Focus?

Photo by Giorgio Trovato on Unsplash

 

Just 10 days ago at the mid-January point, I wrote about what the month had held so far and what some of the topics on my mind were. With only 6 (!) days remaining to this first month of 2025, I feel as if I am still tiptoeing through the days.

My study is a mess: Dad paperwork (some old, some older, some newer, some new, and, of course, miscellaneous) in a couple of piles, my paperwork (the same), a small but growing pile of donations after the heady exclamation in that aforementioned post that we had moved a lot of things to Goodwill, and, of course, some other stuff. At the same time, there are some small, "neater" stacks of papers on the couch in the downstairs study that (a) are mostly mine and (b) need to move upstairs to my study and get filed, shredded, or recycled. My study is chillier than downstairs (excuses, excuses) and I keep looking at those downstairs stacks and think, "I'll get to those...later."

The real issue is that my mind is cluttered or, more to the point, my focus is blurry right now. I am working hard (perhaps too hard?) on finding my center, my cornerstone. (Maybe I have more than one cornerstone?) Maybe it has been this cold wave (finally ending, it would appear) that has kept me from walking as much or as far as I want and am used to (I did walk home from visiting Dad today; that was a good thing!) that is pushing me down. (As I wrote just a few days ago, walking is a very important part of my life.) I am quite sure that the noise, much of it toxic, blasting out from the new administration is part of the picture as I worry about the safety and well-being of family and friends in this new era. 

And, having written all of that out and seeing my words in the light of day, maybe I do have a focus after all. I remember that not only am I am my best when I focus on the small moments, the immediate moments, and the community moments, but it is more than my just noticing thosenthings. It is my moral duty, one I take up gladly, to do my part to mend the broken seams of this world. 

Maybe I am indeed ready to move forward. 

The Best Review Ever

The muffins

I am in the early stages of writing another blog post, but then this happened this morning and was too good to sit on.  

We have all been under a severe cold wave, and most of us around here have dealt with it by staying inside. Add to that the political climate, and many of us, starting with me, are focusing on serving our local community. At home, I am trying to concentrate on what blogger Wendi at My Heart is Always Home recently called the "ordinary moments." 

It helps. 

I spent yesterday afternoon baking: a spinach/feta quiche for supper and cardamon pumpkin muffins for pleasure. Four of those went to our next door neighbors, superb bakers themselves, earning a positive review when the adults shared one between themselves. 

That is not the review I am referring to, glowing as it was. 

My phone tinged at 7:40 this morning with an incoming text: "These are the best muffins I've ever tasted in my life! ... I mean, I have a long life still, so...I might have something even tastier...but there are the best I've ever had so far!" Margaux

Margaux is the 5-year-old next door, a kindergartner like my grandson Orlando (they are 4 months apart in age). Apparently my muffins were a huge hit, her dad adding that after she tasted the muffin, she set it aside and ate her cereal first  "because she realized it was so good that she wanted to save it for last."

I have been baking for decades for fun, for sharing, for profit, for fundraising events. I have had glowing reviews from friends and strangers. But I have never ever had a review like this one. To borrow from Margaux's words, I have had a long life, but still, this is the best review ever! 

Ever! 

COLD

Photo by Alex Padurariu on Unsplash

It is Sunday evening as I write and a light snow is sifting down. For those who watch weather (I do, a little), you may know that central Ohio is in the path of the extreme cold wave hitting the midwest and the east coast. Extreme? -25 or lower with the windchill if it gets really bad. The cold aside, we should miss the heavy snows that are hitting other parts of the country. I will know in the morning when I look out the window.

Despite the cold, I made a point of walking both yesterday and today in the afternoons. I did not do so lightheartedly but with precautions and extreme care. Both afternoons, I chose only clear, clean sidewalks and, today (Sunday), when the air was brittle and the wind drove the temperature down, I was well-bundled. (In comparison, Saturday's walk was under blue, sunny skies with temperatures mild in the mid-20s.)

Until this weekend, I had not walked in several days because of weather and because of letting too many things get in the way. I walk for the exercise, of course. All of my physicians use my walking as a marker of my well-being and always ask me in the course of any appointment how much I am walking (both time and distance) and whether I am experiencing any issues. 

I also use walking to sort things out in my head. The lack of any significant walking (more than just to and from the car) has certainly contributed to a more cluttered mind than I like. So the walks were good for me, even in the cold. I could feel my mind exhale and stretch in gratitude as I walked. 

The cold is predicted to last over the next few days. I visited my dad in his apartment on Saturday and told him if it got as cold as they were predicting, he would not see me for a few days. Dad immediately said, "STAY HOME."

We are both more than happy to stay home over the next few days. As I type these words in on Monday morning, the sun is bright, the sky is blue, and it is a whopping 4 degrees. Warren had to take the car to the repair shop this morning for the replacement transmission, riding our local bus from there to back here, but that is our sole expedition outside. We both have plenty of inside tasks to do, I have plenty (PLENTY) of books at hand, and as soon as I post this, I am heading into the kitchen to bake. My dear friend Cindy calls this response to cold weather "hunkering down;" she lives about 30 miles away and we have exchanged several texts on the topic. 

Here's to hunkering. 

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. 

A New Book

Photo by Olena Bohovyk on Unsplash

A few weeks ago, I was at my dentist's office for a cleaning. Blanche, my dental hygienist of many years, and I talked about my most recent Mayo visit. Her mother-in-law died of multiple myeloma a number of years ago, so she is familiar with the disease and has stayed on top of my health status. When she heard the "very, very stable" and "may well have a normal life span" pronouncements, she was overjoyed.

I told her my own feelings: yes, I (and my family and friends) am delighted. Beyond delighted. Having that new prognosis just changes so much and Warren and I are still talking through those changes. Blanche nodded as she prepped for my cleaning. I then told her about feeling as if I have been reading a large book, all the bookmarks fell out, and I don't know where my place in the book is anymore.

Blanche didn't miss a beat.

"Then it's time to pick a new book."

As I was checking out at the front desk, Blanche stepped back into the hallway from her workspace and called to me. "Don't forget, April. Pick a new book."

Sometimes it takes someone else to point out the obvious.

Pick a new book. 

I am not sure what book I am picking but the message fits me to a tee, both figuratively in my charting the way forward and literally (and somewhat tongue in cheek) as I start a new year of library receipts. Our library system, like an increasing number of them nationwide, lets the borrower know how much they saved by using the library, printing the information on the bottom of the checkout receipt. In 2024, I saved a whopping $4243.78 by checking out books (I rarely check out anything else). That is probably my largest one-year amount since the library started tracking individual savings. I went to the library just yesterday, both to return and check out some waiting books, and my total for 2025 is already $117.89.

Pick a new book? I can't wait. 

At the End of Four: Wrapping Up Groceries in 2024

Homemade Kringle

Wrapping up and looking ahead to 2025, that is. 

Well, that was a wild prediction on my part. Back in November, summing up our grocery purchases for the third quarter of the year and using a goal of spending an average of $200.00/month, I optimistically (and myopically) wrote we could still hit that average for the year by holding our spending to $164.00 a month for the final quarter.

Non-spoiler alert: it didn't happen. 

Didn't begin to happen. Our combined grocery (food and basic household items such as detergent and toilet paper) was—wait for it—$802.55, or $267.52 average a month. Of that amount, a mere $46.83 was for household items; $755.72 was for food.

For the year, our total outlay for groceries (again, mostly food) came to $2709.96, making the monthly average $225.83. The only reason we came in that low was because the 2nd quarter expenditures were lower because of my father's changing circumstances and some of the items we reaped from his house. 

But, more to the point in my mind, why was 4th quarter, and especially December so high? (December spending was $371.66—ouch.)

There are several reasons. One, I bake a lot (a whole lot) in December for friends, family, volunteers and so on. As a result, we spent a lot of money on supplies. In the spirit of full disclosure, I did deduct $60.00 from the December total representing supplies for baked goods (including Kringle) that left this house directly to the recipients. But we also bought items (some of which were very pricy) that I did not end up using for holiday gifting so those costs are in our totals.

One Kringle left home; this one stayed. (Yes, I counted it in the total.)

Another reason is that December especially contained some "splurges." Let me put "splurges" into context. A friend recently told me that she and her husband always had lobster rolls (one each) on New Year's Day; that was a long-standing tradition. So they had just purchased two pounds of lobster at an eye-watering $40.00/pound. She said they would get several such meals out of that amount and it was cheaper than going to a restaurant and ordering lobster (true that), but I winced inwardly at the $80.00.

Our splurges were a tad more modest. 3.73 pounds of fresh salmon "loins" (when did salmons acquire loins?) marked down 50% to $7.49/pound at Kroger (that will make four meals for us), and a whopper of a fresh salmon slab marked 50% off at Aldi to come in at $4.60/pound (another meal or two). Yeah, the Kroger markdown was still a big splurge. It came first and, because I watch salmon prices (I love salmon) and knew that Aldi had not been below $9.00+ pound for weeks, I felt we did well. (We did great with the Aldi one.) I will enjoy every bite. 

Another splurge (in November) was for a quart of vanilla ice cream at Whit's: $9.00. We had dear friends coming to dinner and I wanted the ice cream to accompany the apple dessert I had made. Totally worth it for the pleasure of the vanilla and apples. 

So splurging is an issue, but we watch ourselves even in that area. The other main issue, frankly, is the cost of food. We are pretty darn conscientious about our shopping and I watch and compare prices. But food is higher. A pound of butter on sale, and there were several between mid-November and Christmas, was $2.99. Everywhere. Last year: $1.99. In mid-December, I ran out of eggs (having stocked up on them in November through sales). No one had a special and I paid, gasping, $3.99 for a dozen so I could finish my baking. And these are what is now known as "traditional" eggs: not organic, not cage-free, not brown. Just eggs. 

That all being said, there were some hilarious (to us) saving moments in December. We finished off a bag of tortilla chips (which we had just opened, not an old stale one we had opened and forgot about), a small cube (frozen) of veggie dip, and two York Peppermint Patties (also frozen) that were left behind after we hosted a small potluck-style gathering in July. And walking home together December 31, Warren and I spied a runaway onion on a tree lawn a few blocks from home. 

The runaway onion

Of course we picked it up. (Turns out there were three others in the curb gutter that neither of us noticed. Walking home yesterday, I saw them, but they had frozen into the matted leaves and were not salvageable. Just had to let those go.)

And while this falls in 2025 and not 2024, I picked two mini candy bars from the bowl at our auto repair shop yesterday that we will take to the movies tonight. 

Two mini bars

While writing this, having just now run the numbers for the year, I am vastly relieved that, even with a very expensive December, our average monthly outlay for the year was $226.00 and not closer to the $267.00 for this quarter. Thinking about the higher amount, Warren and I had discussed cutting our grocery purchases 10%, or $26.00 a month, to get started on reining in the costs. Using that $26.00 amount, which we thought we could meet, maybe $200.00/month for groceries is within reach. Or something close to that.

A lot of folks out there are having a "No Spend" January. We tend to lean towards a "no spend" lifestyle as it is, so we're already aligned with that mindset. But we both agreed that an "Only Buy Perishables" January (short of some stunning sale somewhere: salmon for $1.00/pound, say) might be a good way to start 2025.

Here's to a year of grocery adventures. 

Holiday Decor

Our tree this year

Warren and I do not own an artificial tree. We don't go to tree farms in the area and cut our own. Instead, we go to a nearby nursery or other business that sells pre-cut trees, which is exactly what we did last Sunday.

This year's tree is tall and skinny and scrawny. My dear friend David, on seeing a photo of it, immediately called it a Charlie Brown tree, invoking "A Charlie Brown Christmas," which first aired in 1965 when we were growing up. It was dropping needles even as we were setting it up in the tree stand. 

Once it was upright, we brought up the containers of lights and bulbs we store in the basement year round. But as we started on the lights, Warren and I looked at each other.

"We have more lights than tree."

Sure did. So we put some of our strings of lights on the tree and put the rest aside.

Once the lights were on, we looked at the tree and then looked at each other again.

"This tree isn't going to hold a lot of ornaments."

Sure wasn't.

"What if we just put on 'our' ornaments?"

When Warren and I celebrated our very first Christmas together, we bought an ornament just for "us" to mark our new start. For the next few Christmases, we would buy one ornament that was special just to us. As time went on, we started to buy ornaments from our travels and experiences: Montana, Oregon, Mayo, Colorado. Other "ornaments" marked our years together: a price tag off of a outdoor sculpture we bought in 2020 as we climbed out of the pandemic, eclipse glasses (of course) for 2024. We keep them in a separate container, so we knew where they were. By the time we put "our" ornaments on the tree, it was full. Warren put on two small beaded garlands dating back to Ben's early years, and the tree was done.

Almost all of the rest of the holiday things—ornaments, family heirloom items, wreaths, bulbs, and so on—went back in the basement.  

On Wednesday, we were at Kroger to get my dad a few items and Warren saw that the outdoor wreaths were marked down to $5.00. So one of those came home to hang on our outdoor wall.

And the wreath. See the bells?

A couple of notes about this year's holiday decor that make me smile:

1. We bought the tree on December 15. That is the earliest we have brought home a tree in years. All the previous years, Warren's job as Executive Director of the Symphony, along with his playing percussion and timpani, kept the month full. December is still full for him as a timpanist, but there is no Symphony to carry. 

2. The tree was originally priced at $64.99 at TSC. It was marked down to $19.99 as the store looked to sell off its remaining cut tree. So basically that was a 70% discount.

3. The wreath was originally $19.99. so at $5.00, that was a 75% discount. It has two metal bells as ornaments, which will go into Warren's percussion holdings, so that basically was a bonus.

Our Christmas decorating this year raised for later discussion whether we have too much holiday stuff ranging from bulbs to lights to garlands. 

When is enough enough? When is too much too much? These are questions we will likely kick around in 2025 when Warren and I put away the ornaments and lights.

There is a Zen saying that "enough is a feast." I wrote about it years ago and I still have mixed feelings about it. I suspect some of my feelings arise from my continuing to volunteer in settings where for many, "enough" is out of reach. 

But in our home this year, we have more than enough. On the tree and in our hearts. And it indeed is a feast.

Good, Better, Best

Jaime's pie

The holiday concert is upon us this weekend. I always ("always" as in Every. Single. Concert) bake an apple pie for our close friend and conductor, Jaime, a tradition I started years and years ago. And this being the holidays, I make sure that I bake double chocolate cookies to go home for his wife, Oriana, as well as biscotti.

So Saturday afternoon I set about baking Jaime's pie. I had cooked the apples earlier that morning, so in no time at all the pie was in the oven. It came out and was cooling on the coffee table in our study off the kitchen as I made ready to put the first tray of chocolate cookies in the oven.

In short, all was well.

The rim of the pie crust had a few spots where the sugar wash had darkened more than I liked. Piece of cake, I thought. I'll just carefully cut those little nibs off with a serrated knife. Which is exactly what I was doing when the pie flipped off the cooling rack and upside down on the coffee table.

Holy smokes.

Never in almost a HALF CENTURY of baking pies have I ever flipped one off the rack, upside down, and out of its pan.

One smashed pie

The good news is that not one crumb or splatter went on the carpet.

The better news is that I had just enough peeled, sliced apples in the freezer to make a second pie. (I also had another pie tin, plenty of mayo, the works.) So while I defrosted the apples and cooked them down, I also kept baking the chocolate cookies.

The chocolate cookies

The BEST news is that Jaime gets his pie (plus the other goodies; the first batch of biscotti is cooling while I type this), Warren and I get smashed apple pie dessert (yum!), and, most important of all, not one single crumb or splatter landed on the bass drum that Warren has just finished rebuilding for the Mansfield Symphony. Whew!

Proximity of bass drum to flipped pie; it also did not splatter on the hoops below to the left

Good, better, best—you betcha! 

Little Bits

Here are three little bits in the last few days that made me smile.

The book and the bookmark

1) Yesterday I was reading Ghost Dogs: On Killers and Kin, the stunning collection of essays by Andre Dubus III, and a bookmark fell out. A previous borrower at the library must have put it in to save a spot. In light of my recent thoughts about bookmarks, how cool was that?

Grandma's measuring cup

2) This battered measuring cup belonged to my beloved Grandma Skatzes. I keep it—have always kept it—in the flour canister and its sole purpose in my life (besides reminding me of Grandma every time I use it) is to measure flour. I clean it...occasionally. (Once a decade, maybe? Longer than that? Possibly.) Given that it is only used to measure flour and does not mingle with anything else in the kitchen, I long ago realized it didn't need to be cleaned on a regular basis. I mean, come on, it's flour. This past Wednesday, while refilling the flour canister, I took a hard look and saw just how caked with flour this poor little cup was. A warm soak, a good scrub, and I can now head into the holiday baking season with my beloved, battered, and now clean little cup!

Grapes! 

3) Many of us buy markdowns at grocery stores; I know I do, especially in the Kroger produce section. Some of us "trash pick" when we see a pile of stuff on a curb that was clearly put out in hopes that someone will take it away. I do that on both sides: occasionally both setting out stuff and  picking up stuff. So, here's the question. If you pick grapes out of the neighbor's compost bin (which they share with us), is that trash picking or getting a markdown of a markdown? Our backyard neighbors, David and Ashley, often leave for Thanksgiving weekend to visit family. Being conscientious about perishables, Ashley makes sure that produce hits the compost so they don't come home to a refrigerator of glop. I had forgotten that she does that, so when I took our compost out yesterday to dump it in the container (the bin is from the previous owner of their house, who we also know; we share the bin), I opened the lid and let out a yell of discovery. GRAPES! Big, fat grapes! You bet I picked them out! I carried them home, washed them thoroughly (they were mixed with coffee grounds, which made for some interesting flavors), and am enjoying Every. Single. Bite. 

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. 

A Year Ago Today

A year ago today, Warren came to my room and said, "So, are you ready?"

A year ago today, Warren picked up the heavy soft bag, I picked up the very light soft bag, and we walked out the door.

A year ago today, we slowly walked down the hall and got on the elevator. 

A year ago today, I slid into the front seat of the car, Warren started the engine, and we looked at each other. "Ready?"

A year ago today, Warren drove slowly home, purposely taking the slower route up Franklin Street. "I thought you'd want to see the trees," Warren said. They were aflame—the golds, the reds—all brilliant. I was in tears, saying over and over as the leaves drifted down, "Oh, I didn't miss fall after all!" 

A year ago today, I slowly walked back into our home for the first time in nine weeks. I was weak and frail and still had months of recovery ahead of me, but I was home.

I am penning out these words Friday night to type out on Saturday. I will set this post to publish on Sunday the 27th, which is the one-year anniversary of my homecoming from the medical messes of 2023. By the time this post publishes, we will be well on our way to Rochester and Mayo Clinic. The sun will be rising as we head west on US 30 across Indiana. That route is lined with deciduous trees, and they should be in their October glory, just like they were a year ago today when Warren drove up Franklin to our home. 

A year ago today, I came home. Today, I am here to celebrate hitting that one-year mark, and for that I am grateful.

Famous Last Words

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Back in January, 2016, I wrote about finally (finally!) letting go of and donating all of my canning equipment, from the ancient (and heavy) pressure canner to the tongs, the canning funnels, the rack for the bottom of the canner, and a number of pint jars.

"I'll never can again," I announced firmly. 

And I haven't. Summers came and went without the least itch to can or regret that I was no longer canning. I meant what I said about canning: I was done.

Well, done right up until these past few days. With frost predicted last week, I started thinking about what was still outside on the plants. The weather prediction came true that night, with threats of a heavier frost following the next night. The tomato and pepper plants went limp just from the light frost; the basil had turned black. I hastily picked any remaining vegetables; the heavier frost that night completed finishing off the garden.

There were a lot of green tomatoes. 

A. Lot.

I have tried a few times in the past to ripen green tomatoes inside, always with poor results. So that didn't look like a route I wanted to take again. Fried green tomatoes? Never tried them, never made them, and these tomatoes were probably not the best candidates in size, shape, and consistency.

What else can you make from green tomatoes? Green tomato relish, it turns out. 

With a hot bath canning process.

Hmmn. I had the tomatoes. I had the right spices. I had sugar and vinegar. I had a large, deep pot that would work for the hot bath. I had some half pint and pint jars (even when you give them away, they still come into your house). Canning seals: got those at a quick stop on the way to Warren's rehearsal in Mansfield. 

What did I lack? A canning rack (glass jars cannot rest on the bottom of the hot bath pot without running the risk of shattering). Canning tongs, which have plasticized tong ends to grip the jars as you lift them in and out of the hot bath. A wide mouth funnel to fill the jars. These are essential items when canning. Period. 

There was no way I was going to go out and BUY canning equipment. So I did what any conscientious frugal person would do. I Googled workarounds for the rack, the tongs, and the funnel. After reading a few sources on each, and thinking about what I already had to work with, I was ready to try assembling the tools I needed.

For the canning rack? Some people create a rack from aluminum foil. Folded dishtowels also can be used, as my Aunt Gail told me when I called her the next day and we laughed about canning. Again, the point is to keep the jars from resting on the bottom of the pot. You know what also works well for a canning rack? Cookie cutters!

There are always cookie cutters in this house.

As for the tongs, we own a pair of long tongs. But, again, you need something on the end point that will grip hot glass. Such as...rubber bands! 

Repurposed tongs! 

The wide mouth funnel took me a minute to figure out and come up with a good solution. Some sites suggested methods of creating one that either did not make sense or looked too complicated. I looked at our kitchen funnels and sighed at the thought of having to cut the narrow mouth off the largest one. Then I looked over at our recycling tub and...a discarded gallon milk jug! 

Perfect wide mouth funnel! 

Soon I had a a pot of green tomato relish bubbling away (20 minutes) as I prepared my "new" canning tools. And soon after that (10 minutes), I was lifting the first jars of canned relish out of the pot.

Green tomato relish bubbling away

After Warren and I talked about my making relish, and how I put together a way to can, he got a look on his face. A faraway, remembering something look.

"I always liked that pepper/onion relish we used to make." 

I still had the recipe in my recipe folder (a paper folder, folks, not one on my computer). I pulled it out, read it through, and, yep, a hot bath recipe.

Guess what's up next?

Ready for their close-up 

"I'll never can again."

Ha. 

And Here We Are After All

Ramona 2018

Last week we hosted the Dalí Quartet, the featured guest artists for the Symphony's season debut concert, with two of them staying in our home and the other two next door. Our living room became their rehearsal space for the week. My study was serving as a bedroom during that time, so I spent my days (and some evenings) at the kitchen table, reading, writing, baking, and much of the time being serenaded by Chamber Music America's 2024 Ensemble of the Year. (Yes, they are phenomenal.) 

With the quartet rehearsing in our living room daily and my study unavailable, I had to plan what I needed to lay out (books, files, pads to write on) each morning before they started. We had moved the coffee table into the next room, usually our downstairs study but currently an instrument holding pit for Hyer Percussion, but sometimes I came up short on my planning. The musicians would not have minded my walking into the living room to grab something, but I did not want to do that. I could coast and shift gears when needed.

One of the things I found myself doing in odd moments was reading back over old, old blog posts. What did I write about ten years ago? How about 15 years ago, when I started blogging? (15 years ago? Dang.)

In rereading, I came across a post from September, 2018, written after a trip out to Portland and time with Ramona, who was then six. In it, I reference the (still) in-progress MS novel I was writing, which features a 12-year-old Ramona, and then describe to Warren how on that day with Ramona I "met" my granddaughter—the one who was 12 and the one I would never live to see.

That sentiment about never living to see that future Ramona was not me being overly dramatic. In looking at old blog posts, I am more than a bit taken aback at how ever-present the myeloma was, the toll it was taking on me, and the growing sense of time slipping through my fingers. So when I wrote "I will never know Ramona at 12," that was a realistic projection.

After rereading that post this weekend, I shared my thoughts with Warren and read him the lines towards the end about meeting my future Ramona. My voice broke again, just as it did in 2018. When I finished, we both sat quietly for a moment.

Ramona 2024

Ramona turned 12 on September 1. My granddaughter: 12. Like my speculations in 2018, she is amazing and wonderful. And I am here to see that.

What a gift. An absolutely unexpected, marvelous gift.

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.

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?