On Sunday the 29th of June I stopped for a bowl of clam chowder at the Ivar’s Seafood Bar in Burien. It was a pleasant sunny afternoon, and the dozens of multi-colored petunias planted around the restaurant lit it up in a cheerful summery way.
Got an email in my junk box in which the subject line announced I had won a UK lottery. It was awfully good news. This living on Social Security is not a piece of cake. I can barely afford cake. The subject line made me smile once, a little, before I deleted the email unread.
Cousin Nancy died on my birthday. You might think that feels bad, but it feels bittersweet. She is at peace now. No more pain, no more drugs, no more cancer. She’s with the angels, no doubt telling them how they can do their jobs better. She could always tell you a better way to do something.
People often tell me they cannot sing, or they are terrible singers. They offer lots of excuses. My favorite excuse for a less than lovely voice is, “I ruined my voice singing on the street for the Salvation Army.”
I drove to California last week to say good-bye to my cousin Nancy, who is now in hospice care. My memories of the trip include the sides of freeways as I whizzed by, and the times I spent with Nancy, who is hanging in there so far, and with my mother-in-law Diane.
There are little partially used rolls of medical paper tape all over the house. I keep finding them, and have been removing them and little strips of paper tape about six to eight inches long from end tables, night tables, the kitchen table, window sills, bookshelves, and chairs.
When someone dies, people say to the survivor, “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” The survivor thanks them, but of course has a completely blank mind and can’t think of anything. There might be a lot of things that need doing, but the grieving person is in a world of shock characterized by numbness and amnesia.
Life has been a little too interesting around Casa Tuel lately. My husband Rick, got airlifted off the island because he could not breathe one night. He’s much better, thanks, out of the hospital and on a new regime of dialysis.
In July of 1973 I joined my hippie friends one Saturday morning to go up to town and see the Festival Parade, my first.We had to park a couple of blocks out of town and walk in with other festival goers. That part hasn’t changed in 40 years.