On the street where I live

The little girl across the street is riding her bicycle in endless circles. I think she is bored. I sit on my glider, gently rocking in the breeze. I’m watching the birds who have discovered the many feeders I put out and Batman is working his way through a pig’s foot (not the kind you buy in a pet store, but one from the butcher).
This is nothing like the street I grew up on. For one thing, we didn’t call what I lived on a street. It was a road, Mull Road to be exact, named because the family who owned most of the land along the road was named Mull. There were four houses on our road and I could only see one of them from our house, and even that one wasn’t close. My closest friend lived about 4 miles away. Town was 10 miles away and if we wanted to go to the ‘city’ that was about an hour.
I road my horse everywhere. I road him into Rockville and Marshall, around the endless country roads and to my friends’ houses. I road him fishing. I actually didn’t spend a lot of time playing with other kids. Before I had a driver’s license my mom would have had to driven me to see anyone, unless they were within horse-back riding distance. I don’t remember feeling deprived.
I spent countless lazy summer afternoons sitting in trees reading books and figuring out elaborate systems to pull food and drinks up into the tree with me. My dog was never tied up, as there wasn’t anyplace he was going to get into trouble and there were no neighbors who complained about barking. Once though, the sheriff’s department tracked down my dad while we were at the county fair to let him know our pigs were out.
Now I can count 10-15 houses from my glider. Although, at leas this is a very quiet neighborhood. I’m the only person who has figured out it is quieter and more private in the front yard as everyone else has made their hideaways in their backyards. I have the front of the street to myself.
In some ways, this is a more convenient life for sure. I can hop in the car and be at any number of stores or restaurants in a matter of minutes. If I forget something when I’m at the store, it’s no big deal, I can hop in the car and go out again. But, there are no trees to climb. In the upscale suburbs no one wants to mow around low hanging branches. All the trees are tall and straight and any low branches have been long ago hacked off. I don’t let my dog run loose. There are other dogs in the neighborhood, not to mention cars. On the road I grew up on our deaf cat laid in the middle of the road and never got run over.
I do miss the country, even though its been 25 years since I lived anyplace remotely country looking. I wish I lived there again, but sometimes now I wonder if I’ve been away from the total silence and darkness too long. I could have my horse with me, but have I become too lazy to go back to actually caring for a large animal on a daily basis. When I travel I’m used to just finding someone to take care of the dog and cats and maybe throw the fish some food. It’s harder to find someone to care for a horse. But, the thought of growing old on this street or even another one like it makes me feel somewhat ill. I’m like the little girl going in circles on her bike, but going no where.

Can you have too many T-shirts?

I know my mother is right now trying to figure out how to post a comment to this blog as she wants to say, “YES you can have TOO many T-shirts.” Mom is always teasing me about my T-shirts.
I admit it, I’m a T-shirt accumulator. Wherever I go I get a T-shirt, although not just any T-shirt. I look and look and try and find just the right one to fit my pesonality and the feelings I have about the places I am visiting. I also have an addiction to cafépress.com, where you can get T-shirts (and anything else it seems) with numerous sayings. I love T-shirts with interesting sayings. I have one that shows a rabbit sitting at a school desk looking at a paper with a big F on it. The shirt says “Stop Animal Testing.” I have more dog, cat and horse T-shirts than I can count, including “I’d rather be riding,” and one with Gandhi’s portrait that says, “You can judge a society by the way it treats its animals.” When I took Batman to his first dog show, I was wearing a bright neon green T-shirt with Dog Power on it.
Last weekend I moved all my T-shirts from their winter storage to their summer home in the drawers of my dresser. It occurred to me as I made trip after trip that I might now have enough T-shirts to wear a different one every day for the entire summer. I even have some that have shrunk beyond all wearing (or maybe I just kept growing), but I can’t give them up. Like the one from my freshman year in college when I joined a sorority. I have one that says “Scoop Swaim” that I got as a gift from the staff of a newspaper I worked at one summer while I was in college. There are T-shirts from the Alamo, Baltimore, St. Augustine, San Francisco, Charleston, S.C., and numerous other locations and tourist spots. I have a T-shirt that is 15 years old from Les Miserables, as well as one that is 20 years old from Evita. I just bought my third T-shirts from Cats, as the other two were getting faded. I have every single T-shirt that from Parke County, Ind., the greatest place on Earth. (and I have most of the sweatshirts).
I love my T-shirts. I wish I could wear them to work. Perhaps there are other T-shirt addicts out there who are afraid to discuss their addiction. I say, embrace it and go buy another shirt. I’ll bet I can find one on cafepress.com about blogging. Hum, better go look.

Going back to work so I can rest

I’ve been on vacation for a week and a half and my body is ready to go back to work where it can rest.
These past 10 days I’ve put in two flower gardens, went to work on my mom’s flower garden for Mother’s Day, did yoga, got a bunch of stuff sorted to take to an auction and rode my horse. Having a desk job as an editor for 21 years means I’m not in the best physical shape for hard physical labor. The flower gardens especially were a lot of work. Hopefully, now I can come home in the evenings and relax in my new glider and watch all the bees, butterflies and birds my flowers should attract. I just spent an hour rearranging all the bird feeders so I could see them all from the glider. Someone better show up and start eating or I’m going to be very disappointed.
I made one of the flower gardens a wildlife habitat, or at least as much of a habitat as I can make in the midst of a housing development. We have a big magnolia tree in the front yard with lots of branches. I planted all around it with shade-loving plants and hung two bird feeders, two suet feeders, a feeder for peanut butter, a hummingbird feeder and one hanging bird bath. Another bird bath is off to the side.
The other flower garden is by the driveway and is full of hostas, daylilies and irises. It is also home to a butterfly bush and a plant that is just for humming birds. I forget what it’s called, but it has nice bell shaped flowers. This flower garden also has a small pottery birdbath that I’ve had for five years and have just been waiting for a home for it. See, it does pay to be a pack rat!
I’ve had a hard time sorting things to take to the auction for that very reason. I keep thinking I might need these things some day! But, something has to go. I have more boxes of stuff than will fit in the storage barn and for some reason, Curt actually thinks you are supposed to park a vehicle in the garage rather than fill it with antiques and collectibles and just plain neat stuff. Hopefully, the stuff I’m taking to the auction will at least pay for the new glider, the new porch furniture I want to get (I should say the new Old porch furniture I want to get) and all the plants, mulch, decorative fencing and all those new bird feeders. Not to mention I’m off to a big antique show this coming weekend and will probably find more things I need to buy.

Always listen to your mother

When I was growing up, Mom was always telling me to stand up straight and not slouch. She said if I didn’t my posture would be a mess. Why don’t we listen to our parents? I was thinking about this as I endured another hour of Movement Specialist Yoga. One of my shoulders is lower than the other one. My shoulders also slope forward. I could hear Mom’s voice in my ear saying, “see you should have listened.”
Now, I’m trying to fix 40+ years of bad posture and a job that keeps me at a computer all day (and because I’m addicted to the computer, I’m sitting at it a lot more than my job even requires). Sigh.
But, everyone assures me that Yoga will be the answer. I will be more flexible. I will learn to sit on the Yoga ball and roll up and down the wall with it. I’m amazed though at how flexible people can become. If I only became a quarter as flexible as my Movement Specialist, then I would be doing great.
The Movement Specialist does crack me up. She is always asking me if I can ‘feel’ this or that muscle group. Feel it? Damn, I didn’t even know there was a muscle there and suddenly I’m stretching it. Of course I feel it.

How healthy can I afford to be?

I’m beginning to wonder how healthy I can afford to be.
Currently I have a wellness counselor, a chiropractor, a massage therapist and a movement specialist all working to try and make me the best I can be. It all started in January when I went to the doctor and discovered I weighed more than I’ve ever weighed, my blood sugar is steadily creeping upward, my cholesterol is high and my blood pressure could be better. Not to mention my right arm and neck were a mess because after I moved I hadn’t taken the time to find a new chiropractor.
Prior to meeting Curt I probably would have just continued my old lifestyle, which would have been to be totally depressed by the above information, but do nothing about it. However, now I’ve found someone to go canoeing with, and hiking, and someone to hopefully grow old with. So, it seemed I had better begin working on all this or I might not be around to grow old.
I found a chiropractor to work on my back, which is pretty much a mess (well really it’s my neck that’s a mess). She had a massage therapist affiliated with the office so I started going to her to help with the neck mess. I began looking at what I ate. I needed something low in carbs (carbs often become sugar in the blood), low in cholesterol and low in sodium. That seemed to leave water. While I knew I would loose a lot of weight if I just drank water, it seemed an unhealthy choice. I was lamenting my lack of food choices in an email to my extended family. My Aunt Nancy emailed back and said I should talk to the wellness counselor she worked with. I had no idea such professions existed. I was skeptical at first that someone called a wellness counselor could really help me, but I trust my Aunt Nancy.
It turned out to be a good decision. I’ve learned things about greens and grains that I didn’t know and I’m learning about the glycemic index, which in terms of food with carbs is much more important than the actual carb count. I don’t have to give up pasta or rice, but I did change the kind of pastas and rices I eat. No more fast cooking stuff. And I look for whole grain pastas and breads. Plus, the wellness counselor keeps me accountable, but mainly she is my cheerleader, and believe me, everyone needs a cheerleader. I have now tried Kasha and Quinoa, two grains I never heard of before, but which I can now say I enjoy.
Of course buying food that is better for you can be more expensive. It costs 2 to 3 times more to buy food at the health food store than it does at the regular grocery. I realize my meat, grains and veggies are probably much better for me from the health food store, but I am not a money tree. My wellness counselor and I are going shopping and we will figure out what really needs to come from the health food store and what can come from the cheaper grocery.
Then of course I just added the movement specialist, which you can read more about in the post entitled Yoga and Me.
After reviewing my bank account, I have come to the conclusion that all this wellness can’t go on forever, but hopefully, it can go on for the next few months until I can get a better handle on how to be more flexible and eat more healthful food.
I told my wellness counselor this is a lot like getting new carpet in one room of the house. You get the new carpet, then realize you need a new couch and some new paint in that room, then you realize that one room is wonderful, but the rest of the house looks like crap. So, the new carpet leads to redoing an entire house.
But, it is all going to be worth it as yesterday for the first time someone said the magic words, “Connie, are you losing weight?”

Saying goodbye to my house

I sold my house yesterday. It was a bittersweet event. I bought the house in 1994. I was in the midst of a divorce. So, I ended up doing the three things rated most stressful for Americans all at the same time: Divorce, buying a house and moving. Why draw the stress out I say! I just did it all at once.
It was great having a house that was mine. I got the mortgage all on my own. No one could tell me whether I could have a dog or not. On the other hand, when something broke, I couldn’t call the landlord and say, “hey can you fix the plumbing?” I discovered I’m a lousy carpenter. If you own an old house (and this one was built in the 1880s), it helps if you can at least hammer a nail. So, for me the house turned into a constant battle and I discovered I wasn’t very happy living alone. It was a very small town. I didn’t know anyone there, I didn’t really have any close friends. Sometimes I relished my independence and aloneness and other days I despaired. I spent endless summer afternoons and evenings curled up in the porch swing reading a book. I also sat on the floor crying when I came home from a business trip, found out the back door had blown open during sub zero weather and the pipes had frozen and burst in the basement causing a shower of water to gush and subsequently freeze all over everything in the basement. Thank heavens I had heeded my brother Andy’s advice and installed a shut off valve. Prior to that, to shut off the water to the house you needed an 8ft pole and the ability to move a man hole cover in the front yard.
The house is in a very small town, but it had a grocery store, a liquor store, a small restaurant and a place that delivered pizza. What more could a person need? The liquor store did not carry wine when I moved to town, but they started carrying it for me. I would walk down with my dogs and the liquor store owner would invite them in for a beef jerky. The dogs probably could have gone down and picked up the wine themselves, they loved that jerky. I almost always walked the five blocks to the grocery store and I would carry a canvas tote for my groceries, but I could never convince the grocery store owner that I didn’t need the plastic bags and the whole point of the canvas bag was to conserve. She always insisted on bagging everything in plastic and then carefully putting it in the canvas tote.
My cat Ananka wandered in off the street when I lived in that house and I adopted my dog Sparkles when I lived there. There were some great parties had there also.
But, one day a relative became ill and I moved into the relative’s house and I never went back to my house. (It’s a long and complicated story). I put my house on the market. That was six years ago. It didn’t sell the first time I had it on the market, or the second or third. Between attempts to sell it, I rented it out. If I thought I was a lousy carpenter, I was even worse at being a landlord. You need to be tough, be constantly on patrol of the property, and have the ability to get mean with renters. I was of the opinion that if I treated people fairly and gave them their own space, etc., they would treat my property nicely. I was wrong – four times. It turns out I’m a horrible judge of character. One man I let move in with one dog, ended up having a kennel with 12 dogs in a tiny back yard. It cost several thousand dollars to clean up the yard after he moved out. Another renter ignored the six page renter’s contract that said “DO NOT PAINT” the original woodwork or fixtures and painted the black slate fireplace mantel and surround purple along with purple paint for the oak window seat.
So, the house became a burden. I couldn’t sell it, I couldn’t get renters that didn’t cause headaches. Then one day, one of my employees said she was getting a divorce and was my house still for sale? It seems fated now to be the first home of strong women in the midst of divorce. So, I feel better knowing who is buying it, but still sad that I didn’t do more with it. At least I am no longer worried about what the renters are doing.

Yoga and Me

I went to my first yoga session yesterday. I didn’t even know I was going to yoga. My chiropractor recommended going to the “movement specialist” who works out of their office. My neck is a mess. The chiropractor thought the movement specialist could help.
“Have you ever done yoga,” the nice lady said. ‘
“Um, no,” I stammered as I noticed her shoes were off and there were mats on the floor. I suddenly wondered if my feet might smell really bad if I had to take my shoes off. Also, the room was really small and I have personal space issues. But, I committed myself earlier this year to trying to improve my mind, body and health. So, I took my shoes off and just hoped I didn’t have the first stinky feet she had ever smelled. It is hard to focus though on being calm and relaxed if you are trying to smell your feet.
I’m the first to admit I’m a serious type A personality. I’m uptight, stressed, you name it. I’m a mess. After an hour of yoga I discovered I’m also about as limber as a brick. I feel absolutely certain that I used to be young and limber and somehow now I’m older, fatter, and far less limber. It did not help that the yoga instructor appeared to be older than I am and she could bend better than Gumby.
I threw myself into the session with as positive of an attitude as I could muster. After all, on Sunday, I discovered I could not mount my horse without a mounting block. My legs do not bend enough to get one leg in the stirrup and then have enough limber left to swing the other leg over Cisco’s back. So, it’s either become more limber, get a shorter horse or never, ever get off during a ride.
The yoga instructor was great. She did her best not to make me feel like a complete and utter failure. She told me everyone is different, at “our age” no one is as limber as they once were unless they have been working on it, etc. I’m thinking, “yeah, I’m old, fat, and move like a brick.” I can tell I need to work on my inner being.
At the end she asked me to lay on the floor and she covered my eyes with some kind of warm, sage smelling thing. She covered me with a blanket and told me to practice breathing (where was she at the dog show a few weeks ago when I kept forgetting to breath). I was supposed to push my air to my various limbs. I was supposed to clear my mind. I was still worried about my stinky feet and how the hell I was ever going to get my butt back up off the floor. Like I said, my inner being still has a long way to go.
But, I’m going back. Maybe I can work up from a brick to a piece of at least clay.
And if you see me and you notice I’m hunching my shoulders up to my ears and I look tense and I’m not breathing, please calmly say, “breath Connie, breath.”