Being heard makes a difference

I recently went to my Google Analytics account to see how I am doing. (At this point, I check it only occasionally; when I first started writing for Examiner.com, I checked daily to see if I had any readers!)

When I looked at my stats for this blog, I noted once again that no one had read my latest entries.

"Oh, well," I thought, "maybe it's because I don't write on a regular basis." Or "perhaps it's because I don't do much of anything to promote it," or "may it's because no one is interested in my thoughts/topics/writing."

However,  this time something struck me as a bit odd; Ralph had mentioned reading my latest entry earlier in the day. "Why haven't I gotten a tally for his visit," I wondered. I asked my techie husband to come take a look at my statistics; it turned out I had been looking in the wrong place (I am such an inept computer operator!). It seems that I do have a readership; in fact, I even have a few subscribers :-).

So I am feeling so much better about writing a blog--I mean who wants to write and write and have no feedback!. Well, actually many people, including me, do want that--but for me that's called a journal. In this instance, I really would like to have some communication going on!

Unfortunately, I am not going to be able to update this blog for a while because of our summer plans, but I do want to leave you with some good news: my upcoming book, "Patagonia Chronicle: On Foot in Torres del Paine, is now in the design and production phase. We are hoping for a late summer publication date!

Stayed tuned--and please, do comment when you feel so inclined. 

Photo: Patagonia sunrise by Susan Alcorn

Sundowners is not just a movie title

Until recently, I only thought of "Sundowners" as the title of a movie from the '60s with Deborah Kerr. Now I know that it is the term for a condition that causes confusion after sundown. It is often, though not always as it turns out, associated with dementia.

My mom, who is 101, first evidenced this ailment last December. She was in the hospital--stemming from an episode we finally chalked up to atrial fibrillation--and one evening she started seeing cars driving around on a nearby sports field. The nurse and I looked out the window in the direction mom indicated; there were no cars nearby.

After the December hospital and rehab stay, we moved my mom from Independent Living to Assisted Living--a move we had postponed about as long as we safely could. Since that time, it has become increasingly apparent to me, as I look at her check register and her manner of clinging to every scrap of incoming paper, that she had been covering her declining state pretty well.

Any move or change for the elderly seems to cause confusion and disorientation and we had expected some reaction from mom with this end-of-year change of apartments. Little did I know that the incoming phone calls would change from once a week to multiple times daily.

The calls that are the most perplexing, however, are generally the ones that come during the 4-6 PM period. Yesterday afternoon's call, on Mothers Day, was unexpected. I had called mom about 4 PM to wish her a Happy Mothers Day, and told her I would pick her up the next day for a doctor's appointment and an outing. Everything seemed to go well and she acknowledged the time I would come by, etc.

Imagine my surprise when the phone rang at 5 PM and the first words mom spoke were, "Why are you mad at me again?" I paused a moment before answering as I tried to replay the tape of the earlier phone call. The old absurd question "When did you stop beating your wife?" came to mind. If you have never beaten your wife, how do you answer?

Anyway, I soon realized that we were talking during a sundowners moment and the only way I find to handle it is to follow the advice of a good friend (who works with the elderly). Don't argue, just be reassuring. If you are lucky, the state of confusion will all be over in an hour. On the other hand, as I read on the following link, not everyone is so lucky. You can read more about this ailment at this site.

Little Things Mean a Lot

Kitty Kallen, when she recorded  Little Things Mean a Lot  in 1954, was speaking the truth. I was touched yesterday when Ralph gave me--a baseball cap.

Ordinarily, I don't think of myself as a baseball cap sort of woman; I'm not a sports fan and I generally prefer a  wide-brimmed hat. However, when I was at Red Mountain Resort (a super place to hike) in January, I found myself without a hat and purchased a cute one from the resort's shop. For some reason, the mud-red color, similar to that of the Hawaiian "Red Dirt" shirts, spoke to me.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, when we were crossing a footbridge at the Don Edwards Wildlife Refuge not far from here, the wind picked up my cap and dropped it into the stream below us. We looked around for a way to retrieve it, but the stream's banks were slick with mud and we couldn't have gotten to the water's edge without ending up knee deep in the silt. We had nothing with which to fish the hat out of the water. It was hardly a calamity, but darn, I had really loved that hat!

Yesterday, as I was getting up for breakfast, Ralph came in and handed me a package. "This was on the front porch," he said.

UPS at 7:30 in the morning! It didn't make sense, but I opened the bag and there was a bright new mud-red cap. My husband knows the meaning of Little Things Mean a Lot.


 

Priorities, priorities!

Setting priorities has been a central theme in my life for as long as I can remember. How to balance the many responsibilities and activities in my life seems to head the intention list at the beginning of each year and be on my mind year-round. 2012 has been no exception so far, and in fact, I feel like I am trying to swim to shore against a riptide trying to carry me out further into the sea.

Perhaps it's not possible to set priorities when the items on the list keep changing in relative importance. Somehow, I think that struggling to make some kind of long-term plan does nothing but make me feel more confused and stressed.

To be more precise--how can I possibly rank these things in order of importance: my 101-year old mother, husband, kids, grand kids, friends, writing, fitness, household, financial, and R & R? I recognize that my decisions are not a Sophie's Choice sort of thing; and I don't really mean that I am unable to decide the relative importance of my mom to paying the bills. I just mean that some of the mundane things do have to be tended to or the utilities get turned off.

Perhaps this rambling is really about the fact that I have not been able to keep up with writing this blog--which I really would like to maintain--because I have been consumed with being part-time caretaker to my mom, with trying to finish my book about Patagonia, and with increasing our training hikes so that we can continue our long-distance hikes.

Experts say that when faced with a riptide, you are supposed to swim parallel to the beach until you reach the end of the current, rather than try to swim directly to shore. Perhaps that is relevant here--sometimes what looks like the most efficient route (the shortest one) is not the best one. Maybe in some instances, it is better to go with the flow rather than fighting. My intention going forward is to--as in the rip current--stay calm and tread water until I can safely swim to shore.

Good sponge, evil sponge!

How come no one ever told me this? I was looking through one of those airline-type catalogs that show all kinds of items that you didn't realize you desperately needed, and came upon an ad for a double-decker sponge holder. Why did no one tell me earlier that I was committing a real faux pas by only having one sponge in my kitchen? Countless people have been in my kitchen over the last year, and no one has mentioned that I was out of step! And upon looking online, I found that these holders are widely available. (Click here for one source.).

In case I am only now bringing this to your attention, let me explain the necessity of making a change. You need something like the Spongester, which is a stainless steel rack, with two slots, for holding both your "good sponge" -- for washing dishes and the counters -- and the "evil sponge" -- for sink and drain. The Spongester, $28, neatly keeps the two sponges separate to avoid contamination and each platform of the rack has perforations in order to allow quicker drying.

I need to give this matter some real thought because I have some real questions:

• How is it possible to wash the dishes (good sponge) without encountering the sink (evil sponge)?
• Does anyone really wash their drain (evil sponge)? 
• Is this really necessary; has there been some major epidemic whose origins were traced back to the one-sponge households?

I'll let you decide for yourself!

Ass over Teakettle?

Sometimes, as we all know, the mind works in mysterious ways. Yesterday I was giving some thought to where our next long hike might take us and that led me to thoughts about earlier hikes. That in turn soon had me remembering an event that occurred last year -- the time when I fell, as I recalled it, "ass over teakettle." But where, I wondered, did the expression "ass over teakettle" originate?" 


But first: Earlier this year we began a hike in Granada, Spain; this is a lesser-known, but historically significant pilgrimage route known as the Camino Mozarabe. On one of the early days of the hike, we entered a particularly barren area where it became very difficult to find the trail. The guidebook's directions were vague, the trail markers absent, and off-road motorbikes had created dozens of deep ruts in the soft hillsides. 


At one of the points where we had lost the trail, Ralph went on ahead and climbed a small rise. He called back to me that he had found the way. I hesitated because the path he had taken seemed much steeper and narrower than the ones we had followed to that point. But, after a moment, I started up the hill. Suddenly, the combination of heavy pack and  steep and unstable trail caused me to loose my balance and fall backward. 


As I fell, ass over teakettle, my life didn't exactly flash through my mind, but time did slow. And I was amazed that I didn't stop nearly as soon as I thought I would. I rolled over and over several times. Then, with nothing hurt but my dignity, I got up, dusted off my clothes and clambered up the hill again. 


As to "ass over teakettle," explaining it is like "opening a can of worms." According to Cassell's Dictionary of Slang by Jonathan Green, "arse over teakettle, ass over kettle, ass over teakettle" all date from the 1940s and mean "head-over-heels." Doesn't really tell us much, does it!   

It's really okay to go to "Plan B"

This has been a trying year -- in both senses of the word. We tried to do three different backpack trips. It's trying that each trip had to be aborted and we had to go to Plan B.

Trip #1 was to Southern Spain to hike a couple hundred miles on the Camino Mozarabe. We'd really looked forward to hiking in Spain once again and thought that April-May would be the best time to do it. Little did we count on not only flooded rivers, but also flooded fields. We did manage to do five days on the trail, but much of the time we were road walking because hiking through the low-lying olive groves became impossible. After just a few steps, our shoes would be so thick with mud that we had to walk zombie-like until we reached a stretch of hard-packed ground or pavement. My hiking poles would pick up so much clay that they became heavily-weighted pendulums.

However, with Plan B, we were able to spend more time in the magnificent cities of Cordoba, Seville, and Madrid. And we were enthralled with the flamenco performance we saw in Cadiz -- so how could I have any regrets!

Trip #2 was to Glacier National Park in Montana -- a very long drive that was to take us to the trailhead of the park for a multi-day hike on the Continental Divide. Who knew that the rangers would reroute us -- once again -- because of trail closures. Add to that the recent spate of attacks and a fatality by a grizzly bear, and the horrendous weather.... We scoped out the situation... and drove home.

Yet we enjoyed our time together and our break from our usual heavy work schedules -- and then were happy to get back early from our reconnaissance trip. (We may try this trip another year.)

Trip #3 was back east to try a short stint on the Appalachian Trail. Neither Ralph nor I had ever wanted to hike the "long green tunnel," but after one of my favorite cousin's invited us back to Connecticut for a visit, we decided to backpack the 62 miles through that state. Once again, fate intervened. This time it was a medical emergency that landed me in the hospital the day we were to set out for our AT adventure.

But how can I complain about our alternate trip, which allowed us to have a bit more time for our family visit, the time to visit Quebec and New England for the fall color (including two nights in scenic Bar Harbor, Maine?)

I can't say that we made any of these changes easily, but I think the fact that we've had so few calamities over the years, has helped put it all into perspective. Disappointment, yes, but very little self-recrimination because even though we failed to achieve what we set out to, we both know that we rarely turn away from a challenge.