Going on 80

All families probably balance the joys of the Christmas season with sorrow and grief because of the passing of loved ones, and ours is no exception.

The months of December and January are marked with grim and painful anniversaries in the Ford and Gorman families.  Today, for instance, is the anniversary of the death of my husband Gene’s grandfather, Henry Patrick Ford.  Henry’s is a sad and terrible story but I’m going to recount it here for the benefit of his 17 living great-grandchildren, and his 26 great-great grandchildren, many of whom are readers of this blog.

The story is pieced together from the genealogy and documentation my brother-in-law Robert Ford unearthed, and from photos and news clippings that had been saved by my mother-in-law Mabel O’Hanlon Ford.

Henry Patrick Ford was born in Bath, Maine in 1858 of first generation Irish immigrants to the United States.  We don’t know when or why he moved to the Midwest, but Bath, Maine was a shipbuilding town, and the work of building the wooden sailing ships may have dried up after the Civil War.  Henry’s family probably headed west in search of gainful employment.

We do know that on October 20th, 1890, he married Mary Elizabeth Larkin in Tipton, Iowa.  He was 32 years old, she was 28. After the marriage, they lived in West Liberty, Iowa in Muscatine County, where Henry had been working.  They lived in an apartment over a store called John’s Shop on Spencer Street.

Shortly before the marriage, Henry was hired as a switchman for the Chicago, Rock Island & Pacific Railroad there. He earned $45 per month.

A switchman worked in the yard under the direction of a yardmaster.  They built trains by switching out tracks full of cars, coupling and uncoupling them with a coupler like that pictured here. It was a dangerous job at best and some of the work had to be done on moving equipment.

At the east end of the West Liberty train yard was a dangerous, poorly maintained cattle guard that the switchmen had to step over while working on the train cars 3 to 10 times per day.

A cattle guard is used to prevent cattle or sheep from crossing a path while still allowing vehicles to do so.  A cattle guard looks like that shown here, but the one in the train yard was described as follows: “a certain dangerous open culvert or cattle guard composed of ties laid crosswise of the track with open spaces between the same about 8 inches wide, covering an open pit about 3 feet deep.”

The cattle guard was a subject of worry and complaint among the men.  In fact, as soon as Henry was hired, he went to the yardmaster to complain.  He referred to it as a “man-trap” and demanded that it be fixed.

The yardmaster assured him that it would be repaired at once.  It wasn’t. On Wednesday, or Thursday, December 11, 1890, Henry went to the yardmaster again, this time with two of the other men, and he demanded to know why the cattle guard hadn’t been fixed.  The yardmaster equivocated, and finally Henry announced that if it wasn’t fixed immediately, he would “quit right then and go back on the road” and he made it clear that he wouldn’t continue to work over such a dangerous trap.

On Saturday, though, Henry was still working in the yard.  He probably couldn’t follow through on his empty threat because his bride of seven weeks had become pregnant.  He may have feared not being able to pay the rent more than he feared the job’s danger.

That Saturday, December 13, 1890, Henry was attempting to make a coupling on a train that was being set up, and several cars were switched onto a side track.  The train was backing down to some cars that were to be coupled on, and just then Henry stepped into the cattle guard and became trapped. Before he could extricate himself, the train backed down upon him killing him instantly, and four more cars ran over him mangling his body horribly.

In the florid journalese of the day, the West Liberty newspaper wrote that “he was caught by the moving train in such a manner as to completely disembowel him and crush almost every bone in his body.  The remains presented a ghastly sight.  After restoring the body to as nearly its original shape as possible, it was carried home to the family residence . . . “

Henry was buried from this church – St. Joseph’s Catholic Church – in Rock Island, Illinois where his mother lived.

Pregnant, and probably penniless, Mary Ford filed a lawsuit against the Chicago, Rock Island and Pacific Railroad.  After a three day trial, she won the lawsuit and was awarded $5,000. She didn’t receive the settlement though because the railroad appealed, and the case bounced back and forth for years.   Finally, 8 years after the first trial, Mary was awarded what I think was about $1,800 (after paying her lawyers and other fees.)

During those years, she was somehow raising her son – Patrick.  Patrick was my father-in-law.  Sixteen years after Henry’s death, Mary married again, this time to a widower and farmer named James Patrick Downs from Emmetsburg, Iowa. They lived together there till her death in 1943.

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After I heard Henry’s story, I really marveled at the kind of father his son became.  My father-in-law Pat – raised as a fatherless child with no role model to observe and learn from – was a textbook example of how to be a “good father” to one’s children.  Go figure.  Henry may have been tragically absent for Pat’s upbringing but his genes and good character were definitely present and accounted for.  As a role model, he managed to be “All Aboard” after all, and his family has good reason to be proud of him and to remember him.

(Does anyone besides me think that Henry looks like my nephew Eddie Ford and that Mary looks like my niece Leslie Ford Sully?)

You may have noticed that I’ve been goofing off too much lately to keep up with the posting of my weekly “blobs”. I’m chalking it up to my advancing senility, too much partying, and to my overall shiftlessness.

But just in time for the holidays, daughter Susy wrote something that reminded me of how much I like words.

Written or spoken, some are treasures, especially when they can be shared.

For the past weeks, Susy had been getting the household “ready for Christmas“. She strung lights all over the farm, made a home for a huge inflatable jolly snowman, decorated every inch she could with candy canes, greenery, ornaments, wreaths, wouldn’t let anyone leave the property without gifting them with an assortment of various toys, games, homemade cookies, party mix, or popcorn, and planned and organized family parties to celebrate our non-pandemic holiday.

But what had inspired Susy into such hyperactivity had occurred a few weeks earlier. It occurred to me that before she decides it’s time to put everything away till next year, we better document the whole story. The following, interspersed with some of the fruits of her labors, is Susy’s narrative of it.

“My Little Christmas Story”
by Susy Warden

When I was a little girl I truly loved the magic of the Christmas Season. I remember admiring our little artificial tree sparkling with tinsel and homemade ornaments. The growing pile of gifts under the tree was exciting too. We had some type of rotating light that made the tree turn red and green. I was in awe of that. I also really loved our sweet, humble nativity scene with Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus.

Now, fast forward to the present day….my adult daughter Josie and I were on a shopping trip, this past October, at a Walmart store.

I spied a nativity scene in the holiday section. The nativity figures were just a few inches tall. Hmmm, that looked interesting.

I put the box into my cart and proceeded down the aisle. Then I looked at it again and realized that I didn’t need a nativity set. I had not set one up for many years. I returned the box to the shelf.

Back home from our shopping trip, I found myself window shopping various nativity sets on the computer. Of course, I was partial to nativity scenes that included a donkey! I also wanted the shepherd boy and his sheep. And I have to admit, I got a little excited whenever I saw a camel included in the box.

Fast forward, a few weeks later…. Josie and I stopped by a thrift store and I was immediately drawn to the only two nativity sets in the entire store. I thought they were charming. Both sets were quite used and had a few chips but one set came with a little barn. I asked Josie which set I should buy. She looked at me a little funny and said “I think you can do better than this”.

When we arrived back home, empty handed, I realized that I must get a nativity set for our home, this year. I told my husband, Curt, that I really wanted one. For me. To celebrate the true meaning of Christmas. To recreate the magic I felt as a child. To honor brave Mary and Joseph and the humble shepherd boy and his sheep and the three wise men. And to welcome baby Jesus to the world on Christmas Day.

Now, the fun really began. I spent several weeks researching nativity scenes. Large and small. Modern and rustic. The prices ranged from $20.00 to $185.00. I sat Curt down one evening and we reviewed my top five favorite nativity sets on Amazon. Then, we narrowed down the list, until we arrived at our very favorite one. Of course, it ended up the most expensive navitity set in the Amazon cart but we loved it! It also included a donkey and a shepherd boy. Curt said to “Go for it!” I was shocked to be spending so much money on a nativity set but I was excited to imagine it sitting on our dining table.

The brand new nativity set was scheduled to arrive Thanksgiving week. I got a message from Amazon one morning that said the box was on their truck and was scheduled to arrive before 8pm that very evening. I waited and waited but no delivery came to our farm. The next morning, I contacted Amazon and they said “Sorry to report that the store you used has closed their doors and gone out of business. Would you like us to help with your refund?”

What? I could not believe that bad news. I had spent hours shopping for the perfect set. I had already attempted to buy a little one from Walmart, and a really old one from a thrift store and now a brand new one from Amazon. All three duds!

Curt told me to keep on shopping. December and Christmas were right around the corner. Now, I was unsure of where to look next. I cautiously decided to look on Facebook Marketplace. I immediately discovered a sweet nativity set with everything I wanted. It was a set from the 1990s but I liked the simplicity of the barn, the angel attached to the roof, the sweet baby Jesus in the manger, the three wise men, the shepherd boy and of course, the little donkey who carried pregnant Mary on his back. This nativity set on Facebook marketplace was used but it was well cared for. I bought it on the spot. The set even had all three kings and a camel. I paid $100.00 and the seller gave me a tracking number with a date and time for delivery.

I was cleaning our donkey barn a few days later when I got a notification from the seller that there was a problem with the delivery of the nativity set. The box was damaged and Joseph’s left hand had been “amputated”. The seller promised a complete refund or she offered to pay the $20.00 mailing cost. I told her to please send us the nativity set “as is” and that we would enjoy it for years to come. Joseph’s missing hand does not detract from Mary’s gaze on the baby Jesus or the awe the three kings show as they kneel before the manger. It was a struggle to find our imperfect nativity set but I felt the magic of Christmas was within reach.

I set up little lighted trees around the nativity set on the dining room table when it arrived. My Mom and I doctored up Joseph’s missing hand and made it look (almost) as good as new. My whole family was happy with our new Christmas purchase.

A week later, I was cooking dinner in the kitchen and I happened to glance at our dining room table. The sun was setting through our glass doors and it was illuminating the entire nativity scene. In fact, the sun reflecting through the glass doors lit up the entire wall behind the table, all the way up to the ceiling! Wow. It confirmed the magic of the holiday season is truly alive in our little home in Enumclaw, Washington. And that is my Little Christmas Story.

Thank you, Susy! Have a Happy New Year, everyone!

Was just reading on the internet that a warm and cozy way to entertain your holiday guests is by roasting chestnuts on an open fire, and I would, but – lacking a fireplace – a bonfire in the middle of the living room could put the carpeting in real jeopardy.

Actually, we don’t have any carpeting, or any chestnuts. We DO have matches and smoke alarms, however, and they hate each other. Battling it out doesn’t seem like a nice way to enjoy this happy season of love and affection, eggnogs, and the availability of Amazon’s overnight delivery.

Whatever your religion, I hope this is a season to successfully seek and find peace, rest, and the sharing of affection among family and friends. And many smiles!

The gentlest holiday habit for me always involves – in one way or another – remembering details of the Nativity story in music, theater, or song. In case you’re ready to read or re-read Octo-woman’s previous take on it, click below. It may not be the most reverent version of the story, but I can only hope that Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, in spite of all their hardship, still have a forgiving sense of humor. 

https://goingon80.com/2021/12/18/437-the-nativity-scene-according-to-octo-woman/

I’m happy to let you know that my great great nephew AJ Fitzpatrick DID IT! Last Saturday, he won the Gold Medal at the Parapan Games in Santiago, Chile. And the rest of his USA Wheelchair Basketball team did nicely, too! Congratulations to every one of those 12 USA champion athletes and their support team.

Here they are receiving the gold medals. Remember their faces. You’ll be seeing them again at the Paralympic’s in Paris next year. The event will take place from August 28 to September 8, 2024, immediately following the Olympics.

Following that inspiring event, I certainly hope the USA team members won’t be led down the path to ruin. Judging by their looks, and muscular body condition, I fear they will be tempted to appear on The Bachelor or Dancing with the Stars or on Hunks in Trunks wall calendars, and then all that Paralympian dignity and glory will go right down the toilet.

I just finished an entire week of wheelchair-basketball-watching. This seems to have come as a shock to my family. Except for figure skating and ice dancing, I have never been known to watch more than 2 or 3 minutes of athletic activity on TV. And the last basketball games I actually witnessed were in 1946 when my parochial school’s St. Patrick’s Shamrocks faced their hardy corn-fed opponents in Cedar Rapids, Iowa.

Last week was different. I was affixed to the screen watching the Parapan wheelchair basketball games in Santiago, Chile, but it wasn’t only on account of AJ’s participation in the games. It was the games themselves. I was mesmerized!

It wasn’t because of the nail-biting competitiveness of the games. In fact, in spite of the fearsome talent of the teams they faced, it seemed to me that the USA team dominated their opponents in every game, and as one commentator remarked – he felt that when watching the team, he was seeing basketball played to near-perfection.

And it wasn’t just because of the skill of the players – not only the USA’s but that of their competitors, as well. I knew in advance that I’d be seeing world-class professional play because the players couldn’t get to that level of international competition – whether it’s sports, music, chess, or what-have-you – without it.

What I certainly didn’t expect was this: if basketball could be considered an art form, I think I was watching it. What I found to be gloriously amazing about the games was their teamwork and choreography, especially that of the USA team.

The routines I saw probably have a name or a number identifying them, and it seemed like there are no two alike. I suppose regular basketball utilizes such maneuvers, but, they seem to me to be more choppy, unplanned and frenetic. And noisy. Maybe because the players I was watching are on wheels, the moves seem to be executed with more speed and grace and precision.

When one complicated maneuver doesn’t result in a basket, individual players – though seemingly completely relaxed – make split-second decisions to smoothly alter and rescue the play of the ball. Unexpected, unpredictable, and suspenseful! It’s like watching an unspoken ad lib dialogue between the coach and the players, executed at warp speed.

The mastermind behind what I saw has to be the team’s coach, Robb Taylor. It seems to me that Robb Taylor might be to wheelchair basketball what Fred Astaire was to ballroom dancing. The bios of some of the team players indicate they too have coaching experience, so it’s likely he had plenty of sophisticated input on planning the moves we saw.

As the youngest and less-experienced team member, AJ was in the company of giants. I know he will always know how blessed he was to be associated with such men as these.

What an experience it must have been for him!

Meanwhile, I’m still a basketball-viewing newbie, but I’m hooked. I thought I would be watching the games just to see AJ, but I was so spellbound, I found myself even forgetting to watch when his number 24 came onto the court.

I still can’t figure out how they can do it. Like the world class ice skaters I love to watch, I have to ask: how can they make something so hopelessly difficult look so easy???

From now on, I’m going to have to start watching the women’s wheelchair basketball, too. The USA won the women’s gold medal also. It wouldn’t surprise me to find that the ladies are equally as competent as the men. After all, they say that the dancing of Ginger Rogers was just as good as that of her partner Fred Astaire, —- and she was doing it backwards and in high heels.

I’m glad that AJ’s team won, but I’m sorry it’s over. I’m just glad I got to watch it. Thank you, panamsportschannel.org!

I don’t have time to write much today because I’m too busy tearing my hair out trying to teach the folks in Santiago, Chile how to tell time. They don’t seem to understand that their clocks are running 5 hours faster than they should be.

I can’t understand why they can’t fix such a simple-to-correct problem. As an example, right now, my clock clearly says that the correct Pacific Standard Time is 2:15 AM Sunday, November 19, 2023. but, weirdly, theirs doesn’t! Somehow, the Chileans seem to agree that, yes, this is Sunday, but they have the confused idea that the correct time of day is 7:15 AM.

Octo-woman has tried to patiently but firmly point out the error to the citizens of Santiago, but they just won’t listen.

The big hand on their clocks is pointing to the 3 very nicely, but the little hand is supposed to be pointing to the 2 – not the 7.

They don’t seem to understand how inconvenient this is for me this week. Today, I would like to watch the USA’s wheelchair basketball team play their first game in the Parapan Games in Santiago. In spite of my expertise on how to tell what time it is, I have to confess that I don’t really know much about how basketball is played. But because one of the players on the team is my great great nephew A J Fitzpatrick, I have become a dedicated, bloodthirsty fan of the sport.

The first wheelchair basketball game the USA will be playing is today at Santiago’s incorrect time of 12:30 PM. This means I’m going to have to get up very, very, very early. In order to live-stream the game on http://www.panamsportschannel.org, I’m going to have to get up in the middle of the night – at 7:15 AM Enumclaw, Washington time.

It will probably still be dark outside. I hope I’ll be able to remember where the bathroom is.

At any rate, I am determined to be wide awake, a cup of just-brewed coffee in hand, and tuned in at 7:30 AM to watch the game.

The reason for my fierce determination to see it is because I am worried about the outcome of the game. A J’s team will be playing the Brazilian team. I read that Brazil’s teams are noted for their formidable talent, and are considered a powerhouse in gold medal paralympics. I hope they’ll be kind to my great great nephew and if they aren’t, they’ll be hearing from Octo-woman who is rather well-known for being a sore loser.

Here’s the roster of players for both teams. https://para.results-santiago2023.org/#/discipline/WBK/results/M.TEAM5—45080—–.GP02.000200–

The next two games for the USA team is Monday, November 20th against Puerto Rico at the incorrect time of 4:00 PM; and on Tuesday, November 21 against Columbia at the incorrect time of 6:15 PM. You can see the entire schedule, and the games will be available for viewing on the Pan Am Sports Channel through the following link: https://www.panamsportschannel.org/main.

Right now, the correct time is 3:30 AM. See ya in 4 hours, A J.

FOOTNOTE: okay, the correct time is now 9:04 AM. The game just finished, and I have to tell you what happened. (You knew I would). USA WON OVER BRAZIL 42 to 82. Yayyy! It was very exciting and certainly kept me wide awake. I’d like to tell you all about it but now I’m going back to bed to get some sleep! (Note: if you watch the games, A J’s shirt is supposed to have a “24” on it.)

It was all carefully planned: the perfect hostess gift we can present to any guests who visit us during the holidays. A lovely basket or bag of our delicious English walnuts. Martha Stewart, eatcherheartout!

In one of the pastures here on Kartar Ridge Ranch, there dwells what may be the world’s most beautiful and graceful English Walnut tree (Juglans regia). She’s over 40 feet tall, about 35 years old, will live to be up to 200 years old, and, as far as we know, has never been exposed to sex or birth control.

In spite of her apparent virginity, however, she somehow manages to produce and deliver thousands of fat, healthy English walnuts every autumn. She’s probably very proud of her immaculate conception, but until this year, her fertile production has been largely ignored by everybody who lives here on the farm. But not Octo-woman. The nice thing about sharing one’s home with Octo-woman is that it seems to inspire in its residents an intense interest in the care and feeding of nuts.

This year, my daughter Susy decided to do something about it! She vowed that this would be the year we would learn all about nut harvesting. And because of our amazing walnut tree, we were certain to have enough to create and share dozens of decorated bags full of our nutty treasures with visitors!

While Susy researched harvesting tips and I combed Amazon.com for gift packaging tips, our intrepid tree kept right on producing walnuts on an Olympian scale. Even the squirrels couldn’t keep up with the blizzard of big green shelled husks that kept appearing in the branches and plopping themselves down on the ground.

But we were patiently waiting! Susy had read how the tree will tell us just when to harvest its bounty. Just when each nut is starting to get dry enough, the green husks that contain it will start to crack open and the edges of the crack will turn black.

At last! One day, Susy announced, “Okay, it’s time! I’m going to start collecting the walnuts tomorrow. It looks like the perfect time to start bringing them in for drying, and there’s going to be a ton of them. Let’s get some buckets ready and I’ll head out there first thing in the morning.“

And sure enough, she did. Head out there, I mean. She didn’t collect any English walnuts though because there was nothing there to collect. Of the thousands of nuts still on the tree and all over the ground the night before – there wasn’t a single nut in sight. Not. a. single. one!

We didn’t need Sherlock Holmes to solve our “Mystery of the Purloined Nuts”, though. It was very astute of the walnut tree to let Susy know the exact best time for her to make the harvest, but, obviously, our friendly Juglans regia also informed our squadron of very busy squirrels —- and they worked a very busy night shift!

At least, we now know why we have the fattest squirrels in Enumclaw, Washington.

We’re still in awe of both the tree and the industry of the squirrels! It reminds me of an incident at the Christian Brothers Winery in Napa, California. Husband Gene worked for the winery here in Washington State and in Montana, but once when we were visiting with Brother Timothy at the winery in Napa, we happened to be walking past one of the laboratories there. It was full of a plethora of scientific equipment all bubbling and steaming and gurgling with activity.

I was puzzled because the harvest hadn’t begun. “What are they working on, Brother Tim”, I asked. “Oh, they’re calculating their best guess for when we should begin harvesting the grapes”, he said. “But even so, we know we can always rely on the birds. They alway let us know when it’s time to begin.”

Just like having a social security number, or a DNA, or fingerprints, or the stain of original sin, is everybody required to be the author of one of those “bucket lists”?

Octo-woman has been reading about it and has learned that such a list is supposed to be a compilation of exciting or challenging activities that one hopes to experience before one kicks one’s proverbial “bucket”.

She is chagrined to admit that she has never composed such a list – but that is about to be remedied.

It is recommended that the bucket list be publicly announced to family and friends so that the goals are clearly defined and so the successful outcome of these endeavors can make everybody resentful and jealous.

As you can see, I’ve been diligently working on this challenge, but, so far, this is how it looks:

MY BUCKET LIST:

1. _______________________________________________________________________.

2. _______________________________________________________________________.

3. _______________________________________________________________________.

4. _______________________________________________________________________.

This is because all of the ideas I’ve had for it seem like they may be a bit unreasonable. Take this weekend’s multi-billion dollar lottery, for example. I considered the winning of it to be on the top of the list but it occurred to me that greed is one of the Seven Deadly Sins and I don’t need any more of those cluttering up my official report card by broadcasting it on my bucket list. (Of course, I do plan to share every penny of my winnings with you, or, alternatively, I’m going to spend it all on candy. Careful planning is so important.)

Another possibility for my bucket list was competing to win a place on the U.S. figure skating team so I can win a gold medal at the Olympics. My great grand-nephew A J Fitzpatrick may do the same later this month when his U.S. team of wheelchair basketball athletes win their place at the Paralympics in Paris next year.

I’m sure A J would have been very proud of me, but, sadly, I had to cross the activity off my list, because, first, I’d have to take lessons to learn how to figure skate, and I can’t because we don’t have any ice here, and besides, I don’t have any skates. It just didn’t seem like a workable plan. As ever, you can always count on Octo-woman’s clear-headed grasp of realism to step in and save the day!

It would be exciting to list that I’ll be getting scheduled for my first face lift this year, but unfortunately that ship has already sailed and sunk. Even if the cosmetic surgeons would accept hopeless cases, with my luck, they’d probably assign it to the same guy who did the work on Michael Jackson.

Everything I can think of is riddled with bottlenecks. For instance, it would be an honor to put on the list that I am expecting to be appointed to serve on the Supreme Court but I have reason to believe they might be picky about the law degree that I don’t have. I hope you can see why I might be getting discouraged.

So there you have it. Consider my Bucket List, bare naked as it is of any hopes and dreams of achievement and adventure. But at least I’ll have all that candy to binge on.

Our dahlias had a kind of Halloween party this weekend.

Till Thursday, all our dahlias were bursting with good health and blooms of every color. This is how a few of them looked on Thursday afternoon. Susy was still bringing in armfuls of their blossoms every day.

On the evening news, we heard that we’d be having our first frost that night. Daughter Susy piped up, “Hmm! Guess we better start planning when we’ll dig up the dahlia tubers for winter.”

“Naw!”, I said. “Plenty of time. They can tolerate a quick frost or two. In Seattle, I usually left ‘em in the ground all winter unless their baby tubers were starting to bulge out of the ground and needed more room.”

“Well, okay, I guess”, said Susy, who still seems to be operating on the unfortunate and misguided theory that her mother knows something about the care and feeding of dahlias.

That night, I noticed the furnace awoke from its long and lazy summer hibernation and started spitting out some warmth two or three times.

Early the next morning, Susy headed out to do the farm chores. And couldn’t believe her eyes. All three of the dahlia gardens had turned into an ugly, ghoulish scene of tall, grotesque stalks with drab, withering objects that had once been blossoms hanging adrift on their sides.

It got worse during the day. By nightfall, the stalks and the former flowers seemed to be turning black.The Adams’s family would have loved it, and you would too, if you enjoy viewing death scenes, and if black is your favorite color.

Yes, the dahlias had faced death during their overnight ordeal, but like the good mothers they are, they fiercely protected themselves and their young babies from that grim fate. And they had a surprise “treat” waiting for us.

That day, Susy started the “exhumation” of the afflicted dahlias, not sure of what she’d be unearthing. Digging them up one by one, we were floored.

Apparently, every single dahlia laid low by the sudden frost, had managed to shield its own tuber – its source of life and nutrition – as well as all the unborn tubers still clinging to it.

It was a population explosion. Every dahlia we had planted, had produced at least a dozen or more fat, healthy baby tubers still hanging onto their mother for dear life!

Today, we finished making funeral arrangements for all the blackened stalks and “flowers” – Susy with spade and pitchfork, me with marking pen and bags for storing what appears to be hundreds of tubers, and granddaughter Josie collecting the dozens of seeds kindly left for us in the dahlia beds by our weed-suppressing nasturtiums.

Next Susy will roto-till the gardens to be ready for next summer’s show.

The only thing left to do is to start looking for a bigger farm where we’ll have to move to in order to have room to plant about 1,000 very healthy dahlia tubers. Maybe it’d be best if they aren’t quite as fertile as their mothers!

It’s been quiet here at Kartar Ridge Ranch as we are settling back to our normal routine following our recent upheavals with son Matthew’s health, and my untimely Covid affliction. Maybe things will be getting back to normal, now,

Only one problem. Now that I have won a missing pink stripe on the Covid test signifying that I am no longer infectious, I did the cooking tonight. As a dining experience, it wasn’t what you would call a blockbuster success.

I’m hoping (claiming) that the problem is that I still haven’t recovered my sense of taste and smell, which is true.

What I served was supposed to be fish with tartar sauce, baked potatoes with butter and sour cream, and steamed fresh vegetables. Should be easy-peasy, I reckoned. Is it my fault that our household is supposed to be limiting salt? So I tried a few substitutes.

Everybody is trying to be polite, but as I scraped the leftovers into the garbage, I was keenly aware that the meal probably won’t win a Michelin award. I didn’t have much of it myself since I’m not terribly fond of cooked cotton balls, which the meal seemed to be featuring.

When I get my taste buds back in action, I’m sure I can once again glory in the joy of cooking and will soon be slinging hash and Kraft Macaroni with Cheese with my usual gusto and skill!

In the meantime, I’ve been trolling the internet trying to locate some recipes which might taste like actual food. In the category of eggs, I ran across this little gem. Well, it’s not a recipe, exactly, but it’s helpful to consider if you yourself happen to be laid low by the Covid bug, and need to come out of your shell and enjoy a good yolk.

I became a Covid victim this week. The timing was exceedingly unfriendly. And if anybody ever qualified for a guilt trip, it’d have to be me.

Last week, son Matthew’s peritoneal dialysis failed. After urgent phone calls, medical tests, exams, corrective surgery, and a total of four days without effective dialysis, we spent the weekend agonizing – while waiting to learn what the doctors would decide.

Meanwhile, daughter Susy was up to her armpits in hour after hour of administering dialysis in a frustrating and mostly unsuccessful effort to clear Matt’s body of his dangerous toxins. The household was under intense stress.

On Monday – Day 1 – I woke up with a sore throat, a cough and lots of sneezing. Must be a cold, I thought.

A couple of hours of encouraging phone support with the nurses at the kidney center was helping but not solving the dialysis problem. Son-in-law Curt and granddaughter Josie did the chores and bedded down the animals, and Curt ran errands and brought home fast food so we didn’t have to cook.

I think my own contribution to the activities that day involved a lot of worry, wringing of my hands, and nothing constructive. Also a lot of coughing, endless sneezing, and the infectious sharing of all manner of germs.. It finally dawned on me that I better put on a mask. Oddly, I couldn’t eat, and it was becoming obvious that maybe my “cold” had more evil intentions.

Coughed, coughed, and coughed all night till the phone rang that morning – Day 2. It was Matt’s nurse at the kidney center with more questions and instructions for Susy.

After the call, Curt produced some home Covid tests “just in case” because it was becoming obvious that whatever Grandma was busy sharing with everybody may not be just a cold. And it wasn’t. The two little pink lines meant that Covid is positive.

That’s when I knew I was sidelined! Matt was already at high risk. Any help I could give him or Susy could be bad for either of them and the whole family could get sick. By the end of Day 2, I was feeling miserable, partly because of the worsening “cold”, but also because I was watching and hearing all the effort Susy was making to keep everything going with no support from me. It was quite horrible.

Susy told me she had read that anybody over 65 years old who gets Covid can get a prescription for Paxlovid – a medication which would help, so I took another test – just to be sure – and when it was again positive, I told a nurse at the doctor’s office, and I received a prescription for it the next morning.

Early the next morning – Day 3 of my inconvenient Covid germs – the doctor called to say that Matt’s peritoneal dialysis has to be discontinued and replaced with hemodialysis, a major change in his plan of care. The latter method has to be performed 3 days a week at a kidney center in nearby Enumclaw. We were to stand by and await a call for the day and time for the first procedure. Later, in Day 4, we got the call that it had been scheduled for the following day.

I spent most of Covid Days 3 and 4 in my room coughing and stewing with worry – and sleeping 12 hours per day – while Susy dealt with all of Matt’s intensive care, and the cooking, cleaning, laundry, phone calls, scheduling, and – aided and abetted by Curt and Josie – the farm chores and the care and feeding of 2 horses, a pony, and 7 donkeys. And she even kept all the vases full of fresh dahlias.

Then came Day 5. Matt’s new hemodialysis procedure was successful! Amazing! Deo gratias! Also either because of that good news, or the effects of whatever that Paxlovid medicine is, I started feeling better! Still germy though, so unless Susy is our next Covid victim, she’ll still have to continue to captain our “home hospital” solo while still deserted by her mother.

I’ll be saving this cartoon for when she can finally have an hour off!

, , , But this is what I hope she’ll be doing soon after.