Santa's Judgment

I will presume you've already read my post "Then On The 25th". If not, this won't make much sense to you. There were consequences, and decisions were made.

Billy's father contacted Santa after Billy's misbehavior. After all, those presents came out of a year's long observation of "naughty" and "nice" behaviors. And yes, Santa still had enough magic after his flight with his reindeer around the world that he had enough energy left to spend a few necessary moments discussing the problem together with Billy's Dad. 

I mean, just think of how exhausted an ordinary magic person would have been after such a tremendous amount of work all in one night! Why I'd have been so tired I would have needed to sleep until the following October, relying on the elves in the workshop to keep things running! And I'm not magic at all. Santa's magic is truly amazing and powerful!

Santa did delegate a few elves to head back over to Billy's house to sort the tags and re-wrap most of the presents for the other members of the family, while Billy was sent to his room. Daddy sent most of Billy's presents back to the workshop, maybe for another year, maybe for other children who'd been better behaved that night. Only Santa and his elves really know, and they aren't talking about it.

But Santa did remember the good things Billy had done all the past year, and decided that Daddy could pick out just three presents to keep, though not to give to Billy, or at least not quite yet. In the morning, Billy was told that, only because he'd been mostly good the last year, he would be given a chance to earn his presents back. But only by being extra good through this year. Santa sent one of his elves, a young one still in training at the workshop, to keep an eye on Billy and see how he was behaving. If, and only if, Billy went back to behaving well, then Santa would let Billy get one of his presents to keep. And then another after earning it, and finally the third. But he'd have to earn each by being extra good. It would happen either in the next couple months of the next year, since Santa couldn't spare his junior elf for very long away from the workshop, or Santa's elf would take the last three presents back to his workshop and some other well-behaved child would get them instead.

I know we're all hoping Billy can earn his presents back. He's usually a very nice little boy, and smart enough to learn his lesson pretty quickly.

Late December Fog

 This will be more pictoral than verbal. We've had several days now of fog with unseasonably warm temperatures. (Spoiler: it ends very soon. A deep freeze is coming.) I spent a bit of today outside with my camera, after discovering this morning how icy everything was. Not hoar-frost icy, but watch-your-damn-step! icy. It was a freezing fog. I had to sprinkle salt on the porch steps and the path to the car, in near pitch black dark except for what was picked up and bounced around by the droplets, to get to my job. The drive takes me up a steep hill. But fortunately there is a longer, shallower slope back entrance, which I'd studied ahead of time. If we get solid ice, I'll stay home. It's understood at the job.

A bit later in the morning I got the camera out, since I had about an hour to kill at one point. There were some places I'd had in the back of my mind to shoot, given the opportunity. First spot was the local lake, just a check on visibility and the craziness of folks out in their fish houses, considering how high temps had just been for days.

The horizontal ice stripes were mostly narrow bands of re-frozen melt water close to shore. But a bit further out were two ice houses, somehow lightweight enough for the ice to hold them. The one on the left is shown on runners, the other flat on ice. Fog hides other details including color and backdrop. I happen to know there are trees in a direct line behind them, as they are tucked in a bay, but it's early in the day yet. The weather forecaster claims the fog will be gone in about another hour from this point.

A few miles along the road is a well used boat launch, at least in summer. Over a half dozen vehicles were parked there today already, but none so stupid as to have hauled a standard ice house out on the lake. The color of this one is almost beginning to show the deep blue tent it is made of, while fog is thinning enough to reveal a side of the bay and the point behind it. Water levels, well frozen, are low enough to allow one to walk out on concrete lanes down into the lake, so my angle is about ten feet from shore.

Just a few degrees to the left are two more, much closer, with the land behind forming the bay more visible. Somebody is working on putting up the support poles for their tent - the red - while closer to the far shore is a modest square blue. Either the blue was unattended or its occupant content to sit inside, likely on one of the ubiquitous 5 gallon plastic buckets used both for hauling in/out, and sitting meantime.

If I turn  fully left and zoom to the next spit of land you can see where a supply of summer docks have been pulled out to wait through winter. Well before fishing opener in the spring they will be anchored back in the lake, jutting out from shore where boat owners pay for slips for the season they can walk to from their cars, or even their back doors. Another bay opens on the other side of this spit of land, again too far  to spy through the fog. The white along the shore on this side is likely where snow drifted on the ice and didn't fully melt in the latest warm spell.

It was finally time to try a different spot. I've been waiting for the perfect lighting to catch the shot I wanted, for several years now. There's no lake here, just a drop to the highway below, and one old tree which is having a difficult time deciding whether it is going to die outright or just a bit and spring back with new growth from the trunk. Those are not vines clinging to it. It has a rather cluttered background, with office buildings, a motel, signs, large trees, and steady highway traffic. Fog is a must for a shot of it, isolating it enough so it can stand out and show it's own unique beauty.

One of the medical buildings on this side of the tree uses the nearby ground under it for snow removal from their parking lot. Of course it's not completely necessary to showing off the tree,though the angle showing the snow is otherwise more effective.

Next summer the clinging red/brown leaves will be replaced by green ones should the tree survive another winter, the trees across the highway will be solid green, and you'll almost have to know this tree is there to see it... and its beauty.

Kettle Drums In The Back Yard

I've been hearing the thumm... thumm for months now, after my head hits the pillow and the dark house is nearly silent. My head is next to the outside wall, a bit down in the next room from the front door. There could be many explanations. There just never are.

Several times I've gotten up and looked out the window to see if there was something I could point to, perhaps something needing fixing, to pin the noise on. I'd open the front door, step out, look around, try to pinpoint a noise, a source, some reason. Eventually I'd give up worrying and go to sleep. However, if I woke in the wee hours I could hear it again, or at least until my bad shoulder drove me out of bed to finish sleeping in my recliner where the pressure would be off the shoulder and eventually I could sleep again.

In the middle of the house. No windows next to me. No outside wall by my head. 

I wondered if there was a leak somewhere from the roof or in a wall, perhaps even in the plumbing underneath where I slept, or inside a cabinet - any excuse for the noise, any reason for a repair being missed  that we could address. 

Nothing. When I walk around, it always seems to come from outside, never has a source I can find.

Oddly, it never seemed to depend on the weather. I opened the front door several times to look out, see if something was dripping off the roof, hitting, say, the porch to make the noise. There'd be no drips off our roof, the porch was dry, no snow was thawing, no rain falling. Was it in the walls? Would something ignored be rotting away to fall apart with us inside the home?

Sleep can be a challenge with those thoughts running through your head.

We just had a really good rain the last couple days, with temperatures in the high 30s, and snow melting from all but the most determined banks where shovels and plows have piled it. A look at the lake reveals glass where two days ago it was solid snow white. So far no fishermen are braving the ice, sensibly wary of how thin it may have gotten. Rabbits have been in the yard, piles of droppings sitting where they long munched on missed clumps of green grass formerly hidden by snow. We'd been seeing the tracks where they had passed through, but nothing had looked like them stopping for a buffet, until now. Our trips to the garbage and recycle bins will have to be in daylight for a few days so we can monitor where we step to keep shoes clean, but the rabbits are welcome to the grass. Normally we have to pay for the trimming.

But last night brought the kettle drums into the back yard. It was no longer a steady slow thumm... thumm. It was a percussion masterpiece, an endless performance worthy of Symphony Hall. And no, it didn't emerge from off our roof at all. Or at least not the house roof.

Instead it came from out in the yard, where the shed sits, or to be even more precise, where the sloped shed roof deposits water onto the trash bin, and the recycle bin. Each has a slightly different quality of plastic hinged lid, with different levels of emptiness inside to mellow the sound or accentuate it. Those were our kettle drums! I even called Steve to come and listen to them for a bit, which he did.

While they were loud, the sound soon soothed me to sleep, rather than keeping me awake with imagined cares.

It's going to be dry again tonight, and likely for several more. I'm wondering if the thumm... thumm will return tonite. I'll be sure to poke my head out and search for a cause when it does. This time I'll make sure to check the shed roof to see if it's dripping onto the bins. They have tended to be wet in the mornings, or even iced up when it's cold enough inside a little trough at the hinges. Sometimes I have to  whack the lids to get them open.  I know it doesn't really make sense that they'd be a source of the nightly dripping, but I do want to be sure. I'd love to settle in to sleep without needing to worry about some missed repair somewhere. 

But in a good rain I'll also be alert for the kettle drums to return to the yard. We both love a free concert.

Then OnThe 25th...

 One advantage of marrying into a large family is that you get a lot of stories to tell. This one involves a four-yer old, and I'm going to use a nickname for him based on his middle name. After all his first name is quite unique, and someday he'll grow up and might not want to be identified by his recent exploits. So I'll call him Billy.

We've been seeing a fair amount of Billy this past  year. Right now his parents are moving to a new apartment, but still managed to get a tree up to celebrate Christmas and Santa. The first time we even met Billy was just after we moved north last spring, when he was having his own 4th birthday party. It was full of relatives from both his parents' sides of the family, but even better was he got to invite his best friend along so he'd have a playmate through the party. When it came to present opening time, bedlam ensued, wrapping paper removed as soon as possible and scattered even more widely than previously thought possible, with the result that presents were very rapidly revealed.

This was little kids being cute, right?

Skip forward to a couple months ago. A big birthday party was held for Billy's cousins, sisters whose birthdays are a week apart on the calendar, though by a couple years in fact. The family held a joint party for the girls, and Billy and his family were present. It was a challenge to keep Billy from "helping" unwrap all the girl's presents, and for several minutes his parents kept him confined in a cardboard box, back next to where they were sitting watching some much more sedate action than the previous big party. The box was big enough big enough for him to comfortably watch the proceedings from, small enough to keep him out of the way, and to reach him in with frequent reminders and some gentle tugs on his clothing. These weren't his presents, after all.  Billy is one of those kids who likes boxes to play in, so he was only disappointed that he had to give the empty box back after the fun was over. Well, maybe a little bit let down that this time the goodies weren't for him. One of the birthday girls likes boxes as much as Billy does, maybe even more, and this box was for her.

Skip ahead once more to Christmas Eve. Billy is put to bed, where he is to get a good night's sleep while waiting for Santa to bring everybody's presents overnight. It works for a little while, but then Billy decided to be a helper for Santa, just not by sleeping so Santa can sneak in and leave presents. He has a different idea in mind. When the family wakes up in the morning, they find Billy has unwrapped every single present under the tree. Every! Single! One! Billy happily greets them from the middle of the piles.

We have not been told the family's exact reactions. It may be best that they remain private.

But if any of you out there were looking for a thank you note from somebody in Billy's family, please note that your present was most likely received. And opened, very promptly and efficiently. Now they may never know exactly who sent it or who it was really meant for. A brief note may be in order with a quick little mention of what was sent to whom. I'm sure they're not intending to be rude if you haven't heard quite yet. Santa just got a little too much help last night.

On December 24th...

I was in a bit of a grumpy mood.  Company was coming... though I didn't know how many. Ten? Twenty?  Who today? Tomorrow? The person who'd offered to help clean was not feeling well, and wisely staying away, while I, of course, had left a lot of those chores to the last. C'mon, a lot of that made sense: why empty the still-mostly-empty wastebaskets when two more days of trash were still to go in? Why extend tables this early when they'd mostly be blocking paths? Decorate them later too. Why clean the floor a week early when lots more would be dropped - or dripped - on it? Same with dishes: there would be a plentiful supply of them once the "do ahead of time" food prep was, well, prepped, so why not do it all at once? I'd had to work for a couple hours in the morning I hadn't planned on earlier in the week so it was just all mounting up, and suddenly there was only an hour left till the first guests were due to arrive. 

I needed some lunch.

Then there was the phone call from younger guests asking if it was "still OK" if they came over (?!) and could they maybe show up a bit early? I overheard some of the conversation, and the caller sounded upset. Of course they were welcomed! No question in the world about it, just some unvoiced ones until later to each other about what might be causing the upset we picked up from the voice. It just meant I had to put off lunch yet another hour when I was already feeling an energy low plus a need to tuck my feet up for a bit, and do that last-second run to the store that was suddenly needed when shopping lists had been made and fulfilled the day before. Except this one wasn't, because first Steve needed things, then didn't, then finally decided he did after all... right when I needed fewer things on my to-do list rather than more. I guess my early afternoon shower wasn't happening after all. 

Sighhhhhh....

He swore I didn't stink. And my cowlicks were laying down for a change.

At least the weather was warm, meaning snow was melting off the roads. And the local store was close and still open, even if pricey. Of course, I'd make up for less driving time by more hunting through the shelves, since I was usually happy to drive farther for low prices, and not that familiar with this store. Plus I'd already driven right past it earlier that morning, on my route between work and the post office where I popped in to find out why a priority package was on the east coast instead of the west, and what could we do now that tracking claimed it was delivered... somewhere... thousands of miles away from its goal. I mean, how does a package leaving Minnesota for Oregon wind up in New Hampshire? At least they verified it was not infact delivered, but still on a truck, arriving late but still on its way, apparenty enjoying the scenic route.

As I parked in the unusually jammed parking lot for the grocery store, I was mentally going over his list and trying to figure out whether there was anything I needed to add while I was there. There was NOT going to be another last minute run! 

Thus preoccupied, I was totally startled by a very warm "Merry Christmas" from a complere stranger coming out of the store on the way to her car as she aproached me heading in. Seeing it was for me, I smiled at her, thanked her, and offered her a heartfelt one in return. 

It had been a gift, the best kind, totally unexpected, a nice wish from somebody who could tell I needed one right then. It worked.

Once in the packed store, the feeling persisted. I found what I needed, added a few last minute things to help set amore festive mood at the tables, and actually noticed the shoppers around me. We were all happy! When carts bumped, people smiled, apologized, laughed, and moved on. People waited for the person ahead to choose the exact right item before reaching in for theirs. They might even chat with the next person behind them while waiting.

When I finally reached check-out, I paused a moment to decide which line I wanted to get into, and a man coming from a different direction waited for me to choose. I smiled at him, aplogized for my delay, due to mentally double-checking my list,  and he offered that he was still doing the same thing. 

It ran all through the store! People leaving were greeting new arrivals in the parking lot, folks waited patiently for an open parking slot. There didn't seem to be a bad mood in the place, including mine, and the feeling lasted till well after I got back home and my to-do list vied for attention again. 

Lunch? How about a few pieces of the holiday candies I'd picked up last minute to fill centerpieces for the tables? Mmmmmmm! Later a certain four-year-old had just as much enjoyment from them (with his mother's blessing - I checked)  as I'd had, and his older sister had, and Steve had....

The day ended with a houseful of children's giggles as they played tickle and destroyed all the spare empty boxes set out for such entertainment. No fancy holiday choir music could possibly compare.

Prescription For Christmas

No, this is not an advice piece for how to Have a Merry. It's a tale of what goes wrong when you need your pharmacy to refill some over a huge holiday... because why wouldn't I rant about that?

I take the things prescribed for me because I need them. I do plan to live another dozen years or so, if it's my decision to make. (Yeah, I know....)  Several of my last refills were made on the 25th of September. Ninety days worth. Count off on your calendar and you'll see when they all run out. Got it?

Now add the complication that one is somehow still listed as being from my doctor back in Arizona. My last visit with him was a year ago October. It's completely expected that he is a responsible physician who doesn't do refills without seeing the patient with their current lab results. So far all but one of my meds has been transferred up north to my new clinic and doctor. The potassium hasn't, and somehow nobody noticed and made the correction. OK, correction: it was noticed, and a correction was attempted back in September at the previous refill.  My new doc authorized it, my old doc cancelled it, and the pharmacy somehow managed to cancel the wrong one!

So I need them tomorrow. Christmas Eve, half a store-open-hours day, with all the cooking scheduled and company to entertain.

All the others which run out at the same time have been filled, but I called to check before running over to pick them up. Who needs the extra miles on the car from two trips in the snow and while trying to host a pair of holiday dinners? Were they ready? Well.... the other ones were. But they had no orders for my potassium. Luckily the pharmacist on the phone was very helpful despite how busy she must be right now, dug deep into my records, and found the problem, instantly correcting it. I'll get a call in an hour or so telling me everything is ready to be picked up.

That's a good thing, because otherwise I'd be guessing at just how many banana chips I'd need to chow down in in order to get the proper amount in potassium in my diet. fortunately I have been ordering them by the number ten can full these last few months. Climate change is doing a number on the banana crops and will only get worse. The chips don't spoil. But who in the world could tell me how many MEQ of potassium is in how many chips? Pharmacists count that way, nutritionists don't. I'm not convinced they compare notes. So I'm waiting for that phone call.

If I'm going to make a silly mistake and OD on something over the holidays, I'd much rather it be chocolate!!!

And there's the call... and it's almost twice the price! Yikes! But I'm gone for now.....

Solstice Turning

Oh Boy! We get more daylight today! Whatever shall we do with the whole four seconds? And then tomorrow, how many more added on? My biggest question, of course , with such a tiny increase, however did the ancients figure out the exact point in the year so they could carve it in stone, mark it for all the generations to come, so we'd all know exactly when to celebrate the return of the sun? When you know the right places to look, the proper temples, the exact right time, and see the short flash of light coming across the ground, through the mountains, between the holes in the ancient rocks to alight so briefly on the well carved spot on a long waiting wall, how can it not give you pause, a flash of awe that people we belittle as primitive for living with the earth instead of finding new ways to destroy it, could have done something so precise and worked so many years to leave it for future generations of whatever beings were to come? They came, they went, things changed... except for the rocks, and the sun, and their marked stone calendars, still precise to the moment.

Hmmm, four seconds more light, the weatherman said. How many of us could notice it? How many would find time in our busy schedules to mark it, to plan something to fill that time which wasn't there yesterday because it was still filled with dark?

I've just filled mine, by writing here to acknowledge it. More than four, of course. But I designate them as noted, used well. Light is starting to peep in around the edges of the blinds behind the little X-mas tree, waiting to have the light strings plugged in, starting the old fashioned bubbler lights dancing, wrapped packages finally stacked below. Myriad other tasks await, a holiday approaches, and we celebrate it, not as the Church would have us do, but as love demands. Perhaps that is the true point.

Family is invited, along with a few friends, to share it with us. Food is already being prepared, because much of it takes a few days of work, and some things which don't actually take that much time get fit in ahead too, so the DAY OF isn't total chaos dissolving into anger, defeating the purpose. Even the host(ess) needs some time to relax, to appreciate the festivities and the people ready to share them. As it turns out, it takes way more than those extra four seconds, or tomorrow's added bounty of time, or the next day's. With enough advance work, even the host(ess) can pause just to enjoy those seconds, instead of rushing through them without respite, or without thoughts of anything but things yet undone.

Traditional holiday music fills the house for a few days. We here no longer call it holy, as beliefs have changed since childhood. But it is still a time of nostalgia. That  music takes us back to the people still alive then, their celebrations, their love, the excitement of gifts from Santa, and if we are still of the right age and situation, we work to provide that for our own next generation(s). If you were as lucky as I was, gifted with a voice that, while not of perfect pitch, could not only hold a tune but sing in harmony as well, each tune brings back memories and the urge to sing along... what were those words again? To the third verse? OK, we'll hum this time, it still counts, like in T-ball, for participation. Singing voices not used for years sometimes can come back over such a long history of traditions, whatever they mean now, because they are a caress to the best of the past at this time of year. 

And if tears join them, who's to complain?

SNOW !!!!!!

Yesterday, it snowed. Of course it picked the day when I had to drive Steve down into the metro for a long-awaited doctor's appointment. He was already nervous about it, as his previous visit to the same office had been very painful, so bad he threatened to walk out (again!) if there was a repeat, despite the possible consequences of no chance at back surgery. I had been hoping the snow wouldn't give him a chance to cancel preemptively.  It didn't.

I got to face my first real snow driving in over ten years. That's really why we moved back north, right?

WRONG!

 We had been planning to sit quietly in the house all winter, well stocked up on all essentials, just keeping warm and connecting to the world electronically. Then I got my part time job. Plans changed, although I drew the line at driving on ice in the hills in that location, and it was agreed to. This wasn't ice, just 5" of snow, and I was not going to be the reason delaying Steve's appointment after waiting months for it.

 I have long been that slow car on the slick roads that many of you line up behind, waiting for your chance to do something crazy to get where you're going ten minutes faster. You can just leave earlier, as far as I'm concerned. Too many of you out there have forgotten that golden rule of winter driving, that in the lack of traction, inertia rules. I have no pity for you when you have to learn for the umpteenth time the hard way, and I pass you down in a ditch or up straddling a guardrail, waiting for some wrecker to finally get to you, the 73rd vehicle on their list that day, while you wait to pay your tuition on your latest lesson on snow driving. I just feel relief that you didn't try to charge me for the price of your "tuition". It's been done too many times already.

We left yesterday giving an extra hour for a normally only 45 minute drive. Most places weren't too slick, but a fair number weren't close to dry. You could see two lanes of ice laid down in an otherwise  dry looking lane, especially under overpasses. There were lots of choices whether to drive slightly off to their left, or to their right. Quick! Which side? Decide fast, move slowly. get through safely. Obviously a lot of drivers hadn't figured that out yet. I lost count of the accidents we passed, but all the flashing lights gave plenty of warning. It started even before we cleared the connected small towns on our way through the lakes area into the countryside on a national highway heading to the freeway. 

Even before the freeway I felt the need to pull over to ditch an insistent tailgater who apparently figured riding my tail on a two lane highway would make me speed up. Heads up, out there: tailgating me makes me slow down, every time, all road conditions, because now should anything happen I have to try to drive and brake for two, one of which is a certified idiot! The other of us has well over 2 million driving miles under my belt without any at-fault accidents. Yes, I said MILLION! Two of them. Plus whatever I added in 12 years of snowbirding. I'm not claiming no accidents. But when you can't figure out how to slow enough on ice to prevent a) rear ending me where I'm stopped at a red light, and shoving me out into cross traffic, or b)  can't stop at the stop sign before popping out onto the highway right in front of where I'm driving past the hill blocking any view of you, at  a mere 30 mph because it's iced, and we connect, it's not my fault! 

Luckily the freeway, even with the iced lanes, was good for a steady 45 at its worst, and there's a good passing lane for those heavier vehicles who don't need to bully me into driving recklessly. Yes, we did pass more of them who needed to be extricated from where they landed, including one along the oncoming side involving two flatbed trucks and cops ahead and behind. We couldn't see the vehicles needing to be removed from where the ground dropped off on the far side from where we were driving. Steve looked while I drove but one white corner of something was all that was still high and close enough to the freeway to be visible.

Once we approached a junction of two freeways in the metro, where each of the 4 lanes of the one we were on went in different directions at the junction, I chose to take the exit ahead of the congestion, take that county road to the minor highway to a major street to Steve's doctor's office.  We arrived 20 minutes early, safe, cozy, unruffled, and warm.

The appointment went well, with a possibility of surgery in about 6 weeks. The snow had stopped by the drive home, ice lanes were gone, and roads were clear until we got back into lakes country again. I presume the plows will have been working all night, except the part where the plowed ridge at the street end of our parking pad likely still sits. I signed up for paying to have the pad shoveled, back when we moved in. So far nobody's done a thing, but at least the last good snow melted overnight. Now we expect a melt for Christmas, but only by a degree or so for a couple hours a day. At least there were no problems getting in to park. I have to take the last packages to the post office today, so a good time to check out accessibility for the car, but at least it can be done in full daylight, unlike my job where I leave at 6:30, an hour before visibility starts to hint at its arrival.

The second best part of the day was finding out, after all the years of no winter driving, that all the old driving skills hadn't left me. (Schadenfreude was when the morning news announced there had been well over 700 accidents! ) I had at least raised the question with myself, because in all those same years, a different skill had gone, the one Steve calls my "internal GPS". Now I have to look up places on maps that I used to be able to drive to - and though - without a second thought. I knew the names, the routes, what they looked like. That's gone. It's getting rebuilt slowly, but I keep finding I can't place a street name or a distant town I used to drive through on my way elsewhere. Just to make it more fun, a lot of the streets, especially county roads, have been renamed. They used to be alphabetized, like County Road C or E2. Now they have names.  At least you knew B was south of C was south of D, etc. I presume it involves the county handing the road expenses off to the community it passes through, so somebody else gets to fill potholes, plow, and generally take over all the work and costs of maintaining the road. State Hiway 61 is - locally - County Road 30, so it seems to work both ways.

Who are you and why have you been playing these games?

If somebody did it with a plan to sell GPS units, or at least software upgrades, I'm still not buying one!

Go Ahead: Call Me A Neanderthal!

I bet you think that's an insult, a way to call me ugly, stupid, funny looking, and generally beneath your pristine selves.

I'll wear that name proudly. The joke's on you.

I've learned some things recently. We think Crow Magnon is who we are, who we've always been, and anything else is sub-human, a kind of ape animal. Scientists have been busy going through DNA, going through anthropological discoveries, and in many ways taking a really deep dive into this planet's inhabitants' history.

Lets start with other kinds of humans who walked the earth. So far there have been at least 4 distinct ones in prehistory. We're most familiar with Crow Magnon, whom we identify as, and Neanderthal, whom we ridicule. Yeah, we'll admit our ancestors in the dim past emerged from Africa and spread out across the land. We're the conquerors, the chosen ones, the... well, congratulate yourselves however you like. As far as you know, you're some pure strain, the apex of evolution. Cheer! Celebrate! Have a drink!

Are you done yet?

Way back around 70,000 years ago, humans did leave Africa, spread out... and died off. It happened again, a "bit" later, including the dying off part. And again. Apparently we weren't "all that". But in the examples of remains from those migrations, no scraps of the DNA markers that made us unique are left in modern DNA. Skip forward to about 40,000 ago. Neanderthals inhabited parts of Europe, and we had emerged again, this time into that area. Being human with some traits we still "exercise" as diligently as possible, we intermingled. You know, had carnal knowledge and all that.  We made babies together. Got the picture? 

Before you get all shocked, stop a minute to thank our hormones that those ancestors did, because it was the hybrids, if you will, that actually survived to go on and produce most of us. Somehow the Neanderthals died out and we took over. And once they were rediscovered in caves or whatever, we pegged them as stupid animals because now we were here and they weren't. Except they are. In us. And apparently because they were, we are. We survived when other "pure" strains didn't. The scientists haven't figured out yet just what we got out of the blend that made us hardier, or even if what we got from our blending was "just" cultural knowledge of how to survive the new climate and hunt new animals and collect new foods, and....  But it worked. Taking the population of Britain, as an example, there is about 2-3% Neanderthal in their DNA, if we are talking about those who dwelled there for thousands of years. 

Recent immigrants from around the globe have their own histories of course, and so far there is no confirmation of interbreeding in other parts of the globe with our other early human cousins. I have no idea if anybody's even looking... yet. Of course recent centuries have provided time for more migrations and interbreeding among cultures all over the globe. It remains to be seen whether there was also interbreeding among other human species, or whether the timing even worked to overlap them geographically to provide the opportunities. Hard to breed with somebody dead 30,000 years, right?

But just remember one thing. If it weren't for the Neanderthals, we Crow Magnon would not have survived as a species once we left Africa. We kept failing.  We needed something we got from them to survive, to thrive, and there is proof we shared DNA. So go ahead and call me a Neanderthal. I'll wear it proudly, and gratefully. My ancestors came that way, though exactly when isn't clear. Mitochondrial DNA proves it. When they got to where Neanderthals had lived or did live, they survived, they thrived, they interbred with those there, they moved on, and I'm here to tell the tale.

So You Think You Want Fame?

 Remember those lyrics? "Fame, I'm gonna live forever..." Once the first line is recalled, most of us suddenly get an "ear worm", riding through our heads, never letting us go, or at least not for a bit. They can be pesky critters, at least until they've served a purpose. What do we get from this particular one while we try to figure out how to get rid of it?

A lot of people think they find fame, when what they really get, I will argue, is merely celebrity. It comes, it soon goes, another takes its place. "Influencers" experience celebrity, and find they have followers who copy them instead of finding their own paths. Either they haven't a clue what their own paths are, or just decide the celebrity will rub off on them. Other celebrities find what they have gained is notoriety, being known for something destructive. They also have something fleeting, and it usually winds up not even having any use. Compare them with vultures, the real ones, not a word used to (mis)describe bad behavior. Those birds are cleaners, ridding the environment of rot, of bad smells, of diseases growing in dead flesh which, on passing through theirs, not only become harmless but benefit the earth with fertilizer where something new can grow. Think of the birds as having an asshole with a purpose, rather than simply being a person identifiable as an asshole with a stench. That's if you bother to think of them at all.

There is of course a good fame, one that is useful, productive, heroic, beautiful, something to be emulated. I'm sure a list of people with those kinds of fame just ran through your heads. I think of Beethoven, of Abe Lincoln, of George Washington Carver and Michelangelo right off the bat. They have found ways of living "forever". That's if we take a tiny bit of liberty with the term "forever".  We can go for up to a few centuries of fame, but forever is a hard sell.

We do know people have done wonderful and amazing things in long ago history, and not have a clue of their names. Consider the people who designed pyramids - no, not the Egyptian ones, for they were often named, but how about the Mayan ones? We know people traveled long distances across oceans thousands of years ago, though their names never survived. Rivers have been channeled in different ways, perhaps for irrigation, perhaps for bathing, and nobody knows whose ideas those were. Why Stonehenge? Why Machu Picchu? And who? Fame? After all those centuries? That's nothing like forever.

I have wondered about those who were responsible for cave art, for pictographs. Stories were told, representations of great hunts depicted, remnants of ceremonies or gods and goddesses left behind to endure through the ages to the point where we can see them, marvel at them, and maybe just wonder a little bit at exactly what they were thinking when they made them. Was somebody thinking "my hand print will be here forever"? How about an ancient version of "Kilroy was here"? Or "everybody will know forever how we attacked and slew the monster", or "we fed/saved our tribe during famine", or "we met some gods"? Might it just have been "Lookie what I can do, does this look like a horse?" Or has it been so long, and humans changed so much, that we actually have no clue about the whys of what was done and are misinterpreting everything we see on those rocks? Thousand of years later, here is proof of forerunners, yet they have total anonymity, and not fame. We marvel at the product, not the producers. 

Will this be what we leave behind? Imagine some future residents on this planet digging up remnants of our civilization. Will they recognize them as not natural, or think they are just part of the world as is and always was? We who have been paying attention understand that we face a mass extinction event, soon in geological terms, undetermined in the human scale of time. We are the cause this time around, and are already seeing the signs of what's to come. Every huge era replacing the last has different life forms emerge to replace what was. We will be replaced, and have no way to guess what will survive, though nearly everybody jokes that nothing kills cockroaches. Whatever our replacements are, what will be left of us that they, should intelligence be part of them, would have a way of understanding? 

We will not be remembered. We might be discovered, they way we discover dinosaurs. We are as likely to be thought a plague, as we are a species of builders, or poets, or astronauts. As individuals we won't have existed, just as a species, presuming whatever discovers us has the kind of understanding we have, the curiosity, even some of the traits and practices. There is no knowing, so in short, no fame survives.  We will none of us have a "forever".

But there is a drive in many of us to be remembered, most of us in fact. When we think of the person who wishes to always be a shadow, we immediately assume criminal behavior avoiding punishment, or some terrible secret never to be revealed, usually accompanied by guilt or shame. Part of the reward of raising families is knowing those who outlive us will be around to remember us for a while, and stories passed down through the generations of our deeds keep memories of us alive even longer. Being written about, or the act of writing, are other forms of reaching for either fame or just being remembered for some time after we're no longer here.

I confess. I'd like to be remembered after I'm gone. I won't be a ghost haunting people, I won't be a major criminal, I won't discover the cure for some dread disease, I won't be the richest, the oldest, the smartest, the most "-est" anything. I'll just be consistently me, if any person who continues to live and therefore to continue to change, can be said to be consistent. I'll keep writing as long as I'm able and have something I need to say. It's yours to choose if you need to read it, but I choose what and when I need to write. If you  remember me by my words, you will remember only a part of me. I edit what goes on paper, as some tales are not mine to tell, and some of mine just won't be shared.

I had a conversation online with somebody last week on this topic. They had contacted a well known expert on a particular topic, offering a nugget of fact and an idea of its importance to that person. It was very well received, and the well known expert gave credit for it. The glow of that recognition was still strong when I heard about about it. This was in the middle of a conversation about "what do I leave behind after I'm gone?", the the person I was communicating with very aware of how short a time they had left, with health issues limiting future contributions, presumably. I let them  know how our conversations had impacted me, and in return, heard how my words had impacted them. Now, I neither have, nor will ever, meet this person, for various reasons. Yet we both can still affect others. And one hope of both of us is that during whatever time remains, we each can have an effect on others, that we can add something positive to their lives, and that for at least some while, we will be remembered.

Wait! So What's Going To Kill Us Now? For Christmas?

 The X-mas tree is up. It's a little 4-footer, a fake tree, and sits on a low table in front of the window facing the street. It comes with its own lights, two sets of them alternating. First it's all white, 

 

then red/gree/blue/gold ones flash before it goes back to white, and back and forth. It's really hard to get my camera set for it, but it's for the eyes, anyway. The lights reflect well in the plastic film storm windows, with all the wrinkles in the film bouncing the colors. When we want privacy, we shut the blinds. Inquisitive neighbors can see light changes in the cracks between the blinds.

You may note I haven't mentioned ornaments. We got rid of all our ornaments before we moved. Some went away a few years ago to family members who were raising young kids, presumably needing to spend more funds on diapers than tree ornaments. Coincidentally, we were downsizing. Win-win.

The one thing we didn't leave behind was our combined collection of old bubbler lights. Without a tree any more they had a few interesting holidays, like being taped across the front of a display cabinet one year, or on a rigged up platform another one. We still enjoyed the bubbling. 

One or two may have expired each year, either in storage or just burning out when plugged in. We'd check out replacements, find them some years, not others.Currently we have something between 2 strings and 4 of them, intact, lighting up, and still bubbling well. One or two glow but don't bubble or just bubble every couple minutes, and with their weird positioning in non-tree locations, a couple would tip over and we couldn't tell if they would still bubble or not. They were carefully packed along with the jingle bell wreath to go north with us, and unpacked this morning. Tomorrow they'll be rechecked and put on a tree again.

The wreath has a spot to hang facing the street between two doors so weather doesn't do any damage and it's still visible. Nobody will hear them, but they'll remain beautiful. Two windows over is the one the tree stands behind.

I spent a bit of time online looking for either more strings or loose bulbs. To my vast disappointment this year's version of "bubbling" is a bent over Santa, dropped drawers, farting bubbles... or something. Not exactly to our taste, but from the quantity of them for sale, they must have a lot of fans/customers. There were a very few strings of bubble lights for sale, all used. Many only claimed that 4 of the seven were still working, whether light or bubbling, and the owners were still asking ridiculously high prices for them, plus shipping. I managed to find two strings that were both intact and not exorbitantly priced. Figuring subsequent years would only get worse, I ordered them both.

Several hours later I checked in on my emails. One interesting one came through, but without a sufficient amount of information.  Supposedly I couldn't buy them and I was supposed to contact the seller. "Couldn't" was phrased more like "not allowed to". I knew it wasn't that my card didn't go thorough. It had. But which seller? The two strings of bubblers came from different sellers and the email didn't specify before the email vanished.

Maybe it was both?

I decided maybe Google knew what was going on. Turns out the old ones had methylene chloride inside them. It's a solvent, used for stripping paint, possibly carcinogenic, and toxic. It gave a very dependable bubbling effect when it heated utp. They do something different these days, and still sell them. 

All the predictable things ran through my head that people who grew up the same time I did had going through theirs each time another much used or often done terrible thing had their awfulness revealed for the world to fear. Remember mercury thermometers? We kids used to play with mercury, rolling balls of it across our school desks, dividing and reconnecting them just to watch it happen. Usually we did it in the pencil trough, because if they rolled off the desk they'd splat into dozens of tiny balls on the floor, a devil of a task to pick up! Somebody for sure would come up with a penny and challenge another person to rub the mercury across it until the penny changed to silver, with the claim that then it could be mistaken for a nickel when you were at the store. Boy oh boy, we worked hard trying to make that happen! It never did, so there wasn't any temptation to try to cheat a cashier somewhere. And look at us, we're all fine now. While one drop of mercury today in a school clears the building till the guys in the hazmat suits come scoop it up!

Hey, anybody got a penny for them...?

The logical result of those scares was and is that my generation tends to ignore all the latest revelations about what is terrible about things we'd do all the time without giving it a thought and apparently without coming to any harm. There are exceptions, of course. We'd pile all the kids we could fit in cars before seatbelts came along, Moms held babies in their arms, and if there were even more people they could be piled in the open back of a pickup. Now seatbelts and child car seats are universal. Smoking happens outdoors more than in the house with the kids. Bike helmets are common, and many sports use knee pads and other protections routinely. But not everything has changed.

So you tell one of us that something we've lived with forever could harm us, we look at each other, ask if we used them, find the answer is yes, decided we're still just fine thank you, and shrug it off and keep stringing the lights. Mind you, some bulbs often had dried out over the summer up in the attic or garage or wherever they'd been stored, and got tossed. Nothing left to make bubbles, so why keep them? Nobody remembered a chemical smell. Nobody found them oily. We just took precautions not to cut ourselves on broken glass, watched out for frayed wires like for all light strings, and whittled the strings of bubblers down to whatever was still working before hanging them on the tree.

Am I going to throw out our bubblers? Nope, unless they leak. Or look cracked. Old bulbs that no longer light or bubble will go bye-bye, but working ones will go gently on the tree. Just like in previous years. I'll give them an extra close look first of course. I'll keep in mind we might be looking at more than a possible fire hazard. We have more bulbs than strings to hold them, or maybe it's more strings than bulbs to fill them, but until it comes down to open spaces on the last string, they'll keep going up. These are one last piece of our holiday childhoods.  The grandchildren and great grandchildren can come over and wonder at what used to be on decorated trees back when these old people, somehow still living as ancient as we are, were sill children (as if that were ever possible!), that now are all but lost to history.

Unless of course somebody figures out how to make a non toxic LED version of lights that actually make bubbles one can watch for hours, something that can be tucked away and brought out again each winter for that ever-increasing stack of nostalgia that grows through the years. Each generation will try to share the wonder with the next growing generation, and then the next. Likely each will fear they've failed as the newest / shiniest / fanciest / most exquisite thing is under the wrapping and bows under the tree each year, and not on it where all can see. 

They just have to stop and look.

Not THAT Diabetic

My primary sent me to a podiatrist for a new foot pain, who sent me to clinic for diabetic shoes and orthotics. Medicare pays for proper shoes for diabetic foot care. Feet get numb, resulting often in skin damage, leading to infections, and worst case followed by amputations. Those were quite common for diabetics when I was a kid. I remember a neighbor we got our eggs from who had it and there were concerns about those and blindness. Medicine has since improved.

I got diagnosed as pre-diabetic something like 15 years ago. I never bothered to make an exact note of when, but it was before we moved south. My treatment was to watch my carbs, with lots of information, and sources for more, on how to do that. I'm still doing that... sort of. It's not exactly religiously followed. But my A1C is monitored, and first AM fasting blood sugars taken with finger jabs, about 28 days a month. Stuff happens, like suddenly realizing one has started breakfast without doing that poke. So far I haven't had to go on any kind of medications for it. It's going pretty well. At some recent point my official diagnosis changed from "pre" to just plain diabetic. Far as I can tell, the only change has been additional birthdays.

Maybe I'm doing too well, which I'd never complain about.

Today was the initial consult for orthopedic / diabetic shoes. I got a lesson on how strict Medicare is on what actually qualifies feet for what's about $2,200 worth of footwear. Is my diabetes controlled? Yep. Do I have any skin lesions in my feet? Nope. Any numb spots? Nope.  Testing with my eyes closed verified I felt everything he touched with a little filament, except a spot near one of my replaced knees. Not all the nerves reconnected after those surgeries, even now. It didn't count. I'm just not diabetic enough to qualify for special shoes.

Yet. The expectation is always it will get worse.

We had a discussion on the things that have gone wrong with my feet over the years, what hurts now (which is mostly barefooting on hard surfaces.) What have I done for those issues? I explained about the arch supports, now doubles rather than singles, all the time now except in bed, including in the shower with a pool shoe on one foot with supports inside. I explained how walking on our lumpy yard outside hurts when the lump presses on the one sore spot. Also how hard it has been to find the right kind of supports for my arches recently. And how I had to resort to snowmobile boots for several winters - no snowmobile, just boots - when the first arch damage had been done, resulting in bone spurs in '85, lasting a few years, now an issue long past so long as I wear the arch supports.

With a lecture on things like pronation, for which I should thank my genetics, and metatarsals becoming affected, he explained what's happening and precisely why none of those qualify as a diabetic reason for special shoes and orthotics. He also explained why what he offers wouldn't fix my feet even if I chose to pay the bills myself, and why the orthotics only last a few months and would have to be replaced  annually... at my expense. 

He knows exactly who developed the kind of arch supports I wear, knows they're coming off the market because the plastic is hard to work with, and advised me if I still have a source to go out and stock up on them from, get as many as I can. I also need to go find shoes with lots of room inside (yes, men's wide!) and very thick, firm soles. Unfortunately, while thick soles are "in" right now. "firm" has been bypassed for "soft". So he wished me luck.

Before we parted, he commented on the Olympics this last summer. He takes a professional interest in the footwear used by the runners. Or in previous years, the lack of it. He was greatly encouraged, from his professional viewpoint, by what looks like much better footwear to support feet during competitions. To make his point he mentioned that this last year, even the Kenyans, long noted for running even marathons barefoot, were now wearing shoes.

Cold. And Warmth.

Temperatures have been the stories lately. Both stories ended better than they began. 

I'll start with cold. We moved back north for family. We're getting older, and are well aware that time has its limits. There are grandchildren and great grandchildren, and we'd both like to see more of them, and not be strangers. It doesn't mean we connect like next door neighbors, but we do manage to see them more. We also see our own "kids" more.

The pay for that is winters. That means cold temperatures for bodies which have forgotten how to adjust after twelve years living where it might hit freezing once or twice a year, and maybe we needed to wrap an outside water pipe or run the water every couple hours over one night. Maybe even both. Maybe neither when the drop stopped at 35 degrees. As for us personally, we stayed cozy except for half a minute running a bag of trash out to the garbage can, possibly even without a jacket, and bare footed. OK, I won't be annoyed if you call that "spoiled". We loved it.

Cold was slow in coming this fall to this part of Minnesota. It barely stopped hitting highs in the mid 50s when we got our first snowfall, and that melted away in time for more leaves to fall and squirrels to keep raiding before tucking away in their aerial nests. 

It had to end. Rabbits are leaving footprints in half inch snowfalls now and they show for days because nothing melts. The lakes are starting to freeze over enough to support a little snow and turn white. They're not sturdy enough to support anything else, so there are already rescues happening... or perhaps just recoveries in certain cases. News reports are vague, and we are reminded "they're not dead until they're warm and dead." An occasional open bay in our area reveals that not all the ducks and swans have flown south yet, and I feel as sorry for them as I do for myself. Because when I head to work in the morning, it means starting up the car at 6:30, running it long enough to start to warm up so my muscles are not locked rigid and shaking for the trip. 

It isn't enough heat in those trips to thaw my washer fluid. Turns out I was wrong when I thought I'd fixed it - not enough draining off water to make room for the antifreeze. I'm hoping tomorrow's anticipated 33 for a high will do it. I need to drain more mostly-water from the lines and add more antifreeze to them so they're good for giving me a view when it drops down to or below zero again. It's just a bit too challenging to drive when one can't see, especially two hours before the sun pretends to pop up. Cold cars are new to me because even in the old days, it only took two miles from the driveway to be able to get heat pumping into the car, and driving all day kept it - and me - warm. Now most trips are 5 miles or under. Even the next big town over isn't far enough over to thaw the washer fluid lines, and that's a 24 mile round trip.

I finally changed out a couple things to make my own life better. I switched a ball cap for a knit one, and bare hands for leather gloves, but then when my fingers were still cold, swapped those for ski gloves. OMG wonderful! I've never skied before so never thought to get ski gloves. They're the perfect combination of flexibility and warmth, with the comfort of a soft inside.  Of course, as in so many other choices, I went to the men's department for them. It's where actual quality can be found, like in shoes, heavy hunting socks, or heavy sweatshirts. Fashion be damned!

I do have one really nice thing for winter warmth, a down jacket. I've worn it twice. There are issues, however. The first one is on me: I've been saving it for the really cold days. Nevermind I'm miserable in the cold now. I keep telling myself maybe I'll finally adjust, and I'd better or once it's really cold even the down won't be good enough. 

Silly? Let's not get smug about it, eh?

I found if I try to put the hood up, it's a bit oversized. By "a bit" I mean it comes forward and down to my mouth! I have to wonder whether the really big hairdos are coming back in again, and they are so bouffant they actually raise the hood so one can see where they walk and where cars are coming from, or if the designer actually thought they were a practical idea. Maybe their fame has "gone to their head", so to speak? There are no pull strings so one can tighten it around the face. No snaps to bring it together.  It would be something of a head scratcher but I can't reach it way back under the hood. So, make sure one of the knit caps is in a pocket. And the ski gloves in the other. Where the car keys, phone, and pocket book go after that....

But the other issue is actually getting it on. Yes, the size is fine. Perfect in fact. My shoulders aren't. Both of them hate to do anything involving strength or flexibility above their own height. And dressing in multiple layers counts on the hate list. Even a sweatshirt or fleece top over another knit shirt is a challenge. They tend to first get trapped at the elbow. Maybe you're scratching your head and asking Huh? Wha..? Next time you add a non-slick layer over another, tuck your elbows in to your side and try to proceed. If the second top gets past that point it invariably is twisted at the shoulder and never quite gets up on top of it. Or them, as most of us have two. 

Believe it or not this is turning into a good thing... when Steve is awake. Now we've long since had things worked out where I can help him get stuff up off the floor where his back refuses to allow him to bend for it. It frustrates him and encourages him to feel inadequate when he has to ask for help. I insist it's not necessary, it's just what life is these days, and point out his other reliable good points. Besides, reaching the floor is easy for me. But now I'm the one needing his help in getting dressed for cold weather. I'll start the needed garments and wander out to the family room looking like a trussed headless turkey or whatever - he's much too polite to say - and I can back up to him while he sets everything straight in a minute, or two with really stubborn clothing.Winter has found a way of putting us back on equal footing again. Not that it was necessary, but it's brought us even closer to each other. We "work" as a team. Balance is restored.

Warmth has made some changes in the household as well. You all know Steve's back has just gotten worse as time has passed. Practically everything that can affect a back has taken a toll on his, and things that help for a while quit making a difference down the road. My avid fisherman hadn't dropped a single line last summer, with lakes and rivers all around and rides and invitations regularly on offer. We don't go together in the car unless necessary, not to visit family, see places with great memories where we'd like to make more, almost nothing but doctors' appointments. He decided he needed to adjust his 1-to-10 pain scale recently when way too often 9s were being overwhelmed by 12s.

Along came Black Friday sales, and by 'Friday" I mean all week. But you already know that if you've been awake. Something caught my attention in an ad, so without giving it away yet,  I asked him if he had any idea if heat would help his back pain. After all, he regularly uses a rice sock heated in the microwave for three minutes to drape across his knees when they ache. He thought it might be worth a try. Medication cocktails haven't done much. Neither P.T. nor inactivity have done much. Surgery needs to be repeated but we're waiting on that. So I went ahead and ordered his early X-mas present.

It calls itself a vest, though it has no real front, just a long wide back and two extensions that drape over the shoulders. There also are a couple pair of elastic straps connecting in front to hold it in place while it's plugged in and working. During that time - in 30 minute intervals - you have your choice of heat levels and vibration patterns. For well over a grand more than the standard lift chairs, like he already has, there are lift chairs  which have those extras built in. Of course, if anything wears out the whole thing needs to be replaced - at a price much steeper the next time, because that's always the way. We had given that a thought... and walked away. This thing has a warranty and cost less than $50, including that warranty, shipping and tax.

He tried it right away. There was a bit of figuring what connected where, and how to add one more thing to the power strip so they didn't block each other, of course, since those prongs always emerge from big clunkers instead of small plugs. Once connected, Steve pushed the right buttons, leaned back into gently vibrating heat... and slowly let a big smile envelop his face.

Merry Thanksgiving Christmas!