Blog Jam

I am forcing myself to not give in to exhaustion today for it is stealing my life away. These beta blockers! But enough of that. I just put on the Brandenburg Concertos and have celebrated the fact that much reading has taken place so far this year.

I was quite taken with May Sarton's "The Reckoning" which is about a 60 year old woman finding she has terminal cancer. And has to prioritize the life business of the few months which are left to her.

Some rather wonderful lines:

"Her attachments now are only to those who serve her". When she realizes she doesn't have the energy for family drama or for those fluttering around her or taking her much needed energy.

"The dead are not asleep...for sleep is the domain of the living."

And how gorgeous is this:

"It was pure bliss to stretch out on the sofa then with a Haydn quartet pouring its vitality into her like wine."

"Little by little, we are more peopled by the dead."

It was a slow and wonderful read and I so enjoyed her wanting to be solitary and "desiring a lot of time to think".

I have lent it to Daughter but once she brings it back I would be more than willing to send it to one of you out there. It truly is a marvelous read (published in 1979) and way ahead of its time in many of its concepts. I will hold a raffle if there are a few requests.

As the Lodge Lurches
A rather lovely gentleman, Bill, was taken quite quickly. He was 81 and when I did my laundry on Sunday mornings would come up to the second floor community room (it's a gorgeous gallery overlooking the main community room and outside gardens and golf course) and sit there and chat to me as I went back and forth. I was surprised he was 81 as he had the energy and vigour of someone much younger. He was very good to our common cleaning lady and helped her with her cars and hospital visits. He just had a knee replacement which was followed quickly with his ulcer acting up. That turned out to be terminal stomach cancer and he died within a week of being in palliative care. So 10 days between diagnosis and death. It is such a shame his cancer wasn't "caught" before his extremely painful (and how unnecessary!) knee replacement.
Photos!
This is the outside wee area of my apartment. The artwork on the walls is mine. Instead of wreaths on my door I have yarn and needles. The two chairs are in one of the many such nooks and cubbies around the building for private talks or just sitting amongst the fine plants.

Sunday Smatterings

Thank you France!

It was a shock finding this package of Brioches Au Lait. Actually baked in France. Probably shipped (literally) to our island frozen and then tossed on the bakery shelf. Delicious. I make cheese and tomato rolls with them. I remember trying this particular delicacy on the Channels Islands way back in the mist of time when "Hey Mister Tambourine Man" was a big hit and what happened in Jersey stayed in Jersey.

Web hunting looking for an attractive device to hold my hair (none found anywhere here) I found this. Made in France yet again. And in true La Belle France elegance it came in its own organza bag with a wee satin ribbon. And my dears everyone likes it on my head with my hair piled happily beneath it. I look organized and librarian like. My look. Deceptive.

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I've had two excellent days in a row. Where walking has been less painful and I got all my mountain of laundry done. That sense of overwhelm was absent. I treasure these days more than I can say.
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As the Lodge Lurches
In the "what we don't know about people" department.
Grace's son, all 70 years of him, supervised his "muscles" (his word) - his two grandsons - today as they removed the big furniture from her apartment. A huge amount of it. Eight bookcases. Full of classics and great women writers like Margaret Atwood. This made me sad. If only I had known I would have enjoyed a cuppa with her and a good discussion on our reading habits. She was never one for newsbagging (marvellous Newfoundland word) around the halls. Like myself.

And how has your week been?

Out with the Old

I don't know about you but I am always reluctant to throw out objects that can still be "useful" even if I have a brand new replacement object sitting in the wings, waiting for an opportunity to serve me. I struggled with this old keyboard, even to the point with all the letters gone I meticulously glued little cut out letters to the blank keys.

These pasted letters were wearing out too and I was contemplating making new ones when my head exploded.

For two years I've stored a brand new keyboard, just in case. I do this with mice mouses too. They are not expensive here, maybe $10. But you know, throwing something out which is still fixable, even badly fixable, is alien to my nature. Why not suffer on with a terrible keyboard. struggling with taxes, writing, etc.

So I did it - I threw it in the rubbish bin. Far less typos and repeated efforts to peck at wayward keys now on this spanking new keyboard.

So I'm making this grand announcement of what I have done here. As I struggle with tossing cranky old wastebaskets and holy-hell-lady laundry baskets while brand new replacements sit ready and waiting patiently in closets.
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As the Lodge Lurches 2
Grace's 5 elderly daughters were in the hallway yesterday carrying out boxes and bags of her belongings. So I stopped and spoke with them. Commiseration. Sympathy. She died in her sleep. Silently, peacefully. They were happy with her lovely ending. The five are all grandmothers themselves. Grace was a different era, a different generation. Never wore slacks, always skirts and blouses and cardies with her silver hair permed regularly. Classy slippers. Panty hose. I thought of the line from a book I'd read recnetly: "Things are so useless when they no longer belong to someone" as I briefly surveyed what they were carting out. I didn't share it with them. Just told them how lovely and quiet she was and that she will be missed. How lucky these almost 70 year-olds are to have had their mother for so long. Grace grew orchids outside her front door.
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Books Read and Rated Update - see sidebar for 2020.

Sunday Smatterings

A typical lodge of the 18th century in Ireland. Many of these still existed when I was growing up over 70 years ago.

I live in a place which has the title "Lodge" in it. This is either a glamorous or depressing word depending on your history with it. If at all. I was raised in Ireland where there were many lodges, most notably those small houses holding a gatekeeper at the end of a long curving driveway leading to a mansion of the landed gentry. The lodge keeper would come out, tip the forelock if you were recognised, or run you off if you weren't. Then there were hunting lodges for the mad fox persecutors with their baying hounds and horns. But I digress.

Daughter lives in a Cove and keeps a journal of "As the Cove Turns" which provides weekly entertainment for us both, so I started my own particular journal.

I decided to do occasional little updates on where I live, in my lodge with 48 other apartments. Yes, I am "lodged" here but am not a "lodger" which implies dismal cabbage-smelling boarding houses in Bournemouth. Amazing how one word opens up so many other interpretations and riffs.


As The Lodge Lurches

My next door neighbour, Grace, 91, just died. I didn't know her well, just to chat with in passing. The Lodge is a small village. Like high school, little cliques, chronic complainers, recluses (me, selective), drunks, flirts, it is a microcosm of the human race. Little battles break out about usage of the two fine and beautiful common rooms, bingo and cards and darts versus piano practice, workshops, scrabble games. I hear about them in passing and don't participate except to ask the most wounded and hurt "And why do you listen to gossip about yourself?" Because they do. Gossip is the currency. I had warned a friend who moved in here to be truly selective as to who she hangs with and she made the mistake of befriending every lost soul and their troubles and now they bang on her door at 9 at night and because she's nosy she opens the door to them and is going mental so comes up here the odd time and pours out her distress at being the target of so many strays and being unable to stop. So now she gets drunk with a few of them every Saturday night. Old age is complex and almost child-like at times. I keep my distance and am happy that way. My boundaries are clear and I am not afraid to enforce them.

I sign off with this: