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The Long Summer

October 17, 2022 by Jaci Dawn

July, 2022. What a long time ago. What a long, dry, warm time ago. We had a summer to rival my childhood memories of growing up wild and free in Nevada under the blistering sun, barefoot on the concrete, bathing suit and towel tucked under our arms as we made our way down to the public outdoor swimming pool. One hundred degrees. Our feet hardened to the concrete, but we still ran across the pavement and the creosote railroad ties. Sprinklers kept the lawns alive.

The Willamette Valley of Oregon heated up and dried out. Sprinklers are for flower beds and vegetable gardens: lawns go dormant in the stifling heat of an unusually dry summer. The mercury dipped and climbed between the normal eighties and the unusual triple digit days. I no longer go barefoot and there is no outdoor public swimming pool I would be caught in (not even a swim suit I would be caught in!).

My mother-in-law had a sudden decline in health. She’s dealt with A-Fib most of her life, but her primary care giver retired and a new doctor took over her care. The A-Fib freaked the new doctor out and new meds were prescribed. All of our lives turned upside down for the rest of the summer (she’s fine now, for the record). My husband was about to spend the best part of the summer in a town across the state from me and I was about to spend the summer alone.

Alone, with the dog.

I like solitude. I was perfectly fine with no one here. I avoided most social contacts. It was a summer for me to work in the yard, clean the house, sip some wine, and enjoy the quiet. If I needed companionship, I knew where to turn, but – for the most part – I soaked in the solitude. Quiet. Just the dog and me. And a single phone call every evening between five and seven o’clock to catch up on the news with my beloved.

He was not having a good summer, but he was making the best of a bad situation.

We spent six weeks apart. He was four and a half hours away (four, if he drove hard). I was here, tending the vegetable garden, the apple trees, and the flower gardens. I deep cleaned the first floor of the house. I socialized on weekends. He socialized on weekends in a tri-county area, watered his mother’s lawns and vegetable garden, and mediated between his siblings.

I loved it, but I missed him. Some social events need a partner in crime, and he’s my go-to. We have mutual friends, but it’s not the same when you are the third wheel. And our oldest grandson came down to visit us, only there wasn’t an “us” during his visit. That was hard: not having Poppa here to visit with Z. Grandkids need to know their grandfathers.

We timed Z’s visit with the Bigfoot Festival in Canby, Oregon. Z’s mom flew down with him. The temps soared into the triple digits and we have no A/c in our 1930’s bungalow because no one has ever really needed it here (and, as a native Nevadan, A/C is overrated). Too hot to sleep in the house, so we did what I did as a child growing up: we camped in the back yard under the stars. We didn’t have Wolfman Jack to DJ the music on our transistor radio. West Coast people my age will recognize that reference: the best DJ ever.

Ruger. Ruger had a bit of trouble accepting new people into his life. Z already towers over his mom and I. Ruger was a tad bit afraid of this gangly giant in his yard. The first night when Z had to go into the house in the dark and come back out, Ruger thought he was seeing a ghost. He barked. His tail tucked. He never raised his hackles, but he was afraid.

Ruger and the Ghost

We went to the Bigfoot Festival. What a waste of money! It was pushing triple digits. We sweated. We looked at vendors and we spent money. There were speakers from different television shows and supposed research people. There were NO exhibits of actual evidence. We are open, but we’re also very logical. The local store that sells Legos™ was the big hit. Screw Bigfoot Festivals that can’t bring in any evidence and only want to sell you junk.

They only spent a week with me.

Don returned home after his weeks were over. His mom was stabilized (it was her meds all along, much like my scare earlier this year). Ruger was over the moon. I am happy. I was beginning to get a little lonely.

Summer has been over for a few weeks, but the weather is only now beginning to change. I think it stayed nice for a few weeks so Don and I could enjoy it together. I just wish he had been here to visit with Z.

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Triggered

August 30, 2021 by Jaci Dawn

The past couple of weeks have been very triggering for me. I don’t mean to make a political post: the past 20 years and four presidents have led up to this. Two Republican and two Democrat. No one is innocent. The entire war could have been handled differently if men weren’t looking for power and seeking the popularity to get enough votes to stay in office. I don’t have the capacity to form an opinion because I’ve lost my military compass – and he’s the reason I have been so triggered.

Our son, Levi, served in Afghanistan from January 2020 to June 202o. His tour was cut short when his father-in-law and very dear friend had triple bypass surgery (or maybe it was quadruple – does it matter?). He was sent home to help his wife. Six months later, Levi was dead.

While he was in Afghanistan, the last two soldiers were killed (before last week). Comrades of his, also assigned to 3rd Battalion, 7th Group, Special Forces (Airborne):

Levi knew the war in Afghanistan was winding down. That was part of his mission there: to build a competent Satellite Communications System for the Afghan Army before the USA withdrew its troops. He excelled at what he did. He was a Goddamn hero.

I have heard all sorts of stories about how the withdrawal was supposed to happen vs. how it did. Separating truth from fiction is nigh onto impossible. What did happen was this: we withdrew out main forces before we took care of those who needed us most. We abandoned interpreters, equipment, support people, Afghan allies, American citizens living in the country, and more. We just pulled the majority of our troops and let what happened, happen.

The Taliban, the group that killed my son’s comrades, invaded their own country in what could be considered a Blitzhrieg. Eleven days is all it took for them to swarm the countryside and enter Kabul, the capital city. They commandeered the equipment, the satellite communications, the bases, the towns, the cities. Suddenly, all the Gold Star Families were thrown a question: Did my child serve/die in vain? Was it worth the cost? What about the maimed who came home, physically, and psychologically? Was any of this worth the cost?

I have followed the author, Khaled Hosseini, since I saw the first movie: “The Kite Runner”. I read the book, then I read “A Thousand Splendid Suns”. If you have never read his writings, I highly recommend those two books, especially the second one. Hosseini was a refugee from Afghanistan in the 1970’s. He writes poignantly about the things young boys, girls, and women face under the rule of the Taliban. Knowing these stories doubly triggered me: what about the women, girls, and boys?

It’s hard enough questioning whether your child’s sacrifice meant anything, but then having to read the Facebook posts by people who have no skin in the game post how they defend the actions of our government at this time. My son didn’t die over there, but he lost 6 months of his life away from his family, a family that would be ultimately torn apart by his death in December of 2020. Reading other people’s opinions on the validity of my son’s sacrifice or how I should feel about it is triggering.

Nobody gets to tell me how I should feel. I lost a son. I lost my compass. Do I feel President Biden should carry the blame? He is the Commander in Chief right now. Do I blame all the presidents over the past 20 years? Hell, yes. Do I believe what my son did in that war-torn country made a difference? I want to. I want to. I know he saved a couple puppies.

And what about the dead? The maimed? The US Servicemen (and women) who came home so changed because of their time there and the Taliban?

Last week, a suicide bomber set himself off in a crowded queue at the only airport withdrawing troops and people from that country. Eleven Marines, one Navy medic, two U.S. Army soldiers., and countless Afghanistan refugees. We trusted the Taliban to guard the airport. We.Trusted.The.Taliban.

Today, the last military transport left the country, hours before the deadline set by our enemy, and stranding U.S. citizens and Afghani citizens seeking asylum.

How am I supposed to feel? I feel betrayed. I feel grief. I feel anger. I am disgusted. Disappointed. I hurt, people. I can’t ask Levi what his take is on this. He’s gone. You can’t tell me how to feel. I have to work through this myself.

And if my grief disagrees with you, you have a choice: come beside me and help me through this without judgment or just scroll on by. But Do.Not.Tell.Me.How.I.Should.Feel.

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2021.January 1

January 1, 2021 by Jaci Dawn

My word for 2020 was “Discover” and it lasted for about two months before we found ourselves starting a two-week “lock down” that lasted through the end of the year, ten months later. I didn’t do much “discovering”.

It is now the first day of 2021. I have no word for the year. The only resolution I have is to be kinder and to be quicker to reach out to someone when they are hurting, sick, or bereaved. I probably could lose 25 pounds, too.

Today, I worked through grief by deep cleaning the bathroom. I have already rearranged the kitchen cupboards. Two days in a row, I have been out in the garden cutting the deadheads I didn’t get to in the fall because it’s currently warmer now than it was in October and November when I normally do those things. I closed the door when I worked in the bathroom, but I had help in the garden. Too much help.

His name is Ruger. Ruger Buhl’s Fall Surprise, per AKC records. He’s a Wirehaired Pointing Griffon, born the 24th of September and hauled home to Oregon mid-November. He chews on all my plants which is not a good thing. I don’t know what is poisonous to puppies and what isn’t. I’m guessing peonies, primroses, asters, different salvias, and irises are not. I dug out all the foxglove in November. I know we have some arum in the corner flower bed that I will need to dig out because this dog is so mouthy – and because it is starting to show green shoots.

I have a stack of paperwork to filter through but no desire to. There’s a stack of sympathy cards, Christmas cards, and Christmas-cards-as-sympathy-cards to go through. I need to call my cousin in Montana back because the last time I spoke to her, I blubbered the entire two minutes. We have received so much support from Seventh Group Special Forces (Airborne) and I need to preserve all those commendations sent to us, specifically.

I need ideas to send gifts to my grandchildren who not only lost their father but who were taken from his home to live with their mother in Texas. She didn’t have custody when our son was living; he did. But she is the birth mother, and the law recognizes her first and the widow, second. I did decide I should put together three memory books of photos on Shutterfly. Monthly letters and cards. My daughter bought a subscription to Highlights Magazine for one of them. Is there a Pokémon magazine club? (Note to self: do the research).

I am not the only person grieving right now. I need to focus on taking care of myself, but also on helping my loved ones walk through their grief.

I don’t have a word for 2021. I have a sentence. LOVE ONE ANOTHER.

Disney World 2020, Levi in the middle with all of his children. ♥

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Summer of the Bird

October 13, 2020 by Jaci Dawn

The imposed lock-down that kept most of us home over the summer proved to be a boon to the hobby of back-yard birding. There were reports that birds changed their songs in some cities, and other articles about how loud the birds seemed as traffic noises dwindled in some cities (not here!). We certainly heard and saw more birds as we had little else to occupy our lazy summer afternoons when it was too hot to work and too nice to be inside the house. We positioned patio chairs around the lawn to maximize both sunshine and shade, as well as the view about our yard and flower beds.     

                  This was another summer without a dog or cat: the pup we looked forward to in May was a miscarried pregnancy. Wild birds took this as a boon, as did the squirrels: Eastern Fox and Eastern Grey, both invasive to urban areas of the Western United States. We settled in after the morning chores were finished (weeding, planting, digging out new flower beds) and popped the top of a beer to watch the birds and the antics of our invasive clowns, grey and red. We were never disappointed.

                My husband and I hail from very different political backgrounds but what we have in common is out love for the outdoors, insects, arachnids, flora and fauna, and birds. He grows vegetables. I grow flowers and herbs. He fills the birdfeeders with black oil sunflower seeds. I render pure suet down to pour over mounds of dried mealworms and red pepper flakes, eschewing the commercial suet fillers which are filled with GMO corn chips and other things birds neither like nor eat (and which attract the damn squirrels). I boil the nectar and clean/refill the hummingbird feeders as quickly as the little buggers empty them. He studies and names the myriad of native bees and bumblebees my flowers attract. We both stalk the spiders hoping for a award-winning photo opportunity.

                Mid-summer found a pair of chestnut-backed chickadees checking in to the little ornamental bird house I have hanging from a Shepherd’s hook next to the Hawthorne. We weren’t certain when they actually moved in so it was hard to gauge how far along the eggs must be. Then I could hear the tinniest little dee-dee-dee from within the bird house next to my head. (Yes, I meant tinniest, but tiniest will also do.) We tried to calculate how far along the babies were. They fledged on an afternoon when my husband was out of town, but I was sitting next to the bird house playing on my cell phone.

                During the weeks that followed, the crazy little birds flew back and forth between us, often narrowly missing our heads on the wobbly little wings. They didn’t fear us: our voices were ever in their ears from before their hatching. Three tiny daredevils. Two proud chickadee parents.

Maiden flight

                The scrub jays brought their fledgling into our yard. We made a platform feeder for the crows (which, sad to say, mostly avoided our yard this summer as last years’ fledglings all died of Avian pox). This platform was a boon to the scrub jays with their loud squawking praises for the bounty of peanuts as they raced the squirrels for the prizes. One afternoon as we sat with our back to the Hawthorne, we were startled by an unearthly scream. We jumped up as the Hawthorne shuddered and an angry sharp-shinned hawk beat its wings in a backstroke to get out of the mess of inch long thorns. It flew up and out of our yard. Inside the heart of the Hawthorne, the scrub jay fledgling huddled having just escaped with its feathers intact.

                We saw fledges of nearly every backyard bird: golden-crowned sparrow, Downy woodpecker, Northern (red-shafted) flicker, Dark-eyed (Oregon) Junco, Lesser Goldfinch, Anna’s hummingbirds, bushtits, black-capped chickadees, and even this year’s crows. The Bewicks Wrens, which only last year raised their young inside our garage, eluded us (they were here but not as visible). So, too, the Spotted (rufous-sided) Towhee.

                Overhead, we watched bald eagles and turkey vultures each their young to catch thermals. The osprey young had a harder time with thermals and often dropped to just over our home on the bluff before they caught the rising air and could slowly circle up to dizzying heights, ever chirping. The eagles are by far the largest of the big birds. Red tailed hawk and owls sometimes migrated through the neighborhood, the hawks screaming their eerie call.

                A week ago, we saw the first of the turkey vulture migration south. Fifty plus birds caught thermals and soared, single file, overhead. Two days ago, during a break in the October rains, we watched in awe as three other kettles of turkey vultures (or buzzards) catching thermals and racing south for the winter. (Kettle=flock or group, but specific to vultures.) They will return in March.

                We are preparing the feeders for the winter. Many of our small birds over winter: song sparrow, junco, bushtit, both chickadees, Townsend’s warbler, white-breasted nuthatch, red-breasted nuthatch, Downy woodpecker, scrub jay, and Anna’s hummingbirds. We will have a dog next summer, and perhaps a cat. It will be a very different birding year.

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Muse

April 15, 2024 by Jaci Dawn

I lost my muse.

Or she lost me.

I have looked everywhere.

I have waited patiently.

And impatiently.

I have tried to push her into coming back.

Cajole. Beg. Plea.

She remains silent.

Her back turned to me. Against me.

I asked the clouds.

They haven’t seen her.

I asked the flowers. No reply.

I am lost without her.

I try to pick out colors to paint with.

I think I almost see her –

She vanishes. Ethereal. Silent.

I am only half a person without her.

My fingers hover over the keyboard.

No words flow.

I lost my muse.

Or she lost me.

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Dirt Under the Fingernails

April 14, 2024 by Jaci Dawn

Today was a wonderful day to get lost in the garden. My soul needs to get lost. The day-to-day pressure of this life wears on me. Dirt under the fingernails is healing.

We discovered the neighbors have a small field of mining bees nesting in the bit of yard just north of our fence. There must be over a hundred little holes in the ground where the bees are laying eggs! Fortunately, this is the one neighbor that is an organic gardener and is interested in preserving native pollinators (especially as this species of bee is stinger-less and very laid-back).

I planted four sword ferns on the north side of the garage, in that little strip of land that is ours but is a set back from the property line. The idea is to fill it in with ferns so neither the neighbor nor us will have to mow the lawn/weeds that grow there. We forget about it, and it isn’t their responsibility. Ferns the size of VW Beetles is the logical answer.

I filled in the part north of our driveway with orange daylilies and daffodils last Autumn. The yucca has been there 20 years (I planted it). There is still a section of about 4×3’ that needs to be filled in, but I’ll get there, eventually.

I fulfilled a promise today, too. I made this promise ten or fifteen years ago: that I would obtain a blackcap raspberry from the wild for a friend in North Portland. My husband brought me two blackcaps last Fall and I was able to gift her one. Her husband picked it up today.  

My husband put two filbert saplings into the ground. Our lone filbert produces hollow hazelnuts, Guess you need more than one filbert in order to have meat in the hazelnuts. It only took us 18 or 19 years to figure that out and another few years to find a source of free filbert saplings.

He buried my hardy fuchsia when he planted one of the filberts. In his defense, he did not see anything growing right there: the fuchsia doesn’t begin to put up stems until late May. I saw it right away and carefully scraped all the soil off my precious flower. I’ve had it for 20 years!

Warm weather came on so quickly this year that I have fallen behind in the weeding department, especially with the chickweed. It is already gone to seed. At least this year I am not battling a ton of grass that migrated into flower beds, and even if the chickweed spits seeds everywhere when I pull it, I will still be able to get ahead of it in the coming months. That is, if one ever does defeat chickweed! It pulls up easily even as it spits hundreds of seeds into the air.

I did more, but mostly I just didn’t think. I didn’t think about our losses. I didn’t think about the day-to-day worries. I didn’t worry. I just smelled loam and leaf, apple blossoms. I watched blue orchard mason bees collecting mud from under the stone wall out front. I reveled in the city of mining bees next door. I let earthworms crawl away. I talked to the crow that came to watch me.  I stayed in the moment. And that made today a wonderful day to garden.

Dirt under the fingernails. Better than a manicure.

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April… Then May Flowers

April 12, 2024 by Jaci Dawn

It is that time of year when an organic gardener’s thoughts turn to soil amendments, natural slug repellent, and turning compost so that the soil at the bottom of the heap can be used. We also turn our heads and slam on the brakes at every plant sale we see, especially if there might be native plants to be had. We know if our garden spots are shade, wet, well-drained, full sun, part sun, clay, or well worked topsoil. My flower beds are all of those listed.

I have a list of plants I want. I always have a list of what I want to do in my flower beds. The vegetable garden belongs to my husband. He always has a list of the vegetables he wants to grow. Have list, will shop.

This year one of my goals is to completely fill the useless spot just north of our garage with sword ferns. It’s a three-foot mandated distance between our garage and the adjacent property line. No one wants to mow it. Full shade. No available water. The only true solution is to plant sword ferns and allow them to fill in the spot, kill the grass, and end the need for mowing. I have been adding small ferns to the spot over the years but this year I have four large sword ferns donated by a friend from his pasture. If I plant them now in the cool weather they will be established by summer and there will no longer be a need to mow north of the garage. Minimal maintenance, win-win for both parties.

Last fall I filled in the sunny portion of that piece of property with orange day lilies. I also have a magnificent yucca plant growing there. I picked the yucca up out of a FREE pile in front of a house one day. The orange day lilies were given to me by someone. There are daffodils growing there as well, a gift from the previous owner of this house. No more mowing a section of our lot that is difficult to get to and maintain. Ta da!

Minimal maintenance.

I took my list to a plant sale last weekend. It was a fund raiser for a State Park nestled in Lake Oswego. The prices of the (mostly) natives was more than I cared to pay, so I walked out empty-handed and right into the arms of a group giving away bare root saplings of “native” trees and shrubs. I turned down the witch-hazel (and later learned it is not a native to Oregon, although it is indigenous to parts of North America). I already had a mock orange that is two years old and establishing itself. There were a couple others that I questioned as to whether or not they were truly natives. I settled on three bare root plants: black gooseberry, a dogwood, and Indian Plum.

The dogwood is not the native Pacific dogwood, but a Florida import. Say, what??! Oh well, it was free, and I picked out saplings small enough that my husband can work his Bonsai magic on them. I was the only person standing around that had any idea what I was getting with the gooseberry. I’m more familiar with the yellow kind from the more arid side of the State, but this is a native from the Oregon coast – and a gooseberry promises tart berries perfect for a pie. I may have to make a gooseberry/huckleberry pie: I have an evergreen huckleberry (also native to the coast) that produces tiny berries in the late fall.

The Indian Plum is not a plum but produces tart berries that look similar to plums. It was a subsistence plant to the tribes of the Pacific Northwest and is one of the earliest flowering bushes which is a boon to the native pollinators. I’ll figure that out if and when it bears fruit. It can just be an ornamental for now: a native ornamental and attractant to pollinators.

My list incudes two lavenders: a Spanish lavender and a French lavender. I had both in my garden and they both died. My Spanish lavender was over 15 years old. I think I simply had the French lavender in the wrong part of the yard. I also want to get a second campanula, toad lily, phlox sublate (McDaniel’s Cushion), curry plant, and Chinook hop. I need a new rhubarb: the one I have doesn’t grow tall now produce long juicy stems. I’d like to add oxalis and bunch berries to the shade flowers. I also have some annuals on my list: petunias and climbing nastrutiums.

I purchased 19 packets of herb seeds from Mountain Rose Herbs. Those are waiting to be sown. Not for today. I bought the nasturtium seeds from Reneé’s Garden. The Chinook hop from Thyme Garden. The rhubarb is coming from Gurney’s. And the rose I bought from Jackson Perkins is showing some signs of life… (All of my English tea roses are from J&P, this one was a replacement for a floribunda I didn’t like. The floribunda went to a good home. This rose is also on probation until it starts growing…)

Today was the first day of Garden Palooza, a large plant sale south of here, almost to Salem. It is held at Bauman’s Farm & Garden in Gervais. I set aside a certain dollar amount and hope we don’t go over budget, but this year we were way under budget and came away with more plants!

I found both lavenders. My husband found the tomato starts he wants. He also found a pretty campanula for me. The one I currently have is a blue color: Serbian bellflower (campanula poscharsky). The new one is Birch’s Campanula and it will be a pretty purple color. Bauman’s also had so many pretty petunias! I found a full sun ground cover called Creeping Baby’s Breath (gypsophila cerastiodes). Drought tolerant. I need so many ground covers, they do a much better job than bark mulch at keeping the soil moist and weed free. Also, as perennials, the ones I pick out will last longer than bark or hazelnut shell mulch.

Oh, but the best buy of the day? Don found a tree peony for $24. Not $240 or $140, but $24. Tree peonies are not inexpensive even in a year without inflation. There are three old ones in the yard presently along with at least 80 other peony plants. I’m told the yard had more peonies but that was when Barney Schultz lived here, and he died over 30 years ago. The house sat empty, was purchased and flipped, and the grass killed so many peonies during the years of neglect. Then we bought it and I have single-handedly cleared all those peony flower beds, carefully divided tubers, and coaxed those beauties to new life. In short, I don’t need another peony or tree peony.

But $24. Gallon pot. Paeonia lutea var. Ludlowii (Tibetan Tree Peony). It’s young and I may have to wait a few years to see the large yellow blooms it promises. My other tree peonies are white, cream, and pale yellow fringed with red. Of course I bought it.

Our friend gifted us with two filbert trees as well as the ferns. We already have one filbert but the hazelnuts have never produced nuts. You learned you need more than one filbert. (Side note: the trees are filbert trees, the fruit is referred to as a hazelnut.)

So much planting in the near future. And making of larger flower beds to accommodate the 19 varieties of plants I purchased in seed form from Mtn. Rose Herbs.

The next big plant sale is the first of May.

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A Walk in my Friend’s Shoes

March 7, 2024 by Jaci Dawn

I am coming up on my 50th high school reunion, which, of course, has made me a tad bit nostalgic. Not that high school was all that wonderful, but it was a far cry from the misery of elementary and middle school – and it was in a small town where folks tend to be more sentimental about those things. Not all folks, but… And I am not even sure why I care.

I only survived high school because of Jay.

We were a month into my freshman year when my father’s employment uprooted our comfortable life in the town where I had suffered through elementary and middle school. My brother was a senior. My sister was in the 6th grade. I had this one disadvantage to my siblings: I was – and remain – a very shy individual. An introvert. My experience in my younger years made me gun shy of making new friendships. I didn’t trust people. And, of course, I was only focused on what the move was doing to MY life, not my brother’s senior year plans or my sister’s tender age as she entered the world of middle school and all of the baggage of pre-teen pressures. They were on their own.

I was a late developer. At the age of 13, I stood 4’11” and weighed possibly 85#. I looked like a 6th grader and felt like one in the halls of a strange school with giants all around me.

The kids surrounding me had grown up together like the kids I had just left behind. Cliques (and “pecking orders”) were established. In my old school, I was on the lower echelon of the strata, but I had friends who could protect me. I was now in unfamiliar territory, with no friends to circle the wagons for me. I had to develop a strategy of porcupine quills and I had to fake being an extrovert. I just wanted to curl up in a ball and cry.

Enter Jay. I may remember it wrongly, but it seemed like it was the first day of being in a school that overwhelmed all of my senses, and going into a lunchroom with my sack lunch and no idea where I would sit – or with whom. My brother, ever the extrovert, had already established himself and couldn’t be relied on (he spent his senior year following me down the halls, making fun of the way I walk: “Quack! Quack! I’m a duck!” – loudly).

I stood there, confused and dazed when Jay came over and told me I could sit with her.

We never had any classes together, but for the next three years we met every lunch hour. We never did an overnight thing except once when I stayed at her house on Hallowe’en before her family moved to a homestead out of town and she had to ride the bus. She was never involved in any of the civic or class things I was in. She came to school and went home, period. But she was there for every single lunch period.

We had so much in common: a miserable first 9 years in public school. Bottom rung of the social strata. Same size shoes (we traded shoes every morning in 10th – 12th grade, switching them back out when we had to go home). Sense of humor. Sense of loyalty. Introverts. November birthdays. Names that began with the letter “J”.

Most of those years there were three of us: the cowgirl, Tina, Jay, and me. Whenever a new kid showed up at school, we took them in to have lunch with us and ease their introduction into our high school. Most of those moved onto other social engagements, but Jay, Tina, and I… The three musketeers.

Tina talked me into joining the Rodeo Club even though I did not have a horse or any hope in h*** of getting one. We sponsored school dances, the food cart at football games, and the annual junior rodeo. We did fund raisers together. Tina and Jay always were jealous of my friendship and never hesitated to gossip about each other. I stayed as neutral in the middle as I could: Jay was my first, and best, friend. I was not about to turn on that kind of friendship.

I remember one girl we took in when she was new at our high school. She pulled me aside to tell me I could “do so much better than her”, meaning Jay. I could just quit being friends with Jay and be her friend, and we’d be popular. I was truly shocked. WHY would I do that? Whatever I told that girl… she never talked to me again. And I didn’t care: my friendship with Jay was more important.

Why not four years? Well, Jay fell in love. Near the end of our Junior year in high school, she started spending most of her time with a boy. I was invited at lunch, of course, but who wants to be a third wheel? We still switched shoes every day, but we didn’t go to lunch together. I had developed other friendships and had other people I could go to lunch with besides Jay or Tina. I still spent time with Tina because she could go to after-school events and, well, Rodeo Club.

Jay got married a few weeks before we graduated. She went on to be a mother and a wife, and she went where he went. I tried college out and failed at that. I wandered, always falling back on my high school strategy of pretending I was not a true-to-form introvert. I made friends. I moved to Oregon, met a man, got married, became a mom and wife. We lost touch.

There’s a twist to the story, of course: Jay’s husband (and our classmate), Dee. I hadn’t been in favor of the marriage: we were too young. Dee “stole” my best friend from me. I had lots of excuses. I was against anything that led a young girl down the traditional role of wife and mother (I repented when I fell in love). My porcupine quills were out when it came to the love between Jay and Dee. But it was Dee who tracked me down in an age before social media, computers, and cell phones. It was Dee who called me out of the blue and gave me their phone number and address.

We lost touch again. And it was Dee who found me on social media. It was Dee who always found me and tried to get us back together as best friends, and I think I owe Dee as much as I owe Jay for her friendship during the years when I was full of angst and teenage drama.

I know where Jay is these days. She raised sons. We still have a lot in common, but we aren’t very close on social media. I keep in touch with Dee more than Jay, but we never forget each other’s birthdays. I know, for instance, that Jay will not come to our 50th class reunion (but I messaged them and asked anyway). High school memories are not as sweet for Jay and Dee as they are for me. They grew up in the same small town and endured the same social status for the 12 years they were in school with the same people. I would probably feel that way if I had attended twelve years of school with my elementary and middle school friends. 

Tina died last year. I lost touch with her as well. I only learned of her passing when an email was sent out listing everyone we have lost over the past 50 years and there was her name. My cowgirl friend who liked peanuts in her cokes and twisted my hippie arm into being in the Rodeo Club with her.

I don’t know why I am excited for this class reunion. Maybe to make amends with people I offended when I was still a porcupine. Maybe to see how my other friendships panned out. I did have other friendships. It won’t be the same without the girl whose shoes I wore for three years. Hers were always worn out in just the right places. My feet felt right in her shoes. I have never traded shoes with another living soul. It’s not hygienic.

But Jay’s shoes always fit.

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Lola Mae Shaw

February 15, 2024 by Jaci Dawn

I went to visit an old friend today. She lives at a senior “assisted living” place on the west side of the Portland Metro area. My oncologist’s office is less than five miles from where my friend now resides, so when I make a trip to see one of the doctors there, I try to drop in on my friend.

Our visits never last an hour. She gets tired. I can’t stand nursing homes. Today, we didn’t make it past twenty minutes because she was falling asleep on me. She doesn’t look good. Do any old people resigned to living in such a space look good?

I’ve been to a number of these places over the years, and they always leave me depressed. Seeing a dear friend in the early winter of her life… That’s more depressing.

This friend was once my superior at my job. She was brilliant. Dedicated. A mathematical wizard and an innovator. Faithful to the company and the men who ran that company. She worked for a little over minimum wage, lived in a single-wide trailer, and raised three children on very little income. There was no pension plan for us at the company, only what we earned over the years that was socked away into Social Security.

She mentored me over several years. I discovered I had a small gift at mathematics under her tutelage. She had a sense of humor, a lot of dreams, and a keen mind. We went from paper files, paper storage, to digital files and even a program that could do the math for us. My friend stayed current with all those changes in her senior years. She was a legacy.

But change is inevitable, and the company sold out to a corporation that didn’t value the small people. One by one, friends and coworkers faced the axe, not the least of which was my friend. My entire department went under the axe, except for me. I left voluntarily before they could figure out a replacement for my job.

For a while there, all of us got together and had lunch or dinner together. Even that got old as we moved on to new jobs or our retirement plans.

I think it was about five years ago that my friend lost her youngest child to brain cancer. That was the beginning of the end: it is difficult to recover from the loss of a child. My friend was already faltering physically: a broken hip that set her back several weeks, an income that didn’t support her anymore, a mind that no longer fired on all eight cylinders (if my friend had been a car, she would have been a V-8: luxury, speed, and staying power. I’d be a V-6).

We talked on the phone. We called on our birthdays. We no longer had restaurant dates together. My child died. My friend found herself in a walker and in a nursing home. Pardon, an “assisted living” home. The first time I visited her there was in 2020. I have been sporadic ever since, but more regular since the cancer scare of last year. After all, my oncologist’s office is nearby.

My friend was frail and tiny in 2020. She looked much older than her 80+ years. Much tinier than I had ever known her. Her mind was still sharp, however. She was angry that she had “lost everything” in the move from her trailer to assisted living. All her collectibles. The comfort of her own home. Most of her wardrobe. Her car. Her independence. But not her memory.

Her birthday is next week. I took her a birthday card today. She no longer walks, even with a walker. Today was the first time in three years that there was no sign about Covid being “in the building” somewhere, but I masked up anyway. She hates it when I wear a mask because I don’t look like me. She doesn’t look like herself.

We talked about our coworkers and who still visits her in the home: three of us coworkers and the one son who lives nearby. Her great grands haven’t been by in a while. She’s angry. She’s resigned. She’s not ready to die. But we both know Death is hovering on the horizon, closer than she wants to admit. She struggled to stay awake during my visit.

I will be back over there in March. I’m not certain that my friend will still be there. I do know that her son will remember to notify me when she goes. I hope she will be there.

I hate going there. I hate the idea of ending up like my friend: unable to walk, tied to a bed, only a TV to entertain me with old reruns, and a small handful of people who remember to call or visit. I know she isn’t ready to die, but I also know if I was in her position, I’d be thinking of ways to end my life already. I’m too selfish to want to waste away by millimeters in a building with other dying people, and in a room with some stranger.

I understand why my mother-in-law fought so hard to get out of assisted living and back in her home with a nurse coming by daily. I understand even more why my father quit taking his medications three months before the effects caught up with him and he died in his own home, still independent. I understand why my mother, at the age of 63, chose to stop breathing rather than be tied to an oxygen machine for the rest of her life. There is nothing gratifying about lingering death. There is nothing enticing about waiting while the Grim Reaper bides its time.

Death either comes in like a freight train or it slimes in as slow as a slug. So – tonight – lift a glass of whatever it is you drink and toast my Lola. I said good-bye today and kissed her forehead. I don’t know if I will get another chance. And for those of you who have a loved one in a nursing home, assisted living space, or hospital: go visit. I don’t care how uncomfortable it makes you feel. Hold their hand. Feel the papery skin. Remember for them. Remember them.

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Channeling My Inner Seamstress

January 18, 2024 by Jaci Dawn

Sometimes I think my life is just a cautionary tale. I do some very dumb things. Point in case is my most recent sewing “adventure”.

I am in the midst of Spring Cleaning (there’s nothing else to do other than work on some artwork or writing and January is always a good time to give the house a yearly purge). I’m not a great housekeeper to begin with, but the yearly purge cleaning makes me feel like there is hope for me. So far, it is going well: I’ve done the bathroom, the hall, the bedroom, and the kitchen. The kitchen always presents the greatest challenge because there is no hood over the gas range. No exhaust fan. A lot of grease, dust, and food fumes go into the house atmosphere and settle on top of things: the cupboards, the refrigerator top, the things I have on top of those items for display or storage, and the uncovered appliances.

Over the years I have developed a strategy of putting waxed paper on top of the cupboards and refrigerator and this helps immensely when I am finally moved to clean in places I can’t see. I roll up the filthy wax paper and dispose of it. I still have to do a fair bit of wall washing and cleaning of the items that have been stored on top of those places. I try to get to this task quarterly, but it more often falls biannually. The top of the fridge can sometimes go an entire year. I’m short; the fridge is tall. What I don’t see doesn’t affect me.

Well, it does. But summer comes and I am outside playing in dirt and I don’t pay much attention to the top of the refrigerator.

This year, it dawned on me that there was probably a more sustainable way to do this. I’m only 67 and have been married for almost 44 years. I’m a little slow on the uptake, OK?

Instead of using disposable wax paper, I could use picnic tablecloth fabric which can be tossed into a washer while I clean the tops of things. Oh, and I could sew covers for all the appliances that are currently covered with plastic garbage can bags or kitchen towels to reduce the dust accumulated between uses and/or cleaning sprees.  I am so brilliant that I can’t see my own reflection!

I thought the garbage bags and kitchen towels were a pretty neat idea when I thought of those. I didn’t factor in how ugly that looks and how easily garbage bags tear.

I should mention that I live with a dog. Sometimes more than one dog, but always a dog. And dogs track in dust and mud and they shed. We’ve never owned a dog that didn’t shed although I know they exist. My husband’s birddogs do not fit into that niche of neat dogs to own. Birddogs are more like perpetual toddlers with very large feet that collect substantial amounts of mud between the toes. One birddog we owned had hair like a porcupine’s quills: she didn’t have long hair but what hair she did have went into the fabric of chairs and rugs, never to be pulled out again. She’s been gone for 16 years and we still have furniture with short white hairs stuck into the fabric. The longer haired dogs just shed copious amounts of fluff. (photo: the dog. Ruger.)

I digress. I decided I would not only cover the top of the fridge with a fabric I could wash, but that I would sew covers for the appliance like my pressure canner, the crockpot, and various Dutch ovens. My stand alone mixer already has a cover over it, hence the brilliant idea.

I don’t sew. Not much. I can sew, that has never been the issue. I’m just not in love with sewing. My mother was the woman who sewed all of our school clothes, our Christmas pajamas, and a million other little things including Barbie outfits. If she didn’t have a pattern, she made a pattern. One of my best friends is an accomplished seamstress who tutored one of my daughters. That friend creates beautiful costumes for cosplay and Renaissance faires. Both of my daughters went to someone else to learn how to sew.

I’m not a terrible seamstress. It is simply not a passion. And for decades the only sewing machine I had was my mother’s Singer Featherweight. A few years ago I splurged and bought a newer model Singer with fancier stitches and I have used that since (when I have had the notion to sew). I even made a cover for it. I was on my game when I made the cover: dimensions, seams, hem: perfect. (photo: the sewing machine under cover)

I was not on my game this time around. I made all the proper measurements. The blue canner has a diameter of 15”. If I made the cover plus a skirt, the skirt length would need to be 8”. Of course, you need to add an inch for seams and hems, so the canner lid would be 16” and the skirt would need to be 9”. Circumference is easy, too, if you remember your formula from school. That’s (r+d)2 + c. You can skip the math, however: I found some pretty cool apps on the Interwebs that do the calculating for you.

I had some calico fabric laying around, but not enough to do the skirts – only enough to do the tops of all the appliances. So I figured out how much more calico I would need and what color. I knew at the outset of the project that I would be piecing fabric together rather than sewing perfect little matching covers. I also calculated about how much picnic tablecloth fabric I would need (not factoring in the width of the cloth on the bolt which is an unknown until you actually go to the fabric store. Can’t hurt to have too much.

I wrote out my list, took a photo of the calico I was using for the tops, and went to the local fabric store with coupons. 20% off the entire purchase plus 40% off one regular priced item (the picnic tablecloth fabric). Everything was on sale except for that. Thread, calico, hemming tape. I had it all figured out in my head. (I never needed the hemming tape and I already had green thread on a spool on my sewing machine – oops.)

The tablecloth fabric was wide enough that I not only got the refrigerator covered, but I have enough left over for a couple of the hanging cabinet tops. No sewing required, but it will easily wash clean in a gentle cycle. One item off my list!

I prewashed everything, then set about making the measurements (measure twice) before making the cuts (cut once). THEN I realized I had used my initial measurements, not the measurements plus seam allowances. I cut the blue canner top at 15”, not 16”. Oh.For.Crying.Out.Loud. And we’re in the middle of an ice storm so running back to the fabric store is out of the question, plus I didn’t want to waste the money. (Bangs head on desk and posts woes on Facebook.)

Not to worry: I had enough fabric to recut the circles, plus I could trim some of the larger ones down to fit the smaller items (e.g. the blue canner could be cut down to fit one of the Dutch ovens with an 11” diameter). Whew.

I carefully measured the skirts according to my circumference calculations. I was short fabric for the crock pot. Dang. I would address that last, I decided. Now was the time for the ironing and the sewing to begin and all would be well. I could do this.

I calculated the circumference from the original figures. Remember the blue canner? (7.5+15)2=45” Only I NEEDED (8+16)2=48”. OY VEY.

But not to fear: I could still use the skirts, add a ribbon at the bottom to create a tie (fresh out of elastic, but that would have worked as well). I just had to sew seams all around plus remember to sew the ribbons on. And it worked! (Photo: before – under the garbage bag, then with the tie at the back, and turned so you can’t see the tie)

I still didn’t have the crock pot figured out. It’s oblong, for one thing. The calculations are going to be different. And I was out of enough calico to make that happen, anyway. But I do have a number of old tablecloths I have picked up at yard and estate sales and… Yes, I cut up a (stained) vintage tablecloth to make it work. I do not regret that decision. (Photos: before with the kitchen towel, after with the tablecloth skirt)

I am not unhappy with the results; it just took more effort than I expected. And it showed just how (ahem) cautionary a tale I can be. And, yes, I had to use the seam ripper a couple times when I forgot to make certain I was sewing fabric face-to-face. That’s my least favorite sewing tool.

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2024 – What Are Your Plans?

December 31, 2023 by Jaci Dawn

 In a few hours (here in the Pacific Northwest) it will be a new year. What are your Apocalypse plans?

We watched the Obama’s movie, “Leave the World Behind”. It stars Julia Roberts and is streaming on Netflix. It leaves you hanging at the end, which is very disappointing. What happens after New York City implodes? Do the families decide they can overcome race issues? Do they have the skills to survive in a new world? Why are they leaving us hanging?

I downloaded J.K. Franks’ Apocalypse series (there are four: three in the series and a stand-alone that ties into the others). Book #1 “Downward Cycle” is scary. The next three have a bit too much luck in the survival game, rather like “Zombieland” (with Woody Harrelson and highly recommended for the survivalist). No, wait: Franks’ books become almost as believable as John Cusack and his family out-running the earthquakes in L.A. and ending up in Yellowstone in the apocalypse movie “2012”.

I don’t want to give away any spoilers because I thoroughly enjoyed Franks’ books (and I recommend them to the next generation survivor), but sometimes help is a little too convenient.

Enter the current book I am reading “Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warriors” by Benjamin Wallace. It’s a farcical tale that draws a lot on the “Mad Max” movie series (starring Mel Gibson and Tina Turner).

Serious question: What are YOUR Apocalypse plans? Do you have any? What about Zombie apocalypse (less likely to happen because zombies are really a voodoo thing and don’t eat brains: they just haunt people who are cursed. People who are cursed by whoever raised the zombie from the dead, like some voodoo doctor).

Do you have a “bug-out bag”? What is in it? Do you have a place to land that is hidden, remote, and unlikely to be overrun by gangs of heathens when the world collapses? What about transportation in case of an EMP or a CME (Coronal Mass Ejection or solar flare)? Stockpiles of foods, preferable purchased from one of the many survivalist groups who advertise liberally on Facebook?

DO YOU HAVE A PLAN?

I used to have a plan in case of a Zombie Apocalypse: I would move in with my youngest. She disowned me sometime in the past six years, so I don’t really have that option. I do know you need a shovel, a machete, and a ladder: you can cut zombie’s head off and they lose all sense of smell and direction and you need the ladder to help you get onto the roof of your house because zombies can’t climb (until you watch “World War Z” and they just pile the bodies up until they can ascend to the top of the walls and fall over into the compound, ready to eat brains). I am woefully behind on zombie survival skills.

In the event of a CME or EMP, what are you gonna do? Banks won’t be able to dispense money. Money will be worthless. Food will be necessary, and clean water. Will you be able to trust the government? Will guns help you survive the threat of marauders and scavengers? What about ammo? Can you trust your neighbors? Can you drive a car with a standard transmission?

Can you trust the deer to warn you (as in the movie “Leave the World Behind”?)

How far away is your bug-out shelter? Is it really that remote that no one will think to look for you there? Or maybe you can hide under a silo like “Love and Monsters” where the hero travels above ground to find his high school sweetheart after the nuclear apocalypse? (Spoiler:Dylan O’Brien survives and befriends a dog).

For me, however, the biggest question is this: how old are you? What’s your health like? Are you on maintenance meds? Are you a member of a particular circle of people who might have enough survival skills to start a new society?

A friend of mine brought this up when we were camping this past summer: her genre happens to include people involved in Renaissance Faires. The Society of Creative Anachronism and other groups that aspire to the days of the past: black powder groups, rendezvous groups, and Ren Faire groups. Of course, they would have many of the skills to survive in a non-tech world. That’s what they have been play-acting at for the past few decades. The issue would be this: where do you fit into their structure?

I have herbal knowledge, although it is small. Edible plants and a few edible mushrooms. I have enough books to help guide us through any questions (but no way to transport my books). My husband is a hunter. My friend is a seamstress. Those are necessary skills, but they fall behind the basic skill of surviving marauding murderers and desperate scavengers. We’d have to rely on the swords-people and the black powder survivalists.

The truth is this: I am 67. I need certain medicines to survive longer than a few months. I can cook from scratch, drive a stick shift, handle a firearm, and hide in the woods. But the cold seeps into my bones and makes the joints ache. I have camped much of my life without potable water, ice, and a place to take a dump. I can sleep on the ground. But I am 67 years old.

The cars we own will be disabled. We might be able to rig up a radio. We have a store of food. Our children live far away. I’m an artist, a bird-watcher, and a gardener. My husband has heart issues. Were we younger, we could hike for miles and miles. But we’re not younger.

The reality is this: we would be a burden on society and the future. If mankind isn’t headed into a total extinction event, we would not be the people you would want to pin the future on. We would be the decoys.  

I have my post apocalypse plans. I won’t tell you what they are. But I really want to know what yours are? No need to tell me where you will bug-out to, just tell me what is in your survival arsenal? What advice would you give to those who survive (and are much younger than I am)? Do you have a shovel ready to swipe the head off of an attacking zombie?

These are important questions for 2024.

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Bathroom Remodel

December 1, 2023 by Jaci Dawn

Oy. Vey. Two Yiddish words my mother used. She was not Yiddish, they were simply words that fit a situation. Oy. Vey. “Woe is me”, more or less. “Oh, dear.”

I think I got tired of waiting for the “big bathroom remodel”. This would be The Year. I had gathered my intelligence (not much of it, to be honest) and had a game plan. I could blame this on my son-in-law, but it really doesn’t come close to being his fault.

A couple of years ago, we invited a remodel company into our kitchen to discuss our plans for the bathroom in our 1930’s bungalow.  The linoleum was curling, and the shower stall was growing mildew along the caulking. Two kids barely out of high school showed up. Kids with no idea of history, property values, or practicality. They quoted us an exorbitant price that included a shower curtain for a shower stall on a linoleum floor AND the deal had to include a roof for our 1930’s garage or it was “too small” for the company. $23,000. They did not see the cast iron clawfoot bathtub as an asset, so did not include any plan for it.

That’s when I turned to my son-in-law. He’s a commercial plumber in Alaska and hates residential plumbing. Also, we don’t live anywhere near Alaska, so he was completely off the hook for doing the job to impress his in-laws. I wouldn’t do that to him, anyway. I just wanted some advice. He suggested we just go with Home Depot as they had arranged our kitchen update, and we were pleased with that. Also, we have credit with Home Depot.

I made my husband stop at the remodel desk at our local Home Depot to make an appointment for a quote for our bathroom. They did an amazing job lining up the work for our kitchen, could they repeat that small miracle? Well… They did get us lined up with a bathroom remodel company that gave us the best quote, also ignoring the clawfoot bathtub. Oh, and removing the tub, the toilet, and the pedestal sink for the flooring was going to cost us $1,000 per item if we didn’t do it ourselves. We assured them we could move all three on our own before installation, the tub being the biggest question mark. But, to save $1,000 – we would find a way.

Don’s friend helped him roll the tub onto a dolly and we rolled the tub into the kitchen and under the kitchen table. It just fit. It was also a lot lighter than some cast iron tubs: I once watched six men carry a similar tub out of a house during a remodel. This one took just the two and me as guide.

The shower and floor replacement went fairly smoothly. I hid upstairs and left my husband to supervise. The remodel company sold us on the idea that the nasty linoleum would be ripped up and sub-flooring looked at. NOPE. The new flooring was laid on top of the old linoleum. Who knows what lies under that, but at least it doesn’t squeak anymore when you walk on it. The new shower and floor look amazing. Some minor issues with the contractor and employee, not enough to complain about. We should have complained but that’s not my husband’s style and I am trying to be a nicer person. Really.

The new flooring on top of the old flooring raised the floor level up by 1/2 “ to 3/4” Which changed the plumbing for the pedestal sink and the bathtub drain. Not that we were ever in love with that pedestal sink. On the contrary, that was one thing we had hoped to get rid of in this update, but which wasn’t in the budget. Ha-ha-ha: it was now in the budget because my husband could not get the plumbing to work for the sink now. (The pedestal sink is destined to a new life in my yard as a bird bath and an in-ground planter. I may or may not leave the faucets attached.)

My husband started the search for the perfect vanity. He also decided we could not put the old medicine cabinet back up because the mirror was wearing out in front, and we had come this far in the update-now-remodel. Hours were spent perusing different sites and debating the pros and cons of certain vanities and medicine cabinets. Then, we had to agree on a new faucet set that fit the new vanity and fit under the new medicine cabinet.

Things needed to be painted to match the new vanity. The wall behind the old pedestal sink begged for a paint job (my daughter messaged me and said, “What?! Dad’s LETTING you paint a wall in the house?!” Yes, Virginia: not all the walls in our house are doomed to be primer white.) Finding that perfect color that matched the new floor and contrasted with the mint green vanity, though. And painting the underside of the bathtub while it rests on the dolly under the kitchen table.

We looked into refinishing the tub but that was cost prohibitive, and the poor tub will go back into the room chipped and stained. I researched the cost: average price over all vs. average price in the Portland metro area = vast difference. Also, finding someone who actually does that sort of work. The only thing that poor tub got was a nice outside paint job and getting to share Thanksgiving dinner with us (previous post).

This adventure started in October when the work began. It is now the first of December. Don has spent days on his back, attaching plumbing parts to the new vanity and faucet. Countless trips to Home Depot and Lowes have been undertaken. Websites have been perused and orders made online. Don has invented new swear words. Everything is in place except the bathtub and the hoses to the faucet plumbing. Tomorrow we will test out Don’s plumbing skills and turn the water on to the faucets.  We’ll wheel the tub back into place but won’t plumb it until the weather warms back up and Don can squeeze into the crawl space to push the drain pipe up by ¾ of an inch to make up for the additional flooring.

We still have the stupid particle board the previous owners used as windowsill wood. In a bathroom. Where it gets wet. And the particle board swells. Don’t even start us. Particle board is an invention from hell.

Ruger thinks he should get some of the credit. He got mint green paint in his beard after I painted the small cupboard for the bathroom. He also “helped” Don do some of the plumbing. He stood over Don with a stuffed toy in his mouth and tail wagging: “Oh, you’re on the floor! Must be Game Time!”

“Jaci! Would you get the dog out of my face?” (pic for cuteness)

(If the faucets or sink leak tomorrow, there may be an addendum to this post. But I think we’re in the clear. For now.)

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Tarts and Tubs

November 24, 2023 by Jaci Dawn

The main food binge is over, all that remains are the leftovers we will eat for days. This introvert could now go for days without seeing another human being, including my significant other. I am exhausted, and it was only us two and two of our friends. Oh, and Ruger, the dog. Ruger is the only extrovert in this household.

Don smoked a turkey breast after letting it sit in the refrigerator for three days soaking in his secret “dry rub”. (The only other person who had the recipe was our son although many have requested it. The truth is: I think Don mixes it up just a little every time he makes it so it is in that ethereal realm of recipes as his grandmother’s mincemeat – she had no idea how she made it but it was the best mince meat this side of Heaven, and I don’t like mincemeat for the most part.)

I spent Tuesday making up four little tarts for the Holiday: rolling out the pie dough, filling each one with either spiced apples from our garden or my own version of mincemeat* (which is meat-less. Maxine’s had elk meat in it). *Mine is really an apple-pear chutney with ginger that tastes strangely like store-bought mincemeat. So don’t get excited. I think I found it on All Recipes.com.

Wednesday, I went to the dentist and got my teeth cleaned. That’s neither here nor there (no cavities, Ma!) except whilst I was away the sourdough started decided to “explode” all over the countertop. My sourdough starter is another well-kept secret: it was handed down by Maxine to my mother-in-law who passed it down to me. I don’t know how old it is because my mother-in-law doesn’t know how old it is and Maxine took the secret to her grave. It’s easily 70 years old. And it sits in the refrigerator, unused, except for those rare times I bake bread or on holidays. Even the “explosion” was a minor accident to the starter. It just bubbles happily away.

Thursday was all about prep work before the turkey was done and guests arrived. Tablecloth, fine China, real silver: check, check, check. Not for anyone else but for me and my need to grasp onto Tradition. I found a Lego wrapped up in one of the tablecloths when I pulled them out of the chest. A Lego. It’s been there since last Thanksgiving when our daughter and her horde came down from Alaska and celebrated with us.

I had to pull the table out and set all the settings on one side as there is a cast iron claw-foot bathtub hiding under the table. Our bathroom is still in the throes of a remodel that is taking months to complete. The tub had to be removed to allow for the new flooring but now we have to adjust all the plumbing due to the new flooring and the new vanity is still sitting where the tub belongs, awaiting new faucets. (How’s that for a run-on sentence?) Anyway, there is a bathtub on a dolly hiding under our table, but the men who put it there were going to be the men eating turkey soon. And the tablecloth hid it well.

I pulled the tarts out of the refrigerator and set them on the counter under a towel to warm up to room temperature and await their turn in the oven. Everything else was mixing and kneading bread dough, selecting the ingredients for the stuffing and sautéing the veggies to add, and making the sauce to pour over the broccoli dish I would be serving. While doing some of that, I accidentally elbowed one tart and it went face down onto the floor. Ruger was excited about that, but I shooed him off and tossed the contents into the garbage (sorry, Ruger, you’re already chonky!). Now I am one tart short. UGH. Blood pressure is maintained, at least. I still have my sense of humor.

I decided to make another tart, but I am now out of flour and pie crust mix, and I do NOT want to go to the grocery store. We had graham cracker crumbs in the cupboard and blueberries in the freezer: blueberry tart! I also poured myself a glass of white wine, mostly because the sauce for the broccoli takes two tablespoons of the stuff. Wouldn’t want to waste it, you know. And it takes the edge off.

No, this is not a “then I had another glass of wine”, post, because I really did not. That was later in the day after the guests left and I needed to decompress.

I had to mix up a roux for the broccoli sauce, but Husband was in the kitchen (I do my best work without distraction) and he thought I was making the gravy. I don’t know why he thought I was making the gravy. That’s the last thing a person makes after the turkey is ready and the potatoes are mashed, and the table is ready for people to start sitting down. The guests hadn’t even arrived. He tried to help by getting the gravy packet from the turkey breast out of the refrigerator, which in turn distracted me because that was NOT what I was making, and I managed to both snap at him and spill the heavy cream all over the counter and onto the floor that I had just mopped. Again, sorry, Ruger, but you don’t get to lap that up. OUT OF MY KITCHEN, DOG. And I washed it up. Blood pressure is slightly elevated now.

Everything was ready to be popped into the oven, the bread and rolls were baked, and we had a break in the clouds. I wrapped myself in a coat and joined my husband outside around the Breeo smokeless fire pit to relax a little bit. Aaah. I was still sipping on that first glass of wine.

The guests arrived half an hour later just as the turkey reached the magic point in smoking: done. I started putting dishes into the oven while conversing with the female guest. The men sat around the fire pit. My guest asked what she could do and I said I thought I had it under control.

“You always have it under control,” she said.

Um… I’ve dumped one tart, spilled the cream, snapped at my husband (and the dog, but he deserved it), and dinner isn’t quite finished yet. Also, I am beginning to feel the ache of missing family members. And the dog is back in the kitchen, very excited because our guests are his favorite people in the whole world next to us and the dog next door that usually ignores him. Ruger gets pushed back outside to play around the fire with the men.

Dinner went well, actually. Everything timed out perfectly and nobody minded that the bathtub was hiding under the tablecloth. Ruger even settled down after being yelled at several times to “GO LAY DOWN”. (“But, but, but… there’s food. And Morgan! And food! And people! Aw, OK, I’ll lay down and TRY to be good…”)

Dishes were picked up and real silver separated from the stainless. (Yes, everyone let Ruger lick the juices off of their plates, but there weren’t any leftovers, only a taste. Poor, fat, doggo.) We relaxed for a drink and settled our tummies. Eventually, I heated the oven again and set about placing the tarts in to bake.

The rack in my oven has very wide gaps in it. Why is a mystery, but there you are. And one tart fell through, face down onto the oven door, apple juice pouring down into the broiler pan, and my husband (so helpful) saying, “You should put them on a baking sheet”. Now I need that second glass of wine. Or a third. And he can’t understand why I glowered at him.

We never ate dessert. We sent two tarts home with our guests. I washed and dried the silver. Everything else went into the dishwasher (I cook and clean as I go so pans were a minimum by evening’s end). I left the over cleaning for today, and it is still waiting for me. Baked on apple juice is not fun.

I will end with this: I think the bathtub had the BEST Thanksgiving, ever. I think it was happy to be included. It was better behaved than Ruger was.

And that turkey… Oh, my. Don’s Secret Dry Rub transforms everything.

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It’s Okay, It’s Not Okay

November 8, 2023 by Jaci Dawn

It is Okay to walk away from a toxic relationship. I have done it. And I have had it done to me. And that’s something we don’t talk about: what if YOU are the toxic person?

I will be brutally honest: the times I have been called a toxic person caught me completely by surprise and left me gasping for air not unlike a fish out of water. What happened? Why didn’t I see this coming? What did I say or do and how can I mend the situation? For me, that has always been the biggest question: what can I do to fix this? Because I don’t want to be “that person”.

I can think of three examples, and they all happened the same year. Only one of those came from someone I easily let go. You know the drill? “You feel like that? Okay. Good-bye. Have fun.”

Two came from people I dearly loved and valued. In one case, I will never know exactly why she decided it was time for our friendship of 40+ years to end. She picked something innocent as an excuse to tell me to go to hell: I didn’t see her “like” under a post I made on Facebook and that was “rude” of me. I tried, at first. Facebook has algorithms. You don’t always see all the comments under a post. A “like” is not even an acknowledgement: it’s just proof you spend too much time on the social media platform trying to affirm some other’s person’s feelings. It was for naught: she blocked me, quit answering my letters (I only wrote her one more), and that was that. Forty years of friendship gone over a missed “like” on a social media post.

I probably didn’t need that friendship anyway.

The third, however, still cuts me to the deep. My closest allies and friends tell me to “just let it go” but the pain is as deep as the loss of a child. It was the loss of a child. My youngest. She cut all ties to me and told me she no longer wanted any contact. I was devastated. I went through all the same emotions a parent goes through when a child dies: anger, hurt, sorrow, confusion, denial.

See, I lost a child to death, and I recognize grief when I see it. It’s lifelong. I will grieve that child and the one who disowned me for the rest of my life. The latter did tell me some of her reasons and I have to admit half of what she accused me of was true. I said those things. I did those things. I am guilty. She doesn’t believe I will admit to that, but there it is. Half of it isn’t true, and that is the half she will focus on and there is nothing I can do or say to change that perception. The damage was done and the damage remains.

My youngest is not my natural child. She came to me already traumatized by her mother’s untimely death. Her estranged father had been murdered. She came to me with all the trauma an adoptee comes with. I didn’t know that then and I only know it now because some of my closest friends are adoptees who are active in adoption forums. The loss of a mother leaves a child scarred deep within their psyche and even adoptees who have been raised by loving adoptive parents carry scars and traumatic pain.

I can’t say that even had I known this truth that I would have been a different parent. I treated all my children the same, never taking into account that the newest arrival did not have the familial sense of humor. She did not speak our language. It was cruel of me to assume she did and cruel of me to assume she would adjust. But the worst thing I did was to say she was my foster child when I should have simply kept my mouth shut and allowed someone to assume she was my birth child. She only wanted to belong to a family, and I denied her that in one stupid sentence.

I can’t turn back time. I can’t make it up to her. I just have to live with that memory. And I will forever feel the pain of the loss of a child with her name.

I have thought of arguments. Of countering her with her own faults. To what end? To add to her trauma? To prove to her that I am exactly what she has accused me of: a narcissistic, inconsiderate, insensitive person? “I’m sorry I made you feel that way…” No. I am sorry I said that. I am sorry I was stupid. I am sorry I hurt her. I’m sorry I can’t fix it.

I will strive to be smarter and more compassionate in the future. I will strive to be more careful with my words. I can’t fix the past, but I can be a better person today and tomorrow. And if you are in the same position I am in, I ask you to not try to deflect the pain but to do better. Accept the blame. Bow to the truth. It will hurt.

I buried one child. I lost another. I have one that has switched roles with me and is now my mentor and conscience. I gained a bonus daughter (in-law) who thinks I do no wrong. Three of those I can see and speak to at any time (yes, I speak to the dead and I can visit his grave). The fourth wants to cease to exist in my world and I have to find a way to let her go.

It is Okay that she let me go but it is not Okay.

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