I had two packages to mail, one heavy, long, and awkward, the other small and easy. As I pulled into the wait-for-a-spot lot at the post office there was this moment of, oh, right. It’s December.

People were pretty crowded together in that long line and I finally said to the guy behind me, not that he had but that I was afraid he would, “If you bump into me I *will* fall down.”

He apologized and backed off a little.

They processed I think two people in the ten minutes after that.

One of my quirks is that if I stand still a long time my low blood pressure starts to drop. Which does not help when you are holding heavy things. And did I mention that just for fun I had a brain MRI immediately before this errand? (Effects from that fall three weeks ago finally got me to let the neurologist run that test.)

Finally I stepped forward apologetically and placed the two packages on the table that the line starts alongside, saying first that I hoped nobody would mind if I put these down?

Note that I still have the black strips of velcro hobbling my rightmost two fingers together, and yesterday I went back in to the doctor to ask if I’d broken my foot, too? Because it’s sure not getting any better. She sent me to the podiatrist, whose take on the x-rays was, Probably. We are waiting on the radiologist. The foot was actually still swollen (I hadn’t noticed or I’d have gone in sooner) and she told me to keep an ace bandage wrapped around it for a week. She decided against the boot only out of fear that with my balance issues it would make me fall again.

So yeah, I was waiting on that line hand and foot, trying to hold that eight pounder and the cane in the other hand and and and. Yeah. That table up ahead looked really good to me.

A man further forward who turned back to say sure, put it down, took one look at me and offered to switch places in line. I was quite surprised, and then I cannot begin to tell you how grateful I was.

It was amazing to see all the stressed faces in that line visibly relaxing on the spot. The place felt different now.

A few minutes later, the man whom I’d asked not to bump me finally got up to the end of that long table, where he went searching for a pen so he could fill out a form without holding everybody up once he could get to the clerk–but the chain ended in nothing. Gone.

I fished through my purse till I found my Lisa Souza Dyeworks one and handed it to him. Paying it backward.

He gave it back when he was done and struck up a conversation. He was genuinely curious about my wavery unsteadiness, and I explained briefly the car accident and the neurologist saying it had severed the connections between the balance and visual centers of the brain, so, more visual stimulation, more trouble standing. (Sitting I’m fine.)

Had it happened locally? Yes, on X street where they’ve since changed the traffic patterns to separate away the school traffic (in part in response to my being sandwiched there.)

By this point we were friends. He looked me in the eye and asked, carefully, Maybe it’s time to consider a walker?

I’ve been resisting that, I admitted, looking back into his.

And in that moment at last I knew. Yes, there are times I do need one. Yes I’m way too young for that sort of thing, but yes, life happens and I do not want to break any more bones. Richard had brought up the subject just yesterday. This man’s question felt like a confirmation.

Not sure I can pull off doing two hands on a walker and one on the Costco cart but that’s where I most need one, but, anyway. You heard it here first. I admitted it here first.

I fished through my purse again and turned back to the guy who’d given me his place in line: a colorful parrot finger puppet, in thanks.

His face lit up: My little girl will love this!

They called me over.

I had not been able to find a box that was long enough and had had the brilliant idea that I could fit two large padded envelopes over the thing, one from this direction one from that and overlapping and taped in the middle and that would do the job nicely.

Why did you do it this way? The clerk asked. Then I have to charge you by the pound! Take it home and put it in a box and then I don’t have to charge you so much! Maybe I could find you a box, do we? No, we don’t have, take…

I motioned towards that long line and said I didn’t want to make people wait as she fussed over the thing. (And I REALLY did not want to again stand a long time holding that package. I wasn’t entirely sure I could.)

She was, in a word, slow.

(Please just charge me whatever it has to be and get me out of everybody’s way.) I was trying not to re-stress.

She took my money at last and at long last I was done.

The man who’d given me his spot was by now the next person up and he stepped forward to take my place with the most beautiful smile on his face towards that clerk that seemed to radiate for the whole world. And he saved me all over again.

I was steadfastly and adamantly a parent who did not tell my kids that Santa was real, ever, to the point of having been told by one of my siblings ages ago not to say anything to her kids because they believed.

Well I did, too, on the importance of the meaning of Santa, and I talked to my kids about that a lot. Starting with peace and going straight to the with goodwill for all men part.

My cousin pointed today to an essay on the subject. It is brilliant. It is exactly what we parents all hope for for our kids. I wish I’d thought of it but I’m glad someone else did.

Slowly, slowly….

Outside: 35F and going down. (Mango tree: 62F.) I have no doubt this will be our coldest night yet and the mandarin oranges are shivering under their covers, too.

I got a good laugh at my own reluctance to head out for a grocery run–hey, you, didn’t you used to live in New Hampshire? A little perspective check in the video from Montreal: five cars in the snow that got rear-ended by a long bus that got rear-ended by a pickup that got rear-ended by another bus that got rear-ended by a cop car that–

–and you can hear a voice yelling, “Hey! Get out of the car!”

And the cop did, just before the snowplow doing that same long no no no don’t! skid with its tires turned uselessly thataway (c’mon guys, steer into the skid and then away!) smashed the officer’s car.

Drive carefully out there, you all.

And to the Californians: keep an extra sweater or jacket in your car, willya? You never know when someone else who isn’t prepared for real cold is going to need it.

Since for the last nearly three weeks the idea of carting a full dyepot around was out of the question, that of course was what I most wanted to do.

So today I just decided I was going to. And then since there was still dye left in that pot, I did it again. And (add the last of that purple in that bottle, I need to remember to order more–I miss Purlescence!) again. I figured that weight-wise, the trick was to spoon the thing over into a second, empty dyepot and carry it and then later the full dyepot separately across the house to break the load down into smaller tasks, and I let the water go pretty low by the end. (One does *not* pour any amount of dye down the kitchen sink. One scrubs the purple porcelain.)

Watching a faded-gray-blue $5 closeout silk T and a mousy earthy-mauve (not my color) $6 eBay v-neck cashmere sweater turn out matching shades of purple to wear together was a lot more magic than I expected to get. Oooh, that’s what I’d always wanted that sweater to be! It was really cool.

But one of the things I’m in the habit of doing when I’m overdyeing sweaters is to tuck the wooden dye spoon under the object and lift it mostly out of the pot right at the beginning and let it hang a moment midair to try to make sure there are no wrinkle lines in how the dye latches on. Stir, lift again.

This did not go so well using, out of habit, my right hand. Which did not hold up its end of the bargains.

Somehow, as I raced for the bathroom for a towel and the mirror, sheerly by the grace of God is the only way I can describe it, only one big droplet of purple landed on my head and it hit exactly in the part line on my scalp.

Not (other than that) in my hair.

This was protein-fibers dye and it was at a low boil, the temp at which it affixes to the material at hand. Or head. Which, however, was not boiling, so maybe a few shampoos should do the job. I got some on my hands too and it’s all gone now.

As far as I can tell it’s off and that is that.

I think, though, that I’d probably better mention it to the dermatologist when she does my annual post-skin-cancer check next week. Just in case she sees that I’m in a purple state.

Wool knee socks, leg warmers, two layers of wool sweater, scarf, double-thickness handknit wool hat, fingerless gloves, warm jacket–and still I was a bit chilled on our walk tonight. I grinned at Richard, Almost feels like New Hampshire again, right?

He snorted, Not quite!

Me: I knew that would make you guffaw!

The covers over the mango were, as always, held down with a collection of rocks with no air gaps as far as I could tell, held down along the dripline out from the trunk so as to protect the roots. What I did was to go grab a few old covers that were now too small to go over and tucked them in a line going two-thirds of the way around that outer perimeter on the ground. A few rocks on those too so that they wouldn’t end up impaled at the top of the redwood in the middle of the night–just to stay on the safe side.

It turns out that just that little change made the whole thing seven degrees warmer. That’s a lot! And it didn’t cost any extra electricity or put any more weight on the flowers under there.

A combination of, well of course, and, who knew. And–why didn’t I try that sooner? (I’m still a little mystified that it made that much of a difference, but hey, I’ll definitely take it.)

The purple becomes orange. I love how the center of the tiny flower looks like a floating votive candle with the petals doing an exuberant Ta-Daaah! around it.

There was a tiny, narrow black streak notching one of the big flower branches this morning, maybe an eighth of an inch long but a sign of cold damage. There, in the center cluster growing almost straight down, above the upper light (they’re not touching) at the next group up. You can’t see it? Good. That branch needs to become strong enough to hold up the weight of a growing mango. I think we’re okay.

A minor part–by no means all–of one of the tomato bushes died overnight, and it looks like it dipped to 32 degrees at that one spot. I still hold some hope of having new tomatoes carrying over into the spring like they sometimes do in southern California.

This happened today on the side of the mango that had been dormant. Whether all the bud ends will actually produce flowering, not just leaves, I guess I’ll find out, but it’s clear they’re each taking their sweet time.

A steady supply of fruit rather than all of it happening at once sounds good to me.

Years ago, Richard’s oldest sister made an advent calendar for us for Christmas. The fabric was pre-printed with a cheery scene, a big decorated tree with a teddy bear family below. She lined it, sewed buttons on each day, finished the edges, made a long loop across the top, put a dowel through it and attached a fine rope for hanging the thing.

And then there were the little craft-store teddy bears that she added ribbon loops to for hanging from those buttons, one tiny toy for each of our kids.

One got rescued from behind the dryer one year (I have no idea how it got there) and two walked off and stayed off. They were actively loved. So we have two in the decorations box still, keeping each other company.

We hang her calendar every year in her memory, bringing her back into the celebrations of the season.

Cheryl fought lymphoma long enough to see her middleschooler go off to college and her second son marry a fine woman. I wish she had gotten to hold her grandchildren. But she certainly fought the good fight those eight years. They say they can now often cure the type she had, when at the time, there had been zero cures. None.

Stephanie Pearl-McPhee blogged about the advent calendar she just finished for her small niece, knitting a tiny ornament for each of the days. They are SO cute.

We’ll see if hope and intent make it to created reality. I really want to make something like Stephanie’s for my grandchildren. Even if they end up being for next year.

Let’s see, the baby will be seven months by then…

And so it begins.

You can almost see the little dots of purple in those tiny things.

It’s been colder, though, (37 out there right now, 59 under the covers) and I haven’t seen any honeybees on the frost covers in the morning this past week. But if they’re looking for flowers they surely know right where to go. Does it make any difference that the neighbors let the hive that set up camp in their backyard keep all its honey for the winter?

Meantime, the artificial vs real tree debate has been settled. By a beaver. In a dollar store in Maryland. Reaching up to the fake ones, taking a sniff, and declaring a definite opinion on the subject.

(Yes, but no allergies and no massive baby spider hatch-out like that one year. Time to roll ours out and set it up.)

Just inside the door at Trader Joe’s was a display of flowers. I’m in the habit of walking right on by, but maybe the fact that I was in a TJ’s across town and with a different layout from my usual got me to pay more attention.

I checked the price on the bunch of iris buds ready to open: $3.99. Okay, that’s a splurge I can certainly do, as the thought came that, hey, I bet Nina would like those. I hadn’t seen her for a few months; she was always so busy with work but this wouldn’t take but a moment of her time. (I pictured nobody home and having to leave them below the doorbell and her wondering where on earth those had come from.)

A few groceries in the cart, a little hemming and hawing over dinner ideas and I was out of there and on my way.

A knock at the door: Just to say I was thinking of you. How ya doin’.

She brought me inside in delight and we sat and caught up for an hour till I pled groceries that really did need to be put away (while glad it was cold outside).

Some big things had been going on in her life this past little bit, this and this and this, too, and just yesterday she’d gotten something done she’d been avoiding for several years and it felt pretty darn good to get that over with and to know what she needs to do next. It’s clear now at last, and things are looking good.

I’d known none of that and I was so glad I had come when I had come and could share in the moment. I’d just thought, hey, Nina would like those…

I knitted a little today.

I hold the weight of the work in my left hand when I knit and I had just started a cowl project before my fall, i.e. something small and gratifyingly easy to see progress on, so since the right hand had the easiest job I figured just run the yarn between ring and middle finger and over one from the usual and see where that might get me, tension and gauge-wise. Just try it.

There being two black velcroed strips holding my pinky and ring fingers snugly together for at least the next four weeks.

This is where it got weird: I think I was keeping the tension okay, not that, but the fact that–the yarn tickled. It kept, y’know, moving, too, pulling across those unaccustomed skin surfaces for enough minutes that I wanted a break from it aside from needing to rest the hands themselves.

In forty-eight years of knitting, I’ve never had it running through there before. After the three rows I did it even began to feel slightly rough. But that Madeline Tosh yarn was far from rough.

Is it possible (as I picture guitarists with their hands on the strings) that knitters’ callouses are a thing? On the insides of our fingers. So strange. I don’t know, I can’t get to mine to see.

Three raptors approaching overhead and my Cooper’s hawk diving for cover in the upper parts of the redwood tree, vanishing instantly.

That wasn’t something I ever expected to see.

Before church started, I was enjoying some of my favorite little kids there running around a woman about my age who turned out (it was an easy guess) to be their grandmother. First I asked the two-year-old, Is that your grandma?

He stopped and looked at her with big eyes and then at me with a puzzled expression that said, Well who else would she be? How could you not know this?

Their dad was giving one of the talks.

Things I never knew, though I’ve known them for years. Before he and his wife had married they’d found out she had a brain tumor. Well then it was something they would face together, and they did, but they were sure that one outcome would be that there would not be a chance to have children.

Sometimes, though… Not everybody gets to have the blessings they fervently wish for, but sometimes…

They have two little boys and now a newborn girl and a blessedly normal life these years later.

And they know how good they have it. The rest of us came away more grateful for all that we have, too.

How else could we be? May we never forget this.

Delete a bajillion junk gmail messages from my Mac and the phone takes pictures again. May all our problems be so easily solved.

My friend Phyllis introduced me to the annual Harvest Festival in San Jose years ago and today was the day. Mel and Kris  are always there and that’s reason enough for me to go, and time with Phyl, too? Hey. Count me in.

So we made a beeline for them and the four of us chatted for a little while. Would they be willing to hold my purchases so we didn’t have to carry the heavy bag everywhere? Of course.

Phyl wanted to make sure I got to see everything and so we did, circling back at last to our friends. A pitcher, a large serving bowl, a soup bowl with a handle (so now I have two, which makes more sense than just one) and a small kid-size mug. Really pretty stuff, all of it.

I was at home pulling each item at a time carefully out of its newspaper wrappings when one of their business cards fell out onto the floor. My hands were full so I didn’t get to it immediately.

A minute or two later, a second one fluttered down. I grinned and picked them both up–and somehow happened to turn one of them over.

I’d been so worried over trying to write my name legibly on the credit card slip with that broken hand that I never even saw what the amount had come to.

They totally got me.

My favorite part of Thanksgiving? (Well, there were several, but here you go.)

Our kids are nearly as old as Aunt Mary Lynn’s kids, so they grew up together and definitely relate to each other.

You never know, though, where a Facebook algorithm is going to take anybody on any given day, so I asked the ones who’d arrived late, Did you hear Sam’s news?

“No, what?” with faces searching mine for a clue good or bad.

A heartbeat’s pause. “Mother’s Day.”

That’s all it took. I wish she could have heard those two long sharp astonished gasps in unison and then the whooping for joy for her. Yup, they totally instantly got it. Meantime, someone else was explaining to “the man who is calling upon” their sister who was meeting some of the family for the first time that this was something their cousin had thought she could never have, and so he was really happy for her, too (we really like this guy.)

Meantime, that impish grin I’d tried to suppress just might have tipped them off.