Remember those? If you can, in retrospect those were probably a bit dangerous to put in our mouths. And yet, here we are, alive and kicking (as my mother would have said). Sorry we missed one another on Friday the 13th. I usually regard that day with amusement as I listen to those around me bemoan the full moon, the fear of bad things happening on Friday the 13th and I smile. That’s because I was actually born on Friday the thirteen, in November. My mother did not expect me for another two weeks, and thought that early labor was actually the result of eating brussel sprouts and the indigestion that followed shortly thereafter. Well, I liked being early, back then and now. However, that day started with a few aches and sore throat and ended with my “just going to sleep for a little while”. I woke the next morning feeling peaked and under the weather (what are those expressions, anyway) and realized that for all my stalwart behavior , I was down for the count. I considered writing on Saturday, but the rhythm of my writing is based on committing to a routine that is comfortable and predictable. Hence, I’m back tonight because it’s Monday and on Monday, I write.
My health is fine and I tend to ignore the little stuff (sore throat, stuffy nose, etc). I pay attention to the bigger annoyances because time has shown that when we ignore those things, they just grow out of control and then we have a problem, Houston. I have discovered that drinking green tea and lots of assorted fluids keeps me upright and on the road to getting well. I am a workhorse and don’t like to use sick days unless I have something that sharing would not be caring, and I am cognizant that working with kids and adults in a public school is a breeding ground for germs. It is often that I just keep on ticking like a cheap Timex until I have a day to donate to my germs. Years ago, when I broke my ankle, I didn’t decide it hurt until I looked at the swelling under my sock that appeared grapefruit sized and then I knew that this was going to hurt. Stubborn in in my genetic fiber, just ask my FHB. Now the rest of my family has been sick and miserable and I am very doting and sympathetic, offering home remedies, fabulous chicken soup like my grandmother never made and lots of concern.
Mercury thermometers and I had an interesting childhood. I found out that if you put it against the radiator for a minute or so, your temperature of 106 degrees did not bring the ambulance but rather a strong admonishment about hypochondriasis. Busted. I thought I was clever but I found out the adults were several steps ahead of me. When I was legitimately sick with ear infections and tonsils the size of mandarin oranges, I got comic books and warm faceclothes and some gentle nurturing. A nice memory. I wonder what happened to all of our comic book collections.
It’s quiet in the loft. This is the time of night when the clock seems to go a bit faster as I sip my tea and choose my words and thoughts to share. My FHB is already fast asleep. The cat has taken up her station and is dreaming of cheese and chicken. The moon has risen and moved along its nightly journey. I hear some traffic in the distance and the humming of the appliances. I am not a night owl by any means but this time to me is cherished. I collect my thoughts during the day, like the farmer who carries the ripened fruits in her apron to create something personal and delicious to share. I don’t necessarily know how it will turn out until the words are in front of me.
I would be remiss in not acknowledging the week ahead. I know that these times are fraught with worry and distress. I feel it and share it. It is distracting and deep inside all I think we can do is say our heart. If nothing else can heal our days, it is the realization that our collective consciousness must be one of strength and kindness. Say your heart. Maybe whatever ailed me for that day, allowed me to take a moment to start to heal.