Photojournalism

Inspirational song: Sweet Talkin' Woman (Electric Light Orchestra)

We have rounded the turn and are heading into the homestretch towards four years. Four times three hundred and sixty five minus twenty equals fourteen hundred and forty separate and (as best as I could make them) unique entries. I think number fourteen hundred and sixty ought to be a doozy, so I should plan now. And I'm drawing a blank what it ought to be. (I'm actually a little worried about whether I'll be in any shape to write, because I have an appointment that afternoon to have my eyes dilated for a follow up to make sure my medications aren't making me go blind permanently.) If I'm smart, I'll make notes over the next couple of weeks and pre-write the whole thing. That entails a level of organization I rarely hold anymore.

As for tonight, I am more in a mood to let my photos do the heavy lifting. We went on a drive in the mountains, and coming back down in the snow was rather sporty. Honestly, I'm worn out, and I didn't even drive. I don't have the brain power for more pretty words. Pictures are far prettier tonight.

Currency

Inspirational song: Scattering Crows (Fish)

Two or three years ago, I read a story that made me jealous. A girl had been leaving out food for the crows in her neighborhood, and they began to bring her gifts in return. They brought shiny things like beads and acorn caps and a necklace. That story has stuck with me all this time. I had a decent relationship with the cardinals at the original Park in Charleston. They would call out to me when the birdfeeders were empty. (And I always knew it was them, because they accused me of ignoring them in favor of spending too much time on "Facebook! Facebook!") Here at Park West we have a flock of chickadees who live in the giant spirea bush in the back corner of the yard, who stayed here all winter and depended on the assortment of five or so birdfeeders that Mr X keeps filled better than I do. Rather than fighting with the squirrels, trying to keep them out of the feeders, we just set out dried ears of corn for them. But as of yet, I have done nothing for the neighborhood crows. I have no idea whether they like the birdseed or corn that's already there. If I attempt to put peanuts out for them, it's guaranteed that Elsa and Murray will eat more than the crows would. I wondered what I could do as a nice gesture to them that wouldn't cause an imbalance in the bird social structure. I don't want crows to chase off the little chickadees. I don't want them swooping in on my dogs and cats. But it would be cool to have some sort of positive interaction with them.

I came up with a plan several weeks ago, but I had other issues that kept me from being able to settle down and attempt to create a tangible gift for the blackbirds. Going all the way back to the costume design company I had 23-24 years ago, I started collecting beads. I have thousands, maybe millions, of beads of all sizes and qualities. Most of them are seed beads (again, of varying degrees of quality). When my girls were teenagers, we made a lot of bead jewelry. My older daughter even took several handfuls of my beads with her, and still I have more than I know what to do with. I decided I would make several strings of bead, and set them outside to see whether anyone outside takes a liking to them.

By the time I had made a dozen pieces, I realized that it felt like I had created a basis of currency. I don't know that any of the animals will give me any of these sparkly trinkets back in exchange for anything at all. But what if I've dropped a trove of legal tender for the corvids to trade with each other? I'm spacing out the distribution. Today I went out with five pieces. One was a long piece with a dragonfly charm. Two were straight strips with random sized beads from tiny to chunky. Two were little circles that should have been light enough that the chickadees could fly away with them.

An hour after I set out the beads, I saw a squirrel sitting on one of the fence posts where I had set the heavy dragonfly charm trinket. He was fiddling with it with both hands, and I couldn't tell whether he was tasting every bead as he went past it, or saying the Rosary. From inside the door, I said out loud, "Don't eat it! It's not food!" Bump heard me and followed my gaze to the squirrel. He took off running and barking, and startled the squirrel into dropping the beads. After feeding the dogs dinner, I picked the beads up and put them back on the fence post, and then went to check and see whether others had been taken. Four were still there (including the one I replaced). One small loop was gone. It's supposed to be cold and rainy for days. so I will wait until next week to put out the next cache. I'll let you know how the experiment goes.

A Long Way to Do Very Little

Inspirational song: Morning Has Broken (Cat Stevens)

I really thought I was kidding when I checked my calendar for the week, making sure that I had three days with few places to go before I purchased that beer on Sunday. I thought in reality I'd be fine. Little did I imagine it was almost exactly three days to the hour that it would take me down. I was still moving slowly this morning, when I went out and had a terrible cup of coffee on the patio (I made a horrible error with the grind for the beans), with the dogs cuddling up next to me, keeping my feet warm and demanding all of my attention. I moped through most of the day. It wasn't until mid-afternoon, when my foster daughter called to compel me to work more on the wedding dress, that I started feeling perky again. The hell, man? I'm glad it's over now, but that is an experiment that I will not be repeating to see whether I can duplicate the results. Not worth it. Not even for the sake of unquestionable truth.

It didn't feel like I made much progress on the wedding dress. I worked on lace only. The seam holding the sleeve together was machine-sewn, but that was only the tiniest bit of what I did for it over the course of about three hours. The instruction call for the decorative edge of lace to be cut off a scrap so that it can be delicately pieced onto the sleeve with invisible hand stitches. (This is necessary so that a short piece of lace can have a decorative edge on both the top and bottom pieces.) This process took hours, while my foster daughter sat around, trying to find ways to keep herself entertained while I worked. She made a pillow for the ring-bearer out of scrap fabric and lace and some polyfill that I've had for years. In fact, she did her entire project in about half of the time I sewed those stupid cuffs. For all of this, I'm still not done with the lace. The sleeves are still separate from the bodice. I swear, I am never going to say disparaging things about the cost of wedding dresses ever again. Finally, I understand.

Near Beer

Inspirational song: Beer Run (Garth Brooks and George Jones)

I have to wonder whether that beer I cooked with and sipped at on Sunday maybe wasn't the best idea. It said gluten free. Sure. It was made with millet, buckwheat, and sorghum. Perhaps they didn't have that particular protein, but that doesn't mean there weren't other more pernicious grain proteins that survived the brewing process. The stomach problems I described yesterday, for which I went to see the doctor, have been around for ages, and I'm not blaming them on a GF beer. But it seems just a little too convenient that the last two days have been so much worse, following that experiment. There are some details I don't want to provide and you don't want to receive, but yeah. I'm not going to try that beer again.

I haven't gotten a whole lot done in the last two days, and it's a good thing that I didn't have a lot on my plate anyway. Other than a quick trip to Rotary, I have done jack all today. I spent so much time sprawled in my chair with my belly bloating, that even Jackie has started mocking me. I have to admit, the impression is a good one.

Big in the Middle

Inspirational song: Oompa #2 Gum (Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory)

Yep. I did it. I did *things* over the weekend, and I left myself with a spoon deficit for Monday. Now I'm trying to work off that debt. No, wait. Wrong verbage. I'm trying to rest off the debt? Does that fit the action, or lack thereof, more accurately? Whatever describes it correctly, I'll take it.

I started the day finally willing to make the phone call (the hard part) to go see the doctor (the easy part), to discuss the frequent tenderness in my torso. I am so sensitive in the middle that I don't even like it when tiny little Athena walks on me. Diet doesn't seem to make a difference, adding or subtracting food choices. Neither my regular pills nor the recently-added strong probiotics have improved the situation. It's not something that pain pills can help. I'm feeling swollen and tender from armpits to tailbone, and I've lost patience with it. I stopped wearing clothes with unyielding waistbands. The cats think I'm mean and cruel for refusing to let them sleep on my belly. I can't get comfortable at night, and twice recently I felt like I was wearing a belt when I was totally naked. This must stop.

The doctor's office let me come in immediately when I called this morning. Once we started chatting, doc and I, I thought she was going to send me away to wait weeks or months for the probiotics to slowly change my microflora, and do nothing to address the months of pain. She had started telling me that it was the only way to treat gut problems like I was describing. She spoke of h. Pylori and the like, before she scrolled through my previous blood test results that showed I was negative for it. We kept talking, and then she had me lie down so she could push on me a little bit. I didn't kick her or scream or anything, but it was obvious that the palpitations were no fun for me. I don't know whether that changed her mind, or was it in her plan all along, but at the end of my visit, she referred me to a gastroenterologist. She asked me whether I was up for an endoscope, and when that didn't scare me off, she seemed more willing to escalate my case. (My only question was whether they put you under to go in from the top like they do from the bottom. Being awake would be the only deal-breaker.)

I have no idea how long it will take to process the new referral (and get updates for the other two I needed from her). I will just stay here and bloat and ache and rumble while I wait for it. And maybe I'll buy another few pairs of soft spandex leggings, as that's all I wear these days. I might get a few brightly colored ones, with flowers and stuff on them, for spring.

Proper Disposal

Inspirational song: Disco Inferno (The Trammps)

I don't know how it became traditional in our family. Maybe someone read something and thought it was a good idea. Maybe it was just an excuse someone gave to indulge his pyromania. However it happened, we have long asserted that the only proper way to dispose of Christmas trees is by fire. Most years we take care of the burning as early as Twelfth Night. Other years we procrastinate like we did this time, and the burning doesn't happen until the beginning of Spring. That tree was just tossed into the backyard in January, and to be funny, the man stood it up with the apple tree as a prop. It fell over almost immediately, and stayed that way until yesterday. We found a good excuse to light that fire, finally, as well as a bunch more wood left over from last year. I had bought a two-pack of tri-tip from Costco, and rather than take it next door so that the neighbor with the electric smoker could cook it properly, I wanted to try again with my redneck homemade meat smoker. Like I did last year, we wrapped aluminum foil around the fire pit, and used guesswork. And guess what? We FAILED. Horribly. The hunk of meat ended up a dry, gray, chewy mess surrounded by a thick shell of unchewable carbon. Thankfully, I had the second tri-tip, and I remade the dry rub and tried again. The man watched it more closely this time, and discovered one of the errors of the first try. The sugar in the rub caught on fire and flared, incinerating a marvelous cut of meat, leaving heartache in its wake. The second roast was acceptable enough to feed to the neighbor and his date, and the first was thrown into the fridge, waiting for a second life or a trip to the trash.

I was tipped off to a traditional Flemish beef stew recipe that uses a ton of onions and beer. There was even a gluten free version of it posted on the same discussion thread. It seemed like a good jumping off point for me, but I had to take a risk on gluten free beer to try it. I raced out to buy a single one, and the game was afoot. I sauteed onions and bacon while I chopped the dry hunk of beef into tiny pieces. Most of the beer plus a half of a carton of beef stock deglazed the pan, and I simmered everything plus herbs for a very long time. I added red potatoes, and then at the very end, a can of tomato paste to deepen the flavor (it was too sweet until I did). It came out interesting. I don't think I need to destroy an expensive hunk of beef next time to recreate it in the future, but I will be revisiting this stew and the gluten free beer at some point.

And I am done with the redneck cooking device. Smoking on the gas grill is a non-starter. It's time to buy another off-set smoker. This time I won't be leaving it behind when I move across the country, as we did three times before. We never technically threw them away. We just left them sitting in the back yards of the houses we left.

Purple Prose

Inspirational song: Time of the Season (The Zombies)

I did it. I got out and got dirt under my fingernails. The bags of dahlia rhizomes that have been sitting on my dining room table for weeks had started to sprout in their little bags, and we need to clear the table off to do our taxes, so out I went. The last set of dahlias in the Unless garden froze and rotted in the ground. (Who knew they had to be dug up at the end of the season? Okay, maybe YOU knew. I didn't.) They are large plants, once they get going, so I could only fit about seven in the stone ring out front, if I didn't want to dig up the lupins and pincushion flowers that have already started sprouting there as well. I still have thirteen rhizomes to find homes for. Maybe I'll put one or two in the vegetable garden, to encourage pollinators to visit there. Maybe some should go on the south side of the garage, underneath where the hollyhocks will be popping up soon. And maybe the last set should go alongside the flagstone patio, where naughty Murray has been digging giant holes and shredding the flowers planted there last year (including a prized rose from the best nursery in town). Apparently the new neighbor to the south has dogs who must be barked at in the most aggressive, vegetation-destroying way possible. Wherever the remaining dahlias go, they need to go soon. Just because I was able to go on a day's drive and see snow yesterday doesn't mean that the growing season will wait for me around here.

I have been amazed at how early spring has come to town, and I've been caught flat-footed in a few places. I knew more than a week ago that the lilacs were starting to wake up, and today I found that they are covered in tiny purple buds just waiting for one or two more warm, sunny days to unfurl in fragrant glory. Zoe's lilac out back, and the dwarf Korean lilac under my bedroom window are behind the power curve, or rather, sticking with the old Colorado calendar rather than the updated mid-climate change version. The rest are on target to surround Smith Park West, ready to live up to their new designation as the official park flower. The hyacinths (standard and grape varieties) started blooming last week, and as of a few days ago, several daffodils have brightened up the front lawn. If someone would kindly give me a kick in the pants, I'd be able to find the motivation to cut out the remaining dead flower stalks from last year, and clean the debris from the beds, so that the bright purples and yellows would be more visible.

I found that my peonies have started pushing up through the soil in the back, in the spot where Murray and Barley hold their Best Friends Club meetings, and there are daylilies trying to sprout there as well. Perhaps some more wire fencing is called for on that side, to mirror what I've used on the south to try to save the roses from the same Wheeled Menace. Now that the nectarine has officially bloomed, I think I'm over the idea of snow. Which means that I'm sure to get some, right about the time the rest of the fruit trees come alive, right?

Out?

Inspirational song: The Year of the Cat (Al Stewart)

Everyone who has feline roommates knows exactly what *that* meow sounds like, and what it means. Out? (Which sounds more like "aaooouuutt?") We humans have adopted it for our own needs, and it comes in handy so many times. Last night, while we were at the entertainment complex, the man said to me that he needed to go to Colorado Springs on an errand for that Jeep place where he has been working in one capacity or another on and off for a long time. He trailed off as he said, "I thought maybe you wanted a..." and in the pause, I meowed, "Aaaoouut?" It wasn't intended to be a vacation, or even much of a chance to play tourist. It was seriously just a long car ride, and he wanted to use my fuel-efficient tiny little car, and he offered me a chance to go for a change of scenery. Of course I jumped on it (and no, I'm not offended that he did have ulterior motives with the MPGs).

We had heard about a big change in the weather blowing in last night. Felt it, even. But I had expressed doubt that there was any snow in the system. For us in the north, I was correct. By the time we reached Castle Rock on the drive, I found the snow. It was a narrow band, focused almost completely on the Palmer divide and a few miles north of that. It looks like it was pretty significant around Monument. When we stopped for coffee, we steered so that we followed the snowplow across the mounds of slush taller than my headlights on the bridge to the Starbucks. The piles of plowed snow in the parking lot were higher than my face as I at in the car. And then by the time we reached the Air Force Academy on the north side of the Springs, the snow was mostly gone. At the coffee stop, I was questioning my choice of only a few thin layers of clothes, all t-shirt weight top and bottom (long sleeves, light hoodie, and leggings). By lunch I was fine. Weather in Colorado. Never boring.

The trip used up all of my energy. I got back at four, and have sat in front of politics on the television, playing with felines, ever since. Apparently it is a great sin for a kitty mommy not to be home for seven hours. I have paid the price for my negligence. Tonight will probably be the same as the last several, with me sweltering under the three who glue themselves to my sides and head all night long. Not sure I will be interested in going back to the Springs tomorrow... to exchange the part that the southern Jeep store sold to the man. Turns out that long drive was for nothing. They gave him the wrong piece.

Crud

Inspirational song: Blowin' In the Wind (Bob Dylan)

There's a big weather front blowing in. I've heard that it could rain, or maybe even snow. Either way, with this sort of blustery wind, I am shutting my window tonight. I'd been leaving it open, and still have been too hot at night. Bodes ill for the summer, if I don't get air conditioning soon. I am having trouble believing that there is a chance of snow. It has been so crazy warm for weeks, that I've stopped believing that normal weather patterns still apply. If it does come, I know I will wish that it had come sooner, before the nectarine tree started blooming. Most of the buds are still tight, just barely pushing out hints of pink. If it gets too cold, it could ruin my chances of seeing fruit form this year.

Tonight was the monthly social for Rotary, back to the new games center (arcade/bowling alley/bar/event rooms). We had a great turnout. These nights are starting to pick up. We had a couple events where we could barely get ten people there. There were at least four times that tonight, maybe five times. Mr X stopped by on his way back from the Jeep parts place where he has spent so much of his life (acquiring parts for his husband-sitter project and doing contract work over the winter). He is getting to know a few of my Rotary friends now. He even taught several of them how to play Crud, the old Canadian fighter-pilot game that is played on a pool table. The foreign exchange student really took to it, and gave him a serious run for his money. The only part that tripped him up was remembering not to shoot from the long side of the table.

I spent most of the day feeling like crud myself, less in the sense of fun bar game, more in the sense of headache, body aches, fatigue, and chills. I tried soaking in the hot tub this morning, with all of the cats around me, and I tried napping for hours this afternoon. Neither made me feel better. I hope this doesn't signal a pattern, like a flare coming on. I'd much prefer it was over and done by tomorrow.

Rubbernecking

Inspirational song: Karn Evil 9 (Emerson, Lake, & Palmer)

I was alive when the Watergate hearings took place. My age was in single digits, and my ability to comprehend the magnitude of what was happening on a national and global scale was roughly nil. We lived on an air force base in Germany at the time it was happening, or maybe we were still living in a rental house in one of the little German towns near it. We didn't have a whole lot of television time back then. We had an eleven inch black and white television set, and our choices for viewing were Armed Forces Network or one of the few German broadcasts. I honestly do not remember witnessing a single moment of the hearings on TV, live or recorded, during the time they were proceeding.

I was a teenager when the Iran-Contra Affair was going on. I had a little more awareness of it as an international scandal, but I was far more concerned with my own affairs, as most teenagers are. A decade later, when the Clinton impeachment dominated the news, I had children of my own, no older than I was during Watergate. I was too busy to stay on top of it as it was happening, but eventually I got enough of the full picture to feel like I was there. From then on, however, I started paying attention more often, and I had a pretty good idea of the scandals of the day through everything that happened this century. I didn't always get outraged at them, and sometimes I found myself seriously annoyed when multiple investigations were conducted with the same results (that no wrongdoing was found), yet one political side couldn't take not guilty for an answer. For that reason, I refused to glue myself to the media inputs during those scandals either. There's a difference between being aware and willingly staring into the fires of Hell as they burn.

Last year I was absorbed in my own Hell, as I've written at length. I took a long, long break from politics. I couldn't handle even the slightest whiff of it. Somewhere during the fall, I was ready to peek again, but the whole country went topsy turvy, and my emotions spun out of control for several months when I thought about it all. And now I find myself in March, with the cable news playing almost every day. I scroll through Twitter constantly. I'm getting worked up into a frenzy, and I can see the effect it is having on my stress levels, and how it directly affects my body. My sleep habits have changed, my breathing and pain levels are wonky, and even my skin is breaking out. This week especially feels like a bomb has gone off in my brain. As I have live testimony and interviews playing next to me, I keep having the wind knocked out of me. I try to imagine how people felt when monumental things were said in 1974, and they heard it live. I'm pretty sure I am experiencing the same sense of astonishment they did then. I don't know that I do or don't like it. But I am aware of it. Very, very aware.

Transition Time

Inspirational song: Bad Case of Lovin' You (Robert Palmer)

People continue to surprise me. If I'd thought about it ahead of time, maybe I would have seen the storm coming, but I have to admit, I didn't expect the contentiousness that I witnessed today.

There is currently one hospital in my hometown, and one under construction. Many of the doctors at the existing hospital are long-time members of my Rotary group, and they are quite proud of their community-centric hospital. One of those doctors has spoken eloquently in my presence about the founding of their hospital and its mission statement, but I don't think I could do it justice if I tried to repeat it. Today we got to hear from a couple representatives of the new hospital under construction. It did not go well. Doctors, politicians, and business leaders alike all had the same essential question: why exactly do you think we need a second hospital? I never imagined that they would be so fiesty. Territorial I probably could have expected. But the tension in that room was palpable. The question and answer session went on longer than the PowerPoint speech part. It's not the vibe I have come to expect from these lunches. I don't know what to make of it.

It was actually pretty interesting, all the drama. But I think I'll be happier if this sort of thing is rare. We had a speaker at writers group too, but it was so much tamer. "Just" a local journalist who had the skinny on who owns whom for all of the newspapers in the state and where the future of the industry lies.

After all that, I am quite pleased to have the day off tomorrow, to hang out in my Park, where signs of Spring are busting out all over. Flower season is nearly upon us. I need to delete old photos off of my camera and out of my cloud, so that I can fill up all my storage space again.