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®