Dept. of Nance

History Repeats Itself: Chapter Six of Watching and Thinking About Blueberries

2026-09-12T16:47:10.978-04:00

It has taken me some time to revisit this saga that spanned six years and started in 2009. Very few of my Original Readers remain, so this series of five posts, Watching and Thinking About Blueberries, is unknown to most of you. I feel I need to write this chapter because the circle has closed so beautifully and joyfully; it reinforces my belief that There Is No Such Thing As Coincidence.

The Blueberries posts began almost seventeen years ago exactly with this chapter (that I hope you'll read, as well as the others to follow). When Rick and I first moved into this house 41 years ago, we discovered that his kindergarten teacher, Tish, lived right across the street. Tish and her husband Barrington Cash (apt aliases), were jetsetters in their golden years. She welcomed us with two pints of fresh blueberries, making it clear that she was not a baker, but hoped I was and would enjoy her gift. Years later, her husband died from a heart attack, and I anxiously watched as Tish's life changed.

Four years later, her huge silver Buick was no longer pulling in and out of her driveway, and a sense of foreboding gripped me. In Chapter Two, I couldn't bear the unknown anymore, and when an opportunity afforded me the chance to get answers, I took it. Unfortunately, my initiative didn't help me as much as I hoped. I learned only that Tish was still alive, and that her son was in charge of her affairs. That knowledge didn't do much to assuage my concerns, especially when a moving van arrived and I watched as all of her things came out the front door.

In 2014 I got more answers, but they were not what I hoped for. Chapter Three takes place in 2014 as I watched the slow and painful death of her redbud tree, seeing it as a symbol for Tish herself. My heart broke when I saw the city had marked it for removal, and even more pieces of me crumbled as I discovered why we hadn't seen Tish in so long. Even though I had long ago learned--and many times over-- that Life Isn't Fair, I railed against her circumstances.

At a Christmas party one evening in 2015, the Universe gave me a dinner companion who was able to tell me news about Tish. This woman wasn't even supposed to be there, but I was so glad that she was. In Chapter Four this kind lady told me that my former neighbour was happy and well, and I was so grateful, both for the knowledge and for Tish's circumstances.

It wasn't even a year later, however, that I was writing a far less happy installment in this saga. Chapter Five found me mourning the loss of our onetime neighbour and the woman for whom I felt...so much and for no tangible, comprehensible reason. I wondered so often about who would move into that house across the street--her house--and what the house would be like, alive again.

After a time, not so very long it seems now, I found out. Tish's house is very much alive these days, and when I look across the street, it's easy for me to see through her eyes, to see what she must have observed many times herself when looking out her front windows across to my own house over the years, more than 40 years ago.

A young couple, Anne and Charlie, live there now. They arrived several years ago after a series of renters and set up house with their infant son Oliver. The front yard was made into an ever-burgeoning garden on either side of their front walk. Incredibly, a mainstay of this garden has been yellow marigolds and bright golden mums. At first we all simply waved at each other and called Hello and Good Morning. Soon, however, Anne and I exchanged phone numbers, and I looked after her garden while they went on vacation. A few years later a second son, Archie, joined the family. Anne's boys are three years apart, as mine are. We share our culinary talents with one another: I keep her supplied with pesto and pickles and toffee; she is a fantastic baker whose sourdough rolls are, quite simply, heaven. She works as a youth mental health counselor, and I am the retired teacher her boys call Miss Nance. Their lives are busy and boisterous, and I love watching Ollie and Archie as they've learned to ride bikes, chase one another, and take walks with their mother and father, first in a wagon and now on their own two feet. When our next-door neighbour was having a cement driveway put in, I invited them to watch it all from our front porch. At Halloween, I prepare a special trick-or-treat bag just for them. If packages arrive on my porch while we're away, Anne or Charlie makes sure they are stowed safely. Anne sends me videos of the boys, and we exchange texts often. We are both grateful that we are neighbours, and we say so often to one another.

History repeats itself, and the Past harmonizes. Many have philosophized about this occurrence, this cyclical nature of human existence. Some would say that History rhymes rather than repeats, that by its very nature, Life is a series of recurring patterns. Much of this depends upon noticing these patterns, of course. In my case it is an easy task; all I have to do is look right across the street. And each time I do, it's like looking into a magical mirror, one that reflects both my Past and their Present. The Universe is a wide and wonderful thing, and I take the time to notice.

The Dept. Of Nance Turns 21

2026-08-30T15:45:57.400-04:00

image credit

The Dept. of Nance is 21! My blog can legally drink, so grab yourself an Adult Beverage and let's celebrate.

When I first started writing here, I had no idea (or desire, really) that I'd last this long, offering my perspectives, opinions, thoughts, and glimpses into my life. In 2005 I was the mother of two sons, aged 17 and 20. I was teaching English and Creative Writing at our city's only public high school, which educated over 2000 students a year on a campus of an entire city block, comprising three buildings (one dating back to 1894). I saw an average of 120 students a day, and you can only imagine my nightly load of papers to grade. What on Earth was I thinking, starting a blog? Still, I maintained a publishing schedule of twice a week back then. Clearly, I was...younger? more energetic? striving to be heard? As many of my longtime readers know, I started writing mainly to take the advice I always gave to my Creative Writers: Writers write; if you want to be known as a writer, start writing.

And I did--start writing, that is. Think of almost any topic, and I'm pretty sure you can find it in my archives here. At one point I had three blogs: one written with my eldest son Jared, this one, and one that gained a lot of national attention after a syndicated columnist found it and interviewed me for an article that was later picked up by a lot of national newspapers. It was even featured on a segment of the Today Show, the TV Guide Hot List, and Conan O'Brien's late night show. Our local Cleveland Magazine interviewed me (twice!), and in one surreal moment, I was interviewed by producers for a possible guest spot on Jay Leno's Tonight Show (that fell through because he was replaced). Quite a heady time.

These days, I am a different sort of blogger. Back then, I was more of a cultural commentator. I wrote a lot about politics, for instance. Can you imagine that I used to call George W. Bush The Angel of Death? Little did I know how tame he'd seem almost 20 years later. My disdain for republicans (nope; not gonna capitalize that, ever) was distinctly apparent, and that hasn't changed. Now, however, I don't write about The Politics. I feel a bit guilty about that because I pride myself on my Political Awareness and Political Activism. Things are so completely fucked up and horrible now, though, that I can't bring myself to inflict any more stress on my readers or myself. (I'm so sorry, my Canadian friends, and to my US readers, VOTE BLUE.)

Now my sons, Jared and Sam, are 41 and 38 respectively. (By the way, how did that happen?!) I have two adorable grandsons, Theo Davis and Griffin Leo, the latter appearing on the scene only three weeks ago. Jared left his position as COO of a multi-million dollar company to be a Stay At Home Dad. Sam bought a house almost a year ago, an old colonial of three floors and beautiful woodwork only five blocks away. Zydrunas, my exuberant granddog, is an old man now and barely listens to my commands anymore. Oh! I cannot neglect my grandcat, George, who rounds out Jared's family. He is beautiful and temperamental and, when he allows it, magnificently cuddly.

Rick, who I've known now for an astonishing 49 years and have been married to for 45 of those, is now retired and a very proud grandfather. He's had to shoulder a lot more duties since my illness, but he does so uncomplainingly. We greatly enjoy spending time at the lakehouse and with family whenever possible. Years ago, he indulged me and goodnaturedly adopted Emily and Travis, our first two cats, and later, when I desperately missed having a pet, happily made room for Marlowe and Piper (even though they both vastly preferred me to him). We've been through a lot, and we are such a Good Team.

One of the things I love the most about writing here is our community. I've made so many friends via this blog. I've been fortunate enough to meet many of them. You are all very important to me, and I so appreciate your Comments here as well as our other communications. Even though I value and keep my privacy, I've opened my life up more and more, thanks to the kindness and support of this community. I am beyond grateful.

Thank you for a rewarding and fun 21 years.

Piper

2026-08-07T15:39:02.956-04:00

Sixteen years ago I adopted this pair of siblings from our local pet rescue. They were the last two left from a litter of porch cats. Their shelter names were Dusty and Nike, but once I chose them, I renamed them both using my usual method of looking directly into their eyes and letting their names come to me. Piper and Marlowe, each so very different despite being brother and sister, adapted almost immediately to our home and family.

Piper became very ill in the next week or two, and he had to be taken to the vet where he was given fluids under the skin and diagnosed with FHV-1 (or FVR), a lifelong illness that would flare up now and then, especially after any stress. I left there feeling very sad and overwhelmed, but resolute in my desire to keep him. I had become attached almost immediately, and nothing could make me return him to the shelter or give up on him. Rick was dispatched to get jars of baby food meats, and I stayed up practically around the clock, feeding him small amounts and making sure he drank water. Happily, he recovered and began to thrive.

That tummy!

Thrive might be an understatement. Piper was never shy about food or about taking a big nap on my lap. He continued to ... expand regardless of being placed on diet food. He and his sister were simply big and tall cats, and I often wondered about their heritage. Yet despite his size, Piper's feet remained dainty and almost laughably tiny for all of his size elsewhere.

Probably because of my intensive care of him early on, Piper became extremely attached to me, both emotionally and physically. He followed me everywhere, earning him the nickname of PuppyCat. If Marlowe was in my lap for a cuddle, Piper would simply walk on top of her and take her place, regardless of any negative or violent reaction on her part. If Rick dared sit with me or show me any affection, Piper would be right there, complaining and shoving his way between us. I belonged to him and him alone.

After Marlowe passed away last year, Piper became even more attached, if that were even possible. He grieved the loss of his sister, his constant companion. He got some comfort from his PuppyDog and from being allowed to sleep with me at night.

I got one for Zydrunas, the granddog, too, but it no longer looks like this one.

A little over a month ago, Piper started yowling in the nighttime--a lot and often. I also noticed that he wasn't hearing me--or anything, for that matter--even the vacuum. I also realized that he wasn't seeing much anymore and was relying on scent to locate his wet food when I set it down. He often wandered the house, scared and confused. I took him to the vet and learned that, overall, he was physically doing well but was suffering from feline dementia and symptoms of aging, including arthritis. It was terrible to hear his joints crack. After some advice and research, I made sure nightlights were on in key places so that he could navigate more easily, and I made his food available 24 hours a day since his appetite was sporadic. In addition to his supplement for FVR, I gave him feline glucosamine, hoping to ease his arthritis pain. His gait became more laboured, and the yowling did not abate. Despite regularly losing sleep and worrying all the time, I was determined to do whatever necessary to accommodate him. Chronic stress and fatigue didn't help my own condition, but I was determined to be there for him. I found he relaxed and very much enjoyed being outdoors with me, especially in the back yard near our little pond.

Of course there is ice in his water!

Sadly, his condition did not improve, and neither did mine. His FVR flared, too, worse than ever despite having been on an l-Lysine supplement. I called the vet again and requested an appointment; I was hopeful that there would be something more to alleviate his stress and calm his yowling. I hated seeing him so lost, confused, and fearful--like a lost child. I'm sure you have already guessed that Piper did not come home with us after yesterday's appointment.

It was a heartbreaking decision to let him go. I am weeping as I write this despite knowing that I did the right thing. He was merely existing, and that existence was a profoundly altered one. He was taking no pleasure in anything anymore--he even refused going outdoors. He was almost gone from me; I was missing My Piper so much already. Our veterinarian was incredibly kind, gentle, and supportive, telling us at every moment to take as much time as we needed. When it came time to leave him, I wrapped him up in the exam room fleece blanket. I had felt his paw, and it was cold; I couldn't stand to leave him that way.

Piper is my last pet forever. Not only can I never go through that again, I am also considering my age and health. I would be possibly leaving this Earth before that pet would, and I cannot bear to think about that. I know I gave Piper a very good life, and I'm forever grateful that I could do that. My memories will be comforting and happy, two words that describe him perfectly.

As I said before, when we adopt our pets, they are ours for better or worse, and we love and care for them in sickness and in health...'til death do us part. It's a sacred yet unspoken vow, and they depend upon us entirely. I'm glad I did not fail Piper.

This is the last photo I have; he joined me in the front yard briefly on Wednesday.