Bee Behaviour … Love or Thuggery

The Bee Bar

Today I sat and watched the bees drinking at the “bee bar” and gathering pollen from the lavender, the gladiolus, the sweet William, the kiwi, apples, the lily’s and more. One guy caught my eye.

He watched as other bees entered a particularly attractive squash blossom. Once the unsuspecting bee got deep within, this guy… (I don’t know if it was a guy or not, but I suspected as much, as his seeming thuggery led me to believe so) followed him or her in from behind.

Within seconds, he dragged the other bee out of the blossom, slammed it on the ground, gave it a good going over, released it, then both flew away. In seconds the scene was repeated.

Either this was characteristic of territorial behavior, violent love making or a rape. I couldn’t tear my eyes away until the brutality was too much for me to continue to witness. 😂

Bad Sheep Addiction

Wild Blueberry

Okay, shut up. I just finished my last pair of socks of which, I haven’t even posted the final photo yet… but I couldn’t resist this yarn from Bad Sheep Yarn.

This is the most beautiful shade of blue I’ve ever seen. It’s called Wild Blueberry and with its shades of blue and pink and dark purple, it replicates perfectly the blueberries in my garden. When I laid sight on it on their website, I couldn’t resist even though I couldn’t really afford to buy another skein of yarn when my shelves are overflowing. *sigh*

But it’s hot summer and I’m much less tolerant of the heat than I used to be. I want to finish my Magnolia sweater before winter but just thinking of working with wool and kid silk mohair makes me start to sweat.

Oh, I won’t be able to resist the sweater but don’t you think that knitting more socks is a great idea in midsummer when the temperatures climb, climb, climb from mid 80°s to near 100°?

Now, I have 2 pairs of socks on my needles. When I start itching to work on the sweater, these can easily be laid aside momentarily.

Oh, Bad Sheep… You are so bad. You and your yarn are so tempting that I can’t resist. You feed my addiction, you bad bad sheep.

But Bad Sheep, keep it coming. I’ve already spotted another skein for another pair of socks.

Movies Under the Sprinklers (Stars)

Movies in the Park

Portland Parks and Recreation does this really cool thing called Movies in the Park. It’s free and folks come out by the hundreds with their blankets and chairs and dinner.

Part of the park creates a kind of large amphitheater with a flat bowl in the middle. This night, we lay out on the grass to listen to live music while the huge blow-up screen is tied down and the projector and speakers are set up.

When it gets dark, the movie begins. Tonight was La La Land. I wouldn’t recommend the movie but who can resist watching movies out in the park, under the stars on a warm summer evening?

At 11:00 sharp, we’re about three-quarters of the way through the movie. People are relaxed, babies and children are settled down or sleeping, and what to our surprise? The sprinklers came on.

Long geysers of water are coursing their way around, soaking us… as the water hits the first people, they begin to scream and holler, babies begin to cry and dogs are barking.

The rest of us are startled, afraid of what could be happening, and then the next group and the next are hit as the powerful sprinklers rotate around and around. Everyone tries to gather up their belongings as fast as they can.

What was most surprising of all was, once we realized what was happening, that you could hear gales of laughter. No one was cursing, no one was bitching; we were all laughing (except the children who were so rudely awakened).

The water was shut off momentarily but not before I was soaked. Most people left but some stayed to finish watching the movie.

I shoved everything in my bag, threw my chair across my shoulder and walked home through the wet grass. Fortunately, I was just less than two blocks from home.

I love you Portland Parks and Recreation. I’ll be back for the next round of music and movies. I’m still laughing.

The Beginning of the End ~ A Nurse to the End

It was January 21, 2010. I woke at 4:34 AM thinking that it’s still too early to get up for work. But then I realized that Mom was calling me. She tells me that she can’t breathe and can no longer function. I knew this day was coming but I wasn’t ready for her to go yet.

She tells me to call the Portland Clinic, and I do. Her long time physician, Dr. Craven, is not on call. The doctor on-call calls back after 20 minutes.

When I explained what is happening and I tell him that she wants to go to the hospital in an ambulance. He says to call 911. I do.

I sit beside Mom, holding her hand, helpless. In the meantime, I call Kristi and Steve to tell them what is happening.

First, a fire truck arrives, lights flashing, lighting up our small street. Four large men, dressed in blue, crowded into Mom’s bedroom with their cases of equipment and tools hanging from their belts. I stand aside.

Mom had advanced directives not to code but in violation of her own predetermined decisions, she tells them she wants help breathing. She tells them in full sentences, everything they need to know while she’s struggling to breathe. They take her vitals. I stand silent knowing instinctively who’s in charge.

Then, the ambulance arrives. More men squeeze into Mom’s, what seems now to be a, very tiny bedroom, each carrying more equipment. Mom reiterates everything to the EMTs that she just told the other guys.

Quickly, they wrap her up in her blankets like a sausage and two guys grab handfuls of the blankets from the top and carry her into the living room where they put her on a gurney. Then they wheeled her out to the ambulance.

Two guys are in back with Mom and I climb in front with the driver. Mom continues to tell them what they need to know. She struggles to breathe until they use a c-pap to blow large quantities of oxygen into her lungs. She can no longer talk. I can’t believe she’s been talking through this whole ordeal.

After the EMTs get an IV started, we take off across the St. Johns bridge. Once we get across and onto Hwy. 30, the lights and sirens are turned on, as Matt tells the driver to step on it. I can’t see Mom and I can’t hear her. This is not how I want it to end.

In the emergency room, the nurses and doctors get to work putting who knows what in the IV.

Before looking, the doctor shows me the chest x-ray along with an old x-ray from 2005. Her lungs are hazy and her heart is large. There is fluid around the lungs, a sign of congestive heart failure. It’s something she’s had for 10 years. He says she probably won’t live long.

Mom is breathing with the help of oxygen and the doctor wants to keep her in the hospital. When she’s stable they move her to a private room. Here she stays for a couple of weeks.

Mom was in her element. This very hospital is where she spent 40 years as a career nurse. She seemed to have recovered from the emergency. For those two weeks, I visit her daily while friends and family stream in and out. Many visitors were physicians and co-workers who stopped to tell stories of working with her, or under her supervision and nurses who were once students who she had mentored.

I learned more about her professional life in those weeks than I ever knew before. I knew she was a VIP, but I didn’t know how respected and loved she was.

Mom talked about going into a home when she leaves the hospital. She swore up and down that she wanted to. We had already gone over and over this. I didn’t believe her. “No! Mom. Absolutely not. You can stay home, this is where you’ll stay.”

Kristi and I decided to acquiesce and went to look at a few small care homes just to satisfy Mom. Though Mom and I had lived together for nearly 20 years, she kept insisting that she did not want to burden me. After visiting, we were more convinced than ever that she wasn’t going into a home.

How would we manage to go to see her if she weren’t at home with me? It was enough just to go to work and back again, run errands, cook dinner, shop, etc., without having to drive across town to visit Mom. And I knew Mom didn’t really want that, she just didn’t want to put me out.

For the next four months, Mom sits or lies in a hospital bed situated in the living room directly in front of the windows. From here she can see what passes in front of the house. She can also see her many visitors arriving.

I took family medical leave until hospice care came in to relieve me five days a week so that I could return to work. And Kristi drove hundreds of miles every weekend to help out.

Mom lost all strength in her legs but every other function worked perfectly well. That meant that she needed assistance to maintain her hygiene. Though these were not chores I relished, I did them with love. Unlike Mom, I had no inclination to nurse but I would not abandon her. She had seen me through polio and cancer. This was the least I could do.

Mom and I had dinner together every evening and she filled me in on her day with the caretakers. Apparently, she enjoyed their companionship and had many stories to tell.

Just as any good nurse would, she was keeping her own chart: recorded type and time of medication administration, size and frequency of BMs and urine output, blood pressure, heart rate, temperature, etc.

I served Mom in bed, while I sat not far away at the dining room table. Soon after finishing her dinner each evening, she was ready for dessert, which I was to bring, post haste. Eventually, I had to gently tell her that I wasn’t her nurse’s aid and that once I had finished my dinner, I would bring dessert. She understood immediately and was quite apologetic.

Though I helped her with her toilet each evening, I also had to tell her that I wasn’t going to estimate her output in size and quantity. She was sorely disappointed but did not utter one disgruntled word. Eventually, I also asked her to either give up charting or trust me to bring her meds on time. It was annoying to be reminded constantly that in 20 minutes it would be time for such and such. She got it. She kept her chart, but kept silent about it.

If one didn’t know why she was in bed, one wouldn’t know that this beautiful lady was just months, then weeks, then days away from death. Nightly, I would mix a dry, dirty martini, Beefeater Gin only please, with 3 green olives or 3 cocktail onions for her and something wonderful for me. Then we would chat and watch Jeapardy and Wheel of Fortune and whatever else was on that we wanted to watch. Mom was a very sociable and gracious companion.

Mostly during the day, while I was at work, Mom would entertain friends or family who came to visit. I don’t believe she had one boring day. If she had a quiet day, Mom would read, do crossword puzzles, read the newspapers and watch the news. The living room filled with cards and flowers.

As we knew would happen, the day came for her passing. She called me in the early morning hours. It was May but not yet light out. I turned on a dim light and I sat with her on her bed and took her soft hand, as she asked me to help her “get off of this”, as she motioned with her hand, touching her chest from where her heart was, out into the air. I asked her what she meant but she would just make the same hand gesture and repeat the same words. I offered suggestions such as, a road, a path, or a trail. But with each suggestion she would say, “no smaller”.

Mom was very calm. I so wanted to understand what it was that she wanted me to do. How can I help her to “get off of this” if I don’t know what “this” is? I knew she was ready to die because we had talked about this at infinitium. But she was worried about leaving me alone. She wanted me to be loved by someone and to be cared for.

I finally remembered something I had learned many years before. It was that our soul is connected to eternity with a golden thread. When I said, Mom, is it a thread?” She suddenly relaxed. I told her that I couldn’t cut it for her but that she was free to go, that I would be fine, and that I loved her more than she would ever know and I knew how much she loved me. I have no idea if she understood when I said a thread, except that it seemed to satisfy her. Maybe I had finally mentioned something that was actually small enough.

We sat there until the sun came up. This morning there were no ablutions, no coffee, no breakfast. She really didn’t want anything. I don’t even remember what we said to one another but I know we spoke soft words.

Mom had everything in order and didn’t need to ask me for anything. Besides the family and close friends I knew who to call. Family began to show up as did her friends to say goodbye. For a good part of the day she would speak to people as they would come and go. But as the day wore on she spoke less and began to spend her time, her final hours, with her eyes closed. When one would speak to her she would make a soft sound as if to say I know you’re there.

Slowly people went away having said their goodbyes. This left Hannah, Kristi and I alone with her to accompany her as she passed away. The hospice nurse that showed up towards the end of the day, stayed to pronounce her death and to sign the appropriate papers. She melted into the background and was hardly noticeable. She told us that as a person dies their last sense to go is their hearing and encouraged us speak to her.

We sat on her bed, touching her. We told her that we loved her and that we would miss her but that it was also okay for her to go, she didn’t need to hold on. She was so relaxed and her face softened with a pink glow and her wrinkles seemed to disappear. Soon we had no more words and all we could do was hum and sing without words. Mom almost imperceptibly took her last breath. It took us some time before we could move away from her. By this time, it was nearing midnight.

Mom had donated her body to the OHSU Body Donation Program. While we waited for them to come for her, we sat talking and looking at this beautiful body that had belonged to someone that had served so many and would be remembered for her love, intelligence and so much more.

But right up until her dying day, Mom was in charge. Two things that I will always remember is hearing Dad say, “Norma, you’re not in charge here at home.” Second, was numerous people saying they’d never heard her say a bad word about anyone. Now that’s a legacy!

When Dancing Salsa Hurts

I’ve always been a dancer. I started out dancing standing on my daddy’s feet. He was a master “jitterbugger” and danced at the drop of a hat.

I was enrolled in tap dance when I was 4 years old. I took ballet classes as a young child through high school. I even danced in The Nutcracker Suite at the Keller Auditorium. As an adult, I taught dance aerobics for years.

At 47, dance had always been a big part of my life. I was fresh from Mexico where I danced myself almost to death. I learned cumbia and salsa and folk dancing. When I returned to the States, my first goal was to find a place to speak Spanish and to dance.

It was at ChaCha’s where those wishes came true. The Cubans were newly arrived from Guantanamo Bay where they had wiled away their lives imprisoned for two years for trying to leave their country. Their first goal here was to find a dance/social club as soon as they could.

Many were lonely. Many had experienced horrors you can’t imagine. Many missed home. Most did not speak English.

I descended the steps at Cha Cha’s into the basement of the dance club. The music was shaking the walls and the people were shaking the floors. It took about a minute or two for a beautiful dancer named Ramiro to grab my hands as he guided me onto the crowded dance floor.

I won’t go into this story because I’ve written about what happened after that first night in Cha Cha’s in other blog posts. But this is where I learned to dance casino, salsa and rumba, Cuban style.

At first I just copied what Ramiro did. I secretly described the rumba as the chicken dance. As it turns out, I was right. He held me tight for the slow dances but with incredible rhythm and finesse for the rest. I was hooked.

After that, for the next 3 years, days and nights were filled with dance. It was like an attempted murder when that was taken away from me. I thought I would die but I survived but not unscathed.

Ramiro in his love and kindness led me to believe for all this time that I could dance as well as he and the other Cubans. I don’t exaggerate to say that he was the best among them. If I was around any of the Cubans still, you actually could ask them and they would agree.

From my other stories, I know that you know that I have an arm that was affected by polio. Because of that and the subsequent surgeries pertaining to the weakness in my right shoulder, I don’t have a full range of movement. If you know anything about dancing, having a full range of movement in both arms is essentially imperative, so they say. But not to Ramiro.

Ramiro never mentioned my arm. He just made it work. He skillfully used my left arm and the limited capacity of my right arm to spin and twirl me expertly. I don’t think anyone ever noticed… until the night a friend of Ramiro’s asked to dance with me.

This night, there was a gathering at a friend’s house. As always, there was music and people dancing. Ramiro and I, of course, were dancing and drinking and eating and laughing and talking.

It was this same night that I was nearly mortally wounded. I survived but still suffer to a small degree. The scars are still painful. My heart bled then as it does now and my tears still flow with the memory.

Who or what hurt me so terribly that I remember it with a sharp pain in my heart? What happened? Who hurt me and what did he do? Let the guilty be named and let him be prosecuted. His name is La Meda.

You might say that this is overly dramatic, but to me, it is not. Remember, I had been dancing since I was tiny when I was enrolled in tap dance and had classes in ballet. My parents danced in the house and when visiting family and friends. Their nights out would be at dance clubs. Dancing was a big part of my life, polio or no.

La Meda was a Cuban, A so-called friend of Ramiro’s from their days in Guantanamo. I never liked him and I never trusted him. You know how some people can just give you a vibe that you don’t trust, that you don’t like. I knew he had an American girlfriend and I knew that he cheated on her every weekend. I knew his girlfriend and I knew the girls he cheated with.

So when La Meda asked to dance with me I was reticent. Ramiro loved to dance with me and I think that he wanted to show La Meda something he was proud of. He was also proud of my fluency in Spanish. But I don’t think La Meda really wanted to dance with me, I think he had bad intentions.

He grabbed my hands and we began to dance. He immediately started to do all of the arm things, which I couldn’t do. It didn’t take more than 2 or 3 minutes for him to show that I was unable. As we danced, he was scowling, looking in my eyes and looking at Ramiro, scoffing.

He dropped my hands and gave me a slight push. As he walked away from me, he said to Ramiro, “she can’t dance”. To that, Ramiro was silent. He grabbed my hands and we danced throughout the rest of the night.

From that night on, we didn’t see La Meda again… at least I didn’t. I’ll be forever thankful for the time I had with Ramiro and all of the love and all of the dancing that we did. Have I forgiven La Meda? Apparently not.

Dancing salsa can hurt.

How Heavy is the Garden

It’s a hot start to July.

The garden is heavy.

The day lily’s bow towards the porch and face up to the sun.

The climbing roses pull-down the trellises.

Those roses that climb the lilac, have bent the branches to block the door.

A million apples pull and arch the columnar,

And the espalier reaches for the ground.

While the jasmine, heavy and fragrant, lies upon the grass.

While Lying in the Hammock

It’s just past noon on the summer solstice.

For days it’s been cool and raining.

Everything is just a bit damp.

While the temperature is climbing,

The hammock is calling.

I answer the call and lay down,

and I gaze upwards.

The sky is so blue it’s an impossible shade of purple.

The leaves are every shade of green,

From black where little light can reach,

Under the dense branches,

To chartreuse where the leaves shine against the sky,

Almost translucent where sunlight amicably tries to penetrate.

I think I’ll just lie here for a while.

After all, the warmth and beauty are mesmerizing.

Disappointed by a Rose

Heritage roses

On my walk today and smelling roses, nary a one had a fragrance.

Give me an old fashioned rose any day with fragrance and thorns. Let my nose be delighted and my fingers pricked.

Though beautiful, I’d never plant a rose that’s been stripped of its birth right.

Ode to the Old Lemon Tree

Today, I’ll make lemon pudding, I thought. I’ll squeeze the fat fruit. I’ll scrape the bright rind. I’ll stir the cornstarch and sugar together with the zest then I’ll pour in the juice. I’ll stir in sweet milk and when it begins to thicken, I’ll add in the creamy butter.

Then there came a memory like they are wont to do.

A lemon tree stood alone in the yard, scarce of leaf, bent and rough of bark, unexpectedly laden with fruit.

That old tree brought me joy on days when I tired of rice and onions. I’d go to gather the flawed, dimpled, sun-like yellow fruit to make pudding.

All I needed then was sugar, an egg, a lemon and cornstarch to stir until thickened. Lemon desserts aren’t lemon to me unless they make my jaw hurt from the tartness.

Now that I have the luxury of butter and milk, it doesn’t diminish the sweet and tart lemon pudding I made when I was poor… more poor than I am now.

The old lemon tree is far away but I’m sure it still stands. Why would anyone dare to cut down such a bountiful tree. But then who knows for sure what others might do. At least in my memory it still stands.

Now, I buy lemons from the bins at the store, the same store where I buy the butter and milk. I don’t know where any of them have come from or how far they’ve traveled.

I’d prefer anyday to go out and gather lemons from the old lemon tree. I’d fill my pockets with the warm fruit, heavy with juice and make the simple pudding that makes life good.

Swallowing My Tooth, Go Carts and BB Guns

When I was a kid, we were living in Eugene in Fox Hollow on Spencer’s Butte. We lived nextdoor to the Rice family. Dad and Mom became friends with Ray and Myrna Rice and we kids got close to Cathy, Charlie, Cheryl, Janet and I don’t remember the names of the other kids, but I think there were about 4 or 5 of them.

The oldest kid was a boy and he didn’t care much for us. I remember that I had a great straw hat that I treasured and a solid crush on the boy. One time he put that straw hat over a pile of dog poop and stepped on it. That was the end of my straw hat, though I tried to clean it with a strong stream of water from the hose. Mom made me throw it away. And that was the end of the crush I had on him.

Even though we were only going to be in Eugene for a couple of years while my dad tried to find job satisfaction at Acme Fast Freight, he never got happy and so I remember tensions were high. But we were tight and held together.

Mom went straight to work at Sacred Heart Hospital. Being a nurse who trained at the University of Minnesota, she could get a job in a minute and deep at heart she was a nurse. She loved her job no matter where she lived.

We only stayed in Fox Hollow for the 1st part of those 2 years but boy they were fun times. For one, it was rural and we had moved from St. Johns, which was a small community in the larger city of Portland. We had the run of the place. Just up the road was a roller rink where we went as often as was allowed.

Steve often would put Kristi on his handlebars and they would go up to the road above our house and ride down the mountain as fast as he could peddle. As far as I was concerned they were dare devils and I dare not attempt a ride down the mountain… especially not with Steve. He was ridiculously fearless.

He was in high school, maybe freshman and sophomore years and Kristi was probably in 5th or 6th grade… eleven years old maybe. She was nothing but fun and carelessness. Her hair would fly and her big blue eyes looked wild. She was as fearless as Steven.

Steve was ingenious and loved to invent something out of nothing. He built a “go cart” out of scrap wood and some wagon tires. We didn’t need a motor since the house was at the bottom of a steep descent down from the road. That was our raceway.

We’d push the heavy cart up the driveway, turn it around, hop on and go. I don’t remember much of a steering mechanism. I remember ropes or something attached to what you might call something to steer with, it was more like, lean to the left, lean to the right and hope that once you zoomed through the carport, you wouldn’t crash into the roof supports and you’d try to miss the clothes line pole centered between the support beams. Most of the time we made it.

The house was a long way from the road, so we picked up alot of speed. And brakes? There were none. By the time we came by the house, barely passing through the carport safely, we’d be sailing at top speed. We’d, pass the house, continuing on across the property until we crossed a dirt road and smashed and crashed into a fence on the other side. The fence stopped the go cart so suddenly, your whole body jerked and shuddered to a halt nearly giving us whiplash.

A huge oak tree, perfect for climbing, awaited certain unlucky kids who were not as adept as we were at missing it. But there was something more sinister than the oak tree standing there. The fence was covered in poison ivy.

I remember Steve covered in the poison ivy rash, all red and scabby, with an uncontrollable itch and whitish pink from calamine lotion. Out of us three kids, Steve was the only one who got the dreaded infection. But that vine covered fence didn’t stop us from continuing to ride our go cart down the hill and into the fence.

The old oak tree was my safe haven. I called it the girl’s tree and boys were not allowed to climb it. If they tried to I’d scream at the top of my lungs and kick at them until they left me alone.

During this time, Steve had a beloved bb gun. One afternoon, he reluctantly acquiesced to teach me to shoot it. He held it up, barrel pointing to the sky. He growled at me to not pull the trigger until he said to, threatening me with sudden death if I made a wrong move. I promised I wouldn’t. He dropped some bbs down the barrel and lowered it horizontally with his thumb over the end so they wouldn’t roll out.

For some reason at that moment, without warning, I pulled the trigger embedding the first bb into his thumb. He pulled the gun out of my hand and started yelling and pushed me. I started yelling too, screaming, “Please don’t tell Mom. Please don’t tell Dad.” He never did because they probably would have taken the gun away from him if they knew he was letting me shoot it. That was not the first or the last time that we kept secrets from Mom and Dad.

Well, back to the Rice family. They liked to go camping and fishing as much as we did. What I remember most is that Myrna would make these big fat melt-in -your-mouth cinnamon rolls to take along. Though I loved the swimming and the fishing, the campfires and roasting marshmallows and sleeping in a canvas tent, in canvas and flannel sleeping bags, the cinnamon rolls are what I remember most about camping with the Rice’s.

One summer evening I was over at the Rice’s house. To get there, there was a path between our houses. We went back-and-forth enough that we could walk that path or run that path or cartwheel on that path blindfolded. It was about the distance of two city blocks. It was partially dirt and grass. When it rained the dirt parts had big puddles and mud but in the summer there were just dips and high spots making it all the more fun to ride our bicycles over. There was a boulder near the end closest to our house. The large stone was the size of a hassock for a comfy living room armchair.

When I got to their house, it was almost sunset. They were making homemade taffy. Myrna cooked the taffy and when it was cool enough, the kids pulled and pulled it until it was shiny and smooth. We couldn’t resist eating it at the same time. Once Myrna said we had pulled enough, we cut it with scissors into bite size pieces and wrapped it in wax paper squares and twisted the ends to keep it from sticking together and to keep it fresh.

I was having a wonderful time laughing and talking and getting all sticky. I was popping bits of taffy into my mouth, the candy sticking to my teeth. Suddenly, I realized that a tooth, one of my molars, got stuck in taffy and pulled it right out of my gums and I had swallowed it. Immediately, I began to cry.

I ran from the house into the darkened yard. I should have been able to transverse that path with ease, but no. As I ran my eyes were filled with tears and I was afraid something terrible would happen to me since I had swallowed my tooth.

I was running wildly and at top speed. On any other night, I would have reached home in a minute or two. But when I got to the boulder, my toe hit it and my momentum launched my body over the boulder and into the grass headlong, adding insult to injury.

I was dazed. I was worried. Mom was still too far away. Eventually, I was able to get up and make my way to the house with bloodied knees and bloodied hands. And on top of that I had swallowed a tooth. I couldn’t imagine what would happen now. Would I die?

My mom, who first of all is a nurse and second of all is a stoic and third of all is a loving and caring mother, took me to the bathroom where the cleansing and disinfecting took place. No tiny stone or bits of sand or mud was left in my poor knees and hands and they were soon disinfected with mecurichrome and bandaged. No tears or crying for mercy stopped her from making sure that these injuries would heal properly.

It took a bit for her to understand that I was trying to say that not only did I have bodily injuries but I had swallowed my tooth along with a piece of taffy. I’m sure now that mom hid her smile at how distraught I was. She knew that that tooth would be quickly excreted along with everything else I had eaten.

But Mom being Mom, she held me tightly in her arms and comforted me and explained that I had nothing to worry about. I knew that the best place for me to be was in my mother’s arms. Once she assured me that this was not a life-or-death situation, I calmed quickly. This was just one of the many times that my mom picked me up, cleaned me up and took care of whatever injuries I suffered be they injuries to the heart or injuries to the body. She knew just what to say and just what to do.