Who Else Wants A Walk?

After lunch yesterday, I took Pippa for a walk. Often we go mid-morning, but I couldn’t get moving that day. She was good about it, but I knew she missed her outing. 

Once we were out the front door the sunny, mild, crisp weather drew us to our chosen spot. A small treed green space that separates opposing back-yards, where the grass is trim and the few flowers are wild. 

Earlier in the day many people workout here. An elderly couple from Belarus walks together. She totters along, covered even when it’s warm. He works out in shorts, adding exercises in with his steps. Another lady walks up and down the route, four times each direction, listening to an audiobook. Sometimes kids are running to school on the East end. Most days a neighbor comes with us, and we talk while wearing our masks. 

Now the solitude touched my essence, a sanctuary all to myself. To preserve the moment, I clicked pictures with my phone. No squirrels or rabbits were scampering around. They prefer dawn or dusk. But my favorite gnarled redbud stood steady between the fork in the trail. 

At the sidewalk’s end, we turned and retraced our steps. Pippa had more scents to explore. And I discovered details I missed. 

I snapped another photo of the old knobby-trunk tree. The twisted limbs and rough wood appearing original to me. 

Pippa and I have walked this green space twice a day for three years. Each time is like an unfamiliar experience for us.

The Eyes Have It

"Not now, but I use my eyes a lot". That was the answer I gave the doc at my annual eye checkup when he asked me how cataracts affect my life. I enjoy watching TV, driving, using digital devices, and crocheting. He replied without hesitation, "Your left eye is lazy. If something goes wrong because of the surgery, you’d be blind."

I knew about the apathetic eye. It’s been with me for over 70 years. I didn’t realize the one only received a hint of help. I’ll wait for the operation-thank you-until the halo-streaming lights make what I love doing impossible.

For most people, cataract surgery is a safe, effective procedure. For me, it’s playing craps with the rent money. If I lose, there’s no second chance.

Ouch!

Gone are the days Granny sat by the fireplace rocking and telling stories when her vision went. I don’t want to be that old lady. And I haven’t got a fireplace.

After leaving the office, I figured out questions I didn’t ask the doc. (Why don’t they pop up when useful?) So, I googled “cataract surgery alternatives”. It turns out scientists are working on it. Studies show a potential eyedrop treatment. That’s expert-speak for check back later.

Brain Fog

Talk about brain fog. There are days I wonder where my neurons went.

As a kid, they taught me people use just 10% of their brains. Now neurologists say we use every part, all the time. But not me. Mental lapses crop up oftener than I care to say, suggesting mine operates with less power. 

Remember, I started An Itinerant Scribe in March 2019 and wrote my last post here. I transported the old contents to the new one. And let Create Me 365 go dormant.

In mid-August this year, I repurposed this blog. I wanted to tell you about current things, medieval reenactment. So I gave it a fresh look and a different focus. After writing a recent note, I checked the layout using Blogger’s program. They looked perfect. I expected them to publish. But they didn’t. 

I tried to fix the glitch. But couldn't get it done using Blogger. 

So, I googled the blog’s name. And guess what? You could buy the domain. I hadn’t renewed the service. Don’t know when I paid the last bill. 

Thankfully, it was available. So I bought it and all is well.

The results. A few posts upload together. I saved a year’s subscription money. And felt foolish for forgetting to renew.

Summer Recap

Can you believe it? There’s only three weeks of Summer before the Equinox. It can’t be true, can it?

Summer is vacations, museums, outdoor sports, and cook-outs. This is the time I planned to recap them. Camping with my SCA allies, spending time with my 80-something Minnesota brother, and visiting my long-time Missouri friends. 

None happened.

My last trip was in October, a 10 day Road Scholar tour to Philadelphia. An incredible experience. Now many states expect outsiders to self-quarantine for 14 days. There’s no way to take that same trip now. Plus, Nebraska expects you to quarantine upon returning. (How privileged travel has become!) When I travel again, I’ll be careful to seek healthy measures.

I am not a medical authority, but I listen to those who are. Their guidance is valuable, even if I’m unhappy with their report. Ignoring the experts’ instructions and mask principles compromises my health and future. And yours, too.

This Summer I preferred seeing closer places. Neighborhood walks with Pippa. Driving grandson Ben to his sports workouts. Park visits with friends. Virtual discussions and a Zoom wedding. My riskiest trips were grocery and craft-store shopping excursions.

You can be both distraught and thankful at once. Living alone means there’s less chance to connect with someone having Covid-19. (That’s good, right?) Stopping indoor group activities protects me, too. I’m safe inside my comfort zone, but bored and lonely. The pandemic replaced the Summer’s joy with dread.

Hopefully next year the ordeal will end. Later the pandemic lasts the longer before I travel any distance or gather in a crowd. I yearn for tours, trips, and long sunny Summer days side by side. 

Finding Hamilton

I cried for a movie hero. Not like when I was a teenager bawling during a chick-flick. I cried for Alexander Hamilton.

Who is Alexander Hamilton, you might ask?

The brief answer: he is America's forgotten Founding Father and lead character in Lin-Manuel Miranda's blockbuster musical.

The musical tells you about Hamilton's life. Its shocking opening line describes him as a “bastard, orphan son of a whore”. He was a poor immigrant who came from St. Croix and rose to power as Washington’s aide during the War of Independence. In the second act, he forms the United States monetary system, writes 51 articles defining the Constitution, and has the first American sex scandal. All before his tragic death. Though Hamilton lived over 200 years ago, his story, as told by Miranda, relates to today. It provides us a hopeful vision of a fairer America with opportunities for all.

When Disney+ began streaming the movie version, I subscribed. I watched it that evening, savoring the original cast performing in my living room. The opulent costumes and dazzling acting delighted me. The high definition images of Miranda’s perspiration and Jonathan Groff’s spittle were stunning. The rapping, prancing Daveed Diggs was a hoot.

I now understand my friends' intensity who paid for theater seats. Maybe I didn’t experience their theater atmosphere, but I controlled my viewing experience. I even used the closed-caption option to help me absorb the rapid-fire lyrics. The best part is I could enjoy it all again.

The next weekend my step-daughter came over and we viewed the musical together, sitting seven feet apart, each sporting a mask. I’d seen Hamilton six times by then, with each one I discovered details I missed earlier. (The nerd information level is high.) Marie loved it. She reveled in the close-up camera shots saying, “It’s better than the touring show I went to last year.”

I only watch the feature once a week now. Instead, I have its catchy music playing through any speaker paired to my phone. The song list is a feast of hip-hop, rap, and R&B. I listen when walking the dog, cleaning the house, and driving the car. (You get the idea.) At other times, unexpected random Hamilton songs pop into my brain.

Perhaps you love Hamilton’s wordplay as much as I do. The way the music lingers in your conscience proves Miranda’s creative genius. The songs are inspiring. They tell me to stay happy, scrappy, and to “not give up my shot”.

My BFFs: Best Fur Friends

Pippa 7+ years old

I want you to meet Pippa. She isn’t just a dog, she’s my soul mate. A 7-year-old Cairn Terrier offering me constant comfort, companionship, and devotion. My reason to get up in the morning, to get out of my PJs, to move off the couch, to go for a walk. Because of her, I am more caring, friendly, and communicative.

A few months ago I took Pippa to the groomer, inside a local pet store. After dropping her off, I wandered down the row of viewing cubicles, the last exhibiting a dachshund puppy pair. In tandem they came to the window, reaching their paws to the glass, and staring straight into my eyes. I can’t express my direct connection to those little beings.

What you don’t realize about me is my long-held dachshund affection. Years ago - I was seven - my brother Charles bought one for our mom. Everyone loved Hilda. So much so my mom let her have puppies, giving them to my other brother, a cousin, and an Aunt. Those Hilda-pups began a family custom. I had three doxies myself - Liebchen, Schatzie, and Flecke - each burrowing into my DNA.

I left the pet store and drove home, waiting for the groomer’s call summoning me to retrieve Pippa. I daydreamed about those black pleading eyes for hours. I texted my daughter, my step-daughter, and my best friend about the wag-tail doggies in the window, asking them many questions. Should I get one? Am I too old? How will I care for her when I’m older? And how would Pippa - my BFF - react to her?

Their truthful answers rattled in my head after I picked up Pippa and long into the night. At dawn, I woke up with a plan. Monday I would return and buy one puppy, a female. If there were two, I wouldn’t split them up. If those details fell my way, I would sit with the pup in the adoption booth and allow her to come to me. If she did, I would buy her. This let the pair stay together. If not, I wouldn’t be the person dividing them.

But my musings didn’t stop. They shifted to baby names. Because my dad came from Austria, the tradition started that our dogs’ names must be German. They could be actual names or endearments, adjectives, titles, foods, and more. But the best ones already belonged to other dogs. Trudel, Otto, Mina, Tina, Rudolph, Gretchen, and Heidi. I told you my family loved dachshunds. All Sunday I researched possibilities. I chose three, yet I hadn’t met her.

The weekend dragged on, Monday arriving by a turtle. At the store, I chatted with Dave, the owner. I’m a frequent customer, having bought Pippa and another Cairn Terrier there. Both outstanding pets. Dave told me he already promised the male but not the female. He showed me papers with the breeding kennel, pedigree, plus pictures and weights of her dam and sire. Although important facts to know before buying a puppy, the entire discussion I itched to hold her.

Dave eventually walked me to the adoption pen, disappeared, and returned with the tiny black dog. He placed her on the floor where she took her sweet time walking around the booth, nose down, hunting the linoleum’s smells. When she came to me she sniffed me over too. At my face she stopped and gently licked my lips, showering me with tiny puppy kisses. And that was it, she was mine.

I took her home in a mesh soft-sided carrier. She whimpered and whined, scared from the rumbling, bumpy ride. We didn’t have far to drive, so I reached out my right hand touching her through the mesh and she calmed. At home, I carried her in the carrier to the side-yard outside my house, putting the bag on the ground. Then I hurried inside to find Pippa. I wanted their first meeting to be in neutral territory, not Pippa’s yard or house. I quickly found my soul mate and brought her outside on a leash. She examined the carrier without its usual cat. Unzipping the top, I lifted the little girl and placed her on the ground. Pippa sniffed her all over and walked away. Nothing more to see here.

Inka 2 months old

Inside the rec room, I left them together on the floor while I sat nearby. When Pippa walked away I picked up the puppy and snuggled her, smelling her distinctive baby breath. Her little black nose, fringy ears, ink-smudged brown feet, and wispy-tipped tail entranced me. She’s dark for a black-and-tan dachshund, so I named her Inka, after the German singer.

Two months passed since I brought Inka home. Pippa now acts with her like older sisters do. She’s taught her the best places to dig in the yard and plants to roll in. In the evening, she roughhouses with her or runs laps in the yard, extra activities for them both. She also tells Inka off when she takes her favorite toy or rests in her preferred spot next to me.

Connecting Pippa and Inka has been a slow process, but that’s good. I still have my soul mate for our walks. She hasn't stopped signaling time to eat dinner or get dressed for bed. Baby Inka - she won’t be that for long - receives nurturing from both of us. My two sweeties balance each other. Pippa is matronly, knowledgeable, and sedate; Inka young, inquiring, and silly.

A New Path Ahead

Is this thing working? I think it is. I haven’t used this blog in over a year because I moved my scribal posts to An Itinerant Scribe. 

I miss writing and hooking up with you so I want to change this and take a fresh path. A senior living blog. A grayer blog. Not because you’re elderly, but because I am. 

I’m eager to create a blog with a friendlier style. It will take effort and time altering the format, deleting pages, and eliminating all prior contents. It's worth the process.

Blogging now belongs to my generation. A place we share our ponderings from down-sizing steps, elder trend settings, artistic creations, or dandelion fluff. And Create Me 365 is the perfect place. 

I don’t know why I didn’t realize this earlier. Now I see topics everywhere. In books and podcasts I hear, walks with my dog, or places I shop. The writing will be a new adventure.

So let's give a toast to what happens here next. And as they say, “Watch this space.”