The Caregiver’s Tales: A Blog
The Caregiver's Tales (A Blog)
I thought I was getting a new phone yesterday. I thought wrong. The phone was ordered in Houston. I was to pick it up at a local store just down the road. I arrived. It was there. The clerk scanned my ID and went to clicking on the computer. At the end, came the message to call home. He called. He talked. He handed me the phone. I talked. Then I was told I couldn’t have the phone, the transaction was flagged.
I’ve found myself sitting a bit too much lately, and I think it might be contributing to some of my back issues. I’m taking steps to rectify the situation. A friend’s daughter is helping me find a physical therapist, and I already have a good massage therapist. Now I just need to be my own get-up-and-go therapist and get moving. It also occurred to me, however, that in addition to dealing with an aging body, I might also be wrestling with a mild depression.
It may seem odd, but I’ve loved all the places I’ve ever lived. East to west, north to south, any place I’ve ever called home always brought something to the table. I imagine part of the reason for this is that I never heard my parents complain, although there is a chance I wasn’t listening. After all, for most of it, I was a child, just happy to be. The bottom line, however, is still the same. I remember my surroundings with fondness.
Yesterday, I was sitting on a patio listening to music surrounded by people, most of whom I knew and most of whom I’d only come to know in the last twenty years or so. There was not a single person in the audience that I had known prior to 2004, yet many of them are well on the way to becoming close, personal friends. And I had the odd thought that if a potted plant were sentient this must be how it feels to find yourself in a new garden in the fresh soil of new friendships.
But last night, as I lay in bed and the wine wore off, I revised the analogy because life is more like a river and I’m a stone tumbling along driven by chance and circumstance. There was the luck of my birth, my father’s move back to Texas, the discovery of my future wife in downtown Houston, and the chance party where I met the musician I saw yesterday. In every case I paused long enough to gather the moss of friendships on my downstream side before being pushed on down the channel.
Although, at this point, I think I’m in calm enough water that I doubt I’ll get much further down the stream. I’m probably too heavy and the river’s lost interest. But that’s okay. Lots of people and pieces of my past lives are still with me, and this place and time is invigorating. These fourscore years have brought me much happiness, and if my past experience is any indicator the future portends well, and I am anxious to see it come.
I stayed home for most of Independence Day. Read. Worked in the yard. Talked to the cats. I think you can call that independence. When the sun set and the time came, I walked into town for the fireworks. I arrived just in time to hear the end of our national anthem and see the evening sky begin to light up with a colorful display of pops and bangs. I expected more people, but there may have been other vantage points.
Independence Day. Alleluia. The day we threw off the yoke of British tyranny, and a bunch of guys prepared to be hung if it didn’t work out. Luckily, for them it did. We celebrate by popping off fireworks, so it will be noisy this evening. I might walk into town to see what the local folks have planned for the main event. I can see it from my yard, but it’s better close up.
There’s a plant growing in the middle of my driveway, with tiny, tiny white flowers, each touched with a dab of yellow, bunched around a lavender seed. You can see them on your hands and knees quite easily. I have no idea what prompted me to look closer, but I did and now I can’t unsee it. It’s attractive, and I believe I’ll try to grow more of it. It’s called Texas Frogfruit. It will fit right in with the Straggler Daisies, also known as Horseherb, that occupy most of my yard.
It’s sticker burr season. I think mine are sentient. I know the common ways they get into the house. Pants. Socks. Shoes. Pets. But we have no indoor pets, and I’ve found so many recently in the house that mine have to be traveling on their own. It’s either that or I’m being inordinately careless when it comes to my shoes and socks. I’m going with smart burrs.