consolationland

[Mrs. Wing’s Fish Mint, Houttuynia cordata, is blooming outside in her herb patch.]

On Thursday at dawn, before work, I was down at Seth’s produce aisle.

   “Mary!” Seth exclaimed, maneuvering a massive tower of fruit crates on wheels. “Our Saturday shopper! What’s with the Thursday visit?”

   “Outa greens, Seth!” I held up two bunches. I’m always especially happy and a little shy to see Seth, who is gorgeous and fit and fast moving and brimming with optimism and chlorophyll-based vitality. (Why don’t you try asking him out, Mary? I did, years ago, suggesting that I join one of his birdwatching hikes. My idea just left him baffled, so now I stay out of his way. I’m still all smiles when he talks to me.)

   “You?? That explains the sense of urgency,” he reasoned, with his signature flash of smile. “Don’t be the only one on your block running out of mustard greens!”

Today, two days later, at dawn I headed for Seth’s aisle, the place to be at 6:30 on a Saturday morning. Seth was racewalking two empty industrial carts out of the cooler, but spotted me right away as always, and we hollered greetings over the avocados.

This time at the mustard greens there was a young man deliberating over the display. “Don’t want to accidentally touch them all while prying out just one bunch,” he explained.

   “Like a pickup stick game,” I agreed. “But with greenery.”

We wrapped our respective foliage and tucked them in our baskets, then gave each other a second look before turning away.

   “Derek??” I said. “Apartment 34-B with the snake plants and Ebbie the windowsill cat.”

   “Wow,” he said. “Yes. It’s been ten years. Or more. How’s the old building? I miss the neighbors.”

So I told him about our counterculture klatch, the single moms who team up to care for each other and the kids and dogs. “We had a party just this week,” I said. “One of the girls was in a recital, so we had to celebrate and make sure she felt special. Single moms and kids need each other.”

Well. That struck home hard with him. He gave me some rapidfire smart sensitive schooling on how many fathers get marginalized in their own households, edged out and made to feel increasingly dispensable and inept until finally the home life fades to pieces. He shared a little of his own story about a sincere marriage pulled apart by the hard and blameless ways that life is life. He was still in shell shock, by the sound of it. So there we were, 6:40 a.m., waving greens at each other in this intense head-to-head exploration of family structures and how society lets former partners flounder in free-fall.

   “Marriage is the bravest voyage there is,” I affirmed. “People deserve credit for even launching out on that ocean, and yes, no question, there are men getting shipwrecked too. Only we don’t see them! Where are the klatches for the single dads? Do they get to live upstairs and downstairs in a whole flock of other fathers who are out on their own? Do they make a point of buddying up? Do they ring each other’s doorbells every day with a pan of hot buttermilk biscuits? Do they rehash their relationships over drinks and hugs and a few tears? Do they text each other to say ‘Hey, your dog’s barking; you want I should go over and walk him?’? When one of them has a night class, do their kids run upstairs and knock on a door and say ‘Dad’s at school; can I do my homework up here tonight?’?”

   “No, nothing like,” he said. “Gosh. Those women sound amazing. That’s so eighties.”

   “Or sixties. Or fifties. Ricardos, with Fred & Ethel running in and out. AND men deserve that too! What encouragement do they get, to build support like that?” I described the “The Braiding Bunch: Dads on the Front Lines of Style,” about single fathers who meet regularly to swap tips on how to brush and style and braid their daughters’ hair.

   “Where are those men?” Derek asked eagerly. “Your building?”

   “No, it’s a CBS News story with Steve Hartman.”

   “When you see the women again,” Derek waved, “tell them stay strong. Stay strong.”

We picked up our baskets and wished each other a good day. Behind us, Seth finished stacking boxed salad greens at triple speed in precise pyramid formation. With a thoughtful glance at us he wheeled the carts into the cooler.

On a morning walk down a new street, here was one front yard with bright freesia flowers. The garden patch had an old metal astrolabe-style globe as a weather vane. And what a lucky angle and composition: a storm cloud was coming on fast, blotting out the sun and framing the picture. (I had to crop this narrow, to cut out the streetlights and traffic signs.)

If the sky were clear and smiling, the view would just not be the same. The yellow freesias and the ray of sun looked especially appealing because of the weathered black metal, and the dark squall of rain.

There is a popular message (certainly among people of faith) that a sunny personal outlook is a hallmark of good character and maturity, and a good indication of solid belief in God. But some of us are just more aware of and affected by the darker clouds. Then what? Do we look only at sunshine and turn our back on the rest? If there are dark clouds, why not at least put them to work making something beautiful?

After this photographic interlude, some friendly neighbors came up the street and greeted me. They were out walking their dogs. I’d seen the women a couple of months ago, and we’d had a good radiant chat. At the time I really wanted to ask for their names and their contact information, but didn’t want to look like a snoopy-boots about it. I was sorry to come away not knowing how to find the women again; with prosopagnosia, I’d never recognize them even if they walked right past. So, I went home and wrote them a note with my contact information, tucked it in a ziplock bag for safekeeping, and carried it in my knapsack all this time in case our paths ever crossed again. And now here they were! Luckily for me, they were the ones who stopped to say hello. So I got to hand-deliver my note. (It was fun to see someone purely by chance on an early walk and say “Here’s your mail.”) They texted me right away, and now we’re in touch!

The next step is to go talk to Angelina. She would enjoy meeting the women too. There ought to be a good time for everyone (and their dogs) to come over here, to sit out with some snacks and enjoy the garden.

On those early spring walks, often setting out a little after 5:00 a.m., I get to see and greet a whole new set of people who work nights — security guards, construction crews, groundskeepers. It’s good for the spirit to get out on a daily route, and to weave a new social fabric where new faces become familiar as little mooring touch points all along the way.

One municipal worker was a calm serene Vietnam veteran, at his post and his work rain or shine. I began stopping to share appreciative words about weather and nature. Those greetings became a positive fixture of the morning. He had such a craftsmanlike work ethic and philosophical outlook that a question came to mind: what small treat might he enjoy during a work break? Various home-baked goods came to mind. But one never knows what allergies or restrictions people might have with their diet. Finally I decided to get a bottle of sparkling water and some individual wrapped packets of Trader Joe trail mix, and anticipated with pleasure that small shopping errand.

But the errand had to wait. I missed three days of daily walks to keep my box-cut foot elevated as much as possible. I returned to the walking route this week, and missed seeing our trusty municipal colleague. Next day it was puzzling to see that the street sign nearby was now covered with small American flags, and a large bouquet of pink peonies. Next day on a tall piece of foam backing there was a large photograph of our worker looking proud in his uniform, next to a vintage photograph of the same gentleman back in his twenties, joyful and triumphant in a sports event. The poster was beautifully drawn and colored neatly with his name in large letters, with drawings of hearts and flowers. Next day, someone hung a magic marker on the poster from a rope. Soon the poster accumulated signatures radiating appreciation and love from dozens of people.

While I stood pondering all this, a city bus pulled over. “Where is he?” said the driver.

“I guess he retired?” I guessed, reading through the messages.

“Uh-oh,” said the driver. “What’s that little ‘R.I.P’ down at the bottom?” Oh gosh! Sure enough. “I hope it means ‘Retire in Prosperity,'” he said, wishing me a good day and waving goodbye.

Today my walk was much later. It was after 7:00 when I finished the loop and headed home. Now there was a cluster of elementary school pupils around the poster. One little one was anxiously dictating a message while his Mom wrote every word. The parents were out in full force, escorting their children to the poster. They stood together with other parents in respectful silence while the children exclaimed over the pictures and practiced reading all of the greetings. Then as each little group of children had time to explore messages and shared their impressions and feelings, the parents would shepherd them on to school to make room for the next group. One mom looked up at me. “He died,” she said, taking her child’s hand and setting out for school.

It was a tempting idea, to place a picture of that wonderful poster here. But this blog is anonymous. Besides, you already know who he is. You see him or her every day in your town. He is many people everywhere, taking care of routine business that keeps our lives clean or safe or lighted or fed. Like them, this quiet man probably thought of his job as just all in a day’s work.

If only he could be with us for one more day, to see these children, and to read and hear their words.

The latest recap of what’s happening in the dirt outside the window.

Tonight there were 4 green sweet peas in the pod, all ready to pick. That was the work of about 10 seconds, but think how much more fun it could be if I could get some helpful child to do the farm labor in exchange for the crop. A new neighbor is Miss Ariel, four years old and bursting with ideas and happy commentary about the world. So I asked Miss Ariel’s mom whether Miss A. might have leisure to help. Once Mom graciously gave permission, Miss A. rocketed off to her room in high excitement to select and put on a suitably pretty pea-picking outfit. Soon she reappeared in a fetching garden costume. Mom carried Baby Brother Tristan, and the four of us headed for the pea field 10 steps away. As expected, Miss Ariel proved to be a stellar hand at spotting green pods in green leafery. I held the stem while she did the picking. Our next chore was to train the pea vines to nestle their little tendrils around the poles where they belonged, rather than latching on to other flowers or one another. “If we let these sprout tips touch the pole, the plant will recognize that this is a safe place to climb, and tomorrow it will already be growing up this pole,” I told her. “They’re like children: with a little bit of guidance and good sturdy support, they can really grow and be healthy.” Miss A. was pleased to have a contribution to suppertime, one pea pod for each member of the family.

In other news, Mrs. Wing’s white daikon radishes and purple daikon radish plants are four feet high and flourishing in a splendid manner with, respectively, a show of lavish white blossoms and lavender blossoms. Captain brought home a big barrel for keeping thin red worms, and showed me the different screen layers of operation: lots of grass clippings and other mulch in the top layer, then fruit scraps in the middle layer packed with worms munching away (Captain reports that the worms really gravitate to melon), then below that the sediment, and below that a layer for worm “tea,” with a spigot. There was a good gallon’s worth of fruit scraps; he explained that it would all be eaten and turned into compost in about a week. The Wing family finally obtained one of the very coveted city garden plots to expand their base of operations. These plots have been in families for generations; they are well seasoned and lush, in a beautiful setting; securing a prized new slot can take years. The Wings happily went and cleared and dug up their new assigned patch, fertilized and primed the soil, laboriously dug up all of their Sunchoke tubers grown in pots around the house, transplanted them all to the new patch, and got them growing beautifully. Oh boy! A bumper Sunchoke harvest! Except that when they returned to view their new holdings, somebody had ripped out the Sunchokes and planted some other crop instead. The Wings could have gone to the garden committee and instead of raising produce could have raised some Cain. But they came home with their tools and a shrug and a smile to patiently start over with new Sunchokes in pots again.

Tariq and Darina are a radiant industrious couple who put in raised beds outside their door. The picture above and the picture below are only very small corners of their successful beds of all mixed greens.

Earlier this spring, last year’s crop of overwintered Tuscan kale was still hardy and strong with massive stems, just ready to bolt into flower. One day I stopped to admire the kale, and we got to chatting. Darina and Tariq were telling me all about their pet snails (they had interesting astute observations about the fascinating habits of these shelled creatures), and Darina noticed my admiration of their giant kale plants. She invited me to cut down and take away all I could eat before she cleared the ground. Well! For a couple of weeks I was out by 6:00 am, picking a big double handful every morning for breakfast. Tariq and Darina’s bedroom window is a good six feet up off the ground, and every morning I would hold the day’s pickings high within their view, and wave the greens in a vigorous salute so they could look outside and know that this interloper was me. I always finished off with a kale pompom happy dance of gratitude for their generosity before waving goodbye and heading indoors.

One day, when Angelina and I were walking the wolf pack, I pointed out the kale garden and their window. The conversation went off the rails something like this.

Mary: That’s Tariq and Darina. They said I could pick their kale! And they are such interesting people. Just the other day, they told me all about pet snails.

Angelina: That’s nice. Where did she have them done? (Note the stellar extraextravert people-personality. Anybody else would have said “Why should I care? Why are you telling me this nonsense?”

Mary: Who?

Angelina: Pat.

Mary: What?

Angelina: Where did she have them done?

Mary: Huh?

Angelina: Pat’s nails.

At that point I sat down on the ground gripping my sides, and was unable to catch my breath or stand up for the next three minutes. In our parallel conversation, what my ears heard Angelina say (honest, hand to heart, because she is after all a nurse who talks to me about medical stuff all the time) was “Pap smears.”

Angelina: When people see us together staggering around out here, they must think we’ve had a few drinks.

Mary: Around you, who needs a drink?

Angelina: We’d be terrific at the game of Telephone.

Mary: Like, “Let’s put these two at opposite ends of the line, and watch the fun.” We’ll be the life of any party.

Later I relayed all this to Darina. I also mentioned how much I’ve enjoyed breakfasting on her kale forest and doing the kale dance outside her bedroom window.

Darina: Dance?

Mary: Yes, at 6:00 a.m. Right here at your bedroom window. See? (Hopping about.) Like so.

Darina: Oh, I didn’t know. Mm…… Our apartment is next one over. That’s someone else’s bedroom.

wood sorrel

Since our last episode, Angelina rented a big cattywampus of a carpet cleaner, and offered to loan it to me. In the full expectation that the controls would baffle me to tears and that I’d end up tripping on the thing and hurting myself, I asked her to come over and help me operate it. She brought it to my place, and she just went ahead and shampooed the rug herself, at one point getting on her knees with a scrub brush to work the suds into the places where my foot bled all over. “It’s a whole new dimension to our friendship, Mare!” she exclaimed happily. How loveable is that?

Angelina was full of fun plans for this weekend. Her old dear friend is in town for a few days, for an action-packed time of worthwhile experiences. They invited me to join in. (The girls are at a rock & roll laser show this minute. I had to decline, on the grounds that after a couple hours of concert-quality sound and a ceiling full of flashing lights I wouldn’t have any neurons left.)

So Friday night while those two younguns were out and about on well-earned shore leave, I stopped by Angelina’s to walk the dogs. Bingo and Super Pup are friendly folks, and they usually charge the door with barking, spinning, jumping about, and dropping toys and bones on my foot. This causes Angelina to grab a baby gate and set it up around me so that I can sit down and visit in peace. It’s all fun and games, but now with my box cut I can’t afford to be frisked at and jumped on by dogs or anybody else. What to do?

On the way to the house I felt anxious about getting scratched by their happy little paws. I decided to visualize the possibility that space exists all as one continuum, and the house key is only a symbolic manifestation of one phase of that continuum (to wit, the door) such that there is little difference between being inside and being outside and therefore nothing to fuss about. Likewise, there is little difference in the reality of a household with dogs, and a household without them. There is less difference between a room with me in it, and a room without. Hence, it might be possible to waft through this house-entry transition in such an anti-climactic manner that the dogs would be not excited at all. In other words, aspiring to be Pema Chödrön walking a dog.

It worked great. I let myself in all calm and silent as if I owned the place and completely ignored the dogs. There was not a peep out of either one. Super Pup lifted her pretty head from her paws, and laid it down again. Bingo, 16 years old, didn’t even wake up. I took down the leash, wrapped it around my waist, passed the clip through the handle loop, and clipped it to Bingo’s harness. Then I waved my hand close so he could smell me, then started gently tapping the floor, since he’s hard of hearing and I didn’t want to startle him. Then I stroked his dog mattress in even moves, then rested a steady palm on his shoulder. Then I stood and started gradually hauling him in inch by inch like a fish. After a while he opened his big soft eyes and looked around in bewilderment. What on earth is happening to me? Finally he shook himself and stood up. “You will feel refreshed after our walk,” I promised him, though he probably couldn’t hear me. “Then you can sleep even better.” We had a productive walk time of fire hydrants and trees. Then back indoors I unclipped him and sat down quietly on the floor.

The dogs stood and watched, all interested. Super Pup gave two short sharp expectant barks. When I didn’t hand over whatever it was she wanted, she pondered a moment and then tried another tack: full submission mode. First she displayed her adorable little tummy. Then she laid back her ears and crept close, flat to the floor, dragging her hind paws behind her. Then she tried in gradual degrees of stealth to creep into my lap. Finally I realized that the leash still around my waist had a Velcro pouch attached, full of treats! She wasn’t looking to snuggle at all; she just wanted the goodies. I gave her a head ruffle as an A for effort, and got up to sit on a chair and check out Angelina’s science book collection. I read for a bit to keep the dogs company, then did the merge-reality trick again, this time passing through the door and locking it behind me. They just lay right down. Two hours later I repeated the whole routine (entry, leash, walk), and this time ended by giving them both a bite of chicken from the fridge.

Even when they are tricky little rascals, dogs are innocent creatures of God. I don’t bring them any entertainment or excitement, but I do commit to bringing them safety, security, consistency, comfort, and calm. By now the dogs know that when the visitor is Mary, she will predictably compel them to do things that they do not feel like doing, while barring them from things that they like very much. Still, they take it in stride. They survived their evening with Auntie Math Camp in good form.

On Saturday morning I hopped up early, full of interesting plans for the day. That started with the usual three mile walk. But for some reason the walk seemed to drag on. My feet felt heavy. To fortify the walk home I started chanting “Unexpected Joy,” “O Champion Leader,” and other favorite Slavonic prayers. It still seemed to take ages to get home. There I started washing and bandaging the box cut. And say, the ankle under the cut was more red and swollen and firm, and the ankle felt warm.

It’s probably nothing, I admonished myself.

Come on, you have a whole-food-plant-based diet. You walk all over the place. Give the body time to heal up on its own, the way it’s designed to. Besides, it’s not healthy or even Godly to be all obsessed and hypochondriac this way. Where’s your faith? Urgent Care saw you about this just a week ago. What will the staff think? They’ll all think you’re some older single lady looking for attention. Or meds. Going back would waste their time. It’s using an appointment that should go to somebody who really needs their help. This is not the ankle infection you had last year in the ER. This is not Ukraine. It’s not Sudan. Every human on this planet has bigger issues than a warm ankle. Get over yourself.

So okay, I avoided the issue with hand laundry, and buying vegetables and prepping them and washing the bathroom and kitchen floors. Ankle was still warm. Feeling increasingly anxious, I sat down and opened the Bible, looking to boost my spirits with Jeremiah 29: ” For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil….” But what caught my eye first was Jeremiah 30: “Thy bruise is incurable, and thy wound is grievous…. thy sorrow is incurable for the multitude of thine iniquity: because thy sins were increased, I have done these things unto thee.”

Somehow that didn’t exactly reassure me. But it did prompt me to stop procrastinating. So I booked an appointment at Urgent Care and walked in prepared for the staff to be disappointed and annoyed. I was there at 3:45 for the 4:30 slot, by visit had to be pushed back for other patients until 5:30, half an hour before closing time. For company I spent the wait studying the Gospel of John chapters 16 and 17, just taking in the words one phrase at a time. Luckily, the clinic was still able to see me before closing.

“Oh my,” said the same wonderful doctor from last week. “The area is looking more angry than last week. This is cellulitis.” She got a special pen and drew a line above the red part of the ankle. “If the redness passes this line? Straight to the ER for you. Meanwhile, here are prescriptions for antibiotics, topical and oral, plus a diuretic for this ankle swelling. On to the lab for a blood test.” It was good luck that the lab was still open. Everyone at the clinic was very nice and caring. The lab test results were fine. I picked up the prescriptions and went home to rest.

There was a lot to be thankful for, having Urgent Care open on a holiday weekend and getting medications right away and having another day or two to rest before going to work. And even though I didn’t get to be with Angelina’s old friend, we did get to say hello in the parking lot and then Angelina drove me to the library to pick up my reserved books, so there would be something interesting to read over the holiday to keep me company.

It would have been great to go to church tonight, to tackle some errands today and go out with the girls on their adventures. But this holiday at home is a chance to think of the millions of people who can’t leave their homes either, and pray for them and be more alert to ways to help them.

Off for the last round of meds for the night.

This picture does not illustrate the story. It’s just as well. You’ll be okay with that.

Down at the Urgent Care clinic, nobody asked, “Did this all start because you took your annual personal holiday from work? Was it caused by your latest round of decluttering for the Goodwill store? Or, was it your latest bone broth project using a whole meaty chicken carcass donated by Angelina?” But really, it started with all three.

On Thursday night at bedtime I took a cardboard carton and filled it with books and clothes to donate to Goodwill. The box was full, so the flaps didn’t close. It took up a lot of space, so I slid it halfway into the closet partly out of the way. Then it was ready for me to take to the store first thing in the morning.

On Thursday night the whole chicken was in the freezer doing no harm to anyone. It dawned on me, “Say, since tomorrow is my annual personal holiday, why not make bone broth tonight? I can get up every couple of hours and check on the water level.” Now, checking the water level is not really needed because I always add extra quarts of boiling water before turning the stove temp to just above Low. There is no way all that water is going to steam away. But it’s good to be safe, I can fall asleep again really easily, and the kitchen is six steps away from bed. Not a problem.

So fine, at 10:00 pm the chicken went into the pot on Low-ish with quarts of boiling water and a dash of Bragg’s vinegar and a bay leaf and a piece of fresh rosemary. Then I went to bed, setting the alarm. I got up and checked the water at 12:00, 2:00, and 4:00. At 4:00 am Friday morning it was time to turn off the stove, strain out the bones, and let the broth cool. I keep rice milk cartons in the freezer full of ice, and set the containers into the sink to make a frozen layer. Then I set a shallow metal baking pan right on the cartons, and poured in the broth.

At 4:10 the broth was cooling nicely. It felt good to look forward to my holiday and three-day weekend, and nice to think that the broth gel would be a treat for the neighbors. I still had a couple of hours to rest in comfort before my morning walk. First I tidied up the kitchen. Then, primed by the forecast of sunny warm weather, I took the protective floor cloths off the carpet, and hung them over the window as a sun shade. Then I gathered some clothes from the drying rack to put away.

Zipping into the hall in dim light, I was startled by a sharp pain in one shin, and stood gaping at mysterious splashes of blood on the creme wall-to-wall carpet underfoot, which for once was not protected by the floor cloth. Apparently while rounding the corner with the big armful of clean laundry, I’d slammed right into a corner of that cardboard carton, against a top flap braced open in the closet door. The corrugated cardboard corner sliced right in with the equivalent of a sizeable paper cut. (“Did you utter swear words?” Angelina asked me later. “One swear word,” I confessed. “Then, I realized that Jesus Our Lord shed every single drop of blood for me. Do I get upset over that, or do I take that for granted? He didn’t do any swearing on that cross either.”)

I pressed the clean laundry against my shin, and hopped to the kitchen sink. Then I poured on Bronner’s soap, and for twenty minutes held the foot under running water interspersing soap with dashes of salt. I broke open a bottle of peroxide, and poured most of it on. Then I spread antibiotic ointment around the area, and dressed the shin with gauze and surgical tape. Then I sorted the laundry; some pieces needed to soak in more Bronner’s with baking soda. I sprinkled more baking soda on the carpet with dashes of peroxide.

The cool broth went in labeled containers in the freezer along with the rice milk cartons. I put the bones in the fridge. Then I wrapped the bandage in bath towels and got back into bed for a nap, elevating the leg up on a chair.

With lymphedema and a lower leg skin break, the first concern is infection. So I set an alarm for 6:45 to contact Urgent Care; their online appointment site opens at 7:00. I logged in at 7:03. In that three minutes all the morning slots were snapped up by speedier patients, but I got a slot for 12:30 on the same day. That meant leaving the house at 11:00. Of course a visit to the doctor means freshening up, and looking one’s best. To keep the bandage dry I washed with one foot outside the tub, then washed my hair in the sink before putting on my nicest slacks and blouse. Then I made the bed and hand washed the soaking laundry and hung it back on the rack.

Right after seeing the condition of the carpeting, my first thought was to walk to the computer and search for “removing blood from carpet.” But it dawned on me that it’s a work computer; it didn’t seem a great idea to request a personal holiday, then take a sudden interest at 4:00 am researching blood removal techniques. Besides, it was probably too late for home remedies.

I texted Angelina: Say, would she have a little minute before work, to loan me her portable rug shampoo gizmo? I was careful to not tell her why; this was a workday for her, and she’d have her nurse hat on for people all day as it was. She texted right back, to say that she’d filled up the machine with rug shampoo and set it outside her back door. I walked the chicken bones to the compost bin and ran right over to her place, picked up the machine straight up instead of flat, and so spilled blue cleanser all down my best pants. But I got the machine home, sponged off my pants, and studied the user manual on line. After poring over the diagrams and arrows and directions, with anticipation I turned on the machine to spray the carpet to pre-treat, set a timer for 5 minutes, and started cleaning the rug. When I got all finished, and when all the blue cleanser was used up, the carpet still looked the same. Oh gosh. Well, at any rate the important next step was to clean all the parts and bring the machine right back to Angelina’s.

I carried it into the kitchen, and was troubled to find that apparently the machine made some headway after all, since the clear canister for rinsewater was now full of foamy blood. Oh no! I’d filled my neighbor’s machine with a biohazard! I spent 20 minutes fiddling all different ways to get the open tab to open. An hour before I was upset about my leg and carpet. Now I might lose a friendship too.

I rushed back to the computer to peruse the instructions. They didn’t mention anything comprehensible about taking the machine apart. A search for the brand and model turned up lots of demonstration videos. None was filmed by the company. All were made by sociable people who endorse products and can chat all day about their feelings toward one brand over another, with entertaining stories about carpet mishaps. I fast forwarded through a half dozen, but no one mentioned how to take the machine apart.

It was after 10:00 by now, almost time to get ready to go. But it wouldn’t do, to let this blood congeal up inside the machine. Finally in a state of high anxiety I wrapped the machine in a bath towel to keep from spilling blood around, and ran over to the management office. When I burst in the door, our dear building manager was sitting in a meeting with a couple of other men. He seemed struck by my urgent woebegone manner and the mystery bundle cradled in my arms. He interrupted his meeting to ask what was wrong. When I pointed out the sheer complexity of the apparatus, he reached over and twink unlocked the canister. “You’re the man!” I cried, and rushed off again.

Upstairs at home, I took apart the machine, rinsed and cleaned the parts, then watched some more videos for a hint on how to put it back together. Finally I just kept turning and fitting stuff over and over until things clicked into place. Then I wiped the baking soda film off the exterior of the machine and shined it up. I unpacked the Goodwill donations out of the cardboard carton, placed them in a nice safe smooth plastic bin up off the floor and out of the way, and placed the machine inside the box. Then with scissors I cut off all 8 corners of the box flaps, trimming the edges into gentle smooth curves, and ran the box to Angelina’s house.

At home I packed the antibiotic ointment to show the doctor, grabbed my sunhat and a good waiting room book (The Scent of Holiness, by Mother Constantina Palmer), and headed for the bus. At Urgent Care I checked in, and took a seat. At times there are so many patients in this waiting room that the hardworking staff have to break the news that everyone will have to come back tomorrow. But on this stellar spring day, the waiting room was empty and quiet. It was a good place to rest and calm down. Though the skin tear was the most trivial injury imaginable, it was surprising how anxious it had made me feel. Thank God that clumsiness hadn’t hurt anybody else instead! In my seat I fell in to a deep reverie of prayer, with my heart reaching out to all the many people who experience accidents of all kinds, true afflictions and tragedies that in a flash can change their world. It drove the lesson home how important it was each day all day to be very thoughtful with safety, and gentle with others.

The clinic reception staff and medical assistant were caring tactful people. They all asked the history of my presenting complaint. I was careful to clarify that the cause was not losing my balance, feeling faint, or loss of lower peripheral vision; it was really just jaunting around a doorway in dim light and smacking into a cardboard flap. Hearing the cause of injury (“Patient walked into a cardboard box top.”), their eyes went blank a moment, and they seemed at a loss for words. Later I realized what they may have been thinking: How are we gonna CODE this for insurance? After all, the Wall Street Journal from 9/13/2011 ran an article “Walked Into a Lamppost? Hurt While Crocheting? Help Is on the Way.” They reported a federal mandate raising the number of ICD-10 medical injury codes from 18,000 to 140,000, all to elaborate upon potential sources of harm. Example: the new system specifies 72 codes for injuries due to bird encounters — with 9 codes apiece for most high-offending birds (macaw, turkey, chicken…). The word “box” might have its own ICD-10 family of fracas: box cutter, box stall, box privet hedge, box on the ear, box tortoise, box jellyfish from Australia, box o’Whitman sampler chocolates, Box Flower Remedies (ok, that “Bach” is really pronounced “Batch,” but it’s a pretty good pun), or impact with a Box Car Willy album cover. (Did you know that Box Car Willy sold more record albums than The Beatles and Elvis combined? No you did not. But my housemate Sean did. He told me that in 1991. Then he explained the punch line — that The Beatles and Elvis didn’t sell their own records.)

A very warm and supportive medical doctor came in to the exam room. Her presence and energy were so positive that they immediately calmed and cheered me. But she shook her head at sight of the cut. “You should always come in right away! If you come right away, we can close it!” I asked,”You mean stitches?” She exclaimed, “Yes, stitches! We had to close that right away. Now it’s late, it happened eight hours ago. This will take a long time to heal.” She treated it with sterile saline rinse and a clear bandage with advice on followup care. After tuning in to her voice and glancing at her name badge, I said in Farsi, “I am glad to meet you. Many thanks for your help today.” She beamed and gave me a warm Farsi goodbye. She walked me out toward reception, and we wished each other a Khoda hafez.

It was a great relief to have a medical opinion and reassurance. For good circulation in the leg I took a nice 40 block uphill walk home. After a bit of lunch and rest with the feet up, it was off to Goodwill for some fortunate bargains. That included a large plush bath towel to cover the dismaying splashes in the entryway, so they wouldn’t upset the guests or for that matter me. The lady at the cash register and I exchanged cheerful remarks. Then she leaned closer with some news. “I was in the very first Goodwill job training class! It’s been 25 years!” It was a touching moment, to imagine how hard she must have worked at this job all those years. She told me how proud she was of her work, and we shared a little minute of congratulations and good feeling about it. She reached out and clasped my hands and said “God bless you!” and I blessed her back.

At home I spread the new bath towel on the rug. That was a big decor improvement. It was sad to think that building management trusted me to rent their studio, and now I’d wrecked the carpeting. This would call for some better cleaning resolution. I sighed and put away the clean laundry.

Later there was a text from Angelina. She was following up on the machine loan: If I was interested in a clean carpet, how about if she went and rented one of those big machines, and we could both use it on Sunday for both our apartments? Would I like that?

I said yes.

Disclaimer: This is a very temporary morning schedule. On July 1 my excess vacation hours will disappear, so I use up 3 morning hours a day for fitness and cooking.

Last week the Little Free Library had a real treasure — The Holy Bible. This installment contained all four Gospels of the King James Bible in 12 cassette tapes. It’s read aloud by Alexander Scourby, apparently a famous distinguished narrator born in 1913, “known for his deep resonant voice and mid-Atlantic accent.” This looked like a good opportunity for Bible study. I rummaged in my closet for the cassette tape player, blew off the dust, and popped in a tape. Then I went off to do the chores looking forward to some background audio edification.

One chore of the day was already done; it was folding up the blankie roll and mat away from the sliding glass doors. That’s because a team of men were due to pressure-wash our balconies and clean off the moss.

Next chore was already completed too. That was putting on my compression hose, and getting right outside for a walk. It’s a little loop of 2.6 miles, greeting the school crossing guards and a security officer, and sometimes sharing neighborhood news with a circle of dog owners who gather on benches with their coffee to chat and let the dogs jostle and sniff. May and June are peak months for taking flower photos along the way, like this wood sorrel.

Then home at 6:30, to pop in the Bible cassette and work on some lymphatic drainage massage and a refreshing cold water splash in a washtub. The cold water notion came about from reading and watching Wim Hof, a 64 year old physical conditioning teacher in Holland. Wim once climbed Mount Everest equipped with absolutely nothing but a pair of shorts and shoes. Through breathing techniques and acclimating himself to both ice and desert, he’s set 26 world records for feats that would not even dawn on most of us. He seems a high-spirited guy whether relaxing in a tub of ice or making vegetable soup or playing the ukulele and singing flamenco ballads. Anyway, since January 1st I’ve been washing up in cold water every morning. It’s a slow methodical approach, starting with hands and feet and working the way up. When it’s over and the water rushes off, my first thought is “I want another cold bath!” It’s good for lymphedema, and even better for one’s mood.

Another chore in this warm time of year is watering the garden. That’s carrying a two-gallon bucket (16 pounds of water) down 42 steps and around the corner, then back up the stairs. The garden needs at least ten round trips of that a day, five in the morning and five at night. It makes good use of wash water from cutting vegetables and rinsing the blender.  

Another is washing the laundry. For balcony cleaning day (all objects had to be removed from patios), the drying rack had to go in the bathtub. Otherwise it would be out on the balcony in the sun and air. It’s good fortune that the balcony is on the fourth floor, not visible from the ground. To be offended by the wash line, someone would have to film it from a drone. Hopefully local residents have more interesting things to do.

Then breakfast, a pot of the vegetable combo of the day. That’s some mix of greens, summer squash, onions, mushrooms, eggplant, tomatoes, and/or cabbage with beans or tofu. Then it’s packing a big salad and nuts and oatmeal or sweet potato, plus an improving book, and heading for the bus to work.

But that morning, there I was happily washing up in a little tub. Suddenly, I heard a man’s voice through the bathroom door. Oh my gosh! Was he someone on the pressure wash crew? They had planned to just maneuver up the outside of the building, not enter the apartments. What was the man doing in my kitchen? He was pretty loud, too, raising his voice to criticize something or someone — maybe my balcony? I threw my clothes on, cracked open the door, and then remembered that dusty little cassette machine. Either the tape was marred by a long blank pause, or the machine had stalled for some reason and finally activated again. That deep resonant voice was my introduction to Alexander Scourby, in a dramatic kitchen reading of the Gospel of Matthew chapter 23: “WOE to you, Pharisees and scribes, hypocrites!” If it sounded that arresting in my kitchen on a tape, it’s impressive to think how the actual event must have set those original listeners back on their heels.

Gosh, it’s time for the evening bucket trip right now! Those peas will be thirsty.

Jesus Christ died on a cross to save me from my sins.

How can one mind comprehend and appreciate that? It’s like gathering this entire shore, from today’s walk. (Good thing someone brought this 10-inch dump truck. We’re gonna need it.)

Repentance was the theme for all of the feast day. From hour to hour and chore to chore, the central thought was sin and forgiveness, humility and gratitude. The idea came along on a morning walk, chanting the steps with Psalm 50/51 in Church Slavonic. It was there on a visit to the bike shop to drop off a thank-you card for a tire check by a respectful talented mechanic. It was there while buying eggs and hearing the cashier’s Christian testimony. It was there talking to drivers on the bus. It was there at the monastery for Good Friday vigil. It was there at the thrift-store fitting room thanking the staff in hijab with a “Ramadan Karim!” (These women in their trousers, manteau coats, and full veils took over the shifts for the staff out on Easter weekend — and these women did it without a drop of food or water since dawn). What memory of repentance was worth writing down as a story for this day? What example best conveys metanoia, true change of heart, and the grace to return to Our Lord and Savior?

It has to be that midnight special of “The Rocky Horror Picture Show.”

That was well over 40 years ago, for a transplanted co-ed with no street sense at all. On that afternoon I went out and walked the city, scared of going home to my roommates, our campus neighbors and faculty and friends, my loving parents who would call with eager questions about my weekend plans, and the recent verdict of the school psychiatrist. All of them urged me to break out of the comfort zone, date the new boyfriend, and practice the compromise skills that would make me a good wife one day. The accomplished young man had many fine sincere generous virtues, and was eager to enhance and inform my personal growth. From his point of view, compromise was simple. All it meant was no unaccounted AWOL time away from him on weekends, no more nibbling nuts & berries or other rabbit food out of little pocket packets, no singing along to the radio or anywhere else, no high collars or long sleeves, no highly textured fabric, no tied or covered hair, no speaking to other men (including my faculty advisor), and most of all no God. That was just his idea of efficient sensible operating procedures. It was meant to protect us both, and especially him, from What People Might Think. He was fine educational company, and I was overjoyed to be with him and to learn all of his rules. But soon his level of exasperation, and the number of rules, kept growing: no tracing finger lines in the steam condensation on a glass of ice water; no letting shoelace tips tap on the floor; no changing seats midway through a campus party; no more warbling the falsetto “Rrrighty-OH!” from those Felix the Cat cartoons; and some lengthy rubric about maintaining the patina on carbon steel kitchen knives. It didn’t work. Within a month, this man’s last nerve was losing its myelin sheathing due to my rube manners. (As always in this blog, I carefully alter the details to make everyone unrecognizable. For all we know, what sent him storming out of Shaky’s Shrimp Shack could have been seeing me nibble my ear of corn vertically instead of along the row.)

So before one Saturday date night, I ran away from my suitor and just didn’t go back. I was getting scared of his level of upset, scared of facing the disappointment of my roommates, scared to face my inept self. Knowing he was likely to call the house over and over asking the other girls where I was, I disappeared from all usual haunts (language lab, library, local Cathedral, park outside, neighbors). Instead I walked all over the city. Friendly all-new hidey holes beckoned me inside to escape and pass the time. One was a whole new church, the Cathedral of St. Matthew the Apostle, for half a Mass and a rosary. One was the discount cosmetology school, where a waist length of hair drifted to the floor. One was the Yes! natural food store down the Exorcist Steps to the canal, for bulk bin pocket packets of sunflower seeds, savory nut wafers, dried apricots, and coconut date rolls. One was a tour of the Old Stone House on M Street. One was The Hecht Company department store, where the staff bit back smiles at my excitement seeing pullover sports bras (No fussy hook & eye in the back? Whoa, I want one of those!). With this sturdy one-piece garb I purchased the thickest heaviest turtleneck with the highest collar in ribbed hunter-green wool, plus a jade-green head scarf, and put them all on in the fitting room to wear out the door. Last there was the Army Navy store with an eye-catching display window of goldfish bowls heaped with shining nails; I hurried right in and bought my first pair of high combat boots with thick gumsole cleats, then ran my fingers through the fishbowls and picked out a dozen shining stainless six-inch nails and three lengths of rawhide laces. The fellows at the counter struck up a nice chat, and asked in sociable fashion what repair job called for all those nails. At my idea they raised their brows and nodded. I walked out all smiles.

After an evening’s jostle through candle and soap boutiques and chocolatiers and bakeries and endless couples holding hands and bright windows with French menus and musicians on the street, I stopped short at a movie marquee. For months it advertised the same late-late feature. There an hour early was a boisterous queue of fans, though ticket prices at the time were skyrocketing up toward the $4 mark. Somehow I found myself at the window, bought a ticket just like everybody, and was swept inside.

The house was packed. The audience wore wedding clothes and motorcycle leather and chenille boas and bells. They waved umbrellas and sprayed water pistols and threw toasted bread and white rice and ticker tape and confetti. They hollered out the lyrics and lines. They acted out flickering scenes of glare and blare, overstated costumes and makeup, theatrical theatrics. The sound system revved right through the floor and into one’s ribs. An exploding kaleidoscope of plot threw pieces of archetype around from every which where. Something about a wedding? Motorcycles in the house? Thunder and lightning? Transylvania?

I parked my combat boots up on an empty seat back and bit my cuticles, rocking back and forth, staring at the filmed and live antics. The jokes flew like the ticker tape over my head. No word of dialogue made it into long-term recall. Neither did a note of the music, though there was plenty, and loud too; that Mr. Curry could sure belt out a tune. (Apparently one of his show-stopping vocal numbers is still so popular that fans my age who met and courted and sparked at those shows use it as an anthem for their spouses’ funerals.)

This is not to advise being out at midnight in Washington DC, or walking home in the wee hours from the bus stop. But for that performance, my plush seat felt like the safest haven in the world, the last place where anyone who knew me would think to look. That perception of safety is not as outlandish as it seems. The Picture Show was a public event supervised by management and the fire code, not an exclusive arrangement for two. The Show had stable rules familiar to virtually everyone, built up by large-group consensus each week over a period of years, not invented on the spot by one person to manage another. The Show was choreographed consensual adult group play, not private coercion. The Show channeled cathartic singing and dancing, and welcomed a free range of individual creativity equally from all participants. Most of all, The Show was not spurred on by unbearable anxiety and need for control and social image; it was inspired by campy schmaltzy merriment.

In that crowd, no one looked annoyed or distressed by me at all. Someone loaned me an umbrella. Grown men in lace veils served us toast, and I passed around nuts and berries. During some pointless catchy ditty, I heard myself humming right out loud. Shaking rice off a sleek helmet haircut, securely armored by a new foundation garment that couldn’t be unfastened until I took it off myself when I was good and ready, warm in a nubbly wool turtleneck, under a homemade necklace of braided rawhide and flashing six-inch nails, I felt welcomed and free.

“The Rocky Horror Picture Show” was a full-onslaught sensory reset. For those hours there was no brain bandwidth available to worry and brood about my dating failure. Judging by the crowd, the point of this whole folderol was being yourself. For me, that meant genuine repentance for the wrong steps of serving a wrong relationship, and thankfulness to God for setting me straight. It meant breaking neurotic rules and going home to Godly ones. It meant returning to the body and soul that Jesus died for. Instead of driving any more nails into His cross, it meant wearing those nails around my neck for weeks as a reminder and guard over my heart.

Thank you, Mr. Curry. Blessed Easter.

Purple Deadnettle (Lamium purpureum) was a pleasant familiar face on today’s early morning stroll. This fuzzy and appealing little mint has delicate flowers and unique ruddy top leaves. The county extension websites call it an invasive weed, to be firmly banished from our dooryards, but in our neighborhood it’s a soft pretty accent to vacant lots and curbs.

The flower brought back lovely memories from the town of Eagle a year ago, and its people and landscape. In April, the Deadnettle there will grow as a luxurious shawl of soft lavender and lilac shades, flowing all along the contours of the waterways and lowlands, in bright contrast to the stone hill formations and sterling clear sky.

After arranging this tiny nosegay, I couldn’t resist a nostalgic browse of the online Eagle local paper. Main Street has interesting new foodcraft and household businesses, and even a new urgent care clinic. An abandoned building has been turned back into a community center. News features included an alert about proper battery storage to prevent hazardous corrosion and combustion, best practices for spring hunting season, handling and cooking fresh fish for observant Christians during Lent, keeping alfalfa crops safe from weevils, and safe healthy trail riding on horseback. There was an announcement of a joyful musical event planned at a local church; this happy news came with its own illustration — batteries corroded and scorched, no doubt from improper storage. It was heartening to read that scholarships for local youth are being sponsored by the truly outstanding second-hand store packed with bargains and charm (I still wear those excellent walking shoes, 25 cents brand new). The local historian was well over 100 years old during my visit; now he’s even more over 100, and had a party with a deluge of birthday cards. Even the memorial notices show remarkable warmth and tenderness; each resident did not only pass away, but took the hand of Lord and Savior Jesus, or left their earthly vessel, or gained heavenly wings, entered into rest, was called (or, transferred membership) to heaven, was welcomed to heaven by departed and reuniting family, or was now parading in God’s glory.

It still sounds like a healthy and likeable place to live, and a fine memory for a traveler.

This morning, Super Pup and Bingo allowed themselves to be lassoed with not even token resistance, and placed in the car by Angelina with drinking water and a bag of delicious yums made of dehydrated meats. We headed out for the dog park, where Super Pup chased the ball 1,100 times and Bingo softly slipped up to one stranger after another, peering upward with soulful dark eyes in hopes of a pet on the head.

At the park we found these “Blue Shade” Anemone / Grecian Windflowers.

At the demonstration garden, some industrious grower was well rewarded by cruciferous edibles that survived the winter, then bolted out these cheery yellow blooms.

This first outing of spring was overcast but warm. A dapper Spotted Towhee, black and white with rich burnt-orange side stripes, flew up to a twig and shrilled his ratchety “Whaaat?” Frogs were out in force with their husky little sleighbell noises. “As they hear us crashing past or even crashing closer, they will keep merrily croaking along,” I told Angelina. “But as soon as you stop, they will stop too and nestle in silence under the ooze. I keep trying to sneak closer, but any amphibian is enough to outsmart me.” For her nature edification I demonstrated by stepping off the path and holding still. Sure enough — freeze and be quiet, and their songs will disappear.

Here is half a minute of their happy ruckus.

At the end of our power chat outing, the dogs got their yums and Angelina bought us both a slice of pizza. She and I talked the entire time about the nature of evolution, people and dogs as pack animals, cooking, gardening, parenting, stages of grief, the state of medical care, health, and everything else.

Petting the dogs goodbye I told Angelina, “You and I have exhausted every possible topic to talk about. We ran out of words. Unless we can think up something else to say, this friendship is over.”

(That lasted five hours, and then I had to go bring her my extra fluorescent vest so she can walk the dogs with safety after sundown. She offered me an avocado and a really nice extra chair made of wicker that I might take for my studio.)

It was a good spring outing.