Stronger than Yesterday

Last Labor Day I was home and Grandma had a stroke. She was in the hospital already, and changes in her medication probably caused it. There’s this “miracle” drug that can help reduce the effects of a stroke if it’s taken close enough to the time the stroke occurred. Grandma was on the outer limit of time, but they gave it to her. I visited the morning after, and I hear she was much better than when my parents first saw her. She knew what she wanted to say, and we could eventually guess the kinds of regular checking in questions she was trying to convey. But what kept popping out of her mouth was “Cribbage!” (I think this shows her competitive side. She and Dad were playing cribbage earlier that morning and I think she won.) Days later, I could talk to her on the phone and the only time she had trouble finding her words was when she was tired. At Thanksgiving we go around the table and take turns saying what we are thankful for. I wondered what Grandma would say, and even had the dark thought that we should skip her because it might be too hard to force her to express gratitude. But she had the purest response of us all. She was thankful for being present and for having recovered so drastically from the stroke just months before. Why had I been blinded to that response by her new limp and host of health concerns?

Last Friday I was home and Grandma fell on her face. Getting going in the morning is harder for her these days anyway, and maybe she fell asleep on her way out of bed. She got herself up, dressed the tear on her wrist and assessed her split lip, I’m sure with the calm collectedness of a nurse from Minnesota. She was going to the doctor that day anyway. She jokes that we should have seen the other guy.

This woman has always been one of the strongest women I’ve known. In a couple of short years, she lived through the death of her husband and three brothers. She is known to look for new experiences, like piercing her ears and joining a gym while in her 70’s. And until recently, she embraced longstanding activities like her bowling league and growing her city and country gardens. I’m sure on some level, perhaps not too deep down, she mourns her days of greater independence. What I see is my strong Grandma trapped in the body of a very frail woman. And it dawned on me this weekend how she is really getting stronger every day as she faces new diagnoses and further limitations.

She may soon have to move out of the house in which I’ve always known her to live. And I think she’ll make the decision on her own, because that’s the strong choice. She doesn’t garden now, and doesn’t bowl. She doesn’t cook much, and even is reading less. How I will miss those pot roast dinners with corn on the cob, cucumber salad, and homemade bread! But she knows everything that goes on in the lives of her loved ones, and she keeps us connected. She jokes just like she always has, and has the biggest vocabulary of anyone I’ve ever met. Very hard to believe Cribbage was her only word just over a year ago. She takes pride in pushing herself as far as she can go. Sometimes it’s hard for me to know exactly the best way to let her know how much I love her. I stand by her and hold her arm and walk her between the car and the house. I hope she feels the affection, like she’s a good girlfriend who I choose to walk with arm in arm, not just because I’m trying to keep the breeze from tipping her over. I want to be brave enough to be present with her by phone and in spirit when I’m not there in person. And maybe trying to be an independent strong woman myself is a good way to start.

42 Hours in South Dakota

On the way out of Denver, I got caught in a stupid traffic jam. Laughable to those of you from larger cities, but still, significant enough to make me cranky before my journey even really began. I sat through one stop light about four times, and tried to distract myself with the splinter in my thumb that’s been bugging me all week. Took out the tweezer from my makeup case in the back seat and started picking away half-heartedly. I thought of Grandma Johnson, who has no patience for this kind of indirect assault on splinters. One of my earliest memories of her is from when I was about five, standing on the front patio on an otherwise happy, sunny day, her with a needle in her hand. She grabbed my finger firmly with the needle poised and said: this will hurt a lot. Then it will be better. We have to do it. She said it with a sort of force and inevitability that gave me confidence, if confidence looks a little like resignation from time to time.

I’ve been back in Denver for 52 hours now, but the slow tight ache in my heart is holding on to the Hills where I grew up. Like removing the splinter, I needed to go home. And going there really does restore me in ways that no place else can. One might even say it helps me on the way to healing, even when it sometimes hurts.

It's so quaint,

you should move there. My home town made the front page of the nearest city's newspaper this weekend. Its charm and character are attracting more retirees and businesses, entrepreneurs and artists. I fear that soon all of the locals will be forced to move, an experience that many Coloradan mountain resort towns know all too well. The logging families and teachers will retreat further into the Hills. The volunteer firemen and gas station attendants and gift shop owners will sell the homes they can no longer afford in order to commute from more affordable housing.

The thing is, I'm proud of how my town has grown up. It is thriving and beautiful; not a tourist trap. The galleries celebrate our culture while other area towns' bargain barn souvenir strip malls mask it. I remember when the main city bypass was gravel and I remember when we got our stop light. I'm sappy and sentimental. I want to stay away in order to protect my memories. Heck, my hearts even a little broken that the basketball court where I played my earliest pick up games has been demolished. Will it survive my hometown's ascension to Quaint?

Me Troglodyte, You Sane

Troglodyte. These days I relate to all of the following -
a. A member of a fabulous or prehistoric race of people that lived in caves, dens, or holes.
b. A person considered to be reclusive, reactionary, out of date, or brutish.
c. An anthropoid ape, such as a gorilla or chimpanzee.
d. An animal that lives underground, as an ant or a worm.

a. Do you have that 1950's movie concept of Neanderthals? I use my verbal power at work writing writing, reading and talking, trying to communicate important issues and argue a plan of action. So outside of work I mostly use a series of grunts, nods, and gestures to get my point across. "egrmef." "good morning." "arphle." "I love you." "BAAARble." "get away from me" or "me hungry."
b. The style very well could have changed since the last time I remembered to look at myself on the way out of the house. I'd rather be by myself or with you on a couch.
c. Well, this is nothing out of the ordinary, I guess.
d. I live in a basement. "But it's a nice basement," I rush to clarify. It's cozy and mold grows in my plants.

Strategic visioning and scenario planning

Welcome to my life these days. I've gotten the opportunity through work lately to try to pull myself from the Must Do Now pile enough to condsider What Can Be. Here are a few of the questions that I'm pondering for an upcoming meeting:

"What kind of future do you envision for health and health care for the residents of Colorado?"
"What should the philanthropic mission be?"
"What would be an effective use of your grant dollars, in your view?"

I guess I just said that this is an opportunity. And it is. But it's quite a weighty opportunity, a responsibility really. Sometimes I wonder whether I am qualified to have an opinion on these matters at all. Do you feel more comfortable with someone like me answering these questions, or with someone with a full career's worth of health policy knowledge? Do you like the fact that there is a mix of people answering the questions together? I think I take comfort in that. But I can't get too comfortable because then I start thinking about whether we have enough people answering the questions.

In the time that I didn't spend thinking about these "visions", I thought about my tuna sandwich trashed mouth and wished I had a piece of Original flavor Trident. I pondered the vacation I've been pondering for months...should it be in Costa Rica, Oaxaca or the Florida Keys? Should I ask the auditor out for drinks? After all, she's about my age and we bonded over the lack of basketball opportunities for women after college. Would it be better as a first impression to beat my boyfriend's dad in a basketball pool, to tie or to lose? If I could paint a picture at this moment, what would be my subject?

South Dakota, a small town

One of my roommates is a Public Policy grad student at DU. She met a fellow Augie grad of mine in one of her classes a few weeks ago. I'm pretty sure this is how the conversation went, although I didn't ask. "Ah, actually I'm from SD." "NO! Me, too!" "Where'd you go to school?" "Do you know X?" "She's my roommate!" SD has to be one of the only states that allows a good chance of two acquaintences knowing the same people, strictly based on State residence. I don't even ask people in Denver if they know other people in Denver! But, last month I met a woman who started attending my church group. She was from SD and it turns out that she was good friends with the son of my parents' best friends and my brother's Best Man. Why not?

Hill City, my home town, is a microcosm of the SD microcosm. We all know each other (and too much about each other), we know hosptitality, we know independence and we know a cowboy/farmer sense of integrity. This is a huge, sappy generalization of my state...and I realize a rather shabby addition to the body of SD-lovin' blog work that is now so readily available on the internet. Still, I challenge you to find an individual so cheesily in love with her home. My father, and now by brother, have based their careers on tourism. They joke with me that in the last two years that I've been living in Denver, the number of visitors from Colorado has increased dramatically.

A friend requested information about where to eat and where to get a good cup of coffee on his way through Hill City. More than happy to oblige. (Although this information may be unhelpful at this point as my blog has been hibernating for a couple of months.)

The Alpine Inn (it's on Main St) - This is one of the Black Hills' most well-known and loved eateries. If you are passing through town in the evening, you can order a small or large steak. That's your only choice. It comes with a baked potato and a quarter wedge of iceberg lettuce slathered in ranch dressing, whether you like it or not. If you have the privilege of enjoying lunch at the Alpine, order from an extensive menu of European fare. The owner was born in Germany and you have a good chance of meeting her as she often still works as a hostess. Get dessert. If I was going, I would get a Monte Cristo and the Berry Delight. Or the Wild Green Splendor and Napolean. Or the Cheesy Turkey and Bread Pudding. Or...

Be sure to stop at Granite Sports right across the street. I remember when this buidling housed the Corner Market in about 1985. Now you can get climbing equipment and lessons and browse a wide variety of all things outdoorsy.

There are many options for coffee, but I think one of the newest is your best bet. Dry Creek Roasting Company is a block south of the Alpine. My middle school basketball coach's son owns it.

If anyone else needs help with South Dakota vacation planning, give me a holler!

Another day at the office

So, I'm sitting here in my suit. It's what my farm-raised football-playing friend gets teased for calling "heather brown." I just rediscovered that amazing illusion of Bendy Pen where you hold a pen parallel to your desk and wobble it side to side while bouncing your wrist. It's amazing, isn't it? Just amazing. I love that Bendy Pen trick. Hrrmmm. Just answered a phone call because I'm on phone back-up. It was a cute old lady who wanted to make sure that our office manager changed the name of her alumni group from spelling alumnI to alumnAE because the group began as all women. She said it "got her all wrangled" when she received a newsletter. Did you know that "alumni" is male? I didn't know. Learn something new every day. Like yesterday, I learned that cream cheese stuffed soft pretzels are not as good as classic salted soft pretzels dipped in lukewarm nacho cheese. And that it's hard to enjoy a rodeo if you can't block feeling sorry for calves getting roped. One managed to stand up with all of its legs tied together and then it slowly toppled over onto its nose. I laughed out loud, but then I wanted to cry about it. What an emotional roller coaster. I'm going to have left-over chicken fried chicken for lunch today. Yesterday I took the Controller and Grant Director to lunch because I beat them at an Apprentice bet and ordered it at a sports bar with the Controllers high recommendation. It was good, but I do not understand it. What is chicken fried chicken? And what is chicken fried steak? And why don't they just call it fried chicken if it's chicken?