Making Wine

Another discussion in a different place brought back lots of old memories. So old in fact I'm not positive I was a third of my current age at the time. It was close, however, as I remember the kitchen in which sat the refrigerator whose top held the large canner tub that was used for the must to ferment in for its first stage. 

We had a yard. The yard had dandelions, because that's what unpoisoned MN yards did. I always liked dandelions, both for their flowers and their "poofy" stage when kids of any age could blow the seeds to wherever a breeze would pick them up. So I never poisoned the yard. I "poofed".

 One day the subject of making dandelion wine came up. I can't recall whether I volunteered or I got volunteered. Either way, I filled an empty bread bag - 1 1/2 pound loaf size -with open blossoms, found out what one had to do to turn those into wine, and did it. There was a shop in Har Mar Mall in Roseville that sold the yeast, and some kind of special one-way toppers once the liquid was separated from all the solids so that fermentation  could take place, gases could escape and no new nasty yeasts could enter the brew until it was fully wine and could be bottled. At some point, raisins were involved, sugar was added, and I'm not sure what all else went into the batch. I do clearly recall thinking that with all the other stuff, why were dandelions even needed? It had been a lot of work picking those!

Still it was fun enough. I'd learned to do something new! And for once in my life it seemed to be something that pleased my husband. I'm thinking he was looking forward to "free wine" in a few months, though what with all the supplies and equipment, it was the most expensive free anything he'd ever drink in his life. 

Was it any good? I don't know. I happen to hate alcohol. But it was all gone about as soon as it got bottled, and not in the same way a later batch of wine was. 

I got the bug for experimenting. Dandelions bloom in spring. It would have been summer before the canner was available for a next batch, but by then there were no dandelions. What was blooming, and even more difficult to get blossoms from, was yellow sweet clover. Those have tiny petals on short vertical stalks, and the scent of them has always meant summer to me. It's so nostalgic that each first-of-the-summer scent is a quick kick asking, "How on earth could you ever forget what that smelled like?" It has been a great loss to not smell them for the last few years. But this was back then when making this wine meant a few hours in olfactory heaven stripping those tiny delicate petals off their 3" long green stems. In the time I'd previously filled that bread bag of dandelion blossoms, I'd fill maybe a fifth of the bread bag with sweet clover. Those went in the fridge, then out I was again the next day for more, this time with kids along to assist. Slightly more progress.

Since nobody in the world had developed a recipe for sweet clover blossom wine - or at least none I could find, being decades before Google, I just did everything else the same way as the dandelion recipe. While the must was developing, everything in the kitchen smelled the same to my nose, so it must be working.

Tasting had to wait a few months, but I was on a roll. there were other things to try. Same basic recipe, of course, because it was making something, and that something contained alcohol. I tried two more varieties I can remember. Carrot wine was one. Lovely color, and carrots contain sugar, and scraping carrots on a cheese grater was much easier than stripping teensy petals off sweet clover stems. What's not to try?

Then of course, because one often does in such circumstances, came the piece de resistance. I'd not know it for months, but this last one met everybody's resistance, even my husband's, who was so determined to get all the "benefits" of the alcohol off this last wine that he set it out in winter to freeze, the theory that what didn't freeze would be alcohol, and should leave most of the... uh, "flavor" would be a kindness... removed with the ice.

But back to the middle of the saga. It was finally time to taste the dandelion wine. We held a party. It was served.  Sipped. Thought about. Sipped again. And declared adequate for drinking. Not so adequate that our guests would be so "rude" as to finish it all up of course. Or go home and make their own. Each had brought their own bottles of their own favorite flavors, so the party went well enough. And we'd learned a couple years before to put the kids to bed first, because we nearly had a tragedy when everybody, unknown to us, thought at the first party-with-baby we had that it was great fun to give our toddling first-born a sip of their drinks, and watch her toddle to the next glass, and the next, until suddenly somebody noticed her unsteadiness and put it all together. The party ended fairly suddenly after that, and we kept a close watch on our daughter for a few hours. We were still too young and naive to realize how close a call it was until a couple conversations with real adults in the next couple days!

A few weeks later the sweet clover wine was uncorked, with my husband's best friend over to share in the glories. It was sipped, swirled, thought about, and declared... peppery. Interesting choice for a wine, but please don't do that again, eh? But I'm OK with that decision, it was a lot of work for me, after all.

Some weeks later the same with the carrot wine. Drinkable, but no real flavor. Please note that none of these experiments were poured down the sink. Either they weren't that bad, or it was just the alcohol needed a home in somebody's bloodstream.

The piece that found resistance was already in process by this time, early fall. There were no flowers other than a few which smelled bad to my nose, so I didn't choose that route. Instead I went with something green, a late crop which was known for some sugar content. Enough sugar in fact that it was part of the name: sugar snap peas! I had already eaten the peas because I loved them, though not so much the pods, at least in this early market variety of them. Ones on the market these days, to my palate, are sweeter, though I doubt it would have made a difference. But back then? What the heck, I'm having fun making wine, trying new stuff that nobody else was making (without realizing there could be very good reasons for that), and why waste these perfectly edible food parts?

Same recipe, of course same timing, process, everything, though by this time instead of the top of the fridge they "worked" in the basement. I, at least, was a bit tired of smelling alcohol in the kitchen. And while I got no weird looks from my regular day care customers, nor lost any customers during this journey as a wanna-be vintner, it was time to put things away. Note I'm not blaming that move for the results, just noting it was all coming to an end anyway.

Once again it was uncorked in something less than complete privacy, with my husband's best friend over to help taste. This time there was no display of politeness, no thoughtful long tasting, just spitting back into the glasses it was sipped out of! Probably just as well that the friend brought over a bit of weed to share, though just with my husband. Among other things, I didn't smoke either, and second-hand marijuana smoke had no effect on me. 

A few days later, rather than throw the pea pod wine out, my husband used freeze distillation to remove ice, hoping more concentrated alcohol would improve the flavor. Even for him, no such luck. Everything that didn't slide down the drain got packed up, put away, and never brought out again.

I decided houseplants made a good hobby.

The Day After

Thanksgiving Day was exhausting. This is not so much why as a holiday it specifically was, but reasons why it wasn't. 

It wasn't the cooking. Steve provided cranberry sauce, the stuffing muffins were done over the two days leading up to turkey day, and the turkey just had to pulled out of the fridge a last few hours to finish thawing before taking the plastic off, rinsing it, and popping the roaster pan in the oven. Sure, I had to change a rack to a different height, big deal. There was no gravy to make, no pinfeathers to remove or tail to cut off with its attending big glob of fat.  Just clear the wing away from the red pop-up-it's-done gizmo, put the lid on, set temp and timer, and sit. Oh yeah, it also was just under a 14 pounder, and the oven is in the wall, so no back strain.

There was no club work to do in the morning, unlike most mornings, especially with the Fall Festival starting Friday. All merchandise going over was already cleaned, sorted, cards written out, and the larger glass pieces bubble wrapped and sent with their stands on Tuesday. Other people put up the tables, organized the cases, etc. My work there will be two short afternoons sitting in front of a box of cards and pulling out the ones for each item sold. Period.  (I always make sure to sign up early for that one, and end of day also means I know exactly how much of my stuff sold.) For the grand finish, I alphabetize the sold-item cards by last name of artist, for the convenience of our club treasurer, so we all can get paid ASAP.

The dog has been antsy in the mornings lately, but much of the duty of sending her out, bringing her in, has fallen on Rich lately. The path rarely is barefoot safe, so... his problem.

What caused the work for the day was laundry. But not for the reason you think, or not exactly. You see, I woke up itchy. 

Yes, the majority of my seasonal wardrobe was dirty, but I had plenty left. And cooler weather (finally!) meant it was time to dig into the heavier clothes anyway. I could easily have postponed laundry. Except I was down to my 4th pair of pajamas, ones I'd pretty much shrunk inside of to the point where they bunched up when I moved in the bed instead of fitting me properly. Wrinkles created pressure points, and those itched. First, the dog had been sleeping snuggled next to me in my bed to stay warm, not at the far mattress corner guarding the door. So the shedding happened next to me, and I'm allergic. My response is to itch, aka dermatographic uticaria, for as long as an hour after I wake up until the allergy pills take effect. In addition, the fitted sheet has stretched from several days use and also provided more wrinkles, aka pressure points. 

When bedding is included, it means two loads of laundry. There were already two loads cycling, both Steve's, one in each machine. So I really got to cycle double duty, and his stuff is heavier than mine because he is already into sweats and long sleeves while I'm still in knee length pants and short sleeves in lighter fabrics. Since Rich was outside and busy, I had to reach down and in the machines to get clothes where needed to be next, and next. It's a twist or three to reach past stuff in front of the dryer door and in to the recesses of the dryer, just because so much stuff is piled and packed close in front of the dryer door, not to mention on top of the dryer so I have to snake around between boxes and bottles to read and push controls. It all uses my bad shoulder, of course. 

It's quite similar using the washer except that's all vertical, so nothing is on top. Except a slanted low roof over both machines, so one can't simply stand up and reach out. It's more like leaning over and crawling back in, except feet stay on the floor. Whoever added the laundry space crammed it in without paying attention to the building codes. Or, just as likely, AZ didn't have decent codes back in '61 anyway so nobody gave a flying *%$&. Then there's hauling clean stuff to respective beds, sorting, and putting mine where it goes. Mostly that means on hangers on a fairly high rod, so... shoulder again of course.

At least after supper, meaning after all the bones are picked and pieces and broth put up in containers in the fridge and garbage out curbside, I got Rich to help me make my bed. It's so much easier with two, particularly the lifting the mattress part. It sometimes has to be repeated when you can't exactly tell which corner of a queen sheet matches the queen mattress. I try magic-marking the corners, but laundering eventually eliminates the ink, and these sheets are as old as this bed is, though otherwise in great shape. The topper - literally - was finally giving in to the season and putting the spread back on the bed, first time since last spring.  It weights about 75 pounds, or so it feels by the time all the rest is done. 

So now I'm ready for bed, right? Except all that late work had stimulated me wide awake. Aching a bit, but awake. Well, then, I might as well sit and write another blog post, right? Maybe with another bite of turkey to keep me company. No! Wait! Ice cream! I need room in the freezer for turkey leftovers. Mmmmm, chocolate cherry nut truffle! Now digging into that doesn't bother the shoulder one single bit.

A Giving Thanks Day

Forget all that stuff you heard or didn't hear in school about the how and why of Thanksgiving. Yes, it's important and controversial, both. History can be truly ugly. So can what's happening today. So right now, let's reduce the meaning of this celebration to how it is commonly celebrated in the US. We gather with families, whether the ones we are born into or the ones we create for ourselves, we feast as well as we can, relax as much as we can depending on who's there and how complicated our relationships are, and reflect on what in our lives we are grateful for, even if just a parade to keep the kids entertained while the rest of us try to sleep late, or get up early to start cooking. We can bring all the controversy of the world in the door with us, from the energy used to get us there, to the food choices, meat or plant sources and how they are raised, to various word views and political opinions and all the conflicting sides we can support or not.

BUT...

For now, this moment, let's just not do all that. Whoever you are with, whatever else you are doing in your lives, lets just look around and find some thing we are grateful for. You're still breathing - is that one? The planet is still spinning, the atmosphere mostly still breathable, most spots on the globe still have sunsets and sunrises, though they may be delayed a few months now. It is closing in on the next solstice after all. The pendulum swings both ways.

There is an incredible universe out there which we are learning more about every day, and now have the technology to see photos representing various wavelengths showing us what these other places and things look like, how they move, what we expect did and will happen with them way beyond our short lifetimes, things our ancestors never imagined. Are you thankful for the awe that follows those revelations? For knowing while you are such a tiny piece of that universe, you are still a piece of something so vast, magnificent, and incomprehensible?

You saw a smile recently, maybe in this place where you are reading this, maybe in the next room, maybe while waiting in a line, maybe from ones you love dearly. Are you thankful for those, and for being able to give smiles back to others who, by the way, always need them as much as you do?

You gave and received a kind word recently, held out a hand to somebody or took theirs, shared a laugh, watched a sunrise or sunset, saw a child having fun, heard a baby's laugh. Are you thankful for all those things? And thankful that you are capable of being thankful for them?

At some time you loved somebody. At some time you've been loved. It may have even been an animal more than a person. Whether those are now or earlier, whether those loved ones are still in your lives or just in your memories, and some are still only in your hopes, are you thankful for love?

Whatever kind or style it is, somewhere there is music in the world that touches you, speaks to you, cries for or with you, bowls you over weeping for its beauty. Perhaps instead it is a visual kind of beauty evoking a response. Or even something completely different, like the way numbers work, or how a building comes together. Do those make you feel thankful?

Do you still have memories? Hopes? Dreams? Goals? Thoughts? Feelings? Is blood still pulsing through your vessels? Can you still read this or have somebody to read it to you? Can you still be thankful for any of this? 

Then you still have something to be thankful for. Appreciate it. Give thanks today, and any other day you're still thankful for something.

*     *     *     *

What, you thought this was about how rich you are and how important the world finds you? Maybe we should have a little chat.

Why A Well Education Are Importance

The parking lot at the grocery store was crammed today, presumably all the pre-Thanksgiving shoppers. I was one of them, picking up the last minute items for my stuffing-muffins recipe, including the cupcake papers. 

A car passed me, slowly enough to not only be safe, but for me to read its bumper sticker. It had a message I thought I agreed with, but there was just a little something which gave me pause. I made sure to read it again, extra carefully. I am fully aware that the brain can play tricks on what you think you saw. 

Yep, it said exactly what I thought it did: "NO HUMANS IS ILLEGAL".

Ahhh, Arizona.

This upcoming holiday reminds me to be grateful for my many blessings, like a home, my extended family, a loving husband, and a real Minnesota education!

Anybody Else As Pissed-Off At QR Codes As We Are?

 Seriously, what manner of jerk developed those things and why? The only purpose seems to be separating people from understanding, not just the message ("ah-hah! STOOPID!) or from others who have figured out the knack and have the precise tech to understand (Wheee, you aren't in OUR tribe!).

I've been ignoring them mostly, until now. I haven't a smart phone, won't pay for one, and simply prefer a phone that's a phone. Let me talk to and listen to people, not sit and gloat that I'm somehow in the "better" crowd. People who know me also know I don't text either. Like I said, TALK!  Habla usted ingles, por favor.

The QR codes have been a growing annoyance for a couple years. Then more people and businesses started insisting we all use that particular form of communication. What finally got our attention - and ire - was the local grocery store. They send out a weekly flyer with QR coupons in it. Some are for things we like. Some give us extra points to discount our gas purchases at their store if we use the QR codes on certain days. But can we use them? 

Nope.

Last year a very helpful store cashier did a scan of the flyer I brought in, just like reading barcode pricing, so I could get the coupon. This year it has to be on my phone or something. Yep, starting to get pissed off alright. Steve had tried them, and hates them even more than I do. I suspect it's because he has the smart phone and has kept trying unsuccessfully to scan the damn things and get some meaning and/or benefit from them. He started ordering online, getting them to add all the discounts, and then set a time when we could drive to the store and have them load the bags into our hatch. Pretty handy, right? The store does  it for you that way. Well, except for the gas discount bit.

You'd think with so many of us satisfied customers using those specially reserved parking spaces to get our groceries, particularly in a senior community and post-covid, they wouldn't go fuck it up. We are the ones who live within two miles, have health issues and vulnerabilities which make using the system welcome more than the general population who mostly have closer stores to serve them anyway. But last week they even ruined that. 

Now our normal process is to pick an open parking space,  call the phone number on the sign, confirm with their automated system it was us and our numbered parking space, and wait a minute for the load to be wheeled out and placed in the car. Easy peasy, mostly.

Last week? They outdid themselves. There was no phone number on the signs, just a QR code. Dumbfounded, we just sat and stared at each other for half a minute in disbelief, figuring what to do next. Go back home and look up the store phone number? Wait until an actual human arrives to bring one of the elites their order? In our case last week, option three was in process as an employee was hauling out another order, so Steve talked to her. I'd had the store number in my phone and was partway through dialing it when she appeared so I hung up. But what about other people?

In conversations (plural) since we have found out all the employees hate the new system. Customers are grumpy. And we don't have to take her word for it. All around the area online, "my neighborhood" people are irate that the main local grocery store is discriminating against its main customer population, aka seniors, with this new system. Our store helper suggested we could call the main store number any time, both to complain about the new system, as well as having to ask to be connected to the delivery people to get our order. 

I'm not saying the old system was perfect. We just had a different idea for how to improve it. AZ is of course hot in the sun nearly all of the year. There is one parking spot  in the pick-up area with shade (most hours) from a small tree, and the rest have none except for the very rare cloud. Very, very rare. The sometimes shady one is numbered "0". When you call in, you can respond to their automated system either by voice (my way) or by typing in numbers. Neither method gets it to recognize the zero as a number, and you go around the automated system three times before it is programmed to kick you out to a possible actual human, all of which so far have been able to figure out that zero is a number. Steve gets a lot of excersise yelling at another phone machine that way. (Pharmacy departments voicemails systems are even worse. We both hate those. So far they don't use QR codes or the world would end!!!)

Of course, nobody thought, if they were looking at changing the signs in any way, that changing parking spaces from zero-to-six to one-to-seven might be both cheaper and less alienating to their customers.

While that store is the repeated irritation, it's not the latest. That one started, unbeknownst to us, over a year ago with the new TV show, "Alaska Daily". We were regular watchers, and still disappointed that it only had one tale to tell and was cancelled after a single season. The tale was/is important, however, about missing and murdered indigenous women. It is a severe problem across the country, and probably world wide. They are ignored targets and victims, more than any other group.  Recently Steve saw a bumper sticker/decal that he decided to buy for the car. It's aptly blood red, a hand print with a face silhouette in the palm, and MMIW underneath. We both find it haunting. The first one he ordered turned out to be very small, and was designed to be intricately cut out, thus difficult to apply. It sticks to itself, tears apart, and never quite looks right. The so-called cuts that separate the hand shape by individual fingers aren't well cut out and either pull pieces out of shape or rip fingers off. The first one didn't work. It's not pulled off... yet.  Another challenge, another day.

Disappointed, we both agreed on another try, with a different, larger decal. Maybe it would work better. Steve ordered this one too, and it came rolled in a tube. I flattened it under magazines for a few days. With the sale finally over, out it came. Nice and flat. 

That was the easy part. Now how to separate the backing from the vinyl, and the vinyl from itself where it was supposed to come apart? Well, what was the problem? Right here in the corner was a big bold... QR code! Tiny writing on its border said to scan it for instructions. Steve took a picture of it, and.... 

NOTHING! We are apparently among the STOOPIDS.

I suspected Google might have an answer, could I just find the right question. I wound up on YouTube, watched a couple demos, mostly emphasizing that we needed to push it all together really really firmly so the colored bits would stick to the clear vinyl while you pulled the paper off.

So far I'd gotten to the part where I was finding out that inserting my thumbnail between paper and vinyl was... a pipe dream. Now the vinyl is really thin. The paper is really thick. That's the part that has to go bye-bye.  So whatever progress one makes, the thin delicate vinyl crinkles and wrinkles, sticks and tears. 

I have to wonder: Did the people who make those bazillions of bumper stickers patent their process and make it so expensive to use that nobody can imitate it? Are the people making the bloody hand sticker deviously making it of such poor quality that one has to order them by the dozens in order to have some hope of getting one, somewhere, that applies correctly? 

In the end, I had Steve out with me this time, a needed second set of hands, wiping dust off the car, taking bits of detached sticky clear vinyl that insisted on folding onto the red parts so nothing would stick to the car. I even sent him back in for scissors in hopes of separating the hand from the background where it was indented but not separated. In many cases tearing had left a ridge or ripple or corner sticking out past the hand shape, so the scissor became a straight edge (it's a new pair) to cut through somewhere close to the design, even if I risked a bit of car paint. It's finally on the car, bold and red, the face clear and letters readable. I've the decided the very visible flaw might ironically tell the story better than a perfect application: the hand is missing part of a finger.

Who knows what that damnable QR code might have had to suggest for applying the thing?

Hey, guys? Guys? Make it better next time, so people who care about your cause can apply it to their cars without needing some damned instructions!!!

They Always Come Early, Don't They?

So you let them know your garage sale hours. It's in the emails you send out, the "Neighborhood" online notices, the sign that hasn't been moved anywhere like into place in the driveway yet, even the fact that your lights aren't on yet and it's still dark. Yesterday was the worst example so far.

I was running Rich around in the car with the heavy wooden signs he has to set up at strategic corners. We started with those just after 5 AM, after working on the merchandise since just after 3, and it's about a twenty minute job. There was still a lot to set out, bring from the house so it wouldn't get stolen overnight, and to clean because, well, it needed it. It was full dark when we started, with just a couple lights at the front door and carport so any wannabe thieves might feel "seen", and an inside house light to hint that people were up and awake, because it actually means that here. We have weird hours. We were hoping to be in time to finish the job soon after returning to the house, since Rich worked through the night and I was up early to dig in again. Steve needed to sleep because he would mostly be the one sitting out all day chatting up the customers, talking them into sales occasionally. I watched him with an early customer hours later who kept looking at a particular item he didn't need but was repeatedly drawn to, gently reminding him he obviously really wanted it, and made the sale.

But as I said, that was hours later. We were just driving back to the house, planning to pull ahead of the driveway and park at the edge of the yard on the street. But I couldn't because a truck pulled in right at the driveway, so I had to back up instead. Three people piled out of the pickup and headed in to the carport. What the heck? Most stuff was still totally dark.  How could they see what they wanted and what prices were, and did they really think we were open, or hope we weren't?

Rich followed them up while I backed up and parked the car, before following. Turned out they spent $29 on miscellaneous stuff before taking off, no comment on why they were there that early, or headed up the driveway with nobody outside and things like cleaning rags and supplies, price tickets and pens,  still strewn out from where we'd dropped what we were doing before taking out signs.

Even so. Our sale hours are 8 to 3, and we were set to run two days this time. The book sale made us only about twice this one purchase over its three days, barring selling off my old scooter, but we expected that. Some of those boxes of unsold books were set out on tables in the way of the "real" stuff for this sale, preventing us from laying things out. They'd been put away packed heavy, and in boxes that needed help on their bottoms to not fall apart, and Rich had other priorities than helping me put them under tables, still visible, but out of the way. They still need to go to be donated. Right now I needed to clear space and  bring out the collectible stuff, what we were really hoping to sell this time but were keeping inside until I was up and out again. Household junk, well, who really cared? Collectibles? Whole different story.

We lucked into a really wonderful weather day Friday. It topped out at 81, very pleasant for the weekend before Thanksgiving, and my hopes of finding fellow collectors for some of our stuff worked well. We also had bins of free stuff, which I figured nobody'd take, but they did, mostly, and a couple customers even insisted on paying us something. A couple more boxes of books went away, and all in all, we made a really nice profit for the whole day. One fellow loved the small SW pueblo pottery, spent a hundred on a bunch, then returned hours later with his wife to spend another hundred after she reminded him that they made great Christmas presents! Before leaving he left contact info for when I'm ready to sell the big stuff. All the Chinese jadeite dragons and a few other odd pieces I'd had set out sold to a pair of men who just kept scarfing it up. After cleaning and adding more, they sold to others. I was getting used to Steve calling me outside to bring a small box and bubble wrap for somebody else's goodies, and I was happy to do so since it meant a sale, likely bigger than they'd planned with things which were fragile and - as many explained - this wasn't their last planned stop before going home. I'd just hit WalMart and bought a couple large rolls of the stuff, nicely perforated and easy to use, a few days earlier. If it helps things go away....

I mentioned the weather because it had been supposed to rain. Instead it's raining off and on all day today. We have some things water won't hurt to line the driveway with, and the box with our signs on it proclaiming this is the place is just crappy quality cardboard, slightly bent, and if rain destroys its usefulness except maybe as a sign, no biggie. We are getting intermittent showers now this morning, and just heard thunder, but we figure the carport will now hold nearly everything we wanted to sell that's left, so folks can shop in reasonable comfort. Plus any spillover along the walk to the front door is also covered, not, I figure, due to the rare possibility of rain down here, but to keep the sun off.

Knowing rain was for sure scheduled for Saturday, I was busy after the sale was over bringing things inside the carport for the evening. The sign in the driveway was gone, and only a couple items were left out because of the combination of weight and indestructibility. I was still bringing stuff up when a pickup pulled over and its driver leaned out his window and called over his inquiry:

"Have you got any watches?"

"Nope."

"Any Rolexes?"

Now last time I looked... OK, I never actually looked, but... a rolex was a watch. Asked and answered, right? "Nope."

"How about any Patek Phillippi?" He stumbled over that pronunciation, but I've watched enough "Antiques Roadshow" to understand what he wanted.

"Now that would be a very expensive watch, and we don't have any." I figured adding "still don't" into my answer would be rude, though I questioned whether he'd get the point that I knew he'd kept asking about watches as if I were an idiot or at least an easy mark, but it had been a very long day, my legs hurt, and I simply hadn't that much energy left.

Last night's final forecast stated rain would wait till the wee hours this morning, and in that he was right. He also said it would likely sit over the east valley, and we'd only get about 5 hundredths of an inch. I've heard enough heavy rain so far this morning that I'll be heading over to the rain gauge this afternoon once it's stopped to see just how wrong he was on that point. We'll still be out but under shelter, looking optimistic a bit later as cars pass. If anybody can bring in the customers today, it's Steve. If not, the five bills I take to the bank on Monday from yesterday is still a nice compensation.

Still, if we could sell the glass display cabinet and the '64 Kirby that still works.... Oh, and more pottery....

Reaping What You Haven't Sown

The news came a couple months back. Not to me of course, so I can't say if it was a phone call or an official letter of some sort. In its way, why it came was totally typical. It's reception by all concerned was not unexpected, based on years of history. Or should I say lack thereof.

There was a death in the family. Somebody in a local social services department spent some effort tracking down a relative , not so much to relay the news I suspect, but to find somebody to bear burial costs. The reply was, "No." People got notified as needed. Life apparently goes on.

I happen to know most of those concerned. The deceased wasn't a kind individual, didn't nurture his families (two that I'm aware of), and as soon as possible cut contact with all of them. He loved to smoke in the house despite repeated requests to take it outside for the children's sakes, because "he paid for the house." He loved his beer, and in the time I had contact with his family, any drug he could find a way to obtain without getting in trouble for it. He skipped one parent's funeral, causing him to be disinherited by the other one. He lied frequently, often hurting others in the process, particularly including the children in his second family.

There are many blank years, years of no news of him from any family members I knew. I did know one thing, that a distant relative left him a tidy inheritance of $1.2 million. You'd think most people could manage to live a comfortable life on that in addition to regular employment (or I suppose it was, but who really knows?) and in their final days have a little something to cover burial expenses. Perhaps just a cremation. From the request that one family member received, I'm presuming his remains will be in the pauper's section of whatever cemetery performs that service near where he died. At least they knew his name so it should have a marker, or at least a record of which space covers him. Should anyone inquire.

I'd be very surprised if flowers ever were placed on it. From what I know of his two families, he didn't leave amicably, and didn't live compassionately. I doubt he knew true joy, unless he took drugs to provide something he thought was a substitution. From one family member I spoke to, the reaction was more relief that that particular part of their life could be deemed over, done, taken care of. No longer was there reason to be angry, no longer a surprise visit to be dreaded - though we both knew how unlikely that might be... except perhaps to ask for money.

I'm trying to find some sadness in me at his passing. It's not there, just that little niggle of a thought that I ought to, like I'd mourn any stranger, born of empathy and compassion because I try to be a human with those values. I find instead that for me it's just one less unpleasant thing in the world to think about. I hope his families, if they still think of themselves that way, can find that same closure. No hate, no revenge fantasies, just turning of their backs, taking a deep breath, straightening their posture and walking away without any of that burden clinging to them again. It would be his last, if unintended, gift to all of them.

When Half the World Turns White

I'm not talking race, or snow, or anything other than that two eyes in the same head can see totally different things at the same time. Or in my case, one of them can fail to see. That's how I came out of cataract surgery yesterday, once the eye cup came off.

It was a total surprise. The first eye after its surgery years ago went from totally blind to seeing clearly but with a red glow for a few hours. The second eye went from a little weird, the reason for the procedure, to seeing totally white. I blame blinking at the wrong time. I do blink a lot, and asking me to hold my eyes wide open for drops is a fools errand. I'll blink 4 times before you can get the bottle aimed over the eye, and another time just as the drop falls, with another just as the second drop falls as they try to make up for missing the first time. My face gets wildly decorated in red, yellow, white... whatever color the drops are when they miss. The nurses are understandably reluctant to use their fingers to hold the two lids apart, or at least most of them are. So when the doc finally came over to see how dilated my right eye was before surgery, he frowned and ordered more drops. It was important, particularly with both pseudoexfoliation and and astigmatism to deal with. 

So I got more drops. 36 hours later they're still working. I have one huge pupil starring at the world. It doesn't help, much as some might think bigger is better. It lets in too much light, hence the all white view, just like an overexposed photo. It doesn't focus well either. On top of that, the eye is absolutely positive there is some kind of huge (well, relatively) rock under that eyelid that no amount of saline drops will flush away. Blink-ow. blink-ow. blink-ow. Look in a different direction-ow. Close eyes-ow.

Don't think I dislike eye drops. They're mostly keeping me sane right now. Saline ones have a teensy bit of soothing power. Another set stings a bit, but it helps prevent infection, among other things, so no fudging on the doses. But it's just not that simple.

The set of saline (aka very white, and that's seeing them with the good eye, so they really are still white) drops come in a single dose plastic dropper. After you twist off a wide flap at the top, you upend the tube, try to point it in your eye by the time it's totally upside down vertically, and squeeze the somewhat stiff plastic bubble holding the saline. I have no idea what "engineer" designed these things. It's the clumsiest contraption I've ever used. I'm still getting it into position by the time it's half empty, and when I'm really lucky and it's finally aimed over my eye either I blink just that split second or there's so little left that the hard squeeze it requires pushed it back over some other part of my face. Even running down my face those drops are white white. Should you by some miracle of luck and dexterity get the needed drop or two  actually in your eye and have some left over, there is no way to reseal the thing. The winged thingy you twisted off does not go back on. Toss it. all of it.

I asked Steve to help me last night. After I described the process - or lack thereof - to him, we agreed it would work best if I lay down across near the end of the bed with him having room to sit next to me at the very edge. I'd hold my eyelids apart with my fingers and he'd aim and squeeze the tube thingy. One miss. A second miss. He started getting nervous he'd actually poke me in the eye with the end of the tube, so we figured out that I'd make a little wall around my eye with my hand while holding the lids apart, and he'd bring his hand to touch that just as he squirted. 

We got one drop in!

Today I looked in my medicine cabinet and pulled out a still new bottle of good standard saline drops, easy to squeeze, reclosable, and manageable by one person with no problems if "too much" went in. Of course, those drops go in a few minutes before the medical ones, so they wouldn't dilute that. They aren't quite as white as the fancy ones, but who cares. My eye was still seeing white enough all over for both bottles of drops, even though the medical ones are yellow. I can always tell when I actually hit the eye with those since they burn for about a minute. Those are the 3x a day, for 3 weeks drops. Wheeee.

While waiting this morning for the medical drops to go in, I went online for a few minutes to send an email. I could see the keys. They're big and one eye is enough for the job. But the email font is small and one eye in this case is NOT enough to catch the three dozen typos which usually sneak into anything I type while my fingers aren't looking. I apologized for the lack of proofing and hoped it was mostly understandable. I did get a reply this afternoon that seemed to indicate the gist was understood.

Maybe tomorrow I'll go back and read what I really wrote.

This morning I drove myself for my next-day check. It's about a gallon of gas each way, freeway morning rush hour, no decent view of the right lane much of the time. I waited for the really large gaps (all both of them) to change lanes. But I'd asked the doc and he assured me that the anesthesia would be out of my system from the surgery and I'd be OK. I was still seeing white when I walked in. A very quick look in the eye brought some effective eyedrops to start shrinking the iris, and colors returned a bit. Tonight, fyi, it's still blurry and slightly cloudy, but much better. The mirror claims the drops did half their job, a huge improvement. If this is well proofed, we'll all know it's better.

Of course they did a vision test at the eye doc's. The first screen seemed to show a faint shadow that resolved into two blobs, somewhat squarish. I knew they were squares because they'd been up on the screen for 5 minutes and my good eye had identified them... and two others totally invisible to my "fixed" eye. Just to test the system, I think, they had me read their chart after the first go round with various letters for the first eye again for the good eye. Yes, huge difference. I could decipher a couple of the largest letters with my still white eye, everything down to bitty stuff with the old eye.

They want me back in a week. And yes, they did kind of use an extra lot of the stuff to expand my irises for the surgery and it was still working. It will wear off. That thing embedded in the back of my upper eyelid? It's where they did some kind of incision in the eye, not the lid, to deal with the astigmatism. I can check it out when my eye gets better, doing my left-eye, right-eye dance. It hasn't exactly been explained more than that. It's probably enough information anyway. The best part is it will heal and  quit driving me nuts.

Or at least not quite as much nuts as now.

I'll let you decide how much that is.

Packing... To Date

So I've spent the last month collecting sturdy boxes, plus lots of tape, the heavy duty stuff in a holder with a toothed edge which cuts the end and holds the tag end from dropping back onto the main roll so you don't have to fight all over again to get it up and usable, and that's if it doesn't split in the process.  There's been the sorting, starting in two categories: books we're keeping, which basically get stuffed into any box that will hold them but we can still lift, and the "necessary" parts of my SW pottery collection. Of course that means lots and lots of bubble wrap, large bubble and small bubble. I went to the store and bought a large roll of each kind. They're both used up, though I have lots of little pieces from other things I've been going through that I pull out to use again.

In order to reach the back of my bedroom closet, I've had to clear several boxes of rocks up off the floor. We won't mention pulling the muscle in my arm from that. A few have gone into the front garden to help keep down weeds and make the dirt pretty. The other ones have gotten donated to the club for the members to use as they teach or learn lapidary... with a couple exceptions.  I do admit I wonder however: why on earth did I separate my rock slabs, planned at purchase for lapidary use until I got distracted by copper, then sterling, and now glass, with bubble wrap? I can't explain it, but I'm grateful there are still some bubbles left in the stuff. It's still great for the bitty things needing cushioning, or stuffing in a small shopping bag to fill a large space inside a tote to keep things from sifting during loading and travel.

I hit a milestone today: all the pottery which is going north has been bubble wrapped and packed. It had to wait a couple extra weeks to get finished. I wanted to see what I could do to find somebody to handle the other pieces, some of which have significant value, at least in my world. None of this hundreds of years old, thousands-of-dollars-a-piece stuff. Let the Heard Museum have that... and pay the insurance premiums. I have collected some pieces from more recent potters who have gone our into their local areas, scouted for sherds and clay deposits, and effectively reinvented their pueblo's traditions, teaching others as well. All those are being kept.

We did have one fellow in during the first sale, looking for pottery. He knew which were the good pieces, but when he heard MY price to sell them, even discounted from what I paid, let me know he wasn't my buyer. He was strictly a middle man and needed his slice of the cut. Nope, not my problem. I decided to try to sell them myself, starting with the little, inexpensive stuff. The first set I put out sold in a snap, one person taking the whole lot. OK, bigger and better for next time then. And so on, saving the best for the estate sale. But in the process of his looking through stuff, I decided that a couple he showed extra interest in should go into the "must keep" list. He even commented that they should be passed on in the family.

The wait to pack wasn't all that bad. It worked well with other circumstances. I finally got photos taken of all the rest of the pottery, which I could then email up to Steph and ask what she was interested in. We'd discussed it when she came to visit last spring, and she had interest but wanted to give it some thought. So once mine was packed, I finished the photos, and sent them up with minimal descriptions, like "the two shiny brown ones in front are from ______ Pueblo", or "this shelf is all _____ and note the fish and turtle effigies." She answerd promptly with a request for both a Hopi and a Santo Domingo piece, and regrets that she didn't think she'd truly be able to  enjoy more pieces the way they deserved. We'll see what she - and others - think once they are up north and on view. Somebody should inherit, right? Maybe several.

The other delay was getting bubble wrap. I'd used up everything already, and knew I'd need a lot more. So I mail ordered a HUGE roll, two feet wide instead of the standard one foot, in a 125 foot long roll. Huge box! With the bubble wrap still inside, it made a great sign box for the driveway to advertise our sale, visible from 3 sides to traffic. Now that the tail ends of cleanup from that are mostly done, it was time to open the box and use the contents. The huge box can advertise future sales, then maybe get packed with pillows and linens or such.

It's great bubble wrap, especially for those larger pieces. There's just one, significant, problem.

It's not perforated. Not each foot, not in a yard, not in 6 feet sections. Nowhere! So it has to be torn or cut. Tearing means it winds up going across in a diagonal pattern no matter how diligantly I fight to keep it straight. A scissors not only dulls instantly from cutting plastic, just like a knife would, but gets tossed aside after about three tries to cut through the stuff out of sheer frustration. Hey, great for paper, even now. Not bubblewrap however. I suspect this roll of stuff is made for industrial use where first, it rarely gets cut at all, and second, they have special tools for the job and no care how straight it gets cut. Hmmm, maybe a hot bar to melt it apart?

But seriously, why couldn't the seller simply had it perfed every so often? Or in the description mentioned that it wouldn't be?

If it hadn't cost so much, I'd think seriously about packing it as a unit, and once we're up north, dividing it up among the grandkids to play with. Their parents can fight with making portion sizes! Then again, used or not, during the move, all of it has to go somewhere anyway once we're relocated. 

Hey, you in the younger generation with your families: Guess what everybody's getting for presents next  year!!!!! I could even tape it into bundles so everybody'd think there was something inside! Wouldn't that be fun?

Maybe I should actually put a set of earplugs inside each, eh?

"Hey, Do You Mind Pulling Out Your Little Thing?"

Yep, that was an attention grabber in the store this morning.

Even more so that the speaker's voice was in the bass range, and the voice of the one addressed was baritone.  Heads within hearing range turned.

I'd initially had my back turned, working on rearranging the contents of my cart so they'd be easier to load on the conveyor belt for check-out. Those aisles are too narrow to go through while next to my cart so I have to get in front of it and still reach - and protect - the delicate items on the little high shelf, otherwise known as the kid's seat. Before turning back to the speaker, I could see the little old lady behind me was also paying attention. We exchanged a brief mischievous smile.

The man checking out his groceries ahead of me was apparently trying to get the cashier to reach for his portable barcode reader. He needed to explain he had several large and heavy items in his cart.

Still, the lady behind me and I had a quiet chuckle about how inadvisable it was to ask another man anything about pulling out "his little thing"... in public at least.

Yeah, language fails some of us more the older we get.