Jogging Memories

On Friday, Bernie and I tackled yet another section of the garage, where Things have been piled on Other Things ... kind of like a storage area chromosomally merged with a landfill.

"This thing has got to go," Bernie stated, kicking a hanging file cabinet on wheels. "It's worthless."

"That," I pointed out to him, "is full of all our old photographs."

And indeed it was. So we spent the afternoon going through folders of photos, savagely tossing blurred pictures, pictures of people neither one of us could remember, stacks of "double copies." He would scan through an envelope, make his cut, hand the packet to me, and I'd cut again. Some I remembered fondly, and others I hadn't remembered at all.

This is one of them. This is the house I grew up in.

The door to that house -- the back door -- my father installed, as well as the open stairwell leading to it and to the cellar. The original door can be faintly seen to the left of the window. That used to have steps down to the yard, steps which I remember because I used to sit on them and kick at Spot, the springer spaniel, who would grab my shoe and growl fiercely, making me laugh.

This picture is at least a year, or more later than Spot's demise. I would have been six or seven, I think. My parents had just opened their nursery venture, and turned the back yard into a retail sales area.

I recognized globe arborvitae, pyramidal yews, junipers, birch in their neat lines. At first when I looked at the photo I thought there were white flaws on the photo surface, only to realize with a laugh that those were price tags on the shrubs.

The trees in the right distance belonged to The Meadow, that fabled place of black raspberries and nettles, snakes and honeysuckle thickets, rape gangs and worlds filled with siren song of exploration. To see those tall locust trees and bushy box elders is to remember the many beatings I got for sneaking off into danger, and to remember all the paths and lookouts and sights and wonders I could never resist.

I don't know why my mother sent me this -- and one other -- old photo; she told me that she gave away her old box of family photographs to one of my father's second cousins, a comment that still makes me angry, as I am probably the only person in the living world who really cared about them. But I try to let that anger go, and appreciate what I've got -- so many memories set alight by just this one picture.

And now writing this, I understand that the unearthing of those memories is what has been setting off depressing nightmares the past two nights. Hmm.

The Spine, My Erstwhile Friend

Almond orchards are at the end of their blossom; nectarines and peaches are taking their final bows before scattering pink petals on the wind. The buds on my cherry tree are swelling and will open next week.

There are a lot of things I've had on my mind lately, rants about the lives of finches, about how to avoid unnecessary illness, about the malignant power of hatred and evil. But this evening I just keep thinking about the call from the doctor today, telling me I had to make an appointment with a new doctor who does neck surgery.

Apparently the cervical spine MRI I had last Friday showed some anomaly. The language used was some doctorese I didn't quite catch; I don't know if the space is between vertebrae or if the space is where the nerves exit the vertebra. All I understood clearly was "severe narrowing of the ... " and the admonition, "No, you may not go back to riding your horse until Dr. Le clears you for it."

That means I'm off the horse at least until the end of April. Lovely. Alex and Lil have said they will try to do some riding of the horse and keep him sane, which is nice to hear. He's too good a horse to let go sour.

I guess I was hoping to hear that I could exercise however I saw fit that didn't aggravate the pain in my arm and shoulder. Feeling grumpy, I could just about work myself up to a cry if I didn't know that would clog my sinuses and make me feel snot-headed as well.

Behind My Chair

Why would a 65-lb dog try to squeeze himself behind a chair in a corner?

I can think of one compelling reason: when Molly the Damned Macaw is out of her cage, Howie is likely to wedge himself behind my comfy chair in the bedroom, Sebastian tries to look miniscule on the side of my bed farthest from the door, and I ... well, I usually shut the door and hide with them.

But Molly was not out today, but Howie was just in to slither in back of my chair. The whole bed was available, and he usually sprawls there, gloating that he is allowed on the bed but Sebastian isn't.

Earlier today, Howie weaseled his way under my desk in the kitchen, where my other computer squats. There didn't seem to be any particular reason for that, either.

"Watch the animals," my mother used to preach. According to her, they would let you know if there were ghosts about, or evil spirits, or freaky weather on its way. Or earthquakes. Or untrustworthy people.

Two days ago, I was looking at the hook-shaped clouds in the sky and thinking that the weather service was optimistic about the nice-weather-no-rain scenario for the next ten days; today the weather report was for a "chance" of showers tomorrow morning. But the wind is definitely up tonight and something is coming with it. Maybe a thunderstorm, maybe a windstorm.

This house is too young for ghosts; the only evil spirits in the house is the bottle of Wild Turkey John has stashed in the cupboard; and as I said, the only untrustworthy creature in the house in in her cage. That leaves a storm, or an earthquake.

I'm keeping an eye on that dog. If he grabs some bottled water and heads for the laundry room, I'm going with him.

Does This Dress Make My Arm Look Fat? Good!

The results of the MRI on my arm: a wad of fat trying to look tough.

YAYYY!

Comfort Fish

Some times all you can do is just keep putting one foot in front of another.

At this point, that's all I'm doing. 

The year started with a cold with a nasty cough to go with it; two days after I stopped coughing so much I woke with the pinched nerve; the day after I finished my course of physical therapy and felt good -- I came down with the flu.

All of us have had it -- Bernie is the last one. We had hopes that with the warmer weather, we'd be done with illness drama for the year, but no, that would be too easy. Monday night I was massaging a sore spot on my arm, and asked Bernie if he thought there was a lump of some sort on the bone. He felt my arm, and the next day insisted I make an appointment with the doctor.

I saw the doctor this morning; within an hour they'd gotten clearance for an MRI to be done tomorrow. 

This week I also filled out applications for nursing homes for my mother. What I'm hearing from her 24-hour caregivers is not reassuring to me; Mom is starting to do crazy stuff like stopping up the bathroom sink  and sneaking into the medicine cabinet to take extra doses of her pills. She also sprained an ankle, and WOULD NOT stay off it. Add in that the caregivers are having some kind of conflict with Mom's doctor, and that the caregivers are working double- and triple- shifts because they're short-staffed ... I guess it's time for her to move out of her home.

Am I stressed about all this? I don't even know. I feel like I've gone beyond stress and am just sitting here waiting for someone to say, "You have to do this, and then you have to do that, and so on, and so on.

Having taken all the steps I was ordered to do today, I'm good. I've started carrying my rosary with me all the time, so that when things start to feel overwhelming, I can remember to let go of the problems and just rest in God's grace. While I was waiting for the doctor's office to call me, I took a nice walk with Howie and let everything flow past.

And rejoicing that there still are love and happiness and humor and play in the world, I share with you one of my Christmas Fish that Alex and Lillian made for me.

March!

I told our north-side neighbors that we'd be ready to replace the existing "fence" in March.

That was last fall, and sure enough, the evening of March 1st, the wind and rain pretty much took care of the decision. I have a call in to the marvelous company that did our back and southside fence for an estimate -- I expect to hear from him tomorrow, and hope to have a new fence within a week.

Both the neighbors and I wish we could put up a masonry wall between the properties; last year at this time, we might even have been able to swing it. But not now, not with times as uncertain as they are. Alas! I'll have to put up with my neighbor's obnoxious plumbago and perennial morning glory crawling through the cracks in the boards.

I guess there are worse fates.

Get the A & D Ointment, Quick!

Pompous people chap my ass.

Other than me, of course, but then I've had more than half a century learning to put up with myself.

Yesterday I had the annoyance of being at a big meeting. It was a meeting that had a lot of kids at it, a bunch of teachers, and a smattering of parents.

It wasn't the meeting that was so annoying, it was that there obviously had been very little planning done; and also obvious was that the teachers didn't have any idea of what their preparation for the meeting should have been, or what their task was at the meeting. The kids, rather than appreciate the presentation, were just excited not to be in classrooms and were quite ill-behaved. No one had explained to them what was expected of them, either.

I happen to know some of the people involved in the "planning" process ... and they haven't got a bloody clue what they're doing beyond showing up and hoping for the best. They pounce upon shiny ideas they hear at a district meeting and say, "Let's do that! It's so wholesome!" But they don't worry about learning how to do that.

Why not? Because, of course, they already KNOW that if it's wholesome and sounds like a good idea, of course they possess the skill set to pull it off. The woman in charge is a volunteer for the organization of this stuff. She's done that probably for the past 15 - 18 years. She gets by; no great shakes but she makes it from one year to the next.

After so many years, she's the Emperor, and she's buck nekkid -- and in the nature of long-term volunteers in positions of power, she's grown such barnacles that you'd need a jack hammer or an act of God to get her out of that position. Let's add to that the fact that in an organization that utilizes volunteers, there is no one in a position to tell The Grand and Mighty Volunteer Leader to get her shit together or move aside.

As I watched the meeting unfold, I saw the Volunteer Emperor waddle around, her lips pressed tightly together in displeasure. She was being Seen Doing Good Stuff -- that's all that mattered to her. Several times she said to the kids in a smarmy voice "Now we all know how we're supposed to be behaving!"

Hell, no, they didn't. The little ones didn't understand the need for quiet and the older ones know she's a dork.

Oh well. All I can do is avoid such meetings in the future, or live with the chapped ass. No one is ever going to question the Volunteer Emperor's competence: after all, she's a real school teacher in her day job.

I'll bet she'd tell you that, too, if you said, "Lady, what the hell were you thinking?"

Remarkable Day

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Originally uploaded by AserSand

This morning I awoke at 6:30am.

Something was very different. I opened my eyes, looked around without moving, and realized what it was -- there was no pain at all in my left arm.

I could have gone back to sleep for another hour, but I was so jazzed by the good feeling, that I had to get up. Once I was up, the now-familiar ache started, but much less even than yesterday. I was able to make a hearty Mardi Gras breakfast of bacon and eggs before gulping the requisite pain pills, rather than shakily gobbling cottage cheese just to get the ibuprofen in.

Wonderful day, with art and laughter and Spring.

Spring!

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Originally uploaded by AserSand

I had a great time taking pictures on a walk to a nearby almond orchard today. Bernie played with the dogs while I snapped pics of the wonderful almond blossoms and reveled in their scent.

I got a number of good pictures, in spite of the overcast sky.

What Is the Speed of Time, Anyway?

Fifteen minutes ago it was Monday, wasn't it?

All right, maybe not, but it sure seems like Time is holding up its skirts and dashing willy-nilly along its allotted path. Maybe it has the trots, or maybe it has seen something in the past that frightened it. (Notice I refrain from saying that maybe the trots are from the past eight years of eating shit in the form of the Presidency, and I also refrain from droning about the past and the Great Depression. I am sooo clement.)

In any event, my release from burning pain has sparked a delightful desire to do creative things, so I've been painting, writing, doing pastels, dragging old unfinished projects out and working on them. Studio Prime Time is currently from 2:30pm until 6, when the air gets chill again. That will change as the season does, and the season is boogying. Buds on our pomegranate have appeared, though they haven't turned red yet. The nectarine buds are giggling, standing in the wings, waiting for the end of the almond blossom extravaganza, which has just begun.

Tomorrow I'm spending the day outdoors, hoping for some good blossom shots. Then I'll be content to hole up for a spring rain storm. There are too few of them left before Sweet Spring turns to Hot California.

All Good

Last night I fell asleep, and didn't wake from pain.

I went to the Physical Therapy session with a little trepidation, as Nettie had told me she was going to work on my shoulder aggressively. And she did.

But although it hurt quite a bit as she kneaded a knotted muscle underneath the edge of my shoulder blade, by the time she was done, the pain in my arm had lessened even more.

The Accordion-Head Traction Device was further wonderful.

Over all this, pour a magnificent drenching rain, so much rain that the water stood in puddles on the back brick patio and soaked the orchards that are ready to spring into full bloom.

I'm content with the day.

Here Comes the Storm!

In spite of the weather forecast saying that today would be showery, most of the day was sunny and beautiful.

Around 3pm, a wad of clouds showed up, boiling into the sky. Soon it began to sprinkle, then to rain, then pour, and as Lillian and I kept an eye on a rainbow in the east, it began to hail.

Lil was thrilled to see her second hailstorm, and put on a jacket and ran outside to be pelted by hail. (This hailstorm had no thunder and lightning with it.) She looked adorable with hailstones (1/4" across) stuck in her curly hair.

It was a decent day, overall. I had Physical Therapy again today, and the PT person was "Nettie," who was less concerned about my neck than an area under my shoulder blade. As she was starting my massage, she asked, "What about this spot right here?" and poked something that about made me fall through the table. She proceeded to knead That Spot and followed whatever out to areas I hadn't even realized were sore. Ow. "This is so messed up it's swollen," she told me. After the massage, they gave me a couple more exercises to do to help the area. "I'll help you with that spot on Monday," Nettie told me, "but not before a weekend."

Ominous. Good thing Bernie will be available to drive me there on Monday.

In the mean time, thank you, God, for this beautiful rain.

Who Do You Believe?

Quite a few years ago, I worked in a big hardware store.

As the Security Cashier, it was my job to hole up in a locked room and count all the money that had been handled the previous day. Normally I was done by lunchtime, and if my boss wasn't willing to let me go home early, I would go downstairs and wander around the departments, talking to customers and co-workers.

One day, while I was still upstairs, I overheard some DIRT. It was a busy day, and the head of Customer Service was swamped with lines of customers at the checkout stations. He called for backup; it was his job to do so.

At such a call, anyone who could run a cash register was to get to the front of the store and facilitate the customers getting their merchandise paid for. On this particular day, however, several Department Managers were having a chatfest, and completely ignored his call. Frustrated, he called the boss and complained. The boss came downstairs and instructed the Department Managers that it was their responsibility to help at the cash registers. (Re-instructed, that is, as they all knew what they were supposed to have done.)

The DIRT I overheard was that the Department Managers were furious that the fellow had complained about them. It was then that I decided to go downstairs and watch the drama. (Yes, that's low entertainment, but it was better than sitting in the vault room reading a magazine.)

Mabel (not her real name, of course) was a Big Dog at the store. She was a good worker and was well-respected, and indeed she was an Alpha personality and she expected respect. She had also been my trainer when I first joined the organization, and I suspected that she would tell me what had happened, me being one of her star pupils who made good.

I was right, Mabel TOLD ALL, not only because she was incensed about being reprimanded, but also because she hated the Customer Service dude personally. Then she did something I never forgot: she picked up the phone at her desk and began to punch numbers. "That's it. I'm going to get that little son of a bitch."

Her statement put me into a frame of mind that said, "Too Much Information," so I left, not wishing to know what kind of revenge she was planning.

In a matter of days it was obvious: she had placed a call to the corporate office and accused the Customer Service dude of sexual harassment. In addition, she called as an additional witness one of the cashiers (let's call her "Mitzi") to say that Customer Service Dude upset her by making sexual advances, and when she declined to go out with him on a date, began to pick on her, criticizing her work.

Mabel's plan worked like a dream. Mitzi came to the meeting between Human Resources and the Customer Service Dude dressed modestly, her makeup tasteful, her hair so perfect that Mary Poppins would have beamed upon her. Somehow, her sloppy and inaccurate paperwork and cash totals were not considered a reason for him to "pick on her." And he was removed from his position, a position he didn't particularly like, but was necessary for him to advance into management. He was shattered. He went home, went out and got drunk, got pulled over and taken to jail, had no way to post bail, missed three days of work, and was fired.

What a dumb ass.

What he should have done was call the big boss downstairs and have Mitzi written up for coming on to him and rubbing her tits on his arm the first time she did it -- sexual harassment isn't always about men bothering women. But he didn't; Mitzi was by far the prettiest employee that store had -- and has -- ever seen. She was gorgeous, outrageously vulgar, hotter than habanero peppers, and flirted with anything that appeared to have a dick as part of its operating system. He should have known better than to let her put her hands on him and hang onto his arm in mock arguments, but he didn't. And maybe he should have seen that she was one of Mabel's pets, and maybe he should have known better than to mess with Mabel at all -- I knew those things and I didn't even work downstairs at the time.

Ah, well. Eventually Mabel and another one of her pets took jobs at a warehouse west of here, and I never heard about them again. Mitzi charmed someone in management and was transferred out of cashiering into a department, then another department, and whether it was the hard work or her drug and alcohol abuse, she just was one day ... no longer an employee.

When it comes to sexual harrassment, everyone loses. If you're jolly about flirting, you're sexually harrassing. If you're not, and won't stand for flirting or dirty talk, you're a puritanical old bore.

For the record, when I found out Customer Service Dude lost his battle, I did tell the big Boss what I'd heard and seen, including Mabel coaching Mitzi on what to say. He just looked at his shoes and said nothing; he knew, too.

The Amazing Accordion-Head!

Oh, look! Two of my vertebrae!

Ancient, eroded, probably loaded with crevices full of bats and desert mice ...

Today was my first day of Physical Therapy. Long long ago, I pulled something in my back while I was closing a huge gate ( I had complained months before to both my supervisor and the big boss that it was too heavy and sticky to be moved easily); I was sent to a Workmen's Comp office to be evaluated, and told to do a series of stretching exercises and get the hell back to damn work. It was a stupid office visit, mostly along the lines of, does it hurt when you do that? Then don't do that again, and yeah, you're hurt, but ain't we all?

So I had very little faith in what this morning's appointment would hold.

Amazingly enough, the PT dude talked to me for about 20 minutes about how I felt and what hurt and where. He concurred with the doctor and the chiropractor that there is some kind of nerve pinch in there. But instead of telling me what tough luck it was for me, and suggesting I become a Vicodin junkie, he set up about an hour's worth of interesting stuff.

First, I was treated to a scrumptious neck and shoulder wrap of moist heat. It was wonderful. Second, I got a nice warm massage of my sore shoulder and neck. Also wonderful. In a few minutes, these were followed by some gentle exercises (largely to determine my range of movement), and suggestions about how to do them three times a day.

The amazing thing, however, was shaped like an accordion with indents on either end. In one indentation fit my head; the other held my shoulders. I was given a little rubber bulb like you might see on a blood pressure device, and told to squeeze that until I could feel my neck stretch a little between head and shoulders. That I did, and voila! The pain down my arm disappeared.

This would be the same pain that had me in tears Sunday morning because it hurt so bad. For a blissful 10 minutes, it was GONE.

Of course it came back, once the accordion was off my head and I stood up, but it wasn't so bad.
And six hours later, it still isn't as bad as it was yesterday. I'm beginning to have some hope, although they told me that riding the horse is right out for a while.

Physical Therapy is scheduled for three times a week for the next three weeks. I'm looking forward to Wednesday, and another round with the Accordion-Head thing.

It Only Hurts When I Don't Do This

Both yesterday and today I forgot that I was supposed to take painkillers at 3pm.

Not that it doesn't hurt, but it surely does not hurt as bad. At least I didn't notice it as much. Yesterday and today I spent time messing about in my studio, with pastels and oil paints. (See my other blog for details.)

Watching the color flow onto what was a blank page or canvas is absorbing, and time flies by so quickly I'm astonished to look up and find that it's nearly dark.

It's been so long since I last painted that some of my oils are dried up; some tubes of paint won't open. And yet I get so much pleasure out of mixing colors that I wonder why on earth I left it alone for so long.

Howie spent the afternoon on his carpet, watching people walk by; I know he likes the garage studio better than the one I used to have inside the house -- there's a lot more room, and the open garage door is like a giant HDTV for him. I like it better, too. The paint fumes are not so troublesome.

I needed the escape of artwork today. A friend called and told me that on his last two visits to my mother, he found her alone. The 24/7 caregivers ... are not being very reliable. The thought of forcing my mother into a care facility is sure to give me nightmares. Even though she's so far into Alzheimer's that she doesn't know the time of day, she possesses a power of will that is absolutely terrifying to me.

The power of will. Have I written about that before? If not, I will soon.

Tormenting My Dog

Oh, how Howie hates the camera!

He only looked at me because I whispered, "Who is it?" -- which is an 'alert' cue. When he looked up at me, his expression changed from 'alert' to 'disgust.' Poor dog.

Nevertheless, I can't resist taking pictures of him because he is so beautiful to me. The softness of his fur, that gorgeous dingo tail, his sweet little whippet face ... and those scrumptious chocolate fudge ripple stripes!

A couple days ago I was soaking in the tub to ease the pain in my neck, shoulder, and arm when Howie came into the bathroom to see where I was. I cupped some of the hot water in my hands, and he tasted it. "Come on, Howie, in! In!"

He backed away nervously. I began to splash the water, an almost irresistible sound for Howie. He came closer, so I squirted water into the air with my hand. He began to bark and stomp at me.

Not wishing to seem like a responsible adult or anything, I got the washcloth, wrung it out, then tossed it into the air. Howie sprang forward, but stopped short of jumping in. I waved the washcloth through the water, and he grinned and watched avidly. His body was tensing, and I knew that I was pushing the limits of sanity -- I am in less than functional condition and having a 65-pound dog leap onto my lap in the tub would not be the smartest course of action.

I wrung out the washcloth again and made it peek over the edge of the tub. He grabbed it, and proceeded to "thrash and bash" it all over the bathroom, growling fiercely and shaking it violently so that its wet ends slapped him vigorously about the face.

When he tossed it the air to better grab it, it flew into Bernie's closet and splatted against the wall behind the hamper.

Between my laughter and slithering into the closet to get the wet cloth, probably all my good soaking was in vain. But painful though it was, it was the first time I'd laughed hard in days, and that's worth something.

Wait till I'm all better -- Howie and I are going to have some fun.

Update

Well, that's it. I'm getting old.

I just got a call from the doctor's office. The x-rays show a certain amount of degeneration of the spine due to arthritis, and some little bone spurs.

They're going to send me to physical therapy, and if that makes it worse or doesn't help, then they have the leverage to ask for an MRI to see what's happening in there.

On the up side, the pain IS a little less today.

Kiss Me, I'm a Feeb

Thursday's visit to Dr. Jack ... didn't help.

He thought it would, but the pain increased into the evening, and hadn't eased this morning. I went back to him, and he broke my heart, telling me, "There's nothing more I can do -- you need to see your MD as soon as possible and find out what's going on in your neck."

I cried for a while, then went to my regular MD.  They were upbeat, gave me some short-term advice for pain management, and sent me straight to the hospital for x-rays. In a few days, I'll find out if there's an indication of a herniated disc or whatever.

In the mean time, I sit and wait, and mourn with my friend Wendy the passing of her magnificent German Shepherd Caribou.

What Next?

Tuesday morning at 4am I woke up, feeling wave upon wave of excruciating pain in my left shoulder.

I sat up to ease it, and oh, no, that didn't work at all; the waves just turned into a stabbing, burning encampment. Wondering what the hell I had done in my sleep, I found a more or less comfortable position, and fell back into the nightmares that have been bugging me lately. By 7:15 I was out of bed, hugging my left side, trying to find any position that didn't scream of profound personal injury. I thought that moving around would ease it; I was wrong. By 8, I was watching the clock to see it turn to 9am, at which point I was going to call the chiropractor and beg to be seen.

A hot shower helped not at all. At 9:01, I called Dr. Jack's office ... only to find that they open at 11am on Tuesdays. At the least provocation, I knew I would break down and cry from the pain. Fortunately, no one else was around. I prepped stuff for lunch, caught up on blogs to distract myself. At 11 o'clock, I was dialing and re-dialing Dr. Jack's number, until I got through and his lovely wife answered the phone. They had an opening at 12:40 and I took it.

The pain radiated not only across my left shoulder blade, but into my ribs on both sides below the shoulder blade. Oh, and onto my upper arm and top of my lower arm. I considered briefly that arm pain can mean a heart attack, but the source of the pain was clearly spine. Dr. Jack began to straighten out the kinks in my spine, setting off muscle spasms here and there as nerves reconnected properly, and when he was done for the day, told me to come back Thursday -- he'd done as much as he could in one day.

"Your body is going to tell you to 'stop' -- when you've pushed past your limit to heal, you will have to stop doing what you were doing," he told me. "Looks like you're spending too many hours at the computer."

When I left his office, the pain was far less, and confined to the muscles at the top of my shoulder and various places on my left arm. The rib pain was completely gone. Thank you, Dr. Jack.

Today, in spite of gulping ibuprofen all day, the pain was relentless. Then, at 7pm, I remembered that I had a tube of arnica gel in the medicine cabinet. I smacked myself figuratively on the forehead, and put the stuff on all the spots that hurt. Like magic, within moments, the pain receded to a tolerable level. Arnica won't heal something that's out of place, but by golly, it does more for me than Flexall ever did.

I'm hoping that tomorrow, Dr. Jack will be able to put my shoulder to rights. But I keep wondering, what is going to break down next?

Weather in High Def

It could have been a day like many others we've seen lately.

At this time of year, we frequently have high 50's and see storm clouds go sailing overhead to clash with the Sierras to the east.

That's what I thought I was seeing when I opened the garage door to let the afternoon light into my studio. The clouds were varied and gorgeous, and to the south, there were even what looked like a couple tiny showers in the distance.

I was working on a particularly annoying pastel lesson when the first few drops splatted noisily down through the sunlight. I smiled and went back to my work.

Then the splatting came back, louder than before, and there was a flash of lightning to the northwest. A few seconds later a peal of thunder accompanied another wave of drops. I ran to tell the family that the show was on!

In the safety of the garage, we pulled up chairs and sat and watched the hardest rain of the year so far come plummeting down in spite of the sunshine. Thunderstorms are very unusual here, so we found the weather to be very entertaining.

Then Lillian, who was bundled under a blanket on her mother's lap, got the surprise of her life -- ice started falling out of the sky. "Is it real?" she asked, and I retrieved a few tiny hailstones to melt in her hand, the first she'd ever seen.

I've seen it hail a handful of times in the 20 years we've lived in California, passing sprays of little pellets. This time, along with the ongoing roar of the thunder, the hail kept coming down and down. There are more pictures of it here.

And the sun continued to shine, sparkling off the trees, illuminating the waves of hail as they flew through the air, making a rainbow to the east of us (we had to run through the house to see it fro the kitchen door), peeking in and out of the dark clouds.

Then Alex noted, "Look! You can see your breath!" The temperature had dropped rapidly and the wind had kicked up. Bernie had on his good-to-20-degrees faux fur robe, Lil and Alex had blankets, the dogs their fur (though Sebastian was starting to look a little uncomfortable) and I my trusty 20-year old indestructible sweatshirt that's too hot for any time of year except unheated January, so we were all willing to continue to watch the storm.

There was a huge lightning bolt that stretched from cloud to ground in the distance, a loud "boom" of near thunder, and the lights went out! Our lights, from yummy PG&E. Across the street, where they have MID (Modesto Irrigation District) power, windows glowed with light in the growing dark.

I went into the house and opened the woodstove (it's an insert, and uses a fan to put out much of the heat) so that the heat from the firebox would keep the kitchen warm; I put up the spark screen securely, and then Bernie and I returned to the garage with a flashlight kept near, and watched the rain until dark.

While John and Alex and Lil cuddled and played a board game tucked warmly on their bed, Bernie and I lit a couple candles in the kitchen, poured glasses of wine, and played vicious games of dice on the kitchen bar.

And though I grumble about the lesser reliability of PG&E's power, in fact, across the street people were probably watching TV, or surfing the net, or cooking; maybe they were even so virtuous as to be reading books or writing letters. We had the better fortune -- we had each other.

When the lights came back on several hours later, I was ... sort of ... glad.

Bad Kids

If I had done 45 years ago what I did today, my mother would have given me a walloping and grounded me for weeks.

Our rainy season finally arrived with a drenching, glorious rain. It poured all night, and poured all morning ... and tapered off to a gentle drizzle in the afternoon. Bernie did not have to work, as the plant is doing "planned non-production Fridays" this month; before we even had our lunch we were of one mind -- that was, to take the dogs for a walk in the rain.

The last time we did that, it was cold, and when we returned from the walk, we just dried the damp beasts off and all was fine.

Today the temperature was 56 degrees, if not more; I never did zip up my jacket over my t-shirt. We set off for Ripon's wonderful bike trail in the drizzle.

Along the trail there is a large field in which grow tumbleweeds, some phlox, grasses, and various other weeds. Since we were last there, the city had brought in a tractor and disked much of the weed life under.

Sebastian's sensibilities were inflamed by the loose dirt, and he galloped madly through the mud, churning up so much of it his underbelly and rear were caked with crud. Howie was not that interested in loose dirt, being of a more discerning nature. Howie's weakness is ... puddles of water. He found more than a few of them, and lay down in them to cool his belly, stretching out to maximize the mudpack experience.

Once the dogs realized that we were not angry with them for their peccadillos, they proceeded to find and splash through and roll in every mud puddle in the field they could find.

My god, they were filthy by the time we headed home.

I shouted in the door to John. "We got your dog really disgustingly dirty!"

He's so patient. "I need to take a shower anyway, send him in." (Sebastian loves to shower with his Daddy.)

Howie, with his longer, thicker hair, had to settle for a bath in the driveway, then a protracted combing and brushing in front of the fire.

So, had I done this with my dog when I was a kid, Mom would have gone berserk on me. But since Bernie and I are senior citizens ... heh -- we can be bad kids whenever we want.

Goodies and Baddies

The bad news is that Bernie went to his plant-wide announcement meeting this afternoon.

Not only will the auto plant have four-day weeks through February, and many of those days will be six hours (or less), but also, March will go to three-day weeks; in addition, there will be a minimum of three weeks of plant shutdown (planned non-production) before June.

Ow.

So much for getting the floor re-done any time soon. Concrete is about to become a way of life.

Oh, well. We've been through far worse.

The good news is that last night, I was able to sleep, finally. It was such a successful sleep that I slept for a whopping 10 hours. When I woke, I felt like a real live person.

This is, over all, good news.

It means that as we head into the most beautiful season of the year, Bernie won't be dead-ass exhausted from overwork. It means that I'll have an incentive to get my ass out to the yard and tend veggies. It means that I'll get my shit together and plan meals and put up foods to maximize our dollar power at the store. It means he'll have time to work on his new novel.

Less garbage food at restaurants; less junk spending. More time together. More time for walks. More weed-pulling, which costs nothing. More time together.

More time together.

I'm having a difficult time seeing that the first part of this post is bad news, after all.

Howie and I Are On the Mend

This morning when we arose, I from my nest in the corner of the couch, he from the loveseat nearby where he can keep an eye on me, I did not immediately cough my kidneys loose, and he didn't wince when he put his right front foot to the floor.

He took a big divot out of the top of his paw last Saturday, trying to outdo Sebastian in tennis-ball retrieving. That night he was limping on both his tender right hind paw, and on the front right. Two legged dogs look downright pathetic. Sunday he spent draped across my lap, limp and content. It was nice to pet him ... it was all the effort I was capable of!

Today he was moved to give Sebastian a bit of a beating while I loaded the recyclables in the car; afterwards he was still fine. And I felt well enough to run the vacuum cleaner in the house. I had just finished three rooms when the vack died. I took that as a sign I'd done enough.

Both of us want to be able to get outside and play again.

Happy New Year

Along with a lovely chest-wracking virus from Lillian, I got two gorgeous fish for Christmas from Alex.

Fish were the theme for my Christmas treats, with the family all chipping in sinkers, snelled hooks, plastic baits, and a new reel.

I could not possibly eat any fish I caught if they were as cheerful and silly as these, however.

There are many more fish, and I'll link to them in my Flickr account in the next few days, as I recover from this horrid bug.

Bernie received these two fine birds to add to his collection of sightings.

In case you hadn't noticed, both birds and fish are crafted from eggshells; the birds, by some odd coincidence, have tailfeathers that look remarkably like the colors of a Scarlet Macaw. 

Oh Noes! Cement?

It was a sunny day.

Only a few weird clouds were in the sky.

When lunch was done, we flew into a vicious mood and -- TORE THE CARPET OUT OF THE KITCHEN DINING AREA!!!!

Eeeeeee! Alien spaceships landed! Godzilla went on a rampage! The ugly filthy disgusting cheap-ass housing tract beige carpeting went out the back door!

I've hated that carpeting since the day we first saw the house, but back in 1997, it wasn't in too bad shape. We lightened the paint on the walls from a dirty beige to a light white-pink to make it look like whoever chose the color of the walls and the carpet actually saw colors, but as the years have gone by, the carpet has begun to disintegrate at the seams, and tufts have begun to float along in the wake of dog toenails.

Anyway, today, we had at it, Bernie wielding a cutter and fortitude, Alex a wrecking bar and hammer (to take up the tack strips at the edge of the room), and I the trusty shop vac, for beneath the carpet and its carpet padding were drifts of gritty dirt.

This dusty climate is just not suited for carpeting. If this area could sell dusty stuff, we'd corner the world market. Ugh, as they say.

The dogs were shocked by our behavior. Howie growled and barked at Bernie when he heard the carpet ripping. Sebastian looked worried, certain that someone would come along and beat everyone in the house for tearing the carpet.
Alex and I purred with delight to see the clean, bare cement of the floor, even with all its dings and scuffs.

The top picture is with a flash. The bottom one is with the low-light setting, and more accurately portrays what I see. Either way, it looks a whole lot better to me.

We're going to have an estimate done for concrete refinishing, where the company comes in and adds a layer of cement or whatever and makes a textured and colored floor.

Anything will be better than that ugly, smelly filthy carpet.

Tomorrow, the front room, too!!!!

Christmas Day 2008

This was a memorable Christmas.

After 33 years of making turkeys for Christmas dinner, this year I dressed for church leisurely and after church, came home to nibble noshes and putter around with a scanning project until about 3pm.

My beloved daughter Alex stepped onto center stage and prepared the turkey dinner for the family, allowing me to just relax and enjoy the day. And she did just fine -- the meal was fabulous. (All I did was the gravy, which turned out delicious, thanks be to God.)

She made the family recipe oatmeal cookies the other day, and a big batch of chicken wings yesterday ... pretty soon, except for the Piker Press, I'm going to be a supernumerary. (I don't really mind at all, but that will be the topic in another entry in a few days.)

Opening presents was fun this morning, too. I was inundated with fishing gear -- there's a hint from the family! January 2nd, after the house is tidied, I'm going to go buy myself a fishing license! Howie was the surprise urchin... while we were still examining the contents of our stockings, he went to the presents under the tree and carried one off to open it. He's a smart boy; it was indeed a present wrapped in white tissue paper for the dogs. But he was awake with me at 4:30 am; he knew what was under the tree, all right, but he more or less politely waited until the festivities were under way before helping himself.

It's been a grand day.

Christmas Gifts

Wednesday, December 24th, dawned rainy.

Not a bucketing downpour, not a drizzle, but a gentle rain from a calmly cloudy gray sky. Around noon, Bernie and I found umbrellas and dog leashes, and the four of us went for a walk down by the river.

I don't know that we intended to go for a long walk, but the dripping overhanging branches and the view of the rain-speckled Stanislaus River drew us on. The dogs were content to run off leash and sniff every plant and post and tree trunk. It was simply beautiful, a rare gift to be able to spend time with my husband; a walk in greatly-needed rain, a flock of a dozen or more bluebirds chasing along with a crowd of yellow finches, seeing Howie running without a limp -- Christmas gifts aren't necessarily under a tree in wrapping paper.

We walked for almost two hours. Aside from not being allowed to go jump in the river, Howie was thrilled, but Sebastian, who has no undercoat at all under his smooth hound hair, was starting to look like he thought we were insane for the last half hour of the walk. He was very glad of the woodstove's heat.

I wasn't! After the brisk air, the house felt like a furnace to me. I opted to go out to the studio and work on a pastel project for a while before warning the rest of the family off so that I could wrap gifts.

This morning, at 4:30 am, I woke to the sound of pouring rain. "That's the best Christmas gift," I thought. "Thank you, God."

Santa Drops in to Make Lillian's Christmas

Unexpectedly, Santa Claus dropped by the house yesterday to pay a visit to Lillian.

He had heard, he told her, that she was a very special little girl, and that he wanted to meet her in person.

She was thrilled -- especially after a conversation the week prior with her mother about St. Nicholas and whether or not the Santa at a school fundraiser was the REAL Santa Claus. While her mother tried to explain that the real St. Nicholas was known for his generosity to others, what Lil came away with was her shocked question, "Santa Claus is DEAD???"

Her mother spent the next half hour reassuring her child that the spirit of St. Nicholas lives on in each of us who give to others, but Lil was broken-hearted.

And then Santa arrived, serendipitously when Mommy and Daddy had gone to the store. He was a truly amazing Santa, with a real white beard and a huggably plush red coat. He had to be six feet five, not the jolly little elf from the poem.

When Mommy got back from the supermarket, Lillian shouted, "He's not dead, Mama! Santa Claus is alive!!"

Guess so. 

That the man in the red suit knew about Lillian is true.  He is the father of a family friend; indeed, he donated a number of large fish to our pond, though we haven't had the heart to tell him the egret has eaten a substantial portion of them. 

Merry Christmas, Lil.

And to all who read this blog, have a beautiful holiday season.

Studio Fun

Look at all the colored pencils, arranged in color groups!

And see the lovely, lovely holder Bernie made for me this evening, so that I can array my pencils by color group and learn to use them more effectively.

He used a pencil-sized drill bit and then a counter-sink bit (to take the splinters off) over a grid he drew on a two by four end left over from the construction of our redwood fence.

When he was done with it, he took a rasp to it and removed every sharp edge, so that I would never scrape my hands on it. It's beeoootiful.

The buzzard that peers at my works in progress likes it, too.

When I saw this vulture in a store, marked down after Halloween, I could think of no reason whatsoever to NOT have a buzzard in my studio.

It's possible the buzzard is one of the reasons I love the new studio so much.

Finches on the Feeders

I do love my little finches.

If there's seed in the sacks, up to a dozen finches could be on it, chomping away, fighting over who gets the best position.

Today I stalked them with my camera, standing outside on the patio, waiting for them to get comfortable with my presence.

To be honest, it didn't take them long. The cold weather has made them very hungry. They've nearly emptied both seed sacks and it's not even 4 pm!

And then I realized, while I was watching the little creatures flit and flutter, that I could be making a MOVIE of them! And so, I did.

Limping Dog

On Tuesday, Howie began limping, holding his right hind foot off the ground.

There's the tootsie in question; we've examined it with a flashlight and full sunlight, and can find no injury. There's a crack in the pad, but he has one on the other foot, too. The center pad is a little swollen, but there's no sign of puncture or infection.

Yesterday I was so worried about him, pitying him as he followed me from room to room, holding his foot off the ground.

He hasn't seemed in any distress, however, and I've only seen him lick the foot twice over the past three days. He still wants to play ball and tussle with Sebastian. In fact the only thing that he's been unhappy about is us all trying to get him to stay off the foot and relax.

Today he insisted on coming outside with me and puttering about the patio while I swept up leaves and stuff in advance of rain.  While I scooped detritus up with a dustpan, he went walking past me ... walking nearly normally, with hardly a trace of a limp.

Maybe the cold cement made it feel better. He walked around for a while, and even was ready to trot after Sebastian when someone let the younger dog out. Maybe in another day he'll be ready to go for a gentle walk.

The day before he began limping, I let him out to run a neighbor's cat out of the yard. When he does that, he goes all out, toenails scrabbling, charging heedlessly over the retaining wall to stomp at the base of the fence. Where the cat went back over the fence is a pile of wood that the fence installers left for me; I suspect Howie didn't see the pieces in the weeds and went right over them, bruising his sweet striped foot in the process.

Watching him walk using all four feet is such a relief.

Lois

Lois Munger was an example of how to welcome strangers.

When we were escaping the hell of our existence in Houston, Texas, we went to stay with our dear friends John and Melissa for a while. We met their families, and I was particularly impressed with Lois and Virgil -- John's parents. Though we were strangers, they accepted us into their kitchen and at their table as though we were family, by virtue of our friendship with John and Melissa. 

I found out tonight that Lois had a stroke on Monday, and is not expected to last long. She was part of the best of people, and though I haven't seen her in twenty years, knowing that she's leaving the world has me in tears. When she gets to the other side, she'll know how much I loved her for being an icon of welcome and fortitude.

I've tried to be like her.

Foggy Day and Hard Work

This morning was so foggy I refused to take my camera out in that slop, so I had to do a picture in Photoshop.

Dink was my concern today; it's supposed to be rain-prone tonight, and the only thing worse than a dirty paddock is a soaked dirty paddock, so my friend and I opted to clean the horses' paddocks rather than ride.

 

Ugh, what a heavy mess. With all the fog, nothing dries out. Including dung. We turned the horses out into the arena to roll and stretch their legs, and while Dink occasionally thundered across the arena, and Peanut quietly stood, trying to ignore Dink's rudeness, my friend and I shoveled horse poop for almost two hours. 

She has a bum wrist from a horsey accident over a year ago; my back is pretty iffy. We've found, though, that if we help each other, the job of mucking out the paddocks isn't as bad, and we don't get ... quite ... so tired.

As in, just too tired to go find something to eat so I can take some ibuprofen, but not so tired I won't be able to stand up and stagger over to the bed before falling asleep.

The Biting Poltergeist

Back in 1972, I drew a cartoon episode called "The Biting Poltergeist."

It was drawn on a cheap newsprint pad, 24" x 30", and I've carried that pad along with me back and forth across the country. This past few years, I couldn't help but admit that the paper was crumbling, that the cartoon in blue Bic ink was in danger of disappearing into dust. I knew I had to figure out a way to preserve it, even though it's really not very funny. 

The process is being discussed in my other blog, Resolution Every Day, in which I goad myself to create something ... duh, every day. But here, I'd just like to talk about the thing.

My friend Bill and I played role-playing games before we knew there was such a thing. Or maybe we imagined mini-series. Or maybe it was story-volleyball. We didn't worry about it, we just constructed a castle on the Rhine River, and peopled it with Helmuth de Witt (the Elder -- that was me) and Cousin Siegfried (that was Bill), and a myriad of characters. He has a pasteboard Christmas tableau of a veritable forest of characters that he still keeps (he's a better archiver than I), and I have a couple of cartoons.

Nearly forty years later, I can't honestly remember what made us cackle about a biting poltergeist; it might have been a headline from a tabloid, or a book of ghost stories. Nevertheless, the cartoon was drawn, and eventually I hope to put it in the Piker Press so that it gets that little copyright symbol on it.

Helmuth de Witt the Elder and Cousin Siegfried were both "old fogeys" back in 1972; although I'm not as fat as I drew Helmuth, and Bill is not at all as bald as Cousin Siegfried, I can almost recognize us NOW from the old cartoon. This is a pic of Bill and me in 2007.

We've been friends since we were both in first grade together, and admired each other's artwork since then, too. He says he can't wait to see "The Biting Poltergeist" again.

Colored Pencils

The other week when I spent a day in bed trying to keep from getting sicker than I was, I perused a book on art with colored pencils. 

One of the first things the book mentioned was to find a way to stage one's colored pencils so that one knew just what colors one had, and what one needed to purchase.

My colored pencils are cheapies; it's not a medium that entralls me. I think they're Crayolas, for heaven's sake. They have lived in a small cardboard box that at one time was packaging for some computer gewgaw, in a disordered pile, blues with purples and grays and oranges and what not.

Yesterday I made an effort to sort them into basic color groups: the reds, the oranges, the yellows, the greens, the blues ... and the plethoras of blue-greens and of pinks. (Lillian observed the end result of the process and remarked, "Wow, you have pinks!")

The colored pencil book was absolutely correct: I had no idea what all values and hues I had in that box. One of the projects Bernie and I want to tackle is a pencil holder for the colored pencils so that I can use them effectively when I decide to use them at all.

And since one of my Christmas gifts to Lillian is a set of colored pencils, I think I ought to start learning how to use them effectively. 

Oh, Boy, Raccoons

So a man returns home from a long night at work and sees the cute little lighted deer in the front yard by the fish pond has been knocked over.

On the other side of the fish pond, that is, his front porch, he finds a wet spot, and tracks leading away, to a spray of wetness where some creature has shaken the water out of its fur. And more tracks ... tracks that look like a small hand ...

Obviously we've been discovered by a raccoon, if not a passle of them. 

Just great.

Separation of Christmas and State

Bernie was telling me over lunch today of a town (somewhere, he could not remember) in which the city council decided to stop calling their town decoration a 'holiday tree' and just call it a 'Christmas Tree.'

Promptly after that, Jewish residents complained that if a Christian holiday was going to be symbolized during the Christmas season, then a menorah ought to be accepted for Hannukah.

The city council was all right with that.

But then, some local atheists got bent and said that if those 'religious' symbols were allowed, then they should also have the right to put up a display that said all religions are bunk.

Such a tizzy, oh, what do we do?!

After running around the kitchen table several times, frothing at the mouth at people's contentiousness and utter stupidity, I told Bernie what I thought would be a fair solution.

Local/State/National governments need to drop the word "Christmas" from their vocabularies.

The CHRISTMAS season is from December 25 thru January 6. 

Let the secular governments admit that what they are decorating for is the HOLIDAY SHOPPING SEASON.

And if there are to be Christmas decorations put up, let that be done, where it belongs, at every Christian church. Baptist, Catholic, Orthodox, Methodist, Presbyterian, and all of the little community Christian churches everywhere. If there are Hannukah decorations to be put up, let the synagogues do it. Let each household decorate as they please, and let the atheists put up all the little signs in their living room windows that denigrate all believers in God.

I was aggravated to see a news article (which may have contributed to my rant at Bernie) about the ceremonial lighting of the White House Christmas tree. 

That was all about the ceremony, and had nothing whatsoever to do with the anticipation of celebrating the birth of The Christ, God Coming to Earth to Become One with Mankind. (The only G-word that accursed administration worships is Gasoline.) And this empty ceremony only commemorates a season that is no longer observed: a holiday shopping season beginning the day after Thanksgiving. 

Sorry, White House, the Christmas stuff is up in stores in SEPTEMBER, not the day after Thanksgiving!!!! Get with the program!!!!

*Wipes froth from corners of mouth. *

This is the season of Advent, during which we await, symbolically, the coming of Light into the world. It's a dark time, a time to light fires and peer with an anticipation or worry into the darkness, to look into the sky and wonder if we will see the Universe peel back to reveal the face of Reality. 

The darkness deepens... when will the Light return?

Piggie Finches, and News

Eight little finches, gobbling nyger seed. 

They look so cute -- such tiny little birds. And they sound adorable, little chibi voices, conversational and varied. I love hearing them argue with one another through the window over my desk, and looking up from my computer to see them hanging on the seed sock and feeding.

A couple days ago, I was watching them and saw a sudden shadowy shape come zooming from the sky -- a little merlin hawk, hoping for a quick snack!

The finches scattered, and the feeder was unattended for several hours. 

I hope that I don't have to cut back on feeding the finches; I enjoy them so much. But the economic slump has made its way to our door, and we may have to curtail extraneous spending.

Well, not "may" -- "will" is a more accurate word. How extraneous is yet to be seen.

Bernie's plant is shutting down as it always does for Christmas week ... but this time they're adding four "planned non-production" days to the break. And then, after the Christmas vacation, they're adding another week of "planned non-production" ... and then adding to that, a few rounds (at least) of four-day weeks.

Some people, I know, would see that as a financial constraint, if not a hardship, but I hate seeing Bernie go off to work every single day. For him to have nearly a month off, time for us to go for walks together, to have writing sessions together, to play at yard work -- this is the very best Christmas gift I could receive.

The Weekend Willies

Let's see, Friday I was weary and had a bit of a sore throat. 

It was the day after Thanksgiving, so none of us did much, but by nightfall I was feeling rather more tired than I should, and the raw throat that started the morning was downright sore. Saturday dawned and my throat hurt so much and my glands were so swollen I thought about the mumps, a disease I have not thought about since childhood. (and one which I never have had, thank God.)

Bernie, in a fit of wisdom, had a look at me and sent me back to bed. I didn't argue with him, even though I have only rarely spent a day in bed. I gathered my sketch books and a pile of magazines I could look through and then throw away (finally) and my laptop and a book to read, remembering Robert Louis Stevenson's poem that went, "When I was sick and lay abed/I had three pillows at my head,/and all my toys around me lay/ to keep me happy all the day."

I stayed in bed, warm under layers of blankets, and just was quiet.

Sunday morning dawned, and I was able to swallow without pain; and though I still felt rather tired, and went back to bed in the afternoon, I was suspiciously admitting I was feeling better.

Today I got up and felt like a normal woman, which was good because Alex and John were having a church blessing of their civil wedding, and we were having another day of guests and food preparation. We had no idea how many people would be there, but John asked for six pumpkin pies, and as a wedding present, I made them. (with Alex and Bernie's help!) 

I have never caught a cold virus that came and went so quickly; however, I have no complaints about that. Maybe it was that Bernie ordered me to bed and made me stay warm and quiet that enabled my body to recover; maybe it was the pneumonia vaccine that kept this cold, unlike all others,  from immediately invading my lungs. Maybe it was the kickass turkey soup recipe I made Friday when I started to feel poorly, a recipe based on an Aser story... If it was the latter, then as a fictitious character, I rock as a healer.

The last permutation that I can come up with is that today was a fluke and tomorrow I'll be back to being sick again. I hope not.

Tomorrow I'm making more of that soup, just in case.

So, About the Gravy

A long time ago, in a rundown Victorian house in a small town in Pennsylvania, a young mother was worrying about the gravy for her Thanksgiving dinner, especially because the family had a notable guest, Fr. John Schmalhofer, the assistant pastor at the church.

It was probably only the fifth or sixth Thanksgiving dinner the young woman had ever prepared by herself, and though she was a pretty good cook, gravy does not necessarily have a dependable result. Sometimes it can be lumpy, sometimes too thin, sometimes tasteless. Greasy? Scorched-tasting? Yes, it could turn out all those things.

Turkey gravy was made on top of the stove, in the roaster that the turkey would have just vacated, from the drippings of the roast turkey. Dry bird? Few drippings. Roasted too long? Burnt drippings. Over-basting? Oily drippings. 

To bring the short story to its long history, the young mother was me, getting concerned about screwing up a guest's Thanksgiving dinner by making a lousy batch of gravy. Fr. Schmalhofer was hovering around the stove watching me fiddle with the food when I told him that making gravy was the most stressful part of Thanksgiving preparation.

"Here," he said, "I'll help." And he extended his hands over the heated roasting pan with its pre-gravy substance, and said a prayer over it! 

I was surprised; I didn't really think priests had time or inclination to pray over such mundane things. And I don't remember what the prayer was that he said, just something along the lines of "Heavenly Father, please bless Sand's gravy and make it turn out well. Amen." 

Yesterday we celebrated our 33rd Thanksgiving together. The bird was delicious, the pie was exquisite ... and that gravy was so perfectly rich and delicious that guests asked for more of it to crown the meat and potatoes. Bernie and I both thanked Fr. Schmalhofer (wherever he may be these decades later)  for the continued efficacy of his blessing, just as we have every Thanksgiving since the one at which he was our guest.

This is a fact: I have never made a bad batch of gravy, be it beef or pork or chicken or turkey since Fr. Schmalhofer said his prayer. Bernie and I joke that maybe one day Fr. Schmalhofer will be known as the Patron Saint of Gravies. 

Silly story? Maybe. But it gives me the opportunity, every time I make a gravy, to reflect on the efficacy of prayer, and to be comforted that God cares about us so much -- even in the little stuff.

Thanksgiving

What with finishing up NaNoWriMo, I was left with one day to focus on preparing for Thanksgiving.

We don't get VERY elaborate with the day. We have a turkey, stuffing, a veggie, cranberry sauce (which Bernie makes from fresh berries), and pumpkin pie if I have the time and energy to make one. Close friends and we alternate where we'll eat a Thanksgiving meal; this time it was at our house.

THE question on everyone's lips was, "Are you going to make pumpkin pie?"

I honestly believe that I have the secret to the best pumpkin pie in the entire world, and I can also honestly say that everyone who has eaten it agrees. Thank God my mother made me learn how to make it, and thank God I figured out how to do it in the microwave for even more spectacular results than the original recipe.

Anyway, I managed to find a "banana squash" of substantial proportions, and yesterday, cut that sucker up and cooked it, drained it, pureed it and put it up for future use. (And baked four turkey thighs so that the family would not be fighting over dark meat.) Cutting up and peeling pumpkin is a pain in the ... back. By the time I was done, I was exhausted, and stressed, too, not knowing how the new microwave would do with the old recipe.

At this time, the grand dinner is done, the guests gone home; from first bites there was superlative praise for the turkey, and for the gravy, which was truly phenomenal (maybe that will be tomorrow's post) ... and then, the pumpkin pies absolutely knocked everyone off their feet. They were so perfect, so delicate, so flavorful that I could get a big head over the experience if I didn't know how much recipes like that leave to chance.

I'm tired, to be sure, but the feast was grand, and all of us -- all of us at the table knew how lucky and blessed we are, and were glad to give thanks to God for all that we have received.

Wealth!

There is something about brown eggs that I love.

Yesterday, when I went to buy eggs, Bernie 'egged' me on to spend the extra dollar to get brown eggs, and so I did, a lovely five dozen of them.

They're so pretty, with their subtle gradations of color, and these eggs are of a very good quality, from a local poultry farm -- the shells are clean and healthy, the taste excellent.

I note here that we shifted to buying locally produced eggs after we got two dozen from the supermarket whose shells were so fragile your fingers could go right through them if you weren't careful, and the cooked smell of which almost was fishy, quite unpalatable.

Bernie commented on the ride home that I, with my two flats of eggs in my lap, looked like a woman who counted brown eggs as "wealth."

I have to separate eggs tomorrow when I make my pumpkin pies ... I think Friday is a good morning to invest some of this wealth making taters and eggs with the egg whites. Mmmmm. Holiday!

The Climate Change

I don't have any image to go with this post, and I don't think I want one.

Everyone knows the country is struggling economically. The housing market has tanked, foreclosures are all around, people can't get credit, CEO's have stopped bragging about how much money they're able to steal from companies that they mismanage. Retail sales are 'way down for the start of the frenzied Christmas shopping season.

Since Bernie works for an auto manufacturing firm, we're watching the crash and burn with concern. His plant is a joint venture between GM and Toyota, sort of an entity unto itself. GM is dying, Toyota is just slowing down a little. A flip of the coin how we might land as this mess escalates.

The Grew-Up-Better-Off-Than-The-Great-Depression part of me says, "We'll be fine, things will be back to normal in no time." Once again people will start throwing money away like maniacs on things they neither need nor can effectively use; vacations will be planned for exotic Disneylands and gambling resorts. Birthday parties and kindergarten graduations will be lavishly bedecked with Jumpy-Rentals and goodie bags and storebought cakes with icing an inch thick.

The other part of me says, "Ouch."

I was at the grocery store today, and was drawn into a conversation, the first sentence of which that I heard was "You know, my wife was totally against it a couple months ago, but now she's done a complete turn, and thinks it might be the only way to go." The man looked at me and said, "Hey, we have to fight back with this. We can't just go under and lose everything."

Having no idea what he was talking about, I was sort of relieved to hear his companion say, "My sister had to do it. She lost her job when they just suddenly closed the gym she managed. She had an extra room, so they rented it out -- they had no choice. What are you going to do?"

Sort of relieved.

Here we are, in broad daylight, buying sustenance for the family, and the discussion turns to renting out a room in one's house to a stranger in order to make ends meet. In order to stay in one's house. You can be relieved that they weren't turning to prostitution or drug dealing to stay in their house, but it's hard to be completely at ease with the idea of people having to rent out part of their own house in order to stay in it.

The book that I've been writing this National Novel Writing Month puts a family directly in harm's way, set in these economic times. I thought it would be easy, and thought I could even work in some dark humor about bad cooking. But as I've written sentence after sentence, the real possibility of people ending up in such a situation has very few funny angles at all. It's a matter of survival, of doing whatever you have to do to keep afloat.

Talking to a lady the other day who just bought a house nearby, she mentioned that they had been looking for the "right" house for two years. "You can't believe what some of these places looked like," she said. "Appliances gone, fixtures just ripped out of the walls, the places trashed ... because when you get a foreclosure, well, they just take every thing they can possibly take."

Guess they take a form of revenge, too, destroying the place so that the bank takes a loss, as well.

I had a number of places I had to shop today, and one of them was Target. Business was so slow that employees were actually approaching customers to help them find stuff, which is just about stepping into some weird fantasy world. And there was a lot -- a lot of clothing that was marked down. Cutting prices to get any kind of profit ... wow.

Just wow.

First Fog of the Season

The deck around the pool was wetter than it had been for the last "rain."

The sky to the East was white.

The grass was wet, the trees dripping.

It was the first fog of the season, not a thick one, but reminding us of the solid white days ahead.

Dia de los Muertos

Whoa, it rained last night!

These are some of the drops that hung on my fern pine this morning, the dim light making me use a low-light exposure.

***

Today was Dia de los Muertos, and at Mass, our pastor talked about purgation and the afterlife. It's not popular nowadays to talk about death, or -- heaven help us -- purgation. No one believes they are going to die, and no one believes they will be held accountable for all the little shit (or big shit) they did in their lives. Popular media spouts that people become angels when they die, and all of them go to heaven.

If you study the religions of the world, you find that not one of them says that is the case. Instead, most of them talk about a period or journey that requires souls to leave behind them that which they think was important in life: beauty, wealth, associations; or to embark on a journey that strives to attain something that is beyond beauty, wealth, or associations. Only after leaving behind the earthly stuff, or striving for the non-earthly stuff, is completion, or Heaven, attained. 

The interim time between death and "heaven" is about purgation, if the soul hasn't bothered to deal with it before.

 (Yes, I believe there is a "Hell" -- a place without God for those who have no desire or interest to be with God. That's also what my church teaches. God is not a machine-gun pointed at every soul's head. God does not demand, "Love Me or I will kill you." But God will allow anyone the choice of existing outside of Heaven.)

What makes me fixate on Purgation today? Why, my mother's condition, wasting slowly away with Alzheimer's Syndrome. 

My mother was always a very proud (arrogant) person, always always always ragging and bragging about how she had raised the family up from poverty to prosperity. (We're talking small town prosperity here, not riches, BTW) Now, though she is declining in health with Alzheimers, she is well-kept with 24-hr care in her own home. Her financial acumen of her mid-years has borne fruit: she can live in her own home, amidst all her (meager) possessions, and need not go to a nursing home.

But all her pride is being taken away; this is her time of Purgation. Her ready wit, her savvy about money, her care for her property -- all gone. Her control over her estate, the doorways of her home, her ability to light a wood fire in the furnace and heat her home -- all gone. Her family -- God help us, all of us were her possessions -- is all beyond her reach to control and manipulate. 

Her care-givers make sure she dresses or is dressed appropriately; they take her where she might want to go; they take care of her property and her bills are all paid by a trust fund. She could smile and accept that she is in comfort, but she does not.

Instead, she pretends that there is nothing wrong with her, and fights every offer of help, and hates that she's been taken care off.

I watch her, in her purgation, and wonder what she'll let go before the end.

And I pray for her.