Well, the last 3 flew home yesterday, so this afternoon I called the little ones to get their  opinion on their father's behavior on the plane and a general update on the state of the world. Gavin was busy playing "office" with his stepsisters; they just built a new desk (toybox lid) and were working on chairs. He asked if we'd won the lottery last night (so we can buy a house on the beach), and consoled me when I answered in the negative. Kenna gave me an update on the new baby; she's smiling and holding her head up now.

After our goodbyes, I headed off for my first physical therapy session. My therapist turns out to be a rather animated fellow named Chad. He asked why my first name was June when I was born in May- I considered asking him why his first name wasn't "Idaho", but wisely bit my tongue. Doesn't pay to be sarcastic with the person who's going to torture you.

He pronounced my rotator cuff a "massive tear", and put me in the highest level of therapy. What this translates to is 3 one hour sessions a week with old Chad, doing passive movement only (meaning he lifts my arm in each direction until I sream for mercy) and hooking up the zappy little electrode thing to my shoulder for 20 minutes at a time. I'm not supposed to lift even a pound of weight. I get the feeling me and old CHad are going to be seeing each other for quite some time.

Meanwhile, I am allowed to type as long as I don't move my forearm. My goal is to have the next novel in rough draft form by the time I go back to work- whenever that may be. Since I've only written the prologue and 1 1/2 chapters, that should be motivation, right? I think it'll be really good, as I'm on all kinds of pills and quite loopy.

It's been a long 2 weeks. MY daughter drove down from Michigan (with her 4 year old) 2 days before to "Help me out" while I was incapacitated. Remember Nurse Ratchett in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest? Yup.

The day after the surgery my son flew in with his 2 kids, so we've had quite a houseful. I must admit, it's been a wonderful 2 weeks; now it's time to hit the keyboard and get back the the Blogging World.

Stay tuned for my next post; I think I'm ready for the daily (if shortened) grind.

Robin

Not quite so dramatic. I went to the doctor for the arthritis in my shoulder, and he told me it was a torn rotator cuff- the tendon attaching to my arm is hanging by a thread, and there are big jagged bone spurs stretching it taut. Well, they looked big to me, seeing as it's MY shoulder they're skulking about in...

Bottom line is, I'm learning to type without moving my arm, while I await surgery on the 24th.

Meanwhile, the editor sent us the first third of the "Grandparenting" manuscript, complete with her special comments, changes, and edits. Mind you, she's 3 weeks late in sending it, and there's 2/3 more to finish by the end of August. We're also trying to get the Scholarship CD finished (no minor chore for one as computer illiterate as I)- today I learned how to Hyperlink: a good thing, as we have over 600 links to put on the CD!

Got the new printer, learned how to print a design on a CD. Taught the dog to walk like a human. AND more big news- we decided to join the world of digital photography! Amazon will deliver our new toy maybe next week.

My daughter will be here Sunday night in anticipation of nursing me after my surgery. This is my greatest nightmare- Sara the Hun will someday hold the keys to my Nursing Home...

I listened briefly to a talking-heads back-and-forth (allegedly discussing the pros and cons) on TV. One guy suggested that this was a slippery slope, that the next step would be to pay people for obeying laws or acting moral. He might have a point, but there are already inducements to obey the law and act morally, namely prison and hell (or a similarly discordant plane of after-life).

My initial reaction to the story was a wince. This idea is so bad, it hurts. But then I started thinking, have I ever bribed my own children? Well, of course I have! When they were infants, there was the bribe of goodies to take their first steps. Later, I offered cash rewards if they would read a certain number of books over the summer. Do I still offer this? No. My point is, this bribery worked well for a few summers. And I understood that the thirst for reading was either going to take root quickly or it would never take root (how’s that for a mixed metaphor?).

And you know what, maybe some children don’t believe they can get good grades. Maybe the cash reward system will make them re-think their potential. My only caveat: just as I no longer pay my kids for reading, the cash for good grades should be limited to one or two years per student. If they don’t understand the benefits of good grades by then, if those study habits haven’t taken root, then the money would simply be going to helping a school’s collective GPA and test scores, which in the era of No Child Left Behind makes me wonder if that’s the underlying reason for this push. That is, pay the kids to make good grades so the school can stay in business to teach the kids. Ouch, my head hurts.

My mind drifted back, to a drunken father who left this earth over 30 years ago. Further back, memories of my mother with broken teeth and bones, of pet cats shot dead in the middle of the night. No warm fuzzy paternal memories to make the day special to me...

Just as I began to doze off, the phone rang yet again. I listened as Doug fielded yet another call- this time from my own daughter, who had her own thanks and greetings to give to the man who didn't become her stepfather until she was well into her twenties.

As I looked over at Doug's glowing face, I realized just who and what Fathers Day is for. Some men are  such special people, they need a whole day to do justice to the difference they've made in childrens lives. I got off the couch, and when the phone was free I called the other special father in my life- my son.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jamie-lee-curtis/mom-its-not-right_b_51507.html

Said Jamie Lee, “It was a painful episode to watch. A young woman, begging her mother, the person who should have taught her right from wrong, to help her, to teach her the rules of life. It was a little too late.”

On Saturday Andy graduated from The North Carolina School of Science and Math, and is now officially a college student. He will be attending North Carolina State University (yup, a Tarheel!) on a full scholarship. His hard work and diligence is paying off in big returns...

What else is official?

David is officially a Senior in high school, and is well into his one month vacation before he begins his college funding quest in July. He has almost decided on Appalachian State University, and should be starting there about the same time our book on how to make a carreer choice and get funding for college comes out.

Congrats to our two youngest!

 

We'll be back soon with informative, family-oriented posts soon.  This post is, more or less, a trial run.

Doug and Robin

            “AMERICAN OWNED AND OPERATED!” it proclaims, in bold red and blue letters. It stands in a prominent location in front of the corner gas station, an obvious reaction to the new owner of the competing station across the street.

            I’ve met the new owner in passing, and although we haven’t exchanged names or any other personal information, he seems to be as congenial and polite as any other gas station clerk. He always has a smile and a “Have a nice day” for every customer, which I believe is the main prerequisite for a successful business person. His skin is a bit darker than the local average, and there may be just a touch of an unidentifiable accent when he speaks. This apparently classifies him as UNAMERICAN for some folks in these parts.

            The sign hits a nerve with me. I remember being about ten years old, listening to Grandma Annie telling stories about growing up in the early 1900s on an isolated island on the Canadian border. When she was 7 years old, the United States Government proclaimed there was to be a census taken of all the Indians (we didn’t get the Native American title until outsourcing to India became popular) of the Sault Ste. Marie Tribe in Northern Michigan.

            Her father dutifully loaded the family into the boat, and traveled up the St. Mary River to Sault Ste. Marie, where the census was to be taken by the Bureau of Indian Affairs.

            The line was long for the census, going out the door and down the street and around the block. Grandma waited all day with her father, pregnant mother, and 3 siblings.

            As the good American citizens of Sault Ste. Marie passed the queue, they threw garbage at the Natives, calling them “the N word”.   By the time they reached the front of the line, seven‑year‑old Annie was covered in spittle and rotten tomato. They registered with the government, and returned to their island home and simple life.

            Grandma always finished the story with the admonishment; “So don’t you ever tell ANYBODY that you have Indian in you!” She married a proper white man, and spent her life “passing” as white (like no one would notice her darker skin and coal black eyes–not to mention that beak of a nose!). In 1924 the United States Federal Government gave Native Americans the right to vote–and granted them Citizenship at the same time.

            Being ten at the time, I missed the impact of the story, ignored her warning, and basked in the glory and envy as I immediately told all my friends of my Indian heritage. It wasn’t until decades later that the sorrow of grandma’s tale hit home.