tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62799572024-03-07T19:44:34.379-08:00blueskya view from the cheap seatssomeonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17487639977501825586noreply@blogger.comBlogger817125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6279957.post-60701724142885852282023-04-14T10:47:00.309-07:002023-06-13T14:50:58.870-07:00Death of a legend
It is some nineteen years later and grandpa is dying. I don't write much about my darling husband. There isn't that much to write, thank god. He's a good man. A great husband set against my pathetic atempt at wife-ing. I have retired. He still goes to work and secretly likes it, I think. He'll retire soon. He's four years and one month younger than I am--a fact he be-labours to exhaustion.
Assomeonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17487639977501825586noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6279957.post-13269237153143280542021-07-12T12:12:00.000-07:002021-07-12T12:12:02.261-07:00how it is nowthis has always been the place where I can tell the truth, no matter what form it takes. I have tried to write stories, to edit my books, if books they are. But I can't. Not anymore. I don't have memory enough to support a novel, to track the changes--and yes, I know there are programs that will do that for me. But I don't have the strength to learn a new program. Or, frankly, the desire. I've someonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17487639977501825586noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6279957.post-55497825853673679772021-02-11T10:54:00.001-08:002021-03-30T08:55:22.390-07:00biggest thing everI have no idea what happened to me. I really don't. It will take me days to write about it because I now have a tremor that effects any attept to write, or feed myself for that matter. So i awoke in, rather on, a hospital bed, assured "everything is alright, dear." For starters, I'm not all that dear, second, there were straps holding me in place. Certain I was being held capptive in a Dean someonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17487639977501825586noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6279957.post-8854081016456338982020-09-11T15:30:00.004-07:002020-09-12T11:46:35.922-07:00fire, no iceSo there we were, gathering our belongings, getting the trailer all set, food
planned, prepared, staged for four lovely, beachy days around the campfire. We'd
scored four days at Beverly Beach, our favorite campsite on the coast. Its alot like the redwoods, only the big trees aren't redwoods.
Reservations are rare these days unless you go online in january, early in the
morning, like one a.m. Butsomeonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17487639977501825586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6279957.post-35394795131912355162020-08-17T11:44:00.004-07:002020-08-18T11:05:56.965-07:00long time comin'Today begins the Democratic National Convention.
Nah.
I don't want to talk about that.
What has happened in our lives since the last post in January 2020 is Covid.
But I don't want to talk about that either.
Home life. We let Sid go to heaven. He wasn't having fun anymore. Its hard to tell with a very old dog who thinks he's still a puppy, but the time was right, and he leaves Duffy and someonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17487639977501825586noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6279957.post-37206640132195519622020-01-01T14:06:00.002-08:002020-01-01T14:06:23.149-08:00sleep deprivaion and raccoonsSo having three dogs is at least one too many. Sid is old, Duffy diabetic and Mac -- not the sharpest dog in the drawer. Sid, at 15 and a half is still able to make it through the night without having to go out to pee. Duffy, being diabetic, is too thirsty, thus, has to pee frequently and a lot. Mac just likes to be involved in any outing, asleep or awake. He has the best ears, so knows of any someonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17487639977501825586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6279957.post-30030471387670407662019-07-16T11:44:00.004-07:002019-07-16T11:44:59.468-07:00retirement week four I thinkWell, if I'm losing track of time I guess retirement is working. someonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17487639977501825586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6279957.post-26323346314532977582019-07-07T21:02:00.002-07:002019-07-11T12:34:17.859-07:00retirement, actuallyI have to correct this missile of disinformation. After a moment of surprise which I mistakenly read as rage, Kurt has been monumentally kind and supportive during this surprisingly difficult transition. So. After managing the finances, what little there are, I'm working in my yard, watching Fixer Upper, writing, and making art. I am trying to get enough work done to get juried in to a local someonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17487639977501825586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6279957.post-11749825372228266182019-06-24T18:13:00.001-07:002019-07-07T21:15:29.083-07:00back in blackI've been asked to start writing again. By Lorretta. And others. They know me. They know I'm better when I empty my head from time to time. If you'd asked me last Saturday what my plans were, I would have included retirement among the first few. Others being, get those weeds pulled, make the bed. There is a meme going around facebook telling you at which intervals various housework tasks need to someonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17487639977501825586noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6279957.post-38118971011149084282019-06-24T18:08:00.000-07:002019-07-07T21:16:25.700-07:00retirementI was retired today. Put out to pasture. There is the meme making its way through facebook that says, "those who say go big or go home have no idea how bad I want to go home." So, I am done working in senior living. For good, I think. And for the good of all, I think. It is changing, and I can't change with it. Not that much. I'm old school. And old. 66 just this month. I am tired of working. I someonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17487639977501825586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6279957.post-6662606259368793912018-03-10T10:51:00.001-08:002018-03-10T10:56:24.602-08:00jury duty and tweakersI was summoned for jury duty last summer. I finally had to do it this month. In Yamhill County the service commitment is for a month. I have to check in four times a week to see if my juror number is up. 78. It was. So I rescheduled all of my meetings. I am a very busy woman, you know. They called numbers one through ninety. I'd guess about fifty of us showed up. Of that 50, the first 18 were someonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17487639977501825586noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6279957.post-74706260581215025302018-03-04T18:51:00.001-08:002018-03-04T18:51:34.898-08:00tracy's last birthdayI am so sad. I am so so sad that I am losing my friend and yet, and yet, and yet, it was and still seems to be, a tough relationship for me. Tracy brought me to my first AA meeting, thus, saved my life. Nothing short of that. She carried a clear message and embodied that phrase, "Whenever anyone, anywhere, reaches out, I want the hand of AA always to be there." Tracy, though, across our 35 years,someonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17487639977501825586noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6279957.post-6686319719217681902018-02-24T13:03:00.002-08:002018-02-24T13:03:57.719-08:00immortalizingMy work place, my "community" has been blessedly stable for the past two years. As time has passed in relative ease, my little gray-headed dominoes have been lining up, waiting for the first one to fall.
He fell.
I'll call him The Thinker. I loved him because he said I was the smartest person he'd ever met. How can you argue with that? He'd asked me, prior to making that statement, what plans someonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17487639977501825586noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6279957.post-61333378792114647572017-12-27T09:37:00.002-08:002017-12-28T18:45:19.294-08:00year endNo promises. I won't be better at anything, and I'll probably be worse. I re-read my resolutions from last year, and, barring the intention to "write it all down," I've kept most. I'm older by far than I ever expected to be.
This morning the sky in Yamhill was a watercolor, indescribably lovely, just out my back door. I am not working today or tomorrow. So I will un-decorate and let the dogs someonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17487639977501825586noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6279957.post-20641967437465001532017-12-05T11:09:00.001-08:002017-12-05T11:09:10.839-08:00research monkeyAs my health fails, as aging does what it does, I am introduced to medication after medication that will cure my ills. I've been through several -- several -- trials over the past three months. The most recent, Cymbalta, kicked my ass. I'm tired, exhausted, really. The intent is to treat diabetic neuropathy, screaming feet. There has to be a better way. Narcotics work, but like Keith Richards someonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17487639977501825586noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6279957.post-28875561465727137022017-11-19T12:27:00.000-08:002017-12-27T09:55:43.341-08:00non-participation awardI went. I did the cruise. For me, it was something like five days of disco with food. The women I traveled with were nice. The boat was old and trashy-eighties, too bright and way too loud. But the ocean was still the ocean and I liked that part. They made towel animals for our room each day, elephants, bears, a reclining bunny, and a sloth hanging from the heat duct. Those were the best. That's someonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17487639977501825586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6279957.post-1010814405230393662017-11-12T12:49:00.000-08:002017-11-12T12:49:27.697-08:00sailing awayTomorrow I am flying to Long Beach to board a big Carnival cruise ship bound for Mexico. This is not something I ever wanted to do, but when my friend asked me six months ago if I wanted to go on a cruise in November, I said sure. Now that it is November, I suddenly recall that I hate to fly and am deathly afraid of sharks. "Stay on the boat, then," say all the well-wishers. They haven't seen someonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17487639977501825586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6279957.post-12197337030400194882017-10-23T19:50:00.001-07:002017-10-24T19:10:31.599-07:00walnut dayIt was supposed to rain all weekend. That may explain the frantic pace of yard work. I love yard work. I love dirt under my fingernails, sharp rose clippers, electric hedge trimmers. My Hedgehog is hardly a workhorse, but it works well for the things I need it for: Chaparral, the bee bushes, pink willow. Pruning back dead perennials gives me great satisfaction. On Sunday the rain still didn't someonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17487639977501825586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6279957.post-851949634626318132017-09-26T18:53:00.002-07:002017-09-28T18:44:44.652-07:00burning moonIt is Sunday before eclipse Monday. The newsmaniacs are making the most of a natural event. Oregon is first to see the action, and traffic has reached epic proportions. Madras, a tiny little pile of dust in central Oregon is supposed to be the epicenter because it has the best chance of clear weather in the whole United States. 30,000 people are expected in a town of 3,000. A nightmare, to me. I someonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17487639977501825586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6279957.post-89204817810743315372017-08-20T14:21:00.000-07:002017-08-20T14:21:04.333-07:00vacation 2017I used to jump up and down demanding my time. It's my time. I've earned it. I can go wherever I want and do whatever I want to do. I can sit in my bathrobe and write until midnight. I can and I will. This tirade, this tantrum, this is how I blow the first few days of my special time each year. Well not this time, boy. Not this year. This year, I'm just going to clean my house, paint if I find thesomeonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17487639977501825586noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6279957.post-87235134412524095702017-07-06T20:38:00.000-07:002017-08-20T14:20:40.320-07:00cow [sic] tippingUm. My life seems hard right now. I know compared to some it isn't. I fell over on the 4th of July. I just fell over and landed, unbuffered, on my right hip. Like this: I purchased a pair of extra wide cowboy boots because my feet are Birkenstocky and I am accustomed to wearing comfortable shoes. I never did train my feet to endure heels or pointed toes, thankfully. Torture. The cowboy boots are someonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17487639977501825586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6279957.post-30666845946715484692017-07-01T15:32:00.002-07:002017-07-01T15:32:30.607-07:0030Thursday marks 30 years of not drinking booze. It seems an over-reaction, sometimes, of an extended adolescence and some, very few really, matters of public record. The phrase "pitiful and incomprehensible demoralization" comes to mind. But still... 30 years? I joke. I'm so grateful I don't drink. I'm so grateful to have found my way out of that familial deathtrap. I was not alone then and am notsomeonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17487639977501825586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6279957.post-74224689976104027072017-06-30T20:58:00.000-07:002017-06-30T20:58:11.268-07:00mil rantWhen I married Kurt, his mother came to stay with us. Same week. She stayed a month and a half after saying a week and a half. She came in the door, advance directive in hand, and asked me to sign it. I declined. I told her I'd be happy to offer her son support as she ages, but I am not signing up for the job. I already have one.
It may be because I deal with elders all day, and have for all my someonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17487639977501825586noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6279957.post-88413086658492944842017-06-24T11:32:00.000-07:002017-06-24T16:31:41.029-07:00gong show bluesI'll admit it: I have some pretty fond memories of my misspent youth. The Gong Show is one. As my sweet husband says, "I loved getting up and turning on the Gong Show." Well, it started at noon, so that should tell you something. I don't know how long it played, it could have been one season or a decade -- time is a funny thing -- but acts such as "Having My Baby," a musical number sung by a guy someonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17487639977501825586noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6279957.post-25831623402237151452017-06-20T18:37:00.002-07:002017-06-20T18:37:45.597-07:00many little inconveniencesI wish I could make up my mind. This house, this endless series of brand new menopause beige walls, open concept, just isn't me. I don't dare start painting. I'd never stop. The last time I painted I had cancer and the color I picked was a bilious shade of green better used on the floor. A true reflection on my mental state. Terminal green. To say that I've lost faith in my sense of style is not someonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17487639977501825586noreply@blogger.com0