This is the Life That Is

One for the Home Team

Last summer, when we discovered that we could, indeed, grow sweet corn in our garden at work, I began talking up the legendary sweet corn from Illinois.  NEXT year, I told my colleagues, NEXT year, I told the 'individuals' who participated in the gardening project, NEXT year, we will grow ILLINI EXTRASWEET!

So, in May, while in Bloomington, IL, visiting my daughter and her husband, I trotted down to the A & B Hatchery (a former chicken hatchery, really!) and bought an ounce or two of corn seed.  Felt almost illicit bringing it out of state.

In early June, we prepared the rows to plant.  When I produced the sacred seed, one co-worker asked in  a worried tone, "We're not planting Silver Queen?".   Silver Queen is the stuff sold at the farmstands, proudly proclaimed on hand-written signs.  "No", I replied, "We are planting the BEST sweetcorn in the world. Illini Xtra Sweet!".

Secretly, I wondered if there was some magical synergy between the seed and Illinois' incredible rich, black soil that made it taste so good.  Would it really grow in the anemic looking, reddish clay-prone soil of Maryland?

It jumped from the ground in a few days, and took off.  A small panic arose in me when Japanese beetles infested the silks...this did not happen with the Silver Queen.  Maybe the corn was so sweet that it attracted pests!

When I left for Floyd Fest, the corn was nearly mature.   I  awakened at nite in the tent and worried that it would be overgrown and starchy before I got back to initiate the harvest.

The day I returned to work, we bagan picking, cooking, and eating the corn.  I am pleased and relieved to report that everyone who has tried it has agreed--"That was the best sweet corn I've ever had!"

I told them so.

Now, to introduce it to the community garden at Solterra...

My only fear now is that the NCAA will force the name to be changed to something that does not represent an  extinct tribe of Native Americans.  Prairie Dog Extra Sweet, perhaps?

I'm Gonna Miss This Place...

I was fortunate today to attend a memorial service at work for a man who died unexpectedly last week.  He was an “individual”, not a staff member.  He had lived in the insti*tution since childhood, and was in his 40’s when he died.  He had Down Syndrome, and chances are, had he been born recently, he would have been raised at home, attended public schools, and maybe had a job someplace in the larger community.

It is not typical for a memorial service to be held when a resident (or “individual”) passes away.  Jerry was a Marcel Marceau of a man, small, pale skinned, non-verbal, mouth usually open, tongue out.  Wouldn’t normally stand out in a facility brimming with severely disabled folks.  The woman behind the service, his workshop manager for many years, loved him dearly.

A memorial table had been brought together, featuring a few photos of Jerry from recent years, a couple of foam balls, a Frisbee, a poem, a plant.  Staff filed by and smiled, a couple of staff hugged.  Jerry’s peers carried on as usual; one man smiling and shouting “he died, he died’, although only familiar listeners could understand him. A tiny lady repeated, “buy me a soda” in a high squeaky voice.  A former ball-playing companion stood against the far wall twirling a fabric strip torn from a shirt.  Another lady walked back and forth, kicking the chair and getting stuck in routine until staff interrupted her.

Several staff stood up and said a few brief words about how Jerry would be missed, how much they liked him.  Wistful memories of him slapping women’s butts, dunking his head in the toilet, and eating up the attention given him in the annual fashion show were shared.  A tiny lady with a tinier head stood up in imitation of staff, uttered a few incomprehensible sounds accompanied by finger shaking, and sat down.

Several individuals kept their eyes fixed on the bowls of pretzels and cheese balls waiting at the rear of the room.   All told, everyone “behaved” remarkably well.  Staff served everyone plates of snacks.  No one stormed the food table.

I was again reminded of what a fine group of people I work with, how every life is valued by someone, and some lives are valued by many.  And not necessarily the ones that you expect.  Jerry’s family took care of his physical remains, and likely will have their own memorial.  But at our place, his adopted family held a very fitting tribute.

"Per*verts Are People Too"

When I interviewed for my current job (as an Occupational Therapist in a once large state instit*ution for developmentally disabled adults) 5 years ago, I was told that some of the people I would work with were 'forensic'.  This meant that they were placed there because they had broken the law but were found not criminally responsible.

These offenses included, but were not limited to, arson, theft, assault, murder, and pedophilia.

I must admit that I was a bit put off, concerned, even alarmed.  But then one of my future colleagues said, "Per*verts are people too".

In the ensuing years, I have spent many hours with these individuals, gardening, cooking, bicycling, and doing ceramics.  They call out greeting when I get out of my car.  They ask when we'll work together again.  They take pride in their accomplishments, they support each other.  I enjoy their company immensely (most of them, anyway!).

Last week, our recreation department put on the first-ever "prom" at our facility.  Thanks to the family of a former resident who donated a large sum to be used for the individuals, the gym was decorated, including a 'champagne' fountain.  Limousines and a band were hired.  Excitement ran high for weeks.  The residents were 'dressed to the nines' in formal gowns, tuxedos, and suits. Fancy, catered hoers de oeuvres were served.  Staff were out in force with cameras.

Staff who were once residents attended.  A woman who was recently discharged returned, radiant and beautiful in a floor length gown and tiara.  Limos carried excited residents and staff to and from their home buildings.

The band performed excellent renditions of timeless Motown songs, which appealed to young and old.  They played two well-choreographed sets, complete with costume change. 

My daughter, Kat*ie, danced with many partners, was in great demand as a photo prop,
and served as a non-staff, non-resident, attractive young female--very normalizing.  She has 'always' been very comfortable with a variety of people, and doesn't flinch at people with microcephaly, severe deformities, or unusual behaviors.  She also thought to plug her iPod into the sound system during  the band's break so that everyone could dance to a popular Cha Cha number.   She's been around so often that some of the residents call her by name.      

For many people, including myself, this was their first prom.  I was never the 'prom' type.  But I enjoyed this one immensely, in the company of people who are sincere, appreciative, fun to be with, and scorned by many, in a facility that many people feel should be shut down, so that people can live 'in the community'. 

I'd truly rather spend time with my per*verts, arsonists, and thieves than lots of other people I know.  They're great folks.  Their judgment may be off.  They many need more supervision than they were given.  But, they ARE people, too.

Life is Nuts! (and then you die)

I alluded in a response to a comment that the saga of the shelves (see March 21 posting) was not over...

You may think that my life is REALLY boring and in some ways you'd be right, but for some reason, things like this fascinate me...just the total absurdity of life.

Last week, after upholstering those nasty, but VERY sturdy steel shelves, I tried valiantly to suspend 4' fluorescent shop light fixtures from them--"them" being two 3' long shelf units sitting end-to-end.  Couldn't drill through the steel, couldn't hang the chains anyplace that made sense...

Finally, a co-worker and I asked if we couldn't just TRADE SHELVES with the person/stuff that had been placed on the one we used last year.  That, or my friend would take her pick-em-up truck and we'd move some more suitable ones that I had found ON MY OWN in this grand institution.

Well, my boss said, "I don't care what you do." !  Wha-hat?!  So, by the time I returned from some very meaningful meeting, my friend had personally moved many, many, MANY pounds of plaster ceramics molds, as well as those monstrous steel shelves, and freed up TWO of the coveted wheeled, wire units that had worked so well in the past!

So, we're happily back at square one, and then some.  AND, it looks lots better, neater, more organized than it did before.  AND, there is talk of getting MORE huge steel shelves to hold the rest of the plaster molds.

The lights are hung, the seeds are sprouting.  All is well, at least mostly.

A sad but funny aside:  A week or so ago, a man was shot and killed down the street from where I work.  He was the proprietor of a business called "The Greek Deli".  One of "my" ladies, a complex woman with moderate mental retardation, was very upset when she heard this.  I was touched when I heard that she was so affected , but not surprised...she is a very caring, considerate person.  Then I was told her response. "But now, where will we get our cheese steak sandwiches?!".

When Life Gives You Shelves...

Make Shelf-Ade!  If anyone read my post on "How to Get Shelves" they may remember how much trouble it was to even GET shelves to start seeds for our garden project at work.  Well, the shelves were delivered THE NEXT DAY, causing my co-workers to inquire just what HAD I done for the  Head of Maintenance to work so quickly.  The shelves, however, were really ugly--somewhat rusty, with the names of current and former residents written on the fronts in permanent marker--how tasteful!

So, Big Lots to the rescue, in the form of $4.00 worth of vinyl table cloths to "upholster" them.

Today, I was AGAIN reminded of why I love my job, although it exhausts me.  Three of us (OT's) had 5 of "the guys" over to start planting vegetable seeds for the garden.  You'd think that 3 professionals would be a bit excessive to deal with only 5 moderately mentally handicapped, young to late middle aged men, all of whom are cooperative and good-natured.

The logistics:  only one of the 5 can write legibly, another is almost passable at it.  Those two wrote out the names of the plants on popsicle sticks, given a model to copy.  Another man requires CONSTANT re-direction to task, meaning 1:1.  He filled pots with soil.  A fourth man really THOUGHT he could write, but only wrote E's.  New job needed.  He planted seeds, two per pot, but could only do so given 1:1 assistance, or else all of the seeds were broadcast scattershot.

The 5th man, lord love him, talks non-stop in a dialect that only he, his parents, and a few select others can comprehend.  He also sings (beautifully) in this same dialect, and absolutely LOVES Easter.  He would have been happy just to notice, and pick up, every Easter napkin, decoration, and newspaper ad with the Easter Bunny or an egg on it.  But no, he had come over (voluntarily) to help with GARDENING.  So with 1:1 assistance, he planted two very tiny seeds per pot, and then inserted a stick label written by one of the "writers".

It took only a few gentle reminders for him to learn to insert the sticks so that the plant name was UP, and not in the soil.  Too bad that one of the two label-writers scrawled across the entire stick, making that task more difficult...

So THAT is why the OT's were all exhausted after an hour of 3:5 ratio quality time.  And why the beautifully Martha Stewart ed salvaged steel shelves now have many, many pots that hopefully all have seeds in them, with the correct label sticks, that will soon be sprouting.

And there are at least as many more pots to be planted--with a different crew, next week.  I can't believe that I get PAID to do this!

HAPPY SPRING, every/any one!

One Step Closer to Dying Happy

A friend will encourage you in your (harebrained) plans.  A really GOOD friend will go with you...

Ever since 1986, when I got a job at an old state facility in Illinois, I have been under the spell of old institutions.  I have walked their grounds, I have peered in their windows, I have virtually heard the voices of the people who once lived within their ancient walls.  Thank heaven that present conditions are nothing like the past, but I had read enough about the bad old days to make me want to get a closer look.

In Illinois, I could only imagine what lay within, aside from the little I could see through some ground-floor windows.  I found microfiche of old newspaper clippings, showing once-amazing landscaping, fountains, and building that were showcases from the outside.

At my present place of employ, another large institution dating back to the 1880's, there are more closed old buildings standing, many with doors unlocked.  I have set foot within a couple, but fearful of discovery and not a little freaked out by those voices, I didn't go far.  My fantasy is to have just one day that I could go back in time and walk through them, as they once were.

After reading The State Boys' Rebellion, a book that recounts conditions at the Fernald School in Massachusetts, I mentioned it to my friend Sally at work.  I discovered that she, too had a passion for the history and former life of places such as this.  She borrowed the book and stayed up until 4 AM reading it.  We began to make plans...

Today being Saturday, i.e. a day when there are far less staff on the grounds, we met in our office, then drove to a 'neutral' packing lot.  Carrying a bag with two hefty mag-lites and my camera, we set out on foot for our adventure.  Selected photos are posted at left.

First stop was a very old residential building, three stories tall with a basement.  The leavings of feral cats filled the stairwells.  Old "crib-cages" littered the floors of the large open day room, walls valiantly painted  by talented staff to bring the outside world in.  Newspapers as recent as 1980 were scattered on the floor in one room.  Bathrooms sported facing rows of low toilets, with no walls between them.  Pairs of small rooms, apparently the "cells", or isolation rooms that I had read of in patient accounts, shared a common entrance.  This had been the building for the "bad" girls...those who had been aggressive and destructive, before the days of modern psychotropic medication.

Another residential building of similar vintage had a room filled with old medical equipment...pediatric ventilator-type appliances, as well as an overturned upright piano, and tons of furniture placed in eternal storage.  The floors in both building were deep in a mixture of paint peelings, plaster dust, and probably asbestos  from the loose floor tiles.  Windows were broken, floors were sinking.

The last stop was the old administration building.  We stepped through a broken out glass door which had probably been un-boarded by the people who graffitied the inside.  This building was once very grand.  And is still very large.  I'll let the photos tell most of the story.  If I had been alone, I'd still be lost in there.  We found rooms with fireplaces, an entrance hall with once beautiful ceiling molding, a chandelier, etc.  We descended a narrow mahogany staircase to the basement...once paneled but now peeling, and slogged through more debris to a room with a cage-like open door.  Inside were filing cabinets, drawers open, records strewn on the floor.

As we grabbed up files and stuffed them into my bag, exclaiming excitedly, we both suddenly heard footsteps.  Definitely not the noises we had heard earlier, doors banging in the wind of the broken windows, etc.  Footsteps.  Which would be worse...being caught by security, or being surprised by another trespasser?  My heart has NEVER pounded so hard.  We stood stock-still for minutes, putting out the flashlights, turning off my cell phone, quietly dropping the files to the floor.

Eventually, we threw caution to the wind and moved on (taking some files with us).  Found our way to a breezeway to another building, which housed a once-grand auditorium with balcony, the floor of which was caving in.  By then, my hands were frozen.  We both needed a restroom, but weren't going to use the ones there! 

Walked the long path back to the broken front door, peered outside, waited for some cars to pass, and slipped back into the light.  Must say it was a GREAT relief to be outside!

There are several more building to be explored.  We took a rain check.  The files, one dated 1957, are fascinating...a monthly record of all of the "figures"...amounts of food consumed, broken bones set, cases of syphilis, teeth pulled...you name it.

I could go on (and on) but you can look at the photos if you're interested.

How to Get Shelves

First, I will preface this by saying that I love my job.  I really like almost all of my colleagues.  This is NOT a criticism, just a commentary!

How to Get Shelves

1. Secure appropriate shelves that are perfect for your needs, and use them without question for 2 years.
2. Have shelves co-opted for other use (by other people).
3. Be told, 3 months before you need them, to "go and price some shelves" to replace those which had been just perfect for your needs.
4. Report back to boss your finding re: replacement shelves, after a couple of trips to the store on your own time.  Write up findings and submit.
5. Have boss tell you what SHE had seen that seemed more appropriate.
6. Return to store to look for shelves suggested by boss--and don't find them.
7. Suggest to boss that SHE look again for these shelves, since you can't locate them.
8. Return from brief vacation (shelves now needed in one week) to boss telling you to call the head of maintenance because HE says there are already lots of appropriate shelves in storage.  If they are NOT appropriate, take the (original) P.O. to lady in purchasing.
9. Find the head of maintenance's secretary, who calls another person, who tells her that the shelves are in the X building, and that your boss has the key.
10. Call your boss, leave a voice mail to get the key.
11. Get call from boss telling you that only maintenance secretary has the key, and that THOSE shelves were in terrible condition anyway.
12. Call secretary AND head of maintenance and leave voice mails.
13. Have co-workers tell you to ask T____in purchasing if there are shelves in that building's basement.

The next day...

1. Go directly to Purchasing, where T____ is not available, but HER co-workers tell you there are no shelves in the basement.
2. Return to maintenance, have a great discussion with secretary about the history of the facility (it IS well over 100 years old) and run into THE HEAD OF MAINTENANCE himself.
3. Go directly to the closed up building where the shelves are housed.
4. Wait out in the cold while another guy goes thru about 30 keys, searching for the correct one.
5. Enter "shelf world", where indeed there are many, many steel shelving units.
6. Decide that the "bird ALMOST in the hand is (probably) quicker than a purchase order in the bush", and decide to compromise on the measurements and appearance of the shelves.  Arrange to have them delivered to your building.
7. Return to office, where another co-worker has found a store that really DOES carry exactly what you  were looking for from the get-go (AND with wheels)...

I'll stop here and spare you the grief, if you've even stuck around this long.  And that was just Tuesday and Wednesday.  Maybe later I'll treat you to THURSDAY (no!  not THURSDAY...!)

 

The Week in Review

Smiting Averted

Tuesday started out pretty normal, until Katie called just as my Pad Thai arrived at the Tokyo Cafe.  She asked, in obvious despair, if God could/would smite someone who might not even believe in him.  Obviously, she felt persecuted, this time due to an oil change gone wrong that COULD have truly been the beginning of a nightmare.  With visions of a $5000 engine replacement, lawsuit against the oil change people, rental car, etc. I choked down my dinner.  "A mother is only as happy as her unhappiest child"--that's for sure.  Good reason to limit how many children you have...

Bring Your Snake to Work Day


Today was the official BYStW day at my place.  Funny about snakes--people have this approach/avoidance thing with them.  Have to admit, the folks that live where I work are a pretty open and curious bunch.  The person holding Autumn in this photo is our adult education teacher, a woman who seems irrepressibly good natured and up for any challenge.  NEXT week is "Bring Your Venomous Arachnids to Work Day"--which I can't participate in, but at least one staff member could...

Can You See Me Now?

Wednesday evening brought a return to "glass class", where we were reminded that anything we needed could be purchased from the instructor--no need to shop the internet; "patronize your local small business person".  Zing!  Could he tell by LOOKING at me that I had ordered a bunch of equipment from Stained Glass Warehouse the previous Sunday?  It arrived yesterday, and I saved probably 30% or more...

They MIGHT Be Giants (but I doubt it)

On Thursday, our area was psychologically if not physically crippled by 3" of snow, but that didn't cancel the free promotional concert scheduled by They Might Be Giants at the Borders store in Towson.  Was weird to see the skeleton crew of the two Johns and a drummer that they kept introducing and whose name I can't remember, playing an old blond upright piano, one guitar, the accordion, and a drum set that looked like it just came out of someone's basement.  They were promoting their new kids' DVD, and there were indeed kids there, with their parents and the other 200+ people, who knew the songs already.  To keep their fan base happy, they opened with Istanbul, and played Particle Man and Dr. Worm in addition to alphabet songs (!) in their half-hour set.  Must admit that I enjoy them more with the full, amplified band,horns, keyboards, etc.  but they obviously enjoy what they do, and so does everyone who goes to see them.  At least they dressed like they usually do for their concerts....