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.

Icebound Day 5

Yesterday, mail. Today, the Sunday paper. Tonight, dinner at a restaurant, but oh my was it an ordeal to get there. Jordan insisted I couldn't drive and what would I do if I had a wreck at the bottom of the ill where it's still icy. I said I'd call neighbor Jay and see if he and his big truck were going to be home. I called, and he said he'd come walk me from house to car. Jordan backed the car out to the side steps to the porch, and then made me demonstrate how I'd get there.
Trickiest part was getting across the porch, which still has a huge patch of ice, but I had a plan. I used a porch chair as a walker. Worked great. Steps were clear, and she had put rock salt on the small strip of sidewalk, which is edged by crape myrtles that make hand grips. No problem. But the driveway was a solid chunk of ice, slippery than you can imagine. I simply went from tree to car rand edged my way around the car. Not perfect, but it worked.
Jordan left, threatening to call her siblings.
Jay arrived and we made it to the car, although he told me bluntly if I started to pull him down, he'd let go of me. I did get out my Scottish walking stick with the pointy end but didn't use it much. At the Old Neighborhood Grill I had no choice but to park on ice but, holding on to the car and then grabbing the pole of a handicapped parking sign, I made it. Felt like I'd redeemed myself because between Jordan and Jay I was beginning to feel like an idiot.
Had a nice dinner with friend Mary. Comfort food--meatloaf and mashed potatoes--and good conversation. Jay came a little after 6:30, chatted and had a beer, and then I was on my way home. He taught me a lesson I'd forgotten from my years of living on ice and snow. When you walk on ice, you don't lift your feet--your shuffle, keeping your weight equally balanced on both feet. Drove home with no problems, and Jay followed me into the driveway and made sure I was on dry ground. Three cheers to my handsome neighbor who is truly a good neighbor.
Tomorrow, the world. I have so many errands to run. We have a plan--Jordan will drive my car to the backyard, where the snow is melted, and I'll go in and out the back door. Yippee! I can do those errands that have been bugging me! Yes, I'll be careful but I always am. The problem is really a north-facing house and a driveway shaded by trees. Maybe it will melt by tomorrow.
I am really tired of staying home, and while it may be a character flaw, I'm tired of my own company. It was a joy to be among friends tonight.

Talking to Yourself

A recent thread on the Sisters in Crime list was sparked by a study announcing that women speak about 20,000 words a day, while men speak only a paltry 10,000. The implications for women writers were many—if we write all day and don’t speak those words to people, then we should be able to write a book in, say, a week and a half (not guaranteeing the quality of the manuscript)—thereby far outdistancing our male rivals, if that’s what they are. But the one idea that got me the most was a comment that it is hard to spend all day alone, with no one to talk to, as many writers do. Writing is essentially a solitary experience. The writer said she used to call her widowed brother in the late morning, and he would have to clear his throat because he hadn’t yet spoken to anyone that day. As a writer who lives alone, I identify with that.

Usually, during the week, I have lunch and/or dinner engagements with friends, and on school days, I have Jacob bounding in for a snack and homework. Then his mom comes to pick him up, and I get to visit with her. But on weekends, I often spend long days talking to no other human except perhaps a grocery-store clerk. And I admit it often makes for blue, introspective days.

I have plenty to do—always. Writing projects, marketing, all the things that go with being a writer plus bills, e-mail, Facebook, all the things that go with living in todays  world and keeping a house and a life going. And in advance of every weekend, I tell myself I have lots to read. But I miss the human interaction that energizes me. And in truth all I can think is, “How much worse would it be if I didn’t write? If I didn’t have that to keep me busy?” I can’t imagine it.

The writer cited above did say it’s perfectly acceptable to talk to animals, and I surely was relieved to hear that. I talk to my dog all the time—and she talks back though unfortunately I don’t speak her language. She’s so expressive! I am desperate to know what she means and wants. When she was a pup, I hired a trainer who came to the house. He helped a lot, but he also told me not to talk to my dog unless I was giving a command. Well, I just couldn’t do that. I have a dog for companionship, and I am by golly going to talk to her.  I aim long monologues at her, particularly when we sit on the floor together just before she goes to bed.  I do think she may lose patience when I sing “Good Night, Irene” as I put her in her crate—where, by the by, she goes willingly for the night. It’s her safe place. And it makes me stop singing.

Aside from talking to the dog, one of my tricks for brightening the weekend is to invite company for Sunday supper. But this Sunday everyone wants to watch the Oscars, which bore me, so that doesn’t work. I am going to make a huge pot of Bolognese spaghetti sauce—if I freeze it, so be it. I’ll have a good supper Sunday night—and curl up with all those cooking magazines that arrived yesterday and I haven’t read yet.

How about you? Do you relish solitary days or find them a bit uncomfortable?

My surreal day

What an odd day. Mondays are always long and hard for me, because I rarely have anything on my calendar--just a desk full of work. So I stay home, alone except for Sophie, with my face in the computer screen. I'm a person who thrives on other people, so much as I love working I like the break of lunch or dinner with a friend, even errands.
This morning I dallied--email, Facebook, a couple of blogs, anything to put off working. Then I did my yoga routine, made the bed, tidied the kitchen (which doesn't get messy with one person eating cottage cheese--one small dish, one coffee cup) and marched into the office. Don't get me wrong--I get wrapped up in what I'm writing and carried away with it and time passes, in spite of the late-morning grumbling of my stomach which would prefer lunch at, say, ten-thirty. At eleven-thirty I fixed my lunch, did some household stuff, and went back to the desk.
It wasn't as though I was without human companionship all day. By three I had Jacob in hand, and at his insistence we reworked two puzzles we'd already done. He is good with spatial relationships--whizzes through his math homework, and that trait shows in working the puzzles. Granted, we'd already done both of them, but he was off on his own, putting things together. I'm afraid he still doesn't get the straight edge concept--he prefers to work by picture, choosing today to begin with the zebra in the jungle scene. He also doesn't quite understand about looking to see if not only pieces but the picture fits. But he put a lot together and was delighted with himself, crowing, "I am so good!"
As he was leaving with his dad for a baseball game, Elizabeth came in for supper. I'd experimented and made her a gluten-free meat loaf, substituting potato flakes (long in the cupboard, purchased for one recipe, and then left for me to wonder what to do with them) for bread crumbs, threw in an egg plus some tapioca to bind it (a trick my mom taught me) and seasoned it with red wine and thyme. We agreed it was pretty darn good. A bit salty.
But al the time I was doing all this I had the subconsciious feeling that I was dealing with my long day alone--and that's what made my day surreal. It was like there were two of me--one functioning on one level and another struggling to function on a different level.
Sophie however continues to be a joy and a source of amusement, though today I had a fright. I know full well she will bolt out the front door if she gets a chance, and I'm paranoid about someone opening the door when she has the run of the house. Today, after lunch, I brought her in, put the leash on her so I could catch her for our nap, and headed back to my office. Saw the postal carrier coming up the walk and threw open the door in a neighborly gesture forgetting all about the dog--Sophie darted between my legs but fortunately she didn't want to go any farther than to greet the woman, and I was able to step on her leash. The lady was nice about it, even the jumping, and we had a chat about Bordoodles.
Sophie's newest trick: when I open the back door and ask if she wants to come in, she simply stares at me. So I say, "Okay, bye," and close the door--and she bolts for it. At sixteen months, she's still ornery, msichievous puppy.