snuggly sleeping...

... in a bed with flannel sheets, which is something I have never experienced before. I don't think those similes that refer to '... like a rock" or "... like a log" are particularly accurate as both of those items found in their natural state are inanimate, so would not actually sleep. Plus if they were able to doze off, would only be disturbed by cataclysmic events like earthquake or tsunami. But I have slept well in the vastly different environment, so far from home and my accustomed space.

We have been staying in the house, except when I went for a walk on Monday afternoon in the sunshine, and going to Cracker Barrel for lunch on Tuesday. The weather is predicted to get really wicked tonight and tomorrow, but I hope to be back in warmer climes by then. Returning to GA later today, and back home tonight in order to be on the job Thursday morning.

I have decided I can tolerate cold as long as the sun is shining. The drab, overcast aspect of winter, when there is rain here, and frozen water falling from the sky in other places would certainly bring on that Seasonal Affective Disorder that is so debilitating. I know there are ways to compensate and counteract the effects of those seemingly endless days of cloudy weather that cause emotional stress and mental fatigue: exercise to release the good stuff, artificial light therapy to brighten/lift a floundering attitude.

I am a big proponent of natural vitamin D. Always been a person who likes the sun, especially in the chill of winter: awaiting the warming rays of natural light, feeling that I must have been a reptile in a former life. The rays of sun on a cold day, especially if there is a protected spot in order to get out of the blustery blowing wind are so comforting. Finding a calm spot to face the warmth is so gratifying, bringing the promise of warmer days to come.

We can all put on enough layers to be relatively comfortable when out in the cold, exposed to the elements. But all those items tend to make you feel like a lumbering bear, and look like the Michelin tire advertisement. With the hope that time will bring a change and allow bare skin to be exposed, warming seasons and reductions of layer upon layer of microfiber, fleece, thermal knits necessary to withstand the chill.

I be ready for spring!

book review: "The Shark"...

... written by Mary T. Burton, published in 2016. Found at the library as a boxed set of Cd's, and listened to while driving to Decatur several times in the past week. Bizarre to think that I made three trips to Atlanta in just over a week. Making me think I should go ahead and find a job there since I seem to be commuting on a semi-regular basis?

The primary character in the story is Riley Tatum, who is a state Trooper in Virginia. She has a shadowy past, a runaway as a teenager trying to avoid a bad situation at home after her mother died and step father became aggressive, overbearing. She lived on the streets in New Orleans for a short time, and ended up with a blank period in her life of about seven days, then got off a bus in Virginia with no knowledge of the recent past. She was given an opportunity to stay in a shelter, work, and returned to school, eventually applying for a law enforcement position.

Her missing days, mysterious past comes back to haunt her when a young girl is found dead, under suspicious circumstances. Riley struggles with trust issues, learned to keep her personal life closed up, determined to be self-sufficient, independent. She encounters a man who works for a private security firm, that had a small part in her police training. This guy, Bowman, is determined to protect Riley, finds himself attracted to her, though she is resistant to his efforts and desire to help. Spoiler: a couple of steamy sex scenes inserted within the mystery/who-dun-it.

I listened to the recording while traveling, so it was stop-and-start over a week or more, with long breaks, making it difficult to follow the story line at times. But well written, with characters that made you want to help them out, as circumstances would get tense, and desperate situations arose. Even though I was listening rather than actually looking at the print, it was a real 'page turner'.

travelin'...

... to visit the peeps in Virginia. Drove up to Decatur to spend the night in the attic on Sunday, after working until nearly 2:00. After a weekend of house guests, I was not even remotely organized enough to be prepared to take to the highway as soon as I clocked out in the afternoon. Went home to get packed up, in a random half-hearted sense, not knowing what the weather would be later in the week or what I should be wearing. Threw some things in a suitcase, along with a couple of books I wanted to take and leave, and a bit of stitchery from my mother's hands hoping  my sister-in-law would accept a gift.

After hearing several reports on public radio that put the fear in my heart, I thought I should get to the airport in ample time to play the 'hurry up and wait' game with TSA. Not knowing how tedious the process would be for getting scanned, inspected, wand-ed, wiped down for contraband, carefully eyed for possible haz-mat. I was really anxious about having plenty of time to make my way to the gate. Which allowed me hours to sit and read, cool my heels awaiting boarding. Amazed that the time between walking in the sliding doors of the terminal until I was rolling my luggage along concourse C was less than thirty minutes. Thankful I brought an interesting book to while away the hours while awaiting arrival of my flight.

The attendant announced the tickets were sold out, and the flight was full so we could expect to arrive in Richmond with a whole set of New Best Friends from being in such close quarters for the duration. I sat next to a person who had been to Chattanooga, took a shuttle to ATL, returning to her home in Richmond. She was squeezed into the middle of a section of three seats, with a highly decorated/inked man in the window seat, and me on the aisle. An uneventful flight, with folks awaiting my arrival in the terminal when we arrived 12 minutes early.

I have learned to play up my disability, use the knee brace to my benefit. After being asked to expose myself, some time ago when inching through a TSA line, and being asked to allow a closer inspection of the supporting device I know to make it visible. Having been asked to peel off clothing for the agents to have a look-see, as the metal support always catches the attention of x-ray machine, causing me to look 'suspicious'... a hearty laugh would be appropriate here! I have learned to wear the support on the outside: putting it on after I get dressed rather than the first thing that goes on in the morning. Not only does it make the inspection process faster, there is the advantage of being shunted off into the line with the more obviously disabled persons on crutches, in rolling chairs, using canes or other assistive devices available to travelers. If the brace does not show, it is much less likely I will be able to drum up sympathy and thereby advancing in the queue. But wearing it where it is apparent I am having a problem (limping is a nice touch to be even more obvious with a sad, pitiful mobility struggle!) helps to be moved into the shorter wait-time line.

The city schools for Richmond were out for a teacher training/planning day, so the energetic, amusing granddaughter was spending the day with us. Her mom had to go to work at the school where she is employed, and number one grandma/sitter was called in to provide support for the first-grader. We spent the day doing crafts of various descriptions, making cookies the grandma had planned, trying to keep up with a very active six-year old. Thankfully parents arrived about 6 o'clock with boxes of take out pizza (as well as her younger brother retrieved from daycare), so we ate amidst mild bedlam of two small children, they loaded up and took the traveling circus home to put little ones to bed.

book reveiw: "Flying at Night"...

... by Rebecca L. Brown,  published in 2018 by Penguin/Thorndike. Another of those I randomly picked off the shelf when wandering through the stacks of recently printed, newly acquired tomes at the library.  It was large print, with a synopsis on the back cover that was appealing, making me think I would give it a try, read a few pages before deciding 'yea' or 'nay'. It was interesting, and I found myself staying up later than usual to turn the pages, immersed in the lives of the characters.

Piper is the primary voice, a woman who set aside a career as a watercolorist in order to take care of her son. Her husband is Issac, an attorney to whom she has been married for years. Issac spends many hours focusing on his work, primarily research to assist those in prison who have been wrongly accused and railroaded into serving long sentences. Their son, Fred is autistic,  undiagnosed early on in the story, though already in the education system, struggling with a lack of social skills and bizarre mannerisms associated with children on the spectrum. Issac is devoted to his work, or possibly using it to avoid devoting more time to his family. Piper is very protective of Fred, and often frustrated and angry with Issac for his absence and lack of support.

I've read a number of books on autism, some novels like this, and some first person accounts, written by those diagnosed, in the form of memoirs. It is an intriguing problem, and as you might expect, every individual who has been assessed exhibits the symptoms in unique ways, differently struggling to meld into the mainstream from all others who have behavioral/learning disabilities. All seem to be challenged, but none fit into a tidy succinct diagnosis to provide a formulaic solution for resolving the multitude of symptoms they need to overcome.

A teacher in Fred's school has been observing Fred, along with several other students who could be considered misfit, youngsters who do not easily conform to the expectations of educators. Jack Butler meets with Piper and confesses that he too is on the spectrum, had been evaluated and diagnosed as autistic. Jack feels he can be helpful to Fred, providing advice and assistance for direction Fred needs to adapt, adjust to the classroom teachers' methods and style of instruction. Piper is desperate for someone in her life who is supportive, understanding of her distress and anxiety over her son's lack of progress, acceptance in the classroom, failure to develop necessary social skills to be able to function in society as a whole. She finds herself attracted to Jack, who is on the school staff to provide support for those students who are marginal. Jack, being autistic himself, cannot see or respond to her needs.

Issac and Fred go off on a day trip, planned by the guys, when Piper needs to devote a day to caring for her dad, who as moved into their home after suffering a medical mishap. Issac gives Fred a knife: bad idea. An accident occurs, Issac and Fred gloss over the trip to the ER, not telling Piper about the knife.  Then Fred takes the knife to school: another bad idea. Incident ensues, reported to teacher and principal. Fred is suspended from school.

All this time Piper is also struggling with a dysfunctional family she was born into: abusive father, abused mom, distant older brother. Her dad is released from the hospital after his heart attack, but her mother refuses to care for him, leaves town to stay with her sister. What a mess.

There is no clear resolution at the end of the book. It is a sweet, revealing story of how families can love and hate at the same time. Reminding me we all come from dysfunction. Told from perspective of the characters, an interesting read, and well worth your time.

another rider delivered...

... to his treatment appointment at the cancer center. This man lived 'way down off  highway 27, on the far side of the military property, in a wee, barely existing town named Omaha. I have accidentally been to Omaha once before, and knew it was so far off the beaten path you would have to deliberately want to go to get there. Not on the way to anywhere.

I will always attempt to engage the riders in some conversation, but usually have little success with the exchange of information. My questions generally receive the most minimal of answers, understandable as the people in need of transport do not know me, and most (including myself) would consider medical information a subject not to be shared with the general public or passersby. Trying to recall the many individuals who have made trips in my little Toyota to the local cancer treatment center, I do not think any have provided details about their diagnosis, and only a couple have reported that they only have 'x number of days' or treatments left.  Personally, I am thankful for HIPPA, appreciating the fact that people are not permitted to share info., keeping my business confidential, as well as not providing 'TMI' for the general population.

The info. received via email from the folks who manage the scheduling had me believing the appointment was at 9:15 (on Thursday), and he would be ready to leave by 10:15. I knew it would take me the better part of an hour to get to his home, far and away below the military post, in Stewart County.When I called to confirm, get driving directions for finding him, he requested an earlier pick up time, to allow for going to the lab on-site for testing. I was agreeable, though I would have to set my alarm, get up and leave the house by 6 am. Almost like trudging off to work.

I mistakenly believed the directions received from GPS. I should have just done what the man told me, expect for the fact that his speech was so garbled, I only got about half of what he said. Causing me to wander the streets of Omaha in the semi-dark of early morning, where street signs are a rarity. Most are MIA and the ones there cannot be read in the dark. I finally called him and with help, got back on the right path, to pick him up thirty minutes later than expected.

We arrived at the treatment center, I told him I would be waiting in the lobby, reading my book. It never occurred to me I would be there until nearly 1:30, sitting, standing, walking, gnashing my  teeth, aggravated beyond reason, trying to be calm, polite, agreeable while seething with frustration.
Nearly an hour past the time when I understood he would be finished, I had to go looking for him. Reception desk team reported he had another half-hour of treatment, then an hour of education. Arrrggghhh. One thirty in the afternoon is no where near a quarter past ten in the morning.

This has happened to me once before: an appointment that goes on for hours past the posted time. On and on and on, while I sit and wait and wait and wait. Getting more and more annoyed as the minutes and hours tick by, not knowing when the rider will be finished and released to go back home. I hope I will always be capable of appearing calm, holding opinions within when I consider what the people are facing, dealing with, going through. I know they are Dealing with Life-Threatening Problems. But to have me thinking: One Hour, and have it turn into two or three or more is so inconsiderate.

about that drive...

... wandering in the woods when I was searching for the man in need of a ride from Omaha. I plugged his address into the GPS (which is badly in need of updating, info. being from 2013.) and hoped to drive right to his house. I'd called him for instructions, but his speech was so difficult to understand I knew I needed assistance. That GPS lead me astray. It has happened before, causing me to tell people all the time it is not 100% trustworthy. I will be more cautious, and hopefully better informed in the future.

About Omaha: I know nothing. I have been one time before, but I don't recall why I would have gone, as it is truly at the end of the road. Literally and figuratively: the signs say Dead End. There was a bridge that has been closed, definitely ancient and probably unsafe for heavy loads, but the road leading in, that used to take people across the river now stops at the bridge, going nowhere. Some miles south of town, there is a newer, higher, more modern bridge spanning the Chattahoochee River, for vehicles to travel. The man I was transporting reported that his family, and I assume many other residents, would drive across the new bridge, and north on 431 to get to the largest nearby town for necessities: groceries, medical care, etc. Interesting that you first have to travel to a different state to get where you want to be.

The only business I saw in my brief visit was an unmanned set of gas pumps. I assume you use a card to pay prior to pumping, but there was simply a paved area, lighted canopy, and six gas pumps, sitting quietly, waiting out there in the dark. No attendant, no signs of activity, no indicators of business, no convenience store adjacent. No humans manning a register in a seedy curb store to chat with or buy a pack of smokes.

 I knew from media reports someone has started a little brewery in Omaha. I suspect it had a lot to do with the fact that there is absolutely nothing going on in Omaha. The only place that one might find a living breathing body to converse with was the teeny, tiny post office. I believe the town was once a bustling community. It would have been a stop on the river for commercial boats that would travel north from the Florida coast to Columbus, located on the fall line, where the water becomes too shoal-y to traverse. Boats would bring goods/supplies to isolated, rural communities, then pick up outgoing products like cotton, as well as being a source of information when delivering mail and printed news.

Omaha is situated on the  banks of the Chattahoochee River, but a body can only spend so much time fishing, or falling into the river due to inebriation. My assumption is that there are some guys there, probably fairly young to be so fascinated with the production and consumption of adult beverages, who started some home brew on a lark. Thinking they could buy the basic ingredients, equipment for production that could be re-used, thereby considered an 'investment' and produce for private consumption in the privacy of their own homes.  After a few cold ones, they became so entertained and amused with their brewing skills, the light bulb came on above their wee little brains, safely tucked away inside several craniums. They thought: "Hey! We could start a business and sell this!" What great fun, drinking our days away! "Yay, we will be self-employed, and the world will beat a path to our door in beautiful downtown Omaha!"

Omaha Brewing Co. is open for tastings: every day except Sunday, in the afternoons. I assume they stay up  late drinking, and sleep until noon, then go to work to do it all over again. Watch for the sign on the left after you you turn off highway 27 south. Pass through ten miles of woods, and begin to see signs of human habitation.

thought-full quote...

... from a book so un-memorable I will  not provide any information about the title/author, etc. But came across a sentence that was so worth sharing, I wrote it on my bookmark. I plan to take the book back to the library, only half-read, and drop it in the box, unfinished.

"I know a cure for everything: salt water... in one form or the other... sweat or tears or salt sea."
Karen Blixen in the "Seven Gothic Tales".

I think I recall she wrote that amazing "Out of Africa" book that was made into a movie with Meryl Streep and Robert Redford. A gorgeous scenic wonder of a film with those wide shots of the savanna and sweeping landscapes of a sere continent.  I am also believing I remember she wrote under a pseudonym, Isaac Dineson? I have not read anything she wrote, though this quote tempts me to do a little research to find some of her work, spend a little time with her.

The book I am not telling you about is a series of stories about someone who had seventeen brushes with death. Fiction, but unsettling nonetheless. No more facts to be shared here.

the monastery of the holy spirit...

...is east of Atlanta, just outside the I-285 perimeter highway that circles the metro area. I was persuaded to go on Monday, with family and friends. It was a cold windy day, but thankfully plenty of vitamin D floating around in the atmosphere made the weather bearable. Someone, the person who is a most excellent self-promoter, was having a birthday, and announced weeks ago her desire to drive out and poke around amongst the bonsai trees the cloistered members of the monastery are growing.

We went years ago, with a neighbor who was obsessed with bonsai growing. I don't know if it could be considered an addiction in the way alcohol or tobacco or gambling might, when interventions and support groups are appropriate, but he did love bonsai. Probably had several dozen growing on custom made tables in his back yard, and was forever out there trimming, watering, nurturing and admiring his crop. I did not know about the greenhouse there at the monastery, open to the public filled with ancient gnarled trees near Conyers, but was persuaded to load up small children and drive with the neighbor to visit the facility. He purchased a couple of plants, and mysteriously claimed at the checkout to have 'forgotten his wallet'. I am still suspicious about that exchange, though I was repaid, and that man and his little stunted trees are long gone from the neighborhood.

It has been at twenty or more years since we were there, and I didn't remember that the place had such a huge gift shop - always hazardous with small children. You know how you cannot exit many public facilities, gardens, museums, without being forced to wend your way through the part of the building set aside specifically for sucking funds out of your pockets?  This place had not one but two gift shops. And I did not spend one red cent.

The rest of my fellow visitors on Monday bought cold sandwiches and drinks, self-serve, from a big cooler, from a un-manned cafe, and someone paid for my soda. I made up my mind a long time ago I would not purchase or eat concession stand food. You know it will not be good. It does  not matter how hungry you are, it is not going to be good food.They reported the eats were fairly good, but made ahead sandwiches are only one-half notch above concession stand food in my opinion.

But I kept all my funds to myself. Oh - no, wait: I put $5 in the donation box, and my last $2 in the offering box in the chapel. Since that was all I had in my pocket, that was all they got.

infinity mirrors by Yayoi Kusama

Drove up to Atlanta last Saturday to go to the exhibit at the High Museum. I was invited by a family member who bought tickets months ago, so long in fact, that I did not know what we were going for. It had been weeks ago that the date was marked on  my calendar, and I failed to make a note as to what we would see. So anything at all would have been a surprise for me!

It was a number of 'installations' by an artist who was born in Japan, Yayoi Kusama, moved to the US for most of her life, and then returned to the country of her birth, where she now resides. It was interesting, but not really my definition of art. If you had to define, it would probably be more towards the 'craft' end of the creative scale, but I suspect much of the actual construction was done by paid workers. It is possible all the work we saw was done by the artist, but my thought is that as one becomes more successful with greater publicity and therefore greater income as art work is purchased by patrons, the mundane aspects would be done by others. I cannot say for sure.

It is likely a traveling show, and will be disassembled and shipped to other museums as part of a tour. I will hope the exhibit is well attended and successful where ever it might be viewed. But I suspect many of the ticket holders will say: 'I could do this'. It was interesting, and I enjoyed the day - more for the people I was with than the art viewed. It was a cold rainy day, so I can say I was pleased to be inside and out of the weather, with people I love, amused by the company.

ponder this....

...  and let's try to figure out where we went wrong? When you are at your youngest, you are in need of caring adults in your life. If not actually 'of age' full grown, legally-able adults, at minimum people who are older, capable of providing the basic maintenance all infants need until they can become self-sustaining.Then you eventually become able-bodied enough to provide the basics of life without assistance. As you become more and more independent, you grow, mature, become educated, either in the halls of education for the fortunate few, or out in the world where you get the 'hard knocks' variety of street smarts. Both of which have value, though acquired in different forms.

Your daily work might be going to the water source miles away to bring home water for sustenance, that must be boiled before using. Or spending your day searching for food to harvest to feed yourself and family. You might put on a suit and shiny shoes and go to a huge man-made monument, where you are sitting at a desk in a climate controlled environment each day. Either way, you are spending many waking hours doing what you feel is necessary for survival in the society you inhabit.

Remember when you were young? Looking up at the older people in your life? Whether these individuals were parents, older siblings, care givers or total strangers. Admiring them for the skills they had acquired, the advances they had made as they carved out a place for themselves in the world. Considering them from your vantage point to be 'successful' and independent adults, as you looked on from the position of youth, envying the visible indicators of wealth? Your definition of success will vary with the culture, society you inhabit: it could be cattle, or land, or big buildings, or vehicles, or just the number of other humans under your thumb. All reasons for those who are without to be envious of those who appear to be superior.

Now, from the perspective of years: it is obvious that we never achieve that end-of-the-rainbow position of 'success'.  No one can actually gain the complete independence we so admired from afar as young people dreaming of financial success and all the accoutrements that we saw as benefits. Even those people who give the appearance of being at the tippy-top of the food chain will still have to answer to someone. There will always be people in authority, no matter who you are. No matter how you feel you might be at the pinnacle of success with thousand dollar shirts/shoes, gated estates with multi-level houses, unique cars, funds hidden in banks in Switzerland.

There will be someone waiting, standing by in the shadows, observing from generation to generation. Younger, faster, more willing to put forth that extra  modicum of effort to climb higher. Might be a board of directors, might be citizen armies who are finally fed  up with the excess of the people in high places, while others are struggling, with starving children. May be agents planted to weasel their way into an organization searching for flaws, people who have kept silent, but know what will bring the whole pyramid down. Possibly people charged with enforcing rules some think do not apply to the wealthy or feel they are above the law.

You never get to the top, to a place where there is no accountability. That pinnacle is a mirage. No matter how lofty your goals, your desire to be one-hundred-and-one percent independent, there is always going to be someone you will have to answer to. Maybe courts of law, maybe your own under-developed conscience. Were we designed with some inherent accountability? Having recently had several conversations about how humans were not created to last forever, bodies were designed to wear out, have parts fail creates questions about mortality as well as morality.

the birthday girl...

... was born on a really cold day in January, sort of like right now!  I think the cold got well below freezing  last night, down into the low 20's, which is pretty unusual for middle Georgia. Even though the state's peach farmers are dependent on enough cold weather  for a productive crop, being miserably cold is no good for my personal comfort. Not a fan of below freezing temperatures for weeks on end, I cannot imagine living someplace like Michigan, or Alaska or the north pole.

Her dad loved to tell the story of the night she was born.. Never tiring of retelling about how inconvenienced he was by the weather, without the first syllable about the person who did all the work by forcing a brand new human being out of her body. We had been to some classes that were supposed to make me better prepared for the event.Which is absolutely ridiculous as you are never ever ready for the trauma of such an occasion. Even though, it is something you brain soon forgets when it is over and you are given the new person, cleaned up and swaddled with a wee cap on top.

The weather report was predicting severe overnight ice, wind, freezing temp., and that day thirty six years ago was remarkably cold. With the days before Jan. 21 being chilly with steadily lowering temperatures.I should have been more aware that the dad was a chronic worrier: a person who would relish fretting over things he could not control. Perhaps due to DNA, as I recall his mother being a person who could devote inordinate amounts of time fretting about everything in the world. Or  possibly the fact that he had been in the insurance business for many years:advising people about protecting property, preparing for disasters, both personal and financial.

He was so industriously fretting about the possibility of icy roads, causing driving problems, he was insistent we should get our XXL bountifully pregnant self to the hospital long before it was really necessary. Looking back, I assume due to the possibility that he might have to become personally involved in the delivery. He was willing to be a witness, an onlooker to the process, but not a participant. I must have been close enough to 'ripe' for the ER to admit me. I am well past the age of fertility, but still recall how much I did not want to give birth in public: have assorted complete strangers wandering about, only marginally interested, observing the process.

The version of the story the other parent has told repeatedly: It was so cold in the early morning hours when he finally left the Medical Center to go home,he had to heat up his car key with his cigarette lighter to melt the ice on the door lock, to get in his cold car. And when he got home, there was no electricity, power out due to limbs breaking and pulling down lines, meaning the house was cold and dark. He came back to the room I was sleeping in, pulled two chairs together and went to 'bed.' Where there were generators to keep the building lit, warm, humming with power.

Eventually power was restored, the mother and new person were discharged, we all went home. Here we are thirty six years later. My, how time flies!

driving blind...

... well, not precisely: but when you are doing it in the dark, even with headlights, there are always plenty of surprises! Like random deer that come dashing out on to the roadway for no apparent reason. Or fascinating lumps of road kill that appear then vanish before you have time in the pitch black of night to identify - while being thankful you were not the cause of the demise. Then there is  a vast assortment of mystery items on the highway: shredded pieces of wooden furniture or the cushions fallen from trucks that vanished in transit. Leaving the owners to scratch their heads, assume puzzled expressions on arrival to their destination, while thinking 'hmmm, I was sure I put that (fill in the blank) on the back of the truck....?'

I have been back and forth to Decatur in the dark twice in recent days. A return trip on Saturday afternoon to be able to get enough sleep to be coherent when I had to clock in at work at 5:00 am on Sunday. Another drive up to the metro last night, when I did not want to be traveling in the early morning, risking slippery conditions on the highway. It was so cold on Sunday, with no expectation of warming, I was fearful of icy roads. Those little yellow triangular signs warning 'Bridge ices before highway' were foremost in my mind when I decided I would rather be making the trip in the dark before the temperature dropped below 32.

The drive to the city on Saturday was due to an invite to accompany family members to a limited viewing of an exhibition at the High Museum. It was a cold rainy day, making me thankful our plans were for an indoor venue, experiencing the finer things in life in a climate conducive to comfort. More about that later...

Getting in the car and deliberately leaving home after dark is most unusual for me. I am much more likely to be up before daylight to travel, than even having the thought that I should plan to wait until the sun goes down to start on my trip. Up at four or five am., and on my way The only exception I can recall is many years ago with small children secured into car seats, hoping to drive all night to get to NOLA in peace, rather than listen to them whine the entire trip. Their dad re-decided and changed my brilliant plan, so it was an exhausting trip for all parties. If I should ever attempt another drive to New Orleans, I choose for me to be the one who gets to sleep the miles away!

guilty...

... IF charged, though it is profoundly unlikely anyone will ever step forward to cause me to be in a position as 'defendant'. When family was in town last week, they were very helpful with getting a number of large bulky items to the non-profit retail shop as donations. Including a couple of things that should have been left behind: folding aluminum walkers. I think there were three in the carport. I am most thoroughly appreciative to get all that stuff moved and out of my life, but would have reserved those supports for handicapped assistance. Oh, well...

They donated two, and left the third one, thinking that it could be offered to a friend who has a parent in declining health, beginning to be un-steady on her feet. It is apparent providing some support would be a good idea, help her to maintain balance, and giving a sense of security when walking. Help to provide a bit of stability as well as allow for continued independence.

But the one they left behind was already on loan, borrowed from a friend. The loan was a semi-gift, with no expiration date, not necessarily needing to be returned. But I knew where it came from, and wanted to do the right thing, so she has it back. (And I have another item out of the carport!) Which brings us back around to the friend who could use a mobility device for her mom.

So: I hijacked a walker. One of those really fancy, first-class jobs, with hand-brakes, a cushioned place to sit and rest, and a little storage bag under the seat. Painted red, with four wheels instead of just the two, so it does  not require stolen tennis balls to be added to the back legs to improve mobility, ease of movement. It was not necessary to knock over a decrepit senior citizen, so I plan to plead not guilty of elder abuse.

Probably best that I not confess to the origin, so I won't report where the device was located before it mysteriously ended up  in the back of my car. It folds, to be more compact and portable, but I could not figure out how to collapse the legs. Leaving the back hatch of my car ajar until help was found who had experience with mobility equipment. Once you know the secret, like most things, it was profoundly simple to fold it up.

It was nasty: cobwebs, bugs, dust, icky hair on the axles. I cleaned it twice, then left it sitting in the sunshine for some fresh air. Wipe again with disinfecting wipe, and put back in  my car to deliver. That friend did not show up when I expected to see her at a once-a-month meeting downtown, so it was returned to my carport. Meaning I am back to square one: Walker storage. She has not called back with her address for me to leave it on her front porch, but I will donate if they don't want.

delivering for the third time...

... when the man had another appointment for treatment at the cancer center. It is likely the last time I will see him, even though he has to go back for several days next week. While we were driving into town to get him to his early morning treatment, I remarked that there were requests for more rides after the weekend. He responded that he would have to be back four days next week, with appointments through next Thursday. I said the request was confusing, as the schedule indicated he only needed someone to help him get back home, and there was some uncertainty in my mind. He said 'you will have to talk to sis'.

I did. Sis said the ride-arrangers got it all wrong, and yes, he did need transport for all four days next week. I was trying to work out something with the people who coordinate, sending out ride requests by email to all the people who do/will/can provide transport .My efforts failed, as I cannot do it Monday or Tuesday. So I am apparently done with driving Sam. He was pleasant enough, but not nearly as talkative as Sis said he would be. Although he did remark when I was in the wrong lane, or my turn signal was on too long.

The interesting thing in all this, my compulsive volunteerism: a surprising willingness to go out of my way to provide assistance for total strangers. You remember how your mom was constantly warning of dangers? As soon as  you were old enough to pay attention: Never accept rides from strangers. Never get in the car with someone you do not know. And of course, that all time favorite: 'Do not take candy from strangers!' (With October 31 being the exception.) We were all frequently cautioned about those evil people who would ask if you would help them find the lost puppy, or what ever they had 'misplaced' to lure the innocents, when they would soon part with their innocence.

Daughters, now adults, still recall the 'secret password' we decided upon. And will readily describe how they were instructed to expect to hear that confidential information before deciding to be transported in a vehicle with a stranger. Caution is always in order when there are creepers creeping around eyeing the naive and guileless.

I realized when I went to a gathering of volunteer drivers in early December that I seem to have no hesitation about driving/riding with total strangers. Thereby entertaining angels unaware? As we sat and talked, in the comfortable home of one of the coordinators, I mentioned how, as children, we had all been trained by parents to exercise extreme caution. How surprised I was at the ease with which that same caution had been thrown to the wind once I decided to be part of the Road to Recovery program. People in need, who were struggling with things far more vital than filling a gas tank or knowing the tires were good. Focusing their concern on life itself, surviving the poisonous effects of the treatment, possibly worse than the deadly spreading cancers.

Amazing and sort of confounding to realize I have absolutely no hesitation to drive into sketchy neighborhoods, or places I have never been, willingly taking a request that requires me to drive a ninety-five mile round trip. Hauling a complete stranger to a fifteen minute appointment, then returning him home again. I hardly had time to find my stopping place in my library book before he was out and ready to go!

delivering a man, again...

... for the second day to his cancer treatment. I was a little better organized, able to get out of the house and on  my way in a timely manner - so much so, my arrival in the small town of Cussetta was about fifteen minutes before expected. I took the time to roam around and drive up and down the streets of this small burg that is the county seat of Chattahoochee County, just south of Ft. Benning.

The whole county appears to be struggling to survive. There does not seem to be much of anything in the way of industry or sizable employment firms to support the economy. Much of the housing on those side streets appears to be rundown mobile homes or other forms of pre-fab housing. I am often thankful that I do not live in a trailer, or a community of people who are reduced to the lifestyle of those who inhabit mobile home parks. I know there are places where large populations live in comfort in such pre-fab homes, like all those retirees who were desperate to get away from ice and snow, now enjoying perpetual summer in Florida, or southern states along the Atlantic and Gulf coast. I am so un-nerved by the potential damage of hurricanes along the coast, I am thankful to not own real estate there.

But most of the individual trailers, or communities I see with dozens of them in row upon row, are so sad, neglected, and depressing. I am constantly reminded of the necessity to be grateful for a sturdy roof over my head and comfortable home. As I travel south Georgia, leaving home in the dark to make a round trip in one exhausting day, there are so many of theses houses out in the landscape. People who would, I assume, never be able to afford the space they are living in, if it were not for the
'box business'.

While they are new, beautiful homes, fresh off the lot, I know those people must be delighted with their purchases. But over time, due to the quality of building materials, and possibly the benign neglect of the homeowners, they give the appearance of slowly sinking into the landscape, gradually growing a junkyard of decrepit vehicles, neglected toys, surplus building materials, weedy grasses, kudzu that covers the southern hills like gravy on biscuits. Making us all look like rednecks...

book review: "Rainwater"...

...by Rebecca Brown. Oddly, there was no publication date on the box, or any information about the publisher.   Read while driving to Valdosta and back on Tuesday, meaning it was a boxed set of six Cds.  Nearly perfect as far as the time it took to listen to the story while I was in the car for six hours on my one day road trip to south Georgia, leaving about seven  in the  morning, and returning in time to fall into bed, about 8:30 that same day.

I'd made a stop at the library on Monday afternoon aware of the necessity to keep my mind occupied on the road, without spending half the drive time twirling the dial looking for entertainment on the radio. Picked up three talking books, with the hope that at least one would be interesting enough to maintain my attention while I was driving. This was the first one I put in when I started out on my travels at 7 am on Tuesday morn., going to tend to the auntie.

The story is set in the depression era, between the two world wars, early 1930's in a small, probably fictitious town in Texas.  Ella Barron runs a boarding house, inherited from her family, and runs it with the help of Margaret. Living with Ella is her son Solly, who has some obvious learning disabilities, though this descriptive term was unknown at that time. Solly is probably autistic, demonstrating what we now can identify as classic symptoms, not verbal, intense focus on items at hand, uncontrolled hand movements, not wanting to be touched. Solly is befriended by a new man who is introduced to Ella by the town physician, who hopes Ella will take Mr. Rainwater in. This new boarder takes an interest in Solly, as he has time to observe and begin to get to know this young boy.

Ella is understandably very protective of her son, and questions the strangers motives, doubting the idea that the child is capable of basic education, as well as fearful there will be attempts to institutionalize the boy. Mr. Rainwater seeks permission and begins to work with Solly, discovering his is in reality a savant, and more able than anyone realized. Ella is told by the doctor that Rainwater is dying, needs someone to care for him in his last days. As  you might expect a relationship grows between these two people. living under the same roof, attempting to be circumspect as society expected in that age of proper dress and mannerism.

It is a sweet tale, with characters that begin to grow inside your heart and mind, described in such a way as they seem to be real. While reading I envisioned this story turning into a movie plot and began to choose the actors who might portray each individual as I followed the story. Recommended for light reading, and as you probably expect, a tear-jerker at the end.

delivering a man...

... to his treatment at the local cancer center today. He lives south of Ft. Benning in a small town below the post, and needs a ride into town for an appointment this morning at 8:15. So I should be driving, heading out to pick him up instead of sitting here trying to get caught up on the blog. People who know what has been going on in my life in recent weeks will likely find this little endeavor- driving all over- strange. There is virtue in busy-ness.

I've been doing the Road to Recovery driving for a couple of years, going to pick up people who need transportation to their appointments, getting them to the needed treatment at the John B. Amos Cancer Center, locally referred to as JBACC, proununced 'Jback'. The man I will drvie for today lives down in Cussetta, and has to be at his appointment at 8:15. It is at least a forty-five minute drive to get to him, and at least that long to drive back into town to get to the appointment, near the medical center.

When I called the contact person to get info., I spoke to his sister, who said he will talk your ears off. I am guessing he does not drive, even though she reported he is 71 years old. Has some mental issues, and though he lives alone, I surmise he likely was never taught to drive well enough to get a permit. The sister was very appreciative of the R to R drivers jumping in to help with transportation, as she said her vehicle is seventeen years old and she worries every time she gets in and turns the key in the ignition: will it or will it not?

I am going to drive him today, tomorrow and Friday. Three days x two trips per day = 6. By the time we make the three trips in to town for his appointments, and the three return trips to get him back home again, I may be in need of replacement ears?

drivin' and listenin'...

... when I drove to Valdosta and back yesterday while listening to a book I grabbed off the shelf at the library for entertainment on the six hour trip to south Georgia and back. The process of sorting the auntie's  household continues, with taking several items that had family history and memories attached for donating at the local history museum and cultural center. Due to the fact that I did not want these items and had no idea what else to do with things that were over one hundred years old.

There was a large framed collage that had marriage certificate for my grandparents, along with an invitation to their fiftieth wedding anniversary party that was held at my parents house. You would not recognize me in the photos: I was a bleach-y blond due to the influence of college room-mates. Guile-less, naive, young innocent who was lead astray in a number of ways when sent off to college: receiving much more of an education than my parents would have intended or suspected. 

That framed assortment included the blouse my grandmother wore when they got married, I assume at the courthouse in northeast Georgia where she was born and raised. The blouse was dark brown, a surprising color for a blushing bride. I expect she made it herself, and put many hours of tedious hand stitching into the manufacture of her carefully chosen attire. The fabric was a very thin, diaphanous material that looked like organdy you often would see curtains made of years ago. Almost transparent, nearly see-through, that would have required layers underneath to preserve modesty. I wish I had known about her choice for wedding wear, as I would've had to ask: why dark brown?

Interesting the things that end up framed and hanging on a wall when you think they need to be preserved for posterity, but you don't really know what to do with them. The other item of note that went to the cultural center was also framed: my auntie's baby bonnet. Another item that was made of delicate, with meticulous hand stitching, as well as tiny embroidery rose buds for trim. My grandmother was an expert seamstress, made many practical items of clothing for me over the years, as did my mom: who claimed to not have the needle work skills of her mother. In reality I think my mom chose to not take the time, devote her hours to the finer points that were more tedious and required painstaking attention to detail.

There were also some smaller items: photos of a class at the school where my mom attended, with dozens of unidentified faces. Several picture postcards of points of interest from 'back when', of buildings that no longer exist. A photo of the church my parents were married in, that was torn down in the middle of the last century: a beautiful building, with dozens of hand made stained glass windows, irreplaceable beauty now gone. Sorry I did not take pix. of the postcards to share...

recycling...

... or maybe  not. I think trying to protect the environment might be more accurate for the project yesterday. I volunteered to be part to be part of the group that was taking unwanted, un-used, expired pharmaceuticals and over-the-counter medications. This event was advertised on TV, probably a public service announcement, so there was a pretty good response from the general public. It was also promoted by a flyer inserted in the water works statements going out to all the households in the city. I had to wonder if people who live in densely populated areas, like apartments or condos get separate bills for their utilities each month, or some of that expense is covered by their rent payments. We can assume the best response would be as a result of a blanket coverage, but since that would be a very expensive proposition, not sure of the most effective method to let people know.

While I was 'working' (standing around in the chilly, breezy parking lot just off the interstate highway, easily accessible and convenient for anyone on the north side of town), I began to wonder what the most efficient method of spreading the news might be. I don't watch television, and I am not the person who receives and pays the monthly water bill, so unless there is a different method of publicizing, I would have been in the dark. Except for the fact that I volunteered myself to be a member of the board of the organization that sponsored this event.  Email correspondence from the office of Keep Columbus Beautiful provided me with info., as well as the opportunity to pick the two hour slot I preferred as a volunteer.

The County Sheriffs' Department sent several deputies to accept the drugs, as they were accepting any and all medications people wished to dispose of. All prescriptions, any sort of over the counter medications, whether they were still usable or expired.  I had a bag full, and thought this day was the perfect opportunity to dispose of dozens of containers of a variety of medications no longer needed. Plus some 'patent medicines', normally sold over the counter, things like Alka Seltzer and pain killers, Pepto Bismol, and remedies for the common cold/cough.

The one thing I discovered the deputies would not accept was needles of any sort. They would not take sharps to recycle: I assume because the metal would  not burn. When I was doing this same thing, volunteering to help keep meds out of the environment, last year I asked 'what happens to all those drugs?' The deputy reported that everything is taken to an incinerator in the northern part of the state, and everything is burned. Needles would not, so now we have to wonder what is done with those sharps: possibly contaminated with blood. Where do they go? You see those little red boxes mounted on the wall in the cubicles at medical offices for disposal, but what happens after that?

For the longest time we could put a jar of used insulin needles out by the front door, and someone from the city services would come and pick them up. Dropping needles every day in an empty gallon water jug, with the lid screwed on and taped shut, left out after a call to notify trash route supervisor we needed for the jug to be picked up and disposed of. So now, I have to wonder: where did it go? And with the city no longer accepting syringes as hazmat materials, where are we supposed to take them for safe disposal?

forever rescue-ing...

...bloomed out bulbs at work. I brought home a half-dozen pots today, all with those tiny little bright yellow daffodil-looking things, that might be classified as jonquils. Plus a dark rosey  pink hyacinth. I will try to get them planted tomorrow, while the sodden landscape is still trying to dry out from all that rain we have had in  recent weeks.

I have planted a number of different bulb plants, saved from the dumpster, after we take them out of inventory. I just slip them in a big trash bag, after removing bar code, to make it apparent I am not shoplifting. Not being sneaky, as many people saw me taking my trash bag full of pots, dirt and limp greenery as I walked out the door. I am thinking I will go to wally world to see if they might have some sort of fertilizer in stock to sprinkle in the hole before dropping bulbs in.

The bulbs all have green leaves, long, skinny, sword shaped, very narrow. And each one has blooms - a tiny little mini-version of daffodil. Looking exactly like a daffodil, but only the size of the end of your pinkie finger, at the end of a slender stalk. I can only hope they will bloom again, in the future, definitely not this season, as they have produced all they are gonna for a while. I am hoping that with some good rich fertilizer, something designed especially to promote growth for healthy bulbs, they might after sleeping in the dark over the next year, want to bloom and produce more flowers next spring.

Embarrassed to admit, when I was out in the yard late yesterday, going down the street for a walk after all the house guests departed: I found several pots of bulbs brought home last spring that were never transplanted into the ground/leaf mulch out under the trees. They want to grow so badly, they are sprouting, beginning to show little green shoots, in spite of  months of neglect. With luck, and more importantly - motivation - I will get them all planted tomorrow. Sunshine would certainly encourage me to want to get out side, so we might as well hope for a sunny day too!

book review: "Whiskey and Ribbons"...

...by  Leesa Cross-Smith. Another of those recently published tomes randomly chosen off the shelf at the library when I was in need of a distraction. After reading the back cover reviews and possibly the inside front flyleaf, it came home with me. I have mentioned how books are chosen so haphazardly, either in print or Cd, with the knowledge that should it turn out to not capture my attention, I am under no obligation to read all the way to the boring end. Readily returning those hundreds of words without a second glance. I've also more recently developed the ill-mannered habit of starting in the middle: just open it up and see what 's going on. Where, should the narrative be sufficiently riveting, I will go back to the first page in order to find out how all those people and circumstances came to be - what got the plot started and brought those characters together.

The first line in the book is in the voice of the  main character, Evangeline, who reports she was sleeping when her husband was killed in the line of duty. He was a police officer, shot by a teenager when he went to respond to a call for a domestic disturbance,  even though he was off-duty, on his way home at the end of a shift. She was nearly nine months pregnant with their first child. The story is told from the different points of view, changing voices with each chapter, of the family members: her husband Eamon, his brother Dalton.

The couple met when Eamon was serving as security, an off duty job at the church where Evangeline was attending. They started as casual friends, even though in the course of the book, when the story is told in Eamon's voice, he reports knowing when they first met he would marry her. Eamon and his brother Dalton are very close, only children, actually raised by the same parents after Dalton's mother died, as Eamons' mom and Daltons' mom were best friends.

Characters were well developed, with lots of interesting detail to make them come to life, as if you had actually met them by the time the book ended. It was so easy to get involved, feel as if the reader were right there, sharing time, eating meals, listening to conversations sitting on the couch in front of the fireplace. A well written tale, with characters you feel you know by the last page. Not wanting the story to end  you are so immersed in their lives and circumstances. Waiting for the next book, or another chapter in their lives.

part-time part-timer...

... as a result of having my work hours dramatically cut back since the first of the year. I knew it was coming, but still, not relishing the idea of a see-through paycheck, so thin it is nearly transparent.  The end of the year was fairly good, due to several people feeling an urgency to squeeze in the last few days of vacation. Years ago, during that narrow window when there was an actual 'vacation with pay' in my life, it was truly a novelty. I was so enamored with the idea of someone paying me to not work, I would have been perfectly content with just having that 'thought' to hold on to, without actually getting that week of pay while not clocking in.

Several weeks ago, before the New Year, a couple of coworkers had not used up all their allocated time and it was getting dangerously close to year end. At one time you could/would be paid for unused vacation days, so if you would rather have funds than fun, you could work and be paid to not go away. That does not exist now. These co-workers requested the time after Christmas to 'spend' the last of allotted vacation days, giving me a bit more work which resulted in a fatter payday. That is over now, and my working hours and paycheck have gotten ridiculously sparse. I know the temporary time of famine will end with a bang in early February when the season of 'Nelly-bar-the-door' happens in the days prior to Feb. 14, Valentine's Day.

When I started with the company over twenty years ago, all I wanted was a little income, working a couple of days a week to put a little jingle in my pocket - something I did not have to ask for, or be accountable for how it was spent. Still have the time to do things with family, be flexible to attend school events, while feeling like the paycheck was mine alone, without strings. I am sure most of what was earned went towards meeting the needs and wants of two teenagers, but even so it was gratifying to paying my own way, out of my own funds.

The trouble with part-time is there is little to be had in the way of benefits. Even though the company has a good reputation, winning awards for being employee friendly as well as superb customer service, unless you work enough hours to qualify for those perks they offer workers after a trial period, there is not much to be had for people who never advance into the ranks of those forty-hour-a-week people.  Benefits scarce as hen's teeth.

My goal for several years has been to work a thousand hours per year Hard to feel like I am getting that accomplished when January rolls around and there is a week with eight hours of work, then another with twelve, and next week is five. It will eventually accumulate, but the sparse hours and scare employment this time of year makes me a bit anxious.The best benefit of the company, in my opinion, is all employees receiving company stock at year end if you meet the qualifying parameters. Which I really make a concerted effort to do: keeping up from week to week with my hours worked to insure the accumulation of 1000 from one October to the next, prior to my anniversary/hire date. Barely squeaked by this past year, due to being off for weeks nursing my broken hand. And getting off to a poor start, again, as the days of being on the work schedule seem to be few and far between. Hopefully things will pick up...waiting for the season of roses in February.

book review: "A Parchment of Leaves"...

... by Silas House, same author I recently reported on here who wrote another book that was so readable I requested others from the library. In truth, I have not finished this one, but have found the people living on the pages so interesting I will give it my stamp of approval even though I have not completed the story.

About a woman named Vine, a full blood Cherokee who marries a man she falls in love with, Saul. They move to be near Saul's mother, and build a house, start a family. The following is a quote from Vine, as the story is written in various voices of the characters:

"Daylight is the time God moves about best. I've heard people say that they like to watch the world come awake. But the world is always awake; sunlight must makes it seeable. In that moment when the light hit the mountain, when the sun cracked through the sky big enough to make a noise if our ears could hear it, I would be aware again of all the things that had been going on throughout the night. Morning just made it easier to hear. Light takes away the muteness."

I thought of my mom when I read this talk of the earliest part of the day. My mom, the person who got up long before dawn and started her day. What ever it was that she had going on.  Drinking black coffee and getting things done. In her later years, after I was out of the house, and would return, my dad had put a timer on her coffee pot, so it would be ready for drinking as soon as she made her way to the kitchen.

I am sure the act of being up at four or five a.m., starting on a pot of caffeine was part of the reason she would be ready to go to bed so early. She was ready to crash by the time it got dark, partially due to having put in a full day before the world was even fully awake, getting her daily work done, taking care of business. And, of course, if you get up in the wee hours, by the time the sun has set, you have put in a full day, and ready to go to bed, creating a vicious cycle of odd sleep habits, like people with bodies that have adapted to reversed sleep cycles due to work requirements.

The House book is a sweet story of a woman who lived through hard times, peopled by families who had no choice but to make the best of their circumstances. Lives filled with primitive conditions, harsh realities, but they were people who could see the beauty in the world around them. Observing the changing of seasons as tiniest leaves began to show in the springtime, shady mountain hollows in the heat of summer, brilliance of autumn and bare deciduous tree forms and beauty of evergreens in winter.

sent...

... from the person who perpetually saves amusing videos for me to watch when we can be together. This was just one of many saved to make me laugh, which I did, and immediately said: 'that is definitely something that is blog-worthy'. Sent to my email, which I enjoyed all over again, but needed supervision in order to move here. The fact that it is not true makes it no less amusing. I would not get in  my car and drive anywhere after having had  even a barely-alcoholic beer. Meaning: the above is not really me, just hilarious.

a long conversation...

... with my sister in law several days ago provided interesting food for thought.

It was last January, when my brother spent about two weeks in the hospital following a very risky and unsuccessful surgery. He was diagnosed with a tumor the end of December, with plans to do surgery on the second day of the new year. He called to tell me about it, and I made arrangements to go and see him, traveling with a daughter to visit before the surgery and spend time with his family while it was underway.

Everything about it was traumatizing. The doctor was highly qualified, and very capable, part of a group of excellent neurosurgeons in Richmond. But he was unable to remove enough of the rapidly expanding growth  to feel the surgery had been a success. Tom had a really hard time getting over the effects of anesthesia as well as extensive risky surgery that removed a section of his cranium to access the spreading tumor. I think the doctor was surprised at the size, and aggressive nature of the evil growth spreading in his brain, fearful of causing more damage than good. Sewed him up and hoped he would wake after such a dramatic invasion into his head.

They decided to not pursue the misery of radiation or painful excruciating process of chemotherapy that would not actually provide resolution, but possibly extend the misery. When he was recovered from the hours-long surgery well enough to be discharged, they returned home. With visiting nurses from hospice, many loving friends to provide meals, a number of compassionate sitters.  Constant support of family and church members over those months he was at home where he wanted to be. Cared for by a loving devoted wife. Until the end.

I am sure there were times when she thought she might simply go crazy. Sleeping in a chair to be there when he awakened multiple times each night.With him at home, day after day, week after week, never more than a few steps away in the next room. Close enough to hear him when he called her name, and she would respond to his needs. Always nearby when he would call out her name. I think she told me, one of the times early last year when I went for several days, hoping to be helpful, that she had left the house maybe five or six times in that months long period. Never wanting to get out of earshot if she could do something for him.

She told me when we talked recently how surprised she was to discover all those things she and he, and they, thought so important, activities they had been involved in were no longer priorities. Things that had seemed so necessary, been of such great significance, commitments that had seemed  obligatory were of no consequence. All those events on the calendar, those dates and appointments that had been so diligently noted as crucial to their daily lives, with a change of perspective suddenly of little import.

But I do remember laughing. When he would startle awake, after dozing off in a chair, or awaken in the middle of the night: alarmed that he had some sort of 'project' he insisted he needed to get to work on. He was a chronic 'project' guy, always had a 'honey do' thing going on - things taken apart and reassembled to put in good working order. Always something he was doing for adult children: toys for grandkids, home improvement  work for adult children in their houses, things that all homeowners are constantly repairing.  Squeaky doors, leaking faucets, cluttered gutters, a handy man can always find something to occupy their time. No end to the 'projects' that need attention. He was really sick, but his mind was still so alert, busy, wheels spinning, and he would suddenly start telling us about something he had to get up and go do, some small task left unfinished he felt the necessity to finish. Not physically able to undertake anything he had going on the planning stages, but still wanting to get the job done. Never wanting to leave anything unfinished.

The conversation has left me thinking about things that I have felt strongly about, things committed to that might not be top priority right now. Making me feel I need to step back and reconsider that urge to be so dang dependable. Look at those random volunteerism projects in my life to which I devote time and attention that will either get done or not. If I don't jump in and provide the effort, either someone else will take up the slack or they won't. Not essential that the effort be mine. Just consider what is, or should be, a priority.

about the moving quilts...

... that I thought I should rent when I knew we would be moving furniture that could be easily scraped, scratched, marred, beat up, abused. Thinking that getting some padding from the U Haul store might be the best/easiest solution for keeping stuff from getting banged around in the back of an open truck bed. I stopped by place that sells moving supplies, and has storage units available to ask for details about getting some blankets to cushion the wooden bed frame, dressers, tables and chairs. Right on the way home, headed out towards the east side of town.

The young person working in the office said: 'Oh, we don't have those. Do you want to rent a truck?' I had to wonder if she thought I would start off with the small stuff and work up to transporting my goods? But I said, 'No, just something to pad furniture with.' She said, 'Oh. You have to go down to Tenth Avenue for that.' I asked if it would be OK to say a bad word, as I had just come from Tenth Ave.? She agreed that would be OK. I did. She then suggested I could also find some padding blankets at the office on Box Road, only six miles away instead of ten or twelve, but was unable to provide me with a phone number to call.

After several more bad words on my way home, looked up the number on the internet in this 'post-phone book' world. Called to ask about renting quilts for twenty four hours. Discovered I was required to make a 'reservation' for the loan of a package of six blankets, costing five dollars. But in order to make a reservation, I had to provide them with a credit card number, to assure that they would get my rent  money. A great big whopping five bucks, right?  That person on the phone kept trying to sell me stuff: 'Do you need to rent a truck? Do you want to add on a storage unit? Are you going to need to get a trailer? Will you need a hitch with that?' She was very well trained, or maybe reading from a script. I politely declined.

 I went down to the Box Road U Haul store on Friday afternoon. Stood in line for half an hour, as that was a very popular place for all those people who were planning moving parties on Saturday, renting trailers, trucks, hand dollies, getting hitches installed, etc. It finally got to be my turn, and I whipped out my portrait of Abe Lincoln to pay for renting furniture padding. I thought it would be a quick in and out, since I had given the person on the phone all the info. the day before.

Then he looked at my five dollar bill and said 'If you are paying cash, I will need a sixty dollar deposit.' I said 'Is it OK if I say a bad word?' He did not respond, so I kept it to myself. But ...really?
I pulled out my wallet and got out three twenties, saying 'I will expect to get these same Jacksons back when I come back tomorrow afternoon.' He gave a blank stare. And then, oddly enough, he did not take my fiver. But only took the 3 x 20s, and said I would get back fifty-five upon my return.

OK. So I need a receipt for that sixty bucks you took. He looks down at the receipt he just printed, and said: 'Oh, hmmm.... there is nothing on here about your cash deposit.' I suggested he would include the fact that I just gave him three portraits of Andrew Jackson, not expecting they would go any place other than the cash drawer. I got a new improved receipt and left with my six crappy, cheap, crummy, ratty, ugly blankets.

Upon returning the moving blankets to the store, I got a refund of $54.60. They would have charged me five dollars a day for every day if they had not been back onsite by 6:00 pm on Saturday.

drove to south...

... Georgia Saturday morning. And did  not have a minute of trouble out of  my Toyota. That was a very expensive education: paying to get it fixed twice and did not even get any credits towards graduation. I do not expect any more problems and hope to regain full confidence in being able to take it on the road without concerns for it being less than completely dependable.

Apparently the real experts, guys trained to do the work right the first time at Toyota dealership did their job. When I picked it up late Friday night, everything seemed to be in working order. I did not want to drive another vehicle to Valdosta on Sat.- mostly due to knowing I could get down there and back on one tank of gas in my car. Versus paying an arm and a leg at the pump if I drove the big pickup truck with a forty gallon tank.

The auntie was moved to another wing of the facility where she has been living since summer of 2017. Her health, mentally and physically, has declined to the point that she needed more care and a more attentive staff than was available where she has been since moving there. The change is to an area where there is a much higher staff to resident ratio, more eyes on residents and more hands to provide care to people with more chronic and acute needs. Relocating included having her sleep in a hospital bed rather than the one she had at home, that was moved with her when she left home. The decision was made that she would be in a semi-private room, so there was much less space, as opposed to the small, but private room she has been living in for the past eighteen months.

All the furniture that once filled her bedroom at her home, and since filled her small space in the assisted living facility was stored on site when she was moved. I had no idea what the storage situation was like, but knew it was temporary, and it had to be remedied. Complicating factors at home caused me to spend a month fretting about who/how/when the remedy would occur. Finally able to devote a day to leaving town and make the run to south GA.

This furniture moving project required a truck, some packing blankets/quilts/pads and a couple of guys with strong arms and backs. After calling a friend to recruit some help, who offered to be the guy with the truck, he also said he could get some men to do the heavy lifting as I knew that the l'ifter' would not be me. They met me at the rest home down the moss draped lane, loaded up dressers, tables, bed and  miscellanea, carefully wrapping and securing on the back of the truck. Delivered and unloaded back at her house, where there will eventually be an estate sale.

I left home at 5 a.m., drove for three hours, got that stuff squared away and paid my moving team. Started back north by 11:00, driving another three hours. Thankful that is taken care of, and something I do not have to think, worry, fret about any more. I do not know that there is a date, or if there are any specific plans for wrapping up household goods, just thankful this has been turned over to professional people who are knowledgeable, experienced, willing to handle all the detail. And especially thankful they will take it off my already too full plate.

arrrggghhh...

... oh, did I say that already? Well, let me repeat myself: Arrrgghhh! This mess with my Toyota has been so frustrating. Yes, I do know it is a mess of my own making - which is the worst kind, knowing you cannot blame anyone else for the sticky situation. Sooooo aggravating, and since I was the one who pulled the trigger when shooting myself in the foot, I will try to be patient in the process of resolution, but it is trying...

After two trips across town, and a payment of nearly two hundred bucks, I was (sadly misplaced) optimistic the problem had been resolved. When I went to the curb store to fill the tank, I could only pump about four gallons. Convinced it should take more, as the gauge on the dash was showing the fuel level  in the tank was less than half, I was baffled. But stopped when the nozzle on the pump quit, indicating that the tank was as full as it could get. There is a little button on the steering wheel that will reset all the numbers on the dash to go back to zero for miles driven, let you know what amazing mileage you are getting in a Prius, and also provide info about how many more miles you can travel before needing to stop for more fuel. It also resets the fuel level indicator, to show that you did guy gas, added more to move the level from low to full. Therein lies the problem. That little fuel indicator device will not reset.

This is akin to driving a car with the indicator missing, so you have no idea how much gas you have. You could be safe to drive three hundred miles in the efficient little Prius, or you could not even get through the intersection to coast into the nearest gas pump. No way to know where you actually are between the full line and the running on fumes mark on the dash.

Upon calling my new BFF James who has tried to help me through this vehicular crisis, I asked him what he would have done if his own personal wife had come to him with a ridiculous, foolish, stupid, dumb, half-crazy problem like the one I started with. Brought on by my own ignorance. His response was he would have likely done nothing! Nothing? Nothing! Just let that gunk in the system work it's way out - it was a petroleum product, and would probably do no harm. Which means all my efforts to resolve have only compounded.

I took it to the dealership this morning, and left it, with the service guy agreeing he would pray over it before turning it over to the mechanics. I expect to pay about two hundred more bucks just to have the diagnostics run. A best case scenario is having nothing more than a computer glitch, and the fuel gauge easily reset by the guys when they connect it to the computer. Worst case is pulling the gas tank again, and replacing a defective part that is probably the size of your thumbnail, a wee bitty computer chip that provide the info. for indicating the level of fuel in the tank. Without which just driving around the block is risky business. Arggghhhh.

misplaced...

...spring. The photos of the daffodil blooming in my front yard and the pink hyacinth barely poking it's head up out of the leaf mulch were both taken on December 31, 2018. Amazing that those things you expect to see in March are here and putting forth color. There are most certainly hundreds and hundreds of spring bulbs planted out in front of the house. Most of which were rescued from certain death when they would have otherwise been tossed in the dumpster at work after blooms had faded.

My dad was very convincing when he told me years ago that once a spring bulb had been 'forced' to bloom at a time that was not normal/natural for flowering, they would never perform well again. Not disagreeing with him, but trying to give those hardy, persistent, determined bulbs every possible opportunity to put on a show.  I have brought home dozens of pots over the years and dug holes to put them in the ground, randomly scattered out under the hardwood trees all around the house. Narcissus, multiple colors of tulips, different sizes and shapes of daffodils, hyacinths in a variety of colors.

Delighted to see what ever they want to produce, every single bloom making me smile as I turn off the street onto my driveway. Admiring daily new blooms as they pop up, when I drive down the hill, looking out at glorious smiling spring colors surprising me as they peep out of the drab brown winter accumulation of leaves. I am sure all this rain in recent days and weeks has had a effect, as well as unseasonable warm temperatures - which is why that daffodil I saw two days ago, now has more buds opened and there are four of them blooming in that little clump.

even though...

... my funds are lighter by $185, the problem with my car is not resolved. It sat unused in the carport for several days without going anywhere. I was either driving that big honking pick-up truck, or riding with someone else, leaving my car to rest at home. It was Monday the 31st before I had reason to take myself someplace, and drive the Toyota that had been in the shop last week. With several errands to run, I organized myself planning my route, that would include a stop at the gas station in front of the nearby wally world.

This Murphy Gas is where the sad incident occurred that left me with a gunked up gas tank, fearful of driving any place besides home, where it sat for days before I decided to turn the mess over to someone else. Where upon I called a friend, told my embarrassing, distressing tale and said: 'can I just give you this problem to resolve?' My plate is too full and I do not want to deal with it. He immediately agreed, and set about making arrangements. A tow truck, and a shop on the south side of town that specializes in radiators, fuel line mishaps, with a willingness to take on issues related to owner stupidity on the side. It was in the shop two days before I got it back.

And it sat in the carport again, for several days while I was chauffeuring The Man Who Lives Here to appointments. On Monday, I decided to go back to wally world and fill it up, along with several other activities that needed my attention.  Started to pump and soon found a huge puddle of fuel under my car, and deadly gas fumes in the air. Oh, s#!t. After telling the clerk in the kiosk about the mess on the apron, I drove home and parked it again. But not in the carport: out in the yard, where it would not burn the house down if it decided to spontaneously combust. Where it has been since Monday afternoon.

I called the friend who was so willing to jump in and help, to ask him if the shop might be open on New Years' Eve. No such luck.  It remained parked out in the trees, dripping or not, over New Year's Day, waiting for the shop to reopen. I've kinda kept an eye on it, out there, sitting under the trees a bit  fearful it might burst into flames. With great reluctance I drove to work, about four miles away. Smelling the very distinct, unique odor of gas fumes the whole way - wondering how it could be such an overwhelming odor after sitting in the fresh air and rain for two days.

We made a plan to take it back to the shop as soon as possible, when the guys would be back in the shop, open for business today. Where it sits now, hopefully having the problem really resolved. The Man Who Lives Here just suggested it might smell so strong,like a busted fuel line, because the gas leaked into the back seat, soaking carpet in the flooring. Oh, great. Just great!

my mom said...

... you should not start anything on New Year's Day that you are not willing to do all year long. The thing I specifically recall was subject of conversation had to do with sewing. I had intentions for cutting out some article of clothing I had purchased pattern and yard goods for, to start the process of making something to wear. She cautioned me about proceeding with the project on the first day of the year, saying it would cause me to be doing that same type of work throughout the weeks and months ahead. I think I was young enough to accept her adminiton without question, but now will think of it as one of those 'old wives' tales' that get passed down from one generation to the next.  A hundred years ago, or even more recently, when nearly everything we wore was had made, I can understand the desire to avoid being stuck with ongoing assembly or repairs every single day of the year. What a seemingly unending project spending day after day, week after week cutting out and sewing could be.


She also warned me about doing laundry: washing, drying, ironing, folding, putting away. I assume the process was such an onerous chore before mod. cons, no one wanted to doom themselves to an entire year facing a mountain of dirty clothing. I do recall when Monday was the designated laundry day, and homemakers would devote an entire day to getting a week's worth of dirty clothing ready to be worn. Clearly remember my mom taking a load of cold wet laundry out on a blustery winter day to hang on the clothes line. And then bring it back in to iron every piece when it was dry. It is a rare day when I do not appreciate all the electricity we use and all the modern appliances that power is used to operate. As well as daily thankful for the ability to turn a faucet and get a seemingly endless supply of potable water for cooking, bathing laundry.

Even with just two people living here, I could get up a load of laundry every day of the week. I am often baffled as to where it comes from, as we are not particularly dirty people. When daughters were small and could go through half a dozen outfit changes in the course of a day, the necessity for daily washing and drying was a fact of life. But with only two of us, I am have to wonder if the neighbors might be smuggling in their things to add to ours. A seldom seen friend told of being convinced that her neighbors were bringing in dirty dishes to pile up in the sink: she could wash everything and by the time it was dried and put away, more would mysteriously appear.  Two small children likely explains everything.

So what to do on this damp,dreary first day of the new year?  I was planning to clean out a closet full of who-knows-what, sorting and trashing, possibly donating to non-profit. But it  stands to reason this type productiveness would come under that same heading of excessive, and something no one would want to do over and over and over all year long. It has been stacked with stuff since the interior of the house was painted about ten years ago, forcing me to get everything out. And then just meticulously re-filling, as if doing a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle to make it all fit. I guess today will be the day to sort and donate: that sounds like a good thing to be doing through out the next twelve months, with the ultimate goal of less stuff in my life.

book review: "Southernmost"...

 ... written by Silas House published in 2018. Lately several books I have picked up at the library have been recently printed, found on the shelves of newest additions to the collection. A published author, he is also a contributor to the New York Times and was a commentator on Public Radio. The jacket only provides a brief biography, listing awards won, but I suspect he lives in the South, possibly Tennessee, as this is the setting at the beginning of the book.

Asher Sharp is a minister of a small church in the Cumberland Valley. The book opens with continuous rain, causing a massive flood. Houses, vehicles, livestock, mobile homes, people all washed away unless they were safe at the top of the mountain ridges. Asher's son, Justin, goes out looking for is missing pet, Roscoe, who ran out the door and disappeared into the rain and the dark.
Justin returns with two men, neighbors who had their newly built house carried away in the gushing waters. Asher's wife believes the men to be gay, and refuses to allow them to take shelter in their home.  Asher begins to recall when his brother Luke left home years ago, when no one in the family could accept him. Luke has lately been sending cryptic messages on cards, with glossy photos of sunny scenes, posted in Key West.

Asher is removed from his position in the church, and finds himself at loose ends. He is changed by the men who moved to the valley from Nashville, wanting only to live in peace, but finding no sense of community in the small town where no one can accept their alternative life style.Asher tells his wife he cannot continue to live the way he has, in a narrow-minded, judgmental environment. She flies for divorce, and is granted full custody of their son.

With an 'I'll show you' attitude Asher takes the youth and drives to Key West, desperate to spend more time with Justin, hoping he can find his estranged brother and make amends. The title of the book is a reference to the Keys, with the tip of the Island chain being the southern most point in the US. It is a well written story, peopled with interesting characters, thought-inducing conversations. I enjoyed it so much I will try to find some of House's other books to read.