tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15610663748774813552024-03-12T19:08:27.800-07:00[Un]Cannery Rowthe teeming underbelly of the South Dakota prairiemarshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14710250495128117083noreply@blogger.comBlogger306125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1561066374877481355.post-21234569166029793692024-01-16T08:50:00.000-08:002024-01-16T08:57:02.165-08:00Dear Jack Blizzard - is that all you've got?!?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQY6vUTWDtkBbVDyDsPHWpJQePYHd1IqGKP-BgwC-cloQOt2orrCgJmlZYTiUFf17Pdzm9LxRrXF_QzOCTN5y5tMCJeQOzsE9NisBiNsYdvjjXfNs5I0WNAXQ_misA8fOLqCk6P26W3k1dWWmRZ0XA4nmlPJyLPx_6Gnx-ngX1yIVp5sDFaeDZUY1Gvus/s3655/IMG_9045.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3655" data-original-width="2560" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQY6vUTWDtkBbVDyDsPHWpJQePYHd1IqGKP-BgwC-cloQOt2orrCgJmlZYTiUFf17Pdzm9LxRrXF_QzOCTN5y5tMCJeQOzsE9NisBiNsYdvjjXfNs5I0WNAXQ_misA8fOLqCk6P26W3k1dWWmRZ0XA4nmlPJyLPx_6Gnx-ngX1yIVp5sDFaeDZUY1Gvus/w280-h400/IMG_9045.heic" width="280" /></a></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-size: medium;">You can’t live in South Dakota and not talk about the weather, especially this time of year. Jack Blizzard stomped across the state in the first week of the year, dumping about 15” of snow on us. Happy fecking New Year! </span><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">We got that just about cleaned up when Jack threw another hissy fit, and this one was a real doozey. Another foot of snow at least, real temps that got down into the -20s, and wind chills that got as low as -48 here (colder in other parts of the state). There are little mountains of snow all around town and down the middles of streets – nowhere to put it all. It’s a balmy -3 right now, heading for a high of 13, which will feel like summer. We’re finally going to venture out for groceries today, wrapped up for our polar expedition in multiple layers of wool, fur, wicking nylon, Thinsulate, and more wool.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_xwbkmkdyv3iNIFHI7ZAHnGnURto6yp8T7uidx8tDfw-xwlfZF56Lxuqcfo6NQZKYUCRsvELmHCk_2ycpilBupUZ3hU9JWGGwr9wdTjS08Yfy6sBjTCAS-Mth1g22C7kwaT9RR3gjFeXkGy2osyz3agtICTUumOQNkyncCyDac_bM_HxgjUOsewI9qwY/s4032/IMG_9048.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_xwbkmkdyv3iNIFHI7ZAHnGnURto6yp8T7uidx8tDfw-xwlfZF56Lxuqcfo6NQZKYUCRsvELmHCk_2ycpilBupUZ3hU9JWGGwr9wdTjS08Yfy6sBjTCAS-Mth1g22C7kwaT9RR3gjFeXkGy2osyz3agtICTUumOQNkyncCyDac_bM_HxgjUOsewI9qwY/w300-h400/IMG_9048.heic" width="300" /></span></a></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">I’ve heard a number of people wonder aloud lately (including us), why do we live here? The honest answer is “because we’ve always lived here, and humans don’t really like change.” But another answer, for me, has to do with something I learned early on about poetry: Good poems play with contrast. Think about it. My favorite poems show me the contrast between dark/light, life/death, day/night, out there/in here. Similarly, one of the things I love best about winters here is that when spring comes (or even on bright sunny days like today, with temps above 0), the contrast is absolutely stunning.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Spring isn’t just the next season here, like I imagine it is in warm southern states. It’s a goll dern miracle. The sense of relief SoDakians feel on a suddenly-warm winter day or with the first signs of spring beats any mood-altering drug on the market. We’re positively giddy. We peel off layers and go right outside. We invent chores to stay out as long as we can stand it. We scrape gunk off birdfeeders. We stack empty flower pots in order of circumference. We make a new garage hanger for our 17 pairs of garden gloves. Did I go outside this morning and brush a foot of snow off my clamshell lawn chairs? Why, yes. Yes I did.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">And I know I’ve said it before, but SoDakians, like the stalwart prairie stock from which many of us spring, are uniquely prepared to deal with Jack’s little tantrums. Here at the row, we’re dipping into our larder for those wonderful jars of canned summer – stewed tomatoes. Tomato soup, chili, spaghetti. We could probably live a month on tomatoes alone. There’s always a couple whole chickens and roasts in the freezer, along with bags of frozen veg, and plenty of noodles, beans, and grains in the pantry, so we could live another month on soups. We have wine, a good supply of coffee beans in the freezer (I order coffee in 5-pound bags), and we refilled all our old-people prescriptions before Jack rolled into town.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtDPzp8cyA4CmmjTiwA4r-sBzoHvChlnncjZ4RaB8i-bQWAoNx23oZTdCDIwcH16SdAYhRm1jZZHhdTVCbB1LtlZvjCUZaQltGBsKpl7Ibl-Jh2fgjleJSXhLhOAE3aA5CGE3jrWPCOddssHvhgH3SxC7Fv72iUBn_E_SQ8I2zth67Bh5Iv3tbzF12moI/s4032/IMG_9064.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtDPzp8cyA4CmmjTiwA4r-sBzoHvChlnncjZ4RaB8i-bQWAoNx23oZTdCDIwcH16SdAYhRm1jZZHhdTVCbB1LtlZvjCUZaQltGBsKpl7Ibl-Jh2fgjleJSXhLhOAE3aA5CGE3jrWPCOddssHvhgH3SxC7Fv72iUBn_E_SQ8I2zth67Bh5Iv3tbzF12moI/w400-h300/IMG_9064.HEIC" width="400" /></span></a></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Winterfolk learn early to self-entertain, which retirement makes infinitely easier: I have a new poetry book, <i>Hysterian</i>, coming out this year, and I’m already well into the next. Then there are jigsaw puzzles, guitars & ukuleles, crossword puzzles, TV documentaries (I now know more about cephalopods, fungi communication, and the Branch Davidians and Heaven’s Gate than any human should), knitting, journals, and books books books. I unpacked my new set of Fluent Pet language buttons yesterday, because I’m pretty sure Pretzel has something to say about winter, too. (Check out <a href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCEa46rlHqEP6ClWitFd2QOQ" target="_blank">What About Bunny</a> for a dog who’s mastered the buttons.)</span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQUSshG1wyIJNuGUf2RRcx8SCbvhi6DXnga3MCIvGXyEFyYzhUyXzgnBlQ1hsVuOJnqNsLFQiq3Bmbx_m8mLL38ZfDd_Iela_rZIkF14HewpJFRJrkFzTuHz4mx5h2ZeunFcsWj4x0ezPqt7u_Z8kLRYj00ET1T8uirj-ep_lcvyP_67boZqXZ8SktG_o/s4032/IMG_9067.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQUSshG1wyIJNuGUf2RRcx8SCbvhi6DXnga3MCIvGXyEFyYzhUyXzgnBlQ1hsVuOJnqNsLFQiq3Bmbx_m8mLL38ZfDd_Iela_rZIkF14HewpJFRJrkFzTuHz4mx5h2ZeunFcsWj4x0ezPqt7u_Z8kLRYj00ET1T8uirj-ep_lcvyP_67boZqXZ8SktG_o/w300-h400/IMG_9067.HEIC" width="300" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMw_34qjMazK3csKiC5o7wc9s4_lMPCZpdLYuQCybS9nhlrkzCbuiG8vB7n1gDQn_C4kAEZ-JsA8IkAaQDggOmvtXKe3Mlj0gJTuuN83GcovD2w3VDyG8e80rDQHm8jvY4pq4fRhSarkTBDK2O2ey1do3jg7RHzt2tp2eUHESSGEYFL8dv-5JBIYS1JZo/s4032/IMG_9083.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMw_34qjMazK3csKiC5o7wc9s4_lMPCZpdLYuQCybS9nhlrkzCbuiG8vB7n1gDQn_C4kAEZ-JsA8IkAaQDggOmvtXKe3Mlj0gJTuuN83GcovD2w3VDyG8e80rDQHm8jvY4pq4fRhSarkTBDK2O2ey1do3jg7RHzt2tp2eUHESSGEYFL8dv-5JBIYS1JZo/w300-h400/IMG_9083.HEIC" width="300" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ_kQ7gauEHqJY2wo5a7Ir9KrMsmsmmcXAbCPDJedz1ZZokgvveLXIc32RRklFhAVxf0vTUxGrPURfwExPPbu7QQB9AzHRQ-zp3DL-tQQDW7dQmW3KwQi8MKxhDuNlIV6I9L5vxuq5Q4vFEApzKAdnTnf8RBO7xPWoWvWkvGqX8FQ6cE6Y3QDYQ4vE2d4/s4032/IMG_9084.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ_kQ7gauEHqJY2wo5a7Ir9KrMsmsmmcXAbCPDJedz1ZZokgvveLXIc32RRklFhAVxf0vTUxGrPURfwExPPbu7QQB9AzHRQ-zp3DL-tQQDW7dQmW3KwQi8MKxhDuNlIV6I9L5vxuq5Q4vFEApzKAdnTnf8RBO7xPWoWvWkvGqX8FQ6cE6Y3QDYQ4vE2d4/w300-h400/IMG_9084.HEIC" width="300" /></span></a></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">So bring it, Jack. You don’t scare us. In the time it’s taken me to write this post, the temp has already gone up to +2, and the wind chill’s only -16. I’m pretty sure the students at Little Town University are wearing shorts. And if we get a few groceries today, we’ll be good till mid-April.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><i>FOOTNOTE:</i></b> Here’s a link to the poem that gave Jack his name, at least for me. It’s from Australian poet S.K. Kelen, who spent some time here as a visiting professor, so he knows whereof he speaks:<a href="https://internetpoem.com/s-k-kelen/jack-blizzard-poem/" target="_blank">"Jack Blizzard"</a> </span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwPdphsH3FdFnpojPVQ1tMGmJoGlShDamNbq2xyjhXiCkk3qaI0QlUzpskTgCY5jMGaPOwAxsv5ylnQ6Sh8ITCr-DQgjuC3mEhEjonnIzo8ae8Q_EghABnGADRZyYebfvKl2JnN-aps5wW7nCp4YVDps-qiJMyh__xZQoJvA7RTI0qIusAFNYiWYDzZho/s4032/IMG_9075.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwPdphsH3FdFnpojPVQ1tMGmJoGlShDamNbq2xyjhXiCkk3qaI0QlUzpskTgCY5jMGaPOwAxsv5ylnQ6Sh8ITCr-DQgjuC3mEhEjonnIzo8ae8Q_EghABnGADRZyYebfvKl2JnN-aps5wW7nCp4YVDps-qiJMyh__xZQoJvA7RTI0qIusAFNYiWYDzZho/w400-h300/IMG_9075.HEIC" width="400" /></span></a></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgknuPk-AxjNKm4Wj8xUKj0jVFco-2QnM9GZ4ERcEuXoRo8mdNmfvxXcvIaE5hS8lOWN6LIbiUG-UbpgcuetCEJQmacNC_017exU9REqV5Jvj3gPianmayzU-Y_i55fF756JF5aMNQkYKWx-vyko422eINgEl3phQTBgbYI4fS5cdC4ZlktrGckCKni04g/s4032/IMG_9080.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgknuPk-AxjNKm4Wj8xUKj0jVFco-2QnM9GZ4ERcEuXoRo8mdNmfvxXcvIaE5hS8lOWN6LIbiUG-UbpgcuetCEJQmacNC_017exU9REqV5Jvj3gPianmayzU-Y_i55fF756JF5aMNQkYKWx-vyko422eINgEl3phQTBgbYI4fS5cdC4ZlktrGckCKni04g/w300-h400/IMG_9080.HEIC" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhboyXBCqXjZz5NAObW1u1BbAaNeX9akeiIVn-L2gQvCX8TY3G8svzoZ3AUFc_BYyUjjRVl1TdMgWXHI9NJ9veTXCpMtd4Uz_Zb4yJIDVw-EsmOm3tkOrMWu96OrEmnael1Ci72LHEU3KYfHqrxwR5_VzbI6yfeAXVjm1NrfMEwGmploPrH4j9MPpKvSq4/s4032/IMG_9072.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhboyXBCqXjZz5NAObW1u1BbAaNeX9akeiIVn-L2gQvCX8TY3G8svzoZ3AUFc_BYyUjjRVl1TdMgWXHI9NJ9veTXCpMtd4Uz_Zb4yJIDVw-EsmOm3tkOrMWu96OrEmnael1Ci72LHEU3KYfHqrxwR5_VzbI6yfeAXVjm1NrfMEwGmploPrH4j9MPpKvSq4/w300-h400/IMG_9072.HEIC" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhI_rGH-VARYcIQCprmCQFIA98B_UQBFabCzcxS0BG_wtVFLwtb3qVt3_h2z5dGwsdALtpYQ-R44vYiXNlzsC4aw_-0x2i6SR0IUso9TaBM8Nn8oyTd7Np3ZUA_am9i_90KmiipyTR1HeX1jorOoIlDlf-JgyAmtgLlHvpqP1A7cEQAoiXaKwHZOlZO3I/s3088/IMG_9073.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhI_rGH-VARYcIQCprmCQFIA98B_UQBFabCzcxS0BG_wtVFLwtb3qVt3_h2z5dGwsdALtpYQ-R44vYiXNlzsC4aw_-0x2i6SR0IUso9TaBM8Nn8oyTd7Np3ZUA_am9i_90KmiipyTR1HeX1jorOoIlDlf-JgyAmtgLlHvpqP1A7cEQAoiXaKwHZOlZO3I/w300-h400/IMG_9073.HEIC" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div><br /></div>marshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14710250495128117083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1561066374877481355.post-29607655985120098422023-10-22T06:50:00.000-07:002023-10-22T06:50:20.917-07:00In the name of...<span style="font-size: medium;">I’ll keep this short because honestly, I don’t know what to say. I’m heartsick and kind of paralyzed by the war in the Middle East. And it IS a war, not an action, occupation, resistance, self-defence, or whatever else they want to call it to “clean it up” or justify it. And the fact that RELIGION is the excuse at the root of this ongoing war (and so many others) makes me sick, and it moves me even further away from whatever respect I used to have for organized religion. Throw in the Indian boarding schools, Magdalene laundries, sexual predation by clergy, obscene wealth hoarding, and more, and my blood boils when I hear religious figures talk about righteousness or sin.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">So I’m turning to poetry again, as a way to sort it out for myself, to slog through it, to respond somehow. This is a poem by Joseph Fasano that we should all post in our homes, on social media, everywhere…and we should read it EVERY. DAMN. DAY.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Words Whispered to a Child Under Siege</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Joseph Fasano</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">No, we are not going to die.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The sounds you hear</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">knocking the windows and chipping the paint</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">from the ceiling, that is a game</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">the world is playing.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Our task is to crouch in the dark as long as we can</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">and count the beats of our own hearts.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Good. Like that. Lay your hand</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">on my heart and I’ll lay mine on yours.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Which one of us wins</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">is the one who loves the game the most</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">while it lasts.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Yes, it’s going to last.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">You can use your ear instead of your hand.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Here, on my heart.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Why is is beating faster? For you. That’s all.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I always wanted you to be born</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">and so did the world.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">No, those aren’t a stranger’s bootsteps in the house.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Yes. I’m here. We’re safe.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Remember chess? Remember</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">hide-and-seek?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The song your mother sang? Let’s sing that one.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">She’s still with us, yes. But you have to sing</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">without making a sound. She’d like that.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Sing. Sing louder.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Those aren’t bootsteps.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Let me show you how I cried when you were born.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Those aren’t bootsteps.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Those aren’t sirens.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Those aren’t flames.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Close your eyes. Like chess. Like hide-and-seek.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">When the game is done you get another life.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5R4t8Pa1EMiMQzQMqUQh5pujg6kPkLNZUZFZ2JPOm9ArnAyBujoPuWYUEkLg3zjbmvPEDmIS4AR3ufJvfO_giC02d_lly9yU2s6ZSvZF2UX5V2X57JpFGA314yoCOX1-1hjI4krftYlvzfHkh5JY_J6d11uAlMzbKXxmtuqngC9KcG6ILEz9FQi8XzVg/s2002/child%20in%20rubble.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1316" data-original-width="2002" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5R4t8Pa1EMiMQzQMqUQh5pujg6kPkLNZUZFZ2JPOm9ArnAyBujoPuWYUEkLg3zjbmvPEDmIS4AR3ufJvfO_giC02d_lly9yU2s6ZSvZF2UX5V2X57JpFGA314yoCOX1-1hjI4krftYlvzfHkh5JY_J6d11uAlMzbKXxmtuqngC9KcG6ILEz9FQi8XzVg/w400-h263/child%20in%20rubble.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>marshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14710250495128117083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1561066374877481355.post-8635921926419918352023-08-25T08:36:00.002-07:002023-08-25T08:37:18.112-07:00Cottage Industry<span style="font-size: large;">Our Little Town is bustling with activity! Kids of all ages are back in school, the squirrels are stashing walnuts as fast as they can drop from our tree, and in spite of a heat wave that’s been cooking us with temps above 100°, there’s that smell some mornings that signals autumn is on its way. And everyone knows autumn is the time of year when <i>prairie people panic</i> (don’t say that into a mic without a good windscreen). With the first whiff of cool northern air, we shift into overdrive; we stock the larder, smack the dust out of our parkas with a rug beater, darn our woolies, and prepare to hunker down.</span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAkuviFjPksh-1cfze3YddhtaW6SwOjFSvX_iIEf686QFhjAW7Nl4xLG9TC88fab5B9Uq6yCvO91q3MjolRFlBYySiwCzfHjFmERSFRQZbT5aPCvJlvGDU4kCutZWHfele7QvGQb6GpIjmUaEJjwy4K0fGe8Evl_rkgfQOP2UmpiDTxo8L5egjRO2mLjw/s720/innis%20meine%20shawl%20in%20progress.heic" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAkuviFjPksh-1cfze3YddhtaW6SwOjFSvX_iIEf686QFhjAW7Nl4xLG9TC88fab5B9Uq6yCvO91q3MjolRFlBYySiwCzfHjFmERSFRQZbT5aPCvJlvGDU4kCutZWHfele7QvGQb6GpIjmUaEJjwy4K0fGe8Evl_rkgfQOP2UmpiDTxo8L5egjRO2mLjw/w400-h300/innis%20meine%20shawl%20in%20progress.heic" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Inis Meain shawl between Pretzel's unravelings.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcQr5xnh76w370F8mowqjD43vOMF-AsnqrGEdsadkhggmrO9APWGGhZqjyRGDYakLkadm0ECJKmeMJFj08SYZJDqlXi4u0Zl-yT2Wc61g4W8AKohUUH2JWOh2LhTBYEpM9gpvErtLfq8jkCTDk2rdZXKrOvHlbGWmFlFmMHPIswqt1OR7G7kvfnUi7O1A/s474/David%20Shaw%20Inis%20Meain%20Shawl.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="474" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcQr5xnh76w370F8mowqjD43vOMF-AsnqrGEdsadkhggmrO9APWGGhZqjyRGDYakLkadm0ECJKmeMJFj08SYZJDqlXi4u0Zl-yT2Wc61g4W8AKohUUH2JWOh2LhTBYEpM9gpvErtLfq8jkCTDk2rdZXKrOvHlbGWmFlFmMHPIswqt1OR7G7kvfnUi7O1A/w400-h360/David%20Shaw%20Inis%20Meain%20Shawl.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Photo David Shaw: The Real Deal</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: large;">Ray and I have been getting in some end-of-season kayaking, a chance to relax for a bit, paddle around a lake, and pretend the garden isn’t at that very moment busting out of its fence and heading for the neighbor’s cat. <i>Feed me, Seymour</i>.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I have three poetry manuscripts finished and out looking for publishing homes—it’s amazing what you can accomplish with <i>TIME</i> (retire as early as you possibly can).
Ray’s been playing lots of summer gigs and continues to amaze me with his quiet (ironic for a drummer?), consistent excellence. But he still won’t play “Wipe Out” for me.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">We’ve also gotten in quite a bit of domestic industry. I’m working on a crocheted Inis Meáin shawl, a traditional shawl worn layered over dresses in Ireland back in the day. Like the Fates who spin out the thread of life, our puppy Pretzel occasionally decides I’ve had my “allotment,” and he pulls my skein of yarn apart, weaves it throughout the house, and wraps it tightly around table legs. Reclaiming my yarn is a lot like a game of Twister.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb5_iO5YAuG9pjQSPyS6AG6mANbXrz6phNNKRNzMaa0Fkqj33PcIafU0k9QnYMY7CplNqsksunu7w9y6Pxtww5iIFZMs9Tk1i3E2j1mIFv8exyXJlc9Pm8pHPiqASioCMmo3zOuLqRURJRsUaY6ziKeK7v8KR3vg0QnfiqRUeEc2QnQglWZXsWAhYk-_w/s4032/IMG_8277.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb5_iO5YAuG9pjQSPyS6AG6mANbXrz6phNNKRNzMaa0Fkqj33PcIafU0k9QnYMY7CplNqsksunu7w9y6Pxtww5iIFZMs9Tk1i3E2j1mIFv8exyXJlc9Pm8pHPiqASioCMmo3zOuLqRURJRsUaY6ziKeK7v8KR3vg0QnfiqRUeEc2QnQglWZXsWAhYk-_w/w300-h400/IMG_8277.HEIC" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sun sugar cherries...LOTS of them.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQxliCsT9Q6Ekxsiyh7OW2704hPUonpOUlDjfSDXHT9k6psb_WS4YRm-qcmwkaKSZup8B_Jdb_v0WTyZVfWu-ExajnHauCiMZq9HX6RDrD7ytiTT90Fm0gTAGsBS9Ja2fzg95RjuNt7Jh4h18rF2JO9DQEkQqa7dmcsyGPFVlCETDQlFzzYYs2BlgbriY/s4032/IMG_8280.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQxliCsT9Q6Ekxsiyh7OW2704hPUonpOUlDjfSDXHT9k6psb_WS4YRm-qcmwkaKSZup8B_Jdb_v0WTyZVfWu-ExajnHauCiMZq9HX6RDrD7ytiTT90Fm0gTAGsBS9Ja2fzg95RjuNt7Jh4h18rF2JO9DQEkQqa7dmcsyGPFVlCETDQlFzzYYs2BlgbriY/w300-h400/IMG_8280.HEIC" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Cherry tomato confit, of course!</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Ray bought a used set of electronic drums and has been working to convert Mom’s room into a music parlor. We have the piano, drums, and a host of stringed instruments all in one place now. Mom would love that her space is filled with playing and singing.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9QAiw099SkXBTKmBe-Rb0DPRriT38ST_7NOPSiqsZSUcwlv0HvMK5ajeABCqum7JFz9aH0aR4EpdBamS4UoZN8qxV_xYSFfnznT-HMjrY0AYO8EkyZCK8VbZgjdCKiimmrj2zKy7Rcjpphx0YnQaZxb4RhSSR4d4adpepHk7TrQeunNlfqqwJc1AfemE/s4032/IMG_8294.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9QAiw099SkXBTKmBe-Rb0DPRriT38ST_7NOPSiqsZSUcwlv0HvMK5ajeABCqum7JFz9aH0aR4EpdBamS4UoZN8qxV_xYSFfnznT-HMjrY0AYO8EkyZCK8VbZgjdCKiimmrj2zKy7Rcjpphx0YnQaZxb4RhSSR4d4adpepHk7TrQeunNlfqqwJc1AfemE/w300-h400/IMG_8294.HEIC" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Roasting...more...tomatoes...</span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">We’ve lost whatever false sense of control we ever had about keeping up with our garden, but we’ve put up dozens of quarts of roasted tomatoes. We’ve eaten cucumbers and zucchini until we finally put a “FREE” table out front to “gift” our surplus. We froze gooseberries, pesto, basil, and tomato confit. We dried parsley, basil, and dill. We have a lug of peaches on deck for processing. And with this week’s heat, we’re far from done.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUAyUStt04WGWGvtHZZeFHXbWj3TkAVkCp6sB7DAedEHfRJbSRfT0qwOp69V8aWGAvCQDImznA77079zqlCTUEWtOemHHP6CoYO6hP4OLtslsyuq5IciaJLu_vmXAA643iOo5_xev7CBDlGOiK0qb1Ct24nbdX6_mwhYHvXtQz2fQv7YWESUjH2z_36Gk/s4032/IMG_8360.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUAyUStt04WGWGvtHZZeFHXbWj3TkAVkCp6sB7DAedEHfRJbSRfT0qwOp69V8aWGAvCQDImznA77079zqlCTUEWtOemHHP6CoYO6hP4OLtslsyuq5IciaJLu_vmXAA643iOo5_xev7CBDlGOiK0qb1Ct24nbdX6_mwhYHvXtQz2fQv7YWESUjH2z_36Gk/w300-h400/IMG_8360.HEIC" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Someone's been in the peaches...</span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I can’t quite explain my joy at seeing the pantry full of home-canned bounty. We live a mile or two from the Corporate Monster store, yet we stockpile tomatoes like they’ll soon have to buoy us through an apocalypse, like we know they’ll be currency if we need to trade for beaver castor for our steel conibear traps (which we don’t have).</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSiqg_n-tyMg3ZoS6FxJNAUGRPLvO19eWyifyoKvF5X-jaJ-zFrCwoGXKBQq5k8yHivWbbPcaQNKozUhudsX9KQfAvCTFgq2Ga7SypIPEDTWLz1yf2XKSsGG0ElS6zknaH3Ldmh8Xh3k2raTDmvGe3dlloo08EEKKAMHHQyyboATQjVieoWED8tZzrvPo/s4032/IMG_8016.heic" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSiqg_n-tyMg3ZoS6FxJNAUGRPLvO19eWyifyoKvF5X-jaJ-zFrCwoGXKBQq5k8yHivWbbPcaQNKozUhudsX9KQfAvCTFgq2Ga7SypIPEDTWLz1yf2XKSsGG0ElS6zknaH3Ldmh8Xh3k2raTDmvGe3dlloo08EEKKAMHHQyyboATQjVieoWED8tZzrvPo/w300-h400/IMG_8016.heic" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Good year for our gooseberry bushes!</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGOPuxYAL1vCgqaHsfprgBsM6Qcf_xG4-0YELwzTwW1thPV6VcS529ys4OrbVcOdsQuPP6xNfFKRE96TajoESnJMspcKbXrcUQIKkMR2TXJgR3s3FY5W1FzV_uff-Bc-1CSQAnwJXZUQLEbChm3pqOoQN12OFzKp9OxTeqd3MUnjKDfOwAl7NcM7EHm4Y/s4032/IMG_8253.heic" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGOPuxYAL1vCgqaHsfprgBsM6Qcf_xG4-0YELwzTwW1thPV6VcS529ys4OrbVcOdsQuPP6xNfFKRE96TajoESnJMspcKbXrcUQIKkMR2TXJgR3s3FY5W1FzV_uff-Bc-1CSQAnwJXZUQLEbChm3pqOoQN12OFzKp9OxTeqd3MUnjKDfOwAl7NcM7EHm4Y/w400-h300/IMG_8253.heic" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Gooseberry "pudding" is more like a cobbler.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I think my devotion to canning, drying, and freezing a summer’s worth of stuff I couldn’t work through in my lifetime (I’ve got frozen parsley that’s probably 25 years old) is a hereditary and geographical fear of Jack Blizzard, and his ability to lock us in during winter. I read a brilliant short story once, “Winter” by Kit Reed, where two old sisters in an isolated cabin find an ingenious way to stock their larder during a blizzard. I won’t give it away, but let’s just say without my garden and my canning obsession, I could <i>BE</i> one of those sisters…</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Anyone who knows me knows I’ve never gone hungry a day in my life, except for my teens, when I lived on sunflower seeds and Boone’s Farm, or when I’ve gone willingly down some brutally restrictive diet hole. Still, I look at my seventeen jars of pickled jalapeños (2005) and my 13 jars of wild plum jam (2007 and yes, I’ll still eat them though I won’t feed them to guests), plus the last two years’ worth of tomatoes, pickles, and peaches, and I know I won’t starve.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi53mYOJtXosJOLV_doAdBD1pgcCPD6VYPqJQDvmTmYcCQf0PFBGzEQNiRsaa4vV7mqdyG8X24vNNrfuhQVqQzL-eNikp2PGojJ_PovhetLHGbehDUqr1hj3MN8-ToMULTzabVpKme9JwkJp0EwC1cXa6QKxLDp2a8OOchmXNczsgttwRZxT__UiIzMHP0/s4032/IMG_8361.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi53mYOJtXosJOLV_doAdBD1pgcCPD6VYPqJQDvmTmYcCQf0PFBGzEQNiRsaa4vV7mqdyG8X24vNNrfuhQVqQzL-eNikp2PGojJ_PovhetLHGbehDUqr1hj3MN8-ToMULTzabVpKme9JwkJp0EwC1cXa6QKxLDp2a8OOchmXNczsgttwRZxT__UiIzMHP0/w300-h400/IMG_8361.HEIC" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Did we plant that zucchini on purpose?!?</span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1CoFFL-r_nP2qWK1n8n8EJvvDRJwjdi8SLKK-yoy0TiITfgyuHWcaQ8StzaaAcP2BIHrs3aW6ylcMvXykDfTTLDz8MG0OO_ppxt8lmgJzeSSKSjVaS8zkJVqV7M53EuFP6pJrOIVHAh0Fzuus6SzXB2tBlt-YxzJapiMUPJWmumHzIl1gMeASeUMohmc/s4032/IMG_8363.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1CoFFL-r_nP2qWK1n8n8EJvvDRJwjdi8SLKK-yoy0TiITfgyuHWcaQ8StzaaAcP2BIHrs3aW6ylcMvXykDfTTLDz8MG0OO_ppxt8lmgJzeSSKSjVaS8zkJVqV7M53EuFP6pJrOIVHAh0Fzuus6SzXB2tBlt-YxzJapiMUPJWmumHzIl1gMeASeUMohmc/w300-h400/IMG_8363.HEIC" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">They're breaking out!</span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipa41p8FxVs_arA7RmqrWPCFDuRbyJg328eacA76APxPQYRGqjkFQw0NWIMBZYYBxws6IBzyOIhdwElelD66L-Gnn_j24uKz1atM7aDs9CAz_dHcWllgpWSrqxtukfRNAQY72E3VLaQzvahYvedhhv_KgZWmsvYr7J4xkCbG33My_jHd_ioMywqnaSohI/s4032/IMG_8365.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipa41p8FxVs_arA7RmqrWPCFDuRbyJg328eacA76APxPQYRGqjkFQw0NWIMBZYYBxws6IBzyOIhdwElelD66L-Gnn_j24uKz1atM7aDs9CAz_dHcWllgpWSrqxtukfRNAQY72E3VLaQzvahYvedhhv_KgZWmsvYr7J4xkCbG33My_jHd_ioMywqnaSohI/w300-h400/IMG_8365.HEIC" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">A full larder is a joyous thing...</span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">This weekend we’ve got a granddaughter’s 10th birthday to fuss over, more tomatoes ripening in this heat, and a couple of trees to plant. But first, a night of dancing and merriment at our Little Town Watering Hole, for what we like to call our Friday night happy hour “church service”—we are fervent, faithful, and [ir]reverent about our Friday evenings with Ray’s Little Town band. Then, it’s back to the industry and welcome, Autumn!
</span></div></div></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDwrJl4p6axoLSV2UoA6J3Fd4yZ4gQggYGG5cq0HEqQso2TQ3mRmLGYtLs7V5D6hblKmZSPfuc5c2blcwBaiRPYUtx1zdIMN-0jrnFc5ZuEDPulf4WsTwpFZnleOHT3g0q3wirC-8sbOy1TM5aLIMKgsMQNvJSU4zrWgSLNcbZPXBSaRb2Fvw1YE_ns1I/s4032/PDTB.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDwrJl4p6axoLSV2UoA6J3Fd4yZ4gQggYGG5cq0HEqQso2TQ3mRmLGYtLs7V5D6hblKmZSPfuc5c2blcwBaiRPYUtx1zdIMN-0jrnFc5ZuEDPulf4WsTwpFZnleOHT3g0q3wirC-8sbOy1TM5aLIMKgsMQNvJSU4zrWgSLNcbZPXBSaRb2Fvw1YE_ns1I/w400-h300/PDTB.HEIC" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Boyz in the Band</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>marshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14710250495128117083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1561066374877481355.post-9896074974839813042023-06-04T07:25:00.001-07:002023-06-04T07:29:07.422-07:00Better check that warranty...<span style="font-size: large;">I’ll be 67 on my next birthday. With age, wisdom, and one of the wise revelations I’ve had recently is that like an LG front-loading washer, human design includes planned obsolescence (PO). We are designed to break down and need replacing.</span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWdjoRnZYbLhGq_jLCtyNMi8HEeCKbw_8WmweN7d7votuZBm9DyUNm7CWsnpMI8JzACRiqHj2Pgr3MudxgGrs0BWUAprYIsl3Dhikwub2fsExK9t37JqpzwcL8VH05wmj34xXo4pUrFbvk60bYBmO5i_1RCfEHPlI57eA4YWg-6CTyqy18OmvP5dcv/s3024/IMG_7807.heic" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2141" data-original-width="3024" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWdjoRnZYbLhGq_jLCtyNMi8HEeCKbw_8WmweN7d7votuZBm9DyUNm7CWsnpMI8JzACRiqHj2Pgr3MudxgGrs0BWUAprYIsl3Dhikwub2fsExK9t37JqpzwcL8VH05wmj34xXo4pUrFbvk60bYBmO5i_1RCfEHPlI57eA4YWg-6CTyqy18OmvP5dcv/w400-h284/IMG_7807.heic" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another day, another backless gown.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">This came into sharp focus over the past month. First, Ray had another heart attack. This was #5 (#1 with quad bypass and a couple stents was at age 50, for which he always thanks his mother’s genes). Thankfully, we know the drill by now and got him in post haste.
This time, he needed a couple new stents (the cardiologist called himself “the plumber”). He also had a new glitch this time—atrial flutter. So they had to put the cables on and jump-start his heart back into normal sinus rhythm (a different cardiologist for this one, who called himself “the electrician”), which worked like a charm. After a few days in the Big City heart hospital, Ray came home wearing a monitor for a couple weeks and feeling good but tired.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">(Sidenote: We learned that cardio nurses get a big kick out of police and hospital shows that zap dead people back to life. She told us there’s no zapping someone back from a flatline.)</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">The next week, I was picking up a laundry basket and felt a pop in my lower back. I couldn’t straighten up, I needed a cane to get up or down, I hobbled around like Quasimodo, and I whined. A lot. I loaded up on Advil and ice packs until the following week, when I already had an appointment scheduled for my annual Medicare checkup. If you’ve never had one of these, they’re pretty funny. They start with a “wellness check,” a series of questions to test your mental health and memory, and to try and figure out if you’re a fall risk. You can’t imagine how badly I wanted to blink my eyes like a stunned doe or make up silly answers just for fun.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDXad70Slm2rZOYD77cdFPCD98kAjNsINLBmZXGyKdogQE5Lv8-rT1Lq2ia4GRNqRFE-ywygEa1yASKtNBA6g5lw22AA0bAisQ5z-L5OJB-O80L4yNj4cgCCsc959qAPVX_6K8AWaxwOP46S3wjBOoW7YQKs_S2_jAdX2OEz2NVrXicMQ5yeF88vYG/s4032/IMG_7843.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDXad70Slm2rZOYD77cdFPCD98kAjNsINLBmZXGyKdogQE5Lv8-rT1Lq2ia4GRNqRFE-ywygEa1yASKtNBA6g5lw22AA0bAisQ5z-L5OJB-O80L4yNj4cgCCsc959qAPVX_6K8AWaxwOP46S3wjBOoW7YQKs_S2_jAdX2OEz2NVrXicMQ5yeF88vYG/w400-h300/IMG_7843.HEIC" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Meanwhile, waiting back at home...</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">At my age, they forego certain formerly-routine checks—no pelvic exam or pap test needed, you dried up, non-reproductive old prune, and that last home colon test will hold you for another year or two. So after the wellness quiz, the wafflemaker (a mammo), a dexa scan, lab work, peeing in a cup, and an ultrasound of my thyroid to monitor old nodules, I was released on my own recognizance with Prednisone and muscle relaxers.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">(Sidenote: Prednisone is my very favorite drug. You take it for a couple days, then one day you’re walking up the stairs and realize nothing hurts—not your back, not the arthritis in your feet, not your stiff “knitters thumb,” not the shoulder that you landed on falling off your bike—uh oh…should I have reported that as a “fall risk”? Yes, the steroids can make you a little cranky and wired, but the irritability is far outweighed by how clean your house gets.)</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXaujGYIzBZG9HThMAD7cEUg6DS8Per2u-lixfBI2cS_yKBM2O_HWkp7XANfukPreFVVxwXnvIE-vXHpyklHvGVQfZZ-C9Qeqdb3W582Shcuw3f1EH7GXLI0mFd52E7ByNF6U3L9m2DJkitBiXRYCW6P9zKVsWtuq0vsuN9w7zCVXxKgYG-EGl8gDd/s2911/IMG_7834.heic" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1949" data-original-width="2911" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXaujGYIzBZG9HThMAD7cEUg6DS8Per2u-lixfBI2cS_yKBM2O_HWkp7XANfukPreFVVxwXnvIE-vXHpyklHvGVQfZZ-C9Qeqdb3W582Shcuw3f1EH7GXLI0mFd52E7ByNF6U3L9m2DJkitBiXRYCW6P9zKVsWtuq0vsuN9w7zCVXxKgYG-EGl8gDd/w400-h268/IMG_7834.heic" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The BEST therapy.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Now I’m scheduled to go back in a couple weeks for a thyroid biopsy, because of course one nodule is .08723 mm bigger. If they test you enough, <i>they will find something</i>.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Somehow, in the run-up to all this, Ray put in a beautiful veggie garden, and we lived without water for a day and AC for a week, while a crew put in a new sewer line from our house out to the street, something that was long past due before we bought our 1904 house eight years ago. Our yard is now fragrant and gorgeous, dotted with hanging baskets of flowers in every color, the orioles and hummingbirds are back, and we’re settling back into our spring peace.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">We’re eternally grateful for our “maintenance and service team,” which includes our daughter, who dragged all her children to our house to dog, bird, & house sit during Ray’s upgrade; our son, who trekked down once we were back home to help with lifting and pulling chores we both have to avoid for a while; our daughter-in-love, who kept me company all day in the heart hospital while Ray got his tune-up; and so many other family & friends who brought us food, sent cards and flowers, drove us to appointments, filled in on drums for Ray at our Little Town watering hole while he’s on the DL, checked on us, and let us recount ad nauseum our harrowing medical tales.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwTNYtoxiv_TZ166OnTbRRvi_Djxi_lJ3qcl8P_DtbwlnTDX14zXl9ZFpWSIXtpyGwj_lVv8uwjf04804TkTaiuLOdCUb-Lc-JSmftBnn74PmzuUUkunbDdPWq491NTuznHOyO7d3HZc5MUneU_nh3CcD3DBHagq-kPTKA7OZzEwBpg9fHGFRUP7R0/s4032/IMG_7826.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwTNYtoxiv_TZ166OnTbRRvi_Djxi_lJ3qcl8P_DtbwlnTDX14zXl9ZFpWSIXtpyGwj_lVv8uwjf04804TkTaiuLOdCUb-Lc-JSmftBnn74PmzuUUkunbDdPWq491NTuznHOyO7d3HZc5MUneU_nh3CcD3DBHagq-kPTKA7OZzEwBpg9fHGFRUP7R0/w300-h400/IMG_7826.HEIC" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blue iris.</td></tr></tbody></table></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Ray and I know well that each hospital visit, each doctor’s appointment, every effort to eat more salad and move every day is just us buying time. No one, regardless of genetics, healthy habits, longevity supplements, yoga, inversion tables, or prayer gets to wiggle out of PO. The warranties will expire. But I’m also grateful for the reminder that every moment we’re still humming along is a gift and a wonder.
</span></div>marshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14710250495128117083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1561066374877481355.post-76204778745420824062023-04-15T12:02:00.003-07:002023-04-15T12:04:53.769-07:00What I really want to say about spring is...<div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL4Nz8IAqmGIV5FMJIVI1vXTt_K9dJg69rkoHzoWgYPXsAErEmlJqbKeysQmzSXsNGyCvm4--MtpxF7WHWVeJ6glIOV3jaHiQQYHzSzireKyRuy2CaFLvS-BYyrbAszG_nRvFnsVWDas_jPNxHhYZ1if8YGRuVTLV0d9tW2QpbioEMjSYqg9H8vQhv/s602/mom%20and%20dad%20cropped.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="508" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL4Nz8IAqmGIV5FMJIVI1vXTt_K9dJg69rkoHzoWgYPXsAErEmlJqbKeysQmzSXsNGyCvm4--MtpxF7WHWVeJ6glIOV3jaHiQQYHzSzireKyRuy2CaFLvS-BYyrbAszG_nRvFnsVWDas_jPNxHhYZ1if8YGRuVTLV0d9tW2QpbioEMjSYqg9H8vQhv/w338-h400/mom%20and%20dad%20cropped.jpg" width="338" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom and Dad, 1952</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><span style="font-size: large;">What I want to say is, there’s nothing more welcome or more beautiful than spring in our Little Town. We’ve gone from another layer of snow last week, to an explosion of brilliant green and temps in the 80s, to rain and cool. Lilacs are budding; iris, lilies, columbine, and hollyhocks are all pushing up; a dozen wild turkey hens paraded down our street; our Little Town resident vultures have come back after a very successful winter south—when they circled over our backyard, I lost count at 55, and Ray says it was closer to 100.</span><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9a9D2KmBQx-OzOj_BttlXQDVXb5PoVcfHn8zg--cp3XBywzm67tOPTds_zDIER7vlZJNY_Z8IHNakPDbsbWeAlFzlUYpWzoMUMHdtxz2xFUsYlc3VSET7tDQaPsf5LepalpMQEDoyM6F7Y1Gbz4UaQBGjlOQvozFVuPTKcTcja6NCbCMpa35t3Svt/s3110/IMG_0931.JPEG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3110" data-original-width="2332" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9a9D2KmBQx-OzOj_BttlXQDVXb5PoVcfHn8zg--cp3XBywzm67tOPTds_zDIER7vlZJNY_Z8IHNakPDbsbWeAlFzlUYpWzoMUMHdtxz2xFUsYlc3VSET7tDQaPsf5LepalpMQEDoyM6F7Y1Gbz4UaQBGjlOQvozFVuPTKcTcja6NCbCMpa35t3Svt/w300-h400/IMG_0931.JPEG" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I think what I really want to say is, I feel a little blindsided by this particular spring, which is also the first anniversary of my orphanhood: My mother died a year ago this month, after a years-long illness and slow decline, and my father died a month later, after his own years-long illness.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I’ve often said, it isn’t one event that sucks us under the waves—it’s an accumulation of events, the <i>PILE-UP</i>. And since 2020 with the pandemic, I’ve been in a kind of adrenaline-fueled fog of perpetual action and stress, my Superwoman crisis mode. Then 2021 brought “pandemic+” (a heart attack for Ray, multiple hospitalizations for Mom, Mom needing full-time care at home, and her decision to enter home hospice at the end of the year). Add in 2022’s deaths and debacles (see my <a href="https://uncanneryrow.blogspot.com/2022/12/the-christmas-letter-is-baaaaaack.html" target="_blank">Christmas 2022</a> post), and I’m pretty sure I was <i>exhausted</i> in body, mind, and spirit by the time the ball dropped on 2023.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrQCmibTK9hyLxJ42da3gin_39tbxQ22ycFpKq0aqAInggsn5tvuOSoUWmQBNgHlShpVBA3H_2RJYCvcfxPlitgSicrTszE_3aCtGXvle-Jk4boTOAS-SGlYqErAKCyLKAZUvlP9SHvJoNaOKaK4GTwhwyNrPIbBip5eD-ufDDixd42zbd9Vaj2oo-/s4032/IMG_7587.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrQCmibTK9hyLxJ42da3gin_39tbxQ22ycFpKq0aqAInggsn5tvuOSoUWmQBNgHlShpVBA3H_2RJYCvcfxPlitgSicrTszE_3aCtGXvle-Jk4boTOAS-SGlYqErAKCyLKAZUvlP9SHvJoNaOKaK4GTwhwyNrPIbBip5eD-ufDDixd42zbd9Vaj2oo-/s320/IMG_7587.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">I’d like to say that I still see hope on the horizon. Mom’s Bergenia is coming up, and when Ray raked out the hollyhock and iris beds a couple days ago, it was enough to make me cry, knowing how happy it would have made Mom. Ray and I laughed at the decorative marbles everywhere in the garden, where Mom had thrown them because they were “shiny.” I can still be slayed by the smallest reminders of her, found in corners where she’d lost or tucked them away—a hearing aid brush, a pearl fallen out of a ring, a note to her from a great-grandkid, tucked in a sock.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBub5Ktxhfnod01T3q13sNPQH0ZTIDeTyvpSDIEqmfewSg-oY2zZoyF78xinVPTmA0Mue4moghMDLcqB19HJpVGguVyknZmzv4j3oCMY5jgUb3AvmnI8VriPUqKstB_Y5X9nkQDD3HNTMxaw90Fvcxl7ekLCxo0ZUT72MaIHrRx6_XBw2r1WmAULr5/s4032/IMG_7586.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBub5Ktxhfnod01T3q13sNPQH0ZTIDeTyvpSDIEqmfewSg-oY2zZoyF78xinVPTmA0Mue4moghMDLcqB19HJpVGguVyknZmzv4j3oCMY5jgUb3AvmnI8VriPUqKstB_Y5X9nkQDD3HNTMxaw90Fvcxl7ekLCxo0ZUT72MaIHrRx6_XBw2r1WmAULr5/s320/IMG_7586.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">But what I’m also saying is, now with spring busting out all over, with no more classes to teach (I re-retired), with our health more or less stable, and with my general pace slowing and calming, I find I’m missing my parents terribly. This spring—a season Mom adored—reminds me I still have much work to do re-orienting my life on this new road. Maybe that work is never done. And I think I’m still exhausted, if that’s possible. I keep myself <i>busybusybusy</i>, warding off the Big Cry that I feel welling just under the surface, the kind of good cry that makes you take to your bed. I’ve been holding it back because, what if I can’t stop once it starts?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">What I'm trying to say is, full steam ahead (or maybe half steam). I’m breathing in spring after an extraordinarily long winter that started in 2020. I’ll keep slugging down coffee to stay awake, and I'll drink it on the porch in my pajamas. I'll keep plugging away at the inner work—Mom donated her body to the Med school of our Little Town U, so maybe once I get her ashes back (it can take up to 2 years) and scatter them in the places she loved, I’ll feel a shift. I’ll scrub the oriole and hummingbird feeders. I’ll switch from boots to sandals. Ray will get down the bikes, and the kayaks won’t be far behind. I’ll wear outfits specifically designed to call up Mom’s voice quipping, <i>“Are you going out in public like that, dear?”</i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjskT-3CDBp_-1OxTv-zFmGc5yKuV7lMDjeiCwMV-QYWXcQU6ZuodkfkwUWyP9fcpl-1YWAbJCEgyxo40Adg_5_wqdvGg-eQxhu08Q6xLL6hdPokWgVzkC50eTRyGhWTT_w0Igyvwc0FOVuSG9_bO9vZcZptL_FBtnXkAZ639eJupyI_Ka-dn0qPkpA/s2374/IMG_7606.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2374" data-original-width="1780" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjskT-3CDBp_-1OxTv-zFmGc5yKuV7lMDjeiCwMV-QYWXcQU6ZuodkfkwUWyP9fcpl-1YWAbJCEgyxo40Adg_5_wqdvGg-eQxhu08Q6xLL6hdPokWgVzkC50eTRyGhWTT_w0Igyvwc0FOVuSG9_bO9vZcZptL_FBtnXkAZ639eJupyI_Ka-dn0qPkpA/s320/IMG_7606.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I guess I'm really just saying, spring is springing, and I’m okay. And to welcome spring’s renewal and to celebrate these bittersweet anniversaries, I’ll plant Cupid’s pansies this week (sorry…vague English teacher reference). You may even hear me singing (as Mom always told me to do, loud and off key, in troubled times), <i>Battle Hymn of the Republic</i>. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"> <i>“We sat in silence, letting the green in the air heal what it could.” </i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>― Erica Bauermeister
</i></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzS3zTLU0Q7CoJjZKYFqt1pWhwkBkH0aL127cAvIyyjc1jR0z7mBdx5J5IKq02mAhYItYJsYmxl5j9JOvBujw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Mom and Dad, 2019</div>marshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14710250495128117083noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1561066374877481355.post-40855650939807443512023-03-30T09:44:00.000-07:002023-03-30T09:44:08.448-07:00Trying to Breathe<span style="font-size: large;">I know I’m not supposed to say this, or dignify “shooters” with their names, or regard them as worthy of consideration. And I know I’ll get some flak for this. BUT, I’m a mom and stepmom of four, all of whom were 18, or 24, or 27, or 30 at one time, and some of whom struggled to come out into the light and get to where they are today. So when I look at these [mostly, not all] young people who choose a path of violence, my heart cracks open—again—and I think like a mom.</span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh06iJ7RaTjmR1AGqztgCb9InPGxTd__3dlYA9RNNG6deGbmBgt2E5_xeCfmq_zm2M0fwqLf5ezAlc1HWXlMFlvxQ76XVPOOP-XkRyz4MthIlKURvdz_JlNuAzqyyz5Fv3ixyGDzim8kDKhM2dZAFugn8FiRnNpXR1GMao77FpL_XJU0umuHfpx_3Pg/s1280/florida%20shooter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh06iJ7RaTjmR1AGqztgCb9InPGxTd__3dlYA9RNNG6deGbmBgt2E5_xeCfmq_zm2M0fwqLf5ezAlc1HWXlMFlvxQ76XVPOOP-XkRyz4MthIlKURvdz_JlNuAzqyyz5Fv3ixyGDzim8kDKhM2dZAFugn8FiRnNpXR1GMao77FpL_XJU0umuHfpx_3Pg/s320/florida%20shooter.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">When I think of my own kids at these ages, they were ABSOLUTELY still kids. They were making stupid choices, rash decisions, and every time one of them hit bottom, they BELIEVED that was it—no good would ever come again. They skateboarded down cement stairways (who wouldn’t break a wrist/ankle?!?), they lived in a car 400 miles from home, they had surprise babies, they thought about suicide.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">So when I see another kid "shooter's" face in the news, usually the angriest, ugliest picture the media can find of them, I want to hug them, though I know that’s not the answer. I want to talk them down, though I know it would have been too little, too late before they ever stormed the school/nightclub/massage parlour. I want to comfort their families, though I know some of their families raised those kids in violence or dismissal or ignore-ance. I want to (and do) cry for them and their sulky, or defiant, or curly-headed, pimply, awkward baby faces.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil04SwvNxGNWlf-yfM1OmyLcM41ljDELGmUFcH98aFTE9DFjTrBlPfLNHV5jG6aW-TCk3SeNb3uKDJe02qdE_jcxElwnyf-MsIzkZcR7WbSlyK4aFxZHRcn2m-pFPKmIHLlrJdoM5TJAoQeMMASCfymQzkmKAgPoxDIQygewpfOqSbW0XFikXzd29H/s980/texas%20shooter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="980" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil04SwvNxGNWlf-yfM1OmyLcM41ljDELGmUFcH98aFTE9DFjTrBlPfLNHV5jG6aW-TCk3SeNb3uKDJe02qdE_jcxElwnyf-MsIzkZcR7WbSlyK4aFxZHRcn2m-pFPKmIHLlrJdoM5TJAoQeMMASCfymQzkmKAgPoxDIQygewpfOqSbW0XFikXzd29H/s320/texas%20shooter.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><i>IT ISN’T EITHER/OR</i>, and this might be one of the biggest stumbling blocks to finding a national solution to this steadily-escalating tragedy. It’s not US vs THEM. We are ALL us. We are ALL them. I don’t disrespect or love or ache for these kids’ victims any less because I also feel compassion for those who see violent explosions as their best option in life (and death).</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">They say the human brain, especially the decision-making prefrontal cortex, isn’t fully capable of long-term consequential thinking until around age 25. This means many kids can’t understand that what they do now will have consequences—sometimes irreversible—in the future. They do know right from wrong, no question, but they don’t always understand that this wrong thing won’t just be “done” when it’s over, that the ripples could spread and continue for a very long time, and that there won’t be any coming back from it.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBgdqKT8zw3wGVAsYS6a4BOtr8aqdYTZ4Enh3c2EYwbuqterfaPsk3Qv6zMD5fEJccpqO_mr-xd6zP-oBse0nuIgcWbb3r2zkgxZRSq-Ey4IqdkpWzaEknsfkXn9xnZZ8y3BFe6KF-2Q1XCnsAJRfs6YdrJswEdneTj-9ufo8YlFPMJ5OkYpPefCoo/s980/kentucky%20shooter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="980" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBgdqKT8zw3wGVAsYS6a4BOtr8aqdYTZ4Enh3c2EYwbuqterfaPsk3Qv6zMD5fEJccpqO_mr-xd6zP-oBse0nuIgcWbb3r2zkgxZRSq-Ey4IqdkpWzaEknsfkXn9xnZZ8y3BFe6KF-2Q1XCnsAJRfs6YdrJswEdneTj-9ufo8YlFPMJ5OkYpPefCoo/s320/kentucky%20shooter.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I think we have to stop kidding ourselves by demonizing “shooters.” These kids and young adults who go on violent rampages aren’t evil, even though they commit evil acts. They aren’t soulless psychopaths. They aren’t trying to “stand for something,” “make a statement,” or get revenge for gender discrimination, bullying, or bad parenting. They’re in pain or they’re mentally ill or they’re indoctrinated, and they’re committing suicide, like so many other teens and young adults today. They know their actions won’t end well; they just don’t understand how permanent that ending will be (for more on this epidemic, check out <a href="https://www.uclahealth.org/news/suicide-rate-highest-among-teens-and-young-adults">https://www.uclahealth.org/news/suicide-rate-highest-among-teens-and-young-adults</a>).</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, this latest school shooting in Tennessee makes it hard for me to breathe. The three students killed were the same age as two of my granddaughters, Ezri and Hazel. I don’t have answers. All I know is that we need to find the balls and human decency to control access to guns. We won't stop them all, but we can make it HARDER. But even that won’t solve the problem. We also need to figure out why so many kids (and that’s what they are, I know from watching four of them grow up, and now six grandkids) feel their only road to relief or recognition is dying.</span></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrzoP8aGoFtMq5_fW-6XzerzAOsqbYTAO-CAmaWN_IjwySU5mVps5351o0AFGx09OaTN06Z_KnV-MKuXdTn25btLUsuCDJXMJAKj6sIrkJ2ZlcYic6C2MmJntCKeN4eHt5i71jaPIeCXHLKeUxo9L0uVeTWUg8TVosODXuCsiczMztXeAh9Jn_DnQf/s1024/Audrey-Hale-2-1405187841.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="798" data-original-width="1024" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrzoP8aGoFtMq5_fW-6XzerzAOsqbYTAO-CAmaWN_IjwySU5mVps5351o0AFGx09OaTN06Z_KnV-MKuXdTn25btLUsuCDJXMJAKj6sIrkJ2ZlcYic6C2MmJntCKeN4eHt5i71jaPIeCXHLKeUxo9L0uVeTWUg8TVosODXuCsiczMztXeAh9Jn_DnQf/s320/Audrey-Hale-2-1405187841.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>marshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14710250495128117083noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1561066374877481355.post-2165602779740925172023-03-01T16:29:00.000-08:002023-03-01T16:29:15.137-08:00<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuMQmvB0BHeBXyQY2RJc0tstWdFvXYS33KdAUvjzUwygxYfN9T9cucqEdSkuC0usN14G1sr49Adset8o-RehqaAhqgJhinBw_uskZY4xIuz_p5ghvq4JiozXfFEQdGJGOYRLTHIc5QpwwkZLc_1QomFWKEII2pEG-CUjtPttRTzepy4iJwZIGjJpZ0/s640/reducedjoydiet-cartoon.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="523" data-original-width="640" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuMQmvB0BHeBXyQY2RJc0tstWdFvXYS33KdAUvjzUwygxYfN9T9cucqEdSkuC0usN14G1sr49Adset8o-RehqaAhqgJhinBw_uskZY4xIuz_p5ghvq4JiozXfFEQdGJGOYRLTHIc5QpwwkZLc_1QomFWKEII2pEG-CUjtPttRTzepy4iJwZIGjJpZ0/w400-h328/reducedjoydiet-cartoon.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><span style="font-size: large;">Let’s talk about diets. Because honest, they crack me up.</span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">When I was a kid, my family teased me about how <i>SMALL</i> I was. They called me Lilli, short for Lilliputian. My mom took pictures of me in boot boxes. I can still remember at 14, my brother called me <i>fat pig</i>, as evil brothers are wont to do. I was horrified and immediately weighed myself. 73 lbs. Ah, the good old days…</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaUggNt8wxEw1K57EjbqlGjnEeSmQs2nDQQ8WQ5wB7fK7lmfv0D_hkinA3PeBSzgn9pjVtoOmCc56Bs2S9I2KCFu86itiOPd1UcHasqcONupTAlMWLFlaEBvjJnUqcbTVtnv1W_wPALQAUGYTKfSW6PD7rxQWOlkY_oUEV6Cs-kp89kERQMwWZBdmZ/s652/vamp%20at%20the%20door%20marci.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="652" data-original-width="333" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaUggNt8wxEw1K57EjbqlGjnEeSmQs2nDQQ8WQ5wB7fK7lmfv0D_hkinA3PeBSzgn9pjVtoOmCc56Bs2S9I2KCFu86itiOPd1UcHasqcONupTAlMWLFlaEBvjJnUqcbTVtnv1W_wPALQAUGYTKfSW6PD7rxQWOlkY_oUEV6Cs-kp89kERQMwWZBdmZ/w204-h400/vamp%20at%20the%20door%20marci.jpg" width="204" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm planning to get back to this weight.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">But I’ve struggled with my weight ever since. I can look back and clearly see the gradual pileup that started not long after those early waif days. I first got pregnant at 20 and gained an amazing amount of weight—it was the brief period in history when “natural” pregnancy meant you don’t track or worry about your weight. Just eat your bulgur and black beans (and Hostess cupcakes, Butterfingers, backalley McDonald’s fries, Goodrich Butterscotch malts, etc.) whenever baby makes you hungry. Then, I had two more pregnancies, each adding to the packing-on.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">My eventual divorce added more. A rough perimenopause and depression diagnosis in my 40s added more. A stroke at 56 meant a smorgasbord of meds for the first time, and—you guessed it—med-induced poundage. The stroke impaired my mobility for a few years, so little or no exercise, and yep, more weight. Then came the inevitable Type 2 diabetes diagnosis after 10 years of being “pre-diabetic.” And yes, I’m an emotional eater and will admit I have eaten my way through it all.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqleGyizPg0hT1TnihUTe7iAL7ivmyxIFG7_3-ZtYpcOGhvdp4avyt7bWU9Yt-EwiLJjqzdGWJGGfUDxAh3MCE3EdCm2rTHgR7Lz4Pndxg5cR9j3oXI7bVzVZhs2DqHeyfn_M5gshEyb_yJFGObHM8uqQ3lWMqLrq8XWtEFrh-TYLDeIwle-DGU_MO/s1092/statue.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1092" data-original-width="736" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqleGyizPg0hT1TnihUTe7iAL7ivmyxIFG7_3-ZtYpcOGhvdp4avyt7bWU9Yt-EwiLJjqzdGWJGGfUDxAh3MCE3EdCm2rTHgR7Lz4Pndxg5cR9j3oXI7bVzVZhs2DqHeyfn_M5gshEyb_yJFGObHM8uqQ3lWMqLrq8XWtEFrh-TYLDeIwle-DGU_MO/w270-h400/statue.jpeg" width="270" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Too bad this ideal body type didn't stick</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="text-align: center;">.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">It wasn’t all just foraging, stuffing, binging, and reckless eating, though. Starting in my 30s, I’ve also tried every diet, “lifestyle choice,” and “eating plan” known to humankind: KETO, WW, cabbage soup, Mediterranean, Atkins, macrobiotic (sprouts and brown rice for a month), Eat Like a Bear (fast all day, bigass salad for dinner), Whole 30, Medifast, Profile, vegetarian, clean, dirty, Paleo, and plain old fasting (which I like to call <i>starvation</i>).</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I’ve tried the prescription weight loss/diabetes meds. At one point, I consulted a bariatric surgeon, fully ready to go under the knife and hack my stomach into a tiny shrunken ball, but he said I wasn’t fat enough…yet. I could come back in 6 months and try again. I’m telling you, my diet ladder has been a comical Escher painting, where I just keep ending up back where I started.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Sometimes I worked out, sometimes I didn’t. I walked. I did yoga. I rode bikes. I swam. Sometimes I took supplements, sometimes I didn’t. I’ve counted points, calories, carbs, sugars, I’ve eaten “green” foods and avoided “red.” I’ve jabbed myself daily to check my ketones. I currently jab myself weekly with a new wonder drug for diabetes that’s supposed to also be a trendy weight-loss drug. I’ve lost a pound. But it IS keeping my glucose under 110.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I’ve been to an endocrinologist, I’ve done metabolism testing, I’ve had acupuncture, I’ve practiced using the law of expectation (The Secret), meditation, visualization. I’ve used food journals, wall charts, self-rewards, kitchen scales to measure portions. I’ve plastered my house with weight-positive affirmations. I’ve cleaned out my pantry, fridge, and freezer so many times and given away so much food, my kids are probably stocked up for life. I haven’t tried hypnosis, but my friend did and found it unhelpful—just before her bariatric surgery.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Throughout this decades-long obsession with what goes in my mouth, well-intentioned friends, family, and others seem unperturbed by what comes OUT of theirs. Like the total stranger in Walmart who accosted me recently in the Slim Fast aisle with her “just eat less and exercise more” dribble. Gosh, I’ve never thought of that before, thanks!</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">“Just be mindful and think about what you eat,” someone else told me. So, I just need to think <i>MORE</i> about my weight and eating habits than the 24/7/365 I already spend thinking about it? Gee, thanks! Most of these do-gooders have never struggled with weight. Most of them will go home and eat 6 slices of toast piled with gooey, sugar-laden jelly. O gawd, the carbs! Dear, dear skinny people: We fat people think about our fat all the time, whether we’ll admit it or not. Every time we eat, pass a mirror, go to the doctor and have to step on a scale, try on clothes. <i>ALL. THE. FECKING. TIME</i>.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">One of my theories about my weight dilemma is genetics. It’s no coincidence, I believe, that at 50, I was shaped exactly like my mother at 50, or my maternal grandmother at 50. I was positively svelte compared to my paternal grandmother at 50. My mother used to joke that the women in my family are “keepers,” which meant we like to hold on tight to our fat.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmhOLFgdjteLU2y1EdMRJge0LimP0owrSLhMzIgrt9hV5Li3Ty0o5YRXomcJ7TixD_c02996wAz1ofwbnpq3bjrTZ5dWvuPvCDfurSFE72RnTQWnS6FKGM-0814YkY3VZEZZJm9xrpIYRtEJbHY9NsUDGVNz_eMm41-strgggtBwV9vvLuCf6HwxhF" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="608" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmhOLFgdjteLU2y1EdMRJge0LimP0owrSLhMzIgrt9hV5Li3Ty0o5YRXomcJ7TixD_c02996wAz1ofwbnpq3bjrTZ5dWvuPvCDfurSFE72RnTQWnS6FKGM-0814YkY3VZEZZJm9xrpIYRtEJbHY9NsUDGVNz_eMm41-strgggtBwV9vvLuCf6HwxhF=w400-h224" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This HAS to work, right?</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Here’s an interesting one: a psychic once told me I was being influenced in this life by a past life in ancient China where, as a man, I gave away everything I had in order to care for the poor in my village, and I eventually starved to death. So maybe my present-life self has just been saying, <i>nope, never again</i>.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Another theory of mine is that my body decided long ago, probably at birth or before, what it wanted for its ideal adult weight, then it got me there. No matter what I did, my body took a straight and steady path to its ideal weight. And by gum, it’s determined to stay there.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I’ve been at roughly the same weight now for about the last 7 or 8 years, during which I’ve dieted, taken up kayaking, tried a program of daily, long “good old Irish walks” (if you ask Irish folks for directions, they’ll say, <i>aw, it’s just a 10-minute walk</i>, no matter how far the destination), and put in miles and many stairs just doing daily laundry and housework.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I’m currently back on the KETO wagon for a number of reasons, and I feel so carnivorous, I think I might be growing fangs and fur. But I’m doing it again because the science makes sense to me—your body will burn carbs if it can. If you don’t give your body any carbs, it will burn fat (including the fat you’re already storing on your lovely, ample butt and hips). If you give it both, it will burn the carbs and store every bit of fat you eat (for later, when you might have to run from a saber tooth tiger). So, you can’t <i>SORT OF</i> do KETO. You either kick the carbs or you don’t.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Also, I get some pretty instant gratification. It only takes about a month on KETO for me to see lower A1C and glucose, better cholesterol numbers, a fabulous drop in triglycerides, and more energy. Unlike many KETO fans, though, I don’t lose much weight, although my daily calories seldom go over 1200.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ6YqGmOVlDh9lJmQEbjtQnnOwPebW9WVi5UwO5nDAHTWMNcEYDJ-cK0fS4a7_ZsqfkAa7r_R_4qQ8cKrpvcRrp1gRBMUJD9JzAXrj0rDfKMwf-PnrF8jcr_AVCJFabn4cczuCbjSQXMacq5EXrZFfvXMMmONC4KRbjndWR6jNGRi2t7zNOzMB3S4E/s686/4%20stages.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="686" data-original-width="654" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ6YqGmOVlDh9lJmQEbjtQnnOwPebW9WVi5UwO5nDAHTWMNcEYDJ-cK0fS4a7_ZsqfkAa7r_R_4qQ8cKrpvcRrp1gRBMUJD9JzAXrj0rDfKMwf-PnrF8jcr_AVCJFabn4cczuCbjSQXMacq5EXrZFfvXMMmONC4KRbjndWR6jNGRi2t7zNOzMB3S4E/w381-h400/4%20stages.jpeg" width="381" /></span></a></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Spring is coming. Ray heard robins this week, which he says means one more snow, then green grass! I will sashay my fat arse out there soon and resume my good old Irish walks. We’ll haul out the kayaks. I’ll pack buttered turkey legs, grassfed beef jerky, and cream cheese dip (you need to eat <i>LOTS</i> of fat on KETO) in my backpack. I’ll go to the beach in a swimsuit. I’ll cherish and admire and respect my fat family and friends. I won’t tell them how great they’ll feel if they lose weight. I won’t tell the ones who do lose weight how beautiful/handsome/fit they look (with its unspoken <i>you looked like total sheit before</i>). And I will keep trying to love this wonderful, lumpy, magical, very large body I’m in.</span></div>marshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14710250495128117083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1561066374877481355.post-56177568746274285722023-02-04T09:55:00.001-08:002023-02-04T10:01:43.053-08:00Making Friends with Grief<span style="font-size: medium;">I’ve been thinking a lot about grief lately. Several of what are either insights or just soothing self-talk have come to me in this process, and I’ve had a couple interesting experiences since my mom and dad died last spring and summer, losses I still haven’t wrapped my head around.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">My biggest takeaway is that mourning is an action fixed in time, but grief is a condition of living. Grief is always with us—it’s not self-indulgence we have to “get over,” not a sore that will “heal with time,” not a challenge some Puckish deity gives us because he/she/it knows we’re “strong enough” to handle it, not a shameful feeling we need to suppress in our messy Jungian basements. It’s simply a normal part of the beautiful range of human emotions.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjg_BX7vnSmbGFnl52O8DL6Ax6-x_re91A3VlXYN3ZDWb7oie0x8NeMktB0JvFWOYuf-utQ6f2m52ox94G-QIKGp1jbu7TP71FhsTw-XDfgNXexGQwOAomntMNI_BfJ-V534cQ9KIdTvzfK32mMNqx1iR1aWzIYMUVZoQOhMeyC_gvyP4yiarjyDPrs" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="1024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjg_BX7vnSmbGFnl52O8DL6Ax6-x_re91A3VlXYN3ZDWb7oie0x8NeMktB0JvFWOYuf-utQ6f2m52ox94G-QIKGp1jbu7TP71FhsTw-XDfgNXexGQwOAomntMNI_BfJ-V534cQ9KIdTvzfK32mMNqx1iR1aWzIYMUVZoQOhMeyC_gvyP4yiarjyDPrs=w400-h200" width="400" /></a></div><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Grief lives with us all the time. It’s our reaction to many kinds of loss, not just physical death; abandonment, betrayal, divorce, retirement, aging, moving, physical limitations or illnesses, etc., can all result in grief. Anything that challenges or threatens the identities we spend our lives creating can result in grief. (The Buddhists would say these identities aren’t real, but that’s another post….)</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I’ve also decided that grief is a stew made of <i>sorrow, fear, and guilt</i>, especially when someone dies: <i>how will I go on without you? is it my fault? will I ever see you again? did I do enough for you? was I unkind? who can I ask about Aunt Elma running away with a barnstormer now? are we all disappearing? was the Morphine too much or not enough?</i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Like I said, I think grief is normal, but I also think it isn’t productive, helpful, or healing to live in it, just like it wouldn’t be good to live in a constant state of sadness, anger, or euphoria. In fact, there’s a condition called “Prolonged Grief Disorder”—just know that if you get stuck in grief, it’s time to get help. Speaking of conditions, if you want to know more about the science-y side of grief, read <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/en/book/show/58007238" target="_blank"><i>The Grieving Brain: The Surprising Science of How We Learn from Love and Loss</i>.</a></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Here’s a BIG ONE, especially for me, since I tend to overanalyze absolutely EVERYTHING: Grief doesn’t have to “make sense.” I don’t need to “explore” why I feel like weeping in the line at Ace Hardware, or why I have a sudden knot in my gut halfway around the track at the Wellness Center. Waves of grief come and go, and whatever they do, it’s okay.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">This one’s a little more subtle, and a little trickier, since well-meaning friends and family often want to help and don’t really know how: I don’t have to talk about my grief to anyone (the irony of blogging about it doesn’t escape me). I don’t have to “let it out.” I don’t have to cry in public (though I have) as though it’s a performative requirement. Stoicism ≠ indifference, denial, or unhealthy repression. We each need to process grief in our own way. We can make safe spaces where friends and family and others can grieve, but we don’t need to tell them how to do it or try to fix them.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUGnTC2WMusRgEkN7abAjrrTDAkXGoBG8WiTihLcHKfLhZ84lWOP_MmbiXKJi7lrjymgt40z3pO8AXWpl2_-8oc4ZGWMMnrWQiGMao5OIuAl-TXJl8RuKmrksQr5EwZq4TFPBJax5y-ca4Vj7dHgGVIs_jXigRQTLJd8MhBDAdGugP2yeYtgiDqATN" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1072" data-original-width="1072" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUGnTC2WMusRgEkN7abAjrrTDAkXGoBG8WiTihLcHKfLhZ84lWOP_MmbiXKJi7lrjymgt40z3pO8AXWpl2_-8oc4ZGWMMnrWQiGMao5OIuAl-TXJl8RuKmrksQr5EwZq4TFPBJax5y-ca4Vj7dHgGVIs_jXigRQTLJd8MhBDAdGugP2yeYtgiDqATN=w400-h400" width="400" /></a></div><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Two interesting “woo-woo” things have happened since Mom died. She and I were very close and lived together for the last 8 years of her life. I was her primary caretaker when she got sick enough to need help. She died here at home, with me beside her. Anyway, one morning during Christmas break, I was having coffee in the kitchen. Twenty feet away, on the dining room buffet, a canning jar of twinkly lights blinked on next to Mom’s portrait. The odd thing was that the lights are on a switch that hadn’t been turned on.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Then, a week or two ago, I sent a text to a friend. She answered. When my phone dinged again, I looked and apparently, my phone (not me) had sent her another text which read, “Are you okay?” which she answered. My phone had been in my pocket the whole time, so I’m not sure who/what sent that last text to my friend.
I’m not saying Mom is still hanging about, trying to cheer me up or make sure I’m okay (or make sure my friend is okay), but I wouldn’t put it past her—she was a powerhouse presence. Or maybe grief plays havoc with our internal electrical system, and I’m making these things happen through my own short-circuits.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">It doesn’t matter either way, and though these things make me smile (and maybe shiver a little), they don’t take away the grief. I expect to live with grief—who I now call Gordon, just to be able to name it—for the rest of my life. Gordy and I are learning to be friends.
</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh3FZdV79Jb7oA55kQjTZPBPDIK95EYUywLgtbZMrYKORlzD1tWszdP1j5A-seMq_1VLgsRFxWEKcQhGjg0s5jBMYYu3Ai75XRRpyMoQ0cddoiy3cqeP7N2ipe_SnmTcPknesZl-z4UCUhjCAW96pNL4Gzqc-rw852uQF2mJ0sRpjKlA10Iz59JN-py" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="354" data-original-width="630" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh3FZdV79Jb7oA55kQjTZPBPDIK95EYUywLgtbZMrYKORlzD1tWszdP1j5A-seMq_1VLgsRFxWEKcQhGjg0s5jBMYYu3Ai75XRRpyMoQ0cddoiy3cqeP7N2ipe_SnmTcPknesZl-z4UCUhjCAW96pNL4Gzqc-rw852uQF2mJ0sRpjKlA10Iz59JN-py=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /></span></div>marshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14710250495128117083noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1561066374877481355.post-67098275440704369642022-12-12T11:16:00.047-08:002022-12-15T10:00:55.395-08:00The Christmas Letter is Baaaaaack...Consider this our Christmas letter! I think my last one was a print edition, sometime back in the ought-two's.... You can click on pics to make them biggerer.<div><br /></div><div>I may have mentioned before that 2022 has been a year. My mom and dad died a month apart in late spring, and we also lost our 40+-year-old parrot, our 14-year-old dog, and several friends. It sometimes felt like a mass exodus.
I had been caretaking with Mom, who's lived with us for the past seven years, full time throughout 2021, and intensively, including Hospice care, since August of last year. Between the pandemic and caring for Mom, I rarely left home. But I surprised even myself with my fortitude; I [mostly] didn’t melt down or curl into a fetal ball of simpering goo coated with Doritos dust. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUf9ViTOxlziwAJPBK1g8pGd5JA4k8lT0oJeHJ1N-JBTwkbPNrI_2eIm8KhSL3XwnjfowPOiYyuXZx1hyR35EPDY9FGrHKdqSTcMr5PFJRk5VgMmMrjuyt8Zs54U81B-_kujpcdvu2hVKegadXwcfsK4ufETLjesG4GZK4Of7wt8X5-gLdr6vgGEow/s720/mom%20and%20sibs%2022.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUf9ViTOxlziwAJPBK1g8pGd5JA4k8lT0oJeHJ1N-JBTwkbPNrI_2eIm8KhSL3XwnjfowPOiYyuXZx1hyR35EPDY9FGrHKdqSTcMr5PFJRk5VgMmMrjuyt8Zs54U81B-_kujpcdvu2hVKegadXwcfsK4ufETLjesG4GZK4Of7wt8X5-gLdr6vgGEow/w400-h300/mom%20and%20sibs%2022.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom and her babies.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg49p1eySziv8p4WpTlO0ECjm1ccavwJcX3Eupfr27T6AB0j_zCXW6PQMdHyaAio5n6b0gpcwEdAtjm4dELAaUUxSvwHhixmrxZy_h0uKDebmAf3SePwveo58vmVPk6rXzJUQL6z-JWBrRbtNvArQdaGMA0fyEngNzU7ie74hGMUexiNx95N0J4l32/s768/dad%20me.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="576" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg49p1eySziv8p4WpTlO0ECjm1ccavwJcX3Eupfr27T6AB0j_zCXW6PQMdHyaAio5n6b0gpcwEdAtjm4dELAaUUxSvwHhixmrxZy_h0uKDebmAf3SePwveo58vmVPk6rXzJUQL6z-JWBrRbtNvArQdaGMA0fyEngNzU7ie74hGMUexiNx95N0J4l32/s320/dad%20me.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad in his new hat!</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>2022 also offset my spine, shoved a vertebrae into a nerve bundle, and turned my good old Irish walks into a limping old lady’s 2-block strolls. And this year gave Ray and I Covid; I even got post-Paxlovid rebound Covid as a bonus.</div><div><br /></div><div>But this year also gave Ray and I a lovely few days to decompress at a lake house in the beautiful Flint Hills of Kansas, where we walked, kayaked, and had a relaxing pontoon ride with friends (and Pretzel). </div><div><br /></div><div>2022 also gave us a road trip to Ohio, where I officiated at my youngest brother’s wedding to a woman who’s already long been a treasured part of our family. The bride’s family is Russian, so the festivities were a joy-filled and memorable Russo-Bohunk-Irish potpourri of singing, dancing, hugging, a little musical theatre, and many, many vodka toasts.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_h2dIXL-Lg-iD6v3vf0kYbnDPkMmzTIgHuNVGzaxhG9WEuWBh9TvdoeBYHt8uQUIaPl89D2y0y_WF2SXdK6dcymU_R-idI2BphCe-Z_D-H08FtRB7YIS1WX01RKPY-FYsDNgrAvTvjHFnUlO-Cj1LQAwjKKO_3FoOV_TjmJY79wO5G6Za8-Qmiml5/s768/ks%20kayaking%2022.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="576" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_h2dIXL-Lg-iD6v3vf0kYbnDPkMmzTIgHuNVGzaxhG9WEuWBh9TvdoeBYHt8uQUIaPl89D2y0y_WF2SXdK6dcymU_R-idI2BphCe-Z_D-H08FtRB7YIS1WX01RKPY-FYsDNgrAvTvjHFnUlO-Cj1LQAwjKKO_3FoOV_TjmJY79wO5G6Za8-Qmiml5/w300-h400/ks%20kayaking%2022.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kayaking is no laughing matter.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT2obrSQ16o0ro7ktnuOjWXK90265_OVLDv4mhJ2LHxcrSiOVs52mV2QbFdzr-pDXvRJGqaDTy3Vq8sQSqgQ7EDj3WKbuGg_gtwgiAGc3L_pSNtsYymN8_AEflHC0t1ACxzvsHEwflL56G6IJ5l3Ts-yfpH8lx1ltY4xcCQGJewjKeu-Dv4j21g-D_/s576/oz%20museum.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="576" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT2obrSQ16o0ro7ktnuOjWXK90265_OVLDv4mhJ2LHxcrSiOVs52mV2QbFdzr-pDXvRJGqaDTy3Vq8sQSqgQ7EDj3WKbuGg_gtwgiAGc3L_pSNtsYymN8_AEflHC0t1ACxzvsHEwflL56G6IJ5l3Ts-yfpH8lx1ltY4xcCQGJewjKeu-Dv4j21g-D_/s320/oz%20museum.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We ARE in Kansas, Toto.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkoqhJ7WvZHg8Y0DFs6bwDOjUNyUewreWEaAnPKB_kFs3MhmpZU29SziHZCaCui3QY1qFq2X96KdM3CrQHLehRp3Odt9RTGzvUruDQsOKOb5eJvIuEF29g5G704mNcLskOT7I-bbIr2A0jfKEkPSk7uXv_xXzzWkBaC8fgoUyXoDTJmlgpCSNqKqE8/s768/joe%20masha%20doris%20lois.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="576" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkoqhJ7WvZHg8Y0DFs6bwDOjUNyUewreWEaAnPKB_kFs3MhmpZU29SziHZCaCui3QY1qFq2X96KdM3CrQHLehRp3Odt9RTGzvUruDQsOKOb5eJvIuEF29g5G704mNcLskOT7I-bbIr2A0jfKEkPSk7uXv_xXzzWkBaC8fgoUyXoDTJmlgpCSNqKqE8/w300-h400/joe%20masha%20doris%20lois.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Doris and Lois give last-minute tips to the bride & groom.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>This year also gave my three brothers and I three occasions to sing together. This is remarkable, considering we’ve all been musicians separately throughout our lives but hadn’t sung together since the rounds (“Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” “All Things Shall Perish,” “White Coral Bells”) we were forced to sing on family car trips when we were little kids.</div><div><br /></div><div>This year also brought Ray and I two new furry buddies – Pretzel Mac Tier, an Aussiedoodle pup, and Fiona Diane, a chihuahua mix pup. They’re best pals now, and their shenanigans (mostly) bring us great joy. This brings our dog total to 4; two of these are 14 and not in great health, so we seem to be running a nursery/assisted living home for hounds at the moment.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0w3vrXsdsmSaBBdgm1IuedM9ozUr9kM6z8CyxqXWIT7vN-EJpJ_lgGPPbQZchAXpeA5w1iRUvxDTZ58XIH2R37ScyTcMH7amlvOPOJT2LqQilm9YMTG55FC5Xzr7G6qYnNPTWSQbrSrbqn0fyUCCMtRrB6wpvD09eN4CyCLr9OUC8rcra4KhMzOTh/s720/the%20pack%202022.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0w3vrXsdsmSaBBdgm1IuedM9ozUr9kM6z8CyxqXWIT7vN-EJpJ_lgGPPbQZchAXpeA5w1iRUvxDTZ58XIH2R37ScyTcMH7amlvOPOJT2LqQilm9YMTG55FC5Xzr7G6qYnNPTWSQbrSrbqn0fyUCCMtRrB6wpvD09eN4CyCLr9OUC8rcra4KhMzOTh/w400-h300/the%20pack%202022.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">L to R: Pretzel, Pedro, Oprah, Fiona</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>In September, I got to fly to California to meet up with two women who’ve been dear friends since junior high. We were planning an epic adventure on Amtrak from Cali to Omaha, our hometown, until the railroad strike “derailed” our plans and forced us to fly back. We had a great time anyway, and we’re looking forward to the next reunion.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgawILXYcbbL3IJCMJCCiLf4uUh5LHjdJ4SoCsTPCHHsap4r9nYzTWWGKUFgl3dANdtbbJqadlnftB8reghMTlPZIjeTUUvGd5Z6XQEzyqeROFoBUsFToeBHAxidYFUGX_2xoGUQTncmXGR6vvmuMsjK4ahnMaAw01THpwKMj-sykdWQex84ACKV7PX/s720/NO%20Girls%2022.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="720" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgawILXYcbbL3IJCMJCCiLf4uUh5LHjdJ4SoCsTPCHHsap4r9nYzTWWGKUFgl3dANdtbbJqadlnftB8reghMTlPZIjeTUUvGd5Z6XQEzyqeROFoBUsFToeBHAxidYFUGX_2xoGUQTncmXGR6vvmuMsjK4ahnMaAw01THpwKMj-sykdWQex84ACKV7PX/w400-h285/NO%20Girls%2022.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Friends since McMillan Junior High in Omaha, a couple years back.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>After retiring in May of 2021 to take care of Mom, I went back to the classroom this fall, teaching two creative writing classes for our Little Town U, one online and one on campus. And while it felt good to haul out the teacherly chops, I’ve re-retired after December so I can spend more time writing, singing, and not-grading.</div><div><br /></div><div>I’m also starting to work on my return trip (AT LAST!) to Ireland sometime next year, this time with Ray, thanks to a gift from my brother and sister-in-love.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ray and I are slowly turning Mom’s room into the music parlour, with plants, instruments, extra seating, and a musical wall quilt made for the room by Ray’s sister. We’re looking forward to musical salons/hootenannies in the future, which Mom would love. I suspect she’ll be around for those, reminding me to dust the piano.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, by the skin of our teeth, we (mostly) made it through this year (and the previous two, since the start of Covid Pendem-onium, really). And we made it through, surprisingly, with a growing sense of gratitude for every. single. blessing....our 4 kids are all strong, employed, talented, kindhearted, healthy, and close enough to visit regularly, and the ones who want to be are happily partnered; our six grandkids are healthy and happy, including our newest 2021 treasure, Wendel; Ray, an exceptional drummer, has an extraordinary group of musicians to play with at our Little Town Watering Hole, a beloved weekly event we call “church,” and he just finished up three shows across South Dakota with the Fiddles for Christmas show, featuring 9 musicians/singers, including three famous (and slightly notorious) SD fiddlers; I have two poetry books published and two manuscripts finished and ready to send out; I have a new Telecaster, Buttercup, thanks to my son’s birthday surprise; we’re safe and warm; our blizzard larder is stocked; and our dogs like us. I’m not sure we could get any luckier.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYMeovcjO45UktDoqVKpeWMvykfhM3OT6f43k5tpF_zvtaZf1aKoHjZL-zlh8Vy8JdqT3LUQXMIVGE05neZNC6U1b2knQHO94BZoBAPgMhozCbydJguWvGfUaS02ehkaeuIvk0PfV5vpiPp3fgMskScMCXWqzE1ldxv_7YEqo73HY5Lbu9IMAjRFEH/s960/Fiddlers%20Holiday%202022.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="485" data-original-width="960" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYMeovcjO45UktDoqVKpeWMvykfhM3OT6f43k5tpF_zvtaZf1aKoHjZL-zlh8Vy8JdqT3LUQXMIVGE05neZNC6U1b2knQHO94BZoBAPgMhozCbydJguWvGfUaS02ehkaeuIvk0PfV5vpiPp3fgMskScMCXWqzE1ldxv_7YEqo73HY5Lbu9IMAjRFEH/w414-h209/Fiddlers%20Holiday%202022.jpg" width="414" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fiddles for the Holidays - Ray on drums</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqfblmnZ3bGkdGJegG5dA4GQXXKVP2Swo5vleZyrA4qhh1T6F9lW3upN66LZ0KGUGxqTkdKzgG9cegnjezbjhKtyAGBYpTA8mavOhQGwbjrL7NJTAO9PBTEs0-sow7lHRKRQ2SbsXAyXtIHbrU6TV8QZZfxMx1Mk1lwuXlZ-ZTNe0gmJXprVYxm3gT/s2048/two%20book%20covers.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqfblmnZ3bGkdGJegG5dA4GQXXKVP2Swo5vleZyrA4qhh1T6F9lW3upN66LZ0KGUGxqTkdKzgG9cegnjezbjhKtyAGBYpTA8mavOhQGwbjrL7NJTAO9PBTEs0-sow7lHRKRQ2SbsXAyXtIHbrU6TV8QZZfxMx1Mk1lwuXlZ-ZTNe0gmJXprVYxm3gT/w400-h300/two%20book%20covers.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cover illustrations by my bro Joe</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin6vCUr1vLpXcW2JJWdME1wJ5dVydGsxTMkLhB11ud6qeUtVco0J3NR8qhoQDjnWtuFKJ66CtaRhQEmvVR5guowRF6cfUIuqFEoeQNfiw6q3YnhwyeGh434ffPDrYuyvGPzxjo_nsFL1zJ3C4vqo5cDwVyb14BhGbBW8pdqnCNXIK3ynBQRHsFHOfO/s504/Christmas%2520Card.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="504" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin6vCUr1vLpXcW2JJWdME1wJ5dVydGsxTMkLhB11ud6qeUtVco0J3NR8qhoQDjnWtuFKJ66CtaRhQEmvVR5guowRF6cfUIuqFEoeQNfiw6q3YnhwyeGh434ffPDrYuyvGPzxjo_nsFL1zJ3C4vqo5cDwVyb14BhGbBW8pdqnCNXIK3ynBQRHsFHOfO/w408-h292/Christmas%2520Card.JPG" width="408" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Max and family</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG7_05mXzMkm6cxpY-eAHFWovoflmiKOmXmvZz1vNKnfFkni9Wras10u9IGAP4tjNPkIf_DDpLspRIbz-zbkUeB8ctcHPefClnIJTrriHgNN-XHMUEUS_muLC7Z9i-g63Zah3ofHjm7xOqPKpT7KYldwFZp-BFx6aXAsmpGj4uRtzN6zsogtd4_drC/s764/the%20kickland%20peabody%20fam%202022.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="573" data-original-width="764" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG7_05mXzMkm6cxpY-eAHFWovoflmiKOmXmvZz1vNKnfFkni9Wras10u9IGAP4tjNPkIf_DDpLspRIbz-zbkUeB8ctcHPefClnIJTrriHgNN-XHMUEUS_muLC7Z9i-g63Zah3ofHjm7xOqPKpT7KYldwFZp-BFx6aXAsmpGj4uRtzN6zsogtd4_drC/w400-h300/the%20kickland%20peabody%20fam%202022.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dulce and family</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLAOsWeo40R61WSQm-R-fz7ZfbWlu-ap6dkPbKQPkTYQ-hFd8FiSc4uPnsM9dun3usqNUDgeE3Or_-Ml1Au31niNFBa5ty0H4GMgHA8FZ-6pqxuJaW7umKorCD2FKrMiO0_JIHhkfoUsdnz0cUjNvr7D-TS5-k57tAnl3fE8y7r53EH8I6xRrskW6K/s4032/the%20wedding%20boys.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLAOsWeo40R61WSQm-R-fz7ZfbWlu-ap6dkPbKQPkTYQ-hFd8FiSc4uPnsM9dun3usqNUDgeE3Or_-Ml1Au31niNFBa5ty0H4GMgHA8FZ-6pqxuJaW7umKorCD2FKrMiO0_JIHhkfoUsdnz0cUjNvr7D-TS5-k57tAnl3fE8y7r53EH8I6xRrskW6K/w300-h400/the%20wedding%20boys.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">L to R: Jesse, Ryan, Max, Ray...Max's 2021 wedding!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwCB6M9MSsk46WOCX2sHeiMVVCMl5FhPcYRI6HluIMISxvUJBAGw-bSq045mYVsqmlif2luqHKqhfjLrk5Eq4Gm2Zoi43cp2eclfdQQYn5l3PXKjJCKViUWdI8eLEUKN3slFeQVtMtcu1Th6vc58cN3Cgc72z5VZGzez9e7p7A9qUXNFhhZQ2irUCX/s795/ryan%20fam%2021.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="587" data-original-width="795" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwCB6M9MSsk46WOCX2sHeiMVVCMl5FhPcYRI6HluIMISxvUJBAGw-bSq045mYVsqmlif2luqHKqhfjLrk5Eq4Gm2Zoi43cp2eclfdQQYn5l3PXKjJCKViUWdI8eLEUKN3slFeQVtMtcu1Th6vc58cN3Cgc72z5VZGzez9e7p7A9qUXNFhhZQ2irUCX/w400-h295/ryan%20fam%2021.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ryan and family</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>As 2022 lets us all go, may you pay attention to and be buoyed up by whatever joys—big or small—you have. May Ray and I, and all of you, send out our collective calls for peace and enough food & shelter for our global brothers and sisters. And may the supply chain debacle never affect our access to Doritos. Happy happy!
</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJpxDQ-3hDlZ0p_8j4QFoIW8OYthDo6PAD5cbVp41i3CFCgSz2cB5_0kkL_l77JIY4uiS0fdnkTH1blm6ofw9FEhpAi4H20QhuKX2sDetS4cPcuh8lv7pF8Qb0T7vhLLoNDctvy1JiHRz7oOCL_Q9NVoHiheDyxJEtSGSawg3PZWcwoBx5PqjjEq1X/s864/happy%20xmas%2021.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="864" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJpxDQ-3hDlZ0p_8j4QFoIW8OYthDo6PAD5cbVp41i3CFCgSz2cB5_0kkL_l77JIY4uiS0fdnkTH1blm6ofw9FEhpAi4H20QhuKX2sDetS4cPcuh8lv7pF8Qb0T7vhLLoNDctvy1JiHRz7oOCL_Q9NVoHiheDyxJEtSGSawg3PZWcwoBx5PqjjEq1X/w400-h224/happy%20xmas%2021.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From our beautiful family to yours!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>marshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14710250495128117083noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1561066374877481355.post-33395923081590457722022-10-01T06:43:00.002-07:002022-10-01T06:44:30.977-07:00Why we got (yep) ANOTHER dog.<div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOD5dE4GAajRqDlzrXV2hrQe3SFJ5T6HEnwrv-pzVAbJutqMwbvIIBJoNzhnPulVU-O6yQ3FB0mYUHmMJZx2jviLoiJO1xFY70L8Bn-U0gxgAjV5j8ExXGDFEFFN7IecD30Zio1CCQn8XKUuh5IKU3ntvokQuVmVKNp3sy0vIxkK4cno_fiu5t_So2/s3578/the%20puppies%20post%20spa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2379" data-original-width="3578" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOD5dE4GAajRqDlzrXV2hrQe3SFJ5T6HEnwrv-pzVAbJutqMwbvIIBJoNzhnPulVU-O6yQ3FB0mYUHmMJZx2jviLoiJO1xFY70L8Bn-U0gxgAjV5j8ExXGDFEFFN7IecD30Zio1CCQn8XKUuh5IKU3ntvokQuVmVKNp3sy0vIxkK4cno_fiu5t_So2/w400-h266/the%20puppies%20post%20spa.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yogi, Pedro, and Oprah</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><span style="font-size: large;">Before our 14-year-old Schnoodle, Yogi, died last spring from cancer, Ray and I brought home an Aussiedoodle pup for him to train in. We were already living with Yogi; Pedro, our 14-year-old rescued terrier mix; and Yogi’s littermate Oprah, my mom’s dog. When Mom (who lived with us) died in April, we inherited Oprah, who we felt should stay with her pack. So we were down to Oprah, Pedro, and the new guy, Pretzel. Then just this week, Ray and I brought home dog #4, Fiona, a 9-week-old mostly chihuahua mix.</span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">We also have a 26-year-old parrot (with us since she was 4 mos), and 7 canaries.
It’s a puzzlement to many, including myself at times, WHY someone would want to live with and be responsible for SO. MANY. ANIMALS. I don’t really have a good explanation, but I do have a few theories…</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">1. Birds can fly. Our parrot talks. Our canaries sing. Enough said about the birds.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIHhtC-LGN6Nppwq3h2e03WzBOXoIne6_j1qgDEfAXIkB57uHISrBtRTjd4_5srPiEhsUhhAs4kFcxiAyZ9-HXQ0hXQo0RYLec8kUEOFKgmV7upyKpNkwoq954ebCdqDfCAv0d-9T87OGZFRbY_6TSHqS0IVM__Zx9Z1ebUvil_yA52W4BoSlxHPTH/s640/stella%20at%20school%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIHhtC-LGN6Nppwq3h2e03WzBOXoIne6_j1qgDEfAXIkB57uHISrBtRTjd4_5srPiEhsUhhAs4kFcxiAyZ9-HXQ0hXQo0RYLec8kUEOFKgmV7upyKpNkwoq954ebCdqDfCAv0d-9T87OGZFRbY_6TSHqS0IVM__Zx9Z1ebUvil_yA52W4BoSlxHPTH/w300-h400/stella%20at%20school%202.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Stella Faye</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">2. I read that dogs are the only creatures who give unconditional love. I believe this is true.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">3. So my long-term dog plan (is it bizarre that I HAD a long-term dog plan?) was to end up with a mini Aussiedoodle and a Chihuahua. The Doodle would be a brainiac, and the Chi would be a pocket munchkin. Ray and I would be able to travel with both, because they’d be small, the Doodle would be brilliant and well-trained, and the Chi would be so tiny no one would notice. In my head, I had the perfect timing all worked out, too. We would get the Doodle in time to let the older dogs train him in, then get the Chi a couple years later, once the Doodle was calmer and well into his (spontaneous, I guess) training. These would be our last dogs. I just didn’t foresee that Pedro and Oprah would keep getting older but would stay relatively healthy. Or that our Aussie would be a brilliant mini Aussiedoodle that didn’t stay mini, with tightly wound springs for legs and the devious mind of a 3-year-old. Or that the perfect 2.3-lb. Chi would appear a year early (according to my plan), born a few blocks away in the home of a friend.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">4. It’s an illness, a hereditary weakness, and clearly out of my control, this need to make sure I always have souls to nurture: See <a href="https://uncanneryrow.blogspot.com/2011/05/rescue-me.html">https://uncanneryrow.blogspot.com/2011/05/rescue-me.html</a></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">5. Could my dogs be reincarnated humans? According to Tsem Rinpoche, a Buddhist monk, the answer is yes.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">6. Chihuahuas. Seriously. Fiona (Fifi) has the face of a pitbull and the body of an undernourished squirrel. When she whines, she sounds like a baby bird.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvF706C1e2_sELl6C2r0SX7x6tyiEFaaU9_CL0ycXrljsz38C_iKcuLCDKjYGBhRKQUFAlt_I3NEYk3DN65MBrg8QHHHHFiBtx5WDds92uaIqGgCNoLsyHD62uZgotUh-YxulyFLhjxlwoF3eEMZgXLyNE2X4pzS8cPXcEPU8GpEOfAHdiwmAlNCeT/s3046/IMG_6579.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3046" data-original-width="2515" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvF706C1e2_sELl6C2r0SX7x6tyiEFaaU9_CL0ycXrljsz38C_iKcuLCDKjYGBhRKQUFAlt_I3NEYk3DN65MBrg8QHHHHFiBtx5WDds92uaIqGgCNoLsyHD62uZgotUh-YxulyFLhjxlwoF3eEMZgXLyNE2X4pzS8cPXcEPU8GpEOfAHdiwmAlNCeT/w330-h400/IMG_6579.heic" width="330" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fiona "Fifi"</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">7. “In times of joy, all of us wished we possessed a tail we could wag.” ― W. H. Auden</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">8. It’s been a year. As I’ve said, we lost our dog Yogi, and I lost Mom. I also lost my dad a month after Mom. And we lost our parrot Polly Hester. We lost our friends and community stalwarts Dave, Cindy, Marty, Harry, and others. In the larger world, we said goodbye to Olivia Newton John, Nichelle Nichols, Ray Liota, Meatloaf, and Wally Cleaver, among a much longer list of my well-known favorite people. My vertebrae slid off kilter and onto a nerve bundle, making me give up my good old Irish walks and have needles stuck in my spine instead. More Covid. Covid variants, etc. etc. A year. BUT, few things can make the joy well up from deep inside like a puppy tripping headlong over a sock, or another puppy’s 2.3 lbs. of unrestrained ferociousness. Our furry and feathered friends helped Ray and I make it through this year’s <i>Prodigious Pileup of Death and Disease</i>.</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">9. I may have mentioned once or twice that I tend toward hermitting. But I’m a hermit with a strong sense of social obligation and a pathological need to make sure others are okay. Is it a subconscious drive, then, that consistently leads me to add to responsibilities keeping me home-bound? Excuses to stay hermited? Hmmm…</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQbCf0ijhz2JZGyQKP73-bW0K2m3z0sJvoV1r3SZIUnKzHm6B_2N0JpRB1Fdyx_Qn6I--XWqxhasuCk2xL-pyw6_Q1x1MvEpPbJPByuhpnLap_sSIZmhOOyP8J66iToc0N_UL3GinUc174Nkgk3f5zr8xaQVx1ZjdWjvFTR2hX8JpxFGzSPyZj2I--/s2887/IMG_6311.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2887" data-original-width="2165" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQbCf0ijhz2JZGyQKP73-bW0K2m3z0sJvoV1r3SZIUnKzHm6B_2N0JpRB1Fdyx_Qn6I--XWqxhasuCk2xL-pyw6_Q1x1MvEpPbJPByuhpnLap_sSIZmhOOyP8J66iToc0N_UL3GinUc174Nkgk3f5zr8xaQVx1ZjdWjvFTR2hX8JpxFGzSPyZj2I--/w300-h400/IMG_6311.heic" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Pretzel and Pedro</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">10. I’m 66. As long as I’m not hurting anyone, I don’t need to justify anything I do. So shut up (said with great affection).</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">11. Last night I dreamed I had a live tiny white mouse in a container. I decided to add the mouse to my morning smoothie. I dumped the poor thing in the blender, already full of other ingredients, then noticed another tiny white mouse staring at me from behind the blender. I SWEAR it was sad. So of course, I fished the first one out of the blender and made them both a tiny house (see #4).</span></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi4xTq54xPWRMCg-WgQLlW7hXrLU4FrHnWXPFveNOTFnZrNl2WJBr-7qg6QysuK215NnV-R1RdXOj33R2hXEtzITiLAMdgXI33v08OPG_HCR8z_P7e4ZJMldbuQJEdxY22EZ3jhsTvv-nOOn4TXXmh6WJPdTOmpAxu3KKzRhnpYjvUNtl-BidSSs1I/s500/the%20dog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="381" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi4xTq54xPWRMCg-WgQLlW7hXrLU4FrHnWXPFveNOTFnZrNl2WJBr-7qg6QysuK215NnV-R1RdXOj33R2hXEtzITiLAMdgXI33v08OPG_HCR8z_P7e4ZJMldbuQJEdxY22EZ3jhsTvv-nOOn4TXXmh6WJPdTOmpAxu3KKzRhnpYjvUNtl-BidSSs1I/w305-h400/the%20dog.jpg" width="305" /></a></div></div>marshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14710250495128117083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1561066374877481355.post-15788027898892305232022-07-28T07:42:00.001-07:002022-07-28T07:44:55.811-07:00All this & Covid too!<div><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiV87J7wbEVQK9wO6OLR1tl-McK0WaVDENMJjzG_6WBvyduquF91tQGjPn2LNgPLXov9WOcZ9pRGky9nd4OUKxtVtz4dF8lLyJDOmXrAqQXO2r5eJMiiTo2ui5D1AP1NV4HQwKCpkIoLp9gxtE9Nnr7xIUIQiMK1n7ILfcH3dUj3KIv1Cz5w0c6R9hy" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="852" data-original-width="1136" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiV87J7wbEVQK9wO6OLR1tl-McK0WaVDENMJjzG_6WBvyduquF91tQGjPn2LNgPLXov9WOcZ9pRGky9nd4OUKxtVtz4dF8lLyJDOmXrAqQXO2r5eJMiiTo2ui5D1AP1NV4HQwKCpkIoLp9gxtE9Nnr7xIUIQiMK1n7ILfcH3dUj3KIv1Cz5w0c6R9hy=w320-h240" width="320" /></a></div><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">In the ongoing saga of the ways in which 2022 is trying to strip me to the bone, Ray and I have Covid. (Could 2022’s string of losses and semi-disasters mean a new beginning soon? Winnowing the chaff? Unsealing the door? Some other bad metaphor?)</span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">We were exposed, we believe, last Friday. On Monday, we both tested negative, though Ray was beginning to have symptoms—tired, sore throat, occasional cough. On Tuesday, we both tested positive. Ray’s symptoms were worse, and mine started.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br />The progression seems to go like this, at least for us: Day 1: sore throat, cough, fatigue. Day 2: Cough, congestion, sneezing, fatigue, fever (100.something at its worst for us), chills, body aches. Day 3: Much like Day 2. Day 4: Fever down to 99 or below, less of everything else. This is where we are today.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">We tested at home, so we don’t know if this is Omicron B-52 Bomber, Omicron CUL8R, Omicron FU, or what variant it might be. What we DO know now is that people on blood thinners for heart issues CANNOT get the Get-Better-Quicker antiviral drug, and that you have to jump through many flaming hoops to get it IF you meet at least 4 criteria on the qualifying list (old, diabetic, hypertensive, can’t carry a tune, pimples, shoe size is 8 or smaller for women, don’t like cilantro, have insurance, etc.). I’m still waiting for the paperwork to go through, so I’ll probably be well by the time I get the drug, which I’ll save for the next inevitable variant…</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I’ve mentioned before that I tend toward hermitism (my new word), so isolating doesn’t faze me. And I guess Ray and I are finally getting that quality “couple time” we’ve been after. We can gaze lovingly at each other from our side-by-side recliners, each of us under piles of blankies, a box of Puffs and a paper sack between us, re-watching <i>Jack Ryan</i> and <i>Outer Range</i>, the volume up to OLD-PEOPLE against the trumpety nose blowing. Gawd, we’re romantic fools.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">So bring it, 2022. I scoff at you. I throw back my head and laugh at you. I spit in your general direction. I'll be well in time for Dad's funeral in a couple weeks, I’ve got a stash of coffee in the freezer, a laptop, plenty of inane stuff to Google, lots of Vitamin C and Zinc, and a return trip to Ireland to plan. Sure and you're not the boss 'o me.</span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href=" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xn07GeZ7Psk" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Throw back your head and LAUGH!</span></a><br /></div></div>marshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14710250495128117083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1561066374877481355.post-37114673655392956372022-07-24T05:45:00.003-07:002022-07-24T05:51:16.906-07:00Heading for Shore<span style="font-size: large;">This year. This ocean of release, of letting go, of trying to stay afloat. I think I have my head above water at last, though I’m still bobbing in the waves and have a bit to go before I reach the shore.</span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0vqx3BofDBub6Panw6kr8rxEUnPlBT0UJgkYhbLnU0k3G2JUiYPRyXRZSJiQoOhpxAr5G7S4UuFUFE1l0ZCceM8eE0Of73VSvl3iCDxZ3EE3HjhMtVloSSxEhAOWzxSeiCfQhHw8axezlwL0pk-5YCkXeFkG-3BJjrMqfR3tCxlFdvc32yyMo_jZn/s3105/IMG_4806.JPEG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3105" data-original-width="2325" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0vqx3BofDBub6Panw6kr8rxEUnPlBT0UJgkYhbLnU0k3G2JUiYPRyXRZSJiQoOhpxAr5G7S4UuFUFE1l0ZCceM8eE0Of73VSvl3iCDxZ3EE3HjhMtVloSSxEhAOWzxSeiCfQhHw8axezlwL0pk-5YCkXeFkG-3BJjrMqfR3tCxlFdvc32yyMo_jZn/w300-h400/IMG_4806.JPEG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguSajO4TP9mPTL8fZTi6xb9MJRoc1YWjq23LJ972KbMmiWfN-F2D0EXYPki9c7nSomyqfjC9h9jxdr7p83KhhV7e7jzuYegwIdRmrZuRKGs_hxvRlU288-Rp24GvCNwAgoDKJoGTwh6WGQYl9V2WBom_nlRESNu3R3UHCmp6LKIc_1U28Pm2mveBy9/s4032/IMG_6132.HEIC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguSajO4TP9mPTL8fZTi6xb9MJRoc1YWjq23LJ972KbMmiWfN-F2D0EXYPki9c7nSomyqfjC9h9jxdr7p83KhhV7e7jzuYegwIdRmrZuRKGs_hxvRlU288-Rp24GvCNwAgoDKJoGTwh6WGQYl9V2WBom_nlRESNu3R3UHCmp6LKIc_1U28Pm2mveBy9/w300-h400/IMG_6132.HEIC" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI7vNMZWp-14m4ph4wo3rRQtMFXeUYBzjsb9mYsQancsrAPePxsUd3y3Duhnr34a1Uyx5Iun4jSiuUCf8gjLyFVMLDbqIQfHWqtuip6NjhT9tPP6Qe3-Rg8_rErD11zufokxsDefldX-ht__PPWBoPsFPUogV2p4caTU77UyOmaCGNegFtXHid7oA2/s516/IMG_6149.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="506" data-original-width="516" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI7vNMZWp-14m4ph4wo3rRQtMFXeUYBzjsb9mYsQancsrAPePxsUd3y3Duhnr34a1Uyx5Iun4jSiuUCf8gjLyFVMLDbqIQfHWqtuip6NjhT9tPP6Qe3-Rg8_rErD11zufokxsDefldX-ht__PPWBoPsFPUogV2p4caTU77UyOmaCGNegFtXHid7oA2/w320-h314/IMG_6149.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dave</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmCP6ysOd0X78e0rbIOJbPn2abExd_MYBETvk4ZMl3KKUhaRRw4m0JcfRfUY2MU44XFaA9R8-eVfofDXuRtBiWCmbS7SL9OQ3uUzp4NhNYs6oE0emvCMhsftvsH56yuyYT3OfGwRMn4yxyiiGemMNwEpm-PgxuaYEUHI9Z_yLzyTSS0-9Yky-rArCV/s720/polly%20hester%206-10.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmCP6ysOd0X78e0rbIOJbPn2abExd_MYBETvk4ZMl3KKUhaRRw4m0JcfRfUY2MU44XFaA9R8-eVfofDXuRtBiWCmbS7SL9OQ3uUzp4NhNYs6oE0emvCMhsftvsH56yuyYT3OfGwRMn4yxyiiGemMNwEpm-PgxuaYEUHI9Z_yLzyTSS0-9Yky-rArCV/w400-h300/polly%20hester%206-10.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Polly Hester </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWcuFFQmZQVTmYYTbsCwIYosXRia7mUmzk2AVZeejt2DMPghmx0d-Nt3f1fTbYUNszXXRFHQIb2M17G5LkYyPc7wPJh6XYq-FB3YmfhyZJmV04SIaXLlCJwxFeG2AbPiD2TKEsHpjDsqOKWC7sYFu_v5Gkt7t80i0G_rvDVLyplZ90hJWxApvTdyZM/s4032/Yogi%202021.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWcuFFQmZQVTmYYTbsCwIYosXRia7mUmzk2AVZeejt2DMPghmx0d-Nt3f1fTbYUNszXXRFHQIb2M17G5LkYyPc7wPJh6XYq-FB3YmfhyZJmV04SIaXLlCJwxFeG2AbPiD2TKEsHpjDsqOKWC7sYFu_v5Gkt7t80i0G_rvDVLyplZ90hJWxApvTdyZM/w300-h400/Yogi%202021.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yogi</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5sMLLwpXPUywHuyQjMhNBUghUrBYuK4ISXOVLNykJ49iUKnOR0fv5g5MC1GS2hxR2QIkKD7TZIMtBAzH-PaWWbcaz2VaTlvV5Ww3MYdOXSYTgiPEnTFa37oqODxTTKHstmOMoitCVlZ0mpIpVsqpOg3ye5VvwQ-qvonNuAVD_K2ZsLEGX9S6GC04E/s480/Cindy%20Miro.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="360" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5sMLLwpXPUywHuyQjMhNBUghUrBYuK4ISXOVLNykJ49iUKnOR0fv5g5MC1GS2hxR2QIkKD7TZIMtBAzH-PaWWbcaz2VaTlvV5Ww3MYdOXSYTgiPEnTFa37oqODxTTKHstmOMoitCVlZ0mpIpVsqpOg3ye5VvwQ-qvonNuAVD_K2ZsLEGX9S6GC04E/w300-h400/Cindy%20Miro.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cindy</td></tr></tbody></table><div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">We celebrated Mom’s life at home last weekend, and it was everything Mom loved: A houseful of family and friends spilling into the backyard, our monthly gathering of the Sisters of Perpetual Disorder (our local women-of-a-certain-age potluck & good times group), a giveaway of Mom’s things, her four children singing together (first time since we sang rounds in the car as kids), poetry readings from Mom’s poems, my poems, and a piece written by a good friend in Mom’s honor, a plethora of potluck “comfort foods” (our SOPD food theme this month in honor of Mom), and much more music from family and friends. My three brothers all spoke (the teary part for me), and I tried to thank everyone, though I forgot many people, including Ray most of all, without whom I never would have survived the last few years of caring for Mom.</span><div><div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Here's a thought: let's have these celebrations of life <i>BEFORE</i> people are gone, so the dying can leave this life brimming with the love the rest of us get to feel at these events.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">The next evening, I went to a friend’s house to try and help her husband up after he fell and got stuck. He’s a dear man who’s struggled with a lung disease for the past few years and was too weak to get himself up, and my friend has her foot in a cast and can’t bear weight. There were four of us trying, but we couldn’t move him, and he was less and less responsive. Within the next hour—after police and EMTs, after CPR, after my friend, her daughter, other friends, and I sat with him, held his hand, and called to him, he died.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">My heart broke (again) for my friend and her daughter. But honestly, for me it was a surreal mix of shock at such a sudden death and my happening to be there at that sacred moment, and a calm from having become so accustomed to departures lately. Apparently, death has more for me to learn. I told my friend, jokingly, that maybe the Universe wanted my retirement plan to be “death doula.”</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I still have more sorting of my mother’s stuff and 100+ years' of family photos, our friend’s funeral next week, and my father’s service to get through early next month. But in the meantime, I’m writing again, and I’ve heard word that two of my poems will be published in upcoming journals. I have a much-anticipated family wedding coming up, and a couple other joyous adventures planned with Ray and with BFFs from my youth—things to look forward to.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">So I can see those beach loungers, that big striped umbrella, and ice-cold watermelon mint tea on the table, and I’m dog paddling for the sand.
</span></div></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYd1O6h8a1CQIjzyiPK_Sza3nm0EDTdfHmdNp_rYwnwYs0f3UPNgxaiSW-zv4mGoRXlWlb6W0gvENTvwwkLpWQl1aA_PZDJYy4uPuGwzLf7AMiuGa8V0iI-o9cC6F3WoRYbVggtgd56IAW3Eop3U5LYPa5_DAg3e5B2Yb2wm8gXL69r_HDxfwCqM66/s4032/IMG_5488.JPEG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYd1O6h8a1CQIjzyiPK_Sza3nm0EDTdfHmdNp_rYwnwYs0f3UPNgxaiSW-zv4mGoRXlWlb6W0gvENTvwwkLpWQl1aA_PZDJYy4uPuGwzLf7AMiuGa8V0iI-o9cC6F3WoRYbVggtgd56IAW3Eop3U5LYPa5_DAg3e5B2Yb2wm8gXL69r_HDxfwCqM66/w400-h300/IMG_5488.JPEG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Celebrating Life</td></tr></tbody></table><div></div></div></div></div>marshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14710250495128117083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1561066374877481355.post-74076465455590404362022-07-05T06:37:00.001-07:002022-07-05T06:38:26.551-07:00Dear Universe:<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCnZpC-sETMXT1T35DxItyGT_-WwBYHv2wDKaHosAFlK9QAiminQipPlwB_5Htu6z1-Bfg3zbIdtMBd1i-KN5nUsORFAheNPgt6zyy-uSvo_K_DTzbRPcmEMPi_tfFuEVBm9Pa60oGMLQ7Wv5ARv1tMIQzs0dpboTGIn8ba1h5zgv4QUUxUDoHHTUJ/s960/yogi%20bunny.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="592" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCnZpC-sETMXT1T35DxItyGT_-WwBYHv2wDKaHosAFlK9QAiminQipPlwB_5Htu6z1-Bfg3zbIdtMBd1i-KN5nUsORFAheNPgt6zyy-uSvo_K_DTzbRPcmEMPi_tfFuEVBm9Pa60oGMLQ7Wv5ARv1tMIQzs0dpboTGIn8ba1h5zgv4QUUxUDoHHTUJ/w246-h400/yogi%20bunny.jpeg" width="246" /></a></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-size: large;">I get it.</span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">The last time I saw my dad before he died in June, he asked me what I believed in. Dad thought of himself as a born again, evangelical Christian. He believed he had a close, personal, speaking relationship with Jesus, and I’m pretty sure he was sincerely worried about my soul. I tried to give him the <i>Readers Digest Condensed</i> version (you have to be really old to get that reference) of my beliefs, and he seemed satisfied, or at least less worried.</span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">My beliefs are amorphous and constantly shifting. This makes sense to me, since our beliefs are shaped (or <i>SHOULD</i> be) by new experiences, personal growth, insight, new information & knowledge, letting go of ideas that prove false, and a constantly changing world.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I don’t believe in a personal god. I do believe there’s order, intention, and evolution in the Universe (the Universe is the name I give to this order, though any name we give it is misleading and inadequate). I believe our planet is a living being (just look into trees and fungi, and you’ll see why). I believe there’s a collective consciousness, and until everyone figures this out, humans will fight and compete with each other. I believe kindness is a warrior skill. I believe there’ve been wise teachers among us who’ve tried to show us better ways to live—Buddha, Jesus, Lao Tzu, Thich Nhat Hanh, Black Elk, Blanche Devereaux, Marceline the Vampire Queen, Charlotte the spider, and others.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">One belief that’s remained pretty consistent for me is that in every situation and experience, I’m presented with the opportunity to <i>LEARN</i> something, which is as close as I can come to believing we have a “purpose” in being here. And I believe that if I’m too stubborn or too dense or too distracted to learn what I need, the Universe will give me the “lesson” over and over until I get it. If need be, the Universe will eventually kick my arse with the lesson.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Take, for example, my stroke in 2012. I had the information, and I’d had a million opportunities, to figure out that I wasn’t coping well with stress, that I needed to quit smoking, and that I needed to ditch the procrastination and 3-day grading marathons, bent over a table in weak light, drinking bottomless pots of coffee, eating Doritos or nothing at all, with occasional smoke breaks. But I didn’t get it until the Universe kicked my arse with just enough of a stroke to pull me out of my stubborn stupor and force me to re-evaluate.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Now, in this freaky, hellish year, I believe the current lesson has to do with <i><b>DEATH. </b></i>Mom, several friends, Polly Hester, Dad, school children, Ukranians…they just keep leaving. Now Ray and I are deciding whether we can stop being selfish and let/help our dog Yogi go—he’s 14 and has a mast cell tumor on his foot that’s recently and rapidly grown to the point where he can’t put weight on his foot. But he still eats, jumps in Ray’s chair to nap, sticks his happy face out the window on car rides, gets in line for treats, so we’ve had our lalala fingers in our ears to shush those niggling voices…</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I believe this death lesson might have to do with letting go. Tragedies, crises, and missteps have been coming so fast and furious (they should have stopped after the first one; maybe the second) that I haven’t had time (or haven’t made time) to process these losses. I may need to let go of my parents and admit to my orphanhood. I may need to admit how much I adored my mom, and how badly I wanted my dad to be the kind of dad he couldn’t be. I may need to admit that whatever questions I still have will go unanswered. I may need to bury my dog. I may need to hole up, let go, and crycrycrycry.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">But in the meantime, I’m in my typical hyper-responsible, <i>“I’m okay”</i> mode, planning funerals, putting together photo boards and slide shows, cleaning, sorting, organizing, writing. And I’m praying (to the Universe) that I’ve already <i>HAD</i> my kick in the arse; I think I get it. I get it.
</span></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE3A1vkxvFq9Lvwh77pX-xzIQG2_rgaJJdq1Jrt6MVZBfr_IAny-rpIDmocwz2pB66Px1sI_c-bV1rVv6vzSc7Wx6Ohf3znMNizjELGpQc1mVfq7DxEiCVNamFZ9vhu8FElkH-A1rqWg3nN3kBZYW51OCMSna7pVoiJCrg-2YYj7IbuepCyc-gbTfQ/s960/hazel%20and%20yogi%202016.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE3A1vkxvFq9Lvwh77pX-xzIQG2_rgaJJdq1Jrt6MVZBfr_IAny-rpIDmocwz2pB66Px1sI_c-bV1rVv6vzSc7Wx6Ohf3znMNizjELGpQc1mVfq7DxEiCVNamFZ9vhu8FElkH-A1rqWg3nN3kBZYW51OCMSna7pVoiJCrg-2YYj7IbuepCyc-gbTfQ/w300-h400/hazel%20and%20yogi%202016.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div></div>marshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14710250495128117083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1561066374877481355.post-46379548586431417222022-06-28T08:53:00.002-07:002022-06-28T08:53:50.477-07:00Under the Pile-up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizVW_bBBqkaeTSydfw0mfSwpH_INWRosP3iFk1fI-JNlEwcjY9ofGOkNMXi923ANr0oPus5O142DGVTnA4k-kQ1JVUrCd-cqdp0-0s2isflNnGi2b5lubEYP_OynPVo1GOxxsuTJfhUQ2SExTu0Jt_wGc0BcoAE-VUZcYM27wXtdYIjnF_v3z0Cr0p/s602/mom%20and%20dad%20cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="508" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizVW_bBBqkaeTSydfw0mfSwpH_INWRosP3iFk1fI-JNlEwcjY9ofGOkNMXi923ANr0oPus5O142DGVTnA4k-kQ1JVUrCd-cqdp0-0s2isflNnGi2b5lubEYP_OynPVo1GOxxsuTJfhUQ2SExTu0Jt_wGc0BcoAE-VUZcYM27wXtdYIjnF_v3z0Cr0p/w338-h400/mom%20and%20dad%20cropped.jpg" width="338" /></a></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-size: medium;">I can’t even. Ray and I were at a reunion gig of his 20’s-something rock and roll band this past weekend in Ray’s home town, when, on Saturday morning, I got a text letting me know my dad had died during the night.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">This one hit me like a battering ram, though I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s cumulative. I’ve always said it’s the pile-up that’ll get you: too many ordeals, too close together. I’ve been putting off the Big Meltdown, though, because I’ve had to turn my attention to things I’d put off or that have needed tending since Mom died – Dad’s illness, our kids and grandkids, Mom’s arrangements and final wishes for the distribution of things that were important to her, Polly Hester’s sudden death, the memorial service for a dear friend, sleep, pets, laundry, etc. Add to that my utter disbelief, sorrow, and rage over the January 6 hearings, the Supreme Court’s hypocritical Roe debacle, and SD Atty Gen Ravensborg’s impeachment trial (he drove in a ditch and struck and killed an old friend of mine). I’ve been too busy/stunned/paralyzed to mourn.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Fortunately, we were staying at the home of friends when I got the news about Dad. Their beautiful home sits on a lake, so I spent the day on a deck down by the water, crying, phoning people about Dad’s arrangements, crying, watching pelicans soar past over the water, crying. At one point, one of our gracious hosts came down to the deck with water, coffee, lunch, and tissues. That night was a happy reunion of friends, the band in fine form, and plenty of wine. And, I got to sit in and sing a few songs – always healing medicine for me.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I’ve never been shy about saying that I’ve been at odds with my parents over the years. There were many years when my dad and I didn’t have anything to do with each other. There were times when I was so angry about or hurt by my relationship (or non-relationship) with one parent or the other that I needed counseling just to stay afloat. But I realized something on the drive home: Although they died only two months apart – an almost unbearable double blow – they both waited until we’d made peace with one another, until I could admit (without gritting my teeth or saying ‘bless his/her heart’), how much I love them both. I had to take a deeeeep breath and thank the Universe for that grace.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I’m not done, I know. I feel an eruption coming. Little fissures release some tears here and there, but the pressure’s building. For now, though, I need to tend to two separate upcoming “celebrations of life.” And I know how incredibly lucky I am to be safe, well fed, housed, and not living in the middle of a bomb target or climbing a fence at a border in the desert.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">But I also know that one of these days, I’ll suddenly curl up in a ball and wail, then hole up until the splotches and puffiness and pain are gone and I can smile again (and mean it). And if <i>ANYONE</i> says, “God never gives you more than you can handle,” they’d better be at least 10 fecking feet away when they say it.
</span></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='403' height='335' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyRqfFOazs8s4kbXPVB2Rj0h7lUGaEzd4Hm28fKJnn9NG9t26atQHjFHcDDDF7Cv-eN6ga2riTvDytgNCpsPg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div>marshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14710250495128117083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1561066374877481355.post-14562616455416387082022-05-29T08:29:00.000-07:002022-05-29T08:29:21.291-07:00Sprummer Days/Daze<span style="font-size: medium;">It’s Sprummer here on the Row. That’s the odd fifth season between spring and summer, where one day it’s 94 degrees, and the next day it’s 32 and <i>snaining</i>, and the next day it’s 88 with gale-force winds that twist my prayer flags around a tree.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju1QIHqRJq3149pU0LhkT7BER6uYtJNWOnZoLd1Yem5Fx0WyZhQY-CIPlRCiCA3i_P0AAduqlTxQ9aEqif123_r2JMKATeaBmyl5c-vekjmaqIdT0C58vIA2IloL9enoqI6FVOOm4B-jatd0BYWlWN85JWH-L4Ptp-r-pFxA-qINHERfF3Msw8V8SO/s4032/IMG_5722.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju1QIHqRJq3149pU0LhkT7BER6uYtJNWOnZoLd1Yem5Fx0WyZhQY-CIPlRCiCA3i_P0AAduqlTxQ9aEqif123_r2JMKATeaBmyl5c-vekjmaqIdT0C58vIA2IloL9enoqI6FVOOm4B-jatd0BYWlWN85JWH-L4Ptp-r-pFxA-qINHERfF3Msw8V8SO/w300-h400/IMG_5722.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Pretzel "Trouble" MacTier </span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq_s_hEH0kESxQnrhKUNwklQQRtj3-Bjhei4bQFcNYHgRzZt4Bom5zrNwFRJWoIG3ZxMbzj7y76wT2Mbkv3jyAETb1ou3EYZ-4x16AdYFvhgS5YFoYYRJT-0kNNvrvIS_eG9d7CdyP5z9-AZSK1chMz-_VIhHJkGe31CCAD-LzZOP34rOkRD99e7Kv/s4032/IMG_5711.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq_s_hEH0kESxQnrhKUNwklQQRtj3-Bjhei4bQFcNYHgRzZt4Bom5zrNwFRJWoIG3ZxMbzj7y76wT2Mbkv3jyAETb1ou3EYZ-4x16AdYFvhgS5YFoYYRJT-0kNNvrvIS_eG9d7CdyP5z9-AZSK1chMz-_VIhHJkGe31CCAD-LzZOP34rOkRD99e7Kv/s320/IMG_5711.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi89sEFMvfycaKUC5eQ_s8ntdKfvh4BWLYj94xdXMO7XSIk4jsMYbhTCUSheXuarhRt1VC0wjd-rfiWMH_Xp1TIS9ClNjZfCjp3z67DBNa4hwACa3ayJhFixoE_G1Oz0x22dWB8UfbnidGo1kjVU3DqKGe6pMOaZzCF_vo99AXwCj1zSQegFHncgUi9/s4032/IMG_5713.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi89sEFMvfycaKUC5eQ_s8ntdKfvh4BWLYj94xdXMO7XSIk4jsMYbhTCUSheXuarhRt1VC0wjd-rfiWMH_Xp1TIS9ClNjZfCjp3z67DBNa4hwACa3ayJhFixoE_G1Oz0x22dWB8UfbnidGo1kjVU3DqKGe6pMOaZzCF_vo99AXwCj1zSQegFHncgUi9/s320/IMG_5713.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></td></tr></tbody></table><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Last weekend, though, we had a windless day in the 70s, so Ray and I (mostly Ray) put in the garden. It was another year when we said, “Let’s minimize this year,” then we took out a home equity loan to pay for all the seeds, plants, and supplies we ended up buying. We planted enough tomatoes to roast, can, eat, and give away. We planted enough cucumbers to supply ourselves, the Food Pantry, everyone I know, and still have some to leave (anonymously) in open car windows. Plus peppers, herbs, and baskets of flowers.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF0EBmOBCLM1xJyCUMw9ErNizbLiQVMSG4DSA5iV4FHFlO0s8MVfiv7Wba2TCosRRhqhAubfNmRjyAz9rDY712ulgardOb1NT0rHdCq253A4EqRZuXy99qHs4YaQXUTgzb0w0ZORhG2fWihsW17Cn3GdT1xeLVWem0PegwzK4vhmmDa6xRk2IpE9F4/s4032/IMG_5715.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF0EBmOBCLM1xJyCUMw9ErNizbLiQVMSG4DSA5iV4FHFlO0s8MVfiv7Wba2TCosRRhqhAubfNmRjyAz9rDY712ulgardOb1NT0rHdCq253A4EqRZuXy99qHs4YaQXUTgzb0w0ZORhG2fWihsW17Cn3GdT1xeLVWem0PegwzK4vhmmDa6xRk2IpE9F4/w300-h400/IMG_5715.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Mom’s fairy garden is doing great, with bergenia, hydrangea, and bearded iris, and we planted a calla lily, daffodils, and star flowers in another flower bed for her. Two of her good bridge buddies (one just had her 100th birthday) stopped by with a garden spinner, which we put out in front so they could see it and remember Mom whenever they drive by.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I’ve been sorting through Mom’s things, dispersing little sentimental treasures to the kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids. Her room still smells like her, and I’ll admit I sometimes just sit in there. It gets easier day by day, though now it seems like she’s been away on vacation, and it’s been long enough—I’m ready for her to come home.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">This past week, I went to the Really Big City, my hometown, to visit my dad, who recently moved from the hospital after a fall, to a nursing home. Dad is living with late-stage prostate cancer that’s spread to his bones, so he’s in constant pain. In spite of that, we had good visits, and he was surprisingly cheerful. He’s told me over the years about his “covenant with Jesus” to live to 100. So on this visit, we had a good chuckle over being a little more careful about what one wishes for.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I also got to see my childhood friend, who lives in New York. She and I have been friends since we were 4, when we would call to each other (in our best mourning dove coos) from our front porches after dinner, so we could come back out and play till the streetlights came on. We had brunch, and we laughed over what we remembered and what we’ve forgotten. It was a sweet, too-rare reunion. She was back in the old hometown for her sister’s funeral.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Speaking of yet…another…funeral…, I believe people can handle most tragedies, traumas, losses, and changes, so long as they have time in between—time to process, heal, get help if needed. <i>It’s the pile-ups that’ll get you.</i> Since the first of this year, we’ve lost Mom, Dad’s moved into the final setting & stage of his life, our oldest dog Yogi is dying of cancer, and we’ve lost five friends/acquaintances/community members. Ray and I both retired, our bones are achier, conversations with each other and others now include everyone’s maladies and procedures (we swore we’d never be THOSE people), and we’re all on Covid alert—again. And Uvalde, again and again and again.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">So although I’m waking up from the surrealistic past few months of caring for Mom, when I operated on what Mom called “head down, plow forward” momentum, I think I’m feeling the pile-up now. For me, it manifests in extreme fatigue regardless of how much sleep I get and an urge to hermit.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-dX3CePkpuCl7PSD9KzrtG-xP1G0lxXeIRgV9mbl4ulasYT0u2JRSGubCtQuQ1-5ztn7yak4QgPOSj9FaoCTTzwS4H-cMGiQMvA6-o5R4zQI0ovqc9uwQqQ7ph8Z80VFPGFJ_znfxYalNdmyWBZeku7hV4xXEcM_w81JYMQ9W9l95PUwqTV6vBUya/s3088/IMG_5731.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-dX3CePkpuCl7PSD9KzrtG-xP1G0lxXeIRgV9mbl4ulasYT0u2JRSGubCtQuQ1-5ztn7yak4QgPOSj9FaoCTTzwS4H-cMGiQMvA6-o5R4zQI0ovqc9uwQqQ7ph8Z80VFPGFJ_znfxYalNdmyWBZeku7hV4xXEcM_w81JYMQ9W9l95PUwqTV6vBUya/w300-h400/IMG_5731.HEIC" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My first best friend</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9EYKRwjvJDT8tu7JgCjeGQC0wT6p0urnSRA-jjqqC38b8s_ZmYscDQFGR7KmReoDASO7OHH1iMhJdP5k50zn-GknnkjMp6Ta9s9qoXNcY7HKCmehxR6V-Awrlp2XxGTk0JLCQnLOGxL2BHKdOWEmotyCdFnnx-lT0YrMiT-lAdxnQLESWU3fLgiof/s2903/IMG_5738.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2903" data-original-width="2191" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9EYKRwjvJDT8tu7JgCjeGQC0wT6p0urnSRA-jjqqC38b8s_ZmYscDQFGR7KmReoDASO7OHH1iMhJdP5k50zn-GknnkjMp6Ta9s9qoXNcY7HKCmehxR6V-Awrlp2XxGTk0JLCQnLOGxL2BHKdOWEmotyCdFnnx-lT0YrMiT-lAdxnQLESWU3fLgiof/w303-h400/IMG_5738.heic" width="303" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Dad </span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">But I also think you can weather a pile-up if you have/give yourself/make yourself things to look forward to. And here on this beautiful Sprummer day, the hummingbirds and orioles are back, our Little Town public pool is open and water-walking in the lazy river can commence, the garden is in, and the kids and grandkids are healthy and amazing. We have a sweet, wild puppy to train, and we also have some family & travel plans this summer. So I’ll double up on my B-12 and get back out there in the world. Just after a little nap…
</span></div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzmeBhzPm-vB8-VxFUO2cXZLjJ4VufMgmFwiW6qeg62b35Esk_KuVdec6Ka2heMRD2fqBtrUjVG2LzjK7q0Z3AW_fqReNbSULRe05Jl_Zfn1h5xTqpe0ylC3poc5DxUHgffZC-_tdjRIYL1RordciM4az7bUX5jszYTg-cgiPPpevZWTN3k3STchjq" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzmeBhzPm-vB8-VxFUO2cXZLjJ4VufMgmFwiW6qeg62b35Esk_KuVdec6Ka2heMRD2fqBtrUjVG2LzjK7q0Z3AW_fqReNbSULRe05Jl_Zfn1h5xTqpe0ylC3poc5DxUHgffZC-_tdjRIYL1RordciM4az7bUX5jszYTg-cgiPPpevZWTN3k3STchjq=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sprummer Chic</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></div></div>marshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14710250495128117083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1561066374877481355.post-29675035482196245682022-05-05T14:26:00.000-07:002022-05-05T14:26:26.939-07:00Grief is like a South Dakota spring...<div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW4MOthZdNGaEpiFiT6IWVkrSjd9BuSQHFi0uqAOLyJoku6k7WLfA9OsraxiijPYCHkMrK9lUzf1A5QU9lD18F_cDipbbPAu18mrleRDF9ADuMpJ6rZtjqH51Dbu71m27QrszivHlNdFxVTdQvba1kQkP5QNYlouKbnF28M4bghQWEicjM1uOmBYeA/s4032/IMG_3127.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW4MOthZdNGaEpiFiT6IWVkrSjd9BuSQHFi0uqAOLyJoku6k7WLfA9OsraxiijPYCHkMrK9lUzf1A5QU9lD18F_cDipbbPAu18mrleRDF9ADuMpJ6rZtjqH51Dbu71m27QrszivHlNdFxVTdQvba1kQkP5QNYlouKbnF28M4bghQWEicjM1uOmBYeA/w300-h400/IMG_3127.heic" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spring walk with Yogi.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-HScqQlQ0VjG_r-JlIJ-MGcDcLLNloxaKTdfVz5tLrDx8WRnUrR6TPtubhTiPJlglmz0PZETUYBA6TU8urziiTbwePcPpklco_4G67HyiQ34umX3Ic5X2bCueBs5wn8dgcf76B0nsnydQDrS8ncMnfufDmJ0xKdcCGJvH1foumRMX2oS4qZzjASSo/s4032/spring%20river.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2262" data-original-width="4032" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-HScqQlQ0VjG_r-JlIJ-MGcDcLLNloxaKTdfVz5tLrDx8WRnUrR6TPtubhTiPJlglmz0PZETUYBA6TU8urziiTbwePcPpklco_4G67HyiQ34umX3Ic5X2bCueBs5wn8dgcf76B0nsnydQDrS8ncMnfufDmJ0xKdcCGJvH1foumRMX2oS4qZzjASSo/w400-h225/spring%20river.heic" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The river waking.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Grief is like a South Dakota spring: You’re outside, smelling all the green, green, green; the sun is shining; birds are happily twittering in the trees. It’s a goll-dern Disney cartoon out there, and any minute bunnies will hop out of the brush pile and start singing “Love is in the Air.” Then suddenly, while you’re standing there with that goofy grin on your face, a 45 mph gust of wind blows up the bluff and slaps you in the face with bone-chilling cold. And in case you’re still standing, the wind’s packing ice pellets.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaT_Ge8bnVcqwWwQQ07GIokpDNYcDojzMpPba_ukpvblsENxUNz_rwm7aAQeuMpTQWWGQ7Nbm0xaJUtiSGwHVGHndJaKROkqCU9G1WHT_zgCqBOx5pcu1gUa8GbffGpRZerEIBxE8Ti5Kxj6KUAixs47JU8vmnSWPXwH9bAh0Kyr1Btao2ZSDnaQn8/s2048/gooseberry%20thorns.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaT_Ge8bnVcqwWwQQ07GIokpDNYcDojzMpPba_ukpvblsENxUNz_rwm7aAQeuMpTQWWGQ7Nbm0xaJUtiSGwHVGHndJaKROkqCU9G1WHT_zgCqBOx5pcu1gUa8GbffGpRZerEIBxE8Ti5Kxj6KUAixs47JU8vmnSWPXwH9bAh0Kyr1Btao2ZSDnaQn8/w300-h400/gooseberry%20thorns.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gooseberry bushes..approach with caution.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Grief is also like the ocean, which is a slightly tired metaphor until YOU live it. You’re standing there with your toes in the water, you finally feel like you can breathe deeply again, and wham…a huge wave comes barreling in and sweeps you into a giant hole (they’ve probably dug for a new gaudy tourist hotel). This happens less frequently as you learn where to stand, but it goes on indefinitely.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Yeah, it’s like that. Like the other day, I was in Walmart when I got a text saying “Lois [my mom], it’s time to refill your prescription for…” (I managed Mom’s meds for the past year or more). There I was in the toothpaste aisle, digging for Kleenex and pretending I had something in my eye.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Grief can be good, too. I think it helps cement memories. For example, a couple days ago I was organizing Mom’s closet when I came across a white wig. Suddenly, I was transported back to a Halloween prank many, many eons ago, when Mom and I dressed up as her then-husband and Irish bartender Mike, went to the hotel bar where he worked, sat at the bar, and ordered his usual drink. We each wore black dress pants, a white shirt with a pack of Lucky’s in the front pocket, a black tie, a white wig, and black glasses. Mike stood dumbfounded behind the bar, wearing the exact same outfit. Priceless. There I was in the closet, holding the wig and laughing my arse off.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgO0d6ie0q3ad6wXBtfaJFbn_DhG6aqp5ScvLSe-Wy45hsaoOavKgwnm0D4jf5zz2hK-54cVCfQKyu6DQeNt1ftc_bsVhzH4RW8lokGLNx-HIhZnV8q3m0cjlj6Snb59PSLUvjg-hSF8w27sAFLv4J8XTKazwHfDzAqNEQOaY3LHJirHDCNNx81tcq7" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgO0d6ie0q3ad6wXBtfaJFbn_DhG6aqp5ScvLSe-Wy45hsaoOavKgwnm0D4jf5zz2hK-54cVCfQKyu6DQeNt1ftc_bsVhzH4RW8lokGLNx-HIhZnV8q3m0cjlj6Snb59PSLUvjg-hSF8w27sAFLv4J8XTKazwHfDzAqNEQOaY3LHJirHDCNNx81tcq7=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gooseberries...mmm.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Ray and I are moving slowly but steadily ahead here at the Row. For the first time, we’re intentionally navigating this dual retirement thing. I’ve been going through Mom’s stuff, making little boxes of mementos for all the grandkids. Ray started sorting out our basement freezers, got a bee in his bonnet, and we’ve been working on gooseberry syrup and jam for two days now. Ray’s playing drums with his long-time band pals for the Friday happy hour service at Our Lady of Little Town Cabernet watering hole every week, and he has a few other gigs coming up. I’ve done a couple of poetry readings and have been writing again. I’ll go to our annual Women Poets Collective manuscript workshop retreat and reading later this summer. We’re finding our way.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcu4zcyu3aIbC7fasumZbYFHcTfyijsE56BV0UfoFgwbY6HpOF0Ml1EDNeP7TGLi1O8SZnBcMY4NE2DIcdY_8Cwewf3NT5L1cErvjoGizAHJlgRzLBL3s6-idJUjKT3yd8gpiTQWk3mrKW4o0XUc-iF1q9aFetzVah1NVD6P4-LPXH2dwYwkCNBoCt/s4032/IMG_5616.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcu4zcyu3aIbC7fasumZbYFHcTfyijsE56BV0UfoFgwbY6HpOF0Ml1EDNeP7TGLi1O8SZnBcMY4NE2DIcdY_8Cwewf3NT5L1cErvjoGizAHJlgRzLBL3s6-idJUjKT3yd8gpiTQWk3mrKW4o0XUc-iF1q9aFetzVah1NVD6P4-LPXH2dwYwkCNBoCt/s320/IMG_5616.HEIC" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That dark stuff? That's gold (gooseberry jam).</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Next week, though, I leave for my hometown Big City to visit my Dad, who’s in the hospital while he waits for a room at a hospice facility, because, as my granny always said, “There’s no rest for the wicked.” And one of the many lessons I’ve learned since the whole Covid/Mom/Retirement epoch started, is that if you’re waiting around for those “golden years,” or for that time when all the bumps will iron themselves out and life will be all cupcakes and Doritos from then on, you’re going to be waiting a long, long time. Like forever.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOllbx9IDy8irH5EtXNVsXSICN4u3djhfV3Okj2ah2HMAGWajEYq6alNb1WnmVTPDh9I0VSgXyevEJruoYsLG-qxzL2VuOAPQ9cI5DxC_pT-4mV_qfKsQpupF-1DsokrjkMC9vRYigzDslQnwCfN4Indfva-3YAJbQQbNLQ2BXA0zKO3XPvDBido5M/s2016/mom%20blue%20glasses.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOllbx9IDy8irH5EtXNVsXSICN4u3djhfV3Okj2ah2HMAGWajEYq6alNb1WnmVTPDh9I0VSgXyevEJruoYsLG-qxzL2VuOAPQ9cI5DxC_pT-4mV_qfKsQpupF-1DsokrjkMC9vRYigzDslQnwCfN4Indfva-3YAJbQQbNLQ2BXA0zKO3XPvDBido5M/w300-h400/mom%20blue%20glasses.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom was always sooooo serious.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div></div>marshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14710250495128117083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1561066374877481355.post-25315691409169821682022-04-26T10:40:00.001-07:002022-04-26T10:50:58.426-07:00Inching Forward<span style="font-size: medium;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-size: large; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh03dUmn_qZ96mk69chCaQ_8oJTVPAmk3_Z_zTjvkXghkh2_4-esOObKS-PDEScLyNqQsxj3jw_dhLO_eChpUPtfW_3BYIh_-cHEkU0KRWz1rzXBJ6D5ZuBVncIo6OO6Kl5R4zReP4wPwOHq4X4ypMDp_6uRZomPn4NA-P8bHh9d_0E3keHFG8kKXJT/s616/great%20glasses.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="429" data-original-width="616" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh03dUmn_qZ96mk69chCaQ_8oJTVPAmk3_Z_zTjvkXghkh2_4-esOObKS-PDEScLyNqQsxj3jw_dhLO_eChpUPtfW_3BYIh_-cHEkU0KRWz1rzXBJ6D5ZuBVncIo6OO6Kl5R4zReP4wPwOHq4X4ypMDp_6uRZomPn4NA-P8bHh9d_0E3keHFG8kKXJT/w400-h279/great%20glasses.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm sure Mom is still sparkling somewhere.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;">This is a hard one to write. Mom snuck away during the night last Saturday, sometime in the two-hour window between 11 p.m. when I fell asleep reading in the bed next to her hospital bed, and 1 a.m. when I woke because I couldn’t hear her breathing.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">When I checked on her, I believe she had only just died—her hands were cool, but her head and chest were hot (she’d been running a fever earlier). My immediate reaction was upheaval: shock, panic, fear, profound sadness. I was temporarily frozen. And I think I felt cheated, that after all these months of privately dreading the moment of her death, she left while I was sleeping, and I missed it.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I sat in the chair beside her bed and slowly calmed down. I kissed her, chatted with her, held her hand, straightened out her covers, brushed her hair, sent out my requests to the Universe for her peaceful passage to whatever adventure is next for her, texted my brothers (it was the middle of the night, my youngest brother was halfway here and had stopped for the night). Then I decided, greedily, to go back to sleep and keep her with me till morning.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Early Saturday morning, I made the necessary calls. Hospice came to do their “assessment” (verify and declare her dead), and the funeral home came to collect her—I admit I had to leave the room for the “draping” (it’s a body bag, Mr. Funeral Home Guy, you can say it). Shortly after, one of my brothers arrived. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I spent some time dismantling our “care center”—stripping the hospital bed, putting away all the hospital-ish accoutrement, unhooking the oxygen generator (I had to do this last; I wasn’t sure I could do without the constant reassuring drone after four months). There’s nothing like furious hyper-responsibility and a list of chores to stem the grief floodgate, but it only lasts so long. Eventually, the steam ran out. We had to take to our La-Z-Peoples and sleep. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">On Sunday afternoon, my other two brothers arrived. We all worked on an obituary, sorted through paperwork, talked about Mom's final wishes. We went out to dinner and had a great time laughing and remembering, then came home to watch a sci-fi/western marathon.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Yesterday (Monday) was a little harder. My brothers all needed to hit the road early, and the medical equipment people came to take apart the hospital bed and haul it away, along with the O2 generator and tanks, and the commode. Suddenly, it was just Ray and me. Mom’s room – the biggest in the house – was a wide open, very empty space.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I realized as I looked around her room that I was already formulating to-do lists: sort the clothes for a giveaway, go through the jewelry for the kids and grandkids, collect her collection of stars in one place for family. As soon as I realized I was task-ifying Mom’s death and disappearance, I stopped. I was exhausted and raw. I gave myself permission to shut her door and spend the day resting, sleeping, watching silly TV.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I will probably need more of these rest days—we’re never really done grieving, we just slowly adapt, learn to live with vacancies. I don’t quite know what to do with myself yet. Time seems expanded somehow, round and fuzzy almost, after the intense, demand-heavy, scheduled, linear life of the past months. Mom had been in Hospice care since January 1 of this year, but the year before that was a time of her declining health, many, many medical appointments, and 4 hospitalizations. And before that was breast cancer radiation, knee replacement, eye surgery, and chemo for CLL cancer. It's been a long, hard road.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I’m not afraid of death. I’m sad to see my mother go, and I have all the typical feelings: I should have said this or done that; I should never have said this or done that; we didn't have enough time; I'm a motherless child. I have those other feelings too, for which we’re conditioned to feel guilty: relief, release to finally be a “grown up,” freedom. I’m secretly delighted that I can take a shower whenever I want, go to the store, sleep in. I don’t beat myself up for these feelings, knowing that grief always calls up the full range of human emotions.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I know, too, that death is the natural conclusion to our time here. And although I don’t know what, if anything, comes next, I <i>believe</i> death isn’t the end. We are, after all, powered by electrical energy, and energy doesn’t die—it just changes form.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Ray and I are inching forward now. I’m looking forward to a reading later this week with a dear friend, where I will see former colleagues. Afterward, I will celebrate poetry, friends, and Mom at our Little Town bar with a glass of wine and the live music she so loved. And if her energy is sticking around for a bit longer, as the Tibetans believed, I know she will be there with us, dancing.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Here's a little poem for us all, for the days ahead...</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjurqXvSN-zSKMBBCoQBBdWI7PuH6e9VSOzFJf_kUEgRoh3XT4DE_kixjCl9V7t58eeVn7UTavXVv8bdnxZdiGfqjq-uBN0z5MJl6rC5qkUh1Ldpdlo2YCnZkIU3CZf53dFMy75A-j03bT5TG-e3Qji35khzuxBa8BTVbY2VVtybp2Eks9xMU5esDc2/s876/moving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="876" data-original-width="638" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjurqXvSN-zSKMBBCoQBBdWI7PuH6e9VSOzFJf_kUEgRoh3XT4DE_kixjCl9V7t58eeVn7UTavXVv8bdnxZdiGfqjq-uBN0z5MJl6rC5qkUh1Ldpdlo2YCnZkIU3CZf53dFMy75A-j03bT5TG-e3Qji35khzuxBa8BTVbY2VVtybp2Eks9xMU5esDc2/w291-h400/moving.jpg" width="291" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div></div></div></div></div>marshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14710250495128117083noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1561066374877481355.post-89438391171925555342022-04-19T10:48:00.002-07:002022-04-19T10:48:59.158-07:00Easter's Thin Veil<span style="font-size: medium;">It’s Easter, Eostre, spring…symbolic point between winter/spring, or death/new life. This seems a fitting time for things to change, and things are definitely changing here at the Row. </span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0ZaNJ50KEc8lOrTiKJM8lsXTMsblDPIhtxG1cPWh0rkL7vzfi2DgSycrg8JTUSoUzgrTLeMoXcrUoXzdDS986FmTZO_bA3HMtuIrR2FnH-46Wg02mbS6j698EBgphpXgqg8raw-7HkSY5HI1Y1EHypBpirRvv9A0BpC-v8hp8NuG05o172dEpDUiX/s4032/canary%20eggs.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0ZaNJ50KEc8lOrTiKJM8lsXTMsblDPIhtxG1cPWh0rkL7vzfi2DgSycrg8JTUSoUzgrTLeMoXcrUoXzdDS986FmTZO_bA3HMtuIrR2FnH-46Wg02mbS6j698EBgphpXgqg8raw-7HkSY5HI1Y1EHypBpirRvv9A0BpC-v8hp8NuG05o172dEpDUiX/s320/canary%20eggs.HEIC" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eggs for the Giant</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Mom has turned a corner and seems to be standing (metaphorically) at the veil (also metaphorically).
She fell a couple weeks ago. It wasn’t a hard boom-fall; it was more of a no-strength-left crumple to the floor. After that, walking just seemed too hard, and she hasn’t been out of bed since. She sleeps almost all the time now, except when I raise the head of the bed to have her drink something or eat a few bites of pudding (with her meds crushed up in it).</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhSLOAorU-sO6B4whWD_fDuE71zhnCu-MZrAhVcgZ6puiuRa0LkjIGrdJl1sI5WhzYdURIb26yAV7nCkQTUflqTAYRM3UVXtNUt_M6Zmhpn613sgpLiy-5_aMuop-_dbU6T71bNvFkGu_wgNdknHM-TY92_W7iyHj2m6qt-dr8LDEMvLmk0huh2Bw8/s4032/IMG_5519.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhSLOAorU-sO6B4whWD_fDuE71zhnCu-MZrAhVcgZ6puiuRa0LkjIGrdJl1sI5WhzYdURIb26yAV7nCkQTUflqTAYRM3UVXtNUt_M6Zmhpn613sgpLiy-5_aMuop-_dbU6T71bNvFkGu_wgNdknHM-TY92_W7iyHj2m6qt-dr8LDEMvLmk0huh2Bw8/w300-h400/IMG_5519.HEIC" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sharing a Cracker</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I’ve had two main reactions to these recent changes: (1) anxiety and (2) panic.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The anxiety came because I felt woefully unprepared for the practical care of someone who can’t get out of bed, respond, or feed herself. Thankfully, our amazing hospice folks were here to teach me the mechanics of bed-bound hygiene. But I have so many more questions: How hard should I try to make Mom drink and eat? How long do I keep sneaking in meds for other conditions, while the cancer is killing her? Is the cancer killing her, or the conditions for which I’m sneaking in meds? How much can she hear? see? feel? Should I be near her always, talking, reassuring, or should I let her rest and have some peace?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The panic came because <i>sheit got real</i>. My mother is dying. She’s not slowly moving toward the veil now; she’s moving back and forth through it, sometimes here with us, sometimes somewhere else. I tried hard not to let my crying-blinking-deer-in-headlights stare show when the hospice nurse said two or three times, euphemistically, “she’s had a change of condition” and said they’d start coming every day.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_nanYznUFND5948GYJPQ3P8p1UBmJOj-EeCjsCbuFZiVVdxEoYzoEAnWzT2JHLLpZ7sUSDqODLr6SIOo9opxRzLZwIxw3QImO77IkZnBtOrfo957Z9AMaWjswjW3H_wlHpAfe8nvDs-BYxC4WgAJu3by1FMOTqshSV5df10Z24kXGMZIkpCKyCuuN/s4032/dulce's%20pie.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_nanYznUFND5948GYJPQ3P8p1UBmJOj-EeCjsCbuFZiVVdxEoYzoEAnWzT2JHLLpZ7sUSDqODLr6SIOo9opxRzLZwIxw3QImO77IkZnBtOrfo957Z9AMaWjswjW3H_wlHpAfe8nvDs-BYxC4WgAJu3by1FMOTqshSV5df10Z24kXGMZIkpCKyCuuN/w300-h400/dulce's%20pie.HEIC" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daughter's Three-Cherry, Strawberry, Blueberry Pie!</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAe1P1a4wubDsqfdQekZ-F84dy4aKvfDfC8ZgNn6Yl1oG4_eOTlpejtYGHoKTDSwDO4JHTIbD1xpn9B5xoSU_fzRJ89A291eSkCpWyz-IC8Rf9UvZJHuajlAHYolsJ6OPovOlHeTHCMvfGz-3UyE7moOClK66CEcyjWANPPZhMvgaMbigPo3AibRbo/s4032/blinchiki.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAe1P1a4wubDsqfdQekZ-F84dy4aKvfDfC8ZgNn6Yl1oG4_eOTlpejtYGHoKTDSwDO4JHTIbD1xpn9B5xoSU_fzRJ89A291eSkCpWyz-IC8Rf9UvZJHuajlAHYolsJ6OPovOlHeTHCMvfGz-3UyE7moOClK66CEcyjWANPPZhMvgaMbigPo3AibRbo/w300-h400/blinchiki.HEIC" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Masha's Blinchikis (Russian Crepes)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">For now, I’m keeping the anxiety and panic to a minimum by doing things—my hyper-responsible way of coping. I’ve been sending near-daily updates to family. I finally did the impossible and called a funeral home. I’ve been making a list of people I’ll need to notify. I cleaned out closets. I did medicine inventory. I sorted shoes. I've started getting all my daily chores done before dinner, as if that little bit of tidy organization has the power to keep the veil from closing behind my mother.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigbXR1LyuIxQpZCyjOceM-4rLzzmhKIvJPMUSJRKSpEeFfl4kVrpH4ks1m2u4F23miIPVft41sHEu0yhPxUHbeulFrLRjpqt-_QJK-mFhTknVJTRjB-SDztdPNCkK7jQa3ov54Ih_6VbMfMmiN4FZanTqouSkjUZyp__4NYLTsOcilknTtYWxAQfPI/s4032/dan%20and%20band.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigbXR1LyuIxQpZCyjOceM-4rLzzmhKIvJPMUSJRKSpEeFfl4kVrpH4ks1m2u4F23miIPVft41sHEu0yhPxUHbeulFrLRjpqt-_QJK-mFhTknVJTRjB-SDztdPNCkK7jQa3ov54Ih_6VbMfMmiN4FZanTqouSkjUZyp__4NYLTsOcilknTtYWxAQfPI/w400-h300/dan%20and%20band.HEIC" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>GOOD</i> Friday Service at Our Lady of Cabernet</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSr2ys4IoFGEPwAE8BeckZ7q_rOsWmrm2HGscdv-KKuPfL3AEL7N7yMc0nDkaudO5F5MkJ27NWZlR7iNeN6FXWUJGTCyn4h6hVbg5gnqwX_YtlvrRlYQsseE_qT9rJYad3y6QSdFjCOZ2SYIbSYl0T1K3ugH2FCSgDWqnuSQ2KNH0OERtZ4hj3MQ4-/s640/IMG_0073.JPEG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSr2ys4IoFGEPwAE8BeckZ7q_rOsWmrm2HGscdv-KKuPfL3AEL7N7yMc0nDkaudO5F5MkJ27NWZlR7iNeN6FXWUJGTCyn4h6hVbg5gnqwX_YtlvrRlYQsseE_qT9rJYad3y6QSdFjCOZ2SYIbSYl0T1K3ugH2FCSgDWqnuSQ2KNH0OERtZ4hj3MQ4-/w400-h300/IMG_0073.JPEG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Playing Pat the Baby</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRwSAOkPtB_s91dIfmFlw7wPfHxHbbyRfq2egJkYEVRBw0oopoQTO7brSUXLfJa9BZZrtjn9XkPNAoCZmvvOvldhetdxDBIXD6q9f49p_patDFjGzndwskDYNtAeLpjDTa1D5Audb1XkR3astzjviiIf4D6uBEKCWMF1oMxRytz2xXS83K9Lli_yCF/s1936/Resized_20220418_082927.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1936" data-original-width="916" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRwSAOkPtB_s91dIfmFlw7wPfHxHbbyRfq2egJkYEVRBw0oopoQTO7brSUXLfJa9BZZrtjn9XkPNAoCZmvvOvldhetdxDBIXD6q9f49p_patDFjGzndwskDYNtAeLpjDTa1D5Audb1XkR3astzjviiIf4D6uBEKCWMF1oMxRytz2xXS83K9Lli_yCF/w189-h400/Resized_20220418_082927.JPG" width="189" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drawing Lessons, Egg Art</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Another anxiety reducer is family: My three brothers have been coming and going. We live in four states, but at one point in the last few days, Mom had all four children around her again. My oldest brother and I had an evening out at Our Lady of Cabernet, where my brother sat in with Ray and the band. I got a big, beautiful dose of the best medicine—singing a few songs with friends—and saw other people I’d been missing. Over the course of this last week, Mom smiled occasionally, tried hard to keep her eyes open for a minute or two at a time, and once or twice, moved her hands or feet to Leon Redbone on her CD player. We had a houseful for Easter dinner, so she had a parade of beloveds moving in and out of her room all day.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">When my youngest brother and his partner leave this week, Ray and I will settle back into the quiet vigil. We'll take the puppy out, watch movies, Ray will run errands, we'll ready the garden and putter around the house. And every now and then I'll sense, fear, hope for, deny, or welcome, the billowing of that thin veil.</span></div></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjticlxm-fREPw8UAhhSkoPAwpfvOQ1JBf3jhfHU9GbrVZToPm4zdpF6-rifSQhb7qp6jzpr58dmRxOq4qutRu-SHO8bU_9fOdC0oR9bSvamoGni8hJ6xMkocFKqkktA0Q5zMo2UarnuHsxEN030lt9k8jLKj2gpe92KmXTz1oLArq6S6sCXbIOh1ai/s4032/wendell%20siesta.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjticlxm-fREPw8UAhhSkoPAwpfvOQ1JBf3jhfHU9GbrVZToPm4zdpF6-rifSQhb7qp6jzpr58dmRxOq4qutRu-SHO8bU_9fOdC0oR9bSvamoGni8hJ6xMkocFKqkktA0Q5zMo2UarnuHsxEN030lt9k8jLKj2gpe92KmXTz1oLArq6S6sCXbIOh1ai/w300-h400/wendell%20siesta.HEIC" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Babies...Travelers in Both Worlds</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>marshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14710250495128117083noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1561066374877481355.post-72460741302457613122022-04-03T08:27:00.003-07:002022-04-04T06:37:38.991-07:00It's a Pity [Party]<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1UusVWGWZ-kIXUmnQpjK0uKEC8qS2w_fEfxuaF8awxyMqdBfTz8hAdDRzAgOsVsXcunKnABymZ8tUJ_Adrd7j40fVbslAbC7jDOiWT3A4fUvHCtQGHEAguvPehB1Oc5CE696xBCbwg_DacqYXTzfjuMo48PQ88dOwMH8v1mcyq07NPViWgt7SCezH" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="698" data-original-width="754" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1UusVWGWZ-kIXUmnQpjK0uKEC8qS2w_fEfxuaF8awxyMqdBfTz8hAdDRzAgOsVsXcunKnABymZ8tUJ_Adrd7j40fVbslAbC7jDOiWT3A4fUvHCtQGHEAguvPehB1Oc5CE696xBCbwg_DacqYXTzfjuMo48PQ88dOwMH8v1mcyq07NPViWgt7SCezH=w320-h297" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><span style="font-size: medium;">This is my self-pity blog post, so stop here if you’d rather not hear me wallowing. I try not to let myself go here often, but it’s an inevitable detour for caregivers. We aren’t taught, especially in the U.S. “bootstraps” nation, how to care for people who are dying, so we definitely aren’t taught how to care for caregivers, even ourselves. I recently joined an online caregivers support group, thinking, at last! People who get it! I discovered quickly that it was a litany of horror stories about physical, mental, and emotional exhaustion, resentment, and giving up. I feel their pain, I want to help each of them, but I CAN'T. TAKE. CARE. OF. ONE. MORE. THING. I quit the group.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Mom’s been having a rough few days, which means I’ve been having a rough few days. She’s more agitated and contrary. She falls asleep at the kitchen table but either refuses to go to bed, or when she asks to go to bed, she stays awake and restless—lifts her head off the pillow every few minutes, pulls at her bedclothes, or (more rarely now) sits up on the edge of her bed. She’s either verbally unresponsive, although she’ll often look at me when I talk to her), or she talks but doesn’t make sense (usually at 4 a.m.).</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">She’s been mostly sleeping through the night, though I wake up two or three times, as if my body clock is still set for the days when she was getting up every two hours. And some nights, I still have to get up once or twice to lift her legs back onto the bed and re-do her covers, after she’s tried to get up and has thrown her bedding on the floor.<br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I’ve been sleeping in Mom’s room since last December. Sometimes now I lie in bed and just listen to her breathe. Sometimes, when I can’t hear it, I lie awake waiting, hoping I’ll hear it any minute, or (if I’m being brutally honest) hoping I won’t. That may sound cruel, but it isn’t—I sometimes wish my mother would float through the veil in her sleep and not have to wake to another day of her traitorous, deteriorating body, and to the awareness (I’m sure she’s aware on some level) that her mind is leaving her too.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Also, not to put too selfish a point on it, I’ve come to feel that caregiving for someone who’s terminally ill is TRAUMA for you both. There’s no getting better on the horizon. Even your best caretaker efforts can’t fix dying. There’s only the question of how you can contribute to the best possible end, which will still be the worst possible end—losing someone you love. Even faith in an afterlife—her faith or mine, whatever shape that takes—can’t stop grief. And now I’ve read that <i>anticipatory grief</i> is a thing. Holy sheit.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Caretakers don’t often talk about (outside online support groups, I’ve learned) the isolation and self-pity that are natural parts of caregiving. I don’t go out. I rarely see friends. My husband sleeps in a different wing of the manor. I’ve cancelled all of my own health/wellness care. I recently got approved for state-assisted respite care, so I could leave the house. But because of nursing/staff shortages, I get only three hours a week. THREE HOURS out of 168. These are not cumulative, either; they can’t be rolled over for a 6-hour week now and then. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">My life is on hold indefinitely. But I have to cheerfully listen to what other people are doing, accomplishing, enjoying, where they're going. Then I stew in my guilt over not being more cheerful or happier for others. I have no schedule because Mom has no schedule—she might sleep two hours, she might sleep 45 minutes. She might be up from 1-4 hours. So there’s no time during the day that I can count on for “me” time. I’ve been working on this post for three days, writing at the kitchen table a bit at a time, between Mom’s awake times. And I had to stop working on it several times, because I started crying and couldn’t see.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Sidenote: I’ve had MANY, MANY offers of help. People have brought food by the truckload so I don’t have to cook. They’ve sent cards and flowers. They’ve volunteered to come stay with Mom so I could have breaks. It’s hard to explain why I turn down these offers—she’s still aware enough at times to know someone else isn’t me, isn’t familiar; she can’t remember most people now. She’s still aware enough to be uncomfortable with other people getting her on a commode, changing her, washing her, cleaning up her bed. She gets scared when things vary from our routine.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Yesterday, I gave Mom a butterscotch malt and said, “You love ice cream, don’t you.” Mom said, “Wonder Wonder Wonder Bread,” and I knew without a doubt that what she meant was that ice cream is the best thing since Wonder Bread, something she and my grandma both used to say about anything they dearly loved. Then later in the day, a picture of my daughter and her children popped up in Mom’s iPad slideshow, which she looks at every time she’s up. Mom said, clear as a year ago, “God, those kids love her, don’t they?” and she smiled. I put a video of my brother's band, The Linoma Mashers, on her iPad, and she busted some swingin' moves in her chair.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">These tender moments, even though they’re becoming more rare, can usually pull me out of my whirring, sulky, monkey mind. They remind me why I’m doing this. And I’m not writing this so y’all will tell me what a great job I’m doing or offer more help, although I love you all to pieces for this. I’m writing this because I get it. If you went through this yourself and it was before I knew, I get it now, and I love you for having been through it, and I wish you healing. If you’re going through it now and you need to wallow, I get that too, and I’ll listen. And when there aren’t enough of those tender moments, please know that it’s OKAY to have as many good, cathartic cries as you need.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxvxpdpPgxWj5DX1AkvZIiq3s6TYyCi9arRZmM7t4gnd5PjCAfdVDe_FL9dWqgBJCq0zQfQ09TbUaidtClgrQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>marshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14710250495128117083noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1561066374877481355.post-49605697181994941792022-03-24T07:46:00.001-07:002022-03-25T09:16:18.825-07:00Saints and More Saints<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqcH51LasK35SG2yIgrsysAfCVQx-6Hiqk5SrACfrghlBkx8UIFS9DRFqJrBl7jkksELYVJaUQRUCnurayz6xxOsWllxQeMlEagRDs5e8Wby-q0XMsP9wjjDsup5FzpCgKJfiMSG7j2ytImaUji9dDlglnzwn5eJj8On8WHK7MdrwSLDYHujJ1ycVf/s4032/mom%20thoughtful.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqcH51LasK35SG2yIgrsysAfCVQx-6Hiqk5SrACfrghlBkx8UIFS9DRFqJrBl7jkksELYVJaUQRUCnurayz6xxOsWllxQeMlEagRDs5e8Wby-q0XMsP9wjjDsup5FzpCgKJfiMSG7j2ytImaUji9dDlglnzwn5eJj8On8WHK7MdrwSLDYHujJ1ycVf/w300-h400/mom%20thoughtful.HEIC" width="300" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">I sometimes feel a little conflicted about writing these blog posts, or at least, about sharing them. I'm not fishing for affirmation or praise.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium;">I don’t want people to think I’m over here being all heroic and altruistic. Believe me, I’m not. </span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Back when Mom was still conversational, she asked me a question to which I gave a knee-jerk answer. I had complained to her—yes, complained—that neither of us was getting enough sleep because she got up every two hours during the night. She asked me, “Are you doing all this because you love me, or because you think it’s your duty?” I answered, “Because you’re my mother, and I adore you.” Which is/was true. But I’ve had time to think about it, and my answer wasn’t the WHOLE truth.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I’m doing this for a few reasons, and none of them have to do with me being a saint. In fact, remember the horns I mentioned in the last post? Yeah. Mom, in her liminal state, can probably REALLY see mine now…;)</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Reason 1: I DO love my mother. I want the best for her, or at least the best I can provide. My mom got short-changed in her life. She was smart, curious, interested, and ambitious as a young woman. Then she married my dad at 17 and started at 18 having babies every two years. That’s what she’d seen the women around her do, and what was expected of most young women of her era. Although my dad sometimes reminded her that she was uneducated (she had a high school diploma) and not really qualified to join in their college-going friends’ intellectual banterings, Mom earned at least some of Dad’s degree (she wrote and edited his papers). But she would never have the opportunity to get a degree of her own. So now at least, I want the choices to be hers, and she told me many times when she still could, that she wants to be home for this transition.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Reason 2: I DO feel a sense of duty. I have an unusually expressive caretaking gene. An inherited or evolutionary aberration. A visiting poet once called me “hyper-responsible” when I dragged him out of our Little Town watering hole because he was 10 minutes late for his reading. I wanted to punch him in the face when he said that, but I knew he was spot on.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Reason 3: I believe dying at home is the best possible death, unless you can sprout fairy wings and flutter off into an enchanted forest on the back of your singing pet unicorn, while eating Doritos (all of which I’ve requested for my own demise). And I know dying at home is only a good death IF home has been a happy place, and IF you have loved ones who will stay with you and look after you. Those are two SUPER BIG ifs, but we're lucky that Mom has both.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyHvXE6_ucDXBoGk1SDi_-q_lonAfH9D1i5FNW-0M1s-UEgR-exlIaGwvhFy1skiwG6pEbObGtupXGw43Wm-eX2goS7vbltz6D7gFaZ9GBHCCCO0TrL8G7PjLKuD6GkS8ahFB40TicuZ65NZrP6I5Try-mDU9VAeiCYYSXNARAT0QthWpwbu2Kw2wk/s1024/fairy%20unicorn%202.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyHvXE6_ucDXBoGk1SDi_-q_lonAfH9D1i5FNW-0M1s-UEgR-exlIaGwvhFy1skiwG6pEbObGtupXGw43Wm-eX2goS7vbltz6D7gFaZ9GBHCCCO0TrL8G7PjLKuD6GkS8ahFB40TicuZ65NZrP6I5Try-mDU9VAeiCYYSXNARAT0QthWpwbu2Kw2wk/w400-h300/fairy%20unicorn%202.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Reason 4: I’m processing. I have a LOT to process—Mom dying, Dad dying, my real and imagined parental issues, retirement, change, Covidfear, aging, what life looks like moving forward, why Emergen-C changed their formula, housebreaking a puppy, the neuroscience of consciousness and reality-creation, orchid repotting…the list goes on. Good grief; how do people who <i>DON’T</i> write make sense of their lives?!?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Reason 5 (and honestly, my main reason): My grandmother, who mothered me while my own mother worked days and many nights, died at home. Mom and her friend and roommate Hope took care of her. Grandma died in the room that had been her bedroom for 50 years, surrounded by her own smells and sounds, her pictures, her bed linens, her hideous wallpaper, her picture window looking out at our ancient cottonwood trees, the ghost children who came to visit in the end, and the ghost church ladies who talked too much. She was soothed now and then by trains rumbling past a block away. And on her last day with us, we were all there—a circle of family around her hospital bed, holding her hands, brushing her hair back, stroking her face and arms. I don’t know if this made leaving easier or harder for my grandmother, but it seemed peaceful to the rest of us. It meant the world to me to be holding her hand for her last heartbeat, for that moment of letting go. I promised myself then, that if I could, I would give the same gift to Mom that she had given her own mother.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Honest, I’m not noble, I’m just <i>very, very lucky</i>—that my retirement and Ray’s retirement coincided with Mom needing more constant care, that we have a safe home and the resources to stay in it, that we have support from Hospice, that I’m still physically able. And I’m really stubborn—no matter how exhausting, frustrating, sad this is at times, I persist, by gum, because it’s also joyful, rewarding, hilarious, and because I made a promise to myself 30-some years ago.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Also, I couldn’t do this without support. Ray first of all. I can take care of Mom because Ray takes care of me. He reminds me to eat. He feeds the canaries. He makes me smoothies every morning. He runs all the errands. He takes care of this naughty baby landshark (aka puppy) we brought home. Other amazing people have been leaving us gifts of food, sending cards and flowers, stopping for visits, volunteering their time & energy to give me breaks. My kids and their spouses have cleaned, cooked, stayed with Mom when I need to leave for a bit, picked up and paid for my medicine, provided my tech support, cheered me up with their hilarious good humor and their adorable children. My brothers and sisters-in-love have given me full nights’ sleep, manicures, spa days, dinners, yarn, tax prep service, Lay’s Stax, and really, anything I ask them for.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzS82-JIui7g_6yewIoy8L3f2QpOavwMGCcersmMXUZjYBbxnz_tFnKnbUvaRolLD6DaPLsmH3MFRDdoLnIAjEzWxDC4Dyv9u1XKZ9J-BPYBfSDOCQCZjzaC0K9TetPpXGQOtXyKItlTHR-6gN1epDYI_zQgU4BmL2HPwrTWJZ9ADc8vtY2UEHJMMc/s2978/pretzel%20close.heic" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2978" data-original-width="2774" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzS82-JIui7g_6yewIoy8L3f2QpOavwMGCcersmMXUZjYBbxnz_tFnKnbUvaRolLD6DaPLsmH3MFRDdoLnIAjEzWxDC4Dyv9u1XKZ9J-BPYBfSDOCQCZjzaC0K9TetPpXGQOtXyKItlTHR-6gN1epDYI_zQgU4BmL2HPwrTWJZ9ADc8vtY2UEHJMMc/s320/pretzel%20close.heic" width="298" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baby landshark at rest.</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The upshot of all this blabbering is that there <i>ARE</i> heroes and saints involved, and they’re the people in my beautiful bubble—my family and community—all of whom make it possible for me to be the awkward, goofy, sometimes bitchy, bumbling, pigheaded genie in this lamp, granting Mom’s last wish.
</span></div>marshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14710250495128117083noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1561066374877481355.post-27147356598323279192022-03-19T14:35:00.001-07:002022-03-19T15:34:59.610-07:00Perfect Mom Moments<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhowjgqeAmnvRoI48DwbcWEl8SnkQQH6WrzZF9aRxf-gOOJuYlAf8CuXK-YSIYs7Uod11ovi1J43wHsmv_L7yDvlE60drx374RxwN0La8CxbOjY_a3_YyY6UtkbiMoM2sP1d87eNTVkQqij52UhzUQzebPB-YfCzU-_nt9o50uPQo8D6RN9cBtyV0Os=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhowjgqeAmnvRoI48DwbcWEl8SnkQQH6WrzZF9aRxf-gOOJuYlAf8CuXK-YSIYs7Uod11ovi1J43wHsmv_L7yDvlE60drx374RxwN0La8CxbOjY_a3_YyY6UtkbiMoM2sP1d87eNTVkQqij52UhzUQzebPB-YfCzU-_nt9o50uPQo8D6RN9cBtyV0Os=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>My mother looks at me sometimes like I have horns and blood-tipped fangs—as if she’s part afraid, part confused, part disgusted. At other times, she looks at me, rolls her eyes, scowls, and shakes her head, as if no one could be more ridiculous and annoying than I am. At other times, she looks at me with pure overwhelming love.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">My point is, dying isn’t something I can “figure out” or get a handle on—at least not in the way my obsessively, overly analytical brain would prefer. There’s not a chart or graph I can consult, no “Ten Sure Signs…” meme, no Ted Talk that outlines the basic, consistent steps and timeline of dying. The doctors can’t tell me what to expect beyond the universal physiology of death, and the Hospice nurses, for whom I have the greatest respect, don’t know much more that I do.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">There’s only, <b><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">right now THIS is what’s happening</span></i></b>.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">For example, one day Mom can’t walk. I have to half-carry her from her bed to the kitchen table, as I speak loudly into her good ear, “Take another step. Now take another one.…” I aim the kitchen chair at her from behind, even as she’s melting toward the floor. She’ll sit at the table across from me, and when I ask if she’d like something to drink, she might mumble something unintelligible, or not respond at all, or not acknowledge that I’ve spoken. If there’s a spoon, she may scoop up air with it and eat these pretend bites. She may wad up a napkin and try to use it like a spoon.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">That night, she might sit up in bed every two hours, all night long. How she pulls herself up, I’ll never understand (because I’m too tired to stay up and watch). But something eventually wakes me up—faint tapping on the hospital bed rail, swinging her feet into the bed frame, pulling up the bedding—and I get up, lay her back down, cover her up, put her oxygen back on, and go back to bed. At some point I’ll say, “You have to go back to sleep; it’s only X:00 in the morning.” The other night she answered, “You’re a liar. I know how to read a clock.”</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The next day (or after the next nap or three days later…), she’ll grab hold of her walker and practically spring out of bed with little help, truck out to the kitchen (with minimal help), and wait for me to push her chair up behind her. She’ll say, “Look at these beautiful babies!” when she sees her iPad photo slideshow, or “Could I have some orange juice?” while I stare at her in wonder.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The next day we might be back to nothing quite working, or she might be confused and angry, or she might be doing great, or we might be onto something entirely new. It’s like caring for an infant, who turns into my mother, who turns into a snarly teen, who turns into a ghost just on the edge of my vision. Each requires a different kind of care and a different level of emotional fortitude from me. And I’ve learned not to take anything personally.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">There are momentary miracles, too, that fill me so full of love I think I'll burst. Like the other night, as I was helping Mom up from the kitchen table, I brushed against her hand with the walker handle. She gave me a look I can’t quite describe—an “Are you trying to kill me?!? look—and when I said, “I didn’t do it on purpose, I’m just clumsy,” she SMIRKED. That look had been a deliberate tease. Then, as she was lying down, and I lifted her legs to help her into bed, her leg slipped out of my hand and dropped to the bed. She looked up at the door and called out, “Frank?!? Help me, Frank!!” And here’s the thing: She looked at me and smirked again. We don’t know any Frank, and she was totally goofing around!</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Or this morning, when I told Mom to hug me for a minute so I could get the bathroom door closed, she hugged me and started moving side to side. I realized she was dancing! She laughed, and I laughed. It was a perfect Mom moment.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Maybe Mom’s daily abilities and demeanor are a function of brain chemistry. Maybe they depend on the strength of her resistance that day. Maybe they’re determined by how much protein she ate the day before. Maybe they’re the result of cancer cheesecloth-ing her brain. These maybes used to drive me insane, with my compulsive need to study, research, and explain…well…everything. But I’m (slowly) learning the WHYs and HOWs don’t really matter. What matters is <b><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">what’s happening right now</span></i></b>.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">This morning, as I was guiding Mom’s walker forward, she looked me right in the eyes and asked, “How did you learn to do this?” I said, “We’re learning together.” And she smiled. Perfect. Mom. Moment.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjr3ZUl2EzDkJPP1EFtEur0qMsDn04caA7QirnNXI_E0MFczACOJEymxH37qFmi56B5JWdHBZ9UHA08Spgc8eEMRx7vIJwREsPQD4U3fMK2kg-0-_jVAIUuUT27PQTlcKj1zSRDreI3gxUJ_mrEyVzHlWn3r4bP04trH-4h1mBRMTc2cRjA_4zxJdty=s800" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjr3ZUl2EzDkJPP1EFtEur0qMsDn04caA7QirnNXI_E0MFczACOJEymxH37qFmi56B5JWdHBZ9UHA08Spgc8eEMRx7vIJwREsPQD4U3fMK2kg-0-_jVAIUuUT27PQTlcKj1zSRDreI3gxUJ_mrEyVzHlWn3r4bP04trH-4h1mBRMTc2cRjA_4zxJdty=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>marshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14710250495128117083noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1561066374877481355.post-44661522464157000422022-03-15T10:00:00.003-07:002022-03-15T10:20:40.245-07:00The (real) Parent Trap?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg4odoWbPojsiTDlfQcqeWfcez3XJ2RWz1FiZ7ieYraG6pirLjflxF7yPg8-xI6Odye2FB0zwkdg_ISITZRQmsHoz7MNBNxzIsTCP9wXmuwwGbpLCjuuWYyXdAe4Kj4_lPyc9pCSKJZiCHPpucC1NKHvj5XvhAG41LahRj2h9_dlIR9yq3QeH8TmO2z=s4032" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg4odoWbPojsiTDlfQcqeWfcez3XJ2RWz1FiZ7ieYraG6pirLjflxF7yPg8-xI6Odye2FB0zwkdg_ISITZRQmsHoz7MNBNxzIsTCP9wXmuwwGbpLCjuuWYyXdAe4Kj4_lPyc9pCSKJZiCHPpucC1NKHvj5XvhAG41LahRj2h9_dlIR9yq3QeH8TmO2z=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad and Mary</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div>I haven’t talked much about my dad, or at all really, but he’s also part of my current situation.<div><br /></div><div>My mom and dad divorced when I was 12. They’d been married 15 years and had 4 kids. Their divorce was not amicable. I won’t go into the gory details of the split, the ensuing years of animosities and slights, or all the stories my mother told me over the years about what a no-good louse he was.</div><div><br /></div><div>What I’ll say is that my dad, who is 91 today, lives in my hometown Big City with his 3rd wife of 32 years. He considers himself a born again evangelical Christian. He’s a tRump supporter and hard-core Republican. He’s an ex-vice cop and gun advocate. He’s pretty much everything I’m not. He’s also dying.</div><div><br /></div><div>Dad has mostly untreated prostate cancer that has spread to his bones, spine, and probably other places (he’s gone off treatment against medical advice more than once because of its side effects). He still gets around his apartment with a walker, and he’s still pretty clear-minded except when he self-medicates for the bone pain. This is a sad time for my dad; he’s brimming with remorse for past deeds, and he struggles with his religion’s promise of (undeserved) forgiveness.</div><div><br /></div><div>To complicate things, my dad and I weren’t on speaking terms for decades. He was a lousy dad, and I was a hard-headed kid. But in recent years (since just before his cancer), I decided I’d wasted enough time and energy lugging around my load of grudges and resentments, hurts, disappointments, and longing. He was an old man, and he wasn’t going to change. So I opened up the lines of communication. I made him a poster with pictures of his kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids, labeled with their names, many of whom he’d never met. Then Mom decided she liked him okay again.</div><div><br /></div><div>Before Mom was housebound, she and I went to the Big City to visit Dad as often as we could, and she and Dad talked on the phone several times a week—with his wife on speaker. The visits and calls were slightly flirty and full of <i>I love you</i>’s (kinda weird, for me at least). Now, Dad calls a couple times a week to ask how I’m doing and to check on Mom, again with his wife on speaker. My oldest brother, who lives in the Big City, runs point with Dad. I guess we’re all buddies now.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiENoH266GY6ZDnpgp6fYBnolucmS4l-xjyPz2QAqW8Glf9gQPsAy_Dzz6ZF5kqdekrYKDSrbzgDBhifi5T1YfiQ7-99gL-p34kNBstfeYrAhe_RMK3nxQMRqGaXvyavJIR9Lyy9jBitBrtBt0ZXQmZshgZH7HdFXEq54euK6hpDePDLgJLU79KyeHE=s2526" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1722" data-original-width="2526" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiENoH266GY6ZDnpgp6fYBnolucmS4l-xjyPz2QAqW8Glf9gQPsAy_Dzz6ZF5kqdekrYKDSrbzgDBhifi5T1YfiQ7-99gL-p34kNBstfeYrAhe_RMK3nxQMRqGaXvyavJIR9Lyy9jBitBrtBt0ZXQmZshgZH7HdFXEq54euK6hpDePDLgJLU79KyeHE=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom, Dad, and (slightly confused) Me</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>This new family luvfest doesn’t mean I’m so magnanimous, so true to my Buddha nature, that I’ve been able to let my parental issues go entirely. But my parents are dying, at the same time. I need to shelve my parent/child conundrums in order to be present and compassionate and not waste any of this time in their lives, nor the lessons it offers me, all of which I consider holy. And even if my parents (and possibly me) don’t realize it, maybe this is their last gift to me—a lighter load of old baggage to carry forward. Here's my mom and dad, singing a duet...</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzwXNtKm8UOiF3YSH4KkZAB3YY2exvV9Csn1ZyMwyaOJD7IftsR4ZfWwXTmuEARXdMRyAWzaSXvSfyXD7KlGg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div>marshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14710250495128117083noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1561066374877481355.post-44086864323213089492022-03-04T11:42:00.000-08:002022-03-04T11:42:49.577-08:00"Go gentle" my foot.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjgaZ068A_eVMnEuAlqfBsdKDZ6oPGq2gq6tpXEV3Kbqo_lFt6eknI5i6pa4w7BDjl5KbrGUnPRFI_nFx08s5L2FJygO3-p20DoaV1SsfZhmyUximydUA7pgxQOZyDECq3wQSw3joRGtfkOGnj07bVIwPO_ywZGsWJHKYzbGZVKGGKbpbpqvkSh6CDw=s2400" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2400" data-original-width="2400" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjgaZ068A_eVMnEuAlqfBsdKDZ6oPGq2gq6tpXEV3Kbqo_lFt6eknI5i6pa4w7BDjl5KbrGUnPRFI_nFx08s5L2FJygO3-p20DoaV1SsfZhmyUximydUA7pgxQOZyDECq3wQSw3joRGtfkOGnj07bVIwPO_ywZGsWJHKYzbGZVKGGKbpbpqvkSh6CDw=w400-h400" width="400" /></a></div><div></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-size: medium;">My mother and Dylan Thomas—they’re buds. And she’s taking Thomas’ advice; she WILL NOT be going gentle into that good night, thank you very much. Old age is definitely burning and raving in Mom’s world.</span><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Mom has a combination of advanced CLL (a blood cancer), atrial fibrillation, and congestive heart failure, and we’re moving in on three months of home hospice care. We’re at the point now where communication is very hard. She can/will—sometimes—answer yes or no, and she will sometimes surprise me with sudden, spontaneous utterances, some that make sense (“Your puppy…sheesh.”) and some that only she understands (“Why is it moving?”). But mostly, communicating seems too hard for her—it takes too much energy.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">It doesn’t help that she’s deaf in one ear and has only limited hearing in the other, or that she’s blind in one eye with only blurry vision in the other. (I try to see the "lesson" in everything, but seriously...how much IS one person supposed to deal with at one time?) I think it takes too much effort for Mom to navigate between this world and the muffled, cloudy, uncertain world in which she must be living.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Mom’s days have been whittled down to the bare essentials: She wakes, goes to the bathroom, goes to the kitchen table, eats/drinks, goes back to bed. Rinse & repeat 4-6 times a day, though that frequency is dwindling. She needs help every step of the way. She has brief moments of clarity, which I’ve learned to recognize in her eyes. For example, when I said, “Should we curl your hair?” she immediately gave me THAT look, the one I’ve been getting since my teen years whenever I do or say something idiotic. She was ALL there for a second, and I busted out laughing.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">But mostly, Mom is unsettled and restless. For two months, she woke every two hours throughout the day and night, like she had an internal alarm, and insisted on going to the bathroom. I came to believe “bathroom” just meant she wanted to get up; Mom has always been at the center of things in her life, and I don’t think she can stand being “out of the loop” (even if we’re all just somewhere trying to sleep) or imagining there might be things happening without her. Hospice has helped us find the right med combo that lets her sleep more peacefully at night—she still wakes two or three times a night and sits up in bed, silently shuffling her blankets. I get up and help her lie back down, and she goes back to sleep.</span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3q9MiWP-oqmlx1AqAN_DD6A_dHsGOnmHKmgcut3uo_0A0_A_FkO9LMkQihPp9IxCj9qlA8p5xQ3CA0in8QYuX1RAo0vERJbvrxb_3YtMwxOAfo-qh4NdIKhApJh9xlSKh-orgLEJeUgQUvWbhQ2XbLVT7RkMZ-Av2IAPDPvitvQQ_BJjyXgJBJHSE=s624" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="417" data-original-width="624" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3q9MiWP-oqmlx1AqAN_DD6A_dHsGOnmHKmgcut3uo_0A0_A_FkO9LMkQihPp9IxCj9qlA8p5xQ3CA0in8QYuX1RAo0vERJbvrxb_3YtMwxOAfo-qh4NdIKhApJh9xlSKh-orgLEJeUgQUvWbhQ2XbLVT7RkMZ-Av2IAPDPvitvQQ_BJjyXgJBJHSE=w400-h268" width="400" /></span></a></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I wonder sometimes if her restlessness is really fear. Mom doesn’t have any religious beliefs or spiritual practices, and though she’s said she’s not afraid of dying, she is certainly clinging to life. She has unbelievable grip strength, and she is always holding onto something, which I find an apt metaphor for this stage of her life. She even grips the guardrails of her hospital bed in her sleep. And I mean GRIP, as in, I’ve had to gently pry her hands from guardrails and grab bars. I can imagine that for someone like my mother, who’s always had a personality larger than life, non-existence—oblivion—might be the scariest thing of all.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Not long ago, when Mom was still more able to talk, I managed a brief visit with a friend, also in hospice care at home. And when I got back, Mom asked what our friend believed would happen when she died. We talked about it for a while, but I got the sense she was no closer to any kind of peace or comfort of her own. I’ve talked to her about the physics of dying—electrical energy that’s released but never stops existing—but that doesn’t seem to allay her anxiety either. Instead, I usually get THAT look, the one I get when I talk about tofu, organic kelp flakes, ghosts…or curling her hair.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEitzN0ZhPVGFrrRnAyQ-pRIgrJS1dH0hMcjasG2-5cxjm1R5bnmKXMG2yDeWz_OL2-GaDXU9Q9TJfeecl4jDsV9LwM9fDIKe2QtpttMrh_7_5vjgajelRuXvVJpSEmyGJPT_o-bjE1fOOpzUnwUhJq8x2xWT3iSb2RjpzFGfYuIHLnast9mLJQ-hnmc" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEitzN0ZhPVGFrrRnAyQ-pRIgrJS1dH0hMcjasG2-5cxjm1R5bnmKXMG2yDeWz_OL2-GaDXU9Q9TJfeecl4jDsV9LwM9fDIKe2QtpttMrh_7_5vjgajelRuXvVJpSEmyGJPT_o-bjE1fOOpzUnwUhJq8x2xWT3iSb2RjpzFGfYuIHLnast9mLJQ-hnmc=w300-h400" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Mom - pretty as these flowers.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Now we’re beyond conversations. I still talk to her (sometimes I’m so sure she hears everything), but mostly she doesn’t answer. I tell her everything’s okay. I tell her we’ll be right here with her. I tell her we’ll make sure she’s not in pain. I tell her we’ll take care of each other. It’s all I can do really. I could talk to her about samsara, and coming back around on the wheel of birth, life, death, rebirth, until we understand true buddha nature and free ourselves from the repeating cycle, but I’m pretty sure she’d either pretend to be asleep or give me THAT look. Again.
</span></div>marshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14710250495128117083noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1561066374877481355.post-74256253043251268592022-02-20T12:13:00.001-08:002022-02-20T12:13:52.153-08:00Why NOW is the time.<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh4Y6TjNF83CFKjUZruCRAsnaU4CP5i2zHTLyfsvf4T4yWLsEJbXEKKEyHJ6NIxX2-tfnqwOd3L96UIhPaRPwdbDqTLVayNqXp9Hy_NWFBN4oKzdcsOxejuK2vsMvCegiLmYeJhUtHYpGA7_IVBXXSGDC4H9DSaClbrC6-kAWuVPPykKs8CyiKULN9o" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2610" data-original-width="1804" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh4Y6TjNF83CFKjUZruCRAsnaU4CP5i2zHTLyfsvf4T4yWLsEJbXEKKEyHJ6NIxX2-tfnqwOd3L96UIhPaRPwdbDqTLVayNqXp9Hy_NWFBN4oKzdcsOxejuK2vsMvCegiLmYeJhUtHYpGA7_IVBXXSGDC4H9DSaClbrC6-kAWuVPPykKs8CyiKULN9o=w277-h400" width="277" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Yesterday, for the first time in two months, I left home for the day, while my daughter tended to Mom. Ray and I drove north a couple hours to a parking lot rendezvous with a family who live two hours further north of that. They brought us the newest member of our family, Pretzel MacTíer (Irish for “wolf”). His mom is a mini blue merle Australian shepherd, and his dad is a white toy poodle. So he’s an Aussiedoodle or an Aussiepoo (or mutt, as we used to call them in the olden days). I spent a long time researching Aussiedoodles. Both parent breeds are super smart—we’ve had both before—so Pretzel will probably be smarter than both of us combined. He’s a little 5-lb bundle of sweetness right now, if you ignore his mouthful of tiny needles.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Why, in the midst of caring for Mom, and with our other furry and feathered companions, would we get a new puppy? Believe me, I’ve spent weeks asking myself that very question. The timing seems like it couldn’t be worse. We’ve been on a list for months, in line for a pick of the litter, thinking <i>somewhere down the road</i>. But NOW, suddenly, we end up first on the list at the same time the breeder has a litter with a male blue merle puppy (the breeder only has a couple litters each year). </span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh9EbtQDubhiALjMDqtPECw_0dctPcS-TF1eo9Cy8vO0cJaxZ9LGv4Cipx51lzHkr8vThCL1NHzSecFwcR6Da-uLgHGJnfrwq7evrdjNiPc73Gsb91ODa6nxClHkxtK1gkvTTkWnJZKMlIXszD8umdBNBH6N-JC9yLSSaDq9AL6ehT1XDRk2BwJGolQ" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh9EbtQDubhiALjMDqtPECw_0dctPcS-TF1eo9Cy8vO0cJaxZ9LGv4Cipx51lzHkr8vThCL1NHzSecFwcR6Da-uLgHGJnfrwq7evrdjNiPc73Gsb91ODa6nxClHkxtK1gkvTTkWnJZKMlIXszD8umdBNBH6N-JC9yLSSaDq9AL6ehT1XDRk2BwJGolQ=w300-h400" width="300" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">So we’re trusting the Universe. And, I can think of several reasons why bringing Pretzel home might make sense: </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">1. Angel-soft puppy fur. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">2. Our dogs, Pedro and Yogi, and Mom’s dog, Oprah, are all 14 years old. Yogi is the sweetest, smartest, most gentle dog ever, and he’s in home hospice care (mast cell cancer). My goal is for him to be Pretzel’s Obi-Wan Kenobi and train the wee lad in the ways of the Jedi...Puppi…Dawgi. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">3. We desperately need all the belly laughs we can get. There’s nothing funnier than a puppy’s hind legs running faster than his front ones, or a 5 lb-er’s tiny little growl, like he sucked up a tank full of helium. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">4. Puppy smells. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">5. We’ll groom Pretzel to become our solo retirement road-dawg. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">6. We’re celebrating our recent 33rd anniversary, which everyone knows is the puppy anniversary.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhS5yR_rGYNrTtumUlFTtuQrmcUB0vEI1LLI3rKMorhVP2PP61W6_f-mu8RFvb-QoXt3p3h-C2-mPzsI2x8OnRlGKYvaen4BGDMYNbsJMttZ_YxsZdjwbFBIskHMFClUm6RCS2Xxk2QTs1s0wfOtyjuSK5AsTRLcwqCdsU1rYwZ_-_SddkeFrPAMFfI" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhS5yR_rGYNrTtumUlFTtuQrmcUB0vEI1LLI3rKMorhVP2PP61W6_f-mu8RFvb-QoXt3p3h-C2-mPzsI2x8OnRlGKYvaen4BGDMYNbsJMttZ_YxsZdjwbFBIskHMFClUm6RCS2Xxk2QTs1s0wfOtyjuSK5AsTRLcwqCdsU1rYwZ_-_SddkeFrPAMFfI=w240-h320" width="240" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">I’m reminded of the Hopi concept of <i>koyaanisqatsi</i>, or “life out of balance.” After a couple months of home-bound tending, I can occasionally settle into a somber and solitary, sometimes pretty grey place. There’s something about puppyhood amid this vigil that restores balance, pulls me out of my head, uplifts me with life-giving puppy chasing. Pretzel is a constant reminder that even now, there is life, hilarity, and soon, tiny holes in every sock.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="color: #494949; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">“There are some simple truths…and the dogs know what they are.” --Joseph Duemer</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br />
</div></div>marshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14710250495128117083noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1561066374877481355.post-22430187516040832492022-02-15T08:36:00.000-08:002022-02-15T08:36:29.009-08:00Dear students, today's lesson is...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-size: x-large; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2BIexIPJNoAAAoMSQ6-l3NOWVL0gUhOngOADBVtanL1cmo3aXpfKu2t-VMVmvhYuLeGmQOOZWoFXbgMv90ApJamzUrTC7YJma6KJ36pPMUwzvf0944ghat3U0HkyPhHIIIwhea7A3u4OvW3svVnEw650FOfQFii2KJQfCdo0BLMxL0kZh5vfXLTH0" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2BIexIPJNoAAAoMSQ6-l3NOWVL0gUhOngOADBVtanL1cmo3aXpfKu2t-VMVmvhYuLeGmQOOZWoFXbgMv90ApJamzUrTC7YJma6KJ36pPMUwzvf0944ghat3U0HkyPhHIIIwhea7A3u4OvW3svVnEw650FOfQFii2KJQfCdo0BLMxL0kZh5vfXLTH0=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The youngest and the oldest in our family.<br /><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">As Mom gets closer to the end of her body’s life, I’m trying very hard to appreciate this incredible opportunity to learn.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I’m learning a great deal about the process of dying—the physiology, the stages, the emotional/psychological roller coaster, the humor, the drugs, the drug interactions, the moments of joy. I’m also learning that no matter what the research says, the process is not predictable, nor are there neat demarcations between one stage and another. It’s messy; the trajectory is convoluted, random, and circles back on itself over and over—some days look like “getting better,” and some days feel like the last day. There are no straight lines gliding downhill toward a tidy, scheduled death.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I’m learning about my mother. Impending death strips away pretense, bravado, and show[wo]manship. I may have caught glimpses before of my mother’s insecurities, but the raw root fears behind these insecurities are roiling full-on now, perpetually whipping up the surface. I’ve learned that my mother is terrified of silence, of being alone, of loss of control, of appearing less than charming and pulled together, of oblivion. Learning these things has helped me make Mom’s environment more comfortable—playing music, having a TV on, chatting as she gets tucked back in bed, helping her dress up now and then, can all help alleviate, at least temporarily, her fears.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I can’t really do anything about Mom’s fear of death, which she’s only expressed out loud once. I don’t pretend with her that I know what will happen in that moment, or where she’ll go, or if she’ll go anywhere. I don’t make stuff up to make her feel better. I do talk to her about how we move through the veil (metaphorically) at birth and again at death, two parallel doorways in a natural, earthly life. I assure her that we will take care of her throughout this process, that she won’t be alone or in pain, that she’ll be comfortable. I remind her how lucky we are that she can be in her own sweet room, tended to by people who love her.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg5mxYxFPkO2maiTg0QE0FY_sUFYcIclL0vwntYgV7NunlAPtXKW-119WqecRmBttksulPK_S_BFCqZ_n2nUc31Io-FFpeL4ykWO6G4YpdY-d_kH46tyrIov1E2kmOkGeCoUCiF95Rr9KV9wTzPQ_LhEyQOaomMVtqykfpTjxsSHBpdWvCC3TekSJQV" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg5mxYxFPkO2maiTg0QE0FY_sUFYcIclL0vwntYgV7NunlAPtXKW-119WqecRmBttksulPK_S_BFCqZ_n2nUc31Io-FFpeL4ykWO6G4YpdY-d_kH46tyrIov1E2kmOkGeCoUCiF95Rr9KV9wTzPQ_LhEyQOaomMVtqykfpTjxsSHBpdWvCC3TekSJQV=w400-h300" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Mom and brother get ready to brawl.<br /><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">More than anything, I’m learning about myself. I’m learning that it’s easy to be all Buddhist and talk the talk about compassion and unconditional love. But at 5 a.m., when Mom’s been awake every 1.5 hours for the past 24, when meds/fear/disorientation make her mean and combative, when she crawls out of bed sideways past her guardrails and ends up on the floor, then it takes some superhuman zen to walk the walk. I’ll admit my walk-the-walk skills have come up short a few times, and I’ve blown my stack or fallen into a puddle of weeping mess. It’s a constant reminder that I’m a work in progress.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I’m also learning that my lifetime of idealistic belief in home hospice as the best death is now frequently running up against the gritty, dirty, frustrating, isolating, and just plain physically <i>HARD</i> realities of 24/7/365 caretaking. And I’ve become painfully aware that one advantage of institutional care for the dying is a <i>TEAM</i> of caregivers, not one caregiver who sometimes wants to curl up in a dark closet and suck her thumb.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiOK1CdgLWZ7Ds7uUjHt3jNyy-TJ_7N4G0zrFo-qNKWG1NBMXRPirulFBclaqYUyBO5i3m6fSHYUCXh5k4DnMdHzejUk0d3JE0WLwAjNlRv4-hO7AUCjLAa0l6M_8scyVdrxZEWmp4jRdwhHtX8rlCPRkM4TIWFesi-PUu-HsAmMkp6gcGk19cgeEYe" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiOK1CdgLWZ7Ds7uUjHt3jNyy-TJ_7N4G0zrFo-qNKWG1NBMXRPirulFBclaqYUyBO5i3m6fSHYUCXh5k4DnMdHzejUk0d3JE0WLwAjNlRv4-hO7AUCjLAa0l6M_8scyVdrxZEWmp4jRdwhHtX8rlCPRkM4TIWFesi-PUu-HsAmMkp6gcGk19cgeEYe=w300-h400" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Wishful thinking.</span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Today, though, Mom had an early morning shower and is napping peacefully, the sun is shining, our canaries are singing, and the coffee is hot and strong. So I’ll eat my peanut butter toast and see what lessons the day brings.</span></div>marshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14710250495128117083noreply@blogger.com7