Hold on, hang on, looking forward

Steve at Squalicum Harbor yesterday

Do you like the looks of those stratus clouds behind Steve's head? I sure do. And I saw them first thing yesterday morning when I went out to do my morning exercise on the front porch. They attracted my attention then, and after I got to the coffee shop and had my usual double-short Americano and visited with Steve for awhile, we set out for a really nice five-mile walk around Squalicum Harbor. It's been awhile since I felt ready for the entire walk, but I did fine, with no pain in the right hip/leg, and simply perfect weather, cool to start and then getting on the warm side. Well, for me anyway: it got all the way up to the mid-70s before it was all over, and I never felt too hot, especially while the cool breeze wafted up from the bay.

It was our second-year anniversary of starting these Saturday walks, and I've continued to enjoy them very much. Time seems to fly by these days, as I find the days, weeks, and months whizz right on by and I don't seem to be able to catch up; another one is gone before I even have a chance to say hello!

Today I need to figure out what I'm going to write about before running out of time. It's already later than I usually start out my post, since I once again overslept. I remember waking up several times during the night listening to SG snore, but then I fell back asleep and left him alone. Ever since he started taking chemo treatments for his cancer, I have worried that he's not sleeping enough, so I am reluctant to wake him if he's fast asleep enough to actually snore. I love him and can't do much else to help, so not waking him is my secret, don't tell.

Yesterday evening we watched the Broadway show Good Night and Good Luck on our TV, which aired for free all over the world. George Clooney starred in this show about Edward R. Murrow and Joe McCarthy. Adapted from a 2005 movie that was written and directed by Clooney, in this version he played Murrow. I am old enough to remember when these events happened in real time, but of course I wasn't interested back then in anything political. I was a young teenager then, after all.

CNN aired the production live from the Winter Garden Theatre in New York City. The telecast marked the first time in history a Broadway show was broadcast live on national television. More than 20 cameras were positioned throughout the theater to bring the play to audiences at home, CNN correspondent Anderson Cooper said during pre-show coverage (the Independent).

It was on March 9, 1954 that the network first aired the show, See It Now, that looked at McCarthy's and Murrow's live television coverage. But I sure do remember all the controversy over those people who were blackballed by McCarthy for being communist sympathizers. I remember years ago seeing a production of Dalton Trumbo's struggles and eventual recognition for his works. In the end, Trumbo was eventually acknowledged as being an exceptional writer and director. Wikipedia has a very interesting post about him. You can read all about him here.

While watching the show, I was struck by the amazing parallels between what happened back then and what is happening right now in my country. So many people are being blackballed by the Trump administration for believing in DEI, which has become almost as unacceptable in our society as being a communist sympathizer was in those days. Maybe it's a phenomenon that just keeps coming up because of the way our society works: something becomes popular and then is brought down by its opposite. 

This morning my friend John will not be coming to take me to breakfast in Fairhaven, as someone has asked him to attend a gathering of old friends. I will miss him, since I am definitely a creature of habit, but I'll see him later in the week at the coffee shop. We are all growing older, and I cherish each and every day that I am still able to enjoy my routines. One of them that is happening right now is writing this post early on Sunday morning. Sometimes I am at a bit of an impasse, not being able to think about what might emerge from my mind, and as you might be able to tell, this is one of them.

Flowers along the harbor

I hope you can see how pretty the flowers are along Squalicum Harbor right now. I am not sure, since my eyesight has lost much of its ability to see bright colors. The pink and white did catch my eye, so I hope you can enjoy the colors, too. I live in such a beautiful part of the country, and for that I am very grateful. It's been a perfect place for us, and for many years to come, I hope we will be able to continue to enjoy the seasons as they come and go. There is much to appreciate in my older days, so I'll do that, ignore the rest, and keep on keepin' on.

I hope the week ahead will bring you joy and happiness, too. Until we meet again next week, dear friends, look for the bright side of life and be sure to remember to tell your loved ones how much you love them. I'll do the same. Be well.

Loved ones gone too soon

Me and Emily on Graduation Day

It's been more than two decades since Emily died attempting a risky landing at Mile-Hi Skydiving Center in Colorado. She was such a gifted person in every way, and after I moved away and came to Washington State, we still had frequent phone calls and never really lost touch with one another. However, once I was gone, she began hanging out with people who I think pushed her too quickly to downsize her canopy and take risks I would never have thought she would. But one day in December 2010, I received a call from a mutual friend that Emily was in the hospital and not expected to survive. She had a very very bad landing after performing a "hook turn" and had extensive head and neck trauma and two broken femurs. She did not survive.

I was devastated, and although it was almost Christmas, I flew to Colorado and stayed with a dear friend who was also close to Emily. I wrote about the experience here, and reading about it once again brought back the memories of how it was to be there under those circumstances. And now, more than two decades of being in Bellingham, I realize that we all have memories that will never leave us. 

Last night I dreamed almost the whole night about skydiving friends, and Emily was there, among others, and it was such a delightful reunion, feeling just as real as sitting here writing this post. I often dream in color, and last night I was inundated with lots of purple and magenta (which I associate with Emily, for some reason). I made my last actual skydive more than a decade ago, but it was such a significant part of my life that it will always come back to visit me again and again. I can recall the sound of her voice, and it seems possible that she might just call me again some days. I would know her voice instantly. I remember once when she called me to ask about what it was like to get older. She was in her late thirties when she died, but she wondered how she would cope with the loss of beauty and her amazing abilities. She never got old enough to find out, and it reminds me that none of us know what the future holds, but here I am well into my eighties and I also wonder the same thing, as I begin to lose faculties I have always taken for granted, like sight. The others feel almost insignificant in relation to that crucial ability.

I can still feel the loss of many of my dearest friends and family, but they are never really gone, as long as my mental synapses continue to fire. It is what life teaches us if we live long enough. We are all in this together.

We call that person who has lost his father, an orphan; and a widower that man who has lost his wife. But that man who has known the immense unhappiness of losing a friend, by what name do we call him? Here every language is silent and holds its peace in impotence. —Joseph Roux

I am no stranger to the loss of family and friends. You just deal with it, everybody has to find a way through grief, the opposite side of joy and happiness. They go together, always have and always will. When I think of the 8 billion people alive today, on this June morning, each of us will one day die, and in the interim we will say goodbye to one another in myriad ways. It's part of being alive.

Estimates suggest that approximately 108 to 110 billion humans have died since the dawn of humanity. This number doesn't include the roughly 8 billion people alive today. The total number of humans who have ever lived is estimated to be around 117 billion. 

When I went to Google to find out this information, I learned it was something compiled by AI, with no references supplied. It also told me that this estimate represents 94% of all humanity. The first humans had to learn how to live and how to die, without anybody giving them any clues about how to endure the pain of loss, and how to die gracefully. There have been a few guideposts, landmark people in history, who still inspire us today: such as Gandhi, Nelson Mandela, and of course religious icons such as Jesus and Buddha. I have read many books by inspirational people, and many of the lessons I have learned over the years have become part of my own life's journey. I think this is true of many of us, as we navigate our individual ways, and each one of us seems unique in our approach to deal with the vicissitudes of life.

 Although I have lost much during my lifetime, I have also experienced and gained much as well. When I think of the decades of life I've already lived through, I could concentrate on any particular aspect and find both joy and sorrow in abundance, and that gives me so much pleasure to contemplate. I am blessed to have lived through a period of immense change, giving me a perspective on today that many younger people do not have. And I have gained a family comprised of digital connections that is new and exciting, don't you think? You are reading my thoughts that are created and written down just this moment. I have read the news of the day, from all over the world, almost instantaneously. It's a colossal world, filled with amazing creations that I am privy to. I am astounded when I think of it, and now I can press the "publish" button and be connected with thousands, perhaps millions of souls, just like that!

My sweet partner still sleeps next to me, quietly breathing in and out, and I realize it's time to get ready for the rest of my day. Holidays are behind us, so I can join John at our favorite Sunday morning breakfast spot. I am looking forward to the rest of this unique, perfect, joyous day. Until we meet again, dear friends, I wish you all good things. Be well.

Standing on the precipice

Almost to the top of Church Mountain

I don't know if I will ever again be able to climb to this summit, as many of us did a decade ago, but I know how fortunate I have been to get to this spot, to look out at an almost 360-degree view, high in the wilderness. I've actually gone on this hike at least a dozen times over the years, and the last time we attempted it (with me along) was a year ago. One of our hikers grew short of breath and we ended up turning around before the summit attempt.

I was fine with that, since these hard climbs of more than two thousand feet of elevation are no longer easy for me. Well, they were never exactly easy, but I felt in my element and kept up with the group. There was always one person stronger than the rest, and usually one that was slower, and I just wanted to be in the middle and not stand out in any way. All those years of climbing and standing on the precipice of one summit or another will always be with me, but we all need to acknowledge the passage of time and how it affects our abilities. I still walk the half-mile distance to the bus stop most weekday mornings, but the weekends are different, even when we don't have a long holiday weekend. The bus schedule is different, and the first one headed to town doesn't start until around 6:45am. I usually catch the 7:20 and enjoy the walk, even if it's raining. Which is often is, but not today, with abundant sunshine and mild temperatures. While much of the country is experiencing a heat wave, we have been spared, and we haven't had our usual days-long late spring warmup. No, it's been cool and (to me) delightfully brisk. I know how to layer my clothing to make it easier to stay warm at the beginning and gradually remove stuff as I (and the weather) get warmer.

Looking in my pictures for something to remind me of the days when I would go on long and strenuous hikes, I remember a few standout precipices that remain in my memory banks. One was in Colorado, when I would hike the fourteeners (14,000 foot peaks), usually with at least one other person. We started out early, usually before the sun came up, to get to the trailhead and begin the journey early enough to be back off the mountain before the inevitable summertime storms would move in. I don't remember which mountain it was when I somehow got lost and needed to find my way back to my hiking partner. The only thing I could think to do is hike upwards until I found my way back. I reached what looked like a faint trail and followed it, and I will never ever forget the shock of looking over the edge and seeing a thousand-foot drop, straight down. I backed away from that and started to descend, eventually finding my way back to the trail and my companion. The danger was real and I could easily have been injured, or worse. It stands out in my mind when I think of mistakes I have made and predicaments that turned out fine but will never recede from my memory.

Today, I stand on another precipice, one of watching my aging body growing more and more unwilling to take risks like I have done my entire life. From that first scary moment of learning to ride a bike to standing on the edge of an airplane and getting ready to jump, I have been addicted to the idea of adventure. I found this quote from Helen Keller:

Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing. —Helen Keller

I find it interesting to ponder what it must have been like for someone like Helen Keller, who couldn't see or hear, but who made a life of adventure and discovery like no other. She lived to be 87, she graduated from Radcliffe, and knew several languages in Braille. Wrote books and gave lectures (I wonder how she did that, since she couldn't speak well, not being able to emulate speech) and was sought after by many who admired her spirit of adventure.

A beautiful world

Although I might not be able to reach a summit like this one again, which I believe is taken on Hannegan Pass once long ago, I can still remember what it feels like to stand on a precipice and look over the edge. That is something that will never be lost, as I move towards the next great adventure that I can find in life. It becomes harder to find the same adventures I enjoyed in my youth, but new ones, smaller perhaps, still emerge from my days, when I look out at the wonderful, beautiful world that I inhabit.

I do hope you will have a wonderful, memorable Memorial Day, and I am so grateful to all who gave their lives in battle. If I had one wish, it would be that war would no longer exist on our sacred planet. Until we meet again next week, dear friends, I wish you all good things. Be well.

Starflowers

Pink Egyptian Starflowers

These amazingly fragrant and abundant flowers are showing up everywhere I walk these days. It seems I just went through this neighborhood last week, and there wasn't a single pink flower here, but look at today! (Okay, yesterday.) And this is one another of those flowers whose scent I know well, but am I actually smelling them today or just remembering that smell? As my old reliable nose and memories collide, and as time continues to deteriorate my senses, I wonder about it. Who knows?

I learned that the diminution of the ability to smell certain things is known as hyposmia, rather than anosmia (complete loss of smell). I've been dealing with this issue since I first began taking lisinopril many years ago. I didn't notice the lack of smell for quite a long time, as it was very slow to develop. And some things I have always been able to smell, such as the scent of roses and a few other flowers. But slowly I began to realize that other people could smell fragrances that were not available to me. I soon realized that I cannot smell certain biological smells, such as poop and farts. Now that isn't such a bad thing, but it means that I cannot assume that my farts are not toxic to others. I discreetly slip out of the room if I have to let one go in public places.

It has not led to any loss of taste, however. Although I use hearing aids, I don't thave severe hearing loss (thank goodness), but one by one my senses are growing dimmer and less available as I move into late elderhood. Sometimes I wonder if it's a normal aging process to lose these abilities, in order to get one accustomed to finally losing them all. As I get older, I find that I am less distressed by these senses beginning to dim. I remember so much of the joys of living with these senses that I am not sure I am not simply filling in the gaps with remembrance. And if so, does it really matter?

Probably the hardest sense to lose is the one of sight. That has been a real distressing part of aging for me. But even that is quite doable, with all the new technology we have available to us, such as audio assistance, and my favorite new toy, magnifiers. I have amassed quite a collection of them, and I am always looking to find others to help me cope with my degrading vision. With my inability to see beginning to fade, I am learning to find other ways to enjoy my continuing abilities. 

And it's not like I can't see at all, but that my central vision is going. In my right eye, it's completely gone, but I have good peripheral vision, so if I want to see a detail with my right eye, I get out a magnifying glass and look at it sideways, sort of. Or use both eyes to figure out something that I am looking at. The cost of these eye injections is awful, too: not only do I have to endure a ten-second jab, but I now also must pay more than $400 for the privilege of having that stuff injected in my left eye. They aren't even bothering with the right eye, since that central vision is gone and not coming back. When I mentioned in another post the cost of the treatment, people wondered why Medicare doesn't cover it. Well, they cost $5000 per shot, and that is my "co-pay." And the injections don't actually prevent the disease of geographic atrophy, but simply slow its progression down.

I am just going to let nature take its course. In July I will get another injection, but then I will stop. I don't have that kind of money and it also doesn't help all that much. Nobody knows how much it might slow things down, but I've grown quite able to accomplish much of what I've always done. Looking at photos of scenes that are mostly dark are hard to see, and once I figure out what I'm looking at, my brain manages to fill in the rest. I can still drive, carefully and not far, but it's still possible to be safe if it's sunny and bright out and I am familiar with the route. 

I also have still not begun to join the Senior Trailblazer hikes again, since I fell in February and really did a number on my right hip, the one I injured in 2000. I have been through plenty of trauma in my eight-two years of life, and now most of it is because I still often forget my limitations and come up against them. But there are plenty of people out there who are not as agile and strong as I am, so I will count by blessings and remember how much I can still accomplish. For one thing, I'm sitting here in a dark room staring at a white screen, and I can write here without much difficulty. I notice how much easier it is to see when there is plenty of light.

wveral miles without difficulty, and gradually my hip and right leg are getting stronger as I continue to walk a few miles every day, and I am able to manage up to five miles right now, with more ability to come, I'm convinced. It's a long ways from here to being totally disabled, something that many people learn to deal with. Maybe that will be me one day, but not today.

I managed to oversleep this morning, so I don't have as much time as usual to compose this post. John will be coming to get me for our usual Sunday breakfast, and I need to get my exercises done, and my meditation as well, before he comes in his chariot (er, truck) and transport me to Fairhaven. He had another event last week and I was surprised at how much I missed seeing him. Here it is already another Sunday, and I am glad he will be coming soon. But that means I need to finish this up quickly and get out of bed, get dressed and start my daily routine. This Sunday morning post is part of it, and I'm so glad that there are still so many wonderful ways for me to enjoy the day ahead. And, of course, I have my dear sweet partner, still sleeping next to me, and I have you, my dear virtual family, whose posts will have to wait until later today for me to read them, but they are there, and I'll find out how all of you are faring on this late spring (or late fall) day. Until we meet again next week, I wish you all good things. Be well.

Happy Mothers' Day

Me, Norma Jean (and doll),  and Mama

The only way I can date this picture is by noticing that my sister PJ (born in 1950) is not yet on the scene. So I must be six or seven. That means Mama was in her early twenties, looking very serene in white, with her beautiful auburn hair pulled back. She had long, luxurious hair, although you couldn't tell it much from this shot. Although she had some reddish cast to her hair, she amplified it with henna treatments. I well remember the dark "mud" she put into her hair, working it in well, and then covering her entire head with a warm bath towel. She didn't forget her eyebrows, either: they were also covered with that same mud. They looked fierce and a little scary to me, but when she washed it all away, she was even more beautiful than before.

I really don't know if I believe in reincarnation or life after death, but it sure would be nice to think that someday I might once again find myself in the presence of my mom, who died in 1993. I found this piece that I wrote in my 1985-86 journal:

"Saturday night after the Winter Solstice 12/21/85":

I watched Mama today make fudge and noticed that she "fudged" often on her no-sugar diet. She often waxes eloquent on her lack of a sweet tooth, but I know better. Somehow it doesn't count when you're cooking. But I watched her being happy today, too. We worked hard, her harder than me; she made four loaves of homemade bread (yum!), more cheese balls, and, of course, the fudge.

Tonight I watched her become animated as she talked with Richard about her golfing days. I thought of her damaged heart as she poured in the alcohol and sugar, but somehow it didn't matter in the way it did before. I recognize her loss to me will be great, but as hard as it is to picture this vital loquacious woman gone from the face of the earth, no one can deny that she is enjoying herself today. She lives close to the edge and I admire her immensely -- once I remove my judgment about what she should be doing... Many lessons here for me to learn for myself.

A description: She sits in a chair as though at a bar after 18 holes of golf, relaxed and talkative. Her left hand holds her drink, her right gestures characteristically, almost royally, as she tells her story. A flush creeps into her cheeks and across her nose, giving the illusion of health. Ruddy-bright, eyes sparkling with good humor and wit. Her torso is thick, but somehow she carries it with good grace, and the long slim legs give her the look of a dancer, a chorus girl perhaps. One can imagine her as a young beauty queen. And she is still, to this day, a beauty.

When she is home during the day, unmade-up, no prosthesis covering the mutilation performed a decade and a half ago upon her body, she is even more interesting. Her left shoulder is higher than the right, the scar tissue having drawn tight across the collarbone, and the strange flatness across her chest is somehow protective of that area. Great trauma has visited this body, and the spirit has molded it and made it beautiful, in defiance of the cold merciless surgery that has been perpetrated upon it. She is my mother, and I love her.

Oh, Mama, you still come to me in my dreams now and then. Not as often as you did a few decades ago, but you still appear to me, the same person who gave birth to me and to my siblings. That little girl with the doll will turn 80 this summer, beginning her ninth decade of life. Every once in awhile I will be reminded of the way Mama was and will experience a sharp frisson of grief, even after all these years.

Yesterday I didn't get my usual walk in with Steve, since his daughter (who lives on a nearby island) is in town and they will enjoy the weekend with one another. And today, John will not be coming to pick me up for breakfast, since he is joining another group who are going to breakfast together. I'll miss him; it's hard for me to change my routine, but it happens now and then and makes me realize how lucky I am to have such good friends, who are around most of the time. 

When I look at the weather for today, it seems we will not be getting the expected rain after all. It might show up tomorrow, but for today, we are going to have a dry one, which means I'll be able to get in a good walk, probably down to Squalicum Beach to enjoy that reconstructed pier now open to the public.

If you are fortunate to have your mother still alive, I do hope you will have a chance to communicate with her today. And if she is gone from this world, you still can send her your thoughts and thank her for her part in your journey. I am asking her to come visit me soon. Through dreams and recollections, she is still around and part of me forever. Until we meet again, dear friends, I wish you the best of everything. Be well.

Vagaries and vicissitudes

Laburnum (Golden Chain) tree

Yesterday I went for a fairly long walk with my friend Steve. I hadn't yet made it all the way from downtown Bellingham to Fairhaven and back (about five or six miles) but had worked my way up to almost five miles without pain, so I figured I could do it, more than three months after my unfortunate fall on the ice. I did fine until the final mile back. We passed by several beautiful trees in bloom, such as this gorgeous Golden Chain tree. I couldn't think of the name of it, hard as I tried, because my brain kept coming up with "Golden Showers" and wouldn't budge off it. It wasn't until I got home and looked it up online that the real name came back to me. Brains are like that, especially mine at least, as it has gotten older.

I have always loved the English language, and I used it for editing and writing essays while I worked as an editor during my long career at the National Center for Atmospheric Research (NCAR) in Boulder, Colorado. I have been retired now for almost two decades but still love to find new words and new concepts. For the most part, my mental processes so far seem to be working well, and although I will find typos and other mistakes in my work, I am usually diligent about editing until it is as error-free as I can manage. Even with my failing eyesight, a misspelled word or one used incorrectly will usually jump out at me.

What I am having to get used to is pulling a word out of my brain that isn't quite the correct word but it's almost right. The other day I was explaining to someone about the problem with my eyes, called GA, a late-stage form of macular degeneration. GA stands for geographic atrophy of the macula, responsible for central vision. But I couldn't find the word, instead coming up with "geriatric atrophy" which seemed almost right but the real word, "geographic," just wasn't present in my mind. I guess that happens more and more often as we age, but it drives me crazy. I also find myself unable to pull up specific words in conversation, and end up frustrated as I fill the missing space with something inane, like "you know, the little handle to make the toilet work," or something like that. Sheesh!

My only way of communicating with you, my dear reader, is with the concepts and stories that I come up with. I think of something I want to say, then I figure out the words that will convey the thought. And sometimes I get completely off track because none of the words are working right. Or is it my brain that is not working right? I find it all fascinating and a little bit frustrating. 

Our normal waking consciousness, rational consciousness as we call it, is but one special type of consciousness, whilst all about it, parted from it by the flimsiest of screens, there lie potential forms of consciousness entirely different. —William James

I will sometimes wake from a dream that feels more real that the waking state I find myself in. Some of those dreams are still with me many years later, and I can recall them very well, although I know that every time I recall a memory, it is a little different than the last time I visited it. One particular memory, where I was laughing with my mom and sister, I don't know about what, but I can still remember the wonderful feeling of laughing until my sides hurt. And when I woke, I was still laughing and smiling, filled with chuckles about who knows what.

Those two words I title this post with are almost the same in meaning, and I was trying hard to find just the right word to describe my feeling about the unwelcome change in my ability to use words correctly. It didn't help much that these two words both came to mind, and while I looked them up just to be sure, I don't actually know if they are truly different from one another. Describing the "vagaries of life" means dealing with an unexpected, usually negative, change, while the "vicissitudes of life" means about the same. They are not well used words these days, but I am fascinated by them whenever I come across one in my reading. Do you have similar words that cause you to ponder their meaning?

There are so many interesting words to know and learn about, and even now that I am struggling with being able to see, I still cannot give up reading (or listening) to articles and stories, and that will continue as long as I have any sight at all, I suspect. One at a time, my cherished faculties are slipping away. And one day, I'll be happy to lay my head down on my bed and breathe my last. It's the way things are supposed to go, and even though there are plenty of people much older than me, still pretty much intact in their abilities, there are many others who have already died, or are losing those abilities slowly. I'm getting used to it.

It's hard to imagine that I am the same person, just older, than the one who made thousands of skydives and taught innumerable others how to do it. It's also hard to imagine that I bore two children and raised one of them to adulthood. And that I had a career that let me travel all over the world. Or that I became a hiker who spent years, not all at once, discovering the wonders of the Pacific Northwest mountains and valleys.

And now, I am writing my usual Sunday post while propped up in my darkened bedroom, with my dear partner still sleeping next to me, and life feels quite full and exciting. We are traveling together through the vicissitudes of aging, and finding it still very fascinating. I feel very lucky to have found my virtual family and spend some time every day finding out how you, dear reader, are dealing with the vagaries of growing older.

So, until we meet again next week, I hope that you will find some wonderful and unexpected moments in your days ahead. My friend John will pick me up for our usual Sunday morning excursion, and I will look around at the world and be grateful that I have such a full and happy life. Until we meet again next week, I wish you all good things. Be well.

Volunteer party and more

Michelle and me

On Friday, I attended a gala party held by the staff at the Bellingham Senior Center, to honor the volunteers (I am one). Although there are more than 300 of us, about 125 signed up with an RSVP to attend. My friend and co-worker Michelle asked me if I would be her date, and I agreed if she would drive and pick me up and transport me to the Senior Center. She readily agreed, so we ended up arriving in time to be regaled with the theme: Mardi Gras (a little bit late, but whatever). We received beads, masks, and this lovely tapestry to stand in front of to have our pictures taken.

The makeshift "bar"

As you can see from this picture (the clock on the wall), our party began at 5:00pm, and many of us headed to the coffee bar that had been turned into a regular "bar" for the evening. We had wine, beer, and plenty of nonalcoholic fruit drinks. After taking that first picture in front of the tapestry, we were seated at tables (our usual lunch tables, but covered with tablecloths) and served three dishes: a lovely salad (with not a single lettuce leaf in sight), some fancy chicken dish and a side of veggies, and finally a creme brulee sort of dessert. It was lovely, and I think we all enjoyed being treated to such a fun event. Apparently they do this every year, but this one the first for me. 

It was still light out when Michelle drove me back home. I spent a few moments with my sweet partner before heading to bed. I was really tired, since the night before I hadn't gotten much sleep. I made up for it, though, barely moving during a more-than-nine-hour sleep. I woke Saturday morning feeling great and well rested.

My friend Steve and I had a nice Saturday walk around the harbor, and we enjoyed the sunshine and light breeze. It never got all that warm yesterday, even though the sun was shining brightly. It's been cool and perfect for someone like me who really doesn't feel comfortable in hot weather. I know there are some people who would be complaining about the temperatures being cool, but I am not one of them. And I was able, yesterday, to walk almost five miles without incident. That makes me very happy, thinking that it won't be long now before I might be able to join one of the Tuesday hikes again. But I will be taking it easy and not pushing myself. I have become a member of the octogenarian crowd and learning how to navigate through it without becoming too sedentary.

I had some rather unexpectedly good news when I got my eye jab this week. Because the left eye seems stable, I will not need another treatment until late July! That means a twelve-week period between jabs. I know that the shots don't stop the progression, but slows it down significantly. I was afraid that by this time I would have lost my central vision in both eyes, but fortunately I can still read using low vision settings, and recognize people by using my left eye. Not having central vision in both eyes has definitely been something to adjust to, because without realizing how much we need both eyes for depth perception, I now have difficulty making sense of pictures. They need to be bright and distinct, or my brain can't interpret what I'm seeing. Once I do figure out what I'm looking at, I am actually surprised that I had such difficulty, because it seems obvious once the puzzle pieces coalesce. This getting old business takes some getting used to, and nothing stays the same for long. 

Everything considered, I feel very lucky to be in as good a situation as I am. The country is going through some unpleasantness, and it seems to be everywhere. I was very sad to see that Pope Francis died, but he was 88 after all. Most of us don't make it out of our ninth decade of life, and he was only six years older than me. I am beginning to understand how one's perception changes as we age, and suddenly it seems quite normal to settle into a comfortable chair and put my feet up. I've spent most of my life being active, and now I'm reaping the benefits. I just wish my eyesight had kept up with the rest of me. Oh well, I am sure there are many lessons to be learned. It seems to me so basic: to have friends and family to commiserate with, and ways to still enjoy and give thanks for my life, my friends, both "skin" friends, and virtual ones, too.

Now it's time to wrap things up and enjoy the rest of my day. John will pick me up for our Sunday breakfast, and I will read your blogs and find out how your lives are going on this spring day. Until we meet again, I wish you all good things, dear friends. Be well.