tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-295697682024-03-14T03:20:16.900-07:00THE DUST WILL WAITWriting gives me another <br>
excuse not to clean house.Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05404943895800549273noreply@blogger.comBlogger892125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29569768.post-67299076591449466932022-12-07T08:53:00.003-08:002022-12-07T09:07:09.344-08:00I Can Almost Smell itEarly this moring I got a Sn@pch@t from my 13 year old granddaughter. A short video panarama of the students and the classroom in one of her 8th grade subjects.
In that moment I regressed sixty years to the little rural six room school I attended.
The chalk odor greeted my nose at the front entrance. The hallway seemed dark and wide from my childish perspective.
The steam radiators clanked and hissed throughout the winter days. Sometimes wet gloves were set on them to dry, which reminded me of wet dog as the wool singed from the heat.
What we called 'the cloackroom' was a large open ended closet that contained hooks for coats and a built in bench. As there was no cafeteria, the large closet also held our lunch boxes. So by the late afternoon the over-ripe banana peels and the left over peanut butter sandwiches were in a winning battle to offend the nostrils. I don't even need to mention the stinky boots and wet socks. But hey!
The windows were push up to open. And, when spring arrived we were ready for some fresh air. The teacher needed someone with brute strength for the first attempt. The previous summer's paint job combined with the wood swell from the constant chill and rain made the windows a pièce de résistance. (Heck, I know that isn't the proper use of that french phrase, but perhaps for a window it was memorable accomplishment.)
According to my GQQGling skills, "scientists think memory and odor are closely linked" because of the limbic system. (Yeah, I'll let you look that one up yourself.)
Anyway, as we age we think about the smells and associated memories less often. So, that when it DOES happen it is very vivid. And this morning, it was.
I told my granddaughter, "I can alsmost smell it."
Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05404943895800549273noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29569768.post-56351387806422697242022-04-03T21:01:00.001-07:002022-04-03T21:03:53.141-07:00The Bean<br /><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaymt890Y_1vgaG-dHx7d7UZw-YIICUCxfCFuJZET8rUHlWsLiT4ALsW95Nzg8M-rpt15khNdx7YQAmNzEhABGVNCfBA-kjpoGFgzmbf-tn3os4BZXO4eATRh0AU3VNcJY_inJixQ4XGzsI_Krc8ytzz4f-yViDKGXbyklRe1h5N-ZnmOjpsk/s4032/20220403_182236%20(002).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaymt890Y_1vgaG-dHx7d7UZw-YIICUCxfCFuJZET8rUHlWsLiT4ALsW95Nzg8M-rpt15khNdx7YQAmNzEhABGVNCfBA-kjpoGFgzmbf-tn3os4BZXO4eATRh0AU3VNcJY_inJixQ4XGzsI_Krc8ytzz4f-yViDKGXbyklRe1h5N-ZnmOjpsk/w300-h400/20220403_182236%20(002).jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>We have a new cat. She belonged to our granddaughter who moved away. Now she belongs to us. Or we belong to her.<div><br /></div><div>Our first worry was that she would pee in our house. She hasn't. There were three dogs in the other home that makes us believe Bean had dog anxiety. Her litter box is used and refreshed daily.</div><div><br /></div><div>The second worry was that she would not be happy as an indoor cat. She is? She has enjoyed the view of the back yard from her cat tree and has figured out how to access every window sill in the house. (We have no plans to let her out where she would encounter one of the feral cats that recently bullied their way into our neighborhood. Oh! That's another post story, for sure!)</div><div><br /></div><div>The final worry was that we might not be able to adjust to another pet. .... crickets......</div><div><br /></div><div>Well here's the deal. Bean is part Siamese. All the bad parts.</div><div><br /></div><div>For instance -- last night. Bedtime.</div><div><br /></div><div>We crawl into bed. Yawn. </div><div><br /></div><div>Bean climbs (not the first time) to the shelf above the mirror on my dresser. She knocks everything off in domino effect until she reaches the opposite end. By then the bedside lamp is on and I see her batting the closest picture to a sideways tilt as she tries to knock it down. </div><div><br /></div><div>"BEAN!" we yell.</div><div><br /></div><div>The hubby jumps out of bed and steps quickly through the obstacle course to reach up and remove her. Once he sets her squirmy body on the floor she rockets out of the bedroom and down the hall to the kitchen. We look at each other with 'rolly' eyes. He begins to pick up the mess. As I close the door I could hear her crunching on the dry cat food from her cat dish.</div><div><br /></div><div>Awww.... but she heard me shut the door. Her sleek and graceful appearance is an illusion. She sounds like a buffalo stampede as she parkours through the living room, down the hall, and ends with a thunk near our door. She's been evicted from our room and knows the drill. </div><div><br /></div><div>I swear she is now in retaliation mode. </div><div><br /></div><div>We hear noises from the hallway bathroom. Clunk. The air freshener from the top of the toilet tank. Plunk. The foaming soap dispenser. Must have landed in the sink. A few more bings and bangs.</div><div><br /></div><div>Arising once more, I sneak out the bedroom door. Flick the bathroom light. There she sits. Nonchalantly. Meeting my accusing glare with innocent blue eyes.</div><div><br /></div><div>I backed out of the room and through my bedroom door. Daresay, I was worried about the rest of the house.</div><div><br /></div><div>As soon as I opened the bedroom door this morning she was ready. Bean raced into the room and up on my dresser and on to the high shelf. Flick! Flick! Flick!</div><div><br /></div><div>"BEAN!" I yelled. She jumped down.</div><div><br /></div><div>I followed her out to the living room where everything looked surprisingly in order. I sat down in my rocker knowing the hubby was on to the coffee maker.</div><div><br /></div><div>Bean immediately knocked my eye drops off the counter. My response was to jump up and retrieve the bottle. Her answer was to jump into the rocker to stretch out across the seat I had barely exited. </div><div><br /></div><div>And smile. I swear she did.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAdwbWRZERHzDFY8n7FrXXegtIeGPp63ZbStiVPTYJyG2MOHL9fiNHAOUAaNivU8GO8kZgZi05oGAig7Jos7rihPJRJmY6BGsm-yp-jhxMe7nXjnzu4nslPE52G7bcSJ27Tzegj0n5NilKyzx-0h7PH9hKRJ864Ag7htl_hbH0vDZOu5qjoSE/s3281/Bean).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3281" data-original-width="2949" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAdwbWRZERHzDFY8n7FrXXegtIeGPp63ZbStiVPTYJyG2MOHL9fiNHAOUAaNivU8GO8kZgZi05oGAig7Jos7rihPJRJmY6BGsm-yp-jhxMe7nXjnzu4nslPE52G7bcSJ27Tzegj0n5NilKyzx-0h7PH9hKRJ864Ag7htl_hbH0vDZOu5qjoSE/w360-h400/Bean).jpg" width="360" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Oh Bean. This is WAR!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05404943895800549273noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29569768.post-77039092578166970442022-01-28T11:41:00.000-08:002022-01-28T11:41:08.184-08:00Bacon Bacon<p> In November I spent several weeks with my daughter after her surgery. </p><p>One evening, 9 year-old grandson Squeak was playing a game on his computer with his best friend Arty. The Covid way - both at their own homes connected live on the internet.</p><p>My daughter and I had enjoyed listening to them joking and giggling while they played. When Arty's mom called him to dinner, Squeak disconnected and walked in to sit with us.</p><p>"Arty's family is vegetarian," my daughter mentioned. "In fact, I think his mom is a vegan!"</p><p>I looked up at her from my Kindle to connect my thoughts.</p><p>"You know," I sighed, "Being a vegetarian is fine. But I could never be a Vegan. Can you imagine never having butter or cheese?"</p><p>"Just nope!." She answered. "Cheese is not negotiable."</p><p>"I could be a vegan, " Squeak announced with some serious head nods. Then he added a clarification.</p><p>"As long as I could eat Bacon!"</p><p><br /></p>Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05404943895800549273noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29569768.post-86814167505687938262022-01-25T15:48:00.000-08:002022-01-28T11:12:24.000-08:00It Was A Spectacle (Then it wasn't)<p> <span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Last week was TRASH your eyewear week!</span></p><div class="cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql o9v6fnle ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Thursday: The Hubby decided to paint the hallway. As he bent over to coat the roller, his readers slid off his head and disappeared into the latex</div></div><div class="cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql o9v6fnle ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Friday: The Hubby was wearing his prescription glasses while he used the skill saw in the garage. A lens just popped right out and onto the bench. When he attempted to pop it back in, he saw the crack in the frame</div></div><div class="cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql o9v6fnle ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Saturday: The Hubby was reading across from me at the kitchen table.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">( which I've confess we share with the cat). I left the room. Whereupon my return I stepped with a huge crunch, barefoot, upon another pair of readers. Which, we presume, was batted effectively off the table by our playful Siamese, Bean.</div></div>Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05404943895800549273noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29569768.post-17143609424997627602022-01-23T10:03:00.002-08:002022-01-28T11:13:49.687-08:00Six Chances and a Bite from an Apple<p>Propped up in bed, 7 a.m. (To me that feels like sleeping in and that I got close to 8 hours of beauty rest. But, that's not where my thoughts should be spinning right now. Damn "SQUIRREL!" inerference.)</p><p>Anyhoo.....</p><p>I grabbed my cell phone and opened FACEBOOK. (Yes, I'm one of those oldies) A friend said she didn't WORDLE. Another SQUIRREL!</p><p>So I searched for it immediately. New Trend, Everybody is doing it. (I mean - like - everybody!)</p><p>The trick would be to read the directions first. Which I didn't. Simply put you have five blank boxes, six lines deep. Six opportunities to guess a five-letter word from no hint whatsoever. You type in a word, hit enter. If a letter is correct it will pop yellow. If correct and in the correct space it will pop green.</p><p>I got three green letters on my very first attempt. I hadn't read the WORDLE instructions so I wasted the next attempt. (That is why cooking in my kitchen is such a recipe for disaster.)</p><p>Long story short? I beat it and now I can't wait until tomorrow.</p><p>Beginner's luck ... or was that just Eve's enticement? (FYI, my Adam told me he wasn't biting.)</p>Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05404943895800549273noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29569768.post-19649134889333221472021-11-27T06:52:00.001-08:002022-01-28T11:14:09.212-08:00Acceptance<p> This morning I was awake early. Too early. </p><p><br /></p><p>I walked into the office where I pushed the wake up button on the computer and waited. Then, when it came to life I clicked on my family tree program. I pulled up my brother's name and wrote in the date of death as November 25, 2021. He is gone. </p><p><br /></p><p>My brother was a warrior through his six plus year fight with terminal cancer. Stage four when diagnosed. Given a much shorter life expectancy than he achieved. There were times when we thought the time was near. Then he would rally and a new chemo treatment would be available to inflate our hopes for a different outcome.</p><p>In all there were seven different protocols that he engaged. There were several that reduced the lesions and granted him some near normal activity. He went on a tour to Ireland early in his treatment plan. Then to Russia. Although the later one came with more difficulty. Still, he enjoyed and claimed the victory.</p><p>Some of the chemotherapy plans worked for a time, then failed. Several didn't help at all. But the last one may have hastened his death. He became ill immediately but suffered the minimum required time before the regular body scan and blood draws. His concerned oncologist suggested the dosage be reduced to let his body recover. But soon the treatment plan was abandoned. His bone marrow was destroyed and he was no longer producing red blood cells. Kidneys failing. From August until the end of October there were blood transfusions to sustain him in hopes there would come a time that his bone marrow would rejuvenate. It didn't. And the transfusions became less effective.</p><p>Knowing that the he was dying probably prepared those who love him. There was no shock. Maybe a moment of relief to know his suffering was over. But a lot of grief knowing that I have to go on living in a world without him. </p><p>He was a wonderful brother. He was a wonderful friend. He was a wonderful human being.</p>Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05404943895800549273noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29569768.post-48145391709049639862021-08-08T08:23:00.010-07:002021-08-08T08:27:42.971-07:00Pills <p> It was 1970 when dad and mom came to visit me in Corrales, NM. I lived in a very old style square adobe house at the edge of the small town.(At the time it was said '1000 people, 2000 dogs, 3000 registered horses.') It was primitive with a breath-taking view of the Sandia Mountains.</p><p><br /></p><p> I saw dad on his knees in the dusty yard. So, I ran out fearing he was having a stroke or heart attack.</p><p><br /></p><p>Instead, I heard him chanting " doodle up, doodle up, doodle up bug,"</p><p>Oh! We shared a rare moment and giggle that day. He had discovered the vortex of an ant- lion... AKA doodle bug.</p><p>The nostalgia washed over me this morning. </p><p> I have not experienced a doodle bug here. But on occasion I do giggle over the usually hidden pill bugs. My grandchildren call them roly- poly.</p><p>No one was here to share the moment. So, lucky you.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyE62Mlf1DWay3jlhP7IzVHEnvCoOwZOXR7eNo66-38w22p-IFDPDs2eJIII3jxZUrKXEj5hn0FPpY' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><p>P.S. I was truly chasing a hummingbird ..so I'm not totally losing focus.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05404943895800549273noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29569768.post-88312171359371452152021-06-18T17:48:00.002-07:002021-06-18T17:48:43.192-07:00Eyedol (aka Idol) Thoughts<p>The Saturday before Memorial Day I woke up early with right eye discomfort and I knew there was a stye forming.</p><p>In the seven decades that I've been alive, I've experienced three styes. So, I knew what it was. I was so damn mad because cataract surgery was scheduled for Tuesday on THAT eye.</p><p>Long story short. Surgery went forward, but it was switched to the left eye. And.....the second eye surgery date was indefinitely postponed.</p><p>The clarity and brightness in my left eye is amazing. Sometimes I sit while opening and closing my eyes alternately just for the show. Bright colors, dingy colors, bright colors, dingy colors. Obviously the last year plus of shut downs has claimed a toll on my entertainment requirements. </p><p>There is more. I can also pretend that I am on a cruise ship suffering from a little sea sickness. Of course there are no ocean views, buffets, nightclubs, or accommodating staff. But there is definitely the woozy swaying from side to side when I walk down the hallway. And I get to sit at the captains table every night.</p><p>I actually drove after dusk the other day and had the halo starry lights from the oncoming cars freaking out one side of my brain. Closing that eye shut down the disco, but was replaced by a scene from one of those depth perception illusions. I was driving slanty and the white line was popping up like a picket fence. But, hey! I made it home safely.</p><p>My regular eye doctor had suggested popping out one lens to provide correction for the right eye. But she forgot that my glasses have the temple pieces attached right to the lens., and to the bridge. Not going to happen.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_spd9f9fHJY/YM08zNSediI/AAAAAAAAStI/wgZr4gwDho4s6V5jybFu4eyjQfodCikCgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/20210618_172152.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_spd9f9fHJY/YM08zNSediI/AAAAAAAAStI/wgZr4gwDho4s6V5jybFu4eyjQfodCikCgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/20210618_172152.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> My follow up appointment with her was today. My stye has healed, so I get to go see the surgeon again in two weeks, and then set up another surgery date.</p><p>I should be cross eyed by then.</p><p> </p><p><br /></p>Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05404943895800549273noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29569768.post-699103533686916502021-05-13T22:09:00.007-07:002021-05-13T22:09:50.452-07:00Swallows<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m_LjoZ0UPUY/YJ4Fwh8MU5I/AAAAAAAASpo/JmATwZXSlIo6OqOGdn90Olj4b0G_2uvmwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_4408c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1765" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m_LjoZ0UPUY/YJ4Fwh8MU5I/AAAAAAAASpo/JmATwZXSlIo6OqOGdn90Olj4b0G_2uvmwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_4408c.jpg" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;">Northern Rough-Winged and Violet Green</p><p><br /></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5HjYa_ZnHPw/YJ4FxKzpnXI/AAAAAAAASps/LFoJw7kttyQ0f3SBMy3VkLBI4ezMksA6gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_4412a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5HjYa_ZnHPw/YJ4FxKzpnXI/AAAAAAAASps/LFoJw7kttyQ0f3SBMy3VkLBI4ezMksA6gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_4412a.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;">Cliff</p><p><br /></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D37XXqSFo5I/YJ4FkgGF2FI/AAAAAAAASpk/APXcITbyuWoDAceBlCkh3s_JAtmKYsF_QCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_4487a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2019" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D37XXqSFo5I/YJ4FkgGF2FI/AAAAAAAASpk/APXcITbyuWoDAceBlCkh3s_JAtmKYsF_QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_4487a.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;">Barn</p>Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05404943895800549273noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29569768.post-53521572376793914962021-03-17T11:49:00.005-07:002021-03-17T11:49:45.002-07:00Migration <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1QiiGtUhcm8/YFJNrmJtRSI/AAAAAAAASCg/FVTLKzBIPAcLnBiRQ4XzIjb13iMPI1mjgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/a%2Bbike%2Bgoose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1418" data-original-width="2048" height="278" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1QiiGtUhcm8/YFJNrmJtRSI/AAAAAAAASCg/FVTLKzBIPAcLnBiRQ4XzIjb13iMPI1mjgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h278/a%2Bbike%2Bgoose.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>Last week we visited McNary Wildlife Refuge on the Columbia River. </p><p>We got to steal a moment, in photo, from a cyclist headed across the causeway that splits the marshy waters of the refuge. The Snow Geese flew up in a flurry around him. </p><p>I haven't seen an estimate of the numbers of snow geese resting on their way north. I do know that there are thousands there and at The Pot Holes Reservoir further north. </p><p>I'm ready to spend more time 'birding.' </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05404943895800549273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29569768.post-13209254429953091332021-02-23T17:51:00.002-08:002021-02-23T17:52:51.432-08:00Stealing a Moment<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z04s1gaD8Bc/YDWu-AjbbNI/AAAAAAAARuM/JzPvbHZdUHUXMzDYO42SFTJ679DkK8X3ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/20210220_171258.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1123" data-original-width="2048" height="219" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z04s1gaD8Bc/YDWu-AjbbNI/AAAAAAAARuM/JzPvbHZdUHUXMzDYO42SFTJ679DkK8X3ACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h219/20210220_171258.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>When I came around the corner at dusk to see this stranger on the fence, the sight stole my breath. </p><p>So, I grabbed my cell phone and stole their moment. Tit for tat.</p><p><br /></p><p>Yes, another February with lots of cold and snow. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05404943895800549273noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29569768.post-76572743565121049222021-01-28T11:26:00.003-08:002021-01-28T11:40:43.725-08:00January . . . <p>On New Years Eve I heard the local fireworks that cracked and thumped in our neighborhood, and continued into the early hours of 2021. It's not that I denied anyone their celebration; I just prefer to sleep when I can and wake up in a New Year feeling fine. No Auld Lang Syne and no crack, snapple, pop.. I always sigh jealousy at the husband's breathing while his C-pap machine whirs quietly. In addition to being able to fall asleep almost immediately, he has the blessing of maintaining a refreshing slumber. Undisturbed.</p><p>So, that's kind of where we were once more just two weeks into the New Year. I told him to sleep and I would maintain my watch, waiting for updates from our son in law on the life of our middle daughter. Rest had been unattainable for the last 30 hours and I insisted that my husband go to bed because one of us needed to have some semblance of sanity and control. It certainly wasn't going to be me. Our son-in-law had been frantic and sleepless and we kept our phones beeping in contact.</p><p>Our middle daughter fell ill on Saturday. She called me at 5:30 p.m. to inform that she'd asked her 18 year old daughter to take her to ER. A familiar place, as she is a nurse there. "I'm having such pain in my lower right quadrant, and am now puking. I think I have appendicitis." </p><p>Sure enough, by 8:30 she was in surgery. Several hours later our son in law called to say all was well. He wasn't there, but constant phone contact with her co-workers kept him informed. </p><p>But all wasn't well. She phoned me the following morning saying there was a new and different pain and she was sure that something was terribly wrong. Her bloodwork throughout the day confirmed that there was. She was bleeding somewhere. She was frightened and alone. Nobody allowed in the hospitals because of Covid.</p><p>At midnight she was back in the Operating Room. </p><p>Around 4:30 a.m. I tapped on my husband's shoulder to wake him. "Hon, she's being Life Flighted."</p><p>Thirty-six hours later, when she was finally brought out of sedation, she was alone and confused and in excruciating pain, being stapled from sternum to lower abdomen. In a strange city with strangers. She couldn't talk because of the intubation and her reaction to the sedation and pain medications kept her in a hallucinatory state for two days. It was a nightmare for those of us on the outside, but for her it was two days of mental and emotional terror. </p><p>So that is now behind us. She is home and healing. And, a boatload of questions with no answers.</p><p>The diagnosis was Hemorrhagic Cyst of the Spleen. </p><p>No one knows what caused it and no one knows if it will bleed again. Ten years ago she was in an auto accident which bruised her abdomen severely. That was discussed as a possible pre-existing injury. She was diagnosed a few years ago with a serious auto immune disease. It is rare, but disease can cause a bleeding cyst. In December their whole family had Covid. It would be speculative to say that Covid played a part in ruptured spleen, but we know that Covid did exacerbate some serious symptoms of her underlying disease. One of her DR's said it was possible that the pressure exerted by the gas used during her appendectomy may have played a role in a cyst rupture. </p><p>One thing I do know; the local surgeon saved her life. He said this was a first for him....a hemorrhaging spleen after a simple appendectomy. He struggled to contain the bleed, and did what he could to save her and then sent her to a trauma center that would have the tools and the skills to do what he didn't think he had. But his efforts were rewarded. Along with blood transfusions followed by minute to minute monitoring in ICU, the bleeding stopped. The specialist did not have to reopen her abdomen.</p><p>She's looking at a long recovery. She's suffering from PTSD which is said to be common after a near death experience. Hers has been increased by the experience of isolation from her loved ones, frantic fear, and awakening to masked strangers.</p><p>One of the first things she did after getting home was to get in contact with various agencies and groups to advocate for seriously ill patients during Covid restrictions. Somewhere in all the quarantine rules, the emotional needs of the individual patient has been lost. Being an ER nurse, she has been very familiar with the protections put in place. But being a patient and experiencing a worst case scenario has pushed her to work for change.</p><p>There were other stories that are tangled up in this. They are important, but they would complicate the one which is most important. She survived. </p><p>I'm thankful for surgical teams who put aside their weariness to use their skills at midnight. Or whenever they are asked.</p><p>I'm thankful for crews who jump into helicopters before the sunrise and carefully transport the unconscious through the sky.</p><p>I'm thankful for people who walk into blood donation events and give a pint that will save the life of someone's daughter, sister, wife, and mother. They will never know who. But I do.</p><p>I'm thankful that my daughter is alive, and that her thoughts now are of other patients, and how to help prevent them from the devastating isolation and fear that happens in this new quarantined world.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p> </p>Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05404943895800549273noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29569768.post-50192400441565886962020-12-11T12:16:00.000-08:002020-12-11T12:16:00.981-08:00Contemplation<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mXWiA-WcM4M/X9PP2BnuEgI/AAAAAAAAPtE/Coj5eTpU6RwwW9XiX7zuH_TjHVZN2GRkACLcBGAsYHQ/s2543/bridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2543" data-original-width="1236" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mXWiA-WcM4M/X9PP2BnuEgI/AAAAAAAAPtE/Coj5eTpU6RwwW9XiX7zuH_TjHVZN2GRkACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/bridge.jpg" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>You can contemplate. It changes nothing.</p><p>That was my thought on my walk yesterday when I decided to cross the bridge to the other side. Because of the many months of work on the fish ladder the other path had not been a good option. Yes, it took us to the same goal, but the detour was tiresome. </p><p>I don't even know if that is a good analogy to 2020. Is there even such a thing? The detours of this year may not even get us to the desired goal. And what the heck is the goal anyway?</p><p>I've so hunkered down into hermitville that I even had to make up that word to describe it.</p><p>My husband and I have so far avoided the menace of the pandemic. But other family members, who work in positions that welcome exposure, have not. I told my daughter via cell phone this morning that my worrying<i> would not worry her and my grandchildren well</i>. And, I cannot worry it away from our door either if it presents itself. </p><p>So I'm breathing and distracting. ( Not an easy task for a woman whose grandmother took in worrying for a living.)</p><p>And calling it contemplation.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05404943895800549273noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29569768.post-47163902894299703492020-11-12T17:47:00.001-08:002020-11-12T18:03:22.799-08:00Diet, Dye ItI needed a notary. <div><br /></div><div>Getting a notarized signature meant a trip to my bank. I can count on one hand how many times I've been there in the past 10 years. Fact. Which means I wasn't surprised that the young man truly needed to see my ID. He was so young I wondered if he was even born the last time I was there. Well, silliness aside, I was super embarrassed when he informed me that my Drivers License had expired. </div><div><br /></div><div>(Later sifted through a pile of mail that my husband had daily stacked and I daily ignored while it lay next to my computer. The renewal notice was down there several months deep. ) </div><div><br /></div><div>Fortunately our state allows drivers to restore their rights on-line, plus a hefty monetary fine for being a tardy numbskull. You don't ever have to go in for a new photo!</div><div><br /></div><div>One doesn't need to fill in any information. But... you can update. Which I didn't do. So I just left the ugly pounds discrepancy on my weight. I told myself it was essentially a lie of omission. That weight was factual at one time. Plus I was hedging with the little white lie that I told myself about sticking to a diet and getting back to that healthier size. It would be my luck to get pulled over by an efficient officer of the law who carried bathroom scales to nail deceitfully plump speed offenders.</div><div><br /></div><div>In addition, I forgot to check to see what my hair color claims. Some years ago I asked myself, should I 'Live Free, or Dye.' I chose to be free, and I'm really really free.</div><div><br /></div><div>Plus, safe once more to drive the highways as a skinny brunette. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05404943895800549273noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29569768.post-78027213650704404212020-10-23T10:55:00.000-07:002020-10-23T10:55:05.055-07:00Fishin' on The Creek<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>My Husband accompanied me on the creek walk two days ago. <div><br /></div><div>He stopped and shouted to me,</div><div>"Hon, grab your camera!"</div><div><br /></div><div>Although my eyes didn't find it, there was a fish swimming dangerously close to the heron that was motionless on the berm.</div><div><br /></div><div>BAM! The heron jumped into the water and caught the fish before I could even focus. </div><div><br /></div><div>But, I did capture some lovely shots that followed. Well, lovely for the heron. Not so much for the fish.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EysiBJ9fQIc/X5MXp0rvk5I/AAAAAAAAPFI/nx9bMmgCSwY7Q7s7ZRFvd5pzqo-Y9Q9fQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/heron%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EysiBJ9fQIc/X5MXp0rvk5I/AAAAAAAAPFI/nx9bMmgCSwY7Q7s7ZRFvd5pzqo-Y9Q9fQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/heron%2B1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wL_qD4EuIs0/X5MXp0rV-UI/AAAAAAAAPFM/nmRepfuDA-MmqXFKyDrCitPyl5i7Xo9XwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/heron%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wL_qD4EuIs0/X5MXp0rV-UI/AAAAAAAAPFM/nmRepfuDA-MmqXFKyDrCitPyl5i7Xo9XwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/heron%2B2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mXiSaGbONFs/X5MXzSFpUDI/AAAAAAAAPFQ/sH7jQ0szh1UHezjHxGsMgN2CNgvJY_hQACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/heron%2B7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1433" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mXiSaGbONFs/X5MXzSFpUDI/AAAAAAAAPFQ/sH7jQ0szh1UHezjHxGsMgN2CNgvJY_hQACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/heron%2B7.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IvTUMtr4V8Q/X5MX0Ec1XJI/AAAAAAAAPFU/gcyGImBa4WooiivbBX_wwsR3z5pldgbNACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/heron%2B8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IvTUMtr4V8Q/X5MX0Ec1XJI/AAAAAAAAPFU/gcyGImBa4WooiivbBX_wwsR3z5pldgbNACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/heron%2B8.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ax9AHnvXrnQ/X5MX8Il_PCI/AAAAAAAAPFc/_V5FqcjjTyA--nKAm5cEhRTVfL2sO14AACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/heron%2B9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ax9AHnvXrnQ/X5MX8Il_PCI/AAAAAAAAPFc/_V5FqcjjTyA--nKAm5cEhRTVfL2sO14AACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/heron%2B9.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bomSk-5iFac/X5MX8JmfIVI/AAAAAAAAPFg/jGeISZv12VslZyZznOsIJgjtCu_Qnik-wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/heron%2B10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bomSk-5iFac/X5MX8JmfIVI/AAAAAAAAPFg/jGeISZv12VslZyZznOsIJgjtCu_Qnik-wCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/heron%2B10.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div>Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05404943895800549273noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29569768.post-46258224399362260662020-10-10T13:10:00.002-07:002020-10-10T13:11:39.857-07:00Solitary<p> Construction and completion of a new fish ladder has discouraged my walks on the creek this summer and fall. So I was surprised when my car turned in that direction yesterday when I thought I was headed to the other walking path nearby. </p><p>The parking lot was nearly empty and there was a sign that said closed. However, the park ranger who happened to be standing on the sidewalk called out that it was indeed open. </p><p>I happily crossed the bridge.</p><p>This time of year gives me some apprehension for walking alone. Several years ago this season was when I encountered the beautiful Bobcat that pretty much seemed indifferent to my presence. This is the time of year when cougar sightings are common as well. Quite a few years past I saw a bear after hearing it rushing away through the underbrush.</p><p>Only a few years ago I came across a person rising from his sleeping bag partially hidden in the bushes. I had the advantage of already being in boots and full stride so was out of sight in seconds. I reported the 'camper' in the no camping zone to the park ranger who informed me that they had been searching for one of the same description. The interloper had chased several women when they had surprised him in the same manner as I had done. (I wiped my brow of sweat after that one.)</p><p>That experience allowed me to not be surprised yesterday when I met a woman struggling to push what appeared to be a large stroller full of belongings while pulling a cooler on wheels. What was most surprising was the large hound lounging on the piled clothes and blankets sporting a very large belly. She stopped her forward motion when I approached and dabbed the trickles of sweat on her neck. She said her dog was pregnant and due to deliver any time. As I was also sweaty and tired, I was eager to get back to my car. I did not linger except to look at the large dog and acknowledge its swollen girth. On my return to the parking lot, the ranger was nowhere in sight. I still carry the burden of worry about the situation and think I will call the number on the office door this morning. Homelessness and new puppies. And it is pouring rain today.</p><p>Earlier on the path I had observed a portly sweaty guy exercising on the opposite side of the creek; bare, except for loose shorts and short socks. He appeared to repeat a routine that included a short race on a too small bike, a run to a wooden park bench at the edge of the water where he performed modified push ups, and then reverse direction. I suspect this was a new adventure in fitness for him and I hope for his success.</p><p>Very little other 'wild life' at 3 in the afternoon. Except maybe me? I'm at odds with myself here because I'm sure I stun others with my wide brim hat attached beneath my chin. Longs sleeves and loose long pants that cover all my skin so the sun can't find it. Sun glasses that cover my prescription glasses and half of my face. Binoculars hanging over my belly from cross- the -back strap. Pockets stuffed with tissue, cell phone, car keys, and what have you. Then, of course, my noisy walking boots that contain orthotics squeaking with each step. Certainly some solitary wonders on both sides of the creek.</p><p>Meanwhile there were some photo opportunities.</p><p> The solitary silhouette of a gliding Coopers Hawk</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ugWOSHQSFyA/X4IKUg6ejUI/AAAAAAAAPDI/KmxhAZORIVk2XPpRZ30mrFDEVnr29XvBwCLcBGAsYHQ/s4000/IMG_2986.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ugWOSHQSFyA/X4IKUg6ejUI/AAAAAAAAPDI/KmxhAZORIVk2XPpRZ30mrFDEVnr29XvBwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_2986.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DH-P6L3NJjw/X4IJxDVHfuI/AAAAAAAAPDA/MdQBKoCJ2uQpfpBx8eMofrb0hSNJW-mFwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_2988a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DH-P6L3NJjw/X4IJxDVHfuI/AAAAAAAAPDA/MdQBKoCJ2uQpfpBx8eMofrb0hSNJW-mFwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_2988a.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> and the solitary statue stillness of a Great Blue Heron. </p><p>I'm never bored on my solitary walks.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /><br /><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05404943895800549273noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29569768.post-75045187153010245352020-09-25T11:42:00.000-07:002020-09-25T11:42:57.050-07:00Smoke Gets In Your Eyes (and nose and throat)<p> A week ago we had rain and then sunshine. A grand and totally delightful end to eight days of being smoked like a rash of bacon. Thus the title above that might make you want to do some memory moves with The Platters.</p><p>The Air Quality Index runs from 0 to 500. I was shocked to see the red line hit that and rise beyond the measured quantity. Mentally and emotionally taxing as well as physically harmful.</p><p>Rain has blessed us once more the past two nights. Hopefully enough to be a wild firefighters wet dream.</p><p>Now I can take walks again if my right foot agrees. Surgery on the left foot in late February put me in good standing to stay seated and home in the early days of the you know what. To keep on the right footing I am planning another surgical round of "The Hokey Pokey" with the podiatrist this winter.</p><p>Meanwhile it seems like all my "annuals" have somehow coagulated into a September sludge of visits to every medical professional in my life. </p><p>My eye specialist informs me that it shouldn't be too much longer until "I Can See Clearly Now." (I didn't plan on song titles when the urge to post hit me this morning. But I'm humming right a long with it.) In order for surgery to be covered by insurance, your cataracts need to be past the point of hindrance. I'm so ready to dispose of those yellow blinders. Bring on the knife.</p><p>My beautiful dental assistant informed me that it was time for the five year total x-ray of mouth. We've been through this enough times that she had a distraction for my over the top gag reflex: salt. Cheap trick. Then the hygienist bolted me in. I do a very good job keeping those pearly whites clean so I never experience "A Burning Ring of Fire' that others have claimed. But she forgot to give me any samples of toothbrush, toothpaste, and floss. That burned a little bit. Meanwhile the dentist teleported through the room, looked at my teeth, scanned the dental radiographs, glanced at his two associates notes, and high fived me on his way out. </p><p>The mammogram is featured next. A sister is a breast cancer survivor so I'm always aware of the need for my own advocacy. I am also happy when the tech assigned is the one who is fast and efficient without maximum discomfort. (Oh to heck with discomfort. It can blasted hurt!) She was a traveling tech that they snagged for a full time position. I'm thankful for her. </p><p>The annual reminder for my GP, however, is still sitting in my "to call" list. I confess that I really don't want to see him without having lost a few pounds. I've always said there were two skinny women inside of me fighting to get out. A lifetime of "Losing You" reflecting in my mirror. But singing it doesn't change anything but the expression on my face. (The chubby one looking back at me.) I told someone the other day that I was big boned from my dads side of the family and I got the bubble wrap as I aged from my moms side of the family. There are no skinny genes (or jeans) apparent in my genealogy. </p><p>After all the appointments are history I always feel like I can "Just Breathe" normally and start fresh. And I'm feeling like I'm ready to put 2020 behind me too. "Movin' On." ASAP.</p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05404943895800549273noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29569768.post-4651606715693139422020-09-12T13:57:00.009-07:002020-09-12T14:46:21.518-07:00The End Game<p> Our kitty cat needed us. We struggled with the decision. But we knew she needed us to make the right one.</p><p>We miss her.</p><p>*****</p><p>ElGee was born in a litter of kittens in an apartment complex where a friend of our youngest daughter lived.</p><p>Amanda already owned a young cat named "Baby" when the friend contacted her in an effort to save the kittens. </p><p>"I'll take one," our daughter committed to be part of the unorganized rescue. The teeny white male she named McGarnigal. </p><p>The even tinier black and white female, that she temporary dubbed 'the little girl', was also delivered to Amanda's apartment. Little Girl had been promised a home by a third friend. The promise was never kept and "Little Girl" became family. Whispers from the first friend indicated the remaining kittens disappeared and she was pretty sure they'd been dumped. </p><p>A year passed and another little girl joined the family; my now 16 year old granddaughter Curlymop. Then McGarnigal got out one day, ran into the street, and died instantly in the traffic.</p><p>December 2007 brought eviction notices to the entire apartment complex where Amanda lived so Little Girl came to live with us. </p><p>Temporarily.</p><p>We called her L.G. because it was easier to say than Little Girl. On her first veterinarian visit I spelled it "elGee" for no reason I can recall. It has remained elGee for almost 13 years.</p><p>The past several years she's been somewhat fragile with the symptoms of kidney disease. You do what you have to do to keep them comfortable and as healthy as possible with the diagnosis. The veterinarian kept close tabs with blood work-ups and physicals.</p><p>We noticed some odd behavior recently that didn't seem to jibe with the symptoms of kidney failure. She would stare at the wall or the air vents as though she saw something that put her on edge. Her meow became a harsh rasp and awoke us during the night. I thought she was having some confusion.</p><p>Then last week she suffered a violent seizure as my husband and I watched in horror.</p><p>Cancer. Tumor. Pressure. </p><p>I still thought I couldn't let her go. Maybe a little more comfort and care? </p><p>But the veterinarian spoke.</p><p>"She's played right up to the end game. You can't ask her for much more than that."</p><p>So, we didn't.</p><p>*******</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yNAj0ZT5-9c/X101hZEoO-I/AAAAAAAAO_w/bAnV0ZSOGTsX-AOK1P10R8mq-OWQbEWvwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1791/aaaaaaaELGEE.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1791" data-original-width="1722" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yNAj0ZT5-9c/X101hZEoO-I/AAAAAAAAO_w/bAnV0ZSOGTsX-AOK1P10R8mq-OWQbEWvwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/aaaaaaaELGEE.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;">Hiding in my closet in her recent confusion. Oh Sweet Kitty.</p><p>*******</p><p>p.s. Baby, the other cat displaced in 2007, went to live with our eldest daughter. They called her Penelope and she lived until the fall of 2019. </p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05404943895800549273noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29569768.post-77368572491649339952020-08-19T18:24:00.004-07:002020-08-19T18:25:47.439-07:00Arty Tar<p>I don't even know what to say about the repairs on the asphalt. I see them every morning on a particular street. Early because I want to exercise before the old sol furnace kicks in. It's been blistering hot.</p><p><br /></p><p>I wonder who is the artist that swirls the stinky hot substance into such awesome designs. I wonder if the designs are done with intent or just with abandon. I wonder if the person is working in a very toilsome job because being an artist just didn't provide for a home or a family.</p><p><br /></p><p>I wonder what more wise and contemplative people might say about the markings that will soon be worn away by tires and the eroding weather.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Od8Xwe49vYQ/Xz3O_ar7LoI/AAAAAAAAOFM/ADprNcM9Kfgvet0xxwd8Swgy90-zvz3FwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2543/20200816_074724%2B%2528002%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2543" data-original-width="1236" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Od8Xwe49vYQ/Xz3O_ar7LoI/AAAAAAAAOFM/ADprNcM9Kfgvet0xxwd8Swgy90-zvz3FwCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/20200816_074724%2B%2528002%2529.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eufeF8Gg8hA/Xz3O9xfzEYI/AAAAAAAAOFE/SB77zKRT2UQLQjXwWNUL7A6pC8C7b0KfQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2543/20200816_074625%2B%2528002%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2543" data-original-width="1236" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eufeF8Gg8hA/Xz3O9xfzEYI/AAAAAAAAOFE/SB77zKRT2UQLQjXwWNUL7A6pC8C7b0KfQCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/20200816_074625%2B%2528002%2529.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sGnfA2f4KJ0/Xz3O-1zsHMI/AAAAAAAAOFI/-yUm4RdP4BMXDXZFIHN39_Y9cNAIpWZvACLcBGAsYHQ/s2543/20200816_074424%2B%2528002%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2543" data-original-width="1236" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sGnfA2f4KJ0/Xz3O-1zsHMI/AAAAAAAAOFI/-yUm4RdP4BMXDXZFIHN39_Y9cNAIpWZvACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/20200816_074424%2B%2528002%2529.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>The one that probably satisfies me most was from David Henry Thoreaus: "The world is but a canvas to our imagination."</p><p> </p><p> </p><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05404943895800549273noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29569768.post-28485812970652583832020-08-10T16:51:00.001-07:002020-08-10T16:51:11.342-07:00♪♫ Oh, you ain't gettin' no younger ♪♫My 70's music choice in Pandora was playing in the background while I loaded the dishwasher the other day. I think listening to music can be considered multi-tasking and I needed the company anyway.<div><br /></div><div>Just as<i> Desperado </i>by the Eagles tugged on my ear, I willingly turned up the volume. I leaned up against the sink, but when I closed my eyes they filled not so willingly with unexpected tears.</div><div><br /></div><div>That song debuted 47 years ago. I know that because I know how to count to 99 on ten fingers. I could not stop my mind from drifting through all those years, and those thoughts kept my fingers busy.</div><div> </div><div>When I entered high school the World War II hits were twenty to twenty five years old. Twenty year old songs were longer than a lifetime of a teenager. I remember considering them ancient.</div><div><br /></div><div> "The Charleston" from the "Roarin' 20's" wasn't even thirty the year I was born. One random thought reminded me that that dance was closer in years to my infant days than "Desperado" was in years to my senior days. It doesn't make sense now, but at the moment I felt it was poignant. (Meanwhile our 11-year old granddaughter 'Charlestoned' perfectly on our patio yesterday after grandpa showed it to her on an internet video.)</div><div><br /></div><div>There was music in my house from my earliest memories. My mom listened to the radio often as she clothed and fed and cleaned and instructed. My siblings and I all played piano or other instruments. We had a little phonograph that played our limited records over and over and over. And then played them again. My older siblings added more LPs to our little collection after my parents bought a small stereo that sat near the window in our living room. There were hours of Tennessee Ernie Ford, Burl Ives, Gordon Lightfoot, The Kingston Trio; plus various instrumentals such as the Philadelphia Philharmonic, Percy Faith, and Martin Denny. </div><div><br /></div><div>I eventually completed the dish washing task that day, but not before vaguely arranging major events and music in my head. I quickly acknowledged that they were already entwined up there in some wonderful or, in some cases, quite brutal ways. </div><div><br /></div><div> A bit brutal in fact on that very day when those lyrics, so beautiful in 1973, reminded me in 2020 that ......<i><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span>♪♫ Oh, you ain't gettin' no younger ♪♫</i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05404943895800549273noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29569768.post-53336677230178392562020-08-03T11:37:00.002-07:002020-08-03T16:43:55.654-07:00The Moon -- Where it Always IsAs the oddest of days, weeks, and months perplex and confuse, it is calming to see an early August moon peak over the mountains.<div><br /></div><div>The trusty cell phone that seems my constant companion takes acceptable results and gives me the false sense that I have figured out how to take night time photos. I haven't. This was luck and the only one with minimal blur and that interesting reflected fence provided by the neighbors security light.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1519" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Uxnm8ZoFR6Y/Xyg0HXcjp3I/AAAAAAAAOCM/mDG2LqDZ2m88IXGDLBh1ytzm2ZO4iiMoQCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/MOON.jpg" /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Earlier that day the excitement came from finding someones parakeet feeding with sparrows. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i2rYDOW4b84/Xyg1zEHp5cI/AAAAAAAAOCY/MTObo_FB5F0n71BkdpSrdYBYT-wuWY0OQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_2638.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i2rYDOW4b84/Xyg1zEHp5cI/AAAAAAAAOCY/MTObo_FB5F0n71BkdpSrdYBYT-wuWY0OQCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_2638.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> The little buffet on the ground is provided for the quail and dove that visit our backyard at least once a day. But they have not presented any young. I've assumed they were meals for the feral cats and several hawks that hunt relentlessly in our neighborhood. A Cooper's Hawk grabbed a squawking young sparrow when I was standing nearby, so I know they aren't shy about my presence. </div><div><br /></div><div>Little parakeet did not return this morning so its fate is left to the imagination. I <i>will </i>imagine that it went home.</div><div><br /></div><div>The little red bucket is also a mystery. I suspect it was found hidden in the shrubbery when hubby was cleaning out the horrible mess left by the tree removal service.</div><div><br /></div><div>Above the little scene is open sky that up until last week was hidden by two silver maple trees that were guessed to be at least 125 years old. Although they were rooted in our neighbor's yard, they were shared by all four houses that were shaded by their towering girth. As was the apprehension of a windstorm bringing one down with horrific damage or loss of life.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qAs91C0Gk2A/Xyg7Jpi1SrI/AAAAAAAAOCw/e8FmAtfoDsoGVVUAKGPXZdUWWQP93c3CgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1397/maple2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1397" data-original-width="679" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qAs91C0Gk2A/Xyg7Jpi1SrI/AAAAAAAAOCw/e8FmAtfoDsoGVVUAKGPXZdUWWQP93c3CgCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/maple2.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">(A cell phone photo from early spring.) </div><div><br /></div><div><div>Oh! How they pestered us with spring's release of <i>whirlywhig</i> seeds. Last year I quit counting after raking up 35 gallons. Just in our yard.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then would come the autumn hours of gathering the unbelievable mountains of leaves. Sometimes I would pray for a great wind to drop all the fall colors at once to end our suffering. My heart drums guilty beats of those moments of resentment.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>They are gone. Heartbreak only softened by open sky with a new view of the mountains. Plus, too much sunshine on our morning coffee on the patio. </div><div><br /></div><div>At the same time a contractor has begun working on the property across the street that was owned by our late neighbor. Three more houses are projected in the spot where his hobbies of woodworking and gardening and loving his dog anchored our close knit piece of the world.</div><div><br /></div><div>Losing a neighbor of over 42 years exacted grief for which we were not prepared. I still find myself checking out the kitchen window for his dog, Or stepping out our front door to see if his 95 year old legs had carried him out to his favorite porch chair. </div><div><br /></div><div>These are the changes that living brings to all. But this year has exasperated an entire world.</div><div><br /></div><div>At least the moon was where it should be when the calendar flipped to August. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05404943895800549273noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29569768.post-82984100328370812912020-07-14T13:43:00.000-07:002020-07-14T13:44:03.385-07:00Chamaenerion Angustifolium<br />
Spring in the valley teased its way well into June. Even July has not breathed its summer dragon in the foothills of the mountains. (I have a narrow comfort zone so I say restrain the beast as long as possible.)<br />
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And, as the unseasonably cool breezes prompted me to wear a sweatshirt over my worn garden togs, my eyes were drawn to something strange growing in the Physostegia Virginoiana, aka Obedient Plant. <br />
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I studied the leaves carefully as I touched them with garden gloves. (Why do I wear them? I still get dirt beneath my finger nails!) There was something very familiar about the narrow leaf and the stem that was stretching with impatience to reach the mid morning sun. (The morning shade is a result of the neighbors ancient towering silver maples. They are a love hate relationship.)<br />
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With recognition, a childhood emotion swept over me. Memories of racing through meadows surrounded by towering firs and cedars. The faint scents of crushed herbs and tiny flowers beneath my feet. The sounds of rabbits through the thick brush. Oh! And the splash of some other small creature escaping through the little creek that was picking up speed as it neared its descent into the Green River Valley. All of that from announcing to no one in particular, "This has to be fireweed!"<br />
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Back in the fifties and sixties the Puget Sound communities would find fireweed growing in the open fields and along fence lines. As it did on our small farm. But the most magnificent sight would come from a mountain slope that had experienced a wild fire. That is where you would see charred timber transformed into an enchanted mass of bright pink blooms.<br />
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There is probably lots more to know about the witchery of fireweed. I only knew that it was beautiful and that it never failed to pop up somewhere on the acres of my childhood home. And, that it was the first to reclaim beauty after devastation.<br />
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And now, it blooms in my garden.<br />
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Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05404943895800549273noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29569768.post-19848440186731728882020-06-21T14:04:00.001-07:002020-06-21T14:04:14.125-07:00When there are bugs....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There are Cedar Waxwings!</div>
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Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05404943895800549273noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29569768.post-80568120895275369172019-12-22T11:55:00.002-08:002019-12-22T11:55:58.440-08:00Ice Can Look Nice<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When there is an inversion and the fog rolls into a shivery valley it is both dangerous and breathtaking.<br />
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Walking on the gravelly path seems stable, but even the small twigs that stick up around the edges grab onto the moisture and create little artistic ice crystals.<br />
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a male house finch adds a spot of color!</div>
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After a few days of this wintery chill, a warm Chinook wind blew in. It was probably pushed ahead of what the weatherman called an "atmospheric river" which drenched the west siders way beyond seasonal norms.<br />
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It is forecast that Christmas will be warm and no white stuff falling. At least not here.<br />
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May there be moments of peace and hope in your hearts as you celebrate this holiday. Hug each other. Feed the birds<br />
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<br />Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05404943895800549273noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29569768.post-14946528793839972672019-09-10T12:59:00.000-07:002019-09-10T12:59:29.377-07:00Here and There but not EverywhereI've scattered a little of me everywhere the past three months. <br />
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I've gardened a little. Birded a little. Traveled a little. Grandmothered a little. (Is that a word?) Water colored a little. Remodeled kitchens a little. And I've improved my health a little.<br />
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Obviously I've 'littled' way too much this season.<br />
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The weeds still grow with gusto in our gardens. I don't think the birds or bees really care about the ones that drive me crazy. Here's a young hummingbird enjoying the 'salvia hotlips' that we planted with the hummers in mind.<br />
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Twice this summer I've been a farmer at my eldest daughter's. This last time was when she and her husband took the eldest boy to college 6 hours away. I made sure that all the creatures were cared for and her farm was not unattended. On the first night around 3 a.m. I awoke to the loudest thunder I've ever experienced. Not to far away a house was damaged when the lightning struck an adjacent tree which fell. Crash. Three times the lightning and thunder were nearly simultaneous. Her brave little farm dog came and jumped in bed with me and we huddled there together. It continued to be loud and bright as the storm moved along with pouring hail and rain. When 6 a.m. rolled around the need to check on the turkeys, chickens, ducks, pigeons, and rabbits got me moving. The water in the creek was high but not flooding. The ducks liked the flow the the other creatures thought it was foul fowl weather.<br />
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For the most part the grandchildren are back in school. The youngest one, 7, is in second grade. The eldest will be 24 (graduated from California State) planning a wedding next April. When I told myself I would have no more grandchildren it was a lie. Of course my new "granddaughter" will be already grown up with a college degree and a job. What a deal!<br />
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The rest of them are almost 23 (working and traveling and single), 18 (first year of college with a great scholarship), 17 (senior in high school), almost 16 (sophomore in high school), 15 (sophomore in high school), 14 (freshmen in high school), 12 (6th grade), 11 (6th grade), and 10 (5th grade). <br />
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I still enjoy being a part of their lives. <br />
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After chastising myself I pulled those watercolors and previous efforts out recently. Found one I had worked on of the now almost 16 year old buttercup quite a few years ago. There were so many missteps in the effort that I was discouraged and had given up and set aside. This month I pushed on through in spite of the earlier imperfections to complete and frame it. The moral of the story is that nothing will ever be perfect so enjoy what you do and let others enjoy it, too. One day I will be gone but this may be something my granddaughter cherishes.<br />
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Our kitchen is like new this year. When two walls had to be opened to check for damage after the patio collapse, we decided that we should just go with the flow. If you want my advice about doing any remodeling it will be this: Figure out how much it will cost and then double it.<br />
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What a complainer I've been the past few years. Too many rabbit trails to write about, but health is so closely related to stress. Of which there has been way too much. <br />
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Being proactive and trying to improve without filling your body with pills is time consuming but seems to be worth the effort. <br />
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I'm not saying I'll ever be the old me again, but the past few weeks have given me hope. When this American Goldfinch prepared to take a dip in the water feature, I snapped a photo through the storm door. Note that some of his former glory is being displayed like a little bling on the back of his head.<br />
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I'm showing some of mine, too, little fellow.<br />
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Pamelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05404943895800549273noreply@blogger.com1