we'll tak a cup o' kindness...

I am concocting the perfect auld lang syne hot buttered rum. It’s a guid-willie waught, or a festive draught, that is. For reasons understood only (I presume) by my mammalian brain-layer, I’m having a rather nice New Year’s Eve at 8:50 pm, in the kitchen, in the company of quadrupeds. Tonight, all of them got bits of my salmon (leftover from lunch at Garry’s Grill,) but none got buttered rum. They’re relatively certain that’s ok.

The reason this is significant is that New Year’s Eve has, since the time Jeff’s brain devolved to little more than reptilian, seen me in a funk, and I’m just as glad to have broken with an apparent tradition.

I’m not saying it means anything for 2011 (though I won’t protest if it does,) but a light spirit is a thing of beauty and you might as well take one if they’re handing them out.

Jeff dozed through Easy A on Comcast-on-Demand, (a valid response, though I didn’t mind the low-demand entertainment...it was better than Eat, Pray, Pointlessly Self-Indulge,) and has now been pilled and tucked into bed. Hazel is keeping me company in the box-top from a carton of Harry & David pears, and Otis is harassing Chessie around the kitchen. Not nice. (No guid-willie waught for Otis.)

Now there is Peruvian music by Agua Clara playing, and dancing--not sitting--is called for.

Kampai, Slan, and bottoms up! Ok 2011...let’s see what happens...

Storm's a'comin'...

I am enjoying a book by Jon Franklin, called The Wolf in the Parlor. At the 20% mark, I don’t yet have a good idea of what he’s going to conclude, but he is--at the point I’ve reached--struggling to come to grips with the nature of the ancient relationship between man and canine.

Most interesting has been a tangential trip into the tri-partite condition of the human brain. It seems, evolutionarily speaking, that the reptilian reflex-based version of a brain emerged first, followed by the more flexible and emotionally complex mammalian edition, while the primate addendum--with its ability to create cognitive models and formulate detached rational conclusions--is the Johnny-Come-Lately in brain styling. And apparently, we inherited all three types, one on top of the next.*

It is possible, following the logic of brain hierarchy, to conclude that most human angst stems from the knotty problem that all data--even if it’s the kind you’d clearly delegate to the primate brain--must first traverse the reptilian and mammal brains before it can even be considered. Hence, it (the data) is, by the time the primate brain even gets ahold of it, saddled with all the baggage of need and emotion that the reptilian and mammalian ascribe to it in passing.

I have a point. My point is going to be that this insight into the internal struggles of the human brain has shed some light, retrospectively, into some chapters of my life which, at the time, were hard to narrate in an articulate way. One such chapter in particular is the one about my foray into nursing school during the academic year ’02/’03.

I completed the first year of a two year program at Johns Hopkins with an almost 4.0 (felled by the fact that the A- I clawed my way to in Pharmacology conveyed only 3.8 points.) And I liked it a lot. When I withdrew, one day into my second year, it was a little hard to explain to my friends and advisor, not to mention family. But I tried, using terms like “writer,” and “time,” and “family.” Still it was vague. All I knew for certain was that I’d been hit by an unanticipated emotional tidal wave that no rational explanation could adequately analyze.

But I understood it in a primitive way. I knew that emotion had delivered a knock-out punch to reason. Now I can articulate that my mammalian brain knew something which my primate brain could not, and it forcibly took the reins.

You know how dogs can sense storms coming, or know--when she’s still two miles away--that a favorite person is returning? Or know that the word “walk” has flickered through my brain long before I’ve batted an eye? My inner dog sensed the storm system called Alzheimer’s, but all it could tell the primate brain was this: “You have to spend time with your husband.” My primate part understood that message, but didn’t see how dropping out of school was the logical response. So the mammal walloped the primate and did it anyway.

At the time--Fall of ’03--Jeff had the faintest hint of symptoms. But it was mostly irritability. Except for his failure to install the bathroom tile properly (a job which I took over,) there was nothing discernibly wrong with him. But the thing I’ve learned about dogs is, if they’re really going berserk--I mean surpassing any sort of baseline berserk--then you’d better pay attention, regardless of what seems logical. My mammal brain sensed the storm system and went way more than baseline berserk. It’s just that it wasn’t until a year or two later that I had an inkling of the type of storm.

This is, so far, my favorite quote from The Wolf in the Parlor, on the “triune brain”:

We weren’t individuals, we were committees--and, like all committees, we were given to inner uncertainty, dispute, and even feuding. We were the only creature in nature capable of ganging up on itself.

Which is exactly what it felt like at the time--my brain ganged up on itself. Nowadays, when I get particularly crazy or out of sorts I try to say something akin to “What is it Lassie? What is it girl?” Unfortunately, my mammalian brain’s language skills are still not much better than Freddi the dog’s. So, as the I Ching is always telling me, with the most admirable of patience, I just have to chill and trust the Sage. And possibly batten down the hatches.

*On the notion that the "triune brain" model is outdated or simplistic: well, probably so. But I still love this quote from Wikipedia:

In this sense, the triune brain (more properly, perhaps, the "triune mind") is seen as a highly simplified but powerful organizing theme. The statistician George E.P. Box once quipped: "Essentially, all models are wrong, but some are useful."

Be 92. Or 3½. Or at least just act like it.

I will admit: I am not really all that old. I realize, it depends mostly on from which direction on a chronological timeline you’re looking, but my point is that I don’t usually have a self-image of oldness.

Nevertheless, there seem to be some fairly universal lateral changes in the quality of interface with the world that become apparent to most adults as they rack up a handful of decades, give or take.

Our good friend Bill stops by once a month or so to take Jeff out to lunch. Lately, he looks out the back kitchen windows at the five birdfeeders I’ve got stocked with seed, and says something akin to: “I can’t believe how much I’m into birds now. And plants. I find this very disturbing.” Bill recalls being aware, in decades past, of how this partiality to birds connoted aged person and how he, at the time, forswore such a future, but now reckons it was inevitable.

This was fresh in my mind last week when I sat down to knit the finishing rows into a hat. (Hats are what I’ve been working on lately. I invariably start off having committed some kind of planning error, such that the finished product would be unviable, could it even progress that far. I either misgauge the size, or don’t factor the right multiple of stitches for the pattern I intend to use, or--in a spectacular mistake that I didn’t notice until 2 inches in--I let the row spiral around the circular needles, creating an unstraightenable helix instead of the leading edge of a stocking cap. Just now I spontaneously switched to a rib pattern based on 5’s, forgetting that I’d cast on 72. Not a match.) But, back to the aforementioned hat which I did, in fact, complete. I sat down to complete it in a rocking chair. And I chuckled at myself, because it felt so good. Almost sensual, in fact, to be relaxed, sitting in a rocker, and knitting.

Without a doubt, I have the foibles of aging more in the forefront of my everyday thoughts than the average not-quite-50 year old. All I need to do is look at the adaptations I am continually making in dressing Jeff. Today he has on his new pull-on Sperrys, a t-shirt, and a half-zip pullover. The pullover is new. I grabbed a couple at Kohl’s thinking this might be a good step away from button-down shirts which can be buttoned in any number of interesting and askew configurations if lining things up properly is not in one’s skill set. The problem with the pullover is that it hangs a little long. This means that Jeff keeps noticing the bottom edge and being inspired to curtsy. So far, he has demonstrated curtsies to Olivia about 5 times and Becca maybe twice. This, therefore, may not turn out to be the perfect solution to dressing ease, but I’m always on the lookout for new ideas.

Some cats can dance.

Yesterday, Jeff had a conversation with Chessie the cat. Chessie is a good cat--stout of stature, good of heart (mostly,) and only inclined to whine when you disrupt her poundage from atop your chest. So, as cats go, you might as well talk to her as to any. But, when asked by Jeff whether she knows how to tap dance, Chessie did not respond in any meaningful way. Becca, meanwhile, seated at the kitchen counter (unlike Chessie, who was seated in the chair at which Jeff was addressing his question,) did respond. “Are you talking to me?” asked Becca. “If you’re talking to me, I’m over here.” Jeff indicated that yes, he was talking to her, but he still said all this to Chessie, who did not assist in correcting him. As far as she was concerned, I’m sure, his behavior was completely appropriate.

Conversations with cats pose no problem. I wonder, though, about the ifs and whens of implementing other measures to which I’ve given pre-need consideration. When will I employ sitters? Should I investigate day care? I’m already concerned about leaving for more than the shortest of outings. Not that Jeff does much. I think the most pressing trouble he might get into would be locking himself out of the house while on a front yard stick-breaking expedition. Troublesome thought, when it’s below freezing. Should I move him downstairs? Yet? Don’t know that it would suit him. Don’t know how he’ll respond. But I do know that, if not before, the first time his visuo-spatial system fails to navigate the staircase, to hazardous effect, will be the impetus.

It is common wisdom, among the AD caregiver community, that most caregivers initiate any kind of change--day care, in-home help, placement, hospice--later than they should have. I completely understand why.

möbius-ity

42 might as well be the meaning of life. It’s as good as anything anyone else has come up with, as far as I’ve noticed.

Today, after the usual pets and breakfast routine, I met a friend for tea and “breakfast cookies” at The Big Bean. We had a wonderful (but too short as usual) chat, then I bundled up against the wind chill and quick-stepped the 1/2 mile home. By then, Jeff had managed a shower without a shower-director. I noted the extra undies scattered around the bed, a rejected t-shirt, his washed-with-conditioner (instead of shampoo) hair, and the same old dirty jeans. Good enough.

We headed back out into the chill to tick the next item off my list--replacing the ceramic birdbath, whose basin had cracked from freezing water. Just before my immersible de-icer arrived a little too late.

The new birdbath top--positioned with hodge-podge imperfection atop the existing pedestal--is (with de-icer at work,) doing its job.

Furthermore, Otis the kitten will (I hope) soon pass the colon-load of paper, or whatever inedible he consumed, that prompted 2 trips to the vet and an x-ray in the past 3 days. The water heater, meanwhile, is back in operating condition after a day’s work by Yank the plumber yesterday, and our upstairs is once again, therefore, heated.

The thing that likes to drive me crazy on a regular and ongoing basis is this question: Is any of this of consequence? I think if I could send a letter back to 1973...have a little word with myself...deliver some advice, the letter would contain the following: First, I would list the areas in which the grown up me has a modicum of both skill and interest. This part is important, because that 11 year old had no clue what she liked and even less motivation. So I would tell her that she’d be a decent writer and had skill at language acquisition and usage. She should relax and not let math frustrate her so much...approach it with less fear and loathing and she’d be capable. She should stick, arduously, to her study of viola, and add in fiddle while she’s at it. Finally, she should steer herself in the direction of a helping profession--most likely in the area of scientific research. I’m going to have to anticipate that--being a tolerably bright child--she’ll ask what she’s doing heading into research if she’s good at languages and writing. So I will answer that question for her: She will not find a way to be useful to the world as a writer or linguist, so--while she should hone these skills as personally edifying--she will need to be a provider of value to the human race in order not to fret later, as an almost-50 year old, about adequacy of being the caretaker of an impaired spouse and the saver-of-kitties, who writes works that the world does not require.

But back to 42. Apparently I do what I do, because it is what the world requires of me. Or at least a sufficient part of it is. What I really think is that--if I sent that letter to the 11 year old, and even if she took it to heart (the lazy little underachiever,)--I would merely trip the existential feedback loop of Möbius, and end up exactly where I am. So, I don’t know exactly what 42 means, but I think it’s that.

but she got published, at least!

Ok, I watched it. I watched Eat, Pray, Love.

I didn’t even wait for it to be released on Netfix--I actually told Comcast-on-Demand “Yes. Yes, you may charge me $4.99 for this movie. Go ahead. Do it.” I wanted to pick a fight, and I wanted to pick it with that movie. I’m not sure what I expected, but I obviously (not having even read the book,) needed to view the film before I could launch a cathartic quibble.

Later, I read some of the reviews of the book on Amazon. I wanted to see what people thought of the source material. There were, basically, two strains of comment: There were the 4 and 5 stars reviewers who admired Elizabeth Gilbert’s turn of phrase, and lyrical manner of describing nebulous philosophical concepts. (I can’t argue with such reviews. One need not admire a main character to rate writing highly.) Then there were the 1 star reviews, in which readers largely took exception to the narrative. It was the author’s behavior and autobiography earning their thumbs down, and--way with words or not--they were annoyed at having bothered with it.

I mention this about the book reviews for the following reason: What you get in the film is the narrative, without the benefit of the author’s stylistic ramblings. Hence, it’s hard not to render judgment simply on the basis of that: the narrative.

And here’s what I got from the narrative. EPL appears to be nothing more than a segment out of the life of a woman who--for no reason apart from existential angst, apparently--tanked a marriage to a fine, caring man, jilted a decent lover, and proceeded to spend a year (at her publisher’s expense, I believe,) navel-gazing and eating a lot in attractive and exotic locales. In the end she takes up with a third seemingly decent fellow, and publishes a book which--by dint of Oprah--is a financial success.

It is possible that, in the book, Liz Gilbert describes some sort of philosophical resolution. It is, in fact, likely that she does so. This was not conveyed by the film, and I’ll wager that that’s fair. Itchy people do not become un-itchy people by running away from themselves. (And here I speak from very personal experience.) Maybe Gilbert did rhapsodize eloquent in some form of denouement. But I wouldn’t believe in any real change. Surely she could spin a pretty philosophical picture with equal skill before she launched her odyssey.

Still, people must carry out their lives, and I have no personal reason to object to hers. But I do have personal knowledge and experience: That skittering about does not change, in any fundamental way, your manner of interface with existence. So, regardless of the book’s conclusion, I will draw my own on this review: I watched the film to null effect. Something ventured, nothing gained. But the landscapes were pretty.

A shoe holds more ounces than a jigger.

The Nordstrom shoe salesman betrayed the usual amount of quizzical uncertainty as Jeff and I approached to look over the deck shoes in the men’s section. I may not be the most socially adept human east of the Mississippi, but I can read body language. Hmmm...why is this woman taking charge? If the shoes are for the dude, what’s with this dynamic?

But he too, evidently, had the capacity to catch on, and as I briefly explained that we were leaning toward laceless models, and he attempted a couple different prompts before Jeff put the proper foot on the size gauge, he understood.

Jeff’s Clark’s “UnStructureds” is a fine pair of shoes, and they served us well on our southwest sojourn, for train-riding and light hiking. But that’s why I brought that pair...for their sturdiness. Once home, he’s reverted to wearing the world’s oldest Sebago docksiders, with layers of leather peeling off, and laces that look like sun-dried and run-over jerky. The laces don’t much matter, is the thing. The shoes are old, relaxed, and go on and off without any need to tie or untie.

We ended up with a pair of pricey Sperrys. They’re somewhere between a classic deck shoe and a loafer, are soft of leather, and stout of sole, and should work for everything once I stash the diversionary beat-up or laces-required pairs in the closet, under Jeff’s lower rack of shirts.

For now I will help with the belt. For now I will help get the shirt buttons on even kilter. And occasionally run the razor over his neck, which is a hair-sprouting zone he usually seems to forget about.

It was not a bad day to be at the mall. Christmas shopping is, of course, in full spate, and the California Pizza Kitchen filled up with lunchtime diners, shortly after we started on salad and pasta. Still, it was Monday, early, and not bad...especially when you are free to look around and think Ah...Christmassy-ness, without having any pressing agenda of your own. At such a pace, I could happily snag a couple of stocking stuffers at Crate & Barrel, in addition to a jigger--something which I have heretofore lacked. A jigger is the amount of rum you add to a hot buttered one (rum, that is.) Though I had ascertained that a jigger is approximately 3 tablespoons, depending on the relative generosity of your bartender, it will enhance the experience to make it using the proper measuring vessel. As it will enhance our shoe-wearing experience to not have to re-tie laces every 15 minutes.

Eye be home for Christmas.

As I mentioned in the last post, my right eye had a run-in with a vine and took one for the team on Thursday, in the process of helping me get Otis out of the tree. As of today, Sunday, except for some watering, light sensitivity, and a minor burning sensation, I’m functioning as normal. Mostly.

I cannot recommend corneal scratches. Like many body parts that you don’t give that much thought to as you go about your daily business (feet, knees, fingertips, teeth...,) do one an injury and you find that its incapacity renders you near-useless for days. But, after an intermittent pirate eye-patch, indoor sunglasses, antibiotic drops leftover from someone’s pinkeye, and lots of doing not much, it is with great gratitude that I welcome my right eye back to the world of useable body parts.

This weekend--the first in December--seems to be the one for getting the Christmas game on. As of last night, numerous houses in town had sprouted an assortment of carefully or carelessly (mostly somewhere in between,) lights. Hence, I did mine today, taking care that the job did not involve any peripheral objects ready to take potshots at my face. I don’t do much--just some strings of white lights more or less following the contour of the front porch and its railing. Additionally, we bought a tree and stuck it in a washtub of water on the back patio. Voila...I am maxed out! Until such time as I bring the tree in the house.

Susan Reimer, a columnist for the Baltimore Sun, opined this week that she would never--no matter how weak her motivation--slack off on the holiday fussiness, due to the fact that she perceived such a slow-down in her mother to have represented a slow fade of vitality. And maybe it is. But I don’t plan to worry about it when the time comes. I’ll fade if I good and want to. Meanwhile, it is most fortunate that I set the holiday bother bar very very very low for myself from the get-go, and have never upped the ante.

It is with equal measures of wistfulness and wry chuckling that I think about certain images that so tantalized me as a kid and hopeful romantic. Holiday special magazines, in which the snug log house in the distant snow-frosted vale, glowed golden-warm at dusk. Inside, a festive garland hugged the banister, while mom (that would have been the future me,) greeted dad (that was the unsubstantiated future mate with a twinkling eye or two) in a kitchen with a couple not-too-aggravating children and a pleasant pet or so. The funny thing is...as I stand in my kitchen looking across the eating table toward the stairs descending, mid-house...it looks almost just the way it was supposed to look. Except there’s no garland. That would be just too many pine needles to sweep up later. The pets are there though, and sometimes so are the children--they’re just a little overgrown. As for the dad...sometimes his eyes do twinkle. It’s a rather unfocused, uncomprehending twinkle, but then, we’re not in a snow-frosted vale either.

I think I'll take the finger in the eye.

My worst residual problem is eye pain. But with a salt water rinse, and some leftover pink-eye drops, I hope I’ll be fully binocular by morning.

See, here’s the thing about the anatomy of the 12’ no-man’s-land (aka county right-of-way) behind our back fence: It is full of huge bamboo (flute-makers may apply,) a couple decades’ worth of fallen limbs, and vines to make Tarzan proud. I could have picked a more agreeable site to spend 6 hours of the day getting a kitten out of a tree.

But Otis didn’t ask my advice before scampering 4 feet up an old silver maple, then thinking hey cool, and going higher. Twice, actually, before getting to the first crook and realizing he was completely out of his league. So he pretty much spent the next 6 hours crying piteously, while I attempted to get him down.

Becca was home for the first couple hours of effort and, after much coaxing failed, we implemented plans A and B. A was my Little Giant ladder. The only extension ladder I can manipulate without dropping it on my head with unfortunate consequences, or breaking a window. Sadly, it did not extend enough, and put us (standing on the highest safe rung) just over half-way there. So on to Plan B. After much detangling of line from itself and the aforementioned flora features of the back lot, we succeeded in heaving a bear bag (used for suspending your food, safely away from bears, on camping trips) over a branch near Otis. Then, we pulleyed up an open-topped picnic basket, enticingly loaded with a cup of tuna. He did not care to get in that basket. Barely even gave it a passing thought. Then Becca had to go to work. I had to take a break. Still, I didn’t want to remove the option, so I tied an orange juice jug, partially filled with water so that it would just be outweighed by Otis, to the other end of the line, and went to do some necessary errands.

When Jeff and I got back, Otis hadn’t budged. I brought 100 feet of poly rope back with me though, and I doubled and knotted it in such a way that a daring and agile person might use it to climb enough higher than the ladder permitted to snag a cat. Once at the top of the ladder though, I found myself less daring than required, and returned to the drawing board.

So did my Mom, who--learning of my plight, and knowing me to be, essentially, an army of one--came to help. We tied a sheet to the tree, and she held the other corners while I ascended the ladder and attempted to push Otis from the other side with an extension broom. Alas, due to the angle of the tree, and the thickness of the underbrush, there was no means to connect sufficiently brush-to-cat, and Mom had nothing to catch in her makeshift fireman’s net.

Mom left because she had to. I wondered, via text, when Rachel the tree-climbing wonder-daughter might be able to perform a rescue. But, being a real-life employed teacher of children, there was no way for her to get here by dark, and I was left to ponder. And fret. In installing the rope-which-I-couldn’t-climb, I’d removed the escape basket. That seemed wrong. I couldn't give up for the night with no such option in play so, taking a tip from the internet (go net!) I re-threw the bear-bag. (This took about 20 tosses, and as many detanglings.) I got it. This time I hoisted a laundry basket--the floppy kind with two handles. With the tuna, of course.

The nice thing about the floppy laundry basket was that it showed a greater willingness to snug up close to the branch, in a way that the stiff picnic basket had not. Before I’d even gotten my orange juice jug counter-weight tied to the other end of the line, I saw--in addition to the shadow of the tuna container in the bottom of the basket--four paw shadows. I did not waste time. I lowered the basket-kitty contraption and snagged a kitty who was never so glad to be apprehended.

Oh, my eye. It was on one of the about 60 or so trips up the Little Giant that one of those ubiquitous vine or stick things poked me in the right eye. It still hurts, quite a bit. Otis is sacked out on the dog bed, having been properly cuddled and fed. I do not wish for him to go outside ever again. I’m afraid he will.

Jeff used to propose that cat brains looked as follows: One neuron, dangling by a thread in the middle of the skull. I surely hope Otis’ neuron absorbed some aversion therapy about trees today.