Monk's Hood

 Somebody somewhere decided that August was the month where all the networks could take time off and play old stuff for the 97th time, or send you the overlap of end of summer season sports with pre-game  fall sports. 

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ......  

We're just not into TV sports around here, unless it's certain parts of the Olympics, or one of the two favorite football teams of Steve's: Vikings or Broncos, each representing a state he lived in many years. Even the usual multi-show-per-day runs of old TV shows have mostly disappeared, or cut off wherever you were watching and replaced by something different before the series ended and/or resolved.

I suppose it's a good thing it's transplanting time, eh? Or at least that there's a home library full of books read so long ago that most of the details are again surprises. I know I've read every single volume in there, and find it weird when I have to ask myself "who was that character?" or ""whodunit?" or even "did that happen in a character's life before or after this other thing?" so that makes rereading worth it. There had to be a reason I kept the series or even single books.

PBS did a replay on the Driftless Area along the Mississippi in south Minnesota and a bit further. I'd never seen the program, and didn't know how special it was for being an area skipped by glaciation. I knew, for example, that the river bluffs by Red Wing were about the only place in MN where poisonous snakes lived, in this case the timber rattler. There's a lot to say here (watch that show next time!) but just one part of it is what this post is about: a plant called Monk's Hood. It grows there too.

I'd been introduced to it during my first trip to Alaska with my mother-in-law Lylah a few years before she died. It was one of those marvelous trips that retired teachers get good deals on. We flew up from MSP to Fairbanks, went on bus tours in that area, mostly educational including learning about salmon fishing the old traditional way, or showing us the damage to buildings from melting permafrost before zoning laws required special insulation at ground level, not for the building but for protecting the permafrost! As long ago as that was, I suspect even those precautions are less useful these days. From there we headed south to Denali for a day, rode a train to Anchorage with a top transparent dome where we could see the bald eagles in the treetops at our level as we sped past, and eventually boarded a bus down to Seward for a cruise along the Inside Passage with daily stops for tours like whale watching, or seeing other animals in their habitat,  before a flight back to MSP. It was totally amazing and I fell in love with Alaska... in summer. Winters in MN are still enough winter for me. 

All in all, I loved Alaska enough that years later I went again, this time with a son and granddaughter, and a much more modest set of tours.

During that second trip, noted because of finally having a digital camera along, resulting in the below photos, we were introduced to native plants, including Monks Hood. The first, middle, and last thing we were taught, repeated very firmly because, you know, ignorant  adventurous tourists, was DO NOT TOUCH THE MONK'S HOOD!!! If you happened to touch it, wash thoroughly and ASAP. In the meantime, do not touch your eyes, any food, or get your hands near your mouth. It sounds extreme, until you understand two things: how lovely and unique a flower it is, and how deadly every part of it is. And of course, we were ignorant tourists, not close to a hospital in the middle of Denali, and our guide was responsible for not killing us, as much as he was able to prevent it. For some of us with cameras, it was a challenge, since it doesn't hold itself where all parts are easy to see, being meant only to be crawled into from the bottom by the right pollinator.

This is how lovely the flower is from a side view, how innocuous it seems, how touchable. Those of us on the trip mostly only had experience with garden flowers that wouldn't hurt you, unless anybody perhaps was used to desert plants with all their spines. Of course these have no spines, and the temptation to get a close sniff for perfume,  or even pick one can be overwhelming, even in somebody else's wildflower garden.

The driftless area has its own version of monk's hood - or perhaps it's a seasonal change in color. Front on, the center of their version of blossoms is white. The Alaskan version is black.

Yes, this photo does show our guide's hand behind the blossom, angling it so we could see the heart of it without touching it ourselves. Yes, he did take proper precautions like that fuzzy small stick, and explained them to us several times. We took the warning to heart, but were still able to get the photos we wanted. He was patient, because of course if he didn't help us get the "right" pictures, we'd be back on our own. They don't hire dummies for those jobs.

(Now if you REALLY manage to tick one off, it might appeal to their sense of humor to "explain" that the reason the grizzly bears in Denali Park have blonde fur is because they are tame and cuddly. Personally, I'd treat your guides very well!)

But it all leaves me one burning question. Are the two plants the same? Is the white vs. black a part of the life stage changing, like attracting a special pollinator vs. producing seeds? Is the one in the driftless area as deadly as the one in Alaska? No precautions were shown in the PBS program, so aren't they needed? Or were the team filming the plant taking reckless precautions?  We're just not used to having to take precautions to not touch plants around here, unless it's a very spiky rose, or poison ivy, and that "merely" raises a rash... for most of us. If we are wary with strange plants, it's mostly just a thought not to eat them (or their berries) unless proven safe. Nobody thinks to ask why is there no Monks Hood in everybody's gardens, because nobody sensible keeps it there to remind us it even exists.

Twist Of Fate

We tend to expect our oldest to die off first, then the next generation, and so on. Of course we know life and death don't work like that. Young hopes are dashed while our elders are left bereft. Let me tell you about a friend of mine.

Her name is Rosemary, and I met her about a decade ago down in Arizona. Other long term friends from  many years introduced me to her back when we all were gathered on a busy Sun City street corner protesting on Saturday mornings for peace. My best friend Joan from back in Minnesota, whom I met at the same support group where I met Steve, was a member of Grandmothers For Peace. Her husband Bob was also a friend from way back then. We each wound up post retirement a suburb away from the other couple, Sun City, and Sun City West. Together they organized the protests, provided signs and banners which they hauled back and forth for us to choose from, much simpler than figuring out your own slogan and toting it around in a tiny car with a folding chair, then emptying it out again until the next protest.  One didn't have to join something to protest, but I liked the cause as well as the people, and did my best to get passing drivers to "Honk For Peace" like my favorite sign invited them to. I personally honk and wave at all protestors I pass these days, as none of them are promoting hatred or meanness or wars. Sometimes I join them, like for "No Kings", and I'm one of the ones waving to the honkers... again. We'll just not have those long conversations during and after again.

Bob and one other man joined us grandmothers, and were part of the "Grandfather's Auxiliary". I never knew whether that was a "thing" or not, but the more the merrier. I met lots of people in the process. Most of us brought our favorite comfortable folding chair, some water since this was the Phoenix area, and a willingness to protest for a couple Saturday morning hours twice a month before going to brunch together, though some of the fitter members preferred to stand or walk. During the time I used a scooter to get around, before getting my knees replaced, I would join one of the men going around the intersection, corner to corner, waiting at each next corner for another green light. It was a busy enough intersection that we were never in a hurry or at risk, due to long lights. If you're ever at 99th and Bell Road, you'll see what I mean. We won't be there of course.

This is part of our regular group, a shot taken by a reporter for a story she was working on. She sent a copy of the photo for us to have. Joan and Bob are standing on the right, I'm sitting in front of them. It wasn't a day Rosemary made it to join us.

I'm the only snowbird in this photo.  Another snowbird at that time, Rosemary, was a very part time member, based in Michigan in warm months, back south for winters. She wasn't always free from family's and her own health complications to join us regularly. We got to chatting one day. I told her about selling my house to my son on a Contract for Deed, and all the different considerations and particulars. One of the best parts, for both of us (because she did it too after getting my information and talking with her own lawyer) was a clause in the contract where we'd have a bedroom in the northern house in summer months, with access to the house and yard, and during that time would pay our son (in both cases) something for the increase in utilities while we stayed there. It was the best of both worlds, not your standard mortgage, but lawyers wrote in safeguards for both sides that all agreed to.

Over the years I found out more about Rosemary. She was a concert pianist, and still put on occasional programs as well as performed for her church, as age and health allowed. I was given tickets to one performance, which I loved, and met her husband who didn't join our protests. His health didn't tolerate it, even if most of it was sitting, chatting, and waving.

It was about five years later when covid struck. Activities screeched to a halt, including our protests with the brunches following them where most of the socializing happened. I heard that one of her sons, a doctor, died from the pandemic. She and her husband relocated in Sun City year round into a senior apartment complex which offered lots of assistance... until he was gone as well. From there she lived together with her remaining son so he'd be around to assist his Mom. He was also the local computer guru that everybody could call for non-Apples with issues, and I got reports of excellent work. While her health improved enough to perform occasionally again, she still wasn't completely independent. Shortly after that we moved back north for good, with occasional emails our only communication.

During those years before we moved back north, our friends Bob and Joan died. He simply dropped while walking into a lawyer's office to adjust some financial papers. that never happened of course.  Something over a year later she entered hospice and I kept the friendship as long as she could appreciate visits. They were the heart of the group and it never came together again. We lost track of nearly everybody, aside from the occasional missive online from Rosemary. I'd reply, bringing her up to date on our news, sending photos occasionally, sometimes passing along jokes or cartoons.

It's her last email which broke my heart. Her last son, the youngest who'd moved south years before to live near her, then with her after his father died, had a fall, hit his head, and never woke up. This is the man who planned to take care of his mother as long as she needed him. 

Sometimes life is both fickle and cruel. I wonder how she'll deal with this last loss. It's not just the grief and loneliness. Will there be enough funds to make sure she's cared for properly, somewhere she has friends already, perhaps? That's what I wish for her, for as long as she wishes it for herself. Above all, I wish her as much peace as she can find. Good music too, of course, whether from her hands or others.

Since we communicate via email, I have no address to send flowers or even a card. I'd lost track about two moves ago. I did my own message for her, and then added one of my recent photos of a delicate flower, in both form and color. As I wrote to her, any real ones I might send would wither and have to be thrown. This one would stay the same as long as she wanted it to.

I don't expect somebody to come along and send out a final email to her large group list of email  friends. How would they know to? I'll just have to keep in touch and someday there won't be an answer. In this world of electronic communication, I expect it will happen for all of us. From what I have known about her and from her in the years we've known each other, I'm confident she'll head to wherever the music is and offer her skilled hands once more. She'll play that celestial keyboard sure that others will value her gift the way they have here through her many years, and know that they valued her for herself as well - her giving heart, her gentle humor, her kindness, her determination.

Not "Goodbye"... Yet

I'd thought this would be my last visit to my shoulder surgeon this morning. There was my third post-op visit this long after the first shoulder got fixed. That's when we planned the second shoulder. This one was the same length of time after surgery for a final visit  as one was after my other shoulder got fixed. But surprise! He wants to see me somewhere between 6 and 9 months after both are fixed - that's one visit, not one each - so he can evaluate my overall progress now that both are done. 

Is there a difference in recovery? Any difference in procedure? Differences in my life which yield different results? Unless there is some kind of problem, I figure this could be more about what he learns to use in his next procedures than how I'm doing. Besides, I won't be fully healed from either until over a year has passed. Things are good. Just not finished.

I did demonstrate my flexibility for him in how well I could do (or not as it turns out) an old favorite arm move from my belly dancing days called the Egyptian Sun Sign. Arms extended down your sides, palms in. Go from straight down, to out in a circle at the sides, where you gracefully flip your hands to face up, to complete  the circle up over your head. There hands smoothly face each other, arms and fingers straight up, palms touching. Each move is an undulation, one of the hardest simple things for some people to learn. For me it was easy.

Slowly bring them down along the front of you undulating the hands alternating their positions, until they are fully down, when you move them into some other position, or just repeat a sun sign. Depends who is choreographing. (In the classes I took, our instructor choreographed a group dance for each of our end of term  recitals. We each worked out out own solitary performance. ) The entire move is slow, continuous, and sensual, not jerky. (I see modern videos looking like some modern American jazz fest.) I hadn't done it since my 30s when I had it perfected. A recent try a couple years back declared both shoulders incapable. I had to try it again now. There's hope of completing one properly with some work. They won't go straight up yet, but at their highest stick out forward.  That would never do! But what a reason for regular home PT!

He sent his assistant in to schedule something for me as a final appointment. We all understand this is more of a reminder to set an actually keepable, final appointment, what with how life tends to change these days for all of us. Do you know how and where you will be in another 9 months? I don't. I can, however, make some major guesses about the weather. That kind of decision ruled when I chose shoulder #2, going for warm weather and easy clothing to fight with.

The 6 month gap puts us into February. Pretty easy to plan on ice and snow for a long drive, even longer since his practice is moving shortly, and the office visit will be nearly as far away across the metro as the surgery was. So we looked at 9 months. May sounds like a good choice. No ice likely on the roads. I don't mind the drive per se. I hate driving on ice when not necessary. Hell, I hate it even when it IS necessary. There are still too many Minnesota idiots out there who can't keep the thought in their heads that in the absence of friction, INERTIA ALWAYS WINS! The first major snow of the season usually sets a few of them straight... again... for a bit. But by February, any little thaw fools the fools into thinking they have traction back, wherever they go, and can stop on that proverbial dime even if that dime is stretched out for half a mile. Hey, I know my money doesn't stretch that far! Does yours?

Hmmmm, wonder if any of them are in finance, spending their days convincing normal people that money always grows? I can see the parallels in the thought processes, as well as the predictability of them being correct... not!

May sounds better and better. By then the idiots tend to rely on DUIs and texting to maintain their idiot driver status. I ought to have enough traction by then to get out of their way.

A Knock On The Door

I'm not one who thinks there's a reason to avoid answering the door. These days I understand a lot of people do have that reason, and not for anything they may have done, but for the bad intentions of the knocker. I suppose in  a different neighborhood, with ICE on the prowl to fill their "quotas", someone with a surname that would easily be mistaken for hispanic, that might change. (Nevermind the surname comes from my late ex husband, and around two centuries ago was a misspelling of Rousseau, from the French side of his family.)

Here and now, most people at the door are delivering something, or home care nurses and PT people here for Steve while he's still recovering. The unexpected ones usually are selling something, or at least trying. The usual answer is "No" but they keep coming. Mom trained me to always be polite, but sometimes after the door closes again my honest reactions surface. So it was the other day.

It didn't help that I was on the phone with a friend I'd missed for three years. While polite, I was still as short as possible. The young man was "in the neighborhood helping my neighbors, and could he help me too?" Last one of those was a roofing crew who would be happy to see "if I needed a new shingle or two.... sides of the roof done" is how I'm sure he would have finished that if I let him. 

I wasn't interested then. I was only mildly curious this time, having several new neighbors and wondering what they thought they needed help with. So I asked. It seemed they were having an incursion of weeds in their lawns. My reaction is if it stays greener than the grass does (usually) and doesn't grow a foot tall between the required weekly mowings here (never) , who the heck cares? I would have expressed an opinion on that but he kept going with more "vital" services to sell. It seems the neighbors were also having an incursion of mice.

Seriously? What on earth were they leaving out and around that would attract mice to their yards? Squirrels, yes. Rabbits, yes. People do set out food for them, whether or not on purpose. Gardens are also food stores for the right hungry crittters., though never mice in my experiences here. Some neighbors do like to watch squirrels and give tips on how to lure them, as well as setting out bird feeders.

I don't need tips. The peanuts and peanut butter that I bait live traps with do the job  just fine. Then the squirrels humanely go bye-bye to that patch a few miles away where oak trees abound. I've also sent a rabbit and a raccoon to the same place, all of them alive and healthy upon arrival, if temporarily frightened. What I don't do is eat outside and leave food crumbs all over. Mice don't cross the street to visit our yard. We have no droppings inside our home, no nibbles on a plastic bread bag left on the counter overnight or cracker boxes in the pantry. So what exactly could the neighbors stop doing - for free - to end a mouse problem? More money than sense was my (unspoken) reaction. I simply indicated I wasn't interested and returned inside.

I was polite, if abrupt. Honest! I didn't actually laugh in his face. Doing it here isn't rude, is it?

Thoughts On Being Feminine

 What brought this up? It's one of those things one looks back on from the perspective of age. In this case, seventy-seven years of living on this planet, and being at a place in life where few would find it - me - particularly feminine. I recently got a haircut and held a chat with the woman doing it on how hair changes over the years and does or doesn't fit in with fashion trends, particularly since I currently do not have a hair on my head over two inches long, just how I like it for practicality. Let's top it off with my finally watching "The Devil Wears Prada" on TV. Yeah, I know, but it was free (promoting the new movie sequal)  and I was bored  enough that a tiny bit of curiosity pushed the decision.

Societies have - as far back as we can tell - had different ways of setting the genders apart, presumably so they can get together in approved ways with approved rituals. The more leisure one has while still surviving, the stronger the differences. It is a luxury, after all, only available when survival is mostly taken for granted. When the next bite of food is assured, unimportant things can become rules. Childhoods include play, the need to work is pushed off, and older lifespans are expected and achievable. A lifespan of 40 is much different than four score and seven. Femininity goes beyond reproduction of the species and turns into status, where it gets complicated.

I was born into the time when status was key. As a species we'd spread across the planet into every survivable space and even into many not so survivable. We weren't ready to acknowledge it yet, but were were already overpopulating, destroying our resources. Where societies decreed one man could only "have" one woman, choices had to be made, limitations imposed. The choice became heavily laden with concerns for status. She had to be amenable, attractive, healthy, wealthy enough to contribute to his holdings. If she managed to survive childbirth, he was pretty much stuck with her. If she died, he was free to switch, publicly. Privately he still did pretty much what he wanted with whomever he wanted. But in order to be secure about which children were his, she had to be restricted to just his attentions.

Have you  noticed yet that these rules developed along the lines of possession? The feminine had become a matter of ownership. She was his property. Matriarchies disappeared, patriarchies arose. The "rules" for what was feminine revolved around possession. If the male, the "owner", had to be out doing things, according to his set of imposed rules, he needed assurances that his property would be there and waiting for him upon his return. He could hire bodyguards and build fences and walls. Those were costly and even risky, unless the bodyguards were eunuchs. Or societies could develop approved fashions. What was approved was whatever imprisoned the female, kept her property.

In some places and times, this meant keeping her hidden. Veils, even burkas were required if she appeared among unrelated men. Adding beauty to them kept her happier, a relatively small price to pay. Changing the kind of beauty, styles, color, amounts of ornaments, kept her bound to the person able to pay for those new things, and in turn his need for status kept him, at least to some extent, paying for those changes. Maybe you couldn't look upon his woman but you could admire the outer coverings.

There were other ways fashion kept her bound, and more literally. In China feet were bound to stay tiny, painful, and mostly useless. She literally could not walk away. Western societies demanded tiny upper torsos, requiring binding again, this time preventing the deep breaths needed for movement, for work, for any kind of independence. Pregnancy then required months of being kept out of sight since that bulge violated the size requirement, while it also served to keep the prized female out of the sight of others who might desire her, as well as her without options to observe and value other males.

Women mostly weren't schooled either, and in places still aren't. An education gives one options. One can provide one's own livelihood, think one's own thoughts and not depend on the masculine viewpoint to make all decisions. Feminine became more self-defined, at least by some. It may well have cost a price unwanted, or welcomed for being unpaid and thus a divide to separate one from the expectations of others. Much depended on whether the price to be paid became one's life, whether from violence imposed from without, or being prohibited from earning enough to stay fed and sheltered. Having new territory to spread into generally added options, especially if it became an escape from a determined foe, aka owner, or at least into a new society with easier rules for a single independent female to survive in safely. If she came equipped with, or quickly learned the local plant lore, she became valued. Other job skills could save a life, offer a future, and may have avoided the trap of being labeled a "witch" for having too much knowledge with concoctions feared poisonous, ammunition against ultimate destruction ... or its eventual cause.

Primary Elections, Arizona versus Minnesota

 I got a phone call out of the blue from a long-lost friend yesterday from Arizona. We bonded almost instantly at our first meeting in one of the activities clubs in Sun City. I'd been there a while, she was new, and I stepped over to greet her. A typical introduction down there due to so many people being snowbirds includes your other state or country of domicile. Yes, we had members from Canada and even England, as well as that real rarity, permanent residents. Joyce was permanent, just new to Sun City from Phoenix proper. When I mentioned Minnesota, she referred to a town there called Mora where her ancestors came from. Between that and personalities, we clicked. We literally could talk for hours, and did, several days a week in the walking pools getting our cardio workouts. We'd stop for a leg cramp or a sudden realization we'd been in the pool for three hours!

We lost touch after Steve and I returned to Minnesota for good, except for Christmas cards. I tried to call occasionally, but her voicemail box  was always full and she was seldom near her phone. Eventually I gave up. So it was pure delight when she called in the early evening. This time we only talked for two hours because I hadn't had supper yet, and was also worried that my phone battery would die since I hadn't charged it the night before. 

I mentioned to her we had our primary election here today, when she informed me she never voted in those. I was surprised, knowing her strong viewpoints matched mine. She clarified that she didn't feel comfortable having to ask for the ballot for her particular party. It was nobody's business which side she supported, but everybody would know who  she voted for by which ballot she requested. It's not something that bothered me when we voted there, but we also got our ballots in the mail and the only people who would know were the ones sending them out.  Like here, the general election lets you cross party lines with any selection but the primary won't. Their primary has a different sheet of paper for the primary so all your selections on it are the same party. They know which party you vote for. Joyce didn't want that information shared,  period.

Here in Minnesota the primary election ballots also are the same piece of paper given to everybody, and your vote remains secret until you feed it into the machine. Even then, no person is close enough to read your choices. They sit a few feet away and point to the machine, demonstrating if you need it which end goes in first and which side is up. 

In the Minnesota primary, a column on one side of the ballot is Republican, on the other is DFL - our version of Democratic - and all your marks have to be on only one of the sides. If you put any mark on the other side your vote is void. Any non-partisan contests go on the back in their own columns where everybody can vote. All the election workers know here is who showed up. They can't even plan ahead precisely because we have "motor-voter laws where we can show up and vote the same day, provided you bring ID and certain kinds of address verification.

Like A Cosmic Rose (screen shot)

I've become a fan of certain programs on public TV. In this case I've been following Nova programs about the universe and what we know - at this time - about its creation. The photo below is a screenshot captured after several tries - since I saved the program on DVR just to do this -  of a shot sent back to us from Hubble. Remember that "failed" space telescope? Forgot about that mission to make corrections/repairs? This is a clumsy version of one of my favorite pieces of photography sent back and used in the program about the Big Bang. 

It's been called the Cosmic Rose, or the Rose galaxies.  It shows two galaxies colliding with each other. Note the faint tip up of stars on the point of the small one closest to the large one. Its light took so long to get here that this is what it looked like 300 million years ago. Or we could just say it's 300 million light years away from us. UGC1810 is the name of the larger galaxy, and from a previous program which mentioned colliding galaxies, it's likely there was so much space between stars that very few had any kind of a physical impact on anything else. Look how far we are from our nearest star. It's not that we'll ever know of course, though we were told our own Milky Way had its own collision with another smaller galaxy, and just judge from that.

Notice the TPT logo in the lower right corner's middle, along with the channel's symbol, illegible in this photo, plus whatever is in the three lines on the far right. At any rate, I make no claims for anything but rewinding and shooting again, and again, doing my best to capture what the screen showed. This is my personal best of over a dozen tries. First my camera over-compensated for a dark room at night. Flash! Then daytime shots tended to be about a second late for a fast-moving screen and wording across it, as well as catching some window glare. Oh well, this is just a teaser anyway. I expect research could get you a much more impressive online shot of the two. Maybe somebody will make and sell posters, eh? I wouldn't mind one, right over my bed.

 

Addendum:  Yes there is an uploadable file and much clearer:

https://science.nasa.gov/wp-content/uploads/2024/06/hubble-poster-2024-arp-273.pdf