Shifting Perceptions

In our house, it's always been Dave who doesn't notice things.  It's kind of a relief, because he doesn't notice when the dishes aren't done, or the house is dirty--those kinds of things.  No pressure housewifery.  But I always say I could leave his birthday present in the middle of the floor for months and he'd just step over it, not seeing it.

So I was pretty surprised the other night when he walked in the kitchen, looked out the window and said "What happened?"  I was standing at that window, preparing dinner.  I turned to him, "What do you mean what happened?"  He pointed.

And outside the window, the tree that is tall and reaches up to my sewing room and which I look at every day had lost a major branch.  It had perhaps cracked in our recent storms and had fallen to the ground.  Huge. 

And it was me who had not noticed it. You can see the hole, below, and the stub of the branch poking into the empty space.

It's another way to demonstrate how I feel lately, with everything shifting under my feet.  I was contracted to teach Tuesday/Thursday in this new semester, but AFTER the first day of school, the Dean's secretary sent me an email asking me why I wasn't in class that Monday. Apparently they'd switched my classes and had neglected to inform me. (And no, they didn't apologize.)

The students showed up that second day (Wednesday) with all their books, but it they were all wrong.  They weren't my books, but the ones listed on another class.  We're now headed into the third week of the semester and every Monday I have to remind myself that I'm teaching that day, not Tuesday.  

Whereas before I used to love books with great pathos, now I feel like they pull me under, and I didn't listen to any all summer long, while I recuperated from foot surgery.  I can't find things.  I don't have the energy to really dig into some deep drawer-cleaning-out.  I used to be the BEST drawer-cleaner-outer.  My children make jokes about our garage, and could I please get it cleaned out before they have to?

I don't really know how to describe how I feel except to reference it to the summer before I went to college, when I sat on my bedroom floor, cutting out clothes for fall, knowing that all lot of things were going to change in my life, yet unable to see what they were.  In hindsight, of course, I went off to college, got married the following June and never again sat on that floor with scissors and pins and patterns.

We always think of only adolescents changing.  Or of toddlers learning to walk.  Or Twenty-Somethings morphing into the most delightful adults, having pushed (as my daughter would say) the "Grow Up Button."  But on the cusp of sixty, the frame through which I perceived the world through my fifties seems ill-fitting, out-of-shape, like it was meant for someone else, yet I don't know what I will use next.  I could write something here about not seeing the forest for the trees, but after this week's experience, maybe I can't even see the trees, with their fallen branches. 

All I can do is wonder what's coming next, the ground unsteady beneath my feet.

Treetop View

This is the view from my bed, upstairs.  It's a treetop view, and I like seeing the green when I look out the window.  Apparently seeing green is also good for healing, if you are a medical patient, which is also good for this week's task of healing from the elective foot surgery I had on Tuesday morning.


Trying to keep equilibrium in life is a challenge, and things like surgeries and diagnoses, car crashes, unpaid bills grandchildren visiting, and visits to grandchildren and family can all pull a person off their balance.  Some of these are good things (grandchildren!), but I'm not a fan of the wobbly things that make me feel like I'm trying to use crutches in the middle of the night while on Big Pharma.  (And no, I didn't have most of those awful things in the sentence above.)

Another side effect of surgery (and, according to my friend Heather, chemo) is that brain fog that descends.  Because of that, this post will be blessedly short, because I'm pretty sure I'm sounding like all my ducks aren't lined up in a row. Or something.

Feeling the *Old* Divide

I think there is this divide between between being young and being old, or older, that starts to show up in strange and interesting ways.

While driving to school, I was listening to a younger woman on a radio talk show analyze the electorate, and she happened to repeat herself on a point she'd made earlier.

She then said, "Sorry to sound like a broken record. . . . player."

I realized then that she had no idea what she was talking about, that this cliche had lost meaning for her because in her mind, it was a broken record player that would cause a song -- or a bit of a song -- to be played over and over, not the broken record.  I figured she was about the age of my children, so records and record players would still be something she would know about.

She would not be like my grandson, who was completely stymied when I showed him a record and told him that it had songs on it.  And who was even more flummoxed when I told him we played it on a record player.  "What's a record player?" he asked.

I felt really old that day.

I've Been a Little Squished for Time

Blogging to resume shortly.

A Walk Around the Morning

I awoke at 5:20 a.m. and tried to pretend I could still keep sleeping.  The other side of the bed was empty (gone on a business trip) and so it was just me, the lightening skies, the sound of the fans whapping around in their boxes, and my thoughts.  I've been waking up early for a while now, as I contemplate the eddies and whirlpools in my life, reviewing things as they are now.  A family relationship was abruptly interrupted/ended recently and this interrupts my dreams and my sleep until I busy myself with the tasks of the day.  First up: a walk.

I step outside with Praan on my iTunes, and this beautiful lavender sky arches overhead.  We're supposed to have storms and the morning sky is dim with clouds.

The morning moon is still there, low over the rooftops as I start down the street.  My camera can't find anything to focus on, so the snapshot comes out a misty blur--perfect for how I feel this early morning.  Yesterday my horoscope said to watch out for falls and accidents, but I seemed to make it through the day intact.  Wonder what amusements my horoscope holds for today.  Randomness, says Dave, dismissing it all with a wave as I read his to him on some mornings.  We both laugh, not taking it seriously.  Usually we walk together, but this morning I only have songs for companionship.

 

That and my Endomundo app, which calls out my mile to me over Tengo La Voz.  Since I've been sick, I'm a full two minutes slower.  Well, at least I'm out here.  At the end of my walk, I stretch out my calves on the curb, wave to neighbor, pick up the paper and carry it inside with me.  The antibiotics I'm on have an interesting side effect of making me feel like I've chewed up a skyscraper in my mouth so the morning's breakfast tastes like metallic banana bread, metallic orange juice, metallic yogurt.   I think about Peter, as I pop the nut from the top of the banana bread into my mouth.  I have this habit of putting slices of walnut on top of the bread, but didn't remember why I did this.  It was a habit started long ago and Peter reminded me of it when we saw each other this summer; he doesn't like nuts and that's how I identified the nutty loaf from the plain.  Funny how you start something and over time it becomes like a tree ring: integral to a life. Like a walk.  Like a relationship. Like the sun rising each morning. 

A Fine Day Out

I came to Ogden to visit my parents and attend the wedding of Casey and Eric (a nephew).  It was a lovely wedding--the snapshot above is of them leaving just after taking their vows.

Wedding over, we relaxed and on Saturday morning Mom and Dad drove me up to Pettingill's Fruit Stand. It was really busy.

They'd just brought in a load of peaches on a flat truck and the employees were busy selling them "off the back of the truck."  Sort of.  I've been complaining to Dave all summer that I haven't had a good stone fruit in California for at least 3 or 4 years.  I plan to eat one that Dad bought this morning, so I can say I've eaten one at least once.  Interesting that I live in a place (California) known for its fruits and vegetables, but the peaches & nectarines in our area?  Awful.

I liked the knife spearing a taste of peach.  I should have grabbed it and tasted it, but my Dad moves quickly and I only had a very limited amount of time for photos. (Like I said, I'll get a whole one later this afternoon.)

Every quirky farmstand has quirky signs and decor.  Here's a couple of farmers in a fur-lined bathtub.

I wish I lived nearby.  I'd love to can a bushel of these tomatoes and eat them all year round.  However that would be tricky.  After years of not canning, I gave all my jars away to the thrift store.  It was a bit sad--like the end of an era.  But the steam canner is still up in the rafters if I ever want to do that again.  For now, my canning habits are putting up freezer jam (strawberry and raspberry) every spring.

A hanging whirly-gig, with a tractor in the center. I saw more of these in the next store we went to.

 

When I visited Christine in Delaware last year, her farmstand had lists of apples and the harvest dates.  This was a list of peaches.

No, the corn silks aren't red.  They were near the red plastic awning so picked up the color.  But it reminded me of some of the well-known painters that switch out colors in their art.

In case you're hungry.

The sign reads: I started with nothing and I still have most of it left.

Checking out.  Above the doorway are pumpkinheads with quotes from the visitors to Pettingill's.

Close-up of the pumpkinheads.

Slammed by the Start of School

I came home from vacation about two weeks ago Sunday.  Monday I started in at the computer, cranking out documents for my class.  Tuesday: Orientation.  Wed, Thurs, more of the same then Friday we helped Dave's niece move to LA.  Saturday I prepared a lesson for the women in my church, Sunday I gave it and Monday I started teaching.  From one thing to another to another, this is the first moment I've had to breathe since we returned.  And as I speak, I'm washing bedding, laundry and hope to do a bathroom or two before the weekend is over (I'm not even mentioning the vacuuming!).

Busy is as busy does.

My nephew and his wife had a new baby.  My son and his wife welcomed the second of their soon-to-be-adopted children into their home (just found out yesterday), and his new job has him cooking at work about 12 hours a day on a the good days.  Another son spends his days, like me, on the computer, writing in-house code for their software.  My mother and father saw their granddaughter's college commencement, then a niece's baby blessed.  Another sister just completed Beach Week with her children-by-marriage and their families.  A friend has been setting up her classroom, moving desks, bookcases, putting stuff up on walls.  Another son and his family are settling in to their new house and are exploring and playing and talking walks in the creek behind their house.  (Yes.  IN the creek.)  And that same son is busy in his new job.  My daughter's husband begins dental school next week, and their children started school the same day as I.  Another friend is writing her syllabi for her classes.  Another friend is mounting an exhibition of her infrared images of Japanese Internment camps.

Busy is as busy does.

 

An old saying goes "better to wear out, than rust out," but there are some days when I just want to go back to that evening in southern Idaho when we stopped in a tiny town called Paris and photographed the sun setting on the mountains across the valley.  No one was on the streets, and the only people I saw were in cars that occasionally passed by on the road below.  We'd taken a side street up into a small hillside cemetery, where surely the town's fathers and forefathers had been laid to rest. We turned and looked across the valley, the scene changing moment by moment: golds and purples and rosy hues that compelled to stay and enjoy, to rest,  rather than hurrying down the 89 to our final destination.

So when the knots in your shoulders become like stone, take a moment and think about when you paused from the busy to let the day, the twilight, seep in.

And take a breath.

Happy Anniversary to Us!

Yes, we've been married for some time now. 
Thought you'd like the flashback photo of us on our wedding day.

We plan to celebrate by doing prep work for our teaching, surviving the hot summer, and polishing our crown and medals. 
We do this once a year, whether we need it or not.

Strawberries & Etcetera

The strawberries this year are amazing.  Dave and I drove down to see Chad on his birthday (he looked terrific!) and on the way out, drove past Manassero Farms.  The fragrance from the berries just picked that morning was divine.  Before we ate them all up, they posed for me.

Here's another interesting photo, taken in our local Costco on Cinco de Mayo (May 5th). It says 100% Agave.  I assume that's Tequila, put into bottles that resemble shot guns.  Yes, yes.  We are so highbrow here.

On the day of the Royal Wedding, I got up early and watched it, which you already know.  But what you don't know about is how my friend Judy invited me over to watch the recaps (okay, I begged, because she has a TiVo and I do not.  Long Story.). To further entice me she mentioned that she might have scones.  I jumped, and this is the lovely breakfast of fruit with a yogurt/honey sauce and those delectable White Chocolate-Orange Scones (recipe found over on Elizabeth Cooks). It was an enjoyable morning, getting each other's take on the (silly) hats, then topped off by the brilliance of the ceremony and that Royal Kiss.  It gave me that needed motivation to go back home and grade papers.

Last night Carrie from Iowa arrived, with her friend Gina (on the left); they've know each other for years.  This is a cool thing, because I met Carrie when participating in a online writing blitz three years ago, and we've become friends because we both like to write and we are both adjunct teachers of English.  It's fun to finally meet a pen pal.  Gina is a professor of art education, and is immersed in studying the art produced by those students in the Japanese Internment camps, so she is touring around the Western United States visiting the Internment Camps (next up, Manzanar).  Our breakfast table conversation was fascinating, as she talked about these things.

And the last photo is a mundane location (our local shopping center) but is representative of the lovely (cool) weather we've been having around here.  It's a nice breather before the summer's furnace arrives.  Now you know I've really lost it if I'm providing weather reports.  No, it's just that I'm coming down to the end of the semester (3 more teaching days) and my brain is similarly throttling down, unable to handle complex tasks or erudite ideas.  Given that, the weather is an appropriate subject.

Summer Plans

I found this great photo on one of the multiple blogs I read.  I can't remember the last time I made a summer list with any hope of finishing any of it.  As I've gotten older, I find the concept of "self-editing" at times to be a crippling attitude.  Why put it on a list, my older self seems to say, if you know it won't get done/get finished or even be started?  The energy level starts out at about 70% of what my thirty-year old self used to have (maybe 50%?) and goes downhill from there, so that by the end of the day, I'm reduced to clicking my way through the web and drooling as I read about other people's productivity.

But the sign above doesn't just speak to productivity--it's about experience.  I love the entries "learn some Spanish" and "back-yard movie night."  (I have to assume also that "make paella" is more the child's mother choice, than the child.)  So, in this spirit of experience (and well, some productivity), here's my first run at a Summer: The Extended List.

Quilt
Drive through a small town
Get a tan on my legs
Make a berry shortcake
Travel to family reunion
Read
Beach!

It's a start.  Now to find some poster paint and a cute child to hold it up.

Happy Anniversary

This is a story about someone I know from about 5 degrees of separation, but I have met her once.  It's their anniversary.  They sold their home in Washingon, DC about five weeks ago, and their new home (he just retired) won't be ready/won't close for two more weeks, so they are traveling around the East Coast, taking in the sights, staying with friends and family here and there.  She posted this photo today on Facebook with this description:

We went into Target yesterday to pick up some things. We went to the card aisle and both picked out amazing cards for each other - exchanged them - read them -kissed in the aisle - put the cards back and left the store.

I laughed because I totally get this. 
Happy 42nd anniversary!

Phil Levine

This week is Writers Week at UCR, and I've been able to go to a couple of the readings.  Tonight's talk will be given by Phil Levine, a poet who spent many years in Cal State Fresno, but now divides his time between New York and Fresno.

I've taught several of his poems in my classes, and I like them because they draw a picture with words and sensory details that are accessible to my students, but still require a little bit of digging, of re-reading.  Here's one for today.

On The River 
by Phil Levine

My brother has an old row boat
moored to a dock at the foot
of Jefferson Avenue, Detroit.
Once a week in decent weather
he rows out to get a better
look at the opposite shore
as though Canada truly were
a foreign country.  It isn't easy
what with the ore boats' lazy
crawl toward salt water, the launches
of tourists and cops, the lunchers
spread out on barges, docks, rafts,
waiting for the oiled clouds to lift
a moment and unveil the sun,
waiting for the fumes of exhaustion 
to blow off in the poor gusts
of our making—collective breaths,
passing trucks, running dogs loath
to return to their chains.
On schedule he comes at noon
or not at all—his only free time—
so he can see with a painter's eye
the hulking shapes of warehouses define
themselves, the sad rusts and grays
take hold and shimmer a moment
in the blur of air until the stones
darken like wounds and become nothing.
He does this for our father
who parked each week exactly here
to stare at that distant shore
as though it were home, and then
passed quietly to a farther one.
He does this for me, who long ago
stopped seeing beneath the shadows
of concrete and burned brick towers
the flickering hints of life, the colors
we made of fresh earth and flowers
coming through the wet smells of house
fallen in upon themselves.  I suppose
he does this also so that somewhere
on the face of the black waters
he can turn, feathering one oar
slowly, to behold his own life
come into view brick by dark brick,
bending his back for all it's worth,
as the whole thing goes up in smoke.

Brain Fog

Between visits from family, quilt shows, school starting, a Writers' Conference, brain is fogged in.  More later.

Blues on the Bed, finally

Finally got the bluesy quilt done and on the bed.  Click *here* to go over the the quilt blog and see another shot (and an explanation of what I watched in order to Get It Done).  I hate that in this new Blogger I can't link photos to websites.  Oh well.

I'm trying to cram everything in this weekend, before I start back on on the School Forced March.  It's been a luxurious wallow of time this past two days--books in the corner, working on quilts, watching old movies.  Time has become my currency and I guard it like I used to guard real cash in our bank account, back in the teenager years when we felt like money was flying out the window (it was).  So when the sweet lady at church asked me today to write the Roadshow Script for our congregation, I politely declined.  It was a struggle--for a minute or so.

For those who don't know what a Roadshow is, it's a very fun/crazy/insane day where several congregations present their 7-10 minute show.  You are given 2 minutes to get your scenery on and 2 minutes to get your scenery off after you finish, hurrying before the next one begins.  I've written several Roadshow Scripts in my lifetime, and one even won Best Roadshow Script.  One of my favorite Roadshows was when I taught the entire cast the song to Take Me Out to the Ballgame, but one note off, so when we finished the words, there was still one note waiting to be sung.  We left it lingering in the air until it was almost painful, then had a cast member step out and sing that final note.   The theme was American Traditions, and during the song, another cast member (a teenaged boy), sat down on the stage and ate an entire cherry pie.  We were a hit.

I remember doing the make-up for a stage show our larger church put on--with a cast drawn from many congregations.  (My daughter Barbara was one of the dancers, so I also helped make costumes.)  I've painted, sewn, written, choreographed dances, blocked out stage directions, driven children and other cast members, directed (and not directed) many Roadshows.  I know what it takes.  Given the delicate balance this semester of work and sanity, I turned it down, with a twinge of regret. 

On a different note, I asked Dave to figure out what we're going to have for our Labor Day Barbecue.  I want to smell Labor Day, I said to him.  I want something on the barbecue that has a really good smell, that's a new taste, something that we can sit and enjoy while out on our patio in the late afternoon. One candidate is the Char Siu Tacos, found in this presentation at the New York Times, but we were also intrigued by the Rattlesnake Tails, if only for their name (they're not really rattlesnake tales, but my friends Judy and Bob--who eat from all parts of the food chain--would have gone for it).

 I hope you have a good Labor Day, with a good barbecue, a nice break before Fall officially begins on Tuesday.

Where Americans Are Moving

First spotted on the SwissMiss blog, this map from Forbes gives an interesting analysis of where Americans are moving. Click on it to be taken to Forbes website, and the map.

The Secret Powers of Time (video)

A Wild Night and New Road

Lucille C. was one of those elegant women with long, thin necks, slim hips and the perfectly coiffed hair. Her jewelry was understated, but stylish, and she wore a lot of straight knee-length skirts with broad-shouldered jackets. I remember her bracelets. As she got older, her eyes were a bit more sunken back into her finely sculpted face, and yes, she gained a few more wrinkles, but from the time I knew her to the time she left to go up to Gunnison, Utah and live next door to her son, she didn't seem to age, not even on the day she buried her husband.

Lucy--as many called her--left just as my life got busy and so I only heard certain details of how she was doing. That's she'd moved into a smaller home near her son, that she felt they ignored her and weren't helpful, that one day they took her to the rest home and while she was there, signed the papers to sell her own home and keep her there. I heard that she missed fresh lemons off of the tree. I heard that the daughter-in-law who lived next door "borrowed" her Christmas china and kept it. I heard that Lucy was losing weight--a scary thing on a woman who never had an extra ounce to begin with. I heard she was losing her hearing and was occasionally muddled. I heard that she fell and broke her ribs. Then I heard that she contracted pneumonia. This past week, I heard of her death. I'll miss her.

Because she's so far away there's no obituary, but if she were to have one, I'd want her daughter-in-law that lives here to write it, for when she broke the news to me, she said that Lucy had "gone to her glory." Of all the ways I've heard the process described, of all the many words that we use to convey the information, I like that one. The others that are seen in the obituaries I read faithfully every morning contain versions of : passing, crossing the bar, gone to her eternal rest after a noble fight. That last one always prompts me to wonder if my fight would be noble, or if in fact, there'd be no fight at all, but only relief. (I'll let you know later.) These other euphemisms seem not to have the verve and plainness of Emily Dickinson's language, when she wrote that "Dying is a wild night and a new road," and in fact, I've banned the insipid phrases from my obituary (like I'll have anything to say about it).

Of course, I can be cavalier with my plans for those who are left behind when I go to my glory: while I assume I'll miss them--I'll be gone. However, I'll probably feel differently when my time comes to stand on this side of the casket, gazing in on a familiar face. I may use euphemisms, too. Please sit me down and have a little talk with me for then--as the bereavement counselors say--there's a good likelihood that I'm apparently not processing the full range of emotions that attend the death of someone that is loved. Apparently that is critical--to do it at the time. Okay. Add that one to the list.

We seem to have so many interim deaths before the last one arrives that we have a whole range of phrases ingrained in our language; we describe fatigue with the phrase "I'm just dead." We joke around and say "You kill me." Or my favorite, which came from the new widow of several days, after she spent the afternoon looking at coffins for her deceased husband: "If Richie knew how much these things cost, he would just die."

How to talk about death then? Maybe you like the soft shoe, the dead body shuffled off in heavenly choruses and swaddled in euphemisms. I have a feeling when if that moment finally arrives in my life to stand beside the casket and say good-bye, that I'll employ a whole host of wicked and frightful mechanisms in order to cope. Dickinson's description of death may prove to be the better template for struggle, as those left behind will face more than one wild night, more than one new road.

Happy, Happy

These two are happy, happy. The one on the left is my sister Christine, who just announced her engagement to the one on the right, Douglass. We've been waiting for photos and they just arrived.

I'm happy, happy, too. I've recently had a vacation from my aches and pains, courtesy of a dose of Prednisone, for the asthma/bronchitis/whatever the Urgent Care doctor found. It's been nice to turn over in bed and not wince in the middle of the night from a sore shoulder. It's been nice to walk up the stairs and my hip not hurt. Like I said, little vacation from myself.

The illness popped up suddenly with a cough cough last week, then moved to full-blown hack hack. Urgent Care told me to follow up with my regular doctor, only she's gone for two months (we believe a huge case of Burn-Out) so I had to see her stand-in. Dr. Frankenstein. No lie. He wouldn't give me the knock-out cough syrup with codeine, but instead some "pearls," a kind of cough suppressent that I can truthfully say didn't work well at all. As a result, I was able to get a lot of research papers graded in the middle of the night and handed them all back on Monday.

Happy, happy that the semester is almost over. Happiness all around.

Visitors. . . and a Story

We had some visitors from out of town last week. It was my daughter Barbara and her three kids: Cute, Cute and Cute. Did I mention that they were cute? All my grandchildren are cute. I'm so very lucky.

And now, a story.
Some time ago, I'd made a quilt with pinks and blues and cherries and flowers and was so frugal with my fabric I had enough for another quilt leftover. I starting piecing the pinwheels and put them up on the pin wall, and then was stuck. I tried this combo and that combo and nothing would come together.

Then one horrid horrid day, our friend Heather wrote to say that she had Stage IV metastatic breast cancer, and it had spread to her liver, and maybe her brain but they were doing CT scans checking, checking. We waited. Good news! No brain mets, as she said.

I began to work again on the stuck quilt. Only I knew now it was for Heather so it flew together in a glorious explosion of work and love and tears and care for our friend. I thought long and hard about what to name it.

I arranged a visit to see her shortly before she would begin her first of six rounds of chemotherapy, a grueling process. I wanted her to have the quilt. I had in my mind what I wanted to call it, carrying along my pen to sign and write the name on the back, just in case I was right.

We had one of those happy-sad-teary-laughing conversations about what lay before her. I knew then what I planned to call it was correct, Earth's Crammed with Heaven, from E. B. Browning's verse:

Earth's crammed with heaven,

And every common bush afire with God;

And only he who sees takes off his shoes;

The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.

I told her that it meant to me that because of her suffering she would see and understand so much more about heaven and earth than she ever would before. She would see that indeed, earth is crammed with heaven.

I tracked her chemo treatments on my calendar, trying to visit when possible, emailing whenever as I waited for her to come up out of the vortex of chemo and bendy bones and pain.

Last week she had another CT scan, and because of her treatments, and her faith, and the doctors and her sweetheart and prayers and heaven and everything-we-could-throw-at-it on earth, her tumors have been eradicated. As she put it: "lots of high fives and tears in the doctor's office."

Oh, yeah. You go, Heather! Happy Valentine's Day. Happy Chinese New Year.

Happy Life.