Except for one other year, the shorter days and the return to standard time never bothered me. Back on Myrtle Avenue, as the kids were growing up,I always thought dinner was better when the sun went down before we sat down. The four of us at the table in the well lit kitchen, our little island in the dark world. I don't know how Debbie, Russ, or Bethany felt, but to me dinner on a winter's night was family time at its best.

Short winter days and long winter nights lost their aura of family and togetherness when the nest emptied in 2001. But fall and winter's dwindling daylight hours never bothered me. I was working for the Star Beacon then and more worried about the chance of snow as I made my way to a high school gymnasium to cover a basketball game.

In the fall of 2007, I left the ranks of the gainfully employed, going from two jobs to no job. The short days of fall and winter came and went without notice that year and in 2008. Not so in '09. The clouds and rain moved into Northeast Ohio the day the clocks were turned back. The dreary, damp weather stayed for two weeks. If the sun managed to poke through for a minute or two during that time, I didn't notice. I was one sad sombitch. Then one day the wind shifted, the barometric pressure rose, and the sunshine and blue skies returned, lifting my spirits in the process. The clouds came back every few days, but so did the sun. My outlook on life didn't have a problem with that.

From 2010 through '16, the autumnal equinox and the return to standard time passed almost without my noticing. Not so this year, and I can't blame the weather this time. Oh, there have been rainy days, but there have been many more pleasant sunny days. Days so comfortable and beautiful that on my wheelchair trips through the Covenant Woods' parking lots my mind has often returned to Ashtabula and memories of those magnificent spring evenings in late May and early June when we'd go to Cederquist Park to watch Russ and Beth play Little League ball.

It isn't long, however, before the ennui returns. "Ennui", the word I learned while kidding around with my mother, has become all too meaningful to me almost sixty years later. Should anyone wish to give me a good, swift kick in the ass, you are welcome to do so. I promise to get out of the wheelchair and standup to make it easier for you.

*                    *                    *

I was taken aback when I typed "sombitch", and the BlogSpot spellchecker didn't throw a squiggly red line below it to let me know I'd misspelled a word. Thinking it might be a legitimate word that I was unfamiliar with, I checked the Dictionary.com and Merriam-Webster websites. They were both befuddled and provided a list of words they thought I might have intended to ask about.

Then it was on to Urban Dictionary, which confirmed my belief that it is the way some men in the South say "son of a bitch." But it went on to say, the southern men who use it are mostly "over fourty." Even the BlogSpot spellchecker knows that ain't right. Urban Dictionary also said, "sombitch" is usually said in a loud, high pitched manner and can be heard all the way across the trailer park. I don't think I was that loud. Was I?