And After Three

Three years ago today, I coded. 

"Coded" as in "April is dying and we have to resuscitate her NOW!" I remember a team of medical personnel pushing and running alongside the gurney I was on, one of the doctors yelling for someone to get some shears and cut my shorts off, and another doctor, a new resident who I had gotten to know in the previous few days, leaning over and saying in my ear, "Stay with us, April. Stay with us."

And that's all I remember until they brought me out of a medically induced coma two days later.

Needless to say, that experience changed me permanently in ways I am still coming to understand. As I work my way through ways to approach my daily life—the tai chi, the weights, the Buddhist moments with Thich Nhat Hanh (which has changed how I approach walking, among other things), "Jupiter"—I am daily reminded that I am still here. 

Happy anniversary to my life. 

On the Far Side of Summer

We are in the last few weeks of summer and I am conscious of the changes. Our weather has (most blessedly) started cooling. Yes, we have had a lot of rain, but our community did not get the brutal rains, tornadoes, and flooding that Indiana, parts of Ohio (including Columbus 25 miles south of us), and Kentucky did.

The days are getting shorter. I don't notice the change from day to day, but I can tell it week by week. As I pen this out Tuesday night, it is already dark at 8:40 p.m. and probably was dark earlier than that. I just did not notice. 

No surprise given the time of year, there has been a lot going on on the garden. Tomatoes tomatoes tomatoes. In an experiment for the winter, I slow-roasted trays of tomato slices (brushed with olive oil, sprinkled with herbs and kosher salt), packing them in containers to freeze. My hope is to be able to pull them out this winter, thaw them slightly, and put them on a homemade pizza.

There are lots and lots of peppers to do...something with.

Last week Warren and I did a second basil cutting. We had done one back in mid-July that I turned into pesto: some for our freezer, some for friends. Some five weeks after the first, let's just say there was a lot of basil. I grow several types (and pay no attention to what types I plant) so the cut collection was wildly varied in size of leaves, texture of leaves, and color of leaves. Several has large curly leaves, like a garden fairy had gotten to them with a crimping iron. I made more pesto with about half of it on Sunday. On Tuesday, I washed and de-stemmed and dried the rest of it, then very slow-baked the individual leaves for a fresh jar of dried basil for cooking.

Crumbling the dried leaves was an olfactory gift.

As for the pesto, I had in mind where it would head. The next door neighbors on the south had been away on an extended trip and were coming home Monday night. They both love my pesto. I was cat-sitting for them while they were away, so on the last evening of my cat duties, I slipped a small container of fresh pesto in their fridge to welcome them back.

A larger container went to our next door neighbors on the north side, Adam and Maura and their girls, Alice and Margaux. Our two households share lots back and forth—baked goods, vegetables, pesto, fruit, books, laughter, and more. Alice and Margaux, Alice just shy of 11 and Margaux 7, are already skilled bakers and had brought over on Saturday some to-die-for homemade cinnamon rolls. Later on Sunday Margaux and Maura delivered some sweet corn as both homes look for farm stands with it this time of year. 

When I carried the container of pesto next door, Margaux, playing outside with another neighbor, jumped up. "Is that the pesto?!" She is a huge pesto fan.

Yep, that's the pesto. I hope she shared.

There was something else I did with the pesto this Sunday—something long overdue. I shared two small containers with our neighbors who live directly across the street from us. We are all on a smiling and waving basis (and remember, I have lived in this house now for almost 18 years) but seeing Joan out that morning made me walk across and ask if they would like some pesto.

Joan had heard of pesto, but had not had it before. We talked about it, and Ed, her husband, joined us. (Warren was busy loading steel, so he was not in on the conversation.) We talked about their house, the torrential rains several days ago and the water damage, about cooking (Ed is the head cook of the two), about this and that. They told me what they were cooking that night; it sounded like a perfect match with the pesto. Then Joan said "I'd love to share what we're making with you and Warren. Would that be okay?"

Oh yes.

So mid-afternoon I walked the pesto over to their house. In the early evening, Joan knocked on our door with two servings of their main dish: roasted chicken breast/tomato/spinach/onion. We had already husked some of the sweet corn that had arrived earlier in the afternoon. The sweet corn delivery had also included two freshly baked blueberry muffins (I'm telling you: the girls bake a lot!), so we had quite a feast, finishing the dessert muffins on our front porch. Ed and Joan were arriving home from walking their dog, and we all four waved and called out appreciation for the shared food.

As we savored the muffins, I started laughing.

"This meal was entirely free. How's that for being frugal?"

The meal was wonderful.The sense of community, of connecting with others, was the special sauce, the deluxe icing, that made it even better.

A Mid-August Garden Report

Let's face it: I have not been a good gardener this year.

At all.

I have occasionally weeded the garden. Very occasionally. During the heat dome and the heat waves (hot but not a heat dome), I kinda sorta kept it watered. In fact, my dear husband has been more attentive to watering and weeding it than I have this year. (And his pet project is deadheading the marigolds that march around the border, so Warren gets credit for that too.)

But, as I have noted more than once over the years, plants tend to know what to do, regardless of my actions. 

There are tomatoes:

And peppers:

There have been so many peppers so far that, as I did last summer and the summer before, I made pepper-onion relish; hot packed so we can enjoy it through the winter. There was one casualty during the hot bath (I couldn't figure out why there was suddenly bits of chopped onions and peppers in the bath: had a lid come off? Nope!):

but everything else came through with flying colors:

The beautiful cabbage head that leads off this post? Coleslaw for supper tonight. (And for several more days to come, of course.) Not unlike last summer and fall, when I found great satisfaction and focus in performing little things, concentrating on making the slaw today was most satisfying. 

There are more (many, many more) tomatoes to come, and still quite a few peppers as well. The basil is about ready for a second picking; I may make more pesto or I may dry the leave for cooking herbs or both. After that, I will let the basil go to flower so the bees can enjoy the fragrant bed. Besides, given my trying to get my internal rhythms reset, I could totally use some bee therapy.

Some bee therapy? Who am I kidding? I could use a lot (A. Lot.) of bee therapy. It is interesting just now, as I looked back to catch the link to last year's post, that last October I was—guess what?—dealing with some of the very same issues that I am struggling with now. I'll just leave that on the table for now. 

I am grateful that the garden decided to do what it does best: grow. And produce food for our table (and other tables too) and food for my soul. If that's not a win, I don't know what is. 

On A Quest

My next door neighbor Mary texted me that per a Yale study (done over a decade ago, I might note), regular readers live an average of 23 months longer than their cohorts. I replied: "So given that I typically read 200+ books a year, I'm in good shape, right?" 

I just finished The Hour I First Believed by Wally Lamb. It is not for the light of heart. It is a dense, well-crafted novel with the Columbine school massacre being a core event in the life of the narrator. Just saying. But from it, I plucked this quote:

At the door, Dr. Patel wished me good luck with my students. "It's a curious things about quests, isn't it, Mr. Quirk?" she said. "The seeker embarks on a journey to find what he wants and discovers, along the way, what he needs."

That quote about the the concept of a quest has stayed with me. It brings to mind much earlier reflections on pilgrimages. And it stirred me to pen this out (pen and paper!) last night.

Per Blogger, this is my 1001st post. (Dang.) I last wrote in July, particularly about my father's hospitalization and how I felt I was in a box. In truth, I am still struggling to get a rhythm back into my daily life. My sleep is erratic. My focus is erratic. My handling of tasks—what to do when in what order—is erratic. I get frustrated internally far too easily far too often. 

 You get the idea. 

So that is my quest: getting my daily rhythm adjusted to my needs. 

There are some pieces I have put in place, some of them predating July. While my walking continues to be impaired (and will be permanently), I try (and usually succeed) to walk daily. I have stopped measuring how far I walk but am still noting how long I walk.

So that is one: walking almost daily.

A few months ago, thanks to my friend Tani, I have added a tai chi practice to my daily routine. I follow Don Fiore on YouTube. While I started with a longer clip of his, some 16+ minutes, I have been using a much shorter clip (8 minutes) since the hospitalization episode. I have committed the shorter one to memory, and even in a crowded day, can find a place to tuck it in. 

So that is two: tai chi daily.

I listen to "Jupiter" (from The Planets by Gustav Holst) daily. I am particular; I only listen to a 2014 performance by the NDR Radiophilharmonie under the baton of Andrew Manze. I not only listen but also watch and confess I have watched it so many times that I can follow Manze's cues. But the point is I listen to it not just as background music but for the focus. I don't even read for those 8 minutes.

So that is three: "Jupiter" daily.

 A few weeks ago, I started lifting weights DAILY. We're not talking gym membership and hoisting barbells, folks. We have some 3 pound dumbbells that I do a set of reps with. I just added some reps with the 5 pound weights. (We have a pair of 10-pounders, but trust me, they are not even on my horizon yet.) It is a totally different focus from walking and tai chi.

So that is four: weights daily. 

And within the last few days, totally unexpectedly, I have added a daily dose of meditative talk by Thich Nhat Hanh, a renown Buddhist monk and peace activist. Hanh died in 2022. I had read some of his books before his death, so when his name popped up in my YouTube feed, I clicked on it.

And was immediately drawn in.

The episodes, put out by the Plum Village Monastery (which Hanh helped cofound in the 1980s), are small, only 5 to 6 minutes each. Each is just one small teaching, one little gem of thought. I have only seen three, but that is already enough for me to understand Hanh's Vietnamese-accented English better.

So that is five: daily Buddhist moments.

Anne Lamott, who writes often about issues of belief and faith, talked about a friend who considered themselves "Jew-ish," as in not fully immersed in the religion but believing in elements of it. I think she also talked about Jew-ish friends who also were drawn to Buddhism in the same way; she may have called them (or they called themselves) "Bu-Jews." I can see that combination working for me: continuing to follow the Jewish imperative to mend the broken world and finding solace and focus in the Buddhist teachings.

There has been a lot (A. Lot.) of things going on in my sphere—watching out for my aging father and his needs (and while he is doing great for 93, the decline is more obvious); keeping his sister, my beloved Aunt Gail, informed; boosting (along with others) a very close friend who has hit a hard brick wall not of her own making; herding the Justice Bus volunteers; Warren's extremely busy schedule between his booming business and his college teaching starting up in a few more weeks. To name a few. I miss my children and their families. I am not keeping up on the household, on the garden, on...let's face it. On much of anything. 

But tai chi, walking, weights, "Jupiter," and Thich Nhat Hanh: those are a start. Those may be the things I need to find on this quest for myself. 

A Success of a Failure

I have been involved in our local free legal clinics for most of the almost 23 years they have been in existence. I have been an attorney, an intake clerk, a cook, a baker, and an attorney herder—in short, a little bit of everything over the years. From a small, once-a-month evening clinic, we have expanded in multiple directions, including my favorite project, our partnership with the Ohio Justice Bus program, focusing in our community on family law.

As the needs grow and our attorney population ebbs and flows, several of us are always looking for ways to thank the volunteers we have and recruit new ones. What better way than to hold an informal reception at Andrews House, an important community center under whose umbrella the clinics have been since their long ago start?

We were not unlike the anecdotal Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland line: "Hey, kids, let's put on a show!"

The invitation above went out to the bar in numerous channels. It went to members of our local bar association in several emails, to past and present volunteers, and, in some cases, I personally followed up with an email or personal conversation: please come to the reception.

I offered to buy food trays for the reception. That would be my personal contribution. I also made plans to come early to help set up and stay late to help clean up. So Wednesday morning I headed out to the store.

How much to buy? Who knew? We hoped we'd have 30 or more attorneys show up. So I, ummm, bought a lot. A. Lot. Veggie trays, fruit trays, meat/cheese trays. Cookies. Oh, some salsa and corn chips too. I guessed at how much we might need if we got a "good" turnout.

Warren winced when I told him how much I had spent. He said he wished I had taken him with me, as he thought he could help me keep the quantities in more realistic measure and that would have saved some of the expense too.

I agreed to a point. Then I said, "Yes, it was a lot. But I look at it this way. I don't shop for clothes. Or home decor. I rarely buy books, using the library instead. I don't buy jewelry or take trips or go to the movies or eat out. So I'm very happy to spend money for this reception so Andrews House doesn't have to." 

When I got to Andrews House later that afternoon, Mel (Melinda) and Shelly had already set out tablecloths and plates and such in the dining room. I'd brought the food trays earlier that day, and now we pulled them out of the fridge (Andrews House has a commercial kitchen, so a huge fridge) and decided what to set out. 

How about this one? Can you open this? Here's a small bowl for salsa and a large one for chips. Cookies can go on this platter.

In short order, we were ready. We were excited. We were hoping we'd soon be welcoming colleagues and volunteers. And...

Well, let's just say that there was not a mad rush to get to our reception. Or any rush at all. Not counting me, Mel, or Shelly, we had 12 total. 12. No new volunteer possibilities. Only two of our regular attorney volunteers (okay, three if you count me) came.

But there was lots of food. Don't forget the food.

But you know what? The reception was a smash. Yes, we got very few of our regulars and, obviously, no new volunteers. But there was great talk and laughter and stories and snacking. (Remember, there was a lot of food. A. Lot.) 

New connections were made. One of our regulars gave his card to a summer intern and urged her to call his office and connect with his young associate to talk about probate work. She was thrilled. A connection that meant a lot to me was connecting Sophia, the director of the Ohio Justice Bus program, who stopped in on her way back to Columbus after a long Bus event in a county further north, to our local Domestic Relations judge and his court administrator to talk about the Justice Bus and our DR Court's innovative programs. (I was especially delighted about that one because I had purposely invited that judge and administrator to the reception.)

As the reception wound down, Warren showed up to help with clean up. Some of the food stayed behind and some went home with Mel to share with her husband that night. The rest of it came home with me as we have my brother and sister-in-law here for a few days (to see Dad). As we loaded the last of the food in our car, Mel and I gave each other a huge hug and laughingly agreed that it was not the turnout we'd hoped for but it'd been a lot of fun.

And that's a success in my book any day.

Opening the Box

The globe thistle is blooming. The bees and I are glad.

So let me share the ending first: my father is back in his apartment at Assisted Living and is doing 1000% better than when I wrote the following notes. And I am doing 100000000% better.

So what follows (between asterisks) was penned out Monday morning, while I sat in a room at our local hospital with my father, who slept a lot of the time I was there. He had been squadded there from his apartment midday, then admitted, and I had spent considerable hours Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and then Monday while they treated him. 

In short, a lot of time. A. Lot. 

It took a toll on me. I do not have the bandwidth physically, mentally, or emotionally to see me through a long hospital siege. I carried a lot of stress, a lot of weight, and a lot of everything else, and I knew it. 

So this is what I wrote Monday morning, sitting there in the too cold room (too cold even with a sweater on; I kept checking on my dad to make sure he had enough blankets on):

************

I have spent the last several mornings at our local hospital—not for me, thankfully, but for my elderly father. It is exhausting. 

This morning when I arrived someone had put on an "easy listening" channel on the room television. Without his hearing aids (safely back in his apartment, at his insistence), he could not hear it, but he said he liked glancing up and seeing the scenery—brilliant colors photos from around the world (with identifying tags as to where it was) and shots of flowers and rivers—scroll by. He would watch a bit, then doze off, then watch some more, then doze off.

I did not bring a book with me today—the one day he is sleeping much of the morning, of course—so I too am seeing the slide show. So besides admiring the photograph and recognizing some of the American landscapes, I am feeling sadness. There are too many places I will never see again or, in some cases, never see period. For that matter, I accept that I am never going to make it back to Maine at this point, so forget Japan. 

I am feeling compressed into a box by age, disabilities, duties, responsibilities, time. (Note I did not say money.) It's not like I expected to feel "young" (whatever that means) ever again, but a little more vibrant would be good. 

And this too shall pass., I know. The current weight will lift when my father is discharged and I am not spending a chunk of every day at the hospital and having to rearrange the rest of my day (not to mention Warren's day, as we are a 1-car family) around the hospital.

************

So here I am some 30 hours after writing that, almost 24 hours since they discharged Dad, and the world looks immensely better. I visited Dad this morning in his apartment and he was thrilled to be back home in control of his own day, smiling with delight, talking and laughing with staff members who stopped in to welcome him back. I'm sure he had cheers when he went up to lunch today with his friends. All good. As for me, I walked home with a far lighter step than I have had since Friday at noon when I got the call from the AL facility.  

I even gave myself space to go out and take a few pictures. It doesn't get much than that! 

Globe thistle in a front garden 

Another Garden Update

The first one: not great.

It is hot. We are entering (maybe in already?) another heat dome—not as vicious as the one at the end of June (at least not yet) but still nothing to mess with. And, of course, I hate heat. 

BUT to keep my mind off the heat, here is a garden update!

The first cherry tomato, at the top of this post, was an ehhhh. Ripe but not ripe, A little hard. A little lacking. But a few days later the first Early Girl came in (which I ate promptly) and now I have THREE of them waiting to be enjoyed! (And remember, I am the only person in this household who eats fresh tomatoes.)

Yum! 

On the other side of the garden, the basil, after its weedy start, was ready to pick. So yesterday morning, while it was still cool, I got out there with shears and cut most of it, filling a huge pan. I stuffed it into a garbage bag, put it in the refrigerator, and this morning I turned my attention to making the first pesto of 2026.

Just waiting for me to dive in

This photo shows my work area before the pesto making commenced. Nice, neat, clean. The hammer? That's to smash (okay, hit firmly) garlic so I can get the skin off and throw it into the food processor. No wasting time with a garlic press for me! 

Ready to go!

I did not take a photo of my work area after I finished the pesto, but trust me, it was not nice, it was not neat.

But there IS pesto!

As I told Warren and then shared with my friend David, it was harder making the pesto this year. Age does take its toll, and my "real" age is more than the 70 years shown on my birth certificate. But I made it to the other side. Tonight I will put the pesto into containers, carry some to our neighbors on both sides, and then sit down and smile.

And maybe, just maybe, enjoy one of those tomatoes! 

Pesto! 

An Early July Garden Update

The tiger lilies are just starting to bloom

Well, let's just say the news is mixed. Not bad, mind you, just mixed.

Like many of the midwestern and eastern states, we had a massive heat dome last week. High temperatures here (in the mid to upper 90s) and higher heat index numbers—102, 105—those kind of numbers. For the garden, that meant watering it at, oh, 6:00 a.m. or so before the heat got too intense to be outside. 

Despite that battering, the garden came through. My biggest surprise is that the lettuce bed did not throw its hands up and surrender. That day is coming, but for now this household and our neighbors are still eating fresh lettuce.

From an earlier picking

We've had a few peppers already too.

The first tomato is almost ready to pick. (The rest are lagging behind.)

And the zinnias are starting to open up too. 

Trust me, there are more. 

The biggest obstacle with the garden this year? Yours truly. While never a strong weeder, this year I am downright pathetic. The basil has suffered the most from the neglect, although I did get enough weeded out that the basil pushed up and over the weeds. They have done well enough that I can probably make the first batch of pesto.

And an update on that earlier update: the basil seeds that I bought and sowed? Warren did not know I had sowed a small bed, saw pigweed coming up in that area, and hacked the "new" basil bed up to get rid of the weeds. Those seeds never had a chance. 

I almost hesitate to write this, but might as well throw it out here: gardening this year from my viewpoint has been difficult. Not just the weeding: everything. I have even had the heretical thought that next year, we have even a smaller garden. Fewer tomatoes (this year there were 5), fewer peppers (this year there were 14). I know, I know. It is only July. And some (many?) of the physical challenges I am dealing with this spring/summer may improve or even resolve.

Time will tell, both for me and for this year's garden. Here's to more tomatoes! 

Watching the Groceries: Halfway Through 2026!

Really? We are already halfway through the year? Yeah, right. That's like telling me my youngest son, Sam, is 36 years old.

Oh, wait. Sam did just turn 36! And yes, 2026 is halfway over!

So where is our household on grocery spending for not only the second quarter but also the first half of the year?

Better than I dared hope. 

As I have often written, "groceries" 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.) 

Like so many of us, I continue to watch many prices rise. In April, when I was totaling up our first quarter spending, I noted that milk was $3.19, a new high. Not anymore. A gallon of milk yesterday at Kroger? $3.29.  Now, I like milk. A. Lot. I watch for sales, of course, but the reality is I will continue to buy milk. It is a small luxury I am grateful I can afford. 

Another kink in the shopping, and it will take another quarter to figure our what, if any, impact there may be, is the re-emergence of diabetes. Things have changed since I wrote about this at the end of March. I have a new family physician who I just had my first appointment with yesterday and she and Warren and I had a long discussion about where my A1C is (too high and barely down from March), what changes I am willing to make to my diet and lifestyle on my own (the diet is the bigger issue), and how she would like to see if and how much I can bring that troublesome A1C down before I see her again in late September. My doctor wants me to focus on eating more complex carbohydrates, starting with something as simple as brown rice. (But we are finishing the white rice first. Just saying.) So there's that.

Okay. What did the second quarter hold?

From April to June, we spent $561.63 on groceries. $32.03, or just about 6%, of that was on household items, ranging from toilet paper to (my favorite) 5¢ on Dawn dish soap at CVS. The rest was on food. May was our most expensive month, as we had a big stock-up at Aldi that came in at about $98.00 and then a later trip that I thought would be small, but still topped out at over $65.00. In June, we had one Aldi stock-up that came in around $105.00, but that was the only one. Our second quarter spending averaged out to $177.21 a month. 

Combined grocery spending for the first half of 2026? $1226.42, or a monthly average of $204.40. 

Not bad. not bad at all.

We have been making a concerted effort to eat out of our pantry and freezer. The good news of that? We don't have to buy much. The downside? At some point, we will be restocking both the freezer and the pantry. I am watching the grocery ads for sales on chicken (our primary meat in this household); I'm hoping for a "Buy One Get Two" sale, but have not seen any of those recently. And both of us continue to be very, very vigilant about food waste. So much so that when the occasion presented itself recently, I trash picked a gorgeous apple (with one medium bruise) out of our shared compost, brought it in, washed it off, cut off the bruise, and enjoyed every single bite with Warren. Just saying.

So that's where we are at the half. The 4th of July is upon us; of course, there's a concert that night. We have just come under a heat dome (and I really, really hate heat) but it is supposed to break before the 4th. I certainly hope so.

On to the third quarter!

A long-ago Sam celebrating the 4th! 

Another Nudge From Beyond

Warren's new space

Earlier this month, in my post about Warren's mother, Ellen, I noted that she still makes "her presence known in our lives" in small ways.

Well, she's not the only one. 

I never met Warren's father, Arthur. I knew his solid reputation in town as an optometrist. I knew he'd created the masthead for the junior high newspaper, the Willis W.I.S.E., when his younger son, Brian, a year behind me, joined the staff (I was the editor-in-chief as an 8th grader). Only after Arthur's death did I learn of his involvement and commitment to this community through the Masons, the American Legion, and, way, way back, co-chairing Delaware's polio vaccination drive when the polio vaccine first came out. 

So I have a sense of who Arthur was, but only a sense.

Warren recently moved into new storage space for the business through the generosity of the owner of a former industrial site, Ranco. His new space is in the former administrative office building. One Saturday earlier this month, we went out to vacuum and shampoo the carpet, as well as dust out spiderwebs, to get it ready for him to start moving in lumber and other materials for his business, as well as some of his percussion equipment. I was at the window at the far end of the room, cleaning the windowsill. I stepped off the stepladder, turned towards the door, and saw for the first time the door from inside the room:

The back of the door in the new room

I called to Warren. He, too, had just seen the back of the door that morning.

"Your dad."

"Yes."

Like Ellen, Arthur also occasionally lets his presence be felt in small ways. This one blew me away.

Arthur Irvin Hyer would be 115 today. I am sorry I never met him; I appreciate him for what he gave this community and his family.

Happy birthday, Arthur!

Community

Sammie 

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

Community.

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

Community.

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

Community.

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

Mark Twain reading to me

Community.

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

Birthday delights! 

Cat-sitting. Cookies. 

Community.

The Rest of the Story

A work in progress

Last week, I gave an update of our vegetable garden and showed the ignored and neglected basil bed. After embarrassing myself by admitting my lack of attention, I decided I needed to address the issue head on.

So I did.

Over the weekend, I waded into the basil (well, I sat on my gardening seat and bent over) and started pulling out weeds.

Did I get every weed out? No? Did I make progress? You bet. Is the basil grateful? Absolutely. Some of the seedlings, freed from their weedy caverns, grew overnight!

Look at me! 

It was clear that a sizable portion of the seeds I had sown did not germinate or, more likely, were smothered before they could get up past the soil. Too dark, too weedy. Fortunately, a local nursery still has seed packets and I was able to find some basil packs among the dwindling stock.

Heading soon into the garden

So all is not lost and I hope there will be a good basil crop this year. I still have more weeding to do to get the bed in better shape and I intend to follow through. After all, I am looking forward to bees in the basil and bee therapy later this summer! 

Many of us in my age bracket (i.e., old) remember legendary radio broadcaster Paul Harvey, who, in addition to his news broadcasts, also had a weekday radio show, "The Rest of the Story." Harvey would tell a story about a historical event or individual that everyone thought they knew. He'd introduce and set the stage at the start of the broadcast, then at the end tell listeners the quirky twist or surprise facts that he had dug out. His tagline was "And now you know...the rest of the story."

I'm no Paul Harvey. But I thought the basil situation deserved an update. And now you indeed know the rest of the story. 

Of Course She Did!

There is an open container in our basement that holds numerous menus from restaurants that Warren's parents visited over the years. Warren knows that many of them date from mid-century Chicago restaurants. I have never looked through them, but one was sticking up so prominently ("Look at me! Look at me!")  a few days ago that I pulled it out and glanced at it.

Oh my.

On September 30, 1978, Warren's mother Ellen took a one-day trip to New York City (from where and why Warren does not know). She traveled with a close friend, who Warren remembers as being blind. They ate lunch in the Peacock Room at the Waldorf Astoria and Ellen not only kept (of course she did!) but also annotated the menu as to the decor of the room and table setting (down to the color of the napkins) as well as what they ate (they each ordered the fresh fruit plate with cottage cheese, as well as cheesecake). 

Ellen then noted what their entire day's activities. Their morning was spent at "the Metropolitan" (I'm assuming she was referring to the Metropolitan Museum of Art). Their afternoon was spent shopping—at Bonwit Teller, Tiffany's, and Macy's—and included a carriage ride through Central Park.

And there was one final entry of note.

Ellen had a history of crossing paths with famous or well-known people. She once rode an elevator with Eleanor Roosevelt. She met Ronald Reagan in the lobby of a Dayton hotel, either in the late 1960s or early 1970s, not running for office, but, as Warren described it (who was there with her) "with an entourage." And, she knew Clayton Moore (the original "Lone Ranger") from her childhood on, as he was a relative, and posed for pictures with him years later in California.

So it was absolutely no surprise to me when I saw the final note on her memo:

"Saw Robert Redford!" 

Of course she did. If anyone was going to have a celebrity sighting on a one-day trip to New York City, it would have been Ellen. 

Ellen would be 105 years old today. She is still making her presence known in our lives through little things like this. 

Happy Birthday, dear Ellen! 

What the Garden Looks Like After One Month

Two of three deck planters, the largest not in the photo! 

Back in mid-May, I wrote about how Warren and I had labored to get our basic vegetable garden in and done. After that post, we spent another weekend putting together the Big Flower Pots that we set out on the deck. They are all annuals; we do for color and variety. 

And that is about it.

I wrote last year about giving up the Hej Garden in the rear of the property and how we both decided it was okay to let it go.We made some similar decisions this year about extra "stuff" we had on hand, ranging from more tomato cages than I will ever use in my life again to more (MORE) planters ranging from medium small to BIG. Warren and I reached agreement very quickly: let them go. So they ended up on our curb—the cages on a Saturday, the planters the next day—and guess what? They went to new homes in no time!

So what do we have?

This:

Our vegetable garden, June 2026

The peppers, cabbage, and tomatoes are coming on. With luck, I might have a tomato by end of the month. Time will tell.

Maybe?

The lettuce, in the lower lefthand corner of the garden, came on like gangbusters and I picked some this morning to add to our salads later today. We are having a series of hot days, so I do not know how much longer the lettuce will last. I told my neighbor to please pick some for her and her husband to enjoy.

Salad! 

The basil is struggling to get through the weeds. Yes, I know; I should have been WEEDING. I have decided that if I go out very early in the morning with my gardening stool and a fork (yes, a fork, as in "out of our silverware drawer"), I may be able to knock down the weeds and give the basil a chance.

Yes, there is basil in that mess! 

Stay tuned on that one.

And finally, in a nod to our bees and pollinators, I am delighted to see that the milkweed I curate (I say "curate" because our yard is not a butterfly garden and I limit the milkweed I let grow to maturity) has begun blooming. No bees in this photo, but I have seen them burrowing headfirst into the blooms already.

Milkweed blossoming

While I was visiting my dad earlier today. one of the workers and I talked about gardening: what did I grow? I told her, then focused on the basil, explaining that I had not weeded but needed to do so, because I make a lot (A. Lot.) of pesto in the late summer. I then told her how I let the basil go to flower for the bees, adding that last year I decided one of the best things I could do for myself was sit and listen to them, my own bee therapy. She nodded approvingly. 

"We could all use that, I think," she said. 

Indeed we could. 

Losing the Inches

I sat down last night, pen and legal pad in hand, and wrote out this post. Originally, it was titled "Inch Fourteen: Inching Along," and I started out by writing about thinking of titling it "Losing the Inches," explaining that I am not talking about dieting but about abandoning my announcement back in early March to write a post, an inch so to speak, a week. I penned out most of it, then went to sleep, knowing I would get up this morning and turn to my keyboard.

When I woke up this morning, I thought, "I need that original title. And my original story," So I sat back down earlier this morning (it's now 8:30 a.m.), added some lines, and here we are.

Good morning!

First things first: I am not turning my back on writing. No, no, no. I am turning my back on the framework of weekly inches.

Why? Because I want to write more than once a week.

Well, duh, April, then write more than once a week. Yes, I know. I think I just felt boxed in with the notion of one inch a week. How boxed in? Look at my "off schedule" post, titled "Inch Eleven and a Half," so titled because I thought I was breaking the rules. Whose rules? My own rules. (Which of course brings to mind that beautiful moment in the movie, "Field of Dreams," where James Earl Ray says to Kevin Costner, "There are rules here? Oh no, there are no rules here.")

There are no rules here. 

So why the change? After all my complaining and whining and kicking my toe against an imaginary brick wall (with my foot issues, no way I am kicking a real brick wall!), I have felt something shift in me where I suddenly feel I can write more.

Can? 

I want to write more.

So my new approach is telling myself to write at least one post a week, and let everything else flow from there. 

I have just started reading The Glorians by Terry Tempest Williams. I have admired her writing and thoughts for a long time, and this is no exception. Subtitled Visitations From the Holy Ordinary, Williams reminds the reader that "Holy," however one defines it, is as close as an ant carrying a petal across her deck.

Or a bee in the spiderwort. 

Let me see what summer brings.

Inch Thirteen: Old Friends

Getting soft-serve ice cream at the local Dairy Depot

Old friends, literally and figuratively. 

Katrina and I were matched 52 summers ago as freshman roommates at the University of Chicago. Margaret Perry, the member of the administration who made roommate matches, was a friend of Katrina's mother, June. Katrina remembers that Margaret told June that she had made a very good match for her daughter,

Understatement.

Katrina and I corresponded over the summer to get to know one another better. We exchanged letters and bits of information. I was recovering from a knee injury and I know I alarmed her (she told me this years later) when I said I would be arriving with a bucket and loose weights to do the mandated physical therapy of lifting the bucket several times a day with my leg extended. (Yes, I arrived with the bucket and loose weights. No, I did not continue the therapy.) I was intimidated not by anything she shared with me, but by the older student helping the freshmen find their rooms when she said to me, "Oh! Your roommate is already here! She is tall and has gorgeous long blonde hair!"

Gorgeous blonde hair. Okay.

Katrina was tall. And she did have gorgeous long blonde hair. But even more important, she had a great sense of humor and an open heart and a welcoming smile.

52 years.

Over those years, we have stayed close despite our lives spiraling in sometimes very different directions, staying connected through letters mailed back and forth. We even now rarely if ever text, email, or talk on the phone. But the letters and postcards have flowed back and forth, east to west, north to south, this way and that way, for 52 years.

But not this week. Oh no, not this week.

Not this week because Katrina and her husband Ed were in Cincinnati for a family wedding last weekend. When Katrina let me know she was coming to Cincinnati and asked whether I thought we could meet up somewhere in between here and there, I let her know she was about two and a half hours away. Her immediate response was "I'm coming!"

Katrina arrived Sunday (her husband flew back to Miami on Sunday). She is staying into tomorrow, so she will get to watch and help and see our monthly Justice Bus in action. And during this precious week, we have talked and talked and talked and talked.

What a gift.

On the door of my study is a quote attributed to Aristotle: "Without friends, no one would choose to live though he had all other goods."

That about sums it up. Here's to 52 years of friendship, my friend!