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2024 – What Are Your Plans?

December 31, 2023 by Jaci Dawn

 In a few hours (here in the Pacific Northwest) it will be a new year. What are your Apocalypse plans?

We watched the Obama’s movie, “Leave the World Behind”. It stars Julia Roberts and is streaming on Netflix. It leaves you hanging at the end, which is very disappointing. What happens after New York City implodes? Do the families decide they can overcome race issues? Do they have the skills to survive in a new world? Why are they leaving us hanging?

I downloaded J.K. Franks’ Apocalypse series (there are four: three in the series and a stand-alone that ties into the others). Book #1 “Downward Cycle” is scary. The next three have a bit too much luck in the survival game, rather like “Zombieland” (with Woody Harrelson and highly recommended for the survivalist). No, wait: Franks’ books become almost as believable as John Cusack and his family out-running the earthquakes in L.A. and ending up in Yellowstone in the apocalypse movie “2012”.

I don’t want to give away any spoilers because I thoroughly enjoyed Franks’ books (and I recommend them to the next generation survivor), but sometimes help is a little too convenient.

Enter the current book I am reading “Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warriors” by Benjamin Wallace. It’s a farcical tale that draws a lot on the “Mad Max” movie series (starring Mel Gibson and Tina Turner).

Serious question: What are YOUR Apocalypse plans? Do you have any? What about Zombie apocalypse (less likely to happen because zombies are really a voodoo thing and don’t eat brains: they just haunt people who are cursed. People who are cursed by whoever raised the zombie from the dead, like some voodoo doctor).

Do you have a “bug-out bag”? What is in it? Do you have a place to land that is hidden, remote, and unlikely to be overrun by gangs of heathens when the world collapses? What about transportation in case of an EMP or a CME (Coronal Mass Ejection or solar flare)? Stockpiles of foods, preferable purchased from one of the many survivalist groups who advertise liberally on Facebook?

DO YOU HAVE A PLAN?

I used to have a plan in case of a Zombie Apocalypse: I would move in with my youngest. She disowned me sometime in the past six years, so I don’t really have that option. I do know you need a shovel, a machete, and a ladder: you can cut zombie’s head off and they lose all sense of smell and direction and you need the ladder to help you get onto the roof of your house because zombies can’t climb (until you watch “World War Z” and they just pile the bodies up until they can ascend to the top of the walls and fall over into the compound, ready to eat brains). I am woefully behind on zombie survival skills.

In the event of a CME or EMP, what are you gonna do? Banks won’t be able to dispense money. Money will be worthless. Food will be necessary, and clean water. Will you be able to trust the government? Will guns help you survive the threat of marauders and scavengers? What about ammo? Can you trust your neighbors? Can you drive a car with a standard transmission?

Can you trust the deer to warn you (as in the movie “Leave the World Behind”?)

How far away is your bug-out shelter? Is it really that remote that no one will think to look for you there? Or maybe you can hide under a silo like “Love and Monsters” where the hero travels above ground to find his high school sweetheart after the nuclear apocalypse? (Spoiler:Dylan O’Brien survives and befriends a dog).

For me, however, the biggest question is this: how old are you? What’s your health like? Are you on maintenance meds? Are you a member of a particular circle of people who might have enough survival skills to start a new society?

A friend of mine brought this up when we were camping this past summer: her genre happens to include people involved in Renaissance Faires. The Society of Creative Anachronism and other groups that aspire to the days of the past: black powder groups, rendezvous groups, and Ren Faire groups. Of course, they would have many of the skills to survive in a non-tech world. That’s what they have been play-acting at for the past few decades. The issue would be this: where do you fit into their structure?

I have herbal knowledge, although it is small. Edible plants and a few edible mushrooms. I have enough books to help guide us through any questions (but no way to transport my books). My husband is a hunter. My friend is a seamstress. Those are necessary skills, but they fall behind the basic skill of surviving marauding murderers and desperate scavengers. We’d have to rely on the swords-people and the black powder survivalists.

The truth is this: I am 67. I need certain medicines to survive longer than a few months. I can cook from scratch, drive a stick shift, handle a firearm, and hide in the woods. But the cold seeps into my bones and makes the joints ache. I have camped much of my life without potable water, ice, and a place to take a dump. I can sleep on the ground. But I am 67 years old.

The cars we own will be disabled. We might be able to rig up a radio. We have a store of food. Our children live far away. I’m an artist, a bird-watcher, and a gardener. My husband has heart issues. Were we younger, we could hike for miles and miles. But we’re not younger.

The reality is this: we would be a burden on society and the future. If mankind isn’t headed into a total extinction event, we would not be the people you would want to pin the future on. We would be the decoys.  

I have my post apocalypse plans. I won’t tell you what they are. But I really want to know what yours are? No need to tell me where you will bug-out to, just tell me what is in your survival arsenal? What advice would you give to those who survive (and are much younger than I am)? Do you have a shovel ready to swipe the head off of an attacking zombie?

These are important questions for 2024.

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Bathroom Remodel

December 1, 2023 by Jaci Dawn

Oy. Vey. Two Yiddish words my mother used. She was not Yiddish, they were simply words that fit a situation. Oy. Vey. “Woe is me”, more or less. “Oh, dear.”

I think I got tired of waiting for the “big bathroom remodel”. This would be The Year. I had gathered my intelligence (not much of it, to be honest) and had a game plan. I could blame this on my son-in-law, but it really doesn’t come close to being his fault.

A couple of years ago, we invited a remodel company into our kitchen to discuss our plans for the bathroom in our 1930’s bungalow.  The linoleum was curling, and the shower stall was growing mildew along the caulking. Two kids barely out of high school showed up. Kids with no idea of history, property values, or practicality. They quoted us an exorbitant price that included a shower curtain for a shower stall on a linoleum floor AND the deal had to include a roof for our 1930’s garage or it was “too small” for the company. $23,000. They did not see the cast iron clawfoot bathtub as an asset, so did not include any plan for it.

That’s when I turned to my son-in-law. He’s a commercial plumber in Alaska and hates residential plumbing. Also, we don’t live anywhere near Alaska, so he was completely off the hook for doing the job to impress his in-laws. I wouldn’t do that to him, anyway. I just wanted some advice. He suggested we just go with Home Depot as they had arranged our kitchen update, and we were pleased with that. Also, we have credit with Home Depot.

I made my husband stop at the remodel desk at our local Home Depot to make an appointment for a quote for our bathroom. They did an amazing job lining up the work for our kitchen, could they repeat that small miracle? Well… They did get us lined up with a bathroom remodel company that gave us the best quote, also ignoring the clawfoot bathtub. Oh, and removing the tub, the toilet, and the pedestal sink for the flooring was going to cost us $1,000 per item if we didn’t do it ourselves. We assured them we could move all three on our own before installation, the tub being the biggest question mark. But, to save $1,000 – we would find a way.

Don’s friend helped him roll the tub onto a dolly and we rolled the tub into the kitchen and under the kitchen table. It just fit. It was also a lot lighter than some cast iron tubs: I once watched six men carry a similar tub out of a house during a remodel. This one took just the two and me as guide.

The shower and floor replacement went fairly smoothly. I hid upstairs and left my husband to supervise. The remodel company sold us on the idea that the nasty linoleum would be ripped up and sub-flooring looked at. NOPE. The new flooring was laid on top of the old linoleum. Who knows what lies under that, but at least it doesn’t squeak anymore when you walk on it. The new shower and floor look amazing. Some minor issues with the contractor and employee, not enough to complain about. We should have complained but that’s not my husband’s style and I am trying to be a nicer person. Really.

The new flooring on top of the old flooring raised the floor level up by 1/2 “ to 3/4” Which changed the plumbing for the pedestal sink and the bathtub drain. Not that we were ever in love with that pedestal sink. On the contrary, that was one thing we had hoped to get rid of in this update, but which wasn’t in the budget. Ha-ha-ha: it was now in the budget because my husband could not get the plumbing to work for the sink now. (The pedestal sink is destined to a new life in my yard as a bird bath and an in-ground planter. I may or may not leave the faucets attached.)

My husband started the search for the perfect vanity. He also decided we could not put the old medicine cabinet back up because the mirror was wearing out in front, and we had come this far in the update-now-remodel. Hours were spent perusing different sites and debating the pros and cons of certain vanities and medicine cabinets. Then, we had to agree on a new faucet set that fit the new vanity and fit under the new medicine cabinet.

Things needed to be painted to match the new vanity. The wall behind the old pedestal sink begged for a paint job (my daughter messaged me and said, “What?! Dad’s LETTING you paint a wall in the house?!” Yes, Virginia: not all the walls in our house are doomed to be primer white.) Finding that perfect color that matched the new floor and contrasted with the mint green vanity, though. And painting the underside of the bathtub while it rests on the dolly under the kitchen table.

We looked into refinishing the tub but that was cost prohibitive, and the poor tub will go back into the room chipped and stained. I researched the cost: average price over all vs. average price in the Portland metro area = vast difference. Also, finding someone who actually does that sort of work. The only thing that poor tub got was a nice outside paint job and getting to share Thanksgiving dinner with us (previous post).

This adventure started in October when the work began. It is now the first of December. Don has spent days on his back, attaching plumbing parts to the new vanity and faucet. Countless trips to Home Depot and Lowes have been undertaken. Websites have been perused and orders made online. Don has invented new swear words. Everything is in place except the bathtub and the hoses to the faucet plumbing. Tomorrow we will test out Don’s plumbing skills and turn the water on to the faucets.  We’ll wheel the tub back into place but won’t plumb it until the weather warms back up and Don can squeeze into the crawl space to push the drain pipe up by ¾ of an inch to make up for the additional flooring.

We still have the stupid particle board the previous owners used as windowsill wood. In a bathroom. Where it gets wet. And the particle board swells. Don’t even start us. Particle board is an invention from hell.

Ruger thinks he should get some of the credit. He got mint green paint in his beard after I painted the small cupboard for the bathroom. He also “helped” Don do some of the plumbing. He stood over Don with a stuffed toy in his mouth and tail wagging: “Oh, you’re on the floor! Must be Game Time!”

“Jaci! Would you get the dog out of my face?” (pic for cuteness)

(If the faucets or sink leak tomorrow, there may be an addendum to this post. But I think we’re in the clear. For now.)

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Tarts and Tubs

November 24, 2023 by Jaci Dawn

The main food binge is over, all that remains are the leftovers we will eat for days. This introvert could now go for days without seeing another human being, including my significant other. I am exhausted, and it was only us two and two of our friends. Oh, and Ruger, the dog. Ruger is the only extrovert in this household.

Don smoked a turkey breast after letting it sit in the refrigerator for three days soaking in his secret “dry rub”. (The only other person who had the recipe was our son although many have requested it. The truth is: I think Don mixes it up just a little every time he makes it so it is in that ethereal realm of recipes as his grandmother’s mincemeat – she had no idea how she made it but it was the best mince meat this side of Heaven, and I don’t like mincemeat for the most part.)

I spent Tuesday making up four little tarts for the Holiday: rolling out the pie dough, filling each one with either spiced apples from our garden or my own version of mincemeat* (which is meat-less. Maxine’s had elk meat in it). *Mine is really an apple-pear chutney with ginger that tastes strangely like store-bought mincemeat. So don’t get excited. I think I found it on All Recipes.com.

Wednesday, I went to the dentist and got my teeth cleaned. That’s neither here nor there (no cavities, Ma!) except whilst I was away the sourdough started decided to “explode” all over the countertop. My sourdough starter is another well-kept secret: it was handed down by Maxine to my mother-in-law who passed it down to me. I don’t know how old it is because my mother-in-law doesn’t know how old it is and Maxine took the secret to her grave. It’s easily 70 years old. And it sits in the refrigerator, unused, except for those rare times I bake bread or on holidays. Even the “explosion” was a minor accident to the starter. It just bubbles happily away.

Thursday was all about prep work before the turkey was done and guests arrived. Tablecloth, fine China, real silver: check, check, check. Not for anyone else but for me and my need to grasp onto Tradition. I found a Lego wrapped up in one of the tablecloths when I pulled them out of the chest. A Lego. It’s been there since last Thanksgiving when our daughter and her horde came down from Alaska and celebrated with us.

I had to pull the table out and set all the settings on one side as there is a cast iron claw-foot bathtub hiding under the table. Our bathroom is still in the throes of a remodel that is taking months to complete. The tub had to be removed to allow for the new flooring but now we have to adjust all the plumbing due to the new flooring and the new vanity is still sitting where the tub belongs, awaiting new faucets. (How’s that for a run-on sentence?) Anyway, there is a bathtub on a dolly hiding under our table, but the men who put it there were going to be the men eating turkey soon. And the tablecloth hid it well.

I pulled the tarts out of the refrigerator and set them on the counter under a towel to warm up to room temperature and await their turn in the oven. Everything else was mixing and kneading bread dough, selecting the ingredients for the stuffing and sautéing the veggies to add, and making the sauce to pour over the broccoli dish I would be serving. While doing some of that, I accidentally elbowed one tart and it went face down onto the floor. Ruger was excited about that, but I shooed him off and tossed the contents into the garbage (sorry, Ruger, you’re already chonky!). Now I am one tart short. UGH. Blood pressure is maintained, at least. I still have my sense of humor.

I decided to make another tart, but I am now out of flour and pie crust mix, and I do NOT want to go to the grocery store. We had graham cracker crumbs in the cupboard and blueberries in the freezer: blueberry tart! I also poured myself a glass of white wine, mostly because the sauce for the broccoli takes two tablespoons of the stuff. Wouldn’t want to waste it, you know. And it takes the edge off.

No, this is not a “then I had another glass of wine”, post, because I really did not. That was later in the day after the guests left and I needed to decompress.

I had to mix up a roux for the broccoli sauce, but Husband was in the kitchen (I do my best work without distraction) and he thought I was making the gravy. I don’t know why he thought I was making the gravy. That’s the last thing a person makes after the turkey is ready and the potatoes are mashed, and the table is ready for people to start sitting down. The guests hadn’t even arrived. He tried to help by getting the gravy packet from the turkey breast out of the refrigerator, which in turn distracted me because that was NOT what I was making, and I managed to both snap at him and spill the heavy cream all over the counter and onto the floor that I had just mopped. Again, sorry, Ruger, but you don’t get to lap that up. OUT OF MY KITCHEN, DOG. And I washed it up. Blood pressure is slightly elevated now.

Everything was ready to be popped into the oven, the bread and rolls were baked, and we had a break in the clouds. I wrapped myself in a coat and joined my husband outside around the Breeo smokeless fire pit to relax a little bit. Aaah. I was still sipping on that first glass of wine.

The guests arrived half an hour later just as the turkey reached the magic point in smoking: done. I started putting dishes into the oven while conversing with the female guest. The men sat around the fire pit. My guest asked what she could do and I said I thought I had it under control.

“You always have it under control,” she said.

Um… I’ve dumped one tart, spilled the cream, snapped at my husband (and the dog, but he deserved it), and dinner isn’t quite finished yet. Also, I am beginning to feel the ache of missing family members. And the dog is back in the kitchen, very excited because our guests are his favorite people in the whole world next to us and the dog next door that usually ignores him. Ruger gets pushed back outside to play around the fire with the men.

Dinner went well, actually. Everything timed out perfectly and nobody minded that the bathtub was hiding under the tablecloth. Ruger even settled down after being yelled at several times to “GO LAY DOWN”. (“But, but, but… there’s food. And Morgan! And food! And people! Aw, OK, I’ll lay down and TRY to be good…”)

Dishes were picked up and real silver separated from the stainless. (Yes, everyone let Ruger lick the juices off of their plates, but there weren’t any leftovers, only a taste. Poor, fat, doggo.) We relaxed for a drink and settled our tummies. Eventually, I heated the oven again and set about placing the tarts in to bake.

The rack in my oven has very wide gaps in it. Why is a mystery, but there you are. And one tart fell through, face down onto the oven door, apple juice pouring down into the broiler pan, and my husband (so helpful) saying, “You should put them on a baking sheet”. Now I need that second glass of wine. Or a third. And he can’t understand why I glowered at him.

We never ate dessert. We sent two tarts home with our guests. I washed and dried the silver. Everything else went into the dishwasher (I cook and clean as I go so pans were a minimum by evening’s end). I left the over cleaning for today, and it is still waiting for me. Baked on apple juice is not fun.

I will end with this: I think the bathtub had the BEST Thanksgiving, ever. I think it was happy to be included. It was better behaved than Ruger was.

And that turkey… Oh, my. Don’s Secret Dry Rub transforms everything.

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It’s Okay, It’s Not Okay

November 8, 2023 by Jaci Dawn

It is Okay to walk away from a toxic relationship. I have done it. And I have had it done to me. And that’s something we don’t talk about: what if YOU are the toxic person?

I will be brutally honest: the times I have been called a toxic person caught me completely by surprise and left me gasping for air not unlike a fish out of water. What happened? Why didn’t I see this coming? What did I say or do and how can I mend the situation? For me, that has always been the biggest question: what can I do to fix this? Because I don’t want to be “that person”.

I can think of three examples, and they all happened the same year. Only one of those came from someone I easily let go. You know the drill? “You feel like that? Okay. Good-bye. Have fun.”

Two came from people I dearly loved and valued. In one case, I will never know exactly why she decided it was time for our friendship of 40+ years to end. She picked something innocent as an excuse to tell me to go to hell: I didn’t see her “like” under a post I made on Facebook and that was “rude” of me. I tried, at first. Facebook has algorithms. You don’t always see all the comments under a post. A “like” is not even an acknowledgement: it’s just proof you spend too much time on the social media platform trying to affirm some other’s person’s feelings. It was for naught: she blocked me, quit answering my letters (I only wrote her one more), and that was that. Forty years of friendship gone over a missed “like” on a social media post.

I probably didn’t need that friendship anyway.

The third, however, still cuts me to the deep. My closest allies and friends tell me to “just let it go” but the pain is as deep as the loss of a child. It was the loss of a child. My youngest. She cut all ties to me and told me she no longer wanted any contact. I was devastated. I went through all the same emotions a parent goes through when a child dies: anger, hurt, sorrow, confusion, denial.

See, I lost a child to death, and I recognize grief when I see it. It’s lifelong. I will grieve that child and the one who disowned me for the rest of my life. The latter did tell me some of her reasons and I have to admit half of what she accused me of was true. I said those things. I did those things. I am guilty. She doesn’t believe I will admit to that, but there it is. Half of it isn’t true, and that is the half she will focus on and there is nothing I can do or say to change that perception. The damage was done and the damage remains.

My youngest is not my natural child. She came to me already traumatized by her mother’s untimely death. Her estranged father had been murdered. She came to me with all the trauma an adoptee comes with. I didn’t know that then and I only know it now because some of my closest friends are adoptees who are active in adoption forums. The loss of a mother leaves a child scarred deep within their psyche and even adoptees who have been raised by loving adoptive parents carry scars and traumatic pain.

I can’t say that even had I known this truth that I would have been a different parent. I treated all my children the same, never taking into account that the newest arrival did not have the familial sense of humor. She did not speak our language. It was cruel of me to assume she did and cruel of me to assume she would adjust. But the worst thing I did was to say she was my foster child when I should have simply kept my mouth shut and allowed someone to assume she was my birth child. She only wanted to belong to a family, and I denied her that in one stupid sentence.

I can’t turn back time. I can’t make it up to her. I just have to live with that memory. And I will forever feel the pain of the loss of a child with her name.

I have thought of arguments. Of countering her with her own faults. To what end? To add to her trauma? To prove to her that I am exactly what she has accused me of: a narcissistic, inconsiderate, insensitive person? “I’m sorry I made you feel that way…” No. I am sorry I said that. I am sorry I was stupid. I am sorry I hurt her. I’m sorry I can’t fix it.

I will strive to be smarter and more compassionate in the future. I will strive to be more careful with my words. I can’t fix the past, but I can be a better person today and tomorrow. And if you are in the same position I am in, I ask you to not try to deflect the pain but to do better. Accept the blame. Bow to the truth. It will hurt.

I buried one child. I lost another. I have one that has switched roles with me and is now my mentor and conscience. I gained a bonus daughter (in-law) who thinks I do no wrong. Three of those I can see and speak to at any time (yes, I speak to the dead and I can visit his grave). The fourth wants to cease to exist in my world and I have to find a way to let her go.

It is Okay that she let me go but it is not Okay.

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The Big Name Change

November 6, 2023 by Jaci Dawn

Well, things are about to change: the AOS (American Ornithological Society) decided to change the common names of most American birds. What you thought you knew is not what you know now. I should be used to this: birds I grew up with have changed their identities several times: the rufous-sided towhee is now the spotted towhee, the sparrow hawk is now the kestrel, and Oregon junco is now a dark-eyed junco. Oh! And lest I forget, a bird I have commonly known as a scrub jay now is a California scrub jay. Apparently, it is a sub-species to the scrub jay.

The reasoning given by the AOS has to do with easily identifying birds by their markings: the red-breasted nuthatch and the white breasted nuthatch, for example: the common names describe the bird you are looking at. Another reason is that sometimes these birds were named after the person who first identified them, like the Audubon’s warbler. Oops, I’m sorry: that changed years ago to the yellow-rumped warbler. Apparently, Audubon fell out of grace. Now it’s names like Leach’s this or Wilson’s whatever that are heading toward the cutting block. And I get that: birds don’t care a whit about the name of the person who first identified them: birds were already aware of their own presence.

When I led my first snipe hunt, I had a Peterson’s Field Guide ready so I could prove that there really is a bird called a snipe, never mind that it is a coastal bird and we lived far inland. They could still fly into a paper bag if you sat and yelled “Heeeere, Snipey-snipey-snipe!” long enough.

I have not heard what the “new” common names will be, so what follows is a lot of conjecture.

Brewer’s Blackbird – Parking Lot Blackbirb; Starling’s Friend

Swainson’s Thrush – Invisible Melody Birb; Evening Song Thrush

Bewick’s Wren – Eyebrow Wren

Steller’s Jay – Screeching Jay; Peanut Thief

Anna’s Hummingbird – Ruby-headed Nectar Sucker; Angry Hummer

Cooper’s Hawk – Greater Stripey-tailed Hawk

Sharp-shinned Hawk – Lesser Stripey-tailed Hawk

Wilson’s Snipe – Here Snipey! Or Paperbag Snipe (Would certainly help when you’re trying to convince someone to go hunting them)

Swainson’s Hawk – Not Red-Tailed Hawk

Ferruginous Hawk – Rusty Hawk (because no one can pronounce “ferruginous”)

Ferruginous Pygmy Owl – Rusty Owl (see above)

Flammulated Owl – Fire Owl (I have no idea how it got its name in the first place as it does not resemble fire or flames)

Turkey Vulture – Baby Condor; Garbage Birb

Downy Woodpecker – Baby Pileated Woodpecker

Hairy Woodpecker – Teenage Pileated Woodpecker

California Gull – French Fry Gull; Parking Lot Gull

Canada Goose – Poop Birb

Townsend’s Warbler – Black-eyed Warbler

Prothonotary Warbler – I really don’t have a name for this birb, but it definitely needs a name change. I mean, they could have just shortened that appellation to “Notary Warbler” and assigned it a stamp and a ledger.

I did get my panties in a wad when I first heard about the Big Bird Name Change. I won’t run out and buy a new Field Guide just to be able to correctly name a birb I already know under another name, so I will be sentenced to forever misidentifying birds. At least I won’t call any little grey bird in my backyard “a common Yard Sparrow”.

As one birder on a forum I follow said, “As long as we still have tits and boobies, I’m okay.” I’ll just add, “And dickcissels.”

*this is all tongue-in-cheek and I am open to even better names for common birbs.

All photos are mine. Lead Image is a bushtit.

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Grief Comes Sneaking

August 21, 2023 by Jaci Dawn

I sat down to write a different post tonight. I had good intentions and the post started out well, but it mired in the mud of my words about halfway through. I saved it as a draft and turned to do something else, like sorting through our son’s guitar music and miscellaneous papers, things I didn’t deem important enough to take to his children in July.

I recycled the music, and set aside the books on World War 2 (he was very interested in the subject of the Pacific theater: the airplanes, the carriers, Midway Island, and so on). A folder with some Boy Scout awards was all that remained. And a photograph.

His fourth birthday. The cake was John Deere green. I don’t remember taking the photograph or anything else about the day, but I remember that cake and how excited he was.

He wrote a message on the back of it in yellow highlighter. He was trying out cursive. The letters are strained, but the words are clear enough. I ran the photo through my scanner with adjustments for contrast and brightness.

i Love you mom Love Levi P

A gift of passage, perhaps? A note from the past, certainly. A stab to the heart, yes. Because I love you, too, Levi.

I didn’t cry much when I was in Florida visiting his children and his grave, but tonight the tears just flow. It can’t be real. He can’t be gone. His fourth birthday was just yesterday.

What should be his 37th birthday is looming on the calendar. He lived just thirty years after that photo was taken and it just can’t be.

Damn grief. Pour me a shot of Jameson’s and let me sit in the dark with it. Let me remember his laugh, his smile, his hug.

To everything there is a season… Turn, Turn, Turn

I want to say something profound about this cycle of grief, but there are no words left in me. I urge anyone suffering from the loss of a loved one to look up The Compassionate Friends on Facebook or on their website: http://www.compassionatefriends.org. If you are grieving a military loved one look for TAPS (Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors): http://www.taps.org. You are not alone and you are normal.

Now, where’s that shot of whiskey? (j/k – alcohol is NOT the answer.)

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Why Does Oregano Hate Me?

August 18, 2023 by Jaci Dawn

I didn’t sleep well last night. I am currently sipping on a cup of coffee (the real stuff, not decaf) and waiting for the caffeine and acetaminophen to go to work. Lifting my right arm is difficult until the pain killer kicks in.

One week ago, on a warm Thursday morning, I set out to conquer some of the weeds that had started in my flower beds. I missed a good deal of blooms while I was away in Florida, so there is a great deal of dead-heading to be done as well. I dove right in and was making good progress around the largest flower bed. I did a little edging, pulled out errant evening primroses and thinned out their bed as well. I crawled under the Hawthorne and dug out some bothersome wood sorrel and a lot of errant oregano.

My oregano patch is large and unruly, but bees, wasps, and other pollinators love it. This time of year, the air around the oregano hums. But I only allow it to grow within its confines or, like the evening primroses, it would take over the entire yard and choke out all my other beautiful flowers and herbs. I believe this is what triggered the main body of the herb.

I stepped around my weed bucket to leave the area and move on when the oregano wrapped around my left foot. It wouldn’t let go and I was thrown forward. These things always happen in slow motion: My body tipping forward, my hands reaching ahead of me for the ground, my body twisting away from the dreaded oregano plant and the weeding pad looming up to catch me.

It looks harmless. Kindly, even.

I slammed into the arm of that with my armpit and the momentum of my top-heavy torso. BOOM! AHHH! I rolled over in agony, tears on the verge of flowing. My husband came running. I ran into the house and applied arnica.

But I am brave. I brushed it off, said I was all right, and proceeded to work some more in the garden, but away from the oregano now. Ungrateful herb! I worked for maybe half an hour before I realized my right arm was NOT beginning to feel better but was, in fact, hurting more. Of course, there was no bruise to see because: Arnica. But it sure FELT like a bruise throughout my armpit and into my right breast.

Ice. And – oh! I had hydrocodone hiding in the house, a remnant of breast cancer surgery that I never needed to use. I’m not saying the pain went completely away but it certainly eased off considerably. Until nighttime and bedtime. My arm and chest stiffened up, I couldn’t roll over, I could barely get myself back out of bed… You know the kind of pain that just dogs you? Yeah, that.

My husband drove me everywhere. I insisted on going to the big city wide yard sale and the art festival by the Oregon Trail Interpretive Center. I was fine, fine. We even stopped and had a beer at one of our favorite haunts (I was careful not to mix the meds). Then night came on again.

I started to worry: had I dislocated my shoulder? It didn’t look like it. I could use it. Visions of a doctor putting in back into place frightened me (more pain?!), but it was now obvious I had DONE SOMETHING. I convinced myself to go to the Urgent Care (rather, have my chauffeur drive me to the Urgent Care as I was now unable to hold the car door open long enough to get seated).

She poked and prodded gently. No, I hadn’t dislocated anything. Of course there was no bruise (Arnica). Nothing appeared to be broken but they didn’t have an x-ray tech available until Monday. She didn’t think anything WAS broken, however: she posited that I had cracked a rib.

And it all made sense. I’ve “been there done that” before. I cracked two ribs on a crate thirteen years ago, almost to the date. I know when because our son was visiting with his first born, and we celebrated Justin’s first birthday here. Justin just turned 14.

I didn’t go to the doctor. I had a stash of oxycontin left over from dental surgery. I knew that even an x-ray wouldn’t help because there is nothing the medical field can do for cracked ribs. You just have to suffer it out. It took nine weeks to heal.

The Urgent Care physician just nodded and smiled. “That’s pretty much what we have here. We could do an x-ray but it probably isn’t going to show anything beyond a cracked rib. I can prescribe some muscle relaxers to help you through the night.”

So now my house mocks me as the dirt, dust, and dog hair pile up. The garden is overrun with dead flower heads and weeds are bravely flourishing. I only travel places if someone else is driving. And sleep eludes me, especially when the dog feels the need to cuddle up against my back and prevent me from finding a more comfortable position. You move a seventy pound mutt in the middle of the night? HA!

I’m trying to learn how to do things left-handed, but it isn’t happening very quickly. I’ll dust and dust mop today – I can do those things with my left arm. The garden is just going to have to wait along with all my plans for the end of the summer.

I managed to type all this and sip my coffee. The acetaminophen is kicking in. Nice weeding weather outside teases me, but I know better. A cracked rib takes a long time to heal. And I am out of the good drugs and down to the Over-the-Counter ones. By my calculations (and prior experience) I have six to eight more weeks of this.

But I have no outward bruise!

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Homeward Bound (part 3)

August 17, 2023 by Jaci Dawn

We did a lot of driving one our first day out. We wanted to get as close to Fort Worth as possible. Our second day out included a short but sweet side trip into Fort Worth to see our cousin, Chuck, and his wife, Kathy, but especially to see Uncle “Mike”, our last standing uncle on the Wilcox side. We were treated to a little Texas style barbeque (the pulled pork was great, the sauce was ho-hum).

Uncle “Mike” is a wealth of family history and has been passing that knowledge down. Chuck printed a handful of old family photos for Terry and I and I can’t wait to return the favor with photos he requested that I might have.

The nicest La Quinta we stayed in was in Lawson, Oklahoma. I wandered down to see what was left of the breakfast (nothing). Fort Sill was hosting a graduation that day and all the young soldiers and their families had grazed through and cleaned out the area. A tiny woman in a La Quinta uniform was standing there, contemplating closing down the buffet. We struck up a conversation, mostly about young soldiers, young people, and the challenges they face today.

Miss Betty stood about four foot eight, had dark curly hair tinted with a shade of orange and bangs that curled over her forehead. She was thin, frail, spry, and sharp. She told me a story of how she once gave her last two dollars to an immigrant couple because they had a toddler with them that needed something to drink. She was so touched by their response and thankfulness. We held hands and prayed together, and the last I saw of her was her face peeking around the door to wave good-bye to me. Miss Betty.

That day we saw more wildlife. The heat index was dropping and creatures were stirring, particularly birds of prey. The country we drove across was the southern edge of The Great Dust Bowl and one could see how the dust and dry shaped the landscape. Scrubby trees were planted in an effort to hold the soil, but the land is flat, dry, and baked. We pulled off the road in Duke, OK, to look at some of the houses. A pair of locals started following us (who’d blame them: Florida plates, driving slow through a small town?) and we stopped to yak with one of them. He was a sweet old guy working for the public water system, but he didn’t have much knowledge on the older homes (except there was a rumor about a movie to be made in one of them).

Next stop was Memphis, Texas. The streets are paved in brick. Real brick, not cobblestones.

Picturesque and quiet, the county seat of Hall County. There was a bank on every corner, or at least some buildings that had been banks at one time. A quaint little spot that deserves more investigation!

Driving from Pueblo through Grand Junction was a long and difficult day for me. Memories. My husband and I drove that route one summer on our way to Colorado Springs to meet our first granddaughter. Our son took us along part of that route to see Royal Gorge. Levi haunts these places. He was just beginning to fall in love with Special Forces then and was stationed out of Fort Carson. He joined up with 10th Special Forces Group and was deployed to Iraq for a short time. He lived, loved, got divorced, remarried – all in Colorado Springs. I’m thankful we didn’t go into CS.

On to Provo and one of the worst Days Inns we stayed at. My brother booked it on a promo where it was advertised as a “new” motel. It was not new. It was not easy to locate. There were permanent residents who stared off into the distance and talked to themselves. One stayed busy rearranging rocks. Another paced the balcony after an apparent nightmare, muttering and casting out demons in the middle of the night. The bathroom was too small to turn around in and the water only heated to lukewarm. The coffee maker was missing pieces. The mattresses probably had bedbugs. We left as early as possible the next morning. Pretty certain my brother gave it a minus 5 rating.

It rained sometime during the night and the playa shimmered in mirages.

I am endlessly fascinated by mirages. There really is a mountain in the photo; there really is not a shimmering lake surrounding it. The playa is salt and alkali, alkali and salt. Emigrants to California passed to the north of these flats, camping near City of Rocks in Idaho before dropping down to the southern route through Nevada (which is alkali and brush, brush and alkali, but at least has the Humboldt River meandering across most of the state until it sinks into the ground and disappears altogether.

We decided to take a side trip out to Bonneville Flats where there really was water on the playa – and some racing even was happening. Or not – they were still deciding if there was too much water on the surface or if they could go further out and race.

Next stop was the old Wendover Army Air Base (Utah). I didn’t know this existed.

The museum was overpriced for what little it offered, but we paid anyway and wandered through the displays. I was most impressed with the history of the Enola Gay. I missed something in history classes or they simply did not teach this: the Enola Gay was housed at Wendover Army Base. Of course, we were never taught much about the history of Wendover, excepting that half of the town is locate in Utah (Mountain Time) and half of it is in Nevada (Pacific Time).

We paused in Elko, NV, to find the little house we lived in when our sister was born. It looks so tiny now: a standard white US Forest Service residence. There is a full basement underneath it: we kids had our bedroom down there. In Winnemucca, we paused to snap a photo of the haunted house we grew up in. It was an ungodly pink then, and all one residence. Now it is black (!?) and split into a duplex.

That green space between where I stood to take the photo and the house used to be an uncovered dry ditch full of milkweed and Monarch butterflies in the 1960’s. They buried it the year we moved away and I still hear the echoes of Joni Mitchell singing, “They paved paradise and put up a parking lot”. I have a rant on that strip of land and I may never forgive those who were in power who decided that Monarchs weren’t worth protecting. My 12 year old self looked into the future and knew. I’d like to subvert the city’s nice lawn and sow some milkweed seeds in that grass!

The last stop was Reno, of course. I met up with an online friend for a quick lunch on Monday, the 7th.I’ve met her before and we always seem to hit it off in person as well as online. I left the restaurant happy but tired – and decided spur of the moment to load up my car and drive home that afternoon. It was ten thirty at night when I arrived home, but I’m glad I went when I did: there was little to no traffic, even on I-5. And to top it off, when I pulled in to the gas station in Klamath Falls, I got an attendant who pumped my gas for me.

This moppet was so excited to see me that he barked and growled at me. “WHO are YOU?”

Gee, thanks, Ruger-puger. I’m your hooman mom and I missed you, too.

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Road Trip 2023, Part 2

August 16, 2023 by Jaci Dawn

106 degrees (Fahrenheit) with a “heat index” (“real feel”) of 120 degrees. That’s 41C and 48.9C. Miserable, in any world.

I love the heat. Bring it on. Ninety and up. Problem is, my body no longer regulates my temperature and heat melts me. I blame this on a heat stroke I gave myself the year we went to get our first Wirehaired Pointing Griffon from Idaho. I have never recovered. I’m also in my mid-sixties and slightly overweight.

Florida was hot. Oregon is hot right now. I am already sweating at eleven AM (Pacific Daylight).

But the trade-off in Florida was getting to see all six of our son’s children in one place, a first for me since his funeral in December of 2020. They have changed so much, yet not at all. Funny, mischievous, nerdy, righteous, smart. See my son’s gestures and facial expressions displayed in their young faces was cathartic and joyous. They are beautiful people.

Our daughter, Arwen, Kaysie, Justin, Erin, Myself. Korinne, Nolan, John, Micah, Miss V (Arwen’s “mini-me”). And only two of the five dogs.

There are also a tortoise, a monitor lizard, and (at the time of my visit): untold number of Fowler’s toads courtesy of the two younger girl cousins.

We spent part of a day at Emerald Coast Zoo (https://emeraldcoastzoo.com/). Justin and I burned out in the heat. The big hit was (as always) the parakeet cage. If you ever are in that part of Florida, you must take the kiddos!

A highlight of the day was getting to see my nephew, his partner, and their four children.

We visited Levi’s headstone and left him an offering of Key Lime Pie and a bottle of whiskey.

The rest of that day was spent “chilling” on Pensacola Beach. the water was warmer than most swimming pools, clear, and calm. The beach was not as crowded as I would have expected and everyone I observed picked up ALL their garbage when they left. All.Their.Garbage.

The coastal birds were not exactly what I was looking for, but they were quite friendly. (Okay, there were Laughing gulls and brown pelicans, but the rock dove was the one who posed for a beach photo.)

Most of our time was spent inside the house with the television on and children sprawled about.

I had four days to spend with these miscreants. Too little time. School has already started for some of them, football practice, cheer practice, music, theater, and those boring “three R’s”. Birthdays have already come and gone and time marches forward, ignorant of our losses, our joys, our pains, and our accomplishments. Time spent with family is the most precious time of all.

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Road Trip 2023. (Part 1)

August 14, 2023 by Jaci Dawn

I had a brilliant idea back in early March (before I knew I had breast cancer): instead of purchasing airplane tickets to fly to Florida and see all my son’s children together, I would ask my brother if he was up to a road trip. After all, his son had just moved to within two hours of our daughter-in-law and we haven’t been on a road trip together in 14 years. That road trip was to Colorado to see my son’s first born.

I don’t mind flying, but it’s very expensive right now, there have been a number of cancellations and complete mix-ups in the news, and I thought a road trip might be a little cheaper than a solo flight out (and a lot more fun). In the end, I think the road trip cost nearly as much as the flight would have but it *was* a lot more fun – and we saw a lot of the beautiful country contained within the borders of the United States.

I have been living in the State of Oregon for 46 years. No sales tax and no self-service at the gas pump. I pumped gas briefly during the winter of 1978 but someone else has done it for me since then.. This was about to change as our legislation went around the vote of the people and passed a bill allowing self service at most pumps beginning the 5th of August. I figured I had a couple weeks on the road to relearn how to pump gas on fancy “new” (to me) machines.

Also, we had five boxes of “stuff” in my attic that belonged to our son that probably needed to be delivered to his heirs, and since they were all six going to be in one spot… I could easily haul all those boxes in a rental car. Long story short, breast cancer was dealt with and the road trip was on. All I had to do was drive myself the 8+ hours to Reno and home again. And, meantime, my brother unloaded a couple of boxes of his son’s belongings to deliver to Florida as well.

I left home on the 23rd of July. That went smoothly, but getting the rental car on the morning of the 24th was a two-hour ordeal. We only made it as far as Ely, our high school home town. I haven’t been there since 2012 when we finished cleaning out our father’s estate. Ely had a stop light then. Today it doesn’t. (There’s a stop light in East Ely.)

We got serious with travel on the 25th. A short stop in Pioche, NV, to take photos.

We decided to drive through Cedar City, Utah, and down through Kanab, over the Glen Canyon bridge, and on into Flagstaff. The drive from Cedar City to Kanab is a spectacular road through winding canyons formed by sandstone and granite. The walls of the canyon are pink and white with an occasional dusting of coal deposits. Iron is mined near Cedar City. From Kanab to the Glen Canyon Dam, the road takes one over mountain passes and smooth meadows carved out by ancient glaciers. The views can be breath-taking.

We paused to watch a storm build over Arizona.

Glen Canyon is intense. The water in Lake Powell is extremely low. The architecture of both the bridge over the canyon and the dam are a marvel or engineering.

July 26th found us on the road with hopes to make it to Amarillo by evening. HaHaHa. We made it to Tumcumcari, New Mexico, in part because we had to dawdle a little in Winslow and we stopped to see The Crater (Barringer Meteorite Crater). I was not impressed with Winslow, but they do have a bronze statue of Glen Frey near “the Hitchhiker” and that’s pretty cool.

The Crater, on the other hand, is impressive. You can see where it churned up earth long before you reach the site. It was formed around 50,000 years ago, is over 4,000 feet across and over 700 feet deep. You can’t see into the crater bottom without a telescope (or a 300mm camera lens).

It was far too hot to go on a guided tour and we didn’t stay long, but I count it as a highlight of our trip.

We caught up with a storm as we hurried on toward Tucumcari: lightning lit up the sky ahead of us for miles, culminating in this:

We finally arrived in Tucumcari where I booked us a room. An old man and his dog sat outside the lobby in the shade. Charlie, the dog, wanted chin scratches, so I obliged. When I came back out from the lobby, the old man was in a very agitated state: TARANTULA! I don’t think he was amused by my reaction: I hurried to get my camera and tell my brother to get his before the spider moved on. THEN we ushered it off the sidewalk. Texas Brown Tarantula, very common.

We decided we were running short on time, so the leg on the 27th was pretty much a straight drive through to Paris with a couple side trips to drive on the original Route 66. We spent the night in Paris, TX.

The first image is actually in Tucumcari, but the hat on the “Eiffel Tower” replica is ALL Paris, Texas.

July 28 – Our date for arriving in Florida. And we did drive straight through, except for a slight detour in Vicksburg, Mississippi, to tour the area where the battle of Vicksburg happened. Vicksburg is a sobering reminder of a young Nation torn in two, brother vs. brother, nephew vs. uncle, and trenches dug within feet of the “enemy”. It was a bloody siege. The North prevailed with General U.S. Grant defeating Confederate General John C. Pemberton. The day we drove through and looked at the monuments of the different units that fought (and died), the air was close and musical with the song of cicadas. I could imagine the screams of men and horses, the boom of cannons, the smell of gunpowder, blood, and sulphur, and the fear that must have prevailed in those trenches. The battle raged for 47 days.

That was our last tourist stop on the first half of our trip. We arrived at my destination after ten PM on the 28th.

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