Author: Diana Blair Revell

We used to do that rather regular thing of going around the table on Thanksgiving so that each person could answer The Question. “What are you grateful for?” we’d ask the next person after the one before had remarked on health, family, love. But then that whole holiday routine got blown up the first year John and Vicky were married when her answer was an impish “I’m thankful for that puppy John is going to buy me.”

I still ask myself the question—I think it has become a coping strategy.

Last week, Mom, Dad, Dave, and I went to the Nashville Zoo. I was thankful for wheelchairs that day. Oh, we didn’t have any wheelchairs, but I was thankful that there were such things because we will need them someday soon. We could have used a couple at the zoo.

Dad got four complimentary tickets to the zoo from one of the college-age daughters next door. Saleh and Zienab Al-Akashi have six children including Jinan and Noura, both pre-med students at Lipscomb University and part-time employees of the Nashville Zoo. The four children that follow the future physicians are Naba, Abbas, Mohammad, and Zahra and they range from twelve years down to four. Saleh works two jobs and is finishing classes for a technical degree; Zienab transports children, runs a household, and mows the yard.

Dad made friends with Saleh last year when we all first moved in here on the ravine. He knows when Saleh arrives home between jobs—that’s when they meet in the driveway. Dad asked Saleh if he could weed-eat for him. It wasn’t long before Dad got permission to mow for Zienab. I hear that Dad will plant a flower garden for Zienab this spring, too, with Saleh’s agreement.

“You are so nice to us, Mr. Blair. What can we do for you?” Saleh asked.

“Saleh,” Dad told him, “You and your wife are working so hard raising this family, it’s just a privilege for you to let me help.”

One day Saleh brought the four tickets to the zoo. “You said you wanted to go to the zoo?”

That evening, Dad said, “Saleh gave me four tickets to the zoo. Well, actually, he didn’t give them to me, his daughters did. They work at the zoo, you know. When the weather gets nice again, we can go to the zoo. That’s the only thing I wanted to do in Nashville.”

The dark blue macaws are just to the right past the entrance.

“Look, Honey,” Mom said. “Blue macaws. Can you see them?”

“No, not very well. I’m cold. It’s cold out here.”

“You should have worn a heavier coat,” Mom said.

“Well, I know that now,” he answered.

“Dad, put Dave’s jacket on,” I said. “We put it in Mom’s basket.”

Mom rolled up beside me with Dolly, her Rollator walker. “Well, this is going to be fun. He can’t hear and he can’t see.”

“Well, aren’t you glad you have Dolly?” I asked. “This is the whole reason we needed that Rollator.”

“It does nothing for the pain,” she answered.

Uh-oh… her legs… pain…this IS going to be fun.

We passed the red-crowned crane (he couldn’t see that, either) and inched our way up the hill toward the carousel and “Lorikeet Landing,” where the colorful ‘keets light on shoulders and heads and hands in a mesh enclosure. No strollers. I guess that means Rollators, too. Mom and Dad sat on a bench. Mom sighed and blew.

“How much further to the giraffes?” she asked. “They’re my favorites.”

“Well—me, too. There’s a lot of walking here,” I answered. “Dave, did you happen to pick up a map?”

No, he didn’t.

“It’s around this loop here,” I said. The sign said “African Savannah.”

There were no Red River Hogs in the hog pen, and we cut off the loop at the first viewing station for the elephants huddled in the far corner of their field.

“Dad, look way out there. They’re in that far right corner of the field,” I said.

“I can’t see them. They’re too far away. Oh, wait, are they moving? I think I can see them moving.”

“Let’s stop here for a minute,” I said, pointing toward fifty wooden tables in a big field. Festival Area. I thought about the time we brought grandchildren to the Halloween celebration; games and activity tents had covered the field.

“I knew there would be a lot of walking,” Dad said as he propped himself on a big rock in the curve of the path, “but I didn’t know there’d be this much.”

“Let’s head back this way.” I pointed back toward the entrance. We had rested plenty but Dad was staggering a bit, even with his cane, and Mom was moving slower and leaning hard on Dolly.

“We almost need wheelchairs to get around this place,” Dave said. “I brought Mom out here the last time she came to Nashville and I pushed her in a wheelchair.”

“Remember when you pushed me all around the Memphis Zoo in a wheelchair?” Mom asked.

“Yes, I do.” Mom and I both started to laugh. We pushed and pulled that wheelchair over cobblestone, onto little trains, up dirt hills. That was over seven years ago, before she walked with a cane, before Dolly was a fleeting thought, before Mom lost fifty pounds. At the end of that day, Mom was doing fine. I needed a heat pad and ibuprofen at the hotel. But, we did see the visiting Giant Pandas!

“Your daddy would never ride in a wheelchair—he wouldn’t even use this walker,” she said.

“Well, we have two wheelchairs at home,” Dave said, “and when we need them, we’re going to use them.”

“We’ve got that motorized chair, too,” Dad said, “and we ought to get that thing running.”

We all sat down at the picnic tables near the gibbons. Dad finally saw one of the white ones.

“Hey, Boy, come on over here,” he hollered, waving his cane in the air.

“Dad, stop hollering,” I said.

“Well, I want to see him up closer. Where are the monkeys?”

“Dad, there are no monkeys here.”

“No monkeys? What kind of a zoo doesn’t have monkeys? No apes?”

“No, the closest thing to a monkey you’re going to see are these gibbons.”

“What are they?” he asked.

“Gibbons. You heard her, they’re gibbons,” Mom said. She shot him a look.

“Well, nothing is close enough for me to look at,” Dad said.

We tried to explain about natural habitats and current trends in keeping wild animals.

“Let’s go,” I said. “Let’s go look at the meerkats.”

Mom counted the meerkats. Dad leaned on the clear enclosure and dropped his cane over the side to circle the head of one of the colony’s sentries.

“Ernie, quit that,” Dave said. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m not bothering him,” Dad said. But he withdrew his cane.

“Now I like those,” he said.

We passed the big stork.

“So that’s what a stork looks like,” Mom said. (Dad couldn’t see it.)

I saw the tables in front of the snack bar near Unseen New World where the snakes and amphibians live, and knew this would be our ending point for the day. We would not make the Jungle Loop with the lemurs and cougars and leopards and ostrich. Even if we did have wheelchairs, we wouldn’t make it. We were all tired.

“Dad, let’s rest here,” I said.

“I think I have to quit here,” he answered. I was glad he said it.

“Well,” Dave said, “I am going around this loop here to see the tigers. It’s what I came for and I’m going to see the tigers.”

“Okay, we’ll just wait for you here,” I said.

“Now, why would she come to the zoo with that little kid?” Dad pointed to a young mother pushing a stroller.

“Why wouldn’t she?” I asked. “It’s a great place.”

“Yeah, but what does she get out of it and what does that little kid get?”

“Well, it’s a safe place to be, quiet, no cars to dodge, and you know, here are these animals that she’s shown the baby in his picture books.”

“I can see where it’s safe. Nobody would threaten her and her child here,” he answered.

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of that kind of ‘safe,’” I said. “I was just thinking that you can be on the walking trails and no cars…”

“Oh.”

“Look,” Mom said, “Flamingoes.” She pointed to the sign for the Flamingo Lagoon.

“You want to go down there?” I asked. “I think it’s just right there around the corner past the petting zoo.”

“Yes. I want to see the flamingoes.”

“Dad, you stay right here. Don’t you go anywhere. You stay right here,” I said.

“Where are you going?” he asked Mom.

“We’re going to see the flamingoes,” she called over her shoulder.

“Ohhhhhhhhh, they’re beautiful,” she said, “and so many of them.”

We stopped by the petting zoo on the way back to Dad.

“Llamas, goats, donkeys…oh look, there’s a camel!” Mom said.

We turned on the path to see that Dad had found a friend. A young man and two children, a girl maybe eight and a boy about ten, were saying their goodbyes.

“Mr. Blair, it was very nice visiting with you.”

“Who was that?” the girl asked as they walked away.

“He’s my new friend, Mr. Blair,” the dad answered.

“We were having a philosophical discussion,” Dad explained as we neared the tables. “We were talking about why people come to the zoo. He’s a writer. He’s from Los Angeles. He came to the zoo to get ideas for his stories.”

“Hm,” Mom answered. (We’ve come to recognize “Hm” as the signal that Mom is bored.)

“And he left his cell phone at home,” Dad said. “He doesn’t like to be interrupted when he’s getting ideas.”

“Hm,” Mom answered. “He’d talk to a fencepost,” she said in my direction.

Dad was oblivious; he probably didn’t hear her. “And he thinks it’s a big intrusion to use your cell phone in a nature place like this,” he added.

“So did you see the tigers?” I asked as Dave walked up.

“Yep. Two of them. And the lynx, too.”

“Then I think we’re ready to go,” I said.

“How far is it back to the entrance?” Mom asked.

“It’s not as far as we’ve come,” I answered.

“Next time we come, we need some wheelchairs,” Dave said.

“Well, we’ve got wheelchairs,” I answered, “but I’m not sure I could push one around this whole zoo.”

“We need to get that motorized chair working,” Dad said.

“Well, I’m not sure that motorized chair would be good around here,” Dave said.

“Too many hills?” Dad asked.

“Yeah. We need wheelchairs or maybe a golf cart. I don’t think they allow golf carts, though.”

“Where did we get the wheelchairs?” Mom asked.

“Fannie Tietze,” I answered. “Remember her? Sweet, sweet, elegant woman. She died last month and wanted people at church to have her things. No one wanted a wheelchair so I said I’d take one and then the son told me that I should take both of them.”

“They’re in perfect condition,” Dave said. “I haven’t figured out how to fold that smaller one. You need to help me with that.”

What am I thankful for?  I am thankful for family, health, and love, those very “regular” things that everyone answers in response to that “regular” question.

I am thankful for family, especially the family of four that we’ve put together here on the ravine, and that we are all happy. I am thankful that there are children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren close by. I am thankful for that puppy that John bought Vicky, the little Shih Tzu who is now ten years old, as well as the other dogs, cats, and foxes that have come into our family lives.

I am thankful for health—Mom and Dad’s health at eighty years old. I am happy that their health allows them to make trips to the zoo, to the grocery store, to church. I am grateful that Mom’s health allows her to care for their apartment and that Dad’s allows him to garden for himself, us, and the Al-Akashis.

I am thankful for love—the love of a good man, the love of parents, children, and grandchildren, the love of neighbors, and the love of friends—old and new, living here or watching over us from the other world.

I am grateful for wheelchairs.

***

Today was Mammogram Day.  Mom and I have already observed Bone Density Day, Cardiologist Day (followed by Heart Ultra Scan Day), Colonoscopy Day (preceded by Prep Day), Sleep Test Day (wait–that was an evening event, preceded by Sleep Doctor Day and followed by Sleep Test Night II and Go-Get-the-Machine- Day), and Thyroid Doctor Day.  All of these marked occasions occurred during the last six months. 

Sometimes she and I wonder aloud if she’s healthy because she keeps all these appointments with health care professionals, or in spite of her diligence with her physi­cian brigade and her complete compliance with medication for organs, limbs, and a half dozen other eighty-year-old body parts.

“Daddy says I’m doing the right thing by going to the doctor,” she has an­nounced to me on more than one occasion.  I always muse a bit about this discussion of Dad’s approval.

“So, what time will we leave for the mammogram?” she asked on the way home from our water class at the Y. 

“1:00,” I said.  “We’ll leave right at 1:00.”

“You think that’s enough time?” she asked.

“Yeah, your appointment is 1:30,” I said.  “So thirty minutes will get us there fine.”

I called her at 12:50. 

“I’m headed out the door as quick as I can grab a book and my shoes,” I said.  “Right at 1:00.” 

“I’m ready,” she answered.  “I’m sitting in the sun at the picnic table.”

“So, are we definite about where we’re going at St. Thomas?” I asked.

“You don’t know?” she asked.

“I thought it was on the same floor as where you saw the doctor and had your bone density test.”

“Probably so,” she said.

“We ought to be sure.  Do you have any papers?” I asked.

“Oh yeah.  I have this paper where I wrote down where it is.  But I’m not sure I can read it,” she answered.

“Well, let me look at it,” I said, as she pulled the sheet of paper from her purse.

“Hmmmm.”  I looked at her notes and read. “Turn left from skybridge Park D Seaton Purple–opposite direction from doctor.   –I’m not sure what this means, Ma.”

“Me either.  Half the time I write stuff down and then can’t read it.”

“I do the same thing,” I said.  “Or I lose the note before I get a chance to read it again.  I sure don’t understand this.  Do you remember the nurse telling us ‘everything you’re going to do is right here on this floor’?”

“Yeah…” Mom said.

“I’m remembering her pointing down the hall where you got your bone density… Remember she said, ‘It’s just beyond that sign that says ‘bone density?’”  I asked.

“Seems like I remember something like that, but I wasn’t thinking it was the mammogram she was talking about,” Mom said.

“Well, we better just get on over there.  I’ll just park where we usually park for your appointments and we’ll go from there.  We’re eating up time,” I said.

A big Oldsmobile pulled out and left a parking place for us three spaces from the door. 

“Well, we’re in luck this time, Sister!” Mom said.  “I can walk from here.”

“We sure are,” I answered.  Normally, I drop Mom off at the door to the elevators while I park the van.  She walks okay with her cane–but slow.  She’s speedy with her new Rollator that a friend named Dolly; of course, we left Dolly stabled in the garage. 

“What floor was the doctor on?” I asked. 

“Four,” she said.

When we got off the elevator, me with the sheet of paper in my hand, I turned right. 

“I thought we were supposed to turn left,” Mom called after me.

“I thought you said to turn the opposite from the doctor’s office,” I said.  “We would turn left to go to the doctor’s office.”

“No, I think the place is opposite from the doctor’s office,” she said.  “It’s the Breast Center.”

“Hmmm.”  I stopped to read Mom’s notes again, just as a lovely young employee arrived.  I was enamored with her asymmetrical haircut and aware that she seemed to be in a hurry but took time to offer herself. 

“May I help you?” she asked.  “Did you say you’re going to the Center for Breast Health?”

“I’m not sure,” I answered, “But she is going to have a mammogram.”

“That would be the Center for Breast Health,” the woman said. 

I loved the way she tilted her head toward both of us. 

“Now,” she said, “You’re a good little walk from the breast center.”  I could tell she was noting the cane.  “You can do it, but it’s a good piece.  It’s at the back of the hospital and you’re more on the front side right now.”

“Ah, that’s what this means,” I said.  “It says ‘Seaton’ and I didn’t realize that anyone parked in Seaton Garage except for people visiting patients or staying at the hotel place.”

“Did you park in Seaton?” she asked.

“No.  We parked downstairs right here where we always park to go to doctors in this building,” I answered.

“May I look at your instructions?” she asked. 

After a glance at Mom’s scribble, she explained.  “See, you park at Seaton, and then you go up to Level D, which is the purple.  And then you cross the skybridge, and the Center for Breast Health is right there on the left.” 

“But we can get there from here?” I asked.

“You can, but now, you’re going to walk a ways.  Go straight down this hall, turn to the right, go past the Starbucks, and then turn left and you’ll see the skybridge.  It will be just on your right before the skybridge.”

“Mom,” I said, “I think we better walk.  I’m afraid we’re going to be late.” 

“Okay,” she said.  “How far is it?”

“It’s a good ways, but we can do it,” I answered.

Our friendly St. Thomas guide walked the same way that we did, only a little faster.  When we hit a T somewhere along the way, she looked back and said, “Keep coming this way.”

“How much further?”  Mom asked.

“Mom, I don’t know but it can’t be that far,” I answered.  “I’ll get out ahead and sort of scout it out.  Remember, we’re looking for Starbucks.”

“Well, just don’t get out of my sight, okay?” she said.

“Okay.”  I dodged sad slow visitors and happy fast employees. 

“Do you see Starbucks?” she called after me.

“Not yet.  But we can do this, Ma.  It won’t hurt us to walk,” I answered.

And then my elegant and reticent mother (at least, publicly reticent) announced to the hall full of hospital travelers, “Oh yes it does.  It hurts.  And if it doesn’t hurt you, well, it hurts me–bad.”

I didn’t dare ignore her but I wasn’t about to turn around.  I wasn’t brave enough to even look back at her, ten paces behind me.

“We’re almost there,” I said–although I had no idea how much further we would walk.  “See, Mom, here’s Starbucks!”  I always like to find a Starbucks but this time, a sort of true love welled up in my heart at seeing the green logo.

“Is that where we turn?” she asked.

“We just go straight to the end of the hall and it will be there,” I answered.

“Oh yeah,” she said.  I heard a bit of a groan and a sigh and noted the sarcasm in her brief reply.

“So where is it?” she asked at the end of the hall.

“See the sign?” I asked.  “It’s right there before the skybridge.”

She did the “whew” sound.  I limped and she clomped to the next door on the right.  I signed her in with the volunteer lady in the pink jacket while she sat down in the first chair she came to.

“Mom,” I told her quietly, “I’m going to go get the van and move it to this garage over here.  Then we can just go right there across the skybridge to the garage when we leave.”

“Me wait for you here?” she asked.

“Yes. Right here,” I said.

“I won’t go anywhere,” she answered.

When I returned from the long hike, short drive, and brief elevator ride, the pink lady was escorting her to the test.  I called softly after her, “Mom,” to let her know that I was there but she didn’t hear me.  I settled in my chair to read my friend’s new cookbook–It’s called Bless Your Heart; Saving the World One Covered Dish At a Time.

Two chapters later (and one altercation and two offensive cell-phone hollerers, too), she was finished.

“All done?” I asked.  “We just have to go right out this door and right down the elevator.  See–there’s the purple you wrote about.”  I pointed to the purple stripes on the wall of Level D just outside the elevator.

“I think I’ll just go home on Franklin Road,” I said as we pulled onto the street.

“Well,” Mom said, “That place was certainly a lot nicer than the colonoscopy center.”

“Yeah, it sure was.”  It was.

Then I told her about the two women passing the cell phone between them and talking so loud.  “Well, when the second one asked, ‘How are you?’ I wanted to holler back, ‘Oh, I’m fine, thank you!’”

We both laughed out loud. 

“Well, shoot, I was thinking about driving through the Ag Center but I guess I’ve got to turn on Harding.  Don’t know what I was thinking about,” I said.

“I just love that place,” Mom said.

“The Ag Center?”

“Yes.  It’s so pretty over there,” she said.

“Well, we’ll just drive through there then,” I said.

“Isn’t it out of your way?” she asked.

“A little, but so what?  We’ve got time,” I said.

“Oh, boy,” she said.

“Now isn’t this just beautiful?” she asked as we started up the hill on the south side of the Tennessee Agricultural Center. 

“It is,” I answered.  “Wish we had been able to come over for the Molasses Festival.”

“Well, next year,” Mom said.  “Your knees are bothering you, aren’t they?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve been limping,” she said.

“Well, I walked three miles this morning and then we did water class and then we hiked at St. Thomas.  That hot tub sure felt good, didn’t it?”

“I love it,” she said.  “You know, we’re going to have to go get our eggnog ice cream at some point.”

Mom loves my tradition of going to Baskin Robbins that one time a year, just before Christmas, for a single scoop of the seasonal treat.

“Yes, we are.  But I can’t afford the calories today, Ma.”

“Me either,” she said.

“I know!  –Would you like to have a decaf latte?” I asked.

“Sure.  Where are we going to get it?”

“At Starbucks.  It’s just down Edmondson Pike, you know, from the ag center entrance.  They have this pumpkin spice one, and this cinnamon one, too, and I think you can get both of those sugar-free.”

“Okay.  Sounds good to me,” she said.

“Look. They left us a parking space.  You want to come in with me?”

“If you want me to.  I’ve never been inside a Starbucks.  I’ll get us a seat and you just order, okay?”  She sat down at the nearest table.

“Would you like a cookie or something?” I asked.

“I don’t know what they have…”

“Well, come on up and look.”  I pointed out her favorite flavors.

“Let’s split that pumpkin scone.” She was grinning big.

“And let’s sit outside,” I said.  “You go get the table, okay?  And I’ll bring out our treats.”

“This is nice,” she said.  “Don’t we have a good time together?”

“We do.”

“This is good,” she said.

“The scone or the latte?”

“Both.  I’m glad we don’t have problems.”

“Me, too.  –I love Starbucks,” I said.

“We just do all sorts of things together.”

“It’s a gorgeous day, isn’t it, Ma?”

“Sure is.  We won’t get too many more of these days.”

“No, we sure won’t.”

***

We noticed the mange several weeks ago but, at the time, just didn’t recognize what it was.   I saw the foot-long white strip stretching down his left side as he ran through the back yard; I foolishly concluded that this was a very old fox.   Within just a few days, the white had covered his backside. 

“Dave,” I said to my husband, “You know that weird fox with the white I told you about?  That’s mange!  Remember we read they’re prone to mange?” 

We read up on mange in fox populations.  “What do we do now?” we asked each other.

It turns out that the average Joe Blow can treat the mange in a wild fox population.  It’s iffy.  It’s dicey.  It’s not quick.  It’s not even sure.  But if Joe can do it, so can Dave and Dinah. 

We were to buy a bottle of Ivermectin, an injectable medication to be used “in swine.”   Why don’t they just say “pigs?”  Now don’t go conjuring up images of Dave holding down a fox while I give him a shot–No, the idea is that you take a syringe and draw up the Ivermectin from the bottle and then you shoot it into some fox-worthy food.  You set up a feeding station and feed the fox Ivermectin-laced dog food, or hot dogs, or cooked chicken every three days. 

Mangy foxes tend to get closer to humans and the buildings that humans live in. The mangy fox also hangs around in the daytime, which is unusual for the nocturnal animals.  I need to talk to whoever wrote that article because he obviously does not know our foxes here on the ravine.  Our foxes are unafraid to sprint across the back yard or trot across the street when the sun is out.  This spring, Mama Fox brought all the babies out to play every day about 10 AM.  Mangy foxes seek shelter and warmth and easy food supply.  This daytime proximity provides a good chance to target the sick fox because, after all, you’re not really sure that the fox is going to get the medicine if you don’t see him eat the treated food.   

Once we committed by buying the Ivermectin, we were in for the long haul.  Let me describe the setbacks.   Let’s start with buying the Ivermectin.  After all, that’s when the first obstacle appeared.

There’s a coop in Franklin.  There’s a TSC in Franklin.  There are two TSC’s in Murfreesboro.  So I could order from the internet or I could drive a few miles to the nearest farm supply store. 

I met my friend Peggy at the TSC on the south side of Murfreesboro at 8 AM.  We were off to our writers group meeting at 9:30 that morning and, since she raised Sussex Spaniels and assorted other mammals for years and years, Peggy was familiar with both the drug and the store.  She thought I needed help and I was sure I needed help.

“No,” the clerk told us, “We’re out of the 0.27 percent for pigs and it looks like we’re discontinuing it.  We do have the 1 percent for cattle and horses.” 

“Oh dear,” I said, “I think I better get the 0.27 percent.  I only have to draw up 5 millimeters for each dose and I’m not sure I could draw up such a tiny amount to compensate for that larger concentration…”

“We have another store on the other side of town.  Would you like me to call over there and see if they have it?”

“That would be great.  I’m going that direction.”  Peggy had told me that there was another store on the other side of Lou’s house, where we were headed for our meeting.  The other store had one bottle and they had reserved it for me.

“Follow me,” Peggy said as we hit the parking lot.   When I started discussing the merits of following versus riding with her, she took charge.  “No, just get in the car with me.  We’re wasting time …”

“I’ll call Lou and tell her we’re going to be late,” I said. 

The bottle of medicine was at the cash register.  The clerk asked me if I had a syringe.  I told him I kept a supply as we give Murphy (the Shih-tzu) an allergy shot every Sunday night.  He said he was just going to say that I could pick up a syringe at any pharmacy since I was in a hurry. 

I found out, on the first try, that Murphy’s syringes were too small to draw up the thick Ivermectin.

I stopped by Walgreens – on my next trip out of the house – to pick up prescriptions and, as the assistant asked, “You want this on your Express Pay?”, said I was going to need a “syringe with a big fat needle like for penicillin.”

“What are you going to use it for?” she asked.

“ Ivermectin,” I said.  “For foxes.”

“You’re going to give a fox a shot.” 

“No,” I said.  “You put it in their food.” 

“You’ll need to bring in your medicine and let us look at it, okay?” she said.

I nodded.  “The stuff is very thick,” I started to explain.

She interrupted me gently.  “But we can’t sell you a syringe without knowing, um, what, um…”

“Ahhhhhhh.  What I’m going to do with it.  I mean, you need to be sure….”

“Right.”

“Okay.  Okay.  I see.” 

The medicine was in the van but so was my dad and he was hungry for lunch.  I had agreed to make a Walmart run with Mom later anyway so we headed for home.

After lunch, Mom and I met at the van.  I figured I’d just take the Ivermectin in to the Walmart pharmacist.  No need to make a second trip to Walgreens. 

“This is Ivermectin,” I said to the Walmart pharmacy assistant. “I need a syringe with a needle big enough to get this stuff out in order to shoot it onto dog food.”

“Is that an injectable?” she asked as she took the bottle.  “Can you take the top off?” she asked and handed it back.

“Well,” I said, “I’ve tried.  See if you can do it.”

She took the bottle, twisted the neck and called for the pharmacist. 

“Did they not sell you a syringe to go with it?” he asked, turning – and turning – the cap.

“I was in a hurry and I thought I could get one later.  Actually, I thought one that I have for our dog might work but this stuff is too thick.  – You can’t get it off, either?”

 “I can’t see how you get it off.  I’ve never seen this before.  Where are the instructions?”

“They’re in the box but the sheet only tells about the medicine itself.  Doesn’t say a thing about how to get the lid off.”  (I was NOT going to the van to get the piece of paper with the four-point font which had already half-blinded me.)

“I can’t do it,” he said.  “Rick, come here a minute.  Have you ever seen this?”

Rick, the second pharmacist, took the bottle.  He thumped it, he twisted the lid, he shook it.  “I think you should take it back to the store.  They should be able to help you.”

The pharmacy assistant had been standing by quietly to the side of her two bosses.  The first three people in the line behind me had staggered themselves to better watch the drama.   “So do you still want these syringes?” the assistant asked.

“Yes,” I said, and swiped my card and signed the ticket for $2.78. 

I’m sure I heard the man in second position utter, “Finally,”  just as my cell phone rang. 

“I’m finished shopping,” Mom said.  “Are you ready to go?  I’ll be waiting on this bench right inside the door.”

“I’ll only be a minute.  I have to get the canned dog food,” I answered.  I headed for the grocery section on the opposite side of the superstore.

Back in the van, nine heavy bags of groceries loaded (only one of them mine), I said to Mom, “We’re going to have to go to Brentwood to see the vet.  Nobody can get the top off this bottle.”

“Oh, that’s fine.  I’m not in a hurry.  But I have ice cream.” 

“Did you put it in an insulated bag?” I asked.

“No, but it’s down in there between some other cold stuff.  It’ll be okay,” she said.  “Can’t believe I had eight bags.  I didn’t think I had to get much.”

I explained the problem to Wendy, Dr. Sullivan’s assistant.    Wendy is always helpful.

“He’s on the phone.  But let me try it,” Wendy said.

And then, after her brief turn at fiddling with the bottle cap, she laid it down on the counter and said, “He’ll be off the phone in a minute.”

Dr. Sullivan has been our vet for fourteen years.  He’s a cheerful man.

“Hmmmmmmm.  This is for one of those automatic syringe systems.  I don’t know if I can help you.  Now we keep Ivermectin here, of course, but we buy the small vials of 1%.  That’s what we use.  … Now how did they get this on here?  I can feel the rubber underneath this cap so I know you’re supposed to take the cap off…” 

“Maybe I should just go back to TSC,” I said as Dr. Sullivan handed the bottle to me.  “Maybe there’s something wrong with this bottle cap.”

“Yeah… unless… Hey, let me see if one of the large animal guys is in the office over in Nolensville.  He’ll know this stuff.  If I can’t describe it to him, we’ll just scan the bottle and send him a picture!”  Dr. Sullivan was downright pleased with himself – and I was, too.  “Let me see that thing again.” 

And, as he took the bottle from me, he pushed on the side of the cap and it shot across the front desk.  Wendy dodged.

“You almost got me!” she said.

“How did you do that?”  I asked.

“I don’t know – but it’s off!” he said.  “I’m so glad I could help you.”

We all laughed and I picked up my keys from the counter and put the medicine in my purse.

“Oh yeah, another question.    What happens if a neighborhood cat or dog gets this Ivermectin?  We have this feral cat.  And some raccoons.”

“Well.”  Dr. Sullivan paused and leaned on the counter.  “They won’t have mange.”

I thanked him, thanked Wendy, and left, almost skipping out to the handicapped parking space where I had left Mom parked in the van with a window rolled down. 

“Can we go home now?” Mom asked.  “I need to get that ice cream in the freezer.”

“Sure.  And I can feed those foxes some Ivermectin,” I said.

Treet, the poor man’s Spam.  I would have bought dog food, intended to buy canned dog food, but I looked for it in groceries at Walmart and the dog food was in pet supplies which was on the far side of the superstore – right next to the pharmacy that I had just left.  Treet.  Foxes like Treet, I convinced myself.   And it’s probably as cheap as dog food.

The new syringes didn’t work any better than what I already had, but I pulled and cajoled and, ever so slowly, drew up 5 ml of the thick liquid and shot it into some Treet. 

I mixed a few spoonfuls of treated Treet with a slice of stale bread and old chicken from the freezer and covered it with some canned beef gravy.  I wondered if I should have warmed the gravy. 

Our calico mama feral cat didn’t care whether the food was heated or not.  Neither did two fat raccoons.  I didn’t see a fox.

“I thought you were supposed to only give the medicine to them every three days,” Dave said as I wielded a skinny needle again the next evening. 

“What he said was if you know for sure that the fox is eating it, then you only have to give it every three days.  Otherwise, you have to put some in all the food you give them,” I said.

“I thought you were going to get some bigger needles,” he said.

“I am.  I’ll stop by Walgreens tomorrow morning.  Walmart said those were the biggest ones they had.”

There was a different pharmacist at Walgreens on Thursday.  I brandished the big bottle of Ivermectin. 

“Ohhhhh,” he said, “That’s going to take a penicillin needle.”

“Yes,” I said quickly, “That’s exactly what I need!” 

“We don’t have any.”

I gave him my blankest stare.

“Think about it – who gives themselves a penicillin shot?” he asked.

I sighed.  Just a small one, though.  “Oh.  What do you think I should do?”  I asked.

“If I were doing it, I think I’d just break the top off the plastic bottle and pour it all into another bottle and use a medicine dropper.  I mean, you’re not going to inject it, you said, right?”  He reached behind him and handed me a big brown plastic bottle and a medicine dropper for infants.

“Great,” I said.  “Thanks.” 

“No problem,” he answered over his shoulder as I stood at the counter waiting to pay.

“There’s no charge,” he added. 

“Well, well … thank you,” I said and left the store. 

I just couldn’t break the top off the bottle.  What if I did contaminate the stuff?  What if it ruined in the brown plastic bottle and I didn’t know it and I fed it to the foxes and the cat and the raccoons and they all died?  What if I spilled it?  How much sanitizing would I need to do to that medicine dropper in-between applications?  No.  I just couldn’t do it that way. 

Saturday night, I would go to book club in Murfreesboro. 

“Dave,” I said at breakfast, “I’m going to go to book club early.  Peggy and I are meeting at Starbucks at four to visit and before that I’ll make a swing by TSC to get a needle for this Ivermectin.” 

“Oh, that reminds me, your dad said the fox was out at the compost bin yesterday and they gave him some bread.  I told him you’d give him some treated meat to put with anything they give him to eat.”

“Good idea.  We’ve got to get that medicine in him some way.”

“So do we have some leftovers?” he asked.

“Yeah, but I’ll put the Ivermectin into that Treet I bought.  I’ll fix some up and you can take it over to Mom and Dad and they can keep some in the refrigerator.  You know, I need to shoot up some wieners with Ivermectin for Don to use, too.”  (Don, our neighbor, likes to throw out treats of cut up hot dogs.  This may as well be a community project.)

Dave changed my course.  “I mean ‘leftovers for me.’  I have to plan my dinner, you know.  You are eating dinner at book club, right?  Don’t you have to take something?  What are you taking?”

“Olive salad and pita bread.”

“What else is in the refrigerator?  Maybe I’ll just have a hot dog.”

“Oh yeah,” the young clerk at TSC said when I showed her my biggest syringe, “You need a small syringe and a big needle.  There’s no way you can draw up that stuff with something that tiny.” 

She mixed and matched the plastic syringes and the needles, weeding out the packages that had been opened. 

“Looks like you have a problem with people opening these packages,” I said.

“Yeah, this aisle is a constant challenge,” she answered and handed me a bag of syringes and a bag of needles.

“This should work fine,” she said.  “And if it doesn’t, just bring them back and I’ll trade them out for something that will.” 

I said “Thanks,” but I really wanted to tell her, “This better work.” 

Sarcoptic mange, in the last stages, is fatal.  The animal’s immune system is compromised and internal parasites begin to take over and absorb any nutrients that the fox may find.  Mangy foxes are usually starving in the last stages.  Sometimes, because of the fur loss and the infected skin, the fox will die of hypothermia.  If the weather is unusually hot and the fox can’t find good shelter, he might die of hyperthermia.

“Grammy, what is that for?”  Jameson, my six-year-old grandson pointed to the Ivermectin bottle on the shelf in my office. 

“It’s medicine for the mangy fox,” I answered.

“Is he all better now?” Jameson asked.

“I don’t think he is,” I answered.

“Did you see him yesterday?” he asked.

“No.  I saw him last week.  I’ve only seen him one time since we bought the medicine.  I’m afraid we’re going to lose him.” 

“Well, Grammy, how about the other foxes?  Are you going to give them the medicine?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“For how long?”

“Well, for a long time.   Maybe forever,” I answered.

“Hm.  I hope it works.  They look like little red dogs,” Jameson said.

***

Yesterday, I wondered if we would have an autumn this year.  Today, almost suddenly, there is a shower of golden leaves outside my window.  They drift and saunter and lollygag; then the wind kicks up and they whirl and spin and drive to the ground.  It’s going to rain.  Rain!  After weeks of draught, a thousand gallons of city water for the roses, and ground so hard it takes a pick-axe to pull a weed, it’s raining. 

Dad told me last night, “This is just what we’ve been waiting for.”

Last week, Dad knocked on The Cellar door.  (I was writing.) 

“Come on in, Dad.  Sit a spell.”

“I ain’t gonna sit down unless you give me a drink.”

“Well, hold on.  I happen to have a little bourbon in this refrigerator.  Here it is.”

He chose a spot on the couch and put on his serious face.  “I wanted to talk to you about your roses.  Well, actually, there’s a few things.”

I nodded.  I poured myself one, too, and sat down in my desk chair and opened the bottom drawer and propped my feet.

“I think your soaker hose needs to be re-done and I know how to do it.   That little ditch needs to go all around the rose bed and the dirt needs to be piled up on top.  They do that all the time like where you see commercial landscaping.”

“You’re talking about a berm.”

“Is that what you call it?  Okay.  Berm.”

“Well, go to it.  Just don’t pile any dirt up around my roses.  That crown of the rose needs to be where I’ve planted it.  You know, it’s almost time to winterize those things.  I’ve got to read up again.”

“Okay, well, here’s my list.”  He counted on big thick fingers on a weathered palm.  Number one was his little finger.  “First, do that berm thing on the roses and re-do the soaker hose.  Then, that ground out front is hard as rock.  What happened is they dug that up and you planted it when it was wet.  It didn’t get a chance to lay there.  It’s got to be loosened up.  So I need to take up those small plants – leave the bushes alone – and put some loose, good dirt and peat moss and compost and work it in.  Then I can put those little plants back down.  And, third, I’m going to turn that ground for my garden.”

“Go to it.  Fine with me.  But you better not disturb my rose roots.  These roses have been the best I’ve ever had.”

He mocked me with his bitchy-woman voice.  “I’m not going to ruin your roses, Sis-Puss.”

He thought of something else.  “I can’t dig out front until it rains.  I’m going to rent that big garden tiller with the tines behind it from down at that rental place – $75 for four hours or $50 for three hours – and I can do the front and my garden while I’ve got it.”

 “Dad,” I said, “We can soak that ground down.  Water it good for two or three days and you’ll be able to dig.”

“Nooooooooo,” he said.  “No need to water except in an emergency.  We’ll just wait ‘til it rains.  You can go ahead and get the mulch, though.  Want me to go with you in the truck?”

“I don’t know exactly when I’m going yet,” I said.

“Well, you just get whatever you think, and I’ll spread it.  And I’ll unload it, too,” he said.

“Okay, I really do need to read up on winterizing roses.  I forget every year how to do it and have to read all over again.”

“What did we do last year?” he asked.

“Well, now, the rose bed wasn’t there.  We just planted those this spring.  And the ones we brought over from the other house were heeled in down there on the bank.  Remember, we brought all that stuff over in November and put them in the ground and strawed them in?”

Pause.  Sigh.  “Dad, we’ve been here a year,” I said.

“Mom and I’ll be here a year in November,” Dad said.

“I get to thinking that we – I mean, Dave and I – should have been further along by now.  And yet…”

Dad arched his eyebrows, shook his head, and rattled the ice in his glass.  “Ah, Sis, just think of all we’ve done!  Look around you, girl.”

“That’s just what I was about to say, Daddy.  When I think that I should have been able to get more done, I look at the roses and the corner gardens and even the front…“

“Our vegetables…those vines all over your porch rails…your roses…”

“Morning glories and moonflowers.  I think I’ll plant those again next year,” I said.

“Oh, it’s pretty.  Beautiful place.  I never thought it would be this way.”

“It’s changed.  A whole lot,” I said.

 “I like to think I’ve helped.”

“Yeah, you’ve done pretty good for an old fart,” I told him.  “Give me that glass.  Mom’s going to be looking for you.”

Mustn’t get too serious.

***

We’re away from the ravine again.  We’re staying somewhere very close to Santa Cruz, California.  Our friends, the Grillos, live in a fantasy place that they call Aptos Hills.  Somewhere close by is Aptos, a very fashionable and quaint little village and somewhere else are the Santa Cruz hills and even a little bit further down the road is the City of Santa Cruz.   There’s Capitola-by-the-Sea and Watsonville where there are lots of strawberries and a bunch of artichokes and then, on down and around the bay, there is Monterey. 

Dave and I love Aptos Hills.  The ocean is never far away.  The weather is moderate; almost anything pretty grows here without much effort, it seems.  The Farmers’ Markets are treasure-rows of fruits, vegetables, nuts, plants, honey, flowers and handmade items ranging from hand-woven wool to utility items like knives and dish drains.  Saturday morning we bought peaches, green peppers, and almonds.  We tasted the sauerkraut but decided to wait and buy a jar at a local market. 

The Grillo casa is nothing but beautiful, with a back yard full of apples, pears, berries, and lemons.  During the ten years our friends have owned the home, they’ve peformed miraculous upgrades and improvements.   The kitchen re-modeling included granite countertops and an etched-glass breakfast bar.  The living room/dining room makeover featured a massive handmade buffet and new neutrals in the living room – neutral except for, of course, the hydrangea-print chair, the one I always choose to sit my Southern bottom in. 

Every time we arrive for another visit, there’s something marvelously changed. This time, it was the grounds.  But what always makes our visits with the Grillos is not the weather, not the shopping, not the beach.  There are two things:  food and talk.  They’re the same two ingredients that make the Grillos’ visits with us in Tennessee, too.  Doesn’t matter who cooks, it’s always good.  Doesn’t matter what we talk about, it’s always better.

Food.  Just off the plane, Mrs. Grillo served up two hot soups, split-pea and chicken tortilla, both her specialties.  Our high school reunion in Pittsburg featured real Mexican stuff from the New Mecca Cafe, a well-known culinary treat in Pittsburg for over seventy-five years.  On Sunday, we ate hotdogs at the A’s game so Mrs. Grillo fed us grilled chicken salad – Not just any salad, but a big garlic-rubbed wooden bowl of greens, beets, purple onions, carrots, warm sliced chicken, crumbled bleu cheese and a finish of some old balsamic vinegar and good olive oil.   So far, on these weekdays, we’ve eaten at Phil’s Fish Market where the specialty is that pungent and brothy Italian seafood soup called cioppino, the famous Cliff House in San Francisco – where we loaded ourselves with sourdough and popovers, crab, and more fresh greens, and, yesterday, fish tacos at Olita’s on the Wharf in Santa Cruz.   For supper?  Fresh Bavarian sausages and locally-cured sauerkraut and corn-on-the-cob.

Let’s not forget breakfasts:  whole-wheat biscuits, eggs fresh from Glaum’s Egg Ranch, fruit salad, bacon, fried apples from the trees in the back (my Southern addition with lots of butter and sugar).  We cook – and we eat.  We should all be regular listeners to that NPR program “The Spendid Table.”  Lynne Rossetto Kasper always tags the introduction with “for people who like to eat.”   

Talk.   While we cook, and while we eat, we talk.  We even talk when we’re not cooking or eating.  Oh, we cover the usual for two couples with grandchildren.  Kids – four between them and three between us, grandkids – five and 3/4 for them and four for us with some great possibilities for more, jobs – Alex is a research physicist on the ATLAS project headquarted in Cern (you know, the Large Hadron Collider – think “Angels and Demons”), no jobs – Dave and Jean are really retired from real jobs, retirement, “going to retire” (I’ve “retired” several times), the 60’s (“if you remember the 60’s, you weren’t really there), a touch on the 50’s (Dave saw Buddy Holly and all the rest in Hot Springs, South Dakota),  home repairs and renovations completed, repairs that need to be done, repairs here vs. there, new landscaping, garden projects that need to be done, plants that grow here vs. there, laundry – and new laundry appliances, travel, weather.  But we cover some BIG topics, too – public schools vs. charter schools, mathematics (J’s job was a math coach for elementary teachers), the operations and theory of that collider at Cern (Dave and I don’t have a clue), immigration (there are some differences between California and Tennessee), home sales (we have a beautiful one for a reasonable price if you’re looking), the tax code (Dave=the Deloitte tax partner), government and politics, Obama, The Gubernator, the New Orleans Chief of Police (who was ours until N.O. stole him away). 

Just now, and just for a few minutes, here’s how the thread ran:

You know the thing that’s different about your hummingbirds?  So who votes for eggs?  I don’t like that all that sheetrock dust is flying around in their dining room.  They light on the feeder and drink for a long while – I mean, at least one of them does.  These apples are really good.  No, that wasn’t real Mecca food.  Maybe I’ll just fry up some apples and put whipped cream on them.  Ours never light for long.  Did you know that Willia WAS at the reunion?  Maybe it’s because the perch gets too hot.  Yeah, the brown sugar and cinnamon helped.  Walnuts, too.  Lots of fog. Yeah.  I really don’t know what they expect Obama to do if they won’t do it with him.   We really need to eat some lunch before the play.  I heard something dripping and thought your roof was leaking.  Well, even the Liberals are being bad.  There are so many flowers I’m surprised they’re at the feeder.  I just hated Nixon.  They’re disappointed.   You voted for George McGovern? -That surprises me.  We still have a bunch of that tortilla soup.  I’ve acquired a bit of sympathy for Nixon.  Her laptop weighs a ton.  I don’t think he’s been any worse than most of the rest.  Are we going to pick apples today?  Did you take your morning pills?  Next time you need to go Mac.  I need a sympathy card.  These things are two days old and taste pretty good.  I smell fish.  It’s because of the sugar.  Well, yeah, there was Reagan selling arms…    No, I’m talking about the popovers.  There’s no fish.  A guy can’t be President without some distance from reality.  That’s a native mint plant.  I have these other cards, too.  See my little oak tree?  Can we stop at Surf City? We’re out of coffee at home.  You should see Alex’s email.  You can’t call it the SuperCollider; that was in Texas.  Because I like to hold a book in my hands.  Why not olive oil?  You’ll smell fish when I heat up that leftover cioppino.  He didn’t want her to tell about the illegal substances.  I’m going to go download all those pictures.  I don’t know why it’s drooping – I watered it.  Did you call your mother?  Why wouldn’t you be cheered up looking at that every morning?  New dishtowels – these are wet.  No, I was not talking about cooking.  How do you know how firm it is if you can’t see the sleep number?  Why were you taking a picture of Alex’s foot?  She said she saw the fox yesterday.

Friends.  Friends with a lot of history.

None of it has to be coherent; it still makes perfectly good sense.

Custer High School, Class of 1960.  The 50th reunion (Dave’s) coincided with Gold Discovery Days in Custer, South Dakota, July 23 and 24.  Now, Gold Discovery Days equal a big deal for this town of 1800 and all the high school classes schedule their reunions for this same weekend.

It turns out there wasn’t much gold in them thar Black Hills, but the celebration continues.  The Class of 1945 rode in the parade in Model T’s; let’s see, that would make most of the members at least 83 years old – and there were at least ten of them.

We left Nashville and the ravine on Thursday, the 22nd.  We dropped off Murphy at Miss Kitty’s Bed and Bath – Murphy, the little black and white girl Shih-tzu who has taken so well to having a set of grandparents just “through the skybridge.”  She usually goes to Grandma’s and Grandpa’s every morning after breakfast and her morning walk.  They listen for her bark at the door and run (well, maybe walk fast) to let her in.  She drinks fresh water that Grandma puts out and then, with a big sigh, lies down at Grandpa’s feet in the den for a morning nap.

Murphy loves Miss Kitty’s; what’s not to love?  No dogs over twenty inches tall, they take them out four times a day for play time, and a caretaker spends the night.  They even get birthday parties if their boarding happens to coincide.  So we just say that she’s “going on vacation, too” and  she romps down the hallway to find her ward and her room.   Mom and Dad don’t mind our vacations but they’re not crazy about Murphy’s.

The South Dakota trip was a fast one, just four days and three nights.  Amazing what you can pack into a short time and space:  Mt. Rushmore, the sixty-year old unfinished Crazy Horse monument, the Needles, Custer State Park, the Gold Pan Saloon (swinging doors, sawdust floors), the Buglin Bull Restaurant and Sports Bar (on the other side of the main street, Mt. Rushmore Road), Fort Gordon,  the car show, Cattleman’s Family Dining, a “Frontier Photo,” almost two thousand buffalo, a dozen deer, five antelope, five or six hundred wild donkeys, twelve fields of wildflowers, and the Gold Discovery Days Parade with a couple hundred small children chasing after candy or dodging water balloons (both standards thrown from floats).

We did not miss Nashville and we did not really miss the ravine; we were having too much fun sopping up the South Dakota weather –  85 in the daytime, down to 60 or lower after the sunset.  When we landed in Nashville at 7:30 on Sunday night, it was 95.  Ninety-five.  By the time we pulled in the driveway, Mom and Dad were both in bed.  We’d pick Murphy up on Monday after her hairdresser appointment.

“Hi, we’re home!” I called as I walked through Mom’s back door.

“Yeah, how was your trip?” she gave a perfunctory response.

Dad interrupted with “Yeah, when is Murphy coming home?”

We have this big ramp on the northeast side of the main house that leads to the covered porch.  It’s a good-looking structure with white rails just like the porch’s and big painted concrete pillars for support that grow taller as the driveway descends a hill. 

A good place to plant some oak-leaf hydrangeas was the first thought, the first time I saw the ramp.  That was last August 1st, and at some point before April 30th I must have decided that morning-glories around the columnar posts are just the thing while we wait for the climbing roses I planted to spread and reach. Dublin Bay, a rich fragrant red,  two of them, one for each of the tallest posts. Oh yeah, there are a couple of pots of green things – vinca and monkey grass – and there’s a cucumber plant. 

Dad and I were having a cocktail the other evening, the standard time for our discussion of flowers, weeds, planter boxes, tomatoes, and my gardening skills. 

“Sis-Puss” (his old, old name for me), “You better do something about those vines over there under your ramp.  They’re all over the place.”

“Yeah, I guess I should tie them up.  Do you have any twine?”

I calculated, predicted, was confident of, Dad’s response:  “Sis, I’ll just go over there and tie them up for you if you’ll be happy with the way I do it.”  And I would reply:  “Oh, Dad, thank you… thank you… I don’t care how you do it.” 

The real reply was,  “Grass-twine.  It’s on my shop table just inside the door of the garage.  Plenty of it.”

So this morning, I staked lengths of Dad’s  grass-twine into the ground, wound it around those ivory concrete posts and tied it to the ramp rails.  Then I carefully pulled morning-glories away from the thriving roses and commanded them to “stick!” to the string and forever leave the roses alone.  At least for the last hour (I just checked), the morning-glories have proved to be obedient; it’s too early to suggest they might be well-trained. 

But now all that cleanup left bare mulched ground that begs for more plants.  Lucky – Mom and I sowed zinnia seeds in some planters this spring and either Mom and I or the zinnias have been overzealous.  I’ll just move some of those to the ground in-between the posts. 

The roses are ready to climb but they’re going to need some help before they can reach the posts.  I need trellises.  Not very tall ones, nor wide either, but I definitely need trellises.  And some more monkey grass would rrrrrreally fill in under the ramp…  That cucumber has blossoms!

Growing morning-glories under the ramp, just like moving the whole blessed lot of us to the ravine, has its surprises.

Looking back to Moving Day 7  – from Month 9 after The Move.   

October 21, 2009  I’m already at that point where there’s a certain amount of joy over a broken glass…it means I don’t have to find a place to put it! We have more total space at this new “house” (hereinafter referred to as “compound”) than at Beech Tree Lane, but it’s all in such different places. NONE of the additional square footage is in the kitchen cabinets – in either of the THREE kitchens.Well, actually, the kitchen in the “apartment” doesn’t count because Mom and Dad will fill those cabinets on November 4. But there is a full kitchen in my new digs in the efficiency apartment (to be called “the studio”) in the walkout basement. I get six hundred square feet of office, kitchen, bath and laundry room. How did I wind up with the laundry room, anyway? But about that kitchen down there…There’s only one small cabinet, but there’s this nook where bunches of shelves can hold the overflow from the upstairs kitchen. Here’s my strategy: whatever won’t fit in the upstairs kitchen, I’ll take to the studio kitchen shelves. Mom keeps talking about throwing this big garage sale party in the spring, when we both know what we need here, and what we don’t. I figure I’ll shelve all these extras until April and then I’ll survey the shelves for dust. Whatever has a measurable five months of covering goes in the garage sale!Jameson and Carly, the two local grand-rugrats, are coming for their first sleep-over Friday night. We’ll go down to the studio and I’ll pop in some DVD’s on heavy equipment, or cooking, or whales – all very popular with J & C. Jameson will watch and provide play-by-play while Carly hands me stuff for the shelves.This morning I looked out the picture window to the back yard; that’s become my first-thing habit already. The porch (or is it a deck?) is finished on Mom and Dad’s apartment. I’m imagining Mom watering geraniums and petunias and begonias. I can just see Daddy making a slow but determined descent to his garden.This is all worth it.

Month 8, Day 22   After The Move – Everything has been so much more than I expected.  Larger.  Smaller.  Harder.  Faster.  Easier.  Better.  Dirtier.  Happier.  Busier.  Prettier.  And, today – Hotter.  More.  More of everything. 

The shelves in the basement – which has now been named “The Cellar” – are still full, but they’re junkier and my anal-but-oh-so-helpful-and-appreciated friend and I are about to clean them up.  No garage sale, though.  The extras will be offered to the kids and their rejects will go to ThriftSmart.  After all, ThriftSmart sales fund The Belize Project and Mercy Children’s Clinic. 

Most of my books are now on the shelf in The Cellar but that only happened recently and now I need one more bookcase.  Ah, craigslist.com.  Two good-sized bookshelves for $25 – I’ll pick those up on Friday from sweet Jill.  It sure is handy to have Dad’s pickup truck onsite. 

Mom sold her Nissan Sentra before Christmas.  She doesn’t plan to drive again.  She can – but she wants to quit while she can.  Ah, craigslist.com – The first looker bought it.  I think she cleared about $3000, just the investment needed to finance the construction of a library for Dad.  Our neighbor is a builder and while he was in-between jobs, he and his contractor brother enclosed a large area around the lift on the ground level of the apartment.  Dad’s brother, my Uncle Frank, came to help with some finishing and painting, granddaughter-in-law Vicky assembled seventeen WalMart bookcases, and Mom hung pictures and certificates on the walls.  Dad painted the concrete floor and rolled out colorful area rugs.  We hooked up his computer about a month ago.  Dad can ride the lift directly down to his library and while he’s hidden away down there, Mom plays her piano, reads, or naps with Murphy, our little Shih-tzu. 

Murphy.  She’s become the “granddog supreme.”  She never misses a day tearing down the hall and barking to be let in to the apartment, a habit that is a delight to Mom and Dad.  Murphy refuses to be alone now, so if Dave and I leave home she goes to Grandma’s.  She also believes that Grandma and Grandpa can better soothe her during a thunderstorm, so at the smallest clap of thunder, Murphy is sitting under Grandpa’s feet.  If it gets really bad, Grandpa holds her in his lap. 

Jameson and Carly love the new place.  They’re attached to The Cellar and to the rain sprinkler in the back yard.  They also keep up with our resident family of red foxes; we calculate that there are at least sixteen that reside in the ravine.  This spring, we ooh-ed and ah-ed over two litters of babies; their moms would bring them up to sun every afternoon.  Of course, we also watch DVD’s down here in The Cellar; we like Scooby-Doo and have just discovered the movie “Coraline;” Mom and Dad put the hiatus on “FatBoy and ChumChum.”  (No sense of humor.)  Just a few weeks after the move, we discovered “the secret playground” at the local elementary school, so we make frequent trips where Grammy sits on a lovely green bench and cheers on the sliding and monkey-barring.  We keep special treats in The Cellar kitchen and Jameson cheerfully re-stocks the refrigerator from the supply of Diet Coke, Capri Sun, and spring water that we keep in the garage.  We even cook hotdogs down here. 

But, then, the grounds… The grounds are the biggest “more.”  We have barnwood flowerboxes from the farm surrounding the patio with pansies, petunias, cosmos, zinnias – and lettuce, cucumbers, radishes, carrots and a walnut tree.  There’s a thriving rose garden of Imagine, Deep Secret, Jude the Obscure, Distant Thunder, and Lemon Spice – all own-root English roses.  We’ve transplanted crape myrtle volunteers from the old gardens, along with irises, daylilies, more roses, yarrow, barberries, spirea, dianthus… and more.  We found a used white arbor on Craigslist, where else,  to define the entrance to a corner garden and we built a curvy brick path to the foxes’ entrance to the ravine on neighbor Don’s property.  How could we help but name it the “foxpath” after seeing the white-tips trotting down the winding path?   There’s more to be done; this particular “more” will never end.

And the porch on the old folks’ apartment?  (Oh, don’t cull me for calling them “the old folks;” they started it.)   That porch is full of ferns, geraniums, cacti – and windchimes.  I watch Mom water the pots strategically placed on top of the porch rails; then she leans wayyyyyy over to drop some nourishment to pots of hyacinth beans climbing the support posts and cypress vines covering the rails.  I watch Dad descend the stairs most mornings, walking stick in hand, straw hat shading his eyes, his back straight as a country preacher.  He waters the boxes and pots on the ground and then he retires to his library.   He’s teaching a Sunday school class during the month of July, so he needs to prepare.

More.  Better.  Lovelier. 

This is worth it.

“And don’t walk around on the bank behind that line of irises.  The ground is soft and it’ll throw you.  You’ll wind up twenty feet straight down in the ravine and I’m not sure how we’d get you back up.”  Dad’s given me that warning three times now.

Yesterday I asked him,  “So I guess you know this from personal experience?” 

“Yeah, I didn’t think I was ever going to climb back up.  And right now’s not a good time to go in the ravine, anyway.  The snakes are out.”

“You’ve seen snakes?”

“Nope, but I know they’re out.  They like this hot weather.” 

It’s too darn hot…. too darn hot…  That’s from Kiss Me, Kate, isn’t it?  Yeah, well, over here on the ravine, it’s too hot for kissing Kate or anybody else and it’s defnitely too darn hot for gardening.  I was going out at 6 a.m. this morning – I didn’t.  I was going to come in at 9:00 – I didn’t.  By noon I’d dug up about fifty iris tubers and planted four barberries and weeded out about twenty clumps of crabgrass.  Spent?  Oh yeah, I was.  And hot.

I was downstairs early so I should have gone on out there but I was watching a big black dog chase a fox – stupid dog.  The fox was having a teasing good time.  Back and forth across the back yard they sprinted with the fox taking a confusing occasional detour into the ravine on one end and back out on the other.  Blackie’s ears went straight up – Huh? he said.  What’s this?  And finally, he could stand no more; he plunged down into the ravine beside the compost bin, one of the favorite foxtrots. 

Fox came back up and sat down in front of the roses and leisurely scratched himself.  Now – I’m not saying that something got Blackie down there at the bottom of the ravine, but I never saw him come back out.  Not a good time to go in the ravine.

So I didn’t get outside until I thought perhaps Act III of the drama had ended but then, I didn’t have a script in front of me to make sure.  My plan was only to plant the barberries, two red and two green, and to weed a sizeable patch of the back corner garden, the one that has the foxpath to the ravine on Don’s property.  (Don is our bachelor neighbor.  We think of him as the Don of the neighborhood.  He sees all, knows all.  And he grows some wicked tomatoes.)

“Good morning, Miss Diana.”  Don made me jump.  I didn’t see him digging around in his lettuce and onions.  “What are you doing this morning?  Garden’s looking good…”

“Well, I spend most of my time on it just pondering.  Then I spend the rest of my time wondering why I don’t get more done.  Guess I’m going to dig dirt today.  Lettuce looking good, Don.”

“Get you some of it.  Onions almost ready, too.  What are you digging on?”

“Going to plant these little bushes.  Then I think I’ll move a couple of those irises over here by the daylilies.”

Dad and I heeled in a thirty-foot line of irises on the ravine bank last fall when we moved in.  They’ve needed weeding, or moving, or both, so I determined to start transplanting a few at a time, here and there.  Sure enough, the first ones I dug up had some root damage.  It was a quick thought – as opposed to my usual meandering ponder.   Uh-oh, I better dig all these things up and clean them up and get them moved before I lose the whole bunch of them.

I dug.  I wiped my face with an old damask napkin.  I dug.  I sprayed myself every few minutes with the garden hose.  I pulled grass and vine out of the roots.   I dug.  Too darn hot.  I checked my cellphone; yep, still in its plastic ziplock bag.  (I lost the last one to garden sweat.)  I dug.  I separated the tubers.   I got the whole row of irises dug up, cleaned up, separated.  And I only threatened a plunge into the ravine twice. 

The first time I was rescued by an unwitting muscadine twined into a tight thick pad on a felled tree.  The other time I grabbed the edge of the compost bin and pulled and crawled back up.  That ground was soft and it threw me.  Snakes are out.  Big black dog is down in the ravine.  How would I ever get back up?

I went to see Dad after lunch.  He said he’d been outside but didn’t get any work done.  “Too hot to do much outside,” he said.  I told him I dug up the irises. 

“You did?  You better be careful walking on the bank behind where those irises were.  That ground is soft and it’ll throw you.”

“Yeah, well, guess what I saw this morning…. that big black dog was chasing a fox across the back yard….”  I went on to recount the story.

Dad thought for a minute.  “Well, I’m not saying something ate him up down there in the ravine, but you never saw him come back up, and I never saw him come back up…”

Just sayin’.