The curative powers of playing the ukulele

Living alone with “The Crud”

I woke up hurting in more places than I could count. As I eased into Grandma’s rocker with my orange juice, I shortened my prayers to thank you for your blessings, please watch over my loved ones, let there be peace, kindness and sanity in this world, and please let me be well by Saturday for the Florence Festival of Books. Did I say amen? I don’t remember. I got distracted by the words of this post asking to be written.

In addition to my ribs still hurting from my August bathtub fall and a flareup of chronic back and hip pain, I’m sick. Not anything fatal. Not Covid. I suppose it’s a cold or sinus infection. Runny nose, sneezing, coughing, headache, aches. My friend Tim, who’s just getting over it, calls it “The Crud.” Works for me.

I’m not getting much work done, but I did attend a Zoom meeting yesterday and finished reading and taking notes on a book I will share with you in my next post.

Yesterday afternoon, on a whim, I got out my old ukulele and sat in the sun playing it for a long time.

Let me tell you about that uke. I don’t really play the ukulele, not well enough to play in front of people or join our local Slugs ukulele band. I have to relearn the chords every time I take it out of its dust-covered case. But this small brown instrument is one of my favorite things.

Back on March 9, 1999, I was working at my desk at the Newport News-Times. My husband, Fred, was in California on business. I was probably on deadline, typing as fast as I could, when the receptionist called to tell me the UPS driver had brought me a package. It was a big triangular box and everyone, including the driver, wanted to know what it was. It was my birthday, but I wasn’t expecting anything like this, nor did I expect the UPS driver to track me down at work. God bless small towns.

Fred wasn’t a musician. He liked to sing, and he was my roadie for most of my gigs, but he didn’t know a tuba from a tambourine. I opened the package to find this beautiful antique instrument in a worn black case with a tuner, pick and instruction book. It was the best present I had ever received.

God, I loved that man. He and I liked to prowl the antique stores. When he saw this, he knew I would like it better than any jewelry or other typical girly gift.

It’s not the best uke in the world. It’s tiny, made in Japan, and the strings slip. Were I to get serious about performing on it, I should probably buy a bigger and better instrument, but it certainly made me happy yesterday as I sat on the edge of my deck and played old time songs from my ukulele books—“Ain’t She Sweet,” “Yes Sir, That’s My Baby,” “It Had to Be You,” “Amazing Grace” . . .

Tylenol helps with The Crud, but so does music. Feeling better in spirit if not in body, I made Mom’s “Jiffy Clam Chowder”* for dinner and barely stayed awake to watch “Dancing with the Stars,” but what a terrific distraction that uke provided.

Would it be better to have a human here to help me in my misery? Not really. I hate being fussed over. I’m embarrassed at all the juices coming out of my nose, and there’s not really anything anyone can do. A cold is miserable. You live through it. The ribs are healing slowly, but they are healing. The rest will ease as I move around. But music has curative powers.

Oh, and I took a short walk because the outside world was calling me. When I turned back onto my street, seven elk crossed right in front of me. Beautiful.

So, as my friend Pat says, that’s my story. When I read apologies on other people’s blogs and Substacks for posting a day late, I shake my head. The world is not waiting with bated breath. No one is saying, Oh my gosh, Sue is a day late with her Substack. But if anyone wondered, yes, I’ve got The Crud, and I decided to watch “The View” and play ukulele instead of writing.

Your turn:

When you’ve got a cold or other malady that’s more miserable than life-threatening, do you like to have other people around or would you rather tough it out alone?

---

*Mom’s Jiffy Clam Chowder

1 med. onion, chopped

1 T. oil

1 can cream of potato soup, undiluted

2 6.5-oz. cans chopped or minced clams, undrained

1 1/2 cups milk

Sauté onions in oil until tender. Stir in soup, clams and milk. Heat through.

---

Remember all that craziness with Home Depot and the sofa in pieces that I went crazy trying to cancel delivery on? Well, that’s ancient history now. My new sofa from Eager Beaver in Waldport was delivered, fully intact, by two friendly young men this morning. It’s gorgeous. It’s perfect. They took the old sofa away. The matching recliner is back-ordered and will be a few more weeks.

I ordered a coffee table from Amazon. It has storage inside, and it has a section that lifts out to make a desk or raised eating surface. How cool is that? It’s coming next Tuesday. Can I put it together alone? Yes, I can. Even with a cold and a hurting body. Or I can call my friend who loves to put stuff together.

I will post pictures when it’s all finished.

---

God willing, I will be selling my books at the Florence (Oregon) Festival of Books this Saturday, Sept. 27 from 10:30 a.m. to 4 p.m. Come on by if you’re in the area. So many great books! If you have time, you are welcome to sit at my table with me for a while and see it from the authors’ point of view.

---

How did I end up alone? My first marriage ended in divorce. My second husband died of Alzheimer’s after we had moved to the Oregon coast, far from family. I never had any kids, only dogs. Now I live by myself in a big house in the woods. You can read our story in my memoir, No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s, available at your favorite bookseller. The ebook version is on sale for $2.99 through Sept. 26. Visit https://www.suelick.com for information on all of my books.