Nothing makes me feel so old and decrepit as having to fight with my computer. I mean, all I wanted to do was transfer funds from my bank account to my credit card. I've been doing that on-line for years. It's always worked.
Until 2 weeks ago. I logged in. Oops, no I didn't. Huh. Head scratch. Double check, same info as always, computer saves it for me. Try again. No joy. Frustration level inching up. Once more, and I get the pop-up that I'm not me and if I try once more and get it wrong, I'll be cut out. The system will treat me as a crook.
It was a busy time of year, cards to send, decorations to put up, family stuff, etc., etc. I just wasn't in the mood and frankly, I was more than caught up on the required payment for the month, so I let it slide.
It nagged at me, but I still wasn't in the mood. It meant I couldn't check my balance, outstanding purchases waiting for approval, credit score changes if any. But even so.
Today was finally the day to really tackle it. Maybe something miraculously had changed. Possible, no?
No.
I was offered a full list of ways the computer thought I'd logged in previously, each dated, all wrong. They were feeding me my log-in identity and I was going for my password. This was what had happened the first time, and though I typed in my password each time, it rejected it. This time, however, one thing changed. It immediately told me I was running out of chances.
I had an online offer of two ways to handle the fix. Texting was obviously their preferred method. Please, world, can everybody stop thinking everybody has texting as an option, or even wants to use it if it means tapping each key several times per letter, and who knows where the hell the symbols are? Can you? Huh?
OK, phone them. I called what I thought was the number from the back of my card. With an apparent font size of negative 2, this was just another frustration to add to the process. What I got was a very insistent voice attempting to survey me on my vacation choices with the "promise" of a very nice offer to come. I told her no. After a second's pause, she continued, unintereptedly blathering over about 7 more nos until I just hung up. Must have misdialed. Try again.
This time I got it right. Of course, I carried the previous frustrations with me during this call. I did apologize in advance, refrained from either swearing or simply being impolite, but it fogged my brain enough that my comprehension of the procedures was a little bit lower than what I call my "slightly above computer illiterate" skill level.
Still, it wasn't all just me. The first person ran me through their system, starting with my credentials, then working to change my password after verifying my log in name was correct for my file. About ten minutes of that and it was time to send me to an actual tech expert. Granted, she offered to assist me making a payment first (no charge!) but I wanted more than a one time fix, and took the offer of the expert.
Now there was the need to deal with an accent. I apologized for needing to ask her to slow down and enunciate more clearly. No point antagonizing the person who's your likely last hope, or trying to continue with something you couldn't properly hear when various terms need to be translated anyway. For example, when she said tool bar, I had two to choose from, the one on the side with all my bookmarks and icons, and the tiny strip across the top that says Firefox File Edit View... Help, and goes all the way across to the symbols for battery strength remaining, day and time, wifi signal, and a few I have yet to identify.
Trust me when I say there was a lot of discussion about definitions of terms and where to click next. I can't even tell you about them (yes, you're welcome) because I was playing follow-the-leader rather than gaining comprehension of how to maybe do this myself next time. But there turned out to be one defining moment, when progress could finally be made.
I deleted the cookies on my browser! Imagine: just a matter of cookies!
No, contrary to my concerns, it didn't delete the information in my account for what bank account the payments were pulled from, so that was accomplished, and the tech expert, who patiently remained on the line throughout the process, read back to me her record of the exact dollars and cents transferred. After expressing my gratitude and appreciation, we disconnected.
My phone is now recharging. The battery lasted long enough. Just.
Naturally, I decided to blog about the experience. I suppose, I might also have expected I needed to log in to the blog as I was currently somebody unrecognized as having the authority to do so.
Ya think there might be more fun ahead?
Monday, December 30, 2019
Saturday, December 28, 2019
Optical Brain Worms
Hey now, don't go getting all grossed out. There are no actual worms involved here. Possibly no actual brain either. It's just a phrase I use to attempt to describe a phenomenon.
Likely you've heard the expression "ear worm." It refers to what happens when a piece of music gets stuck in your head playing on an endless loop. It keep going until, well, until whatever works for you ends it. Perhaps another piece of music takes over, one not so sticky. Perhaps you actually learn to play or sing that song and can put it to rest as a fait accompli. Maybe something just hiccups and it's gone while you've been too busy to take note.
My current ear worm was the only piece of music the last couple weeks I caught on the radio that wasn't X-mas music. It was a little piano piece by Beethoven, "Rage Over A Lost Penny." I identified it immediately, but shut off the car before it finished. It's still racing through me whenever things go quiet. Almost comforting, actually. Almost. Hard to sleep with though. Way too energetic. But I'm too fond of it to get serious about getting rid of it.
I experience something similar visually. Not with the actual eye, but that proverbial mind's eye. Take for example something experienced about 20-some years ago. We'd just gotten a few little fantail goldfish, and I was fascinated by how their fins and tails moved. After a couple days, I could be reading a book or driving and their waving patterns would intrude. Not unpleasant, not distracting from safety or plot lines, but just there. Over and over, for a couple months. I can still visualize it, though now it has to be done consciously. It leaves when I abandon the effort.
My rounds of insomnia were plagued by the same kind of thing, only this time it was about designing jewelry, trying to figure out how to accomplish a particular technique I'd never learned yet. It wouldn't drop me until either I figured it out, learned I couldn't come up with even a clue using my beginning skill levels, or just got up, came into the living room, and drew the plan on paper, however poorly. If I was really awake, I might even work with wire to try to do whatever it was.
Something like that is going on now. Again, it's visual. Again, it's intrusive, poking in around the corners at every opportunity. This time, however, I know the techniques I need, and I'm well into making my second one. But that's just it. I'm merely well into it, not finished. And more varieties are there in the pipeline, waiting their turns. This time I'm working on tree of life pedants. I know how they're done, have finished two to my satisfaction. It's those unfinished ones that keep intruding. Oh heck, it's the latest finished one too. I keep seeing those tiger eye chips on wires bending and wrapping all over within the wire circle they are affixed to. Nevermind the planned turquoise one, or the amethyst one, or the malachite one, or the one with 3 mm clear bicone swarovski crystals, all to be mounted on sterling wires of course.
Knowing that keeping the fingers busy is paradoxically both the cause and the cure, and that finishing enough of them to finally get a bit bored will finally exorcise this optical brainworm, it's not happening. Not even started. The totally unimportant to proceeding with that is that the supplies happen to be packed away in their box, nicely organized, waiting. But it took a bit to actually get that organized. And I'm still organizing all the decorations coming down to be put away after X-mas. Somehow, that needs to be finished first before I can renew the old jewelry clutter. And before that happens, I need to create more chaos in pulling out the little boxes to pack it all back up in till next year. There's a hitch in that particular giddyup.
So I work around it, rather than on it. The floor got vacuumed. I don't expect more than a dozen plastic tree needles will reappear out of nowhere now. I was thorough! And there no longer are dogs in the house to spread the blame around on. Of course, now the vacuum needs to be emptied before I can put it away and get out those boxes for packing the ornaments. And emptying the vacuum needs to wait on the rain to quit. It seems there are leaks where the metal patio roof meets the house roof, so the concrete floor is wet where the dripping rain trails across and off the edge, and I can't empty the canister of dirt if the spilled dust will stick on the wet spots and create mud which can't be swept because it cakes and clings to the broom, making that useless for cleaning anywhere inside the house, and....
Phew!
So, tomorrow, perhaps.
Oh, and have you noted, that before I can do any of the rest of it, I have to finish this blog post. Because, well, it just has to be first. I'm almost beat enough now to try to go back to bed. Maybe, instead of counting smelly sheep, I can try counting shiny gemstone nuggets getting mounted on wires bending this way and that on clumps of wires which split off from the big twist into smaller and smaller clumps, each of those bending this way and that and back the other....
Oh crap! Here it goes again.
Likely you've heard the expression "ear worm." It refers to what happens when a piece of music gets stuck in your head playing on an endless loop. It keep going until, well, until whatever works for you ends it. Perhaps another piece of music takes over, one not so sticky. Perhaps you actually learn to play or sing that song and can put it to rest as a fait accompli. Maybe something just hiccups and it's gone while you've been too busy to take note.
My current ear worm was the only piece of music the last couple weeks I caught on the radio that wasn't X-mas music. It was a little piano piece by Beethoven, "Rage Over A Lost Penny." I identified it immediately, but shut off the car before it finished. It's still racing through me whenever things go quiet. Almost comforting, actually. Almost. Hard to sleep with though. Way too energetic. But I'm too fond of it to get serious about getting rid of it.
I experience something similar visually. Not with the actual eye, but that proverbial mind's eye. Take for example something experienced about 20-some years ago. We'd just gotten a few little fantail goldfish, and I was fascinated by how their fins and tails moved. After a couple days, I could be reading a book or driving and their waving patterns would intrude. Not unpleasant, not distracting from safety or plot lines, but just there. Over and over, for a couple months. I can still visualize it, though now it has to be done consciously. It leaves when I abandon the effort.
My rounds of insomnia were plagued by the same kind of thing, only this time it was about designing jewelry, trying to figure out how to accomplish a particular technique I'd never learned yet. It wouldn't drop me until either I figured it out, learned I couldn't come up with even a clue using my beginning skill levels, or just got up, came into the living room, and drew the plan on paper, however poorly. If I was really awake, I might even work with wire to try to do whatever it was.
Something like that is going on now. Again, it's visual. Again, it's intrusive, poking in around the corners at every opportunity. This time, however, I know the techniques I need, and I'm well into making my second one. But that's just it. I'm merely well into it, not finished. And more varieties are there in the pipeline, waiting their turns. This time I'm working on tree of life pedants. I know how they're done, have finished two to my satisfaction. It's those unfinished ones that keep intruding. Oh heck, it's the latest finished one too. I keep seeing those tiger eye chips on wires bending and wrapping all over within the wire circle they are affixed to. Nevermind the planned turquoise one, or the amethyst one, or the malachite one, or the one with 3 mm clear bicone swarovski crystals, all to be mounted on sterling wires of course.
Knowing that keeping the fingers busy is paradoxically both the cause and the cure, and that finishing enough of them to finally get a bit bored will finally exorcise this optical brainworm, it's not happening. Not even started. The totally unimportant to proceeding with that is that the supplies happen to be packed away in their box, nicely organized, waiting. But it took a bit to actually get that organized. And I'm still organizing all the decorations coming down to be put away after X-mas. Somehow, that needs to be finished first before I can renew the old jewelry clutter. And before that happens, I need to create more chaos in pulling out the little boxes to pack it all back up in till next year. There's a hitch in that particular giddyup.
So I work around it, rather than on it. The floor got vacuumed. I don't expect more than a dozen plastic tree needles will reappear out of nowhere now. I was thorough! And there no longer are dogs in the house to spread the blame around on. Of course, now the vacuum needs to be emptied before I can put it away and get out those boxes for packing the ornaments. And emptying the vacuum needs to wait on the rain to quit. It seems there are leaks where the metal patio roof meets the house roof, so the concrete floor is wet where the dripping rain trails across and off the edge, and I can't empty the canister of dirt if the spilled dust will stick on the wet spots and create mud which can't be swept because it cakes and clings to the broom, making that useless for cleaning anywhere inside the house, and....
Phew!
So, tomorrow, perhaps.
Oh, and have you noted, that before I can do any of the rest of it, I have to finish this blog post. Because, well, it just has to be first. I'm almost beat enough now to try to go back to bed. Maybe, instead of counting smelly sheep, I can try counting shiny gemstone nuggets getting mounted on wires bending this way and that on clumps of wires which split off from the big twist into smaller and smaller clumps, each of those bending this way and that and back the other....
Oh crap! Here it goes again.
Friday, December 27, 2019
Tales of Xmas 2019: Two Days
I: A Simple Meal:
Steve and I reached a compromise. After he requested ham for Thanksgiving in addition to my stuffing muffins, definitely made to accompany turkey and not in any way compatable with ham, he agreed to turkey in November and ham in December. He'd get to (have to) cook the ham. Grandiose menu plans quickly were reduced to four simple items. He glazed a spiral-cut ham, provided a can of cranberry jelly (with unexpected texture this year - hooray!), and cornbread mix was baked as muffins. Desert was a choice of two varieties of ice cream. All was delicious, and nobody overextended so much the holiday became a work day. (Why did nobody think of this before?)
II: Under The Tree:
Presents were opened after lunch. Anybody familiar with me as a child will be impressed with my restraint. Not only were all the mailed items not opened on the spot, but I never peeked to see what Steve got me. There was a lovely bag stuffed with colorful tissue paper. No taping fancy wrapping paper around a gift to seal it from view. Just restraint. I'd had to relocate it a couple feet as the collection of presents grew, so I knew there was some kind of heft to whatever the bag contained. It would have been so-o-o-o simple....
The wait was worth it. Inside were two books, both ones I had considered getting these last few months but decided against due to budget stretching. The first was "Whose Boat Is This Boat?", offered through Steven Colbert with proceeds going to hurricane relief. It's a simple little thing, quoting statements by Trump that are "unhelpful" after such a disaster. It's also hilarious, the full combination of text, illustrations, and commentary on the dust jacket. Not a word is to be missed.
The second book was Rachel Maddow's newest book, "Blowout". Signed, even. Now I had heard "a" story after a shopping trip Steve and Rich had made. "Somebody" had seen the stack on a table and "a" customer had just taken the last signed copy as they had gone past. I never dreamed who that somebody had been. As soon as things slow down a bit, it'll be read cover to cover, then treasured in the library. (FYI, the library is what most folks would have called the 3rd bedroom, before it got converted with floor-to-ceiling shelves on 3 walls by Paul. And yes, they're nearly full already.)
Not all the presents were as unpredictable. The annual family calendar was there. Krystal has again made a photo calendar where each month features a collection of family - both sides - photos from the previous year. So not only are Steve's kids and grands depicted, but mine also, along with some where we appear from summer visits. The most head-scratching one was a selfie Steph had taken. Rich identified the background as her bathroom, both by what decorated the walls and by the bottom edge of the mirror. She had something dark and long hanging from her mouth, and it took a X-mas phone call to finally figure out that it was a barrette and she'd been fixing her hair.
There were less predictable presents there. A sister-in-law, Alta, had sent us kitchen towels, somehow knowing this was the year where I was finally ready to throw out the old ones... once I could finally locate something I could stand to have in the kitchen! These will do beautifully. Steve got flannel jammy bottoms which he loves in this cool house, and I got a cozy nightshirt with a holiday theme. I surprised the guys with chocolate oranges. We'd discussed how they hadn't been on store shelves in recent years and how much we missed them. So I went online. When the box arrived, it sat unopened behind my chair for weeks before I opened it and wrapped the individual oranges.
Much of Christmas wasn't something that could be wrapped. There was being able to talk to each of my kids, some of which are extraordinarily hard to connect with. There was the help in the kitchen, or just all those small moments of appreciation for one another. And we mustn't forget the promise to get the big tree out of the house for good! Next year's presents will include procuring a tiny tree, just big enough to hold the three strings of Steve's bubble lights.
III: The Less Fortunate:
Speaking of trees, it's going to be donated and picked up for somebody needing one. While Steve's been sleeping, the lights and ornaments have been removed. Once I post this, branches will be detached and compacted, loaded up into their container, and set outside. Help may be needed for that last bit, of course, along with moving the dining table back into its usual spot.
I've had the opportunity to pass by a "tent city" of the homeless this year, and gotten details of how life is lived outside of, as well as inside of, a homeless shelter. Tents - simple camping tents for whatever they're worth - are lined up along the spaces between sidewalks and curbs. Often a wheelchair, walker, or purloined shopping cart sits outside, even in the rain. This area stretches for several blocks in both directions. These are the people locked out - by a gate controlled by a guard inside one of the buildings - of the shelter compound. For whatever reason, they don't qualify for entry. It may be a combination of lack of space and a waiting list, unwillingness to abandon smoking, alcohol or other drugs for even long enough to sleep in a cot, mental illness, or other reasons.
Trash is an ongoing problem, ironically exacerbated by the holiday giving that picks up this time of year. Whether it's the food that is distributed, or necessities like backpacks with toiletries and space for other items, or new shoes, socks, or whatevers, they all produce trash. There are occasional garbage cans overflowing along the streets, and dumpsters near the buildings. The need to wait in a line for an hour or more to get your handouts regardless of weather conditions does not negate the casual disregard for wrapping, paper plates with whatever food remains, even when there may be a freshly emptied container for waste.
Once one has whatever one wishes to keep, there is always the battle to keep it from being stolen. Those inside shelters are not immune. Space is provided for larger bags of clothing and personal items on shelves inside a room accessed through security personnel. Unfortunately, this is no guarantee it will be there when next one visits. The backpack may be fastened to a spot under the cot one sleeps on, but this is also no guarantee. Once one rises through the system, using system resources to prepare resumes and secure a job, and continuing during that time when the job does still not equate to housing access, more private locked space is available, a last step to - hopefully - economic independence.
Rising through the system has other advantages. No longer are you kicked out by 7:00 AM and required to return before 8:30 PM or forfeit your bed. They recognize many first jobs are shift work and relax the rules to encourage that. While two meals a day are given to "all," this translates to those who manage to get in line both before the clock runs out and while food still lasts. Whatever the current AZ term for food stamps is, those are also part of the system, and Phoenix downtown is no longer part of the "food desert" now that Fry's grocery has just opened a store there.
Laundry is a challenge. Machines are on site, but with 800 people accessing them within 2 hour designated slots, personal hygiene is a challenge. Some part of that trash buildup outside the gates includes socks worn until the stench drives the most inured to tossing them, likely because they have finally been given a second pair. At least there is access to wardrobe items suitable for job interviews, and longer if needed for the actual job.
IV: Feeding The Birds:
Understand that this was not the original intent, this particular brand of charity. This had been planned long before for the unrealized event of having a friend with celiac disease over for a meal. Rummaging through the freezer I came across a loaf of gluten free bread. Ah-Ha! I had brats in the fridge in need of eating while still safe. This was X-mas Eve, mind you, and I had actually dressed up a bit for the occasion, even though it was just Steve and myself to impress. My outer layer was a pink shirt. It turns out, predictably, that gluten is what holds bread together when you bend it around, well, anything. I bit, the brat squirted, and mustard- and ketchup-coated chunks of bread decorated my sleeve and shoulder along with the grease splatters.
Imagine my delight. So, stop everything, toss out the rest of what I'd thought was going to be my supper, and locate something grease-free big enough to hold the shirt covered in soapy hot water. I might have thrown it in the washer but I'd spent the day doing 3 loads of laundry already and there was nothing to go in with it.
While it soaked, I took out my frustrations by mangling the rest of the loaf while it was still inside its bag, than taking it outside and dumping it next to the patio. I didn't care that rain was scheduled. Checking the next morning, I found that the birds hadn't cared either. Only the teeniest of crumbs remained, and they didn't last long. For those who think feeding bread to birds is a bad idea, take comfort in the fact that this loaf was chock full of whole grains and seeds. As for the shirt, all but one grease stain came out, and I dried and wore it the next day.
Where I promptly spilled something else on it! Seems that delicious ham glaze was also a bit runny.
V: An Unexpected Gift:
Thursday found me back in the club. This is my obligatory day to be there, as an officer, to assist where needed as not all those who volunteer actually show. Life happens. My project of the day was trying my hand on making tree-of-life pendants. I'd made one in a workshop months before and, having organized 50 pounds of beads the days before our formal celebration, I'd gotten the itch to use some of my beads this way. Both were sterling wire - I'm getting more confidant - and one used tiger eye nuggets, the second turquoise. I still haven't located the amethyst or malachite nuggets, but I'm sure once I finally finish organizing the rest of my two tables of supplies, I'll locate them. I'd taken garnet nuggets as well, only to find out they had never actually been drilled! RIP OFF!
Hey, anybody want some?
Meanwhile, our incoming club president breezed in with her projects, and passing me asked if I had gotten my phone messages. Did she mean texts? Since she did, I gave the the spiel about how my flip phone didn't do those, and either actually call me or email me, please. Turned out she had a reason for wanting to get a hold of me. She had a present for me, if I wanted it. She's a painter, among her artistic talents, and we'd been emailing about our respective blogs and how much I loved her work and wished for the budget to more substantially appreciate it.
She offered me a painting! Now she stressed that it was a copy, using some (jargon jargon bad memory jargon) kind of printer that produced them as if they had been actual paintings. She'd sold a bunch of copies of this one, but was no longer doing all those shows, and this copy had just been sitting in her garage. Did I want it? OMG YES! We headed to the parking lot, and switched it into my car. Following is an excerpt of my morning email to her, a more elaborate thank you than the hug from yesterday:
By the way, for those curious, it's a Sonoran desert landscape.
VI: A Lost Relative:
We got an invitation to dinner for last night. A couple years ago I met them both, driving to a middle-distance spot in California for lunch. Robb - well, only Steve tells me about his background, though he could well spend hours bragging about it and all the famous people he knew and worked with. Robb is secure in who he is and was, and appears to greet people on who, not what, they are. The reason Robb reached out to Steve via Facebook back then was that he was fostering a very young Brundy who needed better parenting. I won't go into details. A lot of effort and research turned up the relationship to Steve (beyond just a fairly rare last name) through a distant uncle. Generations later there is a very sweet kid named William. We're trying to get beyond "Little William" now that he's old enough to speak his preference. Steve is simply "Uncle Steve" rather than "whichever cousin how many times removed." Robb is currently working on adopting William, and going to the effort of connecting him with lost branches of the family. I have to say, Steve is an excellent choice, that big heart of his being why I married him.
Speaking of Steve and choices, we of course arranged to meet in his favorite local Mexican restaurant. It was supposed to be a slightly late lunch at 1:00, good both for us and, we presumed, someone coming out of California and a different time zone. A short call informed us that it would be more of an early supper. This wasn't just the worst travel day where everybody was clogging roads to get home after X-mas. This was also the day of heavy snowfall over southern California. Freeways weren't just clogged, many were shut down. At the time scheduled for lunch they hadn't gotten near to clearing the state yet, and their route was "just" impeded by pouring rain. We finally connected a little before 5:00 PM. The delay did nothing to dampen the occasion when it finally happened, except that William had stayed up late the night before they left, and had a little trouble keeping his head off the table once it was cleared.
Pictures were taken, including full group shots graciously done by a fellow diner on his way out, texted to Steve, and emailed to me, so we can all enjoy reliving the experience. I mean, besides the required workouts for removing a few gratuitous bulges here and there.
Steve and I reached a compromise. After he requested ham for Thanksgiving in addition to my stuffing muffins, definitely made to accompany turkey and not in any way compatable with ham, he agreed to turkey in November and ham in December. He'd get to (have to) cook the ham. Grandiose menu plans quickly were reduced to four simple items. He glazed a spiral-cut ham, provided a can of cranberry jelly (with unexpected texture this year - hooray!), and cornbread mix was baked as muffins. Desert was a choice of two varieties of ice cream. All was delicious, and nobody overextended so much the holiday became a work day. (Why did nobody think of this before?)
II: Under The Tree:
Presents were opened after lunch. Anybody familiar with me as a child will be impressed with my restraint. Not only were all the mailed items not opened on the spot, but I never peeked to see what Steve got me. There was a lovely bag stuffed with colorful tissue paper. No taping fancy wrapping paper around a gift to seal it from view. Just restraint. I'd had to relocate it a couple feet as the collection of presents grew, so I knew there was some kind of heft to whatever the bag contained. It would have been so-o-o-o simple....
The wait was worth it. Inside were two books, both ones I had considered getting these last few months but decided against due to budget stretching. The first was "Whose Boat Is This Boat?", offered through Steven Colbert with proceeds going to hurricane relief. It's a simple little thing, quoting statements by Trump that are "unhelpful" after such a disaster. It's also hilarious, the full combination of text, illustrations, and commentary on the dust jacket. Not a word is to be missed.
The second book was Rachel Maddow's newest book, "Blowout". Signed, even. Now I had heard "a" story after a shopping trip Steve and Rich had made. "Somebody" had seen the stack on a table and "a" customer had just taken the last signed copy as they had gone past. I never dreamed who that somebody had been. As soon as things slow down a bit, it'll be read cover to cover, then treasured in the library. (FYI, the library is what most folks would have called the 3rd bedroom, before it got converted with floor-to-ceiling shelves on 3 walls by Paul. And yes, they're nearly full already.)
Not all the presents were as unpredictable. The annual family calendar was there. Krystal has again made a photo calendar where each month features a collection of family - both sides - photos from the previous year. So not only are Steve's kids and grands depicted, but mine also, along with some where we appear from summer visits. The most head-scratching one was a selfie Steph had taken. Rich identified the background as her bathroom, both by what decorated the walls and by the bottom edge of the mirror. She had something dark and long hanging from her mouth, and it took a X-mas phone call to finally figure out that it was a barrette and she'd been fixing her hair.
There were less predictable presents there. A sister-in-law, Alta, had sent us kitchen towels, somehow knowing this was the year where I was finally ready to throw out the old ones... once I could finally locate something I could stand to have in the kitchen! These will do beautifully. Steve got flannel jammy bottoms which he loves in this cool house, and I got a cozy nightshirt with a holiday theme. I surprised the guys with chocolate oranges. We'd discussed how they hadn't been on store shelves in recent years and how much we missed them. So I went online. When the box arrived, it sat unopened behind my chair for weeks before I opened it and wrapped the individual oranges.
Much of Christmas wasn't something that could be wrapped. There was being able to talk to each of my kids, some of which are extraordinarily hard to connect with. There was the help in the kitchen, or just all those small moments of appreciation for one another. And we mustn't forget the promise to get the big tree out of the house for good! Next year's presents will include procuring a tiny tree, just big enough to hold the three strings of Steve's bubble lights.
III: The Less Fortunate:
Speaking of trees, it's going to be donated and picked up for somebody needing one. While Steve's been sleeping, the lights and ornaments have been removed. Once I post this, branches will be detached and compacted, loaded up into their container, and set outside. Help may be needed for that last bit, of course, along with moving the dining table back into its usual spot.
I've had the opportunity to pass by a "tent city" of the homeless this year, and gotten details of how life is lived outside of, as well as inside of, a homeless shelter. Tents - simple camping tents for whatever they're worth - are lined up along the spaces between sidewalks and curbs. Often a wheelchair, walker, or purloined shopping cart sits outside, even in the rain. This area stretches for several blocks in both directions. These are the people locked out - by a gate controlled by a guard inside one of the buildings - of the shelter compound. For whatever reason, they don't qualify for entry. It may be a combination of lack of space and a waiting list, unwillingness to abandon smoking, alcohol or other drugs for even long enough to sleep in a cot, mental illness, or other reasons.
Trash is an ongoing problem, ironically exacerbated by the holiday giving that picks up this time of year. Whether it's the food that is distributed, or necessities like backpacks with toiletries and space for other items, or new shoes, socks, or whatevers, they all produce trash. There are occasional garbage cans overflowing along the streets, and dumpsters near the buildings. The need to wait in a line for an hour or more to get your handouts regardless of weather conditions does not negate the casual disregard for wrapping, paper plates with whatever food remains, even when there may be a freshly emptied container for waste.
Once one has whatever one wishes to keep, there is always the battle to keep it from being stolen. Those inside shelters are not immune. Space is provided for larger bags of clothing and personal items on shelves inside a room accessed through security personnel. Unfortunately, this is no guarantee it will be there when next one visits. The backpack may be fastened to a spot under the cot one sleeps on, but this is also no guarantee. Once one rises through the system, using system resources to prepare resumes and secure a job, and continuing during that time when the job does still not equate to housing access, more private locked space is available, a last step to - hopefully - economic independence.
Rising through the system has other advantages. No longer are you kicked out by 7:00 AM and required to return before 8:30 PM or forfeit your bed. They recognize many first jobs are shift work and relax the rules to encourage that. While two meals a day are given to "all," this translates to those who manage to get in line both before the clock runs out and while food still lasts. Whatever the current AZ term for food stamps is, those are also part of the system, and Phoenix downtown is no longer part of the "food desert" now that Fry's grocery has just opened a store there.
Laundry is a challenge. Machines are on site, but with 800 people accessing them within 2 hour designated slots, personal hygiene is a challenge. Some part of that trash buildup outside the gates includes socks worn until the stench drives the most inured to tossing them, likely because they have finally been given a second pair. At least there is access to wardrobe items suitable for job interviews, and longer if needed for the actual job.
IV: Feeding The Birds:
Understand that this was not the original intent, this particular brand of charity. This had been planned long before for the unrealized event of having a friend with celiac disease over for a meal. Rummaging through the freezer I came across a loaf of gluten free bread. Ah-Ha! I had brats in the fridge in need of eating while still safe. This was X-mas Eve, mind you, and I had actually dressed up a bit for the occasion, even though it was just Steve and myself to impress. My outer layer was a pink shirt. It turns out, predictably, that gluten is what holds bread together when you bend it around, well, anything. I bit, the brat squirted, and mustard- and ketchup-coated chunks of bread decorated my sleeve and shoulder along with the grease splatters.
Imagine my delight. So, stop everything, toss out the rest of what I'd thought was going to be my supper, and locate something grease-free big enough to hold the shirt covered in soapy hot water. I might have thrown it in the washer but I'd spent the day doing 3 loads of laundry already and there was nothing to go in with it.
While it soaked, I took out my frustrations by mangling the rest of the loaf while it was still inside its bag, than taking it outside and dumping it next to the patio. I didn't care that rain was scheduled. Checking the next morning, I found that the birds hadn't cared either. Only the teeniest of crumbs remained, and they didn't last long. For those who think feeding bread to birds is a bad idea, take comfort in the fact that this loaf was chock full of whole grains and seeds. As for the shirt, all but one grease stain came out, and I dried and wore it the next day.
Where I promptly spilled something else on it! Seems that delicious ham glaze was also a bit runny.
V: An Unexpected Gift:
Thursday found me back in the club. This is my obligatory day to be there, as an officer, to assist where needed as not all those who volunteer actually show. Life happens. My project of the day was trying my hand on making tree-of-life pendants. I'd made one in a workshop months before and, having organized 50 pounds of beads the days before our formal celebration, I'd gotten the itch to use some of my beads this way. Both were sterling wire - I'm getting more confidant - and one used tiger eye nuggets, the second turquoise. I still haven't located the amethyst or malachite nuggets, but I'm sure once I finally finish organizing the rest of my two tables of supplies, I'll locate them. I'd taken garnet nuggets as well, only to find out they had never actually been drilled! RIP OFF!
Hey, anybody want some?
Meanwhile, our incoming club president breezed in with her projects, and passing me asked if I had gotten my phone messages. Did she mean texts? Since she did, I gave the the spiel about how my flip phone didn't do those, and either actually call me or email me, please. Turned out she had a reason for wanting to get a hold of me. She had a present for me, if I wanted it. She's a painter, among her artistic talents, and we'd been emailing about our respective blogs and how much I loved her work and wished for the budget to more substantially appreciate it.
She offered me a painting! Now she stressed that it was a copy, using some (jargon jargon bad memory jargon) kind of printer that produced them as if they had been actual paintings. She'd sold a bunch of copies of this one, but was no longer doing all those shows, and this copy had just been sitting in her garage. Did I want it? OMG YES! We headed to the parking lot, and switched it into my car. Following is an excerpt of my morning email to her, a more elaborate thank you than the hug from yesterday:
"Just wanted to let you know how much we both love your
picture. The second Steve saw it, he answered my question of where to
hang it. Did he like it enough to put in the living room? Or should I go
to my bedroom where a lot of my favorite art hangs? DEFINITELY the
living room, on the wall behind our chairs.
This
means we have to find the excuses for studs they put in the walls back
in '61. Building codes were ... uh ... less stringent than I'm used to.
Studs aren't necessarily 2x4s, and why bother with 16" centers? We've
found variability up to 21" spacing, especially in the outer walls where
they are backed by bricks. We absolutely want it secure once it goes
up, so it's sitting in the living room in front of some display
cabinets.
This gives us an
added bonus: we can see and study the picture this way, since those
parental eyes-in-the-back-of-our-heads have quite atrophied from disuse.
In addition to its beauty, we have a perfect vantage point to how its
colors change in the light. Natural light, whether sunny or various
stages of cloudy/rainy, or various combinations of interior lighting,
all bring out different colors and emphasize different parts of the
picture. Right now it's emerging from light and dark shadows and the
yellow is beginning to wake up, while blues and greens still hide. The
peach/tan/orange dance has begun, and as the sky outside brightens we'll
see the blue of the upper right corner emerge. The purples will be
last, I think, as they were the first to hide last night.
Right
now we are still fascinated by this spectacle. In a few weeks I'm sure
it will become background, as all things new must, and we'll be less
reluctant to actually locate those studs and hang it. But for now, I
just wanted you to know how much we both appreciate your gift."
By the way, for those curious, it's a Sonoran desert landscape.
VI: A Lost Relative:
We got an invitation to dinner for last night. A couple years ago I met them both, driving to a middle-distance spot in California for lunch. Robb - well, only Steve tells me about his background, though he could well spend hours bragging about it and all the famous people he knew and worked with. Robb is secure in who he is and was, and appears to greet people on who, not what, they are. The reason Robb reached out to Steve via Facebook back then was that he was fostering a very young Brundy who needed better parenting. I won't go into details. A lot of effort and research turned up the relationship to Steve (beyond just a fairly rare last name) through a distant uncle. Generations later there is a very sweet kid named William. We're trying to get beyond "Little William" now that he's old enough to speak his preference. Steve is simply "Uncle Steve" rather than "whichever cousin how many times removed." Robb is currently working on adopting William, and going to the effort of connecting him with lost branches of the family. I have to say, Steve is an excellent choice, that big heart of his being why I married him.
Speaking of Steve and choices, we of course arranged to meet in his favorite local Mexican restaurant. It was supposed to be a slightly late lunch at 1:00, good both for us and, we presumed, someone coming out of California and a different time zone. A short call informed us that it would be more of an early supper. This wasn't just the worst travel day where everybody was clogging roads to get home after X-mas. This was also the day of heavy snowfall over southern California. Freeways weren't just clogged, many were shut down. At the time scheduled for lunch they hadn't gotten near to clearing the state yet, and their route was "just" impeded by pouring rain. We finally connected a little before 5:00 PM. The delay did nothing to dampen the occasion when it finally happened, except that William had stayed up late the night before they left, and had a little trouble keeping his head off the table once it was cleared.
Pictures were taken, including full group shots graciously done by a fellow diner on his way out, texted to Steve, and emailed to me, so we can all enjoy reliving the experience. I mean, besides the required workouts for removing a few gratuitous bulges here and there.
Thursday, December 19, 2019
Address Labels and Christmas Spirits
Address Labels:
The last of the cards have been mailed now. If you've already gotten yours, you won't know that / why they were delayed. Either yours were hand delivered, or we used the last of the "Heather-and-Steve" address labels to get out what we could. I knew we were short - surprise! 60 cards take a lot of labels - and went online to order something somewhat seasonal without being too obnoxious.
Well, obnoxious is a relative thing. When I selected which cards to mail early, I picked the recipients who mostly lived down south, or absolutely needed their cards earlier. That's because I picked, with Steve's blessing, a label showing a snowman relaxing along a tropical beach. We figured that would be less humorous for those already enjoying mild temperatures, unfettered by icy and snowy roads. Only part was "Ha ha", the rest was "Why are you still up there instead of moving or at least visiting?"
So the labels arrived in today's mail, and finished cards were driven to the P.O. for their late pickup. Unfortunately, there was a printing error. I ordered them with both out names on it. What arrived had only mine. I knew, at the very least, that some recipients had no clue who I am. Other, mostly Steve's extended family and friends, might understandably be hurt by the lack of inclusion of his name. It was, well, not solved but maybe eased, by handwriting Steve's name above the top of the label.
At least where there was space. Seems those labels had a nice static charge when pulled off their backing. The end of the label I wasn't holding on to jumped right on to the envelope, well before I had a chance to position it where it really belonged. Some had to be folded down around corners, it was so bad. And Steve's name had to squeeze into a teeny space, shrinking in size the closer it got to the end of his name. The labels always pointed higher on the right.
I think the eBay feedback will be a little less that 5 stars this time. There was no indication that there wasn't room for both names, and I've had plenty other labels that made room.
Christmas Spirits:
No, this is not about the kinds one imbibes. If you know me, you know I don't care for them. After divorcing an alcoholic and raising another, as well as drinking myself sick-drunk during an experimental evening in college, there is less than no appeal.
This is more like the Ghost of Christmas Past. Every time I get in the car, carols and other seasonal music is inescapable. Back as far as I can remember, I sung all the carols and hymns. I was always in school and church choir. I did some door-to-door caroling myself. Taking the kids to the Loyce Holton version of "The Nutcracker" in Minneapolis was a family tradition, and no other "Nutcracker" has ever measured up emotionally, but I still immerse in the music when I can this time of year.
I don't sing any more. I have a fledgling tradition going of attending the Christmas concerts of a good friend, and they tend to make me nostalgic, as well as depressed that I'm not doing it any more. Of course, beliefs have changed, and that also saddens me. It used to be a magical time, something not recoverable, no more than waiting for Santa is more than a distant wisp of nostalgia.
I can recall sneaking down stairs in the black of night to try to peek into presents without leaving traces on the wrappings to see if THE present was there this time. It was, and my parents let me think I'd gotten away with it. Now days, presents are distributed during the summer when there is no postage to have to deal with since we're up with all the relatives, so only cards go out now. I'm not represented by a gaily decorated package under any Minnesota child's tree, except in one case this year with a post-summer announcement of a forthcoming great grandson. (Of course, they came Amazon, so still no wrapping.)
There are a couple presents under our tree this year. Steve has something for me. His idea of wrapping involves a pretty bag and a bunch of tissue paper. (I wonder that this former Navy guy doesn't get mitered corner folds, but oh well.) Easy as it might be, I haven't even been tempted to peek. Part of my gift to him will be my surprise. Childhood is so long gone.
The tree, as you may have just realized, is finally up. Even somewhat decorated. After having decided a couple years ago that there would be no more trees, we divested ourselves of most of our old and traditional ornaments. Grandchildren still had trees. Somehow we never tossed out the tree, however. This year is absolutely the last (big) one.This is because Steve joined an online network of "people in YOUR neighborhood", and found a shoutout for somebody needing a tree. When he responded, a tree had been secured but ornaments were still needed. It took about two seconds for us to decided we could finish getting rid of all but the very, very most sentimental ornaments. We downsized from three totes of them to one of ornaments to be hauled away, one to hold our last decorations, and one huge tote for the tree to get hauled off in just after Christmas. The same family coordinating donations will be expecting to need to pick it up then.
It turns out to be our present to ourselves, and I'm not just talking about all the new open space in the house. It's one of the few things that carries no melancholy strings for this season.
One other is all the lights up. Maybe it's just needing lights to brighten the solstice. Maybe it's not seeing the traditional lights but strings wound around tall palm tree trunks and some pretty silly ways of decorating cactus, such as on this year's card. That was done last year, by the way, and not our house. Either those residents have moved or just chosen something different. Perhaps it was a short fad, since a copycat down the block isn't doing it again either. We do miss, somewhat, the two competing homes across a street from each other several blocks north which we could spot on our way to the grocery store. Several years in a row, not only was it a blast of light along a dark curve, but neither yard had an inch of space for any more snowmen, creches, reindeer, spiral lights pretending to be pine trees, Santas, elves, sleighs, and whatever-the-heck-else they found to set up and pay the electric bills for. The HOA may have decided they presented a nuisance to neighborhood traffic and sleeping patterns. You know, just thinking of us old folks....
Hey, I think I've just cheered myself up enough to head off to bed now. Ho Ho H...zzzzzzzzz.
The last of the cards have been mailed now. If you've already gotten yours, you won't know that / why they were delayed. Either yours were hand delivered, or we used the last of the "Heather-and-Steve" address labels to get out what we could. I knew we were short - surprise! 60 cards take a lot of labels - and went online to order something somewhat seasonal without being too obnoxious.
Well, obnoxious is a relative thing. When I selected which cards to mail early, I picked the recipients who mostly lived down south, or absolutely needed their cards earlier. That's because I picked, with Steve's blessing, a label showing a snowman relaxing along a tropical beach. We figured that would be less humorous for those already enjoying mild temperatures, unfettered by icy and snowy roads. Only part was "Ha ha", the rest was "Why are you still up there instead of moving or at least visiting?"
So the labels arrived in today's mail, and finished cards were driven to the P.O. for their late pickup. Unfortunately, there was a printing error. I ordered them with both out names on it. What arrived had only mine. I knew, at the very least, that some recipients had no clue who I am. Other, mostly Steve's extended family and friends, might understandably be hurt by the lack of inclusion of his name. It was, well, not solved but maybe eased, by handwriting Steve's name above the top of the label.
At least where there was space. Seems those labels had a nice static charge when pulled off their backing. The end of the label I wasn't holding on to jumped right on to the envelope, well before I had a chance to position it where it really belonged. Some had to be folded down around corners, it was so bad. And Steve's name had to squeeze into a teeny space, shrinking in size the closer it got to the end of his name. The labels always pointed higher on the right.
I think the eBay feedback will be a little less that 5 stars this time. There was no indication that there wasn't room for both names, and I've had plenty other labels that made room.
Christmas Spirits:
No, this is not about the kinds one imbibes. If you know me, you know I don't care for them. After divorcing an alcoholic and raising another, as well as drinking myself sick-drunk during an experimental evening in college, there is less than no appeal.
This is more like the Ghost of Christmas Past. Every time I get in the car, carols and other seasonal music is inescapable. Back as far as I can remember, I sung all the carols and hymns. I was always in school and church choir. I did some door-to-door caroling myself. Taking the kids to the Loyce Holton version of "The Nutcracker" in Minneapolis was a family tradition, and no other "Nutcracker" has ever measured up emotionally, but I still immerse in the music when I can this time of year.
I don't sing any more. I have a fledgling tradition going of attending the Christmas concerts of a good friend, and they tend to make me nostalgic, as well as depressed that I'm not doing it any more. Of course, beliefs have changed, and that also saddens me. It used to be a magical time, something not recoverable, no more than waiting for Santa is more than a distant wisp of nostalgia.
I can recall sneaking down stairs in the black of night to try to peek into presents without leaving traces on the wrappings to see if THE present was there this time. It was, and my parents let me think I'd gotten away with it. Now days, presents are distributed during the summer when there is no postage to have to deal with since we're up with all the relatives, so only cards go out now. I'm not represented by a gaily decorated package under any Minnesota child's tree, except in one case this year with a post-summer announcement of a forthcoming great grandson. (Of course, they came Amazon, so still no wrapping.)
There are a couple presents under our tree this year. Steve has something for me. His idea of wrapping involves a pretty bag and a bunch of tissue paper. (I wonder that this former Navy guy doesn't get mitered corner folds, but oh well.) Easy as it might be, I haven't even been tempted to peek. Part of my gift to him will be my surprise. Childhood is so long gone.
The tree, as you may have just realized, is finally up. Even somewhat decorated. After having decided a couple years ago that there would be no more trees, we divested ourselves of most of our old and traditional ornaments. Grandchildren still had trees. Somehow we never tossed out the tree, however. This year is absolutely the last (big) one.This is because Steve joined an online network of "people in YOUR neighborhood", and found a shoutout for somebody needing a tree. When he responded, a tree had been secured but ornaments were still needed. It took about two seconds for us to decided we could finish getting rid of all but the very, very most sentimental ornaments. We downsized from three totes of them to one of ornaments to be hauled away, one to hold our last decorations, and one huge tote for the tree to get hauled off in just after Christmas. The same family coordinating donations will be expecting to need to pick it up then.
It turns out to be our present to ourselves, and I'm not just talking about all the new open space in the house. It's one of the few things that carries no melancholy strings for this season.
One other is all the lights up. Maybe it's just needing lights to brighten the solstice. Maybe it's not seeing the traditional lights but strings wound around tall palm tree trunks and some pretty silly ways of decorating cactus, such as on this year's card. That was done last year, by the way, and not our house. Either those residents have moved or just chosen something different. Perhaps it was a short fad, since a copycat down the block isn't doing it again either. We do miss, somewhat, the two competing homes across a street from each other several blocks north which we could spot on our way to the grocery store. Several years in a row, not only was it a blast of light along a dark curve, but neither yard had an inch of space for any more snowmen, creches, reindeer, spiral lights pretending to be pine trees, Santas, elves, sleighs, and whatever-the-heck-else they found to set up and pay the electric bills for. The HOA may have decided they presented a nuisance to neighborhood traffic and sleeping patterns. You know, just thinking of us old folks....
Hey, I think I've just cheered myself up enough to head off to bed now. Ho Ho H...zzzzzzzzz.
Saturday, December 14, 2019
The Missing Piece of Tape
"A missing piece of tape?" you ask. As insignificant as that? Admittedly, the tape wasn't valuable. It was ordinary painters tape, that recognizable blue and easily removed from whichever surface it's adhered to. It's not the fact that it was tape, or that it became removed that this is about. I know how it became removed, and where, and when. It should have the simplest of things to locate the piece. Nobody or no thing was around to account for how it wasn't in the spot where it became removed. It's simply the why of how it was and still is missing that this is about.
First, of course, is the tale of how the piece of tape came to be used at all. Nobody was painting. It hadn't been taken from its roll to be used in another jewelry project, which is its main household use these days. It had become medical tape. And as always, there is more to the story than that.
If you're keeping up, you know that my Watchman had successfully sealed of that little chamber in the heart where blood might form clots, which might then become loose and travel to very nasty places and cause very nasty consequences. You also should know that the policy after success is to remove Warfarin from the meds list and replace it with Plavix, or generic equivalent. The doc knew that, the doc told me, the doc told my pharmacy and everything was set up to go.
What nobody had mentioned anywhere in the process was the timing of the transition, beyond "before" and "after". I was to continue warfarin on its usual schedule until the TEE test confirmed it wasn't needed. I specifically asked and was answered that it wasn't to be stopped until after the procedure confirmed it was OK.
So far, so good.
What nobody thought to inform me was that the Plavix should not be started until all the Warfarin had left my system. It was just, start it after the procedure. Turns out, as you might suspect by now, that it takes a few days to clear out the Warfarin. Before that, Plavix just doubles down. Oops.
The morning after the procedure, I apparently bumped a teeny tiny little scab off the back of my wrist in the shower. By the time I was fixing my hair, I noticed a little streak of blood, feeling wet where my sleeve rubbed over it with the arm motion. No biggie, bandaid attached, head on to the club for the morning.
A couple hours later, arm movement again felt a little wet, so I peeled back the sleeve and took a peek. Luckily the club has bandaids. Big ones, I suspect due to the dangers possible from the grinders and such. I replaced the original. An hour later, I did it again, this time adding a folding of paper towel to soak up whatever the pad wouldn't hold. And so throughout the day. Understand, there was nothing dramatic in this tiny seepage, beyond being relentless. I figured a salad, lots of greens with vitamin K, would make a good supper. And maybe hold off on a bedtime Plavix, eh?
With the wrist still oozing, and hours of sleep ahead where presumably nothing would rouse me enough to change the tape, I took a big cotton ball and wrapped the wrist three times around with -you guessed it - painters tape. Nothing tight, sticking to itself to stay put, lots of absorbancy. Seems foolproof. Right?
And it was, having curled back on itself only a few inches in the night. However, another teeny scab had gotten bumped just before bedtime, just barely starting to indicate it might do what the other had been, so I stretched about a foot long piece of the same tape around my calf before bed.
I tend to sleep on one side, at least until my shoulder complains loudly enough to wake me to roll over. I know when it happens because I also have to wake sufficiently to lift the sheet and blanket enough to avoid getting entangled in them. Then zonk out again. That night wasn't a restless one.
I had proof. I couldn't help noticing while in the bathroom that morning that there was a monster bruise on the top of the down-side thigh. Deep deep purple. Looking a bit more, there was more on the same side on my lower belly. Nothing anywhere else, at least not in that color range. Turned out, as the day progressed, that some part of me thought either my waistband was too tight or I was spending too much time reaching over tables in the club. Or something. Little blue spots popped up in seemingly unbumped random places, all day.
And one tiny blue spot where the wrist had been wrapped overnight, finally successfully stopping that seep. This I noticed first thing in the bathroom, which reminded me to check out the piece of tape on my leg. It wasn't there. It hadn't fallen off on the several feet walk into the bathroom. It wasn't between the covers, either bottom or top sides. It wasn't on the floor on that side of the bed, nor did it have a chance to slip under the bed, since it's a platform bed.
Now before you question my priorities here, tape vs. blood thinner overdose, I did the right things, once the doc's office opened, and got instructions from them. No more Plavix till Sunday night. (Or maybe I'll just wait till Monday, eh?) Everything is rainbowing, changing into greens and yellows, purples fading... well, you've all watched bruises fade. No further worries there. But the one thing I can't get out of my head is this: just what the heck happened to that other piece of tape?
First, of course, is the tale of how the piece of tape came to be used at all. Nobody was painting. It hadn't been taken from its roll to be used in another jewelry project, which is its main household use these days. It had become medical tape. And as always, there is more to the story than that.
If you're keeping up, you know that my Watchman had successfully sealed of that little chamber in the heart where blood might form clots, which might then become loose and travel to very nasty places and cause very nasty consequences. You also should know that the policy after success is to remove Warfarin from the meds list and replace it with Plavix, or generic equivalent. The doc knew that, the doc told me, the doc told my pharmacy and everything was set up to go.
What nobody had mentioned anywhere in the process was the timing of the transition, beyond "before" and "after". I was to continue warfarin on its usual schedule until the TEE test confirmed it wasn't needed. I specifically asked and was answered that it wasn't to be stopped until after the procedure confirmed it was OK.
So far, so good.
What nobody thought to inform me was that the Plavix should not be started until all the Warfarin had left my system. It was just, start it after the procedure. Turns out, as you might suspect by now, that it takes a few days to clear out the Warfarin. Before that, Plavix just doubles down. Oops.
The morning after the procedure, I apparently bumped a teeny tiny little scab off the back of my wrist in the shower. By the time I was fixing my hair, I noticed a little streak of blood, feeling wet where my sleeve rubbed over it with the arm motion. No biggie, bandaid attached, head on to the club for the morning.
A couple hours later, arm movement again felt a little wet, so I peeled back the sleeve and took a peek. Luckily the club has bandaids. Big ones, I suspect due to the dangers possible from the grinders and such. I replaced the original. An hour later, I did it again, this time adding a folding of paper towel to soak up whatever the pad wouldn't hold. And so throughout the day. Understand, there was nothing dramatic in this tiny seepage, beyond being relentless. I figured a salad, lots of greens with vitamin K, would make a good supper. And maybe hold off on a bedtime Plavix, eh?
With the wrist still oozing, and hours of sleep ahead where presumably nothing would rouse me enough to change the tape, I took a big cotton ball and wrapped the wrist three times around with -you guessed it - painters tape. Nothing tight, sticking to itself to stay put, lots of absorbancy. Seems foolproof. Right?
And it was, having curled back on itself only a few inches in the night. However, another teeny scab had gotten bumped just before bedtime, just barely starting to indicate it might do what the other had been, so I stretched about a foot long piece of the same tape around my calf before bed.
I tend to sleep on one side, at least until my shoulder complains loudly enough to wake me to roll over. I know when it happens because I also have to wake sufficiently to lift the sheet and blanket enough to avoid getting entangled in them. Then zonk out again. That night wasn't a restless one.
I had proof. I couldn't help noticing while in the bathroom that morning that there was a monster bruise on the top of the down-side thigh. Deep deep purple. Looking a bit more, there was more on the same side on my lower belly. Nothing anywhere else, at least not in that color range. Turned out, as the day progressed, that some part of me thought either my waistband was too tight or I was spending too much time reaching over tables in the club. Or something. Little blue spots popped up in seemingly unbumped random places, all day.
And one tiny blue spot where the wrist had been wrapped overnight, finally successfully stopping that seep. This I noticed first thing in the bathroom, which reminded me to check out the piece of tape on my leg. It wasn't there. It hadn't fallen off on the several feet walk into the bathroom. It wasn't between the covers, either bottom or top sides. It wasn't on the floor on that side of the bed, nor did it have a chance to slip under the bed, since it's a platform bed.
Now before you question my priorities here, tape vs. blood thinner overdose, I did the right things, once the doc's office opened, and got instructions from them. No more Plavix till Sunday night. (Or maybe I'll just wait till Monday, eh?) Everything is rainbowing, changing into greens and yellows, purples fading... well, you've all watched bruises fade. No further worries there. But the one thing I can't get out of my head is this: just what the heck happened to that other piece of tape?
Tuesday, December 10, 2019
Party Minutes
I've just been installed as club Secretary for another year. This means, not only did I get to celebrate at the annual party last night where the ceremony for all incoming 2020 officers was held, I got to take the minutes from it. Usually my minutes are terse. Cut out all the extra words so the report can be kept to a single printed page where possible, saving the club a few expenses. Notes were taken last night. Minutes were written after arriving home. But hey: PARTY! A different style was called for:
Fairway Sterling & Stones Membership Meeting
AKA Annual Christmas Party
Dec. 9, 2019
Festivities commenced at 6:00 PM. According to the sign up sheets, 87 people were in attendance, including Santa and Mrs. Claus. Attire ranged from shorts and jeans to an incredible variety of bling; upon reflection, not totally unexpected for a jewelry club.
President Mary Brown-Martilik called up the other 4 current club officers to the podium, presenting each with a “‘World’s Best (__office here__)” certificate. Mary has apparently been so busy with club activities that she forgot to print out the 5th one for herself. It may be, with her impending retirement, she’ll get some rest from her heavy workload of club duties soon. Not too much, however, as she has plans to continue teaching workshops in the club.
Incoming officers were called up for installation, Maggie Frey officiating. President - Becky Joy, 1st Vice President - Phil Townsend, 2nd Vice President - Sandra Larson, Secretary - Heather Rosa, Treasurer - Carol Fleury. Thanks were then given to outgoing President Mary Brown Martilik for her years of outstanding service, a bouquet was presented by Neva Schumaker, and a lengthy standing ovation followed. Really lengthy. Reports surfaced of certain hands reddening and swelling from repeated impacts.
Lifetime memberships were awarded to Vic Shorb, Linda and Colin Morely, and Richard Campbell.
Business being over, pot luck was announced, lines winding no more than 75 feet long at any given time, progressing steadily until plates were overfilled, followed by all available chairs, with more then brought in by RCSC staff, along with an extra table. It was commented that this was our largest crowd in years, and a special welcome went out to all our new members from Bell who joined while their facility had some improvements… uh, issues… uh well, it is expected to actually reopen. We will be delighted should they continue with us even given an alternative.
Raffle names were called in bunches, interspersed between segments of music provided by the DJ, Hank Tokarz. In contrast to the stereotype, Santa actually won a raffle prize, finally getting to know how it feels to receive and not just give. It is hoped this didn’t prove confusing, and he appreciated the change. One might think the shock of that accounted for Santa’s chronic wardrobe malfunction, had it not already been occurring throughout the evening. Having lost his real Santa belly this last year (according to Mrs. Santa) he decided to - ahem - fill his role by stuffing something in denim under his shirt in its stead. His struggles to maintain it in its place, by stuffing it upwards repeatedly from the bottom, provided some entertainment throughout the evening. Really, Santa, not necessary. After all, slimmer is the new black. Own it!
Lisa Borho announced that, considering the 4th Wednesday this year falls on Christmas Day, with most committee members having alternate expectations of how they spend that time, and the jewelry store currently being adequately filled, there will be only one jewelry selection this month, and items need to be in tomorrow night.
Much dancing ensued. By the end of the evening, a number of men actually joined in as well. Party officially ended at 8:00 PM. No information is available about any private parties continuing off premises.
Respectfully ( uh, OK, sure) submitted by Secretary Heather M. Rosa.
Fairway Sterling & Stones Membership Meeting
AKA Annual Christmas Party
Dec. 9, 2019
Festivities commenced at 6:00 PM. According to the sign up sheets, 87 people were in attendance, including Santa and Mrs. Claus. Attire ranged from shorts and jeans to an incredible variety of bling; upon reflection, not totally unexpected for a jewelry club.
President Mary Brown-Martilik called up the other 4 current club officers to the podium, presenting each with a “‘World’s Best (__office here__)” certificate. Mary has apparently been so busy with club activities that she forgot to print out the 5th one for herself. It may be, with her impending retirement, she’ll get some rest from her heavy workload of club duties soon. Not too much, however, as she has plans to continue teaching workshops in the club.
Incoming officers were called up for installation, Maggie Frey officiating. President - Becky Joy, 1st Vice President - Phil Townsend, 2nd Vice President - Sandra Larson, Secretary - Heather Rosa, Treasurer - Carol Fleury. Thanks were then given to outgoing President Mary Brown Martilik for her years of outstanding service, a bouquet was presented by Neva Schumaker, and a lengthy standing ovation followed. Really lengthy. Reports surfaced of certain hands reddening and swelling from repeated impacts.
Lifetime memberships were awarded to Vic Shorb, Linda and Colin Morely, and Richard Campbell.
Business being over, pot luck was announced, lines winding no more than 75 feet long at any given time, progressing steadily until plates were overfilled, followed by all available chairs, with more then brought in by RCSC staff, along with an extra table. It was commented that this was our largest crowd in years, and a special welcome went out to all our new members from Bell who joined while their facility had some improvements… uh, issues… uh well, it is expected to actually reopen. We will be delighted should they continue with us even given an alternative.
Raffle names were called in bunches, interspersed between segments of music provided by the DJ, Hank Tokarz. In contrast to the stereotype, Santa actually won a raffle prize, finally getting to know how it feels to receive and not just give. It is hoped this didn’t prove confusing, and he appreciated the change. One might think the shock of that accounted for Santa’s chronic wardrobe malfunction, had it not already been occurring throughout the evening. Having lost his real Santa belly this last year (according to Mrs. Santa) he decided to - ahem - fill his role by stuffing something in denim under his shirt in its stead. His struggles to maintain it in its place, by stuffing it upwards repeatedly from the bottom, provided some entertainment throughout the evening. Really, Santa, not necessary. After all, slimmer is the new black. Own it!
Lisa Borho announced that, considering the 4th Wednesday this year falls on Christmas Day, with most committee members having alternate expectations of how they spend that time, and the jewelry store currently being adequately filled, there will be only one jewelry selection this month, and items need to be in tomorrow night.
Much dancing ensued. By the end of the evening, a number of men actually joined in as well. Party officially ended at 8:00 PM. No information is available about any private parties continuing off premises.
Respectfully ( uh, OK, sure) submitted by Secretary Heather M. Rosa.
Off Blood Thinners!!
Short and sweet: today's TEE indicated that the Watchman has completed its job of persuading my body to cover it over. No more Warfarin! I'm going to need to earn my bruises in the future, so a lot less wondering where that weird bruise popped up from. I should actually have some idea. A bump. A pain. Something.
If you've missed previous discussions here, and want to know what the heck this new gizmo is, Google it -"Watchman", that is. Instead of 'splaining it all again, I'm heading down to where I stashed my rings from removing them for the procedure and putting them back on, and then I'm going to wait for my new medic alert bracelet to arrive. Because it needs updated information.
And yes, I feel fine, even if they won't let me drive again until tomorrow. Even better, I can gorge on all the salads I want to now.
If you've missed previous discussions here, and want to know what the heck this new gizmo is, Google it -"Watchman", that is. Instead of 'splaining it all again, I'm heading down to where I stashed my rings from removing them for the procedure and putting them back on, and then I'm going to wait for my new medic alert bracelet to arrive. Because it needs updated information.
And yes, I feel fine, even if they won't let me drive again until tomorrow. Even better, I can gorge on all the salads I want to now.
Saturday, December 7, 2019
Store Math
We've heard of "new math." This presupposed there was an "old math." For me, of course, that's just plain math. Numbers are numbers, formulas are formulas, 3+5 will always =8. Etcetera. But today I discovered yet another kind: "store math."
I went to WallyWorld to get the annual photo greeting cards made. Those of you on my list have been -uhh- blessed with them for decades now. They show my photos, favorite/s from the year, of anything except people. Call it a character flaw, call it an ego trip, but who really wants to watch the wrinkles grow for their holiday greetings? I put on something else. Time was when I could put in my own message along with a photo, but they're all canned now unless you've got your own sophisticated set-up at home.
I don't.
So it starts with selecting which photos I want, then which message I can live with, and proceeding to fight with the machine to produce something which matches my internal vision. I'm beginning to get that last part down. Today's session in the photo department only took about 20 minutes, with little help from the lady on the next stool, as no actual human employee inhabited that entire department. Considering, I felt pretty good about it.
There were some changes in printed text to personalize it, since my first choice was too long and certain punctuation was unavailable. I declined to check the box allowing a text to my phone announcing they were ready, hoping that failure to opt in equated opting out. Same with my email address. The computer didn't insist. The order was accepted.
But it's always at the end of the transaction where store math takes effect. My initial selections were a choice between one hour to wait for printing, or several days. I picked one hour. On the receipt that prints out at the end, the time stamp was 12:40.
At the bottom, I was informed it would be ready at 4:00. So apparently, 3 hours twenty minutes = 1 hour in "store math."
Makes me wonder how they figure the price!
I went to WallyWorld to get the annual photo greeting cards made. Those of you on my list have been -uhh- blessed with them for decades now. They show my photos, favorite/s from the year, of anything except people. Call it a character flaw, call it an ego trip, but who really wants to watch the wrinkles grow for their holiday greetings? I put on something else. Time was when I could put in my own message along with a photo, but they're all canned now unless you've got your own sophisticated set-up at home.
I don't.
So it starts with selecting which photos I want, then which message I can live with, and proceeding to fight with the machine to produce something which matches my internal vision. I'm beginning to get that last part down. Today's session in the photo department only took about 20 minutes, with little help from the lady on the next stool, as no actual human employee inhabited that entire department. Considering, I felt pretty good about it.
There were some changes in printed text to personalize it, since my first choice was too long and certain punctuation was unavailable. I declined to check the box allowing a text to my phone announcing they were ready, hoping that failure to opt in equated opting out. Same with my email address. The computer didn't insist. The order was accepted.
But it's always at the end of the transaction where store math takes effect. My initial selections were a choice between one hour to wait for printing, or several days. I picked one hour. On the receipt that prints out at the end, the time stamp was 12:40.
At the bottom, I was informed it would be ready at 4:00. So apparently, 3 hours twenty minutes = 1 hour in "store math."
Makes me wonder how they figure the price!
Thursday, December 5, 2019
The Tree is ... Up?
A couple years ago Steve and I agreed that putting up and taking down our (very nice) artificial X-mas tree was too much work. We sorted through our decorations and sent a couple of boxes to family members with little children who set up trees.
No regrets there. So far, so good.
This year there was an extra set of muscles in the house. Steve asked that the tree and accessories be dragged out, all three humongous totes' worth, and set up in the dining room corner of the living room. Someone wasn't in the best mood that morning, but the tree went up. Kinda. The branches were stabbed into the slots where they belonged, but only after much grumbling about how complicated it was. It didn't seen to be the right exact time to point out that they were usually sorted out into the various color-coded markers for each level, branches fluffed out so the tree looked filled and there were multiple spots for lights and ornaments to hang, and then stabbed in place, one color/level at a time, starting from the bottom so we didn't have to get way down to find the slots. Usually, I might add, it was done with much less vehemence. Also with enough attention to the slots each clicked down into to be secure against bumps or whatever.
OK, the tree got up. You can probably guess how it looked. Steve and I decided to fix it a bit later. After all, our helper had done the heavy lifting. Literally. I'd categorize it under creative incompetence, however - the kind that is meant to persuade others that this task should never be assigned to them again. You know, like the person assigned to doing the dishes who leaves them streaked, greasy, and anything but clean. Maybe even a broken one here and there, just in case we hadn't noticed the job wasn't getting done.
The next day I returned from wherever I'd been to find that Steve had been taking branches out and fluffing them out. Most of the rows had been sorted and replaced on the tree. More specifically, three bottom rows had been filled in, while the top section and a few more rows graced the top. He'd run out of steam at that point and passed on the rest of the job to me.
I viewed the area and decided the floor needed vacuuming to remove all those little green "needles" before the tree was finished and the floor couldn't be reached, backed into the corner as the tree was. I made one mistake, however. I tried to move the tree in its stand a few inches to the side so the vacuum had room.
Several things happened in the next half minute. The stand is one with four legs that only splay out when flat on the floor. Once raised up, they all try - usually successfully - to gather into one single point under the center. Not exactly a support for anything. I had to turn off the vacuum (why exactly had I been multitasking at this point?), grab the tree from falling over, change my grip to catch the top which was now completely separated from the adjacent section of trunk, let the lower section of the tree drop because the top needed two hands to support it although it wound up tip down on the floor anyway. In all the shifting and grabbing and re-grabbing, over three rows of branches fell out from where they hadn't been completely clicked in place and the bottom was lying on its side trying to occupy the same space as the tipsy turvey top.
Several choice words ensued, branches were snatched up and tossed aside so the big parts could be relocated to where they were accessible for when the entire project got restarted. Then there was the resorting by colors, the reshaping of the branches so one could pretend no mishaps had happened, and the third assembly of the tree.
This is where it got interesting. (What? Now? It wasn't already?) The bottom three rows of branches had pretty much remained attached to the trunk. Also, once the top was up, it turned out that several upper rows had at least one or two branches in place. I completed the vacuuming, and returned to making sense of the tree assembly. This involved filling in the middle once incomplete rows were filled in.
Hey, it was that or taking even more of the tree apart. At one point it looked so ridiculous that I got the camera out and took a shot. I'm tempted to put it on the X-mas card this year, maybe getting one of those set up for two photos, since I'd already planned the 1st photo since last year. This shot should fit right in, as the other is pretty bizarre - uh, unique in a southwestern desert sort of way - anyway.
Eventually all the branches got put in their proper spots. It was extra fun because the trunk pole is decorated with a long coil the the branch material, invariable hiding all the holes from view.
The tree sat for two more days.
Today while I was gone to the club for 6 hours, including teaching a workshop, Steve got into the lights. The string(s) of miniatures are spread around the tree. The strings of bubblers, the must haves for any X-mas tree, aren't on yet. They didn't have the right plugs to attach to the regular ones, nor the right ones for the two-pronged wall hookup. I know there's another 2 prong / 3 prong adapter in the house somewhere, since other plugins in the house - not all, just some - are also 2 prongers. Wherever the adapter is, it's probably in use. We need to buy a new one or five, since this issue keeps recurring. Once we have that, the surge protector can plug into the wall outlet, the bubblers can chain into that, and the miniatures can chain either into the bubblers or down to the surge protector.
Do I hear "shopping trip tomorrow" anybody? I mean, Steve's gone back to bed, I'm wiped after finding out how many ways my students can misinterpret instructions for their project, and an early nap seems to be calling my name as well. Besides, it's time for the TV evening news followed by some thought given to a supper selection.
But the tree is up. Fingers crossed. Ho Ho H.......umbug!
No regrets there. So far, so good.
This year there was an extra set of muscles in the house. Steve asked that the tree and accessories be dragged out, all three humongous totes' worth, and set up in the dining room corner of the living room. Someone wasn't in the best mood that morning, but the tree went up. Kinda. The branches were stabbed into the slots where they belonged, but only after much grumbling about how complicated it was. It didn't seen to be the right exact time to point out that they were usually sorted out into the various color-coded markers for each level, branches fluffed out so the tree looked filled and there were multiple spots for lights and ornaments to hang, and then stabbed in place, one color/level at a time, starting from the bottom so we didn't have to get way down to find the slots. Usually, I might add, it was done with much less vehemence. Also with enough attention to the slots each clicked down into to be secure against bumps or whatever.
OK, the tree got up. You can probably guess how it looked. Steve and I decided to fix it a bit later. After all, our helper had done the heavy lifting. Literally. I'd categorize it under creative incompetence, however - the kind that is meant to persuade others that this task should never be assigned to them again. You know, like the person assigned to doing the dishes who leaves them streaked, greasy, and anything but clean. Maybe even a broken one here and there, just in case we hadn't noticed the job wasn't getting done.
The next day I returned from wherever I'd been to find that Steve had been taking branches out and fluffing them out. Most of the rows had been sorted and replaced on the tree. More specifically, three bottom rows had been filled in, while the top section and a few more rows graced the top. He'd run out of steam at that point and passed on the rest of the job to me.
I viewed the area and decided the floor needed vacuuming to remove all those little green "needles" before the tree was finished and the floor couldn't be reached, backed into the corner as the tree was. I made one mistake, however. I tried to move the tree in its stand a few inches to the side so the vacuum had room.
Several things happened in the next half minute. The stand is one with four legs that only splay out when flat on the floor. Once raised up, they all try - usually successfully - to gather into one single point under the center. Not exactly a support for anything. I had to turn off the vacuum (why exactly had I been multitasking at this point?), grab the tree from falling over, change my grip to catch the top which was now completely separated from the adjacent section of trunk, let the lower section of the tree drop because the top needed two hands to support it although it wound up tip down on the floor anyway. In all the shifting and grabbing and re-grabbing, over three rows of branches fell out from where they hadn't been completely clicked in place and the bottom was lying on its side trying to occupy the same space as the tipsy turvey top.
Several choice words ensued, branches were snatched up and tossed aside so the big parts could be relocated to where they were accessible for when the entire project got restarted. Then there was the resorting by colors, the reshaping of the branches so one could pretend no mishaps had happened, and the third assembly of the tree.
This is where it got interesting. (What? Now? It wasn't already?) The bottom three rows of branches had pretty much remained attached to the trunk. Also, once the top was up, it turned out that several upper rows had at least one or two branches in place. I completed the vacuuming, and returned to making sense of the tree assembly. This involved filling in the middle once incomplete rows were filled in.
Hey, it was that or taking even more of the tree apart. At one point it looked so ridiculous that I got the camera out and took a shot. I'm tempted to put it on the X-mas card this year, maybe getting one of those set up for two photos, since I'd already planned the 1st photo since last year. This shot should fit right in, as the other is pretty bizarre - uh, unique in a southwestern desert sort of way - anyway.
Eventually all the branches got put in their proper spots. It was extra fun because the trunk pole is decorated with a long coil the the branch material, invariable hiding all the holes from view.
The tree sat for two more days.
Today while I was gone to the club for 6 hours, including teaching a workshop, Steve got into the lights. The string(s) of miniatures are spread around the tree. The strings of bubblers, the must haves for any X-mas tree, aren't on yet. They didn't have the right plugs to attach to the regular ones, nor the right ones for the two-pronged wall hookup. I know there's another 2 prong / 3 prong adapter in the house somewhere, since other plugins in the house - not all, just some - are also 2 prongers. Wherever the adapter is, it's probably in use. We need to buy a new one or five, since this issue keeps recurring. Once we have that, the surge protector can plug into the wall outlet, the bubblers can chain into that, and the miniatures can chain either into the bubblers or down to the surge protector.
Do I hear "shopping trip tomorrow" anybody? I mean, Steve's gone back to bed, I'm wiped after finding out how many ways my students can misinterpret instructions for their project, and an early nap seems to be calling my name as well. Besides, it's time for the TV evening news followed by some thought given to a supper selection.
But the tree is up. Fingers crossed. Ho Ho H.......umbug!
Tuesday, December 3, 2019
Musing On Funerals
I've been musing on funerals lately, perhaps because I've been to an increasingly frequent amount of them. Hey, retirement central: what can you expect?
I hadn't been to one until I was a teenager in junior high. I was in shock the whole time, unable to pay attention to the funeral for the death itself. He was a friend of sorts, a grade behind me in school but active in our church youth group and religion classes. His name was Greg, but better known as Mouse, a nickname we were too insensitive to realize he hated and found demeaning. For some unknown reason he'd picked me out as a friend, a situation rare in itself. He also confused me by how he talked, enough to send me to his aunt, who was also our Sunday school teacher, to try to express my confusion. I didn't realize he was calling out for help.
One morning everybody was gathered outside the church in groups. The night before Greg had taken the family's rifle and shot both his younger brothers, then killed himself. One brother survived. What we kids hadn't known was that his father had divorced his mom and left the family. In the early 60s this was still a scandal, and there weren't things in place to help children deal with it, especially as it was mostly hidden. It was said - I think from the surviving brother - that Greg thought he was sending all three of the boys to a better place. He assumed they felt as tormented as he was.
His actions changed my life. I decided to major in psychology, hoping to find the answers so I could keep it from happening again, or at least recognize a call for help. Turns out psych didn't have the answers, while each branch/philosophy loudly proclaimed it possessed the only one. (I hope it's evolved since them.)
Years after Greg there were family funerals, both grandmothers, both pretty much a matter of form to attend and pay our respects. I knew so little of them, living a couple hundred miles away, that there was nothing to miss and mourn. There was the traditional embalmed body in a casket looking nothing like anybody I remembered, imparting an unreality to the whole thing. It was about seeing relatives we also lived hundreds of miles apart from, so pretty unemotional gatherings from my perspective.
Decades passed. Funerals gradually became personal, the loss of somebody I actually knew something about: in-laws, parents, friends. The next one to strike hard was the death of the teenage daughter of a friend. It was particularly ugly, evidence showing she was trapped in a fire that also killed others. It started with a cigarette, presumably where she had been sleeping, but she roused enough to try to get up the stairway to waken the rest of the family. That's where she died, fully aware of what was happening. No peaceful smoke inhalation in her sleep. I wrapped myself in the horror of that for months.
Most deaths after that were more prosaic, old age or illness such as cancer, where one could tell oneself it was the relief after a long painful road. One didn't have to believe in any particular religious theology to find a modicum of comfort in that kind of ending.
The style of funerals was changing. There was more personal information on the deceased's life, including picture collages and slide shows. In one family, where nobody had financial resources, a cremation was followed by a small family potluck, after which everybody went around the circle and shared a favorite memory. A few remaining "treasures" were passed on to those attending as reminders of her life. It was as loving as any big showy display could try to be.
I found out more about people I thought I'd known than I realized had been part of their lives, especially when the person had the chance to plan the rituals themselves. Having family and friends invited to stand up and share memories brought the deceased back to life for a while. More formal funerals tended to erase the humanity of the departed, at least from my non-religious perspective.
The most recent one I attended was a case in point of both ends of that spectrum. Realize that I hadn't known the deceased. I was there to support his widow. On the "this was a real, unique human being" side, there was a slide show with scenes throughout his life, showing family, friends, travels, and his great sense of humor. My favorite of all time - heck, my favorite wedding photo of all time - was the formal shot of bride and groom with him kicking up his heels in the air. That's celebrating your marriage!
Well, that's youth too.
The other end of the spectrum, same funeral, was the minister spending 20 minutes offering to lead any of us nonbelievers into the true faith so we'd have the comfort of knowing (properly) exactly how death wasn't death. It wasn't a statement of his faith. It was the offer of conversion of us to it.
But hey, the food was OK. And what I gave was the comfort to the widow that I cared about her loss. And somehow I think that was the important thing. It's why we gather. Believe however you do or don't. There is a loss for the people left behind. And they can still feel our hugs.
I hadn't been to one until I was a teenager in junior high. I was in shock the whole time, unable to pay attention to the funeral for the death itself. He was a friend of sorts, a grade behind me in school but active in our church youth group and religion classes. His name was Greg, but better known as Mouse, a nickname we were too insensitive to realize he hated and found demeaning. For some unknown reason he'd picked me out as a friend, a situation rare in itself. He also confused me by how he talked, enough to send me to his aunt, who was also our Sunday school teacher, to try to express my confusion. I didn't realize he was calling out for help.
One morning everybody was gathered outside the church in groups. The night before Greg had taken the family's rifle and shot both his younger brothers, then killed himself. One brother survived. What we kids hadn't known was that his father had divorced his mom and left the family. In the early 60s this was still a scandal, and there weren't things in place to help children deal with it, especially as it was mostly hidden. It was said - I think from the surviving brother - that Greg thought he was sending all three of the boys to a better place. He assumed they felt as tormented as he was.
His actions changed my life. I decided to major in psychology, hoping to find the answers so I could keep it from happening again, or at least recognize a call for help. Turns out psych didn't have the answers, while each branch/philosophy loudly proclaimed it possessed the only one. (I hope it's evolved since them.)
Years after Greg there were family funerals, both grandmothers, both pretty much a matter of form to attend and pay our respects. I knew so little of them, living a couple hundred miles away, that there was nothing to miss and mourn. There was the traditional embalmed body in a casket looking nothing like anybody I remembered, imparting an unreality to the whole thing. It was about seeing relatives we also lived hundreds of miles apart from, so pretty unemotional gatherings from my perspective.
Decades passed. Funerals gradually became personal, the loss of somebody I actually knew something about: in-laws, parents, friends. The next one to strike hard was the death of the teenage daughter of a friend. It was particularly ugly, evidence showing she was trapped in a fire that also killed others. It started with a cigarette, presumably where she had been sleeping, but she roused enough to try to get up the stairway to waken the rest of the family. That's where she died, fully aware of what was happening. No peaceful smoke inhalation in her sleep. I wrapped myself in the horror of that for months.
Most deaths after that were more prosaic, old age or illness such as cancer, where one could tell oneself it was the relief after a long painful road. One didn't have to believe in any particular religious theology to find a modicum of comfort in that kind of ending.
The style of funerals was changing. There was more personal information on the deceased's life, including picture collages and slide shows. In one family, where nobody had financial resources, a cremation was followed by a small family potluck, after which everybody went around the circle and shared a favorite memory. A few remaining "treasures" were passed on to those attending as reminders of her life. It was as loving as any big showy display could try to be.
I found out more about people I thought I'd known than I realized had been part of their lives, especially when the person had the chance to plan the rituals themselves. Having family and friends invited to stand up and share memories brought the deceased back to life for a while. More formal funerals tended to erase the humanity of the departed, at least from my non-religious perspective.
The most recent one I attended was a case in point of both ends of that spectrum. Realize that I hadn't known the deceased. I was there to support his widow. On the "this was a real, unique human being" side, there was a slide show with scenes throughout his life, showing family, friends, travels, and his great sense of humor. My favorite of all time - heck, my favorite wedding photo of all time - was the formal shot of bride and groom with him kicking up his heels in the air. That's celebrating your marriage!
Well, that's youth too.
The other end of the spectrum, same funeral, was the minister spending 20 minutes offering to lead any of us nonbelievers into the true faith so we'd have the comfort of knowing (properly) exactly how death wasn't death. It wasn't a statement of his faith. It was the offer of conversion of us to it.
But hey, the food was OK. And what I gave was the comfort to the widow that I cared about her loss. And somehow I think that was the important thing. It's why we gather. Believe however you do or don't. There is a loss for the people left behind. And they can still feel our hugs.
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