Of peculiar anniversaries

 April might be the cruelest month, but I have been dealt some serious blows in February.  And yet, two of them developed into tributes to my resilience and so I celebrate them, odd though the cluster in this month might be.

The longest ago:  09 February 1982, at 4:55 p.m. according to a bystander, I stepped out into Westport Road in Kansas City and inadvertently crossed paths with a VW the driver of which had become momentarily dazed by the radiance of the setting sun.  I did not prevail in the encounter and spent the next nine weeks in a hospital bed navigating the aftermath.  As I write, I keenly note today's date and wonder at time's stalwart march away from that haunting event.  The old-style artificial knee which catches scar tissue and provokes the occasional twinge reminds me of the moment when -- I swear -- a gentle being whispered that it was not yet my time.

Fast forward 15 years, lying in a bed at the same hospital, a surly pulmonologist spat out two words:  Six months.  He could not explain his prognostication beyond a shrug.  "Your body's wearing out, I'd say.  You'll be lucky to get that long."  Beside him, a neurologist whose child shared my son's kindergarten classroom, expounded on the casual pronouncement with a hand wave.  "We can't do more than we have."  I found his pronouncement odd since they had not actually done anything other than recommend oxygen for my labored breathing.

Into the desperation of that moment, a doctor whom I had seen many years prior happened.  Jovial and smiling, carrying the metal chart of pre-digitized records days, he heralded me from across the bed.  My two dreadful centurions glared.  But the saving angel failed to see their disapproving faces and proclaimed his disbelief in my imminent demise.  

Over the next weeks, I let that doctor, whose name is Joseph Brewer, assume my care.  The pulmonologist and the neurologist retreated; in fact, they pronounced me daft for trusting he whom they called a quack to his face.  I did not care.  Two thought me doomed; one promised survival.  With a five-year old at hand whom I had promised I would live past my 100th birthday, I had no real choice.

So here I sit.  That pulmonologist himself died a year or so after those events.  I can't speak to the continued health of the neurologist.  Once in a while, I track Joe Brewer and I think he has by now retired, after lending his name and expertise to some truly innovative research.  Eventually I spent time in several of his studies.  Whether you got the real stuff in the double-blind or not, at study's end everyone partook of those hopeful experimental treatments.  Some scoffed; some still believe; but either way, here I be, nearly three decades later.

February brought ends and beginnings in other years.  True loves claimed and forfeit chose the wintry days to announce themselves.  A few once-loved people crowded its first week with birthdays.  I shake my head and wonder how I came to be so entwined in the shortest month.  Yet here I sit, luxuriating in the sunlight streaming through a shop window, on a mind winter's day in Isleton, California.  I'm on duty at the creative collective which I started eighteen months ago and whose customers seem pleased with what we have undertaken here.  As I watch the cars pass by on historic Main Street, I cannot help but wonder what to make of these peculiar anniversaries.  I do not know; but a packet of tea might help me understand.  So I will ease its tender herbs into a pot of boiling water, and wait for guidance.

Mugwumpishly tendered,

Corinne Corley

The Missouri Mugwump®

®

What it is, is winter

 I cannot take back all the times that I've criticized a native Californian for complaining about what passes for winter here in the Sacramento-San Joaquin Delta.  I can only apologize, with the utmost sincerity.  My total assimilation extends to my shivering in 40 degrees; wishing that I had a winter coat and wrapping my throat in two layers of wool.

Winter grips my soul as well.  I contemplate my seemingly endless failures in the gloom of five a.m., before sunrise seeps over the horizon.  On the heels of that dismay come the painful memories of a few betrayals, several from the same quarter, and some undeniably unpleasant encounters.  I notice these things more in the throes of January wherever I am.  I do not like hot weather but somehow I find it easier to forgive everyone's shortcomings -- including my own -- while wearing light clothing.

A review of the last year discourages me.  A commissioned project that had been two years in the making trickled to a dissatisfying end.  Permission granted got abused.  A few acquaintances tragically died, prompting a reawakening of some unresolved grief.  

I want to focus on the successes but what it is, is winter, dragging me down in mind, body, and spirit.  My tendency to over-think and linger on clumsy missteps drags me backward. I give better advice than I take.  I close my eyes and tell myself, it's just a mood.  This too shall pass.

Outside my tiny house, the surviving perfume bush has started its winter bloom.  I bought two of them in 2020, during a brief period when stores re-opened before the resurgence of Covid and second lockdown.  One of them didn't last that terrible winter.  The other still strives to fend off periods of inadvertent negligence.  I sense its blooms before I see them when I exit, the strong pleasant fragrance wafting towards me on the morning air.  I stand in front of it, studying its delicate flowers and the flotsam and jetsam of my funny little garden.  I step away, and continue towards my car, but even I must admit that I feel a little warmer for some reason that I can't quite fathom.

Mugwumpishly tendered,

Corinne Corley

The Missouri Mugwump®

Entry and photo © M. Corinne Corley 2025, no permission for re-use granted without license

Lessons Learned

This weekend practically bludgeoned me with life's lessons.  Here I sit, at the end of it, staring in space with an enormous sense of incredulity.

Starting with the fires in Los Angeles, it seemed that wave after wave of horrifying events pummeled my senses.  I spent a solid hour Thursday evening scrolling through news clips, tagging photos of firefighters coming from thousands of miles away, reposting help lines on social media.  Then I started seeing disgusting misinformation, blame blasts, and accusations floating through news sources.  I could not quite fathom that some politicians seemed to think that the devastation experienced in Southern California provided an opportunity for political gain rather than a need for swift assistance and comfort.

On Friday, I accidentally caused harm to someone.  The degree of harm has not been clarified.  The person howled and glared, accusing me of a terrible and deliberate misdeed.  I and others assessed the situation as relatively minor and clearly inadvertent.  In the aftermath, someone made accusations against me to the effect that I, a disabled person, had no right to partake of normal daily activities; the individual accused me of being drunk or on painkillers, neither of which was remotely true.  Presumably, my spastic gait triggered the mistaken belief, but even when someone clarified on my behalf, the harassment continued.  I've had this experience many times in my life, but its shock value has not abated.  "You walk funny so you must be drunk" seems to be a persistent and erroneous assumption.   I heaved a sigh and hung my head while my compatriots urged me to ignore the hostility.  I should be used to this behavior but it still saddens me.

Then, while my self-pity still lingered, a neighbor died, apparently from a self-inflicted gunshot although we haven't heard an official pronouncement.  Someone found him a short distance from where we live, in his car.  The man had lived here when I arrived.  Though I did not know him much at all, he walked our park every day and greeted those of us whom he passed.  

For the first few years of our common residency, he walked our circle with his little dog.  After the dog died, he made the route alone.  I could tell that his loss hit hard.  From time to time, he acquired a girlfriend but that did not seem to last long.  Even as little as I spoke with him, I knew him to be distant, somewhat sad, and withdrawn. 

Of course, his death brought my brother's suicide to the forefront of my memory.  I contemplated the twenty-eight years since his death, examining my lingering sorrow to tests its rawness. His face has not dimmed in my mind but my grief seems less sharp.  He would turn sixty-five this year.  I found myself thinking, just idly, that he would have taken his paramedic license and his nursing degree, and headed to Los Angeles to help in the fires.  The thought cheered me, albeit only for a few moments.

A few small personal betrayals by seeming friends peppered the hours.  Other minor annoyances danced through my days.  I told myself, There is no fire in my valley, no bombs on my village.  I sucked it up.  But gloom lingered.

Morning will bring a new week.  I have an appointment for an oil change.  The weather might remain pleasant, sunny though cool.  I have nearly all of my laundry done, so I can do a planned decluttering of  my twenty-one inches of hanging space and six small drawers.  I will cull through my many jackets and gather a bag of clothes to donate.  Some time during the week, I will try to articulate the lessons that I've learned during these three days of awfulness.  As for tonight, I have a cup of cold water and a plate of gluten-free cookies, and nothing more arduous planned than a little light reading and doing the day's dishes.  I think I can handle that much.

Mugwumpishly tendered,

Corinne Corley

The Missouri Mugwump®

Starting Over

 

Every year I tell myself that the twelve months ahead of me will be different than the dying days of the closing calendar.  I disdain resolutions in favor of hopes, dreams, and determinations.  My house needs cleaning; my closet yearns for order; the laundry unit flashes its TUB CLEAN icon.  A day away from work affords the opportunity for a fresh start, and if I have any resolve, it lies in the task list that I've just sent to the printer in my upstairs bedroom.

Possibility calls to me like the elusive eternal lover of whom I have had painfully short glimpses for nearly seven decades.  Podcasts and videos play in the background with alternating messages of hope and despair.  Coffee and stretching launched my morning, along with the nearly perfect scrambled eggs and lightly toasted sourdough bread with which I start most days.  Always the optimist, I braid my hair, tie my shoes, and tackle the piles of clutter that seem to grow while I'm away, at work, at the shop, out of town.  Those gremlins that I used to hope would clean my house seem to delight in disorder, here in my 198 square feet of tiny territory.

Politically, I know that 2025 will disappoint me.  I take that as read.  The kakocracy looms.  The rights of child-bearing women have already been curtailed.  My immigrant acquaintances fall silent when I ask about their families, paperwork, and legal representation.  The decision of seventy-four million citizens to trust the greatest power to the most morally bankrupt astounds me, but I cannot impact the outcome except by the merest of gestures.  As much as I dislike the expression, "que sera, sera", none better suits the perilous times we face.

Instead of fretting about the demise of the American experiment, I turn myself to a closer consideration.  Once more, I determine that I will start over, with clean floors, dusted shelves, and decluttered cabinets.  Unopened junk mail can be tossed.  I can re-home the air fryer that I thought would change my culinary undertakings.  Books that I planned to read in the old year taunt from the bedside table but their jeering will fade as they fall into a donation box.  The dry ends of my braids already yielded to sharp scissors.  

Yesterday's quick run for eggs and bread brought a pleasant surprise.  Citrus season starts when I see the stem-and-leaf tangerines in the fruit aisle.  I fell upon them like a starved shipwreck survivor, while debating the relative merits of navel or cara cara oranges with a neighbor who happened to be shopping at the same time as I.  I brought home  a bagful of the delightful small orbs, praying that they would not disappoint.  I ate the first one last evening after a simple supper, and found it more satisfying than expensive chocolate, aged whiskey, or perfect Old Vine Zin.  Its fragrance lingered for some time after I discarded the peel: the heady, alluring scent of spring.

I recognize that I might not plow through my entire to-do list before dinner.  My shoulders will ache with the strain of pushing against the tension that I carry between them.  The three degenerated disks that a spine surgeon declined to repair already twinge in anticipation.  Those books offer a tempting detour, just as my keyboard has, just as those podcasts do, just as self-doubt always will.  

But at the end of the day, I know that whatever I get done will be more than nothing.  I have learned to give myself that much grace:  To accept what I can do, and leave the rest for my next free hours.  I enter this new year without resolution but also without reservation.  Whatever it holds will be enough; whatever eludes me will be relinquished; whoever walks beside me whether for one step or a thousand will be welcome.  

To those whom this missive reaches, I bid you the same:  A chance to begin anew; the possibility of peace and prosperity; the opportunity to love yourself and those around you; the absence of pain, the presence of joy.  If you have a to-do list with too many items, I hope you will allow yourself the luxury of dividing the tasks into surmountable increments.  If you find yourself in need of permission to rest, you have it.  I grant you that luxury.  Remember:  You can always start over next year.

Mugwumpishly tendered,

Corinne Corley

The Missouri Mugwump®

Flying with Arlo

 A couple of decades ago, more maybe, my son started fifth grade at a new school.  Desperate to help him adjust, I steeled myself to attend a mother's dinner.  I stood in the kitchen as conversation flowed in great waves around my clueless mind.  

At one point, a woman asked me who my student was.  "Pat," I answered, using the name by which he wanted to be known during that time.  She turned to her companion.  "Do you know a girl named 'Pat'," she asked the other mom.  "Oh, no," I hastened.  "It's short for 'Patrick', my son."  A look of annoyance flickered across her features.  

"We are the girl moms," she scolded.  "The boy moms are in the living room."  She turned away as I hastened to correct my egregious mistake.

Now comes Sunday, and my journey home from a week with that same boy, now a thirty-three-year-old man living in his own condo on the North side of Chicago.  Relegated to a wheelchair that my various infirmities immediately necessitate, I sit where I've been unceremoniously parked against a wall near the gate that will take me on the second leg of the all-day journey.  A mother juggles her little girl and a more patient boychild, while their father stands guard over the boy's backpack.  

"Tell your brother 'goodbye'," the woman urges the tiny child.  In response the urchin throws both arms around the departing one's legs and sends him lurching backwards.  He takes it with a grin and lifts her into the air -- just a few inches, but surely enough.  I exchange pleasantries with the parents while we all wait for the summons from the harried gate attendant.

Eventually, I find myself sitting next to the solo traveler.  The flight attendant gives him directions and I look down at him.  "Did you understand?" I ask.  He grins and replies, "I didn't even hear him!  Do you know what he said?"  I explain the safety rules to him.  We brace for lift-off, and then I show him how to put down his table and open the packet of pretzels.  He looks at me like he thinks I'm okay, not really a stranger, and asks me if I like the movie about Arlo the Dinosaur.  I think for a moment and then admit I've never seen it.

"It's my favorite," he chortles.  "Because he's named after me!"  I solemnly ask him what his name is, and his grin expands.  "Arlo, of course!"  Then he sobers a bit and says, "It has a happy ending but a sad middle.  Really, the sad part starts at the beginning because he loses his parents."  I ask if he found them again and Arlo shakes his head.  "No, he lost them forever."

The flight continues.  Arlo and I look at the clouds.  He remarks that the sun seems brighter and his eyes grow wide when I tell him why that might be.  I help him sort out his apple juice which he thinks tastes a little funny until he realizes that it might be because he's eating pretzels too.  "The tastes combine," he explains.  I ask his age and he tells me, "Almost nine," and I remark that he knows a lot for an eight-year-old.  He nods.  He knows.

When we get close to Sacramento, Arlo tells me that this is a special trip just for him to see his grandparents.  He thinks only his grandma will come get him because his grandpa doesn't like to leave his dog alone for very long.  He says his grandma is going to take him sky-diving.  He suspects it will be fun but also, he admits, a little bit scary.  As the airplane descends, he asks why we are slowing down and seems reassured by my answer.  I warn him about the landing gear and the possibility of a bump.  When it happens, his eyes grow wide and he says, "Well you were sure right about that!"

We wait for permission to unbuckle and the lady on the other side of me has started looking her phone. "Oh no," she cries.  "Jimmy Carter died!"  Arlo asks who Jimmy Carter is, and we explain.  The lady tells Arlo that after he stopped being president, he helped build houses for poor people.  Arlo says that sounds like a good thing to do, and asks the lady how old he was when he died.  The lady says, "100, I think, wasn't he?" and I agree.  Arlo puts his hand on my arm and says, "It's probably okay then, he was probably ready to die.  It's just as well.  He was probably tired."

Later, I watched Arlo leave the plane.  He doesn't see me because he's so excited to talk about the clouds. A woman about my age takes his hand, while her companion -- who apparently decided the dog would survive an hour alone -- swings Arlo's backpack over his shoulder.  

As  they move down the concourse, I think about the drive that I took with my son yesterday, to see parts of Chicago that he wanted me to experience.  We stopped outside a building with a mural dedicated to the murdered Black Panther activist Fred Hampton.  He manipulated his car so I could take a photo.  "That's probably the house in which the police gunned him down," my son tells me.  I think about my son and the causes he supports as our plane lands and Arlo watches the buildings grow larger.  "It's so beautiful," he tells me. Out of the mouths of  our children, I think, wisdom doth often come.

An attendant pushes my wheelchair along the hallway to the elevator and, side by side with another disabled passenger, we make our way onto the tram.  The lady next to me says, "I heard you with that little boy on the plane."  I turn to look at her, not sure of what to expect.  "You were very kind to him," she continues, and smiles.  

I shake my  head a bit dismissively.  "Anyone would have done the same," I insist.  She says, "But you seemed to have a way with him."   I look through the glass doors as we slow.  "Oh, well," I finally answer.  "It stands to reason.  I'm a boy mom, after all.  I should know something about talking to them."

Night falls around me.  I texted my son that I had safely arrived and smiled at his one-word response, "OK".  Not even a word, really -- just an acknowledgment, a noise, a shorthand for denying the obvious worry that might otherwise have lingered.  Once I would have read a thousand troublesome meanings into that brief message.  Tonight I send back an equally cryptic answer, a blue heart emoji, and let it go.

Mugwumpishly tendered,

Corinne Corley

The Missouri Mugwump®

My photo of the mural dedicated to Fred Hampton:     

Counting My Blessings

 

I have a lot of undertakings to which I give my income.  The shop that I founded, charities to which I donate, gifts for friends.  I used to go to the coast every month, before the shop.  I fly home once a year, renting a car and reserving an AirBnb.  I'm not a saver; I never have been.  I've been expecting to die since 1997, so there didn't seem to be a point.  Never mind that the poor fellow who made that prognosis himself died a year later, and that I have had twenty-seven years to understand his error.  I never learned to save, and that ship has sailed.  Fortunately, I taught my son -- or someone did -- and he will live better for it.

But I have enough, and I know I live a privileged life.  I still work at 69, because I must; but I don't mind the fact of continued employment.  Perhaps it's not ideal.  I grow weary, wearier than a decade ago and more quickly.  I've always been a bit unsteady on my feet, you know; and osteopenia hovers on the edge of my awareness.  Eventually, I will ease my workload, but it suits for now.  

I feel my privilege.  As I filled my salt mills the other day, the news of the day played in the background.  War; the collapse of governments across Europe and the Middle East; the threats to democracy --  all invaded the otherwise easy silence as I poured.  Celtic grey and Himalayan pink.  After I got that done, I decanted two pounds of one of my favorite beans, Mother Lode Coffee.  The counter needed cleaning, so I flicked the water lever and listened while my Precision Temp On-Demand propane water heater activated.  The water heater that my carpenter-builder installed failed after less than two years.  This brand cost ten times as much but has been incredibly reliable.  My small savings took a hit but I have no regrets. 

Christmas approaches.  All of the winter events for which I had responsibility have come and gone with a fair bit of success.  In a week, I will board a plane for Chicago.  I've yet to figure out a winter coat. My usual sources failed me -- Poshmark, ThredUp, the Goodwill in Lodi.  I could have gone to Kohl's while in town, but that's not my jam.  I ordered something semi-warm from Amazon despite its varied reviews.  It might go back; I might instead layer myself in wool until I deplane, and deal with whatever weather I encounter.  I'm sure my son will help me find something decent.  

My son takes me to the best places.  Once we went high above the city; so high, I could barely breathe.  Heights terrify me.  On that same visit, he navigated us to not one but two demonstrations. I watched, and listened, and we talked about the causes which put fire into the belly of his generation.  He grows more fine, more socially aware, more solid every year.  I could not be more proud of what he has made of himself.

  

Only fourteen days remain of this year.  I still have not resolved my website issues, mainly because I haven't had the time or stamina to make the decisions that the web guy outlined.  Time enough for that in the weeks ahead.  In the meantime, I have laundry to do, holiday cards to address, and a pile of scarves to sort through for the donation bag.  I ate a good dinner of gluten-free pasta and a mediocre plant-based sausage made primarily of egg whites and 'natural ingredients'.  I chuckled when I read that.  I suppose it could be arsenic for all I made a point of learning before I tossed them in the pan.  No matter; it charred nicely, and tasted vaguely of what I remember of meat.  I chased the lot down with cold spring water.

As we all head into whatever holiday we each celebrate, I bid joy to each of you.  Whether you believe in some higher power or just credit the universe with any grace that comes your way, I hope you can count your blessings on more than one hand.  As for myself, that goes without saying.

Mugwumpishly tendered,

Corinne Corley

The Missouri Mugwump®

Pie in the sky

 

10 December 2024, near the end of the eleventh year in which I continuously  strive to live without complaining.  Failure grips me; success skips away.

At 69, I should have chosen all the crossroads that fate might present but it seems that more await me.  My patience erodes.  I find myself unable to tolerate patronizing tones, jokes about serious subjects, and the outrage of self-righteous thinkers.  Employing an increasingly slim arsenal of resistance, I purse my lips in the face of any of these.  My mother's thin eyebrow arches; a twinkle shines in her eye; and in a second, my decade of intense study of nonviolent communication vanishes and I snap.  My mother's ghost turns away but not before I spy a little smile and a minute shake of her head.  

A competent web designer deems my sites irreparable -- or in the least, not worth repairing.  We switched into recovery mode as the hull of the ship sinks towards the ocean floor and my words desperately wave their frigid hands as they throw themselves on bobbing lifeboats.  I found a treasure trove on my laptop of the Musings, downloaded one at a time, in reverse, to prepare my manuscript two years ago.  It's the other blog, My Year Without Complaining, that struggles against the waves.  I learned my lesson:  Hire competent help; keep back-up files; update, update, update.  Those plug-ins won't mind themselves.

My friend Candy came into my shop the other day and asked when I would write another book.  She lives in the park where I landed seven years ago next week.  She and her husband have a 5th wheel with nearly twice the room of my tiny house and two yappy dogs, one of which likes me.  She bought my first release and even read it.  For that, if nothing else, I hold her dear.

Here's the thing:  I don't have to write another book, unless my focus changes.  I have years upon years of weekly missives that can be edited into a manuscript that I could shop on the strength of my first, self-published collection.  Nor would it be difficult to actually author fresh  material.  Rather than struggling to write, I must cudgel myself into doing anything else.  I can write; I find it easier than breathing.  Whether someone will underwrite the project remains to be seen.  

My unsettled emotional state might be the only impediment.  My inability to tolerate folks who treat me with an air of dismissal sends me into a tailspin now and again.  My faith in myself erodes. I question everything.  Last week, I even considered pulling stakes and hiring a flatbed to take my tiny house to my cousin Kati's land south of St. Louis, if she would still have me.  I'd hear that comforting blend of east and south in voices at the local diner.  My son would be just a five-hour drive to the north.  Three of my siblings would be in the metro area.  I could live in quiet seclusion, occasionally strolling across the way to have coffee on my cousin's porch and talk until dawn.

I'm tempted.

But then:  I get a call from the incomparable Tim Anderson, standing on my porch to claim a sleeping bag that I no longer need.  In his cheerful voice he asks if I would like an apple pie with or without caramel.  Before I can tell him that I shouldn't have sugar or gluten, he tells me that he'll leave both.  He thanks me for the sleeping bag which I had in turn gotten from our mutual friend Michelle Burke.  He says he can always use a sleeping bag for himself or one of the many friends who come to visit him in the Delta.  He closes with his usual, I'll see you always, ending the call almost before I can agree.

This evening, after a simple supper, I warmed one of the two pies.  The other easily slid into the small freezer in my tiny fridge.  With a pie server that I do not think I have used in a decade, I cut myself a modest serving.  I sat down to a piece of pie on a pretty plate, which I ate with a fork from the tableware that my sister sent me.  It's the pattern of my mother's everyday silver.  I find myself smiling.

The sun sets at five these days.  My son told me informed me that we are in Jupiter opposition.  I don't know if that impacts my mood but I've been crying and laughing in turns apropros of nothing discernible.  My spirit might be preparing for another crossroads.  I should tighten my shoelaces. I might have to choose in a hurry, and make a dash before I change my mind.

Mugwumpishly tendered,

Corinne Corley

The Missouri Mugwump®