Journal: A Birthday, A Bear -- and A Kitten

 

One day last week, I got a package in the mail from a friend who lives in Florida.  And look, it’s exactly what I’ve been needing!  Now no one will ever know if my eyes are causing troubles.

“Hey, thanks a million!!!!” I wrote.  “You’ve fixed my problem.”

Larry took the picture, and it’s a wonder it’s not all blurry, because he could hardly quit laughing long enough to hold my phone steady.  😂

Willie is 11 months old now.  Victoria posted several pictures of him, and wrote the following:  “Willie has learned more than ever lately.  He crawls now – fast army crawling.  He loves to speed over to anything the girls are building and knock it down, to their despair.  He is talking SO much.  Always saying, ‘Hi, sisters,’ ‘Did it, I did it,’ ‘Hey!’, ‘I love you,’ ‘touch,’ and ‘hesss (yes).’  He loves meat and potatoes like his Dad, and is such a silly ham.  He wrinkles his nose up and makes silly faces when he’s eating just to make everyone laugh.  He had his first little haircut this month too!  He has 7 teeth now.”

That day, I started the laundry, filled the bird feeders, cleaned the kitchen, and soon I was back in my quilting studio quilting away.

The woman from New York who is sure the entire State of Iowa stinks, whether my nose can detect the stench or not, decided to belabor the point, regardless of the fact that nobody had offered any further argument, opting to let sleeping hotdogs lie.

“Yep...” she continued in a reply to ‘her very ownself’, as Victoria used to say when she was wee little, “did you smell the pork being cooked yet...you will start smelling it in Iowa city..”

I let the remark lie there quietly. 

Again she made quarrel with herself:  “But I have driven thru Iowa all the time as I hit relatives in Missouri, the show me state.”

A few minutes later, “well I haven’t been there in a while but can smell the pork as it’s very obnoxious.”

All the way over in New York?!

Eventually I couldn’t help myself.  I wrote, “Maybe it’s the Limburger-Cheese-in-the-Moustache Syndrome.  😄😆😂🤣”

All those laughy faces are like saying ‘Bless her little heart’ after you dish out some deadly gossip about someone, right?  Cancels out anything remotely injudicious, right?

I now feel the need to caption each picture I post with its location, followed by, “...where it does not stink.”

By midnight, the next two top borders on The Birds of Colorwash Patch quilt were done.

I often take pictures of particular areas of a quilt and include in the picture the rulers I used there, so that when I get to similar areas at the other end of the quilt, I’ll know which rulers to use.

Oh, and I hung my new calendar.  I like to buy them during the first couple of weeks of January, because $15 calendars are often marked down to $5.  Here’s the January picture.  😸

Under the picture there is a quote from novelist Audrey Callahan Thomas:  “There seemed to be cats everywhere asleep on the shelves like motorized bookends.” 😹

I like to look at Google Maps.  I especially like to switch to Street View and go traveling hither and yon to places I will never go.  That night I zoomed into Lima, Peru’s, midtown, chose a random street, clicked Street View, moved the map around looking at traffic and skyscrapers, and then zoomed in close when I spotted open stores along the streets.  And look what I found in the first store I looked inside! – a whole line of Juki sewing machines!  

Somehow, I had wound up in Lima’s garment district, a destination I had previously known nothing about.  I was quite surprised when a lady in my MeWe Quilt Talk group said that she and her husband had been there on a tour.  The guide would drop them off on various streets, and they would wander the shops, looking at fabric and machines; then the bus would pick them up and take them to other locations within the district.  http://limacitykings.com/gamarra/

Listen to this:  “Located in the La Victoria district, Gamarra’s 20,000 textile shops, manufacturers, contractors and retailers employ over 100,000 people.  The Gamarra economy is estimated at over $1.4 billion a year.  Taking up 24 square blocks, the area receives an estimated 100,000 visitors a day.  Most of them visit during the weekends.  If you don’t like crowds, skip Gamarra altogether.”

Do you realize that if they used that entire $1.4 billion only to pay those 100,000 employees, they could only pay them $14,000 a year?

A block to the north, there are giant rolls of batting perched on a 3^rd-floor balcony.  A big sign down below has a list of various fabrics, including organza and ‘interfil’ – which I suppose must be ‘batting’.  As you move up and down that block, the time of day obviously changes (and perhaps the date, too, though all the pictures were taken in June of 2022), as the carts selling ready-made food, fruits, vegetables, and drinks vanish and reappear, storefront doors are sometimes pulled down, and traffic flow changes dramatically.

Later, looking back at the fabric/sewing machine district in Lima, with all its decrepit and tumble-down buildings, I advanced farther north down the street, and finally came upon a skinny building between the others that has a modicum of modernity:

But I zoomed in and found this giant mess of electrical wiring:

Aiiiyiiiiyiiiiieeeee.

There is garbage everywhere, in the streets and shops alike.  Between two buildings that I believe to be private houses, there was a huge pile of bagged garbage.  As usual when I ‘go traveling’ via Google Street View, I wind up very thankful for where I live.

A week ago, I gave the line drawings of the birds I printed as templates for the Colorwash 9-Patch quilt to some of the little granddaughters.  Wednesday morning, Hester sent this picture, writing, “Keira colored her bird.”

It's bright and pretty, and nicely inside the lines.  She does a good job, for being four years old.

The back deck is full of little juncos cleaning up the Nyjer seeds the other birds have dropped.  Did you know that juncos are one of the few birds that hop forward with both feet at the same time, then quickly jerk both feet backwards simultaneously in order to uncover the little seeds they love to eat?

It was National Milk Day that day.  On that date, January 11, in 1878, glass bottles of milk were first delivered in New York City.  Before that, they were delivered in the metal containers we know as cream cans.

On my MeWe Quilt Talk group, we were discussing the things we had learned in quilting through the years, and the improvements various tools have made in the quilting process.  As did many quilters before me, I first cut quilts with templates and scissors before learning about rotary cutters.  And I loved quilts with oodles of little pieces!  I did have electric scissors.  Mine were best at cutting warm air.  Hot butter was too much for them.

I remember watching an older friend sew when I was a little girl.  She’d get a grip on her fabric and stretch the livin’ daylights out of it as she sewed.  I wondered, Whyyyyyyyyy??? 😂  Sometimes her pulling and tugging would flex the needle enough to have it clonking into the needle plate.  Yikes.  She did that, even after she got a nice Bernina!

One of my quilting friends was talking about various dogs she’d had.  Some years ago, she had a couple of Shar-peis.  

When Lydia was little, she loved Shar-peis, and had several stuffed ones.  Here’s a resin one we gave her for Christmas in 2000.  When Hannah started dating her husband-to-be, Bobby, Lydia renamed her favorite stuffed Shar-pei “Rumply Bob-Bob.”

I assured Bobby that it was an honor.  hee hee

Bobby and Hannah were playing with Carolyn and Violet after church Wednesday night after most everyone else had left, while Kurt and Victoria were preoccupied with Larry holding and playing with Willie, and Willie’s Great-Uncle Dennis playing with him, too.  Carolyn and Violet got more and more wound up, giggling and trotting in circles around Bobby, Hannah, and me. 

Bobby chuckled and said, “The police are going to swoop in and put an end to this fun in three... two... one...”

SNAP-SNAP!!! went Kurt’s fingers, right on cue, as he suddenly noticed his cute offspring getting a little too unchurchified to suit him. 

“Toldja so,” said Bobby.  😅

Here’s a cup I’ve been thinking I needed for the longest time.

In fact, I just ordered this cup.

Another fact:  I did not need another cup.

Thursday we had overcast skies (though they were bright), and the temperature was 22° with a wind chill of 9°.  My hands were freezing cold, sitting here by the window in the kitchen with the wind whistling through.  I ate breakfast quickly and then hurried back upstairs to continue quilting.

Loren fell again that morning.  He was not in increased pain, the nurse at Prairie Meadows told me, and seemed all right.  They were applying some type of topical analgesic to the areas where he said there was pain.  They also put a motion sensor in his room, so they would know when he was moving in his room (and when he was not moving enough).

I went one step forward, and two steps back with the quilting that day.  Everything went along fine for a little while.

Then I refilled the bobbin, put it back in the machine, went on quilting – and neglected to look at the underneath side of the quilt for too, too long.

So there I was then, picking out the entire last hour’s stitching, because the bobbin tension was way too tight and looked terrible on the back. All this, because the tail end of the bobbin thread got caught on the latch when I inserted it into the machine.  Aarrgghh.  This isn’t the first time that has happened.  Why can’t they make a machine that beeps when the tension is wrong???  Silly machines can do just about everything else. 

It takes a long time to take out an hour’s-worth of quilting.  To make matters worse, it’s dark plum thread on dark plum fabric – and the two layers of batting make this chore a bad one.  At least it’s not as difficult as when the tension is right.  When the bobbin tension is tight, the thread does come out a little easier.  But still... 🥴

It wasn’t long before I rubbed some Pain-A-Trate on my back, then went on picking out stitches.

But... there was deer roast, potatoes, carrots, and onions in the oven, and soon I could smell them.  Mmmmmm...  Larry arrived home, so I took a much-needed suppertime break.

Hester sent a couple of pictures, writing, “This made me smile as we were getting ready for bed.  😊🐻”

It was Keira’s dollhouse, and on the little bed was the small resin and stuffed bear that used to be Hester’s, which we gave Keira for Christmas.  She had carefully covered it with a tiny white fleece blanket.

I returned to the stitch-removal project, pulling pieces of thread out with small needle-nosed pliers.  I got them at Menards especially for jobs like this.  They have rubber, spring-loaded handles and work great, but my fingers were nevertheless on the verge of getting blisters.  I should be done by June.  Of the year 2036.

But I got my VeryFitPro watch app reloaded on my phone; so there was that small triumph, at least.

Ah, well.  Everything is fixable; it’s not a calamity.  I’ve had calamities, and this is not that.  🙃😏

Friday, I rummaged up one of my Isotone gloves, which helped considerably with the blister problem.  Sigghhhh...  It’s always the time one doesn’t look, when something’s bound to go wrong.  I’ll betcha I’ll remember to look, after this!

It was our oldest granddaughter Joanna’s birthday that day, January 13^th.  She is now 20 years old.  I wished her a Happy Birthday, and dropped off her gift Saturday when I was on my way to see Loren.  We gave her a large, soft, dusty-blue and cream scarf, a little jewel-toned globe with a tiny clock in the pedestal, and a little black-leather-covered King James Version Bible that used to be Loren’s.  It’s about the same size as most New Testaments.  Joanna liked the Bible best of all.

One day when Joanna was about three months old, Victoria, then 6, was talking to her – and suddenly the baby gave her young aunt a big smile.  Victoria gasped, laughed, and exclaimed, “Awwwwww...  She looks just like me!”  😄

I spent the day picking out stitches (well, 7 hours of the day, anyway), and there is still a long way to go.  I posted a few pictures on Facebook, told my tale of woe, and then absorbed all the sympathy from quilting friends who have had similar 'twubbles and twials', as Caleb used to say.

Never mind such a minor problem as blisters; by 1:00 a.m., my wrist hurt so badly that it was difficult to type or pick anything up.  I rubbed Two Old Goats Arthritis Formula on it, and by morning, it was as good as new.

Victoria sent pictures of an old-fashioned stuffed Winnie-the-Pooh she’d made for a friend.  She still needs to make the red shirt for it.

“When I finished stuffing it,” said Victoria, “I showed it to Willie and he said ‘hug!’ and grabbed it and squeezed it hard and smiled and smiled.  So he needs one of his own.”  😊

I decorated Keith’s room in Winnie-the-Pooh when he was a baby.  He was only about 7 months old when he could say, “Pooh!  ’Yore!  Pig!” – and Tigger had two syllables, with a growl on syllable #2:  “TigRRRR!” and then he’d laugh, every time.

Joanna has started working at a new café in town; it just opened today. 

Saturday she made Caribbean Jerk Wraps and Three-Cheese Chicken Quesadillas with Roasted Tomato Salsa for her family to try.

Meanwhile, here at my house, I had run out of the usual frozen-fruit mix that I like in Cream of Rice, and decided to try bing cherries, though I figured they’d ruin the cereal.  

They didn’t.  I like it.

For the record, though, bing cherries turn one’s Cream of Rice purple.

The cherries are from Schwan’s.  I haven’t gotten Schwan’s food for quite a long while now.  I think these cherries are the last of anything I have from them.  Their prices are high, and they no longer deliver out here; they ship through UPS.  But I sure miss their vegetables; they were soooo much better than any from the grocery store.  So was the meat.

Along came the lady with limburger cheese on her moustache to help me with my bad quilting:  “Shouldn’t you do a test strip first?”

I looked back at my pictures from three days earlier.  Sho’ ’nuff, there was a small ‘test strip’, as she calls it, just outside the top edge of the quilt, in a set of pictures she had previously looked at and commented on.  One normally tests one’s tension at the beginning of a quilt, as I had done.  After that, it’s a matter of checking the back with mirror and flashlight periodically – and I didn’t do it soon enough.  A ‘test strip’ isn’t going to keep that bobbin thread tail from lopping itself over that latch just as you launch into a plume of feathers.  One must check underneath often.  I wanted sympathy, not a ‘How stupid can you get?!’!

I refrained from answering her.

After dropping off Joanna’s birthday present, I left town some time after 3:00 p.m. and got to the nursing home around 4:30 p.m.

Before entering the interior lobby, I gave the new shaver to the lady at the front desk.  She unlocked the door for me, I walked on in, paused, and looked around for Loren. 

The place was unusually abuzz with visitors, and residents and visitors alike were thronging the commons area, as it was approaching suppertime, and they would soon be opening the doors to the dining room.  When I didn’t spot Loren, I headed off toward his room – and then heard someone down a hallway behind me calling, “Lura Kay!  Lura Kay!” and knew it was him.  

(Sometimes he catches himself saying the wrong name, laughs, and then corrects himself.  This time, I’m not so sure he didn’t actually think I was her.)

He was in a wheelchair in the middle of the hallway to the north.  He told me happily, “I thought if I stayed here where I could watch the door, I’d catch you when you came!”

I wondered where we should sit.  The sitting room right there beside him was chock-full of people, and I couldn’t see any empty chairs in the hallway.  I didn’t want to go all the way to his room, since we’d soon have to return to the dining room.

Then a visitor who was sitting on a leather loveseat a few steps away got up quickly and said, “You can sit here!  I’ll go over there –” she pointed.

“Thank you!” I said, and then to Loren, “I’ll roll your wheelchair over here beside this loveseat—” and began doing it.  He kept thinking he needed to get up, and I kept telling him he was fine.  I got the chair positioned beside the loveseat and sat down next to him – and again he thought he needed to get up and sit beside me on the loveseat.

“No, you can just sit right there,” I said; “I need this spot for my purse!”  So saying, I ker-plunked the purse down on the other side of the smallish loveseat. 

He looked at it, and sat back again, deciding there really wasn’t room for him on the loveseat.

“Besides,” I said, “with you right there in your wheelchair, we can more easily ‘look each other between the face’, as Daddy used to say.”

He was laughing before I finished; he remembered Daddy saying that.

Actually, the saying came from an evangelist friend, Bob Oughton; but once Bob Oughton (I used to think that was all one word: ‘Bahbotten’; not a funny name at all, if you’ve heard it since before you can remember!) ... anyway, once Bahb--- uh, Bob Oughton said it, Daddy said it more, so that’s what we remember best.

Despite looking so poorly, Loren was cheerful and in good spirits, and glad to see me.  He said in a conspiratorial tone, “Let me tell you what they’ve been doing here lately:  they have me lie on a mirror, and then they aim something down at me, and they...” he gestured, unable to come up with the words he wanted, then decided, “...they read something.”  He stared at me, as if he’d just told me something mighty spooky.  Then he added, “It’s all for their own benefit.”

I smiled at him and tried to explain about X-rays, CT scans, and doctors and nurses making sure he was all right, with no broken bones or other injuries, and suchlike.

“Oh, is that why they were doing all that??” he asked, surprised, but willing to accept my explanation.

I distracted him with a couple of Messenger newspapers and a Reader’s Digest, writing his name on them with the permanent marker I carry in my purse.

He opened the Reader’s Digest at random and looked at a page for a while.  He drew his finger slowly along a headline, and read it, with a bit of a struggle.  Minutes later, he repeated the activity – with the same line.

He’s really not able to read the articles anymore; but maybe he’ll enjoy some of the pictures.  And he does like to get the magazine.

He periodically forgot he was in the wheelchair and tried to get up.  “Did I sit in this thing??” he asked once, looking down at the wheels in surprise. 

“I don’t know,” I answered, “maybe the nurses threw you into it!” 

He laughed at that, and nodded, “Maybe they did!” 

I showed him videos on Instagram of our great-niece Jodie’s children playing with their puppies, and he surprised me by saying, “Look how they’ve grown!” – so he remembered pictures of those puppies from a couple of weeks ago.  He laughed and laughed over the little boys laughing when the puppies scrambled over them.  “Kids just love a puppy, don’t they?” he said.

It was about then that I learned the name of a woman whom we have seen often during this last year.  She’s in a wheelchair, and she only has one leg.  A nurse called out to her, “Norma June!” as she sat there a few feet away from us.  ‘Norma June’, of all things.  That was Larry’s mother’s (Loren’s late wife’s) name.  He did not call her ‘Norma June’, only ‘Norma’ (as we all called her), until he saw her name on the funeral order-of-service pamphlet. 

I glanced at Loren to see what effect this would have.

It seemed to have no effect whatsoever.  (It had no effect on Norma June, either.)

This particular Norma June was holding a small Kleenex box printed with flowers on the sides.

Along came another resident of the home.  Now, there was plenty of room for her to walk down the hallway on either side of Norma June’s wheelchair; but she got right up next to the wheelchair and then sidestepped closely around it, as if to prove it was in her way.

“I see you have a new box!” she said, perhaps in an attempt to be friendly (or perhaps wanting it for herself).

Norma June scowled ferociously, wrapped both arms protectively around her box, and held it far to the side.

One of the aides came along and tried to move her wheelchair, possibly intending to take her to the dining room, as the doors were now open.  Norma June planted her foot on the floor and said, “No!”

The aide tried to reason with her.  Norma June was not in a reasoning mood.

The aide tried syrup.  “I love you!”

Norma June glared most awfully, actually baring her teeth.  “No!!” she exclaimed.

The aide, evidently having not gotten the notice about ‘always agreeing with them’, put her hands on the armrests of the wheelchair, got right in Norma June’s face, and said, “Yes!”

“NO!” said Norma June.

“YES!” said the aide.

“NO!!” said Norma June.

“YES!!” said the aide.

“NO!!!” said Norma June.

“YES!!!” said the aide.

“NO!!!!” said Norma June.

“YES!!!!” said the aide.

This went on for another half a minute or so, sounding ridiculously like Barney Fife and Otis Campbell going at it in the Mayberry Jail.

“NO!!!!” shouted Norma June one last time, thumping her fist on the armrest of her wheelchair, coming perilously close to the aide’s nose, which was extending some distance into Norma June’s airspace.

The aide surrendered the skirmish and headed off down the hall, perchance to wield her wiles on a more receptive recipient.

Norma June saw me looking at her, and nodded her head, just once, in a firm, no-nonsense manner, quite obviously telling me, And that’s how it’s done, sistah!

I grinned at her.  (Grins are good release valves to keep one from snorting inappropriately whilst trying not to laugh.)

After quite a number of people had made their way into the dining room and the route was a little clearer, I wheeled Loren into the room, taking him to the table where he generally sits, which was on the far side of the room.  Any time I paused, he thought he should get up.

But eventually we arrived safely at the table.  I moved one of the four chairs over, pushed his wheelchair up to the table, and set the left brake.  Loren immediately set the right brake.  I sat down on the chair near the wall. 

Between these round tables that fill the large dining room, there is plenty of room for people in wheelchairs or with walkers to maneuver.  However, here came one of the women residents shuffling purposefully along, until she got right up against Loren’s wheelchair. 

She frowned first at him, then at me, and said, “I can’t get through.”

Again, he started to get up.  I don’t know if he can walk by himself.  Judging from how shaky he was when he later picked up his glass of juice, I’d bet he’s pretty unsteady on his feet.

There was absolutely no need for him to move at all.  He was not impeding the woman in the slightest, and even if he hadn’t have been there at all, there was no place for her to go, really, as just past him was the wall and the door to the kitchen.

“You’re all right,” I told Loren.  Then looking at the woman, I pointed at the chairs on the other side of the table.  “You can sit right there, if you want to.  There’s plenty of room for you to get through.”

My peevishness must’ve shown.  She looked at me a moment, and then quickly turned and went to a table on the other side of the room.

Loren asked, “Was I was in her way?”

I smiled at him and said, “No, not at all.  I think she just wanted my chair.  It’s the ol’ ‘grass is greener on the other side of the fence’ attitude – only this time, it’s the ‘her chair is better than mine’ notion.”

I had to repeat myself a couple of times, and then he understood, and laughed.

A man brought out some plates from the kitchen, and set one down in front of Loren.

“How ’bout that!” I said, “you got your food first, before anyone else!”

It looked really good, with a fillet of fish – cod, I think – atop rice, brussels sprouts (they were the smaller ones that are not so bitter, steamed just right and well buttered), lettuce salad, and a small glass of grape juice.

Loren then thanked me for ‘all the food you’ve been bringing’, harking back to when I used to bring supper to his home each afternoon.  “Be sure you pay yourself from my funds!” he said, and I assured him that all was well; everything was taken care of.

“That’s a good supper,” I said, gesturing, hoping to get his attention back on the food. 

He nodded in agreement and started eating again, and I then told him goodbye and headed out, as he eats better when I am not distracting him.  I put the newspapers and Reader’s Digest in his room, and asked about the digital photo frame, wanting to bring it home, since it has never been put up.  No one knew anything about it.  Someone told me to look in his room.  I did, though I was pretty sure it wasn’t there.  I did not find it.  I’ll call tomorrow, maybe, and ask someone who might be more likely to know.

I no sooner walked outside and got into my car, than I had a stomachache. 

I’m sorry to see my brother so obviously failing, both physically and mentally; but I don’t really think that brought on the stomachache.

Maybe it’s like I said when I was two – my mother wrote it in my baby book, and I found it when my sister and I were cleaning out her house, almost 20 years ago:  “My stomach just hurts.  Otherwise, it doesn’t hurt.”

Funny thing is, I remember saying that, and wishing I could explain it better.  What I was trying to say was that I didn’t actually feel sick.  😅  When my children were that age, I often remembered how I’d felt when I’d try to explain things, and just plain didn’t have enough words – so I did my best to understand whatever the littles were trying to tell me.  😊

I got home around 7:00 p.m., bringing my stomachache with me, and was glad there were leftovers and I didn’t have to fix supper.  A swig of Mylanta, plus supper (roast, potatoes, carrots, onions, orange juice, and peach yogurt) fixed me all up.

Larry was not yet home from his trip to Minnesota, where he had gone to pick up some snowblades and parts for a coworker.

I read a few emails as I ate. 

Someone asked me, “Is anyone in your family a prepper to any degree?”

“Some of us buy extra food when it’s on sale,” I responded, “and then we prepare it and eat it when we’re hungry.  Izzat being a prepper?”

A friend from southern Alabama had posted a video of dozens of buzzards soaring round and round over her house.

Out in western Nebraska when there are buzzards or vultures circling over the Sandhills, the ranchers chew on their sticks of straw and tell each other, “Musta losta steer out thar.” 

Another rancher, chewing on his hay reed, will agree, “Yup, yup.”

And then a third rancher, after a long pause, will be sure to ask, “Cold ’nuff fer ya?”

When Violet was about 2 ½, she was watching a vulture soaring higher... higher... higher... spiraling ever upwards on a thermal, never once flapping its wings, until it was finally just a small speck in the sky.  Then, in a sorrowful tone, she said, said she, “That po’ boidie can’t fly vewy well.”

Sunday morning, the sun came up brightly.  It was 30°, and, of all things, the ‘feel like’ temperature was 31°, higher than the 'real' temperature.  The expected high was 44°.  The house smelled good, what with my almond coffee and Larry’s toast.

In glancing through an old journal that morning, something I read made me suddenly realize that I had forgotten to give Joanna one of her gifts.  I rushed downstairs to get it, and texted Joanna to say I would bring it with me to church.  It was a large, hardcover Streams in the Desert journal, with daily devotions and places to write in the outer margins of each page.

It’s always enjoyable visiting with family and friends after the services.  Caleb and Maria’s little Eva, who’s 2, calls Maria’s mother ‘Grandma’ and me ‘Grandma Jackson’ with an emphasis, which is sorta funny, since ‘Jackson’ is Eva’s last name, too.

It was foggy this morning.  And wouldn’t you know, we’ll be in a winter storm watch on Wednesday, the day I have an appointment at Midwest Eye Care in Omaha.  Heavy snow is possible from afternoon to midnight, with a total accumulation of 4” or more.  Unless they cancel my appointment, though, I’m a-going.  I don’t mind driving in snow, so long as I can see where I’m going.  I have a good vehicle with good tires.  (I do wish inept drivers would stay off the roads, however. 😏)

The getting there shouldn’t be bad.  The getting home might be worse.  I’ll toss an overnight bag into the Benz, just in case.  It’s Larry’s hard-earned money I be a-spendin’! – and of course I know that even a fender-bender would be more costly than an overnight stay in a motel.  I’m a-thinkin’ on it.

Blepharospasm has really become a problem. 

I walk into a convenience store, for instance, and my eyes go shut.  Now what do I do?  Shout “HELP!”?  Continue walking and hope they open before a) I run into somebody or something, or b) somebody or something runs into me?

I try greeting people at church.  My eyes squint tight shut.  I know I look exactly like a mole coming out of his hole into bright sunlight after being underground too long.

I gather up an armload of things and start downstairs.  My eyes go shut.  I stop on the top step and stand still, and hope my eyes open before I lose my balance and go tumbling down headfirst.

It happens now and then when I’m driving.  I ward it off by singing; that always helps.

My head hurts from constantly trying so hard to purposely relax the muscles around my eyes.  A few of the muscles in the lower parts of my face are beginning to be affected, just as usually happens with this condition.

Much as I don’t like needles, I’m ready to give this a try.  

There is a possibility that some of these troubles were brought on by an injury received in a car accident three months before Teddy was born, back in 1983.  A car slammed into the back of my little Le Car as I was stopped behind another car waiting to turn.  The Fuzz Buster (not my idea, but we won’t name names) on the dash flew from its moorings and smacked me in the head, making a bad gash over my right eye, right through the eyebrow.  The area around that old scar has never regained total feeling; nerves were evidently severed.

Someone has dumped a young black kitten out here.  It’s climbing our windows, squalling and mewing most piteously to get in.  We can’t take it to the animal shelter, because we are out of the city limits, and they won’t accept it.  So frustrating, that they won’t help us out with dumped cats, because we’re out of the city limits!

If it’s still here tomorrow, one of the girls has promised to take it to the shelter for us.

It’s a wonder Larry didn’t drive over it when he got home around 6:30 p.m.  He climbed out of his truck, and the kitten came running.  He can’t hear it mewing, and he accidentally kicked it.  The poor little thing gathered itself together and, hearing Larry speaking kindly to it, scurried back to him.  He picked it up and petted it... and it was then quite sure that that meant we had signed adoption papers for it.

Here’s a picture from the Internet that looks almost identical to this kitten.  We estimate its age at about 2 ½ months.  

Our cats have a tendency to live to age 20.  I don’t want a cat when I’m 82!  I also do not ever again want my house smelling like a cat puddle, and I’m done with litter boxes and hyperthyroid medications and feline antibiotics for bobcat attacks.

Larry accidentally let the kitten into the house once.  This won’t do, as we have no litterbox and no litter.  I picked him up very gently and put him back outside.  

He didn’t want to go outside! 

He pats our faces and wraps his paws around our wrists, and we never feel one little claw – and he very definitely has claws.

Larry went to town to get a few groceries, including kitten food.  The store had no dry kitten food, so he got canned Fancy Feast.  I scooped half a can into a bowl and set it on the porch, and the kitten launched in with gusto.  It ate half of the food... begged at window and door to come into the house... and then ate the rest of the food. 

Larry brought in from the garage a big Styrofoam box inside a cardboard box and cut a small doorway in one side, through all thicknesses.  We put a soft towel in it, and then Larry put the box on the porch, and slid the iron bench against it to hold it in place.  He showed the kitten where the doorway was, and the kitten immediately hopped in, sniffed around, hopped out, mewed, hopped in, sniffed more thoroughly, and hopped back out.

I put some water in the now-empty bowl, and the kitten drank a little bit.  He is now in the box, sleeping.

This evening, I got a call from Prairie Meadows.  Loren had fallen again.  He doesn’t seem to have gotten injured (no broken bones, that is), so they have helped him on into bed, and will give him something for pain.  It makes me feel bad when he gets hurt.

Now an adult black cat has shown up.  The adult and the young one act like they know each other, though the adult smelled the kitten all over (probably because we were holding it earlier).  We can’t tell if it’s male or female, but it does not seem to be the kitten’s mother.

A marmalade cat that roams the countryside out here showed up and hopped up onto the porch, but I opened the door and went out fast, and the cat fled.  There are wild tomcats around here that would kill this kitten.  We need to get him to a safer place.

And now, I need to get to a softer place – namely, my bed.

,,,>^..^<,,,          Sarah Lynn          ,,,>^..^<,,,