The Caregiver’s Tales: A Blog

It’s late in life to find my way west, but that’s what I’ve done. In the last six years, I’ve spent more time in West Texas, New Mexico, and Colorado than in the previous 74 years combined. I wonder sometimes how I missed it, but there’s no point spending too much time pondering why. It was just a thing that happened, in much the same way that I missed a lot of musicians I’ve come to enjoy late in life. Our paths just never crossed when I was young.

As expected, and as I knew would probably happen, my paradigm has shifted. My advanced age no longer seems a constraint, rather it feels more like a reward. I have navigated the perils of youth and the vicissitudes of life to stand with the other aged beings, the sequoias, the whales. Ancient creatures, each of our own species, living to the fullest according to our design.

As we drove out of Alamosa yesterday morning, leaving the San Luis Valley and heading toward Rotan then home, the clouds were hanging low on the mountains, snagged in passing by the tall peaks. It seemed the mountains were picking the cloud’s pockets for snow, or rain, if that’s all they had. In either case, I hope they made out and got what they needed.

I’m sitting in the cool mountain air of New Mexico this morning. It’s a most pleasing thing to do. The mountains themselves rise up into that air right out our door. Later this morning we might go take a walk along the Rio Grande Gorge.

My late wife was in a blended family, brothers and sisters with her mother’s new family. Brothers and sisters with her father’s new family. There were no halves about it. They were simply her brother’s and sisters. Like a mother hen, as the oldest, she gathered them into her arms. I’m with one of those families, her father’s, this weekend in Taos. We came from different directions for a music festival, but the result is the same, we’re together for a bit.

Lifespans. The word came to me this morning as I watched the big garden spider tend its web on the corner of the back porch. It has about a year to do its business. Catch food. Find a mate. Lay eggs. Then I watched a mosquito fly by. It has two weeks to two months to pack in its living. The little black cat that called our place home got about ten years before feline cancer brought its life to an end yesterday. I’ve had 80 so far, while my late wife only got 70.

Drove into Houston last Friday with a long-time friend to watch our college team play ball on Saturday. Our crew of season ticket-holders used to number ten. Now it’s two and we only buy tickets when we need them. The game was played on a fine fall day in Texas with lots of sun and highs in the nineties. Our team won after a delay brought on by lightning. There was rain too. Just enough to make the humidity spike.

It feels as though everything these days requires a subscription. We no longer buy things. We pay for access. I think if they could figure out how to do that with clothes and groceries they would. You can get in for free to the necessities section of the grocery with in-app purchases. Pay a monthly fee for access to the larger selection store. Buy the premium service and you can get the best cuts of meat. It’s probably a model under construction somewhere. Or maybe it’s Costco and Sam’s.