The Caregiver’s Tales: A Blog

It’s going to rain all day and never get out of the 60s. Sounds perfect, especially if you’re someone who still remembers summer, and I do. I’m all in for this sort of weather. For lack of a better term, things feel soft. Plus, all the plants are still green. Maybe they think it could be spring again, although it’s more likely the genetic code knows better.

On an early summer morning, as I make my coffee, I can look out the kitchen window at the garden of the big oaks. On an early winter morning, as I make my coffee, all I see in the kitchen window is the gnarly face of an old man. I prefer seeing the garden of the big oaks. But that’s for another year in another season. These are the short days. The days of darkness and cold.

Thanks to my physical therapist my achy back is no longer achy, and I feel as though I’m standing taller. She’s also teaching me how to move, which seems odd. You’d think, as an adult male, you’d already know how to move. But there are tricks and unseen muscles that can be called upon for lifting, standing, and even walking. It feels good to give them some action. I wish I had discovered this earlier, but better late than never.

It’s a fine chill morning in the Hill Country. The cool air feels good and if I were camping, I’d be drinking coffee around a fire. But I’m not camping, I’m just standing on my porch feeling good, drinking coffee from an insulated mug, while two cats nibble on their breakfast treats.

I know I fancy myself a gardener. But no one, seeing the wild growth beneath my big oaks, would take that seriously. Sure, I like to plant things, but after that they’re on their own. Take my scarlet sage. I dug up one plant fifteen years ago. Brought it home. Planted it. Babied it. And helped it thrive. Now. Its descendants are everywhere in the garden, and I have no say as to where. They just go where the wind blows.

I’ve been working on my next book since November of last year. It’s called Learning to Live. It’s a Caregiver’s Tale about grief. Once again, I’m collecting my writings into a book. The work, however, has gone in fits and spurts. The difficulties I’m having arise from the subject, grief. It’s not an oh-I-hurt-myself-but-I’ll-heal sort of wound. It’s the sort of wound that keeps on giving.

My garden must think it’s Spring. Everything is flowering. Naturally, the Fall plants are abloom, the Asters and the Gulf Muhly. But even the spring and summer plants are getting in on the action. The one that most excites me is our antique rose, Marie Pavia. I cut out the Turks Caps just for her, with more sunlight as the goal. And I reconditioned the soil at her feet. She grew a ton of fresh leaves in response, and now buds have sprouted. Soon there will be flowers. That’s a nice thank you.

There’s more fog this morning which means there’s a heavy dew. So, it’s wet to walk in the grass. Out in the pasture as the sunlight first hit the field I thought I was seeing a patch of rain lilies mixed in with the dry grass and field flowers, but they turned out to be spiderwebs, spun in the tall grass, collecting water out of the air, and making themselves known to their intended victims.