Who really wants to walk the length of the Nile?

Several years ago I got a Fitbit Flex to track my steps. Having an office job, I sit in front of a computer all day. On top of that, being a writer puts me in front of the computer a lot as well. I've always made it a point to get up and stretch, but how well was I really doing? I thought a Fitbit would help and it has. 

I bought into the whole ten thousand steps a day thing. That was my goal and I did pretty good meeting it three or four times a week. I figured out a loop around my office building that was over six hundred steps and I did it once an hour while there. Walking the dog and just going about my day did the rest. It wasn't until one night about eleven o'clock that I put the kibosh on getting 10K a day. 

No way did I really need to go outside in the dark and walk out to the end of the lane and back just to see the little rocket ship on the Fitbit Charge2 blast off. That's when I knew I was placing far too much importance on a number. Now I consider anything over seven thousand steps, or approximately three miles, a day a bonus. 

Really? 

Maybe I'm not doing as well with letting go of the numbers as I thought. This week, I got an email from Fitbit awarding me the Nile badge. 

I've graduated to a Fitbit Versa2. My first thought upon viewing the email was I would have gotten this a lot sooner if my old Charge2 had not repeatedly unpaired itself and not reported my steps. 

No, I'm not far enough along on my journey to let go of the numbers. My whipping out the calculator to figure out how fast I can get to 5K miles was proof of that. I'll report back sometime in August or September. Or not. 

The Lady of Holly Tree Manor (The Hideaway)

PS. I've also blogged about this over at Deuce's Day. Deuce has walked a good portion of the way with me and deserved a badge of his own. 

Christmas Eve 2021

Author note: I posted this at Between the Keys and thought I would also share it here. - KC

Christmas Eve was magical when I was a girl. Aunts, uncles, cousins - we all gathered at Aunt Jane's house for dinner, which was her gift to us. In time that ended, and so it seemed so did my love of Christmas. It's never been the same for me without that gathering. 

The bells pictured are a handmade gift from my Aunt Jane, given to me for my first Christmas in the house I built in 1983. I still live in that house and Aunt Jane's bells are a truly treasured keepsake. 

One of my favorite passages about Christmas Eve comes from Alfred, Lord Tennyson. It seems fitting to share it this year as, yes, the time draws near. 

KC/Rayne

Christmas Bells

The time draws near the birth of Christ:
The moon is hid; the night is still;
The Christmas bells from hill to hill
Answer each other in the mist.

Four voices of four hamlets round,
From far and near, on mead and moor,
Swell out and fail, as if a door
Were shut between me and the sound:

Each voice four changes on the wind,
That now dilate, and now decrease,
Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace,
Peace and goodwill, to all mankind.

This year I slept and woke with pain,
I almost wish’d no more to wake,
And that my hold on life would break
Before I heard those bells again:

But they my troubled spirit rule,
For they controll’d me when a boy;
They bring me sorrow touch’d with joy,
The merry merry bells of Yule.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

Funny money

I work for a non-profit, and we accept monetary gifts that we then distribute to people in need. While logging a donation, we got faked out by a fake.  

Seriously. Counterfeit. We had a laugh, took pictures, and the CEO turned it in at the bank. I'm sure it wouldn't have been as amusing had it been a hundred-dollar bill. It was mixed in with other bills so we're sure that the person who dropped off the donation had no clue it was in there. And they received it from another source, as well. Non-profits are a money-maze, giving to each other as needs arise. 

If it feels fake it probably is. Be careful out there.

The Lady of Holly Tree Manor (The Hideaway)

One hundred seventy days

I have a countdown app on my phone, and this morning I checked it to see how many days until my official retirement. It still looks a bit depressing, but there's good news there once one digs deeper. One hundred seventy days is less than it looks. It's only 122 weekdays. The key to unlocking it is in the week and weekday counts: 24 weeks.

I don't work on Mondays, so subtract those twenty-four Mondays off the top and we're left with ninety-eight days. 

Take another four days off for scheduled 2021 vacation time and we're down to ninety-four days. 

I don't yet know what my 2022 vacation package looks like, but doing the simple math, I should get nine days vacation to use next year. That puts us at eighty-five working days. 

That's actually a bit scary. 

I've been counting down the days for several years, and the knowledge of having only having eighty-five workdays left brings a mixed ball of emotions. It's a big change in both mindset and lifestyle. My biggest worry is that after twenty-seven years together, the man of the manor and me won't be able to co-exist peacefully within the new paradigm. It's going to get interesting. 

There's the exhilaration that my goal of being the Lady of the Manor full time is within reach.

There's fear something unthinkable will happen and I'll die two days shy of the mark. 

There is the question, the big question, of what new "adventures" do I want to have? I've been grappling with this one. 

Yes, I plan to pursue my DAR, not just for myself but for those in the next two generations. I know my five times great-grandfather signed the Oath in what was to become the State of Maryland to support the colony's bid for independence. That's not in question. I need to formally present the documents that show he is indeed my 5x great-grandfather. 

Yes, there are friends I want to reconnect with, at least once. It's on me to make the initial contact but after that, it has to be a two-way street. I'm prepared to be disappointed by some of them. 

Yes, there are so many things I want to do to make the Manor even more of my own personal paradise. To suddenly have time for that, to think that I'll have time, is almost overwhelming. Being occasionally compulsive about some projects, I know I must pace myself carefully to accomplish anything and not burn out. Or even flame-out, which could happen. 

And perhaps the biggest question of all, the one that is looming over me every time I sit at my desk in my lovely sunroom office - will the joy of writing return after I retire?

It's a lot to ponder on a Sunday morning before the sun has risen over the mountain and my coffee gets cold. 

The Lady of Holly Tree Manor (The Hideaway)

Christmas Eve update - 79 working days

January 14 update - 68 working days

Classic cars: The Pontiac Chieftain

The Pontiac Chieftain isn't what comes to mind when one mentions classic cars, but my Daddy had a 1955 Chieftain so it's on my list. In 1955, the Chieftain came equipped with a 316 cubic inch engine that made over 200 horsepower, and I know because he told me so, my Dad thought it was hot shit. I do wonder what he'd think about the over 700 horsepower Challenger Hellcat. By today's standards, the Chieftain isn't an attractive, sexy car but in 1955? It must have been.

Earlier today, I opened up a browser to check the headlines and found a Lifestyle article about a Chieftain someone bought and then repainted. (The horror of it!) Someone painted their car purple? Someone didn't like that old patina? I would have painted it back to the original color because what's left of that green is original. Dad's was a robin's egg blue, sort of turquoise-ish. I still have the vanity mirror from the old Chieftain, safe and secure in my box of treasures.

The article was basically a bit of fluff, but it made me smile and remember a different time. Back in the day, it wasn't unusual for a little kid to sit on their father's lap and "drive" the car. In that manner, the first car I ever drove was the Chieftain. Looking back with older eyes, all I see is my Dad's indulgence of his little girl. I wonder how many fathers today find empty rural roads and lift their kid over onto their lap so they can drive? Very few.

I think it was more difficult for my father to watch me learn to drive without his hands being there to keep me out of the ditches than it was to help me "steer." I think the only thing that tempered his anxiety was he raised a good driver and he saw that. 

There are precious few photos of the old Chieftain, and most of those are in black and white. It was my Dad's first brand-new car, but not the last. His last, and we couldn't know it would be his last when he bought it, was a 1973 Chevy Cheyenne, the forerunner of the Silverado, which debuted in 1975. Oh, he did grouse about not waiting! 

That's the thing about car lovers that a lot of folks miss. An article about an old car brings back so many lovely memories. And memories about my Dad, who died when I was twenty-six, are so very, very precious. In my life, there are only four people left who knew my father - one uncle and three cousins. My mother, afflicted with Alzheimer's, doesn't remember him, which is heart-wrenching. 

So, yeah. Pontiac Chieftain. Love ya, Daddy. 

The Lady of Holly Tree Manor (The Hideaway)

The long and winding road (driven very fast)

The spousal unit is on the hunt for a mid-size van that we can equip with either a side door power lift or a ramp for his power chair. A van, any van, is NOT my idea of how to even go get the mail out of the box at the end of my lane. I do not like vans. 

I do not like vans. Not for any reason. Yes, it could possibly be to his benefit but trust me when I say it won't be anything other than a waste of money. It'll be a new auto loan for him and frankly, he's at the point where he almost never drives. We go everywhere in the Charger and he does NOT get to drive my car. So he's looking at buying a vehicle that will sit in the driveway, in the way of all other vehicles, tractors, and mowers, and rarely be used. It's not something I'll be driving, that's for sure. Does this make financial sense? No. But it's NOT my money. If he thinks I'm going to help finance this misadventure, he's very much mistaken. There's a very good reason my money and his money never meet. But I digress...

I do not like vans. Period. 

I like Challengers, Chargers, Camaros, vintage and classic Mustangs, MOPAR, and Chevy trucks. It's a short list and there is not a van on it. 

This past Friday, instead of doing anything productive, Himself trolled the Internet (or should I start calling it the interwebs because change for the sake of change is hip). He saw a Dodge van at a dealership just north of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. That is over an hour's drive away. It did not please me to go but we hopped in the Charger on Saturday morning and headed out. Yes, I made him fill my gas tank first. 

We got as far as Thurmont, Maryland, before his phone rang. They'd sold the van the night before. I'm very grateful they called before we headed up Route 15 and the longest stretch of the trip. I would have been pissed to get all the way up there and then find out the van had been sold. My inner bitch was already on alert, poised for a good opportunity to launch. Thankfully, it became unnecessary. 

The drive to Thurmont is scenic, even with the leaves off the trees. Route 77, which meanders through Cunningham Falls State Park and Catoctin State Park, is a dream to drive when you have a car that corners on a rail, which my Charger does. 

Being in time for it, we cruised into McDonald's and got breakfast before heading back home. It was a truly lovely morning full of sunshine and blue sky. I was burning his gasoline, and so I took a little drive through Catoctin State Park and ended up driving past Camp David. 

I am now recorded on some military satellite, whizzing down the winding road like it's my personal NASCAR road course. I'm sure a bunch of "hidden" cameras were clicking away, too. Should I be worried? Undoubtedly. Big Brother knows all. 

Then again, those guys stuck with military vehicles are likely jealous they can't take three-hundred horses deep into a corner and power out the other side without body roll or braking. 

And as for Himself? Do THAT in a fucking van.

The Lady of Holly Tree Manor (The Hideaway)

Decorating for Christmas

When I was a younger woman freshly moved into my first real home, decorating for Christmas was something I anticipated with great joy. My first home was decorated with a lot of hand-me-downs from my grandmother and mother, as well as a few things I purchased on sale. I needed to be frugal - very frugal- in those days. And just like my foremothers, I do not discard Christmas decorations. I hoard them (for really no good reason). 

Decorating was fun! My friends collected Santas and elves which made for easy Christmas gifts. I liked reindeer, and when they found out, my collection of reindeer grew rapidly. It got to the point my husband and I joked about the yearly migration. 

Then came the year we had a young, exuberant puppy, Jett. We decorated. We chose poorly. I'm sure every person who's had a Labrador Retriever or dog of a similar size is well aware of the damage a rapidly wagging tail can cause. For Jett's second Christmas, we scaled back, and the scale down has continued until we've reached the point of setting out my grandmother's ceramic tree and a centerpiece on the dining room table.  Even at that, the little heirloom tree isn't placed where I'd prefer. Loki, my current cat, likes to sleep in the bow window, so the tree is on a side table. And Deuce is a bit larger, and more curious, than Jett was. 

It's been in my thoughts that I have one last big blowout Christmas decorating left in me. When the time comes, it will serve a dual purpose. Yes, I'll be decorated for Christmas, but it will also be the time to do what my mother and grandmother never could - discard a lot of things I'll never use again. Getting those boxes and bins back upstairs to the attic has become too difficult for me to do on my own and my husband is now unable to help with the task.

I'll ask the kids in Gen 4 to come and see if there are any of the older pieces their great-grandmother once owned that they may want, although the ceramic tree isn't up for grabs just yet. It may never be while I live and breathe. It pleased my grandmother so much she tended to leave it out until the first day of spring. Maybe she loved us teasing her about it. Whatever it was, that little tree holds a lot of memories. 

Will they really want much, or any, of the stuff? I doubt it. A lot of it is very dated and they don't have the memories of the hands that touched those things, which makes a difference. Nevertheless, I will offer. 

In the end, I will have done what I can to pass on those things and lift a burden from my shoulders. Most of the Christmas *stuff* stored in the attic will not go back up there. It's a bit sad, but that's the way of life. In the end, they're only things, and I've learned that things do not make a person happy forever. Once you no longer enjoy them, those things can weigh you down. 

And maybe once the dust settles and I've shed the things that no longer please me, and Deuce and Loki are old enough to be less rambunctious, the joy and charm of decorating for Christmas will fill me again. As with most things, we'll have to wait and see.

The Lady of Holly Tree Manor (The Hideaway)

 

My blessings are not "First-world problems"

It's the day after Thanksgiving and I have an abundance of things to be thankful for. My blessings are now called "first-world problems." I object to this label. There are many things in life none of us control, but getting up and going to mind a job, to work under the authority of another, has definitely been under my control. 

I didn't have to do it. 

But I do it every day, and I have since the age of sixteen. 

It's not that difficult. 

I understand the difference between the blessings bestowed by family and the "blessings" my own hard work have brought to my life. And I know where they all came from.

Yesterday, we had a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. Today, my refrigerator is full of leftovers. I do know what a blessing this is. Abundance, even when you work for it, is a gift from God. God provides [EQUAL] opportunities to all. 

Our current culture, our "correct" thinkers, tell us we should be sorry, that we should apologize, for our opportunities and our gifts from God. I don't espouse to that way of thinking. I'm grateful for the work ethic my parents and grandparents taught me. That work ethic has allowed me to provide for myself and to appreciate the gifts from family. I would not have received those gifts if I had not been working hard. They would have gone to others while I sat and watched. 

Too many people today talk about white privilege. It's a load of bunk. If you are not hired for a job, it doesn't matter the color of the skin of the person who told you that you didn't get the position. That was God keeping that door closed so a better one could open. God may have kept that door closed for your protection! Go find that better door! Go find that better apartment! Go find that better car! God WILL open the right door at the right time. I've lived it. I know. 

My too-full refrigerator isn't about the color of my skin or the money I've earned. It's about walking through the doors God opened for me. It's about not sitting back and crying when something didn't go my way. It's about, sadly enough, leaving certain individuals behind. When God removes someone from your life, you need to let them go. 

Giving back isn't about the grand gestures. It isn't about financing an addict's lifestyle. It's not about enabling their enabler to continue. Giving back is about quietly supporting another person so that they can find that open door. Giving back may be explaining what better choices are available to them. Empowerment is not enabling. Learn the difference because it's crucial. 

I'm not missing the point of it all. I'm standing up and declaring there is nothing about my life that is even remotely responsible for someone else's bad choices. I'm simply refusing to bow to societal demands that I apologize for every aspect of my life when I know it was ultimately God who provided equally for me and everyone else. God does not play favorites. Choose your doors wisely. 

The Lady of Holly Tree Manor (The Hideaway)

The leaves will always win

Autumn is a beautiful time of the year. Like a lot of people, I can say it's my favorite season, but I think each one has something to recommend it. Autumn has beautiful leaves - until they turn brown and hit the ground. Then they become our Nemesis.

Holly Tree Manor is a three-acre estate. Two of those acres are still wooded, so we have leaves. Lots and lots of leaves. We don't rake as a general rule. We use a mower and chop them up so the leaves can decompose and feed the grass. But there are a few places around the house and the shed where we use a blower in an attempt to keep things tidy. 

I'm attempting to learn how to make a cohesive video. This is important given my partner's health. There may come a day when he can no longer live at home. I fear he will need more care than I can provide. If that day comes, videos will become an important way for him to connect with my day-to-day life and see how things are at home. 

I'm not very good at setting up a camera angle, but I'll get there. It helps that Deuce is the star of the show. The original video of leaf blowing is up at Youtube. The edited version is below. I think a good tripod would be helpful and I think I'll ask Santa to order one for me. 

Did Himself get a laugh out of my war on the leaves? Not really. He's fought the fight himself in years past. He knows we wage skirmishes, never expecting to win a battle, much less the war.

The Lady of Holly Tree Manor (The Hideaway)

 

Seeds for 2022

One of my grandfather's favorite pastimes was perusing the annual seed catalogs. He received catalogs from Gurney, Burpee, and a host of others, but Burpee was his go-to seed supplier. It was a no-brainer for me to order my seeds for 2021 from Burpee. Now that we've arrived at the time of year to start to think about the 2022 growing season, I went to the Burpee website and ordered a few things: 

Cucumber, Straight Eight
Cabbage, Brunswick
Cauliflower, Snowball
Brussels Sprouts, Long Island
Tomato, Bodacious

Tomato, Veranda Red Hybrid (cherry)

Seeds do not magically expire on any given date, and I have a good many left over from this year. The germination rate may fall a few percentage points, but I'll still get good plants. I may not plant any jalapeno seeds in 2022, though. I had an incredible harvest this year and one woman can only consume so much Cowboy Candy on her own. 

It seems 2022 will be as much about experimenting and learning as 2021. I've ordered a Harvest Right freeze dryer to preserve those things that don't home can well. Cucumbers make pickles, of course, but I like them in different salads, unpickled. I also hope the freeze dryer will be somewhat less labor-intensive than canning. Canning a seven quart batch of pickles is an all-day job. You do not walk away from a pressure canner and "let it do its thing" the way you can with a freeze dryer. 

I'm excited about my 2022 dream garden. My final work day is May 31, 2022 (at the very latest!). I'll retire sooner if an adequate hire is made and they learn my job quickly. By the end of May, all the seedlings will be in their grow buckets and bags, and I'll be sitting amongst them in my expanded garden corral with my morning coffee. In a perfect world. 

The Lady of Holly Tree Manor (The Hideaway)