Screwtape and Lent

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Our pastor decided that it might be fun to read The Screwtape Letters by C. S. Lewis for a Lenten exercise this year. Having read that in high school along with “Out of the Silent Planet” and “Paralandra”, I thought it might be a kick.

C. S. Lewis in the guise of Screwtape, a master devil mentoring his nephew and apprentice devil, Wormwood, writes near the end of chapter 13, paragraph 4: … The man who truly and disinterestedly enjoys any one thing in the world, for its own sake, and without caring two-pence what other people say about it, is by that very fact forearmed against some of our subtlest modes of attack. You should always try to make the patient (human subject) abandon the people or food or books he really likes in favor of the ‘best’ people, the ‘right’ food, the ‘important’ books….

That particular passage struck me right my prefrontal cortex. It was a bright sunny warm(ish) day in March. There are not many of those in Ohio. The Screwtape discussion group was scheduled for 1PM. I put my Trek in the back of the car and went to my favorite spot and rode 6 miles. There is something very special about early spring/late winter rides. They are infrequent and special. The book discussion was not in the category of “disinterestedly enjoyable”. I thought it would be a kick. It was not.

On the weekend prior to this book discussion meeting, we had met with friends for lunch and after lunch it was our plan to visit a small independent book store nearby. Debbie likes book stores. So do I actually but generally I am satisfied to patiently wait for the latest and greatest ‘important’ books from the library. Sometimes my wait is long enough that I do not remember why or who put me onto the title that magically appears in my holds queue at the nearby branch of the library. In this little book store I noticed a little book by Sarah Knight entitled “the life changing magic of not giving a f*ck”. The title alone made me laugh and I picked it up, turned to a random page and read, 7. Calculus. This may be my earliest recorded instance of not giving a fuck. My high school guidance counselor insisted …. I needed this for getting into college…. I did not take the class. I did get into Harvard.” That paragraph made me laugh and I bought the book.

I took calculus in high school. I also took it in college since the one I went to did not recognize the high school credit. Engineering students get a lot of math. Physics folks get more. Technical fields generally have statistical math of one sort or another. I do give a fuck about math.

Sarah’s book is much more interesting than “The Screwtape Letters”. The language is a bit crude but it captures the sentiment of, “abandon the people or food or books he really likes in favor of the ‘best’ people, the ‘right’ food, the ‘important’ books” succinctly. In life there is often (maybe always) someone to report to you what wine pairs with what food. There is, no doubt, also a YouTube video about wine pairings. If those things are important to you then you should give a fuck to it whatever it may be.

Be present to your own ideas, thoughts, morality, ethics. Educate yourself to your needs not other’s wants. Believe in yourself and as the Max Ehrmann quote goes, ” And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul….”

Carpe Diem.

In a Dream

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I do not think I have told this story here before.

I have told it to others, just not here.

I am not a big believer in dream experiences but several months after Cheryl left this existence she visited me in an early morning dream. The dream was so vivid it stays with me as a memory something that I lived through. I did not but my brain did live through it and it is still with me many months later. I remember it upon occasion to reinforce the connections between the neurons.

Here is what happened.

There was a gathering at our church. My memory of why we were gathering is unclear even now but that is not the important part of this story. For this particular gathering, however, we had been instructed (requested?) to bring our own chairs. I remember thinking in the dream that this was an odd request because our church had just replaced all the pews. They were relatively new. Still shiny with new varnish there were few sticky spots where the small children had been. But that was the need expressed so we took our newish recliners with us to the church that night.

My memory of how they got there is foggy at best. It involves something about the car which I think morphed into a moving van just for this excursion.

The scene that is vivid in my experience is this one. The service and gathering was over and we sat up to go. We had been reclining which was why we brought the recliners with us. Many others had brought their recliners also. As we were organizing ourselves to leave, Cheryl announced, “I have to go!” which I took to mean – go to the ladies room. For the previous couple years every time we left a restaurant or any event she felt the need of a toilet. I had visited many public “Women” in many restaurants as she bumped her way into the restroom and stall and occasionally got stuck in one. It did not occur to me that “go” meant any other meaning to her. My response to my wife of five decades was, “okay I’ll wait here until you return.”

I stood and watched her mingle with the rest of the crowd who had by this time started to exit with their chairs. The crowd generally swirled around our spot as they made their way to the exit. The lady’s room was near the exit but out of my view. Cheryl was moving really good. She was moving without the aid of a walker or a cane. She was moving like her old self. She was moving with determination toward what I thought was the toilet. She was shuffling between people and chairs towards the exit. She was not touching anything and she did not hesitate.

Still in the back of my thoughts I was not certain she could find her way back. Sometimes she was unaware of her surroundings and lacked direction. In restaurants and stores I would hover near the restroom door and occasionally open it a crack and ask her if she was doing okay. She had been gone long enough that I thought she might be in that predicament.

I started to maneuver the chairs toward the exit and hang around near the restroom door. As I was beginning this process a young man that I had not met before approached me and asked if He could help me with the chairs. At first I thought to say no. I was sure Cheryl could help when she came back. She was moving really well that day. But He was persistent and I explained that I was waiting for Cheryl to return from the lady’s room and she might have difficulty finding me if I took the chairs all the way to the car. He looked at me with a face full of compassion and sympathy and responded with, “She is not coming back. She has left. She is doing okay. I will help you.”

This dreamy experience comes to me at odd times of the day, not every day but often. Today as I sit here in my office writing this post I can see this scene. She has just disappeared around the corner into the crowd and a small anxiety shows up to make me worry that she cannot find her way back to where I am. A young man with curly frizzy hair approaches to help me. Who is this guy?

Cheryl had been struggling with cognition and awareness for sometime before she eventually succumbed to dementia and disorientation. I helped her into and out of the car, into and out of church, into and out of the restroom, into and out of bed, into and out of the doctor’s office. Who was this young man? Over many recalls of this image at the end of whatever happened in church, I have come to believe that he was Cheryl’s guardian angel. She sent him back to me to tell me she was okay now. She was without any pain or disorientation or other encumberment. She was where she belonged. I did not need to worry or be anxious about her. I am not.

I awakened that morning in my lounger in the living area of my house. Sometime during the night I had trouble sleeping and had moved to the living room to read for a bit and await slumber to return. Most likely the shape of the lounger cradling my body triggered the dream but that image is very vivid. I could then and still can hear her voice. “I have to go!” she said. I have let her go. I do not see the young man except in this context but imagine angels differently. I see her angel in other people.

I have come to believe with conviction that she visited me to convince me that she is okay and happy where she is now. Why else would she visit me in a dream?

Carpe Diem.

Spring is coming

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Harbingers of spring…

This forsythia bush easily viewable from my favorite chair is a joy to me when it blooms.

The cardinals usually show up in February. They are probably around earlier but I notice them then as I peer out the window and long for warmth.

The squirrels seem to have an easier time finding their nuts. The chip monks are busy doing what ever they do.

A coywolf passed by a few days ago. Sadly the battery was weak in my trail camera. It was moving too fast for me to get a picture. It was a beautiful animal.

No deer seem to be coming by yet. Perhaps they have kept themselves in the deep woods for now? The picture here is of a deer I call Fred from last summer. I am pretty sure he was a fawn about four or five years ago. He is skittish. His sibling, a doe, is not. They kept the honeysuckle trimmed that spring and summer.

It is close to springtime.

It is close to a joyous time of the year.

It is time to bike and walk and enjoy the change.

Carpe Diem

Snacks And

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Here’s a thing…

Today I was experimenting with an old hobby. In the middle of the afternoon during that activity I thought a cup of coffee and maybe a couple cookies. About that same time a notice from AARP popped up on my phone with the lead question ‘How much should you weigh?’ Holy cow what a buzz kill.

I became interested in calorie counts. Those little labels required by the FDA or whoever that describe how little protein is in each cookie and yet each supplies enough sugar to make them edible. What about peanut butter? What about Nutella? The cookies I selected are McVitie’s digestives. 160 calories for two of them. I refer to this serving size as the minimum daily requirement. In reality much like Lay’s potato chips, one cannot eat just one. One cannot eat just two. There were five left in the box and they are all in me now.

Later on I had some peanut butter too. This was plain old Our Family peanut butter. I happen to like the house brand at the close by IGA. Jif is good too but why pay more for the same amount of calories? 180 calories in two tablespoons full. Nutella has more calories still but for the same amount of substance. I have tried substitute brands of Nutella but it is just not the same. Both of these need spreading on something. I prefer toast in both cases but a cracker of some sort works in a pinch. 180 calories as a minimum daily intake is a sham unless you are licking a spoon.

Gluten free that way.

Carpe Diem.

A Summer Day in Winter and other Thoughts

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A Summer Day

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean —

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down —

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

These words by Mary Oliver send my thoughts in many directions. The last two lines seem to be very popular with the counted cross stitch and embroidery set. These are words of inspiration to the young.

The previous two lines “Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?” seem a lament for the old. We tell ourselves, we have lived life as best we thought at the time.

Do I have regrets? “Tell me, what else should I have done?” hides in the back of other thoughts. What could I have done different that would put me in a better place today? How would I define “better place”?

Grief, that missing another, that emptiness for love’s object, that restless lonely, that longing, is often with me at seemingly random times. It will always be there. It is smoother on some days. I noticed this past evening as I talked to my son that I could tell stories and talk about Cheryl without choking up. Cheryl and I had many great times.

In the now, my son and his wife are splitting. My girlfriend’s daughter is very ill. She is hospitalized with an undefined infection. My girlfriend’s youngest son has split with his significant other and that is a remarkable similarity to my son’s situation. He has snapped back to his savior and supporter, Mom. (She has pushed him out of the nest several times. It is hard (but time) for him to fly on his own.) I have interest and concern for all of these people in my life. They give me a place to send my love and support.

“Tell me, what else couldI do?” is a question I ask of myself but it is an unfair question. Simply being present to other’s needs and being there as they sort through their difficulties is enough. I do not volunteer a solution if I have one. It would be my solution, not their solution. The same heartfelt commitment would not be there. (My mother would say, ‘Pull up your socks!’, which was her way of saying you have to be the designer of your own way out, otherwise you are not committed to it.)

My son is staying with me in the guest bedroom while he sorts through moving vehicles, furniture and just plain stuff accumulated over time to his new rental digs.

Debbie’s daughter is in the best hospital in town. They are committed to finding out what is wrong in her anatomy and doing their best to fix it or mitigate it.

Debbie’s son has a short term solution for housing and a wonderful employer that seems committed to his success. Maybe her consultation support is of greater value to him than monetary support. Maybe he will come to understand that. Maybe he will be able to move on from this former girlfriend who suddenly turned physically violent toward him. Maybe he will realize what he feels is grief of a sort for a lost relationship.

I do know how to pay attention, and listen and offer advice when asked and pray that God will provide a stable solution to the currently evolving dilemmas.

Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon? If not die, at least, stop?

Maybe not soon enough? Was that snarky?

I love them all.

Carpe Diem.

squirrel

Mister Squirrel is Back!

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I thought of it as a trail camera and I was shopping for the deer that walk by but a squirrel apparently likes to sit on the stump of half of the tree that I attached my Moultrie camera to look at the path through the woods. I think of it now as “squirrel cam”.

I think it is the same squirrel that comes and goes from this stump but I have several pictures and I find it to be fun to examine its little body and any features that might distinguish it from other squirrels. I often see two scampering around the trees out of my living room windows.

It is windy today and later Debbie and I are going out. For now I am watching the squirrel cam.

Carpe Diem

Twas a good day to ride

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It was a good day to ride.

This time of year mid to late February is the time of year that I become anxious maybe even restless to ride my bike outdoors on the Little Miami Trail.

It was a good day to ride.

It was chilly out. I asked Alexa and it reported that it was 48 degrees outside but I ignored that assessment because the sun was shining outside my windows.

It was a good day to ride.

I read with interest as MSN weather on my computer reported that there was little wind only a light breeze from the south. South is good I thought as I examined the leafless trees and bushes outside the window.

It was a good day to ride.

It is rare that in mid-February in Ohio the weather warms to Fahrenheit’s measurement of 60 and the sun is shining and there is little wind and the LMT macadam will be dry.

It was a good day to ride.

I said in my head, “Remember you haven’t sat on that for twelve weeks or so. Remember to ride with prudence. Remember to look down when you stop, if you stop, and do not put your foot into a hole where you stop.”

It was a good day to ride.

I put my bike and the rest of my equipment in the back of my Nissan Rogue and drove to the end of my road to park in the lot near where I ride on the LMT.

It was a good day to ride.

In the lot as I listened to the battery pump inflate the rear tire of my Trek to 60 pounds per square inch, I looked around the nearby field. No snow. A hawk was flying overhead searching for breakfast.

It was a good day to ride.

As I listened to the pump inflate the front tire, I looked through the rest of my bag to find my helmet and my gloves. Satisfied that I was not missing anything I put my water bottle into its holder on the frame.

It was a good day to ride.

The pump shut off automatically and I disconnected it from the stem, unplugged the battery and placed it back in the bag.

It was a good day to ride.

I clipped my cellphone to its holder on the handle bar, adjusted my little fanny pack with my wallet and keys, made one last check of the car and locked the doors.

It was a good day to ride.

I mounted my Trek and looked at the position of the derailleurs. I had garaged it with both in the proper position for an old man to ride off without straining a hamstring.

It was a good day to ride.

I spun the right pedal up to push off. I took one more look around at the weather, my surroundings and any unnoticed grid lock in the parking area on this beautiful great day to ride in February. I was alone.

It was a good day to ride.

I pushed off and reminded myself, five miles this time, feel the air, listen to your muscles, hear your heartbeat, stop and stretch if I need to do it.

It was a good day to ride.

There were a few walkers. There were a few dog walkers. I rode to 47.5 painted on the LMT surface near a good place for breakfast if I wanted it. I did not.

It was a good day to ride.

I made a U-turn and rode back past the horse paddocks and the lot where I had parked. I rode south to the 50 painted on the macadam. I rode past the portion of the trail trying to slide down the hill. It has needed repair for some time. It is well marked and I ride around the damage.

It was a good day to ride.

I made a U-turn just south of the 50 and on my return to the north I heard a friendly, “On your left!” I replied with, “Thanks” as he went by and thought to myself that he was not going much faster than I was at the time.

It was a great day to ride. And I felt I was home. I was proud of myself for sticking to my five miles today.

Back at the car I reversed the unload process and put all in the back of my Rogue. I started the car and lowered the windows. I ate a few peanuts that I had with me and reflected on how great it was that the universe put me here at this time and gave me the health to enjoy the now.

It was a great day to ride.

On the way home from my first jaunt on the trail, I saw two does by the side of the road chatting about what a great day it was… or simply socializing… or discussing ways to get rid of their winter coats… or hiding from the stags.

Back in my garage I left the bike in the back of the car. Another opportunity could present itself. I need to be present for it.

It is simply a great day.

Carpe Diem.

The New Pot

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Life is certainly off to a good start this week. I cooked dinner last evening for Debbie. Her day was filled with grandma activities with one bunch and then the final solution of the car that turned into a tumble weed in a snow storm. It turned out to be the best roasted chicken I have had in awhile. Using the right equipment makes a big difference.

As I reported in an earlier post I purchased a new Staub cocotte from King Arthur baking. My original thought was to go all in on sourdough but I am thinking about stews and other pot recipes while we are still experiencing cooler temperatures in Ohio.

Roast Chicken in the NEW pot

INGREDIENTS

  • 1 (3 1⁄2-to 4-pound) chicken
  • Salt
  • 1 1⁄2 pounds fingerling potatoes, cut in half lengthwise if large (or quartered if larger)
  • 3 tablespoons olive oil
  • Freshly ground black pepper
  • 1 lemon, cut in half
  • 1 head of garlic, cut in half, horizontally
  • 1 red onion, peeled and quartered
  • 1 tablespoon assorted chopped fresh herbs, such as thyme and rosemary
  • 1⁄4 cup unsalted butter, at room temperature

HOW TO MAKE IT:

  1. Place the chicken on a baking sheet fitted with a wire rack. Liberally sprinkle salt all over the chicken, loosely cover the chicken with parchment paper, and refrigerate for 24 hours. — [I started and stopped the preparation of this a couple times and eventually allowed the chicken to partially thaw overnight in the fridge. In the morning I thawed it the rest of the way in a bowl of brine,]
  2. Preheat the oven to 500°F. Let the chicken come to room temperature for about 30 minutes before roasting.
  3. In a medium bowl, toss the potatoes with 2 tablespoons of the oil and a big pinch of salt and pepper. Arrange the potatoes in a single layer in the bottom of a large cast-iron cocotte. Add the lemon halves, garlic halves, and red onion quarters. Drizzle with the remaining 1 tablespoon oil. — [I skipped the lemon and added cloves of garlic.]
  4. In a small bowl, stir the herbs into the butter. [no butter here, just olive oil and Old Bay seasoning. My favorite shortcut.] Gently separate the chicken skin from the meat and rub the butter mixture under and on top of the skin and all over the thighs and breasts. Place the chicken on top of the vegetables in the cocotte [smush the potatoes to the side to get the chicken it – breast side up] and roast for 20 minutes.
  5. Decrease the oven temperature to 350°F and continue roasting for 30 to 40 minutes, until a meat thermometer reads 165°F when inserted between the thigh and the breast. [mine was actually 180 or so because of extra snuggling]
  6. Remove the chicken from the oven, tent with aluminum foil, and allow the chicken to rest for at 10 minutes before carving and serving.

As a side dish I was able to successfully replicate Debbie’s Green Beans. This signature dish of hers is only served during holiday dinners and requires two trash can sized cans of green beans. During an emergency run to a close by Target for coffee, I purchased two smaller regular sized, not-for-feeding-many-kids sized cans of Delmonti green beans. In a 3 quart pot I fried a strip of chopped bacon and a little of the red onion from above. I drained one can of beans of its water and then added both to the pot after sizzling the onion for a bit in the bacon fat. I put the lid on and let them simmer while the chicken was doing its thing in the oven and we snuggled on the couch and talked about the day.

When I got up to change the oven temperature, I warmed up the giblet gravy that I had started previously and finished it with some cornstarch to thicken a bit. I am a big fan of gravy and meat broths. This version to me is heavenly.

A good sourdough would pair perfectly with this dinner. And perhaps a nice Chardonnay.

Carpe bon appetit Diem

A Kettle of Fish (or Virus Incubator)

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Well that’s a fine kettle of fish!

Today I have one of those annoying winter colds that come around once in a while. Stuffy runny nose and itchy eyes and general malaise are my symptoms.

I can whine but I will not. Maybe I will a little. I cannot recall when I have had a cold in winter.

This invasion by some wretched rhinovirus, this metabolic hijacker, this putrid pathogen has selected me for its replicative host. Damnation I say!

Come on T-cells! Help is needed now!

In other news, it is 42 degrees Fahrenheit outside today.

The snow is melting and the cardinals are excited.

Carpe Diem.

Morning News

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Coffee

This morning on the CBS news they reported on a piece about an association with drinking coffee and a resistance to dementia. Good News! Us coffee drinkers will not be demented – later in life? Ever? Only in our nineties? Oh wait. She said association. That term has a very specific meaning to statistical studies.

This study was based on the female participants in the Nurses’ Health Study (NHS; n = 86 606 with data from 1980-2023) and male participants from the Health Professionals Follow-up Study (HPFS; n = 45 215 with data from 1986-2023) who did not have cancer, Parkinson disease, or dementia at study entry (baseline) in the US.

You have got to love those numbers. Health care workers have been drinking coffee for forty-three years. And recording it.

Journal of the American Medical Association (JAMA): https://jamanetwork.com/journals/jama/fullarticle/2844764

From JAMA — Conclusions and Relevance:  Greater consumption of caffeinated coffee and tea was associated with lower risk of dementia and modestly better cognitive function, with the most pronounced association at moderate intake levels. (I want to say, “Hell yeah!” here.)

Association — Association refers to the general relationship and is normally used for studying relationship between two nominal/categorical/ordinal attributes;

Correlation — whereas correlation refers to a linear relationship between two quantitative attributes. It would not be out of context to mention here that the relationship between two quantitative variables can even be a nonlinear as well such as curvilinear or exponential.

[from https://journals.lww.com/cmre/fulltext/2021/11010/understanding_statistical_association_and.7.aspx%5D

Causation — Causation means that a change in one variable causes a change in another variable.

So, to conclude, not drinking coffee does not cause dementia. It might cause those sleepy “whaat?” looks that teens display in early morning classes but the WL study is incomplete at this time.

I am interested in statistical analysis. The math is attractive to me. I am deficient at recognizing patterns but I do recognize my wakefulness after coffee in the morning.

A shot of whiskey in the evening seems to aid in sleepiness at bedtime too.

Carpe coffee Diem.