Day Eleven: Longer Than Planned

Tennessee is a loooong state.

We knew that we didn't want to push ourselves too much, so we figured we'd stop for the night somewhere just past Jackson. An early stop, a chance to maybe swim in a swimming pool, a leisurely dinner, lots of time to write.

Hah!

One of the "local" thundershowers appeared, but didn't slow us up. We drove on and on, the roads the best-maintained of any state so far.

We'd had a good breakfast, all of us, so we only needed to stop now and then for breaks. By the time we hit Nashville, we were optimistic about an early stop.

The picture is of Nashville, taken from the road, of course. The tall Batman-like ATT building dominates the scene.

On to Jackson, with time to spare! We began readying ourselves for a Holiday Inn Express -- but there were none to be seen.

Why Holiday Inn Express? Well, many of them are "pet friendly" which is helpful when you're traveling with the Dog. Moreover, the ones we've stayed at have been EXTRAORDINARILY clean and well-appointed and wow -- super-customer-service oriented.

We were sure there had to be one between Jackson and Memphis, but ... no. Still, we were about an hour ahead of where we'd thought we'd be, so we weren't worried. Surely we'd get to the other side of Memphis and find one!

Then the second "local" thunderstorm of the day hit, with a downpour of rain. We came out the other side of the storm congratulating ourselves that it hadn't slowed us much at all, when the traffic ground abominably to a halt. The storm hadn't stopped us, but somewhere up ahead, it had stopped someone else. We sat in traffic, unable to move, for nearly 45 minutes.

The Arkansas border arrived, no Holiday Inn Express. We kept on. And on. Finally, we gave up and thankfully accepted a plain old Holiday Inn. It's air conditioned, the beds are reasonably comfortable, and Howie is with us. Not what we wanted, not really, but it will do. Tomorrow we hope to make Oklahoma City; so optimistic are we that we plan on making a reservation there early in the day, and arriving there at a reasonable hour.

One of these days has got to actually feel like a vacation.

Well, the evening at Cheryl and Terry's did, but it surely wasn't enough.

Day Ten: Virginia

Good thing we struck the tent when we did, or we would have been awakened to a downpour. Instead, we were off down the road by 8am, headed for Virginia.

We opted to take Route 522 from Lewistown, PA, to Winchester, VA. I would have taken a photo but it was too dark all the way. I tried to do a quick sketch in Photoshop of how black the shadows in the trees were, and how gloomy and dark green the solid vegetation was ... pretty much all the way to Abingdon, Virginia, where we stopped for the day because we were both so tired. At least 1-81 was more than a two-lane. That was kind of claustrophobic under the trees.

I quacked a little along the way about wanting to detour to the Atlantic Ocean, but a good look at the map showed that would put us two if not three days behind where we wanted to be, and that isn't a luxury we can afford.

We did note that we had been in four states: Pennsylvania, then Maryland, West Virginia, and Virginia. Sounds like a lot of traveling when you put it that way.

During the ride, we were fairly quiet. Not because we didn't want to communicate with each other, but because the silence was a communication in itself. It was a firm agreement of appreciation of not chattering unnecessary words. Neither of us asked, "NOW what are you doing?" or "Why are you out there by yourself?" or "Oh, were you working on something?"

We just don't feel a need or a desire to be constantly conversing in order to know that we're alive and in contact... or for reassurance.

Maybe that's it. Bernie and I are almost always close enough to touch each other; we hold hands, touch shoulders, caress (not sexxy-like!). We know that we are most important to one another -- we say so frequently -- so we don't need the attention of chatter to make us believe in the importance.

Funny we're both like that, when our mothers are/were non-stop yakkers.

I have to stop and chuckle; I suddenly remembered that the only time my mother was quiet was if she was madder than hell and someone was going to pay for it. Maybe she felt that silence was punishment, and so her voice was an assurance that things were okay.

Day Nine: Wrapping Up Pennsylvania

Pennsylvania is beautiful. Never be in doubt about that. Tuesday morning I woke up again to the bazillion-bird chorus, realized twenty minutes later that I was not going to sleep past 6am, and decided to take Howie for a walk around the neighborhood.

The sun rose and turned the hanging mists into shimmering white gold draped on the dark green of Jack's Mountain. The temperature was still sweetly in the low 70's, most of the neighbors still not stirring. Howie and I ambled around, me marveling at how little of the place I remembered -- I'd lived in that very spot some 30-and-some years ago. While the street names only came back to me slowly, the glowing morning mist with the blues and greens of the hills seemed to have always been in a treasure chest in my heart.

I had slept without nightmares, without any anxiety.

Later in the day, I went to see my old friend Bill, who has been a friend since we were in first grade together. We chatted while his darling Jack Russell terrier snuggled and cuddled with me, probably remembering me, probably thanking me for NOT bringing Howie with me. (Three years ago, Jack was terrified of the looming How.) Once again Bill shamed me by showing me the 24 canvas oil series he finished this past spring, and I have promised myself I AM going to paint more when I get back home.

In the evening, after listening to the weather forecast, we decided to strike the tent and sleep inside so that we wouldn't be trying to pack a wet tent in the rain. I dragged all the luggage out of the car and rearranged it. We were ready for the morning departure.

There was one last thing to do: sit with my sister-in-law and drink up the rest of the wine.

P.S. The flower is a common one in Pennsylvania: crown vetch.

Day Eight: The River Will Keep Moving Along

The first business on Monday was to drive to Mifflintown to take sign some papers associated with my mother's trust fund. I was looking forward to this part of the day -- the people at the bank are really incredibly good at what they do, and I've emailed them, talked on the phone with them -- but never met them.

Before he let me do that, however, Bernie took a side trip off the road to a new Juniata River access point, built since the last time I was back East.

It was beautiful! If I lived back East, I'd be just about living at that access area. There's a nice boat launch, the parking lot is big, there are loads of areas that a rabid river fisherwoman could stand and fish and fish and fish. For one brief second, I wished we'd move back there.

A very brief second, to be sure.

The bank business went quickly, and then I gathered my fears and we drove to The Hearthside nursing home to see my mother.

The morning in-charge nurse had recommended to me a couple weeks ago that we take some soft ice cream for Mom -- something she would like, and we approached a common room, caramel sundae in hand.

Now, the last time I saw my mother, she was skeletally thin (and that is NOT AT ALL an exaggeration), a jittering, viciously angry talking skull, eyes bulging in emaciated sockets. I looked for her among the residents in the room, and didn't at first recognize her.

She weighs about 40 pounds more now, her gray hair has gone straight, and she was dozing quietly in her chair. When we called to her, "Tere! Hi! We brought you some ice cream," she responded, "For free?"

She took Bernie's arm when he offered it to her (declining me taking her hand) and we moved to a peaceful little lounge that has big windows. We asked her how she felt, and told her we were glad to see her looking so well. She told us that she had been born in Mexico, and that she had four brothers, and that the day they all became citizens of the United States was the best day they ever had. She really loved the ice cream.

Tere was bright enough in demeanor for me to be assured she wasn't drugged; her clothes and hair, hands and face were clean. The sagging wrinkles that had hung from her emaciated face three years ago were gone. She's being well-cared for. In her dementia, she's creating her memories as she goes along; she remembers very little of her life. I thought it was strange and sweet when she told us how very much she had admired her mother, and how, as a child, she wanted to be just like her. That's news to me, I thought as I watched her. She must have fibbed to me for nearly half a century. Again, it was sweet to think she's remembering nice things rather than bad and bitter things.

She didn't know who we were, and didn't ask.

After about 45 minutes of visiting, we took our leave of her. I hugged her, and told her I loved her. Goodbye.

I made it about 15 feet down the hall before my tears spilled over; the nurse put her arms around me and held me between her and Bernie. And then it was time to return to the world.

The visit was far less stressful than I thought it would be; it hurt so much more than I expected that she didn't know me. Still, what I needed to do, both for her (to see her cared for properly) and for me (to say farewell) was accomplished.

There was more, though. The past four years of my mother's decline have been hard. The outpouring of bitterness and meanness that presaged the loss of her memory and judgment, her refusal to admit to her illness, her pig-headed imposition of isolation on my sister, her uncooperative belligerence to her caregivers while she had 24/7 care in her home -- although I knew what Alzheimer's does to the people who have it, I carried, in some hidden talisman in my soul, a wad of anger for what her illness did to the people around her. In meeting her on Monday, seeing how very little of her life is left, I was able to put the anger down and leave it behind. Let it drift on down the river, so to speak. I have no need of it now; I can see that I only kept it to hide my fear and sadness.

I've looked at my mother's illness as a kind of purgation for her; a purification of soul on the spiritual journey. All the things that she clutched uncompromisingly to herself have been taken away. All the things that she grasped with unholy selfishness, now all gone. Her property, her possessions, her vindictiveness, her independence, her very memories ... with nothing left, she's calm and pleasant; as she told Bernie and me, "I'm very content." Her purgation and mine are connected at this time. In her inability to refuse my love now, and my leaving behind my anger -- together, we achieved a kind of reconciliation.

Day Seven: Day of Rest

The weather has been darn near perfect.

The day started out very hot, but then turned cool and sweet, allowing the house to be opened up and us to sit out once again, watching the clouds drift by. In the evening, fireflies took to the air and danced around. Even the sky was uncharacteristically clear of haze, revealing the stars between clouds.

Gorgeous, and yet my heart was really heavy as I prepared myself mentally for the next day. While my sister-in-law sipped margaritas, I finished off the last of my box of wine.

What else can you do?

Oh, I know there are other things I could do, but wine and friendship in a beautiful setting are not to be tossed aside. We earned our drinks: we did laundry, too, and even something as drudgey as folding clothes is fun when you're in good company.

Day Six: Birds at Base Camp

Saturday morning was really noisy. Base Camp is only about fifty yards away from thick forest; every bird in the area gets up before 5am and shouts his or her itinerary for the day to every other bird around. It was almost deafening, but glorious.

It also rained on us, a sweet sound to sleep by. And in spite of the cover on the tent, being up on the wonderful deck allowed cool breezes to make the humid weather more than bearable.

This deck is a stroke of genius on the part of my brother-in-law. Over what used to be a little used side yard, he put up a raised deck with a railing around it. On the north, east, and southern sides are steps down to the soft grass of the yard; a long covered section stretches nearly to the front of the house so that people can sit outdoors, or barbecue even if it's raining.

The widest part is not only open to the air, but is perfectly situated so that it catches the prevailing westerly winds and the first shade in the afternoon.

Howie loves the deck -- mostly for those stairs that lead down to the lower yard. He's a flatlander dog and just doesn't know about stairs as a means of transportation. However, in spite of how many times he has fallen on the way up, he gets a crazy-dog look in his eyes, races around the yard, and sails up the steps, crashes down them again, and then back up.

My sister-in-law and Bernie set up wireless internet access on our laptops. With RuthAnn on the her recliner, and I on mine, we computed for several hours while I put the Press up.

The sister-in-law worked at a nursing home for many years, and the brother-in-law helped his father while he faded from life with dementia. We talked about my concerns about meeting my mother in the nursing home, and they tried to put my fears to rest. Indeed, that impending meeting had caused me to break out in ugly blistering hive while we were on the road. But what I heard from my relatives did indeed give me heart.

Day Five: Ohio to Base Camp

This day was just a day of counting miles.

Under a mostly cloudy sky, we traversed past Columbus, Ohio to Wheeling, West Virginia; after the tiny strip of the top of West Virginia, we were in Pennsylvania.

Heavy, looming forests encroach on every open field or edge of town; everything is green, and humid. The light looks different, all edges softened by the haze of water in the air. Ah, yes, I remember it well.

We didn't travel with a road map other than a basic overview of United States Interstate Highways, so when we were bounced off Interstate 70, halted in traffic due to yet more road work, we stopped for gas. We knew more or less where we were, and we knew where we were going, so we figured we could just abandon the interstate and find our way on regular roads. While Bernie sought a map at the gas station in vain, I took pictures of electrical things to pass the time.

I thought about Mel Trent, who has the knack of making prosaic things look intriguing. With that in mind, I snapped about ten shots of "stuff", including a picture of gravel. Thinking about Mel certainly did not make my pictures very interesting, but it was a good exercise.

Then it was back to the road, and we did find our way around the stopped traffic; by late afternoon we were off the highway and slowly making our way through the jungly land to Lewistown, Pennsylvania.

There my sister-in-law had waiting for me the biggest bag of Hartley's Potato Chips I've ever seen. "This is Sand's," she told everybody, warning them not to snitch my chips.

"Do you have the straps so Sand can just attach the bag to her head?" my husband asked genteelly.

We retired to the beautiful deck to relax and take stock of one another; the evening was simply beautiful. A birch tree tickles one side of the deck; arborvitae and euonymus screen the eastern view and make the area private and strangely life-giving. It's a place you can feel your heart recharging, worries slipping away.

We were absolutely honored to be invited to pitch our tent on the deck, and astounded it fit so easily. Even with a 7' x 10' tent on it, there is room for everyone to sit comfortably. I'll include a picture of the deck in a later post, when my camera battery is recharged.

RuthAnn and I sat out until late, catching up with each other. For me, it was a way of gradually changing my rhythms, from the aggravation of the road and the Press-driven computer work to the very powerful sense of peace and present.

Here it's amazingly easy to find that everything you need is at hand, and that what you "need" is not all that complicated.

Especially when you have a bag of Hartley's beside you.

Day Four: Des Moines to Ohio

This, then, is Indianapolis, home to the great football team, the Colts ... in June, late in the afternoon, when I had expected to reach the border of Ohio by now, but was held up AGAIN by damnable road repair and subsequent detour that led us into the thick of rush-hour traffic.

The driver of this particular orange truck was a particular asshole: a lane-changer with no conscience, a road hog with the arrogance of someone driving a rig that could crush all comers.

So there, asshole, now you know, if you ever read this blog, which you won't, so I'm not worried.

Yes. We intended to be past Columbus, Ohio, by the end of today, but were not able to foresee the bloody congestion in Indianapolis.

I was so annoyed by Indiana's every-three-miles road repair crews that I was determined we should push on into Ohio.

Wait, what? Illinois? They had a nice rest stop, which kept me from wetting myself. Other than that it was fairly forgettable. I thought I'd prefer Indiana, but I was RONG.

Over the Ohio border, we spotted another Holiday Inn Express, but our AAA guidebook didn't think it allowed pets. We stopped anyway, and thank God and Holiday Inn Express, they DID allow pets, and not only that, gave us the end room so that we have only a few feet to traverse to take Howie out for his relief.

Tomorrow is going to be another long day, all the way to Pennsylvania and family. I'm trying to think: do I want local Original Italian Pizza for supper, or Laskaris hot dogs? Or both?

Day Three: North Platte to Des Moines

We awoke late again ... the Holiday Inn Express at North Platte, Nebraska was so clean-smelling, so quiet, so very, very comfortable, that if I was rich, I'd have just stayed there another day for the sleep. Also they served a delightful free breakfast.

But off we had to go, and I snapped this picture off old Lincoln Highway 30 just to have something to snap. All the little streams and rivers we saw were very full.

My guess is that this creek is lousy with sunfish and bass, and I hope that Nebraska waterways are not as polluted with dairy farm runoff and fertilizer from fields as our rivers in California. I live near a river, and I can't eat fish from it. That is WRONG.

Bernie decided he wanted to explore the old Lincoln Highway, and so we did. That creek was at the beginning of it, but most of it was empty, as the next picture shows.

I found the side trip a little depressing, as so very many buildings were vacant and crumbling into piles of rotted boards and broken glass; so many, many intact buildings had their business signs plastered over with "Available" placards.

The road was in ill-repair, making me think again about the Interstate System being irritating. At least the Interstate has rest stops periodically, where a weary traveler can take a pizz in a clean bathroom.

As lumpy as the road was, I would prefer to use trails like the Lincoln Highway. The towns and the businesses and the eateries aren't mass-produced; they're real, and real people live there and love their place. Those tiny motels are probably cheaper to stay in than the ones on the Interstate, but the irony is, that I can't afford to take the time to travel on back roads like that.

What a gas! I have no job, and Bernie is unemployed, but we literally cannot afford to take too much time on this trip. He has to be in PA, and I do, too, to deal with family stuff, and then we HAVE to get back to CA so that he doesn't lose unemployment benefits.

Well, the detour off the Interstate road only cost us about 2 hours of travel time, and we very nearly ran out of gas (.4 gallon left), but we arrived in beautiful Des Moines to stay with Cheryl and Terry for a night.

Our friends had scouted a wonderful restaurant, Palmer's Delicatessen, to treat us to fabulous food and a delightful outdoor venue that allowed us to include Howie in the party! OMG, as they say, the lasagna special was so good that I ate twice as much as I should have and had less than half the guilt that I should have. Cheryl needs to do an in-depth review of that place for the Piker Press.

Do you hear me, Cheryl?

One of the draws, aside from the glorious friendship, is the firefly display in Cheryl and Terry's yard in June. We've seen and appreciated it before. This time they upped the ante, however,
and while Bernie and I played with fireflies/lightning bugs, Terry set up his telescope.

We got to see Saturn and its rings, and a moon of Saturn, and Mars, and the Ring Nebula, and my favorite, globular cluster of stars M-13. (I think that's which one, if not, Terry, forgive me.) My heart fills, thinking of that sight. I've seen Hubble pics, but clear though they are, they are not the same as seeing them through a friend's telescope while sitting companionably sipping wine.

We slept that night in Terry and Cheryl's camper, listening to crickets singing, and the strange sounds of a city, and woke before dawn to want to throw rocks at robins who were eager to be early birds getting the proverbial worm. When the robins took off to forage, we slept again, and felt no need to hurry away. Indeed, we were reluctant to leave.

Day Two: Evanston, Wyoming to ... North Platte, Nebraska

This lovely wind-and-rain carved stone overlooks the little city of Green River, Wyoming.

We stayed in this town the last time we came through here three years ago. We arrived at night and left in the wee hours before dawn, so I had been unable to appreciate the beauty of the land there.

Good thing there was beauty there (we stopped for breakfast) because the night in Evanston was a nightmare of broken sleep. The air conditioner of the Days Inn sounded like a jet engine being fired up in the room, the beds were uncomfortable, and the walls so paper thin that I knew exactly when the occupants of the next room started and finished coitus.

Howie was distressed from the long drive, and put his back up against mine. My goal for the night was "any sleep at all" and "do not disturb Bernie" -- he was so tired. At one point during the night, Howie put all four of his feet up against the base of my spine and pushed gently. It was a strangely comforting feeling, and I think that's when I finally fell asleep.

Again, the day's trek was broken by accursed road repairs. I know the infrastructure of the roads of the US is crumbling, and needs desperately to be fixed, but what a pain in the ass to fall father and farther behind in our travel. Good thing we had set our goal as North Platte, Nebraska, because to have gone farther would have kilt us.

Off We Go!

The day began a bit inauspiciously.

After a week of broken sleep due to worry about preparing for this trip across country, Sunday night found me sleeping like a drugged log. Instead of waking at 4am the way I always do to fret about the day to come, I didn't wake until close to six. Bernie claims he tried to wake me earlier, but he didn't seem too inclined to get up himself and rattle noisily about the room.

So we got a late start.

I had no idea there was still so much snow in the Sierras. Living in the Central Valley, I don't see snow except in pictures, so I was amazed at the sight, as though I was looking at exotic animals in a zoo.

Indeed, with the exception of a couple hours' stretch outside of Reno, Nevada, I was astounded to see snow on mountains all the way to Wyoming.

Compared to the last time we took this route (three years ago), Nevada was amazingly green, and decorated with pink and yellow and red wildflowers here and there. Far from the barren desert I remembered, Nevada was beautiful.
On the eastern side of Nevada, and in Utah, we saw lovely orange wildflowers. Not surprisingly, at the rest stops, there were no flowers. People have a difficult time leaving beautiful wildflowers alone for others to enjoy. However, Bernie The Ever-Indulgent took a few exit ramps until he found some of the lovely blooms for me to get close enough to. I wasn't able to identify them, but now I have a reference photo!

By the time we got to the Nevada-Utah border, I knew we were about an hour and a half behind where we should have been, and I was getting very tired. We missed the lunch-meal turnoff, and had no more opportunity to stop for food until Salt Lake City. At that point, we decided to stop in Evanston, Wyoming instead of pushing on to Green River. A rain storm was catching up with us, which would have just slowed us up even more.

Besides, there was the God, I'm Tired thing hitting us both. Howie was also sitting up and panting on our necks as though he'd had enough road vibration himself.

Thinking ahead to the next phase of the journey, I knew we had to be realistic. We'd hoped to reach Des Moines, Iowa by tomorrow night, but it would have been about a 16-hour drive, and we would have arrived stinking and exhausted sometime after 9pm.

Maybe I'm getting old. Tonight I'm so tired that my shoulders hurt. I felt better about making the decision to stop in Nebraska tomorrow, when shortly afterwards, the rain was shot through by sun, and a vibrant rainbow appeared over Evanston, Wyoming.

Here we are, and tomorrow, Wyoming, and then some.

Birthday

Today was Lillian's birthday. My granddaughter is now 8 years old.

For the evening meal, I made my homemade macaroni and cheese, one of her favorites. And because it was her birthday, no one chided her for having three large servings. (Especially since her mother and I did the same!)

For a birthday present, we bought her a huge new box of sidewalk chalk. Our driveway is three cars wide, so it makes a bodacious canvas for summer drawing.

For a way to remember this birthday, fortune and freak weather sent a wave of maritime fog from the Bay Area over the western mountain and into the Valley -- something I have not seen in all the years we've lived in California. Fog? In May? Here? Ranunculus!

The alstromeria in the garden are working overtime to produce cascades of blossoms, the geraniums brilliantly growing by leaps and bounds. The cherries on our tree are ripe, and delicious.

Finally, at the end of the day, just at dusk, in the Eastern sky, a rainbow appeared.

Now that's a birthday.

Where To?

The time is drawing near for undiscovered country again.

Now, undiscovered country is not necessarily unplanned-for country. In the two weeks that separate me from my very comfortable chair in the studio as I write this, and the Road, there is a lot to do. I've been trying to kick myself into Madame Planner gear and get a handle on what needs to be done in order to make this trip function.

Number One: DO NOT PACK CLOTHING TO SUIT THIS WEEK'S WEATHER. Good Heavens, no. Most of the rest of the country actually thinks it's Spring. I wore a flannel shirt this morning to go to Mass, and heavy socks. We have had exactly one day so far in 2010 that was warm enough to sweat. IT'S MAY, WEATHER BITCHES! WE SHOULD HAVE BEEN SWIMMING FOR SIX WEEKS! WE SHOULD BE TANNED! WE SHOULD BE WORRIED ABOUT TURNING FANS ON AT NIGHT TO COOL DOWN THE HOUSE, NOT RUNNING THE DAMNED FURNACE!

Okay, let me stop hyperventilating about the chill here. The other things we have to do are still in a miasma of denial and lack of order. But here is my list so far:

Check Howie's records to make sure he is up to date on his vaccines. (Yes, Howie is going with us.)
Give Howie his spring bath and a deep series of grooming to reduce the dog hair in the car.
Get maps from AAA.
Clean car.
Make detailed instructions for care of the gardens for John and Alex.
Lose 10 pounds of ugly fat.
Get all of June's Press issues done as far as possible.
Send file for "Bookmarks" from my working computer to my laptop.
Kick Firefox into remembering my passwords on my laptop.
Figure out where the hell the tent is.
Figure out how the hell to set the tent up when we find it.
Buy bottled water, easy eatin' snacks, baby wipes (indispensable for sweaty necks and smelly armpits, etc), insect repellent, sunblock.
Clean electric shaver for leg hairs. (<--me)
Pack camera charger.
Get more detailed maps from AAA.

This would be exciting if it were not so sad. The reason for the trip is basically to say goodbye to our mothers. I don't even know if my mom will remember me when I visit her in the nursing home; Bernie's mom is 90 this year, and this may be our last chance to spend time with her while Bern is between jobs and she is alive. She's okay for now, but is rapidly getting tottery.

Nevertheless, the Open Road Mystique is upon me, and I'm very eager for the adventure. The highway has been beckoning to me lately, suggestively calling to me in early hours. I already have had Howie's drinking bowl (sealable lid) bought since January, in case we needed to go; I have looked at our Ugly Bags in the closet every day and felt a longing to pack them.

The Time is near. The Road beckons.

Shadows Wait for Mothers' Day

I made oatmeal cookies this morning.

That doesn't sound so very hard, does it? I've been meaning to make some for quite a while, and just didn't get around to it. However, this week, with Mothers' Day looming on every side, the marketing thereof shouting in one's ears, leaping feverishly before one, hampering one's steps, breathing hot and greedy and manipulative breaths on one's neck, I determined that I had to make the cookies, or continue to suffer nightmares and panic attacks in the darkness before sunrise.

I succeeded. I made the cookies, counted out a baker's dozen of the best, put them into a sturdy zipper freezer bag, nestled them between drifts of tissue paper, and sent them to my mother with a Mother's Day card.

Not a big deal, you'd think. Not a major effort like stacking wood or cleaning the house for Christmas or anything. Get up, find recipe, make cookies, put them in box, take to Post Office. Easy.

Sure it was. That was why, when I left the Post Office, my face was leaking tears while the rest of me shook. That's why I've had nightmares every night so far this week, about loss and fear and being attacked.

Yesterday morning I stood in the shower, pondering the mystery of how an old woman with Alzheimers, locked up in a nursing home, not knowing the day or the hour, and incapable of caring for herself ... could still terrify me into nightmares and rob my spring days of the peace that I should be feeling.

How does that happen? The mystery is unresolved. In all honesty, I don't want to visit her, I don't want to have any contact with her; before she required 24-hour care, she became so horrible, so mercilessly, cruelly, insensitively horrible that I didn't want to have anything to do with her. I knew her mind was failing, but the little girl she taught to cook and sew and garden didn't understand, and still doesn't, not really.

The adult that I try to be understands the progression of the disease, that it is terminal, and can never be fixed for her. The free woman that I am recognizes how frustrating it must be to her, to be penned up in someone else's house, with no way out; she can't even count the days because it is always today, always bedtime, always mealtime, always nurses touching her, always endless, like a bug caught and held poised in amber, beyond hopefulness of an ending or satisfaction of a rich life completed.

She has no visitors; but even if she had, she wouldn't remember them. She didn't remember me when I came to her door a few years ago and she never could learn any of her caregivers' names even though they were with her 24 hours a day. She still has memories, but they don't connect with anything she perceives.

Her nurses call me to let me know when things change with her; times when she refuses to get out of bed in the morning, argues about taking a shower, needs supplemental foods because she's losing weight or is dehydrated because she doesn't want to eat or drink at that time, even though she complains of hunger or thirst minutes later. She doesn't ask for me, or about me.

This week I want to get some large mailing labels and make them into addresses to her so that I can just print out a photo with a quick note and send it off every few days. Maybe something of that will please her, and will bypass the mechanism that makes my hands shake so badly that I can't print the words on the envelope.

Have some cookies, Mom. You taught me how to make them. I'll pretend that you liked them, even just a little.

Caution: New Beings Emerging

It's been four weeks now since Bernie's job at NUMMI ended. Neither of us misses it a bit.

We are changing, though. With him being home (and not exhausted all the time), we've accomplished a lot of tasks that we've meant to do. Well, wait. He's accomplished a lot. I'm just tagging along with him, mostly, thrilled that I can hold his hand so many hours of the day.

There is a huge window right beside our bed; we don't have it shaded or curtained, because our house is situated such that no one can see in ... and because having it shaded and curtained is no longer necessary to allow Bernie to sleep until noon. Sooooo .... we're awakened by the lightening sky at 6 - 6:30 am, by crows calling to argue about whether or not a raccoon on the fence is a threat or just plain ugly, by a hawk venting his annoyance at the crows. Sometimes we wake at night to the sound of the wind, or the low distinctive hooting of a great horned owl. The treasure in this is that we can rejoice in the waking, run outside in our pajamas if we want to, and stay up or go back to sleep as we please.

It's like Heaven.

We've been getting up in plenty of time to go to morning Mass -- what a great way to start the day, with peaceful prayer and the chance to center ourselves with God.

Love, love, love

Two weeks into this Husband Has No Job proposition and it's just all good, all so good.

We had our 35th wedding anniversary last Monday, and both of us felt that the time had gone by incredibly fast -- except for the two weeks before his job ended.

Yesterday, we went out to the ranch to mess with the horse for a couple hours, and saw a pair of Bullock's Race orioles -- a sight that for the eyes is as good as the best food your tongue could register.

Today, we reclaimed our Piker Memorial Plaza out back from the weeds and ants, and found a new home for some pots and herbs. My great vat of cucumbers will also abide there, once the ants figure out that they can't take it over. Probably tomorrow I'll plant cuke seeds.

Oh, and yesterday I cooked a turkey that was right up there with one of the best, at only $.79/pound for a fresh turkey. It was very tender and juicy (with no injected crap) and flavorful. I overheard John telling Alex it was the best turkey we've ever had. Could be.

Thank you, Father Schmalhofer, the gravy was perfect, perfect, perfect, a tribute to your blessing upon my gravy, lo, at least 30 years ago. That blessing has held all these years, so you are probably a saint.

Life is glorious ... except for the walnut/locust/citrus bloom that wakes me at 4:30 AM and makes me cough my lungs out, sneeze rabidly, eyes pour tears, and sinuses throb. Why 4:30? Why not 10 AM when I'm not trying to dream for entertainment and have tissues at hand?

A New Season

Last Thursday I rode with Bernie as he made his last trip to NUMMI to do his exit paperwork.

And then he was free.

We took our time driving home the back way, away from the freeways. We looked at wildflowers, lupine and phlox and poppies and mustard blooming along side of the roads. We savored the green of the hills, still clad in their late winter color, rich with grasses. We pulled over when there were cars behind us, so that we could ride slowly, rejoicing in the varied landscape of the Altamont Range.

This is the beginning of a newer way of life, not ruled by Bernie's commute and NUMMI's insane overtime. This one has to do with life, and grasping again what is important and glorious in life.

Our first rewards: we spotted a golden eagle squatting on a fence post beside a pasture. No, really, a golden eagle -- a huge bird and unmistakable. As we drove on, we had to pull off, astounded, the better to observe two small copper-haired feral piglets grazing at the side of the road. Things we had never seen before so close up. We had time to slow, and look, and enjoy.

The weekend was busy, what with Good Friday observations in our home, and Holy Saturday spent preparing for Easter Vigil, but we got yet another reward, the sight of a nest of Kildeer eggs in the chips in the great expanse of landscaping beside the local bike trail.

Today, while I uploaded stories to the Piker Press, Bernie went for a walk with our granddaughter; later in the afternoon, to air me out after the day's work on the computer, he went on a bike ride with me; and in the evening, he joined Alex and Lillian for a walk and came back with a small bag of tadpoles.

This is living. Now is the season of reconnecting with the life of the world. So far, we like it.

Bah, Humbug!

Today was not the last day for Bernie to work, and probably Monday won't be, either.

It's his own damn fault for being THE employee in Plastics who has a knowledge of all the jobs and the capability to make whatever is left of manufacture and assembly work smoothly. That kind of perception was his glory when he first started messing with automotive manufacturing back when Alex was two; thirty-two years later, it precludes him from being the first out the door.

Some of the employees were told on Wednesday that Thursday would be their last day, and Bernie said that they were cheering and dancing in delight. He said he had a hard time feeling happy for them, a hard time stifling the immediate resentment that he wasn't among them. In this, I concur.

It will be a grand opportunity to see a giant operation slowly roll to its knees, and then topple slowly to its side to slumber, and then to die. Not many people get to see that happen. Perhaps Bernie will get to hear the echoes of the plant as the machinery shuts down completely, and that will be a sensory feast so rare and so monumental that one could hardly pass up the chance to experience it.

On the other hand, everyone who works with Bernie, from top to bottom levels of employment, knows how little he likes having to stay beyond what he has to. They all know he's tired, and wants to be home with the family. How cruel for them to make him stay longer simply because he has always done the very best that he can for the company!

I'm tired of having NUMMI own his ass. I want it back, for myself. I want more than two hours a day to listen to him, and talk to him, and hold his hand. I want to sneak out before sunrise for walks in the dark by the river. I want to occasionally get in the car and say, "Hey, where would this road take us?"

A friend called this morning and in the course of the conversation, she asked tentatively, as though she were treading on sensitive ground, "What do you think you'll do when he's done with his job?"

"Uhh ... LIVE?" I sputtered. We'll get a life! We'll be bad kids and play in the sprinklers every day! We'll buy bags of cherries from the street vendors, and munch them and spit the pits out the moon-roof of the car while we're traveling 50 mph! We'll wear pajamas all day! We'll write stories and more stories and build stuff and play catch with the grand daughter and romp with the dogs and lie in the sun like fat happy lizards. We'll shop for bargains. We'll soak in the Joy of Existence, for which all was created.

We have no fear of this upcoming change -- we've been good little ants and socked away lots of seeds in times of plenty. (What else was there to do when he was working such horrendous amounts of mandatory overtime?) We lose nothing in this transition, except pain and stress and disgust.

Bah, humbug! It should have ended today.

Sifting for Peace

Bernie and his fellow employees were given their End of Job instructions the other day. They were told that they would have little time on the last day to gather their possessions, and then they would be escorted to the Personnel Building to sign some papers and receive their last two paychecks.

Whoa! The last two paychecks? At once? That would mean that Friday, this coming Friday, the Friday that is only two days hence, is their last day!

The company has been saying that April 1st is the last day, though I believe they would be paid through Friday, as Good Friday is a paid holiday. Certainly it makes sense to shuffle the workers out of there sooner than that, however, as shutdowns tend to bring out the stickiest fingers in employees.

We've had notarized and turned in the papers that allow Bern to roll his 401k into another retirement account; he cleaned out his locker last week. "Stuff" is done, and now it's a matter of counting down the hours, wanting the time to BE here NOW, with all the usual aches and pains and irritations tremendously magnified by anticipation of being free of them.

I will never miss seeing him so tired his skin looks grayish. Or seeing him limping, or favoring an arm because the 10-hour physical labor is wearing out his joints. I won't miss how angry he gets on his commute in the afternoon (we converse by cell phone -- hands-free sets, of course -- until he's safely there) or waking at 3am wondering if he's on the road, or just leaving the plant, and praying fervently and nervously that he gets home in one piece.

I also don't think I'm going to miss being alone so much of the time. Since we got down to the six weeks mark, it has been harder and harder for me to rally and work in the mornings. I want him to be awake, and not have to sleep until noon. I don't want to do things by myself any more, and find it difficult to get moving, because the time is so short until he CAN be with me.

So there's tension in our air, waiting, and this weekend, too, we're going to be "sitting Seder" here at the house, which is a big deal for us. We moved furniture last weekend, to make the big room clear enough for tables for 20; Lillian and I scrubbed baseboards; the lamb roasts are thawing in the fridge; the ritual foods are ready. The Seder Sing-Along Song Books are prepared; tomorrow I'll probably iron the Seder tablecloth. We arranged for chair rental today, and in keeping with the Passover time of year, both dogs are in the middle of spring shed, leaving drifts of black and caramel hair EVERYWHERE.

Tonight the nursing home called me to update me on Mom's condition. She actually weighs a decent weight now; she was severely malnourished the last time I saw her. (I couldn't understand how she kept going!) She's been having problems with incontinence, but that's Alzheimers for you: the perfect purgation disease. Having trouble giving up your worldly existence and goods? No problem! Alzheimers will take care of all that for you, from those pesky checkbooks and bills all the way down to your last shred of dignity! Anyway, the caregivers are not pumping her full of tranquilizers now, and so she's refusing to wear her dentures and yet complaining in the dining room that she can't eat because she has no teeth.

The beauty and poise of the freesias, especially the white ones, reminds me that there is a well of peace from which I can drink and rest easy in the times of turbulence. In spite of all the hurry and worry and twitchies, life is beautiful, and if we can just listen the right way, that strange thing we call "grace" with bring all of it into harmony.

The hard part is just stopping to listen.

More new computer crap

I did find a way around the Windows 7 vs. Photoshop 7 problem:

In Gmail, I choose to "view" the photograph, then right click on it. Copy image. Then in Photoshop, I select "New" in Files. The window that comes up offers a file of the exact right size. I open the empty new file, and Paste the image. Bingo.

That was a relief. I was happy again with the computer, until today, when I found out that the Bamboo Graphics Tablet hates Windows 7. Vista and XP were agreeable to it. Fine, I thought, I'll just draw the damned picture I want and scan it in.

My scanner will not work with Windows 7.

I did a search for a driver download, and found one. But not for free, babies.

Here are my options: Driver Download for $50. Might work.

Get the Windows 7 patch that allows me to use stuff like Photoshop, Bamboo Graphics Tablet, and old scanner for $100. Might work.

Buy a new scanner that works with Windows 7. God alone knows how much that will cost with the extra cable and the doo-dah. Probably will work if I buy a new enough model, which you know is going to run me well over $100.

Or, I set up the old computer and run back and forth through the house, scanning stuff with the old computer, emailing it to myself and downloading it back here at the far end of the house.

I know what I can afford ... and I know what I cannot bring myself to pay to pander to this Planned Obsolescence crap.

I need the exercise, anyway, I guess.

Windows 7

The new computer is here and in use. I like it a lot -- the larger and better monitor is fun; the speed of the processor is dazzling; and Windows 7 IS much better than Vista.

Tonight I hit my first brick wall, going a hundred. I tried to download a photo to Photoshop from a gmail attachment, and the damn programs would not acknowledge that Photoshop was in the computer. I will find a way around it, if I have to delete every Microsoft photo imager crawling piece of shit on my machine one at a time.

Don't thwart me when I'm in Work mode. I will delete you.

Cuddle-Buns

I took this picture of Sebastian and Howie because I am continually amazed at how much they enjoy each other's company.

They were both tired from a long run by the river, and after Howie jumped up on the loveseat for a snooze, Sebastian hopped up, curled into a tiny ball, and nestled in.

Howie never would have done that with our German Shepherd, Babe, because Babe would have roared at him. Likewise, Babe would never have done that with Desi, the border collie we had when we adopted Babe, because Desi would have bit the shit out of him and driven him away.

But these two are buddies, in spite of Howie giving Sebastian his puppyhood beatings several times a day for a couple years. They like each other, and wait for each other when they are out together.

For the record, Howie is a trim 65 pounds, and Seb just had a vet checkup that pronounced his physical condition "perfect" at 75.

(Also for the record, it's been raining steadily all day. Until the last half hour or so. Now it's pouring steadily. I have water standing on the back brick patio in lakes, and the north side of the house is about two inches deep in water, with rain pouring off the roof like a waterfall. This is an inconvenience for our dogs, but could be an absolute disaster for the almond farmers.)

The Weekend of Prophetic Vision

A three-day weekend for Bernie! Three days of Bernie for me!

Saturday was a puttery day, between garden and indoor house chores. I made wicked nachos and home-made salsa. Mostly I wanted Bernie to rest from his week's work.

Sunday found him ready for adventure, and we set off for the River Park for an amble through the forest with the dogs.

The day was simply glorious, low sixties with sunshine, the dogs leaping crazily through the wet grass (there had been fog in the morning), grabbing mouthfuls and chomping them in defiance of our admonitions: "Quit that, you grass-eating craphounds!" We leisurely wound our way from the broad City path to where the Kids path takes off towards the Stanislaus River, west.

Bernie looked at the fork that led east. "Where does that go?"

I didn't know; I assumed that it wound about for a bit between the blackberry brambles and the nettles and led back to the main City path, and our starting point. However, though he plays the innocent, Bernie knows that is a question that, in the woods, is irresistible to me. It was the question that earned me many spankings and groundings and lectures, but a question to which I was never able to resist finding the answer. "Where does that go?"

Where does that go? Who made that trail, and did they have a goal? Is it aimless, or purposeful? Was it originally a game trail, or was it kids escaping the life of the town to throw in their imaginations to the river and the bamboo thickets?

We turned east.

As we were very quickly hailed, and passed by a young boy on a bike, I knew that the path was not one I had to slink along, scanning the brush for danger. Indeed, in short order we stood off the path to let a couple pass who were toting a backpack and a couple blankets, having spent the night in a small area off the path. (Totally against ordinances, as "camping" and "fires" are forbidden in that park.) It was a veritable freeway, but I still was entranced to find out where it led.

Another fork, and the path to the right led to a vista of the river that I never knew existed. It was a big bend, like a small lake, simply beautiful. At that point I gave up trying to figure out the shortest way back and instead, gave myself over to the winding path.

At length, and I do mean at length, we struck a gravel City path again and followed it to the underbelly of Highway 99. I knew that the City had intended to merge the River Park on the west side of 99 with the east side River Park, but I'd had no idea they'd come so far. A quick walk across dry mud took us to the eastern park.

My feet were throbbing, having been encased in my 1-hour limit Reeboks. Bernie had his phone with him, so I made him call Alex, to see if she could come pick us up and take us to where our car was parked on the other side of the town. No luck. She wasn't home. We trudged our way to the bridge back over the highway, where Bernie stopped to buy some bottled water for us and the panting dogs, who were both so tired they were walking quietly at heel.

All of us loved the water. At that point I should have removed my shoes and walked barefoot, but had a bad case of "responsible adult" so I kept my shoes and socks on. By the time we got to the car, I was so tired I wanted to swear off walking forever, as well as wearing shoes. The dogs had to think about their leaps before they jumped up into the cargo space, and as soon as we were underway back to the house, Howie flopped himself down on the rug in the back of the car.

It was a good walk, but a long one. That Sebastian had to be helped to jump up onto his master's bed that night tells that it was a long walk.

Thank God my mattress is on the floor.

And though the next day, I fully intended to milk the "sore feet" thing for the whole day, we spent our day in search of bicycles -- first, for Bernie -- and we found him a comfy rider; and then for me, after 15 minutes of riding Alex's bike made my neck and shoulders ache. (Her handlebars are too low and too forward for me.) We drove back up to Wal-Mart and got me a Geezer Bike, very comfortable with a fatass seat and wide, sloping handlebars. And no gears. It's just a bike.

And then we rode our bikes around the neighborhood, me trying not to wreck.

They say that you always remember how to ride a bike, but after 30-some years of NOT riding a bike, well, hell. You don't really remember as much as you think you might.

(I strongly endorse the herb valerian when you know you've over-used muscles; I woke up this morning with no muscle pain and was rarin' to go for another training ride on the bicycle.)

In all, it was a great weekend, with sun and my husband's company, and woods, and the long-lost pleasure of bicycles. 43 more days until I have his charming, soothing, always entertaining presence again 24/7 ... at least for a while. I've missed him so.

49 Days

Pansies and violas are winter color here.

These lovelies are in the vegetable garden boxes, because their petals are edible: peppery if you like pepper. I occasionally use them in salads or as garnishes, but I love them for their intense color and the velvety touch of them as well.

Today I needed a little "pretty" in my life: I went to the dentist -- oh, God, voluntarily -- and had him put a crown on a tooth he's been nagging me to have done for the last ten years. Better a crown than a root canal or an extraction, and this is the last chance for me to have dental work done with dental insurance taking up the bulk of the cost.

In 49 days (if not a bit less) all our medical and dental and eye insurance disappears, like a popped balloon, as Bernie's job ends permanently. Horror of horrors! Unemployment! Drastically reduced income! Oh, the social stigma!

While the dentist and his assistant crawled into my mouth with their hobnailed boots and jackhammers, (and I was stoned to the gills on nitrous oxide), I kept thinking, "This is it. This is the last for a long, long time. No more 'Doctor wants to replace that filling because he's sure it will expand and break your tooth.' No more crowns, they're all done with this visit; see ya around the campus, Doc, don't call me I'll call you." (NOT.)

As is my nature, I left the dentist's office feeling a bit over-used and weary. It was idiotic of me to have errands and cooking on my daily list after such an appointment, but I managed to take my recyclables down to the City site, get water, stop at the drug store for my favorite wine, go to the grocery store for the items I forgot yesterday, and once home, set up the rotisserie oven and put a couple fat chickens on to roast. All the while, I kept thinking, "I'm done. I've done all the crap I needed to do before Insurance Ragnarok."

And while I've done all the crap I needed to do before the insurance runs out, it still remains to be seen that the laundry HAS to be folded and loaded and switched over before I can crash tonight. Which means that tomorrow, most likely, I'll be blogging about how other people react to the countdown to Bernie's plant closure.

Lovebirds

That's the missus, on the right.

This morning, while I was working on the Piker Press, I heard the unmistakable call of a hawk, along with a number of crows. I ran to the window and had a look at the backyards I can see.

In the evergreen in a neighbor's yard, up near the top, a pair of hawks were mating. I haven't identified them accurately just yet, but they were sitting side by side in the palm tree on the southeast corner of the yard the other day, and I know I've seen one of them perching in my northside neighbor's sycamore tree a few times recently.

Ignoring the crows, the hawks conversed after their mating ritual. What an incredible thing to see from one's window! I felt vastly privileged to witness the event. How many people do you know who have seen hawks mating? I could count on one elbow how many I know.

It's fully Spring here, after a grueling six weeks of Winter. Birds are mating, the first trees are blooming and humming loudly with bazillions of bees. My Japanese maple is showing the first pips of blood-read buds; my freesias are unfolding cascades of blossoms-to-be. And the almond blossoms are starting to pop open ... watch this space for more photos of the orchards of the Almond Capital of the World.

A Dark Gray Sky

Yesterday I told Bernie that I hadn't seen such a rainstorm since Lil was about four years old. It had poured all morning, so much that the water in the gutter out front was lapping over the edge of the sidewalk.

I put on my river sandals and went out to clear the leaves and branches away from the storm drain. Chilly, yes, invigorating, oh yes. Howie helped me, cheerfully biting at leaves in the gutter in spite of the rain falling on us.

Today I admitted to Bernie that we have not had this much rain since the El Nino year back in uhhhh, was that 98 or 99? One of those, no matter. Today we've had gentler rain than yesterday, but almost unbroken all day long. The north side of the house has two inches of water standing in the low parts, and everything is deeply soggy.

When Lillian was done with her homework, we went outside to the street during a break in the rain. She rode her skooter up and down the street with Sebastian leaping along beside her, barking like the Hound of the Baskervilles. Howie joined in for a while, racing with Lillian and then back to me, so excited to be running full out that his hackles raised from his shoulders to his tail.

Sebastian had a hackles moment, too, when he stole the neighbor's newspaper from their driveway, and Lillian chased him up and down the street trying to take it from him to return it to the rightful owner.

We ate a delicious beef stew with french bread to cheer us, kept the fire going, and turned on lights in the house to stave off the darkness under the clouds. Thank God for the rain, and thank God in three weeks the almond orchards will be in bloom.

2010, Day Three

Woo hoo, the new year is here and just about settled in!

I don't take the whole "New Year's Resolution" thing seriously at all. I mean, it's still the Christmas season -- Christmas season lasts until at least January 6th and Epiphany. While stores already have their hearts and candies on the shelves for Valentine's Day, the Magi are ignored and relegated to boxes in attics, even though it was their sighting and understanding of the Christ Star that presaged the revelation of the Christ to the Gentile world.

Sorry, Magi. You get about as much attention as the Gospel of John. Too complicated, too much thought required.

So anyway, I don't do resolutions, by and large. I still want to keep trying to create something every day, but the hard part is not the creating, it's the posting.

I suppose that if there is anything I want to resolve this new year, it's to keep more in touch.

That'll be a major effort, but I suspect it will be a good one.

Happy New Year!

Embers of 2009

In less than nine hours, the new year will begin, 2010. In less than ninety days, a new kind of life will begin -- Bernie's job will end, and for a time, at least, he will be a free man.

The future could be daunting, but instead, I'm looking forward to this next year. There are a number of things I'd like to accomplish, but before I do that, I should remember what 2009 was like.

Let's see ... around Superbowl time I caught some horrid flu (was it h1n1 in disguise?) and coughed so hard I herniated a disc in my neck. Muchas owies, lots of pain-killers, physical therapy. Not only did I get sick again after physical therapy was done, but also I had some freako physical reaction to --- something --- that caused me to break out in painful and ugly blisters until nearly the end of May. Lovely!

In the mean time, my mother's 24-hour caregivers turned into a batch of idiot flakes, allowing a boyfriend to come in and steal my father's tools from the cellar (as well as some of her medications and a LOT of food), and requiring me to pursue sending her into protective care in a nursing home.

"I feel like I have nothing left to deal with everything," I told my medical consult, a genius nurse practitioner who assists my physician. "I hear a phone ring, any phone, and it hurts me like someone slapped me across the face."

That was the key she needed to unravel my lousy physical state. After some in-depth questioning, she prescribed a serotonin-uptake inhibitor called Lexapro. "You're depleted," she said. "The neurotransmitters that allow your rational brain to tell your flight-or-fight brain to calm down aren't there, so everything makes you want to run away."

Now maybe that explanation was right on, or maybe it was dumbed down for me, but after three weeks I went back to see her. She practically pounced on me with one word in question: "WELL???" Dropping my usual deadpan, I just smiled and nodded. I was feeling better. "And it just keeps on getting better," she told me. "Then after six months you should be all right."

Right again! January will see me gradually reducing the dosage of the drug, and I do feel that I'm ready. Strong again. There's a well that's no longer dry inside. Very cool feeling. Now it didn't hold off the stomach flu (yuck) but when Bernie brought a cold home from work, I was the only one who didn't catch it -- I'm strong again, yeah!

In accord with the year ending, I finally received, the day before yesterday, from my mother's trust officers three boxes of memorabilia: fading slides and ancient photos, bags of letters that Mom had saved, the wooden bowl and chopping blade that must have been Dad's grandmother's; the flag sent to Mom when Dad was buried, a framed picture of his SeaBee battalion, a couple of his knives that I hadn't thought to ask for but was tearfully grateful that they included in the shipment.

In the old photos of my mother when she and Dad were young, I was able to see again the indomitable personality that I admired so, and the hope and innocence in her eyes that age and the steadily encroaching Alzheimer's turned into meanness and suspicion and anger in her later years. At the end of 2009, I remember again with fondness the shiny curly black hair, the ready grin, the refusal to conform, her clear light brown eyes ... and the love she did have for my sister and me.

Happy New Year to all!

Drifting in the Clouds

The skies of this area are never as richly blue in the summer as they are in the winter. That dark blue reminds me of the color of Alex's eyes a few hours after she was born; her eyes were already open wide, seeking the source of the light beside my bed.

How easily I'm distracted! I was going to make this post about writing, not about how it felt like I was holding my very heart in my arms as a new mother.

In spite of having tried to cement in a new habit of getting up and writing in the mornings -- that was why I finally decided to do the National Novel Writing Month challenge -- the habit crumbled with the first cloudy daybreaks and a strange sleep/dream cycle that hits me around 7am, causing a very sound sleep and some VERY interesting dreams, so that I sleep in past 9:30 a.m. most mornings and am left bemused and unmotivated.

So much for that new habit.

However, what I have of a new story (minus the stupid word count efforts) is pretty solid. I love the story, in fact, and have had a lot of fun with the main character so far. She's feisty and furious, inventive, and mischievous. Her name is Roj, and bullets won't stop her.

God alone knows when I'll get a chance to finish the story, with the holidays coming up, the onset of a shitty cold last night, and the lovely prospect of coming down with the stomach flu that hit John last week, and Lillian this morning.

Back to the old evening habit now, of taking my place in the comfy chair in the bedroom with pillows to prop me up, my laptop glowing, my faithful dog Howie staring accusingly at me from the bed because I'm in his favorite spot, perhaps to write, perhaps to re-read what has been written, and to thank God that for this hour, at least, I'm not plagued by that stomach flu.

2012

Bernie and I went to see the movie 2012 last weekend, a couple weeks or more after its debut, when we could get in on the $5 bargain that Kerasotes Theaters run.

That's what happens when you have impending financial squeeze times ahead of you. You stop seeing the stuff at full price when it comes out, and just wait for the cheap seats.

B and I have done a review over on the Piker Press, but I didn't really feel like I said quite enough about the film there.

The "chase scenes" were okay, only as long as you were able to ignore the premise that billions of people were dying all around them. In that respect, the movie was really callous; only a few people were allowed to understand what was going to happen to them; humankind was considered by the UberGovernment to be too damn worthless and stupid to be informed that they ought to prepare to meet their Maker.

That alone would have pissed me off, but the movie, as a whole (or as a 'hole') really stunk. It was BADLY acted, POORLY written, and paced to allow moviegoers lots and lots of time to get up and go to the bathroom and never miss a key point.

After we came home, I thought about the movie before I wrote my review, and came to the conclusion that if someone had picked up a semi-somnolent possum from the side of the road, and forced it to watch this movie, PETA would have been all over them for cruelty to animals and unethical treatment of living creatures.

Too bad PETA doesn't bother with people.

Food, and Dogs, and Food

This morning I woke up hungry, not having eaten supper the night before.

I thought of taters and eggs, which I had promised Alex I'd make before she and John had to go to the Bay Area. I thought of the soft and scrumptious loaf of Dutch crust French bread I bought at the store the other day. I thought of what to make for lunch with things on hand.

There was a container of egg whites, left over from making pumpkin custard the day before yesterday, so the taters and eggs made use of that. Delicious. Perfect. Hearty breakfast accompanied by tomato juice. Good start to a freezin' ass cold day.

Around 10 am, I opened the freezer to see what was available for lunch. I spotted a small container of onions and ground beef that I intended to make into some variant of minestrone -- but I knew Bernie wouldn't eat that as it would have too much tomato flavor to it. Aha! A bag of pre-cooked prawns (50 % off sale at the grocers one weekend) and a package of chopped broccoli. Got it, lunch is on the way!

The minestrone fixins I pulled out as well, just because I couldn't stop thinking about them.

Baby portobella mushrooms ... a package of them needed to be used up, so I cut each one into halves or quarters and tossed them into a frying pan with Saffola Margarine (good taste for sizzling) and cut up half a yellow onion into 3/4 inch chunks and began to cook them in extra virgin olive oil in a separate pan. The pot of white basmati rice began to cook.

Prawns thawed in a solution of sea salt and lemon juice and water; some of the mushrooms went into a pot with the minestrone stuff on a back burner, along with a hefty amount of "Italian Seasoning" by McCormick.

A can of chicken broth was mixed with 2 tablespoons of corn starch, some salt, and a heavy shaking of garlic powder, and added to the onion pieces when they were done, to slowly come to a boil. When the rice was nearly done, I put the frozen broccoli on to steam. A few minutes later, most of the mushrooms went into the thickening chicken broth, along with the cut up prawns. (Some of the mushrooms went into the minestrone pot.) When the broccoli was done, so was the rice, and with that, lunch was served. Delicious, nutritious, and satisfying.

The minestrone-to-be slowly thawed on its low setting, seemingly forgotten, but not.

I walked to the school to collect Lillian. We checked the mail, and then, ambling up the street came a man with his Great Dane bitch. She was beautiful, black with a white spot on her chest, and a hint of whitish toes. Maybe a third again bigger than our dog Sebastian, but looking like his auntie. Lil and I stopped to talk with the owner, who assured us that she didn't bite, and we petted the large, lovely lady, comparing her loopy ears to Sebastian's, and the breadth between her eyes, and the gentle eyes themselves. Yeah, I think Sebastian has some Great Dane in his ancestry.

Return to the minestrone variation. I dumped some leftover fried cabbage (don't knock it until you've tried it, cooked with onions in bacon fryings) into the pot, and a cup of tomato sauce. A little later, I tossed in about a quarter cup of nopalitos (cactus strips) and a handful of sliced black olives. I added more oregano, more garlic powder, and a cup of asparagus, cut into half-inch pieces. Dumping in maybe a cup to a cup and a half of Wolfgang Puck's beef broth (no MSG) and about the same amount of the water from the broccoli steaming, and a cup of pasta ...

When the pasta was done, I cut a couple pieces of the French bread, and slathered them with cream cheese. Serving the minestrone in a bowl, I sprinkled it with Parmesan cheese and ooohhh, perfect soup, perfect meal for a cold, cold winter evening.

An Object Lesson

Lillian was playing today with Sebastian, riding her scooter up and down the street, with Sebastian bounding ahead of her, and behind her, and around her in an excess of glee. Occasionally he would grab his favorite stick and carry it along.

Elena-From-Across-the-Street-Who-Was-Born-Two-Weeks-After-Lil joined them with her bike, and they zoomed up and down the sidewalks until Sebastian's tongue was hanging around his toes. Howie ignored them, as I was prepping the bread chunks for tomorrow's turkey stuffing, and he felt it more important to supervise me, in case I dropped a piece of bread. (I was doing the prep work out in the garage studio, so that I could keep an eye on the girls.)

An ideal afternoon.

As the sun was going down, the girls went inside for a snack; I did a few more chores so that I have less to do in the morning.

Then the girls decided to take their play over to Elena's house. I walked with them, so as to find out what time to retrieve Lillian.

Time stops.

A man with a fluffy little dog is walking down the street, and the girls coo over the sight and say how cute the dog is.

On the other side of the street, two houses away from Elena's, a woman walks with two white pit bulls, looking smug at her fine, clean, muscled animals. The girls look with awe on the pure white matched pair of dogs.

As we started across the street, I began to mutter to Lillian that she should never go up to a dog like that, because they are dangerous. The woman with her two white beasts walked past Elena's house and turned the corner. By that time we were on Elena's porch, and the girls were dithering because Elena's dogs were barking.

I heard a growl, and an exclamation, and pulled the door open and shouted for the girls to get inside, NOW! We left Elena's bike on the porch and I leaped in the door, too, absolutely uninvited.

Elena, shouting at her dogs, old Pokey, an arthritic beagle, and fierce Molly, barking like a vicious maniac, the growling and snarling intensifying outside. Confusion, clamor.

Poking my head back outside, I saw that the two white pit bulls had suddenly attacked each other. Blood was on their muzzles, so I ducked back into my neighbor's house, far more willing to risk a bite from cranky Molly than get involved in the mess outside. The neighbor pulled open her curtains to reveal the woman trying to separate the two big dogs unsuccessfully, and blood was all over the dogs' white faces, heads, and chests.

A car pulled up, and a man leaped out, grabbing the tail of one of the dogs and pulling it back away from the other. The dogs separated for a moment, then resumed their fight, spattering the woman's face, chest, and arms with blood. The man grabbed the leash of one of the dogs and pulled it away.

He took the dog across the street; the woman continued on Travaille Street and turned at the next corner. I don't know where she lived, or what she said to the man except for the words, "they're sisters" regarding the dogs. He kept the dog he was holding away from the other until the woman could get the dogs ... home?

When the woman and the dogs were out of sight, I headed back across the street to confer with my neighbors on either side who were out on the sidewalk; the snarling of the dogs had been loud enough to draw a lot of attention. The police arrived, asking us where the woman and dogs had gone.

One of the neighbors and I stood and talked about the incident until the police came back, shouting to us that "everyone is okay."

"Yes," I said to the neighbor, "except for those of us who will have nightmares about this tonight."

Yet it provided an opportunity to drive a lesson home to Lillian. While still in Elena's house, I made her look out the window at the bloody dogs, and reiterated my warning about the danger of such breeds. I know that this time, she learned the lesson to the depths of her soul.

Lil is a very trusting and loving little person. She loves animals and people, and wants to be affectionate. It was harsh of me to make her look at that horrible sight, but she has to know that she may NOT assume that other dogs are as mellow and people-friendly as Sebastian and Howie.

Part Two.

Anyone who could view those two white dogs could see by their square frames, with the legs set well apart for stability; their heavy musculature in shoulders and necks for shaking strength; and the thick, broad muscles of the top of their heads for jaw-lock power -- those dogs were bred to grab hold, thrash, and retain their balance. Umm. Gee, let's do Dogs for Dummies -- that means they were bred to fight and kill.

I've talked to pit bull owners who say that their dogs are sweet and lovey-dovey and beautiful and smart and totally safe, but what I saw this evening belies those statements. Those two white dogs were siblings, raised together, and without a cause, went at each other with death in mind.

No. Sorry. Not proper "dog" behavior.

When our German Shepherd, Babe was introduced to the new puppy in the house, my beloved Howie, he felt it necessary to thump the younger dog regularly. They would spar, teeth showing, flashing their faces around so quickly it was hard to follow the movement. They fenced, move and countermove, bodies posturing to present defensive maneuvers and dominance.

They never drew a drop of blood.

Howie does have to give Sebastian almost a daily beating for his impertinence, but again, for all Howie's snarling and snapping and biting of Seb's face and bony elbows, there is never blood, and all I have to say to them is "Enough" and they separate and go find something else to do. That's proper dog behavior.

Tussling, playing, respecting the Top Dog's order. That's "Good Dog."

The white pit bulls had no respect for each other, or their owner. All they wanted to do was kill. That they had no respect for their owner is what makes them really scary animals, though. With dogs, the pack leader HAS to be able to order the pack. Has to. No other choice. If you don't control your pack, the pack is uncontrollable. Duh. An uncontrolled pack (even if it is a pack of one) will ignore orders and do what it wants.

On a street with so many small children, my heart was chilled by what I saw today. The rivulets of blood flowing down the back of the white fur of a dog's head, the faces of the dogs red with blood, the woman vainly trying to separate the animals, with blood on her face and shirt -- no, I won't forget.

And alas, neither will Lillian.

NaNoWriMo 2009

The picture has no point to this blog, it was just prettty, and reminded me of the many times over the past 34 years that Bernie has brought me bundles of flowers to arrange.

I haven't blogged for a long time -- life has just been crazy-busy. I had convinced myself that I didn't have time to write 50,000 words in November, but there was this dream that I had, that sounded like it could be an interesting story ...

So I'm writing, and it feels good. Very, very good.