Coming down is the hardest thing

It was déjà-vu all over again.  The pavement hurtling up to meet me.

See, I'd received word that my prescription for my latest kidney infection was ready at our favourite pharmacy, where they know us by name and even let us slip ahead in the queue for vaccinations.  (Shhhhh. Don't tell anyone.)

The trouble is, they close on weekends, and this is the Victoria Day long weekend, and I had excellent reasons for needing the prescription, which I won't go into, thank you very much.

So, I fed the cat, put away the laundry, changed, and fled out into the afternoon, clutching my umbrella, walking at a brisk pace, aided by my downloaded self-assembled Spotify playlist, which speeds me along.

Maybe that's why I suddenly found myself airborne, as my toe caught one of the uneven edges of sidewalk square, almost exactly as it did on a November evening a little over three years ago.  Fighting back the disbelief, I flipped on to my back, and saw two women running towards me from opposite directions. With John Mellencamp's "Authority Song" in my earbuds, I rolled on to the grassy verge, which provided a cushion, so I could push up on to my knees, back on to my heels, straightening my legs, and walk back with my hands to an upright position.  I beamed triumphantly at my would-be helpers, who had reached out to steady me if needed.  But I didn't.

"Man, these old sidewalks are a menace!" I said cheerily, before soldiering on.  (I hope I thanked them.)

At stoplights, I did an inventory:  road rash on the heels of my hands, and a definite sensation of a scraped knee under my (thankfully) old trousers.

I told my sad story to the pharmacist, who urged me to ice my hands and knee when I got home, which I did, of course.  I did the last time too, but was clearly not nearly as badly injured as I was three years ago.  There were two pink patches on the damp washcloth I'd wrapped around a baggie of frozen mashed pumpkin, and placed under my left elbow as an afterthought, when I realized it was a bit sore.  It had been scraped despite the fact I was wearing a fleece top under a fleece jacket, so it must have taken the brunt of my fall.  

I marvelled at lack of severity in my injuries, though.  Was I cushioned by the anti-left bag slung across my left side?  Did I bounce?  I certainly didn't hit my head or face this time.  By bedtime, two light burgundy bruises had appeared at the base of my big toes.

Oh, and the antibiotic started working almost immediately, thank goodness, or this really would have been a long weekend.

Here's the late great Tom Petty, singing "Learning to Fly", assisted by the Heartbreakers, Stevie Nicks, and the crowd at the 2006 edition of the Bonnaroo Music and Arts Festival in Tennessee.

Well, I started out down a dirty road/Started out all alone/And the sun went down as I crossed the hill/And the town lit up/The world got still.

I'm learning to fly, but I ain't got wings/Coming down is the hardest thing.

Well, the good old days may not return/And the rocks might melt and the sea may burn.

Well, some say life may beat you down/Break your heart; steal your crown.

So I started out for God knows where/Guess I'll know when I get there.

Shades of pale

Iphis is sleeping in the bedroom that used to be Demeter's, the one he's transforming with his own art and artfully arranged banners. 

He's texted me to let me know he's had a bad night, so, not disturbing him, I stick in my Air Pods, tune into my "Liked Songs" (on shuffle), and quietly tackle the things I'd abandoned when Iphis took up residence ten days ago.

 

I brush out the detritus of dried flowers in an upper cupboard. I don't remember Demeter's being an aficionado of dried flowers, but I keep coming across them. Maybe friends gifted them; Demeter held on to things that reminded her of friends and family. 

I set up a station in the living room with a basket I've designated for recycled paper, and begin ripping up text books, because they're poor candidates for book sales or donations. It's hard work. I tear up two large old biology textbooks from Demeter's night classes at the university. I remember meeting her at the door when she hammered to get in, late one evening.  Her face was white with shock; she looked exactly the same way as she had years earlier, standing on the front steps after returning from work, where she'd received word that her estranged father had died suddenly.

The shock this time was the result of a fall on some ice at one of the more remote bus stops on campus. She'd broken a bone in her hand.  

The books are inscribed with her former surname and our old address. 

I move on to a set of Audubon encyclopedias with grimy taupe covers. They were white when they struck me, one by one, on my shoulders, face and head in my youth. Double Leo Sister, in pre-teen rage, hurled them across the room with furious grunts, like a tennis player lobbing shots at Wimbledon, in response to something I'd blurted out in exasperation, I guess. 

I rarely blurted what I was thinking, for this very reason. A few years later, she beat me about the arms and legs with a map-case. I had red welts from the metal edges for some time. 

I steer my mind to the music I love: Mozart, Mott the Hoople, Josh Ritter. 

 I go home when I'm fed up.

O, you tireless watcher!

About four years ago, I was walking down Trutch Street, which is two blocks long, and has since been renamed Su'it Street.  It's an old street, with houses dating back to pre-WW1. My toe hit the edge of an ever-so-slightly raised pavement block. In a rush of shock and adrenaline, I stumbled forward and caught my balance, resuming my journey a little shakily, and resolving to always be careful to lift my feet.

Last night, I did one of my "loops" before dropping in for Demeter's evening check.  I climbed the hill at Linden Avenue, which is also lined with heritage houses, and slipped into the shadows to gaze up at the stars.  I made a mental note to look up the constellations when I got home; I was pretty sure I was seeing Cassiopeia.

Su'it Street is just around the corner from Demeter. I was less than a block away when my toe caught the edge of that same damn pavement division.  In one of those moments that happen in a flash, yet seem to be in slow motion, I felt my body lurch forward, thought I'd be able to catch my balance, then saw the pavement, glowing in the street-lamps, hurtling towards me.  My umbrella, which I hadn't needed, flew ahead of me and popped open on the sidewalk.  I rolled to my side and wondered how I'd get up.

A couple appeared, seconds later, out of the darkness.  They'd heard my exclamation ("Oh!" I think), and seen my light vest, which dissolves through a parade of rainbow colours when it's charged.  They'd also heard and seen my umbrella.  They were patient and kind, as I stammered through my apologies, and with only two efforts, I was back on my feet.  They offered to walk me to the corner, but my legs were steady, although my knees stung a little.  Luckily, I'd been wrapped up in my cozy commuter coat, which had provided a little bit of cushioning against the body-blow.  I rummaged in my pocket, called the Resident Fan Boy, and he met me at the entrance hall of Demeter's building.

Over the next few hours, I iced my arm, cleaned the abrasion on my left temple, and ignored the stinging in my knees.

The arm is the problem.  I've done something to my wrist and elbow, and if I forget and do a sudden movement, or a twist, I am painfully reminded that I need to do things with my left hand -- if I can.  I also may need to lay aside a number of plans, which is awkward, because Christmas is coming relentlessly.

I think it was Cassiopeia I saw.  Not that it matters now.

(O you tireless watcher!  What have I done to you, that you make everything I dread and everything I fear come true? - Joni Mitchell)

Sometimes good people draw troublesome things

I got my second COVID booster today, after a wait of nearly nine months (in order to get the updated vaccine).  So I'm a bit sore.  And wiped out.

Here's a song I like.  I'm not crazy about the scansion, but I like the sentiments.  G'night. 

Misalignment

The Resident Fan Boy and I ventured out on to the roof between laundry room visits, and there, dangling above the western horizon, just clear of wispy bands of clouds, was Jupiter, and the pin-prick of Saturn hanging to his upper right.  It wasn't the climax of the conjunction, but it wasn't bad!

As the RFB and I returned to our apartment, he muttered: "A conjunction, a comet, and Mars - what's going on?"

"'S'plains a lot," I replied.

We had no idea.

Settling into the couch, I checked my messages and found an e-mail from our sociable neighbours upstairs.  They had been out for their morning walk, when a slippery patch left over from Monday's sloppy precipitation caught the wife off-guard, and they spent the bulk of yesterday in emergency.  Multiple fractures to both wrists.  Surgery in the new year.

This morning, elder daughter texted from South Wimbledon.  Her COVID app informed her that she had been in contact with someone with the virus.   (Hardly difficult in London at this moment.)  She's now required to self-isolate for five days.  Her plans to spend Christmas with her second cousins in Greenwich are out the window -- probably not a bad thing, considering Tier Four.  A comfort is that one of her flatmates and her husband had to abandon their plans for a holiday hotel stay, due to the new restrictions, so at least elder daughter will not be alone.

These darn things usually come in threes,  don't they?  Should I stop the star-gazing?

Fear of watching

I've been trying to finish watching the second season of The Handmaid's Tale.

It's been on the PVR for months. I think I got something like two thirds of the way through.

The trouble is, I need three things in order to be able to watch The Handmaid's Tale:
1) I need to be alone because the Resident Fan Boy won't watch it, and younger daughter shouldn't watch it.
2) Because I have to be alone to watch The Handmaid's Tale, I need to be in a relatively sunny mood.
3) It has to be during the day, because no matter how cheerful I'm feeling, I'm not going to watch ritualized rape, tortures and executions at night.

Of course, now the third season's begun, and I'm really getting behind.

The thing about The Handmaid's Tale, it's well-written, well-acted, and way too damn plausible. Margaret Atwood always said there wasn't anything in the story that hadn't happened, or isn't happening to women.

While I'm trying to get my nerve up, I thought this 2017 parody, with the cast of Saturday Night plus guest host Chris Pine, might be bearable:



Well, I guess it is. It's still way too damn real.

Appalled when it comes to a Baldwin

I think Randy Rainbow's videos are clever, hilarious, and loaded with high production value. They can also sting, and not just his targets. This one makes me laugh and wince.



Maybe I need to sing "Cockeyed Optimist" to myself at bedtime?

Welcome to the glass house

Elder daughter, who is on her way back to Hades, is a fan of Tim Minchin, who has released this bitingly funny - and I do mean "ouch" - video, as a harbinger of a new album and the new year.

The album looks promising. The year?

Let's be careful and kind out there.


By now, we thought that there would be jetpacks and flying cars,
Robots to do the cleaning-up for us,
And help with the shopping.

We'd all be famous for a bit,
That's what Andy Warhol said,
Thought we'd all get our coloured heads,
Well the truth would rock him.

He would be surprised to wake up and find that we have weaponized humiliation:

In the future, everyone
Everyone will have fifteen minutes
Fifteen minutes of shame
Fifteen minutes when they are unforgivable.

Pick up your pitchforks and your torch;
We'll go hunt the monster down,
But keep an eye out for uneven ground;
We'll turn on you if you stumble.

Don't need perspective or a heart;
Leave humility at home.
Welcome to the glass house; hope you brought your stones!
Are you ready to rumble?

I'm scared to write anything that might upset my tribe.
Never mind, 'cause in the future, everyone will have fifteen minutes
Fifteen minutes of shame,
Fifteen minutes when they are unforgivable
Irredeemable
Inexcusable
Scum
Fit only to be strung up in the village square.
I will see you there!

I am scared to say anything that may be taken the wrong way.
But, *$#% it, baby!
In the future, everyone
Everyone will have fifteen minutes,
Fifteen minutes of shame,
Fifteen minutes when they are unforgivable,
Irredeemable,
Inexcusable...

The house not right in the head

I love this house we're sitting this July.  I'm not sure the feeling is mutual.

This is the fifth time we've taken care of this house, a charming bungalow decorated in Arts and Crafts style by the rather tall woman who lives here.  And therein lies the problem.  Having been here five times, the fourth time being six years ago, I know that I will be covered in bruises whenI leave in a month's time.

House-sitting has taught me that houses have different shapes, not all of which are compatible with my trajectory, for want of a better word.  My tall hostess places things high up - it's her home, after all - and on top of that, things like hooks and closet racks are slightly beyond my reach and there are no stools or stepladders because my hostess doesn't need them.

My shins are an appalling shade of green from my re-learning of how to clamber into her large bathtub with the very high sides.  On my first attempt during this stay, I managed to briefly wedge my lower leg between the tub and the toilet, banging my leg painfully as I struggled to extricate my heel while trying not to topple catastrophically into the unusually deep tub which would have involved a long fall with my body being bent, crumpled and possibly snapped into some wildly unnatural positions.

However, last night, I became convinced that the house was out to get me. It was a hot Canada Day -- for Victoria, barely a summer's day in Ottawa, but the thing is, few homes in Victoria have air conditioning, so by the time younger daughter and I got back from celebrating the holiday with Demeter, the house was uncomfortably warm and I still had to get the garbage and recycling sorted into four receptacles and lined along the pavement to await the various trucks in the morning.  By the time I had tracked down the items and worked out what went where (the rules vary from municipality to municipality and are quite different from those in Ottawa), I was sweating.

The house has large windows which can open to admit a host of insects and arachnids from the surrounding garden and the only screen is a narrow one which must be balanced on the sill and gingerly held in place by the sash.  I managed to pinch my fingers the first try and the screen plummeted to the flower bed below.

Next, it was time to haul the four containers out to the curb.  That's when the garden path attacked me.  For some reason, there were several dried-out bamboo spikes cunningly lurking in the foliage and grasses overgrowing the side of the house.  Two of them got me, one piercing my trousers.  The fact that it really, really hurt was probably an indication of how badly injured I was, i.e. not very.  Later inspection revealed a nasty welt and scratch in my thigh which stung like the dickens in the shower.

It was when I sat down at the computer that I realized my glasses were missing.  I'd go search the foliage, but I'm afraid of another ambush.

Don't get around much anymore

I hurt my knee on December 17th. I've been waiting and waiting for it to get better.



Going through my photo files for last year, because I don't have any February photos for this year, and realizing I haven't taken the dog for a walk longer than around the block since early December.
When these were taken, almost exactly a year ago, I was able to trudge with the Accent Snob through the snow for over an hour. He didn't enjoy it that much, mind you, but I could do it.


Joni Mitchell said, "You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone.
She also said, "I wish I had a river I could skate away on." I have a river, but I was never much of a skater. Not that you could skate on a river covered with snow.


What the hell. It's February. I was going to be miserable anyway.

A poor choice of words

I've been in correspondance by email with a lady who has requested I do an article for a family history review, based on a recent presentation, which -- I'm told -- was well-received, being "entertaining".

All lovely so far.

As it happened, I had just posted an adaptation of the presentation on my family history blog to share with relatives, and this editor took the link, and told me she'd be back in touch with suggestions on how to adapt it for the review. The presentation had been an hour long, so we both agreed it would need considerable shortening, before its inclusion in the spring issue of the review.

I didn't hear from her for nearly a month.

Last week, she got back in touch, with the apologetic explanation that she had had to purchase a computer just before going on a trip. She told me the content would need a fair amount of revision, though the story is interesting . . . . and that if I didn't mind mind making the style more straightforward, there would be room in the summer issue for it.

I felt that familiar dropping in my stomach.
Straightforward?
"More straightforward"?
That would mean less whatever-the-antonym-of-straightforward-is, wouldn't it?
I checked my trusty thesaurus.

Hmmmmmmmn.

Aren't editors in the business of choosing words? She said she often edited and adapted submissions herself, but in my case, she was worried about losing your personal voice.

(What? My devious, insincere and tricky voice?)

I decided to wait a day before answering her. I commiserated about replacing a computer -- our computer died the week after the presentation, so we had undergone similar stress. I had done a word count, I informed her. To meet the length limitations, I understood I would have to halve the text. Then, almost as an afterthought, I added that I hoped she had meant "more concise" rather than "more straightforward".

The response was quick in coming.  A thank-you for agreeing to submit the article, and an apology -- she had been trying to find a polite way of saying a more formal style, suitable for a quarterly journal.

And I thought to myself:  When did "more formal", which implies my writing is informal, become less polite than saying "more straightforward", which implies that my writing is a host of unpleasant things?  Don't editors have thesauruses?

Perhaps it's kinder to put this down to jet lag.

While we're waiting for the spring....

Ice pellets today as I struggled up the hill to the library to return a book I hadn't finished about tectonic plates and Krakatoa because someone had put a hold on it. I'm periodical and writing something, but it's not finished and I'm tired, so here's a song I really like from The High Dials from Montreal:

Seeing is grieving

We only knew we were in trouble when the bus came into view.

Yesterday, the bus failed to show up on the scheduled first day back at school for younger daughter after a two-week March Break. Now, a missing bus, in the delicate domino set-up that is the four-to-five-bus journey from home to school and back, throws off the morning's schedule and I had a medical appointment set up for ten, so I took the easy route, led younger daughter home through the rain, phoned the school to say we wouldn't be there, and took her along with me to the ophthalmologist. It's worked before. When younger daughter got up this morning, she seemed no worse than any other school morning, preparing quickly and even being ready ahead of time.

She first started wailing as the bus approached: "No! I don't want to go to school!" I guess she hoped that maybe the bus wouldn't show up this morning as well, and I would take her home again. By the time we'd taken our seats, she was crying openly, and I knew from past experience that any attempt to console her or even engage her would only exacerbate the situation. Finally, I asked her if I should sit with Daddy, and after a few more sobs, she told me to move.

She wept the rest of the long bus ride to Hurdman Station. I sat across the aisle from her, next to the Resident Fan Boy and watched our fellow passengers watching us, and particularly her. We got out to wait for our transfer and younger daughter resolutely moved away from us into a recess of the long shelter, facing the wall.

"What's the problem?"
A bearded gentleman whom I recognised from the previous bus was standing in front of me.
"I beg your pardon," I said, a little sharply.
"I only wanted to know if I could help."
"My daughter has pervasive developmental disorder and she doesn't want to go to school," I said, softening the edge to my voice, but keeping the answer short. You learn to sniff out quickly the holier-than-thous and busy-bodies. This guy wasn't one of them. I don't know what help he thought he could offer, but kind hearts shouldn't be booted around.
"It must be very hard," he said.
"It is. Thank-you."

He walked away. Part of me wanted to say: It isn't like this every day. It isn't. That's why people were noticing us today. They only notice us when something goes wrong. Remember what I said yesterday about being invisible? There are perks...

The Resident Fan Boy decided to accompany us all the way to school. He sat next to her on the second leg of the long journey alongside the barren early-spring fields of the Experimental Farm. I sat in silent misery behind.

We made our way up the suburban street toward the school, younger daughter trailing behind like Eurydice. Naturally, it took some minutes for someone to unlock the door.

"It will be okay," I said automatically.
"It's not okay! It's not okay, Mom," she declared. The classroom was locked; her teacher not yet arrived. Younger daughter stationed herself at the far end of the hall. We met her teacher at the door and gave her a quick rundown.

"She'll be fine," she said calmly. "It will take two or three minutes." If you go right now, she didn't say. I called a reassuring goodbye.

"I don't want it to be a long day...."

We left. The Resident Fan Boy took me to a Starbucks and we slid back into blessed invisibility. Oh God. Dear God.

Can you feel the same?
Yeah, ya gotta love the pain.
Ooh, it looks like rain again.
Ooh, feel it comin' in.
The mountains win again.

Giving thanks from the heart (well, maybe a bit lower down)

Thanksgiving in Canada, as I keep having to remind my American and British friends and relations, is celebrated the second weekend in October. Canadians have no particular links with The Mayflower or Plymouth Rock; we do have a rather shorter growing season in most parts of the country than in the US, and since many Canadians have English forebears, there is that connection with the Anglican Harvest Sunday. Coming from Victoria, the Resident Fan Boy and I are still struck by urgency of the traditional Harvest Sunday hymns. In a climate like Ottawa's, you better durn well have the crops in. The first frost is on its way.

All the same, this has never been one of my favourite holidays. For many Canadians (the more affluent ones, anyway), this is a weekend to get away. The last camping reservations fall on this weekend, and those with a cottage (in central Canada) or cabin (in British Columbia) usually retreat there for a final sojourn by the lake. This means, aside from the nightmarish gridlock that begins mid-afternoon the previous Friday, that those of us who remain in town have fewer options. The arty films of the autumn will not be opening just yet, there is little in the way of theatre and concerts, and most stores shut down, many for Sunday and Monday.

This means you'd better have all your ingredients for your Thanksgiving dinner ahead of time, whether the big dinner is on Sunday (when you have guests) or Monday (if you don't). And there's another thing: it's a holiday that requires me to spend several hours in the kitchen. We don't do turkey, but this year, because younger daughter seems unusually excited about Thanksgiving, we decided to try a new recipe, Pollo con Zucchini Fritti, which is actually an old Vancouver Sun recipe which I pasted in my book then promptly forgot to try. It involved a lot of sauté-ing, and quite a bit of scotch whiskey, chardonney, port, and cream. It was bloody delicious actually, and was followed up by the mandatory pumpkin-pie-completely-from-scratch-including-the-pastry-thank-you-very-much.

It wasn't until about 4 am that I realized that I might be in a bit of trouble. It took a while for my sleep-hazed brain to understand that the mild indigestion of the evening before had localized to rather more discomfort in a small knot below my rib cage on my right side. Y'know, where my gall bladder is.

I discovered I had gallstones five years ago when I attempted to take both daughters to a second viewing of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, then had to call the Resident Fan Boy at work to pick them up at the Rideau Centre because the pain in my side was enough to bring a sheen of cold sweat on my forehead and upper lip. I headed home on the bus, wondering if I'd just sent my family off to watch a lengthy film while I had a heart attack. I got home, and the pain (which, by the way, was almost as bad as my labour pains and that's saying something) suddenly vanished. It kept recurring over the next week as our annual retreat to Victoria, along with a side excursion to Disneyland, approached. My doctor's locum decided I needed antacids and a bland diet. I figured out myself that it was somehow connected to peanut butter.

Since then, I've had one or two attacks, always on a holiday involving rich food. I decided against surgery since avoiding peanut butter seemed so much easier, but in the past couple of years, I've been foolishly indulging in Kraft Smooth again in a sort of nutty Russian Roulette.

So the Pollo con Zucchini Fritti came home to roost. I shifted myself carefully, praying the pain wouldn't escalate into the cold sweat phase which actually requires labour breathing. Please, no, please. I won't do it again... I took some Tylenol which has worked for me, and woke up functional and only slightly queasy two hours later when I had to get up and escort younger daughter on the long bus trek to school. As we walked through the rainy streets to the bus stop, I was filled with the euphoria similar to that I exuded when they finally gave me the epidural in both my labours. One function of pain: it feels so damn good when it stops. So I did celebrate Thanksgiving this year -- at 7:20 this morning.

Maybe I should substitute one percent milk for the cream in the Pollo...