Ageist Insult (Almost)

    I was at a local institution where a young agent was helping me access an account. She asked me for a Password, and I said Maybe@1. She entered it and then asked if I would remember it. I said yes, it's my cat's name. So far, so good. But then she asked, "Do you have more than one cat?"  I immediately thought she was seeing me as an old cat lady, but I kept civil and answered no. The transaction concluded with no problems. 

   Only later, recounting this to a saner person than I  am now, did I come to understand that the agent meant that if I had more than one cat,  I  might enter the wrong name. 

Midnight Mass

     Ever since we moved to Valley Falls, I've attended Midnight Mass. Later it was called Christmas Eve Mass as the priests grew older and didn't so easily adapt to the late hour, so services were held at 10 or 11 p.m. Of course I have many memories of attending, from early childhood when my parents would play cards with us kids to keep us awake. I recall a game called Pit. I remember feeling thrilled to be up so late and then going out into the night to church. The church would be beautifully decorated, most likely the chief orchestrator being Florence Cassidy throughout most of those years. I remember Loretta Hyland playing the pipe organ and leading the choir, above us in the mysterious choir loft. When we got older, my sister and I sang  in that choir.

    I remember you had to make your Confession prior to Christmas Eve, and the lines of those waiting to enter the Confessional Booth extended all the way up to the altar; there were two curtained boxes with the priest in the middle section. One time during afternoon confessions, we had been playing outside and the Vickery twins, very young, went into the church with us and were waiting in the pew when the priest emerged from the booth for some reason, and both twins dropped down onto the floor in fear and horror;  they were unused to churches and robed figures. 

I recall the church being packed during Midnight Masses, and everybody dressed up. The men wore those felt hats and would put them on the seat behind them. Most parishioners would receive Holy Communion at the midnight services, which carried with it then a lengthy period of fasting, which meant no water either. You can feel really holy when you are sleepy, hungry and thirsty, and music rings in your ears. I enjoyed every minute of it.

  When I say I have many memories of those Christmas Eves, that means I recall them in my mind. I can hearken back and remember those happenings, so long ago. But they are just memories, from a memory bank, like most memories of past life are.

However, there is one Christmas Eve that is not only a distant memory conjured up at will, but it fills my mind and I actually feel the same  way as I did way back then. 

   Dorothy and Sandy and I are walking home from Midnight Mass. We were young teenagers and maybe my parents had attended and ridden home in the car as was their custom. Maybe we three girls had sung in the choir. The Mass could have been at midnight or an hour or so earlier. The priest was undoubtedly familiar to us, but I have no recall of who he was.  Those details are not part of the aura or scene that plays in my mind exactly as then.

   It had snowed, with more additional lighter snowfall while we were in the church. Most of the churchgoers were local, so whatever cars had driven to the church that night had left. This is where the story begins:

  We were walking home, down the middle of the road, our boots crunching the accumulated snow.  The sidewalks were snow filled. We weren't particularly excited about Christmas being the next day; that wasn't such a big deal then. We were all talking. I have no idea  about what.  We had no cares or worries. Homework would not have been an issue during vacation time. Our parents were home, as usual, as they would always be, in the house we'd live in forever, and we had no health issues at all. But none of that was going through our minds. We were just walking at midnight down the middle of the road and talking about  nothing in particular. All I remember that makes that walk on this night so memorable was the streetlights shining on the snow-filled road ahead of us. As we got closer to the bridge, I felt a strange sense of what I would now call nostalgia, but I didn't know what to think of it back then. I just did not want the walk to come to an end. I wished in my mind we could keep on walking, across the bridge to someplace rare and special. Of course, I never mentioned it to the others. Now, at night, when I run out of topics to occupy my mind, the image of that midnight walk appears in my mind, and I feel the same unnamed emotion from that long ago walk , where it seemed that something mysterious and wonderful lay ahead if I could only keep walking toward it. 

OK, I'm Awake Now!

 This morning,  retrieving the trash cans at the end of the driveaway, as I typically do to avoid the chance I might back my car into them, I decided to give them one last cleaning with the hose before cold weather intervened and the hose retired for another season. It's new hose, bought only last year. We tend to replace them  every few years as they are subject to a lot of careless use on my part. I hate to coil them back on the hanger, and besides, the hanger is metal, and wreaks its own wear on the hose material. I turned the water on at its source, but as I directed the water stream at the trash can, the nozzle erupted and sprayed water directly into my  face. Startling, but, I must say, rather refreshing.

SSA Morning Update

      Some people believe in doing their  jobs. Mr.  G., of SSA, called this morning just after 9:00 a.m. He had found an incorrect number on their account. So, upon confirmation, the error will be corrected. Thank you, Mr. G. 

   FYI: Social Security payments are made for the preceding month.  i.e. Payment received in month of December is for month of November. If recipient dies in Dec. after payment is made, even though for the preceding month of Nov., SSA will "recuperate" that payment, even though it is owed to recipient. Then, SSA will repay that amount, if properly requested. Thus, room for error is compounded via numerous steps.  

   In one office, Mr. S. sloughed off his job. I guess he tried, sniffling and snuffling as he was, maybe on the brink of COVID. In another office, Mr. G. went all out in doing his job. His calling me at home was an unexpected measure.

Final duties, eternal waiting, job ratings

    Every night after I say my prayers, and then feel the sadness of loved ones lost to death or the circumstances of life, I resort to thinking of the things I need to do when the next day dawns. Last night I scheduled about five, not pressing in importance or immediacy, but still stuff that needs to be taken care of.  It's true I seldom get to complete all the tasks, but today I got to only two. 

  A surviving spouse is confronted with lots of paperwork, even in simple circumstances, forms to file,  accounts to handle, notifications, etc. The larger the agency, the more complicated closure becomes. I would rate NYSTR System as tops in efficiency, but then it's only mostly one state, and the interaction benefited the system. The VA places next; again it is a termination to their benefit. Those  interactions have pretty much concluded. Social Security is the beast. I know it is huge. While I was on a (I timed it) 45 minute wait this morning, the wait-music was interrupted at least a dozen times to thank me for my patience, and inform me that the wait is because they serve over 50 million people. 

   I had received a letter from SSA that I would receive a final reckoning owed to Dave. The letter, from Nov. 3, said it would be SOON.  So I have waited, not  knowing how SSA interprets the meaning of "soon."  But I realized also that, if the proper forms and accompanying materials are submitted, the monthly payment should be that of the higher amount of the surviving spouse. Of course, I'd filed the paperwork, not that it's a crucial matter, but my payment is just half, and that's what has been issued.

So I called SSA , and after a long wait, was connected with an Agent. The wait was so lengthy that I had put the phone on speaker mode and set about the next task on my schedule, mopping the living room carpet. Yep, that's right. Me and my old cat together caused certain issues that could only be resolved, to some extent, by scrubbing with soap and water. 

   Mr. S. , the Agent, listened, sort of, to my query, and after unsuccessfully trying to direct me to a website, where no category fit my issues, asked me for a slew of information. After that, and several waiting periods, he returned to the phone to tell me that my information was not to be found in the system, whether the fault of his computer or a wider issue, he couldn't say. He told me to call the SSA in Troy. I asked how they would be able to help if he couldn't since the system was the same. He said they would be able to. 

   Thus, obediently, I called SSA in Troy. After again enduring the rites of hell, which constitute their recorded information, and only a mere 30-minute wait this time, I was connected with Mr. G. (It seems that is the form of identification now, not a first name, but Mr., maybe a sign of the sexually ambivalent times, I don't know.) I mentioned that Mr. S., at central headquarter, had told me to call Troy because his computer couldn't locate our information. MR. G's first response was how could that be since it's the same computer system, and then, let's forget about what Mr. S advised, as he was not of any help. Mr. G. than did a diligent job of researching, consulting with his director, and after a while resolved the situation, or so we hope. He retrieved the "soon to be received"  letter so he had the relevant  information. The submitted forms were registered; he could not say why they were not acted on. So he said I needed to have an interview to review stuff at the Troy office, but COVID dictates it will be a telephone interview. He kindly scheduled the interview; the soonest appointment available is February 3. 

UDO

 Unidentified Dead Object on roadside by mailbox. Maybe a hedgehog, or porcupine.   I don't know, hope it doesn't deter mail delivery.

Monotony x 3

    I only watch television out of boredom and to keep silence away, so I'm probably not a fair or apt judge of programming, but the last week and a half should set some kind of record in things that go on too long. 

   (1)  The Country Music Awards did not seem very country at all, but that may be I'm so out of touch I did not know most of the performers or songs. I was familiar with Jennifer Hudson, was not  aware of any country music connection. She sang a song that seemed like a show tune, so not in accord with the show, as far as I could see. I realize she may have one of the most powerful voices of our time as far as range and tone. But much of her performance escalated into voice exercises with increasing volume. After she finished the dolorous, yet ultimately triumphant lyrical message, she continued on into scatting or trilling or whatever it's properly called. The country audience was transfixed, showing their appreciation of her wonders by wagging their heads side to side. But she continued so long that they eventually tired of that; a few times they thought she was finished and started to applaud, But she went on, and on. And on. I can't say when or how she eventually finished because the station broke in on her performance with a commercial.

  (2) Taylor Swift released a new album, this time one she owns. She sang a guess-who love song experience that went on and on and on, repeating the same refrain. For 10 minutes, I hear. All Too Long and TMI.

  (3) But most cringe-worthy of all was Adele's One Night Only Interview with Oprah. I admit I watched only for a short time. She was standing on a flight of stairs, cinched into a black gown, and bemoaning life in general, her life. A lengthy and repetitious screed. Then  the interview with O., whose wealth allows her to wear ugly eyeglasses which her followers will want to emulate. The crux seemed to be that Adele was in a marriage that had turned loveless, so she felt trapped and turned to alcohol, a lot of alcohol, until she overcame all the adversities in her life and divorced the man who brought her into such despair, but now they are friends and she admires him more than anyone else in the world. 

 Or something like that.

Rained Out & Soaked to the Skin

 I drove from Troy this morning in an extremely heavy rainfall. The only time I remember such harshly falling and unremitting rain was the time M. drove Dorothy and me to Cape Cod where Joe and Dave were already preparing for our vacation there. She had to pull over briefly because of the density of the rainfall, but we arrived at the cottage in time to see that Joe had posted a sign on the door: Would the winner of tonight's American Idol finale be Bo Mice or Scary Underwear?

  The reason for this morning's drive was a medical appointment which had been pending since August, with the present doctor, or since June, with his predecessor. I got up early, took a shower (not knowing I'd be toweling off again in a few hours,) stopped at the post office to mail a letter, and arrived at my appointment early, either 25 minutes, or 10 minutes if you don't subtract the 15 minute pre-appointment time early arrival. I'd pre-registered online so I only had to give my name at the desk. I didn't mind waiting; I'd brought the T.U. so I could read and do the Crypt0-Quote. There were only several people in the waiting room area of the practice I was seeing. Seated, I observed the usual suspects, namely a senior citizen / old codger in heated disagreement with the rep behind the barrier, glass and cloth. Apparently he had the wrong appointment date and she told him he would have been notified of same. He loudly took issue, saying he had received no letter, and that pretty much was his way of being notified of anything. She finally told him his appointment was Dec. 12, and  said she could print out a paper notice for him. "Harumph, ok," he conceded. Next to appear was a not so usual suspect---a woman who looked to be in her 70's clad in a complete pink ballerina outfit:  Tutu, tights, ballet slippers and her hair in a very high bun. I kept reading my paper, waiting to be called in. 

   And then the lights flickered, went off, came back on, and then went off and stayed off. There were only a few of us waiting, but the staff went into motion, much like the excitement of schoolkids on snow days. Someone must have called and confirmed the power outage, most likely the wind it was deduced. Someone else said another office in the building had power, and another said it was because they had a generator, which our office did  not. So as other patients entered, the staff, now unleashed from their computers, approached the new arrivals with pen and paper in hand and equipped with flashlights to register them for their visit.

    It became my  turn to be called and I was told the office had been notified by the power company that there could be a delay of  up to 2 hours, though possibly before that. I could reschedule, go get something to eat, or wait, whatever I wanted. I decided to wait a while, and tried to read my paper in the dark. About 10 minutes later, a woman came to the middle of the room to announce what I'd already been told. But now there was an addition: those undergoing a certain procedure would have to reschedule. I guess there are no flashlights suited for that.

  So I left. No rain was in sight when I'd entered, but now it was pouring. I'd worn a suede Jacket that D. had given me, so I took it off and rolled it up to keep it as dry as I could, and turned the car heater on to try to dry off. I left about 10:30 and arrived home at exactly 11:15. I would gladly point out to DOT exactly where the white line at the edge of the road  needs to be more visible, as that was the route that led me home.

"Are you Ducky?"

    Those were his first words to me when he entered the room. I answered the only way I could, not knowing what he meant. I said, "Well, I'm not sure."  His response was "What does that word mean anyway, and where did it originate?" I told him I thought it was British, as used by George Bernard Shaw's dialog in his plays. He immediately went to the computer, the one with all the recent medical findings, and googled the word, then reported both the British and American definitions.  Okay, back to the reason for my visit there. But not before he mused, "I wonder where hunkey-dorey comes from."  I said from about 75 years ago. And then he addressed the reason for my visit. 

   I don't judge, but I was reminded of a comment from just last night when the caller said he didn't know how workers could do the same job all day long for days on end, whether cooking hamburgers, engaging in repetitious instructional tasks, or selling groceries. So it seems even doctors may suffer from boredom.

"I Miss Them"

 Just a short while ago, we were there with him, M., as usual, tending to his needs, as she perceived them:  hair trimming, Q-tip wielding, nail clipping, clean-up shaving, etc.  All the while she kept up a constant one-sided conversation, as was the custom then, as speech did not readily come to him.

      On this day in  late August, she was full of information about the two older boys, chattering on about who had just been transported to their colleges, and the youngest, about to enter high school She went on in detail, offering facts and anecdotes about their new adventures.  

    When she was finished talking, or paused for a time, he spoke a full sentence, rare for him. He said, "I miss them."  

   Since all three had visited, together and separately, quite regularly, it's not likely that he missed their physical presence. I'm sure in my mind that he was missing his life with them, having been their daily caretaker, on schooldays anyway, practically from birth right up to and including that fateful day of June 16, 2015. 

   He would leave home daily, first at 5:45 and then, after the move, at 5:30. He'd set the alarm, but usually woke up in time to turn the alarm off. I didn't hear the alarm, but still in bed, I  could hear him fixing his instant coffee and toast. When the kids were still at home, first three, then two, and finally one, he would eat his "real breakfast" at their house, with them.  He drove them in sequence, first to Nursery School  and then to elementary school. 

When the final kid was in school, he'd come back home to fix more coffee and toast, always this time  with the addition of eggs.  Or sometimes he would go to Stewart's and maybe join his brother or another buddy for breakfast there. If it was a nice day for golfing, he could go to the course early, always allowing time for him to return for his after school duties with whatever kids needed his care. 

  He always looked forward to his childcare "job." Not once did he ever wish he could have stayed in bed longer. Not once did he ever need a sick day or a substitute. Only once or twice, did I fill in and that was for a  scheduled out-of-town golf outing,  As a matter of  fact, when I needed knee surgery back in 2014, he said he didn't see how he could take care of me since he'd already promised to care for M's kids. As it turned out, I was fortunate enough not to need any care, so I didn't have to clobber him. 

  On that day in June, the last day of his childcare duties, he had seen them on the bus as usual, and then came home. He went first to the post office, and then to the supermarket, and I think Stewart's. Since he had plenty of time before he had to meet the youngest after school, and it was a nice day,  he decided to work on the pool, which he always opened for the kids. He needed more chlorine and went to Wiley's, where pool supplies were kept in the shed. As he picked up the bag and stepped backwards out the doorway, his foot caught on the raised edge and he fell,  backwards from the weight of the bag. 

   His job was over. He still saw the youngest, who  would  often get off the bus here, but his brothers, if home, were now old enough to supervise him. It was never the same though. He missed his life with them.  His life. Life.

  

Our Town, Back in the Day, and other attempts

    If you were asked to name the best day of your life or the most important day in your life, or the happiest day, chances are they would not be the same day. Wedding day, the birth of your child, moving into your first home are monumental days to remember, for sure, but if we were privileged to look back on all the days of our lives, to find the happiest time spent, it could most likely be a day that seemed to be completely ordinary. At the time.

  Emily, a  character in Thornton Wilder's "our Town" who has died young in childbirth, has her request answered, and is allowed to relive one day in her life. She  does not wish to be overwhelmed by a  significant event, so she chooses the day of her 12th birthday.   Needless to say, witnessing the beauty and enormity of the common and ordinary events of her past life affects her so deeply that she asks to be taken back to the cemetery. 

 If we the living are to learn any lesson from a viewpoint into our past, and passing, lives, we could be aware that it is the ordinary interactions with others that mean the most and gave us the most pleasure. What was the best day of your life?  The day you got a raise at your job? The day the mortgage was paid off? The day you received a community service ward? The day you collected on a bet?  Or was it a time you found a folded up note from your young child telling you how much he loved you, or the time you shared a secret with your sister, or a summer day when you sat in the sun and time seemed to stand still.  You can look at old snapshots and see yourself young and healthy and smiling:   could one of those days have been the best day of your life? And you were completely unaware at the time. 

  In memory of one who recently died, a relative recalled a youthful memory of him, "smiling, with the summer sun on his face." Maybe that was the best day of his life, and no one was aware.  As Emily said, overcome by her discovery from beyond, "The living don't understand."

March 9, 1905---October 30, 1983

 

To dream...

     I went to the bank with a paper for a project that needed approval.  There was a line of cars ahead of mine so I had to wait a while. A red car moved out of line ahead of mine, but then reversed course and moved back in line. I waited. By the time I got inside the bank, the other customers had all left. Only 2 bank people were there, one the manager and the other apparently an assistant. I presented my paper contract to the manager  for approval of the project. He was a man of young middle age, with the beginnings of a receding hairline, and was clad in a gray suit. He and the other man were standing in the middle of the room when I entered. And he was completely disinterested in my request at first. And then he said, no, he wouldn't sign. I tried to explain the importance and that it was usual for a person in his position to indicate approval by signing. Finally, he took the paper, and put a checkmark on the signature line. That won't do, I said. He left the area, not answering. The assistant seemed sympathetic, but he could offer no help. I told him I knew it didn't matter to them, but that I may close my account, after all these years. But first, I would appeal to the main branch to see what help they could offer.  

    So I left the bank, and started to drive up a small slope out of the parking lot when my car stalled. The car I drive now has never stalled. I  was alone in the car as usual, and felt dismayed, but I turned the key and it started right up. I was relieved. As I entered the main road, There was a small gray and black convertible pulled off on to the shoulder. The top was down and the car was filled with youths laughing and joking. It drove away ahead of me and I was reminded of frivolous teen drivers and their reckless behavior, hoping that was not a personal revelation. 

     I had just begun the drive home when I heard the ring of a telephone. Wait, I thought, that doesn't sound like the ring of my cell phone.  It sounds like my land line. I answered it and a voice asked how was I doing today. I hung up.

Bees-a- Burden Hole #3

   Filled in the last, and deepest, varmint-excavated bee hole today. And also planted a tree, albeit a small hydrangea.  Bring on winter.

Albatross, they call it , or so I hear.

 Dave was very proud of this accomplishment:

He carried this clipping in his wallet ever since.

Birdies, Eagles, Albatrosses, And the Condor

Chores

   I decided to deal with the ground-bee nests that a skunk or possum or bear dug up a few weeks ago. I've been putting it off but knew I should fill the holes soon. Last year, there was a similar excavation of a bee hole in the back yard, the hole being easily avoidable until the fall leaves covered it. I'd forgotten  where it was until one day walking around the house to the back yard, my foot stepped into the hole, and I  slid down the slope, expecting to hear the snap of a broken ankle, but fortunately, I was unscathed. Lesson learned.

  I marked this year's excavations with a sign, at first to warn others of the danger at my doorstep, but after I poured boiling water down the three dug-out holes and the bees were long gone, I left the sign, now with its message worn away, as a memo to me to avoid stepping in the holes. 

  First step was to find a pail and shovel and find a place to dig some dirt. I went to the bank at the back of the property, battling mosquitoes all the way, despite the application of Raid. I filled the pail and poured the dirt down the first, smaller hole.  It was like pouring water into the ocean. I remembered from last year researching ground bees, and finding their underground communities are bee versions of Sim City, extensive underground civilizations. Added dirt  just lay along the pathways. I needed something more solid so I  brought my bucket to the side of the road and filled it with the chunks of blacktop that constituted gravel in the eyes of the suboptimal company that did  roadside grooming a year or so ago. I dropped the pieces down into the two smaller holes and topped them off with the dirt. Exhausted by manual labor, I figure I'll  deal with the largest hole later, or maybe wait until snow fills it in.

Fantasy

    A sparse crowd was gathered on the side of our  old house. The house was, as then, kind of faded gold in color with burnt orange trim, one such accented  board running the length of the house. There was nothing alongside the house on the side facing the mill, no fencing or plantings, so the view of the roof was unobstructed. And that is where all the attention was concentrated---on the roof. The scene involved two avatar figures: one small, one large. 

    We all understood the small creature was fleeing from the larger persona, and had now somehow climbed up on the roof. The larger avatar, much more human in appearance,  was bound and determined to do its duty and capture the smaller figure.  We who were watching were all sympathetic to the plight of the small being, though not hostile to the pursuer, who was just doing his job. We hoped the little figure would be able to escape, but the larger one had leaned a ladder against the roof and was preparing to climb up after the small, so far elusive, fugitive. 

   The roof of the house consisted of large wood shingles, old and most unlikely unstable. We thought that the weight of the larger figure might cause the shingles to slide off and the larger guy would fall off the roof. In addition, we knew he had bad and painful feet, and we were sympathetic  to that.  I, watching, was particularly aware of that because I could feel the pain of his feet registered in my stomach.   But he got off the ladder, and onto the roof, just a few feet from its edge, and began to lift the large shingles, one by one. Those of us watching were hoping that the little avatar had made it to the top of the roof and down the other side, an escape route that its pursuer would be unable to follow.  But after lifting only about a dozen or so shingles, the fugitive was discovered, curled up under the shingle, with what appeared to be wings folded around its small body. The large figure, despite  the pain in its feet,  somehow was able to bring its captured prey back down to the ground. 

  The  watching crowd faded away and the scene shifted to the backyard, to  the area beneath where the clothesline was strung, on a pulley anchored on one side to the end of the summer kitchen and on the other to the frame of the hayloft door. Standing lined up, was a number of  children,  Joe's relatives, all blond and smiling and in the line with them some of our children and grandchildren. There was some discussion of height, and I heard someone say that Danny, who was absent, was 6 feet, 2 inches. I wanted to say I didn't think so, but the cat's wanting her breakfast woke me up, with my stomach  still hurting from the traumatic climb of the larger avatar.

Today's annoyances--admittedly of the petty sort

   The TV in the bedroom inexplicably displays only the SPECTRUM logo, and resists my attempts to get rid of it. I don't care, don't watch it that much anyway.

  When I start to drive to the Post Office to mail paperwork I forged my way through last night, I  see the icon for low tire pressure displayed. I think it is weather-sensitive. I just wish it would indicate WHICH tire. I don't like having to test them all. All 4 seem to be the same to me.

  I bring my mailings-to-be into the P.O. The woman who delivers mail tells me nobody is there,  come back later. But it's good news---Lisa is on the way to becoming a grandmother. So my mail can wait. I'll leave it in the car with the deflating tire.

  And it's raining.

 BUT, later in the day, a lovely floral arrangement from  Matrazzo's is delivered and the rain has stopped.

Last Things Considered

 Last trips we considered:

  I had wanted to see Leonard Cohen when he was appearing in Canada, but it was sold out.

 He wanted to go on a cruise, but it was too late.

     

Today...

 ...the new normal. No one to talk to so I wrote (via email)

     1) to John Gray, advising him of the absurdity of "The art of hypocrisy" Column.

     2) to the Times Union's Reader Representative---with suggestion that they investigate and find out why area medical facilities are closed or closing early: WellNow in Troy, Emurgent Care in Mechanicville, shortened hours and lack of appointments offered in WellNow Clifton Park. Will these shortages become more widespread? Have the offices become Covid-infested? Are medical providers perhaps not as altruistic as is ballyhooed? Are medical staff members anti-vaccine or are they afraid of being infected?  This information would be more helpful to the public than the ongoing resurrection of J-Cope.

 3) A comment on FB page of WellNow noting that what their promo ads say is not true, at all. Urgent Care it is not. Nor are they open the specified hours. And no, patients can not walk in.  Yes, times change, and so should your specs.

4) A note to my alleged medical provider that it is impossible to keep a Post-Hospital Procedure office visit when the Procedure was never scheduled, though patient was told it would be  on 3 separate occasions

5) The old maxim says stupidity is doing the same thing yet expecting different results.  I'm embarrassed to admit I completed a Price Chopper Survey---for groceries.

6) Next...

Surviving Twin

 I think it must be the same. I was taking pictures from a distance. when she saw me she started toward me. That frightened me a little so I stepped away, but not before telling her not to go into the road. She went back, in direction of the tracks.

Bees by Front Door

 Holes were not there this morning.  Ben just saw them. 

We didn't know any ground bees were there. I noticed nothing this morning when I went out to water the pomegranate tree. Ben noticed the dug up ground  this afternoon when he was leaving, though not when he came in. Most likely a skunk or such dug up the hole, as remains of bee combs are scattered around. Bees are swarming back around the holes, so all who enter here, Beware. Maybe use the side door. This is very close to the area where I was besieged by a swarm of disturbed bees several years ago which followed me into the house, on and in my clothes. I counted about 11 or so stings then.

If A Tree Falls ...

 

September 14 " Life Goes On"

 I drove to Bennington to see my husband. The car radio must have been tuned to an oldies station because John Mellencamp was singing "...Life goes on, Long after the thrill of living is gone."   When I drove myself home later that same day, I no longer had a husband. And I turned the radio off. 

The Two Words

  It came to me that the last two words I heard Dave speak, although I have to believe in a dream, were "This then."

Lost Words

    When sleep is elusive, and even when it isn't, I need to have some things to think about before I fall asleep. My thoughts are in the form of words which build up until they need to be released in some form, and so I have my Blog. My first thoughts tonight were of last week's dream, where I heard Dave's voice speaking to me loud and clear. He spoke two simple words, or possibly three, but they meant nothing to me. I meant to remember them when I woke up, but they have eluded me. I only recall they were short words, and seemed to have the letters T and or Th. I still feel that they may come to me someday, but not now. 

  My mind then went to the bullshit column written by Chris Connell, which pretty much portrays Howard Hubbard as a child molester as well as an enabler. He's entitled to his opinion, but like many others, blocks any thinking from any other viewpoint. Who, he asks, wants to hear what Hubbard's defense is. "Whatever" he adds in dismissal.

   My words then form themselves into a memory of when as a very young child, I got very sick and told my mother I wanted to die. I actually remember speaking those words, and I guess I must have had some idea of what they meant. I thought my mother became angry at me for saying that, but at the time I meant it.

   We three kids were "playing toys."  That's what we called it when someone brought out our box of toys, a cardboard box that had an accumulation of hand-me-down parts and pieces that, combined with an assortment of animal figures and a few toy cars, were precious to us. Though I remember not liking what was used for roads, which were pieces of an Erector Set that Tommy Murray acquired when he worked for a time on a garbage truck in Troy. I disliked them because they were metallic and didn't seem to fit with our wooden blocks and little figures. But I realized they were the roads. Anyway, this day , as was our usual practice, there were the two options of play---For Real or Make-On.  My sister and I always followed the dictates of our older brother, as to what would be the  rules of the day. It was ordained we would be playing  For Real. So I arranged some blocks around my collection of little animals, a safe distance from that metal road. We played for a while, when all of a sudden my brother jumped his car over the road and started to change the play to Make-On.  I protested, uncharacteristically at the time, but my protests were ignored. Feeling abused, I retreated to the kitchen and sat on the floor beside the woodbox.

   On that wintry day, which must have been a Saturday as my father was home, my parents were going back and forth lugging in the wood from a tree that my father had cut down, most likely a dead tree unwanted by anyone else. I sat, chilled and sniffling, and tried to explain my plight and seek sympathy from my mother. She had no time for me, was busy working, hard work to be sure. But that all changed when I threw up in the woodbox. She instantly attended to  me, and I officially became sick.

   And I was deathly sick for what seemed a very long  time. I remember lying on the couch, too weak to walk, and not wanting to eat anything. Joseph and Dorothy, obviously now, coached by our mother, would come to the couch, eating something yummy they said, maybe cookies or such, and try to get me to eat some, but I didn't want anything. Dr. Sproat came and went several times. Maybe he left pills of some sort. Later my mother told me he had thought I had Vincent's Angina. I looked that up a while ago,and I think it's another name for trench mouth, a disease common among soldiers in wartime.  Anyway, I survived that one.

  

Strategy of Repair

   Left to my own devices, when things around the house cease to function or appear to be broken, this is my  course of action, depending on the device. I reboot, unplug and replug all the power cords and connections, recharge,  replace batteries, check the expert advice on the internet, repeat processes and hope for the best. So far, I'm good with 2 out of 3, the Insignia TV audio and the camera ScanDisk.  I'm not sure about the washer cycle, haven't yet done another load of laundry. I don't know what is the correct solution, but if enough monkeys on enough typewriters, given enough time,  can write the Bible, I'll use that approach.

Judged Unique

   When I went to gather my priceless antiques from Arts & Crafts at the Fair, they told me that the judges had never seen  an item like  this before. One  asked if it was for sale. I happen to know that it is not all that rare, nor valuable. Just a cute little brass cat figurine.

One More---Gift from Dorothy

 

"Still the Same"

  In college we were exposed to a demonstration of "white being the same as black." This was not a racial issue as per the times, but rather an indication of perception, and our view of things:   A very large amount of sheets of paper, stacked way high. Top sheet is taken off and laid on the ground. All agree it is white. Take the next sheet and compare it to the first. It too is white, the same color. Repeat the process innumerable times, with all observers agreeing the newly removed paper is the same color as the preceding sheet. Of course, when the last sheet is removed with all agreeing it is the same color as its predecessor, that final sheet is black. 

 As a conclusion, it can be said if change is so gradual as to not to be noticed, we can be led to believe there has been no change, no difference. White color has morphed to black, unaware. 

So in saying a condition has remained the same for a long time, that is not true.

Another Blip in the Bermuda Triangle

In addition to a sudden failure of my TV audio and my washing machine balk on regular cycle, the computer is rejecting my ScanDisk, as if it does not exist. Enter it, I'm told, and I do, Repeat. I'll have to go back to troubleshooter site. Where is Greg when we need him.

Flora Pics---A Microcosm, if you will...

First 2 pics are DAHLIAS. I'd thought they were lost forever when snow fell before I could dig the bulbs for storage. They will not survive the winter here as I found out with another loss many years before. But I retrieved a few forgotten bulbs from the basement and put them in a pot this spring, and they bloomed----pretty flowers too. Pictures #3,4,5  represent my garden: a single squash from a seed from a squash given by R. Kinda small squash, but it grew. A Tomato plant that has borne fruit, and a mature Chive planting several years old. All are entwined in morning glories which are pretty in the morning. Pictures # 6, 7 are the Hydrangea my mother gave me long ago. Not quite as many "blooms" as last year, but still rather impressive. And last is the Faded Last Rose of Summer from Dorothy's rosebush.   Not much in the way of plantings, but I enjoy every minute of their appearance.
 

Word of the Day

 Heuristic------If it's Greek to you,  look up the meaning yourself.   (Ironic, eh?)

Petty Annoyances

 Within a few hours, the washing machine would not function on its usual and long-time setting.  It filled only  on the Short Wash Cycle. And the TV in the bedroom lost the audio feature, even with new remote batteries. I don't care. I can live with half-clean laundry, and I don't need to hear  what's on TV anyway.

Holding and folding---"Knowing what to throw away, and knowing what to keep..."

 A lot of work , many denials, considerable cost, but worth it in the end:

 

For my records

 Am writing just so I can keep track of the "process."  

 I have routine annual screenings for ongoing surveillance.

 At 7-30-2020 office visit, provider issued a script for the next year's (2021)  screening, with follow up office visit on August 4, 2021. 

   I know I have to wait at least a year from previous screening, which was May 28, 2020.  So, any time after  May 28, 2021. 

  An unexpected issue arose, and I had a diagnostic ultrasound on August 3, 2020, with welcome results of no concerns. Though I have always before gone to St. Peter's in Albany, for this procedure I went to The Troy location. I was assured that all previous records are in the new system.  

 The doctor had sent me the script so I could make my own appointment, at location I  chose. 

 So, I waited past May 28 and called Troy office to make my appointment. 

  I was told I had to wait until after the date of my diagnostic US, or else it would not be covered by insurance. (I knew this wasn't true as annual screenings are fully covered; the US was a different matter. But I said nothing: I'm not in charge.)

  I waited until after the US date of August 3, and called again. Meantime, I'd cancelled my August 4 office visit at provider's office. Nothing to follow up on as yet.

  I called again to schedule and was told they cannot schedule until they have the script. She provided the fax number. I tried to fax, over the next several days, to no avail. The scheduler said I was the only one whose fax didn't come through, but she would request it from my provider's office and would call me to let me know when  it was received. That call never came, so I called provider's office to ask if they'd been able to send fax.  Rep there said she'd  send the script, even checking to say it was in the queue. After waiting a few days, I called Troy office again. They had not yet received it. Their fax was evidently not received either. I took cold comfort in knowing I was not the only failure.

I called the provider's office and she said they would refax the old (by now) script. And she told me the only approved way was by fax, no other method.

 Upon receipt, the Troy office said the script had expired on July 31,  a year from the date it was written. Remember, I'd been told I had to wait until a year after the August 3 US date.

 I finally brought the newly sent script in to the Troy office; they had assured me what I'd been told about fax-only was incorrect. All would seem to be in order, but  when I handed  my script to the scheduler, she uttered the devastating news---the CODE was wrong. 

So, to make a long story mercifully less long, I called my provider's office, delivered the latest news: The  Horror!  Eventually, provider's office sent a new, corrected script to the Troy office; 

I was able to schedule my appointment, and all ended happily.  

Note: I have not re-scheduled my F.U. visit, but I don't think he will mind. He will have received the results, and we'll just wait til next year, if that's to be.

  

Hair There

 So Chip Gaines has shorn off his long, rather lank, hair. But never fear, he will donate his locks to a charitable cause. It reminds me of when my sister and I were in the hair market and, over a period of years, were discussing and researching replacement options. The consensus among the fitters and beauticians was that human hair is rarely used anymore, that the new developments in wig-making relied on artificial hair as being far superior to real human hair. But if it makes donors feel good to do so, human hair will be accepted, but used, probably not.

It's hard to get good help.

 I ordered a pair of sandals from Merrell's  website, quite pricey for me, but I was in dire need. They arrived in good time, and I liked them but did not fit my feet, well, one foot anyway.  So I returned them, using the Fed Ex label  that Merrell sent me. I dropped the package off at the designated site, Walgreen's in Schaghticoke on July 7. Tracking showed the package was picked up by Fed Ex the next day and was delivered to their site in Rensselaer, pending further delivery. I continued to track the  return package, but all info stopped at July 8 in Rensselaer. I requested updates from Fed Ex, and nothing after July 8.  Further  requests just repeated  the same tracking information.  So I took advantage of Fed Ex's Virtual Assistant, who could only say the package was in Rensselaer on July 8 and was awaiting further delivery. I tried that approach several times with the same result. The other option was to contact a LIVE representative. So I finally got to speak to one---they're very busy. I related my tale and she put me on hold while she checked. Of course I had the tracking number and also the order number and the date and place where I had dropped off the return. After a time, she came back to the phone and informed me:  The package was received  on July 7, reached Rensselaer on July 8 and is in the process of awaiting further delivery. That's it. 

 When I contacted Merrell about my dilemma, the rep there checked and instantly said they would issue my refund. Whether they ever collect from Fed Ex or not is not my concern. I suspect that somewhere in the Rensselaer area, a Fed Ex employee, maybe relegated to working  at home,  is walking around in a pair of $60 sandals.

One for the Road

   When Greg visited to say goodbye before leaving for college, I reminded him I still had in the fridge some of the sodas meant for the grandsons, such as Dr. Pepper Cream Soda. As he was leaving, he went to the kitchen and said, "I'll take one for the road." In my present mode of sentimentality, my mind spun back to a time when, still a babe in his father's arms, and an early talker, he was at Madigan's and knowing that Uncle Joe always kept a stash of candy, made this very remark as his father prepared to leave. Rosemary got the biggest kick out of that. It's possible she had never heard him talk before. 

Irish Relatives

 Before the history is lost to eternity, and through the depths of my memory, William Donovan was the brother of my mother, and Helen, Matt, Timothy, Marguerite's father.*They settled in Troy. Can you imagine  how many descendants there must be of those pictured, and mostly male. I assume some may be employees, but all those kids would seem to be relatives.  I'd say all the Donovan's in these parts are related. 

* The brother of my mother's (and siblings) father would be their uncle.

To-Do List

   Today I accomplished a monumental task. I cleaned the filters on the air  conditioners. First step is to locate the panel which encloses the filter. Then, open the panel and remove the filter. Attempt to vacuum it with the B&D Handivac. When that doesn't work, retreat to the sink and clean and wash with toothbrush.  Dry off, and then re-insert filter, replacing panel.  Phew!  And did I mention I did this for TWO air conditioners.

On the Lighter side

     Way back when Ma first took in her foster children, she had to call their social worker  for some ordinary reason. The person who answered the phone there said the  social worker was not available, as she was out in the field.  My mother, perplexed,  related  this conversation to me and asked, "What the heck does that  mean, that she was out in  the field?"  To Ma, being in the field meant one thing and she couldn't see that social worker digging beets or picking corn.

Letter of Resignation

 

Montecore and BOO~

 Once upon a time Siegfried and Roy performed with a tiger named Montecore; the tiger was a wild animal at heart, but tamed and raised and fed and maybe even loved by the magician. Montecore accepted the food and care and attention and thrived on it, and seemingly was content to obey the orders of  Siegfried, his trainer and leader. Until, one day, on stage, tiger and trainer had a falling-out or some difference of opinion as to what would happen  on stage that day, and the tiger, way more massive  than his trainer, turned on him, bit him, and dragged him off stage, perhaps or presumably to kill and devour him, or at least to sate its appetite. The tiger didn't really love or trust its titular leader; the animal just used the relationship to advance its own purposes, until the time came for it to reveal its true identity and nature.

  Why did former President Trump's own assemblage of his loyal followers address his comments with Boos the other day; compare it to the actions of the beast.  The crowd, devoted as he assumed they were, his people, turned on him when they disagreed with what was a pillar of their movement. A few words outside their cartridge of hate and rhetoric and they let him know their anger. Their rancor and hatred and animosity derive from elsewhere than Trump. He is only the figurehead for their policy, the public face  of a movement meant to spread hatred and violence and  dissension. Like the tiger, they accepted the feeding and the platform to enhance their own intentions, but they needed or used him only for that. The time will come when they no longer need him at all, and it will be to his own benefit if he realizes that before he is totally consumed by that which he thought he controlled.

Charles Anthony Madigan

 August 21, 1894 -- January 20,1966

Shudder, Shudder...