My Morning

APRIL 4, 2000

MY MORNING

Eleanor Roosevelt used to write a monthly page for The Ladies Home Journal, back when it was half an inch thick and at least 9x12 inches big. She included important things from her work as First Lady- the first one, as far as I know, to make that position into one of importance beyond being the White House hostess - and the little everyday things. I don't know how she sifted a month down to one page. She printed each day's date and a line or two for each. As for me, or tandis-que moi as we learned in French club, it's 11:15 AM right now, and enough has happened that I could trade in the rest of the day to save for to-morrow.

Three or four men are tramping in and out installing a new furnace. This is part of the spend-down to be accepted into Medicaid, to provide for Doug in the rest home. The only reason they can work on the furnace is that the electricians cleared a path when they used up $10,000 of the spend-down to rewire the whole house against burning down. The cellar was Doug's domain and every time I have to look at it it hurts to see the hundreds of tools and parts carefully sorted and waiting, and the South Bend lathe he was so proud of. It also raises questions of how to deal with the ancient machine tools that he moved in with a winch, inch by inch.

Then the phone repairman came to untangle the two lines, so people can call in, especially the nursing home, without getting the noise of the computer line. He reversed two cords in the jacks and gave me a nifty converter that attached two lines to one jack, in case I would like to add to the chaos at some later date. I trotted around the house and up and down stairs listening for dial tone on four phones.

While he was here the Senior Center where I teach computer basics called to ask if I could help with a student in another class who is legally blind and can use only one hand. Well, of course. I'll stay after my Monday class to work with her. I've worked with another legally blind person. Talk about determination! It takes a lot of gumption for a healthy 70-year-old to decide to learn about computers, let alone a handicapped one. The first step is to redo all the lessons in 36-point type.

While the Center Director was talking the phone man said good bye and a furnace man came to see where I would like a hole in the floor for some vent. A rather large hole, He wanted to put it in front of the chest of drawers my great grandfather made, in which the drawers still run more smoothly than in many new dressers. I arranged to move the hole to the edge of the room under the desk my father made for my college room, from a desk that came with the Encyclopedia Britannica, back when it needed 14 feet of shelf space instead of 1 CD disk. It's made of fine red mahogany. Doug installed the outlet under it to run the Credit Union copier in my days as assistant manager and manager.

I tended to my e-mail and addressed four hello cards to deliver to new residents at the rest home. I wrote a new lesson for to-morrow's Senior Basics class and sent copies to my coaches. I ate breakfast while Norton downloaded the latest virus detector. I emptied the dishwasher. I tied up some more of Doug's books to take to recycling, the ones the library doesn't want for its next sale. I fed the cat, starting to sort out dog food from cat food. Dog food goes with Doug's tennis books for Firstborn to take away to a tennis-addict student. Firstborn has two rescued greyhounds, who eat a lot.

In the next quiet moment someone knocked. In came a distinguished looking gentleman when I was expecting another furnace man. This was the president of the golf course which surrounds our land. When we came here it was farmland. The golf course and we have been good neighbors, sharing a long lane, for thirty some years. Doug made crucial little parts to keep their equipment running. They plowed the lane. I took cookies to the maintenance crew. They buried the beloved dog for me, last week. The Visitor came to ask if I had thought about selling our 4.1 acres. We did a very graceful job of discussing this idea, without agreeing to anything except that I would tell him first, if I decided to sell. My first response was that I believe strongly that no one should make a major decision for at least six months after a death or parting. Doug has been in a nursing home for four months, and I am still getting used to the idea of living alone in a house that used to be big enough for five, and slowly really believing that he is never coming home. I think a year will be better than six months for me. My second response was that I love this place dearly and will stay as long as I can. This conviction was somewhat shaken yesterday when I mowed grass for the first time in 2000, and saw a 3 foot snake that was not the familiar garter snake. Natives here welcomed us with the news that only a stranger would buy this place - too many copperheads. We killed a lot and have not seen any for years. I am persuading myself that yesterday's was not a copperhead, but I need to search herpetology on the Net and check the colored pictures. So now I must remember never to put a hand or a foot where I can't see, no bare feet in the grass, no turning over boards by hand, keep thinking. I didn't remind the visitor of all that. This was absolutely the first mention of buying or selling in the 46 years we have lived here. It brings up so many questions that my head is spinning.
(Sometimes a cliché says exactly what you mean.)
When it stops spinning I will make lists of questions, sorted by where to seek the answers. The hard questions are the ones I have to answer for myself.

I think it's time to go shopping where I can make simple clear choices. If you are still cooking for other people you automatically check off each item according to who likes or dislikes it, how much people eat, who is going to be away for dinner tomorrow. It is a new experience to wander through the store without regard to the time, to pass by things that have been essential staples for years, to stop looking for things Doug can swallow since the stroke ruined his throat muscles, to think what I like, and what I can eat before it spoils.

The refrigerator is nearly empty. No more gallons of milk, for pudding, or Carnation Breakfast. The hospitals use Ensure, but doctors and nurses told me this was the equal for nutrition. I have several bulk containers of Carnation left to take to the Food Bank and several cans of bulk pudding mix from the dollar store. Pretty soon I will begin to miss the constant supply of plastic jugs.

The freezer is in full swing as usual. I have a large supply of pint boxes of pureed soup made for Doug. I never learned to make a small quantity of soup, and freezing ahead saved time for other nursing activities. I hope to use the purees in sauces over pasta, but one person makes her way through pasta very slowly. I used to keep a great variety of pasta on hand, but there was a great throwing-out lately, when mealy bugs etc. was discovered. Now there are Acini and Orzo in the fridge. There are large discount store bags of chicken pieces and meatballs and fish sticks and vegetables. There is a box of tiny eclairs and sometimes tiny cream puffs, and lately a layer cake from Pepperidge Farm, which I found could be nibbled at and put back in the freezer repeatedly, without deteriorating. I buy immense yeast rising pizzas, cook one, slice it and freeze pieces to eat one by one, or even two on a big night.

It's time to run the bread machine again. I have taken to buying boxes of assorted mixes, which I use at random, since they're all good. This is evil laziness for which I feel no guilt. It's time to buy a new bag of Romaine hearts. By the time I finish those, I should be able to use leaves from the plants I bought on Sunday, and the seeds I planted a week ago should appear.

I had the great good fortune to know William Alan Neilson as our college president for one year. Mrs. Dwight Morrow (mother of Anne Morrow Lindbergh) took his place as interim president. In her first talk to our class she said, "Let's have no more talk of adjustment. Let's just get to work." Another woman I admired put it another way. "Oh, just pull up your socks and get on with it."

Well, I'm trying, but I hope things slow down a little pretty soon. It's not just the events, but the entwined associations and memories each one brings up, that cause the brain to spin.