Category Archives: Uncategorized

Making My Bed

Leave a reply

I am making my bed tonight, with the freshly laundered duvet cover. It is a queen size duvet and it is a struggle to get the duvet cover onto the duvet single-handedly. I struggled with this job the first four years after Bill’s death, and about six months ago I searched on YouTube for a solution.  There had to be an easier way. You can find almost anything on YouTube, from cleaning patios with a power washer to cleaning out plumbing lines to getting a duvet into its cover single-handedly. 

Bill and I used to do this job together, each of us grabbing a lower corner of the duvet and then quickly stuffing it to the upper corner of the cover. Then we would race to button the buttons on the opening, each trying to beat the other to the center of the row. Finally, together we would grab the corners of the duvet in its cover and shake it vigorously to fluff it out. The whole process always felt like a timed competition, but we got the job done.

Tonight I follow the directions from YouTube:  I lay the inside-out duvet cover on the bed, with the opening at the bottom of the bed. Lay the duvet on top of it. Tie the cords of the duvet to each loop of the four corners of the duvet cover; mine has cords and they keep the duvet from sliding around. Then I start at the top and roll the duvet and cover, like a jelly roll or burrito. When I reach the bottom, I reach inside and pull the cover over each of the ends, and then start rolling it back to the top of the bed-—this last part is the tricky bit and confuses me, but it comes out all right in the end. The duvet cover is on the outside, and I slowly button the buttons on the opening, working from right to left, calmly, quietly. I am reminded of the tea ceremony Bill and I  attended in China: every movement calm and measured.

At last I grasp the bottom corners of the duvet and gently fluff it into the air, white against the peach walls of my bedroom. It settles quietly on the bed and lies still. My bed is made.

Road Trip

2 Replies

A few days ago I returned from a road trip that covered over three thousand miles, from my home to northern Minnesota and back. My thirteen year-old granddaughter Emma was with me.

 It was a trip that Bill and I had taken many times over the years, and that I had driven one-way a few times when our children were in their teens. Bill was always the principal driver; I was the relief pitcher, who took the wheel during the long boring stretches through western Indiana. Once in a while I drove more challenging sections, but Bill always did the tough parts, like getting through and around cities.

I thought about that as Emma and I tried to make our way through Indianapolis, where I think the motto must be “You Can’t Get There from Here.” But we did it, after heading up the wrong interstate and having to reverse ourselves. I tried to keep each day’s drive to eight hours of driving time, maximum, having learned my lesson from last summer when I drove ten hours one day.

new car

On the return trip, we took a two day break, something that Bill and I never did. We dipped south and spent two days at the Kentucky Horse Park in Lexington, patting the soft faces of many mares and geldings. In a way, the trip symbolized the strong independent person I have become. I can drive every mile, even the toughest ones.

Five Years Later

2 Replies

July 17, 2015

Dear Bill,

This past Tuesday July 14th was the fifth anniversary of your death. I would rather remember the happy times—your birthday, our wedding anniversary, holidays—but I spent the day thinking of you. My friend Sandra W—you knew her, too—came over at 9:00 am and we spent almost two hours weeding the shady part of the pollinator garden I had planted in your memory in the fall of 2010. Remember that you said, “Now you’ve got a problem!” when we had that area cleared of invasive Japanese honeysuckle right before your death? You were right; the native plants are slowly filling in the space, but the weeds still creep in and need constant battling. But you would be happy to see all the native bees and the many butterflies. I put one of the bird houses you built in the center of the bed, and the old garden bench sits under one of the red bud tree, with your memorial rock next to the bench.

You have gone, but that garden has moved on and grown. I have moved on, too, in a way, out of the deep grief that gripped me for the first few years into an acceptance of this new life on my own. You told me that I could do it, that I was smart and brave and strong. I think you would be proud of all that I have done these past five years. Here are some of them:

Dealt with termite infestation of the house and barn, with falling trees and broken fences, with broken plumbing and broken equipment.

Learned to jump start the pick up truck (because I don’t drive it enough to keep the battery charged.)

Improved the outdoor lighting, had solartubes installed, and got the house, barn and storage shed re-roofed.

Had an energy audit performed on the house and had the attic completely re-insulated.

Had the driveway redone with “chip and seal.” I don’t think you would approve of that, however. Our son sure doesn’t.

Bought an Apple computer, and an iPad and an iPhone.

Adopted a sweet old dog.

Underwent a dental implant, two wisdom teeth extractions, a venous ablation, and a total knee replacement—and I really dreaded the latter without you here to support me.

Drove solo to Minnesota and back, 3000 miles round trip, three times.

Traveled by myself to Ecuador, the Galapagos Islands, and to the Baltic countries.

Traveled with Marie Y (remember her from our Thailand trip?) to the Balkan coast and to Patagonia, where I landed on Cape Horn.

And I took Emma to Africa on a safari, as I promised you I would.

Now I look into the future, with more projects to keep this place together—-the pool to be re-plastered, the house to be painted, new shrubs and trees to be planted—and more places to travel—Great Britain with Emma Rose, the Orkney Islands, a return to New Zealand and Australia to see friends and family, maybe Japan.

And however much time may pass, my love for you will never fade. You are in my heart always.

Your loving wife,

Kristin

To Love and To Cherish

2 Replies

June 5, 2015

 

Fifty years ago today I walked down the aisle of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church.  I was wearing a floor length ivory wedding dress and veil and I held the arm of my father dressed in his blue Army uniform. I was not at all sure I was doing the right thing, but I did not see backing out as an option. By the altar stood Bill wearing his Navy dress whites. He was very thin and suntanned from serving on a U.S. destroyer off the coast of the Dominican Republic during its civil war.  I had seen him briefly on a weekend in February when he had been home on leave, but then not for four months. The day before the wedding he flew to Chicago from Norfolk, and we had had only a little time together before his college friends took him off for a stag party.  I was not at all sure who this stranger at the altar was. He seemed very constrained and rigid the day before, and the sense of humor that had so appealed to me had been no where in evidence.

 

By Bill’s side stood his best man Steve and the minister.  Proceeding down the aisle before me were Gwyn my maid of honor, and my sister Kara-Lynn. They were wearing short white lace dresses lined with yellow and white lace kerchiefs on their heads, made by Gwyn and my mother. Even by wedding standards of the day, it was a simple wedding. I was paying for most of the expense myself, out of my savings. I had graduated from college in May and then had worked for a month in the drama department; Gwyn and I had stayed in a our rental apartment, but for the past week we had been packing up our things. The day before we had loaded my boxes into Bill’s mother’s car.

 

Now I was at the altar, and when my father gave my hand to Bill, I was reassured by Bill’s warm brown eyes. The man I loved was there, under the disguise of this young thin Naval officer. My father sat down next to my mother in a front pew.  My parents and sister had flown in from Oregon and had met Bill for the first time the day before.

 
Bill and I said the traditional vows: “to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do us part.” We exchanged the plain gold bands, and were declared man and wife. We walked down the aisle together while the organ played. Our life’s journey together had begun, and it would be one filled with babies and homes, tears and laughter, worries and triumphs, amazing adventures, and throughout all the years it would be a journey supported by steadfast love.

Kali, A Good Dog

4 Replies

May 21, 2015

This morning I put Kali’s ashes to rest under the witch hazel, in the Secret Garden that was one

of Kali’s favorite spots on a hot day. It was gray and raining lightly, but four years ago today

when Kali came to live with me, it was a clear day full of sunshine. I had driven to her foster

home in northern Maryland to pick her up. She was happy to go in the car–I would soon learn

that Kali was always happy to go in the car–and settled down in the backseat while I drove to

Olney to pick up Emma. Emma declared her a “sausage dog” and it was true Kali was

overweight and not the trim Brittany spaniel she would become.

I had read that dogs do not understand that they are traveling distances when going places by

car, and that when introducing a dog to a new home, you should walk the dog there. And so I

parked the car at the turnaround, and the three of us walked the rest of the way, Kali tugging

and straining on the leash. Despite being ten years old, she did not know how to heel or stay or

come. She knew how to sit, though that was hard with her hip dysplasia and arthritis, and she

knew how to pick up a paw on command.

Bringing Kali into my home was one of the best things I could have done. Bill had been dead not

quite a year, and I was emerging out of the fog of the first year of grief into the second year of

mourning, when you realize that there is no magic, he is not coming back, this is how it is going

to be forever. Kali brought me the unconditional love of a sweet dog. I soon learned that Kali’s

one mission in life was keeping track of me. When we were outside as we were much of the

time in good weather, she would wander a bit in the fenced yard, sniffing out chipmunks and

squirrels, but she soon would come bounding back to find me. Now and then she lost me and

would go to the kitchen door and bark, thinking I had gone inside. Then I had to call her, or lay

down my gardening tools and go retrieve her. When I went swimming, she would pace around

the pool anxiously. Most Brittany spaniels like the water, but not Kali.

Inside my small house, Kali stayed close to me, and I bought three beds to keep her old bones

comfortable in the living room, study, and bedroom. The family room was off limits to her, as it

was the cats’ gated refuge, but if I went in there to watch television I would snap on her leash

and hitch her to the ottoman leg: her whining at the gate had worn me down. At bedtime I was

comforted by her gentle snoring on the floor by my bedside, though sometimes I was awakened by

her yipping and her paws scratching against the wall while she pursued a chipmunk in her

dreams.

When I returned home from errands or activities, Kali greeted me at the door, stubby tail

wagging. During her last year, she no longer got off her living room bed to greet me, but simply

raised her head alertly. Now and then I knelt on her bed to rub her belly and cuddle her, with a

doggy smile as my reward.

One morning in January, Kali had great difficulty getting to her feet and then in walking. She

settled on her bed in the study, and although she got to her feet twice, tail wagging hard, she did not

walk. She drank a little water but wanted no food. “Stroke,” said the vet when he came to

the house the next day, and gave her the injection to ease her out of this world, while I cradled

her head and wept. “You’re a good dog, Kali, a very good dog,” I told her.

FullSizeRender (4)And that is what I told her again this morning, while I patted the dirt firmly over the velveteen bag holding her ashes, and the stuffed toy that came with her when I adopted her. And that is what the stone says that marks her resting place: Kali A Good Dog.

Shopping Adventures

2 Replies

May 26, 2015

How many of you like shopping at the big box hardware stores, such as Home Depot or Lowe’s? I know I don’t. Bill used to make most of the shopping trips to Home Depot, sometimes going back two or three times on the same day because he forgot something or bought the wrong thing. But after Bill’s death, these shopping adventures fell to me.  I never can find what I am looking for, and I wander the long aisles pushing my cart, or a heavy trolley if I am looking for fence boards and posts to repair the latest mishap to my fences. I never can find anyone to help me. On my last trip to Home Depot before my knee surgery, when I was in extreme pain, I wanted to lie down on the floor and kick and scream. The adult Me had better sense and went to the Customer Service desk for help.

Today was my first trip to a big box hardware store since my surgery, and last night I decided to put the Internet to work for me. I went online and ordered three items at my local Lowe’s for store pickup: four pressure treated fence boards, nine bags of mulch, and a bottle of wood siding mold cleaner. I also planned to buy pots of vegetables and perennials when I was at the store, but I had a vision of rolling up in my old pick-up truck, showing a copy of my online order, and having my items loaded without getting out of the truck. A telephone message directing me to Register 3 for a receipt dispelled that vision.

My first mistake was parking the truck as far from Register 3 as it was humanly possible to do. Granted, it was relatively close to the plant section of the store (Register 24.) My second mistake was not wearing a sun hat. The day had turned hot and the sky clear, and it took me some time to find the plants I wanted under the glaring sun. Even inside the store it was quite warm, and I had remembered that I needed nails for the fence repair. After wandering a bit, I found someone to help me, a plus. I could have ordered the nails online, saving me time and trouble, but who remembers everything?

At the far end of the store I found Register 3, with a big banner over the aisle: Online Orders. The young clerk only needed my phone number to trace my order. One of my items, the wood siding mold cleaner, was at the register, but I was told to bring my truck around and by the time I returned, the lumber part of my order would be waiting for me. So I trudged outside to the opposite end of the parking lot to my truck. By this time, both knees were hurting. Sure enough, when I parked the truck in the pick-up zone and went inside, the four fence boards were waiting for me: 2×4 by 8 feet just as the order stated, but I had ordered the wrong size.  My concept of inches is fuzzy, to be sure, but I know what my fence boards look like. 

By this time sweat was pouring down my forehead and I again was contemplating lying on the floor, but the nice clerk credited the return of the boards. The lumber aisle was opposite Register 3, and after despairing for a few minutes, just wanting to go home, I looked for the right size lumber, sans cart.

I found the right boards (1×6 by 8 feet), and two store staff saw me and came to help. One of them loaded the boards on a cart, pushed the cart to the register, and loaded the boards in my truck.

Then receipt in hand, I drove to the far side of the store (Register 24 side) and into a loading area where two helpful staff loaded the nine bags of mulch. All in all, the online shopping was a better strategy than roaming the aisles, but next time I must remember to measure lumber and preorder as many items as I can.

But I hope fervently that the next time is a long time away.

Mid-Stream

1 Reply

March 20, 2015

On March 2nd, I had a total knee replacement of the right knee and now I am recuperating. I am doing quite well, or so my physical therapist and doctor tell me. I can do some things, but not others. I can walk without a walker or a cane inside the house. I do use my walking stick when I go outside, but I am limited as to where I can walk. My therapist worries about me walking on my lawn which is full of dips and bumps. I asked her the other day if I could go home and pick up sticks–it was a bright and beautiful day–but she shook her head no. Today I asked if I could climb on my stepladder to fill my bird feeders. No climbing, she said.

And in truth, I have little energy to do much of anything. I come home from physical therapy–driven to and from by generous friends–and collapse into the LaFuma lounge chair where I can elevate my feet above my heart. From that vantage point I can look out the picture window to see all the sticks littering the lawn, and the birds sorting through the leaf litter in search of insect life. I think I have to accept being becalmed for a while, on this quiet island in the middle of the busy stream that is my life. And what better month to be caught mid-stream than the month of March, which is such a mix of winter and early spring? Fat wet snowflakes fell this morning on the snow-drops on the lawn.

In time April will come and I will be stronger and will once more be wading in the waters of my life.

Night Song

Leave a reply

February 27, 2015

Upon my hill the deer are sleeping
Dark shapes upon the snow
Upon my hill the deer are sleeping
Their breaths are rising slow

And the dogs may bark
And the bells may ring
And the sirens sound on high

But upon my hill the deer will sleep
Dark shapes upon the snow
Dark shapes upon the snow

The Slings and Arrows of Outrageous Fortunes

2 Replies

February 24, 2015

I have not posted anything for weeks because I have been steamrolled by circumstances. January 17-19 a crew was here to improve the insulation levels in my attic. They cleaned out the old insulation and sprayed in open-cell foam and cellulose insulation. Money well spent, I think, but a week later I discovered hot water running down the inside of one bank of kitchen cupboards. One of the crew had accidentally whacked a hot water pipe in the attic, a water pipe critical for my hot water baseboard heating system. The repairs were expensive and messy, involving cutting holes in the kitchen and bathroom ceilings. My electric wall oven also was damaged. The insulation company took responsibility but I have yet to see a check from their insurance company for my expenses. Repair crews were tracking in and out of here for days.

When one bad thing happens, it is harder to be resilient when the next trouble hits. The snow plow crew tore up the tar and chip driveway that was installed last August, plowing the top layer of granite chips into big piles at the top of my driveway. They will fix it, but it is frustrating to see work undone.

A few days later I found tiny holes in the wood paneling of my living room; I suspect the termites are back and am waiting for the termite inspector.

I reminded myself that it was just a home and driveway, just things, and that my loved ones were all right. And then my sweet old dog woke up one morning and could not walk without falling down. My farewell to Kali will follow in another post.

The British have a saying: “Mustn’t fuss, could be worse.” I will keep that in mind.

Dancing out the Tree

Leave a reply

January 9, 2015

Taking down the Christmas tree is never as much joy as putting it up. The party is over, the candles are snuffed out, and now the long winter is here. As I undressed the tree on 12th Night, I told the tree that it would be serving a new purpose outdoors, providing some of its branches as mulch under the azaleas and rhododendron, and sharing the rest of its branches and trunk as shelter for the small birds against the bitter cold. I don’t know if the tree felt better, but I did. I played the new Christmas CD that my brother had sent me as a gift, looked at the new fallen snow outside, and gently undressed the tree.

Then there was the problem of getting the eight-foot tree out of my house by myself. I left that job until today. Fortunately there are no stairs here, and it is not far from my living room to the back door, but this is a large and heavy tree. Bill used to unscrew the tree stand from the tree, with me helping to keep it upright while he did that job. Then he would pull the tree out of the stand and take the trunk end, and I would seize the top. Together we would carry it out.

My mother told me stories of how they used to dance the Christmas tree out of the house, carrying it from room to room. Probably they did not keep the tree in the house for two or three weeks, and there were not as many dry needles to drop. Bill and I never tried dancing the tree out, and I was not going to start now.

I found these instructions on-line. Get a bucket, a turkey baster, old rags, a very large sheet, and binder clips. Get down on the floor and empty the tree stand using the turkey baster. Move the furniture so you will have a clear space to drop the tree, and clear the path to the door. Spread the old sheet on the floor, at an angle so that the trunk will be pointing toward the exit.  Now grab the tree and pull it down, stand and all, with the trunk end pointing toward the exit. Oops! There is still water in the stand and now the sheet and the rug underneath are flooded. Run and get the biggest beach towels you can find and sop up the water! Note to self: next year, lay down a plastic tablecloth first, then a layer of beach towels, and use an old sheet, not one of your new ones. As my mother used to say, live and learn. Take the clips and bundle the tree up in the sheet as well as you can. Leave the tree stand attached.

Now drag the tree down the hall and out the door. Except for the wet area on the rug, there is not much mess, and the tree is outside on my patio where the juncos and chickadees are exploring its shelter.