My refrigerator is almost thirty years old. In human years, that’s over one hundred at least. In terms of fancy features, it does have an ice maker but it’s kaput. When we had the kitchen remodeled about twenty years ago, I had them build the cabinetry for a large, modern fridge as I was certain the Kitchen Aide’s days were numbered. But alas, it just keeps chugging along.

Old Faithful – doesn’t everyone have flamingos, angels and the alphabet on their fridge door?

I dream of one day purchasing a refrigerator that can at the very least:

• Locate the Dijon mustard that’s somehow gotten lost in there
• Tell me which food items are spoiling and need to eaten or tossed
• Order eggs and butter from the store when we’re running low

I don’t think that’s too much to ask, do you? After all, they make refrigerators these days with wi-fi

This one tells you the time and the temperature. You can also surf the net. And you can see who’s at the front door. Really?

Refrigerator to visitor: “This is the Amanda 4000. Please state your name and the purpose of your visit. Your photo has been sent to the local crime stoppers brigade so don’t even try to steal the garden gnome. I have special skills. I will hunt you down and I will squish you.”

No, that’s a bit too much. Just a magnetic surface and the ability to tell me where I left my glasses, that’s all I’m asking for. And no Zuul inside. Am I tempting fate?

Anyone undergoing an extensive rehabilitation process can tell you, it sure does distort time. I feel like I’ve just left the physical therapy building with a new list of exercises when it’s time to return again. It’s kind like that movie Groundhog Day. Wasn’t I just here a moment ago? Didn’t I just do this?

My days begin with sketching exercises for both the ankle and knee which I do laying down on the bed. Then come a variety of balancing exercises after which I stop to ice both the knee and ankle for at least fifteen minutes, with my feet above my heart. I’ve tried watching news during this time but I don’t want to add heart attack to my list of things to recover from. So I watch My Lottery Dream House. In case you’ve missed that “home improvement” show, the host is on happy gas.

You might think that’s the end of my travails, but they want me to repeat this exercise and icing routine at least two more times. By the end of the day I barely have enough energy to climb into bed. Forget writing; forget cleaning the house; forget anything else but eating. I’m lucky in that, according to my husband, I do not properly do the dishes or wash the clothes otherwise this place would be condemned by the health department.

Physical therapists are angels, there’s no doubt. Anyone who has fallen and broken an ankle or a knee or both (like me) and had to spend a couple of months waiting for the bones to heal will have serious doubts about ever walking unaided again. We need a lot of encouragement. And we also sometimes need a kick in the fanny. But I’m stubborn. I want to climb stairs again. I want to dance. Even though it seems like each day is an unending slog through an ever-growing list of exercise routines, I persist.

By the way, these days you can track your exercise routines online through … you’ve guessed it … an app. The app lists the routines you need to complete and, if you’re a good little girl, you can mark them off as you go along. Other than just the thrill of checking off all those boxes, I don’t need another way to waste the few minutes I have between routines!

For those of you with kids, who’s the one performer from your youth that your children cannot bear to listen to?

This mild mannered Scot drove my two children bonkers. His name is Donovan Leitch but in the mid sixties and early seventies he was known merely as Donovan. His song, “The Tinker and the Crab” gave me the idea for this blog’s tagline “Saying Nothing in Particular.”

On the windy beach the sun is shining through with
Weather fair
White horses riding on the seas pasture onto the
Sand
Over the Dunes came a travelling man
Sack on back
Wild flowers in his hand
Old rusty cans, pebbles ‘bedded in the sand stand
And stare
Scratching his beard through the grass he steered
His sandy shoe
Disappearing in the dips pondering and wandering
Along
Nice as you please comes the travelling man
Drinking a bottle of milk in his hand
Speaking to no one in particular but happily
Down where young gulls dance driftwood lying drying
For the fire
Yellow beak and sleek now the gulls are crying
Flying higher
Out from the sea came a little green Crab
Taking the Sun the morning being very drab

Old rusty cans, pebbles ‘bedded in the sand stand
And stare

The Tinker and the Crab

In the days of superstar rock performers with their entourages and groupies, Donovan seemed downright approachable. The shy boy in class who wrote poetry and played the flute. Indeed, he once stopped a concert to kiss a shy, awkward teen who was a friend of mine. It was the thrill of her lifetime.

His songs often didn’t make a lot of sense. They were strings of images which many critics felt contained an undercurrent of weirdness. Ancient civilizations rising from the bottom of the ocean, witches taking over the streets, hurdy gurdy men selling their deadly wares. Perhaps that’s why my children threatened to jump from the back seat of the car to their deaths if I played one of his CDs.

But I loved the other worlds he created on his self-described quest. Especially when he teamed up with another writer of weirdness, Edgar Allan Poe.

Enjoy! Unless, like my children, you find Donovan a bit too weird!

Only someone who has had to spend two months using a walker can understand the excitement of graduating to a cane. Don’t get me wrong — today’s walker is an engineering marvel. They not only fold in seconds for car rides but can be flipped into service at the blink of an eye. But contrary to what I thought, people do not put tennis balls on the back support legs in an attempt to make a fashion statement. The rubber feet the walkers come with will wear out, fall off, scratch floors, etc. Definitely replace them with tennis balls asap.

Of course my first cane will be one of those medically approved jobbers and I will have to prove to the therapist that I know how to use it correctly. (Who knew there was a right way and a wrong way to use a cane? Ah, the things you learn in rehab!) But once I’ve mastered that skill, I’m moving onto the posh canes. Maybe I’ll even get one that serves a purpose other than to steady my pace.

I’m not a magic nanny, a mad scientist or a fighting Irishman. The only writer I can think of who used a cane was Oscar Wilde.

Oh dear. All these canes have a back story or a purpose. What shall mine be? Gored by a rhino during a safari? Fell off the cliff while climbing Everest? Certainly it can’t be tripped over my own feet and face planted on a slate floor! That hardly warrants a fancy walking stick now does it?

*** Photos are from Bing Images

Here in California we’ve got storms lined up for at least the rest of the month and so it’s time to hibernate.

So far we’re okay but many streets in our small town are blocked by mudslides and creeks are overflowing. In other parts of the San Francisco Bay Area, trees are down, wharves have been washed away and coastal areas are flooded.

Still haven’t put away the Christmas tree, such that it is.

I’m still attempting to draw on those days when walking around is too painful. This poor little kitty also has a sore leg. I’m with you, Stormy, hanging on for dear life.

I rarely showcase other bloggers because you’re all wonderful but I did particularly enjoy Snow’s photos from Finland where they know how to enjoy the winter. Boy could I go for a sauna today!

If I had to categorize 2022 I would have to say it was a year during which very little made sense.

The year started out with such beautiful weather (at least here in California) that I found myself lured onto a Pickleball court by supposed friends. If you insist on following the rules, as my friends did, this game makes no sense at all. Don’t go in the kitchen unless … only hit the ball if it bounces unless …. Ah heck. It’s a nice day. Let’s get an ice cream cone and chat!

In February the unthinkable happened. Russia invaded Ukraine. Why Putin is still in power doesn’t make any sense. Why so many Republicans (or should I call them Trumplicans?) are opposed to stopping him doesn’t make any sense either. It’s certainly not the Republican party of my father and grandparents, that’s for sure.

April and May I took a lot of walks around town. My excuse — to check out murals that were popping up on the sides of buildings and on utility boxes and watch the artists at work. Now that, made sense.

In June we drove down to visit family in San Diego and took a side trip Santa Catalina Island. On the island, electric golf carts have taken the place of cars. Now that makes sense. As do the many ceramic murals around the town.

July’s highlight has always been our small town parade. This year it was marred by a mass shooting at another small town parade. Of course, it wasn’t the only mass shooting this year. According to the NRA, the solution to gun violence is more guns. That’s like saying the cure for cancer is more cancer. Does that make sense to you?

In August, for only the second time in six years, Drimia Maritima re-emerged. This time with a child! Because it first blossomed after my mother’s death, seeing it gives me hope that death is not the ending. Doesn’t make any sense I know.

In October we published Duke Miller’s fourth book, Willem Dafoe Comes to Town. Miller writes brutally about things in this world that make no sense but he does so beautifully.

November I was glued to the television watching the election results when I sprung from the chair to check on the laundry. Too late I realized that my left leg had completely fallen asleep. Next thing I knew I was sprawled out across the floor. There went our holiday plans.

As to whether next year will make sense or not, I do not know. Let’s hope so!