07.21.08
Update On My Brother’s Massive Stroke
07.19.08
North American Gray Wolf
These beautiful animals were recently removed from the endangered species list, making way for the hunting of them this fall. A judge has temporarily put them back on the endangered list and the hunt has been canceled. In light of this new development, I thought I’d post an older article I’d written on them.
The North American Gray Wolf
I see the North American Gray Wolf as a beautiful and majestic creature that deserves our dedication to its survival just as any other animal on this earth. Due to misconceptions and fear, this majestic animal has been hunted to near extinction.
During the 1900’s the gray wolf was almost wiped out. It’s on the US endangered species list, but there have been moves in some states to have it removed. In Yellowstone National Park, the last remaining gray wolf was killed in 1926. The loss of the gray wolf from Yellowstone was caused by widespread elimination by humans who perceived the wolves as a danger to livestock and family. With the wolves gone, the elk in the park so dramatically increased as to cause a severe adverse affect on other species in the park.
There has never been a documented case of serious injury or death from a gray wolf attack on humans in North America. This isn’t so with domestic dogs. Between 1979 and 1996 there were 301 documented cases of deaths in the US by domestic dog attacks. I’m sure this number has risen since 1996.
In 1995 and 1996 there was a reintroduction of the gray wolf to Yellowstone in spite of much opposition. Congress cut appropriations to the Fish and Wildlife Service expressly to prohibit the reintroduction. This attempt failed because private wildlife organizations raised $100,000, which allowed the project to proceed.
Ranchers worried that the reintroduction of the gray wolf would cause them financial ruin because of the hunting of the wolves on livestock. A legitimate concern in their mind. Gray wolves do kill livestock, but this doesn’t happen as often as one might think. They actually prefer wild prey. To alleviate concerns, the Defenders of Wildlife agreed to compensate ranchers for any documented loss of livestock due to wolf kills. There have been very few claims filed.
The project for the reintroduction of the Gray Wolf to Yellowstone has been successful and I hope it will continue to be.
I found a poll on a site not long ago that asked this question:
If the Fish and Wildlife Service predicted a human death by wolf attack, would any of the defenders of the reintroduction of the gray wolf to Yellowstone change their opinion?
I would certainly not change my opinion. Bears attack, seriously injure, and kill humans every year, but I don’t see anyone screaming for the elimination of bears from North America.
If I were to be hiking, I’d much rather surprise a gray wolf in the woods than a bear. I think my chances of survival would be much higher with the wolf. How about you?
©Elizabeth Melton Parsons
06.27.08
Katie Blue Eyes 2
After getting Katie down for a nap, I went back to the nurse’s station. Janice was just finishing her paperwork. “Why was Katie still up?”
Janice raised her head, a blank look on her face, as she tried to switch her thoughts from what she’d been writing to my question. “I don’t know. She wouldn’t let anyone touch her. She wanted her ‘Bubble Girl’. Why does she call you that anyway?”
“Because I chew bubble gum and I blew a bubble one day and she saw it.”
Her face wrinkled in distaste. “That’s a disgusting habit. You shouldn’t be chewing gum on shift.”
“Ill mannered perhaps, but not disgusting and there are no rules against it. Who was on day shift?”
“Barb and Kevin here on the west wing, why?”
“Just curious.” I’d had my suspicions about Barb for a while now and the fact that Katie didn’t want the woman near her only strengthened them, but why hadn’t she let Kevin put her to bed?
“Here comes Pat. I’m out of here. Have fun.” Janice hurriedly draped her sweater over her shoulders, grabbed her purse and was halfway to the time clock before Pat had even reached the desk.
“Where’s she going in such a hurry? Got a hot date or something?” Pat turned and watched, as Janice rushed down the hall.
I laughed and shook my head. “Just happy her shift is over. Katie’s been difficult today.”
“Katie’s always difficult unless you’re here. But I don’t blame her for that. You treat her like a queen.”
“I don’t treat her like a queen. I treat her like a human being and that’s no different than I treat anyone else.”
“Not true. You broke the fundamental rule of elder care. You bonded—got too close and not only to Katie, but others like Ben.”
“Ben’s a doll. I can’t help it if I like him.”
“He’s a crotchety old man and has half the aides scared witless. Do you know some won’t even go in his room?”
“It’s all bluff. He’s the sweetest man ever. They need to tease back with him and when they see that silly little grin sweep across his face, they’ll know they’ve won him over.”
Pat laughed and went behind the desk, pulling the day reports out and looking them over. “I know that and you know that, but they don’t and I have to admit, I get a kick out of seeing how intimidated they are.”
“Meanie.”
She grinned and handed me a paper. “Here’s a list of the showers that weren’t done on day.”
My heart sank, as I saw the long list. “Goodness, did day shift do any showers?”
“Only two and don’t ask me why. I wasn’t here. And something else, you’re on your own tonight. Sally called in.”
“What a surprise. I’d better get moving if I’m going to give twenty showers before supper.”
“I’ll help, as soon as I finish meds. We can save some to do right before bed time.”
“Thanks, Pat.” Sighing heavily, I hurried down the hall in answer to the blinking light over Mr. and Mrs. Paulson’s door. The couple was self-reliant, so I hoped whatever they wanted could be quickly dealt with. It was going to be a long night and I needed to find time to question Katie about Barb in such a way that she wouldn’t know I was fishing for information.
Read Part 1: http://elizabethmeltonparsons.wordpress.com/2008/06/10/katie-blue-eyes/
©Elizabeth Melton Parsons
06.18.08
A Father’s Gift of Love
A Father’s Gift
Straightening, I stretched my back and wiped the sweat from my brow. The seemingly endless rows of corn offered shade, but blocked any breeze that might offer relief from the sweltering mid summer heat. I longed for the shaded coolness of the creek bank—could almost feel the cold rush of water flowing over my feet, as I delved into the fantasy world of the book I’d began reading the night before. The image lasted no more than a moment before reality reasserted itself.
Grumbling, I once again bent to the task of removing the morning glory vines from the fully mature stalks. As I contemplated the insanity of the chore, anger moved over me the way a dark cloud covers the sun. It swelled in intensity with every vine I pulled. By the time I’d reached the end of the row, a raging storm had brewed within me and it’s fury begged for release.
Dad stood at the end of the field, leaning on the handle of his hoe. He watched me, as I pulled the vines from the last corn stalk. To my anger-shrouded mind, he seemed an evil overlord and I imagined he’d invented the chore simply to torment me.
“I could hear you mumbling all the way down that row.”
It was embarrassing to know he’d been listening to my grumbles and I had the most absurd feeling that he’d somehow invaded my privacy. This of course only added to my anger. “It’s too hot and I don’t know why we’re doing this. It’s crazy and useless.”
“If we don’t pull the vines, they’ll choke the corn.” He spoke reasonably, as though any idiot would know this.
“The stalks are fully grown. Those vines aren’t hurting it at all.”
“The ears aren’t fully set.”
“I don’t care. I love morning glories and I’d rather see their beautiful flowers blooming than this ugly corn.”
“Morning glory flowers won’t feed the pigs come winter.”
With every word of this argument, I could feel my peaceful afternoon of reading on the creek bank slipping farther and farther away. My anger wanted to shout out at him, but I pushed it back. I was only fifteen, but far from stupid. If I went so far as to scream at him the way I longed to do, he’d only think of some other way to torture me tomorrow. Glaring at him with an emotion very closely resembling hatred, I turned my back and started down another row. Maybe if I worked fast enough, I could still salvage part of the afternoon.
Unfortunately, the work continued till the sun began to set before we trudged wearily to the house when hearing Mom’s call to supper. Every day for the next five, my younger brother and I followed Dad to the field, pulling vines from dawn to dusk. My brother worked quietly while my complaints about pulling the colorful flowers grew louder and more frequent with each passing day. Dad never said anything. I suppose he figured as long as I was getting the job done, I could grumble away.
On the last day, I walked lightly to the field, a spring in my step. There was a cool breeze, compliments of the night’s passing storm. It blew over the stalks causing them to sway and ripple in one mass of beautiful green. It was like watching waves rolling over the sea.
“It’s lovely.” I said aloud.
I thought of the coming autumn and the chore of picking all that corn, throwing it into the wagon and then riding the wagon back to the corncrib in the barn. It brought a smile to my face. It was a chore I loved and never tired of. There would be no complaints coming from my mouth during those workdays. Dad stared at me for a moment before heading for the far side of the field where there were only a few rows left to weed. There would be plenty of time today for reading and my mood brightened even more as I followed behind him.
Two days later I stood on the front porch and watched, as Dad dug holes along the garden fence that bordered our drive. He’d been gone all morning and just returned. I couldn’t imagine what he was doing. It was too late in the season for planting. Mom came out and stood beside me.
“What’s your dad doing out there?”
“Looks like he’s going to plant something.”
“Well, go tell him lunch is ready before he gets too far along and forgets to come in.”
I sauntered across the soft grass, enjoying the feel of it on my bare feet and stopping short of the gravel driveway. “Mom says to tell you lunch is ready.”
“Okay, I’ll just be a minute.”
Being a teen, I was loath to show interest in what he was doing, but my curiosity got the better of me. “What are you doing?”
“Planting morning glories along the fence for you.”
My mouth fell open. “Why?” I could barely get the one word out around the fist-sized lump that had formed in my throat.
He continued to work, not looking at me, as he answered. “You said you love them. I can’t have them choking the corn, but you can enjoy them growing here along the fence.”
Moisture gathered along my lashes and I rapidly wiped it away, hoping he hadn’t seen. My voice was thick with emotion, as I asked, “Will they live, being planted this late?”
“They’ll live, I’ll see to it.”
Dad wasn’t the type of man to show outward signs of affection, and I’d often doubted his love for me. But with every vine he put lovingly into the ground along that fence, I could feel my heart rejoicing and hear the words, I love you, loud and clear in my mind. I never really understood this man who was my father and at times the distance between us seemed much too wide to bridge, but I understood this gesture. Every morning for years afterward whenever I’d step onto the porch and see those lovely purple blossoms, the gulf between us shortened. Today when I see morning glories, my heart swells with the memory of this gift of love given by my father.
Copyright ©Elizabeth Melton Parsons
06.10.08
Katie Blue Eyes
Katie Blue Eyes
Gail…! I could here her calling for me before I’d made it halfway down the hall leading to the west wing. I made a right at the nurse’s station and headed for her room.
“She’s been calling like that all day. It’s given me a splitting headache. I’m sure glad my shift is over.” Janice continued to grumble, as I just smiled and continued to Katie’s room.
Janice was a nursing supervisor and I often wondered why she’d entered geriatrics. She was short on patience and had a decided lack of compassion for the elderly and disabled in her care. She did her job though, and did it well. She was dependable—someone you could count on in any situation. For that reason, I was sorry she’d had the day shift and I’d be working with another nurse during the evening. Katie’s voice rose to a crescendo and I hurried my steps.
She stretched her arms out to me when I approached. “There you are, Bubble Girl. Will you lay me down for a while? I’m so tired.”
She sat in her special chair, the high back leaning backwards a bit so she couldn’t topple forward. Pillows were stuffed down beside the arms to prevent leaning too far to the left or right. Katie did look tired and uncomfortable. Had she been sitting in that chair since breakfast? Taking her hands, I gave them a gentle squeeze, careful of the soft papery skin that could tear so easily.
“Of course I will, but why are you still up?” I was annoyed. All the residents who couldn’t fend for themselves were supposed to be put to bed for a couple hours rest before the evening shift arrived.
“I called and called, but no one came. I’m sorry I called your name, but I was so afraid that other one would come.”
My hands stilled on the coverlet I’d been turning down. This wasn’t the first time Katie had made reference to ‘the other one’, but when questioned, she’d clam up. Bending over her chair, I looked down into the biggest, bluest eyes I’d ever seen. Eyes so beautiful, they didn’t seem real, but the fear and confusion within their depths were real enough.
“What other one, Katie?”
“I don’t know. Are you going to lay me down, Bubble Girl? I shouldn’t call you that should I? It’s rude.”
“You know I don’t mind a bit, Katie.” I felt it best to get Katie to bed and let the questions go for now. Eventually I’d get to the bottom of who this other one was and what they’d done to generate such fear in the helpless ninety year old.
To be continued….Part 2: http://elizabethmeltonparsons.wordpress.com/2008/06/27/katie-blue-eyes-2/
©Elizabeth Melton Parsons
05.22.08
Be an “I” Instead of a “Me”
We are tacitly taught that we exist and just are. We have been taught that all people are true to their own genes, environment and nature. We are conditioned to be objects. We are taught to be “Me,” instead of “I.” When you think of yourself as “Me,” you are limited. The “Me” is always limited. When you believe how others (parents, teachers, peers, colleagues, and others) describe you, you become that. You might want to be an artist, but others might tell you that you have no talent, training, or temperament to be an artist. The “Me” will say, “Who do you think you are?” “You are just an ordinary person. There is nothing special about you.”
There is a Japanese masterpiece film IKIRU about the life on an old man that captures the essence of what it means to be a “Me.” Ikiru is a civil servant who has labored in the bureaucracy for thirty years. He determines his self worth by how others see him. He thinks of himself as an object and spends his life preventing things from happening. He is a widower who never remarried, as his relatives told him he was too old and unattractive to remarry. He is the father of an ungrateful son who despises him because he is not rich. He does not strive to better his career as he has been told by his supervisor that he lacks the education and intelligence to be anything more than a clerk. In his mind, he pictures himself as a worthless failure. He walks bent over with a shuffling walk with defeated eyes.
When he is told that he has terminable cancer, he looks back over the wasteland of his life, and decides to do something of note. For the first time in his life he became the “I,” the subject of his life. Against all obstacles, he decided to build a park for poor children in a dirty slum of Tokyo. He had no fear and felt no self-defeating limitations, he ignored his son when his son said he was the laughing stock of the neighborhood, he ignored his neighbors who pitied him and begged him to stop. His supervisor was embarrassed and pretended not to know him. Because he knew he was going to die, he no longer cared what other people thought. For the first time in his life he became free and alive. He worked and worked, seemingly without stopping. He was no longer afraid of anyone, or anything. He no longer had anything to lose, and so in this short time gained everything. Finally, he died, in the snow, swinging on a child’s swing in the park, which he made, singing.
Ikiru became the subject of his life. He became joyous instead of miserable; he inspired instead of being indifferent, and he laughed at himself and the world instead of feeling humiliated and defeated. Ikiru “seized the day.”
MICHAEL MICHALKO
Michael Michalko is one of the most highly-acclaimed creativity experts in the world and author of the best-seller Thinkertoys (A Handbook of Business Creativity), ThinkPak (A Brainstorming Card Deck), and Cracking Creativity (The Secrets of Creative Genius).
Michael has provided speeches, workshops, and seminars on fostering creative thinking for clients who range from Fortune 500 corporations, such as DuPont, Kellogg’s, General Electric, Kodak, Microsoft, Exxon, General Motors, Ford, USA, AT&T, Wal-Mart, Gillette, and Hallmark to associations and governmental agencies. In addition to his work in the U.S., Michael speaks and provides workshops in countries around the world.
As an officer in the U.S. Army, he organized a team of NATO intelligence specialists and international academics in Frankfurt, Germany to research, collect, and categorize all known inventive-thinking methods. His team applied these methods to various NATO military, political, and economic problems and produced a variety of breakthrough ideas and creative solutions to new and old problems. After leaving government service, he was contracted by the CIA to facilitate think tanks and using his creative-thinking techniques.
Some of Michael’s creative-thinking techniques that were refined by his government and corporate practice were published in his best-seller Thinkertoys (A Handbook of Business Creativity), which the Wall Street Journal reported “will change the way you think.” Women In Business lauded it as “one of the most important business titles of the decade,” Success magazine described it as a “fun-to-read book which helps you to create and act on ideas,” USA said “believe it or not, this wonderful book will have you challenging the seemingly impossible every day,” Executive Book Summaries praised it by saying, “What we need is a compendium of ways to solve problems. And that’s exactly what you get in Thinkertoys,”and Entrepreneur acclaimed it as “required reading for anyone in business.” The American Management Association called it “the most significant book on creativity published in the last twenty years,”
He is also the author of Thinkpak (A Brainstorming Card Set), which is a novel creative-thinking tool that is designed to facilitate brainstorming sessions. Michael’s latest book Cracking Creativity (The Secrets of Creative Geniuses) describes the common thinking strategies creative geniuses have used in the sciences, art, and industry throughout history and shows how we can apply them to become more creative in our business and personal lives.
Michael Michalko
Imagineer
165 Percy Road
Churchville, New York 14428
Email: mmichal1@rochester.rr.com
Thank you for being with us today, Michael.
Elizabeth Melton Parsons
05.14.08
Double Trouble: Cat Down The Chimney
I awoke with a start and squinted my droopy eyes at the lighted clock face. Five minutes till midnight, what had awakened me out of a sound sleep? Then it began again. There was a prowler in the house. And not a quiet prowler. It sounded as if they were snatching everything out of my kitchen cupboards and smashing them to the floor. What prowler in their right mind is going to make that kind of noise to alert everyone to his presence? Obviously a dangerous one who doesn’t care if he’s caught and plans to kill you anyway or a very stupid one.
My husband at the time (ex-husband now) gets his gun, unlocks the ammo box, loads the gun and goes after the guy. I sit on the bed waiting. It had grown quiet and I wonder if I should go help or just crawl back into bed and go back to sleep–figuring hubby could handle the situation without any assistance from me. Okay, so going back to sleep was a dumb idea. Before I can decide to offer assistance, he comes back, unloads the gun, locks up the ammo and puts the weapon away. “So what happened?” I asked.
“You can handle this guy,” he answered. Curiosity aroused, I made my way into the kitchen. Nothing was out of place. I continued to the living room. The glass fireplace doors looked as if a giant gorilla had grabbed them and ripped them apart. What in the world? Then I heard the hissing.
Trouble, a very large, healthy, male cat sat on the wide ledge of my bay window. Trouble, a feral cat that roamed at will through the neighborhood and was ‘not friendly’ even at the best of times. This was not one of those times. He sat there with his back arched and ears laid flat, hissing, snarling and clawing at the air in my direction. I love animals and have a way with them, but I still couldn’t understand why my ex believed me to be a lion tamer, because I definitely was not. And I most definitely didn’t want to take on Trouble, who was worse than any lion.
I sucked in a deep breath and inched my way over to the other end of the window, his evil, glowing eyes following my every move. If I could just get that side of the window open, he’d have enough sense to find his way out. I managed to unlock the window and bent to push it up. Trouble snarled, made a leap and landed on my back with claws sank deep into my sensitive flesh. Remember the scene in “The Money Pit” where Shelley Long runs about with the raccoon attached to her. That was me–squealing and running about the living room trying to dislodge this maniacal cat from my back.
Hubby comes running into the room and doubles over in a fit of laughter. Here I am being mauled by a ferocious feline and he’s laughing. I manage somehow to throw the creature off and he runs into the corner, preparing no doubt, for another attack. Now I always had a fondness for Trouble and like the rest of my neighbors kept him well fed, but at this point, I was angry and not in the mood to be nice. I marched to the window, pushed it open and circled around him. Trouble must have known he’d gone too far. He took one look at the scowl on my face, hissed once and made a dive for the open window.
The next morning, hubby climbed on the roof and put a screen over the chimney. Unfortunately this didn’t prevent my having another encounter with Trouble. A few days later, as I was hiking the wooded hills in back of our home, I found Trouble caught in a trapper’s steel trap. The trap had no teeth and I could see the cat wasn’t injured. I sighed, knowing I couldn’t go off and leave the poor thing trapped and unable to free itself. I was also smart enough to realize I was in for one hellacious fight. After thinking for a moment or two about the best way to go about freeing him, I whipped off my jacket, threw it over him and frantically tried to open the trap before he could work his way from under the coat.
I wasn’t fast enough. Those traps are not called traps for nothing. They hold firmly and are not easy to open. If Trouble had cooperated, this little operation could have been over with in a matter of seconds. Instead it took me a good five minutes to open the trap while Trouble squealed, snarled, hissed, bit and clawed at me. When he was finally free, he bounced away totally unscathed and without a second thought to his bloody, battle scarred rescuer. Ungrateful wretch. The next day I scoured every inch of those woods, gathering up the remaining traps, hoping that when the trapper discovered his traps had been stolen, he’d not put out anymore.
Elizabeth Melton Parsons
05.11.08
Mom – Lady With A Wild Side?
Dad was an avid gardener and roses were his specialty. Every spring he’d order new exotic specimens, put them in the ground and tend them like new-born babies. So it’s pretty clear where I got my love of gardening and my love of roses. Mom was a totally different creature when it came to gardening. She loved pink roses, but to my knowledge, never grew a single rose plant.
Mom’s old fashion perennials, sweet peas, wild flowers, weeds and grasses all grew together in wild abandon–like an over grown meadow in full bloom. This penchant for wild gardens showed me a side of Mom not easily discernable. A long buried yearning to be as free as the wild things she grew–a longing to throw off the restrictions of society and just be herself.
I was a pretty wild tomboy growing up and often wondered how Mom managed to put up with me. A lady who never left the house without changing her dress and putting on lipstick–who tried desperately to teach me to be a lady. A woman who never smoked, drank or uttered a curse word and yet, the two of us were close–having a special bond. Although she tried valiantly to teach me proper behavior, I believe she took great pleasure in the fact that I was more like her free flowing wild garden than Dad’s well tended specimens.
When you pull into my drive and step up to the side door leading into my kitchen, there’s a Bleeding Heart bush growing along the foundation, just as there always was at Mom’s. In that same bed you will find hostas, wild daisies I dug up from along a country lane, strawberries, and numerous other plants, both wild and cultivated varieties–all growing in a disorganized, yet somehow, beautiful mess. If Mom were still here, she’d look at that flower garden and say, “That’s my girl.”
Happy Mother’s day to all the mother’s out there and may your gardens and your lives bloom with beautiful abundance.
Elizabeth Melton Parsons
05.07.08
Black Birds In The House
As I sat here this morning reading my emails, I heard the unmistakable racket of a bird falling down the chimney and trying frantically to find a way out. Since I have a fireplace insert, there was no way he was going to make his way to freedom without assistance.
When my son got up for school, I closed the door leading into the hallway, hoping to confine the bird to the living-dining room-kitchen areas of the house. After opening the front door, I had Eric stand between the door and the other room and try to get the bird to go out the front door. Well, you know what they say about the best of plans…” I opened the insert and nothing came out. I told my son the bird must have flown back up the chimney. I’d no sooner gotten the words out when a half grown Starling flew into the room, but he had no interest in seeking freedom via the open door–preferring instead to practice his new aviator skills in my living and dining rooms. Considering he hadn’t grown his long tail feathers yet, he could fly just fine.
Finally deciding to just catch the thing and put him out, we spent the next twenty minutes or so trying to catch him. He had no trouble evading us and even seemed to be enjoying the game. I was on my way to get a pillow case to throw over him when Eric announced another one had come from the fireplace. Now we had two of the little guys flying around. Wanting to kick myself for being an idiot, I rushed over and closed the draft and the insert door before the house turned into an aviary.
The birds continued to ignore the open door, perhaps because it’s an arched opening inset into a small entryway and this confused them. They finally made their way into the kitchen and I opened the door in there. After some encouragement and much laughter from my son and I, one of them flew away to freedom. The other one seemed determined to stay with us forever. He made several tries at reentering the dining room, but I prevented these attempts by standing on a stepladder and flopping a dishcloth at him while my son giggled in the background. Okay, I know I looked foolish, but these antics eventually worked and I managed to shoo him out the open door. Now… if I can just remember to keep the draft in the fireplace closed when not in use and find a way to prevent black birds from building their homes on top of my chimney.
This early morning excitement was nothing compared to the middle of the night adventure I had when a large feral cat fell down the chimney.
Elizabeth Melton Parsons
