To All Of You Out There

This is just a little blog. I started writing it primarily for me, just to blow off steam, or have a way  of saying I was here, or keep track of things I might forget as years advanced like those final months with my Dad. In some cases it was to try to communicate with the people whom I trusted least to keep reading it regularly just because they know me, even though I hoped they would. I do know a few people who do keep track of me this way, and I thank you. You do matter to me.  I do know my number one fan, the loving man sitting in the chair next to me who reads every single one of my posts, letting me know where I missed a typo or when something doesn't make any sense. Ironically, his reading never gets counted in the stats.(I can check in the stats after he reads it on his laptop and the count is still zero, or whatever it was when he started. I just assume it's because we use the same household internet system, though different computer systems, and somebody years ago decided we both must be the same person trying to cheat the statistics. Back then I didn't even know there were statistics!

If you wonder, I have no way of knowing who you are unless you tell me you learned something by reading it here. But I have found that I can get a picture, planet-wise, of who you are and in some cases guess why you ever popped over here in the first place. I'll probably be wrong, but at least you did.

Blogger offers the blog writer a chance to pore through scads of information on readers as a whole. There's a section called "Stats". I can learn what you as a unit read, what brought you over here, where on the planet you live. I can't tell how many times any particular one of you visits a second time or a third, for example, or whether you stopped by one time and read two words before deciding never to return.  (Really? Two words? But you're reading this far and that is already way more than two words!)

One thing I can tell, from total number of visits, is the most popular post of all my years here was the one on the Jobs Daughter's Secret. I was disappointed over my experience after a big secret was built up to tease us initiates with before the initiation and wound up being little more than confusion. I hope you weren't as disappointed in the reading of the post, but some of you had to have come back to read more. There are a few other posts which are perennial favorites, with total readership numbers on them continuing to build. 

This wasn't that popular until about three years ago. Graphs on readership were fairly flat up till then, but suddenly started to climb. Was somebody promoting it? Was it because I finally figured out how to reliably add photos about that time? (I popped one in the top as a bribe or a thank you, just in case that was it - my favorite wildflower shot from Arches National Park.)  But not that long ago I noticed the new numbers, took a deeper dive into the information provided me on the generic you, just because it is there. Plus I could discover which posts were still getting readers.

Where were all of you coming from? There are pie chart graphs in multiple colors, accompanied by names of countries written out with numbers of views from each category. I had assumed you would all be from primarily English speaking places. US first of course. Then maybe Canada? Great Britain? Suddenly there were so many of you from overseas countries that I started to wonder if somebody thought this was a good way to learn idiomatic English, which is a hoot when one considers my age and how likely I am NOT to be hooked in to the latest slang and nonsense like "six seven". Maybe ex-pats feeling nostalgic and hoping for an unofficial take on what's going on over here? Perhaps just the few people out there who understand my sense of humor but keep coming back regardless? My biggest question is why Canadians aren't counted in the stats at all. I know our government is horrible to you, but a whole lot of us on the northern tier love you dearly. I assume the rest of us simply haven't met you yet.

Here, in order from high readership to low outside of the US, is where you come from up through today: Singapore, Brazil, Germany, Vietnam, Hong Kong, France,  India, Seychelles. After that the percentages per country as part of the whole readership get lower. Somebody decided the list was long enough. But hey, not only is my mind blown, but I want to ask you all what are you doing over here without having it in the remotest sound like I don't welcome you to read whatever draws you here.

Blogger also keeps track of  your operating system, like the percentage who use Windows, Macintosh, Android, iPhone, and much further down until it reaches "other". How many more are there after all that?  I fully confess total ignorance here. But at least they all work to bring you here, so "Howdy!"

Nine different browsers are listed, with "other" tacked on the end, of course. I have actually heard of almost half of them.

How you got here, meaning referring URLs, is listed, but somehow a majority of them contain some iteration of  "Google" as part of their identity. Then we get to lynda.com,  theguardian.com, and americanexpress.com. (Now if the Guardian has a strong enough connection to be high on the referral list, then why isn't the UK listed as country whose people pop over here?) 1,260,165 are listed as "other". I can guess why they quit naming them at that point. Apparently that is important for some bean counters somewhere to distinguish that category from what you actually typed into your search bar to get here, but I hate to guess how many kinds of "other" there are out there. I have numbers for how many knew the blog title for their search, how many looked for my name, and how many actually started from a place I go to myself and may have commented at,  or know people who run the sites, or even places I might have (Gasp!) complained about on occasion(s). Some of those names have actually popped up in the stats (and I'm looking at you Walmart!)

Hey,  does somebody actually pay attention to criticisms and/or ridicule? Are you still there? Did you have any power to act, and did anything change? Or are you still laughing if you think about it at all? Am I now on a list somewhere of people who hate our unsane, hate filled, uneducated, narcissistic, corrupt president? If so, would y'all mind my taking pride in that particular accomplishment? Please note that I wield no weapon more pointy than mere words on a screen, and have no inclination whatsoever to approach that individual close enough to sniff his fouled diaper, much less come close enough to touch or throw any item or substance in that direction. Full disclaimer, if I did somehow get forced to be close in any way, my worst weapon would be laughter, and in revenge for the forced closeness I'd make it as loud and ridiculing as possible, so if need be, you can write that in your little threats books.

Meanwhile, I'll sum this up by referring you back to my poem on the opening page.  Whoever you are, whatever reason you stopped by, your touch has made a difference. So each and everyone of you, thanks for stopping by. Come again some time! And if you did come for the pictures...

...here's your reward: one from the spring home garden, a current favorite among daffodils.

Stray Thoughts

It's O-Dark-Thirty and I'm awake. I can hear a clock ticking three rooms away, as well as the occasional car driving slowly by on their way to... somewhere else. It isn't me who has to be elsewhere this Saturday morning. There's no TV worth hitting the remote button for. It's not totally dark because we never let that happen inside, except for the rare uncontrollable power outage. The outlets are generously filled with the kind of night lights that only come on in the dark so we can see our path when we go somewhere. At our ages, that's possible any time of day or night. Sleep is capricious. It only takes a little light to prevent a fall, and those can be serious. I'm not saying necessarily damaging, but definitely disabling for a time, requiring proper assistance.

The furnace just came on, so in comparison the clock went silent. Light is slipping its way between the cracks in the blinds so morning is on its way. Today is supposed to stay rainy, meaning intermittent and very light, but enough to minimize chances to finalize the last garden duties for fall. More top soil needs to be added in places. The bag still sits in my car, waiting for all to come together: dry weather, a good temperature, a willing body, and the mental push to follow through and make next year's garden dreams possible. Most of the body is willing now, but I gingerly test my jaw where another tooth was just removed after an abscess requiting antibiotics. It's down to tender, but the ache and deferred pain are gone. In a few hours I can consider food, carefully.

The furnace already popped off, the ticking returns, the lap robe is tucked in, chores are delayed, and musing returns. Steve has returned to bed for more sleep. I think his early activity is what woke me, quiet as he works to be whenever I sleep. Just knowing he is there is comfort, warmth, safety. Thoughts flash briefly to the first husband, the recall that knowing he was there meant vigilance, shutting down, becoming as invisible as possible aside from being seen to perform in expected ways without disturbing whatever he was about. There was certainty about who was the single important person in that union. Now, both of us have come out of those relationships and share with each other the reassurances that they too are important, valuable, deeply loved. It takes hardly an instant of reflection to realize this is happiness, this is love. All these years later, this comes with gratitude. All those years of not being enough, not being right enough, not being OK, yield appreciation for what is. Now, here in the dark and peace, the recognition of joy reigns.

Raindrops begin hitting the roof, making a soft duet with the clock. It's time to tuck the lap robe in around a couple missed corners and close the machine.

Hope For Justice In Minneapolis

Twin Cities news channels - at least the ones I watch - have been busy with post-ICE 's-winter-violence news the last few days. You may have caught some of the stories and claims last winter. There was an arrest of a man whom ICE claimed was attacking an ICE agent with yard tools - a shovel and broom - before he was shot, tackled, arrested, and taken to Texas. 

As happened in the Goode and Petti killings, videos taken by witnesses showed stories opposite to what the ICE agents claimed. Neither killing was justified by anybody watching the evidence, aside from those needing to support ICE regardless of facts. 

Minneapolis has not forgotten. Goode's wife has just requested return of the car Goode was driving so forensic evidence can be found before it totally deteriorates.

As for the shooting of Sosa-Cellis, his name is not a household word (yet) since he wasn't killed. He is a Venezuelan immigrant who was fleeing ICE arrest, shot in the leg while fleeing. Almost never mentioned in the reports is that during the incident one bullet went into the house into a 4-year-old's bedroom. It could easily have been a tragedy. Early reports centered on the alleged attack with tools against ICE, rake and broom vs. gun. The tools were indeed present, lying abandoned on the ground while the men ran into the yard  before the shot was taken. But ICE agent Christian Castro's name is increasingly heard these days, thanks to interference in justice by Texas Governor Abbott. Minnesota asked Texas to extradite Castro to MN to be tried here on both state and federal charges, the combination earned from both the shooting and Castro manufacturing a lie about what happened. Normally extradition requests from state to state are routinely complied with. Abbott refused, turning the crimes into a political battle. In the long run, having a different state's courts responsible for the costs of court procedures, usually including months of incarceration as well, is a financial benefit to the state ridding itself of the criminal. Trials are expensive. So is jailing somebody. Whatever crimes happened, they happened in Minnesota. Texas had no business sticking its foot in it.

I expect whatever was behind Abbott's interference, it centered around "making" ICE not guilty. Only the federal part of the crime could be tried there. And we all have seen Trump's penchant for pardoning his friends and allies, as he sees them, regardless of the charges. In fact, most of the ICE agents are pardoned perpetrators of the January 6th assault on the Capitol trying to change the election results the first time when Trump lost. Those were federal crimes. Both the federal and state crimes in the shooting of Sosa-Cellis can be tried - separately - in Minnesota. Trump can't pardon any state crimes.  

Castro is in Minnesota and in custody now. Minnesota is paying attention.

I do wonder how they'll find an impartial jury. Who hasn't seen the video coverage? Somebody who just moved into the state perhaps? But somehow the George Floyd murder by cop got a fair trial. I'm keeping the faith.

A Favorite Agave Once Bloomed Across The Street

Agave plants are far from friendly. All those I've seen have at least one long hard stabbing point on the tip of every leaf. Many have more up and down the leaf edges, including curved ones that you'd swear reach out in order to flay your skin into shreds. Don't believe me? Try cuddling accidentally with one and then come back to me with your more educated opinion. After, of course, you decide whether you really were secretly after getting your own source of tequila, and still think it's a good idea while you're bleeding out.

None of that stops a lot of people in the SW desert from using them in landscaping. I'm sure there are people for whom the painfulness of running into one of them is considered a lesson well learned by some people who grow them. Think of it as cheap fencing.

While I never planted that kind in my own yard for that purpose, I grew plenty. My personal favorite was the octopus agave, bearing a single terminal long spike on each leaf, but with smooth leaf edges. It was an easy task to take plant clippers and snip off the last inch of every leaf, leaving something slightly pointy and hard as a reminder, but not capable of shredding you if you stumbled into it. Many varieties came with the house, or grew through the chain link fence from neighbors yards. Mostly they never change, and require very little care once established. Plant and ignore. Or plant and AVOID!!!

I didn't pay a lot of attention to the neighbor's agaves, since they didn't require my attention. Just more desert plants in a huge metropolis of desert plants. Just a few years after we moved in, that changed. Right across the street, the spiky nasty plant our neighbor had growing at the corner of their sidewalk and driveway started sending up a tall stalk. OK, noted and ignored, went about our business, whatever it was.Taller and taller, resemblance to asparagus noted, still ignored. Sending out branches from the top, again noted and ignored... until one day, the top half or so of the plant stood holding red paddles! Or that's what it looked like!

I grabbed my camera, because of course. I couldn't get far enough away in a vertical shot to include all the top unless I cut out the "bush" of ground level leaves this grew from the center of, around three feet tall itself. I got in the habit of stepping into the street to take a shot, since across it was too far for detail of the upper branches which rapidly took precedence, and taking half a dozen new photos or more every time. It absolutely fascinated me! I was sure each new shot captured some new subtle  change in details than the last set a minute or hours before.  Surely the light changed? I shot a completely different branch? My camera performed differently?  

I went online to try to identify this species, thinking maybe I could buy one... like I had any decent spot for one, or, I found out, would even be alive to see it bloom without making medical history!

Note this this shows that each flowering branch has an accompanying long sharp thorn protecting it - in case anything big and hungry got that high I suppose. Details like those can show up as a surprise even years later when reviewing old photos. I probably shot the same things over and over for days. Thank goodness digital is free, no film processing needed! Each shot seemed brand new, different in another undefined way from the last dozen, important to capture for posterity and the happiness of the world!

OK, not the entire world. Or did I decide that too soon? Traffic on our street grew, and grew, cars slowing down, stopping for pictures before driving off for the next person to capture their shot. The word must have traveled. We weren't that busy on our street even when there were fantastic yard sales going on, not even with curbside merch behind large "FREE!" signs.

I changed how I shot,  going for close-ups to capture the details as they changed daily. Or at least I shot daily, never willing to miss an "event". The red bits paled a bit, but they became identifiable as  buds which split open on top to allow the pollen coated pieces to pop out of each. Over some days that process in any particular branch went from top center to lower and lower buds down either side, front and back, or left and right, depending from whichever perspective I shot. It also advanced up a branch at a time, until the last red was  in the top branch, much like a distant red sun was setting.

 By the time the blossoms turned mostly yellow, traffic died back. Yellow agave flowers? Ho Hum. I got the chance to safely cross the street almost any time I wished, shooting in this light or that, trying everything for the 17th time. Yep, that's fascination!

What a very sharp eye can notice is the sky in the above shot looks like I had a very dusty lens, especially the left half of the picture. What it really has is an enormous, relentless swarm of tiny pollinators, something like gnat size, doing their best to assist Mother Nature in procreating more of this spectacular  agave.

I toyed with the idea of asking the neighbors, who I never did meet, if they'd mind if I harvested some seeds once they developed. They either were very reclusive or residing elsewhere, possibly even  underground with an estate to be settled. It's common enough in senior's communities. I did keep an eye out for activity for a few weeks after it first grew its stalk, hoping they knew what kind it was for sure and perhaps wanted to be casually friendly like some other neighbors were.

Alas, seed collecting wasn't to be. Just a few days after this shot,whoever was caring for the property had a crew come in and totally remove the agave in pieces before it had a chance to develop seeds.  It was a Parri's Agave. It could easily take 50 years between seed planting in the exact perfect place and conditions, and another display like this one. No wonder it attracted the attention and traffic that it had.

 I never did see another in our years and travels in the Phoenix area. At least I got about a hundred pictures of this agave, now winnowed down to half a dozen. The memories are not limited by numbers. Any regrets have faded long since, beyond the casual way a treasure was lost.

So Now I'm "Great Grandma Boxes"?

I eventually learned once I was no longer outfitted to entertain kids (toys, art supplies, swings, etc.)  that little kids visiting Great Grandma expected SOMETHING to entertain them, keep them occupied. It was kind of new to me, having been an official family day care home provider following all the state requirements for 8 years while I was raising my own three. After years across states and a divorce, I needed a higher paying job and my youngest needed somebody else's daycare.  There was no longer a whole room in the house dedicated to kids, toys, entertainment, and education. In fact, from their perspective, it was pretty bare.

Once I fought for and won legal visitation with my one grandchild, visits were alternate weekends, plus a week for travel each summer. A huge fenced yard, climbable trees, pets, and planned activities pretty much averted boredom, and summer trips included camping, road trips to places like the Black Hills and the Lake Superior Circle Tour, often including a younger sibling of hers unrelated to me, or once even a cousin. As she got older, airplanes spanned the distance to Arizona, Washington state, and even Alaska. The farther the distance, the more packed with activities a full week was, and the more likely my youngest, now adult son came along as well. We were long past a houseful of toys by that time. I returned to an all-adult world. The treasures kept for future years and new generations were a section of the home library with special books, authors like C.S Lewis, Kipling, and Laura Ingalls Wilder, and some inherited from my parents full of photos of seashells and coral, saved from their post-retirement craft/business involving shells. Shells came with the books too, but as fragile as they are, and even then with climate change threatening their future,  most of those remain packed away. A few unique ones reside in shadow boxes on the walls, and of course there is one huge conch so supervised kids can "listen to the ocean".

No toys however, despite between my family and Steve's, having all kinds of grand kids and now great grands on both sides. They don't visit all that frequently, but they still like something to play with when they're here, up to the age where adult conversations start to get interesting. Or they bring their own kids. Or both. The cycles repeat.

In the process of moving in to our last home, there were all kinds of boxes left over. We did find happy homes for the regular packing boxes with people whose own grown kids were moving off to college or had friends who could use some. But for months I kept my hands full converting informal packing boxes, often scrounged from Arizona store dumpsters for the move back north, into recyclable pieces. When we had two elementary school grandkids over, bored while the big folk talked, they discovered two things: a mattress on the floor still in a plastic cover waiting for a room to get needed carpeting so the frame could be put together and that mattress have its home, and empty boxes.  The mattress would stay clean inside its cover whatever the kids would do  with it, so they got our blessing to have fun. Boy did they! And the empty boxes were in need of destruction by anybody's hands. So we grownups had our conversations and the kids had a blast!

Over the last three years, there have always been reasons for  more boxes to show up. Needed unassembled roller chairs came in them. Folding tables for entertaining large family groupings came in them. So did the needed folding metal chairs, and shelving unit pieces, and... and.... Sometimes I look around me and wonder just what didn't need its own box? But there is a large open space in our living room, as distinct from the family room with the TV, where large boxes of all sorts wind up until kids have an excuse to visit. They can decorate them with markers or colored pencils, turn them into their own construction projects, hide in them, destroy them - all is fair aside from damaging each other and the real furniture, or houseplants. After a good visit, the pieces get fed through the recycling stream. Sometimes it's all at once, sometimes it takes a month or more with pickups only alternate weeks.

Yesterday I had one of those multiple-errands-in-the-cities days. With gas prices being what they are, it's nice to make a large loop since it's fifty miles just to get to the first one, and fifty back again. I consulted with my granddaughter and she was open to me popping in there and dropping off a few things for the family, as well as just getting together for a visit where they didn't have to drive 80 miles each way. Just like me, she had three kids, the oldest a daughter, the other two boys, the youngest of which will be three tomorrow, and which, when Steve and I were snowbirding, we delayed our return south for, to see and hold him in the hospital after birth.

I have a history with her middle son. When we'd get together in my youngest son's yard for backyard bonfires and weenie roasts followed by s'mores, there were always piles of dead branches from all the trees. Those were what we burned. This kid would always find a stick and go around hitting everything he could with it. If he got a little too close to me, I'd simply reach out and hold it, so he had to stop hitting whatever. He wasn't pleased, just giving me a long stare. For the next couple years he'd basically ignore or avoid me. But he's been coming over to our place with the family and joining in the play with the boxes. Last Thanksgiving he and his siblings turned a bunch of boxes into a cardboard version of a huge easy chair, among other transformations. He was especially impressed with that big 7-foot long furnace box this summer. 

When I showed up at their house yesterday, apparently he'd heard I'd be bringing something for the family. He was very disappointed that I hadn't crammed my little hatchback car full of huge boxes! But at least he finally had good memories of me replacing the Mean-Old-Great-Grandma memories, since he talked to me, posed for pictures, and even demonstrated how he could turn cartwheels now (almost - shhhh) as good as his big sister could! He also made a point of showing me each new iteration of of a new Lego creation - before destroying it for the next idea - and announcing just what it was (for an old lady who just might not understand what he'd made.)

We're not ordering so many large things these days - thank goodness - but my youngest works for a company which gets a lot of things delivered in tri-wall cardboard. He's keeping his eye out for larger boxes and will drop some off when he visits, knowing kids will be using them. Of course his car is the same size as mine, so no 7 foot long boxes from him either. But yes, the pile is again growing.

Maybe next time I head over to their house for a visit I should ask how many fresh boxes they'd like? I won't - I think - be hauling plants that trip. There should be room.

Nine-Eleven: Twenty Five Years Later

After the first few remembrance ceremonies, I tended to pretty much forget that day. It wasn't part of my daily life. I did not lose anybody I knew there - unless a passing acquaintance I never knew was involved. It's not that I didn't live that day glued to information sources, because I did. I was horrified, confused, angry, worried about what else might come from whoever our enemies were that were doing this, and even more, worried about what our current leaders would do or not do as a result. I was not worried personally for my safety that day, because the targets so far had all been along the east coast, centers of power and of government. Who'd attack Minnesota? Why?

There are memories tied to visual images that day, though with a single exception not of images of the destruction. Not then. I was in my car all day, working as a courier. Because we were now computer dispatched rather than radio dispatched, the car radio could be turned on all day, and was. My choice was the news service of Minnesota Public Radio. There were times I flipped over to their classical music station when I needed calming, but I liked to start with news most mornings. I still do, plus weather.

I can tell you we had sunshine and blue skies that morning. I'd just pulled into a parking spot at some medical building in Stillwater, almost to the very east of the state but still up the hill away from the river. The radio program was calmly interrupted by a rumor they couldn't verify yet that a plane had just flown into a building in New York. As I was leaving my car, my immediate thought was that some idiot tourist showing off in a little two-seater had made the wrong turn, or hit some unexpected updraft. and probably broken a few windows, maybe hurt somebody inside, but not very likely to repeat their stupidity... permanently

I walked into the building which was my first stop of the morning at 8:15. The receptionist was upset, having just heard the news herself. Neither of us knew more, but did our business, and went on about our day. I headed the car into the cities, waiting for any work that might go along with what I had on board, listening to the news.  There was more information already. They now confirmed the crash - it wasn't an "attack" yet - was from a passenger plane. Details filtered in. It was a regular commercial jet, full of passengers, and ground control confirmed they were ignored by whoever was flying. The authorities were still looking for expected causes, problems with controls, something mechanical in the cockpit not fixed in time... nobody could tell... yet.

At this point I called my parents. Their usual routine would have them at the breakfast table, no TV on, just a quiet meal and conversation. They would always answer the phone, however, and by this time I had a cell phone. Mom answered. I skipped the pleasantries and asked her if they had the TV on yet? She said no and asked why? I didn't answer directly but told her to just go turn it on! I wasn't quite ready to break the news to them yet. She asked me what channel to turn on? I said it didn't matter, there was bad news and it would be on every single channel. Pick whatever you usually watch. She said she would, and since it was a land line, hung up to go turn on the TV.

When I write that I recall 9/11 in pictures, this conversation's image is not the highway I was driving on. It's always my mental image of their apartment, them at the table with the TV across the room. Obviously I did a pretty good job of driving safely and not remembering any of it. For hours I went from job to job, recalling only what I heard on the radio while making sure I went to the next place I needed to be for the packages I need to move. What registered? A second plane. The second tower. Fires and people jumping to a quick death to avoid death by fire burned imaginary images into my brain, wondering who one would chose to jump off with? Or go alone?  Would you watch the ground approach, the fire you left, or each other? That too is indelible even as an imaginary image, understanding instantly why that choice was being made by so many people. I still had no real visuals the way most of the world did by this time. 

News filtered in piece by piece, the second tower, the Pentagon, the heroes forcing the fourth plane to crash, knowing they were going to die either way but this way preventing the planned damage. I imagined some of those phone calls to loved ones, wondering if all the passengers had cell phones or they were being shared in the few minutes left to them. Somewhere in there news came that all airports were shut down, all flights cancelled until further notice. I wondered who would be selfish enough to pitch a hissy fit over that, (imaginary image inside airport terminal here) sure there'd be a few, positive they knew they were more important than some plane crash(es) somewhere else.

My second real indelible image from that day I can't place in time of day, though I'm sure others can who were glued to their TVs watching events unfold in a world where cameras are everywhere whether something is happening or not. I know I walked into building after building,  doing my job despite the people in those building being glued to TVs brought in from who knows where - I never asked - and getting very little business work done. I'd manage each time to get my package, claim a signature when it was dropped, but had no direct evidence other work was getting done anywhere.

Not, at least, until I walked into that church in Wayzata, a town as far out past the west edge of the metro as my first job was past the east end of the greater metropolitan area. I recall parking because I was trying to figure out which door to approach. Whatever I had was heavy enough to make a long hike a consideration, and no, I almost never knew what was inside whatever packages I had. So many churches have office doors open during the week and all else locked tight. Looking for clues and finding none, I climbed the many stairs up to the front of the church, surprised to discover it wasn't locked. There were more stairs inside, and I could see a portable TV on a table up at the top, turned on, and just as I'd told my mom, tuned to the only news of the day. As I stood for a moment, getting some energy back before hunting the church offices, of course I finally watched the first TV I'd had access to that day. They were repeating the towers going down, first one, then the other, over and over. My image insists, despite other people's denial, that the floors pancaked down, one dropping onto the next dropping onto the next, and so forth until clouds of destruction rose and obscured everything. I'd been out of my car long enough that my radio hadn't mentioned they were falling yet. I hadn't thought that it might happen, somehow thinking the fires would be put out (miraculously I suppose) and the damage fixed, the towers again on the skyline.

It must have been shock enough on top of other shocks that day that I quit making new memories of that day. I know I continued working. I know I came home and watched TV, though by then for most of the world it was all old news. Somewhere in there I did make a mental note that I was glad it hadn't happened a day earlier, ruining my birthday forever, followed immediately by remembering I knew another woman whose birthday I'd just learned, and for her, her birthday was now forever spoiled.

I wonder if she's gotten enough distance from that day that she can celebrate again, have a normal day on "her day". I hope so.

Just A Couple Small Surprises

 I decided to walk past one of my recently replanted gardens the other afternoon on my way to get the mail, checking on possible rain damage from a heavy rainfall on loosened soil. I almost tripped over the duck which had bedded down between a well-set Japanese iris clump and the wall of the house. It's not because I was going to walk through the garden, but her calmness as I approached made her slow movement away from me a double surprise. First, because she was there. I've had rabbits in the garden, or squirrels, even a racoon. They are easily spooked into a run in the opposite direction, which sometimes is only the far end of the live trap from me.  But this female mallard merely stood and waddled calmly away while casting her head back to see - perhaps - if I had any food for her. In her case, "away" merely meant down onto the grass where she settled down calmly, unchased as I continued past. 

She wasn't limping, a possible excuse for not avoiding me. She never raised her wings, though they didn't look to be clipped or dragging, another possible excuse for not rushing away. She did keep an eye on me, but very calmly. I decided she must be very used to humans, especially when she was still on my grass upon my return with the mail. A check a while later didn't show her in view. I concluded  she was likely healthy but way too used to humans, possibly having been raised by somebody thinking doing so after finding an egg was a good idea. I only hope she can fly well in a couple months before the lake ices over and manages to hook up with others of her breed to learn the best pathways for the trip.

The mail itself was the other surprise. It started - to my awareness - weeks ago with an email, letting me know I was to benefit from a lawsuit against my insurance company. There had been some kind of legal/financial misbehavior on the company's part which I'm still not clear on, other than it meant they took too much money from their customers and had to repay.  I as a customer was on a long list of beneficiaries for getting a refund in the mail, and all I had to do was return the email to them via a form I'd get sent after a click in a specific spot. I was to enter the series of letters and numbers already on this form, identifying me and my case and expect a reimbursement in a few weeks. I had several days to reply, or not.

I let that sit in my email for a few days. It must be spam, right? Scam maybe? Except as I looked at it, it did appear to have been sent by my insurance company, no weird email address. They didn't ask for any further information beyond the letter/number codes already in the email. They didn't need bank account info to put it in for me, they'd be mailing me a check. As the deadline to file neared, I looked it over searching for anything that seemed off about it. The insurance company was already on an ACH payment system for monthly bills, I had indeed been their customer since we moved in at our current address. I couldn't find a reason to avoid sending them their own code back to them. So with days to spare, I did. 

Today was the deadline to reply.  Yesterday the check arrived. I wasn't expecting it to be very much, and I got that part correct too. However, I had to drive into the Twin Cities to my credit union to deposit it since the local ATM which works with them is only a cash machine. Oh well, I needed actual cash funds as well, so my lawn mowing lady can get paid later this week. I'd stopped in where that "free" ATM machine was yesterday but as a holiday weekend just ended, it had been tapped out by EVERYBODY two days earlier, and not scheduled to have their cash supply refilled till mid week. It happens that way there every holiday weekend. We know to tap it ahead of holiday tourism. I just had no need to do so until now. All in all, I needed a second road trip! I'd had my own planned road trip the day before, heading up to Crex to see how things fared with the drought, seeing what might be worth shooting with my camera. I found unexpectedly colorful ferns along the roadsides all over where I'd expected instead just dead brown due to the drought.

The dead brown will be along soon enough. I've never caught them in any stage other than lively green or end-of-year brown. Yellow, orange, and red were supposed to be for trees! Hmmm, maybe next year's photo contest? Would they believe it was real?

Now I needed a second road trip into the metro in order to deal with the check. Of course it happened the day after gas prices rose about $.25 per gallon, which I needed to fill my tank with. If I'd filled up when I got home the day before....

 Starting with the deposit, the withdrawal for two weeks lawn mowing, after which the ATM has no excuse to have funds again, and a later charge to fill my tank, my reward for applying for the lawsuit payout was two weeks of mowing paid for and part of a full tank after some weekend driving, before dipping into current funds. I guess I could call that a win...?

I had been thinking maybe some ice cream on my way home....... I guess my insurance company wasn't greedy enough to have to reimburse for ice cream too. No real surprise there.  Oh well, yogurt and blueberries are almost as good. If they were better than "almost" it would have been a real surprise!

Covid's Back

OK, I'm sure it never really left. But it's fall, kids are starting school, people are flying back in aerial  germ cans to go to work. Whatever the timing is and why for other people, I just heard from my daughter that she's just tested positive for it.  We'd had plans together for next weekend. Obviously they are now cancelled. I'm hoping for "just postponed".

Just a few weeks back I'd asked my primary doc when was the best time this year for getting the latest booster for covid. Steve and I have always been first in line - or as close as possible - for every shot and booster offered. He's never tested positive. I've had it twice. One hears of new variations, possible new ways to fight it better, and hopes for the latest whatever to come on the market by some specific close  date.  So I ask.

Her answer was that no new protections or immunization combinations are coming out in the near future, but be sure to  renew our boosters early this fall. At our ages, Medicare coves them. As for flue shots, there will be a best-guess formulation for the likely varieties out this fall, so we'll get in the line October first. Same coverage for those. There are some good things about getting old. Hey, If I made good art with my wrinkles, I'd be wealthy! Then again, maybe my contribution is to make my surgeons wealthy.

Meanwhile I sent my daughter the information I learned early in covid years about how to deal with it once you've caught it. First is paxlovid, providing that's still the best on the market and you or your insurance can cover it. About year three in the ongoing pandemic there was a sudden, poorly explained clamp down on using it. I'd just gotten my second case of covid, was told I'd have to pay for the shot myself, but simply didn't have an extra thousand in the budget. The only difference noted in my illness without paxlovid was brain fog severe enough that I didn't recognize how bad it was except in retrospect, marveling afterwards in my stupidity.

The rest of the symptoms weren't severe, unless you count long covid. I lost my senses of taste and smell for a long time. Taste came back... sort of. Mostly I still can't smell a thing. But then there'll be a few minutes in some totally random day when suddenly my nose returns for a bit. Not all comes back. Usually it's a single thing. I missed smelling fresh mown grass, but got a reprieve for a  couple minutes, once. Not since. For years I couldn't smell skunk spray when Steve was overwhelmed by it as the car passed a roadkill. Then I smelled one, once. Period. It goes like that, a quick sniff of something, then quickly squelched, for good, at least so far. Skunk? Once. Bacon frying? Once, briefly. Onions being cut? Same. Get the pattern? I almost compare it to a single receptor being healed, then whatever caused it returning, with some new tactic to make sure it doesn't get "cured" again. I'm told I raise fragrant flowers in my garden. Can't prove it by me. Good thing the blossoms are lovely. The scent of gunpowder is supposed to be strong on 4th of July. Was the west wind  from the wrong western direction? On the other hand, I used to hate fresh tomatoes. Something isn't there any more and I find them delicious.

I'm still trying to decide if it's a good or bad thing I can't smell my own combinations of nasty stinks. If I'm doing a good job of tamping them down, then hooray. If other people are simply being polite by not commenting, then not so much. About a year into long covid I read that my symptoms are officially on the long covid list. I'm not alone! And compared to other people's lists of long covid symptoms, I figure I'm blessed. Things could be so much worse. Barring something like a gas leak, my symptoms are not considered life threatening.

But my daughter has covid now, and while I am certainly not a medical professional of any kind and not about to suggest ivermectin or bleach for use in or on humans, or going out to sunburn your nether regions for some idiotic incomprehensible reason, I memorized a list back when of what to do at home to minimize your illness. 

Much like the "Spanish flu" epidemic in the early 1900s, the worst way to get sick with covid is to have your body over-react to it. It's called a cytokine storm. The body's fight goes into overkill, harming healthy parts of you. Studies showed that it happens with covid on (at least) two fronts, each of which have over-the-counter remedies to help fight it. One is like an allergy reaction in overdrive, and cetirizine is the better allergy medication which slows that down. You can get the expensive  brand name or the generic, but one, twice a day, helps prevent that reaction. (It helps that I already take that daily, and have it on hand.) The second reaction is much like the way your body reacts to something by giving you  heartburn, and studies have Pepcid AC working on that reaction. It also has a generic version OTC, but don't ask me the name. I haven't needed to know for a couple years now, but mostly those generics are on shelves next to the brand name items. Read the labels.

One more easy thing helps. Covid drains you, depletes your energy. Taking a high dose vitamin B Complex pill twice a day for the first few days helps with that. When your normal returns, go back to whatever your normal vitamin intake was. Almost nobody needs more than standard daily vitamin dosages.

Of course it's always best to avoid getting it at all. Masks still work. Social distancing still works. Hand sanitizing still works. Best, injections against the disease still work most reliably. Denial is a crap shoot. If you're going that route, I could wish you "good luck", but just ask yourself exactly how that works  for everybody. How many deaths has the world had so far? One estimate taking into account the reluctance of certain governments to admit incompetence or scare off tourists, is 35 million.  Just how much power do you think my "good luck" wish holds over the planet,  and follow that by just how sarcastic you think my "good luck" might have been  if you''re avoiding masks, staying close to other possibly sick people, not washing your hands, and neglecting immunizations.

Yes, exactly! So take care of yourselves. Or.... "Good Luck To You!"

Walmart Wants Comments... Or Do they?

 Every so often I get an email from Walmart asking me to evaluate my recent shopping experience, or sometimes specific products I purchased there. Occasionally they try to bribe me with a "chance" to win a thousand dollars.

Oh Boy! Me and how many millions of other people? Are the odds as good as the ones from Wheel Of Fortune that I could be a lucky winner of the same thing their top contestants won in the days leading up to Christmas? I actually hoped I didn't win Wheel from home after a while, for a couple reasons. First, I hate their vacations. Too much sunburn, too much hiking, too much spa blah, too many bars and too much gambling. That's supposed to be an incentive? A few destinations might tempt me... if I had a passport. And if I could go wherever the heck I wanted to, with easy transportation, a savvy translator,  and my camera. The other reason is I had no way I could find of contacting them and letting them know I moved and where I really am now. You send that trip prize to the old address, somebody would probably use it, leaving me to pay the taxes on it. No thanks!

Anyway, most of my enthusiasm for giving Walmart a piece of my mind has nothing whatsoever to do with winning something. If I do, fine. If not, and we can assume "not", what other reason do I have to respond? Mischief? Hope for honest change?

Ummm, you do know me, right? Kind of, maybe? Willing to learn, perhaps? You are still reading here, you know.

Let's start with them finally changing something which needed it. Take their pharmacy lines. Please!  OK, I know that line has long  been trademarked, just substitute "wife" for "pharmacy lines". But for a while they took out the zig-zag path they created with posts and straps so more of us could stand in line in a small spot instead of way out blocking main aisles. When they asked me about my experience after that change, I complained about not having them and the difficulties with traffic flow. Then when the zig and zag returned, I complimented them on it. I do hope they keep it.

Other times they ask me about a shopping experience giving only the date I was there.  If it was two weeks ago, what the hell did I buy anyway? And how did it go? If you don't show me thumbnail photos of the merch, I have no comment for you. Life has long since moved on. If I order online and go pick it up, generally all goes well. Sometimes something is out of stock, but I long since learned to not allow substitutions because I'm picky, both by taste and by cost. In summer I also pack a cooler with ice. Otherwise ice cream arrives home as a puddle. It used to be tasty.... 

For so many times when I gave them my two cents that their store brand of raisin bread was never stocked, mentioned that I'd gotten none to bad reactions from employees in the store, and nothing changed, I simply stopped buying any brand of it. Other products go through the same phases. Suddenly they stocked General Tso's chicken in single frozen meals. Just as suddenly they stopped. Or everybody else bought it first. Maybe middle America has developed a palate?  I'm still waiting for them to come back with the healthy version of a frozen single meal of lasagna. I don't need 15 servings at a time, and who needs to put that much strain on their budget when one serving is all that's wanted? Their Pad Thai is good as long as it's Amy's and I add more peanuts to it. Their frozen foods section has vastly improved with the addition of foods that aren't just another pasta.

They do have an ongoing procedure that drives me nuts. They keep moving stuff. Perhaps they believe that it means we shoppers discover new things to buy in the old places we automatically steer to. Perhaps it does work with some folks. It annoys the heck out of me, and I have a lot of heck to be annoyed out of. Most days I don't take a battery shopping cart any more, though there is the occasional exception. However my long-trained mindset is still that shopping shouldn't be painful or too much work. Top shelves are impossible, with the next one down merely just completely miserable to have to reach. Guess where the heavy boxes and bottles are kept? Most day's I'll simply not buy it. Very occasionally one of their blue-smocked shoppers, pulling or pushing their stacks of carts to fill with drive-up orders, will be in the aisle and I can request them to please reach me X number of item Ys because I can't reach it or lift it or whatever. Nearly all of them are both pleasant and helpful.  If I wait for an ordinary but tall shopper to come through the aisle so I can request a bit of help, it's usually given but at the cost of annoying other shoppers waiting to clear that aisle. When it doesn't happen, both Walmart and I are disappointed, though my bank doesn't tend to complain at my savings.

If something has moved several aisles over, I have neither the clue as to where, nor the patience to hunt all over in the store's devious hopes I'll find other stuff to buy on my way. One item in point is Propel, a product of Gatorade, a sugarless beverage with electrolytes and actual flavor. It's nice to have in the car for "just because" times. In the last two months it's had three totally different locations in the same store. The first was at floor level two aisles away from sports drinks, the second on a top shelf, and finally where I could reach it. (Who else complained about it? Let me shake your hand!!!!)  I'm more likely to leave with a royal bad attitude - which I've almost perfected now so that it doesn't include swearing, though not guaranteed - and either not buy it at all or just go elsewhere. But they simply must keep moving stuff. And moving more stuff. And moving other stuff besides.

Hey guys, listen up: Walmart shopping is not my version of sports equipment!

I'd just gone through it with the one thing I needed at a Walmart hours earlier, when I got one of their requests for a "how did it go?" I decided to answer. I'd  needed car oil, 5w20, synthetic, and for high mileage cars. I've been told I should stick with the same brand already in the car if I was just topping it up. Hunting was involved. I'd just bought some a month earlier, wanted more on hand for in case. My car doesn't leak, witnessed by no oil puddles under the car,  but oil does get burned up over time and needs to be topped up before oil change time. So of course I pushed my cart to the exact aisle end cap where it was the last time. It wasn't there, but you already knew that since I'm writing about it.  Now of course those bottles come in a precise color, in a precise shape, and with all their minisculely different varieties stacked together, they take up a lot of shelf space. Of course you have to bend way over and reach way in and pull out each bottle and triple check every precise detail of every bottle. Who knew there's now a ZeroW20 oil? Oops. How did that get in my cart? Or who knew that high mileage oil is somehow different from all-synthetic oil when I use synthetic oil  because my car is high mileage? It won't be the bottle you think you reached for because it was directly behind the one that was correct. At least one of those requirements is bound to be different than the only bottle exactly in front of it was. Somebody else pulled one - or three dozen, who knows? - bottles out, found it wasn't their precise specifications, and simply found a bit of space to set it on before trying the next bottle. 

Who, me? Are you kidding? Of course I'd never tell if it were. But it's not. Or is it?

A store employee came by and asked me what I was looking for. It was a long list of specifications and I'd just located the brand and was combing through individual bottles. She heard part of what I needed and promptly went off, I thought to attend to some other task. Thirty feet down the aisle, well past shouting distance, she grabbed and started loading the huge full plastic bottles into my cart. Each was more than I needed in total. My first reaction was they weren't "X" specification, but before I could get another word in, off she went to return with two more huge ones with that particular specification correct but the next one wrong. She started reaching again into my cart to pull those out and this time I managed to stop her, pointing out I only needed the three small bottles now in my cart. I tried to feel bad for her and grateful for her attempt to be helpful, but this wasn't tee-ball  and she wasn't listening. At least I got to stop her from adding more oil. But where could she have gotten the idea I needed enough oil to fill a barrel?

Of course that's when Walmart sent me the feedback request. 

You must know that they only allow so many characters per answer to each question. I gave it some thought, and finally opted for brief sarcasm, saying things highly improbable, congratulating them for obvious flubs, that I could only hope they were so outrageous that somebody had to get the point. One example was their only relocating product X far enough from its usual location that it only took me half an hour to locate it. Now my granddaughter might have added a wonderful story about a pesky racoon, but I was totally beat by that time. I'll keep it in mind, though....

In hindsight though I'm not so sure. Might I have been too subtle? More to the point, does anybody anywhere read those? Or care?

Two-Showers-A-Day Weather

 This is summer in Minnesota. We live in a geographic anomaly, and have for at least part of every year since 1991, barring one no-travel year for covid before immunizations when we stayed in Arizona. It's the high point of the county here. For whatever reason, weather coming from every direction splits and goes around us.  When the sirens go off, we're more likely to stick out heads out to watch the distant action than go hide in a basement or shelter.

Note that we're having a drought locally. Northern Minnesota and southern Minnesota have been getting nailed with heavy weather. It's not always in time to stop a forest fire, like the ones in the BWCA for example. When the TV announcers claim we're likely to get rain here, we politely snicker. (By politely I mean we're so many miles away they'll never hear it in their fancy studios. Mom would almost approve.) It doesn't mean the air isn't humid. Fogs are common enough:

Where is this weird area? Look at a map of Minnesota and note that it looks like somebody tied a belt around it's waist and cinched it tight, leaving just a little bit of the state to poke out either east or west into a neighboring state. Blame the rivers. My dad grew up near the western bump. We live in or near the eastern bump. When the big rain systems roll in, they tend to slide by north of us or south of us. When the winds are governed more by northerlies or southerlies, rain tends to slide by east or west of us. 

I'm not saying we get no weather here. We just get less stormy weather. When the county weather sirens go off, invariably they are sounding for the northern end of our county. We can enjoy watching, maybe trying to capture lightning in photos.( I haven't perfected that yet, but can try for screen grabs of one of my paused videos. Just ignore the extraneous graphics in the lower left corner. The white zig-zag lightning is real. So is the lit cloud around it, though pink wasn't its real color to my eyes. I'll keep working on that technique.)

   Or we can shoot rainbows afterwards, much easier in daylight.

All three of the previous shots are from our main porch - the covered one, thank you  - and over our neighbors roof. Different storms, different times of day.

It's been a particularly dry year here. My grass is turning brown, and "weed" grasses are taking advantage. No, I'm not going to put chemicals down. The lawn is by fiat mowed weekly, need it or not. Anything somebody puts out to kill weeds will kill gardens, and we have the right to refuse them. (Just claim health issues!) 

So when I call this "two showers a day" weather, I'm referring to how fast sweat builds up, requiring two showers a day for the person working outside in the sun and humidity. Of course the option exists to maybe just start the day with one, or end the day that way. My skin insists that salt from my clothes itches unmercifully, does not disappear with indoor fans on, and only changing the wardrobe frequently, paired with rinsing off the skin, can do the trick.

I'm confronting a deadline here. My new plants need homes. Those homes are currently occupied by other plants needing relocation, and occasionally gifting to others. Relocation before frost requires giving them a chance to establish roots in their new homes, as well as plenty of watering in dry hot weather. Watering requires hauling a pair of hoses across the yard and putting them back again, as well as standing around aiming the spray. Even early in the morning, any or all of that work  means I return to the house dripping wet, itchy, and beat.  Mid day it's impossible, and close to sunset hasn't given the muggy air time to cool off. 

I did finally manage to tie the bandana around my head so it actually catches the sweat before it runs in my eyes. That much salt stings! It also coats my glasses lenses. I refuse to look in a mirror until proper showering and grooming have occurred. I'm not saying I'm vain, but really - who needs to see that? Last winter my hair was growing out longer from the previous haircut than I'd let it do for years. The air was dry enough that it didn't frizz. Now just in drying after a shower and being brushed in place after the shirt goes on - emphasis on "after" - it only settles down for half an hour or so. It's supposed to be too short to do that!!!!!

I'm beginning to feel like I'm a toddler again, with that curly hair my mother loved because she could just comb it around a finger, remove the finger, and voila! Ringlets, perfectly formed, all hanging even and in rows around my head. I heard a lot of references to Shirley Temple. Somewhere along the line I decided Mom wished she was raising that perfect little girl instead of me. That's part of why I keep it short enough so many years to just frizz. Even in those spots where it's supposedly too short for frizzing it manages to frizz. I suppose I could try braids, if I had the wherewithal to keep my arms up above my head these days long enough to put them in, but back in those years where I did braid my own hair, mostly twin french braids done either over or under, they still frizzed. Been there, done that, never allowed any photos. 

You're welcome! Really!

When menopause turned my hair white, it also changed the texture of it. Hooray! I thought I was done with the frizz. Those years in Arizona did nothing to disabuse me of that hope. My hair, properly cut, behaved!

Meanwhile, while I typed out this, the ceiling fan has cooled me down enough for me to finally quit sweating. A shower alone wouldn't have done it. My body has to adjust first. So now it's time to go take that first shower of my day.  It's supposed to rain/storm tonight, but we'll see. Either way I'll be out early in the morning again, shovel in hand, digging the last of the iris out, trimming their leaves, setting them in a pail of water to soak wounded roots for a bit. As soon as it's suitable to plant a few of them, in they'll go. The rest I'll pop in the fridge in wet paper towels in a bag. I'm seeing a friend next week who's agreed to plant them in her yard, colors unknown. Meanwhile there will be a space to fill back in with new daylilies, hoping all settle in for winter, living up to their hardy reputation. Winter should bring drier air, straighter hair, and....

      Oh Dammit! Ice and snow! Blast it!

So Why SaveThe Rags?

I'm not talking about the plastic crate on the bathroom floor with old towels and other rags fit only for nasty cleaning jobs, wiping oil off the dip-stick, or slops when painting. Nobody needs to justify keeping and using those, especially when the alternative usually is paper which continuously eats into global resources. (OK, guilty of that too. Not scolding, just trying to conserve when I can.)

What I'm talking about here are the rags I continue to wear, in private and mostly at night. Mostly I hate "official" items designated for sleepwear. Nightgowns don't follow me when I move, so they tug in uncomfortable places, and after several movements could wind up leaving me feeling captive. Did I say "could"?  Try "Do!" Ever been awakened by feelings of being trapped? Anybody try to tell you it must have been something you ate? I can promise you I don't chew on my night clothes!

Any sleepwear with long sleeves and/or legs winds up bunching up next to my torso, another form of imprisonment and discomfort. Few if any of the above choices actually are made in comfortable fabrics. If you think the alternative is wearing nothing, then all the sweat and miscellaneous dirt winds up on the sheets much faster, and those are usually more strain to peel off the bed, wash and dry without tangling in everything else, impeding both dirt removal and proper drying. Afterwards there's lifting all four corners of a heavy mattress to tuck fitted corners back under. A queen bed adds the experience of guessing which corner of the sheet goes on which corner of the bed. I used to take a black marker and point arrows on the corners so wherever one pointed was the long way of the bed, i.e.,  head or foot. The latest batch of markers aren't so permanent. All in all, the less need for laundering, the better.

Thus we're back to needing something to cover as much of my torso as possible,  suitable for the temperatures, and still comfortable. What's the most comfortable? Well-worn total cotton clothing, no to short sleeves, stretched out everywhere including now wide necks, patterns likely faded and full of holes. You know, stuff I'd never be caught dead wearing out of doors.  Or maybe only caught dead. You know: cotton rags now. But soft ones.

My arms and legs are already tucked under whatever bedding house temperatures require, something between not even a sheet on top to a sheet/blanket/quilt combo. Their very size tends to keep them where they belong, as the unconscious me seems perfectly capable of arm movements moving them to suit temperature regulation. OK, full disclosure, I can wander all over the bed in my sleep, another reason to avoid nightgowns.

When rags are totally suitable for another year or two, why go out and buy an expensive experiment? You don't know how it feels on your body, how much it will entangle you over the course of hours. Those rags must have had enough comfort in them for you to wear long enough to turn them into a rag. Your body already knows how soft they feel. If they aren't, then the crate on the floor beckons. Those scratchy bits can still scrub.

There is one caveat however. Sometimes those seams pick up tiny somethings, or have a non-cotton thread, and become an irritation. Most times they're still just fine worn inside-out, seams on the outside. My only exception to that is a series of summer shirts I bought a dozen years ago, with printed decorations all over the front and bits of fine glitter added. There are so many that they still look great for the most part just for their time between rotations of wardrobe. Traces of  glitter still remain, enough that those I still wear as regular shirts have to be removed before an x-ray! I don't notice them any longer, but the X-ray techs sure do. If they do, my body will likely notice if I'm skin-to-glitter all night. Oh well. They're still good regular shirts, and there are a lot of baggy tees in the wardrobe for sleeping in, or something strappier for summer.

Oversize cotton knit shorts with drawstrings are perfect for the same reasons for the rest of me. With all my pants these days, I'm only buying new knits with drawstrings, except for when I need jeans, because elastic never lasts. I do like my pants to stay up on the way to the bathroom! Decades ago I learned the art of pulling a drawstring through after it got pulled out. It involves a large safety pin (or diaper pin) and then knotting the ends together loosely before putting the pants in the laundry to avoid having to repeat the pull-through part, because frankly it's a bitch!  

At least it's a soft, comfortable bitch.

When The Weather And I Disagree

 My ambition has been peaking. So has my need to dig into a job and get it done for the year. 

When I say "digging", I mean it literally. Perhaps half of my iris have been relocated. There's an easy path out to the rest of them, right through the middle of my round raised garden. I made that when I dug out the first batches of iris to move. It was lumpy and totally unsafe for this set of wobbly legs, trying to find flat spots big enough for a foot at a time, avoiding the raised blocks which weren't doing a good job of being stepping stones due to elevation above dirt level, find a spot to start the shovel going down, hoping to stand on the edge of it to force it further in the dirt than arms alone could manage and do all that without losing my balance and falling. In desperation I managed to grab clumps of the tallest of the daylily leaves to keep myself stable.

They didn't seem appreciative. I decided not to mind, counting on their reputation for hardiness, especially this late in the year, nearly all blooming done.

Despite never really getting injured when falling, I have developed an actual deep dread of doing so. It can take me a minute - an actual minute, not just the expression - to work up to lifting one leg and placing the foot in the next desired spot to get close where I need to dig next. It's complicated by the other plants in the way, which I don't want to step on, even though they are daylilies and virtually indestructible even if I manage to sprawl over the totality of them. Those same impediments assist my safe passage so I consider it an even exchange. They haven't tried to argue where I could hear  it. I do apologize mentally to them. Hey, show me an ear and I'll do it out loud... quietly of course so the neighbors don't think I'm completely crazy.

The part of the garden which got dug and trampled and guided me safely to my goal, once the desired plants had been removed and all the broken daylily leaves cut back, is now mostly bare, smooth, and safe. More iris wait at the end of it to get dug, after which new daylilies go in those spaces. I'm itching to get back out there and dig.  Then soak the iris, cut leaves back, and plant them in the area of their new home which had a lovely new layer of top soil spread across it waiting. The next stage should be much easier.

Except...

During those days of the first move it was cool. The air was dry. And I still had salty sweat running down my face. I'd put a folded bandana over my head and knotted it so it would stay put and soak up the sweat. Within two minutes it didn't matter. I pulled some paper towels out of my pocket and wiped my face over and over to clear my vision, keep my eyes from stinging, and myself from being so ungodly uncomfortable. I wanted to keep working, get the job done, pat myself on the back for a mission accomplished after months of planning and shopping and drawing out a layout and researching depth for various species. It was miserable joyous work, and it ended too soon. 

Note I didn't claim it was finished. That's why it ended too soon.

The rest of the job still waits. The new dirt for most of the remainder of the new bed has been spread and broken up from large clods to much smaller ones. I found a way that didn't put too much weight on either shoulder, once my son dug the remaining rhubarb plants out of the bed. I drove one of those to its new home, and he took some fresh topsoil home with him to make his own new rhubarb patch out of the remaining plants. I learned to start planting at one end of the new iris strip, free to walk over the new dirt as I backed over it to make space for the next row, and so forth, never needing to reach across on my knees but bend down from the hips, a much better point of balance for me, until I ran out of dug iris. 

There is an intimidating amount of them left in their original patch, though new space is prepared for them. But the heat and humidity are back, without bringing rain, my energy first thing in the morning when it's pretending to be cool leaves something to be desired, and my hopes still rest with the morning weather report. It's still too warm for me, not too warm for the iris, nor too cool, leaving my dilemma as a weight like concrete shoes keeping me inside the house until it really is too cool in late fall to get them settled in properly.

We just don't want to mention the fear of falling in the garden which still lingers, despite work and logic. Even with some of the the causes removed, there is still that moment when one foot has to be lifted, the other balanced on while the shovel is properly placed for the lifted foot to descend on it with a very decided and well-aimed stomp, then a tilt, a lift, a further stomp to shove more, another tilt to loosen and lift roots... and then the search for that perfect space to lay the shovel down in the garden full of growing plants without damage where it can not only sit while the freed iris are lifted from their clinging dirt, relieved of enough burden from their former rootball that they can be gently tossed outside the bed wall onto the lawn without any further damage until they soak in a pail of water. 

As long as that takes to read is also as long as it takes to do, adding the burden of making sure where the shovel lands is easily reached again to pick it up again for the next dig without losing balance for that either. Remember that where they have dug in for two years is also where the daylilies have surrounded them and grown close and tall, and are meant to give this growing and blooming duty another crack at their job the next year, and the next. There are also new daylilies meant to be planted in some of the spaces now bereft of iris, once the removal is complete, but not until. They are not to be tromped on again, at least not this year. All need some time to get new roots established in roomier soil. 

I bet most of you gardeners out there read all this, think it's not in need of description because for you it's a simple dig-lift-dig-lift-replace kind of job. I also bet you haven't found that fear of falling when another person or two are required to get you up and vertical again without further damage because your own body no longer does it as simply as it used to before replacement parts had to be placed in. Once that uneasiness is installed along with those new parts and several experiences, then that awareness seeps in of just how many chances there are for something wrong to happen. Fear is invasive as weeds, and grows from just as tiny seeds. One finds a reason bigger than the fear to continue, and gradually conquers a bit here and a bit there... or doesn't. The job is more complex in those circumstances.

I can't be sure there is room for all the current iris. I know I bought some spectacular ones when we moved here but they didn't bloom yet. I never marked them when planted, just remember them as if they were a time on the clock face. If north is 12, they were planted between 7 and 10. That whole area waits to be dug. What other kinds are in there? Who can tell? I did manage to make arrangements with a good friend and dedicated gardener to adopt any I couldn't find room for in their new bed. Over half her yard is flowers. I gifted her with a single one last year. It did well, according to the photo she took. They'd be loved there. If I make a mistake and give away the most spectacular of those, I wrote down the name back when I planted them, and they are still on the market. Check out "Grand Canyon Sunset". I can dig out spaces and split where very plain but hardy iris are, or perhaps some just didn't survive being mailed which were new this year. I do wonder about a couple but only time will decide. I know, for example, I have an abundance of plain light blue bearded iris, lovely enough but easily growing into excess where a riot of colors is preferred. I expect more to thrive now without having to compete with daylilies. There are other gardeners in this neighborhood who don't mind free flowers and the care they need.  But all will have adequate new homes in a week or so, or else.  However.......

Tock tock, tick tock, the calendar is running out. Temperatures should be dropping. The task which calls louder daily should be getting easier daily, with cooler dryer air and less sweat in the eyes.  A day here and then a day a week later would almost do it but somehow other needs fill those days. Doctor's appointments and other obligations still fill the calendar. There are mornings where by the time breakfast and getting dressed are accomplished that it's already too muggy and hot for hard work. The sun is still up plenty early, great for the plants but not for the one planting. One night with an inch of rain almost fools you into thinking the drought is over, which you readily conspire in agreeing with, because watering here HAS TO be followed immediately by hose removal and the hose is long enough in itself, not to mention when filled, to take up half an hour by getting itself moved... in the sun. That has to be figured in. Tools went missing for a few weeks, only to be discovered to have been hiding under the blade of the shovel plus a few plastic bags. I now own double sets. Sigh.....

Maybe tomorrow....