Janet's Blog

Decades ago, Bill wore a metal splint he called a "finger stall," taped around a jammed finger to protect it from further injury. As far as I was concerned, that was the only kind of finger splint in existence, and jammed or broken fingers were the only fingers that needed to be splinted. I was wrong. Not too long ago, I drove to Cheyenne for a routine appointment with my rheumatologist so he could assess my polymyalgia. Believe it or not, he doesn't really treat osteo-arthritis, even though my arthritic hands bother me at least as much as the polymyalgia, which primarily affects my shoulders and hips. He looked at my hands anyway, and stated that I have "very bad arthritis." So much for a professional diagnosis. A few days later, I met with an orthopedic surgeon, the same one who removed a ganglion cyst from my left hand several years ago. I had been told that she was able to surgically fix a friend's arthritic thumb, so I was hopeful that she could

When Winter gets in a hurry, sending more than a flurry, When he gets in a rush, turning flowers to mush, When the pumpkin on the step has lost all its pep, When the grass, still green, can now be seen Poking up through snow, where no one can mow; When the pampas grass, standing ten feet high, Lies down on the ground like it's ready to die; When the leaves in the trees, oh, the leaves in the trees, No longer green, have lost their sheen, No longer orange, or yellow, or red,  Just ugly brown and dead, instead, Piled up on the ground in a dismal mound; And lofty branches, heavy with snow,  Come crashing down to the ground below; I feel like Winter has hijacked Fall,  and I don't like it, no, not at all. ******* I hope Indian Summer will come, right on cue, So Fall can remain until Winter is due, Then, part of December, and January, too, Will be Winter's domain, with Winter's

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens:  a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot.  Ecclesiastes 3:1-2 In spite of the thirty-degree weather and the snowflakes drifting down from a leaden sky, it is autumn in western Nebraska. The trees are changing colors, right on schedule, and the leaves are beginning to waft their way to the still-green grass beneath the trees. As I observed today's snow shower, I couldn't help but wonder if my stunning, pink roses will last another night. As I scooted along for my afternoon walk with Jackson, bundled up in my winter coat and warm gloves and hat, I was hoping that this week's weather doesn't signal the beginning of a long, cold winter. I'm not ready! Here in the Nebraska panhandle, our seasons seem to be predictable for their unpredictability.  I love a long, mild fall, but I don't really appreciate the stiff, chilly breezes t

My brother, Dan, was a tree climber. When he was in elementary school, and probably even junior high, he would ride his bike to the City Park, lay it haphazardly in the grass, and climb a tree. If you have ever visited Fairbury's City Park, you know that the old trees there are towering and majestic. So, when I was sent to the park to call Dan for supper, I scouted the grassy areas to find his bike, then scanned the treetops to catch a glimpse of Dan, twenty or thirty feet above me, reading a favorite book, or simply daydreaming. Only then could I call for him to come down, because he didn't often respond if he thought I couldn't find him. I am certain that Dan was not the first tree climber in the family, and I know he is not the last. Levi has been climbing trees for years. In fact, a couple of years ago, Meagan took his picture at Northfield Park, up in a tree. At that time, we were having trouble getting a good picture of Levi, but he even smiled for his picture in