Why is it that when this sort of insoluble family crisis happens to good people, it’s inevitably accompanied by the whole world caving in on them? ( I suppose if I had the answer to that one, I could bottle it and make billions, huh?)

I’m glad you get a respite every now and then and can go home. How long before your brother is able to relieve you?

I’m also glad that you have your art. One of the most frustrating things for me over the last six months was not to be able to write. (Writing by hand isn’t really an option for me; the RA in my hands makes it impossible to grip a pen for any extended period of time.) Still, I imagine you must feel somewhat the same way, without access to your press. But the pastels sound like a possible door to something new . . . ? Have you thought about taking photos of your art and posting it on your blog? Selling it? (The BF is an artist; I maintain his Web site.)

Re your partner: business only, or domestic as well? And his son is Richardson’s CoS? “Small world” is right.

Prayers for your father, your family, your friends and loved ones who are going through tough times - and most of all, prayers for you. I know how hard this is; if you need to vent, you can always come here. And, yes, let’s do the Grand Canyon someday - I’ve never been there.

Home for me is halfway up the bluff in Oregon City, Oregon. Or, as some prefer it, Singer Creek Canyon, Willamette Valley, Pacific Plate, Terra— where every evening delivers a new and stunning sunset, unless it’s clouded over, and sometimes even then.

At the moment I’m living in my childhood home outside LA, but the community has changed so much it’s like being marooned. Did I mention that Dad had neglected the house for the past 20 years, since my mom died, that none of the bathrooms was even remotely accessible, and we’ve had contractors banging and pounding away for the entire six months? And if you don’t think it’s… interesting …to try living cheek by jowl with siblings after 30 years apart, well, well… it IS interesting!

Dad has made small incremental improvements each day (about which he’s had little choice, since he is outnumbered by his offspring). We’ve been trading off caregiving here but, since it’s easiest for me to get away, I’ve done the most days, with short little hops home so I can be reminded why I named my poodle Max.

Yes, this is difficult and exhausting duty. The one consistent element of sanity for me has been art, which I’ve been able to work on most evenings. I’m a printmaker without a press handy, so I’ve taken up oil pastels: lovely and soft and subtle and above all portable. When my brother finally recovers from double-hernia surgery and comes down to relieve me, my sister in Palm Springs has promised to treat me to a day spa out there before I return home.

OK.

Perhaps we should meet somewhere in the middle? Like, say, the Grand Canyon. My printmaking partner— a wonderful, wonderful man —is from New Mexico; in fact, one of his sons is the governor’s chief of staff. I know, I know, small frakkin’ world.

Lisa

p.s. Anecdotal data from the overwrought world of midlife children: This afternoon my first love, Phil, finally laid the last of his abusive parents to rest. By all accounts, she was improved by Alzheimers; Phil and his sisters cared for both of them devotedly. Jewish tribalism, if you will.

And one of my old yoga buddies is reportedly down here somewhere near Idyllwild, where she took on her mother’s care and her mom’s property management business— and then her brother apparently went into a full-blown manic phase.