The narcissist mentioned in the following poem is obvious. However, it could refer to many dangerous historical figures. The following quote presents a massive challenge.
“The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.” ~ Martin Luther King, Jr.
He answers in a calm retired-teacher voice, “I need to get up at five tomorrow to go out of town to babysit, but I can stop by right after dinner and help.”
The Strotman grandparents get an A-plus in nurturing. Tom arrives about an hour later.
And he is right. He knows the solution. Restart both the computer and printer. Go to Start. Open Settings. Now Devices. Now Printers and Scanners. Find printer and Open Queue.
Apparently, I created a disabled vehicle on the freeway at rush hour. I added a no-go in the high-speed lane. Traffic was on hold.
This will probably be the only technically centered blog you will find with my name attached to it. This will not be the only space where I will honor someone who deserves it.
Thanks, Tom. A best and blessed friend from our twenties to seventies. I smile whenever I think aboutyou and your family.
“Wrinkles should merely indicate where smiles have been.” – Mark TwainNo Clapping Zone
Dupuytren’s Contracture in my left hand
joins with an arthritic thumb to create
its own clumsy five-digit island.
On my right hand, a long-ago
partially healed broken middle finger
refuses to bend. And avoids vulgar messages.
None of the ten appendages chooses
to juggle anything more challenging
than a dose of Tylenol.
On one point both hands agree.
No clapping possible.
We look like drunk spiders.
And yet, both left and right concur
in more important matters.
In everyday places.
Let’s cook a meal. Ignore the spills.
Or type this poem, or send a message
to someone who needs support.
Let the larger audience carry
the greater approval for performances.
These hands will offer gifts. Just give them time.
Memory, the song from Cats. I have been singing it at the senior center with a kind piano player who encourages me. I haven’t used my soprano range except to occasionally add a descant during one of our small church services.
Now, memory gives me the notion to randomly go through some of my blogs from the past. The granddaughter I mention in the story below is now preparing for college. With scholarships. She has grown well. I am proud of you, Kate.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
A babe in the house is a well-spring of pleasure, a messenger of peace and love, a resting place for innocence on earth, a link between angels and men. (Martin Fraquhar Tupper)
I found a spiral-bound journal with a K on the front of it for eighty cents–perfect for six-year-old Kate. I tell her that I couldn’t find one with an R on it for her little sister, Rebecca, but I did get an extra outfit for her for emergencies. Kate sees no problem with cost disparity. Not at six. She is happy about her book and unwraps it immediately.
“I’ll use it for my letters to God.”
“Oh.”
I don’t mention that she asked me how to spell bird this morning. Her spelling vocabulary isn’t that comprehensive yet. Somehow, it doesn’t matter. Our granddaughter’s large heart is easy to read. Phonetically, drawn with stick figures, printed backward. I suspect her God can comprehend whatever she creates without a problem.
She decorates the front and back cover with blue flowers, drawn with my good calligraphy pen. I let her use it. After all, this is an important communication.
I can’t say I considered writing God a letter when I was in first grade. Heck, I don’t remember ever setting up a book for anything beyond a day’s coloring.
We arrive at school a tad early; there’s been a snow delay. She knows the rule, to sit quietly along the wall. She asks me to wait with her, the biggest kid in the class. I try to wear their innocence, squatted on the floor, but it has been too long.
“Mommy usually sits over there.” She whispers, pointing to three chairs across the way.
I nod, and the principal says nothing about her breaking the stillness. Sometimes adults need directions from their young ones.
“You can go to your classrooms now,” the principal says.
I linger long enough for my final goodbye hug, then leave for my day’s agenda. I wonder with a sense of awe what beauties will fill an eighty-cent notebook and suspect that nothing I accomplish today could come close to its mysteries.
terrypetersen 