Ken's AIDS Quilt Panel

 

Ken died in 1993. I participated the best I could in his end-of-life care, commuting on alternate weekends to Issaquah, spending every possible moment with him and offering respite to his partner, Peter Fraser. We spent the evening of January 3, 1993, with Ken at Seattle’s Bailey Boushay AIDS Hospice, watching him struggle to breathe, moistening his lips and mouth with glycerin lollipops, while his 80-pound skeletal body scarcely made a ripple in the light blanket covering him. We knew the end was near, but finally gave up our vigil and drove back to the condo to try to rest up for what we feared the next day would bring. We rode the elevator up to the third floor, unlocked the door and saw the light on the answering machine blinking like the flashing light on an emergency vehicle, semaphoring the inevitable message. No need to listen to the recording, we immediately knew. It was over. He was gone. Conflicted light feelings of release and the crushing weight of loss remain with me even now.

Ken was born when I was ten years old. Although he was my third brother, our bond was more than that of siblings. He was my own real live baby doll, and I adored him from the moment he was born. I dressed him, fed him, diapered him, and paraded him around the neighborhood in his baby buggy. He was precious to me and became more so as he developed into a bright, verbal, and creative little boy. I remember one morning; he got out of bed and came running into my room bursting with excitement. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, my three-year-old brother said, “Melody! I had a film last night!” and for the first time, he told me what he had dreamed. He never stopped telling me his dreams. When he was in his 40’s and living in Washington while I was in California, he would phone and tell me about his dreams. Or he might call to share the excitement of the first snow of the season. I was the first family member he told the devastating news of his HIV diagnosis. He was calm. I was hysterical. It seemed impossible and yet, inevitable, given the raging epidemic and his active gay life.

I remember his fear of abandonment when I got married. I was then 20 years old, and he was 10. During the ceremony with around 150 guests in St. Lawrence O’Toole’s Catholic Church, he cried out, “Melody! Don’t leave me!” And that was my cry on the day I learned of his diagnosis – a virtual death sentence.

His death ripped a huge hole in the fabric of our family. Sister Valery’s loss was profound. Three years younger than he, they became bonded playmates. They shared a magical childhood populated with a host of imaginary folks, some friendly and some wicked like Grassy Pill, a being who lived in hell which was near San Francisco; she was always making mischief. And there was the marshmallow lady, derived from the Nutcracker Suite, who took naughty children and stuffed them under her skirt where they were doomed to smell her stinky underwear. Ken and Valery shared secrets and fantasies in a world of their own.

In the months following Ken’s death. As executor of his bankrupt estate, I trudged through the requisite busyness: tax filings, insurance dealings, and distribution of his worldly goods. He was cremated and his ashes distributed among me, my sister Valery, and Peter. We held a memorial gathering for him in his hometown of Oakland and distributed mementos to his legion of friends. I kept a coffee mug which, 27 years later, is still in my rotation of cups used frequently.

Still, nothing seemed to adequately memorialize Ken. I wanted the world to know how special he was. I soon learned about the NAMES Project, also called the AIDS Memorial Quilt, and knew I had to make a commemorative panel. But then, life and other deaths got in the way, and my resolve dissipated. In the next decade, end of life care for my mother, my grandfather, my aunt, and ultimately my daughter absorbed my time. Upon the death of my daughter, I became the guardian of my four- and five-year-old grandsons. Responsibility for the boys was truly a gift. They were wonderful children, but I was an aging woman, a single grandmother tending to the needs of the boys and the exigencies of daily life.  My creative energy was drained, and the notion of a memorial panel was shelved.

By the time the boys were around 10 and 11, demands on my time for their care slackened. Hours during the day opened up while they were at school, and when at home they were occupied with friends, music lessons, and schoolwork. I began to feel my creative sap rising again and the desire to make a memorial panel for Ken come to the surface. I had a pattern, a drawing made a decade earlier by my niece, Hollis Blair. A plan of attack for the project began to fall in place: I bought the sewing machine needed to make the panel I envisioned. And who knew? Next, a trip to Home Depot and the purchase of a painter’s drop cloth, a sturdy canvas fabric that could withstand the handling it would receive as part of the AIDS Memorial quilt. I would use it as a foundation and backdrop for the design I intended to fabricate. With a supply of fabrics and a collection of photographs of Ken at hand, I was ready to dive in.

I dyed pieces of the canvas, one strip sky blue, one of grass green, and stitched them together making a three foot by six-foot rectangle, approximately the size of a grave. The design depicted a plant in eight stages of life, ranging from a sprout to a robust thriving flower and finally a wilted and dying scrap of vegetation. Pictures of Ken in corresponding stages of his life would bloom in the center of each flower. I spent days poring over old photos, stirring up wonderful memories – vacations, family Christmases, triumphant events in his life - so many joyous moments captured. There were hundreds to choose from and looking at each entailed time travel and a visit with Ken.

Ken's world expanded when he started school. The picture in the first bud on the quilt panel is his kindergarten class photo. He loved school and his teachers loved him. He formed many enduring friendships but never loosened his bonds to the family. He strengthened ties to the farther reaches of our kin through “All Things Relative”, a family newspaper, which he composed and distributed faithfully.

The picture in the second flower on the quilt is of him during his high school years in the 60’s – the height of the Beatles era. His hair was accordingly long, and his polyester shirts were of vibrant colors. He continued to gather witty, kooky, and bright friends, although he never had a serious girlfriend. He told me he just kept hoping he would meet the “right” girl. He remained closely engaged with the family and especially with his nieces and nephews. He committed to taking each to Disneyland as a tenth birthday gift. He and niece Hollis became partners in running the annual Bay to Breakers race in San Francisco for several years. Each niece or nephew would declare he was their favorite uncle.

After high school, he attended UC Berkeley, our father’s alma mater. While in his senior year at Cal, the Vietnam War draft lottery was implemented. His number was 5, meaning he was certain to be drafted. Because he feared being sent to war, he quit school, joined the Marines, and landed a desk position in Alameda, California. He had escaped the danger of being sent to the war zone and survived the daily personal terror of his homosexuality being discovered. The third flower shows him in his Marine uniform and at the peak of his physical fitness.

When he was discharged from the Marines, he returned to Cal Berkeley and completed a degree in Biology. He later decided a career in accounting would provide him a better income and so, he went back to school at SF State for an accounting degree and an MBA. The picture in the fourth blossom shows him at his prime, physically fit, comfortable with his sexuality, and with a firm footing on a career.

In the early ‘80’s, Ken was very active in the gay life of the San Francisco Bay area and everything that entailed, including carousing at bars in the Castro district and frequenting the bath houses. Every night was a party, and he was out, loud and proud. When the deadly reality of the AIDS epidemic became known, monogamous relationships seemed safer. The fifth plant shows that Ken has plucked a flower representing his choice of a partner.

Although gay marriage was not yet legal, he and Peter Fraser entered a committed union. Peter was employed by a Canadian airline and lived in Vancouver, B.C. while Ken was still living in Oakland. Maintaining the relationship required lots of travel and immigration was not an option for either of them. However, commute hours and distance were significantly reduced when Ken took a job based in Washington. He was able to buy a condominium in Issaquah, and they had much more time together.

But, by then, his HIV infection erupted, his health began to fade, and he had full blown AIDS. The sixth flower represents this decline. He was able to continue working for a couple of years before being racked by a cavalcade of AIDS-related illnesses. He suffered pneumocystis pneumonia, shingles, tuberculosis and blindness in one eye from herpes; his depleted immune system was powerless. Peter lovingly and steadfastly cared for him through one episode after another. The ravaging of his body is illustrated by the next to last plant.

The final flower represents his last days in the AIDS hospice.  He spent about six weeks in with wonderful compassionate care in that sorrow-filled place. I took some small comfort in knowing how many loved him and shared the agony of his death.  I found the suffering of so many young men, many dying alone and abandoned by their families almost beyond endurance. Frequent trips to the chapel, helped a little, but I truly felt as though a part of me had been sucked out, a sensation I can still feel in some measure today.

I am pleased that Ken’s panel is one of 48,000 that travels to be displayed around the country and that it was chosen to represent the month of July in the 2009 version of the annual AIDS calendar. This single panel is dwarfed in the largest piece of community art in the world. The entire quilt would cover 20 acres and weighs 54 tons. Still, it represents only a tiny portion of the 32.7 million who have died globally since the beginning of the epidemic. I believe the NAMES project has served to amplify AIDS awareness. I personally derived some comfort by making Ken’s panel. Sending it off in the mail felt like exhaling after holding my breath a very long time.

 

I 

Home Sweet Bed

 

In four months, I will be living someplace else. I don’t know where and I don’t know how much of my stuff I will be taking with me. And yet, I’m not especially concerned. One thing I am sure of, I will take my bed.

Nineteen years ago, my daughter, Robin, was murdered and I took custody of her four and five year old orphaned sons. In those early days, I felt like a burn victim, seared to my soul with grief and overwhelmed with responsibility; sleep was elusive.

Thanks to the tender empathy of my cousin, Connie Blair Brehm, for the past nineteen years, my bed has been a refuge, a place where I am comforted from my nearly unbearable pain. Just after Robin’s death, Connie asked if I would like to have Grandma’s bed. It had been in use at her home for the previous five years while she had been the caregiver and guardian of our Aunt Helen, the childless daughter of our mutual grandmother. Helen had moved to assisted memory care and no longer used her bed.

Mental images of the bed and 70 years of memories associated with it washed over me.  I had been in awe of the towering bedstead that stood in the small bedroom at Atlasta Ranch in Fallon, Nevada. It dominated the room where my grandfather slept. Although to my young self it seemed odd, my grandmother slept in a separate bed on the south porch of the house. The morning of August 2, 1953, while I was spending summer vacation with my grandparents, my grandfather suffered a fatal heart attack in that bed. My memories of the sad day are always illuminated with a mental image of him drawing his final breath. It’s a gentle and comforting image, graced with thoughts of all that had occurred in that bed which had served since the marriage of Minnie Pauline Nichols and Ernest William Blair on December 26, 1908, in Placerville, California.

The bed was purchased at Sloan’s in Sacramento, and shipped by rail to the first home of the newlyweds in Goldfield, Nevada. Conception and birth of my Aunt Helen in 1910, and of my father, Seward James “Bud” Blair in 1912, no doubt occurred in that bed while in Goldfield.

The bed and the family moved to Tonopah, Nevada, in 1918. In 1922, their third child, Ernest William “Bill” Blair, Jr. was conceived and born, though his birth was in a hospital.

In 1924, the household settled on Atlasta Ranch in Fallon, Nevada. After the death of my grandmother in 1973, the bed remained in Fallon with Aunt Helen until Alzheimer’s disease overtook her. In 1995, the bed and Aunt Helen moved to LaVerne, California, to be cared for by cousin Connie and Dieter Brehm. And there it remained until it was moved to my bedroom in El Dorado Hills, California.

In the past nineteen years, I have moved five times, always making sure my bed was the first thing put in place in the new house. And always, it symbolizes safety, security, refuge, and comfort. The golden glow of the oak suffuses my room with warmth. The seven foot tall headboard protects me while the carved and curving acanthus leaves on top symbolize the angel’s wings of my grandmother watching over and guiding me. The walls around me matter little, I am secure knowing I can lay myself down in my bed, wherever that may be.

Spilling My Guts

 

 

It’s over! Sudden tears oozing out, giving way to a flood streaming down my face. It started when I read that Kamala Harris was the first woman, the first black person, the first south Asian to be elected Vice President of the United States.

Big huge gulping sobs that come hiccupping from my diaphragm. I don’t normally cry. What has come over me?

Euphoria Like the moment after a difficult labor and a long pregnancy, when my newborn is placed on my belly and my hand reaches down and touches her. Something overwhelming kind of like electric shock races through me, but it is a current of joy and release from pain that I had been feeling.

I bring up the mental image of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel painting of the creation of Adam.

If my reaction is so intense, what do Joe Biden and Kamala Harris feel?

I stop and look at Facebook, post my reaction, read comments from my friends in Asia and Europe. It feels like the whole planet is rejoicing.

https://www.huffpost.com/entry/photos-show-celebrations-across-the-world-as-joe-biden-wins-us-election_n_5fa48a89c5b64c88d3feaddb?ncid=newsltushpmgnews&guccounter=1

How's the Vegetarian Thing Going?

Funny you should ask. The vegetarian thing is going pretty well, but it is certainly not a reduced calorie way of eating, at least for me.  It's no secret, I'm a foodaholic, and I have the body to prove it. I think about food ALL the time. I love to read about it,  plan meals and snacks, shop for it, prepare it, and,of course, eat it. Not so much clean up after eating it. 

These days my sole sources for reading about food are online. Pinterest is my bible. I also participate in a private Facebook page called "What's For Dinner" where a couple dozen of us describe our evening meals. I think I'm the only vegetarian in the group, but I do get lots of meal ideas from these folks, and I enjoy sharing my successes and lamenting my failures. I have more pictures of food on my camera roll than I have pictures of my kids and grandkids. 

My birthday lunch this year: roasted artichokes and asparagus, tomatoes, and tabbouleh

Birthday dessert

s

A favorite tortilla soup

Grandson Ben typically picks up my e-cart from Raleys. Other markets offer the service, but I find Raley's online shopping easy to use and I like  their practice of substituting something bigger and better if the requested item is not available. Lately, I've heard some negative comments about their masking practices while others extol the rigid controls by Safeway. I'm considering switching, Ben also goes to Costco occasionally buying huge amounts of granola, the world's best dill pickles, and other staples of our diet. All this shopping by proxy leaves a void in the full satisfaction of my food obsession. I miss grocery shopping. 

The world's best dill pickles (the artichoke hearts are great, too)

And so I am planning a trip to Trader Joe's. I will be there promptly next Monday morning at 8:00 AM when the store opens to seniors. I will go hungry. I will roll through the doors in my wheel chair with Ben following closely behind with a cart. I want to fall prey to all the yummy things on the shelves and in the freezers. I will choose bananas for 19 cents each, the mango/jicama slaw will leap into the cart as I roll toward the apricots, cantaloupes, peaches, avocados, and limes. Moving on, I give myself permission to select four different cheeses and then Tzatziki, Greek yogurt, butter, and eggs are chosen as I round the corner to the frozen food/cookie and candy aisle. All kinds of frozen foods beckon, prepared meals, and that terrific vanilla ice cream. Thai, Italian, Mexican, Chinese, and Indian selections excite my salivary glands. I can't pass up the truffle flatbread. All the while I'm scanning for alluring condiments and seasonings.  I'm going to try the honey Alepo sauce. I need the mushroom Umami seasoning, and the Everything But the Bagel seasoning. I mustn't forget at least two boxes of triple ginger cookies. And then around the next corner for olive oil (the Greek EVOO is the best), tomato/red pepper soup (low sodium), some Thai yellow curry, and then the next aisle for nuts (unsalted) and all the "cluster" cereals. And the grand finale, drum roll please, the beverage section. I absolutely must have tonic and soda water, vodka, and at least six bottles of wine. This is going to be more than my budgeted $200.

I find I am coming to like spicier foods, veggies can be pretty bland. I use a fair amount of condiments and prepared foods which can be very high in sodium, so I make low sodium selections wherever possible.  I don't miss meat, I don't think I could bring myself to buy it for any reason, but I  haven't discarded the intention to cook a Thanksgiving turkey. We'll see. And wine is less appealing since I've given up meat. I was a moderately sophisticated imbiber and enjoyed pairing good wines to an interesting menu. That has lost its luster when the menu is meatless, although cheese, fruit, and wine make a pretty good combination.

So,what do I really eat?

Breakfast choices: Frozen waffles with peanut butter and a banana or frozen fruit medley; pepper jack  cheese omelet (often with spinach, mushrooms, and onions); plain Greek yogurt with frozen fruit medley stirred in, topped with granola; bagel with cream cheese, fruit

Lunch:  leftovers, soup, salad, fruit, nuts, and cheese, sandwiches, quesadillas

Dinner: lots of frozen meals; spaghetti; Pad Thai; curry; variation on pasta dishes; hearty soups; rice-based concoctions; baked potatoes; tacos; pizza

                               

Rant Warning

I'm really tired of Trump-bashing. And I'm really sad there is so much to bash. Today he has ordered the CDC to stop reporting COVID-19 data. Instead, we are to believe information released by the White House, which to date has released misinformation and outright lies when not turning a blind side to the issue. I won't bore you with the details, but if you're curious, look here:

https://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2020/07/trumps-lies-about-coronavirus/608647/

I do take hope when I hear he is turning against FOX News (or they are turning on him).

I have at least three acquaintances who have discarded their loyalty to Trump. Hope springs eternal. I don't know how much more rejection he can gaslight. 

His "press conference" on Tuesday (7/14) in the Rose Garden was 57 minutes of campaigning and incoherent rambling followed by 6 minutes of questions and then an abrupt departure. He is not well.

I seriously doubt he will finish his term. I even think there is a possibility something will keep him from getting the nomination. I suspect Romney will ultimately be the Republican nominee. And then there will be a real contest and interesting debates. 

My fantasy has Trump walking off the job, leaving Pence in the lurch. I think he might seek asylum someplace that won't extradite him. I wonder who he would take with him. I'm pretty sure Melania and Barron would refuse to go. Likely, Ivanka and her family would go and probably Don, Jr. and Eric.

I can't shake the feeling that something dramatic and unprecedented is about to happen. 

And how about this? 

• CEO of Goya products avows support for Trump.
• Backlash occurs advocating boycott of Goya Products.
• Ivanka openly advertise Goya beans on Twitter. 
• Further backlash ensues.
• President Donald Trump, leader (?) of the free world appears on Instagram with an array of Goya products on the Resolute Desk in the Oval Office.

How can he stoop so low while the epidemic is out of control? No leadership on how and when schools should re-open -- parents, teacher, and friends in a frenzy over the best course of action. I am enraged.

 

I'm going to keep this short because we are all tired of political rants and I think I need to do some breathing exercises.

Batteries Not Included

I’m old. Don’t argue with me, I’m proud of it. It took me a long time to get here. Why do people always want to disagree when you declare you’re old? “You’re only as old as you think you are;” “you don’t look near your age;” “you’re young at heart;” “age is a state of mind;” et cetera, ad nauseam.

 I don’t mind being old. It has some real advantages. I don’t menstruate; I can’t get pregnant; I won’t lose my job; I get to pre-board airplanes (when not in the middle of a pandemic); I get discounts; people make way and help me without being asked; and I can say nearly anything and people will forgive me because, well, I’m old.

 Don’t get me wrong, there are some inconveniences. Consider getting up in the morning...

 I reach for my glasses on the nightstand and knock them to the floor. Retrieving them is not simple. First, I must detach myself from my Cpap. I turn off the wheezing machine, take off the head gear, and put it on the nightstand. I then remove the chin strap which prevents dry mouth by wrapping my head and chin in Lycra. I’m hoping the strap does double duty in mitigating the droop of my sagging chin(s). 

Back to picking up my glasses -- they are out of reach and my knees don’t function very well, so I hoist myself from bed to the wheelchair, I try to bend over to snag them but realize I am risking tumbling to the floor, so I wisely wheel myself out to the living room where I left my grabbers. Back to the bedroom, the glasses are retrieved, planted on my nose and the world is a brighter and clearer place. Somehow, being able to see magically improves my hearing a tad. Impaired vision easily solved.

Now that I can see what I'm doing, off to the shower I roll, after gathering towel, ensuring bath seat is in place, retrieving hospital-style walker, checking on supply of body wash and shampoo, and adjusting water temperature. Feels so good to have a clean start on another beautiful day. No need to blow dry my hair, I’m not going anywhere. After brushing my teeth, I insert my partial plate. No one can tell I don’t have a mouth full of pearly whites. 

 But the hearing problem still persists in considerable measure.  I retrieve the hearing aids from their overnight UV cleaning box, brush all their little nooks and crannies with the little brush that I, thankfully, have not dropped on the floor this time. It’s time to replace the batteries. I remove the paper tab and hold them in my hand for a minute to warm them up and thus extend their life. Do you have any idea how long a minute can be? Inserting the batteries, again grateful I did not drop them, I push them into my ear canals and loop them over the top. Having rather small ears, between glasses and hearing aids, it’s getting a bit crowded back there.

 I select and put on my underwear, with a panty shield, just in case...

 I choose pants with a leg wide enough to pull up over my knee to provide easier access to my lower legs for wrapping in Ace bandages. A pullover shirt that doesn’t require fiddling with buttons completes my outfit. I only add accessories if I’m going out – and that hasn’t happened in months. (Editor's note: She says that every few weeks whenever she goes out again.)

 Next steps require assistance. Because of venous stasis, my legs need compression wrapping. Ace bandages are wrapped around both legs from knee to ankle to foot.  When my pant leg is back in place my knee brace is attached to my right leg to add in stability and mobility. 

 Finally, a handful of pills regulate blood pressure, heart rhythm, and cholesterol, topped off with a cup of strong black coffee to jump start my day. My loins and all other parts are girded. Carpe diem!

 Total elapsed time: 90 minutes. 

 I am more of a puzzle than Ikea furniture. I’m thinking of getting a tattoo that says, “Batteries not included. Some assembly required.”

 

Omnivores Be Warned! This Post May Contain Triggers

February 1, 2020, was a day I planned to have Ben pick up the groceries on my list. And there was no meat on the list. I had eaten the last of the frozen meals containing chicken the night before and I just didn't feel like eating meat anymore. There is nothing remarkable about the date, that's just when it happened. And I feel like it happened to me, that something external to me had decided that Melody would no longer eat meat, not a personal choice. Kind of like it had been inscribed in the brushed stainless steel finish of the dual refrigerator doors, "No meat shall pass these portals".

I wish I could say it was because of some noble reason like realizing the inefficiency of meat as food for humans. I read Diet For a Small Planet years ago and kept eating meat. And I know cows contribute a lot to the environmental methane overload. All are solid reasons to avoid meat, but didn't sway me.

However, several other things over a long time had lead me to this point. I have always had a gut reaction to meat counters in grocery stores -- just so  much meat, and all of it raw and dead. But, the thought of a nice barbecued rib eye served up with twice-baked potatoes, roasted corn on the cob, and a good bold Cabernet Sauvignon painted over any fleeting thoughts of revulsion. Maybe it was really the thought of the Cab. Sadly, since meat has been off the menu, Cab has lost its allure.

I suppose another factor had been the several trips I had taken to Southern California during 2019, driving up and down the dullest road in America --Interstate 5. Between Sacramento and Bakersfield there is very little in the way of sensory stimulation, except. . .Harris Ranch! The miasma of the feed lots assaults the olfactory nerves for miles around and bring tears to the eyes. There is no escape, no matter how insulated the vehicle, the odor of Cowshwitz permeates. And do you know? There is a restaurant and a hotel there! I can't imagine how anyone could have an appetite, especially arriving from the north where the feed lots sprawl and the prevailing winds conspire to announce the presence of so many thousands of steers literally on their last legs. And who would want to spend the night? To better to soak in the glory (gory?) of it all? And yet, the label Harris Ranch Beef on a plastic-wrapped prime rib in a white Styrofoam tray conjured up visions of a Christmas feast, with mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, Brussels Sprouts (another olfactory assault) and the perfect Cabernet. So, is it the prime rib or the Cab? They are inseparable in my reverie.

And then there is the fact that I co-habit with my grandson, an avowed vegan (until February 1, 2020). He seemed to exist mainly on hummus, guacamole, and granola, with an occasional frozen Pad Thai meal. But, when I stopped eating meat and started cooking vegetarian meals with the possible inclusion of dairy or eggs, he suddenly broadened his food choices to include whatever I prepared. He never proselytized his culinary practices, but his disinterest in meat dishes I prepared had some influence on my conversion. I love to cook for an audience -- feeding the people has always given me joy. When the audience is limited to a single person who is not impressed with virtuosity in the kitchen, what had formerly brought joy, became tiresome. What was the point?

Then there was the time when a truckload of cattle was overturned and around 80 cows escaped. After a few hours they were rounded up and loaded into another truck, with all accounted for and no apparent injuries. The public reaction was bizarre. Everyone was worried about the well-being of the animals and relieved that none had gone missing and that none were hurt. Those creatures were on the way to the feed lots and eventual slaughter. Wouldn't a more compassionate person pray they made their escape?

 

The last straw was the dog. When Oreo was in the throes of her final illness and I became keenly aware of just how sweet, and trusting she was. I realized how all these years she had depended on us to take care of her. It was clear she had feelings. And since she did, doesn't a cow (or chicken, or pig)? Don't confuse me by the fact  that dogs are meat-eaters. A whole lot of what I came to feel has logic holes as big as a Florida sinkhole. 

Fish was kind of a separate issue. It took a while for me to make the mental leap to exclude it. I miss it far more than I miss meat. If I should ever fall off the vegetable wagon, I'm sure it would be for some harvest from the sea. I  miss shrimp, crab, and lobster from time to time, although not enough to buy and cook it. 

Pairings no longer play into my meal planning. I never wonder, does red wine go with brown rice and white wine with white rice? Consequently I'm spending a lot less money on wine. My bank account and my liver rejoice. Of course, as always, Champagne goes with everything.

And so, I simply could not eat meat anymore. I don't know if it's forever, but it is for today. 

Puzzled

During this time of  quarantine, Ben has been assembling jigsaw  puzzles. He's very good at it and enjoys challenging but interesting puzzles. The first one he worked kind of resembles a depiction of the COVID-19 molecule. Closer examination reveals satanic faces. Maybe it is the deadly molecule.

He moved on to a beautiful round dragonfly puzzle which was missing a piece.

This solid black circle within a rectangle challenged him next. It took longer than the others, but he did it.

Now he is working one that was just a box full of pieces. When he started, he had no idea what the finished product would look like. Of course, he now knows it is  Washington crossing the Delaware -- kind of an appropriate theme to begin on Independence Day. It's by far the easiest of the lot.

Let me know if you would like to have any of them. We'll gladly pass them along. We have no plans or place to keep them. In fact, the more stuff we get rid of, the easier it will be when it time for us to move. And that time is approaching rapidly.

Ben and I need to find someplace else to live by September 1. Matter of fact, Ben has found someplace. He will be moving to Davis into a shared apartment.

I have no idea what I will do. I'm in kind of a difficult "monkey in the middle" situation. My income is too low to qualify for a good rental, but too high to qualify for any kind of assistance. My physical condition is such that I cannot live alone, but not severe enough to draw on my Long Term insurance.

So, I really don't know what to do or where to go. I have faith that it will work out, I can't imagine that I will be  thrown to the curb, but I'm eager to find a solution. At the present, I am puzzled.

***

And masks are for sale -- speak up! $5 each, porch pick up or I will mail them.

Mac and Cheese (Without Ham and Peas)

I'd been thinking there had to be more to Macaroni and Cheese than noodles and cheddar or the blue Kraft box. In years gone by, I prepared a stove top version of the dish for grandkids, Ben and Logan, probably one out of every three nights when they were between the ages of five to fifteen. Then I got fancy and added ham and peas to the mix for a one-pot dinner.  Oddly, I don't recall ever serving it to my children, I'm not sure why, perhaps memory fails.

So, in the throes of quarantine gluttony, I turned to Pinterest (it's what I do when I'm not on FaceBook).  I finally settled on a recipe that called for a ton of four different cheeses and a half ton of whipping cream. Separately, the ingredients sounded delicious and I made the leap to gathering the fixings (not easy when I shop online only twice a month). I wanted to sample an uptown version of good old Mac and Cheese.

The recipe calls for a roux which was really just a bunch of butter fat and four tablespoons of flour, and a pint of whipping cream. And then I added the cheese. My logical mind was telling me that this was a lethal dose of fat and the cooking odors alone could be fatal. But, my quest for a true gourmet Mac and Cheese experience continued. I tried to pour the sauce in all its cheesy glory into the cooked noodles. It had the consistency of molten lava and moved at that speed, which if you live at the base of a volcano is very rapid, but standing over a hot stove was agonizingly slow. Giving up on pouring, I scooped about a third of the mixture into the pasta. It now looked like noodles floating in fondue. Deciding enough was enough, I abandoned the plan to put the whole mess into a baking dish and covered in buttered bread crumbs. It was time for the taste test. My worst fears were realized. It was like eating a cheese-flavored version of the library paste I used to eat in kindergarten and I suspected it would likely have a catastrophic effect on my GI tract. 

I have a lopsided frugality about food. My parents came of age in the depression era and war-time rationing was in effect during my early childhood. I was a proud member of the clean plate club and dutifully thought of the poor starving children in China. So, in my "waste not, want not" convoluted way of thinking, I am willing to buy whatever food I crave, cost be damned, but, I unwilling to throw out leftovers.

And here they are (refrigerated version):

Quarantine Day #124

My quarantine began March 1, but some aspects go back even further. I fell September 2 last year, and  fractured my right tibia and bruised both legs thoroughly from ankle to knee (I have pictures, but I'm pretty sure you don't want to see them). I hobbled around for a couple of months and finally was unable to walk at all in early November. I've been using a wheel chair ever since. So, my world became very much smaller and closely resembled what I am now experiencing in quarantine.

I don't know the date of my last haircut, probably sometime in October. Hair hanging in my face drives me crazy, so I've adopted a Pipi Longstocking coiffure. What you don't see in the picture is the mullet formed by the hairs that refused to be bunched up. Pretty goofy, but it's become my go-to daily hair style.

February 16 was the day I last set foot in a restaurant. Sister Valery and I had lunch with brother Rick -- the first time I had seen him since he and wife Kathy split up. And shopping at Trader Joe's sometime before the first of March, was the last time I set foot in a grocery store.

I now do all my shopping online, using e-cart for groceries and Amazon for just about everything else. Ben picks up the groceries and my prescriptions from CVS. But it really doesn't feel much different and I don't feel like I'm suffering. I've visited with a few friends and family members sitting outside, maintaining social distance and using masks as appropriate. No shared food. On a few occasions people have come into my home briefly. Upon their departure, I run around with Clorox wipes and Lysol spray.

All that said, I am not suffering, I don't feel deprived. My (inadequate) income continues. And like always, I sew, read, cook, write, and pay rapt attention to politics and social movements.

Here's my mask inventory for sale: all are adult size, have nose wires, and soft elastic bands that fit over the ear. I'm going to work on some smaller sizes and a couple of different styles in the near future. I have several of each of those in the bottom picture. The top ones are one of a kind at the moment, but I have more of the same fabrics and will be making more.

Back to the Blogosphere

I quit blogging when I felt what I had to say might hurt others. Time has thickened my hide, I hope my readers feel the same. I am compelled to speak out on so many things ranging from a very personal level to global issues. Maybe I'll step on a few toes, I'm okay with that. Folks are free to disagree in comments. I will publish any well-thought out opinions, but won't tolerate personal attacks directed at me (politicians are fair game), just leave out any nasty language, be creative, exercise your vocabulary. So you are going to hear about whatever is running around the squirrel cage of my mind.
Today it's masks. I'm for them. And I make them. And I hope to sell them.

They're $5 each, $1 shipping and handling. Each mask is made by me in my smoke-free, pet-free home from new material which has been laundered to remove any chemical residue from manufacturing. To order, email me at: melodyblairmoore@gmail.com, put "Masks" in the subject line. Please and thank you. I will evenually open an etsy shop, but I'm giving my friends a head start.

My beautiful model is Alexandra, daughter of beloved friend, Lisa. Every mask is made with love and prayers, hope, and good wishes for the wearer's good health from the heart and gnarled hands of this 81 year old woman. Custom orders can specify custom prayers! I'll show new masks at the bottom of each post.

In future posts I'll ramble on about politics, the pandemic, the opioid epidemic, the gun violence epidemic, racism, the declining global reputation of the USA, aging, books and maybe an occasional Netflix or Amazon Prime offering, food, travel, quilts, masks, family and friends, maybe a tad about the weather, but I'll try not to be boring.

Please tell your friends to follow me!