416. Friendly words

Posted on July 25, 2021 by Octo-woman

Chances are, you’ve got your own private list of “likable” words. Such as sunshine, chocolate, babies, laughing, Scrabble, puppies, popcorn. Or phrases like, “No cavities”, “All Paid Up”, “You won!”, or even, “Yes, there will soon be a cure for hair loss in aging women”. In other words, language that tickles your personal warmth factor, that enriches your life, that gives you a grin, not a groan, – a rosy glow, not a pimply rash.

Home sewer

One of my favorite activities has always been spent in front of my sewing machine. Words like stitches, seams, patterns, fabric, yardage – those are nice, friendly words. As a happy home seamstress, I enjoy sewing terminology. Are you getting the picture here? I like everything to do with sewing and with being a veteran sewer.

Yesterday, I got a confusing email from my intrepid realtor who is currently preparing my house to be sold to what we were hoping would be the highest bidder. This was the subject line:
”Your sewer needs a repair”.

Sadly, no, she wasn’t referring to my health. I may be the hobbled, battle-fatigued, deranged former resident of the house – and a dedicated home seamstress – but I wasn’t the “sewer” in need of engineering assistance. It was the one 5 feet underground, the “wasteful” one, the one the sewer inspector has just recommended to be needing an $18,000 spa treatment at my expense.

Now, I’m not really fond of that kind of “sewers”. I realize excrement has to go somewhere, but as a whole, I don’t find sewers to be an exciting aspect of home ownership. In spite of the monumental cost of maintaining one, you will never see a sewer featured on the cover of Better Homes and Gardens. Nobody will ever be bragging about theirs at the bridge table, and you’ll probably never know anyone demented enough to devote an entire blob to one. Except me, of course.

Women are probably fully to blame for sewers. It’s likely the “main” reason sewers were even invented was because of the human females’ high-tech demand for Indoor Plumbing. And toilet paper.

Even in ancient times, plumbing was a problem. It was even an important issue in Game of Thrones – an apt title if there ever was one. According to its author George R.R. Martin, there were two types of waste management covered in detail in his books.

As for the first, do you remember when Jon Snow sent Samwell Tarly to the Citadel to get intel on the Whitewalkers? The maesters who were to train Sam in the Citadel had old fashioned indoor plumbing – bedpans and chamber pots – and Sam was assigned the gross task of emptying them — in full view of the TV audience.

John Bradley (Sam)

In case you’re interested (and, of course, who wouldn’t be?), in an interview with Vulture.com, Sam’s portrayer, John Bradley was asked “What in the world was in those bedpans?” Here’s his answer:


“Well, if you want to re-create human feces onscreen, the best thing to do is to use soaking-wet fruitcake and mold it into the shape of turds. The thing about wet fruitcake is, when you see it for the first time at 6:30 in the morning, it’s fresh. But when you get to 5 in the afternoon and you’ve been shooting all day, and the wet fruitcake has been in the water and under the hot lights all day, it starts to become only slightly less unpleasant than the real thing.”

I knew you’d want to know that.

Casterly Rock, home of the Lannisters

The other kind of plumbing described in Game of Thrones was what was actually used in the Middle Ages. “Indoor plumbing” was achieved with cesspits which were often placed under cellar floors. As in the castles of Game of Thrones, they had long wooden chutes to carry excrement from the upper floors to the cesspit, sometimes flushed by rainwater. Every two years or so, the foul-smelling waste was cleaned out by “gong farmers” who were paid 2 shillings for each ton of waste disposed of — somewhat less than the $18,000 I’m expected to pay for similar service in my former Laurelhurst neighborhood in Seattle.

Such a wooden chute would have been plumbed in the Casterly Rock castle, ancestral home of the Lannisters. The nasty Tywin Lannister was sitting on his privy when his son Tyrion shot and killed him with his crossbow. Most likely, Tyrion couldn’t flush his father down the chute though, without causing a serious clog even Draino couldn’t clear.

I know this may not be the most appetizing blob you’ve ever read, but, personally, contemplating the fortune I have to come up with to pay the sewer bill, I feel better now. And it’s at least more lady-like than sucking my thumb in despair.

If you’ve never been a “home owner” yourself, you may not understand who the term “home ownership” is actually referring to. It isn’t you. The home owns you, not the other way around, and it’s best to just surrender and, if you can, pay off the ransom as gracefully as you can.

I’m looking forward to getting my next two bids for the sewer repair on Monday, because I’m hoping one of them might contain some friendlier words than the first one did. Such as, “Ma’am, we can do that little sewer job for you for only two shillings!” That seems like a fair price to me.

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415. Coming up for air!

Posted on July 18, 2021 by Octo-woman

You might say that it was a moving experience. Similar to an earthquake. Son Matthew and I are now residents of Enumclaw, Washington, and have begun digging ourselves out from under the avalanche of worldly goods and clutter we brought with us from Seattle.

One thing is perfectly clear: in spite of my previous and diligent de-cluttering, I STILL CLUNG TO TOO MUCH STUFF.

Not much time to blob yet, but thanks to the Herculean efforts of my family, we survived the worst, and we’ve discovered that we’re going to enjoy our new habitat.

Here’s a glimpse of some of the boxes already emptied – with grandson Bryce providing the heavy lifting, and me doing the unpacking of all those “valuables” I was so sure I needed (!)

Octo-woman with a few of her 137 boxes

In the midst of the chaos —- to replace my old phone service, Bryce and granddaughter Josie managed to transport me to purchase my first cell phone – an iPhone. We had to visit multiple T-Mobile sites because the employees kept insisting I couldn’t keep my old Xfinity phone number, and Bryce kept insisting I could. After three hours of haggling, they gave up. I did get to keep my old number, proving once again, that it isn’t wise to tangle with Bryce! Especially with Josie riding shotgun.

I don’t know how to type with my thumbs yet, but I am feebly able to communicate with the outside world and I certainly have hope for a possible future conversation with you! And when I do, I promise I’ll never inflict yet another tale of woe about MOVING ANYTHING EVER AGAIN!

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414. Moving is not for sissies!

Posted on July 4, 2021 by Octo-woman

A few months ago, in a conversation with my friend and neighbor Eileen, I was explaining that I decided it was time to move, among other reasons, because I wanted to avoid the humiliation of my kids having to do it for me.

After 50 years in the same house, I know full well the extent of my hoarding of ancient artifacts such as fabric sewing scraps not even big enough for potholders, gigantic containers of plastic grocery bags cleverly salted away before Seattle banned them to hell, a whole case of prune juice, another full case of Kraft’s pretend-like Macaroni and Cheese (expiration date 2002), petrified used paint brushes, and so on. You get the picture! Nobody wants to depart from life underlining her role as a notorious slob.

Eileen disagreed with my plan. Eileen, at 91 years old, had been inhabiting her house a lot longer than my 50 years in this one. “That’s not for me!” she growled, firmly. “I’m leaving my house feet-first, and my kids will have to take care of whatever remains!”

Sadly, a few weeks ago, Eileen did exactly that. She died in her back yard, and I miss her a lot. Neither of us really expected to be moving out of our houses at the same time.

Ever since it happened, I can see all the activity across the street. Her family is emptying and readying the house for sale, while over here, I am doing the same in mine – with what I’m trying to pass off as my unselfish personal heroism and nobility. I know perfectly well, of course, that Eileen is having the last giggle at my expense.

Full disclosure: so okay, my kids have been up to their necks helping me, but still . . .

Today, the moving date got scheduled. For 5 days from now. So what, you may ask, am I doing with my feet up, blobbing on my iPad? BECAUSE OTHERWISE, MY HAIR WILL BE STANDING ON END, AND I’LL BE SUCKING MY THUMB!

By next week at this time, I’ll have either joined Eileen – or son Matthew and I will be new residents of Enumclaw, Washington. More to follow next week. I hope.

Oops! Almost forgot. . . . Happy 4th of July, everybody!

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413. Hot Flash!

Posted on June 27, 2021 by Octo-woman

Seattle is just learning that you’re never too old to be having a hot flash. Unfortunately, due to our normal 70-80 degree summer weather, most of the citizenry were under the impression that air conditioning is a feature they put in movie theaters to congeal the popcorn butter. Not to be installed in our houses! But as a fearsome surprise to everybody, these are the warnings we’re getting this week:

“Historic heat wave begins in Pacific Northwest today. The Weather Service calling it “historic, dangerous, prolonged and unprecedented.” Seattle is now forecast to hit 107 Monday, Portland 110 on Sunday, Spokane 112 on Tuesday …”

Right now, it’s the previous Saturday and the outdoor temperature is 96 degrees, but please remain calm. I know there’s lots of worrisome talk about how it’s all due to climate change, but instead, I’m pretty sure I may be partially responsible for it. It’s not fair, but, obviously, the weather has it in for me!

A few minutes ago – in my un-air-conditioned house – I just finished packing the 67th box for the movers to transport to Enumclaw. The splotches on the boxes aren’t from my tears – it’s from SWEAT!

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Meanwhile, all morning, a very interesting sociological drama has been taking place in the house. Son Matthew and I will be moving from a 12 room house to a 5 room house. I had planned to hire a moving company to deliver a lot of the excess furniture to donate to Goodwill or St. Vincent de Paul, or Salvation Army. Since the pandemic started, those organizations won’t send out trucks to pick up the donations anymore, so you have to hire a truck and PAY in order to donate.

Grandson Bryce wouldn’t hear of it. “I’ll take care of it, Grandma”. (Yeah. Like I can’t recognize a cockamamie idea when I hear one.)

Bryce’s plan – executed last night (!) – was to take a photo of each piece, and post them all under the caption “Free furniture” on craigslist.com. Each bookcase, bed, chair, buffet, table, file cabinet, etc. – in all its undusted, as-is condition – was to be available to any interested parties (victims) by contacting Bryce by 11 a.m. this morning.

Too hot to sleep, I rolled out of bed at 8:30 this morning, and resumed my new career as a Skilled Packer of Moving Boxes. Meanwhile, it never occurred to me that anybody was actually going to read Bryce’s post and then act on it! Even Lawrence of Arabia travelling via camel train wasn’t about to show up on my front porch in order to enrich himself of my cast-offs, ESPECIALLY IN AN ALIEN-TO-SEATTLE HEAT WAVE.

At 10:30 am Bryce’s dad – my son-in-law Brad – opened the patio door, and rolled in two hand trucks. “The first pick-up is scheduled for 25 minutes from now”, he said. “Bryce said they’ll be taking 4 of the file cabinets.” And they did.

During the next hour and 24 minutes, – thanks to Brad’s and Bryce’s seemingly endless trips hauling items down the stairs while the temperature peaked at 101 degrees, everything had been picked up or spoken for except for the buffet, some office chairs and 2 bookcases. Ever-determined Bryce plans to re-post them soon, and yes, I fully expect he’ll be finding a good home for them.

Look how empty some of the rooms are now following Bryce’s masterful evacuation campaign. Plenty of room now to pile up more boxes!

My empty bedroom
More nearly empty bedrooms

We met some nice people this morning. Smiling in spite of the heat, – a medical doctor, a couple just moving into a houseboat, a mother and son combo, a young couple starting up a home, a graduate student – all united in their practicality and good sense in recognizing value in re-purposing and re-cycling my soon-to-be-unused-slightly-battered-but-still-useful-stuff.

Bryce, of course, was right on! Oddly, it was a day that – in spite of the heat – all who participated in the event felt like we had done something right. It was a good day, thanks to Bryce and Brad. And craigslist.com.

Before I head for a nice cool shower, just discovered that today was the 50th wedding anniversary of my niece and nephew-in-law Chris (Fitzpatrick) and Mark Milner.

It can’t be possible, can it? It seems like only yesterday, husband Gene and I were at their beautiful wedding, and we were melting in an Iowa heat wave similar to the one Seattle is frying in this week. It must have been a great time to tie the knot though. Check out the family shot for a peek at the direct result of that happy union.

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412. Moving one’s bowels

Posted on June 20, 2021 by Octo-woman

Of the house, that is. Here’s where I am on our big move to daughter and son-in-law Susy and Curt’s home in Enumclaw, Washington.

Eleven of the twelve rooms in my house have been de-cluttered so far, leaving – in a state of constipation – only one remaining bedroom and the garage. Once those blockages have been removed – maybe by Monday – I can proceed into actually packing the rest of our remaining belongings into boxes for the Movers. At that point, instead of being hampered by constipation, it’ll be more like trying to control a case of diarrhea. Stay away if you can. It won’t be pleasant.

Sharing in the backbreaking effort has been my ever faithful daughters and sons-in-law, and grandson Bryce. No matter how I plead otherwise, they still march in with determination and flexed muscles, leaving behind towers of boxes for the Movers, and with full van-loads of furniture and household donations they cart to the nearest Goodwill site.

It’s starting to feel like my house has been undergoing a gigantic enema!

All this effort has been leaving me – you should pardon the expression – all pooped out. And too tired to crank out a nice, ladylike blob this week.


Instead, how about I give you a photo preview of where we’ll be moving all those towers of boxes? Our objective in making the move is to enable Susy and Curt to gradually take over all of my son Matthew’s caregiving support. Their farm (just outside Enumclaw) is called Kartar Ridge Ranch. Other occupants on the property include my granddaughter and grandson-in-law Josie and Caleb who live in their RV, six mini-donkeys, 2 horses, 4 dogs and an assortment of cats. Also a few eagles, owls, doves, bats, rats, voles, mice, and other creatures of nature.

A contractor has just finished retrofitting the house with 36” widened doorways and ramps for Matthew’s wheelchairs, plenty of grab bars, painted the interior and laid new slip-proof flooring throughout the house, re-finished the kitchen cabinets, built a separate apartment for Susy and Curt, etc.

The contractor company is K&B Master LLC. Fittingly, the father and son who performed all the magic are named Dan and Daniel. Activities like taming ferocious biblical lions would be no challenge for those two fearsome guys. They really outdid themselves.

First, to help me face moving to 1,500 sq. ft. from 4,000 sq. ft. of space, they designed and constructed a huge porch big enough for big family get-togethers. In the second photo, you can see Dan (on the roof) and you can sort of see Daniel (in the shade on the porch) waving . . . .

  • The porch in daytime
  • Contractor Dan on roof, Daniel below on porch
The porch at night

Next, they carved out of another building on the property, a small apartment for Susy and Curt, just a few feet away from the main house. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? To ensure maximum privacy, our plan in undertaking this project was to temporarily at least, sort of kick them out of their own house. Here’s how the apartment they’re currently living in looks today, thanks to the craftsmanship of Dan and Daniel. . . .

  • Apartment kitchen
  • Apartment bedroom

And finally, here’s a couple photos of the house Matt and I will live in. Once I move on to what I hope will be my heavenly reward, Susy and Curt will move back into the main house in order to more conveniently provide Matt with his full caregiving support. Here’s a couple of glimpses of what Dan and Daniel did to the main house. I’ll post more later . . . .

  • Main house kitchen all dressed up
  • A view of the living room with new wood stove

Thank you for your outstanding work, Dan and Daniel of K&B Masters LLC. We look forward to living in the beautiful and comfortable home you “mastered” on our behalf.

And finally, my unending thanks to daughter Lisa who never gives up on me and my efforts to execute this change, and who keeps our refrigerator full of delicious meals; to daughter Gretchen who quietly organizes all the teams of her siblings and their spouses who keep providing all their backbreaking support; to Teresa and Eric whose heroic break-through marathons of work have encouraged us all; to Judy and Gary for their constant help with packing, organizing, and hauling loads to the farm; to my stoic grandson Bryce who can’t even remember how many van-loads he’s made to Goodwill so far, or the food he’s ordered and picked up so we don’t starve, or for his determined efforts to find an easy and economical way to re-home my old furniture, and for just being there every time we holler for help; to Joe and Caleb for all the sweat-labor they put in to move out my bedroom furniture to its new location; and finally to Brad, Susy and Curt – whose help has been never-ending and beyond description for this mere blob! THANK YOU, EVERYONE!

  • Mini-donkeys having lunch
  • Awaiting their new neighbors

And, oh yes, I didn’t forget you, ladies. Thank you, too. Get those Hee-Haws ready for your new neighbors. Don’t worry about all that poop we’ll be bringing. There’ll still be plenty of room left for yours.

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411. Arden graduates

Posted on June 13, 2021 by Octo-woman

Last week, another family member received his advanced degree, welcoming him into the groves of Academe. My grandson, Arden Taylor, received his Master’s degree in Classical Japanese. One of those high-paying, in-demand, hot specialties sure to guarantee that he’ll be driving his Maserati to the bank when cashing his 6-figure payroll checks. (Things could be dimmer though, financially speaking. His second choice was to be a haiku poet.)

Among other major developments in his life, Arden is currently prepping to begin work on his Ph.D, and will spend another year of intensive study in Japan. If, like me, you have no idea what classical Japanese is, think Latin. Like his Great Uncle Leo – a Latin teacher – Arden is a scholar of a language which is no longer in actual use.

Classical Japanese is the literary form of the Japanese language that was the standard till about 1926 when novelists started writing in a spoken form of the language. It seems to me that the novelists in Japan did to the classical Japanese language the same thing Ernest Hemingway did to the English language. They pared it down to be friendlier, less flowery, and easier to read, and the rest, as they say, is history. (In movies and theater, Akira Kurosawa must have played a bit of an influencing role, too). Nonetheless, classical Japanese is still taught in Japanese high schools and universities because of its importance in traditional Japanese literature. And therein lies Arden’s interest and his chosen “life’s work”.

I’m always interested in the choices we make in our “life’s work”. In today’s world, it’s an ever-changing role. During the ten years I was pregnant, it seemed to me that the one I was stuck with could be called the practice of Excessive Fertility. Husband Gene and I managed to produce a whole houseful of little persons who required intense manual labor and economic poverty. Oddly, though, I have since had experience in the practice (and improved remuneration) of other “life’s work”, but it turned out that the results of that original one inflicted on me during my twenties is the one I most treasure and appreciate today.

And so it will probably be with Arden and all the rest of my grandchildren. The nuclear age they live in will encourage and reward those who don’t fear change. I am exceedingly proud of Arden and the depth and maturity of his choice of “life’s work”. And while he’ll probably never take any intense interest in more lucrative vocations such as rocket science or in managing a hedge fund, his interests and talents may evolve in other interesting tangents.

When it comes to vocation, what matters is if we can find that “sweet spot” – the work we love. Whoever said “Choose a job you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life!” got it right!

Arden’s family – his sibling Corr, and his parents Judy and Gary Taylor – make up a family of extraordinary talents. My daughter Judy, as a example, is an award-winning writer and an international authority on Nantucket rug hooking. Among the treasures she has produced is the rug shown here. It bears a quote by Thomas Carlyle which reads
“Blessed is he who has found his work;
Let him ask no other blessedness”.

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So I guess Arden came by his choice naturally. And we certainly saw his interest at an early age. Check out this video of when he was 13 months old. (We called him Gwendolyn in those days). I like to think he was trying to teach himself the ancient art of proper Asian tea serving. And he wasn’t about to give up easily. . . .

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Fast forward a few years, and here’s his faculty advisor at the University of Washington describing the text of Arden’s thesis regarding “The Tale of the Heike” (pronounced “hay-kay”). The professor’s description begins about 3 minutes in from the start of the video.

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And here’s a dramatization of “Nasu-no-yoichi”  (“The Fan Target”) which Arden said is one of the most popular episodes of the tale.

So, okay, Arden, your subject matter may never go viral on YouTube, but then again, neither will these blobs. I keep posting them anyway because – what the heck – somebody’s gotta do it! Keep the faith, and carry on, child! And write if you get work!

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410. Joan’s Requiem

Posted on June 6, 2021 by Octo-woman

This weekend, my sister Joan’s family marked her passing with a family reunion in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, a reception vigil in her memory, her Requiem Mass at St. Patrick’s Church, and a luncheon. She must have loved every minute of it. I know I did, even from here in Seattle. Thanks to the wonders of the internet, and the kindness of my nieces and nephews, they made sure those of us in Seattle could share in the events, too.

As part of the activities, her children had compiled a video made up of an interview with Joan by my husband Gene during one of her and her husband Tommy’s visits with us, and heartfelt, endearing stories about her by her children Chris, Tim, Jeff, Rene and Denise. They played it at the vigil. You can watch it here.

St. Patrick’s – Joan’s parish till age 18.

The Requiem Mass was celebrated at Saint Patrick’s Church in Cedar Rapids. The church is breathtakingly beautiful today, but it wasn’t always this way. The church has been at its present location on the west side in Cedar Rapids since 1892 when it was founded to serve the growing Irish immigrant population. Those were hard times and cosmetically, the church’s facilities were more humble than they are today, but they were exceedingly important in our everyday lives.

The altar you’ll be seeing in this video of the Mass is the same altar where nearly everybody in Joan’s and my family and my husband’s family were baptised, received First Communion, Confirmation, were graduated from Kindergarten through 12th grade, and for some, were married by either of our three priests – Father (Msgr) Lenihan, Father Peters, or Father Derga, and where most of those who have died – such as Joan – had their Requiem Mass. For me, watching the quiet dignity of Joan’s Mass was like coming home.

You can access the URL for the Mass on niece Chris’s Facebook account below. You’ll see Chris giving the Book of Revelations reading, and my nephew-in-law deacon Dan Melchior – niece Rene’s husband – giving the beautiful eulogy. And you’ll see glimpses of more of our treasured family, too.

https://www.facebook.com/cmmilner

It was beautiful, Joan. I will love you forever. Requiescat in Pace!

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408. Say hello to my little friend.

Posted on May 23, 2021 by Octo-woman

He lives in my back yard, along with two of his chums.

Several years ago, my son-in-law Brad presented me with three garden gnomes and assured me that their job would be to “look after” the yard at night. Far be it from me to complain about such an act of mercy, but the plan has had some glitches.

According to tradition, garden gnomes bring good luck and good harvest to the gardener who invites them in. And they’re supposed to “take care” of the gardens at night. Now, I know those little guys are vertically challenged. I certainly don’t expect them to be climbing up and pruning the tall magnolia tree, but they’re the perfect size for WEEDING. My idea of them “taking care” of the garden means pulling up the chickweed and dandelions after nightfall. Is that too much to ask?

Dahlia garden, paths by grandson Ford

Since they took up residence, I’ve learned a lot more about them and their strange habits. I know for instance, that despite their Viking heritage, they’re quite shy. I’m always finding them hiding out under the dahlias or behind a boxwood shrub. And they enjoy music, especially the musical chimes hung there for their entertainment by my granddaughter Josie.

Coral bark maple tree with granddaughter Josie’s wind chimes

And they like fairies, too.

Under the camellias
St. Francis

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And the same goes for St. Francis, even though he never smiles at them, only at the animals. (I have always suspected that St. Francis thinks the little gnomes are pagan. (But not the fairy, of course. She’s Irish.)

All three of those bearded guys are tolerant of dogs, crows, bees, grasshoppers, and visiting rabbits, but cats they’re suspicious of since we don’t have one. I’ve also learned that they’re terrified of the leaf blower, possibly because I have never properly mastered its operation and my use of it tends to be unpredictable. I think they’re scared of slugs, too (and who wouldn’t be?)

Garden shed built by Brad, Bryce and Ford

This is the garden shed Brad and my grandsons Bryce and Ford built in the back yard where the gnomes live. Notice the red door. It coordinates nicely with their wearing apparel. Besides beards, all gnomes wear red pointy hats, not because of their politics, but because of their association with fishermen of yore who wore white hats at night onboard ship in order to be seen, and red ones the rest of the time, presumably in an effort to attract mermaids.

I know that most people believe that garden gnomes get busy at night taking care of some of the smaller yard chores, but I have to be perfectly frank. My three gnomes tend to be kind of lazy, and that’s the truth. Guess who did most of the work you’re seeing here? ME, THAT’S WHO.

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Rhododendron from middle school boyfriend of daughter Teresa, with allium, irises from friend Linda Lewis, and Nelly Moser clematis from Costco

I should give credit to the gnomes though. It’s been very easy living with them because they’re self-sufficient and they don’t require any special care or feeding. And the photos you’re seeing here are proof that, yes, they are fulfilling their primary job requirement — to ensure a good harvest for my plants. (Even though our marijuana plants got blight two years in a row. Same with the tomatoes, the only edibles I ever tried to grow.))

Chairs, back patio itself, and gnomes by son-in-law Brad, red Sprinkling can planter from granddaughter Elizabeth
Tulips at front porch

Last August, my doctor unkindly suggested that I have perhaps become too “unbalanced” to be tip-toeing through the tulips, and that one more tripping incident may force me to have to permanently abstain from hula-dancing. So no more gardening for a while. It’s been 9 months now. During that time, wouldn’t you think the gnomes would step up their work? But no, now they’re sulking, because I have been forced to bring in some competitors.

My grandchild Corr Linn works for a landscaping company called the People’s Gardening Collective. They have been coming in to deal bravely and effectively with the forest primeval I live in, but I can tell the gnomes are struggling. After all, they’re used to working side-by-side with a fairly harmless, fumbling old lady, not these tall masked marauders who seem to actually know what they’re doing. And what if they don’t like funny looking little creatures in red hats getting in their way? Could somebody get stepped on?

Maybe there’ll be less tension once we move to Susy and Curt’s farm in Enumclaw. I expect all the mini-donkeys will be excited to meet their new neighbors with the pointy red hats. Or not.

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Seattle home of the Ford Horde 1972 – 2021

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407. Do you remember . . .

Posted on May 16, 2021 by Octo-woman
Don Ford 1922 – 2012

Among the interesting stuff I’ve unearthed while decluttering and packing for our move to Enumclaw, is the following list from my brother-in-law Don Ford. I was thinking it’d be fun to blob about it – till I remembered that hardly anybody reading this is old enough for the test. Here it is anyway, as an artifact of prehistoric times, and as an indicator of which generation you’re part of.

”Do you remember a time when . . .

Decisions were made by going “eeny-meeny-miney-moe?
Mistakes were corrected by simply exclaiming, “Do over!”?
”Race issue” meant arguing about who ran the fastest?
Catching fireflies in Iowa could happily occupy an entire evening?
It wasn’t odd to have two or three “Best Friends”?
The worst thing you could catch from the opposite sex was “cooties”?
Having a weapon in school meant being caught with a slingshot?
A foot of snow was a dream come true?
”Oly-oly-oxen-free made perfect sense?
War was a card game?
Baseball cards in the spokes transformed any bike into a motorcycle?
Taking drugs meant orange-flavored chewable aspirin?
Water balloons were the ultimate weapon?
Nearly everyone’s Mom was at home when the kids got home from school?
Nobody owned a purebred dog?
You’d reach into a muddy gutter for a penny?
You could buy a wax Coke-shaped bottle with colored sugar water inside for one cent?
Your family had home milk delivery in glass bottles with cardboard stoppers?
They threatened to keep kids back a grade if they failed . . . and they did?
You got your windshield cleaned, oil checked, and gas pumped, without asking, all for free, every time? And you didn’t pay for air? And you got trading stamps to boot?


Don’t worry if you flopped the “test”. According to today’s demographers and the U.S. Census Bureau, the age of each of us supposedly fits into a category. If, like me, you can never remember which one you’re in, here they are:

Generation Z (Gen Z): born in or after 1997
Generation Y (Gen Y or Millennials): born 1981 – 1996
Generation X (Gen X): born 1965 – 1980
Baby Boomers: born 1946 – 1964
Silent Generation: born 1928 – 1945 (Octo-woman’s generation)
Greatest Generation: born before 1928. (Uncle Don’s generation)

So unless you’re in one of the last 2 or 3 generations listed above, the answer to Uncle Don’s question “Do you remember?”, has to be “Nope.”

And if you’re a Gen-Zer, you’re entitled to definitely consider the list of questions to be hopelessly “cheugy” (pronounced “chew-ghee”). I just learned the word this week. According to the Seattle Times, it’s a Gen-Z word meaning old-fashioned, “old hat”, or “so yesterday”. Sounds like it’s right down my alley.

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406. What if there were no dentists?

Posted on May 9, 2021 by Octo-woman

It’s Mother’s Day, which I’m celebrating with a toothache. Ouchie!

I have to schedule a visit to see son-in-law Eric, who is trained to know how to deal with quivering, terror-stricken tooth decay victims. He’s the only dentist in my so-called grown-up life whose dental care was able to curb my fear of the dental chair, but it will never be my favorite place to sit. And I know full well the outcome of my visit won’t be what I’m hoping for. It never is. Here’s how I WISH the visit would go:

Eric: Hi, Pat! Nice to see you.

Me (glumly): Help! I have an ow-ie right here on the right side of my mouth. It hurts when I chew anything, even yogurt or bubblegum.

Dr. Eric

Eric: Hmm. Well, let’s take an X-ray and get to the bottom of this amazing, extraordinary toothache event which has happened multiple times to every single remaining tooth you still have left requiring endless dental repairs necessary because you refuse to brush and floss twice a day like I keep telling you to do but you never listen.

Me (modestly): Just skip the flattery, Doc. What’s the bad news? I can take it.

Eric (after the X-rays): Okay, here’s the problem. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Pat, but it looks like you haven’t been eating enough Macademia Nut Clusters. Your teeth are suffering from this deficiency. The Snickers Bars and Oreo cookies and Gummi Bears just aren’t enough. The pain you’ve been experiencing can only be remedied with more sugar. For some immediate relief, you’ll have to stop at Costco’s on your way home. But look at the bright side – besides eliminating your severe pain, you’ll be accumulating 2% cash back on the purchase using your Costco Visa card.

That’s how it’ll go in my dreams.

In real life, what Eric will be telling me will be . . . .

  1. I have a severely abscessed tooth the decay of which has penetrated the occipital lobe of the right hemisphere of my brain which if left untreated will result in hair loss, possible toenail fungus, or a violently painful death, automatically cancelling my AARP subscription even though it’s paid up 3 years in advance. And, . . . .
  2. It’s time to bid a somber farewell to yet another tooth which has, yes, passed away. And you know what happens to dead teeth, don’t you? They are either designated for the nearest landfill to await their future discovery by tomorrow’s paleo-archeologists, or, they have to have root canals. And root canals have to have crowns. And crowns have to have insurance companies spitting on them when their financing has exceeded their coverage limit, or because, so far, in spite of my son-in-law’s impeccable dental artistry, not even one of mine has been featured on an Emmy award-winning TV series. And, . . . .
  3. As always, Eric will once more try to carefully explain that due to what I consider to be her obvious and politically incorrect age-bias, I’ve got to quit expecting the Tooth Fairy to show up.

Okay, full disclosure. All babbling aside, I have to confess that the universal mantra of today’s dentists is to “Cause no pain”. Even when the patient is their mother-in-law. (True heroism in action.)

Think about it. It’s likely that the only real pain you’ll receive from a good modern dentist in today’s world is when you open his bill. For cowards like me though, the fear-factor rears it’s head in the anticipation – not the execution – of the dental work. And there’s a very good reason for that. That fear was sensibly inbred in us by our cavemen predecessors.

It all started about 10,000 years ago when the hot new technology called agriculture hit the Neolithic scene and hunter-gathering became -let’s say – prehistoric. For millions of years before that, – thanks to their healthy diet of rhinoceros, wild sheep, mushrooms, nuts, seeds and other plants,- early humans who preceded us had nearly perfect teeth even though (gasp) they didn’t brush and floss twice a day. Once they learned to farm, the carbs they learned to grow and chomp on changed all that. From then on, they got big bad cavities just like the sugar eaters of today do.

As a human species, the Neanderthals did go extinct, but not before they inbred with our own homo sapiens species so many of us share some of their DNA.

Don’t read this next part unless you love horror movies. As the cast for our nightmare theater offering, let’s use this little Neanderthal family. According to Wikipedia, here’s reconstructions of how a Daddy, a Mommy, and a 9 year old Daughter could have looked.

Reconstruction of images of Neanderthals

Apparently, while earlier human species may not have been able to communicate with a spoken language, it’s now believed that the more advanced Neanderthals were able to make many of the speech sounds we can make, sometimes interspersed with a kind of musical note. When we consider how they received their dental care, though, you can be dead sure, they also knew how to scream bloody murder.

Try to imagine dealing with an abscessed tooth back then. For temporary pain relief, you could chew the bark of a poplar tree which contains a chemical similar to aspirin. Kind of the equivalent of spitting on a four-alarm fire.

Ancient dentistry and tools
Tooth with beeswax filling

This is the kind of dental care our little family had to look forward to. I wish I hadn’t exposed myself to this information, but there’s lots of evidence to show that in an effort to remove decayed tissue, rotten teeth were deliberately hammered, scoured and scraped, possibly with a small flint blade. To fill the hole, they may have used beeswax which could have been a pretty good filling material because it’s soft and easy to work when warmed but becomes solid at human body temperature. It also has the added benefit of antibacterial and anti-inflammatory properties. And if all that didn’t work, the tooth got dug out permanently. With a flint blade. With coca leaves for an anesthetic. We can only wonder how many of the victims actually survived their ancient dental treatment.

You can count on this: the heroic Daddy and Mommy and little Daughter in our horror scene were a lot braver than we are, but along with all that farming they were doing in those days they must have planted the big seed of fear in the 24% of us who acquired the fear of going to the dentist.

As time went on, dental care improved – at least according to the Tooth Fairy. By the middle of the 19th century, you could get your dental care from your neighborhood barber, probably because he was the only one with the right kind of chair. And pliers.

According to Elizabeth Roberts, MA, in the History of Medicine: “Up until the 19th century barbers were generally referred to as barber-surgeons, and they were called upon to perform a wide variety of tasks. They treated and extracted teeth, branded slaves, created ritual tattoos or scars, cut out gallstones and hangnails, set fractures, gave enemas, and lanced abscesses. Whereas physicians of their age examined urine or studied the stars to determine a patient’s diagnosis, barber-surgeons experienced their patients up close and personal.”

A tooth extraction at the barbershop

I guess they also gave haircuts.

Looking back, I know we’ve come a long way, and there’s hope for the future. CAD/CAM and 3D printing will someday improve some of today’s procedures, and scientists are learning to grow new tissue in decayed teeth. They also promise that they’re diligently at work trying to grow new teeth. Humans are supposed to only have two sets, but a third set may be on its way. As usual, rats and mice are getting theirs first, so don’t stand in line just yet.

There’s one more advancement I’d like to see. I wish I could bring my mouth to Eric’s office, leave it there, go out to lunch, and then come back and pick it up all finished. Wouldn’t that be great? In the meantime, I’m just going to thank heaven for all the good dentists of the world who – like Eric – walk through fire to prevent and relieve pain and who reluctantly keep it possible that we can keep scarfing down all those chewy Macademia Nut Clusters.

Speaking of great, during the time I’ve been writing this blob, THE TOOTHACHE WENT AWAY. I don’t know where to though. Maybe the Tooth Fairy came and got it, doing her job, for once. What a nice Mother’s Day gift! Whew!

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