We have a party in our back yard at least once a week, and have for about a month. A note to our friends: Don’t feel left out. Neither Bill nor I are invited either. It’s our two eldest grandkids — Adelaide and Alastair — who host the party for their friends.

Our back yard is large; large enough, in fact, to put up a volleyball net and have a regular volleyball game. And volleyball seems to be the name of the game. Each week, the group gets larger. Yesterday’s soiree included about 15 to 20 kids. All of them were wearing swim suits and hats. This one included a picnic lunch.

The thing is, were our grands and their friends not enjoying our yard, the grass would be empty. Bill and I often sit out on our patio, but it isn’t like Bill ever turns to me and says, “Hey Kris, are you interested in putting down that bloody mary and hitting a volleyball over the net for a bit?” It’s a good thing, too, because the last time I played volleyball was in high school PE class. I’m pretty sure I didn’t get my serve over the net a single time. And we didn’t wear swim suits.

I was talking to my sister Bec as the kids started to arrive.

“Will you be invited to play?” she asked me.

“Oh, golly,” I replied. “I certainly hope not. If I came out in my swim suit (were I to even have one), the kids would likely all go scampering.”

Here’s the thing, though. I know that all Baby Boomers understand what I’m about to say (and I’ve said it many times before). Despite the fact that I have arthritis in my hands and feet and neck, and despite the fact that the skin around my chin sags and my arms (well, let’s not talk about my arms), I sometimes forget that I’m not 18 years old. I seriously look in the mirror sometimes and think, when did THAT happen?

And I felt that way yesterday as I watched the kids play volleyball and slide on their homemade Slip-N-Slide. They were playing their radio (maybe too loud, I thought, in my best get off my lawn way). The music they were playing wasn’t rap or today’s Top 40 (as though I know what are today’s Top 40). Instead, they were playing the Doobie Brothers and Boston and the Elton John and Michael Jackson. I even heard Build Me Up Buttercup by the Foundations which takes me back all the way to the 1960s. I could sing along with the words (which I did quietly in my kitchen as I prepared dinner so that Addie and Alastair weren’t humiliated)…..

These are nice kids. They all thanked me as they left, despite the fact that I didn’t do a single thing for them (except find a plastic fork for one quiet young woman who asked me politely). They all looked alike to me, so introductions were useless. I could pick out Addie and Alastair, but the rest could have been clones.

I was delighted that I was playing my part in keeping these 15, 16, and 17-year-olds out of trouble. I was also thinking that maybe I should have learned to play volleyball in PE.

Bill told me later he heard them talking about the next time they would gather. They would start charging, and the dining choices would be much improved. Burgers and hot dogs, according to Bill’s eavesdropping. I’m waiting for them to start talking about digging a hole in our yard and roasting a kalua pig, or perhaps putting a goat on a spit.

We all cope in our own way. Just sayin’…..

They say the only thing that is constant is change. I don’t know who “they” is, but it is certainly a true statement. I only have to look in the mirror to see that I have changed a great deal since I was 17 years old — the same age as our eldest grandchild.

Every evening when we sit out on our patio, we hear the sounds of the neighborhood. The sounds this year are somewhat different from other years. More kids seem to be playing outdoors. Lawns are being mowed in the evening. There aren’t as many cars driving down our street. I think the quarantine plays a large role in this reality. Only the sound of the ice cream truck sounds the same. The kids running for ice cream are wearing masks.

We moved into this house — and this neighborhood — in 1993. In the 27 years we have lived here, we have seen a lot of changes. The neighborhood elementary school was shut down when we moved in. Court was 12 years old. He’s now almost 40. Our neighbors across the street also had a 12-year-old boy, as well as a boy about a year or two older. That was about it for kids living on our neighborhood street. The same must have been true throughout the neighborhood, accounting for the closed-down elementary school.

The neighborhood stayed like that for quite a few years. And then little by little, people began getting older and putting their houses on the market. The houses were purchased by younger families who wanted to bring up their children in the City and County of Denver, but didn’t want to live in the inner city. Our neighborhood fit the bill.

Pretty soon, the elementary school reopened. Now there are so many young kids living in this neighborhood that I have to be very careful when I’m backing my car out of the garage. Especially now that families are riding bikes and walking baby strollers and playing basketball in the street.

I admit that I love the sounds of the neighborhood these days. There is a house catty-corner behind us. Though we could toss a baseball to them over our back fence because they are on a cul de sac, we can’t see them. But judging from the sounds I hear every evening, they have a swimming pool, a trampoline, and a number of children. One evening Dave was over smoking a cigar with his dad, and I sat with them (no cigar). I could tell they were playing some sort of game that included both kids and adults, but I couldn’t tell what game. When I wondered out loud, Dave said, “Cornhole. I can hear the thumping sound when they miss.”

On either side of us, and across the street, our neighbors are the same as 27 years ago. We have all aged in place thus far. We all enjoy grandkids now. We also do all of the things older people do. We get gray hair. We have lots of doctors’ appointments. We talk about our health instead of our kids’ activities. We show photos of our grandkids who live far away.

I wonder what this neighborhood will look like in 10 years. Constant change.

Readers of this blog and/or friends of mine (and I hope those two might overlap) may have guessed the truth last week when I announced that Nana’s Whimsies was taking a short break. In fact, one of my good friends contacted me straight away, saying I hope you really are taking a break and it’s not that your old nemesis The Bowel Obstruction has reared its ugly head.

Of course, it was that Mr. Bowel Obstruction once again had reared its ugly head. The pain began suddenly on Wednesday right after lunch. I tried to ride it out, but by 8 or 8:30 that night, I was in too much pain to wait any longer. I was very scared about going to an ER, and what would almost certainly result in an admission to the hospital, in the midst of a pandemic. I was certain Bill wouldn’t be allowed inside. Actually I was worried for no reason on both those accounts. Bill was able to be with me in ER, and he was also allowed to visit after I was admitted. The same wouldn’t have been true a week earlier.

When I get sick in Denver, I always go to the same hospital. I have never been treated in any other way than with respect. The same was true this time. I will admit they didn’t immediately jump on the painkiller bandwagon, but I get it. They started conservatively. When that didn’t work, they came shooting with both barrels.

“What are you giving me?” I asked the nurse. “Fut tunnel,” he replied. Or something like that. “Say it again,” I requested as I reached for my notepad. “I want to write it down.” “Fut tunnel,” he repeated.

Suddenly it occurred to me what he was saying. I have read enough mystery novels to know the dark road you go down when you begin taking fut tunnel. Or Fentanyl, which is what it was.

“Just like in our gritty novels,” I told my sister Bec the next day. “Except I wasn’t shooting up in a dirty gas station bathroom.”

But my funny hospital-story-of-the-period doesn’t have to do with the Fentanyl, which definitely relieved my pain but I don’t ever need to see again. Instead, it has to do with where they located a bed for me to live for the next two days. I was sent to the neurology ward. The good news was that Neurology was designated a non-COVID floor, so I didn’t have to worry about that. The bad news, however, was that patients on that floor are confined to their beds, no ifs, ands, or buts.

And therefore, so was I. My bed was literally alarmed. If I lifted a single butt cheek from the mattress, nurses and other personnel came running like ants from an anthill sprayed with pesticide. That didn’t cause a problem the night I was admitted because I was still in a lot of pain and in no mood to move from my bed. However, the next morning, the pain let up. Just as it always does, one moment I’m getting ready to ask for more pain medication, and suddenly the pain goes away. Zap. Gone.

At that point I feel as well as the nurse. Probably better because Fentanyl provided me a long winter’s nap. I began begging my nurses to remove the alarm and let me walk the floors or at least go to the bathroom by myself. My pleas fell on deaf ears until finally a nurse agreed that if she could confirm that I could walk without help, she would free me from my mattress bondage.

But here’s the problem: Whenever I’m in the hospital, I wake up the next morning with a headache. It could be from the pain meds. It could be from not being able to drink a cup of coffee (nothing by mouth). It could be a combination of the two. But I always have a headache. And when I ask for something for the pain, I’m always given the same answer: The only thing I can take is Dilaudid. Now, I thank God on my knees for the Dilaudid when I can barely stand up because my stomach hurts so bad. But PEOPLE. It’s a headache. After expressing her shock that I would turn down a narcotic, she agreed to talk to the doctor about an alternative.

About a half hour later, she comes to take me on my walk. But first, she tells me that the doctor has suggested a medication called Phenergan. It’s an antihistamine used primarily as an anti-nausea medication. Into my IV it goes and I get out of bed. I immediately feel dizzy, but I attribute it to the fact that I have been flat on my back for over 24 hours at that point. But as we began walking, it became apparent that I was as high as a kite.

The nurse walked me back to my bed, where Bill was waiting. The room was spinning. I was having hallucinations that included Bill looking like an infant and leaning over me. My lips wouldn’t move when I tried to talk.

Bill acted calm, but left as soon as he could without facing the danger of The Bad Husband Award. I never took LSD, but I’m pretty sure I know what it’s like. Needless to say, I was stuck in that bed for a half day longer.

I was freed that night, and also allowed to begin my eating regime. Best of all, they removed the IV since I could now take liquids by mouth. It allowed me to sleep better and to not have to worry about Phenergan accidentally being put into my IV again.

I’m fit as a fiddle and glad to be back home.

Nana is taking a short break. I’ll be back soon.

Yesterday around lunch time I drove to our nearby Good Times hamburger joint, where I went through the drive-thru. I had a difficult time understanding what the cashier was saying as he took my order and I kept having to ask him to repeat himself. However, we got it figured out, and I drove up to the window to collect my food. The person who had taken my order, and to whom I was going to give my money, and who then was going to hand me my two hamburgers was African American.

“That’ll be $11.98,” he said to me.

“Here you go,” I said in a cheerful voice while handing him my credit card. “I am really sorry I had such a difficult time understanding you. I’m just old and hard of hearing.”

Which wasn’t true at all. Well, the part about me being old and hard of hearing is true. But that wasn’t the reason I couldn’t understand him. The real reason was that the intercom system was crappy, and his voice was cutting in and out.

But in the 90 seconds that it took him to sack up and hand me my food (I know the exact time because he warned me that he would return with my food in 90 seconds), I thought to myself You are being unnaturally nice to this fellow. If he was a white cashier, you wouldn’t have apologized and you would have been crabbier. 

I realized that I was reacting to everything that’s been happening in the recent past. I was demonstrating to this young man who I will likely never see again in my life that I am a good person who isn’t bothered by the fact that his skin color was different than mine. Which, of course, was (and is) true. I really couldn’t care less. But I began to wonder if this was the new way I was going to react to people of a different color than me.

I will admit that I am a bit taken aback by everything that I see happening around me. It almost feels like everybody is trying too hard, maybe making up for lost time. I know that what happened to George Floyd was desperately wrong. I believe that these types of things happen more often to black people than it does to white people. I think it is justifiable to express concern about all of this via peaceful protest.

Maybe these types of protests (and I’m talking the peaceful protests and not the ridiculous looting and property damage which is all the media can talk about) will wake up the police forces that still allow choke holds and they will make it against the rules. Perhaps the negative publicity will result in some training for rookies that will explain that blacks and whites should be regarded and treated the same (amazing that this would have to be taught).

But I’m afraid that none of this will have much impact on the actual problem of racism. The reality is that there are people who don’t like those who are a different race or color than they are. Nobody is going to change their minds. People who believe that white people are superior are not going to watch a protest or look at a black screen on social media or observe a sign in their neighbors’ yards and change their minds.

Here’s what I think we need to do. We need to teach our kids and grandkids that all people are the same, no matter how they look on the outside. And we need to do it in the way we live our lives, not in the form of lessons, but by modeling. We need to demonstrate our belief that God loves us all the same by treating everyone with respect. Not by being nicer to black or brown or yellow or red people than white people. Not by being nicer to white people than black or brown or yellow or red people. Just by recognizing with our very being that people matter. God made all people and all people matter.

There is not a single person who will deny that 2020 deserves a hard restart. For all intents and purposes, this year has been a bust. There, of course, has been the most obvious challenge — COVID 19, and all the related economic, social, and medical concerns around it. Then along came the so-called Murder Hornets (which have seemingly become lost in the news cycle, a good thing because I really didn’t need to see another picture of this particular critter). Basketball icon Kobe Bryant (who also seemed to be a pretty good guy, not altogether common among professional athletes) was killed in a helicopter crash. We are once again hearing nearly unbelievable news about another African American man dying from undue police force, and subsequent protests and riots.  There have been what seems like an abnormally high number of weather and environmental catastrophes — brush fires, flooding, tornadoes, etc., and we haven’t even hit hurricane season yet. And, of course, Harry and Meghan left the royal circles. (Can it get any worse than that?)

So when I read that the 17-year cicada cycle will take place this year, it really came as no surprise. I grew up in Nebraska, where there are plenty of ugly bugs to brag about, but is spared the cicadas that come out of the ground (or out of wherever they have been hanging out for the past 17 years) to do whatever it is they do every 17 years. This year I think they just want to see if all of the rumors of global catastrophes are true.

I, frankly, had never heard of the 17-year cicadas until the late ’80s. The first time I met Bill’s parents at their home in Chicago, as I got out of the car, I couldn’t help but notice that there were literally hundreds of really ugly-looking insects crawling out of their grass.

“You didn’t tell me your parents lived in the Twilight Zone,” I said to Bill with terror in my voice. “I thought they were WASPs, not victims of the Plague of Locusts.”

“Watch where you walk,” Bill told me. “Every 17 years, it sounds like Chicagoans are walking on seashells.”

Well, yuck. Just yuck.

With thanks to God that Colorado is also spared the 17-year-locust cycle, I have turned instead to our own plague of Miller Moths. Not surprisingly, entomologists are predicting that 2020 will be a record-breaking year when it comes to numbers of Miller Moths. No reasons were cited in the article I read. Quite possibly the only reason is that its 2020.

I simply can’t describe how many Miller Moths we have at our house. So many, in fact, that the young man from our pest control company who sprayed last week actually commented on the numbers. And he looks at bugs every day. Thankfully, I have found very few in our house. They could be hiding from me so that they can fly into my face each night when I’m sleeping and unaware.

Before beginning to write this post, I looked up to see if Miller Moths posed any danger. Most websites insisted that Miller Moths are annoying but pose no threat. One website, however, says Moths are considered dangerous to humans and also for pets because they contaminate food and certain types of pet food (such as dry pellets) with their feces…..Contact with food and textiles that has been infested by the moths can lead to allergic reactions and mucosal irritations for humans and pets. Consuming of moth infested food can also lead to intestinal diseases.

It’s a German website, however, so I’m not taking it seriously. Germans are just a bunch of worry warts. Anyway, apparently the moths will be gone sometime in the next couple of weeks, hopefully giving us time to prepare for the next crisis. Maybe it will include aliens.