Celebrating 40!

You know you are getting old when your daughter turns 40. For our family it was a time of much celebration, of life achievement and of a job "well done".  She's a Jersey Girl through and through -- lay back but ready with a sharp retort if needed.  A lover of the ocean and boardwalk who can sit on the beach under the umbrella posting on face book, twittering away all the while watching her youngest play with his friend at the ocean's edge.    He's a tall skinny 13, aspires to be a rapper complete with with almost shaved head, over sized baseball cap and pants that hang off his hips revealing six inches of plaid boxer shorts.  I shake my head, but my daughter and her husband keep quiet, knowing he'll eventually grow out of it.  As long as he stays off drugs, all is okay.  At the other extreme is their oldest is a thoughtful baseball player who is morphing into a nicely handsome young man.  He's a studious high school senior with serious intentions for college, focused on business school.  Go figure. 

We surprised her at 11:30 Friday night at their beach house just blocks from the ocean. Despite the off and on again rain and humid air, we enjoyed the ocean, at boardwalk pizza and watched the sophomoric movie "Watch".  Happy Birthday to my daughter! 

We're back in the sailing scene!

It took two weeks but our battery charger problems are resolved.  The engineers found another blown fuse so we believe that the problem was not all my fault (remember, I forgot the flip on the charge battery switch in June).  The humongous thunder storm that took out the electric power on the docks most likely sent a surge through the system the confounded the charger problems.  We now have a completely new 40 amp charger, a replacement as the old one was still under warranty, and an meter so we can monitor inflow and outflow from the battery itself (see picture).  Now we sit and wait for the overcast sky to clear.  It's raining again. 

Sailing vacation - What sailing? What vacation?

Just when we thought our battery charger problem was solved, we woke after an extremely hot night on the hook in the South River to find that our engine didn't seem to recharge the battery as it should.  Determined not to give in to these electrical problems without a good fight, John and I decided to push toward north toward Rock Hall as we had originally planned.  Just a few changes -- no wind to fill our sails nor reliable battery to power our frig or electronics (that includes the water pumps, GPS and autopilot).  So we went to conservation mode.  Turned off the freezer. Put the frig on a on-off cycle schedule.

We did get close to Thomas Light on our motor north and did a great drive by of five ships anchored off Annapolis harbor.  Hot and tired, we went aground once at the entrance to Rock Hall, but managed to turn and push off with the engine (Thank the angels for a soft mud bottom). 

"Why," you might ask, "would you put yourself through such torture when a vacation is all about relaxing and laying back?" John thinks it's because I am crazed.  I beg to differ.  It's the adventure, being on the water hanging out with the Osprey, the challenge, the doing, the problem solving.  However, at this point, the problem solving is getting the best of me. 

Three days later -- it's all about the battery charger

It was sunny and hot, but 5-10 knot winds were promised and it appeared that our batteries were recharged. We set off about noon motoring toward the north to the South River (strange but true), expecting our batteries would continue to charge. The GPS, autopilot and bow thruster worked as they should so we thought all was well.

About two hours out, the wind died and the heat was starting to weaken our resolve to keep pushing north. In short order we decided to return to the dock where we could spend the night with air conditioning. We are not going to be bloodly fools! And there as we turned, suddenly we had wind. It took us east across the bay to Bloody Point, but we didn't care as the diesel was silenced and the sails were filled. After several tacks and wind changes, we arrived home in the late sweaty afternoon. Into swim suits we jumped and off to the pool for an hour to drop our body temperatures. While cooking dinner we spied that the battery charge was dropping. We sighed and went to bed hoping the sea gods would miraculously make it all better.

Monday morning: Freezer and frig are "dead meat". I hurried to transfer food into the reliable rubbermaid ice chest with bagged ice. Phone calls and exploratory work in the boats bowels revealed a possible problem source - the battery charger was not functioning -- not a peep from its annoying little motor! It wasn't the batteries, it was the battery charger. Call in the surgeon! Three hours later a deft electrical blond hottie with lamp on forehead, diagnosed the problem to be a blown 10amp250volt fuse. With tweezers and plyers he removed the offending part from the battery charger and replaced it. The good news is that the fuse protected the batteries from exploding. The bad news is such a small, hidden, and inexpensive device can confuse the hell out of us. For John's birthday, I'm getting him a "Zantrec Lite" amp meter. Forever in the future we will read our battery charge and draw down from a small meter at the chart table, just like a gas guage in the dashboard of a car.

Tomorrow we sail -- not north necessarily, but whereever the wind takes us -- probably southeast into the Choptank or north east into the Eastern Bay. The goal is to watch spendid fireworks from the deck of Forte Vento while listening to the Sirius radio play rousing, patriotic music.

You can't get there from here

John and I arrived at the boat this Friday night to find our batteries depleted and the food in the frig rotted. I had forgotten to flip the "charge battery" switch on the main electrical connection two weeks ago when we were on the boat. Undaunted, we cleaned, flipped the swtich to recharge the batteries and settled into the air-conditioned envrions ready to leave in the morning for our week's vacation on the boat. However, no good or forgetful deed goes unpunished. At 11 PM the skies opened up with a storm that blasted the electical grid for most of the Baltimore-Washington DC metropolitan area. It was a horrible night -- rocking and rolling in the slip from the 35-40knot winds from the west, the marina going dark, and the heat melting into our minds. I couldn't sleep worrying about our provisions and if we could leave for the week's long sail. Morning broke, skies cleared, but our batteries were not happy. We tried taking off, but the more we motored, the more the battery was depleted. Exactly opposite of what should be. We are not defeated. Power has been restored. The boat's batteries are recharged. After some testing in the morning, we hope to set off on our holiday sail.

Aunt Jean has died,

My sisters and I make last visits to Aunt Jean. Elaine and her husband visited, then last week Karen and I flew in to say goodbye. Flight delays made us three hours late. We battled rush hour taffic to get from the airport (IAH) north to Conroe. Finally, we arrived and Aunt Jean knew we were there. She smiled then went back into her morphine induced sleep. She wanted to leave this world as she was in this world -- quietly, gentley and with dignity. That night we visited with Uncle Bob. After 59 years together he was losing his best friend and life partner. How do you deal with that? A bit of denial ("I keep hoping she'll pull out of this last stroke") and a bit of recognition ("She doesn't want life if this is all that is left.") We listened. We empathized, knowing that in no time, we'll be facing the same issues. I flew home that afternoon. Aunt Jean died that night. How priviledged Karen and I were to say good-bye--to be with her in those final hours. I would hope she knew how much we cared and how much we will miss this gentle, yet strong and caring woman.

It's all in the family

My Aunt Jean, wife to my Uncle Bob (my mom's only sibling), is fighting off a recent and unexpected stroke while she struggled with a surprising attack of lung cancer.  She was doing fine, the chemo treatments had put the cancer at bay for at least a while.  At 86, none of us thought such a thing could happen to her.  Her mom is 104 and Jean's hardly had a sick day in her life. Her attitude is down to earth, reflective of her Missourian upbringing.  "You know, I've had this great blessing of a happy life with my husband and children.  I feel lucky and if this is what the end is like, I accept it.. I just look at all the good  years I've had."  We should all have such an attitude -- us baby boomers, the me generation, who expect to live forever.

To express our support, I ordered plants for both of them (Uncle Bob is still at home and Aunt Jean is in  a rehab nursing home). Us girls always split the cost of our family gifts, it's been our tradition for about 25 years.  I, as the oldest and the responsible one, stepped up to make the order, declared the total to let everyone figure out their share. So, my middle sister, the accountant and detail specialist, sent a check for exactly her 1/3 share, right down to the penny.  My youngest sister, who's made enough money to retire at 55, sent a check about $5 over her share.

It was a perfect reflection of our characters -- the youngest deals in round numbers, the middle deals in details, and I don't really care about the money.  This is my family -- it's a wonder we came from the same gene bank.  Our mom told John one day, "My girls are so predictable about money.  The oldest know how to spend it, the middle knows how to save it, and the youngest knows how to make it."  She grew up in the east--land of the astute analytic.

The very merry month of May

We had returned from London the week before, but we felt we were still there that first Saturday morning (May 5). Eerie fog draped the docks as we peered up the companion way.  In two hours, the sun broke through to give us a perfect California day.  We put our backs into opening Forte Vento for its second season on the Bay.  The chores broke into its natural assignments -- John went off to West Marine for small parts and back up cleaning supplies.  Dorine got out the scrub brush, rags and bucket and began to wash away the winter's sooty scum on the deck.  Soon we started waxing the gel coat.  Six hours later we collapsed having only accomplished half of what we expected. 

Sunday brought perfect breezes and brilliant sun, we hoped to be sailing by noon.  We missed that goal, but did complete our work by two.  The foresail (jib) was hoisted on the self-furler, the navy canvas Bimini was reconstructed, and the interior below was ship shape.  The only problem was that we were once again exhausted.  If we sailed we'd be an accident waiting to happen.  Somehow, when you're in your sixties, the stamina of ten years ago has evaporated.  Safety ruled so we stayed in dock, went to the Tiki Bar at the Calypso to savor the evening.

During May you haven't heard from us because we sailed every weekend, sleeping overnight on the hook in the Wye River and Broad Creek off the Choptank River. We go the way the wind let's us sail. Sometimes it's to the northeast and sometimes to the southeast.  You can't fight the wind.

It's been a sailor's orgasm -- the month of May.  Rain during the week clears to reveal a sailor's delight for the weekend.  We've tacked and jibed in light and strong winds.  We've heeled at 10 degrees, gritted our teeth and reefed the main.  It doesn't get better than this!  We look forward to a season that more than meets our expectations.

So what's the big purchase this year for our baby, Forte Vento?  It was a tough decision, but we passed on a glass-tiled kitchen back splash for an electric outboard motor for the dinghy. No more gasoline, agonizing pulls on the starter, lifting 38 pounds over the aft into the dinghy and yelling over a noisy engine.  The new outboard divides into two ten pound parts that are easily passed down to the dingy and up again.  A push of a button starts the quiet motor that is just as powerful as its gasoline cousin.  It plugs into any 110 outlet to recharge.  We can dinghy again!

A boat, like a house, has its issues -- John is greasing the winches and learning  auto pilot maintenance.  As June opens we discovered as leak in the the waste system (yes, that system!) and our self-furler has unfurled (so we're stuck at the dock). The good news is that all of this is under warranty.  The bad news is that it couldn't be fixed by today.

Bridget walks!

The laughing young girl on the left is very pleased with herself.  It's pure joy -- the walking is.   At 10 months, she started pushing toys and trotting along furniture all on her own.  Now, she's stepping out into the middle of the room with some regularity.  Of course, her legs aren't quite strong enough to stand tall.  She walks like Grandpa John -- those short Italian legs are a bit bowled.  Luckily, Bridget doesn't have baggy shorts like her grandpa.  Mom keeps her diapers trim and tight. 

Unexpected vacation reaction

 It's not that we didn't enjoy the time off to visit with our dear friend who lives in the burbs just north of London.  He took great pains to arrange an event filled week.  Nothing was left to chance.  We "tubed" our way around London, ate at posh restaurants, pulled a pint at pubs, attended the theatre and opera and enjoyed the company of his friends and family.  I rode the eye and was a guest at Lord's, the most famous and prestigious cricket club in the world, I dare say. We even had a day to shop by ourselves in London's Oxford, Picadilly and Regent Street shops. It's all on my face book page.

So what was my problem? Was it the weather --the incessant grayness of London's springtime raindid keep us damp and chilly.  Before the end, I caught a head cold and cough. What is staying outside of the city -- maybe, but our friend was delightfully accommodating, provided comfy lodgings and was pleased that we visitedhim as we were pleased with seeing hime again.  We've couldn't have planned such a trip ourselves.

So what is it?   I'm a savvy traveler --but I think that's the problem. Unlike people who spend their careers in one place and yearn to explore in "their older years", I spent most of my career traveling.  I've been east and west, in Asia, Australia, Europe, South America and now, most recently, in Africa. I respect and wonder at the different cultures, conditions and styles of living. 

At the root, I think I'm just tired of being other places. I'm tired of long airline flights.  I want the familiar, the local scene, the settled life.  A big trip now is a drive up to New York City .  But, I like it there.  We can visit family and friends and we know the city.  We don't tire being there.  It energizes us.   It is familiar, it is part of our local scene.

Is this surprising?  I thought I would never tire of the travel adventure -- of seeing new places, meeting new people and doing new things.  Will I grow out of this crummy attitude?  I don't know.  I'm just going to live with it for now.  It fits. 

Maybe it's my itch to be on the water.  It's almost sailing season -- next week we reassemble the bimini canvas and hoist the jib.  Forte Vento has been recommissioned for the season and we're looking foward to taking her sailing again.  That's the kind of travel adventure I look forward to -- the wind in my face and the sun on my back.

Jersey nails

Several weeks ago, we trekked North.  I was to receive the Women's Leadership Exchange award engineered by my daughter.  It was the highest complement a daughter bestow on her mother and I was thrilled to receive the award. 

To prepare, I dutifully reviewed the questions that might be posed in the panel discussion following the award ceremonies and I learned all I could about the WLE so I would not appear ignorant nor arrogant.  However, my real obsession was to get my three week old manicure replaced --- my nails resembled well worn bear claws. My daughter agreed, so off we tromped in the rain to the local New Jersey salon.  I asked for what I always asked for-- a french manicure. It's a nice, conservative look -- a pale nail with a narrow white tip.  That is what I expected but that is not what I got.

Oh, my goodness.  I walked out of the salon with thick white tips. My claws had been turned into paws. Sympathetically, my daughter mused, "At least they'll be able to see your manicure from the back row of the room, Mom."  We had a good laugh about my nails "Jersey nails" because in New Jersey most everything is "in the your face" and boy, these nails were in your face.

Stubborn walker reigns!

Sprint burst upon us last Sunday so I took up outside running again.  I ran from the condo to Ballston Station and back (about 4 miles).  However, in all my gracefulness I took a header on the sidewalk about a  half mile into the run.  As I always am like to do, "I picked myself up, dusted myself off and started out all over again."  I finished the run, but came home with a bloodly knee, concrete scrapped hands and sore shoulders from catching myself in the the fall. John admonished me for my foolishness, poured hydrogenperoxide over the wounds all and insisted on a bandaid here and there. 

This Sunday, promising to be careful, I took off again and completed the run without a single stumble, much less a fall.  However, somehow the neon green toy key chain holding our door keys had  slipped out of my sweat shirt pocket somewhere along the way.

"Drats," I mumbled to myself as I phoned up John from the building entrance to let me in after my run. 
"Lost keys?" he groaned as he opened the front door. 
"Yes,"  I moaned with some sheepishness, "It somehow came out of my pocket and I didn't hear it."
"We're going to go find it!" he declared with mannly authority.  He bolted to the bedroom to retrieve his walking shoes.  I reminded him that it could be anywhere between home and Ballston. "Won't that be too long walk for you?  There was no identification on it.  Why worry?  We'll just pay for another fob."

The man was unconsolable.  He was determined.  He was bullheaded.  He grabbed his cane, told me to tie his shoes, and off we loped.  In the end, although we examined ever foot of my 4 mile run, we did not find the keys.  We did have a fine pizza place about half way through the walk though and John did make it home--barely.  His thigh muscles were all worn out.  My sruborn hero is now snoring pleasantly on the couch -- taking  the afternoon nap he wanted in the first place.

We made it to Forte Vento!

We were desperate to get back to the water once again so we took advantage of the surprisingly warm early spring day yesterday.  John is getting stronger and more agile every day so don't let this picture fool you.  John's much more comfortable on the boat than he looks.  He still has to sit high as his hip doesn't bend all the way to 90 degrees easily.  For several hours we just sat in the cockpit, took in the panoramic view out into the bay and soaked up the sun.  Next weekend, we'll pull the bubbler (it's too heavy for me to do by myself and John wants to wait one more week before putting that kind of pressure on his leg).  The darn thing weighs 15 pounds easily and it will be covered in mud.

We've made a commitment to ourselves to retire as soon as the boat is paid off.  Our retirement trip will be a year on the water -- down the intercoastal water with, hopefully, a couple of day  trips out onto the ocean, and a lazy time in Florida.  Given the boat loan --- that's still about two years away. The good news is that gives us two years to prepare -- me to get my "six pack" license and John to learn all the boat systems and be able to do his own maintenance. 

John's got a spring in his step!

Warm weather and flowering trees may just be a coincidence, but John enjoyed walking today and he came home refreshed instead of exhausted. His goal is Fireworks, a local pizza restaurant. He's upgraded his reward from Starbucks coffee to real food. He only got half way there today. He expects success in reaching the goal tomorrow.

Life is good!

Type A faces off to Type B

I must confess -- as a Type A I find my Type B husband with his achy recovery a testiment to our relationship. Luckily for him, after 20 years, I've got too many "sunk costs" to abandon him until he gets through his recovery and stops moaning like a wounded bear.

It's not his fault. He's doing the best he can. He's a guy so he sensitive to pain. Men just can't hack pain like women can (unless, of course, you are a movie hero that can dodge bullets and feel no pain). I think most men would just rather take the drugs and be done with it (Dr. House is that stunning role model). If it's not, "Oh, I have this new pain in this hamstring, could you get me an ice pack?" it's "I'm so tired, I'm going t sleep here on the couch." After his nap yesterday, he stayed up until 2AM reading the Steve Jobs biography. So this morning, he was all curled up in his comforter grunting a good-bye as I left the house. I do believe he was asleep again before the door closed.

A Percoset now and then would help him keep up with his walking every day. He did take one or two over the weekend, but he's a stubborn boy so he's off them again. His remedy for pain -- old movies on the movie channel. He watched three today. However, he did get bored enough tonight to fix the repeater for the wi-fi so I can use the Ipad in bed. Just when I think he's impossible, he does something wonderful like that!

Traditions!

Every year for at least 12 years, my friend Carol and I meet in early morning the first week in March, usually on a Thursday, at the 30th Street station.  We can't exactly remember how it all started either because our memories are gone or because its actually become so ingrained in our psyches.

Carol buses in from NYC and I train up from DC.  We fortify ourselves with a quick breakfast then head east on foot to the convention center for the most fabulous Philadelphia flower show.  This year, like last year, our NYC friend Joanna joined us.

Last year the weather was so frightfully cold and rainy that we had to cab it to the show.  However, this year the weather gods were most kind -  sunny, unusually warm and breezy so we walked the mile.  Hawaiian tropical flora and fauna greeted us.  For two hours we moved among palms, ferns and orchids, thousands of orchids, enjoying the green luxury of the displays.  There was a most magnificent 60 foot water fall surrounded by hundreds of orchids and ferns.  To its side was a light and  music show on an over sized thatched hutch screen.  The crowds were mesmerized as were we. 

The weather was so fine that we left the show walking toward the Phili Art Museum.  We were beckoned into a side street deli where we ate the owner's favorite --chicken cheese steak sandwiches.  The owner kept bringing us food, Carol kept protesting we couldn't eat it all, and he refused to take no for an answer saying in a true Phili accent, "Don't worry, the food won't go to waste.  I feed the homeless." 

Sated and rested, we walked on to the Rodin Museum only to find it under renovation.  We sat in the still brown garden and talked and talked and talked until the wind picked up as clouds began to roll-in announcing a weather change.  Picture three short women braced against the wind, still talking and laughing while walking all the way back to the station.  If this is retirement, I could get used to this.  Let's see.....how many more years might that be?

Celebration!

This Tuesday John reached the three week mark. He'd been off the drugs for 34 hours so we thought it opportune to celebrate with a glass of his favorite - red wine.  "Ah," he whispered, "It's not even the good stuff, but it smells so fine." He hoisted his glass and savored the sip.  He had reason to celebrate -- he'd walked up the hill to Starbucks that afternoon.  Four blocks up, a cappacino and pumpkin bread with the NYT, then four blocks back to home.

On Wednesday he did the same distance with a bit of a different route.  Still feeling fine, if but a bit achy.  Then ThursdayKaboom. He hit the wall! His body rebelled. "Hold on there, Dude," it yelled.  "We don't have the stamina to keep this up."  John apologized to his body, popped a Percoset, and proceeded to sleep most of the day. 

Lesson learned -- recovery has ups and downs.  Steady the pace. Live and let live.  He's got new exercises to improve his balance.  We'll walk on Sunday when we visit the boat.  Standby for more adventures.



Coming off the drugs

Three days ago John was taking two Perocet every four hours. Now he's taking one every 10-12 hours. When John goes without a Percoset for 48 hours he gets his first glass of red wine since he underwent surgery almost three weeks ago. Now, that's motivation for an ol' Italian guy! But seriously, he's making great progress; his goal is to be off all drugs except Tylenol by the end of the week. The down side is that he tires easily. Having been unable to walk or exercise for months, he stamina is about 15 on a scale of 100.

Sky cleared after some rain on Saturday morning to give us repreave from that edgy unpredictable winter weather. It felt like spring. John and I walked up the hill to the park. A good two blocks. It's amazing how well he can walk, even though he is using a cane to steady his motion. His goal for mid week? The Starbucks another two blocks beyond the park. Sometimes the simple accomplishments in life are the sweetest!

Nurse resigns!

Yesterday my sweet husband graduated from walker to a cane. I even caught him lusting at the refrigerator. The guy is definitely on the mend. Not exactly cooking Moroccan meatloaf yet, but he does well toasting and scrambling. He's even emptied and filled the dishwasher several times. He promises meatloaf before the end of the week. All in all -- he walks, he talks, but he doesn't bend down and touch he toes yet.  What does that mean?  He can't pick up his pony tail band off the floor when he drops it.  He can't wash the bottoms of his feet in the shower and he can't put on his compression knee socks himself.  Guess I can still be helpful to the guy.   However, my last "official" act as the good nurse Ratchet was to take John to the doc this morning for his two week checkup.  As we talked, the doc plucked the staples out of John's thigh as if he were simply plucking an eyebrow.  Quick, easy and painless -- if you have the right tool.  My office staple remover would not have produced the same bloodless results, I'm afraid.  Doc told him to back-off the Percocet, stop the Aleve and move to Tylenol.  John, with a bit of a sigh, thought that was all doable; however, like most men, he is reluctant to endure plain ol' aches and pains.  Not enough to martyr yourself like the bone-on-bone hip pain from before the surgery.  With that kind of pain you can solicit grand sympathy from friends and family.  And, this he did.

His days for the next month will be highlighted with continuing physical therapy, short outings, daily walking and extra exercises (he will have to touch his toes one day), and restful naps.  He's totally enjoying the naps part.

Party time?

John greeted the day after a good night's sleep, feeling different -- like normal, like perky, like "Oh, my god" I'm coming out of the fog of the surgery. His voice over the phone today was John's old voice -- a cheerful, happy to be alive voice. The sunshine was peeking through once again.

I arrived home after work bearing prespcription refills and new bandages to protect the slice in this thigh to find him still in good spirits with only low grade, not high grade pain in that swollen thight. Our friends Piotr and Liz came over and we proceeded to party with Chinese food, berr and white wine (except for John) and much conversation and laughing. Even Toby, their sweet Beagle, came over for a good sniff about and an many pats on the head.

By 9:30 I was cleaning up and Liz, Piotr and Toby had gone back across the hall with left overs in hand. Within five minutes, John was once again stretched on the couch, leg elevated above his heart and snoring. His left leg is covered in frozen peas and ice packs. He's been asleep for almost an hour now -- TV blaring, lights on and me making noises while loading the diswasher. He's totally out to the world...so much for my party guy. Night all. Sleep tight!

Not sweatie balls -- just fuzzy balls

Our last day together as patient and care giver was fairly bright. John took his meds on schedule, drank his prune juice, and tackled his thigh inflammation with 20 minute rounds of frozen peas. Discussions with insurance companies and "heath care givers" continued. Prepare yourself for old age and infirmity -- you'll spend most of your time on the phone with agents, nurses and clerks trying to untangle the mesh of confused information and communications. John must have repeated the same information about who he is, the surgery he had done, and the prespcription drugs he is taking a dozen times. Our advice -- get organized before old age sets in. People very nicely don't answer your questions or answer then differently. Everyone - docs, hospital, insurance companies and visiting nurse and physical therapist live in their own unconnected silos most of the time. Don't get me wrong -- everyone means well and is trying to help John. It's just overwhelmingly complicated to get it all untangled.

On a sillier note, it's shower time for the first time in a week. We're going to have a couple of hold bars installed in the master shower, but until then John is on his own to balance while he washes his hair.  He got the walker into the shower (after I removed the fuzzy ball -- see next paragraph for details).  It all went every well.  As sous nurse, I washed and dried his feet (please, no religious references to men in long hair!).  


Oh, the fuzzy balls...found two practice tennis balls, punched holes in them and popped them onto the back feet of the walker. Makes the little bugger glide over floor and carpets. Lesson learned -- you pay $130 for the walker and 63 cents to make it work right. What's weird about this picture?

First day home -- lesson learned

I brought John home late Friday afternoon. As you can see in the photo, flowers from his FedEx team welcomed him.  The condo was filled with their fragrance.

Panic struck a few hours later when he couldn't get his Celebrex (anti inflammation) drug prescription filled because of insurance company pre-authorization rules.  John had visions of his staples popping out at any minute.  I tried to calm him with  ice packs while he waited to hear from the on call doc.  At 3AM I was standing in the local 24 hour CVS picking out the best version of Aleve that would have to fill in for the Celebrex until Tuesday when the doc could talk with the insurance company.  By morning, the swelling was under control, but we were both at "wits end". 

We figured out the drug schedule (I did a nice spreadsheet). It took an hour for us to figure out what was supposed to be taken, when.  Our brains are still "on" so we can only imagine how difficult it is for really old people to figure it. 

The home health care nurse came to check John out.  She was pleased with his progress and his ability to move around.  Told him to keep at it, took his vitals and checked his drugs.  He passed her inspection with Flying Colors.

Here's was we have learned:

• Care giver should not sleep with the patient if you want a caregiver with enough energy to give care the next day.
• Patient should always open a request with "Please, could you" or "When you have time" and not be cryptic with "order like" tone or language.  This will ensure that the patient lives through the recovery period.
• Care giver should remember that the pain is not your fault.  Chronic pain makes even the nicest dude loose his sense of humor.  The world feels like its caving in on the patient. 
• Patient becomes very self-centered despite himself.  Conversations center on prune juice, Colase and other remedies for the side affects of those "oxi" drugs.  Care giver should smile and endure it for about one hour then shove the New York Times at patient. 
• Patient should not race while using the walker. 

As the day ended, more flowers arrived to cheer John on. Our thanks to Sandy and Al for good thoughts coming our way.

Amazing progress in just two days

John's not exactly running down the halls today, but he's walking without a gimp down the 6th floor hall here, can slowly climb stairs and can swing himself in and out of bed.  As you can see from the picture on the right, he's stunning in a skirt and knee socks.  He'll look even better without the walker.

The only thing stopping him from moving faster is stress on the thigh incision and stiff muscles when he walks.  He'll stay in hospital tonight and tomorrow.  I'm going back to work (I think I'm about to drive him crazy here at the hospital) and will pick him up after work. 

All he needs for his clean bill of health is to poop (gross as it may be, it is important given all the pain killers he's on).  Physical therapy at home starts on Saturday.  My guy is smiling and cheery again!  Yeah!

Hard day at the hospital

It's 5PM. The sun is setting.  The anesthesiologist just dropped by to see how John is recovering.  He reported that John woke up several times during the surgery.   The spinal anesthetic cut out all the pain; however, the "la la land" sedative didn't keep him completely asleep.  One time John awoke to tell his operating room audience about his "intense intellectual curiosity about what was happening."  another time he declared "I feel the pounding on my side."  The doc quickly upped the medication and sent him off to "la la land" again each time.  We all laughed. John's research got the best of him.

This morning it was painful to stand the first time and he took some morphine; but in the afternoon he was scooting around the room and out the door into the hall using a walker.  No morphine needed. But the other three pain killers are on regular doses.  He's excited about walking the whole hall and trying stairs tomorrow.  After the morning walk, he spent the rest of the day in his chair doing cross word puzzles and reading his beloved New York Times. He also talked with the insurance company and had a great talk with our friend Ginny who had her hip surgery several years ago.  Much comparing went on! 

Don't get too excited about his progress though, he snored his way through most of the afternoon sitting in his chair in a well reclined position.  Before I leave tonight we do leg exercises.

Surgery Day + 1

I left the John smiling and well medicated last night about 7PM.  It's now 9AM and I am back in his room watching him chow down on his "southern" breakfast -- cheese eggs, biscuit and grits. He says the food tastes good.  I can't say it's the most healthy diet.  Oh, well. 

He's due to walk for the first time in about an hour so he's taking another round of Oxycondone and Tylenol cocktail.  Whoopee!  That will be followed by a slow release Oxycontin and a bit of morphine if he needs it.  Doc wants the pain numbed so he can move to sit and walk.  He also gets Chelebrex to reduce the inflammation.  I here to watch the fun! 

He's got a private room with great nurses.  Everyone is very attentive.  Before I arrived, doc stopped by early this morning, but he was asleep. The good news -- he's still smiling this morning.

John is out of surgery

I just talked with the doc at 2:45 PM. Doc said there was no cartilage separately the hip and pelvis bones.  They gave him a spinal epidural and la-la land sedation.  Surgery took about 2.5 hours.  John is groggily, but painlessly, resting in recovery.  He should be in his room within the next two hours and then I'll get to see him.  Happy dance!

Who's anxious?

Valentine's Day and John's surgery day.  An interesting combination, but I was prepared, stalward and ready to go. I had bought a romantic Valentine card and delivered it to him as he woke up this morning.  It must have scared him that it wasn't my normal quirky card, because he didn't smile or say anything, except, "I didn't get you a card."  "Of course you didn't," I laughed.  "You can't walk more than 50 feet and I had the car at work yesterday."  I kissed his cheek, walked into the living room and began to pack up my papers and computer so I could work at the hospital  while he was under the knife. 

I knew he was a bit anxious.  This is his first big surgery.  However, the pain has gotten the best of him and he was more than ready to get if over with.  I, of course, assured myself that I was not anxious nor worried.  John had told me that the doc does 5 or 6 hip replacements a week and Georgetown has a great hospital. When I met his doc in the pre-surgical room I found him to be not handsome -- a good sign of the lack of a big ego-- and patient -- he answered all of John's many last minute questions without a single sigh.  But, as I sat next to him John looked small and fragile in his compression hose, hospital gown, blue hair net and IV dripping a clear solution into his body.

Almost an hour later than scheduled, two men wheeled John down the hall to the OR.  I trailed a bit behind him.  At the elevators that took me to the surgical center waiting room, he gave me a slurpy smile and a kiss.  I smiled back and waved good-bye.  I checked in at the center's front desk, went for a bit of lunch, then came back to settle in a chair to do some needed work.  Only then did I discover that I left my RSA key on my key ring that was with the parking attendent.  "That's ok," I hissed to myself, "I put the documents I need to work on a memory stick yesterday so I won't need to access the work network."  I scavanged my bag only to discover I'd left the stick in my other purse.  I would have to work from scratch or just wait.  Who's anxious now?

Youngest grandson morphs into teenager

From the time Ian could walk, he loved clothes. As he grew, his passion for them grew. He organizes them, hangs them, carefully selects outfits before he goes to bed on school nights and has been known to change his outfit several times a day on weekends. He is an official clothes horse. When we arrived at my daughter's house on Christmas Day he immediately brought out his presents, all sorted by style and color -- enough clothes to make a new wardrobe. Skinny jeans, baggies, tee shirts, dress shirts, and hoodies, most with logos and numbers of his favorite football teams. When he opened our present - a "fur" lined hoodie from Abercrombie he didn't take it off for two days --- Amazing.

This Tuesday this sports fashionista of a kid became a young man. He's now an official teenager. Speaking to him about what he'd like for his birthday (meaning what clothes should I buy), he told me with great authority that he wanted a gray cardigan sweater and a pink plaid dress shirt. Overnight, he's turned from sports to prep. Amazing again. He called Thursday to say he gotten the package and they items were "just right". His mother told me he had already lined them to wear to school the next day. His soon-to-be 17 year old brother, who I could hear in the background, just sighed. I know he was shaking his head wondering how he could actually be related to this fashion plate.

Waiting

We're waiting. It's that time between John deciding to get his hip replaced and the operation. He's scheduled for Valentine's Day and none too soon. After a week in the office in Memphis, he arrived home Friday night barely able to move. He had to walk everyday from his car to the hotel and from the parking lot to his office. The most difficult walks were in the airports. He has to stop every 50 feet or so to brace himself against the pain. It's bone against bone.

We drove out to the boat today. The sky was clear blue and the air almost warm. We wanted to check on Forte Vento to reassure ourselves that the lines are holding well and that the bubbler is ready for preventing water icing up around her hull. John had to wait, sitting in a chair overlooking the harbour while I walked out to slip. He's side lined.

We wanted to go see an exhibit at the Corcoran, but he can't walk the museum's corridors. He can't stand to view the pictures. He tried to grocery shop with me on Saturday. He had to offset the weight on his hip by leaning heavily on the cart as we strolled through the store to pick up a few things. He pretty much stood while I gathered what we needed.

It's frightful for us. We're learning just how fragile our health can be. It's out of our control. It's not like he did some stupid thing that hurt his body. His hip just broke down. It's genetic. We worry together. But, to worry does as much harm as the fragile health itself. I am optimistic that the surgery will be a success and that my sweet man will recover. We'll be urban hikers once again by mid-April when we are off to London to see our friend Martyn. We will. We will.

Reconnecting

Reconnecting with a childhood friend made my whole body smile today. Rich Clymer, who I've know since second grade, looked me up while visiting his brother here in DC this weekend. In just a few hours, we shared years of memories and laughed at what the 47 years since we graduated from high school has done to our bodies as well as our minds. With a facebook screen in front of us, we went down a long list of classmates -- What happened to her, do you know? What about this guy, is he still alive? What is so and so doing? We filled each other in as best we knew. In the end, our alives have played out differently, but we are both pleased at our choices and looking forward to what the next stage of our lives brings. Thanks Rich. It was a great day!

Understanding where our lives are going

Donald Hall, past Poet Laureate of the United States, wrote in the New Yorker this month (January 23, 2012) about where is life has taken him now that he is 83. Like his grandmother and mother before him, now sits at his window watching his narrowed world of barns, birds and weather and laments his invisibility on becoming of "the old people -- of another world".

I read this article at 2:30 AM last night. It helped me put my work worries into perspective. No matter what I do, in the end, it just won't make much difference in the greater scheme of things -- I, like everyone else who will survive a rapid death, will end up in front of a window waiting for the last of life to past. In the smaller scheme, I do need to do the best I can -- to do no harm -- to be kind -- to keep my friends close while I have them -- and to live each day fully. That way sitting in front the window will make me smile.

The Silly Season

Following the Republican primaries these past months been heartstopping at times. To have so many men in suits (or kakais and one woman) pandering to crowds with language can only drive us farther apart. Any time anyone said anything sensible "the base" rejected the candidate. For example, when Rick Perry said he'd rather make education funding available for illegal immigrant children and children of illegal immigrants rather than create a larger underclass made real sense. It was one position I agreed with "W" on - he understood the need for a sane immigration policy.

Now that Gingrich has won South Carolina, his ability to make his weakenesses into strengths made me sit up and stop laughing when he spouts some new grand idea. I recommend the New Yorker, January 23 article on his wife, "The Good Wife" to understand more about why he his behavior is so off the wall uncampaign-like. I do think Romney, the Republicans Mr. Stiffneck, will eventually be the nominee. Why? Gingrich will eventually say something so out-of-the-box that Mr. Stiffneck will look reasonable to Republicans who have a bit of sanity left in them...so much for being a pundit. But, I am addicted to the following events blow-by-blow. You couldn't write fiction this good.

Back to work

The three day weekend is spent. Tried to use it wisely -- two movies -- Tinker, Tailor, Solider Spy and The Iron Lady; a bit of shopping -- a small red cabinet for the front entrance now sits where the seven year old beat up bargain from Pier I used to reside; a bit of home repair -- wood puttied the door hinge gaps in the archway between the living/dining room and the sitting room; a bit of home cooked dinner -- John roasted lamb and root vegetables; and some exercise -- I dragged myself off to the gym at 8AM for an hour of heart stopping treadmill.

I look forward to the rythum of the office tomorrow -- a selection memo to write; a senior staff meeting to attend; projects to watch over; and strategy sessions to schedule. If the weekend was all that there was, I could not sit about and read all the books I promised myself to read. I would go to work the Arlington Food Center. I must have purpose and that would give me purpose -- until sailing time again and then I don't need purpose. I have the water, the sun and the wind.

What keeps me up at night

It's 3:56 AM and I've been tossing for the past hour. I pulled myself out of bed and came to the living room. First, I did a cross word puzzle; then I logged onto "Words with Friends" and tried to place clever words on the scrabble boards of two games. Still my eyes poke open, refusing to shutter.

Silly stuff seeps out of my mind. It refuses to go into the rinse cycle. It washes ideas out into the air from the knooks and crannies of my brain. Maybe if I write them down, it will calm and let me sleep. Let's see -- should I go to Home Depot tomorrow to return the backsplash samples we have decided not to use? Where would we put our kitchen art that's strung around the space over the counter tops, John asked this evening? He's right. Not the right project for us now. Can we fit all the odds and ends from the old office set up into the new drawers? Maybe we can stow the wire mesh storage drawers into the closet and fill it with tools instead of having them strewn about odd bags and tool boxes. Can we find a small table to place the printer on then so the room can come to gether? Should I have a pot luck dinner next month for some senior staff women from work? Should I cook the main course? Should we start at 6PM or 7? Should I nominate one of my managers for a small reward? How might the staff perceive it? Should I try to exercise more? Can I have the discipline after working more ten hour days? Is it time to see an opthamologist to check my eyes? Might he find the beginnings of cataracts? I can't seem to read for a long time -- my esight get fuzzy, especially when I read from paper and not a screen.

Ok. One more crossword puzzle then it's back to bed. I'll turn on the radio and listen to the BBC. That should put me to sleep.

Winter Weekend

The holiday decorations are put away. The thrill of the new year has settled into "here we go again." It's cold and sunny, but there is no snow on the ground. We sit in front of the fire, watching Sunday Morning, reading the papers. John has his New York Times and I read my favorite pundits in the Washington Post. John is planning a lamb roast with root vegetables. The plants are watered and trimmed, the shelves in John's office are organized, the laundry is done and the bills are paid. Sounds ideal? It should be, but I'm at loose ends. I sit just waiting...waiting for the the weather to warm, so we can return to weekends on the water. I know it's silly. There are museums to tour, art to appreciate, restaurants to linger at, live theatre to see, and shopping to enjoy...and we do, but it's not the same as waking to the sun pushing through the companion way as water birds call across the water. It's not the same as coaxing the sails to catch a light breeze as we head home after a night or two on the hook across the Bay.

Christimas Holiday December 2011



Washington Square

We transversed NYC this year in taxis during our annual Christmas visit. John's hip has done in his ability to walk long city blocks without pain, despite the physical therapy, exercises and numerous joint remedies over the past six months. He's ready to get a replacement and will meet with the doc on January 4th. That said, despite his hip, we had a delightful NYC holiday, complete with mild weather, dinner on 98th Street on the west side with friends, visits with families, visit to the 9/11 memorial, several afternoon movies, two museums visits, several fabulous restaurant meals and a meditative mid-night mass at St. Francis of Assisi on 31st street.  All is well with both families.

Happy Holidays everyone!

That 65th birthday

On November 19 my genetic clock rang out. I received tons of cheerful Facebook messages, but, really, how can anyone be so cheery about becoming an official medicare card carrying old person, complete with chin wrinkles. It's just me and Joanie right now, but on December 4, Holly joins us....then the rest of our class of '65 falls in line.

I know I should welcome this next stage of my life, but that warm and fuzzy mantle of grandma just doesn't bring contentment. From what I've witnessed, this next stage of life -- the golden years -- doesn't live up to those sweet annuity advertisements. I want to eat like I want, but can't without adding inches to my waist. I want to run three miles without getting winded and I don't want my shoulders to feel like they are being pulled out of their sockets every time I pull a pillow around my head. But, most of all, I want elders to look up to, but my elders are dead and people without wrinkles ask me for advice. Who are we kidding here?

But hope is not lost. I got an orgasmic thrill when we bought a new vacuum cleaner last Sunday. It's self-propelled.

Season's end

The first two hours were easy. As light dawned, it was clear that there would be no sailing as we planned. We had to stow ourselves inside for the day. The rain beat on the deck and whipped around around the rigging. The heating kept us from freezing. I woke in the predawn light, threw on all the salon lights, brewed up some tea and read the last of the New Yorker and Sail magazines that had been laying about the boat since the beginning of the season.

By 8:00 I was restless. Ate come cereal then turned to do a bit of internet surfing, write a blog, do some email or read my pick up my Kindle to continue reading my book. But alas, I hadn't brought the laptop or the IPAD or the Kindle. The SIRUS radio brought filled the salon with smooth jazz. I was bored, but not crazy yet.

9:40. I dug out some old cross word puzzles and finished them off by the time John rose and tramped to the head with his cell phone in hand. I couldn't read the paper pages anymore. My sight became fuzzy as I stared at the pages. Am I getting cataracts? I put the day old New York Times down and fell into a mid-morning nap right where I sat.

11:40. Woke to 20 knots gusts knocking the boat around the slip. No harm. Our lines held well. I paced. "I can't stand listening to NPR anymore. I can't do our financial planning, pay bills, shop, write a blog or read my book. I'm going up to West Marine for some bilge cleaner." Bundled in winter foul weather gear, I left the warmth of Forte Vento.

1:00. We clean the bilge. Laying face down on the salon floor, I push rags into the bilge to soak up dirty water and oily residue. John shakes his head, but assists.

2:00. We play 500 rummy. John wins twice. The wild mushroom soup I cooked up from dried mushrooms, but my seasoning was off. It was too, too peppery. However, I rescued the mushrooms, sauteed them in butter and made a toasted cheese and mushroom sandwich with a week old bun. All I had to do was pick off the mold.

4:00. John wanted soup. He was not feeling well. Braving the elements, tromped down the dock again to gather some chicken broth just as the snow started. Errie. It clings to the dock. I almost slip off dock as I made my way back to the boat. Birds flocked all over the marina, perching on rigging. It could have been a scene right out Hitchcock's "The Birds".

9:00. We played more cards -- I won this time. It's all boring so we pulled out the Chapman's and the boat specs to review our winterization work for Sunday.

Sunday am. Sun is bright. Sky blue. Saturday never happened. It must have been a bad dream.

My Crew

With our second sailing season coming to a close, I have to admit that I've got one wonderful crew.  He works the lines, checks the engine, and pumps out the holding tank, and maintains his role as chief chef in the galley. What else could a captain ask for. 

Once a timid sailor, he now sits on the low side of the boat during a close reach in a stiff wind and smiles as if he is enjoying it all.  He's almost convinced, that the boat will not tip over in the wind.  Actually, it won't. If I let go of the wheel Forte Vento will round up and come to a dead stop in the wind, noisily letting the wind bat the sails.  It takes a much stronger wind than we would ever have on the Bay to push her mast into the water.  Even if that did happen, she'd pop right up again, albeit a bit drenched and perhaps with a torn sail.

Last Sunday we had a perfect sail -- 10-15 knots  -- with the wind at our backs headed north toward Thomas Point we had Forte Vento wing on wing -- one sail out to the starboard and one to the port.  A difficult point of sail to maintain so I was proud and my crew was amazed. After a couple of hours we turned into the wind to beat home.  A series of tacks (almost too much exercise for my crew) brought us back into Herrington Harbour -- wind burned, sun burned and tired. 

It was a perfect sailing day -- the day before, on Saturday, the wind was too blustery to even get out of the dock.  So we sat in the sunshine and wind to wax the deck to prepare against the ravages of winter hoping Sunday would bring reasonable breezes and it did.  Autumn sailing is the best!

Using the IPAD with a keyboard

I've been issued this great little keyboard that is also a holder for the IPAD when you put it away. It's thrilling. I'm back to touch typing and all the speed it gives me. Instead of a mouse, I touch the screen to put my curser where I need it. It works well. Now, I just have to figure out how to save my list of passwords (an excel spreadsheet) that sits nicely in the file structure on my windows laptop. IPAD has no file system. I'm sure my favorite engineer will have a solution.

Autumn Pesto Making

The basil plant begins to sag a bit and the bottom leaves fade to yellow.  Autumn is here and there is no time to loose in making the last batch of pesto before the previously vibrant plant dies.  There is probably a different pesto recipe for every family in Italy.  No two are exactly alike and it takes some time to find one that suites your tastes buds.  John and I found ours -- it calls for a two to one ratio of basil and parsley, a goodly portion of roasted pine nuts and the garlic cloves of a whole head heated in a cup of olive oil, finished off with a combination of Parmesan and Romano cheeses.  Our 15 year old Cuisinart mixes up a nice consistency, but not quite paste, in the end. 

Sunday was the day -- I made two batches.  Neatly stored each batch in three freezer containers.  We'll never eat it all.  They make tasty gifts for friends and colleagues.

Neither batch was the best I've done.  They were good, but not marvelous. I think it was the olive oil.  It was a bit too light in flavor.  However, as pestos go, I'd give it a B+.  The flavor certainly didn't stop us from slathering it on a piece of crusty white bread for a taste test.  Somebody has to do it, right?

Finishing Sailing the Chesapeake in September

Wednesday:
The weather did not get better this morning. As we left the slip and motored over to the gas dock and pump out station, the rain drissled down on us and clouds hung on the water. Pump out issues ensued. Their pump was most tempermental. It was only through the banking, clanking and nudging of an ol dude that had a beard and belly reminensent of Hemmingway, did we finally clear our holding tank.

An hour's motor up the Patuxent River and into St. Leonard's Creek brought us to an enchanting anchorage. The rain stopped, the clouds parted and we enjoyed a bit of sun as we lounged on deck, ate lunch and watched the wild life on shore.

Thrusday:
Our original plan was to motor back down the Patuxent on Thursday morning to another enticing anchorage at Cukhold Creek half way back to the 140' bridge over the river at Solomon's Island. However, the weather report guaranteed rain all day on Friday and into the weekend. Our eyes met, not in a romantic gaze, but in the frustrated realization that our plans to head north to the Little Choptank River at Fishing Creek for one last overnight stay and then on Saturday back to the dock at Herrington Harbour North had to be abondoned. Before 9AM we took off for home. We were going to get back to the dock today -- Thursday -- no matter how long it might take.

No wind, misting clouds, glassy gray water and out of focus land surrounded us for the first three hours. Only the burnt sienna sandstone sediment of the Calvert Cliffs broke through the grayness. About 12:30 while standing watch, letting the auto pilot control the boats movements, I noticed the wind at our backs was picking up a bit. With a bit of urging, John put up the sails and we were able to spend the rest of the day sailing home on a smooth broad reach and reach requiring only one jibe. No sunshine, but we were sailing!

Friday:
As we slept in dock that night, the rain began to fall and continued into Friday. We packed up and left for home by noon.

Was it a good vacation? Yes, we both let go of our stress over work and enjoyed cooking, doing a bit of sailing and just being together. Was it a good sailing week? Hardly, but there three days of sailing is better than non sailing and the weather did not get cold enough to require the weather proof foul weather gear. We declared the venture a success.

Sailing the Chesapeake in September

Sunday morning:
It was a grey and gloomy ordeal crossing the Bay from Herrington Harbour in Tracy's Landing (20 miles south of Annapolis) to the Little Choptank River.  We went where the wind would let us sail.   And sail we did with 10-15 knots with a few gusts to 20.  It was a single reach and the wind was kind enough to let us sail  round the serious series of green marks that led the way to Fishing Creek. We swore we would not motor on our first day out and we did not. 

We thanked the sea gods that it didn't rain.  It didn't rain because we bought $420 worth of waterproof foul weather gear, complete with bib overalls.  Turned out to be just the insurance we needed.  If the sun had been out, it would have been a grand and glorious sail. 

Monday morning: 

The sun shown through the hatches.  We rose, stretched and I cooked us a farmer's breakfast.  We had decided to take advantage of the bright day and light wind to cross the bay going south to Solomon's Island at the mouth of the Patuxent River. Before we could leave we had to retrieve, so John, in proper crew glory, stepped on the windlass up button.  Nada, nothing.  Just a burping noise of gears rolling but not engaging.  He huffed, puffed and finally pulled the anchor up hand over hand.  Not too bad if the anchor isn't buried too deep or you don't have 15 feet of chain just before the anchor   (all of which is good protection when being at anchor).  He had both.  John thought he was going to have a heart attack when it was all over.  Getting old is a bitch.

Sail was excellent until the wind died half way down the Bay, so I fired up the iron Jenny (aka engine) and motored to Solomon's Island.  We took two nights at dock at a local marina, walked to what there is of a down town, and ate rock fish tacos. 

Tuesday morning:
John found that the windlass motor had disengaged from the gears and had fallen onto the interior panel in the V berth (aka pointy end).  The panel screws were stripped.  After several pictures and discussions with our boat engineer back in Harve d' Grace, we decided it required repair way beyond our skill sets so John will have to haul the anchor by hand for the rest of the trip.  He's resigned to the task.

Today we took advantage of the access to land to visit the Calvert Marine Museum. If you like boats, boat building, crabbing and oystering, and fossil hunting, this is the museum for you.  Full of volunteers always willing to chat about their various projects, we wandered and listened to histories and tales.  We climbed the Drum Point light.  Put John's hip on resuscitator status, but he thought it was well worth it.  He was so excited that he came back to the boat, took two Ibuprofen and a long nap.  Oh, what a life in the slow lane.

IPad Testing Continues - Day 2

This morning was the test for VMware to access my agency protected network.  The sign-in went fine once I typed the password correctly, but when I brought up my email, the font was so small it was difficult to get my fat fingers to touch the screen to place the cursor. (I'd forgotten how to change the font size).  Undaunted, I pulled out my IPhone stylus.  It worked better than my finger so I was able to open and delete messages and edit text. 

Typing was less painful today as I went directly to the two finger method and watched the keys carefully.  This of course was after I remembered how to bring up the keypad in VMware.  I shouted at the screen "Where's the keypad" until my little gray cells told my finger to tap the little black box at the top of the middle of the screen. 

VMware for the IPad is only partially for the IPad.  The ability to scroll by swishing a finger doesn't work.  I had to touch the scroll bar -- which does not touch and pull easily. I turned to stylus again, but still it was a frustrating effort.  Looks like a basic lesson is scroll bars is needed and some practice on my part. 

Quite frankly, I'd rather be sailing!

IPad Testing - Day 1

First, let me warn you.  I am not writing this post using my IPad.  That should give you some idea how my testing is proceeding.  Don't get me wrong.  The IPad is fantastic for reading and entering data into simple forms.  I was able to download the NY Times, Washington Post and Solitaire apps. We can read the latestnews and play games on a sharp and easy to read screen. That is a great feature...but not exactly what you might want to use the IPad for in a work setting.

However, to actually write something is another story.

It all began last night when I decided to write this first report using the IPad.  I was able to log onto the blog, bring up the digital keypad and start the entry.  Then reality hit me.  This keypad is not my mother's typewriter.  I was formally trained eons ago in the touch typing method of the old mechanical typewriter (yes, they did once exist).  To keep your fingers placed on the QWERTY keypad-- a fundamental--causes the IPad to erupt in spurts of characters.  To effectively type, I had to hold my fingers off  the pad.  I couldn't "feel" my keys so I had to look at the keypad when I typed--a sin in the old school where your fingers learned their positions and you looked at your paper, not the typewriter keys. this gave me speed and accuracy over years of practice.  The digital keypad was designed for the the two fingers typing wizards.  I need retraining.

Realizing my limitations, I proceeded with the two (maybe three or four) finger method.  It made me type more slowly -- that turned out to be a good thing as I more carefully measured my words that poured from my head to my fingers and onto the screen.  I was error prone (fat finger prone) and had to edit without the benefit of my loyal and accurate point and click mouse.  First, I had to enlarge the screen.  To move the cursor requires that you touch the screen (duh, it is a touch screen) with just one finger to place the cursor. Not difficult and I succeeded in correcting, adding and deleting single words.

The IPad wants to help you.  That means it is always asking you "Select or Select All".  Select works fine.  The word you are working with is highlighted.  However, to "Select All" is very dangerous.  Once you figure out what and how to Select All, "Cut Copy" buttons display.  I picked "Copy", but it was "Cut" so my finished entry turned into a blank screen and I couldn't find a "Paste" command.  I had to start all over again.  You may ask, "Why didn't you just save the entry along the way?"  I tried that, but it seems that the IPad touch screen and Blogspot are not happy with each other.  It took three tries of pressing and holding the "Save" button.  By that time, I had mistakenly deleted the second article leaving another  empty screen.  "What happened to paste?"  I just don't know.

After two hours, I poured a whiskey, climbed out of the boat and walked the dock regain my sanity.   The IPad requires a few basic lessons for us ol' school folks.

Yes Virginia...there are nice people...just like Santa



Saturday night I opened my Gmail to find an unsolicited message telling me that until a few years ago, Gavin had worked at the U.S. Army's National Training Center and was an avid collector of field artillery memorabilia. He had acquired a yearbook from the U.S. Army's 172d Field Artillery Brigade, from 1941.  The original owner of the book was a Corporal Colin J. Andrews. 

He bought the book and prised it. In recent years, however, he began to feel that the book needed to be returned to the family of Corporal Andrews.  He found me through Face book.  "If  you are not the Corporal's daughter," he wrote, "Please let me know, and I will not contact you again."  If I was, he would send it to me.  He didn't want money .He wanted it to be with the family.   "I noticed on your blog that you have grandchildren," he explained. "They should see that their great-grandfather was a hero."

Refusing to believe this was a ruse, I emailed him and called the number he had given in the email. No one answered, so I left a message saying, "Yes. I would like the yearbook."  Two days ago, Gavin called.  After telling him a bit about Dad and sharing parallel experiences of  our fathers not wanting to talk about the war,  I asked how he found the yearbook.

 "EBay," he said. "Just EBay.  I've been looking for your family for almost 10 years."  I smiled into the phone and thanked him for the effort, saying that I was looking forward to receiving the book.   I will place the yearbook with the handmade french cuff and collar lace and silk handkerchief that the returning Major Colin J. Andrews gave his wife upon his return from Europe in 1946.  Sometimes people come into your life who are just plain nice. Thank you, Gavin.

Life without Television

Humidity was rising.  The temperature was exceeding 95. Storms threatened. Instead of having our 60 foot mast rising above the bay water to capture lightening as it etched the sky, we decided to stay home for the weekend. After a thundering burst of energy to clean the condo, we viewed Chris Martin's "Big Painting" at the Corcoran, then drove to DuPont Circle to a favorite Bistro Du Coin for a late afternoon lunch.

"What if we didn't watch TV for a week or so?" I asked, slipping a perfectly delectable pomme frite into my mouth after dabbing it in a bit mayonnaise.

"Why, I  don't know." John replied, looking at me, knowing I had a new project in mind.  He sighed but continued to smile at me, knowing that resistance was futile.

"I'm thinking that we've lost touch with just plain living," I replied, dipping a piece of crusty french bread into the shallot, garlic and white wine broth of the mussels pot. " I don't seem to find time to write the blog at home any more; the newspapers are left unread, and our weekly New Yorker magazines are piling up without us even browsing through them backwards to read the cartoons."

John sipped the rest of his wine. He said no more. I said no more.  We finished our mussels  and prepared ourselves to leave for the movie--the conclusion to the Harry Potter saga.  It still hadn't rained as promised. 

After the movie, at home, we played cards while we mellowed out to Rod Stewart singing classic standards -- a wise gift from my daughter several years ago. We happily listened to the rain pounding the streets and our balcony.  One thing led to another and by the next morning we realized we hadn't turned on the TV.  Was this a start?

On Sunday morning I exhausted myself aerobically at the gym. At home in the afternoon, we chopped an armful of freash basil from our pot garden and made two huge batches of fresh pesto.  We then splurged on cavatelli smothered in the fresh pesto for dinner.  Again, no TV.  Could it be that it would soon become just tv?

It's Monday night now.  I read the paper while John prepared a light salad with roasted pine nuts and sun drenched fragrant tomatoes from a colleague's garden.  The heat has subsided so we sit on the balcony. A halo moon hangs above us and a plane swoons around the building, making its way to National Airport.  I write. John snoozes. Music plays in the living room, drowned by the traffic still snaking its way up rout 50 headed west to the suburbs. Children play seven floors below us. Their voices echo between the buildings. I think I'll do a crossword puzzle, then head to bed -- or head to bed and do a crossword puzzle. Another night without tv.  Pleasant; but like all change, a bit unsettling.

The test is tomorrow when our favorite programs air -- NCIS and White Collar. We can record them, but can or will we watch them and when?

Birthday Surprise!

I'm notorious for forgetting birthdays of friends and remembering family only after the date arrives.  Don't know what it is about my brain, but those dates slip through my little gray cells as the detective Perot calls them.  I've tried writing the dates on calendars, but I lose the calendars.  I've tried electronic card services, but I end up dropping the service and lose the carefully entered reminders.  I think you get the idea.  I'm a space cadet at times.

Luckily, my daughter's birthday and my husband's are only days apart (July 31 and July 29), so I have a better chance of remembering their celebrations.  It took me several years to remember John's as it was only slightly different from an ex-husband's -- very embarrassing.  After 18 years though, someone should shoot me if I can't remember these dates!  This year I was determined not only to remember but to get perfect presents delivered on time.  After I sent Kathryn's present, I shopped, wrapped and hid John's in the guest bathroom a whole week before the day.  Surely, he had no reason to go in there when he returned from New York after being with his first grandchild.

It was with great joy I woke my guy up at 6:00 AM on July 29th with an off key, but hearty rendition of "Happy Birthday" as he snoozed on the couch (he'd fallen asleep there after an 11PM set of physical therapy exercises to strengthen the muscles around his arthritic left hip). He can't swagger anymore.  His gait is more of a hop, skip and drag on bad days.

"Thanks honey," he smiling weakly while he stretched and rubbed his eyes.
"Do you want to open your birthday present?  I got you something very special"  I chirped.
A smart man, he answered, "Sure.  Just let me get up."  He rose, pulled his hair back into its perpetual ponytail, snapped on the hair band and stood up.
"You'll have to help me carry them in," I declared as he followed me into the bathroom.
"Did you know I hid them here?"
"Yes, honey.  I thought you had gotten me over sized fire extinguishers or boat fenders."
"Well, that's not the case at all."  I sighed, beginning to feel a bit worried about my choice of present.

We took the two boxes wrapped in multi-colored birthday paper and big bows into the living and plopped them on the couch.  One weighed about 4 pounds and the other about eight or nine.  He opened the the smaller one.  The way he tore the paper back and yanked the ribbons indicated some enthusiasm.  The smile returned to my face.

"I never would have guessed," he laughed as he unrolled a thick gel mat, plopped it on the kitchen floor in front of the stove and stood on it.  He became pensive for a moment. Again,  I thought he was disappointed. I remembered the time, years ago when I was a kid, that Dad bought Mom a new set of tires for her birthday.

"Are you disappointed?" I whimpered, ready for the worst.
"No, this is great'" he bellowed. "It feels great on my hip.  I can cook forever with these mats."  He unwrapped the six foot long second mat and placed it in front of the sink and work counter.  He walked back and forth over the mats.  He smiled.  He was pleased, gave me a big hug and poured the coffee.

Lesson learned: You know you're getting old when your husband actually appreciates a practical gift like gel mats.  I'm looking forward to my tires.