Brad Mosiman can track falcons (and cell phones) on a cloudy day...

 

 It was time for that most pleasurable of Fall activities...Leaf raking. My love of manual labor had me scrambling about the house, attending to the most miniscule of normally-ignored chores. The veil of dust that provides an atmospherically ghostly-glow to our television watching was methodically eradicated from the screen. A toothpick snowplowed a year's worth (or more) of fallen flakes from the rubber road that seals our freezer door. Time was also spent researching the term for the rubber road that seals the freezer door. Fun fact:  It's called a gasket.

After a thorough inventory and categorization of our extensive VHS and DVD collection, I sighed and realized that I couldn't put it off anymore. 

It was time "to help" Brad.

After over three decades of marriage, I continue to be perplexed by his delight and appreciation when I VERY reluctantly join him in laborious, mundane, cumbersome, tiring tasks. 

Fortunately, he'd completed the gathering of leaves into systematic piles part of the project so that "all" that was left to do was the picking up and transporting. "We should be done in a little over an hour," my husband cheerfully predicted. Sigh.

He handed me our tools...two snow shovels, the "good" rake, and the bottom of the broken rake that we've (he's) been using like a broom's dust pan for the last six years. 

Brad works with methodical precision...using the shovel and rake bottom like salad tongs to effortlessly scoop up giant helpings of leaf lettuce into our little trailer. Given the "good tools," I liberally sprinkle leaves all over our lawn like cinnamon sugar on toast. Without a word of complaint, Brad cheerfully rakes then back together before hopping on the 4-wheeler to move the trailer to another pile...using fractions to inspire (frustrate) me. "Three-eighths of the leaves fit into the trailer," he shared (like I cared). "How many trips will we need to take to finish the lawn?" What sort of idiotic word problem was that? Bad enough that I'm doing lawn work (sort of). Now he's quizzing me with fraction-based math word problems?

On our second trip to dump our leaves, our little dog decided to do a little adventuring. 

"Make sure to keep a close eye on her," Brad unnecessarily warned, as though talking to an idiot, "If she wanders into the underbrush, there's a good chance we're not getting her back." I rolled my eyes, dismissing him entirely. My stars...SO-OO controlling. 

I followed behind my slowly meandering mutt, scrolling through the litany of pictures I'd taken of Chlo and I "helping" Brad rake. I glanced up in time to see the tip of her tail disappearing into the tangle of vines, weeds, and thorns. Pocketing my phone quickly, I lunged at her but it was too late. I peered into the shadows to see her making her way down the decline, nose to the ground. I screamed her name but her 14-year-old ears had long lost their ability to hear and, prior to that, she had selective hearing anyway. I dove into the fray. With Johnny Horton's song echoing in my mind, I desperately clawed my way through the dense underbrush..."And she crawled through the briars and she crawled through the brambles and she crawled through the bushes where only a wiener dog could roam..."...The vines ensnared me, keeping me from Chlo who, I was certain, was soon to disappear down a rabbit hole...I reached for a nearby tree to winch my way out, not realizing that it was covered with sharp thorns. Blood running down my palms, face scratched, knees muddy, I propelled myself ever forward...gravity and good luck finally launching and landing me on my little dog. 

Now...UP-hill...through the same mess...only this time, carrying my wayward wiener dog. 

I finally made it. Sigh of relief. Brad Mosiman NEVER need know of this.

I quick reached for my phone...

My phone.

My phone?

Oh no.

I'm sure he would have known from my somewhat disheveled state but, nonetheless, I still had to confess. Dusk drew near...and along with it...condemnation.

Brad Mosiman was NOT as gracious as he could have been.

He tossed down his broken rake and, dare I say, stomped over to the 4-wheeler. I was in no mood to cuddle behind him so I hoofed it back.

"Just give me your phone and I'LL find it," I said petulantly. I already felt stupid and there was NO way that I was going to admit that I should have listened to my husband in the first place. But, like all Mosiman women, I had an unshakable faith in Brad Mosiman's abilities in ALL THINGS but refused to show him the respect that should accompany his intelligence, common sense, logic, hard work, persistence, determination, and all-around grit. The minute I realized I had lost my phone, I knew immediately that Brad Mosiman would find it. The quote from Princess Bride flashed neon in my mind:  "He can track a falcon on a cloudy day, he can certainly find a cell phone." Brad Mosiman has tracked minute blood trails of soon-to-downed deer through swamps IN THE DARK. My cell phone would be a snap...if he or I didn't snap first.

He scoffed at my words.

Scoffed.

"Where was your entry-point?" he snarled.

Seriously?

I can barely find my assigned gate at the airport.

I looked for a thorny tree, dripping with my blood.

In the meantime, Brad dialed my phone and then spun like a compass. "There," he said.

Where?

But he'd disappeared...hot on the scent...following a sound that must have come from a dog whistle because I didn't hear a thing.

He re-emerged immediately, silently handed me my phone, and stomped back up the hill to finish the leaves.

Brad Mosiman loves it when I help.

Oh, what a tangled web we weave...accused of spinning yarns

I wouldn't say I have an over-whelming fear, per se, of spiders. I'm certainly not a big fan and I definitely don't intentionally seek them out. I experience foreboding feelings whenever I walk down the dark hallway of my school...sure that a spider is lurking...dangling from a single thread like a little lint-sized pinata. It happened once...turns out, when called upon, I am the limbo champion of the world. When it comes right down to it...I would say that I have a healthy respect for my arachniadic acquaintances...so long as I can go my way and they go their's.

So of course Sydney and Savannah would move to an area of the country heavily populated by eight-legged friends. In fact, San Diego serves as the tarmac for the annual tarantula migration. It is also home to Black Widow spiders, jumping spiders, orb-weaving spiders, and the venomous brown recluse spider.

During a recent visit, I had tip-toed down to the living room couch in the middle of the night as my sleep schedule refused to tabulate West Coast time. I hadn't yet received my Ted Talk on how to work the remote so I settled for cellular surfing. The house was ghostly quiet when, suddenly, the skin on my arm prickled. Glancing down, I spied a large brown leaf on the wrong type of limb. I stifled a scream and sent that spider flying. He catapulted through the air and landed on Sydney's white, tiled kitchen floor. Stunned from being shot-putted, the spider tried to gather its wits while I realized that I hadn't dramatized his dimensions. He was almost Jurassic in proportion. As we both recovered from the shock of our experiences, we both began to slowly move. His intent was to escape...Mine was to kill. This was a brown recluse spider. ("Are you sure?" Sydney asked later, "Did he have a violin on his back?" "He must have packed it away in his case," I told her, "And he dropped his saxophone during the cannonball launch")...he did not belong indoors. My mama raised me to gently move bugs outdoors but fear transformed me from humane to Hulk.

Obviously, I was barefoot. I searched my surroundings for a tissue and snatched a paper towel. Quivering, I approached my mid-night intruder. My aim must be true, I said to myself, envisioning the spider battling back, shaking out of the shrouds to crawl up over my murderous hand. Oh so gently, I eased my way across the floor and then I pounced...employing a heart-breaking but effectively efficient smush/pinch/snub out like a cigarette method. 

The deed was done.

I sat, unblinking in the darkness, the corpse behind me, enshrined in its trash-tomb. I stared around me, fearing familial reprisal. I held my breath. The house was silent except for the whisper of a heartbeat. Mine? I gasped. His? 

Author's note:  

During the writing of this awful re-telling of an experience that haunts me still, Brad and Sydney have been on speaker phone, LOUDLY debating the actual species identification of my spider. "I think it was a Water Orb Spider," Sydney corrected, despite the fact that she was snoozing peacefully while I was battling for my life and barely listened to my recounting the following morning. "Wow," she'd said, "Is there any coffee?" She and her father researched the YELLOW-legged spider and began to exclaim in horror, "Oh my gosh, it's so big! It's eating a bird!" "Look at this one! It's eating a snake!" I sent them the image I had taken before the conclusion (That I had sent to everyone BEFORE and no one had cared).

Father and daughter then spent an additional thirty minutes trying to prove me wrong. Condemnations included:

"You should have counted the eyes." (Said to me, in disgust)

"I think she may have been exaggerating the size."

"The brown recluse spider is NOT indigenous to San Diego!"

"You should have gotten a better picture," they scolded.

They finally landed on the Wood Louse spider. Nope...never-mind. Now they're on the Chilean Recluse. Where was this interest when I was battling for my life?

Oh great...Savannah just joined the debate.

A pirate's favorite letter is "R;" Mine is "Vee."

A year ago, I was praying for safety.

Six months ago...comfort, solace, peace.

And now...small pockets of joy.

God is good.

EVERYONE, including me, underestimated my mother.  She is a kind, quiet, reserved person...content to stay home, proud of her family, gently able to coax seed-to-sprout, bloom-to-bouquet, magically. And then, suddenly, her world imploded and her very reasons for living...husband and home...were both taken away from her. Her weathered memory was further clouded by crisis, confusion, anxiety, and depression. No one said it out-loud, but we thought about swans and wondered how long she would be willing to swim and soar solo.

Turns out, my mom is the toughest, most resilient person I know.

I live for her laughter.

It has been a journey...a LOT of adjustments and a HUGE learning curve. Smiles were understandably sparse in the beginning but slowly, she began to share them more until they were being sprinkled more regularly during our visits. 

Control is a major facet in everyone's life. And my mother had been stripped of ALL control. In my desperate attempts to "help" her, I often also hurt her by not allowing her to be a part of important decisions pertaining to her life. Those decisions HAD to be made as they were safety-related but, when we were past crisis-mode, I began to look for opportunities to support her independent decision-making...

• I stopped bugging her to go downstairs for dinner. If she wanted to eat Special K with strawberry cereal for supper for the rest of her life...so be it. I could support that. It's about control. 
• She would benefit from a cane or walker but she stubbornly refuses to use them. We provided her with a cane adorned with butterflies and tried to practice with her. The most use that cane has
  gotten was Brad re-enacting the Looney Tunes frog in black tie and tails dancing. Control. AND...the first time I'd heard my mother roar with laughter.
• We were constantly fending off my mother's insistent demands that we take her money when we'd go out to eat. Mistake. Control. Plus, my mother is STILL my mother and wants to maintain her role as a provider. Now, we have to figure in dignity (and creative ways of sneaking her money back to her).

We're still learning:

• 
  My mom is too polite to tell anyone when something is bugging her so I have to work really hard on my intuitive skills. I realized that it startled her if we just showed up, unannounced, at her apartment door. But if I called as we were leaving our house, she would be flustered because she thought we should have arrived to her sooner. So, Brad and I call her from the parking lot, cheerfully proclaiming our presence. If she is having a good day, she's up on her feet because we've given her the time she likes to make sure the apartment is tidy and her hair is combed. We know we'll be there for an hour or so and will be playing cards. If she's having a not-so-great day, she'll be in her chair. We abbreviate our visit. If she's wearing her little bunny slippers instead of sneakers, it's a quick "Hello," re-stock her groceries, make her some tea (if she'll let us) and skedaddle after making sure she's not sick. 
• I want my mother to EAT (She's 86 pounds!). My initial good intentions of bringing her hot food didn't go well as she, understandably, doesn't want to eat if those around her aren't eating too. She's not an animal at the zoo. If we eat with her, then, of course, she'll eat. And bonus:  If I claim I can't eat my portion and ask her to split with me, she's thrilled to be put in the position of helping me.
• My mother's close proximity to a Wegman's has become a real problem for me. At the height of peach season, I "accidentally" wandered through the bakery department as I shopped for Mom's weekly groceries. And there it was. A 3-layer peach cake. No. You are not hearing me. A 3-layer peach cake:  Peach cake layered with peach juice-infused whipped cream, topped with fresh peaches. Oh. My. Goodness. One piece cost the equivalent of a bushel of peaches, the peach cake mix, and a carton of Kool-Whip. Never-you-mind...it was "for my mother." We'd split it.
• It was a beautiful day. "Let's eat it on the veranda," I proposed. We gathered up plates, forks, napkins, and our ridiculously expensive piece of peach cake heaven. We settled in on our chairs, toasted one another with a "clink" of our forks, and took a bite. Oh. My. Goodness. My mother closed her eyes as she chewed and then looked at me and smiled. "This is good."
• Worth every penny.

We're still learning.

• We host repeat conversations with the same energy and enthusiasm of the original conversation.
• We listen empathetically when Mom is frustrated by her puzzle and claims pieces are missing and then casually look for the missing piece(s) on the floor or fix the original framework.
• Every day, when I call Mom, I listen intently for the sound of the TV. Aside from the visits of her family, Mom does not have a lot of daily interaction with others aside from the staff members who deliver her medication. That TV is IMPORTANT. She won't tell us when it goes out on her but we can tell because, after a few days, her verbal acuity disintegrates. 

We're still learning.

• I try to call her at 3:30. Once, I called her at 6:30 and couldn't hear the TV. "Mom, is something wrong with the TV?" I asked. "Oh yeah," she admitted, "It's been out all day." I glanced at Brad who glanced at the clock as he shrugged into his coat. One hour there. Five minutes to fix the TV. One hour back. But we could sleep that night.
• 
  
• We're still learning.

• 
  I noticed Mom's watch was on her side table which was unusual. Then, in casual conversation, Brad unearthed that she hadn't gone down to breakfast. "I was too early," she told him. Breakfast was the only meal that she would go to the resident's dining room for so Brad persisted. "Why were you early?" he asked. "My clock wasn't working," she explained. He glanced at the large, illuminated clock in the living room that very clearly worked. "No," she said, tapping her wrist, "my clock." Oh. We grabbed her watch to have the battery switched. Four days later, during my daily call (again, at 6:30), I asked her what she'd had for breakfast. "I didn't go down," she reported, "My clock is broken so I missed it." Silence. Oh no...silence. "Mom, are you watching TV?" "No," she said, "The TV isn't working." I glanced at Brad who glanced at the clock as he shrugged on his coat. She hadn't eaten breakfast all week. I'm making fewer mistakes...but I'm still making mistakes. I cried.

The tears come far fewer now.

A year ago, I was praying for safety.

Six months ago...comfort, solace, peace.

And now...small pockets of joy.

God is good.

Thank you, God, for this precious time with my mother.

God bless, Vee DeLong...the strongest, most resilient person I know.

Speaking of entryways: Another a-"door"-able story

 What is it with me and doors lately? Obviously, I am CONSTANTLY on the look-out for magical passageways, a la the wardrobe to Narnia or Platform 9 3/4. I always take a second look at intricate sconces or book titles that might double as portal triggers. But thus far, I remain frustrated (but still hopeful).

Apparently, the recent installation of two doors in my home has heightened my obsession for entryways. And suddenly, everywhere I looked...magic. Thanks to my school's construction project, doors are defying logic and...disappearing. 

After calmly and graciously moving out of my beloved Room 24 to make space for the STEAM (STEAM stands for "Screw Tenant-rights: Evict Amy Mosiman) wing that is comprised of two classrooms with its own special exit leading to an outdoor classroom (magical door #1), I finally decided to face my personal trauma head-on to walk past...my past. My heart stopped. My face turned white. With a shaking hand, I reached to grasp the ghost of a door knob that no longer existed. Where two neighboring doors had stood, only one remained. STEAM (Stop Teaching, Erase Amy Mosiman) had somehow, magically, made a door dissolve. Our STEAM instructor, the unflappable Eric, was infuriatingly indifferent to this alteration to our access-ways. 

I, however, was preoccupied with the indecipherable patch-job. While the construction workers enjoyed my summary of Poe's "Cask of Amontillado," they did not feel compelled to alter their handiwork. 

Yup. It was up to me. 

Unfortunately, 4th grade has had a bit of a busy schedule...we were one member down...unless you counted the fact that we were soon to be gaining an extra member thanks to our very pregnant Marissa which meant that soon, we were going to be down another TWO members...we considered installing a revolving door to handle the procession of subs. 4th grade team planned and implemented a baby shower, choreographed  and video-taped the tutorial "moves" (eye roll) of the Halloween Costume Parade finale, will begin wrestling nine-year-olds into dance formations, brainstormed and wrote the outline for the up-coming school-wide assembly to include skits, musical numbers, and special effects, squeaked in a quick flight to the West Coast to purchase paper plates (for the shower), will soon return for another West Coast week-end, found ourselves buried beneath an avalanche of longhouse projects (boasting a LOT of doors), and somehow squeaked in some teaching. 

How hard could it be to build and install a door?

Barring a nervous break-down, I settled for a sticker. 

Once Katriel helped me wrestle it onto the wall, I could breathe again. 

Until...

I encountered the next door disaster. 

I came to an abrupt halt outside my friend Meggan's classroom. There used to be a door across the hall. Where was the door that used to be across the hall? Now, instead of a door...there was an alarmingly clean, from ceiling-to-floor, dry erase board. 

I stormed into Meggan's room to demand answers. 

She admitted that she had had some knowledge of the installation of the dry erase board to replace the empty threshold of the vacated vestibule. I conceded that, in absence of a door, the dry erase board was a suitable adornment across from a math classroom. Meggan admitted that she was having trouble besmirching its sparkling surface. I had no such qualms. Christening untried surfaces is my favorite! I unleashed my inner graffiti artist and skipped away...in search of more doors, of hidden doors, of doors which were doors before...answering the age-old question of "When is a door, not a door?" 

Never. 

Apparently, with the right perspective...ANYTHING can be a door...a physical, mental, or spiritual passageway. My 4th graders can tell you that the Seneca Tribe is known as the "Keepers of the Western Door." A TV can be the window to the world. There's death's door. A foot in the door. As for me, right now, I'm going door to door because the trick is...to never stop looking.

A-DOOR-able story #3 of 3: I'm open for suggestions on how to install a door

 The Andersen 4000 full-view screen/storm doors had arrived and I immediately began second-guessing my decision. Brad and I have a long history of...let's just say...not working well together. Brad claims I need to anticipate, show initiative, trouble-shoot logically, and stop always shining the flashlight directly into his eyes. I say he needs to stop being such an @$$h0{$. And now, here we were...with not just one door to install...but two. 

Two doors to be...

• Installed in an old house built in the 1850s without a single squared corner to be found. 
• Installed by a woman with no spatial intelligence and falters whenever a fraction is introduced into the conversation. Installed by a woman with a state job so is accustomed to plenty of bathroom breaks, social interactions, and snacking opportunities. 
• Installed by a man who will work until he drops, speaks in imperative commands, has WAY too much faith in his wife's muscular ability to carry heavy or awkward items, and tends to run out of patience if she decides the job's not worth the effort. 

Brad and I shared a good laugh at the packaging's declaration that the installation should take only 45
minutes. We've been married 35 years...this was NOT our first rodeo. To install a new door, naturally, one must first empty all the dehumidifiers in the home, gas up all the vehicles, pound a stake into the ground to wrestle a way-ward growing sapling into submission, and argue about laundry methodology. 

Then, before you begin to install your new door, you must remove the old door. Easier said than done. Apparently the 19th century nails and screws refused to comply with Brad's 21st century removal tools. And the original installer was VERY generous with his application of nails and screws. I watched as my husband waged war with a crowbar while I helpfully provided 4th grade fun facts. "A crowbar is a simple machine," I told him as wood splinters shot towards us like shrapnel. The ravaged door hung precariously from its top hinge before Brad seized the portal and ruthlessly ripped it down. I picked the crowbar up off the floor. "It's a lever," I told my husband. "Very helpful," he gasped.

We removed the Andersen 4000 from its box and I took note of the time. We'd already been pre-gaming for an hour and a half. Holding it in place, we were not surprised that it wasn't a perfect fit. The measuring tape made an appearance and fractions were flung at me. I dutifully wrote them down. Brainstorming...one of us about the door, the other one about snacks...Brad wondered if the other entryway was closer in measurements. We headed over there...well, since we're here...might as well remove that door too. Fortunately, practice was making the process go a bit easier. 

Eyeing up the removed door, Brad wondered if it was the same size as our much-battered basement door. Oh, no. 

It wasn't. Oh, yes. 

But maybe just the glass paneled section could be substituted. Oh, no.

An hour or more was dedicated to a door that had been completely off my radar. Re-purposing at its finest. 

Because of our crooked house, Brad was going to need to build onto our existing door-frames. As he began picking up, I asked (foolishly) when we would begin cutting the wood. Brad was stunned. "Did you want to run to The Hammer House today?" he asked incredulously. "Don't we have wood here?" I inquired...I had watched him sort and buy a ton of straight-straight boards just a few weeks ago. I watched my husband's expression light up and he immediately began searching the rafters of our garage. B-I-N-G-O!

Oh good. We have wood.

Once Brad had re-built a frame, it actually wasn't that bad. 

The directions for installing the Andersen 4000 were straight-forward and also illustrated. I would read them aloud. Then Brad would go off and read them again without my "interpretations" or "commentary."  

And just like that (six hours later), my dowager dachshund had a full-view screen door as her window to the world. We delighted in our working handle. We celebrated the easy button that held the door open for when our hands are full of groceries. Never had I imagined such luxuries!

"That went a lot better than I anticipated," I confessed to Brad as we picked up. "I can understand why people would rather just pay the installation fee," my husband mused...I paused, waiting...I knew it was coming..."but when it comes to putting in a door, you shouldn't knock it until you've tried it."