It’s been a heck of a week, and I thought I would walk you through some of what I’ve been doing for the last few days. Shoulder surgery is in the rearview mirror, but there is a second part of any surgery, PT. Just for the record, I love going to PT, which most people say is an abbreviation for physical therapy, but I know better, because the real definition is “professional torture.” You know the drill, these thirty-somethings see you coming, rub their hands together, “Right this way, little girl, let’s see what I can do to make you even more miserable. You’ll be better, it’s just a matter of time.” But my question is, “Really? At seventy-six, how much time do I have left?” Three times a week while my friendly torturer pushes and pulls. “Tell me if it hurts.” Well, duh, it hurts to push, to pull, even to lie dormant. My ice machine is melting from overuse, but press on, my torturer, I’m a Marine. I can do anything, just don’t make me cry.
About the same time as I had shoulder surgery, I decided to make another change, primarily selling my house and moving to Montana. How hard can it be? It seemed like a fairly simple action, after all, eighteen months ago, I had purged my house of many items, books, clothes, half of the seven sets of dishes my mother had bestowed on me and looking around I thought that I had become a minimalist, clinging only to the bare necessities, nothing I didn’t need. But I was wrong, my house is still full of stuff I don’t need. It is in fine shape, now that my alligator hole in my bathroom is finished (a six-month project lasting from January 24 to July 25, just for the record). My house is bigger than one person needs, and I’ve grown to enjoy Montana more than Boise…you know the Boise issues, too many people, too many cars with broken turn signals, and this summer we have too much heat.
I hired a couple young women to further purge my house, thinking it would take an hour or two, tops. My torturer told me that I can’t lift more than one pound, which meant I took on the role of question answerer designating a cajillion items to go into one of five piles: kids, grandkids, Montana, the youth ranch, (which burned down, in anticipation of my truckloads of stuff), or my all-time least favorite, a garage sale, which will happen next week. Four days of answering questions and a few tearful breakdowns, I’m nearly finished.
The cowboy and I have known each other for a year and had dozens of great and small adventures. We want to continue traveling, taking boat trips, and writing. It’s gotten harder to meet up, so I decided to move to Montana, aiming south when snowman season comes. Neither of us is getting younger or healthier and I’m trusting my torturing friend to make my shoulder work again. I’m going to continue writing blogs and books, smiling at deer and birds and mountains, rather than hearing lawn mowers and swearing at people who run red lights. It’s all good!
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