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.
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.
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.
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?
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.)
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.
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.
I sat down to write a different post tonight. I had good intentions and the post started out well, but it mired in the mud of my words about halfway through. I saved it as a draft and turned to do something else, like sorting through our son’s guitar music and miscellaneous papers, things I didn’t deem important enough to take to his children in July.
I recycled the music, and set aside the books on World War 2 (he was very interested in the subject of the Pacific theater: the airplanes, the carriers, Midway Island, and so on). A folder with some Boy Scout awards was all that remained. And a photograph.
His fourth birthday. The cake was John Deere green. I don’t remember taking the photograph or anything else about the day, but I remember that cake and how excited he was.
He wrote a message on the back of it in yellow highlighter. He was trying out cursive. The letters are strained, but the words are clear enough. I ran the photo through my scanner with adjustments for contrast and brightness.
i Love you mom Love Levi P
A gift of passage, perhaps? A note from the past, certainly. A stab to the heart, yes. Because I love you, too, Levi.
I didn’t cry much when I was in Florida visiting his children and his grave, but tonight the tears just flow. It can’t be real. He can’t be gone. His fourth birthday was just yesterday.
What should be his 37th birthday is looming on the calendar. He lived just thirty years after that photo was taken and it just can’t be.
Damn grief. Pour me a shot of Jameson’s and let me sit in the dark with it. Let me remember his laugh, his smile, his hug.
To everything there is a season… Turn, Turn, Turn
I want to say something profound about this cycle of grief, but there are no words left in me. I urge anyone suffering from the loss of a loved one to look up The Compassionate Friends on Facebook or on their website: http://www.compassionatefriends.org. If you are grieving a military loved one look for TAPS (Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors): http://www.taps.org. You are not alone and you are normal.
Now, where’s that shot of whiskey? (j/k – alcohol is NOT the answer.)
I didn’t sleep well last night. I am currently sipping on a cup of coffee (the real stuff, not decaf) and waiting for the caffeine and acetaminophen to go to work. Lifting my right arm is difficult until the pain killer kicks in.
One week ago, on a warm Thursday morning, I set out to conquer some of the weeds that had started in my flower beds. I missed a good deal of blooms while I was away in Florida, so there is a great deal of dead-heading to be done as well. I dove right in and was making good progress around the largest flower bed. I did a little edging, pulled out errant evening primroses and thinned out their bed as well. I crawled under the Hawthorne and dug out some bothersome wood sorrel and a lot of errant oregano.
My oregano patch is large and unruly, but bees, wasps, and other pollinators love it. This time of year, the air around the oregano hums. But I only allow it to grow within its confines or, like the evening primroses, it would take over the entire yard and choke out all my other beautiful flowers and herbs. I believe this is what triggered the main body of the herb.
I stepped around my weed bucket to leave the area and move on when the oregano wrapped around my left foot. It wouldn’t let go and I was thrown forward. These things always happen in slow motion: My body tipping forward, my hands reaching ahead of me for the ground, my body twisting away from the dreaded oregano plant and the weeding pad looming up to catch me.
It looks harmless. Kindly, even.
I slammed into the arm of that with my armpit and the momentum of my top-heavy torso. BOOM! AHHH! I rolled over in agony, tears on the verge of flowing. My husband came running. I ran into the house and applied arnica.
But I am brave. I brushed it off, said I was all right, and proceeded to work some more in the garden, but away from the oregano now. Ungrateful herb! I worked for maybe half an hour before I realized my right arm was NOT beginning to feel better but was, in fact, hurting more. Of course, there was no bruise to see because: Arnica. But it sure FELT like a bruise throughout my armpit and into my right breast.
Ice. And – oh! I had hydrocodone hiding in the house, a remnant of breast cancer surgery that I never needed to use. I’m not saying the pain went completely away but it certainly eased off considerably. Until nighttime and bedtime. My arm and chest stiffened up, I couldn’t roll over, I could barely get myself back out of bed… You know the kind of pain that just dogs you? Yeah, that.
My husband drove me everywhere. I insisted on going to the big city wide yard sale and the art festival by the Oregon Trail Interpretive Center. I was fine, fine. We even stopped and had a beer at one of our favorite haunts (I was careful not to mix the meds). Then night came on again.
I started to worry: had I dislocated my shoulder? It didn’t look like it. I could use it. Visions of a doctor putting in back into place frightened me (more pain?!), but it was now obvious I had DONE SOMETHING. I convinced myself to go to the Urgent Care (rather, have my chauffeur drive me to the Urgent Care as I was now unable to hold the car door open long enough to get seated).
She poked and prodded gently. No, I hadn’t dislocated anything. Of course there was no bruise (Arnica). Nothing appeared to be broken but they didn’t have an x-ray tech available until Monday. She didn’t think anything WAS broken, however: she posited that I had cracked a rib.
And it all made sense. I’ve “been there done that” before. I cracked two ribs on a crate thirteen years ago, almost to the date. I know when because our son was visiting with his first born, and we celebrated Justin’s first birthday here. Justin just turned 14.
I didn’t go to the doctor. I had a stash of oxycontin left over from dental surgery. I knew that even an x-ray wouldn’t help because there is nothing the medical field can do for cracked ribs. You just have to suffer it out. It took nine weeks to heal.
The Urgent Care physician just nodded and smiled. “That’s pretty much what we have here. We could do an x-ray but it probably isn’t going to show anything beyond a cracked rib. I can prescribe some muscle relaxers to help you through the night.”
So now my house mocks me as the dirt, dust, and dog hair pile up. The garden is overrun with dead flower heads and weeds are bravely flourishing. I only travel places if someone else is driving. And sleep eludes me, especially when the dog feels the need to cuddle up against my back and prevent me from finding a more comfortable position. You move a seventy pound mutt in the middle of the night? HA!
I’m trying to learn how to do things left-handed, but it isn’t happening very quickly. I’ll dust and dust mop today – I can do those things with my left arm. The garden is just going to have to wait along with all my plans for the end of the summer.
I managed to type all this and sip my coffee. The acetaminophen is kicking in. Nice weeding weather outside teases me, but I know better. A cracked rib takes a long time to heal. And I am out of the good drugs and down to the Over-the-Counter ones. By my calculations (and prior experience) I have six to eight more weeks of this.
Jaci Dawn 