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.