Penultimate Trip

Winthrop, WA

4.4-4.6.26

Surrounded By Piles

51% Reminiscent 

49% Appraisal 

9:30 PM Easter

    It was a pretty good day. And so far, a good trip. Well, adequate trip. It started out pretty rough. 

   Rewind a month or two back. Someone (Let’s call him Brat) with a financial stake in, well, everything, decided that maintaining an empty condo didn’t make much sense. He asked that (Holly and Wendi) come over to clear out any personal items; especially those items listed specifically in Tina’s will: art, jewelry, personal mementos. 

   Brat’s plan was to do an estate sale, the proceeds of which would be split 4 ways to the recipients in Tina’s will. Finally, get it on the market by late spring. 

  Holly, with an entrepreneurial soul, quickly reasoned out that anything with took away would NOT have to be split 4 ways. 

  Thus commenced “Operation You Sure That’s Nailed Down?” 

  However, with less that 24 hours to go, I messaged Brat asking whether anything taken would come out of their inheritance.     

   He got right back to me with basically a “Well, duh…”He further informed us that we would need someone there at the Condo the whole time. WTF? 

   We needed a moment for a bit of outrage. 

   We all piled on asking for more detailed clarification and he told us that the above three categories were fine. So, we can’t take the couch of refrigerator? Well, that blows our entire Operation!

  Brat further explained that we would have a minder inventory person and it was lawyer “Natasha’s” idea. 

  Whatever, you’re all dicks. 

  In addition to Brat hiring Jay (the Minder), he also told us that he was too busy to open Tina’s two storage lockers. He didn’t know exactly what was in them: he thought one held furniture and the other Xmas decorations. 

   Well, Wendi was there back in 2018; getting a scatter-brained Tina moved from the large Ranch house to a two-room condo. Tina had dithered on packing  for months so everything that was weak was a rush. 

   And she always considered the Condo temporary until she could get her new house built so she needed to save lots of items until that day. (Which never happened.) 

  So, anyway, we’ll need to come back with an another SUV when Brat can find the time. (And the keys; which he claims are lost.) it’ll probably be our August high school reunion. 

  So anyway, Wendi had a 3-tiered shopping list:

Gold Tier

-The two stone lions, which Tina bought on a trip to China

-A pearing  knife.

-Mom’s jewelry; shared with Holly. 

Silver Tier

Stuff that could be sold. Both H&W were upfront about the fate of all the pieces stacked in the center of the table. 

(What goes into the Pawn Plate?)

(Wendi goes nowhere without her jeweler’s loop!)

(Post Script: Holly just sold all the Tier-Silver items for $11,300) 

Then there was the 

Bronze Tier:

  These were items that The Girls didn’t particularly want but really didn’t want sold for $2 at the estate sale that Brat would slap together. 

   This was the largest group of the lot. This is why we had 15? 16? Paintings, a few statues, a zillion quilts, vases of various sizes and a zillion towels to go between all those delicate items. Good thing I rented the biggest possible SUV.

Home now. 

   It was a long trip but we got the rental back before 5:00 so late was a win. 

  On the Return Trip Debrief, we both agreed this process was very draining.

Part of it is just going to Winthrop: the long drive, the sleeping in a different bed, the repeatedly being reminded of The Tina Situation. 

    There was another reason. As we got closer to departure, I kept looking about; mentally trying to fit item after item into the two inches between the top of the boxes and the car’s roof. No dice. 

   I had a similar quandary looking through her collection of coats and sweaters. There were at least 20 in her closet. All stylish and in good condition. There should must have been someone in my life who would appreciate one. 

  Just didn’t want Tina’s favorite alpaca wool sweater to go to some stranger. Someone who didn’t know its story. Yes, the folks at the women’s shelter would really appreciate all the apparel. And only a monumental dick would be against that happening. But..

  But it was hard to let go of so many reminders. Of a healthy Tina. Harold. The Pond. Picnics by the river. Of three decades of Ranch Fun. That leads me to my other issue. 

   After we left Brat started the estate process. It will probably be this month. Anything not sold would be donated to local businesses or charities. 

   Everything must go. That lame-oh tea kettle. That stupid photo of a heard of sheep. All those jugs of “Mosquito Beater”; the most useless product I’ve ever encountered. 

  I have been seeing but mostly not looking at all these artifacts since I was a teenager; more than 40 years. They were just..there. Part of the Ranch Experience; even after the Ranch was sold. 

   And they are now all gone. I will never see any of those wonderful, stupid, handy or useless things again. Never. Another tie to a wonderful time&place gone. 

   The only relics saved for family posterity were the items were could stuff into Holly’s Bronco or our Jeep. 

  So, I went a little nuts.  

  We have spent much of today (Tuesday) inventorying the jewelry and trying to organize all the boxes so they are slightly out of the way. 

   The actual Going Through will be a long process. Weeks. Maybe months. Wendi has already picked out spots for a couple paintings. Not sure what we’ll do with the 73 towels, blankets, and quilts we used to protect the fragile stuff on the drive over. 

  I guess my main message here is that many of you all can expect a lot of wonderful, practical, but possibly stupid gifts in the near future. 

  And then we will all go over again to clear out the storage units this summer. But we also have our reunion to occupy our minds so it might be an easier task. 

  All through this process-this Tina Experience, Holly, Wendi, and I have had only one constant:  our loathing for certain people who made it all so much worse. Spoilers: Brat is mighty high on that list. 

  As one parting well-deserved F-U, we left Dollies’ ashes in the condo garage and will be leaving Aunt Ginnie’s in the storage unit. They weren’t claimed by The Daughters so both containers are officially part of the estate and thus, Brat’s problem.  

(Pause for Applause)

   So, that’s the story of my Spring Break. At least the first half. Lord Willing, the second half shall be too boring to write about. 

Brian

(All the duties of an heir without any of benefits!) 

Lamentable Lessons Learned Over the Past Two Weeks

1. Hernia Surgery? Not a huge deal. The most painful part? The pre-op shave. Still got the scars. Same with the little medical hieroglyphic the surgeon drew on my right side; which no doubt signaled “Cut Here”. The little smiley face, which I drew on as soon as the doctor left, is also there. 

2. Afterwards, the nurse came out and said a bunch of words. (Which I hoped my wife was paying attention to as I was still pretty out of it.) Then Wendi took me home. The next several days were spent in bed, being catered to, while watching stuff on the iPad. Much icing down of the groinal (?) area and Wendi even bought me some ice cream as a treat. Granted, Rocky Road isn’t great; just chocolate ice cream trying to be quirky. Despite this, I was feeling very optimistic about my recovery and even dared the stairs after a couple of days. 

3. OxyCodone. In my specific case, not worth the trade off. The surgery wound pain relief gained was negated by the constipation, which caused pain in the straining. It was a week long game of Rock, Paper, Scissors: Oxy beats pain but causes constipation (and often nausea). Constipation causes pain. Milk of Magnesia hurries things along but often at inconvenient times and often with more pain. I mostly stuck with large dosages of Ibuprofen and Tylenol; at least till the pain got really bad.

4. The pain gets really bad. And the vomiting. This was Sunday evening. Wendi ascribed it to not correctly timing the Oxy, food, and anti-nausea meds. 

5. This was also when my lower right back started to flare up. There had been occasional minor flare ups before the surgery but my back’s always been hinky so it didn’t register until Sunday night. Top. Bottom. And now the middle. All bodily sections very unhappy. After an exhausting time Talking to God, I crawled off to bed. 

6. 4.20. The Pain/Vomiting return. Like, laying in on the bathroom floor trying to decide which end to point at the Porcelain Telephone. This despite taking all the Rx meds. No physical position minimizes the stabbing pain in my lower back, which I was still ascribing to the surgery. Wendi calls the Consulting Nurse, who offers moral support but mostly suggests we go to Urgent Care. 

7. At this point, Wendi has taken charge. She’s doing most of the communication, packing for UC, driving, keeping me from collapsing. And keeping calm and collected. (She later admitted this was very difficult for her: seeing me in so much pain.) 

8. Urgent Care lasts for hours and hours. The initial blood test is..concerning. More tests followed: urinalysis, X-Ray, CT scan, ultrasound. After everything, the UC doctor comes back with a new diagnosis: a kidney stone. A 2mm whooper. Not much to do except try to pass it. Lots of water. Straining the stream, hoping to see the stone. And higher pain meds Rx. Once very medicated, Wendi takes me home. 

9. While at UC, the doctor cleared up a mystery for me. Wounds will slowly creep down the body from gravity. This is why the Meat and Potatoes was looking rough despite the 5mm distance from the hernia surgery wound. Before and after shoots below. *

10. The Percocet, MiraLAX, and Promethegan wear off. The pain returns. The worst pain in my life. That first, very thorough, prostate exam? Extremely intense but short duration. Saving money on dental work? Pfft! Child’s play. Kidney stones? They rocked in every category below. (You catch that?)

11. A new formula just occurred to me.**. Intensity divided By Reoccurrence (If divided by Unpredictable Reoccurrence, subtract .5 from this denominator) MULTIPLIED by Duration = Physical Agony. Not sure which professional journals I should submit this new equation to: JAMA, Annals of Mathematics, or ClinicalPsychology. I am sure formula is going to need a professional yet catchy name. 

12. I’m thinking “Oh, Fucking Hell!”

13. Wendi drags me to the Emergency Room. Where I spend the next 4 hours groaning in pain. Wendi keeps it together because I am in every sense, completely wrecked. The ER team slowly adds more medicines while awaiting test results. Morphine. Lidocaine. Torando. By 4:00 AM, then send us home. 

14. At this point, I should fess up about my kidney stone ignorance. Hearing about the experience as described by friends, two main points stick out. First, very painful. Second, “they” have machines that will atomize the stone with minimal fuss. KS = Hurts&Zap. I was very familiar with Point A and had..sort of expected the second part to come into the picture at the hospital. When the ER nurse came out to prep me for shipment home, I asked about Plan B and she only thing like that at St. Michael’s was sending a little camera/laser device upstream to disintegrate the stone. Now that was what I wanted, Friggin’ Lasers!

15. Then came the record scratch moment. She told us the procedure was only used on stones 7mm or greater.  7 millimeters. My little Nugget of Pain was 2mm. My future regimen included being heavily drugged, drinking a crapton of water, very carefully pissing into a little sieve, and then checking for, hoping for, some little leftover stone. 

16. ….It’s 2026. Both Blade Runner and Back to the Future 2 take place before this year. This is The Future. And the number one cure for this common yet excruciating medical problem is for one hand to hold a tiny plastic colander and the other hand to aim at it? It just feels….a let down. 

17. Yet, strain the stream I did. Never been so completely focused on a health outcome. Sure, I’ve been tangentially involved with life or death outcomes with friends or family but only as a witness, offering assistance, or an opinion but Tuesday night, it was all up to me. It was (ha ha), all in my hands.

18. But Tuesday evening, The Ordeal ended. I very carefully put transferred the pinhead-sized nugget onto a Q-tip, took just the correct photo, and set it to my long suffering friends and family. 

19. At the UC Nurse’s recommendation, I brought it in to the KP lab the next day. And did another kidney function test. Everything is fine. Mine was the most common type of stone; taking an average of 1.5 years to create with a high likelihood of reoccurring some time in the future. So, I guess, everything is not fine. 

20. In the sense that for the rest of my days, any lower back twinge; especially on the side, will make me think “Another one?” My bad back is no longer just an annoyance but a cause for anxiety. 

21. A couple other takeaways. First, the caregiver also suffers. I know, 50 points to House Obvious. What’s maybe not so obvious is the caregiver has every right to demand patient take their recovery seriously. Whatever the doctors, nurses, and/or PAs recommend, the patient has the responsibility follow those instructions. So, even though not helping around the house is a big challenge for some (unnamed) people, you do it. 15 pound limit weight limit? Not a suggestion; even when she hates vacuuming and I hate walking on particles of kitty litter. 

22. Last night, I was informed that our Dyson vacuum cleaner was only 14.8lbs. It’s a win for everyone. 

This is all the wisdom gleaned from the past two weeks. 

*Seriously? Perve.

** Yes, this true. Stop judging me!

Christmases Passed

The Longest Ago

  Christmas in the 80s was a low key affair for us in the Valley Hardys.  A book or two. Some new clothes. Things were always so very….practical. 

  When I hit my teen years, the Blessed Morning became more of a math problem. I had a feminine friend and so needed to find acceptable gifts within my very modest means. 

  This yearly ritual really helped sink in the Universe’s Message to Me: 

         You, Brian Hardy, are 

Poor. 

As. 

Fuck.

  It’s not like I didn’t know. I’d picked up on the subtle clues: crappy cars always breaking down, the outhouse, the (non-composting) composting toilet, the summer we spent sharecropping. You know, subtle stuff like that. 

  So Christmas on the Loup was about filling needs and trying to avoid embarrassment. Not so much with the Comfort and Joy. And every year, one thought: I don’t want this in my future. 

So, 

Medicine Wheel Farm’s Dickensian Christmas. 

Longer Ago

  At the Big Valley Ranch. The fire in the huge fireplace is down to embers.  The mammoth tree looms in the corner; presiding over a circular mountain range of presents. Stockings, so huge, we once stuffed a young Xander into one, the specially made monogrammed stockings bulge. They bulge. 

  And in the dark, I just sit there on the couch looking at the brightly lit tree and listening to the Christmas music that Harold (somewhat illegally) recorded off the radio in the early 80s. 

  And I think, “What the hell? How am I here?

  This is insane.  

  And I never want it to end. Like, ever.”

  But, Tide and Time and all that. Harold got sick. Tina got more frail. The Ranch was sold and Tina moved to an un-enticing condo. No more 

Mega-Super-Happy Big Valley Yule..ing.

Long Ago.

  So, three, maybe four years ago, Wendi declared Enough. She was going to have her Own Damn Christmas in her Own Damn House. And she was right to do it. We were in our fifties. We had lived in our lovely home for two decades. With exception of my two lonely Christmases while serving on Kodiak, we had always had somebody else’s holiday. We finally declared our independence. 

  What we ended up with was enjoyable and relatively stress-free. 

  But an astute observer might have noticed a lot of similarities between the old and the new. A lot of the holiday decorations were Ranch-me-Downs. We generally followed Ranch protocol in terms of schedule and menu. And we listened to all that wonderful Christmas music that Harold thoughtfully (and slightly illegally) recorded onto cassettes in the early 80s.  

  So, Ranch Redux on a Low Budget. 

The Now

  Our son and his wife (and his wife’s work schedule) dictate our holiday schedule. We had presents and stockings early. It was a modest affair and over too quickly. Mrs. and I saved our presents for the 25th. The menu was wonderful and stress free.

  As is our tree, which we will probably box up in a week or so. It may not have any woodsy scent but setting up the lights involved plugging them in and using the remote. Nary a single “The Look” or even “A Pursing of the Lips” between husband and wife. Why, it hardly seemed like Christmas. 

  One tiny dollop concern was when Tanith got interested in how the fake pine needles tasted. Having just paid some pretty hefty vet bills, we decided to go with an armed perimeter defense. Our eternal tree rests easy behind a circle of plastic spiked treads on the carpet and behind that, four motion-detecting cans of compressed air.

…

  Sounds kind of lame when I write it all down. 

  But this is our Christmas now. Sort of. It’s not the 112% Pure Holiday at the Ranch Joy. And we aren’t the Cratchit Family, living on 15 bob a week. We’re..somewhere else. Trying to figure out which Old Customs are worth keeping and which new ones are worth adding. 

  I mentioned to Wendi that this year it seemed a tad less Christmas-y. She said I would always feel like that way after The Ranch Experience and that maybe we should just go somewhere for the holidays. A resort somewhere. Some probably warm place where people cook the food and bring it to you, at poolside. 

  A very interesting idea. But that will require lots of planning and some extra cash.  So, not now. But some day, we might just have ourselves a Brian&Wendi Xmas. 

  We will, but only after we learn to pass on what we’ve always done for no better reason than that’s what we grew up with. 

  Learn to take a pass on past crap. 

As is always the case, a work in progress. 

B.

The Return of an Old Fiend.

So, I got COVID. Yeah, that, uh, NOT on my Fall Bingo Card. Spent the day typing up all brand new (and awful) sub plans. I snuck back into the classroom and spent a Gawd Awful 90 minutes trying to get something organized. The fact that I couldn’t print anything was just the turd icing on a crap cake.

Finally, I texted Becky and RW to take them on their prior offers of help. They, of course, declared they were On It and ordered me home.

-How will the next two days go for the Hardy Howlers?
Don’t know.

-Why did I choose to take two days off? Why not longer?
Pulled that number right out of my ass.

-What if, I’m NOT Miracle Boy and I’m not fully cured by Wednesday?
Don’t know.

So, I’m here in Xander’s old room. And the door is closed. I’ve been playing Xbox, watching… everything on Netflix, Prime and YouTube. The fold-out sofa isn’t great (“No Wife” being my #1 gripe.) but I’ve slept on worse.

Right now, I got my feet up, wearing my casuals. I await a badly needed thermos of sleepy time tea. My Wife has promised to get right on once she took the garbage and recycle out. (Down that very dark driveway..)

She did have time to deliver my badly needed banjolele before going to do her chores.

And I’m well into my second hour of watching-ney! experiencing the Swedish-German Druidic Rock (literally-rocks!) Heilung.

Well, it gives you time to reflect.

This bit of writing was originally intended as a diatribe against my rather lame life.

But, after putting it down on paper (yes, I know) it seems, well, pretty awesome.

I win.

The Exquisite Gift of a Monumental Fuck Up

7/18/2023

Hello Son,

I’m still puzzling your reaction to our recent trip to Ellensburg. It was a Monumental Fuck Up but you didn’t (don’t?) see it that way. I think defining the term might help us reach a more mutual understanding.

Monumental Fuck Up has....let’s say three attributes.

*It comes about due to a conscious decision or series of conscious decisions by someone.

When I walk into a door or drop something on my foot (or, as often the case, both in quick succession), this is just me being my usual klutzy self. No part of my brain said, “Let’s walk that way”. No, a MFU requires a person, often both its initiator and victim, to make a decision which ends up having a bad consequence. The outcome can’t be blamed on a third party. What is the subject of most mea culpa admissions? “I”. As in, “I fucked up.”

*Sooner or later, the initiator realizes his/her mistake.

And it’s usually sooner. One helpful term related to this concept is “ohnosecond”, which is the exceedingly short time between a person hitting the “Enter” key and their realization of their mistake.

*A MFU is not a tragedy.

No, a person getting paralyzed by an auto accident or a bus load of nuns going off a cliff are just tragedies. They have consequences, causing life-long grief and suffering for those involved. What I’m referring to is almost always more low-key: more embarrassment or anguish.

So, with this framework, let’s look at one of my recent screwups to see if it has all the required attributes.

A couple weeks back, we all got new iPhones. I was the prime instigator for this decision as it had been many years since our last upgrade. To prep, I backed my phone onto the desktop. Verizon offered a data transfer service but I laughed at the idea of spending $50 for such an superfluous option. Let Lesser Mortals use such services. (LM like my wife and son.)

At this point, I was under a false impression as to what a “Data Transfer Service” would look like. In my mind’s eye, some underpaid and probably evil Verizon employee would take my phone; my personal digital assistant, (my little friend) to the back room, where he would hook it up to an dubious machine to transfer all its contents onto my new phone (both old phone and new phone looking very similar), all the which looking through the contents of many year’s worth of photos, emails, texts, notes, etc. and having a good chuckle.

Here’s what really happened. “Amber” set Xander and Wendi’s phones next to their new phones, entered a couple of passwords, and the transfer began. Took about 15 minutes.

This is one of those points where the audience starts yelling at the screen. While in the Verizon store, I literally could have set my old phone next to my new one and done the same thing. And not spent any money. But, no. I had the back up at home. I’ll do it all there.

Back in the home office. Again, rather than simply setting old phone and new phone (again, both looking very similar) side by side and letting our Wi-Fi do the work, I plugged new phone into my iMac and started the process; all the smug in my confidence that this was the best route. (Note: At least a small dollop of hubris is almost always included in these stories.)

All while this was going on, iCloud was practically begging me to back of up everything onto the Cloud. Begone, foul Apple product. Experts don’t require such minor league services.

When the sync was complete, I unhooked the new iPhone and started inventorying what had been transferred over. Hmmm. I’m noticing many missing things. At this point, I decided to quit fighting modernity and do the Wi-Fi transfer. However, in order to do so, I needed to reset my new phone to start with a clean slate. Answering an impatient “Yes” to the many iPhone dire warnings, I finally got to the Boss Level Reset and pressed away.

As you have probably figured out by now, I reset the wrong phone. And, as a result, I’ve spent the last couple of week, reconstructing my contacts and Notes. The texts? Gone. My of my Notes? Gone. My wavecable password? Gone.

None of these troubles are devastating. The contacts and their info were okay. I used my iPad’s info to redo the names. The wavecable email is a minor hassle. I could go to the Astound website to reset it but then I’d have to reset that password on three iPads, two iMacs, and Wendi’s phone. Right now, not worth it. The texts hurt but it’s not like was doing anything with them. The loss of several years of Bloon Tower Defense 6 progress? Yeah, pretty sure I’m okay moving on from that time sink.

All my writing on the iPhone Notes app? Yeah, that hurt. Most of it was drivel but in the past couple of years, it’s turned into my external memory. What horror movies did we watch in October of 2021? What were the names of Bob’s three kids? What did I get my wife for her 53rd birthday? Basically, stuff that you could ask your wife but didn’t really want to.

So, yeah. That totally sucked. But was it MFU-level? Let’s go back to the criteria to see if it fits the bill.

A) Was the Data Purge fiasco the result of my conscious decisions? Yes! I see three distinct turning points when I made a Bad Call. Nobody else influenced these choices. They were all mine. So, CHECK!

B) It took less than a minute for it to dawn on me that I’d messed up. Just the time it took me to look at my “new” phone to realize it was my “old” phone and that I had “boned” myself. CHECK

C) Frustrating? Yes. Tragic? Nope. CHECK

So, the iPhone Phiasco meets the MFU requirements. So, where does the gift part from the Title come in? Glad you asked. The gift part comes when your brain adds the final ingredient: stewing. For anywhere from a couple of hours to a several decades, your brain will remind you that you are capable of Bags of Hammers Level Stupidity. Your brain does this because it hates you. At the slightest provocation, it loves nothing more than replaying your own Epic Fail film loop.

Everyone has their own film loop and mine now contains a cautionary tale of technological overconfidence. In addition to many, many other highlights. (Or rather, lowlights.)

I’m not actually more intelligent than I was prior, but I know I’ll never make that particular mistake. Guess that’s a type of smarts.

To paraphrase from a recent play I watched, “You know how to be smart, don’t ya? You just think of the dumbest thing you can and then don’t do it.”

So, let’s do a quick recap of our recent trip east. Despite my urging, we didn’t get onto road till mid-morning. (Since Ruth slept most of the drive there, not really understanding her reluctance to leave earlier.) When we finally got to CWU, we (and by that, I mean you) didn’t know where to go. There was no plan; just sort of a “Let’s just wander about.” mentality. A campus map would have been helpful.

Since we reached Ellensburg in the early afternoon, it was hot as hell and since neither of you brought anything useful like, say, a hat, we were really feeling it; Ruth more so than us two. After less than an hour of ambling, Ruth started complaining of feeling unwell so we made a beeline to the car. There, I gave her a cold pack, a bottle of water and cranked up the a/c.

And headed home. At this point, I was a bit steamed at the complete waste of time we had just endured. I was further steamed by your insistence, despite your fiancé’s not feeling well, it had been a successful trip. That touring the Music Building (the first open building we came to) and seeing the student housing from a distance made it a successful trip. 11 hours. Full tank of gas. Several Quickie Mart stops. Hitting Friday afternoon Seattle rush hour traffic. Your fiancé feeling ill on the “tour”. And then almost soiling herself once we hit said rush hour traffic. Our having to wait over an hour at the ferry terminal. Again, 11 hours.

Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?

And then you proceeded to watch YouTube on the way home. All that wonderful self-recrimination time wasted. My suspicion is this is why you often turn in substandard work. You don’t allow yourself time to ruminate on recent events. A mind in a constant state of distraction is a mind unable to do any sort of personal error analysis.

Me? My mind seems to do nothing but.

So, was it a MFU? Well, several poor decisions turned what could have been a nice jaunt to Ellensburg into a slog. It wasn’t a tragedy; though had Ruth stayed in the baking sun much longer, it certainly could have. And, despite your words of protest, I think you know this was a poorly planned trip. (That is, not planned in any way.) And it could have been so much better with just a little bit of forethought.

I know you really wanted Ruth to be excited about moving to CWU; that this was why the three of us went instead of just us two but I’m pretty sure this first introduction didn’t have the desired outcome.

So, yes. It was a MFU. This is not the end of world but your goal should be to avoid such cock-ups in the future. How you might do this? You must think, ponder, and most of all stew about this trip. Run that mental video reel back and forth looking for errors. Back and forth. What should I have done? Back and forth. How did Ruth feel at this point? Back and forth. What to bring to my Orientation in a couple of weeks?

I hope you’ve already thought about the trip with an eye towards not committing the same mistakes again. That is what we call wisdom. It’s not absence of mistakes but the ability to learn from them and the drive to avoid repeating them. That will lead to a life well lived. That will eventually lead to your personal highlights reel being much longer than your lowlights reel.

It’s Tuesday so we’ll talk tonight.

Love,

Dad.

Good Grief!

(Or, why my cat’s passing was 1.9 times worse than my Dad’s.)

Yesterday, the Wife and I took the remains of our cat Brooklyn to the Vet’s Office to be cremated. On Monday of last week, Wendi noticed one of her pupils was dilated and we took her to the vet that evening. After many more visits, we learned Brooklyn had both cancer and a blockage in her gut. It was just a matter of time. Many tears were shed as she, our son Xander, and I decided it was best to put her down* on Friday. Wendi got to wait with Brooklyn in her car for a good long while, waiting for the appointment, petting her cat, who still enjoyed the pampering.

(*God, I hate phrase. And every other similar euphemism.)

When I got home from work that evening, I made it just inside the door, dropping my work bag before Wendi rushed to me, both of us falling into each other’s arms and we stood there crying.

The next morning, she and I put our cat’s remains into a large box and went back to the vet to have her remains seen to. As was and is so often the case, one of us (W) was the functioning adult, talking care of business while the other (B) could only just barely keep it together. We’ve been tag-teaming like that since we learned the Bad News.

We said our final goodbyes and left. Out in the parking lot, a minivan parked next to our car had its passenger door open so I had to walk around the car to get to the driver’s side. Speaking a fully formed sentence was beyond my capacity at that point.

As I walked around the back of our car, the (Hispanic?) gentleman, the owner of the minivan, said to me, “I’m so sorry.” Then he patted my shoulder, and again said, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Not really thinking clearly right then, I mumbled a thank you and was honestly thinking he was apologizing for the Door Incident. “Geez, not a big deal, dude.”

It wasn’t until I was in the car, buckled up, that it dawned on me. “Oh, THAT was one human showing empathy for another, a stranger even.”

This maybe 10 second interaction stayed with me all day. I mention the man’s ethnicity because we in the Waspy Brotherhood have been taught that human contact is something to be…at least cautious about. I strongly suspect that other cultures don’t have such hang ups. And they are better for it. Better human beings for it.

Since getting home yesterday, the two of us have continued to keep Klenix at hand. Much blowing of the nose; many dabbings of the eyes. Feeding Tanith her late night treat just gutted me when I remembered that I used to hide kibbles in both cubbies for them both to find. Both cubbies; both cats.

Since an occupied mind is less likely to dwell on painful things, I started wondering why THIS particular death in the family was and continues to be so gut wrenching for me and the Mrs.

Roughly two years back, my Dad died after a long bout of leukemia. He got a lot of living in from diagnosis to death; much time spent with his boys and his grandkids. When the end neared and he needed round the clock care, Dad’s one wish was to die at home. For his last month or so, the four of us took three day shifts; giving Dad’s SO Annie, a much needed respite. During my shifts, I got a really close look at how a body slowly shuts down. I wasn’t there when he passed. Eldest Brother Jeff and Annie were. I’d been expecting “The Call” for weeks and upon getting it, I went and had a good cry with Wendi. And then had a good cry with Xander.

But….that was it. I was sad. Dazed. I loved my Dad and was sorry to see him go but…

We moved on.

There was stuff to do: people to inform, an obituary to write, personal effects to distribute, a wake to organize and, (because my Dad clearly hated me), executor duties to start. (Just kidding.) The mechanics of dealing with a death just propelled me forward.

And now, this little Felis catus, picked up from the Humane Society just seven years ago, who always seemed to prefer Xander or Wendi, ups and gets herself cancer; going from (seemingly) perfect health to death in under two weeks. WHY is this grief so much harder? I’d prefer to avoid the “Brian’s a sociopath.” explanation. As mentioned above, really loved the old man. He was a great Dad and it would have been great had he made it another decade or so. So, what’s the deal?

So I have put my little gray cells to work. My hypothesis is that grief, like humor, can be analyzed but is destroyed it in the process. I’ll take as logical view of my emotions as humanly possible. ‘Cause thinking about my sorrow is NOT the same as actually feeling it.

Least, that’s my hope ‘cause my eyes are just feeling worn out.

So, without ado(?), adieu(?) With an end of the prevaricating, I present:

The Brooklyn/Hardy Grief Criteria Survey Indicator Scale.

(Patent/Trademark/Copyright pending)

On this test thingee, I will rate my sorrow based upon five differently scientifically chosen criteria (listed below).

The scale will go from 1 (Yeah, I guess it’s a bummer.) to 5 (Snot bubbles. Repeated and Unwiped Snot Bubbles.) The scores will not be compared against each other but each is an independent rating.

One last author’s note for the painfully nuance-impaired out there. I not (NOT!) comparing my Dad to a cat.

What I am comparing are MY reactions to each of their passings and what things might have exacerbated or mitigated those reactions. Okay? Not a cat. We all clear here? Okay, let us proceed.

1) Importance in My Life.

Dad: 4 Brooklyn: 1

For our first criterion, I am looking how subjects A and B influenced me; made me the person I am today. Dad wasn’t around for a large chunk of my life (not by his choice) and we didn’t hang out tons as adult but he was still, you know, my Dad. So a 4 out of 5 score. Brooklyn? Well, she was a cat. Beside peeing all over my favorite chair and thus, making me a bit more grumpy, she had very little impact on me as a person.

2) Lifespan.

Dad: 2 Brooklyn: 4

Dad died in his mid-70s. Brooklyn died in her mid-7s. So, Dad didn’t have a great run but he got to see his grandkids grow up. Not bad. Brooklyn wasn’t struck down as kitten but she wasn’t even at the average halfway point for a well cared for indoor cat.

3) Adjustment time.

Dad: 1 Brooklyn: 5

By adjustment time, I mean how long did I have to come to grips with the impending death. With Dad, we had two years to laugh and cry. The Hardy Family saw more of each other in those two years than in the previous decade (at least). We all knew each holiday could very well be our last and so, despite Covid, we boys did our best to spend them with Dad and Annie.

Two weeks back, Brooklyn was fine. At least, she was to our minds. And now she’s gone. It’s not like we would have taken her on a trip to see the family or anything had we had two months instead of two weeks but it just felt very abrupt.

4) Passing

Dad: 2 Brooklyn: 4

Dad was ready to go. He was miserable; the disease had robbed him of so much and it was hard to witness. But, he mostly faced it with a sense of humor and care for those caring for him. Dad had spent the previous year simplifying his life; both for his sake and that of his heirs. His affairs were in order.

Dad died at home, with his love Annie and son Jeff, by his side on a beautiful summer day. It was a Good Death for both him and the loved one left behind.

Brooklyn. Not so much. Obviously, she had no affairs to put in order. No, what made her actual passing away so difficult is that WE had to make that choice. By Friday morning, she wasn’t eating nor pooping but she still getting around: still showed interest in having her ears scratched and the YouTube bird channels.

But we knew.

We knew that each day would bring more pain. And delaying a day or two simply to avoid saying goodbye was selfishness. So, having to make that choice, even if it was the right one, was very difficult. Our own hellish version of the Trolley Problem.

5) Reminders

Dad: 1 Brooklyn: 5

This may seem….dismissive but there isn’t really anything in our home that screams “Dad!”. We have family photos on the wall but they’ve been here for decades. Same with the deck out back he and I built years ago. We didn’t decorate this house with his comfort and safety in mind. It would be kind of weird if we had.

Not so with our cats. Wendi’s been a stay at home mom for roughly the same amount of time we’ve had Brooklyn and Tanith. She’s had plenty of time to fashion this house to a cat’s taste. Everywhere you look, you see cat towers, scratching posts, more towers, litter boxes, etc. You walk past our front door and you immediately see that this is a Home for Well-Love Felines. And, secondarily, they’re human companions. Where ever Wendi and I turn, there is something Brooklyn loved to sleep in, climb, scratch, and/or pee on. (Often, all in one piece of furniture.) And each item we see pulls that bandaid off again.

So, based on those 5 Standards, we have a final score of:

Dad: 10 Brooklyn: 19

Scientific proof that, under the right (or rather: wrong) circumstances, losing a four-legged family member can be more traumatic than losing a two legged one. One point nine times worst in fact.

Okay, this has been productive but I have a cat and a wife; one of which could probably use a belly rub and other a hug and kiss. I’ll leave it to you to figure out which is which.

Sighing off.

Dr. Hardy P.hD

Life and Death

 If you all will indulge me…

   This past week, I was given a stark lesson in how to check out. 

   First, my friend Tim and I went over to Twisp last weekend to work on cleaning out his recently deceased mom’s house. A house which had been unoccupied for the past couple of years. In middle school/high school, I remember going over to Tim’s and thinking that it was a very crowded house. This trend of holding onto everything continued right up till Charlene went into a home. In two days, Tim and I cleared out the Living Room. That’s it. 

   Were it my house, I would sell it in a heartbeat but Tim, whose family has been in Valley for over a century now, just can’t give up his last tie to the Valley. So, he has many more weekends in Twisp ahead of him. Once it’s cleaned out, the house will still require a lot of contractor work: siding, electrical, carpentry, etcetera so I’d be surprised if the house is livable before 2024. Charlene bequeathed a year or two of draining work for her children. (Tim’s younger sister Stacey lives in MO so he’s currently doing all the figurative and literal heavy lifting.)

    Also, this past week, Holly took Tina on a tour of a couple of memory care facilities in the Edmonds area. Holly lives in Marysville so Edmonds would be midpoint between Holly and us. For the past couple of years, Wendi and Holly have been trying to convince Tina that it wasn’t safe for her to live on her own. The fact that Tina agreed to at least look was great progress and she seemed to like the Fieldstone Facility a lot. (While Edmonds Landing was also nice, it’s not set up for what Tina needs.) 

   Though we haven’t had a chance for an in-depth chat with Holly, it seems Tina’s in the “Yes, but…” stage. Yes, she loved Fieldstone but she really wants to spend summers in the Valley. Perhaps we could work out a 6 months Edmonds/6 months Winthrop schedule? Starting in September 2023? 

In other words, not right now. It’s never been “right now”: always sometime in the future.

And so H&T will need to spend more time negotiating and cajoling with their mother. Trying to get her to say “It’s time” then another round of negotiating and cajoling to actually get her moved. Tina’s stubbornness is causing her daughters no end of stress and heartburn. 

   I suspect both of the above mothers just refuse to give up control: whether in terms of a single house or a whole family. Whatever the reason, their children are bearing the brunt of these selfish decisions. 

    As our final exhibit: Larry Hardy. This same past week when I dealt with both Tina’s and Charlene’s poor choices, I finally received the county notarized documents saying Dad’s estate is officially done. My duties as Executor are complete. 

   Was the past year and a half fun? No, but compared to what Tim and the Heath Ladies have gone through and will continue to go through, I got off very easy. It just took some time and record keeping. 

   At no time was I required to argue with anyone nor sneak behind their back, and I certainly never had to wade through neatly organized stack after stack of utility bills from the 90s. 

   Didn’t know it at the time but Dad did a “dostadning”: Swedish Death Cleaning and for that I am very grateful. Did he leave us multiple houses or a large life insurance pay out? Nope but neither did he leave his heirs a lot of anger and sadness. Just a lot of good memories. 

And this, I suspect, was his main goal. 

   Mission accomplished, Lawrence Edward. You managed a good death. 

   If only all children were so lucky. 

Signing Off For The Final Time.

Executor Brian 

Ingratitude Giving 2022

  Yeah, this one blew. 

  In our continuing series of “Lasts”, we organized our “Last Thanksgiving With Tutu”. 

  Brother Gregg, making a strong case for sainthood, drove Tina over Wednesday, staying at Holly’s house in Marysville. 

  This was the first time we’d seen Tina since the Big MLK Weekend Blow Up. And what we’d heard in the following 10 months hadn’t made us any more sanguine about the prospect of hanging out with her. During our Xmas/MLK visits, Tina exhibited petulant behavior: continuing to argue that she was perfectly able to live on her own and wasn’t a danger to herself or others. (Spoilers: Tina was back then and is more so now.) 

  So, Wendi and I planned out what to do if things got especially unpleasant. It never came to that. Wendi stayed very busy in the kitchen, most of us watched the football game and I took my mother in law on a tour of the estate.  That’s when it started being apparent. Just about all the trees I pointed out came from the Ranch. This was especially true of our two spitzenburg apple trees. Literally every time these two trees came up in the past….forever, Tina would mention that this variety was Thomas Jefferson’s favorite type of apple. 

  And when I pointed them out to Tina? Nothing.  A little later, as she and I looked the family photos, she asked me who it was next to Wendi at high school graduation. Granted, THAT young man next to her daughter was a bit thinner and and whole lot less gray but…..

  The other event of note was that Xander announced that he and Ruth were engaged. Janet, Wendi, and I were already in the know so we did our crying on the inside. 

  Holly, fulfilling her role as Aunt Who Just Comes Right Out and Says It, “So when’s THIS going to happen?” Bless her heart. 

  Xander, showing his usual forethought, replied, “Oh, in a year or two.” 

  And the Angels wept……

  I guess I should be thankful for numerous things. Gregg for bringing Tina over. Holly for providing lodging. Janet for entertaining Ruth. And, of course, Wendi for planning, cooking, and presenting such a fabulous feast. 

  Coda.

   Almost 24 hours after saying goodbye to our guests, I could be found holding onto the upstairs toilet. Holding on but alternating between which end was pointing at the bowl. (Sadly, DoorDash does not delivery bidets.)

  This experience reminded me of the infamous “Christmas of the Bucket” but this time,  I was the only family member laid low by whatever it was. (According to Mr. Nasal Swab, it’s not COVID, so that’s nice.) 

  Well past midnight, I had run out of projectile materials and so fell asleep. Dr. Wendi has ordered me to take at least one day of recovery and so I type this from upstairs: having enjoyed 1/2 a sandwich and a small cup of soup. 

  On the bright side: I’m down 4 pounds since yesterday! Small blessings. 

    So, that’s where I’m at: emotionally, physically, and…locationally(?). I’m about halfway through my latest Netflix bing (Alice in Borderland) and I’ve got some ukulele practice to get in. 

  ONE of these holidays, somebody’s gonna insist I play my rocking version of Twinkle, Twinkle…..

The Ranch Closes Shop

3/2019

(Please excuse the lack of any serious revision or editing. My Wife has just returned from a week of packing and I’d life to spend some time with her. The intermittent eye moistness isn’t helping things either.)

:’(

-Tomorrow (3/15), the Big Valley Ranch closes up shop. Harold and Tina bought the place, roughly 2000 acres back in the mid-60s. Back then, before the opening of the North Cascades Highway, land was mighty cheap.

-It remained a vacation place till the early 80s when they decided to move back there full time with their two daughters: Wendi and Holly. The move was tough for Wendi but it was the best thing that ever happened to an impoverished yet plucky young man about Wendi’s age, who lived in the town next over. The best thing. So many of my life’s high points happened here.

-I got to go to prom. Harold even loaned me an old suit. I was sick as a dog but Wendi explained that we WOULD be going. And so we did.

-Much (much) later, Wendi and I got married at the Ranch. The gazebo under which we said our vows now sits in our backyard.

-Things took their natural course and Xander came along. The Ranch seemed Designed by God to be every boy’s dream: cows, horses, 4-wheeler, swimming in the river, streams, fishing and kayaking in the 3 ponds, a big house and best of all, doting grandparents. He and his slightly older cousin Hunter practically grew up there.

-My son gained a lot of life lessons there:

His 1st birthday party was there.

“Helping” out G’Pa Harold with Ranch duties.

He broke his first bone: the right wrist, falling out of an apple tree when he was about 5 years old.

This last summer, at 15, he broke the same wrist; this time riding the quad.

Again, last summer, he also got his first driving lesson using the Ranch truck. It was a good long while before lesson #2.

-About a decade ago, the Heaths decided to build an old person’s home across the road. Unlike the old Ranch House, their new home had no stairs and a wonderful guest wing. Which we used. A lot. The whole family did. Harold and Tina were insanely welcoming to friends and family. Many summers, the Ranch hosted family reunions.

-I’ll admit that I pestered my friends to make the 5 hour drive. It was hard to describe the Ranch without actually seeing it. Those that acquiesced admitted that it was a special place. Naturally, when their children came along, that was all the more reason to visit.

-A few years back, we said goodbye to Harold. After that, even the much diminished Ranch (down to 200ish acres by then) seemed too much for Tina to manage. The logical (if painful) decision was made to sell it. And after a long time on the market, it finally sold last December. The generous buyers, the S Family, allowed Tina to stay till the 15th of March.

-It’s not easy to move but Tina had lots of help. Wendi made 5 trips in the last two months; even finagling TWO different Silverdale Js to come with but there were many Vs and relatives who pitched in. Ranch hand (and so much more) A deserves some sort of medal for all his assistance. Tina is much loved and will be supported in her new life. She currently has a condo in…uh… downtown Winthrop and will eventually decide whether to build a house on her one acre plot on the other side of downtown Winthrop. We’ll see.

-In the meantime, I am thankful for the wonderful memories the Big Valley Ranch provided to me, my family, and friends. And further, I wish all the best for the S Family as their Valley Life starts. They have wonderful things ahead of them.

And thank you to all who shared this wonderful piece of the Methow Valley with us.

Take Care.

March 2019

Saturday-Late Afternoon 

 Well, it’s still better than my first 24 hours of Boot Camp or working on the fishing processor. 

(Author’s Note: See earlier email) 

   Wendi is midpoint through her 4th trip to the Ranch since NY’sEve. Xander and I are on our 2nd. Slackers. 

   But we wanted to be there at The End so we made the trip yesterday. The trip did not have an auspicious start.

   Friday morning, I woke up late with a nasty cough. And a son lying in bed on his phone. Not packed. Chores undone. 

   So, Dad Weekend Explosion #1. 

   The trip was dull. We missed the Kingston Ferry by one car. (mutter, mutter) There wasn’t any hurry; it’s just the principle of the thing. Had SOMEBODY taken care of the dishes with a bit more alacrity, we would’ve make the 9:40. Just saying.

   When we got to Winthrop, we swung by Winthrop River Run Lodge, where a month or so ago, Wendi rented a room for $300 so we’d have somewhere to stay. ‘Cause the Ranch would be empty. ‘Cause Tina’s moving. (Have I mentioned that before?) 

   But, since even a partially denuded Ranch House is better than some motel, we’re here at the Ranch. Actually writing this in the T.V. Room:

   (You’ll need to use your imagination a bit here.) 

   And since we paid for the room so long ago, and the refund window closed at the beginning of the month, Room 18 is legally mine till tomorrow at 10:00. So we stopped by, got the keys and christened my temporary home by dropping Massive Anchor. Used lots of toilet paper so as to get my money’s worth. Very nice. 2-ply and everything. I’ll be sure to include this in my Expedia review.

   After this little 7 minute interlude (possibly the most expensive bowel movement of my life; at least I pray to God this is so.). It was time to stop dithering. 

   When X and I walked through the front  door, the tension was....very tense. The past couple of days had been very hard on the Heath Women. Here’s the rundown.

1) Tina is not emotionally ready to leave this place. For the past 35 years, she has been the Grande Dame of the Big Valley Ranch. This has been her identity. Part of such an identity included being in control. Control of pretty much everything around her (‘ceptin’ maybe her daughters). 

2) The memory loss is getting worse. Ditto some behavioral changes. For the past, well, forever, we kept thinking (hoping really) that it was the stress of “A”, then “B”, and what about “C” and now most likely “D” and so are on. But she keeps telling us the same things over and over along with constantly checking on what Wendi was working on. Wendi was working on what they had agreed to earlier that morning.

3) Parts A and B meant Tina was constantly checking on Wendi’s progress and more often than not, criticizing her work. It also meant Tina wanted to explain the history of 

Every

Single 

Item

going into a box. 

  News flash! The movers arrive this Thursday.  Correction! They already showed up last Thursday in order to move the rosewood table in storage up at the shop.(You know, the one she promised to Gregg a couple months back.) However, the A-Team got their moving truck on the road up to said shop and then spent the rest of the day (along with Albertano’s help) getting unstuck. Then they went home to Wenatchee.

So yeah, that went really really well.

   At this point, Tina seriously considered  cancelling next Wednesday’s moving crew. Granted, Moronic Movers LLC. didn’t really inspire a whole lot of confidence but she had no backup plan so...you know.. WTF?

   Wendi talked her off that ledge but the following day (Friday)  also stunk. While X and I were taking our sweet-ass time driving over mountains, Wendi met her breaking point. Tina accused her one dutiful daughter of being sneaky and trying to steal things. What things? What items could bring on such a serious allegation? Not her jewelry nor her art. Nope, she accused Wendi of trying to steal her trash. 

Her trash.

   Because when you have items which are no longer useful, wanted by no one, and will only be a burden to those you inflict it upon; you have trash. 

Here’s an example.

Above are the partial desiccated remains of 2 or 3 games from maybe the Carter Administration. The little note in the upper right corner? “Albertano, want any of this?”

   No, he wouldn’t, Tina. Nobody wants this; therefore it is trash.

   And yet, she spent a ridiculous amount of time gathering multiple nuggets of rubbish (“nuggish”? “Ruggets”?) into one larger pile of dreck on the off chance that Albertano has an extremely well hidden hoarding addiction.

   He doesn’t.

   And Wendi’s reasonable reaction to this fact is to just throw it out. Throw it all out. Tina won’t hear of it. A veritable stab in the back. King Lear had more devoted daughters. Lizzie Borden was more dutiful.

   So Wendi got kinda sick of this. Especially with all Tina’s friends stopping by, doing a modicum of work, commenting on How Very Much remained to do only to met with Tina’s strong assurance that “The moving company will take care of it all on Wednesday.” 

   Uh...This is the same crew: just two guys, who managed to spend all day last Thursday being stuck in the mud? THAT elite Band of (Boned-Headed) Brothers? 

   So that was really tense. Wendi was ready to just leave. 

   And then the Hardy Boys showed up! All sparkles and sunshine. Through hard work and a pathologically positive in the face of all reality , I was able to prepare dinner from the various left overs still in the house.

   They were able to eat it the same way.

   Last night, we all turned in early. I spent my evening listening to both Heath Lady’s troubles though most of my time was spent with the wife. Where she listed her many, many grievances. Many but not all directed at her mom. Plenty of grievance to go around. Here, have a bag’s worth of your very own.

And all this on her birthday, no less. 

   And with another cold sore coming back. 

   Were her imaginary Ford F-150 to crash, she’ll have all the makings of a C&W song.  

Well, this Jeremiad has turned into quite the monster. Don’t want to write anymore. Just want watch the make-believe TV and sleep. The latter mostly Can barely keep my eyes open. I’ll just leave you with the mildly uplifting fact that Tina apologized to Wendi this morning. And Albertano, Xander, and I took some stuff to storage today. Yea! Progress made. 

We also saw Tutu’s new Condo  but that riveting story will wait for another day.

Tune in Next Time! 

Goodnight!!

Part 3

Xander and I have gotten home. Despite suggestions from both yours truly and Tina, Wendi is there at least a couple more days. Tina’s gonna get moved before the Sackville-Baggins take possession on Saturday no matter what. Sure, Albertano could pack, ship and unpack every single item by Wednesday; that would have suited Tina just fine but Wendi will do a better job than the guy who already has 2.5 full-time jobs.. Besides, somebody needs to be around to tell Tina when she’s being a moron. The only other possible candidate is cheesed off at her mother for giving away “her” Ranch truck. She’s sitting this move out.

Here are a couple/three anecdotes that pretty much sum up the weekend. The first details the brilliant idea that didn’t happen.

1) You know how we rented a motel room and then decided not use it? Well, I had this glorious plan to find the Lamest Object(s) Possible to leave in the hotel room. This object, along with the room’s immaculate condition, might spark a new Valley Legend. An empty can chicken broth. A 2’ stack of post-its. An spotless ash tray. A single cowboy boot. A bag of paper clips. There were scores of possibilities in the “Up For Grabs” pile. 

Well, ran out of time this morning. I’ll just have to take comfort in the strange look I got when dropping off the room keys.

B) Saturday morning, family friend Susan came over to pick up the recycling and to check in with Tina. Sitting in the Living Room, enjoying their coffee.

Susan: You know, Tina, you’ll need to get a garbage can.

Tina: Oh, hadn’t thought about that.

Wendi: (Internal cackling)

C) Saturday late afternoon. Everyone decides to move some clothes to the new house. There is some heated discussion over how much to take to the condo and what all to put into storage. (Which is literally just across the road from the condo.) Tina wins the argument that she’ll need both her Winter and Spring Wardrobes at hand. (Author’s Note: When the Top 10% refers to “(season)+Wardrobe”, us Common Folk should just translate that as “clothes”.)

D) Wendi is very much in the “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll care of it.” stage of moving. This led to me dragging Harold’s very old, very heavy sound system out to Wendi’s Honda Fit. At this point, I was very much behind schedule and very much hating Harold’s stereo system so I wasn’t being too careful. We were just going to  chuck it all once out of sight. So, the tuner, and CD player were tossed into the back of the car. The speakers were a different matter. 20? 30? pounds each and I loathed every ounce. To show my distaste, I picked up the first speaker by the power cord and started moving it haphazardly to the back of Wendi’s car. 

Which would have been fine if it had been a permanent power cord. It wasn’t. And in 1/4 second, I focused my superhuman abilities on not having the %#€¥ing thing crush my foot. Mission accomplished! 

Sadly or Delightfully (your call), during the same microsecond, my right hand suddenly found itself. It holding up heavy-ass piece of 70s Era sound equipment. They’re called Newtons Laws; not suggestions. 

Long story less long: I punched myself in the face.

Ah, good times.

E) This facial assault based levity was just what we needed. Earlier, we actually went up to the condo to drop off the above mentioned wardrobes. (AKA: duds) The condo was...nice. But, it sure wasn’t The Ranch. (Yes, yes, I know. What is?) It was just an ordinary duplex. For an ordinary grandma. 

I could see X- an having a hard time not breaking down. Tutu really didn’t need that so I just took him home post-haste. 

Home.

Parked in the dark; we wiped away tears. I told him he could grieve all he wanted. But not in front of Tutu. Better a broken toe or self-inflicted upper cut than adding to his grandmother’s distress. He knew.

F) And our last family interaction before heading back to Silverdale. Well, Xander had one final small box to shove into the back of the extremely full CR-V. 

(Not in any way) Shockingly, Tina followed him out and actually started looking into the CR-V! The automotive equivalent to all the “farms in the country” where all the bitey dogs go to. Wendi appeared as if by teleportation (always her superpower of choice) in between the mom and the car. Somehow, she gave the appearance of 5-foot tall daughter, blocking Tina’s view and said in a loud, commanding voice (AKA: her voice) that she would finish the arduous task of shoving that box in the  final 3 inches. Nothing to see here. Move along.

Sadly, what was blocking Wendi’s attempts at subterfuge was all the BValley firewood I’d jammed into every little nook and cranny.

“Really?! Firewood??” 

 Not the best time for a reasonable explanation so I fell back on the old tried and true: stupid grim followed by a guilty shrug. Works every time.

There you have it; a 5 second drama with cluelessness, deception, snooping,  greed, all culminationing in everyone present annoying the hell out of Mrs. Hardy. 

Discretion, valor all that.. No time for mopey goodbyes. We got the hell out of there. At the end of the driveway, I parked, took my last photo of the Big Valley Ranch. After that, I got back into the car, and drove back to the nice-okay world. 

BTH