Posted: January 12, 2009
I’m making spaghetti sauce. The house smells acidic with wine and tomatoes and garlic. Cooking stimulates the senses, like when you wake in the middle of the night and lay listening to the clatter of far-away night noises projecting their life into the otherwise quiet moment.
Okay, I’m old enough to have experienced life, decade after decade, which is why I can make a heck of a good spaghetti sauce. I’ve raised two great children, now married, and a zoo of animals. (Uh, I wasn’t referring to the kiddos, but … ). Then a sweet man melted his son and grandchildren into mine, and altogether we have grown. Ours is a nest, like many in the world today, that blended our ingredients to remake life.
I’ve survived, even learned from death and life and death. These days, James and I live with yet another challenge that I just never saw coming years ago~caring for aging parents. This makes me a well-rounded person, right?
I’m naturally curious, and think about things a lot. Like, I love to watch people at the grocery store. Do you ever invent stories of how they live and why they choose to buy that little bitty roast instead of one that would make some nice sandwiches for the next day? That kind of stuff.
Like most women, I’ll ask questions that my husband, for instance, would never, even though he’ll hang close enough to hear the answer. I suspect guys just don’t want to appear unknowing. He will spend forty-five minutes walking up and down an aisle at a hardware store looking for a 3/4″ wood screw rather than grab the guy with the orange apron and ask him to point them out.
Perhaps he doesn’t realize people love to be the one with the answers. It’s human nature. To ask is engaging.
Posted: June 8, 2022
Everybody has their own style of mowing. Well, those of us who mow. Because I’m an outside kind-of-a-gal, I actually like this kind of activity. I learned early on it’s the only place a mother can go that children won’t follow once they’re old enough to know mowing is work. Of course, that was before I had a riding mower.
In fact, when I bought my first lawn mower, the only thing I could afford didn’t have an engine. But one good thing about it was that I didn’t have to buy gasoline either. It was an antique rotary kind of mower that locked up on every twig or stone it rolled over, and it cost a whopping $25. When my neighbor wanted me to join her health club, I offered my mower instead. If I couldn’t afford a lawnmower with an engine, why would I spend $50 a month to watch myself sweat in wall-to-wall mirrors? Not a pretty picture.
Her mouth had flopped open, her face a blank. "Why would I do that? I don’t mow." In fact, my own mother once challenged me: Where did you come from?
But in the end, I peeled off more pounds in an afternoon than she did in a month. Whacking grass with a sickle would have probably been easier. Walk, swish, step, swish, like using an emory board to manicure the grass. They used to cut it that way, you know.
One day I graduated to a brand new mower-–still the rotary kind like the one for 25 bucks, only this one had an engine mounted on top at an additional cost of a mere $300. How I hated pulling on that rope to start the thing. The blades still clogged with the tiniest stick or rock. Blat! Nothing could make it go until I turned off the mower and rolled it over like scratching a kitty’s belly. I’d have to back up the blades until whatever blocked it could be pulled free, and that wasn’t easy. Still, I continued my lifestyle of mowing because it gave me pause in its noisy quietude. But that was a long time ago.
My first riding mower came to me used at the slashed price of $100. It was an old heap of a Snapper mower, and mowing felt like dancing, because each wheel worked individually as the tires flowed over the terrain. It took more money to keep it running than a new mower would’ve cost. But, that machine set my sights on a bigger, better, more powerful mower whose seat wasn’t slathered and pinched me through my shorts in all the wrong places. I dreamed of a mower that would cut a wider swath, spin around a tree, preen the yard like a sculptor works clay. And, I would never return to the push-pull-cuss mower ever again.
I am married to a man who appreciates his working wife. One day he took me shopping for my very own brand-new lawnmower. He realizes you have to keep your wife in good equipment. Funny, that's the kind of shopping we do together. While I don’t need him with me to buy his socks and t-shirts, he needs to take me alongside to pick out exactly the right lawnmower. Color aside, he had in his mind exactly what I wanted.
We drove to the local John Deere dealership and scratched around on the shiny, wild green/flamboyant yellow machines. I had an eye for the Z-trak 757 all-terrain, sunbathing-style mower...zero-turn radius with triple rotating blades that cut a 52″ path. Did I mention we mow a few acres? It takes both of us riding on four wheels, taking the corners on a two-wheel tilt to get ‘er done.
At John Deere they teach you how to drive their equipment right in the shop.
"Get on it," the salesman told me. "Try ‘er out."
"Where?" I asked. We were in the middle of a warehouse.
"Right here," he said.
I took out two giant boxes that were stacked in my way--you should've seen those guys scatter. I mean, didn’t that salesman say, Always run a mower full throttle? Yes, he did. It had power I had only imagined. When we left we had set the delivery date for. . . immediately.
So the Z-trak 757 followed us home like a puppy. Now, if I have to stop fast, that dog barks. It'll take a fresh-planted peach tree out...well, unexpectedly.
There's a little learning curve to get the feel of it. I've mowed down a fence, sideswiped the shop, took out a couple of paint buckets, and outran a mad bumblebee, all in high gear. James tells me to slow it down, but that’s not my style. The faster you go, the cooler the breeze under my sunglasses.
The wonderful thing about mowing is that it’s mindless–I can think and plan and sort all my thoughts, talk to myself and nobody talks back. Just perusing Z-trak tire imprints on a fresh-cut lawn gives me a satisfying feeling. The trail, the yard, the chopped-grass scent so enticing I want to hang around outside, throw something on the grill, and kick back to admire my work. The grass stretches and yawns like it just got a good haircut. It’s my way.
I took three granddaughters, ages 11, 14, and 17, to a waterpark for a couple days of chill, to escape the Texas heat, a short vacation from parents. It didn't matter that summer storms followed us there; the resort was an enclosed year-round water park that had three zippy slides, a lazy river, and waterfalls you could pull down upon yourself at any moment. There were tons of things to wear the kids down , for even toddlers to climb on, though we were well past that stage. But it was the lush outdoor pool that caught my eye.
Day One: We stood under the park's alcove awaiting the ten minutes when the park would open. The youngest eyed the Kona Ice truck—that’s snow cones, for anyone who doesn't recognize the brand. Wrist bands secure, patience slipping, the middle girl began reading the list of park rules, ending loudly: "All tots must wear water-proof diapers?"
It seemed we'd all had at least one experience with tots in saggy bottom swimming drawers. Water-proof swimming diapers? Rubber pants over a diaper were what my generation had. Though the stories weren't worth repeating, they all took a stab at it: The 17-YO told us her friend had worked at a pool last summer and related how they had to close down several times a day for cleanup. The 14 -year old wanted to know how such a diaper could catch everything, which led to a discussion about what happened before waterproof diapers were invented: Pool closures. Overnight filtering.
The youngest gripped her towel tighter.
Doors opened and the scuttle began. We passed through the metal counters, found a table and chairs and set up a station, of sorts. The waterpark inside smelled like 98.7 degrees of filtered chlorine. It was hot and humid in the inner sanctions, and I knew how a tarantula felt inside a glass terrarium. Each girl took stock of the mega-playground, then flopped their bathing suit covers on the table, slapped towels over the chairs, and kicked flip-flops under. We were an organized mess. "Stay together," I began, but they were gone. Gee, I love this age.
I settled in a chair. Crazy kids of every age ran back and forth in every direction wrapped in lazy river plastic inner-tubes or float vests, a parent trailing or directing.
"Conner, come back here!" A grandmother chirped as she chased a small boy. "Conner, don't climb that ladder!" as he scurried up the pirate ship gang plank. "No, this way," she yelled. What the hey! I wanted to say. They build this stuff for you and me. That's why we pay the bucks to get in here and turn them loose.
She caught up with the toddler at the slippery slide. "Come down, now.” She spread out in the ankle-deep water ready to catch him if he fell from the safety netting that nothing could penetrate. "Right now, I say!" She extended her hands as he slid through the water.
I leaned in. Was he wearing waterproof swimming diapers?
My girls floated past on the lazy river, and I tossed my wrap, grabbed an inner-tube at the stairwell, and slunk into water that was a people perfect temperature. Drawing my feet in, I let the water sweep me along. The girls chattered and giggled in front of me, talking such gibberish that the words soared over my shoulders. Kids talk so fast these days! I saddled my sunglasses back on my head and relaxed, drifting like a log among this sea of kids and guardians.
The girls turned to me and pointed to enormous slides that filled the airspace above. Just as quickly the were scurrying up, up, up the stairs. Then up, up, up another set of stairs. Next they're flying from the gaping mouth of a tunnel into my pool of fresh water in giggles and screams, then dash up the steps to do it again.
My middle granddaughter met me on her next trip down: "It's so much fun! Come with me!” she says to me. “You'll love it.” I don’t do roller coasters because I don't love it. "We'll take the double tube," she assures. "and I’ll go with you.”
"Okay," I say unenthusiastically.
We each carry a tube handle up four sets of stairs. I look down from the top; it’s a long way to the ground. I see Conner in a race to the pirate-ship kiddy-slide again, his grandmother in tow, again, and wish I were there.
I could not stop the shriek, or the slide. It's dark in the tunnel and I can't see the kid attached to me. I scream through the turns and the twists, and they aren't screams of joy. We spill out into a stretch of calm pool and float across. My legs are still flaying in the air. I try to raise out of the tube but I can't get my feet on the ground. My body doesn't bend like it used to. I can’t roll out of it either. I'm stuck. “Get me outta this thing,” I cry, but the darling grandchild is doubled over in such a gut wrenching belly laugh that she can't stop to help me. The fun is over.
With one hand she clutches the inner tube handle, with the other she locks arms with me and pulls. I try to roll with it, but without footing, I have no leverage, no style, no poise. I slosh like a whale into the water, gurgle a bucket of water, and sputter to the surface. She loses it; I can hear her from underwater.
Grace is one of those things you leave behind when you try to do things to please your grandkids. “Oh, Mimi.” She's laughing and gasping for breath as I flail to the surface, then buckles over. “Oh, Mimi. Oh, Mimi. You’re so funny.” Then runs off to catch up the others.
Day Two: Today, I will sit under an umbrella at the outdoor pool that adjoins the water park. The girls can do their thing inside ‘til their guts fall out for all I care.
All the lounge chairs are taken except two, which are tucked under a nice, shady umbrella—a pretty good spot, except for the swarming honey bees.
“There's bees!” the kiddo’s scream because they've followed me in case there's something they're missing.
Honey bees used to live in the tree in our back yard, and we all lived harmoniously together for years and years until a ferocious wind took down the tree and everything in it. “Leave them alone. Don't swat at them. They’ll go away. They’re just swigging down the last of the Kona Ice Snow Cone syrup someone spilled on the chairs.” They looked doubtful. “Go get a cupful of pool water," I said. "Wash the syrup off the chairs and the bees will be gone.”
A couple’a boys are playing baseball…plastic bat, rubber ball, designated bases cleared at the shallow end. I’m watching those boys like a…uh…grandmother, in case their mothers are not. Their rules are, whoever misses the ball has to go in and get it—among sharks! They were pretty good. Most of the balls were caught, until they weren’t. A dad shouts at his kids, “Hey! Watch that lady!”
Pow! Too late. I caught one in the ribs from where I lounged. Everybody turned and looked. I smiled, waved, gave ‘ol Dad the Okay sign: thumb and forefinger. I’m a nice grandmother. Until I’m not.
A slight little grandma waltzed through the gate herding three active teen boys. As they ran through, she hollers hoarsely, “No fighting! Stop running," and to the oldest, "Leave him alone...Lawrence, Wha’d I say?”
I love being a grandmother. Old enough to know better means I'm wiser, and owl-ish. One among many women who, every time someone yells, Mom! we all look up, especially the grandma's.
I notice the little grandmother lady is moving cautiously through the water toward my end of the pool, toward her three boys who are standing on the bank not far from me. She's wearing skinny sunglasses that barely clear the water and a sun hat that doesn't look like one meant to be wet.
“No backflips,” she calls out meekly. Her words might’ve been underwater. Each of the boys takes a turn at executing a perfectly flawless backflip for all the pool viewers. I cut my eyes to Grandma. “Is anybody hungry?” she tries again.
Another rubber ball whizzes past, bounces under my chair, and rolls to the fence behind me. Again, everybody looks up. I retrieve the ball and toss it back. “You’re welcome,” I smile. What’d he expect me to do, eat it? I should be a life guard. It’s not storming but It’s raining, and all the kids climb out of the pool because rain water is very wet.
It’s noon. I think I hear the Margarita bell.
Little grandma in the skinny sunglasses must’ve given up because she disappeared for a while. But now, I see she's walking toward me carrying a tall umbrella-drink. There are bandaids up and down both shins. It’s noon for her, too. Nearby, she moves a chair, hesitates. I invite her to share my shade, and that makes her happy.
“I saw that, Tommy!" her rasping voice whoops, "Tommy! Quit!” She scoots her chair under the umbrella. I want to ask, What’s for supper.
Turns out she has cancer and is taking chemo every day. As we chat I assess her as a very vibrant woman. Her dad lived to be 98, and her mother 102. And despite any setbacks, she intends on going on a cruise this September with her friend.
There are many people-watchers in the world, I'm merely one casual observer. Differences make me wonder. I try to understand how their inner clocks work.
Bandaids. I saw myself in her.
Don't smash a mosquito on a glass shower door.
Posted: July 13, 2010
My daughter rolled small slices of banana in finely smashed graham cracker crumbs and placed them in front of her 10-month old. “It's easier for her to grab hold of them,” she explained.
“That’s so clever,” I said. “I never thought of doing that. I think I handed you the whole banana as soon as your hand was big enough to hold it. But,” I added quickly, “I pulled the peel halfway down.” She glanced at me in what I thought was wonder.
Parenting is so different today, so exacting, so foreign. New mothers don't want to hear how you did things.. I take several deep breaths, then when I’m just shy of hyper-ventilating it all comes tumbling out: a suggestion, like, shoes for her tiny feet, for instance. I mean, I’m all for bare feet; I kick my shoes off most anywhere. I wear my flip-flops spring to fall. But I’m not learning to stand, to walk. And, what if it were winter? All new mothers have their generation-style book. If it’s a desperate moment, dial up somebody whose last name ends, M.D. At last resort, call a friend, preferably one with a baby herself.
When I was raising children, my go-to book was First Twelve Months of Life. I read it constantly, anticipating motor skills one by one, and delighted as each proved true. My parents gave me their turn of the century baby-raising book-–a huge blue book stained with tears. I told my mother, “I don’t need that. Things have changed. Nobody does that any more.”
She told me back, “Well it was good enough to raise you. And you turned out all right.”
Uh, should we have that discussion? What would I be arguing against? So I took the book home and buried it out of sight--a place that’s never seen light.
But, here’s the thing–I know now what I couldn’t have known back then: I know how my parents felt. As a new grandmother, now, I’m thoroughly re-educated about new baby products, new designs, even new colors; did you know we have new colors in the world? And they say the world is round. (I want to hear from you grandma’s out there!)
Mommies have gone back to cloth diapers with a slightly different twist...they're inserted in a rubber panty. I hate them. They're such an aggravation to stuff together. And everybody’s breast-feeding now! I'm so happy about that. It’s all the rave with doctors. Believe it, gals, there was the time not so very long ago when no doctor, at least in Tacoma, WA., wanted a mother to breast feed!Their reason: because you don't know exactly how much the baby is consuming. Doctors could look you in the eye and tell you that! I remember the tears when I couldn’t find a doctor who supported my determination to breast feed in 1976.
Just wait twenty or thirty years, young mom’s, when your precious babies have babies of their own and they come home one day to instruct you, “Mother! Any doctor will tell you that the only cradling a baby should have is by their personal robots. A human might drop them, you know. Really.”
But milk will continue to flow from the breast, and babies will always need a diaper. A day arrives when those little pearly whites break through one by one, and that’s nature’s way of introducing solids. They roll, then crawl; one day they stand on their feet and soon after, they take off. And there’s no holding them back. Those little feet will seek out the world as soon as they’re able. And that’s the way it’s supposed to be.
Posted: May 23, 2010 in Home Page
Three years ago I discovered a special gift for special people: a bra fitting.
No, I wouldn’t pick out anybody’s bra for them any more than I’d buy them lipstick. I know lots of busty women, and I’ve found that a gift certificate for a bra fitting is special and unique and so . . . fitting.
For Mother’s Day, I gave my mother-in-law a gift certificate for The Maddox Shop, a Dallas specialty foundations store. Do they still call them foundations? How generic! Sure, there’s plenty of other things I could have gotten her, she’s happy with anything. Wait! Back up. I’d never give Daisy a gift-massage, for instance. While I, myself, would ooh and aah over that, I can’t imagine trying to get her up off the table afterwards! I’d have to call the fire department to roll her out. I hoped she’d be pleased with a new bra just her size. Miss Daisy is very short and a bit round–umm, top-heavy, which is why I thought a bra fitting would give her, well, a lift.
A very mentally alert 90-year old, Daisy still lives alone and takes care of her own business. She’s connected to life through the telephone. On a quiet evening, she’s not above pushing that little button on her Medic-Alert, accidentally, you know, to gaze into the air to listen to voices soar through the rooms: "Are you all right, Miss Daisy?"
Giggle. Daisy’s motor skills only work when she’s sitting down. If she could move her little feet like those nimble fingers work the television remote, we’d get a lot done in a day, she and I. But today would be the big bra day, I mean, the day of her fitting.
I pulled right in front of the specialty store, which is a stroke of luck for many reasons–all to do with 90 years. Close is good. I unpack her walker, pull Daisy from the car in what seems like slow-motion, and set her in the direction I want her to walk. One thing I’ve learned: never ask a question when Daisy's moving. She has to stop and think how to answer. I might as well takes seat the curb.
I give her time to get her legs going, then condense my words into clipped orders that she doesn't have to think over or that require a response, “Here, I’ll carry your purse. Step up here. We’re movin’ now! Left, scoot the walker, right, scoot, left, scoot, right. Hold on right there,” I tell her. “Let me get that door. Okay, I’ve got it, let’s go.” I wait while she shuffles through, and stops on the threshold. She takes it all in: the lace, the sheeny fabric, the colors. I urge her forward but we're clinging. I hover across her with my arm outstretched to hold open the door as Daisy stands frozen in the spot. How could I have forgotten, she always stops in doorways! If I let go, things would certainly move.
“Go, go, go, go,” I tell her, nicer than that. The saleslady is standing to the side, arms folded, watching her air conditioning fly out the open door.
I keep a steady eye on Daisy’s feet, and notice her left foot cupped just under the floor mat. “Stop,” I command. “Look at your feet, you’re getting tangled up in that mat.” That alerts the saleslady, who comes rushing over to assist. Daisy looked down at her feet, backs off one step, shakes the foot loose, then manages to place her right foot under the mat where the left had been. “Stop,” I say again, “Look at your right foot–you’re going to trip. Back up, back up.” We’ve made twenty steps in ten minutes. Not bad.
Once inside, Daisy goes goo-goo over hundreds of bras lining racks and shelves in an array of lace and silk and colorful florals. Hers will certainly be a solid bra, not unlike one who must wear sensible shoes, she knows, but still she stops to fondle a black and red bustier, and giggle. I imagine there was a day it would have been just right. It’s hard to get her moving again–if her eyes are working, her feet are not.
God love her, we’re being ushered to a large dressing room in the rear of the store. For thirty minutes we glide that ‘away, stopping frequently to brush against softness and wonder at the figures who would wear them. She’d comment, “My, my, that’s sure pretty.”
The saleslady is Jenny. Jenny sits Daisy down, and the fitting commences. I remove myself from the dressing room, wander through the store, feeling fabric, touching silks.
I hear Jenny through the walls. “Now, Miss Daisy, take off your shirt, but leave on your bra.” My mother-in-law, a retired nurse, is not shy. In fact, she’s rather proud. Much scuffling and mumbling later, she says, “Now you can take off your bra. I’ll be right back.”
We all pile into the room to ooh over the fit, the soft beige, the shine, the style, the shoulder straps, and yes, the perk. Jenny fastened her in back, then looks at her plainly. “Fix yourself.” There are things one needn’t instruct a woman about how to put on a bra. Daisy reaches in to pull herself front and center, singing, “You put your right ___ in, you put your left __ in, you put your right ___ in, and you shake it all about . . . that’s what it’s all about.” Giggle.
Thrusting her head forward, she squints into the mirror for a solid stare. The entire fitting doesn’t take as long as you would imagine because Jenny hauls the bras in just Daisy's size.
“Get two,” I suggest. “Your gift certificate is enough for two.”
“No, just one,” she answers. “I’ll save it for my dresses.” It wasn’t long for me to discover why she just wanted one bra–she'd had an eye for the robes. She picked a pink striped, snap-down-the-front duster. “My, my, that’s pretty.” She managed to spend her gift certificate just fine.
You might wonder why I don’t bring her in a wheelchair. But that’s no fun–then there would be no story.
Posted: May 17, 2019
She works at a discount store. We didn’t actually meet, she and I, but her badge told me her name was Alice, and, of course, my ID told her all about me. By the time I walked away from Alice’s cashier’s line, I had sized her up.
I'd already tackled one store associate to ask, “How ’bout your coupon matching policy, . . . do you . . .blah, blah, blah, blah.”
No problem.
The associate instructed me how it worked, which I now repeated to Alice, who stepped in my face to tell me it didn’t apply.
I ruffled newspaper ads in her bay, then outright fluffed the paper to show the circled ads. “So and so over there,” I pointed. “told me I could take your store brand in exchange for this store’s brand as long as it was the same size.” My bold and assertive resolve perked its ugly head.
Alice whipped my groceries off her counter, and in a show of sour boredom, acknowledging me for the first time. “Well they’d never do that where I’m from!” She rang up the ad’s price.
I felt like I needed to say something, “Where are you from?”
“Pennsylvania.” Still no smile, no voice infliction, no arching eyebrows or searching eyes. And no explanation.
I shifted my weight on the other foot. “Oh, have you been here long?” I asked cheerily.
“Yeah, almost a year.” She continued ringing up the groceries without looking up.
“Do you like it here?”
“It’s okay. Hot. This store isn’t like ours in Pennsylvania, I can tell you that for sure.”
“What brought you to Texas?” We were becoming blooming buds now, I figured.
“My son lives here. He’s sick.” I could see the gloom that surrounded her.
Alice remained on my mind, until, one day, I forgot her. Weeks later, I waited in the truck while James ran into that same store for a quick item. He returned, mentioning that the lines were long and he expected to have to wait and wait, but an associate opened another register and grabbed him first, telling him, “You don’t want in that line anyway. She’s a grouch.” He chuckled.
When he said that, I knew. “Oh, you’re talking about Alice. She’s from Pennsylvania and she’s only been here a year. She came because her son lives here, and he’s in bad health.”
James looked at me blankly.
I smiled, shrugged, “Her name is Alice, she transferred here. And she is a grouch. She thinks Texas’ summers are hot.”
The next time I went through Alice’s register, I smiled and greeted her. She didn’t know me from a skin tag, but I knew her, and started chatting. “It’s stormy outside. Good thing we’re in here because it’s just started pouring. I guess we need this rain . . . blah, blah, blah.”
She wasn’t chatty in return. My stuff sacked, she said, “Oh, yeah, I have to ask this: do you want to contribute $1 for this?” She shoved a brochure to me and looked at me frankly.
“Sure,” I said. Alice added $1 to my bill and handed me my receipt. I slicked up my brightest smile and thanked her, adding that I hoped she would have a wonderful day. I think that was supposed to be her line...I should get a job here!
Now ‘a days I go out of my way to go through Alice’s register whenever I see her working. She challenges me. There’s a deep, empty well there, and I want to pour something into it. Why do I care for her to find a piece of happiness somewhere, somehow. Why does it matter to me for her to think Texas people are friendly? Why do I want to see her smile? Smiles are contagious. Who knows that she won’t take one home and give it to her son.
Posted: February 23, 2010
Occasionally I find myself in a pair of knee highs, trouser, or boot socks that creep and slip. It never happens at home. Only when I'm entering an office, a store, or take a long walk through a field does the elastic go Poof! Why? Why? Why?
I dip low to pull them up from where they’ve sunk to my shoes, readjust every six steps, and have to wonder if little urchins are running alongside me playing with my socks, giggling as I tug on the nylon, rolling post-humorously on the grass, holding their hurting stomach muscles to watch me scoot to a corner drug store in short strides, knees holding up thigh-highs. It’s not the kind of thing you need to mention at work, “Oh, dang-it! My stockings won’t stay put.”
Which makes me think about my friend who walked alongside her visiting mother, years and years ago, in front of Sanger-Harris, then a huge department store in downtown Dallas. They were just killing time before they would meet her dad’s plane at DFW airport--a time when people met passengers at the actual-factual terminals.
The hot Texas summer was a beast that day. A nice fountain sprayed a refreshing mist into the air on that particular corner. The lunch hour brought multitudes of businessmen and women hustling through the streets, dressed to the suit, walking two and three abreast, so Mary Anne and her mom strolled closer to the revitalizing, authentic Texas cement pond.There was no edge or dividing wall that dammed the water inside a hold...no ring or guard or housing for the lapping, cool water. Just a smooth indenture in the ground which licked the hot cement with water.
There was no warning that the lovely green water was lush with algae growth. She never meant to swim in the Sanger-Harris fountain in downtown Dallas on that July day, but when the tip of her toe met a sweep of water, her mother went down with one knee planted firmly in the pond. Her hair was nicely fixed, she’d just had it coiffed in anticipation of her husband’s arrival from Michigan. The surprise of it all made Mary Anne chuckle as she grabbed for her mother’s hand, careful to keep her feet lodged on dry land.
Mother had worn her nicest polyester slacks to comb Dallas, but as she struggled to regain a foothold her other foot slipped, and she slid in those slick slacks backwards on four limbs into knee-high water. Crawling toward the bank, she lost her balance, thrashed once, twice, three times, and rolled onto her back.
Mary Anne could not stifle her laughter, and wrenched her guts while her mother flared in the algae, muddying up their corner of the pond, the street. Dear, she was helpless to get her out.
People stopped to watch.
With no strength left to pull her forward, Mary Anne’s mother tossed her purse upward, toward the embankment, hoping against hope that Mary Anne would grab hold so she could pull her in like a fish. Although it dredged the bottom, it created enough lift so that Mary Anne could catch hold of her mother’s soaking, algae-smeared, now-transparent shirt. Her hair, mottled with particles of the undersea, hung flat on top her ears. She crab-crawled through the water, but on the slick algae she slipped deeper again, like a rip tide pulling a body out to sea.
Mary Anne couldn’t help it--with the energy of a marshmallow, she doubled over in hysterics. Her mother broke nails clawing her way forward, and Mary Anne finally managed to hook one knee when her mother flipped over and a slender leg came bounding through the air.
I don’t remember where I was that day, probably tucked away in my downtown office, my trouser socks sliding slouthfully with each step, all the way down to my feet.
Mary Anne and her mom made it to the parking lot, to the car, to DFW airport to greet the man who simply raised his eyebrows when they met him at the terminal.
I think it was a full moon that day, creating low tide, and slippery, sliding things.
Posted: January 13, 2009
“I’m hungry,” my three-year old granddaughter told me.
“Well I guess you should be. It’s lunchtime, and you didn’t eat much of your oatmeal this morning.” She had the snuffles and came to spend the day with me, away from pre-school day-care.
“MiMi, what do you have to eat?”
“I’m making home-made spaghetti. Yum.”
“But I don’t like pasketti.”
“Ooooh. This is Mimi’s spaghetti. You’ll love it.”
“No. I don’t like it.” She shook her head, hair flew like on a rag-doll.
I tried again. “Your daddy loves my spaghetti.”
“My daddy?”
“Um-hum. He loves it.”
“But I don’t.”
“So what do you like? Here’s some steak from supper last night. Wow. That was good.”
“I don’t like steak.”
“Mm. What’s wrong with steak?”
“I don’t like it.”
“Well, how about some stew?” I bent low and rummaged through the refrigerator, pulling it out. “I know you’ll like this.
“No.”
“What do you like?
“Can I give the dogs a treat?”
“Sure. Make them sit.”
“Can I have one?”
“No. People don’t eat dog treats." Unless it’s absolutely necessary.
“But dogs eat people food.”
I couldn’t argue with that! “That’s different. They eat...everything.”
“What do you have?” she pressed.
“I told you. Spaghetti. Steak. Stew." I opened the pantry. "What do you want? I can open a can of soup. You like soup. Soup tastes good when you don’t feel well.”
“No. I don’t want soup.”
"It’s not home-made but I’m sure you’ll love it.” I opened the can and poured chicken noodle soup into a pan, and added water.
“I don’t want soup.”
“Chicken noodle soup is easy on your tummy when you don't feel good.” I lifted her in my arms and we stirred the noodles in the pan. “Oh boy!” I was pushing canned soup even though I never had to act excited over noodles with my own children
“Mimi. What else do you have?”
“I have crackers you can dip in the soup.” I pulled six crackers out of a sleeve and arranged them beautifully on one side of the plate. “What color bowl do you want, pink or brown?
“Pink.”
“Right, because you’re wearing a pink sweat suit!” She looked down at her clothes and across at the bowl filled half-way to the top. “Ummm. Smell that chicken soup! Look at those fat noodles floating around like little caterpillars, just waiting for you to gobble them down. Eejuph.” It had been a long time since I’ve had to argue with a three-year-old about food.
Later.
“So how was it? Ooh, you ate it all! See, I knew you’d like that. She looked from me to Harley, the terrier who hovered beside her, a noodle hanging from his lips. “Hmmm. How about a juice box to go with those noodles, you little weasel dog.”
Who won?
What Did You Do Today?
Posted: June 21, 2020 in Home Page
Tags: beets, Bell pepper, canning, Companion planting, garden, gardening, green beans, Home, Plant, Seedling, sow, Vegetable
Who does this anymore? Canning, I mean. Really, who?
I’m drawn to my garden like a kid to mud. It’s work...back-bending. But I happily pamper those little seedlings through early spring and into summer for that first BLT sandwich that is going to drip with tomato!
From humble beginnings, through armies of caterpillars, slugs, aphids and beetles, I will nurture those tomato plants to death, until the only way they can go is up.
If you get your nails done, you probably won’t be gardening or canning vegetables. After pickling 22 pints of sweet beets, you can imagine how my fingers look. If you don’t get up at by six in the morning to water or pick or prune, you’re not going to have those beautiful cucumbers to plan a meal with.
And that’s why I can. Because I can!
Posted: November 20
Who doesn’t love a good auction? The bling, the crap, the undefined. I follow family footsteps when it comes to auctions, so what I buy is not my fault.
Auctioneers recognize us, size us up when we walk through the door--a glint in our eye? They send somebody into a back room and scoop up all the stuff that didn't sell the week before. They recognize, 'caught up in the moment'. I was put on a mailing list of upcoming events. I haven’t heard from him in quite some time, like ten years. Did I fall from favor? Or perhaps he felt I might still be busy with the four grocery carts of wallpaper he sold me, which I gleefully loaded one roll after another into my truck, visualizing the potential of redecorating my entire house for $25.00. That’s back when the world was stuck on wallpaper.
The main bathroom was my first target. I ran everybody out of the house so I could concentrate on my project. In the first panel, I noticed mis-prints and uneven stamping of the pattern. I unfurled another roll–the same. That auctioneer's reason for eliminating me from the mailing list was coming to light--Let's throw that stuff in the auction...I just saw a lady who's looking for a project--
I ripped down the paper and started again, but each roll had a problem--weeping dye, uneven vertical stripes, blurry spots. Only one roll out of 248. My mother-in-law asked me to paper a couple walls in her house. I found enough of one pattern to do that, and it turned out nice. I found several rolls of another to give a friend who papered her kitchen just before it went on the market. Okay, good, again. The pheasants over brazen-red became my laundry room design, a small room that I could close off in an emergency.
Wallpaper gets overdone in a house real fast, so we used it for BB target practice, plucking roosters off their perches, or blasting flower pedals with holes. We made wallpaper cut-outs and pasted or glued them to poster boards to specialize school projects, decorated shoeboxes, lined shelves–anything to use it up. The remaining 219 rolls were parked on the top rack in the shop, where it remained for many years. One day it left–just disappeared, and nobody missed it. I didn’t even ask.
How’s that different then when my mother bought half a truckload of gift wrap for $12. It was all pretty crummy and nobody wanted to wrap their gifts in any of it except the red paper with miniature white hearts which was perfect for Valentines Day. But how many gifts are given at Valentine's? So we made it work on Mother's Day...Secretary’s Day (though treading lightly there!), best-friends-forever day, here’s-a-box-of-cookies day, and tooth fairy boxes.
One time she used a roll of awful green gift wrap for a picnic tablecloth. Clever! we thought, until she peeled it up and the water and heat had caused the dye to bleed through onto the wood table, leaving it a remarkable blue-green, which actually turned out okay because it looked better than before.
Mom ridded our home of gift wrap in many ways, passing rolls out to anybody who knocked on the door. One time she put together sets of all the different wrapping paper, lashed them together with colorful twine and gave the sets for a community auction. The heart-paper gone and none of the other awful paper useful, somebody began sneaking a few rolls at a time out to the trash can, until the gift wrap, poof! just disappeared. She never asked.
It’s the twenty-two pair of stainless steel curved scissors that has followed me through the years. Curved scissors cut circles, and my bid picked up them all with one swift sweep on the cheap, cheap, cheap. Why would anybody need curved scissors, you ask? If you figure it out, I’ve got just the thing for you. Do curved scissors even work? All too well, but not for a straight line. Okay, okay, give me some credit. I bid on the lot just to get the single pair of regular, straight scissors in the bunch. Good scissors can be expensive, and I had to take them all--twenty-three pair-- to become the proud owner of the one...all for $2.00. I’ve taken a lot of heat over those curved scissors, trying to explain them over the years to anybody who opened that drawer and took them out. But when I have to cut a circle, I’m ready for it, and you’re not.
Posted: February 4, 2011 in Home Page
Here’s the mother of all cat-tales: Wingnut, my friend’s cat, is in training to use the toilet! We don’t have enough to do, right?
He probably he eats out of a crystal sherbet.
Wingnut is Marc and Linda’s handsome new black and white cat--black, with snowy-white feet and gleaming white whiskers that makes his face shimmer. Smart-looking, as if in tuxedo.
Before his life as Wingnut, he was a tiny, confident kitten tossed out on a country road by somebody who'd never felt a compassionate thought about how a kitten would survive in the fast-approaching winter. Marc and Linda claimed him as their own.
Even though he was being adopted as an airplane hangar cat, he listened carefully to all their conversation as they drove him to his new home. He decided he had to do something, fast. So, bundled in Linda’s arms, he did the only thing a kitten could do–he sneezed. The car stopped!
He smiled, knowing he had them where he wanted them. He would never soil his pretty white feet on the outside.
There’s actually a method to this training, and Wingnut is taking to it pretty well. He didn’t even need M&M’s for toilet training tools. Wingnut likes to sit; he knows ‘where to go’. I’ve learned he has his own bedroom, also his own bathroom, which means he has his very own toilet.
I will write about him again when he learns to use toilet paper.
Posted: January 23, 2015
Scrolling through a newspaper archive when I was stopped by a headline in a 1860’s edition: In Misery For Years.
Wha. . .? What could it mean?
At first impression, I figured, Okay, it’s probably a middle-aged man who’d lived with a nagging wife for forty years. He just couldn’t take it any more, and decided to disappear. Men did that even way back then. But first, as a mean and parting gesture, he left a note in the local newspaper.
The scoundrel. The scandal!
Or maybe a young woman had finally had enough of her badgering, controlling husband who managed her money and decided her social calendar–-who she saw and where she went. That could be miserable, especially if you had to ride a wagontrain over mountains just to sip hot tea and munch finger sandwiches on Monday and Thursday with people you don’t like! So she made a point to come out of her shell and tell everybody at once. That makes for tea-talk!
Perhaps it was an aging matron who'd never drawn a well breath in her life, and one day realized nobody even asked her any more, How are you feeling, Mable? I mean, who dared? People being people, Mable just needed to communicate her misery. She required understanding and empathy, right? Sick and tired can make you do something that makes others sick and tired.
Or worse, what if this was a act of last resort...a last statement after being pregnant and bare-footed year after year, constantly nauseous as six tots hung from her petticoat and followed her room to room all day long while the five uncontrollable teenage boys, whose help she tried to enlist, hung out under the street lamp at all hours of the night instead! Oh, I’d hate that. Talk about miserable.
There’s a strong possibility of bad luck that followed a man for many years. That happens. First he lost his job and had to depend on the good nature of his family, only to discover his Uncle Henry and Aunt Bert were home all along but didn’t answer the door when he came calling. Then his wife decided to go home to her mother and took the cat but left the kids. Whoa! How much misery can a man take?
What if a shy man loved a phoofey woman and he couldn’t tell her because he was so bashful. Or, he did tell her but she didn’t love him back. Maybe he was the gardener and pinned away over her tomatoes and zucchini and couldn’t get his weeding done because she was always tripping through the rose bushes and distracting him. Well, it could be-- .
Do you have a special misery you’d like to tell the world? I think I’ll go back and finish reading that article now.
Posted: May 23, 2011
Posted: May 8, 2014
Camping today is so civil. We drive our RV filled with books and blankets, a canned bathroom complete with its own permanent toothbrush, and hot running water at the push of a button. Frozen and refrigerated food awaits our plundering.
We find our reserved slot and pull onto a cement pad. It might take a little shifting to be perfectly level. Open the door and steps automatically extend.
I rearrange items on my little play-kitchen countertop while James pulls out the awning and sets up chairs and a table-et. Cozy? Here–let me fluff your pillow.
But I didn't always camp like this. In the 50’s and 60s it took so much preparation to camp that you just had to love it – or clearly need a get-away, not able to afford any other type of vacation. I always thought it was because we loved it.
Then when I was the one who had to pull the whole house together for a week of camping I learned: No wonder people just stay home to mow the lawn and plant flowers when they had a few days off work.
My family camped a lot. We camped with other families or without. My brother and I would hang out the car windows the closer we drew to the lake, our camp destination. We never fell out or got scraped off by an overhanging tree branch, even as half our bodies hung in mid-air.
When the car doors opened, so did the sock of sulphur--a powder-filled sock to kill the chiggers that would eat us alive. A good dusting over our legs, before the day was out it would be washed off in the lake seven times. By the next day our legs and arms would be bloodied from night-time scratching.
My mother always strung up a clothesline first, then arranged a picnic table with rocks to weigh down the tablecloth. My brother and I had to walk a wide circle to stomp down grass higher than my head, while Dad gathered wood for a fire. Any time of the year.
There were always towels hanging, always smelling of smoke. Our bathing suits never quite dried because we were constantly jumping in and out and back into them, an escape from the hot Texas sun. It was squeaky, pulling that wet bathing suit on, but we only had one.
The cooking took place over the fire. We had a kerosene stove, but my mom rationed its use to preserve the integrity of camping, whatever that was supposed to mean. She saved coffee cans all year long for this occasion. Back then coffee came in squatty tin cans sporting tight tin lids.
Dad did a lot of the cooking when we camped. He never opened as much as a drawer at home, but he really surprised us over a fire. Especially with the TV dinner he invented practically before the TV!
He’d place a large hamburger patty into each tin, stack onion and potatoes on top of that, salt and pepper it and put the lid back on. Then he'd bury them in the coals to bake. Wow, it smelled wonderful and we waited, all stupidly hungry. We each had our own.
We fished, we swam, we shot leaves off trees with our BB guns, declaring that the leaf we hit was just exactly the one we had intended to shoot. We slept on Army cots, rolled in a sheet.
Times got better, I guess, because my family started toting a boat. Instead of a packed trailer, we had a packed boat. And, now we owned some ski equipment as well. Thinking back, it might've been more a fishing boat than recreational, not powerful enough for a skier. Try as we might to stand on those skiis, pulling with might we didn't own, it dragged us through the water rather than pulling us up. By the end of the turn we’d be half drowned in lake water and still hanging on, too dumb to just let go, or unwilling to relinquish to the one next waiting. We slept well at night.
When dad took off to fish, mother’d yell, “Don’t come back without supper!” We knew he’d had luck when the woods smelled of fish frying.
Those were wonderfully awful, and awfully wonderful days. I wish them for you.
Posted: October 17, 2010
Being needed is very different from being wanted. I’m kind-of opinionated with my kids, and my opinions are not necessarily wanted, but my skills very much needed and the two get stuck together. Like, have you noticed that a working mom’s sense of humor is always the first to go?
So I was needed, and called, and I packed up my opinions and we all took off for the hour drive to my daughter’s house. My work-like-a-fool-from-home daughter needed a fill-in because she had both a dental appointment and an eye exam, scheduling everything the same day.
I played with my one-year old granddaughter, squealing right alongside her. We’d go outside and take our toys with us–they look so different in the sunlight. Swaying tree branches caught our attention, and the chirping birds made us look up, like it was the most unusual sound of the year.
She knows me well, my daughter; she’s more like me than she realizes. It makes me smile. I know that a mother’s work is never finished, just recycles to another day. Jes knows I can’t just stand around on my head like a brick, and when I’m not playing or feeding or changing the baby, I need something to do.
So when I arrive, I’m not at all surprised by the laundry scattered across the bed, like a welcome mat, in a spare bedroom. I know she probably stayed up late getting it all washed up. It’s true–I need to stay busy, and folding clothes and putting them in their places is the kind of thing I do well. I match and fold and hang what seems ninety-seven articles of clothes, not counting socks, and carry them to the appropriate rooms where I lay them lovingly in their nests.
I fold everybody’s socks into tight little wads just like they like them, and tri-fold boxers and tee shirts, then poke them into their drawers so that my son-in-law can pull them out one by one like sticky notes.
Roger always knows when I’ve been there: "Oh, I have undershorts in my drawer. Your mom’s been here." Or, "Oh, the laundry basket‘s empty–there’s no clothes in the dryer, the towels are in the linen closet–your Mom must have been here," or "Oh, my slacks are hanging on their hangers...Oh, there’s a bed under all those clothes! Oh, I don’t have to stand at the foot of that bed just to dress for work in the morning, or peck around for two socks that match;
"Oh, how I love my mother-in-law. . .”
Okay, okay, I’m embellishing!
Jes left for her appointment. My laundry done, the baby sleeping, I looked around for some other busy-task I might take on. I noticed a little dust on the furniture, and figured I’d do that. I couldn’t find a rag, so I peeled off a few paper towels and dusted and whistled like the gal on the commercial who makes hiring her so appealing.
I got to the television/stereo cabinet, and thought, Hm, what would that commercial gal do? Maybe I should leave that alone. What if I accidentally hit a button on the remote? or DVD? and changed a station to something like classical instrumental banjo, or Scottish jigs? Would Roger know? Would he!
Still, the dusty cabinet beckoned. I came perilously close to swiping my finger along it. My mothering, testy finger reached out. James did that to me once. He couldn’t resist drawing a short, thick line in the dust. Hadn't I decided we’d both learn something from that lesson: you can’t make me! I left his finger swipe there for a week–we both passed it fifty times each day before I calmed down, and very sincerely suggested that if he wiped his finger in the dust like that ever again, please make sure he got it all. I showed him where the dust cloths were kept.
I walked away.
Just then my sweet little grandbaby woke up, her pretty cheeks puffed out in a wide grin, a light of surprise shining in her eyes. She showed me that she wanted me, even if, today, she didn’t need me.
Posted: October 11, 2010
It’s raining outside; the morning sky is menacing. I’ve turned half the lights on in the house and dressed for work in mud-thick lampshade--the dark side to bad lighting.
I hate fluorescent lights. How many times did I walk into my office under 10,000,000 watts of fluorescent, buzzing tubes that always showcased the very worst in my attire, never spectacular to begin with. Though I appreciate lovely clothes, they’ve never topped my list of priorities or budget.
Fluorescent lighting makes bad clothing choice look worse. The problem is, when you dress in closet lighting, then move into fluorescent lighting, it really brings out the ugly--far from home.
It's all about the shades. So darned many shades of green, of red, of blue. And black?. Blue is impossible to match and is prone to fading. Red can be hilarious, very time-consuming. Green is like un-cloned yellow and blue hues, no two alike.
Fluorescents taught me a lesson the day I slapped on a dark green skirt and treated my legs to a pair of grotesque green opaque hose I’d never found a reason to wear before that day...it was a cold, winter day. I thought I was balanced. I only had to learn that lesson once.
I got through downtown, to my office, to my desk without knowing. I took off my coat off and sat down.
That's where my knees stuck out the end of my skirt, the stark color contrast made was suddenly made even worse when nobody said, Uh, who dressed you? I wasted no time putting my coat back on, and took off for the nearest drug store to buy a pair of hose for a quick fix. Lesson learned.
I don’t recall hearing cries of foul from environmentalists about the dangers of fluorescent tubes and bulbs! How they’re packed with mercury, posed to create a different landfill problem for America since fluorescent tubes have enough mercury in them that they require special handling and disposal. What? You didn’t know? They can’t be tossed in a waste basket.
They can’t be tossed in a waste basket. How many people do you know that actually tote them away for recycling? People are hard to educate if they’re asked to change their lifestyle.
More importantly, I can pinpoint the time I realized fluorescent lights were the culprit of my tired-eye syndrome at the end of each workday. Offices hum with neutrons and neon ohms. It took me a long time to blame fluorescent lighting, until it occurred to me that my eyes were fine every weekend!
I don’t even like to spell fluorescent. It’s kinda phonetic, but not enough. Thank you, spell-check.
So perhaps I can say I don’t use fluorescent light bulbs because there are irresponsible people all over the world with eye-aches, who dress funny, who simply dispose of their fluorescent bulbs in the easiest, quickest possible way, and smash tubes live with mercury into trash containers, but wouldn’t dare consume a fish from the ocean. They threaten our land fills and poison the ground water through rain downpours, to enter our streams and rivers. The contaminants eventually make their way into the ocean awash with little fish swimming around gobbling them up, and are soon glowing, filled to the gills with shimmer and shine. They can’t even spell fluorescent.
I hate fluorescent lighting and I dress like I want to. I’m comfortable in my blue jeans, which fade naturally between washings and the glorious sunshine!
Posted: December 4, 2010
I marched in the house with a gift for James, “I got you some hand-mitts for the grill,” I handed them over. “A pair.”
“Ah, yeah, I needed those.” He stuck one on his right hand, but turned the other around in his hands. “Why’d you get two rights?” he asked.
“Whadayamean?”
“They’re both right-handed gloves.” He held them up in front for me to see. Clearly, only one fit.
I looked from him to them, from them back to him. “Turn one upside down.” He turned it over and put it on upside down. “Left. Right. See?” I smiled.
“That makes all the batting on the top side of the left mitt.” He complained.
“I suppose if we had to, we could each wear one and work together.” I said.
“Yeah, I could pick up one side of the hot pan with my right hand and you could pick up the other side with your right hand and we can march side by side into the house with a fiery hot pan between us. And if we have to fling hamburgers, we can . . .”
I shrugged. “They were on sale. I had a coupon.”
He couldn’t help saying it again, “I hope you never have a coupon for charm snakes, or a Gila monster. I, I, I just don’t think I could. . .”
I don’t shop a lot, but I love to run across a good deal. James has never told me what not to buy, but he doesn’t use everything I’ve brought him. Like, I bought him this great smelling aftershave. Just last week, my nose wrinkled half in two. I asked what aftershave he’d just put on. He pointed to the stuff I’d bought. “But that stuff stinks!” I told him. “Throw it away, it’s rancid.”
Not every coupon works. Still, how do I know I won’t run into somebody who needs something just like the two right-handed gloves, for instance? Wouldn’t they be surprised! Wouldn’t they think I’d shopped the ends of the earth and found something that fit them exactly?
I mean, I know a woman who has two different size feet, of a considerable difference. She has to buy two sets of the same shoe to make a pair. Now what if she had a buy one-get one free coupon. Would that not make total sense to buy your shoes when you have a buy-one-get-one-free coupon? Of course, that’s not like having two left feet, but it would apply the same.
A shoe salesman discovered her one day and matched her with another customer who had the same problem, but reversed. No kidding! So when one or the other lady bought a pair of shoes, the salesman called up the other of them who had the opposite feet-difference problem and they bought the other set. Wow. What a salesman.
Maybe takes a strange kind of savvy–coupon shopping. More than anything, I’m challenged by it. Really, I’m pretty conservative when it comes to using coupons. I don’t save just any ‘ol coupon–only the products I use faithfully. Or there may be an occasional product I want to try–I buy it once, and if it’s no good, I don’t bother with that coupon ever again, like the after shave. Phew.
Last week James questioned me thoroughly about a coupon that came in the mail for 60% off a watch. He’s even thinking he might need another. See what I mean? Proof positive that the deals are out there.
What’s your latest coupon buy?
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