The 2024 Gardens: Part 1

My very last garden post in 2023 went up three days before the endoscopic ultrasound (a routine procedure performed without a hitch in almost all cases) that landed me in the hospital and skilled nursing for nine weeks. As I wrote when I finally got home in late October and finally started blogging again (albeit slowly) in late November, the gardens had gone to tatters since late August. And while I said then that I would "likely" have a garden again, I confess that it is now late April and other than make a few lazy notes in my head, I have not done a single thing on the garden front. 

That being said, absolutely nothing prepared me for what I discovered a few days ago coming up in the kitchen garden:

Recognize this? Here, let's try another photo:

Those, my friends, are volunteer lettuce starts. I never even suspected that lettuce would go to seed and then come up in the spring. 

In that last garden post in 2023, I noted that some of the the Black Seeded Simpson lettuce had gone to flower:

I had taken down most of the flowering stalks, but left a few up because the flowers were so beautiful and delicate:

Given the medical situation this fall, no one ever got back to them to clip the remaining flowers. And so the lettuce did what any sensible plant would do: it seeded itself.

We' won't be making much salad from these few starts unless they get a lot larger. All the same, I clipped a few leaves this evening and added them to our salad bowls before we sat down to supper. That gave us each a taste of spring and a hint of the magic of growing our own food.

And that taste was delicious. 

An Addendum to my Money Thoughts

 

Clarifying those pennies

After posting yesterday, I had an exchange of comments with Sam, who blogs at Sam Squared (yes, go read her; her reentering the blogging world has given me inspiration as I try to regain my footing). Sam marveled that I met my bills on my small pension and I elaborated a bit more on where my dollars went. A huge part of my being able to do so is the privilege of being in a stable relationship with someone who shares my money outlooks (no debt, not a spender) and who owns his own home mortgage-free (so no debt there either; also a huge privilege). Sam, unexpectedly widowed a little over a year ago, does not have the luxury of a working spouse; plans that she and her husband were putting into place for retirement were abruptly upended. Because of my cancer, Warren and I entered this relationship knowing that, even without this being a later-in-life union, we had to discuss and review regularly the hard reality that I will drop out of the financial picture earlier than "typical."

I also shared that had Warren and I not come together, which gave me the gift of stable, free  housing, I would likely (a) have continued to work, despite my diminishing health and (b), even with drawing my Social Security, but certainly if I were only drawing the small pension, I would probably be living with my dad on the outskirts of town. I am very close to my dad, but trust me, we would drive one another crazy. 

I recognize those are privileges, even a fallback plan of living with a parent, that I have that many do not.

I also realized, later in the evening as I reflected on money, that I had financial assistance from the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society for some of that time, which reimbursed me my health insurance costs (Medicare and the Supplemental Plan). Face palm. OF COURSE I could get by on the small pension because my insurance costs were covered. In fact, I have assistance for insurance reimbursement from another source for July 2023-July 2024; my medical messes and dealing with that stress have kept me from tracking down and submitting my vouchers, but I will get them in within the next few weeks. That reimbursement made a huge difference in my finances and my ability to meet my bills on a small income.

Money.

Money Thoughts

Per the lyric from "Cabaret," money makes the world go around.

Maybe yes. Maybe no. 

For several months, and not as a result of my lengthy medical matter (thank you, Medicare and my AARP/UHC Supplemental Plan G for paying every penny of the costs, including the Supplemental paying the $1600 hospitalization deductible that Medicare does not pay; that alone more than reimbursed me for the annual costs of the Supplemental Plan), I have been having what I can only call financial PTSD moments. [Please note: as someone with diagnosed PTSD, I am not using that phrase lightly. I have written openly about my financial/money trauma before—not a pretty story. But I don't live in that world anymore, thankfully.]

I made the decision last fall (perhaps as a result of the medical experience) to start drawing Social Security in 2024. Just before I disappeared down the medical maw, we had made an appointment to meet with a local financial planner and look at where we were financially now and in the future.  Warren and I, as a later-in-life relationship, keep separate and separated accounts. We share household expenses but we have no joint assets other than our love for one another. The financial planner had that information, as well as a thumbnail sketch of my medical history and its impact on my life expectancy. She had numbers for our expenses, our account balances, everything. I had a small bequest from a former client that was marking time in a low-interest account; could I put that to better use? My monthly income of $736 (last year; it is now up to $753) was a small pension. Because I had no debt and am not a spender, I never finished any month in the red even at that income level. I was past Full Retirement Age for Social Security purposes. So when we finally sat down with the planner (there was a long delay due to my being in the hospital and my subsequent recovery), she showed us projections based upon our both reaching our late 80s (highly unlikely for me, entirely possible for Warren) and upon my dying somewhere in the next decade (highly likely) and Warren continuing to live into his 90s. And that is without my going back to work, among other things. She gave us both praise: neither of us carry any debt. Nothing. Rien. Nada. 

And, no surprise in large part because of having no debt and neither of being Big Spenders, there was plenty of money to carry us into those faraway years. 

Before meeting with her, I ran the numbers between drawing Social Security starting this year or waiting until I was 70 in 2026. While waiting until I was 70 would give me—well, Warren, because 70 is a stretch for me—a larger monthly amount, the difference did not offset the benefit of having more money coming in monthly starting now and being able to direct it into savings and small investments. I applied for Social Security to start January of this year; easy peasy. Approval followed quickly. And that's when the PTSD kicked in.

What the heck? 

I was struggling. Not with the decision to start taking Social Security. Not with the concern that having more money would change my lifestyle. No, I was having flashbacks to the profligate spending spouse of yore who used to excoriate me for not making enough money to support him in a style in which he felt entitled, to the months of not being able to work at all after my initial diagnosis, to the financial constraints my health imposed that I could do nothing about, to all of that.

In past years, I have written about keeping stringent money controls over my finances. In 2017, I had to replace a car and I refused to go into debt to do so. I was treating my NW contingent to tickets home in the summer, another expenditure I refused to charge. And back in those days, I started every calendar year with an insurance deductible of $1500 (Medicare/Supplemental Plan annual deductible? $240 for 2024) that I needed to pay.  That was when I started printing out my pay stub every two weeks and assigning every dollar a job. (If any of you are Dave Ramsey fans, you will recognize that language; for the record, I did not get it from Dave Ramsey.) That system lasted until my very last pay stub in 2021. But even after that, I have continued to track my income, my outgo, and, yes, balance my checking account monthly, an activity that earned an incredulous gasp from a colleague who said he hadn't balanced his in years because he knew he always had plenty of money in it. Well, I didn't have that privilege for a long, long time. (I still balance it. And I still keep my "accounts on [my] thumb nail," as Thoreau admonished us.)

So back to the PTSD issue. What got me through it? 

Deep breaths. Seriously. Long walks (impacted and impeded by broken wrist, more surgery, and other issues, but, hey, I am building back up). Seriously. Watching financial videos (George Kamel, who is part of the Ramsey team, is a favorite) and hearing repeatedly both in videos and in articles: get-out-of-debt-now (a goal I met years ago). 

And, touching on these different sources, hearing some stats and numbers that calmed me down tremendously and finally allowed me to move forward without being triggered.

One came from Geoff Schmidt, a CPA who has a YouTube channel (Holy Schmidt!) that focuses mostly on retirees and retirement, either putting yourself in the best shape for retirement or, once in retirement, managing your finances so that you do not run out of money. His factoid? Per a 2022 Census Bureau analysis, 71% of all retirees in the United States carry an average of $19,888 in non-mortgage debt. Car loans, credit cards, who the heck know what, but 71%. (Yes, my jaw dropped.) He then said: Get. Out. Of. Debt. Now.

Not a problem here.

The other snippet came from George Kamel, who has a YouTube channel by the same name and whose sense of humor and blunt approach I enjoy. A Millennium, George is part of the Dave Ramsey empire and pushes the Ramsey Baby Steps formula to put yourself on the right path financially as early as possible. And yes, getting out of debt is a critical Ramsey Baby Step. (Again, not an issue here.) But the snippet he recently shared was that Americans annually spent $1800 per person on clothing. 

Annually. Per person.

Yes, I know. Averages are averages: many spend way more, many spend way less. But $1800? 

When I shared that with Warren over supper, I added, "I haven't spent $1800 on clothing, including shoes, over the last 30 years combined." (Katrina, if you are reading this, I know you are shaking your head.) We have had a lot of fun with that stat, including my sharing it with our neighbors, who tend to view clothing purchases the way we do. Mark was headed to pick up his elderly mother (she's 95) to take her to a funeral and pointed out that his suit jacket was easily 30 years old. "I had it relined once. And yeah, it's starting to fray. But you know what? It does fine for how rarely I wear it." I shared that I regularly wear a sweater that my son Ben wore in 6th grade—in 1997. That was when Mary spoke up and said in her early days (engineering/sciences), she bought a lot of professional clothes so the men would understand she was a professional. She then admitted that at some point, preparing to move, she had 28 or more wardrobe boxes in the attic, filled to the gills with suits, blouses, shoes, purses, and so on. All of us started laughing. I said when I graduated from law school in 1981, I bought one suit. One. And owned one pair of dress shoes. One. Lots of laughter. Mark looked at her and said, "I don't know if I would have married you if I had known you had all those clothes!" More laughter. 

It is mid-April and the PTSD episodes have faded. I still have a lot going on in my life, we still have a lot going on in our life together, and Warren has a WHOLE lot going on in his life. Those things carry their own weight and baggage and some of them I will be sharing in posts to come. But PTSD isn't one of them.

And neither is going out to buy $1800 worth of clothes!  

Dogwood Blooms

When I started writing this post early in the morning, it had a much longer, messier title and I meant to ramble through several topics. But looking at it several hours later, I think I will hold it to one thought: the dogwood tree. 

There is a dogwood tree close to the east side of the house and it is in full bloom. The dogwood tree is elderly; Warren's parents planted it decades ago. When you stand in our bedroom, the blossoms of the upper branches are right outside the windows. When I do dishes at the kitchen sink, the blossoms of the lower branches are right outside the window over the sink. I do not know how many more springs the tree has left in it, but my heart lifts up when I behold it in full bloom. Lilacs are my favorite spring bloom of all, but nothing matches the stunning impact of this dogwood.

As seen from the backyard

Last fall, when I was whiling away my hours in the hospital, Warren and his son David put some drupes (the seeds of the dogwood) into peat pots and stowed them in the back of the refrigerator. Drupes have to have a lengthy, cold period before they will sprout. I have not pulled them out to see if we have any sprouts, but I think it is time to take a look.

I wrote that last bit this morning and, hours later as I finish this up, I just went down and took a look. Nope. No sprouts. Probably not going to get any, looking at it. None of us (David included) ever checked on them; I think they needed watered. I may water them after I post this, and then check again in a few more weeks.

In a day or so, I will return to the other topics that I meant to dump into this post. But for now, back to what is happening outside: a chorus of spring joy. 

Which Was the Bigger Event?

Today there was a total solar eclipse across a swath of the United States. Where we live (Delaware, Ohio) was in the path of totality. Warren and I were invited to a viewing gathering next door and spent a wonderful few hours chatting, laughing, and watching the sun slowly disappear and then reappear. 

So as to not arrive empty-handed, I made two types of cookies to take: a cinnamon sugar cookie and a double chocolate cookie. Earlier in the day, I took some to our neighbors on the other side. In thanking me, Adam (the father of Margaux of the wonderful birthday tower) texted that he was "assuming that this is the correct way to eat them for the total eclipse effect:"

Eclipse preview

Yes, indeed! 

Seven years ago, there was a partial solar eclipse in our area, but this was the first full solar eclipse any of us (there were seven of us total) had ever seen. We were all wonderstruck.  All of us just kept marveling at what was taking place over our heads. We kept commenting on the changes in the light and the air temperature. 

And truly, there are not enough words to describe the event.

Solar corona at totality; if you were looking through eclipse glasses, you would see the sun totally blackened with a shining ring of light around it. My phone? Not so much! 

So yes, that was a BIG event today! 

But there was another BIG event earlier today. Midmorning, after thinning out the dead flowers from a birthday bouquet, I walked the discards out to the compost container back by the Hej garden. That garden currently is covered in purple deadnettle, one of the first flowering anything to come up in the spring. I had seen the garden last week and knew that it was carpeted in the small flowering plants. All the same, I stopped in my tracks. 

What stopped me?

BEES!!! 

Several bumblebees were zigzagging through the deadnettle. I only had my phone on me, but all the same managed to capture one of them in action:

The bumbler clearly ignoring me

 I went back to the house and grabbed my camera. Now, I have not really used my camera since shattering my wrist in January. I tried a few times, but pretty much lacked the physical capability to hold it as well as enough sensation in my index finger to trip the shutter. But I have been doing my exercises faithfully for week and while I am not 100% yet, I am much better. Better enough that I could get some shots off.

In the brief time it took to walk to the house, get my camera, then walk back out to the Hej garden, the bumblebees had moved on. But happily for me, the honeybees had moved in behind them and were busy mining the pollen:

The first honeybees of 2024

Bees, bees, bees! These are the first I have seen in 2024 and that, for me, is also a BIG event! 

I love that on a day of a once-in-a-lifetime sky event, my morning started with my finding a whole bed of bees, already starting their 2024 rounds. And maybe there aren't enough words to describe that event either.

The bigger event? They were both BIG. 

The Tale of Two Cakes

Yesterday was my 68th birthday. Warren and I tend to keep birthday celebrations low-key (although he is turning 70 next week and that might make for a bit more confetti than usual) and that was especially true this year because of professional commitments on his part. 

Low-key day that it was, there was cake. Several years ago, I figured out that the best way for me to have chocolate birthday cake (my personal favorite) was to make it myself. I love to bake, so that was never a hurdle.

Yesterday was no exception. The Non-Consumer Advocate, Katy Wolk-Stanley, recently posted about making a Depression-era cake. A chocolate cake. I recognized the recipe as one that also was called "Canadian War Cake" because it did not rely on scarce commodities such as butter. So in the spirit of the day and my mood, I had one ready for lunch!

After lunch

My life contains great friends, great neighbors, and great community. Our youngest neighbor, Margauxcat (her version of her name, which is Margaux), apparently wanted to make sure my birthday was well-noted. Mid-afternoon, I received a text from Maura (her mother) that "Margaux has a birthday surprise for you! It's rather precarious..." and we coordinated their dropping it off here. 

"Rather precarious." How great is that?

A few minutes later, Maura came across the front lawn bearing a small tray on which was indeed perched something "rather precarious." Margaux was dancing around close behind. They had made muffins and Margaux decided that I needed one with extra special attention. So she built a tower from two, cementing them with buttercream icing, which accounted for the "rather precarious."

The "rather precarious" treat from next door

But it didn't stop there. Margaux decorated the top tower with what I can only describe as a bejeweled pit filled with colorful sprinkles and golden coins:

The bejeweled pit! 

What a gift! What a birthday treat!

Warren and I shared the tower after dinner last night. I gave him the foundation and I took the top piece, scattering little gold and blue bits and pieces across my plate. It was an absolutely wonderful way to end the day, both in taste and in neighborly love. 

And I still have chocolate birthday cake left! 

Looking at the 2024 Groceries: End of First Quarter

Photo by micheile henderson on Unsplash

Back in November, as I was slowly regrouping from my long medical catastrophe earlier in the fall, I speculated that, having lost several months, maybe I would start to track our household grocery expenses (food and common household items such as tissues and dish soap) again. I kinda sorta tracked them in December, then scrubbed 2023 entirely. I think we came in somewhere around the $300.00 mark that month, what with additional purchases for baking biscotti and making peanut brittle, but that's a rough guess. And the other months were just lost. Farewell, 2023.

Here we are in 2024, and despite more medical interruptions (the broken wrist being one of them), I am again tracking our household grocery expenses. 

So let me start out with the obvious: yes, food costs have gone up, even from last year. Thank god for a husband who shares my attitudes and beliefs on plain (but tasty) cooking and does not turn up his nose at leftovers. (I am still stunned when someone says to me that they throw out their leftovers because "no one will eat them.") Thank god we have a working freezer. Thank god our food waste, with rare exception, is zero in this household. (The most noted exception? The hummus we bought and started eating in July got lost in the medical chaos in the fall; it was not salvageable when it came back to light months later. I have no problem cutting mold off of hard cheese, just so you know, but hummus is not a hard cheese.) 

Still, even with a very thrifty January ($70.73, all food), our first quarter expenses rang in at, gulp, $682.87 for both food and household items, or $227.62 a month average. Of that figure, $634.64 was food. Ouch.

Okay, not terrible and not even that far off on what we were running in 2023: $208.16 at the half. But I'd like it to be a bit better. 

Now, a couple of notes. There was a major restocking of the pantry and freezer in February and a smaller restocking in March, the latter triggered in part because we had a guest artist staying with us mid-month. And March was a tad high because, of course, with hams going on sale around Easter, we bought some. (Only three this year. Trust me!)  

I also want to note is that these figures do not reflect the one-a-day protein drink that my oncologists and my PCP want me to drink; those came into my life back in July 2023. Yes, it is a nutritional item, so it is "food." But it is, as far as I am concerned, a medical add-on that I would not be buying but for their insistence. (And, given the tremendous weight loss of this fall, I appreciate that I already was drinking them.) The cost ($17.20 for a case of 12, or $1.43 a day) is one I chalk up to oncology and other medical impediments. I am not factoring them into our home groceries. 

That's where matters stand at the end of the first quarter of 2024. I will be very interested to see what the next quarter brings! 

Two tangential notes! One: when I smashed my wrist and could not write down grocery purchases, I created a spreadsheet on my computer to track the numbers. Talk about coming out of the Dark Ages! Two: our local (and superb) farm center, Miller's Country Gardens, just opened for the season. Their colder-weather starts (cabbages, for example) will come out for sale this month; the warmer ones (TOMATOES) in May. I have not made a list, let alone checked it twice, but you know there will some tomatoes. How could there not be?

Finally, Light

Photo by Claudia Soraya on Unsplash

No, I am not talking about moving to Daylight Savings Time last Sunday. Or the Spring Equinox next week. Or the upcoming solar eclipse (we are right in the path of totality here in Ohio) on April 8.

I am talking about the light at the end of the medical tunnel I have been in since late August. For the first time in months, I can see a growing light up ahead and finally believe that it really IS light and not just the headlamp of an oncoming locomotive.

Don't misunderstand me. I still have a lot (A. LOT.) of rehab ahead of me to strengthen and regain better use of my right wrist/hand/fingers. I am doing daily exercises at home with the option of having formal physical therapy if my progress stalls. There was a lot of damage to the median nerve, the one that controls the fingers. (What am I saying? There was a lot of damage to my wrist, period.) I am slowly starting to walk more regularly; the long layoff in the fall, the long layoff after fracturing my wrist, and major arthritis in my left knee have all contributed to my having to relearn how to walk at a steady and consistent pace. The incisions from the gallbladder removal in late February are healing; my brilliant surgeon just gave me the post-surgery clearance. 

My biggest hurdle is that my energy levels are still average (for me compared to pre-autumn 2023) at their very best and pretty darn punk at their worst. That means that even on days where I am very careful to pace myself, I am still worn out by early evening. (I will not mention the days I overdo it, even with strong, loving reminders from Warren, Katrina, Pat, and others not to overdo it.)  

At my lowest points, I get teary at realizing how much ground I have lost. At my highest points, I appreciate how far I have come from those very bleak weeks back in the fall. It is not unusual that I experience both the lowest and the highest points in the same day. 

Every single day I am grateful I am even still on this earth.

And that is more than good enough. 

The 2024 Newbery Award Book

Let's just say I was less than thrilled when I opened up this year's Newbery Award book, David Eggers's The Eyes & the Impossible, and realized it was a story told by a dog.

A dog.

I immediately had unpleasant memories of Smoky, the Cowhorse, the 1927 bomb (in my opinion) that had the horse "hankerin'" for anything from food to his stall. And let's not forget the 1992 winner, Shiloh, which I still think of as the boy/dog/triumph-over-evil yawner.

I admit, I had an attitude before I read the interminable first sentence:"I turn I turn I turn before I lie to sleep and I rise before the Sun."

I told myself to just take a deep breath and keep reading.

What the hell is this story about? Is this a dog's view of the World? Life? Immortality? The Universe?

Just keep reading, April.

The Equilibrium? Is this a religious exploration?

Just keep reading, April.

What are those hypnotic pictures about? And all those little faces? Is this a book set in a dystopic future? Is some group being targeted for round up and internment?  

Just keep reading, April.

I was probably more than halfway through the book before I realized that, all my overreaching questions aside, I was caught up with Johannes (the Eyes) and his role in the animal community in which he lived. At the three-quarters mark, I had to finish the book to see the resolution. Would he succeed? Would he not? 

I am glad I just kept reading.

I am being deliberately vague about the story, so as not to spoil it for any of you who may read it. Just know that I was smiling when I finished. (And if you do read the book, also admire the artwork, all "Illustrations of Johannes," by Shawn Harris, threaded throughout the novel in full-color, two-page spreads. The cover art is by Harris.)

The Eyes & the Impossible is about community and solidarity. It is about liberation. It is about going forth. It is also, as the author reminds us in an introductory note, about animals as animals and not as animals symbolizing people. (There are humans in the book.) "Here, the dogs are dogs..."

I first read David Eggers when his memoir A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius came out in 2000. A writer? Eggers is a writer, an artist, an activist, and more. Just go look him up. 

So here's to the 2024 Newbery Award book and its author. This one is golden. 

I am so glad I just kept reading.

Wild Things Are Forever Happening

This book

When Maurice Sendak died on May 8, 2012, I posted about his death that very day. He was a giant, wild or otherwise, in the pantheon of children's literature. I read him to my children; I read him to Ramona. His lasting strength was that, when it came to children's picture books, he understood that even young children are far more aware of the world and the realities of life, both good and bad, than adults acknowledge.

A year ago, Warren and I took a day off and went to see "Wild Things Are Happening: The Art of Maurice Sendak," which was just about to close at the Columbus Museum of Art. CoMA had worked with the Sendak Foundation to create and curate that exhibit. There are not enough words in the dictionary (to borrow a phrase from an old friend, who would start an expression of gratitude or praise with that) to express the depth of that show and the impact it had on me. (This link will give you an overview of the show, which will be opening in the fall in Denver.) 

So even before this weekend, I already had a deep appreciation of Sendak and his creativity and artistry.

This weekend, my appreciation rose even higher when I began reading Caldecott & Co., Notes on Books & Pictures, a collection of his writings (about writers and illustrators who influenced him, among other things) and speeches (on winning the Caldecott for Where the Wild Things Are, among other things) that span from the early 1960s to the mid-1980s. 

A couple of observations. 

One, Sendak was a gifted writer: fluid, observant, poignant, critical, funny. He had no problem analyzing his own works, including some that did not meet his own expectations, and explain how he approached this or that piece. He wrote essays about important illustrators from the past, including Randolph Caldecott, and what he admired and learned from studying their works.

Sendak had no problem taking himself to task for failing to speak his convictions about children's literature. In a 1965 essay about being on a panel discussing children's literature, an audience member took issue with Peter Rabbit, finding it unrealistic for children. Sendak wrote: "Alas, I could not find the words to defend Peter to the gentleman in the audience...My only impulse was to smash him in the nose. That would be defending the honor of Beatrix Potter. Being aware, however, even from the platform, that his height and breadth were greater than my own, I quietly sulked instead."

My second observation is that Sendak was a man who absolutely loved books. LOVED books. This is Sendak at his finest: "As a child I felt that books were holy objects, to be caressed, rapturously sniffed, and devotedly provided for. I gave my life to them—I still do. I continue to do what I did as a child: dream of books, make books, and collect books."

Be still, my heart. That is how I feel about books. 

I have been reading this book in absolute quiet, deep in that world of just myself and the printed page. At times I am so moved that tears well up and roll down my cheeks. I have two pieces to go, which I will finish this evening, and then hold the book close to me before putting it in the return stack for the library.

There is more Sendak to come my way, in the form of a fairly recent biography and a book put together about the exhibit. I have them earmarked "For Later" on my library page and only the fact that I have a WHOLE bunch of books waiting to be picked up kept me from reserving them today. I read quickly, but not that quickly!

I only have one Sendak picture book left in the house, as the others migrated west some years ago. The remaining book is In the Night Kitchen. I will likely read it tonight, having read his explanations of the sources of that book. 

Maurice Sendak was an amazing artist in the fullest sense of the word. My life (and, I think I can safely say, the lives of my children and grandchildren) has been immeasurably enriched by having him, and all his Wild Things, here in my heart.

Greatly Exaggerated

Mark Twain very much alive

Mark Twain is credited with this quote: "The reports of my demise are greatly exaggerated." Apparently what he really said was, in response to a newspaper story that he had died, was that "the report of my death was exaggerated." 

Frankly, the first version is a little jazzier, but the end result is the same. Twain was very much alive. 

I just had my own Mark Twain moment tonight. My high school class is preparing for its 50th reunion this summer. One classmate has compiled a list of classmates who died, posted it on our class Facebook site, then asked if there were names not on the list that she had missed. A classmate I probably last talked to in grade school posted "I just found out that April Nelson passed."

Well, that was a bit of a shock. Two classmates soon contradicted him, while others asked whether it was really true, but the report of my demise was truly out there. When I saw the post, I quickly wrote "Trust me, Bob, I am very much alive." Warren and I both laughed over it, with Warren proposing ways I could "prove" I was still alive—pose with a newspaper (I would have to wait until Saturday morning as our local newspaper only publishes twice a week now), post that I knew how much the former President was fined in the civil fraud trial earlier today, make a comment about how much snow we got (3 inches and counting as of my writing this).

One of my oldest friends, Debra Jill (always, always just Jill to me) who I have known since first grade, sent me a private message expressing her relief that I was alive. She then quipped, "I think that the reports of your demise have been greatly exaggerated." I burst out laughing as I had already started this post. Great minds think alike and this is why Jill and I have been friends since first grade.

I think (trust, hope) that the temporary tempest in a teapot is out of steam. And the any reports of my demise have died a quick death!

Around the Kitchen Table

Note: I started this post several weeks ago. Before I got very far on it, life intervened in the form of my broken wrist. While I continue to figure out ways to incorporate more writing into my daily life (and that means dictation), I decided I would return to this post and finish it. My observation about the state of our living room is still true today.  Thanks to the wrist fracture, as well as some other recent issues involving my left knee, the living room still reflects a lot of medical trauma. It is what it is!

***************************************************************************

I have never hidden or shied away from revealing my working class background. Or, to be more truthful, my working class poor background when I was a young child. And, as this is a divider, still, in this town, my hometown, I have never hidden the fact that I come from the East side of town, which still, all too often, immediately translates into poor, uneducated, and worse. We are "those people," as if those of us from that side of town are some strange aliens (in the extraterrestrial sense) who somehow were plunked into this community. 

And sometimes, even without anyone talking about origins, there are things that I do or say that immediately reveal my background and upbringing. 

Which brings us to the kitchen table. 

In my family when I was growing up, and in the families of friends in my youth, the kitchen table was a gathering point. (Oh, additional note: there was no dining room table in either of my childhood homes. Or dining room, for that matter.) The kitchen table was where my parents and their friends would socialize with pots of coffee and endless games of euchre. The kitchen table was where, if there was a serious discussion to be had, you sat and talked. 

That is where life happened.

I was a young adult before I learned that other people, and that includes "nicer" (more refined, more educated, more whatever) people, socialized and talked in the living room. Not around a kitchen table, but sitting on sofas and in upholstered chairs, with coffee tables on which to set down food and drink and such. 

Huh.

And that learning experience has stuck with me to this very day. Friends or family come over and we visit in the living room. Yes, we use the kitchen table for eating (I got rid of my dining room table years ago), including with others, but the talk, unless it is during or immediately after a meal, is almost always in the living room.

How other people live...okay.

So recently I had two friends, sisters in fact, come over for tea and talk. I made sure the living room was picked up (it is still showing signs of recovering from my lengthy medical catastrophe; even a little bit of picking up makes it look better) because I knew we would likely put some food on the kitchen table (to then put on a plate and carry into the living room), I made sure it was clean too.

Kell arrived first. She came to the door carrying a box of goodies, made a beeline for the kitchen (which you can see from our front door), and asked, without even a pause, "Does it make a difference where I sit?" 

I almost fell over.

Someone just automatically assumed we were going to sit at the kitchen table? Be still, my heart!

Kell’s sister, Shell, arrived soon after and didn’t even blink when she found herself sitting next to the City recycling tub tucked away on the back side of the table. 

“What a great idea! I am always wondering what to do with mine!”

For the next two hours, the three of us sat at the kitchen table and talked, laughed, cried, shared. It was a heartwarming visit with good friends. And it all took place around the kitchen table.

So here's to kitchen tables. Here's to life.

Where Things Stand

My right wrist repair

Let's just say it's been a wild ride at times.  

Yesterday marked two weeks since I had surgery to repair and reset my right wrist, which I fractured a few days earlier when I took a hard fall on the ice. My orthopedic doctor reset the fracture, pinning it and plating it as needed. When we saw him one week post-surgery, he said that the fracture was far more complicated than the ER x-rays revealed. 

Great.

Surgery brought a pretty stiff cast from my palm to just below my elbow. Its purpose was to keep my wrist totally immobilized for the first two weeks. Let's just say that it fulfilled its duty with flying colors.

Yesterday, I had a two-week check to take off the surgery cast, remove the staples, and recast my wrist.

14 staples marched in a very precise line down my inner arm, from wrist towards elbow.

14.

My doctor wasn't kidding about it being a complicated repair. That was a long incision.

The staples came out quickly and with little effort. The nurse said I could gently wash my fingers, palm, and wrist before the new cast went on.

Heaven is washing your right hand for the first time since the initial break some 17 days earlier.

After the doctor gave the go ahead, the same nurse who had un-stapled me came in to recast my wrist. What color did I want?

I laughed. When I broke my right arm at the age of 10, there was one choice: plaster cast white. Now you had a palette to choose from, although she recommended against choosing white. "It tends to look dirty pretty fast."

Blue. Give me blue. 

I was in a new, blue fiberglass cast in very little time. The new cast is lighter, shorter, and gives me more (a lot more) range of hand movement. While my fingers and thumb have a ways to go (especially my thumb, which is still in shock) before I can use them more easily, life is already opening up. Case in point: I brushed my teeth, albeit awkwardly, with the toothbrush in my right hand, last night. 

Think that is no big deal? You try putting toothpaste on your toothbrush and then brushing your teeth using only your non-dominant hand. No cheating! 

This new cast will be on until the end of March. After everything I have dealt with since the end of August (and still have to deal with on several medical fronts over the next few months), this one has gone well medically and for that I am truly grateful.

Having said that, don't think I am blithely skipping down a sunlit path. I am not a good invalid. I am frustrated by very real limitations on what I can do and sometimes burst into tears when I run into one of them. Warren is doing a magnificent job of taking care of me, but I am not always appreciative. (And I am also all too well aware of the huge stresses on his time right now and, although he truly does not feel this way, I feel I am in the way and adding to his overload.) At my lower moments, I take deep breaths to calm down. At my lowest moments, I restrain myself from throwing something across the room — a bowl of food, a glass. When the immediate reaction (throwing something) passes, I pick my emotions back up and try again. And remind myself that there really is a lot to be grateful.

I am creeping back into writing. I am dictating a lot, doing a little more typing now that I can use one (one) of my fingers — the middle finger — on my right hand to move the process along. (Hmmn. My middle finger. Wonder if that is a reflection of where I am emotionally sometimes or just the easiest and longest finger to use. Yeah, probably that...the easiest one to use.) Handwriting is still a distance away. But closer than it used to be! 

That's where I am at these days. I have lots of time to read. (When don't I have lots to time to read?) Dear friends in the area come over for tea and talk and chuck in where I need help. I follow the exploits of my grandchildren from afar: Ramona just finishing a run in the cast of Newsies through the theater group she is involved with and Orlando about to turn, wait for it, FIVE.  I dictate letters to my friends: not as satisfying as writing by hand (very different process mentally) but we keep the words going.

From friends to books to grandchildren to Warren, I am grateful and rich beyond compare.

My blue cast is just the icing on the cake!

Isn't it pretty?

 

We Interrupt This Program...

Note bone on lower right: not supposed to be there like that

 

So who thought yesterday "Oh, I can walk safely—it's not bad out," then proceeded to fall, break her right wrist in 3 places, spend 6 hours in ER, 1 hour at orthopedic doctor's office, and has surgery this Friday to fix it?

Let's just say it is not what I had planned this week. Or any week. And we did not need this additional complication in our lives. Yesterday drained us both, to put it mildly. (How grateful I am for Warren; he was just leaving for the office when I went down and was there for every minute that followed.)

Typing is slow and I am clumsy using just my left hand. My dictation skills are decent, but my editing skills are hampered. So don't expect too much from me for the next few weeks.

In the meantime, life rolls on. Right? 

My Analog Life

2024 has arrived. Now what?

I am still (no surprise) figuring out what my life looks like post-medical catastrophe: physically, mentally, emotionally. On the very plus side, as in "wildly positive," I am walking daily (okay, there have been some weather call-offs) with a good pace and increasingly distances (a mile to two plus). Given that my first post-catastrophe walk was .16 miles from our driveway to the end of the block and back, with me hanging onto Warren's arm, I am thrilled.

But I would be kidding myself if I think I am back to my pre-catastrophe self physically because I am not. And will never be in some areas. That's just the reality of age, long-term cancer, and the catastrophe. (And on the mental front, yes, my intellectual capacity took a hit too. Given that dementia runs heavily in my mother's side of the family and I am at significant risk for developing it, I am keeping an eye on when I have blips that are more than just forgetting a name.)

But, back to 2024 and my continuing to shape my new life. As I have shared with close friends, I am learning to create a flow that seems to work best for me now. One huge piece of my life now is that I am spending more of my time in what I will call my analog life.

Here are some things that my life contains.

A jigsaw puzzle that my friend Maike, who knows that Warren and I (especially Warren) are huge admirers of Frank Lloyd Wright) found at a thrift shop and sent our way:

Books, books, books, the old-fashioned way:

Reactivating my sourdough starter, which bit the dirt during the medical catastrophe. I know, I could have asked my next door neighbor to give me some of his starter, but, hey, starting it is no big deal:

And other pieces that were already in place and continue to give me a quiet space to work (head or hands or both): letters to friends (of course) and walking (previously mentioned), washing dishes by hand, taking time to watch the seasons and the skies and the weather and the birds. There is a farm near my father's house where the last two times I have gone to see him, there has been a huge murmuration—starlings, perhaps?—as I am heading back home driving past the farm. "Wow" does not begin to describe the sight.

Back in my earliest days home, my friend Katrina, in response to my comment that I did not have the strength and energy to talk on the phone more than 10-15 minutes, and how some (including my father) would blithely plow past that limitation, sent me a timer. Oh, Katrina! What a gift! I rarely used it on the phone calls, as I could see on my phone how long the call was lasting, but what this timer has done for me is given me controllable time back. I know, I know. Phones have timers and alarms. Our 1970s era stove has a timer clock for the oven. But setting the dial on this timer and letting it run until its distinctive ding, has made my baking and other activities (my now daily nap) so much easier to track. Who knew?

A life changer! 

The catastrophe and some other important matters impact how and whether we will do much (any) traveling this year other than getting to Mayo sometime later in the year. I hope. I am doing telehealth appointments right now; I do not have the physical capacity yet to drive to Rochester and flying, even without factoring in Covid and flu and RSV, takes even longer than driving. I told Warren this weekend that I have made peace (reluctantly) that I will never get back to Maine, a trip we hoped to take last July but scrubbed because of Symphony matters. I realize it is highly unlikely I will make it out to the PDX area this year to see my family. It is what it is.

Fellow blogger Laurie recently wrote about her "football sweet potatoes" and I asked for a photo, which she gladly provided. My interest was prompted by photos from Orlando at Thanksgiving, scrubbing sweet potatoes as big as his head, even adjusting for camera angle. (I called and asked; adult confirmed the sweet potatoes were massive.) My son Ben is making plans, still tentative, to come back here in May, with Orlando (who starts kindergarten this fall!) and I hope that all comes about, whether we are scrubbing massive sweet potatoes, baking a pie, or just hanging out in the sweetness of time (analog, of course).