Societal grief and misbehaviour

One of the things about the pandemic that has disturbed me the most is the level of what might broadly be termed as "misbehaviour" that has taken place.  In any disaster, there are those who take advantage, scam, and loot.  (And, there are those who help, assist, and try to provide.)  But, with the pandemic, people, normal people, seemed to find licence to give free rein to racism, belligerence, intolerance, acts of violence and overt aggression, verbal abuse of total strangers, strident calls for punishment of minor offences, vitreolic attacks on those who disagree with your position, and so forth.  Even in Canada, where the national characteristic is "tolerance to the point of vice."

I was talking about this with a clerical friend (clerical in the pastoral sense, not secretarial), and she said that it was because we were, as a whole society, grieving.  We have lost normality.  We have lost the calm, even tenor of a life, with a job, with continuity and, even if there are a few things we didn't like about it, the expectation that nothing really, seriously, bad was going to happen to us.

This makes an awful lot of sense.  One of the (symptoms? side effects? factors?) aspects of grief is unreasoning anger.  It's one of the reasons that families often sue doctors or police or anyone who can possibly be blamed for the death of a loved one, even if those people really aren't to blame.  Sometimes we are angry at the deceased, or at God.  If we are angry, we must be mad at *someone*, and for some good reason.  The reality is that the bereaved are, often, simply angry at the loss.

Response generalization takes over, and our mind finds reasons for our aroused state, even if those reasons don't stand up to rational examination.  (The bereaved are not known for their calm rationality and analysis.)  We find a reason to be angry at someone, for some slight, or even just imagined, offence.  And then we channel the full force of that rage (which is, even though unjustified, very real and strong) at someone who doesn't deserve it.  Creating yet more destruction and loss in the world.

If you are grieving, I understand.  But, find a way to channel or manage that anger.  Use it to motivate work, properly.  Find an appropriate direction for it.  Do not let it hurt others.  Or I will be very angry with you.

And you wouldn't like me, when I'm angry ...

Anniversaries

Today is Gloria's birthday. The girls asked me, last week, if this was going to be a trigger. It is nice of them to be concerned, but it isn't really an issue for me. 

Birthdays and anniversaries generally aren't on my radar. I have as much trouble with them as with names. I made a very conscious and concerted effort to remember Gloria's birthday and our anniversary while we were married, because I knew that anniversary dates were important to Gloria. (All except for her own birthday, which tended to get lumped in with Number Two Grandson and myself. ) But, on my own, they just aren't an issue. 

I'm out for lunch today with some friends of ours, two of whom share Gloria's birthday. It's on the North Shore, so I swung by the cemetery on the way, but that's more because I'm on the North Shore than because it's her birthday.

Am I doing it wrong?

I am reading yet another piece on grieving.  It is supposed to be giving me comfort.  In a way, I suppose it does provide some comfort, in that it's saying that it's OK to grieve; it's OK to be sad; other people have had these experiences.

The thing is, other people have had lots of experiences that I haven't.  Lots of people say their loved one comes back to them, appears to them, that they dream about the loved one.  Gloria hasn't appeared to me.  (That may be unfair: she may have appeared to me in dreams, but she *knows* I almost never remember my dreams.)

I don't wake up and look for Gloria on the other side of the bed.  I know she's dead.  I've known ever since I woke up in the hospice and she wasn't breathing.  The closest I've come to forgetting that she's dead is having to correct myself over "our" car or "our" bank account, or thinking "Gloria would be interested in that" before mentally changing it to "Gloria would have been interested ..."  (Then again, maybe Gloria is interested in that, whatever she is doing right now, if "now" has any meaning in eternity.)

I'm also supposed to be angry.  At Gloria, at God for taking her, whatever.  Now, I know that I have unreasoning anger.  It's the bereaved person's superpower.  But, as far as I know, I'm not angry at Gloria.  I'm glad that she's out of the pain she was in.  I'm not mad at God.  What would be the point of that?

I'm not even mad at the oncologist.  Gloria liked him.  OK, maybe he was a bit cagey and undetailed in what he saw earlier in one of the tests.  He made a referral to a GI specialist, and didn't provide any details, so the GI specialist didn't follow up.  But, would it have made any difference if it had been discovered then?  It was a referral to a GI specialist, so they *might* have found the stomach tumour.  But the cytology on the pleural fluid indicated that the tumour on the lung originated with a tumour somewhere in the pelvic organs.  So there was already metastatic cancer, and it probably pre-dated the stomach tumour, and knowing earlier might have meant that we might have known longer that Gloria was going to die, but it probably wouldn't have saved her life.

But, there you are.  I'm being all rational and cognitive.  I'm not being emotional and irrational.  So, am I doing grief wrong?

Listening and advising

So, I was restless and decided to go for a walk.  I needed some stuff from the store, and ended up buying more than I expected, and by the time I got through the till it was too late to get to my main church in time for the service so I headed for my emergency backup church.  Never heard the service, because D started talking to me.  He lost his wife about the same time Gloria died.  And we were still talking when the service started, and he seemed to need to, so I suggested we talk in the foyer.  He talked for two solid hours.

Remember listening?  I know 90% of you think you are better than average at listening, and that's mathematically impossible, but I am, actually, better than average at listening.  I've practiced.  And I listened for two solid hours.  Within ten minutes I'm sure that most people would have pegged him as a pathetic loser, and started giving "advice," but, if you actually listen to him, he's had a pretty interesting life.  He's got medical problems, so I could have pushed the idea of walking.  Except that, a few of his issues involve the feet (and, additionally, he probably knows as much about wound clinics as I do).  He's got financial difficulties, and I've just been through a seminar on the CPP plan and the various options, but I kept my mouth shut, and, fifteen minutes later it was clear he knew *more* about CPP than I did.  And so it went.

I hope he felt better for having someone actually listen to him for a while.  Maybe it'll help him.  If it didn't, maybe I wasted two hours of my life.  But, then again, what's so valuable about my time these days?

SUCCESS!

 

!

What do you mean, you don't see it?

That fairly straight line of green ... dots?  Smudges?  They're leaves.  Sprouting from radishes.  (At least, I'm *fairly* sure that that's what I planted there.)  (Hey, we grieving widowers have to take our successes where we can get them.)

Radishes are supposed to sprout fairly early, aren't they?  I understand, from my baby brother, that they sprout and produce fairly early in the season, and keep producing all spring.  So I've gone and got some more radish seeds.  Not that I'm particular fond of radishes, but, if they are going to grow, I'm going to plant them.  (Hey, we grieving widowers have to take our successes where we can get them.)  I've also got some green onion seeds, since I understand that they are easy to grow as well.  (Hey, we grieving widowers have to take our successes where we can get them.)  I've gone to Dollarama, and got a bunch more packets of seeds from them.  (They are only thirty-four cents at Dollarama.  The packets *say* $.99, but they only charge thirty-four cents at the till.  Yeah, I know they are probably not as good as the packets that everyone else sells for two or three dollars, but hey.  They're seeds.)  I even got some beets, finally.  I like beets.  I just hate to cook them.  I figure I can plant them now, and harvest them really late in the fall, when pretty much everything else is finished.  I remember beets taking a looooong time.  I may cook the greens (which tend not to be very green, but taste like a sort of gritty spinach) and get some peanut sauce, and try to make my own version of gomae.

Most of the strawberry shoots my baby brother has given me seem to have taken, and a number are putting out new leaves.  The ones I planted in the patio I probably will never see "produce," but I put some in pots, so they can come with me.  I even yanked a bit off a weeping willow tree that I passed a few days ago, and stuck it in one of the pots, to see if it would propagate.  (None of the pine seeds seem to have sprouted yet.)  I got some tomato seeds at Dollarama, so I may try my hand at starting some of them early/inside, if I can find another Kirkland croissant tray in the recycling bin to use as a greenhouse.

I suspect all my corn has died without ever sprouting, but I went overboard on buying corn seeds, so I can still plant some more when the weather gets a bit warmer.

Moving house(s)

 A couple of days ago I saw a whole slew of temporary "No Parking" signs being put up along the street.  So I asked the guy with the sledge hammer, and he said they were moving two houses, putting them on barges, and sending one to Vancouver (I think) and the other to Victoria.

So, tonight I followed along the string of no parking signs until I found:

You ever see them actually move a house?

One guy obviously thought they were kidding about the "No Parking."  He'd actually pulled up the No Parking sign beside where he parked.

At one point they had to sit and wait for the other house, which had to go first.

Walking to the overpass to get these shots, I passed a group of teens and told them what was going on.  They stayed glued to their phones and missed the whole thing.

You ever see them move *two* houses at once?

Walking it off

I missed an appointment today.  Totally my own fault.  Partly I was distracted because our extended health medical insurance finally paid off on what they initially called a "death benefit," and then told me it wasn't actually a death benefit, but then wouldn't tell me what death expenses would be covered by it, so I bundled up roughly $8,000 of the $10,000 in expenses (honestly, who can afford to die these days?), and finally today they sent me a terse "statement" that seems to have accepted roughly $7,000 of what I submitted, which well exceeded the limit for whatever it is that *isn't* a death benefit, and included a cheque.

So, since I seem to be taking every possible excuse *not* to do the taxes, I decided I needed to go for a walk to the bank (which I'm going to be at tomorrow anyway to try and deal with now in excess of a dozen issues that I am not very happy about) to deposit the cheque, and, by the time I remembered that I had this appointment (which I had noted this morning, and planned to keep), I was too far away to get back for the appointment.

Walking seems to be my only comfort these days.  If I am restless, or unsettled, or just bored, my default seems to have become to go for a walk.  I don't know why it's comforting.  (I mean, yesterday, when I did a round trip to Queensborough, walking back over the Alex Fraser in the wind and the rain was definitely *NOT* comforting.  I got back, took everything out of my pockets, dumped all my clothes into the dryer, and got into a hot bath to soak my aged and aching bones and also warm up.)  Since Kintec has delivered on getting me some decent shoes, I am stress testing them.  I did sixteen kilometres yesterday, and thirteen this morning, and then added another four and a half going to the bank this afternoon.  I have pretty much taped the wet weather route to the one, lone remaining Safeway, which is probably going to become a weekly start to OGCM.

Maybe I'm just avoiding doing the taxes.

Existential threats

A recent Russian press conference:

https://lite.cnn.com/en/article/h_112c4d58f0a10422771f84ae165caad5

First of all, they tacitly admit that they haven't achieved *any* of their goals.

But they also say they will nuke anybody they consider an "existential threat."

I am reminded of my classical history course.  Rome (as in, the Roman Empire) saw itself as peaceful, and had a strict code for engaging in a "just war."  It had to be done properly.  The thing is, over time the way Rome perceived an "existential threat" evolved from "anyone who is actually attacking us" to "anyone who has declared war on us" to "anyone who is preparing to march to war against us" to "anyone who might, in the future, *think* about attacking us, so we'd better attack them first."

Taxes

I did my first tax return when I was seventeen.  I'd had other jobs, but only short term and low paid.  I suspect that my parents thought I should learn how to do taxes.  I think they helped a bit with getting my Social insurance number, but, as usual, in terms of actually teaching me to do things, they basically threw me into the deep end and left me to it.

I was, at the time, both in my first year of university, and working as the Circulation Manager for the Kerrisdale Courier.  It's a weekly, so they only published on Thursday, and I didn't have any classes on Thursday, so I could do it.  And, at tax time, they pulled a fast one on me.

I dropped off the bundles of papers for our delivery boys.  When we got new delivery boys, I bught them paper delivery bags, and got reimbursed by the company.  I also hired day labour workers to do "free" delivery in selected areas, to try and build circulation.  I paid the workers (piece rates), and got reimbursed.  I also would buy office supplies at times, and even bulk coffee supplies for the lunch room.  And get reimbursed.

Then came tax time.  And my T4 didn't reflect what I got paid, but totalled up every cent of every cheque the company had given me.  It totalled somewhere more than four times what I had actually been paid, and would have made a huge difference in what I was charged in income tax, probably making me owe more money than I actually had left.

So I called Revenue Canada, as it then was.  And the nice man on the phone said, yes, that was a problem, and I could challenge the T4, but it might be a lot of trouble, and he suggested that I fill out my taxes as if I owned my own business, a "sole proprietorship," as it was called.

I'd kept a really detailed ledger of what I had received and spent that year, so I did that.  After taking off all the stuff I had paid out on behalf of the Courier as "expenses," I came out with a small enough number that I'm not sure I paid any taxes that first year.  And, what with doing taxes as if I had owned my own business (just by following the guides from Revenue Canada), doing the taxes ahs never held any terrors for me.  When Gloria and I got married, I took over the taxes and did both of us every year, sometimes doing them three or more ways in order to see which was most cost-effective.  (When Number Two Daughter paid us back the loan for her accounting training, she said that we'd never have to do taxes again, but we never took her up on that  :-)

But, while taxes have never held any terror, they have become increasingly irksome over the years.  Not that I have any specific or generalized objection to paying taxes: we need taxes to make the country run.  But I used to be able to hold a mathematical model of the tax form in my head, understanding that an increase in the number *here* meant a decrease over *there*, and why that was so.  Now it's pretty much impossible.  The forms are a complicated maze, and greater in number, and of greater complexity, and there is no telling what impact this number *here* will make over *there*.  Even simple pension income comes in multiple parts, with certain amounts being entered in wildly disparate locations on the tax forms, and only CRA knows what they mean (if, in fact, CRA *does* know what they mean), or what impacts they have.

A few years ago, the numeric references of the entry fields on the tax forms went from three digits to five.  Doesn't the fact that they decided that a one thousand entry field address space was too small, and jumped to one hundred thousand, tell you that taxes are just getting too complicated?

Bright ideas just keep popping into my head ...

I see that South Carolina has decided that it's OK to have executions by firing squad.

I'm wondering, in the current social and political climate, how long it will be before it's OK to execute by firing squad, and, in order to boost the public coffers, citizens can bid, at auction, to be part of the squad ...

(The title is a quote from Sondheim's "Sweeney Todd.")

Grief Guys Guide to comforting the bereaved

(While this post can stand on it's own, it's definitely part of the Grief Guys project.) 

OK, your friend or relative has been bereaved.  You want to help, but you don't know what to do.  And, of course, in our society, doing the wrong thing is worse than doing nothing at all, right?

Well, in this case, wrong.  Grief is lonely.  Grief is isolating.  Grief makes you feel as if you are alone in the world.  So doing nothing is *DEFINITELY* the wrong thing to do.  And quite possibly much wronger than any other mistake you could have made.  (Aside from not listening.  But we'll get to that.)

You don't want to overload the bereaved, it is true.  But it is extremely unlikely (in my experience, at least) that the bereaved will be overwhelmed with calls.  In my case, pretty much nobody called.  Nobody showed up unannounced for a visit.  Nobody came over with casseroles to fill up the fridge or freezer.  Possibly it was because of the pandemic, but nobody phoned, either, and I never heard any cases of anyone getting CoVID over the phone.

I did get a few emails, fairly well along in time, that said they would have called but they didn't know what to say.  Well, there is nothing to say.  You can say nothing.  That's OK, too.  It's possibly better to say nothing in person, because it's hard to tell the difference between saying nothing, on the phone, and being cut off.  (Subtle hint: the way to tell the difference is that, if you have been cut off, the phone starts to beep at you.  Fairly soon.)  There are different ways of saying nothing, though.  There is listening.  That is the best, but very, very few people know how to do it.  Listening is vitally important, and if you are going to try and do any form of comforting you probably need to learn how to do it.  If you want to be helpful, next time someone is bereaved, then practice listening.  Now.  You can easily practice it in pretty much any conversation.  Actually listen to what the other person is saying, don't just wait for the subtle clues that indicate the other person is about to stop talking, so that you can start.  Try to figure out when the person means by what they are saying.  Try to fully understand what they are saying.  If there is anything you don't understand, ask questions.  But don't just ask questions to score points and prove (wrongly) that you have been listening.  Ask questions to understand the other person.

To start practicing listening, you can go search for some tips on listening, such as the Wikipedia entry on listening.  It has some references you can use to get started, but, even in that piece, the longest section is the one that says classical rhetoric concentrated on how to speak, and not how to listen.

Possibly a better place to start is a Harvard Business Review article, "What Great Listeners Actually Do."  A couple of  the things it notes is that good listeners increase speaker's self-esteem, and that good listeners make good suggestions, rather than poor or facile suggestions, so, when you are practicing listening (although possibly not when you are actually trying to help bereaved people by listening) is to close the conversation by asking "do you feel better following this conversation" or "did this conversation help you."  Another interesting HBR article (from 1957!) has some "don'ts" from a business perspective, but the points are likely helpful for listening in general.  A fairly basic set of tips, although it doesn't add much, is from Forbes.  There are a great many articles on "active listening."  One of the few that provides helpful tips is from the Center for Creative Leadership (although they'll probably try to sell you something  :-)

There are some naturally-occurring chemicals that affect our moods.  You all know about tryptophan, which is supposedly why you all fall asleep after Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner.  (The only problem being that turkey isn't really that excessively high in tryptophan, and the reason you fall asleep is because you've eaten so much dinner, regardless of what that dinner is.)  There is also the fact that phenyalanine, which we produce when we are in love, is present in chocolate.  Therefore, many theorize that those who are disappointed in love sooth themselves by eating chocolate.  (This is a case of taking perfectly good data, and drawing the wrong conclusions.  The reality is that those who insist on falling in love have insufficient chocolate in their diet.)

Dopamine is a chemical that we produce, ourselves, in many situations.  Dopamine is associated with reward.  When we produce dopamine, we reward ourselves.  It is pleasant.  It makes us happy and rewarded.  So strong is this association that anything which produces dopamine can become addictive.

Talking about ourselves exercises the part of the brain that produces dopamine.

Why should we have a mechanism that rewards us for talking about ourselves?  Probably because letting other people know about ourselves is necessary for communication.  But, of course, when taken to extreme, it can become a problem.  We get rewarded for talking about ourselves.  We like how we feel when talking about ourselves.  Talking about ourselves can become additive.  We can easily get to the point where we only talk to other people because it gives us a chance to talk about ourselves.

(And that thing the police do, using silence to get people to talk?  Well, suspects being interviewed in a police station are probably a bit stressed.  In a bid to reduce their stress, they'll probably want to do something that produces dopamine, so that they can reduce their stress and discomfort.  Talking about themselves will do that.)

You're probably part of the ninety percent who think they are better-than-average listeners.  You may even feel that you are a pretty good counsellor, even if informally, even if you only try to be good at listening to your friends, or people at church.  Trust me, it's likely that you are not.  OK, Rob, I hear you say, you've said we're not good listeners.  *We* say we are.  So far it's "he said/we said."  Prove it.

OK, I have a challenge for you.  Most of you have smartphones.  Most of those smartphones will take video.  Set them up to record a few conversations.  It may be just you having coffee with a friend.  It may be you counselling a friend.  (If so, let them know what you are doing, and get their agreement.)  Then watch the video.  Watch it all the way through.  Listen to it carefully.  Count all the times you talk about yourself.  (You should really *measure* the amount of time you are talking about yourself, but we'll start with just counting.)  Even if the story you are telling is making a point important to your friend, if it's about you, it counts.

(And remember, if this is a counselling situation, simply letting the counsellee talk about themselves means that *they* get the dopamine reward.  They get to feel good.  Isn't that the point of the exercise?)

If you're being honest, you'll probably be surprised by the result.  You may even be shocked.  I'm not going for shock, here, but you can't start to fix a problem until you realize it exists.  Once you realize that you *do* need to improve, you can start to use this tool (and move on to the measuring part) to practice and improve your listening skills.

Learning to listen is crucial.  It's a skill that has many benefits, so practicing how to do it will help you in many areas of life, as well as comforting those in loss.

However, even if you haven't yet learned how to listen, don't just whine about not knowing what to say, do something!  Do anything!  (Pretty much.)  There is very little you can do that is worse than just doing and being nothing.  So, go over and clean the bathrooms.  If you don't want to go into someone else's space in this pandemic time, then go over and shovel the driveway, or clean leaves out of the gutters.  Take over the aforementioned casserole.  (Or a nice salad.  Why doesn't anyone ever bring salads?)  Sending a card is pretty much the least thing you can do: it possibly sets up expectations and obligations that the bereaved person has to respond in some way and thank you for what was a pretty easy gesture on your part, so I wouldn't recommend it.  Offering to pay for something is the second least: it requires pretty much no thought on your part.

No, on second thought, the *LEAST* you can do is ask, "what can I do to help?"  That puts *ALL* the onus on the bereaved person, and that is a really stupid and unhelpful way to try and support someone who is in real distress.

And if you say you are going to do something, even if it is just "lets get together" or "lets talk" or offering to go for a walk, do it.  Don't overpromise and underdeliver: the bereaved have had enough betrayal already.

A few general grief resources: on Instagram there are a couple of accounts that publish some lovely, and often comforting, "memes": https://www.instagram.com/lifedeathwhat/ , https://www.instagram.com/p/CivlCveue9v/ .  There is also this clip, which relates to what I am trying to get at with the "Grief Guys" idea: https://www.instagram.com/p/CkdJF0dLO6p/

Well-meaning

The first rule of grief group is that you don't talk about grief group, but I don't think this gives anything away.  I was talking about the garden, and one of the others said that I should join a garden club, and that I'd gets lots of advice about how and what to garden from the other garden club members.  And I said, though slightly gritted teeth, "I don't *WANT* any more advice."  And all the others in the group smiled slightly and nodded sagely.

When you are bereaved, you seem to be fair game for anyone to think that they can "help" you by offering stupid and facile advice.  And people *do* want to help: as L said when I was pointing this out, "Well, they *mean* well."  Yes, they do.  But did you notice that "well-meaning" is not exactly a compliment?  "Well-meaning" seems to be a generic and all-purpose excuse for when someone does something particularly stupid.

I'm with Job on this.  "Doubtless you are the people, and wisdom will die with you!  But I have a brain as well as you; I am not inferior to you."  (12:1-3)  Job had a really nice turn in sarcasm.  Bereaved people are damaged, they are hurting, their judgment may be questionable in some areas, but they haven't lost their marbles.  Assuming that they have is just another injury to add to their collections of hurts.

As an example, disturbance in sleeping patterns or lack of sleep is one of the most common symptoms or side effects of grief.  I have been suffering from it, and still am, although it seems to be getting marginally better as time goes on.  But the next person who says "melatonin" to me is going to get a poke in the nose.  Yes, I know every patent nostrum and "old-wives" remedy for sleep ailments going.  I have tried melatonin.  (Twenty years ago.)  It didn't work then, and it doesn't work now.  I have tried warm milk.  I have tried a big meal before sleeping.  I have tried no meal before sleeping.  I have tried American antihistamines (which are basically identical to Nytol).  I have tried it/them all and found it wanting.  I am not just ignorant of your particular sleep superstition.

I am getting really, *really*, *REALLY* sick of "advice."  Is it that you are so terrified of silence that you have to rattle off any random thought that comes across your mind in order to fill it?  Silence isn't that bad.  It doesn't kill you. (Worse luck.)  I've had hundreds of hours of silence since Gloria died, and I'm not dead yet.  It's maybe a little lonely, and sometimes I'll cry over the sheer oppressiveness of it, but crying doesn't kill you either.  And sometimes, in the silence, you can think.  Or you can do chores.  Or sometimes just do nothing and rest.

Silence is not as bad as too much "advice."

Noise and music?

Before Gloria and I got married, my apartment was so lonely I would sometimes play the radio all night (very softly) just so the silence wasn't oppressive.  Gloria had (interestingly, for someone interested in music) no interest in background music, so she didn't like having the radio, or records, or anything else playing in the background.  (The single exception was "Crimmus Music," which was the term the girls gave to one particular Christmas album, bought almost by accident, which became the "theme music" for Christmas decoration time, and was played over and over again while Christmas decorating went on.)  So, while we were married, there was never any background music.

After Gloria died, I figured that having some music in the background would help alleviate the loneliness.  I have a directory on my computer that has a large number of songs on it.  I had to find something that would play them (most are so old that they are .WAV files), and set it up to go randomly through my makeshift "playlist."

It quickly became annoying.

So, apparently I'm no longer interested in background music, reading, or watching movies.

I'd better develop some new hobbies.  Stat.

Energy versus ?

For the past week, I felt that I was feeling a lack of energy.  Not completely, but I was less inclined to work, and was taking more breaks and wasting more time doing nothing in particular.  Was it that I was running out of adrenalin after all the death admin and the memorial service being done?  Or was it that I was headed into a depression?  Which would be a wretched thought.

But then, with the Grief Guys, I suddenly had a new project.  And I feel more energy.

Hope it lasts ...

Changes

It's a big step.

But it's not immediate, in any case.  It's got a bunch of outs between here and when it has to be finalized.

It's a good plan, and I'm lucky to have people who know these things, and find these things, and know how to deal with them and navigate the systems involved.  Who know the people, and the markets, and the values, and have a pretty good idea of what's a good deal and what's not.

It makes sense.  (As much as anything in my life makes sense at the moment.)  It's not even that big a change, because the way I live and work isn't going to be that much affected.

(I do, of course, always reserve the right to make jokes about how I was forced into it.  After all, inappropriate humour is how I function.  But the reality is that I was thinking of something along these lines, and, as soon as I said so, here I am presented with a great opportunity.)

But I'm still allowed to be nervous, right?

Grief Guys

This idea is in development, so I'll probably be making additions to this post over time, which I'll try to remember to note here at the top.

20220314 13:32 initial posting

20220314 17:20 additional details of what Grief Guys might do and noting potential gender problems

20220315 03:30 reduce direct home involvement, and "to do list generation" as "therapeutic" activity

20220315 17:17 added literature references

20220319 offshoot post guide to comforting bereaved, additions regarding churches and palliative care

20221201 more development of the idea

20221220 introduction and articulation

20230124 Materials and resources

There's a couple of things led up to this.  One of the guys from church invited me to a regular get-together at an A&W for coffee every week.  (I tend to refer to it as OGCM: Old Guys Coffee Morning.  As a Certified Old Person, who has recently had A Fall, I figure I qualify.)  Two of the guys have also had recent losses.  When we talk about the death admin and costs and such, we immediately recognize and sympathize with the problems.  The other guys in the group are somewhat uncomfortable when we do, and they don't fully understand.  (That's fairly common with grief.)

The other thing is that all the grief counselling, grief groups, and grief so forth almost invariably and solely involve women.  Guys seem to be missing from the grief landscape.

One of the reasons for this is probably that guys don't talk.  Well, actually, guys don't *think* they talk.  Guys have this (generally mistaken) image of themselves as the strong, silent types.  (I can recall my baby brother, during the period after Dad's Surgery [long story, some other time], writing on the whiteboard outside the social workers' office, where you were supposed to request appointments, "I don't want to talk about it."  Well, *HE* thought it was funny.)  OGCM definitely proves that guys talk.  Guys, rather infamously, "mansplain" (which, by definition, nobody needs).  It's actually rather easy to get guys to talk.  All you have to do is sit there and listen, without speaking yourself.  (The police know this, and use it very effectively.)

But guys do not like to talk on command.  Guys do not like taking turns around the circle.  (If talking doesn't involve competition, guys are less interested  :-)  Guys do not like newage blank verse poetry to "set the scene."  Guys are not very comfortable with all that, so they generally simply choose not to participate.  (Besides, asking for help isn't "manly.")

So, I propose something different for guys who have lost someone or something.

Grief Guys.

Guys doing what guys do best.  Unwarranted interference, and fixing things.

Now part of the Grief Guys idea is providing for a bit of a "community" of and for guys who have lost someone or something.  But I probably should find another word to use there, because guys don't really understand community, as much as they need it.  "Group" is probably OK.  It would be even better if we could make it into a lodge or order or something with robes and secret handshakes, because guys *really* go for that sort of stuff, but maybe some future Grief Guy can take it on as a task.

Because a second part of the Grief Guys idea is to help yourself by helping others.  Initially the Grief Guys would move in and help, but, as the Borg would say, you will be assimilated.  The bereaved will become one of the Grief Guys.

While there are male grief counsellors, this is not that.  This is guys who have, themselves, had a loss, and are helping others.  This is not, primarily, counselling.  Guys tend to resent that.  So, the first rule of Grief Guys counselling is, you don't offer counselling.  You don't offer advice.  If you're not doing anything else, you just listen.  (This is going to be hard to be *really* hard for a lot of guys, I know.)  Asking questions is allowed, but no pointed questions, just questions to obtain information.  If somebody *asks* for advice, you can answer, specifically, what they asked for.  You don't go beyond that.  If someone *does* want counselling, the Grief Guys can give them the number to call to get in touch with counsellors.

(Another point mentioned by grief counsellors in relation to an early version of this idea is that there needs to be involvement from palliative care specialists.)

So, what do Grief Guys do?  This is primarily based on the old community model of grieving and bereavement, where the community invades the house and takes over.  Thinking of the situation of a guy who has (most often) lost his wife, then the Grief Guys would come in with to-do lists.  Clean the bathrooms.  Take out the garbage.  Have the kids been fed?  If not, feed the kids.  Do you want the kids to go to school (and do they want to)?  Then get the kids to school.  (With lunches.)  (And check in with the school office.)

(Going into the home, of course, is an issue, and may be difficult as a central theme of this project.  Dealing directly with vulnerable people requires training, safeguards, and protections like criminal record checks.  However, one of the grief counsellors, in responding to an initial version of this idea, noted that involving churches may provide us with a shortcut.  Churches already have a tacit social contract with their members that provides for more or less direct contact with the homes and families.  Having Grief Guys work alongside, and in cooperation with, churches could provide an entry level for this type of direct activity.  In any case, churches generally have active pastoral care expertise, and it would be good to work with churches in this area and obtain assistance, input, and feedback from them, as well as supporting pastoral care activities that the churches may already be doing or wanting to be involved in.)

Have you got a will?  Where is it?  Where's the office?  Go through the filing.  Do you have a safe deposit box?  Call the bank and make an appointment.  Take the bereaved to the bank appointment.  Have you contacted Canada Revenue Agency?  Deputize someone to call CRA and hold on the line listening to the stupid "music on hold" until someone answers.  Have you called friends and family?  Where's the phone list/contact list on your cell phone?  Deputize someone to start calling.  If someone wants to talk to you, check first that you're OK, then pass the phone over.

Guys are OK with to do lists.

We can even have to do lists for *later* in the process.  A month later, six months later, check in and see that the kids are still getting off to school and that everything CRA wants is done.  Check in and sit and listen.  Even if the bereaved doesn't want to talk.  That happens.

The thing is, Grief Guys is kind of an open ended idea.  Help yourself by helping others.  And that help may vary widely.  There are a lot of bereaved out there, so there will be a lot of different skill sets.  Some are going to be handymen.  Some are house husbands.  Some are managers.  There are going to be doctors and lawyers and maybe an Indian Chief or two.  Some are going to help grieving fathers get the kids off to school on time in the mornings.  Some may go into activism to reduce the costs of funerals and memorial services.  Some may be running and managing Grief Guys.  (Which, if it works, may become a larger affair.)  Some may lobby the government to make declaring your loved one dead a "one stop at a Service Canada office" affair.

(I have stressed bereaved husbands and fathers up until now.  I do not want to say that Grief Guys would never help widows.  Indeed, since the "intuitive/instrumental" continuum is not a strictly gender-based dichotomy, it is possible that some women may become Grief Guys.  However, I do foresee that having newly bereaved husbands helping out newly widowed wives could lead to problems especially with the newly grieving being in danger of entering into inappropriate relationships.  Having Grief Guys helping women definitely needs detailed protections in place, such as ensuring that female volunteers always accompany Grief Guys when assisting in a newly male-less home.)

Germinating and crystalizing an idea like this "in public" is a difficult job.  Having gone through two iterations of the idea, I realize that what I am foreseeing and describing as the activity of the Grief Guys is a fair ways down the road.  Direct involvement in the home, and particularly with children, is a potentially touchy issue, and would probably require at least basic criminal record checks, and likely other types of safeguards and controls.

A much earlier activity, and one that will likely be an ongoing mainstay of the process, is the generation of the to do lists.  This activity would be therapeutic in and of itself.  The "task analysis" of creating the lists would require discussion, by the bereaved who are involved with Grief Guys, in considering and recounting issues where they felt that they needed help.  This type of discussion, for guys, is much more likely to be acceptable, and even welcome, when in the context of a "job" that needs to be done in order to help others.  Getting the bereaved to recount what they feel, and what they need, is one of the mainstays of grief counselling.  It provides information, for the counsellor, on the emotional state of the bereaved, and it generally allows and encourages the bereaved to clarify what they are actually feeling and why.  "Task analysis" sessions would allow and encourage guys, in the context of providing assistance to others, to recount, consider, and analyze their feelings during bereavement, and any ways in which they "felt" unequal to the job or process, and ways in which they would have liked and appreciated help.  (A professional counsellor should be part of all such task analysis sessions, ostensibly to provide advice and direction on what can, should, or can't be added to the to do lists, and also to note emotional or personal problems that become evident during the discussions.)  The refinement of the to do lists would be an ongoing part of the Grief Guys activities.  The lists themselves would have to be kept up to date as social resources evolve, come into being, or go out of date, and with new input from the newly bereaved who are joining the process.  The lists would also be refined with feedback from those Grief Guys who are actively helping others, and reporting on what works, what is helpful to others, and what isn't.  Thus the task analysis sessions would be an integral and constant part of the process.

OK, this is a work in progress ...

I recall, back following "9/11," some magazine article that was noting the hugely over-the-top memorials that the Americans were doing, and commented that "if Americans are going to grieve, they are going to kick ass in the grieving department."  So, that's kind of me.  Gloria is dead, and I have to deal with it, so I'm dealing with it.  I am getting on with the death admin and expenses, but I'm also noting and following everything I've ever heard about what you need to do after a loss.  I'm getting out to the community, like to church and to the seniors centre.  I'm meeting people.  I'm also taking grief counselling, of various types, to try to ensure that I'm having someone else check on whether I'm doing it wrong.  But, as a life-long systems analyst, when I see something missing in the process, I look for a fix.  Guys aren't part of the grief landscape, so how do we fix that?

I am definitely needing some help and feedback on this idea.

Literature search:

https://www.socialworktoday.com/archive/exc_0816.shtml

stoicism and "instrumental" expression of grief

"working through" allows the bereaved to adapt to the world in the absence of their loved one while maximizing social support networks and reinvesting in other relationships and meaningful activities

https://mygriefandloss.org/continuum-of-grief

intuitive vs instrumental grief, dissonant grief

https://www.psychotherapy.net/interview/grief-counseling-doka

interview with Kenneth Doka, styles of grieving

Beauty

I cry pretty much every time I take a walk.  Not necessarily every time I take a short walk to the library, but pretty much any time I take a longer one.

Sometimes it's blossoms.  Sometimes it's crocuses.  Sometimes it's just that the sun is out, or it's warm enough to walk without a jacket.

It's hard to say why I cry when I'm out walking.  Walking wasn't something that Gloria and I were able to do together in recent years.  At one point, after a surgery, years ago, the doctor had wanted her to walk, and we did try, but, at that point, she was only able to go for a block or so, even leaning on me.  Of course, at that point she was fairly slow, so we did spend some time together walking, even if we didn't go much distance together.

But in recent years, Gloria wasn't able to walk more than about fifty feet without someone or something to lean on, and that distance got much shorter in the past year.  So walking was mostly something I did alone.  (Of course, maybe I walk because it *wasn't* something Gloria and I did together, and it's less lonely than sitting within the four walls that still have the same furniture but no Gloria.)

So I think it's mostly what I see when I'm out walking.  Gloria would have liked that flower.  I could have told Gloria about the number of Teslas on the road, or the rain gardens that have been built in this area.

I don't cry at "home."  (Unless I'm writing up blog postings about Gloria.)  There isn't anything terribly interesting to say about the apartment.  How do I like my new place?  Why should I like it?  It's chores and taxes and death admin and trying to make meals out of fruits and vegetables so that I lose some of the excess weight.  (Why am I trying to lose weight?  That'll only improve my health, which means I'll live longer.  Who wants that?)

But when I'm out walking sometimes I just start crying.  Then I'll tell Gloria that, really, I'm OK.  I'll be fine.  (Which is redundant, because she's now in a position to know how I'm doing better than I do.)  I know how to do the chores, and I'm setting up reminders to pay the rent and wash the sheets, so I'll be OK.

There's no beauty at "home" anymore.  But sometimes there is when I'm out walking.  If all this walking means I'm going to hurt my hips or knees, and then I won't be able to walk, I'll really be in trouble.

Russia

Yes, I'm worried about Russia's invasion of Ukraine, too.  It's disturbing.  Not just for the deaths, destruction, and displacement of those in Ukraine, but for the wider world.  Is there nothing we can do, in the face of Poutine (which, you will recall, is the joual word for "mess") grabbing whatever he wants, whenever he wants?  Is "might makes right" real, and there's nothing we can do about it?

I worry about and support those in Ukraine, and it's great that their president, who everybody had basically written off as an actor beyond his depth, has risen to the occasion and is showing definite signs of greatness.  As opposed to the mess next door.  But I'm also worried about Russia.  Russia just can't seem to catch a break.  Russians have had centuries of being decent, solid, generous people, and then they get communism, and Stalin, and now Putin, all seemingly determined to lie to their people, warp the national character, and damage Russia's standing in the world.  Whichever way this goes, Russia is now damaged for decades to come.  Their economy is going to be a mess.  Nobody is going to want to have anything to do with Russia for a long time.  (Except China, and China is definitely going to craft every deal with Russia to their own advantage, and Russia is just going to have to take it because nobody else is going to deal with them.)  (Well, yes, Russia is going to be able to do deals with carpetbaggers who are going to rush in to do deals with Russia, just like the American South after the "War Between the States."  And with just as much negative effect.)  By and large, the Russian people don't deserve this.  They are being lied to, kept in the dark as much as possible, their sons and husbands are being conscripted, lied to, and end up ill-prepared in an invasion about which they are only getting lies as well.

(OK, today there's a posting doing the rounds of some Russian Instagrammer who is whining about Instagram being shut down in Russia, and she's not concerned about the war, or invasion, or the deaths in Ukraine, and she's just concerned about not being able to post pictures of her dinners at restaurants, and I'm not concerned about her, at all.)

The dangers of gardening?

So, we were discussing gardening, and my baby brother (who is into gardening in a *real* big way, and helping me out), out of the blue, asked why I was so interested in it all of a sudden.  It's a very valid question.  Mom made sure that all of us got heartily sick of gardening, particularly vegetable gardening, while we were kids.  (I carried the bulk of the forced labour that was involved, but pretty much all of us faced the demands.)  And it's not as if I ever had any pretensions to a green thumb: both Gloria and I had thumbs that were not so much brown as jet black.  We managed to kill pretty much every plant that anyone ever gave us, except for the Christmas Rose (and *it's* not looking too well).

And on the way to church, it was sunny, and I was trying out the gratitude thing, and thanking God that it was sunny, and a nice day, and mentioning that it might be nice if some of my plants would show just a *little* bit of interest in sprouting, and all of a sudden I was crying.  Over my non-garden.  So I'm obviously not just interested in gardening, but heavily emotionally invested in it even before I've had any indication that it'll work in any way.

L came across something that suggested that you think of yourself, in terms of emotions, as a pond.  The emotions are little fish that swim around in the pond.  You are the pond.  You are not the fish.  I get the theory, and the concepts, but, in my experience, emotions are not so much fish as sharks, that are going to tear a chunk out of you if you don't keep them fairly seriously in check.

Anyway, gardening has gone from being a harmless hobby and diversion to yet another emotional minefield.  I don't know why I'm trying to garden, and I don't know why I'm so emotionally connected to the idea.  There are, of course, plenty of possible hypotheses as to why.  Gloria died, so it makes some kind of twisted sense that I'd be trying to make something live and grow.  My financial situation is less stable, so growing a vegetable garden provides a kind of support to keep myself fed.  (Ceterum censeo Poutine, and his invasion of Ukraine, delendum esse.)  Still, I've got plenty of experience that says that it won't work, so I'm rather mystified as to why I'm so interested in trying once again.  And what happens if nothing comes up?

Kintec

(Added material about the second and third visits, and President Mark's reaction to the initial review, 20220321)

Some years back, one of Gloria's doctors wanted her to do more walking, for "activation" after a surgery.  She'd always had trouble with corns and bunions on her feet, and it was difficult to find shoes that were comfortable enough for the length of walking required.  Somebody suggested Kintec (in North Vancouver) to address my wife's particular needs for walking shoes.  We went, and were very pleased with the service and the final choice of shoe.  Kintec prices are higher than you would pay elsewhere, but the service was definitely worth it.

Since Gloria died, I've been walking a lot.  So much so, that after a recent eleven kilometre walk (involving the Alex Fraser bridge, which has particularly dirty sidewalks with a lot of gravel on them), I found that the walking shoes I had bought only six months ago at Mark's Work Warehouse were close to giving out.  the sole has cracked, and there is a fine wire protruding from the break, which I found odd.  Mark's had nothing in my size, and SportChek didn't have anything rugged enough.

So, despite the higher cost, I bethought me of Kintec, and went there.  I was extremely disappointed.

The "team member" clearly indicated that I was an unwanted intrusion into her day.  She showed absolutely no interest in my issues or needs.  I was simply directed to make a choice from the shoes on the wall.  No attempt was made to take any foot measurements: I was simply asked for my size.  They didn't have my size in any of the shoes that I requested.  No sizes could be ordered, no sizes could be shipped from other stores.  She could (and it was made clear that this was obviously an imposition) look up and see if any other stores had specific shoes in my sizes, but I was simply given a verbal list of other stores, and it was up to me to go to them.  No attempt was made to list what I had looked at, so that I'd even know what to ask for in the other stores.  No attempt was made to contact other stores and put those shoes on hold: it was up to me to get to the stores before shoes in stock were sold.

I rather doubt that I have ever had a worse customer experience anywhere.

If I didn't like what they had in the store, I could order from the Web.  However, given the lack of service in the store, I'm not sure that I want to risk ordering from the company Website.  Who knows what would arrive, or whether any problems would be rectified.  In any case, the Website seems to be simply a clearance bin for odd lots and end-of-line items.  It doesn't have more stock than was available in the store, but, seemingly, rather less.  A number of the items were listed as "final sale," specifically forbidding exchanges or returns.

So I guess it's back to getting cheap shoes at Walmart, and replacing them every few months.

I hate shopping.

However, and possibly because I hadn't known about Kintec's "One2One" appointment system (reasonable enough, given the pandemic), I decided to give them a second chance.  I made an appointment through the "One2One."  In fact, I made two, one for Surrey, which is closer, and one in North Van, since some of those that I had told about my experience suggested that maybe the stores were different.  (I had to hack the system, since it didn't want to allow me to make a second appointment, but I'm not an information security specialist for nothing.)

The second visit (and first One2One appointment) was in Surrey.  This time I had Alicia, and the experience was much different from the first visit.  She measured me, and suggested a number of options.  Unfortunately, she didn't take my warning about laces being difficult seriously, and kept presenting shoes with laces.  I did try them on, but the experience left me pretty much exhausted.  There was nothing in stock in the store that fit, but she did search for one particular style (without laces), found it at other stores, and made arrangements for them to be shipped to the Surrey store, and said they would call me.

Some time after this, Mark McColman, Founder and President of Kintec, became aware of my initial review (probably via Google Reviews).  (How *do* you access Google Reviews, anyway?)  He replied to the review, and Alex, manager of the Surrey store (among other things) contacted me.  There seems to have been some confusion, because they seemed to think I was reporting on my second visit to the store.  However, they were obviously willing to make an effort to make things right.  (Although Mark seemed to be primarily upset about my comments over the pricing.)

But I had already made the appointment to visit the North Van store, and I kept it.  And I was very glad that I did.  Once again (and I don't know if it is just that the North Van store is better), the North Van location came through.  This time I had Sajan.  He took my requirements about laces seriously.  He also presented options that nobody else at Kintec had.  His command of the particulars of their stock is impressive.  He had, in stock in the North Van location, a pair, in my size, whose name, "On Cloud," is very appropriate: they were beautifully soft and comfortable from the moment I put them on.  He also had some suggestions which weren't in my size at the North Van location, but he offered to bring them either to the North Van store, or have them shipped to the Surrey location.  (Due to the vagaries of supply chain and inventory issues, when he searched for them, they were already at the Surrey location  :-)  I bought the shoes (sorry, Mark, but they *are* the most expensive shoes I've ever bought) on the understanding that, as long as I don't mess them up by wearing them digging in the mud in the garden, I can try on the stuff in Surrey, and return the ones I bought if I like the others better.  He booked an appointment for me to try them on, and I'll be going there in a couple of days.  (Stay tuned for the thrilling conclusion to this review!  :-)

Microplastics

One of the more active members of our community used to work in the union movement.  It's no surprise that she is the one with all the business and semi-political contacts, or that she does most of the administrative and communications work to keep the social events going.  She was pointing out to me that the construction of the building was non-union, and you could tell by lots of little deficiencies: for one thing, the number and amount of paint drips on the floor.  She's quite right.  Even though it's a new place, and there are some nice design features, and few major problems, there are a number of small problems.  I've got broken tiles in out of the way places in my bathrooms, the flooring isn't hardwood, but laminate, that has plastic covering meant to look (and feel) like grainy wood surface that's glued on to whatever is underneath (and is delaminating in a number of places), and a number of the electrical wall plugs are almost impossible to plug anything into.  The list goes on.

It goes into the garden.  There are large planters making up the divisions between private patios, which is nice.  I'm gardening in between the landscaped plants, and, conveniently for my gardening aspirations, there is a very large section in one of "my" planters which is not planted, and for which, one of the gardeners informed me, there are no plans.  I've got at least three rows of corn in there, a row of radishes, another of carrots, and a goodly sized section of strawberry plants.  And I've already taken off two harvests of plastics.

I suppose other people wouldn't have noticed much.  But I'm already attuned to the plastics from my garbage walks.  Lots of the litter that I pick up is plastic.  Plastic bags.  Cellophane wrappers.  Candy bar wrappers.  Coffee lids.  Disposable vapes, and vape refill bottles.  Water bottles.  And, since I'm planting, and working closely with the soil in the garden, I'm getting intimately familiar with how much plastic is in that soil, as well.

I assume that the soil in the planters is coming from composting facilities.  Better check the bags of potting soil that you are buying.  In the planters I have found lots of fragments of plastic bags, bits of plastic twine, fragments of coffee lids, broken pieces of bread bag closures, and lots of small, broken pieces of plastic that have obviously gone through mulching machines and sometimes seem to have been melted.  It's been a while since I last purchased potting soil.  I do recall some of it being bulked out with paper and cardboard pellets, but I don't remember any high degree of plastics.  Maybe this is yet another example of cutting corners and going with the cheapest source in building this place.

I don't imagine that the plastics in the planter beds are going to be as much danger to the plants as to the animals.  I can't see the plants absorbing much more than a slight toxic tinge, and even root vegetables aren't going to incorporate the breakdown microplastics after a bit of a rinse.  Mind you, I'm going to be rinsing microplastics down the drain when I do that.  But, overall, I suppose it's better to have the plastics here in the patio beds, where they are unlikely to be disturbed for some years, than in municipal lawns and other construction sites, where they are more likely to be washed into drains and contribute to the load we are dumping into the oceans.

It still bugs me when I'm gardening in it ...

Writing and editing

One of the things I had to take out of the eulogy was Gloria's skill at editing.  The paragraph sounded too much about me, and the eulogy was supposed to be about Gloria.  So I took it out.  Which was a shame, really, because Gloria was the best editor I ever knew.  (And it was a real nuisance that she couldn't edit the eulogy.)

I suppose I should start out by saying that I hate, and have always hated, English class, whatever it was called, at whatever level.  Language, Writing, English, Humanities, I hated them all.  I think we were taught spelling, at some point.  I can't really remember that far back, and, by at least grade five, that seems to have disappeared.  I can't recall ever being taught much grammar.  The only formal grammar I can recall comes from French class, and, until I met Gloria, the only formal English grammar I knew was because French class told us that French grammar was a bit different.  I had to take one English class when I got to university, and it proved that English, and the study of English, was one long string of in-jokes that I was never in on.

So it was a bit ironic that I ended up writing.  Writing books.  Writing courses.  Writing articles.  And getting published, too.

Actually, despite my hatred of English (English class, you understand: English as a language I loved almost as much as Gloria did), until I was about thirty, everything I had written intending for it to be published, was published.  And, after I was thirty, I had the Internet, so I could "publish" anything I wanted.

When I published my first book, it seems that lots of people wanted to write books, and asked me for advice.  I told them that a good copy editor is vitally important, and when you find a good copy editor, you marry her.  When I married Gloria, I actually didn’t know that I would write books.  It was she who gave me the support to do so, and, without her, I probably never would have published any books.  But she was also the best copy editor I ever encountered.  She also did the full range of editing, including literary and developmental editing, and I benefitted greatly from her help in my writing.  My first, and, probably, last books are dedicated to her.

Her various bosses had differing attitudes to being edited.  Carl talked over with Gloria what he wanted said, and let her write the letter.  Other bosses, like her Dad, exploded if she changed one letter of their precious text.  So she was a little tentative about editing my stuff at first.  But I found that her edits were generally improvements, and she found that I'd accept them.  Or I wouldn't.  But, in any case, I was grateful for the help and suggestions.  So she expanded from just correcting my spelling and grammar to making all kinds of comments, including on the content.

She helped with a lot of my writing.  Even before I started writing books, she was instrumental in getting the review project going.  While I was reviewing the hundreds of technical and security books, I included a few others.  There was one called "BUGS in Writing," which is a sort of style and writing guide by Lyn Dupre.  (BUGS was/is an acronym which the author used as a rating system for the Bad/Ugly/Good/Splendid aspects of writing.)  When I reviewed the first edition of the book, Gloria put put a number of comments into the draft when she edited it.  So, since the book was about editing, I kept them in the review.  Then, when I submitted the draft review to Lyn Dupre, she answered, with comments of her own.  So I asked if she was willing to let them stand in the published review, and she was a good enough sport about it to allow it.  So they are still there, in the published review.

So, if this blog seems poorly written, it's because I've lost the best editor I ever knew.

Burger

Gloria had a great sense of humour.  She didn't tell jokes.  She did tell stories, and she was a much better story teller than I was or ever will be, for all that I use tons of stories when I am teaching.  She was able to get *my* jokes, which isn't always easy.  She was a wry observer of the absurd.

"Burger" was the last joke she ever told.

My eating preferences aren't healthy.  I like meat and carbs.  Together.  With extra fat.  I'm not a real fan of fruit and vegetables.  (Other than the word.  "Vegetables."  That's a really great word.)  I figure if God had intended us to eat fruit, she would never have invented chocolate.

Gloria knew this.  She was always pushing me to make plain food, with lots of vegetables.  And she knew that, when I was eating out, away from her, I was probably going to be eating something that wasn't particularly healthy, and was probably going to be fast food.  Her firm belief (with plenty of reason behind it) was that anytime I ate anything outside of her presence, it was probably going to be a cheeseburger.

During her last time in hospital, even when she was conscious, she wasn't talking much.  She could make herself understood with a look or a single word, for the most part.  So, when the staff were going to do a procedure on her, and it was near lunchtime, I said I would leave them to it and get some lunch.  Gloria said "Cafeteria."  I said that I didn't want to eat *all* my meals at the hospital cafeteria, so I would go out and get something.

Gloria said, "Burger."  And smiled.

In fact, there wasn't anything within walking distance of the hospital that made or sold burgers, and Gloria knew that, because she knew the central Lonsdale area quite well.  But, she was, basically right: what I got was quite burger-like.

I miss Gloria every single day.

You get what you pay for

My little brother is a huge fan of dollar stores.  My baby brother is a big fan of Walmart.  I've been trying them out, more, recently.  But I'm a little skeptical, and I think you've got to be careful.

For one thing, you've got to know what you can, and can't, get in those stores.  Dollar stores are big on getting a large range of cheap stuff, but they aren't always great at inventory control, so you never know whether stuff you've got there once, can be got there again.  And stuff in one store in a chain may not be available in another.  Or any other.  Walmart often has cheaper prices than you can get the same or similar stuff elsewhere, but it's prices aren't always cheaper, so you really have to know the price of what you are shopping for.

I don't know the price of clothing very well, so, even though Walmart does sell a lot of clothes, I didn't go there when I wanted a housecoat.  (Over the years, Gloria had made me two housecoats, or "bos" (beaus?) as they are known in her family, for reasons I never understood.  But she hadn't been able to make one in a while, and the girls, when they moved us [and then me], very rightly threw out the one I had.)  I went to a thrift store.  (I had a great experience with a thrift store when I did my Dublin/Cleveland/NASA teaching trip, which I'll tell you all about, some other time.)  I got a housecoat for nine bucks.  (And another for six, for when the weather is warmer in the summer.)  Of course, I washed it (twice) before I wore it.

I like big drinking glasses.  I don't want to have to refill them too often.  And, when I have a can of pop, I want lots of ice, and maybe lime, and maybe cutting it a bit with soda water.  So I need a big glass.  And I haven't got many.  And, with my small hands (no Trump jokes, please), it's handy to have either a handle or a stem to hold on to.  And those aren't exactly common in either dollar stores or Walmart, so I tried out the thrift store for that, too.  I got one really big wine-type glass with a big bowl and a big stem.  And I got a heavy duty pint glass.  Well, no sooner had a got them home, and put them in a sink to soak (I'm not going to drink out of an unwashed thrift store glass any more than I'm going to wear and unwashed piece of clothing from a thrift store), than I put something else in the sink, and the wine glass shattered like a cheap piece of stemware.  (Oh ...  wait ...)  The pint glass wasn't going to shatter like a cheap piece of stemware, but, after I had put it in the diskwasher once, I noticed a chip on the rim, and a crack near the base, and a couple of days ago I noticed that the crack near the base is growing longer.  (I'm drinking out if it right now, but I don't think I'm going to trust it much longer.)  (And, as I'm drinking from it, I've just noticed a big "MADE IN CHINA" embossing on the bottom.)

I did go back to the thrift store for replacements.  I got a large drinking glass, and another pint-type mug.  But I also went across the street to the dollar store, to see what they had.  I got both of the glasses from the thrift store for less than the cost of a (somewhat smaller) pint-type mug at the dollar store, but we'll see how long they last.

Addicted to walking?

I've been stressed about the services.  I didn't realize how stressed, until after they were over.  I didn't realize the *ways* I was stressed out, until a couple of days after the services were over.

On Monday night, I got close to ten hours sleep, which is the first time in I don't know how long.  I mean, I can count the number of times I've gotten even *eight* hours of sleep in a night, in the past four months, on the fingers of one hand.  (Obviously, the sleep problems aren't quite over yet: I've had three hours of sleep tonight, and I'm trying to see if writing some of this out will let me get back and get a few more hours of sleep before dawn.)  There were two results from this.  I felt more rested than I have felt in a long time.  And, as a result of getting to work at 7 AM rather than 3 AM, I was behind all day.

So, at about 2 PM I said nuts to this, I'm going for a long walk.  (And, of course, it took me until 3 PM to get out of the house.)  And I went for a six mile walk.  And I felt much better, even just starting out.

I'm walking for my health, of course.  I've been under doctor's orders to get more exercise for the past two or three years.  And walking is about the only way I can do it.  I'm walking more now.  And I'm using the walking for stress relief, and grief relief, as well.  Pretty good, getting two or three benefits from the same activity.

But I'm starting to wonder: am I getting addicted to walking?

Blossoms

I didn't notice that the branches were budding, as they must have been for at least a week.

I didn't notice, even though I had walked past earlier yesterday morning, on my way to the library.  It's amazing how much we don't see, when we aren't looking.  (And it's amazing, how much we don't look up.  I once told Gloria that, if you were hiding in a forest, hide in a tree.  Even if you are in plain sight, people probably won't look up, and probably won't see you.  After that, Gloria looked up into the trees, whenever we were in the woods.)  I even passed that way at the beginning of my longer walk, and didn't notice.

But, later that afternoon, when I was on my way back from my walk, it was, briefly, sunny.  And I looked up.  And the trees, by one of the strip malls up at the library intersection, were all in blossom.  From the bark patterns, I think they are cherry, rather than apple, and ornamental, rather than producing.  But they are all pink.  And pink was always Gloria's favourite colour.

So then I was crying, and pretty teary for about halfway back to home.

Gloria's Greatest Hits

Along with the pictures that I put into the "Images" post, there are some clips of Gloria singing.  I couldn't put any full songs in there because of size limits on what could be posted.

I do have some full songs of those that Gloria sang and performed.  On VHS tapes, which is why all the attempts to deal with getting those tapes converted.  Of course, it was difficult going through those tapes to pick out full songs to have as the special music at Gloria's memorial service, and just as difficult to choose which ones were to be used.

I put together a "playlist," on YouTube, of various of the songs that I collected from the converted VHS files.  I have some more on the computer that I'll have to get around to uploading.