Bookmarks All Over the Floor

Bookmarks everywhere

My son Ben, starting in his early childhood and lasting into adolescence, collected bookmarks. Our local library had free ones that they rotated on a monthly basis, sometimes adding additional bookmarks for some holidays. Other family members, aware of his penchant for bookmarks, would pass along ones they had tucked away at home or that they came across during vacations or other outings. Bookmarks were inexpensive and found in every museum, gift shop, or other sites, and Ben acquired many that way. In short, Ben had a lot of bookmarks.

A. Lot.

I still have many of Ben's bookmarks, kept in a vintage popcorn box from our local vintage movie theater. As an avid reader, I always keep some at hand: one to mark my place in the book, and others to mark pages I want to return to for lines to copy into my current commonplace book (Volume 5). 

Ben's former collection, now my collection

So there are still a lot of bookmarks in this house. But the image of bookmarks recently rose to new prominence. 

In late October, Warren and I traveled to Rochester, Minnesota, for an appointment with Dr. Nelson Leung, my myeloma specialist at the Mayo Clinic there. My myeloma has been remarkably stable for over a year now and, after my June appointment with him, we were eager to have him weigh in with his thoughts as to my prognosis. 

The day before my Mayo appointment, my longtime dear friend Tani and her husband Tom (who is also a dear friend; I just have known Tani way longer) came down from Minneapolis to see us. I shared with them what we were waiting to discuss with Dr. Leung: where am I on the myeloma spectrum? I told them both, "I didn't expect to live this long! I'm not prepared!"

Tani laughed. "You'll just have to learn to be a little old lady like me!" (For the record, I am SIX MONTHS older than Tani.) We all laughed.

I was not exaggerating when I said "I didn't expect to live this long! I'm not prepared!" When I was diagnosed with myeloma in November, 2004, the average lifespan post-diagnosis was five years. Five. Seven to ten years was a stretch. And while my then (and still now) local oncologist Tim emphasized at our very first meeting "to pay no attention to the stats, because everyone is different," I nonetheless knew what the stats were. I just hoped I got enough time to see my youngest son, Sam, who was then 14, make it to age of majority. 

In the years that followed my diagnosis, there were up and downs, including the 2005 tandem stem cell transplants that failed in 90 days (which, as I learned years later from Dr. Leung, was a red flag marker for likely dying within the next 18 months post-failure), treatments that did nothing for me or set me back, and so. Just life in Cancerland.

So I never planned on reaching 20 years out. Ever.

That afternoon at Mayo, Warren and I waited for Dr. Leung to come into the examining room. And when he came in and we talked and asked questions and received answers and shared other information and talked some more, his bottom line emerged: I am very, very stable. So stable that I will not resume treatment in the foreseeable future, so stable that I can step back from labs every 4 weeks (when I see Tim), so stable that I can step back from going to Mayo so frequently, so stable that I can step back from...Cancerland.

Myeloma is incurable, period. But sometimes a patient will be so stable that it is almost like living without myeloma. (And, I do have two other myeloma-related blood disorders, but they too are very stable.)

All three of us were laughing and exclaiming and a little teary. I then blurted out to Dr. Leung what I had just said to Tani the day before: "This is great but I never planned to be 68 years old!" 

Dr. Leung laughed that another patient, also doing unexpectedly well, joked that he would have been more careful with his money management had he known.

I shook my head. "No, I'm not talking about my finances. I mean, I never expected to live this long and I don't know what to do."

Before Dr. Leung could reply, the perfect image came to mind.

"It's like I have been reading a big book, marking places as I go, then dropped it and all the bookmarks fell out. I don't know where all the bookmarks go!"

I am not sure I yet know where the bookmarks all go. After all, it's only been a month since that new prognosis arrived and it is still sinking in. Wherever I am in my book, I do know there have already been far more chapters than I ever expected back when Tim first diagnosed me. 

Bookmarks all over the floor. Trust me, it's a good problem to have. 

That's One Small Step For...Me

How I Step

As I wrote in my last post, I am taking steps to unplug (de-plug, turn off, step away, whatever word fits best) myself from the e-world and even just computers, period. I use a Mac Mini in my study; I turn it on only when I am working on matters like Justice Bus, paperwork for my dad, Hyer Percussion (my husband's business), tracking our monthly grocery spending (Spoiler alert: we're not going to hit that $200/month average!), typing this blog, or when, related to any of those things, I need to print something off. I turn it off when I am done using it for the day, which sometimes is by mid-morning. I use a Chromebook for more casual things (checking email, for example), and have gone back to shutting it off by about 5:00 p.m. I have a smart phone, but since getting it a little over a year ago, I have steadfastly used it for texting and calls only—no social media, no emails—so it too stays silent most evenings.

Unplugging sounds right and I know from past experience that it is the best thing for me to do, so that I can use my evenings for more personal tasks and matters. That being said, the habit of constantly checking things online is hard to let go of. Here's an immediate example: this afternoon I have a phone conference with Dad's longtime financial advisor. I will be joining Dad in his apartment and taking notes as we go. Last night, as I was penning this post out, I knew there was an email from the advisor touching on topics he knew Dad wants to address. I had to tell myself more than once that the email could wait until the morning. The meeting is not until 1:30; there was no urgency to go over that email in the evening. And it was a short email, not a detailed one, to boot! 

Vlogger/writer Anthony Ongaro used to have a site, Break the Twitch, in which he talked about this very point of constantly checking our phones, our emails, our whatever and how our brains were accustomed to doing this so much that it was an automatic reflex. Hence, the twitch and his suggestions for breaking it. (The site is still online but it is no longer updated.) 

I get the twitch concept. It hit me hard last night with regard to that email. I had to talk myself down from the twitch cliff. There is reading, writing, household tasks, paperwork (physical not online; Dad had massive amounts of papers in file folders that I am still sorting through): anything but jumping online to check that email, look at this, look at that.

I'll get there: step by step. 

Moving Forward, Maybe, Again, Still

Sunday morning around our table

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

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

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

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

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

So on we worked.

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

So on we work.

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

Yes, that's it.

**********

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

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

The 2024 Gardens: Part 9

A few weeks ago, while writing about my reentry into canning, I noted that I had taken down our kitchen garden (the Hej garden had gone down a few days earlier) with the threat of a solid frost.  I picked everything that was ripe:

Tomatoes filling our window sill

Or soon to be ripe:

Ripening

But the gardens themselves were down. 

Given the trip to Mayo (which went swimmingly well) and then some health issues with my Dad, I have not yet gotten back to clearing away the tomato vines and other plants that did not fit in the yard waste containers:

The kitchen garden after I tore most of it out

It's autumn. Our days have returned to balmy temperatures. There is a concert coming up (Warren is at the first rehearsal tonight), we have some other things going on, and I knew I would eventually get around to cleaning up the garden.

All in good time, my little pretty, all in good time.

Earlier today, I went outside to dig up some butterfly weed roots for a friend. I had collected a bag of seeds for her, but I knew from our own experience that you can also just transplant the roots and get a stand started that way as well. Scattered between the brick patio and the butterfly weed were...tomatoes. 

When I took down the garden, I picked all the green tomatoes I could, which went into the relish:

Some of the haul from taking the gardens down 

But I did not get every single still green cherry tomato: some fell to the ground, some were hidden in the vines, whatever. And sitting outside these last several days, warmed by the sun, left alone by the squirrels and chipmunks, those green cherry tomatoes ripened.

Ripe tomatoes.

Oh my.

Before we left for the Emerald City on October 27, I had just (just!) finished the very last tomato from this year's gardens. I savored the last bite, knowing darn well it would be June at the earliest before I tasted fresh tomatoes again. 

But here they were: riches at my feet. You bet I carried them inside and washed them:

The very last tomatoes! 

I had a few on my salad this evening. I will have a few more tomorrow and the next day. And then I will say (for a sweet, second time) farewell to the tomatoes for the year. 

Sometimes you find unexpected riches when you are not looking for them. Sometimes, even on the toughest of days, you find treasure.

Today I found treasure. 

A Year Ago Today

A year ago today, Warren came to my room and said, "So, are you ready?"

A year ago today, Warren picked up the heavy soft bag, I picked up the very light soft bag, and we walked out the door.

A year ago today, we slowly walked down the hall and got on the elevator. 

A year ago today, I slid into the front seat of the car, Warren started the engine, and we looked at each other. "Ready?"

A year ago today, Warren drove slowly home, purposely taking the slower route up Franklin Street. "I thought you'd want to see the trees," Warren said. They were aflame—the golds, the reds—all brilliant. I was in tears, saying over and over as the leaves drifted down, "Oh, I didn't miss fall after all!" 

A year ago today, I slowly walked back into our home for the first time in nine weeks. I was weak and frail and still had months of recovery ahead of me, but I was home.

I am penning out these words Friday night to type out on Saturday. I will set this post to publish on Sunday the 27th, which is the one-year anniversary of my homecoming from the medical messes of 2023. By the time this post publishes, we will be well on our way to Rochester and Mayo Clinic. The sun will be rising as we head west on US 30 across Indiana. That route is lined with deciduous trees, and they should be in their October glory, just like they were a year ago today when Warren drove up Franklin to our home. 

A year ago today, I came home. Today, I am here to celebrate hitting that one-year mark, and for that I am grateful.

Famous Last Words

Keep reading...

Back in January, 2016, I wrote about finally (finally!) letting go of and donating all of my canning equipment, from the ancient (and heavy) pressure canner to the tongs, the canning funnels, the rack for the bottom of the canner, and a number of pint jars.

"I'll never can again," I announced firmly. 

And I haven't. Summers came and went without the least itch to can or regret that I was no longer canning. I meant what I said about canning: I was done.

Well, done right up until these past few days. With frost predicted last week, I started thinking about what was still outside on the plants. The weather prediction came true that night, with threats of a heavier frost following the next night. The tomato and pepper plants went limp just from the light frost; the basil had turned black. I hastily picked any remaining vegetables; the heavier frost that night completed finishing off the garden.

There were a lot of green tomatoes. 

A. Lot.

I have tried a few times in the past to ripen green tomatoes inside, always with poor results. So that didn't look like a route I wanted to take again. Fried green tomatoes? Never tried them, never made them, and these tomatoes were probably not the best candidates in size, shape, and consistency.

What else can you make from green tomatoes? Green tomato relish, it turns out. 

With a hot bath canning process.

Hmmn. I had the tomatoes. I had the right spices. I had sugar and vinegar. I had a large, deep pot that would work for the hot bath. I had some half pint and pint jars (even when you give them away, they still come into your house). Canning seals: got those at a quick stop on the way to Warren's rehearsal in Mansfield. 

What did I lack? A canning rack (glass jars cannot rest on the bottom of the hot bath pot without running the risk of shattering). Canning tongs, which have plasticized tong ends to grip the jars as you lift them in and out of the hot bath. A wide mouth funnel to fill the jars. These are essential items when canning. Period. 

There was no way I was going to go out and BUY canning equipment. So I did what any conscientious frugal person would do. I Googled workarounds for the rack, the tongs, and the funnel. After reading a few sources on each, and thinking about what I already had to work with, I was ready to try assembling the tools I needed.

For the canning rack? Some people create a rack from aluminum foil. Folded dishtowels also can be used, as my Aunt Gail told me when I called her the next day and we laughed about canning. Again, the point is to keep the jars from resting on the bottom of the pot. You know what also works well for a canning rack? Cookie cutters!

There are always cookie cutters in this house.

As for the tongs, we own a pair of long tongs. But, again, you need something on the end point that will grip hot glass. Such as...rubber bands! 

Repurposed tongs! 

The wide mouth funnel took me a minute to figure out and come up with a good solution. Some sites suggested methods of creating one that either did not make sense or looked too complicated. I looked at our kitchen funnels and sighed at the thought of having to cut the narrow mouth off the largest one. Then I looked over at our recycling tub and...a discarded gallon milk jug! 

Perfect wide mouth funnel! 

Soon I had a a pot of green tomato relish bubbling away (20 minutes) as I prepared my "new" canning tools. And soon after that (10 minutes), I was lifting the first jars of canned relish out of the pot.

Green tomato relish bubbling away

After Warren and I talked about my making relish, and how I put together a way to can, he got a look on his face. A faraway, remembering something look.

"I always liked that pepper/onion relish we used to make." 

I still had the recipe in my recipe folder (a paper folder, folks, not one on my computer). I pulled it out, read it through, and, yep, a hot bath recipe.

Guess what's up next?

Ready for their close-up 

"I'll never can again."

Ha. 

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. 

The 2024 Gardens: Part 6

As I noted just a week ago, the gardens are flourishing. I finally picked my first tomato yesterday:

It's not going to win any beauty contest, but it tasted delicious at lunch today.

I picked that one in the morning. Last night, looking over the kitchen garden after some hard rain moved through, I spotted these on another plant:

Ooh.

There continues to be a lot going on here. My father is still in rehab (starting month 2), Warren is down to a little bit more than two weeks left as he winds up over three decades of being the manager and Executive Director of our local Symphony (there is so much to deal with both at his office and in our home related to that transition), my high school class 50th reunion was last weekend (I/we went and yeah, I might blog about that), and there are my own ongoing matters, starting with CLE. 

But the tomatoes are coming in and the fireflies still light up my evenings. 

Sometimes abundance just rains down on me. 

The 2024 Gardens: Part 5

 I last wrote about our 2024 gardens on June 1, when the kitchen garden was just beginning to come together and the Hej garden was still only a remote (way remote) possibility. 

Let's just say things have changed. A lot.

So let's start with the Hej garden. Amanda, who is gardening alongside me this year, was game to tackle the Hej garden, which was lost under last year's debris and this spring's weeds. Warren suggested we try to do as much clearing as we could by hand, before he tilled. So after a couple of days of rugged work by Amanda and me (and realize that both of us face some health challenges so we're not setting any speed records here), the Hej garden looked like this:

Warren tilled and deposited a layer of leaves on it, and then tilled again:

Fencing followed and then Amanda and I planted the Hej garden, including four (!) additional tomato plants because her friend Andy promised to help weed and care for the garden in return for tomatoes, which he apparently loves. I bought them from a table in a front yard down the street, 4 for $5, honor system, and proudly walked them home:

The neighborhood tomatoes! 

Considering its rough start this year, the Hej garden is showing signs of promise: green beans, maybe a cucumber plant, definitely some zucchini sprouting. Plus, of course, the tomatoes. When I looked yesterday, I saw two of the four starting to put out blossoms.

In the kitchen garden, the changes have also been staggering. This was how it looked in mid-June:

Let's just say it has grown since then. The tomatoes are just starting to take on some color:

The Trail of Tears heritage black beans are reaching for the skies (and they have grown even higher since I took this photo). That's them coming up in the center of the towers:

I am especially proud of those beans. They were dried and saved from last year's bountiful crop and I just sowed them by hand, raked some dirt over them, reminding myself that the beans would know what to do. They did. Those beans are tough, which is why they survived historically. 

And here are the first peppers, picked yesterday:

First produce of the year! 

Considering how far behind the starting line this year's gardens began, I am pleased. I will have to wait a bit longer for the first tomato, but I know it is coming. 

"Grateful" doesn't begin to cover my feelings watching these gardens come to life, sharing the work with Warren and Amanda, and seeing the plants grow.