The Pipes are Calling - by Barbara Warman 2005

The Pipes are Calling

Fog approaches, tickles the air, grips branches, tarmac, pulls itself out of the black above until it reaches those who live with cracked childhoods, broken souls who welcome lost horizons.

One of these souls touched my life, fleetingly.  His fog of choice was alcohol.  He turned to the streets at fourteen, wandered to my city.

I met twenty-two year old Danny in a writing group.  He wrote in anger, singed the ears of all who listened.  He spoke of the damage of a child who filled his mother’s vodka bottles with water, hid them.  He talked about the life of a panhandler and how it destroyed the small amount of soul he treasured.

I approached him in class and said, "I know more about Islam than I know about street kids.  Do you want to go for coffee and talk so I can learn about your life?"

For a year, we met weekly.  Danny always had a job – he drove the outreach van for a local society and, when they lost the grant money, he carried on for nothing. He spoke to young streetkids about options – education, housing. He told them the stories he also shared with me about the Christmases drinking himself blind and sobbing, outside, alone, while sleet fell around him.

When the outreach job ended, he cooked at a coffee shop close to downtown on the weekends. He knew the owners because the business was very generous to the streetkids, gave them coffee and meals whenever they could. They gave Danny the chance and he never let them down. I would meet him there as he closed up at the end of the day. Sometimes other friends with names like Lazar or Dogpatch arrived and, as we waited, I bought them coffee. The conversations bounced off the borders of any life I knew.

I still didn’t understand why and how he was there, but I saw the suction of that life.  I met some of his friends and felt their vacuum, their brokenness, and their fractures.

There were times when Danny stood proud, faced down the fog, believed he could find the horizon, step over it and magically become whole.

"I haven’t had a drink in four days," Danny said, but I knew the haze was around the corner with his friends ready to pull him back and he always went.

Danny shared dreams of a different life but he was unable to draw a picture of that dream.  It was foreign, beyond reach.  The anger that stretched beneath his words and smiles remained unfixable, entrenched.

I invited Danny to have dinner at home with my husband and me. 

"Yeah?" he said, "Really?"

"Really."

Then he vanished.  I couldn’t find him. 

I accepted that Danny had moved on from our friendship. After all, what could I offer. Then the phone rang.

"Are you the Barbara that Danny spoke about, the girl he met in writing class?’

"Yes, I’m that Barbara."

"I’m Danny’s father.  I’ve been looking for you."

Danny had phoned his father a week before.  "My friend Barbara has invited me to have dinner in her home," he said, "He was thrilled."

"I want to thank you, but now I need to tell you something else," Danny’s father said, "Danny hung himself a week ago – I wanted you to know.  I found your card in his wallet."

The fog filtered into an abandoned building where Danny drank.  It wended its way through across the concrete floor to a staircase where it formed a sheet, wrapped its tendrils around the railing and around Danny’s neck.  It crept into the cracks in his broken soul, swelled and finally broke him.

Now the fog is here, it touches my face and stings my eyes.

 

Mom and the fire warden cortes island circa 1950

Oh Heavens, I just had a most humiliating experience.  The new agitator for the washer came and the washer was going bang bang and I never hear cars come or people knock.  There is always a lot of mess the day after mail day and I was cleaning it all up and piling paper and envelopes on a big piece of corrugated, then I rolled the corrugated up with the papers inside it and went to burn it outside although it is fire season.  It was a bit windy outside so I took a match and lit it inside then carried the mildly burning stuff out to plunk it in the yard to burn and I ran into the fire warden at the door.  I let out a bona fide girlish scream and blew my flaming pyre out.  He laughed.  I couldn’t very well stand and talk and let it blaze up, nor could I bravely stick it in a corner and let the house burn down, nor could I nonchalantly keep on going out in the yard and burn it.  He was looking for Elton and Jimmy to see if they have the right fire equipment and I daresay he will order them to get a set of picks and shovels and extinguishers for our yard. 

Thank the heavens he wasn’t here yesterday. Elton burned a lot of garbage but seeing as it’s fire season I can’t even put this in my column.  After we burn garbage, we put tin cans and anything else that hasn’t fully burned into a sack so we can dump them later.  I went outside and saw smoke billowing from the sack of tin cans we hang on the side of the feedshed.  I tried to lift it off and it burst into flames.  I screeched for Elton and he came out and helped me tow it away from the shed.  He had put the remains of a shoe he had burned into the sack and it was just hot enough to start the fire.  Imagine if we had gone out – everything is so dry.  I didn’t tell that to the fire warden.

This being a day of high drama I’d best go and look for the kids.

Mom's column for Campbell River Courier circa 1950

Manson’s Landing Mirror

I open this column with a scream of protest, high-pitched, shrill, and outraged, like a cougar at bay or perhaps a squirrel protecting its winter store of nuts.  For I have been falsely accused.  I did not deliberately get lost in the woods to avoid attending the stone throwing work bee and the woods are not lovely at this time of year.  Unless you gaze at them from the roadside, the woods are horrible. 

  The Ladies’ Guild had a work bee to throw all the stones out of the churchyard so Ken Hansen can spread some topsoil around on it and make it all verdant, we hope.  I was there at 1pm, starting time, which is more than can be said for some of those others let me tell you.  I threw stones so fast and hard that several hit Dolly Hansen’s car parked out on the roadway.  Dolly, being unable to hit mine, was tossing pretty close to me after a time.  We were about to start truce talks when Jack Summers came up from the store with a message for Brother Elton, who was working in the woods.  I zoomed off in the truck, parked by Elton’s truck, plunged into the well nigh impenetrable bush, found a cat road, cannily followed it towards the sound of a power saw and found Jimmy.  He told me Elton was down at the beach with the Cat, I trudged the extra mile and delivered the message.  Then back to the bee, thinks me.  Followed the cat road back to the power saw, another cat road, a branch, a trail, another cat road, tried a plunge into the bush, back to the power saw, asked directions, tried again, plunged so far I could no longer hear the power saw.  That was it; I was lost, tired and hungry. Finally I sat down, I thought if they want me to get out of these *** woods they have to come and get me.  Then I tried one more plunge into the bush and fell out of a salal bush onto the road, a few yards above my Chevvie.           

  And what burned me up was Elton had come out and driven off in his truck.  He must have known I was lost, did know in fact because he admitted it.  He thought it was funny; he wouldn’t have thought so come supper time I’ll warrant.

  Then I went back to the bee, unfortunately just as it was finished and everyone was walking across and down the road to where the workers had been invited to tea.  The jibes I took.  Oh those catty remarks, I could barely swallow my third sandwich.  Now you know the truth.  I will take the apologies in person, fellow Guild members, or you can mail them to me.

Perils of seaplane travel from Cortes circa 1950

I took the kids to the doctor in Campbell River last week and what a frightening trip we I had.  The plane, just after leaving the water, was caught by a down draft and landed back on the water, hard.  The pilot had to scramble out onto the pontoon to make sure the plane didn’t tip, Barbie was screaming and I did a very sensible thing – I kicked off my boots in case we also had to get out.  The pilot did keep the plane level but we had to take off again, which scared Barbie anew.  Little Nancy was completely contained, but white.  I had to go to the doctor in Campbell River, too and he poked my finger several times but was unable to get any blood.  I told him about what had happened on the plane and he said that fear could do that – makes all the blood leave your fingers and toes.  Isn’t it funny it didn’t bother weevly little Nancy.  Barbie screamed last night and when I went in there she was looking all around the room terrifiedly and kept yelling, “Let me out of here, the water is coming in.”  We had to take her to our bed before she would settle down at all.

Now the kids are playing boat with the two armchairs pushed together and I can hear their conversation.  Barbie apparently pointed out a plane to Nancy in a magazine and said it was no good because planes tipped over and Nancy said they didn’t and told her just one plane did it because it didn’t have a strong wing and it flew again and it didn’t tip over.  Barbie said hopefully that she didn’t cry and Nancy said crushingly that she howled all the way over and then Nancy told Barbie how she looked out of the window of the plane and saw little houses on the sandy beach.  They both talked enthusiastically about planes then.  Maybe Nancy will get Barbie swung over yet.

Nancy, the writer, as a child from Mom's letters circa 1948

"Then Nancy walked into the kitchen shooing something in front of her.  “What’s that?” I said.  “Dat’s Atun, dat’s Addle, dat’s a lamb, dat’s a mice,” says she meaning Elton, Daddy, a lamb and a mouse." 

"Nancy has happily chanted out, “Humpy Dumpy sat on a wall,” and followed it with “Now what will we say, mum?” to which I testily replied I would say nothing which should have rocked her back on her heels somewhat but hasn't.  She is swinging into Georgie Porgie, figures if she gets enough said I'll be so deep in her debt, I'll just have to come back with Ride a Cock Horse or something. She adores Taffy was a Welshman. You should hear her say, “Hicky Dicky Dock, the mouse wan up the clock.” and “Bye Baby bunting, Daddy's hunting, He's gone to get a wabbit skin to put him's baby bunting in.” I hope to find a Mother Goose book; it will be such a shock to her when she learns to read and finds out the real words to some of them.  How I long to sit down and read something adult."

This same Nancy grew up to write "The Pathfinder: AC Anderson's Journeys in the West". Her blog is wwww.furtradefamilyhistory.blogspot.com

 

Badminton 1950 Cortes Island from Mom's letters

On Saturday, 13 members and 5 guests gathered at the Hall for a Badminton meeting.  Nominations were called for a new president, there was a murmur of voices, a flash of hands and Jimmy was elected President.  While I gave him a compressed-lip look of pity for getting himself into such a spot, there was another murmur, another flash and I was elected Secretary.  A most unhealthy situation I told the meeting.  With two members of the same family in office it was very seldom we could both be there at the same time and only natural if we were tempted to filch some baby-sitting fees out of the deal, but it was no use.  None so deaf as they who will not hear and most of them were off quarreling for their turn at badminton.  And speaking of quarrelling, I’ll warrant a wounded bull moose has nothing on the fury of a bunch of badminton players who met to play several days later but found there were no birdies because their executive forgot to order them.  Not to mention after three vigorous hours of play they find there are no eats because their Executive forgot to pick a hostess for the evening.  Oh, the Badminton Club is going to live dangerously this coming season, believe me.

Solid Gold Pets by Mom in her book "Lurking Back"

            I stride proudly down East Sooke Road, accompanied by my greatest shame. One of the lusty, tanned East Sooke residents jogs past me.

"Your dog has body rot," she says.

 “Yes,” I say, “I’m sure that’s what it looks like, but before you make hasty judgements, let me tell you the story of Jeannie.” 

Jeannie is one of the four-legged creatures we allow into our home, feed and pet, love, honor and cherish in sickness and in health, and in time, she should be made of solid gold. The irony of it is that quite often this solid gold pet, this walking monument of dollars, is a mediocre mongrel of a dog or cat that belongs in an alley. Ordinary as all get out, no way worth the money.

This is what I said to Barbie when she wished Jeannie on us. "She's such an ordinary little dog. I'm not sure I want her.”  Jeannie had been on her way to being shot because she'd evolved from a cute puppy into an adolescent dog in heat.  Barbie, a known sucker for pets, rescued her. She had her spayed and she brought her from Vancouver to us. 

We wanted a dog because we were moving out to the countryside in East Sooke but I wanted a cuter dog, possibly a dog with more class.  We said we'd keep her for a few days but I started composing ads, “HOME WANTED FOR FEMALE BLACK DOG, FRIENDLY.” etc.  

While we worked on our East Sooke home Jeannie quickly set about establishing roots. She spent her entire time on top of a pile of excavated earth, growl­ing, tugging and pulling out roots. We thought this was cute and we laughed. It seemed a shame to waste all that labour and we never did send in the ad.

While I packed our Victoria home, Jeannie unpacked.  One night she ate a whole jar of peanut butter. How she survived, I don't know; the peanut butter was all right but the jar was glass and it was sharp.

She survived my rage on moving day when tired and hungry, I went to the packing case on the floor to get the casserole I'd made for supper and found she'd knocked off the cover and eaten the whole thing.

But Jeannie is a kindly soul, large and black and a bit silly.  She tolerates most things, allows the cats to bully her, and gets along with the otters and raccoons.  But, by Jeannie, there is one thing that should have gone the way of the passenger pigeon, that scourge of the woods, that foul fiend, that mocking, sneering chittering beast, the squirrel.

Jeannie has worn a path all around the trees in our yard and into the woods.  She races along this path all day, whining and yapping with rage while the squirrels float overhead.  They’re mean to her. If by chance she forgets about them for a moment or dares to fall into an exhausted sleep, they come right down the trees and chirp at her and yoicks, tallyho, Jeannie’s away again.

She’s not always cute, however.  She grows an extra row of eyelashes, which irritate the eyes.  This has cost us a pretty penny, having them pluc­ked at first and then two opera­tions.  The last one made me a laughing stock.  Dr. Grigor sewed two white buttons above the eyes to hold the stitches and she looked funny.  At the same time she got an allergy and scratched all the hair off her back. This resulted in the appearance of ‘body rot’.

Yesterday she got her foot stuck between two roots, broke her leg, and now she has a cast.  She lies on the rug, her foot is swollen, she's uncomfortable and I wish I could help her. I'll phone Dr. Grigor in the morning and take her over to have the cast loosened.

Jeannie's body is solid gold, her eyes are rubies and her ears are set with diamonds.  She's cost us a lot of money but she's worth every penny - our blasted, precious dog.

Making butter/bathing kids - Mom's letter circa 1950 - Cortes Island

We’ve had a sick cow lately, she’s better now but she disowned her calf so now we have to feed it, which takes up so much extra time.  This farming’s a mug’s game and I’d be glad if Jimmy gave it up.  He hasn’t the energy or the patience to look after things properly and the logging and a bit of gardening seems enough to me. 

Today I made a ghastly error.  I drained the skim milk into a pan to put aside to feed the calf later and then mixed the liquid for the bread in another pan with the salt etc, I tossed the yeast mixture into the skim milk, thinking it was the liquid for the bread, and happily made my bread.  When I started to take the skim milk out to the calf, I discovered my mistake.  I worked the sugar and salt and a bit of water into the bread dough but it doesn’t taste awfully good and is a bit heavy so I will put it aside for the livestock and bake again.

 

While I mixed that first batch of bread I banged my head so hard on the darn cupboard door that will never stay closed.  Nancy consoled me by saying “Tomorrow it might get better” which I thought rather cold comfort as I reeled and staggered in agony.

         Our ornery cow, Zero, is calving in the next week or so. Jimmy never did get her milking last time, as she is hellish stubborn but hope he does this time. It burns me up not getting the milk as I could take on a whole bunch more butter customers. I make good butter and whenever I need a new customer, I donate some to them as a thank you for some favour they do for me. Next thing I know they want to buy my butter every week. 

          That’s what I did to get Molly to buy from me. She just arrived to pick some up and went to see the kids as they were having their bath. Barbie looked up at Molly happily and decided to make correct small talk. “I have a hole in my fanny,” says she. Molly laughed merrily. Nancy’s belly button was smeared all around with lipstick. What attractive kiddies to be sure.

 

Badminton - Cortes Island circa 1950 - from Mom's letter

 

And our poor helpless little Badminton Club, as nice a group of clear-eyed, high living citizens as you’d wish to find anywhere, has been getting into double-dutch all over the place, and all because we laughingly remarked about something a few times in the Lunch Counter. We didn’t even complain, all we did was laughingly remark.  It went like this.  Jack Summers painted the ceiling of the Hall white, as had been decided, made a wonderful job of it too.  When the Badminton Club next played, we found we couldn’t see the birdie anymore, and some of us being so inept at the best of times, found this quite a disadvantage.  We tried to dye the birdies but it didn’t work, the dye just slithered right off.  We still didn’t complain, we just remarked about it a few times with this light laugh, the upper lip stiff and a few unshed tears dripping around the back of the eyeballs.  Next thing we know the Hall Committee has ordered green paint, which Jack sprayed on over top of the white, whilst making a great many remarks, most unlaughingly.

  Jack, aided by Jimmy also got the walls done on Sunday.  The Hall looks very nice and much brighter with its green ceiling and sand walls, which latter exotic sounding color is a very pale yellow. 

  Once the badminton game was over a little spat broke out. I believe there are two sides to every question and here they are.  First we’ll hear from Jack Summers:

 Jack:  Well, I was sitting there in the Hall after the Badminton Game and Molly Milton came over and whispered that she thought that Peg Pyner had some of the Hall’s spoons in her purse and shouldn’t something be done about it.  So I waltzed over and very nicely asked Peg Pyner would she mind opening her purse and letting us have a look.  Well, she made a scene and instantly accused us of framing her and took the spoons out and even threw one at me while I was walking over to tell President Don Levey about it.  Quite a few gathered around and some said they were surprised and some said they weren’t and everyone kept asking her was she going to print it, which seemed to get on her nerves somewhat.

And now me: 

Peg: Well, just to be a good sport I went and played a game of badminton and left my purse with Molly Milton, fool that I was.  The minute I saw Molly go over and whisper to Jack I knew something was cooking and sure enough he asked me to open my purse, bellowing his head off the whilst.  I fished around for these measly spoons they had planted there and if one flipped out of my hand and hit him on the back it’s just too bad.  He shouldn’t have kept shouting so, it got on my nerves, though not as much as those dimwits that kept asking, “Are you going to print this, Peg,” as if I’d miss!

Breeding Ezzie - Mom's letter circa 1950

Excerpt from Mom's letter Cortes Island circa 1950

Jimmy took our cow, Ezzie, down to the Hanson’s last week to get her bred to a bull they have. She was very sophisticated about it.  She was artificially inseminated formerly so when he took her into the pen with the bull, she was in a terrific dither.  Each time the bull tried to mount her she would pull away and mount him so he couldn’t get the job done.  The bull, however, has a crush on Ezzie and showed up here this morning.  Stuck around until noon when Jimmy roped him and took him home. He took Ezzie back the next day and she cooperated in a very earthy and unsophisticated way.

After he brought her home, she was back to her usual self.  Jimmy came walking along to the yard gate with Ezzie fast on his heels hoping to get something to eat, he went through the gate and Ezzie stood close to it licking her chops.  Nancy came along behind her and wanted her to move so gave her a shove from behind.  Ezzie banged into the gate and looked quite annoyed. Later, Jimmy and Nancy went out to feed Ezzie, she walked deliberately to Nancy and bunted her gently on the front, hard enough that Nancy sat down.  A very unusual happening, in fact she never did it before.  Nancy walked up to her today when we were all out in the field and blew in her face but Ezzie was lying down and ignored it. 

CAGES - My Life with Multiple Sclerosis

CAGES 

 My mother always laughed at a photo of my nervous uncle babysitting me on a west coast rock and shell littered beach while the family hiked. My childless and overly cautious Uncle Harry watched his rough-and-tumble niece fall, get up and fall again. He chased me and returned me to his log but I wouldn’t be still. Needless to say I stretched his comfort level on tenterhooks.

In desperation he fell back on the tried and true method of containing wild beasts of all species – the cage. It was easy to build and did not interrupt his beer drinking. That was important. He puts chunks of driftwood logs in a square with me in the middle. When I mastered climbing those he put another log on top and then another until eventually all four driftwood walls soared above the top of my curls. I drank from my bottle, Harry drank from his bottle, I was caged and all was at peace. That was my first lesson about cages.

And suddenly I was going to be forty in nine days. The neurologist examined me, talked for a long time but all I heard was, “Barbara, you have multiple sclerosis.” I was gentle with him and told him it was alright, that I knew something was wrong and that it was fine. After twenty years of symptoms, a bevy of doctors suggesting everything from stress to small strokes, I could now allow the illness to take me where it chose. It felt good to have the weight of guilt and failure removed.

“I’m just so relieved I’m not neurotic,” I said. “I don’t need to feel like such a loser anymore.”

The elevator closed behind me and in that stainless steel and artificial wood paneled cage I began to cry. I didn’t stop crying for months. There were days full of sobbing with ugly gagging noises on every intake of breath.

The energizer bunny ran out of batteries. My sales job ended. I could not work in my own business. Friends vanished. I wasn’t fun anymore. I moved from a battery operated scooter to a walker to a cane as the exacerbation passed.

My rage did not heal at the same rate. How dare my body do this to me! Counsellors assured me that anger was a healthy part of grieving and I would finally reach the pinnacle – acceptance. Like hell I will! My pinnacle has been an agreement with my demon MS – an agreement which is a bit reluctant on both our parts. MS won’t cage me and I won’t abuse him.

Yes, “him” because in my case MS is a male. My symptoms increase at night, between the sheets. The traveling numbness occasionally reaches its tentacles up my leg and into my crotch. Yes, it’s a man. He caresses me, not always gently. My thoughts stop, consider what he’s doing and move on. When he pinches he wakes me from my sleep and I lie as still as I can hoping he’ll get discouraged.

He is not easily put off and sometimes I am forced to get up, pace and amuse myself in front of the computer. I try to explain to him that sleep is my strongest weapon against him. He challenges me in that chest bunting way that again assures me that he is a man. I know I can wait him out so I smile one of those patient womanly smiles that drive men nuts.

The pain that MS causes at random times in random places in my body has been unexpected. It takes my breath away and I am discouraged and depressed when I wonder why this particular symptom has happened to me. But what would I want to trade the pain for? Loss of eyesight?  A tremor? A wheelchair? Loss of the ability to speak? Thanks but I’ll take the pain.

I struggled to find out who I was, what I was, what my worth was. My value was less than it had been the day before the diagnosis. A friend suggested that I write my own obituary. Did I want to be remembered as a person who could sell a fine business form, could slice a ton of salami or would I want something else said at my funeral. Writing my obituary forced me to look at, really look at life and ask myself some questions. Am I my job? Am I money? How do I want people to remember me – smiling or crying? Am I a good friend? Do I love? Am I true?

I learned that I did not find out who my friends were when I got sick. I found out who I was. When my walking slowed down I had time to look at butterflies, buds and stars. It is a journey to learn how to look past obstacles, look around them and see the horizon. That has given a depth to my life that I didn’t have before. The freedom MS has given me is a blessing. It has given me the ability to understand aging, disability and death at an earlier age than I would normally have.

The photo of the child in a driftwood cage is a picture of a child waiting to grow up, to learn and become me. This new me walks with a cane - not well but well enough to allow me to enjoy friends and much laughter. I was a family caregiver for my parents, aunts and uncles and my spouse. I am involved with a family caregiving society and was named Distinguished Honoree at National Philanthropy Day. My involvement with a wonderful group of women who care for family members with dementia continues although Mom has been dead for four years. I also love that I am forced to rest, to breathe, to think and to grow.

MS, I think we need to talk. Today you will be quiet, you will stay out of my way, you will not cage me but we both know you are not gone forever. You’ll be back caressing me tonight for I get lonely in the dark. Just try not to pinch.

 

Mom's letter from Cortes Island circa 1950

The other day I went out to feed the sheep and the ram tried to bunt me.  He was such a timid little thing when he got here and has never acted tough at all, cares nothing if you pick up the lambs but I tried to chase him away from a new mother’s feeding place and he got mad at me.  So now, there is a little fillip of danger.  He stands and glowers at me and I make faces and growl a bit.

Jimmy hurt his eye on Wednesday and is in Campbell River Hospital but is coming home today, I think.  A chunk of wedge flew off and struck his eye when he was bucking logs.  It was very painful, of course, but he decided he wouldn’t need to go to the hospital that night and he went Thursday morning.  He spent a miserable night, and it was much more swollen in the morning, all down the side of his face.  Men!  When they have a little headache or nausea they would gladly let you start a public subscription to get the world’s most famous specialist all the way from Rochester or Vienna to look at them.  But crack a skull open or knock out an eye and their only desire is to hole up like a wounded animal and let Ma Nature heal the torn and bleeding tissue.

The Great Shopping Cart Caper

The Great Shopping Cart Caper

           Doctors generally ignore me.  I’m the person who drives Aunt Joan and accompanies her into the office, explains what medications she is taking and describes her symptoms.  They listen to Joan as she tells them what they want to hear, check that her heart is still beating and send us away.  Ask about my stress?  No.  Ask if I’m coping?  No.  It’s okay – I’ve learned to laugh.
          
          Most of us who are family caregivers would call this a thankless job.  My mother, who is blind, believes that in my heart of hearts, I really want to go grocery shopping with her, not with my husband and certainly not by myself.  The idea!

But within this thankless job there are moments of pure pleasure, if you allow yourself to see them.  Taking confused Aunty Joan to Safeway is always an exhausting but oddly stimulating afternoon.  She loses her cart and takes someone else’s.  I find her wandering the soup aisle, her favourite place, and notice a large salmon and three turnips in her cart. 

“Joan, is this your salmon?” I ask.

“What salmon?”

“This 14 pound salmon right next to the turnips.”

“Someone stole my buggy,” she cries out, and the search begins for a puzzled shopper wondering what happened to her fish and why it was replaced with three hand picked sticks of celery.  We transfer the cans of soup from one buggy to another and carry on until I next take my eyes off Joan and she resorts again to the “Great Shopping Cart Caper.”

Mother is always with us, too, and it is my greatest wish that I could have a leash for both of them.  Mom is wandering along peering closely at the Kotex boxes wondering if they are cereal, Joan is in the soup aisle and I’m looking for both of them.

The upside?  When Joan moves out of her house we’ll have enough soup to keep the food bank going for a week and enough Kotex to insulate our walls.

We then go to lunch where Joan says in her loud voice, “There are a lot of fat people in here today, aren’t there, Barb.  Would you like to taste my soup?  And what will I do with that salmon?”