Author: delilalumbardy@gmail.com

I became a bird watcher of sorts fifteen plus years ago when I moved to the prairie community of Recluse, Wyoming. Some of that had to do with the fact that there were more birds than people in this sparsely populated grasslands. Some of it had to do with the man I had just married that was into nature. I bought the Reader’s Digest Book of North American Birds and my husband bought me an 8×40 magnification pair of birding binoculars. We hung up four birdfeeders – one with common birdseed, one with nyjer seed for the finches, one with sugar water for the hummingbirds, and one for suet that I handmade in my kitchen. I was on the beginning of a journey to learn some amazing things about these feathered creatures.

One of the most fascinating and almost inconceivable  pieces of information I learned had to do with bluejays. I checked several reputable sites on the Internet to make sure someone wasn’t pulling my leg. What I found was that there was a consensus among the experts that the bluejay is not blue, but black. Now that I live in South Dakota we have plentiful numbers of bluejays that feast at our feeder. (I only saw one bluejay during the 13 years I lived in Recluse.) No matter how hard I try, I cannot make that vivid blue bird look black. But, they say it’s so. We only perceive their feathers as blue, according to the scientists. They explain it as the same phenomenon as why we see the sky as blue – a process that has to do with light refraction and reflection – whatever that means.

This morning I read about another instance, not related to birds, that had folks scratching their heads. This had to do with a man – a man by the name of David McNight from Durham, North Carolina. Mr. McNight was better known by the locals as “the street fiddler.” The disheveled older man with unruly gray hair spent much of his later years on the streets of Durham, playing his instrument and gathering a few coins that those passing by might toss into his opened fiddle case. The folks in Durham may have thought they knew Mr. McNight; they certainly saw him often enough.  But when he succumbed to a brain tumor in 2017, many were surprised what stories his obituary held. David spoke many languages, was the graduate of a prestigious university, composed music compositions ranging from bluegrass to waltzes, and had even run for the senate at one point.

And my point of the blog this month is that we can be deceived easily. Birds and people are not always what they seem. Some people would take these examples to warn us again about the dangers of deception. Of course we need to be cautious, but this is not where these stories are taking me today.

Today, I am wondering how many people we think we know, when we really don’t know them at all. I wonder how many David McNight’s I have in my life. Maybe a few more sincere questions to the Davids of the world would make a difference in their lives and in mine. Maybe it’s not even a stranger or a casual acquaintance that we’ve not taken the time to know. Maybe we’ve lost touch, in the midst of our busy lives, with those that mean the most to us.

This week I’m going to strive to ask a few more questions. Maybe give an encouraging word to a clerk or a sympathetic pat to a downtrodden face, or a follow-up call to a friend who’s having issues. Maybe by this time next week, I can say I know “a David” a little better.

Until next month, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

 

There were three  kids in our family when I was growing up. My brother, Dave, is three years older than me, and my sister, Connie, is six years younger. As soon as we were old enough our summers consisted of working long days in the hayfield. Dad didn’t have hired men, so we were the next best thing. The pay wasn’t great, but we did get room and board, experienced the great outdoors, and learned how best to combat  deerflies, mosquitoes, and bees. In addition to that, Dad and Mom sent us all to college, making the pay  better than we realized at the time.

There was a summer or two that my brother was offered an actual “bring home pay” kind of hayfield job with a rancher down on Goose Creek. The folks encouraged him to take it to help with college expenses that would be coming up soon.  My little sister at this time hadn’t earned her right to passage yet (being able to reach the tractor clutch), which left Dad and me to put up the hay.

Many of the days in the hayfield were carbon copies of the previous day – hot sun, blue skies, bumpy treks across the meadow, and delightful smells of cut hay, meadow flowers, and fresh air. If we would see a blue heron fishing on the creek, or a family of grouse rising off the meadow, or a beaver slapping his tail along the creek bank, it was a bonus.  These events were notable for us, but not deeply branded into our memories.

There was, however, one sultry July day that presented a rather anomalous event that I remember clearly.  There was barely a breeze and the air hung heavy with humidity. The deerflies were out in hordes; coming after me from all directions. I noticed Dad, across the meadow,  swatting at them with his old straw hat. I did the best I could with my bare hand, sometimes leaving bloody blebs on my arms.

That day, I was in charge of raking up the scatterings of small bunches of hay that had escaped the teeth of the side delivery rake and of Dad’s front loader sweep. Once I had the scatterings arranged in a windrow, Dad would again maneuver the front loader down the hay row, picking up the scatterings and depositing them onto the stack he was making.

By mid afternoon, Dad, satisfied with the stack he had just finished, waved me towards the pickup. I was more than ready to take a break and leave the pesky deerflies to find some other poor  victim. “Let’s go to the house and have a piece of that chocolate cake your mom made before we tackle the next stack,” Dad hollered over the noise of our tractors.

Afternoon breaks usually lasted about twenty minutes – but occasionally longer. It often depended on whether Dad had an inclination to stretch out on the carpeted floor “for a few minutes” after making his stomach happy. This particular day, a few big sprinkles began hitting the kitchen window as we devoured our cake and lemonade. I could see the treetops swaying some now as I looked through that same window. Good! The deerflies wouldn’t be as prevalent when we went back.

“Let’s see what happens with this weather,” Dad said as he lowered himself to the floor and stretched out in front of the box fan. The sprinkles didn’t last long, but Dad’s nap lingered. That was okay by me – the novelty of the hayfield had worn off some time ago.

I refilled our silver thermos with ice and water and then picked up the book I’d been reading to pass the time until Dad awoke. Before I finished the chapter we were headed back out the door to the truck. As we turned onto the meadow, we noticed alarming changes. The first thing that got Dad’s attention was that the three haystacks he had constructed earlier had vanished – not a trace of them anywhere. While Dad was pining the loss of his stacks,  I was noticing the large cottonwood tree lying on its side beside the creek. “Look,” I pointed to the tree. “What happened?”

“Must have had a little twister come through.”

I was stunned we hadn’t known anything of it while we were at the house. But then, I remembered the noisy fan, Dad was sleeping, and I was absorbed in a book. It was possible, I supposed.

“Why did it knock that tree over and none of the others?” I said, pointing to the grove of trees that lined the road.

“I imagine it’s because that tree didn’t have a strong root system. Because it sat next to the creek, it’s roots didn’t have to go far to search for water.”

I have learned since that many things  determine the length of tree roots, but nothing more  than the soil conditions they are placed in. Dad was exactly right. Under general conditions, tree roots extend about 1.5 times the height of the tree and most are in the top foot of soil. There is a Banyan tree in the Botanical Gardens in Calcutta that far exceeds this “normal.” It’s root system spans out over three acres.

The Bible compares a man that trusts in the Lord as having roots like a tree. (Jeremiah 17:7-8.) As he trusts in the Lord, that man is not bothered by the storms of life just as the trees that lined our road were not bothered by the twister. Louisa May Alcott said it this way: I am not afraid of storms for I am learning how to sail my ship.

It is my hope that we may all  learn how to sail our ships with a little more confidence, even if it’s stroke by stroke.

Until next month, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

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There is a distasteful story I remember from my days in nursing school. This one has nothing to do with patients, but with a fellow classmate. In order to protect the innocent, I will call her Abby.  I do not remember a lot about Abby – except for this one incident that I have not forgotten in four decades.

Our three story dorm had a small kitchen area on the center floor that we could use to fix a home cooked meal if we wanted. Since many of us were hours away from home and some of us (like me) did not own a car to get home, we looked forward to any tasty treats that were concocted and shared from that kitchen.

Several of us had been invited to meet in the lounge area, adjacent to the kitchen, at 3:00 pm. on a Saturday afternoon. Rumor had been circulating for a couple of hours that Abby was in the kitchen baking a homemade pie from scratch. The rumors were confirmed when we stepped into the lounge area and smelled the aroma of sweet baked peaches. Brunner’s (our med-surg textbooks), care-plans, and visits to the library were momentarily forgotten as we licked our lips and settled into the soft couches and matching chairs.

Abby, with the help of a couple of classmates, began handing out the small paper plates of beautifully golden crusted pie. Those receiving the first plates held them in their laps, waiting for all of us to be served. When it came to homemade goodies, we had an unspoken code of culinary conduct – no one should be privileged to take a bite before another.

“Dig in,” yelled smiling Abby when the last person had been handed their plate. We did just that, but just as quickly, grim, grotesque facial distortions plastered our faces.  We spit the terrible taste from our mouths, muttering various words of dislike and displeasure. The sweet taste we had eagerly anticipated had been replaced by one of the most nasty to ever cross my lips.

Several of us thought this was some sort of premeditated joke Abby had played on us. As it turned out it was an honest mistake. Instead of reaching into the sugar canister for a cup of sugar, she had reached into the salt canister. After our disappointment subsided, we were able to laugh about it and encourage Abby who swore she would never bake again.

Salt (in moderation) is an important staple in our kitchens. The average American consumes a teaspoon and a half of salt (3400 mg of sodium) per day. Even though too much salt (as us girls found out) is detestable; too little or no salt makes for a  blah dish.

It is interesting to note that just as people around the globe have different ideas on most things, salt is no exception. The Yanomamo people of the Amazon Rain Forest get by on one tenth of a teaspoon of salt (200 mg of sodium) per day. On the other end of the spectrum are the people of northern Japan; consuming a whooping eleven teaspoons of salt (26,000 mg of sodium) every day. I’m thinking they may have liked Abby’s pie!

Table salt is what first comes to most people’s minds when the word “salt” is mentioned. But salt is used for so much more than that as the following chart displays:

Sixty-eight percent (blue) represents salt used for making industrial chemicals, twelve percent (red) is salt used in water conditioning, eight percent (orange) is used in highway deicing, six percent (green) is used in making fertilizers, and the final six percent (yellow) is our table salt. Overall, there are more than 14,000 different ways to use salt.

Without salt, we would have a very different world. When used in appropriate amounts salt is a very useful compound. Even the common phrase “salt of the earth” means fundamental goodness.  The expression originated in the Bible and was spoken by Jesus in Matthew 5:13 when he told his disciples they were the ‘salt of the earth’ (fundamentally good) and encouraged them to be a positive influence in the lives of those around them.

I can’t think of a more flattering description than to hear folks depict a friend, family member, co-worker, or neighbor as “salt of the earth,” just as Jesus referenced his disciples. Who do you think of as “salt of the earth”? Do you come to someone’s mind when they are asked that same question?

Until next month….keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

 

 

My husband and I like to watch “Jeopardy” after we clear the dinner dishes and wipe up the kitchen. It’s not that we know many answers/questions,  in fact we feel fortunate if between the two of us, we are able to answer a half dozen correctly. But there are those categories that we do better at. I get excited if there is a category that is medically or biblically oriented. I can often come close to ‘running the category’ in those two subjects.

This past week I lit up when I saw the category “The Human Body”. “Oh, boy,” I smiled and settled into my spot next to Stan on the reclining loveseat. I pulled the lever to elevate my feet, threw the fleece blanket over my legs, and settled in.  I anticipated a favorable outcome, so be it if it was only in one category.   I eagerly waited for the contestants to move off of “Classic Albums”, and “The Calendar” of which I hadn’t bothered to even guess the answers. “Come on,” I pleaded, “pick human body.”  I couldn’t wait to redeem myself!

Then it happened. The contestant in control, moved over to MY category. I beat the contestants in answering the first two clues.  Great….I was on a roll. Third clue: In relation to organs in the body, sinister refers to this. What? I leaned in and read it again. I could not remember the word sinister ever mentioned in my nursing studies  – except to describe the one instructor that gloated on writing difficult questions into her tests. And in forty plus years of experience, I could not recall anyone relating organs to sinister.  This must be a geographical  clue, I thought – something that is relative to California where they film “Jeopardy” and not Nebraska, Wyoming, and South Dakota where I had practiced. There was one small consolation – the three contestants were in my boat – none of them rang in. Alex Trebek seemed to get some satisfaction over enlightening us with the answer as he tipped his head downward, lifted his eyebrows upward, and spoke  slowly. Sinister organs are those organs on the left side of the body.

Really? I had never heard such a thing.  In an effort to solidify my hunch that this was a geographical issue, I  grabbed my phone and tapped on the  Facebook icon. I was determined to find out if any of my Midwest nursing friends had heard of this before. I was quite confident that most of them would be as much in the dark as I had been.   Okay folks, I wrote…who knows what it means when you are referring to a sinister organ?

Within seconds (too soon for anyone to look it up) a nurse I had worked with fifteen years earlier (in Wyoming)  wrote one word – left. Well…she was probably watching “Jeopardy” too. In her next entry she wrote simply: OS/OD. Left eye/right eye. Excuse the pun – but this wasn’t looking good for me.

I knew the initials OS and OD were abbreviations for  some long, difficult to pronounce  Latin words that would mean left eye and right eye.  My friend typed back: Sinister/Direct. Hmmm…not exactly Latin or unpronounceable. My friend didn’t bother to tell me what the “O” stood for. That’s okay – I had my smart phone.  Oculus – an eyelike opening. I was glad something was finally making sense. But, even with these reminders, I could not recall ever learning the actual words that “OS” and “OD” stood for. The one thing I did remember was a very useful “little ditty” a military nurse taught me about “OS” and “OD” and how to remember which eye belonged to which letters.  “OD stands for Officer of the Day,” she had said without hesitation,  “and they are always right.” Now, that is something that stuck with me!

This Jeopardy experience encouraged me to delve deeper into why we remember some things and not others. I learned that our minds have a property known as “brain plasticity” and are always changing depending on our environment and what our needs for learning are. One article explained that our brains go through a natural synaptic pruning process, much like we give our rosebushes  in the fall.  Neurons that are rarely or never used eventually die, but new stronger connections are formed based on what we need at the time.  Based on the assumption that my nursing instructors had taught us about oculus direct and oculus sinister, I may have dismissed the information as unimportant as long as I knew what the commonly used abbreviations meant. When the doctor wrote an order for two drops to be put in the patient’s “OD” I knew exactly where to place them – thanks to my military friend.

Now that I’ve retired from nursing, there are bound to be neural pathways that have been active with medical facts and knowledge that will be pruned back. But, I’m looking forward to the new pathways that are forming.  I already see it happening  in my line dancing class. I’m not sure why the wonderful ladies in my class didn’t send me hiking when I started a year ago. Oh my….I was an uncoordinated newborn filly in a ring of sophisticated thoroughbreds. Now…well, I’m no species to write home about yet…but I’m standing securely on my own two feet and having a great time.

Until next month…keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

 

 

My Saturday morning chores were finished…at least to my liking. My mom had descended the stairs to the basement a few minutes ago with a laundry basket of dirty clothes, leaving me to dust…and plot my getaway. She would have to sort the clothes into two piles, add soap to the machine, change the settings, and wait long enough to assure the old machine was going to function. I had at least 10 minutes to grab everything I needed and be on my way through the sheep pasture and beyond to the creek. I kept the guilt at bay by taking another quick swipe at the TV screen with the lemon scented rag.

“Mom,” I  hollered from the top of the stairs, “my chores are done, I’m going down to the creek.” I wouldn’t have had to announce my destination; she would have guessed. The creek is where I hung out whenever I could. But, if she had come up the stairs to find me nowhere around, it would have increased her suspicion of a haphazard job. I was pretty good, even at 10 years of age, at  piecing together how my parents would react to a situation. If I had gone AWOL, Mom would have pursed her lips and embarked on a mission  through the house, striking her investigative finger through patches of missed dust. It would have been pointed out to me later with a few consequences attached.  By announcing my departure, she might not think anything but the best of me and carry on with her morning chores, oblivious to the hasty dusting job.
I scooped up my Big Chief tablet and a couple of lead pencils, along with some corn from the freezer above the refrigerator. I stuffed the kernels into a sandwich baggie and then stuffed that into my pocket. My fishing pole and small tackle box had been strategically placed outside the back door, earlier that morning.

Most times it was easy enough to catch one or two…sometimes even three of the big carp that hung out in the deeper holes along the bank.  After threading a few kernels of corn onto my hook, I would plop down cross legged and wait for the big red and white bobber to disappear. On the occasional days when there was a lack of interest on the fish’s part, I wasn’t bothered.  Writing was just as good as fishing, and there wasn’t a better time or place to do it. The warm sunshine on my back and the gentle sound of water racing downstream triggered my imagination and soon a page was filled with poems or stories.  I dreamed that someday I might see my name in print; maybe I would even write books like Laura Ingalls Wilder.

My parents complimented me often on my writing skills; and my grandparents oohed and ahhed over all of it. But when it came time to think of college and a career, I began to hear promptings of what my elders considered a more stable line of work.  As graduation from high school neared, I heard less about my writing abilities and more about solid occupations like nursing and teaching.

I didn’t know what it would take to be either one of those, but when my grandfather became seriously ill and needed emergency surgery, I found myself enamored by the nurses that took care of him. They were pleasant, helpful, and beautiful in their white clothes – from the top of their heads to their white shoes. They reminded me of cheery angels and I made up my mind – I would like to be one of them. (  I’m sure I heard my Mom applauding and agreeing wholeheartedly.)

And so it was. I soon found out that nursing was much more than being friendly and beautiful. It was an intense, demanding job, but often rewarding. I always liked the idea of making a difference in people’s lives, and nursing gave me that opportunity. Writing was put on a back burner, but not forgotten.

Last week, I turned the pages to a new chapter. I removed my stethoscope from around my neck, hung it in the closet, and closed the door.  Forty-five years have marched by since my parents wisely steered me to a vocation they knew suited me and would sustain me.  On the last day of the job, I couldn’t help but shed a few tears. Four decades is a long time to have your identity secured in one thing.

It’s only been a week, but already, I’ve been asked numerous times what my plans are for retirement, and I have an answer. “I’m going to chase a dream – a childhood dream. I’ll be working at establishing my new identity – Author.”

As I consider my talents and blessings, it occurs to me that this isn’t a time to mourn what I’ve had in the past. This is a time to celebrate what I have in the present and what I will accomplish in the future. The following quote by an unknown person says it best:

You fulfilled all your professional ambitions.

Now is the time to achieve your personal aspirations.

Retirement is the start of life’s golden phase.

Give your childhood dreams one final chase.

Until next month…keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.