And I'm just thinking

It's funny, you know, that I have a blog. Three of them, actually. Funny because I am a private person. I refuse to go on Facebook or Twitter or whatever else.

But blogs are public, you say. Yes, they are. But these blogs of mine are a) read by very few; b) not often plumbing the depths of my thoughts, let alone divulging secrets. We all have them, you know.

So why do I write them?

Well, it's kind of like a journal. Kind of.
Kind of keeping in touch. Kind of, although I am not sure with whom. I know most of my children don't read them. I've mentioned that before; maybe that means it bothers me. Maybe not.

I used to tell my students they should write with an audience in mind. I still believe that's true. Everything written is meant to be read. Otherwise it's like writing in a vacuum. Notice, I didn't say a particular audience, although that's okay, too, thinking of someone specific. But even if your audience has no name, if you think someone will read what you write, you might write it better or clearer or even with some flair. You might.

I will never forget the story of the Russian sailor who wrote what he could in the dark, not sure anyone would ever see it. They were trapped in a submarine on the ocean floor. And they died there.

Russian submarine K-141 Kursk - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

But he wrote. He said "I am writing blindly," yet something in him simply required that he write.

What is very interesting to me is that he didn't write his fear, though you might think he would. Perhaps he knew that to write his fear would be a waste of what few moments he had. He wrote of the 23 other men trapped in the compartment with him. Their names.

And he wrote his love.

And his words got out. To his wife, who, I am sure, thanked God that her husband wrote them.

Nothing unusual

I have a cold. It has kept me home, which is not all bad. When I'm home I don't spend money.

But the cold is. All bad.

For two days I sounded fine, although my eyes were burning and my nose running. But this morning it went down to my voice, as usually happens, and I sound like Marlene Dietrich, without the accent, although I could imitate her German accent if you wanted me to.

Neither here nor there. It's the cold I'm concentrating on, you know, and on how to rid myself of it. I've had quite enough of zinc lozenges to last me a good long time, thank you very much. I've taken Airborne and EmergenC, slept more than I normally do. I even had to stay home from the temple today.

Here's how it it. As I was fixing my lunch today, my nose dripped onto my sweat shirt. This is not something I enjoy, but at least it didn't drip-drop into my tuna.

Good I live alone or I might have been embarrassed.

As it is, I'm just waiting and hoping tomorrow will be a better day.

Back in Pennsylvania, the dad has pink eye and sore throat; the middle brother has ear ache; the youngest brother, who had pink eye last week, is apparently fine; the mom is over her cold, and the baby is perfect.

Home Again, Home Again*

I hear the mourning dove out there, and I know why he's mourning. It's 22 degrees! On this third day of Spring, it's 22 degrees. (NOTE: I have been corrected. It was 22 degrees early morning, but dropped to 19 by the time I first posted this blog. I do want to be accurate.)

Sun is shining, just to fool us, I think, because you can go out there and stand in the sunshine and freeze your little self.

Just home from Pennsylvania, I expected warmer weather here. But no. Just about the same as it was there, only colder. In that state I heard the same moaning and griping as I hear--and do--in Boise. "Enough, already, with this winter." Or "I'm sick of this. Will it never end?" I heard the weather report this morning, and the guy said, "This time of year, it's hard to get a whole week of nice weather." Oh, really.

So be it. I guess I'll be wearing a scarf again and a warm coat to go to the Philharmonic tonight. At least yesterday's wind has gone somewhere else. Of course, it could come back in a flash. That's the nature of wind.

Just so you know, I have a gorgeous little granddaughter, Willamina May Darrington, born March 14, the day I arrived in Pennsylvania. Timely and considerate, I say, because it gave me a whole week to know her and visit with her no-longer-pregnant mother.

You know, it's always good to be home again, but I miss her, little Mina May. I told her mom that when you hold a baby and look at her you get to thinking she belongs to you. And she does, of course, in the grand picture, but I mean it feels like she's really yours. She looks like one of yours, feels familiar. It's quite a lovely thing. Then you have to leave and know she won't remember you and you'll never forget her.

Do I have pictures? you ask. Only 117, 85 on my phone, the rest on my camera. 

Yes, of course, I also love and miss her three big brothers and her mom and dad. Just a fine family. Thanks to Charlie for giving me his bed, to John for reading his book--I Broke My Trunk--to me, to Edmund for his thought-provoking and often stunning remarks, for snuggling up and playing borley, borley with me. Thanks to Ann and Jeremy for their conscientious good lives, for the pleasant atmosphere of their home.

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* from the little rhyme my mother taught me. Do you know it? Well here's what I remember.
To market, to market, to buy a fat pig.
Home again, home again jiggity jig.
To market, to market to buy a fat hog.
Home again, home again, jiggity jog.
To market, to market, to buy a plum bun.
Home again, home again, marketing's done.

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P.S. The wind came back.

Laundry

Just now I folded the towels still warm from the dryer, and I slipped the cold-weather socks on my feet. Felt good.

I always think of my mother when I fold bath towels (and pillow cases) because she taught me how to do it when I was a little girl. I don't know how old I was--maybe close to 20--when I learned that her way was not the only way, not THE only right way, a shocking revelation. And I'm not kidding. I put a lot of stock in whatever my mother said and did. She was very smart.

I still fold pillow cases as she taught me. I refuse to do them any other way. But the big towels fit in my cupboard better if I fold them another way, not hers. I suppose that's why she folded them as she did--so they would fit in her cupboard.

But here's the thing. It's hard for me to do it. Something in me says I should be folding them the way my mother showed me.

When I fold bedding, I think of my friend (suffering now from dementia or Alzheimer's, whichever). Many years ago, she taught me her way of folding fitted sheets. That's how I do it to this day, and I always think of her. Often I wish she were here with me, to help me do it just right.

Besides, I have never liked folding laundry alone. I think it is best done with a friend or family member. Don't you?

The other day as I folded my sheets--alone, of course--I wondered if my friend remembers how to fold sheets at all.

Possibly.
Possibly not.
I do wonder.

I'd like to know

What, exactly, is the fake owl supposed to do? I have moved mine from the railing around the front porch, where it has sat and fallen and been blown from, for several years.

Did it frighten the squirrels? I should say not.

The flickers? The crows? The cats? Raccoons? No.

I moved it because I wondered if it did scare away the finches that used to nest in my Christmas wreath. But it has been years since they came, and I'm sure they have found other places to live. They don't care that I miss them..

So I believe the finches won't be coming back, but I have left the wreath up, just in case.

About the owl: I have put it on the deck in the back, but I have left it down on the floor. I suppose I'll have to get out there and stick it up on the railing, tie it to the post, and hope it stays. Its head moves and bobbles, you know. Is that scary to any animal? Apparently not.

It, the head, also comes off and has done so many times, which maybe frightened my granddaughter the first time she saw it. But her I want to come around.

You Won't Believe This, But It's True

I just found the sticky note the guy left on my front door a few years ago after spraying the trees. Actually, it was 1996. That's a few years ago and then some.

But here's why I have kept the note all these years:

Spayed trees four insests

No kidding.