Back from the mountains, from the north land. Out of 9 days away, 4 were spent entirely in the car. We drove most of the day today and are exhausted. We need to rethink how we take vacations, how much driving we do. How close together we do long drives.
BLOGGING: HOW MUCH IS ENOUGH?
I am not going back to posting three or four times a day. Garry commented I didn’t seem to be having fun anymore. He’s right. It has become a job. Serendipity has eaten my life.
So I’ve pulled back … and my stats are falling like a rock. Apparently, there’s a direct correlation between how much new material I post and how much traffic I get. So be it. I guess I’ll have to make do with less traffic. Because if I can’t do less, I’m going to quit entirely.
Vacation is a good time to ponder how I spend my time. I realized I spend all my time with the computer in my lap. The only time I’m not hooked up is when I’m physically out of the house, asleep, or cooking. I shouldn’t be surprised my wrists and shoulders hurt.
So … what?
I love comments. I’ll answer comments, but if I don’t answer you every time, it’s not because I don’t care. There aren’t enough hours in my day to keep up this pace. I’ll visit your blogs when I can, but I won’t make myself crazy trying to visit everyone everyday.
I’ll write if I have something to say. Post pictures when I’ve got something worth displaying. It will depend on the season, my mood, and what else is going on. Probably I’ll post more in the winter when I’m stuck in the house anyhow, less in nice weather.
So what do you guys think? Am I being unfair? Unrealistic?
I have stopped visiting bloggers who never visit me. That was easy. I don’t expect daily visits, but never isn’t enough. Never is actually insulting.
ABOUT THOSE SO-CALLED AWARDS
I wish I could give everyone a boost. I know you want me to look at your site because you drop links in my comments. Which would be okay if it weren’t obvious you haven’t read me. Or even looked at the pictures.
Blogging — especially over the long haul — is a lot of work. it means keeping at it when you are sick, tired, and you don’t feel remotely creative. It takes determination, patience, and time to write and edit. I’m slower than most people to fully develop an idea. Even slower to edit.
My pictures aren’t just snapshots. I seek pictures and locations … because there are only so many pictures I can take of my backyard before even I don’t want to look at them.
Then I download, review, and finally, process. I don’t do a lot of processing, but I do the basics. Even so, it takes time. Merely reviewing a hundred or so pictures — the output of a typical outing — is a day’s work. I’m often still plugging away at it when everyone else is watching a movie or asleep.
I don’t accept web chain-letter awards. It doesn’t matter what you call the award. Or who is giving it.
Anything that requires I annoy fellow bloggers, most of whom also won’t accept so-called awards, is spam. If you feel compelled to distribute them, send them to someone who has not up front stated he or she does not accept awards. Please: take “no” for an answer. If I say thank you, but no … nagging is just going to piss me off.
AND THERE YOU HAVE IT
So there you have it. It will be interesting to see who keeps visiting. I’ll do the best I can for all of you, but it’s time for a change and I am determined to make it stick.
ABOUT THE FRISBEE WEDNESDAY PHOTO PROMPT
Yes, I’m going to keep doing it. Because it’s fun. And blogging is supposed to be fun. Expect a new one this Wednesday, September 23rd.
I live in a town that has no public transportation. None at all. Not a bus or even a taxi. These pictures were taken elsewhere, the first in Connecticut and the second (Garry’s) near Lake Otsego, where public transportation can be found.
And from Garry:
Feet are the only kind of transportation available locally.
Bill woke up refreshed on another warm and pleasant Florida morning. As he lie awake staring at the window shades, he wondered what time it could possibly be. In retirement, Bill did not worry about such things as alarm clocks. Yes, he had one just in case he needed it, but he tried never to set it. This Monday, however, Bill did have something he wished to do. So he decided to get up and start his week.
Not far away, at the county hospital, Harold was barely conscious. He had been transferred from Intensive Care to a regular hospital room. It was a trip from one bland room to another, although the current room did not contain so many machines humming and whirring, not that any of the noise was noticed by the recovering retiree.
The previous Monday Harold was brought to the emergency room. He had a stroke on Monday, or perhaps even the day before, no one knows for sure. Harold was not talking and they could only make a guess. The paramedics told a neighbor it did not seem to be a long time, but they were not sure.
Bill, and nosey Mabel Crockett, were the only neighbors who knew where Harold had gone. Neither knew of any of Harold’s friends or relatives, so Harold had to lie for a week in Intensive Care while Bill tried in vain to get news. Now he could finally go and see his retirement friend.
In truth, Harold was not in much better shape, but since he had moved to a regular room, he was allowed visitors. As no one had been notified, there was no one to visit Harold until now. Even though Harold had been a master planner in his profession, he had never planned for a life event of this magnitude. As a result, his future was in the hands of strangers to whom he could not communicate.
When Bill had finished his morning routine, including a light breakfast, he prepared for a trip to the hospital to see Harold. All through the previous week, Bill had tried to see Harold and was turned away on every occasion. He was not a relative and since there was no medical power of attorney or permissions granted, no one besides the medical staff could see old Harold.
At the moment Bill was ready to give up on Harold the previous week, a hospital volunteer slipped him the word the Harold had improved and would earn his way to a regular room. Now Bill was ready to go find out if Harold could tell him anything about friends or relatives. Just who should be notified.
Bill drove through the light traffic to the county hospital and parked in the multi-level parking garage. It seemed that all of the spaces on the first two levels were reserved for staff or the handicapped so Bill drove up and parked near the elevator. He rode down, walked across the roadway that lead to the Emergency Room, and entered the hospital.
The same receptionist who Bill saw everyday the previous week was on duty, but this time she was able to give him some information and a room pass.
“Good morning,” she said upon seeing Bill. “You will want to go to the fifth floor and when you get off the elevator, go right and down to room 502.” At that she handed Bill a room pass and instructed him to return it when he came down.
“Hello,” Bill said with a smile when he was finally able to jump in. “Thanks,” he continued as he took the pass and headed to the room. Oddly enough, no one ever asked to see the pass that Bill stuck in his pocket.
When Bill arrived at the room he discovered a whole group of medical people around Harold’s bed. They seemed to be discussing their plan of recovery for Harold. They all spoke as if Harold was not even in the room.
“He’s already been here a week and there is only slight improvement in motor skills,” one doctor announced to the gathering.
“We believe his cognitive skills will return to full capacity,” another doctor chimed in, “but only time will tell for sure.”
A nurse stated that Harold was being fed by a tube in the stomach because he was incapable of eating. The brown liquid in the bag hanging overhead would have to do for a while.
As the discussion of Harold’s condition, both good and bad, continued, Bill asked the nurse if he could see her in the hall. “Can Harold hear what all of you are saying?”
The nurse explained that Harold might be able to hear but perhaps he could not follow along too well because of the medication. “Then don’t you think we should be careful what we say about his recovery?” Bill wanted to know, trying to make a point she did not understand.
“Yes,” the nurse replied in a cheery voice, “please be careful what you say.” A frustrated Bill walked back into the room where the discussion of Harold’s condition continued.
A physical therapist discussed rehabilitation plans. This was followed by a speech therapist. She not only spoke of the relearning to talk, she also discussed the work that would be necessary to teach swallowing. This act that we all take for granted would have to be relearned following the paralyzing affect on one side of the body.
An occupational therapist was the next to speak. There would be a need to practice typical household chores, such as reaching for cans and bottles and opening them, preparing food, and doing every day tasks.
All of the therapists and doctors announced a schedule they would follow each week. They discussed a timetable for success and how much they had hope to accomplish in an optimal situation. As they left the room, Bill tried frantically to ask how long this would take and if Harold would fully recover.
As that was taking place, a slight smile appeared on Harold’s face. The Midwest planner was pleased at the extensive day to day plan they had laid out for him.
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