Jaci Dawn

I think this post could be filed under “So what did you do over Thanksgiving weekend?”

On Wednesday, I had a complete melt-down. I think it just really hit me that I was not going to be able to call my dad and yak at him about nothing.

On Thursday, dinner was going to be for three of us: Don & I and a friend Don invited. The friend, as always, was a no-show. He’s been a no-show for years. But we still invite him.

My blood pressure edged into Hypertension on Thursday and I was very thankful I did not have any one else here at home. It hit 167/101. I told Don that if I could not bring it down in a few hours, I wanted to go to the ER. I got it down to something manageable, around 144/98. But I was still pretty scared.

It was 114/70 on Friday morning.

Friday, we were going to go cut down our tree but given the snow levels have fallen below 3,000′ elevation and the type of tree we want grows above 3,000’… We bought a skinny one at a tree lot as they were getting set up.

We braved one store for Black Friday and that was because I needed to use the bathroom. Right. Now. But it was a good thing we did because we found presents for two grandsons. And I didn’t pee my pants.

My blood pressure soared again and I had to rest and bring it down. I’m taking hawthorne berries, living on high potassium and low sodium diet – I haven’t changed anything. I didn’t call my doctor only because I was able to bring it back down.

Saturday, Don left to go on a hike with Murphy. Harvey and I took a long walk in town. I bought groceries and started the process of taking down Thanksgiving decorations. I was tired a lot, so things moved pretty slowly.

I finished the last book in Suzanne Collins’ YA Sci-fi trilogy the Hunger Games series, Mockingjay. It was excellent.

I started reading The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson. It is better than excellent.

My blood pressure continued to go up and down: high in the afternoon, normal in the morning.

Around 5PM yesterday, I received a message from Don that he was stuck in the mountains and wouldn’t be home. Don’t worry: he made it to a cabin with friends, he just wasn’t going to make the 90-minute drive down. So I hijacked his computer and posted some of his photos.

This morning, I decided I wasn’t motivated enough to start decorating the tree even though I had hauled out all the decorations the night before. I wanted to read another chapter in my new book. So I was curled up in the chair when Don came walking in with Murphy.

Walking. Key word.

He made it almost home this morning. The alternator started dying on him before he got to town. He got up the steepest hill, but before he could make the final climb to our house, the Explorer sputtered to a standstill.

I spent my morning waiting for AAA to come tow it home.

At least Don picked the historical section of town to have car troubles in.

He broke down in front of two homes on the National Register of Historical Places.

I say hysterical, you say historical. We used to make our oldest furious with us by deliberately saying hysterical. She’s mellowed with age.

We’re thankful Don spent the night in the mountains instead of trying to drive home in the dark with a dying alternator. We’re also thankful for AAA.

After we towed the rig home, Don removed the serpentine belt and the alternator, and then I took him to Napa Auto Parts. Then home. And while he replaced the alternator and serpentine belt and set the battery up to charge, I actually put out the first round of Christmas lights.

Then it started raining.

Then the boys came over to pick up Roxy.

Do all kids do this? I want to take photos of grandsons, but they have to hold up their toys.

“Take a pitcher of Tomater, Gamma.” Tomater is a word all little boys can say.

“No, I want a photo of you.”

“Oh. OK.” And then he wants me to take a photo of his hat, too. Seriously, Javan?

We were right back to taking pictures of their toys.

Candids work. Here Woody and Buzz Lightyear are having a very serious conversation.

No wonder his kid is chubby! He devours toys, too! Here we see the ‘other’ Woody going feet first to his demise.

I’m thankful for grandchildren.

And that, aside from several loads of dishes and laundry through the respective time-saving devices (dishwasher and clothes washer), was my weekend. (And, boy, howdy! Am I ever thankful for those machines!!)

Tomorrow I go back to work. And I call my doctor to confess my weekend.

(My brother thinks it is residual grief. I’m hoping he’s right, but I think I still need to see the doctor.)

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I am sitting at my husband’s computer this evening.

It is always different trying to blog from Don’s computer. None of my photos are stored here. Yes, I could bring a disk down but it really is more fun to look through Don’s photos and post them.

So here are a few of Don’s photos from the past year.

A view of Steens Mountain in October. This is from the French Glen side.

In the middle of a storm, sunlight.

After the storm, a double rainbow over the desert.

Full Hunter’s Moon over the Alvord Desert.

Murphy at the helm.

Not sure if Murphy is just one very tired bird dog or if he’s just ready to drive home.

Closer to home: the Cascades.

Ridge upon ridge rising to Mount Hood.

And on a lighter note, Don likes to take strange photos.

Like this one of me pruning the underside of the rhododendron out front.

<sigh>

This is the mind of my husband.

I love him anyway.

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The flag this morning through my windshield.

Furled and unfurled,

the flag my forefathers fought to preserve.

Thank You, Veterans.

We remember.

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In Flanders Field

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

John McCrae

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Just thinking about things and letting my mind settle. Sometimes I have to do that.

I like to mull things over.

When Arwen was a toddler, I occasionally tried leaving her at some Day Care or another. She always sat on the outside and observed. She wasn’t one for jumping in to the situation. She wasn’t afraid of it and she never, ever cried when I left her, but she mulled over the situation before getting involved.

Levi, on the other hand, screamed and wept and dramatically threw himself at my feet when I tried to leave him in the church nursery.

I am a lot like Arwen in the need to sit and mull it over awhile before taking action. But eventually, I do take action.

There’s a lot going on in my head. Not so much in my life, but a lot in my head. So I am sitting back and mulling it over.

And working through the dreams that come when I am getting ready to face something in my life.

So – night before last, I dreamed of a plague of frogs. Tiny baby frogs just new from being tadpoles. Some little kid was catching them and putting them into little canvas bags. One escaped and got into the bed and someone stepped on it. UGH. I tried to catch some frogs but they were hopping into the swimming pool and the swimming pool was filled with brightly colored exotic sea creatures like sea-spiders and other poisonous creatures that can also climb up onto the land. Oh, and there were slugs marching toward the pool with the frogs. Only the slugs were much slower.

Last night I dreamed I was a teenager and the alarm went off. I had to hurry and get ready for school because for the first time ever I was going to ride the bus. I had to compete with several older sisters for the mirror in the bathroom so I could put my make-up on. I was determined that no matter how terrified I was of the new situation (school and bus) and no matter how terrible I am at putting on make-up, I was going to face this new situation head-on. I was going to bluff my way through.

Frogs? Make-up? Freud or Jung?

Sometimes my dreams are just fodder for short stories. They don’t mean anything, they’re just good fiction.

I feel guilty that I am not blogging as often as I should but right now life has a ”
sit-back-and-mull-it-over” feel to it. Frogs in dreams excluded.

At least I wasn’t naked and going to school in the other dream. I was dressed and putting on make-up.

I don’t even wear make-up beyond a little eye shadow and blush.

I’m pretty certain there are deep meanings to all of this.

I don’t like stepping on little frogs and I really do not like the idea of things sharing the swimming pool with me. That’s why God created chlorine.

Digressing: when I was a pre-teen, we spent many many days at the public swimming pool in Winnemucca. We got monthly passes and swam nearly every day. One time we were there at closing time and they kicked us all out. As we dried off and dressed in our little chlorine-smelling dressing rooms painted pale blue, a voice called out. “Hurry up and change!”

My best friend replied loudly, “Into what?”

There was a dead silence before the life guard got the joke.

I think I am waiting to decide what I am changing into. I hope it isn’t a frog or a make-up obsessed teenager. Wonder which one is worse?

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Last Friday it seemed like life moved as fast as molasses in winter.

The visit with the lawyer took 45 minutes. Then we had to go to the court house to file our updated paper. Of course, at the court house, we ran into people we knew. And Terry, being an ex-cop, knows everyone.

He ran into another ex-cop.

The quick stop at the court house took almost an hour. And I will say this for small towns and county court houses: there’s no metal detector at the door! No security! It’s wonderful and takes me back to a more innocent time.

The Clackamas County Court House in Oregon City has one entrance now: on the side, through imposing metal detectors manned by burly guards who rifle through your purse. You can’t take nail clippers into the court house.

I carried my purse into the White Pine County Court House. Inside my purse are two knives. No one even asked.

We paid the water bill at City Hall and we wandered over to Murdoch’s Towing to pay a bill. I let Terry go in to pay that bill.

While I was sitting there, waiting for him, it occurred to me that I should get a photo of the business right across the street.

Ely doesn’t hide her brothels behind a “high board fence” or out past county lines.

Ely embraces her brothels.

According to Wikipedia, the VIP Spa is probably not a licensed brothel, but the Stardust Ranch is.

You can read more on Nevada’s “institutions” here.

I honestly never think about photographing brothels. It’s one of those things that are not on my radar. They just are. But sitting in Terry’s truck and waiting for him to pay the bill at Murdoch’s spurred me to think like a tourist. Really: do you want to photograph the murals around town or get a photo of what really happens in Ely after the sun goes down? Hands down: the brothels win.

I took a ghostly photo of Ely the night we pulled in.

Doesn’t look like much, you say? Well, I say: take another look!

It really isn’t all bugs on the windshield.

Tomorrow I’ll just share Ely pics. It really is a picturesque little town.

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