End of year musing

Today, I am at the beginning of a week of stay-cation. I'll try to get a few things done around the house. We'll see how that goes.

I have New Year's Eve plans. I'm going to stay home and read, watch a movie, or knit, or some combination of those. I bought myself a little bottle of champagne to open at midnight, and I plan to buy some oliebollen, the traditional Dutch New Year treat. My kind of party. My dog will be there.

When my folks were living, I spent New Year's Eve with them. One year, they got out the Church Yearbook, which is an annually published book of statistics about churches in my denomination, the Christian Reformed Church in North America. My dad would think of the names of his seminary classmates (Calvin Theological Seminary), and my mom would look them up and read out what congregations they had served. I was like, "Whoa. Is this the wildest New Year's Eve party ever, or what?" After that, it became a family joke. As December 31st approached, my sister would warn me not to get too crazy with the Church Yearbook. I would reply that I couldn't restrain our parents if they wanted to get that rowdy.

One year, my pastor had mentioned that his family, like so many families, would read Psalm 90 at the new year, so I suggested that to my dad. He turned down the idea because he knew the Psalm had all kinds of things in it about the brevity of human life. My dad did not care for reminders of his own mortality. He didn't like it when my mom would say to one of us kids about some household item, "You can have this when I'm dead." It didn't bother my mom or me. We would kind of laugh about it and pantomime and mouth those kinds of remarks to each other so Dad didn't have to hear them.

Well, rest in peace, Dad and Mom. Some day we will celebrate together not just the New Year but the New Creation. Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.

Second Saturday

Today is like a second Saturday. Thursday, Thanksgiving, was like a Sunday: religious aspect (giving thanks) and big mid-day dinner. Yesterday, Friday, was like Saturday: nothing scheduled. And today is like another Saturday, plus it actually is Saturday.

I have have two kinds of Saturdays. One is the usual: sleep in, intend to do housework but then read and play on the computer all day (possibly with a nap included somewhere). I always justify this Saturday by the fact that I'm worn out by the work week. Yesterday was that type of (pseudo) Saturday. I'm hoping today is the rarer kind: actually carry out my intentions of housework.

The more I can get straightened up today, the better. Tomorrow, of course, is the real Sunday. I generally spend Sunday afternoon at my sister-in-law's house, having the big mid-day meal and then either doing needlework, or just chatting.

Then comes Monday, which would be going-back-to work day, but I scheduled a vacation day. My sister-in-law is coming over and we will do more on the really long, slow project of unpacking and organizing my belongings. I moved back into my house after water-damage repairs in March 2018, and I am still working at it. I don't get much done on my "usual" Saturdays, and forget about weekday evenings.

The only real progress takes place when I schedule a vacation day for this specific purpose. Even then, progress only happens because my sister-in-law comes over and works with me. She keeps me upbeat and focused. She takes away the empty boxes and paper (at least 50% of the area of each box is occupied by crumpled up butcher paper)—otherwise, the clutter issue becomes worse as I unpack, instead of better.

If I can get some cleaning done today, then when she comes we can do more of the actual unpacking without first having to do cleaning.

Also, Amazon had a Black Friday special yesterday and I ordered a Roomba. It's scheduled to be delivered Monday. So, if I have most of the floor space cleared, I can start using that and hopefully have better cleaning maintenance than I have up till now.

Anyway, here's a picture of the wonderful lady who keeps me from getting buried under clutter, mess, and boxes. I don't mention her name, because she is a very private person.



Oh, one more motive for cleaning up is that tomorrow is the first Sunday of Advent, and I want to set up my Advent wreath. It would not look pretty in the middle of a mess, so I'll be trying to make my living room worthy of its presence.

Give thanks

Today is Thanksgiving. I had dinner with my sister-in-law, my niece and her husband, and their four children. Two of the "children" are adults now. The other two are teenagers. It was a nice time together. Good food, good company, as they say.

It was a chilly day. We're having some gusty winds and cold temperatures. It was sunny, though. A pretty day.

Thanksgiving marks the beginning of Christmas season in the popular culture here in the U.S. Several of my neighbors have Christmas lights up. I imagine more will put them up tomorrow. For several weeks, my nighttime drives will be brightened by the display.

I had two firsts of my own for the holiday season. I drank my first glass of eggnog (with a dollop of whiskey), and I listened to Handel's Messiah for the first time. Eggnog starts showing up in stores around Halloween already. I love eggnog immoderately, so I make myself wait until Thanksgiving to start having any. As to the Messiah, perhaps I misspoke to say I listened to it, because I slept through much of it. That tryptophan coma, you know. I dozed off in "Comfort ye my people" and woke up at "All they that see him laugh him to scorn." So I was able to hear the trumpet solo, and the Hallelujah Chorus, and the rest.

So, a quiet, pleasant day. Now I still have days off ahead of me. I love a loooong weekend.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When I link a blog entry to Facebook, I don't like how the first sentence or first few words show up there. So I'm putting in these two sentences as space filler.

Well, I guess I had a recrudescence of anxiety, or depression, or whatever. I like the word "recrudescence." It's like I had crud, then it cleared up, but now it's cruddy again. Kind of gross, actually. I don't feel cruddy at this moment. It was more that, as autumn moved in, I started having trouble waking up in the morning and getting out of bed when I did wake up, and throughout the day I would feel sad, almost tearful, from time to time for no reason. And when I thought about blogging, I would feel anxious. It came and went.

I am (or at least I think I am) a high-functioning depressive. I don't think people I meet and interact with would leave the encounter thinking, Now, there's an unhappy person. Actually a lot of the time I don't feel depressed because I don't feel it. I put a lid on it, and the top layer of my consciousness goes along as though what's under the lid doesn't exist.

And this autumn's downer is not a pervasive as some depressions I've had. It's a mild attack.

I guess I'm just trying to explain why I disappeared from this blog, and perhaps some other parts of my life, for a little while, but not wanting to make my friends and loved ones worry about me.

Almost all the time, there's some level of depression down in me somewhere. It ebbs and flows, like the tide, or it rises and falls, like the creek behind my house. Yes, I like that one. And sometimes it overflows its banks, like the creek does every few years, and covers its flood plain. My house sits higher and has never had the flood waters touch it, and maybe part of my mind is above the flood, too. It doesn't overwhelm me, it just flows along, sometimes low and slow, sometimes high and fast, and only occasionally out of bounds. So the water has risen, but there's no imminent danger of flooding.

I'm safe and dry. Don't worry.

The grace of God means something like: Here is your life. You might never have been, but you are because the party wouldn't have been complete without you. Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don't be afraid. I am with you. Nothing can ever separate us. It's for you I created the universe. I love you. — Frederick Buechner

It is important to tell at least from time to time the secret of who we truly and fully are—even if we tell it only to ourselves—because otherwise we run the risk of losing track of who we truly and fully are and little by little come to accept instead the highly edited version which we put forth in hope that the world will find it more acceptable than the real thing. It is important to tell our secrets too because it makes it easier that way to see where we have been in our lives and where we are going. It also makes it easier for other people to tell us a secret or two of their own, and exchanges like that have a lot to do with what being a family is all about and what being human is all about. — Frederick Buechner

My summer vacation, Part Three

So after my sister left, I had a number of days free with no particular plans: a "stay-cation," as they say. I did a few things around the place, but mostly I did a lot of reading and relaxing.

Oregon Shakespeare Festival

The final (pretty much) stage of my vacation is my trip to Ashland, Oregon, with my sister-in-law, to see Shakespeare plays. Tonight we'll see MacBeth, aka "the Scottish play." I've read that show people have a superstition that stagings of MacBeth are plagued with bad luck, and so they call it "the Scottish play" to avoid saying the name. I don't know if that's true.

I'm sure I studied MacBeth in high school, and again in college when I took a Shakespeare class (I was an English major), and then I taught it to high schoolers three times. So I'm pretty familiar with it. The other plays we'll see are As You Like It and All's Well That Ends Well. I don't really recall what those are about.

In addition to seeing plays, we'll do some wandering around Ashland, which is a charming town. We arrived yesterday and went to the Tudor Guild Gift Shop. I was in a mood where everything looked good to me. I bought an Ashland sweatshirt, several pairs of socks, and a fridge magnet with a Jane Austen quote.

I had been wanting a non-hoody sweatshirt. I have two hoodies, so I wanted a different option. I found a pale blue-gray sweatshirt on sale, that has "Ashland Oregon" on the front.

Oh, and we had wonderful news on our drive here. The last two years, the Oregon Shakespeare Festival has been plagued with smoke from wildfires, so that sometimes they've had to cancel outdoor performances at the Elizabethan Theater. This year, when I bought my tickets, the plays that earlier in the summer were outdoors were scheduled later in the summer to be indoors in the local high school auditorium, so that even if there were smoke they wouldn't have to be cancelled. I was kind of disappointed by that because going to the outdoor theater is a huge part of the enjoyable experience here. Well, the box office called me and I answered on the bluetooth in my car, and they said they were going to be in the Elizabethan theater after all. My sister-in-law and I both yelled, "Yay!"

It's not smoky here this year, which is great. Yesterday when we got here, it was very hot, well up into the 90s, but today will be a little cooler; a high of 81 is forecast, which is bearable. I'm so glad that tonight I'll be sitting in the theater under the sky as the night falls and the great play starts.

The Allen Elizabethan Theatre. I found this photo online; it originates with the OSF.

My summer vacation, Part Two

The Fair, Continued

From the poffertje stand, my sister and I wandered into the new Expo Building, where we looked at some 4-H displays and at the quilt exhibit. My sister-in-law, who was not with us, is the quilting expert in our family (I refer to my local sister-in-law, but, as it happens, my out-of-state sister-in-law is also an accomplished quilter), and we knew she had a hand in the display.

My sister took this picture.

Next, we set out to look at some of the animal barns. On our way, we were attracted by a raptor exhibit. It was a relatively small shelter, open to the front, where there were seven birds of prey that we could look at. It was put on by the Sardis Raptor Center, and one of the minders told my sister that the birds there were all ones that had some injury or condition that prevented them from being released back into the wild. They were beautiful birds, and we enjoyed looking at them.



Barred Owl



Bald Eagle



Eurasian Eagle Owl



Harris Hawk



Peregrine Falcon



Red Tail Hawk



Turkey Vulture

We went through the dairy cow barn and a few other animal barns.

My sister took this picture, too.

Then we went to look at the draft horses. That barn was closed off because they were harnessing the horses to their vehicles. Those are huge animals, and you wouldn't want to get stomped on or kicked by one of them if things got dicey. We could watch the harnessing from the other side of a chain. We were hoping to see a cousin of ours who married into a family that keeps Belgian horses. We didn't see her, but we did see her husband and one or more of her sons although we did not talk to them. They were busy handling huge horses. So we made our way to the arena, where we knew the teams would be driving. This is a picture of my cousin's family's team:

Shagren's Belgians

After that, we went to our one ride, the Ferris Wheel.



I love to look out over Lynden from the top of the Ferris Wheel. I did not take any pictures while I was on the ride, partly because I wanted to be in the moment, and, more so, because I was afraid I'd drop my phone from a great height.

When we got off the Ferris Wheel, I had reached precisely my point of satiety with the Fair, and my sister felt the same. So that was our outing to the Fair, and that's Part Two of my story.

My summer vacation, Part One

Ah, for the days when summer vacation was all summer. Except, not really, because that was either while I was in school, which I didn't really like from grade 5 through high school, or when I was teaching school, which triggered depression so severe that I needed a full summer to recover.

Anyway, this summer vacation is just a vacation that happens to take place during summer, specifically the last couple weeks of August. I guess I'm about halfway through it.

The first thing was that my sister came to visit. She stayed four days, and we went to the Fair, had coffee with a dear cousin and a dear sister-in-law, went to a family reunion (dear aunts, uncles, and cousins, and cousins once or twice removed), had coffee with a dear aunt who couldn't make the reunion, and had dinner with a dear niece and her dear children and, again, our dear sister-in-law.

The Fair

The Northwest Washington Fair takes place in my home town, Lynden, Washington. The first time I went to this Fair was probably in 1971, when my mom and my siblings and I were living in Lynden while my dad was serving in Viet Nam. At that age (about 10), I was mostly interested in going on rides. I am fortunate in that I don't believe I have ever had motion sickness under any circumstances. I loved rides that spun you around and made you dizzy. (I liked to be dizzy when I was a child. When I visited my dad's office, I would spin around in his desk chair until I worked up some serious vertigo.) I earned money for the Fair by doing household tasks to which my mom had attached prices such as a nickel, a dime, and a quarter. She had a list of them, and if I did one I could claim my reward.

Now I'm older. I earn money by working in an office. I no longer seek out dizziness as a pleasure. There is just one ride I want to go on at the Fair, and that is the Ferris Wheel. My sister and I did go on it, but that was the last thing we did at the Fair.

First, we ate poffertjes. These are a Dutch food, made from batter poured into the indentations of a specialized poffertje griddle. The person making them flips each one over with a fork, so both sides get done.



As their name implies, they are puffy. The Lynden Dutch Bakery serves their poffertjes with some buttery frosting (or some sweetened butter; I don't know which is the correct description) that is truly delicious.



These pictures of poffertjes come from the Dutch Bakery's Facebook page, although I cropped them.

Here is a selfie of our happy faces when we ate poffertjes:



That is Part One of my story. I have a long story with little content. I remind myself of my mom, who worked on her autobiography for years probably, and would comment on her progress: "I'm up to my baptism." FYI, we practice infant baptism in our denomination.

Knitting

It's been a couple years now, since I knitted a scarf for my niece for Christmas. I forgot to take a picture of it then because I was knitting right up to the moment I wrapped it on Christmas Eve. Recently I was at an event at her house, so I asked if she would model it so I could take a picture.



It was a beautiful spring day, which is why the scarf is the only winter-wardrobe item she's wearing.

Here's a closer picture, so you can see the pattern, plus the row of yarn daisies.



It's several rows of garter stitch (just knit, don't purl any rows) and 10 rows of seed stitch (alternate knit, purl stitches, so you make a pattern of bumps). The daisies, in addition to being cute, cover a row where I messed up. By the time I realized how bad it looked, I didn't want to rip out everything I'd done since. So I made these daisies on a little loom, using white and yellow yarn. My niece likes daisies.

I just wanted to record this completed project for posterity. I've started two other projects since then. I'll post pictures of those when they're done. It could be a while. I think it took me over a year to knit this scarf. That's because I don't stick with it all the time. For weeks, or even months, I won't touch my knitting.

Sometimes I listen to a book on tape (as I anachronistically think of it—it's really generally something on my Kindle) while I knit. I listened to all of "Evangeline" while knitting. A novel or novella-length poem is not something I would read with my eyes, but it was good to listen to. Poetry should be spoken, anyway, because it's a cross between writing and music. To read a poem silently is kind of like reading a musical score. Some people might get a lot out of that, if they're experts. But still, one would rather listen. And I like to listen to a trained professional reading, rather than my own first reads with mistakes, mis-pronunciations, and incorrect emphases.

Good morning

There is a thing I like to do on Saturday morning. When I first wake up, I get up and make a cup of coffee. I bring it to my recliner and cover myself up to my neck with a quilt, keeping just my right hand out to be able to pick up the coffee cup. I slowly enjoy the coffee. Then I sit, just relaxing, and I generally fall asleep for another hour or two.

This is a welcome change from work day morning when, after I wake up, I have to force myself not to relax and go back to sleep. Getting up is seriously the hardest thing I do all day.

I'm benefitting from the season these days because the sun rises early and the daylight helps me wake up. In winter, the early morning darkness makes it miserably hard to wake up.

Perchance to dream

Driving home the other day, I had on my oldies station and a song started:

I could stay awake just to hear you breathing,
Watch you smile while you are sleeping,
While you're far away and dreaming.
I could spend my life in this sweet surrender.
I could stay lost in this moment forever....

And so on.

I thought, I guess his girlfriend doesn't snore. And after another moment's thought: Or drool.

Yet, is a woman who snores and/or drools less worthy of a love song than one who sleeps quietly and prettily?

I'm awake just because you're snoring,
But still I look at you, adoring.
A damp spot on the pillowcase
Is underneath your pretty face.

I snore. I know this because I've asked for honest feedback from, say, my sister, when we share a hotel room. Occasionally I become aware of it on my own because I hear myself snore, just as I'm dropping off to sleep.

I don't drool much. I have drooled in my sleep upon occasion. It seems more likely when I fall asleep on a couch during the day, rather than during my long sleep at night.

Once my sister and I were watching the movie Key Largo, with Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. In one scene, the characters have been confined to one room overnight and have fallen asleep in their chairs or, in the case of Lauren Bacall (if I recall correctly—it's been a long time) sitting on the floor, laying her head on an ottoman. She wakes up in the morning and lifts her head from where it rested. She looks beautiful because she's Lauren Bacall and that's what she does. I said to my sister, "If that were me, I'd be like this," and I pantomimed wiping my mouth and face.

In the song I heard in my car the other day, the singer goes on quite a bit about how great it is just to watch her sleeping, but towards the end of the song he ratchets up the drama and hoarsely screams some of the lyrics (because he's Steven Tyler and that's what he does). If she were sweetly sleeping, she'd surely wake up at that point, unless she had in earplugs.

Here's my preferred song for invoking loved ones going to sleep:



And may I wish you, Dear Reader, sweet dreams till sunbeams find you.

Mystery

Sometimes I like to read a mystery series. It spares me wondering what to read next; just get the next book. A year or so ago, I read all the Miss Marple books, in the order in which they were published. Now I'm doing the same with the Inspector Lynley books, by Elizabeth George. I'm on the second book, Payment in Blood.

In a mystery novel, they have to introduce a lot of characters early on, so that you have a good line-up of suspects. My trouble is, I'm bad with names. So, as I read, I often confuse one character with another. Now is this the victim's brother-in-law or the detective's ex-girlfriend's new boyfriend? So today during lunch I went back to the beginning and paged through (on my Kindle) writing down each character's name, key facts, their age if mentioned, and their relationship to other characters. I didn't quite get them all, but I've got a start, and when I'm done then I can quickly check who's who as each character shows up with their alibi or lack thereof.

Sidetracked

My out-of-doors goal for today was to sweep the steps that lead down from the driveway to my deck and to rake up all the wind-blown branches, twigs, and leaves from underneath the Noble Fir next to the steps.

These were going to be my "before" pictures:

"Before" sweeping the steps.

"Before" raking under the Noble Fir.

I did a rough sweep of the steps, and then I needed to get a rake and also a pair of clippers from one of my sheds. (Thanks to my dad, there are three sheds in our yard.) The shed door had blackberry vines growing over it. Blackberries are very, very prickery. The vines had also intertwined with a rose bush by the shed, and an unwanted pair of holly bushes were growing under the rose. Everything with prickers.

The Distraction

I did have one pruner with me that we used in December to take the lower branches off my Christmas tree. I used it to cut at the vines until I could open the door, then I pulled out a rake. I raked up the prickery vines and used the rake and pruner like tongs to pick them up and put them in a wheelbarrow.

Spring thoughts

March comes in like a lion and goes out like lamb, so the saying goes. It kind of did roar in. We've been having unseasonably wintry weather at a time when we should be seeing signs of spring, as February ended and March began. Days on end of northeastern winds from that darn Fraser Valley, and repeated snowfalls. Significant snowfalls, too, not just the "dusting" we might typically get in late winter.

Significant February snowfall

Today, there is still snow on parts of the yard. It's melting slowly because temperatures have stayed quite cold, freezing overnight.

But we've had a few sunny days now, and surely spring is on the way. I looked back a few years in my Facebook feed and saw that my forsythia has bloomed in mid- to late March before. Here's a picture I took on March 14, 2015:



I purposely planted that forsythia where I could see it from my living room window. It's one of the earliest plants to bloom in spring, and I am color-starved by the time winter ends and want to feast my eyes on the yellow flowers. The 14th may be particularly early; elsewhere, I have a photo from March 25, 2017, where it's just starting to bloom.

Bellingham, where I work, is oceanside and has a milder micro-climate than Lynden, where I live, which is about 15 miles inland. Every spring, as I drive to work, I see forsythia blooming in Bellingham and then along the road to Bellingham before my own finally blooms.

This year, I am resolved to return to container gardening on my deck. For the past few years, with my parents' decline and deaths and my post-water-damage remodel, I haven't had the energy. Last year, I bought some plants, planted a few, then left the rest in their little store pots, where they still are now. This year, I want to make the effort to once again make my deck a beautiful, fragrant place to spend time.

My own heart let me more have pity on

My own heart
Gerard Manley Hopkins

My own heart let me more have pity on; let
Me live to my sad self hereafter kind,
Charitable; not live this tormented mind
With this tormented mind tormenting yet.
I cast for comfort I can no more get
By groping round my comfortless, than blind
Eyes in their dark can day or thirst can find
Thirst's all-in-all in all a world of wet.
Soul, self; come, poor Jackself, I do advise
You, jaded, let be; call off thoughts awhile
Elsewhere; leave comfort root-room; let joy size
At God knows when to God knows what; whose smile
's not wrung, see you; unforeseen times rather — as skies
Betweenpie mountains — lights a lovely mile.

I came across this Gerard Manley Hopkins poem a week or so ago, and immediately the first line went straight into me. "My own heart let me more have pity on." It's a variation of what I try to tell myself and what I sometimes tell others, "Be kind to yourself." My sister tells me, "Be a friend to yourself." Would you treat a friend this way? If not, don't treat yourself that way either.