2011

Christmas is over, I'm still reading Great Expectations, and I am not sure that I am ready for 2011. Guess what, it will be here anyway!

Countdown to Christmas - Day 8

I thought I didn’t have anything to blog about in the way of a Christmas countdown for today. I’m not feeling great and didn’t do anything Christmas-y. I am, however, reading Great Expectations by Charles Dickens and what could be more Christmas-y than Dickens. So there, now I can get back to my book.

Countdown to Christmas - Day 7

The cold has arrived, and I ain’t talking about the temperature outside! In spite of my best efforts to ward it off or convince myself otherwise, I am officially “with cold.” At least I made it through the first holiday party, which is fortunate because I was the host. The cough began as soon as I got in bed last night and has turned into something similar to the bark of an angry seal. All Christmas preparations are temporarily on hold awaiting my recovery, which better be before Friday, as I am leaving for an out of town soiree that I will not miss.

Tissue, cough drops, Nyquil, Mucinex, hot tea, and anything else I can think of will be my constant companions. I’m also making garlic soup for dinner – a sure cure if there is one.

Countdown to Christmas - Day 6

The perils of holiday weight gain. In October I attended a business conference in New Orleans. One can’t possibly go to New Orleans without gaining weight – it is a physical impossibility. From the moment the plane touched down at Louis Armstrong International I could feel my waistline expanding. Walking through the French Quarter, Hurricanes at Pat O’Brien’s, muffulettas at Central Grocery, gumbo, etouffe, boudin sausage, and seafood on every corner, I began to feel like Eddie Murphy in The Nutty Professor morphing into an obese version of myself.

New Orleans was just the beginning. Next came my birthday and two vacation trips – more excuses (as if I need an excuse!) for excessive amounts of food and drink. Then it was Thanksgiving and now December. My goal for December is to not gain another pound.

I will be faced with every form of food temptation this month. My favorite food group is one the USDA has yet to identify, but I’ve know about it since college – Happy Hour Food. The delectable little nibbles on tiny plates, eaten with your fingers, served to counter massive amounts of alcohol. Sweets and savories, this is the food of December. From the office break room to Christmas cocktail parties, Happy Hour Food will reign. Ah, it appears innocent enough – it is all mini. Mini sausages wrapped in biscuits, a miniature cupcake, a wee dab of dip on a tiny cracker, small slices of French bread slathered in butter – what harm is there in such a small bite? I’m here to tell you, Happy Hour Food is big trouble in a little package. Run away when anyone, even your favorite aunt, tells you, “just taste it.” There is no such thing as one taste.

And then there are the spirits. What holiday gathering is without alcohol? (Okay, I’ll rephrase. What holiday gathering that I’m attending is without alcohol?) Beer, wine, fancy cocktails, punch bowls, eggnog, after-dinner liqueurs. I once attended a party where the dessert intoxicated me and I had to phone for a designated driver. Have you ever figured the calorie count in a glass of wine? About one-hundred calories in a small glass. I will be bringing my own bottle to parties this year, my own bottle of sparkling mineral water – nary a calorie to be counted.

Hopefully, I’ll be able to at least hold steady on the bathroom scale this December. In January when the masses begin battling their December weight gain, I’ll tackle my New Orleans and November pounds. Bon Appetite and cheers!

Countdown to Christmas - Day 5

Ugh – I feel like I might be catching a cold. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t! I will not get sick! I’ve been drinking Echinacea tea, sucking on Zicam lozenges, using the “nose boat” (sinus rinse), trying to get plenty of sleep, and taking massive doses of vitamin C to ward off any potential germs that might be heading my way. I may even pull out the “big gun” and make garlic soup. Being sick, having a cold, at any time is no fun, but during December it can nearly bring your life to a screeching halt and that can’t happen – there is way too much to do. The decorating is done, but there is still shopping (lots and lots of shopping), cooking (lots and lots of cooking), cleaning (no comment), and holiday* parties (lots and lots of holiday parties). I cannot get sick. I will not get sick.

*If anyone is offended by my use of the word “holiday” please don't be. When I mean Christmas I’ll use Christmas, but in this case I am being inclusive. I do have parties with my non-Christian and Christian friends who celebrate other holidays during December.

Countdown to Christmas - Day 4

Shopping

Michael’s
Hobby Lobby
Target

Not fun

That is all

Countdown to Christmas Day Three

Tchotchke (Typically pronounced "CHACH-kee") are small toys, gewgaws, knickknacks, baubles, lagniappes, trinkets, or kitsch. The term has a connotation of worthlessness or disposability, as well as tackiness.

Thirty years of Christmas decorating has left me with a lot of Christmas “crap.” Ornaments and decorations that I can’t bring myself to throw away because they have some strange sentimental value attached to them. Typically, when I decorate the house for Christmas I use my discretion about what I will (or won't) put out on any particular year. This year, however, I am not the one decorating, my husband is, and apparently he doesn’t know about the discretionary rule – he’s putting everything out. Now, I realize it sounds like I am complaining – but I swear I’m not! I am thrilled that I don’t have to decorate. I am thrilled that my husband is taking care of everything this year. I’m even thrilled to see some of the tchotchkes that haven’t left the storage boxes in years.

If you are familiar with the origin of this blog you know that I have trouble throwing anything away, and Christmas items seem to be especially difficult to part with – even if I know I will never put them on display again. What kinds of things am I talking about? Let me give you just a few examples:

A cardboard Christmas wreath ornament with shell macaroni glued to it and spray painted gold.

A wooden triangle painted green to look like a Christmas tree with kindergarten candy canes drawn on it.



A bazillion circa 1980 wooden Christmas crafts purchased at craft shows.

All of my mother’s glass ball Christmas ornaments, most of which have faded and have splotchy surfaces.

Three felt elves with plastic faces that were once (probably 1955) decorations on a Christmas package.

My youngest daughter’s green handprints in the shape of a wreath dated 1991.



This is only the beginning of the list – but I won’t go on, I’m too busy looking at all of my cool stuff (I mean "crap") that I haven’t had on display for years. I’m glad my husband didn’t use discretion while decorating the house for Christmas - I'm having a really fun walk down Christmas tchotchke memory lane.

Countdown to Christmas - Day Two

Scrooge, Grinch – whatever you want to call me, I was dreading the countdown to Christmas this year. I think the thought of all the work involved to get ready for the holidays depressed me. I asked my husband on Thanksgiving night if he thought anyone would mind/care/notice if I didn’t decorate the house for Christmas. His reply: “You will regret it by December 22nd, and then try to do everything in two days.” He was right. Visions of Jamie Lee Curtis in Christmas with the Kranks flashed through my mind. I was wondering how I would muster the desire/energy/motivation to pull the boxes of Christmas décor out of the garage when, what to my wondering eyes did appear when I came home from work yesterday – my tree was up and the house was mostly decorated – Thanks to my wonderful husband.

With the decorating issue out of the way my next dread became gift giving. Buying presents for family and friends has become harder over the years. Who really needs anything? Just when old Ebenezer was about to take over my mind and soul - my daughters surprised me with Angel Presents. Angel Presents have been a tradition in our home for over twenty-five years, but was dropped a couple of years ago when the girls grew up and moved away. The tradition began when my friend, Debra, and I made felt angel wall hangings when our children were toddlers. The angel has twenty-four pockets on her skirt into which I put a slip of paper with a clue as to where to look for that day’s angel present. The presents were typically small tokens of holiday love (which grew larger and more expensive with each passing year) specially selected for my girls. I shopped year-round to come up with twenty-four just-right Angel Presents and we all looked forward to December first when the gift giving began. The scavenger-hunt type clues were sometimes even more fun than the actual gift.

Last night, at our weekly family dinner (Wednesday Winers), my daughter handed me a slip of paper with a clue written on it. I was momentarily dumbfounded. What in the world did “Big Red’s version of the A.A. Serenity Prayer” mean? Then it clicked. This was a clue. I found my way to a small wooden plaque in my grandmother’s den that reads, “It is okay to drink like a fish provided you drink what a fish drinks” and there I found a wrapped gift – an Angel Present for me! After I finished crying and opened my gift I learned there will be twenty-three more – a role reversal of Angel Present gifting from my two daughters. Wow! Their thoughtfulness has inspired me to look at gift giving in a new light. Rather than the chore/drudge/torture I was anticipating, I am now excited about finding my loved ones the perfect expression of my holiday goodwill.

Ladies and Gentlemen – the Grinch has left the building!

Countdown to Christmas - Day One

Okay – the entire theme of December was going to be a whiney-pout-y “Oh, I have to do all of the Christmas decorating by myself” Blog, but NO – my nice husband had to go and pull out all of the Christmas decorations today while I was at work, put half of them up, and inform me that he would take care of all decorating this year. So, where does that leave me? With no blog topic for the entirety of December! Oh well, thankful for a considerate husband.

Breathe

Ahhh – I didn’t realize how much I missed the lake. I had no idea how much I needed to relax until I got here and felt the tension drain away. It’s been over six weeks since I was last here, probably the longest stretch I’ve been away since we bought the place. My life got in the way – work, family, friends, trips out of town, obligations, “stuff” prevented me from escaping and relaxing at the lake.

Today I plan to breathe deeply, to sit and stare at the lake, to watch the birds at the feeder, and hope for the occasional deer to wander by. I will yawn and stretch and maybe take a nap. I’ll read a book, thumb through a magazine and listen to music. I’ll walk the dogs, hold hands with my husband and marvel at the beauty of winter. When the day is over and I must return to reality, I’ll be ready to face the hectic pre-Christmas insanity at work and at home.

Thank you lake for giving me the peace and serenity I so needed. I promise I won’t let another six weeks go by.

Thanksgiving

I love the holidays, especially the major relatives-come-to-visit holidays, which in my family are Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. Hailing from a large clan there is always quite a crowd around our table for any celebration; this Thanksgiving we had twenty-seven, twenty-seven relatives and friends under one roof, breaking bread and giving thanks for our many blessings. This year we counted as our number one blessing the presence of my one-hundred and three year old grandmother at the head of the table.

How blessed we are to have our matriarch still with us, how blessed she is to have a family who loves and cares for her as we do. As I looked around our holiday table I was truly thankful for those gathered – husband, daughter, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends – each one a gift. Or as my grandmother says when she looks at her progeny, “You are all my fault” referring to the fact that none of us would be here if it weren’t for her.

Thank you, Grandmother (Big Red), for being the force that keeps up together and gives us so much to be thankful for at Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving Excitement

My sister and her family arrive tonight. I am so excited! I feel like a kid at Christmas (or the kid on the Disneyworld commercial – “I’m too excited to sleep!”) A sister should be a best friend, a confidant, a touchstone to your shared history, and a guiding light toward the future. My sister is all that to me and more.

I credit our parents with the close-knit relationships I have with my siblings. They taught us, by example, the important role family plays in our life. Aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, in-laws, and out-laws are all key to my happiness, but there is something special about a sibling, and there is nothing in the universe like a sister. My mother and her four sisters taught me that from an early age – my aunts still show me daily the importance of sisters.

For two short days I will get to cram in all of the holiday fun I can stand. We will shop, cook, reminisce, laugh, cry, stay up too late, eat and drink too much (at least I will), and do what sisters do – love each other and make more memories to tide us over until we get a chance to do it all again.

Little did I know, all those years ago when we shared a bedroom with twin beds, royal blue quilted bedspreads and a bay window, when I thought she was a pest, that I would one day look so forward to seeing her. They are on the road now, making the long drive for Thanksgiving - my brother-in-law, my niece, my two nephews, and my sister, my best friend. I’m too excited to sleep

Green Tomatoes

If you are from the south, green tomatoes are a delicacy usually only available at the very beginning of tomato season, and again right before the first freeze. In the early summer I judiciously decide which tomatoes will forfeit their ruby red future in exchange for a dip in egg, cornmeal, flour, and a pan of hot oil, to end up on my plate as a fried green tomato. Once that yen has been satisfied, the rest are safe to ripen.

In the late fall I carefully pay attention to the weather forecast, anticipating the first hard freeze. On the appointed day all of the tomatoes – red, green, or in between, are stripped from the vines and brought into the kitchen for sorting. The red tomatoes are put to use immediately. Tomatoes in and on everything. (This year I ate tomato sandwiches for five meals in a row – breakfast, lunch, dinner, breakfast, lunch!)

The in-between or pink tomatoes or even green tomatoes with the slightest hint of a pink blush are individually wrapped in newspaper, placed in a box, and stored in the back of the pantry. I’ll check the box every few days and bring out a newly ripened tomato, one at a time, savoring it as if it were the first tomato of summer. Hopefully, my last tomato of summer will be sometime in December or, if I’m lucky, one or two will last until January.

The green tomatoes are destined for a greater purpose – chow-chow. There are mixed opinions on the much maligned condiment known as chow-chow. I say – If you don’t like chow-chow, you’ve just never had mine. I can’t divulge the recipe (or I’d have to kill you), but it is a concoction of green tomatoes, cabbage, bell peppers, onions, garlic, jalapenos, sugar, vinegar, and pickling spices. It is all chopped, cooked down, and put up in jars to be stingily doled out during the winter. With each bite I am transported to my grandmother’s east Texas kitchen.





A tomato is a wonderful thing. I can hardly wait until it is warm enough to plant again. But, until then, I have jars of canned tomatoes in the pantry, along with wrapped tomatoes ripening slowly and fourteen pints of chow-chow to tide me over.

I'm Back (Again)

I haven’t blogged in weeks. It is amazing how quickly I can get out of a habit. Truth be told, my blog has all but disappeared from my mental radar. I hate that! I enjoy writing this blog and it serves several purposes.

First, it is like an appointment with a therapist. This is my place to vent, to blow off steam, or work out a problem. If I’m bothered by the stupidity of the world (or a co-worker, or the man in front of me with a cart full of groceries in the ten items or less line) thirty minutes with pen and paper helps me release my desire to move to a deserted island or to eat and island size dessert. Considering most psychologists charge over $100 an hour, I’ve saved a considerable amount of money by blogging.

Another reason I blog is for the practice and discipline that comes with it. Knowing that I must (should) keep my blog (somewhat) current forces me to sit down to write on a (somewhat) regular schedule. In my “second half” (that is what those of us over fifty call our life) I’ve discovered a passion for writing. A blog is a good outlet for that passion. It is immediate gratification unlike that unfinished novel or the journal pages no one but me will ever read.

Perhaps the real reason I blog is because it is self-indulgent. I spend the majority of my life taking care of others – the youth I work with in my job, my 103 year old grandmother, my children, and my husband. Writing this blog is a few moments a week when I can pretend that my thoughts and/or the events of my mundane life are important to someone outside of my front door.

In spite of posting my last real blog well over a month ago, this blog is important to me and I will continue to indulge myself by writing it. God knows I need the writing practice and I can’t afford a therapist. I’m back (again)!

Long Time

Wow - Over a month without a blog post.
Horrible blogger! You should be fired!
I will try to do better.
Okay, we won't fire you.

Yes I Can

I think the appeal of canning, for me, is not wasting anything. Even my small garden will produce a bounty that is overwhelming. This weekend I had to face the bowls and bags of peppers in my refrigerator with the realization that it was use it or lose it time. I ad-libbed a recipe using the vinegar-sugar base I strained and saved from the previous weekend’s canning of sweet-hots or bread-and-butter jalapenos. I enlisted the help of my twenty-five year old food processor and chopped every bell pepper, green chile, pimiento, onion, and garlic clove in the house. To this I added the head of cabbage I discovered once all of the peppers were out of the refrigerator. The jalapeno-infused vinegar was the perfect complement to this mélange of vegetables, making (what I am labeling the jars as) chow-chow.



Canning seems to be a manic activity for me, so while I was at it, and since my kitchen was now a complete disaster area, I decided to keep going. The morning’s harvest yielded a fair amount of green beans and I recalled once being served a Bloody Mary with pickled green beans instead of the requisite celery stick, so I was off. Out came the vinegar and a few hours later I had jars of lovely pickled beans.



Sadly, I have not yet made and canned my own tomato juice, so there were no Bloody Marys to be had. But, I have a near empty refrigerator and a pantry full of the last of my summer garden’s offerings – and nothing went to waste.

Putting Food Up

Fresh produce is a lot of work! Sometimes I ask myself why I go to all of the trouble when I could pick up food at the grocery store for minimal cost and oh-so-much ease and convenience. I know the answer, even though growing and preparing my own food is a major undertaking and probably more expensive, I know it tastes better and is better for me than the mass-produced over-processed “stuff” I can buy at the grocery store.

Don’t think for a second that I don’t buy “stuff” from the store – I’m at my neighborhood grocery almost every day. It’s a bit embarrassing when the cashier or the carryout person says, “See you tomorrow.” But, I do try to grow and eat as much as I can from my own garden or from the farm or the farmers’ market. Growing the food is one aspect, but what I want to discuss today is bringing all of that fresh food into the kitchen.

Fresh fruits and vegetables come with dirt. I learned in my Master Gardener course that we grow things in soil, but what remains on the veggies when they arrive in my kitchen is dirt. Cleaning the produce is a major undertaking. Let’s compare lettuce for an example. Lettuce from the supermarket is either triple washed and sealed in plastic bags or sold as heads that were grown without benefit of soil in a hydroponic environment. There is not a speck of dirt to be had on store-bought lettuce. Lettuce from my garden goes immediately into a sink full of very cold water. The leaf lettuce is washed multiple times, each time leaving a residue of dirt, sand, and bugs in the bottom of the sink. In spite of my best effort there is still a gritty texture to most of my salads. Head lettuce is even harder to clean; each leaf must be removed and rinsed and there is usually a surprise at the core – a bug carcass or two. I’ve never found a bug in my store bought salads. But, really – how did we get so far away from the real source of our food that we would be freaked out by a bug in our lettuce? In theory a bug in our lettuce should be a good thing, indicating the lettuce was actually grown in natural conditions. Bugs or no bugs, my salads taste better than any of the pale, limp, watery excuses for lettuce I can buy at the store, but I will be in the produce section buying it along with the masses when I am unable to grow it due to weather.

Canning vegetables, or “putting food up,” as my grandmother called it, seems like a ridiculous undertaking in these modern times. I spent five hours yesterday canning jalapeno peppers and ended up with seventeen quarts of pickled peppers and eleven pints of sweet-hot bread and butter jalapenos. I could buy a jar or can of pickled peppers at the grocery store for about a buck! The time and money involved in home canning is not the issue for me. I see canning as another way to connect with my food, to appreciate the bounty, and to carry on a tradition which is fast becoming a lost art. I will proudly present gifts of my “put up” produce to friends all winter and I will take a great deal of satisfaction in opening a jar of tomatoes for a soup or stew, knowing I planted the seed that grew into the tomato that I harvested and processed in my very own kitchen. How many hands touched the tomatoes in the three-for-a-dollar cans at the grocery store? And how many miles did those tomatoes travel in their short life spans to get to my neighborhood store?

Whole foods, fresh foods are a lot of work, but worth it in so many ways; the taste, the nutritional value, the control over food safety, and the plain old satisfaction of it. Anyone can open a bag, a box or a can – but I take immense pleasure from growing my own food and supporting my local farmers. I’d write more on this topic, but I have a bushel of green chiles in the kitchen waiting to be “put up.” (I might even find a bug!)

1960 Redux

Tonight my husband, Frank, and I went to a concert at our county fair sponsored by the local “oldies” radio station. We saw the Grass Roots, a band I really liked in the late 1960s. In fact, one of my favorite songs of all times is “Temptation Eyes” by the Grass Roots.

Frank and I went early in order to take in the fair before the show, but it didn’t take long to realize we weren’t going to ride any rides or play any games of chance on the midway, nor were we going to eat anything “on a stick” or fried, which seems to be the only fair fare offered anymore. We took our concert seats early to people watch. We saw several folks we knew and compared notes. Frank saw a former co-worker, I saw a girl I went to first grade with. It was fun to observe the crowd from our upper section seats and try to find someone we knew. I saw my cousin, Bunny, Frank saw the sales manager from our insurance company.

I said, “There’s the guy from the Grateful Dead concert.” Frank gave me an odd look, because, contrary to popular belief, we have never been to a Grateful Dead concert. And then he saw him; a total Dead-Head. Sitting an aisle over and a few rows in front of us was a sixty-something-year old in a tie-dyed t-shirt, jeans and a ball cap with a feather poking out from the crown. He had a glazed look which suggested his brain was fried from too much acid in the 60s or too much pot in the parking lot at the fair.

The minute the show began our Dead-Head was on his feet (much to the chagrin of the family he was seated in front of) and rocking out to “I’d Wait a Million Years.” He proceeded to dance erratically to every song, at times threatening to topple over on the people in front of him. At one point he tired of the constraints of a mid-row seat and moved to the row overlooking the floor seats. From this new vantage point he could keep his glazed eyes on the band while simultaneously entertaining those of us near enough to see him and threatening to fall on top of unsuspecting floor seat occupants.

I did enjoy the Grass Roots but, I must say, the Dead-Head put on a much better show. His writhing dance movements and his awesome air guitar performances were MTV-worthy. In spite of repeated requests from Security to return to his seat, he continued to entertain until the final encore of “Midnight Confession.”

I am happy to report that the Grass Roots (or a bunch of guys who call themselves the Grass Roots) put on a great show, especially when they sang “Temptation Eyes” (second to last song), but perhaps the real show was in my section, performed by a guy who never left the 1960s.

Fall

Fall is here. Since the first day of the fall season the weather has been convincing; the sky overcast, the temperatures lower, rainy days, and even the leaves are falling, as if on cue. The past week seemed choreographed just to convince me that fall is really here. The weather isn’t the only talisman of the changing season, there are many others.

My summer garden has shut down. Just like that, it has quit producing. The plants are spent. A lacy layer of dried pole bean vine covers almost everything, as if Mother Nature has thrown a tatted tablecloth over the whole garden to say, “Enough.” Dried spears of okra forbid entrance and yellowed tomato vines don’t have the energy to flower.

People are trading in short sleeves for long. Bare brown arms and legs exposed and glistening with summer sweat only a few weeks ago are now hidden behind veils of fabric. Perky pink toenails are no longer peeking out from strappy sandals, but locked inside pumps or loafers or sneakers. And no self-respecting southern woman would dream of wearing a white shoe after Labor Day.

I like fall. The distant sound of the high school band practicing for the football game. The crunch of dry leaves when I walk across my lawn. The odor of chimney smoke on a cool evening. The feel of a warm sweater across my shoulders. The taste of soups or stews seasoned with the last of the summer’s bounty – butternut squash or pumpkin. And there is the feel in the air, that promise of a slower pace. The world seems to be saying, “Take your time, look at me, see what I can do next.”

Hopefully, I will slow down and watch. I’ll watch the Virginia creeper on my backyard fence turn to a brilliant red. I’ll study the downward motion of a particular leaf as it makes its descent. I’ll look up and watch the flying “V” of the Canada Geese as they fill the sky in their migration. I’ll light a fire, I’ll sip red wine, I’ll put my feet up and say, “Don’t you just love this weather?” And then I’ll turn the air conditioning back on and pull out my sleeveless shirts and sandals because Mother Nature was just giving us a glimpse of fall. It will be one-hundred degrees again. I know there is still that Indian summer to come; it’s one of the things I know about living in west Texas.

RICE

RICE = Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevate – the rules of treating a sprained ankle. I know this because I Googled “sprained ankle treatment” out of necessity. The treatment sounds simple, but let me tell you, from first-hand experience, it is harder than it seems.

Rest – Sounded great at first. I came home from work mid-afternoon on Friday after the unfortunate fall which resulted in THE sprained ankle and got into bed. A long afternoon nap followed by an early bedtime appeared luxurious, until the novelty wore off. Forty-eight hours after my injury (forty-four of those hours spent in bed) I am bored and ready to do something, anything, but rest.

Ice – Ice keeps the swelling down. Ice is also very, very cold. Ice is wonderful when shaken with vodka, but on one's foot it is not nearly as fun. Trying to position the ice pack on the outer side of one’s ankle is difficult, leaving it there for the prescribed twenty minutes is nearly impossible without visions of frostbite and the Byrd Expedition running through my head.

Compression – A simple ace bandage does this trick. This also keeps the swelling down as well as protecting the injured area. From the internet: “The wrap should be snug, but not cutting off circulation to the extremity. So, if your toes become cold, blue, or tingle – re-wrap!” Define “snug,” please! I spent the greater part of my waking hours comparing the color of the toes on my wrapped foot to the color of the toes on my other foot, and asking my husband, “Do they look blue to you?”

Elevate – Again, for the swelling. “A few pillows under the ankle should be fine to get the leg up enough while keeping the injured limb comfortable.” There is no such thing as comfortable! It is impossible to prop up one’s ankle without hyper-extending the knee. Another pillow under the knee helps, but every time I move I cause a pillow avalanche.

After all of this treatment my ankle is still sore, swollen, and bruised. I can’t walk without the aid of crutches and we are running out of ice. Surely this can’t last too much longer. I’m sure I’ll be fine just in time to return to work on Monday morning. What a way to spend the weekend.

Arggh...

Don’t say it, bite my tongue, resist temptation, take the high road, leave the room. I am so tired of censoring myself while others voice opinions which I think are idiotic. I was raised to be nice, polite, sensitive to others’ feelings. Am I the only civil person left in the United States of America?

This is one of those times when I really, really miss my parents. My mother always knew the right thing to say (and it was from her I learned to be so accommodating), and my daddy always stood up for me, even when he disagreed with me. I need a champion.

But, I don't really want to be that person who doesn't bite her tongue, resist temptation, or take the high road. The person I am is the person whom my parents made. I will continue to bite my tongue, resist temptation, take the high road, leave the room. I owe it to them. Thanks, Mom and Dad for making me the person I am, even if I find it very frustrating at times.

This Summer Has Kicked My Butt

In the last forty-eight hours I have worked twenty-one hours, skipped my writing time, begun a diet and an exercise plan, chewed someone out, threw a temper tantrum, developed a cold and had a cry-fest/pity-party. I have been a very busy girl. Last night I slept for twelve straight hours. I wonder if there is a correlation.

What a difference a day (or night) makes. I feel like a new person. I hope this feeling will last. My reality is – I can’t blame everything on the last forty-eight hours. This summer has kicked my butt. To use the cliché, I burned the candle at both ends, is not an understatement. My grueling summer was a result of necessity, choice, and circumstances beyond my control.

It was necessary to get up and go to work everyday, it was necessary to put in nine or ten hour days, it was necessary to work some six-day weeks, and it was necessary to do work beyond my physical capabilities in one-hundred degree weather. It was also necessary to keep my house in some semblance of order. I had to clean and do laundry and grocery shop and cook. I had to run errands and pay bills and balance my checkbook. I had to do the things necessary to maintain life as I know it.

It was my choice to put in a home garden which required me to get up a little earlier to tend. It was my choice to “have a life” – to spend evenings out with friends, to entertain, to attempt to be a good wife, mother and friend. It was my choice to say up too late reading and to get up too early to write. I chose to make some I-don’t-really-have-time-to-go trips to the lake cabin. And, most regrettably, I chose to waste time on facebook and in front of the television.

Then there were some things I had no control over. I had no control over others who unintentionally (or not) invaded my time or space. Well-meaning friends/neighbors whose “Do you have a minute?” or “Let me just tell you this one thing” sucked the life out of an entire evening. I have no control over my obligation to those I love. I am hard-wired that way. My one-hundred-three year old grandmother has been my closest friend since we were roommates in 1977 and this summer there were things out of my control because she is, well, because she is one-hundred-three years old. I have no control over the economy which has added a strain on my personal finances and added an impossible workload to my nonprofit organization. I have no control over the insane politics of the wackos who tire my patience daily. But perhaps the thing most out of my control is me. I can’t control that I am growing older. I am not twenty-one (or even 40) anymore. There are some things I can’t or shouldn’t do anymore. I shouldn’t lift an eighty pound bin of squash at the farm. I can’t stay up all night anymore (and still expect to be productive the next day). I can’t drink of fifth of tequila anymore – okay I never did that (no matter what anyone says), but you get my drift; age has changed the things I can and can’t do.

Twelve hours of sleep has made a dent in the damage done by the last forty-eight hours and by the summer. I feel so good I think I’ll take a nap!

Too Much of a Good thing

I love good company, good food, and good drink, but there comes a time when enough is enough. My daughter, my son-in-law, my baby brother, his wife, their four children (my lovely nephews and niece), my big brother and his wife have all been visiting. A visit from family typically means too much food and too much wine – this visit was no exception. After three weeks of company and food and drink I am ready for an early bedtime, some yogurt for breakfast (and perhaps lunch), and a dinner which is limited to one course (preferably a vegetable course). I love my family dearly, but I am really looking forward to a bit of normalcy – at least for a couple of days.

Hospital Bed

When I did this before it was different, it was quick; although, it didn’t feel that way at the time. But it was hurried. This is slower, a lot of waiting. The last time we went from diagnosis to radiation to hospital to hospice to funeral home. Of course there were stops between - last lunches at favorite restaurants, and a baby shower for a grandson she only caught a fleeting, drug induced glimpse of – but by standards, it was quick. Five months from diagnosis to death.

Of course she had to have known earlier, but not one to ruin a Christmas, she kept this news to herself. But this time is different. There is no diagnosis. Is old age a diagnosis? There is no textbook chronology to follow. We wait, we hope, we realize how ridiculous that appears at 103. What does it really mean to die of old age? We don’t know.

The latest development – a hospital bed; that was our joke thirty-five years ago, “When I get old, don’t put me in a nursing home. Set up a hospital bed right here in the dining room, so I can still keep tabs on my neighbors." The bed came today – but it is not in the dining room, macular degeneration prevents you from seeing the neighbors' comings and goings. (Probably a good thing, since child number 10 is now your neighbor – sorry, Steve.)

I didn’t stay to see how you’d take it - the hospital bed. The truth of the bed in your room replacing the bed you and Lewis shared, replacing the bed that you have slept in for fifty-plus years, was more than I could bear. Instead of accepting what the hospital bed means, I choose to dwell on your sense of humor. When asked this morning, by Mary, “How do you feel today, Mother?” You replied, “I feel like I was called for, but wouldn’t do.”

That’s the spirit. That’s my Big Red. That’s what I choose to accept. No hospital bed can diminish that spirit.

Monday Morning Regrets

Monday morning. I am not ready to go back to work today. I didn’t quite have enough weekend. There are a few things I intended to accomplish that didn’t get done, like my toenails and the refrigerator. I really wanted a pedicure and I really need to clean out the refrigerator. I know there is a bowl of sliced cucumbers in vinegar that should be tossed. It has been in there three-plus weeks and every time I open the door I smell the cucumber-infused vinegar (it actually smells pretty good, but I’m not brave enough to uncover the bowl). I only made a small dent in the pile of ironing and I neglected the fallen green bean teepee in my garden. My home office is a disaster of unfinished projects and I’m only halfway through the Dewey Decimal System in my home library undertaking.

These and so many other things left undone would lead one to think I did nothing all weekend, but I was busy from the time I walked through my front door on Friday evening until late Sunday night. How could I have been so busy and yet still have so much to do? And I’m not even counting the things I know I should be doing – the things every woman’s magazine at every check out lane in every grocery store in the country makes one feel guilty about not accomplishing:

Exercising – Wow, I really need to think about this and hopefully, actually get back into some sort of routine, but it would have taken a minimum of one hour each day, and I swear to you there were no hours left.

Meditating – A few serene moments of nothingness, a mind purge, would have done me good, I know – but no time.

Volunteering in my Community – I know I’m suppose to do this. I work for a non-profit organization and see first-hand everyday how important volunteering is, but how in the world do these people find the time is what I don’t understand.

Walk the Dogs – I am embarrassed to admit I did not walk the dogs this weekend. Does that make me an irresponsible pet owner? It was too darn hot and there was that time thing again. (I did however, play a rousing game of fetch with them in the backyard on Saturday night.)

Speaking of Saturday night, another thing I neglected was: My Social Life – I guess you can figure that one out on your own if you paid any attention to the parenthetical sentence above.

I did not shave my legs, color my hair, pluck my eyebrows, or moisturize my skin. I didn’t even put on makeup all weekend. Just so you don’t think I’m a total slob, I did shower and wash my hair.

I did not clean my house or write my blog, which were on the top of the To-Do List I painstakingly made on Saturday morning. What did I do, you are surely wondering at this point.

I watered my garden, I shelled a bushel of black-eyed peas, I drank a little wine, I talked to both daughters on the telephone, I watched a movie, I worked on a writing assignment, I stayed up too late catching up on facebook, I harvested and cooked a pot of green beans from my garden, I went to the farmers’ market, I did a few loads of laundry, I went to the grocery store, I canned ten quarts of jalapeno peppers, I invented a recipe and cooked all of the squash, eggplant, onions, garlic, tomatoes and peppers from last week’s harvest, I drank a little more wine, I ate chocolate, I sat under the chandelier in the garden (see blog dated June 12, 2010) with my husband, I drank coffee and read the Sunday newspaper and did the crossword puzzle in bed, I did not go to church, but did listen to a sermon online by my dear friend Fawn (you can see it too, at: http://www.echristchurch.org/templates/System/details.asp?id=42525&PID=638046),
I finished a writing assignment, I visited relatives at my grandmother’s house, I harvested okra, I got mosquito bites, I got a bit of ironing done, I watched another movie, I microwaved leftovers, and I finished reading a novel. All-in-all I had an enjoyable and fairly productive weekend. If I only had one more day, I’m sure I could find time to meditate.

Oops, We Did it Again

We did it again. Approximately thirty of my sorority sisters and I morphed into our eighteen-year-old-selves for the reunion weekend. We have discovered our Fountain of Youth. It only lasts for about thirty-six hours once a year, but that is enough for us; we’ll take it. The transformation from fifty-something to eighteen happens the minute one walks through the door of our log country cabin. Squeals of recognition, hugs, tears, and laughter are the tonic.

Women arrive on Friday evening made up, coiffed, and dressed to the nines, unsure about fitting in – “Will I know anyone?” “Will they remember me?” Soon, Fawn’s laugher fills the room, Johanna’s southern accent caresses our ears, and we are back in the sorority house, and it is 1975. Someone has disco music booming from an I-Pod (my, how technology has changed), scrapbooks and Kodachrome snapshots are spread out on every surface, and beer, wine and tequila begin to flow – SPLASH, someone falls (or is pushed or jumps) into the swimming pool. We are all eighteen.

We’ve seen divorce, and illness, and death. We’ve seen marriages, and births, and graduations. We discuss diets, and hair color, and wrinkle cream. By Saturday morning no one bothers to put on make up or fix their hair. We are who we are. We are eighteen year old college girls. We can see past the thirty years, we can see through the wrinkles and the under eye puffiness to the real person.

On Sunday we hug and cry. It is time to go back, back to the world of responsibilities where we are fifty-something, a bit overweight, and where we see a colorist on a regular basis. But we each take with us the memory of that eighteen year old and perhaps we will laugh a little more, or fall into a swimming pool this year, while we await our next appointment with our Fountain of Youth. See you next year, girls.

Same Time Next Year

My third annual college sorority reunion is this weekend. We waited thirty years before we organized our first get-together in 2008, at which time we vowed to meet every year, and wondered why we hadn’t thought of this sooner.

Aside from the obvious (getting to see old friends), the magic of the weekend is the transformation of fifty-something year old women into eighteen year old college coeds. Who wouldn’t want to be eighteen again for a weekend? But, alas, we are not eighteen. We are grown women with families and jobs and responsibilities. We have aging and infirm parents, we have unrelenting job schedules, we have children and husbands depending on us, and a plethora of other demands on our time.

Sadly, there will be some friends unable to attend this year, but there is next year, and the year after, and so on. We are a determined group of women; determined to stand by our friends through illness or loss, through injury or a son’s deployment, and even through death. We will buoy each other’s spirits as we face whatever life has to throw at us, knowing that we will have next year.

So, to my friends who cannot make it this weekend – know that you will be with us in our hearts. We will raise a glass to you, we will miss you, and we will see you next year.

Health Care

I’m not feeling well today. What became of the old practice, written about in Jane Austen novels, and seen in old 1940s movies, of sending people away to the country or seaside to convalesce? I am in dire need of a “rest.” I promise if sent away for “my health” I would do nothing but watch the tide come in. I wonder if there is any way I can get this old practice into a healthcare plan. I am certain my HMO wouldn’t go for it. Bother.

About that Hall Closet

I just looked back through my blog to see when I last wrote about the hall closet – it was May 20th. I have slowly been organizing books in the new library, the former hall closet, and even more slowly trying to deal with all of the other “stuff” that once called the hall closet home. You may recall that when my husband decided to transform the closet into a library for me he moved everything (everything!) into Daughter #1’s bedroom, which is now our guest room. I have been procrastinating, as usual, and haven’t really found a new home for much of the “stuff.”

One of the big problems, aside from the sheer quantity, is the sentimental value attached to so much of the crap I own. There have been days when I really-truly wanted to tackle the job, but all I could do was stand in the doorway and stare at the boxes of my mother’s china, my husband’s grandmother’s crystal, and other assorted heirlooms. But, horrors, we are having guests! One week from tomorrow I will have actual houseguests, who will expect to sleep in an actual guest room. My procrastinating days are over. Today I made a dent in the “stuff.”

I opened one box to discover a zillion (okay, maybe 25) milk glass punch cups, each carefully wrapped in white packing paper. These belonged to my mother and they go with the milk glass punch bowl I remember so well from my childhood. But, where is the punch bowl? Since my lack of memory cells is well documented, I called my sister to see if she recalled where the punch bowl was relegated after Mother died. Nope, she had no idea. After discussing, at length, the insanity of keeping a zillion milk glass punch cups which I will never use (I’m sure I would still never use them even if I had the punchbowl!), she gave me permission to get rid of the punch cups. What a feeling that permission gave me. Knowing she saw the absurdity of hanging on to the cups just for sentimental reasons, and validating my desire to ditch them was a wonderful gift from my sweet sister, a gift which takes up no space in my closet or home.

But then I brought up Mother’s milk glass pitcher and goblets. When my sister “aahed” and said, “Oh, I remember those always being on the hutch in the dining room,” I knew I would be keeping them. The punch cups were not on display for the duration of our parents’ married lives.

But there was still the dilemma of what to do with boxes and boxes of “heirlooms.” I am rather proud of myself for coming up with an ingenious solution to my storage problem. The boxes are an eyesore – ugly grocery and liquor boxes with yellowed masking tape holding them together, there is no way I can put them back into my newly painted library and there is nowhere else to store them. Keeping them in the guest room is no longer an option. The solution:



I selected several rolls of nice wrapping paper that coordinate with the new paint color and I am wrapping all of the heirlooms. I am even putting gift tags on them, labeling the contents of each box. I have effectively solved my storage problem and I’ve also had a really good laugh, thinking about the day when my daughters or grandchildren discover the “presents” I have left them. Then it will be their problem to decide whether or not to get rid of the family heirlooms. Maybe milk glass will see a resurgence in popularity or be worth something by then.

Donna

I received the news today.
How can it be?
We were eighteen.
Your white-blonde hair,
your Virginia Slims cigarettes.
You were a wounded bird even then.

Oh, the fun we had.
Products of a southern upbringing,
yours more southern than mine,
complete with a propensity for the “unique.”
Dear God, you were unique.

We shared more than the south.
Our best friend, Kat,
and double dates.
We shared late night confessions,
you introduced me to your demons.
We were sisters.

Truth be told,
we lost you long ago.
We lost you, you lost us.
I hear Don gave you your world back,
a family (what we tried to give you),
surely better than those college boys.

Your laughter, your life, your light
all gone. All hidden forever,
behind the smoke of your Virginia Slims,
your blonde hair, your fractured beauty.
Southern Comfort, empty now,
but not our hearts.

We hold you dear,
like that long, long road a winding
that we’ve heard about.
We will see you again,
raise a glass, laugh.
We love you, Trixie.

Happy Birthday Mom

Today would have been my mother’s 77th birthday. It is difficult to believe she has been gone for 20 years. It is difficult to believe she died at age 57. I am almost that age and I feel that my life is just beginning. There is a world of adventure and fun I am still looking forward to.

The catch-phrase these days is “bucket list.” I don’t have a bucket list. What I do have is a very vivid imagination. I see myself, one day, as a very old woman (my maternal grandmother is 103, surely I have some of her longevity genes swimming around somewhere in my body). I see myself surrounded by family – children, grands and greats. And, I’m still destined to live in a quaint, secluded beach house on a beautiful shoreline.

The things my mother missed I will get to experience for both of us. Retirement – days with my husband, traveling to all of those places. Doing all of those things that were postponed because raising children took priority. I will read all of the books she never got to. I will tend the garden she never saw. I will see my grandchildren born, graduate from college, marry, and present me with great-grandchildren.

I will one day bury my grandmother, and one day, when I am very, very old, and have lived a long full life, my children and grandchildren will spread my ashes along my favorite stretch of beach and remark what a full life I was fortunate to lead.

I’ll do it for us both, Mom. Happy birthday.

Oh, The Places I'll Go

Where do you go, or what do you do to hide from the world, to hide from your life? Do you turn off the phone, the computer, draw the curtains, ignore the doorbell, or leave town? Perhaps you send the kids to Nana’s, tell your husband to go play golf while you schedule a pedicure or go shopping?

I have several ploys. I hide in my garden – if it’s not too hot (and if there are not too many mosquitoes). Or, I might cook – if I have someone to clean up behind me. Retail therapy sometimes works, but really, I don’t need a thing. My favorite escape is a book, but, for reasons which I can trace back to my early childhood, I usually feel guilty when I hide away in a good read. Today the planets must be in alignment, because, as the Magic Eight Ball from my youth would indicate from its little triangle floating in that orb of black liquid, “all signs point to yes.” I’m at the lake cabin where there are no household chores to be performed and it is overcast and rainy. In other words – it is a perfect day to stay in my pajamas and hide out in a book. No guilt! There is absolutely nothing else I should/could be doing.

For the rest of today, and perhaps for the remainder of the holiday weekend (the weather forecast is calling for more of the same) I am on vacation from my life. I love the magic of books. Who will I be, where will I go? Alice McDermott’s bigamist’s daughter, or in Clifton, Arizona in 1904 witnessing the great orphan abduction or maybe in Carson McCullers’ south losing myself in her short stories? My destinations are endless as I sit on the couch, watching the rain bounce off of the deck, with books spread around me like alternate universes awaiting exploration.

I’m off, safe travels to me. I’ll be in touch when I return.

The First Tomato

Hallelujah, tomato season has officially begun at my house. The fist tomato of the season is a cause for celebration and the ceremonial eating of the tomato. With great fanfare the tomato was sliced, positioned on toasted whole wheat bread slathered with mayonnaise, a little sea salt, and fresh cracked black pepper. Let the eating commence.

Coke and Kumbaya

This blog entry is in no way meant to support the Coca Cola Company, but I have to say, I think they were on to something with their “I’d like to buy the world a Coke” advertising campaign. I am growing so tired and frustrated and sad by all of the negativity in the world, and especially here in the good old U. S. of A. The blatant disrespect for our Country’s leaders, the hate-mongering, the thinly-veiled bigotry, and outright meanness is, to borrow a circa 1970 phrase, “really bringing me down, man.”

In the 1970s, when my siblings and I were teens and not getting along, the threat my mother made was, “I’m going to make you kids hold hands and sing Kumbaya.” She never actually followed through with the “punishment,” but we got her point and understood she meant for us to remember we loved each other and it was high time we started acting like it.

Buying the world a Coke is the same concept. Why can’t we all just get along, hold hands, drink a Coke (or beverage of your choice), and sing Kumbaya? In my opinion, that sounds wonderful. I can almost hear the birds chirping and see the butterflies and bunnies in this new, magical existence. But, sadly, there will always be those who are too mean and/or narrow-minded to offer their fellow man a Coke (or a glass of water). Too bad my mom is no longer with us. She’d tell them to hold hands and sing, and this time she’d probably follow through with her threat.

Father's Day

Father’s Day and Mother’s Day are bittersweet for me since my parents are no longer living. I had the good fortune to be born into a loving family, with parents who nurtured and encouraged me in everything I did. I had the double good fortune to marry a man who continued the love, nurturing and encouragement with me and with our two daughters. I don’t forget for one minute how lucky I am.

In honor of all of the fathers and in memory of my father, I am sharing one of my favorite stories about my dad.

Winter Coat

When I was a child my mother had agoraphobia. A little fact I didn’t become aware of until I was an adult and one of my aunts mentioned it matter-of-factly in a passing conversation. Well now, that certainly explained some things – like why she rarely left the house. I just thought it was normal for my father to do the grocery shopping and take us to the mall to buy school clothes. Mother’s phobia was not too severe, because she attended Mass every Sunday with the family, and would go out with my father. I think she was just anxious about venturing out on her own with four children in a big, unfamiliar city.

One year, when it was time for me to have a new winter coat (I’m sure my arms were at least four inches too long for the sleeves on the current one), my father took me downtown to a big department store to shop. This was unheard of. We lived in the suburbs and shopped at the mall. I had never even been downtown, that involved driving on the freeways, a task that my mother couldn’t comprehend. The freeways were my daddy’s domain. He rose early every morning and carpooled to the office with other men from his company. But unheard of or not, here we were on a Saturday morning making the trek downtown to buy me a winter coat, just me and Dad.

I have no recollection of the department store or even of selecting and purchasing the coat, a camel colored wool, which I still have. My memory of that day is of driving down the skyscraper-shaded streets of downtown, passing a huge public transportation bus and of seeing an old, sad, rheumy-eyed gentleman in a dark, too large suit, searching his palm for change to board the bus. That image has stayed with me as long as my camel-colored coat. It was, and is the saddest image I have ever seen in my life. That elderly man reached out and grabbed my heart. I hurt for him because he was alone, I wanted to help him select the right coins and take his arm and gently help him onto the bus. I wanted to sit with him and make sure he got to his destination. I looked at my father to see if he had seen the old man. Daddy was waiting for the light to turn green, but I know he noticed because the old man, in his dark suit, white shirt and fedora, could have been my father’s father, my grandfather. In an instant we drove past him and all that was left was his sad image permanently etched on my heart.

That event was over forty years ago. Mother is gone, Daddy followed her two years later, but the man from the bus stop is still here, along with my memories of my father who never let on that it was out of the ordinary to take me shopping for a winter coat.

Gimcrackery

gimcrackery n 1: ornamental objects of no great value [syn: folderal, falderol, frill, gimcrackery, gimcrack, nonsense, trumpery]
The word above is from today’s “Do I Really Want to Increase My Vocabulary” Blog http://doireallywanttoincreasemyvocabulary.blogspot.com/2010/06/gimcrackery.html
I decided to write this blog about gimcrackery because a friend of mine, after his first visit to my home, was shocked by the amount of gimcrackery I own.
The following day he emailed me this:
A.Word.A.Day
with Anu Garg
congeries
PRONUNCIATION:
(kon-JEER-eez, KON-juh-reez)
MEANING:
noun: A collection of miscellaneous things.
ETYMOLOGY:
From Latin congeries (heap), from congerere (to heap up), from con- (with) + gerere (to carry).
USAGE:
"What an unsightly congeries of mismatched assets the McGuinty government seems to have in mind."

In the same email he requested the web address for my “congeries” blog. I gave him the website of this dear blog and I haven’t heard from him since. This leads me to believe he is either (a) still reading about all of my stuff/gimcrackery/congeries, or (b) he is horrified and has decided he no longer wants to associate with me. Oh, well – back to purging my gimcrackery, or at least writing about it.

Excuses, excuses!

I have not blogged in a while because I have been very busy at work and at home working in my garden. You can see from the picture below that I have quite a bit of activity going on in my raised bed and in my container garden.



But the really exciting news is - I now have a chandelier in my garden! I am certain this will make everything grow much better.



I'll let you know.

Holiday Cooking

On a day when most everyone I know is gorging themselves on bar-b-qued everything – brisket, ribs, chicken, pork chops, hamburgers – I am working on two new things in my life, being a vegetarian and trying to eat “local.” I don’t miss the meat, but I did want to prepare a special meal for the holiday weekend, and I did want to incorporate the local ingredient I got from the farm this week – kale. This is what I came up with, and it was so delicious I didn’t even mind the smell of the steaks on the grill next door.



Black Bean and Kale Soup

1 pound dried black beans
Olive oil
1 large onion, chopped
4 ribs celery, diced
4 cloves garlic, minced
2 tablespoons grated fresh ginger
1 teaspoon fresh thyme
1 ½ teaspoons chili powder
¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper
¼ teaspoon allspice
¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg
1 cup sliced carrots
12 ounces kale, cut into bite-size pieces
1 cup fresh orange juice

Rinse beans and soak overnight. Sauté onion and celery in small amount of olive oil until soft, add garlic and ginger and cook for one minute more. Add soaked, drained beans, 7 cups of water, thyme, chili powder, cayenne pepper, allspice, and nutmeg. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer approximately 2 hours or until beans are tender, if necessary add boiling water to beans. When beans are tender, add carrots and kale. Simmer until carrots and kale are tender. Add orange juice before serving.

P.S. I also had a sampling of the potato salad referenced in yesterday’s blog. (Okay, it was more than a sampling! And it was as good as the stranger said it would be.)

It's in the Air

At our small lake community the atmosphere is different from “in town.” The very air is changed; it doesn’t feel charged with too much activity and too much indifference. So, I really shouldn’t have been surprised when a total stranger approached my next door neighbor and me, as we were enjoying a glass of wine on the back porch last evening, to ask my neighbor, “Are you the lady who made the potato salad for X and X’s bar-b-que last week?”

It turned out she was indeed the potato salad maker, and it was the best potato salad the stranger had ever eaten, and it just so happens he’s having a bar-b-que this weekend, and if she’d write down all the ingredients he’ll bring ‘em by in the morning, and now she’s making the potato salad for the stranger’s bar-b-que.

That’s how things happen here. I really should not have been surprised. I think it is something about the air.

Short Week

Wow - 2 short weeks - back to back. I am back at the lake, a long weekend followed by a long weekend. How awesome. I intend to DO NOTHING. I will try to blog about that, if I can break out of the "Do Nothing" mode.

The First Harvest

At the farm we have been harvesting all spring. Things like lettuce and greens, strawberries and snow peas. But in my small backyard garden things have not been so prolific. Yesterday I saw the first fruit of my labor; yesterday I had the first backyard garden harvest of the season. So what if it wasn’t much. I proudly carried it into the house, washed it as tenderly as I would a newborn babe, and then admired it and showed it off to my husband. I even photographed it. When my husband reminded me that I should eat it, I sliced it into tiny rounds and savored each peppery bite (I even shared with husband). It may not have been much of a harvest, but it was the best radish I’ve ever eaten!

The Hammock

From my perch in the hammock I have a beautiful view of the lake or of the leafy tree and sky overhead, depending on my position. I take the necessary supplies with me – a bottle of water, a couple of books, a pen and a notebook. I climb into the woven cocoon suspended between two cottonwood trees and feel as if I am floating. A gentle breeze blows the last of spring’s coolness over me as I read and sway until I am overcome with a drowsiness which tears me from my novel in favor of a nap.

Eyes closed I can see the red negative outline of the lake on the inside of my eyelids. The color gradually fades until it all but disappears and I forget where I am, imagining instead that I am on a raft in the sea or on a magic carpet flying through imaginary air. A bird calls and I awake with a start, remembering where I am.

I smile and return to my book. Life is good here in my hammock.

Remember the Hall Closet

If you have read this blog for any time at all you probably recall the hall closet, a.k.a. – the bane of my existence. The hall closet is second only to the garage in clutter and scariness. I have put off the hall closet project for months and months and months. I would still be procrastinating, but my husband has other ideas. My husband is turning the hall closet into a library for me. We saw this picture in a magazine and because our hall closet is approximately the same size he thought it would be an easy project.



I am so excited about this. I have always wanted a “home” for my books, a place where they could be organized, maybe even employing the Dewey Decimal System. Right now we have books in every room in the house. Every bookshelf in the house has books double layered in each shelf. I have no idea what books I actually own, because it has been years since I have seen some of them. So, yes, I want a home library. There is just one little problem – where in the hell do I put all of the “stuff” that was in the hall closet?

Stay tuned - while my husband is painting I will be finding a new home for my closet "stuff."

Where's the Beef?

I just returned from my weekly family dinner, Wednesday Winers, with my grandmother, aunt, uncles, daughter and husband. We began this weekly tradition several years ago and it is one of the highlights of my week. However, having dinner with family or friends has taken on a new complexity since I decided to quit eating meat. I gave up meat for Lent this year and by the time Easter rolled around I decided I wasn’t ready to go back to being a carnivore just yet. My issue is with the industry, not the animal. If I think about how beef, pork, chicken and even seafood are farmed, and slaughtered for food production I lose my appetite. For years I’ve done my best NOT to think about it, but oddly, after my hiatus from eating animals I’ve given it more thought than ever. I am amazed at the cavalier attitude I’ve had toward my food. I am a fairly educated person, I garden in my backyard without chemicals, I support the “buy local” movement (when convenient), and I do realize the real cost of cheap food – except I never really followed through with what I knew to be the right thing for me to do.

I haven’t joined PETA (yet), but I do support the SPCA. I still wear leather shoes and carry a leather purse, but I prefer not to ingest an animal that was raised and slaughtered in inhumane and quite frankly, gross and yucky conditions.

Am I a vegetarian? Well, not exactly. Last week I had a hamburger. It was not made from ground beef purchased at my grocery store, and it was certainly not from a fast food restaurant. It was from a local beef producer who uses no chemicals or antibiotics. The animals are raised humanely and slaughtered (yes, I realize they are still k-i-l-l-e-d) by a small local processor. In my opinion, this is better. Was the burger good? It was okay. Will I have another burger anytime soon? Probably not. The truth is – I don’t really miss meat. I prefer my vegetarian menu. I love beans and pastas and soy and grains and eggs and cheese. I am still eating eggs and cheese and I am also eating some wild, not farm-raised, seafood.

Have I felt deprived? Not at all. And here we are with the summer’s garden bounty upon us. What a great time give up meat!

Our Lady of Perpetual Dishwater

“Is this my mother who doesn’t blog,” asked Daughter #1 on the telephone last night. She continued to tell me how disappointed she was to find no new blog entries when she finally had time to catch up with her blog reading following her finals. So, apologies to anyone else who may have missed the blog. I have excellent excuses, which I promise I’ll keep to myself. I’m hereby setting a goal of blogging at least three times a week, so feel free to check back in. Maybe I’ll even write about cleaning my house – but that’s just a “maybe” not a goal.

Having taken some time away from blogging I am able to see, once again, that I am pretty far off of the original mark. When I began this blog and gave it such an awesome and catchy moniker, I really did intend to write abut cleaning house and how it related to my life story. My mother was a fun-loving, outgoing, beautiful woman, but she was also one dedicated housekeeper – so, many of my memories of her and of my formative years are associated with a very clean house. Even though I am the rebel child when it comes to following the example set by my mother when it comes to being a “housewife,” there are still a few ingrained lessons which are difficult to ignore.

Just yesterday, after washing up the lunch dishes before leaving the lake house, I swear to God these words came out of my mouth: “It’s a shame to waste all of this hot, soapy dishwater. Too bad there isn’t something else to clean.” I then had to explain to my shocked friend that I was channeling my mother, who at one time we dubbed “Our Lady of Perpetual Dishwater.”

My mother always had a sink full of hot, soapy dishwater and she wasn’t afraid to use it. From the time she woke up until the time she went to bed there were always suds in the sink ready to serve my mother’s every cleaning desire. One could hardly finish a drink or a plate of food before the dish was whisked away, washed, dried, and returned to the cupboard. (And we had an electric dishwasher!) Our countertops glistened, our appliances sparkled and no dirty pot or pan was allowed to soak overnight in her kitchen.

In my kitchen I am thrilled if I remember to soak the pans – it saves me from having to bring out a chisel when I’m ready to clean. I use my dishwasher daily, but on the occasion when I do run the tap until it steams and squirt in a copious amount of Ivory Liquid I always say a little prayer of thanks to “Our Lady of Perpetual Dishwater,” my mother, for teaching me how to do it right, even if I rarely follow her example.

Leaving Las Vegas

My husband and I had a long weekend in Las Vegas. We arrived on Friday and returned home on Monday evening. That was about three days too long. We went for a special gathering with some of my high school classmates and I was very excited about reuniting with them and reliving our glory days. Vegas is a destination we have long enjoyed for its never-ending bacchanalian party, the constant stream of “interesting” people to watch, and the cheap drinks and food. One of us has changed – either I have become more discerning or Vegas has undergone a major transformation.

As Robert Earl Keen so brilliantly states, “The road goes on forever and the party never ends.” But, I’d like my road to be a tad bit shorter and for the party to stop at a reasonable hour. I cannot believe I am about to admit this, but - I can only take so much hell raising and then I would like to go rest for a while. My feet hurt, I needed to remove my contact lenses due to all of the second hand smoke, and I was just plain t-i-r-e-d. I tried, I really did try, but I just couldn’t stay up until the wee hours of the morning drinking and gambling and hanging with my friends. If memory serves, I don’t think they were up for the late nights either. At one point my husband looked at me, asked if I was having fun. I couldn’t lie – I said, “No,” and we called it a day.

Oh, my God – the crowds. I thought America was experiencing a recession, but someone forgot to tell the zillions of people crowding the streets and casinos of Las Vegas. And the noise, there was nowhere I could go to escape the constant drone of humanity mixed with machinery. From the United Nations mix of languages on every street corner and in my hotel corridor to the ding-ding-ding of the slot machines there was no escaping the sounds. Even in the confines of my over-priced hotel room I could hear the conversations of every guest and every hotel worker who passed my door. I craved silence. On more than one occasion I asked myself why I hadn’t spent this vacation money on a trip to a secluded beach.

And spend money we did. There is no such thing as a “cheap” meal in Las Vegas anymore. We used to enjoy some nice dinners for reasonable prices while visiting the casinos – but no more. Now every restaurant boasts a big name, celebrity chef which apparently means they have the right to charge $57 for a plate of butternut squash ravioli. Let’s not forget the alcohol – I certainly didn’t. I did however, end up paying $12 to $17 for a glass of mediocre red wine. The same mediocre red wine I can buy for less than $12 a bottle at the grocery store. The cutesy little cocktail waitresses on the casino floor brought me several glasses of wine for only a meager tip, but once I sipped it I was afraid I would wake up blind the next morning and so I opted to continue on with the overpriced mediocre red. (Note to self: If I ever open a winery I should call my wines Mediocre Red, and Mediocre White.)

All-in-all I was not sad to leave Las Vegas. The highlight of the trip was seeing old friends and reminiscing about our high school days. Thanks guys for making the trip worthwhile. As far as I’m concerned what happens in Vegas can certainly stay in Vegas – I sure don’t want to take it home with me.

The Five-and-Dime

I write more than just this one blog, I have a blog called: http://doireallywanttoincreasemyvocabulary.blogspot.com/
It is a much easier blog to write; therefore I post more often to it. Tonight when I was selecting a word for the vocabulary blog I came across the word “five-and-dime.” Selecting that as my word for today reminded me that I have long wanted to write something about the dime store my sister, brothers, and I frequented as children when visiting my grandparent’s house in Tyler, Texas. The store was called Perry’s and it was on the block behind my grandparent’s home. We walked out of their back door (slamming the screen door), across the Saint Augustine grass-covered back yard, through the creosote alley, alongside a neighbor’s garage, crossing a street and finally arriving at the magical five-and-dime store. We were really young when allowed to make the trek alone – something my adult mind has a hard time accepting, but it was one of the highlights of visiting our east Texas grandparents.

As soon as we arrived at our ancestral home we began begging our parents and/or grandparents for money to go to Perry’s. As soon as the car was unloaded and Daddy had poured himself a highball he would give us his pocket change (usually supplemented with coins from my MaMaw’s coin purse) and send us on our way to the magical emporium known as the “10-cent-store.” Even in the 1960s I doubt there was much we could purchase for a dime, but we perused the aisles like any discriminating shopper, trying to make the most of our money.

I can vividly recall some of the purchases made at Perry’s. There were wooden paddle-ball racquets with elastic strings which usually broke before I could get the rhythm of the game, balsa wood airplanes, plastic faux Barbie dolls, and sets of marbles and jacks. My siblings and I horded our new toys and plotted how to trade with each other as soon as the novelty wore off (or as soon as we broke ours).

All too soon I graduated to Cutex nail polish and Tangee orange lipstick. It wasn’t long before the allure of the Perry’s five-and-dime wore off. I was too sophisticated at thirteen to beg my parents for pocket change to buy cheap goods from the dime store.

How I miss those simple days. How I long to go back to Perry’s and browse the aisles for little treats. It was such a small, simple pleasure, but one that doesn’t exist anymore. Oh, sure, I might get a small thrill when I find a really interesting item at the Dollar Store, but nothing can compare to the childhood pleasure of selecting my own merchandise and spending money without adult supervision that I felt on those long ago days at Perry’s.

I feel sorry for the children who will never know that feeling, the feeling of being a bona fide consumer. I don’t think the Mega-Store, Wal-Mart experience can bring the same exhilaration. There are no longer store clerks willing to wait on a child with only a quarter to spend, no longer store clerks willing to make a child’s solo shopping experience one they will recall forty years later with such nostalgia.

Thank you Perry’s for giving me such grand memories and thank you Daddy for giving me your pocket change.

Nice People

Any time my husband accompanies me to an event he comments on the quality of folk I know. Yep, he is right. I know a lot of great people. It is sometimes awesome to be me. Thanks to my friends for making my life so great. I love you all.

House of Cards

I think my life is like a house of cards (or maybe like the plate twirling acts on the Ed Sullivan Show). Over the years I’ve become adept at the construction – multiple stories made from multiple decks of cards, but lately I feel as if I’ve maxed out my building capabilities. One more card and the whole shebang will come tumbling down. As it is, I feel like some cards are beginning to slip and I’m working extra hard to shore up my house of cards.

The majority of the cards are face cards, but instead of the Jack, Queen, and King looking at me, I see the faces of my friends, family, co-workers, and clients. I see the face of illness, the face of death, and the face of demand. And every one of them is yelling at me to hurry up, do more, be better.

One more card and it is all going to topple. What will that card be? I’ve recently added the most likeable card to the repertoire – gardening. It is a seasonal card, but one I enjoy. I hope I can find a place for it among the other cards without bringing down the house. We shall see.

Epiphany

Epiphany:
Merriam-Webster’s collegiate Dictionary, 11th Edition (2003)
epiphany noun (plural -nies) Etymology: Middle English epiphanie, from Anglo-French, from Late Latin epiphania, from Late Greek, plural, probably alteration of Greek epiphaneia appearance, manifestation, from epiphainein to manifest, from epi- + phainein to show Date: 14th century 1. capitalized January 6 observed as a church festival in commemoration of the coming of the Magi as the first manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles or in the Eastern Church in commemoration of the baptism of Christ 2. an appearance or manifestation especially of a divine being 3. a. (1) a usually sudden manifestation or perception of the essential nature or meaning of something (2) an intuitive grasp of reality through something (as an event) usually simple and striking (3) an illuminating discovery, realization, or disclosure b. a revealing scene or moment

I had an epiphany (see definition 3 above) of sorts at my grandmother’s house this past week. Until that moment my mindset was “let’s fix this,” much as it was after my mother, Carol, was diagnosed with lung cancer. On my first trip home, after receiving mother’s medical news, I arrived like gangbusters, ready to take on the entire Houston, Texas medical community to find a cure for my mother. I passionately and positively roused the rest of the troops (family) and convinced them all that a cure was in the cards for Carol Louise Owen Primo because we were special, we were blessed, we were determined. Four months later, when the battle was over and Carol was gone and hindsight was focusing in on twenty-twenty, I realized I was wrong. If I could repeat my mother’s final four months I would arrive at her house a kinder, gentler daughter to enjoy our last days at home with the help of pain killers instead of in the hospital undergoing procedures and pain. I can’t blame her doctors, they all fell in love with my mother and wanted to cure her with the same vigor that her family was demonstrating. No one knew when it was time to accept fate.

I found myself in the same “champion of the sick” mode when I entered my grandmother’s bedroom to make her get out of bed, to make her go to the surgeon’s office so we could find a way to cure her. I quickly remembered that no one can make my 103-year old grandmother do anything.

When I saw her frail-bird body lying under the fluffy down comforter, and when she politely, yet firmly, told me “No,” it came upon me, as an epiphany, that she was right. She did not have to get up from her soft, warm cocoon of a bed. She did not have to do anything. All of the frantic energy I was focusing into finding medical help for her ebbed. I lay down beside her, felt the softness and warmth she was wrapped up in and realized she was still the leader of our family, still in charge in spite of her frailty. I was at peace.

The term “quality of life” is much tossed about when a person has died of cancer after grueling months of chemotherapy and radiation. I have rarely heard the same term used when talking about old age and illness. What is quality of life at 103? I think it is staying at home and staying in bed as late as you wish – warm and snuggly under the covers. It is eating what you want, when you want. It is having your family around you to minister tender loving care. It is knowing you are loved and respected and held in esteem. It is when everyone around you allows you the dignity you have earned during your long life. It is calling your own shots and making your own decisions.

I am proud my grandmother is enjoying such immense quality of life at her age. I am sorry Carol didn’t have the same opportunity, I hope I will.

Yawn

Tired, very tired. I have not been sleeping well and feel that I am suffering from sleep deprivation. I can’t think straight, my work is suffering, my house is a mess, and I am a wreck.

Sleep, I need sleep.

I wrote those words yesterday. What a difference a night makes, a night of sleep. With the help of a much-touted pharmaceutical wonder I was able to get NINE hours of sleep last night. I can’t remember when (if ever) I’ve slept for nine hours. I awoke feeling refreshed and rejuvenated, ready to tackle all of the work I haven’t had the energy to pursue of late.

That energetic feeling lasted about an hour and I reverted to my normal self, but oh-well, at least I’m rested. Sleeping felt so good I think I’ll give it another try tonight, but without the prescription sleep aid. I’ll try it on my own tonight, without the “training wheels” and see what happens. Hopefully my body has gotten the hang of it and will do it on its own.

I don’t know if it is a sign of aging or maybe an indicator of too much stress, but lately sleep has been elusive. This is fairly new for me, I’ve never had a difficult time falling asleep or staying asleep. Well, except for when the snoring husband wakes me, but even then I can fall back to sleep once I’ve kicked him in the head and told him to roll over.

I’m afraid my new sleep pattern, or rather – lack of sleep pattern, will become a habit. I’m practicing good sleep hygiene, as prescribed by all of the Google insomnia sites I’ve visited. No television in the bedroom, no exercise or alcohol before bedtime (guess which one I don’t mind eliminating), a dark room, no noise, etc. I’ve given up caffeine after lunch and even tried warm milk and chamomile tea in the evening. Next I’ll have to make a trip to the health food store for melatonin to see if that works or if it is just a new-age snake oil treatment.

When I was a child I tried hard to avoid sleep, refusing naps and holding out until the last possible minute before acquiescing to my appointed bedtime. When I was a teen I stayed up late and slept until mid-afternoon when I could. As a young mother I never got enough sleep because of infant feeding schedules and a most hectic lifestyle. I suppose I’ve always had an odd relationship with sleep, but now I’m developing a relationship with sleeplessness, a relationship I don't want.

The kettle is whistling, the chamomile is calling, and I feel like an old woman complaining about my ailments. Maybe tomorrow I can write about the arthritis in my thumb.