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susartandfood

March 5

I begin this writing with a gripe. I pay quite a hearty sum each month for the privilege of having health coverage. I pay a second fee for prescriptions, which also comes out of my account every thirty days. My deductible is $500 annually which comes into play the beginning of each calendar year. Until the deductible is met, I pay market price for medications. Yesterday, I picked up two prescriptions which came to $256 and change. I have to say it does make me wonder why I pay for insurance. After swallowing that large pill, I got home and found an envelope in my mail box from the fire department. When I had RSV the beginning of January, the doctor prescribed a large dose of prednisone to help me breathe. The dose she gave me turned out to be too much for my small body to handle. After taking the meds, my heart rate and blood pressure elevated to the point I thought perhaps I might be having a heart attack. Richard, alarmed, called 911. Four firemen arrived at the front door in short order to check on me. (On a personal note, do you suppose they actually hire these men based on their looks or is it merely serendipity they are all so impossibly attractive? But, I digress.) After a bit, my symptoms began to abate and I declined their offer for a ride to the emergency room to be further assessed. At any rate, this envelope I received from the fire department contained a bill for reimbursement for the use of the fire truck sent out that day in the amount of $500. The medical profession in general must be under the mistaken belief I'm printing $100 bills in the basement in my spare time. Hello? When Rick was sick, the fire truck was parked in our driveway fairly often. One time I remember in particular, Rick had passed out while taking a shower. When I discovered him, he was not responsive and completely covered with soap from head to toe. Immediately, I dialed 911. The 911 operator instructed me to lift him out of the tub and lay him on the floor. Huh, I don't think so. Rick, at the time, weighed around 180 pounds. Limp, I'm sure he would have felt far heavier. I weigh in at about 110. Factor in the soap, and it would have been like me managing a greased pig. No offense meant Rick, if you are listening. Three EMT's arrived, and it took all three men to remove Rick from the tub using a makeshift hammock. Thankfully, after a visit to the ER, for that time at least, he was able to recover. The fire personnel who responded to these calls, were always wonderful and terribly helpful, and told me never to hesitate to call whenever the need arose. Not once, did I ever receive a bill for the fire truck. According to what I was reading in the recent letter, this is a new ordinance. The letter went on to say to call their office and apprise them of any insurance I possess and most likely the insurance would take care of the charges. Mine, as it turns out, does not. Naturally. Really? Again, why is it I have insurance exactly? So, I'm on the line for this as well. I told the woman on the phone, "next time I believe I'll just go ahead and have a heart attack". "No, no, no", she replied, "that is what we don't want". Hmmmmm. Well, whether it is what they want or not, I certainly will think nine or ten times before dialing those three numbers consecutively again, I guarantee.

I will put this to bed for now. Thank you for letting me "air" my thoughts on the subject. Speaking of air, if things continue in the direction they are going, pretty soon we're going to be charged for how much air we take in on a given day. If that happens, the Blue Man Group are going to have a lot of competition.

Over the weekend the sky was ominous. Dark black clouds spilled out rain and snow as a mega storm moved across our area. It even threatened to leave an inch of snow in my back yard, where snow is a rarity. Brrrrrr. It did not produce it, thankfully, but we definitely got a lot of rain. I moved down from the high country to avoid both fires and snow. I have to admit though, I don't mind an occasional dusting of snow to decorate the landscape, as long as it melts off in a day or so. Weather, unless it's life threatening, doesn't bother me. I rather like a little inclement weather now and again. Being inside as a storm rages outside is something I enjoy, as long as the power doesn't go out. I particularly don't like it when it goes out at night. A house can take on such a different feeling when there is no electricity.

Being in a dark house alone at night always takes me back to when I was living in Wakefield, Massachusetts. If you were to produce a travel brochure depicting the perfect New England town, you couldn't fill the bill better than to feature Wakefield on the front cover. Incorporated in the late 1800's, the streets of Wakefield featured beautifully restored Victorian homes perched high atop perfectly manicured lawns. Stately trees decorated nearly every lot, with orderly lines of birches and maples marching along the meridians of the main thoroughfares like soldiers out on patrol. Above the tree lines, church steeples reached majestically towards the heavens. Behind each church, graveyards with crumbling tombstones told the story of the town's original settlers. The hub around which all this revolved, was a picturesque lake, both great for swimming and boating in the summer, as well as ice skating and snow sailing in the winter.

I was twenty-two and change when I moved into the quaint old white house on the south side of that lake, my children still in diapers. The house itself held some historical value, proudly displaying a plaque on it's siding at the front of the building relating a bit of it's history. Often. people pulled in and took pictures while we were home, or walked up the drive to read the details on the plaque itself. It was an impressive house, comprised of four stories, if you included the basement and attic. The owner, an ex mariner, had divided the house in the center creating two separate units. One unit was facing the lake, which was ours, and the other, overlooked the massive back yard. Originally, I believe this plan was devised in order to accommodate his daughter and her family who for a time occupied the back space. However, when the daughter moved on, as did the owner, the house sat vacant for a year or so. When we moved in, the back of the house remained unoccupied for another year or so until a couple about our age and their young daughter finally signed a lease. There was a door both upstairs and down connecting the two units. Before the other couple moved in, strange sounds sometimes emanated from the emptiness lying beyond those doors. On occasion, when in the house alone, the bumps and bangs sometimes caused the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up at full attention. Built in 1898, at least according to the plaque, I always believed the house to be haunted. Though I never actually "saw" an inhabitant not listed on the rental agreement, there was a feeling inside it's walls at times, more sensory than palpable, of not being the only residents. Old houses, to my mind, seem to hold tightly to their stories. In some cases, I believe they hold on to the people the stories center around as well.

I rarely ventured up the rickety wooden stairs connecting the second floor to the attic. I explored it once or twice, but always had the feeling the floor might give out or something creepy and crawly might slither down the back of my shirt. The space, from what I could see, had been mainly used for storage, still housing several boxes marked "xmas" from the former inhabitants, as well as several other unmarked cartons sitting in dark corners gathering dust. Once while up there, I heard the pitter patter of little feet scurrying across the floorboards, which was enough to keep me enjoying other areas of the house rather than returning to the attic any time soon.

One night during the dead of winter, a blizzard buried the area. Both my husband and myself worked in Boston, commuting back and forth via subway. I made it home that Friday night, but my husband had to work late. Roads were shut down by the time he was headed home, leaving the kids and I to fend for ourselves, and him in a hotel in Boston. The wind was swirling snow outside. Now and again, it would toss a handful against the windows, making it sound as if someone was knocking. Perhaps, they were?? I built a fire in the massive fireplace. Cuddling under a blanket with my two little ones, I read them story after story to keep their minds off the howling outside. Pretty soon, the heat from the crackling fire and the steady drone of my voice weaved their spell, and small eyelids began to droop. Tucking them into bed, I came downstairs alone to clean up after dinner. The fire had burned down considerably. I added a new log to bring it back to life. The poker, always stored in the rack for safe keeping was leaning against the hearth. I knew I did not leave it there because I clearly remembered having difficulty securing it in the rack before taking the children up the stairs. Those hairs on the back of my neck were not only standing up at that point, but were saluting. This was not the first time things had been moved without explanation since we had been in the house. My husband, a total cynic about all things otherwordly, had even commented on several occasions items he knew he had put away had turned up either back where they had started or turned up in different locations. Hmmmmmm, and double hmmmmmmm.

Just as I turned on the water to rinse the dishes, the lights flickered, then went completely out. The only light in the house now came from the flickering shadows of the fire. Creepy, I am telling you. When alone, your mind can conjure up many stories to keep itself occupied. Locating a flashlight in the cupboard, I was pleased to find it responded immediately when I pushed the on button. I checked the fire. The poker, was in the rack where it belonged, I went up to check on the children, adding another blanket to each bed. Going downstairs to again beef up the fire, the poker was now on the left hand side of the fireplace and the fire was happily burning in the grate. I always remember that night sitting under the blanket on the couch, where I decided to sleep. Though completely alone except for my sleeping children, I had a feeling I wasn't. I always think of this when the wind is whistling outside and the skies grow dark. We know so little about the other side, but to me it is more likely there is something to spirits existing in the beyond the beyond then there is not. I prefer to keep my mind open and available to all possibilities rather than only entertaining one version of the story.

Here we are in March. Where is the time getting off to? Corned beef is showing up in the grocery stores and bunnies are appearing on all the shelves. Have a happy week. Spring is not far away. The trees are already welcoming it in with the dogwoods in bloom and tiny buds erupting everywhere you look. Life is always regenerating itself. I can understand why one would want to linger is such a beautiful world, even after their time here has come to the end.