balance
Morning notes: A History of Private Life, Galilee from Alexander the Great to Hadrian.
Then I did a bit more work on the Wikipedia article I'm revising, Genre fiction. Today I had arranged with Mom to go out and work on the estate accounting, so that's what I did (managed to break my eyeglasses first--a nice lightweight pair of Zeiss lenses; broke the nylon line holding in the plastic left lens, wound up wearing my previous pair, which I got in 1984). I felt a bit stressed, reading a letter from the obstreperous neighbor's lawyer to our lawyer, even though I do feel a certain sardonic amusement when lawyers express emotions on behalf of their clients. That is hilarious, if you think about it. Anyway--
Summer sun in Deep Cove: the tide was out, revealing the muddy, barnacle-and-rock-strewn bottom. There was a persistent sound in the quiet air, as of a Weed-Wacker. I spent the work time up in Mom's office upstairs, a large garret room painted pale mint-green, with its lovely view over the cove. The room is shady and quite cool.
Mom made me a lovely bacon-and-egg sandwich again, and gave me large oatmeal and peanut-butter cookies. Mm. Mom's not fond of cooking, but she does a good job (learned a lot about it from Dad, during their brief marriage all those decades ago--he's a wizard in the kitchen), and I think she likes doing this small service for her 46-year-old son. Mom's been thinking about aging lately.
"I'm old," she said (Mom's 67), "but I don't feel old."
No, and she doesn't look it or act it, either. Most people would never guess her age--not unless they read this blog. (Sorry, Mom.) Doctors and others are routinely astonished at how young and attractive she looks. She's not gray, of course--nor, she says, will she ever be...
"Yeah," I said, "some 90-somethings are energetic and vital, while some 60-somethings are tired and old."
I described seeing an old man yesterday, up at Lynn Valley Centre, coming out of Save-On Foods.
"He was probably in his 70s, maybe pushing on for 80. But he looked old: he moved painfully, at a shuffle, a bit stooped. You could see he didn't have much strength. He was thin. And his expression was tired, drawn. There was nothing there."
Mom shook her head sadly, as though she knew the man well.
"How long before they're folding him up into a box?" I said.
Mom got me to help her with some of her personal household financial stuff. Then back at it. And today, using Quicken, I got the accounts to balance. Yahoo! It's a milestone. Now it's a matter of cosmetic improvements, which we'll tackle on Friday.
Then I did a bit more work on the Wikipedia article I'm revising, Genre fiction. Today I had arranged with Mom to go out and work on the estate accounting, so that's what I did (managed to break my eyeglasses first--a nice lightweight pair of Zeiss lenses; broke the nylon line holding in the plastic left lens, wound up wearing my previous pair, which I got in 1984). I felt a bit stressed, reading a letter from the obstreperous neighbor's lawyer to our lawyer, even though I do feel a certain sardonic amusement when lawyers express emotions on behalf of their clients. That is hilarious, if you think about it. Anyway--
Summer sun in Deep Cove: the tide was out, revealing the muddy, barnacle-and-rock-strewn bottom. There was a persistent sound in the quiet air, as of a Weed-Wacker. I spent the work time up in Mom's office upstairs, a large garret room painted pale mint-green, with its lovely view over the cove. The room is shady and quite cool.
Mom made me a lovely bacon-and-egg sandwich again, and gave me large oatmeal and peanut-butter cookies. Mm. Mom's not fond of cooking, but she does a good job (learned a lot about it from Dad, during their brief marriage all those decades ago--he's a wizard in the kitchen), and I think she likes doing this small service for her 46-year-old son. Mom's been thinking about aging lately.
"I'm old," she said (Mom's 67), "but I don't feel old."
No, and she doesn't look it or act it, either. Most people would never guess her age--not unless they read this blog. (Sorry, Mom.) Doctors and others are routinely astonished at how young and attractive she looks. She's not gray, of course--nor, she says, will she ever be...
"Yeah," I said, "some 90-somethings are energetic and vital, while some 60-somethings are tired and old."
I described seeing an old man yesterday, up at Lynn Valley Centre, coming out of Save-On Foods.
"He was probably in his 70s, maybe pushing on for 80. But he looked old: he moved painfully, at a shuffle, a bit stooped. You could see he didn't have much strength. He was thin. And his expression was tired, drawn. There was nothing there."
Mom shook her head sadly, as though she knew the man well.
"How long before they're folding him up into a box?" I said.
Mom got me to help her with some of her personal household financial stuff. Then back at it. And today, using Quicken, I got the accounts to balance. Yahoo! It's a milestone. Now it's a matter of cosmetic improvements, which we'll tackle on Friday.
posted by paulv at
5:22 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home