Books and more books, can't pass them by

Finally got one bookcase partially cleaned. There is detritus there, all those things one can't give up: books, small vases, odd art pieces, and plain old detritus gathered. I bring home books from everywhere and don't ever read them all. Some day, I say. Some day. Meanwhile, they are waiting there on bookshelves in the old apartment in the old hotel. I think I was always meant to live here, gathering dust and then dusting myself and my things off again.

Old wood on patio

I've quit mourning seasons, the older I get. Gave up the notion of trying to hold onto summer, the one that I love, good wine, unwrinkled face....although I had a new thought about that old adage this morning, if I won the lottery, of course, I'd travel the world and save the world and make my children wealthy, but I'd also, along with putting my breasts back where they belong, get a facelift...move than skin one inch back all around and waah laah I am thirty-five again, woo hoo.

I had all of these revelations this morning, clearing the patio of detritus and hanging onto those few things that will be useful next spring: some pots and planters, all the old soil dumped into the middle of the middle planter, how the leaves in a pile on cement are like artwork....reminiscent of both a mummy mummified and an oblong piece of patio art.

I have new eyes, at the cost of $$$ cataract removal. I see everything now. Scary. Even my inner sight is changing. I looked in the mirror last week after the second eye was removed of its cataract and thought dear lord, where did all those age spots come from. When did all those wrinkles decide to reside on my cheeks? I look like my mother, where for a long time, well into my thirties I was lucky enough to have skin that fooled time. With a facelift pulling back the skin an inch, maybe a half an inch, there might be youthful incognito magic tric skin again.

I didn't spend that much time thinking about skin. Took the above picture instead.

I can see clearly now

Back when I was twenty-four I memorized all the words to that song, all the lilting hopeful words backpacked for tomorrow or yesterday. Where are the years wasted but in that backpack, yes?

One week past the last cataract surgery, and I can see clearly. I don't know how long I had them, pesky cataracts, only that two years ago, maybe longer, light started bothering me painfully but not consistently. Growing older one excuses those nuances of aging, bad eyesight. Last summer past eyesight grew even more painful. I ventured to the optometrist in November, knowing in December another fourth year past a birthday and I'd have to take the driver's eye exam.

Now I'm not quite so sure that the driver's eye exam is what it should be. I passed, with the knowledge of cataracts growing. I was grateful to hold onto the license. I have older friends whose licenses are tentative from year to year. They still drive from house to drugstore to hearing place to liquor store. That will probably be my path too : )

But the optometrist, not the old guy from the Cities that I loved and trusted, but a newer cheaper brand at Wal-Mart issued the proclamation, cataracts, a few weeks earlier. What do I do? I asked.

Go home and think about it.

I did for six months, but by early summer could not drive at night, cursed the day vision.

And what did I do? Instead of pushing for early surgery, went on a road trip to Montana with my daughter, of course.

I could drive in the day fine. At least that's what we told ourselves. Could not drive at night. If Jen would have been impaired during night driving home, we would have been stuck at the side of the road.
The trip was in August. I had my first surgery September 17th.

Wonderful new eyesight in the left eye.

Upon entering, brush off the bugs

Everywhere, boxelder bugs. This time of year, prevalent annoyances: so many leavings, altered views out windows~from screened to glassed, bugs. Don't step on them, my grandson says. Them, are all dead spread out on the sidewalk in front of the main door. You can't help but step on them, can't help but crunch the dead. I think of the Hunger Games: rolling heads, dust of the deceased, things that will eat you. We don't have it so bad.

I like fall. I like the closing in of it, dusting off things, rearranging. The shorts and tees go into plastic. The sweaters come down, gratefully, and take the place of shorts and tees in drawers. The flowers, durable ones, are hauled inside to the little space there is for plants in a small apartment. Pumpkins are bought and adorn doorways, instead of boxelders. They are swept away. Gone is potato salad and brats and cold pasta with veggies. Soup cooks on the stove. Squash gets chopped into chunks. Apples sit in a pretty bowl begging for attention.

I hate football, hate those big guys going after the tall thin guys, hate the crunching and punching and all. I watch real games through fingers held in front of eyes, was not that sad when my oldest grandson broke his arm last week during ninth grade football and that fact benched him. I'm sorry for his broken arm. I'd rather it had happened climbing a tree or skiing or just rolling down a hill. But he was there for the taking, slim quarterback with a good arm. Not a dirty play, his father said. He was there with a camera to capture it. Cool, Noah said, stilly prone on the ground. You should put it on Facebook.

There are no boxelder bugs in the photo. There is the dry grass of summer, a Minnesota drought. There is the pediatrician's arms with her bandaged finger holding up Noah's rubber like arm. She has a ring on. He has a bandage on his finger, too. What's up with that, I wonder. His arm looks like those rubber things people stick out of trunks for pranks. A Halloween arm. Broke in two places, both lower arm bones.

When I go to visit, step over dead boxelders, the younger brother holding the door, the house operates like there is an invalid indoors. And there is, sort of. At fourteen, he'll heal fast. Not fast enough for the rest of football.

Sigh.