About over the week, but I understand it's only Tuesday

I decided to work harder this week, by adding all four morning exercise classes. I'm through two of them, and can assure you, several years of not working the old muscles sure takes a toll.

Here's another annoyance. Last night I spilled my coffee, and a lot of it on some select keys: l, n, m, and the space bar. Consequently they work poorly, if at all. We'll see how it goes here.

Back to exercise: yesterday was mild movement stuff. This is twice a week. Tuesday (and Thursday) is fast motion to fast music. This may kill me. Between Tuesday and Thursday we have a Yoga class that is gentle stretching. I'll keep going.

Also today I kept a frequently rescheduled dental appointment to pull a back molar sitting in a pool of decay. The dentist administered four separate injections of lidocaine before he started. He sent me off with a list of the usual precautions. I could barely talk at supper tonight, to the amusement of all. When I came upstairs and saw my drooping cheek and lips, I understood their amusement.

Most every day here is filled with activities to join or not. There is music for an hour or so every day before supper, put on generally by  decent performers with instruments. They generally are accompanied by tablets of recorded instrumentals. Tonight there was a vocal group that one of the residents here belongs to. They did a set of Christmas music.

The best performer generally is on Friday night, and that's the night Joe appears and looks for a dancing partner. The first Friday I was here he appeared in front of me jitter bugging. When I brushed him off with an "I can't", he started in on a slow dance. He was hard to discourage; he swore he wouldn't let me fall. 

Last Friday he got lucky with the daughter of my next door neighbor. Marilyn, next door, is a tall and lovely red head with two beautiful blond daughters, one of whom was visiting Marilyn.

And now my tooth is hurting and I'm going to bed.

Ruth's upgrade

Beth and Ruth came to visit last weekend. Beth was at Ruth's for better than a week, recuperating from knee surgery. Although Ruth's house is two levels, each is self contained, and more essentially, level. Beth had a knee replaced a couple of weeks ago, and was on her way home, with a stop here to visit.

We had a lovely visit, of course. When it was time for them to leave, I walked them to the hall and our good-byes continued, as they tend to do. Finally Ruth began tugging at my sleeve, telling me to turn around. When I finally did, what to my wondering eyes did appear but a lovely decoration on my door.

And there on the nekkid hook, a nice, fuzzy red and white wreath. She and Beth stopped at the big garden store on the way over and selected this door ornament for my very bare front door. Many still sport autumn decorations. Here is Lois, several doors down.  I like its simplicity.

There are several more Christmas decorations on the long walk to the elevator.

And that's it for Christmas, in nineteen apartments. For what it's worth, I have received several compliments on my decoration, for its simplicity. I need to send Ruth a note and tell her.

Jan and I were real city girls when we moved here.  An occasional raccoon in the trash was our total experience.  Here we had skunks in the front yard, fox (who moved into the front yard in broad daylight with their cubs the year the 17 year cicadas came popping out of the ground), hawks, coyotes, and our neighbor reporting Sasquatch in his woods across the street from us.  They have nothing on turkeys.

We would see the flock of turkeys down by the fire station, five miles north, then in the park five miles east, then somewhere else, until one day they were in our front yard.  We were invaded by wild turkeys.  We became turkey experts and learned they roost at dusk in the highest available spot.  We live on top of the hill.  They went even higher.  Our roof.  The turkey patriarch settled down each night on the studio chimney.

They got up at dawn, about the time the dogs went out and started their morning walk up the street.  Turkeys stand up, stretch, spread their wings and lift off.  Some lazy turkeys used the slope of the roof to gain lift momentum, sliding down as they lifted up.  We lost both front awnings to turkeys who misjudged the angle of the slope, went over the edge and through an awning.  Now we have metal awnings on the front, replacing the destroyed canvass awnings.

The turkeys went air born not to leave, but merely to get from the roof to the ground.  Once on the ground they walked up the street with Jan and the dogs.  Each morning she had a squawking, crowd behind her, beside her, in front of her, wings outspread, half running to keep up.  At the head of the street they would spread out in the field and not be heard from again until dusk.

Linda saw the turkeys at our house and said she needed a new turkey feather to put in her Shaker Woods hat.  “Not to worry,” said Tom, the hunter.  He was on medical leave at the time, foot in a cast from chasing a foolish dog into the neighbor’s horse corral and breaking something.  She and Tom were on the front porch. A turkey walked up the ramp, Tom leaned over and grabbed a handful of turkey tail feathers.  The turkey kept on walking, Tom kept on holding on.  The turkey dragged him across the porch, Linda holding him back for dear life as the turkey proceeded down the steps.  Tom balanced precariously on the edge. Linda holding him from going over the edge in his cast, yelling “Let Go Tom,” and the turkey kept on walking.  Tom let go.  Turkey lost no feathers.

Jan searched the internet for a solution and read that turkeys look for a place to roost at dusk.  Ah Ha.  If turkeys are not here at dusk, turkeys will not roost on our roof.   She rounded up half a dozen brooms and passed them out when the turkeys walked down the street as evening fell.  Even a broom to Tom, his leg in a cast.  The orders to her troops—no turkeys in the yard.  Turn them back.  Line forms at the street.  Don’t let them on the property.  Slow, steady, wait for the whites of their eyes.  Now men, present brooms, drive them back.  Up the street.  Up the street.  Up the street.  Don’t stop until it’s dusk!  In less than a week she had them roosting in our neighbor’s trees, where they could spy on Sasquatch.

Eventually the herd of turkeys moved on, we replaced the awnings and thought no more.  Until we had the roof replaced.  “Lady, do you know how much shit is on your roof?” 

Thanks for the memory, Pearl.

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I wrote this originally around 2010. Remember Pearl, who lived in Minneapolis and rode the bus to work. The line is a link to her blog. A scroll through her comments is fun; how many people do you recall?

Holiday's over; back to work

Actually, that title is a joke. I wonder what most of the people here do all day. I wouldn't know what to do without work!

Someone sent me this cartoon; I wish I could remember and say thanks. Back in the day a Statie stopped me for "weaving". It was on Interstate 80 in Pennsylvania, between the last PA exit and the Ohio border. There is a series of low rolling hills in the median and a police car, or worse yet, a State Highway Patrol would use it for radar cover.

This incident was in my early days of exhibiting, and I drove a white panel van. I've come to learn this type of van was popular with drug transporters. Mine was full of totes with lids, holding all the weaving, plus 2x2 racks for display and more totes with "stuff" for the booth.

Nipping along at the speed limit, suddenly a flash of light blinded me. This man knew how to deflect it from the mirror into my eyes, from the windshield into my eyes. It was the most intense light I've ever encountered. Fortunately I had the road to myself at two or three in the morning, and when I could focus, I steered off the road.

The State Highway Patrol sauntered up and asked if I knew I was weaving. I answered that at the moment I was not. I asked to see his badge and ID, which he showed me through the window.  I displayed everything he requested the same way. He copied my info into a notebook and went back to his car to check it. 

When he returned he invited me to step out and come look at my plate with an expired sticker. He pushed the dumbest button. It was Memorial Day weekend. The plate expired on June 1st. The last thing I did the previous week was put on the new sticker and head for New York state. I held up the current registration, to which that little sticker is affixed, until removed and stuck on the plate.

There was more chat, in which I was invited several times to step out. Eventually he said I was getting a "warning for weaving". I would not lower the window for him, but did tell him to mail it. I encountered the officer one more time, but that's another whole story.

This was the mid nineties. I had a cell phone; one of the first on the road. When he came up I held it up for him to see and pointed to the screen, to which I had keyed 911. I said if I anticipated trouble, I would press send. He said, "Ma'am, I am 911" and I replied "There are bigger 911's than you!"

I've devoted so many paragraphs to this, here's one more. He shined that effing light into every window, looking at the sealed totes. "What's in the totes, Ma'am" 

"My stuff." My stuff took up an hour of his time not gaining access. The next time I was stopped, several years later, I cheerfully pulled lids and explained what they were looking at. That was the first weekend after 9/11 and every van (and auto) going to an art show in America was searched. 

My neighbors at one show made fountains. They took the precaution of switching out the red gasoline containers in which they carried the water to be pumped for bonafide blue water containers. They did have to empty them and find water inside the venue.

There's an old adventure for you!

I finished my red towels yesterday, and have the blue cobalt bobbins wound and ready to weave. There should be one more run of towels and then I'll have to warp again. Here's my shelf of towels. You can see them even better at everythingoldisnewagain.shop.

And, finally, my curtains came.

I like these. Dale is coming to put up the rods and help with a couple other tasks. I met Dale at Shelly's little celebration for earning her Master of Science, Nursing.(l).

All that's left to get is the cat. I met another resident who has an old cat, for the "good company." Her cat is a middle teen.

 

The quarter repository

Last week the left over quarters fit in the other quarter bottle, or else I just left them on the sewing table. Today I stood patiently in line, looking at rejected cards as other players passed them to me, and handing out cards if anyone wanted a specific one. I see many people have "lucky" cards, and also see they don't consistently play the same "lucky" card. The card I've played every time is No. 24. That's the little control number in the bottom right. I also sit at the head table with my back to the rest of the room. That way I don't get involved in any silly horsing around.

The table was off to a bad start. There were quiet little bingos around the room, but nothing for the four of us. Then Rose had a bingo, and Mary Lou had two. Nothing for Joan or Joanne, and we were down to the jackpot. We each paid in our dollar. Then I said to the caller, "Listen, Joan and I don't want to split this pot. Just one winner, OK." The room cracked up; Joan agreed, and we started on the last game, cover the board.

I try not to look at other cards in play. Bad form. Though if you all start with 25 chips, and other players are down to the chip in their hand, it's for sure you're all waiting for one number. Joan and I each had one chip. The caller called my number and I said "Bingo!" I took a lot of good natured ribbing as I put the pot straight into the cloth carrier on the walker and left to wash my hands of dirty quarters. Another good day.

I sat at a new table for dinner, Rosie's table. Some time ago Rose asked if I still was interested in moving when one of their table went home. That turned out to be today, so off I went to a new group of women.

Toward the end of dinner, the phone rang. I ignored it. A few minutes later it rang again. It was Laura, telling me there was a piece of mail for me and she and Kay would like to deliver it and visit a bit. I explained the building is locked at five and it was later than that, I knew. Laura said Yes, it was later, and they were out front and couldn't get in. I told her to hold tight, I'd send someone and be out. I sent a kitchen helper and followed in her wake.

When I arrived in the lobby, Robin from the kitchen was gone and Kay and Laura were sitting in the lobby. I told them I was pleased with my move. They asked about recreation and I said I was more involved with weaving, but was having a good time at Bingo. Bingo! 

I scooped a handful from the cloth basket and poured them into Laura's hands. Out came a second handful. I had Laura pour them in her hoodie pocket and fished out the rest, plus the glass bottle. I emptied the loose coins and half the bottle into her hands. When she stood up, her stomach sagged. 

She filled me in on her plans for her junior year, next year. Very interesting. I'll fill you in soon.