Bachelor Creeper

Q. figured out how to add pictures to my blog Saturday. I took careful notes because there is no rational way to remember the convoluted steps necessary to duplicate the procedure.Every weekend I will attempt to add another photo. One always does best by practice.

After I had upper and lower spinal fusion in 1989 I spent the next decade gardening and reading gardening books. I was dazzled by the plant descriptions and photos in those books. My place never measured up.

I had a rusted shed demolished and made plans for a simple pergola on the 9x12 concrete slab left behind. Carpenters in this area drew elaborate plans for gazebos but even when I showed them pictures they couldn't manage a pergola.

I had read of a new type of material made out of recycled plastic. I called around and found someone who knew about it. He came out and built a sort of house shell and attached trellis to it. The first strong wind the trellis became air born. After much puzzlement on his part he stopped taking my calls. I bought some metal S hooks and Q. hung the trellis on the rafters with them. From a distance it looks nice.

I planted many vines around the trellis house. The only one that survived was an ornamental kiwi. He doesn't bloom or bear fruit. To do so would require a Female kiwi. I bought him two. Mr. Kiwi did not provide for either Mrs. Kiwi and both ladies died. Currently he lives a bachelors life by a corner post without mate or progeny. I have yet to view his "pink and white variegated foliage....a charmer on trellis, posts or walls."

Another Test

Trellis house.

I've been reading blogs lately.
At first I just read Q's blog. Then blogs that linked to hers. Then MS blogs. Then Great Britain. Then disability. What placed a big black DOOMED on my forehead was when I began reading the archives of my favorites. And these folks post daily!

One of my saddest days was when I realized I had read every word my favorite English fiction authors had written. Now reading The Perorations of Lady Bracknell and Charles Dawson's blogs every day gives me something to mull on. They are so real to me I lap up each bowl of words like one of their kittens.

What this does is make one feel that others say it better. And with more acerbic eloquence. So once a week is all I am motivated to write. Until I've read every blog on everything and the subsequent comments.

The Queen accompanied me to the Physical Terrorists office Tuesday. PT appeared to need a translator for MomSpeak. The issue of making atrophied muscles work didn't come up. She has apparently lost interest in bringing right arm back to life.

An exercise regime was developed for walking through the house twice a day for 3 minutes. Just walking to the bathroom takes care of that. Another is flopping my left forearm over and under and up and down. Shoulder shrugs were instituted. Something like 10 or 20 repetitions or twenty for ten. I forget exactly.

I get bored with keeping track of repetition statistics. I am easily distracted from the count. Maybe I could ask myself questions on my 3 minute walkabouts to the bathroom and shrug when I don't have the answers. The flopping fore arm has no productive purpose.

When I had polio and was 100% paralyzed the first movement that came back was my left forearm. "Look at this," I'd say "It's back." By the time my parents arrived at the hospital I had worn it out. But they believed me and were encouraged.

They never expected I'd live to 70 much less be doing exercises to develop my biceps.

When my daughter writes so freely about subjects that in the fifties were not discussed, I wonder. "How did she get so confident and open?" I can only remember two things that happened to me that I didn't dare tell my mother. When Dan and I were dating at the University we spent 30 minutes in his Plymouth kissing good night at the end of a date. He was only the second fellow I had dated and kissed in a car. I don't believe I had been educated in the physiological changes that occur in a man when aroused. So the kissing part was what I was developing my expertise in when Whoops! his hand shot under my skirt and up my thigh.

"A pass!" I squawked. I was delighted. "Let's go back to the dorm right now."
"Are you mad?" he asked.
"Not in the least. I want to tell everyone at the dorm someone FINALLY made a pass at me." And I did. He never tried it again nor did anyone else. I failed in the repeat pass department. Squawking must affect the male condition somehow.

Fast forward 10 years one ex-husband and two children and a reunion and marriage to Dan. I got a job as a social worker and presented a case study to a group of dignitaries and juvenile court commissioners. When I got back to the office one of the commissioners called me to compliment me on the presentation. I was proud. But he kept complimenting me until I had a dim thought he wanted something. He had lots of questions about where I hung out and where we might meet again.

During the questioning I mentioned my husband and children and I went to the library a lot. Eventually it dawned on me he was interested in ME. I blushed from my toes up. A coworker saw me and asked who I was talking with to upset me so. I should have squealed " A pass. Some little fart made a pass!" But that was the seventies and I felt I had given the wrong signal when I presented my case. Sincerity must be a turn on to Juvenile Commissioners. Another lesson learned.

My mother married beneath her. My dad completed second grade and dropped out of school to help on the farm. When mother married him at age 17 she was ridiculed by his family because of her "airs". She learned to say yaller instead of yellow and became comfortable around curse words.

She always regretted this and said sincerely that by the time she realized what she had done, the habits were impossible to break. She was so proud her children had not taken on her bad habits. Little did she know she would be QUOTED by her beloved granddaughter as saying "horsesh**t" in reference to a post about Masons. It would have pained her.

My sister Dolores Charlotte would have preferred the nickname "Dee". She referred to herself as Dee but couldn't generate any interest. Other people tried to nickname her "Lolly" but she squashed that. She would have loved that her only niece did not spell her name correctly in the blog. DElores is that much closer to Dee. And more distant than Dolores...Child of Sorrow. Of course nowadays no one in their right mind would risk naming a child Dolores....rhymes with Seinfeld.

The myofascial physical therapy continues twice a week thanks to transportation by friend Sue. I would have backed off after the first visit. Last session I was lectured on my attitude. I have always faced facts. If polio destroyed nerve endings and resulted in muscles atrophying then get over it. Move on.

But PT lady does not agree with the World Famous polio specialist I go to. She thinks I am letting lack of use due to old age affect my strength. W.F. specialist said "Go. Try it. What can it hurt?" To me it is as frustrating as holding a book really close to a blind persons eyes and insisting they can read. Not going to happen. But there goes that negative attitude of mine. I was only 13 when a friend tried to get me to a faith healer. Didn't happen.

"Every day in every way I'm getting better and better." What can it hurt?

On a more positive note I tied for first place on Lady Bracknell's blog amidst stiff competition. The win allowed me the privilege of being smug and I CACKLED when I read that my post made her ladyship laugh. But then I realized the win was announced on April Fools Day. Co-inky-dink? Or that dry English wit?