Are you Vivian?

I saw or heard or read something today that reminded me of this story. Of course I cannot remember. I even had to text my sister tonight to remind me of Vivian's name. This was long ago; my girls were still in school, and they will be sixty and fifty-eight on next year's birthdays.

It's also about my brother Walt, the old cornmudgeon. 

My neighborhood was unusual for it's time in the forties,  fifties, sixties, right through the late eighties, when mom sold her house and I mine and we all moved into the same house in Boston Township, with its studio for weaving. It was unusual in that there were black families and white. 

Walt lived on the street behind us, and across the street from him and up the street were black families. Walt was married to Hazel, his trophy wife. They were married many years, but then it all fell apart. Hazel eventually returned to England, and Walt kept himself busy finding women he could take care of. He always cast himself as the protector of women and children.

Vivian lived next door to Walt. She had several children. A couple of girls who were adults, a couple of boys, and then Crystal, a lovely little pre-school child. Crystal had wild, curly white blond hair. There were several fathers involved, but I was gone from the neighborhood by then and not involved. 

Walt was in full protector mode about Vivian and the children, and eventually he married her and blended the families. The marriage lasted a few years, but it too ended and everyone moved on.

Jan and I were living in Boston, weaving, when we learned the neighbor across the street from Walt's house, Bob, had passed away. He and his family had moved there after I moved away from home. He was close with my family and Walt's. When the screened room in the back yard was destroyed, Bob's son helped our brother Melvin rebuild it.

Jan had been a good friend of Bob's, too, and asked me if I would go to his funeral with her. I hadn't known Bob well, but I did have several family years with Crystal, and the neighborhood was aware that her father was Bob. And the service was at a black church we were not familiar with, so at least we would know each other and Bob's children and grandchildren.

The service was at a large church in Akron. It's pastor was a member of Akron's council. It was full of people celebrating Bob; we found seats way at the back. The service was lovely, and pleasant to observe. As my Catholic nun aunt told me after a funeral service for a cousin, years and years before, "It's just like our service!"

Yes, people are much the same. When the service ended, we found ourselves escorted as guests to a receiving line, and Bob's family thanked us for being there. Then we passed through a line of women who could have been the ones running the little community church I grew up in.

We passed down the line, shaking hands, saying our good-byes and thanking the women. Toward the end, almost at the door, one woman kept my hand and pulled me toward her. "Are you Vivian?"

"No, we're old friend's of Bob". 

"Well, we just wanted to know and I see no one has asked you yet."

Jan and I smiled all the way home. Another old curmudgeon, just like our brother.

Back again

First the usual complaint. I'm sick of being sick. Fixed the back, caught a cold. A bad cold. Or a sinus infection. It's getting old. I bought a new humidifier.

Well, we had a big storm for Portage County, here south of the secondary snow belt. Another is forecast starting tomorrow evening. A lot of icicles from the eaves of the new apartments.

I've sold my car and will depend on public transportation in the future. I have my doubts about the senior transport system here in Portage County. We'll see. Their website says they do not stop at senior citizen housing complexes, but the woman who answers the phone says "Of course we do!"

Then there is Uber or Lyft. My last attempt was a disaster. The app would not take my reservation in the morning for a ride at noon for the reason it did not know how busy it would be at that time. It seemed patently absurd to me. Laura gave me a clue, showing me an app that located all the Uber and Lyft cars and they all seemed to be cruising the interstate highways, fifteen or so miles away. A sort of What am I, Chopped Liver? moment.

Speaking of whom, she had a birthday last weekend. Blake (nee Emily) is next weekend. France is Christmas Eve. Blake shares a birthday with Ruth, and Aunt Flo's was in there, too. The grands are getting older. France and Laura will be 23, and are still in college. Blake is programming computers for a small company. Here's the rest: Bekka works for Lincoln Electric; Hamilton is still at University and manages a Starbucks; Laura is in her last year at Akron U; Caroline is a junior at Macalester in Minneapolis. 

Back to my physical complaints, which have been a hindrance for the last two months, I finally finished the green towels and have them on the shelf and on the web. The loom is tied up again and the next run of towels will be yellow.

Of all the colors I weave, yellow is my least favorite. Most of the rest have a silky feel to me, but the yellow dye seems different and even fulled, the fabric does not have the same hand. But they are cheerful and happy, and of course, dry dishes, etc., superbly. 

I think the last batch took me a month or more to get off the loom, and I doubt these will be ready before next year. My back still bothers me enough to limit the amount I can weave in a day. But I have a lovely array of colors yet to weave:

I just finished a wonderful book, The Boys in the Boat, Daniel Brown. It's subtitled, Nine Americans and their Epic Quest for Gold at the 1936 Berlin Olympics. Well researched, well written. If you are a child of the Great Depression, or a child of parents of the Depression, it will be compelling. Or a sports fan, or a history buff, or simply a decent person, it's a good book.

That's about all the news fit to print. I hope to be back sooner next time.

Pleased to report

I believe I'm feeling better. I certainly hope so. Headaches are gone so the blood pressure must be down. My back still hurts--from sneezing. Something in either the bedroom or the bathroom, or both, is setting off occasional fits of sneezing. Haven't located it yet.

Good news: I finally have a set of towels finished and up on the web page. The web site has changed since I last used it. "Improved"! Only when I figure it out. I've been warned for weeks it would happen, but I felt too awful to keep up with the news. The towel listed is blue, and the next set I will weave is grass green.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, interested residents were taken on a tour of the apartments available in the new wing. They are considerably larger than anything here in the older part, and considerably more expensive. I have no envy whatsoever. My world fits comfortably in my little studio. 

I am going for Thanksgiving to my sister's home, and a grandchild will take me and deliver me home. Sounds like a mighty fine time. Reminds me of all those years I would ferry my Grandma Rolf to and from family events.

That's it for now. Time for dinner. I'm not up to current events tonight. We've been here before and will come through again. We're down to local governments to provide the agency. School boards, libraries, food banks. Above all, do the right thing. 

Carry on

 I still wonder how all of you even started a new post, moving your thoughts through your fingers and onto the keyboard. Now it's tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, time to begin again.

We've been in tough spots before, even in our memories and extended memories. There are family stories of poverty, death in the flu epidemic, orphanages, death in wars, "coffee-sop" for dinner (bread in coffee), child labor, and on and on. 

I saw Beth today, first time in weeks since a deer ran into her car. She told me of a book she's reading, The Fourth Turning is Here, Neil Howe. I will get it and read it, as soon as I can. From her description it seems we may be at the cusp of the fourth turning.

Back to my take on our turn of events, we have been in ugly spots in our own life times, and know how we handled them. For my part, that has been Vietnam, Afghanistan, Iraq; being a single mother and how that formed my life. How back in the sixties I wrangled credit and a mortgage from male bankers, raised two daughters on women's wages. Together with my sister started a business.

Well, here we go again. Hold on to hope. Stay engaged, always push back, don't make it easy. Today I started on a simple project, a thank you note to every Democratic Congress member for what they have accomplished. We must make real the world we want to live in.

I'm sad to report real life is rather slow, here at home. My blood pressure is closing in on normal, and then in a fit of sneezing I seized up my back. I even dug out and reinstalled my toilet booster seat so I can rise up from the throne without moaning in pain.

The season is changing before my eyes. The trees in full color last week are bare branches this week. The red maple in one of the court yards has put on a lovely show. Half the leaves are a red skirt around the base, the rest seem to have delayed falling for another week or two.

Twenty days...

Hard to believe it's more than two weeks since I've posted. I left you with the new warp wound on and ready to tie on. This past week I finally finished that job and wove a bit. But on the whole I spent the time realizing I had a health problem and beginning to resolve it.

At a six month check up with one of my doctors, I had a frighteningly high blood pressure. I spent quite a few hours in emergency, but was sent home and advised to see my PCP quickly. That took another week. I'm back on my old blood pressure meds, which really aren't controlling the situation. However, I do feel better, am sleeping less and have my next appointment in another week.

And so, I've been weaving. Finally. Lots of new warp, and perhaps two or three new towels on the beam. That's good.

We finally have color in the trees. Actually, this past week has been the peak. I have some nice pictures from out and about.

The "resident's" garden has been put away for the winter. My dipladenia has been brought in and hung in the atrium. We'll see what becomes of it.

I finally prevailed with the Cleveland Clinic over a bill from last August. A five hundred fifty odd dollar bill. For as long as I can recall, Medicare has picked up an annual eye exam. I now understand it is only for some conditions, but for the last fifteen years I've met the criteria.

This time I have a new eye doctor. When I first saw the last one, some time in the eighties, I was pleased to have found a young one who would outlast me. Well, he retired and now it's a new young 'un. But someone didn't check the coding and I had a full freight bill.

Every time I checked up on correcting it, either it was being reviewed or they could find no record of all the previous bills. That was the story the last time I called and the billing department person patiently reiterated in indecipherable accent they would set up a payment plan.

Finally I yelled "Shut up! Listen to me! You have made a mistake and need to figure it out." I hung up and began reading Medicare eye exam rules. I still did not understand why I had not been billed all these years but was billed now. But the next day I looked at my statement on line again, and the invoice was gone. So, we'll see.

Well, I don't like the polls, but I don't believe them, either. We'll see.