Column: A day of woe, followed by a holiday rebound

I’m going to tell you about my day of woe, as a holiday gift. Feel free to gloat, and be glad that you did not suffer such a day.

It started innocently enough. My husband, Paul, brought our Prius into the tire shop to have snow tires put on. I was at work at Hussey Elementary School when I received a text from him, saying the job was done, he had left the car in the school parking lot, and he was walking home, a few blocks away.

Moments later, my cell phone vibrated. Now I was irritated, as I had to leave the library to answer it. It was the tire shop. There was a problem that they supposedly hadn’t noticed before Paul drove off. Could I tell him to call them?

Now I need to back up. Life had been going south for a couple of weeks by then. First, our landline died. We’d already endured two weeks of no landline or wireless earlier in the fall, because the line bringing service to our home needed to be replaced by Fairpoint. Now we had no phone service again.

The initial problem back in September prompted me to buy Paul a “real” cell phone for his birthday in late November. He’d had a TracFone for awhile, but it finally died. I thought he needed to have a smarter device. Paul was enjoying his new phone when he had the snow tires installed, but he hadn’t memorized the number yet. So he gave the shop mine.

I wish I could say I was making all this up, but, alas, it is all true.

I returned to the library and resumed my activities. My phone vibrated again. I glared at it. It was Paul. A tire shop employee had backed into the car while it was parked at the shop. There was a huge dent in the driver’s door.

Oh. My. God.

A few hours later, I left Hussey to drive over to Lincoln Elementary. My heart sank. The dent was such that, if one of us had been in the driver’s seat car when the accident happened, we’d have been severely injured. I was almost equally upset that I had to drive the car around like that. It made me look like a loser.

The tire company’s insurance will pay for the repairs, as well as a loaner. We received a refund for the tire job as well. The bad news is that we can’t get the car fixed until the end of January. I guess I’d better get used to feeling pathetic.

I had a bit of time after school to have a cup of tea and calm myself before visiting the podiatrist. I’d had foot surgery in late September. I’d healed up nicely, except for my second toe. My doctor had warned me that “Clyde,” as I’d named it, would remain swollen for awhile. However, by November he was still super-sized. So off I went for more x-rays. On this less-than-auspicious day, I was going to find out what Clyde was up to.

As the Morton Salt company has said for 100 years, “When it rains, it pours.” The x-rays were remarkably clear—and horrible. In October, the implant that had been placed in my toe to keep it straight looked fine. In December, it was broken.

How this happened is anyone’s guess. Although my 85-pound lab, Quinn, steps on my feet from time to time, I have a hard time imagining he could break a titanium-nickel alloy gizmo that had been placed within a bone.

My doctor said I didn’t necessarily have to have it removed, but he recommended it. I didn’t have to think twice about it. I hated the idea of this broken thing in my toe.

So, in late January, I will be repaired about the same time as the Prius. Who says life can’t be naturally ironic? It won’t be as bad as the two weeks spent off my feet in October, followed by four more weeks in a surgical boot. But I still have to have surgery to remove the “Smart Toe” implant and place a pin in Clyde, that old devil. I’ll still have to hobble around in an ugly stiff sandal for several weeks. I’m sure that’s when we’ll start having blizzards.

I was in a dark mood when I returned home. But it’s hard to stay down during the holiday season. Even though I don’t get all joyfully silly at this time of year, I do take pleasure in denouncing my least favorite Christmas carols (“The Little Drummer Boy”—yech) and skewering materialism at every turn.

My motto: When life gives you lemons, take a bite. You’ll survive.

Column: Tapping into the (sometimes elusive) spirit of Christmas

What a relief it was when I said to a friend, “I don’t have a lot of Christmas spirit,” and she replied, “Neither do I.”

My friend keeps up appearances for her daughter, who’s eight.

I’m keeping up appearances for myself, since I don’t want to be the Grinch.

I think my problem with Christmas started when my husband, Paul, and I moved to Maine from Massachusetts nearly 30 years ago. No one ever came up to spend Christmas with us. Instead, we’d travel to see my family on Christmas Eve, then drive an hour and half the next day to visit Paul’s family. It was exhausting, especially when there were small children running around. Just packing up a car full of presents wore down my spirit.

Family dynamics during the holiday sometimes left me flummoxed. Somebody would show up with a surprise boyfriend or girlfriend for whom we didn't have a present. On more than one occasion, girls turned up pregnant—surprise!—though there wasn’t a father in sight. People would turn on the TV even though others were talking.

Paul and I slept on a sofa bed in his parents’ living room. One year I tossed and turned, and felt so uncomfortable I couldn’t sleep. I was reminded of an old Seinfeld episode (as I often am) in which Elaine and Jerry visit his parents in Florida. Elaine throws out her back sleeping on a sofa bed that felt like it had a bar running down the middle of the frame.

Alas, that was not my problem. I had the flu. It was my first year working in education and I had no immunity to kid germs. Once we returned to Maine, I spent my vacation lying on a cot in a spare room at home. Luckily, my mother always came up to spend a couple of weeks with us during the holidays, so she brought me tea and soup.

As the years passed, our parents aged. My mother moved in with my sister and brother-in-law. We spent part of one Christmas with Paul’s father, who was in a nursing home. He passed away within a year. Eventually my mom went into an assisted-living facility, and my mother-in-law into a nursing home. They, too, passed away.

Since Christmas is so much about tradition, it’s hard when you have to reinvent the holiday. I can’t really say I miss buying presents for, at its peak, 13 family members. I don’t miss those long treks, although of course I still mourn our parents. But nature abhors a vacuum, and that’s what Christmas became for us.

At first, I did not feel motivated to decorate as much as I had when my mother visited during the holidays. I didn’t have a reason to do much baking. Paul had to shame me into writing Christmas cards.

Two years ago, I decided to do a “Twelve Days of Christmas” celebration. Every day for the 12 days before the holiday, I did or bought something special and then posted a picture of it on Facebook. It was fun to come with the ideas, and since Paul didn’t know what I was doing, he had a surprise every day. For example, I had always wanted one of those Swedish dala horse ornaments, so I bought a small one. Another day, I made seven-layer bars.

Ironically, this was the year when the power went out on Dec. 24th in our neck of the woods. So I wasn’t able to complete the twelfth event, which was to bake Paul a tourtière, or French meat pie. This was a favorite from his childhood.

Our power came back on that night, though many neighbors were still in the dark. Perhaps this was why I didn’t do the twelve days the following year. I didn’t want to tempt fate.

This year, I decided I wanted to get an Advent calendar to keep myself in the spirit. I discovered an electronic version and actually purchased two. One is a traditional European Christmas market and the other features a Victorian theme. They were inexpensive, so I also sent one to my sister and one to a friend.

I have had an absurd amount of fun with these calendars. Sometimes there is a vignette, such as the appearance of a band playing Christmas carols. Other days provide a virtual activity, like making snowflakes or wrapping Christmas presents. The music is lovely and there’s information about holiday traditions as well.

The calendars have inspired me in several ways. I decided having some truly beautiful Christmas cards would motivate me to send them out. So I carefully chose a religious motif and a secular assortment. The cards were mailed nearly two weeks before the holiday.

Then I decided I wanted wrapping paper like the beautiful stuff I used on my virtual Advent calendar presents. When I couldn’t find it locally, I ordered it online.

I also treated myself to a lovely wreath from L.L. Bean. 

Now, if one of my calendars asks me to decorate cookies, that may just get me into my bricks-and-mortar kitchen.

Then again, I might just have to built up enough spirit to get in their on my own!

I wish you and your loved ones a wonderful holiday season.

Column: Chinese food, and other traditional Christmas treats

Somewhere on Thanksgiving, I read or heard the following quip: The most tired person on Black Friday is the one who has to change all latte flavors at coffee shops from pumpkin to peppermint.

Sure enough, when I went into my local Hannaford the day after the holiday, the display of “autumn goodies” near the entrance had been switched to “holiday goodies.”

We had officially entered peppermint season.

During the height of pumpkin fall, I wrote about the proliferation of pumpkin flavors. It’s a phenomenon that’s appeared in the last few years, and seems to become more frenzied every October.

The popularity of peppermint in December, however, is not a mystery. Two words: candy canes. Two more: peppermint bark. And, maybe, since we derive many of our Christmas traditions from Germany, peppermint schnapps.

Peppermint is not as versatile as pumpkin, which can be used in both sweet and nutritious ways. The peppermint range is candy, cookies, and, of course, lattes.

Luckily, Christmas has more going for it in the adaptation department than does Thanksgiving. The latter is all about pumpkin. But Christmas also has gingerbread. Dunkin’ Donuts is offering “Gingerbread House” K-cups this season. Eggnog is another seasonal favorite, and the Starbucks’ menu includes an eggnog latte.

Christmas also has the advantage of its association with red and green. Virtually anything can be holiday-branded if it is made red and green.

Even cat litter can go seasonal. I recently bought a container of Tidy Cats which is scented to smell like “Winter Pine.”

I am a sucker for such things. Perhaps its because my husband, Paul, and I don’t get a traditional Christmas tree. We have a six-foot tall fig tree in our living room that we festoon with lights and ornaments. Pine-scented candles, soaps, air fresheners and, yes, litter, help me get into the mood for the season. Scent plays an important role in our emotional states.

But does it really matter if I get the holiday-wrapped Hershey Miniatures and Kisses? Would it be wrong to buy half-priced Halloween candy and save it for Christmas? I’m not sure, but my gut tells me tradition trumps discounts, and yes, the wrappers do count.

I could sneer at holiday marketing as a crass commercial ploy, but it fascinates me. That instantaneous scene change, from the harvest to the ho-ho-ho is remarkable. The elves must show up at the stroke of midnight to switch the orange and brown landscapes to wintry white, with touches of red and green.

Of course, the little toy drumbeat for Christmas starts before Thanksgiving now, and that irks me. I enjoyed a comic strip that I saw somewhere in which a child, going into the store with his parent and seeing a plethora of Christmas signs, says “Aren’t we celebrating Thanksgiving this year?”

I’m glad that Maine law prohibits stores larger than 5,000 square feet from opening on Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter. The very idea of a holiday is to take a break from the usual routine. I would be seriously offended if anybody got up from my dining room table to head off for a sale.

Now we are in the final stretch before the holiday. I wish I had the luxury to enjoy a leisurely preparation. But first, I had to get my graduate course work finished for the semester. That meant I had to order presents online, because, of course, the biggest course-related projects are the final ones and I was spending every spare minute working on them.

We are at the point where I have to take stock of what I bought and see if I need anything else. It’s OK if I do. What’s Christmas without a little last-minute panic? I don’t think I ever make it through Christmas Eve without a late rush to the drugstore, or maybe the local candy shop.

I also look to find Christmas cheer wherever I can. I love the tradition of an Advent calendar, and this year I purchased two virtual ones—Christmas Market and Victorian Christmas. I take absurd delight in these interactive, musical calendars that are designed by a wonderful British artist, Jacquie Lawson.

As I am a school librarian, I look forward to the high school holiday concert. I am so pleased when we are all “required” to be on hand in the auditorium, ostensibly to keep the peace. I wish there were more such joyful requirements in life.

I was intrigued to see on the week’s agenda for one of my elementary schools: “Reindeer.” I investigated and learned that yes, indeed, reindeer would be visiting the school and I, by some stroke of luck, had scheduled myself to be at that particular library at just the right time to see them!

It’s a Festivus miracle.

On the old “Seinfeld” show, George Costanza’s father invented a holiday called “Festivus,” which they celebrated instead of Christmas. Events included “The Airing of Grievances,” and “Feats of Strength.” Watching this episode is one of my favorite holiday traditions.

As is “A Christmas Story.” Though I’ve always loved that movie, I appreciate it more since Paul and I dined in a Chinese restaurant on Christmas day. I had prepared dinner here in Maine and we drove down to enjoy it with my mother in Rhode Island, in her assisted-living center. Then we headed up to central Massachusetts, where Paul’s mother was in a nursing home. I had made sandwiches for the two of us to eat later, but as we contemplated them in our hotel room, I thought of the Parkers, the family in “A Christmas Story.”

After a neighbor’s dogs make off with their holiday turkey, they end up in the only restaurant in town that’s open. So Paul and I headed off hoping to find some orange chicken and fried rice.

We were in luck. It was another Festivus miracle!

Column: Mainers are now driving like, well, massholes

Recently I had to drive to Bangor. There was construction along the way, on I-95. Two lanes narrowed to one, which was lined with traffic cones. The speed limit was obviously reduced. At one point, I was driving along an immense dug-up area, dotted with heavy machinery and people in hard hats. It clearly was a big deal.

So why was the person behind me tailgating me?

When my husband, Paul, and I moved to Maine almost 30 years ago, we noticed that drivers here were a kinder, gentler sort. There were the obvious out-of-towners who lived in communities that had nary a stop light. They would drive down Western Avenue as if shell-shocked. Still, that was nothing to compare to the cutthroat antics we were used to back in Massachusetts.

Times have changed. Mainers are now just as bad as everyone else.

Tailgating, in particular, has become an epidemic. Paul complains about it every day. This is because he drives more than I do. When I am behind the wheel, I gripe too.

It is impossible to stay in the passing lane on the interstate for more than two seconds before someone inches up behind you. The elevation of the speed limit to 70 has done nothing to alleviate this problem. Now, if you’re going 70 in the passing lane, the guy behind you wants to go 75.

Or gal. Women may be even worse then men when it comes to tailgating. After passing through that tortuous trail through the construction area, I looked over at the car that had been hard on my heels. It was a small, nondescript, middle-aged woman wearing a beret.

She was driving a minivan.

I suppose I wasn’t exactly expecting horns and cloven hooves, but I would expect some sign of an antisocial attitude. A purple mohawk, say. Vulgar bumper stickers. A tattooed face.

Tailgating has become such an ingrained part of the culture that people who drive minivans do it.

I am irate about this trend primarily because it’s dangerous. I don’t remember exactly what I was taught in driver’s ed about leaving enough space in front of me (It’s been awhile) but something like “two car lengths” has stuck. Sheldon Cooper, resident genius in “The Big Bang Theory,” argues with the Department of Motor Vehicles—correctly!—that this is an inapplicable measure, as “a car is not a standardized unit of measure.” It doesn't account for speed or weather conditions, etc. As a person who nearly failed high school physics, I am proud to say even I can understand his point. Two car lengths may not be enough space in a blizzard. Common sense tells us in such a situation we want three Suburbans between ourselves and our neighbors.

Am I the only one who sees this? Besides my husband, I mean.

One day in August, I left an event in Auburn in the pouring rain. Torrential rain. Instant pond-size puddle-forming rain. I am leery of Route 202 in the best of circumstances, so it was white-knuckle time all the way. I was probably going 30, sometimes 25. My goal was to get home. It was going to take me twice as long as usual, but I was aiming to walk in my front door.

Others did not feel the same. One person passed me in the midst of a ferocious cloud burst. At one point, I could see I was leading a snakelike parade of cars, perhaps 20 of them. The one right behind me, needless to say, was right on my tail.

I can’t emphasize enough how treacherous the conditions were. I had to call Paul and tell him I was going to be late. I was barely able to see the entrance to a gas station, so I could stop. When it was time to get back on the road, I was terrified. People were speeding. One car didn’t even have its lights on. Nobody could see anybody else, so no one was going to wave me out.

I did make it home safely. It was not raining in Augusta at all. Paul looked incredulous when I told him my story.

Safety, though it is the most important concern, is not my only one. I wonder why people are in such a hurry. I wonder why they don’t seem to have any common sense. I wonder if they have lost all sense of civility.

Tailgating is dangerous. It’s rude. It’s nasty. What’s so hard about respecting your neighbors, and sharing the road?

Column: A tale of invasive squirrels and rotting clapboards

This is not the kind of e-mail you want to get from your neighbor.

“As I was driving out this morning, I noticed there was a hole underneath your roof, and a squirrel was peeking out.”

Holy rodent infestation! I remained calm, but my husband, Paul, went into a tailspin.

He was probably remembering the Siege of the Red Squirrels.

Our 1870s-era home was originally built with an attached shed. This small, barn-like building had a loft. We’ve since torn it down and replaced it with a family room, but in its last year, it provided some convenient nooks and crannies for our resident (as in yard) squirrels.

Paul borrowed a Havahart trap. He set it in the loft. Paul soon had a captive. He drove six miles to a pond and set it free. Just to be sure, Paul baited and set the trap again.

A second red squirrel had to be relocated. Then a third. The final count: five.

Luckily, we have not had any red squirrels return to our yard. The ones we’ve seen all summer are gray, and very active. I would usually see two at a time, chasing each other up and down the pear tree and along the fence.

Paul got to work to try to find help. Our local animal control officer did not “do” squirrels. However, there are people out there who specialize in small animal removal from homes, and one happened to live right in our town.

We don’t have a true attic. It’s a crawl space, and it is filled with blown-in insulation. To reach it, one stands on a ladder in the upstairs hallway, opens the trap door, and sticks one’s head and shoulders into the square opening. The Squirrel Whisperer (as I came to call him), after completing this operation, did not find any evidence of squirrels. He didn’t set a trap. We were to call him if we had any further developments.

This left us in a bit of a predicament. We didn’t want to seal off the hole and trap squirrels inside. The thought of the animals slowly dying up there would disturb us, of course. But a more realistic scenario was that they would chew through the walls and end up in the house proper. Or gnaw electrical lines. Those sharp little teeth could wreak all sorts of havoc.

I took a look up there myself. It really didn’t look like the old loft did when the red squirrels had established their stronghold.True, there was a lot of insulation, but it wasn’t disturbed in any way. We weren’t hearing any scrabbling, aside from the one time Paul heard squirrels scampering while he was in the upstairs bathroom.

It was my feeling that the squirrels might not be in the crawl space at all. They might be in a narrow, confined space between the trim (where the hole was) and the interior wall.

After Paul and one of our cats heard squirrels again, we called back the Squirrel Whisperer. He set a trap. Something came to the trap, but managed to snatch the bait without being captured.

I kept insisting that the squirrels had not set up shop in the attic. Meanwhile, Paul was on the phone trying to round up someone to fix the hole. We decided that even if we closed up the space, we could catch any remaining rodents with the trap.

Then, a miracle. Our favorite builder, Jason, called. He had built the family room, as well as our new garage. Paul had asked him to replace some clapboards near the porch, but as it was such a small job, we knew we’d have to wait until he had time between bigger contracts.

That time had arrived.

Jason set to work replacing part of the trim that contained the squirrel hole. But when he was done, he didn’t like the way it looked, so he set about replacing the full trim along that side of the house. That’s where he discovered a lot of squirrel debris. 

I refrained from saying, “I told you so.”

Jason then turned his attention to the front porch, where the rotted clapboards were. He discovered that the water damage extended well beyond the visible area. The porch (except for the columns and roof) would have to be rebuilt. It’s a small porch, so this was not as big a project as it may sound like. 

Still, it was rather alarming to see our porch stripped of its sides.

The next day, Jason decided the columns had to be replaced as well.

It had been a whirlwind two weeks. We started with a squirrel sighting, and ended with a new porch.

After the hole was sealed, we heard no more scrabbling and there was no more movement around the trap. Paul removed it and called the Squirrel Whisperer so he could pick it up.

“It turns out there are four of them,” Paul said. “We see them running in the yard. They’re very fat.”

“Does your neighbor have feeders?” the Squirrel Whisperer asked.

“No, we do.”

There was dead silence on the other end. The Squirrel Whisperer disapproved. I have to say, he may have a point.

Column: Animal intelligence . . . they're smarter than we think

One night, my husband Paul came into the house to report that one of our chickens, Nellie, was in the nest box rather than on the roost.

Chickens generally sleep up high; in our case, a perch that extends along the length of their coop, just under the roof. The last time one of chickens had taken to sleeping in the nest box, she was ill, and subsequently died. So Paul was naturally nervous about Nellie’s behavior.

She had appeared fine all day, he related. Paul really wanted to move her out of the box and onto the roost, but he couldn’t do it alone without risking a chicken escape. And I couldn’t help him because I was still incapacitated by foot surgery.

He had to sit and stew, and pretend to watch a repeat of “The Big Bang Theory.” Then, Paul had a revelation. Dusk was coming earlier every day, as it does each fall. He had to adapt his “locking up the coop time” accordingly. That evening, he’d gone out a bit too early. Nellie had come out of the coop to see if he was bringing bedtime snacks. Paul couldn’t lock the coop until Nellie returned to it, so he came back into the house. Nellie eventually did the same, going back to her digs. But chickens don’t see well in the dark. If she couldn’t see the roost, she’d naturally settle in the nest box.

Well, that made sense!

Often, our domesticated animal friends are smarter than we think. I enjoy observing their behavior, as long as it doesn’t indicate they’re planning to overtake the house.

Take our cat, Annie. She is a ball of gray fur, unassuming, the sweetest cat you’ll ever meet. But when I take out a mug, fill it with water, and head for the Keurig machine, she lets out a lusty wail. Annie jumps on the breakfast bar and begins pacing. Why? Because she knows that I am making a cup of coffee. When the coffee is done, I’ll take out the cream and put some into the mug. Annie wants to make sure she is going to get some of that cream.

Of course, I’m reasonably sure she is not thinking “coffee equals cream,” but it is obvious that she recognizes a chain of events that is going to end in an activity that could—should!—benefit her.

Our chocolate lab, Quinn, only has to be shown a new behavior twice before he adapts to it. That attribute has its own pros and cons. My husband, Paul, wanted Quinn to respond to a curl of his finger when Paul was ready to take him out for the last walk of the night. That was a good thing. However, if we give Quinn and his sister, Martha, a “bonus” treat at the same time two days in a row—we are stuck doing it for the foreseeable future.

After a month-long hiatus, Nellie the chicken appeared in the nest box again the other night. Although I was back on my feet by then, I refused to go and move her because it was raining like the dickens and I had woken up that day with a sore throat. This left Paul to do some research on the Internet, where he learned that many chickens decide they like to sleep in the nest box, and it’s really not necessarily a sign of illness.

When she did it again the following night, I agreed to move her. This was an interesting experience. Nellie was warm and drowsy. As I lifted her over the roost, she didn’t immediately lower her “landing gear.” I had to hang on to her for a couple moments until she placed her feet on the dowel.

Later that night, I was the one who had the revelation. Our other two chickens, Hope and Snow, were molting. Their annual feather fall-out meant they weren’t laying. Nellie was the only one using the nest box to lay eggs. She probably was doing some occupying—literally developing squatter’s rights.

Annie the cat has a couple other interesting habits. She can catch treats in her paws. Every night after dinner, I go through a routine of commands with the dogs (we call it “school”) and then throw tiny treats for the cats to scamper after. They love it. Clara’s territory is the downstairs bathroom, while Teddy prowls the landing above the stairway that leads to the addition we call “the ell.” Leo is at the bottom of the stairs. Annie has the kitchen, but she doesn’t often have to move from her post. Clever, she is.

Annie was also the first to notice that I set aside small pieces of treats. Now, after the official playtime, we have to have a “treasure hunt” of all the minuscule broken pieces I didn’t think fit to throw.

Every once in a while, our feathered and furry friends seem to act just like animals. Paul and I often find one chicken sitting on top of another in the nest box. Sometimes, one chicken is honking like a goose while the nest box is occupied by another one. Why? There’s one small nest box and one long nest box. They only use the small one, and get frantic if it’s already in use, even though there is another one available.

I hypothesized that the big box might be too spacious. The small one was cozy. So Paul partitioned the unused nest box into two sections. The ladies checked it out, but rejected it.

At first I thought, “Well, chickens. They like predictability. They don’t want a lot of variety in their lives.”

But wait a minute. Isn’t that just like people who resist change? They will continue doing things that don’t really benefit them, just because they fear anything different. Hmmm…they’re chicken!

And chickens are a lot more like humans than we’d like to think.

Column: Thankful to be (almost) pounding the pavement once again

I am feeling grateful, and not just because Thanksgiving is right around the corner. My bandages are gone, I’m out of my walking cast, and, finally, I am standing on my own two feet once again.

Sort of—but I’ll take it.

At the end of September, I had surgery to correct a problem with my foot. Two weeks of relative immobility followed, then I hobbled around for four weeks in an Aircast boot.

I went to see my podiatrist after six weeks with a pair of sneakers in my bag. Maybe . . . .

The doctor did give me a green light to ditch the boot. But I had to do it gradually, over a week to 10 days. He advised me to wear the boot to work the next day, which was a Friday. Then I would have the weekend to start to walk in sneakers, or a wide, comfortable shoe.

I put my boot back on rather sorrowfully. One more day of confinement.

It was just as well. When I got home, I tried on my shoes and found that none of them fit—except for the big sneaker I’d brought to the doctor’s office. They are nice Avias, but I don’t usually wear sneakers to work. To my mind, these would only be appropriate for “casual Fridays.”

Off to the shoe store I went the next day. I’d done some research online, and decided that a flat slip-on made of soft leather would be my best bet. When I found a pair that fit perfectly—in purple, no less!—I was happy.

I had been looking forward to driving myself around on this excursion. Since the surgery was on my right foot, I’d only driven a few times in the last month and a half—basically up the street to the supermarket. However, my husband Paul kept asking me if I wanted him to drive me, and I finally relented.

After buying the shoes, we headed for Target. An hour later, I was glad Paul had taken the wheel. Since I wasn’t walking at full capacity, I was exhausted. I could tell that my awkward gait was going to make me sore the next day. I was relieved Paul was there to load the bags into the car.

Yet, I did feel free, out of my boot. I had bought myself a pair of cozy, felt, backless slippers that were comfortable for wearing around the house. Aah.

I didn’t have to engage in my daily tussle with the boot. I didn’t have to fasten myself in the boot, clamp on the protective plate, strap the whole kit and caboodle together, and inflate it—then repeat the procedure in reverse in the evening. Double aah.

Although I appreciated (and that is an understatement) everything Paul did for me during my recovery, I did miss my independence. I’m an efficient shopper, but I hated to think of Paul sitting in the car waiting for me, even if he was reading a book. I didn’t want to make him wait when he picked me up from work, but I don’t want to be rude to people I see along the way to the car. 

When I was in the cast, colleagues—and strangers—did want to talk. I guess wearing a boot is like being pregnant. Everyone feels free to ask all about it—although an expectant woman is not generally asked, “What happened?”

I was happy, too, to be able to get outside. Naturally, I couldn’t participate in any outdoor activities. But even trying to get some fresh air by feeding our backyard chickens was difficult. Traversing the yard in a boot was not my idea of a good time. I certainly couldn’t do it if it was damp or rainy out.

Did I have cabin fever? Yes! It was difficult to go anywhere in the car if the trip took more than 15 minutes. I didn’t dare go to the movies. I was afraid my foot would fall asleep inside the boot and I’d have to get up, go to the lobby and stomp a few times. Art museums were out, as was walking on the beach.

Even when I really, really wanted to get out to have an adventure, the thought of gallivanting in the boot quickly dampened my spirits.

Finally, and though I never thought I’d say this, I missed being able to exercise. I’m not much of an athlete, but I do like to walk. In the month before my surgery, my foot was bothering me too much for me to walk far on a regular basis, so I started riding my bicycle daily. I was motivated by the knowledge that I would be virtually chair-bound for six weeks.

As I write this, I’ve only been out of the boot for five days. Needless to say, I’m not training for my first half-marathon yet. But I have climbed a long stairway at work, instead of taking the elevator. I drove myself to and from my job, and stopped at the supermarket on the way home. I am feeding the chickens on a regular basis. Small things, mundane things. But as Joni Mitchell wrote, “You don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone.”

Even though my recovery means I’ll have to start cleaning the litter box again, I’m still excited, happy, and yes, grateful to be back.