Thursday, October 31, 2019
No Mas!
Please, no recipes for leftover Halloween Candy. Eat it, donate it, throw it away. Don't cook with it. It's candy, for Pete's sake.
I heard my name.
Yes, I did and No, I'm not crazy, yet anyway. Last night was a rough sleeping night, as usual, for several reasons. I woke in the very early morning, but the house was too chilly for me to get on the computer, as I've been turning the heat off at night to lessen the effects of toxic fumes. I went back to bed, under the warm covers, and soon heard the garbage truck pick up the trash, one muffled thud followed by another, probably around 5 a.m.
I recognized the sounds and was on my way back to sleep when I heard another thud. I knew the weather was projected to turn windy, so I figured the garbage can had blown backward into the driveway, as it has done before, since the driveway is slightly slanted where it joins the road.
Okay, I thought but a short time later, I heard another louder thud. I had the thought that maybe the can had blown into the road and had been hit by passing cars. I got up again and tried to see if that was the case, but it was too dark to see, and it was rainy. I waited a while and heard other cars passing by so that was reassuring enough for me to go back to bed again.
I was in bed for what I think was only a few minutes when I heard, clear as could be, my name. The voice was Dave's and the tone was familiar, from before. He wasn't calling my name begging or demanding that I help him in some way. The tone was calm, with a slight questioning quality, like when he would come home, and just call my name to see where I was. I heard him and called out "What?' loud enough for him to hear me anywhere in this small house. But there was no answer.
I recognized the sounds and was on my way back to sleep when I heard another thud. I knew the weather was projected to turn windy, so I figured the garbage can had blown backward into the driveway, as it has done before, since the driveway is slightly slanted where it joins the road.
Okay, I thought but a short time later, I heard another louder thud. I had the thought that maybe the can had blown into the road and had been hit by passing cars. I got up again and tried to see if that was the case, but it was too dark to see, and it was rainy. I waited a while and heard other cars passing by so that was reassuring enough for me to go back to bed again.
I was in bed for what I think was only a few minutes when I heard, clear as could be, my name. The voice was Dave's and the tone was familiar, from before. He wasn't calling my name begging or demanding that I help him in some way. The tone was calm, with a slight questioning quality, like when he would come home, and just call my name to see where I was. I heard him and called out "What?' loud enough for him to hear me anywhere in this small house. But there was no answer.
Wednesday, October 30, 2019
RIP Joseph Munafo
I just read his obituary in today's paper. I didn't know him, never met him, but he seems familiar because since an acquaintance Facebooked from Samaritan Hospital few months ago, I've been checking the site from time to time, and came across the story of this man and his wife, a gracious and caring woman, as they processed through the end of his life. They left a positive and inspirational message of a life well lived,
The Magic Blouse
I wore it today for the second time, with the same results. Let me explain:
I've been paid my share of compliments over the years, on my shoes, my clothes and my hair. Back in the day, I shopped for attractive dresses in a flattering style, bought the latest shoes, with heels of course, and visited my hairdresser on a regular basis. I would encounter more than a hundred people each day, and received many favorable comments on my appearance.
However, that all came to an end a long time ago. I've lived a compliment-free existence for many years. If I were to choose a time period, say the last decade, to tally my compliment count, the result would be zero. I'm serious, no one, and I mean no one, ever even mentions my personal appearance, possibly and probably out of kindness.
But that has changed. I went shopping one time this past summer, set on replacing my recliner chair, which collapsed upon me. My search led me to Boscov's. I'd not been in the store in quite a while and decided I should purchase something, for old time's sake. I spotted blouses on the corner of a display rack, one of those offerings of same style in several colors. It didn't come in black, which has become my color of choice and makes up most of my wardrobe, so I chose the darkest color there, a forest green.
Let the magic begin. I have now worn the blouse (called top in current usage) a total of 2 times. The compliments have poured in, 5 of them. To be honest, the 5 compliments came from only 3 different people, but I'm proudly stacking them up. Two of them were double compliments, and almost identical. As in, "I like your blouse," That's a nice blouse," followed by, "You look good in that color," and "The color becomes you."
Unfortunately, the compliments all emanated from medical offices, from the medical professionals there, including a doctor, as of today. I say unfortunately as those are pretty much the only places I go, and certainly the only places I've worn the blouse.
As soon as I got home, I took the blouse off: I don't want to spill anything on it. Maybe I'll just enshrine it.
I've been paid my share of compliments over the years, on my shoes, my clothes and my hair. Back in the day, I shopped for attractive dresses in a flattering style, bought the latest shoes, with heels of course, and visited my hairdresser on a regular basis. I would encounter more than a hundred people each day, and received many favorable comments on my appearance.
However, that all came to an end a long time ago. I've lived a compliment-free existence for many years. If I were to choose a time period, say the last decade, to tally my compliment count, the result would be zero. I'm serious, no one, and I mean no one, ever even mentions my personal appearance, possibly and probably out of kindness.
But that has changed. I went shopping one time this past summer, set on replacing my recliner chair, which collapsed upon me. My search led me to Boscov's. I'd not been in the store in quite a while and decided I should purchase something, for old time's sake. I spotted blouses on the corner of a display rack, one of those offerings of same style in several colors. It didn't come in black, which has become my color of choice and makes up most of my wardrobe, so I chose the darkest color there, a forest green.
Let the magic begin. I have now worn the blouse (called top in current usage) a total of 2 times. The compliments have poured in, 5 of them. To be honest, the 5 compliments came from only 3 different people, but I'm proudly stacking them up. Two of them were double compliments, and almost identical. As in, "I like your blouse," That's a nice blouse," followed by, "You look good in that color," and "The color becomes you."
Unfortunately, the compliments all emanated from medical offices, from the medical professionals there, including a doctor, as of today. I say unfortunately as those are pretty much the only places I go, and certainly the only places I've worn the blouse.
As soon as I got home, I took the blouse off: I don't want to spill anything on it. Maybe I'll just enshrine it.
Breaking It Down
Prior to (before) arising on this mournful (sad) day, I checked for precipitation (rain) and found it to be minimal (low.) I was concerned (bothered) because I have a medical appointment (doctor's visit.) And before I access (get into) my vehicle (car,) I have to feed my feline friend. (I call it a cat.)
Tuesday, October 29, 2019
Tricky Treat or Catch It If You Can
I don't know if any trick or treaters will come to my house on Halloween. But if they do, I can't wait to put the candy on their little heads.
Dahlia Delay
For years now, I've been planting, digging up, storing and repeating the cycle. Once there were glorious and plentiful blooms, and now
just this:
Vermin Redux
Suspected as much, reprisal the very next day. Kill one and a hundred takes its place. Undeterred---
Good to know, FB
Talk about privacy issues: posting a picture of patient's post-colon-resection abdominal scar while said patient is too unaware to know.
Monday, October 28, 2019
Hospice concerns
One thing: If the hospice nurse mentions that hospice uses only minimal doses of morphine to comfort patients, it's time to re-evaluate the situation.
10/28/19 Capture & Death of Vermin
Despite all the warnings and obvious security presence, it chose to abandon a normal and comfortable life of its own to trample on the lifestyle of others. The alerts were made known, to not intrude, but, no, it committed to entering where it was not wanted, into forbidden territory as it were, and imposing its beliefs on the standards of others
So today it paid the ultimate price---death---trapped, alone, and with agonizing suffering. It sensed the impending force, and attempted to flee, toward what seemed like a tunnel to safety. But alas, the tunnel to the outside was blocked. Hindered as it was by an appendage tethered to the trap, it sought to escape underneath the door to freedom, but the exit afforded insufficient space.
So it died. It whimpered at first, then squealed, as only the relative of a rat could, and finally trembled and cried as it realized death was inevitable. And death was there to meet it.
Now, this horrible ending, audible and, yes, visible to those who chose to observe the consequences, could possibly serve as a deterrent to its many rabid and desperate followers. Does anyone believe it will do do so? Will the territory now be safer from other raids by its fellow members?
That may be what we optimistically hope for. But it's known that empowerment takes many forms. Today's corpse could well serve as an incentive to others who pledge to finish what he started, and to do a better job at escaping, and if captured and killed, all for the greater glory of rodentia.
( I considered taking a picture of the body, but didn't want the gruesomeness as a reminder of what had to be done.
So today it paid the ultimate price---death---trapped, alone, and with agonizing suffering. It sensed the impending force, and attempted to flee, toward what seemed like a tunnel to safety. But alas, the tunnel to the outside was blocked. Hindered as it was by an appendage tethered to the trap, it sought to escape underneath the door to freedom, but the exit afforded insufficient space.
So it died. It whimpered at first, then squealed, as only the relative of a rat could, and finally trembled and cried as it realized death was inevitable. And death was there to meet it.
Now, this horrible ending, audible and, yes, visible to those who chose to observe the consequences, could possibly serve as a deterrent to its many rabid and desperate followers. Does anyone believe it will do do so? Will the territory now be safer from other raids by its fellow members?
That may be what we optimistically hope for. But it's known that empowerment takes many forms. Today's corpse could well serve as an incentive to others who pledge to finish what he started, and to do a better job at escaping, and if captured and killed, all for the greater glory of rodentia.
( I considered taking a picture of the body, but didn't want the gruesomeness as a reminder of what had to be done.
Saturday, October 26, 2019
TICK!
The reports are of a horrible tick fire in California. What is a tick fire, reported as if we all should know. For those unenlightened by google, tick fire is named for Tick Canyon. Unfounded historical reports attribute its name to a guy named Williamson who said he was bitten by tiny insects while working in the canyon.
When I worked as tutor/ advocate in my last job, I visited a family in rural Greenwich who lived on Mosquito Swamp Road. The mom there never complained of mosquitos or the swamp, but a coyote stalked her 4-year old son in their back yard.
Another destination was a family who lived on Rabbit College Road in Petersburg, though in the Hoosick Falls School District. I could never find out how the road got its name. The road to the family's home was super steep, and I almost died one icy day, when I revved the engine to get to the top of the hill where their mobile home was, and when I reached the top, my car just slid backwards down the hill like a toboggan. The mom there kindly retrieved my car and then actually drove my cowardly self down to a safe level, and she walked back up to her home. I miss my job.
When I worked as tutor/ advocate in my last job, I visited a family in rural Greenwich who lived on Mosquito Swamp Road. The mom there never complained of mosquitos or the swamp, but a coyote stalked her 4-year old son in their back yard.
Another destination was a family who lived on Rabbit College Road in Petersburg, though in the Hoosick Falls School District. I could never find out how the road got its name. The road to the family's home was super steep, and I almost died one icy day, when I revved the engine to get to the top of the hill where their mobile home was, and when I reached the top, my car just slid backwards down the hill like a toboggan. The mom there kindly retrieved my car and then actually drove my cowardly self down to a safe level, and she walked back up to her home. I miss my job.
Friday, October 25, 2019
Thursday, October 24, 2019
Monday, October 21, 2019
If Memory Serves...
I remember going "over home" to my grandmother's house, also Helen and Matt's home, when we were little. In the fall, a section of the dirt road leading to their house would be littered with strange-looking types of fruit. My mother said they were Osage Oranges, which fell from a tree one of the farmers had purchased as a boundary line for his property. Maybe the trees had thorns or else they just grew thick and sturdy enough to be a barrier. My mother sort of discounted their effectiveness.
This morning my walk took me to the southern end of Valley Falls, and I saw these alongside the road. They look to me like the osage oranges of yore, though quite a bit smaller. (They are now pulpy, and starting to decay.
This morning my walk took me to the southern end of Valley Falls, and I saw these alongside the road. They look to me like the osage oranges of yore, though quite a bit smaller. (They are now pulpy, and starting to decay.
Friday, October 18, 2019
Red Light to Green Light via Wind Tunnel
I determined to match wits again with the Hoover Wind Tunnel. This time I succeeded in its turning green in the living room, but I had to give up in the hallway. Too tedious and exhausting...
Beware Lair, Don't Care
Thursday, October 17, 2019
Monday, October 14, 2019
Whoops, they did it again...
...the field mice, that is. They got into the shed and ate the riding mower, again. Their damage detected this spring amounted to just under $400. This has become an annual expense. So I bought mouse repellent, mouse poison and mousetraps, and applied them to the critical areas of the shed. I'd already tried mothballs, but it appears the mice rolled them around. The repair guy this year suggested placing Brillo pads in the engine. I tried that, even putting one under the seat where the mice had previously destroyed the kill switch. I'd read that Irish Spring soap kept mice away; I gathered up all my leftover soap bits and pieces, put them in mesh bags, and distributed them in the corners of the shed next to the deterrent packs which have evidently lost whatever power they may have had. I also sprayed Raid and poured Clorox along the shed walls, but that was just my idea.
Joe just discovered mouse damage again, with mouse corpses permeating the engine when he tried to start it. He got the mower running, but the damage has been done. To forestall more damage, I visited Walgreen's. I asked for their most toxic mouse poison, but they didn't have any, only a few traps, which I already have. The woman stocking the shelves suggested I look in ShopNSave.
There, I bought some mouse death packs, guaranteed to kill, re-peanut butter- baited the existing traps, and stuck newly purchased fabric softener sheets, the smelliest I could find, all around the shed and mower. The clerk at Walgreen's said she put them in her attic and had no more mice.
I suppose it sends a mixed message trying to discourage the mice while simultaneously luring them to their demise, but the mice are free to pick and choose.
Joe just discovered mouse damage again, with mouse corpses permeating the engine when he tried to start it. He got the mower running, but the damage has been done. To forestall more damage, I visited Walgreen's. I asked for their most toxic mouse poison, but they didn't have any, only a few traps, which I already have. The woman stocking the shelves suggested I look in ShopNSave.
There, I bought some mouse death packs, guaranteed to kill, re-peanut butter- baited the existing traps, and stuck newly purchased fabric softener sheets, the smelliest I could find, all around the shed and mower. The clerk at Walgreen's said she put them in her attic and had no more mice.
I suppose it sends a mixed message trying to discourage the mice while simultaneously luring them to their demise, but the mice are free to pick and choose.
Riches Untold
Today's Price Is Right set a new winning record; a man won in excess of $252,000. Intense celebration ensued.
227x790=179,330 + ( Meh.
227x790=179,330 + ( Meh.
The Psychology of Accommodation
What some are defending is not Trump, but a defense of their defense of T. To blame him is to blame themselves, thus their own judgment. People don't like to do that.
Saturday, October 12, 2019
2 Year Itch Part 1
On Veteran's Day 1966, I think, Barbara and I were out clubbing on a holiday Friday night. As odd as that sounds, it is true. My usual escape partner was Ruth, but she had deserted me via her marriage. We were at The Blue Moon, I recall, in Latham and I think Mr. Mood was playing there live. This may have been our first stop, though it's possible we'd been to the Circle Inn. We occasionally went there, but it was rather off-putting because entering you had to pass the circular bar of ogling guys. Ruth and I typically would end up at Faye's where we were welcome and sometimes had breakfast at Thornie's with the owner and bartender, Frank and George. But this night was different.
B. and I were sitting at a table, like good girls, not at the bar where we might have been labeled as promiscuous. A man approached and asked B. to dance. (It turned out he was an engineer; they soon arranged a date, but I don't know what happened to that potential romance. I'll have to ask.) While they were off dancing, Dave appeared. We danced and at the end of the evening, he asked for my phone number. That was the standard ritual back then.
Dave had arranged for our first date to be dinner at Wallie's in Greenwich. We never got there because Dorothy intervened and, as an alternative so I wouldn't be abducted or such, invited us to her home on Wetsel Road for dinner with her and Gus.It was fortunate, as Dave, used to city driving, ended up getting lost on the way to my house and drove all the way up beyond Greenwich anyway. He said he felt like he was driving to the end of the earth. I don't remember what we ate at the King's residence, but recall a rollicking good time. Dave, working with his brother then who owned a Baby Butler franchise, did a sales presentation there in the trailer home. It was hilarious, but not out of the realm of reality then as Dorothy and Gus were hoping to start a family in the near future.
At the end of the evening, Dave drove us to my house in his 1955 Porsche convertible, and as we rounded the curves on the dirt road, I vowed that, if I got home alive, I would never get in that car again. It is possible I did , but since I had a much newer car, we mostly rode in that.
**This memory, the beginning anyway, came to me today on the long ride home. I always, in stretches of time, have to have something on my mind, so different from Dave. When we would be taking long car trips to Cape Cod or Niagara Falls, or North Carolina, he would sit and drive, showing no emotion, never, ever commenting on the patterns or intrusions of other drivers. I would ask, back in those early days, what he was thinking about as he drove. His answer was always the same. "Nothing, " he would say. "I'm not thinking about anything."
I always need something to think about, and as it happens, my thoughts are always in the form of words, the written kind. Either awake, or at night, half asleep, I write essays, confessions, treatises, complaints, even poems. As I translate from thought to written word, some remain unwritten, some are written and appear in print, and some are printed and deleted. I never know for sure which will be which, but I do know I'm compelled to continue. Next time, O Blog, I may get to the 2 year time limit.
B. and I were sitting at a table, like good girls, not at the bar where we might have been labeled as promiscuous. A man approached and asked B. to dance. (It turned out he was an engineer; they soon arranged a date, but I don't know what happened to that potential romance. I'll have to ask.) While they were off dancing, Dave appeared. We danced and at the end of the evening, he asked for my phone number. That was the standard ritual back then.
Dave had arranged for our first date to be dinner at Wallie's in Greenwich. We never got there because Dorothy intervened and, as an alternative so I wouldn't be abducted or such, invited us to her home on Wetsel Road for dinner with her and Gus.It was fortunate, as Dave, used to city driving, ended up getting lost on the way to my house and drove all the way up beyond Greenwich anyway. He said he felt like he was driving to the end of the earth. I don't remember what we ate at the King's residence, but recall a rollicking good time. Dave, working with his brother then who owned a Baby Butler franchise, did a sales presentation there in the trailer home. It was hilarious, but not out of the realm of reality then as Dorothy and Gus were hoping to start a family in the near future.
At the end of the evening, Dave drove us to my house in his 1955 Porsche convertible, and as we rounded the curves on the dirt road, I vowed that, if I got home alive, I would never get in that car again. It is possible I did , but since I had a much newer car, we mostly rode in that.
**This memory, the beginning anyway, came to me today on the long ride home. I always, in stretches of time, have to have something on my mind, so different from Dave. When we would be taking long car trips to Cape Cod or Niagara Falls, or North Carolina, he would sit and drive, showing no emotion, never, ever commenting on the patterns or intrusions of other drivers. I would ask, back in those early days, what he was thinking about as he drove. His answer was always the same. "Nothing, " he would say. "I'm not thinking about anything."
I always need something to think about, and as it happens, my thoughts are always in the form of words, the written kind. Either awake, or at night, half asleep, I write essays, confessions, treatises, complaints, even poems. As I translate from thought to written word, some remain unwritten, some are written and appear in print, and some are printed and deleted. I never know for sure which will be which, but I do know I'm compelled to continue. Next time, O Blog, I may get to the 2 year time limit.
Friday, October 11, 2019
Apology--didn't know
I read that someone accused someone of using a racial slur, making reference to "colored people." Maybe it would help if the NAACP changed its name. Or have they already done so?
Fly
Enroute home, I decided to reward myself with a coffecake muffin at Dunkins'. I noticed a fly buzzing around the case. Maybe a bee, the clerk offered, but no, it was a fly. I got the muffin, inserted my credit card, but she said no charge. I ate the muffin when I got home, with a cup of tea. I figured if the fly had landed, it was probably a rather clean fly anyway, as the area was tidy. And besides, I had just read a post from a woman who was in the ER with what she emphasized was a SEVERE stomach and gastrointestinal infection. She worked in food service.
House of CArdssss
Even in this imperfect world, everyone should know that:
You can not run a government like a family business.
The FBI is known to be ruthless in its pursuits. It is not a good idea to hurl insults at the agency enmasse.
You can not run a government like a family business.
The FBI is known to be ruthless in its pursuits. It is not a good idea to hurl insults at the agency enmasse.
Thursday, October 10, 2019
Baby Names
Mayleigh and Shayleigh: 2 different families, not known to each other (as far as I know). Both mothers former students of mine.
Dirty Work
Russia, please, if you get this message, I hope you can come and empty the cat's litter box. It really stinks.
Stinkbugs
I've seen several outside, most climbing up the side of the house. One must have followed me inside today. It doesn't matter; I have Raid and a toilet that
flushes.
Tank and Plants---From the Darkness
This is what a Pressure Tank looks like:
This is what plants brought in from outside look like now. By next spring, they'll look like convicts in solitary confinement.
This is what plants brought in from outside look like now. By next spring, they'll look like convicts in solitary confinement.
Wednesday, October 9, 2019
My "Elizabeth Warren Story"
(1) When I was single, I applied for a teaching job, out of the immediate area, and was interviewed by a panel of 3 men: principal, and others. The principal asked me if I had plans to get married and have children. It's too expensive, he said, to hire a new teacher and then have her leave because she gets pregnant. I wasn't even dating anyone at the time, and I felt embarrassed.
(2) In the third year of teaching, I notified the principal that I was pregnant, and would be taking maternity leave. He said that the date I would leave teaching would depend on how "big" I got. This was in 1969, for Pete's sake. And I felt even more embarrassed, thinking somebody would be eyeing my girth and determining when I was "too big." I gained less than 15 lbs. that pregnancy, possibly because I dreaded the prospect of somebody chasing after me with a tape measure.
(2) In the third year of teaching, I notified the principal that I was pregnant, and would be taking maternity leave. He said that the date I would leave teaching would depend on how "big" I got. This was in 1969, for Pete's sake. And I felt even more embarrassed, thinking somebody would be eyeing my girth and determining when I was "too big." I gained less than 15 lbs. that pregnancy, possibly because I dreaded the prospect of somebody chasing after me with a tape measure.
"For my birthday next year, ..."
...just give me a present, anything you feel like getting. Donate to charity on your own time. (Just kidding, sort of)
Uh-oh
Just received a call from Officer David Walks (?) Walsh/ from the Social Security Administration about suspicious activity on my account. I'm to call him to avoid having to appear in federal court. He sounded very serious.
Tuesday, October 8, 2019
Basement Update
As of 8:45 A.M., there is a new Well-trol Pressure Tank in the basement. It's blue, like its predecessor, a color I'm told they all are. I would never have thought about replacing the tank, but I learned that if its bladder failed, and thus the tank, it would cause the immersible well pump to fail, and we wouldn't want that!
The installer of the immersible pump, which was 5 years ago, had noted that the tank was old when he installed the pump, but still functioning. Over the years, when he would drive past the house, he had a concern that the tank might fail. So he replaced the tank today, right on the verge of having it fail, he said. It's guaranteed for 7 years. Amen.
The installer of the immersible pump, which was 5 years ago, had noted that the tank was old when he installed the pump, but still functioning. Over the years, when he would drive past the house, he had a concern that the tank might fail. So he replaced the tank today, right on the verge of having it fail, he said. It's guaranteed for 7 years. Amen.
Monday, October 7, 2019
Alex Trebek
Listening to him talk, I am reminded of Dorothy's struggles with cancer. Like him, she became aware that the treatments which seemingly brought relief from the disease could not continue forever, i.e. much longer. When told of the inexorable path of the cancer, she, like Alex, said, "I've had a good life for 71 years." It seemed to me, when she calmly said that to her oncologist at what turned out to be her very last visit, that she was trying to spare him from the terrible truth.
My Vacuum Cleaner Is Trying to Kill Me
That would be the Hoover Wind Tunnel. emerging from semi-retirement. I succumbed to the lure of TV advertising a few years ago and invested in the SHARK ROCKET. It's light and easy to use, and seems to have done a satisfactory job. The local stores didn't carry the bags for the Wind Tunnel any more, so I just gave up on it.
Several weeks ago, at Maybe's visit to the vet's, she raised a red flag about fleas, and prescribed preventive medication for her. We had the carpet professionally cleaned, and I vacuumed the floor every day after that, or as close as I could get to that goal.
Now that I have Amazon Prime, I order boring stuff for the house, like filters for my Black & Decker Mini-Vac along with refills for the Breeze cat litter box. So I added in the order for the Type Y bags for the Wind Tunnel.
The order arrived in a few days and I decided to re-activate the Wind Tunnel. It was hard to resist the lure of the baby blue bags infused with Febreze. Now the thing about the Wind Tunnel is that, among its other features, it has a sensor that lets you know when each area is cleaned. The light turns from red to green when the dirt is gone. I remembered working that issue. But this time, it's hard work. I make pass after pass over the same area until the light changes. Or so I should, but I can't do it anymore, so I quit waiting for the light to change after several sweeps.
The carpet can't be that dirty yet, I think, but when I checked the pleasant-smelling Febreze bag, it was about a third full of just plain dirt, not cat hairs or lint, but plain, heavy, dense dirt. I have to go back to the Shark, until the housekeeper comes to use the Wind Tunnel.
Several weeks ago, at Maybe's visit to the vet's, she raised a red flag about fleas, and prescribed preventive medication for her. We had the carpet professionally cleaned, and I vacuumed the floor every day after that, or as close as I could get to that goal.
Now that I have Amazon Prime, I order boring stuff for the house, like filters for my Black & Decker Mini-Vac along with refills for the Breeze cat litter box. So I added in the order for the Type Y bags for the Wind Tunnel.
The order arrived in a few days and I decided to re-activate the Wind Tunnel. It was hard to resist the lure of the baby blue bags infused with Febreze. Now the thing about the Wind Tunnel is that, among its other features, it has a sensor that lets you know when each area is cleaned. The light turns from red to green when the dirt is gone. I remembered working that issue. But this time, it's hard work. I make pass after pass over the same area until the light changes. Or so I should, but I can't do it anymore, so I quit waiting for the light to change after several sweeps.
The carpet can't be that dirty yet, I think, but when I checked the pleasant-smelling Febreze bag, it was about a third full of just plain dirt, not cat hairs or lint, but plain, heavy, dense dirt. I have to go back to the Shark, until the housekeeper comes to use the Wind Tunnel.
The Eerie Season
October--prelude to the end of the year, and of other endings as well. October 30 will soon be here, and my mind drifts to thoughts of that time and the happenings before.
We were raised not to be dramatic or superstitious, but even when Dorothy was little, she confided that she had unusual feelings connected to the supernatural and the House we lived in. One of my early memories is of pre-school Dorothy standing on my parents' bed and reading from the holy picture hanging over it. She read word for word the inscription about Guardian Angels, and we never understood how she learned to read it. She had a life-long admiration for angels. When the love of her life died, she announced she had seen a message from his own angel predicting what was to come for him. And it did.
Helen came to live with us and she too loved angels, and saints as well. In her later years in the House, she heard angel voices singing, I think mostly in the middle room, and she had a vivid recall of an angel appearing to her in the corner of that room, surrounded by light, she would say.
I know the House had been in the family for several generations, and I never really knew the sequence. My father's sister Kate and her family lived in that house, Peter Barrett running a bar in the adjoining structure. Evidently Patrick Madigan, Kate's father (and also our grandfather) had come to live with Kate's family in his final year or years. He died in 1930. We kids never asked about anything even when we were told something, though now I so wish we had. I remember my father saying that his father had cut a branch off the big pine tree, that was still in the front yard when we moved in, as a Christmas tree for Lizzie. I remember my father gesturing toward the middle room and saying that his father had died in that room. He rolled off the cot he was lying on, dead.
As far as I knew that was the only soul released in that House, but it was not to be the last. While I was living in the House, our father died there in 1966, in the room off the kitchen. I heard the sound of his last breath. Uncle Joe died upstairs in the bedroom at the top of the back stairs in 1964(?). And early one Sunday morning our mother died in the living room, in 1983. I heard her last breaths.In a sense I think of the House as a tomb for the lives who ended there.
I never had the imagination or insight or spirituality that Dorothy had, but after Uncle Joe died, and we reclaimed his room, I felt an "aura' that Dorothy and I both shared. I was the only one of the 3 of us living home by then, so I was glad, for the first time, to have a closet of my own. I decorated the room as a type of office, with a desk and a cot and a shelf for books. Ma and Helen and the foster kids were still in the house, so I would retreat to my new office to do some work. But after a short time there, alone, something happened inside my head; it felt like it was expanding and I would run downstairs to be with others. I was too young then to be afraid of illness or brain tumors or impending seizures or such. I just knew I needed to get out of the room. Dorothy was in her own home then, but we talked about it and she said she had the same sensation. We called it our "big-head" feeling. Some thought it was amusing, but not us.
We were raised not to be dramatic or superstitious, but even when Dorothy was little, she confided that she had unusual feelings connected to the supernatural and the House we lived in. One of my early memories is of pre-school Dorothy standing on my parents' bed and reading from the holy picture hanging over it. She read word for word the inscription about Guardian Angels, and we never understood how she learned to read it. She had a life-long admiration for angels. When the love of her life died, she announced she had seen a message from his own angel predicting what was to come for him. And it did.
Helen came to live with us and she too loved angels, and saints as well. In her later years in the House, she heard angel voices singing, I think mostly in the middle room, and she had a vivid recall of an angel appearing to her in the corner of that room, surrounded by light, she would say.
I know the House had been in the family for several generations, and I never really knew the sequence. My father's sister Kate and her family lived in that house, Peter Barrett running a bar in the adjoining structure. Evidently Patrick Madigan, Kate's father (and also our grandfather) had come to live with Kate's family in his final year or years. He died in 1930. We kids never asked about anything even when we were told something, though now I so wish we had. I remember my father saying that his father had cut a branch off the big pine tree, that was still in the front yard when we moved in, as a Christmas tree for Lizzie. I remember my father gesturing toward the middle room and saying that his father had died in that room. He rolled off the cot he was lying on, dead.
As far as I knew that was the only soul released in that House, but it was not to be the last. While I was living in the House, our father died there in 1966, in the room off the kitchen. I heard the sound of his last breath. Uncle Joe died upstairs in the bedroom at the top of the back stairs in 1964(?). And early one Sunday morning our mother died in the living room, in 1983. I heard her last breaths.In a sense I think of the House as a tomb for the lives who ended there.
I never had the imagination or insight or spirituality that Dorothy had, but after Uncle Joe died, and we reclaimed his room, I felt an "aura' that Dorothy and I both shared. I was the only one of the 3 of us living home by then, so I was glad, for the first time, to have a closet of my own. I decorated the room as a type of office, with a desk and a cot and a shelf for books. Ma and Helen and the foster kids were still in the house, so I would retreat to my new office to do some work. But after a short time there, alone, something happened inside my head; it felt like it was expanding and I would run downstairs to be with others. I was too young then to be afraid of illness or brain tumors or impending seizures or such. I just knew I needed to get out of the room. Dorothy was in her own home then, but we talked about it and she said she had the same sensation. We called it our "big-head" feeling. Some thought it was amusing, but not us.
Beware "The Voice"
Back in our Main Street apartment, we had unavoidable contact with a woman, subsequently identified at that time as "mentally ill." She was well-off, well groomed and apparently well, but she spoke in different voices. Sometimes her tone would be ultra gentle and sometimes far to the opposite extreme.
She, and those around her, had problems which, suffice it to say, did not end well.
I am now brought back to that dark time when I hear the leader of our country speak in different tones. Especially concerning is the soft, unctuous inflection which he apparently uses in trying to solicit understanding. It is unnatural , and even more threatening than his shouting in anger.
She, and those around her, had problems which, suffice it to say, did not end well.
I am now brought back to that dark time when I hear the leader of our country speak in different tones. Especially concerning is the soft, unctuous inflection which he apparently uses in trying to solicit understanding. It is unnatural , and even more threatening than his shouting in anger.
Sunday, October 6, 2019
Woolrich Time
Some years ago, Dorothy changed the color scheme in her bedroom and gave me her green Woolrich blanket. "Inspired by the Outdoors" reads the label. It is heavyweight and queen size. I mostly use it in a twin bed, doubled over, so even heavier. Even in the hottest weather , I can't sleep unless I have some cover over me, even if it's just a sheet, or a towel, anything.
But my preference is for something heavy. That might stem from my memory of the patchwork quilt Helen made for us when the power company finally agreed to run electric poles up their road. The first purchase was a refrigerator, then a television, and finally a sewing machine for Helen. She sewed patchwork quilts from scraps of recycled clothing and other cloths. She lacked the suggested fill of cotton batting, so she substituted bedsheets. That made the quilts super-heavy.
Dorothy and I shared a bed, and when Ma came to tuck us in, really to say good-night, on those cold wintry nights in our unheated bedroom, she would loft the patchwork quilt up and over us. The weight of its landing almost took our breath away, but we welcomed its warmth. The Woolrich blanket does not offer the same sense of love and caring, but at least it's warm.
But my preference is for something heavy. That might stem from my memory of the patchwork quilt Helen made for us when the power company finally agreed to run electric poles up their road. The first purchase was a refrigerator, then a television, and finally a sewing machine for Helen. She sewed patchwork quilts from scraps of recycled clothing and other cloths. She lacked the suggested fill of cotton batting, so she substituted bedsheets. That made the quilts super-heavy.
Dorothy and I shared a bed, and when Ma came to tuck us in, really to say good-night, on those cold wintry nights in our unheated bedroom, she would loft the patchwork quilt up and over us. The weight of its landing almost took our breath away, but we welcomed its warmth. The Woolrich blanket does not offer the same sense of love and caring, but at least it's warm.
Kilroy Was Here---Again
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