The past couple of weeks have been very triggering for me. I don’t mean to make a political post: the past 20 years and four presidents have led up to this. Two Republican and two Democrat. No one is innocent. The entire war could have been handled differently if men weren’t looking for power and seeking the popularity to get enough votes to stay in office. I don’t have the capacity to form an opinion because I’ve lost my military compass – and he’s the reason I have been so triggered.

Our son, Levi, served in Afghanistan from January 2020 to June 202o. His tour was cut short when his father-in-law and very dear friend had triple bypass surgery (or maybe it was quadruple – does it matter?). He was sent home to help his wife. Six months later, Levi was dead.

While he was in Afghanistan, the last two soldiers were killed (before last week). Comrades of his, also assigned to 3rd Battalion, 7th Group, Special Forces (Airborne):

Levi knew the war in Afghanistan was winding down. That was part of his mission there: to build a competent Satellite Communications System for the Afghan Army before the USA withdrew its troops. He excelled at what he did. He was a Goddamn hero.

I have heard all sorts of stories about how the withdrawal was supposed to happen vs. how it did. Separating truth from fiction is nigh onto impossible. What did happen was this: we withdrew out main forces before we took care of those who needed us most. We abandoned interpreters, equipment, support people, Afghan allies, American citizens living in the country, and more. We just pulled the majority of our troops and let what happened, happen.

The Taliban, the group that killed my son’s comrades, invaded their own country in what could be considered a Blitzhrieg. Eleven days is all it took for them to swarm the countryside and enter Kabul, the capital city. They commandeered the equipment, the satellite communications, the bases, the towns, the cities. Suddenly, all the Gold Star Families were thrown a question: Did my child serve/die in vain? Was it worth the cost? What about the maimed who came home, physically, and psychologically? Was any of this worth the cost?

I have followed the author, Khaled Hosseini, since I saw the first movie: “The Kite Runner”. I read the book, then I read “A Thousand Splendid Suns”. If you have never read his writings, I highly recommend those two books, especially the second one. Hosseini was a refugee from Afghanistan in the 1970’s. He writes poignantly about the things young boys, girls, and women face under the rule of the Taliban. Knowing these stories doubly triggered me: what about the women, girls, and boys?

It’s hard enough questioning whether your child’s sacrifice meant anything, but then having to read the Facebook posts by people who have no skin in the game post how they defend the actions of our government at this time. My son didn’t die over there, but he lost 6 months of his life away from his family, a family that would be ultimately torn apart by his death in December of 2020. Reading other people’s opinions on the validity of my son’s sacrifice or how I should feel about it is triggering.

Nobody gets to tell me how I should feel. I lost a son. I lost my compass. Do I feel President Biden should carry the blame? He is the Commander in Chief right now. Do I blame all the presidents over the past 20 years? Hell, yes. Do I believe what my son did in that war-torn country made a difference? I want to. I want to. I know he saved a couple puppies.

And what about the dead? The maimed? The US Servicemen (and women) who came home so changed because of their time there and the Taliban?

Last week, a suicide bomber set himself off in a crowded queue at the only airport withdrawing troops and people from that country. Eleven Marines, one Navy medic, two U.S. Army soldiers., and countless Afghanistan refugees. We trusted the Taliban to guard the airport. We.Trusted.The.Taliban.

Today, the last military transport left the country, hours before the deadline set by our enemy, and stranding U.S. citizens and Afghani citizens seeking asylum.

How am I supposed to feel? I feel betrayed. I feel grief. I feel anger. I am disgusted. Disappointed. I hurt, people. I can’t ask Levi what his take is on this. He’s gone. You can’t tell me how to feel. I have to work through this myself.

And if my grief disagrees with you, you have a choice: come beside me and help me through this without judgment or just scroll on by. But Do.Not.Tell.Me.How.I.Should.Feel.

2021.January 1

My word for 2020 was “Discover” and it lasted for about two months before we found ourselves starting a two-week “lock down” that lasted through the end of the year, ten months later. I didn’t do much “discovering”.

It is now the first day of 2021. I have no word for the year. The only resolution I have is to be kinder and to be quicker to reach out to someone when they are hurting, sick, or bereaved. I probably could lose 25 pounds, too.

Today, I worked through grief by deep cleaning the bathroom. I have already rearranged the kitchen cupboards. Two days in a row, I have been out in the garden cutting the deadheads I didn’t get to in the fall because it’s currently warmer now than it was in October and November when I normally do those things. I closed the door when I worked in the bathroom, but I had help in the garden. Too much help.

His name is Ruger. Ruger Buhl’s Fall Surprise, per AKC records. He’s a Wirehaired Pointing Griffon, born the 24th of September and hauled home to Oregon mid-November. He chews on all my plants which is not a good thing. I don’t know what is poisonous to puppies and what isn’t. I’m guessing peonies, primroses, asters, different salvias, and irises are not. I dug out all the foxglove in November. I know we have some arum in the corner flower bed that I will need to dig out because this dog is so mouthy – and because it is starting to show green shoots.

I have a stack of paperwork to filter through but no desire to. There’s a stack of sympathy cards, Christmas cards, and Christmas-cards-as-sympathy-cards to go through. I need to call my cousin in Montana back because the last time I spoke to her, I blubbered the entire two minutes. We have received so much support from Seventh Group Special Forces (Airborne) and I need to preserve all those commendations sent to us, specifically.

I need ideas to send gifts to my grandchildren who not only lost their father but who were taken from his home to live with their mother in Texas. She didn’t have custody when our son was living; he did. But she is the birth mother, and the law recognizes her first and the widow, second. I did decide I should put together three memory books of photos on Shutterfly. Monthly letters and cards. My daughter bought a subscription to Highlights Magazine for one of them. Is there a Pokémon magazine club? (Note to self: do the research).

I am not the only person grieving right now. I need to focus on taking care of myself, but also on helping my loved ones walk through their grief.

I don’t have a word for 2021. I have a sentence. LOVE ONE ANOTHER.

Disney World 2020, Levi in the middle with all of his children. ♥

Summer of the Bird

The imposed lock-down that kept most of us home over the summer proved to be a boon to the hobby of back-yard birding. There were reports that birds changed their songs in some cities, and other articles about how loud the birds seemed as traffic noises dwindled in some cities (not here!). We certainly heard and saw more birds as we had little else to occupy our lazy summer afternoons when it was too hot to work and too nice to be inside the house. We positioned patio chairs around the lawn to maximize both sunshine and shade, as well as the view about our yard and flower beds.     

                  This was another summer without a dog or cat: the pup we looked forward to in May was a miscarried pregnancy. Wild birds took this as a boon, as did the squirrels: Eastern Fox and Eastern Grey, both invasive to urban areas of the Western United States. We settled in after the morning chores were finished (weeding, planting, digging out new flower beds) and popped the top of a beer to watch the birds and the antics of our invasive clowns, grey and red. We were never disappointed.

                My husband and I hail from very different political backgrounds but what we have in common is out love for the outdoors, insects, arachnids, flora and fauna, and birds. He grows vegetables. I grow flowers and herbs. He fills the birdfeeders with black oil sunflower seeds. I render pure suet down to pour over mounds of dried mealworms and red pepper flakes, eschewing the commercial suet fillers which are filled with GMO corn chips and other things birds neither like nor eat (and which attract the damn squirrels). I boil the nectar and clean/refill the hummingbird feeders as quickly as the little buggers empty them. He studies and names the myriad of native bees and bumblebees my flowers attract. We both stalk the spiders hoping for a award-winning photo opportunity.

                Mid-summer found a pair of chestnut-backed chickadees checking in to the little ornamental bird house I have hanging from a Shepherd’s hook next to the Hawthorne. We weren’t certain when they actually moved in so it was hard to gauge how far along the eggs must be. Then I could hear the tinniest little dee-dee-dee from within the bird house next to my head. (Yes, I meant tinniest, but tiniest will also do.) We tried to calculate how far along the babies were. They fledged on an afternoon when my husband was out of town, but I was sitting next to the bird house playing on my cell phone.

                During the weeks that followed, the crazy little birds flew back and forth between us, often narrowly missing our heads on the wobbly little wings. They didn’t fear us: our voices were ever in their ears from before their hatching. Three tiny daredevils. Two proud chickadee parents.

Maiden flight

                The scrub jays brought their fledgling into our yard. We made a platform feeder for the crows (which, sad to say, mostly avoided our yard this summer as last years’ fledglings all died of Avian pox). This platform was a boon to the scrub jays with their loud squawking praises for the bounty of peanuts as they raced the squirrels for the prizes. One afternoon as we sat with our back to the Hawthorne, we were startled by an unearthly scream. We jumped up as the Hawthorne shuddered and an angry sharp-shinned hawk beat its wings in a backstroke to get out of the mess of inch long thorns. It flew up and out of our yard. Inside the heart of the Hawthorne, the scrub jay fledgling huddled having just escaped with its feathers intact.

                We saw fledges of nearly every backyard bird: golden-crowned sparrow, Downy woodpecker, Northern (red-shafted) flicker, Dark-eyed (Oregon) Junco, Lesser Goldfinch, Anna’s hummingbirds, bushtits, black-capped chickadees, and even this year’s crows. The Bewicks Wrens, which only last year raised their young inside our garage, eluded us (they were here but not as visible). So, too, the Spotted (rufous-sided) Towhee.

                Overhead, we watched bald eagles and turkey vultures each their young to catch thermals. The osprey young had a harder time with thermals and often dropped to just over our home on the bluff before they caught the rising air and could slowly circle up to dizzying heights, ever chirping. The eagles are by far the largest of the big birds. Red tailed hawk and owls sometimes migrated through the neighborhood, the hawks screaming their eerie call.

                A week ago, we saw the first of the turkey vulture migration south. Fifty plus birds caught thermals and soared, single file, overhead. Two days ago, during a break in the October rains, we watched in awe as three other kettles of turkey vultures (or buzzards) catching thermals and racing south for the winter. (Kettle=flock or group, but specific to vultures.) They will return in March.

                We are preparing the feeders for the winter. Many of our small birds over winter: song sparrow, junco, bushtit, both chickadees, Townsend’s warbler, white-breasted nuthatch, red-breasted nuthatch, Downy woodpecker, scrub jay, and Anna’s hummingbirds. We will have a dog next summer, and perhaps a cat. It will be a very different birding year.

May Musings

                It is May. The month of flowers and weeding. Lots and lots of weeding. I do little else in May: the house can get dirty, the houseplants wilt, and artwork go by the wayside. Genealogy is an obsession that can wait until the last weed is pulled and flower bed edged. Everything in my world is about dirt: the texture, the smell, the tiny creatures that live within it, and the clumps of it that cling to the roots of the weeds I just pulled. Dirt under my fingernails, behind my ears, and pressed into the fabric of my jeans. Dirt cleanses my mind.

                Because we have had a wetter (than usual) April, May has brought forth more weeds. I feel like I am fighting a losing battle.

                Weeds are subjective. There are some plants you do not want in your garden because f how invasive and plant-soul-sucking (meaning they crowd out plants you want to grow) they are. Herb Robert (“Stinky Bob”, St. Robert’s Herb, Geranium Robertianum) is one of the most invasive in this area. Pretty pink flowers, edibility, and herbal uses aside: Stinky Bob is a weed to eradicate. Chickweed in all of its forms. CLOVER. Grass – Lord, GRASS. I despise grass. Crab grass, saw grass, clumping grass – I don’t know the names of the invasive grasses in my flower beds, but I know how much I despise grass. I’m allergic to all grass.

                But – I love foxglove, forget-me-nots, Japanese anemones, daisies, “baby-blue-eyes”, and speedwells – all considered “weeds” by others. We allow dandelions and false dandelions to grow, flower, and seed in our lawn (sorry, neighbors with the chemical lawns). Native milkweeds make their way under the concrete and into the garage on deep runner roots. I have daylilies in the public right-of-way (should the city ever develop the area, I won’t be out much in terms of flowers, but they are pretty when they bloom).

                Sword ferns are a weed in the Pacific Northwest. I have spaces for ferns.

I have crocosmia that needs reined in and Shasta daisies ushing the limits of their location. Asters, “pearly everlasting”, and carnations that just seem to grow despite everything. The peonies – and I have a lot of peonies – need mulched and fertilized.

My flower beds are a mix of natives and perennials I like. I don’t do much with annuals, except to plant marigolds around my roses every year to fight off aphids and the petunias I plant in hanging planters. My fuschias are “hardy” ones that dies back in the winter and come back up in the spring. I once thought that going “all perennials” would make each growing season easier except there’s the profusion of weeds that are so difficult to eradicate naturally.

Tomorrow (or Sunday) I will apply a mix of vinegar+salt+Dawn dishwashing soap to some of the hard-to-weed areas. I’m using professional grade vinegar (Home Depot): one gallon+1 cup cheap salt + TBS of Dawn. I’ll spray it on the ivy, the grasses, the “stinky Bob”. I can’t use it near my flowers. It won’t kill the roots – at first. Multiple applications will eventually kill the roots. It doesn’t have a half life like commercial herbicides. (But I will confess to having used Round Up on Himalayan blackberries, the scourge of the PNW – but I now have those mostly under control and just stripping them of leaves kills them: can’t grow chlorophyll which feeds the stems.)

English ivy is harder to kill: the roots are under my neighbor’s fences but the plants grow on my side of the fences. The neighbors poison everything, but as long as ivy can find a place to get chlorophyll, it thrives. My side of the yard. I am hoping my vinegar solution will work on the ivy. I have a week of nice weather for it to soak into those leaves and kill them.

This is my life every March-June. Everything else falls to the side until I get the flower beds whipped into some sort of order.  Then the weather gets warm and I avoid the loft where my computer is. And, finally, the season of dead-heading comes upon us, but only those plants that the birds will not use for foraging throughout the winter. I’ll mulch and make a final pass at weeding in the hopes that I will beat the grasses back before Spring comes around again.

I always lose.

I have debated what to write for my next blog post. 2022 has brought about quite a few changes in my heart and my goals, and it has caused me to consider where I want to go with this rambling blog of mine.

I do want to touch on genealogy here and there. Family stories and family tree findings. I will be migrating all of my art related posts to this blog as I am shutting down my “professional” (ha!) website for my artwork and promising myself to do most of my marketing on Facebook and Instagram from here on – but only the finished images. Here is a place for me to write about how I got to the finished image so I can remember the process and keep it public in hopes that it will inspire some other faltering artist. I also want to record things that go on in my life between gardening (we are headed into that season again) and those I love (especially the subsequent generations).

I did go in and delete certain pages as I feel they no longer apply to the ME in 2022. No little bios of my children who I was still homeschooling when I started the blog. The oldest has moved on to become a homeschooling mom (reluctantly) of four children. I understand the “reluctantly” as I felt like my own time during the homeschooling years was just putting off my own dreams and plans for the future. But I also felt (as she does) that my children were more important than any feeble plans I had. I think I did pretty well.

The second child died at the age of 34. I’m still grieving. I am involved with a group Bible study called “GriefShare” and it is helping some. I did decide that any advice I would pass on to another grieving parent would be this: don’t listen to anyone who offers you a “Christian platitude”, e.g. “God had a better plan..” I stop short of advising anyone from slapping said Sister or Brother in the face with the Bible, but only out of a better conscience. I would slap them. My husband and I are wading through our grief and I share with my daughter-in-love and daughter often. I have resources that many bereaved parents and spouses do not have. I am grateful, but I still hurt deeply.

The third child… Well. I know many adult friends who suffered some sort of trauma at the hands of their own parents, and many of those friends are adoptees. I listen. I read. I respect her distance and her decision to cut us out of her life: her younger siblings, my husband and I, our children, and so many other relatives. I can’t pretend I understand, but it isn’t about my understanding, is it? It’s about her perception of her childhood, the trauma of losing both of her parents, and choosing to live with people who were very different from the mother she loved. It has been four years… or five? – since I last saw her in person or actually spoke to her. Her choice, not mine. I grieve the loss of that relationship but I am finding it easier to let go of because I know she is well, I know she contacts some of her old friends and some relatives, and I know that it was her choice, not mine.

I could follow that rabbit hole into a dissemination of my own childhood and my neglectful parents, but I also know how much I was loved by those people. They weren’t perfect but they would have laid their lives down for me or for either of my siblings – or the countless other young people they helped along the way. I was raised by some incredible human beings with large flaws and larger hearts.

2022 has been a muddle of health concerns. I realized early on that I could no longer push a grocery cart the length of our local Fred Meyers (Kroger on steroids). Every muscle hurt and my breath came up short. I started walking to an app that measures my steps and how far I have walked. I figured I was simply out of shape due to the past two years of Covid., grief, and Covid. And I developed a DVT (blood clot) in my left lag.

I think that would have been enough, but the sonogram specialist freaked and I ended up waiting 4.5 hours in the emergency department of the local hospital only to be told to “go home”. The ECG they took showed an anomaly and they recommended I see a cardiologist and have an echo cardiogram. My primary also freaked and asked my to NOT continue with my exercise regimen. “Light” work only and “strolling” only.

Two weeks later, the cardiologist dispelled any of that. He wants me to pursue my walking itinerary to the point of “not being able to sing, but being able to talk”. He changed my blood pressure meds. He took ‘Heart Disease’ off the table. I still have the DVT, but I am – once again – free to push my physical body to the limit (which isn’t much: I’m up to a whole 2/3’s of a mile in a single walk). But I feel better about the potential prognosis. And I’ve gotten a LOT of gardening done as it is the first week of April and I am plant crazy.

This Saturday is “Garden Palooza” back for the first time since 2018. I will spend money buying perennials. Wednesday is the stress test on a tread mill. I will see how that goes. Right now, I am hoping for the Dx of “you’re just out of shape” and “nothing wrong with your heart”. I have a rock wall to build. I’ve been planning this particular wall for two years.

I also have several “pop up” art shows to attend for the summer. I need to hawk my wares. I want the exposure. I will be blogging about those more in the upcoming days. Art is at the heart of my soul.

Resin Pour

My latest projects have to do with resin pour. I had a kit as a teenager but lost interest in the art for whatever reason (I was a teenager, what can I say?). I’ve had the supplies in my locker for a few years now but just recently decided to try some pours with photos of my own art (reduced, considerably) and some molds I have.

The largest (oblong) is 1.5″ long and the smallest (square) is 3/4×3/4″. The biggest issue was deciding how much resin to mix at a time. A full teaspoon was too little, two tablespoons was too much. I also learned to stir the mixture slower as you get fewer bubbles when you do the final pours.

You can easily tell which ones have too many bubbles. Oh well. These were silicone molds (except the squirrel with the camera).

I’ve had these little metal frames for jewelry around FOREVER. It never occurred to me to use resin to seal a photo inside them. The photos started as 3×3″, but I reduced them to fit the frames.

I’m addicted. I’ve started a new line of things to sell. 🙂

Physical heart issues, I should clarify: Issues *of* the heart can be harder to recognize and I’m still learning.

The past week has been a bit of a roller coaster ride for me emotionally. I noticed I had some swelling in my left leg on (or around) the 8th of February. It raised a little red flag, but the swelling wasn’t severe, so I filed it under “check that out daily”. I knew it could be the sign of a blood clot, but I also knew I hadn’t injured my leg in any way. My brother had a clot in his leg around ten years ago, but he had an injury to his leg that precipitated the clot.

Friday morning, the 11th, my leg was taut and obviously swollen. I showed my husband and he noticed the difference between my legs. We had plans for the afternoon, but I came upstairs to my studio and called my primary caregiver’s office anyway. They could get me in at the same time we had plans for: oops. So we changed plans slightly: doctor first, skip the shopping trip to Home Depot, but go out for an early Valentine’s dinner anyway.

My primary caregiver is a Nurse Practitioner and I truly adore this woman. She examined my leg, tossed out a few scary terms like “blood clot” and “heart failure”. Blood clot was the foremost theory. But you know how your mind runs away with things? Yeah, my mind did exactly that.

I did put my leg up the next few days and the swelling all but disappeared. I called and scheduled a sonogram for as soon as I could get one, which was yesterday. I also let close family members know what was going on (this is important because my parents never let us kids in on any major medical issues whey were having, or they would tell my brother but not me, or me but not my brother: I won’t do that).

Well, I had the sonogram done. I arrived early and was called back to the lab early: no waiting! This just never happens, so I should have taken a hint: “the day is not over yet”. The sonogram itself was interesting: the technician sometimes punched my leg where the vein was to get a stop and flow of the valve (I could hear the “whoosh” of blood on the ultrasound machine). I remember thinking I should have checked to see if there was any arnica in my purse because I was (for sure) going to bruise from all that punching and pressing (I didn’t bruise, I discovered I did have arnica in my purse 24 hours later).

The tech escorted me back to the waiting room while she attempted to call my primary care give and discuss the results with her (which automatically reads: “there are results to discuss”). I had a 2:30 lunch date with an old friend that was looming on the clock in the waiting room. When the tech reappeared, I still had 30 minutes before I had to head north to the restaurant we were meeting at – except…

Except the tech was agitated. She had not been able to reach my primary caregiver. She left two voice mails and was “dropped” by the system once. She was making an executive decision (and if you know me, you know I LOVE people who are capable of making executive decisions that are above their pay grade and they make them anyway. I really hate wishy-washy people who hem and haw about making that decision when it is clearly the only decision to be made.

She broke protocol to tell me mt test results without my doctor being present, and she made the decision that I should go to the ER to be seen (and after reading the MyChart notes this morning, it was the decision my NP would have made. I was, after all, in the same building as the ER). I was escorted by the tech to the other side of the hospital to the ER waiting room where she explained to the receiving clerk what was going on. And left me.

I texted my friend first: cancel lunch. Called my husband next: I don’t know what’s up, but I do have an acute blood clot in my left leg and I am in the ER waiting room and I have no idea what to expect. Texted the people closest to me, including two precious prayer groups. Turned my phone onto airplane mode because I didn’t have a charger with me and I didn’t know when I would have a chance to charge it again.

LET THE WAITING BEGIN. It’s a small hospital with a small ER waiting room. And I digress here from knowing the symptoms (which I pretty much covered in the first paragraph) to people watching. I had no idea how much people watching I would get in. I *felt* fine. No pain, no chest tightness or pain, no struggling to breathe: just a pesky swollen leg (but not too badly swollen) and a Dx of an “acute blood clot). (My brother texted back: “Why can’t it be an ugly clot?” Me: “Because I *like* cute!”)

There were some pitifully skinny teenagers in Emo clothes who came in. One was with her mother. The other was with a girlfriend of friend who wore funny slippers on her feet and outweighed him by threefold. She had a tiny orange plastic purse just large enough for her ID and debit/credit cards which he held onto for her. There was a drama queen, an older guy who complained about the wait and who took to groaning and coughing loudly to get attention (I don’t know, maybe he really hurt that much? How could I know, not being in his shoes? Still, I labeled him a drama queen). A girl who looked five shades too pale, who moped and tried to nap, but still had the nerve to joke with the National Guard guy who was looking for someone. A Hispanic guy who must have been injured on the job, information I picked up from his coworker who kept leaving the waiting room to talk to someone who was calling to check in on the status (a foreman, I would guess, by the snippets of conversation). An elderly man in his late 80’s or early 90’s who fell onto his side and injured (or broke) his shoulder and hip. He was with his daughter who was on the phone whispering and cancelling dinner plans and letting her adult children know that Grandpa was in pain at the hospital. They took him back twice for x-rays.

I waited four and a half hours. I played a few games on my phone. Rued that I didn’t bring my Kindle. Wondered if any of the others in the room had as wonderful a support system as I have. Thanked my support system (mentally) a dozen times. Prayed for everyone else. Concentrated on NOT thinking about myself, but about putting all of these before me (and, indeed, most of them were taken care of before me, except the poor girl who was five shades too pale). She did arrive after me, but nearly everyone else was after me. I guess she & I just didn’t make it up the triage notch. I do hope she got hep for whatever was wrong and that she feels better today.

Around 4:15, I was finally called back to a private room. Until that time, honestly, all I heard coming out of the actual ER was that there ‘were no rooms available, do you mind being in the hall on a gurney while we see to you?” I was kind of embarrassed to get a private room. But, there I was, with no idea as to whether or not I was spending the night or having surgery (not usually how they tackle blood clots) and how much of this was Medicare going to cover (a question I will not have the answer until I get the bill). The nurse drew more blood and ran the same panels my doctor had just run five days earlier, but I guess they needed to see if anything had changed since then).

My husband showed up about that time. He had waited until he thought I would probably be in a room (good guess!) and until the dog was settled enough to corral him in a kennel (you’d have to know the dog). He could at least take my mind off of myself for the last hour of waiting. I really didn’t want to be focused on myself: my imagination can do the greatest damage. I was already living one of my “worst case scenarios” from the night before: being in the ER for the clot!

The denouement: The ER doctor came in (finally). Did I know anything about blood clot treatment? I told him I had enough knowledge to be scared: my brother injured his leg and had a blood clot and they prescribed Warfarin or coumadin. I didn’t want to give up leafy greens or any of my Vitamin K foods.

Fortunately, they prescribe one of those TV commercial medications for dissolving blood clots now: Eliquis. The only side effect is that I could, possibly, worst case scenario, bleed to death. No, really. Thin blood, less clotting ability. Oh, and I would bruise easily.. As in, more easily than I already bruise. As my husband joked, “She already bruises if you just look sideways at her.” As is, I better have that arnica ALWAYS in my purse going forward.

The point of this entire tale is this: if I had not known that the swelling in just one of my legs was not natural, I may not have called my primary care giver in the first place. Then I probably wouldn’t have had an untrasound that eventually led to me waiting for hours in the ER waiting room only to be told, “Take two of these and go home”.

No, the blood clot would have just loosened in the vein in my ankle and made its way into the lining of my lungs, shutting down my ability to draw a full breath and resulting in an ambulance ride to the hospital and God-knows-what-else. Or it would have made its way to me heart and stopped it altogether (only after it depleted my ability to breathe).

Know the symptoms. If one leg swells more than the other and it’s never done that before… Call your doctor. My brother’s was caused by an injury and he called his doctor. Mine is called a “predatory” clot: no injury precipitated it. But I knew the symptoms because of my brother’s experience. And if you have to sit in the ER waiting your turn, remember this: other people are hurting more than you right now.

Be patient. Be kind. Know the symptoms.

I love you.

Gung Hay Fat Choy.

That was always written on the chalkboard by the back door in my childhood home on February 2nd. My dad loved Chinese New Year. I think he liked it mostly for the “Fat Choy” part. I never quite understood why it stood out to him but the memory persists even though the Chinese New year always changes dates. It runs from sometime in January or February to the following January or February. I still celebrate it eve though Dad has been gone since 2011 and I can’t remember the last time he uttered those word, “Gung Hay Fay Choy!”

I was born in The Year of the Monkey. I despise monkeys. There was a woman who lived across the street from us when I was in Middle School. Her name was (ironically) Jackie. She had a “pet” spider monkey. Monkeys do not make pets. They have incisors. They fling feces at people. They can be cannibalistic. I hated that monkey as much as it hated the neighborhood children. When it would escape, it would sit on the wires over the places where we would play and it would fling feces at us and bare its yellowed and sharp canines. Our parents would have to call the fire department which, in turn, would have to contact Jackie so she could corral the little monster. If you like monkeys, kindly do not comment. I despise all monkeys.

I had a brilliant idea this year. The Chinese horoscope has twelve Zodiac animals. I painted Zodiac animals for my daughter-in-love, her brother and his wife, and their combined children plus my son’s children by his first wife. They just received the package I mailed (in hopes of arriving on 2/1/22, Chinese New Years’ for 2022). Simple cards.

2022 is The Year of the Tiger Our son was a Tiger.

These were simple cards. I hope my attempt at Chinese characters passes muster. I also hope my grandchildren and great nieces treasure these.


Last weekend one of our friends gifted me with several unfinished clay creations he found in the trash bin. He works as a janitor at a local high school where the art teacher disposes of unclaimed half-finished creations (and sometimes finished but unclaimed pieces). These pieces of art are not necessarily “bad”, they just are unclaimed and not relevant to the instructor. The students moved on, got bored, or graduated. My friend, fortunately, has an eye for the beauty in the discards and he often gifts some to me.

It happened that since I posted about doing “art rescues” last week that three of the items he brought to me are some sort of animal, hence fitting into my theme. Before I get into the pieces, let me digress a little. A Creative friend of mine (“Creative” is a title, therefore capitalized) ran with the newest idea of additions to my artist “zoo” (see my other website, which has sadly not been updated in a year: twocrowfeatherwoman.com). She thinks I should display the rescues like one would display rescued pets, with a little blurb about their imagined past and their current adoption status (plus adoption fee). I like it.

We both decided I should have a name for this part of my zoo. She was going for an orphanage title, but I lean toward something akin to Miss Peregrine’s School for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs. I’m leaning heavily toward “Miss Corvid” or “Miss Corvidae” either of which is a continuation of the Two crow Feather Woman theme for my artist’s studio name. If you feel inspired, please weigh in in the comments section.

Of the four items my friend gave me, the Dia de los Muertos mask was the least inspiring. My birthday falls on the Day of the Dead (November 2nd) so I should feel inspired, right? It’s just that all the masks I have seen were mundane. A quick search of images on the Internet showed me just how wrong my assumption was. The raw mask is missing some pieces of clay, but that is what makes it “fun”. I used the same tissue paper/liquid starch/varnish style I used in my previous blog.

The second item now… It was half-painted and I forgot to take “before” photos, so what I *did* do, was take “before” photos halfway through the project. Acrylic paint and varnish. Note: all of these items have been fired once, but I do not have access to a kiln, so I don’t worry about a second firing. I just paint and varnish.

I have a grandson who would love that, so it may become a birthday present.

The bear in a box was a little harder to wrap my head around. The Original Artist had a rough time with the front paws, leaving the left arm looking more like a stub than a paw.

I took apart a “fish hook” earring hook, snipped it to size, and hot-glues it into position for the hook. Aluminum foil glued down tight and a double coat of silver paint finished off the “hook” effect. Now paw, no problem. I now have a polar bear with a hook for a paw. I left the inside unfinished. I figure it will be a boy’s “treasure” box for found items like feathers, rocks, screws, nails, and robin’s egg shells. I might have a grandchild in mind as well.

The LAST item, now…

This was really rough: sharp edges on the handle and a gaping hole for the mouth. It looked like something a bored high school student would make, no care at all about the carving and the smoothing of edges, although this particular artist paid a great deal of attention to the eyes.

I got out the Dremel and gave all of the rough edges a light sanding. I created the teeth with air dry clay pressed into that gaping hole. The wart on the nose was a flaw in the original. Because it has only been fired once and I painted it with your garden variety of acrylic craft paints, it isn’t something you would want to drink out of (if you could, it isn’t actually very conducive to being an actual mug). It would make a great pencil holder or just something odd to sit on a shelf and gather dust while staring at you with that grimace on its face. I’m certain the Original Artist had something much “darker” in mind, but this is the cup rescued.

I think my “rescue zoo” is getting a good start.

Jaci’s Rescues

I strayed away from mini portraits of animals this past month. I decided to work on some projects that have been gathering dust, but which are near to my heart. My “rescues”: creatures I have found at yard sales or thrift stores that have been sorely abused by the previous artist.

My first rescues were this pair of plastic dove decoys. They were plain gray and boring. I decided to do a confetti of tissue paper and liquid starch (the glue), They just gather dust.

My second rescue was Daphne. I blogged about her restoration here. She has been painted twice since I rescued her, and I consider her my “mascot”. She hangs out inside the house during the rainy months and outside in the nicer months. I used house paint on her. You can purchase little cans that hold 8 ounces (one cup) of paint at any hardware store. I keep a variety on hand.

I picked up this poor wooden dog at a yard sale. His restoration story was published here. I “painted” him with tissue paper and liquid starch. A coat of polyurethane topped him. He’s just been gathering dust while I decide what to do with him.

I found this poor duck in May of 2018. It was dressed in a Santa suit, of all things! I removed the cape and hat, but it was still a sad looking duck. It wasn’t even a proper duck that one could identify in a bird book. It has languished in my studio for the past four years, waiting for me to decide what to do with it.

I opted for the tissue paper and liquid starch approach.

The back “feathers” are not done with tissue paper, but with the remains of a bald-faced hornet’s nest I found on a hike. I finished him with a simple coating of interior varnish purchased at the craft store.

It needs a name.

I told all this to one of my creative friends and said I was thinking of selling them as “Jaci’s Rescues”. She thought I should create an entire “orphanage” of the rescues. I need a catchy name, though. And little “biographies” of all the rescues.

I also need to visit a few thrift stores in the near future to all to my Zoo.

Christmas Eve

It’s Christmas Eve.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

I want to write so much more, but there just aren’t enough words in my vocabulary to express how much it has meant to have people come up beside us this past year. Cousins, friends, strangers, new friends, old friends, Internet people.

Kindness is the greatest gift on Christmas, and the love shown through so many.

And to those who have gone on before us – so many in the past year!  – I think of you often, and the ones you left behind. Friends, spouses, parents, grandparent, siblings, children – you are all in a better place than those of us who remain are, but we carry on here so we can make certain your legacy is never lost.

To all of us who are grieving this Christmas, it’s okay. I hope that I can come up beside you and stand with you. Your loved one was very special. Take your time. Cry. Talk about them. Tell stories. Laugh. Oh, please laugh.

I have always believed in the Miracle of Christmas. Yes, the Birth in that far away stable, a feed bin (manger) for a bed, but also in the mystery of a red-suited fat man who could come into a house with no chimney (or even down a chimney with a fire in it and not get burned!). I believe in Christmas ornaments, no matter how strange. Traditions. Twinkle lights.

Silver bells.

Bells on bobtail. (His tail was bobbed to keep snow from forming ice balls in it, I’m certain – who wants to brush ice balls out of a horse’s tail, let alone pick them out of his hooves?).

The angels bending near the earth.

A star shining so bright that astronomers from far away could follow it to a tiny town in the Middle East.

The joy on children’s faces as they rip into their presents.

Fudge, cookies, and all-day snacks.

SNOW. So many of my own childhood memories swirl around snow on Christmas Day. Sledding, riding inner tubes, playing until I could feel my numb toes rolling around in the tips of my boots. My poor cousin coming down with rheumatic fever after a week spent with us in the icy depths of a Nevada winter.

And death. My Gramps died on December 22, 1972. Dad was with him in St. Anthony, Idaho, and called to say he wouldn’t be home until late on Christmas Day. We were to go ahead with Christmas, but we kids decided not to. It wasn’t Christmas without the Old Grouch home. So, we waited and watched until he pulled into his parking space out front.

We spent Christmas in 2019 in Phoenix with our daughter and her four kids. We spent Christmas in 2020 with our daughter-in-law and her six kids. This year, we spoil the dog in in the comfort of our own home and hope the snow predictions are right on.

Whatever you do, whoever you miss, whoever you mourn – I wish you a simple and happy Christmas. I don’t even care if you believe. Just find a way to smile.

Seasons Greetings.

Bye Bye 1971

     May of 2013. We purchased a 1971 VW Van. It was a great life choice at the time. Don got some camping trips in, and we camped together once while picking huckleberries. But the engine needed rebuilt, and the transmission had issues. And, worse, the person Don was associated with during those years suddenly ghosted him. Don had planned on rebuilding the van with this person and he planned on going on many camping trips with this person. https://wordpress.com/post/jacidawn.com/7133

          It just didn’t pan out that way. The other person was a VW mechanic and a van expert. His wife left him, his guru died, and he accused Don of trying to take over some trails in the Clackamas River watershed. The latter was an outburst of anger and frustration aimed at the other parts of his life, but the toll left behind was a severed friendship.

          The van set empty and (mostly) unused. Don rebuilt the transmission and the engine, but still needed some necessary parts to finish the work, as well as a little help from his friends to lift the engine and tranny back into the van. Parts were scarce. Don gets frustrated easily with the Internet and computers in general. We both retired and finances suddenly became “fixed”.

          Don’s hands became bent and arthritic. He couldn’t do the fine motor work he did all through his youth. He aged from fifty-something to sixty-something. The van sat on a stand and the rebuilt engine languished in the garage. There was always the “I’ll find it on the Internet” excuse while his computers died, and his interest waned. His friend no longer called or emailed.

          All of us at a certain age of life relate to this: the plans we made are no longer feasible and we have to decide which plans to let go of.

          Several people stopped and offered to buy the van, but Don was never ready. He was still determined to finish the project he started. He still hoped his friend would come around. It didn’t happen. Two, three – years passed. The van just sat in our driveway, the paint rotting off and paper wasps making nests in the passenger door frame. The north side of the van started growing moss. We were close to being cited by the City of Oregon City for having a dead vehicle parked in the driveway.

          Sunday. November 7. A man came to the door offering cash up front. He’d take the van off of our hands. Six Grand. Had the van been running, it was worth twice that, but t wasn’t running. Don had to make a difficult decision. I didn’t advise him either way, but I located the title when he asked for it.

          And, just like that, the van switched hands.

          Don is actually relieved. He knew he would never finish the project. It was a weight around his neck. He didn’t even realize how much the project had weighed him down until the van was pulled out of our driveway and headed down the road to its new home.

          Me? I’ve wanted the damn thing gone for a long time, but I wasn’t about to step on my partner’s dreams. I don’t want him crushing mine, so I won’t crush his. I left this entirely up to him and offered no opinion either way. This was his baby. I am sorry it didn’t work out for him in the way he imagined it would, but I celebrate that he feels a sudden release of obligation to the project. It was a dream and a good one, but the support group failed. Wherever Don’s original friend is, he failed. Don won’t say that, and it is probably just as well. Life failed his friend and his friend failed him.           The van is gone. We will just move into the next phase of our lives. Hopefully, that includes some more camping – just without the 1971

A Long Hot Summer

We have several Praying Mantids we are watching. Earlier in the year, we purchased a “ootheca” (OO-he-kah) and placed it in a little cage in the Hawthorne. An ootheca is the egg mass produced by a praying mantis. I don’t know how many mantids hatch from one, but the fact that we have at least seven we are monitoring as the first frost threatens tells me we hatched enough to survive the summer. This is exciting for insect nerds like my husband and I. We’re hoping at least one of the ones we are watching produces an ootheca full of viable little mantis eggs.

It has been a summer of healing. I have reluctantly embraced healing. Losing a child is unlike any other sorrow I have encountered. It is more painful than the summer I lost my mother and my best friend. Ironically, that sorrow has helped me through this summer. I knew what stages of grief to expect and I understood they don’t come in any given order. They just happen. Repeatedly. And while people will come up beside you to hold you, in the end it is up to you to reach out and begin the process of healing.

When Mom died, I found a bug-eaten staff (a limb) in the forest. The beetle paths on the old wood were fascinating. Soon after, I found two crow (or, perhaps, raven) feathers on the forest floor. I collected those feathers and attached them to my new-found staff and dubbed it “Two Crow Feather Woman”. Years later, that became the name of my art studio: Two Crow Feather Woman Art.

This summer has been hot. I spent mornings in the flower beds, weeding and pruning, and dead-heading. I let some flower beds fall into wildflowers and mayhem. Summer, for me, is always about the flowers and the green growing things. I tend to neglect the art.

I accidentally stumbled upon a comment under a public post I made on Facebook (I really try to stay off that social network). An old friend of mine, someone I thought I had lost in the ebb and flow of friendship, posted a comment about how her son had recently passed. He was a year or two younger than mine. They weren’t friends, but this woman and I were. The phone calls that followed were cathartic. I knew her pain. She knew mine.

Our daughter came to visit over Labor Day weekend – her brother’s birthday weekend. We did no more than sit and talk. Our eyes leaked a little. My daughter-in-law spent the same weekend with Levi’s ex-wife and the three children who now live in Texas. It was bittersweet: Levi had wanted that kind of connection while he was living and it was denied him.

I had three commissions through the long hot months. All horses, my first love. The healing was beginning. But it was at a beer garden that the healing really began to take hold. I love beer (my mid-drift will confess to this). Twenty-five pounds of beer belly must have emboldened me. There was a small “pop-up” art show at the eastern end of the beer garden. No booth fee, just a handful of artists who were getting together once a month to try and sell their art: honey, leather goods, acrylics, jewelry. Very informal and not at all like I have been used to: juries, assigned spots, booth fees.

I felt emboldened and asked to be included in the next month. It was a crazy extrovert move for an entrenched introvert. That first weekend, I sold two pieces and got a lot of compliments.

This past weekend was the second show. It’s not so much how much I sold or made but rather – the connections. The advice. The encouragement from other artists. The people who came to look at what I was selling and who talked to me. The teenagers and the pre-teens. I still lack the words to explain what seemed a miracle to me: that I was not only out of my element but I was able to network. Small potatoes if you are an extrovert.

Huge steps for a grieving introvert.

Through it all, my husband. He’s grieving, too. He lashes out. He hides his pain. But he was there on those two days, cheering me on, helping me set up and tear down.

Summer is over. Frost is imminent. Hallowe’en is approaching. I am turning 65. Our son is gone (it doesn’t seem possible!) almost a year now. I know where all of my grandchildren are. I have gained two “daughters” : my daughter-in-law and her sister-in-law. And art is what keeps me alive.

A special thank you to everyone who has reached out multiple times in the past ten months. You know who you are.