Whoever names storms seemed to want to celebrate my family this year. First there was Alberto, then Beryl and later Ernesto. My son-in-law's mother is called Sandy.
There is nothing I can write about this last storm. I have a son in Maryland and one in Virginia and the last thing I did before I went to bed last night was send them an e-mail and tell them to be careful and to keep in touch. This morning I heard from Andrew in Rockville, Maryland, that they had been without power all night, but it had been restored by morning. They have had such dismal experiences with their power company—rather inaptly called Pepco—that they bought a generator which helps during their frequent outages. Al posted data about the rainfall in his rain gauge (5 inches when he woke up) and put up photos of a road disguised as a river, but they both escaped the worst of Sandy's violence.
We had watched the news reports last night as the east coast prepared for the worst. On occasions like this the news agencies make use of the local reporters affiliated with their network. We enjoyed the anxious and rather garrulous young woman, hoping perhaps for a future shot at the big time, who told us that there was a great deal of damage when a car fell on a tree, but watching the reports tonight, it was hard to find any humor.
We are several hundred miles away from the areas where the storm came aground, but last night the sound of blowing rain and blustery winds kept me awake. It has calmed down now. How easily life returns to normal for us who did not suffer the effects of the storm.
If Scarlett O'Hara had lived in Michigan rather than Georgia, I suspect she would have edited her vow to "I'll never be cold again."
It is certainly a vow I have made countless times over the years. No, please don't picture me as a little match girl shivering on a street corner. But there have been times . . .
Growing up in England, I knew cold. But it was a damp, clammy cold and a winter coat was usually wool, made a little more cold friendly with layers of woolly cardigans. Home made, thanks to my mum. Then there was three years in Los Angeles, where the Santa Ana winds was the closest I came to something that even sounded like winter. On to Michigan, where I first came across those piles of snow I had unbelievingly seen on TV in California. Funny thing, I can remember the blue snow suit I bought for baby number 1, but I can't remember what I had for outerwear. I do know, however, it wasn't always the right thing..
My dilemma is illustrated by the catalogs that have been arriving at the house. Eddie Bauer, Landsend and L.L. Bean. Do I want mid thigh or hip length? There's even a high hip. There's a long coat and a maxi coat, a three quarter coat and an "above ankle" coat. If you want wool, there's also an insulated wool, and I could protect myself with an Adirondack cotton canvas Barn coat, either insulated or flannel lined. Of course the real work horses of winter coats are modern down, essential down and now ciré down. Did I mention goose down? Thinsulate is always a winner, be it waterproof or water-resistant. Windproof helps too. And so it goes.
Michigan is an interesting state. The Lower Peninsula is shaped rather like a mitten, so if you ever see inhabitants of the state holding up their hand and pointing to a spot, they may be indicating where they were born or lived. Mitt Romney has been know to do this. On the other side of the magnificent Mackinac Bridge (pronounced Mackinaw) is the Upper Penninsula, the land of Youpers. Escanaba in Da Moonlight, anyone? Maybe I will give you more of a history/geography lesson one day. I'm sure you would like to hear the story of how I, a neophyte driver at the time, drove across the Upper Peninsula and, as we neared the bridge,started looking for a place to exchange drivers, suddenly finding myself driving across the bridge, the third longest suspension bridge in the world.
This trip was to spend a few days with a friend in Cheboygan at his cottage on Lake Huron, at the northernmost tip of the Lower Peninsula. (I'll also have to give you a lesson on why vacation homes are always described as cottages, even though in many cases they are grander than our main residence.) I also have to write on the rather vague "up north", as in "I went camping up north" or "We went hunting up north". If you Google "up north", most of the early references are to Michigan. I was looking forward to all kinds of photo ops. Here's one I took right after we got there looking down his winding "driveway"—
. . . and there's probably not a single doctor who would object. My medication of choice? Water.
I've had some days of feeling lousy this year—tired, wobbly and generally miserable. Vitamin B-12 shots elevated my blood levels from poor to acceptable, but I still didn't feel right. Then I started noticing that I was waking up with a very dry mouth and dry feeling lips and I began to put two and two together.
In my entire life, I have only been thirsty a handful of times, and I have rarely drunk water. This is very noticeable because I am married to someone who can't leave the house without a bottle of water, who drinks his water at dinner and urges me to drink mine (though I never have) and who, when we go out to dinner drinks his water down, then mine and then asks for more. I also recalled one of the posts written earlier this year by my favorite blogger, Ronni Bennett. Hers is the first blog I read every day. Her research is extensive and lately she has had much to write about such things as the effect of changes in Medicare on elders. But she has general health information too, and in February she wrote this article on dehydration. I think she is spot on. I have been trying, and for me at least, it is not easy. Drinking water is something I have to make a conscious effort to do. But I do think it makes me feel better, so I'll keep on trying.
Any opinions?
