Don't think this has been tightened for a while.

Spiders don't mind.

boils

Miriam has a boil this week.

This one is right in front of her hair right where a side burn might end, were she a guy. It has nothing to do with her ear, but it is close.

She is usually a good patient, but not so much this time. Daughter took her to the Doctor a week ago, she was given some antibiotic and told to check back in a week.

Tomorrow is the week so we will see how it is in the morning. It is swelled like half a bright red cherry and is irriattiong. I have had boils (two in one spring a few back). Mine were right under my shirt colar and uncomfortable for sure.

Hers is not rubbing anything, but it irritates her. Last night she insisted on putting a bandaid on it, but today it had to come off and that pulled hair and she was not happy about any of that.

Tonight she wants to cover it up someway, but we want to just put a towel over her pillow, in case it breaks during the night. That brought on a long and repeated discussion about the condition of the boil (which has not broken open yet).

Boils are not fun any time, and for someone who cannot remember that she just took a pill or had hot packs or that the bandaid hurt like crazy when it had to come off, it is even more terrifying.

Tomorrow we will decide what to do next.

I bought a little wood stove a while back.

Made out of a smallish propane bottle, it is a well thought out design. I bought it from the guy that made it. Not sure where he got the idea (probably borrowed from some one else). He did a decent job putting it all together.

The legs are about ugly, but I'll work on that.

I might take the stove camping with me, but it will probably end up in the little house I am building.

We will see.

country livin'

We are now living in rural Amerika.

That is not bad, but this area is a lot more rural than our home in Idaho. The surrounding hills are huge wheat farms. They need a lot of land to make that kind of life work, and they do. Farms are in the 5 to 10 section size (640 acres to a section).

But here in the flat lands, there are lots an lots of little places. Some are active farms, some are “going to be” farms. Some have goats or cows or sheep running on them, though often the critter is a mostly neglected horse.

Lots of people think they need five or ten acres to be happy, but that is a lot of hobby land, and not nearly enough commercial dirt. The are is mostly small holdings a few acre in size.

Some of these little farms are badly neglected, with old car bodies and ancient RV’s scattered among the run down mobile homes. Others are well kept and orderly. While I am sure there are people who worry about such things, they seem to cohabit with a degree of calm.

We live a mile from the state line between Oregon and Washington. A mile to the East of us is the “old” highway that connected the larger town in Washington to the smaller one in Oregon.

A new straighter 4 lane road was built some years ago that connect the two. The “old” road was abandoned as the main road. Now it is just another country road. When I go to the farm store in Oregon, I usually drive the old road. It is not faster, but it is wonderfully more diverse.

There once was a lot of market gardens along the road (there are still a few) and the owners often built their stands right out on the edge of the road. As I drive the 7 or 8 miles into Oregon I drive by and marvel at these old buildings.

As a photographer and amateur architecture student, I find all of this infinitely more interesting than a row of MacMansions that dot the top of the hills in the area. I guess higher class mortgages need to be closer to God!

As it warms up and the beauty of the place emerges from it’s long winter nap, I’ll start taking pictures that I’ll post on this blog.

Meanwhile I marvel at the ruralness of it all.

A sort of on the ball shrink would observe that I seem to be drawn to photograph old non working things.

"What would you say about that Dave?" She might ask.

I would be speechless!

certain uncertainty

“There seems to be a lot of uncertainty in your life,” my sister observed.

Yea, I guess there is.

AD is an uncertain disease. It might go fast it might go slow it might be ugly it might not, but it is uncertain.

We lived comfortable in the bus last winter, except that that all aluminum bus was cold and in order to get it to comfortable temps (wearing a sweater or two), the power bill was off the charts.

What will we do next summer? Don’t know yet. We might do this and we might do that and we might not, but we won’t “live” in the bus another winter. We might sleep in it, but since we seem to have very different sleep schedules, Miriam and I, that is doubtful too.

We have a house 250 miles from where we “live.” Not a good time to sell a house, and this one has it’s own selling challenges. What is good for the goose may not be good for Bank of America.

Someone said that all that is certain is death and taxes. I would amend that.”What is certain is uncertainty, and death and taxes.”

But we go on, because that is what we do.

I am heading back to Idaho this week.

There is work to do on the house.

The new owner of the garden space does not want the drip system or the raised beds, so I am dismantling all of that and bringing it back with me.

Then next weekend is the 57th anniversary of my graduation from High School, and it is home coming weekend at the school.

Miriam will stay with daughter.

Granddaughter Brianna is going to stay another month in Albania. She is being useful, she is well taken care of and is safe, and why not? Good for her.

I've been showing a lot more old barn wood than I should, I think, but these photographs remind me that some of us are close to this old barn wood than we might think or wish: somewhat decorative, but not too useful.

Why do some of us become so incredibly difficult as we get older and others stay sweet and lovable?

I am just a zillion times thankful that Miriam falls mostly in the last category. I hope I can follow her example.

the end

The inevitable is, ahh inevitable.

Until someone comes up with another way to end this journey (christian or otherwise), we are all going to die one day. Some of us are further on the scale than others, but none of us know when our string is up.

In my family, my birth father died of an accident at 28. My mother of cancer at 65. Mom’s father made it to 98. I am closer to 98 than 28, but that does not mean I’ll live past next week. It’s a cruel calculus.

Yet it seems like there might be some dignity that goes with this death thing.

We have a member of the big family who is pushing the middle 90’s. He has been in good health most of his life, but this is getting near the end. He is demanding and he is ornery. His wife does not want him coming home from the hospital because she is sure she cannot handle him. His string is running out, but he puts up a monstrously spendy fight.

I am not sure how I will handle all of that when my time comes, but thoughts go through my head. Are we who call ourselves Christian really content with the faith and promises we claim to have? Why else would we fight this death thing so vehemently?

My sister sent me a URL for a piece about how Doctors die. They spend their career pretty close to death and their perspective is a bit closer than the rest of us, it seems. The author of this piece talks about several MD’s who were told they had a short time to live. They closed their practice, went home and spent their last days among family and friends and refused many spendy but usually futile therapies.

These people know the odds better than the rest of us perhaps. When a 90 year old is confined to bed and is incontinent it is a wild dream to think they will “heal” someway and "get well," with or without prayer and modern medicine.

One of my favorite uncles was told by his doctor that he needed bypass surgery. Unc was 85 at the time. So he did what the doc ordered. Then he spent the next and last 10 months of his life in hell, mostly living in the hospital often in ICU.

Had he gone home and refused the surgery, he still would have died, maybe he wouldn’t have lived a week longer, or shorter than he did, but he would have been in his house among family who loved and cared and certainly he would have been in less pain.

And, we have not even mentioned the cost to the system for that last 10 months of his life. The number would be totally staggering.

So, don’t break my ribs to resuscitate me. Don’t give me therapies that can be ugly, maybe even as ugly as the disease. Please hold my hand because when that time comes I promise you I will be terrified.

Not sure this is the exact model David is riding, but it is pretty close.

The bike has quite large panniers that change the looks a great deal.

winter driving

I am a self-proclaimed adventurer.

Not sure anyone would agree, but that is not important, but somehow this trait has been passed down!

A few minutes ago, and it is close to midnight, my oldest grandson (also David) arrived having driven straight through from Sacramento. He had snow, he had rain, he had all the bad weather. He also had layers of rain gear and electric clothes. He said without all of that he would have turned around and gone back.

The real adventure is that he was riding a Ducati Motorcycle! At one point he said he got gas and asked the guy how many bikes he had seen today. “None.”

While he was taking off his layers of clothes, he said: “I’ll not do that again.” I told him that if necessary we could put the bike in the back of my pickup and I’d drive down (he could rest in the warm cab).

He will be here for a week or so, but first he needs some rest.

That Ducati will go over the road very quickly. When he could he rode a bit faster. At one point, in the rain, he passed an Oregon State Patrolman. The officer was in his car along the road. Grandson looked down at his speedometer: 93.

The officer didn’t even budge.

A big bike like the Ducati, does not go too far on a tank of gas. 150 miles might be an average run, which means the trip has to be planned with care.

Just in case, he carried an extra gallon of gas.

I am quite amazed at the quality picture I get from my iPhone.

One day I'll get a iPad and I think I'll buy a tripod adapter and treat that little baby like it was an 8 by 10 view camera. Seems like a natural use of a awesome hunk of useful "stuff."

helping

Today I made good progress on my building project.

It has been too cold, to rainy or windy and I am not a hero. I can handle weather less than perfect, but bad weather is not my idea of a good work environment! I’ll drive in ugy weather, but not work.

When it is over I have this wonderful feeling of accomplishment. I rest my tired feet and knees (roofing is hard on knees) and have a good feeling.

Miriam works so hard to be useful, to be helpful. She likes that same feeling I get. But it more difficult with her. Daughter has her iron some. Miriam can only do flat things, and there aren’t that many any more.

Tonight she was putting things away in the galley/kitchen. I’d prefer her to leave it alone and I’ll put it all in the place so I can find it later, but she wants to much to be useful. I am not always as patient with her as I need to be.

The layout of the bus is pretty simple. Seating at one end, queen bed at the other and bath and galley/kitchen in the middle.

The queen bed takes up about all of the space at the end. Twin beds would work out better, but we have not slept in twin beds since our honeymoon. Luckily David, who owns the bus felt the same way.

During the day I am liable to throw clothes on the bed. She fusses with them when she goes to bed. Last night we made the bed with clean sheets. I put on the sheets because it involves a lot of jumping back and forth and lifting corners.

Then I asked her to help me with the blankets. She was so glad to help.

I must let her be useful more.

A bit of an old grain barn, from that horse powered era of long ago.

Palouse country

This weekend I drove 160 miles north to the edges of Spokane for a weekend with other grandparents and two of my grandkids. It was good.

There seems to be some question about the name of this area and where that word came from. There are Native Americans that we use that name upon, but assuredly it was not what they called themselves.

The Palouse country is much of eastern Washington and North Central idaho, as well as NE Oregon. It is one huge grain growing area. Miles and miles of wheat fields.

The topography is one of rolling hills, with some trees in the gulches and shadows, mostly, though it is a huge field of grass and now wheat.

There are wide 4 lane roads that go that direction, but the shortest route is along the smaller roads.

This is wind country. Windmills (the modern million dollar variety) are in abundance. At one point there are dozens in view and the view is pretty close up. Come around a corner on one winding uphill climb, and there is half dozen windmills, the first a couple hundred yards away.

What looks pretty small when viewed 15 or 25 miles away, are pretty impressive when you are that close.

The trip back included sunshine; rain; snow and a bit of sleet. It is spring in the Palouse.

About a hundred years ago, my salesman grandfather traveled this are in a horse and buggy, selling his wares. At that time these vast fields were disced and planted and harvested using huge collections of horses.

Pictures of machines being pulled by 20 or 30 horses show the horseyness of the era. I am not so sure about trading all of that for Texas diesel, but that is how it was done.

Like all progress, there were casualties along the way.