But it’s frequently the most expressive.

I speak of the Powder Room, the Lav, the Ladies’ Room.  It’s a space which can, and often does, express the owners’ decorative styles and interests.  Obviously in small and condensed ways.

For example, an old house’s powder room might be wall-papered with beautifully trellised roses, reminiscent of its heritage. Younger owners might choose broad stripes and bold geometric patterns.  Maps papered on the wall could represent trips taken and enjoyed.  Story books in baskets and step stools by the sink tell us that grandchildren often visit.  

Our “little room” has art.  A fair amount of art.  Each piece meaningful to us for its own reasons.

There’s one particularly unique piece of art, prominently hung in our ” little room” which was re imagined by our artist friend Ted Jordan from an Andy Warhol painting.  (See it above, at the top of the blog.) The little girls are quoted as saying: “His zipper isn’t zipped.”  It makes us smile and giggle every time we see it.  Just like the little girls on the wall.

If that’s not perfect powder room art, I don’t know what is.  So, come on over.  You’ll giggle, too.  I promise.  But, please, keep your zipper zipped!  We can only take so much unbridled jollity.

Maine may be geographically large, but it has the feel of a small town whose residents collectively admire, appreciate and respect it. 

Sure, winter can get cold, but that’s part and parcel of the deal.  You pull on gloves, don a parka and take to the slopes.  Or go on a brisk walk.  Come back to a warm house, shed your stuff and sip a hot toddy.  What could be better?

Spring brings melting ice and a hint of warmer weather.  Summer brings breathtaking flowers. And, fall…..well, Maine’s fall colors are like no other.

We have family in Maine.  We understand, intellectually if not viscerally, their sense of being part of a whole.  If you don’t like what Maine has to offer, you leave.  But for those who stay, for the “Mainers”, it’s a wonderful way of life.

This week’s mass murder shook them all to their core. 

They’re not accustomed to multiple sirens blaring in the night.  Of lockdowns.  Of helicopters flying low and overhead.   Of the fear, as one family member put it, not unlike that of 9/11.  They shouldn’t have to experience that.

And neither should we.  When are we going to act?

Photo Courtesy of Tim Crockett

In my humble opinion, you frequently get just that,Too Much Information, when you dine at restaurants referring to themselves as Farm to Table, locally sourced, inventive or rustic chic.

When we go out to dinner, which is “lesser and lesser” these days, I go for one reason: The Joy of NOT Cooking.  I’m okay hearing the wine is Italian, the bread is French and the strawberries were picked just this morning.  That’s all soothing and appetizing.

But I don’t care a whit about the tomato’s heritage, the lettuce’s country of origin or how lovingly the corn was harvested.  By the time I’ve sat through all that, I’d rather be home, foraging in my own fridge.  Where I could have something on the table in a heartbeat and know exactly where it all came from: Publix.

But the worst, the totally unacceptable, the ultimate TMI, is hearing thoughtful tales about the unsuspecting benefactor of the evening’s filet mignon.  Ditto the dear little lamb whose chops are on the menu.   With that information, my appetite gets up and leaves the room.  And, so do I.

The whole thing makes me want to go back to a favorite restaurant. No reservations were accepted…for anyone!  You sat/stood at the bar until your name was called.  If you were a regular, no menus were needed/offered.  The waitress simply asked what you wanted and how you wanted it cooked.  Onion rings? she’d ask.  And crumbles?  (blue cheese on your salad.)  Absolutely, we’d say.  And that was that!

It was perfect and we could hardly wait to go back.  Never mind the potentially long wait at the bar. After all, that’s where we sated our hunger for fun, friendship and laughter.

Just like its predecessor.  And all those before it. 

And there have been many.  They have come.  And they have gone. 

Some have stayed longer than others.  But eventually, they all leave.  It’s predictable, predestined and inevitable.

It’s not that they’re bad.  Their purpose in life is good. Constructive.  Well intentioned.

Their final resting places are unknown.   All I know for sure is that they had it easier during their stay here than they could ever have imagined or hoped for.

But all good things must come to an end. 

And so it is that we offer it up to an enthusiast of all things healthy. We’ll hope that it finds its true potential with its new family.

I speak, of course, of the stationary bike that’s sitting upstairs in the hall.   

But, wait.  Maybe, just maybe, I should take another look at it. Who knows?   After all, this one’s smaller than the others.  More compact.  Easier to get on and off.   Really quite unobtrusive.

My wheels are turning.  Unlike the bike’s because it has none but this one may be a keeper.  So, give it a whirl, I say to myself.  Nothing to be lost and much to be gained.

It still sits, of course.  As it always will.  I just have to sit upon it.  Aye, and there’s the rub.

If you are under the age of sixty, or thereabouts, stop reading!  Right now!  There could be words in this little message that will have no meaning for you.  They may even appear threatening or concerning.  You will be puzzled and alarmed that there was a life such as this before you.  So, if you proceed, be afraid.  Very afraid.

We’ll start with a clue in last Saturday’s crossword puzzle.  The clue was: “Shoe salesman’s request.”  “Size” is the correct answer, of course, but the clue took me way, way back.

I wondered when I last encountered a “shoe salesman?”  First, it’s a sexist term in today’s vernacular and second, no one has tried a shoe on my foot except me for who-knows-how-long?

But, it brought back memories.  Good ones. Memories of the Foard-Harwood Shoe Store, owned and operated by David Foard, himself, and the site of many, many special and exciting trips to buy a new pair of Stride-Rites.

Mr. Foard always waited on us.  David, as he was known to my parents, took very good care of me.  The first step was, as always, a trip to the fluoroscope.*  We’d see with our very own eyes that the shoe I was wearing was pinching slightly and new ones were definitely in order.  This was NOT just an idle recreational trip.

Many new and unopened boxes would soon appear from behind closed doors.  The smell of new leather and the crinkle of the tissue paper wrapped around those shiny new shoes was almost too much.  Sometimes a lemon sucker was offered as balm for the overstimulation.

Finally, came the “let’s try this one on for size” time.  On and on it would go.  More trips to the fluoroscope.  More shoe boxes emerging from the back.  More toe pressing to determine proper length and width.  Murmurings between Mr. Foard and my mother as I took a few steps to check for comfort.

We’d leave, eventually and happily, with new shoes.  There were always admonitions that they were to be worn “gently” for a while.  I’d need to “break them in.” 

Foard-Harwood is gone, of course.  Like almost all of our friendly family shoe stores and and their caring and thoughtful shoe salesmen. Alas and alack.

*Have no idea what a fluoroscope is? Chances are, you’re too young.  In any event, you can read all about it here. 

Great!  Because we have a couple of things to say on the subject.  The subject of listening, that is.

As I think about listening, the following saying comes to mind: “A friend is someone who asks the second question.” 

The Mister’s somewhat irritating but favorite quote is: “The Good Lord gave us two ears and one mouth for a reason.” 

A third voice comes from Murial Wilkins, a Harvard-trained career-consultant.  In a recent podcast, she said: “Stop talking.  Listen carefully and ask questions about the other person.  Listening is the biggest and most underused skill that helps drive empathy and a lot of other things as well.”  She’s addressing the workforce in that podcast but her words are widely applicable.

And last, but not least, is Kelsey Grammer, from the sitcom Frasier.    He’s widely remembered in his role of Dr. Frasier Crane, a radio talk-show psychologist.  In the show, he always answers his callers by saying, simply: “I’m listening.” 

And it is just that simple.  We’re given so many opportunities to listen.  To listen with curiosity and interest. To connect. To ask the second question. Why, then, does it seem to be so hard, for so many?

It’s been fourteen years since we started our dystonia journey.  Fourteen years since the toes began to curl, clutch and claw.  Fourteen years since we began to seek answers.  Fourteen years without any.

The Mister has been the soul of serious and considered research.  We’ve met and talked with doctors and lay persons from this country and others.  We’ve put the foot through more tests than it ever wanted and fed it more medicine than it could handle.  All to no avail.  We had little reason to be optimistic.

Until now.

We recently met with doctors at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston.  Thoughtful, considered, and smart docs.  They were the beginning of a possible solution. The beginning of outside-the-box thinking.

Three weeks ago, we went to Atlanta to meet with the “Dystonia” guru at Emory Medical Center.  We’d waited months to see him. 

After his Fellow, a young neurologist studying under him, touched, watched and evaluated the foot, the Big Cheese finally came in the room.  He sat down and quickly stated the following: “The medical community can’t fix this.  Stop going to white coats.  They can’t help you.  The cure…and I think there is one….is within.”

That sounds harsh but it really isn’t.  He’s saying simply that the foot won’t respond to intrusive hypodermics, physical therapy, drugs, hypnosis, or surgery.  In fact, the Mister and I had plotted a potential path to wellness on our own.  We just hadn’t realized how effective it might be until our recent trips.

The foot’s mother is now low-dosing Ketamine, a psychedelic drug, designed to open closed pathways in the neural system.  It is, simply, that simple. 

Or so we hope. We are not glib. But there’s reason for hope.  We see it every day.  Little stumbles are turning into small steps.  Those small steps allow a peek into a normal world. And, they may, someday, enable a walk with The Mister. 

My fingers…and toes….are crossed.