Solitude

Solitude is great. Writers are supposed to like solitude, and I enjoy my quiet space as much as anyone. I like sitting at my desk early in the morning, reading email and Facebook and that skinny thing they call the daily newspaper. I don't want anyone around, except Sophie who sleeps in the chair across from my desk. And at night, I like that last little bit of quiet, again at my desk, sometimes checking Facebook, often reading a book--when I've given up work for the day. Today I was even impatient for Jacob's dad to come get him because I wanted to fix my supper and write. And I can't write with people in the house, though Lord knows I did for years.
But I can't live with solid solitude (forgive the weak attempt at alliteration). I need people around me. The other day, Jordan had a hard day, and she stood in the kitchen, pouring us a happy hour glass, while Jacob chased Sophie (or the other way around) through the house, frequently careening through my narrow kitchen. "They're going to trip you," she said, and then a few minutes later, "I don't know how you stand it." I told her it took me back to the days when she was a toddler with three not-much-older siblings. Happy hour was then called "the fussing hour." They were hungry, they were tired, and they screamed. My house was always filled with people--screaming babies, invited guests for supper, unexpected guests, I didn't care. I loved it.
I like the balance I have now. Some days it's fairly quiet around here. Other days, you might drop in and suddenly find others dropping in, and there's a spontaneous party.
People ask me when I'm going to think about assisted living, but it's a thought I put out of my mind. I love my home. I love the fact that next week one night my oldest son and his family will be here overnight. They'll have another family with them, and we'll put them in the guest house--Jordan and I have already put clean linen on the beds, and I have a care package of toilet paper, plastic cups, Kleenex, and Lysol wipes ready to go (the latter at Jordan's insistence--wouldn't have occurred to me).
In a one-bedroom assisted living apartment, I wouldn't have all these people around me. I wouldn't be able to cook dinner for six or eight, which I do most weekends. I would grow old--quickly. Let's see--if you happen by this weekend, the menus is a big pot of cheeseburger soup; next weekend I think it will be chicken enchiladas. And tomorrow I'm going to cook dinner halibut Florentine for my "solitude" . I'd never do those things in assisted living.
Give me solitude in measured doses, please.

Aging--cats and dogs and me

Wywy, my 18-year-old cat, is getting fat again--well, at least he's gaining weight. He had lost weight, and the vet was worried about him though convinced he's not diabetic. I've started mixing just a bit of seafood cat  foot into his kidney diet, and he eats all the time. He's in amazing shape for his age. I feed him on a fairly high cabinet in the bathroom, so the dog won't get his food. There's a seat halfway up, and Wywy jumps up on the seat and then waits patiently for me to lift him the rest of the way up. But I know during the night and other times I'm not there, he gets up on his own. My friend Betty's daughter, Stephanie, had to put one of her cats down yesterday, and my neighbor Susan had to do it today, so I'm aware of age and consequences in my animals But right now Wywy is peacefully curled on my desk, sound asleep.
Scooby, my dog, is also aging, though I don't think he knows it. He's eleven, which is getting on in years for a mid-size dog, but he's still lively, too excitable, and happy with his world. I do notice one of his back legs gives out on him occasionally, and the other day I caught him lazing in the sun watching a squirrel cross the yard. In his best days, Scooby would have chased that squirrel with amazing vigor. He used to lie at the gate and wait for me to come home; when he saw the car, he'd jump up and run after a squirrel, perhaps imaginary, as if to say, "Look, Mom, I'm doing my job." These days, he likes nothing better than his bed, which is right by my bed.
I'm aware and mentally preparing for the fact I may lose both of my animals about the same time. But right now they are such a part of the fabric of my life, I can't imagine it. I don't know if I'll get another cat--Wywy is part Maine coon, which accounts for his sweet disposition, and I am tempted by the thought of a full-blood Maine coon. But I know I will always have a dog, probably from the humane society. Colin and I have a pact: if I get to the point I have to move somewhere and can't take a dog, Colin will adopt the dog.
At lunch today, Jean said she heard me say the other night at dinner that I was liable to lose them both about the same time, and she asked if I was thinking of moving. It was like a bolt out of the blue. No! I love my house, my furniture, my neighbors, my routine--there's not one thought in my head of moving. I use every room in my house plus my guest apt., and I can't imagine giving up any space nor any of my antiques. I imagine the day will come, but I'm sure not thinking about it now. The mere mention of a retirement home gives me the chills, and I haven't seen one that I'd like to live in. The very thought makes me feel old--and I'm not.
Betty and I had supper at a local wine cafe tonight. I ordered the tuna sliders and almost laughed when the server asked, "You do know they're seared Ahi tuna, don't you?" I assured her I did. As she left, Betty said "I bet some people order that expecting tuna salad." Surely not--this is a place that draws a fairly sophisticated clientele, so there I go worrying about age again. Did she think I was an old lady who might now want raw tuna?
I need a haircut--I'm shaggy and really overdue. Maybe with a smart new haircut, I'll get over this fear of people thinking I'm ready for assisted living and not ready to eat seared tuna. It was, by the by, delicious, served on baguettes with a slaw strongly flavored with horseradish.