I have a
strong need to write to my three Compassion children in Haiti and the bunch
of them in African countries to tell them that they are loved, that they are
special, and that they should never listen to people who tell them
otherwise.
I am so
angry at what that White House bigot has said today that I can hardly speak.
The man who was born with a golden spoon in his mouth, who has never served
his country in the military and who has done nothing but raise and lose
money and market his own brand dares to smear an entire segment of the world
population with the term "shithole." He couldn't last one week, maybe
not one day, struggling the way the people of those countries live.
Why are we
not getting more immigrants from Norway? Maybe because it is a better
country to live in than this one. Especially now. I might think
of emigrating to Norway myself (if it weren't such a long commute to Santa
Barbara).
I returned
to Atria, finally, today. As I suspect she didn't have a clue it's
been nearly 2 weeks since I was last at Atria and was unconcerned when I
told her I had been in bed for the past 2 weeks (well, recliner, but "bed"
sounded better).
She was
bright and conversational today, but was not in "today." She told me
that her sister Marge was finally getting things together, that she'd been
in trouble lately, but she was getting her life in order (Marge was Peach's
mother who died some 40+ years ago). She said she needed to see her
brother Jim, long dead, and she asked me if I had been with her mother
before I came to see her.
At least
she was talking about something other than how old she was, and we had a
nice conversation about how good it was that Marge was getting things
together. We eventually got around to age and when I mentioned being
almost 75, she said in shock "why that's an old, old lady!" Thanks
Mom. :)
For
Christmas, Atria gave each person in the facility this big box called
"Storywise." It's filled with cards on the front of which is a
suggestion to share a story and on the back a photo to help prod the memory.
Like this:
The idea is to get easy memories flowing, but sadly my mother
can't relate to this any more. There was one card that said something
about favorite thing her mother cooked but she couldn't remember anything
her mother ever cooked. If I had asked her about her first home, I
doubt she could remember that either. The box kind of broke and
spilled cards everywhere and I ended up taking about half of them home with
me because they would not stay neatly in the box. Maybe I'll use them
as journal prompts from time to time...or maybe put some of them into a
shape to make a Sunday Stealing list of questions.
When after I realized she couldn't think of anything her
mother used to cook, I mentioned the can pile her father kept. I can't
tell you how many times she told us of the big pile of cans her father kept
in the back yard and whenever they wanted to do anything he said first they
had to move the cans to the other side of the yard. Later, when she
grew up, he admitted it was just a job he could give them to keep them busy.
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