…reduced, reused, recycled, refined, redacted. What on earth does redacted mean anyway? I am fairly sure that is not a word I have ever used before. It exists though. I know it does. Now, to be certain, I could just pop up to one of the seven other browser windows I currently have open and actually check out a dictionary online, but that seems like far too much work (I have to say, I accidentally typed fart when I typed far too…I have been hanging around middle school students too much of late, so that struck me as amusing). So, if you are one of those stealthy folks following me, you have already noticed that I have not posted in over a month. If you are one of those folks following me who follows folks so those folks might follow your pages, you probably haven’t noticed at all since you haven’t been back since you clicked the little follow button. Since none of you, oh silent followers of grumpiness (you might have been hoping for gratitude, but I just am not there full time yet), ever actually say howdy, it is possible you aren’t really out there sneaking around in my meandering wordiness and wondering if I am ever going to actually guide anyone to anything other than my garden beds and some seriously sad attempts to be all kinds of grateful for my place in the current state of the reality in which we live.
That said, so…this working thing is cutting into my favorite typing time of day. Past posts tend to have happened between the wee hours and the wee wee hours of the morning in most cases. Since I have been reduced to a nine o’clock bedtime to make a four-thirty first alarm slightly more likely to catch me closer to ready to wake up, those wee wee hours of the morning only find me awake when I am caught by a case of the coughs or have to visit the loo as sometimes happens in the middle of the night. And since my waking hours are currently spent running around trying to get ten acres ready for winter without really knowing what on earth I am really doing, typing has not been a priority.
Today, however, I am up later than usual and wanted to say hello. Maybe it is because mom got to go on a glider flight today. She was planning on waiting till the spring, but at this point is not sure she will be around, or able to get into and out of the glider plane if she is around. So, with amazing weather forecast for this weekend, a’glider riding she would go. She’s wanted to go glider riding ever since she parachuted out of a plane the year she retired from teaching for thirty years. The parachute process was too fast for her. Not enough time to float like a bird. Too noisy. She wanted more time in the air.
Today she got it. Being the person she is, she was friends with everyone at the flight club before it was her turn to get into the glider. This also meant that everyone knew that she is dying and that the glider ride was one of her adventures before no more adventuring was possible. Getting into the glider wasn’t too bad, I had to help lift her lymphoma bothered leg over the controller in the middle of the front cockpit area, but she made it in. Her pilot promised her she could steer when they released from the tow plane. The woman who lifted the wing and swung the signal for take off said they should stay up a bit longer than normal. Which, of course, they did.
I filmed the take off and the landing, but the middle part, with the glider a mile above the earth was impossible to film with the brilliant blue background and sun so bright it was impossible to see anything in the screen of the phone. I should have taken my real camera, but I actually haven’t taken it out of the case since I brought it back from China. I haven’t unpacked certain boxes yet, but those contain art I’m not sure where to put, and things like fountain pens with which I don’t know what to write. A very large collection of pens with a brush tip and a small tip that sits in bubble wrap on my office floor. Things like that. My office is not yet a place in which to do anything other than put things I am just not sure about.
Mom was bubbling more than usual when she landed after her thirty minute glide through the sky. I’m not sure how she manages. I don’t think I could endure the daily pain plus the torture of a medicine which makes itches break out all over every inch of skin and still have room for bubbling. I mean, I’m certainly not the one dying and I’m as grumpy as all heck in a handbasket with a side order of woe is me to boot. I suppose focusing on the moments at hand and not those what ifs and what should haves and what abouts would make it a whole lot easier to be grateful, but as much as I tell myself to cut out the darn grumbling and get busy being better at something, even if it isn’t gratitude, I just don’t seem to pull it off.
So, I garden. Kind of (don’t get me talking about weeds). I feed the animals. I work. I avoid filling the bookshelves in the office with the books I love. I surround myself with piles of papers like protection against reality. A moat of words not quite fully written. I remember occasionally to dig my head out of the sand and say hi to my followers in a game of follow the leader where I am pretty sure I am the only one playing.
On the plus side, my tomatoes are still growing like crazy. My winter squash vine has powdery mildew issues. The onions I picked and dried in the barn sprouted, so I peeled off the outsides and re-planted them. They may onion again. Rosie, the horse, has an eye issue, but her eye goop is helping. One of the no longer baby peepers is all broody again. She puffs up and hisses when I take her small egg away from her. Since she isn’t picky, she also tries to sit on everyone else’s eggs as well. I think she’s the one we named Aggie. Trouble, the other female former baby peeper, finally stopped brooding sometime in August. She’s bound to start again if Aggie is in that mood. Skunks are eating the barn cats’ food. The weeds on the hill are covered with hay on one half and plastic on the other. It is possible that neither weed control method will help, but at the moment, things are dying back anyway, so I can fool myself into imagining a semi-weed free spring in the making.
If I bury myself in hay, I wonder if I would emerge in the spring free from weedy thoughts and grumpy dispositions. I would try it, but hay itches like crazy when it gets stuck in my socks. I hope you are heading for a winter full of wonder. I’m still wondering what winter will bring.
I’m just someone trying to figure out how to juggle ten acres, work, a mama with stage four cancer, and a whole lot of grumpy. This blog started out as “Grumpy Gal’s Guide to Gratitude,” but since all I really keep typing about is the garden, I figured I might as well own it! So, thanks for joining me as I try and figure out how the heck to kick myself in the booty and get on with life.