I'm No Longer Going to Save You From Yourself

Friend has heart attack but still smokes. "I've cut way down, to about five a day." I say, "We so much need you to stay with us on this earth. I will help you quit smoking any way I can." He still smokes.

Sometime friend can't sleep because a belly the weight and size of five bowling balls suffocates him when he lies down. He buys a new ultra-super-duper mattress but still suffocates. He phones the mattress dealer demanding a refund because he's heard that sleeping on a bad mattress causes weight gain and his weight is the fault of the mattress.

Friend, age 50, has never seen a dentist. Complains about and shows me a painful infected wisdom tooth. I said, "I have a great dentist, right in this neighborhood." He says no thanks, it really doesn't hurt that much.

Person pays me to edit a book manuscript so it will be of publishable quality. I do it. Then he asks me, is there one button he can push to undo all the edits, or does he have to reject each individual edit manually?

Friend who has lived in apartments all his life buys on Zillow a $200,000 house in Maine, where he has never been, from its owner. "Don't you want to go see it first?" I said. He said, "It's perfect, exactly what I want, only half a mile from the ocean."

Friend writes a brilliant book manuscript and I say so and am so excited I look up names of agents. "Thanks," the author replies, "but I know the critics will tear this book apart, I'm such an outlier, they don't want to hear what I have to say."

"I have such terrible stomach pains," said Mom. "Have you called the doctor?" I said. "Oh, doctors. They don't know anything. All they do is take your money," said Mom, who finally goes to ER two years later, in March. It's Stage 4 and she's dead by June.

Friend tells me, "Eskimos eat only fatty meat and they're very healthy and never get fat, so I will eat only meat, no carbs, and ketosis will burn my fat off," and I say, "Fat cannot burn in the absence of carbohydrate," and they say, "What?"

Friend says (this is the condensed version), "My daughter moved back in with her baby and the house is chaos and she is never home, and here I am at 60 forced to parent all over again." I say nothing.

Acquaintance says, "My son punched in all the sheetrock in his room again this week after I just had it replaced. I got mad and he started breaking my stuff and screaming he would strangle my parrot, and I don't know what to do." "How old is he?" "Thirty."

Friend says, "I am so sick, but I won't take this poison the doctor prescribed, and I'm using essential oil in my diffuser but it doesn't seem to be working."

Demetrius, panicking, shows me blood blisters in his mouth after he eats grilled hot dogs or Spam. He develops esophageal cancer. With surgery, radiation, and chemo, it is cured. He resumes eating, in secret, pounds of bacon, bologna, ham, hot dogs, and black licorice. Died 11 years ago this week.

Six of these people I never see anymore. Feel kind of sad I couldn't save them from themselves. But I see now it was wrong of me to try.

That Is Our Choices!

Above: from the town's official newsletter

Pardon that I'm breathless, weak in the knees, I am so relieved. I fixed the dishwasher. It has taken all month. Please understand that the Divine kitchen sink -- a single sink -- is an inch too narrow to hold a nine-inch dinner plate. I'm not exaggerating. There is no space for a rack or drainboard. The dishwasher solves this. Otherwise I do dishes by washing and immediately rinsing, drying, and storing each piece before I can wash another; or do them outside.

After installing first a new latch and then a new motherboard and the dishwasher still wouldn't start, I put off and put off installing the third new part after it arrived. I couldn't face failure, nor $125 for an appliance-repairman housecall (that doesn't include labor and parts) after the $207 already spent on new parts; or a sickening $750 for a new dishwasher. Buying a used model would need a truck and friends to haul the used one in and haul the fritzed one away -- to where?

Fed up with being responsible for everything, absolutely everything, with yet more snakes wriggling out of my fireplace (!), I cried while unboxing the third new part and facing the screws and wires and pressure of high-stakes better-do-it-right -- without knowing how! Why not just call a repair place?! I almost did.

Yet if I installed the part and the machine didn't work, I'd be no worse off than I was. I gave it one last shot. It worked. The stress in my body released all at once. Shaking, I carefully placed a single dish inside, and sat next to it reading a book for two hours as it cycled, in case it flooded (flooded the new kitchen flooring and all the related, detailed wood-filler, paint and caulking?! I would die!) or exploded, etc. Works great.

I had promised myself ice cream if I repaired it. Actually, I promised myself fine pearl earrings but that money went for replacement parts. I was, and remain, too spent to go get ice cream. And so ends the month of Clean It Up, Fix It Up, Paint It Up -- the City of Pacific's motto. That is our choices!

Trying to Give Money Away

I've always hated tipping, thinking I always do it wrong, just as I hate splitting restaurant checks 50-50 and seeing in my lunch-mate's eyes that they feel screwed and think less of me because I had wine or dessert and they didn't, and I also hate the math of figuring how much to the dime I owe, or pulling out the calculator. You know what I really really hate? A first date who takes me for coffee, and I always order only a coffee (rarely, if I'm hungry, a roll too) and he pays for mine and his, like, $5.50 total, and then he takes the receipt and CAREFULLY FOLDS IT, like, with two hands, actually taking his time creasing it, and carefully tucks it in his wallet, and elaborately restores his wallet to his back pocket with the air of having just sacrificed his firstborn for the good of the tribe, and next time that happens I will run away screaming.

Ahem. 'Tis the season to tip the mail carrier and the trash-pickup man. The trash truck arrives about 12:30 on Thursdays, and when it does I plan to trot down the hill with a holiday card and envelope with money and wish him "Much Joy," he whose fate it is to smell my trash all year, and once it had maggots and I hope he will forgive me. Outside starting at 12:15, so I won't miss him, I do some raking and yard work, glancing downhill toward the road, hearing cars approach and pass, but not the trash truck's snorting and apnea.

I am in fact deeply ashamed because the last few years I have not tipped him. Things were too tight to give a proper tip; it might be insulting if I gave less. The trash-truck driver had for a couple of Christmases left a blue envelope wishing me season's greetings, signed Dale, and I filled it only once, and I wanted today to make up for that and be appreciative. Somebody loves him. (I always used to say when construction workers blocked the roadway and Demetrius, who was driving, would swear and mutter mean things about their bellies: "Somebody loves him as much as I love you.")

Twelve-thirty passes and the truck does not come and still does not come. Finished raking, I commence sweeping. It's been a half hour. Has he already made his rounds and the trash bin at the foot of the hill is empty? I go and check. No, he's not been here yet. He's late. I don't know him. It doesn't matter. I'm tipping today.

Everyone knows, right, that if you want your name to be called or your bus to arrive, you go to the lavatory or get a drink of water or light a cigarette, and the minute you do that here it comes. So, at about 1:30 I slip indoors for a drink of water, watching out the window all the while. Outside I keep the weather eye -- dark clouds blanketing the west and southwest -- holding the card in hand, and finally I hear a truck and walk down the hill. The mail carrier's vehicle pulls up to the mailbox.

I have no choice but to hand the envelope to the mail carrier with good wishes; she's truly the greatest, and I bet she makes four figures in tips at Christmas, and walking uphill with mail I realize with chagrin that I wrote on that card "Waste Management," but a tip is a tip, and my heart's in the right place, and I guess it's okay.

Maybe, I think, I got the pickup calendar wrong and the trash truck won't come at all today. In the house I prepare another card and envelope with money in it, and just as I rip open the day's mail, the trash truck roars up and halts with a great squeal of brakes. I grab the envelope and lope down the hill waving it, calling "Wait, wait!" And the truck pulls away without emptying the trash and goes on its way!

Did I look crazy or threatening? Is a 60-year-old lady wearing sweats and rhinestone specs running toward your vehicle and flailing a terrifying vision? (I can see how it might be to a guy in his 20s.) Did he interpret my signaling as "Don't take my trash"? Had he perhaps not showered today and felt he wasn't fit for human contact? Did he know it was a tip and he is one of those too proud to take anything? Did he think I might have an emergency and he didn't want to get involved?

Now I must phone the trash company and tell them he didn't take my trash. Or rather, so he won't get in trouble, phrase it in the passive voice: "My trash was not picked up."

The Cat Sitter

No pets are allowed on the Divine property, the better to preserve our wildlife, but sometimes I like up close and personal, especially with exceptionally fine cats such as those I cat sat for this past weekend: Hermann, Rufus, and Mimi (pictured).

They filled life with surprises. I opened the bedroom door after waking, and ginger cat Rufus was there waiting for me--and raced me downstairs to the kitchen where each morning we caught the suburban sunrise from the exceptionally fine eastern-facing window.

suburban sunrise

The house is on a hilltop and it is very different for me to see houses below, to sit in an armchair (which I don't have) beneath a good lamp (which I don't have), with a cat perched on the armrest or in my lap, making a continuous bubbling sound, to enjoy life and simple reading and writing as if on a vacation--because I wasn't driven to do 200 things at once, as I am at home--and some inter-species communication, mutual curiosity, and unconditional love.

Domestic animals rule, too!

Happy Hunting Grounds

Carmel moved from the city to the country for two years and then back to the city again, where there's work, and she now visits my place for her shot of woods and countryside and, by the way, my expertise with pot roast, this time with Italian red wine sauce and served with polenta. Tres sophisticato!, or something like that. Carmel's friend with the lolling tongue is Janey, her exceptionally fine purebred border collie. The two of them are among the waning number of my friends still willing and able to walk the woods and bushwhack for the adventure of it. Beautiful and temperate late-October days can't be wasted! So off we went (with me wearing hunter orange; it's crossbow season) climbing some strenuous slopes, descending into ravines, and Janey reverting to feral dog and kicking up as many leaves as she could. I had explained why mushroom-hunting season was over and how I had preserved my finds when we found a fresh Hen of the Woods between the "toes" of an oak tree.
       I said it was edible but I'd leave it there because I had my year's supply, and Carmel, who'd never seen one in the wild before, to my surprise said, "I want it. I'll take it." So we cut it from the earth, and I explained its anatomy and how to cook it (break or cut it into florets and sautee or roast like cauliflower), and here she is with her prize. She took it back to the city--what an adventure for the mushroom!--and cooked it for herself and boyfriend, who was once Demetrius's best friend, and they pronounced it delicious.

Cold and Bright, or Dark and Warm? Pick One

From the inside

From the outside

Last winter, the coldest since' 98-'99, I froze in the Divine Cabin despite weatherstripping, caulking and heavy, doubled plastic sheeting  taped over the windows, a special problem because most windows here are single-pane. They're original, I wouldn't want them changed, but gollywogs, all the propane and space heaters couldn't make up for it and I ended up living in a hooded sleeping bag for two weeks.

This year I began winterizing in August, hoping to use bubble wrap as window insulation--the Internet said it was great. I'd done major spray-styrofoam and caulking when a smart and personable, loyal, humorous, and occasionally prosaic engineer friend visited and said bubble wrap wouldn't work and that in winter he put foam-board insulation over his north-facing windows.

So he did it for most of my windows. The bedroom has pink insulation and some daylight does get through it as you can see. I insulated two doors and left one door and window clear so I could watch the road and the bird feeders.

From outside the house looks either abandoned or under construction, but I don't live outside, I live inside. Or want to. I'm hoping, hoping, because tomorrow comes the test: The season's first polar blast.

How to Make a Marsha Lunch

Or shall I say a "Wild Marsha Lunch"? In honor of my friend Marsha, a special wild/homegrown lunch today: Self-Crusting Wild Mushroom Quiche and Homegrown Arugula Salad.

1. Find the red ramekin Marsha gave me that I treasure.
2. Fill the ramekin half full of wild chanterelle mushrooms, both yellow and cinnabar-colored types, torn into bite-size, and then sauteed with butter and chopped homegrown onion, and seasoned to taste.
3. Make a batter of self-rising flour (or homemade equivalent), eggs, milk, and Parmesan cheese and pour this over the sauteed mushrooms.
4. Bake for about 25 minutes at 375 degrees. Voila. While it bakes:

1. Clip fresh lovely arugula leaves planted and grown in the Earth Box in front of the cabin.
2. Wash and dry the leaves. Stem them and tear them into bite-size if necessary.
3. Toss with a little olive oil. Squeeze a little lemon juice over. Salt the salad just a tad.

Serves 1. Or 2 if you share it.

It's Already Happened

My heart was squeezed dry like an orange today by news from a friend about her daughter's MRI and biopsy; the daughter's got holes in her bones; they can only wait for the test results, available Thursday; she told me, "Pray" and "You know what this is like."

I sure do.

A friend has a leaky heart valve that's leaked for a while and now it's time for open-heart surgery and repairs; his wife got skin cancer on her eyelid; her father committed suicide two years ago at age 94. They do not deserve this. Another friend sleeps in her clothes in case her husband has another heart attack and she has to take him to the hospital; about every three weeks there's a false alarm. Another friend died because her lungs hardened. It was genetic; there was nothing anyone could do.

I am grateful for the things that have already happened to me. I used to lie awake terrified of cancer, poverty, bereavement, job loss, debt, aging. These things happened and continue to happen; my only advantage is in having no children to lose. I am glad to have some first-timer's agonies over and done with. Having made it to the other shore, I can try to hold out a hand or a light to maybe help someone else across, or just stand there to let it be known it can be done.

Ticks Don't Die

Planned to list here the good things about a snowy subzero winter, and the first thing I thought was that a hard winter kills ticks so summer will have fewer.

I didn't recall who'd told me that, but facts found on the Laboratory of Medical Zoology site say deep cold will indeed kill the ticks who are above ground--but most winter below ground, sleeping in leafmeal, and when it thaws they'll latch on to the first available warm body. Ticks are always aiming for a place on your or an animal's head or neck, where blood circulation is abundant and good. That's the bad news. The good news is that a tick who's been on you less than 24 hours is unlikely to have transmitted a disease. So the city-dweller freakouts I've seen when my guests find a tick are unwarranted (but fun to watch).

It's fleas who are killed by cold. But their eggs, wherever they laid them, are just fine and can take as long as three years to hatch.

So: One good thing about a miserable winter (sneeze) is that ticks are inactive.

Second good thing: Snow is picturesque. Photo is of my pumphouse this morning. That little plastic table I got from LaBarque Creek when it flash-flooded. I've never opened that door, having witnessed bees and wasps disappearing beneath its eaves into the pumphouse interior, maybe forming a whole colony. I can only tell you that it works and that its water is tasty but very hard. I've lived here 13 winters now and the pump (electric) has never frozen.

Here's the Beef

When I eat beef I want it organic, pesticide-free and hormone-free, so at a farmer's market on a September morn I approached a farmer seated at a table, just a table in the sun, taking orders for organic beef from her farm 10 miles up the road. I asked about buying a quarter of beef. Couldn't afford it; also it was too much meat for me. The farmer suggested I split a quarter with three friends.

So I put the word out, and three people signed up with me in October, each paying a reservation fee of $25, and were told we could pick up our quarter from the processor in early December. The beef was ready on Nov. 21, we cleared our freezers, and today the four of us drove 25 miles to the processor, each paying $33 directly to the processor. Then we divided between us about 110 lbs of flash-frozen beef. To complete the transaction we will now pay $94 each to the farmer. That's $152 for about 27 lbs. of  local, organic 3/4" cut steaks (t-bone, sirloin, rib eye), roasts, and ground beef. The quarter included 50 lbs of ground beef but only four one-pound packages of stew beef. That cut was not popular so I asked for three of the four pounds of it for my famous slow-cooker beef burritos. Splitting a quarter of beef with three friends was a good idea. Some of my share is shown in the photo.

Ice-Cream Social in Catawissa

Homemade ice cream: peach, pineapple, strawberry, chocolate and vanilla at the twice-a-summer ice-cream social at Catawissa Union Protestant Church, the church I'd join if I were a church person because of  the food. At the ice-cream social in the church basement, we ate barbecue sandwiches and pies and cake along with the ice cream, for the price of a free will offering. Ace, a former farm boy born in 1938, now retired, is among my favored companions for church lunches and suppers. He knows what Missouri food should taste like and that homemade piecrusts differ vastly from purchased ones (those things hard as turtle shells!), and he can tell them apart. Church people recommended the peach pie made by one congregant and we made a beeline and got our slices, but when Ace went up for seconds it was gone, so he settled for the slice of spice cake with cream cheese frosting that he's finishing here. Another ice-cream social occurs August and we will head there EARLY to secure the PEACH PIE, with everyone else in the county in hot pursuit.

...What's That Smell?

I had just served fresh pasta and hearty Italian tomato sauce to an appreciative guest, and stepped out on the screened porch where in February the opened bottle of wine keeps cold between pours, and --God Almighty-- a skunk had gotten into an altercation nearby, and the fumes made my my sinuses throb. My city guest called to me, "Zare a skunk out there?" The stink invaded my dining room although I slammed the door shut fast. Angel cake ala skunk suddenly became dreadfully unappealing.

I lit a scented candle and said, let's go into the living room and watch Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler. The skunky atmosphere crept in and we kept our breathing shallow. See, my city friends love to come out and visit, but I need a disclaimer that I'm not responsible if a skunk has a bad date with a coyote just outside, or a blacksnake is hunting mice in the bathroom. What is the etiquette if a skunk (the animal, not the human kind) ruins your evening? Do you politely pretend it doesn't reek to high heaven although your eyes feel bathed in onion juice? Do you ask pardon? Do you feel freer to expel your own gas? How about, "I know you want to get the hell out of here ASAP, so at your leisure please feel free to take the opportunity"?

A Homeless Quilt Comes Home

To raise funds, the county library was raffling off a delectable pink quilt, with hearts and flowers all over it. Smitten as I have never before been by a quilt, I bought 12 chances on it some time ago, waiting for the Saturday Oct. 15 drawing. I told my mom and she predicted I would win it.

On Oct. 14, though, I was admiring the annual quilt show at a city library when a friend asked me, "Do you like quilts?" I said yes. She said, "I have one in my car. I won it, but don't need it. I took it to my daughter who didn't want it, gave it right back to me. It's pink. Do you want it?"

"Oh yes," I said. And my friend dragged a plastic bag out of her backseat and handed it to me. I didn't look at it until I got home and laid it out on my bed. It was exactly the right size, beautiful, and my first quilt. It didn't matter that I didn't win the library's quilt the next day. Well, maybe it did a little, because I loved those pink hearts stitched into it. I understood then that old ladies like hearts on everything because they love life and the earth more than they ever did, love it with more concentration and passion, as their time here runs short.

Daily Delights and Ecstasies

Started this blog in June 2007 because my housemate moved to the city in '06, and what I missed most, and still miss, was someone to call to, or to grab, and say, "Look! Isn't it amazing!" "Listen, a whippoorwill!" "OMG, the first hummer of the year!" "The blacksnake!" "'Jack Frost' was here!" "Oh, come see this!" "Stop the car; I want a picture!" "Let's look this up!" "Oh no, I think they ran over it!"

As a city dweller I feared the night, rode bad public transportation, and if I saw a bird it was because it hadn't been suffocated by fumes from the coal-fired power plant, and if I saw a live fish it was in a tank in a therapist's office. Kept my eyes mostly on the sidewalk because some folks got mighty riled if you looked at 'em. Life here, although harder, colder, buggier, lots of work, and sometimes isolated, is better. Daily something delightful appears or happens. It is said that a friend doubles every joy and halves every sorrow. You are my doubler and my halver.

Closing His Estate

I am/was Demetrius' executor, or personal representative, and yesterday went to the bank to have the notary stamp the papers that closed his estate and bequeathed me what was left in his account after his doctors and attorneys were paid. If you can choose, don't be anybody's executor or personal rep. This small estate took two years to close and its file of legal papers is two inches thick.

Oddly I was not happy to get this out of the way. My eyes filled. (I berated myself, "Don't cry in front of a notary!") Because the involvement with my friend of ten years is now truly over. When we met he was 49 and things had happened to him that I will never know. For two and a half years he underwent gruesome tests and treatments, having to realize that his early death was inevitable and largely his own fault and he couldn't do s... about it except rage and yell. In a fury he informed me, "Dying is NOT FUN!"

But I'm inclined now to quote to myself James Baldwin: "Thou knowest this man's fall; but thou knowest not his wrassling."

And now I have the money, which is soulless, without memory, which will never write, have a name, or be angry, and it's very strange to have it not having anyone to thank.

Neighborly

The other house on the Divine property has stood empty for as long as two and a half years while seeking a tenant who can appreciate its quaint and rustic winter drafts and hard water. It's not a cabin, more of a cottage. When I first got here it housed a couple with the prettiest three little girls. Then there was a couple with a young boy; they moved away to a subdivision because he needed friends and playmates. Then Shelley, the Harley rider who has moved back into the country area she came from. Now I've got a great neighbor who invited me over for New Year's Eve, and I've repaired some of her costume jewelry, and baked her some cookies, and she's taken me to lunch and given me cookies on a holiday plate, and I've encouraged her to take art classes and she did, and she politely grants permission for me to shoot off fireworks, and we talk about gardening and about boyfriends, and she is my exact same age...just the kind of neighbor everyone dreams of.

I Wanted a Rabbit

Wanted a pet. Something all mine, beautiful and friendly and warm, to lavish affection on, and receive affection in kind. A true and loyal friend who would enjoy my company, who would appreciate little gifts I would buy for it, and treats, and cuddling, and be glad to see me. It would give me something to live for besides myself, and be a reason to get up in the morning when days were rough, and share my happiest and saddest times. We’d appreciate each other as God's special creations and be each other’s best friends. We would have a bond.

Wanted a pet to love and to love me back. Wanted a rabbit in particular. I thought long and hard about it and then realized what I really wanted was to love a human being.

Port in a Storm

I said to the doctor, “Did I do this to myself? Should I go back to never drinking, not even a beer a month, a glass of wine? Should I never eat meat? Give up dairy? Should I give up sex? Doesn’t that stir up hormones? Isn’t it bad for me?”

And the doctor answered, “It’s not just about longevity. It’s about quality of life. If you enjoy something, that is the best medicine. Do what makes you happy, and have fun. Don’t give up doing anything that a normal person would do.” (In short: "Live Life.")

So I ordered this case of port, a terrific extravagance; it is the first case of wine that I have ever bought. But it’s so good, will stay good for years, and I won’t drink it [all] myself. I’ll give bottles to friends, drink it with friends. And give bottles as a thank-you to the people who helped and encouraged me while I cried and was down, and to hosts who’ll invite me to parties and dinner. I’m going to have fun.

Dinner is Served

Knights of Columbus barbecued in the parking lot by the ballfields today, and at dusk I got my dinner there, and would like to share it with you, so here it is, the Midwest's finest meal: Barbecued chicken with sauce, corn on the cob, cole slaw dressed with oil and vinegar, and baked beans (not too sweet. I like to slice a jalapeno into them).

Leave the city. Y'all come on over for dinner -- I'll buy you your own dish of barbecue, just like this one -- and you will know true bliss. Say grace first! ("Mumble mumble thy bounty, mumble our Lord Amen.") Happy first day of summer. I love your company. To my British and Aussie readers: This is what we eat in America.

Wine Country

Pictured, my old schoolfriend Anthony from New York State, born in Brooklyn. Yeah, he's Italian. In fact he's a professional Italian, so wanted to visit Missouri wine country, about 30 or 40 miles northwest from the Divine homestead. Particularly Hermann, MO, because it's a German-settled town and his wife is of German descent. Germans settled there in the mid-1800s because its hills and view of the Missouri River reminded them of the scenery on the Rhine River. Immediately on the south-facing slopes of their hills they planted grapes. And this picture proves that wherever you have wines, you have Italians. He's holding up a blush wine. He also bought me a bottle of port -- he said, "this is the best domestic port I have ever tasted--" I figure I should listen to an Italian. Because he can't take it on a plane I will be shipping him bottles of port to Ithaca, New York. Missouri has 78 wineries.