The 2024 Gardens: Part 1

My very last garden post in 2023 went up three days before the endoscopic ultrasound (a routine procedure performed without a hitch in almost all cases) that landed me in the hospital and skilled nursing for nine weeks. As I wrote when I finally got home in late October and finally started blogging again (albeit slowly) in late November, the gardens had gone to tatters since late August. And while I said then that I would "likely" have a garden again, I confess that it is now late April and other than make a few lazy notes in my head, I have not done a single thing on the garden front. 

That being said, absolutely nothing prepared me for what I discovered a few days ago coming up in the kitchen garden:

Recognize this? Here, let's try another photo:

Those, my friends, are volunteer lettuce starts. I never even suspected that lettuce would go to seed and then come up in the spring. 

In that last garden post in 2023, I noted that some of the the Black Seeded Simpson lettuce had gone to flower:

I had taken down most of the flowering stalks, but left a few up because the flowers were so beautiful and delicate:

Given the medical situation this fall, no one ever got back to them to clip the remaining flowers. And so the lettuce did what any sensible plant would do: it seeded itself.

We' won't be making much salad from these few starts unless they get a lot larger. All the same, I clipped a few leaves this evening and added them to our salad bowls before we sat down to supper. That gave us each a taste of spring and a hint of the magic of growing our own food.

And that taste was delicious. 

Dogwood Blooms

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

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

As seen from the backyard

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

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

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

Which Was the Bigger Event?

Today there was a total solar eclipse across a swath of the United States. Where we live (Delaware, Ohio) was in the path of totality. Warren and I were invited to a viewing gathering next door and spent a wonderful few hours chatting, laughing, and watching the sun slowly disappear and then reappear. 

So as to not arrive empty-handed, I made two types of cookies to take: a cinnamon sugar cookie and a double chocolate cookie. Earlier in the day, I took some to our neighbors on the other side. In thanking me, Adam (the father of Margaux of the wonderful birthday tower) texted that he was "assuming that this is the correct way to eat them for the total eclipse effect:"

Eclipse preview

Yes, indeed! 

Seven years ago, there was a partial solar eclipse in our area, but this was the first full solar eclipse any of us (there were seven of us total) had ever seen. We were all wonderstruck.  All of us just kept marveling at what was taking place over our heads. We kept commenting on the changes in the light and the air temperature. 

And truly, there are not enough words to describe the event.

Solar corona at totality; if you were looking through eclipse glasses, you would see the sun totally blackened with a shining ring of light around it. My phone? Not so much! 

So yes, that was a BIG event today! 

But there was another BIG event earlier today. Midmorning, after thinning out the dead flowers from a birthday bouquet, I walked the discards out to the compost container back by the Hej garden. That garden currently is covered in purple deadnettle, one of the first flowering anything to come up in the spring. I had seen the garden last week and knew that it was carpeted in the small flowering plants. All the same, I stopped in my tracks. 

What stopped me?

BEES!!! 

Several bumblebees were zigzagging through the deadnettle. I only had my phone on me, but all the same managed to capture one of them in action:

The bumbler clearly ignoring me

 I went back to the house and grabbed my camera. Now, I have not really used my camera since shattering my wrist in January. I tried a few times, but pretty much lacked the physical capability to hold it as well as enough sensation in my index finger to trip the shutter. But I have been doing my exercises faithfully for week and while I am not 100% yet, I am much better. Better enough that I could get some shots off.

In the brief time it took to walk to the house, get my camera, then walk back out to the Hej garden, the bumblebees had moved on. But happily for me, the honeybees had moved in behind them and were busy mining the pollen:

The first honeybees of 2024

Bees, bees, bees! These are the first I have seen in 2024 and that, for me, is also a BIG event! 

I love that on a day of a once-in-a-lifetime sky event, my morning started with my finding a whole bed of bees, already starting their 2024 rounds. And maybe there aren't enough words to describe that event either.

The bigger event? They were both BIG. 

This Year's Gardens, Part 5

 I had grand plans for the garden front this weekend. We'd get compost, we'd till the gardens, I'd get the zucchini planted, and on and on and...

Yeah.

It rained Friday. It rained Saturday until well into the afternoon. 

Too wet to till.

Sunday, both Warren and I were in a slump all morning for a number of reasons: his workload, my workload (volunteer, but still), computer problems (mine), health issues (mine, obviously), blah blah blah. At one point (the low point on the computer problem), I put my head down to my desk and started crying, which is not like me. We were both struggling.

But Sunday was also glorious, sunshine and blue skies.

I looked at the brilliant day outside. "Why don't we at least sit outside on the deck and enjoy the sun?" Warren shrugged. Okay. 

It was better sitting outside on the deck steps. But we were still struggling. Warren halfheartedly suggested we go out for ice cream. I halfheartedly shrugged. Then I sat up.

"We have ice cream! Let's make sundaes and have them for lunch!" 

Now we were starting to move. Sundaes for lunch! Sunshine! blue skies! 

The sundaes were enough to push us both a bit. We took the deck furniture out of its winter tarps and set up the deck. Progress! Then my sons called for Mother's Day, first Ben, then Sam. Joy! More energy as I sat in the sun and talked with them. 

After finishing the second call, I said to Warren, "Now I'm ready to garden." I walked down to the shed in back and brought up the four planters I scored for free three years ago and arranged them on the patio. More progress.

I couldn't till the gardens, but I could get the garden started. 

With Warren's help, the planters went from this

to this:

From front to back: Bibb lettuce, Bibb lettuce, Finger carrots (a small carrot), and Paris Romaine.

At this point, Warren felt he was ready to go into his shop and make some progress on crotale stands. I decided I felt good enough to transplant the globe thistle I had sprouted earlier. I had four ice cream cartons of sprouted seeds (well, three hearty ones and one which didn't do a whole lot); I knew where I wanted them.

I spent the next hour under those blue, sunny skies planting. Two went in the back flower bed (one of those two being the one that underperformed). How great that I was deep in the daylily bed?

That blue gardening seat? Best garden purchase ever.

One carton went out front in in the bed anchored by the redbud. Earlier this spring I had relocated the agastache (hyssop) to the back flower bed, because it wasn't doing well with the redbud. So there was extra room in that bed, allowing for the globe thistle to go up front and not under the redbud.

For the record, the ice cream containers made excellent sprouting containers. They have depth, so you don't have to worry about them outgrowing the container too soon. To plant, all I had to do was cut down the side, peel the side walls off, and then slide the seeds/soul off the bottom into the hole I had already dug.

One container mid-peel on the wall. 

All told, I probably spent an hour and a half outside. It was glorious. Warren came out of his shop from time to time to check on me out of love, out of watchfulness (besides the truck analogy, Tim also last week said it is time to step back from doing so much), out of pleasure that the slumped morning had turned so spectacularly (he too was making progress in his shop). 

And that, my friends, is where the gardens stand as of this morning. 

This Year's Gardens, Part 4

The globe thistle is sprouting! 

 

While the weather is still making up its mind as to whether it is really, truly Spring, we are certainly having more days pointing that way. Looking at my garden journal from last year, it was May 15 before I planted most of the garden, although I was already eating lettuce from some volunteers in the prior year's patch (none this year). Getting the beds ready and watching the seeds inside certainly make sense this time of year.

And the seeds inside, at least most of them, have not disappointed. The globe thistle I gathered from the bed down the street? It came up in profusion in three of the four cartons. And the zucchini has gone wild in its little greenhouse; I am hoping I can keep it reined in there before getting it into the garden outside. Worst case scenario, I will up-pot them into empty yogurt containers to hold them for another week or so. (The western scrub sunflowers? Nothing. Nothing.)

And the zucchini! 

The tiller

I spent much of April 22 and some of April 23 doing a hard weeding by hand of the kitchen garden. It wasn't until April 23 that I finally got my electric tiller unboxed and put together.  That was easy enough. Using it, however, was (still is) a learning curve. I got better as I tilled longer, but clearly I am a novice. I did the kitchen garden, the smaller of the two, with Warren offering suggestions from time to time.  

Yesterday was warm and sunny and windy. Warren suggested that we both take a break from the household demands and till the Hej garden, the larger garden. It had been Concert Week and we were both on overload all week. I was exhausted and not feeling well, and the tears came rushing up. "I can't till today," I said. "There just isn't enough of me."

"No, I'll till," said Warren. "You can direct and help with the smaller things."

 The Hej garden was a mess; I had only cleaned it roughly last fall. The open compost bins built by the previous owners needed structural attention; Warren and Dave (who owns the property) spent some time discussing those issues. The open compost bin also contains a commercial plastic one, which Warren dug out and turned so it could be used. (Oooh, a compost bin! My own compost!) Then he turned to the tilling of the garden.

The Hej garden is larger. It is also a much wetter garden because of its location (on a downslope) and drainage issues that weren't there years ago. The soil was heavy and dark. After a few attempts with the tiller, its blades were caked with mud and weeds. 

The Hej Garden Before

Warren was undeterred. He got his mower out and mowed the weeds down, then brought out the yard de-thatcher/scarifier he bought late last year. It too soon had its share of mud and weeds clogging it, but he got it through the garden.

Warren bringing in the heavy equipment

As for me, I took up and cleaned off the bricks that delineate the two unfenced sides of the garden. And, no surprise, unclogged the blades of the tiller and the de-thatcher. I'll put the bricks back in place after we finish tilling. I'm glad Warren stuck with me and encouraged me to come out to the garden, stepping in where my physical capacity was lacking. I was tired when we came in, but delighted by the time in the sun and the dirt and the smell of green. 

Pulling up the bricks until all the tilling is done. That's my glove, not a detached hand.

By Saturday after next, my goal is to get a load of compost for both gardens and get it tilled in. That will be May 14, which puts me on track with last year. During that week, I will go to my local farm market and buy plants. And somewhere in there I will take the tiller out to my dad's house and help him till a small garden.

For now, though, the garden tilling is started. 

The Kitchen Garden

The Hej Garden After 

When I talked with my son Ben yesterday, we talked about their garden plans. He said they were planting "only one" zucchini plant this year, but lots of tomatoes. Like me, he and Alix discovered that the best tomatoes are the ones from the garden. He said they would not plant peppers this year; they had concluded that their homegrown ones were not superior to the store ones, and were a lot more work. He mentioned there would be herbs in the garden.

Unlike Ben, I will plants lots of zucchini. We are just finishing our 2021 stash in the freezer. We will have basil, but I don't grow other herbs. Pesto is one thing; dealing with the other herbs is another. And while I noted in my 2021 garden notes that I would plant "fewer" tomatoes this summer, my resolve is weakening as I think of the joy of a fresh tomato. 

Time will tell. 

This Year's Gardens, Part Three

Seeds from the trip last summer 

Here in central Ohio, the weather is messing around with us. A few weeks ago, we had temperatures in the 70s. Earlier this week was snow. Today is cloudy and mild; tomorrow it is supposed to be almost 80.

I have yet to start any outside gardening. Heck, I have yet to clean up the gardens, let alone till them! But all the same, I did get started today in this year's gardens. (I just realized I had been titling these posts "This Year's Garden," singular, when it clearly is "This Year's Gardens," plural.) 

Last year, I had to plant the zucchini three times, twice for the squirrels. They dug up every single seed and ate them all, sometimes leaving the empty shells to taunt me. We had zucchini finally only because Warren came up with a homemade seed starter and I got enough plants going to transplant them. This year, I am not even bothering to try the seeds outside. The peat pots starter from our neighbors was activated today and planted with zucchini and cantaloupe (which the squirrels also devoured in seed stage last year).

Loaded up and ready to go! 

As I was finally getting my mind and hands into the gardens, I decided to go ahead and try to sprout seeds from last summer's trip and from a large globe thistle patch in the neighborhood. I'd been saving small yogurt cups and ice cream containers over the winter just for this purpose. For these, I am taking the "they're plants, they know what to do" approach. We'll see.

Globe thistle seeds

When I finished, I slid all of the containers under my plant rack. They'll get some sun there and I can keep an eye on them, especially the zucchini. If it does get as warm tomorrow and rain holds off, I may even make it into the kitchen garden to clear away some of last year's debris. 

And then there is the redbud. We have a redbud tree out front that we planted a few years ago. In pruning it earlier this year, I took one branch inside to see if I could get the buds to open up, setting it in a jelly jar on the table. Yes, the buds did open up. And then leaves starting sprouting on the end of the branches. 

One morning, Warren looked and said, "It's growing roots."

And it was. 

They are only ("only") very fine filaments floating in the water. But I am intrigued. Can I get the redbud to root? Will we have another redbud to plant at some point later this year? 

Only time will tell.

This Year's Garden, Part Two

 I know gardening time is coming because the daffodils have started to bloom.

Seeds at a local nursery/garden center are 33% off right now. (My favorite farm center, where I will buy my tomatoes, peppers, and other starts, doesn't open for another two weeks.)

And, a few weeks ago, after looking at the gardens, looking at Warren's schedule and the demands on his time and energy, and being honest with myself about my ever diminishing physical capacity, I brought in heavy reinforcements.

I called my dad and let him know about the tiller. Before telling him I had bought one, I asked him if he planned on gardening much this summer. My father is 89 this summer, and age is taking its toll on his body. He said "Well, maybe just a tomato plant, but..." and let his voice trail off.

My dad has always gardened. He grew up in a family where the vegetable garden fed them both in season and over the winter as my grandmother canned everything she could. My parents gardened and canned through all of my childhood, and even when the canning went by the wayside, there was always a garden for the summer.

I told him I had an electric tiller. "I figure you might like to borrow it," I said casually. I could hear an intake of breath in surprise. Then Dad said, "Well, maybe I'll do a couple of rows after all."

You could hear the happiness in his voice.

This Year's Garden, Part One

 

Yesterday was really warm. Warm enough outside that a sweatshirt without a jacket over it was plenty. (Today, at least as I type this, is also warm, but the temperature will fall later today.) Warren did a fair amount of his shop work outside on the back patio, which his shop (the repurposed garage) opens directly onto. He had instrument parts to spray, and I could hear the telltale rattle of the spray paint can as he shook it walking back and forth.

Our next door neighbors were out in the far back part of their yard with a large measuring tape spread across the grass. Having baked sourdough crackers to share, I walked a container over to them and got to see what was going on. Warren joined me as well.

They had staked out a 10' x 20' area of grass, with a continuous string connecting three of the four stakes. "We're trying corn this year," said Maura, nodding at the plot.

Adam chimed in. "From what we read, you need at least a ten by ten plot so the corn gets fertilized, so we went slightly larger. We're planning on enclosing it with chicken wire to try to keep the critters out." He looked at the grassy plot. "Getting that turned over will take some time." 

Maura turned to me. "So have you ever grown corn?"

As a matter of fact, I have grown corn in town at the house I lived in when my children were younger, just a few blocks from where I live now. I thought back to that long ago experience and said, "Yes and the biggest issue was the squirrels." 

Eyebrows went up. 

"Squirrels would eat the shoots as they came up,"I explained. "I mean, they didn't get them all, or even most of them, but I learned to really dislike squirrels."

Alice, their young daughter, spoke up. "We could put a top over the garden to keep the squirrels out."

No, not a solution, said Adam.

We talked gardens for a while longer: what they planned (hoped) to grow, what I plan (hope) to grow. I blogged very little about last year's gardens, for many reasons, and am hoping this year will be more satisfying and more productive.

Adam mentioned they had ordered "a lot" of peat moss starter sets. "More than we thought." Would I like one? 

Absolutely.

They turned back to their corn-patch-to-be. Warren headed back to his shop. I talked to our neighbors on the other side, who were also out enjoying the sun and warmth, then headed inside. The afternoon rolled on.

Much later that day, Warren came into the kitchen with a tray in his hand and a quizzical look on his face.

"Peat pots? Are these for you?" He had missed Adam's offer outside.

Yes, peat pots! And a starter tray! 

Just a few days earlier, I had bought a bag of Seed Starting Mix. I don't start all the garden inside like I used to; I buy most of my major starts (tomatoes, peppers, cabbage, cauliflower, broccoli) at a local farm market. But after my pitched battle with squirrels over the zucchini last spring, I'm starting the zucchini inside and will use the peat pots for that. During our travels last summer, I picked a few flower heads gone to seed from ditches along the road. I have been saving small yogurt cups and larger ice cream containers through the winter and will use those filled with the starter mix to try to sprout the flowers.

Even with climate change, it is still too early in central Ohio to start planting a garden. The farm market I mentioned above, a family run one on the edge of Delaware, will not even open until April 1. I still have to put some thought into what and how much I am growing. I will talk with my dad to see if he wants me to plant anything for him; at almost 89, he may not be doing much gardening this year, but I also know what it means to him to have a few plants out in his back garden. A friend I just talked with mentioned she would be gone too much of the summer to try to keep tomato plants going; I reassured her tomatoes would not be a problem. 

So yes, there is still planning to do. But the warmth and the neighbors and the talk and the peat pots have lightened my heart and stirred my thoughts. 

Spring is coming. So is gardening. 

Observations About April Money

When I wrote about our March food and household expenditures, I noted that we spent larger than normal amounts of money that month and the month before, most of it being related to stocking up on basics and staples. I also breathed the hope that our April spending would be much less.

Well, here it is May Day, although given our weather in Ohio, you'd swear we were in March still, and I have the numbers at hand because guess what? Our spending on food has decreased greatly so I only have a few numbers to add instead of a sheet full of them. And, looking at the decrease in spending, clearly we are looking at what we have around the house rather than jumping in the car to go to the grocery store to get something else (more about that later).

Our April food purchases? $144.56. Household items added up to $6.10, the bulk of that being trash liners for our household, a box which will last into 2021. Total? $150.66. That starts to yank the average YTD down from $238+ to $216+. I might get it down to $180.00/month average yet. We did not eat out (takeout) at all.

The food costs include two large shoppings at Aldi, one in person early in the month by Warren and one online for home delivery later in the month, one key food item when Warren had to get something for his shop at Walmart (What key food item? Kosher salt, a must have and something Aldi does not carry), and, finally, $5.00 to the Symphony for the Hershey's chocolate bars (from February's downtown Chocolate Walk) that I knew were there. The early Aldi shopping included two hams from Aldi at the pre-Easter price of 89¢ a pound. Those are now residing in the freezer and will come into play later on this year.

The most interesting revelation about April spending has been the changes I see in me. Even without the spending spurts in February and March, I now realize exactly what I mentioned above: I have a huge tendency to jump to the grocery store rather than ask myself "so what do we have here?"  Now that I am unable to go to the store and we are both very reluctant to have Warren in a store (because I am in such a high risk group), I find myself being far more thoughtful about food preparation. To borrow from blogger friend Laurie at The Clean Green Homestead, I am using what's on hand.

One item on hand now is sourdough starter, which I use weekly. (Well, I feed it weekly and then use the discard, but that's what sourdough starters are all about: feeding and discarding.) There are a variety of things you can bake with the discard, but my favorite to date has been sourdough brownies.

Sourdough starter (the bubbles show it is active)

But going back to realizing how much I just went to the grocery without thinking: this revelation about my twitchy impulse (to borrow from Anthony Ongaro, the one minimalist I enjoy, really like) caught me off guard. I famously do not shop. Ever. Malls? Nope. Online? Nope. Amazon Prime? Ha. I don't even buy books (very much) anymore. But apparently I was totally open to the call of the grocery store. And while it is likely another month or more before my oncologist lets me even stand near a grocery store, let alone set foot in one, this is a truth about me (that twitch to shop) that I need to be aware of when I finally do enter a grocery.

Despite my optimism in early April about gardening soon, the weather here has stayed colder than I expected for this time of year. We are still having occasional frosts. So there are no beds planted, other than the sprouted onions I planted for the first time ever, most of which seem to have settled in and are growing. I hope the gardening front is entirely different by May's end.

And until then, we'll enjoy the brownies.

The More Things Change

"The more things change, the more they keep changing."

I admit it: I stole that line from the our Juvenile Court judge, who is my employer, a neighbor (our backyards connect), and a longtime close friend. Because that pretty much sums up life around here.

As I type on this 29th day of March, the wind outside is picking up as our part of Ohio moves from balmy springlike weather (it was 72 yesterday!) to what will be a drop into the 40s and 30s. I believe we are also under a High Winds Advisory from the National Weather Service for good measure.

As I mentioned in my last post, I have been walking daily, taking my camera along, and posting what I photograph on Facebook. Friends both near and far have been watching to see what I come up with each day. chiming in with stories or memories or their own shots. It has been a lot of fun.

I did not walk today, despite the sunshine and warm temperatures earlier.  The unwell feeling from the myeloma has been building over the last several days, so I skipped the walk. Instead, I posted some of the shots I had taken over the last week or so but not used before. I shared my health situation; my status brought a comment from a concerned friend (ranting against the myeloma) that led me and my friend and boon companion Anne, lawyers both of us, to riff on the application of the law of adverse possession as it relates to my myeloma. I don't know if the author of the initial comment appreciated our levity, but Anne and I certainly did. (I also realize that last sentence is probably incomprehensible to anyone who has not sat through first year Property Law.) You know you are in quarantine for a long time when you make law jokes with good friends.

I have been watching friends and family build community through these times. We cannot visit, but we reach out through other ways. At the Facebook site for the Central Ohio Symphony, we are posting a video every day: our musicians, our conductor (a world class trombonist), pieces by some of our composers. (You do not need a Facebook account to reach the Central Ohio Symphony's postings; they are open to the public.) Other friends are also sharing and posting music, visual art, and more. Today I joined the church service at All Saints Episcopal Church in Vancouver, Washington. So what's a Jew like me doing in a place like that, be it the venue (a church) or the distance (2400 miles)? Because the churchman conducting the service, Father Joe, is my child-in-law's father and my grandchildren's grandfather. In short, family. Family that I love and miss. Like so many other places, his church is closed because of COVID-19 and today was the first livestreamed service. Of course I watched it. And afterwards I said the Shehechiyanu, a Hebrew prayer I recite often, giving thanks to the Creator for the fact that I am still alive and sharing the moment. (And while I was watching the service, Warren surprised me with making and bringing me lunch. You bet that prayer of gratitude includes the fact that I have this dear man in my life.)

This post is all over the board, but so is life today. So I'm going to close with the best example of resilience I have seen in a long time. When it was so warm yesterday, I spent over an hour in the morning starting to clean out the vegetable garden, which I had brought down but not cleaned out last fall. Last October or November, I had tossed out a potbound planting of thyme, burnt out from a hot summer and fall. The clump of roots and soil had been in the garden upside down all winter. I turned it over and found new growth on the old thyme. Despite being burnt out, despite being thrown out, despite being left to the winter blasts, the thyme came back. Now that's resilience!

See that little bit of green to the left? That's new thyme! 

And yes, I replanted it, this time in the garden.

March Money Review

End of March, end of the first quarter of 2019. Where do we stand?

In March, we spent $163.98 on groceries (food items) and another $13.38 on household items. That brought the monthly total to $177.36, just nudging over the $175.00 monthly mark I am aiming for in 2019. Okay, I confess: some of that "extra" expense was buying a large salmon filet, marked down, at Aldi. With the discount, the salmon came to a little over $13.00. So if I hadn't bought the salmon, our monthly totals would have sailed in under $175.00.

It was totally worth it. Chopped into thirds and frozen, that salmon will bring a huge smile to my face somewhere later in the year. More than once, in fact!

Our eating out expenses were $98.34, darn close to $100.00. We had several meals out, including after last Sunday's concert, when we were both so tired we could barely function. Warren, of course, had put in 15-hour days leading up and including the day of the concert, in which he also played. With the exception of the opening fanfare (each concert this season opens with a different 40 second fanfare commissioned by the Symphony for its 40th anniversary), the remainder of the concert was Verdi's Requiem, which is stunning, moving, massive in length, and takes a lot of timpani playing. So we ate out after we came home and changed enough to get comfortable (Warren was not heading out in his tux). And, in the spirit of transparency, about $18.00 of that is attributable to my having coffee "out" with friends.

I look at the eating out figure and have conflicting feelings. On the one hand, I don't like dropping money on eating out, period. It's not where I want to spend my/our dollars. On the other hand, well, maybe there is no other hand. No, that's not true. One meal was breakfast at a hole-in-the-wall diner in a nearby community and there was the satisfaction on knowing those dollars were going right back into the local community. In fact, when I look at where we spent our money eating out, all but one expenditure—a $2.00 McDonald's milkshake Warren bought following dress rehearsal (and a 15 hour day)—were made at a locally owned small business. While I have no delusions about keeping the local economy going with our $96.00 heavy spending, I also know that every bit helps.

I also speculate the eating out figure may stay higher this year than I want, not because we are profligate, but because there are going to be times due to Warren's schedule and my health when grabbing something to go is going to top making something. I don't know. I know that I am starting to struggle, and I don't use that word lightly, with energy and capacity. We'll see.

For now, though, we have the first quarter behind us, and spring is coming. My dad and I have talked gardening; I'll grow tomatoes if he grows zucchini (our garden isn't so large that I want to give up space for zucchini). We are just now finishing off all the zucchini I sliced and froze in 2018, so I am excited to restock the freezer this summer. I scored four free (FREE) long planters in excellent condition in which I am hoping to grow lettuces this year so, at least during the summer, we will eat salad for pennies.

I can almost taste that first tomato.

Staking A "Now"

It has been a long winter on the physical front and there has been a lot of time for reflection on what that means for me. Hours of face to face conversations with those close to me about my health have been revealing. Conversations—-written or spoken—help me sort out and clarify my own thoughts. Hearing or reading their responses to what I say or don't say (or refuse to say) helps me hone my feelings even more.

Writing them down and hitting "Publish" is the ultimate clarification process.

So here are some of my thoughts, starting with the short summing up of what 2018 has so far held on the medical front. 2018 held surgery to repair a torn peroneal tendon (ankle area). I'm now in a brace and in physical therapy, but it has been a long haul. 2018 held a cancer marker that last month was way out of line with the last several months, so much so that both of my oncologists called for a retest. (It returned to its previous stable level.) And 2018 held a viral infection that began on March 13 and is still lingering in me. (I know when it started because I was at an all-day conference, presenting twice, and knew when I left that I was "getting something." Boy, was that an understatement.)

Here's the reality of where I am. At some point, the problematic marker (the M-spike) is going to rise and stay up. There is still something going on inside me and while that may well be viral-driven (I'm beginning to think I will never shake this virus entirely), at some point it will spill into the cancer realm. I hold close a hard but true real statement from Atul Gawande's beautiful book Being Mortal about people with incurable cancers: "[they] can do remarkably well for a long time...They resume regular life. They don't feel sick. But the disease, while slowed, continues progressing, like a night brigade taking out perimeter defenses." This whole episode with the virus tells me there have been breaches and they are probably major ones.

Then there is the aftermath of the viral attack. Well, it is an ongoing aftermath because I am still coping with it. The worst of it has receded. But I still have a resistant sore throat in the evening and significant exhaustion. By early evening, I am "done." I just last week managed to last 24 hours at work for the first time since early February. Early February. (I am hired to work only 24 hours, so don't think I have to reach 30 or 40.) I am not 100% back to how I felt earlier this year, and certainly not to where I was last fall, and I am having to come to grips with the realization that I may never attain that level of well-being again.

All this means I have to redefine what being "well" means for me. I have to redetermine whether I will ever be "that well" (like last fall) again. I am taking more time on everything I do. I have no choice. My body is incapable of doing or giving more for now. Making the mental adjustment as to where I am physically is hard, let alone dealing with "and this may be the best it ever is" thought. I have found that doing small deliberate tasks—writing a letter, peeling and slicing carrots for lunch—when I am feeling lousy physically allows me to center myself and crawl out from under some of the oppressive weight of feeling sick. While doing those deliberate tasks does not make me well, I feel calmer and by extension better by the time I finish.

Going back to Being Mortal (that may be a reread this year), Gawande talks about the "difficult conversation" that doctors and chronically and progressively ill patients need to have. Gawande feels they need to discuss four questions. (1) What is your understanding of what is happening to you (physically, medically)? (2) What are your biggest fears and concerns about what is happening? (3) What goals are most important to you? (4) What trade-offs are you willing or not willing to make (to reach goals set in #3)?

I find the longer I live with cancer, the longer my list of trade-offs I am unwilling to make grows. I also realize the longer I go down the road towards the end, the more choices I make about burning life energy. For example, the Symphony just finished its 39th season with a spectacular concert and we held a post-concert reception late into the night. (And we had friends from out of town staying with us to boot that weekend.) I was up late, running on adrenaline, burning life energy, and was wiped out for the next two days—and I did not regret one bit of it. In August, Warren and I are going west to see Ramona & Company. Do I have that trip in me even with Warren coming along? I don't know. But we will go for lots of reasons, love and family being behind every single one of them. I will pay a price physically for that trip. But I will pay it willingly. Freely. With both hands open.

As I share my thoughts and feelings with those close to me, there have been heartfelt responses. My friends are standing around me, surrounding me with love and support. My dear friend Margo showed up the Monday before the concert (and the out-of-town guests) and helped clean my house thoroughly, as cleaning had totally gone off the radar. As I said on Facebook: A good friend says "what can I do to help?" and means it. A great friend says "what can I do to help?" and means it, then shows up with the Dyson in hand. My dear friend Katrina, who has been in my life for almost 44 years, was sitting at the kitchen table when I called my oncologist to get the results of the M-spike retest. After I finished the happy phone call, I looked over and she had tears in her eyes. We held hands for a moment, grateful for the good news, grateful for the love and friendship between us. And Warren, who is always, always aware of our increasingly limited time together, listens to me with love and thoughtful responses, even when his eyes fill with tears and his voice breaks.

We are all thinking about time.

Annie Dillard in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (another book I plan on rereading this year) wrote:"This year, I want to stick a net into time and say 'now,' as men plant flags on the ice and snow and say 'here.'" That resonates deeply with me as I contemplate how fast time is slipping through my fingers.  And then, there are these beloved words by Thoreau that I often think back to: "Time is but a stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it; but while I drink I see the sandy bottom  and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains. I would drink deeper, fish in the sky, whose bottom is pebbly with stars."

As spring belatedly arrived in Ohio a few weeks ago, it was finally warm enough to venture outside and sit on the deck step. As I sat there, I was acutely aware of time, of its thin current sliding away. This may be my last spring: who is to say? Like Annie Dillard, I want to plant a stake in the flow of life and say "now." I want to plant a flag and say "here." So I sat there and admonished myself not to toss aside that achingly incredible moment: the sound of spring peepers in the air, a robin hopping stiff-legged in the grass, the sun on my face.

Now. Here.

Inch One Hundred Thirteen: Spring Walk

I walked to work today, a feat worth mentioning because I have been buried deep in Truancy Season, that time of year when some of my colleagues and I are in the schools for days on end, holding attendance mediations. Given that we cover all four districts in our county, Truancy Season requires having a car and the means to get to schools. Chemo two days a week and three weeks in a row also requires me to drive to work more than I want, so I can get to my treatment.

There's a lot of car time, and I am not a car person.

We are not yet out of Truancy Season, but Ohio forces school districts to administer standardized tests in April. We cannot pull staff or students for mediations during the testing weeks. As a result, there has been a brief respite, and after finishing chemo earlier this week, I was able to walk today.

The morning walk to the office was cold; despite warmer weather earlier in March, much of April has been chill. Warren and I each scraped windshields more than once this week to be able to drive to our respective offices. I noticed as I walked along today that violets were crumpled up in protective positions against the cold and that tulips refused to lift their heads.

Turning onto Lincoln Avenue, I heard a woodpecker high above me. Where is the woodpecker?Whose woodpecker is it? It took me a few minutes to locate it high in a leafless tree, silhouetted against the morning sun. I stood and listened before walking on.

Those sound like odd questions and perhaps they are, out of context. But what flashed through my mind when I heard the distinctive tap was the final chess match scene from the 1993 movie Searching For Bobby Fischer, which is not about Bobby Fischer so much as it about a young chess prodigy, Josh Waitzkin. At a crucial point in the championship match, Josh's opponent misplays his pieces. Josh's coach, watching on closed-circuit television, says out loud "that was a mistake." Josh's father asks "What was a mistake? Who made the mistake?" (The comment comes around 4:36 in the clip below.)



Whatever geeky thread connected that scene to the woodpecker in my mind, I do not know. But once made, the connection stayed. Where is the woodpecker?Whose woodpecker is it? 

Today was a long day; the Thursday after chemo always is, due not only to the chemo but also to the fact that Thursday afternoon is when I co-facilitate a juvenile class that runs until 5:30. The class was long but good. When I finally exited the courthouse, I was exhausted but not so much that I couldn't appreciate the warm temperature and the bright sun of late afternoon.

There were no woodpeckers out when I walked back home, but the violets had opened up. There were tulips at the house just before Fountain Street, yellow ones streaked with red, all standing straight and true in the warmth. The day had done a 180 on me.

I will be back in my car tomorrow, not because Truancy Season is kicking back in (that will be at the end of next week), but because I have more errands to run tomorrow than I wish to contemplate. More and more, I feel like Bilbo Baggins in The Lord of the Rings, scraped thin.

With the change in weather and the upcoming conclusion of the 2015-2016 Truancy Season, I am hoping for a little more energy, a little less scraped feeling. I am probably dreaming. I know it is unlikely that I will ever regain lost ground. So I may as well make the best of it, savor the spring violets defying the cold, listen for the woodpecker high in the tree.

Where is the woodpecker?Whose woodpecker is it? 

Inch Sixty-Three: Evening Walk

My blogging friend Darla over at Bay Side to Mountain Side  often takes her readers on walks through her neighborhoods. She always carries a camera (or else has a more sophisticated phone than I do—trust me, that's a low bar) and so her posts are punctuated with great photos showing you what she is seeing.

I thought about Darla as I walked last night. I don't carry a camera or iPad or any other device when I walk, so I told myself to pay attention to what I saw so that I could write this post later. Making myself pay attention required me to stay in the moment as I walked, instead of sorting through my schedule, court matters, or other issues. Not a bad way to walk, all in all.

A robin has nested in the ornamental cherry tree in our front flowerbed, about ten steps away from the front door. As soon as I opened the front door and stepped out, she swooped away to a nearby tree to give me time to move out of her area. That was how my walk started.

I tried to pay attention to small things:

• The spiderwort's deep purple-blue blooms in that same front flowerbed.
• A clipped lilac hedge with the lilacs in bloom. I stuck my face in the hedge, inhaling the fragrance.
• Irises blooming in front yards.
• An old hitching post on a quiet side street.

I walked in the immediate neighborhood, which is full of old, large houses, most built between the late 1800s and the early 1900s. It is a visually soothing streetscape, the house patterns familiar through the tens of thousands of steps I have taken in this town. I walked down the alley I used to live next to, back when Ben and Sam were younger. In the little court of houses behind my former house and the next yard, my friend Patricia was outside with her daughter and husband.

Patricia and I have hardly seen one another all winter and rushed into each other's arms.

"Patricia!"

"April!"

I stayed a little while to visit, admiring the new candle fixture on their front porch, sitting in my favorite spot at the kitchen island, catching up with my friend. Then we hugged goodbye and I continued my walk, heading another block and a half before turning back towards home.

Steve and Debbie have just moved (this Tuesday past) into their newly built house, downsizing from their larger estate out in the county. Steve was outside, attached by a leash to a small dog, and I called out birthday greetings (thank you, Facebook) before crossing the street to talk with him. Steve and Brie (the dog) and I ended up walking two blocks together, chatting about lot splits and building restrictions and the city planner. Steve is also a lawyer whose practice has included a lot of zoning law, as did mine when I practiced, so it was a good discussion.

As we went our separate ways, I thought about how far Steve and I have come in a quarter century of knowing one another. Steve is the only lawyer with whom I openly argued in court, with both of us drawing a sharp admonishment from an otherwise congenial judge. It took me a long time to get over our initial introduction, but I eventually came to admire his professional skills and genuinely enjoy him as an individual. When I said "welcome to the neighborhood," I meant it. (And who knew that Steve was such a softie when it comes to Brie?)

I was conscious that I am walking more slowly now than before winter wiped out the frequent walks. Some of that is due to not having my walking legs under me yet, coming off of that long icy layoff. Some of that is what the myeloma or the treatment or both combined continues to extract as a toll from my life. But I'm not racing anybody or anything, especially not the clock, as I walk, and did not dwell on my steps.

By the time I reached home, I was ready to be in. Warren was at a rehearsal and would not be home until later. There was a foil-covered paper plate on the front porch; my youngest brother sent home birthday cake via my parents, who had supper with him and his wife earlier in the evening.

As I turned into our driveway towards the front walk, the robin swooped off the nest, this time flying only as far as the ground under the pine tree.She was back on the nest even before I finished closing the storm door. Apparently she decided one slow walker was not a threat, or else she was tired and wanted to be back home, in for the night.

And that is how my walk ended, tired and back home for the night, one with the robin.

Inch Sixty (Five Feet!): Sticking a Net Into Time

Sometimes there are too many topics, potential blog posts all, rushing through my head. There are only six days of National Poetry Month left, counting today, and I spend a great deal of time mentally and physically selecting my favorite poems to offer on Facebook.

What an idea! My favorite poems? I might as well walk outside at night, stare up at the sky, and select my favorite stars. Or stand under the Bradford pear in the backyard and choose my favorite blossom of the hundreds on the tree.

But the stars and the blossoms: there's the thread on which I will hang today's post.

I have noticed a difference in recent months. I have an increased awareness of time slipping through my fingers. I am like a child trying to grasp a handful of water or sand, unable to stop its draining out no matter how tight I hold my fist.

Ben and Alise and Ramona gave me the gift of writing this past Christmas: a box of notecards, a Decomposition book, and a bound journal with a magnetic clasp and a silvery, ornate cover. Recently I started using the journal. I am not journaling in the traditional sense of noting my thoughts or the events of the day. Instead, I find myself writing observations of the outdoors: the thin, silvery sliver of a new moon, the icy coating on a rudbeckia leaf when it frosted earlier this week,  a chilly morning walk yesterday and gazing at the sky so intensely blue that it hurt my heart to look at it. This is what I am capturing in my journal: the small moments of time and the world.

Annie Dillard, in Pilgrim At Tinker Creek, wrote "I want to stick my net into time and say 'now' as men plant flags on the ice and snow and say 'here.'" I have been carrying that quote around with me for almost three decades.

My journal notes are my net and my "now." They are my flag and my "here."

Inch Fifty-Six: Break

I have the next three days off from Juvenile Court, a prospect so glorious I glow just writing that sentence.

Don't get me wrong. I love my job. I'm just tired. A significant part of my job is mediating truancy matters in our county and city school districts, and this is a busy time. "Truancy season," I call it. March is typically the most grueling month of the season and this March has been no exception. This year, the four different districts are holding their spring breaks over three different weeks, and the only days I could squeeze some time out of without throwing my mediation calendar into total disarray are the next three.

I don't mind. I'll take them. Gladly. March has been a hard haul on top of it being the core of truancy season. There have been concerts, there have been rehearsals. There are oncology issues. There is the special court project I am contract advisor to, which I am finalizing for submission to the Ohio Supreme Court for its blessing. There are pressing legal clinic matters.

There have been too many too long days and I need a break.

Spring is struggling to gain a toehold around here.  Some spring flowers, frost-burnt on the tips, are trying to bud. The brutal cold of this year appears to have killed off this year's forsythia and we will have to wait to see that burst of yellow come again. My good friend Judy reports that the bamboo in her yard is dead and will need to be cut down to regenerate. After hearing that, I came home and looked in the kitchen garden, where we'd planted some late summer purchases to winter over. I feared the worst and was heartened to see green shoots coming up where we'd heeled in the plants last September. I am looking forward to walking around town over the next few days and seeing just where the season stands.

I wrote this post Tuesday night after a 9 hour day at work, after scheduling another nine truancy mediations after scheduling another six or seven just days before. A small bread pudding was baking, one made frugally from the stub ends of a loaf of Italian bread and one lone biscuit. I had a new book opened on my lap, The Selected Letters of Langston Hughes, a favorite poet of mine. I was meeting a friend for coffee in the morning, and the rest of Wednesday, indeed, the next three days, stretched out luxuriously in front of me.

It is early Wednesday afternoon as I type this. The bread pudding was delicious, the letters are engaging, my friend and I talked long and laughed a lot. I may take a walk after I post this and just savor the time. The sun is shining, National Poetry month is upon us, I have a break, and all's right in the world.

Inch Fifty-Three: Back

It is raining as I pen these words late Friday afternoon. It has been raining since early afternoon and the day is gray and wet. The tree branches are dripping, puddles are spreading across the sidewalk.

After bemoaning our horrific winter and doubting that spring would ever come, I was cautiously optimistic when the vicious cold suddenly broke earlier this week. Sun and rain and temperatures in the 50s have filled the creeks and rivers and melted much of the snow. The large bulldozed piles in parking lots and the smaller shoveled piles lining driveways still remain, but yards and fields are emerging everywhere.

I hung suet blocks in the dogwood tree out back earlier this winter, but until this week, the blocks were untouched, frozen solid. I don't know how the birds survived this winter. Many days were still and silent without any indication that there was a bird left alive in the bleak landscape. Now when I step outside in the morning, I hear a flurry of birds calling and singing. Today's rain has quieted some of that chorus, but there is no doubt the birds are out there.

As I sit here writing, I see a downy woodpecker working over the suet cake. Downies are small birds, mostly black and white. I like to watch them after they finish eating, as they often jump or fly to the tree trunk and then hop their way to the top before flying away.

The dogwood tree is right outside the kitchen. Washing dishes yesterday, I looked up to see a downy finish its meal and hop up the tree, only to be replaced at the suet feeder by a red-bellied woodpecker. I watched them, all thoughts of dishes temporarily set aside, until the downy had hopped up out of sight and the other had flown away.

There is something timeless about standing at a sink with your hands in the dishpan, watching spring return to the backyard.

Later last evening, I met up with a friend and took a walk, my first local walk of 2015 that was more than just hurrying from the car to a building or back again. We were deep in conversation when I suddenly stopped listening to my friend's voice and listened to the sky. A skein of geese was veeing to the north and the faraway sound of honking caught my ear and my attention.

The birds are back.

Inch Fifty-Two: A Year of Posts

Ramona's pinwheel buried in the garden snow

Back on March 15, 2014, I made a commitment to write a blog post a week, figuring I was good for at least that much. I took my cue from writer Anne Lamott, who urged wannabe writers to tell themselves that they only had to write enough to fill a one inch square.

I am writing my 52nd inch since that post.

When I wrote last year, I wrote of a brutal winter both outside and inside. This winter's temperatures have made a mockery of last year's cold, and although the sun has clearly moved into its spring position, there are still inches of snow and ice to melt. There is no brown lawn, no kitchen garden waiting to be tilled. There is only a bleak landscape that is not ready yet to yield to spring.

At this time last year I was also a month into a different treatment regimen for the incurable myeloma that resides in my marrow. I am just about to complete my 12th cycle of Revlimid, an oral chemotherapy, so I have gone a whole year with that too. It is a mixed success. My oncologist is very pleased with the results. Yeah, it's nice that the myeloma has stopped progressing. But the price for that achievement is high and relentless. As I told another friend with myeloma who wanted my opinion of Revlimid, I'm not dying all in one fell swoop but instead losing ground inch by inch. Many of us with myeloma do not die of the disease itself but of the treatment and the long-term impact on our bodies and health of the disease and the treatment. Like Beth, I am aware that the tide is going out.

All the same, despite the cold, despite the cancer, here I am a year later, with 52 weeks of posts.

So what have I learned and where do I go from here?

I have learned, once and for all after paying years of lip service to the idea, that writing is a discipline like anything else. Yes, schedules and other outside pressures impact where and when I write,  but the actual act of writing, of making myself sit down and write, is all about me and my priorities. As I noted a year ago, it is about respecting and honoring my commitment to writing.

I have discovered that the act of writing on a regular schedule has lead to my evaluating and reprioritizing my daily life, my weekly life, my where-am-I-and-what-am-I-doing-here? life. Last year I wrote that my recent experiences in Cancerland showed me I need to live more deliberately, and the experience of writing weekly helps me slow down and focus on what I want to do, what I need to do, what I can wait to do, and what I can let go of entirely. I hope I have gotten better at respecting my needs and my time, whether it be for writing or for catching my breath. (Friends reading this who have been trying to plan time with me may be shaking their heads skeptically. I know, I know, but this is the heart of truancy season and my work schedule has gone off the rails.)

I plan to continue my one square inch focus, my one post a week goal. Writing is more holistically beneficial than anything else I do for myself and is a close runner-up to the benefits I reap when I do for others. It is portable, it is flexible, and it is all mine.

Here's to another year of one inch posts.