Moving to Galveston

The COVID pandemic was in full force in January, 2021, the year we moved to Galveston. I wanted to make the move without stopping, avoiding any chance encounters with pandemic germs. However, driving 9-1/2 hours in one day was impossible as I was responsible for my husband, Bill, a cat named Felix who hates to travel, and a dog named Oreo who thinks travel is simply an adventure for discovering new sniffs. 

 

So, we spent two nights in hotels: the night of the move in Tulsa and again south of Dallas. Each night, before bringing my menagerie into our hotel room, I bombarded it with a high powered, disinfectant spray. I sprayed everywhere: doorknobs, drawer pulls, sinks, toilet, tv remote, clock, even the bedspreads. Nothing escaped.

“I’m paranoid,” I decided as I wondered who slept here last. Did they wear masks? Did they use hand sanitizer?  What if they had COVID?

Bill and I were both in our 70s, overweight, and had high blood pressure. In other words, we were high risks. There were no vaccines for this disease and masks were scarce. My brother had made us cloth ones to get us through until masks were available to buy. So that was something.

Bathrooms breaks and meal stops were also a problem, at least for Bill and the animals. If it was only me, it would be no problem. I don’t drink and I don’t pee - at least not very often. But between Oreo and Bill, it was mandatory to stop every two to four hours.

I insisted on taking wipes into restrooms to scrub down the toilet seats, door knobs, and sink faucets. Buying food at restaurants was another issue.  Are COVID germs hiding inside that cheeseburger just waiting to invade our digestive systems? Did the cook wear a mask? Wash his hands? Come in sick? It even crossed my mind that a deranged server might be waiting for the chance to give me COVID by spitting on my Chicken Fried Steak. 

Neither of us got Covid on the trip down, but to this day I’m particular about germs when I travel. 

Oreo with Covid hairdo and Felix looking out window in our AirB&B

We arrived in Galveston just at sundown; it was light enough to see the buildings but not very easy to see the street signs. I knew the island wasn’t very big, so I was sure I could find our B&B without much trouble.

The streets in Galveston are numbered chronologically one way and alphabetically the other.
Unfortunately, the address to our B&B wasn’t any help: 16422 R-1/2*. Is Rosenberg Street the same as R Street? What does 1/2 mean? “For Pete’s sake,” I thought, “Who makes up these street names?” Just then, I noticed a sign saying “P Street.” 

“We must be getting close,” I said. I turned left on P, drove another block and turned left again, hoping to spot a house number close to 16422.

About that time, a police cruiser came up from behind and began flashing its lights at me. I pulled over. 

“Oh damn. Now what have I done?” I wondered, reviewing the past few miles in my head. Did I speed? Go through a stop sign? A red light?

The cops got out and walked up to my car, one on each side. The one on the driver’s side motioned for me to roll down my window. 

“Do you know why we stopped you,” he asked.

“No, I don’t,” I said. “Sorry.”

“You drove down a one-way street the wrong way.” 

“Oh my god!” I said. “I didn’t realize it. I’m so sorry.” I struggled to hold back the tears welling at the bottom of my eyes.

“You barely missed a car and almost caused an accident,” he continued. 

“I am so sorry,” I repeated, unable to hold tears now flowing down my face. How could I miss seeing a car coming at me on the one-way street? Am I blind? The driver must have been furious! OMG, I could’ve been shot! What a terrible way to start our new life on this island.

“Where are you heading,” the cop asked?

“I’m looking for our B&B,” I said and gave him the address.

He patiently explained how to get there. My mind was not fully engaged because I was mentally counting up the cost of the ticket I was surely going to get and how it would affect my insurance payments.

“I’m not going to give you a ticket,” he said and then patiently explained that O and P street were one way streets running the length of the east island. I later found out the locals used these streets to get from one end of town to the other when tourists are in town. 

“Thank you,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief. 

I could see the police watching as I pulled out and continued on my way. I carefully looked for one-way signs, stop signs, and red lights. We finally arrived at the B&B and discovered it was a garage apartment behind a house, only accessible via a skinny, gravel-covered, trash-can-lined alley. No wonder I got lost. 

I pulled into the gate, parked the car, and stared up at the apartment. It was located up a flight of steep, open-air, wooden stairs. Bill is legally blind, has Alzheimer’s, and uses a walker to get around. How are we going to navigate this setup?

I sucked in a big breath, phoned the landlord, and informed him we had arrived. There was nothing I could do about the stairs right now. I might as well get on with it.

Grabbing the disinfectant, I said, “Don’t get out of the car. I’ll be back to get you in a minute.” 
I retrieved the key from our landlord, climbed to the top of the stairs, unlocked the door, and thought, “It’s going to be a really long ten days waiting for our furniture to arrive.”

*Address changed to protect the landlord!

Writing Practice

Soon after moving to Galveston Island, I began attending OLLI, otherwise known as Osher Lifelong Learning Center. It's a place for folks age 55+ to meet friends and exercise both the mind and body. I've taken many classes here; some successfully, some not. But one class that sticks in my mind is the day I attended a writing practice class and met Debbie and Lori. We hit it off like the three musketeers; and, after the class ended, we continue to meet once a week to share our writing successes and failures. At the end of each writing session, Debbie creates a list of prompts to jumpstart our writing for the following week. This has led us to create stories, poems, and memoirs. Stories that reveal the innermost secrets of our lives, stories set in fictional times and places, and stories that are, frankly, not worth reading.

Sadly, I've used all my writing prompts for this week and now I'm stumped. What do I want to write about? My activities? My friends? My struggles? Dreams? Goals? Failures? Somewhere in this messy list is something that needs expounding upon or even alluded to. 

What? Nothing? 

I'm a blank.

I need to find my own prompt for today, so I spend five minutes searching. Zilch. Zero. Zip. Nothing excites me. Not one prompt makes me want to bare my soul or chastise society. Maybe today isn't a good day for writing. I mean, really, how long can one ramble on and expect her friends to listen! 

Last chance - first word that comes into my mind - headache. 

I DO have an allergy headache. It resides over my left eye and nostril, beating and throbbing like a bass drummer out of sync. Can't anyone shut him up? Usually my Vicks Vapo-inhaler makes it disappear, but not today. In fact, last night it kept me up several hours, pounding away like a blacksmith on his anvil. I finally smeared Vicks Vapo-Rub over my nose and top lip until the throbbing waned. Slowly, I drifted back to sleep, and now...it's back like a concert I do not want to attend. Banging away like a 3-year old with a Christmas present from an uncle who hates me. "Shut up," I scream. "BANG," is its reply. No wonder I can't write.

Streetcats

I'm currently drinking my morning, home-brewed Starbucks and watching one of the neighborhood street cats woof down some chicken I put out on my patio. I can't see details, like whiskers, but she is a pretty cat, white with beach sand-colored splotches - the perfect look for a Galveston street cat.

Oreo is sitting next to me, watching curiously, probably wondering why this cat gets fresh chicken while she only get Rx dog food with only a smidgen of chicken for flavoring. She doesn't understand that eating that plate of chicken would end with her going to the dog hospital. She's had stomach and bladder stone issues since a baby and only gets Rx food.

The cat finishes and moves on. My experience with neighborhood street cats has led me to discover something quite amusing - they are quite persnickety in their dining habits. For the past two weeks, I've been putting down bits of leftover rice and boiled chicken. Each night around 5:30, my sandy colored street cat friend comes visiting and gobbles up the offering. 
Yesterday, I got the idea that I could feed more cats and provide more nutrients if I put down cat food instead of chicken. I bought a bag of Purina Cat Chow, placed a mound of these healthy brown pebbles on a blue plastic plate, and waited.

First, a big black tom cat jumped up, strutted over to the dish, and sniffed. He quickly turned away and left. "Nope, not going to eat that stuff!" 

Next, my sandy beach cat arrived to see what was on the menu. She sniffed at the crunchy brown substance, glared at me through the sliding glass door, and almost appeared to roll her eyes. She turned, stormed off, and flicked her tail at the "flies" in the dish. I guess I got told!

When I woke this morning, there was the cursed cat food, still sitting forlornly on the blue plastic plate. Not even a rat came to dine!

Like an obedient wife for an overbearing husband, I replaced the scorned manna from heaven with chicken. Lesson learned. The neighborhood street cats have formally decreed, "We street cats have class. Do NOT feed us rat food." 

In truth, I'm a spoiled street cat as well. Give me breakfast at Blake's or lunch at Truluck's, but do not feed me "rat food" from a fast food restaurant. Maybe that's why I love my street cats so much. We are soul mates at heart.

Excerpt - The Landlord (A Chapter from a Mystery I'm Writing)

This is an excerpt from a mystery I’m working on – very slowly! As background, the story is about a woman who moves to Galveston to be near her daughter as she takes care of her husband with dementia. Hmm, does that sound familiar! After placing him in a nursing home, she needs more income; so, she starts a Professional Organizer business. A murder occurs in town, she ends up accused, and then she has to solve the murder before she gets arrested and put in jail. It’s just a fun thing I work on when the muse hits me. I love mysteries so this is my favorite kind of writing. Here goes. . . 

As I put the last of the groceries away, I hear heavy footsteps climbing the stairs. 

“Oh crap,” I say as I spot my landlord, Alec. Oreo barks, jumps up and down and runs around in circles, while I quickly pick up dog toys, newspapers, and coffee mugs before opening the door. “Alec, what do you want,” I ask?

“I need to discuss your lease,” he says, pushing his way through the door. I roll my eyes. Typical for him; he pushes his way through life.

Alec picks up Oreo and tosses him off the lounge chair, thumps his butt down, and reclines his feet up.    

“How about some coffee,” he demands. 

You might think I’m his housecleaner, I say to myself as I pop a Starbucks pod in the Kuerig.

“Cream and sugar,” I ask?

“Nope, black,” he says. “Got anything sweet to go with it?”

After he’s comfortably settled with coffee and a chocolate chip cookie, he pulls out a lease and tosses it at me.

I scan the five-page, size-8-font document and jerk my head back with a loud “What is this?”
Alec swallows his cookie practically whole and drinks off the top of his coffee with a loud slurp. “What is what?” he asks, wiping his hand across his mouth.

I notice a chocolate chip fall on his designer jeans, but I’m not concerned about that. I’m too distraught at what I see in the lease. My hands are shaking as I say, “You raised my rent $200 a month!”

 “Inflation,” he says. “Everybody is dealing with inflation these days and landlords are no different.

“But you haven’t fixed the rotten door jamb or my dishwasher or the holes in the bathroom ceiling.”

“I fixed your door jamb, just last week,” he says with a snarl.

“You nailed the broken pieces back into place! That’s not fixed. All you did was prevent the rotten pieces from falling down.

“It worked, didn’t it? Besides, I’m going to remodel this place eventually.”“What about the dishwasher?” I ask.

“Your dishwasher works. I ran it through two cycles and every cycle performed exactly as required.”

“Sure, it works, but it doesn’t clean my dishes! I have to scrub them clean first or they come out as dirty as they go in. That’s not fixed.”

Alec grabs his mug, lifts it towards me, and says, “I’ll have another cup.”

I grab the cup and head back towards the kitchen as he yells after me, “And don’t forget the cookie. It was a bit stale, but it’s better than nothing.”

By this time, I’m fuming, but I get his damn coffee and cookie and sit back down. I return my attention to the lease and notice he also increased the lease to two years. “What the hell is this,” I say, pointing to the lease. “Two years! You expect me to sign a two-year lease for this hell hole?”

Alec takes a big slurp and sits back in his chair with a smug grin. “This is beach property, lady. I could be making thousands a month if this was an AirB&B. I’m doing you a favor.

“AirB&B! That’s a joke, right? No one would rent this place as a vacation home. The walls have holes in them, the floor is warped, carpet is stained, stairs are breaking, the outside hasn’t been painted in God-knows when. You can’t be serious!”

“I’m serious. Now are you going to sign the lease or what,” he finishes his coffee and begins to get up. Oreo sits back on her haunches and growls up at him. 

I begin to analyze the options in my mind. Not many, I admit. I’m paying an enormous amount to keep Richard in Assisted Living. I couldn’t keep him home any longer. He was falling down and wandering. 

At 250 pounds, there was no way I could lift him, so I was calling the ambulance on a regular basis to help me get him up. He began to wander out of the house and then forget where he was. Luckily, I say this tongue in cheek, he’s visually impaired so he doesn’t have a driver’s license, or he probably would have had silver alerts as well. 

My children, Crystal and Cameron, insisted it was time to place him in a care home. The only one on the island I could afford was close by, but not the best place for him. It has no memory care. I really need to get him into a place with memory care but that costs even more money.

All this is going through my mind as I ponder the lease in front of me.

There is nothing on the island that is this cheap, even with a $200/month increase. I just can’t afford to move right now. I’ll have to cut back more on groceries and whatever else I can think of, but at least I can still be here on the island with Richard and the kids. I’ll have a roof over my head, even if it does leak now and then. Better than being on the street. I don’t want to have to compete with Ron on 61^st and Broadway! 

“Fine,” I say, grabbing a pen from my desk. “I’ll sign your lease, but at least fix the hole in my bathroom ceiling.” I scribble my signature across the lease and hand it back to him.

“Sure,” he says as he pushes off of the recliner and waddles his 300 lb frame out the door. “Next week. I’ll take care of it next week.”

I shut the door after him and blow out a big breath. Exasperated is mild for what I’m really feeling. How am I going to pay for this and assisted living, too?

Prompt of the day: Frost and Irascible

This is my birthday month - I'll be one year closer to that "three-quarters of a century" mark which happens next year. Like frost on the ground, my hair is much whiter than it was a year ago. Is that because I'm older, wiser, or more stressed? 

Age mellows people. I'm definitely less irascible than I was in my 20s or 30s. I wonder why that is? Could it be, because as I age, I realize I don't know it all; and therefore, there is less to argue about? Or could it be because I realize my time is short, so why waste it arguing? Or, maybe it's because I don't have the energy to spare! Arguing raises the blood pressure and wears out this feeble machine I live in.

I believe it's all of the above. Being irascible takes too much energy, takes too much time, and only proves I don't know it all. Instead, I will simply settle myself down, gently, like frost floating down on a beautiful lily, and live one year longer! 

A New Year and A New Start in Writing

I know I said last year that I was ready to start blogging again, but apparently there was more that I needed to get through before I got there. With friends and family support, I believe I am ready to try again. 

It's been a difficult year with placing my spouse of 54 years into a memory care home an hour away from me. Many bad days during the adjustment. However, while going through this, I began writing about my experiences and sharing them with others. It is therapeutic for me and helps me to process the everyday problems that come up when dealing with Alzheimers.

During this time, my writing gals and I got together and wrote whatever came to mind. Writing became fun again. I found myself exploring my desire to write a cozy mystery. I played around with writing about life in general. Some of my articles were funny, sarcastic, heartbreaking, and even educational. So, I decided it's time to share my writing online once more. I don't know what I'll write about, but here goes. . . 

Day Trip

Last week, my husband Bill, Oreo, and I went on a day trip to Shiloam Springs, Arkansas. I wanted to visit the scrapbook store there called, Creative Corner on Broadway. We had a wonderful time!

On the way there, we stopped at Natural Falls State Park. What a beautiful park! There are all kinds of walking trails there from easy ones for strollers to the all-terrain trail of Dripping Springs that take you back to the falls.

The trails to the falls were nice, sometimes with boarded bridges:

At the end of this trail, it leads down several hundred feet to a waterfall:

It was cool and beautiful here. From there, we took an even more rustic trail around to a "lake" and back. In some places, the trail was climbing rocks! In addition, there were several steep climbs, not an easy trail. 

BRING WATER! I decided to do the trail a 2nd time and left Bill at the top. On my way down, I got dehydrated and almost passed out. Lucky for me, a nice couple came by and gave me some of their water! 

After our hike, we stopped for lunch (and met the couple who rescued me!). Then we went to the scrapbook store. The owner there was extremely helpful. I told her I wanted to make a mini album for a friend's baby. I picked out some super hero paper and she patiently explained what I needed and how to do it. If you live near this store, you must visit. She is a gem! 

I thought I'd add a photo of my finished product so you could see the results:

All in all, it was a fun day!