Lots of Bits

The dome at the Minnesota State Capitol 

It's been a long several days. I started penning this out Friday night in our hotel room in Rochester, Minnesota (yes, the Emerald City). Over the weekend I added more bits. It is now Tuesday evening and I am finishing this back home in Ohio.

We spent more time than usual in Minnesota because of the way my Mayo appointments fell. The longer time, encompassing a weekend, allowed for some great moments.

So, I have lots of bits.

You cannot drive this distance (660 miles one way) without gas prices hitting you in the face, especially as we skirted around Chicago. Regular gas is how much? We did fine, as we have done this jaunt so many times we know not to fill up in Chicago or, indeed, Illinois at all, but my heart hurt for people who live there and have no choice.

At my blood draw, the nurse, the assistant, and I talked money: the price of gasoline, the price of groceries, the expenses of everyday life. The nurse's husband was coming home from being away on the family farm (it's harvest time) and she said that in his phone calls home he was just stunned with the diesel costs, even though he knew they'd be high.

I walked a lot on Saturday morning before we headed north to the Twin Cities for a full day. There is a massive Mayo expansion going on and even as a pedestrian, I at times had to thread my way very deliberately to avoid street and sidewalk closures. Warren and I walked Sunday and ran into more of the same.

The saddest thing I saw in Rochester on my limited walks? Almost all of the Little Free Libraries that I have stopped at over the years are empty. 

We spent most of Saturday in or near the Twin Cities. We had an early lunch with a blogger friend, Sandy, who blogs as Sam at Sam Squared. You ever "know" someone, then get to meet them in real life and the real person is even warmer, funnier, more thoughtful? That was Sandy and we had a great lunch. We then headed to the Minnesota Capitol Building (Warren and I both enjoy touring capitol buildings) for a great tour where I think I walked up and down at least 5000 stairs (okay, okay, 4999), then headed to the Minneapolis side of the Twins to see longtime dear friends Tom and Tani before heading back to Rochester.

Plans to meet up with family on Sunday in a nearby community did not pan out, so we hung out in Rochester, walking, reading, and such. I saw my wonderful oncologist late Monday morning, then we barreled back to Ohio, arriving a little bit after 1:00 a.m. this morning.

Yeah, it was a lot. And yeah, I'm tired. 

I spent a lot of Sunday afternoon rereading various years of my blog. (I had brought along Thirteen Moons by Charles Frazier but finished it Sunday midday). As I read, I was a bit taken aback at how much I've let go of (activities) and how even THAT MANY YEARS AGO I was dealing with health issues, exhaustion, and yes, my old friend depression. Not to mention overcrowded schedules. Yes, sometimes this household still has full days, but I am so grateful that I can afford not to work. 

I have spent the day catching up: laundry, sorting receipts, catching up. Our county fair is this week and today is Senior Day (free admission for someone in my age bracket). I'd hoped that we'd head over late afternoon and see the sights and enjoy some fair food. But it has rained all weekend and turned the fairgrounds into a muddy mess, to quote my friend Cindy, who is exhibiting. Muddy fairgrounds, damp chill weather, and my being tired make for a combination that shouts "Stay home!" So we are. There is bean soup on the stove, I'm about to go make some cornbread, and life is good.

A Success of a Failure

I have been involved in our local free legal clinics for most of the almost 23 years they have been in existence. I have been an attorney, an intake clerk, a cook, a baker, and an attorney herder—in short, a little bit of everything over the years. From a small, once-a-month evening clinic, we have expanded in multiple directions, including my favorite project, our partnership with the Ohio Justice Bus program, focusing in our community on family law.

As the needs grow and our attorney population ebbs and flows, several of us are always looking for ways to thank the volunteers we have and recruit new ones. What better way than to hold an informal reception at Andrews House, an important community center under whose umbrella the clinics have been since their long ago start?

We were not unlike the anecdotal Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland line: "Hey, kids, let's put on a show!"

The invitation above went out to the bar in numerous channels. It went to members of our local bar association in several emails, to past and present volunteers, and, in some cases, I personally followed up with an email or personal conversation: please come to the reception.

I offered to buy food trays for the reception. That would be my personal contribution. I also made plans to come early to help set up and stay late to help clean up. So Wednesday morning I headed out to the store.

How much to buy? Who knew? We hoped we'd have 30 or more attorneys show up. So I, ummm, bought a lot. A. Lot. Veggie trays, fruit trays, meat/cheese trays. Cookies. Oh, some salsa and corn chips too. I guessed at how much we might need if we got a "good" turnout.

Warren winced when I told him how much I had spent. He said he wished I had taken him with me, as he thought he could help me keep the quantities in more realistic measure and that would have saved some of the expense too.

I agreed to a point. Then I said, "Yes, it was a lot. But I look at it this way. I don't shop for clothes. Or home decor. I rarely buy books, using the library instead. I don't buy jewelry or take trips or go to the movies or eat out. So I'm very happy to spend money for this reception so Andrews House doesn't have to." 

When I got to Andrews House later that afternoon, Mel (Melinda) and Shelly had already set out tablecloths and plates and such in the dining room. I'd brought the food trays earlier that day, and now we pulled them out of the fridge (Andrews House has a commercial kitchen, so a huge fridge) and decided what to set out. 

How about this one? Can you open this? Here's a small bowl for salsa and a large one for chips. Cookies can go on this platter.

In short order, we were ready. We were excited. We were hoping we'd soon be welcoming colleagues and volunteers. And...

Well, let's just say that there was not a mad rush to get to our reception. Or any rush at all. Not counting me, Mel, or Shelly, we had 12 total. 12. No new volunteer possibilities. Only two of our regular attorney volunteers (okay, three if you count me) came.

But there was lots of food. Don't forget the food.

But you know what? The reception was a smash. Yes, we got very few of our regulars and, obviously, no new volunteers. But there was great talk and laughter and stories and snacking. (Remember, there was a lot of food. A. Lot.) 

New connections were made. One of our regulars gave his card to a summer intern and urged her to call his office and connect with his young associate to talk about probate work. She was thrilled. A connection that meant a lot to me was connecting Sophia, the director of the Ohio Justice Bus program, who stopped in on her way back to Columbus after a long Bus event in a county further north, to our local Domestic Relations judge and his court administrator to talk about the Justice Bus and our DR Court's innovative programs. (I was especially delighted about that one because I had purposely invited that judge and administrator to the reception.)

As the reception wound down, Warren showed up to help with clean up. Some of the food stayed behind and some went home with Mel to share with her husband that night. The rest of it came home with me as we have my brother and sister-in-law here for a few days (to see Dad). As we loaded the last of the food in our car, Mel and I gave each other a huge hug and laughingly agreed that it was not the turnout we'd hoped for but it'd been a lot of fun.

And that's a success in my book any day.

Losing the Inches

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

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

Good morning!

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

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

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

There are no rules here. 

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

Can? 

I want to write more.

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

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

Or a bee in the spiderwort. 

Let me see what summer brings.

Inch Thirteen: Old Friends

Getting soft-serve ice cream at the local Dairy Depot

Old friends, literally and figuratively. 

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

Understatement.

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

Gorgeous blonde hair. Okay.

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

52 years.

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

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

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

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

What a gift.

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

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

Inch Five: A New Number

That's an exclamation point on the end! 

Last Friday, I turned 70.

70. 

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

Ever.

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

70.

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

70.

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

70.

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

70.

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

70.

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

70.

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

70.

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

70.

Alice's Clay Contribution

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

70.

Birthday Peeps! 

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

Sparkly sash and all! 

70.

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

70.

Inch One: Sam

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

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

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

Years.

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

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

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

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

Sam, Sam, Sam.

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

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

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

Frugalism? Frugal Minimalism? And What About RWE?

With a title like that, you have got to be wondering where I am coming from. Where I am coming from is almost three weeks of being heavily involved in my father's medical situation, starting with the broke femur on February 8. The great news is that he has been making a stunning comeback for his age and is already walking, slowly but steadily, with a walker, and the PT team hopes to graduate him back to his rollator in the next few weeks. He will be returning to his apartment (one floor below him right now) about mid-March. 

As I earlier today emailed my dear friend David, I am exhausted. With all the positive news on the Dad front, I feel as if I can finally stand down. Seeing him today and his changed attitude really drove that feeling home. I think that is why I am so exhausted: it is all hitting me and sinking in. 

So now let's turn to the here and the now.

I recently read this book after seeing Gabe Bult (who I watch on YouTube) rave about it. I get a kick out of Gabe; he reminds me of my son Sam at times. Gabe was so enthusiastic about this book that I got it from the library (of course I checked it from the library: FREE BOOKS):

I noted (in a text to the same David mentioned above) that Sasaki is post-Marie Kondo and her "spark joy" approach (which I still don't buy into) and I found him easier to read. (Although, in tip #26 of "55 tips to help you say goodbye to your things," he does praise Kondo for her "killer phrase" and writes that feeling "the spark of joy will help you focus.")

But I don't live in a minimalist household. I am not a minimalist. I am married to a man who will never be a minimalist. But all the same, I found the book giving me some mental space. I found myself thinking of ways that I could make small changes.

Hence the opening photo. That is the guest bed in my study. Usually it is covered in papers, files full of papers, and miscellaneous stuff. Yeah, just stuff. When we had a guest earlier this month, I made a huge stack of the "stuff" and moved it temporarily to another room, then moved it back to the bed as soon as our guest left the next day. After reading Sasaki, I spent 30 minutes and went through all the mess, filing some, recycling some, shredding some, and just clearing the bed. 

Wow.

Whatever the state of minimalism in this household may be, I laugh to think that we get bonus points for being frugal. For example, this bottle of soy sauce came into my life in late 2010, when Sam moved out to Portland:

I just finished it 10 days ago. (And in part it lasted that long because Warren does not like or use soy sauce.) Per Sam, when I posted this photo on Instagram and called his attention to it: "End of an era." 

Sure was. 

And on other frugal fronts, we had an entirely free main course last week because, on a stop at Andrews House, our community center and the home of our legal clinics, there were two massive zucchini and boxes of small onions (Andrews House, among other things, runs a mobile market for people who have food needs). Yes, I took them; they had been sitting there all week. The zucchini were so large that there was enough for two batches of banana zucchini bread AND our supper of zucchini and onions, sauteéd and served over pasta.  

Free supper! Now that's frugal. Oh, wait, we had it the next day too! TWO suppers for free! 

For evening entertainment, I continue to work on the jigsaw puzzle in the evenings. Free entertainment, of course. (Just like reading or writing letters.) It is slowly coming together:

Finally, what about RWE? What the heck?

RWE is Ralph Waldo Emerson, the sage of Concord and the man who inspired Henry Thoreau to turn off the conventional path and seek his own direction. I have never read any Emerson, other than very short excerpts here and there. (In comparison, I have read a lot, although not all, of Thoreau's writings.) I have never read Emerson's most famous essay, "Self Reliance." But the opening of "Nature," also considered his other greatest work (and the one that grabbed Thoreau who heard Emerson read it while Thoreau was an undergraduate at Harvard) drew me in:

TO go into solitude, a man needs to retire as much from his chamber as from society. I am not solitary whilst I read and write, though nobody is with me. But if a man would be alone, let him look at the stars. 

Let him look at the stars. Be still, my heart.

So what about RWE? I hesitate to say I will go on an Emerson deep dive. But I may (may, mind you) dabble a bit more in his work. After all, life is a journey, not a destination. (And yes, RWE wrote that too.)

And after 21...

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

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

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

Heard what?

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

Tim? Retiring? What?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apples

Coming in the next five years

We recently made a rocket trip to Rochester, Minnesota, for a routine check-in with my specialist there. Mayo Clinic is in the early years of a five BILLION dollar expansion, with targeted completion in 2030, and when it is finished, my beloved Mayo will look even more like the Emerald City of Oz. 

Despite the rush of the trip (it was hemmed in by Warren's classes, medical tests here, rehearsals, and more), we nonetheless fit in a stop that I have dreamed about for years.

Years. 

Decorah, Iowa is about 72 miles south of Rochester, Minnesota on US 52. Decorah is a small community (about 8000) with a private college in the town. We weren't there for the college. No, we were there to stop at and explore Seed Savers Exchange, a non-profit organization that, per its website, is "the nation’s largest nongovernmental seed bank of its kind (some 20,000 varieties) at Heritage Farm" (which is where we were). 

I was not disappointed.

The Exchange encompasses about 890 acres, some of it in pasture, some of it in orchards, some of it in experimental gardens (experimental in that they are testing the viability of old, old (literally or figuratively) seeds). 

Okay, I splurged at the Visitors Center. (Yes, I know: "splurge" is a word I never use.) Some seeds for us, some seeds for friends, a Seed Savers T-shirt, and an etched small gourd ornament for our Christmas tree. (The ornament, unfortunately, was lost somewhere between Rochester and our home.) We wandered through some of the experimental gardens; these zinnias were part of that:

And then we went to the Historic Orchard.

Oh my. 

At the Historic Orchard (one of two orchards on the property), the apples date back into the 1800s. Visitors are allowed to pick up to five gallons of apples for free. We were the only visitors in the orchard, and Warren and I wandered through, both gaping at the assortments and picking various ones to carry back with us to Ohio. You would come across a tree maybe only five feet tall, bent over with apples, and then turn to see a much taller one of a different variety.

One of the smaller trees; I could pick from its very top.

In the end, we picked a tote bag full and put it in the car to carry them home:

Our haul! 

The next day at Mayo, we shared a meal with dear friends who drove down from Minneapolis to spend a few hours with us. While we laughed and talked in the Eisenberg Cafeteria (truly the best food in downtown Rochester, and there is great food in Rochester), a woman came up to our table. We had been talking politics, and I thought maybe we were too loud and she wanted to comment.

Not at all. She pointed to my Seed Savers t-shirt and asked me if I had been there. 

I beamed. "Yes! We were just there yesterday! It's amazing!" 

She asked more questions: How far away is it? Was it easy to get to from Rochester?

With every answer, the smile on her face grew wider.

She had to be in Rochester for the next two months for treatment. Before that started, while she could still get out and about, she wanted to go to Seed Savers Exchange.

She then posed her own question.

"Do you know they partner with Svalbard?" 

I nodded; yes, I knew that.

"I was at Svalbard this summer," she added.

Now it was my time to ask questions. Svalbard! What took her to Svalbard? Was she visiting? Was this a tourist trip? 

No, she had worked there this summer. We all stared at her. She smiled and added, "I only work above 61 degrees or below 61 degrees." 

While we puzzled out that answer, she laughed and explained: "I'm a polar scientist."

Only at Mayo can you be eating lunch in the hospital cafeteria and have a polar scientist come up to to you and start chatting. I hope she made it to Decorah.

We drove 11 hours the next day, Tuesday, to get back to Delaware, and we made it in good spirits. After an evening of only necessary tasks and a morning of catching up (the laundry, the mail, checking in with my dad), I turned my attention Wednesday afternoon to the historic apples.

Apples.

Lots of apples. 

A sink full of apples

Apples with textures and colors and tastes that I have never seen, let alone held, peeled, and tasted. These apples predate the "modern" varieties of the 1900s, let about those apples of the current century. Some were the size of a child's fist. Some had green flesh beneath the peel. Some had orangish flesh. Some were truly snowy white. 

Nearing the end of the apples

It was exhausting. It was amazing. 

The long view

The kitchen was full of the smell of apples. My fingertips were stained a light orange/red from peeling so many apples. After it was all over, I had six quarts of peeled and sliced apples, labeled "Ancients," in bags in the freezer. 

I penned this out last night and am typing it in this afternoon. While I wrote, Warren was an hour away in Mansfield as the Mansfield Symphony opened its 105th season. (Warren has played with it for 45 years of that 105-long year run!) I no longer go with him on performance day, as the afternoon rehearsal and evening concert make for a 11+ hour day, beyond my capacity, but I went up with him for the Friday night rehearsal. Given our week of travel and appointments and labs and scans and family matters, let alone the apples, even "just" going up for the rehearsal was about the limit of my energy, but I did it with love and delight.

And, by golly, we have apples. I swear there is still a faint tinge of apples in the air of our home. 

And that, my friends, is a gift. 

Skyward

Photo by Samuele Bertoli on Unsplash

Yesterday started very early. I had a 7 a.m. appointment in Columbus with my oncologist, which meant getting up at 5:30 to be on the road by 6:15.  I dressed and headed downstairs to the kitchen. Waiting for Warren to come down, I stepped out on our back deck to see how much the temperature had dropped overnight. It was still dark with no hint of sunrise, so I looked up to see if there were any stars visible.

There were stars and there was Orion, hanging in the northeast sky, brilliantly lit. It was my first fall sighting of it.

Orion is my favorite constellation. Robert Frost put Orion in his poem "The Star-splitter," which has been a longtime treasured poem in my mental poetry collection: "You know Orion always comes up sideways..." Orion is one of the very few constellations I can readily identify, which is certainly a part of why it is my favorite. And way back in my misty past, I first saw and had someone identify Orion in a brilliantly dark Wisconsin night sky, seeing it from the outside walk surrounding the telescope dome at Yerkes Observatory. That first view of Orion, of knowing what I was looking at, has stuck with me.

I called Warren outside to see Orion and we both marveled at the sky. Then we went on with our morning.

The time came for Warren to head to class, I walked outside with him to give him a kiss and wave goodbye; both are important to us. When I turned to go back into the house, I noticed a moth resting on the lintel between the storm door and the house door. It must have fluttered on it when we stepped out. I opened the storm door wider: "Go on, little moth. You don't need to be in our house." 

It was then that I noticed that one of the moth's wings was badly damaged, almost as if something had bit a chunk out of it. 

Oh. I figured I would have to pick it up and set it on a bush.

The moth had other ideas. When I bent closer, it fluttered up off the lintel and flew into the front yard, heading towards one of the flower beds. True, it flew in a jagged, erratic fashion, but fly it did. 

That moth made an impression on me. "That's me," I thought. Or rather, I hoped that was me: yes, damaged but still able to move forward. Maybe jagged and erratic at times, but still going.

Orion in the morning and a moth giving me a lesson in flying midday. And all I had to do was look up.

Quiet

It is a little after 5 a.m. and I am sitting in our living room, penning these words. My body is still on "hospital time," and I have been awake since about 4 a.m., which is when the nurses came through to get the morning's blood draws. After listening to the soft sounds for an hour or so while Warren slept beside me, I eased out of bed just a few minute ago, got dressed, and came on downstairs.

We had a storm tear through briefly last night, maybe around 8:00. The day had been hot and humid and heavy. Warren had mowed the lawn earlier and was in his shop. I could see the trees in the backyard pitch and toss a little, but nothing too dramatic. Then with a fierce rush, the sky blackened, the wind escalated, and the storm was on. It pounded for maybe ten or so minutes: wind and more wind, rain, lightning, thunder, more rain. 

Compared to what millions in other parts of this country have been going through, this was not that big a deal. We did not lose power. We were not under a flood warning. Tornado sirens did not go off. All the same, it was enough to remind me yet again how powerful nature is.

Afterwards, Warren and I stepped out on our deck. Knowing we might get a storm, he had moved decorative planters to lower levels as a precaution. It made no difference. They still turned over.

The fish broke.

I will check the rain gauge when it gets lighter.

After the storm blew on, it rained gently off and on through the evening and the night. I love the sound of rain. Our windows were open to capture the cool air (we famously do not turn on the house AC unless it is really, really hot, which for Warren means an inside temperature of 83 or so; we might have to renegotiate that limit, given my recovery) and I read into the evening, listening to the soft sounds. I fell asleep listening to the rain, smiling.

After I woke at 4:00, I could hear our various wind chimes that hang in the dogwood tree outside our bedroom window. Not clanging wildly but an occasional soft ting of metal or a beat of bamboo.

As I continue to recover, I remind myself that last week's medical madness was a reminder of life, of precious life, of the fragility of here and now. When friends ask me how I am feeling, I reply "fragile," as in "likely to break at the least puff of air." But as I sit here writing, I think of "fragile" as more like a spiderweb—gossamer, seemingly insubstantial. But look at a spiderweb and marvel: how do such tiny little threads do anything at all? They do amazing things. There is strength in a web, in those threads, as the late, great E.B. White aptly recognized decades ago in writing Charlotte's Web. 

And maybe that's what I feel now, after this latest event. There are strands to repair and new ones to throw down, but I am still here.

The web held.

*****

Later note: It is just before noon as I type this post in. The rain gauge showed we received a half inch of rain.

And my dear husband repaired the fish this morning. He worries about me putting it back outside and running the risk of it breaking again. "But I want it in the gardens," I said. Well, maybe it needs a sturdier location.

 We'll see.

Sidelined Thoughts on Walking

Spring is springing! 

In recent days, I have been reminded, bluntly, that I am indeed disabled. This message came not in any dramatic way, but in the humblest of ways: my feet.

Seriously. My feet.

Back at the end of 2022, as I finished up several sessions with my podiatrist, he said words to the effect of "you don't need to see me again unless things change." I had shoes with far better support, my walking was back on track, and life was good. Even after the medical upheavals on 2023 and early 2024 (the hospitalization for acute pancreatitis, the broken wrist, the gallbladder removal, to name a few), I built my life back up, including walking. With the increasingly positive reviews coming out of Mayo, I was on a roll.

Until I wasn't.

I always have some pain/neuropathy issues with my feet. Specifically, my left foot. And while the neuropathy has abated the longer I go without treatment (20 months, but who's counting? Oh, I am...), there has always been some small pain issues in the toes (hammer toes, to name one), but nothing major. I knew from my past podiatry history that, like my beloved Aunt Ginger, the metatarsals were spreading apart as I aged, making that foot more prone to arthritis. 

"Genetics," said the podiatrist back then. I could live with that.

But earlier this year, I started to be aware of pain—different pain—in my right foot. Not in the same place as on the left, and not what I had been aware of before. It interrupted my sleep and, worse, it started interfering with my walking. I knew I should call my podiatrist but didn't get to it until two weeks ago, when the pain became so severe mid-walk that I came to a complete stop, tried to breathe through it, thought of calling Warren to pick me up, then finished the walk, limping. (So why didn't I call Warren? Because I was two blocks away from home and was EMBARRASSED to!) So a call to the podiatrist, an appointment last Tuesday, and, well, here we are. 

Nothing horrible mind you, but definitely not a minor "don't worry about it" either. 

The short version is BOTH of my feet are currently wrapped and taped. I am taking ibuprofen, not for the pain, but for the inflammation, which is considerable. (It even shoved the arthritis to the side both in the discussion and on the x-rays.) What I thought was a callous on my right sole was bursitis pushing out through my foot. (Who knew?) I soak the wraps off at home this Tuesday and go back to see him the following week for more follow-up. There will likely be a custom support for the right foot in the near future and probably a new pair of my regular shoes with different supports (I wear Hokas, which are not cheap). 

Oh, and NO WALKING until I see him on the 28th. And then we will see.

NO WALKING. 

Oh,  I can walk "a little," as in around the house or to the car and into a building. Short, necessary bits of walking. But NO WALKING as in "get out the door and go walk to clear my mind" walking. 

Back in 2014, I wrote about seeing the movie Walking the Camino: Six Ways to Santiago and the powerful impact it had on me.  Last night I caught a story on CBS about walking the Camino in the 21st century. I watched it by myself first and then Warren and I watched it together. When we finished, I turned to him and told him I was a bit sad seeing it. My answer surprised Warren. Why was I sad? Because it reminded me of how, grateful beyond grateful though I am to still be here a decade later, I still will never walk the Camino and that loss will always be in me. 

A few weeks after seeing the movie in 2014, I blogged about the act of pilgrimage in and of itself, independent of the Camino. I went back and reread that one in finishing today's post. For me (me, not anyone else; I don't pretend to know what motivates others), my life has to have a strong element of pilgrimage to be meaningful. It is tied up with my commitment to tikkun olam and to strengthening this community.  

And I can do that even while sidelined from walking. 

But I really, really want the walking back. Stay tuned. 

Moving Forward, Maybe, Again, Still

Sunday morning around our table

Just when I thought things were smoothing out, another bump (not a fork) in the road reminded me that life was, well, life. There was another hospitalization for Dad a few weekends ago, the second in a two-week span, resulting in some longer setbacks that he is slowly progressing from. The time spent with him at the hospital and at his apartment in assisted living—not just with him but with staff, nurses, doctors, therapists—took its toll on me—physically and mentally and emotionally—and finally, I think, I hope, I am getting back on my way. 

No surprise, my way looks different. It always does after such an event.

Despite election results (for me, they are horrible), life moves forward. What was clear before and certainly after Election Day is that my focus has been and continues to be (and has to continue to be) on the least of us in our community.

This is not me ignoring the reality of the national elections and the dark days that may well be ahead. But joining in the screeds on social media about the outcome does nothing to change the fact that here is where I need to work. 

As my good friend and boon companion Judy said the day after, in response to another friend's anguish, yes, mourn the results today, and then we move on and do our work going forward. Our monthly Justice Bus (which all three of us are heavily involved in) is the first Thursday of each month, which was two days after the elections and, regardless of the results, those in our community with lesser means needed our support now.

So on we worked.

Our Symphony had a concert Saturday night that featured a stunning world premiere of a concerto written for orchestra and theremin. (Here is the YouTube link for it; the composer comes on at about 24 minutes in to explain the piece, and it goes from there.) Sunday, thereminist Caroline Scruggs, the guest artist, and her husband Matt Fattal (a formidable musician himself, among other things) came to breakfast at our house. We sat around the table sharing food, telling stories, sharing dreams and goals, and talking about the very same point that Judy and I discussed: that for some of us, we have to turn our attention and focus to those around us.

So on we work.

After they left, Matt posted a note (and photos!) on Facebook. His summary of our discussion was spot on: "Surround yourself with good people that move the world forward. Try not to be a jerk. I think that's it." 

Yes, that's it.

**********

On a personal note, I am trying to get back to a more regular pattern of blogging. Sam at Sam Squared recently touched on that very topic, and Laurie at The Clean Green Homestead has her blogging routine down cold. I am not sure what that will look like for me—a post a week? Two posts a month? More?—but I need this. 

Related to that commitment, for my own personal satisfaction, I am returning to writing my blog out by pen and paper, then typing it in later. I strongly believe (and am reminded whenever I put it into practice) that writing is not just an intellectual process but also a physical process. "Your hands are your interpretive tools," said writer Richard Wagamese; I keep that quote taped to my wall in my study. I wrote most of this last night by pen and am entering it this morning. I am also recommitting to stepping farther away from the electronic world—social media, checking email constantly (and realize I do not check email on my phone ever), YouTube, to name a few—and spending my evenings reading, writing, doing household tasks. (Gregg at Not Buying Anything recently summed that last activity up succinctly: "After enlightenment, the laundry." As I pen these words Sunday evening, I just finished hanging the second of two loads of laundry in the basement: talk about sweet serendipity.)

The 2024 Gardens: Part 3

What a difference a day can make! 

I had an email this morning from Amanda, a special friend who lives nearby, saying she would be glad to come over today (!!) and help me clear some of my garden (she reads my blog). I told her to come on over; the front door would be unlocked and I would be out back.

And she did.

As the goal is to remove as many weeds as possible before tilling, Amanda suggested that she yank and I whack the clumps against a bucket wall to remove as much dirt as possible before putting the weeds in the yard waste bag. Warren and I had drawn a rough plan of where things might go this year. Amanda knew that those areas were the top priority so that is where we focused our efforts.

After Amanda and I worked for 2 hours! 

Know this about Amanda. She is the age of my sons (35 this year). She has been in my life for almost 20 years (one of Sam's high school girlfriends). She has her own significant health issues, so it's not like either of us were starting from points of absolute health and vigor. But between the two of us, we cleared a significant chunk of the tomato bed and pepper bed. And even better, we spent two+ hours together talking about everything: classes, health, finances, families, gardening, meditation. In short, we talked about life. Just glorious. 

Before Amanda came over, I had an encounter with a nearby neighbor about one of his tenants who has been working hard to stay sober and put his life back together. R.C., the neighbor and landlord, has been in that tenant's corner in encouraging him, boosting him, and giving him maintenance/repair jobs at the building. "He has hit 20 months sober," R.C. said, smiling broadly. Having helped create adult treatment courts, I knew that hitting one month sobriety is a big deal; hitting 20 is a huge accomplishment and I said so. I looked at my neighbor and said, "R.C., you are a foundation for this person. Thank you for that. And thank you for telling me this story; it has made my morning and it is not even 8:30 yet."

So I already had that amazing moment with R.C., and then had an incredible morning with Amanda. As I told Warren before Amanda arrived, I was having an uplifted day already. And after Amanda, when he and I talked again, I used that phrase again, after saying to Warren that "uplifted" is not a phrase I tend to use. 

But it fits today. I have been uplifted by R.C. doing good things for someone who hit a low spot and is putting his life back together. I have been uplifted by Amanda saying, out of the blue, "hey, I will come help" and then sharing her love and energy with me. 

I have been focusing a lot on gratitude lately. We have (as I continually note) been running on overload for the last several weeks. I am still dealing with the fallout of my medical travails in the fall and winter. (R.C., who knows some of what I went through, did not hesitate this morning to eye me and say, "So, how are you doing?" and then nod and smile when I said it was a long road back but I am gaining strength and capacity.) So I try to end my days with thinking about what the day just ending gave me to be grateful for. 

What am I grateful for today? A chance neighborly encounter with a heartfelt story to share, a special friend who did not hesitate to jump into my gardening issues with both feet, and my deep appreciation for them both.  

Around the Kitchen Table

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

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

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

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

Which brings us to the kitchen table. 

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

That is where life happened.

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

Huh.

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

How other people live...okay.

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

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

I almost fell over.

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

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

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

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

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