Vacuum, Deck, Car, Grocery

The random thought of the day.  Like many children, I used to have imaginary friends.  I realize that I now have an imaginary friend.  It's Bob.   I still talk to him in my head, and sometimes out loud.  I picture him in the chair beating me at Jeopardy.  I keep thinking the words to the song: "You're still here, next to me.  Out of reach, somewhere I can't be."   I still often say "We" and "Our" instead of "I."  I've stopped fighting that.

I still observe how he worked.  A couple of days ago, the vacuum cleaner stopped picking up stuff.  In Ye Olde Dayes, I would comment that it wasn't working, and then it would somehow be fixed and working again.  But at least I hung around and watched him.  I remember us both laughing hysterically once when I wasn't getting any suction at all, and assume whatever part it was that created the vacuum wasn't working.  But he detached the hose, gave a mighty blow into it, and a mortar round of cat fur came flying out and exploded on the wall.  So I check the hose - suction there.  I opened the cleaner up and took out the filters and washed them.  Cleaned the beater bar.  Still no pickup.  Modern makes of vacuums aren't designed to be taken apart, but I did some probing at the base with a crochet hook and lo! and behold! apparently I sucked up a ferret because there was a huge plug of fur down there.  Problem solved.

Then I spent a couple of hours powerwashing the deck because it had gotten a bit green and very slippery when it rained and falling is not my idea of a good time.  Again - in the past might not have been my job.  But I knew where the power washer was, and how to hook it up and use it, and got the job done.  Besides, it's kind of fun using one of those (well, it was fun for the first hour.  Just got sort of tedious after that)  But the results are gratifying.  In a day or two I'll coat the deck with Thompson's Water Seal and that should hold it for awhile.

Middle patch still waiting it's turn

Got the car fuel pump replaced today - I wrote about wondering how single people do this sort of thing.  Well, they think to ask for a ride.  I arranged to do it on a work day.  One of the keepers, Shelby, lives within five minutes of the car place and picked me up on the way to work.  The car was done by the time I finished my shift, and one of my co-volunteers also lives nearby so gave me a lift back.  They were both happy to do it; I'm just not used to asking for favors.

Between the dealership and home is a Korean grocery store, so I decided to stop by.  I like it - it's both exotic and familiar.  Exotic, because there are a lot of things there that I have no idea what they are or what one should do with it.  Familiar, because it's small and we've (yes, we) been going there for years.  I can get all sorts of noodles there, and sauces, and bags of dumplings.  I bought a small cleaver there before we went to Gainesville because I thought I'd be cooking when Bob was in rehab and communal kitchens never have decent knives.  The owner is nice, and the cashier shares my fondness for bats.

So I pull into the parking lot, and it's closed.  As in permanently closed.  Not "moved to new location."  Looked online later and it was another Covid victim - not enough business to keep open.  I just sat in the parking lot for awhile and remembered.  Remembered being there with Bob, looking at artisanal sesame oil and weird seasonings and even found a Korean style garden trowel in a corner (it's still my favorite) and odd kitchen gadgets.  Wondered where I'll be able to get my sweet-potato starch noodles now.  I had planned on picking up some miso and experimenting.  Looking forward to chatting about bats (she has bat tattoos, which I don't).  Seeing if they had a somewhat smaller wok than I now use.  Gonna miss that place.

 

Yard Work

 Bob trusted me enough to die.

How's that for an opening?  I was doing yardwork today.  I like yardwork - it's like therapy, keeping your hands and body busy and letting the mind wander a bit.

I remember just at two years ago, still in the first three weeks of losing him, being out in the yard one day, crying, because not only did I miss him desperately but I didn't know how I could keep living out here.  Thinking that somehow I would have to give up, pack up the necessities, turn everything over to an estate sale business, and move into town.  Because how could I possibly keep the place up?  The idea of moving terrified me (still does).  My heart is with my land.

I've written before about keeping the place up, and the timeline.  Hurricane Michael in October 2018 (already 3 1/2 years!).  Took us six months to get the yard debris cleared up.  By then the garden and the usual maintenance had fallen in arrears.  But he got diagnosed, and cancer is very time consuming.

I only used the riding lawnmower once.  It feels a little insecure on our uneven ground (and I will always remember the day that Bob came in with the top of his croc sliced off because he stepped off the lawnmower before the blade had quit moving.  And because of our uneven ground the blades would hit the ground from time to time.  I keep the place up with my trusty battery weed whacker and hand tools.

Yeah - battery weed whacker.  How pragmatic/practical is that?  After Bob got diagnosed and we knew he'd be in the hospital/rehab for awhile, we went and got me a really nice battery weed whacker because I'm no good at small engines.  They're heavy and need maintenance and I have problems with pull cords.  But you deal with the problems you can solve.  Might not be able to handle the leukemia, but can make the yard work easier for me.

So two years later - I look around, and yes, there is always work to be done.  Because things grow.  But honestly - it looks as good as it did before the storm.  If I'm honest, better (see earlier posts about the shed and crap behind the barn being gone).

I'm doing OK.  So I can keep my land.

Which takes me to my opening line.    Amanda, being a nurse, is too familiar with people dying.  She said what is really too sad is watching people who hang on, fighting it, living longer than they should.  And yes, you can suppress death, the way you can suppress a sneeze.  Death rates jump just after Christmas because people try to hang on until then, or until any other significant date.  So people struggle to live, because of their obligations.  She said it's even worse when the family, especially the spouse, is begging them to live.  "I can't live without you.  What will happen to me if you're not there to take care of me?"  Nothing like laying a guilt trip on someone who's dying.

That didn't happen with us.  Bob knew I was competent, could take care of things.  He knew I could physically survive without him.  After he made his decision, when he realized that the idea of surviving was more frightening than the idea of dying, he could relax and let go in peace.  I didn't try to hang onto him.  He trusted me.  He knew I would take care of things.  He could have peace.

So that's what working outside does more me.  I was going to tackle some of the perimeter today, beat back the woods that are creeping in.  But I decided to liberate the lemon tree instead.  Poor thing - the feral bamboo tries to grow up through it, and then the whole thing gets covered with the Virginia Creeper.  So I cut and hacked and pulled and dragged and after a couple of hours had it clear (at least for now).  I'll let it dry out for a week or two and then burn it.  At least it was a sweet smelling job; the tree is in bloom now and citrus blossoms are heavenly.

This pile just to rescue the tree

All in all, a good day.  A "bits and pieces" day, doing stuff like replacing the batteries in the smoke detector and grooming the cats (well, at least one of them).  A nice chat with my brother.  Having coffee and reading outside by the hummingbird feeder (therefore having to interrupt the reading every few minutes to watch one feed).  Chat with my new insurance agent.  Setting up a car appointment.

Oh, yeah - the car appointment.  I'm still getting used to being single.  Things are more complicated now.  Last week I took the car in for an oil change.  They told me there was a factor recall on the fuel pump so I would have to bring the car in and leave it.  I start to make the appointment, but then have to stop and think.  What to do about me?  It's never been a problem before.  Bob and I would drive the car and the truck in, drop off the car, and then go home or run errands or whatever.  That's no longer an option.  In The Before Times, the car place would have a courtesy van to give a ride home or wherever, but that went out with Covid.   I told them I would call later when I had a ride figured out.

Might be time to learn how to use Uber.  But then it hit me - one of the animal keepers lives within a couple of miles of the car place.  Why not take the car in on one of my work days, have her pick me up there to go to work, and drop me off afterwards.  Shelby is a sweetheart and is happy to do me a favor.  Problem solved.  It's just something that's never been a problem before.

But I can take care of things.

Hugs

 "Grief is finding the person that you can't live without - and then living without them"  (Random FaceBook popup)

Went to the dentist today.  No big deal, just a cleaning and then schedule to get a crown replaced.  Except that it was sort of a big deal, because once again I can't help but remember how it used to be.  Nostalgia for going to the dentist?

Like everything else, it was about a 45 minute drive.  I openly love my land, love living out here, love my woods (I'm sitting on the back deck as I write, looking at the woods and being distracted by hummingbirds coming to feed).  But it does mean that *everything* is a minimum half-hour drive away.

In Ye Olde Dayes (meaning before 2020), it would go like this: In the name of efficiency, we would schedule our dental cleanings for the same time.  Bob would drive, I would usually knit.  We'd chat, random conversation, maybe make some plans.  Listen to the radio.  For some songs, he'd play a riff with his fingers at a favorite spot.  Sometimes we'd sing along (Bohemian Rhapsody).  If "I Need a Lover Who Won't Drive Me Crazy" (strange song to have for Our Song but there you have it) we'd sing along and keep poking at each other.  Bob's cleaning always took a lot longer than mine because he always got his favorite hygienist and they'd chat, so I'd be finished and sitting back in the waiting room, listening to the sound of his voice and his laugh (and thinking that he really needed to just let her work on his mouth).  We might go to a hobby shop or run some errands, and have lunch together.

2022 - I drive there by myself.  These days, not even magazines to thumb through (doctor and dentist appointments are the only times I ever read women's magazines) but I have a book on my phone. I went grocery shopping afterwards and then treated myself to lunch at a small Vietnamese place - with my book.

Just not the same.

But that's not what I'm writing about today.  I'm writing about hugs.

There are huggy people in the world, and non-huggy people.  I've always been a hugger.  I'm just, in general, a very tactile person.  That's possibly why I'm a spinning-I like the feel of the fiber feeding through my fingers.  I remember one day, years ago, when I had had a bad day at work, and Bob picked me up and said "would you like to go to the sewing store and pat the fabric?"  Bob and I never walked past each other without at least a pat on the shoulder.  It was a common thing to grab a quick hug in the aisle of the grocery store.  And I hugged my friends.  I'm just one of those.

And all that came to a screeching halt come Covid and losing Bob.  No  more being held and cuddled and loved on a regular basis, but also no crying on anyone's shoulder.  No casual quick hugs.  No human touch.

That really threw me.  I went a little bonkers.  When I went to get my flu and Covid shots I would turn my head away from the tech.  I appeared to be out of courtesy - but it was really so they couldn't see my face.  I would close my eyes and concentrate on the feel of their fingers on my arm, holding on to that sensation.  Thank God for the cats - at least I had something alive that I could hold.  But they're a little small - hard to wrap my arms around them (although I do).  Once or twice at the museum if I was cleaning the deer habitat and no one was around and the deer was feeling cooperative I would slide my arms around them, resting my cheek on their neck, and just feel the warmth and the breathing and the heartbeat.

Sometimes before going to bed I would put my spare pillow in the dryer for a few minutes so I could hold something warm.

But after a year or so I got used to it.  The urge to touch anyone just went away.  Without thinking I would step back if anyone stepped into that 6-foot bubble.  Human contact now belonged in the past.

I sometimes wondered what would happen if the Covid numbers dropped and it would be safe to hug again.  Would I want to?  Was the old huggy Ann still in there somewhere?  Would it be too overwhelming?  Would some sort of repressed floodgates open up to an emotional breakdown if an arm went around my shoulders?  Would I have become one of those people who stiffen up and pull away when someone hugs them?    

It was with great relief that I found that the Old Ann was still there.  The Covid numbers are currently down in the safe zone.  There was a volunteer appreciation party at the Museum; I saw people I hadn't see for awhile - and we hugged.  I looked at the door and one of our new volunteers was standing there, looking a little nervous - he had expected to see only familiar people there, and was a little unsettled to find that it was mostly people in the 60+ age group (board members and people who help out during the annual Market Days).  I made my way over to him to assure him he was in the right place, and got a hug.  Later on, one of the other "kids" came over to where I was standing outside and gave me a mock shoulder-shove and we pushed each other back and forth for a bit, laughing.  One of the animal keepers who gets quite affectionate when she's had a couple of margaritas gave me a full-on squeezing hug.

The grand thing is - it all felt natural.  No drama, no breakdown, just some affection.  Natural, and very very good.  Nice to know that part of me didn't change. 

Mexico Beach

 That was a fast two weeks.  Last I wrote the shed was gone.  Now all the 30 years worth of "do something with it someday" stuff propped behind the barn is gone.  The old riding lawnmower and the chipper mulcher that may or may not work.

I got a few things planted in the garden - tomatoes, pepper, herbs, cotton and indigo.  The hummingbirds are back, so I'm keeping the feeder filled and often sit on the back deck (as I am doing now) so I can watch the tiny birds come to feed.  We had a few days of good weather - meaning not raining but not windy - so I got a lot of yard trash burned off.

Time marches on.

Yesterday was Easter so I went down to Mexico Beach to spend it with Della, Don, Amanda, Rob, Dane, Zeke, and Dane's friend Yesse.

Mexico Beach makes me sad.  We started going there in 1972, when Bob's parents were thinking about buying property there.  It was a small town (population around 2,000), old, a big grungy.  Sometimes called "The Mayberry of the South."  A lot of the houses were 2-bedroom, 1 bath cinderblock.  

Hurricane Michael wiped it out in October 2018.  All that could be done was bring in the bulldozers and clear off the rubble of what used to be the town (90% of the town was destroyed; Della's house was standing but had to be gutted and rebuilt).  Most of the old-time residents left - they didn't have enough insurance on those old homes to rebuild to current requirements and investors were swooping in with ridiculous amounts of money to buy up the lots.  Now the place is filled with brand-new houses - summer homes and investment rentals - in bright "Florida" Palm Beach colors, and there's no small-town charm.

After our Easter dinner the kids all wanted to go down to the beach to go swimming and I walked down with them.  The ocean was other-worldly beautiful.  There was some bad weather thinking about coming in, so the sky was heavy and overcast - but between the clouds and the ocean it was clear turquoise.  The water was steel grey and the waves crashing.  The kids went swimming and I walked down the beach.

And all the feelings and memories came crashing in with the waves.  1972 - not even married, we came with his parents, looking for their retirement property.  It was a cold day in March; Bob was wearing his field jacket.  But Della, young teen that she was, laid down on a blanket on the beach in her swimsuit, trying to shiver herself into a tan.  Bob, doing the proper duty of a Big Brother, grabbed her and was dragging her screaming to throw her in the water.  He suddenly felt the massive jaws of the family's Great Dane close on his arm and he was pulled off his feet - and then covered in slobberyy dog kisses as Sam recognized him.

We lived there for a year in 1981, in the half-built house that his father was working on, after Bob got out of the military, medical discharge, and we were sending out job feelers and waiting on a military settlement (that never came).  We had part-time jobs, spent time working on the house, walked the beach, had a little garden.  Bob would help out on tourist fishing boats and bring home unwanted fish (white snapper is as delicious as red, but there's no market for it).  We'd go down to the beach to gather buckets of tiny coquinas, which are too tiny to eat but when boiled yield a heavenly broth for chowder.  We participated in town activities (we realized that maybe we'd been there too long when we realized that we were looking forward to the ghost crab races in the parking lot of the 7/11)

Somewhere in the back of a drawer I have a pair of tiny red satin shorts with "Mexico Beach" written on them.  Money was pretty tight - but I wanted those shorts.   Bob made me a deal; I could get them if I would go skinny-dipping in the middle of the day.  Well - I wanted them.  So we went swimming, and I pulled off my bikini - he insisted on me handing it to him to prove that I was out of it.  The, of course, he swam back to shore with it.  Mexico Beach hadn't been "discovered" by then, but there were still other people on the beach.  Eventually he felt sorry for me, swam out to return my suit, and I got my shorts.

After a year we decided that it was time to grow up and we moved to Tallahassee.  His parents retired to Mexico Beach so visits were common.

So many memories.    And as I was strolling, it hit me that this was the first time I had been down on the beach since I lost him.  So many hundreds of walks down that exact stretch of beach.  I could hear the kids laughing in the water.  I wanted to cry, to sit on the sand with my arms around my legs, hold myself.  I looked out over the water - somewhere out there was Bob's reef.  I felt "the call of the void" - that urge to wade out, start swimming, go find my way to him.  But it's not my time yet.

I somehow kept my act together.  We went back to the house, had dessert, made my goodbyes, and headed home.  It's a long drive - about 1 1/2 hours - and boring.  While I do prefer it to highway driving (or, heaven forbid, interstate), or the stop-and-go of in town driving, there are several stretches of 30-some miles with pretty much nothing.  And it started raining hard - matching the tears that I just let drip out of my eyes.  At least I insisted on leaving in time to get home before it got too dark.  There had been many times in the past, visiting his parents, and his Dad would want help with "just one more thing" and we'd end up making that long drive in the dark.  And, being Florida, often in the pouring rain.  But sometimes, on those drives, if a hard belt of rain came through, we'd pull over to wait it out and, what the heck - you have to kill the time somehow - make out for awhile.   Not this trip.