Snippets here and there

Those of you who are observant will note the addition of my photo at the top of this blog. My honey was actually the catalyst for this: his photo now adorns his blog, and I figured if he was gonna put it out there, then I could too.

It's not like I'm not already visible: the photo also appears in Enjoy magazine, a wonderful north state glossy magazine for which I've had the privilege of writing for more than a year, and a similar shot also has appeared with my some-time real estate column in the Redding Record Searchlight's Sunday Homes section, although the column hasn't been in there lately for various reasons.

But it's a decent photo of me, taken by Tony on our back porch, before the wonderful ivy geraniums got nibbled to nubbins by the deer, and before the scorching north winds of a couple of weeks ago blew down the other plant that was hanging from our porch roof.

"Why no -- there hasn't been ANY retouching," she said guilelessly.

So now you know the face behind the words.

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September 11 came and went although not without ceremonies of remembrance. I wrote about our experiences on that horrible day a few years ago.

I don't believe we've ever recovered from it, although I think that our collective attitudes have reverted back to the largely self-centered ones that preceded it. I so clearly remember the connectedness that pervaded the country in the days and months after the tragedy. I wish there was some way to regain that without another disaster.

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And I re-read last year's September posts: it was not a particularly fun month, and this hasn't been either. I always am interested to note the changes, however.

• We are happily communicating with daughter #3, and in fact, have a 3-month-old grandson who is a charmer. She is in a better place, I think, although this year has been hard for her health-wise. She and her boyfriend are in the process of making some changes to their lives -- again -- and we hope it will be better for all concerned. She has matured tremendously over this past year, and it is indeed gratifying to see her emerge into a mostly sensible young mother -- she even described herself the other day as a "soccer mom" -- she also is "stepmom" to his three children, a huge undertaking all by itself. We're proud of her and grateful for the improvement in communication.

• No change as far as communication with daughter #2, and we only hope that she is okay. One day, perhaps, we'll know more. Until then, she is in our prayers and has our love around her, even if she doesn't choose to acknowledge it.

• The biggest change is that daughter #1 is living with us after a difficult year and some very scary events. She is trying to adapt to small town life after living all her adult life in a substantially-sized city; she is enduring medication changes and subsequent side effects that have mostly sapped her natural energy; and she is adjusting to living with mom again after being independent for years. We're in a one-day-at-a-time existence, all of us. I am so grateful to have her where I can touch her and talk to her, and to know that she is safe, fed, and that she has resources to help her. Mostly those ice weasels have gone quiet, but I'd sure like to help her find some friends around her age who share some of her interests. It's just a huge, hard life change for her, on top of all the other issues.
  

We've just completed a couple of major projects for our property -- a start on some landscaping with a beautifully engineered and finished retaining wall, and an enormous shop-garage that will shelter not only the vehicles but also provide lots of work room and storage. It's being wired at this writing, but with all the lights and outlets, I'm sure you'll be able to see it from space -- sort of like "Deck the Halls," the Danny Devito movie of a couple of years ago. I'm told it's a "guy" thing. Whatever.

I'm still working on getting back into the full writing swing though -- the cross-country trip and settling in took a lot of energy and time, and I'm just now beginning to come back up to something like normal. I'm trying to get enough sleep and take a little time for me, but so far what that's involved is eating a lot more candy than I have eaten in months. I'm going to Bunco this month, however, and that will give me a really great girlfriend fix. I'm also hoping the Cowgirls will get together again soon -- I miss that connection.

This is our surgery month, too -- both Tony and I get cataracts removed and new lenses implanted -- he on one eye, me on both. We're both looking forward to better eyesight and easy recovery from this very simple procedure. That's coming up...

Last year's note about 57 degrees and rain on Sept. 22 gives me hope: it's been over 100 for days, although nights are cooling to lower 60s-upper 50s, and we keep windows open then. But I'm so tired of dust and heat and sweat and crispy crunchy grass, and the garden is just pathetic -- fruit doesn't set well with very hot temps, so the tomatoes look worn out and ready for the compost heap on top, although there's green at the roots. We're nearly at mid-September though, and it won't last too much longer.

We all long for change, don't we, at this time of year: the bountiful harvest of our hard labors in our homes, our jobs, our gardens. We long for new opportunities and fresh starts, for cooler days and renewing rains, and for the feeling that the great wheel is indeed turning as it should. It doesn't feel like that yet -- it feels stuck in place, like a little pebble is preventing the wheel from moving much -- but yet I know that it soon will move on. Life is short enough -- I don't want to waste my days and wish them away -- and yet, I am ready for something to change for the better.

Missing my folks

I don't know why the memory came to me exactly, but I have had the strongest memories in the last couple of days of the house where I grew up in Springfield, Missouri.

And specifically, oddly, of my parents' bedroom, which was at the back of the first floor of the house, a two-story Tudor-style dwelling. Their room was an add-on, I think, before we bought it when I was in the fifth grade, and could have been used as a family room. Two other bedrooms were upstairs -- mine and my brother's.

Their room had a door to the back yard and a window opening to the kitchen, in addition to the door from the small hall between kitchen and living room that also had the door to the basement. My mother, a neatnik, always kept the room immaculately neat and tidy. There was a tall bookshelf in their room, which was fairly large, and built-in drawers and a countertop near their large closet. They had a bath off a dressing area.

But my memory is of my mother taking a nap, probably on a Sunday afternoon, which was the only time she really allowed herself that luxury unless she was sick, which she hardly ever was (at least until the last several years of her life).

I can see the drawn drapes, the partly closed shuttered window into the kitchen, the soft glow of an afternoon. I can see her on her side of the bed, curled on one side, with the bedspread pulled back and neatly covering her.

It makes me puddle to remember that, somehow. Maybe it was the sense that all was well.

Daddy would likely be dozing in his big swivel rocker with golf, or maybe football or basketball, flickering quietly on the television and the newspaper's crossword puzzle in his hand. The Sunday papers would be on the brown leather hassock that sat in front of the other two rockers in the room. There might be a hint of pot roast in the air, or of spicy apple pie, reminders of the good Sunday dinner we had enjoyed after church.

It was quiet, peaceful, and all was right with the world.

It makes me miss them so much, though -- or maybe it is simply nostalgia for a time when my world was predictable, safe, calm, and pretty much without stress. I knew I was loved, I was safe and taken care of. My responsibilities were pretty minor -- clean my room, help with housework and laundry, keep up my grades, tell the truth. The only other person who ever saw my parents nap like that on a Sunday afternoon is my brother -- and I don't know if he remembers it as I do.

I'd welcome a little more simplicity right now, a little more predictability, a little less stress, a lot less worry about those I love. It seems like such a different life, this one, and so very far removed from that time.

I nap -- on those rare occasions when I DO nap -- much the same way as did my mother, curled under the bedspread or maybe with an afghan covering my legs. It is one of the sweetest sleeps I know, napping like that on a quiet, lazy Sunday afternoon. It doesn't happen often enough. Maybe it should.