And Here We Are After All

Ramona 2018

Last week we hosted the Dalí Quartet, the featured guest artists for the Symphony's season debut concert, with two of them staying in our home and the other two next door. Our living room became their rehearsal space for the week. My study was serving as a bedroom during that time, so I spent my days (and some evenings) at the kitchen table, reading, writing, baking, and much of the time being serenaded by Chamber Music America's 2024 Ensemble of the Year. (Yes, they are phenomenal.) 

With the quartet rehearsing in our living room daily and my study unavailable, I had to plan what I needed to lay out (books, files, pads to write on) each morning before they started. We had moved the coffee table into the next room, usually our downstairs study but currently an instrument holding pit for Hyer Percussion, but sometimes I came up short on my planning. The musicians would not have minded my walking into the living room to grab something, but I did not want to do that. I could coast and shift gears when needed.

One of the things I found myself doing in odd moments was reading back over old, old blog posts. What did I write about ten years ago? How about 15 years ago, when I started blogging? (15 years ago? Dang.)

In rereading, I came across a post from September, 2018, written after a trip out to Portland and time with Ramona, who was then six. In it, I reference the (still) in-progress MS novel I was writing, which features a 12-year-old Ramona, and then describe to Warren how on that day with Ramona I "met" my granddaughter—the one who was 12 and the one I would never live to see.

That sentiment about never living to see that future Ramona was not me being overly dramatic. In looking at old blog posts, I am more than a bit taken aback at how ever-present the myeloma was, the toll it was taking on me, and the growing sense of time slipping through my fingers. So when I wrote "I will never know Ramona at 12," that was a realistic projection.

After rereading that post this weekend, I shared my thoughts with Warren and read him the lines towards the end about meeting my future Ramona. My voice broke again, just as it did in 2018. When I finished, we both sat quietly for a moment.

Ramona 2024

Ramona turned 12 on September 1. My granddaughter: 12. Like my speculations in 2018, she is amazing and wonderful. And I am here to see that.

What a gift. An absolutely unexpected, marvelous gift.

Regaining Rhythm

My work station earlier today

Rhythm.

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

Rhythm.

My rhythm? I am still regaining it.

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

So, back to rhythms. 

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

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

It feels good to be baking again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One step at a time.

The 2024 Gardens: Part 8

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

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

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

The beans

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

The peppers (with some stray tomatoes hanging around)

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

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

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

Why not? 

At the End of Three: Looking at Groceries 2024

Photo by micheile henderson on Unsplash

As we wrap up the 3rd quarter of 2024, I have again tallied up our grocery spending to see where we are for the quarter, where we are for the year, and what I think the last quarter of 2024 will hold.

Spoiler alert: the last topic takes up the most space. Not to mention the most thought on my part. 

In the 3rd quarter, we spent on groceries (food and and household staples) the sum of $731.78, an average of $243.93 a month. Of that amount, $699.76 was spent on food, 96% of the overall amount.

There were some stock up moments: chicken leg quarters at 59¢ a pound, sold in 10-pound bags: we bought two for a total of $11.90. There were a few splurges: frozen mini spanakopita from Aldi ($4.99), a gallon of apple cider ($5.99) now that fall is settling in. And there were some victories. I brought home unused items from the clearing out of my dad's house: open and partially full bottles of laundry detergent, dish soap (the same), an unopened box of Raisin Bran, and 2 unopened sleeves of saltines. Thanks to CVS Bonus dollars (both dad and I fill our prescriptions there), I picked up three laundry detergents (100 fluid ounces each) and one massive bleach (121 fluid ounces, just shy of a gallon) for a combined total of $3.77. 

What else do I do? I shop with a list. I scan the weekly flyers. Aldi is our primary store; Kroger our secondary. I use Kroger coupons if they are for something on my list. I have no problem buying marked-down food (the bratwurst at Aldi was marked down $1.00 per pound package because the sell-by date was the next day). Still, the dollar amounts were higher for the quarter than I had hoped.  

So where do we stand for the year? YTD, we have spent $1907.41 on groceries. That comes out to a monthly average of $211.93. That is $15.99 higher than where we were at the end of June, when we were at $195.94 per month. To get our annual average monthly spending to come in at $200.00 per month, we would have to finish 4th quarter at $493.00 total, which would come to $164.00 a month. 

But, and here is the prelude to my lengthy observations, I think we can do it. After you pick yourself up off the floor from laughing, keep reading. 

I have been following Hope and Larry Ware, the Under the Median couple, on YouTube for a few years. One of their hard and fast rules is that to keep food costs under control is to REGULARLY inventory your pantry and cabinets, refrigerator, and freezer (not just the one with your fridge; inventory the deep freeze if you own one, which we do). Know what you have in those places, know (in the case of the refrigerator) what is perishable so it doesn't go to waste, and use that knowledge to keep your grocery purchases in line.

Okay, okay. I tell myself I know what is in our pantry/cabinets. I know what is in the fridge (food spoilage is about zip in this household). When I prepare a shopping list for a Big Shopping, I check those places against the list. 

But the downstairs freezer? I was confident I knew what that freezer held. Sure, Warren and I hadn't reorganized it for quite some time, but I knew.

Ha.

As it turns out, I was clueless (CLUELESS) about what both our deep freezer AND our small top-of-the-fridge one held. And two comparisons—one from recent real life, the other from a beloved book—came to mind.

As I have recently written, we have been emptying out my father's house and outbuildings to get his property ready to go on the real estate market. (Update: we finished, it went on the market last Thursday at about 5:00 p.m., there were numerous showings, and it went into contract Monday afternoon.) As part of the ordeal of getting it market ready, we collected all the hazardous waste products for proper disposal. These ranged from latex paints to different cleaners to compounds used in the garage to insecticides to...you get the idea. So how many total pounds of hazardous wastes did we collect and turn in on the last two hazardous waste drop days of 2024? 246 pounds. Yes, you read that right. 246 pounds. Every single time one of us thought we had collected it all (from the garages, from the basement, from the house, from the wood shop), another bottle or can or tube or tub would appear.

Comparison? We had the very same experience as we emptied out the freezer, both the one in the basement (a joint project) and the one on the fridge (I tackled that one). Every time I thought we had uncovered all of the this or that, another that or this would turn up underneath the first one. 

As for the literary reference, all that kept coming to mind was the scene from An Old-Fashioned Girl (which I now think of as Louisa May Alcott's greatest juvenile work) when Polly does a thrifty makeover of Fan's wardrobe: Fanny brought out her "rags" and was astonished to see how many she had, for chair, sofa, bed, and bureau were covered, and still Maude, who was burrowing in the closets, kept crying, "Here's another!" 

Yes, that was definitely my freezer experience. I was both Fanny (astonished) and Maude ("Here's another!") as we worked and emptied. 

I kept some notes as we went along. In the upstairs above-the-fridge freezer, the one I was "sure" I knew what it contained, I noted the following: 2 bags of Aldi potstickers (I thought we had 1), the 3-pound bag of Kroger tortellini, still half full, 3 small containers of pasta sauces (we freeze them so they don't spoil in the fridge) that I had forgotten about, 3 brats and 4 large buns, several desserts, including 2—2! Count 'em! 2!—containers holding brownies I froze after July 4th, 6 hot dogs frozen in twos (buns in the downstairs freezer, don't ask me why I separated them). I kinda sorta knew we had some (most?) of that stuff, but I wasn't spot on. 

Downstairs? LOTS of frozen stock (ham, turkey, chicken) as well as ham bones and one lamb leg bone to make more stock with, so much stock that I decided not to make any more until we use these up, including those bones. Bean soups: several quart containers. 2 smoked hams (those I knew we had). 10 packs of chicken leg quarters (2 per pack; these are the ones I mentioned above), chicken thighs bought earlier at 89¢ a pound, also frozen in sets of two, ham slices, oh, still some lamb, oh, and diced pork from...way back. (It cooked up great.) Quart bags of frozen, sliced zucchini from both 2023 AND 2024, the same with corn cut off the cob (both years), hot dog and hamburger buns (all frozen in packs of 2), and more pesto from 2023 than I thought we still had. There were some other items as well, but just pulling out another and then another bag of corn made me realize just how much food we really did have. And how much food we just let accumulate, in part because we were not paying attention to what we already had. 

As long as I am in a confessional mode, let me add that I also thought I had a pretty good idea of the food in the cupboards, as well as our pantry, until I looked at the shelves on which I keep cooking spices and realize that there are containers last opened in...2020? Earlier? (I plan to open those in the next coming days, smell/taste to see if there is any life left in them, and act accordingly.) Ask me about tossing the ancient can of pickling spices, also way beyond redemption, and then deciding to make candied dills, which I last made in maybe 2017 (or earlier) and shelling out $4.49 for a fresh can. (Trust me, that beat trying to assemble the spices that make up pickling spices; that outlay would have been hefty. And yes, I will use them up!) 

So now back to grocery spending for the 4th quarter and how to keep it in check. Hmmn. For starters, we now have an amount ($164.00 a month) that we know we have to stick very close to if we want to try to hit that $200/month average. (I track our grocery spending on a spreadsheet, so that part—tracking—will be easy.) Looking at the bigger issue, Warren and I have shared some thoughts. Prepare and eat more of what we already have in stock, frozen or on the shelf, instead of buying this or that item because neither of us stopped to assess what we already have. Continue to experiment with ways to make dishes more filling, as well as come up with different ways and workarounds to make the same or similar dishes we often eat using less expensive but still flavorful ingredients. (Side note: I do much of the meal prep and cooking, by choice. So I will be taking the lead here.) 

Not that there aren't challenges. The Symphony season launches October 12 and we have two guest artists staying with us. We may have two more artists staying with us in November for that concert. None of them (I know 3 of the 4 possible) are fussy or demanding, but we need to make sure our guests are fed! And there is biscotti AND peanut brittle in December. Even so, I think we can hit our mark.

Stay tuned! 

All These Days

 It has been a month since I last posted here. No surprise why. We have been consumed by clearing out my father's house in order to get it on the market by October 1. We will hit that deadline with several days to spare, but it has taken a toll on all of us—my brother Michel, his wife Kate, their son Timon, their grandson Arlo, Warren, Warren's son David, and myself. We have all pitched in to the last full measure, but the job has taken huge bites out of our respective schedules, other obligations, and health (in some cases). And it is not as if the rest of the world stopped spinning to accommodate the clearing out of Stuff. 

A few more items from Dad's house came home with me. A green sweatshirt (pullover, no hood). An eight-pointed serving bowl that graced our supper table for years. A few tools. One of dad's paintings. But not much else. 

This bowl dates back to the "Made in Japan" era

I have kinda sorta managed to keep up somewhat with the kitchen garden as I am having a boon tomato year. There is more pesto to make. The cosmos and the agastache are full of bees and butterflies and sometimes I remind myself to stop and watch them. 

Bee in the agastache

I have poked books and writing letters into spare moments, most often in the evening. For the first time in forever, I have nodded off more than once while reading. And at least one letter bore marks of exhaustion: writing my address instead of Tani's on the envelope, being off on the date by a month (when did September get here?). The High Holy Days are approaching and I have not given much thought to them and their importance.

Indeed, these days are full. All these days. I do not regret or resent the time spent on Dad's homestead, but we are all ready for it to be done. 

And it almost is. 

The Lure of STUFF

 I have written before about Stuff: the tangible items we fill our homes and lives with. You know what I mean: furniture, books, pencils, cookware, pictures on the wall, dishes—you name it, we all tend to have it (often in excess).

I try hard to eschew acquiring more Stuff at this point in my life. I noted in a long ago post that someone had challenged me on the sparseness of my life,  suggesting I really wanted to live a more luxurious life. The inquisitor loved (and purchased) lots of Stuff: tons of clothes, expensive meals in fancy restaurants, and pricey tickets to special events, to name a few.

Nope, wasn't for me then. Not for me now. If anything, I am often looking for way to lighten the overload of my Stuff in this house. (It's a long journey.)

All the same, I am in the midst of a test of my willpower to stay true to my principles and NOT add more Stuff to my life and this household.

As I have mentioned in recent posts, my father has moved into a one-bedroom apartment in an assisted living facility. (Wonderful move.) As he settles in, he has made it very clear that he wants very few items from his home of 54 years—no photos, the kitchen bulletin board full of more photos, most of his clothes, all but one or two books, and so on. As a result, his apartment is crisp and has a few items that hold deep personal meaning for him, but the rest of the Stuff of his prior life is not in the way. [And, for the record, Dad calls these items "Stuff" too. To quote him yesterday and today when I asked him about specific items, he looked at me and said "I don't want that Stuff here."]

As a result, my brother Mike, his wife Kate, their grandson Arlo, Warren, and I are taking the lead on clearing Dad's house of Stuff. There is a lot. A. Lot. And this is where I find myself being lured...

Last evening Warren and I went out to the house to deliver some items (for Mike and Kate to work with today) and we looked at a few things while there. Look at the pans—oooh. Oh, look at the blue ceramic serving bowl—ahhh. There was a snug-looking hoodie sweatshirt (a zip jacket) in Dad's closet (more about that later). 

My hand was on the bowl to "just" think about it. Warren and I pulled out several of the pans, which match some of ours. Then it hit us both: we have pans and plenty of them. As for the ceramic bowl, I have bowls that I like and those are more than enough. As for the hoodie sweatshirt, it came to me at about 5:00 a.m. (my usual waking time) that I have a hoodie zip-up sweatshirt, one that in fact Warren bought for me on a trip out west when I needed something warmer for a day at the Oregon coast. Whenever I slip it on, I think of that trip and smile. In short, we did not need any of these items, we lack the room for some of them (the pans, definitely), and we are more than okay with the Stuff we already own and use. 

But I confess: the siren call of Stuff caught me in the end.

I was opening various drawers in the kitchen to see what all was there. Potholders galore (decorative and "cute" if you are into that kind of thing, some of them still in the wrapper they came in, but not very functional for heavy-duty cooking and baking) in one. An outdated can of baking powder in another. You get the idea. 

And then in one drawer...

A manual can opener. Not just a manual can opener, but a bright red,  lightweight one. 

We have a can opener at home. It is large and it works well. It is also heavy. This one is red and shiny and light. This one had never been taken off the cardboard backing it was on when purchased for the staggering price of...wait for it...$2.00

I didn't even hesitate, but picked it up and brought it home. I took it off the backing this morning, opened a can zip-zip-zip, and smiled.

Yes, it's one more item of Stuff. But it's red. And lightweight. And...I can live with adding it to our home.

The 2024 Gardens (Part 7) and Some Other Updates

The Black-eyed Susans recently bloomed

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

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

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

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

Actually, we DID have a small retirement gathering. That evening, we invited our neighbors on both sides to our back deck for snacks and sparkers (a 4th of July gift from a local realtor). The two youngest ones, 5 and 10, enjoyed the sparklers, and everyone enjoyed the evening, the root beer, the laughter, and the talk. Afterwards, Warren gave a satisfied sigh and said that was the perfect way to wrap up his career. And it was.

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

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

Some of the basil from this morning

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

Waiting for its close-up 

I picked the first zucchini of 2024:

More to come! 

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

Kitchen garden

Hej garden

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

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

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