tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13137996815017293092024-03-27T02:37:41.578-04:00Small Moments of Great RewardThoughts from a sixty-something living a richly textured life in Delaware, Ohio.Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07722817835256485575noreply@blogger.comBlogger882125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1313799681501729309.post-70593941785086909592024-03-14T19:02:00.002-04:002024-03-24T16:05:33.220-04:00Finally, Light<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPzRee269R3SKzAxvpRbgwJfg9XnQwjQX1JgqrxXeUp4SQdid2UeJDHq36lUPEkbwgucgtMc7qaBjGYhWg_3L1I1KXNdS3ZYdxpmtY_KdK9rUzpotkyTAA7zDOUtWxQ9x9g1iRFIKyYC5RUEYHg9vV77D9N8aCZbIEBOkS0W2nci38n3yKOIkC6lZlzPo/s4231/claudia-soraya-13MzGKuJYSw-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4231" data-original-width="2633" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPzRee269R3SKzAxvpRbgwJfg9XnQwjQX1JgqrxXeUp4SQdid2UeJDHq36lUPEkbwgucgtMc7qaBjGYhWg_3L1I1KXNdS3ZYdxpmtY_KdK9rUzpotkyTAA7zDOUtWxQ9x9g1iRFIKyYC5RUEYHg9vV77D9N8aCZbIEBOkS0W2nci38n3yKOIkC6lZlzPo/w249-h400/claudia-soraya-13MzGKuJYSw-unsplash.jpg" width="249" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@claudiasoraya?utm_content=creditCopyText&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=unsplash">Claudia Soraya</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/photo-of-train-rail-tunnel-13MzGKuJYSw?utm_content=creditCopyText&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=unsplash">Unsplash</a></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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 <i>months</i>, 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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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.) </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Every single day I am grateful I am even still on this earth.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And that is more than good enough. </span></p>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07722817835256485575noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1313799681501729309.post-7443811803950913052024-03-03T10:36:00.001-05:002024-03-03T10:36:21.597-05:00The 2024 Newbery Award Book<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4TZdiI9ZkBn8ROHbsVML7H0jxORcwgzj16cCIN5PUx9WetDbMOzjZfWHua6M6oa6dNo2IFsMg_y3_IsiiNvVJbPa9BCr8jO1n_XrWod_g7ru3kj63zRyscPy4XTB-mWnj1q1ROiwqy00h2iuNko1UTnz6ZCJ3erwPv1J0BXv1OtOeqF3vwAwkp8pDjuY/s500/BOOK.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="409" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4TZdiI9ZkBn8ROHbsVML7H0jxORcwgzj16cCIN5PUx9WetDbMOzjZfWHua6M6oa6dNo2IFsMg_y3_IsiiNvVJbPa9BCr8jO1n_XrWod_g7ru3kj63zRyscPy4XTB-mWnj1q1ROiwqy00h2iuNko1UTnz6ZCJ3erwPv1J0BXv1OtOeqF3vwAwkp8pDjuY/w328-h400/BOOK.jpeg" width="328" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Let's just say I was less than thrilled when I opened up this year's Newbery Award book, David Eggers's <i>The Eyes & the Impossible</i>, and realized it was a story told by a dog.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A dog.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I immediately had unpleasant memories of <i>Smoky, the Cowhorse</i>, the 1927 bomb (<a href="https://smallmomentsofgreatreward.blogspot.com/2011/11/one-berry-two-berry-read-me-newbery.html" target="_blank">in my opinion</a>) that had the horse "hankerin'" for anything from food to his stall. And let's not forget the 1992 winner, <i>Shiloh</i>, which I still think of as the boy/dog/triumph-over-evil yawner.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I told myself to just take a deep breath and keep reading.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">What the hell is this story about? Is this a dog's view of the World? Life? Immortality? The Universe?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Just keep reading, April.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The Equilibrium? Is this a religious exploration?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Just keep reading, April.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Just keep reading, April.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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 <i>had </i>to finish the book to see the resolution. Would he succeed? Would he not? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I am glad I just kept reading.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>The Eyes & the Impossible </i>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..."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I first read David Eggers when his memoir <i>A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius</i> came out in 2000. A writer? Eggers is a writer, an artist, an activist, and more. <a href="https://daveeggers.net/" target="_blank">Just go look him up</a>. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So here's to the 2024 Newbery Award book and its author. This one is golden. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I am so glad I just kept reading.</span></p>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07722817835256485575noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1313799681501729309.post-92060002915861186452024-02-19T17:08:00.002-05:002024-02-19T17:08:23.354-05:00Wild Things Are Forever Happening<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9tSd4Hzl6-9UDhgNh79WCt_BFq6y-C5wir2-ahYZLDj9WWA97QEA3FPj9MTvmq_EP9Gwb9iQcyrke27D16W13C95KolQrNQqm2HSeKRd5ntb2zNrA2P54X52cUeqUoi83y19ob-wKr-ERkRU0t8nR7fSPNSyqaDYptU6Ph72D0XSqijxN3WdZYl7y-do/s483/Screenshot%202024-02-19%204.58.41%20PM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="483" data-original-width="298" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9tSd4Hzl6-9UDhgNh79WCt_BFq6y-C5wir2-ahYZLDj9WWA97QEA3FPj9MTvmq_EP9Gwb9iQcyrke27D16W13C95KolQrNQqm2HSeKRd5ntb2zNrA2P54X52cUeqUoi83y19ob-wKr-ERkRU0t8nR7fSPNSyqaDYptU6Ph72D0XSqijxN3WdZYl7y-do/w246-h400/Screenshot%202024-02-19%204.58.41%20PM.png" width="246" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This book</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">When Maurice Sendak died on May 8, 2012, I <b><a href="https://smallmomentsofgreatreward.blogspot.com/2012/05/man-who-took-us-outside-over-there.html" target="_blank">posted</a></b> 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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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 <b><a href="https://www.sendakfoundation.org/wild-things-are-happening" target="_blank">link</a></b> will give you an overview of the show, which will be opening in the fall in Denver.) </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So even before this weekend, I already had a deep appreciation of Sendak and his creativity and artistry.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">This weekend, my appreciation rose even higher when I began reading <i>Caldecott & Co., Notes on Books & Pictures</i>, a collection of his writings (about writers and illustrators who influenced him, among other things) and speeches (on winning the Caldecott for <i>Where the Wild Things Are</i>, among other things) that span from the early 1960s to the mid-1980s. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A couple of observations. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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 <i>Peter Rabbit</i>, 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. <i>That</i> 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."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My second observation is that Sendak was a man who absolutely <i>loved</i> 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."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Be still, my heart. That is how <i>I</i> feel about books. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I only have one Sendak picture book left in the house, as the others migrated west some years ago. The remaining book is <i>In the Night Kitchen.</i> I will likely read it tonight, having read his explanations of the sources of that book. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07722817835256485575noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1313799681501729309.post-50889417737121442872024-02-16T22:04:00.000-05:002024-02-16T22:04:57.361-05:00Greatly Exaggerated<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Mi6SqE5O1_W5cos5Du64yAvf3meCMeqRfK7l1byERkYRudanYPejwBmBlx6pvBI8HYDebUJQssouL2Q9YOjUF07IE3j6JDjp79xXEE8fmq8i2AqKnBIN8gv1y_1BHLS6EORHgrNVlIkYBJ4wBw536Kzj_KsU7BUfQE1RUJFdtEgwMIMoT0mE_3TcTl4/s466/Screenshot%202024-02-16%209.50.08%20PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="466" height="350" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Mi6SqE5O1_W5cos5Du64yAvf3meCMeqRfK7l1byERkYRudanYPejwBmBlx6pvBI8HYDebUJQssouL2Q9YOjUF07IE3j6JDjp79xXEE8fmq8i2AqKnBIN8gv1y_1BHLS6EORHgrNVlIkYBJ4wBw536Kzj_KsU7BUfQE1RUJFdtEgwMIMoT0mE_3TcTl4/w400-h350/Screenshot%202024-02-16%209.50.08%20PM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mark Twain very much alive</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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." </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Frankly, the first version is a little jazzier, but the end result is the same. Twain was very much alive. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Well, <i>that </i>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).</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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!</span></p><p><br /></p>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07722817835256485575noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1313799681501729309.post-13595528561509319682024-02-14T08:00:00.001-05:002024-02-14T08:00:00.154-05:00Around the Kitchen Table<span id="docs-internal-guid-7f414266-7fff-7234-4dd0-8350f7386a3e"><div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><p style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Note</b>: 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!</span></span></p><p style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: medium;">***************************************************************************</span></span></p></span></span></div></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I have never hidden or shied away from revealing my working class background. Or, to be more truthful, my working class <i>poor</i> 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 "<i>those people</i>," 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. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">And sometimes, even without anyone talking about origins, there are things that I do or say that immediately reveal my background and upbringing. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Which brings us to the kitchen table. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">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. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">That is where life happened.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">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. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Huh.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">How other people live...okay.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">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?" </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I almost fell over.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Someone just automatically assumed we were going to sit at the kitchen table? Be still, my heart!</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">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. </span></span></p><p><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">“What a great idea! I am always wondering what to do with mine!”</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">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.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">So here's to kitchen tables. Here's to life.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07722817835256485575noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1313799681501729309.post-46087705592620157022024-02-10T13:36:00.003-05:002024-02-10T13:36:55.060-05:00Where Things Stand<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB-I8UyLs4wndF_NipP8cRxFNq_bdYLMDYQdsbV4qp_0nyWZIBfauPaBUa4WjGKauM0CQyq-6pune8gC8tBkM7_NyidkKbZRnjcDYPO9IW-FwsEHAjQuSQOpB8fJeD5ln6ITYIb_B5v5jHHF7hzo3CyDXM09fAPYJmY-Sp8PR9iNi8xAgix3dn8Wdpw8M/s417/arm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="406" data-original-width="417" height="390" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB-I8UyLs4wndF_NipP8cRxFNq_bdYLMDYQdsbV4qp_0nyWZIBfauPaBUa4WjGKauM0CQyq-6pune8gC8tBkM7_NyidkKbZRnjcDYPO9IW-FwsEHAjQuSQOpB8fJeD5ln6ITYIb_B5v5jHHF7hzo3CyDXM09fAPYJmY-Sp8PR9iNi8xAgix3dn8Wdpw8M/w400-h390/arm.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My right wrist repair</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Let's just say it's been a wild ride at times. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Great.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Yesterday, I had a two-week check to take off the surgery cast, remove the staples, and recast my wrist.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">14 staples marched in a very precise line down my inner arm, from wrist towards elbow.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">14.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My doctor wasn't kidding about it being a complicated repair. That was a long incision.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Heaven is washing your right hand for the first time since the initial break some 17 days earlier.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Blue. Give me blue. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Think that is no big deal? <i>You</i> try putting toothpaste on your toothbrush and then brushing your teeth using <i>only</i> your non-dominant hand. No cheating! </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Having said that, don't think I am blithely skipping down a sunlit path. I am <i>not</i> 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>I </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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I am creeping back into writing. I am dictating a lot, doing a little more typing now that I can use one (<i>one</i>) of my fingers — the middle finger — on my right hand to move the process along. (Hmmn. My middle finger. Wonder if <i>that </i>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! </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">That's where I am at these days. I have lots of time to read. (When <i>don't</i> 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 <i>Newsies</i> 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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">From friends to books to grandchildren to Warren, I am grateful and rich beyond compare.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My blue cast is just the icing on the cake!</span></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoUT6-ZP6XGvOHUYA5XN-IQXM9DCgXgpdWu4Id_2BnwB8NlOTUYganUXQxnTFgpQkVtF_9XVO2sVmNiVwhbN23NQ6Lxp-5NjtzEOrhk1uLL0i8hp3SnvAnR4Ag4UpsW8g-IaRppZD-_Wv7Rj_Vvp9qZgPLB3nKtsYBuxfJj088m34d9NdMLYGop6E4hpI/s2016/IMG_1995.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1274" data-original-width="2016" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoUT6-ZP6XGvOHUYA5XN-IQXM9DCgXgpdWu4Id_2BnwB8NlOTUYganUXQxnTFgpQkVtF_9XVO2sVmNiVwhbN23NQ6Lxp-5NjtzEOrhk1uLL0i8hp3SnvAnR4Ag4UpsW8g-IaRppZD-_Wv7Rj_Vvp9qZgPLB3nKtsYBuxfJj088m34d9NdMLYGop6E4hpI/w400-h253/IMG_1995.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Isn't it pretty?</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07722817835256485575noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1313799681501729309.post-60027812725770789032024-01-24T16:27:00.001-05:002024-01-24T19:17:12.506-05:00We Interrupt This Program...<p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB7vuorLZDgjaszcOKVMcdiKXYu1tRv3SGk5VFUYOfXqGk1fHUKQT4W4rutTeATtI5OygwKvKZ2I-1VtnT30866EkDQ-fA9EpLKW7pXn9k7Kq4j5KPDCoyzEAm9iok01e_GJ2cWhO_N8Iib5wZqdi91SchUXnZlVh6JpPvdCRAmPkbiuF_KgAS7SL1OGc/s662/Screenshot%202024-01-24%204.03.12%20PM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="662" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB7vuorLZDgjaszcOKVMcdiKXYu1tRv3SGk5VFUYOfXqGk1fHUKQT4W4rutTeATtI5OygwKvKZ2I-1VtnT30866EkDQ-fA9EpLKW7pXn9k7Kq4j5KPDCoyzEAm9iok01e_GJ2cWhO_N8Iib5wZqdi91SchUXnZlVh6JpPvdCRAmPkbiuF_KgAS7SL1OGc/w400-h241/Screenshot%202024-01-24%204.03.12%20PM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Note bone on lower right: not supposed to be there like that</td></tr></tbody></table> <span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In the meantime, life rolls on. Right? </span></p>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07722817835256485575noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1313799681501729309.post-87934083233241011572024-01-09T12:46:00.002-05:002024-01-10T20:01:59.872-05:00My Analog Life<p><span style="font-size: medium;">2024 has arrived. Now what?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Here are some things that my life contains.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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:<br /><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFv4wzpmAhiKc3rY8Ym2Lo3AS_yguVWWUUqt12UfG2CAsaF86MebDrhUs94u5j-KU989lORW8Tz6-HsEA2P6yiOiUXmk5Nbzyhrnr_I0_DX4nc4C1WktlPoQY9hyJRhGEQ4beoTpy_uitP_5wJxdZFze2ViAcf35TXYrB__a1iBpqry3BBYeBdCQt68fw/s5184/IMG_9078.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFv4wzpmAhiKc3rY8Ym2Lo3AS_yguVWWUUqt12UfG2CAsaF86MebDrhUs94u5j-KU989lORW8Tz6-HsEA2P6yiOiUXmk5Nbzyhrnr_I0_DX4nc4C1WktlPoQY9hyJRhGEQ4beoTpy_uitP_5wJxdZFze2ViAcf35TXYrB__a1iBpqry3BBYeBdCQt68fw/w400-h266/IMG_9078.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Books, books, books, the old-fashioned way:</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHyLFTnAnOa8ILmTtuhpZjr4Zzppnkxf2kZlV2yXwdMUzgod1vXTdkPDpjS7uVGg0qTyKpqk-wOufEi8izPGvzmuffqwavhKmp3C0gocPAhBSQUawp1xrhvIReA4qmVbQUgHkfd7XOepQZiyqNYTC0GwVYEakvEhM-1oFQAJavZAupk7yV0XYW62_YV04/s5184/IMG_9082.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHyLFTnAnOa8ILmTtuhpZjr4Zzppnkxf2kZlV2yXwdMUzgod1vXTdkPDpjS7uVGg0qTyKpqk-wOufEi8izPGvzmuffqwavhKmp3C0gocPAhBSQUawp1xrhvIReA4qmVbQUgHkfd7XOepQZiyqNYTC0GwVYEakvEhM-1oFQAJavZAupk7yV0XYW62_YV04/w400-h265/IMG_9082.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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:</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGE5zKDMZvXlZy12lglzAZatQcO-PVKCjKyQWZLigR-pGIMGqE8B3Q0U-2ghcMm45RkSO1eTguG0N15PJjEiGjSjW0hC5ZHnQ7v85_ti7qNVaL8pqRhdWktZhwmAcqyNiiVzoIGppwOBA1FxBkdtPpsjMFlBiverqUGMFG6cbpoRBPoJC4zXcJEW6wclg/s5184/IMG_9080.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGE5zKDMZvXlZy12lglzAZatQcO-PVKCjKyQWZLigR-pGIMGqE8B3Q0U-2ghcMm45RkSO1eTguG0N15PJjEiGjSjW0hC5ZHnQ7v85_ti7qNVaL8pqRhdWktZhwmAcqyNiiVzoIGppwOBA1FxBkdtPpsjMFlBiverqUGMFG6cbpoRBPoJC4zXcJEW6wclg/w400-h266/IMG_9080.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">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?</span></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX9fjBxS8WGCSS_IwR8rmNH5M7pcB0x_rzATCmEmCtwGi3rhT3E9iQePppGx0VX56-Ivb2NhyphenhyphenpMS5pb7LVpIOJryewJNvkOdW5PQzprwNjBHYndpGgcKuSCpV-OW3ECPvvsq9CRyWukfv3AwzLVC-DSml4NpqJv3bvu3D3jJEPKmBHeb9Jup8-gCg6_2g/s5184/IMG_9081.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX9fjBxS8WGCSS_IwR8rmNH5M7pcB0x_rzATCmEmCtwGi3rhT3E9iQePppGx0VX56-Ivb2NhyphenhyphenpMS5pb7LVpIOJryewJNvkOdW5PQzprwNjBHYndpGgcKuSCpV-OW3ECPvvsq9CRyWukfv3AwzLVC-DSml4NpqJv3bvu3D3jJEPKmBHeb9Jup8-gCg6_2g/w400-h265/IMG_9081.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A life changer! </td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">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.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Fellow blogger <a href="https://abelabodycare.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Laurie</a> recently wrote about her "football sweet potatoes" and I asked for a photo, which <a href="https://abelabodycare.blogspot.com/2024/01/big-sweet-potatoes-homemade-taco.html" target="_blank">she gladly provided</a>. 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). </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN2-SgIQQZgausXClXBJsJtfx2zi8lXVPXUcXuzRn1WaoF7QRrhFhm1SQAunTzCWNSOv2io9I3pgJa1BZKwOPpdsvk23T5AmuODHSwb_XmYr8LjmX7C_fXTHeQgZ_wdhyphenhyphenn61i-MmDPQv950XPc6BkP7SpgRcTJpKl-nSHPPkeBm4jXhyphenhyphenyFl_c_mSC03hI/s2048/Orlando%20sweet%20potato%20head.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN2-SgIQQZgausXClXBJsJtfx2zi8lXVPXUcXuzRn1WaoF7QRrhFhm1SQAunTzCWNSOv2io9I3pgJa1BZKwOPpdsvk23T5AmuODHSwb_XmYr8LjmX7C_fXTHeQgZ_wdhyphenhyphenn61i-MmDPQv950XPc6BkP7SpgRcTJpKl-nSHPPkeBm4jXhyphenhyphenyFl_c_mSC03hI/w300-h400/Orlando%20sweet%20potato%20head.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07722817835256485575noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1313799681501729309.post-73067665537825580322023-12-31T12:25:00.000-05:002023-12-31T12:25:24.743-05:00The Last Pesto of 2023 <p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1v7kVvUTt0HFDBHlMKdcSSPKhccmLR7n3lml8i5AMZZgGGrDzFra7f2kHsim3sQ_gSspwjigrp-3ca5EP6aKjUlC497ESq_SYWUjLcyFUgIc6Xq0FXaXXQqVjKC4etY25EFeI1hjQWGwaQpB4ytPVB4T_QiLzvjVW3kTqUKViKRDyzCWESkof4t_Pwvw/s5184/IMG_9073.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5184" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1v7kVvUTt0HFDBHlMKdcSSPKhccmLR7n3lml8i5AMZZgGGrDzFra7f2kHsim3sQ_gSspwjigrp-3ca5EP6aKjUlC497ESq_SYWUjLcyFUgIc6Xq0FXaXXQqVjKC4etY25EFeI1hjQWGwaQpB4ytPVB4T_QiLzvjVW3kTqUKViKRDyzCWESkof4t_Pwvw/w266-h400/IMG_9073.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On its way to completion. Note: the photographer—not the kitchen—was tilted.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>This morning I made the very last batch of pesto for the year. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The. Very. Last. Batch.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">As I noted when I resumed writing again, my lengthy time away and the many demands on Warren (the Symphony, the house, me!) meant the garden was ignored and neglected in its final weeks. Tomatoes fell to the ground, peppers went unpicked (not that we had a particularly great crop this year), and everything in both gardens went to rack and ruin (well, everything except a few last handfuls of the Trail of Tears black beans, because those babies were survivors). </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So how did I make this last batch? No, I did not buy basil, although I am sure I could have found some little packages of overly aged and outrageous priced basil in local supermarkets. (Yes, I just looked. 1.5 ounces for $3.99 at one store.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">No, the basil was out of this year's garden. The same one that was in shreds when I finally returned home.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And the magician who made that happen? You have to ask? Warren, of course.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">While I was, ahem, indisposed, Warren did some looking online about freezing basil and then making pesto from the frozen basil. He read enough to know what he <u>didn't</u> want to do, then proceeded with his own simplified version: pick it, wash it, chop it, freeze it. While I remember him telling me he had done that while I was still away, when I returned home and saw two half-gallon freezer bags full of dark green stuff, my first question was "What is <u>that</u>?" </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">This morning, on a mission to clear out our refrigerator freezer (the basement freezer is another story), I saw the basil first thing and realized it was now or never. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I chose to make it now. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">As it turns out, making pesto from frozen basil is the same as making it fresh, without the tedious and lengthy washing and cutting. (Thank you, again, dear Warren. You really are amazing.) </span></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmKWmHqdKyj2j_gtfuMwwpX42NkgGUmub76z5XzsS9SDJoiWCxuZwb4IEHk3_XS8o5YO6MQ7u6sG9EUtxCjfun0pDVqsCBHRUZdz5BbG1S0cx8l2AgYMkWwzJaHzJwMnx0-EtJ-RhZfHMmsdsq3cOP_UBYZXtNJ9hOparVwMfPbrot24OTXGdX3cBA7xQ/s5184/IMG_9075.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmKWmHqdKyj2j_gtfuMwwpX42NkgGUmub76z5XzsS9SDJoiWCxuZwb4IEHk3_XS8o5YO6MQ7u6sG9EUtxCjfun0pDVqsCBHRUZdz5BbG1S0cx8l2AgYMkWwzJaHzJwMnx0-EtJ-RhZfHMmsdsq3cOP_UBYZXtNJ9hOparVwMfPbrot24OTXGdX3cBA7xQ/w400-h266/IMG_9075.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking just right.</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And that is how the very last pesto batch of 2023 came to be. Some went to neighbors on our right and neighbors on our left, and the rest went down into the aforementioned basement freezer for another time, another meal, another day.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A very nice and savory and satisfying note on which to bring this year to an end.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCiPaqen_CF-fLJBrU1GD7KFsZ9A0XK4DPwSsSW-yiBuNTMJ0VL2Pbu5-vVsrT82EoRIAo1LF8_j8ra9uVvZXefSaI8hDlrEX_umMUKBjivRVkZfM6tcPz6JsfyQqsKCYgrGQCqrvP0PJX2kB72sChFXQcHMHcfzazcs7tFaOUEgwdNL_ssl9-tLO0LtU/w400-h266/IMG_9076.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">End product! </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07722817835256485575noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1313799681501729309.post-83930492505360266092023-12-28T14:25:00.000-05:002023-12-28T14:25:04.771-05:00Little Bits<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Little bits. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Little bits of memories, little bits of music, little bits of holiday treats, little bits of sunshine, little bits of rain; these have been some of the underpinnings of these last days of 2023.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Just little bits.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I continue to recover, in little bits, from the acute medical crisis of the fall. A long-distance friend who lives with chronic and debilitating illnesses reminded me, after I noted my slow pace of improvement, that given what I went through, I was doing great.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A little bit of chastisement, albeit nicely said.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A longtime friend walked by this morning with his dog while Warren was leaving, and after he called from the sidewalk, "So how are you?," both Warren and I realized that Bill had no idea what had happened this fall. Warren waved as he drove away, and I gave a short version of what we had gone through. I then told him (and Maisy, his dog) to "wait right there," and dashed into the house to bag some biscotti. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Just a little bit, because Bill didn't need to carry a lot of weight while he finished walking Maisy. Bill took the biscotti and said, with great relish, that when he got home, he was going to "dunk the hell" out of the biscotti in a cup of coffee. I emailed him a little later this morning and told him that if I had a coffee/bake shop, I would name the biscotti the "Dunk the Hell Out of Them" biscotti. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A little bit of humor, a lot of friendship. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I have been walking almost daily (yeah, I dropped the ball during the Christmas weekend due to other demands on my time and energy) and today when I left the house to walk, I noticed I had a large chorus of voices competing in my head. (No, I do not hear voices; these were calling up situations, past and present, where I wanted to respond to (i.e., argue with) someone.) To shake my mood, I made myself focus on the trees and yards and sky. One pine bough near the sidewalk held a drop of water from earlier rains. I started looking as I walked for other drops caught on branches or bushes.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Just little bits, but my search refocused my mind and attention.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">2024 holds some challenges and changes, some of them large and at least one of them HUGE. No little bits there, at least not from where I stand. So I tell myself to savor these little bits now, as we spend down the remaining days of this year.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I recently came across, artfully woven into an essay I was reading, two lines from "How Do I Love Thee?" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning: <i>I love thee to the level of every day's/Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. </i>I had not read that sonnet for decades and seeing those lines, standing alone, made my heart reach out to Warren, who has been by my side through all of this. (Note that Warren has <i>always</i> been by my side; recent events just elevated my needs and deepened our relationship.) I shared those lines with my poetry-damaged husband (some teacher or teachers really did a number on him back in the day) and then explained why they moved me. "That is you, dear Warren. You are with me for the most quiet needs, from morning to night. And I don't need to count the ways of how I love you to know that."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And that is NOT a little bit. </span></p>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07722817835256485575noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1313799681501729309.post-33682865451257894172023-12-22T10:05:00.000-05:002023-12-22T10:05:07.356-05:00Grandma<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Grandma Skatzes would be 130 years old today.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">130.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">As a child, I marveled at the notion that she was 10—10!—when the Wright brothers made their first flight at Kitty Hawk. As a teenager, I remember her chuckling over the fact that she lived to see men land on the moon.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">130.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Grandma saw numerous wars in her lifetime, most of which family, ranging from cousins and in-laws to sons and grandsons, serve in. World War I was the one that made the deepest impression on her. She kept a framed copy of "In Flanders Field" on a wall in the living room. Grandma had optic nerve damage from an early age on and could not read the small print of the poem, but it made no difference as she could recite it from heart and always did on November 11.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">130.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Grandma was born when Grover Cleveland was president. Jimmy Carter was in the White House when she died in 1978. All in all, she lived through 16 different presidents. She did not talk much about politics, although she had admiration for Franklin Delano Roosevelt's actions during the Great Depression and World War II. Grandma did not vote until she was almost 80. I suspect her husband did not allow her to in earlier years, and her disabilities, both visual and auditory, posed barriers that no one thought to work around until much later. It was my aunt Ginger who finally arranged for special aides to come help Grandma work her way through a ballot and vote from home in the 1970s. Grandma was delighted that she had finally cast a ballot.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">130.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My family rented an apartment in my grandparents' house and we lived in the same house until I was 14. For all the bad in my childhood, I had an unshakable refuge in my beloved grandmother. When I was little, Grandma would tell me nursery rhymes and quote poetry. As I got older, she would share stories of how the family and the community made it through the Great Depression. She encouraged me in reading and writing and capturing the world as fully as I can. Although she never said it, I suspect Grandma wanted me to have a larger view of life and its opportunities, and pushed me in those ways to move into the world.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">130.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Grandma died in March, 1978 while I was living out in Portland, Oregon. I was walking home from college on what was then a typical early spring day: a mixture of showers and sun. On the way, I saw not one but three (three!) different rainbows in the sky. When I got home and my then-husband broke the news of my grandmother's death, I immediately thought of those rainbows. They were Grandma's goodbye to me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">130.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">As Grandma aged, her hearing and vision became so limited that the best way to communicate with her became spelling into the palm of her hand. She would puzzle out the words, then respond in her soft voice. During my hospitalization, when I was intubated (and sedated) for several days, I apparently tried to communicate by spelling out words in Warren's palm. I do not remember any of this, but Warren said I did that several times. "Just like Grandma," I marveled. I couldn't talk because of the ventilator tube, but my innermost self pulled up an old, old memory of spelling with Grandma. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">130. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It is Jewish tradition when speaking of someone who has died to say, "May her/his memory be blessed." Grandma, your memory is always blessed. </span></p>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07722817835256485575noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1313799681501729309.post-39867130603442704132023-11-29T10:55:00.000-05:002023-11-29T10:55:10.995-05:00Some Assembly Required<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpfbT1H4vcKqbTQm9DFmf7C_KMKVffkQuWFit6hF8VmLuTxEtXutg-hRRbOxICNHuU6y3g6yNoPW0V74_R8vgfmXYBOAIMF0uDCoWB-Z-z93ixKTp8Sk7cwA1mmeTh1ZBjZjxZlYmMbzn8IyDJ5APk4wnsPXEwA196Je0Ivh0HLrM3m59EWCYtDzlauzQ/s3052/tekton-SVpCSOCcCwA-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1716" data-original-width="3052" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpfbT1H4vcKqbTQm9DFmf7C_KMKVffkQuWFit6hF8VmLuTxEtXutg-hRRbOxICNHuU6y3g6yNoPW0V74_R8vgfmXYBOAIMF0uDCoWB-Z-z93ixKTp8Sk7cwA1mmeTh1ZBjZjxZlYmMbzn8IyDJ5APk4wnsPXEwA196Je0Ivh0HLrM3m59EWCYtDzlauzQ/w400-h225/tekton-SVpCSOCcCwA-unsplash.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@tekton_tools?utm_content=creditCopyText&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=unsplash">Tekton</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/stainless-steel-tool-on-gray-sand-SVpCSOCcCwA?utm_content=creditCopyText&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=unsplash">Unsplash</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Many of us out there spent more than one night before a child's birthday or Christmas putting together complicated toys for the next day. The box and the instructions always said "Some Assembly Required," which really meant "Anticipate far more steps, tiny pieces, and inscrutable instructions than you have ever seen."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">That's how I feel about myself as I move forward as "the woman who lives afterwards." </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Some items/issues/whatever are resolved. I just completed in-home physical therapy today, way ahead of schedule. I speak with the surgeon Monday about the next step (removing the gallbladder, which has never been an issue but needs to come out per every single doctor who has ever seen the image or read the reports on it). The living room is no longer my bedroom (yes, that was the reality of the initial homecoming, as I could not climb the stairs—all 13 of them—to the second floor). In short, life moves on.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And yet...I am still picking up tiny bolts and saying, "But where does this go?" or "Wasn't there a special tool included in this package?" </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I am still assembling myself.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My friend Tani and I exchanged lengthy letters over the summer about accepting the reality of being disabled; we are are now discussing being OLD. Myeloma and 19 years of treatment had already aged me. This recent medical catastrophe just added to that. As I told my physical therapist as we concluded my last session, I know I have to be more patient with myself as I continue to regain muscle mass and physical strength, but I also have to be realistic about how far I can push myself. Some of that is recovery, which will go on for many weeks; some of that is age.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But I <u>am</u> walking again, as in "outside," and that is an absolute gift. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Picking up some threads from my past, I may (possibly, likely, maybe) pick up tracking our food expenses again. That all came to a halt in August. I "could" have resumed tracking for November, when I was home again, but I lacked energy, capacity, and bandwidth to even try. December...maybe. I look back at <a href="https://smallmomentsofgreatreward.blogspot.com/2023/07/at-half-2023-grocery-purchases.html" target="_blank"><b>my post on July 1</b></a> where I ask whether July can be lean and am pleased to report that July <i>was</i> lean: either $115.61 or $157.57. The discrepancy is that in July, per both my oncologists' offices, I started drinking one or more protein drinks a day, and those run around $20.00 a box. It <i>is </i>food; it is not medication. BUT Warren doesn't drink them and it is so specialized that...you can see where I am going. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I am both stepping away and back into some of my volunteer activities with our community legal clinics. Yes, I will stay with the Justice Bus project as an attorney wrangler; no, I have turned over a court/clinic joint project to other volunteers. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I am reading a lot. A lot. (Best fiction read recently? <i>The Berry Pickers</i> by Amanda Peters. Just stunning.) I may (<i>may</i>, mind you) take up some long set-aside personal projects, although I think my initial focus around here is on getting rid of more of my/our clutter. (We have three types of clutter in this house: His, Hers, Ours.) I am not writing yet except for letters, some inserts into my long-gestational novel, and this, my second blog post post-catastrophe. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It will come. I say that with hope.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In the meantime, some assembly required. Where <i>did</i> that little must-have-to-complete-assembly tool go? </span></p>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07722817835256485575noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1313799681501729309.post-82471033367501108452023-11-20T13:50:00.000-05:002023-11-20T13:50:10.546-05:00My One Wild and Precious Life<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMWDSIXvt8ItgyTRaCntqt2jxk1Nf4BhyHts9po6tzdE__F444wlsxmU9QNX5WxwhbQHzaJz4Byb6_xguB-h7LB8lxXy719TgD9XMGNkQF_qz2mJW-qrvfFaV-Kg98_iHTrj2e-aJQK58ITNuRYyggUXMemFbkw4Ts8GnylIND7zEEKFISM1KSzfRdtVw/s5184/IMG_8039%20copy.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMWDSIXvt8ItgyTRaCntqt2jxk1Nf4BhyHts9po6tzdE__F444wlsxmU9QNX5WxwhbQHzaJz4Byb6_xguB-h7LB8lxXy719TgD9XMGNkQF_qz2mJW-qrvfFaV-Kg98_iHTrj2e-aJQK58ITNuRYyggUXMemFbkw4Ts8GnylIND7zEEKFISM1KSzfRdtVw/w400-h266/IMG_8039%20copy.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I did catch the last of the butterfly weed (this photo was taken in 2022)</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My last post was three months ago today. Rereading it today, I see I was blithely taking stock of my garden and nattering on about how many medical appointments I had in August. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">What I could not foresee (who could?) was that three days later, two "routine" and "low-risk" endoscopic exams would set off nine weeks of hospitalization and skilled nursing facility stays (the first stay cut short to send me back to the hospital) for acute pancreatitis. Finally, on October 27, I came home and have been home ever since. Still a long road ahead as I rebuild core strength and muscle mass, but at least I am home. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Home, home, home. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Given that the earlier predictions had been that I would likely not return home until the end of November because of the severity of the extensive internal infection and damage, I was beside myself with joy as Warren picked me up to bring me home (the skilled nursing facility is about six blocks from our house). "Oh, look, the leaves are falling! I didn't miss fall after all!" I repeated some variation of that in every block until we pulled into our driveway. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I still say it whenever we run errands. I still say it whenever I look out the window and see the last leaves of the season drop to the ground. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">This unexpected medical event was not only a shock to both me and Warren, but also a huge eye-opener as to the fragility of life and the unpredictability of time. We had always imagined I would die after a long, slow, fade-out from the myeloma and that there would be "time" to enjoy life together before that happened. Ha. I coded during my first hospital stay from sudden and acute hemorrhaging; Warren was present when this happened, so he got the full shocking impact of watching the medical team rushing to save my life.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A life-changing event? Absolutely. How could it not be? For him, for me, for us as a couple. Our lives moving forward will be forever shaped by this. It has been a crash course in what commitment means. For me, there is even a stronger sense of what <b><a href="https://smallmomentsofgreatreward.blogspot.com/2010/09/journeys.html" target="_blank">Wilma Mankiller</a> </b>meant when she wrote about surviving a near-fatal accident: "there was the woman who lived before and the woman who lives afterwards." I am not the woman who lived before August 23, but I am very much the woman who lives afterwards. I don't know what that means yet, but here I am.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Contrary to my usual approach of being open about my medical status, we have both kept quiet about this one. Warren did not have the bandwidth to field questions about me, especially while he was launching the Symphony season and driving 25 miles one-way to see me in the hospital. He has spent hours and hours and hours with me, both while I was away and after I got home: caring for me, watching out for me, helping me recover. (As has my dear friend and former PCP, Pat.) But time to talk about me or answer questions? Heck, no. As for me, I had zero capacity for visitors while being treated and even after returning home. I had no capacity to even talk on the phone, let alone anything more. Even writing an email was a stretch for a long time. I am slowly regaining strength but I am still guarding my time and carefully watching my energy levels as I move forward into my new life. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Besides the simple and stunning gift of life, there has been another upside to this catastrophe: a reset of my attitude. Talk about the scales falling from my eyes. I look around and think w</span><span>hat an amazing thing life is. What an amazing thing the world is. I sit at the kitchen table as the sun comes up and watch its rays spangle the frosted grass into a thousand diamonds and tiny rainbows. I step outside to see the impossibly blue sky (we are having a prolonged fall of brilliant sunny days) and take in a deep breath while I stand there, lost in gratitude at seeing that vivid sky over me.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The late, great poet Mary Oliver said it so well (in so many ways and in so many poems); she was a huge advocate for the importance of nature to our well-being, seeing it as a life-giving, healing force in our sometimes narrow lives. Oliver's challenge from "The Summer Day" seems most apropos as I move forward: "Tell me, what is it you plan to do/with your one wild and precious life?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">As I take stock from where I sit, writing this, I wonder. There will likely be a garden next year (as you can imagine, this year's garden ended up in tatters with my hospitalization). I am starting to bake again. I have been writing. But the question remains: what do I plan to do with my one wild and precious life?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Time will tell.</span></p>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07722817835256485575noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1313799681501729309.post-60621812288216159352023-08-20T16:34:00.000-04:002023-08-20T16:34:34.910-04:00This Year's Gardens: Part 11<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span>This year's gardens continue. I just this morning started clearing out the Hej garden to replant zucchini in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, we get a crop. I have had a month of more medical appointments than I want (August has contained eight—count 'em! Eight!—counting the two this coming week) and they take a toll on my durability, so I suspect it will next weekend before the Hej is cleared, tilled again, and planted. </span><span>That task aside, I continue to eat tomatoes (Oh, joy! Rapture!) and think about doing yet another batch of pesto with the late August basil. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">This weekend, however, I was reminded again (always) of how gardens never fail to delight and amuse. This year's gardens are no exception.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Delight #1: Any other summer, the lettuce is usually burnt out by mid-July due to heat and sun. Oh, there are a few straggly bits here and there, and sometimes a volunteer or two will pop up in the fall once things cool down, but lettuce is NOT a summer crop around here.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Until this year. The lettuce beds are going strong and we are in the third week of August. We have been picking and eating the Black Seeded Simpson since early July (maybe late June) and now are adding the Butter Crunch to the salad bowl as well. Fresh-picked lettuce is so delicious that I told Warren I am not sure I can return to eating store-bought lettuce when the season is over. I have not bought tomatoes from a grocery store for years because of the qualitative difference; I wonder if lettuce will be the same. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I remind myself that back in my youth, lettuce out of season was something you did not see in our local grocery stores. Can we go without lettuce-based salads for several months? Hmmn.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Delight #2: Still in the lettuce bed, but this is a totally unexpected joy. Because the lettuce burns out so early, I have never seen it go to seed. Ever. I could not even visualize a lettuce plant going to seed. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Until this year. The Black Seeded Simpson has been so hearty and so prolific that it has started to flower. I nipped off a number of the flowering heads to prolong the lettuce, but some I am letting go to full flower. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A flowering lettuce plant is a thing of beauty and a joy forever. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP5-txIU_Wq_W5_7jc2xd0g80Y3CxFOkf7SIQDqzJ4-vbSlSMJE0BbQGTa--_dnJWIzczYvWboSlr_kkumOqnX3BCSQIA3XcHZqh1nv1ql5yEWiTGfY9KScYXyg3yeGfCWz4z3YXfzBAlJgoBzGe1cnUwE3RhrjE-jEGdp__S3vQ4ma-mNX8rdhgJFm9U/s5184/IMG_9015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5184" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP5-txIU_Wq_W5_7jc2xd0g80Y3CxFOkf7SIQDqzJ4-vbSlSMJE0BbQGTa--_dnJWIzczYvWboSlr_kkumOqnX3BCSQIA3XcHZqh1nv1ql5yEWiTGfY9KScYXyg3yeGfCWz4z3YXfzBAlJgoBzGe1cnUwE3RhrjE-jEGdp__S3vQ4ma-mNX8rdhgJFm9U/w266-h400/IMG_9015.JPG" width="266" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Look how delicate those flowers are.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Cm6HFrHNmm2RSGbjsZrjR57eB-DcVPVaQLTFIg09Akkr-Ixc4JBMPgKH1qMYP47i8LxTRxZNexd4t0mj0ZT9BK-eHdhCP_KHVZ0-KGok2dr0KJ4QwB_AiXzo3HbcEm_CFWix6pqr-0dHswGVIP5vBLS0vjmpMrq3m50J_wCmdLFNbmPIyU9rO6eIvZw/s5184/IMG_9011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Cm6HFrHNmm2RSGbjsZrjR57eB-DcVPVaQLTFIg09Akkr-Ixc4JBMPgKH1qMYP47i8LxTRxZNexd4t0mj0ZT9BK-eHdhCP_KHVZ0-KGok2dr0KJ4QwB_AiXzo3HbcEm_CFWix6pqr-0dHswGVIP5vBLS0vjmpMrq3m50J_wCmdLFNbmPIyU9rO6eIvZw/w400-h266/IMG_9011.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;">I did not note in my gardening book anything more than the names and locations of the lettuce beds in my garden, but from what I can find online from checking a number of seed companies, Black Seeded Simpson is a heritage lettuce, which means they will grow from saved seed. I am tempted to harvest some of the seeds and hold them for next year.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Amusement of the summer (as in "the joke is on me"): the Cherokee Trail of Tears black pole beans. Not the product; these beans are prolific! No, it is <i>my</i> ignorance in realizing how these beans (and maybe all pole beans) take care of themselves when it comes to drying. I went out to pick more of them today and realized about three bean pods into the harvest that they have been drying themselves. All I need to do was pick them and pop the pods open. Out roll those beautiful beans. </span></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8qxUx2RJY0TgqpdDZclO4heq06sIcZRi5T4V_FpCDVGlVavQ9ss9cJQblmlKiji3utiSCgiLMGAMyvhIB1cwQTEoTWAzACHFYsPZVr6vzUq0ukiT6wwndb-8dmF7L6v1-26yXIHNwHTnRbiZCAXUajT39PmCtyvRfKTYTLFG3gkJ0VFCYV_wqv00-Zko/s5184/IMG_9024.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8qxUx2RJY0TgqpdDZclO4heq06sIcZRi5T4V_FpCDVGlVavQ9ss9cJQblmlKiji3utiSCgiLMGAMyvhIB1cwQTEoTWAzACHFYsPZVr6vzUq0ukiT6wwndb-8dmF7L6v1-26yXIHNwHTnRbiZCAXUajT39PmCtyvRfKTYTLFG3gkJ0VFCYV_wqv00-Zko/w400-h266/IMG_9024.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Why have you been working so hard, April? We know what we are doing."</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My beans picked last week were fine; I dried them for soup when the weather changes. Today's beans will join those, but right now today's beans are laughing at me, saying "Duh, April. You don't know <i>beans</i> about beans." </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>As this realization hit me (the work being done by the sun and the beans themselves), I thought back to my past experiences with beans. There were <i>always </i>beans in my grandparents' garden; Grandma Nelson canned green beans by the quart. My parents also grew beans and Mom canned as well. Heck, even <i>I </i>grew and canned beans. But they were bush beans, always something in what I will call the "green bean" family, and you ate them fresh or canned them, period. I have no me</span><span>mories, even stories passed down, of anyone growing pole beans (which can also be eaten fresh). I do not remember seeing poles or structures for them in any of the gardens. I certainly do not have any memories of anyone (and this would have been on my dad's side of the family, as they were the ones whose gardens I knew growing up) drying beans. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But now I know. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A phrase several of my medical providers have been using lately is "knowledge is power, " referring to some of the testing I have been going through. I am going to steal that phrase and apply it to my beans: Knowledge <i>IS</i> power, and the power here is not working so darn hard for the same outcome! </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNYfX_lELIbcuz-ROV9J9O5GTn4GdWjaMNp-iuO0pkcdj9xYdgtJC3uadto0_8wP_1aw2nZ7ejNasg31dZS8wqNHz6lorJQIrQfUMTquNmJFVi8pLVybWjPcles-kFcJvkv0CiNl9VZcbI8v8f3qIwbilxLHwh3Ro1uM6jEpCAJbIy2SPf3j_0pMGYFYw/s5184/IMG_9027.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNYfX_lELIbcuz-ROV9J9O5GTn4GdWjaMNp-iuO0pkcdj9xYdgtJC3uadto0_8wP_1aw2nZ7ejNasg31dZS8wqNHz6lorJQIrQfUMTquNmJFVi8pLVybWjPcles-kFcJvkv0CiNl9VZcbI8v8f3qIwbilxLHwh3Ro1uM6jEpCAJbIy2SPf3j_0pMGYFYw/w400-h266/IMG_9027.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Today's haul </td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></p>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07722817835256485575noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1313799681501729309.post-78244387632596097932023-08-14T16:25:00.001-04:002023-08-14T16:25:45.609-04:00This Year's Gardens: Part 10<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMtA0XcnDpUCj6oLC8FP-Vz8rlcmgksSBA29gdWiaSAaBqxzW-DcDMKFbyhLY93KFiQukycsagHFY1fvjbs8ccd9l1oFcBr6Ts84VBqK_LH0yOWA-9NGURNtjHFDJaZht6uvJgLs5Cq4fqiKirelLykw5P2kPzO8GYGucHwDRiXh9HYoJgAcM_mHjz-14/s5184/IMG_8981.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5184" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMtA0XcnDpUCj6oLC8FP-Vz8rlcmgksSBA29gdWiaSAaBqxzW-DcDMKFbyhLY93KFiQukycsagHFY1fvjbs8ccd9l1oFcBr6Ts84VBqK_LH0yOWA-9NGURNtjHFDJaZht6uvJgLs5Cq4fqiKirelLykw5P2kPzO8GYGucHwDRiXh9HYoJgAcM_mHjz-14/w266-h400/IMG_8981.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cherokee Trail of Tears Heritage Pole Beans</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The gardens continue to baffle and amaze. There are no other words.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I have made it official: the zucchini garden is a total loss. TOTAL. However, there may be a ray of possibility. I went to our local Farmers Market this Saturday in search of zucchini to prepare and freeze for the winter. Only two vendors had it at all. The first vendor said they had had trouble with it this year, a first for them. The second vendor, who had more zucchini at his stand, listened to my description of what I had seen in the garden, furrowed his brow, and made some suggestions as to what it might have been. (And given the state of the cabbage and cauliflower in that same garden, I think he was on point.) He then said he was getting ready to do a third planting, just for household use. "You have any seeds left?" Yes, I still do. He suggested I clear out the debris, till, plant (no starting inside, just straight up planting), and see what I get, saying there should be enough warmer weather left to get one more crop in. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm game. I know I will have some limitations on my physical capacity, but heck, why not try it? Worst thing that can happen is the zucchini comes up and gets destroyed again. To give the plants half a chance, I will try to be better at (mostly) keeping the weeds down. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Related somewhat to the whole Hej garden issues (the zucchini, the cabbage, the cauliflower losses), I am (as always) thinking about how to make it work better next year. There is a gardening account I follow sporadically on Instagram, and a few days ago someone (they have many people who post) put up a 3-tips video. Tip #1? Grow red cabbage, which bugs abhor; they go after the green cabbage. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Bingo: my red cabbage has been virtually untouched. The green I will be pulling up and throwing out when I clear the Hej garden for a second attempt at a zucchini crop. Next year: red only. I can plant them in the Hej garden and clear up space in the kitchen garden. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In the kitchen garden, the tomatoes are finally ripening and I am in tomato heaven. I will get a few more peppers, but those plants were too shaded by the tomatoes and pole beans to do well. (Not to mention the enormous leaves the red cabbage put out early that totally shaded everything around each one of them.) </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBvZ8tnyaDw04HIP8eAGtLiSnaBWg4meVXjOiKGYmEBQasOv9sg2Ilgy3rvkmgUUA1frPD-JuxczCohR_Wf6HnYJ9Mws21khXuw73OThPP6fOjXDBOtLNuJZ9WmSUHBGvyFGVmFPTULmoptyzqhhZJAdd1k8jGnzPK18KycVZtLM_88kNxveJcazrhjc8/s5184/IMG_8997.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBvZ8tnyaDw04HIP8eAGtLiSnaBWg4meVXjOiKGYmEBQasOv9sg2Ilgy3rvkmgUUA1frPD-JuxczCohR_Wf6HnYJ9Mws21khXuw73OThPP6fOjXDBOtLNuJZ9WmSUHBGvyFGVmFPTULmoptyzqhhZJAdd1k8jGnzPK18KycVZtLM_88kNxveJcazrhjc8/w400-h266/IMG_8997.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Warren, knowing my frustrations this year and looking ahead to next year, suggested I plant the tomatoes on the north side, or in the middle, and give the peppers a chance by putting <i>them</i> on the south side. Yep, he is right. We also talked about the burgeoning flower section, cosmos and sunflowers, and how they too take up space. The sunflowers I want to keep in the back against the garage wall, but the cosmos would possibly (maybe?) enjoy the garden bed (also neglected this summer) that runs along the back of our house. I have been collecting cosmos seeds already this month and can see a cosmos project next spring.</span></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjprxd2470Zi9spAPnau_YVy7qUJkh5ck7QjrIkA78S4KAIdjIBu9wr3Vu4Z7mMwDvOWGIUZ3yL2_CJeOS8LiPee2p7uEISRi2TX3jm-vGMdg0juqWIGGpIbBlDgCDjNQ0U8DBGitFUrzXqDig0WaFLoSoDFRjoY61B-ffa64Ts_laiq5rdNc4zeD2kRQc/s5184/IMG_8999.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5184" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjprxd2470Zi9spAPnau_YVy7qUJkh5ck7QjrIkA78S4KAIdjIBu9wr3Vu4Z7mMwDvOWGIUZ3yL2_CJeOS8LiPee2p7uEISRi2TX3jm-vGMdg0juqWIGGpIbBlDgCDjNQ0U8DBGitFUrzXqDig0WaFLoSoDFRjoY61B-ffa64Ts_laiq5rdNc4zeD2kRQc/w266-h400/IMG_8999.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The cosmos and the sunflowers</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I have been picking the Cherokee Trail of Tears black pole beans. I think I have been late in picking (waiting for them to go totally purple), so I cut up and froze some (to have some night with dinner) and opened up all the other pods to collect the beans inside and dry them for further use from cooking to replanting. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSz9TiJv1X5hyf1D1xYVvXAmbz5M58oGrRrvgyrw-Mvxc2SKYFY19ZKVENwEamjRHbNQc48hL30JsHnjBuYLYGm5IP6Emk3h6Bx7ngR8XA7DEwA29PdEo3qdUXz2JzAEh1mWevbzBrxilhwcYi_gHluOXptUL051Srdxu3TCEiKj_-NRoWq0o_mbORt6o/s5184/IMG_8984.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSz9TiJv1X5hyf1D1xYVvXAmbz5M58oGrRrvgyrw-Mvxc2SKYFY19ZKVENwEamjRHbNQc48hL30JsHnjBuYLYGm5IP6Emk3h6Bx7ngR8XA7DEwA29PdEo3qdUXz2JzAEh1mWevbzBrxilhwcYi_gHluOXptUL051Srdxu3TCEiKj_-NRoWq0o_mbORt6o/w400-h266/IMG_8984.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The beans are beautiful. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUU6Xm3VrSx4TLekltcy2DozWQqI1HTnvaubn2JGMgJhiYIf1bRXdwo-tZyBi2nA8XlZJAcVdsOLElEhuUbiFjD2KNWlvoa20ZjbV1lyWXZyFWuNVrjaaRDw7qbZb-SGnxsFnUMctq98NxSRmeEJkGCTm5lo6WCnggqeSZZ6PfS7iJSYEI40WJa-iM3WI/s5184/IMG_8988.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUU6Xm3VrSx4TLekltcy2DozWQqI1HTnvaubn2JGMgJhiYIf1bRXdwo-tZyBi2nA8XlZJAcVdsOLElEhuUbiFjD2KNWlvoa20ZjbV1lyWXZyFWuNVrjaaRDw7qbZb-SGnxsFnUMctq98NxSRmeEJkGCTm5lo6WCnggqeSZZ6PfS7iJSYEI40WJa-iM3WI/w400-h266/IMG_8988.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I have more of them coming along in the Hej garden, a few weeks behind these in the kitchen garden. As I said to several friends, no surprise that the beans were the only thing that survived out in that garden. Anything that could survive a forced death march of thousands of miles had to be hearty. And they are. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Laurie over at <a href="http://abelabodycare.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">The Clean Green Homestead</span></a>, reminded us in her blog today that while many of us are talking about the end of summer, the midway point of summer on the calendar is August 7. "I'm not wanting to wish these days away," she noted. I smiled; our local schools start this week and for many of us, even without children in school, that signals the end of summer. But I endorse her gentle reminder to savor our days. This household has been running on overload on too many fronts, many of them not within our control, and it has taken a toll. It is good to take a break and to remind myself to relish the day in front of me. </span></p>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07722817835256485575noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1313799681501729309.post-58792945350685163712023-08-10T10:14:00.005-04:002023-08-13T16:11:25.549-04:00Grateful and Lucky<p><span style="font-size: medium;">My friend Tani recently shared the story that her two sons, when they were young, had a wonderful ritual. When they came across two cherries connected with a single stem, they would hold them up and shout, "I am grateful and lucky!" </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Tani recently bought herself a necklace with a two-cherry pendant on it to remind herself that she is truly grateful and lucky.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I wrote her that her sons' shouts reminded me of Sam, my youngest, when he would have an unexpected surprise, such as finding a penny in a parking lot. He would burst out with a joyful "Is this my lucky day or what?" as he danced up and down in glee.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Grateful and lucky. Both Tani and I have had a heaping serving of health concerns lately, so her words resonated with me. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In picking tomatoes (yes, they are finally ripening), I found this when I turned them out to wash:</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6dJAr9cocYpsnwdYipo9bmboEPItdW6WPhP7a-gTTVT1JkcVEAeiuYoU6nrLpR1RUq20gF5HlztzE3gtcFuV24wO56PVNmGiPMph3auXGFiZeNg1sd6HogLoCxwl2MKbWBGBHeNZ2UObbqDhENrRNpbJ-gL-q5zCAii2uGxXXTD10trBI1d3cwfIkyNc/s5184/IMG_8961.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6dJAr9cocYpsnwdYipo9bmboEPItdW6WPhP7a-gTTVT1JkcVEAeiuYoU6nrLpR1RUq20gF5HlztzE3gtcFuV24wO56PVNmGiPMph3auXGFiZeNg1sd6HogLoCxwl2MKbWBGBHeNZ2UObbqDhENrRNpbJ-gL-q5zCAii2uGxXXTD10trBI1d3cwfIkyNc/s320/IMG_8961.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I am grateful and lucky! Is this my lucky day or what? </span></p>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07722817835256485575noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1313799681501729309.post-80542638086210555952023-08-01T16:21:00.001-04:002023-08-01T16:21:20.364-04:00This Year's Gardens: Part 9<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Finally.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Finally there are tomatoes. Not many, mind you, but for the first time all season, I picked more than two or three:</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrNlKS87Eg8RX2Ik79eufalELIgSaACRovQYVCipc78Ip_z5F6Z8rU5rCvLC1fZwNbjSYvkHuG8A4EkQGixnhNe2SnZU3gX7XwkyF11yKVgT4LueUKY_R0U_WrWufQ4LqXlb94KOOP3uZksYr1rFKMerE9ZwAn95Jhem-OPun9TNVx3okfwiSTcCdGmPk/s5184/IMG_8868.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrNlKS87Eg8RX2Ik79eufalELIgSaACRovQYVCipc78Ip_z5F6Z8rU5rCvLC1fZwNbjSYvkHuG8A4EkQGixnhNe2SnZU3gX7XwkyF11yKVgT4LueUKY_R0U_WrWufQ4LqXlb94KOOP3uZksYr1rFKMerE9ZwAn95Jhem-OPun9TNVx3okfwiSTcCdGmPk/w400-h266/IMG_8868.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">These are the outliers, but I am grateful they are here.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The large green-red tomato is a Cherokee Carbon Heritage tomato. It turns reddish-purple, supposedly, but it seems to be ripe enough to eat at this stage:</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWf70cctCWtUVwLAm4X_hhqgZd2V6b-4WTknFjs5KEVamJ4QKKE0rbnS2eNLPl-4oFhaC_VMlXqaJUYBgxDrY7441Rcj8vKsxPVTiYgqE4g2FACtSkGadNW-hX1AQabH9Rz_afhc_I_PjEjloKyA3Bpk-4fCxi0FyUqqZzdfrveG8zmCr24McOW3Xkxo0/s5184/IMG_8869.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWf70cctCWtUVwLAm4X_hhqgZd2V6b-4WTknFjs5KEVamJ4QKKE0rbnS2eNLPl-4oFhaC_VMlXqaJUYBgxDrY7441Rcj8vKsxPVTiYgqE4g2FACtSkGadNW-hX1AQabH9Rz_afhc_I_PjEjloKyA3Bpk-4fCxi0FyUqqZzdfrveG8zmCr24McOW3Xkxo0/w400-h266/IMG_8869.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">From the bottom, it is red, but not a bright red:</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3TOEcYL3jzx-nZc9q6BaPybpMUvwF9zhPe4pMR3vtOyiu6yROnMuU8g2kl2py7j63RpcP_r3NxpqI6vvWrNiCZcMOYSOmYw6D_0KmC8nUC3CXebR6Mr6WMOuHXRJXcQjnY8i1nxkcgF0QGY0HOImDz2TJIVfB-cHIJvp_PlE5vhnRYBjOo-jx76Juczk/s5184/IMG_8870.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3TOEcYL3jzx-nZc9q6BaPybpMUvwF9zhPe4pMR3vtOyiu6yROnMuU8g2kl2py7j63RpcP_r3NxpqI6vvWrNiCZcMOYSOmYw6D_0KmC8nUC3CXebR6Mr6WMOuHXRJXcQjnY8i1nxkcgF0QGY0HOImDz2TJIVfB-cHIJvp_PlE5vhnRYBjOo-jx76Juczk/w400-h266/IMG_8870.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Interesting about the purple, given the name "Cherokee." I have not read to see if the tomato is a heritage from the tribe. But I know the Trail of Tears beans are. The pods of those turn purple when they are ready to pick and eat. I picked this handful the other day to see how "purple" they had to be to eat:</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7bA8aRlYD5LQExzIrFGCW6E3l-hvi26GMvkpfsQS7eYSXqdafzR4cvWQC_bOk9Zu4BWYjRKuOXgTiWC7xXFGyErGpxJaEQVOsND2k8Y8c6p6u92x1RMjJ4qqZerrA3Zsu76XV8BI5mQJxecZMLimrrKeCvGsd4J7LEVzvAWpmP2A9FXk1bw3lG_73uy0/s5184/IMG_8848.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7bA8aRlYD5LQExzIrFGCW6E3l-hvi26GMvkpfsQS7eYSXqdafzR4cvWQC_bOk9Zu4BWYjRKuOXgTiWC7xXFGyErGpxJaEQVOsND2k8Y8c6p6u92x1RMjJ4qqZerrA3Zsu76XV8BI5mQJxecZMLimrrKeCvGsd4J7LEVzvAWpmP2A9FXk1bw3lG_73uy0/w400-h266/IMG_8848.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;">The answer? Pretty purple. The kinda sorta purple ones in the picture are not ready to eat. When totally purple, the bean inside is indeed black. And delicious. And beautiful:</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZvKcYoV7Rf7lTrJ4FPYRSI7KFyx88x31HCiSbAkkMxYY6MitLs_AxCzmUFqalgivfSpvpMdq3ecewQdBGCcGJFp7oEnMj30AVEafEnSSZYNI6whqJlbM5bhrsZGZNpFCOPTmBaXauIqlPuAXsTXtXsFWivsZQcETHsnu1tWul5tFIzbpS6EXi8Kto14Y/s5184/IMG_8850.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZvKcYoV7Rf7lTrJ4FPYRSI7KFyx88x31HCiSbAkkMxYY6MitLs_AxCzmUFqalgivfSpvpMdq3ecewQdBGCcGJFp7oEnMj30AVEafEnSSZYNI6whqJlbM5bhrsZGZNpFCOPTmBaXauIqlPuAXsTXtXsFWivsZQcETHsnu1tWul5tFIzbpS6EXi8Kto14Y/w400-h266/IMG_8850.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;">I am about to call the zucchini patch a total loss. I would like to say it is my fault. I have been pretty lackadaisical about tending it and the weeds are rampant. My lack of care has no doubt contributed to the situation. But I find plant after plant dying, shriveling and decaying to nothing. A few have grown into large, healthy plants. But even the healthiest ones seem incapable of having their blooms set. When I take a closer look, I see very tiny insects swarming the plants. They are not ants, they are not winged, but they are everywhere. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I wonder if they are also the reason that the cabbages and cauliflower in the same garden are chewed with little tiny holes and producing nothing. <i>Nothing</i>. In fact, the only planting in the Hej garden that not only seems healthy but is likely to come to harvest is my second patch of Trail of Tears beans. Thinking of how that bean made it from the 1830s to now, I am not terribly surprised that it is thriving. Its survival capacity is huge.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The flowers are thriving, so there are spots of color and bees everywhere. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In the coneflowers:</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA8N2LGfSpn6tW1GaCT7Zgnje1QSxTWrqfQzQ-lMk5XwZ78e3t4KgUUQpXRG-pjDZeHt2iLw3dBmzL43at74eXykujMH4NNMlx-R-67WhL8oFS190y-pcv8SWZYRy67dKiHt3LzZn1fncHeLmxJ6CKpKRTNix9wpu3n83ynCKtJFO7XLAlr5-dQMriE4A/s5184/IMG_8789.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA8N2LGfSpn6tW1GaCT7Zgnje1QSxTWrqfQzQ-lMk5XwZ78e3t4KgUUQpXRG-pjDZeHt2iLw3dBmzL43at74eXykujMH4NNMlx-R-67WhL8oFS190y-pcv8SWZYRy67dKiHt3LzZn1fncHeLmxJ6CKpKRTNix9wpu3n83ynCKtJFO7XLAlr5-dQMriE4A/w400-h266/IMG_8789.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And on the Agastache, which loves its new bed:</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4c3_CkdA5wP4DKUAi1HCrLzvByMu6ZO_ktZS9M3kwoB9P-ym9m4uTm9kJ7GPV6KLPVU0SuaAv7kkwFiKUm1k4pX3ncpgtPMPk53vW9b6ncC0CMno0rY5nmQeX9jsurxYQIzp8KMNwjrJPeWUYelAY0JJ8JPphthF3DngJ7tUvVS88iDsUO-qLep29tV8/s5184/IMG_8805.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4c3_CkdA5wP4DKUAi1HCrLzvByMu6ZO_ktZS9M3kwoB9P-ym9m4uTm9kJ7GPV6KLPVU0SuaAv7kkwFiKUm1k4pX3ncpgtPMPk53vW9b6ncC0CMno0rY5nmQeX9jsurxYQIzp8KMNwjrJPeWUYelAY0JJ8JPphthF3DngJ7tUvVS88iDsUO-qLep29tV8/w400-h266/IMG_8805.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Bees are also in the cosmos, which are blooming in colorful bursts, but I have not been hunting them for their closeup shot there. I have been watching instead for a hummingbird, new to our combined backyards this year. I have seen it darting in and out of the cosmos, clearly drawn by the colors, and lingering around the lilies in the back, some of which are deep red.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A hummingbird! A wonder on wings! </span></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRvUL8wCVEcC6CIInDSEG7JBP1Zwb5yQR6rWwKyl1bKSideDdol7fEaReSdSOCypxFfops1rvDefMSPt9v-wMeeEYgvOwBgdCrQeNhPkQICgtLP50H6iTV6ic8i6Ta3ikYTalfdC3GBtTeB_VsL8LkqZpXOAtOEepltkpuWYLXwTzC99_g695BqBPxujM/s5184/IMG_8808.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRvUL8wCVEcC6CIInDSEG7JBP1Zwb5yQR6rWwKyl1bKSideDdol7fEaReSdSOCypxFfops1rvDefMSPt9v-wMeeEYgvOwBgdCrQeNhPkQICgtLP50H6iTV6ic8i6Ta3ikYTalfdC3GBtTeB_VsL8LkqZpXOAtOEepltkpuWYLXwTzC99_g695BqBPxujM/w400-h266/IMG_8808.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cosmos without bees or bird</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I am pretty much resigned to the reality that we will have to buy zucchini this year to stock our freezer. I might be surprised, but I don't think so. I still have seeds and could always try seeding a new patch, but...we'll see. As I adapt to my own lowering levels of capacity and what I could and could not do this year in the gardens, I know there will be changes next year. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But there will be tomatoes. And basil. And bees. This year and next. </span></p>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07722817835256485575noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1313799681501729309.post-82631741499598965002023-07-29T11:05:00.005-04:002023-07-29T14:54:33.452-04:00Yeah, That Too. <p> <span style="font-size: medium;">My good friend with whom I am sharing both a high-flung discussion about and real-time experiences with being disabled, posed an interesting question in her most recent letter. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>I wonder why we've both been so very resistant to being labeled <u>disabled</u>. I guess it just doesn't fit our self-definitions.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I responded with two points of view. She's right: I have <u>not</u> thought of myself as disabled despite my family physician recently reminding me that I was disabled the moment I was diagnosed.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My second point of view, personal to me, is that while my overall physical well-being has been deteriorating for <u>years</u>, the rate of deterioration has been so infinitesimally slow that I lose conscious track of it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Except when it hits me in the face, as happened just this week. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I keep two sets of notebooks about my health. The first set consists of spiral-bound notebooks in which I record doctor visits, exams, results, questions to ask at the appointments. I started this set in 2014. These are the 1 Subject Notebooks that are now flooding our local stores as families prepare for school to open shortly:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHDpP5oF7mnK9LxodbjoYFzGhxzrTWMV7yapBJjbv8CLra4sQuzj5RukpyLvOHHEZoxzVL3LO8UdxsWJKxeen2l978AsgER53qxGuk6Kx8gbEWZin0nwgF6aBm41LjR0h8K0dr24IZJHdi8mgSij9iQGvq1rkkOuiejwjZfcGj_l4L8V6CCv12zBCRJ84/s5184/IMG_8840.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHDpP5oF7mnK9LxodbjoYFzGhxzrTWMV7yapBJjbv8CLra4sQuzj5RukpyLvOHHEZoxzVL3LO8UdxsWJKxeen2l978AsgER53qxGuk6Kx8gbEWZin0nwgF6aBm41LjR0h8K0dr24IZJHdi8mgSij9iQGvq1rkkOuiejwjZfcGj_l4L8V6CCv12zBCRJ84/w400-h266/IMG_8840.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The second set is random in size, color, and make; they are my myeloma journals. They date back to 2012, when I resumed treatment after gaining health insurance through my work and waiting out the one year of pre-existing condition limitation on coverage. Walking into our local hospital, which used to house the oncology clinic, I ran into an acquaintance, who was also a nurse. When I told her where I was headed and why, she said, "Keep a journal of how you are feeling, how your body reacts to different treatment. You'll find it useful."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglXcCFoYpdHIjMT81HaSYVvu9zT8TNaY7RBvnN883u7JkepkaVEnT7Ic3DmCrGmbqCvF96X09Ltgn6TlYh9kRwHPTg-Y2mZb3ePITdS50fcMHE5Wchfxr6k2ALLSKtA89ik5-IQg0NNQXdqckRvrBe6wSabOrc4FnXrilR8LlUn-oVkNojgiwCg7uA-uU/s5184/IMG_8841.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglXcCFoYpdHIjMT81HaSYVvu9zT8TNaY7RBvnN883u7JkepkaVEnT7Ic3DmCrGmbqCvF96X09Ltgn6TlYh9kRwHPTg-Y2mZb3ePITdS50fcMHE5Wchfxr6k2ALLSKtA89ik5-IQg0NNQXdqckRvrBe6wSabOrc4FnXrilR8LlUn-oVkNojgiwCg7uA-uU/w400-h266/IMG_8841.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My myeloma journals</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It is this set that trips me up in the "oh yeah" moment. The same day this week that my friend's letter arrived with her pertinent question, I had been scanning these journals backwards chronologically, looking for a particular medical event. I did not find what I was looking for, but I found 2021 notes that sounded remarkably like what I am feeling now. Only better because I was in better shape then. In assembling the notebooks for this photo, I found similar entries years before <u>those</u> entries. In short, I have over a decade of entries showing a slow, imperceptible-to-me decline. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">As I <a href="https://smallmomentsofgreatreward.blogspot.com/2022/06/the-effing-truck.html" target="_blank">posted</a> back in June, 2022, it's the effing truck.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I am currently reading <i>The Country of the Blind/A Memoir at the End of Sight</i> by Andrew Leland, who writes about his increasing blindness from an incurable, chronic, progressive eye disease (retinitis pigmentosa, or RP). Leland has the same experience with his gradually diminishing sight that I feel with the myeloma; at times the changes are so small and slow that it takes him time to realize that he has lost more ground. "Once I adapt to a change, and it's felt stable for a while, I nurture the illusion that, actually, my RP isn't as bad as it seems." He then goes along until his vision "erodes a bit more, and the drama of a fresh diagnosis is reactivated."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Yeah, that too.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So now I circle back not only to the burnt barn haiku, taking comfort in my seeing the moon, but also in the blunt reality of Atul Gawande reminding those of us with incurable cancers that the night brigade is always out there bringing down the perimeter defenses.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Yeah, that too.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Last evening, I ran into a series of more-that-usual stressors and finally flung myself down on the couch to watch the Shabbat service from Temple Sholom in Cincinnati, my synagogue of choice. I <i>really </i>needed that quiet sanctuary. (I was a bit late, and stressed about that, too.) I opened the site, I click on the service, and...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Crickets. They were having tech issues and could not get audio working for the live stream. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But Shabbat came all the same. Later that night, closing the house up for the evening, I went out on the back deck. In the southern sky, the just past half moon was glowing. I called for Warren to join me and we both looked for a few moments, sealing the moment with a kiss. Life goes on.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Yeah, that too. And that is the best of all.</span></p>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07722817835256485575noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1313799681501729309.post-88643409055855178392023-07-24T11:41:00.004-04:002023-08-01T16:10:47.519-04:00This Year's Gardens: Part 8<p> <span style="font-size: medium;">Late July. By now I am typically rolling in tomatoes. But not this year. The tomatoes continue to lag behind in ripening.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But they are gorgeous: </span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBevJ9OBgCoiJhPpEIr81dfp_2VdyVYz7XPfO565_qN7myq6puQnoP3Piruja7VNIedcll6DJqecAi4I5h3-naTR_lpaaq15Lm_3u7h34z5mjS7pnrUmhLhJ09adkrpTQdDvdwqyjXuSZzBe-AxanIyT9AimtJtMraxNp_D2DPIaiVyLGRvEv2dw_Smzk/s5184/IMG_8815.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBevJ9OBgCoiJhPpEIr81dfp_2VdyVYz7XPfO565_qN7myq6puQnoP3Piruja7VNIedcll6DJqecAi4I5h3-naTR_lpaaq15Lm_3u7h34z5mjS7pnrUmhLhJ09adkrpTQdDvdwqyjXuSZzBe-AxanIyT9AimtJtMraxNp_D2DPIaiVyLGRvEv2dw_Smzk/w400-h266/IMG_8815.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brad's Atomic Grape</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwwt9Ry6g5o6T3XarrKwAArUIEG43p-RWFkvJZIcfN1dl9gQoIJLD4Pt33FcVFR8wPr80OnLZsUK1MoXIHG8CgwN1yfCxNKqficTgnHUVuoo5Sqrc4Yr_Y721HvhRuYcRFdXANCoxOG5ZXGD6llCIeCUXpzhu1urTcmBOn9kv9-ATtxLL1YKAFBjUY_iE/s5184/IMG_8814.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwwt9Ry6g5o6T3XarrKwAArUIEG43p-RWFkvJZIcfN1dl9gQoIJLD4Pt33FcVFR8wPr80OnLZsUK1MoXIHG8CgwN1yfCxNKqficTgnHUVuoo5Sqrc4Yr_Y721HvhRuYcRFdXANCoxOG5ZXGD6llCIeCUXpzhu1urTcmBOn9kv9-ATtxLL1YKAFBjUY_iE/w400-h266/IMG_8814.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cherokee Carbon Heritage </td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The peppers, on the other hand, have been growing quietly and steadily, with no fanfare. I picked several last week for this beautiful array:</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhatVjbJkDkiK3ykyuy0ft3FUcybZtqtFH6ajyIOjgyxP9oxRV6TO4YgZ02JpXLu9T_WofMOhP3L5RhPOuiS9oCwkysLQoXOU63RCctDyjj_cP366bfSUi2weYwYM2L_LZL-NhW-krFS_GKuJxnIsk5OlbAoAPic8QJg5e_MzXaDrne1HcNm4HhtaiICPo/s5184/IMG_8813.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5184" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhatVjbJkDkiK3ykyuy0ft3FUcybZtqtFH6ajyIOjgyxP9oxRV6TO4YgZ02JpXLu9T_WofMOhP3L5RhPOuiS9oCwkysLQoXOU63RCctDyjj_cP366bfSUi2weYwYM2L_LZL-NhW-krFS_GKuJxnIsk5OlbAoAPic8QJg5e_MzXaDrne1HcNm4HhtaiICPo/w266-h400/IMG_8813.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First pepper harvest: Purple Beauty and Cubanelle </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Some went to meals (roasted peppers with cheese) and the rest got chopped and bagged for the freezer.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The Trail of Years pole beans are started to mature as well. The pods turn a greenish purple when they are ripe and I am just now seeing them turn:</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeFzgreoRmjfKLLlyFb4BAPKGX2zpIuAe-C08MQ3ZQ6eph9HBvRWH0NzwuWEHjAEVgTES7iSbZek9qbOENwkFDuS2O3OlKjvOMRY4Jv_-Cn3EMJIyFogWxOiP3avQilI4khzEohjwAmmR-Wq0VJrXcXQwe89tyXJmYpfu2YV2i75hzD3gt5kwkqDnIp5A/s5184/IMG_8831.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5184" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeFzgreoRmjfKLLlyFb4BAPKGX2zpIuAe-C08MQ3ZQ6eph9HBvRWH0NzwuWEHjAEVgTES7iSbZek9qbOENwkFDuS2O3OlKjvOMRY4Jv_-Cn3EMJIyFogWxOiP3avQilI4khzEohjwAmmR-Wq0VJrXcXQwe89tyXJmYpfu2YV2i75hzD3gt5kwkqDnIp5A/w266-h400/IMG_8831.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The earliest ones turning</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">I am really looking forward to these for cooking and maybe for drying.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The disappointment this year has been the broccoli. I planted three healthy plants and they took hold and grew. Last week I noticed that the heads suddenly looking unusually shaggy; florets were growing up above the crown. I cut one for supper and found myself cutting away a lot of it: something not quite right. Not bugs, not rabbits, not sure what. I didn't think too much about it until I cut the second one yesterday to prep it and ended up with over half of the broccoli inedible. The core of the broccoli was rotting, literally. Those florets that had shot above the crown? I think they were trying to escape the spread. I cut the third and last one this morning and found more of the same. I salvaged what I could for eating and the rest will go to compost. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">All I can think of is the title <i>Heart of Darkness</i>:</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirGFAKTrkStv2WtmFcTgWfWeZxF_b4QIED5PmZUtmqRINoU-6GdTo8YJYubC7Bg6fkNdHrKCXPmLrMiQ6YnHVBLRi-kX4kP7BBRxDQKB36Lz8QhVHYuG4T1fj3HV3LIy9JywYCYwG9zkw1euzIR7W0NWNnGmSpBlBsJ9rANCPgc1kiTaFZFcOidHziLiU/s5184/IMG_8827.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5184" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirGFAKTrkStv2WtmFcTgWfWeZxF_b4QIED5PmZUtmqRINoU-6GdTo8YJYubC7Bg6fkNdHrKCXPmLrMiQ6YnHVBLRi-kX4kP7BBRxDQKB36Lz8QhVHYuG4T1fj3HV3LIy9JywYCYwG9zkw1euzIR7W0NWNnGmSpBlBsJ9rANCPgc1kiTaFZFcOidHziLiU/w266-h400/IMG_8827.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is what all three heads looked like inside: not pretty </td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Insofar as I am working through personal issues of capacity, the loss of the broccoli makes it easy for me to say "no broccoli" next year. Yes, I am already planning next year's gardens. Not intensely, mind you, but keeping notes in my harden notebook about results, issues, and such.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And keeping my focus on <i>this</i> year's gardens, surely there will be tomatoes coming my way. Soon, I hope. </span></p>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07722817835256485575noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1313799681501729309.post-55439606884922882992023-07-20T15:30:00.003-04:002023-07-29T11:06:19.995-04:00One Final Reflection<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTbk9fwEiRFxQjqVL8vQd-ZDSRCB2fE8TE234DxzUin7DLPj4FJeqxBKZcHqGbHf8ctrfL73-8ml6aCqZMwxVTrQI5ntryCQUbZAkZWSXL1A1BdzdhUIChzwr2_AnvSatVjd_VSLeEbSy4PsIi5CeFcRm-zx3M22_QKgLXuvMbcXjTgXUmWGssj2aAy2E/s5758/jaunathan-gagnon-qif-wfvwJGY-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3844" data-original-width="5758" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTbk9fwEiRFxQjqVL8vQd-ZDSRCB2fE8TE234DxzUin7DLPj4FJeqxBKZcHqGbHf8ctrfL73-8ml6aCqZMwxVTrQI5ntryCQUbZAkZWSXL1A1BdzdhUIChzwr2_AnvSatVjd_VSLeEbSy4PsIi5CeFcRm-zx3M22_QKgLXuvMbcXjTgXUmWGssj2aAy2E/w400-h268/jaunathan-gagnon-qif-wfvwJGY-unsplash.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@jaunathang?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Jaunathan Gagnon</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/qif-wfvwJGY?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Last week I wrote two posts about my increasing awareness of being chronically disabled from the physical toll of 19 years of cancer and 18+ years of treatment. This week I had appointments with two different medical providers, and they added their own perspectives to my thoughts.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And maybe now I am ready to come to terms with where I am.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The first appointment was with my personal physician, with whom I have a great relationship. I shared with her some of the thoughts I have been mucking around in as I come to accept that I am disabled. She looked at me, then said, "You do know that you became chronically disabled the day you were diagnosed, yes?" Oh, yeah, I <i>do</i> know that, but it was never really on my mind until these newer changes and and their emotional and physical impacts on me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The very next day I was at oncology and had an appointment with Katie, one of the Certified Nurse Practitioners there (Tim was rounding). I shared with her the same thoughts and she said, "I hear you. It is a bitter pill to swallow." She then suggested that I focus on my abilities and capabilities, which are numerous. Katie did not present this in a chipper "Count your blessings!" tone or suggest I was being self-indulgent given my longevity with the myeloma, but was very matter-of-fact. Yes, it <i>is </i>bitter and yes, you <i>are </i>still here.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>My barn having burned down, I can now see the moon. </i></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That is a 17th century haiku by Mizuta Masahide, a Japanese poet and, yes, a samurai. I used to keep it taped above my desk at Juvenile Court. And I think that sums up where I am: the barn is burned to the ground, but what a view of the moon I now have.</span></p>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07722817835256485575noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1313799681501729309.post-84570277505640457162023-07-19T14:30:00.001-04:002023-07-19T14:30:20.041-04:00This Year's Gardens: Part 7<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQMkVdgPcDLEXtvO1oYKebAe2AzFo5AJKtVNZHy8BXnUvQoY8Kc1340Dbx8S5TtUtZztovctj7ffwW4ZxCOFmdKryZgmqZM7AsuslgeD6LAnrJSSZQHc_GXcs98XeJOKXrWLzZ4lGc1Kq6_iv2xd4rFN9ApJx7-4ZkDekvUuaCMTQMUJiPTmZE76n-dkQ/s5184/IMG_8810.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQMkVdgPcDLEXtvO1oYKebAe2AzFo5AJKtVNZHy8BXnUvQoY8Kc1340Dbx8S5TtUtZztovctj7ffwW4ZxCOFmdKryZgmqZM7AsuslgeD6LAnrJSSZQHc_GXcs98XeJOKXrWLzZ4lGc1Kq6_iv2xd4rFN9ApJx7-4ZkDekvUuaCMTQMUJiPTmZE76n-dkQ/w400-h266/IMG_8810.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">The first two tomatoes. Yes! Or, as I still use this great phrase from my years with the Cubans: <i>al fin! </i></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">These are from one of the two Husky Red cherries I planted. An Early Girl nearby is trying to get her act together, but these two just sailed across the finish line. I found them about 30 minutes ago when I was deadheading some marigolds and looked past the border into the heart of the tomato plant. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Now </i>it feels like summer. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">***And on an absolutely irrelevant (to gardening, that is) note, "Deadheading" has a whole different meaning for those of us who are Grateful Dead/Dead fans (when Jerry Garcia died in 1995, the remaining original members agreed to not use the "Grateful" again in the band's name). Just saying. The Dead just finished off one final tour—the Final Tour—of the US to end a stunning decades-long history. Their last concerts were in San Francisco, the city where it all started, last weekend. My dear son Ben caught the Final Tour concert in Philadelphia this June; he still has the ticket in his wallet from 2003 (when he was still in high school) from the very first time he saw them. Now <i>that's </i>a Dead fan. </span></p>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07722817835256485575noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1313799681501729309.post-20437791690265860552023-07-19T07:30:00.006-04:002023-07-19T07:30:00.135-04:00A Handful of Frugal Moments<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Last week, Melissa Clark of the <i>New York Times </i>wrote an article on "How to Make No-Churn Salted Caramel Ice Cream" (also titled "<span color="var(--color-content-primary,#121212)" style="background-color: white;">The Easiest Salted Caramel Ice Cream Doesn’t Require a Machine"). I like Clark's writings and she did her usual excellent job of describing the process, the ingredients, and the results. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span color="var(--color-content-primary,#121212)" style="background-color: white;">However, this being the </span><i>New York Times</i>, the recipe was available only if you are subscribed to its special <i>Cooking</i> subscription, which is not included in a regular subscription. I believe the <i>Cooking</i> subscription is $1.25 a week.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">A week. That is $65.00 a year. While I am quite willing to pay $20 every four weeks for a subscription to the <i>Times</i> (and yes, at $260 a year, I admit that this is both a privilege <i>and</i> a luxury), I am not willing to subscribe to an additional feature that I know I would use only sporadically. I know, I <i>could </i>subscribe for a week, spend a chunk of my time sifting through the recipes for gold, then cancel, but life is short. (This reminds me of when a friend, hearing me rave about <i>Reservation Dogs</i> when it premiered, said "Well, you could subscribe to Hulu for the new subscriber rate, binge watch, then cancel." Yeah, I could.)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">So without access to the special <i>Cooking </i>subscription, I did what many of us do: I Googled "no-churn salted caramel ice cream." Within a few minutes, I found one that followed the spirit, ingredients, and process of the one Melissa Clark wrote about, and decided to follow it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">That was Frugal Moment #1: Coming up with an alternative recipe without paying for it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The recipes called for three ingredients: heavy cream, sweetened condensed milk, and caramel sauce. The first two went on the list for a very brief shopping trip Sunday morning.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The caramel sauce? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Well, that was Frugal Moment #2. A number of years ago, at one of our monthly legal clinics, a dear friend who was also one of our regular volunteers came to me with a smile and something hidden behind her back. "I thought of you when I saw this," she said. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">It was a jar of caramel sauce. It has sat on a kitchen shelf ever since, just waiting for its moment in the spotlight. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">How long has it waited? Well, the lid has a best used date of...March, 2015. Knowing how items are dated, that jar and gift may date back to 2014. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">No problem. It was fresh and it poured as needed. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhevM1RoKC_cpcwyeBh7zSTy7KQ4q6JLa0hCQH8Dtsa4CEN3_Ff9EFF9fNgfPc8BHagRKJc8dCZoT0Gdojxex0DFoFi6rpeRzres3B9dhs_Hijp0YqTslD65yfuQujJVyUxwuW_aBuAkz_bR8h4hECYC82BtxQmgDEHVDVudVlK5OITcdV-Nw-_2vHiDus/s5184/IMG_8771.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5184" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhevM1RoKC_cpcwyeBh7zSTy7KQ4q6JLa0hCQH8Dtsa4CEN3_Ff9EFF9fNgfPc8BHagRKJc8dCZoT0Gdojxex0DFoFi6rpeRzres3B9dhs_Hijp0YqTslD65yfuQujJVyUxwuW_aBuAkz_bR8h4hECYC82BtxQmgDEHVDVudVlK5OITcdV-Nw-_2vHiDus/w266-h400/IMG_8771.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The very patient caramel sauce <br />(Sounds like a children's book title, doesn't it?)</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The recipe took less than 20 minutes to make, with cleanup taking another 10. And the result? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Superb.</span></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXKVqbGm8YLRIkwdbT0MhjECUC_KByGtNTJBxHxlXVw3Kk9OOgCJ1OLlzns7t7U5zj0_WjIsF9tfWWUurOD0MPdNbblkga2HY4OQKBTYE8hkNB8lU8E3jbGs8oMRFopCHG--C4YxboJ1sQzSNhb3fiufkVRtv80hwJwFC6b9eQlafjG_RKkCjMMjARoV0/s5184/IMG_8775.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXKVqbGm8YLRIkwdbT0MhjECUC_KByGtNTJBxHxlXVw3Kk9OOgCJ1OLlzns7t7U5zj0_WjIsF9tfWWUurOD0MPdNbblkga2HY4OQKBTYE8hkNB8lU8E3jbGs8oMRFopCHG--C4YxboJ1sQzSNhb3fiufkVRtv80hwJwFC6b9eQlafjG_RKkCjMMjARoV0/w400-h266/IMG_8775.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taste testing! I think our two scoops per serving equal one scoop from a shop. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I did a little math about this dessert. Since we had the caramel sauce already, that left the heavy cream ($2.89) and the sweetened condensed milk ($2.19) as the outlay for what filled a two-quart loaf pan. To put that quantity into perspective, a container of ice cream at the store is generally 1.5 quart, not 2 quarts (which would be a half gallon, the standard of my childhood). So for $5.08, we have a half gallon of heaven.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And to put that $5.08 into further perspective, I measured it against the places we go when we treat ourselves to ice cream. Downtown at Whit's, which is within easy walking distance, for two one-scoop servings? $8.00. Handmade incredible ice cream at Sticky Fingers in Kilbourne? Two single scoops at $3.95 each, or $7.90. Kilbourne is 6.5 miles, more or less, from Delaware, so add gas too for a 13-mile round trip. Midway Market in Ostrander, which carries delicious Hershey ice cream flavors? Two single scoops for $3.00 each, or $6.00 total, and that is a 16 miles round trip. (I am not comparing prices to soft-serve ice cream, because that really is a whole different food group, but I will just note that our favorite soft-serve stand, for very sentimental reasons, is in a little village called Prospect, which is 14 miles away. We usually spend somewhere from $5.00 to $6.00 for our combined orders.) </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It all adds up. And that was Frugal Moment #3: we beat the spread. By a long shot. Because we will be getting more than 2 scoops of deliciousness from this recipe. In fact, the next day I divided the ice cream into containers for later. (Of course, I saved some for now!)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOgX-gMYpOmYCtXBu_O-5Id_fyuw-Ml6hPF0BxYI-whL8NN_5clXrbOsJEaJTC0T85JsY-DYd9itNc-KOOJKKU6lin6emWHSMs4TSREqJWnzSAs15GZcchLIThbRhWSmoG3jmjZDssp01ThziKK5BG7eT_5T2K42kmwauaZ6unE8CHztARwYIljBvMwJM/s5184/IMG_8777.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOgX-gMYpOmYCtXBu_O-5Id_fyuw-Ml6hPF0BxYI-whL8NN_5clXrbOsJEaJTC0T85JsY-DYd9itNc-KOOJKKU6lin6emWHSMs4TSREqJWnzSAs15GZcchLIThbRhWSmoG3jmjZDssp01ThziKK5BG7eT_5T2K42kmwauaZ6unE8CHztARwYIljBvMwJM/w400-h266/IMG_8777.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Plenty left after our initial tasting! </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;">There are many other reasons for going out for ice cream. Spending time away with no interruptions of office or shop is one. This allows us, especially Warren, to set aside some of the daily stress and stressors. Giving ourselves a different space in which to talk is another. (This is sometimes related to setting aside stress, sometimes related to feeling we need to connect differently after a hard day.) Meeting up with friends coming in from another direction for an ice cream rendezvous is another great reason (yes, David, I mean you and Vinny). So I am not beating myself (or ourselves) up for taking those ice cream trips and I know they will continue. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But this week, at least, we are enjoying our homemade, handmade, fancy-schmancy <i>NYT </i>knockoff salted caramel ice cream and savoring every single bite. And the frugality, goofy though it may sound at times, makes it all the sweeter. </span></p>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07722817835256485575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1313799681501729309.post-52450569588605529262023-07-17T07:00:00.001-04:002023-07-17T07:00:00.137-04:00This Year's Gardens: Part 6 <p> <span style="font-size: medium;">While the tomatoes take their sweet time about ripening and the zucchinis vines lounge around like long-ago debutantes in their big yellow blooms, the basil has been coming on like gangbusters. Enough so that I could cut quite a bit and make pesto this weekend. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">How do I make pesto? The very best "recipe" I ever read came out of the <i>New York Times</i> several years back. The reporters were on a hunt for the best in-house pesto on the menu of restaurants in the Hudson Valley. When they decided they had found the best (using such criteria as taste (of course), texture, and consistency), they asked the restauranteur if she would share her recipe. Absolutely, she said. She put basil leaves, olive oil, garlic, parmesan (or other) cheese, and pecans into a food processor and started it up. She would add more of any of those ingredients if she felt the batch needed it, and would throw in some salt and sometimes pepper. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">That was it. She made pesto totally by feel and taste and sight. Did it look right? What did it taste like? Was something missing? What was the consistency? Was it pesto to her? If not, then she would add this or that of the basic ingredients to make what she wanted and expected her pesto to be.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I read that article and adopted her approach wholeheartedly. It has never failed me. As an extra bonus, my beloved Grandma Skatzes comes to mind when I make pesto. She was almost entirely deaf and had very little vision in her later years, so Grandma cooked by feel and by taste. Although she never tasted, let alone made, pesto in her life, Grandma would have understood the approach immediately. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I gladly share my "recipe" when asked. The recipe always baffles the person asking for it. "So how much basil do I need?" As much as you want. "Well, how much olive oil?" Whatever it takes. Just trust the process and trust your senses. I think it is that last comment—just trust your senses—that throws the person off. <i>Just trust my senses? What does that even mean</i>?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Here is my weekend adventure in three abbreviated steps. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Cut and wash the basil:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgQ3TBKcZdE-ULHRHFQd3YkYOSmQE36HiUS8HGcOTbRIIetadnE-RYxshU1aZcSEjFmKB6nSuvUXji7MeDpP9ZQ2w5Y_9uoPdPSd9uDntn62sTMFMa4O-QzF_49jW2yyp_Vqjwjzjn4w0IEIA9HmZePTtCasr1hRjiiZJn9KrB0mCiawFu1iB9sBgDcIk/s5184/IMG_8767.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgQ3TBKcZdE-ULHRHFQd3YkYOSmQE36HiUS8HGcOTbRIIetadnE-RYxshU1aZcSEjFmKB6nSuvUXji7MeDpP9ZQ2w5Y_9uoPdPSd9uDntn62sTMFMa4O-QzF_49jW2yyp_Vqjwjzjn4w0IEIA9HmZePTtCasr1hRjiiZJn9KrB0mCiawFu1iB9sBgDcIk/w400-h266/IMG_8767.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Throw everything in the food processor and hit the start button:</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFvAA7siwo5FYHenbIKPTa3PKA3tDUIzMH0u7Uye7vFfDmlKK4j-6e3K-PlvXMAZ0KkppSGJSDwrHytDeX3A4EMFX_5wzRziindbPYmdoSTWGUaUlHVwTvBkQ0pD7NrFYTGUBiYfq3aSCUHt5eTgz7V6lmqxX2MCzPkEa5WNr5E-CKEfB1ZWgrnCRBtwc/s5184/IMG_8769.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5184" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFvAA7siwo5FYHenbIKPTa3PKA3tDUIzMH0u7Uye7vFfDmlKK4j-6e3K-PlvXMAZ0KkppSGJSDwrHytDeX3A4EMFX_5wzRziindbPYmdoSTWGUaUlHVwTvBkQ0pD7NrFYTGUBiYfq3aSCUHt5eTgz7V6lmqxX2MCzPkEa5WNr5E-CKEfB1ZWgrnCRBtwc/w266-h400/IMG_8769.JPG" width="266" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;">Check to make sure the results pass your personal pesto test (look at it, stir it, smell it, taste it):</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzyTMSKr1vXUU9hnQc622zk_FWDh2U6T_kLh22ToEACGuhAN4gTIO1oGAldDdBhlVlp1DnzNBbmpaCFHwIfSjZkX4Gf9R3OoRKFgYXXTCBYUE1ZaID_OaY96_vvb4sYx2tLk-IXTLQH6g7L3MXj0Wzr5_f-er85T9jFfuXGCg1KVhCPBO2Z-7FmTGiiiY/s5184/IMG_8770.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5184" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzyTMSKr1vXUU9hnQc622zk_FWDh2U6T_kLh22ToEACGuhAN4gTIO1oGAldDdBhlVlp1DnzNBbmpaCFHwIfSjZkX4Gf9R3OoRKFgYXXTCBYUE1ZaID_OaY96_vvb4sYx2tLk-IXTLQH6g7L3MXj0Wzr5_f-er85T9jFfuXGCg1KVhCPBO2Z-7FmTGiiiY/w266-h400/IMG_8770.JPG" width="266" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;">If the end product tastes like pesto to you, you are golden! Pack it away in small containers (pesto freezes wonderfully) and clean up the bowls and food processor. Life is good. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">There will be more pesto making in the weeks ahead. In the late summer, I will let the basil go to flower (I have already been nipping buds off with my fingers) so the bees can enjoy them. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And one of those days, <i>one</i> of those tomatoes <i>will</i> ripen! </span></p>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07722817835256485575noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1313799681501729309.post-71221924733678622412023-07-14T09:00:00.003-04:002023-07-29T11:06:41.996-04:00Upon Further Reflection<p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ8u1D73l5EzdyQHz0Jt1bLKLbNjMjctHKj_blWMs_2OaMxesusrF9wJGWH1Ak_1jZtQ3BxIDZHGpY34mngDHN4my2V9-AQD6fuwBaNgXKBmFP0xK9Sdtz2n6TLaoWIeVUgxrW1qvwERn45Q1bXWqSVq0D1LLPBu_d1Sev208mDONhnXQWzDLqkq1ZzOo/s5184/IMG_8762.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5184" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ8u1D73l5EzdyQHz0Jt1bLKLbNjMjctHKj_blWMs_2OaMxesusrF9wJGWH1Ak_1jZtQ3BxIDZHGpY34mngDHN4my2V9-AQD6fuwBaNgXKBmFP0xK9Sdtz2n6TLaoWIeVUgxrW1qvwERn45Q1bXWqSVq0D1LLPBu_d1Sev208mDONhnXQWzDLqkq1ZzOo/w266-h400/IMG_8762.JPG" width="266" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Earlier this week, I wrote about the ever-changing landscape of my physical self and about my coming to terms with my increasing limitations. After I posted it, I thought, "Oh my gosh, I left out Jesse Stuart."</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Jesse Stuart was a writer, now not often recalled or even mentioned in most places, although at one time he was one of the most anthologized writers in America. He is now largely remembered as a regional writer, as a writer of Appalachia, as a minor writer. His works included poetry, novels, children's books, and memoirs. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My own connection to Stuart is far more direct than just reading his books. Stuart was born in the hills outside of Greenup, Kentucky, in the same area where my father's paternal and maternal families were also rooted. W-Hollow Road was a turnoff right by where my Grandma Gullet, my great-grandmother, lived in her later years. Stuart grew up in that area, taught in that area, and eventually established a home and farm on W-Hollow. (The farm is now a State Nature Preserve, created by Stuart before his death.) My grandfather, Grandpa Nelson, very close in age to Stuart, gave him a ride (on horseback) at least once when Stuart was walking back and forth between the hills where he taught and the town of Greenup, where he bought supplies for his classrooms. When I read Stuart, I hear familiar language and recognize the landscapes he describes. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So what does that have to do with my thoughts about my own changing capacity?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">When Stuart was 49 years old, he had a massive heart attack that all but killed him. He had a long, slow convalescence, all of which took place at W-Hollow once he was stable enough to be moved. (He was on a speaking tour when it happened; it was over a month before he could be moved safely back home, some 400 miles away.) Stuart was weak, he was depressed, and he was an invalid. No visitors, no excitement, very limited walking and movement until he built up his resistance and his heart healed. Although Stuart was a writer, his typewriter (this is 1954) had been put away because the doctors were concerned that he would damage his heart further using it. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> Stuart's hands were stiff and he had no intention of squeezing a rubber ball to bring them back to life. So his doctors agreed he could write, with pen and paper, for a limited amount of time each day (two pages worth, initially).</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The result of Stuart being given back a means to write was a yearlong journal, started on January 1, 1955, and ending on December 31. Stuart did not write every day, but he wrote often. He captured his moods, his physical well-being, and his slow and often painful journey to better health. He was acutely aware that he was now a "cardiac," and that this was a permanent disability that he had to live with for the rest of his life; his entries are threaded through with reflections on what that means. He wrote about his parents, he captured the sweep and scope of the seasons in his beloved W-Hollow. In his very last entry, Stuart wrote "[T]his is the year of my rebirth, from my death to my morning."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I had read excerpts from the journal, aptly titled <i>The Year of My Rebirth,</i> over the years. Coming into this summer, aware of my changing capacity, I remembered Stuart's book. No copies exist within the library systems I can tap into (most of the state) so I bought a copy. (I know, April doesn't buy things. But sometimes there are exceptions.) I have read it in pieces, setting it aside as library books with due dates come available. Presently, I am in October.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Reading Stuart has been a gift. His words from almost 70 years ago have given me reassurance and, perhaps, some needed support. My capacity has changed (and will continue to change) but I am still here. </span></p>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07722817835256485575noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1313799681501729309.post-1817995755819787382023-07-12T10:02:00.003-04:002023-07-12T10:02:48.601-04:00This Year's Gardens: Part 5<p><span style="font-size: medium;">While watering the kitchen garden this morning, I stopped and yelled for Warren.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"A bean! A BEAN!" <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR2pbvf-8H5EEBU2ChzVQSISRu_FmKMC-Ej77SMCVRtZlUkpfAYyjG2L0XRbVCyGSJj8Ct07voRiT0Uz-fFm6O5rv0zyrlgN3SODZquiU2bi-9LrRczUwr4M7hxUlGpKoSllj7HvFDsm_dxub6TLG1wfEXMF8wSnSxrh1ZADDrVb69QHLX170OHXEQhyE/s5184/IMG_8746.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5184" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR2pbvf-8H5EEBU2ChzVQSISRu_FmKMC-Ej77SMCVRtZlUkpfAYyjG2L0XRbVCyGSJj8Ct07voRiT0Uz-fFm6O5rv0zyrlgN3SODZquiU2bi-9LrRczUwr4M7hxUlGpKoSllj7HvFDsm_dxub6TLG1wfEXMF8wSnSxrh1ZADDrVb69QHLX170OHXEQhyE/w266-h400/IMG_8746.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cherokee Trail of Tears heritage pole beans</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Warren came out of his shop and following my finger, then smiled. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Indeed, a bean!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The garden is growing by leaps and bounds in some areas, by fits and starts in other. We are eating salads from the garden; the weather overall has stayed cloudy and cooler, so the lettuce has not burnt out. That's Black Seeded Simpson there that is filling our bowls:</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL-HKrhAajaFdKDc0OdEPkeB_PdclXYVe5KfddWSHjDm0RJWZbtS1MizahefYD9FFiEbBWbW_QoUHf31Ax0Xk7RrONAxeLr8kzzDCbmX9gUy1qQw2-IycDgkbvFdhNSdo5v1y3ROf2QbWBoRDQDOiRRgBd_x8KagFEHgP8HPLCf2nDWEXlxymnAbU2sYc/s5184/IMG_8742.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL-HKrhAajaFdKDc0OdEPkeB_PdclXYVe5KfddWSHjDm0RJWZbtS1MizahefYD9FFiEbBWbW_QoUHf31Ax0Xk7RrONAxeLr8kzzDCbmX9gUy1qQw2-IycDgkbvFdhNSdo5v1y3ROf2QbWBoRDQDOiRRgBd_x8KagFEHgP8HPLCf2nDWEXlxymnAbU2sYc/w400-h266/IMG_8742.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Tomatoes are thickening on the vines, but nothing is ready. Last year, I picked the first ripe tomato on July 8. I am not even sure I will have a ripe one by July 18 this year. There will be a bountiful harvest at some point, but not yet.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy230EpGmTVe3DpMZAcN7LH8NhYDzOzVHBis-2N_x4b7x1dQcRCgwp3HjzW_iJ95jy1ld9GvmnEYaNFUMYdoMp2OsJtA6rSIe6i_IEPsMGYhWFbOANhf6dB5AUySJ7taf435N1hzgWhfIlxWtUom2ZJyDZq1883N_3INx-1-8Ndo-3v5iYs3y9Yebdvro/s5184/IMG_8750.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy230EpGmTVe3DpMZAcN7LH8NhYDzOzVHBis-2N_x4b7x1dQcRCgwp3HjzW_iJ95jy1ld9GvmnEYaNFUMYdoMp2OsJtA6rSIe6i_IEPsMGYhWFbOANhf6dB5AUySJ7taf435N1hzgWhfIlxWtUom2ZJyDZq1883N_3INx-1-8Ndo-3v5iYs3y9Yebdvro/w400-h266/IMG_8750.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The flowers and flowering plants are putting forth shows of color and variety, The cone flowers are in full swing:</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsAHHvrOgkSAd1Re2Xxami46oZAUihi3hAib577mi4Kz-KzKF-P7j3BUDZjJWEvqvomszaCWSun2O3p2IeXD75xktbQBf5c-SRIZSAW-c-K_0pfCKsUqtdFxtD7s25tSW1V-qcQipGTEpw4N-AGPAPDXmtsmJbbpOgZ0x5VsCxDX5skiP75mOmmq-CYLE/s5184/IMG_8754.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsAHHvrOgkSAd1Re2Xxami46oZAUihi3hAib577mi4Kz-KzKF-P7j3BUDZjJWEvqvomszaCWSun2O3p2IeXD75xktbQBf5c-SRIZSAW-c-K_0pfCKsUqtdFxtD7s25tSW1V-qcQipGTEpw4N-AGPAPDXmtsmJbbpOgZ0x5VsCxDX5skiP75mOmmq-CYLE/w400-h266/IMG_8754.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The hostas are blooming too: </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMiX1F_hxvvfm-aSpMnR_KzdoTvDxVVnFLfXLUbvmYWsanpu2J_reHQJYSNZk454pIrKt2UK8reKT1Qb0UCriXXk5KP0GHVIkSdhEa74aivDU_W7w0APpkc16M6r374G_nP-JDNzCuZaAWx2GS_q-ZuI6o6_HOT1virh0UUaqZr3qq23XSHAKHnGUFaAs/s5184/IMG_8757.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5184" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMiX1F_hxvvfm-aSpMnR_KzdoTvDxVVnFLfXLUbvmYWsanpu2J_reHQJYSNZk454pIrKt2UK8reKT1Qb0UCriXXk5KP0GHVIkSdhEa74aivDU_W7w0APpkc16M6r374G_nP-JDNzCuZaAWx2GS_q-ZuI6o6_HOT1virh0UUaqZr3qq23XSHAKHnGUFaAs/w266-h400/IMG_8757.JPG" width="266" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And this is a Cup Plant, courtesy of our backyard neighbors. Dave brought me a planting last summer, warning me that it grows tall and likes to colonize, but right now it is behaving itself in its first year.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNZpPcxJ-3SWxSU53KTDDRBPnI9aB-JB8JRPzTrunqVvjJgMW5b9sn4l4woRdgNPeg7uERE28OnNrSHnSQfrM5TtcE_ErPcEws8OSFtdUdoMj2-RCj3XS_rqtjY2cmxWAaqpQ1uAXaggWsjdCMYQn1N9XHiffpd-bg-6sxGzfUBB0YWTdpOUj1TlPp9hc/s5184/IMG_8759.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5184" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNZpPcxJ-3SWxSU53KTDDRBPnI9aB-JB8JRPzTrunqVvjJgMW5b9sn4l4woRdgNPeg7uERE28OnNrSHnSQfrM5TtcE_ErPcEws8OSFtdUdoMj2-RCj3XS_rqtjY2cmxWAaqpQ1uAXaggWsjdCMYQn1N9XHiffpd-bg-6sxGzfUBB0YWTdpOUj1TlPp9hc/w266-h400/IMG_8759.JPG" width="266" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Bees love it; I will be trying to capture a few with my camera (no luck yet):</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBLLs4Mt0WhDmDQDhMI42ePUostZnUInfJxsiXd5en0Q8EXehkFfqstQsQW80s69AJvbRNsXkWCptvUY1YaBjORRFss-HoEQpNzswUg8Aw908h4hqOod2F7Ohi95htdJvhxoF6_zFMR7oyG6xiMvI2djk8VZAsoE7ZeiWDT8_CUjPLKIMVZQ_cFvKB5Ko/s5184/IMG_8760.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBLLs4Mt0WhDmDQDhMI42ePUostZnUInfJxsiXd5en0Q8EXehkFfqstQsQW80s69AJvbRNsXkWCptvUY1YaBjORRFss-HoEQpNzswUg8Aw908h4hqOod2F7Ohi95htdJvhxoF6_zFMR7oyG6xiMvI2djk8VZAsoE7ZeiWDT8_CUjPLKIMVZQ_cFvKB5Ko/w400-h266/IMG_8760.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The agastache, which we moved from the front bed to the back, is starting to bloom. It, too, is another bee-magnet throughout the summer:</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgmq30QD1NG-X0zyH8gj7kwqiWV74OhfUspYCtXpmB1mCkNn1mdX9iN5qeV5phVq7PtR7dQGC1iN27gIV6nEmX3xOrjUcHUYCaDKlqDbu_uVuArye7d6Kbr8XbeUkeYQQBH_VBXtpxVDCIOzy8BixAS7nTBMyicGgSUC4yVGQN04ozKAHSUBQc6t9bH5M/s5184/IMG_8761.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5184" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgmq30QD1NG-X0zyH8gj7kwqiWV74OhfUspYCtXpmB1mCkNn1mdX9iN5qeV5phVq7PtR7dQGC1iN27gIV6nEmX3xOrjUcHUYCaDKlqDbu_uVuArye7d6Kbr8XbeUkeYQQBH_VBXtpxVDCIOzy8BixAS7nTBMyicGgSUC4yVGQN04ozKAHSUBQc6t9bH5M/w266-h400/IMG_8761.JPG" width="266" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And even the globe thistle is ready to join the show:</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiRwA1rNimYqDHcyi-Sqo4jVhHDyJPMdR4pffoCmjPUO47sOkzJb_YKjNKH6pzMfVU4RqUnyab98Rda3uD_shzRF6hGtYtc4w7pxcXvUfH_YBHvs5ouHVuq9umoQUx9p7QxGJomHqDCbZwsG6zp8yoGBkA0vo0jeCMjq7ON9oclYqhV0viHHVCIhFgVdU/s5184/IMG_8758.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiRwA1rNimYqDHcyi-Sqo4jVhHDyJPMdR4pffoCmjPUO47sOkzJb_YKjNKH6pzMfVU4RqUnyab98Rda3uD_shzRF6hGtYtc4w7pxcXvUfH_YBHvs5ouHVuq9umoQUx9p7QxGJomHqDCbZwsG6zp8yoGBkA0vo0jeCMjq7ON9oclYqhV0viHHVCIhFgVdU/w400-h266/IMG_8758.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In the Hej garden, the zucchini are in blossom, but I am concerned about whether they are getting pollinated. Time will tell. And between the two gardens, the cruciferous plants in the kitchen garden (red cabbage, broccoli) are doing far better than the ones in the back (cauliflower and another type of cabbage). Something—insect, not animal—is having a field day on those in the Hej garden. I have no seen any insect movement on or around the plants, but something is clearly feasting. It happens.</span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Flowers, bees, almost ripe tomatoes, beans, and more. Life is good. </span></p>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07722817835256485575noreply@blogger.com0