It's the summer of 1964 and a little girl is playing. She's jumping from the framing boards of a garage down onto a ground covered with sawdust and wood shavings. That summer I turned 4, you were built and our life together began; a life that lasted 47 years.

We shared secrets, you and I.

I know the tar smudge on that certain brick of the fireplace and the fine, hairline crack of the one on the mantle; and the tricky two-step it takes to push open the screen door and make it down the back steps before the door swings back to deliver a smack. The front door lock doesn't give up without a fight and it takes a firm hand to convince it to cooperate. The back door is much nicer, but has a certain way of closing that has to be done in two stages. Not stubborn, exactly, just lazy.

You kept my secrets, too. My name, spelled out in stickers down the inside of my bedroom door, and the hole I put in the wall by kicking off my shoe a little too hard. Remember the persimmon tree my friends and I jumped over and permanently bent? And the fact that I learned to climb using the columns in the living room and found my mom's candy stash by climbing the shelves in the kitchen pantry?

We grew up together, you and I. When we were young, I played hide and seek in your gardens, running up and down the rows of corn. I climbed onto the roof of your greenhouse to reach the best plums and I knew the turns of your garden paths so well I could run full speed and never step off into the dirt.

You were my first love, my childhood home for 25 years and, even when I left, you stayed the same. Always waiting for me to return for a visit...to come home.

We have staked our claims on each other, you and I. My initials are in your sidewalks and every year iris, daffodils and spider lilies from your gardens bloom in my backyard.

I can't remember a time when you weren't a part of my life, and even though someone else owns you now, in my heart you will always belong to me. My special place, my shelter, my secret garden, my first true love, my childhood home.

Recently, Roger and I succumbed to peer pressure and decided to try sushi (or as I previously and shall forever after refer to it - BAIT).

I have always been suspicious about the whole "raw fish" trend. I've accidentally eaten raw seafood before and that experience left me thinking it was definitely not something I wanted to do again. Turns out, I was right.

My oldest son, Alex, has always been a big sushi fan. But, you really can't depend on Alex's recommendations when it comes to food. One of Alex's favorite past-times is to wander into a hole-in-the wall where he's the only person who speaks English. He'll proceed to peruse a menu that he can't understand and make a selection by pointing to something that looks interesting. Then, in a surprising show of faith and courage, when the mystery food is served, HE ACTUALLY EATS IT.

See, I blame his dad. Roger has always been an adventurous eater. You know the type, someone who will actually eat things from the Roach Coach. A person who sees nothing wrong with eating a sandwich from a gas station. That's not to say Roger doesn't have his limits. For some reason he draws the line at anything white. Yep a tamale out of the trunk of someone's car? You betcha! Just keep your mayo, cream cheese and sour cream to yourself.

Like I said, Alex was always a big sushi fan, and we never pay attention to Alex's food recommendations. But, then we got some surprising news from our youngest son, Joseph, (who is a really picky eater) and his girlfriend Audrey, (who manages to live on a diet consisting of all things potato). Both of them jumped in the sushi fish tank and LOVED it!

Okay, that's it! Roger and I were tired of being the old fogey, sticks in the mud. Let me just step in here and say that maybe the REASON old fogeys live long enough to actually become old fogeys is that they know better than to eat things that are routinely put out on a trot line. I'm just sayin'.

We went to a sushi restaurant Alex recommended (mistake number 1) and ordered the items that Alex suggested (mistake number 2).

We were nervous, sure, but it all started out pretty well. The edamame was a little salty, but you could brush the excess salt off, right? Miso soup came next and I tried really hard to distract Roger from the little cubes of tofu floating around on the top...SUCCESS! We both ate the soup and it wasn't too bad.

On to the entrees! We had ordered the California Roll and the Alexander Roll. Both came beautifully plated and we eagerly (I was eager, Roger was scared), took a bite.

The minute I got that first bite of California roll in my mouth I knew we were in trouble. From what I've been told, the California roll is actually COOKED. It has no raw fish in it. So, maybe someone can explain to me why my California roll tasted like I'd just reached into the koi pond and popped Goldie into my mouth.

I looked at the expression on Roger's face and at the pain in his eyes and I knew drastic measures were called for.

I hopped up and went looking for our waiter. I told him we'd had an emergency phone call, and had to leave and we needed two to-go boxes. (What, we'd spent $30.00 on this stuff, you think I'm leaving without it?)

We packed up, swung by Alex's house to drop off the "offal", and high-tailed it to our favorite rib joint, where food servings are huge and fixed the way God and Nature intended - cooked over an open flame and served with two of your favorite side dishes.

Oh, and just so you know, I asked Alex the next day how he liked his surprise sushi meal. Turns out he only got a couple of bites. He claims while he was eating it straight from the to go box, the box flipped over and all of the sushi fell onto the floor.

Uh huh...I think it says a lot that even his DOGS didn't try to snatch it up.

I started this saga by saying there was some humor in my father's death. After what I've written, it's hard to believe there was anything remotely funny about this debacle. Oh, but there was...

Help did, indeed, arrive for our family, and it arrived in the form of Hospice Workers from Christian Care Center. We first used Christian Care Hospice for my mother and when Daddy needed hospice care, we knew we wanted those same caring professionals to help him through this final phase of his life.

When we moved Daddy to Garnet Hill, Christian Care Hospice made special arrangements to be allowed to care for my father. They checked in with Daddy daily and, when the time came to have someone there around the clock, they settled right in.

While we were upset with the lack of care my dad was receiving from Garnet Hill, the hospice workers were shocked and appalled. They marshalled the troops, surveyed the situation and made immediate improvements.

They went over the nurses' heads and contacted staff doctors themselves. Medicines were changed and new procedures were started. Oh yes, there was definitely a new sheriff in town, and this one took no prisoners.

One special hospice nurse was a sweet woman named Lucy. Lucy is an elderly woman with strong religious beliefs, a passion for her work and a true dedication to her patients. I'm not real sure what Lucy thought about our family, but we'll be forever grateful for the way she came in, took control and made sure my father's passing was as easy as it possibly could be, for him and for us.

Lucy had the day shift with my father for a couple of days, and on the day of his death, my sister, Michel, my niece, Suzanne, Roger and I were all there in the room, visiting. Even though we had complete faith in hospice, it was hard for my family to let go of the feeling we had to be there all of the time. I guess you could say our experience with Garnet Hill left us with some trust issues.

Daddy's body was slowly, gradually losing this final battle and Lucy let us know he was close to passing. We gathered around my father's bed, holding his hands and telling him we loved him and that it was okay to move on, that we'd all be fine.

Daddy stopped breathing for a time and then took one huge breath. Lucy told us that was very common and it would probably happen a few more times before he actually died. It was all part of the process, but very normal and predictable.

Daddy's breathing started and stopped several times. As the times between episodes became longer and longer, Lucy would reach forward, feel for a pulse and listen to his heart.

Each time she assured us this was a normal part of the process and it wouldn't be long before Daddy passed peacefully.

My father took a breath and we all leaned in closer to the bed waiting to see if he'd take another....waiting......waiting......waiting. Silence, nothing but silence.

Then BOOIINGG! Roger's cell phone went off, all of us jumped and Lucy grabbed her chest and declared in a loud voice, "Okay, I don't know WHAT that was!"

That's okay, Lucy, we know what it was...it was my Dad, making sure he left us laughing with one last practical joke.

I think it's fitting that I end this four part story on this day...what would have been my father's 89th birthday.

I love you, Daddy.

My father probably had one of the longest deaths in the history of mankind, especially considering the fact that, according to him, he'd been living on borrowed time for the last 45 years.

I've read the best way to look at your life is to view it as an adventure - it's not the destination that matters, as much as enjoying the journey you take to get there. Since we're all going to reach that same destination (death), it sounds like a good idea to enjoy the journey (your life) and not worry so much about the end of the trip.

I just wish the end of Daddy's journey would have been a little easier...more like a calm, peaceful easing into the next phase, instead of something closely resembling a fight to the death cage match on pay per view.

Over time Daddy's cancer metastasized to the point where he began having the predicted physical and mental difficulties. He suffered from weakness and confusion, making it harder and harder for him to be the self sufficient person he wanted to be.

Even with the assistance of hospice workers, meals on wheels and daily visits by my sister and me, it soon became clear that Daddy needed to be in a place where he could be monitored 24/7, with around the clock medical care available, if needed.

The search began for just such a place. Daddy wanted it close to his current home, but my sister lives 45 minutes from his part of town and Michel worried about getting to him in an emergency.

We finally settled on a place practically in my sister's backyard - Garnet Hills Rehabilitation Center and Senior Nursing Facility in Wylie, Texas. This is where the final stage of this adventure begins.

First of all, a little advice...be very careful when you choose a "nursing home". They go by a variety of names nowadays: Senior Nursing Facility, Adult Day Care, Assisted Living, Independent Living. These facilities are all structured to provide services to people who are in need of different levels of assistance. Some people need constant supervision and help and some need very little. The best of these facilities are honest about what they can and can't provide and they do their best to care for their patients.

And then there are the others...Unfortunately, my family learned the hard way about the others - namely the Rehabilitation Centers. One thing the good AND the bad facilities have in common is, at the end of the day, they are BOTH businesses, businesses who have to show a profit to remain IN business. That's fine - I don't begrudge anyone the right to be successful. But when striving to make a profit compromises the health, safety and welfare of the very individuals the facility has agreed to care for, that's when I have a problem.

Unfortunately this has been the case with our experience with rehabilitation centers. My family's first dealing with a rehab center was when we placed my mother in one after her stroke. Even though we were assured they could handle my mother's Alzheimer's and her need for constant monitoring, it soon became apparent they were not set up for nor equipped to deal with someone in the latter stages of the disease.

When it was time to place my father, my sister and I both met with the woman in charge of admissions at Garnet Hill, as well as the facility's administrator. We very thoroughly laid out my father's needs; what he was capable of doing himself and what he'd need help with. Both managers assured us the nursing staff was well equipped to meet all of my father's requirements.

Read that last sentence again and I think you'll see the problem: the MANAGERS assured us the NURSING STAFF could provide the necessary care for my dad. There is the disconnect..the managers are promising things the nursing staff can't (or won't) provide. The front office is trying to fill empty beds and the back office (nursing staff) is overwhelmed and possibly not qualified or even aware of the promises being made on their behalf.

The problems started early for us. Even though we were assured someone would check on daddy every one to two hours, it soon became apparent that as many as six hours would go by without anyone checking on him, including NOT taking him for meals or seeing that his meals were brought to him.

Experiments with the call button were futile and I soon learned why. Once, while standing at the nurses' station during one of the daily battles, I observed the call button from another room light up. The nurse at the desk looked at the call board, stood up, walked over to the board and deleted the call message, without checking on the patient. So much for their prompt, attentive service. Ooopsie! Hope that wasn't life or death!

Every day brought another obstacle to overcome and pitched battles and pitched fits were soon the order of the day. I remember waking up one morning and saying to Roger, "I wonder how many fights I'll have to get in today."

Incompetence and negligence ran the gamut. These "professionals" lost medicine, mixed up patient charts, didn't follow medicine dosage times, wouldn't answer call buttons or help with moving my father to the bathroom or clean up the mess when we couldn't get him there in time.

In desperation, we began leaving the door to Daddy's room open in the hopes we could flag somebody down when we needed them. The problem with that thinking was no one ever walked down the hall. I have no idea where the party was - but it obviously wasn't anywhere near us.

One truly memorable night, my sister called me almost in tears. She'd been single-handedly trying to get Daddy to the bathroom, and they hadn't made it in time. When she went to the nurses' desk to report the mess and ask for someone to clean it up, she was told housekeeping was closed. They suggested she clean it up herself.

I have to admit, when Michel told me that, I sort of lost my mind and my temper. The Director of Garnet Hills had made the mistake of giving me his cell phone number, and I immediately called him. I don't remember a whole lot of what I said, but it was enough that he showed up at Garnet Hill within minutes, looking disheveled and worried.

You'd think that would be all it would take, wouldn't you? Rooting the Boss Man out of bed in the middle of the night should have been enough to get things whipped into shape, shouldn't it?

Apparently not. Things continued to get worse and it soon became a matter of survival. Trying to secure basic care for my father at a premium price (keep in mind, Club Garnet Hill was costing us around $150.00 a day), with a family member present 90% of the time to provide the majority of that care.

Tell me there's not something wrong with THAT picture.

No matter how healthy we are, at one time or another, each of us will have to deal with being less than perfectly healthy. The strange part about my father's life-long flirtation with poor health is, when he actually did fall ill, his method of coping was to ignore the problem.

A few years ago, my dad developed a particularly virulent strain of basal cell cancer. Within a few months, the cancer had spread and pretty much decimated his entire nose. Its' appearance was alarming enough that doctors entering the exam room during one of my mothers' examinations would stop in their tracks and begin quizzing my father about the obvious cancer that was slowly consuming his nose.

It took several visits with a dermotalogist and an ENT to convince my dad that the cancer was something to be taken seriously AND taken off. Only after being told the cancer would advance into his brain would he agree to the necessary surgical procedures to save his face and his life.

Daddy was lucky enough to dodge that particular bullet. Doctors removed the cancer in its' entirety and follow up plastic surgery left him with a nose that bears hardly a trace of the entire experience.

Even though he dodged that bullet, he wasn't able to dodge the next one. Ironically, that bullet also took the shape of cancer: bladder cancer and this time surgery wasn't an option.

When my father began passing blood in his urine, his internist referred him to a urologist. Tests and biopsies showed Daddy had a massive tumor in his bladder. Even though this tumor was removed, the doctor felt it was only a matter of time before it would return.

How right he was...within 6 months the tumor was back with a vengence. Not only had it grown in size, but MRI and CT scans showed it had metastasized to his lung, breasts and thyroid.

I remember sitting next to Daddy when the oncologist, Dr. Caruso, scooted her chair close to him to give her diagnosis. She took him by the hand as she told him the bad news. He had terminal bladder cancer and his age ruled out the possiblity of surgery. In her opinion, while chemotherapy and radiation might prolong his life, the quality of that life would be miserable. She told Daddy he'd lived a long, wonderful life full of many blessings, and she encouraged him to live the rest of his life enjoying each and every day as the gift it was.

Let me just stop a minute here to point something out. During this entire journey, we saw several different doctors and specialists and none of them had the nerve to do what this one doctor did. None of them had the courage to look my father in the eye and tell him he had terminal cancer. No one would admit he wasn't a candidate for treatment. That basically, his life was nearing the end and the best advice they could give was to enjoy what was left.

Oh, they'd manage to catch my sister and me alone and tell us the bad news, out of daddy's hearing. But, when it came to informing my dad, their action was always the same - they'd refer us to ANOTHER doctor, for MORE tests.

Only this tiny woman doctor had the guts to deliver the heartbreaking news to my father, and she did it with grace and compassion, and for that I'll always be grateful.

Because, even though those other doctors might have thought they were doing daddy a favor by not being totally honest with him, they weren't. What they were doing was allowing my father to live longer in denial, fear and confusion; thinking there was hope and not understanding why nothing was being done to beat this disease.

I think it speaks to the amount of damage these well meaning doctors actually did, that, when Dr. Caruso finally told him the truth, Daddy couldn't grasp it - couldn't understand why he'd been sent to so many doctors and had so many tests if there wasn't anything that could be done.

I will always remember a phone conversation I had with my dad one morning. Daddy was asking me what would happen next, what was our next step, our plan? I had to tell him all over again that there was no plan, no next step, no treatment, no medicine, no future beyond the limited time the cancer gave him.

Instead of telling my father the truth about his diagnosis and illness, those well-meaning, well-intentioned doctors left it to me to break the bad news. I just don't think that's something any child should have to do, do you?

Stay Tuned - Part Three on the way...

I'm sorry I've been AWOL for so very long, but I have a really good excuse, and it doesn't have anything to do with an unfortunate incarceration, I promise. Although I'm fairly certain an orange jumpsuit is lurking somewhere in my future, it's just a matter of time.

The reason I haven't been posting lately is that I've been kinda busy with other things, things that have to do with my father's recent death. Uh huh, NOW you feel guilty for being cranky about no new posts, don't you? Good, I'm glad I'm not the only one.

Aris Franklin (Frank) Erskine, my father, passed away peacefully on June 25, 2010 in Garnet Hill Rehabilitation and Skilled Nursing Center in Wylie, Texas. He was surrounded by family - my sister Michel, niece Suzanne, me and my husband Roger.

How we all got there and the journey along the way was, as is typical for me and my family, a pretty funny story. I'd like to take you along and tell you all about it. But, be warned - some of you may take exception to the humor in this story and the way I tell it. That's too bad, I believe genuine laughter should be enjoyed no matter the circumstances. So, settle in, y'all...you know I can't be brief.

My dad's death was probably the longest death in the history of the world, seeing as how, according to him, it started approximately 50 years ago, when he was just 40 years old.

It's safe to say that my father actually enjoyed poor health - or at least HIS version of it. Actually, he was probably one of the healthiest individuals you're ever gonna meet. That became apparent in the last few years, when he'd check into the hospital for a minor procedure, and the admitting staff could NOT believe he'd NEVER had an IV, or any type of medical procedure, except for a minor bout with a bleeding ulcer several years ago.

Instead of being proud of the fact that he was so very hale and hearty, Daddy got kinda ticked off at the exclamations of hospital staff over his obvious good health.
The fact that, at age 88 he was fully capable of pushing his Ford F150 out of the garage to jump start the battery, was nothing he wanted spread around. In his mind he was an invalid, by God, and he wanted some attention!

That had pretty much been Daddy's attitude his entire life, and unfortunately, he got his bluff in on my Mother, who was certain he would kick off at just any moment. After a lifetime of that, I'm starting to wonder if she was afraid of it or kinda hoped it would happen. Waiting for that other shoe to drop must have been exhausting.

The rule in our house was that Daddy was to be coddled and treated with utmost care and attention. So much so, that it was my job, at the tender age of 4 years old to travel everywhere with Daddy. That way, when he did suffer the heart attack that he was certain was just around the corner - I'd be there to give his info to the paramedics and doctors.

Looking back on that, my sister and I can see how very weird that was. For one thing, why would you send your daughter along for the ride, if you're convinced you're a heart attack waiting to happen? For another, in a life or death situation, would YOU want a 4 year old to be in charge of your vital information? No? I didn't think so. But, that gives you an idea of just how life worked at our house.

Over the years, Daddy did have brushes with mortality - kinda. Once, he was on a ladder, sawing a tree limb down with a chain saw (yeah, like THAT'S ever a good idea), when the chainsaw kicked back and knocked my dad right out off the ladder. He fell a good 8 feet straight back and landed flat on his back.

Paramedics were called and our entire family trooped to the hospital in a show of support. As a group, we barged past admittance desks and scurried along behind as my Dad went from the intake room to the x-ray room, and finally back to an exam room. You have to wonder what the doctor thought when he had to push his way through the crowd just to enter the room. Another celebrity casualty in Dallas, ala John F. Kennedy? Nope, just my Dad and our family.

In case you're wondering, my Dad's tree trimming adventure didn't put a mark on him. No internal injuries, no broken bones, nothing - not even a scratch. My mom hyperventilated, my sister got hysterical and I almost passed out. But, Daddy? He was just fine.

My Dad's second close encounter of the possibly fatal kind happened several years later. Around 15 years ago, Daddy called in the middle of the night to tell us he was bleeding profusely (he wouldn't tell us WHERE he was bleeding from, but it wasn't too hard to guess when he and mother drove up in the car, with Daddy sitting on about four large bath towels.)

That was always puzzling, even though we were all supposed to be fully aware of my Dad's tenuous grip on life, which could be severed at ANY time, we were never supposed to ask for any details. Those things were NOT to be discussed with daughters. As maddening as that was at times, little did I know the day would come when I would YEARN for the blissful ignorance of those years.

Of course, Daddy lived about 10 minutes from one of the best hospitals in the country, Baylor University Medical Center, but THAT wasn't where he wanted to go. No, he insisted Roger and I drive him and mother to Lakepoint Medical Center in Rowlett, a good 25 minutes away...IF you take the freeway, that is. Daddy wouldn 't let us take the freeway - no sir, we had to take the backroads, through the pitch black night, like we were fleeing from the Revenuers. I guess he felt that it was HIS death and he'd do it the way he wanted to.

Again, it was pretty much a rerun of Tree Limb Fiasco, with our entire family camped out in the Emergency Room waiting area. Note: This time our family wasn't allowed to push our way into the actual patient area, although you KNOW we tried. All family members had to wait in the waiting rooms. I'm sure that rule went into effect nationwide after they witnessed our behavior during the Tree Limb Fiasco.

Diagnosis from Daddy's Midnight Ride? A bleeding ulcer. No surgery necessary - problem solved with diet and medicine.

Oh, and this is when we as a family, became aware of Mother's Alzheimer's Disease. As Daddy's wife, she was allowed back in the exam rooms with him, and apparently she was having difficulty processing things and understanding what was going on. We now know that's typical behavior for an Alzheimer's patient. Any trauma, physical, emotional or situational, will make them spiral downward in behavior and will magnify the effects of the disease.

It was a frightening thing to be told by the nurses that "Your mother is having some confusion issues, and can't be back here without one of you to supervise".

WHAT? What did that mean? We were terrified and confused. All except Daddy...Daddy was mad the nurses were having to deal with mother instead of paying attention to him.

Readers, trust me when I tell you there is much more to this story. I'm stopping now, but I'll be back with Part Two very soon. I promise.

I have always admitted, loud and clear, that Roger and I are not especially smart when it comes to the various technology that's available today. I have no idea how to use about 90% of the features on my cell phone and, without my cheater glasses on, I can't even see well enough to use that remaining 10%. I routinely surprise perfect strangers by shoving my cell phone in their faces and asking "Who's calling me?" Yes, I'm an IBM Selectric II girl, living in an I-Pad, Kindle, SmartPhone World. It's lonely and cold out here in the Land of the Obsolete.

Still, just when I thought I'd reached the depth of my personal technological ignorance, I find that I can still humiliate myself even further with my complete and total absence of knowledge. Really, it's a gift.

Our oldest son, Alex, bought himself a new hi-def, flat screen, plasma tv the other day, at least I think that's what it's called..all I know is it's about as wide as our old mini-van and it took three people to move it.

Feeling generous, Alex volunteered to give us his "old" hi-def, flat screen, plasma tv, which, being only the size of our dining room table, was inferior and out of date..obviously.

This was great news for us, especially since the television we were currently using was several decades old, wasn't hi-def and came no where near being flat, in spite of the several attempts by the dogs to knock it off of the table.

In fact, our old television was so out of date, our across the street neighbor would routinely comment on how badly we needed a new one. The neighors would come over for a visit and Dave would sit there, staring at our gigantic dinosaur of a tv, just shaking his head and sighing. When Alex made us the offer of his leftovers, we thanked him with the heartfelt sentiment of "Yes, thank you..you've made Dave a very happy guy."

Roger and Joseph got the new baby in the house and hooked up and Alex instructed us we'd have to call the cable company and upgrade to the hi-def service. No problem, the televisions, computer and cell phone may be a challenge, but calling the cable company? That we can handle.

One quick call and we are the proud new viewers of all things Hi-Definition. Roger and I are marvelling at the wonderful, detailed picture, vibrant colors and sharp images. Oh yes, we should have done this YEARS ago...who knew this type of viewing paradise was available?

A day or two later, Alex called to see if we'd had any problems getting the extra service from the cable company. We assured him it was no problem at all, the company merely flipped a switch at their headquarters. "No one came out to give you a new cable box or install a new hi-def cable?", he asked. "Um, no", we replied, "But the picture is amazing."

I should stop this story right here and save myself the further humiliation of telling you what you, being the technologically smart person you are, probably already know. We needed a special cable to receive the hi-definition signal from the cable box. Oh yes we did.

Roger and I had been sitting there, oooohhing and ahhhhing over the very same television signal we'd had all along, it was just bigger and kinda stretched out on this larger screen. At first, I didn't believe it could be true. Surely the cable company would have TOLD us if we needed a special cable, right? Apparently not. According to Alex, the cable company probably thinks if you're smart enough to get a hi-def tv, you'll be smart enough to know how to use it.

Hah! That's what THEY think! Look who's being ignorant, NOW!

Around here there's no such thing as saving your place on the couch.

For Christmas this year, I gave my sister, Michel, a gift certificate to a local fondue restaurant. I wanted to do something special for her and my niece suggested a meal at this specialty restaurant would be a fun, different kind of treat. Something she would enjoy and remember...something like that.

Now, my sister is wonderfully generous. So generous in fact, that she insisted she and her husband, Chuck, use this gift certificate to take Roger and me out to celebrate our 25th anniversary. Yes, Michel is generous - she's also very smart. Smart enough to make sure she's not the only fondue rookie seated at the table.

Looking back, the entire evening reminded me of the joke about the two guys who attended a fight and a hockey game broke out. We went out for fondue dinner and a hockey game broke out, or something really close.

I'd already gotten some tips from my oldest, Alex, the Dining Adventurer. He warned me about the different cooking times for each type of food and that it takes a fairly long time for each piece of food to cook. He suggested we cook more than one thing at a time.

See? That's the problem..fondue is DINING, as in the European style of leisurely enjoying a meal. The focus is on the people and conversation instead of stuffing your face with the food in front of you, at warp speed, while wondering WHERE is the dessert cart?

My family definitely believes eating is more of a sport, and we all play to win. So, I guess it's no surprise that if you give us each a couple of long forks, a pot of hot oil and many small pieces of food, you've got a food version of a hockey game on your hands.

Oh sure, we started off slow and easy, but impatience (and hunger) reared it's ugly head and before long we were stuffing all of our food-laden forks into the pot at the same time. In fact, Roger and Chuck, in an extreme show of unsportsmanlike conduct, started throwing pieces of food straight into the pot - without even using their forks. I kept expecting to see a flag thrown or hear a whistle, but no such luck. Where's the call Ref?

By this time, the fondue pot is fairly disgusting with globs of breading floating on the top and God Only Knows What hiding on the bottom. When my sister's steak fell off of her fork, she grabbed all of the other forks and hoisted them up while she searched in vain for her missing bite of food. In my family we don't play fair..the Fair is in October.

Oh sure, it was embarassing when the restaurant manager, seeing the horrible condition of our fondue pot, immediately sent the waiter over to clean out all of the debris. But, it didn't stop us from high-fiving over the table when we found Michel's missing steak AND a forgotten piece of potato. SCORE!

I guess you could say the fondue restaurant was definitely an experience. An experience that we might not want to repeat, one that left a bad taste in our mouths so to speak.

Yeah, you could say that, except the only taste I really remember is the big ol pot of warm chocolate they slapped in the middle of the table at the end. After that, everything is a blur.

This is the fountain at The Harbor in Rockwall.

Recently it has come to my attention that I'm getting old. I don't mean older, I mean OLD, as in "old lady Proza" old (that, by the way, happens to be one of Joseph's favorite nicknames for me, yeah, he's a real laugh riot, that Joseph).

It's not that I feel old, I'm still waiting to feel like an adult. It's more that my actions, opinions and concerns have changed in a really annoying, mature kind of way.

I cannot believe the things I actually say and do. Like asking the dogs who they think is going to get their treats if they knock me down and break my hip? When did staying warm become my main survival concern? And fiber? Dear God, when did I become interested in the amount of fiber I consume each day?

Things confuse me more than they did when I was younger. Technology has been out of my grasp for quite some time now. I've accepted it and learned to live with it. Even though some people I've given birth to keep trying to drag me into the light, I'm perfectly comfortable in my technologically ignorant darkness.

Fashion? I've never understood it and, judging by the fashions some young people are wearing, I doubt if I ever will. Why would young men want to walk around with their pants worn so low that a good 3 inches of their underwear is showing? Is this supposed to be attractive to women? Really? Because as a woman who has raised two sons, I can tell you that one of the LEAST attractive things about males is their underwear. It's kind of like the sun, if you stare at it too long, you're risking permanent blindness.

Partying has also undergone a radical change as I've gotten older. I grew up in the Disco Age and not a weekend went by that my friends and I weren't shakin' our grove thang until the wee hours of the morning. Now? Not so much. Roger and I were going to try and make it until midnight this past New Year's Eve, but we didn't last much longer than 9:00 p.m. (I blame the Dallas Stars for this. If they had played better we'd have made the effort to stay awake..maybe.)

Still, some people just don't get it. Recently I was griping on facebook about the possibly fatal (at least to ME), cold snap we're having and a friend (Hello Alton!) had a different perspective. He commented he was grateful for the cold weather, because it made his arthritis act up and that let him know he was alive.

Can you believe it? Is there anything worse than a cheerful old fogey?

Except in my neighborhood it's Let Your YARD be light. I love my neighborhood, I truly do. Roger and I moved here in January of 1985 and we were lucky to land smack in the middle of a neighborhood in the best sense of the word. Our kids grew up with other neighborhood children, playing pick up games of basketball and street hockey and roaming from house to house for spur of the moment nintendo tournaments.

Of course, that was almost 25 years ago and, while our kids have all grown up and moved out, I'm happy to say we still have a pretty neighborly way about our 'hood. Especially when it comes to holidays, most especially Christmas and definitely when it comes to Christmas lights.

Many years ago, our area was the first to put up the candy cane Christmas lights which you can now find PRE-MADE at most stores. What is this world coming to? In OUR day you made them yourself, cutting lengths of PVC pipe, wrapping them with red tape and jamming them into the ground, risking lacerations and possible impalement, but, hey, it's Christmas!

Lights were then strung from pole to pole attached by jumbo paper clips and it was definitely a bonus if all the lights worked the first time around, and the plug reached all the way to the electrical outlet. That would be the Universe's way of telling you to go buy a Lottery Ticket, because it was your Lucky Day!

Our neighborhood has definitely changed over the years. While some of the original owners have moved out, we still have a surprising number of "oldtimers" living here. A fact that I point out to Roger when he asks "who are all of these OLD people living here?" He's always a little surprised to find that they're the same people who have lived here for almost 25 years, just like WE have.

Age has nothing to do with Christmas Spirit though. Most of us still drag out our candy cane lights and extension ladders every year, and the majority of the decorating starts on Thanksgiving afternoon. Not because we're especially FESTIVE, it's just that's the best time to grab the visiting adult children..AFTER turkey and BEFORE pumpkin pie. It's called leverage, or bribery, if you want to know the truth.

Fathers, who were once in charge of climbing tall ladders and navigating steep roofs now gladly turn those chores over to much younger (and possibly dumber) sons. Mothers who, once upon a time, had the duty of adjusting lights and breaking the bad news of blown fuses, now step back and watch while their daughters deal with those seasonal joys.

Every family has its' own traditions. The neighbor across the street from me sells holiday yard art, one family hosts a yearly Christmas concert and Roger still stands in our kitchen window on weekend nights, watching the long line of cars creeping slowly down the street, with passengers enjoying our neighborhood's beautiful light displays.

If you stand close enough, you'll hear Roger's own yearly Yuletide message, "For crying out loud, it's 11:00, don't you people have HOMES to go to?"

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! Let Your Yard AND Your Hearts Be Light!

Thanksgiving, 2009

I’ve heard that expression my entire life and it’s proven itself to be true in several different ways. The latest being my sister’s brush with death after her recent hip surgery.

My sister, Michel, went into the hospital on a Monday morning, thrilled to finally have the surgery she needed to put an end to her constant battle with hip pain, caused by the erosion of her right hip joint due to hereditary hip dysplasia. We never dreamed it would turn into a fight for her life.

Michel sailed through the surgery with no problem. In fact, after surgery, when her doctor showed us pictures of her new hip he made the observation that she definitely was one tough woman. The surgery revealed Michel had been walking “bone on bone” for so long she had actually worn groves in the bone itself. She had been dealing with extreme pain for a long time.

Which makes it all the more surprising that this same doctor turned a deaf ear and a blind eye when Michel started having chest pains, difficulty breathing, and hallucinations?

My niece, Suzanne, and I became concerned when other patients, who were operated on the same day and were significantly older than Michel, were buzzing down the hall for their daily physical therapy workouts. Michel, who required constant oxygen, was unable to get out of bed even for a brief bathroom trip, without gasping for air and grabbing her chest in pain. Questions to the nurses resulted in answers of “it’s a reaction to the pain medicine”, even though Michel had received no pain medicine for over two days.

And so began a journey that amazed my family and taught us many valuable lessons. When seeing that the nurses and even doctors attending Michel were less than interested in her care, Suzanne dug in her heels and began to wage a calm, dignified campaign to get her mother the care she so desperately needed.

Suzanne began keeping a log of her mother’s medicines – the doses and times they were administered. Which was a good thing, since the nurses couldn’t seem to remember what medicine was needed or when it was supposed to be given; and she made sure she was there every time a doctor was due for a visit. She patiently began questioning them about her mother’s lack of recovery and apparent downward spiral, making sure they knew exactly what Michel’s problems were. She never backed down, even when she was patted on the hand by a very patronizing surgeon and told she “didn’t need to worry about things like that”.

I’m sure he regretted those words when, the next day he ordered Michel to take a shower, go to physical therapy and be discharged to go home. The crisis occurred when a nurse, assisting with the shower, witnessed Michel almost lose consciousness, and double over in chest pain.

Now, let me just step in here and say that Suzanne is a college graduate and an extremely smart woman. After her first child was born, she chose to take the same path I, and many other women, have followed and is currently a stay at home mom to three young children. To stand toe to toe with medical professionals, question them and even politely disagree with them would be a difficult task for most people. Maybe more so for a woman who society might feel has taken the “easy way out”. I have to admit, the fact that, amid all of the medical professionals, my sister’s survival depended on the perseverance of two stay at home moms just boggles the mind.

The nurse, witnessing Michel’s obvious distress, called the doctor and emergency tests were performed. Not surprisingly, the tests revealed Michel had thrown multiple blood clots to both lungs, resulting in damage to her heart and lungs.

Believe me when I tell you things definitely changed and all of a sudden, the unconcerned, apathetic hospital workers became highly interested and motivated to ensure Michel received the care she needed.

Cardiologists and Pulmonologists were called in and, after reviewing her case, more than one doctor commented that Michel would have died if not for her daughter’s perseverance and determination.

As I write this, my sister isn’t out of the woods yet…she has over a year of daily blood thinners and monitoring her blood levels in her future as well as damage to her heart and lungs which may end up being permanent.

And yet, it could have been so much worse. Like I said, we’ve all learned lessons from this experience. Do not have any medical procedure done without thoroughly checking out the doctor and the hospital. A lot of suburban hospitals are quite good at what they do, but, often times, they are not equipped to deal with a patient who experiences life threatening complications.

Don’t EVER have a procedure done, even a minor one, without someone with you at all times. Don’t count on the medical staff to have your best interests at heart. Make sure you have your OWN advocate to speak for you, if you can’t speak for yourself.

And, finally, remember: It’s not the size of the daughter in the fight…it’s the size of the FIGHT in the DAUGHTER.

Thank you, Suzanne.

Christmas came early for me this year. I got something I've been wanting for a long time. Not jewelry, clothes, an i phone or one of those snazzy new netbooks I've been wanting for so long (fire engine red, please, Santa?).

Nope, my gift came in a huge, concrete box with red polka dots scattered all through it. Give up? I'm talking about the new Super Target in Mesquite.

For years now, I've been wishing for a grocery store that carried everything I needed, all in one place, at the same time...quite a concept, isn't it? Apparently, it's very rare. At least it is where I live.

Oh, we have plenty of grocery stores - no question about that. But, just try and get everything on your list at one single store. I'm not talking anything rare and exotic. No almost-unheard-of-spice you'll use only once or twice in your entire lifetime.

No, I'm talking things like, fat free Pringle's potato chips, 8th Continent Soy milk, Pedigree Dentalstix for dogs, and Diet Peach Snapple. Very rare fare indeed, if you want to find it all at the same store. At least it WAS rare until Super Target opened their pearly gates and admitted me into my version of grocery store Heaven.

I admit I entered the store ready to be disappointed. I'd had high hopes for grocery stores before. Wal-Mart Market, The Wal-Mart Super Store, Tom Thumb, Albertson's and Kroger had all lured me in with vague promises of satisfying my hunter/gatherer needs by crossing every single item off of my grocery list all in one trip.

But, no matter how many chances I've given these stores, they've always left me with one or two items still on my list, which meant one or two trips to ANOTHER store. Believe me, there is nothing sadder than a woman with a packed shopping cart, trudging through the store looking for that last item she needs. It's like we're begging them to take our money, please?

Now, you might be wondering why I didn't just ASK the store about carrying those items? Well, been there, done that. When I asked the Asst. Manager at Wal-Mart Market about the Diet Peach Snapple, she assured me they didn't carry it anymore. (They did - it showed up at Wal-Mart Market two weeks later, AFTER I had made a special trip to Kroger's.)

During my trip to Super Target this week, I had to stop myself from joyfully skipping up and down the aisles. And, I admit to startling more than one customer by turning to them and blurting out: "Look, they have fat free Pringles in regular AND BBQ!" I also think I sobbed out loud a little when I saw the Shiritaki noodles in the produce section, but I don't think anybody noticed.

Yes, Super Target has earned a loyal customer this week, and it was so easy really. All they had to do was realize that consumers want to be offered quality and diversity, even in Mesquite, Texas.

Hmmmmm, a lack of diversity in Mesquite? Don't get me started.

This picture was taken right after Roger got back from taking both big dogs for a walk in the pouring rain.

This is a small example of Dudley and his issues. He routinely "hides" with his head under furniture, apparently believing in the old saying, "if I can't see them, they can't see ME".

Have you ever stayed in a hotel that had a phone in the bathroom? Usually located right next to the toilet? Have you ever wondered why on earth anybody would want a phone there? I remember the first time I saw such a phone set up I thought to myself, Why? I certainly don't want to phone anybody when I'm in the bathroom and, I don't want anybody calling me from there, either. There is no way I could even concentrate on what they were saying, instead of the images flashing through my brain.

Well, people, I'm here to tell you that whoever came up with the idea was a genius. Someone with obvious forethought and consideration for his or her fellow man (or in my case woman).

Roger and I were eating dinner at one of our very favorite places the other day, the Flying Fish restaurant at Firewheel shopping mecca in Garland. The restaurants at Firewheel all share one building feature that boggles the mind. Each one has only one restroom for men and one for women. I don't mean "restroom" in the larger sense of the word - one big room with several stalls and/or facilities. Nope, I mean ONE room with ONE facility for EACH gender. Makes you wonder where the building code inspector was when those plans were approved, doesn't it?

During my latest trip to the facility, I discovered that the door latch, which had worked so well going into the locked position, had decided it was NOT going to cooperate and move into the unlocked position. I was solidly locked in, all alone and by myself, with no one to share my dilemma and mounting hysteria.

I tugged on the bolt, I banged on the bolt, I tried to heave the door up, back, sideways and forward and nothing was going to give. What was worse, I'd left my purse at the table and didn't have anything I could use as a tool. I'm sure there is some way toilet paper can be used as a pry bar, but, since I never took a single physics class I wasn't likely to come up with that know-how any time soon.

I'd like to say I remained calm with the certain knowledge that Roger would miss me and come to my rescue. But the truth is, Roger was sitting in a booth with one of his all-time favorite meals and adult beverages in front of him. Roger was a happy boy, Roger definitely WAS NOT thinking about me.

Nope, I was gonna have to get myself out of this one and do you know what I needed? A PHONE! A phone in the bathroom would have been a perfect solution to this problem. Oh, there's no guarantee Roger would have actually STOPPED eating to answer his phone and come to my rescue. But I could at least have called Zeke, Flying Fish's General Manager, to come let me out.

They say everything happens for a reason, and I'd like to think I've learned my lesson from this. Now I know there is a perfectly good reason to have a phone in a bathroom (although I'm still not sure why it has to be right next to the toilet).

Oh, and I'll never use public "facilities" again without taking along my cell phone. I've got just the spot for it in my new toolbox.

It's that time of year again, the Back To School season. The signs are all there, if you know what to look for: stores with so many school supply displays they spill over into the garden section, kids sporting new backpacks, along with the latest popular lunchboxes, and neighborhood streets clogged with U-Haul trailers. Okay, that last one is probably only in neighborhoods like mine, where the babies have all grown up and are now preparing for their return trip to college life.

Notice I said "return trip to college". It's a pretty safe bet that students leaving for their first year of college don't require the use of a trailer. Actually, they could probably store everything they have room for in your average airplane overhead compartment; this I know from experience.

Most colleges require their students live on campus in a dorm room during their freshman year. Dorms are buildings with multiple cells, I mean rooms, crammed on several floors. When we took Joseph down to Texas A&M last year, we got our first look at the room where he'd spend the next eight months of his life. I managed to make it almost out of the parking lot before I started sobbing out loud. I've seen jail cells that were nicer than that room - and bigger, too.

By their second year of college, most students are done with the whole up close and personal aspect of dorm life and manage to find themselves an apartment that is within biking, walking or bus riding distance to campus. An apartment, while more expensive than a dorm, offers something most sophomores crave - MORE ROOM, PRIVATE BATHROOMS and REAL LIFE KITCHENS with working stoves and full sized refrigerators. No more trying to survive with a bar sized ice box, mini-crockpot and really micro-mini sized microwave.

Unfortunately, this also means that more of the parents' stuff will be making the trip to college with their child. So far, Joseph has looted my kitchen for sets of silverware, dishes, pots and pans, glasses, a coffee maker, casserole dishes, and another crockpot. Once I made the mistake of complaining about how heavy my enameled cast iron cookware was in front of him. Before the words were out of my mouth, he declared, "I'll take it." Ummmm, no you WON'T. He also wants my entire set of stainless steel pots and pans because "You never use them". Of course he'd think that - he doesn't make it into the kitchen until AFTER the food is on the table.

Truthfully, I don't mind if Joseph borrows some of my stuff, especially if it means he'll cook more and eat better. But, I'm not taking any chances. I'm going to engrave my name on everything he takes with him. After all, there's no telling WHAT he learned during his stay at the Big House.