Alice Meek and Mild

Posted on June 11, 2013 by admin

"Back Off, Lady! I'm Broody!"

I have had chickens in my life for many years. Consequently, I have become the person that people call when they are having trouble with their own backyard hens. I get calls about thin shells, torn combs, molting hens … you name it. The number one problem that people call about is broodiness.

The person on the other end of the line is worried. Their chicken is hot and bothered. She is sitting on her nest hating every one and everything within a 4 foot radius. No one can go near her.

I get it. This person has a very unhappy chicken. As a chicken lover, you want to help them feel happy again. There are solutions for this problem all over the chicken raising text books and backyard chicken websites. None of them really work. I know. I tried a bunch of the solutions too … before Alice.

Alice is a mellow chicken. She is at the bottom of the pecking order. She rarely squawks or ruffles her feathers. I have never seen seen her fuss about anything … ever. She is a Zen chicken.

When Maggie, our elder Orpington, went broody, she turned into a mother bear. She attacked us when we changed the water dishes. She pecked at the other chickens. She squawked loudly and beat her wings to menace the kids when they tried to collect eggs in the nesting box near her. We took to blocking her space off with a stick to clean the coop. Even then, she pecked chunks out of the stick.

Alice is now broody but she, unlike any other chicken I have raised, just sits on her eggs (or other chicken’s eggs). She will let me collect them and replace them with a golf ball. I can pick her up and talk her into getting water and a little exercise before sitting back on her nest. If her body temperature wasn’t so high, I might not even noticed she was brooding at all.

Alice taught me that broodiness is not a problem. It is a phase. It is a medical condition that needs no treatment.

We don’t (or shouldn’t) give children pills so they won’t grow up. We don’t (or shouldn’t) give teenaged girls pills so they won’t start their periods. We don’t (or shouldn’t) give menopausal women pills so they keep having periods. This is a part of life.

Alice is taking her broody phase in stride. She isn’t sick. She’s broody, plain and simple. If chickens didn’t get broody, we wouldn’t have new baby chicks. She seems to accept her body changes with the grace that she accepts all of the other parts of her life.

I can see that this is uncomfortable for her. The text books recommend isolating a broody hen in a custom built box. Sticking her in a box to force her to stop brooding is uncomfortable too. One website suggested making a brooder sit on ice bags. That sounds weird. I tried it. The chickens and I agreed that that is truly weird.

Instead of feeling upset about broodiness, I now honor it. Alice taught me that every change in life is not a sickness. Alice taught me that every change in life is just a change and the way that you handle this change is sometimes more important than the change itself.

Posted in Animals, Chickens, Health, Journal | 1 Comment

The Sibling Set

Posted on May 5, 2013 by admin

Temptations

My youngest son, Aaron was born when his siblings were in grade school. This age difference secured him a unique relationship in the family. By the time Aaron was 2 years old, he worshiped his siblings as gods.

They knew how to do all the cool kid things. They could ride trikes. They could climb trees. They could build complex cities out of Legos. They could ride horses. They even had an archery set set up in the backyard. There was no end to the amount of cool his siblings were capable of.

His face would just light up when they started doing their older child activities. He wanted to join them so badly but he was too young to join them in their pursuits for most of his life. His dad and I were fairly selective about maintaining age appropriate behavior.

Once our backs were turned, his restrictions vanished.  Aaron’s siblings gave him chocolate from their Halloween bags when he was 3 months old. They pushed him down slides that were intended for kids twice his age. They randomly left out beads or hairpins that were far from toddler safe. They showed him how to use their air soft guns. Sometimes I do not know how he survived childhood.

Through all these adventures, Aaron never lost his faith in his siblings. They had the best toys. They had the coolest friends. They had the most daring ideas. Just when he began to doubt them, they moved out.

Last year, my middle son, Dylan moved back home. The economy is merciless to kids his age. If he is ever going to make it to architecture school, he has to save money. Aaron did not mind in the least.

Now that some time has passed, Aaron has learned to question his siblings. He is 14 years old and suspects that they may have the capacity to be just as dumb as his parents. The shift in his attitude does not seem problematic. It is just part of growing up.

Last week, Aaron and I made cookies. The whole house smelled like a bakery. Dylan was lured down from his room. I could hear him talking to Aaron in the kitchen while I worked on the computer in the back room. I went back to the kitchen to pull the last batch out of the oven just as Dylan dropped a cookie on the floor.

“That is NOT how you eat cookies, ” Aaron chided. He crossed his arms and took the stance of the all-knowing expert. Here was a chance to show his older brother who was boss.

Dylan picked up the cookie and looked at Aaron with a mischievous grin. He paused dramatically and then stuffed the entire cookie into his mouth. Aaron stared at him in disbelief. The cookies were each about 4 inches in diameter and it had formerly been on our floor. Rules were being violated willy-nilly.

He looked over at me. I paused and blinked in surprise. Gross.

Aaron’s face lit up just like it did when he was much younger. He grabbed a cookie off the plate next to him and stuffed it in his mouth too. Both boys started chewing with noises that I distinctly remember from Sesame Street. Dylan smiled slyly. His role as revered older brother was secure for another day.

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The Panic Sets In

Posted on April 22, 2013 by admin

Occupy Medical - Our One Demand

Occupy Medical is a treasure. We are a collection of volunteers that offer free, professional medical service every week at the downtown Eugene Park Blocks. We pull up to the curb with our 35 foot long mobile clinic Sunday mornings and set up 3 tents to accommodate the overflow.

I look forward to serving every week. Even though the clinic day is divided into 2 shifts, I stay from set up to break down. I have only missed 3 Sundays in over a year. Occupy Medical has become as much of a beacon of hope for myself as it has for our patients. It also terrifies me.

Last fall, we received a grant to buy the bus that we use as a clinic. We served approximately 15 patients a week. We are only open 4 hours and since we offered holistic care, this was a comfortable pace. Dr. Leigh did the math and announced that we could reasonably help 20-24 patients each Sunday at this pace. The numbers shot up quickly after that.

Today we served 49 patients. Part of the increase was due to a an article about us in the local newspaper. There were far more people helped that did not make it onto our patient roster.

Benjamin, our hair stylist and mental health committee pioneer, cut hair for 4 hours today without a break. Darcy, our new OM member that volunteers to wash feet, was busy during her 3 hour shift. I do not know how many people Barb, our nutritionist, saw yet. I think that our hospitality team (Martin, Jason and Karen) that keep the free hygiene supplies and herbal tea station going had an untold number of visitors today. It looked like Felicia and Plaedo had close to 20 students in the free workshop they taught behind the med tent. The numbers just keep growing.

The conditions that our patients walk in with are becoming more complex. Today was a nice example. One patient had skin cancer lesions that his doctor had ignored 6 months ago and were now over 1 inch in diameter. One patient had unmonitored hepatitis that was causing sever jaundice and serious pain. One patient that a concerned volunteer coaxed out the park had to be sent to the hospital because he was close to losing his hand.

By the end of the day, Dr. Leigh called a meeting. We are the safety net clinic that other safety net clinics send their patients to. Healthcare in Lane County is rapidly reaching a crisis state. The conventional solutions are simply not working. We, at Occupy Medical are faced with some unpleasant options: limiting care or limiting numbers of patients. We do not want to choose either option.

OM at a recent Healthcare for All Rally

It is time to consider a 3rd option: change the panic into rage. Unbridled anger can be honed to the perfect tool for activism. We have enough stories to share about the reality of healthcare in our quiet little town to turn even the most jaded senator’s hair gray. We know that the resources exist for providing help where and when it is needed. The money is there. It has just been classically earmarked for petty projects. Now is the time to storm the statehouse and demand a shift in priorities.

Occupy Medical is staffed by close to 40 dedicated volunteers from all walks of life. They come to the clinic and serve as best they can because they know that they are saving lives. My volunteers have seen enough senseless suffering brew a belly full of rage. Now is when it gets interesting. Now is when the treasure trove of Occupy Medical volunteers become even more valuable. I can’t wait.

***Photo Credit (staff in front of bus) – Rob Sydor (used by permission of the artist)***

***Photo Credit (bus at Salem rally) – Brooke Robertshaw (used by permission of the artist)***

Postscript: After writing the rough draft of this article, I had an internet conversation about our day with other members of our crew. We talked about how exhausted we were and how many chronic cases we treated. We weren’t complaining. We were just overwhelmed and trying to put the day into perspective. Here is blurb from the conversation. Benjamin tied it all together poetically.

Benjamin: “Whew I’m tired! We did a lot of hair today too. So glad to have Katy (a new volunteer) …she has the right spirit!”

Sue: “Today was a lot of work but it was also filled with a lot of victories. I loved having a chance to get an insecure young woman to see herself as beautiful. I loved watching Cindy find a solution for care for the man with cancer. I loved hearing how Jason, Donna and Dr. Willy saved that man’s hand. I loved the big smile on a patient’s face after Carol, Jerry and Darcy worked on her poor feet. I loved seeing Alley show up with a big pot of beans. I loved getting new volunteers. I loved working with my tried and true volunteers. Yes, I am tired. This is a good kind of tired. I look forward to feeling exhausted again next week.”

Benjamin: “Yes, it’s the tired that washes slumber over our tired bones. Pulls warm blankets of love over our soul and paints future victories across the landscapes of our dreams.”

Thank you all for your courage and inspiration. It is an honor to serve with you.

Posted in Activism, Health, Journal | Tagged , , , | 4 Comments

Hungry for Natives

Posted on April 14, 2013 by admin

Trillium

Every week I try to sneak away from the city. I live in Eugene, Oregon which is a considered a small city by most standards but it is a city none-the-less. Eugene is rife with parks and bike paths but it is also paved and sculpted and controlled. I start getting cagey and claustrophobic if I haven’t had my weekly dose of wild space. A walk among plants that do not need pampering lets me slightly feral as well.

These walks don’t have to be very long. We have a number of hideaways around town. Sometimes my escapes are still with in earshot of traffic. I just need a few minutes to check in with my botanical friends.

Native plants have calming effect on me that I can not logically explain. It may be that their histories and durability despite human interaction help me find peace. It may be that the only care that they need is protection from us which keeps me centered when I feel overwhelmed. It may be that they simply belong here. A sense of belonging can help any one calm down and focus.

I bring native plants into my garden whenever I can. Most do very well. Oregon grape, coastal strawberry and yarrow grow happily in my yard. I am always looking for more species to add to the list. Native plants are not a popular topic in the garden centers around town and I am not going to dig up a plant growing happily in the forest.

One of the local companies started growing unusual native plants in pots to sell to the public. This weekend I bought another one.

Trillium is a plant that should never be dug out of the woods. It is surprisingly fragile for being a bulb. It’s seeds are planted by ants. They eat the spike at the end of the seed and throw the rest into their compost piles. From there, the trillium seeds sprout and prosper.

The trillium that I bought in a tall pot at the plant sale this weekend, is our native species, Trillium ovatum, or Western Wake Robin. It blooms in early spring and fades to a gentle red as it ages. It loves deep shade which I can easily provide. It requires no care after it is established.

Maybe that is what I like about native plants. They are independent of humans while being deeply connected to the plants and critters (like ants) that we know very little about in their environment. They are mysterious and often ignored. They root me into time and space. They give this overwhelmed little human much needed perspective. For that I am grateful.

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The Medicine of Flowers

Posted on April 6, 2013 by admin

The 1st Daffodil of Spring

I call myself the practical herbalist. Pragmatism is a value that I hold in high regard. I dress in clothing that fits comfortably. I strive to cook food that is flavorful and nutritious. I recycle. I can. I save paper scraps for notes instead of buying scratchpads. I live a fairly frugal life.

My garden fits into this value system too. The plants I choose for my garden must fit into a few categories. They must be either: medicinal, edible for the family and/or our pets, or beneficial for wildlife. I believe that these standards give me a lot of wiggle room. I have a lot of native plants, a lush vegetable garden and a healthy collection of fruit trees. I am very proud of my list. It brings order into my tiny world.

I am also my mother’s daughter so there are exceptions to the rule. For those who do not know my mother (and I am sorry for you that haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her); she is the consummate artist. She sewed, beaded and painted. She wasn’t just an art teacher, she was an art lover. She made boxes of Christmas tree ornaments, painted hydrangeas on the walls of her living room and even made the decorative tiles along her kitchen splash guard.

My mother had a garden of flowers. She grew orchids and African violets indoors to astonishing sizes. Outside, her lilac bushes were the size of trees. Roses attracted ever bee in the neighborhood. Bulbs that were hidden from view all winter, exploded with stunning pastels just in time for Easter. Her yard was bursting with color. A spring day at my mother’s house would put Rainbow Brite to shame. She placed her plants where they would be the prettiest.

In contrast, I place my plants where they would grow the healthiest. My yard looks like the Jolly Green Giant’s refuse pile. It is chaotic but, gosh darn it, if it ain’t healthy. If it wasn’t for my mother’s influence, it would be a visual abomination.

Soft Pink of My Mother's Favorite Tulip

It was my mother that encouraged me to plant daffodils. Daffodils are so poisonous that deer won’t even eat them. It was my mother that encouraged me to plant the lilacs. Yes, the mason bees like them but I sure could have planted a native shrub instead. It was my mother that encouraged me to plant tulips. Tulips don’t even bloom as long as daffodils. What was I thinking?

Thanks to my mother, I have had people pull over when driving past my house and get out to look at my garden. They ask about the herbs and native plants but it is the flowers catch their eyes. The only reason these people took a minute to learn about the plants that I value is because of the plants my mother values.

Last month, my mother passed away. I am devastated. She was the most influential woman in my life and I adored her. People ask me how I am and I tell them that I am fine. I am trying very hard to stay busy so that I don’t fall apart. Falling apart is, however, very good medicine in small doses.

This morning, after my errands were done, I brewed a hot cup of tea and sat on the front porch to watch the rain. The hyacinth and daffodils bent in the wind.  The daphne and forget-me-not stood up bravely to the weather. Every color was shining in the rain. Even in my mess of a yard, I could see why people pause to admire the beauty of the flowers.

The cup of one of the pink tulips filled with water and opened a petal to drain. This tiny waterfall overwhelmed me. It was such a simple moment and yet so beautiful. I fell apart.

I was caught in the poetry of a vision that my mother brought me after years of encouragement to celebrate aesthetics I didn’t know I had. That she could talk her bone-headed daughter to put a little art into her life was amazing. That it could bring me to tears despite my well scheduled efforts to stay strong was a down right miracle.

I needed this medicine. I will need it again. I didn’t realize until now just how medicinal a handful of flower bulbs could be. Thanks to my mother, it is time to rethink that list of mine. That little waterfall from the tulip was a hug that I desperately needed but was too proud to ask for. Thanks again, Mom. Thanks for the love.

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Tribute to Mom

Posted on March 26, 2013 by admin

Barbara Colburn

I wrote the following obituary for my mother a few days after she passed. At her memorial service, a man came up to me who had been working in the kitchen to pass out refreshments in the basement of my parent’s church. I guessed that he was about my age but it was a little tough to tell. It looked like life had sharpened the edge of its knife against him.  His eyes were red with tears.

He told me that when he got out of prison a few years back, he was having a tough time  getting back on his feet. My mother met him at their church and offered him a job of weeding her immaculate garden. She gave him $25 a day to spend a hour or 2 to do yard work. She sat with him as he worked to share her gardening secrets. He opened his heart to her as all of us do. They shared stories and my mother prayed for him when he felt overwhelmed.

My mom listened and joked with him and enjoyed the sunshine as he worked. Her declining health limited her from doing the work that she enjoyed but it did not dampen her spirit. This man blossomed under her care just as the flowers in the beds he now tended had flourished with my mother’s gentle touch.

He told me that he never felt judged or convicted by my mother. He said that he was able to, through connections my mom and her friends had arranged, find a permanent job that he still holds. He told me that my mother, through her compassion, gave him hope and let him forgive himself so he could move on in life.

I was not the least bit surprised to hear his story. Mom had told me that “a delightful young man” was helping her with the yard some years ago. I was happy to finally meet him. His story brought tears to my eyes too. I hope to be able to carry on even a small portion of the legacy that my mother left when she passed. It’s going to take some work to truly honor the lessons she spent a lifetime teaching us.

Mom's High School Graduation Photo

Mom’s Obituary

“Barbara Colburn peacefully passed away due to a heart condition March 12th, 2013. She left behind a large group of family and friends that are truly lucky to have been touched by her creativity and her kindness.
Barbara was born in Childress, Texas, May 4th 1939, the 4th of 6 sisters. She loved to announce that she was born the same year as both “Gone with the Wind” and “The Wizard of Oz” came out in theaters. We, her surviving family members, understood that this was further proof that Barbara was an American classic. She was also a proud Texan and shared stories of cotton fields, rattle snakes and hard country living with glee.
Barbara met Roger Colburn while living in Seattle, Washington. She had a few years of college under her belt and was working as a switchboard operator at the time. After a whirlwind romance, they married and had children.
In the 70s, the Colburn family moved into Christian-based intentional community. Under the patient guidance of Barbara and Roger’s collective wisdom, many college-aged adults found the help that they needed. Most of these community members stay in touch with them years after  the family moved on.
Barbara worked at Parry Center for Children. Although she started as a secretary she quickly became the steadfast cornerstone of the school. She loved all children and all children loved her. They knew that they were safe and accepted in her presence.
After Barbara retired, she focused on her art. She was a skilled toll painter and taught classes in her free time. Barbara made sure that her grandchildren each received a hand painted gift from her every Christmas and a hand made card for every birthday as long as she was able.
Even as her health declined, her love never faded. She surrounded herself with the beauty of nature which she painted on every stick of furniture she could get her hands on. She turned her house and garden into a sanctuary. Those of us that knew her did not escape unchanged either. Barbara had a gift of painting her love onto every heart she touched. Many of us expect that heaven is about to get a little more colorful as Barbara arrives. She will be missed.”

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Grief

Posted on March 17, 2013 by admin

On Tuesday morning, around 3:30am, I lost my mother. She had been battling a heart condition and its long reaching implications for 8 years. I was with her in her home at the time. She died peacefully in her sleep.

My mother was one of those kind of women that brought the best out of a person. She was kind, loving and cheerful. She was active even as her health took its toll. It always felt like a privilege to help her in whatever way I could.

Mom was on pain killers that allowed her to sleep the last few days of her life.  It left her confused when she woke up. We had to speak in whispers so as not to startle her.

Dad spoke gently to her when she called out. He took her hand and assured her that he was there. It did my heart good to see this because I knew that on the inside, my father was terrified. Death was new to him. He had known many who had died but he had never seen a person die. To experience death first hand in the familiar frame of his wife of 50 years was devastating.

I stayed busy during my visit. I sat with Mom when she seemed to be surfacing. I held her hand and brushed her hair from her forehead. I gave her medicine and helped her sip water from a straw. I cleaned her. I made her as comfortable as I knew how.

I tried to help Dad too. I cooked dinner. I cleaned the house. I took shifts by Mom’s side so he could sleep. Mostly, I listened. My father, a formerly guarded man in conversation with his children, talked a lot. He was lost in an emotional sea. Mom’s death was the riptide that pulled him from the shore.

Elisabeth Kübler-Ross describes the 5 stages of grief in her book, On Death and Dying. She describes them as Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. I would add shock to the list. That is what I saw in my father. He was simply in shock.

I had been to deaths before. As an herbalist, I am honored to be invited to attend many of life’s miracles. Death is one of them. It has its own ritual, its own process and its own peace.

I cruised through the first stage of grief. I wept and plunged into silence. The nurse and I washed and dressed my mother’s body after she passed. We combed her hair and spoke gently to her even though we knew she could not hear us any more. I anointed her with lavender essential oil at her forehead, wrists and feet. I pulled the blanket up under her arms as if I was tucking her in for the night.

Then it was my turn to be lost. I just sat there, not knowing if I should cry. If I started, how could I stop? The sea that had claimed my father raged within me as well.

Now I am angry. Not at people. Not at death. I am willing to be angry at annoying computer glitches or email that I lost or the fact that I keep forgetting what time or day it is. I am angry at being lost and powerless in this great, big world of ours. I am angry at being human.

I keep holding my mother’s gentle spirit as a model for my own passage through this time of grief. I keep imagining her voice and when I close my eyes, I can almost feel her fingertips graze the back of my hand. I know this is just my imagination playing tricks with me. At this point, I welcome it. It is how I let my mother guide me through the ocean of grief.

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Saving Amelia

Posted on March 9, 2013 by admin

The Troublemaker

Amelia was groggy. She sat under the grape arbor like a chicken-shaped brick. If she was a cat, I wouldn’t worry. Cats will sit with their legs folded under them for hours and brag about it later. Amelia, like most chickens, does not do meatloaf impersonations unless something is horribly wrong.

Chickens are naturally active creatures. Amelia is active and pathologically aggressive. She is known for bumping other chickens out of the way to win the privilege of standing on a pile of seed. She pecks at squirrel interlopers. She has chased Fred, the 18 lb. neighborhood feral cat, out our yard so often that he has taken on a nervous twitch when she comes out of the coop. I am pretty sure that the dead mouse that our cat, Godzilla, dragged into the driveway, was killed by Amelia, the mighty hunter. She is actually quite terrifying.

Dave, my husband, noticed that Amelia allowed the younger chickens to muscle her out of her place in the head of the chicken treat line. I saw her alone in the coop straining in the laying box past her usual laying time. We both noticed that Amelia was just not her usual, mean self.

Dave thought she was learning manners. When I saw her limping, I knew she was egg bound. This condition is often a death sentence for chickens.

In layman’s terms, egg bound means that the bird has an egg that won’t come out. A chicken can labor for days with this condition until it either passes or it kills her. Professional breeders will often just butcher a chicken in this condition since the survival rate is not promising.

Some of the older literature recommend manually taking the egg out of the vent. Many chickens do not survive this experience either. If the egg breaks, you have a real mess and subsequent infection on your hands. My next door neighbor lost a chicken to this condition just last month. As I examined Amelia’s vent, I started getting depressed. She had been suffering for a few days now. What could I do?

I found a few links on the internet with crazy suggestions involving a steamer pan and a hot box. Other suggestions just sounded untried by actual humans. Having given birth a few times myself, I had a great deal of compassion for my struggling chicken. What would my midwife do?

One site suggested giving the chicken olive oil with her seed and getting her to relax. That sounded reasonable. I wrapped Amelia in a towel and brought her into a dark room. I rolled her onto her back and cradled her securely.

I applied a little bit of St. John’s Wort oil mixed with a few drops of lavender essential oil on her vent and placed a warm, moist towel over the area. She relaxed. This was similar to the treatment my midwife had given me when I was stalled in childbirth. So far I was traveling familiar ground.

After 20-30 minutes of the spa treatment, I returned her to the coop. She was still groggy. I offered her a bowl of millet mixed with olive oil that she pecked at with renewing vigor. I separated her from the other chickens for another hour before letting her mingle in the yard.

The next day, I gave her the same treatment. She barely struggled. I was getting worried. Chickens do not have much stamina. They can drop quickly of even minor ailments.

She's Back!

In the morning, Amelia popped out of the coop the minute I unlatched the door. She bellied up to the stretch of ground that we scatter their seed with a sharp look in her eye. The younger girls who clearly thought her reign of terror was over, trotted over to take their place beside her.

Amelia sized up the interlopers. She spread her wings, stuck out her chest and flapped at them like a poultry version of Tarzan. The girls scattered. Amelia cocked her head and gave me the glare that spoke volumes. “Get that food out here, you fumbling oaf!” She was clearly just as hungry as I was incompetent.

I meekly obeyed her majesty. Amelia was back and she was just as mean as ever. I smiled and threw the chickens an extra scoop to get them through their day. I had missed her energy. As I watched the younger chickens bob and dodge to get their snacks, I assumed that I was alone in these thoughts. Welcome back, Amelia.

Posted in Animals, Chickens, Herbs | Tagged , , , , | 1 Comment

Taming Bears

Posted on January 30, 2013 by admin

Occupy Medical Bus

Free clinics get all sorts of patients. That is the point actually. Every one can come to Occupy Medical to get free, professional, holistic care no matter what their economic situation is. (We are even nice to rich people.)

Some of our patients come to the clinic with friends. Some come with family. Some come alone. Some just peek in. The tall, rough looking patient that I have code named “Leather Jacket Dude” was a “peek in” kind of guy.

Leather Jacket Dude prides himself on being tough. He has long hair and a beard. He usually wears sunglasses. He clomps around in big black boots and a black leather jacket that he has decorated with chains and his favorite band names.

He has honed this image for a reason. It keeps him alive. Leather Jacket Dude is homeless.

There are 2 ways to survive on the street. You either make yourself invisible by slouching in corners and sleeping under dumpsters or you make yourself look tough. Without using either of these skills, within a few days you will be beaten, robbed and worse. At Occupy Medical, we have seen what worse looks like too. The streets, even in our little college town, are brutal.

Leather Jacket Dude likes Occupy. He has marched in our parades. He has taken sanctuary in the Occupy encampment when it was open. He has picked up a few bandages at the Occupy Medical (OM) bus. He has been chewed up and spit out by the system so he was wary of our clinic even if we are part of Occupy. He had every right to growl. We did not blame him but how do we help this guy?

Benjamin, our volunteer stylist, tamed him. Benjamin offers free haircuts at OM every Sunday from 12-4pm. He is a founding member of our mental health team. He is a retired professional hair stylist. He has a gentle voice and stunning skill with the scissors. I have seen people melt into a warm, fuzzy puddle under his care.

Benjamin offered Leather Jacket Dude (LJD) a haircut. LJD refused. He stood there for a minute looking at the stylist chair and then, responding to Benjamin’s welcoming smile, asked if he just get his hair combed. That was how Benjamin tamed the bear.

LJD kept coming back. He enjoyed the attention in a safe place where he was cherished and admired. He started opening up to us. He shared his stories. He shared his dreams. One day, he signed up to get treatment.

LJD has, for such a young man, has a fairly harrowing list of ailments. Some are due to addictions. Some are due to beatings. Some are due to malnutrition. Some are due to the fact that he has to keep walking all day so that he doesn’t get cited for trespassing when he stops to rest.

We treated what we could. He was distrustful of prescription medication so I offered him herbs and asked him to come back so we could check on him again. He cocked his head and weighed the little bottle of herbal supplements* in his hand for a minute before tucking it in his pocket.

LJD came back the next Sunday. He was surprised at how much better he felt. He even smiled. I gave him more herbs: milk thistle, fish oil, vitamins. We talked about eating vegetables.

When LJD came back last Sunday, he brought 3 friends that I hadn’t seen before. He told them to sign up and talk to that “Herb Lady”. After they all had finished their appointments, they looked through their collection of vitamins like kids sorting through trick or treat candy.

I overheard them giving each other health advice. They mentioned dumpsters that they knew had vegetables and fruit in pretty regularly. They talked about how to fill their water canteens in the shallow park fountains. Then they started giving LJD a hard time.

“You shouldn’t drink any more,” a friend chided. “You should just drink water. That lady works hard to get these vitamins for us. You should take care of yourself better.”

LJD nodded solemnly. He rolled a chewable vitamin C between his thumb and forefinger for a minute before popping it in his mouth. I saw him glance back at the bus as they walked away. I know he will be back next week. We’ll be ready.

 

*These were donated to our clinic by Mt. Rose Herbs. All services including treatment supplements and prescriptions are free at OM to encourage patient compliance.

**Thanks to David Sierralupe for the photo

Posted in Activism, Health, Herbs, Journal | Tagged , , , | 1 Comment

Lock, Shock and Barrel

Posted on January 7, 2013 by admin

Christmas with Lock, Shock and Barrel

It was early on a dark and chilly Christmas morning. There was a low rustling sound in the house downstairs. I rolled over and pretended it was the cats. I had dragged myself to bed at 1 a.m. later that night and had no intention of peeling off the quilts until I absolutely had to. Our kids were too old for Santa. The youngest is in high school and the older 2 were college aged. The option of sleeping in was highly probable.

The rustling turned into music; loud, discordant music. I squinted at the clock. 7:30 on the dot. I groaned. My husband turned over without opening his eyes.

“It’s Dylan’s alarm clock. Tell him to shut it off.”

I listened carefully for a minute. The music was familiar.

“Kidnap the Sandy Claws
Throw him in a box
Bury him for ninety years
Then see if he talks.”

I remembered that earlier in the week, when I returned from work, I found my best tablecloth on the floor covered in paper mache and newspaper strips. The kids were working on masks and looking very sheepish about the project. Over 20 years of parenthood has taught me to keep my mouth shut about holiday crafts.

Now, in bed, on Christmas, the pieces were clicking together. 3 masks. “Nightmare Before Christmas” theme music. 3 crafty kids. Oh, I get it.

I tossed off the covers and summoned my husband.

“It’s not his alarm. It’s the kids. Come on Dave, we gotta go downstairs.”

We trotted downstairs towards the source of the music. Power cords lead us down the hall to the open bathroom door. The last chords of “Kidnap the Sandy Claws” jangled from speakers set up the floor. Dave and I stopped short at the bathroom door.

My adult-sized children were squeezed into the bathtub wearing costumes and holding weapons. The shower curtain was rolled up and wrapped with greenery, Christmas tree balls  and lights. My kids started to giggle as Dave and I tried to take in the scene.

They had the costumes down pat. They were dressed like the 3 trick or treat characters named Lock, Shock and Barrel from the “Nightmare Before Christmas” animated movie. They had the clothes, the masks, the weapons for capturing Santa Claus from the scene in the movie in which these 3 characters traveled in a claw foot bathtub to Christmas land.

I was in awe. My kids spent hours of their time during the busiest time of year and good chunk of their hard earned money to pull off this 15 minute prank. They were willing go without adequate sleep for the joy of surprising us, their unsuspecting parents.

Dave and I have held the title of Holiday Maestros for over 2 decades now. We converted our backyard into a giant labyrinth on Halloween. We stayed up until 3 in the morning putting finishing touches on hand made gifts specially tailored for the quirky interests of our kids. We devised treasure hunts for birthday parties complete with maps, pirate costumes and a treasure chest with gifts for all the participants.

We always prided ourselves on our elaborate celebrations which substituted creativity and energy for money and equipment. As I surveyed the scene before me with bleary, early morning vision, one thing sharpened into focus at the back of my mind. The holiday tradition was evolving beyond Dave and I. It was now out of our hands.

Our children have taken holidays into their capable hands and are remolding them into a creatures that reflect their own creativity and interests. Dave and I may still have a few more tricks to throw at our kids over the next few decades but the true joy of having adult aged children is the return volley. They have good memories of holidays and are ready to create more excitement in the future. Bravo, maestros, bravo.

 

**Thanks to David Sierralupe for the photo.

 

 

 

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