Eating an Orange

 I ate an orange this afternoon.   That doesn't seem like big deal, but it was important for me.

I was able to go to work Wednesday and Thursday, and then to Thanksgiving dinner at Rik and Christy's.  But it sort of wore me out (still getting my stamina back from Covid).  It was near 80 for those two days; then we had a turn of weather and yesterday it didn't even make 50 and it was raining.  And I pretty much spent the entire day on the couch, reading ("Wicked" - don't bother) and napping.  Today it was still chilly, but bright and clear, and I at least got up to do things like vacuum and laundry.  This afternoon I thought I would attempt a brisk walk around the property.  As I rounded between the cottage and the barn, I had to stop at the orange tree that grows between the two.

It's sort of an embarrassment of riches sometimes - I have friends who live in small houses or apartments.  Me - all this land, and a cottage in addition to my house.  The cottage is on the far end of the property, on the other side of the barn.  And I haven't been down that far in three weeks (first I was gone on my trip, then while I was dealing with the Covid I would go as far as the barn to get the chicken food, but not past it as far as the cottage.)

Well, in those intervening three weeks, the oranges have started to ripen - and there's a shocking number of them.

It's hard to notice them while they're the same color of the leaves, so I didn't realize how many were there.

I can't remember how many years ago we planted that little tree.  It didn't bear for a couple of years, and then we would get a few oranges from it.  It was a sort of celebration when one would ripen.

And I remember it too well.  Bob and I usually took a few turns around the property after breakfast.   When we would round the corner to see the orange tree, and deem that The Moment Was Right, Bob would ceremoniously pick the fruit.  He would rub it, hold it up to admire it, cup it in his hands to inhale the fragrance.  It just made him so happy to pick an orange from his own tree.  Finally, we would resume our walk, with him peeling the orange and sharing segments with me.

He was like that in so many ways - taking vital pleasure in the small gifts of life.

The first year - 2020 - I tried.  I was taking my walk, I picked an orange, started to peel it, and then fell to my knees and sobbed.  I never ate any of them - I eventually picked the few that were there, and cut them up and cooked them down for marmalade.

The same thing happened in 2021 - they got picked and cooked.  In 2022 we had a hard freeze that ruined the crop and almost killed the tree.  It survived, but did not bear fruit in 2023.

Today, it was loaded, and they're coming ripe.  I looked through and found one that was ready.  I held it, and sniffed it, and finally peeled it and ate the sweet juicy fruit while I walked, spitting seeds.  And I'm going to do it again.  Some of them will become preserves (because I like using them in cooking), but I'm going to eat a sweet, freshly picked orange daily while they last.   And remember him.

Closing Thoughts

 Living underground was strange.  You don't realize how much you keep track of the time of day, or weather, when there is no window (I remember back in my early working days, where the "status offices" had windows and the rest of us had interior offices.)  And it didn't help that our bodies were on East coast time.

But there were things that we knew we wanted to see - like sunrises and sunsets.  I'm just not used to checking the time to see when it's happening.  But we did, and we'd pop upstairs (got a lot of exercise this trip) to watch it sink below the horizon, with the incredible colors in the clear desert air.   Same with the sunrise - fortunately, being on East coast time we woke up early enough on the second day.  Mike wondered when the sunrise would be - rather than looking out a non-existent window, I had to Google it - and the answer was "now!"  So the jacket got put on over the pajamas and another run up the stairs.  And, again, it was spectacular.

Less spectacular was the other thing that I had been looking forward to: the wonderful display of stars in the desert sky, far from any light pollution.  But I had not figured on there being not only a full moon, but a super moon. As Mike observed - you could practically read a book out there.  With that huge spotlight in the sky, no stars were visible.

Our other childhood memory was that of the desert dust.  Not sand, but dust.  We remembered the dust storms (sometimes school would even be canceled). The dust was as soft and fine as talcum powder.  When a storm was coming, we would take a dinner knife and paper towels to wedge into the crack of the door opening.  We both remembered the time that I accidentally left my bedroom window open about a quarter of an inch, and ended up with a sand dune in my bedroom, with poor little Squeaky having become a brown rat rather than a white one.

As we wandered around the compound, we did indeed find the windblown drifts of that talcum-fine dust.  Mike scooped up a baggie of it to take home (his plan is to find an hourglass to put it in - we'll see.

There's an impression, a feeling, that I've been trying to analyze, something odd about this trip (granted, the whole thing was a little strange).  It was odd, going back to someplace I used to live.  But more than that; it was remembering that somehow, once upon a time, I had a life without Bob.  We met shortly after I turned 19; he was part of me for my entire adult life. So in every adult memory that I have, he was there somewhere.  But there had been a time in my life without him; I had simply forgotten about it.  Very briefly, on this trip, I was for the first time in almost five years, simply Ann, not Ann-without-Bob.

Bob would have loved the bunker - he always wanted one.  When we would watch the TV shows about people living in weird places, the bunkers and converted silos were his favorites.  But I also have to admit that he would have had a problem with all those stairs.  He messed up his knee in high school, and damaged the same leg in an accident during military training.  He'd had a few surgeries for bone spurs.  Between his legs going out randomly on him, and his size, we just got used to doing automatic compensation; there were simply things we couldn't do.

When we were still newlyweds and went for his training in El Paso, we went to an event where different organizations had been set up.  We were talking with the hang-gliding group.  It really sounded like fun - but they didn't have a harness his size, and the glider was only rated for 200 pounds.  He never went zip-lining at the museum for the same reason - no harness would fit (I don't think he minded that much). Same with the tandem skydiving.   When we took our backcountry trip to Oaxaca, there were a couple of occasions where we would go exploring on our own when the rest of the group was being taken up paths too steep for him to manage.  When we went to Harry Potter World, he couldn't go on the ride at Hogwarts Castle (some of the newer rides had oversized seating, but not this one).

It was just a way of life.  And sure, I could have gone on the hikes or the ride, but the idea of the trips was for us to be together - I didn't want to run off and leave him behind because he couldn't make it.

Going down inside the abandoned silo was amazing and terrifying and surreal - one of the most fascinating things I have done in my life.  And it's oddly disquieting to think that if Bob had been there, I wouldn't have done it.  It would have been too dangerous for him to try, with  that tendency of his leg to give out.  I'm not certain he could have even fit on those narrow spiral steps.   He would have encouraged to to do it (like the skydiving) but it would have underscored that he couldn't - and I wouldn't have done that to him.

There is a scene in the Pied Piper where he is playing and all the children are dancing and following him and they finally all disappear into the big crack of the mountain which then closes, leaving behind only the little crippled boy who couldn't keep up.  I remember one time when a group of us were going down a sidewalk, laughing, talking, heading somewhere, and then his voice called out from behind us "Don't let the mountain close without me!"  We hadn't noticed that he couldn't keep up.

I'm not sure where I'm going with this.  It's just part of the realization that whatever I do from here on out, I don't have to think about how he'll fit in.  It's a lifetime of habit to break.  And I miss it.

Roswell, Day 4: Homecoming .

 Covid Report.  I'm annoyed.  I really wanted to go back to work tomorrow.  We're down one person anyway (Ben had surgery) and over Thanksgiving week a lot of the students are gone.  But I'm still a bit congested, and when I tested, I'm still positive.

I need to do the adult thing and stay home.  But I'm annoyed.

So our final day of this short trip came.  We had our breakfast, packed up, and gave one final farewell visit to the silo.  Gary wanted to drive us around what used to be Walker Base, so we dropped off the rental car and hopped into his.  It was fun.  When we cruised the old neighborhood I pointed out the house that I thought belonged to the "mean lady."  I remember walking around with my pet rat Squeaky on my shoulder and she said something about my nasty animal.  She had one of those miniature chihuahuas, and I pointed out that my rat was bigger (and nicer) than her dog.  Gary jumped on that  - he's still in correspondence with the people who lived there and is going to ask about the dog.

We drove to our old school, and the swimming pool (still there).  He took us to Dad's old office (when he wasn't at the silos).  It was old oddly nostalgic.

Finally it was time to hit the airport (tiny - only one gate).  A short hop to Dallas/Ft. Worth where I parted with Michael, a few hour wait, and finally the puddle jumper home, landing around 10:00 p.m.

I was expecting to deal with more emotions than I actually had.  I saw people hurrying towards the gate - with people waiting outside of it to greet them - to run, to hug, to ask how the trip was, to help carry luggage.  Once upon a time, that would have been me.  But that was once upon a time, and this is now, and somehow I was oddly more OK with it than I thought I would have been, walking out by myself and across the parking lot to the car.  The drive home was uneventful.  As Gill pointed out, by 10 p.m., people going out have already gone out, and people partying haven't headed back home yet. so there wasn't much traffic (I saw a lot of deer, but fortunately they didn't jump into the road.)

I do wish I had thought to ask Cam (my critter sitter) to have left the kitchen light on so that I didn't come home to a dark house (but there is a security light in the yard at least).  But the cats were happy to see me, and the chickens were fine, and it was good to be home again.

I planned to conclude with some final thoughts about sunrises, sunsets, stars, and dust - but I'm crashing and I think I'll head to bed.  Stupid Covid.

Roswell, Day 3: Carlsbad Caverns

 And Covid, Day 6.  Every day I feel a little bit better.  The problem is that it's a *little* bit.  I'm ready to be back to normal and hating the wait.  I did go into town to the grocery store today.  I was going to wait until Monday and go after work - but realized that by the time I finish my shift I will likely be really dragging and want to come home.  My problem was that before I went on the trip I ate down the fresh food in the fridge, and finished the milk, with the idea that I would go shopping within a day or two of coming home.  Today is Day 8.   I've got plenty of food in the pantry, and of course eggs, but I've been wanting milk and fresh stuff.

I found a cool video a guy made of our BnB, and especially of the old silo.  Still can't believe we did that. 

So - Carlsbad Caverns. As soon as we decided that we were making this trip, both of us wanted to go to Carlsbad.  For one - it's a gorgeous and impressive cavern, and I do love caverns.  But more importantly - it's nostalgic for both of us.  We came here a few times as kids.  And Bob and I came here some 50 years ago.  It's a couple of hours from Roswell, so we got up and headed out Thursday morning.

I can't believe that I was the Adult and the Voice of Reason this time.  Mike had read about a special tour - the King's Palace.  It's a limited tour, but there was a chance that we could have taken it.  I pointed out a couple of things - it didn't start until 2:30 in the afternoon, which would have had us getting back to Roswell after dark, and we really needed/wanted to spend more time talking to Gary (our real reason for going).  Also, we had done a lot of running up and down stairs in the bunker, and a lot more in our crazy exploration of the old silo, and our old bodies were feeling it.  The King's Palace is a bit more strenuous than than normal walk.

Still regret it a little.

Heading to the mouth seemed oddly familiar after all these years.  We were passed by a family with excited, somewhat noisy kids.  When the mother gave us an apologetic look, I laughed and said "I was that age my first time here."

I am lucky that Mike and I travel at the same speed - slow.  It's only about a mile walk down (it seems like a lot farther - it's a bit of a slope - 20 degree average but sometimes steeper) and  we got passed by a lot of people.  But our goal wasn't to get to the bottom - it was to walk the walk, and look at everything.

I was surprised at my reaction when we first started down- the acrophobia was triggered. 

You can see the handrails zig-zagging down - and I was feeling it.  Which was odd - but eventually I figured that I was still a little weirded out from out adventure in the silo.  There, if you fell - well, let's just say that would have been a bad thing.  So once again looking down into a pit sort of triggered me, even though this was on a path, and if you fell, well, you'd land on the ground at your feet.  I soon got over it.

I like the way they lit the caverns.  Instead of having general lighting, it was for the most part quite dark, with spotlights on the natural features.  (It reminded me a lot of how we used to light the sets when we did the Haunted Trail)

I didn't take too many pictures.  I don't like being one of those jerks who keep flashing the camera in dark areas.  My camera does have a nice "night shot" feature, but the pictures tend to come out looking like moonscapes.  So I mostly contented myself with just looking - I can find plenty of good pictures on the web.  But here's a shot of looking back and saying goodbye to the cavern opening.

A least one good set of stalagtites

And, as being that my "light airplane reading" was some Lovecraft, I definitely had to take a picture of the formation that I promptly decided was Cthulu.

We made it down to the bottom, and were quite disappointed that during the middle of a weekday in off season, there weren't enough tourists to merit having the underground snack bar open.  We had a quandary.  We still wanted to walk through what is called "The Big Room" (about another mile).  On the other - we were both a little tired from the previous day's adventure, and by our east coast internal time it was after 2 in the afternoon and we were hungry.  There is an elevator up to the surface - so we came up, had a sandwich, and headed back down.

Even slow strolling comes to an end, and we had the couple hour drive back to Roswell (alas, just missing the sunset, which happened behind us).  Back to another lively evening with beer, Raul's cooking, and Gary's talk.   Gary is partially disabled - we never got the full story, but there are back injuries and a hip replacement involved, and he walks with difficulty.  So, he engages his mind with research.  I loved his enthusiasm when he would talk about hours of research to find one small piece of a puzzle, when something would click into place and suddenly he would rub his hands in satisfaction and say "Ooooh, I got you now."

Eventually it was 11 o'clock New Mexico time - meaning 1 a.m. east coast time, and we gave up and crashed.

The next day would be homecoming.

Roswell, Day 2: Cheesiness

 And Covid, day 4: tedium.  At least the first couple of days I was sick enough that all I did was get up, feed the cats and chickens, and go back to bed.  Now I'm at the stage that I don't feel bad enough to just lie around, but don't feel good enough to get up and do anything.  I'm still being drippy and, despite slogging down quarts of water, dry mouthed.  I'm try to tell my immune system that it won and it can quit fighting now.  I've been living on tea and broth and I'm getting really hungry but don't feel like cooking anything.  I really want some milk and cookies.

I am fully aware that there are friends who would come running if I asked.  I would just be embarrassed to ask someone to drive 20-40 miles because I want a cookie.

Back to the trip.

I left off yesterday with being in the belly of the beast, imagining the explosion.  Although I don't usually think of myself as acrophobic/agoraphobic, I will openly admit to having some problems in there.  I could control my breathing by consciously taking slow deep breaths, but there was nothing I could do about the racing heartbeat.  Fortunately Raul was in no hurry.  He believes in experiencing a place, not just looking at it, and for awhile, weird as it felt, we just stood in there and talked about normal, everyday things (he has a wife and kids - that sort of thing) which did help ground me a bit.  But eventually it was time to leave - and I honestly wasn't certain if I could brave that narrow spiral set of stairs again.

But this isn't like a ride in Disney World where you can opt out.  It was either go back up those steps, or move in and get food lowered to me on a rope (I did consider that possibility).  I'm here, so obviously I was able to do it - but by not looking out, up, or (especially) down.  I just looked at the step  - put my foot on it - then looked at the next step.

Honestly, I felt like such a wuss.

After we finally emerged, Raul returned to work and Mike and I headed into town because face it - you can't go to Roswell without doing the tourist thing and going to the Alien Museum.  Roswell really milks the alien thing - even the lampposts in town have alien eyes on them.

They had alien autopsy scenes, and newspaper articles from people who had seen/been kidnapped by/been probed by aliens, and it was very much fun.

You do what you have to do to bring in the tourist dollars.  At least Roswell has aliens.  A town 100 miles away, Alamogordo, is known for having been the site of the first nuclear testing explosion - but the actual test site is only open two days a year.  The rest of the time they have to rely on their pistachio production - and Pistachio Land.

Alas, our time was limited so we did not drive the 100 miles to go see the big pistachio.

Nor did we do one thing that Mike had hoped for - wandering in the desert to hunt for Pecos Valley diamonds, an amber quartz crystal that we used to find in the area. It was either that, or go to Carlsbad Caverns - and we both wanted to go to the Caverns.  But he did spot a good rock shop.  Not only did he get a few crystals, but we had a lovely conversation with the owner.  I like talking to people who have a passion - even if it's for something that I might not be personally involved with.  I've had great conversations about birds, cheese, competitive rowing, or, in this case, rocks.  I love the way people open up and are so enthusiastic about sharing their passion if someone is willing to listen.  So we had a good rock talk - and Mike walked out with his crystals, a couple of small opals, and and interesting stone called an Apache tear, which looks black or dark gray until you shine a light though it and see that it's transparent. (He's such a pushover)

We found a good Mexicn (*not* Tex-mex) restaurant for lunch, then before heading back to the site we wanted to pick up something for breakfast.  Rather than hit a grocery store for something mundane like bagels, I did a search and found a promising little Mexican tienda (obviously geared towards the natives, not tourists).  They had a lovely array of traditional Mexican pastries.  Mike is used to fancy Boston bakers, where one muffin will be $3-4 dollars.  We bought enough for two breakfasts for under $6 (and they were delicious)

Then back to the site and another evening with Gary.  People who know me, know that I can talk.  A lot.  People who know Mike know that he can talk circles around me.  Gary?  We were eating his dust.  Remember what I said about passionate people?  His knowledge of this place, the history, and the people involved is phenomenal.  He wants to preserve the history of this era in time, the Cold War, now largely forgotten because, well, it was about The Big War that didn't happen because all the parties involved managed to frighten each other out of it.

Hanging out in the silos, I kept thinking of the old hippie saying of "suppose they gave a war and nobody came."  It actually happened.

We did have to pause and pop up outside to watch the sun set.  Living in Florida, and amongst trees, I'm not used to seeing the horizon.  Especially not on all sides, as far as the eye could see.  With the beautiful clear desert air.  So the sunset was gorgeous. (side note - perhaps "pop up" is not quite the right term.  Refer to Day 1 pictures of all the stairs involved to get in and out)

So we talked, and drank beer, and had a wonderful dinner (among his other talents, Raul loves cooking) [note to self - remember the appetizer of camerones aquachiles - a salad of cucumber, onions, cilantro, chili and shrimp] and finally crashed for the night.

To be continued with Day 3 - Carlsbad caverns.

Day 2: Terror

 I had plans for writing about this trip - I was going to write one post a day for the four day trip.  I wrote on on the 16th - and now it's the 19th?

Well, I thought I had brought home one souvenir from the trip: a pair of socks from the Alien Museum.

Actually, I brought home two souvenirs - socks and a case of Covid.  I had a couple of rough days, but the fever broke last night.  It is not a bad case (I did have a booster shot last month) so it mostly feels like a cold.  So much for being the last Covid virgin standing.

A couple more thoughts from Day 1 of the trip.  This was the first time I've ever flown at dawn, and boy - is that a beautiful time of the day to be taking off.

I've seen the evolution of in-flight entertainment.  When I was a kid, there would be an actual screen pulled down - you sort of had to peek over people's heads or between seats, and could rarely hear anything.

That progressed to either screens that you could pull up from the armrest, or screens that were on the back of the seats.  When I went to Boston a couple of years ago, I thought I was being fancy and brought a long my Bluetooth earplugs instead of the plug-in type - only to find that I needed to have the plug-in type.  I didn't bother to buy the airplane set - I could be content with my reading and knitting.

This time, I brought the plug-in set - only to discover that in-flight entertainment has evolved into "bring your own screen."  You can watch on your personal devices.  Because this was a short trip, I hadn't bothered to bring my tablet, which left my phone.  I thought I would at least listen to music  - and that's when I discovered that my phone does not have a jack for earplugs.   Back to the reading and knitting.  Someday I'll get it right.

Back to the first full day - which I'm realizing is going to take two posts because I'm starting to fade again (stupid Covid).  Wednesday morning - the most fascinating and terrifying day.

As well as the missile-site-turned-AirBnB that Gary owns, he also owns another site, still in original abandoned condition.  Raul took us out to see it.  The footprint of all the sites is identical, so we could find our way around, but it's amazing what Gary did with what he had to work with (he said he paid $50,000 for the site, and $400,000 to refurbish it).

Then we went into the silo.
Ahem.
"Our" silo in the AirBnB has a nice sturdy expanded metal floor with waist high railings, and a friendly alien to share a cup of tea.

a

Even at that, looking the 40 feet up and the 150 feet down make me feel a little queasy.

This silo?  A distinct lack of handrails and chunks of the floor.  And if we wanted to, we could climb down into the belly of the beast.  How often do you get a chance like that? (Answer - just once, if you make a misstep)

I have never thought of myself as being particularly acrophobic/agoraphobic, but I will admit that this place got to me.  In "our" silo, I didn't mind popping up and down the 30" wide steps, with that looooong drop off to the side.  Without the handrails - let's just say that I was suctioning myself to the wall.  We maneuvered our way along the catwalk and down a set of spiral stairs for a couple of levels.

 (Notice that there is no railing at the base of the steps.

This shot is taken from those steps - we went down to that second level.

These next two shots crack me up - Michael and I looking over the edge.  I am hiding behind an I beam, hanging on for dear life (I may have impressed my fingerprints into it).  Mike has his hands in his fricken' pockets, just casually leaning over the edge.  Sheesh.

Pictures just can't give an idea of the scale of the silo.  The missile elevator was mounted on springs (because you certainly don't want it to be jiggling) - this shot gives an idea of the size of them.

And always, in the back of our minds, was that our father was here, underground, when that 80 foot long, 130 ton missile, effing exploded.  Two of them, six weeks apart.  And by some miracle ("miracle" meaning that my father had safety drills on a very regular basis) everyone survived.  It's still a terrifying thought.

We were too young to think about it at the time.  It never occurred to us to even consider that he might not have survived.  And, in later years, he never talked about it, and we never asked, what that experience had been like.

The rest of the day was much less adrenaline provoking, but that will have to wait until tomorrow because I'm really crashing now.  Stupid Covid.

 

Roswell, Day 1

 Got home yesterday from the whirlwind trip.  'Twas amazing.

Getting to Roswell was blessedly uneventful, except for having to be at the airport by 5:30.  Ugh.  First stop was Dallas, with pretty good timing of Mike's flight from Boston landing about a half-hour after mine.

Then cue the talkfest, because that's what Mike and I do (I woke up this morning with a rough throat and a bit of a cough, and of course my first thought was that I caught something on the trip - but then realized that I talked more in four days than I do in an average month).

Quick background on the Roswell/alien thing.  The "Roswell Incident" happened in 1947 when "alien debris" was found - the government claimed it was a weather balloon, later released that it was a more sophisticated balloon designed to detect Soviet bomb tests.  Things went quiet for a couple of decades until the Atlas F missile program was ended and the military base at Roswell closed down in 1967.  Losing the base was a huge economic blow to the small town.  Somehow they came up with the idea of capitalizing on the alien theme, and the town now gets some 200,000 tourists a year, and there is a big annual alien festival.  We saw ads for a dentist ("get an out-of-this-world smile") and stores like the intergalactic vape shop.

So - we arrived at the Roswell airport.

Mike had been studying maps and directions, so we got our rental car and drove around to see our old stomping grounds.  It was strange, because other than visiting our first apartment here in Tallahassee, I've never gone back to anywhere that I've lived before.  Sad to say, after 60 years, the old neighborhood has gotten rather run down.  Then we headed out to the missile site.  20 miles away from Roswell, there is nothing to see from horizon to horizon of flat desert, with oil derricks pumping away (those things used to scare me when I was a kid).

We eventually spotted our Air BnB.

We were met by Raul, the owner's assistant (I have now realized that I did not get pictures of either Gary or Raul - my bad).  He showed us around the outside - there's a large cement pad over the missile silo, with the 150 ton blast doors - more on those later.  Finally we went in and down the first flight of stairs.  This shot is from the bottom of the stairs looking back up to the rather substantial door.

A couple more short flights of stairs took us to our apartment, which used to be the sleeping quarters for the missile crew.

The red thing above Mike's head is the escape hatch that leads up to the surface.  The big white structure in the middle is the support for the tonnage of dirt and cement over our heads.

We talked with Gary for a few hours (and Raul cooked a delicious dinner for us).  Gary is passionate and obsessed and has an encyclopedic knowledge of the cold war era missile programs and sites, and knows far more about Dad's career than we did.  Before we crashed for the night, we went into the missile silo itself.  When I first heard about Gary's AirBnB, I assumed that we would be in the apartment, and only allowed into the silo when escorted.  Not true.  Guests can go in there any time (musicians say that the acoustics are amazing)

We went out our apartment door, down a couple more flights of stairs, through a tunnel, and onto a landing about 40 feet underground.  The silo is mind-boggling: it's 75 feet across and almost 190 feet (some 14 stories) deep.  Although the landing has hand rails, I definitely felt some acrophobia.

Overhead were the 150 ton blast doors which would be opened for the missile to be brought up on an elevator before firing.  Due to a design flaw in the Atlas F missiles, on four occasions (three in Roswell, one in Oklahoma) the missiles would explode in the silo (fortunately without the nuclear warheads).  On at least one of these times, the 150 ton blast doors were blown completely off and thrown out into the desert.

This was enough for us for one day.  Time to crash.

Dithering

 I'm not responsible for this post.  I've been dithering, I had an extra glass of wine with a dinner that was too late, I'm getting up in a little over 5 hours, so I won't be proofreading this one.

So - the election happened.  I ain't happy.  But I'm steering clear of the doomsayers who are saying what might happen to this country.  I'll wait and see what actually happens.

Meanwhile - someone posted footage from a Ring camera on Halloween.  You know how some people - if they're not going to be home or don't want to pass out candy - just put out a bowl?  And, of course, the first few kids take it all?  So the camera shows these three little boys who run up to the house, see the empty candy bowl, confer for a moment, then they they all reached into their bags and put a handful of candy into the bowl before running off.

Things like that make me think that things are going to be all right.

Had an exciting moment a couple of days ago.  I was walking out in my yard, and almost stepped on this in my path.

I will confess to  a yelp and a quick step backward.  But then I looked - hard to see in this picture unless you zoom in close, but he had a distinctive striped chin.  Meaning that this is a banded watersnake (harmless) rather then a moccasin (not so harmless)

The main thing I'm dithering about is that my trip to Roswell starts tomorrow morning.  And like I have most of my adult life - I'm sort of hoping that something happens to stop it.  It's not that I don't like going places; it's that I  don't want to leave.  I found this quote from "The Last Unicorn"

    "I know how to live here.  I know how everything smells and tastes, and is.  What could I ever search for in the world except this again?"

And I'm sitting here in the couch, with RedBug asleep and purring beside me, and wondering how I can leave this, even for a few days.

But I do want to go.  I mean - stay in a missile silo?  Learn more about my father's career?  The big thing is again sharing with Mike.  I've gotten better at doing things alone, but sharing is so much fun.  And we have history in Roswell, even if we only lived there for a year.  He wants to hunt for Pecos Valley diamonds (a quartz crystal) because he remembers finding them when he was on boy scout camps.  We both want to see the amazing desert skies again.  We visited missile silos when we were kids and Dad was the commander.  We want to go to Carlsbad Caverns (I haven't been there in 50 years, and it's likely about that long for him).

So I really to want to make this trip.  It's just that I don't want to go, to leave my home, my cats, my chickens.  Everything I hold dear.

OK, really crashing now (not much sleep the past two nights because of panic attacks about the trip).  Alarm in 5 hours.  

I'll be home about this time, 4 days from now. I'll be happy that I went, and happier to be back.

Good Intentions: Loving the Cats

 Ugh.  Time change.  My body and the light angles say one thing, the clocks say another.  I'm not alone - I've never heard one single person ever say that they think time changes are great.

Crossed another thing off my "I really should be doing this list" - I got the roof swept off today.  In theory, I should do that once a month, and I'm pretty good about it until mid-summer.  Then the idea of dragging the ladder over and sweeping up there when it's 100 degrees just isn't appealing, and I let it go for 2-3 months (it's back to being in the mid-80s again so it wasn't that great today either).  Then I cleaned the gutters as long as I had the ladder there (and had to sweep up all those leaves, but I dumped them in the chicken coop and let them have fun.)

I had good intentions today.  Someone had posted a call for volunteers to help sort and pack donations to be taken to North Caroline on the Highway 20 FaceBook list.  And I thought what the heck.  Wouldn't hurt me to do a good deed, and I could picture myself chatting and folding clothes and Meeting People.  This morning I commented on the post, asking if they had enough volunteers, or if they could use more.  The poster responded with the "like" button.  That's one of my various pet peeves.  It merely means that the comment was seen, but I don't know if it meant "nah, we're good," or "sure, could use some help."  Again, what the heck.  It was only 8 miles down the road so I could just go check it out.

So at the stated time I paused in my sweeping up of the leaves, got dressed, and headed over.  It was at a business - a towing company (logical, they have truck for transporting).  No one there, and the building was locked.  Surprise, surprise.

At least there was a Dollar General on the way home, so I picked up some milk and discount Halloween candy.

I had a strange epiphany today - I'm loving my cats.  On one level, that's very obvious.  Of course I love my cats; I've always loved all of my cats.  But I realized that for several years it's been a sort of guarded, slightly careful love, not that silly, unconditional "in love" feeling.  I think it's another case of 2024 being a "healing" year.  Knock wood, throw salt, turn around three times and touch my nose - but it's been a year since a cat, chicken, or friend has died.  We lost Fiona the day Bob was diagnosed.  Pookha followed a couple of months later.  Wilhelm disappeared 5 months after Bob died, Nazgul a couple of months after that.  Then Apache went downhill and died 7 months after that - the same week that Hamish was in intensive care and it was uncertain if he would live.  Tula a few months after that.

And you just get tired of having the same wounds opened again and again.  But I'm starting to relax, to let my guard down a little.  I'm playing with them more, being silly with them, playing the "bear trap" game (when a cat offers you a tummy to rub, and it suddenly becomes a bear trap).  Hugging them more.  Just enjoying my little furkids.

And keeping my fingers crossed for Ebaida's furkid Smokey.  He's had health problems most of his life, and she almost lost him a couple of years ago.  She is absolutely devoted to him.  But his chronic renal problems have flared again, and there's a large kidney stone that didn't respond to medication so even though his health isn't great, it looks like he's having surgery next Thursday.  She is very very frightened.  It doesn't help that it's coming up the anniversary of losing her brother unexpectedly.  I really wish I could be there for her.

And now, even though the clock doesn't say it's my dinner time, my tummy does (the cats also got fed an hour early by the clock, but correctly by their tummy time)

Drifting

I had a very drifting day today, very Zen, very calm. 

I had my usual start to the morning.  Get up, feed the fish, feed the cats, feed the chickens, and finally feed myself.  But after breakfast, I simply laid down on the couch for another hour or so.  Later on in the day, I went back to bed for an hour.

I'm not sick.  I feel fine.  But I was hanging on to a dream.

It was about Bob.  I dream about him sometimes; honestly, not often enough because that's the only time I get to see him.  I even have a dream journal so that I can remember them.  Usually, even in my dreams, I know that he's gone.  Sometimes I'll hear his voice, but know that if I turn to look, he won't be there.  Sometimes I can see him, but not touch him.  If I'm lucky, I can do both.  I'll cling to him, sometimes cry, tell him I miss him,  often tell him that I'm so very very sorry (that's usually connected with him wondering what the hell happened to all of his stuff. )  Often, for whatever reason, he has to leave me - get in the car, or on a bus, or just walk away.  But I always know, even in my dreams, that he's dead.

But not this one, just before I woke up.  It was very short, and very simple.  We were teasing and laughing at something.  We flopped down on the bed, snuggling, and he reached over to grab a camera to snap a picture of me (I *hate* having my picture taken).  That was all.  But for those few moments I was really with him - laughing, pushing, cuddling, and, above all, feeling so very safe.  That's a feeling that I haven't had since I lost him.  I always feel like I'm on a tightrope with no net - one false move, one bad car accident, a broken bone, a bad illness - and I could lose my home and land, have to stop living in my beautiful isolation.  It's a bit frightening.

But with him around, I always felt safe, that whatever happened, we could face it together.  Sometimes I would even say it - cuddle up to him, bury my face in his chest, and whisper "safe."  And I felt it again this morning, in that brief dream, and I've been moving quietly today, sometimes sitting, sometimes lying down, just to hold onto it while I can.  Laughing, loved, safe.

Oddly, while drifting, I did quite a bit today.  I cleaned the chicken coop and the fish tank.  I baked bread, and made a pot of curry.  I washed my clothes and my sheets.  I even took care of something that's been frustrating me for a few weeks - got my laptop to talk to my printer.  I don't often need to print things, but the last time I tried, I got the "driver unavailable" notice.  My attempt to reinstall one have met with failure - because it says that's it already installed.  But I want it now; my trip to Roswell that was "a couple of months away" is suddenly 9 days.  I'm a belt-and-suspenders sort of girl, and I want to be able to print out a copy of my tickets instead of trusting my phone.

In my drifting Zen mode, I tried seeing if something would print - and got the "driver not available" message.  Instead of my usual frustration, I sat there for a moment, then reached up and unplugged the printer.  Five minutes later I plugged it back in, and the problem was resolved (the usual IT solution of "have you tried turning it off and turning it back on again?")

It's been a good day.  I've got a busy week ahead - the museum, finally getting back to my chiropractor (I skipped a couple of months while I was dealing with the car, and boy, do I feel it).  The last of the cats (RedBug) will get his shots.  And I have to get ready for my trip, which may entail doing some clothes shopping.  I have realized that my "good" pants are very close to "wear in the garden pants" status - funny how that happens after a few (uh, lot more than a few) years.  And my tennis shoes are definitely only fit for the garden.  I also need to clean the house a bit before the pet sitter comes in.

But not tonight.  Tonight I am Zen.