Makes me feel like weeping every time I go by. Whose idea was it to invent and market something that feels this cruel? This is worse than the discarded trees on the roadside, at least we can think their last weeks were cheerful and bright. But this Santa, flat with his face frozen in the grass, puffs up each night, only to face the same sorry fate each morning. This has to be one of the circles of hell.
On the home front, let me preface by shouting, I'm no saint, I'm no angel. I'm just able to be in the right place at the right time for me. The saints of the world are the workers who keep it going. The ones who show up every day at the office salon store mill airport. I did that, I've worked for pay since I was eight years old. Here, in dementia land, for the first time I can be with my doggies around the clock. If I get wound up I can go talk it over with my hens. And I can fondle my fabric and pins and needles all night long if I want, I don't have to be anywhere tomorrow.
I've gotten some real traction on my little project, bits and pieces are turning into prepped blocks at an incredible pace. FIL has stopped asking me what I'm doing now that fabric has entered the picture. He gets that I've been a passionate quilter for all the forty years he has known me. FIL has also pretty much stopped eating and is clearly growing weaker by the day. He wakens about once an hour, says "well, I guess I gotta get up", moves to the bedside commode, and back to bed. Last night at the 3 AM-ish transfer he said "well....I know, it's a hole in the ground". Took us both by surprise and we had a good laugh.
Chickadees and Nuthatches
My small Rowenta iron