Opening the Box

The globe thistle is blooming. The bees and I are glad.

So let me share the ending first: my father is back in his apartment at Assisted Living and is doing 1000% better than when I wrote the following notes. And I am doing 100000000% better.

So what follows (between asterisks) was penned out Monday morning, while I sat in a room at our local hospital with my father, who slept a lot of the time I was there. He had been squadded there from his apartment midday, then admitted, and I had spent considerable hours Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and then Monday while they treated him. 

In short, a lot of time. A. Lot. 

It took a toll on me. I do not have the bandwidth physically, mentally, or emotionally to see me through a long hospital siege. I carried a lot of stress, a lot of weight, and a lot of everything else, and I knew it. 

So this is what I wrote Monday morning, sitting there in the too cold room (too cold even with a sweater on; I kept checking on my dad to make sure he had enough blankets on):

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

I have spent the last several mornings at our local hospital—not for me, thankfully, but for my elderly father. It is exhausting. 

This morning when I arrived someone had put on an "easy listening" channel on the room television. Without his hearing aids (safely back in his apartment, at his insistence), he could not hear it, but he said he liked glancing up and seeing the scenery—brilliant colors photos from around the world (with identifying tags as to where it was) and shots of flowers and rivers—scroll by. He would watch a bit, then doze off, then watch some more, then doze off.

I did not bring a book with me today—the one day he is sleeping much of the morning, of course—so I too am seeing the slide show. So besides admiring the photograph and recognizing some of the American landscapes, I am feeling sadness. There are too many places I will never see again or, in some cases, never see period. For that matter, I accept that I am never going to make it back to Maine at this point, so forget Japan. 

I am feeling compressed into a box by age, disabilities, duties, responsibilities, time. (Note I did not say money.) It's not like I expected to feel "young" (whatever that means) ever again, but a little more vibrant would be good. 

And this too shall pass., I know. The current weight will lift when my father is discharged and I am not spending a chunk of every day at the hospital and having to rearrange the rest of my day (not to mention Warren's day, as we are a 1-car family) around the hospital.

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

So here I am some 30 hours after writing that, almost 24 hours since they discharged Dad, and the world looks immensely better. I visited Dad this morning in his apartment and he was thrilled to be back home in control of his own day, smiling with delight, talking and laughing with staff members who stopped in to welcome him back. I'm sure he had cheers when he went up to lunch today with his friends. All good. As for me, I walked home with a far lighter step than I have had since Friday at noon when I got the call from the AL facility.  

I even gave myself space to go out and take a few pictures. It doesn't get much than that! 

Globe thistle in a front garden 

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 Three: Past and Present

The past slipping in through the back door

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

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

The past few days have held each of those moments.

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

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

Oh my. 

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

Oh my.

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

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

Priceless. 

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. 

Notes on Small Things

More time for this?

When our neighbors Mark and Mary go out of town, I feed and check on their cat, Sammie. Mary and I were talking this afternoon and, as they are going out of town later this month and then again in November, I wanted to get those dates on my calendar.

I still use a paper calendar. Two, actually: a large one that I keep on the kitchen table, and a small one (a very small one) that I carry with me. Our events and activities and appointments are color-coded: Warren sky blue, me pink, and joint appointments/events a mild green. I make sure that what goes on one calendar goes on the other.

Mary goggled at my calendar. She asked the obvious: "Why don't you keep your calendar on your phone?" 

"Because I don't want to be tethered to it to any greater degree than I am already."

She laughed, then gaped when I opened my calendar to this month and she saw pink after pink after pink.

"I want less pink on my calendar," I announced. 

Mary got me immediately.

These have been hard, overloaded days—yet, still, whatever. Medical appointments have taken a chunk of days with more to come through next week. So has taking care of things for my dad. like picking up and delivering prescriptions or toothpaste or...yeah. I don't note Dad-types of things on the calendars unless they are an outside appointment. If I did, because I have started using orange for him, my calendar would be a patchwork of orange and pink. Not good.

I am picking up some online continuing legal education credits this month; those are on there. Not on the calendar but a constant: housework, our own local errands, the library.

You get the picture.

As we ate supper out on our deck tonight, I told Warren I was not unhappy, but I am worn out. (Add to that exhaustion our both getting our 25-26 Covid and our Fall 2025 flu vaccines yesterday.)

In short, t.i.r.e.d.

"And I am not making time for things I want to do, like write or take pictures," I said. "Look at that bee in the petunias. I mean that kind of thing." 

Warren came up with a practical observation, as he often does. Had I taken care of the things I absolutely had to get done today? Yes? Then let's get the dishes done (he washes, I dry), and then go write. Or read. Or...you get the idea. 

I just penned these lines out while sitting in our living room, then came upstairs to type them in. Absolutely it feels good.

My friend Katrina recently wrote that she noticed my blog has been focusing on small things, and the comfort that seems to bring me. She encouraged me to continue to keep that focus, as it would help me to get through some of everything going on.

As I finish these lines, I can hear the crickets through the open window and even catch a katydid or two piping up. 

And that is enough for now. 

Didn't See That Coming!

Well, just when you think things are swinging along, life throws you a curve ball. This past week was a whopper. I am writing from Riverside Hospital, where I have been since, oh, about 8:00 a.m. Tuesday morning, when the Life Flight helicopter from our hometown hospital, where I had been since 2:00 a.m., touched down on the concrete pad.

Ending first: I am doing fine, I will probably (I hope) be discharged tomorrow. What landed me here may have been a thread of what hit me so hard in 2023; my doctors are still scratching their heads. But it is what it is.

So I have no gardening news. 

But I have great culinary shots of hospital food over the course of the week. When I first arrived, I was on a clear liquid diet only:

Then they advanced me to regular diet, but I was so out of the habit of eating that I just stared at what I ordered and nibbled around it:

This morning, however, I hit my stride. Bacon, blueberry muffin: life is good!

This whole episode reminded me of what I learned so hard a few years ago: how fragile and beautiful life is. I would be lying if I said that I just sailed through this. There was more than one night that had me staring out the window at downtown Columbus, thinking of my family, my friends, my garden, and my dear husband:

Pretty much a constant

I am ready to return home and get back to my daily life. There is a garden to tend to and a life to be lived. But for now, I just put in my lunch order...let's see how the grilled cheese sandwich is! 

*****

I am writing this on my Chromebook, not my Mac. Scratching my head at the formatting changes. Ehhhhh.

A Wednesday Win

This post is for Amanda, who will totally get it and burst out laughing.

We are slated to have some snow/ice roll in later today. The city trucks have been out brining the streets and I wanted to make sure I got a long walk in just in case everything iced up. So I bundled up and took off for the CVS on the south side of town; I had some perks expiring soon (some today) and wanted to use them.

This is what I bought at CVS:

Total cost? $0.00.

But wait, there's more!

Amanda and I both follow Katy Wolk-Stanley, The Non-Consumer Advocate, on Instagram. (I also read Katy's blog, which is often downright hilarious.) Each year, Katy saves all of her "found money" and then lets us know how much she netted for the year. "Found money" is exactly that: a coin dropped that you find and pick up on a parking lot, for example. (I include non-profit mailings where the organization attaches a dime or a nickel to convince you to donate.) With fewer and fewer people using cash, found money is scarcer with each passing month. But I told Amanda I was game if she was game. 

So imagine my delight when, on leaving CVS and preparing to walk back home (1.3 miles each way, in case anyone is wondering), I look down and see this:

Found money! 

Free dish soap, free note cards (yes, I write a lot of letters every month), and a penny for my 2025 found money bowl. 

That's a win no matter how you count it. 

The Best Review Ever

The muffins

I am in the early stages of writing another blog post, but then this happened this morning and was too good to sit on.  

We have all been under a severe cold wave, and most of us around here have dealt with it by staying inside. Add to that the political climate, and many of us, starting with me, are focusing on serving our local community. At home, I am trying to concentrate on what blogger Wendi at My Heart is Always Home recently called the "ordinary moments." 

It helps. 

I spent yesterday afternoon baking: a spinach/feta quiche for supper and cardamon pumpkin muffins for pleasure. Four of those went to our next door neighbors, superb bakers themselves, earning a positive review when the adults shared one between themselves. 

That is not the review I am referring to, glowing as it was. 

My phone tinged at 7:40 this morning with an incoming text: "These are the best muffins I've ever tasted in my life! ... I mean, I have a long life still, so...I might have something even tastier...but there are the best I've ever had so far!" Margaux

Margaux is the 5-year-old next door, a kindergartner like my grandson Orlando (they are 4 months apart in age). Apparently my muffins were a huge hit, her dad adding that after she tasted the muffin, she set it aside and ate her cereal first  "because she realized it was so good that she wanted to save it for last."

I have been baking for decades for fun, for sharing, for profit, for fundraising events. I have had glowing reviews from friends and strangers. But I have never ever had a review like this one. To borrow from Margaux's words, I have had a long life, but still, this is the best review ever! 

Ever! 

Good, Better, Best

Jaime's pie

The holiday concert is upon us this weekend. I always ("always" as in Every. Single. Concert) bake an apple pie for our close friend and conductor, Jaime, a tradition I started years and years ago. And this being the holidays, I make sure that I bake double chocolate cookies to go home for his wife, Oriana, as well as biscotti.

So Saturday afternoon I set about baking Jaime's pie. I had cooked the apples earlier that morning, so in no time at all the pie was in the oven. It came out and was cooling on the coffee table in our study off the kitchen as I made ready to put the first tray of chocolate cookies in the oven.

In short, all was well.

The rim of the pie crust had a few spots where the sugar wash had darkened more than I liked. Piece of cake, I thought. I'll just carefully cut those little nibs off with a serrated knife. Which is exactly what I was doing when the pie flipped off the cooling rack and upside down on the coffee table.

Holy smokes.

Never in almost a HALF CENTURY of baking pies have I ever flipped one off the rack, upside down, and out of its pan.

One smashed pie

The good news is that not one crumb or splatter went on the carpet.

The better news is that I had just enough peeled, sliced apples in the freezer to make a second pie. (I also had another pie tin, plenty of mayo, the works.) So while I defrosted the apples and cooked them down, I also kept baking the chocolate cookies.

The chocolate cookies

The BEST news is that Jaime gets his pie (plus the other goodies; the first batch of biscotti is cooling while I type this), Warren and I get smashed apple pie dessert (yum!), and, most important of all, not one single crumb or splatter landed on the bass drum that Warren has just finished rebuilding for the Mansfield Symphony. Whew!

Proximity of bass drum to flipped pie; it also did not splatter on the hoops below to the left

Good, better, best—you betcha! 

Little Bits

Here are three little bits in the last few days that made me smile.

The book and the bookmark

1) Yesterday I was reading Ghost Dogs: On Killers and Kin, the stunning collection of essays by Andre Dubus III, and a bookmark fell out. A previous borrower at the library must have put it in to save a spot. In light of my recent thoughts about bookmarks, how cool was that?

Grandma's measuring cup

2) This battered measuring cup belonged to my beloved Grandma Skatzes. I keep it—have always kept it—in the flour canister and its sole purpose in my life (besides reminding me of Grandma every time I use it) is to measure flour. I clean it...occasionally. (Once a decade, maybe? Longer than that? Possibly.) Given that it is only used to measure flour and does not mingle with anything else in the kitchen, I long ago realized it didn't need to be cleaned on a regular basis. I mean, come on, it's flour. This past Wednesday, while refilling the flour canister, I took a hard look and saw just how caked with flour this poor little cup was. A warm soak, a good scrub, and I can now head into the holiday baking season with my beloved, battered, and now clean little cup!

Grapes! 

3) Many of us buy markdowns at grocery stores; I know I do, especially in the Kroger produce section. Some of us "trash pick" when we see a pile of stuff on a curb that was clearly put out in hopes that someone will take it away. I do that on both sides: occasionally both setting out stuff and  picking up stuff. So, here's the question. If you pick grapes out of the neighbor's compost bin (which they share with us), is that trash picking or getting a markdown of a markdown? Our backyard neighbors, David and Ashley, often leave for Thanksgiving weekend to visit family. Being conscientious about perishables, Ashley makes sure that produce hits the compost so they don't come home to a refrigerator of glop. I had forgotten that she does that, so when I took our compost out yesterday to dump it in the container (the bin is from the previous owner of their house, who we also know; we share the bin), I opened the lid and let out a yell of discovery. GRAPES! Big, fat grapes! You bet I picked them out! I carried them home, washed them thoroughly (they were mixed with coffee grounds, which made for some interesting flavors), and am enjoying Every. Single. Bite. 

The 2024 Gardens: Part 8

 After weeks of very dry weather, we got some of the spinoff from Hurricane Helene late last week. Not the horrific damage done much further south, especially in the mountains of North Carolina, and not even the hard winds and rains a few hours south in Portsmouth (OH) and the Greenup (KY) area, but enough rain and wind to both refresh and smack the gardens around.

On the heels of that event, and aware that October is now here, I knew that it was time to wade into the kitchen garden and do some harvesting. 

I again grew Trail of Tears black beans, a heritage bean. Warren built two structures for the beans to climb; those were great. We did not think about their placement, tucked in the back on the garden (one against the garage wall), with the agastache on one side and the cosmos blocking much of the way on the other. The agastache and the beans tangled together, not good for either of them. I planted fewer beans this year to boot. The beans grew, but the results were significantly less: about 12 ounces versus almost 3 pounds last year. Next year, I think, next year: different placement, different other things. 

The beans

The peppers got banged around by the weather, with some of the branches breaking off. So I picked a lot of peppers (albeit not a peck) and then spent this morning dicing most of them to freeze and cook with over the winter. We will enjoy the large yellow bells now in salads and as snacks.

The peppers (with some stray tomatoes hanging around)

The basil loved the rain and I may get a small third cutting of it, depending on how October unfolds. That made me smile when I saw it springing back yesterday.

The hardest loss was the cherry tomatoes. Oh, all of the tomato plants did fine for the most part with very little breakage. But the all-but-ripe cherries, which I have been eating happily for weeks, got waterlogged and split open. Not quite but almost a total loss. I know, I know, it's nature. There's always next year. But unlike my dear friend (and co-gardener) Amanda, who told me a few weeks ago that she is "tomatoed out," and unlike another dear friend Tani, who wrote me that she had just torn out her tomato plants for the year (she lives in Minneapolis and their season is different), I hang on until the last tomato. The. Very. Last. Tomato. We're not there yet, but even without the loss, I know that time is growing short on my tomato season. With luck, the green cherries will ripen, or ripen enough that I can finish them inside, and there are still some larger ones on the vine. But, dang, I all but wept seeing those broken cherry tomatoes. 

For lots of reasons, from the late start in this year's gardens (not making that mistake next year) to family events (Dad's move and the emptying of the house) to other external needs that intruded into my time and concentration,  I can safely say without fear of contradiction how I "thought" the gardens would go this year, including how much effort I would put into them, was nowhere close to reality. Nope. Still, we have eaten out of it and shared out of it and that is all well and good. And, optimist that I am, I have made notes and have some thoughts and ideas looking ahead to 2025. 

Why not? 

The 2024 Gardens (Part 7) and Some Other Updates

The Black-eyed Susans recently bloomed

I know, I know. It has been almost a month since I last wrote anything. Let's just say a lot (a lot more, that is) has happened.

On the home/personal front: Dad by his own decision moved into the assisted living portion of the facility that he has been at since mid-June. Medicare was ending his rehab stay and he had a few days to make the decision: return home or move into one of their AL suites? He had been speculating that "maybe" it was time to look at leaving the house, which he has lived in since 1970 (so a strong pull there) and which is not well-suited for a person with mobility and other issues. "Not well-suited," I say? Absolutely terribly suited. The house was built around 1840, which means some hallways and doorways are very narrow, and is made of limestone blocks. Large limestone blocks, which means a giant step from the porch into the house, among other things. My brothers and I held off on pushing him one way or another; when he would bring the matter up with me and raise some of his worries about returning home, I would nod, repeat back what he said, and add that I agree. In the end, in a Sunday morning call with his sister Gail (who lives on the west coast), he announced he was moving into one of the apartments at the place where he was currently in rehab. Gail let out a happy shriek, I almost dropped the phone, and we were off and rolling. That following Monday was move-in for us: furniture (yes, we hired a moving company), personal items from home, whatever, and that Tuesday he moved in from his rehab room to his new one-bedroom suite. It is on the ground floor, so he can watch people coming and going. "I saw you walking up," he announced to me with satisfaction last week. Yep, sure did.

The distance from my front door to his is .85 miles. I can walk it in about 17 minutes. Perfect. And Dad is happy. That is the very best part of this move. He is happy. 

Other great parts of the last few weeks: Warren retired officially on July 31 from the Central Ohio Symphony, going out quietly as was his long-desired wish. (How long? Warren told me 18 years ago while attending a retirement celebration for the then City Fire Chief that he wanted nothing like that when he finally retired.) There are still a few loose ends to help tie up; in a very small non-profit, especially one in the arts world, there are no clean exits, but for the most part he is done, done, done. And enjoying it immensely: he just walked into my study as I am finishing this and expressed great satisfaction at being home on such a beautiful morning. 

Actually, we DID have a small retirement gathering. That evening, we invited our neighbors on both sides to our back deck for snacks and sparkers (a 4th of July gift from a local realtor). The two youngest ones, 5 and 8, enjoyed the sparklers, and everyone enjoyed the evening, the root beer, the laughter, and the talk. Afterwards, Warren gave a satisfied sigh and said that was the perfect way to wrap up his career. And it was.

Some folks keep asking whether we are going to travel, what is Warren going to do to "keep busy," and so on. Ha. He has put his business and interests on the back burner for so long that he is now focusing on bringing his business (custom percussion instruments and repairs/rebuilds of others) back online that there is no worry about "keeping busy." Among other clients, the New York Philharmonic (yes, THAT orchestra) is eagerly waiting for his work. 

And then there's the garden. Gardens, rather. This morning I went out and cut basil for the first time:

Some of the basil from this morning

It filled a 13-gallon trash bag (and the lower shelf of the refrigerator); I plan on making the first batch of 2024 pesto tonight. 

Waiting for its close-up 

I picked the first zucchini of 2024:

More to come! 

Both gardens are going great guns, despite the late start. The tomatoes are coming on strong. It should be a bountiful year.

Kitchen garden

Hej garden

It is already a bountiful year, in my book. Between Dad's move (yes, we have a house to empty out and put on the market, but that is small beans given the enormity of his making his own decision to move), Warren's retirement and next phase of his life, and other ongoing projects (maybe I'll write about Justice Bus and my reentry into legal advising soon), we have full plates. 

I still go outside as dusk falls (earlier and earlier, to my enormous satisfaction) and sit and listen and watch. (In the last two months, I have missed maybe 3 nights total. Maybe.) The fireflies are fewer in number, but still out there. Katydids have joined the night chorus (previously mostly cicadas) and are singing fortissimo. And, if I sit long enough, I see the bats dancing in the sky. 

And that is an abundant life no matter how you measure it. 

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

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.  

Finally, Light

Photo by Claudia Soraya on Unsplash

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that is more than good enough. 

Greatly Exaggerated

Mark Twain very much alive

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

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

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

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

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

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