Goodbye, Bob - Take Two

In his will, Bob requested there be two services held to celebrate his life. The first I wrote about back in March - it was the pomp and circumstance service he knew was inevitable because he was a priest. The second was this past weekend; this was the service of his heart. He'd asked for his favorite readings to be read, accompanied by songs he loved (he didn't list those - he knew Estelle knew what he loved) and testimony from a number of his friends.

I was honored to be selected as one of those speaking, but it was a tough assignment. I didn't know how to say what he'd meant to my life; how to distill our complex, long-term relationship into words. I spent several days beating my head against the keyboard. I'd write a few things, but the words wouldn't flow. The sentences were stilted. disconnected. forced. shallow. Argh!

I finally stepped back for a minute and asked myself why he'd asked me to talk, and what I'd say if I only had five words instead of five minutes to speak. The answer came quickly. 

I miss my best friend.

With this thought in mind, I went back to the computer. I had it written in an hour. 

I found the service to be beautiful. 

Song. Reading. Testimony. Repeat. 

I really hope he was somewhere listening; knows how deeply he was loved.

=================

“Be compassionate, as your Father is compassionate.  Do not judge, and you will not be judged.  Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned.  Pardon, and you shall be pardoned.  Give, and it shall be given to you.  Good measure pressed down, shaken together, running over, will they pour into the fold of your garment.  For the measure you measure with will be measured back to you.”  Matthew 6: 36-38

 

Friend

 

Bob has been one of my closest friends for several decades, and since he died, I have missed him; missed him something fierce.

I miss his laugh. His hearty, uninhibited, inviting, laugh. If we were in a group of people, and I heard his laugh from across the room, suddenly, no matter how interesting the conversation I was currently having, his was the more enticing. Whatever they were talking about, it had to be better than whatever I was talking about, to have brought forth that joyous sound.

I miss the dinners we shared. He loved to cook. I love to be cooked for. It was a match made in heaven. As he cut and chopped and seasoned and stirred, I would sit and watch, helping as needed, but mostly just keeping him company as we talked about life. Politics, religion, the books we were reading, family, work; we covered all the bases.

I miss his hugs; I know I have a lot of company in this room when I say this. When I was having a hard day, he’d give me a hug – not a half-hearted, a-frame, shoulder-patting pretense of a hug, but the kind that, as I’m held, makes me feel like a precious child of the God Who Loves. And I’d begin to feel better.

I miss just talking to him. One of the cruelest parts of his dementia journey was that it took his words first. My eloquent friend, the one who used to say he was overly fond of two things – his own cooking and his own words – lost first the ability to express himself.

I didn’t meet him until he was middle aged, so I didn’t know him as he went through his life’s ‘firsts’. But I was honored to walk with him as he tallied up his lasts.

Many here know furniture refinishing was his avocation. He loved nothing more than to find a neglected piece of solid wood something at an estate sale, haul it home, and then spend hours restoring it to its former beautiful self. He would then either give the item to someone he loved or donate it to a church auction. I helped him to refinish his last piece. He had a workshop set up in my garage after he moved to the city, and he came over several times. He no longer knew what steps he needed to take, but he was willing to follow my direction (for once), and together we sanded and applied the finish to a tall, beautiful, walnut plant stand.

I was there last spring when he took his last walk outside. As we were making our way back to the door of the facility, after our usual stroll around the neighborhood, he had some sort of a mini-stroke, and almost couldn’t walk. As I began to reach for my phone to call for help, the nurses inside saw us and came running out to assist. We made it safely inside, where he took two Tylenol, a long nap, and woke back up with little knowledge of the incident, seemingly (though I know this isn’t true) no worse for the wear.

I was there for his last mass, last summer. It was for a congregation of four. A lot of his words were missing by then, but when we got to the consecration, he had all the words he needed. I swear I felt the Spirit come into the room and settle down behind him, holding his shoulders as he blessed the bread and the wine, turning it, one last time, into the body and the blood of Christ.

I remember the last conversation we had when his mind was almost all there. It was late last September, and he was talking about the wedding of one of his favorite people, his niece, Colleen. His voice was alive with the memory of how he’d worked with Colleen and Don to create a service which met both the requirements of the Catholic Church and the desires of their hearts. His eyes twinkled, his laugh rang loudly in the quiet courtyard where we sat and talked. My heart was full.

I wasn’t there when he took his last breath, but I was there the day before. I’d been sitting with him for some time, and shortly before I was ready to leave, the nurses came in to tend to his care. As they worked, he woke, grabbing the air in alarm. I held his hands, so he had something to grab onto. Once they finished and we were alone again, he quickly calmed down, then met my eyes. At first, there was no one inside that vacant gaze. But then I saw his awareness return. He didn’t know me, but he knew he was not alone. Then, recognition dawned, and I could see he knew who I was. I spoke softly to him. I told him of my love. I told him it was time for him to fly free of his gilded cage, time to find out what lies on the other side. I smiled. He tried to smile in return, then closed his eyes.

Bob, I hope your words and your lost memories have caught back up with you. I hope you have found your people and are laughing with them, freely and often. I pray you have met up with the Christ Jesus you served so long and so well; that he told you, “Welcome home, my worthy servant.”

Bob, I miss you. 

Not Yet

This past week, I've been mulling over how time has changed my approach to the space between. You know the one. The space between the time you take the all-important test and when you find out if you made the grade or, not. The space between the time your period is late and when you find out if you're pregnant or, not. The space between the time you find the lump and when you find out if it's a problem lump or, not. 

The space between, when you're waiting to find out if your life is going to change directions or, not. A Schrodinger's Cat sort of space; both things are true until you look and find that one is not.

When I was younger and found myself in the space between, the entire time I was there I'd endlessly fret over the truth I didn't want to be. I'd worry, make plan Bs, set my mind to accept failure, worry some more.

When I find myself there in recent years, while I still spend some time mulling over both truths, I spend most of my time working to stay in the moment. It hasn't happened, and I don't want to lose precious days to what is not yet and might not ever be. 

When I found the lump in my breast, it was early December. I hoped it was just a cyst (ignoring the fact I'd found zero cysts before then), but if my dream trip was going to get disrupted, I didn't want to know it just then - so I made my appointment for the first week in January.

I didn't tell anyone what was going on. I didn't want to mess up their holidays - or my own - by sharing my discovery and wallowing in worry. I consciously didn't dwell on what might be, though it, of course, was an undercurrent to my waking thoughts. In those days between, I remember the feeling of being suspended in time. It sharpened my vision. I took less for granted; treasuring the normality of the moments.

In retrospect, I'm glad I was able to maintain my denial (or whatever you want to call it). By waiting to face the moment until the moment arrived, I was able to enjoy several weeks of precious time between - Joe's graduation from college, the holiday season. And, there was still plenty of time to plan and fret and worry after the biopsy results came in, so I lost nothing by not shifting focus and direction until I had to.

Not Yet.

 

Graduation Season

I went to a graduation party this past weekend - my eldest nephew's eldest son has somehow managed to finish growing up when I wasn't looking, and when the invitation arrived, I welcomed the chance to get back in touch with him and his family.

It was quite a ways to go for dinner - they live in central Iowa - but I've driven further. When I showed up, they were more grateful for my presence than I could have anticipated, which made my heart cry a few happy tears. I am SO glad I went. These days, I can use all the love I can get.

Saturday and Sunday were perfect days to drive. Big, white, fluffy clouds. Temperate weather. Turns out a bit of time to think road thoughts was just what the doctor ordered.

I used to dread driving trips, found them tedious, boring; especially when I was driving alone. But that was before my camper van trip, before I learned to appreciate the beauty of the plains. The gently rolling hills, the fields sporting the sprouts of the crops which help to feed the nation. The cows, horses, and one herd of buffalo contentedly grazing, young ones in their midst. The random wildflowers in the ditches smiled for me. I found hope in the windbreak trees which, despite showing the stress of the change in climate, have unfurled the leaves on their surviving branches to the sun and rain.

I am not the best person at staying in touch with my feelings, so as I drove, I found a classical station to serve as background noise, then poked around inside to see if any of them would talk to me. Turns out, there's lots of feelings slushing around in there. 

Mostly what turned up is that I miss Bob. I miss my kitty. The drive gave me the time and space to let some of my banked up tears fall. 

Once the tears had run their course, I found my mind and heart wandering through the years, pulling up random memories of moments with the people and pets I've loved. It was almost as if I'd dumped a box full of pictures onto the table, then spent time picking up one photo, then another, laughing, crying, musing about the passage of time and how quickly all I know has changed. (Wasn't it yesterday when they were small?)

These days, I am acutely aware the currency of my life is time. This weekend was time well spent.

Try, Try Again

I crossed my fingers as I stepped into the shower after the caulk cured a couple of weeks ago, hoping against hope my line-of-caulk defense had fixed the problem. I stepped out, pulled my test cloth out of the damaged portion of the wall, saw it was wet, and heaved a disappointed sigh.

Back to the drawing board.

I had Joe bring over the magical Fein MultiMaster tool, which makes it easy to cut a fine line into wood and plaster, so I could dig into the wall without causing any more harm. While he was here, I had him take a look at the damage. I mean, what good is it to raise your own engineer if you can't take shameless advantage of his knowledge now and again?

He studied the area for a few minutes, then pointed to the corner where the door meets the shower curb as the likely culprit. It was a good theory.

I do my best critical thinking before noon, so got up the next morning, got out the Fein tool, and carefully cut away all the rotten lumber. Once I got everything cleared away, I was able to get my fingers up into the wall where the damage had started. Immediately, I felt a gap in the liner. 

I switched to the shower side of the wall, poked for just a moment at the line of grout, and it fell away. I could now see daylight inside the damaged portion of the wall. *WHEW* I've found it's MUCH easier to resolve an issue if you have some idea where the problem originates.

I caulked the hole, then added another blob of caulk as insurance. I let it cure, then took a deep breath and tested the repair. This time, my test cloth was dry, the problem found, the leak stopped.

I started to raise my heart in celebration, then paused, took a deep breath and stepped back a ways.

Yes, my caulk job fixed the leak. But trusting a line of caulk to permanently repair a build problem is a lot like taping a piece of plastic over a broken window to keep out the rain. It'll work for a while, but sure as day follows night, it'll fail over time.

So, I've called in a repair team. As opposed to coming armed with youth and bravado, these guys have years of experience under their belts; they've done this before. I've seen the work they do, and know they can easily tackle my little job and NOT break my pretty glass surround. (Or, if they do, their insurance will make it good.).  I gave them all the details; they're supposed to get back with me with a quote tomorrow.

This solution feels better. This way, once I close up that hole in the wall, I know it'll be able to stay closed.

I'll repair it right. I'll repair it once. I'll sleep better.

Goodbye, Monster

Monster was the best of kitties. A big cat, he weighed between 15 and 20 pounds for most of his life. A cat of simple tastes, he loved boxes, blankets, and bugs.

Once he came to live with me, until he got too stiff this past year, I never had to swat a fly - he'd stalk them until the unwary creature came within reach and then pounce. He had a high success rate. Bugs!!!

If there was a blanket, or blanket-like object folded on the bed, chair, floor, or counter, he was on it. He'd look at the cloth with delight as he calculated how best to settle his bulk. Then he'd carefully lower himself directly onto the center of the item with a look of immense satisfaction. Blanket!!!

And any discarded box, paper bag, suitcase, etc., was his for the investigating. He'd hop in at first opportunity, happily exploring the confines of the space. Box!!!

He first came into my life, along with his mother, Angel, when Joe came home from college. They stayed for a few years, long enough to worm themselves into my heart. When they left with Joe when he got married, they left kitty-shaped holes in my day-to-day life. All three returned, along with Joe's wife, baby, dog and adopted stray, when they lived here while we were working to make their new home habitable during Covid, and I fell in love with the cats all over again.

The new digs were ready enough in December of 2020 for Joe and his family to move in. I was looking at going from sixty to zero, with no companionship after they left, so asked if they would leave Angel and Monster with me. They readily agreed, and so instead of facing the rest of the Covid time alone, I had warm creatures to purr at me, to help me along the way. (Angel got sick, and I had to say goodbye to her almost two years ago already.)

Monster had the best purr. When I'd settle myself for sleep at night, he'd hop on the bed, put his front paws onto one of my forearms, and start to purr. The sound and vibration would quiet my whirling thoughts and I'd drift off, often on or beyond the edge of sleep before he stopped his ministrations for the night. If I twitched, he was gone, so I learned to settle for sleep without tossing and turning.

It was when they first lived here that Monster discovered the magical BOX WITH WATER in the kitchen. I was in the midst of remodeling, and so I didn't kick him out immediately when he jumped into the sink one day. The box clearly needed investigating!. On a whim, I turned on a small stream of water to see what he'd do - and that was that. I had a cat in my sink from then on. He was SO HAPPY to get his drinks that way, I never had the heart to turn him away.

Angel ruled the roost, and after she died, he seemed to ride on a wave of contentment. No longer did he have to share the tuna juice, or the preferred-for-the-moment best bed. It was all his! He wasn't quite as happy once THAT DOG, Sylvester, arrived, but he learned to hold his own and they figured out how to coexist.

He was getting old, and spent most of his time this last year happily snoozing in his favorite bed. Then, last month, I realized his food consumption had drastically dropped. He was losing weight rapidly. I moved the dish from its high point in the living room to the kitchen counter, and that helped for a few days, but then he quit eating altogether.

I had a heavy heart when I took him to the vet this past week. Old kitties suffer from a number of ailments; none of them are easily treatable. As I was talking to the doctor about options, he was absentmindedly petting Monster, who tucked his head into the corner between the man's arm and stomach, clearly not feeling well. I decided, by giving up food, Monster had done his best to tell me his preference for treatment. It was time to let go. 

I stayed as the sedative took effect, petting him and telling him he was the best of kitties as he drifted off. I kept stroking his soft fur, one last time, as the vet came back in and gave him that last shot. As he quietly stopped breathing, my tears flowed freely. 

Since then, to quiet my soul, I've been repeating Mary Oliver's words of wisdom (from In Blackwater Woods):

To live in this world

you must be able

to do three things:

to love what is mortal;

to hold it

against your bones knowing

your own life depends on it;

and, when the time comes to let it go,

to let it go

Goodbye, Monster. You were the best of kitties. 

May you run free in a place where there are enough bugs to catch, but not enough to pester you. May there be a comfortable blanket for you to settle on when you want to rest. And, of course, may there be a BOX WITH WATER, the best thing ever.

Wren and the Disappearing Door

I have to imagine the look of delight on the face of Wren's 4 year-old neighbor when he stopped by the tree to find the neighborhood fairy had returned from her winter travels.

A few days after he picked up Wren's note, a reply appeared, carefully tucked behind the door.

Dear Fairy Wren,

I drew a picture of you (pink) and me (blue). Hope you love it!

Sincerely, your 4 year-old neighbor

Of course I/she loved it!

I left one more small gift behind the door, it disappeared. I happily thought we were back in business. 

The next day, as I ambled around the block, I noticed the hang tag with the "open me" sign was neatly tucked against the base of the tree, but the door itself was gone! What the ???? All I can figure is that someone misinterpreted the note, thought the door itself was the small toy the tag refers to, and happily carried their loot home. 

Wren didn't want her 4 year-old neighbor to be worried, so she left him a note saying she is ok, but her front door disappeared in the recent rainstorm. It took several days, but 4 year-old did retrieve the note.

Thank goodness replacement doors are available from several larger retailers - I will have one in hand shortly and Wren will have a proper entrance to her home once again. I also have a fresh supply of small weatherproof toys headed my way. 

Magic Is!

Shower Repair?

I bought the supplies needed to do the shower repair myself, cleaned out the gap between the walls and floor, let it dry thoroughly, and put down a bead of caulk. Sadly, only after finishing the job, when I took out my glasses to check cure time, did I take a good look at the description on the tube. I'd asked for the right item, but the young guy who'd dug out the product for me didn't know his silicone from his acrylic, and had sold me the wrong stuff. My bad for not checking. A call to the Tile Shop confirmed the error, and I resignedly set about undoing the beautiful work I'd just completed.

I went and picked up the correct stuff the next day, but my self-confidence was shattered. I knew better than to not read the box; clearly my critical thinking skills are still compromised by grief. So, I called the guy who'd given me the advice to seal the bottom edge of the walls, and hired him to do the work.

He was busy, but wanted me to be able to use my shower, so squeezed me into his busy schedule, and came out last Saturday morning to do the work. Now, my caulking skills are pretty good, but the skills needed to put down a perfect line of silicone caulk are not among those I have perfected, so I asked him if I could watch him work. He agreed, and so I sat down, ready to learn.

Sadly, what I learned is that this young man of good intentions and good heart, when overextended and rushing, was not able to access the patience and attention to detail needed to work with the finicky caulk. 

He didn't carefully look into all parts of the cavity - red flag #1. I mean, I know I cleaned it well, but he doesn't know me. He didn't know if I'd really cleaned all the unsuitable stuff out, and silicone caulk won't adhere to other caulk.

Then, I watched with some dismay as he stuffed layers of caulk and backer rod into the cavity beneath the wall - red flag #2. The work he did wasn't going to hurt anything, but it also wasn't going to help - there was no way he'd created a solid line of defense. Water doesn't care if you've blocked the greater portion of its path back to the earth. It WILL find the gaps and wend its way as the Maker intended.

By this time, I wasn't surprised to watch him skip the prep steps I'd have done for that final, oh-so-visible line of caulk, but I was still willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, figuring there's a lot I don't know about ways to do things.

Nope. He was getting silicone everywhere. After watching for another fifteen minutes, I couldn't watch any longer. I left the room, hoping against hope he'd be able to get it cleaned up. 

He worked alone for another bit, then came downstairs. He told me he'd done what he could for the day, and would be back the next afternoon to do cleanup. No, no payment required just yet.

Once he drove down the street, I went upstairs to take a look, and heaved a heavy sigh. Perhaps three of them. More, even. The work was a total loss.

Silicone caulk is a much messier cleanup than acrylic, and it took me the remainder of the evening to undo what he'd done. As I worked, I had lots of time to think about my part in the whole mess.

Why did I ignore those red flags? Why didn't I speak up, ask questions, assert myself? Why did I just passively sit there and watch him waste his time, my time, and $40 worth of caulk? Why is part of me still convinced I am not allowed to voice my truth? Why, when faced with a momentary lapse in my judgement, did I decide to give up on myself?

Tough questions. I do know this is not how I want to be.

I finished the cleanup Sunday morning, and put down my own line of fresh caulk. It's not up to my OCDness standards, but I learned one more thing that will make my next attempt look better. The bead is clean enough to keep the water on the shower side of the wall, which is what really matters here.

Now, I have to wait until Wednesday to test the fix; I want to be sure to give the caulk a chance to properly cure before getting it wet.

Fingers (impatiently) crossed!

Spring at the Lake

I took a break this past weekend from the stressors and to-dos of my day-to-day life, and accepted an invitation to join some friends at their second home at Stockton Lake.

Friday was a lovely day for a drive down to central Missouri. The redbud trees have finished blooming, but the dogwoods were in full flower. The sun was shining, highlighting the blush of green in the treetops, the sky a brilliant blue. What's not to like?? I rolled along without trouble and without stopping, the dog quietly napping in the back seat the whole way there. We arrived in the late afternoon, and our hosts, Diane and Gary, greeted us with open arms and smiles. 

I hauled Sylvester out of the back seat (he refuses to try to jump in or out of a car), set him on the ground, and by all appearances, he soon decided he'd landed in paradise. So many new things to smell!! There were friendly dogs to meet, a pecking order to establish, multiple rocks to pee on. No tugs on the leash to pull him away from an intriguing scent, a huge area to explore at leisure, extra willing hands to give him pets when he checked back in to see if the people were doing anything interesting. Life was good.

Saturday morning found us hiking in the state park across the lake. Since we had no company on the trail, I set him free to roam at will. We meandered happily along the trail, the people keeping an eye peeled for morel mushrooms along the way ('tis the season!), the dog ranging ahead and behind as his nose called. 

To my pleasant surprise, he never got too far from us - he kept an eye peeled for our progress along the trail; would wait when he got too far ahead, scurry to catch up when an especially appealing scent had him lagging behind. 

And, and. Diane's eagle eye spotted four of the elusive morels. Now. For one of the finds, I was walking next to her as she shouted a cry of delight and pointed to a promising specimen. We stopped, and as she pulled it up, I scanned the area to see if the mushroom had any friends. 

Nope, nothing there. Nothing that is, until Diane pointed out a second morel in the area I'd just looked over. I'd have sworn it hadn't been there a moment before; I'm pretty sure it manifested itself out of the leaves after my gaze passed, just for her. It's the only logical explanation.

She is a master cook as well as an experienced morel hunter, and for dinner that night, I got to enjoy the delicate taste of morels for just the second time in my life.

A second long hike on an equally beautiful Sunday morning capped the weekend's relaxing activities. (Sadly, we found no more mushrooms.) Sylvester and I headed for home shortly after lunch. He plopped into the back seat, tired from the morning's exertions, and slept all the way home. I was pleasantly tired as I drove, more centered than I'd been when I arrived just 48 short hours before. 

Thank Goodness for welcoming friends, good conversation, laughter, and time with Nature. It was a healing reprieve, time to Stop. Breathe. Relax. *happy sigh*

Shower Woes

Uh-oh.

I noticed the bulge in the sheetrock next to the shower last month. It wasn't a very big bulge, so I promptly decided to un-notice it for a while. I was too sad to deal with what I knew was going to be bad news.

Last week I decided ignoring the issue wasn't helping to make it go away, so I took out my tools, lowered my keister to the floor, peeled off the trim, and started digging into the wall.

and digging. and digging. *sigh*

The leak has been there for a while. Likely for years, since even new lumber doesn't darken and rot overnight; maybe even since we finished installing the shower.

Once I finished digging, I just sat and looked at it for a while. Started to picture all the steps needed to un-install the glass surround, tear out the base, and then rebuild the whole thing. Decided I'm just not up for it right now - largely because if I didn't do the work right the first time, and don't know where I went wrong, it's highly likely I'll make the same mistake (or another just as damaging), and end up right back where I started.

So, I hunted around on my NextDoor app for a tile guy, found a promising name, and sent him a message asking if he'd be willing to tackle the project. To my surprise he was willing to come out to take a look at the issue and talk things through yesterday afternoon.

His first assessment wasn't as dire as mine. The problem might be at the drain, in which case the big job will need to happen. But. It might be at the edges of the pan. It turns out the advice I got to leave the bottom edge of the shower wall unsealed so any water that gets behind the tiles can seep out the bottom was dated. The current practice is to run a bead of silicon along the bottom edge. If I do this, it might keep the water from getting to wherever that small hole in the liner happens to be.

Hmmm. Backer rod, caulk. This project, I can tackle. 

If it turns out to be a problem with the drain after all, and the entire base needs to come out, I'll hire Grant to do the work. If not, I'll hire him to do a different small project around the house - fair's fair - he did tell me how to solve the problem. 

In the meantime, I've come to terms with myself and whatever error in installation I committed. I mean, I've done how many projects, over how many years, saving myself how much money? This is the first one where I messed it up badly enough that I need to call in the pros to clean up after me. Not a bad run, eh?

I'll take it.

Wish me luck on the repairs - I'll let you know what I find.

Morning Song

I reluctantly stir

open my eyes to the predawn darkness.
time?
6:30

ugh!

I hit the snooze alarm

nine more minutes
the buzzer rings again

This time, I rise

because I know 
future Janice
noon Janice
will be a happier camper if she's gotten to exercise this morning.

I stumble to the bathroom

splash water on my face

put in my contacts.
Throw on some yoga clothes
head downstairs

still groggy
then
open the door 

step outside to take the dog on his morning walk.

It's quiet outside 

dawn just beginning to light the sky.
As I walk
I open my ears.
At first 

all I hear is the roar of a distant highway
then
the song of the awakening birds 

penetrates my fog.

First one note
then another
then, suddenly

there is a chorus 

welcoming the morning light
proclaiming the start of another day.

By the time I'm done 

circling the block
the dog has done his duty.
I am glad I am awake
and outside.

Grateful for the reminder:
Beauty Is.