Identifiers or "We Are Who We Say We Are - Just Ask Us"

The next chapter of Nell the new knee is really a prequel. It is the story of who the knee was before it was Nell.

I was a healthy young woman jumping rope. Then I was a little bit - oh such a wee bit - damaged. But I recovered quickly and became who I became.

Becoming is a funny thing. Somewhere along the way you attach "identifiers" to yourself. I mean the adjectives not the nouns. I was strong. I was always a tomboy kinda girl which was interesting since I was not athletic at all and while one of my identifiers was "strong" another one was "clumsy" ( my grandmother gave me that one and no one ever told me I could refuse it or give it back so I carried it right next to strong- oh well,) I was a worker bee and could outlast all the girls and alot of the boys on any given day on most day's tasks.

So, all that work and being attached as I was to that label, jumprope incident behind me - I became a STRONG woman. And that knee and my identifier carried on together for 40 years. Exactly 40. From 17 to 57, my knee and I did just fine,
( well, except for those times that we didn't; but they never lasted long and aspirin gave way to tylenol which gave way to advil in those forty years so any trouble it gave me was covered. ) And then the knee said "uncle".

Hey, forty years isn't a bad run - right?

The story of Nell-the-new-knee

Rarely does the story of a new knee start and end on the same day. The story of my new knee ( affectionately known as Nell) started decades ago. I will tell this story in three paragraph sound bites. It is a story of patience, determination, stubborn denial, terror and relief. The end of the story is so new, it is still being written. But that is the end and this is the beginning.

I was 17 and graduating from high school in just a few days; the processional line-up had been set. We were assigned our places by our height in heels. I was one of the tallest girls so I was in the back of the line. My shoes were polished, my gown was pressed. Our exams were over - for better or worse. School got out early. We were free as birds.

Joyce and Linda and I were high on life - we were playing jump rope. Yup, you got it right. We were high school kids waiting for graduation and we were jumping rope in the back yard when it happened. I heard it before I felt it but I knew immediately that there would be no heels for me at graduation.

It was just a sprain. No one worried. No one wondered if it would bother me all the days of my life - and it didn't, well, not for years to come. But that week, that hot June week of 1968, the big commotion was that now they would have to change the line up so that I could wear flats - and carry crutches.

That is the beginning of the story of Nell-the-new-knee.

Little Girls

Devotion, Desire and Delight dancing in the street.


They are not quite three and newly seven.
They are sweet and warm and breathy in their personas and in their play.


The dress up box is purple plastic with a domed top like the treasure chest that it is on this summer day.
The older one is a "Fashionista". She has an innate sense of style. She likes flashy, fun combinations of bright colors and mixed textures accessorized with long cotton gloves of white or purple.
She is happy to show the wee one how this game is played.

They announce each new creation, dancing on the street that is the hundred year old hardwood hall floor of gramma bevy's house.
They are bedecked in plastic heels and fuzzy, furry boas.
They drape themselves in gauzy scarves and pink tiaras.
They dazzle us with oranges and reds, golds and deep sea blues of every fabric twisted and twirled about their lithe little bodies.
And then they prance about in tutus of multi-colored crinoline adorned with sparkly see-through gems dancing like fairies in a forest glen.

These sweet little girls are a delight. The elders in the room are devoted to them and desire only that they know that they are beautiful and they are loved.

Parades

The parade began before I opened my eyes. I could choose to sleep in; it was hot and I was tired.
I could rise and finish writing final comments - it was time.
I could get up and out and mow the dry, cracked, brown grass that was ankle (and in some places mid calf)deep.
or......
I could drive north and see Aunt Kitty at my mother's house.
The parade of choices marched before me. So I asked myself, "at day's end what would I be most glad that I had chosen?"
I got out of bed, tended the dogs and headed north stopping only to get fresh baked cinnamon rolls from the local bakery.

There were three bespectacled, graying elders just having breakfast when I arrived. They were delighted, but not really surprised, to see me.
They were truly delighted and totally surprised that I carried goodies in the white paper bag I carried.

The parade of choices did not end with my arrival. With only an hour to share what would we talk about? Her life? Mine? The weather?
I picked me, the most selfish and the most selfless choice in the line up. I had begun a writing course since I had last seen Aunt Kitty, one that I wanted to tell her all about. Called Wearing the WORD, it is an amazing way to reflect on Bible passages, and end each day with a parade of words dancing on the computer screen to be sent off to a moderator - me.

The hour and more spent, the band played on. Aunt Kitty had a tradition of going down to the Stuyvesant Falls Bridge on her way out of town every year.
I was running late but the appeal of parading across that bridge, two old ladies, one alot older than I am, won the lottery of time allotment.
We both headed out and met at the bottom of the hill.
And parade is just what we did! Hand in hand we walked, arms swinging, laughing out loud as we took in the sights of the Falls, the rocks below and the sky above.
Oh what a treat!

A prayer warrior beside me I thought to myself, "Please God, in the parade of choices that marches before me each day, help me always choose this well. Amen."

How hot is TOO hot?

Stars and Stripes

There is a flag flying proudly on my front porch today.
It is a flag that once flew over a military post where my son was stationed.
He is in the Navy.

There is another flag hanging on my son's wall, though he is not there to look at it. That one was handed to my mother at my father's funeral. My father served in the Tenth Mountain Division of the Army in World War II.


I have attended many funerals - too many - and they are filled with such a mix of emotions. Great sadness in spite of the relief of suffering. Near hysteria at the loss of one too young or whose life is taken violently or tragically. Disbelief at the incredulity of a suicide. It is so hard to stand in the presence of such deep, true emotion ....

But, have you ever stood at a graveside when a flag is handed to a loved one?
I have and what I remember is the heart swelling ache of pride. The heart swelling rush of gratitude to that person who sacrificed his or her comfort, safety and family time for ME.

That is how it feels when I watch a flag go from white gloved hands to the trembling hands of the person receiving it. This person that we are preparing to say goodbye to forever, served our country for ME. And I am the one that benefits from that sacrifice. I am the one that gets to walk away from the cemetery and live a life of freedom, a life pursuing joy ( my greatest happiness) because of this person who we are about to lower into the ground.

And I am always humbled as I watch the Stars and Stripes change hands.

Happy Birthday America, yes. But more than that, thank you to each and every man and woman who continues to serve under the Red, White and Blue. Thank you for your sacrifice for ME. May I live a life that is deserving of it.

Be safe today, come home soon. And for those who served before and are gone, rest in peace.

Generations

Though I was her labor nurse for three of her four children I do not know her well. I knew the set of her broad shoulders, the shine of her beautiful brown hair and the lilt in her voice but when I saw her walking down the hall to room 279 I did not know that her daughter was in labor.

I only knew her now-grown children through their medical care. First immunizations and well baby check ups. Later, appendicitis and pneumonia. And now, labor.

I went to greet her. She looked tired. Determined, but tired. And happy to see me. Mothering a laboring child is a tight rope walk. You must be strong but tender. Compassionate but not timid. And not a sissy. Being in labor yourself is easy compared to a tending a laboring daughter who is frightened and in tears.
Yes, she was happy to see a familiar face, the face of another mother.

I rubbed her shoulders as I smiled my hello. She smiled her beautiful smile back at me as she returned to her daughter and the labor nurse who would tend her.

It was a long day. Others gathered to wait. A woman, older than I, who would become a great grandmother this day, sat on a stool out side the hospital room door. She was fervently willing birth to come, and, finally, birth did come.

It is a beautiful sound, the sound of labor ending and a new life beginning.
I heard it from the hall. I went in to see a pink cherub of a baby lying in the crib surrounded by an exhausted mother and grandmother, a relieved great grandmother and a room full of siblings that I had seen come into the world.

Three generations standing at a bedside gazing at a baby. Happy. Life is good.