2024: 21st Annual Year in Review

How could I have known what a journey this year was going to be? I will forever think of 2024 in two parts, before and after—the long days before Jim's death on July 13 and the whirlwind of activity after.

Part 1: Before

Newsletter scraped. Trying to create conversation with a thousand subscribers who rarely responded to my snappy prose became a burden. And it certainly didn't sell books. I needed to write in my own style for my number one fan: me.

Dog. Owning a puppy was a new experience for both Jim and me. Our Girl Friday brought laughs and comfort in the increasing isolation brought on by Jim's disabilities.

Painting. After my 2023 romance with AI-generated art, I decided to improve my own skills and set up my watercolor studio near the lakeside window.

Writing Project. I spent a lot of time pulling together material on one of my character sets—Dot and Dash. It opened a whole new vein of inquiry into my history of alter egos and pocket-sized companions. I wrote a long memoir article about "How I Got the Nickname Flub-a-Dub" (my first alter ago). Then I sank into the exploration of "Envelope Man" (my first pocket companion).

Family history. My great ambitions were not met with great achievements. 🤓I did, however, create a family history hub, with links to everything I could find of my sprawling twenty years of research. My goal was to capture not only the bare bones of how we're all related, but also the "essential anecdotes" for as many ancestors who would tell me their stories. I spent a lot of time with the English Price and Nash families but hit too many brick walls.

🔎 I began intensive research into the Barrett and Gardiner families, hoping to patch together enough for a book about their journey from starvation in Mayo to prosperity on the Missouri frontier. If I do write a book, I suspect it will have to be an historical novel because there are too many forever unknowns.

Part 2: Sliding into after

My general approach to Jim's long decline was to rely on predictable daily routines that made him feel safe and avoided confusion. With a little coaching, he dressed himself, took care of his morning hygiene, and ate heartily. But as spring of 2024 unfolded, he became less able to move from task to task without help. Instinctively, I transitioned from coach mode to compassion mode. I had no idea what was coming next, but was determined that he would always feel safe in my arms.

On July 13, unexpectedly, he died.

If I learned only one thing from my ancestors, it was, no matter what, keep moving. Mourning became motion. I not only reconnected with friends and family, I also reconnected with my sewing room.

For months, I didn't write, didn't draw, didn't research. I sewed.

When December came, I realized I would never write again unless I dealt with the "dead body in the parlor," so to speak.

With lots of tears, I wrote and posted "Death of a Sweet Old Husband" on Medium and on Facebook.

Then, with fewer tears but lots of nostalgia, I wrote up my sewing projects and called the set of essays "grief therapy."

❤️‍🩹 "Picking Up (& Sewing Together) the Pieces"

❤️‍🩹 "Project 2: Making Boxes"

❤️‍🩹 "Project 3: Placemats"

❤️‍🩹 "Project 4: My 'Comfort' Bag"

❤️‍🩹 "Project 5: Wearables: the Magic Hoodie"

❤️‍🩹 "Project 6: the Patchwork Skirt"

I wrote these for myself, to commemorate those quiet weeks of transformation. But maybe they'll give someone else a bit of inspiration for their own difficult times.

So that was 2024. Now to look forward.