The Middle Wife

When you are in deep shit look straight ahead, keep your head up and say nothing.

That's me in the middle. (Aren't I the foxy one, though?) I think I have ranted on health care reform about long enough. While I still have one person left who will read my blog I think I should take a break. So here, for a welcome change of pace, is my favorite kid story. I hope you laugh as hard as I did when I first read it.

The Middle Wife

by Anonymous

I've been teaching now for about fifteen years. I have two kids myself, but the best birth story I know is the one I saw in my second grade classroom a few years back.

When I was a kid, I loved show-and-tell. So I always have a few sessions with my students. It helps them get over shyness and usually show-and-tell is pretty tame. Kids bring in pet turtles, model airplanes, pictures of fish they catch, and stuff like that. And I never, ever place any boundaries or limitations on them. If they want to lug it into school and talk about it, they're welcome.

Well one day this little girl, Erica, a very bright, very outgoing kid, takes her turn and waddles up to the front of the class with a pillow stuffed under her sweater. She holds up a snapshot of an infant. "This is Luke, my baby brother, and I'm going to tell you about his birthday."

"First Mom and Dad made him as a symbol of their love, and then Dad put a seed in my Mom's stomach, and Luke grew in there. He ate for nine months through an umbrella cord."

She's standing there with her hands on the pillow, and I'm trying not to laugh and wishing I had my camcorder with me. The kids are watching her in amazement.

"Then about two Saturday's ago my Mom started saying and going 'Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh'". Erica puts her hand behind her back and groans.

"She walked around the house for, like and hour, "Oh, oh, oh!". Now this kid is doing a hysterical duck walk and groaning.

"My Dad called the middle wife. She delivers babies, but she doesn't have a sign on the car like the Domino's man. They got my Mom to lie down in bed like this." Then Erica lies down with her back against the wall.

"And then, pop! My Mom had this big bag of water she kept in there in case he got thirsty, and it just blew up and spilled all over the bed, like pusshheew!" This kid has her legs spread and with her little hands miming water flowing away. It was too much.

"Then the middle wife starts saying, 'Push, push' and 'breathe, breathe'." They started counting, but never even got past ten.

Then all of a sudden out comes my brother. He was covered in yucky stuff that they said was from Mom's play-center, so there must have been a lot of toys inside there."

Then Erica stood up, took a big theatrical bow and returned to her seat. I'm sure I applauded the loudest. Ever since then, when it's show-and-tell day, I bring my camcorder, just in case another "Middle Wife" comes along.

The End

A Small Western Town

Sometimes choosing a topic for a blog can be dangerous. I would like to write about my experience in a small town but am afraid that I might offend the current inhabitants. What to do? If I leave the name and state out of my narrative I might get away with writing without giving the name of the town away. If the locals recognize their home, then so be it.

My son was eleven and my daughter was a precocious one year old when my husband was offered a job managing a radio station in a small western town. I was most unhappy at this turn of events because we had moved to Phoenix about six months before. I loved the warm weather and to move to a place where blizzards occurred was not my idea of Paradise. I had been there - done that!

The owner of the radio station also owned a moving company so, for the first time, a van was to pack and ship our furniture to this small town. This was to be the only time in all of our many moves I got the red carpet treatment. (Even negative situations have their good side.) Since, for the first time in my life, I didn't have to pack, we left to visit my Mom before the moving van arrived.

My husband started his job and lived in a motel while he tried to find a place for us to live. Two weeks later he found the only available house and it was 15 miles out of town. Meanwhile, our furniture had been delivered and, since we didn't have a house, our possessions were stored in the back room of the radio station. When the children and I arrived we had to move our furniture ourselves. I had forgotten to empty the garbage in my haste and it was neatly packed. Of course, the odor permeated the rest of the load and it didn't smell very sweet.

The house really wasn't too bad but the location was dreadful. There were only six houses in the area; four of them were inhabited by the families of the men who worked on the railroad. (Did I mention that between us and the highway a train went by two times a day?) The fourth house was one homesteaded by the parents of the current owners and the son lived there. (Did I mention that he was a known pyromaniac?) Across the highway was a Mercantile store that sold everything from bread to boots. The only other building was a bar. (There were lots of bars in this small town.)

A river ran behind the property and my son, Mark, loved to fish. He was delighted with this opportunity to cast his line in on a daily basis. While we were moving our furniture in Mark found his rod and reel and took off for the river. He returned shortly covered with mosquito bites. They had bitten through a fleece sweat shirt. The local joke was, that it only took two mosquitoes to carry off a full grown cow.

The wind was so fierce on an almost daily basis that my clothes blew off the line. My husband, Wayne, used to report the wind velocity along with the weather forecast. He would say "the wind blew at ? mph". The Mayor of the town called Wayne up one day to inform him that they didn't call a 45 mph wind- it was gusting at that rate. The Mayor said, "If a chain tied to a telephone pole stands straight out, that's when you call it a wind." The people there had a great sense of humor. Ha! Ha!

While waiting for us to arrive, Wayne had become friends with a bar owner named Essie. (The name has been changed to protect the innocent). She was built like a Mack truck and had a head full of red hair, ala Clairol. Her language was salty, befitting her business, and she didn't need a bouncer as her reputation of being able to throw two drunks out on the street with her bare hands was legendary.

My son was a very talented clarinetist and his repertoire was very extensive. Wayne had been bragging to Essie about his gifted son and after we arrived she took us in the back room of the bar for a private performance. After Mark played a few numbers the customers started wandering back to hear the music. Essie told them in a loud commanding voice to "get the hell out of here - this is a private party."

Essie was right out of a Western movie. Matter of fact, the whole town was a throwback. There was a triangular shaped park in the middle of the town called the 'Square'. There were nine bars surrounding this triangle. The short time we were there they had two shootings in the bars. What fun; what excitement. Kitty, where are you? It was Gunsmoke revisited.

I almost forgot, the town also had a legalized brothel.

The school had been built circa 1921 and a vote was due on a school bond. Wayne editorialized on the radio station about the need for a new school pointing out that it would only cost each homeowner a very small tax increase. The bond issue failed. Their money was supporting the bars instead.

The identifying feature of this town must be told as it explains a lot. Wayne was taken into houses where the owners showed him tunnels built between the basements. It seems the town was on Al Capone's underground railroad and that was where they hid the 'hootch' when the Feds came.

Between the wind, mosquitoes, snow, pyromaniac, and lack of support of the schools I was ready to move when Wayne was offered a job in Tucson. The owner of the radio station offered half ownership to Wayne if he would just stay. Wayne wavered, but I told him I was not raising children in the wild west. He could stay if he wanted to, but I was out of there.

And that's the story, kiddies, of why I am now living in my favorite place on the planet.

What's In A Name?

Merry Christmas !!

Happy Hanukkah !!

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For a while my posts will be short, but not sweet. I am still having to limit my computer time as I tire very quickly.

One thing I learned from my recent hospitalization and rehab stay is that communication is sadly lacking in the medical system. To illustrate this I will tell you how my last name served a worthwhile purpose.

You have all heard of the actor, Kevin Costner. Very often when people hear my name they want to know if I am related to him. At times it's fun to say I'm his mother, but when I tell the truth that my late husband was distantly related, they are impressed. I find this to be ridiculous, but so be it.

When I checked into rehab the woman who took my information was extremely excited to learn that they had a Costner in their midst. It seems that Kevin is her favorite actor. Later that evening she was telling everyone in the office about me. It so happens that my primary care physician had stopped in to get the room number of another patient there and overheard the conversation. He asked what was the first name of the Costner patient. When they told him my name he said, "That's my patient." and took over my care from that point on.

Up until that moment not a single person who took my records bothered to inform him that I was in the hospital, even though his name was on my HMO card and the information that he was my primary care doctor was given.

I later discovered that this was a small example of the compartmentalization that occurs in the entire medical system. If it isn't their job the information goes over their head into outer space and never gets reported to the proper person. At times it can be very frustrating.

No Way To Spend Thanksgiving

Eleven years ago I was in Ramona, California visiting my daughter for Thanksgiving. My son, Mark, and his wife, Karen, were driving down from Los Angeles to join us for the festivities.

As usual, I was the earliest riser and the first thing I always did was get the morning paper. Anyone who gets a paper from a big city knows that the paper on Thanksgiving morning is the largest one published for the entire year. The San Diego paper was no exception; actually I think it was the rule. The number of ads to lure the shoppers to open their wallets at the start of the holiday season was unbelievable .

My daughter's house was on a hill and the driveway was so steep that you had to rev the car to get up it. Needless to say, the paper delivery person didn't even attempt to throw the paper up toward the house, but left it at the foot of the drive. My sense of balance, never very good, was beginning to fail me. This was in my pre-cane era so I was depending on my own two feet to keep me upright.

I walked down to the bottom of the drive and picked up the bag containing a paper so big that it must have caused the death of two large trees to furnish the required paper . It was HEAVY. Bearing my burden in one hand I turned and started trudging up the drive. About half way up I lost my balance and found myself helplessly dancing a fox trot backwards down the hill. Unable to stop my backward progression I finally felt my feet leaving the paved area and hitting the dirt. My last thoughts were, "Thank God I won't fall on the concrete." As it turned out I might have been better off if I had just knocked myself out and been done with it.

My kids had their house up for sale and the Realtor's sign was right next to the driveway. (Please see the Real Estate ad photo and notice the Realtor sign in the lower left of the picture). When I landed I managed continue falling backwards until I was stopped by the sharp corner of the post holding the sign. The edge cut a big gash in the top of my cranium. I'm sure you all know that a head wound bleeds like a bubbling fountain and I was soon covered in blood.

There is one thing that everyone who knows me will agree on; I am one stubborn babe. (I hesitate to call myself a broad because I can hear my family, who might read this, start to snicker.) I picked up the paper and staggered up toward the house one more time. Because I didn't want to get blood on the carpet, I rang the doorbell to summon aid. My son-in-law, being roused from a sound sleep, and my oldest granddaughter finally opened the door. Their eyes got as big as the proverbial saucers as they asked me what happened. Randy insisted that I was to come in. As I just told you, I am an obstinate mule and told him I wouldn't move until he brought some paper towels for me to use to stop the bleeding.

By this time my daughter was up and insisted on taking me to the emergency room. I didn't want to spoil everyone's Thanksgiving and I said I would be fine and refused to go. Didn't I just tell you that I was stubborn?

Thanksgiving preparations were under way and all would have been fine -- well, sorta' --- but I was sitting in the living room and, because the room was sunken, my daughter standing above me got a good look at the top of my head. She informed me in no uncertain terms that she was taking me to the ER. I fear she inherited my mulish disposition and there was no arguing with her. We were in the garage ready to leave for San Diego and the clinic when my son and his wife appeared in the driveway. I managed to shock two more people that morning. I mean, if I am going to do something, I will go all out and do it well.

Eventually, I got 17 stitches in the top of my head and Thanksgiving dinner proceeded without further mishap. My shaved head didn't seem to spoil anyone's appetite, even mine. I did have to forgo the champagne though and that hurt almost as much as being stitched up .

I guess you could say that there were two turkeys that day. I think I will sit this Thanksgiving out.

Castles In the Sand

Every year a competition is held for the best sand sculptures. They are all awesome and one can only imagine the tedious work that goes into them.

I was taken back to my childhood when I viewed these two castle sculptures.

Until I was eleven years old I was an only child. I escaped from the adult world in books. I devoured every book I could get my hands on and I was especially fond of Fairy Tales. I think I must have read every fairy tale ever written. Of course, castles always loomed large in those stories, for what is a beautiful princess without a castle?

As I matured, I left the fairy tales behind but I never lost my fascination with castles and my fondest desire was to visit one someday. It took me many, many years to finally be able to go to Europe where the best castles are. As I chose my itinerary, the tour that included the most castles was the one I took.

Although it was a thrill to see those lavishly decorated rooms and be awed by the opulence of the castles, I felt a bit let down. I didn't experience the excitement over castles that I had felt when I read about them. When all was said and done, they were just lavish mansions.

It wasn't until I visited a castle in Switzerland that I experienced the romantic feelings of a time when the handsome prince and princess fell in love. My friend, Margrit, took me to Kyburg, a small and rather plain castle. The floors were of hand hewn planks and everything spoke of a time long gone by. The prisoners were kept in the attic. There was a torture room complete with an Iron Maiden that reminded me the suffering that must have occurred there. It felt authentic.

Perhaps because it was so different from today's mansions I could let my imagination run wild. I realized that living in this castle would not be as wonderful as I had thought. Isn't that a case of the grass being greener on the other side of the fence? Or perhaps, it makes the point that we should never envy someone else based on our preconceived ideas.

The last castle I visited was my favorite. Neuschwanstein, Von Ludvig's castle, is the one Disney used as a template for his Sleeping Beauty castle. I finally had my dreams fulfilled. It was everything I thought a castle should be.

Out Of the Mouths Of Babes

Gail and Mark
My two contributors to this story.

Art Linkletter used to have a radio show in which he featured kids and he would ask questions framed in a way to elicit funny answers. It was a big hit and I never missed it. I was musing about his show and began thinking about the funny things kids I knew had said.

One time I had a snake in my house and when I discovered it I let out a shriek. My son, who was still in diapers, asked me, “Whassa’ matter, Mommy?" In a breathless tone I replied, “There’s a snake in the house.” He asked me, “Did the snake go EEEK Mommy?”

When I was pregnant with my daughter my son was ten years old. It was not an easy pregnancy and I suffered with nausea the entire nine months. One night when my color was a shade of green my son looked at me with sympathy and said, “Mommy, you shouldn’t born any more babies. Maybe you should get your sack lowered, or whatever it is they do.”

My daughter stopped me cold when I scolded her for leaving her toys all over the living room when company was expected soon. She was four years old and with the wisdom of a precocious child told me, “You know something, Mommy? You never should of had children.” Ouch!

The funniest stories came from my friend's children. We were sharing a house with a couple who had two little boys. The oldest was three years old when he got mad at his parents for making him go to bed, which he loudly proclaimed that he didn’t want to do. In desperation he told his Mom that he was going to run away. His Mom played along with his charade and reminded him that he would get hungry and she put a potato in a sack for his lunch. Then she bundled him up, turned the porch light on, and asked him to be sure to write them when he learned how. It was January in Wisconsin and the snow was piled as high as the porch. It was also a very dark night with not a star visible. Donny, the little boy, was looking more and more unsure about running away, but he let his mother guide him outside. We turned the inside lights off and watched him from the window. He got as far as the end of the porch, stood there for a few minutes, came back in the house and proclaimed that he had decided to wait until tomorrow to run away. We assured him that was a wise decision.

I have saved what I think is the funniest one to the last. When my son was ten years old he had a good friend who had two sisters and a very small brother about three years old. We lived in the country so it was a long drive to Church. There was an old man that decided to hold Sunday School for the neighborhood children. The three older children of this family attended every Sunday, but the small child stayed home. One Sunday he decided that he wanted to go. When he got home his mother asked him what he learned. He said, “Oh, God lives in a tent and Jesus has a ring in his nose.” Needless to say, this puzzled his mother and she asked the oldest girl where he got those ideas. The girl thought for a long time and finally came up with the answer. She told her mother that when the Sunday School teacher ended the lesson he told them that God takes care of you and spreads his tent over you. And when he took up the collection he rang a little bell and said, “When I ring this bell, Jesus knows.”

I would bet that you have funny stories to tell and I would love hearing them.