Chronic Pain Lifestyle

Observations from the Pain Clinic...

     Greetings all!

     It is a welcome distraction, which is an important component to pain management, to finally reach out to you.  I've been almost four weeks out of touch, and many of you who have wished kind thoughts for me may wonder what this clinic is about.  I'll post many observations and thoughts that I've been saving in a notebook.  I hope these will be helpful.

     Imagine this:  A life of relentless pain, without narcotics.  A life of pain over which you have control.  Chronic pain and a gentle return to a life of significantly better because it will be a new life, one re engineered by you.  A life of reduced pain, livable pain replete with the ordinary ups and downs of life but also a life in which you have new and better tools to deal with downs and celebrate the gifts.

     Let me tell you what brought me to this wonderful place.  Like many of you, many different traditional pain drugs really didn't work over time.  Oxycontin worked for a while.  Dilaudid made me sick.  Percocet didn't even dent my pain.  A last hope neurotransmitter implanted in my hip, only chipped at the sharp corners of my pain.  The neurotransmitter plus 60 mg. of methadone and 1600 micrograms of fentanyl also left me desperately wanting.  NOTHING WORKED TO SIGNIFICANTLY DULL MY PAIN; my life was a mess.

     I had temporary, small victories; occasional weeks of lower than usual pain, but it always came roaring back.

     My ray of hope began with a visit to an out of town MD.  This man told me I was deeply depressed (I didn't know).  He then said after making progress on bringing me out of depression, that I had to accept a life without narcotics.  His belief is that narcotics, used to treat long term pain, don't work.  These opioid/opiate drugs become antagonistic and that instead of relieving pain actually cause an inevitable cycle of increasing dosage and daily withdrawal thus causing significant daily pain. 

     In short, the narcotics we use cause addition high grade pain to long term users, chronic pain sufferers.  Oh, we're also highly dependent, so our bodies scream-out for more.  We're dependent. 

     The solution is simple.  Wean off of your current narcotic pain drugs while substituting other non-narcotic medicines that work to heal depression and kill pain.

     He then cautioned me to carefully consider whether I was content to continue along my current path ( waking at nine, napping from 2 PM) because the clinic was extremely hard to complete.  Those who did complete the clinic (2 mths.) still had chronic pain but had mastered control over their pain to the extent that most were nearly as functional as they had been before the onset of chronic pain.

     These people had learned many techniques, relied on non-addicting medications, and marched off into their "new" lives.

     A last quick thought:  The clinic accepts 8 patients at a time, most of whom have chronic pain from different syndromes, accidents, and diseases.  All for now, more to come.  God bless us all, Colin

Summer School In 1968

I grew up in a little town on Lake Superior.  Ashland, WI had a population of about 9,000 when I was growing up.  If we wanted to go to a big city, we traveled HWY 2 west for about 50 miles to Superior.  I think there were over 50,000 people in Superior and just over the bridge to Duluth, that was a big city.

The summer that I was going into Third grade, I was 8 years old.  My Mom was taking classes at the UW Superior to earn her master’s degree.  She was a teacher at Ondossagon High School and as part of her contract, if she earned more credits, she went up to another level on the pay scale.  So most teachers were enrolled in continuing education. 

That summer Mom took me and Mike and Mary to Superior everyday she had classes.  I was enrolled in the summer school for second graders.  My teacher’s name was Mrs. Vaughn.  I had never been in a class room like this.  There were different teachers for different subjects.  In Beaser Elementary in Ashland, the only outside teachers were music (see previous stories about Mrs. Rehnquist and her child squeezing) or for art class.  This was a very new concept for me.

Mrs. Vaughn was wonderful.  She always seemed like she brought out the best of everyone in the class.  She was fair, but she also taught us all to be responsible for our work and for our progress.  She spoke to us every week and showed us how we were progressing or regressing.  She didn’t point fingers or punish, she just encouraged us and made us want to do more.

The other thing that was new was this reading program, is that we were learning a lot more than just how to read.  We were learning to comprehend the story and understand it.  She also taught us how to figure out confusing pieces by making lists of characters and what they do and how they are related to the theme. 

I don’t remember the title of the program but it went like this.  There were a series of different color codes for different levels.  Everyone started at the beginning.  First you read the little story, usually 1-2 pages printed on heavy card stock .  Then you had to turn the page over and answer a series of questions about the story you just read.  The packets were arranged by color and got more difficult as we went along.

It sounds so obvious, but I was never taught anything about comprehension.  I could read very well, but I was never taught anything about how stories are written, how to figure out the theme of the story, who were the main characters and give a summary of what you read. 

I worked very hard all summer and by the time the summer was grinding down to the end, I had improved and was at the top group for reading and comprehension.  I finally understood about text books and stories.  Once you are able to read, then the second step is understanding and for me, the third step is to take detailed notes in an outline form so I can remember what I read.

I know this doesn’t sound like a fun thing  to spend the summer working hard in summer school, but it started something in me.  I signed up for summer school every summer until I was in  high school.  I learned to be a better student that summer and I owe it all to Mrs. Vaughn.

So my mornings were filled with reading and test taking and trips to the library.  The classes were held on the same campus that my Mom was using to work on her master’s degree.  Two of my Mom’s friends were also working on taking classes.  So sometimes we car pooled in the back of my Mom’s friends Baracuda.  This is a little car, but I was a little kid so it was ok.

During the library time, our teacher read the book “The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins.  I loved that book and I would check it out regularly.

Meanwhile, my reading comprehension was improving at a rapid rate.  I was actually learning and it was fun. My teacher Mrs. Vaughn always encouraged me and often times told me how much I was improving.  This was not something other teachers said to me very often.

So after summer school classes were done at noon, we would meet Mom for lunch in the cafeteria on the UW-Superior campus.  Mom would pack sandwiches and snacks for our lunch.  Plus we got 25 cents per day for a drink.  They only cost 20 cents, so if we saved our nickel each day, we could get a soda and chips every Friday.  We didn’t have a lot of money, but we sure had a great time.  Plus my Mom’s friend the art teacher, was also in summer school and she always ate with us.  She would buy her food in the cafeteria.  She would give me her dill pickles if they were on the plate.  I loved them.

After lunch  Mom had to go back to class and we had the afternoon to play until she was done.  During the afternoon I met another 8 year old boy.  His Dad was the Dean of Students at the UW-Superior.  I didn’t know what that meant, but his Dad’s office was big.  The boy’s name was Jim Johnson, I called him Jimmy.  He and I became great friends.  He had curly red hair and lots of freckles and he wore glasses.  He was also very smart and didn’t like to be treated like a children.  We both agreed we were no longer children and should be treated like intelligent young adults.

We spent that summer exploring the main building where our class was and where the libraries and his Dad’s office was.  We pretended we were secret agents, just like on the TV show Impossible.  We made little pretend walkie talkies using string and cans.  It didn’t really work, but we had a log of fun. 

We would observe people from our normal hiding place.  Either under a table in the big lounge area, or under the counter where the phones were.  We would take notes on what we saw and then we would make up stories about how we had to tell our head spy what we saw so we could save the Earth.

The summer school term was starting to wind down.  Our teacher Mrs. Vaughn, invited the whole class to her house for lemonade and cookies that she baked  herself.  After lunch that day, we walked the few blocks to Mrs. Vaughn’s house.  She lived on a big street.  It was one of those old fashioned streets with a big center boulevard.  There were big trees down either side of the road.

When we got to her house, it looked like a mansion.  It was an old Victorian home that was converted into 2 flats.  She had the upstairs apartment.  She told us another teacher lived downstairs.

So all of us shuffled into the parlor and didn’t say a word.  I had never been in a room that wa so beautiful.  She had Victorian style furniture, a beautiful dark wood hutch that displayed her magnificent china collection.  She asked us to make ourselves comfortable while she got something from the kitchen.  And sure enough, in just a few minutes she brought out a tray with glasses of lemonade in real glasses.   The glasses were pale pink and had round bumps all over, I think they call those nail head glasses.  They were beautiful.  Next she disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a tray that had three levels.  There were little sandwiches, cookies and little muffins on each level.

I had never had such a fancy meal in my life.  In a beautiful room, with a beloved teacher that everyone adored, plus COOKIES!!!

Life doesn’t get better than that when you’re a little kid.  Not only did we have a great day but we also learned that Mrs. Vaughn did not treat  us like little kids anymore.  Once she got to know us, she showed us that she genuinely trusted and liked us.  That was a very good feeling.  A little boost to help a little kid who feels like an outcast and like she doesn’t fit in. 

My friend Jimmy and I played together every day for the 8 weeks I went to summer school.  He was a good pal and we never really got into trouble.  We just pretended to be spies and that was a fun time.

Just before the last day of school, Jimmy told me he had to go away and wouldn’t be living in Superior.  He and his family was moving to China. What a wonderful thing to do. I told him I wished I could go with him.  It would have been run to spend time playing spy in China. But that was not possible and he left school 2 days before the official end.  I made a card and gave it to him. He left and the summer school wore to an end.

Of course there was one more matter to discuss, our grades.  On the last day of class, Mrs. Vaughn called us one at a time and showed us what our reading scores were at the beginning of the summer.  We had been tested on reading and comprehension at the beginning and the end of the summer school class.

So she called me up and showed me that I had improved more than anyone else in the class.  She also wrote a note to give to my parents to tell them about my progress. 

And so it was over, my first summer school class.  There would be many more summers spent going to school.  I signed up for summer school almost every year. 

I would have many fun field trips over the years.  I learned a lot about our planet and what we should do to keep it clean.  I also made new friends and spent time actually observing the land that was around us. 

As much fun as I would have in every class from elementary school to college, there is a special place in my heart for Mrs. Vaughn.  She taught me a lot about reading and comprehension and more importantly to have confidence in my abilities.

Here’s to you Mrs. Vaughn, thanks for everything,

And to you Mom for taking me with you that summer and for buying or borrowing the reading program so I could continue to improve at home.

Thanks for listening,

Anne

A Weekend Wish

While Colin is gone, he is sending a few things via his Blackberry.  I received this yesterday.  Colin forwarded this message he received from Kathy.  Thank you Kathy for this wonderful story.

Let’s make this a great weekend and reduce our pain as much as possible.  Try to focus on the good things in your life and smile.  Take a walk if you can, smell the fall leaves and the bonfires, there’s a cold nip in the air that could best be dealt with by a big mug of hot cocoa and a few marshmellows.

Have a great weekend.

Anne

I don't know who wrote this but we all have gifts and abilities and God hold us
up when we are low. I hope things are going well for you. Take care.
Breathe in Peace, kathy

"GOD LIVES UNDER THE BED 

I envy Kevin. My brother Kevin thinks God lives under his bed. At least that's
what I heard him say one night. 

He was praying out loud in his dark bedroom, and I stopped to listen, "Are you
there, God?" he said. "Where are you? Oh, I see. Under the bed..." 

I giggled softly and tiptoed off to my own room. Kevin's unique perspectives are
often a source of amusement. But that night something else lingered long after
the humor. I realized for the first time the very different world Kevin lives
in. 

He was born 30 years ago, mentally disabled as a result of difficulties during
labor. Apart from his size (he's 6-foot-2), there are few ways in which he is an
adult. 

He reason s and communicates with the capabilities of a 7-year-old, and he
always will. He will probably always believe that God lives under his bed, that
Santa Claus is the one who fills the space under our tree every Christmas and
that airplanes stay up in the sky because angels carry them. 

I remember wondering if Kevin realizes he is different. Is he ever dissatisfied
with his monotonous life? 

Up before dawn each day, off to work at a workshop for the disabled, home to
walk our cocker spaniel, return to eat his favorite macaroni-and-cheese for
dinner, and later to bed. 

The only variation in the entire scheme is laundry, when he hovers excitedly
over the washing machine like a mother with her newborn child. 

He does not seem dissatisfied. 

He leaps out to the bus every morning at 7:05, eager for a day of simple work. 

He wrings his hands excitedly while the water boils on the stove before dinner,
and he stays up late twice a week to gather our dirty laundry for his next day's
laundry chores. 

And Saturdays-oh, the bliss of Saturdays! That's the day my Dad takes Kevin to
the airport to have a soft drink, watch the planes land, and speculate loudly on
the destination of each passenger inside. "That one's goin' to Chi-car-go!"
Kevin shouts as he claps his hands. 

His anticipation is so great he can hardly sleep on Friday nights. 

And so goes his world of daily rituals and weekend field trips.   

He doesn't know what it means to be discontent.   

His life is simple.   

He will never know the entanglements of wealth of power, and he does not care
what brand of clothing he wears or what kind of food he eats. His needs have
always been met, and he never worries that one day they may not be.   

His hands are diligent. Kevin is never so happy as when he is working. When he
unloads the dishwasher or vacuums the carpet, his heart is completely in it.   

He does not shrink from a job when it is begun, and he does not leave a job
until it is finished. But when his tasks are done, Kevin knows how to relax.   

He is not obsessed with his work or the work of others. His heart is pure.   

He still believes everyone tells the truth, promises must be kept, and when you
are wrong, you apologize instead of argue.   

Free from pride and unconcerned with appearances, Kevin is not afraid to cry
when he is hurt, angry or sorry. He is always transparent, always sincere. And
he trusts God.   

Not confined by intellectual reasoning, when he comes to Christ, he comes as a
child. Kevin seems to know God - to really be friends with Him in a way that is
difficult for an "educated" person to grasp. God seems like his closest
companion.   

In my moments of doubt and frustrations with my Christianity I envy the security
Kevin has in his simple faith.   

It is then that I am most willing to admit that he has some divine knowledge
that rises above my mortal questions   

It is then I realize that perhaps he is not the one with the handicap . I am. My
obligations, my fear, my pride, my circumstances - they all become disabilities
when I do not trust them to God's care   

Who knows if Kevin comprehends things I can never learn? After all, he has spent
his whole life in that kind of innocence, praying after dark and soaking up the
goodness and love of God.   

And one day, when the mysteries of heaven are opened, and we are all amazed at
how close God really is to our hearts, I'll realize that God heard the simple
prayers of a boy who believed that God lived under his bed.   

Kevin won't be surprised at all!   

When you receive this, say a prayer. That's all you have to do.. There is
nothing attached. This is powerful.   

Just send this to four people and do not break this, please. Prayer is one of
the best free gifts we receive. There is no cost, but a lot of rewards.   

FRIENDS ARE ANGELS WHO LIFT US TO OUR FEET WHEN OUR WINGS HAVE TROUBLE
REMEMBERING HOW TO FLY"

Girl Scout Camping Trip or The Russians Are Coming

i grew up in a little town on Lake Superior.  In Ashland in the sixties, little girls still wore dresses  to school every day and little boys never wore jeans.  We jumped rope and played tag and hop scotch.  School days were long and sometimes very boring, except of course when we had a movie or slide show. 

Remember how exciting it was on Fridays when the teacher was as worn out as you were and she put on a movie, even if you already saw it once?  Those were the days.

Any way, I was a Girl Scout.  I joined as a Brownie and then in a ceremony where we walked across a bridge out at Prentice Park, I became a Girl Scout. 

I loved being a Girl Scout.  I loved the green dress, the sash with the pins and badges on it and the little hat.  I would read my Girl Scout Manual all the time and look at all the badges and imagine that i would become the most decorated Girl Scout of all time.  I would have so many badges they would fill the sash, front and back.

Of course, that didn’t exactly happen.  Since Girl Scouts are supposed to tell the truth, the truth is I only remember getting four or five badges.  But I did love them and couldn’t wait to put them on the sash. 

I guess at this point I should probably tell the truth about something else; the truth is I wish that i could have joined the Campfire Girls.  Their uniforms were much cuter and what little kid didn’t like the idea of a campfire.  Unfortunately, we didn’t have any Campfire Girls in town.  Not that we ourselves never started a campfire, we did start quite a few down at the beach to cook our lunch of beans in a can.  It was always fun to do that and I loved the idea of camping outside.

As a Girl Scout We did a lot of things, like caroling during Christmas and making Mother’s Day gifts and sell cookies.  Those things were all fun, but the whole point of being a Girl Scout, is to go camping and when we finally did, it wasn’t exactly like the pictures in our manual.

When I was in 4th Grade, our Girl Scout troop, went camping.  We went to Camp Rondelay, the Girl Scout campground.  There was just one thing.  We went in the winter.  Yes, winter.

I don’t know why we went in the winter, but we did and we were as excited as if it was summer, except we had a lot more clothes on.

I remember we all gathered at the Peterson’s house to meet up with our troop leaders.  We were divided up between a couple of big cars and our sleeping bags and clothes were loaded.  There were about 10 of us.  We were all squished into the cars wearing our snow pants, coats, hats and mittens.  I don’t remember being too warm on the trip to the campground.  Cars didn’t heat up in the ‘60’s like they do now.  We would have roasted in the cars we drive today.  This is probably the one situation I can think of that it would have been nice to have an SUV.  Ten little girls, sleeping bags and clothes and food for a weekend.  Yup, that would have been useful.

When we arrived at Camp Rondelay, it was already getting dark so we unloaded our things, rolled out our sleeping bags and got ready for dinner.  Each meal, we took turns helping cook or cleanup.  Everybody had a job and I don’t remember anyone complaining.  There was a nice big kitchen and big bathrooms.  And the lodge was heated.  That was a good thing because it was below zero that weekend and windy.

During the weekend we made a few crafts inside and we were going to go hiking, but the wind chill was so bad that even in the sun, it was too cold to be outside very long. 

So we spent the majority of the time, inside the lodge and at night we would all get in a circle and tell stories.  That was the first time I heard the infamous story about the guy with the hook.  You know, a young couple is parked out in the moonlight, I think our troop leader said they were saying goodnight, when they heard that a mass murderer had escaped from the mental hospital and that he was very dangerous and had a hook instead of a hand on his right arm. 

Then the girl got really scared and asked her date to take her home, so he started the car and drove her home really fast.  When they got to her house he walked around to open her car door and there hanging on the door handle, was a bloody hook!!!!!

And then we all screamed.

Didn’t you love those stories the first time you heard them?  We also heard the one about a ghost who  kept saying “Turn out the light”.  I don’t remember how that one went, but we did the same thing at the end of this story.

We all screamed.

Eventually at night, we would start getting sleepy after a few stories, and before you knew it, it was morning again.

On the very last day, we ventured out for a walk in the snow and sunlight.  The wind had died down and even though it was still below zero, it didn’t feel that bad outside.  We posed for a few pictures, which my girlfriend was happy to share with me.

And this is where the Russians come in.

When I was growing up, my Mom and my Grammas all sewed a lot.  There were times when they would use an adult size skirt to make a jumper for me and/or my little sister Clare.  Most of the time when they cut down the bigger garment, we didn’t mind at all.  I loved plaid jumpers and since I had to wear a dress to school, I liked ones that actually fit well and were warm.

But sometimes when adult clothes are cut down for a little kid, it doesn’t really work as you would expect.  Now I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but the fact is that I swear I would have rather frozen to death than wear the coat and hat I was given that winter.

The coat was camel colored wool.  It had dark brown brocade stitched design down the front and center of the coat and around the bottom.  The hat was dark brown faux fur.  It was shaped like a fur helmet.  Are you getting the picture?  All that I needed was to say “Da, comrade” and I was there.  I looked exactly like the Russians in the pictures in magazines and on TV. 

Boy was it ever lucky that Kim Spangle’s family shared copies of the pictures with me.  If they hadn’t done that, I might have forgotten about my Russian Winter at Camp Rondelay.  If I so much as show my sister Clare just a glimpse of one of those pictures, or if we mention Camp Rondelay, she laughs uncontrollably.

I don’t really blame her, I looked funny.  Oh the trials of our childhood.  The shoes we didn’t like, the big sweater when we didn’t want to wear one, snow pants when there was only a chance of snow and hats just because it was cold. 

And if that wasn’t bad enough, the winter of my only camping trip (I’m still shaking my head about going in the winter) to Camp Rondelay and I had to go looking like I just got off the plane from Moscow.  Not that there is anything wrong with being Russian, it’s just that I’m not one and when I got dressed in that outfit, I looked funny.  I’d post the pictures with this post, but I’m a little too humiliated to do that.  Maybe another 40 years or so and I’ll do it.

Isn’t there a Beatles song about this??????

sing along now,  Back in the USSR.......

Now all of you in Wisconsin, turn on the furnace, put your flannel sheets on your bed and put all the blankets back on the bed, and stay warm.  It’s winter again and if you get sick your Mom might put you in a funny looking hat and coat.

Thanks for listening,

Anne

Golden Afternoon

It’s been almost two years since I went to work for the last time.  I tried so hard to keep working, but my arachnoiditis pain made it impossible.  When I finally accepted the fact that I couldn’t work anymore, I was in a very bad place.  I couldn’t see anything but sadness.  I was frustrated, hurt, scared and a million other things I can’t even begin to describe.

As I was struggling to get over my new physical limitation, we lost our dogs.  Dallis and Austin were my best friends, they were the two who stayed here with me every day and kept me company even on the worst days.  I didn’t think I would ever get over losing them, I’m still not sure I ever will.

But today, I had a feeling I haven’t had in a long time.  I feel hope. I don’t know why, but when I was looking outside at the sunlight on the trees, I felt happy.  The happiness I used to feel on beautiful days like this one.  Almost like the bad stuff never even happened.  I feel like I did way before I even had back surgery.  The pain is still the same, but right now, this moment,  this afternoon, while I’m watching Dino snoring on the kitchen floor, I’ve got a smile on my face!!

There is a favorite movie of mine, it’s called “The Bishop’s Wife”.  The movie stars David Niven as the bishop, Loretta Young as his wife and Cary Grant as an angel.  In the very beginning of the movie, the angel (Cary ) helps a blind man cross the street.  The blind man says he can go the rest of the way alone to see his doctor “you see, I have faith”. 

I feel like I’ve been blind for long enough, I had faith that somehow things would get better and they have.  I know this feeling won’t last forever, but it’s here now and I’m going to relish in it.  I’m going to be thankful for my family, my home and my friends. And I’m thankful for all of the people that are praying for me and all the other people suffering in this world.

And for this golden afternoon, I’ll remember all my life, how the sun came out after being dimmed for so long.

God bless you.

Thanks for listening,

Anne

Love Suffers

     I fail to sympathize with people who tell me about their bad days.  Bad days?  What could possibly have happened, I really can't imagine anything so bad that anyone would have to tell a person with chronic pain that the toll collector took too long to give them change, or that their boss yelled at them.

      I get smoked when I am forced to endure on the top of my pain that some tiny thing in some tiny person's life, that things didn't go perfectly for them today.

    Soon, some of the people with whom I'm enrolled in this pain clinic will tell parts of their stories.  I hope you hear something that you'd like to hear and develop a new connection.

      We're all here to try a novel approach to pain management: since the med's don't work, what would happen if one were to remove all...Yup, ALL MED's?  Could it possibly hurt worse?  We're under the care of a pain doc at one of the world's best hospitals who believes the opposite.  He believes that most of your and my pain will disappear.  Getting to the point of no med's is hellacious.  More follows...God bless us all, Colin

It's Almost Halloween

I grew up in a little town on Lake Superior.  Ashland was the biggest little town in the area, but still much smaller than the big city of Superior, fifty miles to the west.

As the warm fall days gave way to chillier nights, the trees around us turned to the brilliant colors of fall. The bright reds, the yellows and all the shades of brown.  The smell of the leaves, the sight of birds flocking together to head south, standing together wing to wing on the telephone lines.  My little sister Clare thought that they birds were warming their feet on the wires, when they perched there.  That’s not such a bad idea, maybe they are warmer there.

Growing up we tried to hold onto every summer and fall day we could.  We knew winter was coming, in early October, winter was well on it’s way.  Although the day may warm up to the sixties in the fall sunlight, chances are the day started below freezing with a little frost on the lawn.  You really had to dress in layers, otherwise you would be way to warm all afternoon.

The great kid holiday, Halloween was just around the corner.  Every year we would try to come up with new costumes.  This was particularly difficult for us.  It’s not that we had no ideas about what to wear, it’s just that it’s hard to find a costume that will fit over your snow pants.  That’s right, snow pants.

It was not at all unusual for us to have snow on and around Halloween.   When you’re a little kid, your parents still made you dress appropriately for the weather, hence your costume had to fit over your snow pants or it had to incorporate our snow pants.

I remember how lucky our neighbor  Jody was.  Her brother Danny had a lion costume that someone made, with a tail and it fit perfectly over Jody’s snow pants and boots.  It didn’t make her too bulky at all, so she could stay on a dead run while the rest of us were struggling with our sheets.  I think it was the only thing we could come up with besides being a bum.  Which just meant getting a dirty face and wearing an old hat.  I’m telling you, snow pants just ruin a good costume.

But we went out trick or treating anyway. 

In the sixties, we had banner years for candy.  First, we ran as fast as we could house to house so we could get as much candy as possible.  No parents were with us because they were not needed.  We still knew our neighbors and we knew we were safe.  So besides candy we also got, homemade fudge, angel food candy, homemade hard anise candy, brownies and the occasional carmel apple.  Lots of places gave regular candy, but the older generation gave us the good stuff, the homemade stuff that your gramma made.  After all, they were someone’s grandparents.

After a couple of hours at the dead run, we would drag our bulging pillowcases back home.  No plastic buckets for us, everyone used a pillowcase.  Besides, they held a lot.

When we got home and peeled off the layers of clothes, we would dump out the pillowcase on the floor and sort the candy.  No we were not looking for razors or poison or ground glass.  We were just sorting out the stuff we didn’t like.  I personally hate coconut, I always have, so Mounds and Almond Joy were up for grabs from me.  I loved black licorice, so I would eat Clare’s.  It all worked out ok, we ate until we were full and hid the rest in our dresser.

I would usually finish my candy first, while Clare would only eat a couple of pieces per day.  She was eating Halloween candy all the way until Thanksgiving.  It’s really hard to have a little sister who has willpower. This was the same little girl who didn’t want to have to share sardines with anyone, so she opened a tin of them, ate a couple and then put it under the couch for safe keeping.  It stunk up the living room pretty good, but the cat was happy and Clare learned about what things are not ok to put under the couch.

Halloween was a whole season to us when we were kids.  Not just one night.  All the way up until the big night, TV shows and movies at the old Bay Theater were all geared to be about witches and magic brew and flying brooms.  Remember the show H.R. Pufnstuff?  I’ve always thought that Witcheepoo would have been a great costume.  And of course the Wicked Witch of the West from The Wizard of Oz, was the scariest of them all.

Things were so easy back then.  The villains on TV shows always got caught, little kids were safe outside at night and no one’s candy was poisoned or tampered with. 

The leaves rustle under our feet and the dry air still warms up quickly.  And if you listen, very closely at night, you can still hear the sounds of your childhood, reverberating in the evening breeze.  The laughter from a game of tag played in the dark, the crunch of the leaves when someone played hide-n-seek.  You can still hear it in the stillness, just listen, your childhood is calling you.....

Thanks for listening.

Anne

I Know There Is A Heaven

I grew up in a little town on Lake Superior.  I lived in Ashland, in the same house,  all my life until I went away to college in Madison.  I’ve lived in the Madison area since then.

We lived in a big old house on the corner of third street and eleventh avenue west.  We were only three blocks from the lake and we could see it from the front yard or my parents bedroom.  I don’t think I ever appreciated how beautiful that view is. 

My Mom grew up in Ashland, in fact she grew up in a house right across from the street where I grew up.  We were very lucky to have my Mom’s parents right across the street.  I spent a lot of my summer days on my Gramma’s front porch.  Playing cards and visiting with my grandparents. 

Across the bay from Ashland is Washburn.  That is where my Dad grew up and that’s where his parents Gramma Al and Grampa Jack lived.  It was only six miles from Ashland to Washburn, but when you’re a little kid, it seems like a very long ride.

Gramma Al was a very special person.  Grampa Jack was quiet and hard working, but Gramma Al had the laugh and love that you expect from a Gramma. Her dark blue eyes showed brightly from behind her glasses.  She always wore blue.  She had a lot of beautiful blue dresses.  I never saw her wear pants, not ever.

Gramma Al was a happy person.  I was lucky enough to talk to her a few times about her childhood and her younger years.  She was quite a woman.

Gramma Al was the first in her family to attend school beyond high school.  She went to a business college for one year when she was only a teenager.  It was very unusual for a young woman to pursue any education beyond high school, but she did. 

After she finished at the business college, she ended up working in the post office in Washburn.  Gramma told me that she met Grampa Jack when he came in to pick up his mail.  She said she just “knew he was the one”.

Gramma Al had two children, my Aunt Susie (her real name is Mary Ellen) and my Dad.  She lost several boys in between the two.  It’s kind of funny that we call our aunt Aunt Susie.  My older sister’s name is Mary  Suzanne and we call her Susie too.  It’s very confusing when you are a little kid.  No one is named Susie, but we call both of them Susie.  Go figure.

Anyway, Gramma Al was very friendly.  My Mom and Dad took Gramma Al and Grampa Jack to Chicago so they could go to a Cubs game.  Gramma Al made a point of meeting and saying hello to every single person she saw.  In the elevator at the hotel, in the restaurants, in the baseball game seats.  Everyone.

My Mom told me that the Democratic National Convention was also at their hotel and when they checked in, there was a big beautiful basket of fruits in their room.  Gramma Al thought it was so nice of them, she thanked everyone.

Apparently when she was a little girl, she was the same way.  She said  “hello” and smiled at every person she met.  Much to the embarrassment of her older sisters.

Through the years my Dad’s parents did a lot for our family.  Gramma Al and Grampa Jack came over from Washburn every Friday.  She stripped all the beds and washed all the laundry and brought it back the next Friday.  She also had dinner waiting in the oven and several coffee cans of cookies.  To this day whenever I eat a sugar cookie, it doesn’t taste quite right without that faint coffee taste. 

They also helped my parents remodel the house with new carpets, a new kitchen, remodeled bedrooms, etc.  They were very generous and I have always considered myself very lucky to have a family as wonderful as ours. 

I guess the most important thing to know about my Gramma is that she is the reason I believe in Heaven.  My Dad died in August of 1980, both of his parents were still living.  We drove to their house when we came back from the hospital in Duluth to tell them that he was gone.

Aunt Susie and her husband Uncle Mac, met us at Gramma’s house and helped us tell them that Dad died.  It was an awful situation for all of us.  I was only 20 and Clare was 18, we were leaving for college in a couple of weeks and Dad was gone.  We were all kind of lost.

That same year, just a few months later in mid-December, Grampa Jack got sick and died.  On the day he died, Gramma Al was admitted to the hospital.  I went to see her that night.  She asked me if I was happy and I said yes and then she looked at me and said “He took care of me all of my life, now I’m going to go and take care of him.  My Johnny.”.

Gramma Al died that night.  I just know she wouldn’t have died if there wasn’t really a Heaven.  She wouldn’t have wanted to leave us, if she wasn’t going to see Grampa Jack again. 

And after all, isn’t that what we all want?  Don’t we all want to go and be with our loved ones again?  Isn’t that why we believe as strongly as we do that we will all go to Heaven?

Well, that’s what I think anyway.  And that’s what Alyce Lamoreaux, my Gramma Al thought too.

Thanks for listening,

Anne