There’s an entire genre of jigsaw puzzles about doors. Irish doors. Polynesian doors. Country doors.

We like them because the entire puzzle is a collage of doors, maybe five different ones across and three down. It’s like doing fifteen mini-puzzles. Currently, we’re doing “Doors of the World,” although I don’t recognize any of the doors from any place I’ve visited. Maybe they’re imagined, but it doesn’t matter. We hope to finish tonight.

When we did the “Doors of Ireland,” Earl was in his laminating phase, so he took that one to a local printer and paid to have it turned into a plastic placemat. It remains to be seen what becomes of the World’s doors.

Tomorrow is my monthly Great Book Club (GBC) meeting, and I’m finally settling down to read Tara Westover’s memoir, Educated.

I’ve put it off to the last minute because I know enough about the book to hesitate reading another work of the “Unaware Parents Abuse Children and Think Nothing of It” genre. Consider The Glass Castle, The Poisonwood Bible, and the real-life saga of the Willis Clan. I’m told Educated is worse.

In addition to family sagas of desperation, I’ve read memoirs about Western women who get involved with Middle Eastern men to their disadvantage. Or various religions in our own country that are controlling and abusive when family members wish to leave.

I’ll read Educated, but I’m thinking it’s the last of its genre. At least for a while.

So after enduring the prep for my colonoscopy, Earl and I arrived at the outpatient center at the appointed time.

Fast forward two hours. The test was over; I passed with flying colors. Which means I don’t have to do this again for five years.

I went home and slept off the anesthetic. Now for a filet mignon dinner.

There’s nothing else to add.

This is possibly more information than you want to know, but my first colonoscopy was over twenty years ago. I remember it as if it were yesterday, mostly because of the preparation for the procedure. It simply isn’t fun.

You don’t eat anything solid for 24 hours; you drink four liters of a ghastly liquid; and you spend an inordinate amount of time in your bathroom. You feel dehydrated, cold, uncomfortable, and tired. What’s to like?

My husband says the anesthesia for the procedure is the best thing about it, because it insures a great nap. Personally, that’s not enough compensation for me.

You would think that in twenty years some medical advancements would be made. But that’s not the case. However, since I’m having my seventh colonoscopy tomorrow, I can reveal some tips gleaned from experience.

Eat lightly the day before you have to fast. Remember the adage of “Garbage in, garbage out.” Opt for the lemon-lime flavored drink; it is markedly better than the cherry flavored one. Make sure it’s super cold. Use a wine glass for the servings. It seems more tolerable. Also, drink from a straw. Gargle after every “cocktail” to neutralize the taste in your mouth. Leave a really good book in the bathroom.

And when it’s over, especially if the results are good, treat yourself to a special meal. I’m already thinking lobster.

My cousin Gertrude McDonald passed away this afternoon. I got an email from her daughter with the news. It gave me pause.

I come from a long line of McDonalds even if the strain was diluted by the time it got to me. Still there is family pride and connection. And Gertrude was a strong part of that, regardless of the fact she “married in.”

Gertrude married Addison, the son of Henry, who was the son of Patrick.. For all practical purposes, Patrick and his wife Johanna were the roots of this branch of a more extended family tree.

The earlier generations of McDonalds lived in upstate New York where, it’s said, they settled because the area reminded them of their homeland: Ireland. If you’ve been to both places, you know exactly what I mean.

I never lived in Lewis County myself, but I visited many times.  And whenever I did, Gertrude and Addison’s home became mine. As it was for my own mother, who returned annually up to the time she died in 1996. The two story house in Lowville, NY, wasn’t fancy, but the front door never met a stranger.

Sometimes we came for family reunions, other times for funerals. In between, Gertrude and her daughters kept in touch. I won’t return for Gertrude’s farewell, but I am so glad I went back this past summer and saw her. It had been several years, but she remembered me.

I’ll always remember her too.