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It’s been three years.  As I remember my father doing, I’ve battled knee pain.  (My father called his “Arthur.”) I’ve stretched, I’ve exercised, I’ve applied ointments, I’ve taken pain steadily increasing meds, and I have limped.

In 2014, just a couple of months before a long-anticipated trip to France, I fell on a step into the kitchen while I was bringing in an armful of herbs from the garden.  Sore and worried about being unable to enjoy our trip, I saw an orthopedist.  The X-rays and MRI he ordered showed fairly advanced arthritis.  I did a few weeks of physical therapy and I began taking medication for the pain, and it worked.  We had a great trip, including walking around Paris and southern France.

Since then, I’ve been like the frog in the pot.  Although it’s been up and down, the trend line on the pain has been upward and I have become less mobile.  I resisted the idea of knee replacement because I was always able to convince myself that the pain wasn’t too bad and that I could still do most of what I wanted to do.  But my gardens suffered, the walking-for-exercise dwindled, the walking-for-fun was less fun, and I was always in some level of pain.

Finally in August I knew that the time had come.  New x-rays showed bone on bone.  There was another vacation on my schedule, to northern California, so when the new orthopedist confirmed that I was absolutely a candidate for knee replacement, I decided to delay for a few weeks.  That vacation was also wonderful.  San Francisco is not an easy place for someone who doesn’t like walking, so I relied on Uber.  I didn’t want to forego the Monterey Aquarium or SF MOMA, so I reluctantly sat in a wheelchair, pain-free but self-conscious.

On Tuesday October 24th  I checked into surgery at Mercy St. V’s  and checked out of consciousness for a couple of hours.  I’m still battered, bruised, swollen and sore but the trend line is toward less pain and more mobility.  My physical therapist is pushing me. My family is watching over me.  My friends are feeding me (and the fam).

I’m on the mend, and grateful for it.

 

 

I cook for a lot of reasons.  Taste is number one.  But other associations matter too.  Memories.  Aspirations.

Last week I cooked a Puerto Rican -style pork pernil  . I know that our delicious dinner didn’t help Puerto Ricans any more than Trump’s tossed paper towels, but, since  I’ve never been to Puerto Rico, cooking and eating this food was the best I could do to make the island’s disaster real to me.

Tonight I am soaking midnight black beans from Rancho Gordo, and tomorrow I’ll make Free Mexican Airforce chili.  Until I found this recipe in Steve Sando’s cookbook, I hadn’t heard of Peter Rowan or listened to this song.  Rancho Gordo closed today and told all its employees to stay home.  Much of the wine country is on fire.  Just a couple of weeks ago we were at the junction of 101 and 12, where the Santa Rosa fire started.  Selfishly, I’m glad that we toured Sonoma when we did, and that we spent a day driving through Napa.

 

Is there a lesson here?  It’s tempting to be overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the threat to so many beautiful places.  But I’m going to choose to be overwhelmed by the beauty that still exists, at home and on vacation.  Join me?

I haven’t posted here in a couple of months.  A lot has changed since June 29th.  My daughter Johanna has taken a leave from her job as a junior kindergarten teacher in Chicago to be a full-time Mom to her daughter Aloisa this year. They are living with us. And we are delighted with this expansion of our household. 

I’d been looking for moments of joy, and I’ve found them.  Aloisa (Loi) is an explosion of joy.  Everything is interesting.  Everything is exciting. She has the worst case of FOMA you’ve ever seen.  I  have a very enthusiastic cooking companion.  

And she really appreciates food.

And the garden.

If you haven’t seen me in a while, it’ because I’m playing blocks.  Or house.  I’ll be around, but maybe just a little bit less.

 

I’ve been thinking about my mother lately. Yesterday would have been her 95th birthday.  She was among the youngest of a family of twelve who grew up on a farm in upstate New York.  Because my grandfather didn’t believe in “higher education” for girls, my mother and her sisters were not sent to the high school in town but stayed in the school down the road, repeating the 8th grade until they were sixteen and old enough to be on their own.  She moved downstate and lived first with a brother and his wife, gaining a skill that made her marketable, and then with a girlfriend.  After working for a few years she came home, married, and became a stay-at-home mom.  She was always a voracious reader. I remember when she earned her GED.  And the various things she took up, including mentoring various young female friends and relatives, oil painting, and selling Amway.  Later she worked as a home health care aid, which earned her health care benefits in retirement.  She had cancer, the result of  a lifetime of smoking. She died at 77, having lived with us after my father, who had been her caregiver, died.

My generation was the first to go to college.  I got married at 21 (younger than she had) and worked as a teacher while John attended medical school.  After he graduated I also became a stay-at-home mom.  And earned an MBA.  I also took up projects (mostly kid-focused and non-paying) while my kids were small, and I’ve mentored young people, both male and female.  Unlike my mother, I’ve had the opportunity for meaningful and gratifying work, most but not all of it unpaid. For that I am profoundly grateful.

I think about the differences as I read about the terrifying threats to women’s rights that seem to be happening all over.  Recently I read The Handmaids’ Tale for the first time, and it did not seem far-fetched.  Although recent stories argue that it’s been misrepresented, it’s easy to believe the news that Missouri’s SB 5 would allow employers to fire women because they are on the pill.  Reality is so bizarre that nothing can be ruled out.

As I make choices about how to spend my time now that I have so much of it, I want to focus on ways to support women, both as individuals and collectively.  I’m interested in ideas.

 

Note to self:  Spend the longest day of the year with your granddaughter.  Be outside.  Feed the fish and water the flowers.  Perfect.

I have always been a reader.  I remember reading comic books under the sheets when I was supposed to be asleep.  I remember reading a Nancy Drew book each day during summer vacations from junior high school.  I remember binge-reading Peter Wimsey and Nero Wolfe and several Anne Rice sagas of unforgettable non-humans. So many favorites!!

My reading style has not changed much in the 60+ years since I learned to read. I still read almost every night (and many days, too). I still read mostly fiction. I still read mostly for plot.   I still favor a long series that allows me to spend extended time with my fictional friends, and a high percentage of those friends are detectives (be still my heart, Guido Brunetti or Armand Gamache).

This week though, I am reading short stories by Roxane Gay.  I learned about Gay and about the book from one of those “best books” lists.  I think the recommendations were from authors who also own bookstores.  The recommendation suggested that Difficult Women should be read slowly.  Although it’s not my style, I have followed that suggestion, and it’s been rewarding.  This morning I read “North Country,” and it was enough.

I am aware of by can’t understand people who don’t read.  Hard copy or digital (I read on my laptop, using the Kindle app) or listening (I use Audible), they’re all reading.

If you’re looking for me, I’m probably in the garden, reading…

 

 

I remember two very different activities on Memorial Days of my childhood.  Neither involved picnics.  Or hot dogs.

Usually the official Memorial Day service was in the morning.  The high school band.  Solemn music. A classmate reciting the Gettysburg Address.  Taps.  It didn’t last long, but failing to mark the day in this way would have been unthinkable.  Is that still a thing?

Later at home, we gathered flowers bundles which always involved lilacs.  Sometimes irises.  Honeysuckle. Maybe some late tulips.  We made bouquets (I remember Mason jars) and visited the cemeteries where my ancestors were buried.  Mostly, I didn’t remember these great-aunts and great-grandparents.  It was interesting to see the names and helped me feel a sense of the context of my life at that time.

None of my ancestors are buried here.  The ashes of my parents and my sister have been scattered in places that were special to them.

I don’t have lilacs in my yard, but I’m looking forward to gathering peonies and maybe an early rose.  And indulging in memory.

 

Last day of April, my birth month.  Encouraged by the early warmth, we’ve prepared the porch and the yard for summer, but these last days have been too cold to enjoy the outside.  The lettuce seeds have sprouted, the milkweed leaves are unfurling, and our meals have begun to include frequent ingredients harvested from the garden (chives and garlic chives, thyme and lemon thyme, sage and fiddleheads).  For a few months at least, winter is not coming.

Next week we’re heading off on a road trip, the first time in years we will have driven farther than Chicago.   I’m looking forward to the Low Country.  Savannah and maybe Charleston.  We’ll be spending several days on Hilton Head Island, where I’ve never been before.  Golf of course (not for me but still…) and, weather permitting, beaches.  I hope to learn a bit about Gullah culture and maybe even bring home a basket or two.

In the meantime, I’ve continued to read books that do not encourage a lightness of heart.  I had put off reading The Underground Railroad, but after the Pulitzer it became unavoidable.  In the last few months I’ve also read The Invention of Wings and Homegoing.  So my experience in South Carolina and Georgia will  include not just an appreciation of the beauty of nature and the delicious food, but an awareness of the history of slavery and its continuing legacy.  I’m hoping to find more upbeat books (including audible) for the trip, since my mood seems to so clearly mirror my reading material.

What influences your mood?  My list would include the weather, other aspects of my environment (yes, I really do feel better when my space is clean and tidy), my activities (cooking and gardening are good), and, absolutely, what I am watching, listening to, and reading.  It’s tricky to balance awareness of the awful things that are happening, appreciation of the wonderful things all around me, and the need/opportunity to be alive every day.

I’m looking forward to May.

 

Arthritis is a bitch.  For the last few years I’ve juggled exercises, salves,  injections and pain meds, timing each according to occasions, vacations, and the weather.  “Bad knees” run in the family.  Sooner or later a knee replacement is likely, but I’m not in a hurry.

While I don’t plan on an extended work session this morning, a little garden cleanup is irresistible .  Not because I should do it, but because of how much I enjoy doing it.  I have to set a timer so that the price in aches and pains doesn’t get too high.

Few things are as rewarding to me as digging in the dirt, attacking the weeds and encouraging the herbs and flowers that I’ve planted and that, so far, the deer have not destroyed.  No-work chives are usually are the first to make it onto our plates.  I only have room for one rhubarb plant, so I augment from the market, but I can’t give up on it.

Tiny flowers are emerging from last fall’s leaves and debris, while the hyacinth I rescued from a gift pot of mixed bulbs is showing promise.

I have a special fondness for this tiny daffodil:

It’s been a rough winter.  Signs of life in the garden will help me keep faith and keep going.

 

So I lost an hour last night.  Actually I feel like I lost many hours this week.  Our electricity went out in the windstorm Wednesday about noon and was not restored until late Friday afternoon.  Wednesday wasn’t bad.  The backup system kept the wifi on for a few hours. I went to the library and chose a book to distract and amuse.  I went to the drug store and bought a battery-powered book light.  We ate Five Guys Burgers and Fries by candlelight for dinner.  By Thursday morning it was too cold for comfort in the house, so for two days I shuttled between coffee houses (mostly Brew) and restaurants (Original Sub and Greg’s Grill and QQ) and libraries – wherever there was warmth, electricity, and wifi.  In between I came home to check whether the lights were on.   (Nope!)  I obsessively checked the Toledo Edison website for explanations and promises.  Outage reported.  Inclement weather.  Tree damage. Awaiting assignment. Additonal crews requested. First I worried that the freezer would warm up and then I worried that the houseplants – or the pipes – would freeze.  Nights were okay under warm blankets, so there was that.

Lately I’ve been trying to get out of the house more, but not for simple survival.  Now that I am warm (although I am left with a head cold that may or not be associated with the outage), I am appreciating the comforts of home but still determined to get out more.

I remember a few years ago smiling at Karen Wood’s comment that free time is a lot more valuable when you don’t have so much of it.  Karen, you certainly seem to have figured out how to handle that!  I still have a ways to go.

I don’t need to save time.  I want to spend it wisely and appreciate it gratefully.