When Prayers Are Best.

 When Prayers Are Best.

 

This morning my old neighbor JoAnn came over to Jerry’s house and was walking around while talking on her phone. She seemed somewhat upset, so it didn’t take long to ask her what was wrong. Over a week ago Jerry came down with Covid. The other inmates of the jail let the guards know that he was unable to breathe. He may or may not have been taken to the hospital, but whatever was done was apparently ineffective. He developed blood clots in his legs and lungs and had a stroke. The inmates told the guards that he could neither talk or walk, but apparently that was not considered a problem. An inmate hauled Jerry to the phone so that he could talk to his mom. All he could say, “Mom, help.” She called everyone she could think of to get help. The nurse on duty at the jail hung up on her. Then Jerry had another stroke. If the doctor had not taken pity on JoAnn, she would not have known much of this, but now she knows that they won’t even let her see him because 1) he has covid, and 2) he is a prisoner handcuffed to his bed with tubes going everywhere. Mind you, he could not possibly be an escape risk. Anyway, our prayers are needed for JoAnn and Jerry’s family. No matter which jail—in Wichita or Archer County—he was in, it seems to me that they are responsible for not getting proper care for an inmate who desperately needed help. May God protect the other inmates and bless them in whatever way is best for them. And may Jerry pass quickly and no longer suffer.

 

This has been a hard day. Some things bother me more as memories come up. Jerry and Hanan were friends and helped each other. Jerry was good to help me, too. When he was not partaking of meth, he was a good person to be around. But drugs are often the cause of so many problems, just as alcohol is disastrous for those who try to use it to assuage their problems and demons. PTSD comes in all forms. Jerry spent two and a half years in solitary confinement. Not exactly conducive to good mental health. Hanan saw too many deaths and had too many concussions to be able to live life without the terrors of nightmares. All we can do is pray for those who have this kind of problems. May God grant all those who suffer from such problems with peace.

All of the stuff accomplished today included shopping for feed and diatomaceous earth, unloading same, and filling the bins with the feed. The two sacks of powder just were flipped into the two front coops and sliced open—left the stuff in the sacks. The hens will spread it to suit themselves. Also, got online and ordered stuff from Sam’s that Jenn will pick up tomorrow afternoon. She could not come this evening because they are attending a memorial service for the mother of one of their friends. Covid! Horrible stuff.

 

Got the chicken wire out of the truck bed and stuffed into the trash bin, so that went with the trash truck this morning. Then got out the OdorBan and cleaned out the trash bin. Not sure where the liquid came from that was in the bin, but it stunk! Now it is clean and smells decent. Yes, some of us are a little OCD about such things. Such is life.

 

Got seven eggs today, so with the one already in the carton, by tomorrow eight dozen eggs will be ready to go to Ft. Worth. It amazes me that it does not take very long to get that many eggs saved up. And if the weather becomes cooler, it may provide incentive for the girls to lay more eggs. All things considered, seven eggs a day is about right since only fourteen of the hens lay on a regular basis. Athena’s little white egg only shows up occasionally. And every other day the hens will not lay an egg since it takes 26 hours for them to produce an egg.

 

Bought two great big rat traps at the feed store. Sutherland’s was out of anything except mouse traps and glue traps. Took bacon, as Jack Culpepper suggested, and wrapped thread around it on the bait end of the trap. Then wood screws fastened the things to two different spots—one on the fence between my place and the messy neighbors behind me, and one on the edge of the coop roof. In the morning we will see if either was effective. Here’s hoping.

 

Patty has suggested that she will talk—or try to talk—to the post office about reinstalling our post box on our street. She cannot go get her mail and pretty well has to depend on me. And driving down to Texas Street has various problems involved—the backing up portion being the least of those. The Acunas have a German Shepherd that bites and can clear their fence given the opportunity. It bit Jerry one day when he was down there to get his mail. But they did not do anything about it. Anyway, driving down there is really inconvenient, to say the least. Now that only two of us are going to be getting our mail down there, the post office might say that we don’t warrant the box being on our street. Here’s hoping that Patty’s disability will make them change their minds.

 

Really looking forward to seeing Jennifer tomorrow. It makes me feel a bit guilty for the kids to worry about coming to see me once a month. We talk fairly often, but yours truly is feeling so much better now that it seems unnecessary for them to come to take care of things that need to be done. Jennifer reminded me again that the Cymbalta helps with the neuropathy, the pain, and depression. Whatever it is doing, something is helping because my balance is better now. Walking still wears me out, but at least it is not as difficult. Won’t be working in the flower beds anytime soon, but at least reaching over to pull one or two pieces of grass doesn’t leave me unable to untrack!

 

Not going to mention anything political, but our nation needs help. Honesty and integrity seem to be a thing of the past. May God bless those who know what the truth means when they hear it or speak it.

 

Rest well, my friends, and look for joy in your lives. You are loved.