It Starts with Befuddlement

 My daughter Alix and son-in-law Adam recently discovered a slowly leaking pipe. It had flooded their kitchen, essentially destroying it from the inside out. Hearing about their disaster caused a set of awful memories to resurface for me.

Over the last 10 years, Michael and I have experienced three floods inside our house. Yes, that’s three and yes, inside floods, not nature-caused floods. “How could this have happened?” you might ask. Short answer: in 2015, a faulty toilet in our bathroom overflowed while we were taking my mother to dinner on Valentine’s Day; in 2019, the infamous Texas freeze, as in “when Hell freezes over” struck and 6 of our copper pipes froze and split; and, in 2023, the valve on a pipe in our guest bathroom cracked and spewed water while we slept.

 Most people never get to experience an event like this, so I thought I would walk you through the experience. Flood discovery, I have found, follows a script. The initial squelching step into unexpected water is the WTF? moment of befuddlement. The experience is so unique (at least the first time) that you can’t comprehend it. This is quickly followed by the “oh sh*t” moment of panic, when comprehension kicks in and you realize there’s water where water should never be.

 Remember the old Marlon Brando movie A Street Car Named Desire? There’s a scene where he bellows in desperation, “Hey, Stella! Stella!” This Stella moment is the next step in the flood experience. You yell frantically for your spouse so they can share this astonishing moment with you.

 Once the shouting is over, reality sets in and the second moment of panic arrives. How do you stop the water? Where is the water even coming from? Do you need to shut down the whole system or just a local pipe? Where is the shut-off valve for the house? Where would that local pipe shut-off even be?

 When your partner joins you, you have the opportunity to re-experience the WTF? and “Oh sh*t” moments through their eyes as they take in the scene in shocked disbelief. However, instead of becoming an occasion of solidarity, it becomes the “Do something!” moment where your spouse expects you to fix it. This is similar to being the person who finds the dog pooh, the hairball, or the child covered in peanut butter. You found it, you own it.

 While you are attending to water shut off, you get to give your partner their own personal hell. “Call the insurance company!” Now they can have a moment of panic. Who do I call? What’s the phone number? Where did I put the policy? Who did we even buy insurance from this year?

 It will seem like forever, but before long the water will stop flowing and the insurance carrier will be alerted. If they’re good, they’ll have a remediation team on the way within hours, even if it’s the middle of the night. If you aren’t lucky this way, it may be a few frustrating days before a remediation company shows up. We’ve had it happen both ways.

 Meanwhile, you will spend frantic hours picking up the God-awful number of items that are on your floor, in the water or threatened by it. You will struggle to remember what this stuff is and why the hell it’s on the floor in the first place. Don’t even try; just pick it up as quickly as you can. Many wet items can be salvaged. Sadly, others can’t be. It’s amazing how quickly water can erase years of living.

 There are moments of grief and loss coming, but don’t get ahead of yourself. You have to stay focused on rescuing whatever you can and working with the remediation company on an action plan, because once the loss part hits you, you will likely be too depressed to do anything except the bare minimum.

 When I spoke to Alix after they discovered their flood, she expressed the very same stages of disaster coping that I experienced. I think this process is universal and applies to all kinds of disasters, but I can’t prove it. I was happy, though, that I could tell her about the end of the flood disaster cycle, something she won’t see for several months I’d guess.

 When it’s all over, you do not have a return to normal. No, you have brand-new stuff. The walls are rebuilt and repainted. The flooring is new and spiffy. The cupboards that you have banged around for 10 or 15 years are new and have features that put the old ones to shame, like pull-out shelves. Damaged furniture is replaced.

 You have had a significant remodeling job done and your insurance company footed most of the bill. Yes, the deductible is a bear, but it’s not as much money as a new kitchen or living room or bedroom or take-your-pick would have been. There, doesn’t that make you feel better? Not yet? Give it time, happier days are just around the corner.

 

 

The Season of Dread

 It is the season of dread for anyone who has to send gifts to another city for the holidays. Not only do you have to decide on the gifts you want to give, wrap those gifts and package them up, but you have to relinquish them to the not-so-tender ministrations of the US Postal Service or another carrier to get them to their destination. And those mailing or shipping services cost an arm and a leg these days.

 Over the years, I have mailed Christmas gifts to people in Minnesota, North Dakota, California, New York, Oregon, Missouri, Arizona, and Texas. Probably some other places that escape me at the moment. I have sent a LOT of packages into the void. Most of them have arrived, but it isn’t guaranteed.

 A package of gifts for my granddaughter Heaven, who was three at the time, was waylaid at a post office 60 or so miles from her small Texas town. Because of holiday closures, she got her Christmas gifts on January 3^rd. It’s heartbreaking to try to explain to a toddler that the presents really are coming … someday.

 A package to my friend in Minneapolis got misplaced by USPS one year. She received the package weeks after Christmas. This occurred before package tracking became a thing, and neither of us knew what had happened. Plenty of frustration over that, although the package eventually arrived.

 Another package, sent to my brother, made so many circuits around the country that by the time he received the box of candy, it was a huge, misshapen lump of chocolate in the corner of the manila envelope. The box it started out in had been beaten to a flat pulp as it was thrown from truck to truck, sack to sack.

 A greeting card with a gift card inside, sent to a granddaughter in Oregon, disappeared completely, the generous gift spent by a postal thief. I stopped sending gift cards after that, deciding that no one would know if I slipped a check inside a card. Just the other day, I heard on the news that I shouldn’t do that either – bad actors were stealing them for check washing scams. I guess we’re down to electronic payment apps now.

 Amazon (and other online ordering) became the apparent answer to these holiday mailing and shipping woes. Yes, the relatives on the receiving end would have to do the gift wrapping for us, but the gifts would get there quickly for the most part and free for people like me with Prime accounts. Yay, maybe.

 Last Friday, my Brooklyn granddaughter turned 12. After several conversations with her and with her parents, we identified two gifts that she’s really like that fit our budget. Six days before her birthday, I ordered them from Amazon and happily learned they would be delivered in three days, plenty of time for the parents to get them wrapped before the big day.

 I got an email telling me that the package was out for delivery on the appointed day. But it never arrived. Although Amazon’s tracking persisted in telling me the package was out for delivery for days after the specified date, my order record online said simply, “Your delivery is running late.” It still says that a week later, while the billing information claims the order is complete.

The annual ordeal may be different, but it isn’t gone. Now it is the dread of trying to get help for an online purchase from a system so unresponsive and convoluted that it’s almost impossible to solve anything. You can’t connect with a person right away ever. I embarked today on a quest to locate my granddaughter’s birthday presents by asking the Amazon AI for help.

 Here are the opening words of every single response the AI made to me today: “I understand your concern…” “I understand your frustration…” “I completely understand your urgency…” I understand your concern…” “I understand your concern…” “I understand your frustration…”  “I understand you’re looking for more information…”  Its answer to every one of my questions ended with some version of “Would you like me to process a refund?”

 After seven “nos” from me to the refund, and many additional questions from me trying to elicit useful information, the chatbot finally said the magic words “Looks like we need to get more help.”

Segue to the human agent.  

 I won’t bore you with the list of unhelpful, nonsensical, or redundant words the agent subjected me to after we connected. I suspect English is not their native language. The agent finally assured me that the estimated delivery will be tomorrow. Okay, phew. Tomorrow is great. Before I ended the chat session, the agent gave me this final sentiment: “Thank you for your patience and understanding. If the item will not showed tomorrow, please contact us back so that we can check our availbale [sic] options in here.”

 Yes, it is the season of dread for gift givers—because no matter how we send them, the gifts always carry a little gamble.

Ciao

The Decision that Never Goes Away

Over the last 49 years, Michael and I have had to ask ourselves some very difficult questions.

       ·       Should we get married? (Obviously, yes.)

·       Should we accept the transfer and relocate the family? Should we do that again? And again? And again? (Phew, we finally landed in Houston and stuck!)

·       Can we afford this house? This car? This vacation? (No, but we mostly bought them anyway.)

·       Are we doing everything we can/should do to raise happy, healthy kids? (They seem to have turned out okay.)

·       Should we adopt a child in our middle age? (No, but we did anyway.)

·       Will we survive this crisis? And this one? And this one? Etc, etc, etc. (We did, but never without collateral damage.)

·       Will our retirement savings last through our old age? (Hopeful, but remains to be seen.)

 I’m not saying we’re special. Everyone faces difficult questions, often many, in the course of their lives. But of all the questions we’ve faced, none has been as persistent—or as maddening—as the one that greets us every evening: what’s for dinner? It is the most fraught question in our relationship and we have to face it down every day.

 In a recent Progressive Insurance commercial, Mara—the perennially grumpy insurance agent—terrifies graduates by reminding them that they can look forward to deciding “…what’s for dinner every night for the rest of your lives.” Kudos to the copywriter who came up with that line: they hit the jackpot!

 Now, some of you are thinking to yourselves, why don’t they make a weekly meal plan, then they’d know what’s for dinner  every night. That has occurred to us periodically and we’ve even occasionally tried it for a few weeks at a time. But ultimately, that only compounds the problem. Asking “What are we going to have for dinner for the next seven days?” is more than seven times more difficult than facing tonight’s meal.

 We have tried to find a permanent solution, with no success. One can tiptoe into it: do you have any thoughts about dinner? Or: how hungry are you? One can boldly go: what do you want for dinner? One can sidestep: what do we have for dinner?

 Occasionally, one of us makes the sacrifice and offers an idea. That usually means offering to cook as well and usually results from a personal craving or burst of energy that may flag before the meal comes to fruition. Too bad, offer accepted, you’re on the hook.

 The impasse that results when neither of us has any idea what to make or the gumption to make it, usually resolves in a free-for-all. Then you’re on your own to scrounge through the fridge, pantry, and/or freezer for sustenance. I mean, there’s usually cheese, eggs, bread, and the odd can of soup in the house.

 It may also lead to a fast food run. If we’re feeling momentarily flush, it might mean going to a restaurant. The beauty of eating in a restaurant is that there will likely be left-overs, which assures a future meal. Unless someone sneaks into the fridge at midnight.

 I haven’t mentioned breakfast or lunch. We gave up on those years ago and they are strictly free-for-all meals at our house unless we have houseguests. Long ago, when we were responsible for feeding children, I know that we did this better. The kids did get regular meals and there was pre-planning because, duh, working parents. You couldn’t wing it without potential disaster, peanut butter sandwiches and cereal excepted. Back then, dinner was a duty. Now it’s a negotiation.

 So if you’re still wondering what’s for dinner tonight—join the club. We’ll be asking again tomorrow.

 

  

Succulent Thanksgiving Memories

On the Monday before Thanksgiving, I find myself less focused on the turkey and more on the way traditions shift—how the table shrinks, the menu changes, but the essence of gathering remains. My Thanksgiving memories are as succulent as a roasted turkey, gleaming brown and crisp on a platter in the middle of a laden table.

 My childhood recollections have taken on a Norman Rockwell patina, which is particularly apt since I grew up in the 50s and 60s when his hometown-America paintings graced the covers of The Saturday Evening Post. Our big family (seven kids) filled up the table even when we didn’t have company, which we often did.

 With a 20-year difference between the oldest and youngest of us, meals were always loud and boisterous, but holidays had an extra frisson of expectation and anticipation. I remember oddities, like my sister Janet in her highchair with a tiny glass of wine. My parents always poured wine for everyone at the table on holidays – even for toddlers!

 Before I graduated into adulthood, defined as responsible for making a whole Thanksgiving dinner, I joined others for what we learned to call Friendsgiving, but back then simply called a potluck. Many of those potlucks in the 70s had elements of hippie culture, noticeably marijuana in the dressing or the brownies. It was pot luck for sure!

 Eventually, my turn to produce the whole dinner came around and I threw myself into it, eager to prove that I could live up to those remembered childhood meals. Turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, and green bean casserole. (And just why are green beans the veggie of Thanksgiving? They are not my favorite, but they’re ubiquitous!) Okay, confession, I have never made a green bean casserole, I always let someone bring it to share, but I will eat it. The French fried onions and mushroom soup suck me in.

 I loved to show off my cooking, but most especially, I loved to bake. Those main course items may be in my wheelhouse, but I’d rather be baking. I am really good at making pie crust, which I do the old fashioned way, the way my mother taught me, with two dinner knives cutting across each other through the flour and shortening until it becomes precisely pea-sized, then sprinkling on a little water and transforming it into flaky perfection.

 Another trick my mother taught me: always make extra pie dough that you can roll out onto a cookie sheet. Smear it with butter and sprinkle liberally with sugar and cinnamon. Bake and you will shortly have one of life’s exquisite pleasures. Sometimes I sprinkle on chopped pecans. Last year I made a quick and easy date spread and slathered that on before baking. OMG, good!

 I always bake pumpkin pies and, because Alix doesn’t like pumpkin, French apple pies, which have a crumble topping instead of a top crust. (My apple peeler-corer-slicer is probably the best investment I ever made with Pampered Chef!) In my heyday, I made two of each, but there aren’t enough of us to eat that many nowadays.

 In the past, we hosted big Thanksgiving dinners for friends and family, the more the merrier, but things change. For the last few years, we’ve joined old friends for dinner at the Red Lion Pub, a notable Thanksgiving provisioner in Houston. The food has been delicious and plentiful—there’s always enough for leftovers— but it comes to the table ready to eat. There’s no golden-breasted turkey to admire and the pie is an added cost. Oh well, I’ll always have my homemade pies to enjoy.

 This year we are joining Alix and Adam at his mother’s house. Carol has graciously hosted before. We have six adult children plus a couple of their spouses and a handful of grandkids between us, but the most we can muster in Houston on an average Thanksgiving is six people total. It’s still a family dinner, but not like my memories.

 Whether at a crowded table or a quiet pub, the heart of Thanksgiving is the same: finding joy in what is, not just what was.

 I hope you get a Thanksgiving that gives you joy!

 Tschṻβ (Tschuss)

Stepping and Christmas. What a Weekend!

 Many of my weekly posts are reflections on activities or experiences I have had in the previous week. This week, two activities are vying for attention, and I decided to write about both of them. It’s a Saturday night/Sunday afternoon special report.

 Saturday night we attended a performance of Step Afrika!, a 30-year-old Washington, D.C. dance company that specializes in step dancing. I hadn’t ever heard of stepping before I saw it and, to be honest, I thought we were seeing a company of dancers from an African nation. We were not.

 Wikipedia describes stepping as “a form of percussive dance in African-American culture that uses the performer’s entire body as an instrument to produce complex rhythms and sounds through a mixture of footsteps, spoken word, and hand claps.” Step Afrika! also added drums, flute and saxophone, and singing to the mix.

 We are dance aficionados. We have season tickets to the Houston Ballet, attend four or five dance programs a year that, like this one, are brought to town by Performing Arts Houston, and attend many small company or pre-professional company programs in Houston and the surrounding area. Trips this year have included Sam Houston State University in Huntsville and AIMED Dance in Beaumont.

 That is to say, we know dancing. And we have never seen dancing like the movement swirling before our eyes on Saturday night. They presented an all-encompassing visual display—feet moving faster than the eye could follow, legs repositioning in ways the brain couldn’t decipher, hands clapping rhythms that beat right into our bodies.

 It was a “Wait, what!?” kind of experience that made both halves of the evening flash by as though we were there for minutes, not hours. The performers engaged the audience throughout the program, mostly with invitations to clap, and call-and-response exchanges.

 Black audience members outnumbered white ones significantly, and, as in Black churches, people joined right in with shouts of encouragement and joy as the performance unfolded. I was shouting and clapping myself before long. What a night!

 This brings us to Sunday afternoon. The Houston Ballet sponsors a huge Christmas fair every year called the Nutcracker Market. When I say huge, I mean enormous. It brings in $6 million dollars over four days to support dance education for the Ballet.

 I have never attended, primarily because I’m too cheap to buy a $20 ticket and the $25 parking at the venue—which is part of Houston’s football stadium—is very difficult. However, the Ballet included two free tickets in our subscription package this year. I have been excited about going since April and had a long-standing arrangement to go with my daughter Alix.

 That all changed when I broke my foot. There was no way I could manage getting around on my knee walker in that vast space with those vast crowds. I sadly decided to give the tickets away, but Alix intervened. I still have the old wheelchair from my non-walking days of illness. She offered to do the driving and the wheeling for our adventure. I offered to cover the parking and incidentals. Ta-da! We had a plan.

 Parking was horrible. It took 40 minutes to drive to the venue and another 40 minutes to find a space. Using my handicapped placard, we managed to weave our way through numerous parking lots on secret routes that the attendants whispered to us. We eventually ended up right at the front door of the Nutcracker Market. How about that!?

 Inside we found a riot of Christmas paraphernalia, gifts and treats of all magnitudes, costumed visitors that included families in matching Christmas jammies, friends in matching nutcracker outfits, and every sort of red and green design you can imagine on shirts and leggings. We drank in a delightful visual feast.

 I love Christmas and have a really extensive collection of Santas and other seasonal knick-knacks that I love to put out every year, but I do not need another one! I steadfastly refused to buy anything that required a place to put it. That left food.

 Alix and I sampled every single offering we could find, and I eventually left with Mexican vanilla popcorn, Wisconsin baked cheese, sugar-free (mostly) saltwater taffy, a giant cashew turtle (for Michael), and one gift for a friend. I went way over budget because I didn’t plan to buy anything. Silly me.

 On the way out, I bought us both a large soda for the road. That cost $19!! I can get pretty incensed over the abuse of customers at convention-type venues. Just did it at the Quilt Festival, too. Highway robbery, but we needed the drinks. Alix and I breezed out of the parking lot and made it home in good time.

 Stepping and Christmas. It was a wonderful weekend! I wish you could have been there.

Tschüß (Tschüss)

Finding My Inner Cobbler

 

Several months ago, my quilt guild announced a class coming up in November on making quilted sneakers. My brain exploded! Making Quilted Sneakers!! I HAVE to do that. I already loved handmade and custom-made shoes. In fact, I own two pairs. The idea of walking around in the world in fabulous sneakers (yes, mine would be fabulous!) that I made myself just rocked. I signed up on the spot.

 A prodigious amount of work had to be completed before the actual class, and I undertook it with relish. First challenge, acquire the shoe kit. The kits are not readily available, but Tandy Leather sells them, so I went to the local shop. The shoe is sized in four ways: American men, European men, European women, and finally American women.

 Because of the sizing, all the American woman shoes are half-sizes, so my size 10s were going to have to settled for 10½s. And I would have to wait several weeks for the order to arrive at my local store or pay an exorbitant sum for shipping. Spoiled by Amazon Prime, I waited.

 When I opened the box, I found the inner and outer soles, three different patterns for the uppers, and very basic instructions. The patterns included a high-cut, mid-cut, and low-cut silhouette for the uppers. If I made a quilted fabric, I wanted as much of it as possible to show, so I went right for the high-cut pattern.

 Now, to design and construct the quilted fabric. I spent a lot of time thinking about what parts of the quilt would show on the sneakers. It would have to be a small pattern, meaning that I would have to sew even smaller pieces of fabric together to create the look I wanted. After lots of quilt bingeing, I decided to make a pinwheel design.

 Each pinwheel consisted of a square made from eight pieces of fabric sewn together. I needed to make 25 pinwheels to have a large enough quilt. And—this is tricky—I needed the two shoes to be mirror images of each other as much as possible. Planning the layout required contemplation and, ultimately, a little help from my friendly Copilot AI to do calculations.

 I had raided my fabric stash and discovered forgotten riches: an ombre charm pack in coordinated jewel tone colors. (A charm pack, for non-quilters, is a selection of precut five-inch squares. Ombre simply means that the colors graduate from light to dark.) Copilot told me didn't have quite enough, but with a little more searching, I found extra pieces that blended in.

 Each square had to be cut into four 2½” pieces, matched to 2½” white pieces and sewn back together into 5” squares that now looked like pinwheels. It took some time, but the final product pleased me. Quilting is kind of magical even when you know what’s behind the curtain!

 

Before I sewed all those pinwheels together, I looked at my pattern and figured out how the fabric would actually fit on the shoes and plotted, as best I could, the optimum layout for the project. It should have been straightforward, but it never seems to be. I ripped out a lot of seams and turned a lot of squares around before I got everything in the right place. But, finally, success!

 The actual class took place last Wednesday. Me and my handy-dandy knee scooter showed up with Michael schlepping my sewing machine and a large tote bag of paraphernalia. The classroom space was cramped and I was oversized, but friendly classmates helped me make it work. Crafting the shoes took patience and attention to detail. There were do-overs aplenty. Hand sewing through the layers of quilted fabric and the rubber soles took tremendous strength and concentration. My right thumb tip is still numb 5 days later!

 In the course of that day, I only managed to finish one shoe, but I had the foresight to create a LEFT shoe. Since my right foot is encased in a boot for the foreseeable future, that's all I need. I left the class a very happy camper!

Tschüß (Tschüss)

P.S. I would not recommend trying this without a qualified teacher. There are some extremely tricky parts and other parts that are not intuitive at all.

 

Broken

Today has not been a regular Monday, so I am behind on writing my blog post. I spent the day dealing with an orthopedic doctor about my broken foot and with buying equipment to help me get around. For those who may not have seen my Facebook post yesterday, I had a run-in with the door of my dishwasher Saturday night. Tried to walk around the open door to throw something in the trash and caught my shoe on the corner. That somehow flipped me over and I landed on my fanny and my right foot. The dishwasher was uninjured.

 I knew immediately that something was broken, but stayed in denial until the pain got too bad. Then I dragged Michael out of bed to take me to the ER. They took x-rays and diagnosed a broken bone in my 5^th metatarsal. After putting me in a temporary cast and giving me pain medicine (yay!), they sent me home.

 As it turns out, I do not have a broken bone in my foot. No, I have two broken bones. One of them is fairly minor, the other more serious. Here’s how the doctor put it as he pointed to my x-rays, “If you were a professional athlete, they’d ignore this one and immediately do surgery on this one. But since you aren’t, you can just take the time needed to heal naturally.”

 And how much time is that? A long time, as it happens. Could be months. For now, I can’t put weight on the foot. And, since it’s my right foot, I can’t drive. If I’m lucky, for a month, but it could be two. This is terrible news for Michael, who is now my designated driver, because I have lots of activities and appointments and lunch dates. For his sake, I’ll have to trim them down. And there are things I want to do on days he can’t drive me, so that will be disappointing. It looks like my quilting bee is off the calendar for the duration because they meet on Michael’s day to lunch with the boys.

 Geting around from Saturday night until today was awful. They gave me crutches at the hospital, but I couldn’t manage them and fell again before I gave up trying. I tried to use my cane and then my old walker, which Michael kindly climbed into the attic to retrieve. You know, with only one working foot, you have to hop. To hop, you have to have quad and shoulder strength. I am sadly lacking in both.

 The next option was to unearth my old wheelchair from the garage and set it up, which took a lot of WD-40. It’s about 25 years old, so very heavy and unwieldy compared to modern wheelchairs. It worked though; I could thankfully sit and move myself around. But it doesn’t fit through any doorways, so my bedroom and both bathrooms required me to get around by hopping on one leg. I did not know my bedroom was so big until I faced hopping across it to the bathroom door!

 The doctor put me in a walking boot (but told me not to walk in it!) and suggested a knee scooter. My sister Janet used one for a long time while healing a serious foot injury, so I knew what they were. The local Walgreens had one in stock, and so this afternoon, I finally got wheels that work. Thank goodness!

 The knee scooter is not perfect. It turns like a tractor-trailer rig and requires maneuvering to back up, so getting around in tight spaces, like the bathroom or hallway, is tricky. (It made me think of my dad backing campers into the driveway: always an ordeal.) But it is doable. I’m back in control and absolutely chuffed about it. I have a big class on Wednesday that I thought I might have to miss, but now I can attend. That adventure should be next week’s blog and I’m expecting it to be a doozy.  

 For now, I’m fairly exhausted by all the commotion and my shoulders are aching—not to mention my foot—so I’m going to go to bed early. What a weekend!! Here’s to a better month ahead.

 Tschüß (Tschüss)

 

 

 

 

Transmogrification

 You have to be certifiably old to recognize the name Ol’ Blue Eyes, otherwise known as Frank Sinatra. Maybe you have to be certifiably old to recognize Frank Sinatra—the crooner, actor, and OG heartthrob of generations of girls and women in the mid-20^th century—at all. My mother, born in 1922, swooned over him as a teenager and women were still swooning over him when I was a teenager, although we teens were swooning over the Beatles.

 Ol’ Blue Eyes inspired the name of our cat Frankie S. Frankie joined the family in 2009, one of many kittens born in our backyard to feral moms. We had quite a few batches of kittens over the years for three reasons: we had a pond that was a source of easily accessible water; we had a fence that kept the dogs out; and we fed the cats. (This meant we fed the raccoons and the opossums, too.) I’m fairly sure the pond drew them originally, but the free meals kept them coming back, with friends in tow.

 I loved watching the kittens frolicking in our yard. We’d turn the inside lights off, turn them on outside, and have a free comedy show for as long as we stood there. Playing a laser light across the patio and grass made the show even better, with uncoordinated kittens tumbling all over each other to get that dot!

 I began rescuing kittens, taking in five of them before we found help with Trap-Neuter-Release (TNR) that got several adults fixed. In 2008, I rescued Smudge. In 2009, Frankie S. and his two sisters. And in 2010, Baby Boy, so named because we weren’t going to keep him. Ha! Of course, we did. Frankie’s sisters went home with a friend and have lived there happily ever since. Frankie, with his big blue eyes, stayed with us.

 As a specimen of cathood, Frankie is gorgeous. He has a long, silky coat, the markings of a Maine coon, including the long fur tufts between his toes, and those fabulous blue eyes. I’d never had a long-haired or blue-eyed cat before. I was besotted with him. I could have spent hours petting him or simply looking at him. Therein lay the problem. Frankie was the scaredest scaredy-cat I have ever known.

Ol' Blue Eyes

 

New Frankie

 You couldn’t get him to sit beside you, let alone hold him or pet him. Crinkling a plastic bag would—no kidding—terrify him and send him dashing out of the room. He had to be coaxed to come and eat and wouldn’t take treats if a human stayed within his sight. It took literally years before Frankie jumped up on my recliner and took a spot as far from my body as possible without falling off. My daughter Alix, who has regularly fed my cats when we travel, could stop by every day for two weeks and never actually see Frankie.

 Our menagerie of cats, which has numbered as high as five at any given time, slowly dwindled. The old cats, Jack and Trixie, passed away. Scruffy, the roaming stray who insisted on living with us, disappeared one night. Suddenly, we only had three cats—Smudge, Frankie, and Baby. Two years ago, Smudge passed away and last year, Baby. Frankie is the last cat standing. Now 16, he has the run of the place. And guess what? The old timid Frankie disappeared after Baby died.

 Frankie snuggles with me in the recliner whenever I sit there, as long as I sit there. He rolls onto his back and lets me scratch his tummy for extended periods. He comes up on our bed for some exceptionally serious biscuit-making every night before I go to sleep. (Sometimes this even comes across as a little perverted, and I have to shoo him away.) He begs for treats and—no lie—lets me pick him up (briefly) before I reward him. It is as if the cat we knew for 15 years received a personality transplant.

 When Alix fed him during our spring trip to San Antonio, he came out to say hi several times. Visiting friends have actually seen this cat, which they previously only knew through photographs. I’m sure some people doubted his existence.

 Frankie’s transmogrification has led me to reflect on why. Why did a timid, reticent, fearful cat become friendly, curious, and personable at the ripe old age of 16? The obvious conclusion is that his competition is gone. He has no one to beat him to the punch on getting affection, treats, or even dinner. The over-the-top kneading he subjects me to use to be directed at Baby (who also thought it was a little perverted, BTW). Without Baby, he needed a new target and humans were all he had left.

 I wonder what kind of cat Frankie might have been if he had been a singleton from the start? We’ll never know, but it makes me happy that he is, at long last, getting his shot in the center ring with no competition.

 Tschüß (Tschüss)

 P.S. Cat is Katze in German. And, in German, all nouns are capitalized. I’ve been working diligently to get ready for our trip next year!

 

 

 

 

 

There's No Time to Waste

 Those commercials for personal alert systems—“Help!! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”—haunt me. I remember the flexible days of my youth and middle age, rising and lowering into the lotus position at yoga without any effort, powered only by my legs. I remember touching my toes without stretching into discomfort. I remember turning on a dime, pivoting without stumbling. But the memories aren’t reality.

 IRL, as we say nowadays, I struggle to get up from a squat. Just after Christmas, shopping the discounted cards, I had to hunker down to get to boxes on the lowest shelf. I found what I wanted there, but I couldn’t pull myself back up. For increasingly panicky moments, I tried to find a position that would let me leverage one leg to a spot I could rise from. The thought of calling for help in Walgreens mortified me.

 Fortunately, I did make it to my feet unaided. No one saw my struggle and my dignity remained intact, at least until this confession. But OMG, I don’t want that to happen ever again! I started looking into leg strengthening exercises and doing them, if haphazardly. I am better at rising now than I was in December, but not better enough.

 Some very happy news has made this topic—physical fitness for older people—even more important to me. Next year, Michael and I are celebrating our 50^th wedding anniversary by taking a month-long trip to Vienna Austria! We’ll have our own apartment, a cohort of fellow travelers, and a local guide/concierge for some activities. Otherwise, we’ll be on our own. The company that oversees the experience and makes the arrangements is The Good Life Abroad.

A requirement of handing over your hard-earned money and joining the group is that you can walk two miles on uneven terrain (cobblestones, etc) and climb two flights of stairs. (They do promise the apartment buildings will have elevators, thankfully.) So we are now on deadline to get fit. In 360 days, we will land in Vienna and begin our adventure.

 I will be ready, but I’m not taking it lightly. I’ve had several falls or serious stumbles in the last year, so I got my PCP to prescribe gait and fall prevention physical therapy. I’m doing that right now. The next step is to go back to the gym. I stopped going after I had a fall in my Silver Sneakers class last year, but I can’t stay away any longer.

 It so happens that, while sitting in the waiting room at PT today, I saw a slender paperback book titled Stronger Longer: An Authoritative Guide To Aging Actively by Jackie Bachmeier and Dan Ritchie. I skimmed a few pages and realized it was just what I needed. The other person in the waiting room said, “Oh. I go to that gym. Jackie’s great. She does personal training, group classes, and video classes.”

 Turns out ‘that gym’ is about 5 miles from my home. Could it get any better than that? It could when the PT receptionist says “We have more of those books. They’re free. Do you want one?” And to think I had already planned to plunk down $9.99 plus tax and shipping to get a copy.

 The other patient, my PT twin because the therapists always work with two people at once, continued to sing the praises of Jackie and her gym throughout our hour. If I didn’t have a firm commitment to being at my writing desk on Monday afternoon, churning out this blog, I would have zipped over there to check it out.

 I write with a group on Mondays. We are all memoirists who happen to live in different cities, so we gather online each week and check in, then write with the comforting knowledge that other people are also working on their manuscripts. Since my manuscript is done, I write my blog. It’s soft accountability that bolsters us. A tip of the hat to Cathy, Mindy, Penny, and Yvonne today!

 In addition to seriously tackling physical fitness, I started a German language course on Duolingo. I work on it every day and I am acquiring vocabulary, an ear for German pronunciation, and even some new-to-me sounds and letters. Did you ever see this letter before? ß, called Eszett and pronounced like a double SS in English. The German word for tall or big is groß (gross). German also has several vowels with symbols hanging over them that are new to me.

 It’s been tricky learning to read and pronounce these strange new letters. Like the strength and fitness I need to acquire, I only have a year to get ready. There’s no time to waste!

Tschüß (pronounced schuss with a long u, my new ciao)

 

 

 

In the Quilt Zone

The International Quilt Festival in Houston just completed its 50^th show yesterday. It ranks as the largest quilt show in the United States. I have gone to the show many times over the last two decades and the beauty of the quilts people make never ceases to amaze me. Often I have gone with my daughter Alix, or with a friend, but this year I went solo. There is a certain pleasure to that—no coordinating of whens and wheres are required—but the camaraderie of oohing and aahing with another person is lost, too.

 I always ride mass transit when I go because I hate the traffic and I especially hate the astronomical gouging on parking. The lot near the convention center charged $35 to park this year! The cheaper the parking, the farther the walking; it’s easier to travel by bus and rail.

 There’s an express bus downtown two miles from my house that connects nicely to the train that goes right to the convention center. And hey, Houston’s Metro service is great: people over 70 ride free with a 70+ bus card. Who could ask for anything more?

  In my excitement, I over-estimated travel time badly and got on an 8:15 am bus that resulted in a 9 am delivery to the Festival. Doors didn’t open until 10! Oh, well. The people-watching was good. I saw a couple friends in the crowd and also had nice chats with a few strangers. Quilters are generally easy to talk to with.

  I also studied the show program to suss out my moves. There is so much to see between the quilts and the vendors that one really needs a plan. I decided to walk the vendor aisles first, eat lunch, and then walk the quilt aisles. Walk is a generous description of the start and stop, almost lurching, progress made amidst literal throngs of people. As shoppers accumulate tote bags full of goods, the traffic jams up more and more. And that doesn’t include the effect of scooters, wheelchairs, and walkers as impediments.

  I only wanted to buy one thing for sure, a tub of Karique shea butter. A fabulous product that soothes my abused hand-quilter’s fingertips without being greasy (which means it won’t rub off on my fabric), I prefer to buy it every year at the show because the one time I mail ordered it, the Houston heat melted the stuff into a mess. But drat, no Karique booth this year!

  I had no other shopping plans, but did that stop me from shopping? No. The big thing I got was a quilt display system that goes over a door and doesn’t require drilling holes or screwing anything into the wall. I had never seen one like it and I really wanted it. I went back and looked at it three times! Then I texted Michael about it. His response is why I love him. “Would it really be the quilt festival if you didn’t bring something home?”

  Here’s a picture of my purchase, set up on the door to my office/guestroom. The door faces our foyer, making it a nice view for visitors as well as a privacy screen.

 I picked up some other inconsequential purchases, a couple of pretty good freebies, and some candy before lunch. I ate my usual, an exorbitantly priced baked potato with BBQ beef, and then went into the show side of things.

  So begins quilt overload. A friend called it quilt blur. That is not an exaggeration. There are only so many quilts you can look at before they begin to run together in overwhelming beauty! With no partner, I didn’t spend a lot of time discussing details, which I ordinarily would do. I just looked, felt astonished and unaccomplished, and then walked on to the next masterpiece. I also didn’t take loads of photographs, which I have often done in the past, only to realize later that all those pictures were wasting space in my cloud. Since you can find any picture you want on the internet, there isn’t a reason to keep them in your own collection.

  I couldn't resist taking pictures of three special quilts. I hope you’ll open the photos up a bit and look at the details. They’re incredible. 

 

This one is a whole cloth quilt that is entirely hand-stitched. The thousands upon thousands of tiny stitches took the quilter over 2,000 hours to complete.

 

These two are the same quilt. The quilter created 680 individual little girls with unique umbrellas, rain boots, and outfits. Imagine the time that took!

 This quilt just tickled me, and I thought Alix would get a kick out of it, too, so it's for her. What great cat energy!

Another year, another Quilt Festival. I’m re-energized and it’s a good thing because I have a special quilt project looming. Next month, I am going to learn how to make quilted tennis shoes. While I’m at it, I’m going to make a matching quilted purse. I have to get the fabric quilted in advance of the class, so that’s my next task. Like, immediately next! When it’s all done, I’ll share the results here.

 Ciao

P.S. I'm still learning how to get the pictures situated and obviously struggling. Sorry!

Tell Your Story

 

“If an ordinary person is silent, it may be a tactical maneuver. If a writer is silent, he is lying.”    Jaroslav Seifert

 “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your story. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”    Anne Lamott

 

I found writing memoir to be a long and difficult process. First of all, you have to live the life in order to write about it. That takes time in the most literal sense. The consequences of actions play out over many years, even decades. The ability to look back and reflect on life experiences is one of the most valuable aspects of memoir.

 My memoir is essentially about the 35 years that a serious chronic illness disrupted my life and my family, and the concurrent 30 years that raising an adopted child with serious mental health problems affected all of us for better and for worse. Either topic offers rich material for reflection; together they often feel overwhelming.

 Reliving painful experiences is no less painful than the original incidents; it’s just a different kind of pain. Sometimes I couldn’t face the work for weeks or months at a time. Sometimes I wept while writing. And sometimes I laughed out loud, remembering joyful or hilarious moments.

 In 1994, I attended the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, a very august, 100-year-old gathering of writers held in Middlebury Vermont each summer. We were newly adoptive parents to our youngest child at the time and did not yet appreciate the difficulties that lay ahead for us.

 Someone at Bread Loaf, who heard the unusual story of how she came into our life, very excitedly told me I had to write a book about it. I thought that might be a good idea and I tinkered with it for a bit, but ultimately realized that there wasn’t going to be that much I could say about the experience until we actually experienced more of our life as this newly constructed family.

 I put the idea away and spent many years writing essays about life as we lived it. I also filled journal after journal with my thoughts and ideas. Ultimately, 15 years or so down the line, my essays and thoughts began to take the shape of a coherent story about our life. That’s when I started writing my memoir in earnest.

  There are many phases of writing a book: concept, draft, revision, more revision, and even more revision. I’ve worked with structural editors and developmental editors. I’ve had chapters read and critiqued by other writers over many years. I feel sometimes like I’ve written ten books! The day comes when you can’t do any more revising. Maybe, you just can’t face any more revising. Nevertheless, it’s time to make your manuscript a book.

That’s where I am. My manuscript is begging to be a book. And, actually, people are asking me where to buy it. I wish I had the answer to that question. Selling or publishing a book is a whole different thing from writing it. And writing it doesn’t prepare you to sell it.

 If anyone has thoughts about this, I’d welcome them.
 
Ciao

Conflating Activity with Creativity: A Wander

 I belong to a women’s spirituality group that meets for an hour on Sunday mornings via Zoom. The group, Changing Women, which started at First Unitarian Universalist Church of Houston, has been meeting for at least three decades. I used to be involved all those years ago when we were members at First Church, but when we changed congregations to get closer to home, I stopped going.

COVID has had more deleterious effects than anything I can remember in my lifetime. Oddly enough, it did have one positive effect, at least for me. Several of my organizations started using online meetings during lockdown and continued the practice afterwards. Changing Women is one of those organizations.

 A momentary detour into geography may be helpful because Houston is so much bigger than most people who are not from here can imagine. The Houston MSA (Metropolitan Statistical Area) contains nine counties, Harris County being the central entity. We live on the far western outskirts of Harris County in a community called Cypress. Down the road a few miles is Waller County, and up the street a few miles is Montgomery County. Our part of Cypress is in a corner that butts up against these other two counties.

 The cultural heart of Houston is the Theatre District downtown, followed by the Museum District in mid-town. Those locations are about 30 miles from us. Driving to the far end of Harris County from our house, Seabrook, is over 60 miles. First Church is in the Museum District, so the amazing opportunity to meet online versus driving brought me back to Changing Women a few years ago.

 The group is centered around the book Earth Medicine: Ancestor Ways of Harmony forMany Moons by Jamie Sams. Published in 1994, it is a collection of daily readings based on Native American spirituality, tied to the cycle of the moon. There are two companion books to Earth Medicine: Medicine Cards and Sacred Path Cards.

 As the name implies, each book comes with a set of cards, similar in size and shape to tarot cards, meant to be used with guidance from their companion books. Medicine Cards is about how animal totems can enlighten you; Sacred Path Cards delve into Native American beliefs about spiritual development and how people should live.

 The reading for September 28 was Boredom. It told a story of one child who used time creatively and another child who felt aimless and bored. There were three questions suggested in the study guide for the reading. How are you creating beauty from what you have at hand?  What are you seeing in your mind’s eye?  How does boredom affect creativity?

 My initial reaction was kind of combative. I never feel bored. I mean, duh, books, right? Then a bit of reality slipped by my defenses. Uh, reels on Facebook? Email? Mindless games on my phone? Even when I read a “good” book (as opposed to pulp fiction), am it just masking boredom?

 This is a poser, for sure, but I have so far concluded that passing time is not creativity. Even making something isn’t necessarily creativity. I think I have been conflating creativity with activity. Shame on me for feeling so smug about my own cleverness!

 So what does constitute creativity? Two days is not enough time to devote to this question, but some things did pop up readily. Creativity requires the application of thoughtfulness and design to a problem or idea. Take making a quilt. What do I want my quilt to look like? What fabrics can I use to achieve the effect I want? How should I cut those fabrics and sew them back together to realize the image that’s in my brain?    

 Even if I use someone else’s pattern for a quilt, there are countless intermediate steps, starting with picking the fabric and ending with how to finish the binding, that require creative processes.  I have made two quilts for which the pattern and all the fabrics were pre-selected. I made them in Block-of-the-Month classes designed to teach technique and coach people through difficult quilt block execution. But at the end of these admittedly non-original, non-creative processes, I had to make a creative choice about how to finish the quilts.

 Option one, pay someone to quilt it on a machine. That’s minimally creative, assuming I pick the pattern. Option two, machine quilt it myself. More creative decisions required here. Option three, hand quilt it, which then requires several more choices about pattern, thread, and complexity.

 I hand quilted one of my non-original quilts with a fairly simple overall pattern because I had a time crunch. It turned out beautifully, BTW, and the recipient really appreciated it. I’m still working on the second one, years after I finished the top, because I picked a ridiculously complicated quilting design to hand quilt. It will be done one of these years and that’s okay.

 Most of the quilts I make now days are unique wall hangings, designed and executed by me, to express something special. Often, they are designed for particular people. Alix, for example, has a small reverse appliqué of a tree frog that I made for her because she loves frogs. I designed and made a reverse appliqué wall hanging of a monarch butterfly for myself.

Musing about boredom and creativity has led me to realize that I am spending precious time on activities with little or no value instead of activities that are fulfilling and expressive. And I’m really too old to be wasting my time like that. How about you?

 Ciao

 

 

Jonesing for Yellow Curry

     Do you have a favorite meal at a favorite restaurant? Something that makes your mouth water when you think about it? I do. In fact, there are several meals I love at different restaurants and I often make lunch plans with friends based on going to those places for those meals. One favorite is a Thai restaurant about 25 miles from home that serves a delicious yellow curry that I crave.

     It’s funny how I started eating it. A board that I once sat on would go out to eat after meetings and one evening someone suggested the restaurant Thai Spice. It was new to me. I consider Thai food generally to be too spicy, and this place was bragging about it right in the name. But I decided to try the yellow curry with chicken after the waiter assured me they could dial down the spices for my ‘delicate’ sensibilities.

     They delivered the dish in a soup pot — creamy yellow curry broth full of carrots, potatoes, and chicken. It came with steamed rice on the side. I dolloped a spoonful of rice into the broth and sampled the results, then had an OMG moment. The soup slid around my mouth like silk, rich and luscious. The chicken and vegetables tasted perfect, and I fell in love, victim of an on-the-spot addiction.

     We went back to that restaurant once in a while, and I ate the yellow curry every time. One night, I forgot to add mild to my order. The first bite tasted wonderful — just what I expected — until the curry bit me back. Oh, dear! My eyes were watering and my tongue was tingling, but I had gotten exactly what I ordered, so I could hardly send it back. Lured by the still silky and delicious taste of yellow curry broth, I soldiered through.

     There are almost always leftovers from this meal. The restaurant is generous, and I get full, so half of it goes home to give me a lovely lunch the next day. Two-for-one, who could ask for better? I've found the spice level is more intense after reheating. More teary eyes, a runny nose, but always, I soldier on. The curry is just too good to waste.

     Eventually, I stopped asking for adjustments to the spice level. A person who would never willingly eat a jalapeño or add red pepper to my chili, who doesn’t like the spicy taste of banana peppers or use Tabasco sauce ever, here I was, eating spicy curry at my favorite Thai restaurant whenever I could get there! And I still am.

     My friend Cathy lives near the dining spot, and we usually eat there whenever we lunch out, every couple of months. Fortunately, Cathy likes Thai food and has never complained about going there all the time. The lunch menu is a bit different from the dinner menu. You are served soup, a small egg roll, and a small salad alongside your smaller serving of the yellow curry, for, of course, a lower price than dinner. I think it’s a bargain. By the time I eat the appetizers, I’m full enough that I still can’t eat all the curry and I get to take home leftovers. Win-win!

     It has been a while since I ate yellow curry at Thai Spice in the Heights. I think about it anytime my mind turns to food. Literally, I can find myself jonesing on yellow curry at the drop of a hat. I beat back my cravings by remembering that I can go there if I want to; just get in my car and drive! I don’t need a lunch or dinner partner or an excuse to indulge. I’m a grown-up who owns a car, has a debit card, and can do it right now!

     I’m going to hold off though, at least long enough to see if Cathy is free for lunch soon. And I mean soon!

Ciao

    P.S. The restaurant changed its name for reasons I don’t understand, but everything else is the same. If you want to try the yellow curry — I recommend with chicken — you can find it in the Heights under the name ZapVor by Thai Spice. I’m told that ZapVor means “Super Yummy” in Thai. There's no arguing with that.

How Many Old People Does It Take to Change a Light Bulb?

    How many old people does it take to change a light bulb? Apparently, more than two, because Michael and I haven’t succeeded yet. The bulbs in question are actually tubes — fluorescent tubes — for the main fixture in our kitchen. Everyone has one, right? About two feet wide and four feet long, with four tube lights that provide most of the functional illumination in a kitchen.

     The four long neon tubes in ours have been faltering for a couple of weeks now. At first, they would dim and flicker occasionally, then settle down and illuminate just fine. Recently, one tube died and the kitchen got darker. When we got down to a single working fluorescent tube light, I hated working in there at night. I asked Michael to fix them: it was really too dark, even with the over-the-sink lights and the laundry room lights turned on. Michael turning on the microwave light as I complained did not much help either the lighting or my mood.

    Coming home from an event one day, I found the ladder in the kitchen and the cover off the fixture. Good, I thought, we’re going to have light again.” One tube had been removed; none of the other tubes worked at that point. I tracked Michael down in his office and commended him for working on the lights.

    “I’ll need to run to the hardware store for bulbs,” he told me. Easy enough, Home Depot and Lowe's are both within two miles of our house. Of course, one has to work up the motivation to soldier on and actually go to the store, so the ladder and cover got in the way in the kitchen for about a week.

    The next time I left Michael home alone, I returned to find new bulbs on the dining room table, one two-pack opened and loose. “I’m going to need some help with these. I couldn’t get them seated correctly by myself,” he said. “Fine, just let me know when you’re ready.”

    And so today, a Monday some days after his first attempt, he got back to it, but without waiting for me to finish lunch. Before I could join him to give whatever help he needed, I heard a crash, followed by appropriately loud cursing. The very thin glass of a fluorescent tube had scattered everywhere, and it took both of us sweeping in both the kitchen and the dining room to clear away the bits.

     “What can I do?” I asked. 

    “I can’t get the bulb to seat in the ballast,” he said. “If you could work on one end while I work on the other, that’d be great.” 

    So I dragged out the stepstool and climbed up, ready to insert and twist. I mean, that’s really all there is to it, right? Over 48 years of marriage and several different homes, we have replaced fluorescent tube lights numerous times. Mostly, Michael has replaced them, but I do know how to do it.

    But not today. He got his end in fine, but mine would not for the life of me insert far enough into the slot to twist in place. “Something’s blocking this side. It won’t go in all the way. Let’s switch sides, maybe you can do it.”

    Michael climbed down, I stepped across to his ladder, and he walked around to the stepstool and climbed up. All right, we were ready. It was going to work this time, I knew it. My confidence lasted right up to the moment I felt Michael’s end slip and heard another tube break. Fortunately, I still had a grip on my end, so we only had half a broken tube to clean up.

    At this point, Michael suggested that it was time to get track lighting for the kitchen. After all, fluorescent tubes were a thing of the past. I couldn’t agree more, but there is one thing special I want on the new track lighting for our kitchen. An installer. 

Ciao