Little Green fer y' on St. Patty's . . .

Feeling rather hermit-ish lately, could be a number of reasons—season changes, creeping up on the "one year" mark, could be that a year ago today, Bob was still with me, we had chips and guac, and a beer on the deck on a balmy St. Patrick's day, after the most horrific winter we have ever known . . . two days later, my dear friend, Lisa and her husband Dale, lost their beloved Sam, and at the same time, Bob took a turn for the worst in hospice, thus ensuing our month-long rapid descent . . . then again, I'm on the rag, so what the hell do I know about anything anymore . . . I do know that I love this picture so much, the expression on Bob's face speaks volumes to me, such a beautiful expression, almost startling peacefully content, given the immeasurable hell he had endured for a year and a half and would endure, for another month and a half. . .

Bit of green spotted today, on my "living wall!"

Along with hermit mode comes a lot of spring cleaning, though it feels like I've done nothing, with how much needs to be done. The inside of the house continues to grow messier and messier as I continue to play and play out in the dirt outside. I'm taking advantage of the amazing weather, have been clearing the yard of old leaves and other debris, had a tree trimming company out to finally trim back the two old oaks that flank the house (one was the big one that, during a terrible storm the summer of 2010, launched the Maryland-sized branch onto the deck and crushed our patio table and chairs, so can't believe that was already two summers ago), a job that should have been done ages ago . . . tree guys said they are very healthy (yea! I was worried that maybe they were diseased, due to the big branch breaking off as it did) and will hopefully remain intact for a long time to come. I learned white oaks can't be trimmed in the summer—the fresh cuts make the trees susceptible to disease and bugs . . . dragged the patio furniture out of hiding, washed it all down, and unofficially have my "outdoor office" ready to roll, though I don't have the stomach to sit out there alone, yet. Trying to organize the garage, clean the gutters,  clear the screened deck, rake/ blow out the rock garden, trim all the junk that was neglected in the fall/winter . . . I've seen bits of evidence of spring—some of my outdoor plants are sending up shoots, the vines on the "living wall" that my friend, Allison, erected for me last year, already have little buds popping up all over it . . . spring at Wrenwood is definitely appearing early this year . . .

Today, I wanted to take Rocco on a long walk outside the 'hood, to take a break from all the heavy manual labor of the past few days. I am trying so hard to get my poor pup to "love!" the Jeep, to recognize that the Jeep is a magical thing that brings him to happy places—parks! The butcher shop! Other houses with other dogs! He still ain't buyin' it, shakes like an epileptic as soon as he's in (I'm allowed to say that, btw, I have epilepsy. Or at least I did—haven't had a seizure in over 10 years, so I like to believe I'm "cured," though I also know enough about the disorder to know that it can rear its head at any time, without warning. One more of my "worst case scenarioitis" issues that sometimes keeps me up at night—if it isn't something else—is that I'll suddenly start having seizures again, out here, all by myself. One of my widow friends, a woman who fosters dogs, told me that one of her foster pups was from a guy who had died alone, his dogs had to start eating him, because no one checked on him for days, they had run out of food, which lead to a horrifically morbid conversation about what would happen to either of us, should we die at home . . . at least I have family that checks on me several times a day, via phone. She has no one, and it's a very real fear of hers . . . yup, the conversations widows have, not just with themselves, but with other widows . . . ).

ANYHOOOOOOOSIES, I was going to take a quick jaunt to Lake Elmo park, to get back and continue the outside cleaning frenzy, but before I knew it, the Jeep was heading north, toward William O'Brien State Park. Must have been the pull of the Irish holiday upon us, and get this—I even had a green tank top on, totally unplanned and totally unnoticed by yours truly, until we got back to the car after our 3 hour hike. . .

If a man pees in the woods . . .

Last time I remember being at William O'Brien was the winter before Bob got sick, January 2009. We went snow shoeing, just the two of us—we left Gaia back home because the snow was deep and she was already showing signs of painful arthritis, the deep, heavy snow would have been tough for her. It was a beautiful day, we didn't take many pictures, just got off the beaten track and wove our way in and out of the woods on our snow shoes, traipsing up and down hills, along a beautiful little creek, cutting through the snow, babbling and tumbling along the hillside, over wet, shiny rocks . . . at one point, Bob asked me to hold his camera while he went to see a man about a horse (whatever the hell that means, dudes), so I took this picture of him—I know, totally inappropriate . . . I did that a lot to him, since that was usually the only time I got the honor to hold his camera—when he had to take a leak. . .We may have taken Gaia and Rocco to W'm O'Brien once that following summer for a walk, but I'm not entirely sure about that memory—I remember stopping for ice cream and sitting at a picnic table behind the Brookside Inn at Marine on St. Croix after one such hike, for some reason I visualize Rocco being so freaked out, he wouldn't even eat the ice cream. But I can't say for certain if it was Rocco that I'm remembering—it might have been Liddy, we might have tried taking her for one last hike, during her last months on earth, not feeling well enough even for ice cream. . . hell, I might be making the whole damn thing up . . . it's these fuzzy, almost unreal memories that drive me crazy. . . did it happen or didn't it? I have no way of knowing . . .

Rocco and I had a good walk today. It was warm but the wind kept us cooled . . . I remembered to bring water along this time, but Rocco gets so one-tracked minded on these walks that he simply refuses to drink any water. He does try to drink out of the murky, stinky, stagnant river water, but I discourage that behavior (until we get his heart worm medication and other shots up to date). We encountered many doggies, to Rocco's utter delight, lots of people out and about, but the beauty of a state park is it's expansive enough to still feel solitude, to still feel blissfully insulated, isolated . . . It's a tough endeavor, to head out to these parks that I used to share with Bob, alone. But I also feel compelled to do so. A strange sensation, almost like an out-of-body experience, to walk along land that is at once so familiar yet so foreign, to approach a curve in the path and know that a stand of birches will be found around the bend, or come to a hilltop and know a large oak will be stretched out as though greeting me at the top . . . but to see all of this, without Bob along side me—seeing everything again, yet for the first time, alone, is a startling sight.