What the Garden Looks Like After One Month

Two of three deck planters, the largest not in the photo! 

Back in mid-May, I wrote about how Warren and I had labored to get our basic vegetable garden in and done. After that post, we spent another weekend putting together the Big Flower Pots that we set out on the deck. They are all annuals; we do for color and variety. 

And that is about it.

I wrote last year about giving up the Hej Garden in the rear of the property and how we both decided it was okay to let it go.We made some similar decisions this year about extra "stuff" we had on hand, ranging from more tomato cages than I will ever use in my life again to more (MORE) planters ranging from medium small to BIG. Warren and I reached agreement very quickly: let them go. So they ended up on our curb—the cages on a Saturday, the planters the next day—and guess what? They went to new homes in no time!

So what do we have?

This:

Our vegetable garden, June 2026

The peppers, cabbage, and tomatoes are coming on. With luck, I might have a tomato by end of the month. Time will tell.

Maybe?

The lettuce, in the lower lefthand corner of the garden, came on like gangbusters and I picked some this morning to add to our salads later today. We are having a series of hot days, so I do not know how much longer the lettuce will last. I told my neighbor to please pick some for her and her husband to enjoy.

Salad! 

The basil is struggling to get through the weeds. Yes, I know; I should have been WEEDING. I have decided that if I go out very early in the morning with my gardening stool and a fork (yes, a fork, as in "out of our silverware drawer"), I may be able to knock down the weeds and give the basil a chance.

Yes, there is basil in that mess! 

Stay tuned on that one.

And finally, in a nod to our bees and pollinators, I am delighted to see that the milkweed I curate (I say "curate" because our yard is not a butterfly garden and I limit the milkweed I let grow to maturity) has begun blooming. No bees in this photo, but I have seen them burrowing headfirst into the blooms already.

Milkweed blossoming

While I was visiting my dad earlier today. one of the workers and I talked about gardening: what did I grow? I told her, then focused on the basil, explaining that I had not weeded but needed to do so, because I make a lot (A. Lot.) of pesto in the late summer. I then told her how I let the basil go to flower for the bees, adding that last year I decided one of the best things I could do for myself was sit and listen to them, my own bee therapy. She nodded approvingly. 

"We could all use that, I think," she said. 

Indeed we could. 

Losing the Inches

I sat down last night, pen and legal pad in hand, and wrote out this post. Originally, it was titled "Inch Fourteen: Inching Along," and I started out by writing about thinking of titling it "Losing the Inches," explaining that I am not talking about dieting but about abandoning my announcement back in early March to write a post, an inch so to speak, a week. I penned out most of it, then went to sleep, knowing I would get up this morning and turn to my keyboard.

When I woke up this morning, I thought, "I need that original title. And my original story," So I sat back down earlier this morning (it's now 8:30 a.m.), added some lines, and here we are.

Good morning!

First things first: I am not turning my back on writing. No, no, no. I am turning my back on the framework of weekly inches.

Why? Because I want to write more than once a week.

Well, duh, April, then write more than once a week. Yes, I know. I think I just felt boxed in with the notion of one inch a week. How boxed in? Look at my "off schedule" post, titled "Inch Eleven and a Half," so titled because I thought I was breaking the rules. Whose rules? My own rules. (Which of course brings to mind that beautiful moment in the movie, "Field of Dreams," where James Earl Ray says to Kevin Costner, "There are rules here? Oh no, there are no rules here.")

There are no rules here. 

So why the change? After all my complaining and whining and kicking my toe against an imaginary brick wall (with my foot issues, no way I am kicking a real brick wall!), I have felt something shift in me where I suddenly feel I can write more.

Can? 

I want to write more.

So my new approach is telling myself to write at least one post a week, and let everything else flow from there. 

I have just started reading The Glorians by Terry Tempest Williams. I have admired her writing and thoughts for a long time, and this is no exception. Subtitled Visitations From the Holy Ordinary, Williams reminds the reader that "Holy," however one defines it, is as close as an ant carrying a petal across her deck.

Or a bee in the spiderwort. 

Let me see what summer brings.

Inch Thirteen: Old Friends

Getting soft-serve ice cream at the local Dairy Depot

Old friends, literally and figuratively. 

Katrina and I were matched 52 summers ago as freshman roommates at the University of Chicago. Margaret Perry, the member of the administration who made roommate matches, was a friend of Katrina's mother, June. Katrina remembers that Margaret told June that she had made a very good match for her daughter,

Understatement.

Katrina and I corresponded over the summer to get to know one another better. We exchanged letters and bits of information. I was recovering from a knee injury and I know I alarmed her (she told me this years later) when I said I would be arriving with a bucket and loose weights to do the mandated physical therapy of lifting the bucket several times a day with my leg extended. (Yes, I arrived with the bucket and loose weights. No, I did not continue the therapy.) I was intimidated not by anything she shared with me, but by the older student helping the freshmen find their rooms when she said to me, "Oh! Your roommate is already here! She is tall and has gorgeous long blonde hair!"

Gorgeous blonde hair. Okay.

Katrina was tall. And she did have gorgeous long blonde hair. But even more important, she had a great sense of humor and an open heart and a welcoming smile.

52 years.

Over those years, we have stayed close despite our lives spiraling in sometimes very different directions, staying connected through letters mailed back and forth. We even now rarely if ever text, email, or talk on the phone. But the letters and postcards have flowed back and forth, east to west, north to south, this way and that way, for 52 years.

But not this week. Oh no, not this week.

Not this week because Katrina and her husband Ed were in Cincinnati for a family wedding last weekend. When Katrina let me know she was coming to Cincinnati and asked whether I thought we could meet up somewhere in between here and there, I let her know she was about two and a half hours away. Her immediate response was "I'm coming!"

Katrina arrived Sunday (her husband flew back to Miami on Sunday). She is staying into tomorrow, so she will get to watch and help and see our monthly Justice Bus in action. And during this precious week, we have talked and talked and talked and talked.

What a gift.

On the door of my study is a quote attributed to Aristotle: "Without friends, no one would choose to live though he had all other goods."

That about sums it up. Here's to 52 years of friendship, my friend! 

Inch Twelve: On Writing, On Time

Why this photo (one of my own)? Just because I like it! 

There have recently been some changes in the online writing world with some bloggers stepping away. temporarily or otherwise, and some others changing platforms and formats. Writer John Patrick Weiss, whose works I have been reading for several years, recently announced that he was moving his blog off of Substack, which if memory serves me, he had moved to from Medium before that, because he now feels that Substack is "more like social media than a home" for his writing. There are other bloggers I have followed whose sites have become increasingly bogged down with ads, making it harder to scroll through their words. I get having ads to help garner some income; I regret how much it interferes with the real product: the writing. 

In recently rereading some of my older posts, I came across an entry from 2019, in which I noted that the writer of the blog Plough Monday, was closing it because he wanted to redirect his writing efforts to publication. I go on in my post, noting that I had been blogging since 2009, to wonder aloud about my own writing (or the lack thereof). And here I am seven years later, still not giving my "serious" writing enough time or focus. Heck, I wasn't even giving this blog that much time or focus. Although, as I write that, I think, defiantly, "hey, THIS is also serious writing!" 

I have written repeatedly about the time crunch around here, about feeling as if I am shortchanging myself because of other "things" (stretch that word as wide as you wish) that take time and attention. Last week, we had a rocket trip to Mayo, at which yet again Mayo Clinic staff demonstrated that the core vision of the Mayo brothers—"the needs of the patient come first"—is indeed woven into the fabric of that institution and not just words to be mouthed routinely. We saw longtime friends in Chicago, we traveled blue highways to reach a client of Warren's in Iowa, and our last day, encompassing my medical visit (I am stable) and the drive back home, was roughly 19 hours. Let's just say that it drove home (no pun intended) the point that I am indeed 70 and cross-country road trips are a lot harder now than even a decade ago. 

I will confess, however, that I have been sounding this note of not enough time, not enough taking care of my own needs, being on overload—whatever and however I phrase it—has also been a thread through this blog since, well, probably since the beginning. That tells me a lot right there about my own sometimes conscious, more often unconscious (or at least subconscious) tendency to heap far more on my plate than is good for me. (I know, something else to work on!) 

And now, to tie it back to where this started, I am trying to write more, starting with the weekly "Inch" post. (I posted one last Saturday, designating it a half inch. And yes, there is an update to that story. Stay tuned!) And I am trying to spend more time looking through the lens of a camera, be it my Canon or my phone. (I share my photography on Instagram; you can find me @tovadawn.) To quote my good friend and photography companion, Brandon, the "very best camera ever is the one you have with you. Every single time." He's right. (And if you want to see his stunning work, you can find him on Instagram @framesandgrainphotgraphy.) For me, photography is another way to write, to think through my life and my thoughts, and to try to capture them, written or otherwise.

We are on the cusp of summer. Gardening, writing, photography, the Justice Bus: let's see what summer holds. 

Inch Eleven and a Half: Another Piece of the Past

Work by Brian Blum ©1980 

In my last post, I reached back to law school days after finding a copy of One L in one of our local Little Free Libraries. (And yes, it is bringing back memories of that whole first year experience.) At about the same time, I received an email from the law school announcing upcoming faculty retirements. One of the names, quite possibly the last professor I had decades ago who is still teaching, was on the list.

It has been 45 years, after all.

And, it turns out I have an unexpected tie back to my law school past beyond just recognizing that name.The retiring professor, Brian Blum, was (and perhaps still is) an artist. I am not talking about his ability to teach law (although it looks as if he had a long and distinguished career); I mean he was an artist in the traditional meaning of the word. And I have had one of his works in my possession for the last 45 or 46 years.

Not unlike my first copy of One L, the art piece came to me courtesy of my late father-in-law, Sid Lezak. I believe he and his wife Muriel had me and my then husband (their son) over for a meal with Brian Blum. Don't ask me why; there was some connection, possibly South Africa, that resulted in this meal. Sid knew Blum was also an artist and, if shaky memory serves me, asked him to bring some of his works to the house. My birthday was in the vicinity of that evening, and Sid told me to "choose one," gifting it to me on the spot.

I did choose and my Blum original has traveled many, many miles and many, many years with me ever since. That's it at the start of this post.

In recent years, as I begin to sort through possessions and think about what I want to pass on to my friends and family, I have thought of reaching out to Professor Blum and asking him if he would like his work back. Seeing the notice about his retirement spurred me to write him an email, telling him of how it is that I have one of his pieces, and asking him if he would like to have it back for his family or have me donate it to the law school in his honor. 

I then took a deep breath and hit "send."

It is a holiday weekend and I hope that NO professors are reading their email (the year is over), especially a retiring one. But I admit I hope that I do get a response. And if he says he would love it back, I look forward to packaging it carefully and shipping it back, carrying more long ago law school memories with it as it goes.

Inch Eleven: A Reread

 Because of things going on this week, I knew last week that I needed a book that was lightweight and that I could throw in a bag without worrying about it getting rumpled or crumpled. A few weeks before, stopping at one of the several Little Free Libraries that are between our house and my dad's apartment in Assisted Living, I saw One L and pulled it out. It is a paperback, already worn around the edges, and fits what I need. 

Oh my. Talk about memories flooding through me.

I first read One L, Scott Turow's account of his first year at Harvard Law School (1975-1976) in 1978. Given that the book came out in 1977, my copy may have been a first edition. I did not buy the book. Rather, my then father-in-law, the late, great (I mean that) Sidney I. Lezak, gave it to me, writing on the inside, "The best is yet to come, Sid." (Yes, Sid was a lawyer, to say the least.) I was beginning law school in the fall of that year, and he wanted me to know he was supportive.

I read One L when I got it. I read it several times over the following years. Years later, I  may have sold it, or donated it, or neither. It no longer had its dust jacket; a later spouse abhorred dust jackets and proceeded to denude any and all books in our home wearing one. (He also resented that I still had a book signed by my former father-in-law, but no need to rehash that issue.) 

This month, probably right around now, marks 45 years since I graduated from law school. I remember our commencement speaker—the renowned civil procedure specialist and legal ethicist Geoffrey Hazard—not because of what he spoke about, but because he was a close friend of Sid's and his son Jim and I were friends. (I have no idea what Geoff spoke about.) I remember being relieved that law school was done, done, done. 

This copy was also bought as a gift for a to-be law student. The front page is dated 12/05 and is to "Mary." It reads "May you study hard so you may achieve your dreams. This law primer is in my opinion, one of the finest works that encapsulates the first year of law school. Remember that you may achieve anything that you desire. God bless you!" I don't know if Mary has been the sole owner of the book for the last 21 years, but on flipping through it, I see sections underlined and occasional marginal notes in both pencil and ink, including one, undoubtedly Mary's, where she wrote "I wonder what it is like in 2006?" (reacting to Turow's commentary towards the end that law schools were changing in their approaches, especially with younger and more diverse faculties). 

On the verge of rereading One L again, I am wondering what my response to it will be 48 years later after that first read, and 45 years after graduating. Almost every professor I had back then, some of whom would have fit right into Turow's account, has retired; I just got an email that one of the youngest professors of my era is now retiring. (Most of my former professors have also since died.) To the extent any of us in my class respond to calls for Class Notes, most of my classmates have, like me, also retired. 

"A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away..." (And yes, it was 1977 when we first read those lines.)

Let's see what galaxies, if any, One L transports me to. 

Inch Ten: The 2026 Garden Season Begins

How about a pot of tomatoes? 

And what a beginning it was!

Between all the "stuff" going on around here (which I have described from time to time) and concerts and visitors and anything else we had going on, I didn't have a whole lot of bandwidth for gardening. Yes, I'd bought some seeds, yes, we'd gone out to our very favorite locally owned farm center (Miller's Country Gardens) and bought pepper, tomato, and red cabbage starts several days back, but...yeah. That was about all the farther we had gotten, with the exception of Warren tilling the kitchen garden, the 10 x 16 plot that will be THE garden this year. 

The plants from Miller's waiting for their time

Last weekend Warren gently nudged me. "Maybe this is a good weekend to get the garden going."

Yeah, it probably was. And so we did, first going to our local Meijer for potting soil (more for flower pots, but needed all the same) and compost. 

And marigolds, of course, for bordering the garden.

In keeping with discoveries (and lessons learned) of years past, I did NOT indulge in tomatoes. Three Early Girl and two Husky Cherries, one of which is in a pot. In they went, nice and quiet.

Tomatoes in (except for the pot; you can see it above)

The peppers and cabbages followed suit. Three cabbages, all in a row; 13 peppers, all sweet. Warren then raked off a bed for lettuce on the far side, and one for basil. These are on the left side as you look at the photo below.

Saturday's efforts

The very back of the garden, with a metal pole temporarily marking the area, we (I) reserved for flowers: zinnias and bee/pollinator mixes. But after Saturday's efforts, I looked at Warren and said, "I can't do anything more today."

And I couldn't. I was exhausted. I was feeling every minute of 70 years old and then some. I was sad a bit about that, but also realistic. Yeah, I'm 70 chronologically, but closer to my early 80s physiologically thanks to 22 years of cancer. And yes, that makes me disabled to boot! 

How disabled? I got those plants in using a gardening stool to sit on, because kneeling or bending over 20 times was 20 times too many.

That being said, I finished it off in fine style on Sunday. 40 marigolds planted along the border, and the flower seeds hand-sown with joy. Again, I had to sit on the gardening stool to get those marigolds in, but it was with great pleasure I tamped No. 40 down and announced "Done!" 

Warren and I did some more yard-related work on Sunday, which resulted in a new holly bush being planted in the front of the house (a sentimental favorite for Warren; the one that died over the winter had been planted by his mother, Ellen, decades ago). Both of us hit Sunday early evening worn out but satisfied. 

There are still seeds, including a hefty amount of cosmos seeds I collected last fall. We will get the cosmos broadcast; Warren wants to move them to a backyard flower bed where we can see their brilliant colors easily from the house. As for the other seeds...well, they may wait until next year's garden.

But the vegetable garden is in. The plants look happy and are standing up straight. Yes, there is more work to be done in the other flower/plant beds, but the vegetable garden is in.

And that is enough for now! 

Waiting to grow

Inch Nine: Music To My Ears

"Jupiter" at the Hannover Proms 2014

As I have written about a lot over the last several weeks (months?), I have a lot on my plate. A lot? At times, it is as if food is dropping off my plate onto the floor, while a smiling server ladles on more food. That being stated, I think I am doing better at taking time—not as much as I need and never as much as I want—for me me me.

One way I am doing this is that I have added a short (and very simple) yoga routine to my mornings and have added a longer (and still very simple) tai chi routine to my evenings. The morning yoga helps me pull myself together before diving into my day, and the evening tai chi (which I absolutely love and will never be able to thank my friend Tani enough for suggesting it) helps me put the day behind me. 

Another way I let go? I listen to "Jupiter" from Gustav Holst's work, The Planets. But I just don't listen to the piece; I watch it on YouTube. And, to be more precise, I watch/listen to one specific performance of it: the 2014 (yes, a lifetime ago) performance by the NDR Radiophilharmonie, conducted by Andrew Manze. 

Yes, I know, I know. There are lots of recordings of "Jupiter" out there, including by some Big Names. But this is the one I return to daily at least once, sometimes more. I love watching the musicians lean into the music; I love seeing Manze's sheer joy on the podium. 

Listening to this helps center me. I play it in my head when I walk. I play it in my head when I go to bed. It is playing in my head right now as I type these words.

For a household where one of us has made and continues to make a living in music for 50 years, we don't have a lot of music playing. If Warren is preparing for a concert, he will listen to the works while studying his score, and when he was preparing his classes, he would listen to short excerpts of this or that, but otherwise, he does not listen to music. And I never listened to a lot of music myself. So for me to listen to "Jupiter" repeatedly has been a seismic shift in the home. 

Maybe because of my listening to Jupiter, maybe because of the weight of some of the days, I have let a little bit more music into my ears and into my life. What, you ask? About anything that David Byrne just performed at Coachella (excellent music for peeling and dicing a boatload of apples last week) and "Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen. Why those selections? Byrne is because I always liked Talking Heads and, after seeing a brief reference to Byrne's Coachella performance, I had to try one song. And then another. And then another. And Queen? Queen is because way back in my past, another lifetime ago, I used to write a monthly article for our then local paper on downtown architecture. I was in private practice, I was supporting two households, I was (no surprise) overextended on too many fronts, and often the only time I had to write (my articles ran 2200+ words) was after 11:00 p.m. Never (NEVER) a night owl, but with too much on my plate (hmmn, that sounds familiar) to get up early to write, I would put on headphones, pop in and turn up Queen's Greatest Hits (recommended by my son Ben), and crank out the article. Those songs, while probably doing significant damage to my hearing, were the stimulant I needed. Those tunes are undoubtedly hardwired into my memory and something last week triggered "Don't Stop Me Now." I found it, I listened to it, and I am now pulling it up every now and then.

"Jupiter," Byrne, and Queen. Music to my ears, indeed. 

Inch Eight: Poetry Month and a G.O.A.T.

One of my Sandburg books; yes, I own others

Warren has been teaching Music Appreciation for Non-Music Majors at Ohio Wesleyan this past year; the last class was yesterday. He has enjoyed it immensely and has already been asked back to teach again next year. And, as a true teacher who understands that students may teach the teacher, Warren has learned much from his young students. One of the things he learned this semester was G.O.A.T. when one student called Mozart a G.O.A.T. 

Warren was baffled. "Mozart is a goat?," he asked, thinking of the barnyard animal. "No!" the student replied, and then explained the acronym. (Warren loved it and then incorporated it into his slides: "Beethoven: Another G.O.A.T." and (my favorite): "Rite of Spring: A G.R.O.A.T.") (The R stands for "Riot.")

With a nod to Warren's experience, I am paying homage to a poet I consider a G.O.A.T. as we close out National Poetry Month. (In looking back, I realize I used to give much more writing time and depth to National Poetry Month; I have unintentionally left it by the wayside.)

My G.O.A.T. in poetry? Carl Sandburg. Sandburg was a contemporary of Robert Frost (no small poet there either) and the two of them, more on Frost's side than Sandburg's, had a running competition throughout their careers. Frost achieved four Pulitzers, all for poetry, and remains the only poet to do so, but Sandburg irked him by, in addition to winning two for poetry, by winning one for his four-volume history, Lincoln: The War Years. 

Me? I love Sandburg for his voice. I love him for seeing and capturing this country in his words. The Lincoln work is monumental. His poetry is monumental. I even own (newly acquired from a Little Free Library in our community) Rootabaga Stories, his creation and telling of American fairy tales instead of retelling European ones.

An amazing LFL find! 

We have been to Sandburg's grave in 2020; his ashes are under a rock at his childhood home in Galesburg, Illinois. And, as I noted in a long ago blog, even though I knew Sandburg had died in 1967, I burst into tears when I finished the Penelope Niven biography of him back in 2014. 

Sandburg and Frost are part of the deep past. Given changes in curriculum nationwide, I would be stunned if either is still read in high school. (I wrote in 2014 about the 2007 vandalization of Frost's home by teens and none of them knowing who Frost was.) And I understand that: poetry does not stand still and there have been decades of great poets since their era. But I also understand that when poetry is cut to the bare bone in curricula, we all are poorer. 

But I am old enough that I know who those poets are and what they gave us. And so here's to Carl Sandburg—okay, and Robert Frost too—for giving us the poetry that stirred them to stir us. 

And that is a good thing to remember—the power of poetry to stir us—as we close out National Poetry Month. 

Inch Seven: Commonplace Books

My commonplace books, 1986 to present

I read a lot. A. Lot. I typically read 200 or more books a year, as well as various magazines, newspapers clippings sent by my dear friend Katrina, writers on Substack, and other blogs. 

I love to read. 

And, as I have written about before, I have been filling commonplace books with quotes collected from all that reading since 1986. (I had earlier commonplace books from the 1970s, but those went away.) I just started Volume 6 this year.

A commonplace book is a longstanding and highly entrenched way for a person to keep information of all kinds, often quotes, sometimes but not always in a notebook. In my case, I capture quotes. (Okay, there's an occasional cartoon or photo, but otherwise just quotes.) 

Commonplace books date back two centuries. Who kept them? Ralph Waldo Emerson. Henry David Thoreau. Mark Twain. Thomas Hardy. Ronald Reagan. Virginia Woolf. Sherlock Holmes (although I do not know if his creator did). The list is endless.

Last week, I wrote about soldiering on. There's been a lot of it. I have had lots of days where EVERYONE'S needs crowd in front of mine.

But, in the mist of all this soldiering on, I came across a gem of a quote to hang my hat, or my heart, on. It from Sara Conklin's weekly email for her site "Frozen Pennies." Sara wrote:

You don't need a full reset to feel better in your life. You just need to stop abandoning yourself in the middle of it. 

"You just need to stop abandoning yourself in the middle of it." 

Did I save that quote in Volume 6?

You betcha.

 As is becoming more of a habit (once again), I am penning these words out (truly penning, not typing) Tuesday evening. The rest of the evening (it is 8:00 p.m.)? Starting to plan this year's garden by reviewing my notes about last year, and then turning to my current read: Desert Solitaire by Edward Abbey.

I'm not abandoning myself tonight. 

Inch Six: Soldiering On

Why the oval pan? Because an 8x13 oval will do for a recipe calling for a 9" square pan, and I see no reason to go out and get a pan size that I have seen called for only TWICE in the last 25 years! 

"Soldier on." Many (most? some?) of us know that phrase. It means to keep on keep on keeping on, no matter what the obstacles, no matter what the weather (figuratively or literally), no matter what.

In looking for the origin of that phrase, I expected to find something dating back to WWII or maybe even WWI. Nope. The phrase came into usage in this country in the early 1950s, possibly (probably) in response to the Korean War. That was a war that had no clear goal; that was the war where our country's soldiers were stuck in mud and brutal winter; that was a war that Chaim Potok captured the trudgery so clearly in his novel The Book of Lights (and Potok served as an Army chaplain in South Korea after the war).  

Lately that phrase has been coming to my mind regularly. Both Warren and I have a tremendous capacity to soldier on on our various obligations. Warren is involved in at least six (Six!—Count 'em—Six!) major endeavors right now. Mine are not so numerous, but sometimes just as time consuming. 

Sometimes it would be nice just to say "Not now." 

I'm not talking about the inability to limit my commitments. I have no problem saying "no thank you" to most social interactions, any board invitations, and a whole bunch of other things. I'm talking about the commitments that are a part of me: Dad stuff, Legal Clinic stuff, other family stuff. Oh, and my own medical stuff. 

So why am I whining since I truly cut out that extraneous "stuff"?

Because I am tired of soldiering on. I know I don't have a choice (well, a moral choice, that is) when it comes to Dad, for example. I can accept that.

But I want to go away. not forever, just for a bit.

In a recent phone call with my son Ben, when I said we would not be coming out there this summer—too many obligations, with his Grandpa Dale being one of them—Ben immediately responded.

"Oh, I get it, Mom, I get it." (They lead a busy, overpacked life out there, so Ben does get it.)

I do too. All the same, it hit me hard when, paging through past blog posts, I saw one noting that 2020 and the pandemic lockdown made it the first year since 2013, when Ramona was still LITTLE, that we would not see her either here or out there. 

Oh.

We used to travel more, and just not to the Pacific Northwest. Heck, I used to travel more.

Soldier on.

And most days, trust me, we both do in this household without feeling the weight of that concept weighing us down. And how do I know that? Because Warren had a birthday a few days ago and I made the cake pictured above! No soldiering on there: just joy. 

Inch Five: A New Number

That's an exclamation point on the end! 

Last Friday, I turned 70.

70. 

That was a number, given my initial diagnosis of multiple myeloma (an incurable bone marrow cancer) in 2004, that I never expected to reach.

Ever.

And there have been major health issues since that initial diagnosis that made 70 unlikely. The initial stem cell transplants in 2005 that failed within 90 days? I learned years later that failure changed my prognosis to 18 months. Maybe.

70.

As with many cancers and other terminal illnesses, I have had many times, some chronicled in this blog and all in my personal medical notes, where my overall health declined and the myeloma increased.

70.

And let's not forget my spectacular non-cancer hospitalization in 2023, where I coded in front of my dear Warren, and my less spectacular but still splashy one in 2025.

70.

When I was diagnosed, Sam was 14. I hoped to live long enough to see him reach 18, so my ex-spouse would not be his sole custodian. Sam will be 36 this June.

70.

When I was diagnosed, Ben was just wrapping up his first semester of college. He is now 40, married to Alix for the past almost 16 years, and the father of Orlando and Ramona. 

70.

I never expected to live long enough to see (assuming they were in the cards) grandchildren, let alone the three (don't forget Lyrick!) we have and a 4th one (Warren's daughter) on the way.

70.

20 years ago this summer, Warren and I started to explore a relationship. We had a long, heartfelt, serious discussion (while eating homemade carrot cake in the lot at a grain elevator/railroad crossing in nearby Radnor) about my health. I knew I already loved him dearly, but did not want him or us to go any further without him hearing the scope of my health and my medical needs. Warren listened quietly, then said, "I'm already there for you as your friend. Why would that change?" He made it clear that our being a couple would only deepen that commitment. And he has shown that every single day since.

70.

My birthday (and the days leading up to and then the days after) was filled with texts and cards and emails and calls from all over. The April Justice Bus was the day before and I got birthday hugs from my colleagues. The Day itself included a front door chorus of former coworkers from Juvenile/Probate Court that our friend and neighbor (and judge) Dave had gathered and walked over to our house to sing "Happy Birthday." Later that day, our friend (and conductor and internally known trombonist) Jaime called me and serenaded me on trombone ("Happy Birthday," of course) and then was joined by his dear wife and mother-in-law to shower me with love and birthday wishes.

70.

Alice's Clay Contribution

Our neighbors on one side made me a loaf of "70 bread," and their daughter Alice made me a 70 in polymer clay. 

70.

Birthday Peeps! 

Our neighbors on the other side had me over for tea, Peeps, and a candle to blow out. That sash I am wearing? Dear friends from long ago Stockton days sent that, knowing I was not a "tiara girl."

Sparkly sash and all! 

70.

So here I am, at an age I never thought I would see, and savoring the sweet time.

70.

Watching the Groceries: First Quarter is a Wrap!

 

For the past several years, I have tracked and posted our household spending on groceries. "Groceries" in this blog means food and common household items such as toilet paper, tissues, and cleaning supplies. ("Groceries" does not mean eating out, which for us, unless we are on the road, tends to be very minimal. How minimal? Maybe three to four times in any given quarter.) I will be continuing that habit in 2026, separate and apart from the weekly Inch. 

Like all of us, I am watching prices rise, sometimes suddenly and steeply. I had to get some things for my father yesterday, and I grabbed a gallon of milk while at the grocery. The price for that gallon? $3.19.

$3.19. Just eight days ago (and maybe even more recently than that), it was $2.89, and a few weeks before that, $2.69. I have a milk tale to tell in a bit, but I was caught off guard with the new price. I am sure everyone who sets foot in a grocery store these days has similar tales to tell.

So what does our First Quarter grocery spending look like? $694.69 total, or an average of $231.60 a month for the two of us. Of that amount, $65142 was food: 94% of our total expenditures. And only because January was staggeringly low ($77.49 total) were we able to come in at an average of $232.00 per month. 

I track our spending in a simple spreadsheet, and make general notes as to what our purchases consist of. I also note victories and what I will call lost skirmishes. The last three months have held some of each.

During this quarter, there were two restocks at Aldi, one at the start of February and one at the beginning of March. The former totaled $240.48, with $213.70 being food; the latter was $110.82, with $99.61 being food. The March restock included about $30.00 of "special" soft foods—applesauce, large yogurts, cottage cheese, instant pudding, apple juice—because Warren was facing oral surgery in March and would be on a restricted diet of soft foods for two to three weeks. Even so, despite those two start-of-the-month restocks, our spending for both months were eye watering.

Sigh...and ouch. Or, as I noted on the spreadsheet after February came in at $329.61, Whoa!

I would note that we try to be good stewards and watch closely to make sure we don't waste food. I confess that the quart of cottage cheese (not a staple in this household) was a rare exception. It was shoved in the back, our of sight and mind, and the last quarter of it hit the garbage disposal when I "discovered" it and found it had turned. 

But there were some wins and some reasons to smile. With Easter coming, some of the stores dropped their prices on hams. No, we did not buy six. We bought only one. Our local Meijer (a midwest chain) had its spiral sliced ham selling for 89 cents/pound, 79 cents if you were part of the rewards program (we are), limit one. I had another $1.00 off, also as part of the rewards program, so the final cost per pound came to 69.5 cents. Okay, I'll take that.

But why only one ham this year? (Kroger also had a special on ham.) Because we reorganized BOTH of our freezers (the small upright in the basement and the fridge freezer in our kitchen) at the same time as the ham sales. I had already pulled the remaining ham from last year out to thaw. No surprise when we tackled the freezers: we had a LOT MORE of everything, from ham to chicken to corn to you-name-it, that we realized. We didn't need more ham. We needed to cut and wrap and freeze what we had, which we did over the course of two days, throwing the bones into a stock pot with pounds of beans (which, when done, also went into the freezer).

There were some other grocery wins that also made me smile. In February, I bought a large laundry detergent bottle at CVS for 30 cents, thanks to CVS bonus dollars and coupons. The topper was the gallon of milk story. At the end of March (yes, just a few days ago), milk was selling for $2.89/gallon. I noticed there was one gallon marked down to $1.30. It was nowhere near its pull date, the usual reason for a markdown. But it was the victim of a backroom hit and run with chocolate milk that had poured down over it and had apparently been discovered too late to clean up. 

It was a no brainer. The gallon container was intact; the lid had not been tampered with. $1.30? Yes! But wait, I also had a 65 cents off coupon, so the final cost was 65 cents. 

65 cents. You can't beat that with a stick.

The bargain milk. (Yes, I cleaned it up when I got home.)

I am hoping that with us once again being on top of the contents of our freezers, and turning to them and our pantry before running to the store, we can at least hold at $232.00/month, if not go lower (my hope) as we move on through 2026. 

Let's see what Second Quarter brings! 

Inch Four: Losses

Tracy Kidder

Last Friday brought news of two deaths, one a longtime colleague and friend, the other a writer who helped shape and uplift me by the power of his stories. And although it is several days later, I am still feeling the losses sift through my fingers like sand I cannot begin to catch.

The personal loss was John. John had ten years on me (he would have been 80 this fall) and I had known him probably for 30+ years. We first met when I represented an individual unhappy with his modular home and looking for redress from the company that built it. John represented the company. The contract called for an arbitrator, so we arranged for the parties to meet in the law offices I was an associate in; it had a large room where they could meet privately. So for the hour or so while the parties were in arbitration, John and I sat in another office and talked. Well, looking back, John probably did 99% of the talking: John could talk to anyone about anything for any length of time, without repeating himself. Besides being so loquacious, he had an excellent sense of humor, so time flew by quickly. 

John and I never crossed paths as attorneys again, but in later years, our paths did converge: he was a magistrate in our Juvenile Court for several months (when I was part of that staff) and we had a mutual good friend in Kevin, one of our Municipal Court magistrates. The three of us once had a hilarious (hilarity courtesy of John) lunch in which John told stories about his frat days at OWU (the local college) that had Kevin choking on his water and me just laughing helplessly. In addition, he and his wife Charlotte (who I had gotten to know well while she was still on the bench in the neighboring county) were at various Symphony events, as John was a Board trustee.

I last saw John at the afternoon concert on Sunday, March 22. I am grateful I did, because it was a classic John interaction. The orchestra had played a work by Ohio composer Ching-chu Hu, and John was fascinated with the gongs Warren played in the piece. He came onto stage afterwards (audience members are allowed on stage afterwards) and talked to Warren about the gongs. I told John that when Warren and I got engaged, he gave me an "engagement gong," which I keep in my study. John smiled, said, "that's engaging," nudging my shoulder to make sure I got the joke. He then told me how when he and Charlotte got engaged, he said to her he could either buy her an engagement ring or, because his father worked at Sears, for the same amount they could get a king size mattress and a large TV. Charlotte didn't hesitate: the mattress and the TV. John smiled telling the story, ending with "And that's how I knew Charlotte was absolutely the right woman for me." I went out in the hallway a little later, in time to see Charlotte join John and to hug them both before they left.

So when the phone call came from another friend on Friday, telling me John had died suddenly that morning, my hand went to my heart. John? We still had a note on the coffee table reminding Warren to order a gong for John. We had just seen him.

I am so grateful for those last precious moments. 

Friday was a packed day even before the news about John. So packed, in fact, that I did not even see my email (which I only check on my Chromebook or Mac, not on my phone) until late afternoon. I get a weekly email from writer/artist/fun guy Austin Kleon in which he shares some ideas and recaps some recent events. In scanning that day's list, I read "RIP author Tracy Kidder."

"RIP author Tracy Kidder." 

WHAT?

Kidder had died two days earlier and I had not heard. My hand went back to my heart. Tracy Kidder?

I recently wrote about Kidder, whose books I had read and loved for decades. I even saw and heard him give a talk once about, if memory serves me, his book Mountains Beyond Mountains, about Dr. Paul Farmer. 

And now not only was Kidder dead but I learned it only hours after learning about John. A double slam to the heart.

I have written before about the sliver of hope, after an author dies, is the books that the author left behind. It is that sliver that I am thinking of as I write these lines; I will always have Kidder in his books on my shelf and in the library, always. 

Loss is hard. And yet, as we all know all too well, life keeps moving on after death. As I rough out this post Tuesday night, the spring peepers are raising their voices. The almost full moon is rising above the houses and trees. And although I have lost them both, I am grateful that I knew both John and Tracy, each in his own way, and how much richer my life is for knowing them.

Last night's moon rising

Inch Three: Past and Present

The past slipping in through the back door

Sometimes the past comes in through the front door, plopping on the couch and catching up on the local news.

And sometimes it slips in quietly through the back door, and you suddenly come face to face with it and exclaim, "Oh, there you are!"

The past few days have held each of those moments.

Through the front door? As of this morning, I am back on Metformin, a standard out-of-the-gate medicine for diabetes. Now, I have had diabetes since 2018, and was on Metformin from July 2018 to about 2020, when my A1C, the gold standard for tracking diabetes, had stayed at 6.6 for months and my then PCP took me off of it. Given my, frankly, more demanding medical issues—from the myeloma to the MDS to the hospitalizations in 2023 and 2025—the diabetes was not the most important player in my medical panoply. But now it is standing in the front row, demanding some attention. Given my age, my genetics, and the beating my pancreas took in 2023, neither I nor my doctor is surprised. And my PCP Melissa takes a good, no-nonsense approach to it all: "Let's get you on Metformin and see if we can bring that number (8.4) down." She is not making me do finger sticks and I loved her frank comment about that: "Why would I make you stick yourself twice a day? To what end other than bruised fingers?" Melissa knows that I walk several miles a week, and I noted I could be a little more diligent about my diet, which is decent but not strict. She nodded on that: "Just live your life, April."  I will have my labs repeated in three months and we will go from there.

As for the back door, the past entered the house through a letter from my dear friend Tani. Tani and I write several times a week to one another, with our letters crisscrossing in the mail regularly. Last evening, I opened the one that had just arrived and out slipped a photo. A very old photo. A photo of our oldest two children: Wolf, maybe 18 months old (I just wrote Tani asking her for Wolf's age) and my Ben, all of seven months old. July, 1986. 

Oh my. 

I stared at the photo, tears in my eyes, and put my hand to my heart.

Oh my.

My 70th birthday is fast approaching and Warren asked me this morning if I "wanted to do anything" for it. We famously are low-key celebrators, so no, I did not want a party or a big feast or presents. Warren has a rehearsal in Columbus the next morning for an Easter Sunday service, so I mentioned that will impact the day (more than likely picking up a trailer, then loading the timpani that evening). I will make my own birthday cake, probably the Depression-era cake I did in 2024, and that will be plenty. 

Besides, I already got my present: that piece of the past in Tani's letter. Those children are long grown. They are in the present, as am I. But that tug from the past?

Priceless. 

Inch Two: A Whole Lot of Spillage

All over the floor

Starting with my sewing box. I set it down on the edge of the  coffee table, ready to mend a pocket, pretty sure it was secure.

Not.

And then there was the routine blood draw yesterday at my doctor's office. The needle went in smoothly (I have great veins), Anthony, the nurse, attached the tube to draw the blood, and...the blood, my blood, went spilling out. All over my arm, down on the armrest, all over his glove. 

Anthony quickly grabbed a gauze pad and clamped it on the puncture to stop the flood. He then stared at the spillage.

"I've never seen that happen before," he said, still staring.

Me neither. It wasn't him, it wasn't the needle, it was just my blood deciding it had its own plan.

Spillage seems to be the theme this week.

This is Concert Week, which always makes for a full schedule around here. Even without Warren being the Executive Director (a decision for which I am daily, sometimes hourly, grateful), there is still a lot with moving in the timpani and other percussion equipment (today), rehearsals (tonight, Friday night, Saturday morning), the concert (Sunday afternoon), breaking down the section after the concert, and move-out (Monday). In short, a lot going on. Not to mention his business, his teaching, the national composing consortium he is leading, and...and...and...

Yeah. His time is spilled all over the place.

As for me. things are much better on the Dad front: he is out of rehab and back in his apartment, walking with steadier and firmer steps by the day. That being said, there are still more extra tasks than usual and, no surprise, they fall on me.  I am still running on fumes way too much. 

An example? The other day, walking home from my dad's apartment (a whopping .86 miles, just to put it in perspective), I found myself wishing for the first time ever that I had a car. Forget a room of one's own (sorry, Virginia Woolf). I just wanted a car of one's own—so much so that it said it out loud as I trudged along.

Yesterday was the 17th anniversary of my starting this blog. I think (I hope) it remains true to its title: small moments. With each passing day, I find myself seeking out and finding comfort in such small moments, even if it's just putting away the dry dishes. (We still wash and dry dishes by hand; they then set for a bit on the table.)

In a few weeks, I will turn 70. That is an age I never expected to reach, given my incurable cancer of the last 21+ years, not to mention the non-cancer hospitalizations of 2023 and 2025. (My goal this year? No hospitalizations in 2026.) And yet, I am still here. 

My sewing box that spilled all over? I picked it up and put it back to rights. My blood that spilled all over? Anthony got it all mopped up. The wish for a car that spilled out of my mouth? It fizzled out before I reached home. The crunches on my/our schedules? They will play out (no pun intended on the Symphony front). 

My small moments? I hope they continue to come and I continue to cherish them for what they are: bits of joy, bits of light. 

Inch One: Sam

I have written about my son Sam off and on over the almost 17 years I have been blogging. (Yes, 17 years as of March 17! Frigging unbelievable for lots of reasons, starting with my health.) The younger of my two sons, Sam has provided me with a plethora of challenges and laughter and stress and joyous moments over the years. I know, I know. All children provide parents with those same things; Sam maybe just doubled down on challenges at times. 

And, in all fairness, if you were asking Sam, he no doubt would say the same thing of me as his mother: "Yeah, yeah, Mom has provided me with a plethora of challenges and laughter and stress and joyous moments over the years." And then laugh and go on his merry way.

So why Sam now? Because a week ago he and I had one of the best conversations we have had in years. 

Years.

The phone call was set in motion when I texted him the above photo, asking him if he remembered that mug. Sam bought that for me decades ago, when he was a kindergartner or first grader and attending the Santa Store for students at his elementary school. I still have the mug and have been using it regularly as of late. In my text, I touched base with him; I last talked with him on Christmas and knew he had changed jobs since seeing him last July. I was curious how he was doing and how his partner Georgia was doing. 

Sam replied later that night: "Great mug," adding he would call the next day. And he did.

Sam started immediately on the biggest change in his life: he had just the week before quit his most recent job (as a mail handler with the USPS). Why? Sam didn't mince words: "It was the worst job I have ever held. Just horrid." He was working long, middle-of-the-night hours (biking to work at 3:00 a.m. when he started); his body clock was a mess; he rarely (very rarely) had days off or evenings free; he could not see his friends or spend time with Georgia or go biking or cook for the sheer enjoyment of cookng. He hadn't been able to see his brother in a long time. In short, Sam was disconnected from everything and everyone that gave his life meaning. So, with Georgia's enthusiastic blessings, he quit. (Note: Sam and Georgia live frugal lives, intentionally, so his quitting would not sink their lives. He can take some time, catch his breath, then move on into another job.)

And even though he had just quit, I could hear the change in his voice and his laugh. His body clock had already reset. He was already seeing friends. Life was immediately better.

Sam, Sam, Sam.

From the beginning, my sons (and their families) have been threaded throughout this blog. Even with the 2450 miles between us, I hold them in my hearts and am often reminded of them: a comment, a shrug, a book, a mug. In an early post about Sam's upcoming birthday, I noted how he had once had a perfect day, ending with his scooping up a penny on the ground and exclaiming "Is this my lucky day or what?" 

When we talked last week, I heard that same joyful, lighthearted exhilaration in Sam's voice as that long ago little boy spying a penny. We finished the call and I sat there with tears in my eyes: happy for my boy and his decision to quit an unhealthy situation. 

In that long ago post, I wished Sam a life full of lucky days, and, more importantly, that he never lose the ability to recognize them when they came along. I'd say that wish came true.