How Do We Get Where We Are

 In a comment, gz mentioned that being a manager is stressful. Yes, it is. And after writing my last blog post, I had a good think about those former colleagues from long ago when I was in banking. 

The manager was always stern, the times that I worked with her. But, certainly we're not born that way. I don't know what happened to her or what experiences shaped her to be that iron wall. I'm sure part of it was her having to swim against the tide, to show that even though she was a female, she was fully competent to take on the task of manager. And to swim against that tide, one had to be strong and to demonstrate strength.

Yet, I also feel that she most likely had always been a no-nonsense sort of person. If you exude that sort of vibe, you can also cut down on a lot of silliness some think it necessary to employ. So I can see the appeal, especially when you are in a situation where you need to get things done and done well. 

 I've had those moments myself. Where I am resolute, taking on the tasks at hand, and not stopping until they are completed. That part in me has made me a very good employee everywhere I've worked. 

But there's more to me than that. I am also curious by nature, and I like to see what my part plays in the big picture. If I can't see it for myself, I ask questions about it. If someone is talking about something that has nothing whatsoever to do with my task, but it's something interesting, I'll ask them questions, too. At my core, I enjoy learning.

I also like to laugh and have fun. Even if the work itself might be drudgery. I've danced with a broom, have broken out into song while dusting. 

I've been a supervisor a few times in my work life. I did it well, but found I preferred being a worker bee. In one of those supervisory positions, I realized that I was allowing one of my employees more slack than I allowed the others. I had to look at why that was. It wasn't that I allowed him anything wrong, but I found it curious that I extended him more grace than I did to my other staff. Once I was aware I did that, I set about trying to course correct. It was yet another example of how deciding a plan beforehand would have saved the extra aggravation course correction midstream entails. As is often the case, a situation soon presented where I would be able to act differently from how I did earlier. The employee was late. Again. In that particular job, this was an offense where one could be written up, and habitual tardiness was not tolerated. He went through his usual routine of providing a plausible excuse, in front of all of us.

Yes, the excuse was plausible. But, I also realized that particular card had been played often enough that one could say this seemed to be a habit. It was just on the verge.I told him that all of us needed to be present on time as we had certain tasks that needed to be done before we opened the doors to the public. It was unfair to other staff who would have to take on his tasks as well as their own if he weren't on time. 

A curious look appeared on his face, one tinged with disbelief and understanding. It was then I saw he took me for an easy mark. That his charm would more than make up for anything amiss he might do. I went on speaking. "As we need to punch a time clock, it's easy enough to see the number of times anyone has been a few minutes late. All of us have run into the unforeseen traffic jam one time or another, all of us have overslept. But, we are in a job that requires our being prompt all the same."

His shifted his weight as if digging his heels in. "Are you going to write me up?" There was a hint of defiance.

"I'm going to note that we had a chat about the importance of being prompt. Going forward, your time card will dictate what sort of effect this chat has had."

I would  have preferred to have a private word with him about it, although the situation presented itself in a place where we really didn't have a private space. 

One of my employees quietly said to me later, "I'm glad you spoke as you did. I was wondering how long he was going to be a favorite son."

I apologized for my blind spot and thanked her for extending me grace to figure it out and not hold it against me.

In that job, I had to write reviews on all my employees. It was easy for me to find faults with all of them, as it's always been easy for me to find faults with myself. I had read Zig Ziegler's book, "Top Performance,"  hoping it would help me be a better manager. I don't remember all the specifics, but something in that book thundered to me. Catch people doing something right. I kept a folder on each employee. When I caught them doing something right, I made a note of it with the date and dropped it in their file. When it came time to write their review, I could see all the good things they had during the year. I also made notes for the not so good things.

As for Mr. Tardy? He made sure to be on time after that chat. When it came time for his review, I noted that once he had been told that tardiness could be a potential problem, he took great care to be prompt after that.

I had another job as supervisor in a completely different field. I didn't seek that job, but was asked by a vice president to take it, as that department was in bad shape, and he felt I had the skills to turn things around and make it successful even though I was employed with them to do something different. In that supervisory position, I also had to write employee reviews, and I was called out for being too positive. I needed to show more of the worker's weaknesses that needed to be addressed. The senior managers who had called for this meeting felt strongly that I had placed an overinflated importance on my staff. I walked into that meeting confidently. My years in banking had served me well for this job in a completely different industry, as I had learned in banking to document everything. 

I listened to them drone on about the importance of presenting a realistic picture, that there was no way everyone on my staff could be considered above average, blah, blah, blah. They were speaking most earnestly and in a dismissive sort of way one does with a lesser being. 

All that rarified hot air.

Our company had had a merger, and many of these senior managers from the other company felt they had to prove themselves and send a message to everyone else. The veep who asked me to take on the job wasn't present, although, another man was, whom I knew was very satisfied with how things had gone over the year.

When they gave me permission to speak, wearing smug, self-satisfied smiles that they had properly berated me, I smiled as I started to speak. I'd had many years of people subtracting points from my IQ because they viewed the position I held as lower than theirs. As if my entire being were my job.

"Gentlemen, I understand what you are telling me. Normally, I would agree with you. But, my staff  have gone over and above repeatedly during this review period, and have done so willingly. I have here a list of what we have accomplished as a group over this past year." I got up  and handed each a copy of the list. "Seventeen of these projects arrived to my work group so late that the only way we could meet deadline was to work weekends. Which my staff did. Voluntarily. Seventeen times. Yes, they are hourly employees. Yes, they were paid overtime. But, they could all have said no. They were not required to do this," (and here I emphasized "required"), "but were glad to do it so the work would be completed on time. Yes, their overtime meant more expense to the company, but I also have on this list the cost of the overall project and the projected amounts we would have lost had the work been late. Those projects amounts were taken from the contracts we signed that discussed payment terms.

"Additionally, I have a list of all the projects we completed ahead of time. In four of those cases, the clients were so impressed that we were able to secure a lot more work from them, and now have preferred relationship status with two of them. This clearly was the result of the work of my staff. I am not privy to the ongoing negotiations with those two clients so cannot provide you with the expected revenues from them over the coming year, but perhaps one of you would like to share those figures with me so I can add it to this."

Stunned silence. The one man whom I knew was pleased with our efforts wore a small smile. He had remained silent while the others were talking. I acknowledged that other departments within our company also had people who were just as diligent. But for the most part, those other departments were deemed "more important." I disagreed with that, thinking instead that every department served a function, and the better each department functioned, the better the company ran.

I concluded. "I'm thinking the dollar amounts from these two major clients is confidential information, so likely not to be shared with me. If there are any facts I have omitted from this list, please let me know what they are, so that I am able to present a realistic picture of my department."

The biggest blowhard thanked me for the list, as he had been looking at it while I talked. I had presented simply the facts. Nothing more, nothing less. I noted that his face flushed while I was speaking.

The man who had been pleased with us all along finally spoke. "I think you  have given us all the information we need, Megan. Thank you, and thanks to your department for accomplishing so much this year. I don't think we need for you to edit any of the reviews you have written for your staff," and here he looked at the line of senior managers, "Would you agree?"

Some grunted yes, others simply nodded.

My ears burned after I left that meeting room. I'm sure I was the topic of conversation.

My staff were curious about the meeting. I let them know what transpired, providing just the facts. One of my employees was working his way through grad school, wanting to obtain an MBA (Master of Business Administration). He had tried to be a contestant on the tv show "The Apprentice," starring Donald Trump. He explained the hierarchy of getting on the show. People wanting to be contestants had to go through a vetting process just to get to be a contestant. He'd gotten to the the semi final round in that selection process before being rejected. I'd never watched the show, but like others I worked with, enjoyed hearing him talk of his experience.

For one of his classes, he needed to interview a manager. He asked if I'd be willing to be interviewed, and I consented. 

He had prepared his questions carefully. He didn't share them ahead of time, so all my answers were off the cuff. I've always been candid, and was so during the interview. He asked about my management style, my influences, what I found most difficult.

I said I simply tried treating others as I would like to be treated. Sometimes that meant people saw me as a patsy, but invariably there would be situations that would occur soon enough to show them the error in their thinking. My influences were in part my faith, which provides me with a code of conduct, and which is NOT something encouraged to talk about in the workplace, and also the many different managers I've had. My career path wandered all over the place, so I had managers in many different industries. Some good, some not so good. Some were going to be the same sort of manager no matter what the circumstance. Others would adjust to the situation. These latter kind tended to be the ones I liked best and wanted to model. They realized they'd be called upon to be taskmaster one moment and  to extend grace the next. Which goes back to treating others as I'd like to be treated. At times I need that kick in the pants to spur me on so I can succeed; other times, I need a kind word.

The difficult part is putting that into practice and getting it right more often than not. Knowing my employees helped a lot with that. If I understood how someone was wired, then I could see the best way to manage him or her.  

He asked for a specific example. I gave him our work group. We weren't an especially large department, but we had many different kinds of people. Different nationalities. Different faiths. Some, like him, were highly educated. Others were not. For most, this was not going to be their forever job. Yet, it could provide a launch pad into this particular industry, or provide a good portable skillset that could work in many jobs. We needed people who were accurate and could work well under deadline. They had to work together at times, too, as well as separately. Our group had a few strong personalities--and here he smiled, acknowledging that he was one--so  how best to get them to work together?

He wanted to explore that and pressed me for details. My turn to smile as I explained that the strongest personalities in our group were also the most competitive. So, if I assigned tasks to each and pitted them against each other, both would use their natural competitive spirit to outdo the other, and to do their best work. If I followed that up with their needing to work together on something, then both would need to look at the positive contributions the other was making and realize they both were needed for complete success. The work didn't always allow for that, but employing that every chance I could meant I could keep my employees engaged in work they liked best where it could allow them to shine and also remind them at times it was only by team effort that some things would advance at all.

I paused, as he was taking notes and wanted to give him time to write it all down. "You scare me," he said. I laughed heartily. "Why?" I asked.

"In the culture I was raised in, as you know, women are very much second class." I nodded, as I had been acquainted with others from Middle Eastern cultures. "Coming to the US and seeing so many women free to do things was eye-opening."

"So, you are afraid of American women because we have so much freedom to do as we like?" I asked thinking that rather than being afraid of me specifically, perhaps he meant more general terms, although he hadn't really demonstrated any fear that I saw.

"No, I wasn't afraid of them; it amazed me to see them so confident and bold."

"So why do I scare you?"

"Because you explained succinctly exactly how you were able to manage our department so successfully by using our own strengths and weaknesses. That's brilliant."

"Thank you. But how does that make me scary? I don't think of myself as threatening."

"You're not threatening, But you can read everyone in the room and formulate what to do for success. You should try for 'The Apprentice.' You'd be an ideal candidate."

I laughed again. "Yes, me. Who's never seen the show and has no interest in it."

"But you can read everyone in a room and quickly see the best way to get things done."

"And you find that frightening."

"Yes. I suppose it scares me that I'm that easy to read."

"I think most people are easy to read. If they put up a front, it's usually because they've something to hide or something to prove. If it's the latter, and I can provide a situation for them, then we can build on that success. If it's the former, well that's a different ball of wax."

"But, you've taken no management courses, and you know all this."

"I've had jobs where people have deducted points from my IQ because of the job title. As if there's no other parts to me. Managers who rule with such an iron fist and fear that they push everyone away, and measure success only by the number they have cowed. I learned from those jobs and managers. I also love literature and had a Shakespeare prof once say that if you want to know about human nature, read Shakespeare. He was right. My take has always been that we are whole people doing a job. This job is but one aspect of our life. It doesn't always need our entire person to show up in order for it to be done. But there will be times where stuff that has nothing to do with our job is exactly what's needed for us to succeed. Finding that balance and doing what I can to maintain it will either allow others around me to develop into doing their best because we are creating a place for excellence, or will make others jealous and do what they can to denigrate me or my actions."

"Which has happened before. I mean the denigrating part."

"Yes. That speaks more about them than me. I can't help that they're insecure."

He had stopped writing notes.

"Do you have what you need for your class assignment?"

"Oh, yes. Thank you."

"You're welcome. I tend to get sidetracked, so wasn't sure if I provided enough useful information."

"More than you know. I can see how a lot of what we discussed will help me when I'm in management."

"Oh, good."

"You still scare me. I've never been afraid of a woman before."

What he said floored me. I realized this willingness for him to be open and vulnerable was a tremendous gift he had bestowed upon me. I would do my best to let him see he had not misplaced sharing this confidence. "I'll try to avoid that power getting in the way of my best work."

He was always open about needing the job while he was attending school and likely not going to stay in the industry once he obtained his degree. By the time that occurred, the company had moved me out of management and back to the job I had held before I was asked by the veep to move to the management side of things.

That's a story for another day.

Suddenly

 John's post over at Going Gently about the sudden death of a colleague brought to my mind a time when I was in banking. That part of my work life lasted nearly nine years, and I could tell quite a few stories about various sorts of people I met. You get to know a lot about people when you work with money, and when they trust you with their money, you get to know infinitely more.

I started at one bank as a floating teller, where I went from branch to branch all over the county. At one branch, where I was sent to work numerous times, I was given the worst window. This was typical practice, really. I usually got "left handed windows," as they were known which didn't bother me as I'm somewhat ambidextrous. And it was the window I was always assigned when I worked in this particular branch, so while it wasn't necessarily the nicest one ergonomically speaking, it was familiar.

It was the last window in the teller line, and the line layout was shaped like the letter C. The customers had to go through something like a maze and at the end go to the teller who was ready for the next customer rather than to pick a teller and wait in separate lines. My window opposite where the line ended, so customers often walked up to me to transact their business rather than waiting to be called. The branch manager was a rather stern woman who chided me once for having something of the previous transaction in plain view when the next customer walked up. Breach of privacy, she said. I covered the transaction with a piece of paper as the unbidden customer approached. He had heard what she said. I looked at him, said hello, and took his deposit slip.

"I didn't realize you weren't ready," he said. "No one was at your window."

"Yes, it's par for the course working this particular window, as you're but two steps away. I usually let the next in line know I'm ready, but if you've been waiting longer than you like, it's easy to walk right up."

He looked guiltily at the branch manager who was still glaring at me. I had learned from other dealings with her to allow some of her comments to bounce off because she wasn't going to change, least of all when a lowly floating teller suggested that her manner was about as warm as steel left outside in the dead of winter.

As I finished with his transaction and could surreptitiously take the earlier transaction and file it in the same bin with his (as we separated work by type of transaction, e.g, deposits in one bin, cashed checks in another), we nodded pleasantly to one another as we bid our good-byes. He looked askance at the manager. I could see he felt sorry for me. She moved away from me after that, returning to her office.

Ann was the teller to my left. She had been working there for a while, but hadn't worked with me before. She was older than I was, decidedly on the far end of middle-aged. The manager's curt tone hadn't escaped her notice, either, and she spoke quietly to me about it. 

I told her one of my gifts was to bring out the worst in some people. In many of those cases, I didn't even have to try; it just happened. Here, Ann smiled, and said with the manager it likely didn't take much from anyone. 

Between customers, we made small talk one to another. Ann liked working, had been married for years and years, found some of the customers delightful and others a handful.

I was scheduled to work at that branch for at least a week and likely two, so the ensuing days brought us  more opportunity to chat.

It was a Thursday. Fridays were always long days at the bank because we were open later, many people had Friday paydays, and waiting on so many more people could mean more opportunities for one's drawer not to balance. I had learned to pace myself on Fridays. Ann and I talked of strategies we had employed. Like wearing your most comfortable clothes and shoes. Taking advantage of any breaks in the line to bundle your work in smaller batches because it was sometimes easier to catch errors. And how tired one felt after work on Friday. That branch had Saturday hours as well, and having to go in Saturday morning after a busy, busy Friday was always draining.

Ann mentioned feeling tired just thinking about Friday, and we both giggled. I suggested she have supper as early as possible and go to bed at a decent hour so she could wake up refreshed.

She worked very neatly and tidily. She always proved her drawer quickly and efficiently. She thought my idea of early supper and bed a good one, and one she was going to employ. We bade good night to each other.

I got to work Friday morning a little early. Being a floater, I never had a key to the branch office, but I knew Linda, who was one of the key keepers, got there on the early side, so if I got there early, I wouldn't have to wait long to be let in.

I got there shortly after Linda, and she let me in. I set up my drawer and helped with some of the pre-opening tasks. The manager arrived next, surprised to see me already there and helping without being bidden. The other tellers rolled in and set about their usual duties.

Ann was always prompt, but she wasn't there. In fact, the manager mentioned, she had never been late. We were all perplexed as to why she hadn't called.

The phone rang. I answered it in my professional voice, using the bank's preferred way of mentioning the bank name, followed by my name, and asking how I could help. It was Ann's husband. He sounded distraught. He asked if I were Megan, the floating teller, the one who worked next to Ann. I said yes, I was she.

And here, all kinds of words tumbled out. How much Ann enjoyed talking to me. How nice I was. How she loved my sense of humor. When he paused for a breath, I said, "Well, all of us here like her, too. We were just saying it's not like her to be late."

"She's dead," he blurted. "She came home last night, we had an early dinner, she felt tired, went to bed early, and never woke up."

"Oh, I am so sorry," I responded as my mind was racing. "If you don't mind, I'm going to have you speak to the manager. There are likely certain personnel things she'll need to do, and she may have to ask you some questions."

"Undoubtedly."

Here, I saw the manager staring at me keenly. She disapproved of personal calls. I put him on hold, and told her the call on line 1 was for her.

She squinted with a mean look, as if I had wasted time. I knew it wasn't my place to announce to the staff what I had just heard. She took the phone receiver hurriedly from my hand and spoke in her crisp, professional, no-nonsense tone.

Then I watched her face crumble. She drew her breath in sharply. She looked at me, tears forming in her eyes.

I looked away, busying myself at my station. Which wasn't only by the end of the line but also very near the phone, which I was expected to answer most often, being the closest.

After the manager got off the phone, she broke the news to everyone there. A pall appeared instantly and hung over all of us. She needed to call to find out the procedure for this. Before a teller goes on vacation, or as in my case, leaves the branch to go on to my next assignment, the teller drawer is audited and cashed out. But it was always done with the teller present. What happens when the teller is not there?

As Ann and I had chatted during the week, I knew of several pending things she was working on and related those to the manager and Linda. It wasn't customary for a floating teller to work on them, but with Ann's demise, I'd likely be there at least another week. And I had more knowledge of those pending items than anyone else there.

We were nearly ready to open. If anyone asked about Ann, we were instructed to say simply she wasn't here today.

We opened precisely at 9:00 a.m. As with any Friday, it was a long day. I can't tell you  how many times I looked to my left, ready to say something to Ann, only to be met by a vacuous gaping hole. I was able to work on the pending items and complete them. One customer asked about Ann when I had called him with the follow-up information he needed. I said simply, "Ann's not here today, but we didn't get the information we needed to answer your question until now, and we didn't want you to have to wait for the answer, so I'm calling on her behalf."

The manager happened to be near me when I said that, and her eyes filled. We exchanged glances for hardly a moment then both looked away. I was just coming back from break, and there was a lobby full of people waiting.

After we closed for the day and were settling our drawers, the manager said we'd need to close out Ann's drawer. We'd have to fine count, meaning everything had to be hand counted, including bundled money. Ann had prepared for Friday by having nearly her limit in her drawer so she'd be ready to go.

The manager and Linda started counting the money. Dual control is standard operating procedure in a bank. Tears streamed down the manager's face. Linda dropped tears as she wrote down the totals. I stepped in to help count while the manager blew her nose. The head teller took the money I handed to her as carefully as if it were a raw egg poised on a spoon. 

There was one pending item awaiting resolution. Ann had written everything down in her tidy cursive handwriting. The head teller took the paper and held it close. She said she would do the follow-up.

It was such a strange suddenly. Small talk, a few smiles, some pending nondescript items to take care of for a tomorrow that didn't come.

I went on to work at other branches several days later. I didn't have to experience having to tell customers about Ann's passing, and by my next stint there, enough time had elapsed that no one would have thought to ask. 

The manager was still stern, although a good deal kinder. Linda was glad to see me, as always.

I haven't thought of those people in a long, long time. I wish them well, wherever they are.

Change of Scenery Has Occurred

 We had some weather between the time the young man came to tell me about the ash tree slated for removal, and the time it actually happened. We had snow, hail, and rain on various days, and a mix of two a couple days. Things were soggy, somewhat frozen, and back to soggy with several days of no precip. It was at the start of that several days when they arborists came back and got to work.

It turns out that the tree had started to show some rot, which was why they felt it was time to take it down. A good strong wind could make part of it break off and fall on their barn. It's a crotched tree and yes, nearly everywhere there was a vee, there was a bit of worry. When the arborist saw me hanging clothes on the line, he came over to talk to me and explained more about the condition of the tree. He also said the neighbours did not want the wood for burning and wondered if I would like it. He explained it would make his job much easier if I said yes, that since ash has a low moisture content, it doesn't need to age the way other trees do. It can be burned pretty much as soon as it's cut.

Many people here burn wood for heat, and the neighbours were offering me a great kindness. I thanked the arborist and told him, yes and thank you. They went one better than that. I had expected the crew to drop the tree where it was and leave it there for me to cut up. Nope, they cut much of it in woodstove lengths and moved it with their backhoe or tractor to various dumping places in my yard. The woodshed area was not easy for them to access, and the two areas they deposited most of the logs are close by so easy enough for us to move and split.

I want to deliver a nice bottle of wine to our neighbours and attach the note, "Wood you be so kind as to accept our thanks?" They haven't been home much since the tree came down, as they are busy with their business, which they moved from their house to a nearby office, and they have done a bit of travelling to see family. Come to think of it, I'd like to add a charcuterie board and some nice dog treats for their dog, Watson.

I feel so blessed to have such great neighbours.

Change of scenery

 A young man knocked on the front door about a week ago. I live in a place where front doors are used as an emergency exit if at all. We have had the occasional trick-or-treaters, a few times politicians trolling for votes, and once Jehovah witnesses. The Jehovah witnesses came round to the back subsequent times, although this past week, I got a letter in the mail from one of them witnessing to me. She mentioned she wasn't stopping door to door because of Covid. 

At any rate, I didn't recognize the young man at the door. He didn't look like a Jehovah witness. Turns out he wasn't. Nor was he a politician. He worked for an arborist. He wanted to let me know they were going to be taking down a neighbour's tree and because the tree was on or very close to the property line, they might have some of their equipment on my property. They wanted to let me know.

We chatted a bit, I went outside, and we walked the back yard. The tree is an old, large ash tree. It saddened me that they are removing it, solely because it's too close to their barn. He said the noise I'd hear would be their chain saws and a chipper. That saddened me, too. If you're taking down a tree simply  because its presence in its spot is inconvenient in some way, I'd hope you'd use the timber in a useful way. Not just all of it becoming instant mulch. Removing the ash tree will change the line of sight in our back yard a bit.

Yesterday, someone driving down the street ended up hitting a large tree in that neighbour's yard and struck a pedestrian who was walking on the sidewalk. We aren't sure why it happened. Whether a deer had run across the road or whether the driver lost control driving over wet leaves. There's a slight gash in the tree, but other than that, the tree looks as it always has. I do hope the injured man can make a full recovery. It gave us pause for thought. Any number of us use that sidewalk as we go for a walk, walk the dog (quite a few neighbours have dogs), or like our neighbour Vern, use it most days to walk down to the nearby post office to collect his mail.

Phoebe-the rest of the story

 I was looking at old blog posts and saw that I never provided the upshot on Phoebe. When I last wrote about  her, it was a month into the regimen of pill pockets for her meds, giving her fish oil, and working a lower protein cat food into rotation.

I knew we were on borrowed time, and I wanted to make the best of it. So did she. She was getting through the coldest part of winter but losing ground. She got thinner and altogether refused to eat the lower protein food. JoJo and Cooper weren't overly fond of it, but they'd eat it. No so Miss Phoebe. Nope. Anathema that would not cross her lips.

She was sleeping a lot more and more soundly. Another cog in the wheel clicked when I could open a can of something in the kitchen and not have her immediately walk in, just in case it was something she wanted to have. 

I discussed the End with my vet's office. They did house calls, but I'd need to give them a week's notice. They gave me the name of a vet, Dr. E, who makes house calls to put animals down. She was known for being able to come at once a lot better than they could manage at their busy practice. Of course, I could simply take Phoebe into the office right away, should I need to pre-empt the appointment. I much preferred to keep her at home and have the home visit.

It was the end of February. I prefer chocolate ice cream but always had a nonchocolate flavour on hand as Phoebe loved anything dairy and would insist that she have a taste of the ice cream. She strongly preferred eating it from your dish. She may have suspected we were somehow holding out on her if we put it in a separate dish for her. Whenever I ate chocolate ice cream, I'd lick the bowl clean then add a little of the nonchocolate ice cream for her. She was top cat now that Grace was gone, and she'd make a great fanfare of having her ice cream in the human's dish while the others got theirs in different dishes. Such a diva.

I was up to my eyeballs on a work project, had eaten a small dish of chocolate ice cream, and Phoebe hadn't stirred at all when I was eating. I knew that wasn't a great sign, but I was relieved that I didn't have to cater to her, as she had grown more petulant and demanding. The phone rang as i finished my ice cream. It was my client, interrupting my short break, and I walked my dish out to the kitchen while talking to them. I hurried back to my office and computer (about ten steps from the kitchen) and got back to work right away.

About an hour later, I went into the kitchen to get a cup of tea. There, on the counter was Phoebe. She had licked the ice cream dish clean and was licking her chops. She clearly enjoyed the dregs in the dish, and I'm certain she was thinking to herself that they'd have been wasted if it weren't for her keen sense of smell and jumping capabilities to jump from floor to counter to help herself.

She was sitting and looked over at me with a self-satisfied look. Another few licks around her whiskers to ensure all was clean, and she stood up and jumped down to the floor. As effortlessly and gracefully as ever. She paused a moment and then walked away like a boss, her tail held high and confidently.

While I was ruing leaving the dish like that without taking the few seconds to rinse it out and then leave it in the sink, I couldn't help smiling at Phoebe's panache. Even if eating that chocolate took a few moments off her life, the contented look on her face told me it was worth it.

Shortly after that, maybe a few days, she would sway on occasion. At first I wasn't sure what I actually saw, and it was random, a quick sway and then she'd recover and go on. I watched her more carefully. She was not eating as much, even if it were food she really liked. I needed to make the call to set up an appointment, but when? Would a week be too soon? Or not soon enough?

I had these thoughts on Friday. The vet's office closed at 4 pm, and they weren't open weekends. On Friday night, I noticed a misstep and a sway. I'd need to call them first thing Monday morning and see if they could come out. The swaying seemed to be a little stronger and she was taking longer to recover. She didn't appear to be in pain. But she was eating less.

The air started to smell like spring. We had snow on the ground still, and the ground well covered, but as we moved closer to the equinox the light and spring smell smiled at the snow. It would be on its way out.

For nearly 16 years, Phoebe would meow at us to get up if we were sleeping in past her breakfast time, or she'd jump up into bed, purr and meow to wake us up, want a quick pat and then would urge us to get moving so we could feed her.

Himself was away. Saturday had been a domestic day for me, some cleaning, some food shopping, lounging with the cats that evening. I thought about attending church Sunday morning, if I woke up early enough. If Phoebe insisted on an early breakfast, I would most certainly be up in time.

Sunday morning I felt the slight shaking of the bed as Phoebe alighted and walked towards me. She was purring and nuzzled my hand. I opened my eyes, she crawled up on my chest, and I knew to rise up. She had trained her human staff well. Only she didn't jump off my chest. She refused to move and looked deep into my eyes. I knew. With that look, she let me know it was time for her to go, and I needed to help her with that. 

I hugged her, pet her, and cried. She lay there stoically, seeming to understand that I knew I had to make that call, and it needed to be today. Someone had to come help her cross today; not next week, but TODAY.

When she moved off of me, I got up, blew my nose, and padded downstairs to get the cats' food dishes ready for breakfast. I called Dr. E. She answered her phone. No, it wasn't too early to ring her. I quickly explained the situation. For the first time in her life, Phoebe pre-empted breakfast to let me know it was time for her to go.

Dr. E. could come in the afternoon. I gave her the address, next town over from where she lived and a short drive. Phoebe spent much of the morning sleeping. JoJo and Cooper went about their usual schedule. Phoebe had lorded her top cat status over them to the point where they didn't really bother much with her. There was detente. The few times Phoebe got up, the swaying was more pronounced. She had eaten a little food, mostly the pieces with the fish oil on it. She welcomed the pill pocket. Mostly she slept. About a half hour or so before Dr. E arrived, Phoebe had gone under the bed to nap. She clearly didn't want to be bothered. 

Of all the cats who've lived with us, Phoebe was among the most social with humans. Human visitors were warmly greeted, and she always made sure she stood in such a way where they could admire her beautiful calico coat and encourage them to pet her. I think at times she really thought the purpose of their visit was to see her, and we were afterthoughts.

Dr. E knocked on the back door. Phoebe didn't come down to investigate. We went upstairs. Dr. E explained that she had had to crawl under beds before and could do it again as needed. Phoebe lifted her head, looked over at Dr. E who was sitting on the floor at the bed's edge peering at her, and blinked weakly. Dr E held out a treat to tempt her to come out. Phoebe sniffed the air, but had no interest. I suggested getting some tuna juice, as we referred to the water we drained when opening a can of tuna fish. All the cats liked it. Even Cooper had some on occasion. (Cooper's story will have a blog post all his own.)

I went downstairs and quickly opened a can of tuna, splitting the tuna juice up so each cat could have some. I served JoJo and Cooper then went upstairs with Phoebe's portion. I placed the dish beside me, so Phoebe would have to come all the way out from under the bed. She smelled the tuna juice, her pupils dilated, and she rose gingerly but quickly and made a bee line for the bowl. 

Dr E was glad to see her do that. I mentioned about the swaying and how it had become more pronounced and the missteps that were more frequent over the last few days. She explained that that was the toxins getting the upper hand. The kidneys were shutting down, so the toxins were building up. Left alone, Phoebe would likely have a seizure that would take her. After Phoebe finished the tuna juice, licking the dish clean, she vomited a little. It surprised Dr E and me. While Phoebe had vomited many times over her life, she had never done so with tuna juice. I cleaned it up, and Dr E stroked Phoebe's soft fur. She administered the first shot as I pet Phoebe. The first shot would knock her out. It didn't take long for Phoebe to lie on her side. Then the next shot was administered, the one that ends everything. Within a minute, Dr E listened through her stethoscope. Phoebe was gone. She had a little cat teepee to place her in. As she did that, I opened the window to let her spirit go free. 

I had agreed to have her cremated, so Himself and I could bury her together. It was also easier than digging a hole through the snow. I hadn't gotten around to digging it in the fall before the first flake. 

I carried the teepee down the steps and to Dr. E's car. I thanked her for coming on such short notice. She nodded and said I had called at the right time. That too many people wait too long, but I had not. I told her Phoebe let me know that today was the day. And as she could tell, Phoebe had her human staff well trained.

Dr. E drove away with Phoebe's body. I went back into the house. JoJo wanted to go outside so I let her out. I went upstairs to the bedroom, closed the window, and picked up the empty tuna juice dish. It was two weeks shy of Phoebe's 16th birthday.

I thought over the events of the previous several months and had peace about them. I hadn't taken any heroic measures or allowed any invasive procedures. I didn't force the low protein food after it became apparent that Phoebe wouldn't eat it if it were the last stuff on earth. I chose quality of life over quantity. I pet her every chance I got, and she gave me plenty of opportunities. In her last two weeks, she jumped from floor to counter because there was the extremely rare occurrence of an ice cream dish with some chocolate ice cream in it just calling her name. In her last few minutes of life, she had one of her favourite things on earth, tuna juice. I was grateful she let me know when it was time for her departure, so there was no doubt, and that I could accommodate her request to help her. That I could be with her at the end and go as far as possible to the very edge of the shore of the living as she left it and crossed the bar.

Apple Season Interrupted

 My friend Lisa and I picked a lot of apples. We got together at her place to process some of hers into applesauce, to dry some, and to use the cores and scraps for vinegar. She has several chickens, and we weren't sure if the girls would like some apple scraps. They picked at them a little, but didn't seem all that excited about them.

I made a batch of applesauce and dried some pieces to use for snacks or with oatmeal. I planned on canning some for pies and toyed with the idea of drying some that could be reconstituted for pies. The nice thing about apples is that they can wait a bit for you.

And so it was, that I was thinking about what to do with the bounty this year when B, friends with Himself since they were young lads, suffered a stroke. He has never married, nor has he ever had anyone special so far as we know. He is one of the kindest, gentlest men one could ever meet. He and Himself have always stayed in touch, no matter whether they were in the same neighbourhood or miles apart. 

I volunteered to go down to B's apartment and help out, if needed. I knew there were likely others who would do the same, and all lived closer than we did. B thanked us and declined our offer, exactly because others who were closer had also volunteered. But, they had to juggle work schedules, put in for vacation time, or consider their kids; whereas I had a more open schedule. So, last minute, B called and asked if I'd make the trip down. It was about an hour away from our last location. It wasn't part of our usual stomping grounds, although I had visited a friend there a few times, and had a fife and drum gig not far from there. B had moved there after I had moved to my current location. Himself hadn't yet arrived here, still back at our last location, and the two of them got together often. 

At the end of August, we made a lightning fast trip down there for an in-person appointment and stayed at B's overnight. We were grateful for a place to stay, and whatever pandemic fear may have prevented others from offering, paled in the love of two childhood friends.

So six weeks after that quick trip, I was now driving back with no idea how long I'd need to stay. Some people are natural caregivers. I am not.B's brother picked him up from the hospital and brought him home. B told his brother to leave after a bit, insisting he was all right by himself for a few hours until I arrived.

I arrived about 10:00 p.m. Except for B's left eyelid being a little droopy, he looked no different from six weeks earlier. He was glad to be home, glad that I could come so quickly, as the hospital was not going to release him if he didn't have someone with him for a bit.

Fortunately the stroke did not affect his speech or motor coordination. The brain bleed left him with a headache and affected vision. They gave him meds for his head, a wait and see for the vision problem, and should his headache become unbearable to return to the emergency room.

I made up the couch with sheets and a blanket, talked a bit with B, and we bade goodnight around midnight.

A bit after 4:00 a.m., B let me know his headache had gotten much worse, and the meds didn't seem to be helping. I quickly dressed, and he wanted me to take his car to the ER. I used my phone's mapping app to get there, since I am not super familiar with the area. Between my last fife and drum gig a few towns over year ago and now, there'd been a lot of new construction, and a tornado touched down earlier in the spring. Some of the landmarks I knew were no more or altered. B said I didn't need the phone to get to the ER. He could direct me. B has a stellar sense of direction; I do not. I figured with his pounding headache, which might be simply they needed to tweak his med schedule or as serious as he was having another stroke, I wasn't taking any chances. He wouldn't hear of an ambulance taking him, so drive him I did. Yes, I took his car.

It's the newest car I've ever driven. I felt a tad funny, as I'm not familiar with it, and this felt like an emergency situation where a car I was used to would be welcome. But, I hadn't cleared off my front passenger seat from the long drive, and B's car is smaller than my truck, so it would be easier to park.

Thankfully there was little traffic. We got there without a problem. He had been gone from the hospital for about 12 hours. We remained in the ER all day. They decided to admit him to keep him for observation. Around 7:00 p.m., we were still in the ER, waiting for a room to be vacated. He told me I might as well go since there was nothing else I could do. I had had nothing to eat or drink all day and made my way back to B's apartment. That Thursday felt a million hours long.

I slept a deep sleep and awoke Friday to warm sunshine. B had been working a lot of hours, and like many places, his job was short on help, so he often worked six days to make up the short fall. He was in the process of going through things in his apartment to have a good clearout when the stroke hit, so there remained piles of things that were in mid organization. I couldn't make the decisions for him on what to keep toss, or how to reorganize it, but I decided I could clean the kitchen and bathroom. When I broke my leg and had to stay in the hospital, B had been visiting Himself and me. B stayed with Himself for moral support, and after he left, Himself cleaned the house. It gave him something to do while he worked and waited, and I could also be greeted by a clean place. It helped my spirits immensely, and I was surprised at how much boost it gave me. I could do the same for B.

I stopped at the hospital to see him and see how he was doing. He looked better, he felt better, and I met the most delightful hospital worker named Myron. He delivered the meals, and is one of those people who practically sings as he talks. Very upbeat and caring. He spread healing everywhere he went. B had given me a list of names, and I texted all of them to provide updates. B dozed off and on, and mentioned some food in the fridge that would need to be chucked since it had been in there too long.He had bought it the day before his stroke, and it had been in there over a week. When his dozing turned into a good nap, I wanted to leave. B woke abruptly and told me I probably ought to go. I did, and stopped at a grocery store to get a few things to eat either by myself or with B depending on when they sprung him loose. When I got back to his apartment, I cleaned the bathroom and kitchen, remembering to toss the old food in the fridge. I also went to the leasing office to tell them who I was, in case they wondered about the out-of-state truck that didn't move for a bit. After supper and washing up, I went to bed, wanting to rest up.

B was released on Saturday. They tweaked his med schedule a little, giving him an oral dose of the injection they had given him in hospital that seemed to help with the headache.The good news was no new brain bleeds. The headache would likely remain for six to eight weeks while the body reabsorbed the blood, but ideally, with the tweaked med schedule, it would remain manageable. The vision problem was likely in part due to the brain bleed. How much only time could tell.

I notified everyone via text that B was coming home again and went to pick him up. Myron didn't work Saturdays. The woman who brought in B's late lunch was quietly competent. I missed Myron. B wanted to stop a few places on the way home, so I drove where he told me. He had ordered something that would be available for pick up at the store. It seemed so banal, going to pick it up, but I also understood the strong desire to have things return to normal. That B had made a number of plans before his stroke, such as ordering this item that was now ready for pick up. It seemed so incongruent in light of this Big Event, and yet, to pick up where one left off was an act of getting on with things.

After three stops, because he had wanted to look at things two other places, we returned home. He was tired and wanted to shave. They hadn't given him a razor in the hospital and while I've never seen him without a mustache, he's never had any desire to grow a beard. His lunch had been late enough at the hospital, so he wanted something light for dinner. He  had some soup, I had a salad, and he felt very much better after showering and shaving. Being able to sleep in one's own bed also helps with healing.

A day later, two friends visited him, wanting to see him for themselves. He was glad they visited. The tweaked med schedule worked well. His headache remained manageable. I drove him as needed a few places. We figured the next week would be followup visits. However, he had just one visit with his primary care physician. The other visits were scheduled a few weeks out, which surprised both of us. I would have thought them sooner, but perhaps the second hospital visit had given them the chance to see that some progress was being made and wait and see couldn't be hurried along. A few weeks out might tell more about how much vision would return. 

We talked of his next steps. Waiting and seeing is hard when one is used to doing, to getting up and going, to driving one's self. He wanted to go to his workplace. They welcomed me warmly. He could take off as much time as he needed, and they'd be glad to have him return whenever he was ready. If he needed to be part time for a while, no problem. If he needed a ride there and back, no problem. They'd pick him up and drive him home. They were all glad to see him. If he needed anything, all he had to do was call them, and they'd help.

So it was, I was there a week when B said I didn't need to stay there any longer. He had enough food on hand, no appointments for a bit, and if he needed to get any place, he could have those who were closer drop by. 

I knew he was right, but I still felt as if I were abandoning him. He assured me I was doing nothing of the kind. And so I packed my things and made the long trip home.

Himself was thrilled to have me back. I was glad to be home. Glad to sleep in my own bed, be back on the coast where I could feel the salt in my bones.

The apples were still waiting for me. I've canned another batch of applesauce, dried some for pies, and apple cinnamon leather is in the dehydrator now. The garden will need putting to bed, and I need to repot the plants that are in the window box if I want to keep them over winter. The mundane tasks of a quiet life don't make for great blog fodder, but I realized on the trip down to help a friend that I love my life with its quiet rhythms and keeping with the seasons.

Apple Season Continues

My friend and I picked apples from the two trees in my yard. The ancient one had dropped a good many to the ground, compliments of an earlier than normal ripening and a few storms with high winds. There were also many scrumped by the squirrels methinks, as well as raccoons and skunks because the amount I saw on the ground plus what was left in the tree didn't add up to what I'd seen in the branches not a week before.

The younger tree had kept about half her apples on the branches and some were on the ground. Here, too, many had gone missing. Along with raccoons and skunks, we have deer so I am sure everyone got a chance to eat some. The younger tree is a semidwarf, so I've no doubt the deer could easily reach up and help themselves.

Undeterred, my friend and I picked. She had never used a long-handled apple picker and was keen to try it. She's taller than I am so could reach a few without it but it was nice to be able to reach nearly all the apples on the younger tree without needing to climb a ladder to get them. The ancient tree is standard size so one could climb it were one inclined. Neither of us were, and here again, the long-handled apple picker came in handy. Here's a picture from the internet to show what the basket part looks like. The handle on the one I have is 10 to 12 feet (~3-4 metres).

I gave her more of the younger tree apples as they looked nicer and were probably less wormy than the ones from the ancient tree. I gave her at least 3 gallons/~12 litres worth and maybe a bit more. After she left I went back to the ancient tree and was able to fill up a 5 gallon/~20 litre bucket. So, plenty to go around.

I didn't get to cooking them down for applesauce as quickly as I would have liked. About half of the apples from the ancient tree that were bruised were turning very brown at the bruise spots, so I decided to dehydrate those. I filled a 4 quart/~4 litre pot with the sliced bits I got from them, and they'll be a nice addition to the larder. I like to eat them as snacks or add to oatmeal. I still have half of them left, which should give us a few quarts/litres of applesauce.

My friend told me the apples I gave her rendered 4 quarts/~ 4 litres of applesauce.

 The picture below shows each kind of apples from the trees in my yard. Those on the left are from the younger tree. I am not sure what kind they are, maybe a Cortland. The flesh is a bright white, and they are juicy, a little more sweet than tart, have a clean taste, good for fresh eats, and are not mealy. Those on the right are from the ancient tree. I think they might be Macintosh or a close relative. They look yellow and red in the pic rather than green and red like Macs, but the yellow usually has a green cast to it. They are typically a bit sweet good for fresh eats, dried, as sauce and in pies. They are usually not mealy, although some of them were when I was preparing them for the dehydrator. They may have sat a little too long waiting for me, which may also account for the stronger yellow but will be delicious dehydrated in any case.

I learned more about the apples up the street and have collected some of those. The neighbour next door to the lady with the horses who have since died but who ate many of the apples saw me scrumping when he walked to the mailbox to collect his mail. He introduced himself and told me he was glad to see someone picking the apples. Eric explained they are not good use in the cider press but are tasty and called Wolf River apples. An old, old variety like many of the apples on my street. His wife worked at an organic apple orchard before she retired, and that's how they learned more about the apples. I told him I'd be glad to share them. He laughed, said he had a Wolf River apple tree in his yard and more apple trees in the back of his house. The family who'd owned much of the land had planted a number of fruit trees. The land was divided up into house lots over the years, and many of the apple and cherry trees still survive. Eric said he'd never seen this tree bear so heavily, and a few of the apples are the size of grapefruits.

I filled my large basket and lugged it home. There's certainly another basketful on the side I can reach easily. To reach the back of the tree, I'd have to climb over the horse fence, which I am reluctant to do. My friend and I shall meet tomorrow, and we'll get the ones we can reach without having to climb the fence. They are shown in the picture below. The average sized fruit is larger than the red apples from my yard. The piece of cardboard under them is 6 inches/~15 cm square. I researched just now, and they are good for baking and drying and make decent pies. Not so great for fresh eats. I'll try them fresh, all the same. What can I say? I go for low hanging fruit!