Volunteers - the garden variety

Plucky Swiss chard volunteer poking through paving stones. 

This photo of a burgeoning Swiss chard thriving between a rock and a hard place illustrates the nature of the volunteers we want, whether human or plant:

• They show up unexpectedly, but at exactly the right time. 
• They never leave, except for when they die.
• They don't ask for anything. 
• They are endlessly productive and even, sometimes, provocative! (I'm thinking of the voluptuous chard, the stalwart sunflowers, the diligent dill—all in possession of the traits we desire.)
• They are strong, brave, and nutritious. 
• They fill in the spaces that might otherwise be barren and boring and prone to weeds. 

This is a now-lowly fennel plant, which will jet to four or five feet and produce marvelously fragrant seed heads and attract beneficial insects. Once the seed heads mature, I'll use the some seeds in marinara sauce.
The birds can have the rest.

Garden volunteers go forward with purpose. They're strong and they replicate. Our garden is populated by volunteers of the most opportune sort. They see a spot and they go for it.

Here we have a happy cluster  of volunteer  chard, cosmos and dill, which have survived thinning, have been mulched, and are now being  cultivated as part of the 2011 volunteer crop. Finches adore chard, so many leaves are filigreed. Still, I have frozen 17 chard meals and, as we speak, have about 10 more harvested and ready to give away or get into the freezer. I'll try for giving away first! Contact me if you want chard. 

I love this volunteer poppy and all of its kin around the blueberry patch. They make me smile. I tried to eradicate them a year or two ago (WHY??!!) but just the right number survived in the nooks and crannies. 

These sunflowers started elsewhere in our garden, planted by birds, but I relocated them to form a fall bird-frenzy area. When the seeds are ready, the birds go crazy. It's a wonder to behold. Relocation also prevents huge sunflowers from shading peppers, tomatoes, and eggplants. Sunflowers are wonderfully tolerant of rough transplanting.

Lastly, a stalwart volunteer outside of watering zones but already forming flower heads.
 Tomorrow I'm going to water this plant and give it encouragement. Come on, baby!
Think of how much fun the birds will have with you come fall!

Tourist Territory 2011- Oregon Coast

So many wild irises! We saw them in sun and in shade, in clusters and as individuals.
Coastal wildflowers are abundant in June.

Sister arrives from the Midwest for a week in Southern Oregon. What to do? We've traveled the wine routes, seen Crater Lake, shopped in Grants Pass and Ashland, attended Britt, enjoyed the Bear Hotel, been to It's a Burl, walked to Rainie Falls, floated the Rogue numerous times, and visited the Southern Oregon Coast. Now what?

This is a typical vista along the Southern Oregon Coast. The special part about this one is that my sister and I had to walk about a mile to see it, and we were the only ones. And it was a perfect day. 

One place is always fresh. We sandwiched a couple of days into a busy elderly-mom-entertainment schedule to return to the Brookings/Gold Beach stretch of the Oregon coast. We stayed in an ocean-view, sea-sounds room at the Pacific Reef Resort in Gold Beach and enjoyed a delectable meal at Spinners and a lavish breakfast at the Double D's, both walking distance from Pacific Reef.

Best of all, we had ideal 70 degree, blue-sky, light-wind balminess, which enabled us to hike a few trails in the outstanding area between Gold Beach and Brookings. Any trail could be as spectacular as these, although we did happen upon little-traveled paths, some of which required trail re-blazing. I am inspired to spend more time in this powerful place, even when the weather isn't perfect.
More photos here.

Late but great....garden is IN

Early morning sun (yes, sun!) lights up recently planted peppers and tomatoes on the right, and perks up onions and potatoes. Garlic in the forefront, planted in October, will be ready to harvest in June. We've started filling up the trenches with straw, grass clippings, manure, and compost for next year's crops. This is late May Spring has been cold and wet and we're late planting, as are most area gardeners. By "area" I mean the Pacific Northwest. Compared with more northerly locales, we've had it easy. However, temps have been cool and the ground is still wet and we've yet to see beans sprout. Heat-loving zukes and cukes are also reluctant to come out.

We fill in the trenches to keep down weeds and preserve moisture,  then the next season, dig the trenchs and pile the composted material atop the rows. Yes, it's a lot of work.

PK planting one of about 20 pepper plants. In the buckets are organic fertilizer and mycorrhizae, the magic soil enhancement.

The difference between compost and "regular" garden dirt.

In the meantime, fall and winter crops are going nuts. What to do with all that chard and kale? I traded a bunch for rabbit manure, reportedly the best of the manures, gave some to a friend undergoing chemotherapy who is juicing organic veggies and fruits, and we're eating copious amounts in salads and stir fries. A half dozen chard/kale meals are the freezer and form the beginning of the 2011/2012 food stash.

Sharing space with bluebirds

This photo is blurry, but it was hard won. I have a point-and-shoot camera and bluebirds are skittish. But despite its reluctance to be photographed,  I have come to love this bluebird and it's kin throughout the years. We have a bluebird house in our garden, and every spring a bluebird couple appears and, soon after,  their progeny. As I write, baby bluebirds may be chirruping/begging in the bluebird house. They make such a marvelous racket when I pass, and the bluebird parents fidget all the while on fence posts and tomato cages, worm or insect in beak, awaiting the right moment to deliver. When they do, the little birdhouse goes berserk. CHEEP CHEEP CHEEP CHEEP!! and on and on. Then I continue to cut chard, kale, and asparagus for my family, and plant seeds, and the bluebird parents continue to pluck worms and bugs for theirs, and plant memories of where this nest lies. It is good to share space with birds.

Back to the real world - finch society

Here's what happens when you garden. Birds come. So do butterflies and slugs, good things, bad things. But birds! We've added more bird feeders this spring, and a society of winged ones has alighted. An aviary has developed, and heading into the garden to harvest or plant becomes, well, a distraction. On a greens harvesting mission today, I skirted an island of finches perched on a tomato cage and had to run back to fetch my camera. It seems that feminism is at work with our finches.

Here the female is in a subservient position,

She's moved up in the world, but several males have left. 

Here three more males have joined the group, and it appears the female is giving a lecture!
You go, girl!

Stay away from New Orleans if.....

........ you're concerned that you will:

• Wreck your eardrums. NOLA means great music. Jazz, ragtime, rock, blues, folks, rap, gospel, Cajun, zydeco. It's everywhere—but it can be ear-splitting. Bring ear protection.

This is the famed Trombone Shorty, second from left,  at the legendary downtown Tipitina's.  He's  great, but to escape eardrum rupture,  I embraced my status as an elder and claimed territory in the sound booth, which was heavenly. Voices and trombones of angels! And one Shorty.

• Pop your buttons.  NOLA has the best food. Everything sizzles with flavor and dances down the gullet. Seafood comes in any way, shape or form—even dripping with grease, carbs if you choose— but always drenched with yum. Did I mention barbecue ribs! ? Or those doughy sugary beignets for which NOLA is famed.

. 

Shrimp salad at Mother's in New Orleans. $11! With the BEST homemade blue cheese dressing ever.

PK and I devouring hot beignets, steaming chunks of deep-fried dough dredged in powdered sugar. If you recall that I recently denounced sugar in any form, forget I  said it. This was vacation! 

• Trash your shoes and your feet. You gotta walk a lot for maximum enjoyment, especially at the Jazz and Heritage Festival at the dusty roiling historic fairgrounds. It gets messy. 



Not pretty feet after a day at the Jazz Fest. .Especially the foot on the right with a bone spur that has nothing to do with being tired and dirty.








• Be shot, mugged, or molested. During a late-night walk to our hotel, we strayed unknowingly into nearby"Projects." The street was deserted until a car drove by slowly, then backed up. A young white couple urgently advised us to, Run! Don't Walk! This is a kill zone! And they meant it. NOLA still seethes with violent crime. But we never saw it, and even with warnings, I couldn't get worked up. I am admittedly naive and optimistic and stupid and lucky enough to have never been a crime victim. I  think if you put out confidence and friendliness and the "I love NOLA vibe," you'll be OK. As far as I know, tourists are not usually targets but can be collateral damage.   



The Projects as seen from our hotel room. 

• Strain your credit card. NOLA ain't cheap. However, to save $$, you could stay up all night and nap on benches during the day. Instead, we choose a hotel near the Projects. I could include a photo of our Visa bill, but it's too depressing. 
• Be overstimulated. Constant music, art, museums, quirky shops, brilliant and not-so-brilliant street performances, tantalizing aromas, invitations to cheap and strong drink—all are ever present. Why resist?

Here we are at the Backstreet Cultural Museum in the Treme neighborhood, enjoying a private tour by the museum founder's son, who is also a Mardi Gras Indian and creator of costumes, which take a whole year to make and can be worn only five times. It was a delightful surprise. This tiny museum was founded and is curated by people deeply involved in the Mardi Gas tribal culture that includes Social Aide and Pleasure Clubs and other culturally rich aspects at the heart of New Orleans. It's pure and authentic and a treasure not to be missed. 

• Capsize your ship of time. If you stay long enough, you'll be carried onto the ocean of music til 3 a.m. in no time. PK and I ended up in a hard-driving show featuring drummer Stanton Moore and singer/songwriter/guitarist Anders Osborne that began after 1 a.m.. We were the oldest people in the room by a couple decades. We have many tales from that night, but the most noteworthy: A lush thirtyish woman sidled up to PK and inquired about our relationship. PK said we've been married for 35 years. She wanted to make sure he was still using condoms. 
• Have too much fun. When's the last time you monitored your fun meter and declared it close to maxing out? Is there such a thing as too much?
• Cause your ordinary life at home to seem, well, far too ordinary. Visiting NOLA is a menace to routine and contentment.  I'm  not quite over it. I suffered a stinging re entry into the humdrum. My most important advice about NOLA is to go there. The City can fire up the synapses and bump you a little off course, at least temporarily, which is always good. And NOLA needs you as it continues to rebound with exuberance from Katrina and the BP oil spill. More NOLA photos here.

The New Orleans experience—in photos!

Feasting on crawfish at the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival. Steve Lambros, photo.

Your blog and NOLA photos had quite an effect on us, although not the one

you'd probably expect. We discussed it and decided we must each take a

camera with us so that not a single purely NOLA moment goes undocumented!

                  Long-time friends Laurie and Steve, AKA as "Seamheads."

Theirs was one of several comments regarding a recent post entitled Too Many Photos! written before PK and I joined Seamheads for a week of festing, feasting, and testing our endurance in New Orleans. While one reader kinda agreed with me about the absurdity of taking too many photos, most of which are worthless, everybody else staunchly defended picture snapping for reasons that included: preserving memories; sharing moments with friends and family; artistic expression, and on and on. Ok, ok. I agree. But still, I ended up with way too many photos once again and became mired in editing and sorting. I'll include some photos and observations in my next post about New Orleans. Seamheads, true to their word, each carried a camera in NOLA and snapped happily throughout the city, day and night. 

See the results of their quest to capture "only in New Orleans"  by clicking the link.

My photos compare unfavorably, and I'm not finished deleting the worst, so I'll leave them 'til next time.

Too Many Photos!

Baby Noah displaying his outrageous independence at almost nine months.  No cuddling, please!
Just feed me and give me toys and space. And can I pull your hair?

I lost my camera the first day of our March vacation to Death Valley and other places in California and Nevada. Fortunately, I managed to keep track of it while in Reno with grand baby Noah, and fired off a shot worthy of archiving, if not for technical proficiency, at least for recording the reality of  a baby who is not at all interested in being cuddled. Grandpa Paul enjoyed the hair pulling as he provided sustenance.

This is Death Valley as seen from the gravel parking lot-type camp at Stovepipe Wells. It is my last vacation photo before my camera  disappeared.  This was also before I determined to take only photos that might mean something to me in 10 years .... or more. Or to someone else. This shot, while pleasing, would not make the cut.

This is how our bikes look hanging off the back of our little Four Wheel camper.

Exciting, right? This is what can happen when you have a camera and feel compelled to use it and SHARE the photos.

This does not make the 10-year cut, and is for demonstration only. Others may be interested in your children, your pets, your vegetables,  your toenails. But your bikes, probably not.

Traveling sans camera was a revelation. First I realized that not taking photos is a vacation in itself. How many pictures does the world need? How many do I need? Pictures of Noah and other family members have a small but appreciative audience. Pictures of Death Valley and the Sierra Mountains, however, have been well documented by photographers who are a million times more skilled and better equipped than I am. We discovered Galen Rowell in a Bishop, California gallery. Wow! It's clear that my landscape photos are not needed. I secretly like some of my own shots, but I can keep them to myself. Maybe.

What happened to my camera? I thought it was stolen, or even worse, that I had left it by the sink in the campground restroom. Paul discovered it soon after we returned home beneath the bench cushion in our cozy camper. I was disappointed, as I had already selected a replacement. My pocket Nikon Coolpix has been obsoleted over the past three (four?)years with much-upgraded compact cameras. Why I need sharper, brighter images, and even more foolproof technology, I do not know. But I want them. I would have shot hundreds of photos. I'm not kidding. I would have snapped my way through Death Valley, then captured myriad scenes along the incredibly beautiful highway 395 skirting the eastern edge of the magnificent Sierra Mountains through Lone Pine and the Alabama Hills and Bishop and Mammoth Lakes and then onto South Lake Tahoe and our fabulous day of bluebird skiing with vast, crisp, magnificent views of the lake. Post trip I would have been overwhelmed with  images, editing like crazy to decide which shots were worth salvaging. And who cares? Key question.

Of course after Paul found my camera, I gradually resumed photography, but with more retrospection. I was once a "professional", shooting to illustrate articles for small newspapers and a statewide business magazine. That was when 35mm film came in rolls of 20 or 36 frames, and you had to think and frame and anticipate to use those few shots judiciously. It was a discipline that I, for one, have almost forgotten with digital photography. Temporarily losing my camera brought me back to something I'd all but forgotten: pre-editing. Think before you shoot. So here follow some recent random photos that mean something to me, and why.

Chris, the professional photographer, and I, took turns at the magnificent cactus in  our solarium.

What Chris saw. This could be enlarged 100 X and still look great.

What I saw. Don't make it any bigger, please. 

Spring Cleaning—Fast-Forward, Freezer to Mouth

Winter/spring greens at their most tender and succulent flourish in the south-facing cold frame.

No corners are being reamed or closets cleared here at the ranch. Not that they don't need it. The cleaning has to do with freezers, pantries, and all the other nooks and crannies where last year's harvest was stashed. Potatoes, now history, were stored in burlap bags in the chilly pump house; winter squash occupied shelves in the cool dark pantry in the back porch, sharing space with garlic and onions, canned salsas, dried peppers and tomatoes. Fresh garlic and spaghetti squash remain pantried in small amounts. Spaghetti squash lasts at least six months in cool dark storage. Impressive!
Onions may have persevered as long, but we ate them way before they could rot. And garlic? Well, we're still using what we harvested last June, but it is yearning to reproduce or decompose. The 2011 garlic crop, planted in October, is vigorous and will be ready to harvest in June.

2010 garlic is trying to have babies in the pantry. It's still good, even at the early sprouting stage.

But the freezers! Two refrigerator top freezers and one small chest freezer were crammed after the 2010 fall harvest. Items that now need to be exhumed ASAP? Pesto cubes; chipotle cubes; blackberries; kale; chard, and two-cup portions of grated zucchini in anticipation of zucchini bread throughout the year, which, of course, I never did bake. I'm not at all into throwing any of this into the compost, although it may come to that.
Yesterday was the first of the serious "clean out the freezers" meals. Since spring has arrived, at least in name, and we're full tilt into eating wonderful spring things such as fall-planted broccoli, kale, chard, and spinach and soon the asparagus that will begin fingering through the mulch, followed by peas, and more chard, kale, and spinach, and on and on throughout summer and fall. It's difficult to dip into the freezer for last year's harvest. But it must be done.

2011pepper, tomato, eggplant starts in the solarium soon-to-be transplanted into 4-inch pots.

With so much food insecurity going on around the world, and in our own community, it is humbling to outline our excesses. We share, but we need to share more—or grow less? Maybe somebody's up for frozen grated zucchini in two-cup measures? I know that PK will pot many more pepper, tomato, and eggplant seedlings than we'll be able to plant, and he already has in mind people who will welcome them. But on to clearing the deck for the coming bounty, as a recent prodigiously caloric menu exemplifies.

An out-the-freezer dinner combined with  2011-spring-garden menu:

• Smoked trout (A yoga friend gave me frozen trout last fall. We used our Traeger Grill to smoke it a couple days ago. I buried the trimmings under where we'll plant corn.)
• Steamed fresh broccoli and kale with ample butter, fresh Parmesan. salt and pepper

Spaghetti squash Mexican/Indian casserole center  on the left with fresh spring salad on the right, and a little
smoked  trout front and center. A big dollop of chipotle sauce spices up the casserole.

• 
  Last year's baked and shredded spaghetti squash casserole seasoned with frozen basil pesto, dried tomatoes,  fresh onions, olive oil, canned salsa, and a couple T spoons of commercial  red curry unearthed from the freezer, an unlikely but delicious combo. This was baked topped with Parmesan, and then dabs of mayo and sour-cream-loaded chipotle sauce. Wow! A testament to fusing Mexican and Indian flavors, which I would not have considered if I wasn't spring cleaning.

Cole crops in March on an island. Too much rain! But they survive, and recently provided a load of broccoli and kale. Coming soon, I hope: cabbage and Brussels sprouts.

A seasonal staple for salads, soups, and side dishes.

"Fresh" from the freezer, soon-to-be soup. Ham bone, ham broth, pepper/tomatillo broth. 

Today it was soup made from freezer dregs and fresh garden greens. But mostly freezer dregs. Here's what it looks like tonight, thawing for a gourmet treatment: ham bone; ham broth; pepper/tomatillo concoction; grated zucchini; semi-dried tomatoes that needed to be frozen, and dribs and drabs of salsa and marinara. Wish me luck. 

What matters? Weather, for one thing.

Inside this nifty pop-up are provisions for a couple weeks. Despite how tiny it appears, it's quite deluxe with a heater, refrigerator, iPod hook-up, radio, and a commodious queen-sized bed that appears when the roof is extended. 

We may mock those who stoop to discussing weather to the exclusion of more worthy topics, but guess what? Weather matters. Last Sunday PK and I canceled travel plans to Reno and southern California because of serious road-blocking storms in northern California. Our brave little camper was all packed and ready to roll. We've had this trip on the calendar for months. But there we were on departure day, hunkering down to avoid trouble on the road and instead deal with home issues such as pruning and spraying apple trees, transplanting seedlings, and knocking out a few stories on a newsletter. I guess it wasn't so bad. We're leaving this Sunday no matter what!

Costa Rica—lessons from a journey south

Paul toasting our good fortune to be at Cabinas Jimenez on the Osa Peninsula in Costa Rica in December 2010. 

Note to readers: This post includes numerous links, which, if followed, could direct you toward journeys far deeper than my little excursion to Costa Rica leads you. I travel where I can, when I'm able, and in comfort. But my son's journeys are wider and deeper and challenging in every way. If you have time to follow only one link, choose the Great White Explorer. It can transport you to explorations you may not know exist in this day and age.

When I started this post long after returning from our Costa Rican respite, it was raining like hell here in Southern Oregon. February 14 shattered the 1904 rainfall  record in the Rogue Valley and interrupted weeks of balmy days when winter plantings vibrated with springness, and when we uppity Northwesterners looked toward the hideous Eastern blizzards with curiosity and said, "Oh, poor things!" But. Here's winter again.  And now I'm looking back to Costa Rica, where PK and I escaped for most of December 2010. Ahh. It was glorious. But.

We had been there only two days when our son, Chris, emailed us to say that his African kayaking expedition leader. Hendri Coetzee, had been killed by huge crocodile on an African river. Chris was two feet away, and another kayaker, Ben Stookesberry, was close by. A lengthy piece about this tragedy is the cover story in the March 2011 edition of Outside Magazine. (This is a 9-page piece profiling the amazing Hendri. It is well well worth your time. Hendri was charismatic and an outrageous adventurer. His is a riveting story, despite the tragic ending. It's almost as if he saw it coming.)
If you lose your child by a crocodile snatching, it's no more grief-making than by any other means. Car accidents. Diving mishaps. Bicycle crashes. But to us, this news was disturbing beyond belief, perhaps because we'd gotten to know Hendri though his writing on his Great White Explorer blog. The guy was an incredible writer and an extraordinary person. And partly because we felt guilty.

Hendri was taken. Chris lived, and we were grateful he did. Nearly three months later, we're still in wonder and so incredibly thankful that our son is alive and has moved on to his next adventure. Because what else could he do?

Hendri, rest in peace. Please accept the profound regrets of your companion's mother, and I know I speak for his father as well. We're grateful that Chris knew you, and know he loved you and will never forget. He takes many lessons from you. And so do we.

And so we moved on, as parents of survivors can do. (Had Chris been the crocodile's meal, we would still be muddling in a corner.) The next few weeks were a wonder of sights and sensations taking our minds off the tragedy. Two things stand out. One was our stay at a B and B called the Erupciones Inn at the base of the Arenal Volcano. The other was a lesson in letting go with good friends Catherine and Michael Wood, our Southern Oregon pals who live several months a year near Mal Pais on Costa Rica's Nicoya Peninsula.

The story: This Costa Rican dad raises Arabians. His wife runs the Erupciones Inn, a bed and breakfast at the base of Arenal Volcano. I took this photo (and more) from the patio of our modest accommodation. The little guy is two years old, and on his first "round-up-the-horses" mission with his father. Seeing this strong yet gentle parenting was somehow comforting to us, fortunate to be the parents of two incredible young men. 

The story:Here's Catherine Wood napping in her hammock on a lazy Costa Rican afternoon.  In her non Costa Rican life, she's a whirlwind. She works tirelessly for the non profit she founded, Bright Futures Foundation. But CR time is laid back. She reads. She refreshes. She and Michael play dominoes and entertain friends. They get plenty of hammock time. She's younger than me, and I have NEVER achieved the level of relaxation that she demonstrated.
There's no reason not to enjoy some down time, and so I am going to learn to do it!
Thank you, Woods, for the life lesson, and for being such good friends.
More photos from Costa Rica. 

February's promise- signs of spring

The broccoli was a surprise after removing the remay cloth that's been protecting the winter plantings for several months. Then we have rosemary, oregano, and thyme to season frozen plain tomatoes for the marinara sauce,
and baby kale and chard for the salad.

Feb 1. I went for  my first bike ride in 2011. It was brilliant sunny, about 50 degrees, and endorphin-making. Last night, Feb. 2, we enjoyed our first mostly garden salad: baby chard, broccoli, and kale, devoured with a luscious eggplant Parmesan constructed from last season's harvest. This is reason enough to rejoice for living in Southern Oregon in the State of Jefferson. But tonight, Feb. 3, was a red sunset after a warm afternoon with day lilies and  peonies edging toward the sun. I was edging toward feeling uncommonly good. A few pics below.

Kale, broccoli, and cabbage plants liberated from remay
Let the 2011 growing season begin!

Volunteer chard in the cold frame.

Winter sun slanting into the living room.

The evening sky above the garden.

Reflection looking into the house. 

Reading the obituaries- Mom's not there! Me either.

This is my mom, LaVone, age 95, on her birthday, Jan. 1, 2011. The object in the foreground is an iPad, and she is speaking (and hearing) via Skype, to  her sister in Fremont, Nebraska, whose voice she hasn't heard for years because she is nearly deaf. Despite hearing aids, regular phones haven't worked for either, But here they are having a conversation!
They're both joyful/tearful.  Who says thrills end with youth?

Obits. I've been reading them forever, it seems. Always looking at the ages of demise and comparing them with my own. Now that I've reached my mid-60s, I'm seeing a lot of untimely deaths. Every day people die who are my age or younger. I don't feel old or ready to die, yet death is not uncommon at my age.  I am 66. Damn. That sounds so frickin' old! But either I am in great shape or in serious denial. I don't feel the cold fetid breath of the grim reaper. Not yet.
Fast forward to my mother, LaVone, age 95. She was born Jan. 1, 1916.
( If you think she's 94 rather than 95, let me know. There's been some heated discussion.) Hardly any obituaries feature dear departed who are her age or older. They're all dead already.
In comparison to my mom, I am dewy and fresh!

I visited her today in her nearby "independent living facility." Yeah, right. Independent. If you can plan, shop for, and clean up after, your own meals. If you can bathe unattended. If you can handle all the bullshit of insurance and taxes and hearing-aid fittings and foraging in grocery stores. If you can go anyplace on your own. None of which she can do, and shouldn't have to. And she no longer cares about any of it. What a lightening of the load!

I wish I would have had my camera today. She was with her "hair designer", previously known as a "beauty operator." She was having her nails done, which included a luxury hand and arm massage, which I highly envied. After that was scheduled an even more massage-intensive pedicure, and then a hair trim. These ministrations were going to occupy most of her afternoon. Then she would retire to her apartment to rest a bit before taking the elevator to the dining room to enjoy a chef-prepared repast. Then, perhaps to play dominoes or bunco or bingo or one of the activities her Level 1 facility has arranged for her. Or maybe she'll just retreat to her apartment and sleep in her "dump chair", which she vastly prefers to her fancy hospital-type bed.

My afternoon, on the other hand, included ensuring that her VA benefit continues, that my clients are tended to, that PK and I are fed, and that the cat gets his broasted chicken leg. I would have liked some pampering. My day will come. My mom's day is here at last. Bless her.