Today was the last test result, the last appointment on the whole endometrial thing.

But first the oncology surgeon had to tell me that he’d taken that Kit Donnell peach home and shared it with his wife: he told me emphatically, That was the best! peach I have eaten. In. My. Life! He wanted to make sure he remembered the name of the variety right. He thanked me several times for telling him about Andy’s Orchard.  I looked it up, he told me: August.

He was clearly very much looking forward to next August’s crop.

The nurse had the biggest smile on her face.

Baby Crawford is the other really good one, I told him.

Oh! He was instantly on it, getting this down. He was not going to miss that either! Baby? Crawford.

I turned to her and apologized that I hadn’t brought two peaches last time, and she laughed hard and I thought, You were thinking the same thing. I should have. But I didn’t know you were going to be there. And I didn’t have enough left to bring a bunch.

So, on to business. No cancer. No virus that might someday cause cancer. No surgery. Fill this prescription to help with the atrophal shedding.

I told him, Plot twist: after two and a half years of bleeding, it is somehow almost almost gone. (How to tell G_d a joke: tell Him, You weren’t going to let up on that symptom till that man and his wife and maybe that nurse discovered that farm and that fruit, were you? Because those peaches are divine.)

At the last he said, with the very warmest of smiles, And then I never want to see you again. For your sake.

Man, we lucked out.

The dryer is still under warranty.

The inside wall was still hot fifteen minutes later but the outside wall was nice and cool.

I had walked in the door after running an errand this afternoon and instead of doing what I’d planned to, had gone straight to the laundry room to see if the load was done. Good thing. When I got to the end of the hall, something was smelling a little funny but I couldn’t find the source nor figure it out. Sticking my head inside the dryer, it just smelled like regular old clean sheets in there. Huh. I walked back across the house to tell Richard.

Within maybe two minutes we all could smell it all over the house but we knew what room it was coming from because I’d just announced it and this time Michelle found a slight browning of the wall rising above the plug and I found the blackened prong.

That was so close. So close.

Thanks, everybody. My hands are fine, my back required a bit of stretching but basically things are okay.

This morning was the second half of the local church conference. The guy whom I was a pushover for last night was the one running the mics and super-focused on the tech tasks at hand again.

Some years ago I mentioned to a friend who was a tech writer about a teacher I’d met who’d told me she’d transferred into the district from a town in SoCal because there were more single men than woman in Silicon Valley and she was hoping to find her way into that next stage of her hoped-for life.

To which he remarked that if you’re looking for a husband, there are a lot of engineers here but that’s also why you have a concentration of single men: they’re on the spectrum. “The odds are good–but the goods are odd.”

Before the meeting started, there was last night’s Mr. Oblivious, suddenly standing in the space two rows in front of where we were seated, holding his two-year-old son’s hand like the best daddy ever and looking just above our heads.

Last night’s meeting ran past little kids’ bedtimes and there was no family there with him and no way to know he had one.

I dove into my purse and pulled out the first thing to hand. Richard held the little white puppy finger puppet out to him, which, when he sat down, his wife exclaimed over and his little boy was happy.

If the guy had been told he’d knocked me down, if he or I worried about what to do or say next, it was all taken care of now. It’s cool.

I wish I could tell whoever the knitter in Peru is, Thank you for the peacemaking.

Whoever he was, he was in such a hurry to get a chance to chat with the speakers after the meeting that when he squeezed out of his pew just behind me he had no idea that when he hip-checked me, while I had no idea it was coming to brace against it, I did my funky which-way-did-up-suddenly-go wobble and then tumbled to the floor with my cane thankfully only smacking the carpet and not someone’s leg.

In front of about forty suddenly horrified people on that side of the room, with the four nearest arms immediately reaching to scoop me up. I confess to quickly looking back over my shoulder to see if the guy had even noticed.

Nope.

But I bet the speaker visiting from San Diego whom he was in such a hurry to get to did.

(Oh wait, someone I know *did* see my dignified little dance. Hi, Julia, hi, Eric, nah, nah, I’m fine no worries.)

My first thought had been, No! Don’t mess with my knitting hands, I need those!

My second was to wonder how often I had inadvertently hurt someone and never known it. It made me want to pay closer attention.

I did do the icepack thing when we got home, just to be careful.

It’s slow going, and the photo is of the back of the first tree because the second photo I was going to compare it against got carded at the door and bounced for being too young–or something, who knows. But. The second peach tree is about 2/3 done.

California passed a law that all political fliers must say who paid for them.

You know there are a lot of entities that want to get around that.

A glossy brochure arrived today that you could only agree with its basic premise: that we need to put more money into the Wildfire Fund that was established six years ago to help individuals and communities recover because the fires are only getting worse.

It didn’t give any more information than that. No mention of a bill in the legislature and what it might actually say. Scary pictures and hunky linemen looking serious.

“Paid for by Sustainable Wildfire Fund California.”

The who. Wait. Someone paid millions of dollars at the very minimum to tell us to pressure a particular state senator to protect us from fires. Money that could have been spent towards exactly that goal, but obviously that was not their actual priority.

So I Googled to see just who these guys were.

San Diego Gas & Electric.

Southern California Edison.

And the ever infamous Pacific Gas & Electric, PG&E, held to be directly responsible for the worst of the fires up north that killed so many people after siphoning money to the then-CEO. Rate increases for them had been okayed by the state to replace equipment including wildland towers that were about 100 years old: they did not do that but the CEO’s enormous bonus magically matched the numbers that that rate increase had produced.

And so now we have the Wildfire Fund that they have to help pay into so that they have an economic incentive to do the maintenance jobs they were supposed to be doing all along. Upgraded lines, fewer fires.

My sister and brother-in-law and nephew spent four hours fleeing the Pacific Palisades fire bearing down on them with roads closed and bulldozers pushing abandoned cars out of the way for people like them who stayed in theirs, embers flying and the neighborhood blazing to ashes. The utility towers up the hill were believed to have helped spark that blaze.

Someone clearly doesn’t want to pay their share of their costs anymore. It’s not hard to guess that they want the taxpayers to.

We’re not the ones trying to stiff the hunky linemen. Nor the communities.

I got word today that my cousin Janna had passed, the one I’d knit all the chemo caps for. The one who told this story about our cousin John and her granddaughter. I’m glad for her that she’s no longer having to go through–waves arm in a wide sweep–all. that. I am so very glad we got to see her and her husband and that granddaughter in early June, and I hope those hats are being passed around her family in remembrance of her love coming back to her and now returning outward once again.

She was a good one.

I don’t know that they could have caught her ovarian in time in any case, but still: a plea from here for getting checkups and screenings scheduled. We need you.

A pre-fab Diamond brand vegan pie crust made of ground pecans and oat flour: I was intrigued when she showed it to me. Sure, I’ll try it out.

I’m sorry we did not get to it before John left, but we looked at each other tonight and knew we could not let the last of the Andy’s peaches age out of their supreme goodness, and peaches and pecans, well, the state of Georgia can tell you those two were meant to be together.

Notes to my future self: my 1952 Betty Crocker said to bake an 8″ peach pie with 3 1/3 tbl flour and 2/3 cup sugar. Also a tbl of butter, but not for the allergic and I forgot to add her Miyoko version in. It’s fine. I added a tsp cinnamon and let the peach slices sit soaking in the mixture for a few minutes.

But that 425F for 40 minutes for 8″ (measured across the top of the interior of the pan) was a bit much for it. I would decrease temp or time next time.

But there should most definitely be a next time and it will most definitely do.

The kids and I went past a clerk’s line on our way to another aisle and from there I made sure we doubled back and checked out with her, thinking, let’s see if we can help that woman feel like she’s cared about. She looked tired.

She’d had a long day and we were her last.

The kids were putting all kinds of stuff on the conveyor I don’t usually buy: resealable candied nuts, granola, flavored water (here, let me give you a Hint), cookies, jerky, roasted nut mix. Stuff that will see you through if your car has any issues along the way. (There was a friend of Richard’s and my parents in our childhoods who’d been in a plane crash in Alaska and had hiked two weeks to find help. He found a Hershey bar in the snow along the way and made a huge impression for life on us about how much energy there can be in a few ounces of chocolate. To our own children: Always always have some food with you when you travel. And take some chocolate.)

I said to that clerk, When your kid drives twelve hours to see you, you get them every fun stuff you can think of for their twelve hours home.

All the sudden our family reunion was her family reunion and it made her day to see us together and looking out for each other and with her on this very fine Labor Day of a day, and the kids had her laughing in the back-and-forth.

My youngest is going back to his own life in the morning. Which is wonderful for him and a little bit hard. The delight on that woman’s face on his behalf helped more than she could know.

The time together is so short. None of us are used to tripping over other people in the kitchen anymore. All of us are loving sitting down to share a meal together. Savoring every minute and bite.

And the surprised delight and big hugs to my kids this morning from old friends who didn’t know they were coming.

Here, taste the tip of a spoon here, see what you think of it so far.

They approved.

Then the kids drove to San Francisco to Dandelion Chocolate for some sibling time and brought home a splurge of bakery goodies and hot chocolate. Not your standard lunch. That orange sanguine entremet–wow!

As my dad loved to say, How many meals do you eat in your life? Now: how many do you remember?

Then John drove me to Kings Mountain Art Fair, with the ocean to one side on that twisty road and Silicon Valley laid out below on the other and the Fair on the spine of the ridge, where we got to see Mel and Kris. Mel knew exactly what I wanted when I broke my favorite tall mug and held the new one up in happy anticipation of my delight. Which he got. I liked it even better than the old one. Kris was there for the first time in several years, her chemo long over and looking great. I picked up one of the smaller mugs–and it had a sheep on it! (With apologies to them that my photo washes the colors out a bit.)

I knew she played with adding hummingbirds and dragonflies and honeybees…

She was delighted that I was the one who bought her first sheep.

Not long after we walked back in the door, Michelle and I ran an errand exploring a store that sold favorite pantry items she hadn’t been able to find in Boston. And because she liked going there; it was part of being home.

John cooked dinner.

We all got to FaceTime with Lillian, who wanted to show her grampa the wart on her foot in solidarity. She wanted to see his foot, too. He gently told her she wouldn’t want to.

And then at long last we turned off that goshawfulloudnoise that had been going in the kitchen for 26 hours at that point (24 is about optimal on the conching) and John and his dad worked for a couple hours more at cooling and re-warming and thus (hopefully) tempering our new batch of homemade chocolate correctly while getting some one-on-one time of their own.

I got to do the honors of pouring it out and did as messy a job as I ever do and we managed not to devour it before it had even set, probably because, really? We had a lot of cleanup to do. And we’d had a lot of chocolate today already.

And all of it was very very good.

I like days like this!

John’s home, John’s home!

And so there are fresh peaches from Andy’s, chocolate conching in the melanger, and our two younger kids being each other’s best friend and I tell you, that is the best.

Today was the cataract guy. He was thorough. I got referred to a corneal scarring specialist at Stanford to go to after all this; he says some of the bright scattered reflection problem is from that, and that it can be fixed, too.

So: a multifocal lens, or what by the sound of it is a new improved multifocal with fewer problems at night, or monofocal, and if the latter, for distance, mid, or near, with glasses for the rest?

Multifocal+ sounded good to me!

Richard cautioned that a friend of his greatly regretted making that choice. His own prescription is quite mild, so he went for mid on his so he could spend his work time and grandkid time without having to worry about glasses.

Me, I’ve worn glasses for distance since third grade and just assumed that’s what I would choose. But maybe not?

I’d love to hear anyone’s input, because I have zero experience with this.

Meantime, the person who was supposed to call back to schedule the surgery didn’t, and doctor #2 didn’t seem to be in a hurry about it, and I’m okay with that right now.

The important thing is, it’s going to happen.

Meantime, when I changed Richard’s dressing his foot looked way better. I feel like I can finally breathe easy on that one.

The question, the moment of truth, the blunt response.

I have a macular pucker and it’s been stable for several years now, with me coming in every six months to get it checked.

The retina specialist came in the room today after the routine pictures had been taken, concerned before I even said anything. He asked how I was doing.

I’m fed up with it, I told him. My husband was just in the hospital for five days and I found I couldn’t see well enough to drive home safely later than 5:00 because the late sun created blinding reflections. I needed to be with him and I couldn’t be. And I can’t read labels in the grocery store anymore.

He asked how my husband was doing, and I said no amputation so far and so far okay but the infection was not gone.

He made a decision on the spot. He told me, Don’t ask the front desk–they’ll tell you four months. Dr. M will do the cataract and then I’ll do the retina and we do joint surgeries on Mondays, sometimes Fridays. Maybe we could get you in Monday, would that be okay? Or even this Friday, let me see what I can do.The second cataract is typically done two weeks later.

Me, surprised: Sure!

I realized afterwards that Monday’s a holiday and this weekend is King’s Mountain Art Fair and I’ve already said I would pick up something my potter friends Mel and Kris were making for me.

I dearly want to see them but I do have friends who go to that. And there’s certainly always the mail.

One way or other, this is all going to work out. Finally. I know that macular pucker surgery can take 3-12 months to show improvement from–so let’s get started. It’s time. Taking out the cataracts will give me some instant gratification on seeing colors clearly again in the meantime.

That carton of cream I didn’t remember using that much of: it had somehow gotten knocked over and the bottom of the fridge was covered along with the bin sitting above it.

Not to mention the kid is home who’s allergic to dairy. Out!

It was a job.

One major fridge clean, once you’re done, is like fresh sheets on the bed straight out of the dryer on a cold winter night. So perfect.