Finished Inpatient Rehab

Health Update

Really good news, after a weekend of rest and a few days of therapy, Stephany/Mom has been approved for discharge from the hospital, effective today. After two weeks there, she is ready to go home. Her pain is reduced from pre-surgery levels and she is regaining some of her mobility.

Her decline in health, in particular the several weeks prior to hospitalization, has had her family very, very concerned. We are hopeful that the care and treatment she received the past two weeks, notably the herniated disc surgery, have given her the physical, mental and spiritual boost that she so needed.

Even though her Parkinson's will continue to advance, we believe she will now be much more comfortable and stable, and that some of the recent decline can even be reversed. We are already seeing signs of that. A big focus will be on managing (she might say micromanaging!) her food and liquid intake, and she will now have home health care, including P/T.

She will be ready for some visits beginning tomorrow or Friday. To coordinate, please contact John at 816-630-7708 (home).

We will keep you posted here on how she is doing. Thanks again for all of your notes of encouragement over the past two weeks, we are all so grateful.

Moving to Rehab

Health Update:

Stephany (Mom) is slowly recovering. Her pain level is up and down, she is more mentally alert than two days ago, and really good news, her appetite has increased and she is eating more regularly. It is too soon to tell how much the surgery is helping reduce her leg pain as she is still in pain from the surgery itself.

After consulting with her medical team, the decision was made yesterday to keep her in the hospital for her post-surgery rehab. North Kansas City Hospital has a reputable acute inpatient rehabilitation unit, which her doctors and PTs believe she needs given the added rehab challenges she will face with her Parkinson's.

She was moved there last night and began rehab this morning. How long she stays there will be based on her rate of progress, but they anticipate about a week, give or take a couple of days.

It is a little more relaxed than the hospital, i.e. she can wear street clothes. However, her rehab program will be fairly extensive and intense, about three hours a day. She has requested no visitors during this next phase, as she really needs to rest when she's not in therapy. She wants to recover enough to return home, and we are optimistic she will be ready for visitors at that point.

We have been reading her all of your emails, FB comments and other messages. She wants to pass along, "Thank you for the hugs and kisses." She is feeling the love.

Any questions, etc. please let us know. We will post another update as her discharge date approaches, or if there are any other notable developments.

Thanks again, so very much, for your care and concern.

John, Ashley, Blake

Post-Surgery Update

(From Ashley Hughes): Mom's back surgery went well, her surgeon is optimistic it will greatly reduce her leg pain. The surgery occurred very late in the day so she didn't get up to her hospital room until 8:30 p.m. She was having a tough time the first hour back in the room as she was so groggy and confused, but she is now recovering more easily from the anesthesia, and resting. We hope she gets a good night's sleep, John will be with her in the room overnight. Tomorrow she should be up and walking with help from PT. She will not be discharged until Thursday at the earliest. Thanks again for all of your kind words and prayers, we really appreciate them.

Update on Stephany's Health - 6.16.19

Dear all,

This is Stephany’s daughter Ashley, reaching out with an update about my mom and her health.

Late Wednesday night mom was admitted to North Kansas City Hospital for dehydration and a UTI. She is currently resting comfortably there, having received treatment for these problems.

In addition to her advancing Parkinson’s, including some cognitive decline, she has a herniated disc that has been causing extreme leg pain for months. Having exhausted all non-surgical options, this weekend the decision was made to keep her in the hospital for surgery to repair it.

A  microdiscectomy  is scheduled for Tuesday, and the plan is for her to return home on Wednesday or Thursday to begin rehab and start eating, drinking and moving much more than had been the case before her hospital stay.

Her significant other John and I, and her good friend Suzanne, have been at the hospital with her, and my brother Blake is arriving tomorrow. Any notes or messages you want to share, we know it would really lift her spirits to hear from her cherished family and friends at this time, and receive your care and support.

Moving forward we will post health updates here and try to link them to Facebook as well. You can also reach me at ashley.hughes@outlook.com, John at tbirdguy02@gmail.com and Blake at blake.hughes@yahoo.com. Mom is not able to check her phone or email at this time, though I am picking up her voicemails.

Many thanks,

Ashley

Having a Daddy

I'm so excited because today I finally overcame inertia, not to speak of gross procrastination.  I should get a prize for procrastination.  Today I wrote the introduction for my new book, (working title), Every Girl Needs a Good Daddy.  It's about a girl growing up during the Dust Bowl days in southwestern Kansas and how her daddy marched every step of the way with her.

Anyway, when I finished writing the introduction to this new book, a story popped into my head about girls and their daddies.

A few years back, I was working in the inner city with some kids in a friend program.  I was supposed to go there and help them individually with their schoolwork, but I decided to run a little gifted class instead.  I would have five or six students and, of course, they were eager and capable of doing anything I asked of them.

One day, I decided to teach them how to speak in front of a group.  In order for them to get the idea of what to do, I demonstrated.  The topic was "A Favorite Person" and I went to the front of the room, surveyed the group until I had eye contact with each child, then proceeded to talk about my father for three minutes.

When I finished, they clapped and I bowed, then said, "Now who wants to be next?"  Vanessa approached the front of the room, surveyed the group until she had eye contact, then began:  "Miz Hughes, do you mind if I say something before I start?"

"Of course, Vanessa.  Go ahead."

"Well, I just wanted to thank you for telling us about your daddy because none of us have a daddy so we don't know what it would be like."

"You're welcome," was all I could manage to reply.

Welcome to my blog!

I hope you will like it here and will have fun reading what I have written for you.  My passion is writing and I want to share that interest with you.  Feel free to pass it on to others you think might enjoy it.  I’m a bookaholic, too.  I just can’t help it.  I love books; therefore, I also love authors.  Even though I don’t personally know most of the authors I read, I feel like I know them by the time I finish their book.

Authors are my mentors and have been my entire life.  Since I was a small child, I loved going to the library.  I loved the way it smelled; I loved touching the books; and I loved the illustrations.  The artwork transported me far, far away from my hometown of Liberal, Kansas and I envisioned myself in the pictures, alongside the characters in the book.

Each week, as I approached the check-out desk, clutching my library card in one hand and half a dozen books in the other arm, I knew I was in for an encounter with the scary librarian, Miss Jessie Jordan.  Dowdy Miss Jordan was tall, slender, and wore her brown hair in a bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a beige shirtwaist dress, grandmotherly shoes, and looked over her wire-rimmed glasses at me with a scowl.  Then she began her weekly lecture.

“Books are your friends, Stephany.  You must treat them gently. Don’t turn down any pages, and  always wash your hands before touching them.”  There must be a reason I remember her stern admonishments decades later.  She made an impression on me, though, because, to this day, I wash my hands before I pick up a book.  I also have a huge collection of bookmarks!  Sometimes, when I dare to turn down a page in my own book, I feel her disapproving look.  Now that’s what I call a life-long impression!

In my next blog, I’ll tell you about a book I’ve written.  I think you’ll like reading about raising a well-adjusted child.

What Love's All About

He stands over her grave.  It's Christmas.  This is the first time in fifty-two years that she won't celebrate with him.  He twirls the rose in his rough, tanned hands.  Every day, he goes to the floral shop and buys her a red rose. Every day, he comes here to give it to her.

He places the delicate flower on her newly-dug grave, just like he has every day since she left.  Then he walks over to the bed of his pick-up and lifts out a chair.  He places the chair beside the brown clumps of earth.

 He starts to talk, just like every day since she left.  He tells her what happened yesterday; he shares news from people he saw the day before.  She needs to keep up on the family.

Everything said, he gets up from the chair, leans down and scatters the petals from roses of other days on top of the dirt.  He's making a blanket of roses for her.

"I love you, babe."

He walks slowly to the truck and places the chair back in its place.  He'll need it again tomorrow.  He gets into the cab, turns on the engine, glances at her resting place, and silently promises to return tomorrow.

We took him home-baked cookies a few weeks after she went away.  He said he had lots of food in the freezer from the funeral.

"Do you want to see her picture when she was 19?" he asks.  She was a beauty.  No wonder he misses her.

"Here's an aerial view of the house we built together," he offers.  It's a pastoral scene with outbuildings and a modest home.

"You mean she did construction?" I inquired.

"Yes, right along with me.  Raised four boys, too," he offered.

We leave, somber for his loss.

New Season for Jayhawk Fans

Let's see--leave Excelsior Springs at 4:30, meet Jessica at 5:30, drive to Lawrence and arrive in time to get a BBQ sandwich at the arena before game starts at 7:00.  Good plan.

Here I go....need to get gas...uh-oh, it's almost 5:00...better hurry.  Take short-cut through Liberty at rush hour, only it's rush hour on short-cut, too. 

Almost to Kansas.  Better call Jessica.  I'll be about 15 minutes late.  Exit onto K-10.  Uh-oh, big traffic back-up.  Accident up ahead...helicopter hovering.  Guess I'll exit on Renner Road, go to College Blvd., turn right to Woodland, then take Woodland straight to our rendezvous point.

Bad idea.  Everyone else thought of it.  Another traffic jam.  Better call Jessica.  I'll be even later.

Meet Jessica in Price Chopper parking lot.  Left her phone at home today.  So much for messages.  She was ready to leave...thought we got our signals crossed.

On the road again.  Uh-oh, big traffic jam outside DeSoto.  Better take Kill Creek Road exit, go through DeSoto, then meet up with K-10 on down the road past the hang-up. 

On the road again.  Uh-oh, big traffic jam outside Eudora.  No exit to take for avoidance.  Oh, well, still have 45 minutes til game time.

Drive through Lawrence.  On the road two hours.  Must find restroom.

Arrive at Pete's parking.  Pete and Jessica elated to see one another.  Jessica didn't attend games last year.  Pete thought Jessica had died.  It was knee surgery.

 "You know, Jessica, as you get older you'll have lots of things go wrong with you."

"Thanks for the encouragement, Pete."

Get tickets out of purse.  Get out of the car.  Lock it.  Open trunk.  Put purses in.  Slam it. Walk toward arena.  Halfway there, discover one ticket gone.  Walk back to car.  Unlock trunk.  Look through purse.  No ticket.  Pete thinks someone is breaking into trunk.

Walk toward arena.  Go to ticket office. Wait in line.  Explain dilemma.  No problem.  New ticket printed.  Better hurry.  Game time.

Go to front door of arena.

"Welcome to Allen Fieldhouse."

Tickets won't make the machine "ding".

"You must go back to the ticket office.  You can't get in with these tickets."

"We were just there.  They gave them to us."

"Sorry.  We can't help you.  We don't have anything to do with the ticket office.  You must go back there."


Back to ticket office.  Explain dilemma.  No  problem.  Tickets reprinted.  Better hurry.  Game is well into first half.


"Welcome to Allen Field House."


Machine "dings".  Eureka!  We're in.


Search for BBQ stand.  Not on first floor.  Go to third floor.  BBQ is on second floor.  Game further into first half.


"There's only one more thing that could go wrong--no BBQ sandwiches."


"Jessica, go on in and sit down.  I'll track down the BBQ stand and meet you at our seats."  Game stopped for injury.  Crowd is quiet.  Game inching toward half-time.


Go to second floor.  Find BBQ stand.  Buy last two sandwiches.   Pay $20 for two sandwiches and two cokes.  Put pickles and BBQ sauce on sandwiches.


Go to third floor.  Find seats.  7:49 and almost half-time.  Look at floor.  Sixty percent of team is either injured or are being disciplined.  Recognize two players on the floor.  Whose team is this?


Game over.  Twenty-nine point win by strangers.  Walk to car.  Look on floor-board.  Ticket laying there.  Oh, brother.

"We have no place to go but up the rest of the season."

"Right."

"Do you hear a funny noise?"

"Yes."

"When we get to your car, let's take a look and see what it is."

"Sounds like something flapping."

At Jessica's car.  Open doors.  Get out.  Jessica pulls tomato plant from underneath car, with tomatoes on it.

"Thanks, Pete."

Good-Bye, Steve--We Barely Knew Ye

     Call me sentimental, but Steve Jobs' death threw me.  It's not like I didn't know it was coming.  I'm surprised he lived as long as he did, given the severity of his long-standing illness.  Recently, I was vaguely aware of his impending death, as I had seen touching political cartoons and web-postings about his final days at Apple.

     I remember knowing about Steve when he was that handsome, long-haired college guy.  I never met him, but for some reason, I wanted to read everything I could get my hands on regarding his life and what he was doing with technology.  I admired his tenacity, his intuition, his creativity, and his ability to make me want to go buy everything Apple, even though I had no idea what I was going to do with it.

     Our son, Blake, was in college in the mid-80's, majoring in computer science.  This was about the time Jobs invented the NeXt computer, with a hefty price-tag of $10,000.  Blake was entranced by it.  He asked his dad and me if we would buy it for him.   After we finished laughing at this ludicrous request, we replied that we appreciated his passion for it, but we would not be buying him one.

     Undaunted, Blake went to the bank early Monday morning and borrowed $10,000 against his car, then salivated over his new dream machine when it arrived a few days later.  We all know this was not a popular computer, but twenty-four years later, Blake still has his NeXt in its original packaging.  I hope he can sell it for a fortune some day, then he will be laughing, too--all the way to the bank.

     One year I sent Blake and his dad to the Consumer Electronics Show in Las Vegas as their Christmas gift.  They were both in nirvana, slurping up all the techno-info they could slurp.  Multiple Jobs sightings made the experience even better.

     When Blake graduated from the University of Kansas, we asked him what he wanted for a gift.  "I want to go to California and attend Steve Jobs' Computer Camp," was his immediate answer.  He probably had been dreaming about this for years, so we honored his request and off he went for another nirvantic experience.

     Blake ended up with a job in the Silicon Valley soon after graduation and I made several trips to California to help him get settled.  One sunny day, he took me sight-seeing in Palo Alto.  One of these sights was Steve Jobs' house.  I was delighted to see Steve playing in the front yard with his children.  This affirmed something I had read about him.  He had two loves:  his work and his family.

     Last Christmas, along with millions of other Steve Jobs fans, I wanted an iPad.  I don't know why I wanted it or what I would do with it after I got it, but I didn't care.  I'm still trying to figure that out almost a year later.  Brilliant marketer, that Steve.

     The day Jobs died, I felt a strange sense of loss.  I knew someone to call who felt exactly like I did about Steve Jobs--my son, Blake.  I needed to console and to be consoled by a person who cared as much as I did about a man I never knew, but one who had done so much for us.

     "In honor of Steve Jobs, I think I'll go buy a new Apple computer," he said when I called him.

     "And I--I think in honor of Steve Jobs, I will go buy a new Apple phone," I replied.

     Steve Jobs really had a hold on us.
    

Grief Found Me

I've been wondering what's wrong with me lately. I've been weepy and that's not like me.

It all started when my chorus was singing "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" and my mother's face popped up in front of me. She was smiling. Her porcelain skin was shining; her long, black hair was in braids pinned across the top of her head in Norwegian style like her mother had worn hers. I stifled my tears, but could no longer sing. Luckily, it was our last number of the concert. That crying continued on into the next day. Here it was, 57 years later, and I was mourning my mother's death.

I've tried to analyze it. Back when my mother died in 1953, we didn't have any grief counselors. We didn't know the language of grieving. We didn't go to family counseling, nor to the Solace House to talk about our feelings with other kids who had experienced loss. We just sucked it up and trudged on, going about our business as if nothing had happened. All I knew at age eleven and just finishing the fifth grade, was that I needed my mother.

I also knew my dad needed me. There he was, forty-five years old, with four children ranging from 19 down to seven, faced with all the housework, cooking, and laundry, plus a business to run and a farm to keep up. Luckily, my grandmother lived four blocks away and could help out with alot of the domestic chores.

One thing she could not do was to braid my hair every morning. My mother was passing the tradition of Norwegian braids down to me and she had done the braiding before she died. Several neighbors said they would take turns doing it, but after a few weeks, this became a burden and it was decided that my hair needed to be cut.

The next Saturday morning found me at the beauty shop getting a hair-cut and a permanent. This was a huge rite of passage for me. It changed me from a little girl into a responsible young woman. Soon, I was inviting my friend, Martha Jill, over on Saturday mornings to help me clean house. We went from playing paperdolls to playing real house. We seemed to enjoy making the house look spic and span, but perhaps it was too much responsibility for pre-teens. I don't know. I think I lost a bit of my childhood in the process.

 I guess grief finds us, regardless of when the loss occurred or what kind of grief it is.   This I know for sure--there's no getting out of grief.

Detective Hippo

Yesterday put me into shock. It all started out innocently enough. I asked Patrick, my 80-year-old golf buddy who has cancer, if he would enjoy a cheeseburger and a chocolate malt. He was gleeful at the prospect, as he was so weak he could barely make it to the kitchen most of the time.

"I"ll be over between three and four o'clock on Friday with your dinner." I promised.

On Thursday afternoon, Patrick called to say that his nephew had made arrangements for him to live at the New Mark Care Center, but he would have to wait for a bed to open up. The only drawback was that he would have a roommate.

"I hope I get a woman," he quipped. Patrick has been a single guy his whole life, but he loves those women.

He went on to tell me the directions to New Mark, as well as the phone number there.

On Thursday evening, I was out to dinner with a friend and my cell phone rang. It was around 7:30. I looked at Caller ID and it was Patrick. I decided to call him back later when I got home and did not answer the call at the restaurant.

When I arrived back home, it was a cryptic message from Patrick: "Hi, Stephany. This is Pat. I'll be going to New Mark tomorrow........" Then nothng. It was unlike Patrick not to say more, as he is very talkative. His voice was strong on the message, but there was no good-by, no anything.

Friday morning, I called him to see if he was still at home. The line was busy. I called intermittently during the day, but it was still busy.

Friday afternoon, I drove to New Mark, expecting to find Patrick and was anticipating our usual banter. He was not there. The receptionist said they were expecting him around 3:30 p.m.

I drove to his house. Something wasn't right. His paper was still outside and I knew he was an avid newspaper reader. His car was parked outside, which it had not been the times I took him to his chemo treatments. All the drapes were drawn and there were no lights on in the house. I walked to the back of the house--same story. Dark and drapes closed. His phone was still busy.

Going to several neighbors houses, I asked if anyone had seen Patrick that day. No, they had not.

"Oh, just go on home and mind your own business." I told myself.

"No," said my intuition. "Something is wrong here. Call 911."

Two police officers arrived in their dark blue KCMO police cars. They checked the same things I did.

"We don't have enough evidence to break in," one of them said, "but we are going to call the fire department to bring a ladder. We'll go up on the deck and see if we can get in that way."

By this time, all the neighbors gathered. "I didn't see a light on in Patrick's kitchen this morning when I went to walk th dog at 7 a.m. He's usually sitting there reading his paper at that time," one of them volunteered.

Soon, the fire truck and another police vehicle arrived. Three police officers entered the house. I held my breath.

It was getting chilly and one of the neighbors invited me to stand in her kitchen and look out the window.

Soon, one of the police officers came to us. "He's dead," he said softly.

I sucked in a huge amount of air, stricken speechless by the news.

Then another officer came and wanted my ID. "He died on the bed with the phone in his hand."

Oh my God! He could have died while calling me. Patrick could have been dead since last evening. I didn't want to contemplate those emotional ramifications.

Pulling myself together even though I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, I continued listening to the neighbors as they recounted stories about Patrick. "Let's all pool what we were going to have for dinner and have one big dinner together."

They asked me to join them and I did. What started out as a tragic event turned into a fun evening and I appreciated being included.

I'll always remember the day Patrick died. It's the same day my son, Trent, died. I didn't make it to the cemetery that day as planned. Life had other plans for me.

When I talked later with my friend, Susie, who had been at the restaurant with me when the call from Patrick came, she said, "Lets make a pact. Whenever we have friend in hospice and that friend calls us while we're at a restaurant, we answer the phone, no matter if it seems rude or not."

Good pact, Susie.

Greatest Job in the World

I have nearly worn myself to a nub this week. Why? I got the wild hare to apply for the greatest job in the world. If you don't know about this job, go to islandreefjob.com. In essence, the Australian tourism bureau is hiring a person for six months at a meager salary of $100,000 to do media relations for the islands outside the Great Barrier Reef. You get a 3-bedroom house, plus you have to do a bit of work, like go snorkeling, fishing, white-water rafting, biking, jet-skiing, etc., then write about your adventures in a blog. I think they invented this job for me.

E-mailing my friend, Judie, I asked her to help me create a 60-second video for the application. The video is supposed to be entertaining, while explaining why I am the ideal candidate for this job. Well, aren't I?

Judie is an expert on creating i-movies. She has a digital camera that is also a video camera, and she enthusiastically agreed to take on this project.

Here's the storyboard for the movie: a woman is looking at a pictorial travel atlas and happens upon photos of the Great Barrier Reef. She jumps out of her chair and starts pulling outfits from her suitcase that she could wear while doing the job.......all the while dreaming of being in Australia. She puts on her bikini, sun hat, and unfolds her hippo-playing-golf beach towel, ready to go white-water rafting. Then it is time to go hiking, so she dons her hiking boots and finds her walking stick. Next, she yearns to play golf and finds golf balls, a golf glove and golf attire in the suitcase. Biking is a favorite activity and she discovers a helmet, gloves, bike shorts, and a bandana in the suitcase. Tennis is next up, and she runs off to the court in a chic outfit. She can't wait to go horseback-riding, and just so happens to find a western hat, cowboy boots, and chaps in her suitcase. Finally, in order to relax after her long days of sports, she puts on a yoga outfit, grabs her mat, and is off to do yoga on the beach.

Cut back to the woman in the chair reading the travel atlas. Suddenly, she jumps up and starts packing the suitcase to go to Australia. Only problem is, her suitcase is bulging from all the sports gear she's taking. She tries to pack it down in fast forward. Frustrated, she starts throwing things out of the suitcase, again in fast forward. Finally, at the last second, she is able to close the suitcase, but most of the sports equipment is still on the bed.

Entertaining, shows why I would be good at the job, 57.8 seconds, and right down to the wire on the deadline.

Judie had the idea of the dream because she can make the movie look like clouds rolling in and out of the action. She also had the idea of playing the song, "Dreams", as in Dream, Dream, Baby....like I said, she's an expert.

We added a few action photos, filled in the application, and pushed the "Submit" button. By nightfall, I had confirmation from the tourism office that they had received my application and will be getting back to me by next week to say if the video has been approved to be published on their web-site.

Dum-de-dum-dum. Stay tuned!

nessun dorma! (never sleep, i think)

i wanted to do something for them for valentine's day, but i didn't want to make anything nor buy anything. they are my heroes and i wanted them to know how much i care.

letting that thought rest, as i was looking for my exercise dvd on february 13, i spotted a cd, "paul potts: one chance", which ashley gave me for christmas. using a knife to remove the plastic, i opened the cd and inserted it into the player. with the first note, i recognized paul potts as being the guy i had seen on the english version of american idol.

on june 7, 2007, paul potts strolled onto the audition stage of britain's got talent. he looked a fright, as if he had rolled out of bed, went out the door, and here he stood in rumpled clothes, hair sticking up, teeth sticking out--didn't look like much of a talent to simon cowell, who sneeringly asked him what he was going to do.

"opera", said paul.

"let's hear it", replied simon in a derisive tone of voice.

suddenly, out of the misshapen mouth of an employee at a mobile phone store, arose a magnificent version of puccni's "nessun dorma". at the conclusion of the aria, paul potts received a standing ovation from the audience of 2,000 people. even simon was grinning ear-to-ear.

as i listened to the cd, i knew this was my valentine to give. the next day, february 14, twelve residents of the new horizons assisted living center, plus ten of us from the plains/paradise united methodist church were seated together for our weekly hour of singing, laughing, joking, and story-telling. we sang five foot two, eyes of blue, down by the old mill stream, a tisket, a tasket, and several other songs with funny actions. cliff and harry accompanied us on their guitars. several of us told stories about being in the rain or in a hailstorm. as usual, jack, our 93-year-old songster, had entertained us with his good wit and a capella folk-songs.

it was close to the end of our hour, when cliff said, "stephany, do you have something for us?"

"yes," i said, as the director of the center inserted the paul potts cd into the machine and pressed the play button.

strains of nessun dorma filled the room, as each person felt their own emotions to the stirring rendition. as the aria ended, the door opened, as if on cue. five members of the sheltered workshop joyfully burst into the room, carrying a huge pink and red balloon bouquet for each resident.

we paused, held hands in a circle, and recited the lord's prayer. like i said, they're my heroes.

22 years later.....

She gave it to me for Christmas when she was 15. I don't recall asking for it, so she must have thought I needed it, the brown leather address book with gold lines running around the edges. It was an ordinary book, yet special because she gave it to me.

I think another part of the gift was for her to write all my addresses in it, because as I turn to the A section, I see Ashbill's TV Service, Dave & Jean Arnold, Doris Anderson, Roger Allenbrand, and Linda Affholder, all in her handwriting. Turning to the B's, I notice Helen Betts, Boschi Family, Blue Valley Schools, Dr. John Berry, Dermatologist, Blue Valley North, and Blue Valley High, again in her handwriting. Curious, I flip to the C's, and--nothing. She had good intentions, but some holiday vacation activity lured her away from the task.

Taking over the task, I completed the book in a few weeks, or so I thought. Little did I know it then, but that address book would chronicle our lives for the next twenty-two years.

Ten years after receiving my beloved address book, I realized I needed a new one, and during that time I bought several that ended up on a shelf. Two years ago, an address book caught my eye as I wandered through Border's. On the cover was a blonde bombshell from the 1930's. The title, "Born to Be Bad" was emblazoned in large letters on the front cover. Hidden in the bombshell's tresses were the tiny letters, Address Book.

"Now this is an address book I could like," I said to myself, as I purchased it without looking at the price. I took it home and stuck it in my closet, still in its sack.

The next year, I was getting more serious about my new address book. I took it out of its sack and vowed that whenever I received a new phone number or new address or made a new friend, I would write this information in the new book. I would do this with pencil, I vowed, so I could erase people who died, people who got married and needed to change pages because they had a different last name, or just plain eliminate people with whom I had lost contact over the years. It seemed like a workable plan.

Then my emotions took over. I didn't want to erase people who died. I wanted to remember them. I didn't want to forget about people I hadn't seen nor talked to for years. The people who got married were no problem. This emotional stall lasted another year.

This Christmas, when it was time to send out my Christmas cards and letter, I got tough with myself.

"Okay, whenever you write a card, simply write the address two times--once on the envelope and once in the new address book," I told myself. This actually worked, although I loved looking at all the people who died, people who had changed names, and people who no longer made the cut for Christmas cards, all in my old book. I realized that my old brown leather address book, now held together with packing tape on the outside and hole reinforcers on the inside, was a chronicle of my life and by eliminating it, I was moving on to a new life.

So, today, twenty-two years later, I closed the old brown address book for the last time. I can't bring myself to throw it away--not yet, at least. That will take more mental toughness than I possess right now. I'll still have it, but not be using it. I'll love it forever, that silly thing.

It's just one more reason I'll love Ashley forever for giving it to me.

no place like small town montana

i entered the clubhouse of the paradise united methodist church after an absence of four months and found instant warmth and welcome from the five women gathered there. dorothy had invited me to come help make gift bags for the residents of new horizons, the assisted living facility in wild horse plains, montana.

dorothy, betty, and charlotte had gone shopping a few days before to purchase the gift items; the others, judy, mary lou, and shirley were there, like me, to create the bags. dorothy handed me a white gift bag and told me to let my creative juices flow. wow! what fun!

she brought a boxful of sewing notions left over from projects in years past. others brought magic markers, colored pencils, and photos of the two churches in paradise and plains. shirley must have been a stamper in the past, because he brought christmas stamps and ink pads for us to use in decorating the bags. dorothy brought a hot glue gun to use in attaching the various colorful ribbons and balls to the bags.

dorothy had a list of the thirteen residents, and each of us personalized their christmas gift bags. after an hour, the bags were done. then came the fillings--candy, candy canes, an orange, an apple, a cross in your pocket card with a cross, and finally, a red-ribboned christmas bell. we left the red ribbon hanging out of each bag, anticipating how each person would pull that out of the bag first and put it around their neck.

i was saddened when i chose the names of the people for whom i wanted to make the bags, as i had my favorites every thursday when we went to new horizons to sing, talk, laugh,and reminisce.

"why isn't phyllis' name on the list?" i asked, remembering the small 94-year-old witty, bright woman who had captured my heart.

"phyllis died in october," answered judy. my heart sank. i was looking forward to seeing her most of all. i knew phyllis would be fine wherever she was, so i was sad only for myself and the others who will miss her.

soon, our job was completed. we cleaned up and departed for lunch at kathy's whistlestop cafe. we'll go to new horizons on thursday with the gift bags. we'll sing christmas carols accompanied by cliff on his guitar, joke, listen to each other's holiday memories, and i'll become attached to a new resident.

like i said, there's no place like small town montana.

the end of my sag career

yesterday at 4:30 p.m., i completed my professional sag driver career. that day would have made anyone quit.

it all started out in a little town in minnesota. i couldn't make hide nor hair out of the directions on the cue sheet. luckily, i saw a few bikers across the street talking to a local guy, so i turned around and he told me how to get out of town.

on the way out of town, we were to turn on county road 9, but when i arrived there, it was closed under construction. my phone rang about then and it was jan. she was up ahead and told me to tell everyone to go on to county road 11. nine riders were at the construction sign, so i told them i would go ahead and find road 11, then come back and tell them.

i sped ahead three miles and surely enough, if you turned left off of 160 north, there it was. i raced back, found a turn-around, and told them it was straight ahead. then i decided to go back to the construction block and leave a message for the other riders.

i found a black marker in my purse and a rumpled paper on the clipboard, then wrote the directions on it, taped it to the road closed sign, and hoped for the best. i then raced ahead of the front-runners to give them a sag stop. i then waited for the rest of the group.

right in the middle of groups, i received a call from janet saying that vickie had been knocked to the ground by a big dog about a half-mile from where i was. i waited for the other riders, then drove quickly to the rum shack to await the front-runners, of which vickie was a part.

vickie was still riding, but her mouth was badly swollen and she had road scrapes on one arm. she didn't want me to call 911, so i went into the rum shack, got her some ice, and kathryn fashioned a neck-piece with ice inside it so they could continue on the ride. talk about tough!!

next, it was time to go see how the ones in the back of the pack were doing. i had picked up georgia along the road because her cracked ribs were giving her fits. thank heaven for her. she was navigating and answering the phone on this terror ride.

we found everyone else at the pub and grub. the best thing about that place was the proprietor, whose t-shirt read: i'm in the business of pussy and business is great. i guessed this was a red-neck place. he was talking about the three funerals in the community that week. we couldn't see a community, but surmised it was the farmers who lived nearby.

getting ready to leave after a huge blt sandwich, the phone rang. it was a voice saying, "we're six miles from town and need a ride." we didn't know who it was, but there was a note of desperation in her voice.

georgia and i sped off, trying to keep our promise of being there in 15 minutes. suddenly, we saw a sign pointing to the left: little falls - 11. we took a left, then ran into highway 10.

"none of this is on our cue sheet," georgia said.

"maybe we need to turn around," i said.

re-tracing our path, we finally found county road 35, which we had completely missed the first time round. about four miles down this road, we found patty sitting on the side of the road, with ann administering help to her, having waited more than an hour while we wild-goose-chased around the county.

it seems that patty started to pass out on her bike, then couldn't breathe. she used her inhaler to help that problem, then her blood pressure started tanking out. thank heavens she was with ann, the only medical doctor in the group, who started giving her liquids and other bike-rider concoctions. georgia and i helped patty into the car, and about this time, ann's hip started acting up. so there we were, the wounded helping the infirm. between the three of us, we finally got all the bikes on the car and started toward town.

"do you want to go to the emergency room?" i asked patty.

"no, i think i'm starting to feel better," she said.

after delivering georgia, ann, and patty to the hotel, i still needed to find the last three sheep--linda, barb, and lorrie. going backwards on the cue sheet, i found them seven miles from town.

i went on ahead of them, then waited at the turn that wasn't on the cue sheet. in the meantime, barb had a flat and lorrie gave her the front tire from her bike so she could continue on. i went back to lorrie, who had just completed the tire change and was installing barb's front tire on her bike.

"wanna ride?" i asked.

"no, i think i can make it," said lorrie, just as exhausted as everyone else had been.

"i'm calling it a day, then," i said.

"see you in town," lorrie replied.

about at the end of my rope, i drove to town, gassed up the car, and vowed that this was the end of my short sag driver career. janet bee did an intervention hug with me in the lobby of the hotel and offered to do the dishes after supper. that's the part of driving a sag wagon i will miss the least.

minding my own business

there i was, in loretta's driveway, getting ready to get in my pick-up and head back to new liberty after planting loretta's spring garden for her, when a tall, dark-headed gal dressed in bike clothes walked across the street fron the service station and approached me.

"would you help us?" she asked. "we're a group of women on a bike trip and need some transportation. our support van had to go to the hospital to take one of our riders who has a medical emergency, and some of us can't go on right now because of the wind."

"sure," i said. "where do you want to go?"

"if you take two women to the arrow cafe in the next town, then we can re-group from there," she answered. "by the way, i'm stephany hughes from kansas."

"pleased to meet you. i'm jack grage. i was getting ready to leave. i came over to help my friend, loretta, who lost one of her arms this year. she always has a large garden, but couldn't plant it herself."

"thanks so much," she said. "i'll go over and tell the women you'll take them."

so, not knowing what i was getting myself into, but also not having anything else to do today, i drove over to the gas station to help the women get their bikes loaded into the back of my pick-up. they got in the cab with me, and off we went to the cafe.

"we want to reimburse you for your gas," said judy, one of the bikers, as she handed me $20.00.

i didn't want to take money from them, but i just installed a new transmission in this old pick-up i bought last week. that $20 will come in handy to pay those expenses.

arriving at the cafe, i saw a sea of bicycles parked outside. about six women came out of the cafe and wanted to take my picture, then they wanted their friends to take pictures of them with me in it. on top of that, they wanted my address.

what was all the fuss about? i was just doing what any neighborly iowa guy would do. that's the way we do things around here.

unexpected surprise on a sunday morning

sunday's ride was perfect, only 32 miles, so i had most of the day to mess around. thirteen miles into the ride, we rode into lake city, minnesota, a town located on the shores of lake petin. the lake was somehow formed by the mississippi river, but i couldn't really understand why the lake was sapphire and the river was so brown.

right in the center of the village was moz' coffeehouse. we put on the brakes for it, because it was only 9:30 a.m. and we had all day to get to our short destination.

dave, owner of the shop, was working his fanny off to get all of us served our various latte's, fruit smoothies, green teas, and the other various iterations of things to drink. he and his wife had transformed an old gas station into a multi-level charming area where we could spend some real down time.

as our fellow riders drifted out, i told jenna i would wait for her, as she had been the last person served. "i'm looking for a church today," i said, "and i don't want to go looking for it. i want it to be right on our route."

"i hope you find it," she replied.

she finished her second breakfast and we walked out into the glorious sunshiny morning together. suddenly, i heard refrains of a praise song we sing at the church of the resurrection. i looked across the street and it appeared that a group was conducting church services at the waterfront park in between the coffeehouse and the marina full of gorgeous sailboats.

jenna needed to get on the road, and i walked across the street to join the services. an usher handed me a bulletin and a song-sheet. i was surprised to read i was at the united methodist church of lake city. i sat down on one side of a picnic bench and the service began promptly at 11:00 a.m.

as i sat there, i couldn't imagine a more heavenly place to spend sunday morning than where i was. we sang several songs, the organist gave her personal testimony, they passed the offering plates, we sang several more songs, and it was over. i didn't want it to end. it was just too perfect.

i mounted my bike and continued down the road twenty miles to our motel for the evening, knowing that my peak experience of the day had happened before noon.

wedding at waterfront park

i went to a wedding last saturday, a wedding to which i wasn't invited. i was walking leisurely along the waterfront park in lacrosse, wisconsin, when a flutter of electric blue chiffon caught my eye. investigating further, i saw six bridesmaids standing on a concrete stage, then six tuxedoed groomsmen, and finally, the bride and groom.

what drew my attention the most, tho, was the minister. she was a young woman, dressed in a white gown with a colorful vestment stole. her voice was entrancing. i decided to become a member of the wedding audience, so i found a place on one of the empty concrete benches on the back row.

the minister was totally in charge and capable. she announced that the next number would be a vocal solo by the groom's 12-year-old daughter. this daughter stole the show.

there she stood in her billowy bridesmaid's dress, belting out "at last" by aretha franklin, complete with arm motions. she finished, the audience cheered, and she walked over and hugged her father, whom i am sure felt he had gotten his money's worth out of his daughter's voice lessons.

soon, the wedding formalities were completed. the couple kissed, the audience cheered, and the processional began, complete with the red wagonful of requisite babies of family members dressed in their wedding best.

wailful sounds of bagpipes were heard and the bagpiper, dressed in his finest blue plaid kilts and navy blue cap, preceeded the wedding party to the reception area.

the only thing missing for me was the wedding cake and dancing the macarena on the banks of the mississippi.

self-imposed adversity

these words kept creeping into my mind yesterday as i rode along. i began to wonder what kind of a person would: wake up at 6 a.m., put on tight cold-weather clothing, eat breakfast standing up in a motel parking lot, start riding with a 15-20-mile-an-hour headwind, ride up hills that force slobber out of my mouth, ride down hills that would kill me if i lost control of my bike, use a cue sheet that has errors on it, not know where those errors are, take the wrong turn, go to a farmhouse asking for directions, get on the right road, play dodge-em with 18-wheelers, eat lunch in a cute cafe, continue in the wind until my mind is shot, stop in a tavern for a coke to get some quick energy for the rest of the trip, ride into the wind for 10 more miles, see a turn-off to the "field of dreams", discover a spoke broke on my left rear tire so i can't see the field, decide to limp on into town, see the sag wagon, pack my bike onto it because it is unrideable, get to the motel, eat pizza for dinner in the parking lot of the motel, get into a van to go see the basilica of dyersville, iowa, enter into the basilica to the refrain of the "lord's prayer", sit in the pew and thank god for life, health, and safety, go back to the motel, walk next door for an after-dinner rhubarb crust a la mode, go to my motel room and find my room-mate asleep, take a shower, and drop exhausted into bed at 9:15 p.m., so i'd be ready to ride sixty more miles today.

now that's self-imposed adversity.