Threads

The scrub jays come every day for peanuts. Today, Moby spotted them, and jumped to the top of his tree. They spotted him as well. Cussed him out from the chair on the porch, and the roof next door. I expect they'll be back later for the rest of the peanuts. But at least cat got in some twitching.

Not as hot today. Got home early from work, so I thoroughly weeded the front yard of elm seedlings, and the flat, creeping, reddish weeds. The weeds on the verge are welcome to stay, at least until I build raised beds. Winds kicking up.

More and more aware of doing things for the last time, so unlike being young - doing everything for the first time. Letting go, loosening my grip. There is a relief, an easing, to this process. Not the end, not at all. Just a different phase, when I drop luggage and let the thread run out.

Disjointed

Hot, although not as hot as it will get ere summer be done.

Short day, although busy.

I have enough underwear, but much of it is getting shabby. I'm afraid all of them will disintegrate at once.

Tried to get a new steamer, the plastic/silicone one melted (which isn't supposed to happen.) Only one available at the near store - and it was too large around for any of my pans. We visited both Asian shops, the more likely one first. But their steamers didn't have a lifter. The less likely place had steamers with a central handle. I mooned over the bamboo steamers, but I have no idea how to use them, nor do I have a pot that I could fit them in.


Worried about a friend's stepson. Don't know him well, but my heart goes out to any 12 going on 13 year old with a poor father. Bio-dad at least mentally/emotionally abusive, possibly worse, possessive but neglectful, and now absent. His mom and step-dad are solidly decent folks, good hearted, conscientious parents, smart, funny, devoted. Which surely will give him his best chance. But the injury will leave scars. Well, life does that, and age protects no one. We all have to get over our childhoods, shame when they're so steep.

Video of a supercell.

Thinking that the salvia needs names. Perhaps after a long time local parody group, The Saliva Sisters. (Least bad of videos of them, sadly.) Plethora and Uvula, can't remember the third's name.

Disjointed day.

Chalkboard

Surviving the World, or lessons on a chalkboard. Reading through from the beginning. Only 1790 posts.


And watching Rounders.



Which is about as much as I really understand baseball, but I still enjoy watching.

Manure

I wasn't going to do anything else. Really was not going to add anything, so that I could judge where the garden is, wait for it to declare itself.

Oh, gosh, where did that salvia come from?


And who put those ice plants in there?




Added the cheapest steer manure* and put down the rest of the clover seeds I still had. As I put everything away, I spotted what looked like a large butterfly on the scarlet flax. Except that it was a hummingbird. Unmistakable once seen, then they disappear in a flit. Amazing. This whole house buying adventure has turned into the most astonishing series of wonderful surprizes and strange satisfactions.



As for the north side of the front, it's just not thriving, except for the clover. Even the sunflowers, robust and three feet tall on the south side of the walk, are puny and all-ate-up on the north. So, I've been dreaming about it, wanting to put in low water, bug resistant, smelly, poor soil loving plants. So, the green onions - which I'm told do so well here they take over. Ice Plants and Salvia. Taking a fair amount of water right now, but once established, this is going to be a rather low water garden.

Sprayed all the tomato plants, most of which had aphids. Just a detergent solution.

Weeded on the south side of the house along the driveway, came across a mass of ants. Put down traps - with bait that they take back to the nest. Funny, even now, a swarm hits my mental funnybone, and my body freaks out a bit. Not fear, exactly, but a kind of panicky dread. Not spraying any poison, nothing the neighborhood animals can get into.

I wonder if this is the core of my aversion to children, more than one seems like a riotous mass of chaos. High pitched screams and squeals are physically painful. Anyone out of control and I start to resonate and worry. More than one and I want to run far away very fast.



For those of you who read here, who are good, conscientious fathers, thank you. You do more than you can possibly know.


*Mostly to loosen the clay. Other neighbor's GF's dog, a little shitsu, came up on the porch as I write this, then rolled in the manure compost. Oh, well, I'll get more clover if that patch doesn't come up.

Witches

Long ago, I had a friendship with a self-described witch. She emerged from an older culture, where this word had meaning I clearly had no handle for. In the midst of distancing myself from the magical thinking of catholicism, I tried to accept her lessons as important - but not to be taken literally. Still defining myself, and dealing with the persistence of mystery.

She relished the role of mentor a bit too much for my taste, I had no need for any more self-styled teachers, gurus. The witch friend really did help me deal with my reality dissonances, and prepared me to be open to mystical and random events. At that stage, I figured I just didn't quite get where she was coming from, and took her as written. My oldest brother thought he would be my guide as well, tell me how best to live my life, and I accepted all advice without over analysis. Grist to the mill. I made little distinction.

Witches have never seemed evil to me. They were a repository of folk knowledge, or victims of social discontent, or a TV fantasy - see Bewitched. I so wanted magic to work as a child, wishes seemed more powerful than prayers, although neither had proven effective. I wanted magic to work with all my being, to fly, to disappear, to escape.

Pratchett's witches spoke more clearly to me as an adult. They had for themselves the happiness of no rewards, only living by their own choice. That last would have been quite enough for me, even as a small child. The power to say "no." They were highly regarded, if not liked. There was a price to pay for their independence, fair enough. Cranky, but not to be messed with. Feared, but not really fearsome.

Feminism embraced witches, as misunderstood, oppressed women. Wicca "empowered" them, whatever that seemed to mean. It became a word associated with the most laughable of the New Age sparkle. Odd, disenfranchised women, out for attention, approval. Some source of power beyond whatever in their lives they cannot get out from under. Secret energies, obscure authority, drama and mediumship. Poppycock sometimes, sadder still when self delusion, mental illness, bids for attention. But depending on the background, never that easily dismissed. The word witch does have the power to conjure.

Witches always struck me as utterly human, and female, never a supernatural evil. I remember being rather offended by The Witches. If somewhat distanced from society and with a tangental approach to logic, they were never other than earthy. Eccentric women. Unique personalities. Some differences based on culture, what is allowed for those who won't fit the narrowly constrained female roles.

I don't believe in the healing power of crystals*. It took 42 years of fervent wishing to kill my father. Not what one expects of magical results. Prayer is a comfort, but not a strategy for getting a project completed. The liminal experiences are subtle, easily quashed, suggestions and hints - not overwhelming power - readily dismissed. Important, but only when noticed and coupled with hard work.

My younger brother, during our brief correspondence last year, mentioned we come from a long line of mystics and witches. Yeah, whatever. Misfits, more like. We are not psychics, just poor folks finding a measure of value. Outsiders learning cold reading. The fearful puffing ourselves up to frighten the hunters. Not a bad method, but best not taken too seriously in oneself.

Magic got me through childhood. But the world is marvelous enough without being manipulated and dramatized, once we begin to understand how hugely magical reality is. And maybe that's the thing about witches, a matter of vocabulary, definitions, context. Likely in a different time, I would have held the role. Now, I silently stand in awe of everything, I'll keep my hands in my pockets.






*

She was carrying a club with a nail in it. When she was close enough for conversation, Vimes said, "I've come here to-"
"Do you believe in the healing power of crystals, young man?" snapped the woman, raising the club threateningly.
"What? What healing powers?" said Vimes.
The old woman gave him a cracked smile, and dropped the club.
"Good," she said. "We like our customers to take their geology
seriously."

Thud. Terry Pratchett.

Tingling

Finally talked to one of my surgeons about the electrical sensations around my hip. Advice given, and taken. Mostly, I need to do my PT, which has slidden. Fallen off. Dwindled to occasional. Already, some amelioration. I hangs my head. Will do all that is necessary. It is my back, but a bit higher up. Bothers me when the solution is something I knew, should have seen, should have been doing all along, and didn't. Feeling dumb and neglectful, so sad.

Very, very windy this afternoon. Dusty, too, since a building is being demolished in the block, added to the general dust from Nevada. Hot, but not searing. A hot wind, though, does make a body feel rather uncomfortable, under assault, beleaguered. Microbursts and all.

Registered and paid taxes for the car this year, online. Cat decided in the middle of this process to walk across the keyboard - which I denied him absolutely. Not now, no.

Work blessedly straightforward. Even enough time for a long lunch - more accurately enough staff to provide a full lunch relief. After recent stresses, this was much appreciated by everyone. New scrub is getting up to speed.

Discussion in the break room, green onions apparently do very well here, to the point of taking over. Well, I can handle that. And just the ones from the grocery will grow. Consider them planted! Which is to say, I walked over, got green onions with decent roots, and planted them with some compost, watered them well, right next to the bugge infested columbine and sunflowers on the north-front garden. Done and done.

Planning for D's parents to visit for lunch on Saturday. Cleaning happening, food obtained for later cooking. This is a good thing. For Dad day.

Peanuts

Scrub Jays will come right up to the window for peanuts. Soon as I get the window cleaned, these might come out better. Didn't know these birds existed a month ago, now they are neighbors. A nesting pair, seems like.

Prunella

The greatest beauty contains cracks and imperfections
And grows more lovely through time.
The great expanses are full
of emptiness, and hold all eternity.

The true path appears twisted and snarled.
The brilliant seem goofy.
The most honest language seems simple to the point of silliness.

We dance wildly around a cold, empty center.
We stand stunned in awe beside the rampaging flames.
Inertia rightfully holds both ideas, point and circle.

It is all leather and prunella. Nothing of any moment, all rubbish; through a misunderstanding of the lines by Pope, who was drawing a distinction between the work of a cobbler and that of a parson.
Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow;
The rest is all but leather or prunella.
Pope: Essay on Man.

Prunella is a worsted stuff, formerly used for clergymen's gowns, etc. and for the uppers of ladies' boots, and is probably so called because it was the colour of a prune.

Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963. p 540.

Practice

It's really all about getting in enough experience to do something so well that it brings pleasure.

So, we do what is easy, since it rewards us so well. Heroin gratifies instantly. Alcohol slightly longer. Skills - far, far longer. But the last gives such a deep, lasting joy.

When we are children, this seems such an eternity, to be Good At Something. We yearn for it, but have little patience for it.

My work is an exercise in learning skill. Time consuming. Building up, gradual, labor intensive. Gardening is for the older of us, because we can appreciate patience, even as we still struggle with it. Even though, in only a year, I have seen proved such amazing changes. The front garden is no longer a dead stretch of dry sod, but a verdant green sward, variable and alive. The backgarden, so much improved from last year's limp offering. A year is still a long time, although so much less a fraction.

My back flaring up, mostly the hip. Bursitis probably. Stable, though, I can step off a curb without incident. A little here, a little there. Massage clarified this, which is great. Taking appropriate steps, which is to say ten days of anti-inflammatories, then ask my ortho guys if I'm still in trouble. Tiger balm, capsaisin rub, ice, applied appropriately.


We got the rug in. Really pulls the room together.

Used to drive me mad, that my mother would change every room's configuration winter and summer. Away from the heating vents, or windows, twice a year. Probably kept the house cleaner, but I hated the winter set-up. Finally objected to my own room being changed around, and slept with my head at the window, melting the ice with my finger through the dark nights. She warned me that was why I was getting sick all winter, foolish to be cold like that, and on and on. I held my own, though.

But I realize that changing the rooms around, aside from cleaning, is good for finding a new way to make a room work. Not always, but occasionally. The new rug ($10) does this for the Music Room. D happier, Moby approves. Not more light, but not worse, and more color. Having moved every year most years of my adult life, I think a good, yearly clean out is a Good Thing.

I'm very good at moving. Since I won't do That Again, I will have to clean well every year. In bits, anyway. Just to feel normal. Get Rid Of Stuff, certainly. That's easy. Much as I enjoy yard/garage/estate sales, I know when to HAVE one as well. Get something new, get rid of something old. Clear out, clean out, take out. Sure.

Sours

Reminded this week of my brother's wedding. He was 21, his bride 19, and I was eight years old. David was in the Air Force, away long stretches, soon to be sent to Thailand for a year - fixing jets during the war in Vietnam. I adored him, with reservations, clinging to some future closeness I'd never had with him before. He was prickly, intermittently but intensely attentive, loved teaching me his wisdom, but usually absent in every way, even before he moved out of the house.

Our parents picked him up at the airport, on the drive home, me on one side, younger brother at the other window, Dave and GF between, Dave proposes, gives her the ring. Very strange for me, powerful but not quite pleasant. Nothing else to look at, along that dark road, but them kissing. I noted it with scientific horror.

I was not included in the wedding at all. Although they did give me the gift of a small ring. Attended with my parents in their pew for the mass. At the reception - seated with an aunt & uncle. This hurt quite a lot. A cousin had me in her wedding, three years before. I hadn't even wanted to be the flower girl then, wasn't asked - just told, forced to get my hair cut short - despite being promised before the obligation that I could grow it out.

So to not even be asked, as the only little girl on my brother's side of the family, to be flower girl (I had experience!) seemed another cold dismissal. Not that I wasn't used to being outside, still felt awful.

Instead, SIL had cousins as Maid of Honor and Bridesmaid and Flower Girl - all in red velvet dresses. SIL had a white velvet wedding dress. Tactile me, missing out on a velvet dress* - salt in the wound. I knew better than to say anything to anyone. I'd already been warned that I was to treat new SIL as my own sister. I did try, but honestly, she wasn't interested, not in me, not in children - in my opinion. Why they ever had children is an eternal mystery to me. That my nieces lives are both in shambles saddens, but does not surprize me.

Not like I held on to this. I don't remember rationalizing it in a sour grapes moment, but something of the sort must have happened. Have not thought about it in a very, very long time. At least 40 years, more. Funny, because it is exactly the sort of story I would have written about here, which shows how much it slipped behind the sofa in my head.

In the long run, I'm grateful for the knowledge I gleaned. Anyway, the shoes would have pinched, and I'd probably have had to get my hair cut again.

And I polka'd with my cousin Brian, a grown man who had the heart to be kind to a disregarded child.




*Mom made me a green velvet dress for Christmas. Not because she knew, I just got to pick out the fabric. It was a sweet consolation, dark forest green.

Lapsing

Last August I began the cheap sod replacement plan, clearing areas for clover.

This,


Becomes this.



Last August, the green creatures were struggling.


This year in mere June, they thrive. Just a bit of amendment, compost.


The roses are healthier, after some drastic pruning.


The scarlet flax has just begun to bloom.


Dear neighbor is giving me his grass clippings, so there will be even more compost this year!


And we picked this up at a yard sale. A bit of beating and vacuuming, and it will be lovely in the music room. Have to clear everything out, first. Which is good, to clean to the corners at least once a year.

Shine

The new kettle is fab. Which, at this altitude, matters. Not as much as in some places, but enough to notice. The spout is not just open to atmosphere, so the pressure gets up a little higher, so then does the temp. I've had way too much tea today, happily running along. No taste to the water, and it gets quite hot indeed.

The reflection of me is sufficiently loopy, I had to share.

Had to attend disaster drills at work this morning. Took two new items from it. The cardboard patient Paraslyde (Skip to end), to evacuate immobile patients down stairs, is actually pretty easy, and rather comfortable - far less frightening than I expected. Better than being carried in a stretcher. I got to pull a "patient," and then be one. It's a low tech but very effective tool. The second is the advice for an armed attacker. Get out, hide out, take out, help out. Escape if possible, hide, if possible, but if not - then attack, preferably en mass. It's like if a potential abductor tries to get you into a car, resist completely, because any other scenario is not going to come out any better. It's not easy to train people to do this, dogpile on an armed man, but going on the attack in the face of a violent person enjoying their power trip has the element of surprize. Good to keep in mind.

During the triage training, the instructor, a rather Useless Guy, an RN, (UGRN) made a point that nurses and medical personnel are worse at setting aside the "expected" patients, because they want to save everyone. The three of us OR RNs reacted appropriately, and the therapists and clerical workers chose second level care for patients that the three of us immediately recognized as "dead." Or soon to be so. Hence "expected." I think OR nurses are better at this, knowing which patients we want to put effort into, bring in for surgery, and which are train wrecks. ICU nurses probably are worse at it. Different breed. UGRN made no further comment. But then, he's the one who told some of the OR folks last year that he could learn to be an OR nurse in a day, tops. We all raised eyebrows at the insult. It takes minimum four months to get a new OR nurse up to barely adequate. A year to be competent, another year to be any real good. Minimums. Some never get there, and UGRN would likely be one of those, if only because he can't listen for crap. Older, more experienced nurses, do not do better, certainly not faster, than the younger ones.

The difficulty with the OR is largely a matter of flow and practice, memorization of terms and supplies, and muscle memory. Massive organization, a whole new language - of instruments, positioners, soft-goods, procedures. None of which is slowed down for comprehension. Growing OR ears, knowing what is important through the white noise of suction, ventilation, equipment, alarms, multiple voices, and the mandatory music, beepers going off, now cell/smart phones, regular phones, all while charting and opening supplies and keeping track of everything, does not magically appear in a day. And has to be relearned for each different facility, or even a different speciality. Simply getting the armboards on beds, or the various clamps for positioning equipment, is not simple at all. After a while, we can't remember not knowing it, and it seems easy. Which is why it's a hard specialty to teach. Easy to lose patience, get snappy. Hard to remember how overwhelming it all is, when you can't even hear what's going on.

Heat building up, summer is upon us, breathing down our necks. One tomato appeared - still small and green. A couple of jalepeños, the scarlet flax is starting to blossom, there are actual pea pods formed, clover blooming madly to the delight of the bees. I am in awe.

Friendly

Moby is a good cat, friendly in a polite way, likable, likes folks. Kisses dogs, kind to children, sociable with visitors.

Mrrked to go out, more and more insistently. I'd just gotten home, but after a cup of tea, with the new(!!!) lovely kettle, I said, sure.

"Ok, but I'm sitting in a chair, and only in the front."

This was fine, because he immediately went to the bush. Where Sebastian sat. Moby approached, Sebastian stared, then hissed.


Moby backed up, Sebastian stared, Moby backed up more, turned. So sad, dejected. He took a moment, and sat nearby, nosed in.



Tried to approach again. I didn't hear a hiss, but he moved away and sat looking through the sunflower stalks for a long time. Eventually lounging. Lovely evening, cool breeze, warm air.




I tried to explain, "Remember how long you took to decide you liked us."

Not a comfort. I'm sure he'll try again. He's a very good friend to us.


Looked out, he's still there.

Eggshells

One of those days when any combo of available surgeon, scrub, circulator, was not going to be ideal. No one had a great day, put it that way. I was scrubbed for a nurse that I needed to do the eggshell walk for, and a chaotic surgeon doing a big, complicated case. I managed, kept cheerful, but it took everything I had to maintain. Late, very late, lunch, no relief in sight. G was a blessing beyond dreams, didn't care that I had a mess (because of chaotic surgeon) just got me out to eat. So grateful. At 1330. Which is very, very late when one starts work before 0700, and has breakfast before 0630. But I knew the score before starting, and I had my loins girded accordingly.


Then did an add-on case, which was refreshingly brief, with an oblivious circulator who couldn't organize a riot with a month's notice. And, stayed cheerful, got it done, tidied up after, and came home.

To a cat who wanted out. So we took him out. The half dozen birds on the porch, eating the seed I'd put out, were the reason for his urgency I suspect.


Putting out peanuts (on the advice of Farmgal) for the scrub jay. Does look a very intelligent bird. I wondered if s/he'd actually taken the ones near the sidewalk yesterday. Today, I put six or so on the porch, and sure enough, taking them one by one. Farmgirl told me her jay expects morning peanuts, so I figured I could lure it up for Moby to watch.

Well, that worked well. Moby thinks he can catch 'em. Not eat them, mind, just catch. Maybe not the scrub jay, them's smart cookies.



I shall continue to emulate Pete's bird photos, but he's the best. So far, not promising.

But the front garden is a balm to our souls. Love all the clover, even made a string of flowers, which I have not done for decades. Jalepeños are fruiting already. So much green. I have never before created anything so utterly lovely. So pleased, so in awe.

OK

OK Go.

Teaming up with NPR.



As for the vocab,
35,800 words. Estimated.