A long time ago, my father told me that an independent woman should always have a hammer, a pry bar, and a measuring tape.  My first husband added “duct tape” to the list of requisites, and since I started writing practically at birth, my instincts told me to throw a supply of notebooks and pens into the toolbox.

Others taught me the value of good coffee beans, fresh loose-leaf tea, zip-ties, and contractor bags.  But it took sixty-one years of hard living to find out about wound sealant.

The black powder comes in little foil packets or two-inch tubes.  You can dump a generous amount on an open cut to stench the flow of Warfarin-laden blood.  I’m a klutz; I carry the stuff in every pocketbook and keep it at the office.  Kudos to the person who taught me about it; he knows who he is.

Now, I’m not complaining, but I do take a bit of umbrage with the size of the container in which it’s sold.  I often need an entire allotment just to get to the point at which I can apply a taught bandage.  But it works; and many’s the time when my incapable left hand has applied a sprinkle to a slice in one of my right fingers.

I like being prepared.  My computer bag has a pouch filled with all sorts of items that could come in handy:  Ear buds, an extra mouse battery, a USB cable, and eye glass cleaner, just to name a few.

But at times, I rummage through my bag and come up empty, like Dorothy hovering on the perimeter while the Tin Man gets his ticking heart, the Lion accepts an award for courage, and the Scarecrow proudly displays his diploma.  The tools which I need to weather some storms can’t fit into a box stowed under the sink or in the garage.  And far worse:  My first-aid kit can’t save the world.  Even the industrial size of WoundSeal won’t mend a broken heart; fill an empty belly; ease the suffering of refugees; comfort a mother whose son has stepped in front of a terrorist’s knife or soothe a man when a stray bullet fells his brother.  Nothing seals those wounds, not time nor the tender mercies of the most devoted of friends.  I feel helpless to heal those whose anguish I see in the daily news.  At times, I can’t even ease the sorrow in faces around me.

I won’t complain, though.  I just keep putting my best foot forward, as our Nana told us to do.  I haul my box of supplies everywhere I go.  If something gets stuck, I pull out my father’s little crowbar and tackle the job, then wipe my brow, and soldier forward.

It’s the first day of the forty-second month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.