I'm working on it

Many years ago, twenty-some, Ellen Bryant Voigt (a  poet) told me I should be writing every day. Just shut the door--to keep the kids out--and write. I knew it was true, because inspiration comes then, when you're working. I didn't do it. Couldn't.

But now and then I have to write a poem--or try to--just so I'll know my head still works. Inspiration? Hmm. That's another subject.
Here's what I'm working on now. I haven't found the right title yet. So on and so forth.


From My Window

That squirrel,
playing around the trunk
of my neighbor's lopsided tree,
jumps up on the trunk and runs down,
turns flips, stops to flick his tail,
circles the tree again,
then repeats the whole dance.
It is like a dance
whose music invites abandon--
he looks wild,
that squirrel, and joyful.

What I see
is his singleness.
He is alone (or is it, she is alone?).
And I try to draw some lesson,
as I often do.

I have seen squirrels by twos
perform those acrobatic flips,
chase each other between
the ash and the dawn redwood
in my own yard,
run up and down each tree,
around and around the trunks,
stopping now and then to hold
a pose for one another,
then start up again
to repeat every step
or chase back and forth
across my roof.

The birds hold their peace
while the squirrels play:
the sparrows, robins, even the mourning doves
who every day whine out their grief.
What are they mourning? I wonder.
Perhaps the birds watch
from the nearby sycamore or honey locust,
drawing their own lessons.

The trees I know,
what they will do and when,
like the sycamore--it will hold its leaves
until late, late autumn--
or the dawn redwood
which, in spite of its name,
is not evergreen.
And I know the birds.
Robins, quails, even flickers, visit my lawns;
sparrows and finches have long
borrowed corners of my house for nest building,
with my blessing.

I don't much like squirrels,
but I have watched them,
noted their wildness with some small envy,
and, after twenty years,
thought I knew them.  But
this one squirrel is a puzzle,
acting out his happy dance alone.
I do not know what it means to me,
perhaps nothing at all,
but something about it
is not right, and I
cannot believe that squirrel
is not longing for something,
someone.

What does this mean? That I can't cook anymore?

If people keep giving a person zucchinis, she pretty much has to make zucchini bread eventually. Which I did today.

And I thought to put it in two smallish pans for baking, but didn't. So now, it may never be done in the middle, and now I can't give parts of it to friends who have been so generous with me.

Because after baking it an hour and ten minutes and cooling it for another ten, when I tried to turn the bread out of the pan, the whole top and center plopped out--or slid--undone.

It's back in the oven, but it's a mess.

Yes, I get it

My brother Sterling was maybe 14 or 15, which means I was 10 or 11. He got hurt at a beach party at Playa del Rey. Hit his head on one of the round concrete fire pits built right on the sand. Cut his head open and was taken to the hospital for examination ( he had a concussion) and for stitches.

All this was distressing to me, his adoring little sister.

When he was home again--and it seems to me it was the next day--he slept. My mother gave me some kind of warning about him, to be quiet, and something about what he might be like. I wish she hadn't. Whatever she said put some kind of fear into me. And I think I had some kind of built-in fear already.

In the afternoon, I tiptoed past his bedroom door on my way downstairs and soon became aware he had come out of his room and was behind me on the stairs. That was a bit scary, but I got up my guts and turned to look at him, not knowing quite what to expect. It was Sterling. Good. I saw the place on his forehead, the stitches, the reddened area around it. I felt bad about that.

But then he lifted his arms, holding them out in front of him--like Frankenstein's monster--and began walking stiffly, making low, monster noises. His eyes didn't focus on anything. I was scared.

Then he laughed, and then I was mad but also relieved. I adored him, but he could be a jerk.

All this to say, "Oh yes. I see why my little grandchildren might be frightened." They saw me in the hospital, oxygen tube in my nose, needle in my hand, electrodes all over me, a gizmo taped to one of my fingers, machines with their lines and lights. That's frightening. No wonder when they come to my house they aren't sure what they'll see or who am I just now.

So, under the circumstances, they did very well the other night.

I surely love them. That hasn't changed. Neither have I, really.

Reader response.

"Those whom the gods wish to destroy, they first make mad."

From Henry Ketcham's book, The Life of Abraham Lincoln. He's talking about what he calls the slavery power and their downfall.

This statement comes close behind his reminder of the terrible, unspeakable things pro-slave entities did--these were largely government entities in the many states and in the federal government--to prohibit any states coming into the union as free states. Murder was common; home invasion common.

Remember "bleeding Kansas"? Missouri sent border ruffians, as they were known, into Kansas to eliminate the anti-slavery settlers, for instance.

Such atrocities and their entirely lawless behavior--with government approval; their apparent deterioration of the power to see things clearly, fairly; the tendency to distort all history to their favor; their utter disregard of any but their own desires . . . to the point of madness. These things--and the election of Abraham Lincoln--brought about their destruction.

Capsule here. But I love this book.


Yes, recovering from a heart attack gives one time to read.

Do I tell about the stent or the toilet?

Just home from a command visit to St Luke's hospital, I am happy to be writing again. Happy to be.

During my brief stay I met Kristi, Seth, Sandi, Krystal, Megan, Radka, Kim, Nick, Karla, Charlie, and Dr Duerr. All were more or less involved in my care.

Dr Duerr, a cardiologist, put a stent in one of the arteries supplying blood to my heart. His reputation at the hospital is almost more sparkling than I can believe. But I hope all they told me is true, hope the procedure he performed on that 99% closed artery reflects his reputed technical skill. Hope I live another many years.

The others I name here were technicians who came into my room to take blood (no easy task for them, and not pain-free for me of the tiny veins). Some came in to fill up the pill drawer--I now have to take six pills a day, some for life, a couple for a year. Not my choice for the days ahead, but I'll do it because Duerr says it will keep my heart healthy. Keep me alive.

Most of the people I met were nurses, male and female, who popped in to take my vitals or help me in some way.

Now this part.
One's need to use a toilet is a constant, or at least we hope so. Elimination of body waste is helpful to our health. My first 15 hours in the hospital required the use--my use--of a bed pan. You know what that is. It's what a nurse places under your bottom area while you are lying in bed and afterward stands by while you do the waste eliminating.

The whole process isn't pleasant at best, but when you are not permitted to move your right leg at all for nine hours, it's also difficult. Two nurses turned me on my side and one of them placed the bedpan under me. Then they turned me back onto my back. My own part was then what I consider the hardest part, unless removing the bed pan and cleaning up might be the hardest part.

I conclude that the people I met love their work, or they would not do it.

With this hospital visit I saw, and used, the toilet in the cupboard. No kidding.

After a weak objection from me, Seth told me, rather pointedly, that it is a very expensive toilet, costing more than  $2000. I suppose that could be true, but so what? I suppose it was better than the bed pan, certainly more of a conversation piece, being placed, as it was, under the sink in my tiny CCU room on the third floor.

The toilet is built into the door mechanism of the cupboard under the sink. You open the doors and the toilet comes around and locks into a useable position. The black button, which I never saw, flushes; the red lever releases the lock and allows the doors to shut and hide the toilet. One nurse left the toilet out. I asked Paul to put it away. He said he wasn't about to touch the red lever.

Did you want to know all this?

I suppose I should be thankful for the toilet in the cupboard, but I wasn't. I would have walked, if they had permitted me, to the nearest public bathroom on the third floor. They said it was too far anyway.

No. Thankful is what I was when, on Saturday evening, my transfer to 3 Tele came through. In that spacious room I had a regular bathroom, with toilet and sink, separated by a foot or two. No squeezing into the tiny space and sitting under, sort of, the sink.

Good times.

July 5 - 7

Our first ever entire Schiess family reunion is over. I will not attempt to chronicle it. But I must say it was a wildly successful event.

I thank all who planned and worked to bring it together. It was good. I had a wonderful time. Can't wait for the pictures.

Only Anna couldn't come, and we missed her, she of the BYU dance group who went to Taiwan. A good enough reason. But everyone else was here for at least some of it.

Well, we also missed Wayne, their dad. Perhaps that should go without saying. Too late. I've said it.

We were 34 Schiess people. And we all got along. I love my family.