Aging

My friend Tani and I, as part of our long running correspondence by snail mail, often write about the issues of aging: physical, mental, emotional, energy levels, overall health. 

Tani just turned 70; I just turned 70 1/2.

Yes, there are impacts of aging: joint issues, hearing loss, arthritis, other. I get that. But an aging impact hit me yesterday from a most unexpected source: my son Ben.

Ben and I sometimes exchange book titles and he recently raved about Too Like The Lightning by Ada Palmer. He noted that "the book is written in an 18th century novel style and set in the 25th century. Very enjoyable so far." So on the strength of that, I reserved it through our library system. When it arrived and I had it back home, I sent him the above shot to let him know I had it.

Ben replied: "very cool. hope you enjoy. there is some sexual content towards the end of the book, it is very much related to the narrative, just giving you a head's up." 

"[J]ust giving you a head's up"—WHAT??

I stared at that. Ben felt he needed to warn me about sexual content? Good lord. I read Valley of the Dolls in 6TH GRADE!

I texted back: "Trust me, I've read novels with sexual content before, dear one. Thank you for looking after your elderly mother on that regard." 

Last summer we went west and visited Ben and Sam and their/our families. While out with Sam and Georgia, I had what I will delicately refer to as an "accident," not quite able to make the bathroom in time. After I cleaned up, including borrowing running shorts from Sam to make it back to the hotel, I apologized profusely. Sam grinned and said, "Not a problem, Mom. Besides, now I know what my mom is like as an old lady."

Okay, that one I'll concede. But this?

So what's the truest test of aging? When your almost 41-year-old son makes sure his aging mother is forewarned about "sexual content" in the book he raved about.

I'm still laughing.

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 

Community

Sammie 

When my longtime friend Katrina was here earlier this month, she commented more than once on the sense of community she felt in Delaware. Things like the older neighborhood homes with spacious front porches where people called out hellos from their swings and chairs. People walking by smiling and saying hello. The walkability.  The community-focused events we took her to: the 3rd birthday of our remarkable TreeHouse program (Young Adult Transitional Housing) created by our amazing, groundbreaking United Way of Delaware County, the June Justice Bus—these gave her a closer look at how some of us ("us" being both agencies and their staffers as well as volunteers) work to strengthen this community.

Community.

Another friend, Maike, made a similar comment about community in a recent letter. She marveled that an across-the-street neighbor walked over and offered to share tomato plants with us and our neighbors (Ryan grows his own from seed). I took one solely for its name: Pink Bumblebee. (I mean, how could I not take that one?) Maike wrote that she thinks she is the only person in their suburban neighborhood that even has a vegetable garden, calling herself an outlier. In replying, after offering sympathy for her situation, I noted that there are multiple vegetable gardens just in our block, let alone in our city, whether we are talking a plot like ours, raised beds like our neighbors on either side, or even a well-tended tomato in a pot on a front porch.

Community.

Yesterday, I took a morning walk while Warren worked, and the sense of community played out fully. Dog walkers nodding and smiling as we passed. A man clipping a shrub who waved as I walked by. About a block and a half from our home, I stopped to talk to Joe, who I've known for years and who recently turned his lightly sloped front yard from grass into all native plantings, inspired by Doug Tallamy and the Homegrown National Park movement and committing to taking the leap when he realized that Andrews House has a native plant garden on its sloped front yard. The sprinkler was going, the sky was blue, the sun was out, and we both celebrated the freshness of the morning, the joy of being retired, and his hopes for his native plants yard. "Tell Warren I said hi," Joe said as I walked away, waving goodbye. Closer to our home, Andy and another neighbor were on Andy's front porch; they both waved and called hello.

Community.

We spent a large part of yesterday afternoon exploring a nearby community, Newark, its downtown as well as the Earthworks nearby. We ate locally (Moe's BBQ; superb), I spent time reading with Mark Twain, toured the Earthworks (a UNESCO site), and, on the way home, stopped at a Whit's (a frozen custard chain) in a small town on our route, for a treat. (June 21 is a special day for us, and not because of the solstice.) A little boy, maybe 5, maybe slightly older, was there with his grandparents—running in and out (they were eating outside as were we), grabbing napkins, saying hello to everyone. They departed and three bikers (motorcycles, not bicycles) came out with their orders and reveled in the day, the friendships, and the treats. As we came back into town, we made a quick stop at Aldi for ONE item that I needed. Walking in (quickly), I passed a friend, Bennie, who was devouring a candy bar while he hustled his groceries to his car. I quipped about him not waiting until he got home or at least to his car, before digging in, and Bennie grinned, then said, ferociously,  "I EARNED this!"

Mark Twain reading to me

Community.

I am writing this out by pen at our local library while Warren uses the facility's laser cutter to make engraved end caps for a crotale stand order. We were here at 9:00 when it opens, after my going next door where I am cat-sitting Sammie while Mark and Mary are out of town. I reminded Warren we still had baked wonders in our refrigerator, sent over Saturday evening when Margaux next door had a birthday party.

Birthday delights! 

Cat-sitting. Cookies. 

Community.

Inch Seven: Commonplace Books

My commonplace books, 1986 to present

I read a lot. A. Lot. I typically read 200 or more books a year, as well as various magazines, newspapers clippings sent by my dear friend Katrina, writers on Substack, and other blogs. 

I love to read. 

And, as I have written about before, I have been filling commonplace books with quotes collected from all that reading since 1986. (I had earlier commonplace books from the 1970s, but those went away.) I just started Volume 6 this year.

A commonplace book is a longstanding and highly entrenched way for a person to keep information of all kinds, often quotes, sometimes but not always in a notebook. In my case, I capture quotes. (Okay, there's an occasional cartoon or photo, but otherwise just quotes.) 

Commonplace books date back two centuries. Who kept them? Ralph Waldo Emerson. Henry David Thoreau. Mark Twain. Thomas Hardy. Ronald Reagan. Virginia Woolf. Sherlock Holmes (although I do not know if his creator did). The list is endless.

Last week, I wrote about soldiering on. There's been a lot of it. I have had lots of days where EVERYONE'S needs crowd in front of mine.

But, in the mist of all this soldiering on, I came across a gem of a quote to hang my hat, or my heart, on. It from Sara Conklin's weekly email for her site "Frozen Pennies." Sara wrote:

You don't need a full reset to feel better in your life. You just need to stop abandoning yourself in the middle of it. 

"You just need to stop abandoning yourself in the middle of it." 

Did I save that quote in Volume 6?

You betcha.

 As is becoming more of a habit (once again), I am penning these words out (truly penning, not typing) Tuesday evening. The rest of the evening (it is 8:00 p.m.)? Starting to plan this year's garden by reviewing my notes about last year, and then turning to my current read: Desert Solitaire by Edward Abbey.

I'm not abandoning myself tonight. 

Starting From Scratch

Even the houseplants are out of sync this winter

Well, not quite. How about starting from almost scratch?

For many reasons, some of them significant, I have been pretty quiet on the blogging front. Forget my not posting; hell, I am weeks (still) behind on reading the blogs I regularly follow. The events and issues of the last several months have commandeered my time, my concentration, my own tasks—you fill in the blank. And, to be clear, I am not talking about the national and international scenes (horrific though they are): I am talking about family/personal events and issues.

And I have missed my other life: my personal time, my time with my dear Warren, my ability to focus on a task or a project. I have missed writing. I have missed taking photos. I have missed...me.

But after snuffling around (yeah, I had a major pity party a few days ago; that's a pretty rare thing for me) and staring into space way too much, I remembered that I had a solution in my back pocket to get back into my own blogging. Back in 2014, I wrote about Anne Lamott and a exercise she talked about in her book Bird By Bird. She kept (maybe still does) a one-inch square frame on her writing desk. Why? 

"It reminds me that all I have to do is to write down as much as I can see through a one-inch picture frame. This is all I have to bite off for the time being." 

Using that quote as an inspiration, I wrote a figurative square inch a week for the next 180 weeks. 

180 weeks: that's over three years. Whoa. 

So I am going to try the one square inch method to see if that will help jumpstart my writing again. 

Here's hoping. 

Reading Over the Decades

February has been a hard month so far both on the weather front and on the family front. As I wrote in late January, we were hit with snow and way cold temperatures. And while I rejoiced over being able to walk again in early February, between the remaining icy mounds and then the family matter, I did not walk from February 5 until the 12th, causing me to write where I keep track of my time/distance: FINALLY—A WALK! (Frankly, I'm surprised I only gave that note one exclamation point.)

The family matter was that on the 8th, while making his bed in his apartment, my dad caught his foot in the blankets he'd placed on the floor and went down, breaking his left femur in the fall. If you have to break a leg, Dad did it in the best possible way: one clean, sharp break in his upper femur and not his hip. Surgery was the next day, and a few days later he was released to the Rehab Center at the complex he lives at: all good. Assuming all goes well, he has several weeks of rehab ahead of him before he regains independent mobility (he uses a rollator) and moves back into his apartment. But, as the adult child in the area, I spent most of last week at the hospital by myself or with my sister-in-law Kate, and have been at Rehab every day since then while Dad gets acclimated and settled in. Let's just say a lot (A. Lot.) of my last 8 days has been away from home. I am grateful I still have a father (he will be 93 this August) and do not resent the time one bit. I am also exhausted. 

So while I have been so occupied, other things have gone by the wayside. I was starting to do more photography, and that got sidelined. My reading has been hit and miss, to say the least, both reading blogs (Laurie! Kim! Sam!) of friends and books. And my writing, which I really, really want to delve back into, took a huge hit.

I'm tired right now. And there are chores to do. But by golly, this post has been circling in my head for DAYS and I am going to get it done and posted! 

In recent months, I reread the two books shown above: My name Is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok, and All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque. And out of the gate, I will say both of those books read way different at age 70 (well, almost 70!) than they did when I first read them in my teens. 

Like many younger people, I first read All Quiet when I was high school. A. W. Wheen was the original translator and the version I just read was his translation. (Maybe it is THE English translation.) I think I read it again in my 20s, but then did not pick it up until this winter when it popped up in a Little Free Library.

The cover says "THE GREATEST WAR NOVEL OF ALL TIME." Perhaps the version I read decades ago did too, but I don't remember reading it and thinking that. Good? Sure. The greatest? I don't know if I thought that then or not. 

But I sure do now. At my age, with way more life in the rearview mirror, I am stunned at how Remarque paints the absolute meaninglessness and hopelessness of war. And maybe because I was just finishing the Auden book, in which the author paints a vivid picture of how, for the English, World War I was the war that forever defined England, I was more acutely aware of what that war meant to those who fought in it and those who would have fought had it not ended. As I shared with a friend after reading the Auden, I now realize why World War I was the defining war for my beloved Grandmother Skatzes, despite her sons and grandsons fighting in World War II, Korea, and Vietnam.

And the last lines are heartbreaking and beautiful: 

He fell in October 1918, on a day that was quiet and still on the whole front that the army report confined itself to the single sentence: All quiet on the Wester Front. 

He had fallen forward and lay on the earth as though sleeping. Turning him over one saw that he could not have suffered long; his face had an expression of calm, as though almost glad the end had come. 

And then there's Asher Lev. As I have mentioned before (and more than one time), Asher Lev was put into my hands by one of my English teachers in high school, wanting to make sure I did not stop writing the poetry I wanted to write rather than write "nice" poems. Unbeknownst to her, she kicked open the door to Judaism to me, a comment I made at her memorial service this fall, causing her very devout Christian younger daughter (who I'd been in school with in our teen years) to whirl around in the front pew to stare at me. 

Chaim Potok helped shape my beliefs and spiritual leanings, and truly his memory is blessed. Asher Lev is where it all started. Rereading it now in these times, especially with the sharp rise of antisemitism in this country, impacted me even more. 

I last read Asher Lev in 2018, apparently. Not as long a gap as All Quiet, but long enough. But still, it reads way different at my age than it did before (and that 2018 read may have been a quick read). This time, the conflict that Asher works through as he pursues his artistic calling, in direct conflict with his Chasidic community, his father, and his ancestors, made me all but tremble. It made me think of the different choices and turns my life has held, including those that were in direct conflict with family and others, made me feel the emptiness when I don't write or shoot, and made me grateful that Barb Humphreys took me aside all those decades ago and put Asher Lev in my hands.

I don't know what the next several weeks hold on the Dad front. Continued improvement, I hope. I know there will be time commitments and that just is what it is. Warren is very supportive and that helps me beyond words. 

But I also want the coming days and weeks to hold reading. And photography. And writing.

May it be so. 

Words

Plangently.

Sedulous.

Encomia.

Numinous.

I read a lot. A. Lot. I have always read a lot, starting in first grade when the scales fell from my eyes and I had that Helen Keller moment of connecting the print on the page to the word in my head. (In The Miracle Worker, the magic word for Helen was "water." For me, it was "ask.") Once that happened, I went right on reading. And reading. And reading. Even now, most years I read over 200 books annually. 

One of those books this year is The Island: War and Belonging in Auden's England, which traces poet W. H. Auden's life from childhood until he leaves England in 1937 at age 30. I began it last night. Given my proclivity to read A. LOT, I was a bit taken aback that I was only on page 75 (and that does not count the 35 pages of Prologue by author Nicholas Jenkins) and already had the four words above scribbled down to look up. That was last night; this morning I pulled out my Webster's Dictionary and set it on the coffee table as I suspect I will be needing it more.

I am only familiar with the older, post-England, urbane, slick Auden. This book has already opened a whole new way for me to view him and his writing. (Heck, just reading the chronology from birth until he leaves England in 1937 opened new vistas.) 

And apparently reading this book is going to make new additions to my mental dictionary.

Plangently.

Sedulous.

Encomia.

Numinous.

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. 

Indeed It Came

While not a major storm, it did indeed snow last night. Let's just say I am glad we got the garden down. This was the view out our bedroom window this morning:

It is unlikely we"ll be eating outside until, oh, maybe next spring:

Table for one? Or two? Or...none? 

Winter poses its own issues: colder (need more heat inside) and slipperier (need more caution outside) being two of the top ones. It was winter when I took the spectacular fall that left my wrist in pieces, after all. 

But, for me, winter's gifts outweigh its disadvantages. They always have. I savor the quiet outside (snow is a great silencer). I relish the early evenings and the warmth of our living room: literally and figuratively. 

I love winter. 

Yes, I know we are still about six weeks from the official start of winter. Here in central Ohio, after the next few wintry days, we are supposed to have weather back in the 50s, proper fall temperatures. Many trees are still holding onto their leaves, although certainly this snow interlude will hurry that process along. I will deeply appreciate those autumn days when they return, trust me. 

But for now, I am savoring the touch of snow and the hint of what is to come:

It's all good. 

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. 

More Small Things

Peppers, peppers, peppers! 

Right now, small things continue to work the best for me in moving through these days. When other matters become too much to work with, I can always turn to small tasks and find focus and satisfaction. 

Here is another handful of small things. 

This year, we have a pepper harvest to beat any prior pepper harvest (and there is more harvest to come). So after picking (not a peck of pickled peppers) peppers, I decided to make onion/pepper relish (hot bath canning only):

Preparing the relish

And done!

More got cut up and put in the freezer:

Cutting!

And ready for the freezer! 

And some ended up on our supper tables, sliced open, cleaned, and filed with mozzarella cheese:

Ready to prep for supper

Yes, they were delicious! 

Our hot weather finally broke (and hoping beyond hope it stays broke), so last evening I thought "Why not bake some cookies?"

So I did:

Getting ready to start mixing

And done!

They too are delicious!

Even the laundry is satisfying:

Socks socks socks

In the evenings, if Warren is working on business or class, I try to spend my time reading (current read is The Portrait of a Lady by Henry James) or writing letters. 

I know: Just small tasks. Just little things. But right now, it is these little things that help me make sense of my days. And that is more than enough.

Vachel Lindsay: Who Knew?

A young Vachel Lindsay

Oh, sure, I know Vachel Lindsay, the American poet, really I do. 

Not.

I mean, I do "know" who Vachel Lindsay is in the American poetry spectrum. But I never really knew the scope of his works and his life and how that was reflected in his works, and little about his personal life other than the fact that he committed suicide by drinking a bottle of lye at the age of 52.

And I knew a very little bit about some of his larger works, which involved a lot of shouting and singing, but I only read them in poetry collections and never heard them read (or, more accurately, performed) out loud. And as I think back, I do not remember ever, ever reading him in high school classes, not even the one on modern (read "late 1800s to maybe mid-1900s") poetry.

So why Vachel Lindsay now?

The Academy of American Poets has a poem-a-day feature; you give them your email, and every day you get a poem in your inbox. Every. Day. On weekdays, the month's Guest Editor selects the themes, the poets, and so on. On weekends, the poems tend to be "oldies but goodies," reaching back into past centuries. On Saturday, August 2, Lindsay's poem, "Meeting Ourselves," was the selection.

I'd never read that poem before. I read it that day, then saw in the bio note that Lindsay was considered a "founder of modern singing poetry."

Modern singing poetry? 

Well, that phrase sent me down the Vachel Lindsay rabbit hole. I learned that as a young man he had made three long distance "tramps" across America (Florida to Kentucky, New York City to Ohio, and Illinois to New Mexico). He would trade his poems for food, for a place to sleep, for a drink from a well. And all along the way, he took in the sights and sounds and songs and stories of America, with two of his most noted larger works, "Congo" and "General William Booth Enters Into Heaven" being written and published to acclaim after that third trip.

Who knew? I certainly didn't.

Vachel Lindsay had an international reputation and was in high demand on stage. His appearances were not staid poetry readings, but rousing performances that apparently bordered on a mixture of a revival meeting and stage production. Storyteller Studios made a superb video about Lindsay: his life, his accomplishments, his beliefs in community and progressive goals. The video is worth watching on many levels, but especially to see writer/actor Kevin Purcell speak/sing/shout Lindsay's poetry in a style very much like written accounts of Lindsay captured. 

As I continued tapping into nuggets of Vachel Lindsay, I discovered that he was from Springfield, Illinois and is buried in Oak Ridge Cemetery, which also contains Lincoln's tomb. I mentioned Lindsay to Warren and he said, after thinking a moment, that he remembered we'd stopped at "some writer's grave" when we were there in 2021 and that I had taken photos. I had forgotten but Warren was absolutely right, which is pretty good for a guy who is poetry-adverse.

Indeed we had stopped:

And, as I have seen at other burial sites that people make pilgrimages to, a number of coins were laid on top of his stone to let him know he was not forgotten:

The greatest discovery for me on my Lindsay tramp was finding recordings of him reading his own works at Columbia in 1931. Be still, my heart! The recordings are available through Penn Sound, part of the University of Pennsylvania. I have not listened to most of these recordings yet, but I did immediately listen to him recite "The Moon is the North Wind's Cookie," which I read many times in my childhood.

And no, I had no idea it was a Lindsay poem until I saw it listed at Penn Sound.

In 1962, Theodore Roethke wrote a stunning poem, "Supper With Lindsay," which I have read countless times. In it, Lindsay steps into Roethke's room on a brilliant moonlit night and begins talking about the power of poetry. He refers to William Blake: "Why, Blake, he's dead,—/But come to think of it, they say the same of me." The two men share a meal and then, as the kerosene lamp burns down, Lindsay acknowledges he needs to go. But not without a few final observations:

            ‘Who called me poet of the college yell?

            We need a breed that mixes Blake and me,

            Heroes and bears, and old philosophers—

            John Ransom should be here, and Rene’ Char;

            Paul Bunyan is part Russian. did you know?—

            We're getting closer to it all the time.'

In 2014, I wrote a post about my very belated realization that the 1939 movie version of The Wizard of Oz was a pilgrimage tale. Discovering Vachel Lindsay in a new expansive way is not quite the same, but there is definitely a feeling of "how did I not know this?"

But now I do. 

And an older Lindsay

Quiet

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

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

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

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

The fish broke.

I will check the rain gauge when it gets lighter.

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

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

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

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

The web held.

*****

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

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

 We'll see.

COLD

Photo by Alex Padurariu on Unsplash

It is Sunday evening as I write and a light snow is sifting down. For those who watch weather (I do, a little), you may know that central Ohio is in the path of the extreme cold wave hitting the midwest and the east coast. Extreme? -25 or lower with the windchill if it gets really bad. The cold aside, we should miss the heavy snows that are hitting other parts of the country. I will know in the morning when I look out the window.

Despite the cold, I made a point of walking both yesterday and today in the afternoons. I did not do so lightheartedly but with precautions and extreme care. Both afternoons, I chose only clear, clean sidewalks and, today (Sunday), when the air was brittle and the wind drove the temperature down, I was well-bundled. (In comparison, Saturday's walk was under blue, sunny skies with temperatures mild in the mid-20s.)

Until this weekend, I had not walked in several days because of weather and because of letting too many things get in the way. I walk for the exercise, of course. All of my physicians use my walking as a marker of my well-being and always ask me in the course of any appointment how much I am walking (both time and distance) and whether I am experiencing any issues. 

I also use walking to sort things out in my head. The lack of any significant walking (more than just to and from the car) has certainly contributed to a more cluttered mind than I like. So the walks were good for me, even in the cold. I could feel my mind exhale and stretch in gratitude as I walked. 

The cold is predicted to last over the next few days. I visited my dad in his apartment on Saturday and told him if it got as cold as they were predicting, he would not see me for a few days. Dad immediately said, "STAY HOME."

We are both more than happy to stay home over the next few days. As I type these words in on Monday morning, the sun is bright, the sky is blue, and it is a whopping 4 degrees. Warren had to take the car to the repair shop this morning for the replacement transmission, riding our local bus from there to back here, but that is our sole expedition outside. We both have plenty of inside tasks to do, I have plenty (PLENTY) of books at hand, and as soon as I post this, I am heading into the kitchen to bake. My dear friend Cindy calls this response to cold weather "hunkering down;" she lives about 30 miles away and we have exchanged several texts on the topic. 

Here's to hunkering. 

Moving Into 2025

The calendar behind me as I sit at my desk

January 2025 is half over already. I have spent the first few weeks remembering to write "2025" when a date is required on anything, clearing out (more) clutter, preparing for another year of volunteering, and, of course, reading. (It has been pretty cold lately, so my indoor reading time has grown.) Add to that activity a deeper dive (my toes are in the water at least) into our household finances, and that captures a lot of January at the halfway mark. 

On the clutter front, some progress has been made. Last week we took a carload of donations (household, shop, other) to Goodwill. Just this week, I (finally) emptied, recycled, and either disposed or saved three boxes (from holiday gift shipments), clearing them off the coffee table in our downstairs study (which is presently also serving as a holding station for Hyer Percussion). Gone, gone, gone.

Along with good friends and colleagues, I am gearing up for the 2025 Justice Bus season, which will begin the first Thursday in February. I am the attorney wrangler. I also advise. New to my mix this year is cooking. After hearing and seeing clients struggling with being able to afford food, we are adding food to the program. Just something hot and transportable (think crockpot shredded turkey, for example). We have always had "snacks" (granola bars, for example), courtesy of our wonderful community partner Andrews House, but after several of us talked about the situation in November and agreed our clients (and volunteers) could use something heartier, I said I would bring a crockpot with the shredded whatever in it and the buns. We'll see how it goes.

On the grocery front, because I put this in my end-of-2024 post, I will note that our "only buy perishables (or something on a really, really whopping great sale)" January is going great. As of today, we have spent a total of $23.33. I push myself to get creative with our meals: a shredded apple/carrot salad when we did not have any salad green in the house, for example. It was delicious. 

The apple/carrot salad

I mention the groceries because that topic ties into a deeper dive into our household finances. The combination of my updated prognosis, Warren's business ramping up, and some short-term and long-term expenses—a transmission replacement (immediate), traveling to the Pacific Northwest this summer (not that far away), a new-to-us car sometime in the next 3-4 years paying in cash to the greatest extent possible (long-term)—is leading us to talk about ways to start saving for those big ticket items and to run our household frugally so we don't get off track. Even the small wins make me smile. For example, it turns out that because we are both over the age of 65, we are entitled to a 25% reduction on our monthly City refuse collection fee, which just went up to $27/month. That reduction comes to a savings of $81.00/year. Combine that with our City now charging a service fee on all utility payments made by credit card, debit card, or autopay (cash or check is still accepted without a fee), but waiving the fee if you submit an ACH form to have the City pull the monthly bill directly. You bet I got that form turned in ASAP. That's $1.95/month savings: $23+ a year. Combine those two savers and we're saving over $100.00 a year on our City utilities. Easy peasy.

And that brings me to reading. As of Monday, my savings to date from using the library in 2025 are $308.78. I kid you not. Great savings, great reading, great life. 

A New Book

Photo by Olena Bohovyk on Unsplash

A few weeks ago, I was at my dentist's office for a cleaning. Blanche, my dental hygienist of many years, and I talked about my most recent Mayo visit. Her mother-in-law died of multiple myeloma a number of years ago, so she is familiar with the disease and has stayed on top of my health status. When she heard the "very, very stable" and "may well have a normal life span" pronouncements, she was overjoyed.

I told her my own feelings: yes, I (and my family and friends) am delighted. Beyond delighted. Having that new prognosis just changes so much and Warren and I are still talking through those changes. Blanche nodded as she prepped for my cleaning. I then told her about feeling as if I have been reading a large book, all the bookmarks fell out, and I don't know where my place in the book is anymore.

Blanche didn't miss a beat.

"Then it's time to pick a new book."

As I was checking out at the front desk, Blanche stepped back into the hallway from her workspace and called to me. "Don't forget, April. Pick a new book."

Sometimes it takes someone else to point out the obvious.

Pick a new book. 

I am not sure what book I am picking but the message fits me to a tee, both figuratively in my charting the way forward and literally (and somewhat tongue in cheek) as I start a new year of library receipts. Our library system, like an increasing number of them nationwide, lets the borrower know how much they saved by using the library, printing the information on the bottom of the checkout receipt. In 2024, I saved a whopping $4243.78 by checking out books (I rarely check out anything else). That is probably my largest one-year amount since the library started tracking individual savings. I went to the library just yesterday, both to return and check out some waiting books, and my total for 2025 is already $117.89.

Pick a new book? I can't wait.