It wasn’t just the 70 candles on my birthday cake.

According to the NHS [The National Health Service] here in Scotland, I got old last December 23^rd at about 3:30PM. That is when, thanks to my little dog’s squirrel-spotting at the top of an icy hill and my subsequent tumble to the bottom, I became Super-Cane-Granny.

In January, when I joined my co-authors Janine and Jaya for a book tour in India, the newly-old me spent my trip hobbling along with the help of our family’s antique wooden cane. [Click here to see how I ended up on stage for a book tour in India.]

Also in January (and okay, the January before that and the one before that…) our new conservatory was NOT finished.

For years now, our garden and carpark have been a construction zone. Our garage has been filled with building materials. But our new conservatory remains a work in progress. Between supply shortages, a fire at the windows factory, ferry failures, and every possible other delay, our wonderful builder Slav is tearing his hair out but determined to triumph over Arran construction obstacles.

[NEWS FLASH: Nobody except Slav really believes it will ever be finished. In thirty years as I project this yearly letter into existence using the latest iThink AI, I’ll still be making tea and biscuits for our builders. Or for their grandchildren…]

Our cats never miss an opportunity to mark the changing seasons. “If it’s spring, it must be time to spot adorable new creatures. And kill them.” –Barb’s furry little psychopaths cats. [Click here to hear my cats explain Daylight Savings Time.]

As the year went on, two things continued to NOT happen. (Three if you count the ferry NOT sailing from Arran.) Our conservatory was NOT finished, and the NHS did NOT do any scans of my knee. It wasn’t just the NHS Orthopedist who told me that the MRI and x-rays I’d had done in India were, “Subjective, and open to different interpretation,” but that my knee injury was “Probably arthritis, only to be expected in women your age…” And no, to those who know me well— I did NOT hit him with my cane. It’s a family heirloom, and I didn’t want to risk damaging it. Besides, I’d already learned from earlier trips to India. Why should I just be sick when I could be throwing up in exotic places I’ve always wanted to visit anyhow?

When you live on an exquisite little island off the coast of Scotland, the arrival of warmer weather also means the start of the visitor season. Although it screeched to a halt with Covid, and is still under assault because of the ferry fiasco, this year we were so lucky to have a number of family and friends willing to risk being stranded by the ferries join us for a visit. (Hint if you’re planning to visit Arran: you might make it onto the island, but no telling if/when you’ll be able to leave. For you, I have two words of advice: trip insurance.)

As always, August in Scotland is a gift to purveyors of midge repellant and hayfever remedies. I missed some of that due to a trip to Seattle to help my sister move. While it was great to catch up on family news, somehow the thing I remember most about that trip was the overwhelming niceness of Canadians. With my knee still messed up, I signed up for wheelchair assistance for the flights.

For the layover in Calgary, a helpful porter deposited my wheelchaired self at our gate and told to me to stay put for the couple of hours until the flight. That’s when I realized I’d left my Kindle tablet on the last plane. I called the airport’s help line, who said to check back at the gate. So my cane and I began hobbling. We crossed the entire airport to return to the gate, only to be told that if anything had been found, it would (eventually) be sent to Lost and Found, and that I should call when I got back to Scotland.

I looked at my watch and saw it would still be an hour until boarding, so I asked where Lost & Found was located. Of course, it was on the opposite side of the airport, on a lower floor. After several rest stops (and much sotto-voce commenting on my part about Canadians who spread out just because they have so much extra Canada lying around), I reached Lost & Found. The clerk on duty listened to my request and her face lit up. She said one of the lovely WestJet flight attendants found my tablet, remembered that I was in a wheelchair, and decided to walk it over to Lost & Found herself. The beaming attendant handed it over, along with the sticker on the back left by my unknown best friend/flight attendant. O Canada!

We were back in Seattle again in September. My witty, sharply intelligent, 97-year-young father-in-law was battling Covid and then pneumonia. “You’d better come out,” advised his doctors. “Now.” We had all just arrived and were standing around his hospital bed when he opened his eyes, informed us he’d been on a lovely boat trip to Canada, and that he was completely fine now. Seattle is absolutely gorgeous in autumn, so we ended up having a wonderful visit and making some treasured memories.

As autumn moved into winter (Score card: number of finished conservatories, reliable ferries, and NHS knee scans = 0), the stores and restaurants were full of just one thing. No, I’m not talking about Christmas, or presidential elections, or even Halloween. It’s far scarier. Yes, it’s PSL (Pumpkin Spice Latte) season. [click here for National Grouch Day and my annual PSL rant]

Once I made it safely through October, there was only Thanksgiving to navigate. (No, I’m not counting US elections. I intend to unsubscribe to all news services for the next four years and live under a rock. Or maybe a remote and enchanting little island off the coast of Scotland. Don’t judge me.] Unfortunately, here in the UK there isn’t much interest in celebrating the American Pilgrims’ escape from religious persecution in England, or their survival of New England winters until Dunkin’ Donuts were invented, so giving thanks doesn’t getting a lot of airtime here in Scotland. [Click here to read What I’m Thankful For and why that includes bundt pans.]

We travelled back to Seattle again last week, loaded with presents and looking forward to our visit. Sadly, shortly after we arrived, my wonderful father-in-law boarded his boat to Canada for the last time. I prefer to think of him heading off with his navy buddies and his Harvard pals, and know that when his ship makes harbor, he will find his mother and sisters, and be reunited with the three beloved partners who sailed before him. Bon voyage!

–All my love, Barb