Another Garden Update

The first one: not great.

It is hot. We are entering (maybe in already?) another heat dome—not as vicious as the one at the end of June (at least not yet) but still nothing to mess with. And, of course, I hate heat. 

BUT to keep my mind off the heat, here is a garden update!

The first cherry tomato, at the top of this post, was an ehhhh. Ripe but not ripe, A little hard. A little lacking. But a few days later the first Early Girl came in (which I ate promptly) and now I have THREE of them waiting to be enjoyed! (And remember, I am the only person in this household who eats fresh tomatoes.)

Yum! 

On the other side of the garden, the basil, after its weedy start, was ready to pick. So yesterday morning, while it was still cool, I got out there with shears and cut most of it, filling a huge pan. I stuffed it into a garbage bag, put it in the refrigerator, and this morning I turned my attention to making the first pesto of 2026.

Just waiting for me to dive in

This photo shows my work area before the pesto making commenced. Nice, neat, clean. The hammer? That's to smash (okay, hit firmly) garlic so I can get the skin off and throw it into the food processor. No wasting time with a garlic press for me! 

Ready to go!

I did not take a photo of my work area after I finished the pesto, but trust me, it was not nice, it was not neat.

But there IS pesto!

As I told Warren and then shared with my friend David, it was harder making the pesto this year. Age does take its toll, and my "real" age is more than the 70 years shown on my birth certificate. But I made it to the other side. Tonight I will put the pesto into containers, carry some to our neighbors on both sides, and then sit down and smile.

And maybe, just maybe, enjoy one of those tomatoes! 

Pesto! 

Inch Ten: The 2026 Garden Season Begins

How about a pot of tomatoes? 

And what a beginning it was!

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

The plants from Miller's waiting for their time

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

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

And marigolds, of course, for bordering the garden.

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

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

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

Saturday's efforts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that is enough for now! 

Waiting to grow

At the End of Two

Having just finished the first half of 2025 (!), I am updating our grocery/household spending for the year. While our results were not as spectacular as first quarter, the second quarter came in far better than I had dared hope. 

Second quarter spending for food and common household items: $728.94. $29.23 was spent on household items: a whopping 4% of the overall outlay. Okay, that was a little bit more spent on household items than first quarter, but not by much. 

The food expenditures were higher than first quarter for a number of reasons. We were so frugal in the first quarter that the month of April saw some major restocking. We also had guest artists over in April, and that involves some extra food purchases. Eggs were still staggering high that month; I only bought 1 dozen (@ $4.99), but did buy Bob's Red Mill Egg Replacer, a worthy substitute in baking (2 bags at $4.99 each; 1 bag equals 34 eggs). And yes, April spending included two hams when they went on sale around Easter. 

To my surprise, as I look at May in preparing this, it too included another major restocking. We also had guests coming through and staying with us, always requiring extra purchases. Still, I was a little taken aback at the dollars spent. 

It was the June figures I was braced for: June included my hospitalization and a lot of typical and untypical purchases following, including preparing for guests and, gulp, BUYING DESSERT (for the same guests) instead of making it myself. (Two reasons for that: (1) During our recent heat dome, we avoided cooking or baking anything that required turning on the oven and (2) I did not have (and still lack) the energy to bake. Period.) We also "splurged" on a rotisserie chicken from Kroger for the same two reasons: heat and my continuing lack of capacity. That all being said, June came in at $172.56 for food and household items. 

And let's not forget the continuing rising prices on food. Yes, eggs have come way down and milk has stayed fairly stable, but other items have gone up.

It is what it is. 

The second quarter average monthly expenditure came out to $242.98, almost $100.00 higher than first quarter. For the year, we have spent $1165.04 on groceries, which averages out to $194.17 a month. I have been hoping to hold to $200/month, but realize, the first quarter aside, that may be a tad unrealistic in this uncertain economy. We are only sitting just below that figure because of the first quarter spending of this year. Can we maybe maybe just maybe hit $225.00 a month?

Time will tell! 

Baby Steps

Photo by Maxime Horlaville on Unsplash

I am two weeks home from the hospital today, almost three weeks post-hospitalization. My recovery has been...

Slow.

Steady, but slow. 

We all know the phrase "baby steps." We tell it to a friend when they jump into a new project and get overwhelmed at all there is to learn and do.

"Baby steps," we remind them lest they get discouraged. "Take baby steps." 

I am reminding myself that when I get discouraged about my post-hospitalization recovery.

"Baby steps, April. Baby steps."

Yeah, I'm taking baby steps. Mouse baby steps.

We (the medical "we" and Warren and I) are still trying to sort out what happened (a pancreatic bleed of some sort) and, more important, why. (Who knows?) I have an appointment Monday morning with my brilliant surgeon, Dr. Goslin, who followed me through my BIG medical crisis in 2023, who removed my gallbladder in 2024, and who, along with his associates, followed me through this most recent adventure. I am interested to hear his thoughts on what possibly led to the bleed, where he thinks I am now, and what the future might look like. 

I realize that last thread—what the future might look like—may be a lost cause. "Well, that's all. The crystal has gone dark." (Professor Marvel to Dorothy, The Wizard of Oz, 1939.) 

As for me, I am here. Changed (again), but here. The horrific heat dome seems to have broken. (I. Hate. Heat.) I was out at 6:00 a.m. today watering the gardens, listening to the earliest birds of the day. I penned this post at 8:00 a.m., sitting outside on our front porch, watching wisps of clouds scud by overhead. It is mid-morning now as I type and the day is still blissfully cool.

Warren and I have been ending our evenings sitting outside on our front porch in the late evening, after the sun is off the day and the temperatures cooled a little, watching the firefly show in our front yard. It is a wonderful way to pull the day to a close with each other without electronics, without other tasks demanding attention. Just flickering bits of light: on, off, on, on, off.

I am grateful. Grateful for life, grateful for Warren, grateful for those bits of light. 

This Year's Gardens: Chapter 3

It has been over a month since I last wrote about our gardens. Trust me, that was not because I was so busy that I couldn't squeeze in a post. No, it was because the two main gardens—our kitchen garden and the Hej garden—just got planted yesterday and today.

Read that again: just got planted yesterday and today. 

So why the delay? Well, we just had our last (light) frost last week. And while we are supposedly at or past our frost date here in Ohio, that threw a kink into the plans. But on the bright side, unlike last year, I got to Miller's Country Gardens early in May, so I did not get shut out of their best plant starts like I did last year. 

With Warren tilling the soil and me hobbling around (yes, the feet are still an issue; I am still in Stage 2 of what we hope is a four-stage process), we tackled the kitchen garden first, which is the one right next to the house. 

There are seven tomato plants this year. This is the very first year in a long, long time when I did not go hog wild on tomatoes. (I did say to Warren yesterday, when we were working on the kitchen garden, that I had tomato anxiety. Only seven plants? Only seven?) Perhaps to compensate, there are 14 peppers plants. (Hey, peppers freeze well.) The back of the garden, against the garage wall, has sowed seeds: sunflowers, wildflower mixes, and cosmos. There is then a line of red onion sets (more about those later). In the front of the garden, there is a lot of sown basil and lettuce. And that's it.

The Hej garden was a but more challenging, in part because I had a gigantic fail. Warren tilled it one last time yesterday, and got it fenced. He dug a potato trench for me, which I filled, and then I went ahead and planted three red cabbage. That was yesterday. Today I went out early and finished up ALL of the planting. 

There are some stories to tell.

I'll start with the potatoes. Several years ago (10? More?), we grew tomatoes when my down-the-street neighbor Scott gave us seed potatoes that he didn't want to mess with. We had some limited success with them, but not enough to do it again. This year though I had a bag of potatoes start growing eyes, lots of them. 

I had nothing to lose by planting these. Although these were organic golds, I purchased the bag earlier this year for a whopping 99 cents at the marked-down produce shelf at Kroger. We had several meals before they started growing more and more eyes. I figured we already got our money's worth, and if we get more potatoes from planting them, so much the better. A little work with a knife, and these babies were ready to go into the trench. 

Here's hoping!

Now to the red onions. We were at Menards on Friday so that Warren could buy plywood to finish bell cases for clients. Strolling towards the checkout, I see bags of onion sets, red or white, marked down to $2.75. There were 100 to the bag. Sure I bought one. 

Some of the bag went in the kitchen garden, planted close together and deep down for early green onions, which we buy regularly for salads and garnish. The rest went into the Hej garden planted shallow, for late summer big onions. And, as I sat down today to catch up my garden journal, I saw that the onions came with a 1 year guarantee: if they don't grow, mail the UPC code and the sales receipt back to the packer/grower and they will mail a refund. 

That ranks right up there with the 99 cents potatoes, as far as I'm concerned.

Now I come to the difficult part of the story: the huge fail. Worry not, I rescued the garden, but lesson learned. 

In my late March post, I talked about the seeds I had started indoors and how they were coming along. Yes, they were indeed. So well that I paid them no attention, except to make sure they stayed wet enough to grow (I had them in lidded containers). 

Easy peasy.

Well, easy peasy until I went to plant the zucchini plants this morning. No one told me (although when I reread the seed packet as I looked at my losses, I should have known) that zucchini seedlings like lots of room. LOTS of room. And that if you start them as seedlings indoors and have them too close together, the roots will tangle and your hard work will be undone.

True that. Out of all the zucchini starts, I managed to get one planted without the stems snapping. The rest were a total loss.

Fortunately, I still had several seeds left from the original packet, and so planted the zucchini rows like I always had in the past: one seed at a time.

The cucumbers I had started indoors were similarly tangled, but they seem to be made of sturdier stuff than the zucchini. So all but one or two went into the ground, and I seeded five in the next row as insurance.

The very last items in the Hej garden? Remember those Leysa peppers I had such high hopes for? Four sprouted. At the same time I started those, I also started seeds taken from grocery store peppers, which did considerably better than the Leysas. So I ended up planting one Leysa (the other three went into a pot indoors to see if they might grow even a little bit) and 10 peat pots of the other, just to see what might happen. If we get more peppers, great. If not, oh well.

The seeds from grocery peppers are on the lefthand tray.

Maybe we'll get a Leysa. 

When all was said and done, the Hej garden looked like this:

The potato trench is the lighter swath on the right, running front to back.

So  here's where we are at mid-May. Two vegetable gardens planted, and we should know in the next few weeks where things stand. 

Maybe.

A Long Bus Ride

The Justice Bus in Delaware in April 2025

In May 2024, I wrote about that month's Justice Bus and finding myself in full advising mode because of last-minute and unexpected shortages of our attorney volunteers. 

May 1 was this month's Justice Bus and guess what? 

Yep.

The Ides of March have nothing on our May Justice Bus days.

One of our regular volunteers had an urgent matter come up that forced him to withdraw two days before the May Bus day. I could not find another volunteer to take one session, let alone the four that the attorney who had to step out takes. So I swallowed hard and hoped for no-shows.

We are now in the fourth month of serving hot sandwiches at our Bus sessions and, as the cook, I spent Wednesday cooking (shredded turkey with onions) and making sure I had the other items—napkins, carryout containers, a tablecloth, rolls, and such—ready to go. While I cooked and prepped, I also thought about what the May Justice Bus might hold. We had a solid slate of clients, and I knew of at least one with an unusually complex situation.

Thursday dawned gray and damp. With Warren's assistance (he always shuttles me and the food and helps me get it inside), I arrived early, set up the food table, touched base with Judy, our law librarian, talked with Scott, the Justice Bus staff attorney, and took a deep breath.

The clients started arriving.

Four hours later, Scott and I each finished up within a few minutes of one another, with Scott then helping me sort out a stack of copied court papers for my last client to take with her. Our regular Bus schedule is four sessions of 45 minutes each (three hours), starting at 10:00 a.m. and finishing around 1:00 p.m. This day, because the final two clients had detailed and unusual situations that took extra time, it was a little after 2:00 p.m. before the last two clients exited and we were done.

When we were finished and met back up, Scott had that dazed look one gets from hours of intense focus and I'm sure my face matched his. We were both exhausted. And hungry. Scott immediately made and started eating two sandwiches. He and I talked briefly about a few Bus notes to follow up on, Judy helped pull down signs, Warren (who'd come earlier thinking, as did I, that I would be done earlier, so he had sat and waited) helped me break down and pack away the food, and I took one last circuit through the areas we had used to make sure none of us had left anything behind. Scott packed his gear up, and we followed him out the front doors of the library, waving goodbye to Judy, who was outside collecting the parking cones. Finally, some five and a half hours after I had arrived, I was on my way home (and grateful that we only live four blocks away).

I am writing this Friday night. I am still tired. It was a long Bus day. Not counting the Bus, there are a lot of extra matters piled on my plate right now, so that adds to the tiredness. Oh, and let's not forget my feet! I am on Stage 2 of what we (my podiatrist and I) hope will only be a four stage process to get them back to functional capacity. (Stay tuned!)

But—and this is from the heart—it was a GREAT Bus day. Any day I can work alongside friends and colleagues to help strengthen this community—with legal advice, with food, with listening, with our presence—is a great day.

P.S. As I looked back at the May 2024 post before posting this, I scrolled down and saw that I had posted a photo of the first spiderwort of 2024, noting that it had bloomed three days earlier. I started laughing. Just yesterday I took a photo of the first spiderwort of 2025! 

And here it is:

Some things are just meant to be! 

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. 

Regaining Rhythm

My work station earlier today

Rhythm.

What an appropriate word, let alone concept, for me to use. After all, I am married to a percussionist. Trust me, percussionists are all about rhythm. It makes me smile just writing that word.

Rhythm.

My rhythm? I am still regaining it.

As I have shared, we had a long siege getting Dad's house ready for market. That finally got done in late September. So we are not out there every day clearing, cleaning, hauling, groaning, or any combination thereof. But because I am the lawyer in the family, and the child living only seven blocks away, all of the real estate matters related to the sale of the house are in my lap. They are not onerous. Dad has a superb realtor and the title company that will hold the closing is excellent. All the same, it falls to me to review documents, answer Dad's questions, provide information for closing, and so on. I will be present when Dad does his side of the closing, about a week before the Buyer closes (because I am out of town that week). None of this is overwhelming (unlike the 25 cubic yards of trash that we had removed by the dumpster company), but it is nonetheless something that is still on my calendar and in my head.

So, back to rhythms. 

As I write this (By hand! I'm actually using a pen and paper!), I think of ways I am regaining the rhythm that works for me for my life.

Apparently, baking is a part of my rhythm. Two weekends ago, I made an apple pie (Jaime had a recital at Miami University (Ohio), where he teaches) and sourdough peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, last weekend I baked an apple-bread pudding to take next door to a shared meal, the pumpkin cardamon muffins were yesterday, and, right now, a loaf of rustic no-knead bread is baking. And, with the Symphony season opening this weekend, there will be more cookies and another pie. 

It feels good to be baking again. 

Walking is definitely part of my rhythm. And that one took a huge hit even before the job of emptying out the house, starting with Dad's hospitalization and lengthy rehab from early June until late July. Other than walking to and from Dad's place, there was not a lot of time or energy for more. I am not yet back to where I can walk as far or as often as I want, but I am getting there. (And how come no one ever told me about compression socks?! Talk about a game changer for someone with neuropathy!)

Even my reading, which disappeared only during the worst times of last year's medical mayhem, has picked up as I work on regaining my rhythm.

All the same, I'm not there yet, whatever "there" may mean. There are some skipped beats, some unexpected jumps and cuts, and sometimes I wonder whether I am ever going to feel I am in rhythm with myself again.

Warren and close friends gently remind me that this summer's events and the weight they placed on me need to be seen in the broader context. A year ago today I was still in the hospital and still over a week (a week!) away from being released to rehab to build enough strength to go home. Once I got home in late October, I was confined to the first floor for several more weeks while I worked on gaining enough strength to climb the stairs to our bedroom, the bathroom with the shower, and my study. Add the shattered wrist in the winter, a major (planned) surgery on its heels, some more medical issues in the spring and, well, yeah. 

When I stand back and look at what not just the last four months have held, but the last 14, small wonder I am out of rhythm.

One of the books I have is been rereading is Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times by Katherine May. It is a powerful, moving account of May's own difficult time and an examination of regrouping when at a low point (medical, emotional, physical, familial), not feeling put upon to "make the best of it!" or "soldier on!" but instead recognizing there is a space in that low place to restore oneself in an authentic and meaningful way.

Reading Wintering is a reminder to myself that finding my rhythm is a journey to be taken at a pace that fits me.  

One step at a time.

The 2024 Gardens: Part 5

 I last wrote about our 2024 gardens on June 1, when the kitchen garden was just beginning to come together and the Hej garden was still only a remote (way remote) possibility. 

Let's just say things have changed. A lot.

So let's start with the Hej garden. Amanda, who is gardening alongside me this year, was game to tackle the Hej garden, which was lost under last year's debris and this spring's weeds. Warren suggested we try to do as much clearing as we could by hand, before he tilled. So after a couple of days of rugged work by Amanda and me (and realize that both of us face some health challenges so we're not setting any speed records here), the Hej garden looked like this:

Warren tilled and deposited a layer of leaves on it, and then tilled again:

Fencing followed and then Amanda and I planted the Hej garden, including four (!) additional tomato plants because her friend Andy promised to help weed and care for the garden in return for tomatoes, which he apparently loves. I bought them from a table in a front yard down the street, 4 for $5, honor system, and proudly walked them home:

The neighborhood tomatoes! 

Considering its rough start this year, the Hej garden is showing signs of promise: green beans, maybe a cucumber plant, definitely some zucchini sprouting. Plus, of course, the tomatoes. When I looked yesterday, I saw two of the four starting to put out blossoms.

In the kitchen garden, the changes have also been staggering. This was how it looked in mid-June:

Let's just say it has grown since then. The tomatoes are just starting to take on some color:

The Trail of Tears heritage black beans are reaching for the skies (and they have grown even higher since I took this photo). That's them coming up in the center of the towers:

I am especially proud of those beans. They were dried and saved from last year's bountiful crop and I just sowed them by hand, raked some dirt over them, reminding myself that the beans would know what to do. They did. Those beans are tough, which is why they survived historically. 

And here are the first peppers, picked yesterday:

First produce of the year! 

Considering how far behind the starting line this year's gardens began, I am pleased. I will have to wait a bit longer for the first tomato, but I know it is coming. 

"Grateful" doesn't begin to cover my feelings watching these gardens come to life, sharing the work with Warren and Amanda, and seeing the plants grow. 

Revelations

Yes, my work. 

There is the garden project to write about (what changes!). There is the 2nd quarter/1st half grocery expenditures to report on (let's just say there are some surprises there). My father had a medical matter arise that has landed him in skilled nursing rehab for the indefinite future (the same one I spent several weeks in last fall, so it is like Old Home Week for me when I go visit).  There is Warren's impending retirement as Executive Director of our local symphony after 3+ decades (he will continue to play, and he has other significant commitments, so don't worry about him not having anything to do). And it is 4th of July week, which means this household is on buzz level (on the 4th itself, Warren and I will put in 18+ hours from waking up to finally going to bed, most likely on the 5th). In short, our hands are full, our calendars are packed, and our time is on short supply.

Despite all of that, I no longer feel as I am running on overload, a word I have used constantly for weeks now. A word I have used so much for the last month that I have often thought of the old Groucho Marx show, "You Bet Your Life," with the classic "Say the secret word," which would cause the duck to drop down with a prize for the contestant. 

That duck was dropping down daily, even hourly. No prize, mind you, but the damn duck kept dropping. 

So what happened? 

Two things.

One happened early in June, when we had our June Justice Bus, a collaboration between our county Law Library, Andrews House (which has hosted legal clinics since October 2003), and the Ohio Access to Justice Foundation. We come together once a month in town for a clinic focused solely on family law. I am the attorney wrangler, but in June I filled in for one of our attorneys who had a last-minute court matter. I met with the clients, we fully explored the issue that brought them there, and they left with gratitude for the directions we had discussed.

I walked home that day deep in thought, resolving to step back into serving our Justice Bus, not just as attorney wrangler but also as a volunteer attorney. I have to finish my Continuing Legal Education for this biennial (yeah, yeah), but I am back in.

Warren smiled and nodded when I told him my decision later that day. He made it clear that he supported me fully. Then he said he was not surprised; he knew where my heart was.

The second revelation caught me totally off guard, albeit in a great way. And it involves my long love, albeit dormant, of photography. 

I have been taking photos with my old  iPhone (a model X, to give you an idea just how old—new to me, but old). It does okay. It captures moments. 

But the bees are back. I sat on the porch and watched them. I knew I wanted something better than my iPhone. So I went back inside and picked up my Canon.

When I shattered my wrist in January, I could not use my Canon. And, to be truthful, I had not been using it much even before the medical mess of the autumn, let alone the wrist. But with my arm in a cast, I could not easily handle the Canon. When the cast came off in early March, I had significant neuropathy in my right thumb and index finger. That improved with exercise, but then another medical problem on the same arm (and the same nerve) set me back and made clear that I will always have neuropathy. Better, mind you, but likely permanent. So I skirted the Canon, not sure what my right hand could do. 

And the iPhone was so convenient. But it could not begin to give me what I wanted. And my Canon could. 

And did.

I texted my lifelong friend Cindy what I had just done, adding "So excited!" Then added "And it feels so great!"

What I realized and shared with Cindy was that this was the reconnection to photography that I had been hoping for, but was not sure I would ever get back, not just in my hands but in my heart and emotions. I knew Cindy would understand as she and I, besides being lifelong friends, also grew up in 4-H photography together.

Of course, Cindy got it immediately. We are that close, that connected. 

And she totally understood when I texted: "I don't want to lose that feeling ever again."

Truly, I felt like a missing part of me—not just since winter, but long before then—was back. 

Every night I sit out on our back deck as dusk comes on and watch the fireflies come out. It is my retreat; it is my time of quiet contemplation. I am writing this in longhand as I sit here. It is chill tonight, so much so that I am in sweats and a hoodie. The fireflies are blinking off and on, sometimes rising in seemingly choreographed waves.  

As I watch them, I reflect on my finding my way back to advising. I think of my finding my way back to photography. I think of Warren and his support and love, and of Cindy and her support and love.

And I savor the little lights flashing in the deepening dusk.

The 2024 Gardens: Part 4

My seat earlier this morning

As I wrote just last Wednesday, what a difference a day could make. Three days later, there are even more differences. Thanks to heroic efforts by Amanda and Warren, and to my stretching myself beyond what I should do, the plants that absolutely, positively had to be in the ground by today made it into the ground!

There is still a section of the kitchen garden that needs to be weeded and tilled. That will be the basil bed. Maybe some lettuce too, although it is getting a little late in the season to try any lettuce until the weather starts to turn in the fall. We'll see.

The overgrown part is there in the middle back part. 

And Warren, after tilling the weeded part, even swept up afterwards. 

It doesn't get any better than that!

Warren cleaning up last night

Chasing Lights

Friday night's show locally; photo by Connie Skinner on Facebook

Back in 2010, our Symphony performed the Ohio debut of Chasing Light by composer Joseph Schwantner. That title played in my head early this morning as Warren and I found ourselves on a dark country road watching the sky.

Due to unusually strong solar storms this weekend, the Northern Lights (Aurora Borealis) were visible farther south than they typically are seen. Central Ohio was one of those places. I was not in good shape to try to see them Friday night, but many friends around here filled Facebook Saturday with stunning shots of the light show. (The photo above is one such shot; the Skinner families' farm is about 5 miles out of town.)

I have written before that I don't believe in bucket lists. That being said, seeing the Northern Lights has long been a dream of mine. So with that in mind, Warren encouraged me on Saturday with "let's go out and try to see them." We set our alarms for 11:50, got up, got dressed, headed to a dark country road, and...

Nothing.

Well, let me be more specific. No Aurora Borealis. But a light show in the sky? Absolutely.

The moon, a waxing crescent, was setting in the west. It was nearing the horizon, so was large. The crescent was dark orange and the part in the shadow, most of it, was glowing black. 

There were storms predicted last night up around Lake Erie, about 85 miles north of here. Just as Warren turned onto the road we were parking on, the horizon lit up with a brilliant flash. "Wow!," I shouted. For the time we were parked, the horizon flared a few more times with the distant lightning. I cheered every time. 

Overhead, the Big Dipper made itself known. I stared up in silence; how long since I had last looked at it? I mean, really looked at it?

After almost an hour of waiting, watching, and hoping, we agreed that it was time to head back to town (not far away) and back to bed. As we drove back, I talked about how unusual it was for me to be out so late. Forget "so late." Just how unusual it was for me to be out at night at all. 

I reflected that in earlier days, I used to accompany Warren when he had rehearsals and concerts in Mansfield, where he plays with that community's orchestra. Our rides home were always after 10:00 p.m., and because we took US 42 instead of the interstate back towards Delaware, we were often in the country with the night sky was spread out in front of us for viewing. The Dipper, Orion, all there for the taking. But I stopped accompanying Warren several years ago because my body could no longer take the long hours. And other than nights we tried too hard to drive home from Mayo to Delaware on the same day, I have not been out and about at night for a long time.

But my not going out goes beyond that. After the medical events of this fall and winter, I have rarely stepped out at night, period. (The 4 a.m. drive to Riverside ER in Columbus back in August does not count.) I'm not talking about driving somewhere; I'm talking about just stepping out on the deck and looking up. I think I saw Orion, my favorite constellation, once this winter. Once. 

When we got home, I looked up again. The Dipper was still up overhead, possibly even brighter as the light clouds had moved away. I breathed deeply, grateful for the stars overhead.

I have not looked yet to see whether central Ohio is within the possible range of the Northern Lights tonight. If it is, we may (may) try again. I know Warren would love for me to see them and, yes, I would love to see them. (Warren has seen them, on a long ago trip to Canada with buddies when he graduated from high school.) So we may be chasing lights again. If it happens that we catch them, that would be wonderful. And if not, I still have Orion. And the moon. And the sky.

And I am still here.

The Justice Bus in Delaware 

Yesterday was a day I could not have foreseen under any circumstances. I won't call it a bad day: it wasn't. But it was certainly a challenging day.

Yesterday was the monthly Justice Bus downtown. The Justice Bus is a program of the Ohio Access to Justice Foundation and one that Andrews House, our local community gem, partners with (along with our County Law Library). Having been involved with the various legal clinics at Andrews House for the last 20 years, I am a huge supporter of the Bus and am the Bus attorney wrangler. That means I send out calls for attorneys to volunteer 45 minutes of their time advising low-income clients (household income has to be 300% or less than the Federal Poverty Guidelines). We run four sessions back to back once a month; our Bus focuses on family law issues running the spectrum from divorce questions to custody to child support and beyond. 

Our volunteers are fantastic, period. They give their time, in person or by Zoom; they commit to show up month after month; and you can see the change on clients' faces when they walk out of their sessions having been given some direction and advice on their problem.

I always double-check with the attorneys the Monday before the Bus to make sure they are still available. These are attorneys with active practices, some of them practicing solely in domestic relations, which is a very fluid arena. An emergency hearing may come up since the attorney committed to a Bus date, for example. Again, all part of my taking care of our volunteers.

We knew coming into the May Bus day that we were thin on attorneys as a few of our regulars had conflicts. Tuesday I got an email from one that he had to schedule a client meeting for Thursday. I totally understood. I emailed Shelly and Mel at Andrews House, who prescreen the clients and set the schedule (walk-ins are heavily discouraged because we cannot guarantee an attorney will be available), and asked them what the presenting issues were in that time slot. (I try not to advise, but can in a pinch. This was a pinch.) There was a matter I felt comfortable with, told Mel to slot me in, and we'd see each other Thursday. 

Thursday I arrived early at the Law Library to talk with my friend, boon companion, and, incidentally, the Law Librarian, Judy. The Bus, which comes from Columbus, had not yet arrived; it was running a little later than usual. Not a problem. When I saw it pull up,  I walked down to greet the team. Plural. Instead I saw the Program Manager, Meredith, all by herself. Singular. I knocked on the window and asked, "Uh, so where is Scott?" 

Scott, it turned out, had texted Meredith that morning to say he was sick and could not work. He is an attorney and we had slated him to meet with clients. Now we had a hole. A big hole. One that Meredith, who is not an attorney, could not fill. 

I swallowed hard, looked at Mel, who had just arrived and learned the news, and said, "Show me the clients and I will advise the ones I can."

Which is exactly what I did for the rest of the morning into early afternoon.  I ran on only 2 small bottles of water and no break and no food and....yeah. Don't get me wrong: I was so very grateful I could serve but dang, that was a huge hit on my energy. By the time the last client finished (my last client talked a lot. A. LOT.) and the paperwork was finished, it was 1:30 (we usually finish around 1:00). Both Mel and I said our goodbyes and thanks to Judy and Meredith, stumbled out of the Law Library, and walked together towards our respective homes. After she turned left to her house, I walked another very slow 2+ blocks to mine. 

Very. Slow. 

No surprise, I was pretty wiped out for the rest of the day and the evening. Our household has been on overload for weeks now on all fronts; yesterday's Bus was overload in a way I had not expected. But I read thoughts in two other blogs I follow that helped put my day in perspective.

The first was from Sam, who blogs at Sam Squared. In summing up her week's thriftiness, she spoke about a couple of things that were not frugal, but then said, "[b], everything spent was for good purpose, so I guess that meets my definition of thrift." 

"Spent for good purpose." I like that. I knowingly spent my energy past my limits yesterday, but it was for a very good purpose, and I can accept that. These clients are in circumstances that are rarely pleasant, and sometimes (and this was the case yesterday with one I met with) that make anything I am dealing with, including my health, feel like I have riches beyond riches. 

The other comment came from Chris, who blogs at Tahoe Girl. On Thursday, she posts a "Thankful Thursday" post and her most recent one contained this gem: "Having gratitude for the small things in life, I think, makes all the difference in the world."

That, too, applies to yesterday's Bus experience. Grateful because it was the first Bus I have been well enough to attend (except for a cameo appearance in December) since August 2023. Grateful that I was able to walk home, however slowly, afterwards. Grateful for my friends and colleagues. Okay, maybe those are not all small things in life, but given that this blog is titled "Small Moments of Great Reward," I totally agree about gratitude making all the difference in the world. 

And, for one such small moment of gratitude and great reward, the spiderwort is blooming. The first bloom was three days ago; today, there are several. 

The first spiderwort of 2024

I am grateful I am here to see them return.