driving south ...

... after a long day of work. I put in eight hours on Sunday, and was so tired I went straight home, heard the couch calling my name and laid down. After a short refreshing nap, I got my travel duds together and headed out for Valdosta. It is a struggle to drive down and back in one day, so I wanted to break it up, especially after having been on my poor tired feets at work all day. Without the interlude of that brief but gratifying nap, I don't think I could have done it. Would have most assuredly been pulling off at a curb-store some place to close my eyes for forty winks in order to arrive safely.

After spending a couple of hours recently emptying a file cabinet in my aunt's house, I was hoping to get some help for loading it in the back of my car to take home with me.  When I starting going through her fifty-plus years of accumulated paperwork, I ended up taking nearly twenty pounds of discards to the Office Depot for shredding. Plus a bin full of inane, innocuous stuff that went out to the street for recycling: transcripts from college, photos from adventures over the years, ancient road maps and travel guides.

It has been just over a year  of being the court appointed guardian, with a steady stream of  paperwork I feel I need to keep. Filling up dozens of files, gradually accumulating and expanding, in a slo-mo avalanche to the point that it won't fit in the grocery shopping basket originally used. The green plastic basket might have been shop-lifted when I was leaving work one day, and soon became the ideal receptacle for keeping files to organize all the statements, bills, receipts I might/might not need to document her expenses. Anything the probate court might want me to prove and legitimize at some point in the future- all this has taken over a corner in my house and needs to be find a more suitable home, give the appearance of tidily organized in hanging files in drawers of a cabinet.

But that help I was awaiting never showed up. I've formulated several back up plans for consideration next week, when I will return to Valdosta for another round of doctor appointments. Trying to think of other people who might have little hand-truck/dolly with wheels I can lure into helping me get the heavy, solid wood file cabinet hoisted up into the back of my car for transporting. I could go rent a dolly from Home Depot - but I don't think I can pick it up to get it in the car.  Realizing not only do I need the wheels to get it out of the house, but also need another set of hands, and feet to help me lift it up. Guess I will be  moving on to Plan B....

he was hoping ...

... for sympathy, but did not get any. I did try to keep myself from being too judgmental, but it was quite obvious he was disappointed when he started complaining and did not get the desired result of: 'Oh! I am so sorry!' and 'That's so sad! What can I do to help?'

Coming home one afternoon last week, I went into the living area where he can usually be found sitting in his recliner. He reported he had been cold all day. He was wearing short pants, a short-sleeved polo-type knit shirt, and a light weight jacket that is not much warmer than putting on a long-sleeved shirt. Light weight everything, and said he was sitting there shivering, with his teeth chattering. Under a ceiling fan that was whirling around full speed. In a house with the air conditioning blowing full blast.

I suggested he might put on a warmer jacket, and know he has a number of fleece or microfiber zippered jackets to use in cooler weather. Quite frankly amazed by the fact that he was wearing shorts, when it was a day he knew he would be spending hours in the dialysis clinic, where the thermostat is always low to provide cooling for the machines that run constantly. He has a warm fleece blanket he takes when he goes in the clinic, issued by the staff they will cover him with. Plus he takes along a lined fleece/microfiber jacket to cover up with. Cannot actually wear the jacket as his arm has to be accessible to insert needles for dialysis, but knowing he will be cold, takes plenty of cover to stay warm. Why he would go there in short pants with his legs uncovered is completely baffling to me.

So he came home, and sat down, chilled to the bone and miserable, hoping I would come in and be sympathetic. Expecting me to say:' Let me get you a blanket' and 'I will turn off the ceiling fan'. Or 'Do you want me to bump up the thermostat so the AC will cycle off?' And I asked why he was wearing shorts instead....

I told him 'I know it is always cold in the clinic, so have to wonder what you were thinking when you got dressed this morning?' It has been hot here in July, in the nineties most days, steamy, humid weather. But  he is very cold-natured, due to taking blood thinners and the natural effects of age-ing.  This is a complete reversal from years ago, when he kept the house so cold, I would wear socks and long sleeved shirts to bed to keep from being chilled overnight. Currently, the thermostat for the HVAC in our house is set at 78 degrees, which is apparently comfortable for him. Personally, I would think I was roasting without the cooling effect of ceiling fans stirring up the air to make it tolerable.

sitting here, observing...

.. the world through the window, while typing. Unless I am on the go, and traveling with my laptop in route to where ever, I am at the dining table where the view is out a big wide window to the north. I just saw that same doe with the two fawns noticed a couple of weeks ago. Standing at the edge of the lawn, acting like they are the ones  paying the taxes on our property. The two young ones were drinking out of a round flat basin sitting low in the leaf mulch, near the edge of the grass where I try to keep water for anything that comes along thirsty. I will see an occasional bird having a blast taking a bath in the shallow container,vigorously splashing and chirping. And the neighbors' black and white fat cat drinking from time to time. Maybe squirrels and chipmunks enjoy it as well, though I have yet to see them hanging around. I expect there are a variety of other rodent-type animals that benefit from a semi-dependable water source as well, small creatures like raccoons and possums or the occasional oddity of an armadillo wandering about in the dark.

I try to keep the water fresh, and remember to dump it once  week. I read someplace that it takes about ten days for mosquito larva to matuity in standing water, so  hope if I replace it on a weekly basis I am keeping the biting bug population in check. But putting fresh water in there at least once a week apparently also attracts the local deer population. Pretty neat, even though having them stroll through the yard where I have attempted to grow blooming things explains why those things never get a chance to actually bloom!

There are several hydrangea plants just out side the screening on the porch that are leafless, most likely due to the deer nibbling all the greenery. They still have blooms, that are slowly fading, but hardly a leaf in sight. I know they like the hydrangeas, as I have others planted in front of the house, where they have been growing for a number of years but never get more than six inches tall before the deer nip them back down the ground level. Nice big sturdy plants, but not a flower in sight, and rarely see any greenery more than a couple of inches above the leaf mulch. Also some daylily plants that must be reallly tasty, as they rarely bloom: when the plant makes a bud, it disappears before it can open - I attribute that also to the hungry deer browsing through the neighborhood.

while driving...

... last week, when I went south to Florida on Friday, most of the scenery was either wooded or agriculture. Lots of undeveloped land, with nothing but trees and underbrush, areas that appear to have never been used for crops, though it does not take such a long time for nature to regain a hold on farm land that is not kept cleared, plowed and planted. Most of the land that is farmed is planted in corn, soybeans or cotton, though I still occasionally see a field of tobacco. Tobacco farmers have probably been paid by the government to not plant for so long, it is pretty rare to find anyone growing it in south Georgia.

The corn I have seen this summer has appeared to be a very healthy, productive, lots of ears on each stalk. Meaning it looks like it has been a good growing season with plenty of rain, so it would be profitable to grow. But on the other hand, if there is a glut on the market from so many farming families having successful seasons in the corn market, the value at harvest time will be suppressed, and there will be little profit after expenses are paid. I've always thought it to be a hard life, struggling to make ends meet, dependent on the weather, while you have to admire anyone who is willing to put that much labor into making a livelihood, you can also question the sanity of doing it for a living. Was it Einstein who defined stupidity as doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results?

Corn crops have looked good over the summer as I have driven back and forth to and from south Georgia. And cotton is looking good as well. There are lots of things I cannot identify when traveling the highways, but once they get established I do know what soybeans, peanuts growing low to the earth and cotton look like. Coming from a family that was dependent on the success of farm families who would choose to take a chance on growing cotton, I can appreciate the view of a field full of cotton plants in bloom. In the same way that food crops are dependent on pollinators, the flowers of a cotton plant also need bees and butterflies to come along and do what they do, spreading pollen from one bloom to the next. The blooms are actually quite pretty, though you would never see them as cut flowers: that is the part that turns into a cash crop, making the cotton boll the farmers need for harvesting to sell  in bales at market.

I always, never fail to think of  my dad when I travel the roads of Georgia and see cotton plants growing, blooming, producing in the summer. And in the fall, when the leaves die off, as the fields look snow-covered from a distance. Driving across the south, you look out across the landscape where you see the impossible illusion of a field covered in white: how can that possibly be snow in this late summer heat? It makes me remember my dad, and all those years he supported a family by operating a cotton gin, providing the service to small family farms who depended on him to help them get their crops to market.

After he died, I would see cotton growing as I drove the highways and call my brother to tell him I was thinking about our dad. Wishing I could call and chat with the guy who said that hot, exhausting, dirty, work was the best job he ever had. In the last year of his life, when we talked and I asked him but a few of the many questions I wished to know answers for, he  told me that if he could have he would have done the grimy, stressful, demanding work much longer. I was so surprised to hear that. But know how much he valued hard work, and the character building aspects of putting in good honest labor for the benefits and rewards of a job well done.

There's no one left to call and talk about seeing cotton growing in the South. They are all gone. Cotton is making a comeback, and seems to be a good cash crop in this part of the country. But I am sad that the people who I knew who sweated and swore up in the miserable August heat of the tin-roofed gin house are all gone, and none left to talk about cotton gins before the era of computers and electronic trouble shooting.

'sinister pig'...

... refers to a French barnyard term. 'Le cochon sinistre' is a pig that will eat all it can, then guard the food source to prevent any of the other farm animals from having access to the trough. This mean-spirited animal cannot consume any more, but refuses to allow any of his fellows from getting to the food.

A 'pig' is also the term for a vessel that can be inserted to clean a long-distance pipeline, that would be used for transporting crude oil or other petroleum products across great distances. The small cylinder was originally covered with pig bristles to clean corrosion from the inside of the pipe when there was no liquid flowing under pressure. More modern versions have sensors that provide information about the condition of the interior surfaces to alert maintenance teams of leaks, or other problems that need attention before the pipe line is put back into service.

In order to garner your attention for reading further, I did not start with the fact that this is a book review. I read a (recorded) book while driving to Tallahassee and back today, a mystery by an author I have enjoyed over the years who writes about Native Americans in the four corners area of the southwest. Two characters that repeatedly turn up in his stories are: Navajo Nation tribal police officer Jim Chee and his boss, now retired, Lt. Joe Leaphorn. I have read a number of the books by Tony Hillerman, following these two law men across the landscape of the reservations, deserts and mountains of the southwestern US. Well developed characters, interesting story lines that incorporate much lore, history, of the Navajo and Hopi people.

"The Sinister Pig" involves drug smuggling through an abandoned pipeline that has been diverted from is original purpose to provide fuel for a copper smelting operation in northern Mexico. The 'pig' is a politician from DC who is so greedy, powerful and corrupt he believes he is above the law, determined to dispose of anyone who opposes him. In the manner of that barnyard porker  who refuses to step back and allow fellow animals to feed when he is satiated... this man is determined to circumvent the law regardless of cost in human life.

Hillerman brings a number of players into this story, and does  not use the two lawmen as the main actors. The descriptions of the landscape are memorable: he does a masterful job of painting the word pictures that clearly describe the mountains and landmarks of the area. Though often thought barren and lifeless, his versions of the desert with plants that survive in such an arid climate are beautiful to imagine: cactus, sagebrush, cottonwood trees tough enough to endure the lack of rainfall. He lived in the southwest for many years, and was well acquainted with the deserts and mountains, as well as the people who have lived there for generations.

book review: "Songs of the Humpback Whale"...

.. by well-know, prolific author Jodi Picoult. The publication date was 1992, but the recording was not released until 2009.Found at the library as a set of Cd's, in a big box, meaning there were twelve of the discs to plow through in order to be able to say I finished. It was interesting, but not something I would recommend. Having read other books by this author, I thought I would enjoy it more, but it got sort of tedious towards the end. I did finish, mostly because I had become so invested in the story, and curious about the resolution at the end.

The humpback part of the tale comes from a man who is an oceanographer, researching the habits of the whale as it migrates in the ocean from birthing areas to feeding grounds each year. Oliver and Jane met when her family went on vacation to Woods Hole where Oliver was a young scientist. They marry and move to San Diego. She leaves him after fifteen years taking their daughter Rebecca, and driving across the US to her brother who lives in Massachusetts. Her brother works with Sam Hanson in Sam's apple orchard, where most of the story takes place. Oliver, a man who seems unable to express his feelings, follows, driving, to find his family and persuade them to return to California. No spoiler here: but it was not the outcome I would have predicted.

The thing that was interesting about the book was the narrative was almost like reading a play. It was told from the viewpoints, in different voices of five different people. They could have been sitting on the stage, reading their stories from those different perspectives. Those individual voices, with unique inflections, made the characters much more believable, as opposed to one person's voice reading the entire book. The names of the readers were listed, but none were readily recognizable to me, though they could be well-known as voice-over professionals in the entertainment world. Intriguing to visualize the same scene, hear those different people who were actually 'there', interacting, telling their interpretations of scenarios as the story unfolds. But at the same time, occasionally confusing as the narrating voices would jump back and forth within the story, telling of events that had been related at an earlier point, or revealing circumstances that other characters had yet to reveal.

I have read some of Picoults' other writings and enjoyed her style of story-telling. This one  might have been easier to follow if I had been actually reading a book rather than listening as the tale was related by those varied voices. Too many characters that are coming and going withing a narrative can make it difficult to follow the thread of the tale. But having different people voicing those different viewpoints was helpful in keeping the individuals sorted out as the parts were read. I don't know if

hopelessly ....

... unable to store pass words in my head. I am sad to report that I cannot remember passwords any better than storing numbers. I never have, so do not think it has anything much to do with aging and the dread we all have when memory begins to fail. As we become more aware of the pervasive effects of loosing memory, it is probably common to think and fear each time we struggle with recalling names or pertinent facts: is this it?

Family history makes me even more paranoid than others might be. Knowing there are numerous family members who have struggled and lost the battle with forgetfulness makes me especially anxious when things are not as recall-able as I would like. Though I remind myself about the life-long failure to grasp concepts having to do with numbers, it continues to be cause for concern. I'm learning to write stuff down, put important info. on my calendar, make lists for errands, notes for things that are essential. And hope I can keep up with where that info. is located.

I was at work. Instructed to go to the training room in the back of the store and complete an assignment on the computer. None of the routine training is done by a person, as it was when I started my job years ago. Everything is in a module, recorded professionally and accessed on dedicated computer systems. But you have to be able to access the data to get the information you are required to know and periodically review. I cannot remember my password. The computer forces you change it every six months. My personal computer remembers it for me, so it is rarely needed.

As I was attempting to provide the proper sequence of letters and numbers, failing repeatedly, I was offered to option of providing facts only I should be able to answer. Like: "The name of the town where were you born?" "The name of your high school mascot?" "What was your first car?" But the one that had me completely stumped: "What is your father's maiden name?" I tried to figure that out, providing my dad's middle name, and then when that was rejected, my mothers' maiden name. Neither was the right answer.

Does that mean the computer is smarter than I am? The computer based training did not get done. I have to go back today, just to do the training that will take about thirty minutes. I am always surprised when I can remember my employee number, but after several unsuccessful attempts, I began to doubt I've even gotten that one right! Even though my personnel number is necessary to punch in and out on the time clock, when I get rejected over and over again, I begin to think: hopelessly hopeless.

a little epiphany occurred...

... today when I was pondering what to do about the printer that is connected to a  home computer. Every time I think about it, I find myself saying: 'arggghhhh.' Then I realize: it's only a printer. What's the big deal? The Big Deal is: convenience.

Several weeks ago, it started acting mule-ish. Wanting me to believe it was time for a feeding: reporting that a new ink cartridge was in order, and did I want to order/purchase the one available at an inflated price from the manufacturer of the printer. We already had our own in stock, from the store that will refill and recycle. But when that was installed the printer failed to produce, was still uncooperative and balky. Reporting that the generic was not satisfactory, trying to make me believe only the authentic, name brand product would suffice. Argggghhhh.

In an effort to show solidarity, I returned the generic cartridge to the locally owned, independent shop where it was purchased. They, surprisingly, happily refunded my money (thanks to me having the unlikely foresight to save my receipt!). I went to Office Depot (where they should all know my name by now!) and purchased the part the printer/robot was demanding. It still won't work. By now, I am more than a little peeved. At the lack of cooperation, and stubborn ways of the machine: causing steam to issue forth from my ears like a cartoon.

The printer has actually been on a little excursion to the repair shop. Went to the place where I purchased the generic replacement, but the guy there, Benjamin, said it was not fix-able. The Man Who Lives Here insisted it needs to go to a computer repair person he knows. So it went from shop A to shop B. Where it now gathers dust of a different variety than what it would be found here.

All this to say: what's the big deal? It is a black plastic box with innards and computer chips, a cord to connect it to a power source. In reality: a convenience, and most definitely not a necessity. Clearly a first world problem. No where near as troublesome as needing fresh water, food or shelter.  Nothing about an uncooperative printer causes me to wonder where the next meal is coming from, or how we will pay for that bountiful electricity that runs all the mod.cons. currently spinning, sloshing or cooling, drying clothing in this house.

pondering life...

... and had a thought occur, something I had never realized, or considered before. I seem to have this inexplicable urge to give my time away. Which is especially strange, coming from the person who is forever preaching sermons about how Time is our most valuable asset. The thing, that one specific thing we have in limited supply seems to be something we are most willing to waste, squander the minutes and hours without awareness of those missed opportunities leaking away.

I do a lot of volunteer work, in various capacities, donating my time to organizations that are often dependent on free labor to keep the wheels turning. Extra, unpaid sets of hands and feet, used as labor in a variety of ways to maintain motion and continue to operate.  I do some literacy stuff, work at the Botanical Gardens, help out with recycling programs, environmental stuff, occasionally provide transport for people who need to get to treatment center for cancer infusions.

That 'free ride' business was my project for Tuesday afternoon. I picked up a man on the north side of town and took him down to his appointment. I had (as usual) a book to read, knowing I would be waiting a while, and told him I would just sit in the lobby. After I finished my book, and realized the appointment was taking much longer than I had expected, I inquired about my rider. He had to get some blood work done and was sent to the lab.

I waited some more. Began to be thankful for my health. Grateful that I was the person who was driving, just a way for the patient to get from one place to another. Appreciating the fact that I was not in need of the care, attention, drugs dispensed at the cancer treatment center. Feeling fortunate that I am relatively healthy even though I know parts are beginning to be unreliable, and accept the fact that we were not designed to live/function/last forever.

Then I sadly, suddenly, realized that Cancer has no discretion when it chooses victims. My dad died of cancer though he fought it as long and fiercely as he could. My brother died of an inoperable brain tumor. The Man Who Lives Here has been treated for cancer. That's two first degree relations who are gone due to the pervasive effects of Cancer. As much money as we throw at it, why is it still around?

urgently needed...

... beekeeper in costume! After an unexpected and unwelcome encounter with little yellow striped insects with stingers on their backsides, I thought having a beekeeping hat and veil would solve the problem. It was a productive day, with me loading the wheelbarrow a couple of times with fallen sticks and dragging larger limbs up to the street. Got hot and cranky, and came in to cool off, drink lots of water, sit quietly in the wonders of HVAC, joy of plentiful electricity. Then went back out to do a bit more before putting my barrow and gloves up for the day. That last effort was a doozie!

In the yard, under the trees, as I was loading the barrow for the last time, I literally 'stirred up a hornet's nest'. Or maybe the ill-mannered, boorish insects were wasps. Not sure what sort of short-fuse creature builds a nest underground, but they were out there under the leaf mulch. I swatted at something annoying on my ankle, and looked down at the same time, seeing a little bee-like insect. I do hope they are enough like bees that when the stinger goes in as a defense mechanism, they die when the tiny needle pulls out of their bodies. When I realized what had happened, that I had just been stung by a sneaky, angry wasp, I got hit again, on the other ankle.

You may have read of this military tactic: Discretion is the better part of valor? My adaptation would be that Retreat is the better part. I definitely beat it away from the scene as rapidly as possible. Got in the house and began to apply 'no-itch' lotion to my ankles, realizing I was finished with out door work for the day.  But my wheelbarrow is still out in the middle of the trees, semi-loaded, where I dare not return. What to do?

I know people who have a history of beekeeping, so thought that a beekeeping hat and veil, with the rest of me fully covered by layers of clothing might be the solution. Some way to get back out there to rescue my abandoned wheelbarrow. I don't know precisely where the nest is, with the angry residents, so not sure how to avoid getting too close. I need to get my wheelbarrow, but also need to get rid of the unwelcome squatters.

The people with the beekeeper garb suggested going out at night to retrieve tools, but that does not entirely solve the problem. Those mean bugs are still there, prepared to attack anyone who comes along to disturb the peace. How to find out where they are to prevent future attacks? Any ideas? I actually covered myself in long pants, long sleeves, high socks and tiptoed out to retrieve tools before it was fully daylight. Moved the wheelbarrow so I can empty the sticks and use it as needed. And thankfully did not get attacked again. Even so, this still leaves mean-spirited insects to deal with. Feeling like a captive in my own space, unable to walk around or work in the yard, fearful of sneak attacks by those hostile bugs.

exploding...

... me! I got so hot I thought I might spontaneously combust! I have been out working in the yard, picking up limbs and piling stuff in the wheelbarrow to trundle up to the edge of the street. Where the city trash truck will eventually pick up yard waste and deliver to an inert land fill, that is an old defunct quarry. Putting lawn clippings, leaves, limbs in the hole in the ground where it will eventually decompose seems like smart thinking to me. Saves lots of stuff that is compostable from filling up the landfill which will run out of space soon enough.

Thinking I would immerse in bug spray and go out to work in the early morning before it gets unbearably, inexcusably hot, I have put in a couple of hours. And suddenly just ran out of steam. The wheelbarrow sits in the driveway, so I will be forced to roll it up the steep incline and dump it before I can leave home. Deliberately parked my load of trash in a spot that will make me finish the task. But right now, I am sooooo sweaty and red-faced, I know I need to quit. If you stopped by and checked my internal temperature, you would find my blood just below the boiling point: that's hot!

It has been a productive morning, including my finely honed procrastinating skill. I should have been out there, coated with bug spray as soon as it got light enough to see, loading the wheelbarrow and getting it done much earlier. With a full load of limbs, and pushing up hill, the one wheel would stall out at every little divot and pine cone. Requiring an extra 'oomph' to push it out of a low spot or over the slightest hump in my path.

After several minuscule, nearly invisible stumbling blocks that served to barricade my chosen path up the asphalt driveway to the street, I thought about the "Princess and the Pea" fairy tale. Where the potential bride was put to bed on a stack of mattresses, with the idea that she would prove herself an impostor when she failed to notice a tiny pea under the pile of cushions. When she awoke and was questioned, she said she slept not a wink due to the bedding, thereby proving her merit and worthiness to be forever blissfully wed to the handsome prince. When sweating and  laboring with the loaded barrow, and a wheel that stalled out on bits of gravel or tiniest twigs, I remembered that tale while struggling over invisible obstacles. Does this mean I qualify to live happily ever after with the doting prince?

there was some good...

... news I came in the door from running errands yesterday.  I did not make much headway with my list, but will give it another shot today. I am delighted to report that the first thing I expect to accomplish this morning will be to get all that wedding stuff delivered and out of my life. It has been hanging over my head for a  month or more, a couple of bags with assorted and miscellaneous silk flowers belonging to the friend who is directing the event in August. We will meet at 9:00, so I can give her all the stuff she requested for bridal party, plus all those left-over silk flowers she can use for decorating the venue.

The good news occurred when I came in the door late on Monday. The Man Who Lives Here was in his usual position, sitting in front of the TV.  He never gets up, will shout a greeting, but does not seem interested in arising to relocate, expecting me to appear before him for conversation. Often I will have my hands full when I arrive, having been shopping or grocery buying, and walking in with a load of goods or food. He will continue to call out, from his perch in the recliner (that is motorized, so there is no actual effort required to stand up!), expecting me to attend/appear before him in order to listen.

He wanted to report a phone call he made that resulted in an unexpected windfall. Many years ago, when he first relocated to middle Georgia, he immediately petitioned to become a member of the exclusive golf club on the north side of town. The Man has continued to be enrolled, though inactive as he has not participated for years. He asked to be relieved of his membership when no longer enjoying any of the benefits: not golfing, kids grown and not using facilities, no interest in socializing with the upper crust.

The business would not refund his entry fee/deposit until they could sell that membership to another prospect. Holding on to his funds, claiming that they had to find a 'buyer' before the money could be returned to him. Just out of the blue, he called the Club yesterday and was told: "We've been looking for you!" My response: "Oh, baloney!" He has been sitting right there, in that same spot for over thirty five years. He has most definitely not moved any where for them to be thinking he had been misplaced. Admittedly, the phone number listed on his original application is obsolete: who has land lines any more? But the address has been the same for so long, he might have taken root in that spot in our living room.

The check will be in the mail tomorrow, according to the conversation he had with the accounting people on Monday. Which means it must be time to start planning another excursion to Biloxi, right? Hopefully he will be willing to share the manna that practically fell out of the sky, before driving five hours to leave it all in Mississippi. I believe I will be a much better 'husband' of the funds than the guy with a wee bit of gambling addiction.

a new reason...

...to worry, as if The Man Who Lives Here did not get ample gratification from all the things already filling his plate of things to fret over that keep him awake at night. It took me many years to discover what a consummate Worry Wart he is - partially due to his career of being in the insurance business. I now realize his propensity for being in a state of continuous anxiety is obviously an asset in an occupation that gives high marks to anyone who stays up late pondering all the things that can go wrong in life. (I wish I had known this years ago, and could have gotten  him a second job on the staff with the people who come up with new corollaries of Murphy's Law... you know, those guys who are convinced that everything that can go wrong, will.) This also explains his obsession with The Weather Channel: a perfect place to send the remote- channel-surfing man who thinks that bad weather forecast on the far side of the globe might need him to stay up and pace the floor late at night.

He got up unusually early today in order to meet his Monday morning buddy at IHOP. They have a standing date to meet for breakfast. I doubt they talk much: I know I don't get any conversation out of him at meal time. When there is food available, that is his focus. Maybe over the second cup of coffee at the pancake place they might talk. The meet-and-eat was earlier than usual because The Man had to return  home and wait for the cable guy to come... you know the drill: sometime between 8 and 11.

When he left IHOP and drove the several miles to get back to the house, he reported a wreck on our street. In the vicinity of the low place in the road that was underwater recently when the culverts got backed up and street flooded, making it impassable for several days. The wreck probably happened due to deer dashing across, running from densely wooded area on private property to the protected area of the golf course on the west side of the thoroughfare. According to the report from Mr. I-need-something-new-to-worry-about: there were two cars off the road, which would have required two tow trucks to resolve the problem. Meaning after the wreck(s), vehicles running into the ditches, it would have taken some time for traffic to return to normal.

He said: The worst part is that one of them looked like the little white Toyota you drive, so I thought it was YOU! It wasn't.

request from a friend...

... to make some silk wedding flowers. It got complicated, as things tend to do, when you think: Oh, sure! It will be a snap!' (as in putting your thumb and second finger together and going: snap! and it's over, complete, finished.) Well, not so much. This has been going on for weeks, involving numerous trips to all the craft stores in town, and several conversations with the friend who is a cashier at work. Her niece is getting married in August. M. has been offered, or drafted into setting the scene for many relatives and friends who are getting hitched: organized, planned, decorated, perfected her skills for generating frou-frou in rented spaces to a professional level.

The bridesmaids' bouquet made long enough to hold with the addition of some cheating: using a wooden dowel to extend too short stems of wired silk flowers, taped into place, which will be covered with silk ribbon to hide all the mechanics no one needs to see or know.

I've agreed to help a couple of times, making some of the decorations for the people involved: boutonnieres and corsages for those attending the couple as they step into the unknown. I would say step out into married bliss, but after a few years, maybe not so much. As is often the case, these people have been cohabiting for so long they may already know each other too well.  Including in the carnal sense, as they frequently have young children who are included in the proceedings as attendants: ring-bearers and flower girls, tossing petals helter-skelter as they traipse down the aisle preceding the mom/bride.

                                             four corsages and five boutonnieres for guys
M. is very smart and capable, making me start to believe she is asking me to do things she does not want to devote her time to. I've not asked to be paid when doing other jobs for her, and have actually refused her offer of cash or gift cards in the past, but this has gotten so tedious I am reconsidering being so generous.Thinking I will tell her a price and let the bride pick up the tab for corsages, hand-held nosegays for the bridesmaids and boutonnieres for the lapels of grooms' support team and dads. This project has taken so much time I am getting dangerously close to the 'get it done' part, so need to finish up and get it out of my life.

It is coming together, and I hope to have it all finished to deliver to M. at work later today. I have lots of other little projects that have been awaiting my attention that need to get squared away in the next few days while I am  not working. Who would have thought procrastination could be such a skilled occupation? Too bad there is no demand: I would be rolling in the dough if 'putting off' was a paying job!

4:24 + tired = 5:00...

... as in 'It's Five O'clock Somewhere." I went to work at 4:45 a.m., left at 1:30 p.m., and thought I was going to the pool. But it was closed due to a swim meet. What crummy luck: I have such a hard time getting there, generating the motivation, knowing I will have to change clothes twice in order to swim/exercise for thirty minutes. It is frustrating and  distressing to finally get organized enough to show up and find the pool not available for the public.

So I took myself to Wally-world and walked around the store for half an hour. Laugh if you must, but it is not really a difficult trek, few people along the outside edges of the aisles, climate controlled, easy to make a few circuits to get in thirty minutes of exercise. Plus I picked up a few things I would have had to go back to the store/workplace to get before coming home. Adding some cash  to recharge my gas/gift card and filled up before I left the parking lot.

One of the reasons to go to Wally-world was to replace the clock that has been on the wall in the kitchen for twenty years. It literally jumped off about a week ago, and quit working. I was optimistic, sadly misplaced, thinking a fresh battery would give a new lease on life. The Man Who Lives Here put in his two cents worth and commented that it would not work lying prone on the counter top and had to be upright. So it has spent the past week in the infirmary, standing on edge in the dish drain. Where it has been perpetually 11: 26 (a.m. or p.m., your choice!) for an entire week. I must now reluctantly report removing the  nearly new AA battery yesterday, when I decided to put it out of it's misery.

And should have just added it to the bins that went out by the street for recycling: it's mostly plastic and would, I assume, be something the city workers would sort and figure out what to do with it. I was hoping to find a new one at the discount store, but could  not find another wall clock, or any one to ask where they might be located. The last time I was looking for something and asked a guy in a blue vest, he said I had to order on line, but could have it delivered to the store to pick up. I have no idea how many times I have looked at that blank spot on kitchen wall in the past week, but if I was Superman with x-ray vision, there would most certainly be a hole in that spot from so many fruitless glances each day.

By the time I finally got home after errands, a failed trip to the pool, early voting at the citizens center, Wally-world, Just A Buck, it was 4:24, which was, in my opinion, close enough to five o'clock to begin happy hour. I needed to get an early start on that, in order to get into bed and get up to do it all again at four a.m.

newly crowned drama queen...

... lives here. When driving back from my third trip to south Georgia late yesterday, I got a call from The Man Who Lives Here. He had an urgent report to share: There's A Tree Down in the Driveway! It's Impassable! Danger, Will Robinson! Danger, danger! It's Blocking The Driveway So I Can't Get Out! Emergency!  Help! Crisis! Then said he had called the lawn guy to come right away with a chain saw to remedy the Disaster.

1)  He has a brand-damn new pick up truck that could drive right over the problem.
2) The problem is not a 'tree', but merely a limb.
3) It is not actually in the driveway.

He reported when I got home that he was out there in his little mobility chair, with a tiny little bow saw, attempting to cut it up enough to move, when someone driving down the street stopped, moved it enough to get in and out. I probably could have moved it that much. He was adamant that I could not have dragged it off the asphalt enough to permit passage. I wanted to say: Jeez, Louise! But let him win.

And after he was out of hearing range, called the mow-and-blow guy to say: "It is not an emergency. You do not need to be here tomorrow. Wait until you send a crew to cut the grass, just be sure they have a chain saw to cut up the limb from the sweet gum tree out near the street." And do not tell him you got this from me....

volunteering today...

... at the annual SALT Summerfest. Sponsored by a group of people who work in programs that provide services to senior citizens in the city and surrounding counties. SALT: Senior and Law Enforcement Together. There is no explanation for how I first got involved, but have been attending monthly meetings for several years at the public safety building, under the umbrella of the Police, Marshall and Sheriff. There are law enforcement representatives on the committee and interested participants from the citizenry of the county. The goal of the event, held in July each year is to help make senior citizens more aware of services that are available to them, people in the community who can help provide for their needs. Legal advice, health information, support services offered by the state.

I'm pretty sure most just show up for the free lunch. In the past it has been hotdogs, cooked on an outdoor grill by members of the police department and served with chili, pickles, chips and a drink. This year, someone recommended bar-be-q sandwiches. I surprised myself by eating a whole sandwich  - more meat than I have consumed in weeks. I was so hungry, I'm not even sure how it tasted. Was it good? I don't know! It did  not have any sort of sauce or flavoring, other than the smokey quality that comes from being cooked over a wood fire, and I did get chicken rather than eat a pig. I think it was tasty, but when I finished chewing there was sooooo much solid food sitting there in a lump in my belly. I thought: I need to go home. I am in need of a nap to digest all this unexpected gigantic Thanksgiving-sized meal that felt like turkey, dressing, gravy, sweet potato casserole, twelve kinds of dessert, etc., I have shoveled into my person.

The group had done some fund-raising to accumulate the resources to pay for that catered meal, and not sure they broke even. There were a number of 'vendors', those people who provide services to seniors, offering brochures, hard candies, free pens, highlighters, little plastic bags to stuff full of giveaways and goodies, various handouts to provide contact info. for community resources. Those vendors had to pay a small fee to rent table space, which helped fund the box lunches. I asked my employer to donate cookies for dessert, that got bagged up and distributed after lunch boxes were given to all the attendees. I probably passed out about forty lunches that included the sandwich, chips and pickles, and think that I heard two, of those dozens, said 'thank you' when they got their food. There were quite a few boxes remaining when everyone was served, that would have certainly disappeared if left unattended, so they set them aside to portion out to the SALT team/committee after it was over. I am completely through eating like that, but brought home a sandwich to feed The Man Who Lives Here. Thereby allowing me to not give meal prep. a single lingering thought tonight.

proliferating continued...

... as I think back on the most recent flying trip to Valdosta to try to prop up/intervene on the behalf of the auntie when she was at the mercy of the EMS guys transported to hospital. I was so steamed by the failure of my effort to get to the ER when I was stressed, speeding, steaming the whole three hour drive, pushing the envelope and the speed limit. Making my best effort to arrive in order to try to help both the befuddled auntie, and the equally confused and bemused staff at the medical center. She has to be even more stressed, fearful, confounded than her normal state when she is transported by men she does not know, to a place that is as rigid with rules and unfamiliar as the emergency room must be.

I was hoping to get there in order to run interference for both the auntie and the medical personnel who were attempting to provide care, even though they did not really have an understanding of what the problem might be. I expect they are constantly trained, routinely accustomed to dealing with true 'emergency' situations, expect every person who comes barreling through the swinging doors to be in full trauma mode. It is understandable that they would be short of patience with patients who show up repeatedly/frequently with what appears to be relatively insignificant complaints and health issues that could be managed with over-the-counter medications. As well as unwilling to take the time to try to meet the vague needs of some one who was brought in by EMS, with little or no explanation of the reason for being transported.

I was so frustrated by my inability to arrive sooner, to be available to help the medical staff understand her needs and assist from both sides in finding a solution, I made a call to the home health nurse who has been seeing the auntie. My history makes me very reluctant to phone anyone at an hour that I consider 'late': any time after about 8:00. But there I was placing a call to the nurse well after 9:00 p.m. Needing to vent as well as an understanding of why I felt nothing was done to actually help improve the problems the auntie was delivered there to get resolved.

This is a condensation of what the nurse reported: EMS guys can be wise-acres. She was not generalizing and did not say they all have inflated egos, but said the ones she met with before the auntie was loaded up seemed to feel like they already knew everything there was to know. Because they were not interested in getting the story on why this frail, frightened individual was in need of care, they likely did not fully grasp the reason they were called to transport. Or have the courtesy, common sense to pass along essential information to the personnel at the medical center. The following quote is by no means the word the nurse used in our late night conversation, but something I inferred from hearing her version of the send-off story as auntie was being loaded up:''cocky". The definition, in my opinion, is a word that can often be applied to young guys who seem to be have an overdose of self-esteem, full of confidence in their skills to the point of thinking they already know it all, so you cannot tell them anything (sort of like teenagers?)

I know it was a frightening experience for the auntie, who has absolutely no short term memory, so anything the staff, EMT, caregivers, nurses, techs, doctors would tell her would not have the desired effect of providing understanding or helping to calm her anxiety. I am still regretting I did not leave home fifteen minutes earlier, to arrive sooner and try to pave the way for greater understanding, and possibly patience on the part of the medical personnel. Plus very thankful to know she does get some marvelous, compassionate care at the place where she resides. They seem to take a personal interest in her well-being and willing to do all the can to provide comfort and care to help make her life easier.

a proliferation of confusion...

... occurred on Tuesday, when I felt compelled to make another drive to Valdosta, where the Auntie was in crisis mode. Causing me to do that six hour drive three times in a week. She had doctor visits scheduled last for one day early last week. In order to be aware of what happens in a small closed room, I need to be there, in that little cubicle. Sadly she is not a reliable source of information, so you or friends or doctors or office staff cannot believe anything she says. Even though she might give the appearance, look to be perfectly normal: a brief conversation will soon bring awareness she is likely talking nonsense. Well-meaning, but profoundly confused. I make every effort to schedule her appointments when I know I can take a day to get there with her, to be privy to conversations and insert needed information for providers to give the best treatment.

The staff at the residential facility felt like she was having a problem on Saturday. They could not solve over the weekend and called EMS to take her to the ER, where she was admitted. Ultimately for nothing more than a UTI. Which is, as I know, a big deal in senior citizens, as internal infections can easily overwhelm a compromised immune system, and create some serious problems, become septic and possibly fatal. But in this age of modern medicines and readily available prescrition drugs for almost every first world problem, why they would admit a person for that is beyond me. My assumption is that if you did not know her history, and she arrived transported by strangers who could not provide background, you would think she was in serious trouble judging by the level of confusion in conversation. Not knowing profound confusion is her 'normal' state. Pretty sad.

I drove down to Valdosta on Sunday afternoon, and spent the night, was able to get her back to her familiar surroundings on Monday around noon. Left to drive for three hours to get back home and go to work on Tuesday. Assuming with the Rx I had filled at Walgreens she would recover and bounce back.

But several calls on Tuesday afternoon alerted me to the fact that she was not 'bouncing back'. They sent her with EMS back to the ER: which would have to be a confusing, frightening experience for someone with no understanding of what is happening. Perhaps the fortunate part of memory loss is that she could not recall having just had a similar experience several days earlier? Well, whatever...
I left work, went home to get overnight supplies, and drove to south Georgia again on Tuesday. Expecting to find her in the ER, frightened, disheveled and confused.

When I arrived, using my powers of persuasion to finally get past the gatekeeper and permitted into the inner sanctum of ER, I was told she had been sent back to her residence. "You just missed her by two minutes." Making me wonder if the confusion of being admitted or the confusion of being rejected is the lesser evil/more desirable outcome? I drove to the residence in the country, in the dark and missed my turn. Eventually located that oasis of peace, where she had already been put to bed. After considerable conversation with staff, exhausted me drove back into town and put myself in a bed as well.

We went to Family Practice on Wednesday, where her familiar caregiver concluded she was doing ok. And she did seem more alert, obviously more ambulatory than she was on Monday as well as Tuesday. Her condition the first of the week was alarming to all who know her 'normal' self, as she was not conversant (or argumentative, demanding, insistent as is her usual demeanor) Or mobile which she has been, though agility has declined.  I hope the Rx will provide continued improvement, and she will regain some of her lost ground. But also accept with someone her age that she will not likely return to the starting point where she was a week ago, before the UTI hit her like someone dropping bricks from an overpass.

waiting again....

... in the orderly quiet of the hospital room with the Auntie, who apparently stayed up into the wee hours talking with her sitter, Jackie. It seems they had a great time overnight, chatting about everything under the sun. I could wonder what they had in common to discuss, but honestly, as long as Jackie (who she had never laid eyes on before and is now her New Best Friend) was available, and willing to be here for twelve hours keeping her company, I'm good with that. I slept pretty well myself, until that dang alarm went off at 4 a.m., then it was over.

When the PA who works this floor called me yesterday, I understood she was being treated with anti-biotics for a UTI. That is old news, as I had a voice mail on my phone from her doctor's office reporting they had called in an Rx for that particular problem. But putting someone in high-priced bed is, in my opinion, a pretty thin reason to admit someone for three days, billing insurance for every IV needle, square of toilet tissue, cup of ice. So I am hopeful she can be disentangled from all the tubing delivering saline solution and be discharged today. Just have to be willing to work the system.

The interesting part is that when the EMS brought her in on Saturday night, there was apparently no mention of the acute pain she claimed was so disabling that she could not walk. Cannot say if the EMS guys even mentioned the reason they were called to transport her to ER, but I am sure they were told she could not travel under her own steam and had to be rolled in on a gurney. How the leg pain that was so misery-inducing all day never even got mention in her chart when she was brought I beyond me. When staffer from the Auntie's residence called me with a report, she said the ER team did not mention what might be causing her leg pain, and when she asked specifically, the ER nurse had no idea what she was talking about. Meaning that the Auntie had completely forgotten that she was in such pain she could not stand upright. Oh, the joy of memory loss....

I told the overnight sitter she could leave (about thirty minutes early) and talked to the overnight nurse. Pretty uneventful. But as I watched, talked with the Auntie, I see a marked decline from when I saw her a week ago. I don't know what is going on - hope to have more info. after the PA comes by.

well, great googly-moogly...

... as a daughter would proclaim when sumthin' completely unexpected occurs: I am in Valdosta. After getting up at 4:00 a.m., to be alert and on the job at 5 o'clock this morning. There were a number of calls back and forth all day on Saturday, conversations with staff in the facility where the Auntie has been living for over a year. It's so hard to really get a feel for what is going on with her from a distance. Plus it is doubly difficult to know if the 'crisis' is actually a serious problem or something relatively minor along the lines of 'The Little Boy Who Cried Wolf' too many times. You remember that tale: the kid got lonesome, or bored, or scared, kept yelling to get attention/assistance, until the townspeople no longer felt his cries warranted a response.

It started with a fall on Friday night/early Saturday morning. I was sound asleep, then startled awake by my phone. Naturally my first thought was it was the alarm, signaling time to get up and stagger off to work. But it was even earlier than that: someone calling to report the Auntie got up in the wee hours, disoriented, and had walked out of her room into the hall way, then fallen when escorted back to bed. You might recall she was at the orthopedic office two weeks ago, and  given a cortisone injection in her knee, in an effort to ease chronic pain. We will never know if it had the desired effect as she cannot reliably report on the efficacy of the shot for relieving chronic knee discomfort.

She made a big production of how badly her leg hurt all day on Saturday. Constantly reporting that she was in much pain, and demonstrating how she could barely walk, struggling to move about. The staff concluded she needed to be evaluated, called EMS to take her to hospital for exam, x-rays of the leg she claimed to be causing misery. I was almost certain that upon arrival at the ER, the decision would be made to admit/keep her for 'observation', ie: insurance billing. They had no idea what they were in for when they decided to admit her and assigned her a room on the nursing floor. You can imagine how much attention she needed throughout the night, as well as all day today, after she was labeled (literally - there is a bright yellow armband announcing to everyone she is a) fall-risk. I can tell you they were very happy to see me when I walked up to the nurse's desk about five o'clock this afternoon, reporting for duty.

When I called my contact person at the home this morning, soon thereafter I received a call from a PA, who reported she was getting antibiotics for UTI (which we already knew about). And that they were struggling to keep her in bed so she would not get up on wobbly legs and fall again. I told him I would be there about five after I got off work. They were all very pleased when I showed up. After they had spent then hours attempting to placate Connie - I can understand why the staff was all smiles and joy when I introduced myself: two hours of answering the same questions a dozen times wore me out.

I asked her nurse if there was any reason to keep her here. She looked really alarmed, so I said: tomorrow! Can she leave tomorrow! That is likely, so I plan to be here early, to plead her case. And arrive in time to hear what the doc/PA/NP has to say. If all she is doing here is taking antibiotics and filling up a bed, no reason she cannot do that someplace the rent has already been paid, right?

did it again...

...when I found out it was not nearly as miserable as I thought I remembered when it happened years ago: scraping corn off the cob to put in the freezer. I've done it a number of times over the years, but had not put myself through that particular punishment lately. At one time,there was a neighbor who farmed in his backyard and grew corn for sharing. He would bring a heaping bushel basket and I would do all the prep to put it in the freezer. Feeling very sacrificial and put upon, as corn is not one of  my most favorite foods - but since I was doing it for my family, I was entitled to feel burdened by the weight of struggle. But had not suffered with all that sticky, gooey mess in years - it makes such a splattering of corn starch all over the kitchen counters. Plus tedious and no fun what-so-ever.

So I do not know what possessed me to offer to get a crate of fresh corn to prepare when I knew my daughter was coming. I seem to recall the agreement: I was going to help her. You can imagine how that worked out, right? She came Memorial Day weekend in late May, and we spent an afternoon shucking and scraping, cooking, stirring, measuring up and bagging, freezing for her to take home. Nearly forgotten when she left, but made a U turn  two miles up the road, to come back and get it.

After doing it in May, I concluded it was not the awful chore that stuck in my mind from history. Decided to put up some of my own, since that bushel cleaned, scraped, cooked, bagged and frozen went to Tennessee. I wanted to wait until it got as cheap as it is going to get, when it was on sale over the Forth of July weekend. Stopped by the store when I got back to town from south Georgia on Tuesday night, to pay for my corn. But told them I could not take it, and planned to come back when I had a day off to devote the necessary time.

Went by the store after running errands today, and got my corn. I shucked the whole bushel right there on the spot in the store to avoid all that mess in my kitchen: a huge pile of leaves plus silk that sticks itself to everything. And got a bonus: fifty ears instead of the forty eight I paid for. I was shorted by four the first time, so everything evens out!  Brought it home to scrape and cook. It is in the fridge to cool enough to put in zipper bags and put in the freezer. The Man Who Lives Here was really happy when he had a great big heaping bowl of freshly prepared steaming hot creamed corn to eat with his pork chop tonight.

I am feeling pretty self-righteous. I did not want to do it, but had paid for the corn and determined to go through with it - and now very pleased with my effort. It will be especially tasty when winter winds blow, and the heat of summer is only a memory. And a thousand thanks to the person who invented zipper bags!

do not give...

... me any plants. I spent hours today digging and planting. Even though I find that process to be generally therapeutic, I do  not want anyone to even think about putting more plants in  my life. It was a very productive day, getting lots of holes dug and various growing things that had been semi-neglected, lingering around for weeks or possibly months. A few were excess from the botanical gardens plant sale in the spring, when a fellow gardener dug up things growing in abundance and put them in pots to sell for the suckers who thought they needed to give more attention to their home landscaping. She offered me lambs' ear and some yellow iris that were left, orphans. I got most of it in the ground.

I had several pots of milk weed started from seed a couple of years ago that are planted now. I had read that it is really difficult to transplant, and does not easily survive being relocated. Making me reluctant to even try. But knowing it would not do well indefinitely in containers made me think: haven't lost anything. It's not something deer usually eat, but apparently the tender young leaves and buds were so delightful I might not have any blooms this year. Really surprised when I went out recently to observe, hoping it had bloomed, and discovered it was chomped off instead. It is a well established plant, that I optimistically purchased potted and diligently nursed once it was in the ground. With the additional three planted nearby, I hope to have good crop of bright orange blooms in the future to attract Monarch butterflies that love milk weed the very best.

Also planted some gerbera daisies that I think are rescued from going in the trash at work. When they are not blooming,, it is time to say good-by. No one will purchase if they cannot tell what color the flowers are - plus by the time the bloom fades, the plant is looking so bedraggled it is too far gone to sell. I put them in a spot that gets plenty of sun, and with some water and feeding hope they will recover and show off - provided the deer don't enjoy them before I do!

Some small pots of bee balm that were bought months ago at a garden shop and then profoundly neglected. Allowed to dry out, over watered, left to get too dry, soaked until soggy, dried out again, left sitting in a bucket to get root rot, mistreated, ignored, over-watered, ignored, and now finally planted like I should have done when purchased. Bee balm is another thing pollinators really like, so I hope to be a more responsible bee balm owner and nurture to make friends with the bees and butterflies.

Several of those things that were in need of attention today were indoor plants that were put out when the weather warmed, and since ignored. They had gotten buggy, with holes in the leaves, and beat up from several frog-strangling rains we've had lately. They got fresh dirt (my secret recipe) and a good soaking to settle them in and will go back in the house where they no longer need to fear having all their dirt washed out and roots exposed from pounding storms.

Along with all that: lots of tree trash picked up, as it is an ongoing project that will never end in  my lifetime. Empty plastic pots going in the recycle bin, piles of sticks to load up and wheel up to the side of the street for city truck. I want to get everything in the ground, watered well and established so it can become independent and take care of itself. Please do not give me any more stuff to feed and water,  plants that need care and affection, nurturing, cultivating and support. Even though it was a Very Productive Day, there were times I had to come inside to drink water, cool off, thinking I was so stinking hot I would explode.

my favorite patriot...

... would have to be my dad. I still think of him every day, but especially on holidays that involve flag waving, military/martial music, fireworks, parades with marching bands and kids on bicycles with paper streamers woven into the spokes of the tires, red-white-and-blue bunting hanging from front porches and lamp posts. All the things that indicate an opportunity to be thankful for living in America - make me think of him and his service to country. The blessings of living under the US Constitution that even allows people to gripe about the constitutional rights of others.

The ring tone on my phone is a John Phillip Sousa march: Stars and Stripes Forever. Those close to me know what a flag-waver I am. A box came last week from Amazon: a dozen flags to put on your vehicle. I put two on mine, and offered the remainder to The Man Who Lives Here. I was surprised to find he had put one on his truck when he came home yesterday. The others he took with him to his 'job', when he was volunteering at the National Infantry Museum on July 4. I told him he should take them when he went to 'work' and give them away. I guess I thought he might be able to share them with visitors when they came in the door. But he said they were gone in about thirty seconds: given to fellow volunteers.

I suggested since it was such a roaring success, he should get more to give away. He seemed to think the only reason people wanted them was because it was Independence Day. I said that people who are patriotic flag-waving fools (without mentioning any names) will love the flag just as much on July 5 as they do on July 4. Plus people will always take anything free!


When I recently went to south GA., I went by the cemetery for a short visit. Put out silk flowers in the little granite containers after I had someone go out and pressure wash the slabs/stones that had discolored over time. The ones for grandparents are sunflowers and red hibiscus, auntie is roses and daisies, and my parents - red, white, blue.

while sitting here...

... merrily typing away: I looked out the window and saw three deer. About thirty feet from the house. When I look out through the glass, I am also looking through the screening on a porch that is about ten feet wide, then a narrow flower bed filled with ferns, hydrangeas and leaf mulch. A wide swath of lawn, maybe twenty feet across. Then trees: pine, magnolia, oak, sweet gum - pretty thickly wooded, though through the trees I can view a thousand cars daily traveling to and from work and shopping. A very busy thoroughfare, though I doubt those hundreds of travelers can see my house as they roll along.

I was sitting here typing, and looked up to see a deer. Easily noticed as she was standing in front of a dark green magnolia tree about forty feet tall. Then I noticed a young still-spotted fawn standing there, nursing. I pulled my camera out of my pocket, but missed the shot of the fawn having breakfast. And did not realize until the mother walked away, that there were two youngsters. Wow.

I've seen hoof prints in the back yard, inside a four foot high chain link fence, so I know they have/can come in the yard. Other evidence is hydrangea plants that have never, ever bloomed, as the deer come along and nip all the tender leaves and buds off.  I have noticed several deer at a time out in the thick woods just past that magnolia, where they apparently feel safe enough to roam looking for browsing material. Just across the street is a public golf course, where I have heard there are many deer, protected, with enough trees and undergrowth to hide. The groundskeeper reports that they eat everything they use for landscaping - even azaleas, with fuzzy leaves, they would normally not find attractive.

Even though they are not discriminating and eat things I plant to enjoy the blooms, it is amazing to see them, so I will keep planting and they will keep eating. I will try to remember that I am the one who is doing something abnormal, and the wildlife is doing what they were designed to do.

skunk story...

... my boss told yesterday. I don't know how we got started on the topic of unbearably unpleasant odors, but he had a couple of amusing/distressing stories to tell. Funny in a disgusting way, meaning only if it did not happen to you, plus distressing: as thankful you were not present, though you can imagine how awful it would be if you have ever in your life encountered the aroma of an angry skunk. That skunky smell is unique, penetrating and memorable. I cannot even begin to guess why God would give that particular stomach churning smell to an animal as a defensive mechanism, but it is so pungent, your olfactory receptors will always identify that aroma. Once you have the experience it will never be forgotten.

The boss told the story of a friend who went with someone on a hunting trip. I don't think he even said what sort of animal the group was interested in chasing, catching/killing. He did not even get to the place where he could relate if the venture was considered a success, only telling the part related to a skunk encounter. One of the hunters brought beagle dogs he was training. I know they can be loud, aggressive and actually pretty good at running down prey. When the dogs returned to the group of men out in the woods, the guys noticed one of the canines was being avoided by the remainder of the pack. When they got close enough, thinking this dog might be injured, they discovered he had been sprayed by a skunk. Making both man and beast keep their distance as much as possible. The story I heard had the owner washing the dog a dozen times trying to get rid of the pungent aroma of skunk. I've heard washing dogs in tomato juice will counteract the repulsive smell, but have fortunately never had the opportunity to test that out.

The other story: He said when he was a teenager, driving down a dark, deserted dirt road late one night, he had a flat tire. In order to change it, he left the doors open to give light for the process of jacking, loosening, replacing. When he was finished and went to get back in his car, closing the doors in order to start the vehicle and get back to town - there was a skunk, apparently wandering in while he was otherwise occupied, taking care of the flat replacement. Holy cow! I would have been tempted to walk back to town to avoid a close encounter!

My co-workers who were lending an ear to this story left at this point, so I am not sure how he was able to invite the skunk to depart. Just thinking about this disaster narrowly averted makes me queasy. I made myself as scarce as if that small animal was turning around to aim his noxious fumes at me!

As I have traveled the highways between middle and south Georgia many times over the years, I will occasionally notice 'evidence', ie: the redolent aroma, where a skunk has been hit and killed by a vehicle on the road. That scent, even days after the demise is pungent enough to make you gag. It is also an indicator of the fact that this little animal is making a comeback. For many years I do not recall noticing the lingering evidence of skunk encounters with wheeled opponents, but I'd say in the past ten or fifteen years I have begun to realize they are out there again. Assuming that niche in the food chain continues to be replenished, with Mr. and Mrs. Skunk meeting often enough to raise a family.

it has been a mess...

...but fortunately not in the house. We have been in 'minor turmoil' for several weeks while these doofus guys have been working on the carport. Not precisely a remodel, as it will look like it did before they got started, only newer. Nothing is actually changing, but it will look brand spanking new when they get done. If I don't hurt them and leave bloodstains all over the floor. Which will cause us to have to find a new crew to pressure wash the floor we have already hired the doofus crew to do.

I've not been on the scene while they have been working: so not much in the know as how this project has been inching along. Seems like it has taken much longer than anyone (including the doofus team) expected. They were supposed to scrape the stipple effect off the ceiling and repaint everything. That removal process turned out to be much more complicated than anyone could envision. Man- what a mess. Dust and more dust. I should be happy it did not happen in  my house - or there would most certainly be bodies to be unearthed, hidden in shallow graves in the woods.

The one I have seen shows up around 10:30 several days a week, waiting until mid-morning when the day is as miserably, stinking, steamy hot as possible to get started. Working in a room with virtually no ventilation: closed on three sides and hot as Hades by mid-day. The first day I actually saw him, he wanted to have a conversation, explaining why he was so late getting to work? All about his family drama, with a dad in nursing care who refused to cooperate with staff who wanted to help him with PT, OT, mobility. Demanding to go  home, but unable to manage independently. Mom refusing to help a man who refused to help himself. Much more info. than he should be sharing with a total stranger. As well as 'way more info. than I wanted to know, with all the drama I have in my own personal life.

When I got home from a long stressful day on Tuesday, I commented to The Man Who Lives Here that his carport looks really good. It appears the doofus team has finished the work, even though they left some tools. That carport looks so good, I am reluctant to put all the flotsam and jetsam back that had to be relocated for them to patch, replace, spackle, sand and paint. When I told The Man how impressed I was, noticing that the D-team even painted the three doors leading out of the carport (but not cleaning the windows that are covered with sheet rock dust), I wondered about getting rid of all that excess stuff. Suggesting I could just throw in a lit match, start a fire out there: avoiding having to haul it to the thrift store or up the driveway for the trash truck.

another drive ...

...across south Georgia on Tuesday. Got up at 5 a.m., to shower and get on the road for Valdosta at 6 o'clock. The auntie had a doctor appointment mid-afternoon, and I had plans for several stops before getting her to the follow-up office visit at 3:00. I have spent a good bit of time trying to get paperwork in order, documentation assembled to provide report for probate court that has to be submitted on an annual basis. I had no idea this undertaking was going to be so complicated and laborious.

Having no math skills, as well as no hesitation in admitting I am hopelessly math-impaired, much of the effort has been put forth by friend P. who continually amazes me. She can do math in her head that I am not sure I could complete with a calculator in hand. I know that we all have different gifts, skill-sets and abilities. Continually thankful that we are not all clones, and each of us have individual traits that complement others. Just thankful that there is someone in my life who is not intimidated by numbers, willing to pitch in to help me understand and accomplish what is expected as Guardian for the auntie!

After making two trips to Office Depot to use the copier, make duplicates of all the paperwork we have completed, as well as many copies of all the statements and financial documents received over the past twelve months, I thought I had it all together. Consulted P. and we went over all the paperwork to be sure I had everything, assembled in the proper sequence, and filled out with a gazillion numbers. Expecting to get to downtown Valdosta in time to go to the government building and deliver all my paperwork to the Probate office, I was up early on Tuesday. More than ready to get all this tedious stuff out of my life. It has been very educational: I am already thinking of ways to make the process easier and less daunting for next June.

I forgot the entire packet of papers. I was so busy trying to put everything in my car: purchases for the auntie, reading material I wanted to take to her, info. for the doctor's appointment, a gas fill-up, a chair to be repaired. I failed to put the bag I was using to corral folders in the car. About eight o'clock, two hours in to the three hour drive, I began to think: what did I do with her checkbook? I knew she would have a co-pay at the doctor's office, and I could not remember putting the check book in the car. When I stopped, and looked in the back: I said several bad words. Actually one bad word, several times.

And considered, for about three seconds, turning around to go back and get the folders and checkbook. But did not want to make the six hour trip into a ten hour drive. So... will just put everything in the mail tomorrow. I wanted to go to the Probate office - just for them to see my face, and remember me. As in how: you never go into the bank building any more, either banking on line, or whizzing through drive-in tellers.  Then, when you need to do business, no one knows who you are. Maybe next June...

book review: "The Boat Runner"...

... written by Devin Murphy, published in 2017 by Harper Collins. After the title page, there is a quote by Vladimir Nabokov: "Our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness." This fictional story is set at the beginning of World War II in Belgium. Jacob and his brother Edwin are teen aged sons of the Koopman family, their mother a musician, and their father an inventor/factory owner who manufactured light bulbs. Koopmans are highly respected, as the business is the largest employer in their small village.

The two sons are sent to a camp by their father, who is not aware the summer event is proselytizing and promoting Nazis and their political agenda. The boys are trained in war games: fighting, target practice, map reading, out door skills, indoctrinated by speeches and films from German officers. As the political situation devolves over weeks and months, the Nazis invade Poland, and gradually claim other areas in Europe. The Koopman family business is taken over by the army, where Jacob and his mother are forced to work in order to receive ration cards. His father has vanished, disappeared in an effort to avoid being captured, questioned by the Nazis after he sabotaged the assembly line in his factory.

The interesting aspect of the book, the thing that continues to stick in my head: the story was written from the viewpoint of a young man, so thoroughly brain-washed by the joy of summer camp, experiences of learning to handle explosives and weapons, the manliness of army officers in shiny boots and immaculate uniforms, he believes their agenda. As someone who has read a considerable number of non-fiction books about that era, all from the perspective of the Allies, it was interesting to consider how citizens of Europe could be convinced of the rightness of German philosophy. The desire, sparked by one charismatic man, to join all of those people in one state. With little consideration for many different cultures, and individuals who would be purged in the process. Plus the fact that the  military had total, complete, unquestioned control: you do not disagree with a man who is holding a gun to your head.

I would recommend the book to anyone interested in history of that era. The story, through the thoughts and eyes of a young man, of the age to be very impressed with the glory of the rise of Nazism, is very well written. Gives pause, making you realize how easily anyone can be deceived: hearts can be changed, minds can be beguiled and deluded. Though we look back and are horrified by the genocide that occurred in the 1940's while the conscience of the world was hoodwinked, the story shows how easily we are coerced by fear, ignorance and doubt into believing the unbelievable.

while thinking ...

... of breakfast, it is time to tell a funny remembrance about my dad. I never ever fail to think of him when I slice a banana on a bowl of cereal. Due to seeing him do it one morning,. nearly thirty years ago.  My parents were at the beach, spending a few days with daughters and myself in Florida. When they were young, girls and I would go every summer to the Gulf coast for a couple of weeks, and would occasionally persuade Mema and Papa to join us. A fairly short drive from south GA. Plus not nearly as exhausting as traveling five hours, with two children securely fastened in the back seat, or fifty monkeys screeching to be released from confinement.

I think the Grandparents might have been there when we arrived enjoying the tranquility with the plan to stay on for a couple of days to enjoy the fifty monkeys/children. On the last day of their visit, when the elders likely had all the fun two senior citizens could stand, they were hoping for an early start home. They got up with plans to eat a light breakfast and load up, head out. There was only one single banana left in the house, and three people with bowls of cereal. My dad, with amazing precise skills, managed to slice that one banana to make it appear all three adults had generous, equal portions. The kind of slices you could read a newspaper through. But still - we all had banana with our cereal and milk.

Now, every time I have a bowl of dry cereal for breakfast (or dinner), and there is a banana to be had, I think of him as I slice my fruit paper-thin, pour on the milk and enjoy. Another skill I learned from the expert. Added bonus: you get a slice in every bite! Admittedly it does not take a tremendous amount of practice to slice wafer thin rounds of banana - but I will always remember him being so diligent and meticulous to be equitable in his sharing of the fruit. Almost feel like that little speckled yellow fruit turned into the loaves and fishes from the Biblical parable....

most every morning...

... when I get up one of the things I do is go to the kitchen to get food. Even if I have to be at work at 5:00 a.m., and barely conscious at 4:15, I know I need to eat, put in some fuel to start the day. When I was still living at home, in my high school years, my mom demanded that I eat before going out the door. Not that I ever did what she wanted me to... you know how they are, right?

The nature of teenagers: what ever you tell them to do - they don't. She thought I needed a substantial meal in my person to head out for a day of using my brain.  All these years later, I will admit that I agree, believe it is true that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. But then - not so much. Probably the standard, usual, obstreperous teenager, who was disagreeable on general principle.

Our compromise was drinking a sort-of milkshake. A semi-nutritious drink that was probably chugged as I charged out, combing my unruly hair, tucking my shirt tail into my skirt (long before the era of wearing pants/jeans to school), tugging up my socks. The company, Carnation Milk I think, that makes 'Instant Breakfast' packets you add to milk in the blender: Instant Nutrition! A brand-new, novelty item that had just come out as a highly touted, well advertised supplement. Pretty much the only option available for adding to milk other than Nestle Quik or the Carnation product that turned white milk into chocolate.

All this is a confession that results from my surprising realization that I am back to Square One.I make a shake/smoothie each morning before groggily making my departure for work at 4:45 a.m. It is not the original version, from long ago school daze (as well as not being loaded with sugar!) but I am cranking up the blender most mornings to churn together a drink that will keep me going until a lunch break around 11:00. Now it is a cup of Almond milk, a ripe banana, a scoop of oatmeal, a spoon full of powdered peanut butter protein and a bit of flax seed. I try to drink it before I leave the house, as I have discovered it turns into concrete if I leave the dirty blender container/canister in my car to sit all day. Which should make me wonder what goes on within my digestive tract when I consume my homemade version of smoothie.