Cock-a-doodle do…..

My most productive time of day would definitely be early morning. For example, it is 7:30 am as I write this. Since climbing out of bed, I have changed the sheets, done a load of laundry, refreshed the cat box, showered and dressed, taken a half an hour walk, and cooked and then eaten breakfast. Rick used to say if we could bottle that energy, we’d be buying a private island in the Azores in a week. I know! Not being a morning person by any stretch of the imagination himself, my morning chirpiness could sometimes be a lot for him to process before he’d washed the sleep out of his eyes. I can still hear him saying, “Could you dial back that energy a bit, Sparky, I haven’t had my first cup of coffee.”. Whatever. Can I help it if I inherited the Energizer bunny gene from my mothers side of the tree? I passed it on down to my children as well. Both my son and my daughter are by nature “doers”. We all seem to move through our lives at warp speed, though I have to admit as my birthdays add up, I have to reel it in a bit sooner than I used to and slow down as the day blends into the evening hours.

Knowing coffee is an integral part of my morning routine, Richard, though not a coffee drinker himself (this definitely was noted on the minus side of the relationship chart), was thoughtful enough to install a Kurig coffee maker and provide me with a huge box of assorted pods to have at my disposal. Knowing I most likely would disintegrate into a simmering puddle of goo without my morning pick me up, I believe he saw the benefits such a gesture would bring both to me as well as to himself. Good going Richard.

Yesterday morning I woke up the first time at 1 am. Thinking it was time to get up, I padded into the kitchen to get the coffee going before heading to the bathroom to perform my morning routine. Fortunately, I glanced at the clock on the stove before pushing brew. Half the night was still in front of me. Sigh. Worse yet, had it not been for the time change, the clock would be reading midnight. Boo was seated patiently at my feet. The cat counts on me to be the one leading the parade, so when following me back down the hall to bed, she wore a look on her face that needed little explanation. What?

I managed to get up for the second time at an appropriate hour for a person not reporting for the graveyard shift. This time I did push brew, and made myself a tall, steaming cup of coffee. Ahhhh. My morning piece of heaven. Taking two long swigs out of my “If you need me I’ll be on my pedestal” cup Richard got me, I set the cup down on the table and sat down to check my phone messages. The coaster, not quite level on the mat under the lamp, dumped my cup over the moment cheek hit pillow. Fine. So, it’s going to be that kind of day? Getting up, I could see his phone sitting on the charger thankfully was not in the moving brown river, but whatever papers he had been working on the night before were, (oh-oh) along with some batteries and his reading glasses. Really? I tried to catch them all with my hands as the liquid began to flow over the side of the table onto the carpet. Note to self, cupped hands not an effective way to capture liquid.

Seeing a brown stain forming on the white carpet, my first thought was to panic. This flight or flight response directly stems from growing up with my mother. Sorry, mom, but you know it’s true. I adored my mother, but her strong suit was not in showing great patience with accidents. Looking back, I’m thinking this may have correlated with the OCD she dealt with most of her life. Having things out of order is the bane of people dealing with obsessive compulsive disorder. As a child I was, to be kind, a bit of a klutz. If it could be spilled, dropped, tripped over, torn, or fallen into, for sure I would do exactly that. Poor Mother, in her defense, the universe was exercising it’s wicked sense of humor delivering me into the hands of someone who did not deal well with uncoordinated humans. That being said, even at this age, I still have a high alert response when I’ve done something stupid such as spilling the coffee. The imprint, intentional or not, we leave with our children can be really far reaching. This is something I look at often when thinking about my two. Thankfully, in spite of my often less than stellar attempts at parenting, they grew up into two people I am endlessly proud of. Go figure.

The “accidents” have plagued me most of my life. In retrospect, I believe my mother was right when she used to tell me I moved too fast, and needed to slow down and pay attention to where I was going. Rick used to hold a pant loop or grab my elbow when we were in parking lots to keep me from walking into something or being run over. I remember once when I was first with Rick, I accidentally pulled one of his wooden window blinds off his spare room window. I was just trying to look out at the deer in the front yard and somehow the blind came off in my hands. My first thought was to hide the evidence, which I did, tucking it under the bed. Now you understand I was a mature adult at the time, or as mature as I get. Had I been ten, I would suppose this behavior might have been expected. Logic would have it Rick, not being a stupid man, was likely going to notice the gap in his blinds at some point in the near future, but in the moment it was all I had so I went with it. Unable to stand the suspense of waiting for the discovery of the missing section, I confessed my sins and tearfully told him what I had done. When I was done with my ardent confession, I found him staring at me in disbelief. Then, he laughed. Taking my hand, he walked into the bedroom, removed the offending blind from beneath the bed and with two f thinking “she needs one”) to think when something like this happens “what is the worst thing that could happen”? Oddly, that’s been quite helpful. It has not cured the anxiety raised when an accident occurs, just makes it a little less painful for all concerned.

Getting a hold of myself after replacing the coffee soaked mat at Richards, I cleaned the carpet and wiped down the glasses and batteries which appeared non the worse for wear. The papers, however, were a total loss, the ink having run into an indecipherable blur on all three pages. Mia culpa. “Put the cuffs on me officer, I’m ready to do my time.” When Richard came out of the bedroom, all but the papers were restored to their original places next to his chair. Explaining what happened in acres of unnecessary detail, where a simple “I spilled the coffee would have sufficed”, his response was, “no biggee”. Really? Is it just me? I think so, I really do.

Richard was having Mohs surgery later in the morning for a cancer spot on his back. These pesky little cancers and pre-cancerous spots are the bane of us fair skinned, light eyed people of Northern European descent. Just the way it is. Pre cancer, an interesting way to phrase it, is sort of a cancer wantabe. Not quite there yet, but pretty well on the way to getting where it wants to go. I’ve had many of them. Most, thankfully, are simply frozen off with a liquid nitrogen gun. Actual cancerous lesions, require a more intricate extraction, called Mohs surgery. In a Mohs procedure, the surgeon scrapes thin layers of skin from the affected area. With each scraping, the piece is examined under a a microscope. When a layer is viewed containing no presence of cancer cells, you are stitched up and sent on your way. A lot of these problems, of course, were caused by over exposure to the sun. Particularly for us baby boomers who had no idea the baby oil and iodine we were slathering all over our young skin was, along with turning us a lovely shade of golden brown, creating the perfect landscape for all kinds of skin problems years down the road. Aside from health issues, sun is hard on your skin as you age. Some people who were avid sun worshipers in those days now look like apples left too long on the porch rail.

The building where the surgery was to take place is located in downtown Sacramento. The plan was for me to wait in the car while he had the procedure done. The time it took would depend entirely on how deep the cancer reached underneath the skin. I have seen it take up much of a day, such was the case once with my mother, or as little as an hour or two . For that amount of time, I much prefer sitting in the car to sitting in a physician’s waiting room. Rations were stored in a bag with enough to cover me even in the worst case scenario. In my purse I had tucked my book, and my cell phone to keep my mind occupied. A parking space opened up right across from the Sutter’s Fort Museum, just a block from the building where his surgery was to be done. Sutter’s Fort is a popular downtown attraction. Established in 1939, Sutter’s Fort was the first European settlement in California’s central valley. The Gold Rush, and the unfortunate treatment of Native Americans was wound into it’s history as well. Busloads of tourists, and bright yellow school buses carrying excited bands of school children, came and went frequently while I waited there. The day being the first warm day we in the Sacramento area had been privileged to see in a while, foot traffic was considerable. Some people were moving at a fast pace as though headed somewhere with purpose, while others were meandering along stopping to look at the erupting flowers in the gardens they were passing, or simply enjoying their first taste of sunshine in awhile. Joggers ran by as well, most with Fitbits firmly affixed to their wrists letting them know how many miles they were adding to their daily routine. I noticed many of them commenting to one another about something on the ground next to the shrubs outside my window. Curiosity getting the best of me, I sat up higher to see what the excitement was about. A sleeping bag was on the ground with either a person or a body in it. Watching for a moment, I was relieved the fabric moved slightly so at least I felt it was probably choice A. The big conversation on the street seemed to be about the fact a pair of men’s pants, belt still in the loops, and what appeared to be a pile with underwear and socks were heaped on the ground next to where he slept. That being said, one wondered what he was wearing inside the bag? I did not need a visual confirmation. I kept hoping a horn didn’t honk or tires screech loudly spurring him into action. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a bag of Pringles and two tangerines later, he was still in the “sack” both figuratively and literally when Richard arrived. Bullet dodged there.

The homeless situation downtown, well everywhere really, is reaching the crisis stage. I have no idea what the solution is to this but as prices escalate and jobs dwindle I don’t see it improving any time soon. Apparently the government is planning on providing “small homes” for a number of disenfranchised folks who want to come in from the cold. Not all people on the street want to rescued. Many have mental health issues that keep them from making rational decisions. From what I understand the state is looking into expanding medical health facilities to manage this side of the coin.

Perhaps they need to introduce the subject to some of the AI systems currently on the market and see if they can come up with a solution. I think of this because I watched a program on AI (artificial intelligence) the other night that I found absolutely mind blowing. They have developed such advance technology in their newest offerings that it is bordering on being totally frightening. The man who developed this particular technology on the program I watched, said the scope of what it can do even scares him. Good to know. The program, or whatever it is referred to, can pass the bar on it’s own in the upper ten percentile, and I do not mean “Sam’s Do Drop In”. Good Lord. Are we going to become obsolete at this rate? I’m sure I won’t be around by then, but it does give me pause for what the younger generation has to look forward to. Wow.

So, today we are having a dinner party. The main course is corned beef and cabbage because I worked on St. Patty’s Day this year so wouldn’t have been able to join in. I’m always tasked with setting the scene. Table setting is a familiar routine for me. Growing up I often helped my grandmother set what she called “a fine table for company”. Truth was she set a fine table nearly every night. My job was to retrieve the silver napkin rings from the china cabinet drawer and secure them on the cloth napkins. I can’t remember my grandmother using paper products as a child. Can’t remember if they were not available or if she simply chose not to use them. I do remember (thankfully something came through) when she came to visit she would keep a paper napkin if only gently used to be used at the next meal so as not be wasteful. Something we could all take a lesson from. I’m glad she passed on the knack for laying a good table to me. You can create such a beautiful mood while you are dining. It has served me well over the years. Don’t know if they do that between generations anymore.

Well, Happy Hump Day to you. It’s overcast but no rain. I’ll take it. Yesterday I was on a Zoom meeting with five people living in the general area. All of us at the same time were experiencing different weather. Here the wind was moving Richard’s grill across the patio, one person reported it was hailing, another had rain, one both wind and rain, and one even had a hint of sun. Stop it. Weird weather I’m telling you. Until next time.

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Baby, it’s cold outside…..

I woke up this morning to snow cascading down outside my window. It was of the fluffy white cloud variety. Boo, the Queen of Cats, was positively riveted at the sight of large chunks of white ice falling just beyond the pane. Several times, she swatted in their direction. I tried to explain to her there was glass in between her paw and her target, but you know how cats are. I read an article recently stating cats are capable of understanding, I believe the writer said 150, human commands, they simply choose not to do them. Why am I not surprised? Over the weekend, I took her on a field trip to Richard’s house. The drive, around forty-five minutes each way was thankfully uneventful. I secured her in her carrier for the trip. I bought her a new, lighter fabric carrier, last month thinking she might prefer it the hard carrier we have been using. As usual, the cat made up her own mind about the choice to be made. When I tried to ease her into the open end of the new crate, she proceeded to lose her little cat mind. After squirming and writhing nearly out of my grasp, and she is surprisingly strong, she spread out like a flying squirrel and dug her claws into the fabric and wouldn’t let go. She was not, and I repeat not, going to go into the hole without a fight. Fine. Ah well, another item for the donate pile going to the animal rescue. It will join the scratching board (she much prefers furniture), or and the ring with plastic mice running around in circles inside, (I believe she actually yawned when I showed her that gadget). Conversely, my old cat, Kitty, loved to to travel. When the carrier was produced, she happily hopped inside and waited for the adventure to unfold. Boo, not so much. She views the carrier as a device of extreme cruelty that usually signifies a trip to the vet. She would not shed a single tear if I threw it off a cliff somewhere in a remote location and never looked back. Rick and I once took Boo on a three hour drive to visit my mother’s in San Jose. An hour and a half of the drive, she crouched in the carrier and vocalized what a bad idea she thought this was. After 90 minutes of caterwauling, it was pull over and leave her at the side of the road (Rick’s option), or let her out to walk around in the car, (mine). The cat behaved far better when freed, so we opted to allow her to roam free again on the return trip. While standing on her hind paws to look out the rear window, she set a front paw on the window’s down button. When the window went down, she escaped into the street before I could grab her. Unbelievable. We spent the next hour trying to coax her out of the bushes in the meridian. Not doing that again. Once bitten, twice shy really applies to that piece of business.

She actually seemed to have a lovely time at Richard’s house. On blustery days like we’ve enjoyed lately, he keeps a roaring fire going in his fireplace. During our stay there, I found her often fully extended on the carpet before the hearth soaking up some of the lovely heat it brings to the room. There are four squirrels that stop by periodically during the day to mooch peanuts Richard puts out for them. He refers to the furry four as his “livestock”. Oh come on now, that is kind of cute. At any rate, my house has no floor to ceiling windows for her to look out, so seeing these four strange beings was something novel and new that really captured her attention. At one point one of the squirrels was nose to nose with Boo, each eyeing the other safely from the opposite side of the glass. Took the squirrels a few passes around the deck to understand the cat could not get out, before they would come close enough to grab the nuts on the mat. Was fun to watch the interaction with no bloodshed ruining the moment.

I drove to work this morning at a snails pace. This area gets snow rarely, and I am a tad rusty as to how to behave when it’s covering the ground. Several times, when either accelerating or coming to a stop, I found myself in a skid. I’m hoping by the time I go home, it will have melted off. When I was a kid snow was a treat. On school days, when heavy snow fell in Nova Scotia, my grandmother and I would have our ears pressed up to the small radio in her kitchen. If a snow day was called, I would be zipped into my snow gear and released to go play outside. Before long there would be a snowman in the yard wearing one of my mother’s old scarves and sporting a carrot from the vegetable bin for a nose. These days, though I still find it so pretty to look at, I prefer to admire it from a distance. I really have little interest in playing in it for long, and no interest at all in either shoveling it or driving in it. If it continues at this rate, pretty soon I won’t have any television to watch when I get home tonight. If enough snow accumulates on the dish on the roof, it will totally block reception. Ah well, I just went to the used book store over the weekend and stocked up on reading material so I won’t be without something to occupy myself with. All I ask is that the electrical grid holds. I start getting a little squirrely myself when the lights and heater shut off. My little house was built in the 1930’s. Insulation was not as sophisticated in those days as it is now. The heat, once the source is turned off, dissipates very quickly. The last time that happened, I ended up beneath a tent of blankets on my couch wearing earmuffs and snow boots watching my own breath freeze in midair. I would prefer not to have to repeat that behavior.

Richard offered to come get me should I be powerless, so to speak. He has four wheel drive in both his vehicles and being a retired truck driver, a little snow on the ground means little in his world. My hero. Truly, I really appreciate the offer. A warm fire trumps a freezing cold house every time in my book. Just sayin.

I’ve taken on some new non-profit work. Basically, they can’t find graphic artists in the area to do volunteer work, so word has gotten out I am willing to draw the short straw. I don’t mind, or I wouldn’t have signed up in the first place, but I’m not sure where I’m going to fit it into my schedule. Things are getting a bit tight in my life. Tomorrow I work, and then need to come home and whip up scalloped potatoes for a dinner party for ten on Sunday. Perhaps I will cheat and use a couple of package mixes. They are pretty good, and certainly beats thinly slicing all those potatoes. Promise you won’t tell. I had a dream in the middle of the night I was stooped over a huge pot of water. One hand was holding a potato, the other a potato peeler. Next to me, sat an open bag of potatoes, and covering my feet was a pile of discarded peels. I was crying and peeling, peeling and crying. Was it onions I was peeling this would have been understandable, but potatoes? This says a lot about how I’m feeling lately without having to delve much deeper into the subject. lol

Work, has proved a bit problematic of late as well. Hmmmmm, sounds like I’m complaining. Perhaps, because, I am. I work with five directors, each with their own set of priorities and way of doing things. One tells me one thing, the other something totally different. One wants me to gather a lot of information from the caller when a call comes in for them, the next one wants me to simply tell them they have a call and on what line it came in. Ach. When the calls are coming in rapid fire trying to remember who wants what becomes more of a chore than fielding all the lines that are ringing. Perhaps I am getting tired of working. Wish I could get tired of collecting a paycheck as well, but I’m not quite there yet.

Richard would like me to throw caution to the wind, pack up Boo, give my notice, and take off in the fifth wheel to do a tour of the United States. I have to say, this is a tempting offer. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve run away from home. I toured the country with my first husband and my then toddlers for nearly a year, and did it once again for about five years with my last. Sometimes I get to wondering if I am imbued with nomadic DNA. I seem to end up roaming either on my own, or pairing up with someone who also likes to flitter and land. Seems like a bit of a pattern looking back on my life that apparently doesn’t intend to right itself anytime soon. This opportunity to have this kind of adventure probably will not present itself again. I have to decide if I still have enough adventurous spirit tucked away inside me to tap into and do it one more time.

Well, we’ve gotten through Valentine’s Day, President’s Day, and Mardi Gras. On to St. Patrick’s Day, which is coming up next month. I believe after that it’s smooth sailing holiday wise until the Easter bunny gets busy for another year. In between all the holidays littering the pages of my calendar, I have birthdays popping up all over the months. I have two children, who have seven children between them. Each of my children is married, so there are spouses. Now, I have Richard and his extended family. For these occasions cards are probably how I’ll commemorate them. Then you move onto friends with occasions like birthdays, hospital stays, grandchildren arriving on the scene, weddings. Whoa. My best friend called the other day and started our conversation by asking, “do you know what day this is”. A loaded question at best, I began flying through my memory bank only to come up with Tuesday, which I felt was not the correct response. When I said I had nothing beyond Tuesday, she said it was her wedding anniversary. Really? I can barely recall what I had for breakfast. I was her matron of honor, so I suppose perhaps I might have remembered at least the month they were married in, but it would have been a stretch even on a great memory day.

As we get older, we have a massive amount of information stored away in our brains. I like to think, that rather than becoming more forgetful, I just have more to sort through before coming up with the information I am searching for. Working with people each week who have memory issues, I am very aware of how important it is to exercise your mind as well as your body every day. I try to do puzzles when I wake up, read a lot, and challenge my mind to do more than write an occasional grocery list. I always have a crossword half completed somewhere I can pick up when gifted with a free moment. Keep those gears moving, I say, so they don’t freeze up. We can’t ensure that dementia will stay at bay, but there are steps we can take to keep it at bay.

Have a wonderful weekend.

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Ooh, lah, lah……

It has been awhile since I’ve found the time to sit down at my laptop and write something in my blog. Life, seems to have a hold of me by the scruff of the neck lately, and is shaking me hard. What did I do when I was working full time, I often wonder? How did I manage to be working forty plus hours a week, run a home, take care of my children, and the various animals populating it, and still have time to do anything else? Perhaps I didn’t, or perhaps, just perhaps, I was younger. What? No way.

I only work two days a week but somehow that slice out of the pie seems to have really cut down on my recreational time. I have to say watching that paycheck self deposit every two weeks is most helpful for my being able to finance my recreational time, if I can just find a way not to be too tired to enjoy it. Another recent occurrence is suddenly I’ve become a hot commodity in the non-profits in the community. Who knew? There aren’t a lot of graphics people out there who are offering up there services sans payment it would seem. Volunteering is just that. So, if you are actually a volunteer it will stand to reason you won’t be getting a paycheck for your services. Anyhow, I have been volunteering for the local food ministry for ten years with graphic support. The woman who used to run the events has moved on to another non-profit and now they too would appreciate any assistance I can offer. On top of that the local animal shelter would be interested in having me come in a few hours a week and help out. I believe this is the part in the book where the heroine runs away and joins the circus. Can’t do it all, that is a given. I will have to figure out what I can do and take it from there.

On an upbeat note, Richard and I survived our first Valentine’s Day. A wise man in many ways, a lovely bouquet of red roses arrived from him with my name on the card, and he treated me to a night out with dinner and dancing included. The original outfit I had chosen for the occasion wasn’t going to be suitable, as the temperature outside had quite suddenly turned cold. To add to the fun and games, I seemed to have downloaded a bug into my software and was frequenting the Kleenex box. Going out in something other than an anorak didn’t seem like a good idea. With Murphy ever present in the universe, guaranteed if I’m going to get sick it will be the day before I would like to look particularly special, and this was to be no exception. No matter what I put on, it seemed to be in direct contrast with my little red nose and watery eyes. Richard had prepaid for our tickets and I didn’t want to disappoint him, so in the spirit of “Lead on MacDuff”, I pulled on something semi warm and we were off to the races. I wore a mask so as not to be a serial spreader, but you can’t eat through a mask and trying to dance with one in place borders on the ridiculous. I suppose if my nose hadn’t been plugged, it might have proved less of a problem. We managed to pull out a few dances without having to alert the paramedics and all in all had a very nice time.

At dinner we were seated with some very nice people which helped to make the experience very pleasant. One couple joined us, along with three sets of ladies. The lady to Richard’s right was from Canada. The fact we shared a homeland, generated a lot of talk between she and I about our northern neighbor during dinner. She is French Canadian, hailing originally from Montreal. I thought of Rick’s mother, Labiba, who made her home for the last thirty five years of her life in Paris. Though born in Cairo, Labiba considered herself a fully vested parisienne. If, while visiting her in Paris, you made the mistake of mentioning French Canadians, she would cluck her tongue, and say, “Oooh, lah, lah. There is nothing French about French Canadians. They don’t speak French there. Oooh, lah, lah”. I remember being in London and having someone tell me we here in the U.S. don’t speak English, we speak American. A little hair splitting, but there’s probably some truth to that statement. Doesn’t matter where you live, everyone’s got an opinion, yes? Truth be said, in Canada there is a division between Quebec and the rest of the provinces. Just like everywhere across the world, each nation seems to have it’s own set of issues to deal with. Whatever the case, the two of us got along like a house on fire and I hope to run into her again. She invited us to a karaoke night she goes to on Friday’s. I explained to her when I was being assembled at the factory certain options were not included with the Susan Spratt model that year. I did not end up going along the line where the nice round behinds were attached, they did not screw in my sweet tooth, and most definitely they forgot to include the installation of my melodious singing voice. I believe Celene Dion got the Canadian lion’s share of that. Sooooo, that being said, if I am given the mike it is guaranteed the population in the room will drop by at least 50% after the first five notes I’ve hit. I’m just sayin.

Speaking of borders (Nice segway yes?), Richard will be leaving next week for several weeks heading down to Mexico to get some much needed dental work taken care of and get a new bridge. When he first told me this, I asked if this was a good idea. He told me he has all his dental needs taken care of south of the border, and has never had anything but excellent results. The fun part, according to Richard, is you get to include a road trip in your dental plans, which to him is a really huge bonus. I would love to go myself, but for me it would mean two weekends off work and I’m not able to make that happen, so, it’s “adios, Richard, hasta luego”. I was surprised to learn, when mentioning this to friends, a lot of people they know around our area do this. The cost is far, far less, than you would pay for work done here, and from what I’m hearing the quality just as good. Plus, you get a trip to Mexico in the bargain. Rather than staying in hotels, Richard will be towing his fifth wheel. His best friend and his wife will be pulling their trailer down with him, so they will set up camp at at Lake Havasu and get a little mini-vacation going while Richard schleps back and forth across the border for his appointments. Sounds like a plan to me.

With prices so high here in the U.S. people are looking for alternative options. A lot of people cross over our Northern border and buy their prescriptions in Canada. Whatever works. I know I bought a dozen eggs the other day and a loaf of bread and handed over an Alexander Hamilton and change. Whew. People with large families must really be feeling the pinch. Looking back, I remember what my teenagers ate. After school they would descend like a swarm of locusts going through my pantry leaving nothing but empty bags and a crumb or two for the mice in their wake. It was total devastation. My son used to serve himself cereal in a mixing bowl, often washed down with a half a quart of milk.

Well, we will keep hope alive that things will settle down soon. People are getting edgy I’ve noticed. Yesterday I went through a parking lot trying to find a spot to park to get my nails done. A woman was coming out of the Starbuck’s drive thru area. I was well on my side of the two lanes provided for traffic, but for whatever reason she didn’t like where I was. To my surprise, she put her thumbs in her ears and stuck her tongue out at me. Really? That’s all you’ve got? Hmmmmm. I behaved. I didn’t stick my tongue out at her. That would have been childish. Right? I won’t say I didn’t entertain the thought, but hope I hold myself to a least a slightly higher level of behavior than that. I think I’ll market white board paddles for such situations. You can write your feelings on them at such times so that you can get whatever peevishness you might be holding in out. Thankfully I didn’t have such an instrument as I drove by. Brother.

So, there are my rants and random thoughts for today. I hope Valentine’s Day treated you well. A three day weekend is on the calendar coming up. If you’re headed out be safe.

Talk soon.

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By the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea…..

Continuing the discussion of our recent trip to Carmel I began in my last blog, would bring us to day two of our three day trip. The first day, as reported previously, the weather was mostly about rain, clouds, and overcast skies. Though we held out hope for good weather, we presumed if the forecasts of late here in Northern California prevailed, cloudy days would likely remain the case for the remainder of our time on the road. To our complete delight and surprise, we awoke the next morning to see sun streaming in through the slats in the windows, and bright blue skies overhead when we went to the car to head out for breakfast. Yay.

Like you might notice in many European towns, visitors to Carmel also often choose to get where they want to go on foot. This, I would presume, not only because it is a lovely setting for a stroll outside, but also it is a very popular tourist destination. Parking during peak season, can be at a premium. Many times I’ve circled the town ad nauseum waiting for a spot to open up, with people jockeying for position like competitors in a game of musical chairs. This day, however, we were going to take the scenic route around 17 Mile Drive to do some sight seeing, and then on from there into Monterey to visit the aquarium. I have been along 17 Mile Drive many times over the years. The first time I ever saw this unique and gorgeous span of coastline, was the day after I married my first husband. Three days of our honeymoon were to be spent at the Del Monte Lodge, located about at the center point along the route of the drive itself. The lodge today, is known more familiarly as The Lodge at Pebble Beach, and is touted as a five star luxury golf resort. Back when we got married, the room rate was $68/night. I was nineteen and my new husband but twenty-two, so for us $204.00 was a big splurge. I still have the cancelled check tucked away in my yellowing memories album to remember it by. Today, $68 is less by half than the rate you would be charged by the hotel for the privilege of having your cocker spaniel spend a night with you in the same establishment. Woof. Well it is not the same establishment as it was when we were there. Though the view is unchanged, still spectacular, and the basic look, outwardly at least, remains much the same, the price tag for a night’s stay has gone up considerably. A room overlooking the garden were you to book it today, begins in the $1,000+ range, with rooms offering a view of the golf course or an ocean view increasing exponentially from there. You will not find my name written in their guest book any time soon.

I have actually stayed at the hotel twice, the second time was with my second husband and my two children. I don’t remember what the bill was for the second stay, but I know we had secured two rooms for a three night stay. I guarantee, if it had been $1,000 plus a night for each room, I would have remembered the details most vividly. There were several things that stood out about the hotel at Pebble Beach, aside from the magnificent cliffside view of the Pacific. First, though not necessarily remarkable, a porter loaded our luggage in a golf cart once we’d checked in. When all baggage was on board, he conveyed us, along with our bags, to our room (Hotel 6 does not offer this perk). When we arrived everything was then offloaded and carried up the stairs. Well not us, of course. I believe we managed the stairs without any help, thank you very much. Our hanging clothes were neatly tucked away in the closet, and each bag was opened and placed on a luggage carrier. After that, the porter explained the amenities to us, such as ice machine locations and pool hours, and provided us with restaurant information should dinner in their lovely dining room be in our plans. There was a nice tip involved for all his helpfulness, naturally. The rooms, I must say, were bright and spacious and beautifully appointed. Each room had a sitting room with a settee, two end tables, lamps and an easy chair facing a fireplace. A fire was laid in the grill waiting to be lit by a hotel employee each night if the room guests desired them to do so. The big thing for me, was along with the expected room phone sitting on the writing desk, there was an additional phone located on the wall in the bathroom alongside the commode. Interesting. Perhaps more business is conducted from that particular vantage point than I’d previously realized.

I guess “you get what you pay for” may well apply to the above paragraph. For $1,000 plus a night and an additional $140 for my dog, I want to get a lot. As I said, our little inn had a lot of quaint wonderful things about it, but none of them included carrying any of our bags up the two flights of stairs to our room, nor was there an elevator available if it happened you couldn’t mount the two flights yourself. What you would do in that case, I have no idea. I would assume either book a room on the lower level, or commandeer a hotel employee to help you move in and out. However, my feeling is that I don’t go on vacation to live in my room. If I did, perhaps $1000/night would seem less prohibitive. I suppose if money is no object, and that concept doesn’t live in my world, than whether the room was $150/night or $3000 a night would really be a moot point. I do have to say, like flying first class, all the delightful little spoiling touches are most welcome. A whole bar of soap, for example, and, yes, a phone by the commode for those calls that simply can’t wait. I do not require such a high level of spoiling as a human being regularly, though I do not reject the pleasure of indulging in them from time to time.

Approaching the entrance to the Aquarium, a young woman stopped us asking if we were members. To be honest I didn’t know they had members, but we both shook our heads no. If not a member, she told us, tickets must be purchased on-line as there is no longer a ticket booth on the premises. Really? I looked up the site on my phone, clicking on tickets. Entrance to the Aquarium now costs $60 per adult. If either Richard or I had never been before, I would have just booked it. Since both of us have been numerous times, $120 seemed a lot of money. Talking it over, we decided we could probably put that money to better use during our trip, so we decided to pass. Leaving the Aquarium to another trip, we wandered over to the Cannery Row area. Steinbeck coined the phrase “Cannery Row” in his book of the same name, and it is today officially the name given to it. There are no operating sardine canneries along the wharf anymore, of course, just rows of touristy shops and restaurants, anchored by the Aquarium at one end of the street. One shop pretty much looking like the next, most selling tee shirts, sweat shirts and touristy items with “I Visited Monterey” or “Monterey is calling, and I must go” emblazoned across the front. We took a walk along the beach, and made our way along the boardwalk, ending up at the pier. Walking along the pier had sort of a carnival feel to it. Gulls hopped about on the well worn wooden planks, grabbing up a piece of discarded caramel corn here and there, or scavenging for a handout from someone walking by. In the distance, the steady barking song of the seals on the rocks across the marina provided background noise. Vendors were busy stocking their display cases with cooked crab, shimmering oysters, and other seafood offerings. Had it not been for the fact I had reached my capacity at the restaurant earlier, I might have signed up for some crab on the half shell accompanied by a chunky slice of sourdough bread. Docked on one side of the pier were two boats each bearing signs on their sides advertising whale watching tours. People were lined up in front of the designated boarding areas waiting to be let on. Have to admit, I was curious about the tours. I might have gotten in line but for the fact though the sun was shining, it was chilly out, so decided to reserve that adventure as well for another trip when warmer weather prevailed.

Having our fill of store hopping, we collected the car and headed south towards Carmel again turning right at the roundabout and following the arrow towards the entrance to the 17 Mile Drive. Paying the $11 requested by the guard at the gate, we began the drive following the arrows as we drove along. So many trees were down from the recent storm. There were huge root bases evident on both sides of the street everywhere we went. Tree and stump removal trucks could be seen all along the route with massive cut pieces of trunk lying around them. A local told us the crews were concentrating on clearing the streets of debris first and moving on to the side areas for clearing and cleanup as time permitted.

As always, when in that area, I was struck by the incredible opulence of the homes nestled among the trees. Some of them appeared to me like palaces fit only to be dreamed of by kings or titans of business with vast coffers from which to draw. Many were built right on the lip of the ocean, perched high on the edge of the rocks so close to the sea they looked as if they could easily slide off only to disappear into the frothy surf. Those homes with uninterrupted views of the ocean, cost more than most of us will ever see in a lifetime. Though I have never been invited in for tea, I imagine these palatial estates to be vast showplaces for beautiful art such as is displayed in the many art galleries available for viewing in downtown Carmel. It would be fun to be able to peek in a window here and there and see what surprises lay inside the walls. I’m quite sure there are laws covering such behavior, so we stayed beyond the fences in our own world, satisfying ourselves with simply observing the beauty of our surroundings as we wound around from one curve to the next.

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There are many opportunities to pull over along 17 Mile Drive and take pictures, some which we availed ourselves of. Most of the pullouts had signs posted offering up a brief history or some background information about the view you were looking at. I will include some photos with this writing, though they could never convey the breathtaking beauty we were experiencing. At Bird Rock, we stopped so I could grab a few shots of, well, the birds. The birds in question, according to the sign posted in the parking area, were cormorants. Large numbers of these mid size grey/black birds could be seen perched on the rocks not far beyond the wave line. According to the sign writer, cormorants are coastal birds, as would be obvious by where we were standing viewing them, known for their impressive diving capabilities. A young man was standing not far from us holding controls guiding a drone as it swooped down low above the rocks. Manipulating the controls, he brought the drone back to where he was standing. Curious about what he was doing, I struck up a conversation. Michael was his name, he told me, and he was Canadian. “Good day, eh”, had already given him away as one of mine, from Toronto. The drone was being used, he told us, in the filming a documentary he was producing about the western shoreline and it’s inhabitants which he had hopes to promoting to a studio or television station in Southern California. After a moment, he asked if I’d be interested in previewing some of the footage he had just taken. Peering into the lens it was amazing some of the images he had captured. Chatting for a bit longer, we parted ways, wishing him success on his venture.

When the afternoon began to wane, we turned the car back towards Carmel. Not wanting a big meal such as we had enjoyed the evening before, we went into Carmel proper in search of a good old greasy cheeseburger. Mulligan’s Pub was where we ended up. Mulligan’s was definitely a local watering hole. A lovely crackling fire was blazing in the corner of the bar and we sat at a table close by to soak up some of the warmth. Two cheeseburgers with fries were ordered and we sank back in our chairs to take in some of the local color. People came and went mostly calling each other my first names. Though we were not part of that band of travelers, they were fun to observe. The cheeseburgers arrived, and were absolutely delicious. Leftovers boxed and put in a bag, we walked the half a mile or so back to our lodgings and called it a day. More in my next blog about our last day in town. That’s all for now. Have a lovely rest of your weekend.

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Beautiful Carmel by the sea…..

Richard and I drove down to Carmel last week for a three day mini-vacation. With all the unpredictable weather that has been circulating around Northern California the past few weeks, some of our friends didn’t think it the best time to travel. Our reservations had been in place for several months. Listening to the pros and cons, particularly with so much water on the ground, in the end, the lure of the coast won over over the arguments not to go. After that, it was damn the torpedoes full speed ahead. Certainly it wouldn’t be the first time either of us made a decision other people in our lives didn’t support. Most probably, it will not be the last. As I always do, I asked my “angels”, who seem ever present in my life, to hang close and keep an eye on us just for a little extra insurance.

Monday, our first day on the road, proved to be the most challenging of the trip. Gray skies persisted overhead most of the morning. Far off in the distance the, massive accumulation of darker, angrier looking clouds, left little doubt there was more rain on the horizon. Many of the side roads along the route we’d chosen leading to Highway 5 were either closed or had significant water in the roadways. Once in the belly of the beast, it was either forge on, or turn back. In either case, it was obvious there would be water to be dealt with. Having grown up outside of Auburn, Richard is a fount of information about just about everything going on in the Sacramento area. According to him, the farmers in the lowlands take care of their own water issues, be it too much water, or not enough. Whether this is true or not, I have no way to verify except to ask Richard, who I believe we have already established has an opinion on the subject. Interesting though. (As an update. I learned from another viable local source this in fact is correct. The land, and the waterways are privately owned.) From the looks of things, whoever is in charge, had way too much water to take care of this year. The weatherman I watch in the mornings said today the snow and rainfall counts this season mark the third in the highest in recorded history.

Driving along, there were trees down on many properties, some with wires wrapped around them secured with yellow caution tape. When we got stopped in one direction, we’d try another. At one point, we came upon a huge pool of water. We pulled up behind two similar looking mid sized delivery trucks parked in tandem at the lip. The pool spanned the width of the road oozing into the pastures on both sides, then spread out about a half a city block from the middle. The truck drivers stood talking animatedly with their heads together next to their cabs. Though we couldn’t hear their conversation, we surmised they were discussing whether to go through the massive puddle, or turn back. While the men came to a decision, a short line of cars had begun to fall in together on the opposite side of the pool. All of the vehicles present seemed to be waiting to see what the truck drivers were going to do, before making a move themselves. Shortly, both drivers returned to their vehicles, and started up their engines. Our small band of silent witnesses watched as the two trucks, one following the other, tentatively entered the water. I figured the point man had the most to lose. If anything was going to go down (literally), he would be the first to tell the story. Richard’s take on the situation was if either truck didn’t sink beneath the surface, then we should be safe to cross. Swell. At that point, I was leaning more toward the logic side of the argument of our friends suggesting not to have come at all, but it was a little late in the game to switch teams. We watched, holding our breaths, as one truck then the next slowly forded the overflow area, each making it to the other side without incident. Next in line, like pioneers crossing a raging river in their wagon, we moved up to the edge and slowly drove forward into the water. Out the window it looked like waves lapping at the side of the car. I had a mental picture of all my doubting Thomas friends glued to the 5 o’clock news as Richard and I were helicoptered out of our sinking vehicle all with “I told you so’s” forming on their lips. Mommy.

When we reached the other side, the small caravan waiting there, taking our cue, began to cross as well. After that, it was a short distance to the main highway which we traveled sans puddles. Once on Highway 5, other than the wind which was strong enough to nudge us into the next lane if not paying attention, the weather cooperated with only a light rain falling the rest of the way to Carmel. My first glimpse of the ocean came after cresting a hill outside of Monterey. It has been a long time since I’ve seen my beloved sea. Bouncing up and down in my seat like a kid who’d consumed too much chocolate, I nearly burst out of the door when Richard pulled over next to a sand dune, and raced down the hill towards the water. Rain or no rain the ocean, to me, is the best place to find yourself on earth.

Once I’d gotten enough sea air to hold me for the moment, we drove on down the coast and checked into our room at a charming Carmel inn. The rooms, as usual, are photographed with a wide angle lens for the benefit of promoting guests to book them on the website. What had appeared on-line to be a large spacious room, was in fact in person a small, not so spacious one. As usual, I’d packed enough clothes to cover any event from an alien landing to a volcano eruption. The closet held about five hangers comfortably but we made it all work. The bathroom was very small, definitely a one person affair, with only a shower and no tub. Along with half the clothes I’d brought with me, the new bubbles I’d tucked in my overnight case were definitely not going to be put into use. Note to self “Bring a bar of soap”. Don’t know who’s body the small versions of soap in the guest packs were for, but they wouldn’t have covered the average infant. By the time I’d had one shower my little bar was down to a nub, and I don’t have a lot of area to cover. I’d purchased four traveling bottles so as not to have to carry larger bottles with me. Each bottle came with a different colored lid. I was sure memory would serve me as to what product was stored in which color, so didn’t feel the need to mark them. I must remember to remember I can’t remember —-. I’m not sure whether I washed my face with conditioner or shampooed my hair with cleansing cream. If so, they are apparently interchangeable. Good to know.

The first day of the trip was pretty much devoted to getting to our destination and getting settled. In the evening, we went to the Mission Ranch Inn for dinner. What a lovely setting for a restaurant. During the summer months, you can sit outside in lawn chairs and enjoy your adult beverage of choice while overlooking the ocean. Flocks of sheep roam on the pasture beyond the patio area and can sometimes be seen being herded by the owner’s (I assume) Australian shepherd. What clever dogs that breed. Amazing how instinctively they know to manage a herd of animals so much larger than themselves. I’ve always had a secret yen to own one. May do it yet.

It has been years since I’ve eaten there but remembered the food and the ambiance. There is a fireplace and a piano bar, for those who are so inclined. We sat in the back room which was a little more intimate, and quieter. Dinner was not a disappointment. Three tender ribs of rack of lamb resting atop mint chutney, served with pan basted baby yellow potatoes and Swiss chard. Yum and double yum. I left only the pattern on the plate. There was a tense moment, however. I asked the waiter for mint jelly. I KNOW!!! From the look on his face, shooting was probably too good for me. Why can’t they just give it to you and keep their thoughts to themselves? For the price of the meal, it should have come with a vehicle. Mint jelly doesn’t seem too much to ask. Our chef, when we owned the restaurant, used to get sooooo upset if I asked for either tartar sauce or mint jelly. It’s simply not done in the high end culinary world, and it galled him to no end I insisted on doing it. Their opinion is the flavors should carry themselves without enhancing them with anything else. Personally, I don’t care if you want your lobster dipped in marmalade or pour A-1 on your Brussels sprouts, as long as you enjoy your meal. Even if I’d cooked it, I would feel the same way.

After a delicious meal and a long day, we sank into bed. Sank, being the optimum word here. The bed, well loved from the feel of it, was like an old stable horse. It was high on both ends but dipped deeply in the middle. I looped one leg over the side to keep me from rolling into the abyss. Also, for a room with a fireplace on one wall, it was chilly. The fireplace, gas not wood, looked lovely, but when lit and on high didn’t seem to provide much heat. There was a small wall heater which we cranked up to the max and by the time our stay was over the room had come up to a comfortable temperature. These, I always say, are the fun things about staying in quaint old inns. This is precisely what gives them character. You can go to a new hotel with all the amenities, but then what would you have to write about?

I read recently an article about tips passed on from workers in well known businesses. Secrets you need to know, or perhaps would prefer not to, about how these businesses are run. One such tip was from someone who had worked in a well known and rather pricey hotel chain. His suggestion, “never walk on the carpet in your bare feet”. According to this whistle blower, hotels only shampoo their carpets about twice a year. Whatever is spilled, projectile vomited, or tracked in on your boot, is covered up in between washings with room spray and quick fixes. I worked in a motel as a maid for nearly a year when traveling with my ex-husband. I remember being amazed at how infrequently they washed the bedspreads. The sheets were washed in between guests of course, so that is where you want to rest, but the bedspread can be full of whatever it’s full of. My tip would be, don’t sleep with your face pressed against a hotel bedspread with your mouth open. I’m just saying.

Carmel was as wonderful as I remembered it to be. The line of Northern California coastline along the 17 Mile Drive really can’t be matched in shear beauty and accessibility. This trip was made all the better by it being early in the season so less people on the ground and parking everywhere we went was easily accessible. I will finish my story at my next writing. There is frost on the pumpkin this morning but the sun is up and shining brightly in the sky. Yay. Happy humpday to you.

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It’s always ourselves we find in the sea – e.e. cummings

The rain continues to fall here in Northern California, each day setting a record that tops the one proceeding it. I drove home from Richard’s yesterday through what looked to be a war zone. Huge trees were lying like fallen soldiers, draped across manicured lawns, some leaning precariously against a rooftop or pushing against a fence line. In some areas, I was detoured by blinking police cars to avoid a tree obscuring the lanes of traffic or to safely avoid downed power lines posing a threat. The reservoirs are filling up at a happy pace and our drought situation is definitely taking on a happier face than it was wearing last year. As always, I wonder why we don’t put more effort into capturing all this glorious precipitation falling to the ground. A state with the vast resources of this one, it seems to this small blonde at least, should be dropping some serious pennies in the jar to pay for new reservoirs or underground containment centers. Makes no sense to me, but then I’m not running the government thankfully. I wonder at times if anyone responsible is, but that’s a topic for a whole other blog.

I am headed down to Carmel for three days R&R next week. It seems an odd time to go with the weather behaving in such an erratic manner, but Richard and I have reservations at a lovely B&B, and have no plans to cancel at this writing. My heart is excited with the anticipation of seeing the ocean in whatever face it might be wearing. The last time I was there, can be counted in years not months. When the gap in between visits is this long, my soul begins to actually crave the smells and sights associated with being by the sea. Most likely it will be overcast and foggy. I grew up with fog horns in the background in Nova Scotia, so inclement weather is no stranger to me. A little rain never bothers me much. I’m not a high maintenance girl who worries about her hair or getting her shoes wet. They dry, and then there you are again. I actually love to get out and walk on a rainy day. I’m not talking about blinding rain, but I don’t mind taking a good walk in a gentle rain. There is something about a rainy day, in truth, that fires up my engines. I find myself singing in the kitchen, or industriously cleaning out closets. This has been a little more rain than usual for certain, but still it is nice to turn off the lights and drift off to sleep hearing it playing a tune on my roof.

I was called into work an extra day this week so here I am sitting at my work computer writing this. Several of the residents reported to me this morning no one won the enormous lottery up for grabs Tuesday night, though apparently 15 people will have an extra million to spend in 2023. Drat the luck, and I had my Porsche all picked out. I told them if I win the next drawing, don’t expect to see my face behind this desk come Friday. Looking dismayed at that statement, I assured them I would return often to take everyone out to dinner at one of the pricey steakhouses around the Sacramento area before retiring. I checked my numbers against those drawn to see if I might be one of the 15. Got one number out of two tickets. From all appearances I needn’t wait for the million dollar check to hit my bank account any time soon. Ah well. I realize the odds of winning are astronomical, but someone’s got to win. I’m just as unlikely to as the next person. lol

Someone was commenting to me the other day about how “off” their time perception has been since the beginning of the year. From all I’ve gleaned from the metaphysical reading I do, the energy collectively circling about in our world at present is very jumbled and disruptive, so this is to be expected. I totally feel it in my world. I’ve been off all week. Yes, yes, even more than my usual off. Tuesday all day I thought it was Wednesday. Then when it was Wednesday I kept thinking it was Thursday. I have missed two appointments already this year and we’re not even through January yet. It’s just an unsettled feeling of being slightly out of sync with the universe.

Because the weather significantly reduces outside activities, my son and daughter-in-law finally talked me into watching Yellowstone. I fell in the pot with the minority of TV viewers who had not seen a single episode of the well touted series. Two nights ago, I watched the first episode and have tuned in for several more since then. The story line definitely holds your attention. Though I have to say, if you’re offended by graphic scenes, I don’t suggest you grab your bowl of popcorn any time soon and tune it in. Whoa.

I have always wanted to go to Montana. Dale, my ex was from there, and before he got ill we had planned to drive up for a visit. I have teased the borders a time or two, having been in Wyoming once and Idaho many times, but Montana and Yellowstone have eluded me. Also close by and on my bucket list, I would like to get a glimpse of the Dakotas. The other night instead of counting sheep when I couldn’t sleep, I got to thinking about how many states I had visited, or lived in. To me, it was an impressive amount, but I have missed some of the ones I especially wanted to see. I will have to find a way to add those to my checked off list somewhere down the road. My mother visited one such city in Georgia, Savannah. She was enchanted by it, as I’m sure I would be. I have been to Atlanta on business, but that is sort of an encapsulated situation. I never really saw much of my surroundings other than the hotel where the trade show I was participating was located. After reading “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil” Savannah was added to my list of must sees. Places steeped in rich history hold a fascination for me. Would love to see that area. I’ve never been to the Carolinas, nor have I traveled up the road a piece from there have I visited Rhode Island or Connecticut. I have lived in Washington, West Virginia, Arkansas, Alabama, and Massachusetts outside of California. People have asked me on occasion which one I preferred. To me, they all have their own pluses and minuses depending on where you are in a particular state. Even with all the tiresome infighting endlessly reported on the news, somewhere else I really have a yen to see is Washington D.C. We shall see. The year is young and my freshly printed updated passport is burning a hole in my pocket. Somewhere either this year or next, a trip to Canada is a must do for me. Many of my father’s family who I’ve been in contact with live in western Canada. Most of us have never met face to face. My dad died at 25 and my mother and I went to live with my maternal grandparents. Other than my paternal grandmother, my contact with my father’s people over the years since then has been sketchy at best. I would love to be able to restore that connection by meeting them in person. Growing up, it was just my mom and I out here in California. There were never any of those big family gatherings in my world unless we made it to a family reunion or a visit to Nova Scotia now and again. My son and his family sent me a kit for 23andMe I’m excited to explore. Be interesting to see what my DNA stirs up out there in my family tree I am as yet unaware has bloomed there.

Well work calls. Happy Thursday. Enjoy the one day without a raindrop associated with it if you’re in Northern California like myself. Look up from time to time and be aware of your surroundings. The ground is mushy and the trees unpredictable.

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Some people walk in the rain, others just get wet…..Roger Miller

Well, we asked for rain, and boy are we getting it. Buckets full of never ending precipitation keep falling from the sky. My, oh my. Intellectually, I know this is exactly what our parched trees and dry fields need. However, trying to get things done in all this water when you add strong winds to the equation, can make for a hot mess getting around. I’m sure people in colder climates looking out their windows right now onto huge banks of snow are simply rolling their eyes and going, “ya right”.

The problem lies in that the storms are arriving in succession. Like soldiers stacked up in the queque at mess call, one falls in line right behind the other. With no time to regroup in between, our fire ravaged hillsides begin to give way, rivers overflow, and roads flood. Next, the soggy ground allows tree limbs to slip loose causing downed power lines or damaging homes, and often electricity becomes spotty. Since it is Saturday and I am working, I am tucked away most of the day with no need to go anywhere. Yay.

I woke up around 2:00 night before last to the sounds of Miss Boo, the Queen of Cats, emptying the contents of her puddy cat tummy onto the pillow next to me. I assure that sound is not particularly welcome any time of the day, but in the wee hours of the morning it’s even less palatable. Poor Boo. So, I got up and washed her little cat face, then stripped the bed. New sheets in place, and the crisis seemingly over, both of us crawled back in under the covers and went back to sleep. Yesterday before I headed to work, I dropped her off at the vets for a quick once over to make sure everything was in working order. Her senior status, requires looking a little more closely when something seems off. I worry we will have to say goodbye some day, and part of my heart will simply be broken. The vet called me report that other than being a bit portly (rather rude, if true), and having a bit of tartar around her teeth, the cat seems in great shape for the most part. That being said, her kidneys are beginning a slow downhill slide. Apparently, this is quite common in older cats such as Miss Boo, and takes several years often to progress to the end stages of the disease. When I picked Boo up after work the bill came to nearly $500.00. After that news, I too needed medical attention. I knew it would be high. Well, I knew it would be high, largely because it is never low when you take an animal to the vet. Before proceeding, the receptionist had called to confirm I was comfortable with the price for the procedures needed, a urinalysis and blood panel, which she said added up to around $350.00. Well, I’ve got to be honest, I wouldn’t say comfortable would have been the word I’d have chosen. $50 is more my comfortable range. What are you going to do? Ah well, for Boo, the sky, apparently, is the limit. I got to wondering after I hung up, how they perform a urinalysis on a feline. Certainly they don’t hand her a little plastic cup and point her in the direction of the ladies room. I decided some information naturally falls under the TMI category. So, I am feeling a bit melancholy this morning on this gloomy day. Thinking back seventeen years, I consider myself blessed that little white paw reached out and stopped me that day in the animal shelter. Looking in the cage at those two scared beautiful blue eyes staring back at me, I said without hesitation, “I’ll take this one”, and never regretted the decision for one minute. I know how lucky I am to have shared space with Boo all these years, but the very thought of letting her go makes my heart shed a tear. The only way I know how to proceed with dignity for both of us, is to enjoy her as much as I can for the time that we have left and that is all I know how to do.

In a way it was literally raining cats and dogs over the holidays. A friend of mine got a furry gift for Christmas on a cold blustery day in December. She opened her back door to let her white German shepherd out to enjoy his usual morning pottie break. The dog got immediately agitated when the door opened and began to circle excitedly. Looking down to see what had caught his attention she saw a small orange and white tabby kitten curled up on her doormat wet and shivering in the cold. In a way, this small bundle fell right in with something the family had decided to move forward on prior to the holidays. They have a dog and cat in residence, but the cat was getting quite long in the tooth and they felt they wanted to add a kitten to their brood. Perhaps Santa had actually tuned in to their conversation, and here was the answer to their request. Gathering the little animal up in her arms, my friend brought him inside and dried him off. Once he was more comfortable, he enthusiastically lapped up a saucer of milk and then curled up by the fireplace as if he owned the place. Doing her due diligence, my friend placed ads on all her social media sites with a picture of their new boarder asking if his owner was looking for him. No responses forthcoming, “Dasher” has now become the smallest member of their pet family. I guess they’ll have to add another cat to the little caricatures they have decorating the tailgate window on their SUV. One image for every member of the family. Everybody seems to do that now. Yesterday I saw a window with about ten little figures draped across the back including what looked to be a grandma and grandpa on one end. Must have mother-in-law quarters at their house. Interesting, they don’t often call them in-law quarters, almost always deferring to mother-in-law. Women aren’t the only people to lose spouses, though they do seem statistically to survive longer than their male counterparts.

When looking at Boo’s head hung over the other night, my heart immediately transported itself back to losses in the recent years. For a moment I was held in the firm grip of the pain losing someone or something you love brings to the table. It also reminded me how many steps forward I have taken on my quest to find myself again. You never emerge on the other side of grief quite the same person as you were when you began your journey. Each phase you complete along the way, eases you into the one to follow. I liken it to a final in school. You have to complete each chapter in the book in order to know all the answers on the quiz. The pain must be felt, the loss duly noted, before you can go on to the next part of your life. You cannot love without understanding there is loss associated with the doing of it. People and pets are only on loan to us for the time we are allotted to spend with them. The joy they bring us, and the heartache when they are gone, are all part of the process of genuinely caring for someone or something beyond ourselves. I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything. For me, it is well worth the price of admission.

I recently met a lady in a new inner circle of people I have been associating with, who is a published writer. With seven books out on the market, she had a lot of valuable information to share with me. Sitting in her tidy office with bookshelves on either side of me lined mainly with titles she had created, I found myself a bit star struck. Always in the back of my mind, a book has lingered. Friends have encouraged me along the way to actually do something of a more substantial writing endeavor beyond the vignettes I pump out here and there on my blog. I have several half completed manuscripts gathering dust in my closet, but somehow taking them over the finish line seems such a daunting endeavor. The woman asked me, “what have you got to lose”? I really Couldn’t think of a good comeback for that statement. What do I have to lose? My grandmother used to to say to me, “the only thing worse than failing, is never trying in the first place”. There’s a great deal of merit to that statement.

At any rate, we have a new year stretching before us. For whatever reason, I feel this year brings with it much magic and promise. That theme, at least, keeps resonating in my mind. Perhaps it is time to take a few chances and step off the ledge. Who knows what is ahead, but how exciting to imagine what might be.

Happy Saturday to you. If you’re in California keep that umbrella handy and stay dry.

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Celebrate endings, for they precede new beginnings – Jonathan Huie

Well here we are perched on the precipice of another year. I do like a nice brand spanking new year to look forward to. Three hundred and sixty-five days, clean and unadorned, as yet untouched by any regrets or missteps. A year unspoiled by words spoken but not meant, dead batteries on frigid winter mornings, burned garlic bread when the boss is coming for dinner, and crying babies on a plane trip to France. Yay. I tend to be a “glass half full” kind of girl. For me, the days spread out before me fraught with possibilities. Who knows what lingers beyond the farthest fence post? Perhaps the prospects of a new job are just out of view, maybe I will be afforded the possibility to cross a much desired item off my bucket list, or visit an exotic location I’ve always wanted to purchase a ticket to. A face, not yet familiar to me, may begin to appear across the table from me. Always, in my world at least, there are magical experiences to be had. This is not to say I don’t anticipate a few rocks to be strewn in the road along the way. Though I am considered an old “fairy dust spreader” from way back, certainly I am enough of a realist to expect life to provide you not only with happy, uneventful times without sprinkling some angst and tears into the mix for good measure.

I have had a slow end to this week. Thursday I reluctantly submitted my arm for a COVID booster. This was my second booster, so for the time being I believe I’m caught up. I’m listed under the heading of “vulnerable population”, being long past voting age at this juncture in my life, with asthma. It’s not that I was resistant to the shot per se. If there is a vaccine available, it makes sense to me to take advantage of it. Rather, it was the side effects generally accompanying the vaccine, I was hoping to avoid. The first day when I receive the shot, I’m always lulled into a false sense of security because I am generally symptom free. As the day progresses my mind begins to think I’ve dodged the bullet. However, some time during the second day, the side effects move in and take full possession of my body. Yesterday was to be no exception. I found myself again shivering under the covers with the cat, unable to summon up the energy to get out of bed and walk to the bathroom. The fatigue arrived on the first train into the station, followed quickly by chills in the club car, and then came a caboose carrying with it a sort of general ennui. Blah and double blah. By way of a bonus, this time there was an additional wave that moved in in the middle of the night last night. I had not experienced this part of the program with the previous three injections. I woke up around two. The moment I opened my eyes, I began to feel decidedly unwell. Aside from the room spinning slightly, perspiration began to flow down the back of my neck and sprang up under my hair, and in minutes I found myself literally soaking wet. Whew. This phenomenon, though off putting, seemed to be my body’s way of ridding itself of whatever was plaguing it. Once I was devoid of any excess perspiration, I felt so much better. I took a quick shower and went back to sleep, remaining there until my alarm woke me up around five. Today I feel fine.

Continuing on the medical vein, I know how exciting that subject can be (yawn), I finally got my heart monitor off. Two weeks was about thirteen days too long in my estimation. What an annoying little contraption that can be. They are small now, with no wires attached, as opposed to older models. That, at least, is a blessing. The device adheres to your chest with what feels like Gorilla Glue when you go to peel it off. I believe half of the skin on my upper chest went out with the FEDEX return package I mailed off yesterday. On the plus side, the smaller version doesn’t really show under your clothes unless you are wearing something with a v-neck. There is a cell phone, included with your device. The phone has to be kept within a certain distance in order to monitor your heartbeats while you have the unit on. It you go beyond that parameter, the phone alerts you of your transgression, then stops monitoring. After doing that repeatedly, I began to have compassion for people with an ankle monitor attached. To remember to keep them in close proximity, I got in the habit of sticking the phone in the back pocket of my jeans. Twice, I almost deposited it in the toilet, and I sat on it so many times I’m amazed it continued to function. I was asked to wear the monitor as my cardiologist wanted to prescribe a blood thinner for me, since my family history includes strokes. Before doing so, she had to get a feel for what my heart was doing with regards to my irregular heartbeat. I’ve had this condition most of my life. Its not the alarming version of atrial fibrillation that can be life threatening, but rather a type of the condition that is more of an annoyance most days, but could be concerning if the irregularity ever got out of hand. As we get older, like dated vehicles, our parts begin to show signs of wear. I am mostly functioning with my original factory equipment. Some of it, thankfully the less important parts, have gone missing by this turn in the road, but no titanium has entered my body and I’m in good shape for the shape I’m in, or so I like to believe.

Aging is not a process I spend a lot of time thinking about. Whatcha going to do? We’re all going to do it if we stick around long enough. I have to admit though I worry at times of late about Miss Boo, the Queen of Cats. She is seventeen now, this no longer qualifying her as a “spring chicken”. I can’t say much about the spring chicken label when it comes to myself either. While she’s aged, I’ve gotten riper right along side her. I like to console myself the cat has been duly spoiled, and certainly is entitled enough that there hasn’t been much wear and tear on either her feline psyche or her little puddy cat body beyond stretching and the occasional wide mouthed yawn. The thought to me of life without my beloved kitty is just too much to think about, so I choose not to. Instead, I prefer to concentrate on enjoying every silly moment I share with my crazy cat, imprinting each day on my memory bank for times when I will need to call up a memory to find her. Richard, the man in my life, believes I’m a little overly concerned with Boo’s welfare. Cats, to hear Richard tell it, are independent creatures not needing much human interaction for their well being unless it involves putting food in their dish, refreshing the litter box, or stroking their furry little heads. I disagree. Unless he has actually been a cat in a former life, I’m not sure I put much validity in any thoughts he has on the subject, as he’s speaking to a point he really can’t have much personal knowledge about. Also, he has a bit of a vested interest in convincing me Boo will be fine on her own because I have been away from home more often since I met Richard. Aside from time spent with him, I have a job these days which keeps me away from the house two days a week. Though, on those days, once off work, I am home for the night. When I leave, I turn on the TV so the cat will have some noise in the house and always say goodbye and offer up a pat or two on her noggin before closing the door and locking up. I will just hope that my kitty sets the all time record for feline longevity and sticks with me for many years to come. Someone said to me a while back after losing her beloved dog, she couldn’t bear to get another animal because the pain is too great when they pass away. For me, animals bring so much joy when they are here. That joy somehow balances out the pain when they have to leave. As always, that’s just my take on the subject. I’m sure there are people out there rolling their eyes going “what channel does Boo watch while you are gone”? Whatever. FYI she’s very fond of FHV’s.

We, or at least most of us who read or show an interest in our world, have opinions on most everything going on around us. In so many ways we are alike, and in so, so many others we are so very different. I have one friend, for example, who only wears blue shirts. This, while another man I know prefers only white tee shirts with his jeans. Yet another friend loves mushrooms, but can’t stand them raw on salads, while the guy standing next to her wouldn’t eat a mushroom raw or cooked if it was the only food selection remaining on the planet. Each of us are so uniquely “us” it is totally fascinating to me. Particularly when you consider there are about 8 billion versions of the same model of human being out there roaming the planet as I write this. Isn’t it amazing in that vast number of beings, no one fingerprint is just like the next, no DNA an exact replica of another, and each face, though perhaps similar in features to another face out there, in the end end remains a singular work of art with only one wearer. Along with our unique facades, we each have our own take on the world, the people in it, the people in charge, our neighbors, friends, family, coworkers. This is such an interesting place to find oneself. If I begin to ponder the infinite possibilities of how we got here, where we go once we leave here, and what we are doing here in the first place, my eyes will begin to glaze over. In my opinion, we don’t have all the answers perhaps because we couldn’t handle what the answers might reveal. It is my thought we are meant to know what we do, learn at a certain pace to help ourselves while here, and discover what goes on when we move on when, well, we move on. So far no one has seen fit to come back and bring us up to speed.

As we approach another holiday season I am reflecting on the empty chairs at the table. Rick, gone four four years, Dale, one year and a few months, and my mother since April. They know some of the answers I ponder while sitting her today, but thus far I haven’t received any additional clarification from any of them since our goodbyes were made final. I did have an experience the other day that was interesting. I was sitting in a recliner at Richard’s early on in the morning. Richard was still cutting up a cord of wood in the back room. I felt someone tickle the top of my head. “Richard”, I said, “you up”? No answer. Again, I distinctly felt the tip of a finger mess with the back of my head. “Richard”, I said again? Again, no response. Standing up no one was in the room but me. I felt goosebumps rise up on the bottom of my legs and march spit spot up the full length of my body ending at the very top of me where the finger had touched my skull. Hmmmmm. My mother loved to tickle my hair or my neck. Somehow, whether one believes in ghosts or not, I know it was her saying hello. If it wasn’t, well it pleases me to think it was.

So, that is Susie’s take on the world for a Saturday. Make it a good one. Hug your grandbaby, take your dog for a walk, smile at a stranger. Make life better for someone else, if just for a passing moment.

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Against the wind…..

As mentioned in my last writing, I spent the good part of a week in Oregon recently. As much as I love a good road trip, because I had limited time, I decided to fly rather than drive. It has been many years since I’ve boarded a plane. 2010, being the last time. With all the TSA rules and regulations in place, plus all the digital tools available now in the airports for self-checking, I found myself a little nervous. Thankfully, in spite of my misgivings, getting to the Portland airport turned out to be a fairly stress free process. That being said, the return trip came around with little trepidation attached to it. Looking at my life up to this point, I should have known better. Some sort of internal alarm should have been going off loudly in my ear warning “It’s a trap. Run, save yourself.”

The day I was to return home, I had Siri sound the alarm to rouse me out of bed well before the rooster crowed. My flight was scheduled to depart at 9:00 a.m. If we were to get to the airport at the suggested two hours prior to boarding time, we needed to leave her house no later than 5:30. Ach. I had chosen the early flight solely because it was the only non-stop available between Portland and Sacramento on the day I wanted to come home. Since the actual air time between the two airports amounts to only an hour plus some change, taking a non-stop flight, which required two to three stops somewhere in the middle, hadn’t sounded that appealing. As instructed, I went on line at exactly 24 hours prior to my flight to check in and print out my boarding pass. Even with checking in at the precise moment, 55 people managed to get checked in before I did. Someone told me later, you could pay extra to pre-check in when purchasing your ticket. These days you pay extra for most things flying related. Being No. 56 was fine and dandy for my part. I was satisfied just to be included in the first group on the plane. This is a really important step to complete if you’re traveling “steerage class” such as I was. It’s not like in First Class where the flight attendants carry you onto the plane on a litter fanning you with palm fronds, and deposit you in a comfortable recliner in front of a big screen TV and hand feed you grapes for the remainder of your time on board. Oh no. In steerage you are crammed together with your knees tucked under your chin praying nobody next to you has a contagious disease. Should you recline your seat during the flight in steerage, you will find yourself seated in the lap of the person seated directly behind you. If you are not in the first couple of groups boarding a flight, it can be difficult to find an overhead bin to store your carry ons in and sometimes it will leave you scrounging about looking for a seat if the flight is full.

The night before, I had read an article talking about the mars retrograde we are currently experiencing. Whether I’m fully on board with how much influence retrogrades have in my life or not, it has become clear to me, at least in my life, they seem to have some effect. This particular period of disruption is scheduled to last through the end of 2022, seeping over ever so slightly into 2023. According to the writer of the article, mars has a history of being a pesky little planet. When in control, it enjoys stirring the pot, then sitting back once it’s really begun to boil, to watch and see what floats to the surface. Chaos, she went on to say, is the planet’s super fuel. Under the umbrella of such a retrograde, life can often become a little more difficult to maneuver, and relationships seem a little trickier to keep on the straight and narrow. I tried not to project any snarls into my upcoming travel. It had been such a relatively snarl free trip thus far. I wanted to simply lean back and bask in the glory of it all.

While my friend was getting ready to drive me to the airport, I poured myself a second cup of coffee. Shortly thereafter, she emerged from her room fully dressed, but looking a bit green around the gills. Before I could ask what was up, she ran past me to the sink and relieved herself of the cheeseburger and fries we’d eaten the previous night. Oh-oh. From where I stood, looked like everything was up. Huh. I straddled the fence at that point between worrying about my friend, and wondering how on earth I was going to maneuver myself to the airport. Because it cut costs considerably, I had purchased a non-refundable ticket. Mainly this meant I either showed up at the assigned gate at the designated time, or I purchased a new ticket at a much higher price. Hindsight being 20/20, this ticket was perhaps not the best option in the event of an unplanned emergency. Now, I could have gone to Plan B, which had me standing on the state highway with my carry on bag while holding one thumb up in the air. As the temps were hovering in the low thirties this plan wasn’t doing much for me right at that moment. Plan C was Uber. Because we were still in pre-rooster time, and my friend lives in a small town in a rural area, Uber wasn’t up for the challenge of putting wind beneath my wings either. Sigh. Oh my. After a few minutes, my friend managed to keep a piece of toast down, and in a few more, she felt she was up to driving me to Portland in spite of the upset tummy. I felt guilty having to drag her out into the cold, but unless I sprouted wings, in four hours the bird was going to take flight without me. At that point, I wanted to pin a Courage Under Fire badge on her sash for being such a good scout. The gods were with us and she not only got me to the airport in record time, but was feeling much better by the time we arrived. We said our goodbyes and as she drove off, I disappeared into the belly of the beast, more commonly known as the Portland Airport.

Getting my bearings once inside, I looked for an arrival and departure kiosk to help me locate my gate, but didn’t see one. A woman wearing an airline uniform and holding a sign reading “ask me” stood by the corridor leading up the ramp to security. So, I “asked her” in passing which gate the flight to Sacramento departed from, to which she provided me with the gate number plus directions. Security was the usual maze of lanes leading up to the agents. I got in line behind the last person and waited my turn. At the counter, I was informed I was in the wrong line, and was redirected to the line right next to me with about five times as many people standing in it. It seemed you had to pay to stand in the shorter line. Of course. Fine. Dutifully, I went around to the no-pay line and waited my turn. Once my papers had been reviewed and okayed, I was ushered over to the security conveyor belt. There you are handed large plastic trays in which you must deposit everything from your shoes to your false teeth so they can be scanned before you are allowed to pass on to the departure gates. The lady in front of me was tiny like a little bird and appeared to be about ninety. How she managed to deal with all this by herself was beyond me. I couldn’t help her, I could barely help myself. I was in a life and death struggle with my new boots which were acting as though I’d Crazy Glued them to my feet before leaving the house. Damn vanity just wouldn’t let me go up that extra half a size to make room for my winter socks. Once my possessions were on their way down the moving belt, I headed to the archway, where I was to be x-rayed. Stepping into the arch all the bells and whistles went off. Yup, everything works. Oh it’s not a routine test, it’s me. Sigh. Does this face look like a uni-bomber? Ah well, it is for all our protection. A female agent stepped forward, and I was put through the paces. Hands up, hands down, lean to the left, lean to the right, stand up, sit down, fight, fight, fight. Finger up your nose, touch your toes. I felt afterwards either she and I should be picking out china patterns or I ought to filing an incident report somewhere. Whew. At last I was released to gather my belongings and be on my way. The country was safe for another day.

Looking at the gate arrows, I followed the one directing me to E10 as the “ask me” lady had suggested. Yay, almost there. My feet were doing the happy dance. Unlike Sacramento, there are no trams in Portland. At the Sacramento airport trams are available to shuttle passengers to their gates. There are no seats inside, but poles are provided for riders to hang on to. Being an old subway commuter from my days working in downtown Boston, I knew the poles weren’t there simply for decoration, but for good reason. When I got in, I set my suitcase down and wrapped my fingers around the closest free pole. The young woman next to me was busy texting on her phone, both hands engaged. Hmmmm. The automated voice came over the speaker announcing the tram was preparing to pull out of the docking station. This, I would assume, by way of warning you to hold on. I caught the girls eye, and asked if she’d like to share the pole I was using. “Nope, all good”, came the response. Kay. The tram lurched out of the station, rocking several times jerkily from side to side. The forward thrust propelled the girl halfway through the tram until a good samaritan reached out and caught her arm before she’d made it the full length of the car. Seeing her wrap her fingers around the nearest pole once she shook herself off and stood up, I resisted installing the “I told you so” program onto my lips. Believe me, I’ve chosen the “really stupid idea” option more times than not during my travels across this planet. Who am I to fault anyone else for doing so?

But I digress, no trams in Portland and no poles. In the Portland Airport you either walk or take the intermittent moving sidewalks. Don’t misunderstand me, I love to walk. However, it had been a tiring day, and it wasn’t yet 7 a.m. yet and I needed more caffeine. Also, I had my carry on bag, pull type happily, my coat, and a handbag across one shoulder that weighed about fifty pounds containing everything I’d bought on my trip I couldn’t cram in my carry on. All good. So, I walked. After that, I walked some more, and then when that was done, I walked some more. I wasn’t confident I was still inside the Oregon state line by the time I saw E10 posted over a flight desk. Yay. Noting the flight listed under E10 was not my flight, I asked the gate attendant if my flight was on time. “Yes”, he told me in his best airline voice, “it is on time”. Good news. “However, it is not on time at this gate.” Really? Insert unhappy smiley face here. My flight, so he told me, departed from Gate D10. OMG. So, I schlepped the mile and a half back to the original hallway, made a sharp left, and began the next leg of my trip down another long expanse of open road. All I needed were the tin man, the scarecrow and the cowardly lion, to make this work. Just then, the handle on my carry on snapped like a twig. At that point, I began to laugh. I laughed as I walked and walked carrying my carry on. Sometimes that’s all you can do is laugh. The allure of caffeine was beginning to fade being replaced with thoughts of a vodka tonic with a slice of lime as I passed one of the myriad of bars evident along the different arteries of the terminal. No, at 3 p.m. I might feel good about saying “it’s five o’clock somewhere”, but at 7:45 in the morning I’m just not ready to belly up to the bar and knock one down for the Gipper. I did notice what looked like a man in a pilot’s uniform drinking a bloody Mary which I found a wee tad concerning.

At last I made it to Gate D10. Thankfully, my flight was listed beneath the gate designation. I took my place in line when boarding began and occupied a middle seat on the plane, squeezed in the middle of two large men, like the cream filling in an oreo. I had made it. Drink orders were taken by a crew member, and we were handed a wee bag of nummies which contained four pretzels, some melba toast, and I believe I found several peanuts. I didn’t care, I ate them all and then licked my finger and dabbed at the salt. It had been a long morning.

So, I feel better now that I’ve tried it and made it through the labyrinth. I understand the process, so next time there won’t be any worries, other than the usual pitfalls like broken luggage and misinformation when I go again. Next time I am hoping I will traveling to Canada to visit my relatives there. Then, of course, I can add customs to the equation which is a whole other kettle of fish. Last time I traveled to my homeland was with my mother. They took her at customs and I wasn’t sure they were going to give her back. Whew.

Anyhow, no worries for today. We have a COVID outbreak where I work so I am headed into the fray armed with my N95 mask and a big bottle of hand sanitizer. Happy Saturday.

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The answer, my friends, is blowing in the wind…..

This past week I visited my old friend, Sam (short for Saelitha), living in beautiful Independence, Oregon. I arrived Monday morning by air to bitter cold, rainy weather. Once she gathered my shivering body from in front of the baggage claim, it was an hour and a half drive from the Portland Airport to Independence. There wasn’t much to see along the way, except the steady onslaught of rain sliding down outside the car windows. However, by Tuesday, the clouds had cleared, providing me with a lovely, if chilly, glimpse of the countryside around me. I had forgotten, not having been in this area for twenty-five plus years, how much the northwest has to offer.

My friend has a lovely cozy little two bedroom apartment butting up against the Willamette River. Like my little house, hers is the perfect nest for one. Add an additional body, things begin to feel a bit tighter. I think of it sort of like wearing heavy wool socks under your boots in the winter. Without the socks, your boots fit just right. But once the addition of the socks are in place, the boots start to feel a little more cramped. Also, like my house, her second bedroom serves as a craft and pseudo office area. The original plan for my stay, was for me to sleep on the queen sized blow up mattress she had laid out on the floor in the second bedroom. Perfect. Being an old camper, and a bit of a nomad, I have slept on, and rolled off, many such beds in my life, so am familiar with the process.

Before it was time to turn in, we used the automatic pump to inflate the mattress, then made up the bed. About an hour after I dozed off, I woke up to find my backside resting on the hard floor. Now granted, this mattress was easily reinflated, but if the air didn’t remain inside the mattress, having the automatic inflation feature really wouldn’t prove much of an advantage. This reminded me of a time with my ex-husband. We had moved from West Virginia to Southern California. Our furniture was stored six plus states away. According to the moving and storage, they were backed up with summer moves and it was going to take six weeks for our household goods to catch up with us. In the interim, we borrowed a blow up mattress from a friend to see us through. The loaner wasn’t of the convenient variety that inflates itself, but rather one you had to manually pump. As we were displaced, so were our animals. Used to sleeping at the end of the bed, once the mattress was on the floor, the cat took this as her invitation to hop on board and make herself at home. Kitty (sadly her actual name) was a kneader. I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you that large plastic balloons filled with air and sharp cats claws do not a happy match make. By about 2:30 each night, our bodies would reach floor level. A half an hour’s pumping later we were back in business til the following morning when the second batch of air would have completely escaped. At one point, I suggested we just sleep on the floor and call it good, but he wasn’t hearing of it. Oh no. I have never been so happy to see a moving truck as I was that one when that one finally pulled in our driveway with our king sized bed housed inside. OMG.

Back at my friends in Oregon, we tried twice to fill the mattress. Both times, my backside was flat on the floor within the hour. Obviously, there was a leak somewhere. I inspected the mattress, as well as the box it came in. As I suspected, a hole had been chewed in both. Whenever you store anything in the attic, you run the the risk a resident rodent might find it interesting during its time there. My son had his entire herd of lighted lawn reindeer totally destroyed by rodents. There was nothing but hooves and snouts left by the time the rats got through with them. Realizing that the original sleeping arrangement wasn’t going to work, we tried Plan B settling me in on the love seat in the living room. The long legs my mother passed on to me, though perfectly suited for taking lovely long strides while out for a brisk walk, were not much good when left to dangle limply over the end of the small loveseat until all the feeling had drained out of them. Nope, Plan B scrapped, it was on to Plan C. Plan C was to be two peas in a pod in her bed, with a plus one. The plus one, a Lhasa Apso answering to the name of Pepper. All good. Boo sleeps with me at home so I am not unaware of what pet cohabitation looks like. Sleeping with a pet can have it’s downside at times. Boo, for whatever reason, seems to get pleasure out of licking the back of my head while I sleep. I know. I looked it up and apparently that is the cat’s way of showing their human they are accepted as part of their tribe. Nice. In this case, neither of the two legged occupants snored, cuddled, or fought for control of the covers, so we cohabited well. The dog, however, I have to report, was a bit of a bed hog. At one point he slept in between us with his back pressed against mine and his paws stretched out against her.

Sleeping arrangements settled, we turned our attention to making plans for the limited time I would be staying with her. The next day, with a full agenda of places we wanted to visit, we decided we had better gas up first before getting on the road. Pulling up next to a bank of pumps, a man quickly approached the drivers side window. After a brief exchange with my friend, he left. Curious, I asked what he wanted. Turns out he was asking about filling her tank. I had forgotten in Oregon it is still illegal to pump your own gas. Wow, haven’t seen that in like, forever. Remember the really old days when a man in a neatly pressed uniform and ball cap bounded out to your car at a full serve station and, well, served you? I KNOW! He would check your water, oil, fluids, tires, wash your windows, AND fill your tank. Good Lord, what were they thinking actually providing service at what is called, yes, say it, a Service Station. Perhaps that is why they mainly refer to them as gas stations rather than service stations these days, because gas is really all they provide. What a great law to have on the books though, making it illegal to pump your own gas. California could use some fun legislation like that. Laws like, say, making it illegal to work on Friday or every month with an “A” in it must include at least one week of paid vacation time. Let’s put the fun back in politics. I don’t know about you, but it’s certainly lost it’s appeal for me lately the way things stand now in the political arena. The gas pump attendant told us Oregonians would most likely only enjoy a couple more years of this privilege before it disappears. Apparently only three states still have such a law on the books. We humans really know how to put the buzz in buzz kill.

Once we got out into the countryside I was immediately impressed with how verdant everything is in Oregon. I’d almost forgotten what a long expanse of green grass looks like. Fall was really showing it’s colors in the area. At times, the hues on the trees were so vibrant they nearly took my breath away. Along with the glorious fall plumage there were so many farms. Farming is a big part of the areas culture. One beautifully maintained farmhouse after another caught my eye as we drove along the backroads. I have always wondered what life would have been like had I chosen to be a farmers wife. Living in the suburbs of Southern California where I spent my teenage years, surfers were plentiful, and golden haired six pack bearing jocks, but there weren’t many farmers navigating the dating pool I was swimming in. The closest I got to experiencing farm life as an adult, was during the two weeks I spent on the cattle ranch in Manitoba. As glorious a time as I had while there, driving tractors along rutted fields and herding cows, I don’t know if I’d want to sign on full time. I straddle the fence, I think, between being a city girl and a country girl. I lean more towards less populated areas, avoiding metropolitan cities or bustling suburbs. However, I do like to see my neighbors outside my window and like to have community, so guess I’m a smidgen of one and a dash of the other.

I’m glad to be home again. As always, it is fun to go away, and good to come back full circle again. I’ll tell you about my return visit in my next writing. That was a day for going in the closet with the tequila and the fiery Cheetos I’m telling you. Happy Friday!!

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