Invisible and odorless

The spider usually sets off the smoke detector in August, so I was surprised to arrive home and  hear a repeating piercing beep.  Went upstairs and opened the smoke detector carefully, not to spoil Mario's handiwork. Replaced the 9v battery.  The alarming beeps continued.

Back downstairs, I gingerly opened the thermostat, again remembering Mario's electrical rescue, and replaced the AA batteries.  The beeps were giving me goosebumps.

Upstairs again to check the doorbell chime.  Back downstairs I found a forgotten smoke detector that's wired-in. This was turning into an Edvard Munch moment with bonus stair-climber workout.

Rounding the corner into the bathroom I find the beep source, the carbon monoxide detector I saved from my parents' house. Isn't carbon monoxide a winter killer?  Every CO horror story I've ever heard clamors into my anxiety between the shrieking beeps.

I move the detector to different electrical outlets feeling guilt for never pushing those TEST MONTHLY and RESET buttons. Should I be getting myself outside into the hundred-degree fresh air before I become woozy and unconscious?

There was that spell in junior high when I wouldn't ride in the car in the Nebraska dead of winter without the window open because I was so sure we were all a-gonna die from fumes. It's a miracle my family didn't just drop-kick me out into a snow drift and drive away. This anxiety was between my two phases of moth phobia, but smack in the middle of the pancake anxiety year.


Now, I could just unplug the *%! bleaking CO detector and throw it in the dumpster, then toddle off to beddy-bye. That story would have the pride-goeth outcome where I drift into a happy sleep with a tad bit of nausea before death.  Or I could let the CO detector keep shrieking, and have a sleepless night worrying about dying, kind of like a bad night camping. Or I could maybe call the Fire Department and have them check it out.


Feeling too torn to actually call 9-1-1, I looked up the phone number in the Yellow Pages for our Fire Department.  Sure, wasting those precious seconds could be the difference between life and death, between dying in my sleep and going outside into the hundred degree fresh air to live another dang hot day. Apparently when it is not a 9-1-1 emergency, the Fire Department phone is answered by a cleaning woman who might be your mom. She hems and haws with you about whether or not your CO detector might have gone a little funny in the head.  She reassures you that putting your call through to dispatch will not cost you hundreds of dollars and could be good for your peace of mind, which you are rapidly losing what with all the shrieking barks of that Tasmanian devil CO detector.

So that's how I ended up with four hunky Plano firefighters in their turn-out pants and suspenders in my kitchen taking readings on their carbon monoxide gizmos and filling out official forms.  They took readings near my gas water heater and upstairs near the gas furnace.  When I mentioned that my fireplace is gas, they ask if I had used it recently.  It was clear they might would drive me straight to the loony bin if I answered yes.  

I thanked them profusely for retrieving my peace of mind, and told them I would be calling my 89 year-old next-door neighbor right away.  "I don't want him to have a heart attack seeing the firetruck."  


"We don't either," they said sincerely.








Let's review what we learned in this Unit, boys and girls:

• Firefighters are our community helpers.
• Check your smoke detectors regularly.
• Stock up on batteries.
• Test your electrical outlets monthly.
• A carbon monoxide detector is a good thing to have, but they don't last forever.
• It's good to know a Mario who can fix electrical problems.
• It's wise to check on elderly neighbors in this heat.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Who's bringing the car around?

I hope someone will take pity and give me a hint as to the identity of this small ornamental tree now having these rather exotic looking blooms.  The central part resembles small yucca blooms, while the long red thingies look like mimosa eyelashes gone extreme.  I'll be pretty embarrassed if the answer is something obviously Texan, like a mesquite.  One nurse said she thought it was a mesquite, but she wasn't a native, either.

Dad was very anxious to go outside today, although he insisted on two blankets on his chest and legs.  The temp in his room reminded me of erupting sunspots, but he was chilly.  He self-propelled his wheelchair until he ran aground in the grass.  The sun felt good to him.
"Okay, I'm ready.  Let's go.  Who's bringing the car around?"

"Aaaaauuuuhh, nobody.  We aren't going in the car."

"I'm ready to leave.  NOW."

"I understand, Dad.  I do."

"What's the plan?  Who's bringing the car around."

"Well, Dad, we just are where we're going to be, so let's enjoy the sun."

Ever since Dad decided he was adopted and living in the parsonage, he's been trying to find a way out.  He kept phoning me at work Monday wanting to know when I would come pick him up "at the church".  By the time I arrived at 3:45 he was about to come out of his skin, furious, violent, endangering himself and others.  If I'd had a taser, I might have used it.  Cooler heads gave him some Adivant. 

Over the hour and a half it took Dad to relax and become dopey/groggy, he kept asking me the name of "that retreat on 70th" where I used to meet him.  Mystified, I went through names of golf courses, parks, pizza restaurants, hospitals, churches, assisted living, and high schools in Lincoln to no avail.  My seeming unwillingness to reveal the answer really ticked him off.

Unlike my time with Dad in the hospital after his second hip break in 2007, he was delusional, but not hallucinating.  He's come unhitched in time and space, and he is manic and aggressive.  He wants to sit at the bus stop and wait to be picked up, getting seriously pissed because I'm so inconsiderately late, but he just thinks we are all blocking him from getting to the bus stop.  He's not the charming yet suspicious guy who saw the little girl sneak into the picture show and steal all the candy just before he ripped out his IVs and chatted up the aide for a 2 a.m. sandwich.  These are distinctions I'd gladly have gone forever not perceiving.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Snipe hunting with Google

Spent my Sunday afternoon at the Trinity River Audubon Center south of downtown Dallas.  I'd been meaning to truck my bucket down there ever since it opened in 2008.  I wanted to see the LEED-certified green building housing the Audubon Society offices, meeting spaces, hands-on education experience, and science lab classrooms.  I'd read about the innovative use of materials and sustainability design.  The center was reclaimed from an illegal dump to make a healthy mix of wetland, prairie, and forest habitats. 

What a gem!  The pieces fit together perfectly...building to boardwalk to trail.  Although I was visiting on a windy November Sunday with few people around, the center served 18,000 school children last year.  I can imagine the kids' excitement when their schoolbus pulls into the unloading zone!

I spent two and a half hours walking the trails and boardwalks to the Trinity River overlook, around ponds, through wetlands, into the forest, and alongside the prairie.  Another delightful hour was spent downloading and editing photos.

The center's website includes a checklist of common birds, thank heaven.  Using the list I compared my photos and memories against my National Geographic and Golden bird books, a new library Stokes field guide, and Google images.

I caught a glimpse, but not a photo, of a chunky brown bird with a long beak between the reeds and a fallen tree.  The bird's feathers camouflaged it perfectly when it stood still.  After studying the list and guides, I'm pretty sure I saw a Wilson's Snipe. 

Isn't a "snipe hunt" a rather mean trick played on gullible newbies?  I didn't know snipe were real birds.  Wikipedia suggests a snipe hunt is a "form of wild-goose chase ... also known as a fool's errand, ... a type of practical joke that involves experienced people making fun of credulous newcomers by giving them an impossible or imaginary task."  That sounds an awful lot like a definition for a church youth group retreat dare back where I come from.

This tiny bird was staying out of the wind on the trail leading to the river overlook.  I've spent a whole lotta time trying to make a positive ID.  Although the accents on the rump and wing look greenish, I think this adorable bird is a yellow-rumped warbler.
 

Google doesn't lead me to any explanations about the expression "truck my bucket".  Obviously it is a sanitized version of "haul my ass".  So I just got my derriere on down I45 and Loop 12/East Ledbetter to the Audubon Center. 

A friend offered me a dozen coffee cans today, but I had to turn her down.  My storage space for art supplies, even primo items, is seriously decreased.  Her offer reminded me of Jim Lehrer's books about the One-Eyed Mack, the Lieutenant Governor of Oklahoma, including Kick the Can.

"Kicking the bucket" was an expression known to me by age eight.  Although I still haven't seen the "Bucket List" movie, I get the basic concept of doing things before you kick the bucket.  Glad to check the Trinity River Audubon Center off my bucket list.

Now for my preschoolers ready to listen to some stories, please skooch your bizoozies back one skoochie so everyone will be able to see the pictures.  Or just truck your buckets. 


© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

Worms on Church Retreat

Spring is in the air. The worms are disobeying the all wormbin official lights out and cabin checks. Some are sliding up to the forest fire tower overlook for the scenery. Others are rendezvousing up in the Rubbermaid bin handles for the vermi-equivalent of speed-dating. The naughtiest worms are sneaking out, thinking they have oh so totally conned the confirmation class advisers. I'm finding them on my kitchen floor in various states of writhing spiritual reevaluation and rapture.

© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder