Camo

Fingertip to Fingertip

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Mum’s Cookbook

I have Mum’s old cookbook. It has seen many years. The cover is long gone, and some pages are tattered beyond use, but from these pages, she celebrated birthdays and weddings, she entered fair competitions, and archived the best recipes handed down to her from my grandma, great grandma, and others.

It may be tattered, but it a precious piece of my past.

Let It Grow

I feed the birds, and they are not really tidy eaters, so seeds fly hither and yon. If it were up to my husband–the lawn taker-carer–as those seeds started to sprout they would be pulled or weed whacked; but I convinced him to let them grow this time. And look what I got! Since this yard has no trees and only some container gardens I managed to get in, this blast of yellow that attracts birds, butterflies, and bees is a welcome addition. I am loving the color!

Some days . . .

Some days, I look at my dad’s picture, and I think of all the things I wish I had asked him when he was still here;

but back then, I guess I just didn’t know yet what I didn’t know.

Never a Nurse

First shower today! Oy. I had to remove and replace his bandage and once again I realize why I never wanted to be a nurse! The only shots I give are photographic.
Hope you are enjoying the lack of gross photos.

Surgery Stuff

On Facebook, folks post pictures of dog bites and stitches and all manner of gross stuff! I will never do that. So here is as close a pic of my hubby’s total shoulder replacement surgery as you will get. Enjoy!

Omicron Woes

O h, no, the dreaded

M onster virus has found our house.

I thought with a

C hange of address, the covid demon would

R un in circles, confused as to where we would end up, but

O bviously, its tracking system was pretty good, and it has

N ailed my husband here in Texas!

Jan. 4? Already?

Well, I am already late.

I thought I would try to write something on my blog this year, if not every day, at least several days a week. I used to be more faithful to do that, but between California and Texas, I lost some of my words. They are still kind of there, but mostly float to a place of capture only as I try to sleep.

I didn’t think moving would be so hard. I knew it would be hard physically, but the grieving–the loss of people and places left behind–has been harder than I imagined. (But I don’t miss Gov. Newsom!)

We have come to a very picturesque place, but we have no friends, just barely a church, no family in this town. We chose it because it is the halfway point between far-flung grandkids. But at our age, setting up a homestead in a new place is challenging, to say the least.

Covid is a factor, I think, in having some people keep their distance, but mainly, being retired means you don’t automatically have a community to plug into. Finding a church where you are not hired to do worship. walking in with a sort of Jesus-pedigree, is challenging for someone like me who is basically shy until you get to know me or unless I am singing to a crowd or doing live television. Just being a plain old parishioner in search of a parish is different and unsettling. And in this process, I have lost some of my words. Life and passion.

I have lost them to exhaustion and worry.

I have lost them to the loneliness and blank-staring, realizing that halfway in-between might just as well be a half continent away.

I have lost them to the stream of dissent and political pundits that crowd the airwaves and my mind waves in this tumultuous time.

But it is high time to fight back. To reclaim the right to think and write and find joy in the middle of all the mess. To create and not destroy.

To be confessional.

To change and be changed.

The Flower Girls