Tag Archive: moving



Finished the right third and top of middle third.
I took this when closing down yesterday. This was before I started on the middle. It is soothing, and cooling to work on this one.
This pair of slipper socks will be finished this weekend.
Toes done on this pair. It’ll take some time before they are done. They are bigger and finer-gauged.

On the writing front, I’ve entered a few more of my books into yWriter. I even worked on the memoir a bit. Now that I’ve moved into the new laptop I’m having a bit more time to get creative again.

It may seem I’ve been reading a lot. The fact is, when the electronics were down, I got behind in reviews and writing. Now I’m finally catching up.

Been busy. How was your week?

This day has pretended to be anything but Thursday. Thank goodness my brother knew it was the trash is ready for tomorrow.

Meanwhile, I’ve been in password hell. My laptop went belly up. A new cell and Fire should help until we can get a new laptop. But every little thing needs a sign-in and new passwords. Maybe others do okay with all of that, but ADD/dyslexia of 2022 with all the two-step verification makes me wish for the simplicity of 1998.

I haven’t talked about the binges lately.

My friend and I between her two visits here and mine to her home, have enjoyed a couple shows. We really got sucked into The Umbrella Academy. I kind of hope there will be more, yet it doesn’t leave you on a cliff.

Stranger Things is on the edge of your seat exciting.

To calm down I’ve resorted to Bridgerton.

It’s kind of a nice change and you can’t take it seriously.

Ah, but as I’m busy with password hell or writing (I have gotten a little done but have no idea how much. I’m not working in yWriter so accurate word count, etc. can’t happen.) It’s back to old trusted noise of Outlander, Jurassic Park, The Walking Dead, etc. I figure I’ve shared them often enough. I can’t wait to get back to the history of  Doctor Who on Amazon. By the way, the others are on Netflix.

I think I’ll get back to my writing and TWD. I’m two weeks behind! Yikes! I’m filling in with trip memories. I’ll put them in the right journal later. I just need to write.


Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is “—amble.” Add letters to the beginning of “-amble” to make another word or use it as is in your post. Enjoy!

2019-2020 SoCS Badge by Shelley! https://www.quaintrevival.com/

Writing my memoirs is like ambling back through my life. 72 years of shambles and rambling through brambles. Ouch! or take a gamble with this choice or that. Though it is fun to revisit with my grandparents and aunts and uncles, revisiting death or car accidents can sometimes feel like it just happened even if it’s been decades since the actual occurrence. Still smelling the cedar of my grandparent’s closets or the ever-present scent of laundry soap can make me feel warm and secure. I have learned new ways to find my center.

Remember that friend you went to Renaissance Faire with? Remember a day of laughing while sitting in a creek on a hot day? So many memories to take that stroll. I do love a good amble!

Photo by Tatiana Syrikova on Pexels.com

So unfortunately the lighthouse is finished. My next project won’t be here until Wednesday. I’m at loose ends. Meanwhile, I still need to straighten, seal and hang it.

I finally hung the tea dragon on the tea cabinet. My phone camera was being weird.  It looks far better than this.

I’m nearing my goal on my memoir for Junowrimo.

Look! Only 367 until 50k! Oh yeah. Snap! That wasn’t the goal for June. 55,100 is the goal. I think I can…
Sock number one is nearly done. Probably finishing it tomorrow.
I know we can!

I’m loving the sunset part of this lighthouse picture. This one is confetti so I work it like this:
I gather little bits of each color represented in the block I’m working. So far it works for me.

Sometimes I pop them on in a row, or by one color at a time. But I love to pop the drills on in checkerboard.

See the sun area? After checkerboarding I fill in the missing bits and find I don’t need to straighten the lines as much.

Now if only I could see the real thing. Diamond Painting does bring a bit of that peace.

A quick summary of everything else. I only skipped Morning Pages one day last week.

My memoir, Moving, is moving along but behind.

Two pairs of socks are growing row by row, much more slowly lately.

My hands found their way to play recorders this week.

My eyes actually made progress in reading real paper books. I do get tired still so I’m looking into ways to train my visual tracking.

Two books are waiting for reviews.

How was your week? Oh, and Have a great weekend!


More like sort of beginning.

I’m at 41,852 in the autobiography. Dividing it up like this between three months is nearly painless.

I finally got the beach sunset up. Square drills are the worst! Some are still trying to pop off. I hated my painted frame. I used too much sealant trying to keep those tiles on. So the idea of a sunset on a beach is on the wall above the piano. My dream area in Dar’s Dabbling Den, right next to my gifted Mermaid (thank you, Georgia). Yeah. Now I see they need to be straightened. And tenor recorder tried to get into the act.

I started a new diamond painting. A lighthouse. It is bigger than others I’ve done. It’s for my husband.

Here’s a quick unboxing.

Size. And look how great those symbols look. This should be easy!
It came with easy instructions.
Two pens and cushions instead of just one. At least two waxes.
Lots of little baggies.
Open on my easel in my drill catching tray/lid. The bags of colors.
Another look at the drills in baggies.
Here’s my first days work. That bit on the upper right. I had to roll up the left side to fit in my easel.
Today’s work. Play!

Knitting socks continues but less than the diamond painting. But the progress doesn’t show up much in pics, just a couple rows each.

So what have you been up to? Being retired is great!

Easy Writers Prompt: Last Time?


Prompt: Last Time

 

As we were the last of our good into the U-Haul, a friend walked and hugged me. What if this is the last time?

 

I like moving to new places. I’m not too fond of goodbyes. So I avoid the “what if this is the last time?” thoughts. That is a dark, long rabbit hole to travel—the result: depression Hell.

 

Would knowing it would be the last time change anything? What amount of trying could change that? How about taking a picture of your sad friends, would that change anything? Would it help?

 

Would knowing it was the last time I saw my grandparents or parents have changed the outcome or make me feel differently afterward? Death resulted. My missing them still occurred.

 

As I mentioned, I moved a lot. Each city and new home became an adventure. Each new meant saying goodbye to old. But outside of mortality, the goodbyes were permanent. Friends and family remained in contact even when we only had snail mail and long-distance. The buildings were just buildings.

 

Still, there are buildings I always walk through in memories and dreams. My grandparents’ houses come to mind. I always walk through those homes. I smelled the cedar closet of mom’s parents’ place. The glider swings outside, one for the grandkids, one for adults. The garage where grandpa made me the oldest grandchild, and future grands, blocks. Oh, the smell of wood shavings.

 

Both grandfathers were carpenters. Mom’s dad did cabinet work, while  Dad’s dad did home construction. Both grandparents’ homes were nearly identical copies.

 

Enter the back porch where both grandmas did laundry. Back then, wringer washers we grands were able to help with, if careful. Back then, Dad’s mom had a dog named Hector. Nobody locked their doors. The family walked in without knocking.

 

Now the kitchens. The aroma of cooking food or dish detergent, oh, and coffee filled the room. To your right, there is a corner bench with a round table. We used this table for small meals or kids table for holidays. We kids crawled under the table if we wanted to leave during a meal. On the same side as the table is the windowed sink and the cabinets for dishes, etc.

 

My mother’s parents’ kitchen was bluish. My father’s parents’ kitchen was yellow.

 

That bluish kitchen had a window to the den to transfer snacks or coffee. That window was one of the small differences between their unique yet similar homes. On that side of the kitchen were the fridge and stove.

There was a pull door between the kitchens and the dining rooms. We grands loved them. We’d slide the door closed to playing ‘elevator.’ At one point, that game was called to an end in both houses as the shut doors stopped the traffic flow in the house.

 

Long dining tables and beautiful china cabinets were on the left of the next room. At the end of my dad’s parents’ table was my grandfather’s desk. On it was a phone. We would pick up the receiver and tell the operator to connect us with Overland 9-0757 on this line, please.  That rang to my other grandparents’ phone on the kitchen wall, also black. The phones were black then.

 

I’ll traipse through the rest of the two houses later as I think I have gotten sidetracked from the actual prompt. I’m just saying if I had known I wouldn’t enter these homes the last time I visited, what would have changed?

 

And who knew the last time I walked Newport Beach while waiting for rush hour traffic to subside, still arriving home at the exact time I would have should I have parked on the freeway with everyone else? I vividly remember the sparkle of water and sand. The sea breeze the most brilliant olfactoric experience ever. The walk planted itself in my memory along with the sunsets and gulls flying overhead.  Strolling the sand, or wading in the foam, between lifeguard station 68 and the runoff, my life was in its most peaceful place. Knowing or not knowing the last time changes nothing.

 

Oh. And when was the last swim? Over two years ago. Would knowing it was the last time, change my summer meditation?

 

When triple-digit heat or the tooth infection threatens my calm, I dive into the pools of my past. I swim underwater to the shallow end. Coolness against my skin, releasing the heat. Then the pressure of needing air pulls me to the surface. Then back under as my hair mermaids out, I’ve only had short hair for a couple of years. It was long most of my life. This shorter scuba dive brings me back to the surface to breast-stroke laps until exhaustion brings me to slog out, pick up the towel and breathe deep of the moist, fresh air. Summer soothes every ounce of my being.

 

Knowing it had been the last time doesn’t mean it was the last time.

 

Now, if only I could remember where I put my cotton yarn.

 

 

 

Move Made Manifest


At last, the “iffy” trip and the “iffy” purchase of the acre and the double wide mobile have manifested. I’m sitting in my office/studio/escape looking out my window and seeing miles and miles of sagebrush. I can see little tiny hills far, far away and I can see the horizon. And the sky above goes on forever with feather clouds here and there.

As I sit here I can think of all the times I wondered if this was really going to happen. All the things that could go wrong did go wrong. They made me doubt that I should do this. They made me determined to try harder, but I didn’t want to press the gods that made this happen. What if I were to find out that I’m not supposed to do this? But what if this is exactly what I’m supposed to do? And I go around in circles with this batch of questioning. Still, I was packing boxes and packing boxes and packing boxes.

You see the two-bedroom apartment cave that I lived in before cost me over double what we will pay for this place. Our lease was up and we knew we wouldn’t be able to afford to live in that cave another moment.

In spite of how small the place was, we filled a van that should take a three-bedroom home and still had so much more to figure out how to get it here, or if we should toss it. And that was with C’s son moved out. His bed was the sofa and that was his sofa. So where do we get all this stuff? And how did the place get so dirty? Well, 2+ years in bed basically. And of course, we all know that nobody else cleans except the woman of the house. The pain of the fibro and the depression and the social anxiety all of the bundled up for those two years and all I could do was lay in bed. I tried to get out. I wanted to see friends but when I got to the day of doing it. I’d hit a flare. But this summer was different. I felt better. I got to go on a couple road trips. I got to go swimming. Whatever made me feel better, I am so thankful for it. The “iffy” trip gave me hope, gave me something to live for. And here I am, ready or not!

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