Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Walking on Broken Glass

I used to think that Annie Lennox was singing about a love gone bad whenever I heard “Walking on Broken Glass.” Now, I’m pretty sure she’s singing about having bad knees.

While I was still working, I would find myself beside the car in the parking lot, not knowing if I could make it in to my office. This daily experience convinced me that it was time to actually retire, not simply change jobs from a kindergarten classroom to a college classroom.

If you can, imagine walking on your hands down the paved street. Only, not on your hands – think of walking on the middle joint of your fingers on the pavement. That’s the way my knees feel when I try to walk for exercise if the interventions my doctors provide aren’t up to date.
And, when I’m on any decline – no matter how slight - the pain increases tremendously even on my best days.

I’ve known that both need to be replaced for several years now, but I am determined to leave this earth with the same knees that came with me, if at all possible. I have a wonderful rheumatologist who recommended SynVisc injections before moving toward surgery. SynVisc provides an artificial cushion in the knees, giving up to six months relief from pain. My orthopedic surgeon urges me not to replace my knees as long as the SynVisc continues to work. I am fortunate that it seems to be more effective with each set of injections. Many people find the injections less effective over time.

I’m also lucky that a daily dose of Cymbalta manages much of my pain. Without it, I couldn’t walk across the room on any day without the use of my cane. There would be no way that I could manage a set of stairs or walking through a grocery store.

I am able to exercise daily, up to 45 minutes a day on the stationary bicycle and an additional 30 a day of resistance exercises. Whenever my knees are sore, I find that the exercise bike really eases the pain. I back off and just ride at a very leisurely pace under 10 mph. When things are good, I ride more quickly. I started this about 6 weeks ago and find that I have much greater mobility and comfort when I maintain my exercise.

And, of course, weight affects the way I feel tremendously. I’ve lost just short of 50 pounds, which means that my knees are relieved of about 200 pounds of pressure. I would love to lose another 60 pounds to provide the best insurance that my natural knees and I remain partners.
I am glad the option of knee replacement is available and, if I decide I need it, I will use it. Meanwhile, I can manage without too many problems. I won’t take a walk with you on rolling terrain and my taekwondo days are over. But, another 40 pounds off, and I’m going to see if I can manage riding lessons. I can always use the steps to get up to the saddle.

Friday, August 8, 2008

Where Are They Now?

When George W. Bush was elected to the Presidency, it took us months to remember his wife’s name. “You know, Mrs. Bush… What IS her first name?”

Keep in mind that my husband’s name is George and my name is Laura. We are politically very liberal, so I guess we subconsciously blocked Laura Bush’s name from our memories to avoid the association. Fortunately, our friends never made the connection unless we pointed it out to them.

Two years ago, we added a male and a female Labradoodle puppy to our family to share our new home. George suggested several names, but my mind was already made up. Not only did I want presidential names to go with ours, I wanted the names of good Democrats so I could attempt to even the score. I decided upon Harry and Bess. (Franklin and Eleanor would be much more suited to donkeys or mules.)

Whenever we walk the dogs, someone inevitably stops us to ask about their breed. It never fails that, when they hear the dogs’ names, someone will sigh and say, “Harry, where are you now that we need you?”

Bess is cuddly and playful and totally wrapped up in herself. We adore her.

Harry, though, is the best dog we’ve ever had. Our youngest son describes him as “noble” and it certainly fits. Harry is loving and protective of the people in his life without being aggressive toward people or other dogs. He’s definitely the alpha leader without being a bully. He’s confident, smart and studies situations before he reacts. Harry pays subtle attention to what we expect; he can hold a hammer when asked to or carry in the mail. He finds box turtles and brings them to us unharmed because he knows we are delighted by his gifts. Each morning when George walks, a vigilant Harry waits at the end of the driveway until he returns and each night Harry stays up with me, the last one to go to bed.

Presidents themselves should be noble. They should serve their people first and be aware of and responsive to their needs in times of crisis. They should be vigilant, but they should also study situations before they react and should understand the difference between protection and aggression. They should appreciate and share our interest and delight in the gifts of our diversity, our public lands, and resources. They should pay attention so they are prepared for the biggest or smallest of jobs. And they should know the difference between arrogance and confidence.

Oh, integrity, intelligence, strength, vigilance, service, nobility, where are you now that we need you? Some of us are giving up hope that this nation can once again become the symbol of peace and freedom and truth for the world, a place where people believe their dreams can become reality. While the American people realize that the differences that divide us are much fewer and smaller than the things we have in common, we must also face a new reality that those minute differences may make us the next target of suspicion by the same leaders sworn to protect our standard of diverse opinions, backgrounds, and perspectives. While we as individuals find ourselves more deeply connected throughout the world through trade and digital communications, we find ourselves increasingly isolated as American citizens.

Our leaders now make decisions on what they suspect and what they choose to believe rather than what they know. They use lies to justify fear and fear to justify actions that we would never support if presented truthfully. They have called upon America’s sons and daughters to sacrifice their families, their jobs, their homes, and their very lives while the economic and social gaps between those in power and everyday Americans grows wider and wider.

How sad to think that it’s come to this. And, how sad to think that we let it happen.

"The President is merely the most important among a large number of public servants. He should be supported or opposed exactly to the degree which is warranted by his good conduct or bad conduct, his efficiency or inefficiency in rendering loyal, able, and disinterested service to the nation as a whole. Therefore it is absolutely necessary that there should be full liberty to tell the truth about his acts, and this means that it is exactly as necessary to blame him when he does wrong as to praise him when he does right. Any other attitude in an American citizen is both base and servile. To announce that there must be no criticism of the President, or that we are to stand by the President, right or wrong, is not only unpatriotic and servile, but is morally treasonable to the American public. Nothing but the truth should be spoken about him or anyone else. But it is even more important to tell the truth, pleasant or unpleasant, about him than about anyone else."
Theodore Roosevelt

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

Even Lance Started on a Tricycle

As part of building a healthier lifestyle, I’V started riding our stationary bike. It’s far easier on my knees than walking each day and, for some strange reason, I love to watch the number of calories and carbs I’m burning go up while I monitor my pace, miles per hour, and the total number of minutes I ride.

I’ve had to ride on resistance level 1. To tell the truth, I don’t even know how many levels of resistance there are on the bike – I don’t expect to see too many of them. I just pedal away at 10 to 11 mph on level 1, going nowhere and getting ahead at the same time.

Yesterday was a breakthrough, though. I decided to try the second level of resistance in three separate one minute intervals, five minutes apart. I watched every second of every one of those minutes and was so glad to see them finally end. But, I managed to do it. The third interval might as well have been a mountain stage in the Tour de France. I huffed and puffed, sweat pouring off me, and just sat on the bike resting for a full two minutes when my total time was up.

Last night I started planning on how and when I might actually tackle level 2 for TWO full minutes at a time – maybe next week. I’m getting ready to go out to the porch for my ride right now and am curious to see how those three intervals will feel today. It’s 10:00 AM and already 88 degrees with 45% humidity – more like the Tour de Death Valley. No matter, every rotation of the pedals brings me closer to that elusive thing called health.

One thing for sure, if I ever reach five minutes on resistance level 3, I’m buying myself a yellow jersey.

Monday, August 4, 2008

Making Choices

Originally, when I wrote my new principles about how I would like to live the rest of my life, I said, "I will make choices that leave me with the resources to contribute to the lives of others." I'm finding it necessary to edit that one substantially already.

It turns out that I can't make choices to contribute to the lives of others unless I first make responsible choices about my own life. I've seen that very clearly in the last few weeks, in my decisions to live healthier both physically and financially.

First of all, I've lost over 40 pounds since the early weeks of April by following a bariatric diet and exercising. But, a bout of pneumonia in mid-July caught me by surprise and triggered the loss of electrolytes in my system. And then, somehow, my blood sugar went crashing through the floor. Since I was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes less than three years ago, I've never experienced the lows and they are terrifying and dangerous. It helps that our dog Harry comes to my side or wakes me up whenever my blood sugar drops too quickly or too low. I have no idea how he knows, but I'm grateful that he is teaching me to be aware.

I've spent every day since trying to learn the rhythms of my own body and its needs and am beginning to get the hang of it. However, I've decided to let everything I was committed to go in order to finally commit to my well being. I've said each year since I retired that I was taking a year to improve my health and every year other things distract me. No more - I never want to stagger and lurch down the hallway again with a blood sugar count of 40. I never want to babble about things and people that aren't there again because my body is stripped of necessary nutrients. I may not have another year, if I don't get it right now.

My mother will be moving here in a year and I want to enjoy her as much as I can. I want to walk the dogs with my husband in the evenings and kayak with him in the early mornings. I'm looking forward to healthy dinners with friends and sharing the vegetables from our garden with them. I want to visit with my sister and brother-in-law both here and at their home. And I want to continue to see my children thrive through whatever life brings them.

One day I'll return to my volunteer work as an activist for educational opportunities for our community's children. I love it and believe it is the work I was born to do. There will be new challenges ahead for me, both as a teacher and a learner. But, I see this moment in my life as an opportunity, not a challenge, and I intend to make the best use of it that I possibly can.

Sunday, August 3, 2008

Reduce, Reuse, and Could I Have Your Fresh Horse Manure, Please?

Sometime after my sister and I went to college, my dad developed a passion for vegetable gardening. Along the way, he discovered composting and it became a daily ritual. On our visits home, he would show us what he was adding to the compost bin that day and proudly display the literal fruits of his labors. One of my favorite memories of my father is seeing him sit outside in old clothes and a straw hat to protect his face from another skin cancer, watching his garden grow.

I’ve always wanted a vegetable garden, but lack of knowledge, poor soil, small children, summer jobs, arthritis, etc., prevented me from attempting more than an occasional paltry tomato plant. They would produce about as much as I invested in their care – not much.

But, this year, I became my father’s child. I stumbled across Earth Boxes, developed by commercial growers and now also used in home and school gardens. The soil surface is raised about a foot off the ground and the boxes are completely self-contained, making it much easier for an arthritic me to plant and care for them. Our warm South Carolina springs allowed me to plant corn, okra, peppers, lettuce, cucumbers, spinach, blackberries, raspberries, and blueberries in mid-April. And tomatoes. My inexperience revealed itself when the tomatoes seedlings arrived; not realizing that they came in four- packs, I ended up with 36 plants, instead of the nine I thought I ordered. Once they were here, I wanted them all – cherry “Sugary” tomatoes, several varieties of heirlooms ( Rainbows, Red Brandywines, and Costoluto Genovese), Whoppers, and Beefy Boys.

And then it hit me – the need to compost, like an alarm from my biological clock screaming, “Do this now before it’s too late.” Here we sit, on two acres of property, most of which requires mulch for maintenance. The idea of free composted mulch was just too much for me to pass up.

I knew that arthritis would make it nearly impossible to turn compost regularly and shovel it up from the ground for spreading. And then I discovered another product developed over 40 years ago, the ComposTumbler, a drum rotated by a geared crank handle standing about three feet off the ground and said to turn 180 gallons of yard and kitchen waste into black gold in about two weeks. No bending, no kneeling, no lifting off the ground. Just fill it, crank it a few times a day, back the yard cart under it and fill ‘er up.

I was surprised to find how quickly our daily egg shells, coffee grinds, and raw fruit and vegetable scraps accumulated in the tumbler and pleased to see that I almost never ran the kitchen garbage disposal. We don’t really have that much yard waste since the drought that’s affected the South for years is in the process of killing our small areas of fescue. But, two acres of wooded property provide a lot of undergrowth and scrub trees to be shredded and composted, so I envisioned clearing our land of nuisance plants and then composting them for mulch to prevent their reappearance. The image of an environmental Eden took shape in my mind.

(Don’t let me mislead you; there was nothing cost-effective about setting all this up. New kink-free hoses, specialty sprinklers, supports for tomatoes and cucumbers, plant foods, and insect sprays added to the possibility and cost of my success. Seedlings are far more expensive than starting a garden from seed. I would have had to produce enough tomatoes to feed the entire city of Greenville to make this year’s efforts financially feasible. If you read my entry ‘One I’d Rather Not Write’, you’ll understand some of the impact of my personal gardening revolution on our financial health. If I can keep up the gardening and composting for at least five more years, I might finally save enough money in food costs to exceed the expense of the equipment.)

Our dear friends down the street have horses, goats, and chickens. They collect the animal droppings in a large pile in their pasture, allowing them to break down over time with no turning or activators to produce usable compost. They have more than they can use regularly, so I asked if I could have an occasional load of fresh manure to add to the tumbler. The manure adds nitrogen to the mix, providing the catalyst that breaks down the other “ingredients”. I can’t begin to explain the pure pleasure of filling our yard cart with the straw and manure taken from their barnyard, sittiing on the lowered back gate of our pickup, clutching the handle of the yard cart and holding on for dear life, as George slowly crept home. I thought of it as aromatherapy for the entire neighborhood. Shoveling that first load of manure into the ComposTumbler only made me want more.

In the two weeks it takes to break the contents down into compost, I had to pick up handfuls of the work in progress and squeeze it to make sure the moisture content was just right. I hate to garden in gloves, but decided this job probably called for a good water- proof pair. A thermometer also had to be inserted deep into the load to insure that the temperature was high enough to kill any bacteria or germinating seeds from waste plant materials. This required me to stick my entire arm in the tumbler, scraping manure and other scraps off the opening onto my shirt and bare skin. I admit that I usually headed straight for the shower after each of these required procedures. But, I was hooked and I began to dream how much better it would be to have two tumblers producing compost on alternating weeks. If only our friends had elephants…

The big day arrived after two weeks of cranking the drum around and around each day. I sent an email to my closest friends and family to announce the unveiling of the garden gold. My husband and I marveled that the smell of manure had given way to a sweet earthy fragrance, despite the obvious lumps of horse apples throughout. My first load produced two garden cartfuls of compost, enough to mulch several square feet four to five inches deep. When I proudly displayed the newly dressed areas of our yard to our friend, he shook his head, looked at the size of the rest of our property and said, “You’re going to need a lot more manure.” I wasn’t discouraged; after all, his animals are healthy.

Despite my impatience, our vegetables started producing in mid-June. Freshly picked cherry tomatoes are literally better than candy. And, coat any type of tomato with a little olive oil and basil, place it on the grill for just a few minutes, and it is mouth-watering. We eat lettuce just a few minutes after picking and our white “Pearl” cucumbers were the best I’ve ever tasted. I stuffed fresh peppers with shrimp and crab and even my husband, who hates the flavor of peppers, ate two. The okra is just beginning to come in and, despite my Southern heritage, I will opt to grill it with olive oil rather than frying it.

It turns out I should leave the corn to the pros. We managed to get two edible ears, but the kernels in no way resembled the perfect rows revealed beneath the shucks of grocery store produce. And my summer bout with pneumonia prevented me from regularly watering our thirsty cucumbers, causing them to wither and suffer an early death.

My planting boxes sit where I can see them from my office windows, lining the driveway and worked in among the landscaping. I’ve envisioned as many as twelve boxes next year, but, financially, that isn’t going to happen. I’ve already identified several vegetable varieties that I want to try next year; however, just like good writing, I will edit that list. I’ll also switch to seeds to bring the expense down to something more manageable. I’m looking for free mulch from our county recycling programs, but the composter will still tumble daily. Manure will still make it’s every-other weekly trip through our neighborhood and home-made compost will gradually spread throughout our yard.

One of my new daily principles is to live intentionally, tempered with common sense. This is where I want to be and this is what I want to do. A few weeks ago, I found myself sitting on the garden bench that George made for my birthday, wearing old clothes and a straw hat to protect my face from another skin cancer, dogs at my feet, watching my garden grow.

I am my father’s child and he would be proud.

Saturday, August 2, 2008

Our Version of Reduce, Reuse, and Recyle


When we bought our dream home, it was an early 60s ranch. It was also an abandoned foreclosure with broken windows, mold, water damage, and critters of every description already in residence. On our first trip through the house, we laughed and said, “We aren’t tackling all this. Not us.”

Two weeks later, we found ourselves back inside with Darryl Cowan, a contractor friend, whose specialty just happened to be rehabbing old homes. It was a dream home in our eyes from then on and, unlike our family members and friends, we never envisioned it again in less than its finished state. Our architect Randy McClain, another old friend, paid close attention to our anticipated needs for the coming years and assured that our new digs would accommodate our huge family antiques with grace and comfort.

We decided to use the latest technologies that we possibly could in hopes of creating a home that lived more efficiently for the environment and more cost effectively for us. Our efforts even included landscaping with plants native to our area, reducing the need for maintenance and water. This house costs a fraction of what our last house cost to operate, despite its 4200 square feet. And, thanks to the latest energy efficient appliances, we are using far less in power and water.

Our decision to replace carpeting with hardwood floors triggered a storm of exploration into bamboo, red oak, and other woods new to us. Then a friend sent us to see re-milled heart pine that had been reclaimed from the hundred year old mill where her father worked. It was gorgeous, with rich red tones and a perfectly finished surface. We could purchase it in huge rough beams and have it re-milled to suit our needs for flooring. But, the cost of refinishing it and then transporting it to our site made it impossible to consider.

We visited a salvage yard that Darryl purchased materials from on several occasions and, there, in open sheds, were hundreds of feet of reclaimed heart pine. The dealer Joe Stevens told us that he was preparing to remove flooring from an old house about to be demolished. He invited us to take a look at it and, when we arrived, George and I were stunned to find that the house was across the street from a school where we both recently worked. The floors were blackened with grime and stained with every nasty thing imaginable. Because it was already cut in planks, we would be able to move it by pickup truck and sand the old surface off after the floor was laid. Somehow, it felt right.

We also became interested in the thousands of salvaged doors at the yard. After sorting through them all over and over again, we selected five-panel doors that reminded me of visits to my great aunt’s home in my childhood. I was determined to have solid doors, none of that hollow core stuff. The trouble was that the new doors I wanted were about $300 each. We chose salvaged five-panel doors for all our closets and more unique antique doors for our bedrooms and baths. We paid an average of $10 per door, excluding three that were solid mahogany and oak. An old banister from a church called out to us, as well as three louvered shutters from the exterior of an old Victorian mansion that had been taken down years before.

Every floor refinisher who came to look at the heart pine after it had been laid shook his head and said, “I’ll never be able to clean it up or level it to your satisfaction.” Three of them came, worked a day, and never showed up again to work or to be paid. With each of about five sandings, the red depths of the wood were revealed more and more fully. George and I weren’t the least bit bothered by the remaining worm holes, the chips, the varying widths and thicknesses, and the history that showed in an hundred ways.

The banister took three days to strip of the dirt built up over decades. The shutters couldn’t be fully stripped of their lead paint, so we sealed them with glaze to keep the chips from falling in our mouths as we slept, and hung them as a headboard for our new king-size bed. We decided to leave the bedroom and bathroom doors almost exactly as we found them - some completely unstained and some in their original finishes. If we could identify the origin of the door, we labeled it to reflect its past. Our powder room door once hung on the Monsignor’s office of the oldest Catholic Church in town. It now proudly bears the word “Monsignor” in gold and our bathroom door says “Faculty Lounge” on its upper half of frosted glass. Every single door inside the house had to be hand-framed, raising our cost of $10 per door steeply. No two doors in the house are the same size.

In pulling off the original small back porch to replace it with a screened porch running the entire back length of the house, Darryl discovered redwood decking buring under ancient outdoor carpeting and a layer of well-worn plywood. He pulled the redwood off for George, who used it to build all the furniture we now use on the porch.

In the end, we felt the house had been restored to its real age, timeless, of an unidentifiable point in history. Every craftsman who has walked in the door since exclaims, “You kept the original floors and doors!” In fact, we can count the original features of the house on one hand.

Darryl still isn’t quite satisfied. He says that one day he will bring a master finisher back in to sand three additional times and re-poly all the heart pine. And the floor would probably be as pristine as the exquisite one we saw made from re-milled, reclaimed heart pine from the cotton mill. But, it will never happen as long as we own the house. We can tell that children played on these floors, dogs chased cats, fires got out of control, family members were born and died, and life continued through generations. It’s very comforting to see ourselves in that cycle, even if we are a new family in its history. Our family furnishings are at home, as well, and look as if they have been in place since they were handcrafted up to 250 years ago.

Three miles from our house, Southern Living magazine recently completed a million-dollar green home on the campus of Furman University. It’s beautiful and inspiring; if you get a chance to see it, it is well worth the cost of admission. There are a few things I wish we had included in our home, but our house could still be retrofitted to add many of them as we can afford.

But, somehow, the Southern Living home doesn’t feel as good to me as knowing that we brought a great house back to life and that we returned so many idle materials to daily use in both form and function. We built a home, not a house, and the quality of our lives has improved immeasurably as a result. If you have the opportunity, you should see it, too, and it won’t cost you a dime. We’ll be waiting on the porch with iced tea.