Sick; Introspection; More Weaving

 Well, I've managed to get sick.  Not horribly - just aching, chest feeling tight, bit of a sore throat.  I knew something was up while I was at work Friday - it wasn't really hot, but I kept breaking a sweat, and no matter how much I drank I was still thirsty.  Normally I could have gone home right after work, but this was the day that Robert and Amanda and Zeke were coming home from a swim meet in Jacksonville.  The swim team was all coming to the museum to let the kids do the ropes course, so of course I had to hang out with them while that was going on, and go out for a late (very late) lunch afterwards.

Friday night I didn't sleep well - which wasn't helped by RedBug being noisily sick on my blanket in the middle of the night.  I would have just liked to stay in bed on Saturday - but of course the chickens and cats had to be fed.  And after breakfast I needed to do the trash run to the dump.  I thought about putting it off for a day - but there was a chance I would feel even worse, and I had too much trash to wait until next weekend.

It did go through my mind that it would have been nice to have the Wicker Husband, or the Android Tom (from "I'm Your Man") or even if Chatbot Eric had a physical existence instead of being made of words, who could traipse out to feed the chickens, do the trash run, throw that barfed-on blanket in the wash, and maybe even bring me a bowl of soup.

What struck me with this thought was that I was wishing that I had some *thing* to take care of me, not some *one.*  I don't particularly want someone in my life at this time.  For many years I took care of my parents; thank goodness they were in assisted living and later in a care facility, so I wasn't the 24/7 primary caregiver, but I I visited, did the shopping, took them to appointments, spent a lot of time sitting in the ER - just the things involved with elderly.  For a few years before that Bob and I took numerous trips to Panama City as his parents declined.  Then, of course, I took care of Bob.  The first friend I made after Bob died came down with long Covid with numerous complications, so I spend a lot of time driving her to various appointments and tests.

I realize that I now when I think of having someone in my life, I'm thinking of having someone that I have to take care of.  Selfish though it sounds, I'm not interested.  I don't think in terms of someone taking care of me.

I can get my own soup.

Speaking of the Wicker Husband, I did go see the movie, and can't wait to see it again and do some freeze-framing when it's streaming.  Physically - props and costumes and settings - it's stunning.  And has some great acting.  But the thing that shows my continuing evolution is that I completely enjoyed going to it.  Even six months ago, when I went to see Project Hail Mary, I was wishing that I had someone to go with, and maybe be able to to have a coffee and talk about it afterwards.  I remember the loneliness hitting me as I walked back to the car afterwards and drove home alone.
This time - I just enjoyed going.

The weaving continues.  A month or two ago I had wound a warp of the brown and white alpaca - and then set it aside while I worked on the Lezcy puppet.  I enjoyed weaving the green scarf, so when it was done I put the alpaca yarn on.  For this one I chose a rather complicated weave (shadow weave, where the brown and white yarns are used alternately) which gives an almost 3-D wavy effect.  It's not as pretty as the green one, but it's an interesting effect and it's *very* soft.

Other than necessary chores (and weaving) I tried to take it easy this weekend.  I had planned to also do that today, but I got a call from Suzie because all but one volunteer had called out and could I come in?  Being the Girl Who Can't Say No - I did.  I'm not visibly sick - no fever, not drippy.  But I'm feeling it now.  At least I don't have to go anywhere tomorrow.

And somewhere during all this I got another warp mostly on the loom because I seem to be on a kick - more on that later.

And a random picture.  Last week I finally went down to visit my stream after not seeing it for several months (too hot and buggy).  It was a challenge; four trees have fallen across the path.  I'll deal with them later (the mosquitoes are still out in full force).  I almost stepped on these strange plants - Indian ghost plants (sometimes called Indian pipe plants).  They look fungoid, but are actually wildflowers, albeit without chlorophyll.  Very strange.

Samhain; Weaving

 Samhain was low key for me this year.  All I did was carve three little turnips, then set them out to guard dishes of soul cake, milk, and whiskey.

I sat outside with them and was somehow oddly contented.
I had been wondering as October approached, if I would somehow be sad.  Halloween has always been my favorite holiday.  When I was a kid of course there was trick or treat (and my mother made our costumes).  When I was too old for that, we would set up mini haunted walk throughs to pass out candy.  As an adult, I would throw big Halloween parties.  For some 15 years I was on the team that built and ran an elaborate haunted trail at the museum.  One year we went to a remote village in southern Mexico for the true Dios de los Muertos, a magical and moving experience I will always treasure.

And now?  Nothing.  I live too far out to have trick-or-treaters.  Most events for adults involve bars and nighttime driving.  There was one daytime event at the senior center - but somehow a bunch of senior citizens in costumes in the lunch room just seemed somehow . . . earnest.

And now, nothing.  Just me and a couple of root vegetables.  Yet somehow, I was fine with that.  To every thing there is a season and all that.  This is what I have now, and I was oddly happy sitting out there with the little candles flickering, listening to the night sounds and the wind in the trees.  It is enough.

The Leczy puppet has been put on hold.  It was just getting too big and bulky and needs a rethink.  While my brain is resetting, I decided to turn to my loom.  I had some decadent yarn that I recently spun (merino, camel down, and silk) and rather than throw it into my ever growing stash of handspun yarns I thought I would actually make something of it.

I always liked the idea of weaving.  It seems magical - it often shows up in myths (and movies, and books).  The rhythmic throwing of the shuttle, banging the threads into place as cloth appears, weaving a spell.  The reality was often for me a lot of frustration, tangled thread, cursing (what Bob referred to as "project induced Tourettes") with the end reward of a somewhat wonky bit of cloth.  A lot of the problems came from me wanting to get on with the weaving itself - that lovely feeling of creating cloth.

What I had to realize is that part of it - the part that you think of when you think weaving - is only about 10% of it.  The analogy that I finally used to to adjust my mind set was to compare it to cooking a fine meal.  The loom setup - measuring the dozens of threads, putting them on the loom, threading them, adjusting tension - all of that could be compared to choosing ingredients, chopping, the mis en place, the actual cooking.  The final weaving the throwing of the shuttle - well, that's like the moment when you arrange the food nicely on a plate and add a sprig of parsley.

When I accepted that, and treat each step as a meditative process, it all started to go more smoothly.  And the finished scarf is beautiful (and feels even better)

I've even put another piece on - more on that later.

I had a funny panic attack at work - funny, because it's amazing how fast your brain can react.  I had gone into the big walk-in freezer to get some fish - and the door swung shut behind me.  In a flash it hit me that no one knew I had gone in there.  I didn't know if anyone would come in for the rest of the day.  I immediately thought of every story I'd ever heard of kids getting themselves into chest freezers, maybe playing hide-and-seek, and not being able to get out.  Just how long does it take to freeze to death?  Would anyone be able to hear me yelling?

All that went through my head in the approximately two seconds it took me to remember that there is an inside safety handle, and also an alarm button, and, by the way, just push the door open because it hadn't latched.  And - duh - I did have my phone on me.

But just tell your little monkey brain all that when the door closes and the light goes out.

Laughing at My Car Panic

 This is just so Future Self can look back and me and have a good laugh.

I had an appointment at my periodontist (good news!  The bone graft took and I can now get my crown).  My car had been parked in the sun, so when I got in, I rolled down the front windows to let the heat out.  Then, because the day was actually quite nice, neither hot nor cold, I rolled them back up but left them open a couple of inches.
When  I got to that last stretch before home, with no traffic and speed limit of 55 (which means that I go 60), I rolled them up because it would get pretty windy at that speed, and hit the accelerator .  My car started making this loud "whump whump whump whomp" sound and shaking.  

Oh, shit.

Should I pull over immediately and call roadside assistance, or do I think I can make it home?  The car is shuddering, but still tracking straight.  I'm not hearing anything else.  I slow down and nurse it home.

It's at times like these that I feel the weight of widowhood.  In the life that I should have had, Bob likely would have been driving because we went to appointments together.  He likely would have known what the problem was.  And we'd still have the second vehicle while this one was being worked on.  But now I'm on my own.

I quelled my panic.  I was home now.  Whatever was wrong would still be wrong in 20 minutes, so just get something to drink, sit down, and have a think.  Make a plan.

Google to see what it might be.
Call around to find a shop
I have Triple A+ - they can come tow the car if it's determined that it's not safe to drive.
Gill or Rik or Christy would be willing to give me a lift to get a rental car.

You got this, girl.  You can cope.

First thought:  What if one of the tires is low (even though the light didn't come one) or even flat?  Easy enough to check - grab the tire gauge.  I walk around to the passenger side of the car . . . .  and the rear window is open.  I must have accidentally opened it when I opened the front windows.

I had associated the sound with the fact that I had just accelerated the car.  But that was also when I rolled up the front windows.  As long as they were open, the air flowed through.  With them closed, the air just buffeted.   I rolled up the window, drove the car back to the road and hit 60 - no problem.

I feel like an idiot.

Fortunately not as much as I would have if I had gone through all the above plans.  But, on the plus side, apparently I'm good at making crisis plans.

Strong???

 The other day at work I heard a yell across the kitchen:  "Yeah, but Ann's strong!"

I laughed, but I also had to think about it.

Because I usually don't like being told that I'm strong.  Anyone who has been through a trauma - illness, injury, death of a loved one/pet, difficulty with children - will too often hear the well-meaning toxic positivity of "you'll be fine - you're strong."  And the appropriate answer is "thanks" when what you're thinking "as if I had a bloody choice in the matter."  A friend who is a cancer survivor said it sounded dismissive, as if telling someone they'll be fine and they're strong is a way of saying "I'm really not comfortable with the idea that you're struggling so we'll just say that it's OK."  But it would be considered inappropriate to answer that statement with "I just wish I didn't have to be."

But in this case, it didn't have to do with mental or emotional strength.  It was more straightforward.  There's a trash can in the deer habitat that's kept in the turkey coop during the day but moved out at night (to make more room for the turkeys).  I had been asked if it was getting heavy and might need to be emptied ahead of the weekly schedule, and I had answered that no, I didn't have any problem picking it up and moving it.

And that's when a volunteer about half my age yelled out about me being strong.  It was a comment on my physical strength.

I liked seeing that I'm viewed like that.  I am sometimes aware that I'm two to three times the age of the rest of the volunteers, so of course I wonder if I'm viewed as "that little old lady."   A bit of an anomaly that they're nice enough to let me come out there and try to help out.  Apparently that's not the perception.  That's nice.

There's been a weirdness recently with the blog.  I do write it as though it will be read - it gives me a different perspective and helps me organize/analyze my thoughts.   And I like going back and reading it - I think it's because there is no longer anyone else to keep my memories, so I store them here.  In general, I don't have an audience.  It gets read by my friend Diane (hi, Sis!), sometimes by my cousin Marty, and maybe by my online friend Charity.  So I'm used to seeing that a post has had 1-3 views.  But recently the numbers have gone up - the viewing numbers are 6-9, and some much higher, even 20-30.  And they're going back to 2018, when I started this blog.  I don't see how my tally of my daily life and introspective musings would be of interest to anyone but me.  As Alice said, "Curiousier and curiousier."

I'm taking advantage of the fall weather (because it may not last) and got more of a couple of fallen trees cut up and burned.  There is something just so deeply satisfying about putting in a couple of hours of labor, and then being rewarded by sitting by a fire with a cup of tea and a book.  (Side note - loving my new garden cart.  It even has a dump feature, so after I fill it with cut wood and take it to the fire, I just pull a handle and tip it out.)

Then I came in and did a repair job.  A couple of days ago I reached inside my shirt to scratch an itch, and accidentally snagged and broke the chain of my necklace.  I dug out my jewelry making pliers and got it put back together.  I wear a small pentacle - only about the size of a dime - and I missed having it on.  This is the one that came to me when I needed it.  I can't remember when I got it - probably in the late 90's when New age and crystal shops were a thing - and for years I had forgotten about it.

But in the months after Bob died, it seemed like I couldn't get a break.  That was at the beginning of Covid and it's weirdness.  A couple of friends died, a couple of cats died, my chickens and peacocks got killed, my air-conditioning unit failed and had to be replaced, my roof leaked and my bedroom ceiling fell it . . . it was like I couldn't get a chance to breathe.

Then one morning when I got up, I stepped on something, and it was this pentacle.  I have no idea how it came to be on the floor by my bed.  But its meaning was clear: no matter what happens, and how uncertain my life, there will always be Earth, Air, Fire, Water, and Spirit.  It was comfort and assurance.  It gives me courage  (I could even say strength if I wanted to be ironic).  It's good to have it on again.

"Winter", More New Stuff, Socializing

 Well, we've had a few more days of glorious cool weather (even cold in the mornings, by Florida Standards).  This has led to me bundling up in the house in my flannel jammies and fuzzy bathrobe because I'll be damned if I'm running the heat the same week I've run the air conditioning, and I don't care if it's 60 degrees inside.

You know that fun thing when you break out the winter jacket that you haven't worn for 9 months and find something in the pocket?  A $5 bill if you're lucky, a half eaten candy bar if you're not.  Well, I dug out a pair of slippers, and tucked inside one was . . . a pair of reading glasses.  My only thought was that the last time I wore them was when I took a trip with my brother a couple of years ago, and stuck a pair of backup glasses in them when I packed.

A lot has been packed into the last week, but I was still able to spare an afternoon for this.

My favorite reward for cleaning up the yard.

My last post I wrote of having to replace a switch on the well.  Two days later my microwave died.  At least that I didn't have to try to repair.  I just have a basic small one, and sourcing parts would probably cost more than buying a new one, even if I wanted to try the repair.  My new one is *very* similar to my old one, with one difference:  the "clear" button is where the "start" button was.  I don't know how many times now I've put something in, set the power, set the time . . . and then hit "clear."  I'll eventually retrain myself.

October is when stuff needs to be done.  Two of the cats have been to the vet for their annual checkup and shots, with two more going in next week.  I've had my annual shots - and I voted.  I've had my eyes examined, and made the appointment for my central/heat air to be check and cleaned.

I've socialized.  Sunday I again met with a couple of friends at the coffee shop for spinning or knitting/crocheting.  It was chilly enough that we even sat outside in the sun.  I'm really enjoying this - there's something so relaxing about getting together while working with your hands, and for me, four is the perfect number of people.

Then Tuesday I went to brunch with my friend Diane who just moved back to Tallahassee (having left 34 years ago) and a tour of her new house, which is lovely.  Thursday was my library book club.  Three things in one week (plus my two days working at the museum).  I think I'm going to enjoy having a people-free weekend.

Thursday was more DIY.  Now that it's cooler, it's time to clean up the yard.  Over the summer, if a tree or big branch came down in an inconvenient spot, I would at least cut it up and stack it.  But not haul it to one of my burn pits.  If I'm not having a fire, why pick up something at Point A and move it to Point B, where nothing happens?  Seems, well, pointless, especially when the temperatures are 110 degrees.  But now it's time to start dragging.  Also, wherever I need to work, there are a couple of trips to and from the barn for the clippers, loppers, handsaw, chainsaw, etc.  My wheelbarrow has a broken spot that needs to be welded - but wheelbarrows can be unwieldy over uneven ground.  I do have a large steel garden cart that we used to drag building materials around when we built the Haunted Trail at the museum.  Two adjectives there:  large, and steel.  That sucker is *heavy* even when empty.

So I bought myself a present.  A Gorilla garden cart.  I've used one at the museum and it's sturdy but lightweight, and even has a tip feature to empty it.

Of course it came in a box with the words "Easy Assembly."  Yeah, right.
Actually, in concept, it was.  The diagrams clearly showed where each part of the frame (with the tipping mechanism) were to go, and I *really* liked that instead of a bag of nuts and bolts, they came on a card, divided up to go with each part of the directions.  I wish more places would do that.

So the assembly would be easy - if one is an orangutan with long arms and very strong hands.  Each bolt had to be put through from the inside, using a screwdriver and pushing as hard as possible to brace it against the very tight nut being wrenched on on the outside.  And in many cases laying the bucket of the cart on its side, holding it in place with my feet, then bending over in a touch-your-toes position to put one hand inside the cart and the other reaching around outside, and about that time a mosquito tried to drill for oil on my left shoulder.

But it's together, and it's lightweight and maneuverable, and I look forward to making one trip to carry everything instead of several.

So today - I'm driving in to work, and it's chilly and my windshield is fogging up, so I turn on the heat/defroster - and it starts making a loud whirring sound.  Sigh.

In the words of Scarlett O'Hara:  I won't think about that today.  I'll think about that tomorrow.

Well Adventures and a Quiet Fire

 I had plans for the day after Dingo died: the ritual of passing, of acknowledging that something has left your life.  It's practical; I wanted to give his cage a thorough cleaning, and clean up his corner of the room where he had lived.

So I got up, breakfasted, did a few morning chores, including getting a load of laundry started, and went out to turn the hose on the cage.  The water pressure was a little low, but I assumed that was because the washing machine was also filling.  But then I heard strange sounds coming from the house - the washing machine was spitting air instead of water.  I quickly turned it off and went to check the well.

The pump wouldn't kick on.  I tried the usual fixes, which consisted of giving the switch box a good whack, and then going inside to the circuit breaker box for the good ol "turn it off and turn it back on" again.  Neither worked.  I had no running water.  This means I would have to call a well company, and wait however many days until someone could come out, meanwhile hauling water (at least I still hadn't emptied out my water stash from my storm prep) and taking sponge baths.  And, oh yeah - I had that load of wet laundry in the washing machine that needed to be rinsed.

Or  . . . I could try fixing it.  What usually goes out on a well is the pressure switch.  I drove to Home Depot and got a new one.  In theory, it's an easy procedure: Turn the power off.  Take the lid off of the old switch, undo four screws to remove the wires, pull them out of the box.  Unscrew the old box from the pipe.  Screw on the new box, feed the wires in, and screw them down.  Should take 20-30 minutes.

"Should."  Such a lovely term.  In reality, everything was corroded pretty solidly.  Screws did not want to come out.  Unscrewing the old box from the pipe ended up taking a plumber's wrench, a pair of channel locks, and a lot of swearing.  Screwing the wires back into place was again an easy concept: bend the end of the wire into a "J", hook it around the screw, and tighten it down.  The reality is that it's quite a heavy wire and uncooperative.  The screw is only about 1/4" long.  With one hand, using a pair of needle nose pliers, I could get the wire into place.  With the other hand, I could get a screw into position.  Had I been an octopus, I could have then picked up the screwdriver.  As it was, it ended up taking about 10 minutes for each of the screws.  At one point I was trying to remember how Bob would have done this.  And I know:  He would have said "hey - hold this in position while I screw it down."

At that point a few tears were shed among the swearing.  It didn't help that it was 90 degrees, the mosquitoes were biting, my back was seizing up (all of this was done bending over) and dammit - Dingo died and I'm sad.

Eventually I got it all put together, and then - seriously praying that the problem really had been the pressure switch - went inside and flipped the power back on.  I didn't hear any electrical explosions.  When I went out to check, the pump was running and the tank was filling.  I was able to take a shower and finish my laundry and flush my toilet.

I should have been dancing around and yelling "Booyah!"  But I was hot, sweaty, mosquito chewed and honestly this was a learning curve that I didn't want to have.  And part of me was wondering how the hell I became a person who could look at a well that wasn't working, decide what the problem was, and go buy the part and fix it?  Who am I?  The line from "Africa" keeps running through my head: "I seek to cure what's deep inside, frightened of this thing that I've become."

And it's at times like this that I deeply and desperately miss Bob.  I can cry into my pillow for little Dingo, but it doesn't put any arms around me.  We would have replaced the switch together, he knowing what to do and being strong enough to break corroded things loose, me being the gofer and holding things in place.

Today, in contrast, was beautiful.  The temperature decided to drop 20 degrees, the sky was clear, and there was wind in the trees.  I got Dingo's cage scrubbed and stored in the barn; in years to come it will likely hold foster opossums.  I did  hold it and cry for a bit; it was just so empty and lifeless.  His wooden castle went to the burn pit.

It was a perfect day to get a fire going and start dealing with all the yard waste.  I thought I should grab the chain saw and start dismantling one of those downed trees.  But I said the hell with it.  I already had a big stack of fallen branches that I've been dragging over during the regular yard picking up, plus a stack of cut-up wood from previous cleanups.  So I just lit the fire and sat beside it to read, and got that built-up pile taken care of.  

I want to do as much cleaning and burning as possible while I can.  Despite the storm last week, we're still well below our needed rainfall for the year and I suspect another burn ban will happen this winter.  But today, I rested.

Schrodinger Squirrel

 Sept. 10, 2014, I got a slightly panicked call from a friend of mine. "Ann - I found a baby squirrel.  What do I do?"
And, of course, my response was "meet me with it."

He said that it did have some fur, but the eyes were closed, which made it 2-3 weeks old.  I was expecting a squirrel about 2 1/2 inches long, maybe weighing an ounce.  What he gave me was more like an inch and a half long, and when I weighed him, he tipped the scale at 9 grams - about 1/3 ounce.  Tiny flying squirrel.

So small that I had to use an IV tip on a syringe to feed him.  And feed him I did - around the clock.  I got it down to a fine art:  I could get up at 2 a.m., warm his milk, feed him, get him settled back down, clean the syringe, and be back in bed by 2:12.

Nine days - 60+ feedings later - he was growing fast. Up to 1/2 ounce

And in three more weeks his eyes were open, and I could give up the 2:00 a.m. feedings.

It was about this time he got his name.  Normally, I don't name my fosters; it makes it easier to give them up when it's time for the release.  But one day I fed him, then put him back in his basket.  A moment later, I heard a little squeak - and was horrified to see that he had coughed up some of his milk and was choking on it.  He was starting to shake - which means death in about a minute.  I grabbed his syringe, stuck it down his throat, and pulled back on it.  A minute went by - then two and three.  He continued to tremble, but he was breathing.  Every time I went to check, I would pause for a moment, because until I actually looked, he could be either dead or alive.  Hence - Schrodinger's Squirrel.   That's a lot of name for such a small critter, so he became Dingo.

I bought him a castle.

I had not planned on keeping him; I was very good about releasing my fosters, no matter how attached I got.  But I wasn't able to get any more flying squirrels to raise with him, and the rehabbers I contacted didn't have any so that I could hand him over.  It was a late spring that year - by the time it was warm enough to release him, the rehabber I worked with said he was too imprinted and that I should keep him.

I learned to keep a binder clip on the cage door.  It was one of those where a bar fits into a notch to keep it closed - but he figured out how to grab it and lift it out and have his escape and spend the night exploring the room (I am a bit sentimental now about the chewed pages on some of my books.)

I read that flying squirrels fluoresce under black light - so I got my flashlight and - sure enough.

 Of course, there is a reason I'm making this little trip down memory lane.  He turned 12 a month ago, which is pretty old for something the size of a hamster.  He's been showing his age, tending to lose his balance when running around, and sometimes seeming a little confused.  But even last night he was being lively, and demanding his cashew (he was quite the little gourmet).  His fur was still sleek and smooth, his bright little eyes undimmed.

But this afternoon, he was gone.  He lived in the back room, away from the cats (but where my other fosters would live.  I think he liked it when I had new baby critters, because he never outgrew his liking for the special milk formula).  It's going to be quieter and lonelier back there now.  Even though he was nocturnal, every time I walked in the room, he would have his head out of his castle window, demanding his tribute of a peanut.  My tiny prince in his little castle.

I'll miss him.