Save the Last Dance

The story below placed third in this year's Brucedale Press "acrostic" contest. 26 sentences long, each sentence begins with the next letter of the alphabet. This story was inspired by and dedicated to friends Kinelm and Holly Brookes of Portage, who celebrate 25 years of marriage this year.

     Applying Grandma's advice, I resolved to find myself a man who didn't dance. Because she herself had  married a guy who could really cut a rug, my grandmother spent much of her 85 years waiting while other ladies cut in, one after another, for their chance to promenade with the only male on the dance floor. Charlie Hooper was a regular Fred Astaire and it was this trait that had made my grandmother, and so many other girls, fall in love with him. Dashing and debonaire, he made Grandma the envy of Xenia County when he proposed to her that hot August night. Even at their wedding, the lovely bride danced only once with her graceful groom.

     For me, though, things were going to be different. Goodness knows I loved to dance, but I would not be taken in by fancy footwork and smart stepping. However lonely I might be, I would not be swayed by such shallow and superficial shenanigans. It mattered not that I went alone, danced alone, and returned home alone afterward.

   Just as I was finally beginning to believe that my partner-free dancing was more fun anyway, I met Kelvin. Kelvin Kellogg was the best dancer I had ever seen. Light on his feet and always in step, he moved as smoothly as a cat. My heart skipped a beat when I first laid eyes on him, tripping the light fantastic on the dance floor of the Xenia Community Hall. Not wanting to weaken my resolve, however, I did not join the lineup of young ladies waiting their turn to dance with this young Patrick Swazye. Older women even swallowed their pride and practically begged Kelvin to twirl them around the floor just one time.

     Perhaps it was this reluctance on my part that caught Kelvin's eye. Quietly, I made my way to the cloak room after the last dance was over and as I turned around to go, who was standing right in my path but Kelvin Kellogg.

     “Ready to leave?”

     “Silly question,” I muttered, not looking him in the eye.

     “The band will play one more if the prettiest lady in the room will dance with me,” Kelvin coaxed, holding out his hand.

     Under any other circumstances I'd have zipped right past him and gone on home, but such a charming invitation was more than I could resist. Visions of red roses and a long white gown were already dancing in my head as Kelvin took me in his arms and waltzed me around the room to Elvis Presley's I Can't Help Falling in Love with You. With our eyes locked tightly on each other, it seems we did fall in love that night and the rest is, as they say, history. Xenia residents came out in droves to celebrate with us and to dance with the groom at our wedding reception.

     You 'd think I would regret repeating my grandmother's mistake, but I've learned two things Grandma never did. Zeal for dance is much too precious to keep to oneself; and after the band plays its final song, I will always be the one who gets to take my dancing man home.

Three Things...

     I picked up a book called The Do-It-Yourselfer's Guide to Self-Syndication. The author has successfully syndicated her newspaper column, meaning she sells it to many different newspapers and gets a whole lot more buck for her bang, without having to share her profits with a big syndicate. Interesting concept.

     In theory.

     I knew I was in trouble right off the bat when her first point was "if you are reading this book, it's safe to assume you already write a regular column and that it is about something."

About something? Hm. Yes. It's about...um...well... it's a slice of life thing...humour...faith... occasionally a little fiction or poetry... sometimes a 12-step "how to" deal. Lately I've even regaled readers with my swash buckling adventures with our health care system. I'm certain it will one day be about something, once I've finally found my niche.

     Right?

     I decided the easiest way to figure this out would be by process of elimination. What are some things my column is definitely NOT about? I easily thought of three.

1. Cars.

I own one, and I know how to drive it. I know the make and color of it. I also know how to clean it, although you'd never guess. Most of my friends also have cars. Liz drives something orange, Vicki drives a little red thing, and Brandy's is the color of crème brûlée. Beyond that, I don't know who drives what, how fast it goes, what kind of gas mileage it gets, what it cost, or what's under the hood. Furthermore, I don't care. If it gets me from point A to point B, it's a good car. This would not make the auto pages.

2. Sports.

Friends have heard me say sports in general could cease to exist tomorrow and I wouldn't notice. I admit I do enjoy watching the artsier sports like gymnastics, figure skating, and ballroom dance. But that's where I draw the line. In high school, I broke our basketball coach's heart. Because I'm tall, he needled me relentlessly until I agreed to come out for the team. I went to practices for a week, then quit. Sorry, but barreling back and forth waving my arms like a lunatic, chasing a ball around with hopes of throwing it through a hoop, only to start all over again, is not my idea of a worthwhile time. Hockey, football, baseball, soccer, golf, curling? Don't understand 'em, don't really want to. This might make me a bad person, but it does not make me a bad columnist.

3. Gardening.

Back in the day when we still fed our kids, hubby and I planted a monstrous vegetable garden. I did the whole canning, freezing, and pickling thing. While there was a certain amount of satisfaction in putting up our own produce, I can't honestly say I enjoyed it. My green-thumbed friend Barb talks about her need for "garden therapy." I, too, find Barb's garden therapeutic. But working in it? Please. I've threatened to just plant plastic flowers around the yard, and I will just as soon as I'm ready to be written off as a crazy old lady. Besides, who could ever compete with Mr. Ted, garden columnist extraordinaire?

     Well there, that eliminates three things this column will never be about. Maybe I'll hold off on the syndication thing until I narrow it down some more. Meanwhile, if I'm cagey enough to keep you reading this far, writing about what I'll never write about, I can't be entirely out of my mind now, can I?

Here's Proof

Here's proof that my family was all together in the same place at the same time, however briefly. Spent Monday up at Clear Lake enjoying fabulous weather, the marsh walk, a picnic, and a cruise on The Martise. Mindy was brave enough to ask a random stranger to snap this for us.

L to R: Jill (Reuben's girlfriend), Reuben (our youngest), Jon, Keegan, Kevin (Mindy's husband), Allistar, Nate (our eldest), Me, Dara (Nate's wife), Mindy (our second). Keegan and Allistar belong to Nate & Dara. Their little brother is coming in October.

On the off chance...

On the off chance there is still a single person somewhere on the planet who is not bored to tears with tales of Terrie's lungs....here's a little update. I'll try to keep it short, if not sweet.
     Good news: bronchial washing tests are all coming back negative - no cancer cells, no bacterial infection. One culture is still marinating. Or incubating, or whatever it is they do.
     Bad news: we still don't know what it is.
     Good news: my regular doc said it's a shot in the dark, but he put me on some powerful antibiotics to see what happens. At least it's a try.
     Bad news: Pretty sure this powerful antibiotic is already taking on the good bacteria in my body, meaning ten days of intestinal fun while the kids are here visiting.
     Meanwhile, the specialist ordered another CT scan to see if there's been any change since the one three months ago. That was done today.
     It would be awesome if the meds work, although I won't hold my breath. Pardon the pun.

Pianos and Prayers and Perfect Plans

I have been praying for a piano. The reason I have not had one in my house for the last ten years is a rather ugly story I don't like to tell because I am definitely not the heroine of it. Lately, though, I've really been missing a piano in the house. We have lots of space for one now, and I remember times when some of my best praying was done at a keyboard with an old hymnbook in front of me.

     So I began to pray for one. I had as a figure in my head maybe $200 that I could spend, but didn't know where I'd ever find a piano for that.

     A month or so ago, my daughter-in-law found one on Kijiji, for free, and sent me the link. When I investigated, I discovered it was about two blocks from my house! I figured this must be God's answer to my prayer. It was pretty, too.

     I went over to have a look. The sound was anything but pretty. It was downright gruesome. Not that I'm exactly Billy Joel, mind you. But still. At least Steinway never came down and wiped his name off the piano whenever I started to play. (That's an old Bob Hope joke.)

     I don't know enough about pianos to know if it was reparable, and it was a heavy brute. I'd hate to go to all the trouble of lining up muscles to wrestle the thing home and then spend a fortune on something that may never sound right. I made a half-hearted attempt to call the piano tuner, but didn't really have peace about pursuing it further.

     Meanwhile, my pianist friend Julianne recommended an electric one with weighted keys. They play like an acoustic, but are much lighter, smaller, and don't go out of tune. Sounded great, but that put me back in square one with my impossibly small budget.

     Until yesterday. My friend Tracy put an electric piano, with weighted keys, up for sale on her Facebook status. The price? $200. Long story short, here it is in my living room.

     I pulled my old hymnbook off the shelf and purposefully selected the very first song I would play on it: In My Heart There Rings a Melody!

This 'n That

THIS: So it's Wednesday and I haven't posted since about Thursday which breaks all the rules of good blogging.

THAT: Stopped at the Bargain Store after work today to see if they had any of those cute little ten dollar dresses left they were advertising. They did. I tried on four or five and found a super cute one. Unfortunately, when I got to the cashier I found out it was $25 so I said no thanks and came home empty-handed. It's not like I need another dress. If I had a wedding to attend or something, I definitely would have bought it. I would have posted a picture, but now I can't do that either. Nada for the ol' blogerolla.

THIS: Thought by now I might have an update from my lung doc, not that everyone isn't sick of hearing about it. But no. Just another lame blogging moment.

THAT: Mindy and Kevin arrive in a week. It will have been nearly a year (Aug. 7) since I last saw my daughter and I wonder how I will avoid hugging the stuffings out of her. Maybe her big hunky policeman husband will have to protect her. Maybe somebody will snap a photo or shoot some video and I can post the moment on my blog for the world to see. Or not.

There, I blogged today. Gosh I'm good at this. And that.

How to Float Your Coke.... or, the Lung Saga, Part 2

My deepest apologies to my devoted readers who have been sitting on pins and needles with bated breath and white knuckles on the edge of their seats and every other cliché known to man. I left you hanging awhile back with the saga of my ailing lungs. But then Father's Day came, and graduation, and Canada Day, and a blogger can't let those things go by unwritten. Hopefully no one jumped off a bridge for relief from the suspense. A suspension bridge, get it?

     Sorry.

     I wish I could tell you the bronchoscopy was as much fun as it sounds. While the nurse stuck an IV in my hand, the doc sprayed this stuff down my throat to numb everything. It made me cough and gag, which is ironic because the whole goal is to paralyze the gag reflex. Suddenly I realized I couldn't swallow, an unnerving sensation. I imagine my eyes got pretty big. That's when the good drugs kicked in and the next thing I remember, it was all done.

     17 days later, I went back to find out what the specialist learned. Did you know that a can of regular Coke will sink in water, but Diet Coke will float? This was one of the bits of trivia on the scrolling slides in the waiting room. It's about all I learned, and I'm not convinced it's even true.

     When the doc pulled up my info on his computer, no test results appeared. He left the room. When he returned, he informed me the results were not in yet and advised me to call him in two weeks if I haven't heard from him by then.

     "Are you kidding me?" I said. "How can I tell my anxious readers that? Have you no idea how anticlimactic that is? This story does not have an engaging plot, Doc. You're putting me in a really tight spot here. My column is due. Can't you at least make something up?"

     Okay, maybe that's not quite what I said. I did get a couple of questions asked and answered--enough to know he's reasonably confident it's some sort of chronic infection he simply cannot treat without those test results.

     I left in tears.

     A third of a year since this journey began, and still in the dark. Who would have thought? I guess this is my initiation into the wonderful world of medical care. I had this naive notion that if there were no results, I'd get a call saying "don't bother making the trip." I don't want to complain and criticize, especially not in ignorance. I want to understand, and I'm certain if I could spend a day working in one of those offices, I would get it. If you are one of those folks, would you drop me a line? I need enlightenment here. Your job must really bite and I don't envy you one bit.

     I'm learning God seems to operate on a "need to know" basis. Apparently, I still don't need to know. And as much as I want answers and solutions, there are things I want more. Things I might not achieve any other way. Like maturity and patience. Like learning how to ask better questions. Instead of "why is this happening to me?" I could ask, "What if this is necessary in order for me to be prepared for the next important chapter in my life?"

     I have no idea what uncertainties you might be facing today, but if the question fits, feel free to empower yourself with it.

     And if not, there's always that Coke thing.