Moving Into 2025

The calendar behind me as I sit at my desk

January 2025 is half over already. I have spent the first few weeks remembering to write "2025" when a date is required on anything, clearing out (more) clutter, preparing for another year of volunteering, and, of course, reading. (It has been pretty cold lately, so my indoor reading time has grown.) Add to that activity a deeper dive (my toes are in the water at least) into our household finances, and that captures a lot of January at the halfway mark. 

On the clutter front, some progress has been made. Last week we took a carload of donations (household, shop, other) to Goodwill. Just this week, I (finally) emptied, recycled, and either disposed or saved three boxes (from holiday gift shipments), clearing them off the coffee table in our downstairs study (which is presently also serving as a holding station for Hyer Percussion). Gone, gone, gone.

Along with good friends and colleagues, I am gearing up for the 2025 Justice Bus season, which will begin the first Thursday in February. I am the attorney wrangler. I also advise. New to my mix this year is cooking. After hearing and seeing clients struggling with being able to afford food, we are adding food to the program. Just something hot and transportable (think crockpot shredded turkey, for example). We have always had "snacks" (granola bars, for example), courtesy of our wonderful community partner Andrews House, but after several of us talked about the situation in November and agreed our clients (and volunteers) could use something heartier, I said I would bring a crockpot with the shredded whatever in it and the buns. We'll see how it goes.

On the grocery front, because I put this in my end-of-2024 post, I will note that our "only buy perishables (or something on a really, really whopping great sale)" January is going great. As of today, we have spent a total of $23.33. I push myself to get creative with our meals: a shredded apple/carrot salad when we did not have any salad green in the house, for example. It was delicious. 

The apple/carrot salad

I mention the groceries because that topic ties into a deeper dive into our household finances. The combination of my updated prognosis, Warren's business ramping up, and some short-term and long-term expenses—a transmission replacement (immediate), traveling to the Pacific Northwest this summer (not that far away), a new-to-us car sometime in the next 3-4 years paying in cash to the greatest extent possible (long-term)—is leading us to talk about ways to start saving for those big ticket items and to run our household frugally so we don't get off track. Even the small wins make me smile. For example, it turns out that because we are both over the age of 65, we are entitled to a 25% reduction on our monthly City refuse collection fee, which just went up to $27/month. That reduction comes to a savings of $81.00/year. Combine that with our City now charging a service fee on all utility payments made by credit card, debit card, or autopay (cash or check is still accepted without a fee), but waiving the fee if you submit an ACH form to have the City pull the monthly bill directly. You bet I got that form turned in ASAP. That's $1.95/month savings: $23+ a year. Combine those two savers and we're saving over $100.00 a year on our City utilities. Easy peasy.

And that brings me to reading. As of Monday, my savings to date from using the library in 2025 are $308.78. I kid you not. Great savings, great reading, great life. 

Bookmarks All Over the Floor

Bookmarks everywhere

My son Ben, starting in his early childhood and lasting into adolescence, collected bookmarks. Our local library had free ones that they rotated on a monthly basis, sometimes adding additional bookmarks for some holidays. Other family members, aware of his penchant for bookmarks, would pass along ones they had tucked away at home or that they came across during vacations or other outings. Bookmarks were inexpensive and found in every museum, gift shop, or other sites, and Ben acquired many that way. In short, Ben had a lot of bookmarks.

A. Lot.

I still have many of Ben's bookmarks, kept in a vintage popcorn box from our local vintage movie theater. As an avid reader, I always keep some at hand: one to mark my place in the book, and others to mark pages I want to return to for lines to copy into my current commonplace book (Volume 5). 

Ben's former collection, now my collection

So there are still a lot of bookmarks in this house. But the image of bookmarks recently rose to new prominence. 

In late October, Warren and I traveled to Rochester, Minnesota, for an appointment with Dr. Nelson Leung, my myeloma specialist at the Mayo Clinic there. My myeloma has been remarkably stable for over a year now and, after my June appointment with him, we were eager to have him weigh in with his thoughts as to my prognosis. 

The day before my Mayo appointment, my longtime dear friend Tani and her husband Tom (who is also a dear friend; I just have known Tani way longer) came down from Minneapolis to see us. I shared with them what we were waiting to discuss with Dr. Leung: where am I on the myeloma spectrum? I told them both, "I didn't expect to live this long! I'm not prepared!"

Tani laughed. "You'll just have to learn to be a little old lady like me!" (For the record, I am SIX MONTHS older than Tani.) We all laughed.

I was not exaggerating when I said "I didn't expect to live this long! I'm not prepared!" When I was diagnosed with myeloma in November, 2004, the average lifespan post-diagnosis was five years. Five. Seven to ten years was a stretch. And while my then (and still now) local oncologist Tim emphasized at our very first meeting "to pay no attention to the stats, because everyone is different," I nonetheless knew what the stats were. I just hoped I got enough time to see my youngest son, Sam, who was then 14, make it to age of majority. 

In the years that followed my diagnosis, there were up and downs, including the 2005 tandem stem cell transplants that failed in 90 days (which, as I learned years later from Dr. Leung, was a red flag marker for likely dying within the next 18 months post-failure), treatments that did nothing for me or set me back, and so. Just life in Cancerland.

So I never planned on reaching 20 years out. Ever.

That afternoon at Mayo, Warren and I waited for Dr. Leung to come into the examining room. And when he came in and we talked and asked questions and received answers and shared other information and talked some more, his bottom line emerged: I am very, very stable. So stable that I will not resume treatment in the foreseeable future, so stable that I can step back from labs every 4 weeks (when I see Tim), so stable that I can step back from going to Mayo so frequently, so stable that I can step back from...Cancerland.

Myeloma is incurable, period. But sometimes a patient will be so stable that it is almost like living without myeloma. (And, I do have two other myeloma-related blood disorders, but they too are very stable.)

All three of us were laughing and exclaiming and a little teary. I then blurted out to Dr. Leung what I had just said to Tani the day before: "This is great but I never planned to be 68 years old!" 

Dr. Leung laughed that another patient, also doing unexpectedly well, joked that he would have been more careful with his money management had he known.

I shook my head. "No, I'm not talking about my finances. I mean, I never expected to live this long and I don't know what to do."

Before Dr. Leung could reply, the perfect image came to mind.

"It's like I have been reading a big book, marking places as I go, then dropped it and all the bookmarks fell out. I don't know where all the bookmarks go!"

I am not sure I yet know where the bookmarks all go. After all, it's only been a month since that new prognosis arrived and it is still sinking in. Wherever I am in my book, I do know there have already been far more chapters than I ever expected back when Tim first diagnosed me. 

Bookmarks all over the floor. Trust me, it's a good problem to have. 

The 2024 Gardens: Part 9

A few weeks ago, while writing about my reentry into canning, I noted that I had taken down our kitchen garden (the Hej garden had gone down a few days earlier) with the threat of a solid frost.  I picked everything that was ripe:

Tomatoes filling our window sill

Or soon to be ripe:

Ripening

But the gardens themselves were down. 

Given the trip to Mayo (which went swimmingly well) and then some health issues with my Dad, I have not yet gotten back to clearing away the tomato vines and other plants that did not fit in the yard waste containers:

The kitchen garden after I tore most of it out

It's autumn. Our days have returned to balmy temperatures. There is a concert coming up (Warren is at the first rehearsal tonight), we have some other things going on, and I knew I would eventually get around to cleaning up the garden.

All in good time, my little pretty, all in good time.

Earlier today, I went outside to dig up some butterfly weed roots for a friend. I had collected a bag of seeds for her, but I knew from our own experience that you can also just transplant the roots and get a stand started that way as well. Scattered between the brick patio and the butterfly weed were...tomatoes. 

When I took down the garden, I picked all the green tomatoes I could, which went into the relish:

Some of the haul from taking the gardens down 

But I did not get every single still green cherry tomato: some fell to the ground, some were hidden in the vines, whatever. And sitting outside these last several days, warmed by the sun, left alone by the squirrels and chipmunks, those green cherry tomatoes ripened.

Ripe tomatoes.

Oh my.

Before we left for the Emerald City on October 27, I had just (just!) finished the very last tomato from this year's gardens. I savored the last bite, knowing darn well it would be June at the earliest before I tasted fresh tomatoes again. 

But here they were: riches at my feet. You bet I carried them inside and washed them:

The very last tomatoes! 

I had a few on my salad this evening. I will have a few more tomorrow and the next day. And then I will say (for a sweet, second time) farewell to the tomatoes for the year. 

Sometimes you find unexpected riches when you are not looking for them. Sometimes, even on the toughest of days, you find treasure.

Today I found treasure. 

The 2024 Gardens: Part 8

 After weeks of very dry weather, we got some of the spinoff from Hurricane Helene late last week. Not the horrific damage done much further south, especially in the mountains of North Carolina, and not even the hard winds and rains a few hours south in Portsmouth (OH) and the Greenup (KY) area, but enough rain and wind to both refresh and smack the gardens around.

On the heels of that event, and aware that October is now here, I knew that it was time to wade into the kitchen garden and do some harvesting. 

I again grew Trail of Tears black beans, a heritage bean. Warren built two structures for the beans to climb; those were great. We did not think about their placement, tucked in the back on the garden (one against the garage wall), with the agastache on one side and the cosmos blocking much of the way on the other. The agastache and the beans tangled together, not good for either of them. I planted fewer beans this year to boot. The beans grew, but the results were significantly less: about 12 ounces versus almost 3 pounds last year. Next year, I think, next year: different placement, different other things. 

The beans

The peppers got banged around by the weather, with some of the branches breaking off. So I picked a lot of peppers (albeit not a peck) and then spent this morning dicing most of them to freeze and cook with over the winter. We will enjoy the large yellow bells now in salads and as snacks.

The peppers (with some stray tomatoes hanging around)

The basil loved the rain and I may get a small third cutting of it, depending on how October unfolds. That made me smile when I saw it springing back yesterday.

The hardest loss was the cherry tomatoes. Oh, all of the tomato plants did fine for the most part with very little breakage. But the all-but-ripe cherries, which I have been eating happily for weeks, got waterlogged and split open. Not quite but almost a total loss. I know, I know, it's nature. There's always next year. But unlike my dear friend (and co-gardener) Amanda, who told me a few weeks ago that she is "tomatoed out," and unlike another dear friend Tani, who wrote me that she had just torn out her tomato plants for the year (she lives in Minneapolis and their season is different), I hang on until the last tomato. The. Very. Last. Tomato. We're not there yet, but even without the loss, I know that time is growing short on my tomato season. With luck, the green cherries will ripen, or ripen enough that I can finish them inside, and there are still some larger ones on the vine. But, dang, I all but wept seeing those broken cherry tomatoes. 

For lots of reasons, from the late start in this year's gardens (not making that mistake next year) to family events (Dad's move and the emptying of the house) to other external needs that intruded into my time and concentration,  I can safely say without fear of contradiction how I "thought" the gardens would go this year, including how much effort I would put into them, was nowhere close to reality. Nope. Still, we have eaten out of it and shared out of it and that is all well and good. And, optimist that I am, I have made notes and have some thoughts and ideas looking ahead to 2025. 

Why not? 

All These Days

 It has been a month since I last posted here. No surprise why. We have been consumed by clearing out my father's house in order to get it on the market by October 1. We will hit that deadline with several days to spare, but it has taken a toll on all of us—my brother Michel, his wife Kate, their son Timon, their grandson Arlo, Warren, Warren's son David, and myself. We have all pitched in to the last full measure, but the job has taken huge bites out of our respective schedules, other obligations, and health (in some cases). And it is not as if the rest of the world stopped spinning to accommodate the clearing out of Stuff. 

A few more items from Dad's house came home with me. A green sweatshirt (pullover, no hood). An eight-pointed serving bowl that graced our supper table for years. A few tools. One of dad's paintings. But not much else. 

This bowl dates back to the "Made in Japan" era

I have kinda sorta managed to keep up somewhat with the kitchen garden as I am having a boon tomato year. There is more pesto to make. The cosmos and the agastache are full of bees and butterflies and sometimes I remind myself to stop and watch them. 

Bee in the agastache

I have poked books and writing letters into spare moments, most often in the evening. For the first time in forever, I have nodded off more than once while reading. And at least one letter bore marks of exhaustion: writing my address instead of Tani's on the envelope, being off on the date by a month (when did September get here?). The High Holy Days are approaching and I have not given much thought to them and their importance.

Indeed, these days are full. All these days. I do not regret or resent the time spent on Dad's homestead, but we are all ready for it to be done. 

And it almost is. 

The Lure of STUFF

 I have written before about Stuff: the tangible items we fill our homes and lives with. You know what I mean: furniture, books, pencils, cookware, pictures on the wall, dishes—you name it, we all tend to have it (often in excess).

I try hard to eschew acquiring more Stuff at this point in my life. I noted in a long ago post that someone had challenged me on the sparseness of my life,  suggesting I really wanted to live a more luxurious life. The inquisitor loved (and purchased) lots of Stuff: tons of clothes, expensive meals in fancy restaurants, and pricey tickets to special events, to name a few.

Nope, wasn't for me then. Not for me now. If anything, I am often looking for way to lighten the overload of my Stuff in this house. (It's a long journey.)

All the same, I am in the midst of a test of my willpower to stay true to my principles and NOT add more Stuff to my life and this household.

As I have mentioned in recent posts, my father has moved into a one-bedroom apartment in an assisted living facility. (Wonderful move.) As he settles in, he has made it very clear that he wants very few items from his home of 54 years—no photos, the kitchen bulletin board full of more photos, most of his clothes, all but one or two books, and so on. As a result, his apartment is crisp and has a few items that hold deep personal meaning for him, but the rest of the Stuff of his prior life is not in the way. [And, for the record, Dad calls these items "Stuff" too. To quote him yesterday and today when I asked him about specific items, he looked at me and said "I don't want that Stuff here."]

As a result, my brother Mike, his wife Kate, their grandson Arlo, Warren, and I are taking the lead on clearing Dad's house of Stuff. There is a lot. A. Lot. And this is where I find myself being lured...

Last evening Warren and I went out to the house to deliver some items (for Mike and Kate to work with today) and we looked at a few things while there. Look at the pans—oooh. Oh, look at the blue ceramic serving bowl—ahhh. There was a snug-looking hoodie sweatshirt (a zip jacket) in Dad's closet (more about that later). 

My hand was on the bowl to "just" think about it. Warren and I pulled out several of the pans, which match some of ours. Then it hit us both: we have pans and plenty of them. As for the ceramic bowl, I have bowls that I like and those are more than enough. As for the hoodie sweatshirt, it came to me at about 5:00 a.m. (my usual waking time) that I have a hoodie zip-up sweatshirt, one that in fact Warren bought for me on a trip out west when I needed something warmer for a day at the Oregon coast. Whenever I slip it on, I think of that trip and smile. In short, we did not need any of these items, we lack the room for some of them (the pans, definitely), and we are more than okay with the Stuff we already own and use. 

But I confess: the siren call of Stuff caught me in the end.

I was opening various drawers in the kitchen to see what all was there. Potholders galore (decorative and "cute" if you are into that kind of thing, some of them still in the wrapper they came in, but not very functional for heavy-duty cooking and baking) in one. An outdated can of baking powder in another. You get the idea. 

And then in one drawer...

A manual can opener. Not just a manual can opener, but a bright red,  lightweight one. 

We have a can opener at home. It is large and it works well. It is also heavy. This one is red and shiny and light. This one had never been taken off the cardboard backing it was on when purchased for the staggering price of...wait for it...$2.00

I didn't even hesitate, but picked it up and brought it home. I took it off the backing this morning, opened a can zip-zip-zip, and smiled.

Yes, it's one more item of Stuff. But it's red. And lightweight. And...I can live with adding it to our home.

The 2024 Gardens (Part 7) and Some Other Updates

The Black-eyed Susans recently bloomed

I know, I know. It has been almost a month since I last wrote anything. Let's just say a lot (a lot more, that is) has happened.

On the home/personal front: Dad by his own decision moved into the assisted living portion of the facility that he has been at since mid-June. Medicare was ending his rehab stay and he had a few days to make the decision: return home or move into one of their AL suites? He had been speculating that "maybe" it was time to look at leaving the house, which he has lived in since 1970 (so a strong pull there) and which is not well-suited for a person with mobility and other issues. "Not well-suited," I say? Absolutely terribly suited. The house was built around 1840, which means some hallways and doorways are very narrow, and is made of limestone blocks. Large limestone blocks, which means a giant step from the porch into the house, among other things. My brothers and I held off on pushing him one way or another; when he would bring the matter up with me and raise some of his worries about returning home, I would nod, repeat back what he said, and add that I agree. In the end, in a Sunday morning call with his sister Gail (who lives on the west coast), he announced he was moving into one of the apartments at the place where he was currently in rehab. Gail let out a happy shriek, I almost dropped the phone, and we were off and rolling. That following Monday was move-in for us: furniture (yes, we hired a moving company), personal items from home, whatever, and that Tuesday he moved in from his rehab room to his new one-bedroom suite. It is on the ground floor, so he can watch people coming and going. "I saw you walking up," he announced to me with satisfaction last week. Yep, sure did.

The distance from my front door to his is .85 miles. I can walk it in about 17 minutes. Perfect. And Dad is happy. That is the very best part of this move. He is happy. 

Other great parts of the last few weeks: Warren retired officially on July 31 from the Central Ohio Symphony, going out quietly as was his long-desired wish. (How long? Warren told me 18 years ago while attending a retirement celebration for the then City Fire Chief that he wanted nothing like that when he finally retired.) There are still a few loose ends to help tie up; in a very small non-profit, especially one in the arts world, there are no clean exits, but for the most part he is done, done, done. And enjoying it immensely: he just walked into my study as I am finishing this and expressed great satisfaction at being home on such a beautiful morning. 

Actually, we DID have a small retirement gathering. That evening, we invited our neighbors on both sides to our back deck for snacks and sparkers (a 4th of July gift from a local realtor). The two youngest ones, 5 and 10, enjoyed the sparklers, and everyone enjoyed the evening, the root beer, the laughter, and the talk. Afterwards, Warren gave a satisfied sigh and said that was the perfect way to wrap up his career. And it was.

Some folks keep asking whether we are going to travel, what is Warren going to do to "keep busy," and so on. Ha. He has put his business and interests on the back burner for so long that he is now focusing on bringing his business (custom percussion instruments and repairs/rebuilds of others) back online that there is no worry about "keeping busy." Among other clients, the New York Philharmonic (yes, THAT orchestra) is eagerly waiting for his work. 

And then there's the garden. Gardens, rather. This morning I went out and cut basil for the first time:

Some of the basil from this morning

It filled a 13-gallon trash bag (and the lower shelf of the refrigerator); I plan on making the first bath of 2024 pesto tonight. 

Waiting for its close-up 

I picked the first zucchini of 2024:

More to come! 

Both gardens are going great guns, despite the late start. The tomatoes are coming on strong. It should be a bountiful year.

Kitchen garden

Hej garden

It is already a bountiful year, in my book. Between Dad's move (yes, we have a house to empty out and put on the market, but that is small beans given the enormity of his making his own decision to move), Warren's retirement and next phase of his life, and other ongoing projects (maybe I'll write about Justice Bus and my reentry into legal advising soon), we have full plates. 

I still go outside as dusk falls (earlier and earlier, to my enormous satisfaction) and sit and listen and watch. (In the last two months, I have missed maybe 3 nights total. Maybe.) The fireflies are fewer in number, but still out there. Katydids have joined the night chorus (previously mostly cicadas) and are singing fortissimo. And, if I sit long enough, I see the bats dancing in the sky. 

And that is an abundant life no matter how you measure it. 

The 2024 Gardens: Part 6

As I noted just a week ago, the gardens are flourishing. I finally picked my first tomato yesterday:

It's not going to win any beauty contest, but it tasted delicious at lunch today.

I picked that one in the morning. Last night, looking over the kitchen garden after some hard rain moved through, I spotted these on another plant:

Ooh.

There continues to be a lot going on here. My father is still in rehab (starting month 2), Warren is down to a little bit more than two weeks left as he winds up over three decades of being the manager and Executive Director of our local Symphony (there is so much to deal with both at his office and in our home related to that transition), my high school class 50th reunion was last weekend (I/we went and yeah, I might blog about that), and there are my own ongoing matters, starting with CLE. 

But the tomatoes are coming in and the fireflies still light up my evenings. 

Sometimes abundance just rains down on me. 

The 2024 Gardens: Part 3

What a difference a day can make! 

I had an email this morning from Amanda, a special friend who lives nearby, saying she would be glad to come over today (!!) and help me clear some of my garden (she reads my blog). I told her to come on over; the front door would be unlocked and I would be out back.

And she did.

As the goal is to remove as many weeds as possible before tilling, Amanda suggested that she yank and I whack the clumps against a bucket wall to remove as much dirt as possible before putting the weeds in the yard waste bag. Warren and I had drawn a rough plan of where things might go this year. Amanda knew that those areas were the top priority so that is where we focused our efforts.

After Amanda and I worked for 2 hours! 

Know this about Amanda. She is the age of my sons (35 this year). She has been in my life for almost 20 years (one of Sam's high school girlfriends). She has her own significant health issues, so it's not like either of us were starting from points of absolute health and vigor. But between the two of us, we cleared a significant chunk of the tomato bed and pepper bed. And even better, we spent two+ hours together talking about everything: classes, health, finances, families, gardening, meditation. In short, we talked about life. Just glorious. 

Before Amanda came over, I had an encounter with a nearby neighbor about one of his tenants who has been working hard to stay sober and put his life back together. R.C., the neighbor and landlord, has been in that tenant's corner in encouraging him, boosting him, and giving him maintenance/repair jobs at the building. "He has hit 20 months sober," R.C. said, smiling broadly. Having helped create adult treatment courts, I knew that hitting one month sobriety is a big deal; hitting 20 is a huge accomplishment and I said so. I looked at my neighbor and said, "R.C., you are a foundation for this person. Thank you for that. And thank you for telling me this story; it has made my morning and it is not even 8:30 yet."

So I already had that amazing moment with R.C., and then had an incredible morning with Amanda. As I told Warren before Amanda arrived, I was having an uplifted day already. And after Amanda, when he and I talked again, I used that phrase again, after saying to Warren that "uplifted" is not a phrase I tend to use. 

But it fits today. I have been uplifted by R.C. doing good things for someone who hit a low spot and is putting his life back together. I have been uplifted by Amanda saying, out of the blue, "hey, I will come help" and then sharing her love and energy with me. 

I have been focusing a lot on gratitude lately. We have (as I continually note) been running on overload for the last several weeks. I am still dealing with the fallout of my medical travails in the fall and winter. (R.C., who knows some of what I went through, did not hesitate this morning to eye me and say, "So, how are you doing?" and then nod and smile when I said it was a long road back but I am gaining strength and capacity.) So I try to end my days with thinking about what the day just ending gave me to be grateful for. 

What am I grateful for today? A chance neighborly encounter with a heartfelt story to share, a special friend who did not hesitate to jump into my gardening issues with both feet, and my deep appreciation for them both.  

Chasing Lights

Friday night's show locally; photo by Connie Skinner on Facebook

Back in 2010, our Symphony performed the Ohio debut of Chasing Light by composer Joseph Schwantner. That title played in my head early this morning as Warren and I found ourselves on a dark country road watching the sky.

Due to unusually strong solar storms this weekend, the Northern Lights (Aurora Borealis) were visible farther south than they typically are seen. Central Ohio was one of those places. I was not in good shape to try to see them Friday night, but many friends around here filled Facebook Saturday with stunning shots of the light show. (The photo above is one such shot; the Skinner families' farm is about 5 miles out of town.)

I have written before that I don't believe in bucket lists. That being said, seeing the Northern Lights has long been a dream of mine. So with that in mind, Warren encouraged me on Saturday with "let's go out and try to see them." We set our alarms for 11:50, got up, got dressed, headed to a dark country road, and...

Nothing.

Well, let me be more specific. No Aurora Borealis. But a light show in the sky? Absolutely.

The moon, a waxing crescent, was setting in the west. It was nearing the horizon, so was large. The crescent was dark orange and the part in the shadow, most of it, was glowing black. 

There were storms predicted last night up around Lake Erie, about 85 miles north of here. Just as Warren turned onto the road we were parking on, the horizon lit up with a brilliant flash. "Wow!," I shouted. For the time we were parked, the horizon flared a few more times with the distant lightning. I cheered every time. 

Overhead, the Big Dipper made itself known. I stared up in silence; how long since I had last looked at it? I mean, really looked at it?

After almost an hour of waiting, watching, and hoping, we agreed that it was time to head back to town (not far away) and back to bed. As we drove back, I talked about how unusual it was for me to be out so late. Forget "so late." Just how unusual it was for me to be out at night at all. 

I reflected that in earlier days, I used to accompany Warren when he had rehearsals and concerts in Mansfield, where he plays with that community's orchestra. Our rides home were always after 10:00 p.m., and because we took US 42 instead of the interstate back towards Delaware, we were often in the country with the night sky was spread out in front of us for viewing. The Dipper, Orion, all there for the taking. But I stopped accompanying Warren several years ago because my body could no longer take the long hours. And other than nights we tried too hard to drive home from Mayo to Delaware on the same day, I have not been out and about at night for a long time.

But my not going out goes beyond that. After the medical events of of this fall and winter, I have rarely stepped out at night, period. (The 4 a.m. drive to Riverside ER in Columbus back in August does not count.) I'm not talking about driving somewhere; I'm talking about just stepping out on the deck and looking up. I think I saw Orion, my favorite constellation, once this winter. Once. 

When we got home, I looked up again. The Dipper was still up overhead, possibly even brighter as the light clouds had moved away. I breathed deeply, grateful for the stars overhead.

I have not looked yet to see whether central Ohio is within the possible range of the Northern Lights tonight. If it is, we may (may) try again. I know Warren would love for me to see them and, yes, I would love to see them. (Warren has seen them, on a long ago trip to Canada with buddies when he graduated from high school.) So we may be chasing lights again. If it happens that we catch them, that would be wonderful. And if not, I still have Orion. And the moon. And the sky.

And I am still here.

Dogwood Blooms

When I started writing this post early in the morning, it had a much longer, messier title and I meant to ramble through several topics. But looking at it several hours later, I think I will hold it to one thought: the dogwood tree. 

There is a dogwood tree close to the east side of the house and it is in full bloom. The dogwood tree is elderly; Warren's parents planted it decades ago. When you stand in our bedroom, the blossoms of the upper branches are right outside the windows. When I do dishes at the kitchen sink, the blossoms of the lower branches are right outside the window over the sink. I do not know how many more springs the tree has left in it, but my heart lifts up when I behold it in full bloom. Lilacs are my favorite spring bloom of all, but nothing matches the stunning impact of this dogwood.

As seen from the backyard

Last fall, when I was whiling away my hours in the hospital, Warren and his son David put some drupes (the seeds of the dogwood) into peat pots and stowed them in the back of the refrigerator. Drupes have to have a lengthy, cold period before they will sprout. I have not pulled them out to see if we have any sprouts, but I think it is time to take a look.

I wrote that last bit this morning and, hours later as I finish this up, I just went down and took a look. Nope. No sprouts. Probably not going to get any, looking at it. None of us (David included) ever checked on them; I think they needed watered. I may water them after I post this, and then check again in a few more weeks.

In a day or so, I will return to the other topics that I meant to dump into this post. But for now, back to what is happening outside: a chorus of spring joy. 

Some Assembly Required

Photo by Tekton on Unsplash

Many of us out there spent more than one night before a child's birthday or Christmas putting together complicated toys for the next day. The box and the instructions always said "Some Assembly Required," which really meant "Anticipate far more steps, tiny pieces, and inscrutable instructions than you have ever seen."

That's how I feel about myself as I move forward as "the woman who lives afterwards." 

Some items/issues/whatever are resolved. I just completed in-home physical therapy today, way ahead of schedule. I speak with the surgeon Monday about the next step (removing the gallbladder, which has never been an issue but needs to come out per every single doctor who has ever seen the image or read the reports on it). The living room is no longer my bedroom (yes, that was the reality of the initial homecoming, as I could not climb the stairs—all 13 of them—to the second floor). In short, life moves on.

And yet...I am still picking up tiny bolts and saying, "But where does this go?" or "Wasn't there a special tool included in this package?" 

I am still assembling myself.

My friend Tani and I exchanged lengthy letters over the summer about accepting the reality of being disabled; we are are now discussing being OLD. Myeloma and 19 years of treatment had already aged me. This recent medical catastrophe just added to that. As I told my physical therapist as we concluded my last session, I know I have to be more patient with myself as I continue to regain muscle mass and physical strength, but I also have to be realistic about how far I can push myself. Some of that is recovery, which will go on for many weeks; some of that is age.

But I am walking again, as in "outside," and that is an absolute gift. 

Picking up some threads from my past, I may (possibly, likely, maybe) pick up tracking our food expenses again. That all came to a halt in August. I "could" have resumed tracking for November, when I was home again, but I lacked energy, capacity, and bandwidth to even try. December...maybe. I look back at my post on July 1 where I ask whether July can be lean and am pleased to report that July was lean: either $115.61 or $157.57.  The discrepancy is that in July, per both my oncologists' offices, I started drinking one or more protein drinks a day, and those run around $20.00 a box. It is food; it is not medication. BUT Warren doesn't drink them and it is so specialized that...you can see where I am going. 

I am both stepping away and back into some of my volunteer activities with our community legal clinics. Yes, I will stay with the Justice Bus project as an attorney wrangler; no, I have turned over a court/clinic joint project to other volunteers. 

I am reading a lot. A lot. (Best fiction read recently? The Berry Pickers by Amanda Peters. Just stunning.) I may (may, mind you) take up some long set-aside personal projects, although I think my initial focus around here is on getting rid of more of my/our clutter. (We have three types of clutter in this house: His, Hers, Ours.) I am not writing yet except for letters, some inserts into my long-gestational novel, and this, my second blog post post-catastrophe. 

It will come. I say that with hope.

In the meantime, some assembly required. Where did that little must-have-to-complete-assembly tool go? 

My One Wild and Precious Life

 

I did catch the last of the butterfly weed (this photo was taken in 2022)

My last post was three months ago today. Rereading it today, I see I was blithely taking stock of my garden and nattering on about how many medical appointments I had in August. 

What I could not foresee (who could?) was that three days later, two "routine" and "low-risk" endoscopic exams would set off nine weeks of hospitalization and skilled nursing facility stays (the first stay cut short to send me back to the hospital) for acute pancreatitis. Finally, on October 27, I came home and have been home ever since. Still a long road ahead as I rebuild core strength and muscle mass, but at least I am home. 

Home, home, home. 

Given that the earlier predictions had been that I would likely not return home until the end of November because of the severity of the extensive internal infection and damage, I was beside myself with joy as Warren picked me up to bring me home (the skilled nursing facility is about six blocks from our house). "Oh, look, the leaves are falling! I didn't miss fall after all!" I repeated some variation of that in every block until we pulled into our driveway. 

I still say it whenever we run errands. I still say it whenever I look out the window and see the last leaves of the season drop to the ground. 

This unexpected medical event was not only a shock to both me and Warren, but also a huge eye-opener as to the fragility of life and the unpredictability of time. We had always imagined I would die after a long, slow, fade-out from the myeloma and that there would be "time" to enjoy life together before that happened. Ha. I coded during my first hospital stay from sudden and acute hemorrhaging; Warren was present when this happened, so he got the full shocking impact of watching the medical team rushing to save my life.

A life-changing event? Absolutely. How could it not be? For him, for me, for us as a couple. Our lives moving forward will be forever shaped by this. It has been a crash course in what commitment means. For me, there is even a stronger sense of what Wilma Mankiller meant when she wrote about surviving a near-fatal accident: "there was the woman who lived before and the woman who lives afterwards." I am not the woman who lived before August 23, but I am very much the woman who lives afterwards. I don't know what that means yet, but here I am.

Contrary to my usual approach of being open about my medical status, we have both kept quiet about this one. Warren did not have the bandwidth to field questions about me, especially while he was launching the Symphony season and driving 25 miles one-way to see me in the hospital. He has spent hours and hours and hours with me, both while I was away and after I got home: caring for me, watching out for me, helping me recover. (As has my dear friend and former PCP, Pat.) But time to talk about me or answer questions? Heck, no. As for me, I had zero capacity for visitors while being treated and even after returning home. I had no capacity to even talk on the phone, let alone anything more. Even writing an email was a stretch for a long time. I am slowly regaining strength but I am still guarding my time and carefully watching my energy levels as I move forward into my new life. 

Besides the simple and stunning gift of life, there has been another upside to this catastrophe: a reset of my attitude. Talk about the scales falling from my eyes. I look around and think what an amazing thing life is. What an amazing thing the world is. I sit at the kitchen table as the sun comes up and watch its rays spangle the frosted grass into a thousand diamonds and tiny rainbows. I step outside to see the impossibly blue sky (we are having a prolonged fall of brilliant sunny days) and take in a deep breath while I stand there, lost in gratitude at seeing that vivid sky over me.

The late, great poet Mary Oliver said it so well (in so many ways and in so many poems); she was a huge advocate for the importance of nature to our well-being, seeing it as a life-giving, healing force in our sometimes narrow lives. Oliver's challenge from "The Summer Day" seems most apropos as I move forward: "Tell me, what is it you plan to do/with your one wild and precious life?"

As I take stock from where I sit, writing this, I wonder. There will likely be a garden next year (as you can imagine, this year's garden ended up in tatters with my hospitalization). I am starting to bake again. I have been writing. But the question remains: what do I plan to do with my one wild and precious life?

Time will tell.

This Year's Gardens: Part 6

 While the tomatoes take their sweet time about ripening and the zucchinis vines lounge around like long-ago debutantes in their big yellow blooms, the basil has been coming on like gangbusters. Enough so that I could cut quite a bit and make pesto this weekend. 

How do I make pesto? The very best "recipe" I ever read came out of the New York Times several years back. The reporters were on a hunt for the best in-house pesto on the menu of restaurants in the Hudson Valley. When they decided they had found the best (using such criteria as taste (of course), texture, and consistency), they asked the restauranteur if she would share her recipe. Absolutely, she said. She put basil leaves, olive oil, garlic, parmesan (or other) cheese, and pecans into a food processor and started it up. She would add more of any of those ingredients if she felt the batch needed it, and would throw in some salt and sometimes pepper. 

That was it. She made pesto totally by feel and taste and sight. Did it look right? What did it taste like? Was something missing? What was the consistency? Was it pesto to her? If not, then she would add this or that of the basic ingredients to make what she wanted and expected her pesto to be.

I read that article and adopted her approach wholeheartedly. It has never failed me. As an extra bonus, my beloved Grandma Skatzes comes to mind when I make pesto. She was almost entirely deaf and had very little vision in her later years, so Grandma cooked by feel and by taste. Although she never tasted, let alone made, pesto in her life, Grandma would have understood the approach immediately. 

I gladly share my "recipe" when asked. The recipe always baffles the person asking for it.  "So how much basil do I need?" As much as you want. "Well, how much olive oil?" Whatever it takes. Just trust the process and trust your senses. I think it is that last comment—just trust your senses—that throws the person off. Just trust my senses? What does that even mean?

Here is my weekend adventure in three abbreviated steps. 

Cut and wash the basil:

Throw everything in the food processor and hit the start button:

Check to make sure the results pass your personal pesto test (look at it, stir it, smell it, taste it):

If the end product tastes like pesto to you, you are golden! Pack it away in small containers (pesto freezes wonderfully) and clean up the bowls and food processor. Life is good. 

There will be more pesto making in the weeks ahead. In the late summer, I will let the basil go to flower (I have already been nipping buds off with my fingers) so the bees can enjoy them. 

And one of those days, one of those tomatoes will ripen! 

Decluttering My Day

 I am on Joshua Becker's "Becoming Minimalist" email list. I have an on again/off again attitude towards those emails; typically I skim them then delete them. But today's article, 20 "First Step" Decluttering Ideas, caught my eye. True to his style, Becker advocated starting small: Declutter the inside of your car (#1), Clear off your nightstand (#5). Baby steps to encourage the reader to take more steps in simplifying their homes and, more to the point, their lives. 

I have felt worse—increasingly worse—physically lately than I have in a long time. Okay, than I have in years. Warren and I head back to Mayo in June, and of course for now I am continuing treatment, but I have questions and observations growing in my mind. And those questions and observations are touching off issues of decluttering—not of the top of the refrigerator (#10), but of my life.

Back in February, looking at what the spring held for me in Legal Clinic, I identified three major Clinic projects, separate and apart from the ongoing assignment of clients to attorneys, that I wanted to see accomplished. One is done. One is almost done (and will be done as of this Thursday afternoon). The third is on hold at the other end of the collaboration, so there is nothing to do right now. Clinic is, for all practical purposes, decluttered.

I'm deactivating my Medium account as an author, I hope by the end of this week. Will I continue to subscribe to and read Medium? Probably. There are some great voices on it. Will I continue to keep my account open to write? No. Not because I am lazy. Not because I feel inferior to some of those great voices (I mean, it is cool to read Barack Obama). But because there is too little of me and, frankly, this blog suits me and my observations best. (There is an E.B. White quote to that effect about his own essays; he felt he excelled best in that format when he wrote about his small observations about everyday life, but I am not going to search my commonplace books to find it right now. And White wrote beautifully and strongly in many formats despite his self-deprecation.) So this blog will continue; my life is full of small moments.

Deactivating my Medium account will declutter the writing corner of my life. 

Today earlier was brilliantly sunny. I thought about being outside, but kept doing inside things, trying to work through how lousy I felt. At about 1:20 today, I crawled into our bed, shaking and miserable. On waking up some 20 minutes later, I came downstairs and followed through on an email I had sent my friend Cindy in which I said first I "hoped" to get back outside in the sunshine, then added '"I know, I know—I need to get out!" 

And I did go out. Yes, I carried some gardening gloves and clippers with the thought that I would do some early garden work, but I quickly set those down. Our deck furniture is still in wraps, so I sat on the deck itself with my back against the tarped furniture. I added a Zildjian ball cap to shade my eyes. And I started writing (in longhand) this blog while feeling the sun, looking up at the blue sky with its scrim of clouds, listening to the birds.

The notebook in which I keep progress notes (how I feel physically) was the only one I had easily at hand, so I wrote in the back pages of it. The cover of that notebook is titled "Here's To Strong Women" with subtitles under it. One of them is "May We Be Them." As I diminish a bit each day, I wonder whether I am a strong woman by continuing on? Or just a stubborn, nay, foolish one?

Back to Joshua and decluttering. In today's trash were my worn out winter boots (which gave me a severe painful callous that may have to be removed by the podiatrist in all likelihood) and the most aged and worn of my three pairs of Skechers, about the only shoes I wear anymore. "Being frugal is not the same as being cheap," say my favorite frugal YouTubers, Larry and Hope Ware of Under the Median. I had been holding onto the boots, despite their being worn out AND painful to my callous, and the shoes thinking—what? That I'd get "one more winter" out of the boots? Another summer out of the worn out shoes? (To complete the picture, realize that the boots have resided behind a living room chair where I tossed them a few months ago to get rid of them, and the shoes had been stuffed into a too stuffed closet since, oh, maybe last summer?) (#9: Declutter old and unused coats and other items from your coat closet.) 

Putting them in the trash, finally, made me feel I was entitled to take care of my feet. Sometimes I forget that taking care of myself is okay. Sometimes I let my mind get cluttered up with thoughts of I might as well hold onto the bad ones "just in case." Just in case of what? That I need to injure my feet some more? 

Another thought decluttered, along with a bit of our living space.

As I wrote out there on our deck, I filled up on sunshine and bird song. My body relaxed and gained some ground. I had to get up to replace the pen as the first gave out. (This is a household of many pens from conferences and percussion trade shows,; we have pens everywhere. Okay, that is cheap and frugal. But this habit also adds to the stream of waste in the world, so that part is not cool.) My knees, feeling every dislocation from my younger years, every step ever climbed/walked/knelt, let their displeasure be known. When I sat back down, I changed my position and thought about my increasing balance and mobility issues. Some of that upcoming Mayo time is in the Neurology Department, a first. For now, I'm not going to let that clutter my mind.

All things come to an end and so did my time on the deck. As I have been typing this, the sky has gone gray and overcast. But oh, the sun! And the birds! And life. That time outside reset me. So maybe, just maybe, I decluttered some of my soul and my heart for now.

A Longer Commentary on August

Yesterday's post was not a teaser. Truly. It was the best I could do after almost an hour of staring at a blank screen. 

Last night Warren and I talked about many things, as we so often do: how his day went, how my day went, Court issues, Symphony issues, what the weekend holds. You get the idea. (Yes, our offices are only about five yards apart, but there are days where we can spin off into our programs and meetings, not reemerging until supper.) 

For the curious, the weekend looks a lot like the week, except that I do not turn to Court work at all, and Warren tries to minimize Symphony work. Warren works in his shop; I do laundry and read. Our at-home weekends never fail to disappoint my close friend Cindy, who often starts her Monday email to me with asking me about my weekend, this past week asked "Did you do anything FUN over the weekend?" Keeping within our Covid-19 restrictions in this state, she buys feed, buys groceries, shops at Goodwill, and sometimes eats out during her weekends. When I pointed out that I am still pretty much on medical lockdown, she emailed back that I "must be" getting restless by now and ready to GO DO SOMETHING.

Not really. The one thing I really wanted to do—travel west to my family and then northeast to friends in Maine—got scrubbed months ago. Those trips aren't coming back this year and I have made peace with that. But otherwise, while I would like matters to be different, I am more than satisfied with my stay-at-home life. I have not been in my office at Court for over five months; all of us have had to learn new ways to do our old jobs. Life rolls on. 

As I mentioned yesterday, August has held some hard times. A close friend/colleague had a serious medical crisis erupt in her family and that hurt both professionally, because we had to work around her absence and the uncertainty of her return, and personally, because we are such good friends. The major medical crisis started to resolve positively when she found herself in ER. None of this was Covid-19, for which all of us are grateful. Other close friends are dealing with the death of a beloved dog. Someone else near and dear to my heart is struggling with major depression. There are some family stressors (larger family, not me and Warren) going on. In none of these situations can I show up and hug the person, which is what I want to do. I can only talk on the phone or text or send wishes into the air for them.

August has been heavy at times.

But the rest has been good. Today was the livestream funeral mass of a longtime friend and colleague who died back in the winter; watching that brought back wonderful memories even while I cried. I had a wonderful, uplifting long phone call with a young friend who is headed back to college for a career change and our talk reminded me of the joy and power of direction. Our Legal Clinic continues to operate virtually; I am the volunteer who assigns the attorneys so I have firsthand knowledge of who we are serving and how our attorneys are providing these people hope and advice and direction. The Symphony participated in its 6th Benefit in the Barn, tackling hunger and food insecurity in our county and one adjoining county. Go here to watch it; that's Warren speaking in the beginning.  Between the Clinic and the Symphony, I am reminded how I am always humbled with the strength of our community. 

And our Poetry Group started meeting again, by Zoom. That was a good thing, because Emily had been sulking. We meet again this Sunday and I can't wait.

Emily D. sulking 

And then there was a surprise this month: a stunning, amazing, never-saw-it-coming-ever surprise. About a week ago I received an email from a name I did not recognize, titled "Uncle Ski." 

Uncle Ski was my uncle, an engaging, wonderful man who died seven years ago. I blogged about him after his death; you can read my words here. So the title on the email was so specific that I thought it was not spam or a phishing attempt, and opened it.

It was a lovely email from someone, a man named Sam, who read my blog post all these years later and reached out to me directly. After thanking me for my words, Sam wrote "I really appreciated reading it because it gave me some perspective on myself."  Then he dropped the bombshell: "Your Uncle Ski was my grandfather." 

I had to catch my breath. I'm still catching it.

Sam and I have exchanged several emails. My stepcousin once removed (his mother was my Uncle Ski's daughter) is a writer and blogger. Imagine that. You can find his blog at All the Biscuits in Georgia. He just saw his oldest son ship off to his first Navy deployment, a fact that would have made Uncle Ski, who served his whole life in the Navy, immensely proud. I have given Sam my dad's phone number and encouraged him to call him; my dad, when I told him what had happened, marveled at the connection, then said, "Oh, I have a lot of stories to tell him about his grandfather." 

You could hear the anticipation in his voice.

Small Moment: Soup Stock

What is it about soup stock—so blessedly simple to make, thrown together from an assortment of scraps and discards—that can make the house smell wonderful even before it gets down to the business of coming to a boil?

The aroma of soup stock: that's what is filling our house this morning. Both Warren and I were out working in the yard, doing some cleanup before the winter sets in harder, and the moment I walked through the door, the aroma wrapped around me.