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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Flipping fantastic…..

As you go through the rigors of finding out about one another when immersed in the early stages of a relationship, you begin the process of peeling back the layers to discover new things about the other person. Recently, I discovered Richard, for example, is a collector. Books, memorabilia, and just about everything one can imagine. A good cook, he seems to also love having around him things associated with cooking and entertaining, leaving his kitchen lacking little in the way of tools and gadgets at his disposal. Yesterday, he was having a few people in for dinner. While helping by setting the table, I was dispatched to a closet in his spare bedroom to retrieve water goblets. When I asked why I would possibly be looking for water goblets in the bedroom, I was told his surplus glasses were kept in the bedroom closet. This, he went on to explain, because he had run out of space in the pantry where the bulk of his glasses are already filling the cupboards. When I opened the closet door, I found shelf after shelf of neatly arranged glassware to select from. Amazing. If he drank out of one glass a day for three months, he’d still have another clean one to use the first day of the following month without washing a glass. There are white wine glasses, red wine glasses, decorative wine glasses, a mishmash of logo glasses from various attended events over the years, champagne flutes, water goblets in every shade and size, aperitif glasses, tall drinking glasses, tumblers, all manner of shot glasses, and from there you move on to the beer glasses which also are numerous and come in various shapes and sizes. The man has an assortment of coffee cups that would make a barista proud. The particularly interesting part to this narrative is, the man neither drinks alcohol or coffee, the latter which I almost consider unamerican. Go figure? He could open a bar and a coffee house and never have to purchase a thing.

On the subject of hoarding, just kidding Richard, I read the other day a woman considered to fall under that category, discovered the body of her husband, missing for eight months, in a hall closet while putting away Christmas decorations. Okay, this to my mind is a serious hoarding situation. It’s one thing to misplace your car keys, or your cellphone, but your husband? I’m not saying there haven’t been times when I wished I’d misplaced one or two, but to actually accidentally do it is really unbelievable. People afflicted with this disorder obviously are dealing with much larger issues than simply gathering too many things into their lives. It must be traumatizing to become so debilitated by the problem you cannot stop bringing more into an already overcrowded house or let go of the copious things you don’t need or already have. Looking a bit deeper into what causes one to hoard, I read a person can have a family predisposition to hoard, which I had not heard before. It can also be caused by loss of possessions or loved ones, or other traumatic life experiences. I cannot imagine in my wildest dreams living amongst such a massive pile of accumulated possessions a human being could disappear among them and go unnoticed. Admittedly, I do like my tchotchkes, and have quite a few strategically placed about my home as decorations. However, I can say with a high degree of certainty, in spite of this, I would notice a dead body in my house almost immediately. Not to be too unpleasant here, but wouldn’t you notice a smell? I dated a homicide detective once who said when working a crime scene with a body in decomposition, the detectives would put Vicks Vapo Rub under their noses so they could tolerate the odor.

On a bit lighter subject, the Pineapple Express is in full swing out here on the west coast at the moment. Well, maybe not at this exact moment, as it seems not to be raining beyond my door as I write this, but it will be circling around over us for the next week or so at intervals dropping a lot of water on the area. Dry for the time being, last night was a different story all together. The wind howled, a torrential rain pummeled the deck outside my window, and the window panes quivered when an especially strong gust would whip along the side yard. Boo curled up over my head as the noise intensified. I don’t mind so much if the cat shares a pillow with me now and then, but really I do wish she would keep her tail on her side of the fence. I know where that tail has has been, and can’t help but think it cannot be a sanitary situation to have it draped lazily over my forehead. Just saying.

As it is a work day once again, I am seated at my desk. One of the residents came up a bit earlier to report someone had stolen her dog. This, unfortunately, is not the situation. The dog is gone, it is true, but was taken to live with a friend of the family. Animals aren’t allowed to live with the residents at this facility. My heart aches for her. I can’t imagine how sad I would feel if someone took Boo from me. That being said, I do understand the rationale behind the company policy. Someone suffering from memory issues might not remember to feed an animal, possibly even mistreat it, or not take it out for a walk or to relieve itself. It wouldn’t be beyond reach, they might not recall having an animal at all. Animals could escape out of open doors and run amok in the halls or enter other residents rooms. Then there are allergy problems, etc., etc., etc. Our staff is not equipped to manage such an endeavor. In the end, not a viable plan for the individual, nor the best situation for the animal. Still, it doesn’t make it an easy thing for the person giving up the dog to comprehend.

It is truly a life lesson working here. Once again, like Rick helping me to understand the act of dying, I believe I will have guides to lead me along the back roads of approaching old age. None of us can avoid the passing of time. As far as I know, no matter how much money you have in the bank, you cannot purchase youth. We will all face aging, if we’re lucky enough to be around long enough. I believe the elderly people I work with in this facility are in my life to help me avoid the potholes associated with our aging bodies and minds and teach me how to pick myself up if I have fallen into one. My mother held the light ahead of the group for sure, but I have come to view this band of brave souls, as the next to illuminate the path. They get up every day in spite of their circumstances, get dressed, show up, and do the best they can. Can’t tell you how I admire their tenacity. Some manage better than others, but my guess that was true all along in their lives, not just in their current situation. The stronger help the less able. I watch one step up to the aid of another who may be struggling, offering a much needed hug, a reassuring “it’s okay”, or a hand up. As in life in general, some humans are born more equipped to deal, perhaps a bit more resilient than their neighbor. This is the way of things in the world we inhabit, only in my facility I see it on a more encapsulated scale. One of the older men, a quiet gentleman prone to wearing tweed hats and sitting across from me for long periods in front of the fireplace in the lobby, surprised me yesterday. In the quiet reflection we share, a subtle friendship has developed. It does not involve a lot of conversation, but rather a comfort knowing the other is nearby. I knocked on his door early in my day to ask if he would like a cup of hot chocolate from the cart I have delivered in the lobby from time to time. Asking me in, I noticed a massive book open on his table. Seeing where my attention was directed, he beckoned for me to come over and take a look. It was a book by Jacques Cousteau featuring gorgeous illustrations of the beautiful and unusual fish discovered by his crew living in the deepest depths of the ocean. I found my friend quite knowledgeable on the subject and lingered for awhile to allow him to fill me in on what he had discovered. It made me happy to know he was still able to enjoy such things with the dementia threatening to take possession of his mental stability. When I left, he thanked me for taking the time to share the book with him. Almost made me cry that simple statement. It should have been me thanking him for sharing the moment with me.

The universe most likely led me to this facility when I was looking for a job. My guides, and I speak of them often because I feel I have many lurking just beyond the natural plane of our understanding, seem to direct me where I need to be. Once I had a psychic tell me there was a handsome man, dark wavy hair, in a blue uniform who guards me day and night. My father died at 25, a beautiful young man with a shock of unruly black hair. Being in the Royal Canadian Air Force he was afforded a full military sendoff wearing his blue dress uniform. Somehow it felt comforting to think of him watching over me. I was but a year old when he passed away and have no memory of him to keep with me. Whether this is true or not, well, no one really knows. Perhaps it is enough that I believe it be so to consider it a gift.

When I came home I was thinking about the lady and her dog. The woman spent most of the day walking the halls carrying her beloved pet’s collar in her hand. Opening the door tonight to find the entitled Boo looking up at me as if to say, “Where ya been, Blondie?”, suddenly overwhelmed me with a feeling of incredible gratefulness for the moment I was in. Boo and I will finish our time together as we began, I will hope, paw in hand.

Last night, I turned the clock ahead an hour before hopping into bed. Boo leaves me less and less room in the queen sized bed as she takes it over along with every other surface in the house. Sometimes I find myself hanging with one leg off the side while she is contentedly spread eagled across the center of the mattress. Perhaps the phrase “bed hog” refers to the wrong species. Most probably it is not healthy to have your cat share your sleeping quarters, but Boo and I have been doing this for seventeen years so I’m thinking that is how it is going to be going forward. I’m surprised she hangs around with me to be honest. I had a sleep study several years ago to rule out sleep apnea. They discovered though I did not suffer from sleep apnea, I do have restless leg syndrome. Apparently, I entertained the night crew by moving my legs in the vicinity of 37 times an hour. I’m surprised either of us get any sleep at all. Rick used to say in the middle of the night I would sometime breech like a whale, not a very flattering description I’m sure. He said I would fly up in the air and flip over like a pancake in a griddle. I’m quite positive this is a bit of an exaggeration, but he staunchly insisted he was telling it like he saw it. Fine.

So, the rain has struck up the beat once again and is hammering the asphalt beyond the foyer. I believe I saw Noah gathering wood beyond the out buildings. Have a great Sunday. Give your pet an extra hug because you can. Cya next time.

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Last gasp of winter…..

Be careful what you wish for. Many of us living in the Northern California area have been praying for rain and snow to help reduce the persistent drought conditions hanging by over us the past three years. Apparently, someone was listening. Last year it looked bleak along the mountainsides as you drove along the highways in the Sierra Nevadas. Trees, starving for water, had either leaves turned dark brown and wilted, or simply stood drooping, as if in mourning, in the midday sun. Many, dead from lack of hydration, fell in the forests or in the backyards of those choosing to live among them. I have to say it was difficult to watch. Well, at last this winter we got rain, and boy did we get snow. Then we got more rain, and we got more snow. Guess what is on the agenda for next week? You got it, rain, and snow. It’s not that this amount of snow is unprecedented in the U.S., but rather that it is unprecedented for our area. People living here are not prepared for it, and that makes it more difficult to manage.

When I was living in Massachusetts this amount of snowfall was simply called “winter”. My car was regularly the largest snowdrift in the yard after a heavy dumping of snow, and temperatures often dipped down below zero before factoring in the wind chill, making it feel even colder. I didn’t like it then, and I don’t like it now. We have had two clear days to prepare for the next onslaught which is due to arrive in this area this morning. Many of my friends in Nevada County haven’t had power in days and are still trying to dig out from the last series of storms. One friend, living in a higher elevation, had to leave his pickup on the main highway and hike waist deep a mile and a half in from the highway to get to his home. Brrrrrr. Never have I been more pleased I made the decision to sell my home in the high country and move down the hill after Rick died. I seriously would not like to be dealing with what is going on up there right now. Good news, on the glass half full side of things, no more drought in most of the state. In the Lake Tahoe area, the snow plows are running out of places to deposit all the excess snow. Pretty soon they will have to use available parking spaces. Stores in the more isolated areas around here are running out of food and supplies. Trucks are parked all along the freeway and in shopping center parking lots waiting for a good time to traverse the highways. This effects the supply chain because their loads are delayed. Hope this next couple of weeks doesn’t result in any more serious side effects from the weather. Really feel for those living on the streets at times like this. I saw a man walking down the sidewalk on the way to work today pushing a shopping cart with a little dog in the baby carrier. Awwww. Sometimes I wonder how the dogs survive, but somehow they seem to get along. The man was wearing a stack of blankets like a huge shawl. Must have been heavy, but I guess heavy is better than freezing.

The most interesting thing has been going in my yard since the precipitation started. Robins have migrated into my world. Many, many robins. Yesterday, there must have been forty of the chubby little red breasted birds hopping about excitedly in the grass. Following the feathery invasion, squirrels arrived en masse. There were four or five furry little buggers foraging and digging out there. Richard says they are after worms. Apparently, when the grass becomes saturated, the worms migrate toward the surface making them easy pickings for the local wildlife. I must have a bumper crop. The birds maybe, but squirrels eating worms? I looked it up because worms just didn’t seem like a squirrel entree. According to the article I read, worms, though perhaps not squirrels meal of choice, will do if nuts and berries are scarce. They will eat worms for the the nutrients they provide. As a lot of the lady squirrels are expecting this time of year, good eating habits, or so I would suppose, might become particularly important.. For me, this would be like having to resort to opening a can of sardines to sustain myself. Worse yet, a can of Vienna sausage, if there was nothing else to chose from in the cupboard. Ewwwww. For those of you who have read my blog for any length of time you might remember Vienna sausage is like my kryptonite. I once had only a case of the slimy little tubes of destruction to survive on for an entire week. That, as they say, was the last of that. If they ever wanted to pry world secrets out of my tightly sealed lips, holding a can of Vienna sausage under my nose would illicit immediate results. My digestive system has never fully recovered I don’t believe.

The first day of spring is not too far off on the calendar. March 20th, to be exact. This year is setting a rapid pace I have to say. I have several short trips written in on my schedule in the near future which I am looking forward to. The first to visit my son and his lively bunch in the Bay Area, and on the heels of that visit, a quick three day jaunt to Bodega Bay with Richard. For those of you old enough to remember, Alfred Hitchcok’s “The Birds” was filmed in Bodega Bay. There is not a lot to do there if you’re not interested in walking along the cliffs, doing a little whale watching, or don’t like to cast a line in the water, but it is a picturesque little fishing village with lovely coves and inlets to explore. There are several places to dine along the wharf known for their excellent chowder, which I’m sure Richard will avail himself of. Personally, I’m not a clam kind of gal. I don’t appreciate the texture. I’ll eat chowder, but you will find all the chewy little clam bits neatly placed on the dish next to my bowl when I am done. Whether filled with activity, or peaceful and still, the ocean is always a location I am happy to find myself, so I will look forward to getting away.

The walls and doors here at work are awash with leprechauns, balloon rainbows, and pots of gold at the moment in anticipation of St. Patty’s Day. One of the residents came up to me when I came in this morning and whispered in my ear, “word on the street around here is the leprechaun cut-out in the lobby is the new owner of the place and is going to be our new boss”. I explained I had heard nothing about such a hostile elfin takeover, but then I’d just arrived on the premises. I assured him should I get any information vis a vis the new ownership, I promised to update him immediately. Our young new trainee watched this exchange with open curiosity. The kid seems totally overwhelmed by some of the dementia induced story telling transpiring under this roof. I keep explaining to him, the object of dealing with the severely memory impaired person is to roll with the fantasies not to push against them. Picture it like a huge wave rippling on the sea and you are floating along with it, not an undertow you have to fight against. After four hours, he has begun to have that deer in the headlights look. I don’t want him to leave, because it is great to have a backup, and he’s very likable. However, this business is not for everyone. Perhaps because I am, by nature, a story teller of sorts, it comes more easily for me to join in. I do love to weave a tale. Should memory loss ever cloud my mind, and I fervently hope it does not, I like to think I shall still be able to come up with a good story now and again to keep people entertained. Another point in my favor, if that is the right way to put it, is my mother had dementia so I am up close and very familiar with how the disease manifests itself. Fortunately, my mother saw the effects of it very late in her life, and as it progressed she became sweet and more simplistic. Some people rail against it, becoming angry as the confusion begins to settle in over them. In either case it is sad, but since scientific minds haven’t figured out how to reverse the process, for the time being we are stuck with it.

To be honest, there are days when I get nervous about my own brain function. Last week, after being shut in for days, I suggested to Richard we take in a movie. There is a really nice theater about twenty minutes from his house with comfy seats. Like many new theater complexes, they even offer up adult beverages in a very nice bar should that be your poison. (Remember when it was just buttered popcorn, Junior Mints, and Dr. Pepper??. I do.) The website indicated they were showing the most recent Tom Hanks movie, “A Man Called Otto” which I’ve been wanting to see. My treat I suggested, as Richard is always taking me one place or another and I like to reciprocate whenever he will let me. Yay. I went online to my account, selected seats for the following day, and saved the code and receipt to my phone. Done and done. The following morning I got an email from the ticket site asking how I had enjoyed the movie. I chalked this off as a total website fail, until I actually looked at the ticket receipt on my phone and it became clear it was me who, in fact, was failing. Sigh. I paid for the tickets all right, but for two seats for the night prior. So, our comfy empty recliners sat there unclaimed as the movie aired while we wiled away the evening at home eating cheeseburgers and watching the evening news. Fine. The theater’s policy states tickets can be cancelled or exchanged for a different showing up to the showing of the movie time you purchased. After that, you are on your own. It was so incredibly dumb, I would have just bought new tickets for the right day and swept the whole mess under the rug, but for the fact the movie wasn’t playing anymore except for mid-morning when we couldn’t go. No choice was left to me but to fess up to being a total idiot, which I did. Richard just laughed. Surrrrre, wasn’t his $20. Duh.

My brain, if not forgetful today, is definitely tired. I could use a margarita, a warm sunny beach, and a little R&R. This too is in my future sometime this year. For now, I shall be very grateful I am warm and dry and not buried under a pile of snow and ice. Have a safe day.

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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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2023 the prequel…..

I’m tired. I don’t often admit I’m tired. I’ve always had a bit of an Energizer Bunny personality. I tend to go, go, go until I can go no more. However, I seriously have been going non-stop since the beginning of November and my batteries are beginning to run low. About a week before Christmas, my body was sending up urgent messages it was time to slow down and recharge.

After Santa’s job was done, and the sleigh housed in the shed for 2022, I decided to listen to my nagging inner voice and take a few days off to hit the refresh button. During the 48 hour period following Christmas, I had no company coming and encouraged none, stave for my sidekick and BFF (best furry friend), Miss Boo, the Queen of Cats. Before allowing myself to settle, I had some catching up to do with my to-do’s. The day after Christmas, I dismantled the tree. This is tradition at my house. The tree goes up the day after Thanksgiving, and comes down the day after Christmas. When the tree was in it’s zippered bag, I boxed up all the ornaments and decorations, stored them in my recently acquired storage unit, and proceeded to clean my house spit-spot from top to bottom. Whew. Boo slept in the corner most of the day as I worked, only opening one eye from time to time to watch in mild curiosity as I passed by carrying the much hated vacuum cleaner or an armload of laundry. Lazy to the bone, all this work, work, work energy floating about the house must have been upsetting the normal sleep, eat, and poop routine she generally adheres to.

Once all the busy work had been done, I reserved one more day in which to do absolutely nothing. I silenced my phone, put on not one drop of makeup, left my pajamas with the penguins on them in place in lieu of getting dressed, and vegetated the entire 24 hour period. It was glorious, I tell you. Door Dash was good enough to deliver lunch, an enormous burger paired with a mound of fries, half of which I ate around noon, saving the rest for my evening meal. Perfecto mente dice. Loved every decadent “aren’t you wasting your life” minute of it. Yay. As part of my day of rest, I binge watched a series called “1883”. Every time the query “watch next episode?” came up on the screen I enthusiastically pushed “yes, yes, yes” and continued to watch. What a great show. I was hooked from the first episode. Apparently I am the only living human in the U.S. who hasn’t seen a single episode of Yellowstone. 1883, and I believe 1923 are part of the whole Yellowstone franchise. I’m not sure if I started at the beginning or whether I opened the book in the middle. However, I do know now I will have to watch all the other moving parts. I don’t take the time, or have the time really, to be a dedicated TV viewer. When I do get involved in really good television though, I will find the time. When Downton Abbey concluded, I was so devastated it was like losing members of my family. I felt like I should host a Celebration of Life for the cast.

On the subject of family, I had a lovely Christmas with my daughter and her brood. I hope you did as well. Well, not with my daughter and her brood. They wouldn’t have room at their table for all of you, but I hope you had a good Christmas wherever the day found you. This year we didn’t prepare the usual huge formal holiday dinner. My daughter and her family have been dealing with some health problems the past month, and all members of the family went through a bout of COVID in November, so nobody was up to making a fuss. Instead of turkey with all the trimmings, we had white chicken chili, garlic bread and salad and fresh guacamole and chips earlier in the day to keep us going until dinner time. This was fine and double dog dandy for me. I had a party Christmas Eve I went to where I consumed enough food to hold me over until spring. Still full from the last piece of pie I’d put away, I was happy to find a comfortable spot to park myself and watch as everyone opened presents. Our youngest member, Zeppelin, now four, must have been very good this year, for there was a bumper crop of gifts under the tree from Santa with his name written on the tags. From the looks of the front room, the reindeer and the jolly old elf had left quite a mess the night before. Muddy hoofprints stretched out across the floorboards. Alongside the hoofprints, snowy images of boots marched along leading from the fireplace up to the base of the tree. In the corner next to the tree on a small table was a festive holiday plate holding two gnawed raw carrots and the remnants of three holiday cookies, several bites missing from each. Looking around, it was obvious if Santa hadn’t had time to clean up after himself, at least he and the herd had stopped for a little snack before proceeding on their appointed rounds. Eyes wide as Frisbees, Zeppelin took it all in obviously enchanted. At four, with little question all things are possible. The elves had done their work well in setting the scene beautifully, to make it magical for him to enjoy. In the end, isn’t that what Christmas is all about?

Tonight is New Year’s Eve. At the moment I am at work. I am writing a blog because there is no work for me today. All the directors are out for the holiday and the phone has needed my attention probably three times since I walked in the door. If I had anything less to do, I would be in a coma. On days such as this, they allow me to do whatever I need to to pass the time. This is what I need to.

Where or where does the time go? I can’t believe another year is coming to a close. I feel like the character in The Time Machine watching the world flying by just beyond my reach and finding myself at another crossroad every time I step off the bus. Outside, the rain has been steadily falling since yesterday. Driving in, I hydroplaned several times while going through deep troughs of water on the roadways. Weather in one form or another is slated to continue in the area for at least another week. You won’t hear me complaining about precipitation here in drought plagued California. There are so many dying trees starving for hydration, I consider every drop a blessing that falls to the ground. I find myself wondering why it is someone isn’t out there madly constructing more reservoirs. If we’re short on water, wouldn’t it make sense to make extra receptacles to capture the water we do have falling from the sky or to store up some of the snow runoff? The last large dam project in the state was in 1979, and yet we continue to be plagued with droughts and lack of water and do nothing to hold on to what we have. Makes no sense to my mind, but then I guess I can just add that to the list of things I wonder about.

I am going to a New Year’s Eve party tonight. I may have mentioned, New Year’s Eve does not rank among my favorite holidays. Number one, I am definitely a morning person. The likelihood of my seeing the ball drop wouldn’t be something I’d place a large bet on, was I a betting person. Secondly, most previous New Year’s Eve celebrations I’ve attended haven’t been what I’d call memorable. Well, let’s say they may have been memorable, but not for the right reasons. More memorable like, “oh yeah, don’t want to do that again”. Some have actually bordered on disastrous. For me, a good book, or a great movie, a hot toddy, and some excellent company would make my evening a success. Richard, however, my squeeze du jour, likes to go out. You can’t be in a relationship where the pendulum doesn’t swing both ways, so I’m slipping on my dancing shoes and making a go of it for him. I will slap on my very best “party face” and try to summon up the appropriate enthusiasm to make him feel his evening was worth the price of admission.

I pulled my “little black dress” out of mothballs and stopped by Macy’s to see if I could pick up some black hose to go with. I didn’t want to display my winter legs without covering them. The ethereal “uncooked chicken” color emanating from them could well detract from the band entertaining on the stage. Unable to locate the hosiery section in the store, I stopped and asked a salesperson where I might find it. To my surprise, I was told they don’t sell hose anymore. It seems people either spray tan, go to a tanning booth, or go commando in 2022. Really? The lady said there was simply no demand for hose anymore. She went on to tell me she was asked at least once a day where to find the nylons. Hmmmmm. Well, then there is a demand to my mind. She is one sales clerk getting asked once a day. Likely other sales clerks are getting asked as well. Is it just me? I guess I can add this to the why don’t they build new dams pile. However, it became obvious whether it made sense or not, there were no hose to be found under Macy’s roof. Soooooo as the helpful clerk suggested, I went to Target. Target and Walmart have cornered the market on lady’s leg coverings I was told. I bought two pairs in my size in case they discontinue to stock them completely somewhere down the road and an unsuspecting public is forced to be subjected to my wan looking appendages out the open raw and uncut. To be honest, I’m a little leery of spray tans or tanning creams. I’m sure they have come a long way since I was a kid, but still. Back then the offerings were slim to none to achieve the perfect golden color we all attained to. If you chose not to lie in the sun and bake till you were cooked to a nice golden brown, your only other option was to slather yourself with Coppertone Tanning Lotion. Supposedly whatever ingredients were in the tube created a natural looking tan without benefit of the sun. Their slogan was “don’t be a paleface”. Definitely the product lived up to the hype. You were not pale after repeated applications, more it turned your skin a lovely shade of burnt sienna. They suggested on the label you wash your hands immediately after applying. We were teenagers. We rarely did anything suggested or otherwise instructed and most likely never read a label. For a week after I used the product, my hands looked like I’d recently attended an Indian wedding.

I am not particularly sorry to bid farewell to 2022. It was a year with a lot of hard corners imbued with a frenetic kind of feel to the days. I have a feeling 2023 is going to serve up some interesting and fun surprises. I have no idea why I feel this so strongly, but my intuition is fairly accurate, and in this case all my happy alarms are going off. I do hope so. I am ready to embrace fun adventures, new faces. happy days, and treasured family moments. I want to do something I’ve always wanted to do, see something I haven’t seen before, put something new and different on my plate, and introduce new faces into the the lineup I am currently familiar with. Sign me up for all of the above.

Someone paid me a lovely compliment the other day. She said she enjoyed talking to me because I always held on to the belief in the end things would turn out all right. Interesting. I had to think about that after she said it. Was it true? Well, in an odd way I think it might be. Perhaps more accurately, I believe things will turn out as they are meant to do. I am truly a fatalist at heart. If it is your time to go, I think it is likely you will do exactly that. For me we are given a certain amount of time to thrive, experience, and exist. Sort of a “so it is written, so it shall be” way of looking at things.

It’s like people who are late for a plane and miss their flight only to learn the plane they had tickets for went down after takeoff leaving no survivors. Or, the woman who gets in the car in the morning then realizing she’d left her phone on the kitchen counter. Running back in to retrieve it, she narrowly misses a deadly pile up on the freeway that she would definitely have been involved with had her phone been in their purse. Things like that lead me to believe where it might have been the other people’s time to go, it was not the person missing the plane or forgetting her wallet’s time. You may have a totally different take on the world than that which I respect. That is only how I feel about the whole thing. This brings to mind, the plane that went down with Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and “The Big Bopper” in 1959 killing everyone on board. Tommy Allsup, a guitarist, was also supposed to fly with them. Not room for everyone, he flipped a coin with Ritchie Valens for a seat, and lost. Also Waylon Jennings, not yet the huge star he was to become, didn’t go on that doomed flight instead giving up his seat “The Big Bopper”. Life can be, as they say, a bit of a crap shoot. I look at the many times I’ve hung on the precipice of disaster, yet here I am stepping into 2023. Who knows what the future holds. That’s the delicious mystery of it all.

Happy New Year to you and yours. Catchya next year. Stay Safe.

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