I swear. It’s my summer for freak injuries.

It was such a nice, peaceful morning, too. I’d fed all the beasties, done my morning ablutions, made myself a cup of coffee. I’d taken Finny out for his morning constitutional, noting how warm it was already, even at 8 a.m. Mr Wren hadn’t gone to bed until the late wee hours – he’d gotten hooked playing online Risk and now was just getting into his “night’s” sleep. Shadow had come out for his breakfast and then disappeared again in the bedroom.

I got my laptop and brought it out to the living room, where the cooler air reaches from the swamp cooler.  I started reading today’s news and sipping my coffee. It was quiet. Soft.

Then I noticed movement to my left. I glanced over just in time to see Shadow about to squat and poo.

“No, Shadow!” I yelled, and jumped up to grab his leash and take him outside. He rarely has an accident in the house, so I knew the poor dog was desperate. Neither he or Finny have learned to scratch the door or whine or otherwise let us know when they need out yet, so we do it mainly by just sticking to a schedule.  Whoops. Looks like Mr Wren didn’t follow it this morning before he dragged himself to bed at dawn.

So I’m running for the leash, which is hanging over the back of a kitchen chair. I’m wearing rubber flip-flops on my feet. And suddenly I’m  running on ice. My right foot just slides out from under me;  I try to stay upright and the other foot slides, too. I’m airborne, twisting around … and I hit the floor, ending up flat on my stomach.

Why did I slip and fall? Shadow had left a great big puddle on the bare floor.  Add smooth rubber soles with no traction, and you’ve got me, doing my best imitation of a chubby stork on ice.

Cary, who’d been in the kitchen, witnessed all of this. Bless her heart, she was right there, asking if I was OK. Once I got my wits back together, I told her thought I was and asked her to please take Shadow outside, quick, that he really needed to go. She helped me to my feet and, clipping the leash to his collar, ran him outside.

You know,  I’m simply not used to falling, tipping over, or going splat. I guess none of us are, really, unless we’re athletes who play games in which falling down is normal.  I’ve noticed that when I do take a rare tumble the ground is a whole lot harder than it was when I was a young whippersnapper. I don’t bounce much anymore, either. Funny how things like that change. Could it be global warming?

Anyhoo, fast forward to now, mid-afternoon.  Along with a base of rheuma-inspired achy hands and wrists (about  a “3” on that silly pain scale) I also have a slightly sore left elbow, a lightly bruised left knee, and a really sore right thumb , pointer finger and wrist. I must have landed on all those sore spots, somehow, as I made my graceful landing. I really can’t remember, since I went from upright to belly-flop in about two seconds.

As you know, I love my beasties. Finny is a giggle a minute and Shadow is a kind, sweet dog who wants desperately to please. But I swear, this summer my furry friends are out to get me. I’m learning to look before I step and not to grab collars without warning.

And now, since trouble likes to occur in sets of three, I’m wondering what sort of charm the third time will bring.

Sheesh.

Wow – seven days since my last post! I think that’s a new blog-neglect record for me. I wish I had some great or interesting excuse for my absence here, but I don’t. No dog bites. No emergencies. No unexpected company or household catastrophes. I simply didn’t have anything interesting to write about.

In all honesty, I still don’t.

But I do love to write, and I miss you guys. So I’ll think of something.

On the RA front, it’s been pretty quiet. I’ve had a couple of days during which my hands barely hurt and more days during which they hurt constantly but not horribly. The hip bursitis comes and goes. Yesterday was rough; today I’m pretty much over it. I just keep taking my sulfasalazine and Arava, my folic acid, calcium/Vit. D, and magnesium supplements. A multivitamin. Tramadol when my discomfort reaches a level I cannot distract myself from and Vicodin for the fortunately rare, really, really bad flares.

It has been very hot. Low-to-mid-90s all week so far, and today the forecast is for the high 90s (it’s possible we’ll top 100) through the weekend. We have a swamp (evaporative) cooler here at the Wren’s Nest; it cools the house down nicely as long as the outside temp stays under 90 degrees. Once it tops 90 the cooler is pretty much useless. So we’ve been eating a lot of cool salads for supper and generally not moving around very much after mid-day.

I am grateful I don’t live down in the valley, where temps will reach between 102-109 degrees during the next four days. The nights will barely get out of the 90s before the morning sun turns the oven up again. At least up here in the mountains our night-time temps drop into the 70s.

And the 70s are only “cool” in a rhetorical sort of way.

Yeah, yeah, it was only a week or two ago that I was whining about the strange, cool weather and unseasonable rain we’ve been having. I complained even though I knew it wasn’t going to last much longer and that this whomping, oppressive summer heat was inevitable before long. If you could have heard me talking about it (rather than reading my words here), you’d have asked why I was whispering. You’d have told me to speak up, and I’d have shaken my head madly, pointed at the sky and, finger to my lips, shushed you. Don’t tempt the Weather Gods!

Here’s the thing. I don’t mind warm weather. And I really like sunshine. I enjoy soaking up a few rays as I take walks or putter around in the garden. But when warm turns to searing and sweltering and the sun transforms itself into a deadly alien heat-ray, I get a little cranky. I just can’t help it. The Sweltering-Alien-Heat-Ray season generally lasts from May through mid-October in Northern California. We got a long heat delay this year, but that’s over.

This is the reason I’m determined to relocate one more time before I die. I dream (literally!) of living once again in the cool, rainy Pacific Northwest.

And here’s my last excuse for not posting much recently. (Yes, I’m a wimp.) When it’s hot, my Scandinavian genes, which were designed specifically for life in the chilly far north, go into shock. I become slow and sluggish. My brain melts into sludge. All I want to do is find a cool corner where I can curl up and hibernate until true autumn arrives, bringing with it lower temperatures, cool breezes and a reason to put the quilt back on the bed at night.

Well, according to the thermometer on the wall, it’s 80 degrees here in my den as I type this. The cool air generated by the swamp cooler doesn’t reach this end of the house, so I’m going to have to move. This is what I do all summer long: follow the trickle of cool air around and try to make my brain work. Wish me luck.

I hope you’re all staying cool and comfortable, and that the rheuma dragon isn’t biting you too hard. With any luck, the heat will make him sluggish, too!

It’s mid-day. I’ve waited as long as I can, but I’m out of patience. I shake two Tramadol tablets into my hand, pop them into my mouth and wash them down with a couple gulps of iced tea.

There, I think. In a little while, I won’t hurt so much. Maybe I’ll feel like … I don’t know … thinking up something cool and crispy and nutritious for supper, doing the chopping and slicing, then putting it all together. Maybe cooking the protein source – chicken or fish, most likely – early, before the afternoon heat shuts me down.

Or maybe I’ll feel more like bustling around and getting some housework done. Sweeping. Dusting. Vacuuming the rugs. A quick swish through the bathrooms.

Or a walk. Maybe I’ll grab Finny and we’ll have a walk ‘round the neighborhood. Look at the neighbor’s gardens. Bring my spare change with me and stop by the little old general store in town for a bar of dark chocolate. I’ll ration it out over the next several days, one glorious square at a time in the evening after supper, with my coffee.

Maybe.

It all depends upon my hands, my hips, and right now, my right knee. They’re all giving me hell, particularly the knee, a country I haven’t heard from in a long

I took this photo in a town near Los Alamos, New Mexico, a couple of years ago when I was there visiting my sister. The storm sky there was much wilder than I've seen here, but it's just as strange ...

time. It could be the weather that’s riling up the rheuma-dragon; it’s going all dark and strange again. It’s been hot – 80s and 90s – for the last week or so. Summer was delayed here in the Sierras, but it finally showed up with a vengeance, sitting it’s sweaty elephant-butt down on us for a nice long stay. But both yesterday and today (and for the rest of the week) we’re getting what I can only describe as storm-drifts. The ominous, pregnant-looking thunder clouds move over, blocking out the sun and raising the humidity, and then move off again a few hours later after doing nothing more than mutter threats. The weatherheads think we’ll get some actual storms this afternoon and evening. I won’t mind rain if it comes, but this dry country could do without the lightening that preceeds the thunder. And frankly, I could do without the barometric pressure waking up my cranky rheuma-dragon and his sidekick, the Biting Orc of Bursitis.

This weather is like snowballs in hell, gang. In my entire life, I’ve never experienced thunderstorms in California during the summer. I know they happen with regularity elsewhere in the nation and the world, but here, summer has always been one long, long, long dry season. Rain in summer? Heh. Maybe it’ll show up again in November.

But here’s the new reality. Even as I write this, the sun outside my window is taking on that odd, muted look, as if some sun-goddess has draped a scarf over her lamp. Yesterday was dark enough that we had to turn lights on in the family room to disperse the gloom. Looks like today will soon be the same.

And it’s still hot. These storms (!) don’t do much to cool things down, now that the earth has soaked up so much heat from the sun. Instead, it just gets muggy – and that’s another phenomenon that’s rare as all get-out everywhere in California except some parts of the coastline. I experienced this hot muggy-ness when I lived in Northern Germany; living right by the sea’s storm-door, summer storms were normal, mainly at the end of the summer. The walls would sweat with moisture, my rheuma would go wild, and when they struck, the storms were nothing short of spectacular. Sometimes they were scary, but they never lasted long.

Just for kicks and giggles, my seasonal grass allergy has turned itself up to high today, so my schnozz is packed, my eyes look like I’ve smoked something illegal and my throat is constantly tickling, making me cough my toes up. Along with all the other meds, I’ve added my emergency Claritin, allergy eye-drops and nose spray.

I’m a real beaut today, gimping around the place with tissues stuck up both nostrils.

But there is good news! Even though I’ve been less-than-totally-mindful about my diet the last week or so, making me reluctant to step on the scale, I discovered this morning that a pair of shorts that were too tight to wear last summer – think cut-off sausage casings – fit me loosely now. That just delights me!

Another gift: Shadow is finally learning that “OUT!” means “Go sit by the kitchen table and watch me while I work in the kitchen instead of standing an inch away from me, where I will trip over you.” Finny, on the other hand, has not learned this yet, but we’re working on it. He has learned that he’s supposed to pee outside when I take him out on his lead, rather than wherever and whenever he feels like it inside. He hasn’t grokked the poop part of the deal yet.

We’re working on it. Shadow has his bathroom manners down. I’m hoping that Finny will continue to look to him, the younger dog by a few months, for continued inspiration.

The upside: both of these new dogs bring me joy every day. Shadow is gentle and so sweet-natured, he reminds me of our old Nessie, a Lab-Doberman mix we lost to old age six or seven years ago. I’ve missed ol’ Ness; she was truly the sweetest dog I’ve ever known. In Shadow, she’s come back to us, and I’m so glad.

Finny McCool continues to reduce me to gales of laughter. He’s like a cartoon character, I swear. He has the most expressive face I’ve ever seen; the photos I’ve posted of him don’t do him justice, because he puts on his glum look whenever I bring the camera out. But believe me, he has a whole repertoire of expressions that his scruffy whiskers and overhanging eyebrow hairs only emphasize. He’s my constant companion 24 hours a day. At bedtime, he jumps on the bed and falls over, limp as a ragdoll, totally ready to go to sleep. It just cracks me up.

Scientists and neurologists say that laughter releases serotonin in the brain. It’s our body’s natural painkiller. No wonder I love to laugh.

So. Freak thunderstorms in the summertime. Heat and humidity. Dog-people as best friends and spontaneous comedians. Rheuma-dragons and bursitis orcs doing their cranky best to make me cranky and low.

That’s my life at the moment, but I’m holding my own, wearing my comfortable “new” shorts and a T-shirt. It may have it’s unpleasant moments, but life’s not half bad, you know? I’ll keep my bitching to a minimum and conjure up something yummy and life-celebrating for supper.

And then Finny and I will drop, limp and boneless, into bed for a good, long sleep.

Saturday morning, a few hours before noon:

The fan in the window blows soft, still-cool air and white noise into the room. My chair creaks as I write; writing requires a certain stillness but my joints are stiff; shifting a little now and then eases them. Bright sunshine makes glowing, lime-green shapes out of the grape leaves on the tendril trying to wriggle through the screen and turns the pink damask roses climbing the arbor into the ones I used to gaze at on my grandma’s talcum powder box in her bathroom. I loved the scent of her powder: it evoked old lady and steel teaspoons offered for digging in the soft soil in her garden to make earthwormy mud pies. The talcum scent was grandma: the soft summer mistress of fresh cherry pies with open basket-weave crusts, served in wedges with grand scoops of  melty vanilla ice cream on chipped blue plates.

She taught me the itsy-bitsy spider/water spout song.

EVENING, SAME DAY

Tonight my hands are swollen and hot. They hurt. There’s almost nothing you can do that doesn’t require the use of your hands, so there are very few moments when I’m not noting the pain and trying to ignore it. I’ve taken my magical potions. I’ve performed the solemn rituals with hot paraffin wax; the gentle massage with cool glycerin salve. I’ve put on my warm compression gloves, only to take them off again because my hands sweat and I get too warm wearing them. That’s just another discomfort, one I can control, so I did. I’ve meditated, hands loose at my sides, unmoving, resting. I’ve immersed myself in distractive activities, and I’ve bulled on ahead and done many things today in spite of the pain, proving once again that the rheuma dragon isn’t going to stop me from doing as I like.

So there. Neener-neener!

But what I keep coming back to is this: At this moment, every moment, my hands are swollen and hot, and they hurt. And there’s not a bloody thing I can do about it.

To those of you reading this who don’t have RA: Think of how you feel when you have a sick headache that just won’t let go, but you still need to keep going and get through your day. Now imagine that sick-headache-feeling centered in your hands, or your hips, or your knees. That’s how a medium-intensity RA flare feels to me. For a severe flare, think migraine.)

This, then, is the basic frustration caused by rheumatoid arthritis. There are times when the joints become so inflamed and painful that all activity has to stop. Just has to. No choice. It’s awful when it happens, but at least a severe flare means that I can justify my stillness, my aggravation, my rocking as I try to comfort myself, my tears, my anger, the handfuls of pills. But this kind of flare – the flare that inflames the joints only halfway, so that they’re stiff and full of pain, but still usable – is almost worse, in my opinion. Because this kind of flare is mostly invisible. Hide-able. I can still prepare meals, scrub dishes, sweep floors, feed pets, plant flowers, fold laundry. (An aside: folding the towels, each one dry and hot right out of the dryer, felt crazy good on my sore hands today. Thank you, universe!) I can still do all those things, but each movement, each moment, hurts. And hurts. And hurts.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful that I can still function. I’m grateful that I can plant flowers and cook a delicious and nutritious meal. But this kind of rheuma flare wears a person down. It goes on and on. Days. Nights. Weeks. Once in a while there’s a short respite; I’ve gone half a day before I even noticed that my hands didn’t hurt. The constant pain, as low-level and therefore dismissible as it is, starts coloring everything in dark tints and tones of reddish-gray. My mood shifts from good to neutral to bad. I see the gifts the world presents to me, but I can’t conjure up more than a disinterested shrug. My creativity wanes; I lose my motivation. My mouth has to be forced to smile.

I’d almost rather have the rheuma attack me the way it used to: Hard and mercilessly, causing pain that was literally overwhelming and that lasted 24 hours or three days, but then went away as quickly as it came on, leaving me tired and shaken but pain-free for a while. That rheuma was awful, but after a while it became familiar. I understood its limits – and my own.

But this … this constant, day-after-day-after-day, low-grade pain is sapping my strength. It’s making me whiney, and angry, and hopeless. Because I know that it’s not going to go away, except for brief moments here and there, and then it will be back, just the same. It’s my rheuma-dragon’s newest tactic; he’s taken up guerilla warfare. War by attrition. Winning by simply outlasting the enemy. Conventional tactics don’t work against it; you can’t beat it with soldiers and heavy artillery (powerful drugs and painkillers).

You have to get to the root of the problem and make changes there. (Lose weight. Eat mindfully. Move your body). It’s slow. It seems useless. But over time, it can work.

Heh. I just imagined my body as Northern Ireland during the Troubles. Take that, rheuma-dragon! You haven’t killed my imagination yet, you bugger!

This post isn’t a call for sympathy; most of you who are reading this are quite familiar with what I’m writing about. And you know, as I do, that even this won’t last forever, that I’ll feel better before long, that a good night’s sleep will renew my strength and courage, that tomorrow’s another day, another battle, another victory. Instead, I wrote this post to get the feelings into something tangible. Into words. To get them out of my mind and while I did, forget for a short while how hot, swollen, and sore my hands are.

It worked.

Today is turning out to be a much better day than yesterday.

Whew!

I’m not quite sure why it’s better, though. I slept poorly last night; I was wide awake every hour on the hour, and in between only managing a sort of restless half-sleep. It was filled with such odd plots and images about odd things that I knew I was dreaming, so I’d wake up on purpose to try to reset my brain. And there I’d be, awake and blinking in the dark, resenting Finny and PIB’s soft, contented snores.

I finally fell into a deeper sleep after 4 a.m.  And there I stayed until the beasties woke me up at 7. They were rarin’ to go and wanting their brekky.

So really, I should still be feeling pretty low, considering. Nothing has changed, after all. I still don’t have a job. I’ve been struggling hard with eating mindfully. My current nemesis? Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. On white bread.  I’ve had three of those this week, and one is too many.

But wait, there’s more! Now that the summer is finally heating up, I’ve re-discovered that my old favorite, “but it’s too hot to walk!” still works as an excuse, just like it always did. There’s something twisted yet comforting in its trustworthyness.

Right. What else? Well, I still need a haircut, but I don’t want to spend the money on one. This frustrates me every time I pass a mirror. And my RA is always, always lurking. My hands are sore and my hips are annoyingly twingy. As usual.

Awwww, poor ol’ me … I ought to have my own personal little black cloud floating over my head, raining on me wherever I go! I can hear the sad violins …

Well, despite all this gloom and doom, today I’m miraculously free of yesterday’s soul-sapping blue funk. What gives?

Well, first off, I was born being a glass-half-full person rather than a glass-half-empty person. I instinctively look for the bright side of life, and there are many bright things about my current situation. Things such as, I’m not starving; I have a nice home and a warm bed each night; I have a loving and supportive family; I have my sweet, wee beasties; my garden; my love for cooking and writing and reading …

You get it, I’m sure. My list of bright-spots goes on and on. I only need to think about it a little, and if I’m honest, they’re impossible to ignore. I am very lucky.

Second, chances are good that when Congress returns from their Fourth of July recess, they’ll finally pass the unemployment insurance benefits extension. There will be something like 4.2 million long-term unemployed Americans (me included), whose benefits have been exhausted and who’ll be deeply grateful for that outstretched helping hand. This is not a permanent solution, of course, but it sure helps in the meantime. For an awful lot of us, it means the difference between getting by and poverty.

Third, yesterday’s blues made me ponder something I’ve avoided for a very long time. I’m a writer and an editor; I love both. When I was employed, I absolutely loved my job. I knew how lucky I was to have work I enjoyed so much. I worked as a reporter and editor for 13 years for the same newspaper group. My lay-off came out of the blue; it was a huge blow. I’d honestly expected to retire from that job someday.

Since then I’ve clung, rather desperately, to the idea that I can keep making a living as a journalist. I’ve hung onto it even as it became more and more clear that I can’t, unless I’m willing to relocate. And I’m not willing, given the current economy and the terrible housing market. Mr Wren’s health and disability issues would make moving even harder.

So what can I do?

Well, I need full-time work that pays enough that I can resume handling my half of our financial load. This isn’t just a choice, it’s a necessity. Really, it would be even better if I could find a position that pays enough to actually live on by myself, should I ever need to.

No, I’m not thinking of leaving Mr Wren, but I am being realistic. His health issues are not improving and he’s unwilling to work on them. I love the man dearly. But if he continues along the road he’s on now, I expect I’ll outlive him by many, many years.

I know that sounds heartless. But realistically, it means that I’ll be alone. I’ll have to be able to support myself.

And I’m spoiled. I still want a job that I can enjoy. So I got to thinking about other things besides writing that I’m interested in. I’ve always had a fascination for the medical world. I love reading medical blogs, particularly those about working in the ER or about working as an EMT or paramedic. Why not figure out a way to get into the medical field as a second career?

Frankly, I think I’m probably too old to become a nurse. Who’d hire an inexperienced, rookie nurse in her mid-50s, anyway?  But I know for a fact that I could find work as a certified nursing aide or something else along those lines. I do realize that these are tough, often unpleasant jobs that don’t pay very well. Nevertheless, I’d like to be able to help and care for elderly and ill people who really need it. There’s a shortage of CNAs, so I’d always be able to find another job. And finally, upon googling I discovered that CNA training is available right here in my own community. So I’m going to look into it.

I’d also love to be an EMT, and eventually, a paramedic. But once again, that may be unrealistic job for me, given my age and the fact of my RA. Our local community college offers beginning EMT courses, though, so I’ve decided to talk to a counselor there. Maybe he or she can give me some ideas.

Neither of these things are earth-shaking, I know. But for me, just facing up to the fact that I’m going to have to retrain for another type of job was a huge help. I may not end up being a CNA or an EMT/paramedic, but I’ll end up in the medical field somewhere. After writing, medicine and healing others is my next big interest and always has been.

I just have to take that first, tenuous, scary step.

Oh, and one more thing: I’m absolutely overwhelmed by the kindness, concern and advice from all of you, my blog-friends, regarding yesterday’s blue mood. Once again, thank you all so much! Your caring comments gave me hope, some great ideas, and contributed a whole lot to my much brighter mood today.

Ever have “one of those days?” How about “one of those weeks?”

That’s what I’m having. One of those weeks.

Nothing in particular is wrong – at least, nothing that wasn’t wrong last week or last month. But for some reason, I’m having a tough time dealing with life right now.

Here it is: I need a job. I can’t find a job. That’s nothing new; I’ve been searching for positions and sending off resumes and cover letters for a long, long time now.

Perhaps the difference is that now, having finally exhausted my unemployment insurance (and Congress being currently unwilling to approve another extension for mainly political reasons), and my savings, I have no income at all. Zilch. Nada.

No, we’re not starving. We haven’t lost our house and somehow, we’ll keep the bills paid, living very carefully on Mr Wren’s retirement income. But it’s tough, gang. I’ve never before been in a position where I couldn’t take on part of our monthly living expenses. I’ve worked since I was 15 years old. While there have been a couple of times over the years when I’ve had a short hiatus between jobs, I’ve always been able to find a new one within a reasonable amount of time. Until now, I’ve never had a completely empty wallet. Unless I ask Mr Wren for it, I haven’t even any pin money.

Crud. And there are no jobs. Not even jobs I once considered just for teen-agers and retired ladies looking to fill a little free time and make some pin money are available. You know the ones. Fast food. Gift shops. Gas stations. All of them paying minimum wages with no benefits, mostly part-time.

Around here, for every one of those type of jobs that come available, there are 200 applicants. And most of them are not 54-year-old ex-newspaper editors who are considered way overqualified and yes, too old.

So, around here we’re tightening our belts another several notches ( a couple of them new, punched into the leather with an ice-pick). Belt-tightening I can do. We’ve never been rich; we’ve always had to be mindful with our money. But even in those tough old days, I always knew I had another paycheck coming before too long. This time I don’t.

After close to three years of looking, it’s become very clear that there isn’t a new job out there for me, this time.

I’ve done some free-lancing here and there, when I can find it. It pays almost nothing. I’ll keep looking for more of that sort of work – at least it keeps my brain sharp and my writing skills honed – but it’s barely worth the effort.

I’m deeply grateful that I’m able to get my medical care through the VA. I shudder to think what position we’d be in right now without it.

I’m about to drive down the mountain and pop in at the temporary agency I’m registered with. I’ll remind them, once again, that “here I am! I’m available at a moment’s notice!” They’re always very friendly and assure me that as soon as something comes along, they’ll call. But they haven’t yet (it’s been almost a year). And I know they’ve got a huge list of hopeful, unemployed office workers already, all of us clamoring, even begging, for work. I’m not at the top of that list.

Don’t worry. I’ll snap out of my funk. I have before. The difference is this time, I’m feeling less hopeful. But outside the sun is shining, the weather is beautiful and everything is blooming. There’s a bird trilling in one of the trees nearby. My family is well and my wee beasties make me smile. I just need an attitude adjustment.

And a job.

We had a great time celebrating Cary’s birthday yesterday. Just before our guests arrived I finally broke down and took some Tramadol for my hips and hands (why does taking narcotic-style painkillers always seem like such a moral defeat?). Well, I’m glad I did, anyway. It took the sharp edges off the hand-and-hip pain and allowed me to enjoy the rest of the day much more than I would have otherwise.

My lasagna, which I only make about once every five years or so (it’s just way too calorific and full of bad carbs for more often than that), came out spicy, savory, cheesy and delicious. I used a mixture of ground beef and sweet Italian sausage in it, but as I was eating I realized that I like my vegetarian spinach lasagna better.

Does this mean I’m an old hippy? Or is it just that I’m finally growing up?

Maybe both? When it was time for our root beer floats for dessert, I dug right into thefoamy scoop of vanilla ice cream, devoured it in about five spoonfuls, and then settled back happily to sip and savor the cold root-beer-cream mixture left in the glass.

What a surprise! It was so sweet it was horrible. Absolutely noxious. I couldn’t finish it. Which got me thinking, of course. Why had I’d loved root beer floats so much when I was a kid?

When I examined my misty old memory of them, I discovered that it’s about far more than a sweet confection. In fact, the memory is a whole tableau:

Time: 1962-ish. A sizzling hot Friday or Saturday evening in the California summer, probably around 7 p.m.  Dad and Mom would pile my little sister and I into the back seat of our Chevy Impala for an evening at the drive-in movies.

But first, we always stopped at the A&W Root Beer place for dinner. A carhop would come and take our order, then return a few minutes later with a tray full of hamburgers and French fries. The tray had props on the bottom and little hooks on the side so it could be hung from Dad’s rolled-down window, and he’d pass the food back to us while Mom made sure we had plenty of napkins and admonished us sternly to be careful and not drop anything on the upholstery.

The burgers were hot off the grill, juicy and flavorful; the thick, golden fries crispy outside and fluffy inside, always served up still smoking hot from the deep fryer and liberally sprinkled with salt. We’d fill tiny paper boats with ketchup from a squeeze bottle and dip them as we ate.

And somehow, just as we finished our hamburgers and fries, the carhop would be back. This time, though, she had a tray of root beer floats.

A&W served up their invention – root beer poured over a couple of scoops of ice cream – in a tall, thick, frosty beer mug. Just imagine the contrast in sensations: there we were, sitting inside an un-air-conditioned car with windows hand-cranked all the way down, a full day’s worth of California summer heat radiating off the asphalt and cement, baking the weedy, dry vacant lots and making the air almost too hot to breathe. The fireball sun would be starting to set, but it was so intense you couldn’t really look at it.

And then suddenly, into my small, sweaty, grubby hands a treat is delivered that’s so shockingly cold it’s bright. My fingers always froze to the mug for a few moments when I’d take hold of it; I loved that. I’d scratch drawings into the frosted glass with a fingernail and use my fingertips to melt the frost and fill them in. The chill was gloriously sensuous; I’d hold the glass near my face and bask in the cool air around it.

And then, of course, I’d use that long orange spoon to eat the root-beery ice cream and drink the creamy root beer with a straw. I was a skinny little thing back then – I was maybe seven years old – but I always finished the whole mug.

And when we were done, we went to the drive-in. Dad would park, the front of the car tipped up a bit, take the speaker off the short pole he’d parked next to, and hang it on his window. We’d listen to the radio music. It was always silly stuff like “Hello Muddah, Hello Fahddah” – a song that would get my sister and me hysterical with laughter. Mom and Dad laughed too, but I think it was more at us than at that stupid song.

As the sun started sliding lower and twilight descended, pictures of smiling popcorn boxes, hot dogs, Cokes and bags of fries would dance, ghostly, across on the giant outdoor movie screen. It was time for Dad and I to get goodies from the snack-bar.

I remember it as a very long walk. I hoped I would never have to try to find our car by myself, because I knew I’d never be able to, there were so many of them! Off we’d go, hand-in-hand, walking up and over the little asphalt-covered drive-in-movie hills to the dirty little snack bar at the back of the lot. With the sun nearly set, it was finally starting to cool off. I remember the air as feeling so nice, even though it smelled of exhaust. But mostly, I remember being proud because I got to help my Daddy carry the goodies.

By the time we got back to the car, loaded down with bags of popcorn, candy and cups full of soda pop, the movie was starting and the magic about to begin.

From the back seat of that silver-blue Impala I watched, enthralled, delightful Tom and Jerry cartoons and then Bambi, or Snow White, or Sleeping Beauty. I got to see Sinbad the Sailor and swing through the jungle with Tarzan and Cheetah …

… and when the movie was over Dad drove us home, all the windows still open to the soft, summer night, Mom dozing in the passenger seat and his two little daughters drowsing in the back amid a small blizzard of candy wrappers and waxed paper cups, and the air was cool and fragrant and smelled of mown lawns and barbecues.

Well. No wonder the root beer float I had yesterday was such a disappointment. No way it could ever live up to that cherished, 47-year-old memory.

Here’s wishing everyone a lovely and peaceful Sunday.

Oh arrrrghgh.

Hips and hands hurt. Company coming soon. Cary’s 29th birthday. (How old does that make me??)

So I’m making lasagna and salad, root beer floats for dessert (the first and last are her favorites; the middle one is for my conscience.) Just got the carpets vacuumed, things dusted and neatened, and yes, I have help today. Cary and Matt are pitching in like troopers. Almost-grandson Phoenix wound the cord back onto the vacuum for me with his nice, new 11-year-old hands and kept Shadow and Finny occupied.

Life is good. Wish me luck.

First, a heartfelt thank-you to everyone who commented on my post, “spoke too soon.” It’s really great to have such a kind circle of friends. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your compassion, encouragement and advice.

As of today, the hip bursitis is much better than it was, though it’s still there. I did a little more reading up about the condition and started icing (I’m already taking diclofenac, so the meds end of treatment is covered), and that’s helped to ease the inflammation. I’ve also decided to discard the tortuous tennis-ball cure. It’s just too painful, and after trying it a couple more times without positive results, I feel I can toss it without shame.

As for steroid injections, well, I’m not going there yet. Rationally, I understand that they can make the pain go away. Irrationally, the idea of an injection into that already massively painful area gives me the holy heebie-jeebies.