December 31, 2013

Well, I'm doing it. Or the guy out there in my garage is doing it--installing the humidifier onto my heating system. Dan promised me--twice--it will work, that is, put moisture into the air in my house, and I will be satisfied. Or he'll refund my money.

I am hopeful.

On this last day of 2013 I give thanks for my family, and I pray for their good health and happy welfare in 2014. Mine, too.

Post Yule Post

Today I have stayed in. Well, I have stayed home. Several trips into the garage and several outside to get Christmas things packed away or taken out with the trash were sufficient to show me, Baby, it's cold outside.

But I'm getting better. I'll have the guy come on Monday and give me the estimate for installing a humidifier to the heating/cooling system. I am dry inside and out, my skin, my nose, my ears, my mouth. And I have been recipient of many unasked-for shocks. Sarah, of Sarah and Darron, who stayed here Monday, complained of the dry air. And Lola also mentioned it on Christmas day, and I'm wondering how much the dry air in here contributes to my respiratory unease.

My neighbors--the deer neighbors--have a hot tub now and have been out there today and I believe last night, too. I hear them talking, hear their music, and today, as I walked back from taking my tree to the curb, I saw them. Happy for them. They are a good couple, and I am sure they will enjoy their hot tub all this winter. But I have never been interested in such an activity. Not sure why. Maybe it would be good for my membranes. Know what I mean?

And what else would you like to know? That my house is filled with candy and cookies and other sweets? I am not eating it. Well, not much of it.

Well . . .

• And finally, I think, my neighbor said the deer did get caught on the fence and probably slipped on the driveway, too. 

• The man who "harvested" it was a relative. 

•  It was the police who came and shot it; they informed Pam and Terry that it is legal and permissible to harvest such an animal. 

•  The relative is very happy to get the meat. It's like a Christmas present.
• Any questions?

Chapter 2

About 25 years ago, I read The Man Who Killed the Deer by Frank Waters. This is nothing like that. Well, I suppose the big guy with the gun could have been a Pueblo Indian. I suppose he could have had great reverence for the life of the animal. It didn't appear so to me. And obviously he did not need the meat for his family. He left the animal lying dead in my neighbor's yard.

Whatever. This chapter is not about that anyway. It's about what happened next.

After an hour or so, I looked out front to see if the deer was still in my neighbor's front yard. My neighbor, Terry, and some man I had never seen were walking toward the deer. The man began dragging the deer across the yard, followed by Terry. He dragged it through the front yard to the back yard, across the back yard out into the pasture, and across the pasture to the small barn/shed. All the while, Dash, my neighbor's dog, was following with great interest.

What was this guy going to do with the dead deer? Skin it? Eat it? Eating it seemed a remote possibility, although I don't know why. That's what hunters do. They shoot the deer, then prepare it so they can eat the meat.

Well, it was out of sight. I could try to think of something else. I did hear noises from out there, like a chain saw. You didn't want to know that part. But I thought the deer story was over.

Wrong.

After another half hour or so, I looked out my kitchen window and saw Dash running across the back yard carrying the deer's head in his mouth. Terry saw it, too, and came out. He spoke to Dash and the dog dropped the head. Terry picked it up and headed toward the pasture with Dash chasing after him and jumping up to capture the deer's head again. Once he grabbed it with his teeth, but Terry got it back and held it up higher.

Terry took the head out to the shed, and just then the guy I had never seen before yesterday walked across the pasture with two black trash bags full of what I can only think were deer parts and innards.

 That is all I know. Probably more than you wanted to know. But I just wanted to finish the thing.

Excitement in the neighborhood

Like the next door neighborhood.

I had just sat down by the fire to read when I heard what sounded like gunfire. Was it my chimney popping after so long with no use? Pretty loud for that.

Then I heard it again. Still, I thought it unlikely that someone would be firing a gun right here in this quiet southeast Boise community. At the third shot I was up and out my front door. Two uniformed men, one holding what looked like a rifle, sort of, were in my neighbor's yard, looking at an animal in the snow. Clearly, whatever it was, the one officer had shot it.

"Is that a raccoon?" I asked. "No," said the smaller officer, the one without the gun, "it's a deer."

Sad, I thought. Out loud I said, "Too bad it's not a raccoon."

The smaller man said, speaking to the other officer, "It's still breathing. But it's bleeding out of its eye."

"Are my neighbors not home?"

"They're home," said the big guy.

"Is this why their dog has been barking so much?"

"I wouldn't know," he said, a bit rudely.

I figured the deer was injured or they wouldn't have shot it. We have deer in the yards from time to time without incident, so I said, "Okay, I have just one more question. Why did you shoot it?"

The smaller man answered, "Because its intestines were hanging out, and one of its front legs is broken."

Just then my neighbor came into his yard, but I don't think the officers saw him.

"Ma'am," said the big guy, "you'd better go in the house now. I'm going to shoot it one more time, and I don't want you over here."

You know how it is, some people you like immediately, and some you don't. Him I didn't.

I didn't move, because I was on my own porch. And I don't like being told what to do, especially on my own property, and especially by people I don't think I like very much. Under my breath I muttered, "Are you going to aim it at me?"

"Go in the house now, ma'am."

I went in, and he fired another shot.

All is quiet out there now. No one is in the yard, except the dead deer, lying crumpled in the snow by my neighbor's front fence. I wonder whose job it is remove the dead deer. And when.

And, speaking of the non-essential

Sometimes I go to Curves. Like today, I'm going to insist to myself that I go.

Anyway, the music to which we move and jiggle and stretch just now is Christmas music . . . with a beat, of course, to help us keep a certain aerobic pace, you know. Some of it I find offensive, trivializing what to me is sacred. But there you go. Are you with me?

The other day We Three Kings of Orient Are was playing, and, speaking of trivializing, I sang the following words, somewhat under my breath, as I stretched:

We three kings of orient are
Tried to smoke a rubber cigar.
It was loaded.
It exploded,
Blowing us all afar.
Oh . . .

The owner of the Curves was close by and listening, apparently, and said she had never heard those words.

Really? I thought. Is she too young? In her late 40s or early 50s. Or is it that she comes from small town New York? Whatever.

We used to sing those words when we were kids, not all the time, of course, but sometimes. I know Wayne sang them. I know my brother Sterling sang them. And you?

Holy Cow, not literally

Our church building flooded. A pipe broke, and water flooded the Relief Society room, all the overflow areas--which used to be the cultural hall--and the chapel. Wow. 

We will have our Christmas Party Saturday night as scheduled, but at the Stake Center on Warm Springs Avenue.

Our Sunday meetings, that is, meeting, will be at the Broadway Building. We normally meet at 9 a.m. and finish at noon but will go at 1:30 p.m. instead. Only Sacrament meeting. I wonder about choir practice, and I wonder if our building will be suitable for the next Sunday.

This may not be of general interest, but it marks a FIRST for me in my whole life of going to church, rain, snow, heat, or whatever. 

Snow

We have it. Beautiful, powdery, kind of deep. Hard to drive through, but I have done it. (Had an appointment for tithing settlement.) I shoveled a path for my car and cleared my walk. It was hard work. And it was still snowing. You know what that means. But later, someone came and cleared the driveway entirely and redid my path. Oh, JOY!

I don't know who did it, but whoever it was did a bang-up job.

By the way, speaking of cliches (as in bang-up), every weather reporter I have heard this last week, reporting of the winter that has hit this country so hard, has used the phrase, "the white stuff." Every single one. Ugh. Is it so wrong simply to repeat the word "snow"?

Dash, my next door neighbor's black pup, was out playing in the snow this morning. Fun to watch him. But I haven't seen a single squirrel all day. They were here yesterday. Where do they go when it snows?

By the way again, I am truly thankful for the snow. I know we need its saving moisture. I do pray for safety--for me, my family, all who must drive in it this winter.

Randomish

Last week, on the window of a hair salon, I saw this sign:  BIG IS BACK!

Right. Today I saw two women who believe it. I'm talking BIG HAIR.
So start watching for it.

 *     *     *

Can you tell me how my house increased in value by $40,000 since last year? I mean, my house did not get a year newer, you know.

So my property taxes went up by $800. I am assessed $4,049, due December 20. I'm mad. So I called and have an appointment with the appraiser Tuesday. She'll come and actually look at the house and measure, as if that will do me any good.

*     *     *

I have a resident squirrel. He hangs out in my back yard. You may know I don't like squirrels, but a) I don't have the heart to kill one, and b) he is kind of fun to watch. No. I don't spend much time at it. I have a life.

*     *     *

Visited my friend yesterday, my friend who has Alzheimer's Disease. I have written about it at some length in my journal. Maybe I'll post some of it on The Widow's Chronicle. Maybe. It makes me cry to see her. But I'm glad I went.

*     *     *

I am thankful for my children. I bet they don't know how much I love them.

And their children.

 

How fast the mind works

Lots of pain in my left hip/lower back. Months. So yesterday I went to the pain clinic for a shot in the left lower back. See if I could get some relief.

Lying on the treatment table, face down, face in a donut pillow, in fact, I could not see the dr or his lovely assistant. But I could hear them.

The assistant pulled my pants and undergarments down, revealing about half--upper half--of my buttocks, and the dr began immediately to speak. He said, "That looks like . . . " I assumed he was speaking to me or about me and something he was seeing there might be important, so I listened carefully.

". . . the lady from Montana . . . " I thought Wow! What?! Weird.

". . . sitting out in the waiting room."

I know, it's not much, but it's on my mind

Not so many years ago there was this certain idea that pretty much was accepted as a universal truth. It was that the east is better in every way than the west. We here in the west endured plenty of ridicule from those folks living in the east. The great, grand, smart, cultured, wonderful, we-know-everything and we-have-everything EAST.

You poor backward, ignorant, un-everything important people who live in the west just don't know, they would say. Just don't know much. You don't have the important artists and writers and newspapers (not many folks care about a newspaper these days, by the way) and orchestras and history, that we have in the east.

Well, I never accepted that. Hmph, I always thought, "those eastern snobs."

And now for proof of their wrongheadedness, I say consider this. My daughter, who grew up in the west but now lives in the east, cannot buy a can of diced green chiles in your great eastern supermarkets. You probably don't even know what diced green chiles are.

There. I think that settles it.

Oh yeah, it all has to be memorized

I sing with the Boise Choristers. I don't want to guess at the average age of the women, but it would be kind of high. That's okay. I know that. Besides, I'm one of the old ones.

But it's not as fun or--can't think of the word--as I thought it would be. I've stopped being green-eyes critical of the director, although I would do things differently. And I like most of the music (working on Christmas now). So what's the big deal?

1. I sing 2nd alto. I can do it, and that's what they need, so I am doing it. But it's not me. I grew up a soprano, mezzo soprano, actually. So some of where we sing is uncomfortable for me--you know, my middle range--and F below middle C is pushing it.
2. We have to learn the choreography for the Sugar Plum song. My instruction time is next Monday. Okay. I will hold my mind at least half open.
3. We have to wear the official costume. I now have it--someone's from some other year. I have to pay $50 to use it. I'm not crazy about the outfit: red turtle neck, black vest (WHY?), black pants with tuxedo stripe sewn down the side seams. Long dark blue dress with some kind of scarf in the front. No, we don't wear the dress at the same time as the red and black outfit.
4. It costs $25 dues for half of the year.
5. The woman I sing next to is a fine musician, but she sings flat. That's hard.
6. I hear a lot of things the director doesn't, apparently. Some I mention, Most I don't.
7. We have a long Christmas program at Centennial High School, not for the school, but in that school's  auditorium on Friday, the 13th of December. Did I want to do something else that day? Maybe.
8. We also have eight, so far, other singing engagements here and there throughout the city in December. Am I not busy enough at Christmas time? 
9. Wait a minute. I just read the thing again. That's 11 or 12, two of them outside the hockey game on the 7th and 11th. I don't even like hockey.
10. Long program. Lots of music.

That's only ten reasons. On the other hand, that's 10 reasons.

I have said--to myself--"I said I'd do it, so I will. But after Christmas I'll probably quit."

Check with me then.

Is this a saga?

When I told my neighbor I killed the snake--She's the one who said, "Oh. We love the snakes." And so on.--she said, "Don't worry. You'll get more."

Swell.

Yesterday proved her prophecy. I opened my garage door to find a snake, sunning himself on my driveway, very close to sliding under my garage door and coming inside. He looked like the identical twin of the one I killed, but I suppose all such small snakes look alike. My neighbor's snake-love notwithstanding, I don't want him. I tried to step on him/it, and thought I'd kick him out to the street but only succeeded in chasing him over to my other neighbor's yard. He hid himself in the weedy area right under a pine tree.

He'll be back, I'm sure.

And, actually, he is not the first thing on my mind these days. Just one of the things.

Why?

I killed the snake.

I feel bad about it.

If I could talk to the animals

The tree guys are here. I asked Erik, the boss, if he knew how to get rid of snakes. He said, "Oh, snakes are good. They eat rodents."

Okay. I'll try to be happy. Snakes are probably better than mice. However, a squirrel is a rodent, and I don't like squirrels, and I don't see any decrease the their numbers, which means the snake does not bother the squirrels.

Then Erik asked where the snake's nest is. I showed him the place right near my front step where the snake slips up between the concrete and the siding. He said, "Yes, I see another snake skin here."

So. Does that mean my snake has shed his skin twice? Or does it mean more than one snake? Of course, there's no way to tell how long that other snake skin has been there.

If you're thinking all this is kind of like a nightmare, you are right.

Erik and Daniel suggested that when I see the snake out, I should get that spot calked up. Easy for them to say. And here's what I thought:

• I do not stand around waiting to see the snake.
• If I did, he wouldn't come out.
• I don't do calking.

Just then my neighbor Pam came over. I told her about the snake and what Erik had said. He smiled. She said, "We have a lot of snakes. They come up from the canal back there. My husband loves the snakes. He protects them." Erik looked happy. He had been validated.

Then my neighbor said, "I fed the raccoons over the weekend."

I said, "What? How?" And, of course, why? But I didn't say it.

"We were gone all weekend," she said, "and we took Dash with us [their dog]. I left his little place open. There was food in there. When we got home we found things tipped over and all the food gone."

Swell. So now the raccoons have been fed and encouraged, and they don't need any encouragement. I'd better keep an eye out for them again. 

And this means that while a dog may scare a raccoon, if it's big enough --at least that's what I heard-- obviously the scent of dog doesn't. Ron, my neighbor across the street, says, "I told her [Michelle, the new neighbor] to keep her dog inside because a raccoon will kill that little dog. Any dog isn't safe because a dog will stick its nose right in and the raccoon will scratch its eyes out."

That is scary and leads me to ask, "What kind of a place is this? It also leads me to think it might be a good thing if the raccoons were here when the phantom dog poops on my lawn. But then I'd have a real mess to clean up.

Yes, It's a Lovely Day, Sort of

It's a beautiful day, so at around 4:30 this afternoon I went outside to have a little walk. However, I was greeted by an unpleasant pile of dog excrement in my front yard and had to clean that up. I do not know what to do about that. It's certainly not the first time.

Any suggestions?

I thought about posting a sign out there:  

PLEASE DO NOT LET YOUR DOG 

USE MY LAWN AS HIS TOILET. 

IF I SEE HIM, I WILL SHOOT HIM. 

OR HER. 

Of course, I won't do that. And, of course, I don't own a gun.

I was also greeted by the snake who lives here and could not--again--manage to send it flying somewhere. (I didn't have my broom with which to sweep it away.) Here is my question: Can snakes hear? I don't see any ears, but that snake hears me coming. Ground vibrations?

I do not like sharing my home with snakes. When the thing has babies what shall I do? Help!

P.S. Later in the evening I discovered, near my front door, the empty snake skin "my" snake had wriggled out of and discarded. Does that mean he's getting bigger? Truly, I do not like this.

Have a date

Dates. The kind you eat. Or at least I eat them. I like dates and bought a container of Medjool dates at Costco this week. They were grown in the Coachella Valley of California. I liked that. I've been to Coachella. It's desert, which seems right. Folks have been growing dates there for more than 100 years.

Medjool dates are large, larger than the kind I grew up eating. I just went online to find out about kinds of dates and found 22 varieties. I think--but how can I ever know for sure?--the dates we ate were Sari dates.  Dates are good for you. Full of potassium and naturally sweet, they have been designated by the USDA as a Super Food.

My mother and father loved dates. I believe I can say that. Or else my mother knew my dad loved them and so we had dates in the house.

At Christmastime, my mother would make fondant, pit dates, and stuff them with her fondant. She would put a pecan half on some and leave it off of some. This is a fond memory for me, my mother's stuffed dates. I certainly ate them, but I liked dates just as much without fondant. I love that I can remember that time and what my mother would make at Christmastime. Stuffed dates, divinity, fudge, spiced cider, carrot pudding boiled in a Crisco can. And so on.

By the way, I took about half of the Medjool dates over to my daughter's house. The two boys who were there only hesitated a moment before trying one. The older boy--he's 18--asked if they were plums or prunes. No, I said. Were they some kind of raisin? No. They are dates. They grow on palm trees.

So it is clear I have given him his first date. Don't know if my daughter has tried one yet. No matter.

Dates. The kind you eat. Or at least I eat them. I like dates and bought a container of Medjool dates

And so

As I recall, Matthew Arnold advocated the examined life. So do I . . . truly, I do. I have always been one to look beneath the surface to find meaning. I do not recall what he said about examining it in public or in a journal others might one day read. The idea of an audience is always in my mind as I write. That's as I write anything. Because, as I taught my students, all writing is written to be read. The idea of audience helps and sometimes hinders, as the preceding remarks indicate.

But this morning I have thought about examining certain of my beliefs. That's because I have been reading Steven C Harper's book on Joseph Smith's first vision, his various reports of it, how they differ, and why. 

Some believers are afraid to look deeply into their beliefs for fear of losing their footing, for fear that all they hold sacred or valuable will come crashing down and they will be left floating, turning this way and that for someone to tell them what to think.

I do not like to be told what to think. I don't even like to be told what I ought to think. (Is that the same thing? Maybe.) Anyway, I like to believe I am independent and able to think on my own. This may or may not be true. Just filling space here.

Makes me think of the phone call the other day from Mike, the car salesman who believes that if he keeps calling me and sending me cards in the mail I will buy my next car from him. He is absolutely wrong. In fact, he could not be more wrong. His salesman-like behavior is certain to keep me from calling upon him as my sales guy. If and when I buy a new car.

Yes, it's true. I have come far afield from what I started to write about. So be it. I will get back to it one day because it all involves memory and experience and interpretation, and that, of course, makes me think of my friend with Alzheimer's. I visited her last week. 

See. I have much to write about.

Just one thought to ponder: Some people behave/proceed as if we have all that Joseph Smith ever said or wrote. We don't. On the first vision or any other subject.

 

Blood and stuff

Yesterday I met Cameron. He took my blood at the hospital because two nurses at the dr's office couldn't in four tries. This means a) I'll now be getting a bill from the hospital, about which I'm not happy; and b) I have several little red holes where they tried. You know, they stick the needle in and move it around hunting for a vein. That hurts. But it doesn't hurt them, so they keep it up until they finally give up and say something mildly insulting about the size of my veins.

 One nurse told me, "I think the needle is at the vein but can't go in." I told Cameron about that and said I thought she needed a sharper needle. He said the needle he was holding was the sharpest there is.
 
I had hopes.

Cameron had to search a little, but only stuck one needle in one time. And, behold, there came blood, and he filled three tubes with it. I told him I had great love and admiration for him. I meant it. You try getting stuck with a needle in the crook of your elbow over and over.

Cameron is young, obviously good at his job, and his right arm above the elbow is covered with tattoos. Colorful. And maybe the pride of his young life. I asked him what it was. He lifted his sleeve and showed me the flowers and the words spiraling around his arm. "Live in the moment."

"So you're a carpe diem guy."

"Yeah," he said.

"It's quite beautiful," I said.

"Ya, but it sure did hurt."

"Are you going to keep going? I mean, up your neck and other arm?"

"No. I think I'm done." He pointed to one of the large flowers, chrysanthemum, I believe. Then he said, "I might go back and get this flower colored a little more, to match the rest."

I asked him who did it, because my friend Nancy's son is a tattoo artist. He told me, but it wasn't the Payne kid--who's not a kid anymore.

He said, "A good artist, tattoo artist, can make a lot of money. A lot."

"Well, how much did your tattoo cost?"

"It was $110 . . ." I thought that sounded like a lot of money. Then he said,  "An hour." I was dealing with that when 
he said, "And this took about eight hours."

"Cameron!"

Now. Do I need to say that I don't like tattoos? Well, I don't like them. But I liked Cameron.


Addendum: I've just been told by members of my family that the Payne kid, whose name they remembered but which I'll leave out here, is a VERY popular tattoo artist and has a long waiting list. So he must be getting rich.

Today's WikiHow

How to Look Older

Do I need to say anything?

This and that

• We had our regular Thursday night storm last night. This one less severe. I opened the bedroom window and fell asleep to the song of crickets and of rain hitting the concrete path. Can't top that.

• No raccoons this morning. Two women with their big dogs met me at that corner. One dog wanted to greet me personally, if you know what I mean. But I actually was glad to see the dogs. I believe raccoons are afraid of them.

• Yesterday I heard Willamina laugh and laugh and laugh out loud. Over the phone, of course. But it was a bunch of fun, I say. Edmund would laugh and then Mina would laugh and sometimes could hardly control herself. Then Ann would laugh and I would laugh. Can't top that either.

Why are they here?

Four of them. And they were big. Yes, I'm talking about raccoons again, the ones I saw this morning as I walked.  They were on the lawn beyond the "wild" area, having a casual breakfast in the early morning dark. They scare me, by the way.

These were big. Did I say that? Four big raccoons.

Okay. They were not in my yard, but too close for my comfort. The wild area is across the street from the back of Albertson's, behind MacDonald's. That is close to my house, in case you didn't know. 

I suppose it is not right to hate raccoons. I suppose.

Oh Brother, Now What?

So John  has sold his gold 2005 Acura to his son-in-law for $12,000. Wow. They bought a new GMC big thing so they can carry lots of grandchildren and pull their boat. The dealer offered them $11,200 and a few days later upped it a thousand dollars, said his Acura wouldn't stay long on their lot; they could sell it in five minutes for $14,000.

But he sold it to his son-in-law.

I am stunned, not so much about the money, but because he said he was going to keep that car. Period. That Acura. 

It's like mine only gold. And so now I am a little confused, having made up my mind to keep my car and then hearing what he has done. No. I don't want a huge car like that. But I keep thinking of the RDX and Garret tells me I should get one. He and Marilyn love theirs. 

Oh man, this is perplexing to me. I mean, I do have a mind of my own. It's just that I always want a new car. Well, almost always. But I love my car. 

See? Perplexing. I need to stop thinking about it.

So. I'm talking about it.

But only briefly.

Nick and Carleton are here working on my yard--mowing, trimming, putting down a fungicide and a weed and feed. And so forth.

We shall see. The last guy, with 30 years experience and promises up the yin yang, cost me plenty and made nothing good happen. Only bad.

Yes, we shall see. The immediate difference is that I like these two guys. Yes, I'll have to pay. It's only money. Wait, didn't I say last week "It's only a lawn"?

My Lawn

You should see it. Well, no, you shouldn't.

I don't want to talk about it.

Hooray! It's Done

And the final check is in the mail.

Lots of dread, lots of figuring what I would, should, could say. Tell him about the repairs to the sprinklers, what that cost, mention I have not been happy about the riding mower. But I didn't say those things. Here's how it went. No big deal, you say. Easy for you to say, I say.

I called him.
Rudy: Hello.
Me: Rudy?
R: Yes.
Me: This is Carol Schiess.
R: Oh, hi.
Me: Rudy, I owe you $60 for August. I'm going to mail a check to you for that amount, and then I don't need you to come anymore.
R: (Silence. Like a stunned silence.)
Me: (Silence. Nothing more needed to be said. Not even tempted to explain.)
R: (Finally) Oh.

I said thank you and he said thank you and neither one of us meant it, I believe.


Todd did come last night. Fixed and replaced and took care of things. I told him how much it meant to me to have someone like him that I can count on and I can trust. And he just never charges me very much.

Now I have to get someone else to mow the lawn.

The Season of Fire

Our sky is the color of smoke. It's hard to see the nearby foothills and Table Rock, impossible to see the mountains behind them.

Fires raging just beyond those Boise Mountains--or probably in them, just beyond where I can see. We have them every summer, but this summer is worse because it is drier.

Yes, I'm a woman alone

I have to fire Rudy. I don't know how I'm going to do it yet, but I have to.

Todd is coming over Monday night to fix, I hope, the several sprinklers Rudy has run over and demolished with his riding mower which he insists on using here, even though my yard is not suited for it. I think he just gets on that thing and rides. Without looking.

The sprinklers need to work right. You know? Fixing/replacing them is not free. And then there are the deep gouges his big heavy tires leave in the ground, and they can't be fixed.

I'm also convinced--right or wrong--that he is largely responsible for my lawns looking so BAD.

I hate situations like this. I don't want to be rude to Rudy. (No pun intended.) But neither do I want to fuss and stew in my house and raise my blood pressure every week when he mows.

Of birds

Sparrows are quick. I mean it doesn't take them long to get a family going. I've got babies and busy sparrow parents up on my deck again in that little birdhouse Paul built. That's twice so far this summer.

*     *     *

Two days in a row I've seen gold finches at the feeder in front of my living room windows. I am happy about it.

*     *     *

I was standing in the garage, about to get in my car yesterday, when a hummingbird flew in. Wow. He headed straight for the bright red plastic handle on the manual door release, thinking it a sweet treat. I suppose I was no more disappointed than he when he found out what it really was and turned right around and flew out.

You Try It

I took Peter's birthday present up to Brae Mere, left it with Paul, and stopped at DK Donuts on the way home. It's been years, YEARS, I tell you, since I've been there. The story below is probably why I decided I could have a glazed buttermilk bar today.

 
Elisabeth watches TV. Daytime. It's not a crime; it's just the back story. She's Dutch. So is Toos.

Toos and I visited Elisabeth today, and she told us about what the doctor said. "Dr Oz?" asked Toos. "No. Another doctor who came on his show," explained Elisabeth ("with a s," she says).  Elisabeth's accent is very thick. But that's irrelevant.

What this doctor says is that we--I guess that means all of us--should eat nothing after 3 p.m. 

"Then what?" I asked. 
"Drink water," said Elisabeth. "Then you--[meaning we]--will lose weight." And I said, "I might lose my mind, too."

Toos said, "That's what we had to do during the war (WWII). We had no food, so we drank a lot of water." I was thinking, "Yes, but the war is over" when Toos said, "The war is over." Then she said, "I cannot go to bed hungry. I just can't."

I ate the buttermilk bar right around 3 p.m. and am considering calling it a day, so to speak, for eating. You know, just to see. Yes, we shall see.

Later:
It occurs to me, at 5:20 p.m., (and it may be obvious why) that this kind of regimen does not make good sense. I mean are we really to go from 3 in the afternoon until the morning, like 7 or even 8, without food? Every day? And then, the question arises, when do we begin eating? Is it 7 or 8 or is it 5 or 6? And how much do we shove in before 3 pops up again?

Who is this doctor, anyway?

Today's WikiHow, or Funny How Annoying a Phone Book Can Be

How to Train for Ripping a Phone Book in Half

Believe me, I'm tempted to do the training, especially now, after having handed Paul his new directory and having brought my own into my house and set it on the kitchen table.

The thing/book is smaller, but that's not better. It's thicker, seems heavier, and the print is tinier, getting harder for me to read. And that's not all the fault of my eyes. I mean, we're talking small.

Paul knew what to do with his immediately. He dropped it in the recycle bin. Mine is still on the table. But, since I have none of the above training, I believe I'll just plop mine into the blue bin, too.

Thin skin

There is this spot on my forehead, right next to where I had the last surgery for skin cancer. I mean very close to it, so close that Steve, the PA, said to Kareen, "This may be a recurrence." To which I replied, "Yes, I thought the same thing. So should I sue?" They laughed, of course.

This was today. Because I called early this a.m. to see if I could get in to see Dr Burr (you know, he calls me kid), thinking that this spot on my forehead was suspicious--cancer or precancer--because it has been there for three+ weeks. Dr Burr is in Canada, fishing, but they could get me in to see Steve Frelli, the Physician's Assistant. I took it, even though I was supposed to meet the Curves rebels for lunch at the very same time. I call them rebels because they quit Curves because our owner is kind of a talk police person and because the place is austere.

Steve told me, because I asked, that his dad changed the name when he came to this country from Frelliaski (I am not sure of the spelling), which is Polish, to Frelli.

Do you understand that I had never met Steve before? I hope you do.

He's a toucher. He touched my arm and a bit later kind of tickled my shoulder. Then he left the room. When he came back in to do the biopsy, he patted my bare leg (I was wearing capri pants).

I said, "Steve, I do not want to offend you." He said, "Go ahead. I'm not easily offended." I knew he had no idea what I was about to say. I said, "No, I do not want to offend you, but would you please not pat me?"

Could have knocked him over with one finger. He turned red, said, "Oh."

I said, "See, you are offended. I'm sorry."

"No," he said. "I'm just a touchy person. I won't pat you."

"Thanks."

He said, "When you grow up to be 6'3" and have red hair [before he went bald, of course] you don't get offended."

Then I told him about my six-year-old redheaded grandson. That helped.

Back to my head. He did a biopsy because he thinks it's cancer. I hope he's wrong, but I think he's right.

I'm kind of bummed about it.

What do you think of this?

In the book Stealing Glances: Three Interviews with Wallace Stegner by James R. Hepworth, Wallace described his wife as central to his life and success.

"She has had no role in my life except to keep me sane, fed, housed, amused, and protected from unwanted telephone calls, also to restrain me fairly frequently from making a horse's ass of myself in public, to force me to attend to books and ideas from which she knows I will learn something, also to mend my wounds when I am misused by the world, to implant ideas in my head and stir the soil around them, to keep me from falling into a comfortable torpor, to agitate my sleeping hours with problems that I would not otherwise attend to; also to remind me constatnly (not by precept but by example) how fortunate I have been to live for fifty-three years with a woman that bright, alert, charming, and supportive."

I am awe-struck by this statement, and envious, too. And just so you know, Wallace Stegner said this of his wife, Mary, during her lifetime. Of course, he could not say it after her death. She outlived him by 19 years, dying at age 99.

I have probably written here before of Wallace Stegner. I loved him, love his novels and appreciate his non-fiction writing, all of which I find instructive and spell-binding. I don't have to agree 100% with his political views to appreciate him. His death in 1993, soon after a terrible automobile accident, left me sad and sorry. 

If you have never read Angle of Repose, his Pulitzer Prize winner, read it. Then you could read Crossing to Safety; All the Little Live Things; Spectator Bird; Big Rock Candy Mountain. And so on. But if you read only one of his novels, make it Angle of Repose.

Just Thinking

I once heard an interview with Tim O'Brien, veteran of the Vietnam War and author of The Things They Carried.  He was at My Lai the year after the massacre in 1968. He said they did not know what had happened there and wondered why it was such a hostile place.
 

Anyway, the interviewer asked what I think was a question she had not given much thought to. "Why do you always write about the past?" O'Brien said, politely, "Because that's where the stories are." He didn't then say, "Duh." But he could have. 

Or he could have said, "Because I don't write science fiction," which is what I think you do when you write about the future. Certainly fiction. But even so, I insist that any writer--that's any writer--draws upon what he knows from the past, whether it's his own experience or something he knows very well. We can make up stories, but we always draw from the bank of memory. (Is that a cliche?) 

And how about writing the present? 

Can't be done, strictly speaking, because as soon a thing happens, it's past; you can't get it on paper before it's the past. So there.

Of cars and my car and does this mean I need a new one?

Okay. About my car. It starts.

AAA guy said something is draining on the battery. Firestone said it's a new battery. (Duh.) Their diagnostic said everything's perfect. But I can hardly believe that. After all. The thing would not start. I couldn't even use my remote to unlock the door.

I went over to ask my neighbor Ron what he thought. He who spent a good hour last May helping me without success, when this happened before. My neighbor Ron said a bunch of things, but when he said, "Do you have anything plugged in to a power outlet?"

Ding dong. Hello.

I have always left my phone charger plugged in. It is now unplugged. And I hope to goodness that makes everything perfect, indeed.

Guess I'll find out the next time I go away for a few days and leave my car behind, which will be mid-September.

Song of the Day

Today's music in my head, I Stand All Amazed, a hymn about the Savior.

Yesterday's, Honesty, by Billy Joel. He laments:
Honesty is such a lonely word.
Everyone is so untrue.
Honesty is hardly ever heard,
Mostly what I need from you.

And both songs have had sway in my head through the day.

Is there some reason I wake with songs running around my brain? Not that it's like a plague or anything like.

Brush your teeth.

Salt and soda on my toothbrush this morning. Haven't done that in decades, but it came to me in the night that salt and soda might help my teeth feel less scummy. And it did. Not the most pleasant of tastes, but it's not as if you can't rinse your mouth.

Salt and soda. Learned from my dad and mom. I recall we used it when we ran out of tooth paste or tooth powder. Tooth powder, what my dad preferred, I believe. Can you even buy such a thing anymore? Don't know. Haven't tried.

Mostly I use Tom's. No saccharine or formaldehyde, as in most other toothpastes. And it comes with baking soda in it, if you choose that kind. You can get it with whitener or fluoride (which has now found disfavor with the experts) with or without propolys and myrrh, or with tartar control; in spearmint, cinnamon, or, my preference, peppermint.

But today I needed to get down to basics. Salt and soda.

Who really knows?

I ask my roofer if the new roof will keep the raccoons away. Half joking, you know. He says, "Well, maybe you need to get somebody up there and spray some more stuff."

That is what I was thinking, wondering if he'd like to do it.

"Or," he continues, "you should spread more of that granular stuff around the yard."

"That stuff is about worthless," I say.  "Doesn't even keep the squirrels away."

Then my roofer says his older brother says, "You gotta trap the raccoon. That's the only way to get rid of him."

Didn't Rudy put a trap in my yard for a week? Yes. Didn't it fail to catch anything? Yes.  It was a stupid-looking trap, I must say.

Didn't I see the great big happy raccoon right outside my writing room window after that? Again, yes, indeed.

I don't say these things to my roofer. I just look at him. Maybe my face says something, like, "Right, I'm going to buy a trap, set it, and handle the thing after the raccoon is caught, if that ever happens. And if all that, then what?" Maybe my face says that. It could have.

Then he says, "Of course, you catch one and another one probably shows up."

Right.

Wow!

It's done. My roof. And I picked the right color shingles. I'm pretty sure I picked the right people to do the job, too.

When Craig said it would take two days, I thought, "Yeah, sure." Everyone else had said five to seven days. But they showed up Wednesday and stripped the old off, laid down the felt paper (I know. I already wrote this part.), took July 4th off, and came back today to finish the job. There were six of them, five roofers and their nephew, Carlson, the gopher. And they got it done in less than five hours.

They also installed four new vents, repaired the areas the raccoon had destroyed, and painted the tall pipe over the garage. All vents are now brown. They fixed the places that had leaked into the garage with flashing.

So far I'm happy. You should see my roof. It looks good.

Moving Forward

Got home a little before noon to find my roof is gone, the white felt paper up, the guys about to leave and haul away the old.

I cried. I think it's because I'm happy, relieved.

Craig has done, so far, all that he said he would do and when. He even removed the old defunct satellite dish. Friday they'll come and put the shingles on. Hooray!

Now he has told me something I already knew.

"You might want to think about painting the house. But if you do, wait until October, after the hot weather so the painters don't damage the roof." This walking on the roof when the temperature is high we have talked about before.

Paint the house. And what would that cost?

Oh well. I maybe don't have to think about that right now.

Maybe.

Today's WikiHow

Who thinks of these things?

How to Make a Small Bag from a Tube Container

 

"If you have a plastic tube container with a lovely design on it, rather than tossing it away when the contents are used up, consider turning it into a dainty bag. This easy repurposing project produces a delightful tiny bag for holding a treasure or a small coin, or it could be used for a doll or for display."

 

I am not going to do it. Not because I don't have a plastic tube container with a lovely design on it. I haven't checked on that. I probably have such. But I'm not doing it.

You go ahead.

Are you kidding me?

Ordinarily I'd put this kind of post on my Lotta Torres blog, but this has really got me, so here it is.

The Obama family's trip to Africa is costing us, the US, that's us, between $60 and $100 MILLION. That's American dollars. So, let's say it may be costing about $98 MILLION. Wow! Brother! And other expressions of shock and dismay.

He's been to his ancestral home, been to the prison where Mandela spent so many years. And so on and so forth. I am positive they--he and his family and I don't know how many others are traveling with them--are having a wonderful time. But from what I've read, many Africans are disenchanted with King Barack because, for one thing, he has not followed up on the generous and helpful HIV/AIDS program started by President Bush--the guy we're all supposed to be ashamed of.

But all this and the much more I haven't mentioned seems beside the point in my thinking.

The point for me is closer to Of what benefit to us, to me, is this extended and extensive and expensive family vacation for the Obamas? Why should we be happy about it? Why should we be glad to pay for it? Why is it costing so much money? No need to mention what else $100 million might be spent for.

It really bothers me. You could tell.

So?

Yes, of course I want to write something profound, some smart idea with good words to express it. This daily recounting of my activities is superficial and tedious. To write and to read.

But here's what's wrong.  To write deep thoughts requires deep thinking. I'm not up for it. Obviously.

So we get instead a report of how hot it is at 8:38 p.m.--102 degrees. Or what I had for dinner. Or that I'm tired after a long day.

Hence my title.