Of Cataracts and Captains: Everything Gonna Be Okay

Dave and I rarely go out to see a movie. We’re like a lot of other “old folks” who prefer to watch movies via Netflix or Amazon in the comfort and slouchy dress of our den. But, Tuesday, when I was on the way home from an appointment with the eye guy, Dave said we were going to see the 1:40 showing of Captain Phillips.
He added that Mom would be serving lunch at 12:30 so we would need to eat and run. 

I said okay. I was already in something of a daze. Dr. J had dilated my eyes and, furthermore, had informpirate_cuteed me that his surgeon friend would take my cataracts out and put new lenses in before the end of the year. Don’t get me wrong, I want cataract surgery. I’ve been praying for cataracts for twenty-five years, since the day the ophthalmologist told me that’s the only way I’d get my wonky vision fixed.

At my May appointment, Dr. J did not change my prescription. Instead, he said that the beginnings of cataracts were causing blurring and glare and all the typical cataract symptoms.

“Can I have surgery?” I asked.

“Not yet,” was the answer. “Come back to see me in six months.”

I was supposed to go back in November but things couldn’t wait, and yet, after he gave me the pronouncement on Tuesday, I said, “I just can’t believe it’s my cataracts causing these problems.”

Dr J answered, “And now we know why I’m the eye doctor and you write stories.”

We both laughed out loud, along with the practice administrator who was acting as my nurse/tech for the day. (The clinic was overrun so the boss had to come out of his office.)

I was shocked, surprised, flummoxed. I expected to get a new glasses prescription, and maybe-oh-maybe get lens implants sometime in late 2014. Dr. J explained that the earlier cataracts start, the faster they seem to progress. He also said some of the ‘damned if you do, damned if you don’t’ pills I’ve swallowed during the last couple of years hurried things along. I shyly admitted that I also went outside and stood in the sun without sunglasses, too, another aid to cataract progression. (I said I wanted cataracts, okay?)

“Dave,” I said, “I’m going to have cataract surgery.”

“When?”

“Soon. Before the end of the year.”

“Huh. Well, you know what Captain Phillips is about, don’t you? It’s the story of that ship the Somali pirates hijacked, remember?”

“Yeah, okay. Well, tell Mom I’m on my way.”

We ate a leisurely dinner of chicken and dumplings, one of Mom’s specialties, and headed for the theatre. I drove, and wondered why I would want to do that since I really don’t see so well.

We saved fifty cents each at the box office as we got the senior rate. When we smelled the popcorn, we knew we had to have it. There was ample time for Dave to calculate the best option between a small bag and one large drink, or the medium combo of a bigger bag of popcorn and two medium drinks. He can’t help it. He’s a retired accountant and he counts everything. We got the combo.

When we got to our seats, I asked Dave, “This turns out okay, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t you ever watch the news?” he asked.

“Yeah, but sometimes they change the story in the movie,” I answered.

“Everything turns out alright,” he said.

In the opening scene of the movie, Captain Phillips and his wife are in the car together, on the way to the airport. He’s going to sea. They talk about whether their children are fit for this new world we live in. When they get to the airport, Andrea assures her husband that everything will be fine and they kiss goodbye. 

Fifteen minutes into the movie, we were done with popcorn. I set the half-full bag on the seat beside me and Dave said we could take the extra home. I told him he could have it because I don’t like leftover popcorn.

The head hijacker’s name is Muse. Muse, saying that he knows Phillips is American, asks the captain, “But what’s your tribe?”

“Oh, well, I’m Irish,” Phillips says, and Muse calls him Irish for the rest of the movie.

Just about the time Muse reassures Phillips for the first time, “Everything gonna be okay, Irish,” Dave punched me with his elbow.

“Give me the popcorn bag,” I heard him say.

He buried his head in that popcorn. I wondered how he could be hungry. Just a couple of minutes later, he got up and left with the popcorn.

It finally occurred to me that he wasn’t hungry, but was using the popcorn bag for, well, you know . . . He was sick. I got up and met him in the hallway on his way back. He was carrying the bag.

“I didn’t know what happened to you,” I said.

“I said, ‘Hand me that popcorn bag, I’m going to be sick,'” he said.

“Didn’t hear you. Are you having chest pains?”

“No. It’s my stomach.”

“Is your arm numb?”

“No. It’s my stomach. I’ll be okay. I’m just going to stand down here for a while where I can watch the movie.”

“Let’s go home.”

“No. I’ll be okay in a few minutes.”

“Then I’m staying with you.”

“I guess we won’t be taking any popcorn home,” he said.

“Don’t make me throw up,” I said.

“Why don’t you go on back to our seats? I’ll be up there in a few minutes.”

“No. I’m staying here with you.”

We leaned our heads over the handrails, mostly hidden from the audience, until he said, “Oops, I need . . .” and left again for the restroom. I heard Muse say, “Everything gonna be okay.”

Five minutes later, Dave was back. “I need a new bag,” he said. “The bottom of this one is really soggy.”

“We need to go home,” I said.

“No. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll go get one,” I said.

At the now-quiet concession stand I explained, “I need a large, empty bag. My husband is sick.”

The dark-headed young man, so cute, said, “Oh, no, we can’t do that.”

“What? You can’t give me a bag?”

“How about I give you one of these medium sizes?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said.”That’s great.” It’s just the large he can’t give me.

“But you’ll have to bring it back.”

“Bring it back. You know why I’m getting this bag . . .”

“Yeah, but they don’t let us give anything away unless we account for it.”

I nodded my head.

Dave was still leaning on the rail. I gave him the new bag.

“I have to take that back,” I said.

“Really?”

“Something about having to account for all the bags,” I said.

“It’s to keep them from giving free popcorn to their friends,” he said.

We both re-assumed our leaning position.

“We need to go home, Dave.”

“No. I’m not going. I’m seeing this movie.”

“Then let’s sit in those front seats there,” I said. “You can run right out here if you need to leave again.”

“Yeah. I’m going to be okay,” he said.

Muse said something similar just as we sat down.

“You could go get our Diet Cokes,” Dave said.

“No, I am not running around, up and down this theater. I have some water in my purse.”

“Okay, I’ll have some.”

I handed the water to him and it might have been another thirty minutes before he said, “I gotta go.”

I knew he didn’t mean he had to go home. I just stayed put and tried to figure out where we were with the captain and the pirates.

Muse knew his hours, and perhaps his minutes, were numbered. And still he persisted in assuring his hostage–and himself, “Everything gonna be okay.”

Dave got back in turn to see the finish.

When they rescue Captain Phillips from his captors, a real-life Navy Corpsman, Danielle Albert, treats him and asks him questions about his injuries. Phillips, in shock, overwhelmed physically and emotionally, wants to know if his family knows that he is okay. She says they know.

Then, I swear, she tells him, “Everything is going to be okay.”

Dave and I were first out the door. I told him I needed to return the bag. “Or,” I said, “maybe I should just toss it. What are they going to do to me?”

Remember I said Dave is an accountant? “No, no,” he said, “if they have to count it . . . Here.” He handed me a folded popcorn bag. “This is the first bag. I’ll keep the other for the car.”

I found my cute boy and held the bag up by one corner.

“I can’t believe you want this yucky bag . . .”

“We have to account,” he said. “Inventory, you know.” He took the bag over the counter with a napkin.

“I still can’t believe you want that.”

“Well, we’re not going to use it.”

“Ohhhh, good,” I said.

I got to the van at the same time as Dave. He climbed in the passenger seat and I drove.

I fussed for a few minutes. “I just wonder if the health department knows they collect bags of vomit in the same place they serve popcorn.”

Dave said, “We’ll have to watch it again on Netflix. Then I can see the parts I missed.”

I didn’t wreck, run a red light, or veer off the road. 

Everything gonna be okay.

Hot Cha-Cha!

Let’s just say that I should remember not to always follow Mom’s advice, especially when it comes to hot peppers.

Hot Pepper Jelly

She needed a project. She decided to make hot pepper jelly since we have peppers of all sorts coming out our ears, we all love the stuff, and we like to gift it for Christmas. I laid in a supply of sugar, pectin, vinegar, and jars.

She’s had a bit of stomach trouble lately so when Dad picked the passel of peppers last week, she wasn’t ready to start canning. Today was the fourth day for those peppers. They were in the fridge, and they looked fine, but it was just time.

I told her I would help her. I put ham and beans on the stove to start some soup for lunch, then I began to chop peppers and boil water.

Mom asked, “What can I do?”

I said, “Why don’t you chop some vegetables for the bean soup?”

We made her a place at the kitchen table where she could sit and slice carrots, celery, and onions for the soup. I said, “Just tell me when you’re ready for me to throw it in the pot.” When I had added her choppings and washed the cutting board, I jarred up the first batch of jelly. It was red. It was also a bit boring, according to Mom.

“I think you should just throw the whole jalapenos in the next batch. We do not want hot pepper jelly that is not hot.”

“Okay, Manuela,” I answered.

A few weeks ago, our long-term cleaning lady asked me if the peppers I just sacked up for her were hot. I said, “Manuela, they burned my hands when I seeded them for salsa.”

She answered, “Seeded them? Huh. I just throw the whole thing in the blender.”

So we did two more batches Manuela-style.

Hot? Yes. Caliente? Si.

My hands burn, my eyes water, my nose runs. Hot. Really hot.

If you want some really, really, really hot pepper jelly, let me know. I know where to find it. I’m calling it “Mama Blair’s Hotter-than-Hale Pepper Jelly”.

And I refuse to listen to that woman again when she counsels me regarding hot pepper jelly. I think she’s a dragon.

Surprises.

Hummingbirds have been scarce this year on the ravine. In early summer, I saw one in the butterfly bed and another in the lower garden. We experienced a veritable hummingbird drought–until August 1, the first day of my birthday month.

I had just set my laptop on the porch table and pulled out my chair, ready to fully appreciate that morning’s soft, cooling rain. For a teensy-tiny second, I heard a small roar and then he whirred past my head, a ruby-throat out of nowhere. I jumped and he lingered so I headed for the den.

“Dave, a hummingbird just buzzed me. Look, I have chill-bumps all over my arms.”

He glanced up from the newspaper.  “You’re kidding.”

Dave was in his third week of jury duty for a medical malpractice suit. He calculated only a few minutes to walk Murphy, shower, and head downtown for the day.

“Maybe it’s my red shirt,” I said.

“Maybe he’s telling you to put some new stuff in the feeders.”

“Yeah, I’m doing that right now.” I quickly brought the sugar solution to a boil, turned the flame off, and set the pot aside to cool. From the kitchen window, I watched chickadees and purple finches on every seed feeder.  “Those gluttonous little birds in the back yard are telling me it’s time to re-fill their feeders. They seem to like to eat when it rains.”

Time to make Dave’s lunch, so I set out all the makings and gave him choices. I enjoyed that new task. This was the first time I’d sent Dave “off to work”.

“Pita?” I asked. The day before he ate leftover rolls from Sunday’s dinner at Demo’s.

“Yes, please.”

“Celery sticks?” He could have had carrots.

I threw in four cherry tomatoes from my plant in the mini-rose garden and five grape-sized from Dad’s overloaded bush at the edge of the vegetables.

“Potato sticks or cheese poufs?”

“Ummm, cheese poufs.” He folded the paper. “What kind of bag are you going to use to hold the brownies?”

When Dave said that the other jurors were bringing treats, I offered my specialty. He informed his new friends on Monday that Wednesday was his day. I baked four pans of brownies, two for the jurors and two for “the court”, two with nuts, two sans.

“They’re in the bag already. I’ve put cardboard between the pans and I tied the handles so you won’t tilt them.”

Murphy didn’t appear ready to rise and it was still raining so I said I would walk her when the showers stopped.

I went back to the porch to watch for the cardinal pair that visits something on the porch every morning. Mama saw me and chattered away. Papa landed on a rail not too far away from the missus and they both gave a look that labeled me as an intruder.

I gathered up Murphy for her first walk and unfurled the garden flag as we headed down the ramp. We stayed on the porch for a few minutes when we returned. I watched seven–seven!–hummingbirds fighting and squawking at each other on the neighbor’s deck.
Hummingbird Feeder

August 14, 8 A.M. 64 degrees on the porch. Sixty-four. I had to find a sweater. 

I know I should be in the gardens. There are crape myrtles to prune, ground ivy to eradicate, and birds to be fed. I’ve watched the hummingbirds for almost an hour now. Their favorite meal this year comes from the elegant, artsy, two-glass bottle feeder, a gift from Sandee and Bob. I’m surprised that they prefer the gorgeous to the crusty old standard. I keep trying to snap a photo with my phone. I need to give up. They’re too quick for me.

They buzz and swoop to the curly willow tree to hide from each other, or maybe just to rest before the next chase, and the tiniest stem on the branch only gives a centimeter when one lands.

Just fifteen days ago, I didn’t think we’d see hummingbirds this year. What a birthday-month surprise!

Dave’s juror buddies loved the brownies. Some of them told him they were the best brownies they’ve ever eaten. They even told Dave to ask me if I would give out my recipe.

I laughed and said, “Won’t they be surprised to find out I use that Hershey’s mix from Sam’s?”

The next day he told them my recipe was an old family secret and I just couldn’t let them have it. I am always surprised when somebody buys that story.

Outwitted and Incensed

Yesterday, I contemplated the day’s accomplishments. I couldn’t come up with much that was productive. The most energy I expended was chasing that #$%!!! groundhog, that gluttonous rodent who considers the morning glories around the birdfeeders his woodchuck feast. I am not enjoying this particular ravine resident.

I looked to Ask.com for the answers this morning. The questions were there, but let me re-do the answers. Those who follow me in the quest for groundhog truth need my accumulated knowledge.

What does a groundhog eat? Look, he is a ground “HOG”. He eats anything. Everything. He is especially fond of what you don’t want him to eat. I saw “Groundhogs are primarily vegetarians with an occasional bug thrown in.” The “occasional bug” must be rare. I’ve seen no reduction in the horde of mosquitoes this year. I do reject the groundhog’s pure vegetarianism, though, because I’ve seen him eat spaghetti. Bolognese. I didn’t care about the pasta but I was so surprised that I changed his name from Chubs to Gordo. I was trying for Italian but Gordo also loves tacos.

What will a groundhog eat? Twenty times his weight in morning glories, cosmos, cantaloupe, watermelon, green beans, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. This animal burrows all winter, only coming out when it’s time to announce the coming of spring on February 2. I’m losing sleep trying to find a way to stop his ravaging and Gordo will curl up and snore all winter. He prepares for this long sleep in the quiet and safe ravine by bulking up at Diana’s Diner.

What does a groundhog do during the day? What??? Have you been listening? He re-landscapes my back yard. Gordo excels at the pruning process. He’s just a little greedy in his choices of prunees. In the lush lower gardens, Gordo ignores the abundance of weeds in favor of the dahlias, rejects out-of-control mint for rudbeckia, and turns up his nose at enough crape myrtle suckers to fill two wheelbarrows to decimate just one blue delphinium.

One of the answers made me laugh out loud. “One way to keep groundhogs away is to spread peppermint oil on whatever you want them to stay away from. You could also plant peppermint plants to keep them away.” Obviously, this person has never been terrorized by mint runners.

Then there was, “Epsom salts placed near or around the runs will keep  the groundhog away.” A white three-quarters of an acre in the winter might be okay, but Punksutawney Gordo doesn’t dine in cold weather. Maybe I could throw up a few striped umbrellas, lay out some Barbie beach towels, and call it a beach.

Here’s another. “Sprinkle cayenne pepper where the groundhog is unwanted” and “You can mix 1 tablespoon of hot sauce with 1 gallon of water and then put it in a sprayer and spray all around your plants”. Another har-de-har echoes around the room. There is not enough cayenne at Kroger to discourage Gordo and until Tabasco signs me for a contract, I bettersave my money for Buffalo wing sauce.

And the last answer in this category began with “Ground hogs have no respect for your garden plants.” This insightful writer wanted me to  “Make sure humans and animals, preferably large ones, frequent the area.” Dave and I are both short but we’re a bit round so I declare that, today, we can be considered “large ones” but when I saw that the large animals we should engage include coyotoes, bobcats, and pit bulls, I promised Murphy we’d pass on this suggestion.

How do you get rid of groundhogs? Until Gordo, Grandpa enjoyed success in live-trapping Gordo’s relatives. Dave is experienced with loading the fur-filled trap into the pickup for a short ride to the State of Tennessee Agricultural Center, home to unwanted critters from miles around. Daughter-in-law Vicky let us in on her destination for two dozen chipmunks and one of Gordo’s distant relatives.One day this week, we cut through the ag center on our way home from downtown.

“There’s where we let the groundhogs loose,” Dave said, pointing to some rolling hills of trees and pasture.

“What if somebody sees you?” I asked.

“Then we just open the door, shove him out, and drive like hell,” he said.

“There’s a ten mile per hour speed limit in here,” I said.

“It’s never happened yet,” he said.

So far, Gordo has avoided the apple-baited snare. Meanwhile, I keep hope alive. I beat on the window, yell, and chase him to the big ditch.

He’s too fast for me. There’s no way I’ll catch him on foot.

Happy Birthday to Me

August 8, 2013.  I celebrate my birthday–a lot. Anybody who knows me has heard of  the “birthday month”. As queen (of only me) I made a rule that a person can call out thirty days for festivities. Okay, some of my chatter is silly humor but since I started this thing, I feel an obligation to carry on. I’ll tell you how it’s done.

You can convene the session at three different points.

If  your birthday is August 8, you could start the hoo-roar on July 8 and end on August 8 with a big shebang. Or you could start on August 8 and proceed to September 8. A third choice is to start on August 1 and tear it up through August 31.

If you make a mistake and begin late, or forget to celebrate one day or maybe have the flu, there are dispensations and do-overs. I usually just don’t feel like celebrating some days so makeup days are definitely necessary. I started on August 1 this year so what with extra days, I figure my celebratory opportunities might run into September.

This day started with phone calls, emails, and Facebook postings. I have roses on my desk and Mom has the bouquet she always gets from me for my birthday. Dave is working on my birthday present, a ceiling fan in the bathroom.

Today is number 64, as in “Will you still feed me, will you still need me when I’m sixty-four?” This birthday, I am more reflective than on previous ones. I don’t begrudge, resent, or grieve turning 64. “Regrets, I’ve had a few . . . ” Maybe, but I don’t remember what they are. Bucket list? Today it seems that my bucket is already full. Mostly I’m bewildered at the arrival of the mid-60s. It’s cliche, isn’t it, for me to ask “How did this happen so fast?” 

Mom, Dad, Dave, and I attended a 50th anniversary party for dear friends a few weeks ago. In the receiving line, the bride asked me, “Can you believe this?”

“No,” I said. “I thought we were all just 50.” I was only 75% kidding.

It is raining and the sky has been dark all day so far. I don’t mind. Dad’s vegetable garden needs the rain. He just planted his fall crop. My flowers appreciate the rain so much more than they do the garden hose. A groundhog is circling the morning glories that climb the bird feeders to chomp off their Southern Belle skirts as high up as he can reach. The songbirds don’t care about the groundhog, or the morning glories, or the grey skies. In fact, the little ones love to eat in the rain. On any given day, I watch the birds–cardinals, blackbirds, chickadees, mockingbirds, purple and house finches, goldfinches, robins, woodpeckers and sapsuckers, sparrows, wrens, doves, and bluebirds. We saw the first hummingbirds just a couple of days ago. 

Both had Southern Belle skirts until the groundhog chowed down.
Both had Southern Belle skirts until the groundhog chowed down.

I love The Ravine today as I loved it at first sight. I am delighted by where I am, content with who I am, and okay with how I am. I am, as the ravine is, being. The critters that dwell in the big ditch come and go, as we do, except that the interludes between their presence and their absence is lengthier, and seasonal. The permanent going-aways of some are frequent, their life spans shorter than a human’s, their choices of homes more about the natural condition rather than what they can re-fashion. We human residents, the Revells and the Blairs, constantly clean, replace, and renovate little things in the two homes and all these blessed garages.

Sometimes our machinations work, sometimes they don’t. Dave stopped in just now to say that there’s an old “fan box” where he intends to put the ceiling fan and we’ll need to call for help. I find kinship with The Compound as we all become.

I am happy with my beloved house companions; Dave, Dad, Mom, and Murphy. They are, as I am, perfect in their imperfections of change and aging. Mom and Dad express surprise at being in their 80s. Dave can’t believe he’s 70 and neither can I. We call Murphy our puppy but she hobbles around sometimes with arthritis.

The birthday dinner today is actually a mid-afternoon snack with Mom and Dad. We’ll eat little steak bites, shrimp, cheese, and vegetables. Maybe there will be a glass of wine. I do have a cold bottle of prosecco. It’s been rolling around in The Cellar frig for months.

Happy Birthday, Who Are You?

Happy Birthday, America.

I hear you answer, America, “Who are you talking to?”

“The United States of America,” I say.

I can name those fifty united states if you give me enough time and when I’m finished, we’ll have a list of the fifty states. And they are not the America having a birthday.

Am I America? We often hear that America is her people. On this Independence Day morning, I am on the porch in low light. It’s raining, something I wished for last evening when I was playing in some mulch. Sometimes, America is the country that got what she wished for. But what she wished for, America also fought for, and millions shed blood for.

So, is America an idea, or maybe a condition? Freedom. Liberty. Yes, that’s it. But we were not always fighting for independence, and when we staged that first big revolt that led to the creation of these United States, we did not fight for the independence of all people. We fought about freedom for all people many decades later.

I have arrived at my personal explanation of who and what America is. America is a contract, a binding contract. Our forefathers eventually put together a contract called The Constitution, and like the parties to an endless contract–say, marriage–we’ve been arguing ever since about what the contract means.

When the marriage fails, we get divorced. It’s not that hard to get out of the marriage contract these days. Not so with The Constitution of the United States of America.

This American contract was arranged by those who came before us and we are bound by their arrangement. All parties to the contract have equal responsibility, 1) to remain faithful to that agreement to stick together, and 2) to protect the ability of our countrymen and countrywomen to remain faithful with us. It is that second responsibility that  maintains the existence of political parties, incites our in-fighting,and gives birth to movements regarding the rights of those we have failed to protect. I accept both responsibilities.

I’ve had more than one marriage but I’ll never have another. The one I have now  is the only one for me.

I’ve had only one country and I’ll never have another. This one is the only one for me.

Happy Birthday, America, and God bless the USA.

This IS normal . . . and so is goat’s milk.

Wednesday, June 5          I am on the porch this morning. It rained last night and the temperature is in the low 70s. I should be drinking from that purplePeace Mug Peace mug. Or maybe I am, already.

The Cahoons–Rich and Eunice–are coming tonight. Rich is Dave’s first cousin. There are lot of hilarious stories about mischief surrounding those two and can’t wait to hear some more, or maybe even the same ones I’ve heard before.

I love company. I like cooking and serving and talking. I even enjoy the preparations. Two days ago, when Dave was working furiously on some decorating project for the porch, he mentioned that I seem to procrastinate these things until company is coming. He pointed out that I’ve had the old windows he worked on for at least two months.

“You’re right,” I said. “Company coming seems to get your attention.”

So now the rotten old salvaged windows are hung on the porch along with some other wall decor. Today we’ll clean the porch and make the bed. Dave will pick up a few items from the grocery store and we’ll be good to go for Rich and Eunice.

Dad and I are working on a project on the grounds, one that will not be hurried. Last summer, we lost almost all of our roses to the unstoppable RRV (Rose Rosette Virus). I determined to turn the rose garden around the patio into a butterfly garden. I started collecting plants last fall. There were asters and Rudbeckia on one nursery markdown table, and gaura and lavender on another. I moved irises and daylilies from the lower gardens. This spring I dug in dahlias, red penstemon, blue delphinium, and peonies.

The veronica I nursed in a long planter was ready–and so were the weeds. And then there was the egg rock, maybe 250 pounds of the stuff that I unwisely spread around the roses three or four years ago. Most of it sank into the dirt. I knew the day would come . . .

After I dug a few feet of rocks, and washed them, and stored them in crates, Dad stepped in.

“Now, Sis”, he said, “I want to help and I can. I can take my pick and just go around that bed and put those rocks in my wheelbarrow. Then I can take my hoe and scrape out that grass and weeds. You need help.”

He was right. Yesterday morning, Dad and I attacked the project. He dug rocks and I dug weeds. The ground was wet and it rained twice more, sending us to the Rubbermaid chairs under the apartment’s porch overhang. Mom and Dave called on the way to the Y to suggest that they stop for takeout at Captain D’s on their way home. I asked for fish and coleslaw for me, catfish for Dad. At a little after noon, we ran for cover for the last time. I scraped and washed off mud outside so as not to clog the shower.

Dad and I were spent, but fish tasted good and it felt even better to sit around Mom’s kitchen table.

“Mom,” I said, “I have to go over to East Nashville this afternoon to pick up that CSA box.” A friend left town and asked if we could use the groceries since she had already paid for them in her membership.

“Yes,” Mom said, “I want to ride along.”

I made it to the couch in The Cellar, trained the standing fan on myself, and started a short video on a free DVD that came in the mail from something called Spiritual Cinema Associates. I dozed but I know I did not sleep because I can remember the story line from the film. Dave returned from running errands just in time for Mom and me to use the van.

I-24 was a mess but we were early because I got the time mixed up.We sat in the church parking lot and talked of friends, gardening, and quilts. I told Mom we best go home through town, which means across the bridge, skirt the city, and head south.

When the truck arrived, I was the first to receive my box of fresh-from-the-farm goodies.

“Wait,” the driver said as I started to walk away, “Here’s your milk.”

I opened the box in the back of the van and Mom called over her shoulder, “What’s in there?”

“Oh, let’s see. There’sa huge head of romaine, a few yellow squash, broccoli, onions, peas all over the place, eggs, cheese . . .   Man-oh-man, these strawberries smell good.” Pause. “And they taste like strawberries, too.”

“Bring me one,” she said. (“One” means a handful, in case you don’t understand Mom-speak.)

I slid into the driver’s seat and dropped the strawberries into her palm. “Look, Mom, we got goat’s milk.” I held up the plastic jug of milk, dripping  cold water from its traveling ice bath.

“I have never tasted goat’s milk,” she said.

I opened the top. “Oh, dear, it’s frozen. No, wait. That’s cream.” I replaced the top, gave it a few hard shakes, and handed it to her.

“Wow,” she said. “I love it. Oh, boy.” She took a few more sips.

“Okay,” I said. “You can have it–when we get home.” I took it from her and got out to place it in my cooler bag in the back.

“We’re ready to roll,” I said. We crossed the bridge and turned up 2nd Avenue. That’s when we were reminded that the CMA Music Festival was in full swing, with 250,000 country music fans let loose in the city and a dozen city streets closed off for the parade and Block Party.

We skirted the city, alright . . . slowly. After about fifteen minutes of sitting, Mom mumbled, “I wish I had that goat’s milk.”

“I’m just hoping we get home before Rich and Eunice arrive,” I answered.

***

The Friendly Beasts

Four years here in The Compound on this ravine and we’ve had emergency services out four times. HazMat came first with several big red trucks and firemen, then two ambulance calls with accompanying fire engines, and, right at dawn this morning, a stuck-dog call.

I first heard a dog crying at 4:30 this morning and wondered if I was dreaming. Or was it Murphy whining?

Yesterday, Dad told us about his dream the night before. He was hooked up to all manner of tubes and restraints a la hospital and could not get loose. I suppose that was akin to a nightmare. He woke, not realizing he’d had a dream, and began to look for the things that bound him; finally got out of bed, turned on the light, and got on the floor to look under the bed. After he got back up from the floor, which is no easy feat for an 83-year-old in the middle of the night, he forgot what he was looking for and decided to go back to bed since he couldn’t find whatever it was. He said he didn’t recognize the occurrence as a dream until he was almost asleep again—and it woke him up again.

So, this morning, foggy-headed, I guessed I could have been in a stupor post dog-dreams. I ambled into the bathroom where, after a few minutes, I placed the sound as real and coming from the patio under the window. Foxes mating, maybe the foxes were mating. Is this the time for the foxes to mate? I ruled out Murphy because she was in her crate at the other end of the house. I tried to see the patio from the bathroom window but there was not enough light in the pre-dawn.

I put on a pot of coffee and checked the view from the from the dining room. I made out a shape of a large black mass that looked to be flopping around down there.

Astigmatism, uncorrected, makes objects appear much larger than they really are and I was wearing my computer glasses which do not afford me the best vision for distance. I searched for, and found, my better-suited “spare pair” for a better look. He was big. He was a big black German Shepherd—maybe a mix—with brown paws and brown around his mouth and maybe some on his belly. He seemed to be hurt. He got up only to drag himself a few feet and cry again.

I was reminded of a canine hit by a car in the hindquarters, not a pretty sight. I turned from the window, a hollow feeling gathering in my middle. And if he’s not hurt, I said to myself, he must be sick. Rabies?

And then I heard scraping. When I returned to the window, there was enough light to see that this “somebody’s buddy” was stuck, caught; by what? Was that a wire? And where was the wire caught? He had dragged the wrought iron teacart several feet out into the yard from its normal position beside the picnic table.

Caught on a serving cart. No, wait, the “wire” was red, and maybe a lead of some kind, and it was wrapped around one of the bird feeder poles now pulled from the ground. He really was caught.

5:25. I decided to wake Dave. Actually, I figured he might be awake now, anyway, because he went to bed very early. If he wasn’t ready to wake up, he should be.

“There is a big dog…” I began.

When I finished, Dave said, “I thought I heard Murphy doing that thing she does when she’s dreaming.”

“What should we do?” we asked each other, agreeing that there was no use in calling our pitiful animal control service. We’ve had experience with Metro Animal Control, an office that is staffed less than 40 hours each week. Animal Control will come to pick up an animal, or ask a neighbor to quiet a barking dog, IF the complainant does the legwork; you know, somehow trap the dog or chase it back home and make a note of the house number.

We weren’t sure that the big black dog was friendly so neither of us wimps were keen to get close to the animal.

“You know,” I said, “I think I’ll call the police. They’ll send somebody and maybe they’ll bring a net.”

“Good idea. Don’t call 9-1-1, though,” Dave said.

“No, I’ll call the non-emergency number. You remember what that is?”

***

Two police cars and two fire trucks arrived five minutes after the call. I’d had just enough time to throw on what could loosely be described as clothes. I headed out to the side porch to meet them.

And there, curled up against the gate to the porch, was another big black dog just like the other one, and he wasn’t about to budge.

Oh, he got loose, I thought, so I headed to the front door to tell the firemen. But, on the way I looked out the den window and saw the first big black dog with the red lead, still caught on the teacart and the birdfeeder.

“Hey,” I called in the most voice I could muster. I’ve had laryngitis for a month. “Here I am,” I squawked. “There’s another dog. Right there, on the ramp.”

One of the four firemen and three policemen in the driveway answered me, “Yeah. Well, where is the other one—the one you called about?”

“Down the driveway, in the back,” I said, and they all traipsed down the hill.

I ran down the inside stairs to The Cellar. By that time, one of the firemen had removed the lead from the dog’s neck and wound it into a circle. Another was stroking our new friend’s head. I opened the door.

“He’s friendly,” he said. “This lead was on a stake, see?” He held it up, the contraption that anchored the poor animal to my yard furnishings. There was a screw-like thing attached to the end of the ropey thing.

“Looks like he pulled the stake out of the ground and got loose. I think he’ll go home. They usually do. But now, he doesn’t have any tags for us to see where he lives.”

All of them started back up the driveway, the men and the big black dog.

“What about the one on the porch?” I asked from the rear of the parade.

“You don’t know that dog? It’s not your dog?”

“No. It’s just like this one.” I pointed to the first dog, the one that had just been un-hitched.

“You want us to get him off the porch?” One of the firefighters sounded a bit indignant. The whole bunch stopped. I did, too.

“Well, I don’t know if he’s friendly,” I said.

“You want me to check?” he asked.

“Yes, please, if you wouldn’t mind.” They resumed the trek up the hill. I followed.

“He’s okay,” I heard one call. “They’re together.”

“Right,” I said. I never would have thought of that.

One of the policemen was radioing and I heard him say “animal control”. I could have sworn I heard him follow with “tried to snap”. They were all headed back to their respective vehicles. The fireman who un-bound the dog turned to ask, “Is there anything else we can do for you, ma’am?”

“No, and thank you,” I said and then asked the policeman with the radio, “Did you all call Animal Control?”

“Yes, I did.”

“But they won’t be out, will they?” I asked. “They’re not even open yet.”

“I left a message,” the policeman answered.

My fireman turned around and walked back to the driveway.

“No, they won’t be out,” he said. “By the time they get to the office this morning, these dogs will be gone.” Then he added, “They’re practically useless anyway unless the dog is violent or dangerous—and then we’ll get them out of bed.”

He looked toward the two dogs walking into the street together. “But these dogs aren’t bad. We like to give them a chance to go on home.”

“I agree,” I said. We both turned our heads toward yet another police car pulling into the driveway but neither of us cared much and resumed our conversation.

“They look healthy and well-cared-for,” I said. “And I’d hate for them to go to the pound.”

“Yeah, they’re definitely somebody’s pets.”

There were no sirens, but one car and one fire engine left with their lights on.

Dave says the neighbors are going to wonder about us.

ROAR: wRiting On the Ravine

I started this blog in 2009 with the intent to document what I knew was a major change in our lives—mine and Dave’s, Mom and Dad’s. I knew we had committed to a job that could be described as “challenging”. Most of what I’ve posted here is directly related to multi-generational relationships, caretaking, or the natural lives of the creatures that live and visit here.

I’ve not said too much about my writing life. It’s time to work that into the story.

I hope to assemble a collection of the On the Ravine writings for a memoir—someday—but right now I’m writing a novel. I’ve been writing a novel for over six years, so it would not be a surprise that I’m much closer to finishing said work than I was six years ago, or even four years ago when we claimed this spot On the Ravine.

During the time that I have been working on the novel, I’ve been in four different writing groups. About two years ago, I found “The One”, “The Fit”. There are five of us, one leading, mentoring, and teaching the other four of us. We each started with a novel, mine the furthest along since, after all, I had written the thing three times already. We are five talented, smart, experienced, and wonderfully supportive women—and we know it. I also know that I am incredibly lucky to have found this group. I’d rather miss a party than to absent myself from our Monday night reading and critique sessions.

So why now? Why talk about the writing?

For one thing, I feel the need to explain the decreasing frequency of my postings. I have plenty to write about without bringing up my wannabe-isms, and I do make notes and journal entries about hospitals, gardens, and wild animals. You won’t believe this, but in the middle of that last sentence, I jumped to my window to make sure that I was really looking at a hawk under one of the bird feeders. It was, indeed, a Cooper’s Hawk—and he wasn’t there for the safflower seeds.

I started a piece on what happens when all the ravine residents get sick at the same time, a recent experience. I wrote a few paragraphs on the title “Comings and Goings” about a dear old friend’s passing the same week in January that grandson Jaxton was born. I made an account of a pharmacy clinic visit with Dad. I jotted a few lines to remind myself of several funny scenes from an overnight visit from Jameson and Carly. I may yet publish the hilarious story of the strawberry cake I made for Vicky’s birthday. Given some dedicated time, either one of those pieces could be posted.

I find that the story I am telling in long form just takes over. It leaves any personal accounts in unfinished condition while all spare energy is directed toward what happens to my make-believers, the characters; these are true friends of mine for some seven years. I go to sleep with them on my mind and I wake wondering what they’re up to. They invade my favorite TV shows and I think about them even when I am not writing but staring out the window which, any writer will tell you, is also writing.

There are other renderings about ravine life that will wait for months, or years, to be published. I avoid complaining about the weightiness of responsibility. I don’t mention the fear of the time when my parents will leave me, something else that is closer than it was four years ago. I do write about some of the more difficult issues, even the painful ones, but you don’t see those stories—yet. The words are only spoken, quietly, when I share these experiences with Dave or my closest friends, until it is more appropriate to include a broader range of readers.

There is another, not frivolous at all, reason to say “I’m writing”. This responsibility to my parents, my other family, and my husband, combined with the commitment to writing, creates a need for more hours than I can count on. I hold frequent sessions with myself devoted to developing a better routine, wasting less time, doing a better job of this and that. In the competing pulls and pushes, every whatever-sized thing is much larger than I ever imagined and something gets left out or dismissed.

It is difficult, and sometimes downright useless, to try to explain why I can’t often meet for lunch, and maybe not even for coffee. I’ve lost friends by my inability to explain, and by their inexperience and lack of understanding. There is no blame in my heart; I see what I might look like from the other side.

My husband keeps on trying, helping, doing, being, and there are those persons of soul-kinship who understand, and if they happen to not understand, they accept. It would be grammatically incorrect to say “They BE” but that’s what they do. They just be—with me, for me, around me. “They just be” seems so much stronger than “they just are”.

I won’t be talking about details of the novel or specific writing concerns, but I cannot help describing the feelings I got this weekend at the Celebration of Southern Literature in Chattanooga. There I was, not just close enough to touch, but sometimes actually touching writers like Dorothy Allison (Bastard Out of Carolina), Lee Smith (what didn’t she write), Arthur Golden (Memoirs of a Geisha), Jill McCorkle (Going Away Shoes), Maurice Manning (Bucolics), Randall Kenan (The Fire This Time), Allan Gurganus (Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All), Bobbie Ann Mason (Elvis Presley)… They talked about their work, they read from their stories and poems and plays. That list I just wrote—they’re just the ones that popped into my head as I sat here. There were so many more.

I toggled between two opposing responses: “I am a storyteller” and “Who am I to think I could possibly write?” Tony Earley was at the conference, too. (Jim the Boy, Somehow Form a Family, The Blue Star) At another event several years ago, Tony told us that he doubts his ability every time he sits down to write. I’m so glad he said that, and even happier that I remember it.

I like to summon him up from time to time, this Tony Earley.

 

Lent…and New Year’s Resolutions

 Boy-oh-boy, Ash Wednesday seemed to come early this year—what to give up for Lent, what to take on, what to lose, what to find, what to… I’m still pondering my New Year’s Resolutions.

I made some. It took me until January 11 to adopt my list of intended personal improvements for 2013. I make resolutions every year. There have been years—and years—that I have vowed to “lose fifty pounds and walk to China” as my friend says and at first I added to my 2013 list,“Weigh xxx on x date.” (On x date, the Revells will be attending the Bucking Horse Sale in Miles City, Montana.)

There’s a reason I don’t include that intention on my final 2013 list: I’m a bit superstitious. Dr. Joyce Brothers (remember her?) appeared to me in a dream the night of January 10. In my dream, she just faded in and then faded out, but the next morning I remembered that sometime in the early seventies, I saw her on the Mike Douglas show and she talked about goals. I know exactly where I was standing and what I was doing. The boys were both down for the afternoon nap. I stepped into the living room from the kitchen, drying a plate with a dishtowel. Dr. Brothers said that perhaps it would help to set a “series of small goals” rather than one large one. Mike asked her to give us an example.

She answered, “If you are washing dishes, and it seems too overwhelming a task to accomplish, perhaps you could say ‘I’ll wash all the silverware’.”  Then, she said, after you’ve washed and rinsed the forks and knives, you make a promise on the salad plates.

Dishes? She thought washing the dishes was worthy of goal-setting? I sat down in the rocking chair, the plate and towel in my lap, when I heard her say, “You psychologically reward yourself when you accomplish that small piece of your larger goal.” I thought, maybe even aloud, that anyone who had to set a series of small goals to wash the dishes was in bad trouble for anything truly worthy of accomplishment.

After my Joyce Brothers sighting that morning, I considered my long, oppressive list of possible resolutions and thought about small steps I could take to work toward the major changes. I concluded that might be too ambitious and unrealistic and that what I needed was a shorter list. I was a tad inspired—only a tad—but I reduced the multiple-item list to three. I combined, eliminated, and re-stated resolutions to get to:

  1. Never wear pants that are too short.
  2. Walk every day.
  3. Get off sugar, as in “eliminate sugar from my diet”.

Gone were such specificities of the original promises as “Be two sizes down in my jeans by May”, “Give away half of my 40 T-shirts”, and “Walk to China and lose 50 pounds.” I completely forsook entire original list items like “Meditate/Read/Journal daily”, “Write every day”, and “Organize that *!%$ garage.” I cleverly placed myself in the arena of the possibility of success by declaring only three (3) resolutions.

#1 seemed easy. I tried on and sorted “too short” and “okay”. The dress pants are fine, but only one pair of jeans gets the label “okay”. #1 could get difficult, certainly expensive. There are two resolutions to this resolution dilemma and I’m going to use both of them. One, wear lower heels with the shorter jeans. Two, save the shorter jeans for summer cropped jeans; they’ll look fine with sandals. I changed #1 and I think it’s going to work:

  • Never wear pants that are too short. (Substitute “buy” for the “wear“.)

Let’s talk about #2. I don’t know when (although I do know why) I made the decision, but I changed #2:

 Walk every day.  Get some kind of exercise every day.

Then I changed it again:

Walk every day.  Get some kind of exercise every day. (Substitute “MOVE” for the strike-through words.)

I figured the stairs to The Cellar would count; I could make extra trips up and down. I also ordered Zumba Gold – Live It Up. I haven’t started my dance exercise education yet but I have new shoes. And I’ve kept the bird feeders filled (another abandoned resolution from List Uno). And I’ve made great progress on one I mentioned earlier in this writing, the one about “that *!%$ garage”.

Let me just say that it takes stamina and calories to hoist boxes of chafing dishes and bins of T-shirts. I moved a before-plasma, ante-LCD 36-inch TV along with an HP multi-function printer that insists it has a paper jam when I know that it does not. (Somebody else is going to have to deal with that big fat liar.) I climbed on ladders and stools; I stretched, bended, and bounced. I dug and sifted and swept.

I also sat and sorted and remembered. Things like a program from my high school musical, Guys and Dolls, provided not only a jaunt up and down Memory Lane but also time for rest. I gave myself permission to spend time. I let myself wander through the boys’ report cards and achievement tests; there was plenty of time to re-visit favorite cards and letters.  I remembered that resolution I wrote that said, “Work at being present” and followed it with “Live in the moment”. My leafing through old pages was hardly “present” but I was present for the experience and I was certainly living in that blessed moment.

I sort of “came to” (Southern speech for “woke up from being out cold”) one evening after a particularly productive three hours in the garage. I only stopped working when the back end of the garage became too dark, even with the door open, to see what I was doing. I considered that I was tired; I wondered how many calories I had expended. But my promise to myself wasn’t to burn calories; it was to set aside time to just move—intentionally and regularly.

So, today, while Dave installed two additional overhead utility lights so that I can see to finish my storage project, I hurried to a neighborhood church to start a regimen on the family life center’s walking track. I remember that walking time is thinking time and I turn joyful. Walking is meditation. I think of savoring these weekly hours on the track.

Walking at the church costs $15.00 a year. I get a tote bag when I walk 592 miles—“to Branson, MO.” If I come back (and I might not since I’ve never been to Branson), I get a gift certificate for double that mileage. At least it’s not to and from China.

January 15 marked the first day of infringement on #3.

I hate to blame a baby, but when my new grandson Jaxton didn’t arrive by 4:00 o’clock in the afternoon, and there did arrive a prediction that “it will probably be 6:30 or so”, OtherGrammy Helen and I made a break for the cafeteria. After a small and sensible meal, we dawdled in the hospital gift shop, almost as if our absence from the OB waiting room could somehow hasten Anjie’s labor.

There was a sale on everything Christmas-themed. I found the perfect thing, a size 18-24 months furry reindeer jacket, complete with antlers and red nose on the hood.. Somehow, a Snickers bar, a Yorkshire Mint Patty, and a bag of Peanut M & M’s snuck their way into my bag to keep company with Jaxton’s next (first) Christmas coat.

I’m not saying a word about what Helen and Anjie’s sister Jackie brought back to the waiting room. That’s their business, but I will say that the condition and inhabitants of the place where you wait for babies propelled all three of us into a gone-rogue sucrose attack.

Six young women sported primary colored hair; I lost count of combinations on others. There was no end to the tats on one guy, even when he stood still, never mind the piercings. A full-back dragon on another (shirtless) was mesmerizing; the tail swerved down his right leg. (He donned saggy shorts.) And there was this one fellow who somehow lost the entire crotch of his pants! How do I know? Because he showed us.

For some reason, a fast-food bag rested under every third chair. I noted McDonald’s, Arby’s, Hardee’s, and Taco Bell (my choice of the four–it was NOT my bag, though). A garbage can sat less than twenty feet away from any row of chairs.

A young mother (I don’t know what relation she was to which imminent birth) arrived with a fat set of keys on an 18-inch pink lanyard. For forty-five minutes, she swung the keys by the end of the strap, round and round through the air, scraping the floor with a loud crash when gravity inevitably brought them down swing after swing. She only lost complete control of the keys one time and they launched across the room, unfortunately stopped by the full wall of windows. I fleetingly hoped the big wad of metal would break the plate glass and sail into the HVAC unit on the roof, but no. She was just as quick to retrieve the keys and start the swing all over again.

And then First-time Grammy (FTG) two rows away succumbed to the stress of pre-Grammyhood and stood in the middle of the room to sob, “Why don’t they do something for her?” Shortly thereafter, “they” did do something for “her” and FTG’s daughter brought her own nine pound daughter into the world via C-section. First-time Grammy de-railed again but was, this time, quickly comforted. I felt her helplessness—and then her relief.

Jaxton Edward Graham said hello with a loud wail at 8:35 p.m., according to the young blonde female doctor who finally came to take us to the room at 10:30. I fell in love with all 6 pounds 7 ounces of him. He looked teensy in the arms of his big daddy.

I ate the M&M’s on the drive home. All that was in the bag of reddish brown fur was Jaxton’s reddish brown reindeer coat. The sugar solution evades me yet.

I do know this: Resolutions only work for me if there is only one resolution. It’s a vague statement, an elusive promise, but the same every year, every month, every day: Balance. Everything in moderation. Live abundantly, but live. Be frugal, but generous. Organize for the future, but live in the moment. Let the past be gone, but savor memories. Be happy, and dance. Dance, and move. Move a little, and move more.  Moving inspires good eating. Eat well can mean eat less. A treat is special at a special time.

Pare down and attend more intensely. Diana, dwell on the riches: a new grandbaby, healthy Mom and Dad, loving children, a place to write, books to read, a working body. Warmth in winter, shade in summer, the stillness of the ravine.

Clean out the clutter. Give away. Consume little. Share everything. Work to be a good human.

So what singular item do I choose that might start a chain of living in balance? What might feed my spirit most? What might be most appropriate for Lent?

In the most real observance of Lent, we discover the full humanity of the Jesus of Christianity. So much of the time, it is so much easier to imagine mystical divinity than to accept the flesh and blood human—the human like us, the human that we are also meant to be.

For my Lenten journey, I’ll begin with time for a thoughtful walk—three or four times a week. At the very least.