Give a homeless person a home, and he or she isn’t homeless.
 
This idea has long been a no-brainer for me.  And as it turns out, it's also true.  

That's not just for Grants Pass, where we’ve lived for a year, but everywhere else, too. 
 
Of course, the devil is in the details—and because of those specifics, goes beyond coming up with a place to sleep.
 
Yet for decades, this is how our country has mostly dealt with our chronically homeless population.   
 
Often, this put-a-band-aid-on-it policy means that these underserved Americans (about 600,000 people on any given night) are afforded brief respites at warehouse-like facilities in neighborhoods where filth, poverty and crime rule.  Some towns, like ours, have places in nicer neighborhoods where they’re called “rescue missions” and are faith based.
 
They do meet an immediate need—somewhere to lie down; a hot meal, and bathroom facilities.  But at least here, there are ironclad rules: no pets, no guarantee about a room for the next night, and a requirement that everyone has to attend at least one religious service, and sometimes more, every day.
 
This isn’t a solution to homelessness. 
 
But there’s a better way, and it will be here soon.
 
It’s called transitional housing.
 
These communities are neither new nor radical. They began popping up in the United States in the early 2000s, and now include Quixote Village in Olympia, Washington; Community First in Austin, Texas, and Second Wind Cottages in Newfield, New York.  Most feature tiny modular homes, sometimes single or sometimes a duplex, usually with a front porch and big enough inside for a bed and bureau.  A small amount of monthly rent is required; pets are generally allowed, and residents vary from a handful to a few hundred. Some allow children and some don’t.  But everyone is carefully vetted before admittance.  
 
These enclaves are also much more cost effective than letting the homeless wander the streets. 
 
In fact, with increased time in hospitals, overnights in jail and emergency shelter, taxpayers fork out about $40,000
per year per homeless person. But with transition programs, lives are supported by offering homes that can cost as
little as $1,500. 
 
Those who live here can also breathe a sigh of relief—gone are worries about safety; belongings being stolen, or where to find shelter on any given night.  
 
But the real key to success is case management.     
 
So, each enclave also has a brick-and-mortar community center, where social workers, mental health professionals and counselors connect residents to opportunities previously impossible, such as job training; applying for veteran and food benefits, and how to obtain a GED. 
 
Additionally, each center has mailboxes; a kitchen and dining area, and bathroom facilities.  Community gardens are also common, with sweat equity mandatory.  Most residents take about six months to successfully transition to an off-site home and job, but no one is evicted if goals haven’t yet been met.   
 
Now, a tiny home community for the homeless is coming to Grants Pass.
 
It’s named Foundry Village after the street where it’s located.  And, despite the COVID-19 pandemic; a contentious election year, and raging fires in this part of the state, groundbreaking is slated to happen by the end of this year.  
 
I’d heard about this project when we moved here last summer.
 
But the Village had been stalled by red tape and city leaders who believed this sort of housing was going to cause home values to plummet (they haven’t in other communities); excess littering around the area (hasn’t happened), and increased noise complaints to police (that hasn’t occurred either). 
 
It took over a year, but once Foundry steering committee members presented accurate facts and figures to the powers blocking the idea, as well as offering tours of an established transitional community about 35 miles south, the project was green lighted.   
 
This kind of housing won’t work for everyone.
 
But the overall success rate stands at 60 percent, and given that many residents have been previously homeless for years, those are pretty good odds.
 
The Hubster and I feel strongly that Foundry Village has a place here.
 
So, to the extent that we can, we’re volunteering time to make it a reality.
 
Masked, socially distanced and outside, we work at a booth a few hours every Saturday at our local Growers’ Market.  There’s a one-gallon glass jar on the table for donations, but mostly, we offer information.  That means answering questions; giving out pamphlets, and reassuring folks that Foundry Village will be A Very Good Thing for Grants Pass.  
 
And perhaps surprisingly, except for one man early on, who grumbled that “at least now we’ll know where they all are,” we’ve received an overwhelmingly positive response.
 
For those who can’t pull themselves up by the bootstraps because they don’t have boots, we hope to give them the
shoes they’ll need.  
 
Find out more about Foundry Village at www.foundryvillagegrantspass.com/.
 

Thinking about COVID-19 makes me think about the Serenity Prayer.
 
The version most of us know goes like this.
 
“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.”    
 
Penned in the 1930s by Protestant theologian Reinhold Niebuhr (although some scholars think Niebuhr unwittingly claimed the words of others as his own), early versions mentioned Jesus Christ and a world of sin.  But in its modern form, this humble adage is a mere 25 words and mainstay at 12-step meetings, where it’s recited at the close of nearly every gathering.
 
The words are a perfect fit for those feeling powerless over an addiction.
 
Now, the Serenity Prayer is resonating with a new crowd.    
 
It’s speaking to Americans like you and me, people feeling helpless and hopeless over COVID-19—a virus so microscopic that millions can reside on the head of a pin, and still claim the lives of more than 181,000 Americans, so far.
 
That’s only one sobering statistic.  
 
We’re just six months in, but so many of us have gotten so very sick—nearly six million cases, which is close to three times the number of American casualties of the entire Vietnam War.  Public health officials also say that because of an acute shortage of trained contact tracers, the accurate number (which includes  thousands of children) is much higher.
 
There are those who haven’t caught the virus. 
 
But they, too, are victims of its consequences—a record loss of jobs, businesses and homes.
 
More than 40 million unemployment benefit claims have been filed, exceeding the jobless levels of the Great Depression.  Also, nearly 66,000 businesses have folded since March, and some 25 million Americans are in imminent danger of losing their homes in a few months.
 
I’ve accepted the fact that I can’t change these numbers.  
 
I also can’t change those who believe that the federal response to the pandemic is now "it is what it is," or follow
Donald Trump, a man who doesn’t read; surrounds himself with criminals, and has dozens of sexual misconduct
complaints against him, including two rapes.   
 
But I’m doing my best to muster the courage to change what I can.
 
A lot of this means checking my own behavior. 
 
So, Hubster and I always wear our cloth masks when we’re inside a store. There’s no dilly dallying either: we walk in with a list and get in and out as soon as we can.  And per CDC guidelines, we wash our hands with warm water and soap whenever we think of it; use hand sanitizer if that’s the only option, and practice social distancing.    
 
At the same time, we’re mindful about supporting local business.   
 
For us, that means dinner once a week at a family owned eatery, always going in the late afternoon when there are fewer diners, and always keeping our masks on except when eating.  We always leave more than a 20 percent tip, too, because we know that restaurants have had a particularly rough time. 
 
And while it’s harder to find volunteer opportunities right now, we have, aware that doing this isn’t only for others, but for our own well-being.   
 
In the last two months, we’ve sent hundreds of cloth and disposal masks to the Native American reservation in South Dakota which is so near to my husband’s heart, and which has been decimated by COVID-19.  And for two hours every Saturday, we’re at our nearby farmers’ market (masked and distanced) dispensing information about a tiny house community for the homeless that, despite the pandemic, will break ground next month.
 
For me, I've also committed to sending 100 letters with Vote Forward, a non-profit that reaches out to unregistered or low-propensity voters, urging them to exercise this most basic of American rights. And because I'm a big believer in the power of knowledge, I'll continue to post revelvant articles on social media—all from reporters and scientists and essayists whom I trust and respect.

While I know I can’t change anyone’s mind, maybe I can get some folks to pay attention.
 
I’ll keep praying for the wisdom to know what I can change and what I can’t.
 
I hope everyone else is doing the same.

COVID-19 has made my beauty routine a DIY adventure.  
 
Of course, this all began in March, when Life As It Used To Be turned topsy-turvy.   
 
Prior to that time— though only months ago, it feels like years—my vanity essentials had been covered for decades by professionals.  Really, I couldn’t imagine not going to a salon because their magic has always made me look and feel far greater than anything I might have attempted on my own.  
 
Getting my hair right is the most important. 
 
So, my tresses were colored once a month, courtesy of the only stylist in Southern Oregon who carried the identical organic line as my California hairdresser.  They also tinted and trimmed my brows and put fun colors on my bangs, including violet, blue and green, which made me look like the Girl Clown I’ll always be.  And, both waxed my upper lip, which needed attention every three weeks.  
 
Larger waxing needs—arms and legs—used to happen every six weeks at a Vietnamese owned salon, where efficiency was key. Here in Oregon, I found a thorough and speedy hairdresser who did the same.  After a sloppy bang trim from the organic stylist, this new waxer started cutting my hair, too    
 
Mani-peds were less frequent, every two months or until the gel polish on my toes had dulled and shrunk so much (thanks to new nail growth) that I couldn’t stand it anymore.   
 
So, even though I needed three separate folks to look my best, it worked. 
 
Then everything closed.
 
An ancient adage instantly came to mind: necessity is the mother of invention. 

But now, it wasn’t merely a sentence.  Now, it was a proverb that had to be put into action.
 
First up was asking the Hubster to color my hair. 
 
To say he was hesitant is an understatement, but I did my best to cheer him on.  After pinning up my locks in several places, then draping towels on the dining room floor and my shoulders and lap, we both read the package directions several times.  Finally, carefully putting on the thin disposable gloves that were inside the box, he began.  
 
My brave spouse has done the same thing three times now, and more than a few friends say that they prefer
the drugstore color over the salon look.  Also, he has trimmed my hair (which, thankfully, has no layers) and that
looks good, too.
 
Waxing was next, and it has been the most challenging. 
 
The big beauty supply store in town was also closed, so I ordered a starter’s waxing kit online.  I’d watched countless women over the years apply the sticky stuff and deftly strip it away, so I figured it couldn’t be difficult.
 
As it turns out, those folks only made it look easy. 
 
For whatever reason, my expertise at lip waxing isn’t bad.  But trying to do the same on my arms and legs hasn’t worked. I’ve made nasty adhesions by pulling the wrong way, or maybe using too much (or not enough) wax.  Worse, the wax gets everywhere.  Last week, a glob of it wound up in the washing machine.   
 
When I moaned about this online, a friend suggested Nair, the cream depilatory that made its debut in 1940.  I’d used this product in college and recalled the awful medicinal smell; also, it made my skin red and itchy.  But there are many updated versions out today, which depending on choice, boast nourishing additives with shea butter, Vitamin E and
baby oil. 
 
I chose the latter and it worked.  But I also know that the process was a success because after decades of waxing, the hair on my arms is thinner, and I have less of it, than when I was younger.  
 
The same goes for my legs, but I couldn’t get to the places I wanted to with depilatory.  That’s when the Hubster came to my rescue one more time.  He’s a member of Harry’s Club, which sounds like a strip joint but is a company devoted to superior shaving products.  Using a special pivoting Harry’s razor, along with the recommended aqua-colored shaving cream, my legs are now smooth.
 
Finally, I needed to figure out my nails.
 
My professional in this area texted me with instructions about how to remove the gel.  I gave it my all, taping large cotton balls on every toe, each soaked with industrial strength nail polish remover, for 10 minutes.  But the color remained.
 
Perhaps sensing my despair after reporting this failed effort, the expert arrived at my back yard.  There, both of us donning masks, I sat on a picnic chair while she squatted in front of me and vanquished the polish.  She has offered to return for a complete pedicure, but right now, I’m staying au natural.      
 
Here are three things I’ve learned by going DIY.
 
One, I’ve saved a ton of money, meaning, close to $800.  Two, perhaps the Hubster will consider a new calling in the world of hair color.   Lastly, while none of these routines has yielded professional results, they don’t look half bad.
 
Now, the question is this.
 
Once the pandemic has passed, will I ever return to a salon?
 
You bet.  

If you’re worried and weary, as so many of us are these days, make a retro Jell-O salad.    
 
Those of us who are baby boomers know this jiggly dessert was once as American as mom, apple pie and baseball.  Plus,
it was easy to make; cost pennies, and came in dozens of bright Technicolor flavors.
 
Of course, life in the ‘50s and early ‘60s wasn’t exactly a picnic either.   
 
We didn’t have a pandemic, but we had the Korean War and the Cold War.  On its heels was Joe McCarthy’s nasty
anti-Communist crusade and the blacklisting in Hollywood that followed; dangerous backstreet abortions, and only
the most rudimentary help for those battling mental illness.  And, even though there wasn’t a name for it,
systemic racism permeated everything.   
 
None of these events affected us.    
 
We spent summer days riding bikes and playing tag and hide and seek and Cowboys and Indians.  The phrase “play date” didn’t exist; we only knew that we had to be home in time for dinner.  Inside, in our dens and living rooms and bedrooms, knees touched as we played with Barbies and plastic horses and jacks and coloring books.  Saturday mornings were for watching cartoons on TV.

Now because of COVID-19, most of us are, and should be, very cautious.

At this writing, the virus has claimed 125,033 American lives and 495,000 deaths worldwide.  Twenty-seven states are seeing an increase in new cases, with Texas, California and Arizona reporting new record numbers.  Just as troubling, a growing number of those thought to have recovered are left with permanent and serious organ damage.

As for the Hubster and me, we’re doing our best to do everything right—wearing masks and socially distancing; washing our hands often, and getting outdoors for Vitamin D.

Luckily, leaving the house wasn’t necessary to make a Creamy Lime Jell-O salad.  
 
I chose this recipe because it felt nostalgic, bringing me back to the simpler times from my childhood.    
 
The lime really screamed the color lime, and besides, there was cream cheese and mayonnaise in the mix.  Three cans of fruit cocktail in heavy syrup (and as I remembered, still not enough cherries) and chopped pecans topped off the ingredient list. 
 
After finding the recipe, I started to wonder if other boomers recalled the Jell-O concoctions they loved from the time they were small.  So, I posed that question to a closed Facebook group I’m in, one where many of the members are about
my age.
 
The first reply came in less than a minute.  Ultimately, more than 200 folks posted their gelatin memories, including orange with mandarin oranges and pineapple chunks; strawberry Jello-O with 7-Up, and plain black cherry.  Some still served the family recipe, often featuring Cool Whip and walnuts.     
 
The lime salad I had called for a mold, but I had given mine away.  That meant the end result didn’t look nearly so fancy as the pictures accompanying the recipe.  My take ended up in a rectangular Pyrex dish, but I’m sure it tasted just as good.  In fact, it was probably better because I added a cream cheese/whipped cream frosting on top, and then garnished that with lime green sugar sprinkles.
 
Just looking at this creation made me feel a little bit happier, and eating it made me feel good, too.  Plus, it’s a lot cheaper than therapy, which I can’t go to now anyway.
 
What Jell-O salad do you remember from your childhood?
 
P.S. Here’s the recipe I used.  For extra flair, mix four ounces of softened cream cheese; a pint of freshly whipped cream, and half a cup of powdered sugar together.  Then, spoon and smooth on top of the salad.
https://homemadehooplah.com/creamy-lime-jello-salad/   
  

The pastor at my Hubster’s church is a world traveler named Chris Failla. 
 
And, a couple of weeks ago, Failla (pronounced FAY-la) had a few things to say about what’s happening right now.
 
He calls this the “in-between time.”
 
I’m not Christian.  But every Sunday morning at 10 o’clock, my spouse closes the door to his home office; powers up his laptop and logs onto Zoom, and takes part in a virtual hour-long service led by Failla.  
 
This one time, because I asked, the Hubster shared his notes with me.
 
Failla has a Master of Arts in Global Leadership from the esteemed Fuller Seminary, and spent years before that as a teacher and community organizer in China.  At this service, he compared the uncertainty of COVID-19 to a couple of Biblical events where folks were also “in-between”—forced to give up any semblance of control and expectations they thought they had.  One is Exodus, when the Jews wandered for 40 years before finding a home in Israel, and the other is Easter, right after Christ died but before rising from the dead.
 
Like then, it seems as if we’re neither moving forward nor backward.   Even though every state is allowing businesses to reopen, this time is still a waiting game.   
 
But we don’t know exactly what we’re waiting for, or for how long.
 
At the same time, it’s getting harder to remember what life was like a few months ago.   
 
It’s oddly quaint that at the beginning of this year, most of us left our homes every day, going to work or enjoying a long lunch, shopping with friends or catching a new movie.  But the merry skedaddling is gone, and now that the virus has claimed more than 100,000 lives in the United States, hoarding toilet paper and wearing pants with elastic waistbands isn’t as funny as it was a month ago.  
 
Maybe that’s why Failla talked about something else: this “in-between time” can’t be wasted. 
 
So, while recognizing that our days and nights are absolutely scary and difficult and sad and uncertain, Failla has also decided to view the COVID-19 pandemic as an opportunity for reflection.
 
To this end, Failla created four “What?” questions things to ask ourselves right now.  Answering them has helped me recognize my priorities, and might allow others do the same.  
 
Here they are.  
 
What am I happy to be free from?
 
I hate getting up early.
 
But most of my career required being a morning riser, and when I lived in New York City, that meant waking up very early since every weekday, I washed and blow dried my hair; applied full makeup, and tugged panty hose on before taking the subway from Brooklyn to Manhattan.   
 
I haven’t done this in decades, but right before the virus hit, I was up most days around 7 a.m.  
 
Twice a week I volunteered at two grammar schools, where I read one-on-one with about a dozen children, most of whom had no one at home to do the same.  I also took a morning yoga class on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so I wasn’t lounging around those mornings.  And, a few days before the shelter at home order hit, I registered voters for the first time in front of the town post office. The Friday a.m. shift was the only one open.
 
I want all of these activities back sooner than later.
 
For now, though, I’m happy to be free from alarm clocks.
 
What am I missing?
 
I’m missing the freedom to be free. 
 
This includes not having to think about running to the market for a few items needed for dinner; strolling through thrift stores and estate sales for vintage cake plates, Pyrex and table clothes, and having my hair professionally cut and colored whenever I want.
 
I’m missing that my daughter isn’t able to hop on a plane from California, and vice versa.
 
I’m missing that I can’t drive to the nearest beach to feel the waves on my feet and wriggle my toes in the sand. 
Until further notice, that part of the coastline is closed.
 
Unlike so many, I’m blessed to have a partner to cuddle and hug.  But being unable to touch anyone else is
​increasingly difficult.
 
Also, I miss breathing without a mask.   
 
What matters more?
 
Friends and family have always been important, but now, there’s a greater need, even an ache, to connect with more of them, and more often.
 
What matters less?
 
For years, keeping a daily schedule, even in my head, was important because I like having a certain cadence and order to my days.  If I didn’t get everything done that I’d planned, I’d berate myself for wasting time. 
 
But time is different now. 
 
While it isn’t easy breaking this old habit, I’m trying to give myself wiggle room if everything on my list doesn’t get done.  This means more living in the moment and more appreciating what I do have.
 
Which “What?” questions are calling to you, and how will you answer them?
 

We bought a new recliner in January, never knowing it was destined to become a central addition for sheltering
in place.     
 
A shiny, velveteen chocolate brown that looks like a puffy shirt if said shirt had been reincarnated into a large chair,
the purchase was unplanned. 
 
We had gone to the nicest furniture store in town for a different reason: to order a new futon mattress, one that
we knew was going to be better made and last longer than anything we’d find at one of those “every day is a sale”
bed places. 
 
But it was impossible to pass up the recliners because they were purposefully placed right inside the store’s
​only entrance.
 
More than a dozen were lined up, and because they were all part of an after-Christmas sale, all were substantially discounted.  The Hubster had talked about buying a recliner for years, so I figured there was no harm in looking. 
 
My spouse quickly settled into the puffy one. He recognized and liked the brand, as well as the fact that the chair was 50 percent off the original price tag.  Most of all, he liked how comfortable it was, nearly melting into it.    
 
I appreciated his choice, but also knew we already had plenty of places to park our cabooses.
 
We’re empty nesters, so there are only two of us.  We have a full-sized couch, and meeting that sofa at a right degree angle is the afore-mentioned futon.  A few feet away is my spouse’s hickory wood rocking chair with matching stool. Adding to everyone’s comfort are two floor lamps; a coffee table piled with books and TV and Roku remotes, and the white, custom-designed entertainment center cabinet.
 
There’s also a luxe dog bed for Sadie and Hank, with an old wooden salad bowl full of tennis balls and sun-bleached bones within easy reach.
 
It’s enough.
 
Then the Hubster spoke.
 
“Look,” he said, still in the recliner and eyes half closed. “It even rocks back and forth.”  He sighed deeply.  “It’s more than I could ever have hoped for or wanted.”
 
That cinched the deal.
 
Gazing at the recliner after it was delivered, I pondered whether owning one might now mark me as A Very Old Person.  But when I told a friend that it didn’t have an electric button, only a hand lever on the side for going forward and back, she assured me that I wasn’t elderly—at least not yet. 
 
But reclining chairs are old.
 
The forerunners of today’s recliners are chaise lounges and daybeds, which have been around since ancient Egypt, and perhaps not surprisingly, used exclusively by the wealthy.  Also, while dentists are not exactly recognized for inventing these comfy chairs, the first dental chair that debuted in 1790 was adjustable and featured a moveable headrest.  Less than 100 years later, a British dentist came up with a chair that glided up and down. 
 
Still, it wasn’t until the late 1920s that American cousins Edward Knabush and Edwin Shoemaker filed a patent application for a simple reclining bench that eventually became the recliner seen in millions of living rooms.  The manufacturing of that first chair, made of wood and intended for a patio, paved the way for a little company called La-Z-Boy, which still rules the reclining world and today, is worth $1.5 billion.
 
All of this history is cool.
 
But honestly, what I care most about right now is that snuggling into our big brown recliner makes me feel safe. 
 
During the day, it’s the Hubster’s seat of choice, but once he heads to bed, I take over the brown velveteen pillows.   I’ll adjust the lever so that I’m half lying down, often sipping a cup of tea or glass of milk.  Sometimes I’ll read, and sometimes I’ll think about how my days are so much quieter and less hurried now.
 
I’ll understand, too, that I’ve been given permission to slow down and take a giant pause.
 
After all, that’s basically what the entire planet is up to right now anyway.

Making snowball cookies helps keeps my worries at bay.

​And, now that the COVID-19 panademic is causing millions around the world to quarantine or shelter in place, with a major economic depression a likely consequence,  high anxiety has quickly become our new normal.
 
But there’s also a corner of joy in my teal and white kitchen, where there’s butter, sugar, flour and cookie sheets.
 
Because snowball cookies usually make an appearance around Christmas, folks forget that they can be made all year long.  
Thought to originate in England during the Middle Ages, these two or three-bite treats are also known as Mexican or Greek wedding cookies; butterballs, or powdered sugar balls.  My version calls them honey sand balls since honey is added.  But each share this: there are only a handful of ingredients, and once the dough is put together, the cookies can hit the oven quickly since the dough needs no refrigeration.
 
When snowballs aren’t part of a frenzied holiday ritual, making these cookies provides a comforting rhythm.  
 
Cream together softened butter (always use the real, good stuff) with a bit of powdered sugar, then add flour, vanilla (also use real) and a touch of salt. Lastly, mix in your favorite nuts (walnuts or pecans or hazelnuts work).  I get about
a dozen balls per sheet because even though the recipe has no baking powder or soda, the balls flatten and expand
while baking.  
 
Then comes the very best part (except for the eating): use your (very clean) hands to roll one buttery treat at a time into a one-inch or so sized ball.  Just as studies have shown that gardening in dirt may help ease depression, I think it’s also true when it comes to immersing our hands in cookie dough.   
 
You also can’t fret about anything while making snowballs. 
 
This is because you have to single mindedly be on top of the timing.   
 
Snowballs, you see, are fragile, and even in an oven set at a low 325 degrees, these cookies will burn unless carefully monitored.  Although my recipe calls for 14 minutes, I check the cookies at about 11, and usually find them done with just a tinge of very light browning around the edges.  I’ll take the sheet out and let it sit for only a minute on a wire rack.  Then, with my (very clean) hands, I gently take each ball and roll it in powdered sugar.  After all the balls are done, I roll them in powdered sugar a second time.  A third time won't hurt.  The important point of the sugar assemblage is to do the rolling as soon as possible, because the sugar only sticks when the cookies are hot.    
 
Snowballs are also pretty, so I display them in a glass domed cake stand.  They’ll stay fresh for more than a week this way, but they freeze well, too. When ready to eat one of the latter, just pop it in the microwave for about 10 seconds.  And, since these treats are much lighter than chocolate chip or heavily iced cookies, one or two make a perfect bedtime snack with tea or milk.
 
In the end, though, it doesn’t make any difference how or when you eat snowballs. 
 
Because no matter what, your taste buds will do a happy dance.
 
Honey Sand Balls
 
1 cup (2 sticks) softened butter
½ cup sifted powdered sugar
2 tablespoons honey
2 cups all-purpose flour
¾ chopped walnuts (or pecans or hazelnuts
1 teaspoon vanilla
¼ teaspoon salt
More powdered sugar for the last step
 
Preheat oven to 325 degrees.
 
In a large mixing bowl, beat the butter and sifted powdered sugar, then add the honey.  Mix until blended.
 
Beat or stir in the flour, nuts, vanilla and salt.  Mix thoroughly, and if you’d like, use your (very clean) hands.
 
Shape the dough into 1-inch balls, places about 1 ½ inches apart on a cookie sheet lined with parchment paper. 
 
Bake for about 14 minutes, but check at about 11 minutes to see if the cookies are done.  They should be very lightly browned around the edges.
 
While the cookies are still warm, roll them gently in powdered sugar, then roll again.  Roll a third time for them to be extra powdery.
 
Makes about 35 cookies.

Girl Clown Dancing is five years old this month.
 
So, like every February since this blog’s one-year anniversary, here’s a look back on some events and posts from the last 12 months.    
 
Some things are different and a lot is the same.
 
The biggest channel changer was the Hubster and I moving north to Oregon last summer.  Why we choose to leave California is explained in my April blog (hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/moving).  Five months later, I wrote how we were doing eight weeks after settling into our new town (hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/hellohome).   
 
There have also been fewer essays—one posted each month instead of the two I did for years.  
 
One reason for writing less is because I’m busy—more about that in an upcoming blog.  But also, with so many reading choices online (not to mention movies, games and eBooks), there’s an intention to make every post count.  I’ll admit this, too: I want to leave GCD fans wanting a bit more so the next essay is one they’ll want to read.  
 
Another change is a new and, I think, better way to view past posts.  
 
Looking for older essays has always been doable by pointing the cursor over to the Archives list, which is to the right
of the screen for those reading GCD on a laptop or office computer.  (I can’t speak to the location for iPhone or Android readers, since neither accommodate a full website page on one screen.)  But since Archives is organized by months
(it’s an automatic function of the Weebly server), there’s no way here to zero in on specific topics. 
 
Now, thanks to a savvy computer neighbor, posts can be accessed via another list titled Categories, just above Archives.  Here, you’ll find 14 topics by subject that include Living Life, Activism and Remembering.  Hopefully, this will be a more efficient way to find old posts.     
 
Still, 2019 essays are the same—musings about life in my corner and my POV regarding other people’s corners. 
And because I’m a journalist, I like to include facts and/or links when it helps to clarify the topic.
 
As it has been from the beginning, most essays aren’t political (there’s plenty of that on my Facebook
and Twitter accounts, though), and instead, tend toward the whimsical.  These include why I still write checks
(hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/checks); my favorite tea, rediscovered in Guatemala
(hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/hibiscus), and finally getting around to assembling sauerkraut
balls, a Midwest appetizer that makes the Ohio-born Hubster swoon 
(hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/sauerkraut-balls).
 
But I also wrote about Empire actor Jussie Smollett, and his arrest for staging a clumsy hate crime attack in order
to gain sympathy and a fatter paycheck (hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/jussie-smollett).  (Last week,
Smollett was indicted on six new charges of disorderly conduct, which include filing four false police reports.)  
Then, after being front and center with a very angry customer at my favorite supermarket, I thought about
​the collective PTSD that so many of us are experiencing right now (hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/PTSD).
 
I promise to keep writing. 
 
For both old and new Girl Clown Dancing fans, especially my new peeps in Oregon, I hope you’ll keep reading.
 

I began the New Year by screwing up my hip.
 
Maybe because I’m of A Certain Age, lots of folks assumed the injury came from a fall.  
 
The real culprit was a yoga pose.
 
Now, I love my teacher’s classes. The one I attend meets weekday mornings, which means that there’s usually less than half a dozen people there, so, more attention from the teacher.  Also, this instructor does asanas (poses) that I haven’t done with previous teachers.  As someone who gets easily bored, that last point is a huge plus. 
 
But here’s the other thing.  
 
My yoga teacher is also a bodybuilder.
 
And to that end of getting the class as strong as possible, she challenges us.  Usually I’m up for it because it’s fun to try different poses, although I think I know my limits.  Also, if a pose hurts, I always stop.
 
This is why I initially thought I had only tweaked something.  The pain was annoying, but mild enough that I went home and vacuumed the entire house, thinking that cleaning might “stretch out the muscle.”  
 
By dinnertime I knew that housework wasn’t going to be the cure.  This was a no-brainer conclusion because now
I couldn’t walk without limping.  Also, I couldn’t stand in one spot for more than five seconds without intense pain
​kicking in.   

Still, being a cock-eyed optimist, I came up with Plan B:  I was just going to rest for a few days.

I didn't have a heating pad, but I did have a heated electric throw.  Scrunching it up in a corner of the couch, I burrowed my hip into it.  I had icepacks, too, so alternated those with the blanket.  I also smeared on organic CBD oil.  Finally, I was gulping down 800 milligrams of Ibuprofen every four hours, which took the edge off of the pain, but never came close to taking it away. 

Three weeks passed.

I wasn't getting any better, but I had bought a heating pad.  (In retrospect, limping for nearly an hour through a huge supermarket for groceries wasn't the best idea.)

In fact, I was in so much pain after the shopping adventure that I called the Hubster, crying.  He was out of town, and he knows that I'm not a complainer.  He offered to take a flight home the next morning to take care of me, a suggestion I didn't refuse. 

Right about now, you might wonder why I didn’t see a doctor.  
 
Yes, I have insurance.  But I’m not a fan of the medical establishment.  Maybe it’s because I’ve known too many people who got sicker after they went to a physician; or received a faulty diagnosis, or ended up paying hundreds of dollars for needless tests.  And more often than not, all three.  
 
Nonetheless, at this point, I gave in.
 
The Hubster hadn’t arrived yet, but thankfully, a friend was able to take me to an urgent care facility.  There, the intake clerk couldn’t believe I hadn’t come in earlier.  We still had to wait nearly two hours,  but that was okay, especially since being in this sort of pain meant I really couldn’t do anything else.  (Also, my friend had snagged a chair next to an electrical outlet, allowing me to plug in my heating pad.)
 
Ultimately, it was worth it.
 
I saw a terrific nurse practitioner, who asked a lot of questions and answered all of mine. We even had a few laughs.  And then, he gave me exactly what I needed—a shot in the butt.  He also wrote out prescriptions for a muscle relaxer, as well as Naproxen (which, as it turns out, works way better for me than Ibuprofen) and a numbing gel to slather all over the injured area.  And, much to my surprise, he didn’t try to push blood work or X-rays on me, instead focusing on what he was pretty sure was a badly pulled muscle.
 
I’ve followed all of his instructions to the letter and now, a little more than a week after that visit, the pain is nearly gone, and I’m not limping.  I’m also sleeping.  I miss my classes, and hope to be back within a couple of weeks. 
 
One more thing. 
 
Just before leaving the clinic, I was handed a page of gentle exercises to do every day.  
 
Each one is a yoga pose.
  

I hope the rats have left the building.
 
To clarify, we discovered last month that some nasty rodents had moved into our home.  And right from the get-go, know that these rats didn’t look or act anything like Remy and Emile from Ratatouille.  
 
Because, of course, ours weren’t animated by Disney, which also meant they didn’t have dazzling smiles; sweet smelling fur, and itsy-bitsy skinny tails.   Nope, our invaders boasted sharp yellow incisors; were filthy grey, and had long fat tails.  Also, they left copious amounts of poop in the kitchen and inside the entertainment center.
 
We first became aware of them late one night.
 
I woke to loud scratching noises coming from inside a wall.
 
“Oh,” said the Hubster, “you didn’t turn off the water in the bathroom sink.”
 
“That doesn’t sound like water dripping,” I replied.  Still, I got up to check and found a turned off spigot—and the wall where the scratching was coming from.  Our closet was nearby and not knowing exactly what was going on, or what to do, I closed one door hard, and the noise stopped. 
 
But in my gut, I knew that whatever was happening wasn’t going to end there.  
 
The next morning, I found more than three dozen droppings. 
 
Just like Hansel and Gretel, their crumbs (unfortunately, not bread) indicated the areas where they had walked. That evening, Hubster watched one skitter in front of the microwave and down the back of the stove.  I saw the pest there the next afternoon.  I think chipmunks and squirrels are impossibly cute, but something about a rat’s squinty eyes and reptilian tail freaks me out, every single time. 
 
I screamed. 
 
Now, we have one of those luxe traps, the kind that instantly electrocutes the rat once it enters the trap.  But it’s packed away in one of many unidentified, unopened boxes in the garage.  Also, we knew that this infestation was no job for a single trap, no matter how cutting edge the device. 
 
I called an exterminator in town. 
 
Started and managed by two brothers, the company I chose has been in business for decades, with a great rating on Yelp.  But an appointment wasn’t immediately available. 
 
When one exterminator brother came over a few days later, he explained the delay:  rat infestations around town are the worst he has seen in 35 years.  (The reason for the escalation, he added, is twofold.  One, global warming has brought changing weather patterns, which means that more rats are more frequently looking for warmer places to live.  Two, a bond measure that promised to better maintain the town’s sewer system was turned down last year by voters.)
 
Initially entering the attic, the exterminator immediately saw many small holes sealed up, time and date unknown.  So, there had been a bigly rat issue here before.  But the good news is that entering through the roof was the only way they had come in; there was no evidence of any arriving from ground level.
 
However, this fact was tempered when the exterminator told me I absolutely had rats and not mice, since the droppings were larger than grains of rice and mice don’t scratch.  (They were doing the latter, he explained, in order to make “new roads” to get around inside the house.)  
 
Then, my knew-what-he-was-doing professional placed more than half a dozen bait boxes both inside and out, including two small ones in the kitchen (still not tripped, thank goodness); four around the house’s perimeter, and some in the attic.
 
He went on to tell me about the non-toxic bait he used, marketed under the name RatX.  
 
Once rats ingest it, he said, the bait turns off the stomach sensors that lets them know they’re thirsty.  With those sensors no longer working, the rats return to their outside burrow and become so dehydrated they die.  But what I liked most about RatX is that there’s no secondary poisoning, so it’s safe to use around pets.  In other words, if my hound Hank ate a rodent poisoned by RatX, I wouldn’t need to make an emergency visit to the vet.
 
Two weeks later, knowing that all of the vermin had likely left the house, someone else from the company arrived to seal the two holes the exterminator had found.  (After that initial visit, I still heard nocturnal scratches.  But they got fainter and fainter and within a week, had stopped.)  
 
But I wasn’t out of the woods.
 
“I’ve seen these guys eat through steel,” this man said.  We were standing in the back yard, and just then, I noticed that Hank was running in circles with a rat in his mouth.   The man retrieved it and picked it up by its tail. 
 
“How long has it been dead?” I asked.  
 
“Looks pretty fresh to me,” he replied.
 
I’ve signed on to have the exterminator refill the bait boxes every three months.