This is the first time that I have been away from my Schlumbergeras while they are blooming. My daughter, Rose, sent these photos today.
Prepped with weak bloom food and less light.
They are in better shape than expected, because I prepared them for my absence while I was home last month. I cleaned them up, added a weak bloom solution and some sprinkle fertilizer.
Salmon Schlumbergera
My collection is much smaller now, but I know that the houses of my friends will be full of these bright blooms.
Blooming in cool semi-dark basement room.
I will add a several links below from days gone by when I was obsessed with these plants. They burst into bloom just when that first hint of cold-weather-blues kicks in. That is why I love them.
I realize that wisdom must be waited for. Time needs to season events into lessons worth learning and a brain needs to be mature enough to receive the lessons.
I have always spent an inordinate amount of my time in watchful, thoughtful silence. I like to think of myself as invisible. I did this in a crowded room just this morning.
I have filed away mysteries and hoped that some day the missing pieces would show up. I did not expect eureka moments to dramatically present themselves at the proper time. I was just hoping to eventually have enough epiphanies so that some of those lingering questions could be laid to rest.
My job, as I have seen it, was just to pay attention. Most times I did not even bother to ask questions for clarification. I was too busy and confused. I also did not want to interrupt my observations. I figured the missing pieces would show up later.
This silence and lack of participation has come back around lately. I guess you could say now IS later, and I still feel almost as dumb and numb as the days of the confusing events.
When a new clue shows up decades later and causes neither a eureka nor an epiphany I feel a bit befuddled. Maybe the clue needs to sit a while to smolder? OR Maybe my brain is not quite ready to fully grasp the lesson?
Now that I have circled the subject several times I am just going to come out with what I think about a saying that I keep coming across in my reading.
“You can’t go home again.”
(Book title. Thomas Wolfe sort of. I know. If I die and leave piles of notes, I hope someone will trash my ramblings instead of posthumously assuming I would want them released.)
This whole time I have thought of this title/saying as a sad way of saying your home changes and you go back and things are different and some things you really miss are not there anymore. Yes, this is true and a bit sad.
I spent eight months in 2023 and 2024 living in my childhood home and going through every itty bitty item to save or sell to pay my mama’s bills. I spent many hours sitting at our kitchen table in silence wondering what the fuck Thomas Wolfe (or his editor, or They) was/were talking about. Every damn thing was still here. I was sixty-three and hauling my Mama’s wedding dress down from the attic. Nothing ever left BUT me and my sister!
(If you scholars want to wander off with the fascism hypothesis here…go on without me. That’s NOT where I am going.)
That house was emptied and sold. More losses … more deaths and more time. I am now spending time in another place I spent parts of my childhood in. It’s been like haunting myself. So you could say I have gone home again and again. Same furniture, same photos, same piano.
BUT (it’s a big one)
I am not the same. I am the one who changed. I am in the same places, but no longer that person anymore.
YOU Can’t Go Home Again!
I must say, I am NOT sad about that at all. That makes so much sense. I guess I had to be sixty to season that enough to get it. So it really isn’t about HOME at all.
It’s about YOU.
This is an example of what I mean about wisdom. I was looking for one answer and something completely different showed up.
I am hold up in the dreamhouse of my parents on top of a mountain. I have moved into their former bedroom because of the wide doorways and giant bathroom with handicap railing everywhere.
Wow fancy!
If you were describing your dreamhouse, your description might include plus rugs and fancy light fixtures.Those amenities did not make the cut here. From start to finish their priority was quality and convenience. These are the exact attributes that have helped me survive these months of mobility struggles.
Every room has a view. I can see other mountains from any bed I choose to sleep in. I feel like I live in the sky. This is such a joy.
My deer, Misty, and my present read.
It has felt like my parents were planning this house not just for their infirmities, but also for mine and my sister’s. Since I have moved here, I have felt loved and cared for even when I am alone. I am grateful for this every day.
If you look closely in the mirror, you will see a ponytail that has not been washed in five days.
I appreciate my practical parents more and more as new challenges arise. I do not need to be impressed, just embraced by wise people who planned for what would be needed.
Feeling grateful again to…
Bop and Kiki, Carl and Dottie, Mom and Dad
I still feel your love. I hope you can feel mine, too.
I have been constructing a bridge from the past to the future. This bridge is not made of the usual materials. There is wood, but also words. There are metals, as well as medals. I am trying to carefully craft a legacy for my children that will not involve the purging of thousands of useless papers and hundreds of unnecessary objects.
Something about that tedious purge process cluttered my brain. I am grateful we did not have to rush through this sorting. We also hired help which made it less overwhelming. I think clutter and chaos come from postponing decisions.
I now live in the house with all the books, dishes, photos, tools and jewelry that were kept. This is where I am building the bridge. I am sorting items that mean something to us and adding labels to them. Sharing explanations of why these objects are still here. What meaning do these have in our story?
Time is running out for this sort of task. We must write while we can remember. We must leave lessons for our future family. These objects and photos have significant stories. If these are not preserved, they will be just knickknacks and old photos of dead people.
We are just now discovering some tales from the past. There have been surprises. I think it is important for young people to understand the history behind what makes a home and a family. Parents try to be perfect, but that is never possible. Why not share the struggle? That is where wisdom comes from.
So as winter rolls in on my mountain I will be sorting, labeling and writing. I have contacted another family about a crossing of paths. I am sending things they may want to put in their bridge they are building.
There must be a crystalization and connection of past events that lead to a future. The time to build your bridge is now.
Holding these artifacts connects me to treasured memories of people and events that shaped me into the person I have become and I have influenced the character if my children based on these experiences.
I look forward to this process of preserving our significant family events for folks who have been or may be influenced by our legacy. I will be slowly sorting and selecting the materials worthy of forming our bridge across the generations.
I plan to share steps as I go through the process. Maybe this will inspire you to cull your collections and record your favorite memories.
Today was the day! I now have two new hips with double balls. My right hip was first replaced in August 2024 and then revised in June 2025, after three dislocations which involved three ambulance rides to three different Emergency Rooms.
I have been in almost constant pain for ninteen months, due to an arthritic right which was replaced with a faulty prosthetic hip and an accident which jammed my left hip just three weeks before schdeuled first replacement of the right one. Blah!
I am not a graceful person. I have spent my life focusing on the physical work I was accomplishing. I used my body like a machine, or maybe like a man does, or like fool does? Well that habit has backfired.
This is my sixth joint surgery; one shoulder, two knee replacements, two hip replacements and one hip revision. I am only sixty-four.
I am lying in the hospital bed tonight thinking and blogging between nurse visits, because there is no point in trying to actually sleep in a hospital.
What lessons have I learned from this long, painful journey?
First, I have always tried too hard. I will NOT place blame on Daddy who wanted a son, or Mama who wanted a little lady, or even my sister who wanted a playmate sister instead of an introvert who dug in the dirt. I have continued to try too hard through adulthood. Maybe I felt I needed to prove my worth as the youngest child or earn my value as a non-boy. I am still trying to figure all that out. Do not hold your breath for the answer.
Daddy and his girls.
I have finally stopped this over-achieverness because I could not be Wonder Woman while waddling around with canes and walkers, grimacing and crackling like an old crone.
My friends and family have warned me NOT to fall back into my go-for-broke patterns after my new left hip heals.
Next, I treat myself like somebody else now. I have tried to be kind to my body and mind after years of mis-using them like appliances that can be fixed. There will be more careful planning and pausing from now on. I will be spending funds to hire others to do things I should not have been doing at all, much less solo. I will work smarter NOT harder.
I will stop with one LAST epiphany that I noticed about my new self today. This may also be of value to you.
“To be part of a team, you must be part of a team. “
I have tried to be the whole team, instead of team a member. I have no super powers nor am I a genius. WTF Flower?
NOW, I will focus on doing what is essential and needed. I will ask for help when I need it. I will tell folks what I need. They are not mind-readers and neither am I. Flower will quit showing off!
I have always been determined to be independent and do things without the help of others while also insisting on helping others. Who do I think I am? I feel compelled to improve conditions wherever I am. That is not admirable. It’s OCD! Why is this true Biddle Boo? I have usually refused help that was gladly and lovingly offered out of stubborness and pride.
It has taken ninteen months of brokenness for me to realize that the ebbs and flows of life are natural. I can quit shoveling sand against the tide like a maniac. I can stop trying to prove I am as tough as my Daddy, or as smart and pretty as my Mama or as extroverted and popular as my sister.
I will be just me…no pearls, no curls, and no merit badges, but I will wear a shirt. Ha
It is October 21 today. Mr. Flower just sent me this photo of one of the daylilies. This one is in the Bunny Yard, which no longer has bunnies. Instead it is visited by the neighborhood ground hog. The fence keeps out the deer herd.
My home garden has gotten very little attention from me in two summers. This bloom may not look like much to you, but to me it is a message of hope.
This ‘Breed Apart’ daylily is showing its grit. It is exhibiting resilience. ‘Breed Apart’ is budding up and blooming in Autumn despite neglect, drought, and cold.
Breed Apart daylily
‘Breed Apart’ showed up and did what it was supposed to do. It bloomed where it was planted.
“Grow where you are planted.”
I have said this to my daughter, Rose, many times. Her life has been peppered with less than ideal conditions. She has grown and bloomed despite this.
Sometimes the “where” is not optimum. In this case the “when” is not optimum. But here are the lovely faces of ‘ Breed Apart’ in October.
Blooming in late October
I apprecite the survivors. They are beacons for what can be accomplished even under challenging circumstances.
I would like to salute and celebrate all the BREED APART survivors who bloom where and when they can.
Now that the Zebra table has been restored, I can focus my attention on the storytellers’ chairs.
Our Gorgeous Zebra
These chairs were in the lovely home of my maternal grandparents, which was full of many interesting things.
In my first memory of this pair of chairs, they were mossy green in a livingroom with green carpet. A big picture window looked out onto Hibriten Mountain. Their house was perched high on a hill. The street name was Ridgecrest.
The green wingbacks were one of the places our Grannypaw sat to tell stories. The grandchildren would gather around on the carpet to listen to his stories and jokes.
Grannypaw telling stories in the green wingback chair.
While all this sitting and talking was going on; my Gran, Mama and the aunts visited in the kitchen while they cooked and cleaned up. The significance of this tradition did not dawn on me until I became one of the women in the kitchen.
My maternal grandparents
When the Ridgecrest home was sold, the two wingbacks were moved to our home on Enwood. My mama had them recovered in a soft coral-pink shade of velvet.
One of the pair eventually got moved to the corner of the den. My sis and I called this corner Hong Kong because Daddy seemed to be far away as he sat silently sipping coffee.
My Daddy in Hong Kong
The other chair was put in our livingroom which also had green carpet and a big picture window. My daddy sat here to tell stories, listen to music and listen to my mama play her piano. He would sit in this chair when we had company and tell stories.
Daddy at Christmas
Several years back the wingbacks’ bottoms began to sag. We feared a guest would fall through, so we placed footstools under their seats. This is embarassingly tacky, but it was better than embarrassing or endangering a guest. When we transported the pair to the mountain house, the footstools came, too.
Footstool reinforcements under saggy seats.
Mr. Flower and I loaded up the two Storytellers’ Chairs into our truck today. We drove them off our mountains, through some hollars and hills and then climbed up onto another mountain near Boone.
Two wingbacks and a roll of new, blue fabric.
The pair has been delivered to a furniture rehab facility to get their seats shored up and covered in a soft, sky-blue, leather-like vinyl.
Wingbacks in the workshop.
We look forward to the pair’s rehab and return. Then some of the younger folks need to take over the storytelling tradition. Wonder where we can find some?
The Zebra just got delivered. It could not be more beautiful. I cannot stop crying. The Zebra’s long journey is over. It is restored to its proper glory. My Daddy would be marveling at the craftsmanship that was hidden under the dark stain and dirt.
Those legs!
The Zebra is just plain gorgeous. The artists at Restoration House in Blowing Rock, NC brought it back to life to be loved by many more generations of our family. Thank you Klutz family!
Two artists from Restoration House, Blowing Rock, NC
I took photos of all sides, legs, tops, wooden wheels, drawer and back. (which is too pretty to be against a wall).
Beautiful back of the Zebra
It will stay in the middle of the great room beside Daddy’s chair, so we can see it and pet it for a bit.
Bottom shelf is still zebra.
The Zebra top veneer was replaced by solid oak. That old veneer was missing a corner, crackly and warped. Now, the top is solid and ready to be used.
Oak top, drawer open
I am proud of the three or more generations of my family for having the insight to save it and transport it. It is finally where it belongs.
The Zebra’s tiny, wooden wheels.
My heart is full. I only wish Daddy could have seen it. But maybe he can.
floweralley 