Sylvia's Journal

I used not to like the Topsfield Fair when our kids were small because it meant an entire afternoon (or morning) of the ‘gimme-this-gimme-that’s. As they got older they thought the flower, fruit and vegetable displays were boring and wanted to go straight to the rides. When they were teenagers they went on their own and we did not go at all. Now I like it again as I get to see where our chicken breasts, turkey cold cuts and pork chops come from.

We enjoyed the falcon and border collie show, seeing the 3000 pound oxen turn around in a tight space in response to a ho, he, and ha from their owner. Not a small man he was dwarfed by the giant beasts with their gentle eyes. We rested our tired bodies on the tribune at the 4H goat show and watched in amazement how young teens displayed their goats and much knowledge about them, tucking one ribbon after another in their back pockets. Their families were sitting by the side, holding on to an array of other prize goats and ribbons while taking notes in small booklets. This is the farm life that few kids get to experience much these days, at least in these parts, and it is doubtful that ‘experience’ is the right word for an afternoon at the fair with thousands of other people.

Back home I started to tackle our long list of winter chores. I started by making room for stuff. This required shoveling about 10 pounds of squirrel debris out of our little shed to get it ready for the winter storage of bikes and garden implements. It is the place where the squirrels take their nuts to, crack them and leave the shells. It is also where the mothers make nests and have babies, using dried grasses for bedding. I found abandoned nests everywhere plus a few more openings gnawed through the wood to facilitate a more convenient entry and egress than through the front door. It is really the squirrels’ house and I am like the maid who comes cleaning every few years.

In the evening we went to see our friends Ken and Carol in Ipswich whose son Dan returned from Hawaii where he has made his home. I met a compatriot of mine who is a doctor at MGH and confirmed to me that I am indeed seeing the right ankle doctor in 5 weeks; she observed instantly what was wrong with my right ankle, something my highly trained orthopod here never bothered to mention to me, despite my many visits and his high bills to blue cross.

As the right wrist is healing the next body part requires attention; there seems to be a hierarchy and only one body part can act out at a time. The left knee, spared in the accident but longtime arthritic, has decided it is her (his?) turn to be hurtful and wants to jump the line, ahead of the right ankle. Some 3 years ago I had an arthroscopy and the knee doctor told me partial knee replacement was next. I got another opinion and a cortisone shot that has held till now. I wonder how really old people figure out the sequencing of body part repair. Maybe this is why you retire, to make repair a full time job. But with the dip of the stock market I lost about one third of my pension savings. So now I will have to work until I am 85 or so.