July 4 in Georgia

I got a real bang out of the 4th here in Georgia. For all its big city-ness,
Marietta is a fine small town here around the square. The neighborhood was
filled with people enjoying the evening in their front yards until nine or a
little after. Then everyone took their camp chairs and walked the half block
or so to Whitlock where we found places with a clear view of the church
parking lot across the street. That was the staging area for the fireworks
on the Square, so we had the perfect view from mortar firing to skyward
explosion. It was a grand show, maybe twenty minutes or even longer. Then we
picked up our chairs and walked home and sat on the screenporch again.

Bill commented how fun it was to BE the people in one of those houses you
walk past getting to your car parked way too far away to struggle through
traffic and go home. I must admit that was awfully nice. And it was even
nicer because he had decided to stay until the traffic cleared, so he got
George (my 1949 Martin Guitar for those who haven't met him) out and played
and even got me to play. This is the life!

The world would be a better place if we all had front
porches.

Kathy Seven Williams

July 4 in Georgia

I got a real bang out of the 4th here in Georgia. For all its big city-ness,
Marietta is a fine small town here around the square. The neighborhood was
filled with people enjoying the evening in their front yards until nine or a
little after. Then everyone took their camp chairs and walked the half block
or so to Whitlock where we found places with a clear view of the church
parking lot across the street. That was the staging area for the fireworks
on the Square, so we had the perfect view from mortar firing to skyward
explosion. It was a grand show, maybe twenty minutes or even longer. Then we
picked up our chairs and walked home and sat on the screenporch again.

Bill commented how fun it was to BE the people in one of those houses you
walk past getting to your car parked way too far away to struggle through
traffic and go home. I must admit that was awfully nice. And it was even
nicer because he had decided to stay until the traffic cleared, so he got
George (my 1949 Martin Guitar for those who haven't met him) out and played
and even got me to play. This is the life!

The world would be a better place if we all had front
porches.

Kathy Seven Williams

Salesmanship

When the movers were unloading the truck they discovered our couch won't fit into this house. We could remove the door from the screen porch, take off one pannel of screen framing, and put the couch in the living room, but since I wanted it in the basement, we decided to put it in the carport like a good Southern couple. So now we are engaged in a great shopping war. War? Yes. Imagine this...

We went to a family run furniture store that has been in the area for almost as long as our house. We first chose a daybed to put in the music room, then proceeded to select a couch. The criteria for the couch was a bit specific since it have to be less than 31 inches in one dimension so we could get it through the door. On the showroom floor were 11 versions of one relatively nice couch that would meet the height requirement, but I didn't like any of the fabrics. Next to it sat a lovely Dark blue sleeper/sofa with good high arms all the way to the front edge, and nice lines.

Measuring this sofa by finger-spread it seemed just the right size as well, so I asked the salesman to measure it for me. That's where the war began. He insisted it wouldn't work. He REFUSED to measure it. He spoke to me like I was a dumb woman who simply didn't understand about furniture moving. He muttered something about the arms going too far forward making it absolutely impossible. Jay and I both asked him to just measure, but that was out of the question. He repeatedly refused, insisted he was the Authority and that we didn't know what we were talking about.

I tried to explain to him that if the largest dimension in one direction (In this case the height) was less than 31 inches, the couch would pass through the door that way whether the arms included in that height were halfway or all the way to the front of the seat. He couldn't get his head around that idea for love or money. In this case it would have been for money. His parting shot as he walked away from us was that he simply wasn't going to sell it to us.

We had to wait for our friend to get off her cell phone conversation before we could leave the store. In that time, as we stood by the front door waiting to leave, the salesman had a change of heart and measured the couch. He came over to us after our friend was free to leave and said he had gone ahead an measured it and it might work if we'd pay his delivery men whether or not they could get it into the house. I told him it wasn't a matter of maybe; it either would or wouldn't fit. I told him that after his behavior I wouldn't take the couch if he gave it to me. And we left humming "Pretty Woman."

Kathy Seven Williams
Thinking politicians should work on commission - if the polls don't buy what they're selling, they don't get paid.

Life Is Good

Just a line to say all went well. I have a Fistula in my left arm. Thank you to all who shared prayers and good thoughts.

Kathy Seven Williams
"Georgia On My Mind"

The Time Has Come

The Time Has Come

As the Walrus said. It would seem we've put it off as long as we can and then some. With my kidney function down around 8 or 9 percent it's a bit of a wonder I haven't been readied for dialysis before now. But now it's happening, and I'm glad I made it to Georgia for it to happen.

I happened upon a doctor who seems really good. She is bright, quick, straight forward, and concerned. I think she's a bit alarmed that I've gone this far unattended for all intents and purposes by an involved nephrologist. But now she's involved, and moving forward. I think she could sell snow to Eskimos with her gentle and kindly approach to getting you to do what she thinks needs doing. But I like her and she does listen and takes action. She promptly sent me off to a Vascular surgeon to set up getting my dialysis access installed. She's doubled my Epo and has made it clear that dialysis is just around the corner in a month or two unless I back off to better labs once settled in the new house.

So the dialysis access is next on the list. On June 1 a Vascular Surgeon will make a little hole in my right arm just above the elbow and attach an artery to a vein in hopes of pumping in enough pressure to stretch the vain and make it big enough for the two dialysis nails - ur um, needles to be placed there. Now if the lack of this blood supply to my hand is too painful or too disabling, I guess they'll give up on that option. I've only got one choice for where to put it because I've got tiny little veins - yeah right, why couldn't it have been my hips. If this process, making what's called a Fistula, doesn't work, they'll put in a graft in the lower right arm. This isn't as good because it doesn't heal between stabs and eventually becomes a soaker hose and has to be replaced. So everyone think Fistula, thank you.

Am I scared? Heck yeah. If I've gotta work all this hard to stay alive, I do want it all to work well. There are endless horror stories about how bad it can be. But there are a lot of stories about how well it can work, too. So I'll just hold onto the hope of good progress and carry on glad I'm in Georgia and not in Port Angeles at this medical moment.

Kathy Seven Williams
"Georgia On My Mind"

Today's Haiku

Night journey through sleep

Thoughts stream purple and yellow

Like clouds and sunlight

Fossilized Tears

Fossilized Tears

I was reading "The Thirteenth Tale" by Diane Setterfield the other night when I couldn't sleep. The idea of unshed tears came up and she said that they fosselized . I really liked that image. I've noticed over the years that tears not cried have tended to build up and block later tears from getting out until I'm so backed up I'm afraid to cry for fear I'll never stop.

I remember the first time I blocked the tears from falling. I was ten. My mom had just married my step-dad, and we'd moved into a new house. My cocker Spanial, Lucky had been relegated to the corner of the back yard chained to the fence post to limit her relieving and living area. It was my job to clean her daily production from the small rocks and gravel in her area. This was no minor task for a blind kid depending on high contrast and touch to locate said product. After a couple times of missing a few spots, Paul said I hadn't done my job and had to take the dog to the animal shelter. Lucky had been my companion for a couple years of latchkey childhood. She'd been there when I was home from school and when I was sad and alone. She was there during my mom's second divorce and during her searching for daddy #3. She was my best friend. I walked her on her leash to the kennel gate and put her in and said good-by, and after that the animal shelter and my step-dad and everything around me disappeared and I could only think "He's not going to make me cry. I'll never cry again."

And I didn't cry again for 7 years. I didn't cry through school snubbings, through fingers slammed in gym doors, through junior high threats in the girls bathroom. I didn't cry when my sister left home at 16 or so, or when I left home to live with my father and step-mother to get away from the horrible school I was bussed to because I was blind. I didn't cry until my junior year when my best friend broke up with his girl friend, my other best friend. But even that was just a sun break in a cloudy sky. I had turned off the tears when I was ten and they were backing up solid as stone with very few leaks.

By the time my fiancé, Jeff, was in Vietnam giving me good reason to want to cry, the dam was strong and floods had to squeeze out between the tiniest cracks in the wall. I remember my dear friend, Doug, handing me a roll of TP and saying tell me when you're through. Well, you can't get going with a good cry with that kind of encouragement, so I just quit. And the tears calcified, Jeff made it home and life went on. When Jeff chose drugs and I chose graduation, there were no tears. I didn't dare cry and miss something important I had to take care of in the meantime. I hugged my dog and my cats, had friends over for lasagna and carried on.

The dam almost was shattered one day walking through Sears after Mike and I had moved to Anaheim. We were passing the baby furniture section and I realized I wasn't going to have any use for that, and I really wanted babies. We talked about it, went through gene counseling at UCLA, agreed if a baby was going to be born blind, what better parents than me who did it so well and Mike who had developed the CCTV reading device for blind people. So we decided to have Traci, and the tears disappeared again.

There were sorrows and disappointments throughout the years, but nothing to cry about. I managed to move out and take Tracie safely away, but she begged me to go back to her Daddy, and he made it impossible for me not to with his threats of taking her from me, but I didn't cry. I just went back. And Bill was my reward for trying so hard to keep our family going. Who could ask for better?

When Mike announced he was leaving us, I didn't cry. I sat staring at the TV screen playing Tetris hour after hour until the pain was numbed and the tears stopped hammering at my eyes.

Now as the years go by, I notice that tears are eroding through the wall sometimes. I still can't cry when Bill is almost killed by a drunk driver, or when Tracie's wonderful family dissolves unexpectedly. Crying over those huge sorrows for my precious children would surely drown me in never-stopping tears, and I have to be strong in case they need me. But I notice now I'm leaking. I'm crying little bits at sappy stories, glergy animal pictures, or snatches of songs that remind me of...

It isn't the heart that turns to stone, it's the eyes.