Bits of the Real Iowa

In Iowa over spring break last week, I pulled into a parking lot and rolled my window down while waiting to meet a friend. I heard familiar birds cackling from a small grove of evergreen trees. The sound pulled my lip into a snarl. Red-winged Blackbirds. They nested in the ditches near Mom and Dad's house when I was growing up. In the spring, they would dive-bomb us kids when we rode our bikes on the gravel road. I was sure that “The Birds” in Alfred Hitchcock’s movie must have been Red-winged Blackbirds. Their call reminded me that there are some things I do not miss about Iowa. I made a note to remember more of those on this trip... No matter the season, if you live on a country road, your vehicle is covered in dust, and you have dust lines on the back of your pants at calf-level and probably the front of your waist – from bumping legs on the car getting into it and leaning against the trunk to put items into it. These lines are telltale signs that you live on a gravel road. Will and his cousin played “Here Comes the Bride” at Mom and Dad’s 50th renewal ceremony. Will loaded his trumpet into the back of our car and leaned right up against the dusty metal. Fortunately, it was a dry day, so a few brushes with my hand knocked off the dust from his bright red polo shirt. A few days before that, it rained heavily. I thought the dust on the car would get washed away – that’s what happens at our house in the Northeast. However, the gravel on Iowa country roads is limestone. Limestone dust becomes clay-like when it gets wet. Then the sun comes out and bakes it onto the cars. A few trips down the road and the car becomes encrusted with more layers. Only a power washer can remove the build-up.

Liam was set on taming a cat at Grandpa and Grandma’s, but they are all full-grown and wild. Liam, Will, and their cousins were able to tame a kitten when we visited in June a couple years ago. It was the runt of a feral litter and it was starving. The four of them nursed it back to health with food and were able to pet him as they fed him. Skippy left the wild and went on to live at my sister’s house. Now, there are seven or eight wild cats on the farm. Their eyes are shifty; they creep up to you because they want food. They prance in and out of Mom and Dad’s feet until fed or yelled at. Any sudden movements, like a bend to pet them, send them nervously scattering. The cats navigate between farms and may disappear from Mom and Dad’s for a few hours before returning to scavenge on dinner table scraps. Liam sees them only as cats with cuddle potential; I see them only as wild animals, never to be tamed, and as a tripping threat to Mom and Dad,

One of the best parts of the day on the farm is early morning. The sunrise on a wide horizon trickles in through the bathroom blinds and pours in through the living room windows when the curtains are pulled to the side. (This is a winter shot taken outside at Mom and Dad's.)

One morning last week, the glow was dazzling. To get a full unobstructed view, I slipped sandals on and opened the back door. I caught a left hook from the smell of pig shit; it knocked the vision of the sunrise right off my horizon. Pigs are big business in Iowa. It used to be if the wind was out of the south the smell was bad. Now with more pig farmers on all sides of Mom and Dad, it’s always lingering in the air. More stringent on some days than others. That morning, I closed the door on it and went back to the living room window.

There you have it. A little piece of the Real Iowa: dive bombing Red-winged Blackbirds, gravel dust and clay on cars, freaky feral cats, and the stench of pig shit.

When we lived near Chicago, Bill and I had a favorite WGN radio segment that played late Friday afternoons: John Williams’ “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.” Looking for the bright side of these rural needles, I turned to youtube, and I found that Red-winged Blackbirds are striking and regal on a computer screen; a dust-filled rear van window can transform to a piece of artwork; a volunteer group is trying to neuter and spay 50 feral cats living in one farmer’s barn; and, as Dad might say, by God, pig shit can smell like vanilla!

Click each of these for a bit of the bright side:

 

With love from an Iowan.

April Fresh Scent

Shakespeare’s time was before toothbrushes, deodorant, and regular bathing. So people did what they could: washing underwear as often as they could afford; using scented waters and perfumes; and carrying nosegays. Throughout the 1980s, Mom made silk flower bouquets for brides, so I know “nosegay” as a very small hand-held bouquet. It’s presence in the 1500s was the same size, perhaps even just a single fragrant flower. However, in that era, its meaning was very literal: to keep the nose gay. While in crowds of people, all of whom probably had some degree of body odor, the nosegay was held to the nose to help block the unpleasantries.

I have used similar tactics as a parent. I recall a late summer festival a few years ago at Stage Fort Park in Gloucester, Massachusetts. The park is a long sprawling green area right on the ocean. The parking lot is across the road from the playground which was our starting point. After swinging, climbing, and teeter-totting, we moved to the outdoor car show adjacent to the playground. While Bill tried to lure the boys to and through antique, or muscle, or exotic cars – to me all were just shiny vehicles with four wheels, I saw small tents set up in rows just beyond the food booths. An art show. A wide selection of potential made-in-the-U.S.A. Christmas gifts for family and friends in England.

We needed to make our way through lunch and through those food booths to go shopping. The outdoor food aroma was reminiscent of smelling pork chop sandwiches at the Buchanan County Fair in Independence, Iowa. Fried dough and cotton candy sweetening the air at the Topsfield Fair in Massachusetts. Here hugging the Atlantic, the aroma was undoubtedly that of fried clams. Strips or bellies. The smell pulled me like that of corn dogs when I was little – when the carnival rides and food trucks filled the main street in my hometown and when I had just enough money in my pocket to indulge in a couple of those fried dogs on sticks.

Will couldn’t bear to go near the intoxicated atmosphere surrounding the food booths. His sensitive nose smelled an enemy. We stayed on the outskirts of the food booths, staking out a spot near the ocean to picnic. Then Bill dove headlong into that clam haven and emerged with fries for Will and Liam and a basket of clams for him and me to share. We put space between the clams and the fries, but still the noise over the complaints of the smell drowns out the memory of the tastes from that fried clam lunch.

As we finished lunch, I again eyed the art fair. We could only get there by walking through the air that was soaked with fried clams. I told Will to hold his French fries to his nose. We made it through the festival with this improvised nosegay. It was a condensed shopping trip. For the boys, shopping was ranked right up there with the smell of clams.

Before driving home, we took a bathroom break. I followed the stream of women toward the park’s main bathroom. Then, with the wind in the perfect direction, I smelled the sweetest scent. It was from the past. I missed it. I closely followed the woman in front of me while we stood in line, breathing in her trailing air. It wasn’t an expensive perfume. It wasn’t the nostalgic detergent smell of Grandma Murphy’s apartment. It was Downy. The fabric softener.

Liam has had eczema since he was a baby, so the Laundry Maven did double-duty washing adult clothes in regular detergent, followed by a Downy rinse, and only using Dreft for our young sons’ laundry. During the preschool years, I met another mom who mentioned an allergen-free, environmentally-friendly laundry detergent that would work for all Malcolms: Charlie’s Soap. The Laundry Maven took notice and immediately halved the loads of laundry done in one week by washing everyone's clothes together. I became accustomed to the smell of nothingness in our clean laundry. Our clothes are clean, but there is no fresh scent residue when they come out of the dryer.

The place we stayed during February break this year laundered their towels and sheets using a fabric softener in the rinse. With a week of fresh-smelling linens, the Laundry Maven decided to take action: Towels and sheets for the master bedroom would be washed in Charlie’s Soap and a little bit of Downy would be added to the rinse water. Not a lot. Just _enough_.

In the washer, the agitator has a cup on top labeled, “Pour in one capful of fabric softener.” A big jug of Downy still sits in the laundry room. Bottom shelf of the baker’s rack, tucked to the back. The Laundry Maven dusted off the Downy bottle and took off the lid. A gentle tipping of the heavy bottle produced the lurking of a thick blue slug peering its faceless head out of the bottle.

In Grandma Murphy’s words of disgust, “Oooo-gah!”

In Great Grandma Whittier words of frugality, “Waste not, want not.”

In replicating Grandma Mills’ practicality, driven by her mother and teacher Great Grandma Whittier, the Laundry Maven was not long disgusted or perplexed. She brought to the laundry room a 2-cup Pyrex measuring cup and a small whisk. A 2-inch slug flopped into the bottom of the cup. With the addition of a half cup of water and a brisk whisk, the slug melted into a more familiar state of Downy, the fabric softener. A scant quarter cup went in with the load of towels. When they sprung from the dryer, they were again, at long last, April fresh.

The 64-ounce bottle of concentrated Downy slugs should last at least a year.

Happy Hump Day.

Waiting for the UPS Man

I’m at a turning point in the anti-breast-cancer process. It was 23 degrees this morning when I dropped Liam off at school. I have a delivery today that shouldn’t freeze: 3.75 mg of Lupron, so I’m writing at home, waiting for the delivery of this tiny bottle of medicine that I have injected monthly. It shuts down hormones that fed the type of breast cancer I had. It’s an intramuscular injection which translates to a big needle, but after near six years and 72 injections, I barely feel a twinge.

For five years I was part of a study at MGH (Massachusetts General Hospital). I took an aromatase inhibitor orally every day and an injection of Triptorelin every month. The aromatase inhibitor shut down hormones produced throughout my body from various glands and fat cells. The Triptorelin, basically the same as Lupron, shut down hormone production in the ovaries.

Post-study, I still take the aromatase inhibitor and now the Lupron. When I started the study, research showed a 5-year anti-hormone regimen, like Tamoxifen, was effective. By the end of the 5-year study, research had proven that 10 years of post-cancer hormone treatment was more effective and strongly recommended.

The monthly injections have meant a drive into Boston every month. For the first 60 injections, I returned to the infusion suite every month. It was a 30-second appointment that could cost two to six hours round-trip. I spent much of the time convincing myself I could spend the rest of the day in Boston and enjoy the city. That never happened. Ever.

Sometimes I kept the appointment as just that. Walk in, get jabbed, walk out. I was always greeted with a smile and asked how my boys were doing, for the receptionists knew them from the summer injections. The nurse or volunteer would lead me back to the infusion suite with a warm blanket and a bottle of water. “I don’t need those; I’m just hear for a quick injection,” I started to explain. Eventually, I just said thanks and put both aside.

If I could help it in those 76 visits, I did not sit down in the Captain Chemo chair. The over-sized, comfy recliners I had used during my infusion stint. Perhaps in the summer months, when the boys were with me, I rested on the front edge of the chair like a bird perched on the edge of a nest, ready to fly. With every piece of me, I resist sinking back into that chair. Ever.

When I was done with the study, I broke down in my oncologist’s office. He saw the tire tracks on me that the trek to the infusion suite had left. Honestly, I didn’t realize how much they had been imprinting on me until no more trips to the infusion suite were necessary. Being done with the study, I could just go to the doctor’s office at MGH for the injection, and I did that for a little over a year.

A few months ago, my oncologist and I started working on a plan for getting the injection locally. Strangers with bald heads, ports, wigs – they were at my doctor’s office as well. And, generally, I was OK with that. Until my oncologist asked me how I was doing. He’s one of those few people who, apparently, holds truth serum in his voice. “We need to help you get a better quality of life” was his response to my sobbing.

What a strange statement. I have an amazing life. First, I am alive! I have a wonderful family and great people around me. I’m writing. However, the old calendar interpretation snagged me on this one. In my wisdom from age, I now know that just because there is white space on the calendar, I shouldn’t fill it all in; in fact, I put squares around some of that white space and write "Free" in them. Our family needs white space. Down time at home. Spontaneous time to go for a ride with friends to the beach. That little appointment I kept on a strict four-week rotation filled more white space on those days than I realized. White space that I needed – more on some days than others.

I flew to Iowa for a wedding last weekend and sat next to a woman who was a child in Finland during World War II; for safety, she was sent away from her family at the age of five. She was reunited with her mother when she was ten. She said she can’t remember much of her childhood but really "that is OK." I didn’t live through that war, but I do understand what she means. Some memories just aren’t worth holding onto. At some point, you draw a line in the sand and say, “Enough.” Step over the line and move forward.

My UPS man is my line in the sand today. He will deliver the medication and Thursday I will take it to my local doctor, five minutes away. In this one little-big area of my life, I’m looking forward to moving forward… and catching up with my curls. For this is history...

Mind you, while the above is a very personal, raw account of an emotional journey, please know that I would have done this study again in a heartbeat. Thus far, the study has proven that this regimen for pre-menopausal women has a better outcome than the traditional Tamoxifen regimen.

So now, I shall pull on my big girl pants and get on with it. A greater good was served, and that’s what I hold onto moving forward.

Click here for a link to an easy-to-understand summary of the study and the results on BreastCancer.org.

Happy Hump Day... The UPS man just pulled up! Honest to Pete!