Tuesday, August 25, 2009
I have never regretted leaving behind the terrible threadbare gray cotton carpet in these apartments, though I have missed ever since the friend I made there. I tried every way I could to clean the rug, so at least it wouldn't pose a safety hazard to my children. And failed. The double bed was one of those with the mattress supported with a wire mesh, and was really nothing better than a sort of stiffish hammock. It was the first time I had had a washing machine in my home; I dried the clothes on lines behind the apartment manager's house. He was descended from and bore the illustrious name of an early president of the Mormon Church, and had a large young family. Once, when I took the rent check over, I found them at lunch. Each person had half a sweet potato on a small plate and nothing else. That surprised me, even though now I can see that it was a nutritious lunch compared to today's fast food.
This was the apartment where I sat and watched my baby son all night long, because his breathing was so shallow. I called the doctor, no fever, no congestion, no other indication to take him to emergency (which cost $50, or more than a week's food budget.) I was told to bring him in in the morning. It was the most frightened I had been as a parent. He outgrew his milk allergy and rose up to be 6 feet, 8 inches tall, with a passion for motorcycles. But I am surprised at myself--looking back--I should have just taken him to emergency. But I passively accepted the doctor's orders.
I read an article the other day about an artist who gets suggestions for her compositions, but taking photos looking straight down, for instance at seashore pebbles, or the weeds in her yard. I guess it IS a good idea. That's tonight's memory thread. . .
at 6:40 PM