Call It What You Want...

My small friend Nettie continues to go through physical therapy as they try to help her relearn to use her muscles and wait for her to come out of her coma. She has a long road ahead of her, but last night, friend Ericka arrived to find mommy & daddy seemed much less stressed. Mommy soon explained why.

Nettie had been in therapy, and was finishing up, when the therapist said, "Bye Nettie," and waved at her. No one could believe it when a tiny little hand lifted by itself and bent itself in a little wave. Just a fluke? No. She asked her to wave again, and she did, all by herself.

This was a great day, they told her. Thumbs up. And the little hand turned and stuck her thumb up in the gesture that just might become mommy & daddy's favorite one ever. Not only does it mean she's gaining some control and use of the muscles that have been unused for all this time, it also means Nettie's still there. Thumbs up, Nettie. Hang in there.

Thanks for your prayers and keep them coming.

It's not yet 11 a.m. and it's over 90 degrees. It wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have the internal Vinson-heating system PLUS the extra heat of that kid in there that keeps jumping around.

First Mark brings me his shoes and hands them to me. I think I see where this is going, but I put them on him.

Then he brings me one of mine, the right sandal of the pair that I have worn exclusively since the temperature got above 50. He holds it in front of my right toe so I would put it on. Then he runs toward the front door. "Peas???" he asks imploringly.

"I need the other shoe, please," I tell him. He stands there, a little dumbfounded. He brought me a shoe. What do I think I need? That shoe is way bigger than BOTH of his little shoes. How could I be so demanding?

"It's right next to you. By the couch. Right there." I point. I really don't want to get up and commit myself to going out in the heat.

He comes back over to me, pulls on my finger. "I need the other shoe."

Next to the chair on which I'm sitting is a pair of blue mules, which I haven't worn in some days, but which haven't gotten all the way upstairs yet. He picks up the left one and holds it up to my left foot. I laugh out loud and hug him. He brought me a left shoe. I didn't necessarily tell him I needed one that matched, did I?

He finally brings me the matching sandal. We get a hat and sunglasses and head out into the oven the day has become. He wants to ride his little trike, which I have to lean over a little to help him push. (I'd rather he just walk.) I have become a complete wimp in the heat. We don't go very far, and I've had it. He wants to take the hat off because his head's hot and sweaty. I don't want his little blond head with its wisps of fine hair to turn into a tomato. We head home. Fortunately, we see a dog partway, which salves the wound of having to go home before he's ready.

We water the plants on the front porch, and he holds his hand under the drip from the hanging baskets. Now his hands are dirty, so we have to go in to wash hands. Washing hands is almost good enough that he forgets he was ripped off on his walk. The air conditioning helps mom a little, too.

The temperature's supposed to drop a little in coming days. Then we can take more walks, little guy.

For just a moment to pack for our trip to Grandma and Grandpa's. Do you want to come upstairs and help, or play nicely downstairs, Mark?

No. Such an adorable smile. I closed the lid of the toilet and went about my work.

I heard the rustling of plastic while I was working, and assumed he was checking out some of the plastic-wrapped magazines that hadn't been opened yet. But I did come down to check after a few minutes.

There he sat, in the entryway, with the bag of potatoes Daddy just brought home. He'd opened it, and had a little pile of potatoes surrounding him.

"Let's put them back," I said, holding the bag open for him to put them back in. He did, happily. Then he went over to the table by the door and brought over three more.

Then he went to the front window and brought over four or five more.

Then he went to the little table in the living room where Daddy was using his computer and brought me seven or eight more.

I think that's all.

But if you find a potato in the toybox, that's the story.

Stephanie was sitting beside Nettie's bed in the peidatric critical care unit at the hospital on Sunday... not the place a Mommy should have to be. Nettie was becoming restless and trying to open her eyes just a bit and Stephanie stroked her arm and told her "Mommy's here."

(Sorry, can't see the monitor for the tears.)

And Nettie reached out and found Mommy's hand and squeezed it.

And Stephanie said that finally, for the first time since the accident, she saw Nettie there.

Okay, blow your noses and wipe your eyes. Here's the condition update for the day: Nettie has had the pressure probe & drainage shunt removed. She is being weaned from the meds. And most importantly, they have taken her off of the respirator and she is breathing on her own!!!

Keep your prayers coming!

It's my friend A's birthday this week, and so in my own blabbery little way, I am going to write about her.

I met her in college. She and I didn't exactly hit it off. In fact, there were a lot of times throughout those years that I rather intentionally pushed her buttons just to get a reaction. (I've confessed that to her. I think we're good.) And there were more than a few times that I thought she was way off base, and what was *I* going to do about it? What I didn't realize/acknowledge then was that not everyone had to think just like me all the time. There were the times that I thought I should "set her straight" on something, when I got the message from Above, loud and clear -- "NO". That didn't always fix things, or set ME straight, but there were a few times when it slowed me down a little.

She met a man. She married him. She calls him her "fairy tale". He was someone we all knew from college, someone I was in classes with from my freshman year on. (He hed a goofy sense of humor, and he almost always did the reading and almost never skipped, which was good when it was just the two of us and one other person in a class together). When he passed away, my heart ached, especially for her. She'd been through God-only-knows-what in her life -- I just knew it hadn't been easy -- and the love of this man made her different -- happy, confident, strong. She could've crawled back into that old shell, the one with the false smile and wall a thousand feet thick. She could've listened to those thoughtless people who made pronouncements they had no business making. But she wasn't going to do that. She was going to live, and to grow.  

She continued her education -- something I suspect she'll always do. She moved to a new town, near a woman who'd been a friend to her and her husband. She took the time to take a trip to Nashville, Tennessee, just so I didn't have to drive alone when my mother was in the hospital. Just a trip down and back (all those hours in the car), and all she could do was wander the campus of Vanderbilt University. (Such a punishment for a person who loves academia, but still...) That, and encourage me to call a friend I'd lost touch with who lived in Nashville. (I felt very vulnerable admitting to her I was afraid to make the call. She didn't even laugh at me, even though a fear like that is out-of-character for the person I try to be.)

She threw herself a 30th birthday party, and I was happy to go. We got to meet some of her friends, including M, her mentor and dearest friend. As M was leaving the gathering, I took a second and told her how much it meant to us to know that A had her as a friend. I knew M was very ill. Later, a co-worker (who also knew M ... it is a small world) informed me she was terminal. I guess I'd realized that, but I didn't want it to be, because of A. When the co-worker left me a note in my mailbox the day M passed away, I cried, not so much for M, who'd led a full and wonderful life, but for A. Again? But she continues on. I have wanted to do more, to "fix" things for her, but she keeps her head up.

She moved again, further away, where it's not easy to see her. She sent Mark a present when he was a baby -- something smart and educational, of course (and which he loves and still plays with). She works, she tries to make friends in a less-than-friendly city, she talks about moving back, she takes a job that isn't always fun and works to make it better -- not just for herself, but for others.

A has gone from someone I worked to irritate to an inspiration. She has a strength of character that perseveres no matter what. No one can tell her she's not worth the universe, because she is. (And there are those who try.) There is an amazing spirit and an incridible purpose in her life. She has a love for learning and a fierce independence, along with the normal desire for friends and a place to fit in and feel loved.

And so, A, before you get all embarrassed and make me take this down, I want you to know I admire you and love you and realize that sometimes we can be blind and miss out on incredible people, but I'm glad that I eventually did get to know you and stopped being an opinionated butthead (at least to you) because you're a truly wonderful person. Happy Birthday.

Ericka writes this morning:

It's hardly news because it's a week old, and several of you already have received emails about this, but I just might be able to sit here and write about it without bawling the whole time (likely story, hormones and the rest of the day considered)... But here's an update for those who are keeping up, and a prayer request for those who haven't heard.

Last Thursday evening, my small friend Nettie was hit by a car in front of her house in Cicero. This is a lively, bright, impulsive little 7-year-old whose parents are co-workers of mine at the Prairie, the same little girl who, one evening when her daddy was trying to get some work done at the '86 farmhouse, appeared without her pants. "Where are your pants?" Daddy asked. "I don't know," Nettie (who was 4 at the time) replied. "I buried them." She seemed rather pleased with herself. "Where did you bury them?" There was perhaps a moment's pause, and then a definite answer. "I don't know." It was a good portion of the year later when another historical interpreter found, near the bottom of the compost pile, the formerly new butterfly pants.

A week after the accident -- which seems to have occurred when she darted out into the street in front of a driver who had no chance to avoid her, and seems to have been going the posted speed limit even -- this wild and willful little girl is still hanging on in a show of stubbornness clearly inherited from both parents. Auntie Ericka reports no fewer than 11 IV bags, a bank of computers and monitors that dwarfs this little girl, and perhaps two or three square inches where she can be touched that aren't covered with something or another. Other details get me a little too choked up to dwell on, but even Ericka -- not known for her deep sentimental or soppy nature (*unlike me) -- goes home from seeing her each evening crying.

It'll be a long road for Nettie and her family. Right now she remains in pediatric critical care in a hospital with a marvelous reputation for treating head trauma. Mommy and Daddy are able to spend the night either in the ICU or a nearby lounge, while grandparents and family are looking after little sisters. My co-workers have already covered a sign-up sheet to bring meals for the family, are taking care of the garden, and have donated a good deal of money for the family's expenses at this time. 

Most importantly, the number of prayers for this little girl must be in the zillions. But if you have a moment to add yours, it would be much appreciated.

A follow-up to my previous post, which was written before the final episodes. The name of this entry has been changed in attempt to cut down on "referral" blogspam. Thank you

Oh the things I could say, the rantings I could go on with, the off-color comments about poor Mr. Cooke and his lack of, ahem, you know. (Guts. That's it.)

Texas Ranch House has ended, the experts have spoken, and the ranchers have come up short. Very short, if the truth be told. Hmm, let's see, at the end of their season, their house was a complete filth heap with a serious plague of flies, they had no hands left to work the ranch except their little lapdog Maura, they'd wasted an entire garden worth of vegetables ("We don't eat very many vegetables back home," youngest daughter Hannah sheepishly admitted when their expert visited before the program was over and discovered mounds and mounds of produce spoiling in the garden), but, by golly, they had cute little sayings they'd embroidered to make the house more homey, and they were pretty well-juiced on self-righteousness.

Ah. May I rant about the flies? Some hoards of flies are to be expected. But when you leave dirty dishes and wasted food sitting around for over a week because you're too flipping lazy to clean up after your big party to send off the cowhands on the cattle drive, you're going to have a serious problem.

Mrs. Cooke, keeper of supplies, withholding even surplus food, really showed her selfishness. The fact that the boys were starving while the Cooke family let the garden go to almost complete waste -- and sometimes traded away the produce for luxuries like milled soap -- is appalling. She was responsible for doling out food supplies, and never seemed to consider that the boys might like to have something out of the garden. [And when they were without a cook, and had to eat at the house, she treated them like they should be beholden to her for her magnanimity.]

The daughters were upset because not a one of the cowhands asked them to dance during the fandango. Perhaps the cowhands had been specifically told by their father from day one that they were to stay away from his family and leave his daughers alone... And when the hands were leaving (I wanted to cheer for them on that one, by the way), the girls whined and cried because the cowhands hadn't befriended them. Gee, wonder why. Talk to dad about that, girls.

The evaluators put the blame squarely on Mr. Cooke's shoulders for the fact that the ranch would not survive. But Mrs. Cooke, who could have been a unifying force for all the women -- and men -- on the ranch, is the one who ruined it for everyone. Instead of teaching her daughters (and girl-of-all-work) how to be true 19th-century women, instead of working to fulfill the duties of a ranch wife, she spent her time undermining her husband's authority, making rules, whining about how badly the hands were behaving (thank you, evaluators, for calling them sophomoric, which was true, but which seemed to be about the only real criticism they were given), and generally trying to run the ranch without doing any actual work.

And then there's Mr. Cooke, who couldn't go off on the cattle drive because he was "needed at the ranch". For what, for goodness' sake? (Well, because he couldn't stand to be that far away from his, ahem, guts, that were in Mrs. Cooke's pocket all this time.) Aside from the fact that he was completely useless on the cattle drive because he hadn't been out with his men at any other time, he was just too wrapped up in self to take part in the biggest work of the entire project. [And the fact that the fellow set up to "buy" the cattle from him agreed to buy the cattle they didn't want was just a way to smooth feelings and fix a situation that poor dumb Mr. Cooke didn't plan properly.]

I imagine my own participation in Texas Ranch House would leave me looking a bit daft and neurotic to a television audience, but I imagine I would do a few things a little better. I'd dress properly. I understand a corset and how to use it, and I'd wear mine. I would also wear clothes over my underwear (thank you writers for including comments on that in the narration), and I would wear my hair up to promote cleanliness and to cool myself off. I would understand the value of cleanliness, and would not leave dishes to sit around for days, drawing more and more flies until they swarmed so severely that even our dining porch was unfit for meals. That would mean washing the dishes promptly in the hottest water possible (lye soap does work when the water's hot enough). Of course, that means you don't plunge your hands into the water right away; you wash things using a knife or wooden spoon as a washrag holder/dipper until the water cools more. (This also cuts the grease, kids, and kills germs.) I would salt down all food preparation surfaces, probably daily. I never saw anyone do that at all. I would use the produce in the garden, and, since I was responsible for supplies, I would also share the produce with the hands! I would tell Tim (since he would apparently be the ranch owner, since I am the owner's wife) that it would be fine for him to go off on the cattle round-ups, and I would encourage him to get to know the hands better. I would try to do nice things for the hands sometimes, and not expect them to come to me and beg to kiss my feet in humble gratitude. Floors and windows would be scrubbed with regularity, so that no one had to complain that you couldn't see out the windows because of the fly specks (and smears). We'd wash those off. (Clear water with vinegar, gang.) I would support my husband in his decisions, and let him vent when he needed to without attempting to take it upon myself to solve the troubles (putting my vinson-ness aside). I would offer to help with the ledger, because my handwriting is a bit better than his (though he would have to do the adding). And I would keep my daughters and girl-of-all-work busy enough with these chores that they wouldn't have time to bellyache about the inequality of men and women. It's the 19th century here, girls, deal with it and thank God for those women who waged war for more equality for your 21st-century selves.

Perhaps if Mrs. Cooke had embraced the lifestyle for what it was -- 19th century -- and tried to take care of what needed done, the whole thing would have been more of a success.

It’s time for another television reality show PBS-style, which means, historical, informative, and all crammed into one week (British reality-style) rather than strung out over an entire season a la  Survivor USA. This time it’s Texas Ranch House, an opportunity for a handful of lucky participants to step back to the year 1867 and join a Texas ranch.

Unfortunately for any television viewers who watch anything else, in order to enjoy all of Texas Ranch House, you’ll need to clear your schedule for two hours every night this week, not watching anything else (set your Tivo if you dare), and by Friday, you’ll be so tired of the Cooke family and Texas longhorns, you’ll not even care if the cattle make it to the buyer and who ultimately goes on the drive after all. In British reality shows this makes sense because at least a portion of each show is live, and the shows sum up the past day’s events, but this is not the case with Ranch House. (I’d prefer to have it strung out a bit, maybe one hour a night for two weeks. I do hate to wait a whole week for the next installment of a show, so yes, please, give it to me, but gee whiz, kids, not ALL at once. My broadcast journalism professor referred to the “parsimony principle” as using [usually a syndicated program] as much as possible – in order to make more money –  but as sparingly as possible – so as not to create overkill. Do the math here, PBS – 10 hours of anything on TV in one week is overkill. Thanks.)

But on with my commentary on the show. Thanks to one of the daughters of the “ranch family” for wearing her corset most of the time. Really. There are a lot of areas here where you and your sisters and mother are not holding your end of the appropriate-dress bargain, but at least you’ve got the corset on when you’re in the confessional.

Hurrah for the self-proclaimed computer nerd Jared for getting kidnapped by Indians and making interesting comments. Yippee for the horses and cows and super-cute dog and all that. But Mrs. Cooke, wife of the ranch owner, needs to be hit alongside the head with a heavy board. Congratulations, lady, for your eagerness to take on the sexism of our society, to bring equality to the ranch, except for one small thing: You’re supposed to be a nineteenth-century rancher’s wife!!! No ranch owner would let his wife make the demands you’re making. No rancher’s wife would take it upon herself to make the rules for the cowboys. Those cowboys would be gone to the next ranch so fast, leaving your ranch without a hand on deck. Thanks to her hands-on approach, her husband is less than a joke among his men; no one respects him because he is obviously being constantly instructed by his wife about what to do when. He gives the ranch hands and his foreman one answer (clearly the one he’d prefer), but when he goes back to the house, his wife whines and complains and he feels he has to give in to her as well.

I found it amusing the other night when he commented that he’s been running major corporations for years without this sort of trouble – perhaps it’s because his wife doesn’t butt in to his work “back home.”

Perhaps she has the hardest job to fit into. The guys, well, basically, get to be guys, carousing, drinking, working pretty stinking hard trying to find cattle. Hard work is hard work, no matter what year it is, and the job parameters and supplies (or lack thereof) pretty much keep the guys in a period-appropriate place. But apparently she doesn’t have enough to do to really keep her busy enough that she’s not concerned about everyone else’s business besides just her own.

Yes. I know. Cross-cultural experiences bring out our weaknesses and foibles, and being on TV for everyone to see them doesn’t help. But is she even trying to play the part of the 19^th-century woman? Is she encouraging her daughters and “girl of all work” to try to fit the roles set before them as 19^th-century women? Not even close.