A Mini Mystery

            

I am a street walker. Ha – bet I got your attention with that! I mean to say, I walk quite a bit along the streets of my neighborhood. I walk my dogs almost every day, and then, because I have a very old dog who cannot walk too far, I walk myself. I like to vary my route, walking some days on the east/west running streets and other days on the north/south running streets. Some days I get really crazy and combine the two. I often walk down streets I’ve never walked before. It is fun to check out others’ homes and gardens and front door color choices.

            

There is a very curious thing that I have seen on every walk I have taken for the three plus years I have lived here. On random streets throughout my neighborhood I see small empty plastic liquor bottles; the little ones you would get on a commercial airline. At first I thought nothing of it; perhaps it was just something that spilled from someone’s household trash. But I began to notice that as soon as the old bottles were flattened by someone’s car tire new bottles show up. And not just one bottle occasionally. I see several bottles scattered along different streets every day.

The brands and types of liquor vary also. I have seen vanilla vodka, Captain Morgan, tequila, Bacardi rum, bourbon, and various flavors of schnapps, just to name a few. I am stymied by this. Who is driving or walking through my neighborhood taking shots of alcohol from teeny tiny bottles? Is it a bored housewife? (I swear it isn’t me!) A teenager? Someone’s housekeeper walking to and from the bus stop? A businessman or woman on his/her way to work every morning? One of the many dog walkers in the neighborhood? The mail carrier?

Perhaps I should begin documenting where I find the bottles and map it out. I could enlist the other neighborhood street walkers, I mean walkers, to help me unravel the mystery. I can see it now. A bunch of middle aged women in trench coats with binoculars and walkie-talkies tailing suspicious looking characters (aka the school crossing guards, the teachers from the elementary school, etc.).

I’ll report back if this mystery is ever solved. In the meantime I should probably get a life.

Post Birthday Blog

            I did it. I survived the fifty-seventh year. That may not sound like much, but for me it was a big deal. Fifty-seven was sort of a curse that I tried my best to turn around. I think I succeeded. I also think my mother would be proud of me, and that’s an important part of the success. Mom didn’t get her fifty-seventh year, so I tried to live mine in the best way I could as a tribute to her.

            I had twelve big goals. I hit most of them, got close on a few, and will continue working on others. It dawned on me about three months in that I had started something that is unending. Once you make a vow to intentionally live your best year, how can you stop? It’s not like I don’t want my fifty-eighth year to be just as good, or better. I can’t just say, “Yep, fifty-seven was awesome. Now I’ll have a mediocre year.”

            It has been fun congratulating myself on my success. It has been even more fun to have friends and family congratulate me on my success. But really – didn’t I just do what should be done? Have we become so complacent as to think doing one’s best is out of the ordinary?

            The past year proved to be more than just living my best life. It was a year-long therapy session. I became extremely introspective and somewhat withdrawn. I noticed that in order to make the changes I wanted to make I had to spend quite a bit of time with me; serious time. I learned a lot. I hope I will remember it always.

            Now I’m living my fifty-eighth year. It will be even better than fifty-seven. That’s how it’s supposed to be. Can’t believe I didn’t know that. Or, maybe I knew and just forgot. 

Forage

for·age

fôrij,ˈfärij

verb

1.

(of a person or animal) search widely for food or provisions.

"gulls are equipped by nature to forage for food"

noun

1.

bulky food such as grass or hay for horses and cattle; fodder.

2.

a wide search over an area in order to obtain something, especially food or provisions.

"the nightly forage produces things that can be sold"

The most important words in today’s blog are: forage, pecan pie, and Scott.

This is why:

Forage – Newton had his apple and I had a pecan. The pecan didn’t literally fall on my head, but close. A pecan fell near me as I was on my morning walk a couple of weeks ago and I had my own eureka moment. There are millions, or maybe almost one hundred pecan trees in my neighborhood. Everyday I step on and over pecans. Why not gather them (forage)?

Pecan Pie – This traditional Thanksgiving dessert is a staple on my table come the fourth Thursday in November. I make it from my mother’s recipe. Why not use pecans foraged from my neighborhood?

Scott: My daughter’s partner whom I love dearly. His favorite pie is pecan, not Key Lime. (Which is a much easier pie to make, just sayin’.)

How to Forage for Pecans

As I have begun picking up pecans on my morning walks I have come up with some rules, or suggestions for foraging.

1. Know your trees. Oak trees drop acorns. Pecan trees drop pecans. There is a big difference. My dogs will eat acorns, but they will eat anything. I have never heard of an acorn pie. Now surely someone will comment that acorn pies are considered a delicacy in some parts of the world (Appalachia?).
2. Limit your foraging to the pecans which have fallen in the street or other public area. Do not pick pecans from lawns of private homes. That would be trespassing and stealing.
3. Wear pants or a jacket with deep pockets.  
4. The best pecans come from the trees located in the greenest lawns. The people who tend their lawns also tend their trees, ergo better pecans.
5. It is okay to shell and eat the pecans as you gather them. I do not recommend this to anyone with a manicure.
6. Opt for groups of multiple pecans versus the solo nut. This limits the number of times you have to bend over. You will thank me for this in the morning.
7. Avoid the houses with multiple cats in the front yard. They like that pecan leaf litter next to the curb for a reason.
8. If squirrels start following you, run like hell.

Good luck on your pecan hunting.

Oh crap, I forgot that the next task is to shell them. 

Halloween

Happy Halloween! What fun that it lands on a Friday this year. I miss the excitement of having young children on Halloween. It was always such a special time. Weeks of planning would go into what to wear. We were not big on purchasing costumes, with the exception of the Ninja Turtle foam shell and cheap nylon mask Carol Ann had to have one year. Typically we dug through the dress-up suitcase, a huge brown leather valise, probably purchased at a garage sale, full of old prom and bridesmaid dresses, high heels, purses, shawls and jewelry with a few tiaras thrown in for good measure. After the homemade red dotted swiss clown costume was retired, Courtney liked to be either a witch or a gypsy. One year she went to a party as a witch with green skin, a fake hooked rubber nose complete with wart, and in lieu of a broom carried my old Hoover vacuum. She was a hit.

Carol Ann wore the same clown costume but once she outgrew it she was a bit more “out there” in her costume choices. There was the Ninja Turtle year, but it was followed by the classic Bride of the Energizer Bunny. This ensemble included a peach colored bridesmaid’s dress pinned and stitched to somewhat fit her, or at least ensure she didn’t trip over it, a wedding veil and a toy drum. When I tried do dissuade her from carrying the drum I was told it was the integral part of the costume. My child. That imagination and creativity served her well in her teen years when coming up with ways to sneak out of the house.

I always tried to make Halloween special. I decorated the house and cooked special dinners which were consumed in record time so trick-or-treating could commence. My “specialty” for years was a meal consisting of hamburger patties with melted jack-o-lantern shaped cheese slices and ghost toast, bread cut with a ghost shaped cookie cutter, buttered and toasted under the broiler. Gourmet fare to be sure.

We always carved pumpkins to display on the front porch and they were usually rotted heaps of orange gunk before October 31^st. My girls both excelled, with a slight bit of help from parents, at the elementary school annual pumpkin decorating contest. Some of the award winning designs included Marge Simpson, Mrs. Potts and Chip (from Beauty and the Beast), Cinderella’s coach – complete with Barbie dressed in her finest ball gown, and Raggedy Ann. We took this contest a little too seriously.

My husband Frank and Uncle Steve were in charge of seeing the children safely through the neighborhood to beg for candy, I mean, trick-or-treat. I stayed home to answer our doorbell and pass out treats to little monsters and ballerinas and ghouls. At the end of the evening sacks full of candy were dumped on the floor and the hauls compared by the girls and inspected by the paranoid mother. The oddest thing ever garnered was a plastic container of McDonald’s pancake syrup. Seriously. When the girls were finally asleep I would help myself to mini Snickers bars and small yellow packages of peanut M&Ms. Yum.

Perhaps the best Halloween ever was the year Carol Ann was released from the hospital with Dr. Boris’ permission to go trick-or-treating. She was three years old and we had just spent ten days in Pediatric ICU battling spinal meningitis, which we thought would take her from us. We went from a healthy child with the sniffles to almost losing her within the span of a few hours. Even after we were told she would survive we still faced the possibility of brain damage or loss of sight and/or hearing. Leaving the hospital with a healthy child was a miracle. Participating in our Halloween celebration a few days later was the normalcy that helped to get our traumatized family back on track. There’s not been a Halloween since that I don’t recall that episode in our lives and give thanks for my beautiful, perfect daughter.

Happy Halloween. 

A Sober Year

I am so close, I feel like I can write this now without jinxing myself. On November 9, 2013 I celebrated my fifty-seventh birthday. I drank wine with dinner and more wine at my favorite wine bar. Then I stopped drinking. My goal of having a sober year will come to fruition in just a few days. I had many reasons for doing this, but I wasn’t sure what the outcome would be. I never thought about what I would learn from a sober year. These are some of the lessons:

• I’m not an alcoholic. I do not have a physical dependency on alcohol.
• It is a habit. One that can be broken or replaced.
• I will drink after my year of sobriety is over. I will drink differently than I did before. I will not drink alone. I will not reward myself with alcohol or use it as an emotional crutch.
• The second bottle is never a good idea. I can drink one glass of wine or one mixed drink. (Learning this lesson will be ongoing once I drink again.)
• Everyone else drinks too much. It is amazing to me how much my friends and family drink when I’m not drinking with them. I know, I know – I drank as much, if not more, but seeing it from a sober perspective is eye-opening. I need to remember this lesson.
• Drunk is not pretty.
• I remember things when I’m not drinking. I want to remember things.
• There are lots of hours in the evening in which to do stuff. Who knew one could be so productive without happy hour?
• I can survive family reunions, sorority reunions, parties, vacations, etc. without alcohol.
• I do not need to drink in order to be fun, interesting, outgoing, or fabulous.
• I have saved quite a bit of money.
• Everyone loves a designated driver.
• I DID NOT lose any weight when I quit drinking. As far as I’m concerned that is a myth made up by skinny, sanctimonious people who secretly hate alcohol.
• I am sure I am healthier for not drinking. They even came out with a statement that drinking red wine isn’t as good for you as they once touted. Bummer.
• I think I look better. My skin seems clearer, my eyes brighter.
• I do miss it. I love the smell of red wine. I love the relaxing feeling that sipping on an alcoholic beverage brings on.
• Drinking is not indicative of a glamorous lifestyle.
• It’s easier to get out of bed in the mornings.
• I no longer have to wonder if my sinus headaches are hangovers.
• I really do enjoy club soda with lime and it still looks like I’m having an adult beverage.
• A sober year allowed me to get to know myself – the real me.
• A sober year allowed me to face my new reality. I’ve had big life changes in the past five years and I am learning to live and love my new life.
• Wow, my husband must really love me! He loves the party girl he married (and scraped off of the floor many times); he loves the sober woman I’m learning to be.
• A sober year is great fodder for a book. Look for 57, A Memoir coming soon.

Being Brave

I admire bravery. I’ve written about it before, but today it is again much on my mind after spending the weekend with some amazingly brave women. I strive towards bravery. Some days just getting out of bed requires all of the bravery I can muster. Other days bring other challenges. It takes bravery to have minority political beliefs in an overwhelmingly red state, it takes bravery to stand up to ignorance and small minds, it takes bravery just to be me.

I’ve been pretty brave this year. One morning I heeded the words in this quote: “Actually, I just woke up one day and decided I didn’t want to feel like that anymore, or ever again. So I changed. Just like that.” It sounds funny to say a quote changed my life, but it kept popping up in odd places and resonating with me. So I changed. Not quite “just like that.” I am a work in progress. It takes bravery. The women I spent the weekend with raised the bar on this whole bravery thing. I am so fortunate to have them in my life, as friends and mentors. I am humbled by their bravery.
 

One friend is a fearless traveler. When her sons were young she loaded them in the car and set off across the country. Later she traveled across Europe with them. More recently she hiked Salcantay Mountain pass in Peru onto the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, dragging me along with her. She is heading to Australia next. She also went back to school for a second degree and began a new career at a time when others were retiring. She is brave.

Another of my weekend companions was brave to haul a 28-foot Airstream trailer through Houston and across the state of Texas to join us. I could never do that. It saps my bravery reserves just to drive to my sister’s house in Houston. This friend has also been brave enough to choose love in spite of social mores and political and religious dogma being against her. That’s brave.

It takes bravery to run a business and be assertive in our male dominated society. That’s what another of my friends does. It took bravery to silence the voice of her mother and others that told her she wasn’t good enough, wasn’t capable enough and make the leap to greatness.

The youngest woman in our group this weekend is perhaps facing the biggest challenge of all. She is a new mother. That calls for a lot of bravery. Raising a child, standing up for the child, doing what is right by the child is a difficult job. It takes more bravery than anyone realizes to be a mom.

I wonder what bravery this baby girl will be called upon to exhibit in her lifetime. Will the bravery of those who came before make it easier for her? Are we, with our brave acts, somehow paving the way? Of course we are, just as the bravery of the millions of women who came before us has done. I can only hope her journey is smoother.

I will continue to be brave. There’s still quite a bit to do. I am a work in progress. We all are. 

On the Road Again

I was home for two days before packing and heading out on another adventure. One of the goals of my 57^th year is to spend more time with family and friends. This is an easy goal, except for the travel. This time I am driving. I’ve had more than my share of delayed flights and gate changes to last a while, at least until December when I travel back to New York for the birth of my grandson.

I enjoy driving. I enjoy the solitude of the west Texas roads. I do not like driving in big city traffic. I’ve lived in small towns my entire adult life and am not accustomed to the energy of city highways and byways. Nor do I want to be. Give me a flat stretch of lonely highway any day.

Lately I’ve had to share these roads with “oilfield traffic.” That means dually pick-up trucks driven by good-ole-boys and semis hauling water and fossil fuel to and from the fracking fields of the Texas oil boom towns. Every day I hear news of grisly wrecks caused by the increased traffic. It concerns me; all of it. The environmental and personal safety issues have encroached upon my small town lifestyle.

I want to shout, “Get off of my road.” My road? Really? I’ll take a deep breath, grip the steering wheel a little tighter, slow down and learn to share the road. Sharing the blame for the rape of the land isn’t something I’m willing to do. The boom will end someday. The resources will be tapped, gone forever. We will have to find other sources. Perhaps the roads will once again become desolate, dotted only by wind turbines. One can hope.