Ruana and a Clean House

 So yesterday I sewed up the ruana, and even made a fancy little woven triangle to fill in the back neckline where it's sewn together.  And I'm very happy with it.  It's soft and warm and very draping and the coloring is hard to define but it looks like it could be walking in Mirkwood Forest and I really hope that someday I'll actually get to wear it. 

And I'm a little sad that I'm through with it.  I'll leave it on display in the guest room until the next time I let Dingo the Flying Squirrel out to play.  I don't like the idea of those tiny sharp claws running over it, or the equally tiny but uncontrolled bladder leaking.  Then it will get folded up and put away until some glorious day that it's cold enough to wear it and then see if I go anywhere (Walmart, look out)

So today I was in the post-book, post project doldrums.  And having problems with my phone - for some reason texting is blocked.  I called their help line - among other things, they asked if I had tried to fix it by texting their self-diagnostics.  I hope they couldn't hear my eye roll.  They couldn't fix it today and I was running out of patience (they told me I would have to call from a second phone and I don't happen to have one hanging around) so that's tomorrow's problem.

Rob had texted me so I called him to let him know that I wouldn't be texting back.  He said that a picture of Bob and Zeke had popped up in his FaceBook feed and he wasn't certain about posting it to me because I might suddenly remember that Bob was gone and it would bother me.  I told him to do it - because there isn't a minute of the day that I don't think about Bob being gone and it's sweet to think that other people remember him from time to time.  It was from when Bob and I went to visit them in Naples and we met Zeke for the first time. (Bob was playing with one of Zeke's games).

After having spent the last several days working on the ruana, I decided that today I needed to clean up the detritus from that, and the house in general.

Because my house is a mess.  It's always been a mess.  Growing up, my room was a mess.  My desk at school was a mess.  It's just sort of the way I am.  And Bob was even messier.  Not horribly - I have been to houses where you weren't sure what you were stepping in and there was no where to sit, but generally messy.  I'm used to thinking of the house as being a mess.

But I've been steadily tossing things for the last two years, and, oddly enough, I realized today that the house wasn't that bad.  An hour or so of tidying up and it was OK.  That felt a little strange, but good, but also a little empty and a little sad.  Sometimes I wonder who it is that is living here now.

Tomorrow I'll start another book (going to co-read Good Omens with Ebaida), get my texting working again (I feel so 21st century now that it feels weird not being able to text), and maybe think about the next project.

Groundhog Day and Ruana

 Sort of a continuation of the last post.  I woke up this morning thinking Another Groundhog Day.

I came back from Gainesville 851 days ago (no, I don't keep track.  You can just ask Google how many days it's been from a date).

So that's 851 mornings in a row that I've gotten up, washed my face, brushed my teeth and hair, made the bed.  Fed the cats, fed the chickens, fed anything else that needs feeding (these days an opossum), put food out for the peacock (and Miss Sassy the Raccoon), had my breakfast.  Read Facebook and (for the last almost 200 days) played Wordle.

Clean the litterboxes, run a vacuum over the hairier parts of the carpeting, tidy the kitchen.  Two days a week I go to the museum.  I usually have a "things to do list" and I do some of them.

In the evenings, I feed the cats, feed the squirrels, lock the chickens in the coop.

And that's sort of my life.  If nature abhors a vacuum, then there should be a great whooshing happening in my direction.

I'm in the doldrums.  For one thing, it's July.  Still July.  I have never liked July.  Years (decades) ago I declared that I would not fight July.  I would do enough to get by, do the things that had to be done, and otherwise just try to tolerate it.  To me, July just epitomizes everything I dislike about summer.

It didn't improve my attitude towards July that it was the month that Bob got diagnosed.  But on the other hand - why ruin any other time of the year when I already had July set aside to dislike?

It doesn't help that it's hot, buggy, the yard had gotten completely out of control and I haven't even dared to look at the garden in the last month except to peek over the Virginia Creeper that has taken over the fence again to notice the waist-high weeds.  And one of the reasons that the weeds are so happy is that for at least the last two weeks or more we've had pop-up thunderstorms several times a day and everything is just so soggy  and falling apart and the mushrooms are growing mushrooms.

Covid numbers are still going up.

Other doldrum inducers:  I'm having the post-reading depression that one gets after finishing a good book.  In this case a trilogy - so some 1300 pages.  Shadow and Bone.  In the fantasy genre, but really well written.  Good plot and characters I could get involved with.  I'm always a little sad when a good book is finished (and I know I'm not alone in this - it's a common phenomena)

Post-project depression.  Same thing.  This one started 2-3 years ago (likely late 2019).  It was my spin-while-walking project.  That's the spinning I do for no other reason than enjoying the feel of fiber slipping through my fingers while taking my daily walk (which is also adding to my doldrums because I haven't done that for a month - walking in rain while simultaneously sweating and being chewed by mosquitoes isn't particularly meditative).  I had gotten a lovely dark-brown Corriedale fleece which I've been combing and spinning.  It was a pretty good-sized fleece so it took awhile.

As I was finishing it up, and thinking of what to do with some other fleeces that I have, and thinking of weaving a ruana (sort of a poncho) and deciding which wool to use for that, I had the great DUH moment because I was simultaneously wondering what I was going to do with this some 3,000 yards of brown wool I had spun.

Personally, I like brown, but it can be terribly, well, brown.  So I overdyed some of it (dark wool is gorgeous and rich when it's dyed), wrestled it onto the loom, wove it off, and will likely finish the ruana today.  (The problem with weaving, particularly with handspun, is that the spinning takes forever, I'm not that good at setting up the loom so that takes quite awhile, and then the weaving goes fast and you're done).

So post-book depression and post-project depression during a hot rainy buggy July.  Time for another book (well, at the moment I have four going - H is for Hawk on audiobook for when I'm using the rowing machine, the very slow read of Dracula, the equally slow read of Women and Folklore in the Dark Ages (interesting subject but not well written so it's a slog) and a very strange book on the use of human elements (bone, mummies, blood, urine, fat - whatever a body can produce) in historic medicine.  And Ebaida wants to co-read Good Omens so we'll start that in a few days.

Ending with some pictures of the ruana project.

A sample of the yarn and the spindle I used to spin it. (Yes, I'm intrigued that I spun 3,000 yards of 2-ply yarn (so 6,000 yards) on a little stick I twirled with my fingers)

The yarn, dyed

The yarn on the loom (looking muted because alternated the colored yarns with the natural brown yarn, and the spacing is very open)

And the final cloth off the loom.  I'm enchanted with it - it looks very Middle Earth.

It's since been washing (scary, but must be done), ironed, and I'm almost through hemming the edges.  Final picture to follow.

Bored!

 I realized today that it is just possible that I am bored.

I do keep busy.  And there is always stuff that needs to be done (I've had a hole in my ceiling ever since it caved in a couple of years ago because of the roof leak.  I have the luan and wallpaper to make a new panel but it just hasn't happened yet).  The yard is a complete overgrown mess because it's been raining every day for what seems like the last 10 years now (I'm reminded of the Ray Bradbury story "All Summer In A Day.") I  still haven't finished going through Bob's room, although I had a couple of friends come over and grab stuff from the room and a bit from the barn - and I've barely touched the barn.  I have a weaving project on the loom (a handspun ruana - sort of like a poncho).  Last week I went to Dane's housewarming - he and his girlfriend just got their first apartment together and he invited me to the party.  I just happened to have some cotton yardage on the loom and I wove it off and made dishtowels for them.

So yeah - I'm keeping busy.  Somehow that's not the same as *doing* anything.

I had such plans two years ago, when I first came back and had the high chaotic energy of trauma.  There used to be adult exercise classes at the Community Center - I would do that.  I wrote about getting my little drum and thought I would learn enough to join in on drum circles.  Maybe take a dance class (tap, clogging - anything that didn't need a partner).  Maybe take one of the art classes offered at the senior center.

Have I actually done any of those things?  Why, no.  Because Covid shut them all down.  Two years and change later - they're still not there.

I almost joined in on one thing.  A bookstore was offering an audio book and Knit Night - bring whatever fiber craft you want and listen to a book.  It sounded like fun.  I *almost* did it.  And then didn't - because it's about 20 miles away and I'd be driving through downtown in the dark and in the heavy rain to come home.

I check the FaceBook events page to see if there's anything I'm interested in.  A lot of it is online - and I've had enough of that in the past couple of years.  A great number of the events take place in bars at night- I don't drink outside of the house and I don't like driving in the dark.  It's too hot (and these days, rainy) to do much outside.

It's almost August.  In Years Gone By, this is when Rob and Jeff and Bob and I would really be gearing up to plan the Haunted Trail and start doing pre-builds and costumes and props.  Now Rob and Jeff are in Tennessee and Bob is even farther away and the Museum isn't doing the Halloween Howl at all anymore so I can't even get involved in it somewhere else.

It seems like anything that I come up with gets thwarted somehow (or I make what seems like a reasonable excuse, like not wanting to drive at night in a downpour).  I keep busy.  I talk to Michael and Margo about once a week, and Rob calls me every few days to tell me what the family is doing.  I read a lot.

But I'm starting to think that after two years and change of "keeping busy" that I might actually be getting bored.

Homesick and Nolan

 I'm very draggy today.  OK, but draggy.  I read until 2 a.m. and finally cried myself to sleep around 3.  But I had forgotten to turn off my alarm, so it went off at 6:30 (yes, I went back to sleep for another hour or so).

Driving in to work yesterday morning I was suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of homesickness - for Shands Hospital, in Gainesville.  Most people would never wish that they were back in a hospital.  But that was the last place that I lived with Bob.  We always said that "home" was wherever we happened to be together - so that was our last home together.

And everybody was so damned nice.  Bob often said that he was humbled that so many people, doctors and nurses, were trying so hard to help him.  And not only physically - they did everything they could (including bringing him cake and the whole staff singing on  his birthday).  And I was remembering one day, when we were taking our walk around the nurse's station.  Patients were encouraged to walk as much as possible; he couldn't leave the ward, but 15 laps around the nurse's station was a mile.

Our room was on the east side.  One of the nice things about the rooms is that one side had a huge window - running the entire length of the room.  We were on the east side, and our room faced across the street to the children's hospital.  For two people used to living alone in the woods, the whole situation felt claustrophobic.  And even though the building was quite colorful and tried to be cheerful - well, it was a place for sick children. 

One day, after we had been there for a week or so, we were walking down the west corridor and a door to a room was open - the patient had checked out, and they were cleaning the room.  On the west side, the land sloped downward, and you could look over the buildings (we were on the 7th floor) and, in the distance, see the wildlife refuge, Paynes Prairie.

We just stood there, gazing for awhile.  The charge nurse came over to check on Bob - was he OK, did he need a chair?  He sighed a little, and said he was just looking at the view.

Next thing we knew, a team of nurses and staff were wheeling the bed and furnishings out of that room, and moving in Bob's stuff.  That was a lot of extra work for them - in addition to having to move everything, they now had to sterilize Bob's old room.  And we didn't even ask.  They just did it.

I miss being there with him, high up, gazing over the Prairie.  

I think what brought all that on was knowing that after work I would be saying goodbye to someone.  I've often written about the "kids" that I work with.  Most of the other volunteers are college students, doing their intern or volunteer hours.  And they are so great to work with - we chat, laugh, tease, and work hard.  Most of them are there for 6 months, sometimes longer.  I'm very fond of all of them - but I also know it's temporary, so I don't get too attached.

Except that I did.  I don't know why, but Nolan and I just clicked from his first day there.  I sort of thought of him as a puppy - I honestly don't know how he saw me, but he always asked if he could be teamed with me whenever possible (our shifts only matched one morning a week).  We talked a lot, sometimes on deep subjects (religion) sometimes just being silly (he would make airlock sounds whenever we had to go through a keeper cage into an animal enclosure).   He would hug me hello and goodbye.

Yesterday was his last day.  He's graduated now.  He's off to work in France for a few months and after that hopes to move to the West Coast.  He's 22, and the world is in front of him.  As people always say, we'll stay in touch - but I'm going to miss his company, and those hugs.

Sigh.  You know how it is if you hurt yourself, and you have a big bruise, and anything that even bumps into it a little really hurts a lot?  I think every little goodbye that I have to say just reopens the wound of having to say goodbye to Bob.

And just to put the cherry on top of that particular sundae, a friend posted his "music of the day" on FaceBook.  He was listening to the musical based on the story "War of the Worlds."  Which doesn't sound like it would touch any sore spots, except that I'm familiar with it, and it has the beautiful song "Forever Autumn" on it, with the lines:

Like the sun through the trees you came to love me

Like a leaf in a breeze you blew away

And that just about finished me off.

But it's another day.  I have cats to love, a weaving project to work on, yarn to dye for the next one, books to read.  Raining today, so I'm saved from feeling guilty about not doing yardwork.  Just keep moving.

It. Is. Leukemia.

 And here it is.  July 9.  Just barely - it's just after midnight.  I decided to stay up and face it immediately.  You can't really fight demons - you have to invite them in and offer them tea and crumpets.

So I have my little port pipe and here I am.  July 9.  The day we lost Fiona and Bob got diagnosed.  At the time we thought it was a challenge, not a death sentence.

It's hard not to overthink it.  Sometimes I feel that if I could just think it through, come up with an alternative that works, that somehow I could have a do-over and make it work this time.  But every time I'm like a rat in a maze, and every path leads to a dead end.

When we went to Shands for our first consult, they laid the options out to us, but basically told us that Bob's leukemia was the aggressive type and the best suggested option would be the bone marrow transplant.  Drugs and chemo could suppress it for awhile but not kill it off.  After we had agreed to it, the intern told Bob that she was relieved he had agreed - she was not able to ethically influence him, but now that he had decided she could tell  him that without the transplant he had maybe a year left to live.

With the transplant, it was nine months.  Two of them brutal.

And if I could ask for a do-over.  His preliminary chemo didn't bother him,  The rest was taking pills and drinking a ridiculous amount of water.  We could have kept doing that.

"Doing that" would have entailed going to the clinic about 15 days out of each month.  Being careful around other people (before Covid and everybody had to start doing that).  Not being able to eat salads or buffets out - being careful of food in general.  Me following his special diet, cooking or sterilizing everything.

We could have had that year.  With him gradually getting sicker and weaker, and eventually I would be doing everything that I am now - housework and yardwork and taking care of everything, and taking care of him as well.  He would have hated that.

The rat in the maze just hit another dead end.  There is no scenario where this would have worked out differently.  There is no good way to have lost him.

There are still unexpected triggers.  I was watching a comedy series ("Our Flag Means Death').  The rather swishy Gentleman Pirate, Steve Bonet, is before a firing squad and cries out "I don't want to die!" and I was instantly gutted because I heard Bob cry that.   Later, in another scene, Bonet's wife (who presumed he was dead) was with a group of other widows and they were all talking about how much better their lives were without their husbands and I was yelling "FUCK YOU" at the TV and it's lucky I didn't throw things at it.

Yesterday I took Hamish to the vet and on the way home Gordon Lightfoot's "If You Could Read My Mind" came on.  It was one of Bob's favorites - it appealed to his poetic melancholic side.  I had forgotten the line "and you won't read that book again, because the ending's just too hard to take" and the tears were rolling down my face.

In 2020 I did everything I could to distract myself from remembering that nine month period from diagnosis to loss.  In 2021 I embraced it and wallowed it in.  That was rough, but cathartic.  This year - well, I can't ignore the demons, but I'm not going to have an orgy with them.  We can have tea and polite conversations, but this year they are not running my life.

 

Yay, Decadence!

 Yay, Decadence!

That used to be the battle cry of my friends and myself in our SCA days, lounging around in our fine costumes, raising glasses of wine to the equally well-dressed young men who were flirting with us.

Of course, the word decadence has its roots in decay - and can lead to hangovers and other regrets.  So today I'm going to talk about indulgence instead.

Indulgence.  Self pampering.  Something we all need, especially in this damned Covid time (as I write this, our reported numbers are 20 times higher than they were in April and still climbing.)

Most of the last two years for me has been about being empty, and emptying.  Pity I haven't kept track of the actually tonnage that has left this house - and there is still so much more to go.  Letting go of things.

But some times you have to let things come in.  Like everyone else In These Times - other than food, most of my stuff comes from Amazon.  Which means that I have a record of what I've bought.  The vast majority are practical:  my swing sickle for clearing underbrush.  A kitchen scale.  A new toaster oven when mine died.  A rowing machine (which I do use).

But not everything has to be functional or practical.  My mother used to talk about "hyacinths" from a poem (attributed to several different authors)

If of worldly goods thou are bereft

and if of thy slender store but two loaves to thee are left

Sell one, and with the dole

Buy hyacinths to feed the soul

So yes, I have hyacinths.

I have bought a couple of sheep fleeces because I'm just weird about that - I love having different kinds of wool around for my spinning - although sometimes I think I spin just so I can buy wool, even though it's not the most practical fiber for Florida).

Old fashioned rose scented dusting powder.  My favorite loose tea (Yorkshire Gold, which Patrick Stewart drinks instead of Picard's Earl Grey) - and the tea-making ritual that goes with it.  (Every time I make tea - simply enough, using a French press - I remember the day at work when the department chair came to see me just as I was pouring tea out of my press into my Russian silver tea glass; she looked down at the paper cup of coffee in her hand and a wistful look flitted across her face)

A soundbar.  I listen to a lot of music (because Emptiness).  And there are a couple of male singers that I love (Ramin Karimloo and Geoff Castelucci) who have low voices (Geoff can make my ribcage vibrate).  I wanted a better-quality speaker (the 30-year-old speakers left the house last year).  Great for music.  Unfortunately for television, it did not solve an issue that I have - so many shows play The Dramatic Music so much louder than the dialog, so I constantly have to grab for the sound control.  But it does help if I remember to unplug the woofer when I'm watching a show.

My port pipes.  I saw these tiny wine glasses on a cooking show and my little heart went pitty pat. I tried to talk myself out of them - I counted, and between glasses bought or inherited or that just somehow showed up, I had 30-some wine glasses.  I did not need four more.  But sigh . . . .   I compromised.  I packed up 15 or 16 silver plated wine goblets and gave them to an SCA friend.  The I got the port pipes.

They're adorable.  Only hold 2 ounces.  I like to have a wee dram of something while I'm reading in bed at night, and you don't have to glance away from the book to tip a wine glass - just have a little sip.  Of course, they're delicate, and the cats have already broken one (surprisingly not the little spout but one of the legs).  But they came in a set of 4 so I'm OK for awhile.

And then there are my sheets.  I love my sheets (how many people say that?).  It comes from being what a friend calls "a natural fibers snob."  It's not snobbishness; I'm a very tactile person - and I can't stand the feel of polyester.  It's cringy (which probably explains my lack of a decent wardrobe because you trying finding something "nice" that doesn't have polyester in it).  I can handle rayon (which at least is cellulose and not plastic).  So that leaves, for the most part, cotton.

And sometimes linen.  You don't find linen clothes too often, because the stuff is naturally rumpled.  And if manufacturers try to put a finish on it to keep it smooth, it just creases like crazy.  But I have a visceral reaction to linen.  There's a weight and drapiness to it that just speaks to me.  I can even be watching TV and suddenly get distracted when I see that someone's costume is linen (Dune comes to mind).

So last year when my sheets were wearing out, I dreamed of getting bed linens that were actually linen.  Problem is - there's no place to get them locally.  If I'm going to have something against me 6-8 hours every night, I'd like to be able to see and touch it before buying.  And bed linens are expensive - $300 and up for a set.  My fear, in reading descriptions, was that the high-end linens might have the above-mentioned finishes on them to keep them smooth, which ruins the desired properties of linen.

Then I saw a set on Amazon for $150.  I risked it.

They came in, and my textile-loving fingers told me that I had The Real Thing.  I washed them, put them on the bed, and dove in.  One of the lovely things about linen is that it's very wicking and responds quickly to the body, so sheets don't feel either too warm or too clammy.  And there's a drape that makes it feel somehow like one of those weighted blankets that are so soothing (but also heavy and hot)  I snuggled in for a happy night.

I was trying to ignore the fact that I was being gently exfoliated.  My beautiful, longed-for sheets were . . . rough.

Linen is famous for being rough and stiff when newly made.  It has to be abused to soften it.  I have read that in Ye Olde Days, they would make it into sheets and give them to newlyweds to get them worked over and softened up.  I did not have any newlyweds handy (and, besides - ewwww).  I did some reading, and thinking, and back into the washing machine they went, with a box of baking soda.  I kept turning back the dial so that the machine ran for almost an hour.  I dried them in the dryer, but on the air cycle so they had to tumble for a long time.

It helped.  And now, almost a year later, they are beautifully and buttery soft.  I've have talked about my need for "contact comfort" and these sheets definitely help.  In fact, there are some days that I glance at the bedroom and then pop in for a quick lie-down and cuddle.  In the mornings I let the sheets sift between my fingers before, regretfully, turning them back and getting up.

I am basically a frugal person.  It comes from being my mother's daughter who, despite her occasional hyacinths, could (as Bob put it) wear the beard off of Abraham Lincoln before spending a penny.  So spending $150+ on a set of sheets, when you can get a set of percale ones for under $50 seemed to be an extravagance.  But I've had them over a year now, and they're the only sheets I've used, and there is no sign of wear on them whatsoever.  I'm starting to think that they might be an example of Sam Vines economics.

Sam Vines is one of Terry Pratchett's characters, who spent his childhood and much of his adult life in poverty.  And this is the Sam Vines Economic Theory:

“The reason that the rich were so rich, Vimes reasoned, was because they managed to spend less money.

Take boots, for example. He earned thirty-eight dollars a month plus allowances. A really good pair of leather boots cost fifty dollars. But an affordable pair of boots, which were sort of OK for a season or two and then leaked like hell when the cardboard gave out, cost about ten dollars. Those were the kind of boots Vimes always bought, and wore until the soles were so thin that he could tell where he was in Ankh-Morpork on a foggy night by the feel of the cobbles.

But the thing was that good boots lasted for years and years. A man who could afford fifty dollars had a pair of boots that'd still be keeping his feet dry in ten years' time, while the poor man who could only afford cheap boots would have spent a hundred dollars on boots in the same time and would still have wet feet.

This was the Captain Samuel Vimes 'Boots' theory of socioeconomic unfairness.”

So there is a chance that these sheets might outlast three sets of cheap ones.  With their buttery draping soft . . . decadence.

Randomness

 Feel like writing tonight; don't know why, or about what.  My brain is just pinging around.  

What would it be like to live somewhere that delivered pizza?  Or any food, for that matter.  I'm at one of those stages that feeling hungry is annoying; I need to eat, and I just don't feel like it.  Even my collection of 15-minute meals seems like too much bother.  My local food truck took the weekend off.  Would be nice for someone else to produce food.

But then I stepped outside to put the chickens up and saw a a couple of deer and I wouldn't trade that for a pizza.  Cheese and crackers and an apple it is.

I'm tired - physically - and a little sore.  Yesterday I decided that my next weaving sample should be done on my table loom, which is in the back of a closet in my cottage, so the whole closet had to be emptied (and now gone through, sorted and tossed before it goes back in).  The loom is small, but heavy.

I wrote about doing the outside of the window.  Today I did the inside - which I thought would just be running a bead of caulk.  But years ago Bob realized that the metal bottom of the window was rusting out and put in a Plexiglas one (and a wooden base).  As I was pulling out some of the old caulk I realized the Plexiglas was sitting on a good bed of cat hair and spider webs, so I pulled it completely and scrubbed under it.  Then I put the plexi on a bed of caulk, let it dry with some books piled on it, and then caulked the edges.  All this done while balancing on the sink divider and leaning forward.  And I just now realized that I also should have run some vertical lines of caulk up the pains so the project is not quite through.

I cleaned the fishtank, which involves siphoning a few gallons of water into a bucket and then replacing it (a monthly job).  A few gallons of water is about 15 pounds to be dumped.

I fertilized the garden (my tomatoes, peppers, and cotton plants).  Two gallons at a time, so 8 pounds a watering can, about 8 can's worth.

So a little tired.  That's good.

But I've also been out of sorts today.  Lonely.  Maybe because of yesterday's feeling.  Maybe because it's a holiday weekend, or, in my world, a weekend like any other.  And followed by a Monday like any other.  Except that I'll probably sit on the back deck come nightfall and watch some fireworks that people are shooting off and listen the sounds of parties.

I find myself having strange fantasies - like sitting in a coffeeshop talking with someone.  Having a conversation.

Was bothered by a weird dream last night.  There were a bunch of women in my cottage - only it wasn't my cottage, just sort of a plain vanilla living room.  They were discussing what could be done with it.  I was asking them what the hell they were doing there and they were there to fix things up for me, to help me, to do something for me.  Finally I was yelling at them to get out - they didn't know me, they didn't know anything about me, and at last screaming "Do you know my name?" (They didn't.)

I wonder if that had anything to do with the kids wanting me to go on the cruise, to do something besides sit and home and work at the Museum.  But a cruise?  Seriously, do they know me?

Sometimes I really wish for an invitation someone - to go to a movie, to go for coffee, (I'd really like to try an escape room but that's a weird thing to do alone).  I'm tired of being the one reaching out (and when I do, the other person usually is busy or whatever).   But then I realized I've gotten two invitations in as many weeks, and turned them down.  One was for the cruise.  The other was an invitation for a reception/cocktail party for people who have donated money to the museum.  After we got the new aviary put in, it was realized that the necessary removal of the trees meant that the birds were roasting.  I donated money so some sail-style shade cloths could be installed.  This shindig was for members of the habitat club and museum donors.

Well, one - I'm not a cocktail party sort of girl.  I don't even own any cocktail attire (when I think of cocktail dresses I think of the 50's styles that my mother work).  And I wouldn't have been able to have any real cocktails because I'm not driving home in the dark after having alcohol.  I like the parties we have from time to time at the museum - a taco bar, and maybe a fire to make s'mores.  But not a cocktail party because I'm a donor.  I'd feel that my wallet was being invited, not me.

Final dump of the evening.  I did look back on my blog a year ago.  I was writing about how I like to think about 2022 self looking back, giving encouragement, telling 2021 self that things were better now.  Well, that hasn't panned out too well - a year later and everything is basically the same.  (I just looked at the numbers - our *reported* Covid cases are just at 20 time higher than they were at April).  In fact, I think I was more coherent and lucid a year ago.  I am possibly more tired by now.

But the Museum is tomorrow and that always helps.  And for now, I'll head off to bed and my sheets.  I haven't written about my sheets yet.  It was my indulgence for last year - linen sheets.  Not just bed linens in name, but the real thing.  They deserve their own post.  But how many people genuinely love their sheets?  I do.  Sometimes during the day I can't resist and go lie down for a few minutes, just to wrap myself up.

But now I'm really rambling.  Bedtime.

That Hair

 I was chatting with Adrienne about the show "Our Flag Means Death."  I mentioned that I thought the Blackbeard character was hot.

I said that I had a thing about long hair on guys, and that I like my men a bit on the feral side.  Then I sent her a picture of Bob's hair.

She said it was gorgeous, but too well groomed to be considered feral.  I said that I had groomed it for the photograph.  And I left it at that.  No need to buzzkill.

So I didn't say that I groomed it, photographed it, then braided it and cut it off (yes, I still have the braid).  It was just before we went to Shands and we knew he'd be in bed a lot so it would be easier to care for if we cut it.  We also knew (but didn't want to admit) that after he got the chemo he would lose it anyway.

I miss that hair.  I miss him.  I always do, but yesterday was a rough one.  I had a dream (something about building scenes for the Halloween Howl.  I didn't see him, but I knew he was there - maybe at another scene.  It's a common theme for dreams I have of him; I know he's there somewhere, just out of sight.

I ended up feeling that way for the rest of the day.  I could sense him - he was just to my left, slightly behind me.  I kept thinking that if I could just hold very still, just reach my hand back, just look out of the corner of my eye, I'd be able to see and touch him.   So close.

Sometimes I feel my age.  Maybe.  I'm turning 70 in 5 months, and I don't know what 70 is supposed to feel like, or how I'm supposed to behave.  The problem is that Bob always looked at me like I was 19.  I used to tease him about it.  A little while before he died, I looked at him and said "But I won't be 19 any more."  And he smiled and replied "Well, maybe it's about time you turned 20."

So in some respects, I've aged 50 years in the last two.

It's now hitting 3 years since his diagnosis.  I'm not going to wallow in it like I did last year - that was something I allowed myself to do once.  I can always go back and read it now if I want to.  But it's still there, nonetheless.  And it explains why I can be working on something - setting up the loom for weaving, or working in the yard, and realize that I'm crying.  Because he's still there - close - but just out of reach.

Counting Flowers on the Wall

 Reading:  Finished "Every Tool's a Hammer"  and am now on "Finding Time and Space for Creativity."  Both of these are an attempt to jump start my creativity, getting me to do something besides scrolling aimlessly on the laptop.

My main project this week has been the kitchen window.  We put in a garden window - meant for plants or (according to the brochure) to display precious items, but the only precious items that get put there are cats.

It sometimes gets a little noisy, because Stumbles is the one who has seizures when she sleeps (she's fine; it just comes with the wobbly cat syndrome).  But the other night, just before bed, I realize that in her thrashing around she had kicked the side windowpane loose!  A lovely 2" gap to let the bugs in and the AC out.  Not just the AC - Stumbles was exploring it to see if she could push it open enough to go exploring.  I really didn't want the entire pane to fall out.  But at 9 o'clock at night, in the dark, I didn't want to do repairs.  The only way to reach it is to stand on the AC air handler.   So I did what any self-respecting redneck would do - grab the duct tape.

Actually, I'm classier than that.  I used Gorilla tape.

I let that handle it for a few days because the next two days were my work days at the Museum and I'm knackered by the time I get home.  At least I didn't have to go shopping - I talk a lot about Bob's hoarding tendencies, but I did find a caulking gun and four tubes of window caulk in the barn.

So that was Thursday's project - the old channeling was coming loose, so I pulled out all the old caulking, cleaned out all the gunk with a toothbrush, and recaulked the whole window.  Had to pause once to go turn off the AC because I was standing on it, so every time it clicked on I was getting hot air blown up my butt.  Had to take a second break to switch from shorts to long pants because it turns out that biting fly season is not quite over and once one fly finds you it sends out invitations to all of it's friends.

And the redneck fix will now be there permanently.  These was not a high-end window 20+ years ago when we put them in.  The channeling is plastic - and did not cooperate about being snapped back into place.  In the heat and the bugs I didn't feel like sitting there holding each piece, one at a time, until the caulk hardened enough to hold it in place.  So the caulk went on, and the channeling was taped into place.  Now I don't think I can ever pull the tape off because it would probably pull the channeling and the caulk out and possibly the window panes.  But I did a neat job.

But that's not what I was going to write about today.  I was going to write about the cruise that I'm not going to take.  Rob and Amanda like cruises; they just took one and were planning on getting reservations for another (it's cheaper if you get reservations 6-10 months in advance).  And they want me to come along.

I have never been on a cruise, nor have I wanted to.  I remember feeling superior to the people on cruises when we were in Alaska (*we* came in on the ferry).  Those huge ships, spitting out people and then a couple of hours later sucking them back up to go drop of their money someplace else.  No, thank you.

But we want you to come, they said.  It will be fun.  You need to do something besides sit at home and go to the museum.  You should do something different.  Let yourself have some fun.

I really did think about it.  Maybe I should get out of my comfort zone.  I looked at pictures.

Oh, no.  Not only no, but Hell No.  No effing way am I getting on one of those.  Up to 3,000 guests (and another thousand crew) stacked on top of each other like chickens in crates in an egg factory.  With all that noise and crap going on.  People getting drunk just to deal with it.  Stimulation overload.  Where the hell would you be able to find a place to stand quietly and just watch the ocean?

I thanked them for their kind thoughts, but said that I could see myself spending most of my time in the cabin with my head under a pillow.

But then they went off about how they had to find *something* for me to do.  That I couldn't just spend my time at the Museum, and otherwise at home with my cats and my spinning wheels.  That they had to find me some happiness.

Whoa, there.  I tried to explain - I enjoy their company, and I am always so grateful that they think of me, call me, come to visit, have me come to visit.  But I am not their responsibility.  

The next day, thinking about this, I found myself humming the old Statler Brothers song "Flowers on the Wall."  I texted the link to them.

I got the text back.  "OK, we get it.  LOL."

Nice when music can solve a problem.