Janet's Blog

I was walking along the road bordering the Riverside lakes this morning, just enjoying the cool, overcast day, when I noticed a large swarm of insects directly over my head, near a large tree. I barely had time to consider what kind of bugs they were before they swooped lower, buzzing incessantly. I realized I had encountered an angry swarm of bees. I dashed to the other side of the road, but some of the bees followed, surrounding me, divebombing me, with one even perching on my finger before I shooed it off, hoping I wouldn't be stung. Fall is in the air. So are the bees. Just as I thought I'd escaped the swarm, I felt a prick on my left wrist, under the cuff of my jacket. I pulled the cuff back, and there it was: a plump bee of some kind--not a honey bee--was stinging me. After two or three attempts, I managed to brush it off. The stinger was still there, so I pulled it out immediately, thankful that my fingernails are currently a little longer than usual. Then, I quickened m...

The fall after Mom graduated from Bloomfield High School, she got her first teaching job at a one room school in Knox County. She taught there for two years in the early 1950s, marrying my dad in December of the second year, and joining him on his army base when the school year ended in May. When I was in Junior High, Mom started back to college to get her teaching degree, finally graduating while I was in college. As I was going through some of Mom and Dad’s old photos and documents recently, I found a couple of stories—the rough drafts, really—that Mom had written for one of her college classes. Now, as schools all across Nebraska are starting in the week to come, I think it is fitting for me to include the following story in my blog. So, here is Mom’s autobiographical story about a young, resourceful, one room school teacher who had to deal with a scary situation.  The young teacher struggled up the hill with the wastebaskets of trash, grumbling to herself. “It’s been a month no...

I don't often bring up my meningioma. It wasn't long after my initial diagnosis that I learned how the mere mention of it freaks people out, causing excessive worry and unnecessary concern. After all, my meningioma is a brain tumor the size of a marble--a slow-growing, benign tumor, but a brain tumor, just the same. After more than 30 years, I rarely even think about it because it has become a non-issue. Erin and Meagan were still in grade school when I began having frequent neurological symptoms that made my doctors think I might have Multiple Sclerosis. My primary care physician referred me to a neurologist, who subjected me to a series of tests, followed by my first MRI. The MRI showed no signs of MS, but it did reveal a meningioma sitting on (in?) my brain stem. According to my doctor, the tumor was causing no symptoms; its discovery was incidental due to the MRI. And, the doctor also told me that, if it were located anywhere else, I could simply have surgery to "pop i...

Way back in the 1980s, our friend, Amy, and her family rescued two llamas. I don’t remember the exact circumstances, but I know both llamas, who were brothers, had been malnourished and generally neglected before Amy stepped in to offer them a better home. But even though Amy and her husband had plenty of farmland in southeastern Nebraska, they weren’t really equipped to care for the two young llamas. So, Amy talked Dad into taking them. They came with the names of Bruno and Caesar. Bruno was the nice llama. Caesar was the naughty one, with a penchant for spitting and coming up behind someone (usually my mom) and attempting to knock her down, sometimes successfully. That’s when Mom started carrying a rather hefty walking stick along on her walks through the pasture. Dad was always an animal lover, with a variety of unusual pets when he was growing up. Like most farm kids, he and his siblings had dogs and cats and horses, but they also raised an owl, a coyote pup, a baby skunk, a racco...

As another Father's Day is approaching, I've been thinking of Dad, and the time we spent together. So here, in honor of Father’s Day and in no particular order, are some things I learned from my dad: Dad had me on his horse with him long before I could walk. Throughout my childhood, he taught me basic horse sense, and how to ride and care for a horse. When I was no older than three, Dad taught me how to poke the little shriveled pea seeds into the ground. From him, I learned the difference between weeds and beneficial plants, and how to grow a productive garden, especially tomatoes. Dad taught me how to make use of what I have. He was always frugal, so I have those tendencies, as well. Dad’s strong work ethic also rubbed off on me. From him, I learned that anything worth doing is worth doing well, no matter how long it takes, or how hard it is. Dad napped for a short time nearly every day throughout his adult life, showing me that I don’t need to be ashamed of getting the rest ...

My dad struggled a bit with school. He once told me that he had Rheumatic Fever as an eighth grader, missing two whole months at the one room, country school he and his siblings attended. He said he felt like he never caught up. Nevertheless, he graduated from Bloomfield High School in 1951.  Dad was a sophomore when he met my mom, an incoming freshman, and the two of them clicked immediately, despite their differences. She was an outgoing cheerleader who lived in town; he was a quiet farm boy. She excelled in school, while he had to work hard to pass some of his classes. She walked the few blocks to and from school everyday. Dad and his older brother, Lee, drove an unheated Jeep the ten miles to and from their isolated farmhouse. But in the winter, when the harsh, northeastern Nebraska weather made travel difficult, they boarded with an older woman in town, recalling, in later years, how she never gave them enough to eat. Like most teenage boys of that era, Dad took a shop class i...