Entre Act

Or something like that.

Since Thursday I have been the somewhat frazzled caregiver for: granddaughter, age nine, broken finger in cast that needs redoing daily; large white dog with grief issues and too much hair; small thin cat with voice like chalk on a blackboard and frequent need for food; and somewhat sleepless husband trying to keep cat off couch and dog occupied while simultaneously listening to granddaughter talk to him.

This afternoon I dropped granddaughter at her gymnastics club to go with her class to see the Canadian Olympic trials, dropped dog at the YD's house shortly before she was due back from her latest trip, came to the granddaughter's house and fed and watered cat, guinea pig and tortoise.
The house is now silent and perfectly peaceful, the background noises of peaceful munching only adding to the perfect bliss of ........  six hours off.

The Tale of Maria Callico

About three weeks ago some small-souled lout dumped a half grown kitten at the end of our lane way. Such events are not unusual where we live, at the end of a sparsely populated country road. Last December a neighbour found four tiny kittens in a box in the snow and other neighbours have been gifted as well. So common is this that our local animal shelter is not taking in cats at all these days.

We did not see this poor little thing until she was almost starved and quite wild. We first spotted her under the bird feeder sniffing around in the seed husks. JG had just finished a bowl of berries and cream. He added more cream to the bowl and I took it outside. The cat ran for the woods beside our house when she saw me, but came back later and lapped up her treat (and yes, I have since been told firmly not to feed dairy products to cats). We refilled the bowl with leftover chicken from supper and she reappeared and ate that.

The next day it poured with rain and we spotted the kitten sheltering under the eaves of the garage across from the house. I put out more meat where she could see the bowl and that food, too, disappeared. So did the cat. We have an old cabin that we used before we built the house and we figured she was sheltering there. Next day the ED and family visited and Miss G and her mother soon had the cat out, on their laps and named. Game over, but I struggled. After a quarter century of looking after animals, I did not want another. We phoned all the neighbours. The YD, who had also fallen for the cat, put out an advertisement among her friends. No one wanted a kitten.

Because she is a calico, Miss G named her Callee and I expanded that to Maria Callico (after Maria Callas, a famous diva of the sixties) because this cat has a shattering C above high C shriek when she wants something to eat. And she wants it often. She has also turned into a bit of a diva. At first she ate anything but as her condition improved she started to reject cat kibble. After she had ignored a bowl of nice kibble for two days (while leaving bits of chipmunk and mouse strewn around the cabin site) I gave in and bought tins of cat food. This she approves of. As well she is now the proud owner of a fluffy cat bed, a litter box, a cat carrier and an appointment with the vet.

On Saturday Shammy, the YD's large white dog, joined us for a week. She regards Callee with resigned indifference, refuses to drink water out of Callee’s pottery bowl and demands her own stainless dish, and appears to roll her eyes when Callee shrieks. Callee has decided that Shammy's kibble tastes just fine (and has tried to claw a corner out of the bag), that cleaning up Shammy's dish is good fun and that Shammy's water tastes better. However, when she left a bit of breakfast this morning, Shammy got that, so honours are about even.

On Thursday this ménage will become larger with the addition of Miss G herself, who will be here for ten days while her parents go to conferences. She will, of course, have her own bowls and diet, but may end up sharing her bed.

Four Weeks

My friend is gone. She was dealing with a fast acting, difficult form of leukaemia Since she was not in good enough health to be a candidate for a bone-marrow transplant, nor willing to undergo extreme forms of chemo, her life-expectancy was originally put at three to six months. But she responded only a little to the forms of treatment she could endure, a drug to knock down the immature white cells, red blood cell transfusion and treatment of the resultant kidney problems. The original estimate of the time she had left was been revised downward.

However, last week she went into a bit of a remission and her blood work stayed steady for almost six days. She was able to go and spend a day in her beloved home, and was quite able to receive visitors and enjoy phone calls. And there were an astonishing number of them. Our wonderful local hospital waived all the visiting hour and number of visitor rules for her and put her in a private room at the end of a corridor. Last Sunday her daughter and I counted seventeen assorted family members and friends in the Family room and her room, rotating in and out. This Saturday the amazingly talented 'special friend' of her eldest grandson came in with a guitar and fiddle and sang and played for her. Another musical relative arrived, grabbed the guitar and there was a concert, with step dancing. And she loved every minute of it.

Many of her grandchildren got home in time to be with her. Beloved nieces and nephews had time to come from all around the province and the States. The resident granddaughters worked with her daughter, a BNSc, to provide day and night support and care, and so she never lacked for a helping hand whenever she needed one.

There are three children, eleven grandchildren, and so many nieces and nephews that I have never been able to keep them straight. She has sisters-in-law, cousins by the dozens and lots and lots of friends and fellow card players, dancers and maple syrup manufacturers, all of whom have filtered through her room the past week. And she was well enough to love every minute of it, to be thrilled by the throngs of visitors and the wall of cards and the ever-growing pile of flowers and treats.

My special job was to do the daily run to Timmie's for her Ice Cap.

On Monday the white blood cell count was up and they had to put her back on the cell-killing drug. Tuesday they doubled the dose. Yesterday she started to fail and she died this morning, surrounded by loving voices and comforting hands. In the circle of her family.

I bought myself an Ice Cap on the way home from the hospital. And imagined her laughter.

Back

I'm doing as much as I can to support my friend, and finding it very hard to talk about.

However, I do have some nice photos from a short drive we did last week along the Blue Ridge Parkway.

These parking spots really took my fancy. Note the buckets.

Up on the Shenandoah section - beautiful but misty weather.

There were more flowers in bloom than we had expected. This is one of the early azaleas.

And this is another.

Mountain Laurel. All of these blooms were on bushes, many taller than we were. And there were lots of them.

Just loved the colour.

We took some hikes. This one is to 'Mary's Rock'.

We visited some of their displays. The dry wall fences are very dramatic.

This shot took a lot of climbing up and down over rocks and along a pathway that was mostly mud and water. The Parkway map labelled it 'easy to moderate'. We did not try anything marked 'difficult'.

Early moring facing south. I am going to delete the power line. Soon. The long light gives the best photos.

One of the places we stayed. This is Peaks of Otter, right on the parkway and run by the park.

A bit of the road from the overview. Himself drove. I closed my eyes and leaned in from time to time.

The Blue Ridge Parkway is a gorgeous, serene drive, except, I am told, in rhododendron and coloured leaves seasons. And for the first time over it, we had good weather all the way.

Country roads, take me home. Even if you are all corkscrews.

Big Black Hole

Just over two years ago I lost my sister-in-law to cancer and one of the lights of my life went dark. This morning I learned that my almost-sister, my very best friend, is strongly suspected to have leukemia. And the flat grey sky and cold wet rain just match how I feel. She is not only my rock and solace, but the centre and anchor for her whole large and extended family. I don't know what to do, how to be.

Well, not true. In fact, I can just imagine what my friend, the eternal optimist, the most courageous person I know, is saying and doing as she is shut into the cancer ward and subjected to a gazillion tests. And I know what she expects of me, too. If she could see me typing here, all grey and rainy, she would tell me that there are treatments for leukemia, that she will get through this. Then she would tell me a funny story about the hospital or something.

So, I will put my chin up and try to give her family some help. And stop the cold, grey rain from falling on the keyboard. Soon. Any minute now.

Dancing on Air

 
I took these photos as part of an exercise in stop-action, shutter priority photography. The location is the edge of the Rideau River in an Ottawa park. I am here because I am looking after my granddaughter while her parents are away. The method - the granddaughter was tasked to throw bits of bread high in the air and entice the bread-habituated gulls to hover in the air in front of her while grandma clicked, panned and clicked some more.

Some of the shots turned out quite well.

Although I did think that this guy was going to fly right into the camera lens.

The GD loves this park and regularly hangs out here, feeding whatever furred or feathered critter drops by and observing all that passes. Her biggest thrill on Monday was to spot a red winged blackbird female displaying and the male bird swooping down to mate with her. We spent the majority of the after school period, however, observing a nest on which a Canada goose and a mallard duck both seem to be laying eggs.

Lots of the GD's feathered pals turned up for their treats and I also took the opportunity to take some portraits.

It was an entirely beautiful interlude, even if we are paying for it now with three forecast days of rain. The GD set off for school this morning in her jacket. When I observed that she had two raincoats hanging in the closet in the hall, she informed me that both of them are too small and that, in addition, her toes are curling under in her rollerblades.  She mentioned birthday gifts, in passing. An eminently practical and delightful child.

She will be nine on her birthday. How swiftly the years pass by.

Baffled, Kindled and Frustilated

I got a Kindle for my birthday. After a day of skull sweat, dealing with an on-line helper who at one point remarked that 'well, it worked, but I don't know why' and squinting at a miniaturized screen, I got the device working, downloaded a few books, and happily began reading.  And, of course, not doing housework, not blogging and staying up far too late at night.

This ability to get a book any time I want it is like a dream come true. We live half an hour from the nearest second hand book store and library and while I own a lot of books that I love, there are only so many times that you want to re-read something. When we moved out here, I set up an office with a wall of bookcases and into them I put all my reference books, non-fiction hard covers and fiction hard covers. I  also have two shelves devoted to picture albums (so 20th century) and cases for maps and travel material. This left me no place for my eight large cardboard boxes full of paperbacks to be unloaded.

At the time (1996) this did not bother me, as there were lots of spots around the unfinished house where more bookshelves could be installed. In the interim, the boxes sat in the basement and I dug around in them if I needed something. When we partitioned that end of the basement, the boxes moved to the (unheated) cabin we used before we built the house. And there they still remain. Until we put a ceiling in the basement, I cannot install more bookshelves.

I go to the cabin occasionally and sort through the books for something I want. There are bookshelves over there and so some of the paperbacks are shelved. Some are stacked on the bunk beds, some still in boxes. The whole of the cabin needs to be gutted and reinsulated. The paperbacks, most of them quite old, have not improved by being stored in a place that is freezing in winter, hot and humid in the summer and damp most of the time.

Imagine then, my pleasure at discovering that a lot of these paperbacks are available as ebooks. Some for as little as $3.00. Since I got the machine, I have been digging around, finding them and loading them onto the Kindle. I can archive them after a while and throw out the brown-paged, unglued hard copies. And empty out two rooms in the cabin, ready for refurbishment.

Except, the last time I went searching for some of my favourites, I found the first and third book of a trilogy but not the middle book. The Kindle store has every other book by this author that I ever heard of, but not the one I want. I have discovered other sources of ebooks where I might find it, but that means more skull sweat, more tiny screens and, I suspect, more dealings with sweet voiced young dolts over the telephone.

Grama is being hauled, sweating and swearing, into the 21st century, but she is not loving all of it.

Many Parts

The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

 

There is a landmark birthday coming up for me this week and, unlike my reaction at other landmark birthdays - 65, say, or 40 - the number is bothering me. I will be 70 and I identify that number as definitely old. Real old age. This is not making me happy: rather, it is making me grumpy, lethargic and disenchanted with all of the things I usually enjoy and plan for.

I am not sure why reaching this age is such a big deal for me. Possibly there is an echo from the fact that both my mother, her younger sister and my beloved sister-in-law were all fragile and unwell by that age. Possibly it's the 'three-score-and-ten' identifying line. Certainly the belief that this length is the allotted span of a life was part of the things I was taught as a child. Women acted old at seventy in the fifties. They dressed the part and tailored their activities to fit. When I was twelve my mother was a slim, fit 45 who played tennis, ran and was vigorously interested in everything. My grandmother was a small creature bundled in black who had no waist, no teeth, no stamina and no interest in much that I could see except tea and gossip. She was 68. In fairness, my grandfather died that year but my grandmother never recovered, never returned to any of the interests and skills I remember her having when I was a little girl, although she lived to be 93.

The boomer culture has changed that expectation and the image of seniors - we now have 'golden years' and 'zoomers' (!) and slim, fit white-haired couples on beaches, on golf courses and in Viagra advertisements, wrinkles airbrushed and mouths full of expensive implants. Frankly, I have been annoyed by the boomers and their culture all my life and see no reason to buy into the fantasy now. Being old is a fact, it comes to us all and no tummy-tuck, supplement or regime will prevent it. Certainly it comes at different ages and in different ways - I also had an aunt who, well preserved and well-corseted, played golf into her eighties, as well as a mother-in-law who was active and interested well past that age and who just had her 95th birthday.

I don't want to follow any of these examples, not the fifties' assumptions nor the sixties' never-grow-old euphoria. I would like to age 'gracefully', certainly. Who wouldn't. I have found that living through my sixties is like living in a 'heritage' home, rather than a new one. It takes a lot of upkeep and is certainly not provided with the latest and best wiring and insulation. But it can have grace and character, if you put the work and thought into it. That's the problem, though, as I think about it. I have to think about it. There is no part of me, external or internal, that remains low maintenance. From the thin white hair to the problem toe nails, the upkeep is a lot of work. Boring, unrewarding work that takes a lot of time. Alas for the fleeting joys of youth - or even middle age.

That's four paragraphs of whining and so, enough of that! I should be outside fertilizing lilies and retrieving topsoil for a new perennial bed. I should be working on this week's photo challenge, which is 'wind' with either a short or long 'i' according to glorious leader. I should maybe clean the kitchen counter, make the bed, put a load of laundry in, get on with the program. I need library books, the freezer needs organizing, the light-weight clothes, ditto. And I do not have to do all of this after eight hours of being gainfully employed. Nor am I full time custodian of either kid or dog. And I have my teeth, the use of all my limbs and a brain that can still be stimulated into something resembling intelligence by enough coffee.

And I have one chocolate truffle left in the box that the Easter Bunny (aka JG) left on my bedside table. So, I am going to be 70 in only a few days. Too bad, but the alternative is not attractive either.

And She's Mine!

It's the Elder Daughter's birthday, today. We are actually celebrating it tomorrow with lots of food and a highly sugared cake, but I am thinking about her today and remembering and rejoicing.

Just about forty six years ago now the medical staff was hitting me with drugs to increase the intensity of labour - I had been in labour for over twenty four hours at that point and was not progressing to either their satisfaction, or mine. The Elder Daughter was finally delivered with forceps at about 3:30 pm and was a very white and bashed up newborn, with a very exhausted mother. But in spite of it all she was beautiful, the most beautiful baby ever, we thought. She was 7.8 pounds, tough and wiry, and soon developed a smile that lit up the world. And if you held her up to the light, you could just see a bright red fuzz that promised to become a cap of copper and gold.

The ED was a precocious little rug rat, but one that showed both intelligence and common sense (not always the same thing, eh?) at a very early age. Her first word was 'buggah', followed quite quickly by 'peas' (not the vegetable, 'please' without the 'l'). She tried to walk almost as soon as she could stand, but after plunking down hard a few times she restricted her walking to places where she could hold on, finally launching herself solo on her first birthday. Two months later she was running. Three months later she had a sister and had decided that her job was to make sure I was looking after this fascinating object properly. 'MUMMY! Baby cry!' she would announce, fixing me with a green-eyed glare.

Her great loves were books and things that she could climb, but she also enjoyed crayons, digging every pot and pan out of my cupboards, and playing outside. At an astoundingly early age she could be trusted not to run out onto the street and to stay out of the rose brambles, so she had the freedom of the neighbourhood where she and her firmly controlled sister (who could be trusted to do both these things) caged cookies from the neighbours and found lots of lovely bugs. 'MUMMY! Wenny is eating a caperpillar!'

School brought some problems, separation anxiety notably, and, when she moved into the French Immersion program at a school some distance from home, a profound dislike of the bus she had to take to get there. But she did well, in both official languages, and enjoyed learning. As she progressed to secondary school she did better, and better still, counting every lost mark as a challenge. She had her choice of universities and settled on the one that offered her the best scholarship deal. Her university education cost us next to nothing as she financed herself on her scholarships and, I think, came out a bit ahead at the end of her undergraduate days. She also won a scholarship for her doctoral degree, a very lucrative and prestigious one, and emerged, wings fully spread, as a Cambridge PhD.

The French Immersion school had a gymnastics program and the ED loved it. She continued with gymnastics at the club and school level all the way through her schooling, competing for her university and for her club. It was a joy for me to watch her (although sometimes with hands clenched and heart pounding) as she leaped and danced and tumbled, copper hair gleaming and every hand movement and foot placement precise and perfect.

That child and teenager and young woman are now all gone, replaced by a university professor, a housewife and mother, a quiet, competent, confident woman who fills every unrelenting minute with tasks performed as perfectly as only she can make them. Her home is an interesting infill within walking distance of her university, decorated in serene simplicity. Her partner and daughter thrive under her loving care as, I believe, do her students and the fish she uses for her research. She is still a caring sister, a demon skier and an avid fisher-woman.

She is a daughter who fills my heart with pride and joy. 

Just for reference - I wrote a similar post a long time ago now about the younger daughter - you can find it here.

Not Enough Coffee

This is the latest capture from the Trail Cam - a last year's fawn posing most beautifully. This shot also reminds me that it is time to move the feed cans to the shed before a black bear comes along, rips the lids off and overdoses on corn.

 It's a cold, blustery typical late March day, quite a come-down after last week's halcyon weather. I feel that I should be out wrapping little scarves around the neck of each too-early daffodil bud. The robins who were running the lawn last week are huddled, disconsolate and braced against the wind. The YD's dog however, is out surveying her domain, snug and smug in her winter coat, decorated with raspberry canes and muddy leaves.

I have just paged through the morning paper, second coffee in hand, and am bemused by some of the political articles therein. An MP (Member of Parliament) has been removed from a committee for sleeping through a presentation to it. MP Justin Trudeau (PET light) is posing in trunks to publicize a charity boxing match set up with a Senator whose arm is a mass of tattoos - and muscle. Justin may get his already messy hair further mussed. Newt Gingrich is running out of campaign money but promising to stay in the campaign and I cannot imagine what he hopes to gain except huge debt. A strange man - a plausible, fluent speaker without any discernible self-discipline. Are all politicians egos on two flat feet, or am I unusually cranky this morning. Maybe a third cup of coffee?

I went shopping yesterday and bought five pair of trousers to replace the ones presently in my closet that are all one or two sizes too big. I've been on a bit of a weight loss campaign and am now balanced on the size cusp between one size is sloppy and the next one down is almost too tight. I figure that wearing the almost-too-tight stuff will motivate me to lose a few more inches of flab off the butt and waist. I hope. A better motivator would be to get rid of all the this-size-is-sloppy garments and be faced with the choice of eat less or go around in my undies. And they also need replacing, trusty white cotton baggies that they are. Luckily our local store had a whole rack of stuff on sale yesterday.

I came home from this expedition exhausted. I've never been much of a fan of clothes shopping, frankly, and the older and crankier I get, the more I don't enjoy it. I have also had to shop for a dress to wear to a family wedding coming up this weekend. The styles in the shops just now strike me as terminally ugly. Skirts above the knee ( I did this in the sixties but never again), ruffles, asymmetrical hemlines, drapes of fabric across the bust and belly, all presented in slinky, wild-coloured knits or dismal shades of grey. I did find a nice sheath dress in a handsome shade of turquoise, but there was only one left and it was a size I could not wear. So, I have a skirt and top in wild colours that caused my poor husband to blink and visibly swallow his comment. It is faintly slinky, too, since it is the almost-too-tight size. At least I have shoes I can wear with it. And I hope not to be in another clothing store until fall.

The wonderful taste of spring we had last week has been a horrible blow to the maple syrup producers in our neighbourhood. By rights this should be the height of their season, but the trees budded out too early in the heat and most of them got only one or two really good days of sap production. My closest neighbours have twenty percent of what they usually make and, since the maple products produce the bulk of their income, are facing a year of financial stress. Or, rather, of more than usual financial stress. The farmers of all sorts in this part of the world have had bad weather conditions, low prices for their crops and high production costs for the last decade, mostly. They are not doing at all well and need regular assistance from government to survive at all. Under the present austerity measures just imposed by our deeply indebted province, and the ones expected from the federal government today, I am very afraid that a lot of them will go under. And when they do we will all be a lot poorer, as well as eating food imported from the agri-giants.  

There had better be no Members of Parliament sleeping through this budget or too battered by a better boxer to listen.

Running Water

This is the Clyde River at Herron Mills, not quite in spate, but pretty close.