Wall Repair

There's a stone retaining wall separating me from my neighbor to the south. I didn't really even note it when I bought the house; first realized it belonged to me when I started to clear brush trees from the fence line. I like the wall - it's about three feet high starting at the rear corner of the house, stretching about 40' to the back of the property - but I can't see it from my yard because it's on the far side of the backyard fence.

When Joe and I were building my new solid fence last fall, I took a good look at it for the first time in ages. It's been there for 100 years - but I realized it wouldn't last another five if I didn't do some repair work. The cap is badly deteriorated, and it's in sore need of tuck-pointing.

Joe was kind enough to pick the supplies up for me last spring - I figured I'd get it knocked out before summer's heat arrived. I thought wrong. We've had the rainiest spring in eons, and since the wall is out of sight, its repair kept falling off my mental to-do list. I'd open the garage door, see the neat stack of bags of mortar, think, 'I need to get started on that next time it's not raining', shut the door, and not think of it again until the next time I was in the garage.

Yesterday, I finally got to it. (about time - it didn't take long to discover a good bit of the mortar is still in the wall solely out of habit - there's nothing actually holding it in place.) Even though it was Saturday, I got up with the sun, gathered my tools and supplies, and got to work. I started just before seven, figured I'd stop when it got hot around ten. Ten o'clock came and went, and I was still out there. I was in my zen space, on a roll. There was something very satisfying about prying the old loose mortar from its home and replacing it with the new.

Then, around 1:30, I tried to mix one more batch of mortar. I measured out the cement, added the sand, and started to stir in the water. My arms wouldn't cooperate. I dug down for a little more oomph - this was the last batch, for real this time! - but there was no oomph to be found. Each turn of the trowel turning the mud over in the bucket was an effort of will.

But I did it. Got it mixed, got it on the wall (looking at it this morning, it wasn't my neatest application of the day, but it was good enough). I started to clean up my mess. Every step took longer than it should; it took all my focus to work through each one.

Gather the tools, give them an initial rinse with the handy-dandy hose, put them in the wheelbarrow. Pick up the chunks of old mortar, put them in the bags the sand came in for later disposal. Truck the wheelbarrow around the house to the garage, open the garage door, put everything inside. Bring the tools inside and clean them properly.

I was feeling pretty good about my morning's work.

Then, I sat down, and the headache started in immediately. Oh, yeah - I'd overdone it. The physical rigors of my indoor daily desk job don't leave me in prepared to hop up on a 90+ degree day and work outside in the heat and humidity for six hours. (you think????)

An hour's nap and a dose of Tylenol later I was ready to consider rejoining the land of the living, but I had NO energy for the rest of the day. You can be sure I slept well!

I was pleasantly surprised when I woke up and was able to move without pain this morning.  I woke early, and surprised myself by managing to get up and get at it once again. But I was smarter this time. Even though I still had energy when I'd finished using up the first 50lb bag of sand, I stopped anyways. My arms had held out to that point, and I still able to easily focus on the task in front of me. Stopping before I ran into the metaphorical brick wall meant cleanup was easy - just another part of the job.

Feeling pretty proud of myself, I am.

I'm trying not to think about the part where my two mornings of hard labor has gotten me all of fifteen feet of finished wall. At this rate, I'll have to find time on another 6-7 days before I'll be able to call it done.

But, Rome wasn't built in a day, and the wall isn't going anywhere. I'll stick within my newly established limits, and it'll get done before the end of summer, one step at a time.

Cancer - Reprieve

So many people I love are fighting cancer again and still.

My brother, Tony - his prostate cancer showed back up, so he's been undergoing a series of radiation treatments.

My brother-in-law, Todd - his kidney cancer seems to be gone with the successful removal of one kidney.

My other brother-in-law, David - fighting pancreatic cancer; holding his own for now.

My friend, Bob - still dealing with the after-effects of prostate cancer.  Poor guy is taking Lupron to keep it at bay. Lupron is also known as 'that damned shot' when I speak of it. I had to take several rounds of the drug - it's downright nasty.

From work, Greg - his bone cancer came roaring out of a five year remission last December; he's just undergone a second bone marrow transplant and will know soon how well it worked.

One of my favorite college professors, Tom - he's treating a tough lung cancer with one of the new immunotherapy drugs.  He's not quite halfway through the treatment series, which sounds like it's pretty brutal.

All these, I think of often and send prayers.

But the one that's been tearing my heart is the story of little Mason - my brother Mike's grandson.  

Mason is four.  Four.

Four year-old children are not supposed to have to fight cancer, but there he's been for the past year. His is a rare sort of brain tumor. He's been put through the mill. Chemo, radiation, more chemo.

By all accounts he's been a little trooper. He doesn't understand what's going on, of course, but trusts his parents to do the right thing. Sarah's pictures and stories about treatment have been both heart-warming and heart-rending.

These last rounds of chemo were especially hard on his little body - he ended up in the hospital more than once dealing with the side effects. They dealt with all the pain and suffering under a cloud of uncertainty - there was no guarantee the treatments would actually work.

I got on Facebook this morning to see the most-liked post I've ever seen on my feed - Sarah told us his latest scans show no signs of cancer.

I read her encouraging words, and felt my shoulders drop back and down several inches. 

Cancer is never fair - but it's more extra-unfair when it strikes the young and the innocent.

And I learned today the corresponding relief when told it's been held at bay is all the greater.

Go, Mason!

Air Plants

Blooming!

I've loved the concept of air plants since I first found out about them - plants which survive only on air and water - no dirt required. I've tried to grow them a number of times, with varying degrees of success. They'd live for a while, then I'd either forget to dunk them in water or the air would be drier than normal, and they'd slowly die, trading their quiet gray-green color for dead brown.

I've worked especially hard to keep my last set of plants alive (they arrived at Christmas this past year). This time, I did a little research when they came to reside with me - turns out, instead of just getting dunked in water, they prefer to have a long cool bath once a week; to soak in the water for an hour. And, they like to be misted in-between waterings. Makes complete sense when I think about it.

So, I've been watering and misting as instructed. I found them a lovely little terrarium home, and they started to flourish, happily taking more space in their watering bowl each week. Then, a couple of weeks ago, I noticed the leaves of one of the three plants were turning brown. I was sad - here I thought I'd been doing so well! I gave it a little extra love and attention after watering for the next several days, making sure I misted the little plant thoroughly each time they even started to look dry.

My sick one kept getting worse, most of its leaves turning a brownish-red. I resigned myself to its likely fate. But then, but then... I walked into the room after work one day to find it had popped up two purple spears from its heart, and had crowned the stems with tiny yellow flowers.

It hadn't been busy dying before its time, it had been getting ready to bloom!
I hadn't done it wrong, I'd done it just right.

Such a pleasant surprise; I didn't know the plants ever flowered. I've taken time every day to enjoy its color and beauty. The flowers have already started to fade, a bit of research tells me the plant has reached old age, and will soon die a natural death. If I am lucky, it will leave behind a baby plant or two - I've been watching for them, but nothing has shown up just yet.

I'm still not overly happy with the concept, but I've come to accept that death is a necessary part of life. And I can only hope, when my time inevitably comes, I can be a little bit like my plant, and get to bring a bit of beauty and happiness into the world on my way out the door.

Elusive Words

Harriman Ranch, WY

I've looked up the phenomenon online. Turns out that, yup, random word loss is a normal part of aging. An annoying one.

I read a lot, and have a correspondingly large vocabulary. I wouldn't think, with all those words to choose from, it would bother me when one temporarily gets mislaid. But it does bother me. I KNOW the word. It's right there. I'm in the middle of a sentence and about to use it. And...  and... it's gone.

Not permanently, no. All I have to do is switch tasks for a few minutes, then go back to see if I can recall the word. Thus far, it's always been there. Sometimes, I've moved on; forgotten the word was missing. My brain doesn't forget, though - it's still looking for the word. Several times recently, as I've been falling asleep, I've been jolted awake. 'I found it!', says my brain. (My brain is happy when it finds the things it's misplaced.)

I remember the first time this happened to me. I was at a family gathering, talking to one of my uncles, and one of my kids walked up.  'Kate', I said as I started to properly introduce them, 'this is my Uncle...  Uncle... Uncle...'  His name was gone. I was mortified. How could I have forgotten the name of someone I'd known my entire life? I stumbled through the rest of the introduction, and walked away. Five minutes later, I tracked Kate down.  'Uncle Leland!, Uncle Leland!  His name is Uncle Leland.' She gave me a funny look, as teenagers are wont to do when you do something they are slightly embarrassed about, and everyone but me moved on, promptly forgetting about the incident as something not worth wasting brain cells on.

It's a little scary, this getting older thing. The forgotten words are small, but they are an undeniable reminder my youth is in my past. However, I don't have to do this alone - the world is helping me cope with the changes. No, the creaks and aches aren't going away. Yes, Tiger Balm helps to ease them. No, fifty-odd years of wear on my teeth isn't going away. Yes, I can cover them with crowns when they break. (Here, I stop and raise a toast to the steady hands of my dentist...) No, my eyebrows, which I have always totally taken for granted until they disappeared this past winter, aren't going to magically regain their color. Yes, they have makeup for this, so I can fake their presence on any day I wish.

And no, the words aren't going to stop disappearing. But chances are good I'll have plenty of others to choose from to express myself for the foreseeable future. (and, bonus, the gods of technology have thoughtfully provided me with online thesauruses (thesauri??) to help me find words as needed.)

Life doesn't come with guarantees; getting older ain't for wimps. A sense of humor helps.