Words

Plangently.

Sedulous.

Encomia.

Numinous.

I read a lot. A. Lot. I have always read a lot, starting in first grade when the scales fell from my eyes and I had that Helen Keller moment of connecting the print on the page to the word in my head. (In The Miracle Worker, the magic word for Helen was "water." For me, it was "ask.") Once that happened, I went right on reading. And reading. And reading. Even now, most years I read over 200 books annually. 

One of those books this year is The Island: War and Belonging in Auden's England, which traces poet W. H. Auden's life from childhood until he leaves England in 1937 at age 30. I began it last night. Given my proclivity to read A. LOT, I was a bit taken aback that I was only on page 75 (and that does not count the 35 pages of Prologue by author Nicholas Jenkins) and already had the four words above scribbled down to look up. That was last night; this morning I pulled out my Webster's Dictionary and set it on the coffee table as I suspect I will be needing it more.

I am only familiar with the older, post-England, urbane, slick Auden. This book has already opened a whole new way for me to view him and his writing. (Heck, just reading the chronology from birth until he leaves England in 1937 opened new vistas.) 

And apparently reading this book is going to make new additions to my mental dictionary.

Plangently.

Sedulous.

Encomia.

Numinous.

After Four: Wrapping Up Grocery Spending in 2025

Back at the end of September, I updated our grocery spending for 2025 year-to-date and expressed the hope that we come in at year's end spending an average of $200/month. We were right at an average of $195.00/month after three quarters and we at least had a shot at hitting that mark.

The numbers are in and while we did not hit the $200/month average, we came in pretty darn close at a monthly average of $208.31. If we had spent about $100 less last year (the entire year, not just per month), we would have hit the $200.00 mark just about dead on.

So what did the fourth and final quarter of 2025 hold both in savings and in spending? 

On the non-food front—things like dish soap, toilet paper, tissue—we spent a staggering $49.72, or about 7% of our overall spending in this final quarter. To put that percentage into perspective, realize that in all of 2025, non-food items amounted to 4.5% of the total amount. So what happened in the fourth quarter to shoot that percentage up? Three major purchases is what happened: toilet paper, bleach, and trash bags for the kitchen waste container. Given that we had not purchased trash bags for over 15 months (because after buying them for my dad's apartment at Assisted Living, it turns out that he did not need them, so they came home with me), I can't be too disappointed to see that expense. Toilet paper: it is what it is. The price of bleach, though, had risen enough since last purchased (two years ago, maybe?) that I made mention of it in my spending notes.

Our food items were pretty much the usual, with the total spent in this final quarter coming out to $739.45. That was the highest quarter grocery costs in all of 2025, but not staggeringly surprising given the higher food prices we are seeing here. A few specific items caught my eye and I noted them in the running accounts I keep. We purchased Sucralose this quarter, the first time in months, and I winced at the price jump. One very recent jump that also caught my attention was the cost of a gallon of milk: it took a 20¢ hike in one week a few weeks ago. Ouch! And it has not come down! Ouch again! 

And one other category added to the overall costs this quarter: we annually make several major holiday treats, and those added to the overall costs. Those treats? Biscotti, Hyer peanut brittle, and, for a second year in a row, Kringle. Kringle made its first appearance in our holiday lineup last year and we brought it back for a second year. We made four total this year: two for our closest neighbors, one for our household, and one to take with us when visiting family last weekend. We make it with frozen puff pastry, and even on sale, those boxes (one per Kringle) ran almost $5.00 per box. Add in the frozen berries at $11.99 (enough to make 5 or even 6 Kringle with) and you are looking at $32.00. We also did some holiday "snacky" purchases, anticipating time spent with family and friends, and those items—cheeses, salami, crackers, (more) cookies, chocolates—came to $35.00, or about two-thirds of the $100 that would have brought our monthly average in at $200.00. 

A 2024 Kringle but trust me, the 2025 ones looked the same! 

But you know what? Neither Warren nor I regret a single bit (or bite, for that matter) of those "extra" expenses. We take great joy in making them (I do the biscotti, Warren and his son David do the brittle, and Warren and I do the Kringle) and even greater joy in sharing them. 

So I close the books on 2025 feeling pretty satisfied overall. Looking ahead to our 2026 spending, I cannot help but wonder what food costs will look like. I doubt that any of us see any sweeping drops at the checkout. But, as Warren and I remind ourselves, we are fine. Our freezer is well-stocked, we are not extravagant eaters (no lobster here), and we take pleasure in cooking simple, filling meals.

Life is good. I hope 2026 will be so too.  

Some Things Come in Twos

Some things come in twos. You know: animals on Noah's Ark, twins, a pair of shoes or gloves. This Christmas week, I received my own unexpected but perfectly matched pair.

The first came in Wednesday from Mona, Orlando and Ramona's Nana out in Vancouver, Washington. That day, midday my time, morning out there, she texted me this:

That is one of my biscottis in her hand, a present I gladly send out there every Christmas.

The pair was unexpectedly completed an hour later, by my longtime friend Kevin, who lives about 30 miles away but has been a magistrate in our municipal court here for a number of years. Kevin had stopped by last week on his way home to pick up—what else?—some biscotti that I offered him. Early afternoon he texted me this:

I couldn't have planned those photos coming in the same day if I tried! 

Here's to warm holidays full of laughter and light and friends and family and love.

And, in this case, biscotti.

After the Fog

I was at my PCP's office last week and shared with her the gray fog depression that had wrapped itself around me. After ascertaining that I was stable, my doctor said, "And let's not overlook that it's wintertime and that can add to depression what with the grayness and cold."

I burst out laughing. "Winter is my 2nd favorite season," I said. "Not a factor!" 

Melissa didn't miss a beat. "You just always have to be different, don't you?" And then we both laughed.

In the last few days, the gray fog has disappeared. Disappeared, not just moved over to the side to descend upon me again. I feel I am back to my non-depressed self with a normal (for me, given Melissa's observation about me never being "normal") range of emotions. 

And it does not surprise me one bit to say that I owe this lifting to—what else?—books, two that I just read and one that I am finishing shortly. 

The first is Tracy Kidder's latest: Rough Sleepers: Dr. Jim O'Connell's Urgent Mission to Bring Healing to Homeless People. I am a huge Kidder fan from way back and this book is no exception to his superb eyes, ears, and pen in capturing the story. Kidder's portrayal of a doctor whose career has been dedicated to treating homeless people in Boston is stunning and I heartily recommend it.

Besides the sweep of the story Kidder tells, a tiny piece that captured me was a retelling of the story of Sisyphus, condemned in Greek mythology to push a massive boulder up a steep incline to place it on top, thus freeing him from the ordeal, only to see the boulder roll down and away just as he reaches the summit, dooming him to start all over the next day. Dr. O'Connell, however, talks about a reinterpretation of the tale by existentialist writer Albert Camus: "The struggle itself toward the height is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy."

Sisyphus happy. Oh, oh, oh.

Upon finishing Kidder's book I began HumanKind: Changing the World One Small Act at a Time by Brad Aronson. I had brought it to one of Warren's rehearsals, along with the Kidder, knowing I'd finish the Kidder before the rehearsal ended.  I read the last lines in Rough Sleepers and opened the Aronson. How far did I get before I was in tears? Not far.

Aronson writes movingly and passionately about acts of kindness: some huge, many tiny, but all just acts of kindness towards others. How tiny? Just smiling at people as you pass them on the street or in a store aisle. What moved me deeply was the affirmation for me that small acts do make a difference. This book reinforced my commitment to tikkun olam (mending the world) and underscores what the Talmud emphasizes: the small acts, the small steps, are just as important to take as acts far beyond many of us (think of Martin Luther King, Jr.). We are not "excused" from tikkun olam because we cannot fix the whole world. Instead, the obligation on me as a Jew is, quite simply, just do it. Daily. 

After finishing Aronson Saturday night while Warren was at another rehearsal and concert, I began the third book, Class Cultures and Social Mobility: The Hidden Strengths of Working-Class First Generation Graduates by Paul Dean, a professor at Ohio Wesleyan University here in Delaware.

Oh my. 

Several years ago, I wrote about being a first-gen college student, about still identifying myself as a working class person, and about navigating life through that perspective. 

And now I am reading about those same realities, feelings, and issues in this new work. As I read, I am nodding my head in agreement at what Dean (who is also a first-gen) writes. I feel seen. I feel validated. And, just so you know, I was one of the many individuals that Dean interviewed, so at times I truly see myself. 

I truly believe these books are why my depression has finally lifted. Despite the larger matters that weigh on me (and have not gone away), I'm still here. And I am still mending the world, my world, in small steps and bits that matter. Camus had it right about Sisyphus: the joy was in reaching that summit every single day, then walking back down the hill to start again the next day. 

I can do that. 

Frugality? Therapy?

Maybe both?

I have been a longtime reader of Katy Wolk-Stanley's blog, The Non-Consumer Advocate. Over the years, she has more than once posted about her extending the life of socks and other knitted materials by darning them.

As I make known far and wide, I don't sew. I don't knit, crochet, or weave. I don't craft, period. Just not within my skill set. I admire those who do, but again, I can't do it. I can mend a tear or replace a button, but that is pretty much the limit of what I can do.

So why was I sitting last night mending a tear in a wool cap I wear often this time of year? 

One reason was because it is COLD outside. I walk a lot. A. Lot. And I need something warm and toasty that keeps my head warm.

Another reason was because the area in need of repair was small. The opening was about the size of my thumb. Okay, even I could do that. 

Another reason was sentimentality. My son Benjamin, about to turn 40, received this cap as a birthday present at, I think, a birthday party with friends when he turned 11. Or maybe 12. Whichever. The bottom line is the cap has been in my closet for years and I have worn it regularly for the last 20 or so. 

One final reason is that, although I do not knit or sew or other, I am married to a skilled, artistic, talented craftsman who has been making custom mallets for himself and others for decades. Decades? Like five of them. The keyboard mallet heads are wrapped over and over in yarn. As a result, the yarn was already in the house. All I had to do was ask.

So, there I sat quietly, mending, taking great satisfaction in taking care of a small task.

A small, concrete task.

A small, concrete task that I could focus on. Draw satisfaction from. Finish. 

Ever read a book where a sentence or a sentiment or a concept leaps off the page and grabs you? That is not an uncommon experience for me and it happened several weeks ago when I read Rabbi Angela Buchdahl's stunning memoir Heart of the Stranger. She ends each chapter with a mini-sermon ruminating on a Hebrew word and its importance in Judaism. The word at the end of one chapter was simcha (joy) and she reflected on the importance of finding joy even in the midst of hard times and sorrow and depression. 

Buchdahl quotes Søren Kierkegaard: "It takes moral courage to grieve, it takes religious courage to be joyful." She then write about Hasidic Rabbi Nachman of Breslov, who struggled with depression and wrote that even when one did not feel happy, they should act happy and "genuine joy will follow."

That was not the part of her writing that caught me. It was her discussion with Alan Schlechter, an NYU professor, and his observation that Nachman's response is a major therapeutic tool in treating depression and is called "behavioral activation." "The method insists we start doing the things that bring us joy, even if they are not making us feel the way they used to. In the doing, the feelings will change," he told her.

Behavioral activation! That is where I leaped off the chair. Well, leaped figuratively. What I actually did was grab my Chromebook and Google "behavioral activation." Within a few minutes, I was looking at a sample worksheet and burst into laughter. The first page was suggested activities, the following pages contained a log to chart one's activities and to assess how one felt after a week of such deliberate actions.

My laughter? I have been treating myself by behavioral activation for weeks now, without knowing I was doing it. Small, deliberate tasks. Running an errand. Cleaning up the kitchen. Organizing the paperwork messes that pile up in my study. 

And mending a hat that came into my life years ago.

And after 21...

Dr. Timothy D. Moore (okay, so he's a little older now
and the hair has gone white but this captures his great smile)

Before yesterday, I had been tossing around a bunch of topics about which to write, ranging from food to community to moving through the grayness I seem to have been wading in this fall to it being Biscotti Season again. But then I was told some news that made me catch my breath and I woke up this morning thinking I have to write about this.

Yesterday we saw my oncologist of 21 years, Tim, for what has become a pretty routine every-three-months check. After coming into the examination room and asking me how I was doing (fine), he sat down, pulled his stool up close, looked me in the eye, and said, "You have heard, haven't you?" 

Heard what?

Tim is retiring at the end of January. And I hadn't heard because at my last appointment in September, he was unexpectedly rounding in the hospitals, so he was not there to tell me himself. 

Tim? Retiring? What?

While I knew that his retirement was possibly/maybe/probably on the horizon, it is one thing to know this "may be happening" in the future and quite another matter to hear a date definite said out loud. He said there were two hematologists at Zangmeister that he was passing his patients to and that he made the choice for one who he thought would be a perfect fit for me. After talking about her background and experience, he added, "The first thing she will say when she meets you is "You've had myeloma since 2004? What?!"

Don't get me wrong. I am very happy for Tim and his wife, who I have met several times. Over the years, our talks have ranged far and wide; I know of his family and travels and I am thrilled that they can now spend more time seeing and traveling and being with friends and family. I totally get moving on from a lifetime of practice. 

But all the same I was shellshocked. Tim is turning 71 this spring. I never expected to outlive his practice and I am so grateful I have. But dang!

Warren had the best response when we talked about it later yesterday and again this morning. He pointed out that, for me, this is an ideal time for Tim to bow out. I have not had treatment since August 2023 and my myeloma has stayed flatlined since then. That is way better than me being in the middle of yet another course of treatment or worse. And Warren is right.

I meet my new oncologist in March. And I know I will continue to cross paths with Tim from time to time. "You know how to reach me," he said, and he meant it.

Tim and I have had 21 years and one month together. I still remember what he said the very first time I met him: "Don't look at statistics for myeloma. Every patient is different." (The survival statistics for myeloma in late 2004 were bleak, to put it mildly.) I also remember what I said to him that first appointment when he told me just from my blood tests alone he knew I had myeloma: "F*CK," immediately apologizing to him because I didn't know him well enough to talk like that in front of him.  I recounted that story yesterday and we both laughed.

In 21 years, Tim has been there leading me through treatments, directing my oncology care—everything. He himself did my first few bone marrow biopsies, marking the insertion spot by pressing down hard on my hip with his medical school ring to imprint my skin. Tim is the one who said to me, over a decade ago, that he wanted me to go to Mayo Clinic for a second opinion, because he was stumped at what he was seeing in me versus seeing in the labs and wanted me to see a specialist. I am still grateful he had the intelligence and the humility to do that. 

We finished the appointment talking about everything from Mayo Clinic to Class B RVs to Beethoven to how much myeloma treatment has changed since Tim and I first met. When all three of us stood up to say goodbye, Tim and I gave each other a tight hug. 

Back in May 2022, I wrote about The End of Your Life Book Club, Will Schwalbe's memoir about the books he and his mother read and shared together in the last months of her life as she dealt with the cancer that was killing her. Schwabe wrote about the hug his mother's oncologist gave his mother at the next to the last appointment, knowing the death was not far away. I wrote then that I had not a farewell hug from Tim yet, but that day was out there.

Well, that day was indeed out there and now I have had that farewell hug from Tim. But for a most wonderful reason. And for that I am more than grateful.

Thank you, dear Timothy, my doctor, my oncologist, my friend. It's been a great trip. 

They Do Indeed Grow Up

Ramona (far right) as Mole in "Wind in the Willows" at the end of June.  

Back in July, Warren and I flew west to spend time with my sons and their families. It was the first time we had been out in Portland and Vancouver (WA, not BC) since 2021 and, with the exception of Ben, who flew back in 2023 when I was hospitalized and again in 2024 with Orlando, I had not seen the Pacific NW contingent for four long years.

And that was when the reality of Ramona, who I last saw as a little girl, hit me: she grew up.

Oh, don't get me wrong. At just 13, Ramona is a teenager, not an adult. But what I mean by "she grew up" is that she was no longer the elementary-age girl who talked and giggled and shared Lego creations and her favorite books (MS level, for the most part) and was, basically, still a little girl back in 2021. And even though I had seen photos over the years, and talked on the phone occasionally with Ramona, it had not sunk in that she was no longer that little girl. 

Nope, nope, nope. Ramona grew up. So much so, in fact, that it took the two of us a few days to figure out how to talk with one another. We finally found a topic that worked for us both: writing, especially writing poetry. She is passionate about the creative writing track at her school, Vancouver School of Arts and Academics, and it was a joy to talk with my new-to-me granddaughter about writing.

Yesterday that same reality that children grow up hit me in the face again. We attended a reception for longtime friend Marilyn, who just turned 91. Marilyn was Ben's preschool teacher for 9 months when we first moved back to Delaware; my connections with her go back even farther (her oldest child was a year behind me in high school). We arrived, signed in, stood looking at the people in attendance, talked with a few, including one whose son had run around with my Sam during their middle school ages ("How did our boys get to be 35, April? How?") and then a young man walked up to me to welcome me and introduce himself. 

"I'm Marilyn's grandson, Beau."

Oh. My. God. Beau. 

"Beau! I'm sorry. I last saw you when you were...maybe three?" I held out my right hand and lowered it from his probable height close to six feet down to nearer my knees, bending my knees to move my hand down. 

Beau smiled and bent his knees down too. Then we both stood back up, laughing a bit.

"Yeah, I know. I grew up."

He and I then had a wonderful short conversation about who he has become, what his life holds, and such. He has a deep commitment to family and taking care of people (a father with health issues, his aging grandmother, a job that involves assisting someone with dementia). I told him that I admired his values and then said, "Let me speak as an elder to you, which I am." We both grinned. "Save some time for yourself."

Beau lit up. "I know! I have learned that when I don't, I get worn down and sad."

We then talked about where Warren and I lived (because I told him that Marilyn and I mail postcards to one another, even though we live about five blocks apart) and he lit up again. "I love your neighborhood," he said, adding that he really loved the diversity of homes in our part of town, then making a disparaging comment about homes in new subdivisions looking all the same.

I cracked up. Telling him that I was a retired lawyer who did a lot of zoning and development law in my day, I explained to him that when developers submit their plans, they spell out in the plan the pattern of facades on the houses, typically either a 3-house or 4-house pattern: a stone veneer facade, a brick veneer facade, a clapboard facade, repeat. 

"Next time you are thinking about it, Beau, drive through one of our local subdivisions and count the facade types. You'll see the pattern really fast." 

He grinned and nodded his head. "I will, I will!"

We finished talking, Warren and I talked with a few others, including the Ancient Birthday Girl (Marilyn's term, not mine), we sampled some of the pies made by a friend (the key lime was superb), and then left. As we walked away, I reflected on meeting and talking with Beau, then thought back to July and Ramona.

Children grow up. Indeed they do.

And that is a thing of wonder.