Perhaps I should sleep less

When I was in rehab for various broken bones, I had the aids find extra pillows to prop up my legs, keep my heels off the bed.  After eight hours on my back, because I couldn’t sleep on my side because of broken bones, or the other side because of “terminal osteoarthritis”, geeze, did my heels hurt! Probably I could have sourced a pair of those foam heel protectors, but they are damn hot. So I hit on a pillow under my legs, and slept until I woke up.

I’ve been home from rehab since mid November; six weeks, and waking up miserable most nights from aching heels. At Ann’s I remembered the pillow trick, and scored another pillow. Actually, I intended to write a post about the pillows, and her kitchen towels. Ann and Pat were married twenty five years ago, and we gave them handwoven stuff.

Mom was still alive back then, and would not tolerate a sewing machine if she could hand hem something. We occasionally made pillow cases then. Mom made herself happy by hemstitch hemming them. I doubt any customer realized what they were getting.

My sister wove a lot of dishtowels, too, mainly to experiment for the future use of overshot patterns. This is a twenty five year old dishtowel. The woven pattern is called “dogwood”.  Ann uses a dishtowel one day, and consigns it to the laundry. This towel probably has been through the washer and dryer a thousand times in the last twenty five years. The dogwood flower pattern is woven with carpet warp, and pretty faded, but the towel still does its towel job.

That was a sidebar. I decided I needed a new pillow, to use the old pillow to keep my heels off the sheets. Amazon delivered it today, together with a new set of pillowcases. The pillow was rolled, bedroll style, in the plastic cylinder, flatter than a pancake. We got it out, and in the pillowcase. Eventually I turned around and looked, and assumed it had taken on its load of air. That was three hours ago. It’s even bigger now.

I wonder if it will toss me out of bed tonight.

Heavy weather

We flew to Wisconsin for Christmas, to spend time with Ann and Pat. I went to a month before Christmas to book tickets. I toyed that long with the possibility of driving, after realizing there no longer is a direct flight from Akron or Cleveland to Milwaukee. 

As I sat diddling with the screens, weighing a layover in Charlotte, Detroit, or Chicago, the price went up a hundred dollars. Flash, just like that. A hundred bucks. My finger twitched, and we were on American, laying over in Charlotte.

I made a mistake booking an 11 a.m. flight, not an 8:30 a.m. flight. There was little freeway traffic, no airport congestion. The flight was seven hours, including layover. Driving would have been exactly the same, including the distance from the airport to Ann’s house. A direct flight would have been two to three hours.

Speed at the airport would have been significantly diminished without the wheelchair. Wheelchair service seems to have become a standard airport business, since I had that stroke eight or nine years ago, and waited twenty minutes for the pre-ordered chair to arrive at the gate.  Now the one I order is there, or hustling on up. The best thing about chairs is, they go to the head of the line, or better yet, to the TSA gate, where there is no line.

When we left Milwaukee for home, Wednesday night, Laura’s boarding pass announced TSA Precheck. The counter agent looked at it several times, then said Laura had been randomly selected.  

Our baggage was scanned, and Laura was summoned back from the seating area. The agent asked her to open her suitcase and show the bag of round objects. Hamilton’s bag of jelly beans was examined front and back, and she and our luggage were excused.

The chair only takes me to the head of the line. I used to set off two alarms, my titanium hip and my titanium neck. Now my new shoulder rings another bell, and eight or ten inches of new leg metal rings a lot of bells. Miss Prechecked sat and waited.

At the gate, a new gate was announced. At the new gate, a new time was announced. Heavy weather on the coast was delaying incoming flights, and one of those, from Charlotte, was our connecting flight back to Charlotte, then to Akron.  I explained the problem of missing the flight out of Charlotte, and was told it was raining so hard there, we would do more than miss the flight. The ticket agent offered us a bus ride to Chicago O’Hare to connect to Akron.

The agent assured me there was more than enough time for a bus trip from Milwaukee, Wisconsin to Chicago, Illinois, to catch the last plane to Akron, including four detours off the interstate to pick up passengers. She was correct; we reached the counter with ten minutes to spare. 

There was no plane at the gate; it was late from Charlotte. But, it did arrive, and we were home and in bed by midnight, only an hour late, and, according to Ann, just a mundane adventure later.

The newly waning moon, through the airplane window, above the rain from the coast. I still need to call American and see if there is a refund for the difference between bus fare and air fare.

Brexit and Brump

             

Current events have me re-reading World War II memoirs, notes, analysis, I think for the purpose of strengthening in my mind the relationship and bond between America and Britain. I wonder who knows where our ships of state will drift.

As you know, I think Britain’s exit from the European Union is a mistake. I think the election of our current president, Trump, is a mistake. Both were attempts to return a sense of nationhood to the majority who voted.

Isolation is no longer a solution. It wasn’t in World War I, either, but it took ships a lot longer to cross an ocean then, and planes barely could. As for our current situations, the cat’s among the pigeons, as the saying goes.

If Britain attempts to force a new referendum on Brexit, the rule of law, their constitution is undermined. Then they might as well try for two out of three. I think get on with it. Exit on March 31^st and see what the members of Parliament can do to make it more palatable. But do it.

This country has got on with it with Brump. It’s not fun; it’s good for very few. A solution is coming: 109 weeks down, 98 weeks to the presidential election. Our opportunity to redirect the ship of state.

The outcome of Brexit can only be known in giving it a try; make the effort. If it’s as ill-fitting as Brump has been over here, re-join the EU.

Don’t say it’s harder than that. Of course it is. Life is hard. Solutions are hard.

People are dying from Brump. Jobs gone, lives changed, countries changed. But make changes through agreed upon rules of engagement. There are too many problems to re-solve. Starting at GO with revolution is no solution. Laying a course from here forward can be.

I don’t know why I shoved these words and paragraphs together. Perhaps to draw the straight path up to the madness. Neither country is ready for the chaos that will ensue. Like us, I think, Britain is not prepared. Time’s up. Who will clear the next border export? Can that ship come into port? Whoops, the mail’s piling up.

Who will pay to Secret Service to guard the president? Hell’s bells, how will we last the 109 weeks? That damn Paul Ryan, announcing there will be a shutdown if there is no wall, and how many of those lame ducks will come back to vote, one way or another.

And in the meantime, we get up in the morning, go to bed at night, feed the dog and cat, make supper. Come on, you government guys. Load the dishwasher. Put the laundry in the dryer!

Let’s all have a happy Christmas, and see you when it’s over. Perhaps there will be a glimmer then.

Desultory day

I could have packed today, but still having tomorrow, little point. I'm certainly not the person I used to be.

Laundry was on my list, for a couple of days. Transporting even my little basket through two rooms, one handed, isn't fun. For a while I used the rollator, and that was convenient, save my great dislike of the thing. So easy to roll anything about the house. It's what I took to DC, so I could sit while the girls went off visiting Lincoln, Washington, and so forth and so on. That ended badly.

Actually, the rollator would be so convenient to use, except  it's so heavy and awkward. I cannot lift it into my car by myself, for instance, and once I  grew accustomed to two trips to transport my breakfast one handed I just was tired of seeing it hanging around the living room. I had Laura put it back in the shed, and I hone my one handed skills.

On one trip to the laundry room I noticed a package at my neighbor's door, across the way. On another trip, the package remained, so I called Cathy. "You have a package!" and we kept on chatting while she retrieved and opened it. Then a cry of dismay. Nothing she had ordered. The big reveal; it belonged one street over. Christmas will be over soon, and we hope Amazon delivery will improve after that.

I spent some of the day weaving. All my current stock is gone except one person I have not heard from, and one pair of pea green towels. I just realized the color is similar to this piece of packing tissue I ironed and hung on the wall. 

While exploring the whimsy, this little vase on the sewing table qualifies. While in Wisconsin last summer, we spent some time at a town with art shops down one side of the hill and back up the other. One studio made things from things. Laura came away with a picture frame from construction materials, and bolts and nails and all manner of one man's trash.

There was a box in the back of the room that said FREE, and full of things deemed useless detritus. This pretty little vase was both unbroken, and cheerful. The price was right, and I had a use for it. The shopkeeper even wrapped it in newspaper to protect it from all the metal parts of the picture frame in our bag. 

A beautiful day today

   

Total sunshine today. I took a new header picture of the corkscrew willow, without broody grey background weather.

Another hard day of pinochle. Nancy returned from Texas “at a reasonable hour!” (11 pm last night; “I booked it that way!”), but yawned a good deal, which didn’t affect the score. We lost by about fifteen points. Each side took a set back, but it was a day of decent cards and great play.

Next week is a toss up for playing.  Tuesday, of course, is Christmas Day, and Laura and I get back from Wisconsin about 8 at night on Wednesday. A reasonable hour to be rested for playing Thursday or Friday.

I was laughing with Yam yesterday; there is a drain in my brain, for the exclusive use of nouns knocked loose by those two brain injuries. Nouns I want to use can go over the edge faster than lemmings over a cliff. Yam posted a series of pictures that included a dried hydrangea, posed near a reindeer (tis the season). I could not put my finger on hydrangea, hard as I tried, so I did my usual google trick, and asked. It said its best guess for the picture was reindeer. So much for AI.

This is all to say I hope I have accomplished all I must do to leave. The techiest part is delivering the cat to the boarder on time, in the morning or evening time slot.

I also must stop questioning myself on a 7:30 a.m. pick-up by my sister for the drive to the airport. AKC is normally a half hour drive, but she points out it’s rush hour. Our departure is 11 a.m., and even though it’s our little regional airport, it probably is a good idea to give us a three hour window.

I have a book to read, a Robin Williams biography. If I don’t like it, I’m also taking Michelle Obama’s book, for another read before I leave it at Ann’s, for her library.

Three houses in a row in town have a continuous display. This is one only, and not up the other side of the house. Ho Ho Ho.

Eighty at D

Laura is taking finals this week, Friday we go by plane to Wisconsin for Christmas, and this morning I put a number of towels into the mail. I began at the top of my reading list, “An English…”, and now I’m into the D’s. My spreadsheet filled in eighty at “Dartmoore Ramblings”. I need more export declarations and neglected to get them. I’ll stop tomorrow, after cards.

There are six towels left of the current weaving; two are spoken for and the other four have a high probability of clearing the shelf this week as well. The entire run of lavender is done, six towels on the beam; “peacock” (I didn’t name it) is on the bobbins and ready to go. There are 54 towels so far from the last warp I wound on and about fifty to finish it.

Laura and I are seriously on the outs this week. Well, she is. I don’t walk in her shoes; they’re her issues to resolve. Her responsibility to resolve. Of her siblings, only one was a self starter. Sigh. I’ve reinstated my brilliant phone policy; from six to six it lives in my room. There was no plug available for her charger, and rather than asking me which of my devices might be changed, she thumped her phone on the shelf and left. I grinned.

Our weather is winter grey, and there’s an edge to the breeze. But, it has been unseasonably (?) warm, bar that snow and ice storm a couple of weeks ago. It looks to be warm past the end of the year. I’ll take it all. It makes getting around easier. My last several trips to the post office, with my shopping bag of envelopes of towels, patrons have been handily close to the door and happy to help. This week I was completely alone. In fact, Lynn and I chuckled that on their anticipated busiest counter day of the year, I walked into an empty post office.

Not to worry, in short order they streamed in behind me. And, their arms were so full I stopped a couple of folks from attempting to dangerously re-juggle their loads to get the door open for me. In fact, I held each door open in turn for more coming in.

Steps and so forth

Steps—There are twenty odd steps between my bedroom door and the coffee pot in the kitchen.  Even if I make a trip into the big world, I don’t get around much in a day. But I decided not to be so hard on myself.  If I want to bring back a sandwich and a cup of coffee, it’s two round trips, once for the sandwich and another for the coffee. I tried balancing the sandwich plate on top of the cup of coffee, and it can be done, but is just over difficult.

Throat plates—A throat plate is part of a sewing machine. If it must be removed, generally two screws are removed and the plate lifts out. Way last summer, before I broke a bunch of bones, Jan and Tom came by and Tom tended to some repairs needed on the new loom. Toward the end Tom needed a trip to the hardware store, and Jan, of shear boredom, tore down my sewing machine for a good cleaning.

My sister can dis and reassemble a sewing machine blindfolded, in the dark. But at the end she made an error. My brother did this; Laura does it; most adults do it. Jan did it. She snugged down the throat plate screws. My machine is a nice old Brother, and its only fault is a good ability to get a screwdriver to the throat plate screws.

I called my sister, and found her down in Amish country, in a quilt fabric shop, weighing augmenting her stash. I bet the shop keeper tipped the scale. I went back to weaving until Laura came in from school, and removed the screws. I screwed them back in.

Handicap placards—The placard that hangs from my rear view mirror, and entitles me to park in designated places up by the door of a shop, expires after the last day of this month. I’ve had a placard so long that mine has slipped over to five year expiration. I called the office; the receptionist will get the paperwork together for me to pick up.

Tomato—Ruth and I try to get out to lunch, though this summer has been difficult. We have been several times to a restaurant in Cleveland called Tomato\Tomado. A casual little place; order at the counter for delivery to your table.  It’s a lunch crowd place, heavy on fruits and vegetables.

Last spring Ruth said she’s been told of another ”tomato restaurant” in the Hudson area, and I should keep an eye out. One day, by the library, I saw a tomato go by. I went around the block to be sure, and found The Tomato Grill.  Then I broke my leg and butt, and had my arm fixed. We didn’t make it to The Tomato Grill until yesterday.

Ruth was perfect, of course, but I was underdressed in jeans. She had crab cakes and I had squash soup and grilled tomato salad. The food was first rate, and so was the service. We probably won’t go back.

Breaded pork chops

       

I smelled the most wonder supper being prepared last night. I didn’t even go to the kitchen for fear of interrupting its goodness.

Laura called supper was ready, and I got up and going. As I mentioned a couple times today, I’m walking better every day. Personally, I have a problem being seventy-five and becoming a walker, again.

But, heading toward the table, oh, the aroma! I wondered if it could be fish, which she has done in the past.

And no, she had made breaded pork chops, with mushroom gravy. And green beans. And wow, was it good. A chop apiece. I was awhile getting through mine, but it was too good to put any aside for a better day.

I paid the price in the evening. Supper generally is a much lighter meal. Anything that good in future should to be half as much. Watching was a treat. She cut into her chop and examined it long, with a deep frown. It oozed juice and displayed the tiniest blush of rose. Perfect, I told her, and her shoulders relaxed. Then my cut got the same scrutiny. The terror of the first time you serve up.

I’m not familiar with the contents of most cupboards, but the one I supposed would have held bread crumbs is right above MY coffee shelf, and there isn’t a jar of crumbs there. “You buy bread crumbs today?”, I inquired.

“No. I just emptied your toaster crumb tray.”

This past week

I was typing away last week and suddenly my computer screen was swarmed by color, noise, a plethora of boxes with announcements I was hijacked, together with phone numbers to call to be liberated. This has occurred in the past and my solution has been Cntrl-Alt-Del, and systematic deletion of programs that are running.

It didn’t work this time.

The only other option I knew was call Microsoft, but not the number on the screen. I used my phone to find a tech support number I trusted. So, for $54 and change, plus $15 per month ($15.95?), cancellable at any time, plus an hour or so off line, my computer is mine again.

Except it’s not, yet.

My internet always opened on my blogger tab, with my e-mail tab also available. I had to read a whole lot of help pages in order to pin and freeze tabs. And thank the heavens I once learned how to open help in a separate tab and refer to it, line by line by word by word. I’m not a teenage geek I admit, and, I don’t have it totally resolved.

I made an appointment to board Toby while we are in Wisconsin for Christmas, and have him groomed again. The “chill” cat who was not sedated to have half his hair shaved off. He’s back to his behavior of a year ago; incessant grooming, then garfing, that was cured by professional grooming. I learned this only by the desperation groom last year, and I do hope it continues to work, especially since I specified number 6 clipper guards, down from number 8 last year. Lets’ see if I can save the carpet the last two weeks before Wisconsin next year.

When we closed up the old house and I gave every last paper and pin of my weaving stuff to Praxis, it included my Marguerite Davidson, guide to handweaving. Sometimes I wish I had it, and apparently Google reads my mind. Pinterest puts email after email of weaving pins in my mailbox, and last week there was a strip of bird’s eye diaper weaving straight from Marguerite.

I do not know the etymology of the word, but when you throw all the pieces on the table, they pretty well fit.

“Diaper” was the name for household fabric, from curtains and tablecloths to napkins and nappies. I’ve said I like my twill and plain weave Shaker towel because it exposes so many threads to absorb moisture, but keeps them secure for washing.

Diaper does much the same. I’ve never woven it because it requires a jack loom, and my loom of preference always has been counter balance. Now I have a jack and can weave diaper and a classic diaper pattern just fell into my inbox. I’m maybe fifty towels from emptying my loom, and now I know I’ll thread up some diaper for the next round of towels.

I also think the pattern looks like the feather ring around birds’ eyes. Dries dishes nicely. Wicks moisture away from guest's lips and babies' fannies.

Laura’s birthday

              

Laura has not been the subject of many posts this last year or more. She’s still here, of course, and an interesting young person to know. A year from now she is a citizen and a year and a half from now, out of school and launchable to the world.

It has not been an easy year, this third year of high school. Perhaps you recall the year began with Laura applying to spend this year abroad, being accepted, and her abrupt change of mind. She withheld the reasons for some six months, and when revealed, were not good. Suffice it to say they basically involved a swirl of dishonesty that I probably have not untangled to its end yet. I probably do not want to.

I was absent a lot of this summer, breaking bones, but Laura camped out with family and friends. School began again. The tight circle of girlfriends that began in ninth grade was breaking apart, and that concerned me. Laura was still was stabilizing from ending eighth grade in a bad mental state. However, I thought it something we could get through. Actually, we have.

Laura became more withdrawn and uncommunicative this year. We had the pot smoking incident, and I am not naïve enough to think it her first. However, with the unannounced blood test still hanging fire, and it will be there until sometime next February, I hope it is the last. There was another major incident of dishonesty that I won’t get into. I was becoming quite tired of being the parent in loco.

Spread this out over the background noise of Laura’s mother, my daughter, berating me about stealing her children, saying how everyone hated me because I was so mean, so on and so forth.  I did not recognize sides had been drawn, and Laura had chosen. Against me. And so I realize, the joke is on me.

Over these several years, I have never “ratted Jan out”, as my sister would say. It actually was Janice who told my daughter to quit berating me for “taking the children”, as it had been hers and Tom’s idea. 

Furthermore, I told Shelly, since the subject was back on the table, I never wanted to take the children. Both times they lived with us, I lost the vote, 2 to 1. I would have preferred seeing them among Shelly's ex-husband’s family. There were about eight siblings there to select among.

I told Laura I had taken on a responsibility I intended to see to the end. The responsibility had been to deliver the three of them to a safe place when high school ended. 

I delivered Hamilton to his father. Ham now has a responsible managerial position with Chipotle, and goes to Cleveland State.

I delivered Blake to Hiram. I cannot speak to status; I do know he has the support of all the family. 

But Laura is frustrating beyond words. Now is the time to be applying to colleges, and little Miss Physics, Trig, Calculus, Logic certainly is college material. And she will not answer me.

The other night I caught her completely off guard with my question, and she began answering in a lie that got worse and worse and worse. Eventually I grounded her, probably for the rest of her life, and in a day or so she volunteered the truth.

She wants to be a Hollywood makeup artist. OK.

She must be trained in California. Snort, snort. There are schools all over the country, including Ohio.

Google is in California. Go directly to the next paragraph.

She will move to Cleveland and live with Blake. I told her she should give serious thought to rooming with the sister who harassed her into a nervous breakdown only three years ago. That statement really set her back! However, my daughters, one of whom is her mother, became thick as thieves for a time, as adults.

On the other hand, Blake’s intention is to get to Google.

So, that is pretty much the state of affairs on Laura’s seventeenth birthday. I am pleased she’s giving thought to her future. Her mother’s was no less shallow at seventeen. However, this week her mother is taking another final exam against her Master’s in Nursing.

Another year and my job here is done.

And of the girlfriend circle, the first one remains. I suppose I could think of it as Laura and Lexi sorting out the rest.

I guess I lost the picture of Laura standing here with her birthday cake. 

Waiting for improvement

I had lunch yesterday with two good friends, the sort who make me realize if it weren’t for friends, how little family I would have. That may be true for more people than I realize. Children grow and scatter. Family members move away, and pass away.

I wonder if my feeling of glumness is just in the national attitude? The stock market actually worries me. I’ve lived with it for all these years, and frankly did not give a damn. Now that I am unemployed and reliant on my wits for keeping up with interest as income, I realize that weaving for a living has not prepared me for this.

Anyway, winter has not begun, and I am so over it. This year worries me, and it’s not the stock market.  I was terrified to look out the door the first snow we had. So we had a talk, myself and I. “Self,” I said, etc. It is completely OK to be cautious, but first see what there is to be cautious of.

Cathy, my neighbor, and I took my car yesterday to have the remote starter installed. Cathy dropped me back home and set out on some errands. She was caught in the secondary snow belt, west of Cleveland. She trouped on through in perfect time to take me to pick up my car. I covered my bare driveway just fine, but stopped at the last two feet that had snow. I was afraid to step on it. I need to formulate a way to test this stuff.

The YakTrax came today, and I put on the  pair. We’ll see. They slid madly on the plastic chair mat, and sunk firmly into the carpet. My probably too active brain is inventing how I will enter a building and find a place to sit and take the YakTrax off before I walk on the big clay tiles. This isn’t last year, Joanne. I’ll figure it out, I’m sure.

Back to the remote starter—I can almost remember the sequence. For the actual starter, press and hold until the car starts. Later on, get in, put key in ignition and turn two clicks to start position. Using the key is a trick and I already don’t use the key to lock my car, so the business about press lock, press unlock, press lock again barely makes sense. But once I get it, I’ll have it.

Tomorrow is Laura’s birthday. Seventeen! I’ll have to write a post soon on how she intends to spend her future.

Prince Charles’ face lift

This may be a delicate, tricky subject. Or not. As Hazel, my English sister-in-law says, “I am not a royalist.” Should that be capitalized? Neither am I, I suppose. But how about those grandchildren!

This may be totally a generational thing, but just as I can tell exactly the moment I learned President Kennedy was shot, I can tell the moment I learned Princess Diana’s car was in an accident. I was at an art show in Upstate, and my neighbor was a lovely woman with two sons. She and her husband loved the show, where they camped on the grounds and enjoyed their long weekend with the children.

The next morning she greeted me with a happy story about the boys’ adventures, and I could tell she did not know of Diana’s death. I resolved not to be the one who told her. The following day she asked if I knew, and I confessed, and said perhaps I’d ruined her day one way or the other, but I didn’t want to change her happiness. And she said how grateful she was I had been silent.

How closely we followed the funeral ceremonies. How tall William was. How small and crushed down in an oversized suit, Harry. The Queen lowered her head in acknowledgement as Diana passed, and redeemed herself to the world.  Wills grew older and taller, followed all the rules and married Kate.

Harry grew older and taller, stupidly broke a lot of common sense rules for which I’m sure his grandmother roundly and soundly busted him. He married a pretty American woman I’m sure he will be hard pressed to fit into the company mold.

These royals show up regularly on my news feeds, no doubt because Google searches them out to present because I am sure to click. However, I’m happy to take a look at Kate’s beautiful dresses and the jewels in the tiaras. Thanks to Charlotte, I know how to wave like a royal (it’s just like washing windows). And little George, bare knees like a proper little English boy, and surely a personality as mischievous as his grin.

And what about Charles? Who  ever forgave him for crushing his beautiful young bride with his definition of love? Who didn’t snort when reading all the photographic machinations to keep Diana shorter in pictures? She always was vivacious, smiling, lively in pictures with her boys. Charles often was on the periphery, glum.

I was impressed with Charles understanding of the ecology of the world, as we grew older. He was telling the truth. I believe the Prez told his staffers to keep Charles away; he didn’t need an earful of conservation, or some such. As time passed, it was OK for Charles to marry Camilla, though it will never be OK, for me, for her to be called Queen Camilla.

So, what’s with the face lift! Vain old man, not as old as I am! On the other hand, perhaps I could use one of those face lifts! It’s not a real face lift! Smoke and mirrors and chemicals, I think. And he does look so happy.

Getting through it

It’s sixty one today. Thank you global warming. Enough sunshine to lift my heart. Monday will dump a frozen mix, in forty degree temps. I have nowhere to go, but a therapist is coming here. Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday I have places to go and bad weather to do it in. As if a leaf turned, I am feeling none of the trepidation that incapacitated me earlier.

I’ve given myself a deal to get through this year. Back in July, not so bad. Then I fractured my butt, adding insult. In between I had my shoulder repaired. I would have done the shoulder repair irrespective, and it’s not subtracting from recovery.

Recovering from a shattered fibula hampered by a fractured butt sucks, however. I’ve not fallen again, and that, truthfully,  really was a mighty fine somersault over my walker. It has hampered my walking gait, though, and like any kind of advance, motion is required. It’s like needing to keep the car at thirty or above in slush in order to keep traction. You must keep moving through it on foot, too. Anything less invites being frozen in fear, or falling.

I bought “prongs” for my other cane, and tried them out. They are great in theory, but too heavy to be practical. Then one day I eyed the expanse of not well salted ice between me and the car, and came back for the modified cane, too. One in each hand, like Nordic walking, but with canes, I advanced on the car and achieved it!

Shoulder recovery does require unanticipated pain to get through. The prognosis was no less mobility than I had on going into surgery and more, if I would work for it.  Using muscles that have been idle for two years is painful, initially. I grumbled about that, last Friday. “But you are so far ahead of anything I expected!” from young Dr. Whippersnapper. I can reach behind my neck. I am another twenty degrees above lifting my arm to ninety degrees. I can reach behind my back.

Bend both arms, finger tips straight up, palms out, elbows pointing down. Now, extend each hand straight up, Hermione Granger correct answer style. At this point I can get my left fingertips to the top of my head, no further. I cannot recall the last time I raised my left arm, or for what reason. But that I cannot annoys me!

And in other news, advertising has captured me: Pleasure-Way Industries, Class B Motorhomes. I had one in the eighties, but not by this manufacturer. Mine was a Dodge Ram chassis. These folks build their camper on a Dodge Ram and on a Mercedes Benz. My family camped over much of the USA in mine. Mom used it last in her sixties.

I was thinking, what if I found one in my drive, one morning. I could drive it, of course. I could fill it with propane (if it needs propane). I don’t know about using a dump station; mine didn’t have that amenity. Could I afford it? Of course not. How did “they” know I’d click on that ad in a heartbeat?