Better and Better

I went back to see my foot doctor again today. My foot continues to heal well. I was a little worried about it because it has been sore the last few days, but the bone is almost healed. I no longer have to wear the soft cast! I have a beefed-up insole in my shoe instead. This means I can take baths and showers and get really clean, and I can scratch my foot when it gets itchy. It's amazing how much small pleasures mean.


I still need to wear the walking boot part time, but in a week or two if my foot feels well enough to me I can give up the boot. In three weeks time I should be completely healed if my recovery proceeds the way it has been. That's when my next appointment is.


I'm sure I will feel grateful for my healthy foot for a month or so before I go back to taking functioning feet for granted. That's been my history with health issues: foot surgery, back pain, my few episodes of flu. While I'm ailing I swear that when I'm well again I will appreciate my good health, and I do, for a while.


Tomorrow I'm going to drive my car down to the gas station and see how it feels to work the clutch. I miss driving. I've had a small foretaste of how it's going to be in not many more years when I am not fit to drive any more. Where I grew up there was almost always a late August day when the temperature dropped into the 60's, giving a foretaste of fall, a kind of reverse Indian Summer. I'm reminded of those days. I hope I can be gracious when the time comes, and grateful for summer days that were.

Homeboy

Homeboy, you’re gonna wish one day,  That you were sittin’ on a gate of a truck by the lake With your high school flame on one side, ice cold beer on the other Ain’t no shame in a blue collar forty, little house, little kid, little small town story If you don’t ever do anything else for me, just do this for me brother, Come on home, boy. That's the chorus to Eric Church's country hit, Homeboy. Homeboy is like the story of the Prodigal Son, only in this version, the Prodigal doesn't come home and the elder brother actually wishes he would, and would be perfectly happy not only to kill the fatted calf for him but pop open a few beers as well. I like the song, and I probably would have just let the problematical lyrics slide over me while enjoying the melody, Church's voice, and the play on words in the first and last lines of the chorus, if it weren't that I have internet friends in this same situation. They've left home and the life that was all planned for them by well-meaning family, and their families aren't taking it well. "Come home", they say, and home is not just a place, but a mindset. "Just do this for me, stop being who you are and be the person I imagined you would be. Otherwise, you'll be sorry." The song is sung in the first person, but the "I" and "me" of the song isn't the writer, Casey Beatherd. Mr. Beatherd is the son of an NFL general manager and now lives in Nashville and writes songs, so he hasn't been baling hay out in the back forty. It isn't Eric Church, either.  Eric Church has been singing professionally since his senior year in high school, and according to Wikipedia broke up with his first fiancee when her father wanted him to give up singing for a corporate career. Church eventually married someone else, apparently not his high school flame. So our narrator is a fictional character, which is perfectly fine with me, but I'm trying to figure out what to call him. Let's go with Elder Brother. Elder Brother's love for Homeboy comes through in the song. He truly believes that sittin’ on a gate of a truck by the lake with your high school flame on one side, ice cold beer on the other is what will make Homeboy happy. Those of us looking at the situation from the outside know that if Homeboy were able to be happy with the truck, the lake, and his high school flame, he wouldn't have left that life, but this is what makes Elder Brother happy, so it should make everybody happy. Well, everybody except maybe the songwriter and singer who created Elder Brother, but I do know a lot of people who live this life and they are happy. I could use a little help unloading these bales I could keep you pretty busy with a hammer and nails Ain’t a glamorous life but it will keep you outta jail, Not worry us all to death The song only makes sense if Homeboy isn't actually in jail. You can't tell someone who's doing 10-15 in prison to just "come on home boy", unless it's part of a deal you're making with him before you testify at his parole hearing. So while Homeboy's urban lifestyle worries the folks back home, we don't know from the song lyrics that he is doing anything illegal. He could be working at a tattoo parlor. Heck, he could own the tattoo parlor. Elder Brother disapproves of Homeboy's tattoo on his neck, but as I said, I live near a rural area, I know people like Elder Brother, and they have tattoos on their necks, too. Our nearby rural areas are also famous for meth labs. It's not like Homeboy couldn't find plenty of trouble for himself if he came on home, if trouble is what he wants, rather than simply space to live his own life and dream his own dreams.  I don't know if you could write a song that goes, "Is there some way you could live your life, and I could live mine, and mama and daddy could live theirs, but we could still be a family? Could you come on home for a visit, boy?"  We don't hear Homeboy's thoughts on the subjects, but I've read the thoughts of several homeboys and girls on the internet and I know they aren't asking that question from their side, either, despite all my gentle prodding. I've decided there's no point in trying to give advice to people who've never seen my face. If Elder Brother were to ask my advice, though, I'd tell him that a place that welcomes you for who you are, not for who they intended you to be, is what I'd call home, boy.

Access Applied? The Ecclesiastical Version

St. Anonymous has a new pastor. Dr. J is the extravert's extravert. She preached part of her first sermon standing on a ladder (something to do with perspective). We went to the welcome luncheon for her a few weeks ago, but in addition, she wanted to meet with church members in small groups. Last night we were part of a group meeting with her in the sanctuary.


Dr. J had three questions to ask us. The first was what we would like to see stay the same about St. Anonymous. The second was what we would like to see change about St. Anonymous. The third was how can we get people closer to Jesus.


I sat patiently through question number one. Before she had question two completely out her of mouth, I jumped in and said, "I am so glad you asked that question. I want to see St. Anonymous become wheelchair accessible."


As I outlined the barriers to accessibility that now exist and my arguments for at least installing automatic door openers, a gentleman toward my right, who has Parkinson's Disease, chimed in his agreement. "Those doors are too heavy for me to open." Dr. J took notes. She agreed when I pointed out that it's hard for people to feel welcomed if they can't get in the door.


The notes are for the article she will write for the St. Anonymous newsletter summarizing the ideas from her nine group meetings. I guess my idea will be buried in there somewhere. Whether anything will come of it, I cannot say. What I promised myself is that I would bring the issue up in an appropriate forum, and I've done that. I'll wait and see what the next move should be.

Yesterday Was Anti-Procrastination Day

And I was going to blog about it yesterday, but somehow it seemed more fitting to wait until today. I actually did get something done yesterday that I had been putting off, dusting the other half of the bedroom. While I was off my feet, the dust piled up pretty heavily, and since I can't yet drag the vacuum around to vacuum up the top few layers, I went through three Pledge multi-surface wipes Tuesday dusting just three pieces of bedroom furniture.  One of them was my nightstand, which also needed to be decluttered. The top was home to several receipts, a plastic collar that was supposed to keep Truffle from ripping out his stitches and stayed on him all of two minutes before I realized it also acted as a megaphone for Siamese yowling, a bag of cough drops, and two books that I had started reading and then stopped months ago. So I stashed the cough drops on a shelf inside the nightstand, put the receipts in the plastic basket I use for holding receipts, and moved the collar from the nightstand to a chair. I put the books in the bookcase, and dusted it, the nightstand and my dresser. By then my foot felt sore, so I put the packet of dusting wipes where the cough drops had been and took a break.


That was how things remained yesterday, when a friend posted on Facebook that it was Anti-Procrastination Day. I didn't connect her post with the dusting, but I did notice some dust on an air conditioner vent in the bonus room, and in looking around to find something to reach it, I found a long forgotten lambswool duster. Armed with the duster, I dusted the bonus room, the living room and the rest of the bedroom. I even found a box to put the collar in as a start on a donations box, to which I will add other unneeded items as I come across them. So far it holds only the collar and occasionally Truffle.


When I retired I had big plans for de-cluttering and organizing my house, plans that did not take into account how much I hate housework. For instance, I was going to give one room a thorough cleaning each day until I worked my way through the whole house and started again. Unfortunately, I could never decide where to start. The dining room was the staging area for my photo sorting project, the bonus room has large pieces of furniture that need moving before I could give the floor a good cleaning, my office held boxes for the Boys and Girls Club collection, and so it went.


I did actually get four boxes and four large bags filled up to donate to the Boys and Girls Club, because they sent me a postcard telling me when they would have trucks in the area. I also filled two boxes with books and donated them to a book drive. I got the pictures that I took on my Africa trip digitized and put on disk. I started an ambitious exercise program, until I broke my foot.  I finally trimmed the bedskirt with the seam binding I made three years ago. Once I was allowed on my feet again, I de-cluttered my office and the top of the baking center in the kitchen*, and sorted through and tossed out old clothes that were literally falling apart. I haven't spent all my time since retirement sitting around eating bon-bons, or more recently carrot sticks, it just feels that way.


When you have no fixed schedule and no deadlines, it's hard to set a time to do unappealing chores because there's no reason to do them now rather than tomorrow or the next day, unless someone sends you a postcard saying a truck will be in the area. I get things done a little here, a little there, and when I look back, I often realize I've done more than I think, but my plan to turn into a whole different kind of person, one who is organized and focused and tackles Big Projects, is not going so well.


So having something like Anti-Procrastination Day roll around is really a big help to me. Could we maybe arrange to have it once a week?




* It's actually a base cabinet on rollers with a butcher's block top that's sitting where the unused kitchen desk used to be. It's where we keep baking pans, flour, rice, corn meal, and grits.  It also collects odds and ends, just like the desk used to.

Five

Truffle as a kitten

Yesterday was Truffle's fifth birthday. While for the most part, I anthropomorphize my cat, who probably doesn't regard me as prey only because I provide him with easy access to food and water, I don't celebrate his birthday. We don't make him wear an annoying hat and sit around staring at candles while we sing to him. I did wish him a happy birthday, even though the only word he seems to understand is "outside". I carry on lengthy conversations with Truffle, his part as well as mine, and try not to act surprised when his behavior contradicts my version of his words.


Most of our conversations lately involve the impending arrival of a cat brother or sister from the local animal shelter. While Truffle promises me, using my voice, that he will be kind to the new arrival, I know exactly what is going to happen. He's going to try to eat it. Truffle is as territorial as a gang lord. It took him only a few hours after his arrival at our house to establish himself as top cat.


When hubby first proposed going to the shelter to select a new cat, I asked him what his plan was if the cats don't get along. His response was "They'll just have to get along." Yeah, chief, I'll start circulating the memo. Finally when pushed he decided the new cat could be an outdoor cat if need be.  Well, I told him I needed a plan, not that it had to be a good one.


Not getting another cat is not an option for hubby. Five is not just Truffle's age, but the maximum number of cats we've had at one time. Until Truffle's arrival, the only time we had a problem with a new cat was when the neighbor's cat adopted us despite all four of ours taking a dislike to him. When the neighbors moved and left Imp behind, he became our outdoor cat. When Imp died in a struggle with we don't know what, maybe a possum, he was replaced by Poppy, who became a favorite of the older cats immediately.


So hubby naturally concludes that it will be just as easy this time. I don't know where he has been the last five years of Truffle's life. I have a plan of my own, though. It involves a very large water pistol. If that doesn't work, I still have that gift certificate to the day spa. A spa day for mama while the fur babies battle it out on hubby's watch is my idea of a plan.

On the Mend

At my latest doctor visit, I got the happy news that my foot is mending well. I'm allowed out of my boot and in regular shoes for several hours a day, starting with two hours and working up to six by time I next see the doc in August. I'm also allowed to be on my feet on a fifty-fifty basis, half an hour up and half an hour resting, so I am now able to do my share of the laundry, cooking, and cleaning. I still don't feel ready to drive my car, which has a clutch, so I am housebound unless I get a ride, but hubby is good about that. I also don't feel ready to carry anything much heavier than the laundry or my iPad or dishes to and from the table, but other than showering, driving, and exercising, I've resumed normal activities. The wheelchair went back yesterday.


I've been thinking about a plan for resuming exercise. I had been meeting with a friend at the mall once a week to walk, and once my foot is completely healed, I think I'll resume that first, maybe starting with just one lap. Little Old Lady Exercise Class is going to require a few modifications, too, starting with going just one day a week, not two, and avoiding the moves that require me to be on my toes, or on one foot unless I'm leaning against the wall. The instructor won't complain; she expects us each to adapt the moves to what we can do safely. I'll work my way back up to two times a week as I feel ready.


Weight lifting will probably be the last thing I add, starting with lifts I can do sitting down, like overhead presses, biceps curls, seated flies, maybe even seated good mornings. It will probably be many more months before I'm deadlifting again.


Despite my lack of activity, I have as of today lost close to six pounds since May and seven since March. At this rate, it will take me about a year to get down to the mere overweight range, but one thing experience has taught me is that no matter what you are doing, in a year's time a year will have gone by, so you may as well make the most of it.

Heroes

Recently, on the blog The Slactiverse, mmy wrote about her mother, a woman whose life sounds extraordinary. Mmy concluded by saying, "Being a hero is not a zero-sum game. The fact that my mother was exceptional doesn't mean that your mother (or your father) was not. I welcome reading comments from readers about the heroes in their lives."


The problem is, my family is somewhat deficient in the way of heroic relatives. My family is somewhat deficient in the way of normal relatives. My family runs more to, well, a charitable way of putting it would be "characters". 

Take my Grandma D, for example. Grandma was a woman of enthusiasm. She loved Friday night wrestling. She loved Friday night wrestling so much she had two autographed pictures of her favorite wrestlers framed and hanging on her living room wall. I was in college before I knew they weren't relatives back in the old country.

She was also devoted to her favorite soap opera, All My Children. She carried on a running commentary on the action, in Italian, as she watched. Despite the fact that I never learned Italian, I usually had a pretty good idea of what she was saying. The gestures helped.

That little matter of bigamy, however, was not really her fault. She thought her first husband, the father of her oldest three children,  was dead when he disappeared during the first world war, so she married my Grandpa and had three kids with him. Then she ran into her first husband. Whoops. And yes, she should have divorced him, remarried Grandpa properly and done something about the kids, but you needed to know my little Italian Catholic grandma. Living in sin was one thing, but divorce? 

Then there's my other Grandma, Grandma F. Compared to Grandma D, she was rather tame and colorless. Like Grandma D, she was an immigrant to this country and spoke mostly Italian. Like Grandma D, she had a large family, seven children, although only one husband. Like Grandma D, she was an excellent cook, only where Grandma D made simple to eat dishes like homemade ravioli, Grandma F made challenging foods like artichokes, and crabs (in the shell) in a red sauce served over spaghetti. I loved her crab spaghetti, but I've never been brave enough to try cooking it myself.

Grandma F was more into fashion and household decor than Grandma D. During the depression, the family lost the house Grandpa had bought in Brooklyn to foreclosure. Grandma just went around the block and bought another house in her own name which they owned until she died. It was a three story Queen Anne with a wraparound porch and a bathroom with cobalt blue fixtures. She kept a large glass goldfish bowl filled with strawflowers on the dining room table, and a flock of pink plastic flamingos in the front yard, next to the three-tier aggregate fountain. Unlike the cotton dresses Grandma D wore, Grandma F favored crepe with beading around the neck for Sunday wear. I get my fashion sense (or lack thereof) from Grandma D but my decorating sense (or lack thereof) from Grandma F. 

In honor of Grandma, even though it's not pink 

Grandma F, however, strayed from the Catholic faith. When she developed Parkinson's disease, she and Grandpa became involved with faith healers and became Pentecostals. I don't know if they got into speaking in tongues, since they spoke Italian and how could I tell, but Grandpa did love to sing hymns. Loudly. All day long. Despite being tone deaf.

Grandpa also took my nearsightedness as a sign of lack of faith and kept telling me how if I only had enough faith, my eyes would be healed and I would not need glasses. I tried leaving them off when he was around and just squinting a lot. Grandpa D was a whole lot easier to be around. He kept chocolate bars in his pockets for his grandchildren and otherwise left us alone. I really wish I'd appreciated him better when he was around.

So that's my gene pool. I grew up and moved halfway across the country to a spot where pink flamingos are the mascot of the  Spanish Town Mardi Gras parade, people eat crabs in the shell, if not in spaghetti sauce, the welcome signs at the state line are in a foreign language, decorating your living room with not just pictures, but the color scheme of your favorite sports heroes is seen as a reasonable thing to do, where the Pentecostals hand out Jack Chick tracts to the Catholics on Mardi Gras, and people drive around with bumper stickers that say, "I'd rather be casting out demons".

I'm home.