End of an Era

 I got engaged on August 3, 1972.  I wrote about it in a 2022 blog post: https://returntotheswamp.blogspot.com/2022/08/august-3-ring.html

That was the first day that I put on this ring.

Almost 54 years ago.  I was 19 years old.

Last night I looked down, and noticed the lack of a familiar sparkle: the diamond was gone.  Funny how the mind works; the first thing I did was look more closely, and even stick my pinky fingernail in to make sure that it wasn't there.

Yes, I looked for it.  I put on my head lamp and retraced all my steps outside that I had taken that afternoon.  There is a thick layer of leaves everyone; the diamond was.  The chances of finding it were pretty much nil (I did startle a lot of little spiders because I had to get a close look every time I saw their glittery little eyes).

I don't want to replace the diamond.  It would *a* diamond, but not *my* diamond -not the one that our teenage selves scraped for coin to buy it.  But I hate not wearing my ring (the wedding band had a raised notch to hold the engagement ring, and the two were soldered together after we got married, so I can't wear the wedding band separately).

What I want to do is have the ring melted down and recast into a plain band.  It would probably be less expensive to just buy a plain band and sell the ring for scrap - after all, it's just a piece of metal - but I can't.

I was in town today to get the stitches out of my mouth, so I went to a jewler's.  I was embarrassed when I got out of the car and looked at the ring in the sunlight; like my working hands and permanently stained fingernails - I realized it was dirty.  Dark in the little nooks and crannies.  I polished it as best I could with my shirt.

Yes the jewelry store could do it. $300 and 5-6 week wait (which says to me that it would be shipped off somewhere instead of being made in-house).  But to sound very new-agey - the vibe was off.  I showed them my heartache - and it may as well have been the pull tab off of a soda can.  I told them I had worn it for 54 years - it was acknowledged that the settings can get worn down.  I don't know what I was expecting, but I wanted something that acknowledged that this little piece of scrap metal was important.  

There was another jeweler's about 5 miles away that I thought about checking out, but I didn't want to once again hand over my dirty little broken ring.  I decided to come home and give it a good cleaning and polishing and check out a few more possibilities.

I didn't realize how many times a day I touched that ring, or fiddled with it, or just glanced at the little sparkle on my hand that said once upon a time someone deeply loved me.   A few times today I have either felt it missing, or looked down, and had a quick panic attack. 

Wish me luck.

Dear 2027 Self

 Dear 2027 Self,

A shout out from 2026 self:  Hang in there, girl.  You got this.
I know what you're going through.  For one - you thought by now you wouldn't be.  That you could handle March all right.  Maybe you are - but I suspect that you've having issues.

You have one foot in 2027.  But also one in 2020.  And a third foot (awkward, I know) in the 48 years between 1972 and 2020, with it all swirling around you like confetti in a tornado.  You're not sure exactly where you are or when you are.

You're making stupid mistakes.  Dropping things.  Forgetting what you're doing.  Setting timers for everything so you don't forget something 10 minutes later.  Crying at odd moments.

At the same time - you're fine.  Singing and getting jiggy while doing the dishes.  Maybe working on a project.  Reading a good book.  Loving on the cats, walking in the woods, laughing with people at work.  Scratching Otis the Pig on his tummy.

You're not alone.  2026 Self is going through all that right now.  And we have backup.  Poor 2020 Self, who had to sit there in that hospital room 24/7, starting to realize what was going to happen and not being able to do anything about it except watch and try to be positive and comforting.  2021 Self - she's not much help.  I think she was shell-shocked and didn't say much.  2022 Self - there's our girl.  She gutted herself, committed emotional seppuku, felt all the feeling - and survived.  Those of us after her don't have to lean in as hard.  We should be grateful.

The rest of us just sort of fall apart in March, living the double (triple?) life.  Needing timers, and reminders, and checking the phone or calendar to see what day it is.  But we always cope, right?  We know how to handle this.

Are you sometimes sleeping on the couch, because having that solidity at your back helps keep the 3:00 a.m. panic away?  That doesn't hurt anyone, so why not?

Cats, chickens, and squirrel fed? (Is Dingo squirrel still around - he's over 11 years old now)

Showered?

Eating?  Cut yourself some slack if you want to.  Still eat your veggies and healthy stuff, but some junk food for a short time won't hurt anything.  Have some Easter candy, or buy some pastry.  Yesterday, I bought a loaf of white bread - which I haven't done for years (Gill gives me a couple of slices when I go visit her).  But I was making the medication for the Roger the Goat at work yesterday, which is mixed with peanut butter and put of bread, and suddenly I was "I Must Have A Peanut Butter Jelly Sandwich."  And that just isn't the same on my homemade multigrain seedy bread.  Now I'm excited - I even bought some American cheese (which in theory I dislike, but it's the cheese of my childhood) so I can have a grilled cheese sandwich.  Cinnamon toast.  Sugar sandwiches (another childhood treat - butter and a heavy sprinkle of sugar, so crunchy when you eat it).

I'm getting worked up over a loaf of white bread - sigh.

Still admiring the azaleas?  Enjoying the pink skies of sunset, with the chorus of spring peepers?  Strolling in the woods?

Still going in to the museum?

Still moving?  You won't be doing the endless slog of the 1084 mile walking challenge because I'll be through with that by mid-April, but still move.  I did finally go to the senior exercise class at the community center on Monday.  It was not too strenuous, but it was fun, and I'd been inside my own head too much, so getting active with other people was good.

It's OK to go back onto the antidepressants.

March is hard.  Acknowledge that, and let it be hard.  You'll carve out those last two days to really mourn, and then pick up those bootstraps and keep going.

One last thought.  You often read essays on grief, and there is the old "people think I'm fine, but inside I'm weeping."  What I want you to realize is that the outside person isn't masking.  She's not faking.  The person who can laugh, dance, sing, enjoy this beautiful world of ours and so far has handled everything the world has thrown at her, is just as real and authentic as the person who is lonely, often fearful, and clutches a pillow like a teddy bear.  There's nothing fake about either of them.

So good luck, 2027 self.  It might not feel like it some days, but you'll get through this.  Be gentle to yourself - and we're all behind you.

Living in an Artificial World

 I'm not sure what's real anymore.  I know I'm not alone in that; so many people complain that with CGI, Photoshop, and now AI - there's no telling what's real and what's not.

I have enough trouble with being basically a cynical person without be lied to all the time.  There was a post on FB yesterday (which seemed like it was written by a human) who said that they missed the simple pleasure of seeing cute animal videos that people would post - say, that was caught on their Ring camera.  "Cute baby skunks!" your mind says, and you smile.  And that's it - just a little spark in the day.  Now - they feel like they have to look closely - are the shadows not keeping up with the movements?  Are little skunks somehow blinking in and out of existence?  Is something off?  I like how they put it - "I didn't want to do homework.  I just wanted to watch the baby skunks."

I know that doing Photoshop, CGI, and now AI does require a skill set, and is an art form on its own.  But why can't people honestly just say "AI generated" and then the viewer can relax and enjoy it.  Some do - there's a page called "Club Cranium" which has strangely bizarre things on it, and I admire the artist.  

And, of course, you get a message or a text from someone, and hope that your Spidey sense is working because it may or may not be from that person (hint - if you're going to send a scam message, see if the name you're using is from someone who is still alive).

I've been fuming about this for the past couple of days.  There's a Renaissance Faire in town in about three weeks.  I want to go, and take my dragon puppet, and I sort of want a new costume.  I have my medieval kirtle, but I want something a little fancier, like a swamp witch.  So I start looking for inspiration and type "Swamp Witch" into Pinterest.  This skirt came up.

Oh, my.  This skirt has "me" written all over it.  I love the layers.  The curved hem. The way the colors flow autumnal from the yellows and oranges to the greens.  I really want it.  There's a site: The skirt is $32.

So there's the part of me that looks at it, finger hovering over the "Buy" button, ready to put in my PayPal.  Then there is the me looking over my shoulder, saying "that skirt doesn't physically exist anywhere."  If I order it, what I'll get (if I get anything) would be a plain skirt - possibly cotton, likely polyester - with a ruffle design printed on it.

But I keep coming back to it, because it annoys the ever-loving hell out of me.  Someone is telling me it's there, for a ridiculously low price, and they're lying to me.

I'm saving the picture, and who knows? Someday I might make something like it.  It would be $100 or so of fabric, and I'd have to do the dyeing and distressing, and I don't think I'l do it in three weeks before the Ren Faire.  It will live in my idea stash - where I'll both admire it, and be pissed off by it.

But that's our current world.  You can't trust the news, because everyone puts their own bias on it (just stating facts doesn't get ratings).  You can't trust any photographs or videos.  If you read a post, and it's more than a couple of paragraphs long, likely it was AI written or at least assisted (there's a cadence to AI writing that's pretty obvious).

I still want that skirt.

Finished Shawl; Unsettling Dream

 The Forest Walk Shawl is finished.  And I'm happy with it - it really captures the mood of a walk through the woods.

Just in time for the weather to be warm again.

I'm in the post-project funk.  Something like this is about project, not product. I've spent many many hours thinking of this project, coming up with the color scheme, spinning, dyeing, and knitting - and now it's done.  It will have its time to be draped on the mannequin in the "no cats allowed" room, and eventually folded into a box. With luck, next winter, I might be able to wear it once or twice.  But, basically, this relationship is over.  

And it's February 27, one of the hard dates.  In 2020, this was the day that ended the most terrifying time of my life - the period that Bob was out of the hospital and we were living in a hotel and he was 100% my responsibility.  Sick and weak, and a fall could have killed him and I had no call button for a nurse.  But still - it was quiet with no beeping and alarms and people in and out 24/7, and the bed was big enough that I could curl up against him.  But on the 27th, they decided that it was too dangerous and they readmitted him.  He stood in the door of the room and said "Annie - I'm having a panic attack.  I can't do this."  The next day he would start the round of chemo that killed him.

I dreamed of him last night.  Somehow he had come back.  We were both trying to work through the awkwardness of learning to live together again after 6 years apart.  I was trying to explain about the cats, and apologize for the amount of his stuff (especially the barn) that was gone.  The part that I really remember was that he looked at me and said. "You look broken.  No older, just . . . . broken."

Tooth and Asking For Help.

 I did something that I very rarely do, and avoid as much as possible.  I asked for help.

My oral surgery/prep work for my implant was yesterday.  I've been dreading it.  I don't know why - I've had a bridge, a couple of crowns, three root canals, and a tooth pulled in the last 5 years.  I've driven myself each time.  But this time for some reason I felt that I just couldn't cope.

It might be the memory of the two root canals (at the same time) a year ago.  I was in the chair for almost two hours, and the last person of the day, so after all that it was dark when I got out.  And raining.  And in an unfamiliar part of town.  So tired and woozy, with the numbness starting to wear off, I had that hour drive, then when I got home I had to go out in the rain to put the chickens up, then feed the cats and the flying squirrel before I could finally take care of myself.  I was a little pitiful.

At least this time I was going to getting out in the daylight.  But I was still going to feel woozy, and the periodontist is in a busy part of town.   But what choice did I have?

I asked for help.  It's about a 45 minute drive there; the first half-hour isn't too bad, but that final 15 minutes (and hence the first 15 minutes coming home) is dealing with more traffic in an area I'm not familiar with.  So I called Gill.  She lives about a half-hour from me, but it's a pretty straight shot.  I asked her if she could drive that last 15 minutes to and from the periodontist and, God Bless Her, she said no problem.  So she dropped me off, ran some errands, picked me up, and took me back to her place.  It was only about a 15-20 minute drive, but I was feeling a little shaky when I got out, and it was nice to have that rest (and I drank some juice).  Then I was ready to get in my car and get home before the numbness wore off.

As I said when I hugged her goodbye - I am a strong, independent woman.   And I had to admit that at least this time - I wanted someone to take care of me.

February 21; Cardweaving

 The weather continues confusing.  As a matter of strong principle, I steadfastly refuse to turn on the air conditioning less than a week since I was running the heat  - and two days before I will likely be running the heat again.  Which means for the last two days it's been 78 degrees in the house, low 80s outside (not record breaking, but record matching).  By Tuesday we'll be down in the 30s again, highs in the 40s.  Insane.

I went to a card weaving workshop today - yes, meeting with the Weaver's Guild twice in one month!  But it's something different.  Card weaving is something that I try every decade or so.  The technique is interesting and dates far back in history.  But it's also fussy and fiddly and then I realized why I let years in between go by.

I had to figure out what was bothering me as I drove in.  It's not a difficult drive; it was held at a branch library, with only two turns from my house (20 miles, but a straight shot). But while I was driving and singing along to rock music, I was also feeling that tightness in my chest, and tears behind my eyes.

It's the date:  February 21.  In 1972, Bob and I had been dating for a month (he had already declared his intention of marrying me).  Things between us were getting . . . interesting (OK - we were horny teenagers).  We didn't want our first time to be a fumble in the back seat of the car and then going back to our respective dorms, so we checked into a motel room and spent the night together.

So for the next 46 years, February 21 was celebrated - leering looks, waggling eyebrows, suggestive glances.

The 47th year, February 21, 2020 - he was too sick to even cuddle.  We had just received the test results that his transplant had failed.

So yeah - part of me ain't happy.

The workshop went fine - we didn't have an instruction but tried to follow along on a DVD.  Some did better than others.  I was pretty middling.  It's a fussy method of weaving that requires focus, and after 6 years of isolation I find it difficult to tune out the chatter of people around me.  I might try finishing at least the first project just to wrap my head around the technique.

The Italian Circus is in town this weekend.  I had thought about going to the afternoon show after the workshop - but after 5 hours of being around chattering people I was peopled out and came home.

Good news!  Someone has taken up the Silent Book Club and it's back.  But . . . it meets tomorrow  Friday I drove into town for work and errands.  Today it was for the workshop.  Monday I have my dental surgery.  Tuesday it's back to work.  Maybe I want a day where I'm not spending an hour behind the wheel.

But all in all, a good day.

Drums and Flirty Owls

 Wow - another 10 days gone.  I'm still sort of drifting in time - not just 1972, 2020, and 2026 but all parts in between.  I just have random memories of my life - and, of course, Bob was always part of it.

I do need to stop doing stupid things.  I'm very good about shutting the chickens in their coop at night - but two night this month I thought I remembered doing it but didn't.  Thank goodness nothing got them.  Must get my brain to brain.

The weather is also messing with my sense of time passing.  Last week it was in the 50s.  Today it was 80.  By next Tuesday it's supposed to be a high of 50 again.  But my azaleas are blooming.  It's just confusing.

My last post - 10 days ago - I said I was keeping myself open because Jeff was in town.  I was hoping to spend some time with him - maybe have him out here for a fire and to listen to the spring peepers, maybe make a pizza for dinner.  Alas - work kept him tied up.  He was able to slip out for a couple of hours on one of my museum days - he and Suzie and I had lunch, and we walked around for a little while, but that was it.  As always, I keep thinking "hopefully next time."

Wilbur the Owl is still in flirting mode.  Some days he gets a meatball for dinner, other days he gets a (pre killed) rat or chick.  On those days, he's taken to not eating it, and instead saving it to show off the next day to tell us what a good hunter he is.

I did something a little different last week.  In mid  2020, when I was still being a bit frenetic after Bob died, I bought a djembe - a small African drum. 

 I figured I would learn how to play it, and maybe find a drum circle to join.  But, of course - Covid.  The drum has been sitting in a closet.   Last week the senior center was offering a drum workshop so I took it and went.  It was fun - the guy running it had drum available for people who didn't have any, and about 30 people showed up, and there was enough chaos that it really didn't matter what any one individual sounded like.   They might do it again in a few months.

I had to get domestic in the kitchen for a couple of days.  Sometimes Cosco gives the museum produce that is past the sell-by date.  They went crazy last week - three boxes, 5 feet on the side.  The two refrigerators were as packed as they could get, other food went to rehabbers, and there was still tons of produce that had to be adopted or tossed.  So I brought home pounds of spinach, blueberries, guavas, raspberries, a pineapple . . .    The raspberries got turned into coulis - easy.  The guavas . . . they were the yellow ones, not pink, not ripe, not juicy.  I could have just tossed them.  But nooooooo.  I chopped them up, covered them in water and boiled them to softness, pushed them through a sieve to remove the zillions of seeds, added sugar to the pulp, and boiled it down to make a sort of guava butter.  Three hours of work for a pint of butter (I will admit that the flavor is pretty intense).
At least blueberries are easy to free (and I brought home to limes, which have also been cut into wedges and frozen).  I've been eating a lot of spinach, as have the chickens.  Still need to deal with the two bags of little cucumbers and that pineapple.

I've lost a little bit of my lovely sense of isolation out here.  I wrote last year of meeting my neighbor Steve.  Yes - there is another house (several in fact) not that far from me, but I can't see them through the trees and I just ignore their existence.  But Steve is a little odd - he's been putting up a high fence all around his property (I wonder what his next-door neighbors thing of that).  There is an alternate road out of my place (which I never use so I sort have forgotten about it) that when I was getting the roof redone the truck bringing the shingles needed to use, so I had gotten out there to trim away some branches and underbrush.  Steve had some out, all concerned, worrying that I was going to start using that road, which runs in front of his house.  Strange - it's a public access road (and no, I don't use it).

It's nothing that bothered me - I allow other people their odd ways - until this week.  In the area of our (still say that, even though it's technically just mine) land in front of my cottage and on the way down to the stream is a cleared circular area.  My walking path is there.  In my head, the border between our property and the next one (which is now Steve's) was where the clearing ended and the trees started.  The reality (which I've always known, and it's on the map of our property) is that the dividing line cuts across the clearing - and now there's a fence there.  It feels intrusive - from the front of the cottage, and the burn pit there, it now stands saying "this is not yours."

I'm thinking that I might train some of the ivy that has taken over the garden over there to climb that wire.

And I know that Bob would be absolutely livid.  After 30+ years here, you'd think that we'd have squatters rights to that cleared area.

Stay tuned . . .