Uncommon sanctuaries

Some children grow up spending most of their leisure time with siblings or cousins or next door neighbor kids.  

I did not.  No siblings even close to my age made me a bit of an only child.  Ditto cousins.  I had a couple very good friends, but play time wasn't all that frequent. 

My dad was my fishing buddy and my favorite person to spend leisure time with.  But of course time with him was limited because he had that pesky 40+ hour/week job thing going on.  

My mom also had that pesky full time employment scene happening from the time I was eight years old.  

Which left me with a lot of time at home while they were working.  This was back in the day when television was black and white and limited to whatever station would come in via roof antenna.  Never more than three stations, usually just one, and always a snowy reception.  

During times when I was particularly bored or frustrated, I'd call my mom at work.  I can still tell you what that phone number was.  EX2-2919.  I called it a lot.   "Mom, what can I do?"  Mom was always busy at work and she would advise me to bake some cookies or play the piano.  

Clearly, clearly, I baked a lot of cookies.  And ate them. 

But more often I sat at the piano.  The piano became my friend, my refuge, my port in the storm, my place to go when life threw chaos at me.  My 20-something sister, Sharon, with her little girl mind and special needs was always there with me.  At times she had rather intense moments of challenges and struggles, and her struggles became mine.  

And.....I found out that sitting at that old upright piano with my hands on the keys made the world I lived in a little more tolerable.  As I sat there my eyes saw the wooden upright portion of the piano, with the reflection of my chubby little cookie-fed face faintly visible in the polished wood.  I could look at the family pictures decorating the top of the piano.  My ears heard my hands play melodies and it didn't matter that those melodies weren't perfect.  I could play tunes over and over, as long as it took to make them sound right to my little girl ears.    My piano took me away.  Far away to a land where God created music.  And He shared that music with me.  He taught me.  

Sitting at that piano I believe God connected with me in a way that helped me cope with the chaos around me.  And eventually the music became pleasant enough to help my sister Sharon find some calmness  also.  He gave me a gift that would help both of us through the chaos. 

Which leads me to be grateful for not only the gift of music,  but also the chaos.  Without the chaos, would I have the gift?  

I'm not a little girl anymore.  But the piano is still my sanctuary.  The place where God can meet me and surround me with His presence.  His calming, soothing, loving presence.  

Do you have a sanctuary?   Sitting at a sewing machine creating handmade treasures?  Using a paintbrush to create a picture? (Painting is Sharon's sanctuary!!)  Casting a fishing line into a body of water?   Hiking through the woods?  Working with lumber to build beautiful treasures?  Shooting basketballs through the net?  Singing in your car while you're just out for a drive?   The possibilities are endless. Wherever God meets you can be a sanctuary.  If you'll reach out for Him, He's there waiting.  

Even in unlikely places.  Even when you're up to your ears in chaos.  

You need a sanctuary. Life is so much better with a hiding place. 

"The Lord your God in your midst, The Mighty One, will save; He will rejoice over you with gladness, He will quiet you with His love, He will rejoice over you with singing."  Zephaniah 3:17

It would be a few years before this little girl needed a sanctuary

Me and my piano.....best friends forever

2013  

Blessed by simplicity.

Someone really special will be celebrating her 80th birthday this month.  

She was born January 27 in 1938, my parents' first baby.  Sharon Kay.   

Nothing about this baby girl's life would be as dreamed by her mommy and daddy.  Starting with the day of her birth.  So many questions and concerns.  So many fears for my mom and dad.

She survived. And she was very very beautiful.  And very very loved.    

In 1938, living on a small  rural Kansas farm, children attended one room schoolhouses.  My three sisters attended a one room school not far from their little home.  

But Sharon wasn't able to learn the same way as her two sisters.  Or like anyone else in the little one room schoolhouse.  I wasn't there at the time, but knowing her, I would imagine she was a bit on the hyperactive side, too.  

Attempts to help her were discouraging and frustrating.  Especially for our mother and father.  She was allowed to be part of the school until my family moved from the farm to town in 1952.  A teenager.  Her intellect had ceased to develop around age 9.  

Tell her your birthday once and she'll remember it forever.  And every now and then she can wow me with some random bit of knowledge that leaves me speechless.  "Where did you learn that, Sharon?"  Play cards with her and you'll likely lose.  And she has an uncanny ability to paint pictures, especially roses.  She has her own unique little skillset.  

In 1938, in very rural Kansas and perhaps anywhere else, there wasn't a word to define Sharon's condition.  Just the "R" word. Not a happy word, with a lot of stigma attached.  

Stigma, and sadness.  Especially as the years passed and there wasn't any way to help her.  She would be Mom and Dad's little girl for the rest of their lives.

After they passed away she would live separated from her family, with her three sisters involved in her life from a distance.    

In this current day and age there is so much more help and hope for children like Sharon.  No more "R" word.  It's been replaced by kinder words that define and diagnose and explain why. I can think of a word that starts with "A" that may very well apply to my Sharon.  There are now so many ways of early intervention, using different approaches and treatments with great success, giving opportunities for fulfilling lives.  

I often wonder how different Sharon's life would be had she been born several decades later.  

But she wasn't.   

While her sisters all grew up, left home and went on to have families and careers, Sharon did not.  She wanted to, and she would often say "I wonder when I'll finally get married and have a family."  

She would say it often, OFTEN, and every single time I would feel a stabbing pang of guilt because I possessed something my sister Sharon could never have.  My dreams weren't that different from Sharon's.  Except mine came true.  And hers couldn't.   I can't think about that without getting teary.  

Her little girl ways endured, even up to this very day really.  And seriously, there's something beautiful about child-like simplicity.  

Sharon personifies simplicity.  Give her a cup of coffee "Make that decaf please", take her shopping or to a garage sale "Look what I bought!!", play a game of cards with her  "Shall we get into a Pitch deck?"..... that's about all it takes to make her happy.  

Especially, especially, if she's with her family.  Her sisters.  And her "brothers".  (Never would she ever refer to any of our husbands as in-laws).  Her nieces and nephews couldn't have a more adoring aunt.  

She loves us all, and she's not afraid to say so.  Accompanied by a very warm hug.  

Later on this month we are going to celebrate our Sharon.  We shall pick her up at her group home where she is wonderfully cared for by skilled staff.  We shall surprise her with a party filled with family, food, fun.  And red roses.  Her favorite.  Rose of Sharon.  That's what she'll call them.  

She will smile, she will laugh loudly, she will talk happily to everyone at her party. 

I think if you lined up every member of her family and assessed who had  made the most of the tools they'd been given...... Sharon would win.  

Happy birthday, my dear Sharon.  I love you.  

 Sharon and I, 1955.  She was such a beautiful young girl.

Sharon, by Ottawa Co Lake, not far from where she spent her childhood on the farm. 

  

Do you know? Have you heard?

One of my favorite rooms in our home is an unfinished room in our basement that contains the furnace and hot water heater.  Ductwork is visible through the unfinished walls and ceiling.  A single lightbulb is affixed to a ceiling joist. It's also our "office" of sorts.  A real cozy place with random pieces of carpet on the cement floor and our grandkids' artwork taped up here and there.  My husband's desk and our printer are down there as well as file cabinets full of all manner of stuff that probably has very little significance.  And there are several shelves of books, MANY MANY BOOKS, that we've collected over the years.  

Generally I just go into that room to print things off. Our printer is so slowwwww that I have quite a bit of time to sit in the chair that's down there and just gaze around at the book titles and artwork and multi-patterned floor coverings.    

Nice way to pass the time and help me forget that I'd like a newer, faster printer.  

Every now and then I'll run across something that I consider a treasure.  
A few days ago I hit the jackpot:

Holy Bible, King James Version. With my mother's handwriting on the "presented to" page.  She even used my formal name, not "Bunny".  You may notice that the book is pretty fragile, being held together by tape.  















I hadn't seen this book for years and of course it transported me back to Christmas 1965, the date I received it.  I'm certain that 10 year-old me politely appreciated the gift.  It replaced the children's Bible that she'd given me on my baptism day a few years earlier.  

However,  17 year-old me came to really love the gift. 

If you've read very many of my blog posts you are aware that I lost my dad to leukemia a few days before Christmas in 1972, when I was 17.  I made the statement last year in my Christmas post that  "The typical stuff of Christmases past went out the door that year. And in came Jesus."    

But I didn't really elaborate on the "in came Jesus" part.  

I spent a lot of time alone during the weeks that led up to Dad's death.  In the evenings before bedtime I would be swept away in sadness.  I would pray through my flood of tears, asking God to give me strength because I just didn't know how I could live without my father.  

And during one of those prayer times I opened my Bible and read 
words that leaped off the page and into my heart.  I underlined these words.  I even memorized them in King James text. 

                                                                      Isaiah 41:13                            

And Isaiah 40: 28-31, which in modern translation says these words:

 Do  you not know, have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth.  
He never grows faint or weary, and  there is no limit to His understanding.  
He gives strength to the weary and strengthens the powerless.  Youths may faint and grow weary, and young men stumble and fall, but those who wait on the LORD will renew their strength, they will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary; they will walk and not faint.  

It was the very first time I experienced the Bible as the living word of God.  "In came Jesus", through the presence of God who spoke to me through His words that soothed my soul and brought me hope and strength.   

I experienced the Immanuel, God With Us of Christmas as these words told me that God would "hold thy right hand, saying...Fear not I will help thee".    "There is no limit to his understanding" told me that He understood my tears, he understood my pain.  "Those who wait upon the Lord will renew their strength" encouraged me to just wait on Him, trust Him,  and He would be faithful to give me what I needed to face the uncertain days ahead.

Opening this old Bible, seeing the words of truth that I underlined all those years ago..... I can't find the words to describe just what that meant to me.  Forty-five years ago as a heart-broken little girl God gave me a promise that He would be my strength, He would hold my hand, he would always, always understand me.  And He has kept his promise.  

Do you not know, have you not heard?    I pray you will know and hear.  I pray you will open the living Word of the One who created you and loves you more than you can imagine.  If you're wondering where to start, you can't go wrong with the book of John in the New Testament.  Or.....the Christmas story..... Luke 2:1-21.  

Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.  The best gift ever.  The Living Word.

  



               

Time well spent

This is what's left of a gift from my dad.  He bought me the entire set of encyclopedia books, but this is the only thing I kept after Google came into being.  Partly because I'm a word geek, but mainly because of the inside note you see here with his handwriting.  1968.  These items will never be found in a landfill.  Treasures.


My dad was a cabinet maker.  
Probably self-taught. Probably out of necessity.  He built pine cabinetry for various family members' homes.  His mother's kitchen was outfitted with some of his handiwork if I remember correctly.  Our own kitchen as well as the two other rental homes he owned also featured his kitchen cabinets.  

Functional, no-frills, not one ornate feature.  

One could describe the entire B.T. Krisher family that way.  

Daddy enjoyed working with all types of wood but walnut was his favorite.  He really appreciated the dark rich tones, textures and patterns in the grain.  And since he also loved his wife and daughters and family he built several things for each of us out of walnut lumber.  Desks, a little wall cabinet with shelf, book case.   I can say with certainty that none of these pieces of furniture would have been considered HGTV worthy.  But they were beautiful to his family.  We loved them.   Because we loved him. 

I was looking inside the doors of my wall cabinet just a couple weeks ago and discovered that the sliding door panels were made of strips of wood held together with red duct tape.  Red.  Duct.  Tape.  😁 Bear in mind that it was built in the 1960's.  The tape still holds. 

The bookends pictured at the top of this post are my favorite of his handmade gifts to me.  And, yes, there is red duct tape on the inside of the bookends.  

The desks have all for the most part fallen to pieces.  Mine is propped up against a wall in our family room with the wall cabinet sitting on top of it. Two of the desk legs are what you might call fractured beyond repair.   If there were a mild gust of wind in my family room the whole set-up would collapse.   My heart won't let me get rid of it.  My fingers almost wouldn't even type the last four words of the previous sentence.  

Some of the best times of my childhood were spent in that workshop behind the house.  Just Daddy and me.  As daughter number 4 and the last failed chance for him to finally get a son, he included me in most all of his woodworking projects.  Holding the lumber while he used the table saw or circular saw, holding the end of the tape measure, bringing him tools, helping him clamp and glue.  

Good times.   

Speaking of time...today I bought a new clock for our living room.   As I was unpacking and inspecting it, a long-forgotten memory flooded my mind.  

My dad once built a little clock for our home.  Out of walnut.  He crafted a 12" square piece of walnut and polished it up nicely then took the guts from an old clock to use for the mechanical part.  No duct tape was used this time.  And the clock worked.  I had it in my childhood bedroom on top of my desk.  I haven't seen it for years, have no idea at all where it ended up. Hadn't given it a thought until today.  

It was one of the last projects he tackled before he passed away.   It was a clock, yes, but today it occurred to me that it was more likely he was wishing he could give us time.  Which, with his leukemia, was something he was unable to do.  Our time together was oh so short.  A clock was as close as he could come.  A reminder of the precious nature of time.  

I'm not sure why this memory waited until now to come to me.  But I do know it's Christmas season.  

Many of us are making attempts to fulfill our children's "hopes and dreams" with the purchase of some trendy item that will end up in the back of a toybox somewhere, forgotten quickly.    

Or we're  struggling to find a gift for that older parent who has "everything".  

Let me offer the best suggestion ever.  Give them yourself.  Give them time with you. 

When it's all said and done and you're looking back at the years that have passed I can completely guarantee from experience you'll wish you had more time. 

 I wish I could find the clock.  But these are treasured memories of a simpler time with the man I was privileged to call Daddy.  

Time well spent. 

The year that changed Christmas forever

1972, my senior year of high school.  I was 17.  Dad had been battling leukemia for close to two years and it had been a roller coaster of both physical and emotional health. Mom continued to work because, well, she had to support us financially.    They celebrated their 37th wedding anniversary in late October and then of course the calendar was leading us on into Thanksgiving and Christmas.   

Thanksgiving that year was uncharacteristically cold and for some reason Dad started interrogating  me about my ability to change a tire during the 4 day break from school.    I assured him that Mr Campbell taught us the fine art of changing a tire during my freshman year of driver's ed.  This information didn't satisfy him and he simply insisted that we go out into the driveway so that I could prove to him that I could change a tire.  He was pretty weak, and it was bitter cold.  But he made his way out there and watched me, giving me step by step instructions.  Mission accomplished, I passed his test and we went back inside the house to warm up.  

Between that day and early December his health took a nosedive and on December 5th I watched as Mom, my brother-in-law, and my sister loaded Daddy up in the car to take him to the hospital in Salina.  I watched them drive away and as I walked back into the empty house, I had the overwhelming feeling that he wouldn't be coming home again.  

Over the next several days Mom stayed with Dad at the hospital and I went about school and my activities as much as possible, visiting him as much as I could in the evenings.  The weather was just horrible with snow and ice.  Mom had the good car in Salina, and I was driving the old Ford F150 red pickup, which we called Zip because its maximum speed was about 40mph.  Would you believe that during that period of time I had multiple flat tires on the pickup? Changed them all except one which was changed by a sympathetic passerby.  (Side note: I had never needed to change an actual flat tire before and to this day I have never ever changed a tire again)

I put up a little Christmas tree in the living room and tried to work up some holiday spirit.  But my heart was breaking little by little as I watched Daddy grow weaker and weaker when I went to visit him. He passed into the arms of Jesus on December 19.  Our hearts were relieved that his suffering was over, and our hearts were also broken into pieces at the same time.  

Christmas that year was not Christmas as we'd ever known it.  And it never would be again.   

The title of this blog post indicates that Christmas was changed forever. Changed, but certainly not ruined.  Not at all.  Far from it.  

In fact, you might be surprised to know that my heart learned exactly what the real meaning of Christmas is during those last two weeks of Dad's life.  

I spent a lot of time alone during that time.  Changing tires like Daddy had taught me to. Going through the motions of life as best I could.   Crying out to God with tears flooding my face.  Praying like never before.  Deep excruciating sadness like never before in my young life.  

The typical stuff of Christmases past went out the door that year. 

And in came Jesus.   Wonderful counselor, mighty God, everlasting Father, prince of peace.  Bringing comfort and strength that I desperately needed.  Loving as only God can perfectly love. Bringing hope even in the midst of deep sadness.   Immanuel, God with us.  God With Us.  What could be better than the very presence of Christ in our lives?  I can assure you from experience....nothing is better. 

Since 1972, the holly jolly, ho ho ho, giddy exuberance of Christmas never really happened for me again.  Losing someone you love will do that.  But it has been replaced by all is calm, all is bright, heavenly peace. Immanuel.  God with us.  The real deal.  Right there in a manger.  

  

I just have to wonder about that day.

Consider this scenario for me please:  A woman in her late thirties finds herself with an unplanned pregnancy.   The details surrounding her situation are sketchy. She does not choose to keep this baby for reasons that are only hers to know. And not ours to judge.  The known facts are that is she is in this country illegally, has no money, no health insurance, an unplanned womb occupant, and has had no prenatal care. Not an easy situation for anyone to be in.

At twenty-four to twenty-five weeks gestation the baby is delivered by emergency c-section.  The third trimester begins in week 28.  This baby.... aborted fetus.... you get the picture.  Eyes fused shut, skin so delicate that he can't be touched by human hands without harming him, APGAR score is 2 (TWO) and by 5 minutes is all the way up to 4 (FOUR).   If you are a little vague on the meaning of APGAR scores, google it.  This baby was in deep deep trouble.  Weight was 1 pound and 10 ounces and he was about a foot long. 

Imagine you are in that surgical suite looking at this fragile tiny piece of humanity who for all practical purposes is about to leave this world without immediate medical intervention and even then.....??  There is no insurance, there is no money to pay for heroic medical intervention or even a baby aspirin.  

But decisions were made and this baby was quickly transported 150 miles by medical helicopter to a NICU.    Whisked away from a womb that couldn't keep him, struggling to survive, needing a miracle in the worst way..... even though he had no one with him at the time who called him their own.  No one.  Alone.  I have to wonder if the doctors and emergency personnel on board that helicopter had at least a fleeting thought that this trip was not going to end well, if the phrase "waste of time" entered their minds, if the fact that the cost of saving this life was going to be astronomical and there was no one to pay for it except the taxpayer dollar.  I hope not, but I can't help but wonder what went through their minds on that late-night trip.   

In the course of the next three months of his life, the little fellow had blood transfusions, pneumonia, brain bleeds, possible seizure activity and all the other routine experiences of an extreme preemie.  He avoided any surgeries, and his little heart..... was very healthy and strong.  His little heart wasn't aware that he had no visitors.  No one called to inquire about his well-being.  No pictures were taken of him because.... ???? no one wanted pictures of him.  But I would never ever say no one wanted him.  I would never ever say that any baby is unwanted. 

 After three months of life in the NICU  the birth mom officially relinquished her parental rights.  That's where the story begins for my youngest grandson.  He went from a near-abortion type experience to being a cherished and adored member of our family.   Adoption --- it's a beautiful thing.   If you're my facebook friend you've seen pictures of him with his parents. (yes, I know, MANY pictures of him)  His parents' happiness oozes out of those pictures.  His happiness does, too.  He's approaching two years of age now and developmentally right on target.  He is a little miracle.  I thank God that his little life was spared.  And I thank God that in that surgical suite almost two years ago..... I can't even go there without getting teary-eyed.   Many details are unknown to me about the day of my grandson's birth, but I do know that someone did the right thing, made the right decision, and I am deeply grateful.

What if?

Historically, I have been what you might call the Queen of What If.  This condition started early on in childhood but  escalated quickly the very first time I held my first baby in my arms.  

What if....I break her?  What if....she breaks me??  

Worry.  What if.  By the time my husband or children walk through the door 15 minutes later than I've anticipated?  Well, I've already started the grieving process, just knowing they're in a ditch somewhere.  

In this particular day and age we are bombarded with opportunities to just wallow in worry.  Especially if we allow ourselves to get sucked into watching The News.  On any station you pick, it's going to bring you down down down.  Just the intonation and delivery of the news by television commentators will spark your What If tendencies and make you miserable.  I feel like a lot of television journalists can make even good news sound bad.  Who needs that?

Do yourself a favor.  Turn your TV off.  

Would you consider that life is better than we're led to believe?  Would you look around and find the good?  Seriously, it's everywhere.  It really is.  Make a list, you'll be amazed!

Back to the What Ifs.... sometimes they do come true.  Sometimes things do go horribly wrong.  Sometimes our lives are broken. We long for peace.  We need peace.  We won't make it without inner peace.

And we have access to that peace.  The Prince of Peace.  He's there for us, we're getting ready to celebrate His birth in a few weeks.  Jesus is peace, and Christmas should remind us of that fact.

But today is Thanksgiving and I learned something new recently in a Bible study I'm part of.  Peace starts with thanksgiving.  Being thankful activates trust in God.  The action of thanking God in everything, everything, reminds our hearts that God's in control.  We can trust Him.  He has never failed us.  He will never fail us.  In fact, He cannot fail us.  He knows the beginning from the end, the "Big Picture",  and even when we can't see the good, it's there.  We can trust Him with every part of our lives, and that brings peace.  

We can choose thankful prayer over wallowing in anxiety and worry.  This demonstrates trust in God.  "Concentrating on Him instead of being absorbed by our circumstances tells the Lord that we believe He is able to override and overcome even the most difficult issues.  This kind of faith catches His attention, and he responds by activating His peace within us."  (Priscilla Shirer, Armor of God)

Please believe me when I tell you that peace is there for the asking.  Thankful prayer will bring you peace.  It's that simple.  

What if... today's the day you reach out for peace through thankful prayer and trusting God!  It's the perfect day for that.....Happy Thanksgiving!  

Can I hear you now? Pretty unlikely.

So my dad had lots of admirable qualities and features that I would love to have inherited.  Hearing deficit wasn't one of them, but it seems that's the one I received.  No big deal, no complaints really.  I've found that there are kind of unexpected perks to having a bit of hearing loss at times.  😉  Might as well make the best of it, huh?  

And like every other unpleasant physical condition, it's always a good idea to find the humor and laugh at yourself occasionally.

Several years ago while shopping in a local Walmart store, I heard my name called over the PA system.  "Benita Coffman to aisle 2 please".  Having just recently moved from a really small town to big old Wichita it took me by surprise to hear my name like that.  So I didn't respond immediately, thinking I'd heard wrong.  But then a few minutes later, same announcement.  After the third time I began to wonder what in the world  was going on, so I timidly made my way to Aisle 2.  

After reaching that aisle, I saw a store employee and walked up to her.  She looked at me and asked if she could help me.  I tentatively said "I'm Benita Coffman".  Which elicited a puzzled look from her face.  About that time the announcement came over  the PA again.  I could hear it clearly this time.  "I need a stock man to aisle 2 please.".  Well.  What do you know.  Ineeda Stockman.  Not really my name.   That was embarrassing.  Then I said "Oh, never mind" and quickly walked on down the aisle.   Good grief.   

The wonderful thing about Walmart is that there's no real high standard of behavior for their customers.  But still.  I was pretty mortified and swore that something of this nature would NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN.  !!!  

And I vowed to never again listen to any PA system messages in any retail store while shopping.  Just ignore it, Benita.  You cannot hear well enough to deal with that kind of stuff.  Face it, no one will EVER be calling your name over the PA in a retail store.  

A few years later during my lunch break from work I decided to leave the building and go to Walgreens.  Just wanted to get out of the building for a bit and buy some much-needed snacks for the break room.  And so of course I strolled through every aisle of that store because there might just be new hair products or some fantastic AS SEEN ON TV product screaming "buy me".  

But I didn't hear the "Buy Me" message.  What I did hear was this:  "Benita Coffman to customer service".  No way, not falling for it.  They just need a stock man to customer service.   I continued shopping and of course the message was repeated.  I kind of shivered with horror as I recalled that one day at Walmart.  Not happening to me again.  Ever.   I made my way to the checkout counter and again heard my name.  By this time it was becoming pretty difficult to not say something to the checkout employee but....NO WAY.  

I quickly paid for my purchases and practically ran out the door and got into my car, feeling proud that I handled this little situation way better than that Walmart fiasco a few years prior.  Nothing wrong with my hearing.  They needed a stock man.  You know, old Ineeda Stockman.  

As I entered my workplace after lunch break I was met by a recently hired new nurse who frantically said "Why didn't you answer your page at Walgreens?  We needed you back here right away!!".  Apparently she overheard me talking about my lunch plans to go to Walgreens.  Uh oh.  Happily, it really wasn't as emergent as she was inclined to believe and when I told her and the rest of the gang why I ignored the page based on previous Walmart history, everyone got a good chuckle out of it.  

Laughter is okay.  Laughter is therapeutic.  Laughter is actually a pretty good way to deal with silly situations that try to reduce one's self esteem to record low levels.  Might as well laugh.  😊

I still don't listen to overhead announcements in public buildings.  I may end up wearing a hearing aide soon, but I will forever refuse to respond to anything that sounds like my name coming out of a loudspeaker in a store.  Nope. I ain't doing it.  

Energizer Bunny? Hardly.

This past summer I accompanied my husband on a work trip to Seattle.  It seemed like the perfect opportunity to visit what I'd heard is one of the  most beautiful places on earth.  

I heard correctly.  It is.  Beauty everywhere you drive. 

But the truth is, I didn't do any driving.  No wheels for this old chick.  The hubby had the rental car during the day so I was pretty much sequestered in the hotel which was in a lovely  area about 15 miles from his workplace.  And 15 miles equaled a 90 minute drive time for him to and from work.  Yes.  90 minutes for 15 miles.  Just one way.  It was a total of 180 minutes, THREE HOURS drive time each day for him.  Which served to extend my sequestered hotel time to approximately 12 hours each day.  


So I took the opportunity to learn how to use Snapchat on my phone. Valuable skills.  Perhaps skills that will add depth and appeal to my resume.  

Or not.  

Hey, I'm not looking for a job anyway. 
 R-E-T-I-R-E-D.  Don't you forget that. 

Re: snapchat and this picture.... Just to clarify, there was no mini-bar in the hotel room.  And to further clarify, I don't really drink.  

No complaints with the no-car bit, my feet work and Lord knows I need to rise up out of my chair and use them more often.  So I did log a lot of steps during that week along the walking path near the hotel. Lots of beautiful scenery but zero stores or shops or even a Starbucks anywhere near the walking path.  Just office buildings and techie type work places everywhere.  

After a couple days of taking ridiculous Snapchat pictures of myself and doing laundry and walking the same lovely path over and over, I decided to exercise the Uber app on my phone instead of my feet and get a ride to a quaint little shopping center a few miles away.  Sounded like a great way to spend several leisurely hours until the Mister got home from work.  

Have you used Uber?  It's an okay way to get a ride, though we found out it can be pricey depending on the time of day in Seattle.  Rush hour to our hotel from downtown Seattle one way?  $75.00  😲 But from the hotel to this little shopping area it was pretty reasonably priced. 

Shortly after ordering a ride I found myself in a car with a very pleasant man whose language skills didn't include fluent English.  And  me with my hearing deficit.  Delightful combination.  Plus he was new to the area and the route was complicated with road construction re-routes.  Imagine that.  It was a cumbersome trip and I was ecstatic to finally open the door and depart the car.  At the intended location, though the driver ended up dropping me off towards the back of the shopping center at the service/delivery entrance near the trash bins instead of the customer parking up front.  Why, you ask?  I have no earthly idea.  Language barrier.   

Country Village, Bothell, Washington.  So quaint, so lovely, so many fun shops to stroll through.  I parted with quite a few coins but mainly I took photos because it was just so picturesque.    

         Isn't it lovely?  I bought coffee and a scone and wandered around taking one picture after another after another after another.                                                                                    

  

And I learned something about my new Samsung phone's battery capacity.  It ain't so very whippy when you've been taking one picture after another after another.  Then posting them on Facebook.  And using the battery-depleting Snapchat app.  And using the Uber app to summon a vehicle.  And using Google to find Country Village shops because your Uber driver doesn't understand what you're saying.  

Why is battery life on my phone of any consequence to this story?  Because.... in order to return to my hotel I would have to use my Uber app on my phone to request another car.  And after only a little over  1 leisurely hour spent at Country Village I glanced at my phone to see the battery was down to 2% which meant it was on the verge of shutting down and leaving me stranded. Though I was nowhere near being done with my leisurely shopping trip,  I found it necessary to quickly order up an Uber car and then shut off my phone to try and preserve battery.  

Then I stood out by the front of the shopping center at what I thought was the main entry road.  There were several different entry roads to choose from.  Which posed a problem.  I didn't know which entrance the driver would select after the first Uber driver dumped me out at the service/delivery entrance.  I didn't know what the car looked like because I'd shut down my dying phone before checking on the model/color of Uber car.  Or how long my expected wait would be.   And the driver couldn't call me because my phone battery was dead and wouldn't start back up.  And....if you aren't where you're supposed to be when Mr. Uber arrives, they leave and charge your card for the trip.   Oh.  My.  Word.  

So there I stood, looking closely at every one of the many many cars that were driving by me.   No one showed any interest in looking at me.  I get that a lot.  😏  Finally I looked way across the parking area to the far entrance and thought I saw a white Prius driving slowly while the driver glanced here and there.  Typical Uber driver behavior.  But the distance between me and that car was substantial.  And I am not what you might call fleet of foot.  Long in the tooth, but not fleet of foot.  With no other real option, I did what I never do.  I ran after the car, which had now made it deep into the interior of the shopping center proper, even further from me.  Great.   Let's be honest, no one who saw me at that moment would have defined what I was doing as "running".  More like a panicky waddle.   Plus I was carrying more than a few bags of stuff I'd bought during my brief time shopping.  

The driver of the white Prius eventually looked my way and motioned me to stop where I was.  I think the sight of my panicky waddle frightened him a bit or perhaps he was thinking "don't make me use my CPR skills, lady".  He then started to slowly drive toward me.  Sure enough, he was an Uber driver.  With the trademark lack of fluent English skills.  At that point I didn't even care if I was the rider he was supposed to pick up.  I just got in his car and prayed that he'd take me to the hotel.  He looked at me and spoke words that I loosely interpreted as being my name.  Close enough anyway.  

Made it to the hotel.  Very happy to open the door to our room, drop my bags on the floor, and flop into the closest chair.  Oh, and plug my phone into the charger.  The entire leisurely shopping adventure ended up whittling a mere 2.5 hours from my 12 hours of sequestration that day.  But it was an eventful 2.5 hours.  

In response to the eventful experience I could have chosen to become more athletic,  working out and running marathons so that next time chasing an Uber car would have been easier.  Instead, I purchased an external battery type phone charger that fits easily in my purse.  No more dead phone batteries. Problem solved.   

Very awesome little gadget.  Get yourself one.