New Year's Eve

 Well, here it is.  Made it through another year.  My reward?  I get to try to make it through the next year.

That's a mindset that I need to work on, and I'll write about that next post.  That will be about where I'm going.  This one is for where I am.  Which I'm not sure.

I honestly don't remember 2021.  Maybe that's why I was compulsively writing in the blog this year (I did 13 posts in 2021 and 86 this year).  I wrote last January that I need to dump garbage out of my brain, and I think I've been doing that.

But where am I?  Calmer, for one.  Perhaps too calm.  Sometimes I miss my chaotic energy of 2020.  It's just as well that I was in isolation, so people didn't notice the crazy.  I think it was like taking the lid off a pressure cooker without hitting the release valve.  Three months of sitting in the goldfish bowl that was the hospital, seeing the worst happen to a man who didn't deserve it - and suddenly I was out in the open and alone and could do anything I wanted.  And everyone who has ever lived with anyone else knows that weird feeling of freedom when the other person goes away for a little while and you have the place to yourself and can do anything.  I was bouncing all over the place - I bought my little drum with the intention of maybe hitting some drum circles (Covid prevented that).  I put videos on TV and did zumba and belly dance and clogging.  I cleaned the house with a vengence and worked in the yard.  I think in the back of my mind was that Bob was going to be so proud of me - it was hard to accept that he was never coming back.  

I miss that energy.  I don't miss the screaming and the actual physical pain that went with it (broken heart syndrome is a real thing).  I miss feeling, having emotions.  I don't, much, anymore.

Back then, I'd check my phone a few dozen times a day, praying that someone would reach out to me, want to talk (and talk about something besides the damned Covid).  I was screamingly lonely (literally).  Now - it's nice (doesn't happen much except for my nephew and brother) but I'm OK with that blank screen.

I remember getting my first Covid shot - the light touch of someone actually physically touching me.  I had closed my eyes to savor it, being so desperate for any physical contact with another human.  Now - hugs can happen again and they're nice when they do, but there's no big deal about it.

I really got into cooking (and eating) after those three months of hospital cafeteria food (I still miss my Misfits).  Now, I still eat well (meaning home-cooked healthy meals) but seriously just rotate about three meals.  There are time that it's annoying to realize that I'm feeling hungry ("really?  C'mon, I ate 5-6 hours ago.  Why again?") 

Rob and Jeff visited last week!!  They were coming from Tennessee to Pensacola to see Rob's mother for Christmas and I got to go to lunch with them.

So good to see them - especially since Jeff had a quadruple bypass a couple of months ago.  We dawdled over lunch for a couple of hours and then they had to head out.  It was really nice to see them.

Nice.  Sort of a neutral word, isn't it.  I remember when they were going to move.  I never said it out loud to them, but in the privacy of my yard I would be on my knees on the ground begging "please don't leave me."  Losing them, losing the possibility of ever going to another gathering at their place, no hanging around in their living room and laughing with people, losing the safety net of someone I could call if I needed help - that really tore me up.

Now, I could smile and wave and watch them drive off with nary a pang.

I'm just kind of meh now.  But I still believe, at the core of me, that I'm not really a meh person.  I'm just long-term tired of hauling myself up by my own bootstraps - but I don't know how to take a break from that.

I've lost track of what I meant to write about when I started this post.  But maybe that sums up where I am right now - I've lost track.  I'm going through the motions, and dealing with stuff (and stuff happens - just in the last couple of months I had to have some AC ducts repaired and the roof repaired and just in time for Christmas my septic system backed up so every flush was done with a bucket in one hand, a plunger in the other, and cries of encouragement.  That got taken care of this week.

Tomorrow will be a day to think not so much of resolutions but maybe of intentions.  Life it too precious to be spending months on end twiddling my thumbs and just waiting for time to go by.

Meh.

Peacocks and Identity

 I haven't been doing much lately.  The house is a bit of a mess.  I do spend a lot of time scrolling aimlessly through FaceBook or Pinterest, or just clicking through YouTube videos - not watching them, just scrolling to see what's there.  Just wasting time, letting it go by.

I know myself well enough to know that this indicates that there's something I should do that I don't want to - maybe make a phone call or schedule an appointment.  In this case, it's writing a blog post that I don't want to.  But this has been the year of unloading on this blog - getting stuff out of my head and down where I can look at it.  And I need to write about peacocks.

I was about 7 or 8 when I remember first seeing a peacock - impossibly beautiful, impossibly exotic.  (A book I read - "Why A Peacock" - said it felt so strange when he paid money for his birds; he thought it would be more appropriate to trade a handful of magic beans or a book of spells).  I yearned for that bird.  I didn't think it would ever be possible.

But we moved out here, we had land, and I got peacocks.  Sometimes, when you yearn for something as a child and finally get it as an adult, the luster fades.  That childlike joy is missing.  Not in this case - I adored having those birds around.  I caught my breath every time I saw that otherworldly beauty in my everyday life.

Nature being nature, and having both a male and a female peacock, eggs happened.  I didn't want my female brooding them.  They nest on the ground, and we have predators - raccoons, foxes, coyotes.  We thought we should take the eggs.  So we got an incubator.  And 28 days later, the miracle.  I watched as a line was chipped around the circumference of the egg, then as the top was pushed off and a wet little chick unfolded herself.  It was a miracle we were to see over and over again, but it never became routine.  If I was at home, I had to drop whatever I was doing and just gaze at this unbelievable sight.

Peachicks are hatched with attitude.  They know exactly who they are.  And at a week old, they already practice their strutting, fanning out their little half in tails.

It got a little (a little?) out of hand.  If you take a peahen's eggs, she just lays more eggs.  We ended up with dozens of little peachicks.  Some we kept.  Others we gave away, or advertised and sold.  The chicks were an impossible amount of fun.

But also a lot of work.  Breeding season starts in April and ends in September - so we were caring for loads of chicks from May through October (at six weeks you can tell the boys from the girls, and that's the age where we would sell them).  And to sell them you have to deal with people, which can get so very annoying.   There was also the issue that our birds were all free-range, intermingling, which meant that inbreeding was going to happen.  After a few years we gave up the craziness of having all those chicks living on our back deck, but it sure was fun.

But we were still the people with peacocks.  And I never got over adoring them - catching that gleam of deep turquoise in the sun, dancing with the displaying birds, laughing when they would come up to the door and honk for treats.  That raucous scream they made, so at odds with their appearance.

They became part of our identity.  You'd be talking about pets with someone, and mention peacocks, and they would get that look on their face - "you have peacocks?"  Or if someone would come visit and suddenly be in awe - "is it all right if I take a picture?"   You'd call service people who had been here before - maybe the tree guy, or the person who cleans the air conditioner.  You'd give your name and address, and then hear "Oh, yeah - you're the ones with the peacocks, right?"

Peacocks live a pretty long time.  Bruiser (that first egg I saw hatch) was 21 when a raccoon killed her - but she was showing her age.  The last birds we kept were hatched in 2006.  They, like any other pet, become part of your life.  When you step out of the house in the morning, you check the tree (they roost in trees) or do a count if they're already down.  When you get home from work, you check on them.  And you simply enjoy them.

2006 - 2021.  We did lose a couple of birds in that time, one to a dog, a couple to racoons.  But there were a half-dozen that we had that time, so you get used to the idea that nothing will happen to them.  Until last year - I wrote about losing a bird, quite likely to a bobcat.  Then the others.  One I found and nursed for two months until I lost him.  (people will ask - why didn't you cage them?  Well, the big pen got destroyed in the hurricane.  And they're not completely domestic birds and almost impossible to catch).  Finally I had one bird left.   As the months went by, I relaxed slightly  - but I always checked on him first thing in the morning, and several times during the day, and made sure he was in the roost at night.  I admired him, and danced with him, and fed him treats.

And then, around the end of October, he was on his roost one night, and gone the next morning.

People have wondered why I don't get more - I've even had offers.  One reason is that I would have to get a pen built - they have to be kept confined for a few months to establish their territory.  The real reason is that they live for 20 years, and it's unlikely I can live out here that long.  I loved having them for the 25 years or so that I did, and it's time to let that era go.

But it hurts, which is why I couldn't write it.  I've lost so much of myself in the last 2 1/2 years.   Chunks of my identity.  I was Bob's wife.  I was the person who proudly drove the 21-year-old car (I wrote about giving that up).  I was the woman with nine cats.  Eight. Seven. Six. Now 5.   And I was the Person With Peacocks.  Was.  Sometimes I feel like a past tense person.

A couple of weeks ago a tree branch landed on the house and caused a leak.  When the roofer came out (who has worked on the house before) he greeted me with "hey, Miss Ann - you still have peacocks?"

Cold

It's a mite chilly here.  Nothing that could be bragged about to the rest of the country, but our high today was 38 and we'll be hitting 18 tonight and by Florida standards, that's cold.  (Only slightly tongue-in-cheek, people in Central and South Florida have been advised to use umbrellas when out walking because those cold-stunned iguanas falling out of trees can be heavy).

I'm noticing the same phenomena that I have for the past two winters - I'm cold.  Not compared to some friends of mine who really can't handle it and are suffering, but I feel it more.  I've always preferred the cold weather and love to get out in it.  But since I lost Bob, I feel it more.  I keep the house warmer now; we use to have thermostat wars - he would have been happy to keep the house at 60 degrees, but I'd be wearing a sweatsuit and a hat and a hoodie and my fingerless mitts and looking pathetic and he'd relent and we'd pop it up to 63 (and I was OK with that).  These days I tend to go for 67 or even 68.

I've also noticed trouble sleeping.  Not getting to sleep  - I *love* being able to snuggle under blankets - but waking up in the night feeling oddly stressed, even though I'm physically very comfortable, and having problems getting back to sleep.

I figured it out by accident a couple of nights ago.  I was watching TV, fell asleep on the couch, and woke up about 7 hours later.  And it occurred to me that it was my back.  In the summertime (meaning 9 months out of the year) Bob and I would sleep separated from each other, because he was such a radiator.  A hand or foot would stray over for a point of contact, but comfort required a bit of airspace between us.  But on the cold nights?  We'd be back-to-back, with that beautiful safe warm feeling of pressing against the "Wall o' Bobby."

In a pale thin imitation of that, it's what the couch gave me.  Pressed up against the back of the couch, with a bit of my body heat transferred to it.  Snuggling up to something, feeling warmth behind me, feeling a little bit safer.  So while this cold snap lasts, I think I'll be staying out here.

Christmas Card and an Interlude

 You never know when you're going to get blindsided.

There are things that you live with for years, to the point that you don't notice them anymore.  An arrangement of furniture, the pictures of the wall, knickknack on the mantelpiece.   You enjoy having them there, but you don't think about them.

I have a cork board in my cottage with various things pinned to it - small samples, postcards, cartoons.  And a couple of cards that Bob gave me, probably some time in the 1980s (our SCA/Medieval period)

A few days ago I was working in there, and glanced up at them, and realized that I didn't remember what he had said in them.  The one pictured above turned out to have been a Christmas card.

    "Merry Christmas, my love.  It  seems like such a short time ago that we shared our first Christmas together.  And I fear that time will be too short for all the Christmases I want to share with you."

Kinda had to hit the floor and weep for a bit.

I found myself thinking today about having coffee with him.  It was a bright clear day in December, cool but not cold.  We ordered a couple of lattes at the kiosk and went to sit outside at a little table with a yellow umbrella.  We each had our books, and we sat and read, sometimes looking up to catch a glimpse of a smile, or reaching out to touch a hand.  When we finished, one or the other of us said "this is nice.  How can this be so nice?  It's too surreal."  Because we were outside on of the wings of Shands hospital, a couple of weeks before he was due to become a patient, there for yet another round of tests and evaluations.  We had finished one appointment and had a half-hour or so before the next, hence the coffee break.

We were always able to do that - at any given time, form our little bubble around us, a safe little area for just the two of us, no matter the circumstances.  It had been a three-hour drive there, and would be a three-hour drive back, like we had done the week before and would do the week after, and we were both frightened - but for that half-hour we could just sit, sip coffee, read, and relax.

And now my mind wanders to an earlier dinner.  We had been running errands that took longer than expected.  Bob had his model maker's meeting to get to shortly (sometimes I would go and sit and listen to the group, usually with my knitting).  We were hungry but there really wasn't time for a meal.  The meeting was held in one of the upstairs meeting rooms at Publix, so we just went to the deli to grab a box of chicken fingers.  We picked up a small bag of baby carrots, swiped a few packets of ranch dressing from the salad bar, and went to sit at one of the admittedly grungy little tables they had available in one corner.  We ate, chatted, and when we got up Bob commented "You know - that was actually quite pleasant."

We didn't know that day at Shand's that it would be our last time having a latte together.  That we would too soon stop sharing anything.  It's all those little quiet moments together that I miss so much.

Fruitcake

 OK, sitting down with a wee dram of brandy and waiting for my heart to quit pounding and my hands quit shaking.

I put a cake in the oven.

Ye Olde Annual Fruitcake.  The type that people make jokes about, and sneer at.  White batter, filled with artificially dyed sweet candied fruit.

Honestly - I'm not even sure that I like it that much.  But it's the fruitcake that I first made when I was about 12 or 13 and in my Victorian literature phase (not sure I've ever gotten out of it).  And I've made it every year since then.  In the kitchen at the end of the hall in the dorm.  In an aunt's borrowed kitchen. Once in the middle of packing up to move across country.  I've made it when it meant eating lean for a bit to afford the candied fruit and half bottle of brandy.   I've never really that big on Christmas, but by golly those fruitcakes got made.

My parents loved them (and possibly they loved the memory of their tween daughter making a mess of the kitchen).  My father in law adored it (we saw them on that cross-country trip, and he came out to the car going "did you make fruitcake?")  My brother and his wife like it, because Christmas Tradition.

And most importantly, Bob loved the whole ritual of making them.  The fruit would be soaked in brandy for a day (or a week) before, and he would sneak nibbles.  The, on Baking Day, he'd be hovering over my shoulder, spoon in hand.  Cream the butter and sugar, add eggs (time for a taste), add brandy - and time for more tasting until I would slap his hand and tell him that I needed at least some of it for baking.  Then he would get to lick the beaters and the bowl.

So now I'm 70 (still getting used to that idea).  58 years of annual fruitcake baking.  But my parents are gone, as is Bob's parents, as is Bob.  The family (Rob, Amanda, Della, and Don) let me know many years ago that this is one tradition that they don't need.  I have another fruitcake recipe (Alton Browns) with dried fruit and spices that I like much better, and that is the one that gets made for friends.

But somehow I have to make this one anyway.  It's part of Who I Am.  And I've lost so much of my identity in the last few years (there's a post coming up on that) that I have to cling to something.  So, as in 2020 and 2021, I thought seriously about finally skipping it, knowing that I would hurt doing it, and then knowing that I would hurt more if I didn't.  So, with thoughts of the bustling Christmas market from A Christmas Carol in my head and the Nutcracker Suite playing, I cut the recipe down and made two small cakes, one for Mike and Margo and one for me.  I tasted the fruit and the batter and licked the beater and the bowls.  This evening I'll make the dark fruitcake and Monday mail one of each to Mike and Margo.

Traditions are sometimes what keeps us going.

[I have to come back at edit this, because I just got a note from my friend Nancy who moved to California saying that she found herself missing my fruitcake and would I share the recipe? How coincidental is that? I've asked her for which one - the white or the dark.  If it's the white with candied fruit I'm going to have hysterics)

Birthday

 Well, I have a birthday tomorrow.  A big one - 70.

Not sure how I feel about this.  I've never been one to dread birthdays, and never understood why anyone would, given the alternative.

It's just that Bob and I used to be the same age.  Almost.  I was 6 weeks older.  Now I'm going to be three years and six weeks older.  I feel that I'm leaving him behind.

I used to take my birthdays off work whenever possible.  Now that I'm off work 5 days a week it doesn't seem as special - so I'm going to work tomorrow.

I wasn't big on presents, either.  After awhile you have enough stuff.  The one thing that I always asked for was breakfast in bed.  Even if Bob couldn't take the day off, he could plunk a sweet roll on a plate and pour a cup of tea and bring it to me, and I would finally get out of bed when I damn well felt like it.  Luxury.

I've tried doing that since I lost him, but it's not the same.  Along with putting a roll on a plate and pouring tea, Bob would take care of the critters.  Alone - getting up, feeding the cats and chickens, then fixing my breakfast and taking it back to bed just seemed to lack that luxury feeling.

Mostly I've been missing my Mom.  It would have been good to talk to her, and cry together.  She adored Bob.  And tomorrow will be the 10th anniversary of her passing.

I always liked the story of my nativity.  It was A Dark and Stormy Night, and Mom was about three weeks overdue with me.  After dinner she told Dad that she was going to have me that night.  No signs of labor, but she just knew.  So he took her to the hospital - who confirmed that there were no signs of labor, but checked her in anyway because the night was nasty and they might try to induce labor in the morning.

In the middle of the night, she rang for the nurse and said "it won't be long now."  The nurse checked her, said that she wasn't in labor, and that she would come back later.  About 45 minutes later Mom rang for the nurse again - because I had arrived.  So at my birth, around 2:45 in the morning, it was just the two of us.

60 years later, in the hospice house, around 2:45 in the morning, it was just the two of us as I held her hand and she stopped breathing.

Almost mythical, isn't it?

So - what's happening tomorrow?  I have no idea.  No breakfast in bed because I'm going to work.  People might remember and say Happy Birthday.  There might be treats.  Or they won't and there won't be.  I'm good either way.  FaceBook usually announces birthdays so I'll probably get some birthday wishes there.  Mike and Margo will likely call.

After work I'll head over to Gill's because she's making me a birthday cake.  I'm quite excited about that.  She is one hell of a baker, so it's going to be decadent and fancy - vanilla with toffee, a homemade dulce de leche filling, and, knowing her, it's going to be gorgeous.  I don't think I've ever had a fancy bespoke birthday cake before.

I might fix myself something nice for dinner - or I might just sit in a corner with my cake and a bottle of rum.  If the latter, it's good that I don't have anything planned for Thursday.

Narrating a trip to the grocery store.

 I've been reading some Neil Gaiman short stories. For some reason, every time I read Gaiman, I find myself narrating my life in his voice.  So what follows is my last trip to the grocery store.

Although I no longer have the the gut-wrenching panic attacks. going to the grocery store is still an chest-tightening ordeal (except for Aldi: it's tiny and doesn't have much, so I'm in and out in under 20 minutes.  And there are no Bob memories there).  I've found that over time, I'm buying less and less; we used to fill up a cart, and now it's a couple of the reusable bags.  The plus side is that we used to get home and wonder where we're going to put all this stuff; now it's a 10 minute or less job to put everything away.

My trip down the beer aisle was because I saw a recipe for a Tudor-era hot buttered beer (in theory the inspiration for Harry Potter buttered beer).  It sounded pretty good, so I needed some dark ale.  I was planning on grabbing some good ol' Newkie Brown (Newcastle Brown Ale) - Bob's favorite, also mine.  The beer aisle didn't have a single dark ale of any kind.  Some stout (too heavy) and way too much "lite" beer (reminding me of the joke "Why is American Beer like making love in a canoe?  Answer:  "Because it's fucking close to water.")

So here is my outsider's view of Ann in the Grocery Store:

I watched a woman at the grocery store today.  She was older but not elderly; posture upright, capable looking hands resting on the handle of the shopping cart but not leaning on it.  She wore work clothes - bleach stained khaki pants (baggy, as though she had been larger when she bought them), rubber boots, a faded blue T-shirt with the word "volunteer" printed on it.  Long graying hair tied back in a low careless ponytail.

Her arms were held close to her side, elbows tucked in, careful that neither her she nor her cart blocked any other shoppers.  She leaned over to pick up a small jar of peanut butter, moving the one behind it to take its place, erasing the small path that she had made.  I glanced in her cart: one can of evaporated milk, a bag of child-sized apples, a box of cat treats.

She walked slowly down the beer aisle, turned, and walked even more slowly back, scanning each carton.  Her face blank, she led out a breath that was not quite a sigh, and walked on.

Once outside, she lifted her shoulders as though freed from the oppression of the store.  She put her two bags in the car and neatly returned the cart to the corral.  Getting into her car, she looked back at the store with a brief expression her her face - resignation?  loss? - before driving off.

Something I Don't Worry About

 I was having an afternoon coffee today, outside on my back deck, reading a book.  

Feeling calm.

And I realized that there is something that I haven't done for 2 1/2 years now, that I used to do a lot:  Worry about Bob.

Bob was The Rock.  The one that everyone depended on, could count on.  The Big Strong One.  I was the one that worried about him.

Early in our marriage, before our third anniversary, we were living in Tennessee but he was out in Texas on training maneuvers.  He was climbing into the back of a truck when he slipped and hit his shin on the foothold - pretty hard.  Later, he asked the medic if he could clean it and put a bandaid on in.  The medic (God bless him) said "Sir - you may have fractured your shin."  Bob was taken to the hospital where they found that he hadn't.  It would have been better if he had - his bones were so thick and strong that they hadn't given way, and instead he had crushed the nerves and blood vessels against the bone.  He had emergency surgery to relieve the pressure, but the nerve damage was permanent.  I found out about all this two days later when he was finally able to get to a phone.

He always had leg problems.  It's a problem with people who are bigger than normal - there's just a lot of strain.  He had hurt a knee (needing surgery) as a teenager in the Philippians,  exploring the jungle when he stepped in some quicksand and he went one way and his leg went the other.   When we lived in the two-story townhouse, there were occasions that I would hear the loud crashing and thumping because his leg gave way when he was coming down the stairs.

It got worse as time went by (not as bad as expected - the doctors doing that early emergency surgery predicted that he might lose the leg before he was 40).  He got bone spurs in his knees.  Developed gout. Had a few surgeries. We sometimes talked about putting in a ramp instead of steps to the front deck.

When he went on a vacation with a military history study group back to the Philippians, he came home a few days early -  in a wheelchair.  A fellow traveler, as they were traipsing through the jungle, had put a hand on a tree for balance, not realizing that it was covered with huge ants.  When he jumped, he lost his balance.  Bob grabbed him - and his knee gave way. 

When Gill got married (6-7 years ago - I can't remember) she had her reception at the Museum.  A lot of us were carrying the food from the cars to the venue inside.  And, of course, Bob got loaded up, because he was the Big Strong One.  I had trotted ahead and dropped off my load and when I came back, I saw that Bob was walking too carefully, pain on his face, really hoping that his leg wouldn't give out.  I grabbed most of his stuff and walked with him the rest of the way.

I worried about other things, too - maybe because of the above.  We'd be sitting around the house in the evening and decide that maybe we wanted some ice cream.  He'd go get it (because if I went with him there was that female thing of Having To Put On A Bra).  The Dollar General is only three miles away.  But waiting, sometimes I would think - what if one of the Highway 20 crazy ass drivers hit him on the way?  What if he got hurt because I wanted some cookie dough ice cream?

I always knew that, barring accidents, I would outlive him.  There's a reason you hear about *little* old men and women; outsized people don't live as long.  And there were genetics - and heart issues in his family.  An uncle who died at 63,  a grandmother in her 60s.  His mother at 78, his father at 82.  Me - my family background had a bunch of people lasting into their 90s.  I always thought that those last 10 years or so would be pretty lonely.  I just thought that I would have him longer than I did (which is why he had to eat vegetables, and go canoeing , and we went swimming on a regular basis).

And, of course, after he got diagnosed.  I hovered over him the first six months, even though he handled the treatments so very well and felt OK.  Then the intense fear the three months in Gainesville, especially the gut-wrenching terror in the two weeks that he was out of the hospital and I was his sole caregiver as he got weaker and sicker, knowing that because of his lack of platelets a fall could kill him, and being all too aware that I was half his size.

And that's over now.  For the last 2 1/2 years I've had problems, and concerns, and having to deal with things that have gone wrong - from decks rotting and ceilings falling in to pets and friends dying - but there hasn't been that constant, underlying worry.  It was so much a part of me, of my everyday life, that I didn't even really notice it until it was gone.  Because wherever he is, whatever he is now - he is safe.

Critters in a Picnic Basket

 So here it is.  My old blue plastic picnic basket.

I can't remember when I got it - maybe 2006?  It has seen a lot of use.  But it has never held a picnic.

Back then, my friend Gill was volunteering with an animal rehabber, Chris.  Through her, I was asked if I wanted to foster some baby animals - maybe possums, perhaps squirrels - I can't remember.  But we drove down and Chris gave me this basket of - let's say - possums.  She had gotten a load of these baskets at the overstock store Big Lots, and they were perfect for baby animals.

After the possums were grown and released, I took the basket back to Chris.  She said thank you, disappeared to the back for a few minutes, and then brought it back to me with more baby animals.  I hadn't known that it was a refillable container.

After this happened a half-dozen times or so, I finally realized that the basket was mine.  Eventually my co-workers and later my students came to recognize that basket and come flocking over to see what wee critters were in it this time.  Usually possums or squirrels; I carried my new kitten in it for awhile while he was still being bottle fed, and Dingo the flying squirrel called it home for awhile.  Once it was baby armadillos.

While I mostly fostered small animals, a couple of times I was lucky enough to get foxes. 

While I obviously spent a lot of time running back and forth to Chris's, I can't honestly say we were friends, not in the close sense.  Like I mentioned in an earlier post, people who devote their lives to animals are often not people persons.  But I deeply admired her, and was fascinated and sometimes entranced by the animals I met when I was there.  (Who knew that baby vultures are pink and fuzzy?)

It was also at Chris's that I learned just how sharp an osprey's talons are when they grab your wrist (I was restraining him while his beak was getting trimmed).

So, for a dozen year or so, running down to FWMA (Florida Wild Mammal Association, which sounds rather grand but was composed of Chris, her daughter Jess, long-suffering husband Mike, a few part-time staff and some volunteers) and spending springs and summer raising little critters and releasing them was just a normal part of our lives.

Then October 2018 came around with Hurricane Michael which took all our time and energy dealing with that damage for the next six months.  It also wrecked my big outside release pen.  Rebuilding that was our our "things to do" list when Bob got diagnosed.  And by the time the next baby season rolled around, Bob had died and I was dealing with widowhood and Covid isolation and I told Chris that I was too empty physically and emotionally to try to nurture anything.  She could only have a certain number of people fostering under her license, so my slot went to someone else.

A few months ago I was talking to one of the museum volunteers who was also working part-time at Chris's.  He mentioned to Suzie that Chris hadn't felt too well the day before.   I asked what was wrong - thinking cold or flu, hoping it wasn't Covid.  

She had lung cancer. 

She passed away this morning.

The English major in me feels I should have some sort of concluding statement, but that's really about it.  I was involved with Chris and the animals for a dozen years and then I wasn't and now she is gone.

 

A Bit Of A Week

 I was talking to Mike and Margo today about my busy week.

Last weekend for some reason I can't remember I looked under the house and noticed that some ductwork had come detached from the vent and was lying on the ground.  The AC guy came out to fix it - and it turned out not to be the expected easy fix because the "boot" (the collar the duct attaches to) had fallen apart, and the duct itself was failing.  They came in later that week and put in some new ductwork.

Monday when I came home from work I noticed that the water in the toilet had mostly drained out.   I grabbed for the plunger to see if there was some blockage - but somehow my plunger had disappeared (how the heck does one lose a plunger?).  Thank goodness I have two toilets - but I piled stuff on my main one so I would remember not to use it for those middle-of-the-night nature breaks.  Of course, walking around the house at 3:00 a.m. would convince the cats that obviously I wanted to give them treats.

Tuesday was the 40-mile detour to get to the museum, and when I noticed that my cruise control wasn't working.

Wednesday after work I went to WalMart and bought a new plunger.  A lot of plunging and a bit of over overflowing toilet showed me that a blockage wasn't the problem.  I consulted Mr. Google and found that clogged water jets under the rim can cause the problem.  So CLR and an old toothbrush and an opened up paper clip to clean out the jet holes (while leaning upside down over the toilet with a mirror in my hand) actually solved the problem.

But I also noticed, outside, that there were muddy areas.  I usually don't think about that, because 1) rain, and 2) drainage from the air conditioner.  But it hasn't rained for quite some time, and I haven't run the AC for a month.

Better get the septic tank pumped.

Need a longer post on this, but my last peacock disappeared.  30 years I've had those beautiful birds around.  I was a Woman With Peacocks.  I still automatically check the roost first thing when I go out in the morning - a 30-year habit is hard to break.

When I was in Boston I got a note from a FB friend saying she was going on hospice care.  A few days ago I found out that the rehabber that I used to foster for (I've known her for some 15 years but haven't been in touch since I lost Bob because I sort of lost my nurturing mojo) has also gone into hospice.

Another friend dealing with chronic pain was told that there is nothing else Western medicine can help her with.

I did have a fun actual get-together with another friend yesterday (my real-life-not-online-spinning-friend)  - but I had to go pick her up because current health issues means that she can't drive - and she was only good for about an hour because her tachycardia was acting up.

So looking back on this week . . . well, as I often say, that's how my life is now.  And in general, I say it was a good week.

There were lemurs!

Another Road Trip

 Well, that didn't take long.  I had another road trip this past Tuesday - unplanned, unexpected, and fun.

The Museum usually has some guest animals borrowed from another facility.  For the last two months it has been caracals - beautiful "big" cats (they're the smallest of the big cats).  But it was time for the to be returned to their own place.  It's better if two people go (so one can keep an eye on the animals in their carriers to make sure they're OK).  Shelby asked if I could go.

I like Shelby - a lot.  It would be fun to spend a day with her.  It would almost be fun to take the trip.  The "almost" was because the facility is in Gainesville.  Gainesville, where Shands hospital is.  As I told Shelby in a massive understatement, I would be fighting some demons, because the last time I went to Gainesville it did not end well.  It helps that Shelby knew and liked Bob (because, of course, to know Bob was to like him)

The trip had an inauspicious beginning.  When you head towards town from my place on Highway 20, there is one road to take:  Highway 20.  There is forest on one side and a lake on the other.  So when there is a major accident that is going to block the road for a few hours (note: no fatalities), well, you're screwed.  Unless you turn around, drive around the far end of the lake, and back towards town, a trip of 40+ miles.  Which I did.  Fortunately, that was the only problem that day.

The trip there went well (a person at the facility later told me that on one trip the caracals had screamed the entire time - they just hissed a bit at me when I checked on them).  Luckily, the animal sanctuary was not in Gainesville proper so I didn't have to go on any of the familiar roads, and I was all right after we got off I-75.

And another bonus:  Shelby had warned me not to take it personally if the owner was a little short with me; like many animal oriented people, she often was not fond of other humans.  But that day she was warm and friendly.  We had hoped that she would give us permission to look around a little (Shelby particularly wanted to see a lynx and a tiger that had previously been guests at the museum).  I saw a pen with a couple of lemurs in it, and asked if I could go over for a closer look.  And she said "sure - go in with them if you like.  You know how the keeper doors work."

Yes, please and thank you.

They're like super soft hyperactive cuddly teddy bears.

And we did get to wander around and look at the various animals, mostly cats (cheetah, jaguar, cloud leopard, jungle cat).  And Gator the tiger, who is so friendly and funny and bounced along the fence and batted his ball for us and finally stalked us, convinced that his 700 pound self could hide behind a 4 inch pole.

We finally decided that we should probably head for home, and grab some lunch/dinner.  

Shelby went to school in Gaineville so she knew just the place - because pizza is always in order.  I started laughing as soon as we pulled up, because Satchel's defines the idea of funky maximalism.  Every possible surface, horizontal and vertical, was covered in found object art (like one wall covered in discarded phone cases, or garlands of strung-together lids and caps).

We ate outside, in the back of an old van covered with grafitti.

And the pizza was very good, too!

So we finally trailed home, pretty late.  And Shelby said "I hope that helped."  

Yes, it did.

This is Halloween?

 My favorite Halloween music video:

https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=this+is+halloween+voiceplay

Halloween, 2022.  Sort of didn't happen

Halloween has always been MY holiday.  I would look forward to it months in advance when I was a little girl.  Mom would help me make our house into a mini haunted walkthrough instead of just handing out candy.  She would also help us make costumes.  As a adult, I would start planning a costume somewhere around August.  When we lived in town, I would have a big Halloween party.

That faded when we moved out here - it was just a bit too far for most people.  And we had no trick-or-treaters.  But eventually we fell into helping out on the Haunted Trail at the museum, finally ending up being on the small team that designed, built, and ran it.  It was creatively exhilarating and exhausting.  But after about 15 years, we were all, well, 15 years older and a bit more tired.  And it was *too* successful.  It was fairly simple when we were running 300-400 people through a night.  When it starting hitting over 1000 it was overwhelming.  And then the woods that we ran it through got cut down (long and annoying story there).  So we gave it up.

But the old warhorse in me still itched (and itches) for Halloween.  Although we didn't do the trail, we did help out with the costume contest on the grounds, dressing up ourselves as well.

We couldn't do that for Halloween 2019, because Bob was on chemo and couldn't be around crowds.  And there was no Halloween Howl for 2020, because Covid.  Nor 2021, for the same reason.  This year - well, Halloween Howl has been permanently abandoned.  It became a money loser rather than a money maker after there was no longer our haunted trail.

A few miles from me there is a woman who has done a fairly elaborate fundraising haunt for several years.  I didn't check it out the last two years because - guess what? - Covid (Annie don't do crowds).  I thought that with Covid numbers down and five vaccines in me that I might volunteer this year.

She isn't doing it.

I wanted to try the method of making a Jack-o'-Lantern where you drill some holes where you want the features to be, stuffing in some peanut butter, and putting out for the squirrels.  Some of the posts online look nicely disturbing:

But when I drove into town Saturday (to take a D&D class but that's another story) there were no "pumpkin patches."  There weren't even any at the grocery store today.

There was still a glimmer of why I love this holiday.  After work I went out for a sandwich before I went grocery shopping (so I wouldn't empty the shelves into my cart) and my order was taken by Wonder Woman.  There was a pirate sitting at a table, and at Publix the guy bagging groceries was wearing a Marvel costume, complete with cape.e

So tonight I started watching a TV series based on "The Haunting of Hill House" (because I can't find the old Julie Christy one anywhere) and ate some Halloween candy.  And, just to show willing, I did set out a dish of bread and milk, and one of brandy (the fae have to be posh tonight - I didn't have any whiskey).

Maybe next year I'll do something.
 

The Visit

 Every time I try to write about the trip, it comes out sounding like a school kid's report on "what I did on my summer vacation."  

What we did wasn't important.  The important stuff was the small stuff.

So to cover what we did (because 2023 Self may be trying to remember).

Tuesday, October 18, I got there.  I laughed when I walked in the kitchen; they knew I was coming and I spotted three boxes of wine (not bottles; boxes).  They did say that one was almost empty.

Wednesday was the Gardner; I wrote about that.

Thursday we went for a long walk at an educational farm/park whose name escapes me, because I had said that I just wanted to experience Fall In New England.  The air was cool and crisp, the "color" beautiful, and I loved being out in it.

Friday we went to the Eustis estate, a beautiful fully restored 1829 "aesthetic movement" home, that was an actual home up to the 2000's.

https://eustis.estate/  (rats - I didn't take pictures, and their web page won't let me copy.  But it was gorgeous)

But the important things:

They got to spend some time with Diane.  We've been friends for 40+ years.  Mike met her briefly some 20 years ago.  It sort of reminded me of when he came to visit in 2019 which was the first time he met Don, Della, Rob, Amanda, and the kids.  It seemed strange to realize that Mike had never met my family.  The same feeling as Wednesday - Diane has been my little sister, my chosen family.

Friday morning they "met" Ebaida.  She has also been so important to me; I can't now imagine my life without our daily sharing.  So we did a short FaceBook video call.  She of course was charming and adorable.  Like Diane - I felt a need to have people that I love know each other.

Having conversations.  Not texting, not phone calls, not a video chat.  Face to face talking (even if I did have to keep telling them to lighten up a bit - they're both into world events and politics, both of which are a bit dark at the moment and dammit - I was on vacation).

Looking at Mike's wee tiny bird parts, hearing his plans, and visiting his workroom.  He had it built several years ago; it's only a little over 200 square feet because anything bigger would have meant trying to cut or blast rock.  It's amazing how much he crams in there - 2 or 3 lathes, a CNC cutter, fancy air evac, all matters of equipment, computer, storage.

(pictures taken from either end.  The dive helmet in the corner is a foam one that I made for him).  

Things that used to be normal.  Wandering into the kitchen in the morning, someone making the tea, saying "good morning" to a person, not my Google portal.

Meals together.  Yes, the kids come to visit every 4-6 weeks, but they like eating out.  It's not like having company for a bagel for breakfast or a sandwich for lunch - or company at all for 3 meals a day.

Sharing.  I introduced them to "What We Do In the Shadows."  I mentioned a book (Neil Gaimen's very creepy collection of short stories called "Trigger Warnings") and Mike picked it up from the library the next day.  A couple of favorite videos - and the "behind the scenes" making of them.   My favorite cooking videos - the group called "Sorted Food."  Later, after I had showed them one video, I realized that I had said "I like to watch their videos while I eat; it's almost like having company."  Did that sound pathetic?  Did they notice?

Playing with Mike's fancy VR setup - so much better than the couple of cartoon-like demos I've used before. Except that my bruised hand is still healing from where a monster was coming at me - and I sucker-punched his bookshelf.  Ouch.

Just being around other people.  Barring work, I spent more time with them than I have been around anybody for the last 6 months or year total.

Downsides.  I wrote about the lonely nights.  Lying in bed and hearing the quiet murmur of of Mike and Margo talking, remembering those before-bed sleepy talks.  Missing my "cuddle pillow" (although there were three pillows on the bed and I did hold one - but is it strange to think that you're somehow being unfaithful to a pillow?)

Totally random occurrence.  I normally don't do FaceBook on my phone, but one evening I was on it briefly to check with Ebaida about our video call.  And I had a private message from another woman who used to be in our short-lived book club.  She has been having a *lot* of medical issues.  In her message she wanted me to know that she had decided to go on hospice care, and to thank me for being a friend.  Just how does one respond to that, especially if you've just run upstairs for a minute and dinner almost ready?

So yes - ups and downs, mostly ups.  And I managed my first trip away from home, so hopefully the next one (to Harry Potter World with Kim and Diane) won't cause as much panic.

And there was a homecoming.  It was odd getting off the plane with no one to meet me.  And surrealistic driving home, because it was the same route and same time of day that I drive twice a week coming home from the museum.  I wasn't expecting much when I got home; cats are not people or dogs, and they're usually a little restrained ("oh, were you gone?  I hadn't noticed').  RiverSong came and rubbed my ankles, but my dear Hamish went bonkers.  He was body slamming and head butting me and making his funny little "brrp!" noises and I felt that I had really been missed.  Maybe a little too much - when I tried to walk he kept prostrating himself on the floor in front of me, which would have been cute if I hadn't been quite so focused on trying to get to the bathroom.

I was a little hyper over the next two days - trying to settle back into the alone life (although, oddly, not as lonely.  I've noticed that it's mostly around other people that I feel lonely).  But I'm back into the routine again.

I'm glad I went, but it's good to be home (writing this with Stumbles on one side, ReddBugg draped across my arm, and Hamish on the back of the couch).  Crazy cat lady is back in her woods.

Day One: The Gardner

 My first day in Boston, Wednesday, was also Margo's day to work at the Gardner Museum.  Rather than calling in, she opted to do her shift (only 3 hours) so that I could spend some time there.  The Gardner is gorgeous beyond words, both in the collection of art, furniture and artifacts, and the architecture itself.  Just to look into the courtyard is to feel your blood pressure gently drop.

But the highlight for me, beyond the museum, was the fact that Diane (hey sis!) came to join us.  We've been friends for over 40 years (how is that even possible?).  Michael wandered off by himself so that she and I could catch up.  When Margo got off we had lunch.  There's just something so wonderfully comfortable being with people that you've known for decades.  That feeling of belonging.

After we got home Michael brought out his little treasures to show me.  For many years now he's been fascinated by the singing bird boxes, tiny automata popular in the 17th and 18th centuries.  And bit by bit he's been teaching himself the skill set to someday build one.  So by "little" treasures, I meant miniature.  There are tiny slivers of ivory that will be an articulated beak.  Tiny metal frameworks for the bird body and head.  He's learning how to feather a bird by cutting tiny bits off real feathers and layering it on.  Tiny hinges less than a quarter inch apart.  The part that really boggled my mind was part of a mechanism to move the bird.  It was about an inch long - a stiff hair thin wire that was somehow going through a barely thicker wire.  He had actually drilled a hole in the second wire.  At the juncture was something that looked like a little blob, about 1/16th of an inch across.  He put it under his microscope to show me - it was a tiny gear.  His challenge for that had been to make the piece of equipment to cut a gear that tiny.  I really can't comprehend being able work on that scale.

After dinner I introduced them to "What We Do In The Shadows" and then we wandered to bed.  Unfortunately, that's where things went a little downhill for me.  Alone, away from the day's distractions, the homesickness came pretty hard.  I would wake up every hour or two, look at the clock, calculate how many hours before we would be getting up, and also how long until I could go home.  That would end up being the pattern for the rest of the trip.

But it was a good day - with hugs, laughter, good talk.  Things that I haven't had for awhile.

There and Back Again

 I made it.  And I'm back home.  This might take several posts to unpack the last week.

Leaving was hard.  The last time Bob left home, he never returned. It was so hard to walk out, lock the door, drive to the airport.  I had to hold back the tears and the panic.  After I boarded the plane, I visualized the cats, one by one.  The the chickens and the squirrel.  Even the goldfish.  And my land.  I prayed that I would see them all again.

The panic eased after the plane took off.  It was a Done Deal.  It was too late to change my mind, to turn back.

First stop: Atlanta.  The world's busiest airport. It's like being part of an overturned ant nest.  I got off in concourse B and my next flight was T.  Fortunately, my flight coming in landed 17 minutes early, which gave me enough time to walk.  Even before Covid, I never liked crushing onto the the coach/tram/whatever they call it, to be spewed out again at the other end.  I'd rather walk off my nervousness than add to it.  But it was a brisk 40 minute walk (God bless whoever invented wheelie bags) and I got there just in time.

Logan airport in Boston isn't nearly as big as Atlanta, but there was still some exercise involved and a certain amount of wondering where to go (Mike and Margo said they would meet me at A202 which is fine if you have any idea where that is).

I had been thinking all along that I might break down the moment I saw Mike.  I've cried every time I've thought about seeing him again.  The last time we saw each other was May 2019, when he came to visit to see for himself what devastation a hurricane can wreak.  Bob was driving us around, and I thought he was just getting a bit tired after awhile.  We didn't know that he had leukemia.  That was a month away.

But I didn't.  By the time I saw Mike and Margo, whatever protective barriers I have had clicked into place.  I was very happy to see them, but not to the point of breaking down.

New England is beautiful in the fall, and I enjoyed it as soon as we got out of Boston (they live in a smaller town called Dedham, only a half hour from the airport).  Honestly - I don't remember much of the rest of the day.  Food happened, as did wine.  I got glared at by the resident cat, Moonlight.  She does not approve of other people coming into the house besides the resident servants.  Unlike my cats, who simply disappear at the sight of a stranger (my critter sitter saw only two of the five cats while I was gone), Moonie keeps an eye on intruders, glaring.  Although she will accept treats if they are placed down for her; I tried holding them in my hand and got mama-cat-slapped for playing games.

And that was Tuesday.  There is much more, but it's getting late and I have to get up early tomorrow for work.

Going Out - and the Panic

 I've started going out more.  Covid numbers are down, and while I've grown accustomed to be a lonely recluse, part of me thinks that it may not be mentally healthy to limit myself to the Museum, the grocery store, and the occasional visit to the dentist.

But it's making ever more aware that Bob is gone.

One example - there is a pioneer settlement in Blountstown, the next town over.  They have an old loom that they wanted to get in working condition.  A member of the weaver's guild in town asked if I would go with her to look at it.  It's actually in good shape - it just needed a good cleaning, rust removal, and some oiling.  The person who had invited me to go wasn't interested.  I reached out to the rest of the weaver's guild and no takers (note:  I have been a lurker in this guild for at least 25 years.  In general, they seem to like to be thought of as weavers but no one seems to be actually doing anything)

I had stuck my toe back in the waters of the guild in an attempt to build some sort of social life.  And when I found myself working on the loom in Blountstown, my inner mind was thinking that if I was going to work on a loom by myself, I could just as well do that at home).  But I like the Pioneer Settlement, and the people there were grateful for my help, so it's OK.

But it made me feel lonely.  It's about a 40 minute drive there.  Bob would have gone with me.  We would have chatted - he probably would have helped me.  Maybe go to lunch after.  And, of course, ridden home together.

As it was, drove there alone, worked alone, drove home alone.  Glad to have been of help but in general got depressed.  

Oddly, if I just stay at home, I don't get down.  And I'm OK going to the museum; I did that drive alone for several years, so it's nothing different.  Anything else just underscores that whatever I'm doing, I'm doing on my own.

Which brings me to my current state of panic.  I'm flying to Boston tomorrow to visit Mike and Margo.  I've warned them that there will be tears; I desperately want to see them.  I want someone to take care of me.

When my friend Kim's mother died recently, she flew to visit her biological father (the divorce had been when she was quite young) and her brother an his wife.  And she said she just sat in a chair and they brought her tea and when they asked what she wanted for dinner her reply was that she couldn't even get those brain cells together to make that decision - so they just brought her food.

Because of damned Covid, I never had that luxury.  If I wanted tea, I had to go make it.  If I couldn't decide what to eat, or get up the energy to fix it, well, eating didn't happen (and yes, there were some days that I simply didn't bother to eat).  I had the animals to care for.  And other things, like getting the AC replaced and the leaky roof fixed and the rotted porch torn out and replaced.  

I've been pulling myself up by my own bootstraps for 2 1/2 years.  And I'm tired.

And yet - there have been the panic attacks ever since I booked the flight.  It's really hard to make myself go.  Any time I have gone out, I'm good for just a few hours before the urge to come home gets overwhelming.  I feel safe here.  And, of course, the last time I left home - to go to Shands with Bob - well, things didn't turn out so well.  I screamingly don't want to leave.  It's all I can do to not bow out.  I keep telling myself that I'll be home Saturday.  I can do this.

And I cry every time I think about it.  And it's going to be so hard.  For the last 50 years, if I ever went anywhere, Bob would drive me to the airport.  He wouldn't drop me off; he'd come inside so I could get a last hug before I went to the gate.  As soon as I arrived, I'd call him.  And call him every evening to tell him of my adventures.  When I got home, he'd be waiting at the gate and I'd run into his hug and then tell him about my trip on the drive home.

Tomorrow morning, I will drive myself to the airport and leave the car in long-term parking.  Go through security and get on the plane.  I will not call when I get there, or any other evening.  When I come home, no one will be at the gate, and I will drive myself home.

It's crippling.

I want to go home.

Dinosaurs!

 I just realized that I didn't write about the dinosaurs.  That was on Sept. 6.

Anyway, there are often special events at the Civic Center, and on Sept. 6 they had the Jurassic Quest, a travelling dinosaur exhibit.  https://www.jurassicquest.com/

Rob and Amanda decided to bring Zeke up for it.  They try to give Zeke as many experiences as possible (like doing Tree to Tree).  They sometimes feel that Zeke got the short end of the stick.  When Dane was 7 they moved to Belgium, and eventually drove over the Alps to go live in Naples, Italy for a few years.  He's ice skated in Paris, played in the snow in Norway, and got his scuba diving certificate diving among Roman ruins.

Zeke has gotten Panama City, Florida.  With first a Cat 5 Hurricane when he was about 5 which disrupted everybody's lives, and then the Covid lockdown.

Anyway - adventures where you find them.  And it was fun.  The lighting in the Civic Center was dim, with red and green lights, the dino animatronics were huge and roaring, and it was just pretty darned impressive.

And there were games for Zeke to play and stuff to crawl on, and we all went out for hamburgers afterwards.

And, for the most part, I handled it well.  I do OK when I know where the triggers are.  Bob and I used to go to the Civic Center events together, and as he was well in touch with his inner 8-year-old, he would have loved this one.  And been impressed by the really good paint job on the dinosaurs.  And had fun watching Zeke run around.  I was ready for all those thoughts.

But there was one moment.  We were standing at the rope around a stage area, waiting for the dino show (a guy wearing a dinosaur puppet/suit).  Rob was standing behind Amanda and Zeke.  He casually put his hand on Amanda's shoulder.   And for a moment I almost lost it.  Just a offhand, affectionate touch, but something that I had for 48 years, but haven't had at all for the last two and a half.  Bob would have been standing behind me, and just for a moment I could feel him - feel the way I would lean back against him, that warm and solid "Wall o' Bobby."

I just never know when it's going to hit, what will trigger.  I'm good at hiding it.  And there's that outer me that was genuinely enjoying all the exhibits and the fun day (and mostly-vegetarian me really glommed onto that hamburger).

I Didn't Do It First Thing

 At 6:15 this evening, I washed the car.

I had my shift at the museum this morning and then, as usual, came home, had lunch, and took a nap.  I never used to be much of a nap taker, but I have to admit that the museum work in this heat gets me knackered.

I hadn't washed the car in a couple of months because it was raining every single blessed day so why bother.  But it hasn't rained for about a week and the car was looking a bit grungy.

It wasn't the fact that I washed it that's noteworthy.  It was the time.

For 48 years we did stuff on Bob time, which, more precisely, was Bob's Mother's Time.  She had this thing about if something had to be done, it had to be done First Thing In The Morning.  At at absolute crunch, it could be finished up Right After Lunch.

But you never started anything in the afternoon.  That would be "too late."

And that got ingrained into Bob, and therefore into me.  Although from time to time I would question it.  I remember one afternoon, when we were talking about some sort of house project we would be doing the next day, and he said that we should roll out of bed and get going in the morning, rather than dawdling over breakfast, because we had to get to Lowe's for supplies and then get to work.

We  were having this discussion about 3 o'clock in the afternoon.  I made the obvious suggestion:  "Why don't we go to Lowe's now and get the supplies?"

The answer:  "It's too late today."  I countered with the fact that while it does take a little over a half hour to get to Lowe's, they were going to be open another 6 hours so we had plenty of time.  But no - we would go First Thing In The Morning.

Coupled with First Thing In The Morning was While You Were At It.  In the case of washing the car, well, as long as you were washing one car you might as well bring the truck around and wash that, and maybe spray on the tire dressing, and where was that stuff you use to polish the headlights, and get the extension cord and the shop vac so you could vacuum the inside and and and . . . .    and then you didn't have time to do all that so the cars would stay dirty until you did have time First Thing In The Morning.  Which might be a few more weeks.

But I'm not on that time frame now - and gradually I've been breaking the habit.  If I decide the car looks dirty at 6:00 p.m., I can grab the hose and bucket and car wash and 20 minutes later I have a clean car and I'm putting the stuff away.  I've started trash fires at 3:00 in the afternoon.  I can decide to do yard work at 5:00 or clean the bathroom at 9:00 p.m.  It really doesn't matter.

And sometimes I wonder.  What idiosyncrasies do I have that amused him?  Or annoyed him?  Or that he just got used to and didn't even notice anymore?  If the situation was reversed, how much would he be missing them? 

Long Live the King

 It happened.  Queen Elizabeth passed away.  Prince Charles is now King Charles.

And I feel a little lost.  She was crowned 10 months before I was born.  In a world where everything changes, she was a constant.  No matter what happened, Elizabeth was the Queen.

And now the earth has shifted a little.

Even when I (all of us) were expecting it, when the news broke it felt like a physical blow to the chest.  I somehow didn't think it would actually happen.

I miss Bob.

How's that for a segue?  Bob's gone.  He has been for 2 1/2 years.  And yet, I still carry him with me.  I can hear his voice.  I can feel him standing behind me.  I have my memories.  But the kicker is that we stopped making new memories.  Stopped sharing things.

In Bob's world, Queen Elizabeth is still alive.  So is Alex Trebek.  And the cats Wilhelm, Nazgul, Apache, and Tula.  He doesn't know how bad or how strange Covid got (how could a virus become political).  He doesn't know about George Floyd, or the Black Lives Matter movement.  He doesn't know about the January 6 insurrection. Or that a ship got stuck in the Suez canal, Russia invaded Ukraine, or that climate change seems to have hit a tipping point

He doesn't know that the bedroom ceiling fell in, or that I had to get the AC and the front deck replaced.  Or that the old shed collapsed and I had it torn down and hauled off.  That Rob and Jeff moved to Tennessee. He doesn't know that I bought a battery lawnmower and put it together myself.

For 48 years we shared everything.  For the last 2 1/2 we have shared nothing.  And sometimes it hits home.  

I'll miss the Queen.  I am so glad that my final memory of her was that of her and Paddington Bear having tea.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7UfiCa244XE

Up in the Trees Again

 Looking at the blog and realize I did not post my adventures of August 6.

Last April Rob and Amanda and Zeke came to visit, and we went to the museum.  Zeke was very excited - he felt he was too old now for the kid's version of the Tree to Tree Adventure (zip lines and ropes course) and was ready to go on the grownup course.  We tried gently to clue him in that we didn't think he was quite tall enough (you have to be 54" tall).  He was sure that if he stood on his toes just a little, and maybe fluffed up his hair, he would be there.  None of us wanted to be the heavy, so I took him over to the Tree to Tree kiosk and asked their opinion.  Nope.  54" is aabsolutely  the bare minimum, and he was about an inch short if he stood flat footed and unfluffed the hair.

Disappointment and tears ensued.

So he's been doing his best to grow.  And sometime in the first week of August, he asked Rob to measure him, and, sure enough, he was 54.5" high.  "Hooray!  I'm tall enough!  We can go this weekend!!"

Yeah, sure.  In August.  Hot, humid.  Temps in the 90's.  Heat index in the low 100's.  What fun.

And why should that matter to me?  Well, 54" is actually not quite tall enough to be able to reach up to clip onto the lines successfully - you need a taller companion.  Amanda is a wuss and will not go up.  Rob is a wuss and will not go up, but at least he had the excuse of his knee being trashed (he was having surgery in a week).  That left good ol' Aunt Ann.

Did I mention it's August?  And Amanda decided to sleep in that day (she works nights) so it was noon.  In August.

But I owe Zeke.  Every time they come to visit, he insists that they stop by the store to bring me a box of Twinkies.  I'm in his debt.

Quick flashback here.  8 years ago his older brother Dane wanted to do the Tree to Tree - and good ol' Aunt Ann was the one to go with him.  In August.  Damned near killed me.

Eight years later, I'm at it again.  I am so grateful that they don't have a third child.

(as an aside, I don't mind looking older and grayer in the second picture - after all, it's 8 years later.  But I find it annoying that I look chonkier, despite the fact that I actually weigh about 15 pounds less.  But, thanks to a gently collapsing spine, I'm about 2 inches shorter.  I'm slowly turning into a short round hobbit)

But bonding is bonding.  And I loved it when we were up in the treetops and he looked at me with his big brown eyes and said "Aunt Ann - this is the bravest thing I've ever done in my life."

There are two parts to the Tree to Tree.  The 54" height will let you go on the first part.  I was grateful for this fact; the second part is more challenging.  Did I mention the 100 degree heat index?  So I was grateful when we finished it and were down on the ground.  Except then our guide said "well, if you like you can do the first half of the second part."  My heart sank.  Zeke was ecstatic.  So we climbed up the ladder for the second part.

The weather gods were with me.  We were on the second station when the guide apologized - but the afternoon storms were coming in, lightening was on the radar, and they had to close down.  I shed no tears.  Zeke *said* he was disappointed, but I think in his heart of hearts he was also a little relieved.

But I've promised him that we can go again, and do both courses.  Maybe in November.  I am bloody through doing that in August.