Notes from the Bog

I decided that if I ever write a book, which I won’t because I have absolutely nothing to say (as you’ve noticed), it would be a memoir, even though my life has been unremarkable. I would call it I’m Sorry. (I always name my stories before writing them, and have since I was little.) If there were a corpus of my speech patterns, “sorry” would surely emerge as my most frequently used word. I even apologize to dogs and walls if I bump into them when passing by. (I do use it appropriately sometimes, too, like when I accidentally bonk Ember on the head or do something thoughtless.)

In my last post, Ember and I were careening recklessly toward the winter holidays. Now it’s over, and I can barely remember any of it. Let’s see what I can summon to mind.

She and I were eager for the break, when she got to visit her family in Chico and I planned a largely responsibility-free week for a change. After delivering my loaner-child to her paw Jason in Winters, I aimed east toward the foothills for a change of scene and time with Nevada County friends, whom I don’t get to see enough. It was lovely.

One activity was a tour of two houses for sale in the area. Why do that, you might ask, when I love the Bay Area and don’t ever want to leave? Thing is, it’s so pricy here and I don’t know if I can afford to stick around. So I go through phases of exploring real estate listings hither and yon. There’s Chico, where I’d be close to Eleni and family. But… I’d hate it there. Sacramento isn’t terrible (I lived there for four years) but… it’s not cheap either, and anyhow I don’t want to be in the same town as my butty ex-boyfriend who ghosted me. And then there’s Nevada City, my home base for seven years in the ‘90s. But… by the end of that stretch I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I did like living on my own in the woods, but stacking and hauling four cords of oak each winter (my sole heat source) got old fast. What was truly awful, though, was the disproportionate number of narrow-minded, back-stabbing people there: big fish in that little pond. I couldn’t abide such pettiness in high school and have zero patience for it now. But… three dear friends still live there, and it is a little cheaper than the Bay Area, and I do like the nature aspects, and it’s closer to Chico but still not too far from Lulu. But.

The minute I returned home I plugged in the lights on my festive and aromatic tree. I was excited to show it to Molly and Joshua on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, a day or two hence.

Meanwhile, up in Chico, all were enjoying their reunion. A few days into it, Eleni texted me the following:

[Ember] began singing to the tune of some Christmas song (I forget which one): “I have the be-eh-est grandmotherrrr…”

I don’t need to tell you how happy that made me, and how shocked I was.

Molly is the most Covid-cautious person I know, with the exception maybe of Eleni. Me: I’m so careful that it sometimes annoys my friends, like when I won’t eat in a restaurant or go to a movie or concert with them. But my children by comparison almost make me look reckless. And yet several days before the big day, Molly—after doing everything right—was exposed despite precautions, and succumbed. I won’t write about that since it’s her life, but it was awful for her on a bunch of levels. (She’s finally okay now.) And of course I was disappointed for myself as well, but I had 12/29 to look forward to, when Eleni and family would come down to join Molly, Josh and me for our celebration.

Though I was disappointed at the change of plan and unhappy at Molly’s unhappiness, spending time alone is also good, especially considering how seldom I do it these days. I wiped my calendar clean so I could just do whatever, whenever. So with unlimited time and no obligations, I kept getting swallowed by a variety of random, spontaneous projects. Clockwise from upper-left: knitted fingerless mitts, decoration of a Christmas present for Emmy, a sewn Quirkle (great game) tile bag for TJ and Richard, and a drawing of a strange tree.

On Christmas Eve we had a family Zoom for our traditional reading of Clement Moore’s The Night Before Christmas.

During our video chat, I glanced out my window:

My mother and sister did an amazing thing: sent me all kinds of Christmas stocking stuffers. Before Em left, she tucked them into the sock for me. Here’s my excavated bounty.

My kids gave me great stuff, too. From Eleni, a print of classic West Virginia foods. Unfortunately it doesn’t feature my favorite, which I discovered at a bluegrass festival one year: the “vegetarian platter,” which consisted of buttery limas and ham hocks.

From Molly, a fill-in-the-blank book that I’ll excerpt here:

As the day approached for my children and their human attachments to arrive, assuming negative tests all ’round, I put finishing touches on the Jack Horner pie. It was one of Grannie’s traditions, and Ma, Katie and I have continued it. It’s a box of presents, each attached to a string with the recipient’s name at the end. On the count of three, we yank our cord and out flies our goody, invariably thwacking a neighbor on the temple as it rockets through the air toward its rightful owner.

But then came more bad news: Molly was still testing positive, and all five of my Chico family members got sick too (colds, not Covid). So I tucked my pie away atop a tall bookcase for another time.

Instead, on the 29th Jason and I met again in Winters, where I gathered up my still-sniffly granddaughter and brought her home with me. A few days later the rains began, and have continued most days since. It’s gettin’ pretty soggy here.

It’s nice to have my wee one back again.

Have you noticed that some adults, when around little kids, get preachy and make a lesson out of everything? It’s obnoxious. It seems I’m guilty too. A few nights ago, when I was reading to her at bedtime, she asked why there were so many cracks in the walls and ceiling of her room. “Oh, that!” I replied eagerly. “Well, have you ever heard of lath-and-plaster? You see, back in the old days, what they did was—“

“Uh, can we just read?” my little one asked.

Dang, I’d really wanted to teach her about wooden slats.

She and I celebrated New Year’s Eve together with ocean trout and sparkling apple cider, enjoying the final evening with our beloved tree, and then watched the ball drop on East Coast time, safe from the rain in our comfy house.

The following morning our beloved holiday guest began its new life as compost. (According to my calculations, $177 over 35 days equals $5.57/day for the pleasure of its company.)

The next day I went to the first session of the wheel-throwing pottery class I signed up for last month. I’ve wanted to do something like this for years, but it took The Great Pottery Throw Down to nudge me into action. Man, is this stuff hard. But it’s cool to learn a bit of something I know nothing about. Here’s the product of my first spin.

And yet more rain and wind. As Ember and I walked to school last week during a brief respite, we passed a victim of the storm.

See how the trunk indents just a bit, exactly where the hatchback bows out by its side doors? It’s like they’re spooning. There was not a single scratch on the car. (I changed its license plate for privacy reasons.) Amazing. While I’m happy for the car’s owner, I don’t understand such luck. I have no doubt that were it my car, it would have been pancaked.

After even more days of sodden weather, the ground squelches when I walk across the yard. Around midnight two nights ago I was awoken by a crash out back.

Ember slid the boards back into place yesterday morning, and my neighbor and I will brace them so we can postpone the $3000 repair.

I’ll bet you’re tired of reading this junk now, but I’m not quite done. Sorry.

Here’s an excerpt of a text exchange Molly and I had a couple nights ago. Context: as you may remember, Tinna (“a bad girl”) was my imaginary friend a few years back, when I was four.

GA: I think you should get a tattoo that says “Tinna.” With a heart.
Lulu: [No confirmation]
GA: How many times do I have to ask? Man. It’s the least you can do. For the nine months I carried you, no charge.
Lulu: No, I was gonna do Tinna with some hardcore, like, barbed wire and flames around it.
GA: And a heart.
Lulu: Oh, FINE.

Tattoo designs courtesy of Lulu using DALL-E’s artificial intelligence, which wasn’t quite intelligent enough to spell “Tinna” properly:

Finally, on Eleni’s recommendation, Ember and I watched the new Matilda: The Musical, with score by the wonderful Tim Minchin. It was great. (So was The Banshees of Inisherin with Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson.) Look at how Covid has changed movie credits:

Okay, now I’m caught up. Bye. I’m sorry.

Stay dry. Stay healthy. And keep your pecker up, as my grandfather used to say. It’s hard times for so many of us right now. Just about everyone I know is struggling with one nasty reality or another.