Another Ramble: Roof, Chainsaw, Goldfish and Tadpole Memories

 Only eight days since last post but they've seemed a little busy.

I had a start to the day that would have been disappointing if I hadn't been expecting it a bit.  It was announced that there were a couple of sites that were having a forest cleanup day.  Show up, preferably with a trash picker-upper if you have one (I did), and spend a few hours cleaning up the woods.  Why not?  It's a pretty day, if rather cold, and it would be nice to be out doing something useful with like-minded folks, having a chat.  I went to the secondary site - the one about 10 miles from me, actually just off Highway 20 - instead of the primary one 25 miles away.  I got there at the appointed tim (8 a.m. on a Saturday, hung around by myself for about 20 minutes, and then came home.

So I would have been disappointed, except that this sort of thing happens to me fairly often so I probably would have been more surprised if other people had actually shown up.

I dealt with my own yard instead.  I had a couple of smallish dead trees in my parking area that I've been meaning to deal with, so I cut them down, cut them up, and had a nice fire.  It did give me one of those odd moments.  I noticed that my chainsaw chain was loose (this can happen; the saw is still fairly new, and chains can stretch out.)  I was trotting back to the barn to get the instruction booklet to see how to tighten it, and thinking "if Bob was here, he would know and be able to tell me how to do it."  That brought me up short.  Is this my mindset now?  A year or two ago I would have been thinking that this wasn't my job - Bob would have cut the trees down.  Now - I'm just thinking he could have told me how to adjust my chainsaw.   I think, after almost 5 years, I'm still trying to settle into my new skin.

After all that was done, I could make a cup of tea and read by the fire.  I have my new favorite outside mug.  It's not exactly new - it was in a Christmas goodie bag from the museum a year or two ago.  At the time, I thought it was a nice gesture, if not the sort of thing I would usually use.  But recently I saw it in the cabinet, and realized that a) it's insulated, and b) it has a sippy lid.  Which makes it perfect for carrying down to the stream with a blanket and a book.

That was today.  I wrote in the last blog post that I had to get my roof replaced - that's been done.  It was just a terribly noisy two days, which stressed me out.  I was able to get outside to get some work done.  The usual way in and out of here is over my bridge, which makes people nervous.  I knew that the truck bringing the shingles, with the conveyor belt to deliver the packs of shingles to the roof, was pretty darned big.  There is an alternate route that I haven't used for many years (no reason to) - a road that runs past the houses to the east of me.  It used to be a rutted dirt road.  I went out to look at it; still dirt, but pretty well maintained.  I showed it to the roofer, and he thought the truck driver would prefer to come that way.  The last 30 feet or so leading to my property was pretty well overgrown, so with loppers and chainsaw I got that cleared.  It was better than huddling in that house with all the noise and strangers on the roof.

Wednesday and Thursday I worked at the museum (Wednesday in the pouring down rain) so by Friday I was ready just to chill out in my once-again quiet house again.  But my aquarium light went out, and I didn't want my one remaining goldfish to have to spend days in the dark, so I got dressed and went to the pet store for a new light.  While I was there I picked up another half-dozen feeder goldfish.  I'm not really an aquarium person, but I like the nightlight and the white noise, so feeder goldfish are as good as anything else.  While I did the standard thing of putting the bag of them in the aquarium to equalize the temperature, I had a sudden flashback to one of the rare times I saw Bob get angry with his father.

My father-in-law was a happy-go-lucky type, often with the attitude of "it don't matter" and didn't often let things bother him.  But he was also a bit careless, so lip-biting was done on our part when he would handle something of ours roughly, break it, and then say "Well, it don't matter."  Once, when our niece Amanda was living with them, we loaned them our bicycles.  After she left - he gave them away to some neighborhood kids.  When we pointed out that they belonged to us, and had been a loan, well, it don't matter.

But then came the matter of the goldfish.  They had a hot tub on the back deck that they never used, so they turned it into a goldfish pond.  We were visiting one weekend, just before they went on a two-week trip (which turned into three weeks) and Dad decided that we needed to take the goldfish home with us to take care of them (we tried to suggest that maybe a neighbor could come feed them, but that wouldn't do).  So we put them in an ice chest, brought them home, and set up another aquarium for them.  When the folks came back home, we lined the ice chest with a bag, and even put in a battery bubbler to give them enough air (on the original trip home I kept splashing the water to aerate it).  When we got to their place, Bob said something about needing some string to tie off the bag so that we could float it in the water until the temperature equalized.  Dad, instead, just reached in, grabbed the fish in his hands, and threw them into the pond.  Within about 20 minutes they were all dead.  It was one of the few times that Bob exploded with "Dammit, Dad, yes it did matter!"

Just a random thought, looking at my new fish.  A cuter one was while I was reading ("The Comfort of Crows") and she was talking about hoping she would get tadpoles in her new backyard water feature.  I remembered when we had the wood-fired hot tub.  We only used it on the weekends because it took a bit of fussing to get the fire lit and the water warmed without overheating.  We went out one Saturday to start the fire, but then discovered that the tub was swarming with tiny tadpoles.  We were enchanted, but it takes a long time for tadpoles to turn into frogs and we sort of wanted our soak.  Of course, we could have just pulled the plug and drained them all out . . . not.  Instead, a few hours were spent with fish nets, dipping them out, dumping them into buckets and carrying them down to a pond.  Bob looked like an excited 8-year old, having so much fun.

So that's this past week.  Emotionally, I'm hanging in there, one foot in each world.  By now, the tests had shown that the first bone marrow transplant had completely failed, and they were searching for a donor for a second one (they couldn't find a match, so Della had to donate a second time, even though her cells hadn't taken the first time. It was all we had).  But I keep thinking like 2020 is still somehow in the present.  Now that I've been through giving up his truck, it's time to give up the jeep.  Rob and Amanda wanted me to keep it - but they haven't even looked at it in years.  It's a pity to let it sit there and rot.  But not just yet.  I found myself thinking that yes, it's time, but I'll wait until after Bob dies.  Present tense.  Not "anniversary."  It's a little disconcerting, but that's how it feels.  Once again, I'm waiting to lose him.

Valentine's Day

 I'm tired today.  Emotionally, yes, but today a lot of it is physical.  I love my little wobbly cat Stumbles.  But you know how some cats twitch their paws when they're dreaming?  Stumbles has full on spaz attacks.  I get odd looks from house sitters when I tell them "don't worry if it looks like she's having a seizure; it's just something she does."  And it's easy to stop - just reach over and scratch her to wake her up a little.  But I lost track of how many times she woke me up last night (I push her to the bottom of the bed, or even go move her to the next room, but she sneaks up to snuggle up to me, which is sweet until the next seizure comes.  

So not much sleep last night.  And although Bob and I didn't make a big deal out of Valentine's Day it still kind of hits.  I've just sort of plowed on (limiting myself to one cup of coffee).  I cleaned out the chicken coop, and then headed down to the stream with my book from the library book club ("Our Missing Hearts).  Not the best choice; it's well written, but hits too close to the current political climate.  Basic premise is that PACT (Preservation of American Culture and Tradition) punishes people for "anti-American thoughts" by taking away and rehoming their children.  But I was close to the end last night so I thought I'd finish it. 

 Then I just sat there for awhile, listening to the water and remembering a time in the hospital.  I was talking Bob through a panic attack (something I had to do more and more often as his time there went on).  It's a common tactic to center someone on the present:  Tell me four things that you see.  Close your eyes and tell me three things that you hear.  Tell me two things that you feel.  One thing that you smell (I usually skipped that one because it was hospital smells).  This time, when it came to "tell me what you feel" he said softly "I feel the love."

At that point I decided that rather sitting there and crying I should press on, so I got my brush cutter and cleaned up some of the overgrowth in the front yard.  I can't remember when I did a major cleanup there, after the brush had gotten over knee-high and it took days with the heavy gas brush cutter and hauling off the debris.  But that's the nice thing about yard work - unlike housecleaning, once you clear something, it pretty much stays cleared.  It was starting to overgrown some, but I got most of it done before the battery gave out.  I'll finish it tomorrow.

But for now - early dinner.  I made sweet rolls for breakfast, but forgot to eat lunch.  I'm making one of Bob's favorite meals, one that we only had once or twice a year because it's such a cholesterol bomb.  I based it on a memory of something I got in a small restaurant by the airport when I lived in the Azores: a bed of onions and peppers, a thin-cut steak (like  sandwich steak), and a piece of ham, topped with a fried egg.  It's likely been six years since I made it, but I suddenly had the urge.  We'll see if I survive it.

PTSD, Gaimen, Roof, Reading

 I've sort of lost track of the 9 days since the last post.  The PTSD is strong this year.  Actually, I try not to use that term, out of respect for people (like veterans) who seriously have to deal with this syndrome.   But I'm having problems escaping 2020, especially at night, and I tend to zone out at times.  I'm back on my antidepressants again, and that helps.  I think it's worse this year because it's the 5 year anniversary, and somehow that seems significant.  Possibly because I remember after I came home, and was crying and wondering how long I could live out here by myself and be able to maintain everything, and thinking it would be maybe 5 years.  Well, here I am, still going strong.  

I've taken care of a few things - like I finally got my crown in; that's been such a hassle but it's done.

At the end of January I got a letter from my insurance company saying that I needed a new roof - I was going to need to call the insurance company and then contact a roofer.  This was when I was feeling really down, right after Bob's birthday and I was struggling.  I set the letter aside, then finally reread it and it's no rush - I have until November.  I decided to give myself a few day's grace.  Fortunately, I mentioned to Gill and she said she had been happy with the guy who did their roof.  So I've called him, and gotten my estimate, and my roof gets replaced on Monday.  And it turns out - small world - his niece works at the museum.

I've been thinking a lot about Neil Gaimen - almost a mourning period.  Having to make the mental adjustment of separating the art from the artist.  Nine women have spoken of being abused, but what I'm noticing is what's not being said.  Usually writers develop a close relationship with their agents, editors, and publishers - none of them have publicly defended him.  He was friends with Terry Pratchett for 30 years, and one of the last people who could lift Pratchett out of his Alzheimer's fog.  He was working with Pratchett's daughter and assistant on a project; they haven't defended him and have removed him from the project.  His adult children have been silent.  So - sigh - I think it's true, and until one woman spoke up, everyone has just been looking in the other direction

But should he be cancelled?  His work is still as valid and meaningful as ever.  I read his book "Instructions."  What to do if you find yourself in a fairy tale.  "You may find a creature.  If it is hungry, feed it.  If it is dirty, clean it.  If it is hurt, if you can, try to ease it's pain."     

Does it really matter who wrote those words?  It's complicated.

In the meanwhile, my country is going to hell.  Tricky thing to ignore, but you can't scream all the time.  You carry on as well as possible.  And, for me, that means usually having my nose in a book, which I've done my whole life.

This makes me think of "a place for reading."  At work last week, someone who was downsizing brought in some books, up for grabs.  One of my co-workers said she wasn't much into reading.  I commented that I was a complete bookworm, and her response was "well, if I had places to read like you do, I might read more too."

I had never thought about that, or realized that I talked about it.  But I do have my reading spots.  My chairs and table on the back deck, where I have to keep a stack of peanuts handy for the squirrel who knows I'm an easy mark.  My swing in the front yard.  And lately, my spot by the stream.  Places where I can just get into the Zen of reading.  Except for reading in bed, I realize that I prefer to read outside, or at least away (I love reading in coffee shops, if I could ever find a proper one with comfy chairs).  I think there are too many distractions indoors, mostly of the "I should really put this book down and clean that" variety.

Reading, in general, is something that I must do.  I was talking to Jeff, and he said something about taking a break before starting the next book.  I'm not certain how I could go to bed without reading a bit, and I certainly couldn't have an afternoon coffee break.  If I've plowed through a difficult book, then I'll do some fluff reading (for example, "100 Years of Solitude" was followed by "The Wind In The Willows").  But my mind always needs a place to wander.

And wandering is what I seem to be doing now, so I'll sign off and go read.

February Brain Dump

 Time to unload again.  I've been feeling disconnected, disassociated, dithering, feeling oppressed.   I see ads about Valentine's day and then it occurs to me that it's February.  There are times I feel the urge to cry, and I'm not certain why.

It's often said that if you can articulate a question well enough, the answer will be there.  The question is: what's bothering me?

It's many things, on many levels.  As I have done this time of year for the last four years, I am living with one foot in the present, and one in 2020.  I can't help but remember what Bob was going through.  I've made it through this four times, and I'll make it through this time, but I really just want to curl up and hide until it's over.  That's not an option - yet.  I will, once again, give myself permission to just stop everything and lean into the grief on March 29 and 30; until then, I press on.

The weather is confusing,  It's been warm, sunny, and in the mid/high 70's.  The spring peepers are making a racket, the lizards are flashing their throat patches, the robins have returned, and I've slapped a couple of mosquitoes.  How could I have been using a flame thrower to try to melt ice off of my bridge a week ago?  It make me think that I must have misplaced a few weeks somehow.

I mentioned a couple of posts ago that the ice kept me from going to my first library book club meeting.  I was disappointed; I had enjoyed the book ("Less" by Andrew Sean Greer).  It was an amusing read on the surface, with with a lot of subtext, and I had it peppered with Post It notes and was looking forward to the discussion (face-to-face, not on FaceBook or zoom).  But instead I got let down twice.  Once, because I couldn't make it, and again when I took the book back and the woman who runs the club told me that I didn't miss anything because nobody liked it (I can't help but wonder if it was because most of the people in it were gay).  So much for thinking I could find "my tribe."  (I'll try again this month)

In another area, I find I'm oddly disturbed by the allegations against Neil Gaimen.  I've been reading his books for 40 years (since he co-wrote "Good Omens" with Terry Pratchett.  I admired him as a person (I'm not alone in in that - he was named by Time Magazine as one of the most influential people in 2023).  I liked his sense of humor, such as his "stealth" book signings - if he had a layover at an airport, he'd wander into a bookstore, pull his books off the shelf and autograph them.

I thought he was one of the good guys.  But one woman spoke up about a sexual assault, and then suddenly a dozen more have spoken up, and things are looking pretty nasty at the moment (note to 2026 self - how has this turned out).  At the moment they're still just allegations - but the fallout has been tremendous.  We're living in an era of cancel culture - and anyone associated with him (publishers, producers, agents) are backing off; anything associated with him is being cancelled.  So not only thousands (millions?) of fans being stunned, but hundreds of jobs have been lost, along with hundreds of thousands of dollars.  

I'm still trying to figure out how I feel about this.  And about his work.  Can one really separate the art from the artist, especially when the artist is still alive?

And all this is against the background of our country going to hell in a hand basket in a big way, fast.

And I got a letter from my insurance company saying that I need to have my roof replaced. 

That's rather a lot in less than a couple of weeks.  No wonder I'm feeling off balance.  I'm not alone in that.

So what to do?  One - although I do have my FaceBook addiction  as my main social life - keep away from the doom scrolling and opinions.  Read enough news to know what's going on, and then step away from it.

Center myself.  Read.  Go outside.  Love on the cats.

I've found myself remembering 9/11.  The shock, the unreality.  After it happened, all the schools and state offices were closed and people told to go home.  Bob had dropped me off that morning, so I walked to his office.  There were thousands of people all trying to get on the road at once.  Bob was pacing when I got to his office, waiting for me, waiting to get on the road and get out of there.  I looked at the traffic, knew that it would  likely take us a couple of hours to get home, and said "I need to feed the squirrels."
What's that line from "A Christmas Story?"  "He looked at me like I had lobsters crawling out of my ears."   Here we are - we don't know what other attacks will happen, we don't know if it's the apocalypse or World War III, we need to get the hell home - and I'm talking about squirrels?

I had a litter of baby squirrels - tiny, with their eyes still closed.  And they were getting hungry.  So, with Bob fuming and pacing, I mixed up the formula and, to save time, he helped me.  We both took a syringe and the little ones grabbed them and eagerly drank their milk, then with full warm tummies snuggled together to sleep.  Bob let out a deep breath.  "That helped."

It had.  We didn't know what the hell was going to happen, or if we could do anything about it, but we could feed those tiny innocent creatures.

I often reach up to touch the small pentagram that I wear.  The five points on the star represent what will always be there for me:  Earth. Air. Fire. Water. Spirit.  It reminds me to breathe to observe.  The soft warmth of RedBug, sleeping snuggled up to me (he snores)  The taste of the fresh egg from my own chickens that I had for dinner.  The wind in the trees.  The pleasure of taking a blanket and a book to go sit by my newly rediscovered stream.  There is so much good in the world, and we mustn't lose sight of that.

So I will close this ramble with a video of my woods, not so much for the visual as for the joyous sound of the spring peepers.