Surviving, Day #2

No, it's not Jacob's birthday, and he hasn't been 14 for several years.
But in the upper left you can see the trees I've written about tonight.
They are too beautiful to lose, and we need lots of trees for the climate.

Yesterday it was the ophthalmologist; today it was the dentist and the driveway, or teeth and trees. The dentist first:

When I was a kid, back in the Dark Ages, I had bad teeth, inherited I’m told from my dear father. Whatever, I had lots of cavities and in my tween years spent a lot of time in the dentist’s office. The dentist happened to be a family friend—he and his wife/nurse were Uncle Walt and Aunt Kaffee. Uncle Walt was a taciturn man, but what did a kid of twelve know about taciturn? I just thought he was disapproving of me, and I was intimidated. In those days, the dentist’s drill was a clumsy, slow thing and having all my cavities filled was a long and painful process. (To Uncle Walt’s credit, most of those gold fillings are still in my head some seventy years later and to his double credit as an adult I learned to appreciate him.) Needless to say, I dreaded and hated going to the dentist. I remember making those trips to the Hyde Park Bank building, though now I can’t tell you if it was on 51^st Street or 53^rd. Seems to me, I went alone, though some thirty years later I always went to the dentist with my children. Add to all that the truth that anxiety is a feeling I’m all too familiar with, and it’s easy to understand that I carry with me today some dental phobia. At my ripe old age, I have finally learned to take excellent care of my teeth (especially if I don’t eat blueberries) and the hygienist is pleased with me. Visits are usually not long and always painless—especially since she’s agreed not to use the hydroelectric thing on my teeth. But I still get anxious, so having a dental cleaning behind me is a great relief. Of course I have to go back in three months, but I’ll worry about that tomorrow.

And I’ve had such problems with dental insurance. I didn’t like Cigna’s coupon books because I pay through my bank, so I ignored their coupons, sent them checks which they returned, and then they cancelled me for nonpayment. Me, Pollyanna, the good girl who pays all bills promptly! Then I took out an Ameritas policy which not only didn’t save me money, it cost me because it hardly paid anything on my dental bills and I was left with a huge balance plus monthly insurance payments. It seems that my dentist was out of network, but then I found he isn’t in any networks and yet he has a thriving practice. So I cancelled Ameritas (angrily, I admit) and discovered my Humana Medicare covers dental work—why I didn’t know that all along is another puzzle. But the final blow came today when I was told that with any Medicare policy, I have to pay the full amount up front, and they will reimburse me when the insurance pays. The system is beyond me, but I admit to a few unladylike phrases today (not in the dentist’s office, however).

On to the trees: For years I’ve worried about two tall, beautiful oaks that grow at the edge of our driveway, close to the house. They provide wonderful shade for the house in summer. Over the years (maybe as much as a hundred) they have broken and pushed up the concrete of the driveway so navigating it is a real challenge. I knew it would have to be addressed one day. When an arborist surveyed our trees, he suggested replacing the concrete with gravel so the tree roots could breathe. A good friend who has a masonry company offered to pull up the concrete, but the owner of our lawn service threw in a monkey wrench by asking, “What if the concrete is holding the trees up and they fall over?” (One would for sure take out my cottage and me if I were in it.) The arborist said that almost surely wouldn’t happen (no guarantees), but he wanted to treat the trees first to strengthen them. For a couple of weeks I’ve been trying to coordinate arborist, mason, and the lawn service guy. And I’ve been worrying about trees falling over. Was it safe for me to stay in the cottage while the concrete came up? Finally, it was all set for four o’clock Thursday; then it changed to 1:45. And then, today, Wednesday, the concrete crew showed up unexpectedly. Good that it cut down the time for me to be anxious. All went smoothly, the trees are still standing, and the broken concrete is gone.

Tomorrow, there is nothing on my schedule except work at my desk. Nothing, I hope, that I must survive. Color me thankful that these two days are behind me, my eyes are okay, my teeth are clean, the broken concrete is gone, and the trees are fine. God is good..

Tree hugging on Valentine’s Day

 

 

Chinese pistache when new.
In the background to the left, you can see
the large trees that line the driveweay

I think that I shall never see

a poem lovely as a tree.

“Trees,” by Joyce Kilmer

I admit it—I’m a tree hugger. But when you buy an older house, as I did thirty years ago, you don’t (or I didn’t) take the trees into consideration. Our house had a huge, old elm at the curbside by the driveway, a beautiful graceful tree that served as a signpost for telling visitors where we lived. I always had the fanciful notion that the tree anchored the house to the property; without it, the house might float away into space. I could not imagine losing that tree.

But the house was a hundred years old two years ago, so the tree probably was the same age. It had begun almost twenty years ago to drop an occasional limb. Once I came home late at night from a trip only to find the entire front yard covered by a huge fallen branch. Another time, it dropped a long skinny branch that had been dangling right alongside the curb. Christian worried about parking his car beneath it, though he loved the shade. We all worried about a branch falling on a schoolchild—the house is across the street from Lily B. Clayton Elementary School and watching children come and go is one of our extra delights.

There came the day that the city tree crew informed me the tree was rotten inside and hollow. Because it was in the boulevard between street and sidewalk, it is legally the city’s tree, and they said it had to come down. Jordan took pictures of the demolition, but I hid in my cottage not wanting to watch. With Christian’s help, we replaced it with a Chinese pistache—it’s a pretty tree, doing pretty well now and supposed to have brilliant colors in the fall (taking into account this is Texas and we don’t get a lot of fall color). The pistache will never be as tall and majestic as the late elm, but it is a tree, and I am grateful.

The house boasts two remaining large trees on the edge of the driveway, equally as tall as the elm we lost. They are sort of squeezed between the house and the driveway—perhaps, when planted, no one expect them to grow so big or the house to last so long. But they are a problem—they have pushed the driveway concrete up until only the hardiest of souls will attempt my driveway, and that’s a problem because people drive all the way back to the cottage to pick me up. For several years now, I have worried about what to do with these trees. They shade the house from summer heat, and I know that we need more trees to fight pollution—we surely don’t need to be cutting them down thoughtlessly.

When we had all the trees trimmed last month, I asked the arborist, and he recommended jackhammering up the concrete and replacing it with decomposed granite. I happen to have a good friend who is a mason, and he said he and his crew could get rid of the broken concrete, but he wanted to meet with the lawn guy about the granite. We met yesterday, and ideas went back and forth, with John, my trusted yard guy, recommending tearing up the old concrete and laying new. That didn’t sound right to me, but they assured me the trees would be fine. And so we left it.

This morning I called the arborist, and he said no concrete. A porous material so the roots can breathe, which makes a lot more sense to a tree hugger like me. So we still haven’t worked it out completely, but what I thought would be a simple thing has turned out to be complicated. And it’s once again on hold until I get everyone on the same page. I think Mark, the mason, is more comfortable with my return to my original plan; Jordan is not, because she’s looking at the convenience of using the driveway and appearance. I’m looking at saving the trees. The appearance of the driveway is second to me. The permanence of concrete is part of my hesitation. I figure if the granite doesn’t work out, we can go to Plan B. John seemed to say the granite might be all right for ten years. I reminded him I am eighty-five!

Stay tuned for updates, but my final word is that older houses always bring new problems. That said, I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.

Happy Valentines Day! As I write, I am waiting for the Burtons to come out. I understand we’re having steak and salad for dinner, having abandoned the idea of smashed potatoes to accompany. I’ve made a new Caesar dressing, which is a bastardization and I’m not sure about it, but I have house-made croutons and mini-ice cream cones for dessert.

Fall leaves—and, “Say what?”

 

After the sudden, dramatic drop in temperatures overnight, today was beautiful in North Texas. It seems two things happened overnight with our trees—some decided to shed all their leaves almost at once, while others suddenly burst into color that would rival the best New England has to offer (well, maybe). I sometimes go two or three days without seeing the front of our house, so I was astounded today to see that the new Chinese pistache is a brilliant red gold, while the oak towering behind it is a deep, rich red. Wish I’d taken a picture. Meanwhile, my patio is literally ankle-deep in pecan fronds—that’s right, not individual leaves but fronds. The patio was blown clear twice yesterday and this morning it was covered again.

A bookstore sandwich board photographed in an online newsletter this morning referred to this as the season when we transition from spooky anxiety to festive anxiety. I really liked that.

Today I have named myself the unofficial poster child for hearing aids. I had an overdue appointment with Tracy, the audiologist at TCU’s Miller Speech and Hearing Clinic. She tested my hearing, though she didn’t say much about the results, and I suspect there’s little change in the two years since I last saw her. What she did say, and has said countless times before, is that it’s important that I wear my hearing aids even when I’m alone and not listening to anything. My brain needs to adjust to using them. If I take them off, say after supper, my brain shrugs and says, “What’s the use of trying?” A hearing challenge is not just an auditory problem—it involves brain function, and everyone reacts differently.

We talked about things and situations that make hearing difficult—no louder is not better. And yes, sometimes, I can hear words distinctly but not comprehend them. That too is a matter of brain function. I think maybe she was trying tactfully to say something about slowing down with aging, but I told her it’s not any worse now than it was seven years ago when I first saw her. I don’t have an exact figure, but I suspect I’ve worn aids for twenty years or more.

I asked about the new ruling that lets companies sell aids over the counter, and she compared those to readers. If you need just a little help, they’re great; if your hearing loss leans toward major, you need more sophisticated—and expensive—devices. And if you have problems with your devices—like a tinny sound—an audiologist can often adjust them to meet your needs. I mentioned that one of mine keeps falling out of my ear—she not only said she’d noticed that, she adjusted it.

About fifteen percent of Americans (some 37 million of us) suffer some degree of hearing loss. It can be sudden or slow in developing, temporary or permanent. Mine developed because of a combination hormonal therapy—I saw note of a study that determined it in the paper one morning and was the first to tell my doctor. He confirmed it by reading medical journals.

Too many people refuse to get hearing aids. You know them--they say they can hear fine, thank you very much, or it’s too expensive and their insurance won’t cover up. Or it’s too complicated and they couldn’t manage adjusting them, cleaning them, etc. Speak up, they tell you, and stop mumbling. It’s puzzling but many people stubbornly resist the idea of hearing aids when they have no qualms about wearing eyeglasses. I think it’s ego driven, maybe associating hearing loss with aging, but it’s a dangerous denial (and some two or three of every hundred children have hearing loss to some degree, so it’s not for the elderly alone). The biggest complication of untreated hearing loss is social isolation which can, especially in the elderly, lead to depression, anxiety, and dementia. Seems logical that lack of social stimulation opens the gate for those problems. Too many who can’t hear sit back, withdraw, and end up not participating in the world around them. What begins as slow mental deterioration accelerates without stimulation. Statistics tell us untreated hearing loss is also related to cardiovascular disease, diabetes, even stroke.

For the last six years, since surgery necessitated that I use a walker, I’ been an advocate of mobility devices, especially for those of us who are aging—cane, walker, transport chair, scooter. Use those things. To walk without balance is to risk falling. And one bad fall can tip an older person down that slippery slope to invalid status or worse. I’m also an advocate of alarm devices—a watch a pendant, whatever—for those who live alone. So now I’m adding hearing aids. When, if ever, did you have your hearing tested?

You don’t want to go into this festive season saying, “Pardon me?” every time someone wishes you “Happy Holidays”

 

 

Things I wish were different

 

A Chinese pistache tree

It was a picture of a painted bunting that started me on this train of thought. The beautiful little bird had landed on someone’s bird feeder, and they, struck by their good luck, got a good picture of it. And suddenly, there I was, thinking about the things in my life that I wished were different.

No, my wishes don’t involve riches or great wealth, homes in Santa Fe and Scotland, servants to cook my meals and clean my house every day, and certainly not the huge house I once, as the mother of four, dreamed about. Today, my wishes are much more modest. But they are also, I realize, things of the past—bits of knowledge and habits that I wish I had cultivated years ago. It is now too late.

I have long wished I was knowledgeable about trees and birds. Oh, I can recognize an oak, even a post oak, or a pecan. But there’s a tree trying to grow out of the fence behind my cottage—and I would have called it a catalpa. But those are the things from back home in Illinois that grew long “cigarettes” that we pretended to smoke as children. Lots of leaves on one stem. A mimosa? When Christian said he wanted a Chinese pistache, I had no idea what he was talking about. I envy those people who can look at a tree, tell me what it is, what’s wrong with it or not.

Similarly, I wish I knew more about plants. My dad spent his weekends on his hands and knees, wearing grubby clothes with huge, ugly rubber pads wrapped around his knees to protect them. We owned the lot next to our house, and it was Dad’s garden—the place where he could unwind, let go, dig in the dirt, and be perfectly happy. He was the president of an osteopathic college, but he didn’t care one whit if a student came by and caught him in gardening clothes.

Me? I can barely tell a hosta from a hydrangea, though Christian has done much to educate me. Oh yeah, I recognize pansies and petunias, roses and geraniums, and I  once was sharp about recognizing poison ivy, but bougainvillea were a whole new experience for me. I’m learning, but not at a fast enough rate. And now that a challenge to my mobility keeps me from gardening, it seems a bit pointless. Oh, who am I fooling? I never much wanted to garden. I dabbled in it, but I am perfectly content these days to pay for a lawn and garden service. What I really want is a classic English garden replacing our front lawn where grass is always a problem—good some years, a disaster other years. Don’t tell me it’s Texas and too dry—I saw a picture today of a Fort Worth acquaintance’s garden--a lovely, wild English garden in front of his house--and I burned with jealousy. But I can’t do the work, I doubt the lawn service would do it, and Christian is wedded to the idea of a conventional lawn. I’m at least hoping to get him, one year soon, to consider clover because it’s cheap, lasts a long time, and is better for the environment—doesn’t require so much water.

And then there are the birds. I sit at my desk in the early morning or twilight, listen to them sing, and wish that I could link the song to a specific bird, but it’s beyond me. I can recognize bluejays (love when they visit) and cardinals—we have a pair that live in our yard, though I haven’t seen them yet this year. But I know the saying that when they do visit it means someone from beyond is thinking of you and I always think it's my parents.

At one point, a friend gave me, at my request, a guide to birds that I kept by my kitchen sink, back when I was in the house and had a greenhouse window over the sink and a bird feeder right outside. But I was never good at spotting birds—eventually the tree that held the feeder had to be cut down, and I moved from the main house to the cottage. We have hung hummingbird feeders out here, but to no avail. If my dad was the gardener, my mom was the bird person. She had a bird feeder right outside the dining room window in their retirement home, and I sat in the window many a time watching the hummingbirds whir and fight and eat.

But when I think about these things, I remind myself to think about the things I am passionate (and knowledgeable) about—books and reading and publishing and cooking, politics with a humanitarian slant, religion though I tend to keep quiet about that. In listing the things I regret, I am by no means complaining. I have too much in life to be grateful for. It’s just that sometimes I notice the things that have slipped by me.

Want to talk about the mystery genre and the various subgenres? I can probably hold my own in that conversation.

 

Indignation over a tree

            The landmark that distinguishes my house is a wonderful old elm tree in front. The house was built in 1922, and I suspect the elm dates back that far. For twenty-five years, I have lived in feat that a Texas storm would bring it crashing down. Part of the fear, of course, was that it would land on my roof, but the greater fear was losing the tree. It somehow gives majesty to the property; without it, my house would be bare, exposed, just sitting there. A couple of years ago, I asked the city to check some dead branches at the top—it’s their tree, since it’s in the boulevard. The forester who came out said the dead was because trees were stressed by the drought we’d been having, but the tree was healthy. When I said I was so afraid he’d say it had to come down, he said, “No ma’am. We’re in the business of saving trees, not cutting them down.”

So today comes a letter from someone working with city planning. They want to install a ramp on my property and establish a new crossover to the school across the street. The letter writer said they would take out my “struggling” tree and replace it with a young tree of my choice. I’m afraid my answer was a bit sarcastic, but I was insulted by his use of struggling. I pointed out that losing the tree would diminish my property values, and no young tree will grow to that majestic height during my lifetime. I’m sorry, but what dolt wrote that letter? I told him firmly no and do not expect the matter to be pursued. There is a ramp and a crossing with a guard half a block down, and folks can use it. As for the planning person, he should talk to the forestry department.

This plays into my current concern about trees. I edit our neighborhood newsletter and am grateful to Linda Simmons, who advocates the city’s tree replacement program and has done an article about the importance of trees to a neighborhood. This flies in the face of our Texas governor who wants to pass some silly law permitting cities to cut down trees willy-nilly. I’m not a fan of the governor—that probably goes without saying—but this vendetta about trees is ridiculous. He was crippled by a tree falling on him, sued whoever (the city of Austin?), and received a settlement that apparently set him up for life (he has since pushed legislation which limits the amount of liability settlements). Then he tangled with the city over a huge old tree that stood where he wanted to build his house, as I hear the story, and he lost. So he’s angry at trees, and apparently not educated enough to recognize their aesthetic value nor environmental purpose. My Austin kids had a tree literally growing into their house—when they remodeled, the contractor cut it down, without a permit, and got a fine. But nobody hates trees because of that. What a petty world Texas government is. Yes, I am sorry about the governor’s injury, but I don’t think he’s handled any of this with grace.

Lovely unexpected rain tonight. I went in the house for happy hour with friends. Coming out, poor Jordan and friend Marge tried valiantly to help me walk, carry my wine, and hold an umbrella. No small trick. Such good girls.

When you live alone, you are innovative about meals. I particularly like a brand of marinated tuna, Tonnino’s—in olive oil and oregano. Found it in the store today, so tonight I cooked some orzo and added green peas and leftover corn at the last minute. Drained it, and stirred in tuna with some of its oil. So good. I had doubts about the corn with tuna, but it was great. One more leftover banished!

A light bulb goes on in my head

An absolutely gorgeous day--sunny, just the right temperature, little wind. I spent most of it inside but went out to the deck tonight with Sophie,, a glass of wine, and a good book (Sarah Gruen's At the Edge of the Water). My house is surrounded by old, tall trees--yes a worry, especially during storms--but so wonderful to sit and contemplate. When Sophie lay still by me, I thought about how lucky I am--but then she got anxious for her evening treat.
A day spent at home alone is a good time for introspection, and this afternoon a light bulb came on in my head--well, rather two. As some of you know, I've been having what I call a rough patch with my two longtime friends, anxiety and balance. It dawned on me tonight that I see those increasing difficulties as signs of aging--and I'm not read to age yet. I guess I always hear time's winged chariot at my back...but I'm not ready to acknowledge it. And hiding at home, fearing to go out, is a great way to welcome aging. The physical therapist talks about challenge, and I'm going to challenge myself more. In spite of all my fears, I've always come out smelling like a rose. I saw a picture of a woman in her nineties doing yoga--well I may not do that, but I don't have to give in to age even though I'm on the downward side of my seventies.
The other light bulb had to do with the fact that I've now mapped out my literary life for the next year at least--Desperate for Death should come out this week, I've set the wheels rolling to self-publish my Chicago historical in the fall, so that gives me two books for the year--a reasonable number to keep my name in front of my small buy loyal following.
And Murder at the Mansion waits for me to edit. I've not been in a hurry to get back to it, because I don't want it out before late winter/early spring 2016. But maybe I'll change that, might even look for a new publisher instead of self-publishing. And there's always the sequel to The Perfect Coed to finish. I've been acting like I'm at loose ends--which doesn't sit well with me--and I'm going to get over that and fill my desk with projects. Maybe I should try short stories again.
Will these two light bulbs bring instant change? I doubt it. I think it's a long road, but I'm on my way. One thing physical therapy has taught me that helps with the aging thing--I didn't realize I was shuffling like an old lady, and now I'm very conscious of bending my knees and lifting my feet well off the floor. It's those little changes.
Now, back to that book.