On To 2021!

Pay close attention now. 
Start gradually moving towards the exits in small groups. 
Make no sudden movements. 
No loud noises. 

Don't. Touch. Anything.
The last person out, please close the door carefully and quietly behind you. 
If we do it right, 2020 won't notice us leaving until it's too late to try to follow us into the new year.

Yup, it's been a humdinger of a year. It's not the hardest I've lived through, but it is the one where I've had the most company in my attempts to keep an uncertain balance as things kept tipping around me. This time, most of the world is keeping me company as the planet does its wobbly spin. (There are definitely those who would beg to differ. Kate's dog, Sylvester, for one. He thinks it's been the best year ever! The people were home A LOT. He got lots of walks and hugs and consistent attention. He is now less anxious, more playful, better behaved. His life is GOOD.)

A few years back, I was in a stuck spot, and tried to imagine how life would be some nine months out. I thought things would be better, calmer, easier. I couldn't have been more wrong, and part of me is still convinced I jinxed the outcome by trying to skip over the hard parts I knew were between where I was and where I wanted to be. So I try not to do that anymore.

I think, when I look back on this year, it'll feel like one long detour; a convoluted journey down a side road which somehow managed to land me right close to where I started. There were interesting sights along the way - not the ones I'd anticipated, but good ones all the same. There were hurdles and dry spots and ice cream and moments of joy.

But in many ways, I feel as if I'm right back in the liminal space where I started the year, on the bridge between the known shape of my life as it was and the possibilities of the new shape it will morph into during the coming days. (Staying in the old shape is not one of my options.) I'm doing my best to look forward to those possibilities, to let go of the mighta, coulda, shouldas which arise when I spend too much time gazing back down the road I've just finished traveling.

I've gotten a good head start on moving on this past week. The quiet isn't as overwhelming today as it was the first few days after they moved out. I'm kind of liking the part where it stays clean(er). The cats are doing their job - they've given me something to fuss over, keep the house from staying too tidy, and come to purr at me at random intervals, so I don't feel too lonely. My days are managing to fill themselves with worthwhile things.

That's not such a bad place to start a new year.
Here's to a less interesting 2021!

Christmas Present

Merry Christmas!

This year, I've received the usual slew of Christmas letters from organizations I support. Their flavor has been different from the usual, as they address the uncertainty of these COVID times. My favorite included a new (to me) poem from John O'Donohue:

This is the time to be slow,
Lie low to the wall
Until the bitter weather passes.

Try, as best you can, not to let
The wire brush of doubt
Scrape from your heart
All sense of yourself
And your hesitant light.

If you remain generous,
Time will come good;
And you will find your feet
Again on fresh pastures of promise,
Where the air will be kind
And blushed with beginning.

His words speak to my heart.

This will not be my first quiet Christmas.

Unlike many people I know, I will not spend it completely on my own. The kids moved on to their new place just a week ago - that's close enough for me to still include them in my COVID bubble. They will come over later today for the traditional John Christmas lasagna dinner. (Honorary Italians that we are...)

They won't stay long, we need to work around the baby's sleep schedule, but they will be here and that adorably stinkin' cute toddler will fill my heart with his presence. I will get to see him tear some wrapping paper, see if he pays any attention at all to the contents of the packages he opens. He will bring with him the promise of a good time to come where the air will be kind and blushed with beginning. 

Tomorrow, which I will spend alone, I will try to hold onto that promise, use it to kindle my own hesitant light. It's been an interesting week. I feel much the same mixture of churning emotions I did when I first sent my kids off to college. Joy mixed with sadness, leavened with pride and a bit of fear.

I've worked hard on the castle this past year. I'm not sure how one sends a house off to school, but my mixed feelings around letting go extend to the building. My hands have been an essential part of the effort to grant her a new life; to bring her back from the brink of falling apart at the seams. I am proud of the work I did. Almost all of my time since April has been spent there and it will take some time to shift gears, to begin to figure out (again!) how I want to spend my days; what I want to do when I grow up.

I will do my best not to let the wire brush of doubt scrape my heart as I work to find my sense of self; to find a new balance in my life. I get to start just after winter's solstice, with the promise of light returning. I get to start at Christmas time, with its story of new life in the darkness.

I get to start again - a chance stolen from too many this year by the blasted virus - and will, after lying low to the wall until the bitter weather passes.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

Christmas Past

We finally got a few days of honest winter around here last week. No snow, but cold enough that I needed a real winter coat to venture outside. The sky was gray, the air crisp, the smell of the cold reminded me of home.

I stepped outside the other night to walk over to a (properly socially distanced and COVID-aware) holiday gathering, and was transfixed by the beauty of the neighborhood. People have outdone themselves around here to decorate their houses; the lights are varied and beautiful and speak to me of hope for better days to come.

As I walked home after our lovely gathering, I took a trip down memory lane.

I remembered a cold Christmas Eve, coming home from mass.  My rear was freezing cold as I sat in the back of the station wagon, but my heart was full as we headed home to open our gifts. We were all there, old enough to know how to sing in parts, and sing we did. I can still hear the sound of the old carols. Mom on the melody - her strong voice carrying the tune, Dad's low, growly, off-key voice riding along. Tony on tenor, Julie and I on alto, and the everyone else singing as the spirit nudged. Surely the angels rejoiced along with us that long ago evening.

I remembered another Christmas. Mom made Julia, Colleen and I matching floor-length flannel nightgowns that year. All I'd wanted for Christmas was a Giggles doll, and Santa had been able to find one for me. It was one of my life's best moments (so far). That Christmas morning, as I sat amidst the debris from the wrappings of gifts for eight kids was strewn about the floor, covered in soft warmth from neck to wrists to toes, playing with the doll I'd wanted so badly, but hadn't expected to receive, I was happy. Completely happy.

Today, too many of those faces are gone; I'll not see their smiles again. The hair of those of us who remain is better kempt than it was that morning, but thinner and tending towards gray. Time has etched its mark on our faces. It matters not. The joy of those distant moments lives on.

As I finished my walk and arrived back home in the present day, I carried the memory of joy through the door and into my waiting bed. I slept a good sleep that night, my mind and heart still partway back in the time-place before I knew deep sorrow. 

While I can't stay there in the past, it's good to know I can visit once in a while. It's good to see their faces and hear their voices once again. 

I'll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams....

Grief Storm

Saturday had all the necessary ingredients to be a good day.

I started the day with a massage - a good, deep-tissue, 90 minute relaxation session - then came home to take a post-massage nap. After I woke up, I went over to the castle, and walked in just in time to hear the "whoosh" of the burners as Albert worked out the last of the installation kinks that he'd been fighting for almost three days, and fired up the new boiler. We'd managed to get it in before the temps dropped low enough for long enough to bring the house down to freezing; the plumbing and the plants were safe. *huge sigh of relief*

So, why did a random comment from my brother a few hours later - that the castle's problems will very shortly not be my problems - have me running from the place one short step ahead of a storm of tears?

I was fit company for no one that evening as the storm raged in my soul. Fortunately for the health of my relationships, I was alone as I fixed and ate dinner. I texted the kids to let them know food was ready if they wanted it, but didn't want to talk to anyone. I was unaccountably angry, and any words I would have said would have been hurtful.

After I ate, I sat down on the sofa under a blanket with a glass of wine, put on a headset, and listened to my favorite calming music on repeat. I took out my journal and proceeded to try to figure out what was lurking beneath my over-reaction to an innocent (and true) comment. It took me a while, but I finally managed to dig on down to the real reason I was crying.

Turns out the answer was:  Libby.

My heart follows the rhythm of the seasons closely. I hadn't been watching the calendar, but it had, and the day after tomorrow will mark the second anniversary of her death. The tie-in to Ted's remark isn't overly clear to me, but I'm pretty sure it goes along with the fact that none of the problems she had before she got sick are still her problems. She's beyond problems.

I carry a good-sized chunk of survivor's guilt - why is she dead while I am still alive? Why her and not me? We share many of the same genetics. Why was my cancer the sort that could be beat into remission and hers the type that, despite early detection and good care, bulldozed an unstoppable path through her systems?

My kids are grown, hers still need her.

Not right, not fair.

I didn't try to stop or avoid the swirl of emotions. I just kept writing, naming the feelings as they surfaced and acknowledging their presence. Eventually, several hours later, the winds calmed, leaving my eyes and heart sore but also more at peace.

It's not right and it's not fair. But near as I can ascertain, what's right and fair have very little to do with who dies when in this world. Maybe someday I will learn the whys behind the reasons I'm still here and she is gone, but none of us gets out of this alive and the best thing I can do to honor her is to live the days I have.

Libby, I miss you. lots. Where ever it is your spirit has travelled, I hope you are happy and at peace. I hope you're having fun.  Love you....... ... .. .

Advent 2020

I rather like the liturgical season of Advent, with its emphasis on waiting. In holiday seasons past, stopping each Sunday to light a candle and say a prayer has been a welcome moment of respite from the hustle and bustle of life.

This year, I'm going to have to dig a little deeper.

This year, I've been waiting.   and waiting.    and waiting.        Waiting for an answer to when this virus might be brought under control. Waiting to hear when the vaccine will be widely available. (effective options will soon exist - that's HUGE!) Waiting for election results.  Waiting to get the castle habitable, so I can get back to figuring out what I want to be when I grow up.

Why would I want to acknowledge yet another season of waiting?

Ah. This is waiting of a different sort. Advent isn't tap-your-foot-please-hurry-this-along waiting. (That's the type of waiting I've been doing all year.) Advent is pause-and-appreciate-the-here-and-now waiting.

My year has been woefully short of the Advent sort of waiting. While there were advantages to my headlong plunge into remodeling work - my days have been full, and after moving all day, I've been sleeping well despite the miasma of general anxiety lingering in the air - I haven't stopped much.

And my spirit knows it.

More and more, the problem of the moment is overwhelming. I grow short on patience. It's harder to get me to take care of my daily round of chores; I don't wanna. I don't want to get out to walk in the cold - until I get out there, when I thoroughly enjoy the crisp air. I am tired and grumpy and out of sorts and don't want to get out of bed in the morning.

It's time to stop and listen for the gifts the Advent season wants to bring to my life. Time to stop and light a candle and watch it flicker without distracting myself by reading the news of the moment. Time to look inside and see where I am; to see if any part of me is clearer yet on the next direction I want to take.

Time to pause. Appreciate the here and now. 

Appreciate that, despite the odds, I am still here.  Living.  Now.

Good Is.

 

Happy Thanksgiving, anyways!

Usually my Thanksgiving is a celebration of the best of the printable sort of f-words.

Family.     Friends.    Food.

That's it.

No drama, no unmeetable expectations. Just a lively gathering of people I love, too much delicious food, and pie to top it all off.

As with so many of my other plans for the year, COVID-19 is putting a drag on this year's celebration. With the virus running rampant, I am planning to follow the CDC's advice and celebrate with a very small group. There will be just four of us, and since one of the four doesn't live here, we will keep our masks on unless we're eating. When we eat, we will sit far apart, like we don't like each other or something. Bah, humbug!

In the spirit of the holiday, I'm trying not to focus on the parts I'll miss. (Based on the above paragraph, I'm clearly having a little trouble with this part, but I'm trying...) Rather, I'm doing my best to be aware of the abundance of good things in my life for which I am truly thankful.

I will still get to enjoy the too much good food part. And part of my family will be here. I won't be eating alone.

There will be lots of leftovers. I like Thanksgiving leftovers. (Good thing - is it even possible to fix a turkey dinner for four???)

I miss my people, but also know they are still there. This virus shall pass, and when it does, I will get to see them again, and we will share real hugs - none of this elbow bumping nonsense

Everyone I know who has gotten the virus is recovering. So far, so good.

The vaccine news is excellent - it's easier to hunker down knowing there will be an end to the hunkering.

Young Joe is showing no lasting effects from his premature entrance to this life. One of the best parts of the castle project is the part where I've gotten to watch him grow from day to day. (He's walking already!) The kid is just stinkin' cute. Not that I'm biased.

My health is good, I have enough money to pay the bills and still have a little left over for some of the things I want. My house is cozy, and on this cold, rainy, November evening, my furnace is chugging away without grumbling. The lights are on, and I can get hot and cold water just by turning on a faucet.

Beauty Is and Good Is and Love Is and no stupid virus can touch these, my bedrock beliefs.

So, Happy Thanksgiving (anyways)!

Almost there

Despite all the delays, the castle is almost ready for Joe and his family to move on in. The unseasonably warm weather has not only prevented the pipes from freezing while the boiler is on order, but has allowed us to continue working to get the place ready for move in.

The roofers finished up today. I was surprised to find myself a bit wistful as I watched them drive off. I'll miss young Mike's (they're both Mikes) cheerful good mornings, their frequent forays through the house looking to borrow this or that tool. I've learned to like and respect the two of them. Turns out, when we hired them, we hired a couple of artists disguised as tile roofers. They did beautiful work - the house hasn't been so spiffy looking in decades.

I've finished replacing broken window panes (seventeen windows in all), and have put the windows back where they belong. Joe's worked hard over the past few weeks to refinish the worst of the upstairs floors. The main hallway is almost ready to paint, which just leaves the kitchen to be made workable.

I don't want to jinx anything, but I think this unlikely venture might actually turn out well. Hard to believe.

As I've been working the last couple of days, my mind has started to wander to what's next. The sun comes out later and later each morning; it is almost done with its journey to the south. Its light is long and slanted. Winter is around the corner. 

While the darkest days are still to come, there is already a glimmer on the horizon heralding the new season to come. The latest news on the vaccines in development is excellent, and rumor has it they will be widely available by summer-ish. So, I need to lay low for a while longer, but it will not last forever.

I'm a bit concerned about where my mood will head once everyone leaves and I've lost my place to go and get something done each day. I'm not going to see much of anyone after they move out, and travel is out of the question until the virus settles down again. So, as a depression preventative, I've asked them if I can keep the cats through the winter, and they've agreed.

I figure it'll be good to have some companionship to help me through the dark winter days. Curling up on the sofa under a blanket turns into less of a pity party and more of a meditative experience when I have a cat to purr at me - and, historically, the cats have been more than willing to perform that role.

It feels good to have taken a positive step to take care of myself.

The virus has gotten around to infecting people I know and love. So far, they're all doing OK, but it's scary nonetheless. You all stay safe out there, hear????

Election Results

As I waited for the election results last week, I had the hardest time. I woke up Wednesday, didn't read anything, but looked at the map showing the race close and Trump in the lead in most of the swing states and immediately fell into a deep funk. I thought I'd been wrong to hope things would or could change.

Trump has been so divisive, his handling of the virus so inept, his manner so crude, his lies so plentiful, I quit listening to him speak long ago. It's been a tough four years for me. The way he treats women brings back memories of the bad ol' days when I thought I had to put up with harassment at work as part of the price of employment, of the days when it was customary for men to get away with judging women based on their appearance, not the competencies we brought to our jobs.

I have tried and tried, but still don't understand how so many of my fellow Americans - some seventy million of them per the election results - see him so differently than I. Character counts, dammit!

I'm not overly prone to anxiety, but at one point this week I ended up taking an anti-anxiety med: I curled up under my soft white blanket that Libby gave me, and one of the cats came and purred at me for thirty minutes. I focused on breathing and connecting to what is real for me - and lo and behold, it worked. I got up much calmer and more centered than I had been when I laid down. (I thought about contacting my insurance company to see if they'd cover any part of the med - say, the kitty litter? - then thought better of it...)

As the week went on, and the numbers continued to shift, I began to believe, despite myself, that not all hope was lost. Then came Saturday's news that Biden had won Pennsylvania, and my heart leapt with joy. I wasn't alone in wanting, needing, a more competent leader to be President, after all. Seventy-four million (and counting) people in this country agreed with me. As I listened to his speech that evening, the tension I hadn't allowed myself to acknowledge leaked out my eyes.

He smiles real smiles. He speaks in full sentences. He gives his family real hugs. He spoke of unity and building bridges. He is already assembling a group of people who will listen to science and work to lead us out of the shadow of the coronavirus, which is starting to strike too close to home. Instead of denying climate change exists, he will delve into ways we can, maybe perhaps, still soften the blow it is poised to deliver to our world. I know he has a number of daunting uphill battles to fight, but he will at least TRY to work with those who disagree with him.

Let the healing begin!

Time Shift

I was good about getting up and going all summer long. My main motivation was avoiding the worst of each day's heat while working at the castle; the thought of melting in the afternoon heat was enough to get me up and going at the crack of dawn most days. When the heat left for the year, so did my early morning starts. I've still been getting over there, but my arrival time has been inching later and later, in step with the delayed rising of the sun.

So, when the time shifted an hour later this past Sunday, I decided one of the perks of retirement was getting to ignore the time change if I want to. There's no one but me who cares what time I go to bed and get up these days, so why push myself through the grogginess of a week of getting used to staying up an hour later and sleeping in if I don't have to. So far it's been two whole days, and it's working. Without changing a thing, I've moved my wake time back from eight to seven, and getting a better start to my day. I feel more virtuous because I'm starting earlier!

As I was plastering walls today, I was ruminating on the whole charade. What's so magic about getting up 'earlier'? I still have the same number of hours in each day. I'm not punching a time clock nor is there anyone who particularly cares what time I start work. I'm working the same number of hours; starting at the same relative time I have for the past month. What part of starting at 'eight' instead of 'nine' is better?

All I could figure is that it's one of those rules I've carried over from my younger days. Sleeping in is bad, getting up early is good. It'll be interesting to see how long past the day the kids move out my newfound virtue will last. I'm guessing it won't be long. There will be no one to tell on me if I roll over and watch the sky for a while in the morning instead of hopping out of bed to be productive. I think perhaps I've overdone the whole productivity thing this year anyways.

It'll be interesting to see if I can convince me it's OK to stop doing for a while, and just let myself be. I don't think I'll be able to do nothing for long - I tend to slide down into depression without a to-do list, but I'm looking forward to changing the tenor of the items on the list. 

Perhaps instead of opening the lids on paint cans, I will open the lid of my piano and see if my brain and fingers can figure out how to work together and make some music once again. Instead of putting paint on walls, I will put it on paper and work on watercolors. (My friend, Rose, has a zoom art class she's been taking that I can join, so this one is high on the probability list.)

Instead of shifting the hours I sleep and wake, I will shift the activities I do within the hours. Back to Retirement 2.0 (COVID version) with me. Soon. I'm looking forward to the day...

Castle Progress Update

The project is coming along. We were close, so close, to having the house ready for them to move into by my overly ambitious target date of the first week of November. And then. (Life seems to have an endless supply of 'and thens'.)

In this case, it's the boiler. We'd had the furnace guy (who is also the electrician) look at the system earlier this year. At that time, he thought it could be helped to limp along until next year, at which point Joe and Rita planned to replace it. 

Time went on, we finished cleaning out the basement, took out a few walls. As I was cleaning up the debris, I found some tree roots from the zombie tree we cut down in the spring coming up through a crack in the basement floor (it REALLY doesn't want to die). The roots ran along the base of the concrete stair, then wound their way into the belly of the boiler. As I pulled them out, I felt some resistance; they'd wound their way around something on the inside.

At the time, I joked that we needed to make sure Albert took a good look at the unit before we turned it on, to make sure the roots weren't integral to the operation of the unit. Turns out I wasn't joking.

When he came back, just before the cold snap hit, to make sure all was OK, he got a better look at the unit than he'd been able to get with the wall blocking a good view of the burners and the inside of the box. The expression on his face was priceless as he tried to come up with a tactful way to tell us he'd rethought his conclusion from the spring, and really, really didn't want to even attempt to fire it up. The roots had wound their way into the rust of the burners - he no longer wanted to even attempt a repair.

So, we started looking at the tag, to dig into the details of when it was installed, how old it was. Turns out it was made before manufacturers started putting serial numbers on boilers - ?sometime in the sixties? I was already convinced we needed a replacement; that clinched the deal.

So, Albert is out looking for the best deal he can find on a new unit, and our local weather decided to turn unseasonably cold. With no way to heat the house, we've been closely watching a couple of thermometers we brought over, to make sure the plants, plumbing and paint supplies are safe. So far, so good; the house has stabilized around 40 degrees and tonight should see the last of the below freezing temps for the next few weeks.

But plaster and paint work can't be done when it's below 50, and so my work there has come to a screeching halt. I'm not complaining - I've been over there almost every day for the last three months; it feels good to just stay home for a bit. This latest wrinkle will push the move date out by a couple of weeks, but if that's the worst thing to happen to me this month, I'll be a happy camper.

The work will still be there when the temps go back up later this week. In the meantime, I have time to stop for a few days; to walk in the snow, to snuggle down in a blanket with a good book. I'd be a fool to complain.

One step at a time, more often forward than back - eventually, we'll get there.

A Helping Hand

Sometimes, we all need a friend to lend a helping hand.

For the last few months, I've been honored to have two of them - Ian and Tom - who have come to help at the castle pretty regularly.

There's still a lot of work to be done there, the remains-to-be-done list is dauntingly long, and I tend to get overwhelmed and begin to believe it's NEVER GOING TO GET DONE!!!!!, no matter how hard I work at it.

Then Tom shows up on Friday morning and we pick a spot to work on for the day. He is cheerful and brings a great attitude with him every time he shows up. He's also good at fixing stuff. He's the reason the trash is gone from the house and garage. He'd show up at 7:30 and we'd haul buckets until around lunchtime. It's not that I'm incapable of hauling buckets on my own, it's that company makes the job go much faster. His willingness to tackle the mess made the piles seem smaller from the get-go. This past week was the first one where there were no remaining rooms of trash to be emptied - it felt odd to not have to dig out the wheelbarrow and buckets. (Instead, we took down all the broken windows for repair.)

Ian has also been showing up most weeks. He has zero experience working on a house, but is willing to do the grunt cleanup work that needs doing. He's peeled most of the wallpaper from the entry hallway, a necessary and tedious first step in being able to repair the walls. He's washed down woodwork, helped me clean up the garden, and last week, started cleaning a good decade's worth of dust and lost items out of the main bedroom radiators. (Sunglasses, old photos, and an old pill bottle were the most noteworthy finds.)

They freely give of their time and talent, asking nothing in return.

They remind me there was life before the isolation of COVID-19. My people are still there, I will get to laugh and eat and sit freely with them again one day, God willing.

They remind me not everyone is only in it for what they can get - sometimes, some people show up just to see what they can give.

They remind me progress, slow, steady progress, is being made. When they show up each week, and properly admire the work that's been done in their absence, it gives me before and after markers and I can see that, yes, I am not where I was yesterday. And, since I know they're coming, it give me motivation to be sure to have something done I can show therm.

The grace they've brought cannot be commanded or earned; it can only be freely given.

I don't feel worthy of their gifts, but I sure do appreciate them.

Plans? Who Needs Plans?

I retired a year ago. At the time, I was a little concerned because I hadn't made any real plans for how I would spend my time. I'd done a lot of reading on retirement prep, and the consensus there was that winging it is a bad idea.

Hmmm. The consensus didn't take the pandemic into account. Any plans I would have made wouldn't have come to fruition anyways in this topsy-turvy year. 

I spent the first few weeks of my retirement last October finishing up painting the exterior of my house, and visiting Alaska for a friend's daughter's wedding. November and December flew by as they always have, but with less time pressure around getting ready for the holidays. January and February, I enjoyed sleeping in and taking an art class, reacquainting myself with pencil and paper. By March, I was ready to start making some plans. I flew out to California intending to spend a few days on the beach figuring out what I wanted to do next.

Turns out, Covid-19 decided what I wanted to do next was to go into lockdown mode. Instead of spending my California days indolently lounging on the sand, I spent them helping my daughter and granddaughter adjust to staying at home. It wasn't what I'd planned, but I enjoyed myself thoroughly. I came back home at the end of the month to an empty calendar; the classes I'd planned to take had all been canceled.

So, I decided to help Joe and Rita out for a month or so with their castle restoration effort. A month turned into eight, and we're targeting for them to move in the first part of November. (Yes, it's really that close! Not like it'll be done or anything, but most of the second story will be livable and the kitchen and bathroom will be functional. I'm excited for them - it'll be a cool place to live!)

So, here I am. A year into retirement, I am right where I started. I have the same list of perhaps and wishes and maybes I had put together a year ago. Heck, give or take a few items, I have the same list of house fix-it tasks I did then.

But this time around, I'm not as concerned about those non-existent plans of mine. Winging it has served me well. Despite everything, life is good, and I am grateful. 

Instead of fretting about canceled opportunities, I've been taking things one day at a time. I will continue to do so until either the virus catches me despite my precautions, or a vaccine comes onto the scene. I do hope to sign up for some online classes. Rumor has it that I can zoom into any number of yoga and art classes to occupy my mind once I don't have the baby and his parents around to distract me. 

Those comfy jammie pants I bought last year are still serviceable, and I have started to gather a new stack of books to read. That's enough plans for me for now. 

Here's to year 2 of retirement - I'm looking forward to the gifts it will bring!

Same Ol', Same Ol'

I keep losing track of the days, the weeks. (According to the interweb, I have a lot of company.) My days have become a round of get up, work at the castle, come home, play with the baby for a bit, do the necessary chores to keep my house from falling apart, stretch, go to bed, repeat. I've worked there almost every day since my return from Minnesota in early August; it's a lot like having a job! The only thing that seems to change is the household chore of the day, and when that's the high point of my day, I think I need a bit more variety, just sayin'.

It feels as if I make no progress at the castle, but I know that's not accurate. I have proof otherwise - I've started jotting down what I did each day in my calendar, and when I look back, the progress tracks are clear. 

The bathroom tile is almost complete; we just need to set the shelves and install the grout. When I finished work today, three of the upstairs rooms were ready to paint. I've started to set goals for myself - the current one is to have the rooms painted by Friday. I've been telling people I'd like to have it move-inable by the end of October. I know it's a stretch, but if Joe and I keep at it, it's not out of the realm of possibility.  (I'll keep you posted!)

I found a happy spot in the garden there earlier this week. A friend of mine had brought over lunch, and I was trying to find a quiet place we could sit, so wandered with him to the lower level of the garden. There's a curved stone bench there, the seat protected from the wind that day by the high stone back. I'd never sat on it before, just cleaned around it as I tried to reclaim the garden from the zombie trees. (also known as the Tree of Paradise, they are persistent weed trees - some of the ones we cut down late in the spring sprouted baby trees from the trunks lying on the ground, both cut edges exposed to the air. I had to admire their grit and determination to survive, even as I figured out ways to make them go away and stay gone.)

We sat, distributed our lunch, and started talking. As we talked, I looked ahead and realized I could only see one building from my vantage point - the well-maintained back side of a hospice center. The rest of my vision was filled with a sea of trees filling the slope down to the park behind the house. I could hear children laughing in the distance as they explored the playground there, a happy and welcome sound. The sun was warm on my face, the sky a beautiful autumn blue, studded with fluffy white clouds.

I swear I felt happy vibes emanating from the stone seat I was sitting on. I like to think someone spent a lot of contented minutes there enjoying a pocket of wilderness in the heart of the city. I also like to think the bench welcomed our presence; it's not been sat on for a lot of years. I think it's been a little lonely.

I've decided to do my best to make sure it doesn't get too lonely again this season. Already, I've stolen some time from more important work to clean up the dead treelets (I sprayed them a month ago with Roundup, it killed over half of the zombie babies), to pick up the sticks littering the ground, to gather the stone fragments into a pile and to remove the inevitable pieces of broken glass and bits of mortar. I can't count this effort as work, though I've already filled four leaf bags with stick fragments. Rather, I count it as tending my soul as well as the soul of the garden - both a bit tattered and unkempt, both ready for the darkness of the winter season soon to come - for myself, I hope it will be a time of rest, reflection and renewal.

In the meantime, I am reminded to stop and see the beauty in front of me - nature is showing her brightest colors as she prepares for winter's rest.

Beauty Is.

Add Water

As I was working at the castle this week, it struck me how easy my work has been made by the people who make plaster and mortar mixes. As I walked into the upstairs hall today, I took note of  the five different products sitting there waiting their turn to be used. I have plaster, sheetrock joint compound, mortar of two types (one for tile and one for tuck pointing stone), and grout.

To get each to a workable state, I just add water.

It gives me great respect for the craftsmen of yore. They had to know what they were doing in order to get the mixes right. This much sand, this much lime, this much cement to mix mortar. Leave out the lime, mix properly, and you get grout. This much lime or gypsum, cement and sand, viola, plaster. Lime and talcum powder (and other optional stuff) renders joint compound.

Me, I'd have no idea where to go to gather the correct materials, let alone properly mix them to get the desired goop. Probably, the separate components can still be purchased, but I'm pretty sure there aren't many left around who'd have any clue of what the proper mortar recipe might be. We've forgotten how to mix the ingredients to come up with a compound that will hold a wall together instead of crumbling into a pile of sand as soon as it dries.

And then my mind wandered to the everyday miracle elixir we call water; the 'just add water' part. Let the seed of a plant have access to air and water, and it will begin to grow. Add a cup of hot and a cup of cold water to jello mix, and you get a favorite childhood treat of mine. I drink several bottles of water each day, turning on the faucet and refilling my container without conscious thought. On the hot days of summer just past, I'd have not gotten in more than an hour or two of work each day without it. I can tap a few buttons on my phone, turn on the sprinkler system and water the yard - the water will cost me just a few dollars, and it will keep the grass alive. Take it away from most plants for more than a couple of weeks, from people for more than a few days, and life ends.

Where I live, tap water is clear, free of toxins, tasty. I don't have to walk to a well to draw a container full and sloshily carry it home to have something to drink. It's so easy for me to take it for granted - I appreciate the reminder, wherever it came from, that this is a huge blessing, a luxury.

So, let me raise a metaphorical glass to the brilliant people who measured and tested and came up with foolproof recipes for all kinds of things to which we can just add water. They've made my life better, and for this, I am grateful.

No More Drugs

To increase my chances of keeping my cancer at bay, I'd been taking Tamoxifen for the past eight years. I'd done pretty well on it, but since I've officially reached menopause, it was no longer an effective deterrent, so my oncologist switched me to Arimidex, one of the aromatase inhibitors, several months ago.

It was not a happy switch. There's a long list of negative side effects with the drugs, and before long, I was experiencing a lot of them. Swollen and achy joints, unhappy digestive system, uneasy sleep, almost daily migraines (mild ones, but still!). The worst part was the depression. I've struggled with it for years, but have learned some great coping tools and usually manage to keep it more-or-less under control. Not this time. I went down, down and down some more. Enough so, that when I went in to see the doc for a checkup, I planned to ask her for an antidepressant prescription.

When I got to my appointment, she asked how I was, and I responded, "Whiny." I then proceeded to go through my list of woes, hoping she'd have some options to help alleviate the worst of the side effects. To my surprise, when I'd finished, rather than telling me to keep bucking up, she said, "I think you've had enough. You've stayed on the drugs for eight years. While ten is the gold standard, few of my patients ever make it past seven. You've reached your toxicity tipping point."

And with that, I was done.

While I'm thrilled to begin to see what life is like without drugs whacking out my hormones, I also find myself a bit apprehensive. The drugs were the magic potion that kept my cancer away. If I no longer take them, does that mean my cancer will come back?

It might. And, I might get hit by the margarita truck tomorrow.

Today is the only day I have; I will do my best to make it a good one.

It's been a couple of weeks since I stopped taking the drugs, and I have already seen some improvements. My poor little sausage fingers are much better, sometimes I can actually curl them into a fist again. My digestive system is slowly recovering its equilibrium, and my appetite is returning. The headaches have largely abated (whew!). Sadly, I'm still not sleeping well, but this is where I pause and give thanks I no longer need to get up at a certain time to get to work each day. I'm still struggling to climb out of my depression hole, but at least I've managed to halt the downward spiral.

It'll take another month or two (at least) for my body to regain its balance. It'll be interesting to see where I land. I know it won't be back where I started - eight years is a long time, and I have a feeling that I'll discover that some of the things I'd been blaming the drugs for will actually turn out to be normal signs of aging. 

Despite everything, I still can't quite manage to think of myself as a cancer survivor. Rather, I give thanks each day I finish NED, with No Evidence of the Disease. So far, so good.

Random Kindness

 

I got up bright and early Saturday morning, and headed off to the castle. It was raining for the first time in at least a month, the kind of rain the plants love. Not too heavy, not too light, rather, a steady drip from the skies granting relief to the parched soil.

I pulled up to a stoplight, and had to brake hard on the summer-oiled pavement, activating the antilock brakes. My entire dash lit up with an array of lights - the expected slippy car and ABS lights, yes, but also the low charge indicator on the battery - and the engine died.

I turned the key off, then back on, trying to restart the motor. The only sound from under the hood was the click, click, click from the starter. I tried again, same results. The light changed, and I tried to turn on my flashers to alert the cars behind me. No dice, I didn't have enough charge even for that. I opened my door and waved the cars to go around me; with some grumbling and just a little honking, they did.

As it pulled around, a beat-up old orange pickup of dubious vintage slowed, then backed up to park directly in front of me. The driver, a thirty-something guy with a medium build and a long beard, wearing jeans and a "Freedom is a Right" t-shirt, with no mask in sight, hopped out into the rain and came back to ask me if I needed some help. In no mood to argue the merits of a mask in the midst of a pandemic (after all, we were outdoors, it was raining, and we were six feet apart), I explained what had happened, and he nodded sagely. "Yup, either the battery or alternator", he agreed.. Either way, the car was not going to start where I was stranded, and without flashers to alert oncoming traffic, I was in a dangerous spot. He said he had a chain, offered to pull me off the street and over to a nearby parking lot. A little leery, but unwilling to take my chances on a collision by leaving the car where it was until AAA would be able to show up in an hour, I agreed.

He'd done this before. It took just a minute to dig the chain out of the debris in his truck bed, and he quickly got it hooked up under my bumper and to the spot on his rear end where the bumper would have been mounted if said bumper was actually attached to the vehicle. We hopped back in our cars, and he smoothly pulled me out of harm's way, around the corner, into the lot, and neatly into a parking spot. (or two, but let's not get picky here!)

Let me pause for a moment to give thanks for power steering and brakes - the car was NOT easy to maneuver without them. I spend the entire less-than-a-minute I was being towed frantically yanking on the wheel and stomping on the brakes with all my might to avoid crashing into the back of his truck.

Now we were safely out of traffic, he offered to see if giving the car a jump would work. I readily agreed, and he went back to the cab of his truck, dug a bit more, and came up with a set of jumper cables. We popped the hood, he hooked them up, and we gave it a shot. The car started right on up. As we waited to see if the battery would take a charge, we chatted just a bit.

He said it was just chance that had him driving down the road behind me - if he hadn't needed to drop off a something with a friend nearby, he wouldn't have been anywhere near me. I thanked him, offered him all the cash I had on me - ten bucks - but he declined. He didn't want money for doing what decent people ought to do when they see someone in trouble and they can help.

After five minutes or so, we tried unhooking the cables, and the gauge immediately dropped to zero - there was no way the car was going to make it to the nearest auto parts store, just ten minutes away. I could see his wheels turning, wondering what else he could do, but I stopped him. I was safe, my car was safe, and I had friends I could call.

He smiled, said goodbye, climbed back in his truck and drove off before I remembered I hadn't even asked him his name.

Good Is.

---------

Footnote: I called Joe, and he was able to come get me. He ran up to the auto parts store, picked up a new battery and the car started right on up. Today, I took it to my mechanic - sure enough the alternator was also on the blink - and got it replaced. When I get tired of looking at the scratched paint on the bumper, I'll get it fixed. (his chain popped it a bit off kilter and messed up the paint). The $200-ish cost to repaint will be a small price to pay for a quick resolution to what could have been an ugly situation.

Castle Progress

I love having Joe, Rita-Marie, Joe B, and their pets stay with me, and they need to not be here any longer than is absolutely necessary. Both parts of the sentence are true. We are all playing nice and getting along pretty darn well. We've figured out ways to not step on each other's toes, and no one steals anyone else's cookies. Still, I don't think I'm just projecting when I say they are tired of essentially living out of suitcases and that they miss having their stuff around.

On a project this big, it's easy for me to get lost in the enormity of what has not yet been done and get overwhelmed, but when I take a step back, we've made tremendous progress.

When Ted was working on the plumbing, he started a string of messages - as he finished work each day, he'd take a photo of what he'd done that day and text it to us with a simple caption: Progress.

Enough photos, enough days, and the plumbing rough-in is now complete. Progress.

The electrical work is essentially complete. Progress.

The roofers came back almost two weeks ago, and are moving rapidly ahead. Their work is beautiful, and they fixed the leak above the third floor stairwell before it rained again, which means my hard work at plaster repair was not done in vain. Progress.

My attempt to learn to repair plaster without cheating and filling most of the hole with Sheetrock has been a success! *pats self on back* (see above photos) Progress.

Joe has finished building out the new shower for the bathroom. Progress.

We've finished hauling debris out of the house and garage. Since there's no more water coming in, we've been able to clean out the rotten stuff and treat what's left to get rid of the remaining mold. (turns out the magic answer to getting rid of mold you can get to is to spray it with two solutions: first, use borax water. After it dries, respray with straight vinegar. It takes a few days for the vinegar odor to dissipate, but when it's gone, so is are the active mold spores!) Progress.

I have been spending more time over there; I work every day I can. It doesn't feel like I get much done each day, but it turns out that showing up is over half the battle. By taking baby steps each day, progress automagically happens. Who knew?

We're still hoping they'll be moved in before the heating season starts. It's been a project and a half, but one day it's going to be a show place again. She's been neglected for a long time - it feels good to be part of the team working to restore to her former stately beauty. 

Happy 1st Birthday to Joe B.

 

What a difference a year makes.

A year ago, Rita-Marie was experiencing premature labor. Her water had broken too soon, and she was on complete bed-rest trying to make it 48 hours before giving birth, to give the lung maturing steroids a chance to take effect. Joe waited out the 48 hours, but not much longer before making his appearance.

While labor and delivery went well, he spent the next 23 days in the NICU learning how to eat, breathe and swallow. He was so small, so delicate, so still. I didn't realize until I met him how quiet preemie babies are - they spend ALL their energy growing with almost none over for moving.

We rejoiced when he had no breathing problems and was able to come home over a month before his original due date. He's been a champion grower ever since. He made his way to 5% on the growth charts by his November appointment; for his one-year checkup last week, he was in the 97th percentile for height and 85th for weight.

He's completely caught up to his age-mates. He's got the crawling thing down, and has started to use his little walker to help him take his first steps. He loves sticks; has mastered up-stairs. We have to keep close tabs on him when he's loose because there are times he'll get halfway up the stairs and decide he's tired and try to sit down. (I hope his complete trust that there will be always someone to catch him to keep him from falling lasts a good long time.) He hasn't mastered the down-stairs motions at all, so caution is warranted, but soon.  Soon.

He's selected his first word, "Uh-oh", but has otherwise gone a bit quiet. I miss the background noise of his happy babble - my theory is that he's busy sorting the sounds into words.

He's almost done being a baby - racing around the corner into toddlerhood as I watch. As much as I will be happy for all of us when he and his parents are finally able to move out of my home into their castle, I already dread the occasion, for I know I will miss seeing him every day. (On the plus side, their new home is much closer to my place than their old one, so I anticipate I'll be able to see him fairly often.)

I still find myself trying to hold on to the days, the hours; to capture those perfect moments when I walk into the room and he sees me and smiles his slow grin that reminds me of my dad's. While I will likely never figure out how to pause time, the futility of wishing I could has me learning to stop and savor the moments when they are there - no small feat. 

Happy 1st Birthday, Joe! I am so grateful you are here to brighten my days and lighten my heart. Keep growing strong; you're doing a great job!

Good Things

My friend Jean came by for a socially distanced drink a few days ago. She brought a box of ridiculous sunglasses with her, and let us each choose a pair. I got the sunflowers, Rita picked the flamingos, and Joe got the penguins. And, she brought me soap bubbles. I laughed.

When I was driving yesterday, I passed a tall, fifty-something, slightly stooped, white man standing on a street corner. He was dressed in a plain blue shirt and shorts, holding a tray of bubble soap, creating bubbles for the passing cars. No sign, no visible agenda, just iridescent bubbles floating serenely in the air. I laughed.

My daughter's landlord told her on Friday he was going to put his house on the market soon, and she'd need to find a new place to live. She got online, looked at the available options, and found a place that meets all her checkboxes. She visited it Sunday morning, and by Monday night had a signed lease; an amazingly short search time. One less worry.

Young Joe has spoken his first word: Uh-oh. He uses it in a versatile fashion. In his lexicon, it can be a question, a statement, uncertain, definitive, or some combination of the above. I think it's adorable!

My friend Tom has come by several times over the past month to help clean up the assorted piles of trash at the castle. Sometimes, he brings his grandkids, sometimes, he comes alone, always, he brings a cheerful attitude and willingness to haul wheelbarrow loads of stuff to the dumpster. When he helps, I can more clearly see the renovation work will not stretch on forever, even if it feels that way at times.

I had a wonderful visit with my sister in Minnesota last week; got to spend some good time with her, my granddaughter and my daughter. She hosted a socially distanced lunch for us, so I got to see some of my favorite family people. I got some rest, enjoyed exercising in the cool morning air, caught up with people's lives and was able to gain some perspective on the worries of my life. That's a lot of good from one week.

Oh, and she was able to get her massage therapist to come by the house to give me a massage. Wonderful!

I saw my formerly-tortured-by-bedbugs friend this morning. The infestation is finally under control - he hasn't seen any bugs in four or five days. He looks much better; has finally been able to get some good sleep again. (And, I have still found just the one at my house. If there were ever a time to beat the odds, this is it!)

I've been a little down, a lot overwhelmed. But when I stop to look, I find good in each and every day. Not great things - they are small things, even, but they are good things. They give me hope, help me take one more step. I am grateful.

Goodbye, Todd

Todd Bursch
Jan 1964 - Jul 2020

Cancer sucks. Just sayin'.

I liked him, but can't say, despite the fact he was married to my sister for 32 years, I knew him well. Todd was uncomfortable when thrust into large groups of people; a bit hard of hearing. Since our family is large, and I rarely saw him outside group gatherings, my sense of him is mostly filtered through conversations with my sister, Colleen.

He was a man who wasted few words. Once, he called Colleen, who was at an appointment at the hospital. "Haley (their daughter) is hurt. I'm taking her in."

That was it; the entire message. 

Colleen was at wits end. What????? By the time she caught up with them and learned Haley fallen on a piece of play equipment and managed to tear a big gash in her thigh, requiring stitches, Haley had been stitched up and taken care of. It took Colleen quite a bit longer to collect her scattered nerves and calm them down.

I do have a few treasured memories of my own. Back when my son was learning to drive, he was having trouble keeping the car centered in the lane, and I didn't know how to help him guide the car. Todd drove trucks for most of his life, and since we happened to be staying there overnight, I asked him if he'd give Joe a few pointers.

We went out in the car, and Todd watched for just a few minutes. From the backseat, I listened as, in his calm steady voice, he told Joe to keep the middle of the hood centered on the stripe on the side of the road. (or, in this case, since we were on a gravel road, the edge of the dirt.) It was exactly what Joe needed - he straightened out the car, finished the drive into town for whatever it was we were fetching, and from then on, had no more issues with wandering about his lane. I was most grateful for the parenting assist!

We first heard Todd had cancer shortly after we buried Libby; about eighteen months ago. They did surgery to remove his kidney; were optimistic the cancer was contained and they'd gotten it all. Sadly, their optimism was short-lived. There were a few rogue cells hiding out and by October of last year, they'd grown enough to show up on the scans. *sigh*

Kidney cancer doesn't respond well to chemotherapy, and they couldn't do further surgery because of the location of the tumor. The diagnosis set the end of the road, but Todd didn't let it stop him from living.

He made a lot of lifestyle changes - changed the foods he was eating and lost some excess weight to reduce the workload of his remaining kidney and liver. For several months, despite the diagnosis, he felt no ill effects; to the contrary, the changes he had made had him feeling better than he had in some time. He had time to tidy up some loose ends; to tell his people he loved them - no small gift.

But the cancer had its way, as cancer will. When he started to go downhill, he mercifully went down pretty quickly. Colleen told me his end was peaceful. His children were all able to be near, to say goodbye. As he left this world, they drew in and provided support for one another, continuing a lifelong pattern of close knit love.

Todd, I am sorry you have left this life too soon. I hope and pray you are in the better place your sustaining faith promised is beyond death's door. For me, you continued the lessons Libby started to teach; reminded me cancer is not the enemy. The enemy is fear. You didn't let fear rob you of the days you had - in these days of pandemic uncertainty, I needed the reminder of the lesson.

Rest in Peace. 

We will miss you.

Plans?

I've still been struggling with my lack of retirement plans. It seems I should have some, but beyond helping Joe and Rita get into their house, I don't. (And they SHOULD be in there sometime in the next few months.) Without plans, I feel adrift, directionless. I always told my kids they needed to have plans, because that way they'd know what they were deviating from - and here I am, not following my own advice.

Since I retired last October, I've tried several times to scope out a tentative path, but each time, life just didn't work out that way. (No thanks to COVID-19, which seems to delight in upending not only my plans, but those of most people on the planet.) 

Then, earlier this week, I stumbled across an editorial in the New York Times. The article isn't typical of them. I usually read the paper for its political and national news; to find a feel-good story about bread and roads and traveling and plans or the lack thereof was a surprise twist in my daily reading.

The author, Emily Scott, is a Lutheran minister; her story in the paper talked about leaving a long-term assignment and taking six months on the road in a camper van to recenter herself. (Sound familiar?) She experienced the same disconnection from time and place I did back in the long ago when I was able to take my similar journey. She speaks of Jesus gathering people, yes, but also scattering them in ones and twos to carry on his ministry. She speaks of her longing to share bread; to share a meal with a large group around a crowded table, bumping elbows and passing the food.

I read the article several times, convinced it was written just for me, placed in the paper because my soul needed to hear her message.

She ends her piece by saying:

In Erie, Pennsylvania, I rolled into a campsite and backed my van up to the edge of the great lake, surrounded by Harley-Davidsons. I shared a beer with a biker who had one thing to tell me about my trip: Don’t plan a thing.

“Because all my plans will fall apart?” I asked.

“Not only that,” he answered, “but because when you don’t plan, things will happen you wouldn’t believe.” He winked, his bristle of mustache rising mischievously as he smiled.

During this pandemic, I can’t depend on communion each Sunday as I used to. But there will still be bread. Here, on the road, between the old life and a new one, we have the opportunity to be remade. Who will we choose to become?

The pandemic has changed our lives. Like when I took off in the camper van, when it subsides we will not be where we started, nor will we be able to go back there even if we want to. This is a scary time, yes. But that doesn't mean there isn't wonder to be found ahead on the road.

I needed the reminder. Thank you Rev. Scott

Link to original article:  https://www.nytimes.com/2020/07/19/opinion/start-looking-and-youll-see-roads-all-over-the-bible.html

New Skills

3rd floor stairwell

There's nothing like a project house to teach one new skills.

The front bedroom of the house has some water damage on its curved ceiling. Normally, when I do a plaster patch, I reinforce the hole, cut a piece of sheetrock to more-or-less fit, and tape and mud around the edges. In this case, that won't work. Sheetrock doesn't curve well. 

I looked up methods of traditional plaster patching on the internet. Near as I can piece together, the best way to properly patch plaster is to repair the underlying lathe boards, apply a couple of coats of plaster patch, then end with a coat or three of Sheetrock joint compound. (If you're really good, you can do plaster on all the layers, but the stuff is deucedly hard to sand, so the method does not come highly recommended. And, I'm moderately OK, but I'm not really good at this. Let's not kid ourselves.)

While I am pretty sure my patching skills are up to the task, I decided maybe, just maybe, I should practice on an out of the way repair spot first, before tackling the highly visible bedroom ceiling. What the heck. So, earlier this week, I started on the fix on the ceiling of the stairwell going up to the 3rd floor. The spot meets all my test criteria - it's out of the way, a similar type of ceiling repair, and approximately the same size as the hole in the front bedroom.

So far, it's going pretty well. I replaced the rotten lathe strips (and even put a new piece of insulation behind the boards). I covered all that with a first, then a second coat of plaster patch stuff. It didn't start out so well. Every time I'd pick up the knife full of goop and start to apply it to the ceiling, a good half of it would fall to the floor and get dirt crumbs in it which made it useless. I cussed under my breath, kept at it, and figured out the trick to make the stuff stick. I also learned to hold the mud bucket underneath the putty knife, so when it didn't stick, it would fall back into the bucket where I could try again.

Today, I put the first coat of Sheetrock mud on the mess. I wasn't sure how to tell if it was even close to level across, then remembered a trick one of the guys who once did work for me told me. You take a long straight board, hold it straight against the undamaged part of the wall, and let it overlap the patch. Slide it down the wall, and it'll scrape away the high parts. I tried it, and sure enough, it worked. *whew*

I figure it'll take me a couple of extra coats of mud and sanding to get it remotely level, but I do think I've got it. It was definitely a good idea to practice in an out-of-the-way spot first. 

Yup, yup. I can picture the final ceiling now. I'll be showing someone the restored house and say, "see where I patched the hole up there?  No?  Great!" Then, I'll smugly mentally pat myself on the back. Who says old dogs can't learn new tricks?

Happy 4th!

April lasted forever, but June just came and went without pause, so I'm pretty sure I now know where all the extra April days were pulled from. It does work that way, does it not?

Despite COVID, I had a wonderful 4th of July holiday this year. The original plan was for my niece to come into town from Minneapolis, and then the two of us would head to the Kansas hinterlands to visit her brother near his army base (his travel was limited to a fifty mile radius of base), but at the last minute, he was able to snag permission to expand that radius to 150 miles, which allowed him to come on in to my place. (which made us all happy - his sister got out of extra hours of driving, he got a break from his work at the base, and we all got to see more of him than we would have been able to in the nearby town where we'd originally planned to meet. As they say, win, win, win!)

It wasn't an action-packed weekend; we stuck close to home, but I think we were all good with that. We talked and laughed a lot. We ate too much good food, as is proper for the holiday. We enjoyed the baby, and even managed to get in a little bit of work at the castle, cleaning out the basement.

The visit left my heart a lot fuller, the aches of my soul eased just a bit.

I am introverted by nature, and sometimes don't realize the toll the isolation imposed by COVID is taking on my spirits until I skirt the quarantine rules to make room for the physical presence of people I love and miss seeing. Hugs are important, and thank goodness baby Joe and his parents are staying here, because otherwise I'd be starved for contact.

Speaking of the baby (which I can do at length at the drop of a dime these days), Joe is a study in motion these days. He started to crawl a couple of weeks ago, and gains in speed, agility, and dexterity by the day. We are trying to teach him to avoid light sockets and to be careful around stairs. So far, we've had far better luck with the former - if we say 'no' when he reaches for the flat plates, he quickly loses interest. However, when the single stair between the living room and porch catches his interest, and he zooms over there to try to figure out how to negotiate it, he is much harder to divert. So, when this happens, I usually just go sit on the floor and play catch the baby as he works on mastering the challenge.

Life is Good.

P.S. Bedbug update: Against all odds, it seems that I did manage to bring just the one bedbug home. (??!!!!??) On the recommendation of a local pest control company, I invested in pheromone and bed leg traps - they won't get rid of an infestation but will give you an idea how many resident pests you are sharing space with. The guy said, if we had bugs, we'd see evidence of them within 3-4 days after installing the traps. It's been almost two weeks, and the traps are all still clear. I don't want to jinx anything, but am starting to be cautiously optimistic. Maybe we've managed to dodge a bullet.  Maybe???  I hope???

Church Bells

There is a Methodist church just a block or so from me. Shortly after the lockdown started, I began to hear them playing their bells each day for about fifteen minutes, just before eleven.

When I am fortunate enough to be home and get to hear the music start playing, I immediately stop whatever important work I am doing and go outside on the porch to listen.

I set my feet on the ground to reconnect to the earth, lean back in my chair, let the notes carry me away, and remember to breathe for at least those fifteen minutes of the day. 

Some of the songs I know, and my mind supplies the choir to sing along. Some of the songs are unfamiliar, and for those, I just listen to the tones ringing through the air. 

My anxiety levels drop noticeably; the music helps me to remember that all will be well; that this, too, shall pass. I notice my breath, the beauty of the day, the flowers cheerfully waving from their beds.

I appreciated the music so much that I took a walk over there one day, and dropped off a thank you note addressed to the person who plays the bells. Knowing church ministers as I do, I must admit I wasn't overly surprised to receive a thank you for my thank you in the mail a week or so later.

Among other lovely things, she said, "the congregation was looking for ways to connect with the people in the area, wanting to let people know they are not alone." Beyond my immediate neighbors, I still know few of the people who live nearby. I don't know if I know any of the people who attend the church. But the music has worked its magic and when I hear the bells, I know I am not alone in my worries and fears and wish to connect. I feel as if I would be welcome should I ever poke my nose inside the doors of the church. Just knowing that helps to calm my soul a little bit.

They are all at home, but the good people are still out there somewhere. Figuring out ways to safely reach out to connect and love and live.

Good Is.

Bed Bugs. Eeeewwwww!

Loose Park Rose Garden

It was a normal day, just over two weeks ago, when I was visiting a friend in his apartment.

"Do you know what those bugs are?", he asked, pointing to a couple of small beetles crawling across the floor. Nope, I didn't. He has a penchant for bringing home fallen sticks to decorate his place; I thought he had brought the bugs in with one of his finds. Not thinking anything of it, I accepted a small box of food from him and left.

Dismissing the bugs was my first mistake.

Two days later, I got a call from the apartment management company. Those bugs were bed bugs. Normally sleeping off their nightly feed during the day, they were visible in daylight hours only because their numbers were so great that they couldn't all get their snacking done at night.

The manager was calling to ask me if I'd stop by his place to help him move the furniture away from the walls so his place could be treated. Right now, I am the only person who visits him. There is no one else to call when he needs help, and he has an old brain injury that makes him unable to work through the solutions to problems like this one on his own.

And I had brought a box home, and left it in my kitchen overnight.  Eeewwww!

Still, I hadn't seen any bugs, so I decided to keep a watchful eye out. I had a houseful of people at the time; I figured that I'd know soon enough if I had additional, uninvited, guests, because someone would get bitten. No bites over the next few nights.  *whew*

Back to the call: I gritted my teeth, said yes, and made my way back to the apartment a few days later. We moved all the furniture away from the walls, threw away the cardboard boxes and plastic bags he'd been collecting. We brought every piece of fabric in the place to the laundromat for the dry, wash, dry cycle that effectively kills the bugs, and placed them in trash bags in the kitchen as instructed. After I got home from helping him, I stripped outside, went straight to the shower, and put my clothes directly into the washer. We continued to keep our eyes open for bites, still none. So far, so good.

This was a week ago Thursday, the bug people were supposed to be there this past Monday. I went back over Wednesday to check on him. The minute I set foot in his apartment, I knew something was wrong. He hadn't slept, the furniture hadn't been touched. The treatment hadn't happened; a mixup between the pest control company and the apartment management team. They'd been able to work things out, and the treatment had been rescheduled for the same afternoon. Since I wasn't going to stay in his place a moment longer than necessary, we went across the way to a local park to talk.

To my horror, as we sat on a bench, properly socially distanced, I saw one bug, then another, crawl out of his clothes. In the fog of his exhaustion, he'd lost the energy to fight them. He'd become a walking, talking bedbug infestation.

As I inched away, moving to sit on the sidewalk, I asked him how he could stand the itching? Why hadn't he said something sooner? He looked at me blankly - it had taken him a long time to even realize they were biting. On him, the bites don't itch. He's part of the +/- 20% subset of the population who don't react to the bites. Until the people around him started to raise a stink, he didn't realize there was a problem.

EEEWWWWW!!!

I went home still shaking just a bit. I stripped out of my clothes outside the door. But, but. somehow, I missed one. At least one. I was sitting in the kitchen about thirty minutes later, and saw a bug crawling across the countertop. With dread, I squished it. An amazing amount of human blood for such a small creature poured out; a close examination confirmed my fears. I'd brought the pestilence home with me.

I was in his apartment less than five minutes. I'd touched nothing, sat on nothing. All I could figure was that it had dropped from the ceiling into my hair. 

I was in the shower within two minutes. (the pests drown easily.)

After my shower, as I sat contemplating my options, the apartment management team called again. There were so many bugs in his sofa and ottoman they needed to be destroyed. Would I come back to shrink wrap the items and move them out of the building? (Due to understandable liability issues, the building people are not allowed to go into an infested unit.) Wishing with all my heart to give another answer, I told her yes, I'd be back the next day.

Rita, my daughter-in-law, was listening to this conversation. When I hung up, she asked me if I'd like some help. I couldn't believe my ears. She's been listening to the story unfold, she knew how bad it would be over there. Yet there she was, offering to walk into bug hell with me. I have no words adequate to describe the beauty of character she showed in that moment.

After an uneasy night's sleep, our dreams/nightmares full of crawling bugs, the two of us went back yesterday. We were ready. There was a vacant apartment in the building; they opened it up for us to use the shower once we were done. We had plastic ziploc bags to put our clothing in once we were done, soap, towels, a change of clean clothing and shoes.

Reality wasn't as bad as the scenario in my dreams. The chemical treatment hadn't killed all the bugs, but it had put a significant dent in their number. With Rita to help, it was much easier to maneuver and plastic wrap the furniture, get it onto the dolly, and out to the dumpster. With two of us working in tandem, we were able to minimize the amount we had to actually touch the furniture with anything but our gloved hands. Reluctant start to showered finish, we were done in an hour.

We were both exhausted the rest of the day; are still fighting fatigue today. It took a LOT of emotional energy to walk into that apartment.

The heat wave worked in our favor yesterday afternoon. We put our bagged clothing into a trash bag in the hot sun, and left it there for hours. According to the meat thermometer I put inside, my car, parked in the hot sun with its black roof and black interior, it hit the magic 120 degree mark within the hour (they can survive less than ten minutes at temps over 118). When I retrieved the bags of clothing and examined them late in the evening, I saw a couple of bugs in the bags, but they were quite dead. I gave them all a bath in the laundry tub in the basement before bringing them upstairs to the washer, just to make sure, but they didn't try to swim, so they really were dead.

I called the pest control company who'd done the treatment to see what recommendations they could give to keep my house from getting infested. They sent me to a website to order some pheromone traps that'll tell me within a few days if I do have them wandering about my house. (Per the FexEx website, the traps will be here Monday.) If/when the pests do turn up in the traps, rest assured I will not sit around and let them multiply in peace. Professional treatment is pricey, and a pain in the butt to prep for, but I can dig up the money to pay for it. Peace of mind is worth a lot, and that's one of the reasons God made emergency funds. (For his apartment, the management company is scheduling a follow-up heat treatment - that should knock out any critters who survive the pesticide.)

I'm still trying to calm my nerves. I hate doing hard things. But if not us, who else would have done it? My friend is not capable of doing it on his own. There was no one else he could call. 

While bed bugs aren't mentioned specifically in any of the holy books I've perused, the stories therein do have a lot to say about helping out the poor, the afflicted. If this doesn't fall into that category, I don't know what does.

For the last few days, I've spent a lot of time mentally calling myself the stupid Samaritan, but I'm finally getting past that. Yes, I have to deal with the knowledge I probably brought some bugs home. Yes, the easy thing to do would have been to turn my head, walk away, and let it be someone else's problem. But in this case the easy thing would not be the right thing. Stupid or not, I would not be the kind of person I want to be if I ignored his plight.

Bed bug infestations be damned, I did good. Once some time has passed, and I get over the ick factor, I'll be glad for it. When I'm old and in my rocking chair and telling people this story, I'll be able to raise my head high and know that for this one moment in time, I was the hero.  

It'll be a good feeling.