Henry, you're going about it backwards: I took you out late last night. I expect you to push wake-up time as well. I would very much like that. Inch forward to a reliable 7:15. That would be cool. Yesterday, you still woke before sunrise, but at least it was just before sunrise (which is, right now, at 6:37 a.m.). Today's stirring and ultimate get up and stretch was at 5:55 a.m. Henry, not before 6, you hound, you!
I can't take the risk of an accident. We are too early into the game for me to tell you to leave me alone. You want out, you're going to get me up and out.
(waiting for a squirrel to magically fall out of a tree)
("A new route?")
And then of course, after breakfast (his and mine)...
... Henry decides that actually, it was not enough sleep. He curles up partly on my lap (it could never be totally on my lap because, well, he is a big dog) and takes a long nap, immobilizing me completely so that my coffee gets cold, my smart watch flashes warnings that I should stand already, my chores remain unfinished.
At least I have my Kindle near me. Here's what I am reading: let me preface it by noting that I'm into light fare right now. (I'm saving myself up for Atwood's memoir which is not light fare and which came out today.) Even in this light and breezy mode, good writing is essential for me to stay with a book, and interesting characters are a must as well. I care less about the plot. I just want to enter through a door to a fictional world where I like the people, and where elements of their story make me smile. I get recommendations from a number of sources and I cannot remember where this one came from but it is a very fine match with my mood right now, and I love the author's interpretation of what it's like to go through the day as a septua- or even octogenarian. It's a mystery novel and the ones investigating the crime are... old. Delightfully old rather than decrepitly and invisibly old (though fading friends appear in the story as well). The title? The Thursday Murder Club.
So much of fiction these days (and especially mystery writing) avoids the topic of gaiety in old age. What gaiety exists (adventurousness, curiosity, perhaps romance, any form of delight) seems to be there only for those who haven't quite moved into retirement yet (indeed are not even close to it). Sure, you'll see books that have superhuman aging heroes and heroines who do remarkable feats, or very sick and very confused players who are one foot out the door already. But this series of books picks out British old people in a retirement home who aren't done drinking their glasses of wine and inserting themselves into the lives (and deaths) of those in their community. It is a very fun read.
Once Henry is up, I take him to doggie day care. Since it's one of the last warm-ish days, I have a long postponed date with Ed at the farmhouse.
(still venerable behind the maples?)
(sheep shed and crab apple)
We're to do our bike loop from here, the extended one to Grace Cafe in McFarland. I'm not sure I am fully up for it, but I cannot postpone it yet again. It's now or wait until next spring.
It is a strange excursion. At times, we ride alongside and discuss all that still hangs in the air. Then we go single file and I stew about how little progress we have made in this. And I wonder, am I discouraged enough to think we are at the brink of something new and not altogether good for either of us?
Throughout, it is a pretty ride. Weird interplay of words and scenery. Definitely the latter is the better of the two.
We reach Grace and neither of us wants to go in. We sit on curbs, different curbs, separated yet again in our own worlds and thoughts.
And then we do go in, and we talk about stuff we've read about lately. And I drink my coffee, and we are on our bikes again, and I bring up our ongoing topic and I realize that I am maybe never going to break through. Ed lives in his own headspace. Nothing I say will change things there. New ways of looking at something are blocked at the entrance from ever getting in. Should I keep trying, or is this merely frustrating us both?
Or, am I maybe using the wrong words? Is it him or is it me that's solidifying this separation of thoughts, emotions, lives? I don't have a ready answer there. And I don't know how (or quite frankly if) I can get us out of this morass, swamp, quagmire -- call it what you will, sometimes (right now?) I think it's impossible to push us through, to emerge in daylight once again.
I pick up Snowdrop.
It's a full day for her -- she has a preschool meeting of the student council, and a post-school meeting of the drama club. The girl thrives on a full schedule so I'm not concerned about her ability to get through it all, but still, I have to think she is tired, as dusk sets in, and she emerges from the school building.
We go to the Edge for just a short spell. Read, eat, go to retrieve Henry,
... then head home. Hers first, then ours. Me and Henry. I had made a huge pot of red lentil soup yesterday -- half for me, half for Ed. This is what cooking has been like for me: a vast amount of food, prepared late into the evening, then no cooking for the next several days. The menu may change, but the strategy remains the same.
Henry, how was your day, my sweet pooch? Difficult? I hope not.
(immobilized for two hours by my lap dog)
with so much love...
