AMBULATING FOR THE MASSES

Settling into a routine in Winter Harbor, although difficult, was finally achieved. Get up. Beat the crowd to the bathroom. Get dressed. Go outside and hope for the best.
Unfortunately the only three rooms in the house that the wheelchair could get into were the kitchen, dining and bedroom, so out side was best.
As 5 explained before, we traveled with enough equipment to furnish a Rehab center. The most important (and entertaining) were the parallel bars.
I don’t believe the town of Winter Harbor had had many paras . Bob became a bit of a curiosity and the parallel bars didn’t help. The most level area to set them up was in the middle of the driveway, situated right in front of the kitchen window. The provided front row seats for the spectator
. It was a wonderful thing. They could eat breakfast and watch Bob. How much fun…
Putting the braces on Bob’s legs was supposedly an easy task, however, they were just a bit heavy and adding the weight of Bob’s legs didn’t help a bit. At the time, I was pretty fit and had decent strength, but…..
As I stated before, this had become a spectator sport. I didn’t want Bob to be embarrassed, especially by something I might do.
Starting out with the confidence of an old pro. Confident, never looking up, just professionally doing my thing.
First you put the shoes on, while simultaneously holding the braces close to the leg and securing the thigh-strap, while strapping, the calf- strap, while smoothing the pant leg, while assuring Bob that I knew what I was doing; I suspect you get the picture.
Once the process was complete, the trick was to position Bob at the parallel bars and hold the chair while he pulled himself up. This part should have been easy, except his legs are now straight(and stiffly)out in front of him. This makes navigating between the rails a bit difficult(at best). Once all this was accomplished, Bob would stretch out, and propel himself forward for the length of the bars, turn around and return to the starting position.
THAT IS HOW IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE!
I am not a trained physical therapist, nor am I the most coordinated person on the planet and to top it off, my back hurt. All of these excuses are valid, I assure you, but On the bright side, I am resourceful. I placed Bob’s shoe on his foot easily enough, but I couldn’t lift his leg to get the thigh strap, so I placed his shod foot on my shoulder to elevate his leg in order to secure it.
This is where, dear readers, you must remember that CG (center of Gravity) and breaks are the most important things you can remember about a wheelchair.
CG allows the chair to manuver without tipping over. Where the body is placed on the seat, determines how “tippy” the chair will be.
The breaks while set, do not allow the chair to move freely, nor do they allow the chair to spin on her axis.
One must be mindful of these two factors at all times. I guess, I forgot.

SPECTOR OR SPECTACLE

Morning in New Hampshire is at least an hour and a half later than it is in North Eastern Maine and I swear the sun is MUCH brighter in
Maine than it ever was in New Hampshire. The damn poets that “gently bathe their gardens in the in the morning sunlight”, have never been in the front downstairs bedroom in Winter Harbor. There (Winter Harbor) the sun breaks into the bedroom, kicks you in the ass and yells ”GET UP you lazy bum!” It is basically the halogen bulb in God’s arsenal of alarm clocks. Unless you are a fisherman, IT SUCKS!

One can also remove the “morning dew shining on the grass” references to anything written about Winter Harbor. That is Frost you fools. Those beautiful shining diamonds in the grass are merely ice-encased ants trying to get to the warm kitchen (if there was such a thing).
For all of you romantics out there, those strange looking Steven Spielberg kinda clouds hanging on the horizon are not going to turn into pictures you imagine against a beautiful blue backdrop. It is FOG!
Also known in town (and surrounding areas) as Pea Soup. You all know this fog. It is the type you have to shut off your headlights in order to see your hood ornament. This crap hangs on the horizon to make the fisherman’s life miserable. Then moves toward the shore and lands on the only road out of town. This occurs just in time for anyone who commutes to Ellsworth to work.
What’s not to love about this idyllic spot on the map-eh?
In order to experience these daily assaults by Mother Nature, one has to have gone to bed.
The Winter Harbor Estate has experienced paranormal activity since my grandfather was lost at sea many years ago.(probably a result of a "Maine Morning") For example, my sister swears she saw him in his old bedroom at the top of the stairs. Pictures have flown off the walls, books off the bookcase phone books relocating overnight, all occurring shortly after things were rearranged for aesthetic purposes.
We have all experienced these things and usually hurl a few choice words under our breath (we are sure only Grandpa could hear them) and then continue about our business.
I am pretty sure I had mentioned these little quirks to Bob.
Then again………
I must now remind you, Bob and I have not been married. Allowing Bob and I to share the same bedroom, never mind the same bed wasn’t easy for my Dad. Bless his heart; he was a chauvinist of the first order! “No daughter of his would ever………” Under the circumstances and the fact that he would have to wake me up every two hours to roll Bob, made it a fairly easy decision.
We finally said our “goodnights” and headed for the bedroom. Through the living room past the “stair-trap”, (didn’t forget to put down the step-lid) into Grammy Dot’s old bedroom.
Bob positioned the chair for transfer, with jet mechanic’s precision.
I helped him place the transfer board under his butt.
Remember the old pot metal beds? The ones with the jail-like headboards and footboards decorated with brass knobs? You know the things. I swear they were designed to hide under in case of Indian raids. Remembering back, I am sure they were at least two feet higher than a “modern” bed.
A slight exaggeration to be sure but the angle on the transfer board made the ramp to the front door look almost ADA compliant! Bob often commented on his now being,” terminally short” this bed was terminally Tall!
The only way I could get him up the board was to give the poor man the ultimate wedgie! I grabbed his waistband and at the count of three, yanked him upward. At the moment Bob reached the half way mark on the transfer board, his wheelchair flew out from under him and went whizzing across the room, out the door and came to rest on the stair tread lid (which I cleverly remembered to close).
We were both startled. I, being a girl, gasped and, through an auto-reflex action, threw up my hands. This act was accomplished by letting go of Bob’s pants.
“There he was…Gone!”. Yup, Bob, board and bedstead, all in a crumpled pile.
“Stop it Grandpa.” I yelled.
Bob looked at me with this quizzical twitch. Then he looked around the room (actually under the bed was all he could see),”What do you mean, Grandpa”.
“ I will explain, once we get you on the bed, if I can get you on the bed. Any ideas?”
“Yeah, just roll me under here and throw me a pillow. Are we going to have to go through this every night?” “You can hook me up to the 50 feet of rubber hose and call me in the morning!”
Bob was not a happy tourist!
“Look at it this way, at least you still have your pants on. You slide easier. No board burn to worry about”. I always try to be optimistic.
The process for raising a 195 pound man up to the perceived four foot height, is daunting at best, impossible for some, and “just another challenge” for a stubborn idiot with a bad back.
While Bob was yelling” go get your father to help”, I was yanking on his waste band again, trying to slide him out from under the bed.
“I am not getting Dad out of bed if I don’t have too!” “Help me out here, and let me get you on your knees. You then grab the bed and while you pull yourself up, I will grab your pants and help. Once you get started, I can sorta “goose” you onto the bed then throw you legs in afterward”. “Are you game to give it a try?”
If this scene were on TV and closed captioned, I believe it would have read, “Unintelligible, improper language,” but, Bob agreed.
I pulled, he slid. I yanked, he pulled. I pushed, he pulled. I grunted, he groaned.
EASY AS PIE!!!!! What seemed like hours was actually only 15 minutes of the comic opera. The whole ordeal had exhausted both of us. Now we could laugh.
After a good chuckle and the obligatory pat on each other’s back for our success, Bob blurted out “Was that Grandpa?”
Oh yeah, Light dawns on Marble head!
I started to explain but before I could, Bob said (into thin air) “Grandpa, you can’t keep doing this, Lauren is in my bed whether you like it or not. So just stop it!”
“We ARE getting married, just not before we leave Maine-get over it!”
Bob didn’t fully realize that at that very moment, he was genuinely part of the family. “Truly nuts and truly a believer”> we had no more “visits”. And the transfers on and off the bed became a breeze. You, the reader, will have to draw your own conclusions.

OUR GHOST

THIS IS A BIT OF A SIDE NOTE. My GRANDFATHER was lost at sea many years ago and this is the first picture that I have seen of him as a young man. I was only 10 years old when he went overboard, so I really didn't know him well, but well all believe the he was our GHOST.
My fondest memory of my Grandfather was of him building the facade of the fireplace in the parlor. He was facing it with beach rock and sent my sister, me and our cousins(all very young) to the rock beach to collect rocks for him to work with.
We all had a pail to fill and Grandpa promised to select the best ones from each bucket.
We all picked the perfect rocks-boulders actually, and put them in our buckets, Then with GREAT EFFORT we dragged those buckets back to the house and proudly presented our collection of "PERFECT ROCKS".
My Grandfather accepted each on and lovingly place the rock into the fireplace facade. His smile was genuine and our pride at lifting and dragging such big rocks all the way from the rock beach, certainly couldn't be measured.
Grampa Guy could tell (and would), who brought which rock and would recall the struggles of the "little ones"
We will always remember those days, but as we aged, those boulders became rocks, then stones, and now as adults, we see them as they are...just pebbles.
Guess it is the same with every problem or pain. With time, everything gets a new perspective.