A new word, gratitude, and hot water

 

Sometimes my experiments go awry. This is salmon with horseradish sauce.
I did not save the recipe. Enough said.

A quiet day for me, spent mostly at my computer. I said to Jordan it was awfully cold, but she replied, “Not as bad as the other day.” A friend pointed out, however, that what we in Texas are feeling now is Rocky Mountain northern cold, not the southern cold we are used to—a distinction I’d never thought about (and am still not sure I get). But when Sophie comes in leaving the door open, it feels cold to me, southern or northern be darned. I had let up on my “really cold weather” precautions and taken the extra cover off the bed. So of course in the middle of the night I had to get up and prowl in the closet for my mom’s crochet afghan. And this morning, I decided I’d wash my hair just to be safe if the hot water goes out again. There was—eventually—hot water, but it sputtered and spit and never came on in a strong steam, which gives me cause to worry. Tonight, though, I could scald my hands washing dishes if not careful.

I heard from friends in Omaha today, which gave me a bit of misguided schadenfreude—they are buried in snow and have had temperatures well below zero and wind chill factors down to -40^o. Even while I am rejoicing that I am not there, I do worry about them. They both have had Covid over Christmas, he a fairly heavy case and she a milder case but fearing complications due to some ongoing health problems. It shows me once again that I must be grateful for the blessings of my life which include fairly good health for a woman of my age.

My small online writing circle uses Fridays to “brag” about how we spent the week. The woman who starts us off on Friday, my friend Stephanie, used today to talk about what we are grateful for, and I used that prompt to think about gratitude and my life. I’ve been a bit out of sorts, maybe due to the restrictions of cold weather and related problems, about all the things that haven’t been done—starting to use my new composter (my kitchen sink cannister is officially full tonight and a bit smelly), my new battery-powered electric blanket isn’t hooked up, my new cuckoo clock needs to be hung and started—it plays bird songs, so I have to get into the instructions and  see if I can figure out how to choose a song. I’m not optimistic about my ability, and I am woefully ignorant about recognizing bird songs, so I figure this will give me an education. I think my mattress needs to be turned—remember when your mom did that at least once a month and all by herself? Amazes me yet. But there is a deep hole where I sit every day to change clothes. Colin told me to Google it, and I did—found the mattress is supposed to inflate. I sent him a picture of the hole, hoping he’ll find a magic solution from a distance.

These delayed chores or whatever depressed me. So did the fact that Zenaida, who cheerfully cleans the cottage and does my laundry every two weeks, hasn’t been here since before Christmas, and I am expecting company three nights this coming week—to a house that badly needs the thorough cleaning I can’t do. I had a little pity party, feeling frustrated because I am so dependent on others. But Stephanie’s reminder jogged me into gratitude. I think for a woman of eighty-five who needs assistance walking, I manage quite a lot on my own. Some days I want to make a list so I can say to Jordan, “Look what I did all by self (a phrase from my kids childhood) today!” I will have to continue to send myself that message—and be grateful for hot water and other blessings.

My new word: my youngest grandson had surgery two days ago for a torn shoulder (this is the third time soccer has gotten him—two earlier broken bones). We sent him Tiff Treats (ice cream and cookies) and when he texted his thanks, he wrote, “Thank you, shawties.” Well, of course that sent me to the online dictionary. It’s slang term of generalized affection, African American in origin. But sometimes it’s more specific, referring to a beautiful young woman. Was that sweet boy being sarcastic with his aunt and grandmother? If so, he’s a sly one. I was impressed one way or another that he knew the word, although I can’t figure a way to work it into my conversation or my writing. I guess for the nonce sharing it with you will have to do.

Good night, shawties! Sleep tight, sweet dreams.

 

Feeling fragile

 

Not to worry. I’m fine and not feeling fragile, but I’ve had some thoughts this week about fragility and aging. My brother, who is a physician and six years older than I am, has been telling me for several years that we are both fragile. As a lifelong proponent of positive thinking (seriously, I do believe in it), I have refused to accept that thought, let alone live by it. In fact, I’ve been known to err on the far other side.

In recent years, through bouts with kidney disease, a disintegrated hip joint, and atrial fibrillation, both family and doctor have suggested, not so gently, that I should be quicker to admit that I am not feeling well. My defense goes back to my mom, who taught us over and over about the little boy who cried, “Wolf!” A doctor’s wife, Mom well knew about doctors’ attitudes toward women who whined and cried about pain. And she warned us. She was definitely of the stiff upper lip school. I was never tested by the pain of childbirth, but with the pain of my disintegrated hip joint I apparently proved that I was my mom’s daughter, because I didn’t complain a lot, earning me a reputation for a high tolerance of pain (not sure that’s true). All of this is a long way of saying, I don’t think you make a fuss about being sick.

This week, as many of you know, I’ve had a chest cold. I cannot tell you how many chest colds I’ve had in my long life, but as a child I was “subject” to them. I have memories of spending long days in bed with a huge bottle of ginger ale, my mom rubbing my throat with Ben Gay or Vick’s and tying an old sock around it, my dad, an osteopathic physician, coming home to treat me and saying, “Hush. People pay me good money to do this.” (John confesses he used to lie very still under the covers and pray that Dad would think he was asleep—it never worked). A cold was just one of those things that happened—you got over it and went your merry way.

Out of deference to my family, this past week, I emailed my doctor to ask if I needed to be tested for Covid, rsv, or some other devastating disease I haven’t yet heard of (life—and sickness—was a lot simpler when I was young). He said no, not in view of my symptoms or lack thereof. The treatment for rsv is the same as for the cold, unless it gets suddenly worse. And that was where he got me.

I realized that at my age, the common cold, that annoyance I was dealing with, could suddenly turn worse and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. Ginger ale, Vicks, and Ben Gay weren’t going to help. And suddenly, there for a bit, I did indeed feel fragile.

Tonight, I am much better—almost “back at myself” as a friend used to say, but with a new realization. If I am not fragile, at my age I am more vulnerable. Which leads to two things: I need to be ever so much more grateful for every day of good health, and I need to be cautious. Many of my friends, who lead much more active social lives than I do, chide me for being reclusive, for being content in the cottage. I don’t seclude myself out of fear, and yet caution is a good reason for my lifestyle. A friend whose wife I see often has just come down with Covid—it would never have occurred to me to avoid her because her husband is not feeling well. And yet that’s the truth. I should be tonight at a festive dinner with three friends, so the four of us could exchange holiday gifts and catch up on visiting. I’m home, not because I don’t feel well enough to go, but because I still have occasional coughing spells that should send you running to the next county, and I didn’t think it right to inflict that cough on my friends, let alone unknown patrons I a restaurant.

Maybe life was simpler when I was a kid or maybe there were all those diseases out there, and we just didn’t know it. But this week I realized that I am vulnerable, and I vowed to continue being cautious.

Jordan sent me this chart to compare Covid, flu, rsv, and the cold. It is a public service announcement but was published by Cook Children’s Hospital. Perhaps some of you will find it useful—and reassuring.

Farewell to a tree

 

Not my tree but close
I couldn't find an image of my tree. 

Almost thirty years ago I bought our house because I loved the spacious front porch and had visions of entertaining on it. And entertain I did—from dinner for one or two to pot-luck Mexican parties for Jordan and a whole crowd of her friends. In fact, the front porch is where I watched the romance between Jordan and Christian blossom. But always, what anchored the house and the porch to the neighborhood, indeed to the earth, was the huge old elm at the curb next to the driveway.

We treasured that tree, watched birds nest in it and squirrels chase each other. Once when someone told me vines would kill it, I tore down all the vines that were creeping up the trunk—not an easy job and hard on my hands. Periodically, it lost branches—large branches. Once a neighbor charged me sixty dollars to rush down and trim a branch which he declared was a hazard to children coming and going to the school across the street. Another time, I came home from my oldest son’s wedding in the Caymans to find tree branches covering the whole front yard.

It took me years to figure out that because it was in the boulevard it was the city’s responsibility not mine. When I finally realized that I could save a whole lot of money by calling the city when the tree had a problem, I had a new worry: would they cut it down? I had friends who went on vacation and came home to find a huge tree that had been in front of their house gone. Such is the stuff of nightmares when you live in an older neighborhood with huge trees that arch across the street to form a canopy. It’s one of the things I love about my neighborhood. Finally, one city arborist said to me, “Lady, we are in the business of saving trees, not tearing them down.” Still I knew that the tree was old and would become a danger. Today, I suspect that it’s almost a hundred years old—that’s how old the house will be next year, and I imagine the tree was planted when the house was built.

So today a forestry crew from the city parks and recreation department came to clear away the fallen branch. And they delivered bad news: the tree is rotten and a danger. They will come back this week to take it totally down. So we are left with dilemmas. Will they plant a new tree? Even so, it won’t grow appreciably in my lifetime. Will they take away the stump? Christian thinks probably not. What about the roots that extend gosh knows how far? Today I assured a neighbor who lives a block away that the roots probably reach to her house—they certainly reach nearly to our house on the far side of our yard.

I am heartbroken, but I know I would be more so if the tree fell and hurt someone. We were lucky yesterday that the branch fell at two o’clock and not three, when children were on their way home from school. And there’s that old possibility that I always worried about—the tree could fall on the house. It’s spring, the season of violent storms in North Texas, and it could happen any day.

I wish now they would come take it away first thing in the morning. It has begun to seem to me like anticipating surgery—you just really want to get it over with. I have not gone out to the curb—not easy for me to do—but a part of me thinks I should go thank the tree for shading us, for giving us a sense of place and stability all these years. I don’t want it to go without a grateful farewell.

And there’s that nakedness that the house will feel. The kids sit out on the porch a lot, especially late at night, with a glass of wine when they can talk about the day. I am selfishly glad that I am back in my cottage, where I sit on the patio and don’t go to the front of the house that often. I can put it out of my mind. But then again, that doesn’t seem quite fair to the tree.

Maybe I need to call up the spirit of Joyce Kilmer.

Lost friendships

 

Lost friendships happen, for many reasons, and they are always hard, but they seem more poignant to me during pandemic. Maybe what I’m trying to say is they leave unanswered questions. This holiday season I reached out to three longtime friends—people that have at one point been a big part of my life but that I don’t see or hear from often. I have not had a response from any one of them, which leaves me wondering: have I somehow offended? Is this a matter of political differences? Did they or a family member succumb to COVID-19? Or old age?

One is an author who befriended me when I was young and green. She is several years older than me, lives in another state, and was having trouble with her eyesight. I sent a Jacquie Lawson Christmas card but never got that email that tells me she opened it. Another is an author who lives nearby but with whom I’ve lost touch, and I’m sad about it—we used to be great traveling buddies, going to various conferences in Texas. For a while there we had a dog-and-pony show—she talked about being a fifth-generation Texan, and I countered with a newcomer’s point of view. I know she’s been ill, with severe balance problems, and has a caretaker at least part time. Maybe she’s given up reading email?

Finally, there’s a woman, long divorced as I am (our husbands were colleagues), with whom I used to enjoy dinners. Somewhere along the line it developed that we had political differences, and she would chide me for bringing up my liberal views. Jordan had been particularly fond of her and worked to make her welcome in our home. Is she ignoring my email because of our political differences? Did her grandchildren, who live in her building if not her apartment, bring COVID home to her?

The problem of losing friends over the trump regime is real, and I have given up on one longtime friend who told me she and her husband voted for trump because “we had no other choice.” I almost exploded over the lunch table. I was so upset that she said, “I’m upset that you’re so upset.” And that was in 2017 before we knew how bad it would get. Occasionally we email, and she told someone blithely that we didn’t get together because her husband and I disagreed over politics. No, it’s not politics. It’s morals, honesty, kindness, justice, humanity. Later, her husband told her to tell me that Biden will take us to socialism which is the first step on the road to communism. I think he needs to study his “isms,” including fascism.

But I grieve over lost friends. They are a part of who I am today. Friendships have shaped me, and I’m uncertain what to do next. A phone call might be awkward, whether their silence is due to age or illness or politics. A repeat email may be fruitless, but I will try that. I want to know that these people are okay. And I wish for a world where these was less divisiveness.

Maybe I’m being judgmental. I hear in myself a voice that says it’s okay for me to cut off trump-supporting friends but it’s not okay for them not to respond to me. And maybe ultimately that self-contradictory place is where I am. I may well have become as zealous against trump policies as his followers are for them. It will be interesting to see how this all plays out. I for one am nervous about January 6.

But meantime, I’m going to email those people again. I want to be the one to reach out—and I want to know that they are okay.