Here’s the annual letter.
Christmas 2022
Barb: As usual it’s been a year of ups and downs. Last March my cat, George, died. He was 16 ½ so it wasn’t unexpected, but it was a wrench. You get really attached to a pet after 16 years. But what really hurt was the death of Gracie. She was only 6 ½ when she was killed by a coyote. She must have been caught completely by surprise because I’d seen her fight off coyotes before. At least her death was quick but I still miss her. She was special. The only bright spot on the pet situation was the fact that we’d adopted two kittens a month before because we didn’t want Grace to be alone when we went on trips. She hated the kittens until the day she died. We had to protect them from her; they were so small we were afraid she’d kill them. So I guess she wasn’t as sweet as I remember her. When told of Gracie’s death, the neighbor who fed her sort of rolled her eyes when I lamented how sweet Gracie was. She’d had to clean up all the dead critters Gracie brought in to eat at her leisure. Gordon commented that maybe this was Gracie’s karma for all the gophers she’d killed and brought to bed. But I loved her. And I still miss her.
This is not to say I don’t appreciate the kittens—well, most of the time. When we went to the shelter to pick out Gracie’s future friends, I told Gordon I wanted a calico. We’d never had one before, so I picked the only available one and named her Maggie. We got the second kitten because Gordon got snagged by a tiny little black-and-white male who played ‘paw’ with him. Turns out they were littermates and Gordon decided we couldn’t separate the two. Kittens are like potato chips for Gordon; he can’t get just one. The shelter wouldn’t let us take the kittens home that day; I had to make an appointment to pick them up five days later. Gordon had a business meeting, so I picked them up myself. As I filled out the paperwork, the staff member told me they didn’t think the little male would survive. “He won’t eat,” he said. “You can bring him back if he gets worse.” The calico girl was small but the male was so mal-nourished that when Gordon picked him up that he night he said, “My God, it’s like picking up a baby bird.” We named him Bucky. He was nothing but eyes and worms, but he was ours. I think he must have been younger than the 8 weeks the shelter claimed because I don’t think he could chew hard food. We gave him canned food and he ate non-stop. We got both of them to the vet and got all their worms and parasites killed and that’s all they needed. Our de-crittered messes are growing up to be big and healthy and look to have long lives—unless I murder them. Which I threaten to do on a daily basis. They consider rules as suggestions and disregard all of the restrictions about counter crawling. And they’re so fast they can snicker and run when they hear an anguished “Bucky, no!” or “Maggie, dammit!” So, I dug out an old super-soaker squirt gun I bought years ago. Works like a charm. Each of them got a blast in the face and they run when they see me grab it. It’s got tremendous range and shoots a lot of water so even if I miss a cat, I clean the floor. It’s a win-win. I’m the fastest squirt gun in the West.
We finally got to take the Baltic cruise we paid for three years ago. St. Petersburg was off the itinerary, but Viking replaced it with Oslo, Berlin, and Gdansk. I’d never been to those cities before, so I was happy. We still had to follow COVID protocols which included spitting in a test tube every morning before we ate or drank anything. I didn’t realize how tough it was to come up with 5 ml of spit without having any water. It was gross, watching my drool inch down the side. It took forever. Then we’d put our samples in a baggie and put it outside our cabin door where crew members in hazmat suits picked it up. That did not inspire confidence. Everybody who cruised had to be tested twice before even being allowed on board so I didn’t know how anyone could get sick, but they did. A couple from San Diego had their “trip of a lifetime” ruined. Ten days into the cruise I found the husband sitting in the lobby, wearing a mask. He said his wife tested positive for COVID and had been quarantined on the third deck for the rest of the trip. He tested negative but had to wear a mask when out of his cabin. I heard that some crew members tested positive too. The third deck was getting crowded by the end. But I enjoyed this cruise more than our Rhine cruise. Then, we had the smallest cabin available, and Gordon learned from that. I get…shall we say…unpleasant when I’ve had enough fun. Actually, it must be like traveling with a caged badger. This time he got a larger cabin. And I tripped over his feet anyway. Not his fault. He was keeping himself out of the way as I flung myself around the cabin. I caught a little toe on his foot and either bruised it badly or broke it. The treatment for either injury is the same–Immobilize it. Fortunately, Billy Williams, a high school friend of Gordon’s, and his wife, Dawn, were on the same cruise. He’s a surgeon and she’s a nurse so I had my own medical team but there’s not much you can do for a busted toe. I gimped my way through Berlin because, dammit, I’d paid for it, I wasn’t going to miss it. You wouldn’t think something so small could cause so much misery. There’s lots more to tell about the trip but I’ll leave that to Gordon. I’m in his space already. Or go to my blog; www.barbaraschnell.com. Have a happy and a merry etc. etc.etc.
Gordon: As you can tell by Barb’s musings, it was a relatively quiet year. We broke out of Quarantine to go sailing, and enjoyed that. My highlight of the trip was a visit to Norway’s OIL MUSEUM, where I learned that Norway is so oil-rich because a state minster couldn’t be bothered to come to the phone on a Friday. Seems Phillips Petroleum had a contract to drill 13 holes looking for oil. They’d drilled 12 dry holes and the 13th was also going nowhere, so they petitioned to stop drilling and go home. The minister told them to come back Monday, by which time they’d hit a gusher. So now Norwegians sit on a huge pile of cash thanks to that American knowhow and evil oil. And they still pay roughly 50% of their income in taxes. But the state takes good care of them. We also got to spend about three hours at Tivoli, which is regarded as the inspiration for Disneyland. It’s tiny by Disney standards, but there were lots of rides and the lines were just about as long as those at Disneyland, so we didn’t do many rides. Given Barb’s toe, it was a good thing it wasn’t any bigger.
Brookings High School Class of 1970 held their 50-plus-a-couple-years reunion, giving us an opportunity to get back to the Auld Sod, and see lots of folks I hadn’t seen in 50+ years. It was a little disappointing that the folks I was closest to were only there at the table with pictures of departed classmates, but I had fun catching up with some of the survivors, and telling tales I probably shouldn’t have. Barb and I got our SDSU Ice cream cones, Zesto Hot Dogs, Nick’s Hamburgers and Greasy Gus Pizza, so we’ve maintained our Epicurean cred.
Aside from that, some clients still call and I still take the jobs I like, but I’m not pushing it. I’m a regular doing tours for the Los Angeles Conservancy, and Barb & I sing with the Lutherans when there’s a big event at the church. The house is now a solar collector, and DWP pays me for electricity, but they get it back in water and sewer fees. And I’m still trying to figure out what I want to do with my retirement. Nice problem to have.
Hope this letter finds you all well and ready for a new year with no masks, very few sick days, and happiness to be back in the world. Until next year….best wishes, and keep in touch.
