Made It Through July

 Somehow I have made it through July.  I know that August (and September) will be just as hot, but somehow it's July that's always been the trial for me.  That's the month that I have to get acclimated to the heat, and accept the frustration that I can't be wandering around outside (or at least I can't enjoy wandering outside).  Taking silly showers instead of long hot ones, or even longer hotter baths.  Silly showers - my new term.  Going outside for even a short time leaves me nasty and sweaty, so two and maybe even three showers a day are needed, just to rinse off.  But the problem is that no matter how hot it is, I detest cold showers.  I cringe at the thought.  I'd rather stink.  But the environmentalist in me hates the amount of water wasted while I wait for the hot water to come through.  So - the silly shower.  I turn the shower on - while the water is cold I stand on the outskirts, splash just a little, and get the loofah soapy and lather myself up.  By then the hot water is thinking of coming through, and is just tepid enough to get under it to rinse.  Silly - but it works for me.

I like the way the Florida FaceBook personality OMGitsWicks described how Florida feels in the summer:  Like you took a hot shower with your clothes on and then jumped in the dryer.

So to end the month with bits and pieces.

Shouting into the future to 2026 Self.  I had been feeling a little guilty because my beloved vegetable cleaver that Bob paid too much money for ($15!) around 1976 wasn't as sharp as it should be, and more and more I've been using the cheap and slightly flimsy knife that I got to take to Gainesville.  I've sharpened it a few times, but it just wasn't taking the edge that I wanted.  But I got out my whetstones to give it another try.  This time I consulted the Font of All Knowledge:  YouTube.  One video suggested using a pressure of at least 4 pounds - easily checked by holding the knife down on the kitchen scale and pushing down to get the feel of four pounds.  Well - I was just being way too wimpy.  The knife is now beautifully sharp again - so 2026 self - put some muscle into it.

Thinking back again to going to make jam at Jen's.  I was prepping the day before because I said I was going to make pizza.  So I made the dough,  brined some onions, chopped the proscuitto, and even made a balsamic glaze.  And feeling oddly happy.  I realized it was because I was going to be cooking for someone (in this case, two people).  That's a rarity for me now; I made sweet potatoes and bread for Thanksgiving at Rik and Christy's last November.   I cooked for my brother in December '23 when he came to go to Harry Potter World.  It was weird to realize that.

I've been doing some sewing.  Nothing at all special.  In the summer, I hang around the house in Jersey shorts and a tank top.  But I thought that I wanted something loose and cool to put on in the evenings.  I had a piece of linen (because I love that stuff) that was just big enough to make a loose pajama top.  Absolutely nothing fancy; it should have taken an hour a most.  And it would have, except for the finishing.  Linen ravels, so the seams have to be overcast.  I have a serger, and with that, this would have been a fifteen minute.  Instead, I opted to spend many hours hand felling all the seams ("felling" meaning folding them under and hand stitching down) and hand sewing the hems.  Couture finishing on a night shirt.  But I love the look, and I will always remember the sound of my mother's voice when I was so excited to get my serger some 35+ years ago: "Oh, isn't that nice.  Now you can make clothes that look like they came from Kmart."

Anyway, the shirt looks like a sack (although nicely finished) and it's so comfortable that I'm practically living (and sleeping) in it, so I thought I should make a second one and once again I'm spending a ridiculous amount of time with the hand finishing.  It almost feels like an act of rebellion.  It seems that these days everything is supposed to be fast and cheap and it's a protest against that to make a sleep shirt of fine linen with hand finishing.

I moved the last two possums, Van and Frida, out to the release cage.  I'll give them a week to think of it as home, and then let them go.  This is hard.  Unlike some possums I've had (and even their brother Angelo, who I released about a month ago) these guys are friendly.  I've kept them much longer than I usually would because they just stayed small and I like to have some size on them to give them a better chance when they leave.  But they're getting restless and it's time.

Like everything but me - it's time to move on.  More and more I find that sometimes I feel like a ghost.  I wander through the house and the yard and the woods, and there are memories of goats and sheep and lots of chickens and lots of cats, and peacocks and always, forever, Bob.  And the woman I once was that belonged to all of them.  Now it's just me, haunting this place.  An odd sensation.  Not necessarily unpleasant, but odd.

And thus endeth July.

 

A Short Story

 This showed up in my FaceBook feed - a short story that I wrote for a friend a year ago.
Back story:  I have a friend who at the time was taking a lot of long walks for a fundraiser.  He usually takes a camera and shoots pictures - many of which are very beautiful.  But this time he didn't like any of them.  Nick is bipolar (I think - he's something) and posted that he was having a hard time, thought the pictures were lousy, and that it would help him if people would try to see some beauty in them, and maybe their story.  So I started writing - and this sort of flowed out.  Looking at it a year later - y'know, that's not bad.  So I decided to save it.

There are two black dogs in this story.  The long nose dog is Finn, his greyhound.  The other black dog is his name for the depression that follows him sometime.

The man is walking. My writing professors would say to use a more interesting word. Is he trudging, or clipping along, or dragging, or is there a spring in his step? Is he strolling, or ambling, or sauntering?

But honestly - tonight it's not that interesting. He's just, well, walking.

Sometimes he forgets why he's doing this. He doesn't have a destination; he's not going to see friends, or out to dinner. Sometimes he forgets why he's walking; he thinks it has something to do with promising someone he would walk - maybe he can't remember why they want him to walk, but they do, so he walks.

He has two dogs with him, both black. One is sleek, long of nose and leg. He tugs the man forward, or drags behind, or to one side or the other. The man snaps a picture of some architecture; the dog is more interested in the flowers growing through a crack in the sidewalk (miraculously alive even though to the dog's nose it's obvious that many other dogs have visited these flowers. He hopefully tugs towards the warm smell of sausages and meat pies coming from the pub, but the man merely continues walking (perambulating? No, still just walking.)

There are not many people out; it's that in-between time, when the day people have gone home to dinner and families, and the night people have yet to emerge. The dog pokes his long nose towards to few people he sees, so get their attention, their pats, their fussing over him.

The man gazes at the light of a church. The dog is more interested in a street sign, covered in messages only a dog's nose can read.

There is another dog, another black one, not on a leash, following behind. This one does not sniff out hidden reminders, or respond to odd noises in the hedges. People do not stop to look at him, or ask about him. He just pads along quietly (is "padding" more interesting than walking, or just a bit more quiet, or perhaps more ominous.)

The man continues to - wend his way? Nope. Just walks. The long-nosed dog is starting to sulk a little. His legs are designed for a sprint, not this slow-speed marathon. The man takes pity on him, circles back to his house, drops the dog off, and continues to . . . meander? No. Just walk.

With the long-nose dog not tugging at him, the man is more aware of the other dog, quietly following behind, maybe with the occasional click of his nails on the sidewalk. The man does not change his steady pace - he knows that if it changes, or, God forbid, he gives in to the urge to run, the black dog will chase him, narrowing the gap between them. He busies himself with the camera - taking pictures of running water, or a truck or the sky which, like the people, is in that in-between state between day and night. In a few days he will look at them, or share them, and see beauty. For the moment, he's just snapping to distract himself.

It's getting darker. The man, like the long-nose dog, is getting tired. But he knows that he has to keep walking. He sees buildings, roads, the shifting light in the trees. He wonders if it would be safe to head back to the place where he left the long-nose dog.

He walks. He realizes that he does not hear the click of nails, or the soft placement of paw pads. He turns a corner, then risks a glance behind. Like the long-nose dog, the other dog has grown tired of this endless . . pacing (have I used that one yet?), no, walking. He has drifted off elsewhere - maybe to follow someone else, maybe to rest.

For the first time tonight, the man quickens, eagerly (footing it? I'm running out of synonyms) towards that one place in a row of places, that place that he calls home, that place where he is loved and wanted and safe.

He walks (I'm out of words) into the home, to be greeted with a warm hug and kiss, and a thump of the tail from the long-nose dog, who is too tired to get up from the couch where he is sprawled.

The man gets a cuppa and maybe a biscuit? Or a pot noodle. Let's make it a pot noodle; he likes those, and these days it's a rare treat. He sits on the floor (the long-nose dog is taking up the couch) with his cuppa and his pot noodle and maybe there is something on the television and the woman who loves him talks about her day and at least here, for now, he is safe, and everything is all right.

The End

Jam, RedBug, Outings

 Another nine days, and it's still July.  I think it's been July for about 27 years now.

To pick up where I left off.  When we were getting ready to leave the coffee shop, Jen mentioned that she had picked a bucket of figs and wanted to make jam, but her mother's kitchen isn't really set up for that sort of thing, and she wanted to make it in her own kitchen.  Her currently estranged partner was going to out of town that weekend, so she was going to go do it then.  Then she said "the last time I went into the house, I had a panic attack.  I just wish I could have some company, someone to sit with me."  Well, I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer when it comes to picking up clues, but I'm not completely deaf.  So I went over to make jam (and other friend showed up too).  It was actually rather companionable, all of us cutting up figs and chatting.  Jen held herself together until the jam was finished and we had lunch (I took the materials to make a fig/prosciutto/goat cheese pizza).  Then she just lost it for awhile, and we let her talk it out.  I could see myself in her - feeling the intense fear and confusion, wondering how you're going to make it alone when you've had a partner for your entire adult life (she was 17 when they got together). 

The next evening (Monday) I was sitting on the couch, with RedBug (who has been very clingy since we lost Stumbles).  We were holding hands, because that's a thing.

I felt a lump on his leg.

I was able to get an appointment for Tuesday afternoon.  I felt conflicted - there was going to be a noontime lecture of historic clothing at Mission San Luis - where I was their clothier about 20 years ago.  But that would mean going into town twice.  I finally decided to go anyway, rather than pace and worry.  It was interesting (also interesting to note that they still have the same problem I did 20 years ago, in that there is little information on Spanish clothing for the time period of the Mission (around 1700).  Plenty before 1650 and after 1720 but in between is still nada.

I will confess that part of me was thinking about volunteering to help out in sewing the clothing. But I knew that might just be the cabin fever talking.  I decided to leave it to the fates.  After the lecture, I went to chat with the speaker for a bit, mentioning my history, and asked if it was possible to see how the sewing room was set up now (nope - the person wasn't there).  This would have been the opportunity for the guy to reach out to me to see if I was interested in volunteering.  Or at least get my information.  That didn't happen - fates decreed that I don't need to be doing that.

In the afternoon I took Bug in - and of course a major thunderstorm came in, rending the road almost invisible and my little car being buffeted by wind gusts.  The visit was inconclusive - at least the Xray showed that there's no bone involvement.  He's been on antibiotics this week just in case it was an infection but there's been no change, so we'll probably schedule surgery this week to remove and biopsy it.  I keep hoping that it's something benign - but I've lost seven cats in six years so I can't help but feel paranoid.

The pill time is admittedly a little funny.  I feed him in the bathroom because the other cats pick on him.  And it makes it easy to catch him for his pill.  He doesn't fight me - but when he realizes that it's pill time he goes and sticks in head in a corner.  I guess he thinks that if he can't see me, I can't see him.

Thursday was the library book club meeting.  It's a little like high school - the librarian reads suggested questions about the book and we sort of give answers.  But it's a pleasant enough gathering.  Afterwards there was a educational animal program- geared towards kids, of course, but if there are animals involved I'm going to sit in.  The baby lemur was adorable, of course, but for me the highlight was the melanistic (black phase) pine snake.  I had never heard of one, and it was a seriously beautiful snake.

Sunday was the Silent Book Club, which is oddly social.  There's some convivial conversation before and after the allotted reading hour, and the companionable quiet reading.  But that night the depression set in again, as it often does after I've had some mental engagement.   I used to have lively conversations all the time, at home.  Now it's a once-in-awhile thing, which somehow emphasizes the emptiness in between.  

Next post will likely be in August.  Somehow I have made it through another July.

Hamish and Hugs

 Still July.  Temps in the 90s, heat indices in the 100s.  The dew point hovering around 77 (note - above 75 is officially "miserable" and over 80 is "dangerous.") Just out of curiosity I checked the weather app last night when I got up to answer the call of nature.  Heat index 95 - at 1:00 in the morning.

I'm getting cabin fever.  I have my museum work two mornings a week but I come home knackered.  I've done a tiny bit of yardwork a few times in the morning before breakfast (this morning I was out a 7:00 a.m. cleaning the chicken coop.)  I've been down for a quick visit to my stream a couple of times, but there's no lingering with a coffee and book.  A honkin' big oak tree came down just past the cottage (now I have to go around it to get to my stream path).  In cooler weather I would be taking it apart and having a fire.  Now - well, it will have to wait.  It's all crazy-making.

Poor Hamish.  I don't know how long he had been living rough before we adopted him, and for his first few years with us he was mostly an outdoor cat.  But that changed after he almost died in 2021 from the tick-borne illness.  So now he's strictly an indoor cat, but not happy about it and often tries to sneak out.  He succeeded a few days ago when I was carrying a large bale of pine shavings in.  I've learned that if I try to chase him immediately he just runs away.  If I wait - he'll come up to me.  So I put my shavings on the back porch, and then drove the car down to the barn so that I could offload the bag of chicken feed (it weighs 50 pounds and I'm not carrying that across the yard).  By then he's in the barn with me.  I finished that, and then did a few other things, and by then he's getting fussy.  I had to move the car back to the house, and didn't want to try to keep an eye on him, so I was able to grab him and toss him in the car and listen to him yell the whole two minutes it took to get back to the house.  I opened the door - and by the time I walked to the house he was on the doormat crying to go in, where he sprawled on the cool tile floor and gasped for awhile.  I warned him that it was hot outside.

Rob, Amanda and Zeke came up last Saturday for the local comic con.  I've been a few times; I didn't go last year because it's mostly the same stuff each year, and pretty expensive. But Rob and Zeke are both into gaming now, and Zeke wanted to go. So we did, and it was fun (I especially like the battling robots).  I didn't dress or take a puppet this time - and I sort of regret it.  Afterwards we went to a couple of gaming stores, where I got to see a world I had heard about but not seen.  Tables of grown men with sprawling elaborate tabletop set up, throwing multi sided dice and apparently following elaborate rules.

Tuesday I had an evening coffee shop meetup.  A woman I "know" - the quotations are because I met her once at a group gathering many years ago, but we're FaceBook friends, we have friends in common, and we sort of widow-bonded after she lost her husband.  Her story is so sad - her husband had a congenital heart condition, which got to the point that he was a candidate for a transplant.  That would have to be done in Nashville, so Beth packed up the house, pulled the kids out of school, and moved.  She had to find a place to live, get the kids in a new school, and find a job, while Andy was in the hospital.  Then some side issues came up with him, and he passed away before the transplant could be done.  He was only 42.  And there she is, in a strange town, trying to build a life for herself and her daughters.

So Beth is in town for a short visit and wanted to see as many people as possible.  Four of us got together - myself, Beth, my spinning friend Adrianne, and another woman I know, Jen.  Of course, the subject of widowhood came up a little, but didn't dominate.  The highlight for me was one of those non sequiturs.  Beth said something about her daughters going horseback riding with friends, and riding a passo, which felt really weird because they rock from side to side.  I was familiar, but Adrienne was confused.  A passo (passofina) horse has a pacing stride, different from other horses (very smooth and pretty to watch).  So eventually we ended up talking about horse movement:  walk, trot, canter, and gallop.  I tossed in amble, done by Icelandic ponies - a strange looking but very smooth fast walk. we 

Thing is - it's offbeat conversations that I almost painfully miss.  Bob and I had them all the time.

Jen was staying pretty quiet, working on a quilt square she had brought with her.  I've known her and her partner Tracey off and on for 20 something years.  So not exactly direct friends, but we've always known people in common (she's also in the medieval group that Adrianne is in).  I didn't think anything of it, because she's not the chatty type.  But when we were getting ready to head out, she mentioned that her cancer treatments had gone well and she appeared to be in remission (I didn't even know that she had had cancer).  I commiserated, saying that until you experience it, you don't understand just how amazingly time consuming it is.  She agreed - time consuming, exhausting, and really had to deal with when you're also coping with breaking up with your partner of 30 years.

I was stunned.  They had always been Jen-and-Tracy.  You rarely saw one without the other. But apparently Tracy couldn't handle the fear and stress of having a partner with cancer.   I stuttered for a bit, said I was sorry, and then blurted out "I just want to hug you."  Thing is - I know that Jen isn't a hugger.  But she looked at me and said "I'd take that" so we stood and she hugged me hard while I held her.

That's had me thinking about hugging - how sometimes it's a deep need.  A week or so ago on the Highway 20 FaceBook page someone posted asking for towels and especially if anyone had washable urine pads.  I had a stack of the latter; I put them under my litterboxes but with fewer cats I don't need as many.  She came by to get them.  We chatted for a bit.  It turned out that her son had surgery to remove a cyst from his spine, and was going to have a drainage tube for awhile.  He's a teenager, autistic, and 6 foot plus tall.  To say she was stressed is putting it mildly.  And once again I made the offer - "we don't really know each other, but do you need a hug."  Her answer was "Oh, God Yes"

Other flashbacks - the morning that we had to put Fiona down (just before Bob was diagnosed).  He saw with her in the waiting room, and I was at the front desk, trying to keep my voice level while I paid for her euthanasia and arranged the cremation.  The woman standing next to me said "may I hug you?"  (we did)

And, of course, living in the hospital.  A sadly common sight would be a visitor - family or friend - leaning against a wall outside a room, crying.  Arms would be offered.   One time, when I was taking a break, someone was playing the piano in the atrium (volunteers often did this).  When he finished, I thanked him, told him that music helped, and added "maybe some day I can bring my husband to hear you" and I think something in my voice and face told him that I knew that wasn't going to happen - and I got the hug.

There's just something so secure feeling about holding onto something and being held (these days, I can't sleep without holding on to "cuddle pillow".)  I don't think that it's humans only - our animals often want contact.  Poor RedBug without Stumbles is still being very clingy.

And that turned into another ramble.  July brain. 12 days to go.  Not that August (or September) will be any better, but for some reason every year if I can make it through July then I think I'll survive the summer.  In the meanwhile, I pace indoors.

July 9 Ramblings

 It's July 9 again.  Six years ago we put Fiona down, then two hours later got Bob's diagnosis.

I opted to ignore the ever-present "things to do" list, and not to worry about getting my 2.5 miles of walking in.  I didn't sleep well last night.  This morning I got up, got everyone fed, had my own breakfast, and then headed back to bed, intending to spend the day reading and napping.   That lasted until about noon; I was considering getting to get something to eat when I got a text from Heather at the museum.  She had been preparing to do a load of laundry, and when she opened the washing machine there was a baby opossum in it (those critters can get everywhere)

Of course I offered to come get it, but Suzie has decided that she wants to raise this one - but maybe I could bring some milk formula in when I came in Friday?  Well - there's no way I'm letting a baby possum go two days without milk, even if it is big enough to be eating some solid food.  So I got dressed and took some in, then picked up ice cream for lunch.  *Then* I went back to bed for more reading and napping.

So, ramblings in no particular order

After Rob talked about having way too much basil and other herbs from their hydroponic aerogarden - I bought one.  To buy a countertop garden when I have nine acres of land seems a little odd, but I have no place with any sun.  Last year I planted basic in the sunniest spot I could find - the poor plant grew about three feet tall, with a leaf every six inches, just trying to find some light.  It will be nice to just be able to grab some herbs while I'm cooking.

I'm feeling a little chagrined.  We bought a new fridge after Hurricane Michael because we had to run the generator almost constantly to try to keep the freezer cold.  It wasn't that old, but we had problems with it since Day One.  And I wanted a smaller one - I figured that with less space, we might actually eat food from the fridge instead of storing it until it sprouted fur.   I've noticed that the in-door water is pretty slow - good enough for grabbing a quick mouthful of water, but for a glassful I just head to the sink.  And it's not the worlds greatest ice maker - but it makes enough for me.

A few days ago someone posted in the Highway 20 FaceBook page that they had two new, in-the-box fridge water filters for $30 (usually they're $35 each).  I checked the numbers and it's the right size, so I got them, and put one in.

Well - you're supposed to change the filters about every 6 months.  I had never changed it in 7 years.  Suddenly I have an enthusiastic stream of water through the door, and an abundant supply of ice cubes.  Oops.

I also deal with slow water in the washing machine - it was just trickling in.  The cause is usually a clogged filter in the water line, and it's a quick fix - unscrew the hose, pull out the screen, give it a good scrub, and put it all back together again. 15-20 minute job.
Or two hours.  I pulled the machine out - go YUCK at the floor and wonder if I should call in an archaeologist to do a site survey.  So I got that cleaned up, then turned off the water.  Tried to turn off the water.  The faucets were completely stuck and it took time, muscle, and channel locks to turn them.  The hoses were equally welded on - and as I got one to finally turn, I learned that the water wasn't completely off.  Guess the walls, floor, and myself needed a shower anyway.

I did get the hose off, to discover that the inline filter is not at that point, but where the hose goes into the machine.  Which, for some stupid design reason, is recessed into the back of the machine.   The only way to get to them is to take the back off of the machine.  Which I didn't want to do, because the bolts were small and rusty and I could just visualize them breaking off.  I was able, after much effort and swearing, able to wedge the channel locks back there, and unscrew the hose about an eighth of an inch turn each time. 

But I did finally get the hoses off, cleaned, back on, and now my machine fills (and doesn't flood the kitchen.)  As my mother would say - happy homeownership.  (and I quietly mutter "this didn't used to be my job.")

I got up close and personal with a bear.  Laverne - a black bear at the museum - has been shedding her winter coat but it got matted up badly.  Suzie wanted to try cutting some of the mats off.  There is a wire tunnel that the bear goes through to go into her holding cage; we coaxed her into there and closed the doors at both ends.  It's pretty narrow - Suzie could reach through the wire with a pair of scissors.  My job was to keep Laverne occupied, so I stood on the other side holding a jar with a little syrup in it.  I kept it almost out of reach, so that she had to poke her nose through the wire and really get her tongue out there.  Basically, I got a log's eye view of how bears can lick up larvae after they break a log open.  For such a large animal her tongue is quite narrow, and surprisingly articulate as she explored the jar.  And yes, I did boop the snoot and let her lick drops off of my fingers because when do you get a chance to do that?

I got a bit of a gut punch when I was leaving the museum.  There was a family in the lobby coming in, and I heard "Ann!!!"  It was Edriss, a woman who lived near me some years ago.  So of course we had to do the "OMG it's so good to see you" and I got introduced to the grandkids and then came "How's Bob?"

Funny thing is, there's almost a disconnect.  Sometimes I feel that the woman who lived with Bob for 48 years is just someone that I used to know.  But I envy her life, and wish it was mine.

I still have two of my little opossums, but I released one.  For some reason Angelo grew at a faster rate than his siblings - he was twice their size.  I did the soft release from a cage on the front porch.  The first night I followed him around, watching him explore, until he disappeared into the underbrush.  But he was back in his bed the next morning.  He took off for a couple of days, then mid-morning I saw him sneaking back to bed like a teenager.  I haven't seen him for two days now.  Soon I'll have to do the same thing with Van and Frida.

I've sort of lackadaisically been working on the head for a new puppet - I just don't have much vision for it yet, but the skull is starting to look pretty good.  It does feel good to putz around in the cottage - I haven't been doing enough of that. 

Now back to bed and book.

Six Months In

 Wow.  2025 (or, as I think of it, Year 6) is halfway over.

So far, so good - although I have to admit that hitting year 5 did a number on me.  This level of grief is a marathon, not a sprint, and I'm tired.  But it's my life now.

I just read a book where one character entered the priesthood after his wife died. He's carved out a good life for himself, but he has a ritual every evening of pouring himself a drink, with the toast of "one day closer to you."

So how has this year been?  The big thing that I accomplished was clearing my path to the stream.  In the cooler months I practically lived down there.  Not so much after the weather changed to hot, sticky, bug-ridden, and daily rain.  Maybe I'll do a visit tomorrow.   I cut down two dead trees, and cut up one that fell in the driveway.  I've been to a play and the circus.  I'm 353 miles into my virtual walk of the length of England (1084 miles).  I've read 24 books and some short stories.  I've raised three opossums. I've done a lot of yard work.  I got a new roof put on the house.   I power washed and stained the deck. Kept the roof swept off.

I lost Stumbles.  It hurts.  Between her personality - very friendly, wanting to get into the middle of everything - and her neurological condition, she was like having a happy little drunk around.  She made me laugh - I so miss that.  The other cats sleep on the bed from time to time (especially in the winter) but she always slept with me (I liked the company, even if she did often wake me up with her over-active dreams). The always-too-empty bed now feels even emptier.  RedBug misses her too; he's been very clingy.

I've been thinking of an analogy of a comment my chiropractor made.  When I first started going to him, he did the standard having me rate my pain on the scale of 1-10.  I mentioned that chronically I'd put it at a 2 or three.  He looked at my x-rays, checked out my wonky back, and said that I probably was just accepting a certain level of pain as being normal. What I rate as a 2 or 3, someone else might call a 5.

I think that's how it goes with being lonely.  I don't really even think about it any more -being alone is just normal.  Alone isn't the same as lonely  -  but maybe I'm both and just used to it.  The truth is that I do have a social life.  There's working at the museum two days a week.  I see Gill once a month after my chiro appointment.  I've been to a party at the museum, and a couple of lunches there.  I've met with other spinners three times.  I've been to four meetings of the silent book club, and three of the library book club.  Jeff has been in town three times and visited. 

But do the math.  32 hours a month at the museum.  Maybe (if I go to both book club meetings) 3 hours of book club.  My visits with Gill are about two hours.  Random stuff (like meeting with other spinners and Jeff) average out to about three hours a month.    So that's 40 hours a month of being around other people.  An average month has 744 hours.  Sigh.   I think what I really miss is *doing* something with someone else, not just sitting and chatting, but no one else wants to go to the theatre or circus.  And when I do something like show up for the forest cleanup - no one else does.

Eventually I'll work something out.

I didn't mean for this post to turn into a pity party.  You'd think that after 5.5 years I would have worked things out, but I'm still feeling my way.  With the house and the yard and the animals and my museum work, I'm keeping busy.  But I miss someone to yell out the answers to Jeopardy.  Asking if I want a cup of tea (someone making me a cup of tea).  Making plans.  Doing stuff.  Saying "what do you fancy for dinner?" Having dinner with someone - or breakfast, or lunch (although lunch does happen once in awhile)   But then the reality hits that I don't want just a generic "someone" (although, to be honest, it's not like there's a line of potential someones at my door).  I want a specific someone, and that's not possible.

But I've kept busy, and keep moving forward, or at least in some direction.  That's something.