Tag Archives: Family

Won’t be long ’til frost.

By Posted in Uncategorized Tagged , , 6 Comments

Never does a June 21 roll around that I don’t think of my dad intoning, deep-voiced and ponderous, “Longest day of the year…won’t be long until frost.”

This year his prediction, if he were here to make it, would be even more true than usual. Our long winter, shortened spring, and confused bloom times have made it seem as if it should be autumn already.  Local schools closed for summer vacation just yesterday! They’ll reopen August 18, a mere eight weeks away. School buses will be rumbling past our house again before long.

Dad would agree with Al Gore (even if he is a Democrat) that we have caused global warming. He knew for certain-sure that sending men to the moon would cause the oceans to rise, hurricanes to increase, tornadoes to rip across the land.  Good thing women didn’t go on those moon missions because he’d have had a whole lot more to say about that!

Come the winter solstice, he always announced, “Won’t be long until time to cut the grass.” And he was right.  No sooner did the snow fall than the mower came out of the garage. Time zipped by faster’n’ a speeding bullet.

Nowadays time goes faster still!  All my friends of similar age — past “middle” but not yet “elderly” — agree that time has a mind of its own and it ain’t gonna hang around long enough for us to catch up.  Recently I’ve been shocked to hear young people say they think time flies too.  When I was young, time didn’t even move.

This phenomenon must be related to the many ways people “stay connected.” Cell phones weren’t enough, no-o, now we have twitter, tweets, instant infamy on YouTube, and SnapChats. No wonder time zooms! Everyone is so busy communicating there aren’t enough hours leftover to sit on the porch and swing while the days wrap around us like molasses in January, slowly, sweetly.

We may or may not remember.

By Posted in Uncategorized Tagged , 14 Comments

Once upon a time — a velvety soft May night in 1974 — I met an Englishman named Peter at a party atop a mountain on the Blue Ridge Parkway of Virginia.  “How do you do?” he said politely while shaking hands with we three ladies who arrived together. He spent the rest of the evening with me. We danced, me barefoot, on the stone terrace that overlooked the twinkling valley below.

It was a fairy tale beginning.

At evening’s end he asked when he could see me again. We planned a hike for Memorial Day, two days hence.  He arrived carrying an armload of yellow roses for me, a bagful of candy for my daughters who were in school that day.  (Later I learned the roses grew carelessly over his carport and the candy came from a stash in his refrigerator, but never mind.)

“Oh! You’re not who I thought you were!” he said when I opened my door.

What a fine way to start a romance!  Though we’d danced cheek-to-cheek all Saturday evening, he remembered the woman who’d come to the party with me!  (That’s OK, I remembered him as a redhead and much taller.)

Seven years later — 1981 — I worked a magic spell and we married, not in May, but December.

The fairy tale continued. images-3 Three years ago this week, our family — Carolynn and husband  Bill, Leslie and husband Martin, and their offspring, Samantha and Miah, Peter and me — began a week’s vacation together on North Carolina’s Outer Banks.  It was the only week that year when all of us could be in the same place, same time.

Seven glorious, bright sunny family days at the beach, though that early in May the Atlantic was bloody freezing. But we made sand castles, fished, basked, shopped, played games, braved the wild north beach to look for ponies, took to the air, and ate…a lot and often!

At the end of our stay I asked everyone to write down three favorite things, plus one least favorite, about the week.  “Family time” was tops, with “fish and fishing” and “pool playing, frisbee and flying kites” tied for second.  Parasailing was third, but hang gliding didn’t get a single vote, pro or con. Least liked was the three miles from our house to the shore.

The fisherman among us, Bill, liked catching his big striper, Carolynn liked watching him smile as he reeled it in, Samantha liked seeing it, but she didn’t like that she hadn’t caught a big one. Bill, though he did all the gory, gloppy gutting, didn’t like eating that or any fish.

Most of us were poetic about our likes and dislikes. Two of Leslie’s faves were napping on the beach and cuddling Sam, while Miah, then sixteen, liked ” having tea with the ‘fam’.” But Peter, typically, answered tersely: “House. Meals. Weather.” He didn’t like that there wasn’t anyplace to walk.

My parasailing adventure wasn’t planned. What I really wanted to do was hang glide at Jockey Ridge, as did Martin, Sam and Miah. Leslie called to make arrangements, and I reminded her to make sure someone my age would even be allowed to do it, much less with a bad knee. She was assured that women 20 years older than my 72 went hang gliding, but my bad knee would make it a no-go.

Parasailing was an option. The pilot did the work and the landing would be on wheels instead of on my legs. “Sign me up!” I said.

Carolynn immediately objected. “At your age, Mom? No-o-o!”

“If not now, when?” I asked.

Early the next morning all of us headed to the local airport. Carolynn was beside herself with anxiety, and Peter, who never loses sleep, tossed and turned all night. I was giddy.

DSC09720

Knee bend.

The flight was all I’d imagined, except long enough. Martin enjoyed watching me buckle in, probably because I’m a klutz and needed extra help to stuff my knee into the harness, and Carolynn liked seeing my smile when we landed. Hang gliding got no votes, pro or con, because the afternoon was extremely windy. Flyers had to be tethered to their instructors who ran down the dunes as if they had winged puppies on long leashes.

We left on Mother’s Day.  It was the first time in years both of my daughters and I were together, if only for a short time, on the second Sunday in May.

The next year, the Roanoke Times had a contest asking readers to submit a photo with a few words representing “freedom or escape.” I sent this photo from my flight, and won two tickets to Cirque du Soleil.

DCIM100MEDIA

Jim said I could steer, but I was hands-off.

 

When Peter saw the newspaper feature he said, “Isn’t that the same guy?”

“What same guy?”

“The one you ‘flew’ with?”

“Yes, that’s Jim.”

“Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me, you goof,” I laughed. “I won the tickets with that.”

“How did the picture get in the paper?”

“I emailed it to them as my contest entry.”

“Oh.”

Nearly thirty-eight years after our first date — remember, he thought he was going hiking with a different woman — Peter recognized Jim in a picture, but he still wasn’t sure about me!

My husband’s dementia isn’t funny, but it’s better to laugh than to cry.

DSC09990_2_2

 

 

 

Toot toot tootsies, don’t cry.

By Posted in Uncategorized Tagged 10 Comments

The childhood ditty “Head, shoulders, knees, and toes” looped annoyingly through my brain as daughter Leslie and I headed north to visit her big sister Carolynn who’d had surgery on eight toes.

Yup, eight little piggies “went to market,” so to speak, while her big piggies “stayed home.”

This-little-piggy-4e3652ed35108

Carolynn had been suffering with horrible foot pain for months because her tiny tootsies had curled under like little piggy tails. One look at her feet and her doctor pronounced them deformed.

“Well, they’re just like my mother’s,” she said huffily.  I wasn’t there, but I heard the huff from 596 miles away.

“Then your mother has deformed feet, too,” he said. I huffed when I heard that. Butt-ugly feet, yes, but deformed? I don’t think so.

She had the surgery to straighten what she’d started calling her “Cheetos.”  The doctor chiseled bone and replaced joints — wee wee wee wee! — and because she insisted, he did all eight at the same time in a three-hour, same-day surgery!  She received the “bravest patient award” from recovery room nurses.

Two days post-surgery she went shopping in a wheelchair with her best friend. Now, Carolynn is a nurse, so you’d think she’d know better, but no-o.  Another day, she and Bill went to the grocery! He manned the wheelchair, she hooked her feet over the bottom rack of the grocery cart to elevate them, and held on to the cart to steer it through the store. Then, in the early hours of Saturday morning, she was so sick Bill took her to urgent care.

A strep infection! She had strep throat.

Leslie and I arrived around 5:00 that evening. Carolynn was enthroned on the sofa, feet propped, icy bags of peas chilling her throbbing toes. She had a mask across her nose and mouth and she was feverish and bleary-eyed.  She asked me to fix baked custard, then dozed off the rest of the evening.

Next morning she looked at her sister and me and croaked, “When did you guys get here?” Her infected glands were so painful she couldn’t swallow, barely talk.  I suggested we use some of the frozen peas to help reduce the swelling. Les snugged the bags around Carolynn’s neck and anchored them with a bright pink scarf.  I was going to insert a picture here, but I doubt she’d thank me.

After the fact we learned about the well-meant shopping jaunts where strep germs probably lurked, waiting to attack someone with lowered resistence. We learned, but were not surprised, that Carolynn wanted to cut back on pain meds, and that she hoped to go back to work in four weeks.

When we got a good look at those poor little sewn-up toes — almost fifty stitches — Leslie and I looked at each other and shook our heads.  From our own experiences with three knee replacements between us, we knew eight toes would require a long recuperation. Except for doctor visits, those tootsies wouldn’t be going bye-bye anytime soon.

Among other things during her convalescence, Carolynn had “crunchy toes.”  Rice Krispie’s “snap, crackle, and pop” came to mind. The doctor fixed that with ghastly-sounding techniques (debridement, for one) that made my toes curl. Plus, the T-shaped incisions on her second toes had opened a bit and were infected. Special antibiotic ointment and hot and cold soaks, with her piggies encased like sausages in baggies, were prescribed.

She’ll go back to work almost exactly eight weeks post-surgery. In a few months, her feet will look perfect and best of all, they’ll be painfree.  A pedicure will soothe away any lingering doubts.

If my surgeon were to suggest that my feet are deformed, I’d let him replace my other knee before I’d let him touch my toes.

Screen shot 2014-04-16 at 8.18.43 AM

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxelevationkidz web grab

 

 

What new car smell?

By Posted in Uncategorized Tagged , , 16 Comments

I’m not a car person, but I do become very attached to my vehicles and quite weepy when I hand over the keys. A few months ago I decided it was time to replace my eleven-year-old Subaru Forester.  It was a less stressful parting than usual because our grandson Miah bought it.

In years past, husband Peter did extensive research to scope car options for me, but dementia has him in a vice-grip. I did my own research and felt confident, thanks to encouragement from  our son-in-law.  When the day came to pick the car up, my friend Joanne, who is a car person, was more excited than I was.

My Dad’s car-loving genes didn’t jump into my pool.  He bought a new car every two years except during WWII when he rode a bike to work.  Automobiles weren’t readily available and gas was rationed anyway.

Dad was a car-washer too — it was nothing short of a sin to drive a dirty car. Every Sunday, religiously, he washed his “machine” in the heated garage tucked beneath our little house. He even hooked the hose to the hot water tap in the basement. “You can’t get a car clean using cold water,” he preached. I didn’t get car-cleaning genes either.

On the other hand, a car-maintainer he was not.  He once drove the 500 miles to visit us with a “little red light blinking” on the dash.  The car was gasping for oil.  Another time, a loud, repetitive flap-smack-flap-smack announced his arrival. Two tires had worn through to the steel belts. He grumbled about having to buy new tires. “Dad, do you ever check the oil, or have your tires rotated?” I ranted.

“Nope,” he said, “cars are supposed to last.”  Since he traded every two years, it was a moot point. His vehicles still had their new car smell when he was ready for another.

When I picked up my new Forester it didn’t smell “new,” but my old nose probably needed a tune-up.  Joanne’s nose worked and she was giddy on Essence of New Car. She sat in the backseat while I got nearly a ninety-minute instruction, not that I remembered it sixty minutes later! If I choose, the car will tell me its lifetime fuel consumption, accelerator opening ratio, journey time and distance, average vehicle speed for entire drive time, and mundane things I actually understand like engine oil status, tire pressure, and maintenance schedule.

My car is way smarter than I ever was or ever will be. If I keep it as long as I’ve kept my others, I’ll be too old to drive anything except a three-wheeled scooter.

I’ve had it nearly two months and still haven’t been able to reset the clock to daylight savings time. The manual directed me to section 3, page 35, then 3-39, 3-45, 3-47, and 3-55 before I found “DST select.” It takes time to absorb all that information, so it still shows EST. That’s OK. I hate DST. I do not like to be outsmarted by a car though!

The clock/calendar feature, if I could use it, would let me add birthday and anniversary reminders, but I already remember those dates without assistance.  This would help Peter — he doesn’t remember his own birthday, much less mine or our anniversary — but he doesn’t drive!

But new car smell?  Um, no. What I smell is a faint Eau de Dog Vomit. I’d had the car less than a week when Nobby went on a short road trip with us. I thought he’d outgrown his carsickness. Wrong!  When he started his telltale gulping, I couldn’t pull over quickly enough. He deposited his stomach contents down the opening in the seat cover where the seatbelts come through.  Usually- prepared me didn’t have anything to clean up with except three tissues. I improvised with plastic bags and a sheet of newspaper.

Yuck.

That same day I had a backing-up incident, first time ever.  I realized I’d missed a turn-off and backed into the parking lot of a country church. A shrill, ear-shattering crunch came from the car’s nether region. I didn’t know what was wrong because I was slighly rear-end down in a shallow ditch. All-wheel drive hauled me out easily and I pulled forward into the lot. I’d flattened a mailbox that had already been knocked down, but there wasn’t even a scratch on the car. Whew!

Now, a rear-view camera connects to the multi-function display, but with polarized sunglasses the screen has a big brown smudge. I’m a good backer-upper, and side mirrors have always worked for me. Later I realized, even if I’d used the rear-view feature, the mailbox wouldn’t have been visible.  A search in the owner’s manual warned, “…you should always check the rear view…with your eyes and mirror…. Moving backward only by checking the rear-view [screen] could cause an accident.”

I rest my case.

In addition to being a mailbox flattener, I was still lost, my phone was dead, and I couldn’t make the #!*^ GPS work either. Help came from a man working down the road.

We were an hour late.

The dog was fine.

The car was unscathed.

But my self-confidence was wrecked — State Farm Insurance doesn’t cover that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Something to sneeze at.

By Posted in Uncategorized Tagged , 9 Comments

You probably already know — maybe not in so many words — that a sneeze is a “semi-autonomous, convulsive expulsion of air from the lungs through the nose and mouth, usually caused by foreign particles irritating the nasal mucosa.”  Well, that’s Wikipedia’s definition anyway.

I’ll tell you what irritates my nasal musosa: Is it just me, or do all women suffer menfolk who have disgusting habits?

Not long ago husband Peter and I had bad colds with deep choking coughs that lingered on and on like guests who stay past bedtime — one more sneeze, another funny story, a couple more bone rattling coughs, kiss miss hug ugh — will they never go?

Achoo!
I’m contagious!
Goodbye!

I doctored myself with aspirin, Clementines, and tea, but the tickle turned into a scratch, followed by a bark, then volcanic explosive sneezes.  Full. Blown. Cold.  Aching, itching, coughing, Nyquil moments, although no Nyquil passed my lips.

Peter’s symptoms started a few days after mine. But would he eat a Clementine, take a spoonful of yummy orange-flavored cough syrup, or swallow an aspirin?  No-o.  He is English though, so he willingly drinks tea. Lots of tea. At least six cups a day when he’s well, eight or ten cups when he’s under the weather. Plus, he’s very good at resting and doing nothing. Excellent, in fact.

Meanwhile, I dragged myself through daily chores — opened cans of soup, kept the teapot topped up, changed sheets and towels, disposed of used tissues.  As soon as I was sure I would live, I returned to my routine which, by then, included piles of laundry. Sorting. Washing. Drying. Sorting again. Folding. And folding.

In my husband’s pile there was one shirt, two pair of knickers, and thirty-two (32!) handkerchiefs. (Peter will not use tissues which I argue are more sanitary, but that’s a battle I’ll never win.)

So that many hankies I could understand, but why, for the same period, did he wear only two pair of skivies and one shirt?  The man showered every day, yet didn’t change his underwear?  I checked to make sure his drawer was full of “drawers.”  It was, all in good condition too, a surprise in itself.

Are all men like this or just my man?

Now I have a lot of handkerchiefs, delicate, lacy, embroidered ones, but would I desecrate them by using them when I have a cold! Heavens, no! I always carry one in my purse in case I happen to swoon and need to dab my forehead daintily.  Or I make curtains with them. Yes, I do.

I use tissues for colds, sweat and tears.

My mother never allowed a box of Kleenex to cross her threshold.  “Wasteful,” she said.  “You have perfectly good hankies to use, Judy,” she’d say. “You can blot your lipstick on a square of toilet paper, one square, mind you.”  I still do the latter, but tissues, especially the aloe-impregnated ones, are my friends when I have a cold.  I’m sure I went through at least two 124-count boxes of “Dematologist tested” Puffs during my illness.

At a recent luncheon, friend Nancy said she’d looked everywhere for men’s handkerchiefs. Finally she asked a clerk at J.C. Penney’s where they were.  The young woman was blank, so Nancy described a white sixteen-inch cotton square with rolled edges. The woman said, “I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She probably uses the crook of her elbow when she sneezes. Call me old-fashioned, but I think a well-placed tissue to encapsulate those millions of germs, followed by well-washed hands is more effective, and certainly more ladylike.

Gesundheit.

 

Become! Believe!

By Posted in Uncategorized Tagged , 2 Comments

As I sat down to try to write a jolly Christmas post yesterday, there was a huge swath of snow and blustery weather swooping across the middle of the country and up into Canada. That stretch of North America has looked a lot like Christmas for several weeks already.

Here? Well, I had the windows open and my fa lala was more off key than ever.  But, within the hour daugher Carolynn and  husband Bill arrived from the little village in upstate New York where we’d lived for seventeen years, me ever glorying in the deep, cold, snowy white winters, husband Peter, not so much.

In “Deck my halls, please” I groaned and humbugged about my severely diminished, ghostly spirit this year.  But more than an hour past my bedtime on the shortest day of the year, if I could have gotten onto our rooftop I would have shouted, “I FOUND IT!  IT’S BA-A-ACK!”

We’d all just watched a wonderful Christmas movie.  Believe me when I say it’s better than any version of Dicken’s “Christmas carol,” “It’s a wonderful life,” “Love, actually,” “Christmas Story,” “Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer” or any other holiday movie you can name.

“Becoming Santa” (2011), is destined to become a classic, mark my words.  I found it buried deep in the “Documentary” heading on Netflix, but a quick search on-line showed that it’s available on iTunes and Amazon as well.  Treat yourself, stop what you’re doing, watch it now!

Writer/actor/star, Jack Sanderson, is a young man — mid-forties is young to me — who lost his Christmas spirit after his mother died a few years ago.  She was an enthusiastic Christmas-lover, so her death, followed not long after by his father’s passing, threw Jack into a tailspin. Then, he was inspired by a photo he’d never seen of his father playing Santa for neighborhood children.

He decides to become a Santa too, to give back, in other words.  He has his hair and beard professionally bleached and styled, gets fitted for a suit and goes to Santa school,  a film crew in tow to record the experience.

This movie has everything — laughs, sweet tears, adorable children, inspiration, dedication, hope.  What “Becoming Santa” does not have is violence, mayhem, war or foul language,  I could’ve watched it right through again, it was that good.

Jack seems determined to become Santa, but occasionally he expresses doubts.  He goes to Santa school to learn the basics — always say “children” instead of “kids,” for instance, and always “Ho, ho, ho,” never just one “ho” nor more than three.

You wonder as he wanders, musing, reflecting. Will he last, or won’t he?

There’s a lot more to the film than Jack’s own quest — Santa experts, historians, professional Santas weigh in as well. Two common threads tie it into a beautiful package: a genuine love for children and an understanding of how important Santa is to them. The “sneak and peak” segment near the end is tear-inducing, but in a good way.

This morning I’m revitalized, imbued with spirit and holiday glee.  All I need now is seasonal — make that North Pole-like — weather.

Carolynn hadn’t packed a snowball in the large cooler Bill lugged inside yesterday, but it was filled with all-important special ham and Polish sausages.  She did bring a big carton containing dozens of special cookies, and the astounding surprise of homemade peppermint marshmallows her friend Robin sent along for us.

Believe, believe!

‘I hate to go anyplace before I go anyplace.’

By Posted in Uncategorized Tagged , 2 Comments

My mother loved early morning picnics, walks in the woods, fishing on a riverbank, small social gatherings.  She kept a spotless house, she sewed, she gardened, she canned, she baked, and all while taking care of my dad and me.

Back in the day it was customary for friends and family to drop in unannounced for an evening or a Sunday afternoon.  She always had a snack she could offer, or fresh pie and a cup of coffee to serve.  She was never caught short.

But she loathed going to fancy dos — the dances organized by dad’s fraternal organizations or a PTA benefit. Oh, she’d dutifully refurbish an old dress for the occasion or make a new one. And she’d try to do something with her flyaway blonde hair ahead of time even though the home perms she’d used left her frizzed. To make her rough hands presentable, she’d slather them with Vaseline and wear white cotton gloves to bed. Inevitably futile.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Put me in grubby jeans, hand me a trowel and I’m happy.  Drop by for tea and I’ll welcome you with open arms and dirty hands.  But tell me I have to go to a party or a reception and I’ll come up with some excuse.

I remember one evening when my parents were getting ready to go to a dance that was to be preceded by a cocktail party at the home of friends.  Dad was impatient.  He loved those evenings and couldn’t wait to go.

Mom was fretting and making faces at her reflection as she fiddled with her hair and makeup. “I hate to go anyplace before I go anyplace,” she fumed.

She’d gotten all “gussied up,” as dad called it, but by the time they arrived at the main event her baby fine hair would look like cotton candy, her dress would be mussed and, most likely, she’d have a runner in her stockings. Worse, her lipstick might stray into the tiny lines around her mouth or there could be a bit of green between her teeth from the spinach dip that was all the rage then.

So much anxiety and they hadn’t even left the house!

I laughed then, but now I know.

To go someplace before you go anyplace, for someone who doesn’t even like to get ready once, is torture.

Like mother, like daughter.

Fill ‘er up?

By Posted in Uncategorized Tagged , , 9 Comments

In the 1970s I was a single mom with two young daughters and nearly empty pockets. Our weekend fun was often a Sunday afternoon drive.  We could go some distance on thirty-five cents a gallon, so Carolynn, Leslie and I would scrape up loose change, invite their adopted grandmother Liberty to join us, and set off into the blue-hazed hills of the Shenandoah Valley.

Our favorite time of year for these trips was when the calendar reminded that fall had arrived. This time of year.  Ah-h, autumn, when trees try to out color each other, blue skies bedazzle, mums glow, sheaved cornstalks stand tall, and pumpkins await their destiny.

We’d head out of town in whichever direction one daughter chose, not without an argument about who was to choose first, of course.  At the first traffic light, stop sign, or crossroad the other daughter would point left, right or straight ahead.  We’d continue on, them taking turns deciding our route, while I tried to keep track so I’d have some idea where we would end up.  A good sense of direction served me well—my own personal, internal GPS years before the military technology was adapted for cars.  Lib enjoyed our adventures, Carolynn and Leslie loved telling me where to go, and I liked the idea of fun for pennies.

At the end of the day we would try to find an orange roof—Howard Johnson’s—where the very best coffee ice cream could be found. Lib always insisted she would treat and I was in no position to argue.

Now this was back in the day when a smiling gas station attendant would pop out of the cluttered office asking, “Fill ‘er up?  Check the oil?” He cleaned the windshield too.  I never let any of them check under the hood though, because I knew, one look at the dipstick, and there’d be eye-rolling and head-shaking that I would have to pretend not to see. I drove a leaking English Rover that no one could fix, so I carried a case of oil in the trunk.  At ten cents a quart that was a more cost effective option!  I could top off the oil myself.  If we were ever to get lost on our days out I could follow the trail of Hansel and Gretel-like drips to get back home.

These days who can find a “full service” gas station?  This past summer when our grandson did odd jobs for us, one of his tasks was to fill my car.  Strangely, for a technology-impaired doofus like me, I’m not confounded by the mysteries of credit card payment at the tank. No, it’s my mechanical clumsiness that makes me click the little thingie on the nozzle too soon so that gasoline pours down the side of the car. This occasionally happens when I try to put the darned thing back in the whassit too. I once drenched myself so thoroughly that I had to go back home, strip down, and throw my clothes away.

Here’s a thought: if I could find someone to take my car and fill it every couple of weeks, I’d buy the ice cream, double—no triple—scoop!