Grampa Luey

My Mom is sleeping a great deal, very few moments of consciousness. But she seems comfortable and peaceful.

This time has given us moments of reflection.

Strangely enough (to me, anyway) I find myself thinking about my Mom's father, Donald Luey, a man I never met except through my Mom's memories of him. He died of tuberculosis when my Mom was 14. It was a devastating blow to her because her Dad was truly the apple of her eye.

I find myself talking to Grandfather Luey, asking him to come and take his youngest daughter so she will have peace.

I found this picture of him the other day, in his naval uniform. He was a graduate of Annapolis and served in World War I. Before Annapolis, he attended Dartmouth College but left to serve in the Navy. He was in the radio corps.

We all feel the tribe gathering, and it seems to me that the separation between this world and the next is very thin right now. I hope he comes to take Mom by the hand, as he used to when she was a girl, soon.

Wherever Mom Is, That's Home

After a five-hour trip here (four accidents and almost one of my own), and three hours with my Mom (so weak, so fragile, peaceful but still-Mom Mom) and time with my youngest nephew and oldest brother and dinner with two glasses of wine, I am wilted, tired, but OK.

A remarkable day. An ordinary day. A day with my birth family, my place of origin.

At the moment, Mom is sleeping her way to death. She is aware but that time is very short. She fades rapidly out of this world and then to the next. My dear friend Lauren told me she believes that when dying people are sleeping, they are checking out the next world, a feeling that makes a great deal of sense to me.

I talked with the social worker from Hospice today who said people in Mom's state have been known to last up to two weeks. But she thinks Mom has only 4 or 5 days at the most.

Interestingly, Mom's shaking, her sore eyes, her constant sinus irritation have disappeared since she stopped taking so many meds.

More tomorrow. I need to sleep.

The Importance of Being Silly

I'm off to be by my mother's side early tomorrow morning.

When I was with her a week ago, she asked me about our dog, that mistress of silliness we call Goldie. Mom has always loved dogs, and told me she enjoys hearing me tell stories about Goldie.

Silliness matters. There's not a day that goes by that this little elfin spirit doesn't make me laugh. I think the world would be a much happier place if we all followed these simple cocker spaniel rules.

Always wag your tail when you're with people you like.

Jump in leaves in the fall.

Chase snowballs in winter.

Splash in the water in summer.

Snuffle through the woods in spring.

When someone raises their voice, get right in their face and give them a kiss.

Hold out for the food you really like.

When faced with a bigger dog, go find Mom.

Start each day with a good stretch.

New Study Finds Purpose for Weeds

I'll be leaving tomorrow to be with my family as we gather to guide my Mom out of this life. Or rather, to be guided by her through her final moments.

She had a dream on Wednesday night that she was sitting on a bench and all of us, her eight children, were there. She got up to get us, to gather us together. In reality, she tried to get up out of bed to find us and fell to the floor.

Yesterday morning, she refused to take any more medication, including her Parkinson's med. This means that the Parkinsons will accelerate. Hospice has been called in and her doctor has ordered a liquid form of morphine that can be administered under her tongue.

And she is gathering her children.

I find that for the past month, I have been both focused and distracted, focused on my Mom and distracted by the world around me. Jay and Jesse have both heard me substituting one word for another, as if my mind wanders off at the end of a sentence and can't find its way back.

The same thing happened when my Dad died.

I have also been reaching out for psychic comfort food. I'm now re-reading Emma because I need Jane Austen. I'm hand sewing because it's so meditative and soothing and doesn't take any math. And I'm weeding.

Like many gardeners, I dislike weeds but sometimes, like now, I truly enjoy weeding. There's something so satisfying about the act of cleaning, the ordering of life, removing what doesn't matter from what does.

I have a Medicine Card deck, based on Native American teachings, that I often use for thinking things through, for focusing. One of the precepts that I often return to in times of trouble is taking the time to realize who or what grows corn for me.

When you look at people or situations like that, decisions become clear. And even though the process may entail discomfort, that clarity makes it easier.

So I am weeding and mowing today, cleaning up my little patch of Lady Earth, removing what matters from what doesn't.

Oh yes, weeds have a purpose.

Thimbleberries—Rubus oderatus

I had never noticed, or maybe never seen, thimbleberries before we lived here on the river. They're in the raspberry/blackberry family in that the fruit is actually a community of seeds surrounded by sweet, red tastiness.

Their common name, Thimbleberry, is an obvious choice because the fruits are more open than raspberries, and when you pull them off the bush, they easily perch on the top of your finger like a seamstress's best friend.

The leaves are oversized and shaped like those on maple trees, gracefully shaped green umbrellas hovering above their arching, prickled stems.

It's impossible to tell whether our thimbleberries escaped from a former owner's garden or not. But given their location—the hillside just below the house and just above the river—it's quite probable that the original root stock flowed downstream with a flood tide or extra-high ice out in the spring.

Jay and I don't get too many of these berries because Goldie has decided she likes them. it's the only time we ever see her eat fruit. She prefers them plucked from the bush and gently lobbed in her direction.

As yes, we do live according to the Queen Dog's rules. Doesn't everyone?

Celtic Music—Yes!!

As I noted earlier, Jay and I had the very best time at the last concert of this summer over the hill at the Suicide Six ski area where we saw and thoroughly enjoyed the angelic and energetic fiddling of Natalie McMaster of Cape Breton and her topnotch band which includes a 16-year old Celtic cellist. (Who knew?)

And then we got our introduction to Great Big Sea from Newfoundland and were blown away by them.

Jay took these pix, including the top one capturing the enthusiasm of one of the younger fans. The second is Natalie and her band. Pix 3 and 4 are the masters of Great Big Sea.

Ever since rock turned its back on rock and hooked up with rap and hip hop, I've been really bored (or gored, that stuff just goes right through me and out the other side). There's still some great rock which I get to hear thanks to the Point, the very best indy rock station on the air. (You can listen to it streaming on your computer like my brother down in DC does.)

But that turn in rock released me from my thrall to explore what now gets called roots music: Celtic, Québecois, African, klezmer. Great listening, always interesting.

Celtic music (and that's Celtic with a K sound, not an S sound like that basketball team in Boston)—YEAH!

Rembarkable

I've purposely stayed away from politics in this blog because, quite frankly, to me it's all become bad theater on the national level. I can't laugh at it any more because the joke is so clearly on us, not the politicians.

However, here in my beloved state of Vermont, we've had what I think is a remarkable campaign for governor on the Democratic side. (George W. Bush forever made me a Democrat so I don't even acknowledge Republican candidates any longer.)

Our soon-to-be-unlamented-past-governor, Jim Douglas, got his head handed to him by our state legislature in 2009 over the state budget and gay marriage. He vetoed both, tried to finagle the legislature, and was overruled both times.

Here in the Green Mountain State, we have a really clean state government. Our state is small enough for just about anyone who gets up out of his or her chair to know someone who's been elected to state government. Our state public radio station does a pretty fair job of covering Montpelier (or as one wag once named it, Mont-Peculiar) so the majority of the population knows a fair amount of what's going on.

We also have a habit of not throwing someone out of office unless they are truly, truly awful. It's pretty well accepted that Douglas was starting to stink like unturned compost, which is why he decided not to run for re-election because there was a real chance he was going to break that pattern.

Which meant that for the first time in six years, the Dems had a shot at regaining the Governor's office under the golden dome. (On a side note, if you ever have the chance to visit our state capital building, you really should. It is beautiful and elegant.)

The scramble was on early in the year and we ended up with five terrific people running to represent the Dems in the Governor's race. I think, given the stinky nature of what passes for politics in America 2010, that their mutual promise to maintain a positive campaign—and the fact that they kept that promise—is truly, truly remarkable.

I could have voted for any of the five and slept well last night. In November, I will vote for the Democratic candidate and know that we will have, once again, competence in our governor's office.

As I write this, the two top candidates are separated by less than 200 votes and the third place is less than 1,000 behind them so we may be headed for a recount.

Though maybe not. Recounts cost money. Vermont's budget is strained and the three top vote getters may agree to forego in those interests.

But once again, the politicians in this state (see Patrick Leahy, Bernie Sanders, Peter Welch and everyone who supported civil unions in 2000, gay marriage in 2009, and supported shutting down Vermont Yankee) make me proud to be a Vermonter.

A five-way race run on issues without mud, rancor or hate. In America 2010.

Remarkable.

Harvest Resumed

Just a few pix from the 2010 harvest extravaganza, now on full court press in a garden near me.

That's ruby red chard and one of the yellow summer squash hidden under the gigantic leaves in the garden in front of the house.

And we are entering fruit nirvana up here in Vermont. I love every kind of fruit I've ever put in my mouth (as long as it was fresh) but apples are the epitome of this passion. The larger one of the two pictured here is a Paula Red. The Paula Red crop is very small this year because these trees were in bloom when we got hit by a three-day frost back in May. (The law of longterm consequences is never so apparent as it is in agriculture.)

The smaller succulent is of a variety called State Fair. At this point in the season, the apples are tart and crunchy.

Whoa, my mouth is watering. Macs and Cortlands and Northern Spies are on their way. Yay!

Which Way Are We Going?

I'm on the Cape to visit with my mother, perhaps for the last time.

The lovely woman who is our village postmistress, Rosi, lost her mother suddenly the other day. A heart attack. Rosi's Mom never regained consciousness once she was stricken. Rosi, whose attachment to her family is strong, never had the chance to say good-bye. Or if she did, she can't be sure her mother heard.

When I was growing up, my Mom and I had a very difficult time getting along with one another. I realize now, at the age of 60, that our difficulty didn't necessarily lie between us but was, instead, intrinsic in our different relationships with my father.

Dad could be kind, he could be funny, which is why I know my Mom fell in love with him. But he spent too much time as an adult curled up at the bottom of a bottle. I protested. Oh hell, let's be honest. I screamed—at the top of my lungs.

But I was just one child among eight, and Mom, as she saw it and as her character inclines her, needed to protect all of her chicks. I thought she should leave Dad, and said so.

She said she knew that about me, that I would never have tolerated her situation in life. "But that wasn't my choice," she said.

After Dad died in 2002, Mom and I suddenly had a chance to face one another as adults and relate in that way. I know I didn't realize it at first, and I doubt she did either. But our relationship changed.

This past spring, before she became too weak to hold the phone so we could talk, she told me that she thought of me as one of her best friends, that she could pick up the phone and talk to me about anything at all.

What a remarkable gift I've been given.

What a Great Day!!

Jay and I just had the best day yesterday. We kayaked Lake Ninevah in the morning, a trek which included driving on what I think will stand as the narrowest road in Vermont. (Ditch on one side, landfall on the other, I was driving while trying not to close my eyes and say "Oh no!) You get the idea.

We got a load of wood into the bulkhead for the winter and just have one small load left to go and this is the earliest we've ever been this ready with wood.

But then the topper was going over the hill to the Suicide Six ski area (somehow, I wish they would change the name) to see one of my favorites of all time, the Celtic fiddler from Cape Breton, Natalie McMaster. She is about 5 months pregnant with her fourth child, plays fiddle like a Scottish angel, and you wouldn't believe her step dancing.

Great band, a sixteen-year old Celtic cellist and an amazing keyboard player and drummer who was fun to watch. Her 16-year old niece came out and sang (great voice) and then came out and step danced. Her feet flew so fast, you could barely see them.

We were amazed that Natalie, who was billed as the headliner, came out first. We had never heard of the other act, Great Big Sea, so we had no expectations. But then these five guys from Newfoundland came out and just blew us away. They do one of the things I love to watch or hear the most, taking traditional music (or crafts or painting, you name it) and making it all new again.

They bill themselves as folk-rock, and they do rock. But then the voices of four of them, the drummer doesn't sing, blend in this powerful mix on sea shanties—that rock. Some of the shanties are old but they have written new pieces that sound as if they could have been sung aboard ship two hundred years ago. Extraordinary.

Jay bought me a CD which I am going to play (probably over and over again) on my way to the Cape. I am leaving shortly to go spend time with my beloved Mom, maybe for the last time.

Jay took some great pix of the crowd and Natalie and GBS that I will post when he sends them.

Lake Ninevah—A Paddler's Journey in Pictures

The Society for the Prevention of Cheap Beer Drinkers

Decades ago, our property was the location of a roller skating rink called Island Park. The foundation of the rink is still here, right down next to the river. We understand from longtimers that in the summer, kids from White River Junction were bussed to swim at Island Park and on weekend nights, there was live music and dancing. In fact, many of the people who remember those times have more vivid memories of the parking lot than the dancing.

Now this property's previous owner was an elderly lady, and it had been a long time since she'd enforced her desire to keep trespassers off the land by the time we bought the place. Because of this long history, people had become used to thinking that this part of the river belongs to them.

We moved in here with a live and let live attitude. Getting after trespassers is no fun. BUT, and it became a big BUT, you just wouldn't believe the trash we cleaned from both sides of the river. You wouldn't believe the garbage we caught people throwing to one side (dirty baby diapers, broken glass, the styrofoam cups that bait fishermen use to hold worms).

There there were the kids who thought the rock outcroppings on our land were perfect for bonfires. Then there were the fiddlehead pickers in the spring, and, well you get the idea.

After two summers of this (oh, did I include the tubers who would get out of the river and then walk through our yard and gardens to get to the road) we had had enough and posted the land. And a five-year battle commenced to train people to respect our privacy rights.

It took time and sometimes nasty interactions with folks who believe our land is public because it's on a river (waterways are public in Vermont while land is not) but we now have a reputation among locals for terminal crabbiness so we get left alone more often than not.

But there is something about guys (and it's always guys) who drink cheap beer like Budweiser. This can—nearly full of beer—was left on our North Point rocks yesterday. We never find the empties from good beers such as Sam Adams or Harpoon or Long Trail. It's always, always, always the cheap garbage—Budweiser, Michelob.

Remember when General Stanley McChrystal talked himself out of a job recently? When I found out the guy drank Bud Lite Lime (that is too gross to contemplate) I was not surprised. Given the beer choice of jerks who leave their rubbish behind here, I think you can tell a lot about people by the malted beverages they drink.

Spiky Lives—In an Altered State

Remember that Hookah-Smokin' Caterpillar that my husband found in the blueberry patch up the hill? Well, he's been eating his way through what we have left of a couple of blueberry bushes here in our yard, and we were starting to wonder what we were going to do if we ran out of blueberry leavs.

Then yesterday, I was on the phone with my brother Mark wishing him a happy birthday when I looked up at Spiky's condominium and realized he was laying silk in the grid of the hardware cloth. (By the way, the reason Spiky's in a metal cage is that we found out that his greatest predators are parasitic wasps and mice. We've protected him from the wasps but we needed something metal to keep out the d@#$%^?*d mice.)

All evening, the three of us took turns standing close by and watching the start of this amazing transformation. Moths and butterflies have long been considered magical creatures because their altered states are so visible to us, living metaphors of change. Years ago, I had the privilege of watching a monarch butterfly caterpillar shed its white, yellow and black skin in order to form this beautiful jade-green crysalis. The power of that silent but profound change has stayed with me.

Now we get to watch it again. Spiky (so named for the colorful spiked protuberances all over his body) is actually a Cecropia moth caterpillar, the largest moth in North America. You can see him moving inside his cocoon, spinning and laying down silk. I sometimes envy creatures who are so whole within their lives. As I watch this perfect critter move toward its next stage, I find myself wondering if this is death for the caterpillar or birth for the moth.

Or both?

And how are we suspended between those poles?

The Sun of Gold: Helianthus multiflorus

This tall plant with the pompom flowers has wandered about my yard looking for a home ever since it arrived here among other garden gifts from my friend Lauren. Its height and the relative weight of its double blooms mean it's very susceptible to wind and rain. In fact, it often flops over on its own with no help from the elements at all.

But look at that yellow, absorbed, the yellow of yellows. Lemons have nothing on this baby. Its common name is so appropriate, Soleil d'Or, the Sun of Gold.

For years I thought this plant's common name was Golden Glow (which is still appropriate) but this morning, when I searched for its Latin name, I discovered two (to me) incredible facts: that common name belongs to a lofty sunflower with daisy-like blooms, and this plant is a sunflower, Helianthus.

This fall, my Sun of Gold will get a permanent home, a place where it can lean. After this year's gardening experience, I've decided to give up on growing my own tomatoes. There's just not enough sun here. So the place where they have been planted for the past three years will become a pole bean site and the bean site, with its high lattice fencing, will be perfect for my Soleil d'Or. So it will get moved, yet again, this fall to share space with morning glories and maybe an Indian cucumber or two.

Lookin' Over My Shoulder

As I stroll through the woods, kayak our neighboring lakes, and harvest the plenty coming into my garden, I keep watch on the trees up on the hills. Once the chlorophyll begins to noticeably die back in the leaves, I start calculating my yellow index, my personal accounting of how many days we have until this wonderful place becomes glorious.

I remember reading a poem by David Budbill once (he lives up in the Northeast Kingdom and is one of this state's better known word smiths) in which a character that many would call backwoods is working with one of them newcomers who have only lived her for twenty years. As the two men stand up to stretch their backs, their gaze turns toward the red and orange and yellow hills across the way, and the backwoods gentleman remarks "Yeh, that's why we live here."

And it is.

Years ago, when my husband and I lived in Houston, Texas (nope, I definitely did not belong there), I discovered how deep my passion for New England autumn runs. I nearly went mad in October because I couldn't feel that sharp, snapping air, the kind that makes you perk up and feel more alive just by breathing. Or enjoy that smell of the now-brown leaves as they begin their decay process in the endless cycle of soil making. Or hear the loud rustling they make as you scuff along nearly knee-deep in tree treasure.

But it was missing the lower light of fall as it holds a single leaf in its warm hands, breathing a yellow like no other, that made me almost weep with longing.

My yellow index, so far, is right on schedule for the first weekend of October, our time for peak up here. We've started seeing geese coagulating in new-mown fields, fattening themselves for their coming trek. The great blue herons are showing up on the edges of the island, keeping watch for crayfish in the low water.

It's all home.

C is for Yummy

OK, maybe yummy doesn't start with C but this cantaloupe from Crossroads Farm in Thetford sure is...yummy that is.

There is nothing more delectable than a perfectly ripe, cool piece of melon.

Hmm, I think there's still some left in the fridge.

Gotta go.

Now, where did I leave my spoon?

The Two R's: Rescue and Red Onions

Jay, Goldie and I continued our exploration of our area's lakes by kayak. We've been having a wonderful time, and being outdoors in different settings each weekend is truly good for our heads. Reminds us why we got together more than 30 years ago. It's the hanging-out aspect of our relationship that we've always enjoyed.

This time, we drove over to Plymouth, Vermont (home of Calvin Coolidge) and scouted around until we found a nice put-in for Rescue Lake. This area, along Route 100 (to my mind, the prettiest state road of them all) actually has a number of lakes, large and small, along the Black River.

Our Rescue Lake voyage marks the first time we've paddled on a body of water with motorboats on it. Actually, there was really only one tearing around the water for a little while dragging a skier. We stayed close in to shore and checked out all the houses and camps on the lake.

Personally, I think lake communities, especially the older, established ones, are way cool. I think it's because it's a community built around a circle. And there's a different rhythm when you live right on the water. Rescue does have some newer buildings, the way-too-big-I-have-more-money-than-you type. But most of the camps were smaller and older, some probably dating back to the 40s or earlier. Absolutely delightful in their eccentricities.

And today's harvest celebration is over the fresh red onions we got from the Norwich Farmer's Market yesterday. These were grown at the Hurricane Flats farm. We all love onions here. In fact, they are part of nearly every meal along with garlic.

Reds are the best fresh and raw, cut in very small pieces in salads. Just a sprinkle so they don't overwhelm. And if you quarter them, toss with olive oil, salt, pepper, and garlic powder then spread on a veggie grilling pan and cook them with your barbeque, well, there ain't nothing better.

Peach Cobbler

As a food zealot with a decided preference for local and fresh, there is no better time of year than now to the middle of October. So I'm dedicating many of my upcoming posts to a celebration of the harvest here in northern New England.

First up, one of my local coops (it's so cool to have a choice among coops) always carries these amazing peaches from Pennsylvania in August. I know they're not exactly local but they are grown in the Northeast. I do know they're fresh and they actually have flavor, lots of juicy running across your chin flavor, which those those hard-as-rocks peach-look-alikes from other places never have.

So, remembering the rhubarb cobbler that my son baked earlier this gardening season, I turned to my trusty King Arthur Flour 200th Anniversary Cookbook for the recipe and found this one on the next page. So easy and incredibly yummy.

SUPERFAST COBBLER

Batter
1/2 cup (1 stick) butter or margarine
1 cup flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup sugar
3/4 cup milk

Fruit
2 cups peaches or strawberries or blueberries or apples or rhubarb, washed and (if necessary) cut into pieces no more than an inch square. No need to peel.
1/3 cup sugar
1/2 cup water

Preheat oven to 350. Prep your fruit. Cut the stick of butter into 6 or so pieces and place in the bottom of a shallow baking dish. Place it in the oven to melt while you mix the remaining batter ingredients. Once the butter is melted, spoon the batter into the butter, making it as even as possible across the baking dish. Spoon the fruit onto the batter, once again spreading it out evenly.

Place the cobbler into your oven and bake for 40 to 45 minutes. Let is cool for about 10 minutes before serving so the hot fruit won't burn your tongue.

And then gobble the cobbler.

And the Floor Show Was Great

Last night, we finally drove over the hill to the Quechee Green bandstand to enjoy the last of the free concerts for the season. It was a solo appearance by one of Vermont's getting-noticed musicians, Chad Hollister.

He was really good, singing all his own stuff (except for one song) and obviously very talented.

The floor show was a lively crowd of young kids, seven being the oldest, who were just flying around like dancing bees, their feet barely skimming the grass as they danced, ran, skipped and bestowed their exuberance on those who stayed in one place.

One of the most fun to watch was Chad's 5-year old daughter Riley. This little one has a pinch of the fairy in her, for sure. She careened around the bandstand at full speed, a rapturous smile on her face.

There were several other girls flitting through the twilight, dancing so unconsciously to the music and filled with such a brilliant innocence that it brought tears to my eyes. At that moment, I understood with my heart—not just my head—that that's what so many of us spend our adulthoods trying to recover: careening around at full speed with no thought but the present joyful moment.

When Life Gives You Compost, Bloom

Everyone in this country is having a hard time right now—except for the corrupt, greedy, not-ashamed-of-themselves-but-should-be gazillionaires who are pocketing our tax dollars. Here on the White River, we've had a bit more pain lately, some loss financially and socially, more anxiety and frustration. Life American Style, 2010.

Fortunately, Lady Nature sometimes gives me a little tap on the side of the head to remind me that some of my gloom is self-induced.

This morning on our walk, Goldie and I saw a deer leap off into the ferns. Yesterday, a hummingbird flitted about among our red bee balm. I picked cherry tomatoes and zucchini squash and cucumbers from my own garden. They'll be part of supper tonight.

Last night, I got to know three members of my quilt guild a little better as we teamed up to laugh and play and design our way through this completely-made-from-scratch small quilt and had a great time doing it. My head is buzzing with ideas now. That, to me, is one of the most fabulous feelings in the whole universe, that creative juice flowing. (Much more fun than doing royalty statements, which is what I'm taking a break from right now.)

Then as my erstwhile canine companion and I got back into the yard from our walk, I spotted this single morning glory blooming away in my compost bin. This stray is part of what I plucked while cleaning the edges of my gardens this weekend. I have tons of these vines reseeding themselves from a six pack I bought years ago.

And so I got my reminder—you need compost to make good soil and blooming in it is a grand idea.

So there.

Wanted: A Room at 44 Scotland Street

You know, I'm not so sure I would have read anything by Alexander McCall Smith when I was in my teens or twenty-somethings. I'm not even sure I would have read Alexander Maupin's Tales of the City series back then.

On the other side of that reader's coin, there are probably things I read then that would bore me to tears now or that would exceed my personal violence-in-a-book limit.

But like so many other folks, I've developed a passion for the writing of this pleasantly rotund Scot who sometimes must find it hard to write with that permanent twinkle in his eye.

At this point, I've sampled books in all four of McCall Smith's series: The Ladies Number One Detective Agency, Portugese Irregular Verbs, and the Sunday Philosophy Club series starring Isabel Dalhousie as well as three of the 44 Scotland Street quintet. I've enjoyed them all but there's something about the lives in this apartment house in Edinburgh that makes me want to pack my bags and move in.

As long as it's not in the same flat as Bruce.

So you could say I'm revisiting one of my favorite literary waysides, starting at the beginning of the series so that I can eventually treat myself to the fourth (The World According to Bertie) and then fifth (The Unbearable Lightness of Scones) books. (As if I needed an excuse to buy books.)

Oh, sorry, gotta cut this short. Bertie's about to play his saxophone.

The Corporate Culture Wars

My Mom continues to fade, albeit slowly, but she's now aware that her swallowing problems (it's frightening to watch her take a pill because you're so sure it's going to get caught) are similar to the ones experienced by our Dad in the weeks leading up to his death eight years ago.

Mom and my sister had the "big conversation" about dying last week, during which she expressed this awareness and her fears. The next day, Mom was sitting up in bed for a while and trying to eat something. I gather she succeeded with a few mouthfuls. I'll tell ya, the woman is an endurance specialist. Marathon runners could take lessons on staying power from her.

A week ago, Heidi and I sent a howling email of complaint and concern to the corporation that owns the Mashpee Rehab center. Though our primary concern is always Mom, we've both witnessed care issues with other residents in Mashpee. Most, if not all, of them have their roots in the corporate culture cultivated by SunBridge. (Sun Health Care Systems is the parent company).

Until now, I had been unaware of the spectacular slide in the quality of elder care in the US. Not that I didn't suspect it was as bad as the rest of what passes for health care in our country. I just hadn't observed it up close and personal.

Yesterday, we got what I hope is a reprieve in the Mom-care aspect of this. Heidi met with a clinical supervisor from SunBridge, someone dispatched by the company to personally address our issues. Promises were made about Mom, explanations were given. We'll see.

But the larger issue remains untouched. Our health care for the elderly is on a metered system as corporations try to figure out how to make more and more money off of vulnerability and fear.

But those of us who can fight back need to do so. I could use your help.

If any of you have experiences with nursing homes or rehab facilities that you'd be willing to share, please email them to me at powerof60@gmail.com. If you know of sites where concerned families and friends congregate to share their stories, please send the links. If you've read a helpful book or know of a place to get good advice, please send that information along.

I will be sure to share it.

We need to get the lay of the land before we set off to change its contours.

Hands-On Meditation

Years ago, when I was in my 20s, I started this process that continues to this days. I've always called it thinking things through to their roots.

You see, I think our present troubles or problems or self-imposed challenges are always buried in our pasts and that until I can clearly see the beginnings of a situation, I can't see the path I need o take into the future. If I don't understand where a problem comes from, than any solution I may devise will fail or make things worse.

Actually, I love the sensation of thinking, just following the drift of synapses from one junction to the next with no preconceived destination. It's one of the reasons why I enjoy repetitive tasks such as crocheting afghans. Once you set the stitch pattern, it's just so much looping so your hands can be busy while your mind delves and devises. To me, this type of hands-on meditation is invaluable and it's one of the great losses among people who do not indulge their personal creativity.

I mean when I meet women (and it's most often women) who live to shop, to add more meaningless possessions to their piles of other meaningless possessions, I am totally perplexed. How boring can you get?

When I collected the stories for my first book, American Patchwork: True Stories from Quilters for St. Martin's Press, I found this wonderful quote in a book about quilting that a friend loaned to me. Nice thought for a Monday morning, eh?

"It took me more than twenty years, nearly twenty-five, I reckon, in the evenings after supper when the children were all put to bed. My whole life is in that quilt. It scares me sometimes when I look at it. All my joys and sorrows are stitched into those little pieces. When I was proud of the boys and when I was downright provoked and angry with them. When the girls annoyed me or when they gave me warm feelings around my heart. And John, too. He was stitched into that quilt and all the thirty years we were married. Sometimes I loved him and sometimes I sat there hating him as I pieced the patches together. So they are all in that quilt, my hopes and fears, my joys and sorrows, my loves and hates. I tremble sometimes when I remember what that quilt knows about me."

—Margarte Ickes, quoting her great-grandmother in Anonymous Was a Woman by Mirra Bank

Making a Spectacle of Ourselves—A Slow Fun Moment

A while back, Jay and I started talking about the concept of slow fun, and this morning, we started collecting slow fun sites in earnest.

Our home is situated between a river where kayakers speed by when the water is high. On the other side of us is one of the most scenic roads in this area and we watch bikers fly by on their way to or fro somewhere else. It's always seemed to us that when you rush (hafta go fast, hafta go fast) you miss out on everything except, possibly, the sensation of your own speed.

We're devotees of walking and hiking and paddling around the edges of watery places and snowshoeing, exploring our world at the speed of a biological organism.

Slow fun.

Today, we started our new adventures at Spectacle Pond in Enfield, New Hampshire. About an hour or so from here, it's small enough to give you a morning-sized paddle and still leave you with energy to do other things later in the day.

We weren't in the water for more than 10 minutes when an adult loon and a youngster floated by, diving for breakfast. Then another loon called from across the water, a call like no other except, perhaps, the howl of a wolf.

There were all sorts of very cool water plants to paddle through and I got fascinated by the curlicue root systems of the waterlilies. Blue dragonflies escorted us part of the way, and in a shallow spot with a sandy bottom, we could trace the circular rings of abandoned fish nests.

The backside of the pond, where there are no camps or houses, is pine forest right down to the water line. Here and there, a tree leaned out over the stony shore.

Spectacle Pond's public put-in is a bit obsure, just a lip of a place right next to a bridge where the water runs out of the pond. It's located on Lockhaven Road, easily reachable from Route 4. Motorized boats are allowed but only up to 10 horsepower. Looks like the fishing is good. You can traverse the whole perimeter of the pond in 2 hours.

I Can Feel It Comin' in the Air Tonight

Today is Saturday, August 7. Later this month, we will have lived in our house on the river for 16 years. Every year, at some point during this week, I can look up at the trees lining the ridge on the hill to our southwest and note that some of the leaves have a yellowish tinge to them.

It will be at least four more weeks before the foliage change is vibrantly noticeable on every road, in every garden, on every lawn. But the earliest signs of the summer's impending demise are here.

This morning we kayaked on the river in the early-morning calm. This picture is of a merganzer brigade that trooped by our boats on their way upstream. A little later, as we turned upstream ourselves, a family group of ducks, the young now fully feathered for their journey south, skimmed over the water in front of us.

The river is low and at peace with itself, soaking in all of the colors of late summer—the deeper greens, the full-bodied yellow of the goldenrods, the fragile blue of the last forget-me-nots.

In my gardens, the Queen's Ann's lace lifts its snowy heads, and the carrot tops (the direct descendents of Queen Ann) spread their green fronds further. When I brush by the sweet basil, the aroma from the pungent leaves makes my mouth water with thoughts of pesto in the middle of winter.

We have a ways to go but the first apples (a variety called State Fair) showed up at the farmers market today. The earth turns, and we sail on with Her to guide us.

Cheerful and Good People—Sharing a Great Quote Sent by a Friend

Joy is one of the greatest Panaceas of life. No joy is more healthful, or better calculated to prolong life, than that which is to be found in domestic happiness, in the company of cheerful and good people, and in contemplating with delight the beauties of nature. A day spent in the country, under a serene sky, amidst a circle of agreeable friends, is certainly a more positive means of prolonging life than all the vital elixirs in the world.