Author: Cranky Crone

My calendar says that spring started this last week, but if I look in my front yard, the winter snow is still there.  The tulips and crocus Bryan planted last autumn are still tucked in their beds.  Waiting for warmer weather, I suppose..

About this time of year, I like to bring a little spring into the house.  Not from a hot house.  Or the grocery story plant department.  I bring sticks into my house.  Sticks that I cut from the quince bush.  At this time of year, they are just dead sticks.  Brown, apparently with no life in them.  I have to be careful cutting the sticks – they have inch or inch-and-a-half thorns on them and can really hurt the old paper skin on my hands and arms.  Those rose gloves that I’ve talked about help, keeping my hands and arms safe.

For more than a month, I listened to my dishwasher tell me that something was wrong.  I contacted my preferred service company.  A repair technician arrived, checked out the dishwasher as it went through its paces, and pronounced it to be okay.  Really?  Okay?  It was still making the noise that caused me to call for service.  But, who am I to argue with the “expert” dishwasher technician?

For another month, I continued to listen to the suspicious noise; the machine continued to wash the dishes.  Each day.  I have been using the dishwasher every day, whether it has five items or is full.  I LIVE ALONE!  It would usually take a week for me to fill the dishwasher.  And, when I was a child, I lived in places that had cockroaches.  Cockroaches!  Ugh!  I don’t want those critters in my house, and who’s to know that if dirty dishes are left in the dishwasher, they won’t climb out of the drain pipes into the unit to seek out the food left on the dishes?  Understand that there is no one in my neighborhood who has this vermin.  No one.  But, how far do cockroaches go for a meal?

She’s little.  She’s all white.  And, now, she has her forever home.  St. Patrick’s Day was a good day to drive to Gail’s house, five miles south of Pueblo.  Bryan and I started out at 9 am with a mist in the air.  By the time we drove through Colorado Springs, the clouds had lifted and sunshine burned off the remaining snow.

Breakfast in Pueblo at the Southwest Grill brought us closer to our goal.  Five more miles to meet the object of our affection – the white miniature schnauzer we were on our way to pick up. And, then, we were at Gail’s house and in her front office.

Gail is the breeder of schnauzers, miniature and teacup.  Years ago, Larry and I bought two miniature schnauzers from Gail.  Liza Jane came home before Libby  We wanted Liza Jane to be the alpha dog, so we had her a month before we picked up Libby (Liberty was her name but we called her Libby).  Daughter #2 Jane went with me to get Liza Jane; Liza Jane bonded with Jane so much that when Jane would come to the house for a visit, Liza Jane would just about go through the front door to get to her.  Libby was supposed to be Larry’s dog, so when we picked her up, she sat on his lap all of the way home.  Bonding with Larry was difficult for Libby.  Her only experience with people was Gail and, of course, Larry was a man, making her bonding with him very difficult.  It eventually happened, though, and when he passed, Libby had a terrible time grieving.

So, we make our schedules for the day.  Or, maybe, for two or three days.  Good idea.

And, the day comes to execute the carefully thought out schedule.  As a crone, I’m retired and my schedule should be pretty open.  Especially, now, with the pandemic in full force.

It’s Wednesday, and I really don’t have anything to do.  Well, except for the dishes, the washing and drying of clothes, getting lunch, having any allowed snacks – just regular things.  And, I’ll have time to write the children’s story for the on-line class I’m taking.

Before all of that, though, I need to go to the basement to use the TRX exercise unit and the recumbent stepper.  First, though, I’ll see who can’t wait to talk with me on e-mail.

Last Christmas, I received a gift that never in my wildest dreams, did I think would ever be mine.  It was Alexa.  You know, “Alexa, put water in the dish.”  “Alexa, play a classical radio station.”  “Alexa, do what I tell you to do.”

When Bryan brought gifts into my house, he gave them to me saying, “You have to open one of the gifts while I’m here.  I don’t want you to be afraid of it. …  It’s technology.”

It’s one o’clock in the morning, and I can’t sleep.  I watched a couple of programs tonight before retiring, and what I saw is keeping me awake.  I promised when I began this blog that neither religion nor politics would be a part of it.  I don’t really think this article is about politics, although there is a hint of politics in the media reports.  Tonight, as I watched and listened to some of my favorite commentators deliver their evening information (which I really do respect because they seem to do their homework and get facts right), I was struck by the repeated words, “sexual harassment.”

With the implications that I heard this evening, I began to wonder if I, as a supervisor of teachers, was ever guilty of what is, today, considered sexual harassment.  I’m  a “toucher,” don’t you see.  When talking with another person such as one of the teachers in my school, I might very well reach out to put my hand on his or her arm or shoulder to make a point.  To comfort that individual in some way.  Or, simply to indicate that I cared about him or her.  Is that sexual harassment? 

I had occasion to look for a product that I needed from a farm supply store, thinking the location of the store was way south on Broadway, a major street where I live.  Well, the store wasn’t there¸ south on Broadway.  I went into a coffee shop on south Broadway where “my store” wasn’t and asked a staff person if anyone knew where the farm store was located.  Fortunately, someone was able to tell me that it was west, way south on a road called Santa Fe.  I thanked her, chastised myself for not having the correct address, and headed for the farm store.

When I arrived at the turn off from Santa Fe, I immediately had to stop to wait for the road construction, there.  Finally, I was allowed to go forth and turn into the parking lot of the farm store.

— I wrote this article earlier this year (in September 2020), but I thought I would publish it, today. —

Have you had a child who is no longer alive?  Today is September 11, 2020 – 9/11.  Today, former Vice President Biden was talking with a 90-year-old woman about the loss of his first wife and of his children when he said, “It never goes away.”  The son of the 90-year-old woman was killed in the 9-11 attack on America.  “It never goes away.”  She agreed with Biden.  “It never goes away.”

A glioblastoma took the life of my second child about five years ago.  Diagnosed in January, her life was taken by November of that year.  What Biden and the woman said is true – it never goes away.

Really, what IS love?  How do we humans make that connection that is described as love?  Are we talking about God’s love?  Or, Shakespeare’s kind of love?  Or, the movie makers’ kind of love?  The definition of love seems to have changed over the eons of time.

Here is a computer definition of love – an intense feeling of deep affection.  For example, babies fill parents with feelings of love.  There are, of course, some similar words that relate to love.  Words like deep affection, tenderness, intimacy, endearment, idolization, worship … I could go on and on and on!

Fragile Skin.  A lot of us at our age have fragile skin.  We see them in theatres, restaurants, church, the grocery store – everywhere.  Even before I took the anticoagulant medicine, the back of my hands looked as if someone had taken a sledge hammer to them.

And, my arms.  Splotches of bruise from elbow to wrist.  Other parts of my skin with the same splotches.  Age spots, some say.  Running into doors, bumping against the bedstead, or the kitchen faucet.  Spots come and spots go.  Some stay longer than others.  And, it seems that as soon as one spot fades, another one shows up.

The worst, though, is when you look down at your hand or arm, wrist or knee and see the blood dripping down your skin away from the wound that you didn’t even know was there.  So, off you go to the bathroom or where ever you keep your bandages or tissues to stop the flow.  Sometimes, if you’re lucky, there will be someone there who can help you put on the bandage.