Inch Four: Losses

Tracy Kidder

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

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

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

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

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

I am so grateful for those last precious moments. 

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

"RIP author Tracy Kidder." 

WHAT?

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

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

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

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

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

Last night's moon rising

Inch 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. 

Small Notes, Small Moments

Weaver Leather Supply: best smelling store ever. Ever.
(Photo from the store website.)

Monday Warren and I went out of town for Hyer Percussion matters that he absolutely needed to tend to. After starting my day getting my 2nd Covid-19 2024-2025 shot (I get two because I am so special), we took off in the car headed to the Millersburg area, which is known as the Heart of Amish Ohio. We were not there to sample Amish country, although it was all around us; we were there for the business matters.

During the day, we stopped at Keim Home Center in Charm, at which Warren found the sycamore board of his dreams (seriously); Keim was great but we went there only because I failed to catch the county road turnoff to Yoder Lumber after we had been to Weaver Leather Supply, which was our first stop of the day. 

Although it was a business trip and ended up taking longer than we had anticipated, in part because of missed turns, it was a great day. It was good for both of us to get out of town and away from the house and all of its demands. With a pen and paper, I captured a few notes about what we saw:

• A church sign at the Methodist church in Danville: "We stand tallest when we stoop to help one another." Be still, my heart.
• A yard with several blue, 5-gallon water jugs, upside down and firmly fixed to wood blocks, with holes cut large enough for the chickens that populated the yard to each have her own apartment. (Don't ask me about the rooster; I didn't see him.)
• Electric bikes being ridden everywhere by Amish women carting children, groceries, and such. Solar panels at Amish farms. 
• Passing several yards with small or large apiaries and my recognizing (from reading books on beekeeping) that the hives were still under their winter wraps. 
• I love draft horses and they are big (no pun intended) in Amish country because the farmers use them instead of tractors. I saw a team of four pulling a plow to turn the soil. My favorite was a team of two Belgians, harnessed to a large farm wagon, steadily pulling up to the stop sign on a side road and waiting for us to go by, their elderly owner sitting on the seat; the horses knew what they were doing.
• Having the best brown bag lunch ever maybe, which we ate in the parking lot of Weaver Leather. Of course, we took our own lunch. We had the best lunch ever because Sunday afternoon was a Symphony concert, and by the time it finished and Warren and friends got the timpani and other percussion instruments home, we were cold, hungry, and exhausted. A quick trip to City Barbeque solved that issue; we each saved half of our delicious Sunday night pulled pork sandwiches as the foundation of our Monday parking lot lunch. Great move.
• An Amish buggy parked in front of a Dollar General, quite possibly the only "general store/grocery" in the area, and an older woman, dressed properly in the long skirts and covering cloak, a kapp on her head, headed to the buggy with a full bag on her arm. [Note: Amish women drive buggies; they do not need a man to accompany them. We passed several with often two women chatting away as one drove.]

By the time we got home at 5:00, I was tired and my arm was sore, but the day was a huge business success. (In fact, this morning, Warren was on the phone with Pat Weaver of the aforementioned leather company, about a custom die they will be making for him after we all met yesterday and determined whether it would work.) We had a frozen pizza in the basement freezer, I made a quick salad, and that took care of our supper, which we ate while we both relaxed and talked over the day.

The trip was good as a getaway, and as an important step forward for Warren's business, but it was good for another reason. We are starting to plan a trip out to Portland/Vancouver this summer. When we got back home, I told Warren that I really loved spending the day out driving and doing, but I think the trip convinced me that driving cross-country, timing issues aside (because we have matters here in Delaware that we cannot just set aside for several weeks), is out of the question for me physically unless we stop a LOT. A WHOLE lot. Warren said he felt the same way about both of us. So we talked about starting to sketch out some date and start looking at flights. That was a hard realization, but I reminded myself that while I am about to turn 69 chronologically, 20 years of treatment plus that fun little episode in 2023 has aged me by at least a decade. (And those are doctors speaking, not April feeling sorry for herself.) 

It was a great day full of love, full of talk, full of being together. It doesn't get any better than that.

Good, Better, Best

Jaime's pie

The holiday concert is upon us this weekend. I always ("always" as in Every. Single. Concert) bake an apple pie for our close friend and conductor, Jaime, a tradition I started years and years ago. And this being the holidays, I make sure that I bake double chocolate cookies to go home for his wife, Oriana, as well as biscotti.

So Saturday afternoon I set about baking Jaime's pie. I had cooked the apples earlier that morning, so in no time at all the pie was in the oven. It came out and was cooling on the coffee table in our study off the kitchen as I made ready to put the first tray of chocolate cookies in the oven.

In short, all was well.

The rim of the pie crust had a few spots where the sugar wash had darkened more than I liked. Piece of cake, I thought. I'll just carefully cut those little nibs off with a serrated knife. Which is exactly what I was doing when the pie flipped off the cooling rack and upside down on the coffee table.

Holy smokes.

Never in almost a HALF CENTURY of baking pies have I ever flipped one off the rack, upside down, and out of its pan.

One smashed pie

The good news is that not one crumb or splatter went on the carpet.

The better news is that I had just enough peeled, sliced apples in the freezer to make a second pie. (I also had another pie tin, plenty of mayo, the works.) So while I defrosted the apples and cooked them down, I also kept baking the chocolate cookies.

The chocolate cookies

The BEST news is that Jaime gets his pie (plus the other goodies; the first batch of biscotti is cooling while I type this), Warren and I get smashed apple pie dessert (yum!), and, most important of all, not one single crumb or splatter landed on the bass drum that Warren has just finished rebuilding for the Mansfield Symphony. Whew!

Proximity of bass drum to flipped pie; it also did not splatter on the hoops below to the left

Good, better, best—you betcha! 

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.)

And Here We Are After All

Ramona 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ramona 2024

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

What a gift. An absolutely unexpected, marvelous gift.

The 2024 Gardens: Part 6

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

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

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

Ooh.

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

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

Sometimes abundance just rains down on me. 

Revelations

Yes, my work. 

There is the garden project to write about (what changes!). There is the 2nd quarter/1st half grocery expenditures to report on (let's just say there are some surprises there). My father had a medical matter arise that has landed him in skilled nursing rehab for the indefinite future (the same one I spent several weeks in last fall, so it is like Old Home Week for me when I go visit).  There is Warren's impending retirement as Executive Director of our local symphony after 3+ decades (he will continue to play, and he has other significant commitments, so don't worry about him not having anything to do). And it is 4th of July week, which means this household is on buzz level (on the 4th itself, Warren and I will put in 18+ hours from waking up to finally going to bed, most likely on the 5th). In short, our hands are full, our calendars are packed, and our time is on short supply.

Despite all of that, I no longer feel as I am running on overload, a word I have used constantly for weeks now. A word I have used so much for the last month that I have often thought of the old Groucho Marx show, "You Bet Your Life," with the classic "Say the secret word," which would cause the duck to drop down with a prize for the contestant. 

That duck was dropping down daily, even hourly. No prize, mind you, but the damn duck kept dropping. 

So what happened? 

Two things.

One happened early in June, when we had our June Justice Bus, a collaboration between our county Law Library, Andrews House (which has hosted legal clinics since October 2003), and the Ohio Access to Justice Foundation. We come together once a month in town for a clinic focused solely on family law. I am the attorney wrangler, but in June I filled in for one of our attorneys who had a last-minute court matter. I met with the clients, we fully explored the issue that brought them there, and they left with gratitude for the directions we had discussed.

I walked home that day deep in thought, resolving to step back into serving our Justice Bus, not just as attorney wrangler but also as a volunteer attorney. I have to finish my Continuing Legal Education for this biennial (yeah, yeah), but I am back in.

Warren smiled and nodded when I told him my decision later that day. He made it clear that he supported me fully. Then he said he was not surprised; he knew where my heart was.

The second revelation caught me totally off guard, albeit in a great way. And it involves my long love, albeit dormant, of photography. 

I have been taking photos with my old  iPhone (a model X, to give you an idea just how old—new to me, but old). It does okay. It captures moments. 

But the bees are back. I sat on the porch and watched them. I knew I wanted something better than my iPhone. So I went back inside and picked up my Canon.

When I shattered my wrist in January, I could not use my Canon. And, to be truthful, I had not been using it much even before the medical mess of the autumn, let alone the wrist. But with my arm in a cast, I could not easily handle the Canon. When the cast came off in early March, I had significant neuropathy in my right thumb and index finger. That improved with exercise, but then another medical problem on the same arm (and the same nerve) set me back and made clear that I will always have neuropathy. Better, mind you, but likely permanent. So I skirted the Canon, not sure what my right hand could do. 

And the iPhone was so convenient. But it could not begin to give me what I wanted. And my Canon could. 

And did.

I texted my lifelong friend Cindy what I had just done, adding "So excited!" Then added "And it feels so great!"

What I realized and shared with Cindy was that this was the reconnection to photography that I had been hoping for, but was not sure I would ever get back, not just in my hands but in my heart and emotions. I knew Cindy would understand as she and I, besides being lifelong friends, also grew up in 4-H photography together.

Of course, Cindy got it immediately. We are that close, that connected. 

And she totally understood when I texted: "I don't want to lose that feeling ever again."

Truly, I felt like a missing part of me—not just since winter, but long before then—was back. 

Every night I sit out on our back deck as dusk comes on and watch the fireflies come out. It is my retreat; it is my time of quiet contemplation. I am writing this in longhand as I sit here. It is chill tonight, so much so that I am in sweats and a hoodie. The fireflies are blinking off and on, sometimes rising in seemingly choreographed waves.  

As I watch them, I reflect on my finding my way back to advising. I think of my finding my way back to photography. I think of Warren and his support and love, and of Cindy and her support and love.

And I savor the little lights flashing in the deepening dusk.

My Analog Life

2024 has arrived. Now what?

I am still (no surprise) figuring out what my life looks like post-medical catastrophe: physically, mentally, emotionally. On the very plus side, as in "wildly positive," I am walking daily (okay, there have been some weather call-offs) with a good pace and increasingly distances (a mile to two plus). Given that my first post-catastrophe walk was .16 miles from our driveway to the end of the block and back, with me hanging onto Warren's arm, I am thrilled.

But I would be kidding myself if I think I am back to my pre-catastrophe self physically because I am not. And will never be in some areas. That's just the reality of age, long-term cancer, and the catastrophe. (And on the mental front, yes, my intellectual capacity took a hit too. Given that dementia runs heavily in my mother's side of the family and I am at significant risk for developing it, I am keeping an eye on when I have blips that are more than just forgetting a name.)

But, back to 2024 and my continuing to shape my new life. As I have shared with close friends, I am learning to create a flow that seems to work best for me now. One huge piece of my life now is that I am spending more of my time in what I will call my analog life.

Here are some things that my life contains.

A jigsaw puzzle that my friend Maike, who knows that Warren and I (especially Warren) are huge admirers of Frank Lloyd Wright) found at a thrift shop and sent our way:

Books, books, books, the old-fashioned way:

Reactivating my sourdough starter, which bit the dirt during the medical catastrophe. I know, I could have asked my next door neighbor to give me some of his starter, but, hey, starting it is no big deal:

And other pieces that were already in place and continue to give me a quiet space to work (head or hands or both): letters to friends (of course) and walking (previously mentioned), washing dishes by hand, taking time to watch the seasons and the skies and the weather and the birds. There is a farm near my father's house where the last two times I have gone to see him, there has been a huge murmuration—starlings, perhaps?—as I am heading back home driving past the farm. "Wow" does not begin to describe the sight.

Back in my earliest days home, my friend Katrina, in response to my comment that I did not have the strength and energy to talk on the phone more than 10-15 minutes, and how some (including my father) would blithely plow past that limitation, sent me a timer. Oh, Katrina! What a gift! I rarely used it on the phone calls, as I could see on my phone how long the call was lasting, but what this timer has done for me is given me controllable time back. I know, I know. Phones have timers and alarms. Our 1970s era stove has a timer clock for the oven. But setting the dial on this timer and letting it run until its distinctive ding, has made my baking and other activities (my now daily nap) so much easier to track. Who knew?

A life changer! 

The catastrophe and some other important matters impact how and whether we will do much (any) traveling this year other than getting to Mayo sometime later in the year. I hope. I am doing telehealth appointments right now; I do not have the physical capacity yet to drive to Rochester and flying, even without factoring in Covid and flu and RSV, takes even longer than driving. I told Warren this weekend that I have made peace (reluctantly) that I will never get back to Maine, a trip we hoped to take last July but scrubbed because of Symphony matters. I realize it is highly unlikely I will make it out to the PDX area this year to see my family. It is what it is.

Fellow blogger Laurie recently wrote about her "football sweet potatoes" and I asked for a photo, which she gladly provided. My interest was prompted by photos from Orlando at Thanksgiving, scrubbing sweet potatoes as big as his head, even adjusting for camera angle. (I called and asked; adult confirmed the sweet potatoes were massive.) My son Ben is making plans, still tentative, to come back here in May, with Orlando (who starts kindergarten this fall!) and I hope that all comes about, whether we are scrubbing massive sweet potatoes, baking a pie, or just hanging out in the sweetness of time (analog, of course). 

Early June Update

When I posted a garden update in late May, I mentioned the outside stresses on our schedules here. A lot has happened since that May 24th post. 

The Symphony office DID get moved; the very last items left on May 31. There was a great team of volunteers, with Warren spearheading and planning the whole event. Warren, Office Assistant Sharon, and Music Librarian Laura are still settling into the new space (Warren's comment when he came home yesterday: "I just needed a binder clip to hold some papers together. Couldn't find one anywhere.") but with 4th of July up next (a free outdoor concert that some 7000 folks attend), we are all relieved to have the move done. 

On the heels of the move, we headed off to Mayo. It is about 660 miles from door to door, and this was another rocket trip, leaving Monday and arriving back home at 1:05 a.m. Thursday. This is likely our very last rocket trip; I will time the next appointment to be later in the afternoon, spend the night in Rochester, and then drive back during the day. All is well on the cancer front: the myeloma is stable (still!) and the secondary cancer (from earlier treatments) seems to be just sitting there (which is what we want). 

But our travels are not yet over, not by a long shot. This Wednesday, we head to Pittsburgh for the national conference of the League of American Orchestras. Pittsburgh is only four hours away, not 11 or 12, so I am not dreading the driving. There is more travel in July, but I will save that for later. 

I will update the garden in a separate post. The early summer continues to be very, very dry, causing some issues with some of the plantings. 

The physical toll of traveling aside, June has been good. A former colleague from Juvenile Court stopped by on a midafternoon break yesterday and we caught up. (Dana was out walking and called me out of the blue to drop by. It was great.) He is about to retire, and he said quality of life was one of the big factors in his decision. I understood immediately—like me, Dana has enjoyed his job at Juvenile Court immensely, but there are other things he and his wife want to do and he is just looking for the time and peace of mind in which to do them. Some of those things are travel, but some of them are as simple as sitting out on their patio and enjoying a glass of wine. Yep, yep, yep.

And as we sort our way through the weeks and obligations right now, I am reminded daily (heck, sometimes hourly!) of how grateful I am that I am sharing this journey with Warren. Not just the love and the support and the encouragement (and I could go on), but also this perfect response that rolled out of his mouth as we were getting ready to head to Mayo. I needed to make a very quick run to the grocery for something for the trip, and I asked him if we needed anything else. Warren was working in his shop, and after putting down the tool he was using, he looked at me and said, "No. And if it turned out we did, I'm sure we could figure something out with what we have here."

It doesn't get better than that. 

This Year's Gardens: Episode 2

 Just 11 days ago,  I posted that I was way behind on this year's gardens.

Not anymore.

Despite all the hurdles, including the weather, and despite the major stresses on available tine in this house (moving a Symphony office is not for the fainthearted), Warren got both gardens tilled and I got them planted.

The kitchen garden, on the backside of our house and right off the patio, got planted first. 

The kitchen garden

You may note that in addition to the tomatoes cages, other plants are also caged. That is because the Bunny Brigade already moved through and chewed down the cauliflower I had put in. (Note: when I watered this morning, I saw that the cauliflower was rebounding.) 

The bare dirt has been sowed with basil and lettuce (and flowers in the back, which is the far right of this photo). 

I also put cages, not for protection but for climbing, around the Trail of Tears pole beans, heritage seeds from Seed Savers Exchange. They are almost ready to start climbing up.

Seed Savers Exchange is located in Decorah, Iowa, a mere 90 miles south of Rochester. It is a non-profit dedicated to saving and making available heritage seeds. I will be back at the Emerald City in June for a very short visit; we have one day free and we are talking about taking an excursion just to see the farm and the center.

Warren tilled the Hej garden Monday evening.  Before he started, we talked about what I intended to plant: much less than last year. So why not till a smaller garden this year? What a great idea! He started tilling before I came on out and that gave me the perspective (physical and emotional) to point out where it looked best to stop the garden: several feet shorter than in years past. Warren fenced it in and I started planting. Zucchini, some cabbages, the remaining broccoli. I may (may) plant some Trail of Tears beans back there, but I am not sure yet. As you can tell, there is plenty of room even with the shorter dimensions.

The Hej garden, complete with anti-rabbit fencing

I went out this morning to water both gardens, and was thrilled to note that the fencing on the Hej garden has kept the Bunny Brigade away. Nothing was chewed down to the ground. Dare I get my hopes up? 

I have spiderwort planted in the front bed and a bed along the rear of the house. A native species, spiderwort is a rapacious and aggressive colonizer. I have not thinned it out (and may not until the fall); I love the color it brings. Not to mention the bees, who are already working away. There is nothing like walking by the spiderwort bed and hearing it hum.

One of the hummers

That alone tells me it is going to be a good summer. 

This Year's Gardens: Part 1

It is mid-May and I am just now starting the 2023 gardens. Why so late? Oh, the list goes on forever.

We had a late, cold spring, for starters. There were some days of high temperatures here and there, including in February, but there was also frost later into the spring. Not to mention snow. Yes, snow. So weather played a big role.

The schedule overload in this house, especially on the Symphony front, has been intense and immense for weeks. Although I am not Symphony staff, I am married to the Symphony. We had one guest artist staying with us for the season-ending concert, so there were some preparations there on the home front. And in addition to being the Executive Director and the orchestra's timpanist, Warren also was a guest artist this concert, so there was a lot going on. A. Lot. And that doesn't count the incredible Link Up concert for 4th graders this week (three days after the aforementioned season finale) or the other major Symphony matters that have occupied this household for the last many weeks.  

 And while I kept thinking of gardening, my energy levels were depleted and I. Just. Could. Not. Do. It. 

Several weekends ago, I did a very rough weeding of the kitchen garden. It was full of purple dead nettle and hairy bittercress, and I weeded it by hand, in two two-hour blocks of time. A few weekends ago, I did a very, very rough weeding of the Hej garden, removing the dandelions, thistles, and other large strays that I could see. (The Hej garden has been covered in a deep layer of leaves all winter. I am not sure what is lurking underneath.)

This Tuesday, I finally got to a local (the very best local, in my opinion) garden center where I always buy my starter plants. Before going, I looked in my gardening notebook to see what I had written last season about my purchases and their successes. The one thing that popped up repeatedly was "too many tomatoes." I reined myself in greatly on the tomato front. That took tremendous willpower, but I managed. I also gave a few of my plants (one pepper and two tomatoes) to my dad, who smiled and said that he thought he "might" be able to manage those. (Dad will turn 90 this August and he is slowing down.)

My purchases from Miller's Country Gardens, waiting patiently to be planted.  

In previous years,  I have started some seeds inside, usually by late April. As noted above, it is mid-May. Guess what I spent an hour doing this morning?

Zucchini, mostly

Although the weather has been cool, I am not sure we have enough cool days left to plant lettuce and see any results before it gets too hot. I may seed some of the intended lettuce bed and then hold the rest of the seed for late summer. 

It rained steadily for several hours this morning and it is too wet to head into the gardens today. I want to till the kitchen garden and get the basil sowed soon. We need to buy more fencing for the Hej garden before I plant it so we do not have a repeat of last year's Bunny Buffet back there. There is still a lot (A. Lot.) on the Symphony front through July 4, but I think (or else am wildly blind to my own limitations), I can do most of what I want and need to do without relying on Warren. 

The 2023 gardens are off and running! (Or, more realistically, walking at a slow pace, but hoping to pick up speed as time goes on.) 

All That Time

 

Photo by Eric Rothermel on Unsplash

14 years ago tomorrow, I started this blog with a post about the magic of opening doors.

This is my 842nd post. If I play with the math, that means I have averaged 60.14 posts annually. But the average is meaningless. If you look at the Blog Archive in the column to the right, it shows how many posts I wrote in any given year. Best year? 2009, the year I started, where I came in with a mighty 101 posts. Worst year? 2021: a year of still coping with the pandemic, five brutal months of hard school mediations, and my wrapping up my paid professional life. Small wonder I did not write; I am surprised I even managed 8 posts that year.

Through these years, there have been some common themes: the garden, the Symphony, pies, my children, my grandchildren, money, traveling, reading, books, writing, family, cancer, community. There have been births along the ways (those grandchildren!) as well as deaths, including my older brother, my mother, and my Aunt Ginger. 

Time has just kept flowing along.

For the next few weeks (months?), I may be putting up posts using quotes from my commonplace books as the jumping off point for the post. My first book dates back to the later 1980s; I had started one before that in the mid-1970s, but that one got tossed decades ago (before starting the current volumes. Why did I toss it? I have no idea. (For the record, I am now in volume 5.)

I skim through the various volumes (always close at hand in our downstairs study) every four to six weeks, often looking for a reference or a quote I just know is in one of them. I am usually successful. But what I wonder, considering that the books scan some 35+ years of collecting quotes, is whether I would now find some of the quotes of little interest or even invalid for the person I am now. So I will use the quotes as random prompts and see where they take me.

Like any blogger, I have made friends in the blog-o-sphere along the way: thank you for reading my words. There are also personal friends from my pre-blogging life who have been on this since the onset or have joined on: thank you for reading my words. And thank you,dear Warren, for being there all along the way.  

I am grateful. 

Two Views of the Same Night

Mr. Frumble of Busytown

Hemingway famously said that when you needed to start writing, "write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence you know."

At 9:30 p.m. last night, here was my one true sentence: I am worn to the nub.

We are on overload on several fronts.

For me, it is the newest diagnosis. One of the hallmarks of having bone marrow - my hemoglobin, specifically - functioning subpar is to be exhausted.

Not tired. Exhausted.

But trying to spin it differently, I instead told myself last night that I had had a busy day (Justice Bus), a busy week (Concert Week).

That line of thinking reminded me of the Richard Scarry books about Busytown. Who was the pig character that never got things straight? Mr. Bumbles?

I had to Google it: Mr. Frumble.

And then I stopped writing, too tired to move the pen across the paper. 

That was my second one true sentence: I am too tired to write.

But there was more to last night than the exhaustion. 

Earlier that evening, we had dinner guests: this weekend's guest artist and his partner, who also performs. 

Leading up to dinner, I realized I had to come to grips with "enough."

Did I clean the house to a white glove inspection standard? No. I cleaned it to a level where I was comfortable having guests in our home. 

And that was enough.

And the meal? I made apple pie, of course. And a salad and a main dish. But instead of rushing to the store to add this or that special ingredient, I made do with what we had here in our freezer and pantry (sauteed zucchini/onions with pasta). The Parmesan cheese was just out of the shaker - nothing fancy there. I thawed and warmed an uncut loaf of bread I had picked up elsewhere instead of trying to find the time and energy to make a loaf from scratch. And I didn't worry about anything else other than having a good meal.

And that was enough.

What counted last night was the laughter and the talk (and the pie). Our guests, who are on a long recital tour, were grateful for a home-cooked meal. 

And pie. Peter ate three slices while we sat and talked the evening away.

And that was enough.

I wrote the first view of my evening last night after our guests left and Warren and I finished cleaning up the kitchen. I wrote the second part, well, took notes for the second part, after going upstairs to our bedroom. I made those notes feeling tired but grateful. Grateful for a wonderful evening of good conversation and good food and good pie.

And that, truly, was enough.

Past and Present

 

I was at a City Council meeting—our City Council—last night for the first time in years.

Years.

I went with Warren because Council was talking about a long-delayed reboot of its flag and banner policy. The Symphony has banners for Concert Week that have not been flown in months as the City has been slowly reviewing its policies in light of the Supreme Court ruling in Shurtleff v. Boston. (Note: Not much progress was made last night either.)

I had a small sense of Old Home Week when I walked into Council chambers. I used to serve on our Civil Service Commission, so there was a joke with our Police Chief (who'd been a captain back in those days) and I was able to congratulate our interim Fire Chief, someone I had gotten to know well from those years. (The firefighters union, to my delight, was ever-present at our meetings; our interim Chief was in that bunch back then.) The head of HR, also someone I had known forever, came in behind me, tapping me on the shoulder and leaning in to tell me she was glad to see me. And I sat right next to the young person who I will be voting for in the next Ward elections.

I do not know most of our Council members at all anymore, although I still know the City Manager and, of course, the City Planning Director. ("Of course" because I also sat on our Historic Preservation Commission for several years. Plus I was a zoning lawyer , so even thought the current planner and I did not overlap extensively in that era, I still worked with him and his department before I hung it up.)

I found myself thinking back, way way back, to myself as a college student, to the year I was in between schools, and all the hours I spent at council and school board meetings during that time.

When I withdrew from Chicago at the end of my freshman year, I retreated to Delaware,  moving in with my Aunt Ginger and my Grandma Skatzes. It was a long period of putting myself back together — in every way imaginable. I did not work those months. I volunteered at my high school, teaching classes with the greatest English teacher I ever had. And I started attending council and school board meetings.

I had met a newly elected council member on Election Night that fall, and he encouraged me to see what city government was all about. As I was thinking of staying in Delaware, I started thinking maybe I should get a better idea of how the school board operated as well.

It ended up being a fascinating time – I made friends I still have, I felt at home at council meetings (never school board, interestingly enough), and I began to learn how this city functioned. I knew the insider jokes and side comments at Council. I change my career goal to law school, realizing that, if I was going to stay in Delaware, as I was strongly thinking I would, I wanted to make a difference and have a say in how the community operated. I started to have plans to run for Council at the next election cycle.

That was in late 1975, early 1976. By that summer, I was back in Chicago, eventually on my way to living out west for several years. I did not return to Delaware permanently until the fall of 1990.

I did become a lawyer. And when I moved back, I ended up practicing in the office of that Council member. I had met so many years earlier.

I never ran for City Council. That was not a goal by 1990 and thereafter. I almost ran for school board, but had a conflict, so did not. My service on the two city commissions was enough.

I did not sit there last night full of  nostalgia or wondering "What if...?" Maybe I had a sense of relief that I had not ventured into politics. But maybe not even that. Maybe just a sense of being there, listening to Warren make his public comments, and then heading home.

And that was more than enough. 

Midpoint 2022

 The month of June proved to be challenging on the physical well-being front (How do I feel?), the emotional well-being front (How do I feel?), and the personal well-being front (How do I feel and what do I have to face today?). These are very much the same issues I stirred around a few weeks ago and, as I noted then, have been mucking around with for years. 

The last week of June brought a lot (A. Lot.) of Symphony activity and a lot (A. Lot.) of Legal Clinic activity, taking every bit of energy (physical, emotional, personal) I had, including any reserves, which, even on my best days, barely exist. 

The week was grueling. The week was exhausting. The week was uplifting and exciting and fulfilling and all those other great words. How often do you get a contemporary harpsichord work and a contemporary theremin work on the same program? (Never, that's how often.) We surpassed Client #200 for the Clinic this year, a statistic both heartbreaking and stunning. So add to this jumbled, amazing week too many long, long days, too many late, late nights, and too many early, early mornings. (Note: I am an early riser by nature, but 5:30 risings (not my rising time) coupled with late bedtimes are not a good mix.) Oh, and there was a treatment day in there too.

My exhaustion turned to frustration and, at times, even to tears. It was a very full week.

Halfway through 2022, I seem to be struggling to learn the same lesson: I can't do like I used to, I can't go like I used to, I can't burn my candle at even one end, let alone both ends, without taking into account how long I can let that candle burn.

I need to revamp my expectations of myself. That's the lesson. 

We're definitely at midyear. July includes the big 4th of July concert and the kickoff of the Symphony's small ensemble summer concerts. I just pulled two of the last four quart bags of sliced zucchini out of the freezer in the belief that more will appear in the garden to fill the shelf again. 

In the days to come, I'll be updating the garden report (oh, the rabbit battles continue) as well as looking at where grocery purchases stand at the halfway mark. But for this first day of the second half of 2022, I believe I have done enough. 

 

See the rabbit behind the planter on the left at about the midway point? The rabbits decided the planters were personal salad bars. The lettuce just got burnt out by the heat, so that bonus has ended for them. 

This Year's Gardens, Part 7

 When you're on a roll for overdoing it, why not finish strong? Right?

The Hej garden was too wet yet to till, as I predicted in my last post. But I had plants to get into the ground. The zucchini sprouts, which I had up-potted back in early May, were getting a little tired of hanging around inside:

The zucchini plants looking for wide open spaces many days ago

I knew at some point they were going to go on strike and I'd be back at square one. 

Warren and I talked Sunday (which was also full for both of us, in mostly separate spheres, and on which I also overdid it, albeit not gardening). "You know," I ventured, "the soil in the Hej garden is good enough that I think I am just going to plant it by hand. We'll till it in the fall after adding compost. What do you think?"

Warren didn't hesitate. "Yes."

So Monday morning I trundled a wheelbarrow full of the zucchini trays, the cabbages, and the cauliflower plants, along with a trowel and other assorted items, down to the garden, and started in.

First the cauliflower, after I laid the bricks back in place to delineate the garden: 

Then the cabbages:

Leaving a wide swath between those rows and the zucchini bed, I spaced out the cups to see how the layout worked: 

I planted 20 of the 21; one of the stems snapped in two as I untangled it from another. Why 20 zucchini for a household of two? There are others out there who I am planting for. And I owe some good friends and colleagues some homemade zucchini bread as a heartfelt "thank you." Trust me, it will not go to waste. 

Done!

I had one last gardening task I wanted to complete before cleaning up my tools and boots and putting things to rights: 

Caged! 

By the time I cleaned up all the mess, including getting the mud off the tools and my boots, it was late morning. But it was done. 

Gardening is a summer-long affair, but the hardest part of it for me is over. I already watered both gardens this morning; one zucchini looks a bit nibbled on, but that's par for the course. I still have basil to sow; that's an easy task. I have a lot of muddy (now dried) boot prints to clean off the deck and patio; that will take a bit more effort and may wait until tomorrow. Or not. It is Concert Week, after all.

The garden is in. Let's see how it grows.