Well, so much for the not-very-well-laid plans. As of today, which is, almost I was corrected to note, the middle of August, I have not got much farther with the closet purge, the exercise program or anything much else. I am, however, managing to be off the added oxygen for most of the day and that is the rent in the clouds. If I can get off it overnight, I will be able to sleep in a position other than flat on my back with the oxygen tube tucked under my arm and being able to move around will mean, I hope, that I do not get up in small and painstaking (and painful) increments in the morning. Or earlier. Life in the slowest, do not pass go lane.
Part of this hiatus
has been my obsessive (according to JG) watching he feed from some of my
favourite Olympic sports over two weeks. Gymnastics, swimming, track and field,
and, I confess, beach volleyball. I also got hooked on the Canadian women’s rugby
team’s amazing showing. Like the beach volleyball, I find I can see the plays
and the logic of what is happening. And it is nice to see the women do well. Did
you know that these Olympics are the very first where the women and men are
equally represented in number? If you did not, you do now. I watched some of it
over and over again, especially the swimming, once my sport. But if I never see
another ‘Break’ contest, I think I can live. Having painfully learned the parameters
of the marks for style in artistic gymnastics, I guess I could, over time,
figure out the meritorious moves in break dancing, but only with ear plugs.
I have also been rereading
Rosamunde Pilcher’s epic novels, The Shell Seekers, September, Coming Home and
Winter Solstice. The first two contain a carryover of characters and are
in chronological order. The others stand alone. And stand up very well to
criticism. While her earlier novels are
unabashedly romances, the ones I have listed are much more. They record what
life is. They are funny and poignant and alive. I reread for pleasure, slowly,
savouring the language, the descriptions, noting the tiny details, rather like
plunking down in front of a painting and watching the light fall on it. Rewarding.
But it does not get the laundry done.
Some laundry is ready. Tomorrow I have to put
the YD’s bed back together. She was here off and on for a couple of weeks but,
since her house renovation was not proceeding quite to plan, she left her
worldly goods in storage and went on a two-week hike in Baffin Island. From
which she returns tomorrow, or maybe the day after that, or whenever. I washed
up her bedding and a few garments with my wash. She has a good bit of ‘stuff’
in her room here, mostly clothes unsuited to schlepping across the barrens of
Baffin Island, and I therefore assume we will see her anon. It is a source of
much joy to me that she is now based in Canada.
Auyuittuq Traverse (Black Feather Outfitters)
The unusual amount of
rain that we have had this last while has really brought out the wildflowers.
The ditches are solid with either goldenrod or purple loosestrife, depending on
the moisture level, the cattails are going to be immense and everything is
green and lush. Our lawn, also green if not lush, seems to have goodies that
the deer like to chomp. They are actually staying on the lawn and off my rock
garden, mirabile dictu. We will see how long that lasts. JG is complaining that
he does nothing but cut back grass and chop back the trees that are trying to
take over the trails. Unfortunately, though, it is a great year also for
grackles and we must have a whole extended village of the wretched birds. Noisy
and blocking the little birds from the feeders, they have no redeeming
qualities to my mind.
Such as it is. I had
planned to write a post about Canadian English, but I am just too lazy tonight.
Next time. Maybe. Or do I mean’ perhaps?
