Life Coach

She was back. Sitting on my computer in a lotus position, arms gently outstretched, palms turned upward on her knees, the Opinion Fairy looked to be meditating. Her eyes were closed. I don't think she knew I was there until I started typing. She opened up one eye briefly, pretending not to notice me. For the next few minutes I left her alone and went on with my work. After that, I'm afraid I succumbed to temptation.

Me: “Hey, Opinion Fairy, you want to get your shoulders down a little. Don't shrug them. And don't over arch your back, either.” I put my fingertips on her shoulders and gave a little push downward. She glared at me.

O. F.: “I'm here to teach you how to meditate, not get pointers on my yoga positions,” she said grumpily. “I read your last article. It sounded like you could use some help.”

Me: “Yeah, well, I'm doing okay now. I even had an appointment with a therapist. One session and I'm cured.”

O.F.: “From what I heard, your therapist was pregnant and went into labor early and had to cancel all her appointments.”

Me: “Uh huh, and I feel oh, so much better because I didn't have to see her.”

O.F.: “So, what's the plan from here? Did you reschedule?”

Me: “No, I didn't reschedule. You know Kaiser. The next available appointment would probably be sometime in 2020. I've got plans, though. I'm planning on doing at least some yoga everyday, taking long walks with my husband, slowing down a little, and finding every way I can to keep my balance, physically and emotionally, without any more medication.”

O.F.: “Wow. That's impressive. Do you think you can do it? After all, your typical way of keeping your balance seems to be to swing from one extreme to another.”

Me: “Yeah, well, part of that was the medications. That's exactly why I want to go a more wholistic route this time.”

O.F.: “I'll tell you what. You could use a coach and I could use a job. I could keep you on task and teach you how to relax, live in the present, that sort of thing.”

Me: “Hmm, I'll think about that. How would I pay you? And what happened to your other gig?”

O.F.: “Some people don't appreciate other opinions, that's all. As for my pay, for an old kindergarten teacher, you don't remember your fairy stories very well, do you. Leave some food out for me. I'm partial to sweets. Don't give me clothes, though, or I'm out of a job.”

Me: “Sweets. I think I can handle that. You're hired. Oh, and, if we're to be working together, I need to know your name. I don't want to have to call you Opinion Fairy or O.F. all the time.”

O.F.: “You can call me Mo.”

Me: “Mo? That's a funny name for a fairy. Is it short for something?”

The fairy mumbled something that I couldn't hear. I looked at her and raised my eyebrows. I haven't mastered the art of raising just one eyebrow yet, but I'm working on it.

O.F. (or Mo as I must now call her): “It's short for Marshmallow, okay? A 4-year-old named me. A little girl who was eating marshmallows with sticky fingers saw me wake up. She picked me up before I knew what was happening. She named me Marshmallow and it stuck.”

Me: “The name or the marshmallow?”

Mo: “Very funny. Uh.. both actually. It took weeks to get it all off. I am glad you're going to hire me because I've found some sweets you've been stashing away and decided to take my first paycheck in advance.”

She reached into a small bag and pulled out a candy.

Me: “Uh, Mo, I think you'd better be a little careful about those candies. They're not just ordinary sweets, you know. That's my medical marijuana candy. They aren't very strong, but then, you're not very big. Take it in tiny, tiny amounts and then wait. Otherwise you can get too much without knowing it.”

Mo: “What do you mean? They taste okay.”

Me: “How much have you had? You know, I hadn't noticed it before, but your wings are starting to droop.”

Mo: “Really?”

She stood up and quickly turned her head over her shoulder to look at her wings. Immediately she turned a particular shade of moss green and put her hands up to hold her head still.

Mo: “Ooh, I feel a little dizzy. I think I'd better lie down before I fly home.”

Me: "You'll stay here tonight, Mo.  Friends don't let friends fly when they're stoned."

I got out a shoebox and folded up one of my soft wool sweaters into a sleeping bag. Carefully, I lifted the little fairy into the box and covered her up snugly. I carried the box into the living room and put it next to our houseplants. I wanted Mo to feel at home. I went back to the kitchen and found a few dried cranberries, a date, and some sunflower seeds. I put them in a dish beside the box. I whispered “goodnight” to her but she was already asleep.

Mo will be fine. She'll sleep well tonight and wake up in the morning feeling refreshed and hungry. I'm looking forward to her help. Who knows? She might even learn a few things from me.

CAFFEINATED!

(With apologies to the late Gene Amole, former columnist for the Rocky Mt. News, and his Idea Fairy.)

The jitters were still affecting me last night after having that cup of coffee at 9:00 am. I know, at 7:30 pm, it should have worn off long ago, but it hadn't, which was why I was still enthusiastic and excited, and why I was looking through business papers and paying bills, planning my next step for the business, and writing with long run-on sentences with lots of commas, regardless of whether they are needed, or not. The only problem was that it was hard to focus; which is why it took me awhile to notice the fairy that was sitting on top of my computer screen, looking down onto my work. I decided to be polite.

Me: Who the hell are you and where did you come from?

Fairy: I'm the Opinion Fairy. I've been watching you for awhile and thought I'd come and tell you what I think of your work.

Me: Isn't that supposed to be Idea Fairy?

Opinion Fairy: That's my cousin. She's nice. Now, are you going to tell me? What are you so excited about?

Me: I made it through the meeting with my vocational/rehab counselor and it went well, in fact, it went even better than I expected, especially as he started by telling me what I hadn't done that I was supposed to be doing, and which papers I hadn't turned in.

O.F.: You're doing it again.

Me: What?

O.F.: Speaking in long run-on sentences.

Me: But I'm excited! Just listen. I blew him away with my promo video and how clear I was with what I wanted to do with my business and how much I had sold already and my connections with wholesalers and authors, and how practical I am.

O.F.: You don't sound practical now. You sound manic. What's going on?

Me: I had a cup of coffee this morning. I said that already.

O.F.: This morning? Come on. I drink coffee every morning and it doesn't do that to me.

Me: But I don't drink coffee.

O.F.: You just said you did.

Me: I was invited over to have coffee with someone this morning and it was, like, coffee. Usually when I go out for coffee, I have tea.

O.F.: It'll take me awhile to work that one out. So, you had coffee this time.

Me: Yeah. She poured a cup of coffee and handed it to me. I thought, “I'm an adult. Adults drink coffee. I can do this.”

O.F.: You've never had coffee before this morning?

Me: Of course I've had coffee! Thirty-two years ago, we went on a road trip through the midwest, in August, and we left at night so we wouldn't have to drive through the heat. I drank a half cup of coffee with lots of milk and sugar in it, just so I could stay awake.

O.F.: Meaning, of course, that there must have been a whole tablespoon of actual Java in there?

Me: Yeah. Something like that. I have weird reactions to things. My family still gives me a hard time for getting tipsy from drinking an O'Doul's. Don't worry about me. I'm okay now. It's starting to wear off. I'm calm. I'm calm.

O.F.: Calm!? You're like a chipmonk that's just gotten off a roller coaster, a hummingbird on speed, a person with Parkinson' disease who's forgotten her medication.

Me: Okay, now that's getting personal. I'll have you know I've taken all my meds today.

O.F.: If this is calm, what were you like earlier?

Me: Well, when I got home from my visit, my husband had to take me for a walk.

O.F.: A walk is good.

Me: Yeah, except I was walking backwards...

O.F.: Backwards...?

Me: ...and sideways.

The Opinion Fairy raised one eyebrow. She wasn't going to comment on that one. I was impressed. I've always wanted to be able to raise just one eyebrow.

O.F.: I'm glad you made it through. Now, can we get on with your writing? It's just that, I've got another gig tonight and I shouldn't be late.

Me: Someone more important than me, I suppose.

O.F.: That's classified information; and don't feel sorry for yourself. Now, I see you've got several ideas for articles written down there.

Me: Leave it to me to get an Opinion Fairy. Okay, I've narrowed it down to three – “choosing the right kind of pillow”, “the benefits of an afternoon nap”, or “sleep-a-thon raises money for Parkinson's research”.

O.F.: Sounds like you need another cup of coffee. I'll tell you what. There's another idea here that's worth exploring. “The benefits of low dose medical marijuana for Parkinson's patients”. I'm sure a lot of people would be interested in that.

Me: That's a good idea. Of course, that means I'll be coming out of the closet and admitting that I use it. There's still a stigma to that, you know, even if you just use it now and then. People don't realize that you don't have to get high or stoned. If used as a medicine, it's a medicine.

O.F.: Yeah, and it controls your startle reflex, takes the edge off your dystonia, and can knock out a migraine. People just need to be educated about it, you know that. It even has fewer side effects of any other drug you take for your Parkinson's.

Me: Including coffee. You have been watching me, haven't you?! I suppose you'll want to get credit for the idea?

O.F.: No, no. You'd better leave me out of it.

Me: Why? You don't trust my writing?

O.F.: Well, it's just that, if you tell people that a fairy helped you to write an article about medical marijuana, they might not take you seriously. At least, that's my opinion.

I sighed and admitted that she was probably right.

Making Friends with the Mirror

My dad has a wonderful attitude about growing old. He tells his doctor that, with all his aches and pains, he doubts he has more than twenty good years left. He just turned 87 last week. When he feels his age more than any other time, is when he looks in the mirror. Then he wonders who that old man is looking out at him. It's a shock, realizing that he is looking at himself. He doesn't feel that old. 

During my first year of kindergarten teaching, I had a young boy in my class whose father could do anything, at least according to his young son. I had the task of reading a story to the nap time group every afternoon and, no matter what the story was about, as soon as I finished reading, this boy would say loudly, “My dad can do that.” As his dad just happened to be one of my colleagues, I had a delightful time imagining him, in his white shirt and tie, fighting tigers, climbing high mountains, and capturing alligators.

In my own way, I tell myself the same thing all the time. When I saw home made brooms for the first time, I was immediately intrigued and looked hard at how they were made. My first thought? I bet I could do that. The same thing with binding books or sewing a diaper stacker for my new grandson. How are they made? I bet I could do that. I've gotten myself in trouble from time to time because I commit to doing something that I've never done before, assuring myself that “I know I can do that” before I realize what I'm doing or how large of a job I've just taken on. 

This is why I am now finishing numerous craft projects, starting a business, preparing to be a health mentor to a group of medical students later this week, and writing a novel. Can I do that? I have no idea, but that's not the point. If I don't try, I'll never know. 

Watching someone dance is beautiful, amazing, and awe inspiring, and it makes me squirm in my seat. I don't want to just watch, thank you very much. To be truthful, I am more likely now to say, “I wish I could do that”, but that's just my thinking. My arms and legs decide on their own and begin to follow along. I can feel it in my bones. My body decides it can dance and is just waiting for me to catch up. In my imagination, I look and move just as beautifully as the dancers whom I am watching.

Dancing in my Dance for Parkinson's class is even better than in my imagination because I'm really moving! I might miss a step or two and I might accidentally start walking the wrong way, but that's okay because I'm a dancer. I'm determined. I can do that. The music starts and I'm off. Plie, port de bras, tendu, brush forward, brush back. Even the words are beautiful.

Then we turn and face the mirror. Ohmigod. I don't really look like a dancer, do I? Who is that dumpy middle aged woman with Parkinson's disease, who is trying awkwardly to keep up with the teachers? Again I realize how much we, especially all of us females, are taught to dislike our bodies. Really, I don't look at anyone else and feel the need to be critical of their bodies. In fact, as an artist, I find myself savoring every wrinkle and all the wonderful oddities that make each of us unique. As a friend, I see you, not just how you look. I know my friends do the same for me.

Okay, my next challenge is to make friends with the mirror. That is who I am and I really wouldn't want to be any different. I rather like who I am right now. Along with learning how to dance, I'm taking on this bigger challenge. I'm going to learn to enjoy watching myself, as I am, moving and dancing, awkward as I may be, in the mirror.

I can do that.

This video is from our Rhythm and Grace dance class.  Thank you to the Parkinson's Association of the Rockies for the video and for sponsoring this class!!

Rhythm and Grace

A friend of mine once complained that his girlfriend had signed them up for a Jazzercise class so they would have something they could do together. My friend was less than thrilled. In fact, he ended up by saying that just about anything would have been better than a Jazzercise class. “If she had signed us up for ballroom dancing, that would have been okay. I would've done that, but not Jazzercise.”

I learned a good lesson from this. I had been going about things all wrong. Instead of suggesting, asking, or begging my husband to take a ballroom dance class with me, I should have simply signed us up for Jazzercise. Dancing would have been welcomed after that. I briefly considered telling him that I had done this, just to try it, but abandoned the idea quickly. He wouldn't have bought it. He knows my bladder wouldn't hold up to that kind of exercise.

Nevertheless, I have always been interested in dance, so when the Parkinson's Association of the Rockies decided to start a “Dance for Parkinson's” class in Denver, I was ready to sign up. Chris declined my offer to sign him up as well, out of the noble viewpoint that if he was to come, he would be taking up space that should go so someone else with Parkinson's. I accepted his noble excuse while noting the look of relief on his face.

Yesterday was the first class. I had looked forward to this ever since participating in the demonstration class last month. Because parking was limited in the area, I had the brilliant idea that I could drive to our school and take the bus back and forth to the class, arriving back at school in plenty of time to take our daughter home. In theory, this was a good idea. The bus dropped me off right at the door of the Colorado Ballet. After an hour and a half of vigorous exercise and another bus ride, I walked the two blocks back to where I had parked the car. I swear that each of those blocks must have been at least a mile long. It was my triathlon: walk, ride the bus, dance, walk, ride the bus, walk again. My timing was a bit off but, all in all, I didn't do too badly.

The class itself was incredibly fun! I can't even tell you what all we did, mostly because I can't remember what the steps were called. Our teachers, Private Freeman and Sharon Wehner, are professional dancers and we had a lovely woman providing live music for our efforts. And effort it was. I learned a lot of things yesterday.

First of all, I learned that I function quite well from the waist up. Okay, I knew that already. I know right from left and my arms generally do what I ask them to do. My legs, on the other hand, have no interest at all in cooperating with me. They refuse to obey the simplest commands, especially if it entails knowing which is the right foot and which is the left; or it might have been that they were competing and each wanted to go first. It's not just a physical workout. It also requires that we pay attention to the other members of the group and how we are moving. I am proud to say I did not bump into anyone.

Then the music started and we danced from our chairs, behind our chairs, and then across the room. It didn't matter that we weren't perfect. I was moving to the music and I felt like a dancer! I credit the teachers for this. They treat us as though we are peers and they make it clear that our movements, even if they are limited, are beautiful to them. They didn't have to say this, it was obvious in every way they interacted with us. This could be another benefit of the class.  Maybe, just maybe, I'll start to see my movements as beautiful, too.

It's not surprising that the class is called “Rhythm and Grace”.

Strings Attached

Standing on the sidewalk, I looked down at my feet and wished, not for the first time, that I had some kind of strings attached to my shoes so that I could simply pull the strings to get my feet going again. I was stuck, or frozen, as my doctor calls it. “How often do you have freezing episodes?” he asked me earlier today. I resisted the urge to point out to him that it was 95 degrees outside and I was hardly likely to freeze; however, common sense and exhaustion got the better of me and I answered truthfully. 

It happens almost every day now, at least once, where I will try to walk and not be able to, or I will stop after a few steps and my feet seem stuck to the ground. Sometimes I can get going again by myself. Often I need someone to help me take those first few steps. Is it time to up my medications or is this just the new normal? 

As my own ability to move becomes more difficult, I find myself more and more interested in movement. I love my yoga class and can't wait to start in the Dance for Parkinson's class. I watch movies like “An American in Paris” and “Singing in the Rain”. I also enjoy watching Cirque du Soliel, Peter Davison (the dancer), and parkour, especially if our former student, Dylan Baker, is on the team. 

A few months ago, my son brought home a DVD from the library. It was a documentary about Igor Fokin, a Russian puppeteer who performed in Harvard Square for a number of years until his death in 1996. His marionettes came alive as they interacted with the audience. I would strongly recommend the film, “The Puppeteer”, to anyone and everyone. Just be sure to keep some tissues handy for the ending. 

Here was another way of looking at movement and it looked like so much fun! I had experience making and working with silk marionettes when I was teaching kindergarten, but I had never had the opportunity to work with more traditional marionettes. I was determined to try and make my own puppets and learn how to work them. Perhaps my daughter and I could practice enough to have a small show for the school fair at Christmas time? 

I've now made two puppets and I am working on two more. The newest one is a life size squirrel monkey. Making the puppets isn't so difficult. Stringing the puppets and creating a simple controller that will allow the puppet to move naturally, that is something else again. I have to learn how to create joints that work, how to balance the weight, and how it is that this particular puppet needs to move. It's a study in movement. It's not simply a matter of the puppeteer controlling the marionette. As Igor Fokin points out in the documentary, he gives the puppet just enough string to stand up on the ground and “They take care themselves. All I do is hold them up and lend a hand.” He makes it sound so easy. 

There is something magical about puppets. I brought Pippen, my first puppet, to school with me, right after I finished making him. I was with the second grade reading groups and it was the last week of school. There were three boys in my group who were more than ready for summer to begin and they had no intention of sitting still to read for 45 minutes. I brought out Pippen and these boys were so drawn to the puppet that they ignored everything else. I finally told them that if they promised to be very quiet, they could puppet-sit in the little coat room that was within the classroom. They were silent for the next 5 minutes. Then one of the boys came out with a book under his arm. “Mrs. Reinhart, if we promise to be very quiet and whisper, can we read to him?” Of course, I calmly replied. Looking in on them a few minutes later, I saw all three boys lying on the floor with the book between them. Pippen was sitting up next to the bookshelf and the boys were taking turns, as seriously and quietly as they could, reading to the puppet. Even without the strings, they're magical.

As for me, I'm still wondering whether attaching strings to my shoes would help me to get unstuck or if it would make me fall flat on the floor. Either way, it would be entertaining.

It seems I haven't figured out my controls yet, either.

No Place Like Home

The old guy got it wrong. If there's something I can be sure of, it's that figuring out when the rapture is going to happen can not require math. In fact, all those people in California had it wrong, too. You don't analyze the Bible to figure out when God's going to call all the worthy people to His heavenly banquet, you just wait for an invitation. Mine came in the mail. The California dude missed it by a few weeks. I won't give out the exact date. I mean, really, if you didn't get your own invitation, it's not my fault.

I was honestly surprised to learn that I was one of the worthy ones. Looking back at my life, I didn't think I'd done anything that special; however, the letter I received left no room for doubt. It was impressive. It was written on real vellum for starters, and the capital letters were decorated with colored inks and gold leaf. I suspect God had plenty of medieval monks in heaven who needed to be kept busy. It read as follows: (...though more beautifully. I don't have medieval monk font on my computer.)

You are cordially invited

to be a permanent guest at God's Banquet

if you accept this invitation,

you will be expected to be ready

at exactly 10 am today.

An angel will be sent to escort you to your new abode.

 Congratulations on being one of the worthy!

It was two minutes to ten and I had two minutes to decide what I was going to do. To my great relief, all of my family had received invitations, even our grandson. We gathered together in the kitchen to discuss the matter. All important conversations happen in the kitchen. We had barely begun, however, when our escort appeared, also in the kitchen. It was getting crowded. The angel seemed disappointed that we were not more impressed with his entrance. We greeted him politely and invited him to join in our discussion. Nothing had been decided yet, we told him. The angel stood with his wings spread across the room, bumping into the cabinets on either side. My son started by asking a question.

“So, what does this mean for the earth?” He posed the question for anyone to answer, but he was looking at the angel.

“THERE WILL BE PLAGUES AND EARTHQUAKES AND THE EARTH WILL FALL INTO A FIERY CHAOS,” the angel intoned.

“That's nothing new,” said my husband cynically. He'd just read the op/ed page in the newspaper.

“YOU ARE AMONG THE WORTHY. YOU CAN ESCAPE ALL THIS AND LIVE IN ETERNAL BLISS IN GOD'S HEAVENLY KINGDOM.” The angel looked confused.  He wasn't used to people questioning him.

My other son asked, “If all the worthy people are taken from the earth, what will happen to the people here?”

“THEY WILL SUFFER AND DIE. THE WORLD WILL COME TO AN END.” The angel reached out his arms in a grand gesture. I think he was trying to look powerful. Our kitchen is small. We have learned not to use grand gestures in our kitchen. Our daughter fished the broken bits out of the sink from the dinner glasses that had been accidentally knocked over, and threw them in the trash. The angel looked sheepish, “sorry,” he said, in a small voice.

It was my daughter-in-law's turn, “I don't know. I think I'd feel selfish if I'd choose to leave the earth just when people need the most help.”

“BUT IF YOU STAY, YOU WILL SUFFER WITH THEM AND DIE ANYWAY.” The angel was losing his momentum.

“Ah yes,” said our daughter, “that's true, but at least then we'd feel useful.”

“BUT DON'T YOU WANT TO SEE THE GLORY OF GOD?”

There was a yell from the floor. Our grandson had finished rearranging the pots and pans in the cupboard and began talking to the angel. Obviously the angel understood the little guy's baby talk and knew that he was saying, “I don't know about the rest of you, but I just got here. I'm not the least bit ready to leave yet. Didn't God create this place? Isn't the earth part of God's glory?” He blew a raspberry in the direction of the angel and went back to the pots and pans.

The angel looked around to each of us in turn. “You're all going to stay?” The angel was sounding almost normal now.

We all looked at each other and smiled. With another grandchild arriving in August, the garden growing, and summer vacation just about to start, where else would we rather be?

“YES!” We all replied, in unison.

“I guess that's that, then. I'll have to tell the Almighty about this.”

Our grandson looked at the angel again and said, in his own baby language, “Don't bother. God already knows and says it's okay. God says for you to go back home.”

The angel said goodbye and shook our hands. We thanked him for coming to discuss things with us. Then he left in a puff of smoke. My husband went back out into the garden. My son and daughter-in-law started making a salad for dinner. My daughter finished her homework. My other son went out to the studio to continue working on his marionette. Our grandson took all the plastic containers out of the cabinet and exchanged them for the pots and pans.... and I took a nap.

There's no place like home.

The Truck - or How to Write a Bestseller

When I started to take my writing seriously, our son cleaned up his old laptop computer for me to use. This way, I could still write when our daughter was doing her homework on the family computer. The old laptop was perfect. All I really needed to use was the word processor and fortunately, that was one program that still worked.

There were a few challenges. The top of the laptop, namely the screen, was attached to the bottom of the laptop, ie: the keyboard, by two wires. Setting it up required having something large and heavy right behind the computer so the screen wouldn't fall over. I eventually solved this problem with lots of duct tape and a couple of large “L” brackets, putting one leg of each bracket under the keyboard so that the screen could rest against the other leg. True, the brackets were marring our wood table, but this was solved quickly by putting a towel under everything. It was a ritual I repeated several times each day.

The biggest advantage to using this computer is that I couldn't be distracted by the internet or other fun ways to procrastinate. Nothing else worked. The disadvantage to this computer was that, even after I set it up, it took another five to ten minutes to warm up enough so I could open the program. I was never quite sure that it was going to come on. Needless to say, I saved everything to my flash drive. Not having the internet helped keep me from getting distracted, however, there were times when I needed to research my topic and this would entail running over to the other side of the house, kicking our daughter off the computer for a few minutes, looking frantically for the information I needed so I could let her back on again, and then going back to the dining room to type some more.

It was okay. I could handle it. In fact, there's some precedent to using old beat up writing equipment in coming out with a best seller. J. K. Rowling typed the entire manuscript for the first Harry Potter book on a manual typewriter and look how well that one did.

I was on a roll with my story, too. One night I sat for forty-five minutes working when my husband came in to ask how it was going. I replied that it was going very well, thank you. He looked over my shoulder to see what I had written. “The truck. That's what you've written?” I could tell he was impressed.

Maybe he thought I could do better if I had a computer that wasn't held together by duct tape. The possibility must have occurred to him because a few days later, he gave me an early anniversary gift. It was, and still is, a little Toshiba notebook computer. I'm typing on it now. It's amazing! In next to no time, I was not only able to write, I was also able to access the internet! Now I could write, do my research, check my email, play hangman, and look up new recipes for dinner!

The last one is a nice benefit that the whole family enjoys. My cooking has improved greatly since I can set up my tiny computer on the kitchen counter. The other night we had cheese stuffed hamburgers. Tonight we had Curried Chicken Penne with Fresh Mango Chutney. This is great except my family is starting to expect good meals. With the old laptop, I would get into my writing and fail to realize that it was time for dinner. We had lots of spaghetti, chili, and tacos. No one complained.

I'm not complaining, either. Things are so much better now. If I get stuck with my writing, I can always play a game of hangman, or two, or three. Our daughter is undisturbed in her homework. My writing is coming along quite well. Having a more efficient computer may have knocked me out of running for the next bestseller, however, I am soldiering on. This afternoon I sat writing for nearly an hour. When my husband came out, he looked over my shoulder and read what I had written. I had gotten much farther. He read, “The truck is green.”

He's not complaining, though. He's looking forward to dinner.