Donald Hall

Donald Hall died a few months ago, late in June, a few months short of his 90th birthday. When he died, I posted this on Facebook:

Author and poet Donald Hall died Saturday at the age of 89. I first read his words not in the poetry field, but in his memoir String Too Short To Be Saved. His writing has never let me down, especially the heartbreaking and beautiful The Best Day the Worst Day: Life with Jane Kenyon, his memoir of his marriage to Jane, a formidable poet herself, their life together, and her death from leukemia.

In my most recent book post, his work Essays After Eighty was #140 for the year and I commented on how much I loved his work. I just within the last hour finished his final work, A Carnival of Losses: Notes Nearing Ninety. After I read the last sentence and closed the book, I sat there holding the book and my heart in my hands.

Hall predicted, all too accurately, that poets he knew and admired would be forgotten, that his works and the works of his wife Jane Kenyon, would be forgotten, that being forgotten was the reality of being a poet. He writes of going back through old poetry anthologies, including one he helped edit, and being jolted by seeing good works by poets he knew well, and realizing he had forgotten those poems and those poets, not because of old age, but because poetry is always moving into the future. The same can be said of essayists: the Hall essays I took to first some 40 years ago will not be read in another 40.

In one of the Carnival essays, Hall talks about a live performance with Ira Glass in which an interview he gave Glass in 1998, 18 years earlier, was played while Hall sat on stage. The interview was given after the death of Jane Kenyon, and the topic was her death and his grief. The live evening up until then had been something of a comedic event, and Hall wrote that "the uproaring audience slid into immaculate silence." He noted how at the age of 86, he "entered the grief of of my mid-sixties in another century." And then Hall concludes:

Now I understood how death and desolation fit into the riotous joy at the Music Hall in Portsmouth. The emotional intricacy and urgency of human life expresses itself most fiercely in contradiction...Only the wrenching apart permits or reveals the wholeness. Enantiodromia. Up and down. Down and up. Way way down, way way up. A carnival of losses. 

A carnival of losses indeed.  And I've got tickets to the carnival.

Booking It

We leave for points west in less than two weeks, and I just froze the books I have on my reading queue—ten total—until the day before we return. Right now I have 13 books out (two of which I have finished and need to return), another one waiting to be picked up, and two more that are en route to Delaware as I type.

That's a whole lot of reading to get done before we leave!

Waiting to be read

What have I read since last time? Well, since you asked:
137. The Ensemble by Aja Gabel (for all those who love music, and the making of music, read this novel; it follows a string quartet from young adulthood to middle age, both on stage and off)
138. Not That Bad: Dispatches From the Rape Culture, edited by Roxane Gay (a staggering book; Gay asked for submissions from people (men, women, people of color, people in the LGQBT community, wealthy, poor) about being sexually assaulted and this is the result. Not a light read, but an absolutely necessary one)
139. Old in Art School: A Memoir of Starting Over by Nell Painter (Painter, a Professor Emeritus at Princeton, went back to college for a bachelor and master's degree in visual arts at age 64 and writes about finding herself—old, female, African-American, academician—and, finally—artist; I am not a visual artist but reading this book gave me a far deeper appreciation of the process of making art)
140. Essays After Eighty by Donald Hall (I have loved Hall's prose since reading String Too Short To Be Saved many, many years ago—this is next to last book Hall wrote [he recently died at the age of 89]. This is why I love his writing: when he received the National Medal of Arts in 2010, President Obama said something to Hall in his deaf ear; on being asked what the president said to him, Hall replied that Obama said "either 'Your work is immeasurably great' or 'All your stuff is disgusting crap,' but I couldn't make out which." How can you not love that?)
141. Hatchet by Gary Paulsen (this is a reread of a juvenile novel that both my boys and many other young readers read in grade school; think My Side of the Mountain written in a minor (musical, not literary) key)
142. My Side of the Mountain by Jean Craighead George (after reading Hatchet, how could I not follow up with this one? I have read this book more times than I know [although not as many times as Little Women, Katrina!] and have a worn out paperback cover framed in my study; this was the first of two Newbery Award books George crafted. On seeing me reading it, Warren commented how deeply that book impacted him when he read it as a boy)
143. Thanks, Obama: My Hopey, Changey White House Years  by David Litt (the author volunteered in college on the first Obama campaign and ended up in the White House as a speechwriter; there are parts of this book that made me laugh out loud and other parts, especially Litt's account of Obama's eulogy at State Senator Pinckney's funeral after the Charleston massacre, moved me to tears)
144. Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar  by Cheryl Strayed (Strayed, who also wrote the stunning Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail, started her writing life as an advice columnist on The Rumpus; this is a  collection of some of her favorite columns; now she and Steve Almond write a weekly column for The New York Times: "The Sweet Spot")
145. Amity and Prosperity: One Family and the Fracturing of America by Eliza Griswold (when I finished it, I noted "oh, oh, oh." This is a heartrending book about fracking destroying one family in rural Pennsylvania, as well as the impact of fracking on the community and the nation. Spoiler alert: there is not a happy ending)
146. Savage Inequalities: Children in America's School by Jonathan Kozol (this book came out in 1991, detailing institutionalized racism and inequities in this country's public education system in the 1980s; as I reread it in 2018, I am angry that we have not moved that line to the positive at all)
147. Dopesick: Dealers, Doctors, and the Drug Company That Addicted America by Beth Macy (following on the heels of the fracking book, this one also tore my heart and soul out; this is written a decade plus later than Dreamland (#93) and matters have gotten far worse since that earlier work; if you think opioid addiction would "never" happen to you or your loved ones, think again)

Back on June 4, I blogged about how my library receipt tells me how much money I have saved to date. I'm past $2300 and closing in on $2400 fast. Yes, I love that!

Nothing So Poetic As A Blackbird

There is the moment before and the moment just after. Wallace Stevens captured it much beautifully in his poem "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird:"

     I do not know which to prefer,
     The beauty of inflections
     Or the beauty of innuendoes,
     The blackbird whistling
     Or just after.

For me, it was nothing so poetic as that blackbird. It was instead a mandoline that I have used dozens of times before, a zucchini, and a moment of lapsed attention.

First impression: immediate searing pain.

Second impression: there was a whole lot of blood running down my hand.

I had lopped off a small (tiny, really!) piece of my pinkie and a truly tiny nick of my ring finger on my right hand. (Fingers bleed a lot. A whole lot.)

Somehow I moved my hand away before the blood cascaded into the zucchini. Somehow I grabbed a towel to staunch the blood.

Pressure. Apply lots of pressure. As someone who has dealt with major bleeding issues since developing myeloma, I knew all about applying firm pressure.

Ten minutes later, the blood was still flowing freely if I let up on the pressure. I phoned Warren at his office, to give him a heads up and for some moral support. No, I didn't need him home; I just needed some reassurance that I would be okay. Baffled by my odd request but more than willing to please me, Warren said "you'll be okay."

I eventually got the fingers wrapped in gauze, with paper tape and bandages over that. I could see the blood soaking through, but it was soaking more slowly than before, so I was ready to finish what I had started. I cleaned up the bathroom so it no longer looked like a scrapped scene from Psycho ("No, let's have him stab her in the shower, not over the sink").  I went downstairs and finished cutting and bagging the zucchini for the freezer. I think in my bravely soldiering on mode I even did the dishes.

Heck, I even joked about it on my Facebook page: Mandoline: 2  Fingers: 0 (which set off some clever jokes from my musical friend Karen about mandolins and sharp instruments).

When Warren came home, he asked if we should head to the ER. Oh no, it's much better. True, I couldn't do much, but really, it was much better. Besides, there was no way a doctor could suture the cuts. That much even I could tell.

Supper, dishes, reading, bedtime. It'd be nice to change the bandages, I told Warren, and get something fresh on my fingers. I'm sure it's done bleeding.

What a great idea that was, until I tried it.

My fingers post-ER trip 

Warren poked his head in the bathroom and saw the blood running down my arm. "We're going to the ER now, " he said. At 11:45 p.m., we walked in, I held up my hand wrapped in a bloody dishtowel, and we went from there.

The ER doctor confirmed that, indeed, she could not suture the wounds. "That's why you didn't go to the ER when this happened, isn't it?" she asked. Yep, got me dead to rights. She went on to say they could put a wrapping on them that contained a coagulation agent. Oh, and when did I last have a tetanus shot? Outside the parameter, trust me.

All the drama was over and I was home in bed by 1:00 a.m., my fingers heavily wrapped.

The next morning, I posted on Facebook again: "...tis not so deep as a well nor so wide as a church-door, but 'tis enough, 'twill serve." And for good measure, I added "tis but a scratch" and a link to the Black Knight scene from "Monty Python and The Holy Grail."

That was last Friday afternoon. Today I'm down to a small bandage on the pinkie and nothing on the ring finger. I'm moving back towards normal, whatever that may be. True, Warren is on alert when I make a move towards sharp objects in the kitchen. "Let me get that," he says.

And my dad dropped off more zucchini today.

And To Think I Used To Be A Math Whiz

In going over my finances, I noticed some errors in my calculations, specifically the monthly average output for grocery/household combined. The error crept in with the June average, when I used an erroneous figure (too high) for May. I compounded that error in figuring out year-to-date average for July using that same erroneous figure.

So here's the scoop. Despite the high amount spent in June, we still came in with our year-to-date average under $175.00, specifically $172.58. And when I calculated for July using the correct figures? The year-to-date average is $169.82.

Well, heck, we're just sailing along, aren't we?

And I really did used to be a math whiz, other than in geometry. Algebra 2, trig, calculus: those were strong, solid courses for me. I remember working out the formulas for the diameter and circumference of a circle using calculus, which I took in college four years after my last high school math course, and beaming in great delight because it made perfect and beautiful sense to me in a way that geometry never did. Oh, so that's how you reach that formula. Oh, oh, oh. 

Sigh.

July Finances

As I speculated in my post about our June finances, July was a lower cost month on the groceries and household front. Grocery (food) expenditures: $140.95. Household (things like dish soap, laundry detergent): $12.36. Grand total? A cool $153.31.

Our year-to-date monthly average? $173.78. With only five (5!—count 'em!—5!) months left in 2108, we should hit the $175.00 per month average for groceries and household that I am aiming for.

July did hold a major expense: my quarterly trip to Mayo Clinic. That came in at $620.79, which covers hotel, car rental, gas, and meals.

Downtown breakfast at its finest

Our eating out expenses were all over the board. We had some increased eating out expenses because of that  trip to Mayo/ During the trip we took long-time friends out to dinner in Rochester. Warren and I ate that night for $37.50, which included some truly excellent steamed mussels. Just before our leaving for Mayo, our good friends Dick and Milly flew in from California and we tried to get a ballgame in at Great American Ballpark. The evening was a soggy mess and we left before the game got underway after 10:00 p.m. But some of our eating out final numbers includes the hot dog, brat, and ice cream that night ($23.25). The next morning I took our friends downtown to eat at the local diner. A good time was had by all, and yes, my breakfast went into the total. Overall our eating out cost in July came in at $131.50, $66.00 of which we incurred traveling to and from Mayo, including those mussels that one night.

August's expenses while we are at home should be modest too. It is what happens after we head west on vacation that will add up. The tickets are already purchased and paid for in full, as is the rental car. But there will be meals out and groceries in as we share love and food with our family. Warren has never set foot in Winco, my favorite grocery out there. Ramona has a birthday while we are out there.

Birthday cake, anyone?

Storing Up the Fruits of the Earth

The morning after we got back from our trip to Mayo,  I walked into the garden and picked...

54 tomatoes.

I love tomatoes, but even I cannot eat 54 before they start going bad.

Milk prices have dropped, hence the milk jug! 

Some went to my friend, Tonya. Some went to my stepson, David, who came over yesterday to help Warren move machinery and stayed for supper. Some went into the fresh salsa I made for said supper. But there were still a lot of tomatoes left.

A. Lot.

As gardens turn bountiful, I have been laying up the fruits of the earth. I no longer can, but I freeze produce. The zucchinis from Dad's garden, the pesto I made from our basil, the tomatoes I just picked, the watermelon I bought (99¢ at Aldi—how could I not buy it?), the strawberries from the same source: I spent last evening and this morning cleaning and cutting and bagging and trotting up and down the basement steps.

I was recently (two weeks ago, but who's counting?) diagnosed with Type 2 Diabetes, which runs heavily in my family. My family physician and I knew it has been lurking on the horizon; a second A1C confirmed it. When she and I talked about managing the disease, and talked about my diet, I told her I knew where my weak points are. "Carbs and dessert, Pat, carbs and dessert."

And indeed, those are going to be my hot buttons as I remake my diet and remake my lifestyle. Hence the freezer. Warren doesn't eat watermelon. Or fresh tomatoes. I can eat them, but in limited quantities at any one time. So into the freezer the diced watermelon went (to be bagged later):

The same with the tomatoes. Those stacked quart bags cooling their heels will reappear this winter on a homemade pizza:

There are more tomatoes ripening as I speak. We have just started sweet corn season. There will be more food preparation sessions, and those freezer shelves will fill.

My grandmother Nelson, food influence that she was in my life, grew up in Appalachian Kentucky in the early part of this century, without electricity or running water in her early years (and indeed some of her adult years: the farm she and my grandfather had when I was a child had lights, but no running water). Food was a valuable resource and not to be wasted, even without modern conveniences. She was a prodigious gardener and canned everything she could get her hands on. In her later years, when canning became harder, she turned to the freezer. After her death, my parents threw out bags of frozen food that had been in that freezer for eight or ten years, as well as canned  goods that had been on the shelf even longer.

I thought of my grandmother as I chopped and diced and bagged. We were not close; she was not close to anyone. But I think even she would give me a nod of approval and a measured out smile for my efforts.

Of Books And Bees

We are just back from a quarterly trip to Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota. I always liken it to going to the Emerald City in The Wizard of Oz. The trip to the Emerald City was a pilgrimage for Dorothy and company, and the trip to Rochester is always a pilgrimage for me.

Pilgrimages are hard. They change you in fundamental ways. What Dorothy found in her sojourn in Oz was strengths within herself that she never knew existed. What I find from my pilgrimages to Mayo are new ways to hold my remaining days in my hands and examine what time means.

And I find books.

Rochester is a town of Little Free Libraries. There are several within easy walking distance of the hotel we always stay at (right on the edge of the main Mayo campus, our favorite, the 5th Avenue Inn and Suites, is a little worn but clean and priced just right). I have never mapped out the library locations, but I know that if I set out from the hotel and stroll the closest neighborhoods, I will come across some.

And I did:

(The bottom one is the saddest LFL in the world. It had only a few worn children's books in it, all slid over on their sides.)

Between the Rochester LFLs and the one we inspected while in on a walk in Madison (visiting family for two days before heading to Rochester) and my dear sister-in-law Margaret gifting me a copy of Hillbilly Elegy that she had picked up for free at the UW Madison library, my trip was rich in books:

And in bees.

One of the many things I love about Rochester is its neighborhoods and the ones on my walking route this time were abloom in every imaginable way: front gardens, side gardens, hanging baskets, more window planters than I have seen since my childhood, and terraced retaining walls. Bees were everywhere, including this one in (what else?) the bee balm:

My absolute favorite planting, however, one I hope to recreate in a space in my own, was this:

No bees in it when I was there, but Queen Anne's Lace and milkweed? Absolutely perfect.

When we drive to Rochester, we turn on US52 from I-90 and come into the city from the south. There is a moment, as you take the Rochester exit and turns towards the city, when you can see the core downtown, including the shining towers of Mayo Clinic, off at a distance, floating on the horizon. When Warren turned on that exit this trip, I looked north, saw the city, and said, softly, "Emerald City."

Wizards, quests, bees, and books. If that isn't Oz, I don't know what is.