August 4, 2015

August 4^th? How is it already August? This summer has gone by faster than that high-speed internet I hear tell about. Is it because I’m getting older? I understand that the older one gets the quicker time passes. Yikes! My young friends with school age children are already purchasing school supplies, dropping freshmen off at college, or having their boys outfitted for high school football uniforms.

Summer is nearly over. In my case that might be a good thing. This has been a summer of excess; too much of a good thing. Excessive travel, food, drink, and fun. In keeping with the adage, “All good things must end,” I have put a halt to my excesses. In keeping with my life’s pattern of “there is no such thing as balance,” I have gone from one extreme to the other. I’ve gone from sipping tequila all day under a beach umbrella to abstaining completely from alcohol, from partaking of every morsel of food offered to eating a strict diet with no sugar, grains or dairy, from lazy mornings over cups of coffee laden with cream to rising at 6:00 a.m. to write, from late nights to early evenings, from gadding about to staying home.

I have seen the results of my summer excesses (and the number on the scale) and put a halt to it. But, I have no regrets or apologies. Summer is supposed to be fun. I have merely had the adult version of my childhood summers.

Remember staying outside until way after the street lights came on to illuminate the neighborhood at 100-yard intervals? Chasing fireflies and maybe even catching some in a rinsed out jelly jar? Your mother insisting you wash your filthy feet before climbing into bed because you’d gone barefoot all day on the hot streets and sidewalks and neighbors’ lawns? Sleepovers and slumber parties? Wrapping houses with rolls of toilet paper pilfered from home? Cookouts and eating big slices of watermelon with the juice dripping off of your elbows? Chasing down the ice cream truck to spend a few quarters you got as your allowance? Spending all day at the neighborhood swimming pool and coming home sunburned and smelling of chlorine? Summer vacations to visit grandparents, or to Six Flags, or to the beach with all of your cousins? And speaking of the beach – that feeling you’d get lying in bed after spending all day on a rented rubber raft, that feeling of still bobbing in the ocean? Doughnuts for breakfast, and not just on Saturdays? Sleeping as late as you wanted, or as late as your mother would let you?

Yes, I have enjoyed the excesses of summer just as I did as a child. I have thirty days to recover, as the excesses of autumn will begin soon. And that my friends is another story!

Happy Birthday Mom

Today would be my mother’s 82^nd birthday had she lived past age 57. What a life she was cheated out of. I know she would be extremely proud of all of her children. I know she would be beyond happy that we found John Anthony, her oldest son, placed for adoption before she met and married my father. There is no doubt in my mind that the two of them would have had a special relationship. The death of my younger brother, Wade, left a hole in her heart. Perhaps John could have helped fill it, never replacing Wade, but giving Mother the comfort of knowing her oldest son was happy and healthy and had a great life in spite of her life-long fretting over the choice she was forced to make.

How she would beam with pride over the accomplishments of all of her children. And her grandchildren – oh my, I know no one who would relish being a grandmother more than she. My oldest daughter, Courtney, is the only grandchild lucky enough to really remember her. What a sad loss for the others. Now there are great-grandchildren. I wonder if she ever imagined that.

Mother is gone but she left a great legacy. She taught us so much: How to parent, to love unconditionally, to have a successful and loving marriage, to be a good friend, the importance of family, and to have fun. I think of her many times every day. I think of her when I prepare a meal, wash a load of laundry or iron a shirt. She was a domestic goddess disguised as a housewife. I cannot run a kitchen sink of sudsy hot water without thinking of her. We nicknamed her Our Lady of Perpetual Dishwater. She always had a dishcloth in her hand and was cleaning something. I can’t walk the beach in search of sand dollars without feeling she is there with me. And every time I am with my grandchildren I send her an unspoken thank you for showing me the way love multiplies with each generation.

On this, her special day, I could lament all she lost, but instead I’ll focus on all she had and all she gave. Happy birthday Mom. 

Sidetracked Home Executive

I retired four years ago to become a stay-at-home-wife or, as I’ve heard it called, a Domestic Engineer (I prefer the term Domestic Goddess). What this means is I no longer get to (have to) get up early, shower, dress, and be at work at a designated hour. I can get up at my leisure, enjoy my coffee, read, write, and do the crossword puzzle. It also means I am the one responsible for making sure we have groceries, washed clothes, and a clean house. I am a housewife and I’m not very good at it.

When I was a young stay-at-home-mom and wife I found an interesting book called Sidetracked Home Executives by sisters Pam Young and Peggy Jones; it soon became my bible. In essence it was a treatise on Adult Attention Deficit Disorder before we knew there was such a thing. By following their “unique, organizational 3x5 index card system” I was able to keep up with my household and my children. Fast forward some twenty-plus years and I find myself in need of the sisters’ counsel once again.

This is what happens when you are a Sidetracked Home Executive: This morning I got the brilliant idea to give the guest room a much needed cleaning. Because there is no other room design option the bed is against a wall of windows. (Yes, I can hear all of the designers out there groaning.) My husband helped me move the bed so I could sweep and mop the hardwood floor underneath the bed. As I began sweeping I realized I should dust the window blinds and sills first. Easy, right? Well… Once I began dusting the blinds I realized I should take down the curtains and wash them. They have been up since we moved in four years ago. I have vacuumed them, but I figured that after four years they probably needed a good cleaning. (Yes, I can hear all of you clean-freaks out there screaming.) Another issue with said curtains is the previous homeowner hemmed them too short and I wanted to remedy that. Out came a ladder and down came the curtains. That is when I realized that the hem job had been done with that iron-on tape. I peeled it apart to discover the bottom edge of the curtain was unfinished. If I attempted to wash them they would unravel.

This is where the sidetracked part really kicks in. In order to avoid miles of linen thread in my washing machine I would have to hem the curtains. Out came the sewing machine. My sewing machine is an archaic mid-century model that requires extreme feats of strength just to get it set up and a PhD in engineering to thread. (You can read more about that here http://cleaninghouseamemoir.blogspot.com/2012/02/sewing-machine.html) Once the sewing machine is in place I realize I also need the ironing board and iron. By this time the guest room is so congested I cannot move through it, but curtains are hemmed and in the washing machine.

I don’t know when I will find time to re-hang the curtains or clean the room because I always prefer to write about cleaning than actually doing it. And, since the sewing machine is out I have mending to do and after that I’m going to find my old copy of Sidetracked Home Executive and see about honing my housekeeping skills, and after that I’ll probably need a nap. It’s a good thing I’ve not made my bed.  

The Sale

I will begin by confessing that I am a bargain addict. I elaborately plan garage sale routes and attend every estate sale in the county. I haven’t paid full retail for clothes or shoes in my adult life and I only travel using frequent flyer mileage. I try to be frugal at the grocery store too, but the things I like to eat are rarely on sale.

 

This morning a friend introduced me to a new type of sale. We met outside of our local grocery store and stood in line to enter a maze of bright green plastic totes containing grocery and sundry items. Shoppers waited eagerly to snag items for a dollar apiece.

I should have realized I was out of my element when cautioned by the store manager to play nice, or in his words, “No fighting or we’ll shut this down.” A whistle blew and we, along with our huge grocery buggies (in the south we call them buggies) were allowed into the labyrinth. It took me all of three seconds to see that everyone in town must have let their aunt out of the attic for this. I ditched my unruly shopping cart/buggy for a red plastic basket and I was off.

My new mobility allowed me to rush past lines of shoppers pushing their already overflowing carts and to get to the good stuff. I passed on the generic green beans and corn and made straight for the wasabi-soy almonds, crunchy peanut butter, brown rice with quinoa, bags of organic granola – all of the overpriced specialty items I so love. When I added a twelve-pack of mineral water to my basket I knew I had exceeded my weight limit.

Now for step two of the grocery gauntlet: The check out. Finding the end of the line proved problematic, but I was able to deftly maneuver with my small red basked around the shopping carts to secure my place in line. My friend joined me in the queue to chat away the waiting time. Suddenly, to my horror, someone pushing an overflowing shopping cart cut in line two spaces ahead of us. Then, even more horrifying, I heard a voice, much like my own (okay, it was mine) say, “Excuse me?!” Seriously, was I about to challenge a fellow bargain hunter over a few minutes of my time? I broke eye contact with the poor woman who was obviously lacking in social skills, not to mention morals, and ignored the transgression.

I finally made it to the checkout, paid thirteen dollars for thirteen items (thirteen items I didn’t really need and would never have bought at full price), and was on my merry way. It was time to head back to my attic. Sometimes we all have a little crazy in us and as I said upfront, I’m crazy about a bargain. 

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.