“Remoted” Day 332 (Thursday)

Vacation Day. Check!

Like 95% of my vacation days, this one was scheduled to go to the vet. Today was Moose’s appointment for the mysterious limping situation. The traffic was reasonable, and I arrived 10 minutes early for the 8:00 drop off. Unfortunately, that left me waiting for 40 minutes in the car with Moose because the person opening the office was a half hour late. Oops. Stuff happens. I got to play Candy Crush and tell Moosie what a good boy he is in both English and Finnish. Moosie on hyvä poika!

Moosie good boy.

Moose was a trooper. He rarely seems nervous when going into the office.  When the tech picked him up to take him away, he didn’t even growl at her like he growls at me when I try to pick him up. Then, as she carried him off, he didn’t even look back at me. What a little traitor.

It is Dad’s 80^th birthday today, so I got to enjoy a breakfast visit with him at my sister’s house. For about two decades he said he was 29, then for the next two decades he said he was 39. And now suddenly he’s saying he’s 80. How did this happen? It may explain my own deeply rooted denial of my own age.

After more than five hours at the vet office, Moose was ready to be picked up. The vet called and said there was nothing immediately noticeable in the x-rays to explain the limping, but she noticed he has an enlarged heart to go along with his heart murmur. The x-rays will go to a specialist for additional analysis, and Moose has two new meds to help with pain, a possible nerve issue, and inflammation. Because I was just about to leave my sister’s when the call came, I was on the phone call in the car in her driveway and not taking notes like I would be if I were at home, by the time I arrived at the office I had pretty much forgotten what else she said beyond keeping him off the stairs.

Just another night. Yawn.

At pick up time, I heard Moose barking the minute I entered the office.  The tech at the desk said she had just come in a short time earlier, and he was barking the entire time. Sounds about right. The little dude is very vocal sometimes. Wednesday, when I was out front shoveling, he was inside howling like a forlorn hound dog. Luckily for the vet office, Moose was regaling them with the regular barking and not the tortured howl. He slept in his bed on the back seat floor the entire ride home.

Upon our arrival home, we were met at the door by Winston. He barked, jumped, and wagged his tail in what felt like a celebration. Most likely, he was just happy that the Keeper of the Cookies was back and could resume the cookie dispensing duties. After supper and medications, the boys settled in and lounged and slept and snored on the couch. Winston hogged the blanket, and it was just another normal night after another expensive veterinary vacation day.  

“Remoted” Workday 219 / Day 331 (Wednesday)

The is feeling like a snowy February. It has snowed three times since the month began. Work breaks that used to involve vacuuming have been replaced with shoveling breaks. Yesterday’s fresh accumulation, which added to that from Sunday, was cleaned from the car in preparation for Moose’s Thursday morning vet visit.

Drippy gutter icicles.

Icicles formed on strategic corners of the gutters and the downspouts are blocked with ice. The roof wiring system to deal with icy edges was plugged in, which first required shoveling a path down the length of the deck to reach the outlet mounted on the rear corner of the house. I don’t leave it plugged in all winter because it isn’t needed every day, and the one year I plugged it in and left it, the electric bill was uncomfortably steep. 

The newest snow was light, fluffy, and dry, and seemed perfect for a rug cleaning method used in Finland that I recently saw a video about. Yes, I watched an entire video on cleaning a rug with snow. Yes, I actually enjoyed it. I read somewhere that the early settlers also used this method. The rug is laid out on the snow, covered with snow, and swept with a stiff broom. Then it is flipped and the other side is done, and the rug is clean and fresh and bright. If the snow isn’t the dry stuff, it makes the rug wet.

This is the second recent snowfall that was the dry, light snow, and the second time I was working all day and didn’t have a rug ready to haul out into the snow to clean at a moment’s notice. I need to round up the rugs and have them ready to go for a snow cleaning.

One of the neighbors was cleaning her car the same time I was cleaning mine and she told me more snow is forecast for Sunday. No, thank you. There is no place to put any more. But if it’s going to happen, I hope it’s the light, dry stuff so I can start some rug cleaning.

“Remoted” Workday 218 / Day 330 (Tuesday)

Oh, good, it snowed some more. All day long. The hand crafted snow mountain in the front yard is growing, and my skill at flinging the snow over the four foot tall fence is becoming quite exceptional. 

Hand flung snow mountain.

Last night, as I was about to let the dogs out, I saw that the gutter over the front door had dripped and turned the concrete stairs into an ice encrusted sculpture that could break a neck. Salt was applied, and this morning I was able to chisel off the ice. Of course, it hasn’t been checked for several hours, so who knows what it looks like now.

After work it was a quick supper before a board meeting followed by an event meeting, and there was no 5:00 shovel session. During the brief lunchtime shovel break, the stairs to the side deck and the area of the deck outside the door were finally cleared of the snow from last Monday. The deck stairs don’t collect ice like the front stone and concrete stairs do, and if they hadn’t been buried in a big drift with the big storm last week, they would have been cleared right away.

It felt good. The thing I like about manual labor is the visible results. With the bread and butter work-work, the results are seen mostly as items crossed of a list. Of course, the financial measurement in the form of the regular paycheck is also pretty sweet. 

With shoveling, I put my head down and get busy, and a few minutes later when I step back and survey the landscape, the level of progress is almost always a surprise. It may not be paid work, but it’s still satisfying. It turns out a lot of shoveling can be done in around 20 minutes, at least when it’s the lighter stuff. Now, with the deck stairs cleared, there is an alternate entry to the house for the EMTs after I collapse from all the shoveling. Next up, teaching the dogs to call 911.

“Remoted” Workday 217 / Day 329 (Monday)

Moose has been limping. It started with favoring his left front paw by not putting full weight on it. Soon, he was hobbling on three legs and avoiding touching his paw down at all. When I would try to check for pain areas by touching the shoulder, leg, joints, and paw, there was no reaction, but the limping and hobbling continued. A vet appointment was scheduled, but the soonest one was a few weeks out. 

Moose and his wonky front leg.

When he would put weight on the paw, instead of putting the bottom of his paw with the pad down on the ground, he would bend his lower joint so that any weight was on the top of his paw. The hobbling was getting more jerky and labored. The extra effort seems to be wearing him out, and now even his back legs look wonky. The number for the emergency vet was added to my phone just in case things got worse, it having disappeared when the phone was replaced and more recently added contacts did not transfer over.

After work, when I am parked on the couch, both dogs sleep next to me on the couch or in their beds on the floor. It is lazy and easy and Moose is mostly motionless, and I can stop worrying about him for a few minutes. During the day, he is constantly up and hobbling to the door, the water bowl, and the living room when Winston randomly barks. At bedtime, to spare him climbing the stairs, I’ve been carrying him up to the bedroom in his bed like he is royalty in a palanquin, and it seems like he is starting to enjoy this conveyance method.

His vet appointment is Thursday. I can drop him off first thing in the morning, and he will be there for several hours for observation in between other patients. Calls were made to the vet since the original scheduling to check for cancellations and the chance for an earlier appointment, but there have been none, so we are waiting it out.

This morning, the usual routine was underway. Moose barked me and Winston awake, we went downstairs, the dogs rushed out the door to potty. Food and water was prepared for both, and insulin for Winston. Moose went back outside for his post breakfast potty. The coffee maker was started. That's usually the point where I go upstairs to get dressed. Lately, the baby gate has been set at the bottom of the stairs when I go up, to keep Moose downstairs. This triggers a lengthy barking solo by Moose. When I have tiptoed down stairs to investigate, thinking he was mourning my absence, I see Moose on the floor, barking at Winston on the couch. My best guess is that Winston won’t let Moose on the couch and Moose is vocalizing his displeasure. Today I forgot to set the gate.

While dressing in a glamorous outfit from the winter work from home collection, I heard Moose’s uneven steps on the carpeted stairs. Then it stopped, but he didn’t appear in the bedroom. I went to the doorway, and he was at the next to top step, just standing there, like he got stuck, or ran out of steam or got bored, and was puzzling out what to do next. And then he suddenly tumbled down the stairs. Rolling, flipping, finally bouncing off the wall at the foot of the stairs and onto the dining room floor. And I was racing down the stairs behind him. 

He got up and hobbled a couple feet away and then stood on the dining room rug trembling. And I started crying and holding him and begging for him to please be okay. It was the ugly loud kind of sobbing like in a movie when someone is gutted with grief. I can’t imagine that he wasn’t hurt. He seemed confused by my smothering him. All day, he’s been hobbling a bit more than the new usual hobble, and I’ve been keeping my eye on him even more than usual. Thursday and that vet appointment can’t get here quickly enough.

“Remoted” Day 328 (Sunday)

Wavy when wet.

Last week, there was mention of more snow for today, then midweek, I swear I saw a weather report that said there would be no snow. But, then, it was back On like Donkey Kong^TM (a registered trademark of Nintendo). Sunday plans for snowshoeing were shifted to Saturday, which turned out to be a great success.

The new curling iron, recently delivered from Prime, came complete with a tag bearing the thought-provoking message “Caution-this product can burn eyes.” I can’t figure out exactly how one would burn their eyes with a 1.5” barrel curling iron, but I burned my ear immediately on the maiden adventure. Setting number 15 of 30 is pretty danged hot. Parts of my hair are really wavy, and other parts are straight. This means it's being either straightened or curled to remove the bumps and tame the bushiness. In summer, putting it into a bun after the shower has the taming and curling effect, but it stays wet all day. In winter, the heat of the blow dryer is welcomed. 

Instrument of torture?

Today's exercise in hair styling and makeup was intended to minimize the chance of scaring anyone out in the world at large who might mistake me for a pasty corpse driving down the road. It was for naught when the day’s “play it by ear” tentative plan to go over to Mom’s became “maybe next weekend” when the snow was already falling around 10:00 am.

Snow fell all day and all evening. Several inches piled up. Stairs and walkways were cleared multiple times. One side of the driveway still had two feet of snow from last Monday’s storm. A late afternoon shovel session took care of the last of it, which now lives in the front yard snow mountain after having been heaved over the fence, one shovel full at a time. The snow shoveling workouts, free for the taking, keep on giving this week, and are probably the best free and convenient benefit of snowfall. Shoveling can be as meditative as mowing the lawn in the summer.

Potentially more
controlled when styled.

Between the hat and the hair exposed to the falling snow, the day's snow throwing ruined the hair styling, but it’s not like there were any substitute social plans. Instead of seeing Mom, Russet and sweet potatoes, carrots, and onions were oven roasted for the basis for as yet unplanned meals during the week. And many hours of Netflix were watched. Firefly Lane is really good. When that ended, it was on to The Sinner. I really need to find a way to be paid for all the evening and weekend hours of screen time. Maybe I should get with the times and use the modern parlance and find a way to "monetize" this activity. 

For now, TV screen time  is mostly mindless entertainment, although some shows do inspire emotion in my stony heart. Golden Girls is funny and makes me laugh. Firefly Lane brought tears several times. The Sinner has had a couple moments of squeamishness and averted eyes. It is entirely possible I may come out the other side of pandemic hibernation as some emotional, weepy human full of feelings and all that crap. Kind of scary. 

“Remoted” Day 327 (Saturday)

Snowy woods at Saima.

The outdoors was tackled today, and not just the lingering snow piles from Monday’s storm. The snow earlier in the week made for great ground cover, and several of the Denishawn dancers met up at Saima Park. Some of us were on snowshoes, and others were on cross country skis. There were wooded trails to explore and two fields. A snowy stream flowed through the park near the athletic field, with foot bridges for crossing. 

It was sunny when I left Lowell but Fitchburg was cloudy. The clouds cleared a bit and revealed a blue sky and sunshine. The woods were beautiful – evergreen trees, bright white snow, and shelter from the wind, which had a bit of a bite to it when we were on the flat, open fields.

It was nice to be outside, and even nicer to be out with the group of dancer friends. The combination of fresh air, sunshine, conversation, and exercise made for a great time. It flew by.

Fun in the snow.

Before and after the snow shoe excursion, an attempt was made to breach the big snow pile blocking the backyard gate. Winston the adventurer walked belly deep through the snow in the front yard in an effort to reach the space between the house and the fencepost to escape, unhappy with the small cleared walkway. A shoveled path through the backyard snow has moved up on the priority list so the poor little guy has someplace to romp, frolic, and pee without claustrophobia or the need to flee to larger spaces. 

The day's physical activity involving trudging on top of snow and digging through the snow, after many months of exceptional laziness, has led to muscular soreness. A massage would really help right now, but unless someone is providing Saturday night drive up massage services, I’m out of luck. One of the perils of living alone is the absence of another human who can be conned into providing a backrub. The dogs, while adorable, are completely lacking in massage skills.

“Remoted” Workday 216 / Day 326 (Friday)

All through my life, there were many stories from Mummu about Finland, the country from which her parents relocated in 1893. She proudly told the story of the Finns dressed in white, skiing down the snowy hills with rifles and fighting off the much larger Russian Army. Her passion with the story had me thinking she had witnessed this firsthand, but she was born in America and never traveled to the land of her parents except through their stories. Mummu told of “Sisu,” the tenacious spirit that courses through Finnish veins. Her mother was from a farming family in Finland and became an American citizen in her 70s. 

Flag of Finland

Mom’s father, my Grandpa Ray, was born in Finland and came to America as a young child. I learned from Mummu that Mom was mostly Finnish and a bit of Swedish that came from Grandpa Ray, and that made me us kids half Finnish with a smidge of Swedish.

Dad’s ancestral roots are in England and France. His mother died when I was four, and I have no memories of my Grandma Olive. She was an exotic looking dark-haired beauty in a portrait in the photo album. After her death, Dad, Mom, my brother, infant sister and I moved to the family home. We lived upstairs and Grandpa Simonds and one of my cousins lived downstairs. Despite living upstairs from Grandpa for about five years, I have few memories of him. He was tall. He liked flipping his dentures around in his mouth to horrify us kids. Mostly, he stayed downstairs and we stayed upstairs. He fished. Mom bought him flannel shirts for Christmas.

There were no stories of England or France or Canada or Simonds family pride at our nightly dinner table. There were occasional references to the family rumor of alleged but undocumented Mi'kmaq roots. I only recently learned my paternal grandma Olive was born in Nova Scotia.

When I was in high school, my aunt shared what she had learned about the family tree and our connections to Johnny Appleseed and Count Rumford. It was exciting and the first time ever hearing anything about the family history.

Finnish lion flag (1917-18).

A relative asked recently about my connection to Finnish ancestry and the absence of recognition of the paternal side of my background. I’ve been thinking about the question ever since. The answer is actually pretty simple. I grew up hearing about the Finnish side of my lineage from Mummu. She shared her pride in where her parents came from, and the enthusiasm made it easy to connect with being "half Finnish." That’s the background I know. I learned very little about Dad's family background.

Stories of Dad’s family and his youth were scarce. They usually involved attending parochial school under the tutelage of “the Crows at Saint Joe’s.” He had rheumatic fever as a kid, spent time at Children’s Hospital in Boston, and as a result, his mother wouldn’t let him swim. These few nuggets didn’t give us much to grasp on to. There were no funny sibling stories like Mummu’s favorite about the time her sister Julia accidentally stepped in the pies that were cooling on the pantry floor. The Simonds siblings as adults were people we sometimes visited. As children growing up, they are a complete mystery, and it was almost as if Dad had been an only child. I still don’t know any stories about his life growing up as one of six kids that include any of his siblings. It’s hard to feel a connection to something you know next to nothing about. There is still time.