Lunch Dates, Weird Dreams, Eclipse, and Other Small Stuff

 I had a couple of dates that I didn't post about last week because I was focused on my anniversary.  I can go months without a lunch date - and I had two just two days apart.  Jeff was in town for work, and I got him for a few hours on Friday - we had lunch and then explored an oddities shop and alternate bookstore (and Spirit Halloween).
Then last Sunday I had lunch with my friend John.  He's mostly an online friend, but we do get together once or twice a year.  We "met" when he posted in the Tallahassee FaceBook group asking if anyone liked Halloween.  Mostly we chat online, but sometimes he asks if we can get together, which - to be honest - I usually dodge.  John is very obviously autistic, and - to sum things up - we've basically been having the same conversation for two years, which can get a little tedious.    I just feel sorry for him.  It's hard for him to make friends, and all he really wants is to get married and have a family, but he's in his mid-40s now and so far has never even been on a second date.  He's just very lonely.  So every now and then I suck it up (and I hate that this is really my attitude) and spend a few hours with him, then feel guilty about said attitude because he's the epitome of sweetness and just so happy to have company.  He also broke my heart once when he said he was glad that we were friends because he felt that he didn't have to mask in front of me, and could just relax.   Anyway, we had lunch and watched the second Wicked movie, which I thought was better than the first.

The night of the 27th was the partial (but close to total) lunar eclipse.  I hadn't planned on staying up for it (the totality was going to be at 12:30) but I was having problems sleeping, realized that it was after midnight, and went outside.  I wasn't sure where the moon was, and it's a bit hard to spot when it mostly isn't there.  I kept wandering farther from the house to get away from the tree cover, when it occurred to me that I also wasn't seeing any stars.  It was completely overcast and foggy.  Oops.  Back to bed.

At the museum I was cleaning the cage of Baxter, a broadwing hawk.  He was hit by a car and only has one working wing.  He loves getting misted, and will try to spread his wings but only can lift one, so he tends to lose his balance.  It's cute, but I realized that I can also learn from him.  He's damaged, and will never fly again - but that doesn't stop him from spreading his wing and enjoying something.

I treated myself to yet another journal.  I love these book with the wrap-and-tie covers.

I keep getting journals- and then not writing in them.  I love the idea of something like Bilbo Baggins's Red Book.  I would like to write my pithy thoughts in a fine Spencerian hand, illustrated with sketches.  But my pithy thoughts aren't much deeper than "See Spot Run," my handwriting is barely legible even to myself, and I say that I can't even draw a crooked line that looks like one.  So this time I'm going to just keep a daily diary - jot down the events and thoughts of the day.  So many times I sit down to write this blog, and have no recollection of what I did two days ago.  We'll see how long this lasts.

I had a rough start to the day.  Last night while I was reading in bed, I had a wee dram (meaning one measured ounce) of rum, which is not uncommon for me.  But I don't know if it was that - or if something I ate yesterday (which was nothing out of the ordinary)- but I woke up at 5 a.m. to answer the call of nature and was dizzy enough that I could barely walk.  I went back to sleep, and woke up at 8 feeling like I had a helluva hangover, along with (to put it discretely) intestinal distress.
In those three hours, I was having dreams which would have made Kafka proud (at one point I was getting in an elevator with a bunch of shirtless pudgy guys wearing shorts and beanies, all of whom had had their arms amputated.  Yeah, weird.
But the last one before I woke up was of Bob.  Somehow I had been transported back to early 2019.  I still had all of my memories from since then.  Of course, I loved being with him again, especially being able to snuggle (how I miss snuggling).  But I realized that I couldn't tell him what was going to happen, or that I had been living over six years without him.

So I woke up this morning sick and depressed.  I stayed on the couch until noon, and then I felt better and my spirits lifted, and it's actually been a pretty good afternoon.  I'm working on the start of the head for a wendigo puppet, and I also have a warp of handspun alpaca ready to go on the loom, but I've been too muzzy headed for those, so I've done stuff like dusting and mopping and scrubbing out the chicken nest box and folding laundry.   I also started to deal with the roof.  It *really* needs to be cleaned off -that flat section is likely covered with leaves and branches.  I've been pretty good about keeping it swept off for the last six years, but there's also that part of me that says going up a ladder onto the roof when I'm here by myself is possibly a stupid thing to do (friends and family have been asking me not to).  For a few nights I've woken up in a panic because I know that it needs to be cleaned off)
Get a grip.  Why am I so shy about sending a text?  There's the really nice guy who cleaned my gutters and roof a few months ago.  He's got a couple of little girls and they got a house they're trying to fix up, so at least at the time he was trying to get some side hustles.  So I kicked myself into sending the text asking if he still does odd jobs, and yes he does, so we'll get that set up.  No need to panic.

Robert and Amanda will be relieved (so will Jeff and Gill).  It just saddens me a little to not think that I'm somehow invincible.  Robert is thinking about applying for a job in Huntsville - about 6 hours from me.  When they were discussing the pros and cons of moving, one of Amanda's concerns was "what will we do about Aunt Ann?"  Which is sweet, but also means that I'm someone to be concerned about.  Apparently they think that I'm not getting any younger.  Sigh.   I told him once again that I loved them, and appreciated them more than I can say - but I'm not their responsibility.

But all in all, it's been a good day.  I've dealt with some things that I've let slide, done a little spinning, and have even been playing online Scrabble with Gill for a couple of weeks, and just recently with a random person who matched up and challenged me.

Happy Anniversary

 19,358 days ago, Bob and I got married.  53 years.
I've celebrated seven of them alone now.  That's hard for me to grasp. I'm slightly horrified, knowing there will be more, that I keep getting farther away from my time with him.

I don't remember celebrating most of them.  We'd wish each other happy anniversary, of course, and usually I would cook a steak.  Sometimes there were trips - big ones to England, Alaska and Italy.  Smaller ones to Pensacola (history tour), Panama City Beach (Seaquarium), Jacksonville (beach and zoo) or even to spend the night at Wakulla springs.  There was the year that we just went and wandered around Lowe's (strange, but he really enjoyed it, just looking at stuff and we talked about how we could use it, and had ice cream afterwards).

The one that really hurts. 2018, our 45th.  When I glibly posted on FaceBook "45 years.  So far, so good."  The last innocent one.

And it will forever bother me that I don't remember our last one, the 46th.  He had started his in-town treatments the very end of July, so it was in August that we were learning the rhythm of going to the clinic,  I was learning how to abide with his dietary restrictions, getting into the pattern of boiling water (he had to drink at least two quarts a day, and because we're on a well it had to be boiled first, so first chore of the morning was putting the kettle on and filling mason jars).  Making a few trips to Gainesville for tests.  Our anniversary sort of fell through the cracks.

You would have thought that we would have marked it, made it special, because we knew it would be our last one.  Thing is - we didn't.  We knew that he was going to go through hell, but it never occurred to us that he wouldn't survive.   I have heard about widows whose husbands left behind notes and letters, trying to give helpful advice.  Bob didn't do any of that - he thought he would be coming back.  We thought we'd have more anniversaries.

Happy anniversary.
I love you
I miss you
Thank you

Lonely? Old Coffee Grinder, "New" Computer

 I had a dentist appointment yesterday (thank goodness, just for cleaning this time).  There is a Spirit Halloween open near to the office, so I planned on going there as well.
As I was driving, I was have the thought that is always on the back of my mind, that I used to be a passenger, chatting with Bob, rather than driving alone.  The random thought came to me:  Am I lonely?  Yes, of course.  But no, not really.  I am lonely specifically for Bob; I miss him desperately.  But I'm not "generically" lonely.  If I can't have Bob, I'm OK on my own.

It's taken me time to get to this point of acceptance.   Take Spirit Halloween.  The first year after I lost Bob I wanted to go, but couldn't face the idea of going alone.  I invited a friend of Bob's went with me.  In 2021, I asked another friend to go with me.  In 2022 the kids were in town, and we went.  2023, 2024, 2025, and yesterday?  I didn't even think about asking anyone.  And when I got there, after my appointment, I realized that I was getting hungry, and there was a Mexican restaurant next door, an unfamiliar one.  And I didn't care, and I don't mind at all going in and eating by myself.  4-5 years ago I would have been looking around at all the other tables, with couples and group, and holding back tears.  Now it doesn't matter.

Just an odd thought.  Today I'm writing about taking care of a couple of things, sort of polar opposites.  One is my coffee grinder that I've written about before: my100 years old cast iron one (that I still use to grind my coffee).  I've been thinking that I should do something about the rust on it.  I'm not interested in a "restoration" (making it look brand new) but I did want to arrest the rust.  So I took some time with a soft brass brush and fine steel wool to remove the loose rust without harming the paint.  To protect it, I melted beeswax into mineral oil, brushed it on, and buffed it.  It now looks cleaner, with a patina but no active rust.  With a little care, it should be good for another 100 years of grinding coffee beans.

At the other extreme, I finally deal with my old desktop computer, which is about 85 years younger.  I replaced it with a laptop about 5 years ago, because it had become glacial.  I can't remember when we got it - at least 15 years ago, and it was on sale because it was being discontinued.  It's old enough that it was proud of being an all-in-one instead of having a separate tower.   I tried setting it up in the cottage for those times that I want to watch a how-to video while I work, but I had to plan in advance, because it took at least 20 minutes to warm up and load a video.  Some time last year I replaced it with a small TV, and the poor old computer has been sitting on the floor, waiting for me to deal with it.  The problem is that I don't understand technology.  Even though I erased everything on it, I have heard that people who understand such things can still somehow get the information off of it (and I had financial information on there, and my tax returns).   The safest thing to do would be to remove the hard drive and destroy it.
Destruction is not in my system.  I keep things until they fall apart.  And somehow I thought that someone, somewhere, might be able to use this computer.  Someone who might know how to upgrade it (replace the mother board, possibly?)  But I had to admit that it was now a piece of junk.  And taking out the hard drive wasn't as easy as it seemed - there were no screws, or any visible way of opening it up.  I finally just worked a screwdriver into a seam, popped it open, and then literally tore it apart with my hands (oddly satisfying).  The hard drive turned out to be a pretty solid thing, but a couple of blows with a pickax gave it a reprogramming that it will never forget.

So there was the yin-and-yang of my afternoon.  Cleaning and caring for something that was working decades before I was born, and will continue to function perfectly long after I'm gone.  And then destroying something because it no longer served its purpose.

Swing, Cardboard Box, Chickens, August

Swing 

Here's a picture of my front yard swing after I remade it two years ago.

I could have taken a fresh picture, but it looks exactly the same today.  After I remade it AGAIN.  That cloth is very expensive water repellent SunBrella (I paid almost as much for the fabric as we did for the original entire swing 30 years ago)).  A few weeks ago I looked out and notice that it was sagging oddly.  Somehow water had gotten into the seat - and not gotten out.  So I had to rip open the main cover seam and pull the sodden insides out.  There's a thick foam inner layer, a thick layer of batting, and then a plastic cover.  It all had to be disassembled, spread out to dry, and all put back together again, mostly by handsewing because it's too bulky to maneuver at my machine.  I debated just chucking it and buying a wooden swing - but this padded sling swing is just sooooo comfortable.  I have sat outside many a time to read and ended up lying down and taking a nap.

So I put it all back together.  I really wanted to mount it to the swing and call this project done.  The heat index was 112.  I could try to wait until it was cooler - but that might be November.  So somehow I did it.  Satisfied, I sat in it for a bit to celebrate, but after a few minutes I decided that no matter how comfortable it was, sitting outside in 112 degrees just isn't the best thing.   But at least it's done (and I've waxed the seams this time).

Box

I am mourning the loss of a cardboard box today.  It was (once upon a time) a very sturdy fruit box.  Some 10-15 years ago, when Bob and I were helping out in the animal kitchen at the museum over Christmas, some fruit/vegetables for the animals came in this box.  Bob asked if he could have it;  he thought the cats would like it.  Strange how memories work - why would I have such a clear memory of him asking for a box - where he stood, the sound of his voice, the person he was talking to (Shelby).  He was right - the cats loved that box.  Lying on top of it, taking naps inside, hiding to pounce out on passers-by - especially when the girls were kittens.  It has stayed in the hallway for all of those years.

But I finally admitted that it had been loved (and scratched) to death.  Collapsing.  Mostly gone.  So today it went to the recycling bin at the dump.  But you don't have something around for a decade plus without it seeming awfully empty without it.

Chickens

I was thinking about my chickens the other day.  People think I have chickens for the eggs; this is sort of true, but to be honest, the eggs are the excuse and not the reason.  I buy them the best possible food - for the cost of that, I could buy all the eggs I need and then some.  Any chicken owner will tell you that you have chickens because you like having chickens

They're good for me.  Any number of articles will tell you that it's good for your health to get natural daylight first thing in the morning, and even to take a short walk.  But without the chickens, would I actually get up and walk around outside before breakfast?  As it is - I have to let them out of the coop and feed them first thing in the morning (well, second thing- the cats get fed first).  Rain, shine, storm, heat, cold - I'm outside. And while I'm out, I look at the sky and the trees and the slanting light and listen to the birds.  And at night, when it gets dark, I have to lock them up again - while listening to the frogs and the whip-poor-wills and seeing the last of the sunlight low and purple through the trees.

And I just like them.  I like their contented little brrk brrk brrk sounds. And the excited "look look look an egg!" brag.  I like the way they come running when they see me because maybe I have a treat.  A couple of them (Frollo and Ginger) like to be scratched.  They're basically happy birds, and they're good for me.  The eggs are a bonus.

August

And now it be August.  July has, once again, been survived, which is all I ask of July.  August is when I start to sense a change, that the seasons are turning - even if day after day our heat indices are topping 110 degrees. Maybe it's the angle of light. Maybe it's the days getting just a wee bit shorter.  Maybe it's all the stores putting out their Halloween displays.  It's just a feeling.

My mood is swinging back and forth between hyper and despair.  Bob and I got engaged in August.  We got married in August.  It was in August that we started spending our days in the oncology clinic, and driving back and forth to Gainesville for so many tests.  I think it will always bother me that I don't remember our last anniversary.  I think we were too distracted to really think about it.  Neither of us thought that it might be our last; maybe it was perfect denial, but it never occurred to either of us that he wouldn't survive.  

I've been feeling homesick.  I'll have that feeling of "I just want to go home" - except that I'm sitting on my own couch.  But if I close my eyes and picture the place that I'm longing for - it's Shands. The hospital.  The last place we lived together.  In the mornings I'd got o the snack area and make tea and we'd look out the big window at the sunrise over Payne's Prairie in the distance.  Snuggling in the bed together to watch Jeopardy in the evenings.  I'd take a break to go out to feed the turtles in the holding pond or take treats to the cat colony I found, then come back to tell him about it. We were together.  I was still married.  That was our last home.  I'm homesick.  Maybe someday I'll go back there, just to walk around, stand outside the ward.   I remember Bob taking me to visit our first apartment before the buildings were torn down,  looking at it, remember our first home.  It would be like that; Alpha and Omega.

I continue.  I rebuilt my swing.  Today I got wild impulse and shampooed the carpets.  Next week I have a trip to the dentist (just a cleaning this time, thank goodness) and I'll go check out Spirit Halloween and maybe the local produce store that just opened.  Jeff will be in town next week.  I found out that there's an oddities store in town and I want to go see it.   I'm playing with ideas for the next puppet (Wendigo).
The seasons are moving forward, and so must I.

Spinning - no Crickets!!

 I have written ad nauseam about the sound of crickets.
That sound I hear whenever I heed the advice (online articles) that one shouldn't spend too much time alone, that one should  "reach out."
So I put the word out - would anyone like to go with me to the theater, to a play, to the Ren Faire, to the comic con, etc. etc. etc.   And what I get back is the sound of crickets.

Still, I do try from time to time.  Mostly just to tell myself "well, I tried."  So recently I sent an email to the Weaver's Guild group and asked if anyone would like to get together to do spinning.

Darned if I didn't get a couple of responses!  Enough that we set up a time and place (a small cafe that welcomes groups).  Double darned if two people didn't show up!  And we had a really nice time - the two of them also had been hunting for someone to do crafting with.

There was even a bonus.  One of the women pulled out her knitting to show us - and a woman in a group at another table come over to look.  She had a Hispanic accent - as did the other woman in our group.  Apparently the group at the next table was some sort of Hispanic meetup, so they all had to come over to say hi, and one of the men pulled out his tablet to show us pictures of his collection of Bolivian and Peruvian textiles (which were amazing).

It was a sort of community connection that you just don't see much anymore.  If I ever go out to eat or for a coffee, everyone seems to have their faces in their phones, even if they are sitting together.  So to have a couple of tables of people actually talking to each other, sharing, was a true delight.

We liked it enough that we even set a date and time to do it again next month.  (That was me - as said to them "If we say we should do this again sometime, we might never get around to it.  How about setting a date?")

Really nice to have conversation instead of crickets.

Spinning Wheel, Cats and Random Stuff

 My new spinning wheel came in, and it is a beast.  A seriously solid piece of machinery.  And yes - it does fit into the 12" x 8" box when it's folded.

This the big sister to my wee Nano. 

I will never stop being charmed by my little one, but it's a bit limited as to what it can spin (only fine yarns).  The new one is much more powerful and versatile, but I got it mainly for one thing - plying.  When you take two or more strands and twist them together.  Spinning you can do in bits and pieces over time, but when it's time to ply, you're sort of tied to it until your finished.  The Nano isn't strong enough to ply, so I use one of my treadle wheels.  The problem is my tendency for fine yarns, which take a lot of twist, so I'll be stuck there, treadling as fast as I can, for at least an hour, or an hour and a half.  Spinning is meditative, with the pleasure of the feel of the fibers slipping through your fingers.  Plying is simply tedious.  But the new Beast has a speedometer, and can hit 2000 rpm, so turn it on and let it rip -20 minutes later, job done.

It does seem like a bit of an extravagance, getting a new wheel mostly for one job, but it occurred to me that I got the Nano some eight years ago, and I don't think I've bought a new spinning tool since then (fiber, yes, but no tools).

That made me think about something else we used to get on a regular basis, but I haven't in eight years:  Cats.

I was originally the cat person.  I had one when I was a kid, but he was killed by a car when he was about four and my Dad didn't like cats and never let me have another one.  I always thought about the day that I would grow up and be able to have a cat.  Then Bob thought he didn't like cats and didn't want one - until about two years into our marriage (our first apartment didn't allow pets).  I was looking at kittens in a pet store one day, and thinking - as I had for the last 10 years or so - "someday when I grow up .. ."  That evening I told Bob we were getting a kitten, and that weekend we went to a cat rescue and got little Algernon.  And Bob was smitten.

Other kittens followed.  Ptarmigan, running away from kids (who were trying to help her) and hid under a bush in the snow, but came out to Bob's warm hands (and into his shirt and heart).  Cheechako, who Bob saw at the edge of some woods when he was driving home from work.  Cats picked up on campus. Cats who just showed up in our yard (Pookha, Apache, Nazgul, Hamish).  Most of the time we kept the balance at six- but eventually seven, then we got Della's three cats after Hurricane Michael, and another cat just showed up (but we found him a home).

Hamish showed up in January 2018 and wouldn't take no for an answer.  We got Della's cats in October of that year.

And that's been it.  No new cats in eight years.  Partly that's choice- I could get all the kittens that I want, but I've made the decision not to because cats can live 20 years and I don't know if I'll be around that long.  But no cats just showing up and deciding that they're mine.  There have been two.  One was right after Bob died - a young coal black one that I, with little imagination, called Midnight, because of his color, and the odd fact that I only saw him if I ever stepped outside at midnight.  He was very friendly, but not interested in food, and I never saw him except at midnight.   There was a tuxedo cat that I saw in the barn from time to time, but he'd take off if he saw me.  I put out food for awhile, but only raccoons got it.  I only saw him a few times.

In all the years we were together, I never fully realized that the person who attracted the cats was Bob, not me.

Odd experience yesterday.  I had a meeting with my financial advisor.  As I was leaving, we were talking about how unhelpful "help" desks were.  And he mentioned that often you end up talking with someone in the Philippines.  I exclaimed that the Philippines were the best - they really want to try to help, and they never put you on hold and then disappear.  "And when my husband was alive, I'd hand the phone over to him - he used to live in the Philippines and they would talk like homies."
I had a weird disconnect - the outer me was glibly making this statement.  At the same time, my inner lonely wolf was pointing her nose to the sky and howling in pain.

On a more exciting note, I saw a gopher tortoise in the yard yesterday.  I suspected that I had one, because I spotted the characteristic dome-shaped burrow.  Gophers are just on the cusp between threatened and endangered, so I'm happy that this one has found a safe place to live.  I hope it sticks around.

Anticipation

 I wrote a few posts ago about anticipation.  About how expecting something (or fearing it) is more exciting than the thing itself.

Tomorrow my new spinning wheel should be arriving.  It's been a wait - I signed onto the Kickstarter in October 2024, so 21 months.

Do I need another spinning wheel?  Of course not. I have three traditional treadle wheels, an antique great wheel, a charkha, a wee Nano Electric Eel Wheel, plus a bunch of handspindles.   Do I even feel a little guilty about the spinning tools I have that haven't been used for months or years.  Yes.

Am I excited to be getting this one (honestly, it's my first new spinning tool in at least 8 years).  Yep!  It's made by the same guy who made my Nano, a tiny wheel that's only 4" x 6" by 4" tall, and definitely not a toy; I've spun many miles on it.  But this new one, called the Fold, is a marvel of engineering (it even has a speedometer).  And it gets its name because it all folds up to a compact package.  It will hold twice as much yarn as my Nano (or my favorite treadle wheel) but it folds up to 5" x 7" x 3.5" tall.

Thursday I had to do some running around town, primarily to get the stitches taken out of my mouth (thank goodness -they were coming loose so I had dangling threads, most annoying).  I went to Michaels, because the Halloween decorations were already out.  While I was there, I spotted a wooden box that looks like a vintage suitcase.

At 11" x 7" by 5", it will be plenty big to hold the wheel, extra bobbins, any accessories, and some fiber.  Which just amazes me.   So after the wheel comes in (maybe tomorrow) I'll take some time to fabricate some internal compartments.

And then, alas - the anticipation will be over.  I'll enjoy having it - but will it be as much fun as *thinking* about it???