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.