Inch Five: A New Number

That's an exclamation point on the end! 

Last Friday, I turned 70.

70. 

That was a number, given my initial diagnosis of multiple myeloma (an incurable bone marrow cancer) in 2004, that I never expected to reach.

Ever.

And there have been major health issues since that initial diagnosis that made 70 unlikely. The initial stem cell transplants in 2005 that failed within 90 days? I learned years later that failure changed my prognosis to 18 months. Maybe.

70.

As with many cancers and other terminal illnesses, I have had many times, some chronicled in this blog and all in my personal medical notes, where my overall health declined and the myeloma increased.

70.

And let's not forget my spectacular non-cancer hospitalization in 2023, where I coded in front of my dear Warren, and my less spectacular but still splashy one in 2025.

70.

When I was diagnosed, Sam was 14. I hoped to live long enough to see him reach 18, so my ex-spouse would not be his sole custodian. Sam will be 36 this June.

70.

When I was diagnosed, Ben was just wrapping up his first semester of college. He is now 40, married to Alix for the past almost 16 years, and the father of Orlando and Ramona. 

70.

I never expected to live long enough to see (assuming they were in the cards) grandchildren, let alone the three (don't forget Lyrick!) we have and a 4th one (Warren's daughter) on the way.

70.

20 years ago this summer, Warren and I started to explore a relationship. We had a long, heartfelt, serious discussion (while eating homemade carrot cake in the lot at a grain elevator/railroad crossing in nearby Radnor) about my health. I knew I already loved him dearly, but did not want him or us to go any further without him hearing the scope of my health and my medical needs. Warren listened quietly, then said, "I'm already there for you as your friend. Why would that change?" He made it clear that our being a couple would only deepen that commitment. And he has shown that every single day since.

70.

My birthday (and the days leading up to and then the days after) was filled with texts and cards and emails and calls from all over. The April Justice Bus was the day before and I got birthday hugs from my colleagues. The Day itself included a front door chorus of former coworkers from Juvenile/Probate Court that our friend and neighbor (and judge) Dave had gathered and walked over to our house to sing "Happy Birthday." Later that day, our friend (and conductor and internally known trombonist) Jaime called me and serenaded me on trombone ("Happy Birthday," of course) and then was joined by his dear wife and mother-in-law to shower me with love and birthday wishes.

70.

Alice's Clay Contribution

Our neighbors on one side made me a loaf of "70 bread," and their daughter Alice made me a 70 in polymer clay. 

70.

Birthday Peeps! 

Our neighbors on the other side had me over for tea, Peeps, and a candle to blow out. That sash I am wearing? Dear friends from long ago Stockton days sent that, knowing I was not a "tiara girl."

Sparkly sash and all! 

70.

So here I am, at an age I never thought I would see, and savoring the sweet time.

70.

Watching the Groceries: First Quarter is a Wrap!

 

For the past several years, I have tracked and posted our household spending on groceries. "Groceries" in this blog means food and common household items such as toilet paper, tissues, and cleaning supplies. ("Groceries" does not mean eating out, which for us, unless we are on the road, tends to be very minimal. How minimal? Maybe three to four times in any given quarter.) I will be continuing that habit in 2026, separate and apart from the weekly Inch. 

Like all of us, I am watching prices rise, sometimes suddenly and steeply. I had to get some things for my father yesterday, and I grabbed a gallon of milk while at the grocery. The price for that gallon? $3.19.

$3.19. Just eight days ago (and maybe even more recently than that), it was $2.89, and a few weeks before that, $2.69. I have a milk tale to tell in a bit, but I was caught off guard with the new price. I am sure everyone who sets foot in a grocery store these days has similar tales to tell.

So what does our First Quarter grocery spending look like? $694.69 total, or an average of $231.60 a month for the two of us. Of that amount, $65142 was food: 94% of our total expenditures. And only because January was staggeringly low ($77.49 total) were we able to come in at an average of $232.00 per month. 

I track our spending in a simple spreadsheet, and make general notes as to what our purchases consist of. I also note victories and what I will call lost skirmishes. The last three months have held some of each.

During this quarter, there were two restocks at Aldi, one at the start of February and one at the beginning of March. The former totaled $240.48, with $213.70 being food; the latter was $110.82, with $99.61 being food. The March restock included about $30.00 of "special" soft foods—applesauce, large yogurts, cottage cheese, instant pudding, apple juice—because Warren was facing oral surgery in March and would be on a restricted diet of soft foods for two to three weeks. Even so, despite those two start-of-the-month restocks, our spending for both months were eye watering.

Sigh...and ouch. Or, as I noted on the spreadsheet after February came in at $329.61, Whoa!

I would note that we try to be good stewards and watch closely to make sure we don't waste food. I confess that the quart of cottage cheese (not a staple in this household) was a rare exception. It was shoved in the back, our of sight and mind, and the last quarter of it hit the garbage disposal when I "discovered" it and found it had turned. 

But there were some wins and some reasons to smile. With Easter coming, some of the stores dropped their prices on hams. No, we did not buy six. We bought only one. Our local Meijer (a midwest chain) had its spiral sliced ham selling for 89 cents/pound, 79 cents if you were part of the rewards program (we are), limit one. I had another $1.00 off, also as part of the rewards program, so the final cost per pound came to 69.5 cents. Okay, I'll take that.

But why only one ham this year? (Kroger also had a special on ham.) Because we reorganized BOTH of our freezers (the small upright in the basement and the fridge freezer in our kitchen) at the same time as the ham sales. I had already pulled the remaining ham from last year out to thaw. No surprise when we tackled the freezers: we had a LOT MORE of everything, from ham to chicken to corn to you-name-it, that we realized. We didn't need more ham. We needed to cut and wrap and freeze what we had, which we did over the course of two days, throwing the bones into a stock pot with pounds of beans (which, when done, also went into the freezer).

There were some other grocery wins that also made me smile. In February, I bought a large laundry detergent bottle at CVS for 30 cents, thanks to CVS bonus dollars and coupons. The topper was the gallon of milk story. At the end of March (yes, just a few days ago), milk was selling for $2.89/gallon. I noticed there was one gallon marked down to $1.30. It was nowhere near its pull date, the usual reason for a markdown. But it was the victim of a backroom hit and run with chocolate milk that had poured down over it and had apparently been discovered too late to clean up. 

It was a no brainer. The gallon container was intact; the lid had not been tampered with. $1.30? Yes! But wait, I also had a 65 cents off coupon, so the final cost was 65 cents. 

65 cents. You can't beat that with a stick.

The bargain milk. (Yes, I cleaned it up when I got home.)

I am hoping that with us once again being on top of the contents of our freezers, and turning to them and our pantry before running to the store, we can at least hold at $232.00/month, if not go lower (my hope) as we move on through 2026. 

Let's see what Second Quarter brings! 

Inch Four: Losses

Tracy Kidder

Last Friday brought news of two deaths, one a longtime colleague and friend, the other a writer who helped shape and uplift me by the power of his stories. And although it is several days later, I am still feeling the losses sift through my fingers like sand I cannot begin to catch.

The personal loss was John. John had ten years on me (he would have been 80 this fall) and I had known him probably for 30+ years. We first met when I represented an individual unhappy with his modular home and looking for redress from the company that built it. John represented the company. The contract called for an arbitrator, so we arranged for the parties to meet in the law offices I was an associate in; it had a large room where they could meet privately. So for the hour or so while the parties were in arbitration, John and I sat in another office and talked. Well, looking back, John probably did 99% of the talking: John could talk to anyone about anything for any length of time, without repeating himself. Besides being so loquacious, he had an excellent sense of humor, so time flew by quickly. 

John and I never crossed paths as attorneys again, but in later years, our paths did converge: he was a magistrate in our Juvenile Court for several months (when I was part of that staff) and we had a mutual good friend in Kevin, one of our Municipal Court magistrates. The three of us once had a hilarious (hilarity courtesy of John) lunch in which John told stories about his frat days at OWU (the local college) that had Kevin choking on his water and me just laughing helplessly. In addition, he and his wife Charlotte (who I had gotten to know well while she was still on the bench in the neighboring county) were at various Symphony events, as John was a Board trustee.

I last saw John at the afternoon concert on Sunday, March 22. I am grateful I did, because it was a classic John interaction. The orchestra had played a work by Ohio composer Ching-chu Hu, and John was fascinated with the gongs Warren played in the piece. He came onto stage afterwards (audience members are allowed on stage afterwards) and talked to Warren about the gongs. I told John that when Warren and I got engaged, he gave me an "engagement gong," which I keep in my study. John smiled, said, "that's engaging," nudging my shoulder to make sure I got the joke. He then told me how when he and Charlotte got engaged, he said to her he could either buy her an engagement ring or, because his father worked at Sears, for the same amount they could get a king size mattress and a large TV. Charlotte didn't hesitate: the mattress and the TV. John smiled telling the story, ending with "And that's how I knew Charlotte was absolutely the right woman for me." I went out in the hallway a little later, in time to see Charlotte join John and to hug them both before they left.

So when the phone call came from another friend on Friday, telling me John had died suddenly that morning, my hand went to my heart. John? We still had a note on the coffee table reminding Warren to order a gong for John. We had just seen him.

I am so grateful for those last precious moments. 

Friday was a packed day even before the news about John. So packed, in fact, that I did not even see my email (which I only check on my Chromebook or Mac, not on my phone) until late afternoon. I get a weekly email from writer/artist/fun guy Austin Kleon in which he shares some ideas and recaps some recent events. In scanning that day's list, I read "RIP author Tracy Kidder."

"RIP author Tracy Kidder." 

WHAT?

Kidder had died two days earlier and I had not heard. My hand went back to my heart. Tracy Kidder?

I recently wrote about Kidder, whose books I had read and loved for decades. I even saw and heard him give a talk once about, if memory serves me, his book Mountains Beyond Mountains, about Dr. Paul Farmer. 

And now not only was Kidder dead but I learned it only hours after learning about John. A double slam to the heart.

I have written before about the sliver of hope, after an author dies, is the books that the author left behind. It is that sliver that I am thinking of as I write these lines; I will always have Kidder in his books on my shelf and in the library, always. 

Loss is hard. And yet, as we all know all too well, life keeps moving on after death. As I rough out this post Tuesday night, the spring peepers are raising their voices. The almost full moon is rising above the houses and trees. And although I have lost them both, I am grateful that I knew both John and Tracy, each in his own way, and how much richer my life is for knowing them.

Last night's moon rising

Inch Three: Past and Present

The past slipping in through the back door

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

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

The past few days have held each of those moments.

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

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

Oh my. 

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

Oh my.

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

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

Priceless. 

Inch Two: A Whole Lot of Spillage

All over the floor

Starting with my sewing box. I set it down on the edge of the  coffee table, ready to mend a pocket, pretty sure it was secure.

Not.

And then there was the routine blood draw yesterday at my doctor's office. The needle went in smoothly (I have great veins), Anthony, the nurse, attached the tube to draw the blood, and...the blood, my blood, went spilling out. All over my arm, down on the armrest, all over his glove. 

Anthony quickly grabbed a gauze pad and clamped it on the puncture to stop the flood. He then stared at the spillage.

"I've never seen that happen before," he said, still staring.

Me neither. It wasn't him, it wasn't the needle, it was just my blood deciding it had its own plan.

Spillage seems to be the theme this week.

This is Concert Week, which always makes for a full schedule around here. Even without Warren being the Executive Director (a decision for which I am daily, sometimes hourly, grateful), there is still a lot with moving in the timpani and other percussion equipment (today), rehearsals (tonight, Friday night, Saturday morning), the concert (Sunday afternoon), breaking down the section after the concert, and move-out (Monday). In short, a lot going on. Not to mention his business, his teaching, the national composing consortium he is leading, and...and...and...

Yeah. His time is spilled all over the place.

As for me. things are much better on the Dad front: he is out of rehab and back in his apartment, walking with steadier and firmer steps by the day. That being said, there are still more extra tasks than usual and, no surprise, they fall on me.  I am still running on fumes way too much. 

An example? The other day, walking home from my dad's apartment (a whopping .86 miles, just to put it in perspective), I found myself wishing for the first time ever that I had a car. Forget a room of one's own (sorry, Virginia Woolf). I just wanted a car of one's own—so much so that it said it out loud as I trudged along.

Yesterday was the 17th anniversary of my starting this blog. I think (I hope) it remains true to its title: small moments. With each passing day, I find myself seeking out and finding comfort in such small moments, even if it's just putting away the dry dishes. (We still wash and dry dishes by hand; they then set for a bit on the table.)

In a few weeks, I will turn 70. That is an age I never expected to reach, given my incurable cancer of the last 21+ years, not to mention the non-cancer hospitalizations of 2023 and 2025. (My goal this year? No hospitalizations in 2026.) And yet, I am still here. 

My sewing box that spilled all over? I picked it up and put it back to rights. My blood that spilled all over? Anthony got it all mopped up. The wish for a car that spilled out of my mouth? It fizzled out before I reached home. The crunches on my/our schedules? They will play out (no pun intended on the Symphony front). 

My small moments? I hope they continue to come and I continue to cherish them for what they are: bits of joy, bits of light. 

Inch One: Sam

I have written about my son Sam off and on over the almost 17 years I have been blogging. (Yes, 17 years as of March 17! Frigging unbelievable for lots of reasons, starting with my health.) The younger of my two sons, Sam has provided me with a plethora of challenges and laughter and stress and joyous moments over the years. I know, I know. All children provide parents with those same things; Sam maybe just doubled down on challenges at times. 

And, in all fairness, if you were asking Sam, he no doubt would say the same thing of me as his mother: "Yeah, yeah, Mom has provided me with a plethora of challenges and laughter and stress and joyous moments over the years." And then laugh and go on his merry way.

So why Sam now? Because a week ago he and I had one of the best conversations we have had in years. 

Years.

The phone call was set in motion when I texted him the above photo, asking him if he remembered that mug. Sam bought that for me decades ago, when he was a kindergartner or first grader and attending the Santa Store for students at his elementary school. I still have the mug and have been using it regularly as of late. In my text, I touched base with him; I last talked with him on Christmas and knew he had changed jobs since seeing him last July. I was curious how he was doing and how his partner Georgia was doing. 

Sam replied later that night: "Great mug," adding he would call the next day. And he did.

Sam started immediately on the biggest change in his life: he had just the week before quit his most recent job (as a mail handler with the USPS). Why? Sam didn't mince words: "It was the worst job I have ever held. Just horrid." He was working long, middle-of-the-night hours (biking to work at 3:00 a.m. when he started); his body clock was a mess; he rarely (very rarely) had days off or evenings free; he could not see his friends or spend time with Georgia or go biking or cook for the sheer enjoyment of cookng. He hadn't been able to see his brother in a long time. In short, Sam was disconnected from everything and everyone that gave his life meaning. So, with Georgia's enthusiastic blessings, he quit. (Note: Sam and Georgia live frugal lives, intentionally, so his quitting would not sink their lives. He can take some time, catch his breath, then move on into another job.)

And even though he had just quit, I could hear the change in his voice and his laugh. His body clock had already reset. He was already seeing friends. Life was immediately better.

Sam, Sam, Sam.

From the beginning, my sons (and their families) have been threaded throughout this blog. Even with the 2450 miles between us, I hold them in my hearts and am often reminded of them: a comment, a shrug, a book, a mug. In an early post about Sam's upcoming birthday, I noted how he had once had a perfect day, ending with his scooping up a penny on the ground and exclaiming "Is this my lucky day or what?" 

When we talked last week, I heard that same joyful, lighthearted exhilaration in Sam's voice as that long ago little boy spying a penny. We finished the call and I sat there with tears in my eyes: happy for my boy and his decision to quit an unhealthy situation. 

In that long ago post, I wished Sam a life full of lucky days, and, more importantly, that he never lose the ability to recognize them when they came along. I'd say that wish came true. 

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.