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. 

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 

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. 

Inch Two: A Whole Lot of Spillage

All over the floor

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

Not.

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

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

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

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

Spillage seems to be the theme this week.

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

Yeah. His time is spilled all over the place.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frugalism? Frugal Minimalism? And What About RWE?

With a title like that, you have got to be wondering where I am coming from. Where I am coming from is almost three weeks of being heavily involved in my father's medical situation, starting with the broke femur on February 8. The great news is that he has been making a stunning comeback for his age and is already walking, slowly but steadily, with a walker, and the PT team hopes to graduate him back to his rollator in the next few weeks. He will be returning to his apartment (one floor below him right now) about mid-March. 

As I earlier today emailed my dear friend David, I am exhausted. With all the positive news on the Dad front, I feel as if I can finally stand down. Seeing him today and his changed attitude really drove that feeling home. I think that is why I am so exhausted: it is all hitting me and sinking in. 

So now let's turn to the here and the now.

I recently read this book after seeing Gabe Bult (who I watch on YouTube) rave about it. I get a kick out of Gabe; he reminds me of my son Sam at times. Gabe was so enthusiastic about this book that I got it from the library (of course I checked it from the library: FREE BOOKS):

I noted (in a text to the same David mentioned above) that Sasaki is post-Marie Kondo and her "spark joy" approach (which I still don't buy into) and I found him easier to read. (Although, in tip #26 of "55 tips to help you say goodbye to your things," he does praise Kondo for her "killer phrase" and writes that feeling "the spark of joy will help you focus.")

But I don't live in a minimalist household. I am not a minimalist. I am married to a man who will never be a minimalist. But all the same, I found the book giving me some mental space. I found myself thinking of ways that I could make small changes.

Hence the opening photo. That is the guest bed in my study. Usually it is covered in papers, files full of papers, and miscellaneous stuff. Yeah, just stuff. When we had a guest earlier this month, I made a huge stack of the "stuff" and moved it temporarily to another room, then moved it back to the bed as soon as our guest left the next day. After reading Sasaki, I spent 30 minutes and went through all the mess, filing some, recycling some, shredding some, and just clearing the bed. 

Wow.

Whatever the state of minimalism in this household may be, I laugh to think that we get bonus points for being frugal. For example, this bottle of soy sauce came into my life in late 2010, when Sam moved out to Portland:

I just finished it 10 days ago. (And in part it lasted that long because Warren does not like or use soy sauce.) Per Sam, when I posted this photo on Instagram and called his attention to it: "End of an era." 

Sure was. 

And on other frugal fronts, we had an entirely free main course last week because, on a stop at Andrews House, our community center and the home of our legal clinics, there were two massive zucchini and boxes of small onions (Andrews House, among other things, runs a mobile market for people who have food needs). Yes, I took them; they had been sitting there all week. The zucchini were so large that there was enough for two batches of banana zucchini bread AND our supper of zucchini and onions, sauteéd and served over pasta.  

Free supper! Now that's frugal. Oh, wait, we had it the next day too! TWO suppers for free! 

For evening entertainment, I continue to work on the jigsaw puzzle in the evenings. Free entertainment, of course. (Just like reading or writing letters.) It is slowly coming together:

Finally, what about RWE? What the heck?

RWE is Ralph Waldo Emerson, the sage of Concord and the man who inspired Henry Thoreau to turn off the conventional path and seek his own direction. I have never read any Emerson, other than very short excerpts here and there. (In comparison, I have read a lot, although not all, of Thoreau's writings.) I have never read Emerson's most famous essay, "Self Reliance." But the opening of "Nature," also considered his other greatest work (and the one that grabbed Thoreau who heard Emerson read it while Thoreau was an undergraduate at Harvard) drew me in:

TO go into solitude, a man needs to retire as much from his chamber as from society. I am not solitary whilst I read and write, though nobody is with me. But if a man would be alone, let him look at the stars. 

Let him look at the stars. Be still, my heart.

So what about RWE? I hesitate to say I will go on an Emerson deep dive. But I may (may, mind you) dabble a bit more in his work. After all, life is a journey, not a destination. (And yes, RWE wrote that too.)

Reading Over the Decades

February has been a hard month so far both on the weather front and on the family front. As I wrote in late January, we were hit with snow and way cold temperatures. And while I rejoiced over being able to walk again in early February, between the remaining icy mounds and then the family matter, I did not walk from February 5 until the 12th, causing me to write where I keep track of my time/distance: FINALLY—A WALK! (Frankly, I'm surprised I only gave that note one exclamation point.)

The family matter was that on the 8th, while making his bed in his apartment, my dad caught his foot in the blankets he'd placed on the floor and went down, breaking his left femur in the fall. If you have to break a leg, Dad did it in the best possible way: one clean, sharp break in his upper femur and not his hip. Surgery was the next day, and a few days later he was released to the Rehab Center at the complex he lives at: all good. Assuming all goes well, he has several weeks of rehab ahead of him before he regains independent mobility (he uses a rollator) and moves back into his apartment. But, as the adult child in the area, I spent most of last week at the hospital by myself or with my sister-in-law Kate, and have been at Rehab every day since then while Dad gets acclimated and settled in. Let's just say a lot (A. Lot.) of my last 8 days has been away from home. I am grateful I still have a father (he will be 93 this August) and do not resent the time one bit. I am also exhausted. 

So while I have been so occupied, other things have gone by the wayside. I was starting to do more photography, and that got sidelined. My reading has been hit and miss, to say the least, both reading blogs (Laurie! Kim! Sam!) of friends and books. And my writing, which I really, really want to delve back into, took a huge hit.

I'm tired right now. And there are chores to do. But by golly, this post has been circling in my head for DAYS and I am going to get it done and posted! 

In recent months, I reread the two books shown above: My name Is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok, and All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque. And out of the gate, I will say both of those books read way different at age 70 (well, almost 70!) than they did when I first read them in my teens. 

Like many younger people, I first read All Quiet when I was high school. A. W. Wheen was the original translator and the version I just read was his translation. (Maybe it is THE English translation.) I think I read it again in my 20s, but then did not pick it up until this winter when it popped up in a Little Free Library.

The cover says "THE GREATEST WAR NOVEL OF ALL TIME." Perhaps the version I read decades ago did too, but I don't remember reading it and thinking that. Good? Sure. The greatest? I don't know if I thought that then or not. 

But I sure do now. At my age, with way more life in the rearview mirror, I am stunned at how Remarque paints the absolute meaninglessness and hopelessness of war. And maybe because I was just finishing the Auden book, in which the author paints a vivid picture of how, for the English, World War I was the war that forever defined England, I was more acutely aware of what that war meant to those who fought in it and those who would have fought had it not ended. As I shared with a friend after reading the Auden, I now realize why World War I was the defining war for my beloved Grandmother Skatzes, despite her sons and grandsons fighting in World War II, Korea, and Vietnam.

And the last lines are heartbreaking and beautiful: 

He fell in October 1918, on a day that was quiet and still on the whole front that the army report confined itself to the single sentence: All quiet on the Wester Front. 

He had fallen forward and lay on the earth as though sleeping. Turning him over one saw that he could not have suffered long; his face had an expression of calm, as though almost glad the end had come. 

And then there's Asher Lev. As I have mentioned before (and more than one time), Asher Lev was put into my hands by one of my English teachers in high school, wanting to make sure I did not stop writing the poetry I wanted to write rather than write "nice" poems. Unbeknownst to her, she kicked open the door to Judaism to me, a comment I made at her memorial service this fall, causing her very devout Christian younger daughter (who I'd been in school with in our teen years) to whirl around in the front pew to stare at me. 

Chaim Potok helped shape my beliefs and spiritual leanings, and truly his memory is blessed. Asher Lev is where it all started. Rereading it now in these times, especially with the sharp rise of antisemitism in this country, impacted me even more. 

I last read Asher Lev in 2018, apparently. Not as long a gap as All Quiet, but long enough. But still, it reads way different at my age than it did before (and that 2018 read may have been a quick read). This time, the conflict that Asher works through as he pursues his artistic calling, in direct conflict with his Chasidic community, his father, and his ancestors, made me all but tremble. It made me think of the different choices and turns my life has held, including those that were in direct conflict with family and others, made me feel the emptiness when I don't write or shoot, and made me grateful that Barb Humphreys took me aside all those decades ago and put Asher Lev in my hands.

I don't know what the next several weeks hold on the Dad front. Continued improvement, I hope. I know there will be time commitments and that just is what it is. Warren is very supportive and that helps me beyond words. 

But I also want the coming days and weeks to hold reading. And photography. And writing.

May it be so. 

Breaking Free

Yep, there's still snow

I walk. A lot. A whole lot. I walk for lots of reasons, not the least of which is for the clarity and peace of mind it brings me.

Because of the snow and bitter temperatures I wrote about in my last post, I have been housebound for days. Oh, I get out and away in the car to run errands or visit my father, things like that. But at a personal level, I am housebound, not daring to risk my wrist (or worse) in a fall on ice. As a result, I last walked on January 24.

Until today.

Today I broke out. Warren teaches on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, and I hazarded a guess that Ohio Wesleyan would have clear walks on its campus. So when he left for class, I rode along with him, hoping to walk.

My guess was correct; my hopes were realized. The campus walkways were clear.

I walked all around campus. I walked to a nearby CVS to pick up some items for my dad. From there, I walked back downtown (crossing campus again) to the library. I was impeded by my choosing to err on the side of caution and wear my winter boots, but I walked all the same. I took a break at our library, then walked back to OWU to meet Warren. All in all, I walked for 70-some minutes, pure heaven.

I learned a few important things from my walking today. (1) The core downtown is pretty good—not perfect, but darn close—when it comes to cleared sidewalks, which means I could wear my Hokas next time, which would make my feet a lot happier. (2) It is all but impossible to cross Sandusky at Harrison  to get to CVS on foot (My, what Big Snow Piles we have!) and I will not gamble on doing that again until the snow melts, which is probably weeks from now. 

Don't get me wrong. There is plenty to keep me happily occupied at home, besides being here with my favorite person in the world, who is also usually here. While at the library, I grabbed a jigsaw puzzle from the Take One/Leave One shelves. I have books, I have baking, I have Justice Bus this week, I have letters to write. Life is good. 

But dang, it was wonderful to break free today! 

It's a Good Life

In the tangle, still some tomatoes! 

"It's a good life," my dad said as he and I parted today, Dad to go up to lunch in the dining room and me to walk home.

I about fell over when he said that, but recovered quickly enough to say, "It is indeed. See you soon." My surprise was that I had never ever heard him say anything even remotely resembling that thought. But he clearly meant it and today I needed to hear that message. 

My morning emotions started out grayer than they have been as of late (and they have not been bright and sunny in recent days). How gray? I got ready to walk out the door to run an early morning errand, then came to a standstill in our living room. I took the car keys out of my pocket and took off my jacket. I plopped down on a chair and called up to Warren, "I'm not going to Kroger." "Are you okay?" "No." Warren came down the stairs with concern. "What's wrong?" "I feel like I'm ready to cry."

No specific reason. I was just ready to cry.

I did not cry. I "pulled myself together" and did some small chores: collecting all the fans we had used during the summer (five total) to ready them for their winter hiatus in our attic; collecting, folding, and putting away the fabric we use on our east and west windows in the summer to cut down on the direct heat from the bright sun (nine pieces total). Then I walked to Dad's apartment and spent time with him until, as I got ready to leave, he surprised me with his comment about this being a good life.

I thought about my dad's words as I walked home. The sun was out, the temperature was cool, fall is definitely setting in.  Just being outside in the sun lifted some of the grayness. I ran into one of my long-ago DI kids, now on the edge of 40 (40? How did these kids get to be 40?) and we hugged one another. "Tell Ben I said hi," she said as we parted.

Warren was getting ready to leave for class when I walked through the door, so talk was brief and most of it would have to wait. I did manage to tell him what Dad said about it being a good life, and Warren smiled. "Sure is."

After Warren drove off, I could feel the grayness starting to gather again. So after a quick lunch, I focused on concrete tasks, some inside and some outside. After starting a load of towels, I retreated to the kitchen garden and spent time in bee therapy. There were not a lot of bees in the basil today, but the ones that were there were hard at work. As for me, after sitting on the bee stool for a bit, I turned to my own outside tasks. Okay, I was not collecting pollen, but I did trim and clear out overgrown tomato vines, as well as repair the bee stool (it had come into our life broken). Will the duct tape hold it until the bees are gone for the season? Probably.

Somewhere between cutting and cleaning out many of the overgrown tomato vines (and finding more tomatoes within) and folding the now dry laundry, the grayness lifted a little more.

It is late in the evening as I type these words. Other obligations and events filled the rest of the afternoon and early evening. I have stayed steady. The big event was a community gathering to discuss food, food security, food insecurity. It was an emotional discussion for those of us in the room (some representing local non-profits, others there because of their own passion and commitment to help others). It is a topic close to my heart. In many ways, it was the absolute best way for me to spend an hour, talking with others (we broke into groups) about how this community (our city, Delaware) both sees and does not see the hurdles and issues for making sure all have access to food and, in a larger sense, all are welcome at the table. Warren was there beside me, adding his observations about the greater community and its needs. I saw familiar faces, I saw new faces, and it was a welcome and needed affirmation that giving my time and heart to this community is what sustains and feeds me.

Afterwards, we ran that Kroger errand I had set aside this morning. It was cold, it was rainy, we were both chilled and exhausted. "Turn into KFC," I said. "We need something warm and ready to eat." [Note: Yes, KFC is a guilty pleasure that we very occasionally indulge in.] Once home, we hurried into the house, turned on the furnace for the first time this fall, and ate our supper quietly, grateful for the heat, the warm food, and, most important, one another.

It IS a good life. 

Off the Beaten Path

A bit of our downtown architecture, from a booklet I designed back in 2006

I did something this morning I have not done for years, if ever. I had a 9:30 appointment at my dad's bank. The bank's downtown branch is one block from Dad's apartment, and two blocks from the library, where I had a book to return and one to pick up. My plan was bank, library, and then Dad. 

The bank appointment finished much earlier than I had planned—at 9:40—and the library does not open until 10:00. Add to the picture that I was carrying a bag containing three 6-packs of Glucerna (which Dad keeps stocked in his fridge). Let's just say the bag was not light. Oh, and it was heating up (a heat dome day). 

What to do, what to do?

It made no sense to walk to the library and wait outside; the library faces east and would be in bright sunshine. Instead, I crossed the street, heavily burdened by my bag, and plopped down on a bench on the east side of the our main drag through downtown, with the buildings casting a solid shade at that hour of the morning.  

And then I just sat there. 

I watched birds fly on and off the buildings. I looked at our downtown architecture, mostly post-Civil War Italianate structures, more thoughtfully than I have in many years. Back in 2003–2004, I wrote a series of articles about our downtown architecture for the then locally owned newspaper. Some of those very buildings I had written about were next to me or across the street.  I found myself thinking of both the then and the now as I looked at changes in the local businesses over those decades, as well as the changes to the building themselves. 

And then there was just the act of sitting on a bench in the middle of downtown and not doing anything for some 20 minutes. I wasn't drinking a coffee. I was not texting or scrolling. I didn't even take any notes, because, stunningly, I didn't think I had a pen. I meant to pick one up at the bank, but picked up a bite-size Hershey bar instead. (It turned out I did have a pen, at the bottom of the heavy bag. I found it later.) 

I kept sitting. 

Eventually, the hour turned. I could hear the bells of the Catholic church a few blocks away chiming. I stood up, picked up my bag, and moved on into the rest of my morning. 

Sometimes you step off the beaten path just by sitting. And this morning was one of those times. 

Focus?

Photo by Giorgio Trovato on Unsplash

 

Just 10 days ago at the mid-January point, I wrote about what the month had held so far and what some of the topics on my mind were. With only 6 (!) days remaining to this first month of 2025, I feel as if I am still tiptoeing through the days.

My study is a mess: Dad paperwork (some old, some older, some newer, some new, and, of course, miscellaneous) in a couple of piles, my paperwork (the same), a small but growing pile of donations after the heady exclamation in that aforementioned post that we had moved a lot of things to Goodwill, and, of course, some other stuff. At the same time, there are some small, "neater" stacks of papers on the couch in the downstairs study that (a) are mostly mine and (b) need to move upstairs to my study and get filed, shredded, or recycled. My study is chillier than downstairs (excuses, excuses) and I keep looking at those downstairs stacks and think, "I'll get to those...later."

The real issue is that my mind is cluttered or, more to the point, my focus is blurry right now. I am working hard (perhaps too hard?) on finding my center, my cornerstone. (Maybe I have more than one cornerstone?) Maybe it has been this cold wave (finally ending, it would appear) that has kept me from walking as much or as far as I want and am used to (I did walk home from visiting Dad today; that was a good thing!) that is pushing me down. (As I wrote just a few days ago, walking is a very important part of my life.) I am quite sure that the noise, much of it toxic, blasting out from the new administration is part of the picture as I worry about the safety and well-being of family and friends in this new era. 

And, having written all of that out and seeing my words in the light of day, maybe I do have a focus after all. I remember that not only am I am my best when I focus on the small moments, the immediate moments, and the community moments, but it is more than my just noticing those things. It is my moral duty, one I take up gladly, to do my part to mend the broken seams of this world. 

Maybe I am indeed ready to move forward. 

COLD

Photo by Alex Padurariu on Unsplash

It is Sunday evening as I write and a light snow is sifting down. For those who watch weather (I do, a little), you may know that central Ohio is in the path of the extreme cold wave hitting the midwest and the east coast. Extreme? -25 or lower with the windchill if it gets really bad. The cold aside, we should miss the heavy snows that are hitting other parts of the country. I will know in the morning when I look out the window.

Despite the cold, I made a point of walking both yesterday and today in the afternoons. I did not do so lightheartedly but with precautions and extreme care. Both afternoons, I chose only clear, clean sidewalks and, today (Sunday), when the air was brittle and the wind drove the temperature down, I was well-bundled. (In comparison, Saturday's walk was under blue, sunny skies with temperatures mild in the mid-20s.)

Until this weekend, I had not walked in several days because of weather and because of letting too many things get in the way. I walk for the exercise, of course. All of my physicians use my walking as a marker of my well-being and always ask me in the course of any appointment how much I am walking (both time and distance) and whether I am experiencing any issues. 

I also use walking to sort things out in my head. The lack of any significant walking (more than just to and from the car) has certainly contributed to a more cluttered mind than I like. So the walks were good for me, even in the cold. I could feel my mind exhale and stretch in gratitude as I walked. 

The cold is predicted to last over the next few days. I visited my dad in his apartment on Saturday and told him if it got as cold as they were predicting, he would not see me for a few days. Dad immediately said, "STAY HOME."

We are both more than happy to stay home over the next few days. As I type these words in on Monday morning, the sun is bright, the sky is blue, and it is a whopping 4 degrees. Warren had to take the car to the repair shop this morning for the replacement transmission, riding our local bus from there to back here, but that is our sole expedition outside. We both have plenty of inside tasks to do, I have plenty (PLENTY) of books at hand, and as soon as I post this, I am heading into the kitchen to bake. My dear friend Cindy calls this response to cold weather "hunkering down;" she lives about 30 miles away and we have exchanged several texts on the topic. 

Here's to hunkering. 

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 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.