on stuff.

I’m feeling a sense of calm today that is not fully explainable by the fact that the deprivations of the aftermath of hurricane Irene (living electricity, television, telephone, and internet-free,) seem to have officially ended this afternoon. I think it has more to do with the fact that I’ve once again tackled the basement.

About two years ago I took on the basement in its scarier form—the state it was in as Jeff’s continued collecting of building materials overlapped with his loss of awareness and organizational ability. That was big. This time it’s just about items on which I equivocated at the time, plus two years of entropy.

Even so, it fell into that category of chores you hesitate to take on because they seem daunting. Like most things in that category, once you start it’s not so bad. It’s not so bad. I’ve got a good foothold on the whole of the task, and it will be completed.

Meanwhile, our two downstairs bedrooms are spare and orderly. One is Jeff’s new room. He hasn’t technically moved in yet, but we are using it for changing and showers. The other is the “office,” (formerly the computer room, but now housing only my laptop plus an assortment of business related necessities.) It will also serve as a bed-chamber for sleepover caregivers, as the need arises. I am almost giddy about the relative emptiness of those two rooms, combined with the fact that our lawn mowers, just this afternoon, blew away all of Irene’s leaves and debris, and removed the stack of branches I’d piled up by the silver maple.

I am wondering why this pleases me so very much. Why is a not-so-inherently-tidy person like myself so comforted by the removal of stuff?

Wherever you fall on the clutter-tolerance scale, I am convinced that our habits derive from comfort-seeking behavior. My brother-in-law Fred (who is probably reading this—hi Fred,) likes his stuff. And he would like some more stuff, thank you. In fact, I think his Barbie Dream House would have a huge pink barn (maybe 3) out back, for stuff storage. (Fred might prefer if I rethink this fantasy in a Johnny West ranch doll theme.) Fred cannot believe the stuff I’ve gotten rid of with an almost sacrilegious insouciance. Because I presume that for Fred, having a galvanized, etched, 18th C. cotton gin cog handy when or if you need it is a source of comfort.

My mother-in-law was not dissimilar. She could not keep a barnload of objects as she moved into progressively smaller living quarters, but getting her to part with even a shrimp fork took a pry-bar and perhaps some sleight of hand. Or major distraction.

But I am not comforted by stuff. In fact, if they were looking for volunteers to have all their earthly possessions obliterated (house included) in exchange for a couple of free airline tickets, my hand would go up first. I’m not sure I’ve completely worked out why this is. But I can tell you that too much stuff, in my jurisdiction, makes me feel trapped. The more stuff, the more trapped. I don’t exactly know what I’m trapped in either. Trapped in stuff, I guess.

In the hullaballoo of hurricane Irene, I realized I’d make a terrible survivalist, because I don’t want all those emergency provisions. And that is ok, I don’t mind. If apocalyptic survival is for the most stuff-equipped, I will go first. It’s ok.

Pre-Edisonianism

I spent the first third of last night in the bathroom, on the floor. No digestive complaints, it was just the only way to get a slight bit of shut-eye while Freddi the dog wigged out over the wind, rain, and lightning of Tropical Storm Irene. For some reason, in the small enclosed tile room she feels less compelled to scratch nervously at the floor—a habit which, when performed next to my side of the bed, is impossible to sleep through. It was not the worst. I had a soft sleeping bag and two pillows, and when I became aware, at some impossibly wee hour, that the storm conditions had eased, I went back to real bed.

It occurred to me that I might go and sleep with her downstairs, where the rug does a better job of muffling her scratching, but I could not imagine how Jeff would cope if he woke to pee at 3 a.m., in the dark, disoriented, and there were no me to provide guidance.

Tonight, Sunday, we’re starting the evening electricity-free, but at least the dog should sleep normally. And I, perhaps, will sleep well, having collected a haystack-sized pile of tree droppings this afternoon, in addition to moving Jeff away from the doorway each time Olivia went out with a load of supplies for her campus townhouse. She left for school this afternoon, missing a fine dinner at Ellen and Fred’s. (Thanks sib and sib-in-law-who-have-electricity, for feeding us.)

If Baltimore Gas & Electric have not fixed us by morning, I am at least more prepared, coffee-wise. Declining to wait at Donut Shack, in the line which was snaking into the parking lot by 7:45 this morning, we instead came home where I scrounged for what remained in the coffee grinder, added one Starbucks Via instant which I found on hand, and concocted a semblance of coffee after boiling water on the Coleman stove. I steeped it in tea infusion baskets right in the mugs. Not bad. Then I made pancakes. Also on the Coleman stove, on the porch. By then I had pretty much ruined the chances of anything remaining good in the fridge or freezer, so all uber-perishables have been discarded and the fridge got a light wipe-down, which it needed.

Now, at 8:30 p.m., my small Eddie Bauer brass oil lamp is flickering away on the mantle, and we are sitting in the living room as a means of staving off bedtime. As a means of staving off wake up. As a means of letting me sleep until 6:30 a.m. Whether or not there will be power by morning is an unknown, but I am now prepared for coffee, with a fresh tin of pre-ground, and a bpa-free, but otherwise less breakable, french press. Because I am exactly the sort of person who would whack a glass french press on the edge of the countertop. I hope Donut Shack is prepared too, but I will once again not be in their line.

August is Augusty. It usually is.

Sometimes cleaning the “Squirrel-Buster®” bird feeder is about the best thing to do toward the end of a month that has steadily pushed you into a murky corner of existential nihilism. 15 minutes ago I could say that better, but then I went off and left my computer and came back to find a string of nonsense characters instead of the well-crafted first two paragraphs of an unsaved document. There was no retrieving it. I did not see a cat nearby. I have no explanation, but that’s the sort of life that, at its worst, feeds the above-referenced existential nihilism.

It is no wonder that the bird feeder needed, for the first time in a year point five, a thorough cleaning. Perky green domed roof or not, it would be a rare feeder which could withstand the monsoon which has pummeled the Mid-Atlantic in the past week and a half. Chickadees could only get to the occasional millet seed which filtered through the gluey glom of fused sunflower hulls. The feeder is drying in the basement. I’m letting my little inner bad philosopher diffuse on the front porch.

Fall, the season when everything dies, might be just the non-contrary counterpoint that will keep my mood and bird feeders unclogged. Because here’s a brief synopsis: I live with dying things. My dog is twelve and has bad legs. My old cat is in remission from a fibrosarcoma which almost promises to return. My other old cat is on palliative treatment wherein she gets as many bad-for-you steroid shots as she needs to keep her crazy itchy self comfortable. My life partner is experiencing some disturbing downsteps in his tango with the long goodbye. And yesterday, instead of the usual postcard stating that the spot the dermatologist sliced off during a recent “body check” was no big deal, I got a voicemail. You just don’t want voicemails when you expected a postcard.

I thought having green skin was my get out of jail (or serious dermatological trouble) free card. Only pink people are supposed to have this stuff. But, wouldn’t you know it, my olive-complected ancestors apparently dropped the ball on this one and it was snagged by my sun-vulnerable Nordic stock. Thanks Eric the Red, I owe you one. The freaky thing is that the melanoma-in-situ just zapped off my right arm did not appear all ugly and alien and dark like the pictures they show you on Google. It was merely one more splotch in the multi-splotch of freckly pigment I am pretty much covered with. It only looked slightly splotchier, and that’s what got my attention. I guess that probably suggests a comforting superficiality, but it also reinforces that the dermatologist will now be one of my best and most regularly visited friends so that any future attempts by my skin to turn against me can likewise be nipped in the easily-removable bud.

So, it turns out mortality is the rule around here, whether you are a mammal or a bird feeder. However, I still have some furniture to move so I’m going inside now. Gabe is giving up his downstairs bedroom to the call of one-level caregiving. I will figure out where to reinstall him later, before he comes home for Fall break.

tired? yes.

Tonight—5th floor of the O Henry hotel, Greensboro, NC. Different side, different view of office buildings and minor highways from our last stay. Jeff seems to be deriving some enjoyment from gazing out at the twilight panorama, and that’s a pretty good deal for someone who’s required me to reorient him to what, why and where at least three times today.

I am somewhat tickled by the geeky mix of completely un-preppy dweeby types I’ve seen milling around in our return to Greensboro. Of course where I saw the most was near our dinner locale which happens to be a strip of funky dives surrounded by the UNC Greensboro campus, but I trust that the general vibe of oddball kids extends to Guilford, a couple miles or so down the road, as well. Gabe was a fan of any place that offers numerous varieties of tea drinks including chocolate-banana, green apple, and mango bango. (In addition to udon noodle soup.)

Ok, that was Wednesday night. Tonight, as in when I’m typing right now, is Saturday night. We got back from Greensboro on Thursday night, after getting Gabe unloaded into his dorm (Binford Hall, conveniently located a few steps from the IT Building where I hope he can work out how to print his schoolwork, since I did not leave him equipped with a printer to jam all up.) But tonight, Saturday night, I’m about as tired as the old toothbrush I’ve been using to clean sink drains. I guess I should be over the two consecutive days of 6.5 hour drives, but I may not quite be over the caffeine gum I chewed and the strong iced coffee I got at the Charlottesville Whole Foods Market. Nor have I figured out how to process the critical threshold we seem to have crossed which has taken Jeff from being sort of a manageable extra pet to keep an eye on, to being an energy draining appendage. Jeff likes to ask everyone he sees on a college campus where they're from. It's just that now he has absolutely no discernment as to when to use the question and on whom. So he's apt to ask the Public Safety ladies lining the stairway into Binford Hall, as 3 dads and 2 kids are trying to go opposite directions carrying boxes and refrigerators. Or he asks the SunTrust guy who's trying to set up student checking accounts. I know, it's not quite as weird as last night when he told my bedside lamp goodnight, but it's one of many forms of mischief I need to keep him out of. Well, so I’m tired.

So tomorrow, after I finish cutting 600 or so tickets for the Concert Association, I will maybe start transforming Gabe’s room into Jeff’s room. Because here’s what I’m telling myself: I’m telling myself that I will begin the process of arranging for help two days a week after I get at least the downstairs sorted out, bedroom-wise.

plants and ants and trees and seas...

I am so due to write a Fisher Center blogpost. But too busy to formulate and sustain a thesis. So I’ll just ad lib here instead.

Today, at 1:33pm, when Jeff had just gotten up from a nap, he made a request that went something like this: Can I have a...drink...something to drink? At this point I try to ascertain whether he wanted orange juice, coffee or exactly what. No...not that...this is ridiculous...that stuff...I have it once a day...it’s a drink...Chardonnay!

This, actually, is something of an edited version of the actual conversation which at the time seemed pretty protracted, but I’ve typed enough ellipses. It’s just one of those markable moments. Not brand new really—I’ve been observing an increase the difficulty he has articulating thoughts for a couple months, but this one was marked. And also it highlighted the fact that he often has no clue as to time of day, since he is disinclined to request his glass of wine prior to 5pm.

Well, there you go, that’s what happens. I sometimes view the creep of Alzheimer’s dysfunction like a fog, rolling ever so slowly into new segments of the brain, trackable by external symptoms.

Meanwhile, I’m trying to put in a few months, or perhaps a few years, of being a grown up. Finally, perhaps. This is measurable by the fact that my yard looks groomed, a dead tree is down, and I am fully engaged in the hiring and management of an assortment of contractors. This might mean I can put my house on the market in the interest of switching to a lower-maintenance dwelling, or it might just mean I’m tired of feeling out of control and I’m just taking charge, money be damned. But you really can’t keep damning money, which takes us back to the lower-maintenance dwelling. When? Not sure. Check back. Never is one of the possibilities, but not the one I expect.

Our week at the Outer Banks of North Carolina was a fine one. Several days of gentle, navigable surf, and tolerable heat. Nice family too. It’s annual, and another one of those events that differs enough from the usual day to day life that you can use it to note the changes in a person who’s losing ground.

Last year Jeff went in the waves. Not for long, and I stayed with him, but I was not fearful that he would fall down. Big change in 12 months. Last week, a swoosh of foamy surf around his ankles would cause him to topple forward, and the one time I took him waist deep on a very gentle day he was quite discombobulated. I held him up and led him out. Katherine and I observed the obvious hazard on our last two beach days, when the waves were rolling in at random choppy angles. I could not let go of him in ankle deep water, as it quickly morphed to knee deep water, and we had zero confidence that Jeff would be able to stand up once he toppled.

I resorted to the method of beach-going my grandmother enjoyed in her declining years. I seated Jeff in a low-slung chair, just where the waves rolled ashore, so he could feel them but be in no danger of falling. He was happy.