Autumn Arrives in the Garden

By my own admission back in August, I have not paid much attention to gardening this summer. My energy and attention have been spent on other fronts.

It shows.

The weather while we were recently out of town at Mayo didn't help. It rained a lot—not the torrential rains that hit other parts of Ohio and the Midwest, but enough. Ripe tomatoes split open, others dropped to the mud. The large pots on our deck (which we have spent too little time on this season) are full of tall grasses, courtesy (I assume) of the birds; those grasses are outperforming any of the flowers we planted. The flower seeds I sowed (casually) in the back of the garden came up and have spent weeks shoving one another out of the way. It is hard for zinnias to look beat to pieces, but mine do.

This week, which didn't start until we got a little bit of sleep after arriving home at about 1:15 a.m. Tuesday morning, has been full of all kinds of "must tend to" things—catching up on mail, catching up on email, dropping in to see my dad, a series of appointments and other obligations. But I hit a lull, a space, on Friday afternoon where I took clippers in hand, along with a large bowl, lugged the yard waste container around to the garden, and set to work.

Better late than never?

I clipped a lot of tomato vines, both those done with whatever they had produced or those sending out late blooms that clearly would not mature. I picked up and tossed the rotted, split open tomatoes into the container, some of them splitting even further as they landed. I was grateful to see that there are still a few (very few, but a few!) of the larger tomatoes (Best Girls, maybe) still green on the vine, so I hope yet for a few big tomatoes this season. ("Big" compared to cherry tomatoes, which are still coming on, small compared to beefsteak varieties.) I picked peppers—a peck of them? If not literally, certainly figuratively. Those will head to the freezer for meals all winter.

And then I sat down and took a long break. Blue sky, thin wispy clouds. Crowded flowers. Bees in and out. 

Butterflies in and out.

In the past, I have referred to this time as "bee therapy." As I travel through Buddhist realms each day with Thich Nhat Hanh, with his focus on mindful breathing, I wonder if I shouldn't call it bee meditation?

Whatever I call it, I need it. 

I'm penning this out Friday night, to type out Saturday morning. We have an almost full moon and the thin clouds are illuminated from behind. The daylight has changed as the sun moves south. My favorite season is on our doorstep. In a few more weeks, the changing times will bring the 2026 garden to a close.

And that is enough for now.

Lots of Bits

The dome at the Minnesota State Capitol 

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

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

So, I have lots of bits.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inch Eleven and a Half: Another Piece of the Past

Work by Brian Blum ©1980 

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

It has been 45 years, after all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

After the Fog

I was at my PCP's office last week and shared with her the gray fog depression that had wrapped itself around me. After ascertaining that I was stable, my doctor said, "And let's not overlook that it's wintertime and that can add to depression what with the grayness and cold."

I burst out laughing. "Winter is my 2nd favorite season," I said. "Not a factor!" 

Melissa didn't miss a beat. "You just always have to be different, don't you?" And then we both laughed.

In the last few days, the gray fog has disappeared. Disappeared, not just moved over to the side to descend upon me again. I feel I am back to my non-depressed self with a normal (for me, given Melissa's observation about me never being "normal") range of emotions. 

And it does not surprise me one bit to say that I owe this lifting to—what else?—books, two that I just read and one that I am finishing shortly. 

The first is Tracy Kidder's latest: Rough Sleepers: Dr. Jim O'Connell's Urgent Mission to Bring Healing to Homeless People. I am a huge Kidder fan from way back and this book is no exception to his superb eyes, ears, and pen in capturing the story. Kidder's portrayal of a doctor whose career has been dedicated to treating homeless people in Boston is stunning and I heartily recommend it.

Besides the sweep of the story Kidder tells, a tiny piece that captured me was a retelling of the story of Sisyphus, condemned in Greek mythology to push a massive boulder up a steep incline to place it on top, thus freeing him from the ordeal, only to see the boulder roll down and away just as he reaches the summit, dooming him to start all over the next day. Dr. O'Connell, however, talks about a reinterpretation of the tale by existentialist writer Albert Camus: "The struggle itself toward the height is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy."

Sisyphus happy. Oh, oh, oh.

Upon finishing Kidder's book I began HumanKind: Changing the World One Small Act at a Time by Brad Aronson. I had brought it to one of Warren's rehearsals, along with the Kidder, knowing I'd finish the Kidder before the rehearsal ended.  I read the last lines in Rough Sleepers and opened the Aronson. How far did I get before I was in tears? Not far.

Aronson writes movingly and passionately about acts of kindness: some huge, many tiny, but all just acts of kindness towards others. How tiny? Just smiling at people as you pass them on the street or in a store aisle. What moved me deeply was the affirmation for me that small acts do make a difference. This book reinforced my commitment to tikkun olam (mending the world) and underscores what the Talmud emphasizes: the small acts, the small steps, are just as important to take as acts far beyond many of us (think of Martin Luther King, Jr.). We are not "excused" from tikkun olam because we cannot fix the whole world. Instead, the obligation on me as a Jew is, quite simply, just do it. Daily. 

After finishing Aronson Saturday night while Warren was at another rehearsal and concert, I began the third book, Class Cultures and Social Mobility: The Hidden Strengths of Working-Class First Generation Graduates by Paul Dean, a professor at Ohio Wesleyan University here in Delaware.

Oh my. 

Several years ago, I wrote about being a first-gen college student, about still identifying myself as a working class person, and about navigating life through that perspective. 

And now I am reading about those same realities, feelings, and issues in this new work. As I read, I am nodding my head in agreement at what Dean (who is also a first-gen) writes. I feel seen. I feel validated. And, just so you know, I was one of the many individuals that Dean interviewed, so at times I truly see myself. 

I truly believe these books are why my depression has finally lifted. Despite the larger matters that weigh on me (and have not gone away), I'm still here. And I am still mending the world, my world, in small steps and bits that matter. Camus had it right about Sisyphus: the joy was in reaching that summit every single day, then walking back down the hill to start again the next day. 

I can do that. 

The Moon, The Moon

Photo by Abdullah Ahmad on Unsplash

 

Warren and I went to see Macbeth last night, which the OWU Theater Department was staging. Macbeth is my very favorite work by Shakespeare and I was excited to see it performed live.

Yesterday was a rainy, cold, gray day. Before going to the play, we ran an errand nearby, getting in and out of the car quickly. Clouds were scudding overhead and both of us, looking up into the darkening sky, said, almost simultaneously, "There's the moon." 

And indeed, there was the moon, well on its way to a full moon next week, hazy behind a scrim of clouds. 

As Warren knows well, I am drawn to the moon: not as an astronomical feature, not as an astrological predictor, but just because it is the moon. I have been tracking it in the sky for decades, seeing it in its different phases from various points from the east coast to the west coast, but mostly from my own backyard.

I love the moon.

Shakespeare noted the moon more than once in his works. The one most quoted is when Romeo prepares to swear his love to Juliet by the moon and she admonishes him:

O, swear not by the moon, th'inconstant moon,

That monthly changes in her circled orb,                      

Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.

October's full moon was a super moon, rising even larger and brighter than a regular full moon, because the moon was closer to the earth than usual. In writing to my friend Tani, I referenced Juliet's lines and said that if ever there was a teenager's naive statement, it was hers. The moon inconstant? The one thing the moon is, "in her circled orb," is very constant. Yes, the moon changes its phases, but it is always, always constant.

It is not coincidence that both the Jewish and the Muslim calendar are lunar calendars. 

As we exited the play last night, the night was darker and colder. (The theater was cold too, so both of us were chilled even before we opened the exit door.)  We were parked within a half block of the theater, and the walk was cold, wet, and mercifully short. All the same, before we got into the car, we both looked up and once again saw the moon, misty and hazy, but all the same there.

In Act 2, Scene 1 of Macbeth, Fleance says to his father, "The moon is down." 

It wasn't last night. 

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. 

Small Notes, Small Moments

Weaver Leather Supply: best smelling store ever. Ever.
(Photo from the store website.)

Monday Warren and I went out of town for Hyer Percussion matters that he absolutely needed to tend to. After starting my day getting my 2nd Covid-19 2024-2025 shot (I get two because I am so special), we took off in the car headed to the Millersburg area, which is known as the Heart of Amish Ohio. We were not there to sample Amish country, although it was all around us; we were there for the business matters.

During the day, we stopped at Keim Home Center in Charm, at which Warren found the sycamore board of his dreams (seriously); Keim was great but we went there only because I failed to catch the county road turnoff to Yoder Lumber after we had been to Weaver Leather Supply, which was our first stop of the day. 

Although it was a business trip and ended up taking longer than we had anticipated, in part because of missed turns, it was a great day. It was good for both of us to get out of town and away from the house and all of its demands. With a pen and paper, I captured a few notes about what we saw:

• A church sign at the Methodist church in Danville: "We stand tallest when we stoop to help one another." Be still, my heart.
• A yard with several blue, 5-gallon water jugs, upside down and firmly fixed to wood blocks, with holes cut large enough for the chickens that populated the yard to each have her own apartment. (Don't ask me about the rooster; I didn't see him.)
• Electric bikes being ridden everywhere by Amish women carting children, groceries, and such. Solar panels at Amish farms. 
• Passing several yards with small or large apiaries and my recognizing (from reading books on beekeeping) that the hives were still under their winter wraps. 
• I love draft horses and they are big (no pun intended) in Amish country because the farmers use them instead of tractors. I saw a team of four pulling a plow to turn the soil. My favorite was a team of two Belgians, harnessed to a large farm wagon, steadily pulling up to the stop sign on a side road and waiting for us to go by, their elderly owner sitting on the seat; the horses knew what they were doing.
• Having the best brown bag lunch ever maybe, which we ate in the parking lot of Weaver Leather. Of course, we took our own lunch. We had the best lunch ever because Sunday afternoon was a Symphony concert, and by the time it finished and Warren and friends got the timpani and other percussion instruments home, we were cold, hungry, and exhausted. A quick trip to City Barbeque solved that issue; we each saved half of our delicious Sunday night pulled pork sandwiches as the foundation of our Monday parking lot lunch. Great move.
• An Amish buggy parked in front of a Dollar General, quite possibly the only "general store/grocery" in the area, and an older woman, dressed properly in the long skirts and covering cloak, a kapp on her head, headed to the buggy with a full bag on her arm. [Note: Amish women drive buggies; they do not need a man to accompany them. We passed several with often two women chatting away as one drove.]

By the time we got home at 5:00, I was tired and my arm was sore, but the day was a huge business success. (In fact, this morning, Warren was on the phone with Pat Weaver of the aforementioned leather company, about a custom die they will be making for him after we all met yesterday and determined whether it would work.) We had a frozen pizza in the basement freezer, I made a quick salad, and that took care of our supper, which we ate while we both relaxed and talked over the day.

The trip was good as a getaway, and as an important step forward for Warren's business, but it was good for another reason. We are starting to plan a trip out to Portland/Vancouver this summer. When we got back home, I told Warren that I really loved spending the day out driving and doing, but I think the trip convinced me that driving cross-country, timing issues aside (because we have matters here in Delaware that we cannot just set aside for several weeks), is out of the question for me physically unless we stop a LOT. A WHOLE lot. Warren said he felt the same way about both of us. So we talked about starting to sketch out some date and start looking at flights. That was a hard realization, but I reminded myself that while I am about to turn 69 chronologically, 20 years of treatment plus that fun little episode in 2023 has aged me by at least a decade. (And those are doctors speaking, not April feeling sorry for herself.) 

It was a great day full of love, full of talk, full of being together. It doesn't get any better than that.

"You Are Enough"

The frozen lake

A long-sleeved tee was in the gift shop in Eisenberg Building at Mayo Clinic. Across its front were the words "You are enough." When I walked past it this past Monday, I told Warren I needed to tell myself that more regularly: "April, you are enough."

We returned home Wednesday evening from a trip to my Emerald City (Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota). We left last Friday to visit Ann and David, now very close friends, in northern Wisconsin, made our way to Oz for two days, then on to Milwaukee, where Warren had an instrument to deliver to the University of Wisconsin Milwaukee. I wrote some of this post Sunday evening, some more on Monday evening, and am now getting around to finishing it today.

The time in northern Wisconsin was stunning, incredible, amazing. We went there on a heartfelt invitation from a retired symphony Executive Director to Warren on his retirement. The visit was two days of wonderful food, laughter, tears, deep conversations on music, life, language, and implicit bias, a walk across a frozen lake, sharing books, family stories, and more. It was one of the very best times we have ever spent with another couple. It was with heartfelt hugs we said our thanks and drove away Sunday midday to Rochester.

By the time we arrived in Rochester late in the afternoon, I was spent. Warren and I had stubbed our emotional toes as we began the trek, a verbal miscue resulting in a long silent trip with mixed emotions hanging heavy in the air. When we got into our hotel room and after eating supper quietly, we were ready to begin to get back on the same page. As we talked, I surprised myself by saying, slowly, "And I may be dealing with a little depression."

My brilliant therapist Doug, now from over two decades ago, and I talked about depression and that I occasionally experienced what he diagnosed as "situational depression" (as compared to an Axis 1 major depression). He felt strongly that I knew when it happened, what it felt like, and how to first cope and then move beyond it. 

So why now? I thought about that Sunday evening and on into the week. I can toss up several thoughts: the geographical distance of my family and concerns about their personal safety in this country, growing responsibility for my aging father, the screeds in social media (so much so that I am leaning towards deactivating my Facebook account; I don't need to be yelled at about the current administration; trust me, I know): all that and more. 

But without ignoring any of those concerns, I need to move forward, focusing on where I am able to help mend the broken world in my immediate community and family. As the Talmud reminds me, it is not my responsibility to finish the work of perfecting the world, but I am not free to desist from that work either. (From Pirkei Avot.) Taking those words apart and applying them to my feelings, just because I am not able to fix the broken world, I need not dismiss my efforts and work in my sphere, in my life.

As I finish typing this in Friday morning, my mood has shifted as I look into what is ahead of me in the next few months, from legal clinics (the hot sandwiches to go at February's Justice Bus were a hit and I will be repeating that this coming March) to family matters to Warren's brilliant work to this year's garden. (And for those of you who are wondering, the medical front continues to be steady as she goes, to the great delight of all.)

A Hyer Percussion Products; note the university logo on the end piece!

So, back to where this started. "You are enough." I don't need a shirt to remind myself that. And, as Doug worked with me on so many years ago, I have the capacity to deal with whatever this is. I am enough.  

Moving Forward, Maybe, Again, Still

Sunday morning around our table

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

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

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

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

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

So on we worked.

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

So on we work.

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

Yes, that's it.

**********

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

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

Change of Topic

Orlando is clearly ready for takeoff! 

I have been running different post themes through my head this week: compassion, gratitude, solitude, nature, the garden, books. I plan to return to those ideas soon.

But for the next few days, my time will be spent catching up and keeping up with the underage pilot in the photo. My son Ben and grandson Orlando are en route for a short visit as I type. They'll get to Columbus about 5:30 this evening, having started their morning hopping from Portland to Seattle.

I last saw Orlando in the flesh when he was two. TWO. He is now 5. FIVE! This will be his first trip to Ohio and, I think, his first flight ever. 

I can't wait. 

See you on the other side! 

Reflections

 

Photo by Wesley Tingey on Unsplash

Reflections.

I'm not even sure I like that title. But I have been kicking it around in my head (and on the coffee table in the downstairs study) long enough that I will go with it while I write.

In one of those perfect synchronous moments, a letter from my friend Tani (who I have known for almost 4 decades now), Disability Pride Month (July), and my own internal struggles all hit on July 1. My feeling had been simmering for a few weeks, but the sweet combination of Tani's words and the editorial comment on the the Poem-A-Day for July 1, "A Sick-Room Idyll" by Williams Gay, tipped me from simmer to bubbling. 

The editorial comment on the poem was that it offered "a rare glimpse into disability space." Tani matched it as she hashed through her thoughts on the possibility of being "chronically severely disabled." Those thoughts wove deftly into my own reflections (that word again!) on what I coming to see as my "new" limitations. 

In late June, while posting a garden update, I wrote about my capacity, which is an ever-changing measure. When I was writing it, I was thinking about a mid-month trip to Pittsburgh that had rattled my conviction that I was just a "little tired." Shortly after that post, Warren and I had a long conversation about a long-planned vacation east and agreed to cancel it. There was a little bit of sadness in that decision, but also some relief. (And to be fair, the concern about my physical limitations was only one of four factors that caused us to pull the plug.) 

Tani wrote about her mental and physical bandwidth being impacted by her situation. I like that term: bandwidth. I replied with a thumbnail synopsis of where I am at: energy levels, decent. But endurance levels? Nope. I can go and do, but then I am done. A vacation with a lot of driving and sightseeing? Ha! The adrenaline would carry me along for a bit, but then I would collapse—exhausted, unwell, and totally drained, with a bandwidth of zero. And based on what I have been experiencing, the recovery time would be extensive. I doubt my body can take it. 

Yeah.

So, like Tani, my thoughts dwell increasingly on being "chronically disabled" and what that means. (Come on, aren't two progressive incurable blood cancers enough?) Going back to the poem with its "rare glimpse into disability space," I increasingly think about what that may mean for me. (Not to mention my friend, Tani, who is still working with doctors and physical therapists to see whether she can make progress in her situation.) What is my disability space? What does it look like? Feel like? How will it impact me as I continue to live my life the way I want and hope to? 

Synonyms for "reflection" include "contemplation," "meditation," "rumination," and "musing." So if you see me and I seem distant, don't take it personally. I am merely ruminating and musing.

And, of course, reflecting. 

Recombobulating

Yes, this is a real sign at the Milwaukee Airport.

Thea Milwaukee Airport has a large terminal sign pointing passengers to the "Recombobulation Area."

I totally get that.

I am recombobulating. And my recent trip to the Emerald City (Mayo Clinic in Rochester, MN) added to that feeling.

As I discuss my post-2022 life changes with friends, I continue to realize that I am still working to find the rhythms of the day and the week. I find myself struggling with writing. 

Seriously. 

I do not struggle with writing at least 15 minutes a day. That has become a valued routine. With the exception of this past Wednesday, which was a hard travel day back home (I can't write in a moving car), I have written for at least 15 minutes every day since January 2.

So where do I struggle? In recognizing writing as a valid use of my time. I am still struggling with honoring myself and my need and desire to write.

This is my own internal challenge. Warren is tremendously supportive and encouraging. My friends are supportive. My son Ben is pleased. And while I have not shared my writing regimen with Ramona, I know exactly what she would say if I did. "So what took you so long to finally write, Grandma?" And then roll her eyes for good measure.

One writer I follow, Kaki Okumura, recently wrote about how Japanese culture focuses on imperfection, citing kintsugi, the art of repairing broken ceramic pieces with gold, which both beautifies and emphasizes the cracks. Look at our lives through the lens of continuous progress, she wrote: anything we accomplish is progress.

Maybe I need to look at my writing as repairing the cracks with gold, and give myself the grace to do so.

While Warren and I drove the miles from home to Mayo (about 660 miles), we used some of that time to talk about personal matters that don't always get discussed in the rush of any given week. One topic, no surprise, was time. Even without a progressive, incurable cancer, I would be shortsighted to pretend that at almost 67, I have decades of life left. With an incurable, progressive cancer, and having far outstripped even the most generous post-diagnosis life expectancy, any time I have is pure gravy. (Thank you, Raymond Carver.)

I started this particular post in Rochester, on Monday evening after we arrived. In longhand, in my writing notebook. By midday Wednesday, we started our drive back home with some very positive results on the one hand (the myeloma continuing to be incredibly stable; my oncologist called it "surprisingly stable"), and a new (additional) diagnosis on the other (in the "we need to keep an eye on this" stage).

OTOH, OTOH indeed!

So now as I sit at home finishing this post tonight, I circle back to the writing struggle as I consider this new factor. After spending yesterday recuperating (this was a rocket trip of less than 72 hours from walking out the front door to walking back in, at 12:30 a.m. to boot), I got nine hours of sleep last night and could view my life with far more balance. (Truth be told, I felt a lot like George Bailey after realizing he had a wonderful life after all.) 

When my older brother died in 2015, I was one of his eulogists. I speculated in my talk about what lasting advice he would want us to take from his life. After making a couple of proposals, I said, "Life goes on."

And it does.

Raymond Carver was right: this is pure gravy.

Fitzgerald Was Not Wrong

F. Scott Fitzgerald in his later years

 Poor F. Scott. Decades later, he is still misquoted. 

We all think he wrote, "There are no second acts in American lives." But he didn't write that. What he actually wrote was, "I once thought that there were no second acts in American lives, but there was certainly to be a second act to New York's boom days" in a 1933 story called "My Lost City." 

And apparently some version of that line about no second acts showed up in his working notes for The Last Tycoon, the novel he was working on at the time of his death at age 44. Some Fitzgerald scholars see The Last Tycoon as Fitzgerald's own second act to regain his stature as a major American novelist.

I know the feeling of the next act. I'm easily now on my 8th or 9th act, maybe more, depending on where I count from and what I count as an act. And 2023 has, for a variety of reasons, made me wonder what my next act is. 

Last week, at an appointment with my PCP, I said to her, "Don't get this wrong, but I never intended to live this long. I mean, I am truly grateful, but I didn't plan on this!" 

We both started laughing at the same time. What a great problem to have!

But that realization—that I never planned on this given the myeloma—has been on my mind all these first 18 days of 2023.

So what does 2023 look like? 

I have stepped away from most (almost all) of the Legal Clinic, a volunteer effort I have spent much of the last decade and a half deeply involved with. I stepped off the steering committee, I stepped away from the day-to-day operations as of the end of the year. Because of some unexpected December problems. I spent several hours in the last days of 2022 working with my friend Mel (who is Executive Director at Andrews House, which has hosted the Legal Clinic for its 19+ years of existence) cleaning up the mess. I left that meeting with a short list of items to take care of by the next day. Later that next day, Warren and I were driving somewhere and I told him I had finished the list and everything was wrapped up with Clinic. He asked me if I felt okay about that. 

Okay? I felt more than okay, I told him. I felt good and I felt done. I knew it was the right decision to step away finally.

One thing that not planning to live this long has done is make me take a long look at my finances. I'm okay financially. I have a small monthly pension from OPERS (Ohio Public Employee Retirement System) from my years at Juvenile Court and, laughingly, my years on the Civil Service Commission (for which I took the modest honorarium as annual pay, causing my years of service to count as OPERS credit, to my advantage when I got hired at Juvie). By my personal standards, I have a good amount in a savings account, mostly funded by my retirement payout and a bequest from a longtime client and friend who died in 2021. I have not started to draw my social security (I am full retirement age) and this is where the "not planning to live this long" financial planning we did several years back comes into play. Warren will switch to my spousal benefit after my death because it is larger than his. If I continue to live on and delay taking it until 70, he will get the largest benefit due me, which would be about $400 more a month than if I start drawing it in this year at any time. When we discussed this several years about with a financial advisor, I had no doubt I would not be here this long.

 Well, here I am. Now what?  

Not the most immediate problem, but definitely a note in the back of my mind. 

 I do not make resolutions when January 1 rolls around. But I do think about goals, as do some of my friends. What do we want to try to do in this coming year? The same words keep coming up: pay more attention to our health, exercise more regularly, gardening (well, of course!), more reading (the same), working on personal projects (sewing, painting, writing). 

On that last one, looking at the changes in my days without the Legal Clinic, I took a deep breath and told myself to start writing. Not "Oh, I'll think about that and get to it later" and certainly not "I'll wait until inspiration hits." Finally, finally, after years of shutting my eyes to it, I am writing every day. Every. Day. I set my alarm for 15 minutes and write. (As I type this at my study desk, I can look sideways and see the words of Richard Wagamese, an Ojibway writer, taped to my wall. "Just write. Every day. Fifteen minutes." Wagamese was right.) Most days, I continue writing after the alarm goes off, but I make sure I get those 15 minutes in.

I have now outlived F. Scott Fitzgerald by almost 23 years. I'm quite sure he did not expect to die at age 44. And I never expected to see 60, let alone be pushing 67. 

Let's see what this next act brings. 

The Best Newberry Winner Ever

 

Ever.

Friends who know my reading habits know that one of my quirkier reading accomplishments (feats?) is that I have read every Newbery Medal book from the first in 1921 to the present, the 102nd. I did it out of curiosity and a love of reading; my initial read was in 2011, and I have read each year's winner since then.

In 2011, I wrote that the very best Newbery Medal book ever (ever!) was When You Reach Me, the 2010 winner by Patricia Stead. When You Reach Me is a beautiful nod to Madeleine L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time (which won the Newbery in 1963) as well as a skillfully, wonderfully wrought story. 

Every year since 2011, when I read the newest Newbery Medal winner, I mentally compared it to When You Reach Me, my gold standard. There have been some superb Newbery Medal books since then. Last year's winner, When You Trap A Tiger by Tae Keller, came as close as any book to taking the title of "best." It was certainly right up on the heels of When You Reach Me, a very close runner-up.  

And then this year's Newbery Medal book, The Last Cuentista by Donna Barba Higuera, came home from the library last weekend with me.

The Last Cuentista is set in the future. Earth has been destroyed and only those few hundreds chosen by the Collective to carry on humanity were on the escape shuttles to create a new world in a far distant galaxy. Petra is on the shuttle, a young girl who wants to be a storyteller like her beloved abuelita (grandmother), and awakens from her suspended animation to find that the Collective was not pure minded and noble. I'll stop there; go read the book to see how it turns out.

The book is classified as Science Fiction. Yes, definitely. And just as When You Reach Me was a love letter to Madeleine L'Engle, The Last Cuentista is the same to many science fiction and fantasy writers, many of them referenced by name (Neil Gaiman, Octavia Butler, Ursala Le Guin, to name a few). You can see Higuera reaching further back to Orwell and Huxley and their dark futuristic works. But don't dismiss it as "just " sci fi.  As with all great tales, it is a story of love, of family, of resilience, of making connections and bringing out the best in those connections. 

I am more literate in the science fiction/fantasy genres than I used to be, thanks to my sons Ben and Sam. Even so, I am sometimes still slow on the uptake. The morning after reading a significant chunk of the book, I was raving about it to Warren, then stopped mid-sentence and said, out of context, "Oh! Hyperion! OF COURSE!" 

I finished the book just before we headed off early afternoon to set up the stage for the evening's 4th of July concert. I read the very last page of the story and let out a small cry of love and sorrow. I sat there quietly, holding the book to my heart, with tears running down my face. 

It was that stunning.

As we drove over to the concert site, the book still fresh in my heart, my son Ben called to talk. I told him about the book. My voice broke in connecting it to me to him and back again and I was in tears all over again.

I ordered Ben a copy for him and Ramona and it is en route. (In fact, may already be there.) I ordered myself a copy as well. I don't buy books (or much of anything else, for that matter) ever, so that tells you a lot about what it meant to me. 

When You Reach Me will always be on my very short Newbery Medal book "read this one" list. So will When You Trap A Tiger. 

But The Last Cuentista? 

The best Newbery Medal book ever.

Ever. 

Decluttering My Day

 I am on Joshua Becker's "Becoming Minimalist" email list. I have an on again/off again attitude towards those emails; typically I skim them then delete them. But today's article, 20 "First Step" Decluttering Ideas, caught my eye. True to his style, Becker advocated starting small: Declutter the inside of your car (#1), Clear off your nightstand (#5). Baby steps to encourage the reader to take more steps in simplifying their homes and, more to the point, their lives. 

I have felt worse—increasingly worse—physically lately than I have in a long time. Okay, than I have in years. Warren and I head back to Mayo in June, and of course for now I am continuing treatment, but I have questions and observations growing in my mind. And those questions and observations are touching off issues of decluttering—not of the top of the refrigerator (#10), but of my life.

Back in February, looking at what the spring held for me in Legal Clinic, I identified three major Clinic projects, separate and apart from the ongoing assignment of clients to attorneys, that I wanted to see accomplished. One is done. One is almost done (and will be done as of this Thursday afternoon). The third is on hold at the other end of the collaboration, so there is nothing to do right now. Clinic is, for all practical purposes, decluttered.

I'm deactivating my Medium account as an author, I hope by the end of this week. Will I continue to subscribe to and read Medium? Probably. There are some great voices on it. Will I continue to keep my account open to write? No. Not because I am lazy. Not because I feel inferior to some of those great voices (I mean, it is cool to read Barack Obama). But because there is too little of me and, frankly, this blog suits me and my observations best. (There is an E.B. White quote to that effect about his own essays; he felt he excelled best in that format when he wrote about his small observations about everyday life, but I am not going to search my commonplace books to find it right now. And White wrote beautifully and strongly in many formats despite his self-deprecation.) So this blog will continue; my life is full of small moments.

Deactivating my Medium account will declutter the writing corner of my life. 

Today earlier was brilliantly sunny. I thought about being outside, but kept doing inside things, trying to work through how lousy I felt. At about 1:20 today, I crawled into our bed, shaking and miserable. On waking up some 20 minutes later, I came downstairs and followed through on an email I had sent my friend Cindy in which I said first I "hoped" to get back outside in the sunshine, then added '"I know, I know—I need to get out!" 

And I did go out. Yes, I carried some gardening gloves and clippers with the thought that I would do some early garden work, but I quickly set those down. Our deck furniture is still in wraps, so I sat on the deck itself with my back against the tarped furniture. I added a Zildjian ball cap to shade my eyes. And I started writing (in longhand) this blog while feeling the sun, looking up at the blue sky with its scrim of clouds, listening to the birds.

The notebook in which I keep progress notes (how I feel physically) was the only one I had easily at hand, so I wrote in the back pages of it. The cover of that notebook is titled "Here's To Strong Women" with subtitles under it. One of them is "May We Be Them." As I diminish a bit each day, I wonder whether I am a strong woman by continuing on? Or just a stubborn, nay, foolish one?

Back to Joshua and decluttering. In today's trash were my worn out winter boots (which gave me a severe painful callous that may have to be removed by the podiatrist in all likelihood) and the most aged and worn of my three pairs of Skechers, about the only shoes I wear anymore. "Being frugal is not the same as being cheap," say my favorite frugal YouTubers, Larry and Hope Ware of Under the Median. I had been holding onto the boots, despite their being worn out AND painful to my callous, and the shoes thinking—what? That I'd get "one more winter" out of the boots? Another summer out of the worn out shoes? (To complete the picture, realize that the boots have resided behind a living room chair where I tossed them a few months ago to get rid of them, and the shoes had been stuffed into a too stuffed closet since, oh, maybe last summer?) (#9: Declutter old and unused coats and other items from your coat closet.) 

Putting them in the trash, finally, made me feel I was entitled to take care of my feet. Sometimes I forget that taking care of myself is okay. Sometimes I let my mind get cluttered up with thoughts of I might as well hold onto the bad ones "just in case." Just in case of what? That I need to injure my feet some more? 

Another thought decluttered, along with a bit of our living space.

As I wrote out there on our deck, I filled up on sunshine and bird song. My body relaxed and gained some ground. I had to get up to replace the pen as the first gave out. (This is a household of many pens from conferences and percussion trade shows,; we have pens everywhere. Okay, that is cheap and frugal. But this habit also adds to the stream of waste in the world, so that part is not cool.) My knees, feeling every dislocation from my younger years, every step ever climbed/walked/knelt, let their displeasure be known. When I sat back down, I changed my position and thought about my increasing balance and mobility issues. Some of that upcoming Mayo time is in the Neurology Department, a first. For now, I'm not going to let that clutter my mind.

All things come to an end and so did my time on the deck. As I have been typing this, the sky has gone gray and overcast. But oh, the sun! And the birds! And life. That time outside reset me. So maybe, just maybe, I decluttered some of my soul and my heart for now.

A Further Note on Hanukkah, Light, and Love

My husband Warren read my last post and commented (on the actual post, not just to me) that he was there for Hanukkah as well as "an observer and a supporter." 

I cannot say enough about Warren and his acceptance of my Judaism.

I have written about my faith before, including taking a long, hard look at it back in 2011, but Warren's comment caused me to think back about the support that I have had or not had over the years since converting to Judaism many decades ago. 

I was introduced to Judaism through the children's series All-of-a-Kind Family by Sydney Taylor. I had discovered these books while I was reading my way through my childhood in our local library. In the Lutheran church in which I was raised, Judaism was a religion that should have died out with the onset of Christianity. The realization to me when I was 8 or 9 that there were people out there— girls out there—who were Jewish was staggering. That began what was more or less a 15 year journey that ended in my converting formally as a young adult.

At the time of my conversion, I was married into a "culturally Jewish" (well, kinda sorta) family. My father-in-law was agnostic; my mother-in-law was an atheist, but they identified as Jews (to a limited extent) and observed some of the hallmark holidays (to a very limited extent). My then husband, David, was much the same: fiercely atheistic, but more than willing to play the Jewish card when it benefitted him. My in-laws were pleased when I converted, although my mother-in-law (who was and still is a force of nature when it came to respecting the beliefs of others) made it clear she thought all the "God stuff" was foolish and hoped I would soon abandon the religious side of Judaism. 

David, on the other hand, was very opposed to my conversion once it became clear I was going through with it. So opposed, in fact, that he cornered the rabbi before the ceremony and tried to argue that the conversion could not go through without his approval. I still remember Rabbi Stampher politely but firmly informing David that he could either sit down and be quiet or he could leave, but either way the rabbi was moving ahead with the conversion and was not wasting energy on pointless arguments.

I was a believing Jew in a sea of non-believers. Judaism, though, is like that, running the gamut in faith and observance, so while my situation wasn't ideal, it was nonetheless manageable.

My second husband was a lapsed Catholic, albeit one with 12 years of parochial school under his belt. In the early years, he claimed to be very supportive of my beliefs. We attended a few seders together, I lit menorahs every Hanukkah. I took Ben as a very young child to the Reform synagogue in Stockton for some of the holidays. 

That didn't last. For reasons mired deep in mental health issues, my then husband became opposed to my observing any Jewish holidays, let alone exposing our children to Judaism in practice or belief. I ended up raising my children without Judaism even as a belief system (apart from the observances), a loss I regret yet. 

Fast forward to now, or near now. (Scrooge to The Ghost of Christmas Past: "The long past?" "No, your past.") Very early on, Warren and I talked about faith. He was raised in the Christian Science faith, which is a very minority church in mainstream Christianity. While he never joined the church, he nonetheless absorbed many of its tenets. He understood the reality of belonging to a minority religion, especially in this community. More important, Warren made it clear he would support my beliefs however and wherever he could.

So that brings us to now. Every Hanukkah when I light the candles, Warren is present (the exception in pre-pandemic years being when he was not home because of a rehearsal). He listens to me chant the Hebrew, watches me touch the shamash (leader) to the night's candles, even corrects me when I make a lighting error, to our mutual amusement. (My favorite menorah, the Konarski-Anderson menorah, has a shamash but it is not removable to light the other ones with; I touch an extra candle to it and proceed to light the others with the extra. Sometimes I forget the order.) 

I have written about this holiday and the importance of the light. Rabbi Lawrence Kushner said it best: "At the darkest time of year, the tiniest bit of light reminds us that we are all whistling in the dark and hoping, by these rituals of miracles of candlelights and bulbs on evergreens, we remember the divine presence."

Yes, I remember the divine presence. And I very much look at my dear Warren, sitting on the couch watching me light the menorah, to know what a light he is in my life.

Observations About January Money

So here I am, on the last day of January, a month that for many of us felt like it would never end. But here we are and I can finally flip the calendar over come the morning.

As I type these words, two (yes, two!—count 'em!—two!) plumbers are deconstructing tearing out part of a bathroom wall to reach otherwise inaccessible water lines to the shower. The shower has been dripping since sometime in December. We have been frugally capturing the drip water and watering the household plants with it; they have never looked so lush. But the time had come to take on the drip professionally and about twenty minutes into the first plumber's foray, the problem suddenly became much larger and much more labor intensive. Plumber #2 showed up with #1 after the first went for more supplies and lunch.

Their work and some other events of this month have caused me long periods of thinking about sustainable household income. A sustainable household income is one in which you have enough to pay certain items deemed necessities (housing, food, transportation, healthcare, utilities, among others) and, then, in the acid test, could put your hands on $400.00 for an unexpected bill without having to borrow it, put it on a credit card, or skip paying a necessity to pay it.

We are a sustainable household here. Or, rather, we are two sustainable households as we keep separate accounts and there are some expenses that one or the other of us is solely responsible for (major household repairs: Warren because it is his house; my medical bills: me because it is my health). Warren is on more solid financial footing than I am, but, again, we are both sustainable. Still, listening to the plumbers work away, I wince. I just paid my first large medical bill of 2020 (and I have truly excellent insurance, so I am grateful it was only what it was) and I am feeling the need to watch my pennies closely while I rebuild my savings account.

That being said, I am particularly pleased that we are finishing January with decent expenditures on the food/household fronts. In previous posts, I had not yet set a monthly goal for that kind of spending. For the last few years, we had been shooting for $175.00 a month for food and common household items (dish soap, laundry detergent, and the like). The Department of Agriculture has predicted that food-at-home costs will rise only slightly in 2020 (an average of 1%), so tweaking my goal number would be not due to inflation in the outside world but internal inflation (as in "why exactly did you buy that?").

That being said, I'm moving the dial slightly upward for 2020 to $180.00. which is almost halfway between last year's goal of $175/month and our 2019 average of $186/month.

So what did we spend this month? $156.88 in food and $21.44 in household items, for a total of $178.02. And yes, I took that amount into consideration in setting the new monthly goal.

There are a couple items in that $156.88 to which I want to call particular attention. One is that

So many apples in the freezer that I just shoveled them anywhere they would go

we spent $28.99 on apples, all of which I peeled and either froze sliced to make pies with or made into applesauce (much of which went into the freezer). Why so many apples? Because they were there. Because I had the chance to buy several huge loads at bargain prices (lots of culls). Because the Symphony may participate in Pi Day (Warren and I thought about National Pie Day this month, but we just could not pull it off). Because...well, just because.

The other purchase I made note of in my monthly sheets was two bottles (48 fluid ounces) of canola oil marked down to—wait for —75 cents each. Unopened, not leaking, but put on the Kroger bargain shelf for some inexplicable reason. I was not going to leave those bottles behind.

Our eating out costs in January are solely related to necessary travel: the trip to Mayo in early January and Warren traveling to NYC for the Midwinter Managers Meeting by the League of American Orchestras. When I analyzed our eating out costs for 2019 and noted how much was due to conferences and training, Kim at Out My Window commented that I was being too hard on myself. Thank you, Kim! For 2020, I am not going to track food costs related to Mayo or conferences (for the record, I did note the January Mayo costs: $112.28 for 6 days). Those trips are unavoidable and we both work to keep our food costs as low as possible (we always start to Mayo with a packed lunch; Warren boarded the train to NYC with the same). So going forward, I am not tracking those. I will track our local eating out, from coffee dates to "too tired to cook" to "let's treat ourselves."

Those costs in January? Zero. And since I already have supper thawing out, I know we won't be adding to that princely sum.

Heck, at that rate, my anemic account will be flush in no time.

100 Words

A recent submission to the Myeloma Beacon got rejected: too dark and blunt. I really believed in it, so I self-published it on Medium. It got curated, which means the folks at Medium liked it.

For a first-timer, that is like a rookie getting a hit on the first at-bat in the majors.

I write about the inevitable choices I will have to make. At 15+ years of myeloma, I am wearing down. 

And I write about what an amazing world it is.

I am stable. I am not stopping treatment. But I am looking ahead.

Here's the link: https://medium.com/@aprilnelson56/the-exit-door-up-ahead-aab21150ae7a