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It's just me and Newton for the next couple of weeks. Reid is off to California to visit his girlfriend. It's awfully quiet here. And I expect the ice bin in the freezer will stay mostly full for the duration. I have projects to complete, most importantly the wall in Reid's bedroom that has been in a state of incompletion since the egress window was installed last April. Also a few finishing touches to the basement bathroom, a bit of baseboard here, some caulk and anchoring screws there. Somehow finishing his bedroom and bathroom have been next to impossible with him dwelling in their midst. Oh, and I guess that possibly all the outdoor projects took precedence. The preposterous pile of mulch and demolishing the hideous swingset and keeping new plants alive. How could I have already forgotten the project without end that is now completed? The deck has a lovely new paint job that has been holding up quite nicely to all of the rain this last week. Plus me taking some goof-off time. I expect this time will be normal in a sense, the minutes seemingly dragging by while the days fly. I'll get some practice in with empty-nesting. How many cats are required for me to attain crazy-old-cat-lady status?
The passing of Mr Hefner has sparked a memory of my dear little brother. So I'm sharing. Cullen and I were roommates in a little duplex at the corner of State and Dakota Avenues. At the time I worked for the State Newspaper Association, and Cullen had just graduated from high school and was attending South Dakota State University. Since it was our hometown, a number of his high school buddies were also freshman at SDSU, most of them living in dorm rooms but a few still at home with their parents. The guys got together and pitched in to pay for a subscription to Playboy magazine. And given their various living situations, thought it best to have it delivered to Cullen. In the dormitories, the mailboxes were quite small, and packages and periodicals were left on a shelf. I think for the most part, dorm occupants were decent about leaving packages to those they were addressed to. But a naughty magazine was almost guaranteed to disappear in short order. And if you were an eighteen year old guy still living with his parents? Please! A nudie magazine, yeah, the interviews and articles notwithstanding, was not likely to show up without some grilling from the parental units. This was odd, I thought, since Mom was still living with us until around November that first year. But she was the cool mom, I guess, and I was just an older sister. Not really an adult even though I was conveniently old enough to procure booze for them, should I choose to contribute to their delinquency. All I remember was at some point each month the usually anonymous phone calls would commence asking if the new issue was in. I'd tell them to find my brother and ask him before summarily hanging up. Occasionally there would be the brave soul at the door with a similar query. If he had the balls to ask in person, and the new Playboy had indeed arrived, I would hand it over. I have a number of stories about incidents from those two years, but this is probably my favorite. This is also one of those times where I would love to call him up so we could both have a good laugh. Even though that's not possible, I find myself grateful that this memory gives over to laughter and not tears. It's a good place to be.
I can't claim a single drop of Native American blood. Which makes me forever grateful to Sherman Alexie for giving me what little insight I have into that world. The world of growing up Native, of reservation life, of Native culture. To get your feet wet, watch the 1998 film Smoke Signals. Alexie wrote the script based on his earlier writings. Listen to the Minnesota Public Radio podcast, Talking Volumes, where Alexie talks about his most recent book, a memoir of his mother. If you aren't hooked by his insight, his unique vision, and his often brutal honesty, well, you probably don't have a heart.
My ear hurts! A legacy from childhood ear infections, my inner ears boast scar tissue that seems to make a perfect incubation lab for random infections. So any time I experience the beginnings of cold symptoms, any developing congestion has a tendency to settle there, particularly in my left ear. I have spent the last couple of days with a heat pack on the left side of my neck. The heat, coupled with some aggressive massage around my ear, does an effective job of breaking up that congestion and sending it on its way. Maybe half the time I take these measures I circumvent a full blown cold, and if I don't avoid a cold completely, the heat and massage make for lessened symptoms for a shorter period of time. Taking some down time after weeks of yard and painting work was probably in order, but my ear is forcing me to take it easy. After spending the last three days wearing the same clothes in a totally pitiful, unshowered state, I know I'm feeling better due to the fact I was disgusted with myself. After a steamy shower and dressed in fresh clothes, I am close to being able to rejoin the human race.
