Happy Winter's Solstice

This year, most years, in these darkest days of winter, I feel vulnerable.

I can't say I like the feeling. I prefer to pretend I'm in control of something more than the way I react to what happens in the world around me. I know it's not true, but I often pretend anyways. I pretend until the deepening cold of winter and the darkness of its days slice keenly through my pretenses, leaving me aware of my kinship to the babe in the manger; the one I was taught to adore as a child.

This year, I've felt tinier and more helpless than I have in many years. Climate change, and the pandemic still raging and mutating, feel so big. The toolbox of ways I have to help fix things feels, well, puny.

The drumbeat of doom is loud, unrelenting. Yet, yet. Beneath the roar, I can hear a tiny voice telling me to hope anyways. I ran across this tweet from Anne Lamott today; it fits my mindset:

Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait, watch and work: you don't give up. So we take care of the poor today. We pick up litter in our neighborhoods and trails. Left foot, right foot, breathe.

She's right. You don't give up. Sometimes, these times, I am tempted to. But when I let my mind take that path, all I can see is the darkness spreading unchecked. I really don't like that mental picture.

So, I mentally switch paths. The path of stubborn hope feels better than the other. At the end of the day, I sleep better the days I know I haven't given up. As I drift off, a small glow of hope created by the good I've been part of during the day coalesces into light. Sometimes the light is flickering of a candle, sometimes it's the steady glow of a nightlight ready to safely guide my steps should I wake in the night.

I do so prefer the light over the darkness, so today, I'm not going to give up.

This, too, shall pass.

Tomorrow night, I will light candles of Joy, Peace, Love, and yes, Hope. I will know I made it this far, and so far, all is well. I will thank the darkness for the lessons it brings (I wouldn't call getting in touch with my vulnerabilities a bad thing...), and know the dawn will come. 

Left foot, right foot, breathe.

Seeking Advent

I've had trouble falling asleep the last several nights. I've been exercising, eating right, going to bed at my usual time, all that jazz. but the minute my head hits the pillow, the worries start circling. And these are not things I can do anything about.

I worry about the weather - it's too warm outside, and global warming is real. I worry about my friend Sharon, who is fighting cancer, about Bob and his memory issues. I switch back to concern for those who face eviction in the next few months and the effects of gerrymandering on political districts. I pray for the children caught in the crossfire of gun rights and adolescent angst. I fret about the next variant of the virus catching someone I love. I mentally relive the parts of the day where I could have done better; chastise myself for falling short yet again of some imagined standard regarding how I should spend my time.

I toss. I turn. I try relaxing the backs of my eyes and my hands and the top of my head and my hip. Eventually, I fall asleep, only to half-wake several times in the night, my dreams a medley of missed connections and elevators that don't have the buttons for the floor I need.

I think part of my problem is that I haven't taken time to heed the message of the Advent wreath this year. Which is too bad, because it's one of my favorite messages; one of the stories I want to hold on to from my years of church-going.

I haven't stopped to light a candle, to breathe. I've noticed the days getting shorter and shorter, and have a good grip on the concept of darkness, but I've been skipping the part where this is the time of year when we stop and wait for the light of the world, who will be born despite the darkness.

It's easy for me, this time of year, to get stuck in a spiral of negativity and doom. But the spiral can't suck me down without my permission, and today, I choose to change my direction.

No, I won't ever be able to return to 'before', whichever 'before' I care to mark time from, but that doesn't mean there isn't good in today. I've just been forgetting to look for it.. 

Hmph. I hate it when my trust issues sneak up on me like that.

Tonight, I will work to change the litany. Before I go to bed, I will pause for a moment before the flame of a candle or three and remind myself that while light can drive away the darkness, darkness cannot extinguish the light. 

I will remember the Peace of the glorious sunset I saw earlier this week. I will recall the Joy I saw on the face of the tot in front of me in line at the post office this afternoon - his dad and I sang the itsy-bitsy spider song to him as he did the finger motions. I will bring to mind the faces of Love in my life.

I will trust the world to turn as it was taught; that winter's solstice will arrive as scheduled.

I will nurture Hope, because I can.

Goodbye, Uncle Jerry

Jerry John
November 2, 1932 - November 24, 2021

Another of my dad's brothers has died. (Eight of the nine children in his family were boys.) Uncle Jerry is the third to die this year, leaving just Eugene to hold down the fort here on earth.

I took a detour and went up to West Virginia to visit Uncle Jerry and Aunt Katie while on my camper van trip. While I was there, he decided I was old enough to hear some of the darker family stories - about how Grandpa would get in a bad temper when drinking. How my dad, seven years older, would melt into the background to avoid being the target of his dad's anger. How Jerry had the opposite reaction - he'd stand up, yell back, and presumably take more than a few licks of the belt for his trouble.

It was hard hearing, but I'm glad he told me the stories.

I can't begin to know how that unhealthy family dynamic warped his soul, but I do know that, while he loved his children, he also ended up having conflicted relationships with them. He could be a hard man to love - but he and Katie (OK, I gotta be honest, I give Katie much of the credit for the way their kids turned out) raised four great kids.

His Catholic faith was an important part of his life. He was pretty sure he was on the one path to eternal life, and did his best to convince everyone he met to follow the same road. He could be abrasive about it, and when I talked to him, I worked hard to keep the topic from turning to religion.

These past few years, as dementia took his mind away, I hear tell he mellowed. A lot. He let go of his anger, his unyielding certainties. His smile became unguarded, open. He became an easier person to love. 

His youngest daughter, my cousin Gina, lived not too far away, and made sure her parents were well cared for. She and her sister Theresa were there with him as he died - she posted a video of the two of them singing his soul on to heaven. I watched his funeral service dry-eyed, but tears flowed freely as I watched the two of them holding his hands and singing one of his favorite hymns.

Rest in Peace, Uncle Jerry.

I hope you are with your Jesus now; that you've made peace with your dad. I hope you, your parents, Aunt Florence, and your brothers are all sitting around in a big circle, busy catching up on all that's happened since you last saw each other. 

I hope your heaven is all you hoped it would be.

After Thanks

What a wonderfully chaotic heart-filling two days I had.

My quiet, orderly life was upended from start to end of the Thanksgiving holiday, and I loved every minute of it. I had the privilege of hosting the kid's house, and it reminded me of the good ol' days.

I had ten people staying here. These days, the 'kids' range in age from my granddaughter at ten, to Kate, in her mid-thirties, and everywhere in between. (I told my brother and his new wife that they had to get a hotel, mostly because I wanted her to still be speaking to us at the end of the weekend. I figured twelve people and one shower was too much to ask of anyone who hadn't grown up with our family.  I'm pretty sure I was right...)

Kate had taken the week off and came in last Sunday. We were able to just hang out for a few days and I loved it. We did the last of the house cleanup, stocked up on the food we'd need for the holiday. She slept in, and read books. We took walks and talked and talked and talked.

Everyone else trickled in starting on Wednesday afternoon. Dale and her crew, because they didn't have enough on their plates getting ready to host the entire crew the next day???, had invited us over for poutine; a pre-Thanksgiving treat. Those who were free trooped on over, and got to discover a new taste sensation. I'd not tried the traditional Canadian dish - gravy over cheese curds and french fries - but it tasted better than I thought it would. Delicious, even. Who knew?

On Thanksgiving Day, I got up early, per tradition, to make the pies. Once they came out of the oven, we all made our way back to Dale and Brian's place for dinner. She loves hosting the annual event, as she has for the past three or four big gatherings, and pulled it off flawlessly. After this year of spending so much time alone, my heart didn't quite know what to do with the physical presence of so many people it loves. The hugs and chaos slipped in to fill thirsty long-dried cracks and crevices in my soul, easing aches I wasn't even aware existed.

After dinner, we all made our way back to my place. Those who wanted to, walked down to watch the Plaza lights come on, one of my favorite parts of the day's traditions. (You might have to live here to understand why it's such a fun deal to meet up with tens of thousands of your closest friends to watch Christmas lights come on in an outdoor shopping center, but I have a lot of treasured memories around the event.) The walk comes with the added bonus of making room for pie, which was served as soon as we returned home.

Friday, we started out after breakfast so everyone could see Joe and Rita's castle and Ted's new house, so we could admire the work they've been doing to fix up their places. After lunch, I took shameless advantage of the available labor pool, and convinced them it would be quite fun to play a rousing game of rearrange-the-furniture. Dinner time came too quickly, as we all gathered one last time for turkey soup and biscuits.

They all left early Saturday morning in a flurry of hugs, taking their energy with them, leaving me to collapse gratefully in a chair. Two days later, I have the house straightened up. The towels and sheets are washed up, and the blankets have been folded; it's all ready to go back into storage for next time. The house is quiet, but they left a bunch of their love behind, so my heart is still content.

I am so grateful for those two good days. No drama, no fuss, no tears. Just friends and family and food - a reprise of celebrations past, a ration of hope.

Good Is.

Many Thanks

 

Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday, is later this week. I am looking forward to the weekend - I have a bunch of family coming into town, and someone else is in charge of cooking the main meal. How much better can it get???

And so, I give thanks.

For sunsets. Good Is.

For music - one of the Spirit's ways of helping me get in touch with my soul.

For the park nearby, where I take walks that keep both mind and body on a healthier path.

For those coming to town, to fill my house and heart with life and activity and hugs

For all I have learned from those in my life who have died - they taught me much.

For a snug house, where the heat comes on in the winter, the AC in the summer. I have ways to both cool and heat the food as needed, and hot water comes from the tap on demand. I can wash and dry my clothes without hauling them to the laundromat, and have lights, so I never need to sit in the dark unless I want to.

For my back yard. It's big enough for flowers, which satisfies my need to play in the dirt, but small enough to easily be maintainable. And when I sit on the porch swing and look around, I am content. (Any place where it's easy to find my happy place is a good place. So says me.)

For the gift of time. I've been able to retire while I'm still healthy. (knock on wood.) I am having trouble - mostly thanks to COVID - figuring out just how I want to spend my precious hours, but I am so grateful to have them to spend.  

For my friends, who listen to my joys and woes and give me good advice to help me navigate the ins and outs of life.

For my family. 

My cousins and siblings are a link to my roots, the place from whence I came. 

My children, nieces and nephews, They bring me joy. They let me glimpse the future; the days which will come after my days here are done. 

My grandchildren, hope personified.

For those who faithfully follow these, my weekly musings. Who let me know they value my words; who tell me my voice would be missed if I were not writing. 

For the goodness I find in every day. I've gone through more than one dark valley this last decade. In the darkest days, when I remember to look, I always can catch a glimpse of the stars. When I remember to look, Good is there. Always. 

Happy Thanksgiving!

Precious Life

A couple of months ago, as I was wasting my time dipping my gaze into one internet black hole after another, I stumbled upon a small gem. It often takes me longer than I'd like to fall asleep, and whoever it was (I wish I could remember) proposed choosing a poem, and reading it aloud just before settling into bed for the night. They said to choose just one poem a month, to allow time for the rhythm and message to settle into your brain. 

I found the idea intriguing; figured it was worth a try. So, one night I picked up the handy-dandy volume of Mary Oliver poetry (title: Devotions) that just happened to be at my bedside, and let it fall open to a random page.

Sometimes, random doesn't feel very random. Sometimes, the words on a random page are just the ones your heart needs to hear. Sometimes, I feel like the Universe has seen me, wandering a bit lost, and decided to give me a little affirmation, a boost, a hug, even. I am short on hugs these days.

I read the poem, 'The Summer Day', that night, and every night for the next thirty days. After a week or so, I barely needed to glance at the page, and instead of mulling over my day as I laid down, the words of the poem kept circling through my brain.

Who did make the world? And swans and black bears and grasshoppers - what beautiful diversity! Have I ever really seen a grasshopper? No, not the way she saw that one. Do I know how to be idle and blessed?  No. I don't. But perhaps I could learn to be. I am learning how to pay attention, and God knows I'm good at the falling down part. 

Yes, everything dies at last and too soon, both in my life, and in the COVID19-ravaged world outside my walls. I don't know exactly what a prayer is, but I pray every day anyways. My prayer has no definable words, it's mostly a yearning for Peace. I'm not even sure to what Source I direct the prayer, but my heart sends it to the Universe anyways, hoping against hope I will be heard.

And my life IS wild and precious. I can't see much in this fog I've been stumbling around in for the last year and more, but the days I am able glimpse the value I bring to the world are good days. I'll keep working on that plan thing, incorporating the concept of being idle and blessed. I think I'd like to be idle and blessed...

Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life? -- Mary Oliver

P.S. If you'd like to read the entire poem, click here:

https://www.loc.gov/programs/poetry-and-literature/poet-laureate/poet-laureate-projects/poetry-180/all-poems/item/poetry-180-133/the-summer-day/ 

I don't have permission to reprint the entire text, but they do...

P.P.S. It's working - I fall asleep faster than I did before embarking on this path.

Note to self: It wouldn't be working so well if the volume of poetry I'd picked up happened to be the one by Edgar Allen Poe, which is also in my bedroom. A great poet, yes, but his are not images I care to mull over as I fall asleep. Good to know for future reference.

Attic Work

Ah, the glamorous life of a retiree. Somehow, when I was picturing what life would be like post-paid-work, the picture of myself climbing over mounds of insulation in a low-ceiling attic never once crossed my mind. Go figure.

It all goes back to the new roof I had put on this summer. When they replaced the roof, they swapped out the old turbine vents for passive vents, then added some soffit vents, telling me the new system should be equivalent to the old. Wrong. My second floor was at least five degrees warmer on hot days than it had been before. On the hottest days, in a few spots, you could smell the superheated damp air seeping down from the attic.

I went back and forth with the roofer several times, trying to figure out what was wrong. Since I hadn't had this problem with the previous roof, I figured that missing turbine vents were probably the root of the problem. After several iterations, he begrudgingly agreed. He'd remove the passive vents and reinstall turbine vents, as long as I paid the material cost for the new vents. Grumbling beneath my breath, I accepted the offer. I mean, if they'd just done it right in the first place... Never mind. No need to go there.

Which left the question of the new soffit vents - were they doing what they needed to do, and letting air into the attic? I guessed not, since I knew the attic was full of blown insulation, and the roofer hadn't sent someone up there to make sure the vents were clear. I brought this up to him, and for only another $350, he said he'd send someone up there to check things out. This is where I drew the line. No way was I going to pay that much money for an hour's work. Mostly because I didn't trust them to do the job right.

Which is how, last week after the weather cooled, I found myself hauling out the ladder and a screw gun, loosening the attic hatch, and climbing up there to see what was going on.

As soon as I stuck my head into the space, it was clear why the venting hadn't worked. Sure enough, insulation was blocking the soffit vents, which meant there wasn't any air getting into the attic for the passive roof vents to let out. ("Told ya so!", chanted my inner two year-old.)

I'd come prepared. I was properly dressed, covered from head to toe, except for my cheeks - long sleeves, long pants, hat, goggles, breathing mask, gloves, headlamp. I had baffles to clear the air flow, screws and an impact driver to hold them in place, and a rake to move the insulation around.

Using a couple of handy boards left behind by my electrician, I took a deep breath and started body surfing my way across the attic, making sure I had a good base so I didn't put a foot wrong and add 'fix the hole in the ceiling' to my to-do list. A good core workout, I told myself.

I'd scouted the soffit vent locations from outside, so knew about where to find them, and by turning off my headlamp, I could see a glimmer of light making its way inside where each was trying to do its job. I made my way to one after another of the three spots, raked piles of fluffy stuff out of the way, kinda-sorta put a baffle in place, and moved on. I gotta admit - my work wasn't pretty. It wasn't precise and it wasn't clean, but I didn't care. I don't think anyone's going to go up there and check it any time soon, and I got the job done.

Since I was up there (what the heck), I took some time to see if I could figure out why the smell of the attic had been coming down to the second floor. Once I'd wormed my way to that area, which, of course, was at the far end of the attic, the issue was clear. Someone had pushed the insulation to the side to do some work, and had forgotten to push it back - there was virtually no insulation covering that part of the ceiling. It took just a minute, using my handy-dandy rake, to fix THAT problem, and I was done.

I turned around and surfed my way back to the access port, stopping to rake a pile of insulation across all the bare spots I encountered as I crawled along.

As I climbed down the ladder, I checked the time. It had taken me a little over an hour to do the job. For once, my time guesstimate for a job had been spot on. Thinking about the $350 I hadn't paid the roofer, I gave myself a mental pat on the back. Who says I can't make the big bucks!

Since the hot days have passed for this year, I won't know if the problem has been resolved until next summer, but I'm not concerned. I'm pretty sure I got it fixed. That's one down!

No, don't call me to see if I'll check your attic. No, not even if you'll pay me the big bucks. Just, no.

Building a Gate

So. As part of my big remodeling project, I took down part of the fence surrounding the back yard. When I did so, I set aside one section of the fence to build a gate between the remaining back fence and the corner of the garage. I put the fence section out of the way, behind the garage, and added an item, "build gate", to my to-do list.

That was six or seven years ago, and the to-do item has moved from list to list to list. Each time I moved it, I'd think, "I should really just tackle the gate. I can't imagine it would take that long." The fence section has stayed right where I put it, but weeds grow up under it, and every time I'd have to yank it free it from its green tangle, and clear the mess underneath it, I'd think, "I should really just take some time and make this into a gate. It wouldn't take too long."

Then, I'd move on, and forget about it until the next time.

I've been bound and determined to get to the bottom of my outdoor to-do list this summer, and a couple of weeks ago, I decided I had time to build the gate. I started right after breakfast - it ended up taking four whole hours to complete, including the time it took to make two trips to the hardware store.

Every time I do something like this, I scratch my head. I mean, I know it wasn't a high priority, but I let the project take up head space for SIX YEARS before I did anything about it. Because????

I suppose it's because there's a part of me that's a master at procrastination. I got it from my dad, who used to pull similar stunts. He'd let something go for ages, finally tackle it in an afternoon, then stand there looking at it with a half-smile on his face, shaking his head at it. The practice drove me nuts, and I swore I'd never be like that, but here I am, half-smile, shaking head, and all.

And, I gotta admit, I wouldn't have felt nearly as righteous, getting to cross "build gate" off my list if I'd finished in a more timely fashion. I wouldn't have brought up the mental picture of my dad's smiling face - a face I dearly miss. 

I'm trying to be kinder to myself these days, so instead of dwelling on the part where I procrastinated on a simple project for half a decade, I'm going to try to focus on the second part - the part where I DID get it done. I will hold to the image of my dad peering down from his comfy perch on high, shaking his head with a half-smile, and saying to his brothers (who are lounging in their matching comfy perches), "she's done me proud."

I hope so, Dad. I really do.

NYT Crossword Puzzle

When I was a kid, there was a phrase that was the gold standard for someone's intellect. If someone was exceptionally sharp, people said of them: "She solves the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle each week. In ink."

The Times has changed along with the rest of the world, and it is no longer required to use ink, or any other physical marking device to fill out the puzzles - they have an app. As a retirement gift to myself, I bought me a subscription.

When I started working on the puzzles, two years ago, I could pretty much always fill in Monday's grid with no problem. Tuesday, I could do with some help from Google, Wednesday and Sunday were a bit iffy. Thursday, Friday and Saturday were beyond me. (The puzzles start with easy ones on Monday, then get progressively more difficult through the week, with Sunday's puzzle being a larger (thus taking longer to reason through) version of the grid, at the difficulty level of  Wednesday puzzles.)

Well, practice helps, and over time, I've gotten better and better at solving the puzzles. I do use Google to help me along, but I have rules for myself. Because the crossword puzzle is so popular, all you have to do is type in the clue, and the answer will pop up. I don't look at those sites, that's cheating. But I figure looking up the winner of the 2012 Best Actor award, or the MVP player in the 1994 World Series, or any other answer I could look up in my non-existent set of encyclopedias, is fair game. I figure this partly because the help guidelines from the NYT say this sort of lookup is OK, and partly because I'd never solve the end-of-the-week puzzles without the help.

Like most apps out there, this one has a hook. If you solve the puzzle, without having the app help you by checking for wrong answers, on the same day the puzzle is published, you get a gold star. If you check your answers partway through, or do the puzzle later in the week, you just get a blue star. And, it keeps track of your consecutive gold star days.

Not that I'm competitive with myself or anything, but this challenge is tailor-made for me. At first, I had only two day streaks (Monday/Tuesday puzzles) in my column. Then, those Wednesday puzzles started to be solvable, and my streak made it to four days.

One magic day, I was able to work my way through a Thursday puzzle; Friday and Saturday fell under my power shortly thereafter. (There is obviously a trick to these things...) My winning streaks got longer - 8 days, then 14, then 30! 

I started a new streak in early January of this year. I was able to figure out puzzle, after puzzle, after puzzle. Quite proud of myself, I was, and I made it 146 days before my brain just wouldn't work through a Friday puzzle. I tried doing it that morning, got stuck. I went back to it in the afternoon (usually a good way to work through a stuck point) with no luck. Later that evening, I tried again - same result. I went to bed with my shoulders slightly slumped, defeated.

I checked the answers the next morning - the clues hadn't been so devilishly difficult after all, my brain just hadn't been thinking right. *sigh*

Saturday's puzzle fared no better, but I was able to get back on track Sunday morning.

Since then, I've been watching that streak count creep higher and higher. 30, 50, 100 - I was on a roll. This past week was the real test. Friday's puzzle was the 146th one I'd attempted in a row.

It was touch-and-go there for a bit - but I prevailed. The successful completion of Saturday's grid brought me over the top! Quite pleased with myself, I am.

I mean, I'm not on the level of those geniuses of old - I have yet to complete a Sunday puzzle without help from Google, and I'm a long ways from filling in the grid without backtracking at least one answer - but I'm still thinkin' I'm better than the average bear (to quote Yogi).

I'll keep at it. Perhaps, someday, I'll solve the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle in (the modern equivalent of) ink.

 Hey. A girl's gotta have goals. Wish me luck!

 

October Morning

I'm pretty sure October morning light has magical healing powers.

I woke up in a grumpy space this morning. I hadn't slept well, and the only reason I got out of bed was because I had a headache and wanted to take drugs. My dreams had all circled around images of loss and loneliness; they were filled with stress and fear. I woke up with tears in my eyes, and it took a bit to convince me that the losses were just a dream. No ill had befallen those I love during the night.

After I took my headache drugs, and since I had a bit of momentum built up, I reluctantly got dressed and went downstairs to give the cats their morning drink of water and to get some breakfast and coffee. ("In that order, always in that order", say the cats, who race ahead of me down the stairs each day to jump into the sink for their morning treat.) 

With food and medication, my headache started to retreat, and so I decided I had enough energy for my morning walk, sad mood notwithstanding. As I walked down the front steps, I met up with one of my neighbors, out walking her dog. We fell into step, and started exchanging life updates. When we got to the corner, we stopped and chatted with another of the neighbor ladies for a bit. The cool morning air and cheerful company proved to be good medicine, and as I moved on after dropping my neighbor at her front door, my outlook started to brighten.

Down and across the street to the park I went, my mood improving with every step.

Soon, I was questioning why I'd ever been grumpy at all. Here I was, it was Monday morning and I'd gotten to sleep in. Again. When I did get moving, I didn't have to rush through my coffee. When I met up with the neighbors, there was no need to rush through the chance meeting - no  Monday morning Zoom call was waiting, there was no boss to wonder why I hadn't yet gotten online.

Nope. It was just me and the cool, clean, October morning air. Though the sun was bright, the light was softer than it had been just a few weeks ago. The trees in the park were starting to get dressed in their fall colors, and most of the people I met on the path looked like they were also enjoying the day.

I stopped several times just to breathe and enjoy the beauty of the trees, the feeling of the air quietly caressing my hair and skin, the gentle warmth of the sun on my face.

By the time I got home, my grumps had (thankfully) dissipated for the day.

I lost my grumps, but I never did find my ambition. My to-do list is still languishing on the table, waiting patiently for me to look at it and choose an item to tackle. Eh. I think it's not happening today. (Except for this blog post. This, I'm getting done. That counts, yes?)

Today is a day to stop and appreciate ephemeral beauty. There are not so many of these magical October days that I want to waste one being task-focused and grumpy and lamenting all the hard things in my life. I mean, the hard things are there, but so is the magic - and since I have the ability to choose where I want to focus my energies, today I chose to stop and notice the magic that Is.

I'm thinking I made the right choice.

Windows: Complete

I did it. It took a little extra courage to talk myself into tackling that last window, but it's done.

As I said last week, I was nervous about the task. I'm not sure what was at the root of the hesitation. I'm not actually afraid to be on a ladder at that height, but I had managed to convince myself that chances were good I'd forget how to behave on a ladder and then I'd fall off and no one would see me, and I'd be lying there for days in pain and you know how it goes and I don't need to lead you down that road.

Rather than wasting time trying to talk sense into myself, I persuaded a friend of mine to come over to watch me do the work. He had two tasks - to help me to set the ladder, and to call 9-1-1 if I managed to come crashing down.

It took just a few minutes to set the ladder in place, and with him comfortably ensconced in a patio chair within eye- and earshot of the broken window, up the steps I went. I'd arrayed my tools within easy reach on a table just inside the window, so I grabbed the heat gun and chisel, and set to work. 

The work wasn't hard, though my arms did protest the part where I needed to hold the tools overhead for the hours (OK, twenty minutes) it took to ease out the broken pane. The work wasn't hard, and the day wasn't hot, and I was in the shade, but I was still sweating mightily just a few minutes into the project. Nerves.

I stopped to breathe several times, and managed, each time, to remember to bring the heat gun down without pointing it at anything that would get hurt by the blast from the nozzle. Slowly, carefully, I got the broken window out WITHOUT breaking any of the adjacent panes. See? I can learn!

I set the new pane into place, and, though still nervous, managed to place the glazing points without damaging the new glass. (Glazing points are little metal doohickeys that hold the glass in place until the glazing sets. As I learned while working at the castle, getting them set is a prime place in the world of window repair where glass gets broken and you get to get extra practice finding the proper angle of entry for the buggers.)  *Whew*

Nerves now at ease, it didn't take long at all to get the glazing in place, the window washed, and the storm reassembled.

See? There was nothing to be afraid of. Or, there was, and there's no harm in taking some precautions to lower risk.

This last window was a lesson in why it's OK to admit I'm afraid and to ask for help. Because I knew Ian was sitting there in the driveway, I was less nervous about the project. Because I was less nervous about the project, my arms were steadier. Because my arms were steadier, the work went more smoothly.

Here's to good friends, those who are willing to help us even (or especially) when the only help we really need is moral support.

Working on Windows

Over the past few weeks, I've FINALLY been tackling some of the items that have been hanging around on my needs-to-be-done list for waayyyy too long. One of the items on the list is to replace the cracked panes several of my windows have been sporting for several years.

Even though I got quite a bit of practice replacing window glass last year when I was working at the castle, I still got nervous when approaching the task.

But avoiding a task because I'm nervous about tackling it has yet to yield me the desired result of getting to mark the work completed, so this past week, I gathered up my courage and climbed out onto the roof. I started with the easy one - the window with just one broken pane, easily accessible from the porch roof. 

Unlike the windows in the castle, which I was able to remove from the walls and set on a table to work on in comfort, I had to do this one in place. Turns out, it's not as much fun to shatter the broken glass when I know the shards are going to fly out everywhere and skitter across my finished floors to land where I would eventually find them with my bare feet. *sigh* Breaking the glass was one of my favorite parts of the job. 

Taking a few deep breaths to calm my jitters, I got out the heat gun and started removing the softened glazing with the broken pane in place (instead of getting to just whack it with a hammer). It worked - I was able to loosen the pane enough to break it out in more-or-less controlled sections. (More-or-less is as good as I get some days.)

Except for the part where my glass measurement was 1/4" too short because I'd tried to measure the opening before removing the glaze, it went pretty well. (And what's a project without an extra trip to Joe's house to cut myself a new pane of glass in the correct size?) Three hours later, I finished the last bit of glazing and gave myself a pat on the back for a job well done.

Emboldened by my success with the first window, I tackled the second one last week. This one had two broken panes, but I wasn't worried about it. After all, I'd gotten the first one replaced without problems, right???

Turns out, if you press too hard on the chisel, trying to rush things a bit instead of letting the heat gun finish its work first, you can flex the window frame enough to break the formerly intact pane of glass next to the one you're trying to replace. Who knew?

Fortunately, I only had to learn the lesson once. At least, I only had to learn it once that day. Newly cautious, I managed to get the three panes of glass replaced without causing any further damage. *WHEW*

Two down, one to go. The last window will not be accessible from the roof, so I'll get to practice my broken window removal skills while balancing on a ladder twelve feet off the ground. I gotta admit, I'm nervous about it.

But I'll gather my courage, face my fears, and take it carefully. It's the only way it'll get done.

Goodbye, David

Goodbyes are always hard for me, and some of them raise downright complicated feelings, which makes them even harder.

David fought his pancreatic cancer to a draw this last week. (I stole that phrase from someone. I wish I knew who it was, because I like it. He didn't lose any battles; the cancer definitely didn't win. But the contest has definitively come to an end.) Most people, once they find they have this type of cancer, die within a year. He lived almost three, beating the odds one last time. (Grit was his middle name...)

I first met David some thirty years ago - he was the photographer at my step-brother's wedding. He and my sister Maria hit it off as he was taking photos at the reception, and started dating very shortly thereafter. The first few years of their relationship were good, at least from the outside in. They got married, had a baby, settled in a house in the suburbs.

But their relationship couldn't stand the strain of the drinking - his, hers, theirs, whatever the combination. The alcohol-fueled sparks eventually led them to a bitter divorce. He went through some rough years after that; dark years where alcohol came and went and played a large part in damaging his relationships.

But time has a way of healing even deep wounds for some people, and so it worked for David. The last few years before he got sick found him back on his feet. He had his drinking mostly under control. He'd found a good partner, and did his level best to mend his relationships with his kids. He had steady employment, and worked once again to create a good home for himself and his wife, who I know only by reputation. (Juliann and Connor tell me she's good people, and they are rarely wrong in such assessments.)

Because he was not kind to his children during those dark years, I was angry with him for a long time. But when he found his balance and worked to change, and his children forgave him, my anger also dissipated. I cheered him on, even. Not everyone gets a second chance at relationships, and he didn't take his for granted.

I find it both sad and ironic that he'd finally gotten his stuff together and, poof! The margarita truck hit. But, it's also the good news part of the story. He died in a good emotional space, surrounded by people who loved him. He had time after he found his way out of the dark to mend a lot of broken fences. He was able to enjoy a bunch of good days. And that's nuthin' to sneeze at.

 Rest in Peace, David. 

Bonus Days

I bid goodbye to my oncologist this week.

It was an oddly bittersweet appointment. I like Dr. Sheehan; I chose her because, if my cancer came back, I knew she would carry her compassion and empathy along as she walked the path with me, wherever it led. Well, my cancer hasn't come back (yet. I can't even think the previous sentence without adding a qualifier.), and since I'm not going to go back on any hormone therapies, we are done.

She gave me a hug at the end of the appointment. I left feeling like someone had just rudely yanked my security blanket away. It's been comforting to know she had my back. Now, I'm on my own???

I am fully aware of how ridiculous my reaction is. My primary care doc will continue to check the cancer markers with my yearly blood work. My OBGYN will make sure there are no lumps growing on my chest. And, if something does come up, it's not like I can't call her up and get back in the patient rotation.

So, I'm working to get past it.

I have seen a lot of positive changes in my health since stopping the aromatase inhibitors some ten months ago. Just in the last two months, I've had to cut my fingernails TWICE because they were getting too long. That hadn't happened in a decade - one of the side effects of the assorted treatments was to weaken the nails. For years, the minute they grew at all, they would rip and tear. Forget about using them to try to pry up the edge of a sticker - the sticker generally won, which says a lot about the formerly sad state of my nails.

My energy levels are better, my weight is easier to control. No small gifts, these.

Some side effects will probably never go away. I'm pretty sure the balls of my feet will be numb-ish for the rest of my life. 

I still miss my breasts. these plastic replacements might look good, as long as I have clothes on, but I'd take my old saggy originals any day. Those gals had sensitive nerve endings, which makes the current dead zone across my chest hard to live with, even now, almost a decade later.

Back when I was first diagnosed, I frankly never thought I'd be alive even five years later. I've started to think of the days I am living now as bonus days.

I don't have to work, I'm healthy enough. I have a pile of things I want to (re-)learn, to see, to do. It's been almost two years since I retired, and I am still working on the top levels of  the pile, which I consider to be a good thing. I'm still struggling with trying to figure out how my days look, but am ever so grateful I am here for the struggle to exist.

I am starting to plan, however tentatively, for days more than six months out. I am gaining some confidence, though COVID-19 is NOT helping, that those plans might even come to fruition. Who'd'a thunk it?

Good Is.

Holding On, Letting Go

I thought I'd managed to control my yearly bout of sadness over Mom's death quite well this year, thank you very much. The beginning of September approached, and I was just fine.

Then, just before I left California, I felt an ominous bump arise on my lip. I've been getting cold sores since I was a young girl; as an adult, there's a direct correlation between unacknowledged stress and the appearance of one of the yucky lesions. This time, I couldn't figure out why it had chosen to make an appearance. I wasn't stressed; I was having a great visit. Surely, the latent virus had made a mistake.

Then, I looked at the calendar. Probably, it was not a coincidence that the sore arrived on the anniversary of the date of her death. Probably, it was not a coincidence that the 20th anniversary of 9/11 was just a few days later.

Sure enough, as I dug inside for insight, grief began to bubble - my personal sadness amplified by memories of a bright blue sky on a perfect September day; the day I watched in disbelief as I turned on the TV just in time to watch the second plane impact the World Trade Center, my mind struggling to make sense of the images on the screen.

I remember stepping outside. I looked at the perfect sky, free of jet trails. Tears flowed freely as I cried for all those killed in the attacks. My heart skipped a beat or three as I tried to imagine the many ways our world had just abruptly changed course. I was frightened, and rightly so. 

This poem surfaced for me on Instagram this week (W.S. Merwin):

There is no reason 
for me to keep counting
how long it has been 
since you were here
alive one morning

as though I were 
letting out the string of a kite
one day at a time
over my finger 
when there is no string

The words brought me to tears. No string? No string.

The connection I long for, still, was severed 44 years ago. The course of history was changed by angry men with boxcutters 20 years ago. There is no reason to keep counting.

Yet, as evidenced by the cold sore, count my heart does, whether I will it or no.

I've cried a lot this week; my sleep has been unrestful. I have been overwhelmed by the legacy of darkness stemming from the 9/11 attacks, the ways the world has hardened and become less kind in response to the terror.

But. And yet.

I went to a neighborhood picnic on Saturday, and fell in love, as we waited in line for ice cream, with a three year-old pixie. Her bright smile, framed by the sparkly orange and green ninja turtle mask painted on her face, was impossible for me to resist.

I went to a jazz concert in the rose garden in the park on Sunday. The air was warm, the breeze was cool, and carried on its breath the perfume of the flowers all around us. The (properly socially distanced) people were relaxed and enjoying the evening. The live music filled some empty spaces in my soul; spaces recordings, however good they are, rarely reach.

Beauty Is.

Today, I have a renewed resolve to do what I can to be on its side. It's a selfish resolve - I do so like my days better when I see the Beauty that's always there when I remember to look for it.

Beach Days

Back in the olden days, before COVID-19 came to upend the world as we knew it, I had had plans when I went to visit Kate in California. I had just retired, and I wasn't sure how I would spend my days there since she would be at work and Lexi at school. She (memorably) put her figurative hands on her figurative hips and said, "I work in Malibu. You've heard of Malibu. They have a coffee shop, a library and a beach. If you can't keep yourself busy there, I can't help you."

She had a point, and I was planning to give it a try, but I arrived for that visit just in time for the state to lock down in response to the virus. Instead of going to the beach, I spent my time helping Lexi begin to adjust to the abrupt shift to home schooling, and on a hunt for toilet paper. (Kate had been caught short as the great toilet paper hoarding event of 2020 played out.)

Forward eighteen months.

I went out for another visit last week. With the state open for (masked) business, I was able to give the day-in-Malibu thing a try. It went well, I never even made it to the library.

She dropped me off at the coffee shop on her way to work - a touching role reversal, which brought back memories of all the days I dropped her at school on my way into the office. I sat there for an hour or so, people watching and crossword puzzle solving, easily passing the time until the temp rose just a bit and the marine layer started to lift.

I then meandered the mile or so down the road and around the marsh to the beach, where I dropped my towel on the sand, sat down, and tried to relax. Turns out, I am a lot out of practice on the relaxing thing. I fidgeted. I scooted the sand around under my butt to make a more comfortable seat. I sat up, I laid back. I watched the birds and the surfers. I became aware of every tight muscle and latent ache in my body. I worried. I fretted. 

Finally, I got myself to stop. I eased down, leaning back against my backpack, eyes half closed and fixed on the water, hat shading my eyes. I managed to begin to shut down my mental chatter and to listen. After a few minutes, the roar of the surf began to work its magic. My breathing slowed as I tapped into the connection between the beating of my heart and the rhythm of the waves.

The waves have been crashing on the shore for eons. They care not for climate change, viruses, wars, or peace. I have been taught that all life on earth started in the sea, and lying there, it was easy to believe. I slipped into a meditative state. My aches disappeared and time was suspended as I let go.

*pause* *breathe* *be*

I came back to myself at lunchtime, my bladder and stomach competing for attention as my awareness returned to my body. I headed back up the walk to town where I enjoyed a delicious lunch and indulged in some more people watching. When the time was right, I returned to the water's edge for a reprise of my morning meditation.

Stop.  Breathe.  Relax.

Ahhhhhh.....  Yes.

Grand Marais

It's been too long since I got off my beaten path, so after Uncle Dennis' funeral, I took advantage of my status of a lady of leisure (sounds just a little decadent, no?) and went on up to Grand Marais for a bit of rest before returning to the heat of Missouri.

I was born and raised in Minnesota, but my family didn't travel much. While I'd heard the north shore was beautiful, I'd never seen it with my own eyes. I have a good friend who moved there a couple of years ago, so with the problem of lodging a moot point (rooms to rent can be hard to find during August up there, where typical summer daytime highs are in the seventies, lows in the sixties - go figure!), I headed north.

The drive was all it was advertised to be. Grand Marais is on the north shore of Lake Superior, about 45 minutes from the Canadian border. To get there, you follow I-35 north to where it ends in Duluth, then take Highway 61 on up the coast. The road snakes along the shore of the lake, offering tantalizing glimpses of the water. There wasn't a lot of traffic, so I was able to relax and enjoy the scenery as I moseyed along. Trees to the left, the ribbon of road unspooling in front of me, the lake to the right - I was content.

I was only able to spend a couple of days up there, and followed the advice of my hostess, Christie, on how to spend my time. Her friend Denise was in town, and was a willing guide as we visited the best of the local art galleries and shops, took a walk along the shore near the lighthouse in town, and drove on up the coast the rest of the way to Canada to see Grand Portage Falls. (Canada is on the right side of the river in the photo.)

We took time to go out rock picking one evening after dinner. OK, Christie searched the shore for actual good rocks, while I sat there gazing across the water to where it merged with the horizon. I listened to the whoosh of the waves and played with the rounded stones directly beneath my hands. I made a small pile of the prettier ones, and entertained myself by throwing some of the others at a nearby rock jutting out of the water. Sometimes, if they hit just right, the lava rocks would split into pieces with a satisfying clunk, arcing through the air at seemingly random angles before plopping back into the water. It was a good place to sit and ponder life and death and the meaning of it all.

I slept like a baby while I was there. The air cooled rapidly after sunset, so I was able to snuggle under the covers and breathe the fresh air wafting in through the open window all night long. The morning sun warmed the air perfectly, and I was able to spend a few minutes after opening my eyes just admiring the quality of the light filtering through the trees in the wild area at the back of the house. 

I hadn't seen Christie in a couple of years, so we had a lovely time catching up on each other's lives. Like me, she's gone through a LOT of changes in the past few years. She's clearly started to come to some calmer waters; it shows in her face. Listening to her stories gave me hope I will come to some sort of peaceful cove in the unsettled seas of my own life.

Home again for several weeks now, I am SO grateful I took the time to meander her direction. The trip helped to remind me it's the journey, not the destination, that's the important part of life. I don't need to worry so much about where the road is going. I do need to remember to enjoy the beauty I find along the journey.

Stop. Breathe. Relax.

It'll Just Take a Coupla Days

On and off this year, as my energy and mood both lean to the positive, I've been giving the rooms in my house a face lift. Nothing major; I've been taking 3-4 days in each room to fill in nail holes, fix a few plaster cracks, and give the space a fresh coat of paint (using the same colors to minimize the work).

A couple of weeks ago, I decided to tackle the last room, the living room. I had a few days open, and though it would feel good to be able to check the project off my to-do list. I moved out a bunch of the furniture, clustered what was left in the middle of the room, and covered it with sheets to protect it from errant paint drops. I still had a little time and energy left when I finished up, and convinced myself to take one more step.

"Just dig out those few cracks", she said.
"It won't take long", she said.

(she = me, talking to myself)

So, I got out my scraper, and started to work on the walls. As I was digging out the first crack, the edge of my scraper slipped under the paint next to where I was working. "huh.  What's that about?" I let the tool slide up and under just a little, then pulled at the corner of the loose paint. A large patch of paint peeled off the wall, like peeling a sticker off its backing. "uh oh. not good"

I stopped there for a moment, trying to convince myself it was just an anomaly. Surely, I could just pretend I hadn't seen what I'd just seen, and move on without pause. Surely, I could just patch over the edge of the patch I'd peeled, and call it good. But good sense prevailed. If I didn't want to be doing it over within the year, I needed to buckle down and do it right. And I HATE doing things over.

*sigh* I gotta admit - I aimed a few choice cuss words in "her" direction as I put the scraper down and called it a night. (I've learned that some tasks are best tackled after a good night's rest.)  "She" never has learned how to properly guesstimate how long any given project will take. *sigh*

The next morning, I set to scraping and peeling in earnest. Within a couple of hours, a good 80% of the paint had come off the walls in good-sized, easy-to-peel sheets. Turns out someone had spent a lot of time doing a pretty darn good job of skim-coating the walls, but then had skipped the step of priming the raw plaster before slapping on a coat of paint. That, and they'd put the skim coat over the old plaster cracks without digging out the soft plaster first, and when I peeled off the paint, the repairs gave way. What a mess!

Fast forward a couple of weeks, and it turned out to be not all THAT bad. The plaster repair skills I honed last year at the castle served me well - the plaster repair part went WAY faster than it would have two years ago. And while you know I didn't skip the primer step before I put the two coats of paint on the walls, the job still didn't take as long as I was afraid it was going to, back when I peeled off that first square of paint. (I am certainly grateful I don't charge me by the hour for the work I do - this one would have totally blown the budget!)

I finished putting the room back together last night. After I'd placed the last tchotchke back in its home, I took a step back, admired the clean look of the room, and gave me a pat on the back.

"Good job", she said.

Goodbye, Uncle Dennis

Dennis John 
December 6, 1937 - February 1, 2021

Uncle Dennis was my dad's youngest brother, and I want to be just like him when I grow up.

I know I can't QUITE be like him - it's too late to have a long and loving marriage like the one he had with my Aunt Lou; they were married for 58 1/2 years. I loved it when I got to spend time with the two of them. I enjoyed watching their interplay; they'd long ago settled into a delightful rhythm. They'd found ways to love both because of and despite their differences, and it showed.

But I can work on being a person who looks for the good in life; someone who is a good neighbor. I can stay active and remember to notice the beauty of the world I am passing through. I can work to be a touchstone for my children; someone they can rely on and turn to for advice.

He and Aunt Lou were snowbirds, and stayed in Tucson, AZ each winter. I stopped to see them when I ran away from home for a few weeks after getting diagnosed with cancer nine years ago; a sort of coda to the dream life I'd been living. I loved the few days I was able to spend with them. They wouldn't let me lift a finger; fixed all my meals for me, wouldn't even let me help with the dishes. We went hiking and to yoga. We took naps and shared stories. When I left, I left with a heart full of their love and support. 

And I know that's how he tried to treat all the people he met. He worked hard to change the world for the better. At his funeral, we heard of one of his last accomplishments - he brought the game of pickleball to his home in Amery, WI.

During the eulogy, they told the story of how he'd decided some long-neglected tennis courts would be the perfect place to set up pickleball. He worked with some of his friends and the city to clean up, resurface, and repaint the courts. Got new nets installed, fixed the fencing. His work was appreciated, and at his funeral, they showed us the sign they'd gotten made and planned to install. Yes, the courts are to be officially known as the Dennis John Pickleball Courts.

Not a bad legacy, if you ask me.

Goodbye, Uncle Dennis. The Dennis-sized hole you left behind in the lives of we who loved you will be hard to fill. I will miss you. Rest in God's Peace.

In Due Season

Several years ago, I'd impulsively planted some Caladium bulbs in the raised bed on my patio. The plants came in beautifully, and I enjoyed their cheerful green and pink foliage all summer long. I was quite sad when they didn't come back in the following spring; a few minutes of quick research showed me they are annuals in my part of the country, not perennials, as I had assumed. *sigh*

I moved on, have tried several other somethings in the bed over the past few years; the results have been pretty enough. But part of my brain remembered the lush beauty of the Caladium plants, so this spring, I went ahead and got a new pack of bulbs to plant. At least I could enjoy them for the season.

I diligently read the package instructions and waited until mid-May to plant the bulbs; it's supposed to be warm enough for them by then. I went outside every morning for the next few weeks, eagerly anticipating the sight of the shoots springing from the earth.

I waited in vain. Despite frequent watering, the bed remained barren with no signs of life. I had given up all hope by the end of June. We had a rainy and damp spring - I figured I'd planted too soon, and my flowers had been lost to the vagaries of the weather. Maybe next year.

And then.
And then. 

I was sitting in my porch swing, dolefully looking over the dormant bed, when I spotted a tiny furl of green. Could it be? I hopped off the swing for a closer look. It could be! One of the bulbs had survived the odds, defiantly pushing its way from the earth, reaching for the light. Yay!!! 

I knew its victory would be short-lived during these hot days of July if I didn't start caring for it, so ran inside for my watering can and gave it a drink. Just for grins, I ran a line of water down the entire front of the bed, hoping despite the odds that perhaps one more of the bulbs had survived.

Odds aren't everything. Over the past three weeks, all but two of the bulbs have poked their heads through the soil to greet the sun. I've made sure to keep them watered; my heart lifts just a little and I smile as I tend to them each morning.

I'm hearing a message for my soul in their presence. I have grown weary of this long season of waiting; of trying to be present in my liminal space. The flowers are a reminder that I am not the boss of the timing of the seasons of my life. There are forces I don't fully understand at work. 

Maybe, just maybe, I'm not JUST waiting. Maybe, all the things I've been trying to do to discern my next best direction haven't fallen on barren soil. Maybe, things are germinating in the darkness during these warm summer days, forming and changing and stirring and beginning to grow. 

I'd like that.

In the meantime, while I wait to see if my metaphor is apt, you know I'm going to be enjoying the beauty of my Caladium plants - all the more welcome because they worked so hard to get here; definitely worth waiting for.

Goodbye, Uncle Rudy

I'd just gotten back from my Uncle Norb's funeral when word came that my Uncle Rudy had died. 

*sad sigh*

Uncle Rudy was one of my dad's younger brothers, I'm sorry to say I never knew him well. There was no bad blood between us, but there was also not much common ground. When I got news of his family at the yearly John reunions, it was usually from his wife, Aunt Marlene (also pictured), who died in 2006.

I do know the two of them made raising seven kids on a shoestring budget into an art form. They came to visit me in Kansas City some twenty years ago; they were driving a car that hadn't been new since Reagan was president. It clearly had a lot of miles on it, and my skepticism regarding its fitness for long distance travel must have shown on my face, because they both quickly assured me they had no doubts they'd make the cross-country trip without trouble - and they were right.

Like my dad, he was good at fixing broken things. He'd take a broken down something, look at it, think a bit, then set to work with the appropriate tools. He rarely faced defeat; was able to fix almost anything.

He and Marlene shared a love of fishing, and spent many a summer day on lakes in northern Minnesota and Canada in pursuit of pike, walleye. I do recall getting in on some of the eating part of their passion a time or two - that was some good fish!

He'd grown frail these past few years, but was able to stay at home because his daughter Darla moved in with him and took care of him. She's been on duty for several years, taking care of his daily needs, keeping the house habitable, schlepping him to his many appointments - bless her.

These past few years can't have been easy for him - he'd always been such an independent sort, outside taking care of the farm and equipment. It had to be tough to not be able to get around well.

I hope they're right when they tell me we get to leave age and illness behind when we leave this world. I like to think he's young and fit again, and that God has a shed full of broken trucks - and the parts and quality tools needed to get them running again. (Along with a stocked lake or three, and boats and fishing equipment, for when he wants to relax.) He'd like that, I think.

Rest in Peace, Uncle Rudy.

Goodbye, Uncle Norb

Norbert Bohr

March 12, 1940 - July 2, 2021

I hadn't seen much of my Uncle Norb and his family in thirty years when I decided to get back in contact with them some fifteen years ago. I hadn't had any sort of a falling out with them, but after Mom died, I'd completely drifted away from her side of our family. I sent them an email out of the blue one day, asking if they'd be willing talk to me some about my mom and their family if I came to town.

The answer came quickly - yes, they'd be happy to see me.

I was a bit apprehensive as I made the long drive up and across rural Iowa to their place in Decorah. Would they really want to talk with me? It had been a long time; perhaps it was too late to try to revive the connection.

My fears were firmly laid to rest as I wearily pulled into the yard. Uncle Norb was standing outside the front door; he'd clearly been watching for me. His arms were stretched open wide, his grin spread from ear to ear. Every part of his stance said, "Welcome home. We've missed you!"

We had a lovely visit. He told me stories of my mom, gave me a glimpse into how his life had been shaped by his place as the second-youngest of fourteen siblings (twelve of whom lived past early childhood). We talked some of my grandmother, who I'd never known well - turns out she was more caring and loving than I'd realized.

He told me some about the years he'd worked as a lineman for the power company. We went to watch one of his grandsons play football. I got to ride with him a few turns around the field as the drove the tractor to bring in the corn harvest.

My heart was full by the time I left just a day or so later.

We've stayed in touch since then. His wife, my Aunt Diane, has been wonderful about sending me quick updates with family news; I've sent them my annual Christmas letter. I was able to get back up to Decorah to help them celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary a few years back.

The news has been harder to hear in recent days. His brain was succumbing to the ravages of dementia. When he contracted pneumonia, and it took solid hold of his lungs, his family knew it was time to let him go. They brought in hospice to ease his passing, and the kids took turns standing vigil with Aunt Diane.

I like to think, as he left this world for the next, he was met by the many people in his family who walked that road before him. I hope they were standing at the door with their arms open wide, grinning from ear to ear, saying,

"Welcome Home!  We've missed you!"

Rest in Peace, Uncle Norb. I will miss you.

Austin Visit

Last month, I was talking to my friend Rose, and she mentioned she was planning to drive to Austin to visit her daughter, Tori, at the end of June.  I would find doing the 12-hour drive by myself in a single day to be a bit much, so I offered to go along. Rose was clearly on the same page; she happily accepted my offer on the spot. I've known Tori most of her life, and haven't seen her in years. I figured it would be fun to see her again, and it was!

When we left, a week ago, we got a good start on the day - and needed every minute of it. Between traffic, construction, and rain, the trip took an hour longer than we'd anticipated, but we arrived safely in Austin just before dark. It wasn't an awful drive, just a long one. With COVID, I haven't talked much with Rose this past year, so the hours on the road gave us plenty of time to catch up on each other's lives. Tori, being the good daughter she is, had ice cream waiting for us as a treat when we arrived.

Tori did have to work all week, but we didn't let that get in the way of having fun. She works as the director for a group foster home, and I'll long remember the afternoon we spent with her and her current group of kids. Rose is a teacher, and directed us all in an art project. (There was an empty seat at the table, so I plopped myself down in the middle of the kids to join the painting fun!) Given they're going through a tough spot through no fault of their own, most of the crew was ready for some distracting fun, and the project proved to be just the ticket - they stayed absorbed in their pictures for a good two hours. After we'd finished, I got to spend a little time talking to one of the older girls. She's not been dealt an easy hand, but she's got good goals; I sure hope she gets the help she'll need to reach them. Heartbreaking, rewarding work, Tori does.

The other days, we watched a few movies, did a little sightseeing and shopping. We tried out some new recipes for dinner, took the dogs out for walks - the week passed quickly by.

With rain threatening on Saturday, our one full free day together, we'd planned for a quiet afternoon playing board games. But as noon rolled around, the rain decided to land elsewhere, so we quickly changed plans. There are a number of wineries in the hills around town, and Tori found one fairly close by for us to visit. We stopped on the way to pick up a meat / cheese / bread / fruit spread, and bought a bottle of wine to go with it after we got to our destination - the Flat Creek Winery and Vineyard. We spent the next couple of hours enjoying a leisurely lunch in the pavilion, sharing stories as we lazily looked across the fields of grape vines. The overcast skies kept most of the heat at bay, and the breeze saved us from having to share much of our meal with the flies. It was a lovely way to spend the afternoon.

I wasn't looking forward to the drive home, but we made it in good time; the trip took an hour less than it had taken to drive down. (The rain was mostly elsewhere, the construction sites buttoned down for the weekend, and it turns out the Dallas freeways are pretty wide open on Sunday mornings.) We were quieter; both a bit worn out from having fun all week.

We arrived safely home yesterday, in the late evening. I climbed into bed shortly thereafter, too wired to sleep, too tired to be fully awake. I was content to lie there, reflecting on the week just past, listening to the constant roar of fireworks coming from all sides. 

Good to be free to hit the open road, good to see new places. Good to be home, good to see the kitties. Good to spend time with good friends. Good to live good days.

Life is not easy. Life is not perfect. Life is Good.

Happy 4th of July!

Aquarium

One of the parts I like about hosting out-of-town visitors is that they pull me out of my daily routines. It's a lot like going on vacation, except I get to stay in my own bed.

The girls wanted to see some of the local sights while they were here, so we put together a list of options when they first arrived. I skipped out on a few of the shopping expeditions, but joined them on many of their adventures. 

Kansas City has had an aquarium open for almost a decade now. I knew it was there, but seeing the fish never got to the top of my list. The advertised $32 entrance fee was part of why I hadn't gone, so I when I decided to bring the girls there anyways, I was pleased to find they offer a 20% AAA discount at the door. (bonus!) We went in the middle of the week, hoping it wouldn't be too crowded, and the plan worked - a plus in these waning (I hope!!!) days of COVID.

There was more to the exhibits than I'd anticipated. From the touch pond where you first come in, to the kid's activities near the exit, the experience was well thought out; aimed at kids, but also fun for adults. I'd never had a chance to touch a live starfish before! (Not sure what the starfish thought about the experience, but it didn't jump in fear, so I suppose it was OK with it?)

I could have happily stayed and stared at the biggest aquarium for an hour, and probably would have if I didn't need to move along to accommodate the next group of visitors. It was calming, watching the sharks, bottom feeders, turtles, and assorted other swimmers lazily make their way around the enclosure.

That said, I also enjoyed looking at the sea horses and dragons, the clown fish, the stingrays, and all the other underwater plant and animal life. As we wandered through, a familiar sense of wonder and awe surfaced, as it does for me pretty much every time I get a glimpse of the amazing variety sea life.

Truth be told, though I do understand the basics of their underlying biology, my mind is still boggled by the fact that some animals can breathe water. I did a lot of swimming back in the day, and attempted to breathe in more water than I care to remember. It never went well.

Yet, there they swim, happily twisting and darting and floating and resting and clearly alive, breathing the water as I breathe the air. Mind. Blown. Every time.

What matter of wonderful happenstance could have life start as undistinguished muck and then move in so many diverse ways to end up with some of the animals breathing air, some water, and a few, both? And what hubris to think that because "I" happened to come along, that evolution somehow peaked with the world the as it was when I showed up. I certainly hope that's not the case!

It makes me sad to know I won't get to know what wonders will appear after my time here is done. Or, maybe I will get to watch the next episode. Who knows? This much I know for certain - I have no flippin' clue what actually happens after time ends for me, and neither does anyone else alive. I choose to hope there is an after, after life. It makes death less scary for me.

And I'll take all the less scary I can find these days.

Group Puzzlers

I have some company here for a couple of weeks and have been thoroughly enjoying the change in routine. Last year, I restarted one of my favorite traditions, which was to have my nieces and nephews come stay for a while in the summer. The practice had lapsed for almost a decade - between my camper van trip, major house renovations, and dealing with cancer, the visits just didn't happen.

Both Sophia and Autumn came down from Minnesota last year; I was thrilled when they accepted my invitation to visit again. As a bonus, Autumn is old enough to make the drive down, so getting them down here was much simpler than it's been in years past.

We have been getting out and about, checking out the local attractions they weren't able to see last year because most things were closed, but we have also had a lot of down time; time to just be. 

Autumn came prepared; she brought two puzzles with her, and picked up another couple after she got here. She likes to do them at home, and when she was here last year, she dug into my jigsaw puzzle collection as a way to pass some time. We had some good conversations as we sat around the table assembling the pictures.

Now, those who know me well, might find the 'we' part of the previous sentence a bit surprising. I've never been good about sharing my puzzles. I want to find ALL the pieces, and I certainly don't want someone else to find the three-corner blue one that has just a trace of pink on one edge before I do, especially when I've been searching for it for several hours. Amazingly enough, it seems time has mellowed my possessive streak, and I haven't had to have a single word with myself about sharing nicely. Seems I'm still capable of learning and growing - good to know.

Turns out, putting puzzles together is a great way to get (re)acquainted. Having the puzzle to divide focus is a good way to start what I think of as long conversations. I'm thinking of the kind of talk that only seems to start when time stretches as it does on long drives.

The conversation ebbs and flows, veering easily from the serious to the trivial. I've learned a lot about how they weathered COVID, what's going on at school. I've caught up on some family gossip, expanded my knowledge of how life navigation techniques have changed since I was their age, some forty years ago. (could it really be true???? Simple math seems to think so...)

They are resilient, intelligent, and interesting young women. I am honored by their willingness to give me a glimpse into the challenges and joys of their worlds. If their peers are anything like them, the world is in good hands for the next generation. 

They're the kind of people, who, when they come across that three-cornered blue piece with the pink streak, hand it over for me to triumphantly fit into place myself, instead of stealing it for themselves. You know, the good kind of people.

It's done my heart good to have them here...

New Roof!

 

I've been monitoring a couple of water marks on my living room ceiling for a couple of years. They started small, as such marks often do, and they haven't grown quickly, but this spring's series of storms had the dark streaks getting longer and darker. It was probably past time to get the problem fixed.

The water streaks are in an unlikely spot for a roof leak  - in the middle of the room, far from the walls, with bedrooms (and NO plumbing) directly above. I called in my favorite roofer. He climbed up, looked around, and said he'd happily take my money to replace the roof, but he suspected the chimney was the root of the problem. I called in a stone mason. He climbed up. looked at the mortar, and said, yup, the chimney needed a face lift, but he wouldn't guarantee doing that would fix both leaks; he suspected the one was caused by faulty flashing.

I decided to cover my bases, and hired both crews. I had to wait a bit for the stone mason to get to my job, but he came out a couple of weeks ago and got the chimney looking downright spiffy! Re-tuckpointed, a new cap, an acid wash - it probably hasn't looked that good in fifty years.

To my pleasant surprise, the roofer was able to fit me in just two weeks later. The crew showed up bright and early on Tuesday this past week. They rang my doorbell to let me know they were getting started at 6:45 AM, were finished by 4:00. (Angel did NOT care for the process. Once the roof started making noise, she headed straight to the basement, where she stayed, in a defensive crouch, eyes wide, for much of the day.  Sorry, kitty...)

I probably won't know if we managed to fix the leaks for quite a while. We're past spring rain season, and there clearly wasn't too much water getting in, since it took a good two years to make a foot-long mark on the ceiling. That said, I have every confidence that, if it's not fixed, between the two of them, the stone mason and roofer will come back and make it good.

As part of the roof process, I wanted the roofing crew to tighten up a piece of flashing on the north eaves. Squirrels once used the opening to get into their condo, and with the squirrels gone, some birds had nested there last year.

The crew missed it on their big work day, but when Raul came back to do some cleanup work, I brought him around the side of the house to point it out. As we were standing there looking up at the roof, a little bird came to perch on the roof just above the eave. He peered curiously down at us, his black head cocked at a questioning angle. Raul's first language isn't English, but the look on his face said it all, and mirrored my own. "Eggs", was all Raul said.

I sighed. I'd thought the birds had moved on this year, the presence of the little guy on the roof clearly said I'd been mistaken. I didn't have it in me to tell Raul he had to go destroy the nest, and he clearly didn't want to do the deed.

Fine. The birds can stay for the rest of the summer. I'm pretty sure I can get someone out here to set up the ladder this fall, and it'll take about five minutes to set some new screws so they can't use the nest again next year.

The chirps I heard coming from the eaves early yesterday morning as I was working in the driveway told me I'd made the right decision. There is more than enough killing in this world, we need all the birdsong we can get to right the balance just a bit.

Sing on, little guy!