Role Reversal

 

          I’ve never been much of an early morning person.

          “I do some of my best sleeping after the alarm goes off,” my father would say.

          Me too, Pop! Me too!

          In the days before retirement I’d hit that snooze and hit that snooze and hit that snooze until the absolute last minute. Then I’d jump out of bed and rush around like a madwoman so I wouldn’t be late for work.

          “Why, oh why, do I do this to myself!” Me would say to Myself.

          Things change.

          Since my retirement I’ve gone to bed at a reasonable hour and gotten up at a reasonable hour, usually before eight. Lately, that getting-up-at-a-reasonable-hour has been creeping slowly and inexorably earlier and earlier.

          My handsome mountain man, on the other hand, has always been an early riser. Sometimes as early as three or four in the morning!

          These days we seem to have a role reversal.

Mike said to me last night, “Tomorrow’s Saturday, and I can sleep in because the news doesn’t come on until eight.”

This is so wrong. Mike has been sleeping in — sometimes as late as eight‑thirty or nine.

The irony of it hit my funny bone so hard I started laughing, really laughing, the kind of laugher where you have to stop yourself because you can feel the edge of hysterics creeping in.

These days he sleeps in and I’m the one who gets up early, usually between five-thirty and six.

“Why?” you query.

I’m sixty-six years on this earth. People my age — and younger! — die every day.

Every. Single. Day.

Did they know they were going to die? I wonder when a new obituary dings into the inbox on the computer.

If you know you’ve only weeks or months to live, you would make the most of that time. You would tell the people you love that you love them. You would forgive the people who’ve hurt you. You’d say the things that you’ve been meaning to say. You’d stop saving the good dishes for later, and you’d finally wear that special dress — or that nightgown you’ve been keeping tucked away for “someday.” When you know your tomorrows are numbered, “later” stops being an option.

“We’re all going to die,” my sweet, beautiful sister said to me the other day.

“Not true. You won’t die if the rapture comes first.” I put my faith in God right out there.

I’m so sorry that I’m oftentimes blunt. I should’ve put it gentler, with more respect to her beliefs.

“If you don’t die and become a spirit, how can you talk to other spirits?” she asked.

I didn’t know how to answer that. So I took the question to one of the smartest, wisest, most God-honoring people I know — someone I respect deeply. The pastor of my church.

“How should I have answered her?” I asked Pastor Jay.

He thought about it for a moment. “1 Corinthians 15:44 tells us, ‘It is sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body.’ 15:51 and 52 say, ‘We shall not all sleep (die), but we shall all be changed in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet.’ We won’t be a spirit but we’ll have a real body, alive, like Jesus after the resurrection. So we’ll be able to talk and recognize and interact with each other.”

What about the people who have already died? You may be wondering.

They are spirits — fully alive, fully conscious, with Christ — waiting for their resurrection bodies.

I know that some of you aren’t Christian and don’t believe the Bible. But there’s so much evidence supporting its truth, both historical and scientific, that I honestly don’t know how you can dismiss it. Actually, I do know, but I won’t go down the rabbit trail.

While it’s important to have your earthly affairs in order, it’s more important to know where you’re going when this life ends. Where will you spend eternity?

For me, my time is short. I’m sliding into home base. Oh, I’m not dying. Not in the respect that there’s something medically wrong with me. I don’t know if I’m going to die today, tomorrow, next week, next year, twenty years from now, or if Christ will come again and rapture His church. But this I do know. I don’t want to spend any more of it sleeping than I have to, so I get up early.

“I’m usually up before five,” one of my peeps tells me. “I love this time of day before everyone else gets up as it's quiet and gives me alone-time with God.”

I get up early because I’ve got things to see.

Like sunrises.

I look every morning and I’ve seen some pretty sunrises.

This one started with just a streak of red and gold and from there it bloomed.

          I get up early because I have critters to feed and things to do.

I want to paint! I’ve taken so many beautiful photos over the years I could paint for a hundred years and not paint them all. Right now there are two rattling around in my head for sure, just waiting for their turn. But first, I need to paint some Valentine cards for my lucrative side hustle.

          I am not happy with any one of the three I’ve already painted.

          “What’s wrong with them?” my beautiful West Virginia friend asked.

          “I’m not telling you. If I tell you then you’ll see it and once you see it, you can’t unsee it.”

          “You’re your own worst critic,” my peeps assure me.

          Maybe they’re right.

        

          Speaking of my peeps...

          Many of you know that I write a morning love note.

          I love morning love notes! I write about what I expect the day to bring or what happened yesterday, and I always end by reminding them how much I love them. And when they share little pieces of their own lives back with me, it makes me feel connected in a way nothing else does.

          It’s been about seven years since I started the one for my family. If something happens and I miss a day, you can bet one of my siblings will be calling trying to find out if I’m okay. If I miss it’s usually because the internet is down or I thought I’d sent it and didn’t. Aye-yi-yi. That stuff happens when you get old, don’cha know.

          I was recently approached by someone at my church saying she was seeking a connection with other Christian women.

          If a morning love note makes me feel connected, would it work for her?

          I started a second chain of morning love notes because it’s something I can commit to. There are nine of my Moxie ladies on this chain. Now, instead of thinking of my gals once a week when I see them at church, I think of all their beautiful faces when I write their love note in the morning. And I’m getting to know them better.

          “We’re going swimming with the dolphins this summer,” one of the gals said. “And you can’t wear jewelry. I’ve had this ring on my finger for forty-four years and they had to cut it off. I’ll go today and pick up my newly re-sized ring.”

          Forty-four years! Isn’t that a fabulous milestone? And to swim with the dolphins! How exciting would that be? I hope she comes back with photos.

          One of the gals took time out of her busy day to donate blood.

          Gosh! Golly! Gee-whiz! I haven’t donated blood in many years. It was easy to do where we lived before because it was right down the street. Here? I don’t know about it.

          Another gal is sharing her health struggles and the insurmountable sadness over her brother’s cancer battle. It gives us a gentle reminder to pray and then pray again.    

          I truly believe — have always believed — that writing is cathartic. Maybe there will be some relief in just getting it down and sharing it with us.

          I end these the same way as I do my family love notes. My open declarations of love sometimes take people aback. They don’t have to love me back — that’s okay. But I can still remind them that they are loved. By me!

         

          My friend Jody came and spent a very enjoyable afternoon with me.

          We made homemade tortillas. Jody and I shared two of them hot off the griddle.

“You wouldn’t do that with store bought tortillas, would you?” I asked her.

“No,” she agreed. She wouldn’t.

“I found a recipe for a tortilla that doesn’t have flour,” I said. “Should we make them, too?”

“Yeah. Let’s.”

This would be the second time I made them. The first time I made it, just a few days before, I stuffed it with some leftover baked chicken slices and a little lettuce. If you can’t have or don’t want flour, this is the way to go.

          You make this tortilla by combining one half cup cottage cheese and one egg. I mashed up some of the bigger chunks of cottage cheese but it doesn’t need to be smooth. Divide into two, spread thin, and bake on parchment paper in a 400-degree oven for twenty minutes.

          There are many ways to vary this. Different spices you can add like salt, garlic powder, Italian seasonings. You can blend it smooth and pour in a single sheet to make a pizza crust.

We made tacos for lunch. Jody and I each had a taco with the homemade flour tortilla and a second one with the cottage cheese, egg tortilla. For dessert we had a healthy unsweetened, cinnamon-sprinkled applesauce.

Afterward we settled in and played Quiddler for a few hours.

          Tiger helped.

          “What did Jody think of the healthy version tortillas?” you wanna know.

          She tasted a piece of one by itself and thought it was kind of bland.

          “Oh! I forgot the salt!” I told her. Personally, I never missed the salt. Being bland lends it well to adding just about anything you want to fill it with and the flavors won’t clash.

          I had so much fun playing Quiddler all afternoon. Sometimes I won, sometimes I let Jody win.

          “Peg! You shouldn’t ‘let’ anyone win,” you say.

          Okay! Okay! Technically, I didn’t ‘let’ her win. She beat me fair and square. I just didn’t want to admit I’d lost.

         

          We made a trip to Tunkhannock for a few groceries. Even though we’ve made this trip many times, I found a few things to take pictures of for you.

          A new well being drilled beside the road.

          I loved the sky here and I know it’s not going to come across in the photo but there you have it. We were going under a patch of heavy clouds but I could see the clearing on the horizon.

          We got stopped at the train crossing. An ambulance sat on the other side of the tracks, emergency lights flashing.

          A good many of the railcars had colorful graffiti sprawled across them but from where we were, there was too much clutter in the way for a good picture.

          I saw and photographed two hawks. Only one wasn’t blurry. That’s what happens when you try to zoom in traveling at sixty miles an hour.

          This old giant came down in the last windstorm.

          While at the store I spot a half pound of deli sliced turkey breast.

          “This’ll be good for a roll up,” I said dropping it into the grocery buggy.

          Mike had a hankerin’ for Swiss cheese so he put that in there, too.

          I made two more cottage cheese and egg tortillas. There was only a little cottage cheese left in the tub so I spooned it into chip size puddles, flattened them out, and sprinkled with Everything Bagel seasoning.

          Mike tried one for the first time. “I think I’d rather have the flour tortillas.”

          I’m not pre-diabetic but these are easy to make so maybe I’ll keep them in my meal rotation and use it for a high-protein breakfast sandwich.

          I got a phone call yesterday.

          I looked at the caller ID and it was Highmark, my insurance company.

          “Hello,” I answered.

          “I’m Darren from Highmark and I was told to talk to Margaret Lubby,” he said.

          “Luby,” Mike grumbled. I didn’t bother to correct the caller’s mispronunciation of my last name.

          “That’d be me,” I said.

          “I’m calling on a recorded line and I have just a few questions for you,” he said.

          “Fine, but I don’t know how many I’ll answer.”

          He laughed. “Okay. Well, this is a recorded line. I need to verify your information. What is your date of birth?”

          “No thank you,” I said and hung up.

          It’s not that Highmark doesn’t know my date of birth, they do, or that they don’t use that as a way of confirming my identity, they do that, too, it’s that I didn’t initiate the call. For all I know he was phishing for personal information.

          “But it said on the ID that it was Highmark,” you say.

          Yeah. They can make their number show up on my caller ID however they want. It’s just one of their tricks. He kept saying it was a recorded line — twice, actually. I don’t know if it really was, or if he thought that was supposed to make him sound legitimate. That’s just another trick. And honestly, if he isn’t actually from Highmark, what good is a recorded line anyway?        

 

          I bet, looking at this picture, you’re thinking, “What the heck is that?”

          Well, let me tell you.

          This is Blackie’s backside, on his rump, just a little to the right of his tail and it’s a cat bite. I’ve seen them before and this is what they look like.

          Blackie doesn’t trust me. Every time I pick him up it’s to shove a pill down his throat or put something wet on his neck. He will not let me handle him. He doesn’t bite or scratch me, he just wiggles a lot.

          In order to get this very blurry shot of his bite, I had to tuck him under one arm and hold my camera way out with the other and hope it was in frame when I snapped it.

          “Who bit him?” Mike asked.

          “I’m gonna guess it was Hatch,” I answered, but now that I think about it, I’ve seen Tiger facing off with him, too. It could’ve been him, I guess. I don’t really know.

          As you can imagine, trying to get anything on this will be a challenge. It doesn’t look too bad right now but if it starts to fester, I’ll take more aggressive measures.

 

          My last picture is Raini. I caught her just standing there, staring out the window.

          What is she looking at? I wondered and took a peek. It was Tiger, sitting on the feral cat house on the kitchen patio.

          Let’s call this one done!

          Done!  

The Long And Skinny Of It

 

          The long and skinny of it this week is a reference to the format of this week’s photos. A ride through the country on roads I’ve never been on before has yielded a plethora of landscapes. I cropped out the sky and foreground to showcase what I was showing you.

          The rest of the photos I left in the original 3:2 format.

          “Why did you go on new roads?” you ask.

          Oh, gosh! Maybe I should’ve started with the only bit of real news I have this week and that would explain why we were on new roads.

          Spitfire.

          When we moved here full time in 2016 I found three kittens in the bottom of a thirty-gallon trash can and they couldn’t get out. They were old enough to be weaned and near as I could tell, the mama hadn’t brought them any food for a while. They were really hungry and their nest was dirty.

          I got them into a kennel and within a few days had them tamed down.

          Spitfire is the only one left from this litter. His brother Rascal died from a blocked bladder a few years later and his sister Cleo disappeared after I’d had her fixed.

          A few days ago I was at the stove and heard a rustling sound coming from the utility room. I looked and there was Spitfire. He climbed up on the bag of recyclables, looked me right in the eye, and pissed.

          I tossed him outside and cleaned up the mess.

          The next morning, I was at the computer and heard a noise. I got up and looked and there was Spitfire, up on the counter, pissing on my pile of recipes. Luckily, the recipe on top was in a plastic sleeve. I got a baggie and dumped the pee in it.

          When the vet opened I was lucky enough to get in that morning on someone else’s cancelation. The only problem was I had a dental appointment at the same time. The cat’s health was more important than my dental cleaning so I canceled the dentist appointment. Someone else will get lucky enough to have my spot there that day.

          The vet said there was blood in his urine but no sign of infection. He had crystals in his urine but whether they are present in his bladder or formed after he peed is something she can’t tell. She’d have to have a very fresh sample to know that for sure. Spitfire has two broken teeth.

          “I knew something was wrong,” I told her. “He’s refusing to eat hard food. When his cries become insistent, I break down and give him a second can of soft cat food.”

          The cats always start the day with canned food. I divide a can and a half between five cats. The other half I save for the next day. At more than eighty cents a can for Friskies, it adds up fast.

          The vet said that antibiotics are seldom called for in cases like Spitfire’s but she would give him a shot if I wanted. I did. I figured it wouldn’t hurt and maybe it’ll help.

          “Considering his broken teeth, it’s probably best to give him a shot anyway,” she agreed.

          The only other treatment for this is to make sure he’s drinking enough water.

          “I can give him some under-the-skin hydration. Water down his soft food into a slurry and warm it up for him,” she suggested. “The warmth releases the smell making it more appealing to cats.”

          She also gave me ten days of Gabapentin to make him more comfortable.

          “Keep an eye on him and make sure he’s urinating. If he stops, you need to get him back in here,” she concluded.

          I have one cat condo and right now it’s Sugar’s winter home. She gets sick when she’s out in the winter so we bring her in.

          I had no other choice but to turn Raini’s kennel into temporary housing for Spitfire. It was barely big enough for a small cat pan and a bed.

        I had a dish that attaches to the side of the wire kennel. The bowl has an ear on the bottom the turns and locks into place on the base. I used that for his water.

          Early, early the next morning I heard Spitfire crying. I didn’t get up. When I did I saw he had a wet bed. He’d rubbed against the dish or pulled it or somehow got it off its base and dumped into his bed. Poor kitty.        

          I got Spitfire out and got him a dry bed. I got him his breakfast and medicine and put him back away.

          On a whim I went to Facebook Marketplace and typed in “cat condo.” Up came a picture of exactly what I was looking for. It had just been posted a couple of hours before, was forty-five dollars, and not far away. I contacted the lady and made arrangements to pick it up that morning.

          Even though it was a Meshoppen address, and we go through Meshoppen all the time on our way to Tunkhannock, it wasn’t near Meshoppen. We had to go up through South Auburn to a blip in the road named Retta. And that, my loves, is how we came to be on roads we’ve never been on before.

          The long and skinny photos weren’t the only ones I took. Here are some more from that excursion.

          I had to do a little rearranging but I found a place to put the new cat condo. I draped a cloth over it to give him more privacy and keep out some of the light—make it more den-like. I’m sure Spitfire will be more comfortable in it than he was in Raini’s kennel. I know Raini is happy to have her kennel back. She goes in there several times a day to nap.

          I made something this week that I haven’t made in months.

“What’s that?” you ask.

Tortillas. I love homemade tortillas. They’re easy to make and take only a few simple ingredients. Flour, salt, oil, and water.

          “What do you use them for?” you wanna know.

          My latest kick is to make a breakfast rollup with them. I’ll scramble an egg, fry it flat, add a fourth of a piece of breakfast sausage, roll it in aluminum foil and freeze it. For breakfast I’ll put it in the microwave for a minute or so, top with a spoonful of salsa and I have a breakfast that was fast and easy.

          This time I made a double batch of tortillas. I planned to have tacos the next day. Plus, I’ll eat one or two right off the griddle. They taste way better than store bought tortillas.

          I was surprised that I didn’t set off the smoke detector because I got my cast iron skillet a little hotter than I should have. I smoked up the whole house and it stunk for two days.

          One of the most favorite gifts that I’ve ever received is a set of colorful silicone sleeves for my cast iron pans. To cook tortillas you have to have the pan really hot and cook them in just a minute or two. If you cook them too slow you end up with a tough little cracker that’s too hard to eat and you have to throw them all away. Don’t ask me how I know that.

          They’re also good to make a personal pizza with. A little sauce, some onions, green peppers, fresh spinach, top with a little mozzarella and pop in the toaster oven for ten minutes or so. You could put ham or sausage on it if you wanted but I usually just have mine vegetarian.

 

          “How’s your cold?” you ask.

          After missing church for two weeks, I think I’ll go this Sunday. I think I’m mostly over it, and I don’t believe I’m contagious, but I do have a lingering cough.

          Mike decided to share in the joy and picked up my cold. He’s miserable with a cough and sore throat. His eyes hurt whereas mine never did. I expect it’ll have to run its course and he’ll be better in a week or so. DayQuil and NyQuil are our friends.

 “How’s Miss Rosie?” you ask.

She doesn’t seem to be much better and she’s almost done with her antibiotics. If she’s not better by Monday I expect she’ll go back to the doctor for a different antibiotic to treat her bronchitis. 

 

          With that, let’s call this one done.

          Done!

Happy New Year!

           Let’s start this first letter of the New Year the way I normally start my yearly letters. Are you ready for Letter Facts of 2025?

          I started writing and sending letters in 1998. That was twenty-seven years ago.

          Sometime in 2014 I started a blog site and almost everything I’ve written since then is posted there. 660 of them!

          “Almost?” you query.

          The story of Kat’s death isn’t posted because someone said it’s too personal. I may go back and edit out some of the details that would make identity fraud easier but until then, it’s not posted.

          The other story I removed was also the death of a loved one because it hurt one of the relatives. I never want to hurt anyone with my stories.

          Last year I wrote forty-seven letter blogs, missing five weeks. I always tell you why I miss a week in case you’re curious as to what can keep me from my weekly tradition. I missed once in April because I’d undertaken a job that needed to be done so I didn’t have the time. I missed once in June because I didn’t have anything to write about. In August I missed a week because my bestest, oldest, and most beautifulest friend from West Virginia was visiting. October I missed twice because we’d gone west to visit family.

Those forty-seven letter blogs add up to a full-length novel at 105,932 words. And when I printed them—with all 1,561 pictures—it came out to 401 pages.

I did a much better job this year putting the letters in a binder within a day or so of printing them so it wasn’t such a big job to do all at once like it was last year.

This New Year starts with two sick old women. Two! That’s right.

          “Who?” you ask.

          My peeps on the morning love note chain already know. I’m one and my Miss Rosie is the other. We’re both sick.

I started getting sick Saturday a week ago. My symptoms were more annoying than severe and I didn’t go to the doctor.

Miss Rosie, on the other hand, went to the doctor and has been diagnosed with bronchitis.

I’ve mostly stayed home, choosing not to help spread this thing, but I did have to go out one day. The cats were almost out of food so I had to go to the store. But I didn’t share my germs. I wore a mask. And if anyone looked at me funny, I just coughed.

We were behind a truck that had a scrolling sign in the back window behind the driver’s seat.

“What was it saying?”

River Lover. That’s all. Over and over.

“Why?” I asked Mike, but he didn’t have a guess.

We were almost home when I got a shot of a hawk in a tree.

          As I’ve already told you, I was sick, but not that sick. I had a cough and a slight sore throat. I had some body aches but no fever. I had a general feeling of... what’s the medical term? Ah yeah—blah.

          I tackled a project I’ve been wanting to try for a while now.

          “What’s that?” you ask.

          I know you guys like to know where my creative bent has taken me and this time I ventured into the field of bookmaking. Making sketchbooks not taking bets.

          There are several methods to bind the books. You can glue them or sew them. I wanted to sew mine. There are several methods of sewing and the first one I looked into is called a Coptic stitch. I did NOT like the look of an exposed spine.

          I found a Long Stitch. Even though the spine is closed, the stitching is on display. It can be decorative but not what I wanted.

          I wanted a more classic book look. And that lead me to a French Link. I started assembling my sketchbook in this manner only to discover you needed an even number of holes for it to work. I had five. That’s odd.

Back to You Tube.

I ended up doing a Link Stitch.

          My first book I made with paintable wallpaper. It can be used for acrylic paints, crayons, markers, or maybe even ink. I don’t know — I didn’t try it. But I do know it doesn’t work for watercolors.

The second one I made I used a cheap watercolor paper, not 100% cotton but watercolor paper nonetheless.

The third and fourth ones were made with paper made to cover holes in walls. It can be used for just about anything. The watercolors don’t sink through but do take a really long time to dry.

          I didn’t get too fussy making my books. The pages might not be all the same size — wait a minute. There’s no “might not” about it. The pages are all different sizes. Some stick out a little more than others and I could’ve trimmed them to all the same size, but it didn’t bother me so I left them. The pages might not even be true. Which, let’s be honest, they’re definitely not.

The signatures don’t all line up but that won’t affect the way they work.

          The outside is cardboard covered with scrapbooking papers.

          Having cut the papers and cardboard myself means I can make them in any size and for any purpose. It was a fun project. And I say with affection — they’re charmingly wonky and full of character.

          My creativity dried up with the advent of burning lava taking up residence in the back of my throat Thursday night. Every cough was pure agony. I gargled with salt water, took NyQuil and went to bed.

          I woke up at ten minutes to five, well ahead of my alarm, and had to get out of bed. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t cough — well, I could cough but the agony of it doubled overnight. I started a regime of gargling with warm salt water and taking DayQuil on schedule. And that helped. An hour or so later I was feeling much better.

          The advice from my friends and family (who all love me) came pouring in.

          “Rest and stay hydrated,” was by far the most common.

          Some chores wait for no man — or woman. Critters had to be fed, I did a much-needed load of laundry, made lunch, and washed dishes. Then I spent the afternoon in the recliner watching movies.

          Saturday was off to a bit of a rocky start but not as bad as Friday morning.

I’m going to stay home one more Sunday and hope to be completely better before another Sunday rolls around. I don’t like to miss church service with all my Christian peeps but, by the same token, I don’t want to be the cause of anyone else getting sick.

 

I’ve had duck guts all over my floor several times this week. I don’t even mind cleaning it up. Do you know why?

“Because you love them?” you guess.

I do. I love the girls. But that’s not the reason.

“Why, then?” you ask.

Because it means someone was having fun tearing it up. Even though I do toss the ball for them a couple of three times a day, the rest of the day there isn’t much else for them to do but sleep.

“Don’t they play with each other?” you wanna know.

Bondi and Raini have been playing with each other a little more in the last couple of weeks and I love seeing that—as long as Raini remembers not to be too rough.

And now, for the pictorial part of your letter blog, more pictures from our October trip.

          

          Never fear, there are still lots more pictures from that trip.

With that, let’s call this one done.

          Remember, don’t ever forget, that you’re all in my heart.

 

          Done!