That's One Small Step For...Me

How I Step

As I wrote in my last post, I am taking steps to unplug (de-plug, turn off, step away, whatever word fits best) myself from the e-world and even just computers, period. I use a Mac Mini in my study; I turn it on only when I am working on matters like Justice Bus, paperwork for my dad, Hyer Percussion (my husband's business), tracking our monthly grocery spending (Spoiler alert: we're not going to hit that $200/month average!), typing this blog, or when, related to any of those things, I need to print something off. I turn it off when I am done using it for the day, which sometimes is by mid-morning. I use a Chromebook for more casual things (checking email, for example), and have gone back to shutting it off by about 5:00 p.m. I have a smart phone, but since getting it a little over a year ago, I have steadfastly used it for texting and calls only—no social media, no emails—so it too stays silent most evenings.

Unplugging sounds right and I know from past experience that it is the best thing for me to do, so that I can use my evenings for more personal tasks and matters. That being said, the habit of constantly checking things online is hard to let go of. Here's an immediate example: this afternoon I have a phone conference with Dad's longtime financial advisor. I will be joining Dad in his apartment and taking notes as we go. Last night, as I was penning this post out, I knew there was an email from the advisor touching on topics he knew Dad wants to address. I had to tell myself more than once that the email could wait until the morning. The meeting is not until 1:30; there was no urgency to go over that email in the evening. And it was a short email, not a detailed one, to boot! 

Vlogger/writer Anthony Ongaro used to have a site, Break the Twitch, in which he talked about this very point of constantly checking our phones, our emails, our whatever and how our brains were accustomed to doing this so much that it was an automatic reflex. Hence, the twitch and his suggestions for breaking it. (The site is still online but it is no longer updated.) 

I get the twitch concept. It hit me hard last night with regard to that email. I had to talk myself down from the twitch cliff. There is reading, writing, household tasks, paperwork (physical not online; Dad had massive amounts of papers in file folders that I am still sorting through): anything but jumping online to check that email, look at this, look at that.

I'll get there: step by step. 

Regaining Rhythm

My work station earlier today

Rhythm.

What an appropriate word, let alone concept, for me to use. After all, I am married to a percussionist. Trust me, percussionists are all about rhythm. It makes me smile just writing that word.

Rhythm.

My rhythm? I am still regaining it.

As I have shared, we had a long siege getting Dad's house ready for market. That finally got done in late September. So we are not out there every day clearing, cleaning, hauling, groaning, or any combination thereof. But because I am the lawyer in the family, and the child living only seven blocks away, all of the real estate matters related to the sale of the house are in my lap. They are not onerous. Dad has a superb realtor and the title company that will hold the closing is excellent. All the same, it falls to me to review documents, answer Dad's questions, provide information for closing, and so on. I will be present when Dad does his side of the closing, about a week before the Buyer closes (because I am out of town that week). None of this is overwhelming (unlike the 25 cubic yards of trash that we had removed by the dumpster company), but it is nonetheless something that is still on my calendar and in my head.

So, back to rhythms. 

As I write this (By hand! I'm actually using a pen and paper!), I think of ways I am regaining the rhythm that works for me for my life.

Apparently, baking is a part of my rhythm. Two weekends ago, I made an apple pie (Jaime had a recital at Miami University (Ohio), where teaches) and sourdough peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, last weekend I baked an apple-bread pudding to take next door to a shared meal, the pumpkin cardamon muffins were yesterday, and, right now, a loaf of rustic no-knead bread is baking. And, with the Symphony season opening this weekend, there will be more cookies and another pie. 

It feels good to be baking again. 

Walking is definitely part of my rhythm. And that one took a huge hit even before the job of emptying out the house, starting with Dad's hospitalization and lengthy rehab from early June until late July. Other than walking to and from Dad's place, there was not a lot of time or energy for more. I am not yet back to where I can walk as far or as often as I want, but I am getting there. (And how come no one ever told me about compression socks?! Talk about a game changer for someone with neuropathy!)

Even my reading, which disappeared only during the worst times of last year's medical mayhem, has picked up as I work on regaining my rhythm.

All the same, I'm not there yet, whatever "there" may mean. There are some skipped beats, some unexpected jumps and cuts, and sometimes I wonder whether I am ever going to feel I am in rhythm with myself again.

Warren and close friends gently remind me that this summer's events and the weight they placed on me need to be seen in the broader context. A year ago today I was still in the hospital and still over a week (a week!) away from being released to rehab to build enough strength to go home. Once I got home in late October, I was confined to the first floor for several more weeks while I worked on gaining enough strength to climb the stairs to our bedroom, the bathroom with the shower, and my study. Add the shattered wrist in the winter, a major (planned) surgery on its heels, some more medical issues in the spring and, well, yeah. 

When I stand back and look at what not just the last four months have held, but the last 14, small wonder I am out of rhythm.

One of the books I have is been rereading is Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times by Katherine May. It is a powerful, moving account of May's own difficult time and an examination of regrouping when at a low point (medical, emotional, physical, familial), not feeling put upon to "make the best of it!" or "soldier on!" but instead recognizing there is a space in that low place to restore oneself in an authentic and meaningful way.

Reading Wintering is a reminder to myself that finding my rhythm is a journey to be taken at a pace that fits me.  

One step at a time.

Like Plucking Your Eyebrows

 

I recently had minor outpatient surgery that required external stitches. My doctor did a beautiful job sewing up the incision, telling me to come back in two weeks for them to be removed. (There are also internal stitches; those will dissolve over time.)

Yesterday was my return visit for the stitches to come out. The PA examined the incision site, asked me some questions, then gave the nod to the nurse to go ahead, telling me as she left the room to come back in three months. 

The nurse laid out the equipment: a pair of tweezers and a tiny pair of surgical snips. She asked me if I had any questions.

Only one. "How much is this likely to hurt?" 

She laughed and said that the doctor had recently been asked that same question by a young patient, an adolescent girl. The doctor asked her if she knew what it felt like to pluck a hair from her head? Yes. The doctor said that you don't feel that kind of pluck, but this is more like plucking your eyebrows and there is some sensation.

"Like plucking your eyebrows." I burst out laughing and then told the nurse my eyebrow plucking story.

Over 55 years ago, when I was hitting adolescence, my mother and my aunt Ginger sat me down in the kitchen to pluck my eyebrows for the very first time. No self-respecting girl would walk around with her eyebrows meeting up in the middle of her face and it was time to give me a beauty lesson. Ginger had her tweezers ready; Mom had a bowl with a few ice cubes. Mom applied the ice cube to my brow to numb it, Ginger leaned in, tweezed a hair, and...

I shot up and shouted, "STOP IT! DON'T EVER DO THAT TO ME AGAIN!"

What the hell? Women did this to themselves? Voluntarily? 

Ginger and Mom tried to reason with me. I needed to "get used" to it. It didn't hurt "that much." It was just what one did.

I shook my head. Not me. Not then, not later, not ever.

And I never did pluck my eyebrows. I had a razor (this was back in the day when everyone shaved their legs and underarms, so girls got razors early in life—the kind with removable blades that, in retrospect, could be pretty lethal) and I took it to my brow and learned to shave instead of pluck. All these many years later, I still do that.

The nurse started laughing. "Well, if the pain gets too intense, we can call the PA back in and she can give you a local to numb it, but let's try it without so we can skip the needle. I'll take it easy."

And bit by bit, she snipped and carefully pulled the stitches out. There was one that stung, not unlike my distant recollection of my eyebrows episode, but the nurse eased the others out with only a few twinges here and there.

I thanked the nurse and told her she did a great job. She did. 

I walked out to my car, thinking back to that long-ago experience. And I smiled, thankful that I still have never plucked my eyebrows. 

Finally, Light

Photo by Claudia Soraya on Unsplash

No, I am not talking about moving to Daylight Savings Time last Sunday. Or the Spring Equinox next week. Or the upcoming solar eclipse (we are right in the path of totality here in Ohio) on April 8.

I am talking about the light at the end of the medical tunnel I have been in since late August. For the first time in months, I can see a growing light up ahead and finally believe that it really IS light and not just the headlamp of an oncoming locomotive.

Don't misunderstand me. I still have a lot (A. LOT.) of rehab ahead of me to strengthen and regain better use of my right wrist/hand/fingers. I am doing daily exercises at home with the option of having formal physical therapy if my progress stalls. There was a lot of damage to the median nerve, the one that controls the fingers. (What am I saying? There was a lot of damage to my wrist, period.) I am slowly starting to walk more regularly; the long layoff in the fall, the long layoff after fracturing my wrist, and major arthritis in my left knee have all contributed to my having to relearn how to walk at a steady and consistent pace. The incisions from the gallbladder removal in late February are healing; my brilliant surgeon just gave me the post-surgery clearance. 

My biggest hurdle is that my energy levels are still average (for me compared to pre-autumn 2023) at their very best and pretty darn punk at their worst. That means that even on days where I am very careful to pace myself, I am still worn out by early evening. (I will not mention the days I overdo it, even with strong, loving reminders from Warren, Katrina, Pat, and others not to overdo it.)  

At my lowest points, I get teary at realizing how much ground I have lost. At my highest points, I appreciate how far I have come from those very bleak weeks back in the fall. It is not unusual that I experience both the lowest and the highest points in the same day. 

Every single day I am grateful I am even still on this earth.

And that is more than good enough. 

One Final Reflection

 

Photo by Jaunathan Gagnon on Unsplash

Last week I wrote two posts about my increasing awareness of being chronically disabled from the physical toll of 19 years of cancer and 18+ years of treatment. This week I had appointments with two different medical providers, and they added their own perspectives to my thoughts.

And maybe now I am ready to come to terms with where I am.

The first appointment was with my personal physician, with whom I have a great relationship. I shared with her some of the thoughts I have been mucking around in as I come to accept that I am disabled. She looked at me, then said, "You do know that you became chronically disabled the day you were diagnosed, yes?" Oh, yeah, I do know that, but it was never really on my mind until these newer changes and and their emotional and physical impacts on me.

The very next day I was at oncology and had an appointment with Katie, one of the Certified Nurse Practitioners there (Tim was rounding). I shared with her the same  thoughts and she said, "I hear you. It is a bitter pill to swallow." She then suggested that I focus on my abilities and capabilities, which are numerous. Katie did not present this in a chipper "Count your blessings!" tone or suggest I was being self-indulgent given my longevity with the myeloma, but was very matter-of-fact. Yes, it is bitter and yes, you are still here.

My barn having burned down, I can now see the moon. 

That is a 17th century haiku by Mizuta Masahide, a Japanese poet and, yes, a samurai. I used to keep it taped above my desk at Juvenile Court. And I think that sums up where I am: the barn is burned to the ground, but what a view of the moon I now have.

Reflections

 

Photo by Wesley Tingey on Unsplash

Reflections.

I'm not even sure I like that title. But I have been kicking it around in my head (and on the coffee table in the downstairs study) long enough that I will go with it while I write.

In one of those perfect synchronous moments, a letter from my friend Tani (who I have known for almost 4 decades now), Disability Pride Month (July), and my own internal struggles all hit on July 1. My feeling had been simmering for a few weeks, but the sweet combination of Tani's words and the editorial comment on the the Poem-A-Day for July 1, "A Sick-Room Idyll" by Williams Gay, tipped me from simmer to bubbling. 

The editorial comment on the poem was that it offered "a rare glimpse into disability space." Tani matched it as she hashed through her thoughts on the possibility of being "chronically severely disabled." Those thoughts wove deftly into my own reflections (that word again!) on what I coming to see as my "new" limitations. 

In late June, while posting a garden update, I wrote about my capacity, which is an ever-changing measure. When I was writing it, I was thinking about a mid-month trip to Pittsburgh that had rattled my conviction that I was just a "little tired." Shortly after that post, Warren and I had a long conversation about a long-planned vacation east and agreed to cancel it. There was a little bit of sadness in that decision, but also some relief. (And to be fair, the concern about my physical limitations was only one of four factors that caused us to pull the plug.) 

Tani wrote about her mental and physical bandwidth being impacted by her situation. I like that term: bandwidth. I replied with a thumbnail synopsis of where I am at: energy levels, decent. But endurance levels? Nope. I can go and do, but then I am done. A vacation with a lot of driving and sightseeing? Ha! The adrenaline would carry me along for a bit, but then I would collapse—exhausted, unwell, and totally drained, with a bandwidth of zero. And based on what I have been experiencing, the recovery time would be extensive. I doubt my body can take it. 

Yeah.

So, like Tani, my thoughts dwell increasingly on being "chronically disabled" and what that means. (Come on, aren't two progressive incurable blood cancers enough?) Going back to the poem with its "rare glimpse into disability space," I increasingly think about what that may mean for me. (Not to mention my friend, Tani, who is still working with doctors and physical therapists to see whether she can make progress in her situation.) What is my disability space? What does it look like? Feel like? How will it impact me as I continue to live my life the way I want and hope to? 

Synonyms for "reflection" include "contemplation," "meditation," "rumination," and "musing." So if you see me and I seem distant, don't take it personally. I am merely ruminating and musing.

And, of course, reflecting. 

Early June Update

When I posted a garden update in late May, I mentioned the outside stresses on our schedules here. A lot has happened since that May 24th post. 

The Symphony office DID get moved; the very last items left on May 31. There was a great team of volunteers, with Warren spearheading and planning the whole event. Warren, Office Assistant Sharon, and Music Librarian Laura are still settling into the new space (Warren's comment when he came home yesterday: "I just needed a binder clip to hold some papers together. Couldn't find one anywhere.") but with 4th of July up next (a free outdoor concert that some 7000 folks attend), we are all relieved to have the move done. 

On the heels of the move, we headed off to Mayo. It is about 660 miles from door to door, and this was another rocket trip, leaving Monday and arriving back home at 1:05 a.m. Thursday. This is likely our very last rocket trip; I will time the next appointment to be later in the afternoon, spend the night in Rochester, and then drive back during the day. All is well on the cancer front: the myeloma is stable (still!) and the secondary cancer (from earlier treatments) seems to be just sitting there (which is what we want). 

But our travels are not yet over, not by a long shot. This Wednesday, we head to Pittsburgh for the national conference of the League of American Orchestras. Pittsburgh is only four hours away, not 11 or 12, so I am not dreading the driving. There is more travel in July, but I will save that for later. 

I will update the garden in a separate post. The early summer continues to be very, very dry, causing some issues with some of the plantings. 

The physical toll of traveling aside, June has been good. A former colleague from Juvenile Court stopped by on a midafternoon break yesterday and we caught up. (Dana was out walking and called me out of the blue to drop by. It was great.) He is about to retire, and he said quality of life was one of the big factors in his decision. I understood immediately—like me, Dana has enjoyed his job at Juvenile Court immensely, but there are other things he and his wife want to do and he is just looking for the time and peace of mind in which to do them. Some of those things are travel, but some of them are as simple as sitting out on their patio and enjoying a glass of wine. Yep, yep, yep.

And as we sort our way through the weeks and obligations right now, I am reminded daily (heck, sometimes hourly!) of how grateful I am that I am sharing this journey with Warren. Not just the love and the support and the encouragement (and I could go on), but also this perfect response that rolled out of his mouth as we were getting ready to head to Mayo. I needed to make a very quick run to the grocery for something for the trip, and I asked him if we needed anything else. Warren was working in his shop, and after putting down the tool he was using, he looked at me and said, "No. And if it turned out we did, I'm sure we could figure something out with what we have here."

It doesn't get better than that. 

And All at Once, It Was Over

No, this post is not about gardening. Yet. 

I am not talking about the end of the year 2021, although that too ended in a second when the clock hit 12:00 a.m. on January 1.

I am talking instead about my (finally, finally) last day of "paid government employment," as my erstwhile boss, colleague, friend, and neighbor Dave announced to our local Bar at the December meeting. After some 43 years of employment in the legal field, I ended my career (careers) on December 24.

I had noted that my job end was coming in my post last July.  What I did not realize back then was how much it would take for me to get from there to that last day. Much of that was the work itself: finishing projects (a very few), getting projects into good shape to be handed off (all the rest). Some of that was physical. My progressive, incurable cancer is always a factor and it did not take a break for me to wrap up my job.

And it's not like my daily life came to a halt while I wound down the job. Our home life continued, my treatment continued, the Legal Clinic continued, the garden continued. We even slid in a long-hoped-for trip to Washington and Oregon, driving every inch of the way, in mid-August when my Mayo oncologist listened to the precautions we would take, asked when Ramona would resume school (two days after we planned on leaving), then closed his eyes and said, "Go right now. That door is about to shut."

To bring it back to the present, my first whole week of not working just concluded. It was freeing, relieving, and bittersweet. 

It has been a mashup. Or a smashup. Or anything else that goes with "up." In random fits of energy, I am clearing away the detritus and chaff of the last few years from my office. What a mess. And I am walking. A lot. A whole lot. Walking to think, walking to sort things out in my head, walking to just walk.

I don't make resolutions for the New Year, but I have been thinking about goals.  Financial goals (especially now that my income has shrunk considerably). Gardening goals (last year's gardening experience was a mixed bag, to say the least). 

And writing goals. As I shared with my friend Tani, for the first time in a long, long, time, I am feeling the need to write, too long submerged, starting to stir within me. Hence my photo above from a long ago seed spouting. My desire to write is finally breaking through and lifting its head.

May 2022 hold kindness for us all. It's good to be back.

The More Things Stay the Same, the More They Change

 It was Madeleine L'Engle who first enlightened me to the value of turning adages inside out for new insights. Which is why instead of echoing Jean-Baptiste Alphone Karr's pronouncement that the more things change, the more they stay the same, I have come to realize that in my life, it is just the opposite.

I have been silent on this site for months. This will only be my seventh post for 2021, a number that no amount of polishing can make shine. That will likely not change until the fall for many reasons, none of them good, all of them good. Looking back at my last post, an embarrassing 58 days ago, I am already noting what has gone awry, amiss, on the lam, or, frankly, despite the sameness, changed radically.

I indeed went to Mayo in early June, as I noted in that long ago post. It was more than wonderful to see my oncologist in person; I was in tears. And while everything on paper stayed the same, we three (Dr. Leung, Warren, and I) suspect there may be deep-seated changes afoot. We head back to Mayo in mid-August for a long day of testing and then a meeting with my doctor. 

I am still working. That stayed the same. Only it didn't. I'm working through the rest of the calendar year, albeit on different terms.  I will not be mediating come the new school year (which starts in mid-August); I'm already several weeks into other projects. I now know just how Charlie Bucket felt when he found the Golden Ticket. 

My dear, close friends did come in June. We had a wonderful evening of glorious talk and laughter and tears and good food. It was one of those evenings where everything just shimmered. 

And my gardens. They need more than a few sentences, so I will share a few photos down below.

See you down the road.

The very first tomato (yes, there have been more)

The very first zucchini (not a success story, yet)

Broccoli (one of three)

The first (but not last) cabbages

Even a tiny batch of basil for pesto (another ongoing saga)

Our Daily Bread

 

Our schools in the area are all on Spring Break. Because the overwhelming bulk of my job from August through May is school attendance meetings, I am on break for most of the week as well.

My written To Do list this week ranges from mundane (clean off my desk) to major (do my dad's 2020 taxes). On the unwritten list are the small tasks—the myriad of things that anyone's day may hold—that get slotted into the leftover bits and pieces of my days, depending on my energy, what else the day holds (or held if it is evening), and how my myeloma and I are dealing with each other that day. These are things that in any day, week, or month often fall to the wayside, only to crop up again and continue to crop up until done or eradicated. 

On my unwritten list today was to make bread; I have been making most of our bread for the last several weeks. (Okay, I've been baking some of our bread for the last several weeks, with my efforts supplemented by the stunning baguettes and other loaves our next door neighbor Adam brings over. His wife Maura is responsible for a flow of baked desserts from their house to ours, with help from their young daughter Alice. Have I mentioned what GREAT neighbors we have?) [Yes, we reciprocate. My sourdough peanut butter/chocolate chip cookies are always a huge hit.] 

I thought I would duplicate the sourdough loaf I made last week in the bread machine, a behemoth Warren bought years ago. I go between using the machine and making bread by hand, depending on my energy levels and my myeloma burden. I tweaked the recipe some, remembering that the first time I had had to add additional liquid, which I did. 

Two hours into the process, Warren and I in our respective upstairs offices said, almost simultaneously, "I smell smoke." I elaborated, "I smell burning bread." We rushed downstairs to find a kitchen full of smoke, a bread machine that belched smoke the moment I lifted the dome, and...yeah. 

In thinking over the tweak, I just now realized I doubled the extra water. Oops.

I carried the still smoking machine outside, where it still is an hour later. Warren went around opening windows. And then I started another batch of bread the old-fashioned way. It is rising (or should be) as I type. I'll check on it shortly. At some point I will start to tackle cleaning the bread machine.

All that has gone through my head is the old Smith Barney ad with John Houseman. Remember that one? "They make money the old-fashioned way. They earn it." Only in my case, he is sneering at my efforts: "April, you need to make bread the old-fashioned way. Not burn it."

Thanks, John.

Closeup of the overflow and burn pattern. Sigh.

A Look at the Gardens

Back in late April, I shared that our vegetable garden, the one I call the "kitchen garden," had been cleared and tilled by Warren, and was just waiting for planting. It looked like this then:

What I have not shared, because my posting has been, ahem, irregular at best, is that we added a second garden, the Hej (pronounced "hedge") garden. The Hej garden actually sits on our backyard neighbors' parcel. The owner before the current ones was an avid gardener, a certified Master Gardener, and she had established a thriving vegetable garden in the far back corner of the yard, just where it butts up to the little dogleg on Warren's parcel. It has been tilled but not planted for several seasons, as our current neighbors have many, many demands on their time and a garden just wasn't one of them. So I proposed that we take over the garden, they can have some of the vegetables grown on it (making me a sharecropper no matter how I look at it), and there we go. 

The Hej garden is our zucchini garden, because our kitchen garden does not have enough space for zucchini. It has been planted twice, because the first planting of 20 zucchini seeds resulted in five coming up.

Five.

You could toss a coin, call "heads," and get better results than that.

About three weeks ago, I tore out everything but those five zucchini and planted it over again, this time marking the seeds (which I doubled and tripled) with spoons:

And today, I was in the garden at 6:30 a.m., transplanting the zucchinis that came up in twos and threes to the spaces where there were still not results, marking the transplants and their former companions with the spoons upside down:

It's been a lot of work. This garden also contains  five extra tomato plants we had from my over-ordering tomatoes this year; they are along the fence on the left side of this photo. 

The kitchen garden and I likewise got off to a rocky start, but we have smoothed out our most of our differences. How rocky? Lettuce that didn't come up, parsley that didn't come up, marigolds (border) that didn't come up. You get the picture. So there was some extensive replanting in that garden as well. 

But just a day into summer, and it is looking good:

Bit by bit, it is coming along. Tomatoes are starting to form:

Indigo Rose

Early Girls

My very favorite feature is the ceramic partial border in the kitchen garden. As I continue to sort through stuff in my house, some of the stuff is headed west to my sons out there. Sam declined any of his childhood pottery attempts; Ben and Alise took a few. I couldn't just toss my children's offerings over the years, so I put them in the garden instead. 

The border

A ripply plant impression plant by Ben

A skull by Sam

I smile every time I walk by, seeing my children's art springing to life in the garden.

Winding Down Another Week in Another World

It has over six weeks since I was in my office at Juvenile Court, six weeks since I was last in a grocery store (well, any store), and almost six weeks since my oncologist put me on lockdown.

It is almost six weeks since Warren closed the Symphony office and moved the base of operations to our home.

And the verdict is?

I'm fine.

We're fine.

The second floor of our house is now home to the Symphony North Annex and one of three satellite offices of the Delaware County Juvenile Court Mediation Department. Warren puts in far longer hours than I do, both because I am only a part-time employee and because even though the Symphony, like every other Symphony in this country (and most in the world at this point), is locked down, there is still work, not the least of which is writing grants and trying to imagine what live music will look like going forward. Never one to waste a good crisis, Warren is making plans and alternative plans for the Symphony's future.

So what does life in a time of shelter-at-home pandemic look like for us?

Well, it's quieter, certainly. I mean that literally. The streets are quieter because car traffic in our town of approximately 40,000 is a sliver of what it was in the beginning of March. Our downtown, our main routes, and even US 23, which slices through just east of downtown and only three blocks from our house, have far fewer vehicles on them. As a result, the birds are now providing a soundtrack to daily life which, for a change, is the main sound, not just background sound.

But life is also figuratively quieter. I don't have to balance work, chores, social obligations, community commitments, whatever. My only for-certain calendar events are our weekly Court Zoom meeting and my oncology appointment with infusion every four weeks. A very occasional webinar might get noted on my calendar, but that is the exception, not the rule. A number of my friends have commented (in letters, in emails, in social media) how much slower life is and how much more satisfying the days often are because the layer of busyness we all live with is removed. (This enforced time of quiet, of less doing, is also providing me observations about my health that are both insightful and troublesome, but that is a topic for another day.)

So, besides working, what else does one do in these strange times? If you are Warren and me, you move by hand and hard work the perennials that you plopped down in the vegetable garden in the fall to winter over before putting them in a flowerbed. These were end-of-season markdowns at a local nursery.

Which season?

Fall 2014, but who's counting?

Warren dug the holes by hand because it is not possible to rent a rototiller from our hardware store right now. I helped lug the dug-up plants around, helped replant them, but all those holes, not to mention digging the flowers up? That was Warren.

Our vegetable garden space (above) has easily doubled. Those perennials—lilies, coneflowers, butterfly weed—had thrived, but were out of hand and took up about 2/3rds of the space. I am looking forward to seeing what we make of the expanded vegetable garden, but that time is still a few weeks away.

This is the new bed, now in the back of our yard.

We will put down a heavy layer of mulch to kill off the grass. This bed makes me smile every single time I look at it. It is my favorite garden for its raggedy spirit and for all the love that went into every one of those holes.

I walked out this morning to check on it and found everything in order. The coneflowers especially have settled in and are thriving.

And so are we.

What Poverty Looks Like, 2019 Version

I recently saw a meme on Facebook so hostile and ugly (I know, I know, you're thinking "You only saw one that fits that category?") that it made me take a step back and comment to Warren that I was having a very hard time with the post because this is someone in our immediate family, not just someone I can delete from my life, who thought it appropriate.

Now, a couple of comments before you start jumping to conclusions. The person posting is not particularly political; the meme had no mention, pro or con, of the current administration, Congress, the upcoming 2020 Democratic primary candidates, or the Supreme Court.

The meme was not about race.

It was not about immigration.

It was not about the environment.

The meme was about entitlement and privilege, which is something I often talk about. The twist was that the meme was about the "privileged" poor and how they (the poor) have to get over their special sense of entitlement.

Really? Really? 

The meme was particularly timely because just this week at work we had a real life (no meme here),  graphic demonstration of the gulf between privilege and poverty. At work right now, we (all County employees, not just our Court) are having to verify to the overarching benefits provider that the family members we carry on our health insurance are indeed entitled to be there by virtue of marriage, birth, or whatever. This has caused a lot of grumbling ("If my five year old was my birth child three years ago when we last did this, chances are good he is still my child") and a lot of faxing.

In the midst of this, a coworker shared with me two birth certificates as a demonstration of what a hard life does even to the young.

The first birth certificate is that of her stepson's and it looks like that (she photographed the backs of them for me):

That is the birth certificate of a child who was raised in stable circumstances, with food on the table, clean clothes to wear, a roof over his head, and the other benefits of an economically sustainable household. When my coworker asked her stepson for his birth certificate so that she could fax it in, his initial response was uncertainty as to where it was. The paper the birth certificate is printed on is unblemished; it has been kept in a nice, thick plastic sleeve.

The second birth certificate is that of a young adult, also male, of whom she was awarded custody (out of a Juvenile Court proceeding in another county) when he was still a teenager. She gained custody, even though there is no biological connection, so that this youth would have a roof over his head and someone to help him navigate a harsh world. Because he had essentially been raising himself from his early teens on, he and not a parent was always responsible for knowing where essential papers were at any given time. When my coworker asked him last week if he had his birth certificate for the verification requirements, this young man knew immediately where it was and handed it over. It was in his wallet. It looks like this:

Those creases and wear marks are from it being carried in a wallet for several years. The certificate is paper thin from wear; you can hold it to the light and see through it. (Take my word for it, you cannot see through the first one.)

This is what poverty looks like. It is not about privilege and it is not about entitlement. It is about surviving. Yes, sometimes there is government help when and if it is available (and if varies wildly from state to state, incidentally). But that is not a given ever. Poverty is about figuring out how to eat maybe once a day (more if you're lucky), stay warm in the winter, and make it to work or school no matter how far that may be, whether you have any gasoline, or whether you have a car at all. It is about staying safe under circumstances that many of us never have to imagine, let alone experience.

Poverty is about a battered birth certificate that a 20-year-old carries in his wallet so he can prove who he is when he has to.

My coworker and I talked for several minutes about these two certificates and the different stories they told. I mentioned a book I read several years ago by a sociologist who spent months traveling Greyhound buses and talking to riders, examining the lives of those riders. The author made a striking observation about how most of us who do not live in poverty have a general idea of how much money (cash, not debit or credit cards) we have on us at any given time, but how when you are poor, you know down to the penny exactly how much money you have on you, because that is likely the only money you have and you have to spend it carefully. (Economists have made similar observations and many conclude that people who live in poverty are far more intelligent consumers because every dollar has real, immediate value to them.)

My coworker immediately agreed. The young man with the tattered birth certificate? He can always tell you how much money he has on him at any given time. A young woman I know who lives in deep poverty? The same.

In the end, the ugly meme reminded me of the Ghost of Christmas Present turning on Scrooge in anger for Scrooge's earlier callousness about the poor dying so as to decrease the surplus population. When Scrooge reacts emotionally to the Ghost's pronouncement that Tiny Tim will die if nothing else changes, the Ghost throws his words back at him, concluding: "It may be, that in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child."

I know. It's just a meme. And I also know that Facebook is a cesspool of viciousness on many, many fronts. But I'll let the Ghost have the final word.

"Forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered What the surplus is, and Where it is."

Rethinking Nashville

I may have to rethink Nashville.

We were there four years ago to pick up a timpani Warren had purchased. We stayed overnight an hour north, in Franklin, Kentucky, and truly just zoomed in and out. We visited the Tennessee state history museum, the Parthenon (yes), and walked around the grounds of the Statehouse.

I was not impressed. I was upset by the museum's presentation of slavery (there were some evils, but most slaves were treated well) and its hagiographic elevation of Andrew Jackson (with nary a word in the museum about the genocide he committed against the Cherokee and other Southern tribes with their forced removal). On the street were historical markers venerating the Confederate cause in the Civil War. On our way back north, we pulled off the Interstate to get gas and found ourselves on a road with another historical marker: the highway we were on was part of the Trail of Tears (the path the Native Americans were marched along under military guard). Its name? The Andrew Jackson highway.

Can you say "tone deaf?"

I wanted out of Nashville. I wanted out of Tennessee. I could decisively mark the state and city off with "don't go there again."

So when it was announced that the 2019 League of American Orchestras national conference would be held in Nashville, let's just say I was less than enthusiastic. But, married to the Symphony as I am, I sucked it up and went back down.

I came away with an entirely different view of Nashville.

For three days, we were in the heart of the downtown. We stayed on the other side of the Cumberland River, near the football stadium, but were only there at night. Days and evenings were spent in downtown Nashville. While the League activities were centered in the Omni Hotel, we were out and about on the streets at times, especially with League-related activities Monday and Tuesday evening.

And I did a fair amount of walking by myself the first morning,  having no session to attend. I ended up walking across the John Seigenthaler Pedestrian Bridge, after skirting the Country Music Hall of Fame (which butts into the Omni) and going around the Schermerhorn Symphony Center. CMA Music Fest was only a few days away (it was getting underway as the orchestra conference was leaving) and there was a lot of activity downtown as the city prepared. There was music of all kinds on the streets, in the halls, in the air.

My view of Nashville started changing.

I looked at the people I passed. Many were no doubt tourists or event-goers, like myself, just in town for a few days. There were street performers on many corners (everyone is a potential performer in Nashville, including one of our Uber drivers). There were street people, just trying to survive, including the one who after trying to wash up in a fountain at the Schermerhorn and being chased away by a guard, came back to debate that the water was there for all to enjoy. The guard listened respectfully, then said, "That's true, but y'all can't take a bath in it." That seemed to satisfy both of them. There were orchestra people talking music, there were country music people talking music, there were just people going about their day.

I spent a surprising amount of time (for me) in Circa, the gift shop of the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum. I was looking for postcards (which I indeed found) but I found myself engrossed in the books, the clothing, the mugs, the stuff. I told Warren later that I have never come so close to buying just for the sake of buying. I stuck to buying just the postcards to send to family and friends and one ornament for our Christmas tree.

I loved one postcard so much that I went back the next day to buy one for myself:

It is now on our refrigerator. (I found it hilarious, okay? Well worth every penny of the $1.10 it cost.) For the record, I am fine with country music. Had I been feeling better that morning, I would have gone to both the Patsy Cline museum AND the Johnny Cash museum, but I can only burn my candle at both ends and up the middle for so long these days. 

Coming into Nashville on Sunday, we had bypassed the Interstate and traveled back roads to get a sense of the country. I liked what I saw. I want to see more. Some of my dad's family came out of Tennessee and for the first time ever, I found myself wanting to explore more of where they came from. When Dad stopped by the day after we got back, I pulled out a map and he pointed out the likely areas. I may delve deeper into that side of the family, even if I never go back to Nashville or any other part of Tennessee. 

The truth is, I was taken by Nashville and would go back to explore it more deeply. 

There is a wonderful line early on in Moon Over Manifest, the 2011 Newbery Award winner by Clare Vanderpool: "But as anyone worth his salt knows, it's best to get a look at a place before it gets a look at you." That sentence played in my mind as I walked across the bridge on that sunny morning and as I walked around in the downtown. I don't know if Nashville got a look at me, but I indeed got a look at Nashville. 

I liked what I saw. 

Stuff

Stuff is on my mind.

Stuff as in physical, tangible stuff: books, clothes, papers. Even with my leaner-than-many-of-my-friends (and my husband, for that matter) lifestyle, I still have a lot of stuff. Right now, this moment, I am looking at a pile of stuff (books, papers, miscellaneous stuff) 4 feet long, 18 inches wide, and 12 inches deep sitting on my study floor. Goodwill, shred, file away, send to someone else: it is all stuff that needs to go, in part because I am tired of looking at it and in part because we will be hosting one of our guest artists next weekend and he will be staying in this room. Rather than just shift the stuff to the other spare bedroom (and then shut the door), I need to deal with this stuff now.

The irony of my listening to Anthony Ongaro, the guy behind the website "Break The Twitch," talking on YouTube about "Simple Inspiration for Minimalism and Decluttering" while I stare at this pile and type this post is not lost on me. Yeah, yeah, I know, Anthony, I know. I gotta let go of this STUFF.

There is other stuff too: intangible, emotional, sticky life stuff. My health, which continues to deteriorate slowly and creakily, is on the "other stuff" pile. Our complicated schedules (upcoming concerts, chemo appointments, conferences and conventions, to name a very few) are part of that other stuff. Helping my dad navigate his new life now that mom lives in a memory unit is some of that other stuff; at almost 86, he is more willing to let his adult children step in and assist with the paperwork, the housework, the yard work, the, well, stuff. I have children and grandchildren out in the Pacific Northwest whom I think about, worry about, miss a lot, and I find myself going over and over the calendar from now until September trying to figure out when we can get out there and not be rushed. (I almost wrote "stuff a trip out there in," but I refuse to treat that trip as stuff.) And those are just the larger items. Correspondence, dinners, coffee with friends, well, that's even more stuff.

It's a lot of stuff.

I am taking this coming week off from work. It is spring break for all of the schools in our county and given that at this time of year 99% of my workload is holding attendance mediations in schools, next week is quiet at Court and a perfect time to step away. I have a few things "scheduled" during that week (including two consecutive appointments at Court on Monday, each about 45 minutes long) but otherwise am leaving the week wide open. I am using the week to regroup mentally, to recharge physically, to write, to do what I want at a slower and easier pace. I am hoping to use some of the week to get through some of the other stuff (on the not too unrealistic hope that the tangible stuff will be done by today or tomorrow).

I need this week to unstuff myself.

Social activist Jodie Patterson, in her new and stunning memoir The Bold World, wrote "It's time, I think, to dream forward."

I agree. And that's why I need to take care of this stuff—the tangible stuff, the intangible stuff, all of the stuff—now. So I can dream forward.

Cultural Identity

Orlando arrived by scheduled C-section, so plans were made ahead of time for Ramona to be at the hospital for part of that day. Papa (Alise's dad, Joe) picked her up from school early last Friday (has it only been since last Friday?), and then he and Nana (Alise's mom Mona) helped her pass the time until she could see her mom and meet her brother.

While waiting, Ramona made the above picture of her family. Ben is easily identifiable on the far left, complete with beard. While sizes are all relative, I'm guessing Alise is next (albeit blond) and Ramona on the far right as the smaller figure. New addition Orlando is in between the two females.

What I especially love about this drawing is that Ramona put Orlando in a cradleboard. This is my Native American grandchild being raised with immersion in her culture. So of course her little brother is in a cradleboard.

That is how my brilliant, assertive, secure-in-who-she-is granddaughter makes sense of her world at age six.

These are difficult times for those of us who are not dominant culture because of race, ethnicity, tribe, gender identity, sexual preference, religion, economic status, language of origin, and so on. Last night our community's newly formed African-American Heritage Council put on a first ever Black History Month Celebration, which Warren and I attended. Students volunteered their talents—oratory and artistic—and many of them made thoughtful and provocative observations about being black in a predominantly white community.

I listened closely and at times got teary. Ramona and Orlando and my far-flung family were foremost in my thoughts. What would Ramona's education and sense of tribal identity look like if she were here in this town in our schools? Not as good as I would want, and that is written by someone who believes in our local schools. And in America at present? Not even that good.

Even in the best of times in this country, we as a nation have a long ways to go to being truly inclusive, whether we are talking about school youth or adult policy makers or just everyday folk. Last night was the right step forward for Delaware.

And way out in Washington last Friday, sitting in a hospital waiting room, a little girl drew her beautiful family, complete with her little brother in his cradleboard.

Ramona, you are amazing.

Capturing Appalachia

Let me start with this: I just reread Hillbilly Elegy by J. D. Vance and I get it.

Is it universally true? No. Are his sociological musings shaky? Absolutely. But his memoir of his family and himself, which is about 99% of the book, reads absolutely spot on. So if you are hoping for a slashing attack on that book, this is not it. [Note: I am not commenting on Vance becoming the "face" or "voice" of Appalachia in the conservative world, and do not endorse what little I had seen of his political and sociological pronouncements.]

I have theories about what he writes and about Appalachian, not because I have driven through it on occasion or read editorial commentary on it by writers flying in and out, but because that's my dad's family down there. I grew up with strong Appalachian roots. I still have ties to that place and culture—well, the culture of white Scots-Irish Appalachia, that is—because there is an African-American Appalachia, a non Scots-Irish white Appalachia, and increasingly as one author (who I will discuss shortly) pointed out, a Latinx Appalachia.

Barbara Kingsolver, with strong Appalachian ties both past and present, recently said in an interview with The New York Times that she could not get through Hillbilly Elegy. She pointed readers instead to Ronald Eller and Elizabeth Catte. Intrigued, I read both of them, then reread Hillbilly Elegy.

Ronald Eller was the longtime director of the Appalachian Center in Lexington and a retired professor of history at the University of Kentucky. His book, Uneven Ground: Appalachia Since 1945, is a well-written history of the region, He focuses on economics and politics: the exploitation of Appalachia through extractive economic policy, the deep-seated political graft, granting of favors, and worse in both parties. 

Uneven Ground is a solid work. But his best sentence—the one that rings truest for me—happened right out of the gate:"We know Appalachia exists because because we need it to exist in order to define what we are not. It is the "other America" because the very idea of Appalachia convinces us of the righteousness of our own lives." 

I started out of my seat when I read that line, immediately putting it into my current notebook of quotes. "[T]he very idea of Appalachia convinces us of the righteousness of our own lives." Thank you, Ronald Eller.

Catte wrote a slim work, What You Don't Know About Appalachia, in direct response to J. D. Vance, whom she would gladly dropkick without any further provocation. Much of her vitriol towards Vance is directed towards his post-Hillbilly Elegy talks and articles, all decidedly conservative, and about his plying his "poor white trash" persona enlightening the rest of us in the media, particularly talk radio. She particularly derides him for posing as and being appointed as an authority on "why Appalachia voted for Trump," which she thoroughly dissects by color, percentage of voters, and by comparing the 2016 primary results with the 2016 election results. She tells the reader up front that she is well-educated, liberal, and chose to move back to Appalachia (Tennessee) rather than live in Texas, which she accurately described as taking industrial pollution and exposure to toxins to a whole new level. She also deftly and convincingly gives a picture of Appalachia that is more, both historically and presently, than just a Scots-Irish enclave with quaint talk and customs,  despite the mainstream dominant culture continuing to portray it that way. (We indeed need that portrayal of Appalachia to convince us of the righteousness of our "superior" way of life.)

What I most appreciated about Catte is that, along with flaying Vance, she tore into both the far conservative right commentators and what she would characterize as the liberal elitist commentators. (It is the word "elitist" that is most important in that phrase, incidentally.) Thank you, Ms. Catte. Thank you for pointing out the massive tone-deaf Hillary Clinton stumble in the West Virginia primary (long before her "deplorables" comment): "I don't want to move away from the people who did the best they could to produce the energy that we relied on." Who did the best they could? As Catte correctly points out: how absolutely condescending and out of touch. No wonder Sanders buried Clinton in the primary. Nor does she spare Trump and his downright stupid comments and lack of policy about the coal industry. She would gladly dropkick him too. 

Catte was a refreshing read.  

And then I reread Hillbilly Elegy, keeping in mind what Catte pointed out about Vance. I don't agree with his prologue, when he does paint with a broad brush a picture of Appalachia that is all white, all Scots-Irish, all stereotyped. But his actual memoir? As I already said: spot on. I handed my copy to my brother Mark after Thanksgiving dinner and said, "Read this. I see our family all through this book." I'll be interested to hear his reaction. 

So what about Appalachia? Back in 1975-1976, I applied for and was granted admission as a transfer student to Berea College, a no-tuition college in Kentucky with a primary service region of southern Appalachia. For several reasons, all of which seemed critical at the time, I did not attend. Even this many decades later, I wonder what my life trajectory would have been had I gone there. And I have written before about the strong ties I feel to my dad's side of the family. Dad and I still haven't made it down to Kentucky to revisit family sites, but with mom not at home anymore, that may be a real possibility. 

I'm glad I read Catte and Eller. I'm glad I reread Vance and I still recommend it for the personal memoir.

Eller summed Appalachia up bluntly: "Moving to a culture of mutual responsibility will help us open up our civic processes to expand diversity, transparency, and participation. Only then can we confront the complex structural challenges of an extractive economy that has drained the region of its physical and human wealth and of an extractive political system that has benefited few at the expense of many." 

Indeed.

So You Have To Redo Your Grocery Budget? An Interview With A Couple Who Did Exactly That.

My little brother Mark and my sister-in-law Jackie 

A few years ago, my sister-in-law Jackie learned she was lactose intolerant. That discovery required her to rethink how she approached eating, cooking, and shopping for groceries. Then last fall, her husband (my brother) Mark lost his job. He is now self-employed, but has a significantly reduced income. That required them to again rethink how they approached eating, cooking, and shopping for groceries. We have had lots of conversations and emails about saving money eating, saving money cooking, and saving money while shopping for groceries.

A week ago I received this text from Jackie:

Mark wanted me to tell you that we bought a week's worth of groceries      including toiletries and paper products for $70...Saved $20 between specials and coupons! We are proud of ourselves - getting better...

That was such a great text that after I celebrated with them via text, I asked if they'd be willing to be interviewed for my blog. They agreed. So Sunday after we had them and my parents over for a joint birthday meal (Dad just turned 85, Mom will be 83 later this month), the three of us sat in the living room and talked about their grocery turnaround. (The folks had left and Warren went back to work in his shop.) Mark and Jackie's children are adults and do not live at home; it's a two-person household. They shop primarily at Aldi and at a market near them, Mosier's in Raymond, which has some excellent meat prices. They often answered jointly; I note who is giving an answer when it was person-specific.

So you recently texted me about your shopping trip. Tell me what prompted that text?

We were proud of it. [We know] how little you spend...we never come close. So just sharing the news—it is going in the right direction.

Did you always shop weekly or is that new with the frugal changes?

We always shopped weekly.

How much do you think you spent—ballpark it—on groceries before making these changes?

Over $100 a week easily. Probably more like $125 to $150.  Mark, later in the interview: Probably more like $800 a month.

What are some of the special dietary challenges in your household How does that impact your grocery spending?

Jackie: My stuff is much more expensive. Dairy-free cheese is $5.00 versus a dollar something, for example. And milk: I spend $3.49 for a half-gallon of almond milk. [Note: milk is going for about $1.59 a gallon locally at present.] You just pay substantially more. Dairy-free ice cream? A lot for a little amount! As a result, I find us cooking and eating simpler meals. Heavily processed foods often have dairy in the ingredients, so we don't buy those anymore.

Were there any lifestyle challenges that you had to work around? For example: "there's no time to cook." 

Jackie: The dietary changes [because of the lactose issue] eliminated a lot of challenges in that sense. Mark: We had to change the rules on fruits and veggies. The new rule on fruit is "buy one." Because Jackie would buy a fruit she liked and then buy a bag of apples for me. She doesn't eat them. But I can't eat a whole bag before they go bad. Now we're throwing away less fruit.

Where do your food dollars go? Deconstruct a typical grocery shopping.

Fruit, bread, milk, eggs, chips, coffee [I asked here: Coffee every week? No, monthly], meat. We are trying to cut down so we are only buying meat every other week. And not eating as much of it. Mark: And we bought the marked down ones! [Jackie's mother was an RN and Jackie has very definite opinions about food safety. So she winced on this reply, but gamely said "and we haven't died of anything yet!"] We only have the refrigerator freezer, so there are limits. On paper products: big pack of paper towels, napkins, and large pack of toilet paper. We shop a lot at Aldi, so that keeps the cost down.

This answer led to a tangent on toilet paper. Mark asked me where we bought ours. I said we bought the Aldi 18-pack and told him the price (substantially less than the Charmin they buy). Jackie said "but I like soft paper." I ran upstairs, got a roll of ours, and said "here, take it home and do a test run." The things you can do with family!

What if anything have you eliminated from your diet that would thought you would miss but you don't really?

Excess fruit sometimes. We have a similar rule on veggies: we limit how much we buy if we are buying fresh. 

What about leftovers?

We are not anti-leftover. Mark: I don't like eating the same thing night after night. So we eat it one or  two nights and freeze the rest. That really helps on nights when we are tired and can just heat up something that's already cooked.

What's been the biggest hurdle for you in making these changes? Example: "I really miss gourmet cheese," or, "it's too time-consuming to plan a shopping trip so tight, with coupons and looking for specials." Anything like that? 

Jackie: No, we were used to doing that—coupons—before the budget change. Mark: I miss ice cream. But that's not a budget issue. I won't buy it and keep it because Jackie can't eat it and I don't want to eat it in front of her. Jackie: And it doesn't bother me if you do. Mark: I know, but I'm not going to do it. 

I understand that. Since I got diagnosed with the diabetes, Warren often will pass on having cookies or something after dinner, saying he wants to support me. And I'm just like Jackie: I tell him it won't bother me. And Warren says, "I know. But I want you to know that I care." But what I am hearing is the bigger change to your eating and shopping was the lactose intolerance. Am I hearing that right?

Oh, definitely. The lactose issue was the biggest change. Losing the income just made us hone in even more on what we were buying and eating. We don't do a lot of processed foods at all. Mark: And we stopped buying frozen meals pretty much all together.

What's been the biggest surprise for you?

Putting fridge in the food for a lower price. And looking at it and saying "it's enough." That was a big change in our thinking.  

I know some of these changes were driven because of the income shift. Truth: if your income went back to prior levels, do you think you would continue to shop like this? Why or why not?

Mark: I would hope we would continue to shop the same way as now. The money we'd save [with more income] could go elsewhere. Jackie: We are eating simpler meals. I'm aware that we're getting older and we need to be more aware of what we eat and be more health-conscious. That plays into it, too. 

Sometimes people read blogs about cutting grocery bills and comment "I could never do that." I belong to a Facebook group, No Spending for the Year 2018, and newbies on the site will often be overwhelmed at the thought of making such substantial changes. What words of advice would you have for someone who is looking at a radical grocery makeover, either by choice or because they had a big life event that requires them to make deep budget cuts?

Mark: Look and see what you really need to have and get it. Set the other stuff aside—stuff you really don't need. Put it out of your mind. Learn to say "that's enough." And you'll be surprised: it really is enough. Jackie: Keep meals simple. I look at recipes and and not do one because it calls for expensive items and I think "I'm not going to get that much more pleasure out of that!" 

We talked several more minutes about how I buy remaindered apples, peel them, cut them up, and freeze them for future apple pies. Jackie asked whether I had to prep them in any other way, such as putting lemon juice on them. Usually not. If I am doing a lot of apple prep (several pounds at once), I will throw the slices into a bowl of water with lemon juice in it to cut down on how brown they turn, but typically not. And the truth is with apple pie, it doesn't make a difference if the apples turn a little brown in the preparation. By the time I add cinnamon, there's a lot of color change in the final product!

At the end of the interview, we talked about money issues in general (not using credit cards, pay cash or put it off, for example) and just enjoyed being together. Jackie and I walked out to the garden and we picked several tomatoes for her (Mark doesn't eat them). They left our home, after hugs all around, carrying the "test roll" of toilet paper. (Mark to Jackie: "You just used their bathroom and you know that's what they had in there!")

Sometimes it's as simple as a roll of toilet paper.