I Knew It, But...

I knew in my head that it would take all week. 

I had no idea how hard it would be in my heart. 

TBG has been relentlessly upbeat all day, and that has helped.  My superstitious (or maybe not super but more medium-stitious) self feels that I ought to maintain my vigilant attitude, because if I stop worrying who knows what will happen?????

But it's bedtime and I really need to sleep tonight.

Arizona is making me smile.  In Georgia, John Ossof is picking away at Senator Perdue, one tenth of a percent at a time. 

That's what I'll take with me when I lay my head on the pillow tonight.  

I hope today was easier for you than it was for me. 

Hard...

I knew it would not be decided to night 

I wanted a landslide.

I'm going to sleep. 

My heart can't take any more. 

The Day Before.... The Day Of.....

I have What to Expect on Election Night podcasting on my phone, which is sitting on my desk next to Lenore the Lenovo.  I'm trying to distract myself by writing this post, but my brain is on a one lane, no u-turn road.

My dreams have been incredibly vivid and confusing and sticking with me through the morning. 

I'm trying to convince my stomach to accept food.  The hard boiled egg with horseradish aioli is talking back to me.  I don't think it's the egg.  I think it's the election.

I listened to the 538 podcast culling the results of the final, before the election, polls.  They started out by saying that Biden has a 90% chance of winning, Dems have a 76% chance of taking the Senate, and there's a 94% chance that Dems will retain control of the House.  That was one sentence.  They spent the next 29 minutes making me nervous about those stats.

What to Expect just told me that very few concerns have been raised by callers to their HelpLine; most calls are about where and how to vote.  They're extolling the virtues of their Voter Protection program.  They feel confident.

Talking heads are calling Trump's outrageous statements a sign of desperation, noise, nonsense...... but Bill Barr is still at DOJ.

I can't decide if watching people talk about it is better than living in my head with it.

I'm very grateful to my family group text for an hour or so spent considering the difficulties of teaching in/on/at to non-English speakers.  Brother's diagram was helpful

but not dispositive.  

Opinions - on the ice cream not the election! - are welcomed below.

Anything. Anything at all to distract me.

These are going to be the longest hours of my life.

Ronni Bennet

The original elder blogger, Ronni Bennett, died on Friday night.  The world is a lesser place since then.

When The Burrow began in 2009,  I was a trapeze artist without a net.  I was putting my real self out into the real world with no real idea of what I was doing.  Dooce, Little Cuter's favorite blogger at the time, set out some rules that seemed reasonable; don't write about work came from being fired after doing just that.

Though Big Cuter said you are way hipper than you think you are, Mom, I couldn't believe that anyone was interested in what I had to say.

Then I found Time Goes By.  Written by a Jewish girl who loved living in Greenwich Village until she was priced out and forced to move, the blog took a personal look at growing older.  Mixing life experiences with deep research and a wicked sense of humor, she separated the sense from the nonsense.

Using her skills as a television producer, she gathered facts and presented them in a most appealing way.  She called bs when it was necessary.  She shared her readers' own written works on a page in her blog.  

The comments were as important as the posts.  She read them and sometimes she'd quote you - I still get a shiver when I remember the time an Ashleigh Burroughs comment appeared in Ronnie Bennett's next post.  More important, they were a way into a self-selected group of readers, many of whose blogs I follow and many of whom have followed me here.

We are all bereft. 

She was a model of self-sufficiency up to the end, living alone, supported by hospice, writing posts until she died, on her own terms.  After sharing the news, the new caretaker of our community wrote this:

I will leave you with knowing that she was ready. Just before she died, she said, "When you get here, it is really nice. I am not afraid."

As always, showing us the way.

May her memory be a blessing to us all. 

My Sister's Ruler - A Quick Blast From the Past

My hand found it while I was Zoom-ing with the 5th grade gardeners.

Our calendula seeds were to be planted 1/4" to 1/2" deep.  Some of the scholars knew which knuckle on which digit was 1", some had no idea what those kids were talking about.  I was at my desk, in front of Lenore the Lenovo, and I couldn't get up.  My left arm reached over to the top desk drawer and felt around for something useful.

I found my sister's ruler.  

She was probably 10 years old when this wooden marvel came into her possession.  We probably bought it at Smiles, the 5-and-Dime store situated right our town square, when we joined the throngs of First Day of School shoppers.  

Smiles is now a funeral home.

My sister is edging closer to Medicare.

The ruler abides.

5th Grade Gardeners

I spent the first part of the morning with a big smile on my face - Mrs. E's 5th graders had planted their calendula seeds and were eager to share their progress.  

We admired the growth that some had seen and commiserated with those who were still waiting for something to sprout.  The seed packet gives a range of 5 to 15 days for seedlings to emerge; there is still a big window of opportunity.

Calendula seeds look like tiny horseshoes; they're about 1/16th of an inch.  The scholars took them out of the box with a pair of tweezers.  The seeds were supposed to stay under the soil and sprout individually.  

One of the scholars had a seed with a different point of view.  Why is my seed on the outside of this plant? he wondered.

Upon closer examination, Zoom style, it was obvious that this was not a pellet of water retention material nor timed release fertilizer, both of which were in the fancy potting soil I provided.  Nope, this was a seed that had gotten caught up in the accelerated growth of its cousin and had become a part of the unfolding seedling.

Thinking about the sprout catching the other seed on its way to the surface made us smile. Maybe, the scholar surmised, because his plant is on the second floor of his house and therefore closer to the sun, it bloomed more quickly than others' had.  The scholars were pretty close on how many million miles away the sun is, and we spent a moment considering the difference between 93 million miles and one flight of stairs.  It's possible, but only in a very small way was our conclusion.

There are so many science experiments going on. Their new greenhouse was put to use when they planted the left over marigold seeds outside and settled the greenhouse on top.  Will the seeds grown outside in the planting bed differ from those raised inside a bedroom, or on a windowsill, on a coffee table, in the classroom, or in cups set out in the sun in Grandma's Garden?  There are so many data points, so many compare and contrast situations, so much to think about and learn and discover.

It was 50 minutes of intensity, broken up by Emily Dickinson reflecting on grass.  

It was 50 minutes of love, going both ways, with smiles and waves to boot.  It's Virtual Garden Club, and we're making it work.

Goggles and Giggles

There was just a little bit of extra stress in LIttle Cuter's life yesterday.  She called on her drive home, knowing that TBG does not approve of phone use while operating a motor vehicle.  Recognizing this as a sign that we were needed, I listened and he managed to keep his angst below the level of explosion as we absorbed the information, applauded the plan, and agreed that America's response to Covid 19 sucks.

All she wanted was someone to tell her what to do.  Between doctors and clinics and the CDC and the FDA and POTUS there were just too many notions and not many facts floating in the ether.  She's right, the answers shouldn't be this hard to find, especially 7 plus months into this.

Giblet squealed as they turned the corner into his neighborhood, and we left our girl with a rueful smile on her beautiful face.  

I felt the distance between us opening, chasm-like, yawning ever wider.  I wanted to do something.  There was nothing to do.  It's times like these that make us consider relocating to Indiana.

Fifteen minutes later, my phone announced a message.  The Halloween package of goodies to replace our physical presence for the first time in FlapJilly's life had arrived.  There were two Talavera pottery mini-pumpkins, Grandmother and Grandfather Pumpkinski, there to share the joy since Gramma and Grampa were stuck in Arizona.  There was a book and some cooking extras and, for reasons that deserve a post of their own, two pairs of brand new Speedo goggles.

We got to peel off the stickers!

SHE IS THRILLED!

Thank you, Priority Mail and the USPS for bringing me to my daughter's doorstep when I couldn't be there myself.

That face is just what I was after.

BRRRRRRRRRR

My phone greets me with the news that it's 68 degrees outside. I look at my outfit and I start to shiver.  Possibly it's time to retire my sleeveless tank tops.

There was a little red exclamation point sitting beside the temperature notification, just begging me to click it.  I'm delighted even further - there's a freeze warning tonight.

It's a damn good thing we turned off the pool heater.  Today's temperatures look to be heading downward, with an overnight low hovering in the low 40's.  

I need to have a talk with the weather gods..... this is not Indiana, this is Tucson.  We don't do freeze warnings until after Thanksgiving, thank you very much.

I found a smile in the fact that I'd uncovered the shade cloth and other coverings this weekend; my still to be planted rock roses will need comfort and succor for the next few nights.  

Tomorrow's high is 59.

I know that if you are sitting inside watching snowflakes cover your patio, this seems like a very small thing.  But for me, right now, it just says winter is coming.........

VOTE - someone in charge needs to believe in climate change.

Fall in the Desert

We have six wonderful weeks when the temperatures are in the 70's and 80's and the breeze is cool and the sun is shining but not burning through your skin.  I can be outside without a hat shielding my face and my neck.  My long sleeve shirt and gloves (necessary and essential for these spiky garden tasks) are not impossibly hot.  There's no sweat rolling into my eyeballs, requiring glove removal and finding a clean spot on my shirt to wipe the drips.

I turned on Pod Save America and got to work.  The aloe vera along the side wall gave new meaning to overgrown.  The brown, dead leaves crunched off with a gentle tug of my fingers.  

Once they were clear of what was no longer viable, I pruned the burnt tips and the chewed upon outer leaves of the main plants, and began to remove the newbies which grew from the roots.  

The pups spent some time in buckets of water

while I admired my progress

I ended up with 31 pups which I potted in containers which have accumulated over the past 14 years.

They'll go to the classrooms at Prince, where the scholars can nurture the plants and the plants can soothe the pricks and scrapes of childhood.  Garden Club has seeded  knowledge throughout the student body.  They know what to do.

I can't be there in person.  I have to find new ways to stay connected.  

 

The Debate

I watched the first one, where, as one focus group member said, our President acted like a deranged crackhead.  

I flipped my eyes over to TBG watching Joe answer questions on the big screen while I watched Savannah Guthrie scold our President on my phone as I made dinner.  Every giggle from me led to an explanation for my sweetie on the couch.  All the best moments were replayed later for his amusement, but it was fun to share.

And so tonight we have a debate with a mute button and a strong, female moderator.  Our President is in full melt down mode as he's holding superspreader events all over the country. Joe Biden sent his best surrogate to a parking lot in Philadelphia while he holed up for debate prep.

Our President doesn't need to prepare. His aides, looking for post-debacle employment, are heard cautioning him to be measured and stick to the script.  That, of course, would take some preparation, if not a character transplant.  It's unnecessary. He knows where he's going - China and Hunter, with a dash of 33,000 emails on the side.

The Biden campaign has effectively recast Joe's surviving son as a lost soul, wandering in the wilderness, always held in the loving hand of his doting and devoted father.  His daughter, Naomi's, Twitter thread amplified the story, and it's a good one.  

This is how it starts:

Though the whole world knows his name, no one knows who he is. Here's a thread on my dad, Hunter Biden - free of charge to the taxpayers and free of the corrosive influence of power-at-all-costs politics. The truth of a man filled with love, integrity, and human struggles

It's a fine read. It puts our President to shame.... or it would if that word existed for him.

Perhaps, while our President is babbling on, Joe could accept a phone call from one of his grandkids, the calls he never lets go to voice mail.

Do you think that our President knows the names of his grandkids, let alone has them in his phone? 

Virtual Gardening

Mrs. E invited me into her 5th grade's Wednesday Zoom meeting.  I had more than a week to prepare.  I have come to a conclusion:  Teaching is not for the faint of heart.

Grandma got into her coat of many colors, organized her notes and her demonstration items, and then I realized that my computer was on an endless loop of rebooting itself and Grandma was gone and I was in a panic.  With two minutes to spare, I connected via the iPad mini perched atop a box (that was happily out of place) and leaning against my water bottle (I was thirsty but thwarted).

I found the gallery view (with a little bit of encouragement) and then there they were, bigger but still the same.  Their faces filled my heart.  I could feel it expanding in my chest.

But there was no time to dwell on the wonderfulness of it all, because suddenly the introductions and instructions and reminders were over and it was time to talk about xylem and phloem.

They are two of the strangest words to spell and say.  Somebody knew exactly what photosynthesis meant, and what it did, and the role of of sunlight in the factory that made its own food.  And we ate some of that food, as somebody else agreed that syrup is sap and that's food for plants and also food from plants and I stopped before I got caught up in it entirely.

We all took a moment to let it sink in.

Meristematic tissue - growth tissue - was next on the agenda, and then tree rings, and then the whole thing from roots through stem to flower.  I read  them Joyce Kilmer and an ancient Norwegian prose poem on trees.  We went over the instructions for the marigold seed planting project they'll do when their cohorts return to in-person learning on Thursday or Friday.  

Fifty-eight minutes had passed.    

I spent an hour or so finishing the project materials, then drove to pick up the soil and drop it off at school. 

That was 58 minutes of presentation, without worrying about running the call, or managing the questions.  I knew that the teacher would step in if I got stuck, or ran out of things to say.  The topic was one I loved. 

I was exhausted.  I was exhilarated.  I'm still smiling.

Random Thoughts on Aches and Pains

I noticed that my hip doesn't hurt.  

Brother said, halfway through this adventure in perforation, You never get a break, do you?  It's always there.  He was right.  It was always there, until suddenly, it wasn't.

Sure, I can make it hurt, but the dull ache of chronic pain centered in my hip is a thing of the past.

*****

Of course, right now, after Pilates and swimming a quarter mile's worth of laps, my newly discovered adductors are announcing their presence with authority.

As always, so long as the pain sensation keeps moving around, everything's good. 

*****

It's not pain.  It's a sensation.  

A wise physical therapist counseled  me to assess the threat value of the sensation before I decided it was pain and not discomfort related to getting better.  It was very good advice.  

I feel the sensation and I re-adjust my posture so that all my muscles are working together and, while it takes effort to hold myself erect, it's also exactly what I need to do in order to continue to heal.

*****

I remember when the orthopedic surgeon told me that my only job was to heal.  I've added other jobs as I've been able, but I've always deferred to healing over everything else.  

I stop before I do damage.  I rest when I'm injured and I don't repeat the offending movement.  I'm not 30 years old any more; my mind refuses to believe and my body reminds........

*****

And so I can work in the garden for an hour, bending and twisting and carrying and lifting and kneeling and sitting down and getting up.  When I'm done, I'm done, but while I'm working I'm intense.  

My body is not getting in my way as I'm doing the things I love to do.

The assessments always want to quantify how much my injury took from me.  How much of my life have I been able to resume, they wonder..  For many years, I've been stuck at 85%, and felt grateful to have that much.

Lately, though, 90% seems like a more accurate description.

*****

There's still more work to do, but I have a new mantra that makes me smile and gives me hope. 

This is where I go when that last set of whatevers is just too much to consider, 

My 90 year old self will thank me for this.

Voted!

We drove to the public library to vote today.

Not the one around the corner, the one where we've voted in the past, where I've met my friends serving as poll watchers, where I signed my name just below TBG's and walked to the booth with my ballot in hand. I'd smile as I deposited the paper into the slot, nodding thanks to the worker who handed me my
I VOTED IN PIMA COUNTY sticker.

Nope, not that one at all.

Instead, we put on our shoes and drove 5 miles north, turned right onto Naranja..... and TBG came to a quick and unexpected stop.  There was a line.  A car line, moving slowly, steadily down the hill then turning into the driveway and going up the hill, through the parking lot, and around to the front door.  

There were smiles.  There were thumbs up.  There were masks and thank yous and a paper reminder of how and where to track my ballot.  TBG pulled into a space so that I could return my library books (any deposit box in the system is fine) and then we were done.

The line was as long when we left as it was when we arrived.  

And now I've done it all.  I've written postcards.  I've written letters.  I've written an op-ed.  I've donated.  I've attended. I've stickered my car and signed my house.  I won't phone bank (I don't answer those calls myself so I can't inflict them on anyone else).  

I am done.  There's nothing to do now but wait.

I am not good at waiting.