Before and after

I saw the orthopedist Monday for my first postoperative appointment. He was very pleased with my progress so far. He tested my range of motion and strength and said it was very good for this point in recovery.

He also gave me the pictures from the arthroscope during the operation. If you are exceptionally squeamish, go no further. I promise that you will see no blood, just tissue.

Even though my shoulder aches and doesn’t work the best right now, I am very pleased that I had this done. Instead of continuing to get worse, I am getting better. WOO HOO!

Rotator cuff before debridment
This is my rotator cuff before anything was done to it. Notice how fuzzy it is. Hubby compared it to a teased-out cotton ball. The body’s interior surfaces are supposed to be smooth, but this certainly is not.
Here the machine is debrideing my shoulder. It’s combing the frayed tendons so the stray strands may be removed. I thought this picture was absolutely fascinating.
Here is the tendon after debridement or, as I think of it, defuzzing. See how smooth it is?
This is my AC joint. Note the brown areas toward the bottom of the picture. This area has been injured so badly that it bled. I don’t know when or how many times that would have happened. I have injured this shoulder numerous times. I have no clue which one(s) were bad enough to make it bleed that far inside my arm. Also, this cartilage is very rough. Rough is bad; smooth is good.
Notice that most of the brown stuff is gone. The steak bone looking thing is just that. Bone. He shaved off about half an inch of arthritic bone that was rubbing on bone. My shoulder made horrible noises in that area and now they are gone.
This shows fraying under my scapula. I had often felt that I had something grinding back there, something stuck between my shoulder blade and ribs. I was right. I had experienced much pain in my left mid-back. I no longer have that uncomfortable feeling that something is stuck in my back. Here’s why.
I went from fuzzy to smooth in that area. A bit of fuzz is still showing, but that was removed in another picture.

Get me to the church on time!

In my wedding op order, I told everyone to be at the church by 11:32. Someone had told me that people pay more attention to odd times than they do to times like 11:30.

The bride did not follow her own instructions. I didn’t arrive the church until shortly before noon. This was not due to my choice! Bridesmaid Kelly and I were eating breakfast when suddenly everyone else vanished. They even took my car. We had no way to get to the church. And they did not return.

This was not a good thing. I had set this deadline and I should obey it! What kind of example was I setting? Oh my.

I paced up and down the dining room, fretting and complaining all the while. I was not a happy camper. How dare they take my car and strand me here? Had they forgotten me?

Kelly kept trying to calm me down, to soothe my uptight nerves, but I was having none of that.

I wanted to be at the church and I wanted to be there right this minute!

Dad got a rather angry welcome when he finally showed up in my Oldsmobile. Once we arrived the church, all was well. Even though Kelly and I were late, the wedding still started right on time. Whew!

Marking 15 years together

Fifteen years ago today, I walked down the aisle on my father’s arm toward the handsomest man I had ever seen.

I was so decked out that he hardly recognized me!

Pastor Steve insisted that we compose our own vows. I regret that because I cannot remember what we said. They are in my huge wedding scrapbook, so I can look them up when I want to.

The traditional ones are hard to improve on: “For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.”

We’ve had all those and we are still happily married. I am grateful every day that I married my wonderful, funny, handsome, charming, precious husband!

Most weddings have funny little bloopers. I didn’t want bloopers; I’d seen enough of those! So I made a 15-page operations order (“op order”) and sent it to everyone who had anything to do with the wedding. In consequence, all went well — except for one detail.

After the giving away portion of the ceremony, we were supposed to step forward so my train was not blocking the pew where my parents were seated. We forgot. Dad knew better than to step on my mother’s masterpiece of a wedding gown. He had to jump over the train. How I wish I had a picture of that!

I had told no one that I intended to kiss my daddy after he gave me away, but the photographer got that picture, for which I am very grateful.

The Murphy's Law wedding

George and Irene after their wedding. She’s holding the infamous throwing bouquet instead of the one she had planned to carry.

Going to a wedding, as we did Saturday, brings back memories of weddings past, our own and others.

All weddings are memorable occasions, but some are more memorable than others. In May 1989, I was the maid of honor in the most nightmare wedding of all I’ve had anything to do with. Murphy and his law disrupted the festivities repeatedly. I wondered if the mess would ever end.

It all started with the dresses. Irene’s roommate Julie was supposed to make them. She procrastinated and procrastinated. Finally, Irene and I agreed to confiscate the material and send it to my mother, who had agreed to make them for her. But Julie had taken the material somewhere else, foiling our plan.

She was still making them on the night of the rehearsal. The fit was atrocious. While Julie was fitting the gowns, Irene and I were in another room tossing her throwing bouquet back and forth between us.

Irene intended to sing to George, but the church had no way to play an accompaniment tape. So my stereo system was pressed into service. During rehearsal, all went well with my stereo.

Irene had asked the florist to put all the flowers into the refrigerator in the church’s basement. When we arrived that morning, we found the boutonnieres in the fridge, but nothing else. No corsages, no bride’s bouquet. (Bridesmaids’s bouquets were silk.) I asked the best man and groomsmen to search for the missing flowers while I started getting dressed. I helped Irene dress as well.

God bless the best man! He was a career Army sergeant in George’s ROTC cadre and was unflappable. He finally found the corsages in a Sunday school room at the back of the church. That was a relief, but Irene still did not have her bouquet. She was getting very stressed by all this. So was I, but I told her, “We will get through this and all will be well!”

What did I know?

With all these distractions, I had not finished dressing when the photographer started pounding on our door. He was demanding that we pose for pictures. He said that we were behind schedule. “She can’t be late for her own wedding!”

She was near tears at this. “I’ll deal with him,” I said.

I told him that the wedding could not start without the bride. When we were ready, we’d come out for whatever we could get done before the ceremony.

He was still persistent. I told him to leave us alone so we could finish dressing. He was mad, but I did not care.

Irene had to walk up the aisle with her throwing bouquet. Then disaster struck again. When we hit the stereo’s start button, nothing happened. I fiddled with the machine, but could not make anything work. The silence was deafening and I was mortally embarrassed. I tried everything I could think of to make it work, but nothing helped. Finally, it was apparent that the stereo was not going to work. We scratched the song and George went ahead with the poem he had written for his bride.

The rest of the ceremony continued without incident.

Once the wedding was over and the bride and groom had left for the reception, I threw everything we had left at the church into the back of my Escort. It had a hatchback and I had put down the back seats for maximum room. While we were gathering up our stuff, someone saw Irene’s bouquet. It had been placed on top of a cupboard in the same Sunday school room where the corsages had been. What was that florist thinking?

At least she got to carry it during the reception.

As planned, I caught the throwing bouquet. Julie was disappointed and angry. “You planned this! You wanted her to catch it and not me!” Well, she was right, but I did not see what was such a big deal. After all, I didn’t marry my Mr. Right until five years (and at least one more bouquet catch) later.

After George and Irene left for their wedding night, more stuff went into the back of my Escort. I went to their house, fell on the couch and could not move. Irene’s mom showed up, looking for her purse. I dragged myself off that couch and we looked in the back of my car. We had a hard time seeing anything in the dark. The porch light and car dome light weren’t bright enough to illuminate every detail.

She said she’d attend that church the next morning and look for her purse after the service.

I fell back onto the couch. I could not muster up enough energy even to remove my bridesmaid’s gown. I slept fully dressed for several hours.

George and Irene came home about 11 the next morning. They unwrapped their gifts, then left. I crashed again. About 45 minutes later, they called. Their car had broken down. Could I come get them so they could catch their train to their final honeymoon destination?

Of course I could. I picked them up at the repair place, then I drove them the hour to the train station.

When I arrived home again, I figured the wedding had finally ended.

Not so.

A few minutes later, Irene’s mom showed up again. She still could not find her purse! We looked in my car again, but saw no purse. I promised I’d mail it to her when/if I found it.

I went back in the house, thinking that surely I had to be finished with this wedding!

A few minutes later, she showed up again! “I just had to look one more time before I leave,” she said.

Finally we saw that blasted purse. It had fallen down between the seats and was just barely visible. She drove away satisfied. I breathed a deep sigh of relief and took a long nap.

Even with all those difficulties, I count this as a successful wedding. They are still married 20 years later. Happy 20th anniversary, George and Irene! I cannot believe that it has been that long.

He's got her, babe!

I have attended and been a part of so many weddings, but I doubt I’ve ever been to one that was so sweet and fun. (Well, our own excepted.)

In the “Who gives this woman” part of the wedding, Pastor Mike told Jake to say “I will” if he assented to the questions. Jake got rather ahead of schedule and said “I will!”

Pastor: “Not now, Jake!”

Pastor Mike also had to remind Leslie to hug her dad as he gave her away.

Once through the giving away part, the couple, pastor and attendants stepped up onto the platform, then the couple addressed the crowd. They asked us to honor the chief invited guest, Jesus Christ. Jake cited Matt. 18:20, “For where two or three come together in my name, there am I with them” and we applauded the unseen Honored Guest.

The recessional was decidedly nontraditional: Sonny and Cher singing I Got You, Babe, a song that hit the charts before they were even born. They danced their way out of the church. It was so fun and so them!

Because Leslie is a sheriff’s deputy, she and Jake received a police escort to their reception, with a detour down Main Street. What a fun beginning to their married life!

Only Fools Rush In

We attended Leslie and Jake’s wedding Saturday. At the Bible study we all attend, I sang Going to the Chapel and Marilyn joined in, harmonizing around me. Leslie said she wanted us to sing that at her reception, so I printed off two copies of the lyrics. I like being prepared!

As Marilyn, Wendy and I were visiting, I told them that I had Only Fools Rush In stuck in my head and I could not push it out! So we started to sing the Elvis classic.

The wedding party was seated close enough to us that they could hear us singing, but not what we were singing.

“Are you singing?” Leslie asked. When told we were, she told us to get up and share! We first sang Going to the Chapel, then segued into Only Fools Rush In. I couldn’t believe that I was singing classic oldies with two of my friends in front of a crowd with almost no practice, but we apparently sounded pretty good. Whether we did or not, it surely was fun and a dream come true!

The pastor that married Jake and Leslie is leaving, so their church held a going-away party for him last night. They were there and we learned the rest of the story.

They liked Only Fools Rush In so much that they had considered using it in their ceremony. When we sang that, Jake asked Leslie, “Did you ask them to sing that?

”No,” she replied.

They were totally delighted. She told us, “[Your song] was truly a blessing and a God thing!”

God is truly interested in the details.

I thank Amy Fenner Photography for taking the picture and allowing me to use it. Amy is truly gifted. Check her out.

Be prepared

While we were wandering around this abandoned homestead, some large bird flew out at Wendy, giving her quite a start.

I laughed, but the tables soon turned. When I entered another outbuilding, a large whitish raptor flew out of a hole in the wall. I jumped, too. I wish I had been more prepared so I could have gotten a picture of that magnificent bird. The only picture I have is in my mind. The bird flew away so quickly that I was unable to ascertain its species. I only know that it was big and beautiful.

Darn. I hate missed opportunities. Hopefully, I’ll be more on the ball next time.

Isn't technology amazing?

With a little encouragement, my last bandage fell off yesterday morning. I am amazed at how small these incisions are! Even though I know precisely where they are in this picture, I still had to magnify it a great deal. Otherwise, I could not see them well enough to circle them for your viewing.

I’ve seen the scars on people who had shoulder surgery before arthroscopy. They are nasty, long marks. I am so grateful that I was able to hold out on surgery long enough to receive these little bitty incisions. Oh, thank You, Lord!

Pam and Janna, the PTs, were again pleased with my progress when I went in for my appointment Monday afternoon. I lack some strength and range of motion, especially on my side, but they say that I am doing well. I can’t do yard work yet, but I will be patient and follow what they tell me to do. I want this surgery to take!

I am so looking forward to a quiet, fully operational shoulder for the first time in 20 years. If I must endure looking at a less-than-optimal yard for awhile, then I must. The healing is worth that — and a lot more.

Successful surgery

Shoulder surgery was successful. Orthopedist cleaned out a lot of junk. Hubby said I had so many bone spurs that he was reminded of a cave full of stalactites and stalagmites. No wonder my shoulder has grated and popped for so many years, even though I tried to avoid making those noises. The rotator cuff was damaged, which the MRI had not shown. Arthroscope pictures showed a lot of fuzz on those tendons. Orthopedist told me he snipped off the fuzz, comparing that part of the operation to snipping hangnails. The pictures looked like my rotator cuff was a teased-out cotton ball, or so Hubby said. I haven’t seen those pictures myself. I hope to see them during my post-op appointment May 11.

Yesterday I started physical therapy. The therapists were surprised and pleased with how much range of motion I already have. I was pleased not to feel/hear that unpleasant grating at various places in my shoulder. PT did not feel too bad yesterday during my session, but when I did the exercises at home last night and this morning, they hurt.

I wish I knew the line between pushing through the pain and avoiding further injury.

About to get my camera back

I’ve been without my precious Nikon since mid-March. I had to pester the warranty company for a month before I received the paperwork to send in my broken camera. I sent in just the camera body since the problem was only with the body, not the lens.

(I tried uploading a picture of a D40, but Blogger is in an uncooperative mood today!)

When I thought the camera was about to be fixed and sent to me, I found out that I needed to ship the lens to them. I’ve been forgetting necessary details in this fog of pain I’m in all the time. When I shipped off the lens, I stupidly didn’t put my label on it nor the job number nor write down the serial number before I shipped it. Thankfully, my friend Martha, who ships items all the time for her puppet business, had persuaded me to pay extra to the post office for a tracking number.

I called the repair place. The first lady I talked to was incredulous. “You did WHAT?”

She forwarded me to someone else, who was much nicer. This lady took my tracking number and said all would be well. I was grateful to her. This was right before my surgery and worrying about my camera wasn’t what I needed to be doing.

I called camera repair company again yesterday. They gave me a UPS tracking number. I should have my camera again Wednesday. I can hardly wait. Blogging without a digital camera is just too difficult. Working with a film camera when I’m used to the instant feedback of a digital isn’t nearly as much fun. I’m definitely spoiled.

I like being spoiled. My shutter finger is itching already … and I’m not even certain my left arm can reach high enough to hold the camera in front of my face. Oh, well. Just holding it in my hands again will be such sweet relief.

Once it comes, I hope to be posting a lot more than I have been doing in the last months.

Flannelgraph stories

I made the PowerPoint presentation for Sunday morning’s service. When I asked our pastor about PowerPoint for the sermon, he explained that he didn’t have one this week.

Since our screen looks awfully strange with nothing projected on it, I asked him if he had anything I could use. He said that he was starting a series in the Old Testament and that he wanted to give a survey of that part of the Bible before getting into the series.

If I could find anything, he said the sermon title would be “Piecing Together the Flannelgraph.” Those of us who grew up in evangelical/fundamentalist churches saw our Sunday school lessons displayed as flannelgraph pictures each week.

My mother was an avid supporter of Child Evangelism Fellowship and bought about every flannelgraph book they had. I got to cut out the figures. I loved doing that. The smell of the fresh paper and the flocking on the back (CEF in fuzzy block letters stepped and repeated like wallpaper). I was extremely meticulous about my cutting, although I did draw the line at cutting out the eyelashes. That was a bit much to ask.

She had wonderful flannel backgrounds, too. She had painted most of them and they were pretty good. Oddly enough, although she was an expert at every craft she had ever tried, I never saw my mother paint any other pictures than those on the flannelgraph board.

I was secretly amused at her flannelgraph presentations. Of course, by the time I saw the live presentation, I’d sat through or at least heard numerous practices. My mother did not leave anything to chance. And, as a very avid reader, I’d already read the entire story and stage directions in her book. So, instead of listening to the story, I paid attention how my mother told the story.

She was a good presenter and her presentations were polished. But the voice she used was very different from her normal speaking voice. I never could pinpoint the difference, even to myself, but it was definitely different. I called it her “Flannelgraph Voice.” And it amused me.

Until today, I hadn’t thought about cutting out flannelgraph books for years, but thinking about it makes me nostalgic. Looking back, I see that cutting out my mother’s flannelgraph figures was my introduction to paper crafts. I still find cutting paper to be a very relaxing activity. I just wish I could hear my mother’s voice again, even if it was her “Flannelgraph Voice.”

Picture comes from the blog Stuff Fundies Like.

Shoulder surgery

I have endured arm pain for at least six weeks. I finally saw the orthopedist Monday. As I expected, he said that I need surgery. I’ve torn one of my bicep tendons, arthritis has greatly narrowed the space between my clavicle and acromion (part of the scapula) and I have a spur sticking down from clavicle into bursa between clavicle and scapula. Orthopedist will clean all of that up, plus anything else the MRI does not show.

Surgery is scheduled for 8:45 a.m. Thursday, April 23. I’m looking forward to getting this over with.

Shoulder drawing came from OurHealthNetwork.com.

No alibi

My college friend Mila Marie reminded me that we shared many “fun times” when we were in school together.

We went to a very strict conservative Christian college, but we still managed to have lots of fun.

One year, my dorm room looked out to the street. Mila came over one day and we devised a fun pastime. When we saw someone we knew, we yelled out the window “U G L Y: You ain’t got no alibi. You’re ugly, ugly, absolutely ugly!” Once we finished this “cheer” we ducked down as far as we could and still see the person’s reaction.

This went on for awhile. We were hooting with laughter as we watched people craning and turning their necks to see who had yelled at them.

Then disaster hit.

We cheered at someone else we knew, but we didn’t see that the Dean of Women and a friend were right behind that person. The dean was not known for her sense of humor.

She roared, “Who yelled that?”

Of course, we weren’t about to confess. If we had, our hides would likely have adorned her office wall. We valued our skin.

She ordered her minions to discover who had yelled that wicked phrase in her direction. They searched, but when they came to my room, Mila and I were the picture of innocent students hard at work on our studies.

If the searcher had only known us, she would have known much better. Mila and I were rarely innocent. Cooking up pranks was way too much fun!

Graphic borrowed from JunkMailGreetings.com.

Lost her marbles

When I was in high school German, our teacher (Lehrerin) often assigned us skits.

When we reached the unit on medical terms, Mike was a neurologist (ein Neurologe), I was his receptionist-nurse (Arzthelferin- Krankenschwester) and Jackie was our patient (Patientin). When Jackie entered our office, we diagnosed a brain tumor (Gehirntumor) and told her she needed an immediate operation (einer unverzüglich Operation).

She lay down on the operating table (Operationtisch) and we cut an incision (Inzision) in her head. Of course, all this activity was discreetly hidden behind a stage curtain (Theatervorhang).

Then Mike tipped over a box of white marbles. As the marbles poured all over the floor, I exclaimed, “Ach, nein! Sie hatte ihre Marbeln verloren!” (Oh, no! She has lost her marbles!)

The class and teacher howled with laughter and we got an A+.

However, maybe we shouldn’t have gotten graded quite so highly. According to my favorite German-English language dictionary (Wörterbuch), the idiomatic translation would be Sie nicht (mehr) alle Tassen im Schrank haben or “She has no (more) cups in the cupboard!”

Oh, well. I’ll never complain about a perfect grade! Danke, Frau Kreiger!

Photo is borrowed from AntiqueTrader.com.

You know you live on the High Plains when...

The first thing you think upon seeing this view is, “Man, what a perfect wind tunnel! I’ll bet the wind howls through that break in the hills all winter long! Where’s their windbreak?”

When we visited 4 Eagle Ranch in late August 2007, the wind was not howling. In fact, the evening was very pleasant, a wonderful escape from the burning heat of the plains. Only the lightest breeze caressed us.

But I’m sure winter would be a different story. Or even this time of year when we are all plagued by early spring gales.

I’m sick of these gales. Breeze is great. Howling wind isn’t.

PS: Happy Birthday, Deborah Lynn. Prayers are going up for your hubby’s successful recovery.

All good things must come to an end

Yesterday, friend Wendy and I took down my pictures and removed them from the art gallery. Gallery’s walls looked so bare!

I sold four pictures and an unframed print at the gallery, then picked up another sale on Facebook. Friend John is buying Forsaken Ivories (shown at left) for his wife’s birthday.

I also donated one picture to a foundation that honors a friend’s daughter. It will be auctioned off to provide college scholarship funds. First scholarship will be given to a member of her class, the Class of 2017.

Our church recently completed the renovation of a downtown store into our meeting place. Budget is too tight for art, so some of my pictures will decorate the walls. I’m looking for somewhere else to show them, but haven’t found that place yet.

I asked if I could show again in 2011 and received a favorable response. Looking forward to it.

Precious Memories

Precious memories, how they linger How they ever flood my soul In the stillness of the midnight Precious sacred scenes unfold Precious father, loving mother Fly across the lonely years And old home scenes of my childhood In fond memory appear
– Precious Memories	Mom, Dad, Kevin and me in August 1985.

I woke up at 10 p.m. Thursday night with intestinal flu. About 2 a.m., I moved to the bathroom floor. I was spending far more time in bathroom than in bed anyway.

Even under blankets, I shivered.

As I huddled under those covers, trying, with little success, for whatever comfort I could find, my mind flashed back to August 1986.

Dad’s boss had a cabin at Lake of the Ozarks, Mo. We were vacationing there before I went back to college. My bedroom and the master suite were connected by a bathroom. Even though master suite had its own bathroom, a door opened to this bathroom as well.

I woke up in the middle of the night with an intestinal flu bug, complete with high fever. I wanted to disturb no one, so tried to be very quiet. Worshiping the porcelain god is not a quiet activity, no matter how a person tries to muffle the sound. And my mother had acute hearing.

She found me sitting in the tub with sweat pouring off me. Tub was within leaning distance of the toilet, so was quite convenient. If I made a mess, I could just wash it down the drain. Besides, tub was the only place I could get cooler.

I tried to convince her to return to bed. I was a big girl and could take care of myself. But, about this time, I started shivering uncontrollably. What misery! So much for convincing her to leave me.

All night long, she was up with me, warming me when the shivers took control, cooling me when the heat returned, and cleaning up the inevitable mess.

Now on my own bathroom floor, I longed for my mother to come help me. Hubby was at work and knew nothing of my predicament. Mr. Kitty did his best to comfort Mistress, but no pet is the same as a loving hand on my forehead.

When Hubby came home, he cleaned up the mess I’d left. What a wonderful husband!

Still, I would have loved to feel my mother’s loving touch in the night.

A weighty subject

Image borrowed from www.AmericanFitness.net.

I was called in to sub at 6:55 this morning. School starts at 7:45, so I had to hurry.

The football/track coach had been ill for several days, but kept on coming to work and practice. Finally, after morning track practice, he could go no more.

Hence my late summons to work. Coach mostly teaches weightlifting.

I haven’t lifted weights for a long time. The last time I did free weights was probably in 1993. I was told the kids would know what they were doing, but I would have preferred to know more about proper weightlifting form. I did not want to be present when someone was injured because they did something wrong. But I had little choice in the situation.

I facebooked my brother. He played college football and lifted a lot of heavy iron. I jokingly asked him if he’d come to help me. (Of course, that would be impossible.)

He said he wouldn’t because “…[T]hey’d hurt me or I’d hurt myself.”

Oh, well. I noted what I was doing on my own Facebook page.

Friend Sheri said simply, “Yikes!”

Friend Dennis, who was a champion body builder, had a rather different response:
“Sounds fun, Roxie. Go hard or go home.”

I watched the kids lift all day. Some of them had quite a bit of weight on their bars. I was impressed.

Once the students were gone, I could not resist the opportunity to test myself. I know better than to pump iron or use a machine while alone. But I just had to see what I could lift. I started going upwards from 20 lbs. I could lift up to 30 lbs. easily with my right arm. (I’m not to be lifting left-handed right now and I remembered that just in time!) Forty lbs. was hard. I could lift it above my elbow, but no farther. The 45-lb. weight came about six inches off the rack and would go no higher. The 50-lb. weight didn’t move at all.

I felt like a wuss.

I told Hubby about it when I came home. He said, “They are younger and have been doing this for awhile. You haven’t.“

True and yet another birthday is soon to arrive. Oh well. I can generally lift what I need to lift. Isn’t that what matters?

Hubby the German

We recently hosted a polka band concert for the local performing arts organization. When Hubby learned that this group was coming, he decided that he wanted a German getup for this show. After all, much of his heritage is German.

He already had a hat he had purchased in Switzerland when he was in high school. This hat has its own story. After he bought the hat and its buck and feathers decoration, his tour group went to a Schloss Hellbrunn, a Salzburg, Austria, palace with numerous trick fountains. Hat got wet. Day was hot and humid, so Hubby took off his hat. In consequence, it shrunk badly, becoming unwearable. It sat unworn in his European trip souvenirs for years. From our friends Kevin and Cheri, we learned about Hatman Jack’s in Wichita. Kevin had the hat stretched as a gift to us. It’s still a bit small, but wearable.

Around Christmastime, Hubby took hat and those embroidered green braces to the local embroiderer. (Note the buttons on his braces. They celebrate another big chunk of his heritage, Irish.) Embroider had the stock deer art and created his crosspiece. It attaches with Velcro. Hatband looked pretty shabby, so the staff wove this beautiful braid and attached his deer pin. We were delighted with results. One of the band members had purchased actual lederhosen. They were used and cost $200. New would have been $400. Our improvisation didn’t cost nearly so much. From the (partial) Irishman in the house: Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

A startling resemblance

Marilyn asked me what I was wearing to her college’s endowment banquet. This year’s theme was a Hawai’ian luau.

I had planned to wear Hubby’s Hawai’ian shirt or my own flowered polo shirt.

She said, “I have a pair of flowered polo shirts. We could go as twins.”

I thought that would be fun. After all, we consider each other to be sisters. No other description seems to fit.

However, the only biological relatives in our five-girlfriend group are Patty and Marilyn, who are cousins. The rest of us don’t share the same ancestry. Donna and Kathy have been best friends for 20-plus years. They are often mistaken for blood sisters, but we didn’t see a resemblance between the rest of us.

That is, we didn’t until we saw this picture Tuesday. When Marilyn sent me this picture, I couldn’t believe what was in my inbox. Where did this resemblance originate?

I don’t know, but we agree that it’s there.