Longest January EVER.

 Greetings, Friends. I know it's been a little while. Things been happening. Mostly the normal goings-on and vagaries of everyday existence, except for a few.

My older brother, Terry, died last February after years of suffering ill health. He'd get worse, then get better, then worse and better, then a little bit worse, and so on, until he just couldn't do it anymore. I don't think any of us were surprised - on the contrary, the biggest surprise was that he stuck it out as long as he did (I think he was fueled by a hefty dose of stubbornness) - but of course, that doesn't really soften the loss much. Even when you expect a death, it still leaves an empty spot. This is the way,

Grieving a loss is difficult in our modern world, where the globe still spins, and maybe you get three days of bereavement leave from your job if you're lucky. Three days? Who decided that was a sufficient standard? How are you supposed to grieve and take care of business in three measly days? It took weeks to clean out Terry's apartment, with my aunt, uncle, cousins, and several of his friends to help. He was 70 years old with varied interests and had a lot of stuff he'd collected over the years, so there was a lot to go through. And apparently it all belonged to me, seeing as I was the last surviving next of kin. Anyhow, I kept the mementos I wanted - books, CDs, a treasure trove of old family photos, several pens (we shared a love of fine writing instruments), and our dad's Colt pistol. Other items were distributed among family and friends.

It was in the early fall I finally felt the veil of grief lifting, which was good since we had a full music schedule for Halloween and Christmas. It sucks when you have to Perform When Depressed, because the super-masking you have to do is exhausting, so I was happy to be feeling some relief. The holidays were lovely and laid-back, and we ate a lot of good food. Then January happened.

After being off work for a week over Christmas, I went back on January 2, and BAM, it was mayhem right out of the gate. Now, I knew that was likely to be the case, so I wasn't particularly surprised, but this turned out to be a much higher grade of mayhem than I expected. I worked after 4:30 (normal quitting time) on several nights, and was exhausted after that - and I work from home. (Lands, if I was still commuting an hour each way, I would have been a much hotter mess.) This went on for a couple of weeks, so there were quite a few soup & sandwich suppers, plus takeout, because I just didn't have the energy to cook. And just when the work madness was winding down, we got hit with a major ice storm, the likes of which Tennessee hasn't seen since 1994. (I remember that one, too.)

It started out innocently enough, with a lovely fluffy snow on Saturday morning. We stocked up on supplies since we knew there might be ice, and we may not be able to get out of our neighborhood for a few days, but we've lived through that before and it was no big deal. Once the streets cleared, we'd be all good. Right?

WRONG.

Everything was perfectly normal when we went to bed on Saturday, January 24. But on Sunday, January 25, our power went out, and now, today on Saturday, January 31, we still have no power. Even in the Great Ice Storm of 94, we were only out 3 days. Shouldn't civilization have advanced enough in 32 years that a week-long power outage would be a thing of the past? 

Well, apparently not. 

The large pine tree at the foot of our driveway had dropped several branches due to the ice, including one hefty branch blocking the way out. So Mr Caudell and I bundled up, hunted up the chansaw, and went to work. We managed to get the driveway cleared, arthritis notwithstanding, which left us with a gargantuan pile of pine tree debris in the yard. (Pine needles make good mulch, so at least there's that.) While we were clearing the driveway, Mr Caudell looked over at a mighty tree in the next-door neighbor's yard, and commented that it looked like it was leaning, and hey, the top of it is laying over that power line. We didn't think anything else of it until a couple of hours later, we heard a loud crash. The tree had uprooted itself, blocking the street, and taking out the power line, which happened to include the actual line to our house. Swell. (Our power mast doesn't appear to have been damaged, but I guess we'll find out, if the Nashville Electric Service crew ever makes its way here.) 

I called Hub Nashville and reported the tree, but it was someone in the neighborhood who eventually cleared it enough so people could get through. We weren't going to touch it because POWER LINE, but hey, thanks for taking that risk. (An actual tree removal crew did finally come by yesterday and finish the job.)

Seeing as how we have gas heat and a gas cooktop, we weren't too concerned, because we could stay warm, cook, heat up water, etc. Our refrigerator is just outside the kitchen in the unheated attached garage, so our food has stayed cold. (We did lose the ice cream, but all the meat is still frozen.) We're relatively experienced campers so this wasn't a completely unfamiliar situation; although, I hadn't needed to wash my hair in the sink in years, so that was a comical adventure, but I figured it out. And then I thought about my grandmother.

Mamaw, as we called her, didn't have a house with indoor plumbing until around 1983 or so, when she had to move "into town" because my grandfather required round-the clock-care by this point. But when I was a child, and went to stay with Mamaw, we had an outhouse, a chamber pot, and a washbowl. Now here I was 50something years later, having to heat up water on the stove to wash my hair. (At least this time I do have a flush toilet.) She lived like that for years and was content. And she was always clean and put-together, and her hair was always done. Heck, even after she moved into a house with indoor plumbing, she insisted on keeping her old wringer-washer, until the aunts & uncles convinced her it wasn't safe to carry laundry down the basement stairs (it really wasn't), and they got her a modern electric washer & dryer. But you can see where the stubbornness comes from. 

And then . . . I thought about my brother. If he were still here, we'd be swapping ice storm stories and remembering what it was like to visit Mamaw with no indoor plumbing. Maybe somewhere beyond the veil, the two of them are sitting at her old yellow diner table with the yellow vinyl chairs, having a cup of coffee and talking about the time Mamaw's newly canned peaches exploded in the storage closet under the stairs. 

In the meantime, I'll just sit here with my knitting and wait for the power to come back on. Is January over yet?

Peace out and God bless ---

KFC

Contemplations on Hair.

It's probably no surprise to anyone that women tend to have a love/hate relationship with their hair. We try to make it do things it's not intended to do and style it in ways that defy nature. We cut and color it on a whim, or to soothe an emotional upset. I've done all these things, and I'm going to blame it on my mother, because it all started with her.

My hair was never good enough, for whatever reason. I had home perms from the time I was 5 until I was 19 and said No More. (Now, some of you of a Certain Age may remember that back in the 70s, the Toni company had a special brand of gentle perms for kids, so my mom certainly wasn't the only one trying to give her child a head full of curls.) The problem was - and still is - my hair just doesn't hold curls for very long, perm or no perm. But Mother wanted curls, so that's what I did, because that's what I thought I was supposed to do. 

For awhile in my early 20s, I wore a pixie cut. It was easy, except going to the salon every 6 weeks for a trim wasn't really in my budget. I don't scrimp on hair care - I give myself the gift of going to a nice salon - but the upkeep got a little expensive. Plus, I discovered living history, which was going to require some creative hairstyling to be anything close to historically accurate, so I started growing out my hair.

To my great surprise, I discovered that my growing un-permed hair actually had a natural wave to it - not a lot, but it was definitely there. I thought it seemed unkempt, though, so I usually blew it out straight. And I grew it out almost to my waist. This was the first time in my life I'd ever had long hair. 

I grew it out long enough to donate some to Locks of Love. Then I wore an asymmetrical bob for awhile, grew it out again, trimmed it back, etc., etc., dyed it red for a number of years, experimented with vintage wet sets, various updos, decorative hair pieces, and so on. (I should point out that I do love styling hair, and have since I was a kid with the stylable Barbie head.) 

No matter what I did, I always had that little voice telling me it wasn't good enough. It was sloppy, it was frizzy, it was goofy - whatever. Then the pandammit happened, and I didn't feel the need to do all that styling all the time anymore. I also quit coloring my hair, mostly because it was getting too gray to bother.

Lately I've been trying to make friends with my unstyled, slightly wavy graying hair. I see plenty of other people with hair like mine, and I think they look fantastic. One of my best friends has gorgeous long wavy hair, and I've never once thought she looked sloppy or unkempt - so why do I tell *myself* that? Seems kinda unfair, really, not to extend myself the same courtesy that I do others.

I'm 55 years old now and the fact is, I don't have to care anymore. If I want to wear long witchy slightly-wavy unstyled hair, that's my prerogative; if it scares people off, I probably didn't want them around anyway. Oh, I'm still going to vintage-style it when I feel like it, but it's going to be because I want to, and not because anyone else expects it of me. 

Is it time for you to stop carrying the weight of other people's expectations? I hereby give you permission to put it all down.

Till next time -----

KFC

Be Who You Are.

 Welp. How y'all doin? I realize that's probably a silly question, given the state of the world and all. It's not like many of us are out whooping it up and raising Cain. Mister and I had the COVID a few weeks ago, after escaping it for over two years, but we're good now. Nobody went to the hospital and nobody died, so I'm taking that as a win. Yes, we have *all* the vaccinations.

Anyhow, one thing we started doing during the Pandammit was just watching random YouTube videos, mostly about cooking, music, gardening, and dogs, and maybe whatever else looked interesting. The other night, he happened upon a pre-pandoomic video from Ireland's Got Talent, so we watched it just for giggles. (Honestly, I hate those shows, but that's another topic for another day.)

The singer was an Irish Traveller, and she said she mostly sang traditional Irish songs, but for some inexplicable reason, she sang the standard "Stand By Me" instead. It was okay. Her voice was good enough but the song didn't fit her somehow, like it was a too-small pair of shoes or the wrong shade of lipstick. It was uncomfortable to watch. Mister and I both agreed the song didn't suit her voice.

When she finished, one of the judges asked why she hadn't chosen an Irish song if that's what she was used to singing. "Well, I was going to, but . . ." 

"What would you have sung?" he asked her.

"Probably something by Finbar Furey, but . . ."

"Which Finbar Furey song would you have chosen?"

"Probably Sweet Sixteen," she said.

"Well, sing it for us," the judge said.

She hesitated for a moment, and began the song. Y'ALL. It was the difference between night and day. Her voice rang out clear and strong and steady. She had a confidence she didn't have with the first song. It was, to use an old expression, like buttah.

Now, I tell you all that to tell you this, which is: be the person who suits you. I know most of us over a certain age were taught to do this, do that, do whatever it takes to fit into someone else's box. I'm about to turn 55 and I'm still undoing that mess. But in just five minutes, this singer illustrated it so perfectly. She doubted her true voice instead of leading with it, and the judge was perceptive enough to realize that.

Never doubt your true voice. Be who you are, and support others to do the same. 

Lands. We do live in "interesting times" these days, don't we? Plagues, wars, political divisiveness . . . But all that aside, what I really want to talk about is Sophia Loren's armpits.

I belong to several vintage groups on the FacePunch. People post photos & articles about vintage style, cars, food, whatever. Usually it's really cool to see what everyone shares, but there's one thing that's absolutely guaranteed to get people upset 100% of the time, and that is . . . Sophia Loren with armpit hair.

Back in the mid-20th century, European women shaving armpits regularly wasn't a thing yet. And really, in the grand scheme of time, women shaving is a relatively new concept, brought about by razor companies wanting to sell more razors in the early 1900s. Yep. What we accept now as a normal and expected grooming practice was a marketing ploy. (Yay, capitalism.)

Anyhow . . . there are mid-century photos of Sophia Loren, a marvelously beautiful woman, with armpit hair, and anytime one of these photos gets posted on the Interwebs, people inexplicably lose their shit, as if *hair* on a *mammal* is some awful, terrible thing. It's "gross," "nasty," "unattractive" --- you name it --- but nobody can seem to explain why they think it's gross, nasty, or unattractive beyond "women are supposed to shave."

Can y'all just take a moment and ruminate on the ridiculousness of that statement? 

Listen. I prefer to shave, but that's *my* choice and I have no expectation that all other women are going to do as I do. I also don't care. But why do we keep doing this to ourselves? It's the Twenty-First Century, for Pete's sake. Why are we still pressuring women to conform to arbitrary beauty standards? Now, y'all may think that's ironic coming from me, a person who LOVES her makeup, but while I do enjoy cosmetics, I also fully support women who don't want to wear makeup. 

And I support women who don't want to shave. What someone else does with their armpits ain't my bidness.

Until next time --- keep calm and carry on.

Buckle up, y'all. I'm fixin to talk about Naomi Osaka.

In case you haven't checked the news in a day or two, the tennis champ pulled out of the French Open, citing depression and anxiety issues, specifically around being required to address the press. While a good deal of public opinion is on her side, she's also been demeaned, vilified, and ridiculed for making this decision, mostly because too many people still don't take depression and anxiety seriously as a health issue.

Friends, it is most definitely a health issue.

Listen. I spent all of my teenage years and early adulthood in a cycle of depression. I knew I didn't feel good but I didn't know why, and I thought "this is just the way things are," so I pushed myself through it, over and over and over again. I didn't ask for help because I didn't know I needed help. I mean, I would have a bad spell, and then I'd get better, so it must not be that serious, right? But every time I went back into the hole, it was deeper than before. 

I was 34 years old before I dug a hole I couldn't get out of anymore. Think about that for a minute. Thirty. Four. Years. Old. I pushed myself through this on again/off again cycle from adolescence until well into adulthood before I finally asked for help. And y'all, I didn't have to do that. 

You might well ask why I didn't get help before. I've already said I didn't think I needed it, so I never mentioned it to anyone. And here's the funny (and very cruel) thing about depression - you often don't know how sick you really were until you come out on the other side. I thought crying in the bathroom every day at work, and crying in the car every day on the way home, was an effective coping mechanism. (News flash: it wasn't.)

I went to counseling. I got medication. I felt way better - but even then, I still had another breakdown. You can think you're ready to take things on, so you take on more than you're really ready for, and you crash again. 

It looks to me like Naomi is trying to prevent that crash. What many people are decrying as the actions of a "spoiled diva" who "doesn't want to do her job" is a young woman protecting her health. If she were a man, I imagine the reactions would be more like "oh, isn't he so brave for taking care of himself." And let's not forget that WOC often have their health concerns dismissed like they don't matter.

Look. Naomi Osaka doesn't owe us anything. She doesn't owe the world a performance, and she doesn't owe the press an appearance, regardless of what sport officials say. "But that's part of her job!" Really? Why? Why is it necessary to require athletes to talk to the press? It has ZERO to do with athletics. ZE.RO. Some people just want to play their game and go rest. Let them do it. If others want to talk to the press, fine. But don't *make* them.

Moreover, she doesn't owe us an explanation of why she did what she did, but she opened herself up, and that's an incredibly brave thing to do. We should be living in a more enlightened age, but the stigma around depression and anxiety is relentless and continues in spite of the best efforts of many organizations to educate the public about mental health.

I wish I had said "enough" when I was 23, instead of continuing to roll that boulder uphill for another 11 years. I still push the boulder, but now I have the presence of mind to know when to rest, and when to ask for help. 

If you or someone you know needs help with depression or anxiety, please call Mental Health America at 800-969-6642, or visit their website at https://www.mhanational.org/. Don't push the boulder uphill when you don't have to.

 A long, long, time ago, I told Mister that if my hair got too gray to fuss with dyeing it, it was just gonna go gray, and that was that, and hey, doesn't Emmylou Harris look stunning with those silver locks? Well, that time has finally arrived. I really liked having red hair all those years, but I've given up the dye box. 

I found my first gray hair 3 weeks after my 29th birthday. I'm 53 now and working on a couple of really good white streaks. There's still a little strawberry blonde near the ends, but it's mostly a salty-peppery-dark-ash-blonde at this point. And I'm okay with that. 

I'm not really afraid of aging. Sure, the physical changes and the random aches and pains can be annoying, but this is the natural order of things. If we live long enough, we age. There's nothing wrong with it, and there's no shame in it. So why do we keep insisting that Eternal Youth is some sort of holy grail? I spent my entire youth in a state of untreated depression, and in retrospect, it wasn't so great.

Now, don't get me wrong. If you want to look 25 forever, that's your prerogative, and as a Mary Kay lady, I'd be happy to help you with that. But by the same token, it's also your prerogative to *not* look 25 forever. I'm 53 and content to look my age - eye wrinkles, belly fat, and all. Well, I mean, I would like to reduce the belly fat for health reasons, since I have a family history of diabetes, but I'm not kidding myself that I will ever be a size 4 again. That ship sailed about 10 years ago. I'm still plenty strong and flexible for a roundish middle-aged lady, though, so don't misunderestimate me. (Yes, I know that's not a real word, but I like to bandy it about once in awhile, along with "strategery." Just a little something I picked up from the Bush years.)

Anyhow, what I'm saying is, don't feel pressured to look young forever. Take time to revel in the glory of being older and (hopefully) wiser. And don't forget to tell those kids to get off your lawn.

 Welp. Probably a silly question, but how y'all doin?

I haven't blogged since 2016. Shit happened, and it kept on happening. That particular year was already a dumpster fire - several of my personal friends died, as well as a few beloved famous people (including my favorite fiddler of all time, Dave Swarbrick), and let's not forget the political circus that seemed to permeate every aspect of the universe. To top it all off, I was turning 49, and having a lot of anxiety about 50. 

I did eventually turn 50, and I was convinced my life was pretty much over. I mean, women over 50 don't generally have a lot of prime career opportunities, and I had already been passed over for a job IN MY OWN OFFICE in favor of someone literally half my age, so you can see why my outlook wasn't stellar. Plus, there was The Menopause, the weight gain, and the gray hair. Good times, indeed.

Then there came the decline of my mother's health, then my stepfather's, then my dog's, then my cat's . . . well. I was tired, y'all. I kept going like I always had, probably against my better judgment, seeing as how I don't bounce back quite as high as I once did. And then . . .

Well, and then there was 2019. We had car trouble with both cars *simultaneously* for an extended period of time (thanks Firestone; never giving you my money again), and then our dog, Luna, was diagnosed with immune-mediated hemolytic anemia, or IMHA for short. Basically what happened was that her immune system started attacking her red blood cells. The odds of survival weren't great, but we wanted to at least give her a chance. Thing is, treating IMHA is ruinously expensive, and we maxed out a couple of credit cards and took a hunk out of our savings (already dented because of the aforementioned car trouble). Lucky thing I got a raise at work that year, I suppose.

Anyhow, to speed things along: Luna died the day before Thanksgiving 2019. Holidays sucked. Mother continued to get worse and then decided not to pursue further treatment for what was essentially an untreatable condition anyway. She died in February 2020. Two weeks later, Nashville had a major tornado, and two weeks after that, the whole world shut down. I've been working at home for over a year now, and this past January, had to say goodbye to our elder cat, Buster, who had chronic kidney disease and just gave out. 

I never had to call and make an appointment for euthanasia before. I don't particularly recommend it, but I know it was the right thing to do. But as I'm sure most of you know, the right thing is often extremely difficult. I mean, if it were easy, everyone would do it, right?

So, it's April 2021. We have a new dog, Teddy Blue Roosevelt. He's a young Labrador who doesn't understand how large and clumsy he is. Working at home is great because I can take him outside during lunch for an extended playtime. (Playing with a dog in the middle of the workday is a great mood booster. I highly recommend it.) I've finally made friends with being in my 50s, and I've stopped coloring my hair, so don't anyone look shocked if you happen to see me with this graying mane. I did finally get a trim, so at least I don't look quite as unkempt as I did two weeks ago.

I have watched ALL the TV shows. I watched Schitt's Creek twice and I'm not ruling out a threepeat.

I guess the big question on everyone's mind now is, what's next? Will we return to pre-pandemonium Business as Usual, or will we modify the old ways using the lessons we've learned over the past year? But most importantly: will we get to continue working in our pajamas, with reruns of The Golden Girls in the background? Gawd, I hope so.

Y'all take care, now.