Author: Bev

What a rotten time for the ice-maker to go kaput.  Supposedly there was a simpler time.  I wonder when that was.  I do recall using ice trays, once upon a time.

I vaguely recall watching a movie wherein the premise was about a family trapped in a fifties- bunker created by the science-geek dad, and they wanted out but couldn’t escape the timed-hatch. Their new “labor-saving devices,” systematically went haywire.

Technically, the vacuum cleaner was invented in the late 19^th century and many other labor-saving devices trickled in throughout the early twentieth century including the microwave oven after WWII, but the fifties are known for widespread, middle-class use of these devices, to free up families, supposedly for more leisure time to enjoy their upward mobility.

Computer science and technology has leapt light-years from our first Mac Plus in the mid to late eighties. The first brick-sized mobile phones have moved on up through the “palm pilot” to 5g devices that do things we never dreamed of “back in the day.”

And we have Siri and Alexa in our cars, homes, and pockets, to remind us what to buy, when to wake up, and where to turn, toward our destination.  Our new technology is not so different from the robot from that aforementioned movie where the people were trapped in their bunker-gone-wrong.

This was all a set-up for a complaint.  Our ice-maker hasn’t been making ice for a few weeks now.  I tried everything that the booklet says in the page called, “trouble shooting.”  This, in addition to some common sense, which apparently isn’t all that sensical, because it hasn’t worked thus far, and hasn’t’ redeemed any ice our direction.

I thought, oh well, summer is over and the demand for ice isn’t as plentiful now and I’ll keep trying DIY until and unless those efforts prove useless. For some of us, asking for directions is a last resort.  We’d rather be a lost explorer than a human needing help.  So, I’ll most likely resort to asking our favorite plumber if he knows ice makers.

In our delay in actually getting the ice-maker repaired, I forgot that ice has some uses other than for cooling down summer drinks.  Particularly I am referring to the “icing-down” of a bruise, sprain, surgical site or otherwise traumatized body part.

I tripped over a rock while jogging along one of my familiar wooded paths.  It was that slow-motion headlong sprawl that I’ve experienced before so I knew even while in motion that this might not end well.  I pretty much knew that I wasn’t going to be able to self-correct this time.  I was falling.

For this outdoor adventure I would forego the walking stick which had saved me a bunch of times in the past while maneuvering known rocky paths.  I had planned to pick up litter, found roadside adjoining the woods, with a dollar store grabber, not designed to save one from a fall.

When you fall at my age, it’s embarrassing on several levels.  You either feel like an impulsive four-year-old who will cry for a minute then get up and “shake-it-off.”   Or, you mimic an elderly actor in the “I’ve fallen and can’t get up”-commercial for personal alarms, found in the AARP magazine.

In either scenario, it’s beyond humbling, to fall.  Don’t tell me that when you’ve tripped on a public sidewalk, you don’t try to save face by looking down at the crack accusingly because it was the crack’s fault.

I was just barely into my jog, so from my position on the ground, I took a couple of pics of the injuries to my left-side and hand, texted them to my spouse and asked him to procure some ice from our kind neighbors, while I finished my workout.  “No,” I didn’t want him to pick me up, just find some ice so that I could ice my sprained finger/hand when I got home.

 

I held my left hand up in the usual jogging position and finished an abbreviated route, to satisfy my workout requirement for the day but get back home before any serious swelling ensued.  While trotting along, I pictured an old stainless steel ice tray with the handle on the top to loosen the frozen cubes, kept in my storage pantry for freezing lemon or lime juice for various recipes.  But I’ve heretofore not needed it for frozen water cubes because of the labor-saving device called an ice-maker!

All of this made me contemplate simpler times with lesser technology and fewer labor-saving devices.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had the conversation with those more senior than me who lament about “these complicated times.”

With retail cashiers, online “chat” agents, and customer service representatives from our paper supplier to utility company clerks, I’ve discussed over and over again, that “computers” and “smart phones” make everyday life so much more convenient “when they work.”  But, oh how frustrating when they’re “down.”

That reminds me of a prayer I sometimes pray, “Lord God please cause this medicine to work for me and not against me….”  Doesn’t our modern technology act the same?  Sometimes although it’s intended to be a convenience, it just complicates things.

Sometimes the band from the old smart watch won’t fit the new smart watch.  The batteries from the old device won’t fit the new device.  The software from the old computer won’t work with the new one.  The old television won’t work with the new cable box.  The adapter/charger from the old technology doesn’t have the right plug for the new technology.

The next generation will be complaining about how simple our lives were compared to their complicated ones.  That’s the way of the world, it seems.  We’re alive, to complain another day.  So there.

Do you remember the hotel/motel “wake-up call?”  It’s gone by the wayside since the advent of smart phones with their alarm and timer features.

We no longer need a front desk person to make a courtesy call to make sure we’re awake to begin our day’s business or adventures when away from the routine of home.  But the metaphorical wake-up call hasn’t timed-out of existence.  We still receive those from time to time.

I’m referring to those nudges from God, or the universe, as in “universally” dispensed.  We all get them.  Whether we notice or heed these wake-up calls, is a personal problem or salvation, depending on one’s attitude toward wake-up calls.

Wake-up calls are reminders, something else we have on our smart phones.  But then there’s me and there’s Siri from my smart phone.  I asked her to remind me about something and she assured me she would.  No reminder.  Or was it me?

In some reminders we are prompted to “get our act (or the four-letter s-word) together,” or there will be consequences.   We might not like some of the consequences related to unheeded reminders.

Some examples of a metaphorical wake-up call might be an argument with someone with whom we are in relationship.  That argument may be the wake-up call that saves a relationship or triggers its demise.

But it does one primary thing: it shocks us out of the status quo, out of slumber. It can be a eureka moment of clarity that helped us dreaming children awaken to reality.  Suddenly we’re back in Kansas and not in Oz anymore.

Then there’s the financial or economic wake-up call.  Something bursts the spending/saving/investing bubble and we realize our means don’t match our lifestyle.

Something has got to be done, differently.  Restructuring is a key characteristic of bankruptcy laws, for a reason.  It’s a merciful second chance that the laws of our land once offered those in need of one.  This is reminiscent of a pause or snooze button, if you will, on the wake-up call or alarm.

Another familiar wake-up call is the one beep beep beeping inside your body.  It’s the health wake-up call, usually called “symptoms.”  If you see a doctor regularly, for wellness checks or preventive care, your wake-up call may be in the form of lab test results.

If we’re alert to our body’s signals and we’re keen to play the game, “what doesn’t belong,” we might be fortunate enough to stave off the chronic, from the acute.  Let’s play clue and respond when our bodies say, “this isn’t right,” or “this isn’t how my body usually plays the game.”

This is when it’s time to pull what submariners call a “crazy Ivan,” or deploy the emergency brake.  Maybe you’ve let a lifestyle habit that can’t be classified as “healthy,” get the better of you.  You know, they say it takes only three days (most likely, hellish ones), to change a habit.

I’m guessing that 3-day estimate is optimistic especially for a well-ingrained habit.  But I’ve done it so I know it can be done; can you say “sweet tooth?”

Change it up and do what you’ve always known you should do to reverse those needling symptoms.  If it’s not within your power to change on your own, then resolve to get some help.  Yes, humble yourself and seek help.  “No man is an island.”

Coincidentally, that saying originated with the seventeenth century metaphysical poet, John Donne’s meditational essay and sermon entitled, in part, “Steps in my Sickness,” based upon his serious illness.  He, like the rest of us needed “a little help from his friends.”  (It’s always the Beatles with me – With a Little Help from my Friends – Lennon/McCartney released 1967).

One of just a couple of country songs I like, and I include on my jogging playlist is, Island in the Stream, written by the Bee Gees but I know it as performed by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton.  The difference between their island and the one-person-marooning kind, is their partnership.  They dream to “sail away to another world,” together.

We all need to let at the very least some other human being into our lives to help us navigate the planet.  If you need medical help, seek it.  If you need financial assistance, ask for it.  If you need relationship help, there are people who care and will come alongside to help.

Don’t ignore a wake-up call.  It’s there to get your attention.  A smart phone, by the way is smart only if you take advantage of its smart features.  Will you answer the alarm, the call, or the text?

Will you heed the reminders you recorded on your phone or will you snooze right through them?  You’ve got this, just answer the call.

I hadn’t slept much the night before and my day had been one of the extra busy ones.  So, the sofa and I joined forces for a late afternoon nap, which we sometimes do.

I was awakened by the telephone answering machine from an epic dream of a storm and a fire, which hubby and I nonchalantly conversed through.  I was in that degree of awake that I’ve experienced before where I don’t really know where I am and only vaguely familiar with who I am or what I’m supposed to be doing at this moment.

Imagine feeling like that all the time.  Then you might have a glimpse of the life of someone with dementia or Alzheimer’s disease.

This reminded me of our days teaching at a college in New Mexico many years ago.  The college sponsored various programs of community support, one of which was awareness of disability.

How to develop compassion?  Let’s step outside ourselves for an experiment in empathy.  Play a game called “If.”  “How would I feel if…?”

I recall seeing an unusual number of wheelchairs on campus, one day.  Then I became aware of lots of blindfolded people walking about with support persons and white sticks at the ready.

Then there were the workshops showing us visuals of how it is to try to see through a cataract.  It was truly a fog.  We were taught empathy through those programs, given the gift of imagining what it might be like “to live like that.”

I don’t know why Beatles songs frequently come into my mind when I write, but here we are.  “Imagine all the people sharing all the world…. You may say I’m a dreamer but I’m not the only one.  I hope some day you’ll join us and the world will live as one….” (John Winston Lennon, released 1971, Imagine).

I think, more often than we would admit, we imagine ourselves as someone else.  We wonder what we would do with the wealth of Bill Gates or Oprah Winfrey, the power of the president, the popularity and influence of our favorite celebrity, the admiration from the masses, like Diana, Princess of Wales, etc.

These are the exciting things we might imagine, a dream job, a dream relationship or dream adventure.  Who hasn’t imagined their dream car, dream house or dream body?

But what about imagining toward empathy: the nightmares of losing your sustenance, your abilities to think and reason, sing and dance or even ambulate; losing your child, your spouse or best friend.  Have you ever imagined how you would live if cast into poverty through no fault of your own; how you would cope if you must one day awaken to a life of constant pain or an addiction you can’t shake?

Do we ever imagine how we would handle the amputation of a limb, blindness, deafness, mental decline, paralysis and phantom pain?  Do we ever practice in our minds, being a social pariah, despised by many, having no friends or family or paralyzed with fear or anxiety?

Do you ever imagine “walking a mile in my shoes?” (Billy Connolly, Joe South or Atticus in To Kill a Mockingbird) Literally?  Again, with those exercises in empathy, I’ve walked in well-worn shoes of someone else’s who had a distinctly different gait, (feet tilted inward – pronation, versus tilted outward – supination), and it’s super weird, hard to walk.  The experience is a bit like wearing Asian wooden shoes or glass slippers, Cinderella.  Comfortable, it is not.

Several things not included in my birth plan way back in the day, was more than twenty-four hours of labor, a 3 a.m. walk through our neighborhood wearing my velour purple robe, carrying a wine glass filled with grape juice and assisted by midwives; oh, and greeted by a cruising police officer who escaped as quickly as he arrived.  I often wondered why I didn’t have flip flops ready, to support my severely swollen feet, for transport to the hospital with preeclampsia.  Then there was the emergency cesarean section.

 I wore my husband’s well-worn tennis shoes.  It was a rushed decision, and not my best one.  But they were the only shoes I could get onto my thickening paws, in a hurry.

I can’t really know what it’s like to be in your shoes, unless I imagine it.  I can exercise empathy, by trying to imagine what you’re going through.  Even then it’s not the same, but it’s close.

“I get it now.  That’s why they do that, say that, behave like that, feel that way.”  It doesn’t excuse them and I may not agree with them, but I understand them when I exercise empathy.

Try empathy, unless you’re a Narcissist, who cannot for the life of you, conceive of being inside someone else’s skin.  Then there’s God, who in Mary Fishback Powers’ poem, Footsteps in the Sand, carries us through the difficult times.  We could try imagining our way toward empathy by putting on some uncomfortable shoes, not our own and carrying some folks through their rough times; pretending we’re Jesus, just for a moment.

“It’s a matter of interpretation.”  Do we really speak the same language?  Or, is it imperative to rely on interpretations of what is said?

“Don’t read into what I said.”  I confess that I do this all the time.  In fact, if I don’t consciously stop myself, it is literally all the time.

“My life is an open book.”  Few of us can truthfully say this.  Most people are closed books and people like me are constantly trying to open all these books and when unsuccessful we resort to fictionalizing the stories that we get an inkling from off of the book jacket, the outside of the book.

I got to thinking about this whole idea of interpretation from a Facebook forward from Mindful Christianity.  In part, it goes like this: “Two people read the same Bible.  One sees….  The other sees….  Two people, one book.  One Book, two views.  The book is a mirror.  The reflection is you.”

For example, the third commandment (Deuteronomy 5:11) says in the old-timey KJV of the Bible, “thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.”  Now, I grew up with the idea that swearing or some called it cursing, especially saying words like damn, and all of its versions saying Jesus or Jesus Christ, or God, as in Oh My God (OMG), was breaking commandment number three.

So, did the actor in the British drama, Line of Duty misuse the name of God when he exclaimed, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, and their wee donkey,” at a ridiculous answer to a question, under caution, an oath to tell the truth?  Did Will Ferrell’s character in Talladega Nights, blaspheme when he exclaimed in exasperation, or prayed to, “Baby Jesus?”  Should Protestants be up in arms at the line in Paul McCartney’s “Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom…” in one of my favorite songs, Let it Be?

But “swearing” in this way, is not the same as swearing in an oath by God’s name and intending to break that oath, or is it? That is swearing falsely and breaks the covenantal law set out in Leviticus 19:12.

Is this swearing, and or a breach in the third commandment?  It seems, a matter of interpretation.  What is swearing?  Talk about swearing under oath, I borrow a line from President Bill Clinton, “it depends on what the meaning of the word ‘is’ is.”

If we’re talking Bible, there are multiple versions or interpretations of this magnificent book. Why do you suppose that is?  Why do we need so many versions or interpretations?  Why so many divisions in the Christian Church?

What is fundamentalism?  Is it a type of interpretation?  Orthodoxy, or adhering to correct, standard, or accepted creeds is fundamental to one’s interpretation of the Bible.  Whichever creed you adhere to, possibly the one you grew up with, will color what you see in the words written in the Bible.

Now, back to interpretation, specifically.  Interpreters worldwide are not only fluent in at least two languages, they are empaths as well, so to speak. 

Not only does the interpreter translate words, they translate meanings.  In other words, we don’t just interpret language, we interpret culture, emotion, intent, tone, and attempt to bridge the exchange between two speakers/listeners.

Two people reading this column may interpret it very differently, depending upon what each sees in the mirror.  Either way, I hope it stimulates you to think deeper than today’s weather, but that is also open to interpretation.

“Some like it hot.”  Some like it cold, cool, or colder than now.  Others like it humid, but not too much.  Because of the basic tenet of interpretation, one can suppose that is why we have degrees built into our language, e.g., cold, colder, coldest, Autumn, Winter, or frozen tundra; warm, warmer, warmest, hot, blistering, and right out of the gates of hell.  Where I stand, on the weather, well, let’s leave that up to your interpretation.

You know how it feels when you’ve eaten too much; “I’m stuffed,” we say.  In movies I’ve heard Brits or Aussies say, “get stuffed” and it doesn’t mean to eat to overflowing.

Then there’s the stuffed animal or the stuffed-up nose.  A pillow is said to be stuffed.  There’s the overstuffed chair, sofa, or ottoman.  These stuffed things are luxury items, welcoming and comfortable.

We stuff turkeys and chickens with bread that is flavored with their juices and which in turn keeps the bird moist; a give and take of thanksgiving.  Some of us eat stuffed peppers and I am at this writing about to stuff some yellow squash with a cheesy goodness in gratitude for their bounty.

Blankets are stuffed with batting or downy feathers, and high-end pillows are stuffed with a mystery material that can be washed again and again and bounces back to its original plumpness.  My mom used to stuff pillows with nylon stockings that had seen better days; the last of those I inherited, having been discarded in the not-so-distant past.

These are just a few of the things we live with that are stuffed.  However, when I thought of stuffed in the context of this column, it was in the overly-full sense of the word.

These musings are mostly concerning too much stuff, clogging or cluttering my senses.  I’ve already been-there-done-that with you about stuff in various hide y-holes in my house; so, I will try to keep my aging brain on track and not repeat myself.

As to the overstuffed brain, it can manifest as a boiling cauldron, threatening to scald anyone who comes too close.  Or, our cluttered senses can resemble an off-kilter pinball machine with metal balls bouncing off the edges of their confinement in an unrivaled clatter.  Some of us unplug that dastardly machine when the clutter begins to clatter.  We shut down.

Can you imagine the overwhelming work of Santa Claus?  All those deliveries, and with an important deadline looming.  No wonder the poem says that Mom and Dad, a rather busy couple in their own right, had just settled down for a long winter’s nap, when out on the lawn there “arose such a clatter.”  Of course, this guy would arrive with some noise, probably emanating from his overstuffed brain.

Have you ever had too much to do; too much going on, not to mention overthinking?  There’s even initials these days for too much information: TMI.

TMI usually refers to when someone over-shares what one normally or customarily would consider private information.  We say that this person has no filter; a subjective assessment.

But in this context, I’m thinking of TMI as literally so much information rattling around in that cartoon bubble over our heads, that we begin to be befuddled.

When your mind is stuffed, the whole atmosphere surrounding you feels full; like helium in a balloon. Should the balloon be pricked, you might bang from one surface to another untethered to solid ground.

We say that someone with an overly-full mind is, spacey; unable to concentrate, focus, or settle down to earth.  Some things just have to be “left up in the air.”

I think perhaps I unclutter my brain onto you all.  Each week I share some of the stuff that would otherwise have contributed to a serious clog in my brain.  So, thanks for listening and being my plumbers.

I’ll start off right at the bat with, I’m into acceptance, except when I’m not.  Oh, and there’s the concept of acceptable.

This is a missive with more questions than answers.  Can you accept this?

So, acceptance is in one sense, to accede to. To accept or receive, accommodate or reconcile oneself to.  Acceptance presumes that what you’ve got is not necessarily what you want.  “It is what it is,” comes to mind, and that is acceptance.

I have taped to my computer monitor a sign that says, “Do what you can.  Accept what is.  Bee happy.”  This is a reminder to myself, to calm down my predilection to try to fix everything, to control everything.

Were you ever deemed not acceptable as a boyfriend or girlfriend?  Were you not accepted into the first college of your choice?  Do you accept the trajectory of your life?  Have you accepted one job offer over another?  How about compliments?  Do you accept them or dismiss them?

Is acceptance the same as compromise? Is compromise a bad word? Concession is a synonym of compromise.  This whole concept, I think, is akin to a mutual give and take, to reach a satisfactory middle ground, a path that is deemed minimally worthy to live on, but acceptable compared to at least two options, neither one of which we can fully agree to.

Or, is acceptance acceding to “whatever,” fate serves up?  What is existentialism and is it opposed to faith, belief, or hope?  If making a meaningful choice in an irrational world is existentialism, then I accept it. However, this in my mind does not void faith, belief, or hope toward a more rational, common-sensical world to work within.

Maybe acceptance is a kind of exchange program between anxiety and peace, struggle and relinquishment, the status quo and change.  Acceptance may be necessary for moving forward in life.

The definition of acceptance as, “the state of being accepted or acceptable,” reminds me of “adequate” which is not always enough.  Adequate, like “competent,” is clearly more than acceptable if on a bad day you feel below average or under par.

Another definition of acceptance is “the act of receiving what is offered.”  Who’s offering? Is it easier to give than receive?  Scripture would have it that it is more blessed to give than receive.  But is it easier?

The reason, I surmise, that it is easier to give is a matter of control.  You’re in control when you’re giving to others.  Allowing others to give to you or help you in any way may be a matter of pride.  You can easily receive, only with the assistance of humility and acceptance that you too are a mere mortal.

“You’ve been approved,” is a more than acceptable reply to any application.  Approval is yet another definition of acceptance. 

Receiving a stamp of approval in all manner of endeavors, including your very personality, may never be offered.  Why do we need the approval of others?  Many of us have for a lifetime, unsuccessfully sought the approval of someone or some group.  Even the nouveau rich are unacceptable by “old money” standards.

I wonder what the origins of the concept of approval are.  Is acceptance ancient?  May it have originated in the Garden of Eden, the Modern Age, the advance in productivity through the Industrial Revolution, or were Hunters and Gatherers competitive and judgmental, disapproving some and accepting others?

Is the opposite of acceptance into a group or status, rejection?  Not many of us would prefer rejection, if the group is worthy.

We all want to be chosen, favored, the most loved one. When we have not been obviously accepted, a scarcity mentality or fear kicks in, “there isn’t enough approval to go around.”  Well, acceptance is not finite and even though some people have been readily approved, that doesn’t mean all the rest of us are rejected.

Rabbi Sacks (Not in God’s Name) reminds us that when others are loved, we are not in turn, unloved; and to be blessed, no one must in turn be cursed.  God’s love doesn’t work in such opposites and nor does the acceptance of most people. 

Acceptance is particular and specific toward others, according to our personalities, character, and calling.  We are accepted for who we uniquely are; not as a matter of degree (less or more).  We each have our own blessing and we don’t need someone else’s blessing.  The choice of you does not mean the rejection of me.  I may not be chosen, but neither am I rejected. 

I accept this.

Well, it happened, poison ivy got my spouse in earnest about a week after me.  So, the saga continues, plus one.

It has been said by roughly half the population that “man-pain” is felt much more deeply than “woman-pain.”  I’m just sayin, this has been the case since the beginning of time even in spite of the whole childbirth thing.  Oh, but in a day when medical schools are beginning to refer to breast-feeding as chest-feeding…. I just don’t know where to go with this….

I’m trying to keep the whining to a minimum, at least publicly, but for mercy’s sake!  “Misery loves company,” is attributed to English naturalist and botanist, John Jay (1627-1705); a naturalist, who might know a tad more about the misery associated with plant allergies than most.  So, I want to thank those of you who have shared your stories having at some time in your life felt my pain in the aftermath of this creepy, crawly, stinging, burning, irritating allergic malady.

After a five-day stint on a steroid, which sort of eliminated the blisters provided by my own excellent immune system, I developed a sore throat.  I nearly collapsed at the possibility that I may have passed on some virus, any virus, to my senior-plus loved one whom I have been visiting daily for several months.

However, my common sense established that the temporary sore throat was a result of my lowered immune system’s inability to fight off my regular allergic reaction to among other summer culprits, our once damp basement, now fortified by an immense dehumidifier and fan.  I work out in that space when the outdoors is inhospitable via humidity, storms, or heat in excess of the lower 80s, all the while singing at the top of my lungs to my playlist.  Thus, the scratchy sore throat.

It is not a good idea to work out in the basement wearing one of my “Covid-masks.”   My dumb thought was to exchange the minuscule retention of my own carbon dioxide trapped in the mask during my work out for the potential of breathing in vestiges of leftover mold from the depths of the cement block basement walls, during exertion.  There was a half-day of severe allergic congestion following that bright idea.

Right when I thought I was on the downhill slope, I discovered a sore patch on the back of my neck, right at the hairline.  Hubby sprayed this new line of poison with his friend, calamine.  And a sort of secondary red and stinging allergic reaction, not worse but equal to the blisters, appeared on my mid to upper arms, both arms.

I have discovered that if you can’t find rolled gauze in the store, 4×4 gauze pads can be cut in half, unfolded and they work similarly as the rolled stuff (soaked in boiled Jewel-weed stem broth) to serve as your wet/dry dressings.  Did I say that my husband is totally enamored with calamine in the spray can?  And I’m liking a bit of cornstarch baby powder, as I slowly heal.

I have been doing my best to not cross contaminate with myself or my spouse, so towels, wash cloths, bedding, and clothing; in short, everything I touch, has been washed daily.  After doing laundry so often for the last three weeks I wouldn’t be surprised if our water provider either made a special visit or sent an urgent phone call to our residence asking why the uptick?

I wondered if the new, or ongoing, I don’t know, feeling of irritation on my skin, which literally feels like gentle but constant contact with an unused dryer sheet, might have started a new allergy from said laundry product.  I even replaced my lifelong habit of using these and tried using a benign tablespoon of white vinegar in the wash and a baseball sized aluminum foil ball in the dryer which does not, as promised, prevent static cling.

In the near future, I guess I’m off to purchase wool dryer balls.  No holds barred here.

Besides daily oatmeal baths and cleansing showers, calamine lotion is my caregiver.  Cousin Vaughn suggested a novel application method utilizing a farm-grade spraying apparatus filled with said calamine.  A shower in it sounds good to me, about now.   I’ve tried all manner of home remedies.

Thank you, Harry for the Jewel-weed reminder; something else important that I forget from year to year.  Thank you, Bernie, for the tip for prevention, so there is no next time.

Thanks to Layne and those others who have prayed for me, some of whom are covert in your pleas on my behalf.  And, toward Eleni, who created a soothing mix of essential oils which are balm to my appendages and her prayers balm to my soul, I am always in a state of thanks and love.   I am receptive and grateful for all of your feedback and thoughtfulness.

I will always love the outdoors and this hiccup in the space of time will not deter that.  In fact, my step count on Fitbit testifies that my outdoor work has commenced, as usual.

It remains a Covid-crazy year folks and this is a summer to remember, at least in my neck of the woods. I’m personally looking forward to Autumn.