Life is a Pretzel

It's such a cliche, of course; but, the twists and turns, those are the pretzel parts of life.  Okay, okay, maybe the salt can be metaphorical, too, Dear Reader.  I know that salt can burn if it happens to be in an open wound.

At any rate, here's my latest big twist:  Once again, I awoke in a hospital. 
This time there was not the slightest clue in advance.

Here are the details:  It was the coldest day of the year (I'm talking locally, and the coldest day thus far in the year [just to make things perfectly clear.])

I had been whisked (unconscious) to the hospital in an ambulance in the middle of the night.  I awoke when it was daylight.  I was trundled around the hospital for tests, was visited by my Itty-Bitty Actor, and by my minister.  I received some flowers, and I got a diagnosis.

All in all, it was sort of a generic and straightforward hospital visit.

However! The overall outcome of the diagnosis put the very large twist in this metaphorical pretzel about which I'm regaling you, Reader Dear.
 

"You had a seizure," said the neurologist who came to visit me and explain things to the Yard Man and myself.  One possible explanation was that it looked (from the testing) that I may have suffered a small stroke two years ago during my grand out-of-this-world journey.  Also, I was dehydrated (tsk, tsk, I knew I hadn't been drinking enough).  The doctor gave me a prescription for the medication I was now to add to my daily drug cocktail.

I have to admit, Reader Dear, that I was expecting a diagnosis similar to this.  Though I've never before in my life suffered a seizure, The Yard Man had searched the internet for an explanation of the strange and unusual event which had prompted him to call for an ambulance.

"You were screaming bloody murder," The Yard Man had told me, "gasping to breathe. I thought every breath would be your last!"  
Then he had given me lots of details he had read on-line:  One out of every 26 Americans has at least one seizure in his or her lifetime.  Many never experience more than one.  The loud scream is from all of the muscles in the lungs seizing up and forcing air out at once.  The event itself is often more traumatic for the person witnessing it than for the one who is having the seizure. And, there are many, (many) different kinds and degrees of seizure (brain glitch) activity.
"It was horrendous!" said The Yard Man.  "Absolutely awful!"

Hearing about the seizure, and The Yard Man's repeated assertions of its ghastliness were wretched enough, you can believe me, Dear Reader.  But then the doctor (rather off-handedly [it seemed to me]) announced:   
"I'm going to have to invalidate your driver's license for a period of six months."

Uh.  

WHAT?!

(Excuse me, Reader Dear, while I have an absolute fit!*)
*Pun intended.

...to be continued...

I've Been Meaning to

tell you, Reader Dear, about an international guest I once knew.
His name was (and perhaps still is) Johnny Pinto, and he lived with me and my family of origin when I was a young teenager.  One day Johnny was walking along a highway, heading out from the docks where the large ships came and went, and trying to thumb a ride.  My father, ever the one to give a stranger a lift (or a hand up) pulled over and invited Johnny to climb into the car.

I don't know the conversation that took place, but the outcome was that my dad brought Johnny home to stay with us.  He was from Lisbon, Portugal, and he'd "jumped ship" (come from his home country aboard a ship, disembarked illegally upon arrival.)

It was a coup of sorts for my dad.  Already, because of the large influx of Cuban immigrants into our area, and the fact that he had found employment for many of them, Daddy had been teaching himself Spanish (somewhat similar to Portuguese).

"Isquirida, derecha, isquirida, derecha," he would intone as he strode down the  rather lengthy hallway of our house. He'd stack the Berlitz records on the record player (you know, the turntable) and settle in to repeat the phrases from Unidad Uno, Leccion Primera:
"Como esta usted?"
"Muy bien, gracias!"
"Cuantos anos tiene?"
"Viente-uno"
Dear Reader, I was about trece anos at the time, and I was studying high school Spanish.  It was a bit of a coup for me, too, to have Johnny there.

I've forgotten so much of Johnny's stay at our house.  My father put him to work in a cabinet shop he had helped to establish (gave him a paying job) and he stayed in our guest room.  Johnny helped me start up a correspondence with his niece, Maria (de Con-she-zhank) de Gracia Rebello.  (Believe me, Reader Dear, I can still pronounce the name with ease; but, spelling it all these years hence is quite impossible). 

Much as we enjoyed getting to know Johnny (he stayed with us perhaps three to six months), there were folks outside our family who had unwelcome ideas about harboring an illegal alien.   One Saturday morning the immigration authorities showed up at the door.  It was an abrupt end to my family's time together with Johnny!

Johnny cried, and so did we; he was led away in handcuffs. 

***********************
 In a very unsatisfactory ending to my tale of Johnny, he was deported back to his country of origin and incarcerated.*

*However,  down through all the years I've often thought of Johnny Pinto.
You see, after his deportation my father traveled to Portugal to visit him in prison. When my father returned, he brought this intricately-crafted, personalized (with my initial) string bag that Johnny had made for me  It hangs on my closet door to this very day and reminds  me of another time, another place, and what I think of as an alien view of hospitality*

*Deportation.
************************

So, then it was Christmas Time

This year, hallelujah, Christmas was the usual:

The Tree:
As usual, the Yard Man was giving rides to Christmas tree shoppers.
As usual, after mulling the pros and cons of procuring a live tree,  I went to the Christmas tree farm and took a ride in his wagon.  I strolled around through the acres of trees (as usual) and finally tagged one.

The Set-up:

As usual, I dragged the Christmas tree holder and the multitude of decorative ornaments down from the attic.

As always, dressing the tree made me happy. (Undressing was somewhat of a drudge).

The Grand, Happy Hullabaloo:

The Dismantling:

 Reader Dear, as usual, I felt a slight twinge of sorrow for the tree, denuded and lying in the bitter cold, destined for the Yard Man's burn pile, awaiting cremation*.
********************

*Reminded myself it's the way of all living things.  And, Christmas will be here again quite before I'm ready!

********************
(My shameful little secret--there are still three Santas smiling on my kitchen counter. Reader Dear,  I believe [for my sake] they will have to spend the winter there.  I vow to banish them to the attic just as soon as I spot a daffodil blooming outside! [or slightly before]) 

Did I mention a little snake?

I'll try to be brief, Dear Reader:  The very first evening spent at Hills Creek State Park, the four of us (our friends Tom and Tina, Yard Man and I) went out for a drive to explore the park a bit.   The Yard Man had offered our car, so he was in the driver's seat.  We were circling the lake and admiring it when he rather abruptly decided to steer off the paved road.  He barrelled down onto a tiny beach-like spot beside the water.  Clunk-clunk! Some foreign object contacted with the bottom of the car.   Yikes.  The noise did not sound pleasant or hopeful.   It continued as he backed out and returned the car to the paved road. Something, it seemed,  was drooping or dragging or knocked out of place!

The sun was setting and we were about ready to end the drive, anyway.  As we proceeded back to the cabin, the noise was a bit sporadic.  Sometimes it didn't sound too bad, and then I would think the little snake in Eden might just slither away.   We could ride around in Tom and Tina's car during the rest of our two-night stay and then gently drive our car home and find a garage.

But, then, the scraping, rattly noise would be too awful. "There's no way!" I said to the Yard Man.  "We absolutely can't drive all the way home with this situation!  Tomorrow we'll have to find a garage!"

Find a garage?!  Reader Dear, "googling" might as well have still been a silly, baby word!  And there wasn't even a yellow-paged phone book in that cabin.
**************


However,  I put the problem out of my mind, along with the past hundred or so years of problems.    Que sera, sera. 

We had a lovely evening in the cabin.

When the sun came up again, it was Sunday morning.  Veteran's Day weekend.  In a tiny mountain town.  The four of us took two cars to the Wellsboro Diner to have breakfast; one of the cars was making an unbearable noise.

Whatever were the odds that we'd actually find a garage to work on that car today?!  Would we have to dedicate a large chunk of this one solitary full day of our two-night stay searching for a fix?

We asked our waitress if she might know of a garage.
She told us she'd ask around back in the kitchen.


Once again, I'll try to keep the story short and sweet.

Sweet:  Hallelujah, at the last minute, just before we left the diner, a waitress who had just arrived to start her shift came to tell us about her brother-in-law.

"He works on cars.  He's got a garage at his house and it's not far away.  I'm sure he's there working right now.  I'll give him a call!"

Sweet: This man was so pleasant and accommodating.  We left our car at his place, rode off with Tom and Tina.  We came back a few hours later; it was fixed*.  The price to repair? Twenty-five dollars.

Short:  I could go on and on about how the serendipity of getting this repair so quickly and easily banished the snake, and even enhanced the day.  But I promised "short."

Ergo, The End!

***************************

*It was an under-body shield of some sort.  Made of plastic.  This car-man reattached it with  some kind of plastic strips.  At last report (months later) still functioning well.  (Wow)

"So," she told me,

"it's about time you say farewell to Lewes already, and tell us about your Christmas!"

Since SHE is my big sis, I have to act on the order, Reader Dear; wouldn't you agree?

First, however, before jumping over all that time and trees and tinsel, I have to tell you about a tiny, two-night vacation I took with the Yard Man and two of our friends, Tom and Tina.  This little vacation (well in advance of Christmas) was at lovely Hills Creek State Park near Wellsboro, Pennsylvania.

Tom and Tina had rented a cabin at the park and invited us to join them.

Let me say, Reader Dear, right up front: It was the best two-night-stay vacation I've had for years (perhaps ever!)  Interspersed with the photos, showing proof that this state park displays nature at its finest, I'll list my reasons why the little get-away got such a high rating in my book!

1.  It was at the invitation of dear friends, who hosted us (including meals!) and with whom we got to spend most of our time.

2.  There was no phone service, no wi-fi connection, no television! 



3.  The destination was a not-so-far-away spot, entailing no more than five or six hours  for the entire going and coming back.

4.  The weather was cooperative.  At least half the time was fit for enjoying nature, being  outside the cabin, hiking, going to view the beautiful canyon.    The other half (included rain, high wind, chilly temps and overnight snow) simply enhanced the time indoors playing games, reading, visiting, eating, laughing.

This, Viewer Dear, is a BLACK SQUIRREL! (All caps denoting my excitement, as I've never seen one previous to this sighting!)

On both nights of this two-night vacation, I went to bed and tried to pretend that I was living in the eighteen-hundreds (please read again Number Two on my list, Reader Dear).  In the cabin we had electricity, of course, to keep us warm and cook our food.  We had running water.  I tried to put technology and all other modern inventions out of my mind.  I ignored the small radio in a corner of the cabin.  I imagined that there was a horse-drawn wagon outside the door to get us home*.  I tried not to think about the possibility of a tenant with an extreme emergency.  I was so happy to live, albeit briefly, with no knowledge of the outside world.

Far from the madding crowd.

It was blissful!

*When a tiny snake entered Eden and our transportation home was put into jeopardy, I started re-thinking the horse-and-wagon trek; it didn't seem all that idyllic after all.

....To be continued.