As 2013 is about to go into the history books, there are reasons to look back--not just at 2013, but at life in general.
Eight years ago today, my brother died suddenly and unexpectedly while out shopping in River Forest, IL. I didn't get the news until New Year's Day when the RF police found me via email. (To this day, I don't know how that happened. Doug hadn't had anything to do with me OR our sister for six or seven years prior. Something he had on his person when he died eventually led the police to me, a next of kin, online. The message was. "If you are the sister of Mr. Covill, please call us at this number. Mr. Covill is sick and cannot speak for himself." Of course, I immediately called, only to be told that Doug was gone. I think the female officer in charge of the case was hoping that the Plainfield Police Chaplain would find me before she had to break the news, but he didn't show up at my door until I was on the phone with her. He was knocking when I told her, "I think he's here." Her response was, "Tell him that the Internet found you before he did!" (I didn't tell him that, obviously. He seemed relieved to know that I'd already received the news and that I wasn't totally falling apart.) I did shake for awhile, but I didn't fall apart! The next few weeks were busy and traumatic as my sister and I planned and arranged for Doug's last rites as a brother and a veteran. I simply cannot believe that was eight years ago!
I have often complained that New Year's Eve is highly overrated. And it is. In my whole life, I have only experienced two NYE celebrations that even hinted at the hooplah that the rest of the country touts. The last few years have been a bit different, since my Russian-born son-in-law has been in the family. New Year's is the BIG holiday in Russia--even bigger than Christmas. All of us have endeavored to follow Russian traditions, and I kind of like it. I'm not with them all this year, however, so it's back to "bidness as usual" in my house. I will meet up with Meg and Deniska via Skype just before midnight tonight, then will fall, face first, onto the bed for the night!!
This time next year, in the absence of an absolute God-given miracle, my extended family's constellation will be different. These things can't usually be predicted, but my niece's husband has been diagnosed with terminal cancer and probably won't live beyond summer. That whole side of the family will be affected. And then there are the things we don't know will happen.
If you are reading this, it means you are more devoted than average because my blog is BORING. Still, I wish you all the best in 2014, with God's blessings!!!!
Happy New Year!
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Christmas, 2013
I have already posted much about this year's holiday, but not my actual Christmas Day experience. I think I mentioned that I would be driving to my sister's near Springfield, IL. And so I did, leaving on Christmas Eve.
Did I mention that I was cat-sitting for my daughter's cat? I told Meg that I would as long as she understood that I would have to leave the cat behind for about three days while I went to my sister's. My neighbor agreed to check on the cat in my absence, making sure she had food and water, and cleaning out the litter box. Since my immediate family would be in Florida for the holiday, I decided to spend it with my sister and family for the first time in how long? Not sure...but a long time.
The distance to my daughter's in Grayslake, IL, is about the same as the distance to my sister's just west of Springfield, IL....but there is a HUGE difference in effort to get there. To go to Meg's, I have to make sure that my IPASS transponder for the toll road is loaded with enough funds, and drive in traffic all the way around Chicago, praying for no slowdowns. The trip to Shari's, however, is all lightly-traveled interstates and boring as the dickens. No stress! Thus it was. I left home in good time and made it there in good time.
My sister's house is warm and delightful, well-decorated, and comfortable. Family and friends came and went on Christmas Eve. Shari had prepared vegetable soup, macaroni and cheese, Italian beef for sandwiches, and baked beans. There were cookies and candies and wine/booze for those that imbibe. It was pleasant!
Christmas Day happened in waves. Some factions of the family would show up when they could. Some left early. Others overlapped. I got to visit nieces and nephews--even if only briefly--that I haven't seen in a couple of years. Dinner consisted of ham, mashed potatoes, candied sweet potatoes, applesauce, peas, rolls, deviled eggs, and I forget what else. I just know that I left the table feeling absolutely stuffed!! (My sister is a good cook!) After dinner, we retired to the living room to open gifts.
The only "downer" to the whole occasion is the fact that my niece's husband has been diagnosed with terminal cancer. At their request, we didn't talk about that except in grace before dinner where it was declared that, no matter the future, nothing could take away our happiness and memories of the day.
Santa Claus was really good to me this year! I got a brand new sewing machine from my daughter, and my sister (who always supplies me with gorgeous sweatshirts) gave me two more AND came up with a pair of britches that just happened to fit!!!!!!
I hope they liked the gifts I gave them. I just bought gift cards, basically...but then, there was the family tree. Meg worked on it for weeks, with input from me. It was a framed tree word print that she does as part of her business. I chose the design and colors, plus the mat and frame. Meg did the rest. It's a one-of-a-kind gift. Shari doesn't need something else to put on her walls, but I thought this was special. (Apparently, so did many of the family members who were in attendance....looking and looking at it, searching for their names. Thank God we didn't leave anyone out, including an unborn child!)
Yesterday, I went to Shari's workplace with her for a short errand that she needed to run, then we met her husband for lunch at Hooters. There, I got to see my brother-in-law's dementia-related obsessive behavior first-hand. Too much to go into here. Suffice it to say that he just gushed about the food, the service, the manager, and his own propensity to leave big tips. I left for home from there so that I could be home before dark and not leave the cat alone another day.
My car performed magnificently. Not sure how much longer that will happen. My bro-in-law was on good behavior, so there was no tension (that I could see). I got home in good time and in fine shape, and found the cat in her hiding place, so all was well.
Christmas this year seemed "iffy" at first to me, but turned out nicely. I came home tired but happy!
Did I mention that I was cat-sitting for my daughter's cat? I told Meg that I would as long as she understood that I would have to leave the cat behind for about three days while I went to my sister's. My neighbor agreed to check on the cat in my absence, making sure she had food and water, and cleaning out the litter box. Since my immediate family would be in Florida for the holiday, I decided to spend it with my sister and family for the first time in how long? Not sure...but a long time.
The distance to my daughter's in Grayslake, IL, is about the same as the distance to my sister's just west of Springfield, IL....but there is a HUGE difference in effort to get there. To go to Meg's, I have to make sure that my IPASS transponder for the toll road is loaded with enough funds, and drive in traffic all the way around Chicago, praying for no slowdowns. The trip to Shari's, however, is all lightly-traveled interstates and boring as the dickens. No stress! Thus it was. I left home in good time and made it there in good time.
My sister's house is warm and delightful, well-decorated, and comfortable. Family and friends came and went on Christmas Eve. Shari had prepared vegetable soup, macaroni and cheese, Italian beef for sandwiches, and baked beans. There were cookies and candies and wine/booze for those that imbibe. It was pleasant!
Christmas Day happened in waves. Some factions of the family would show up when they could. Some left early. Others overlapped. I got to visit nieces and nephews--even if only briefly--that I haven't seen in a couple of years. Dinner consisted of ham, mashed potatoes, candied sweet potatoes, applesauce, peas, rolls, deviled eggs, and I forget what else. I just know that I left the table feeling absolutely stuffed!! (My sister is a good cook!) After dinner, we retired to the living room to open gifts.
The only "downer" to the whole occasion is the fact that my niece's husband has been diagnosed with terminal cancer. At their request, we didn't talk about that except in grace before dinner where it was declared that, no matter the future, nothing could take away our happiness and memories of the day.
Santa Claus was really good to me this year! I got a brand new sewing machine from my daughter, and my sister (who always supplies me with gorgeous sweatshirts) gave me two more AND came up with a pair of britches that just happened to fit!!!!!!
I hope they liked the gifts I gave them. I just bought gift cards, basically...but then, there was the family tree. Meg worked on it for weeks, with input from me. It was a framed tree word print that she does as part of her business. I chose the design and colors, plus the mat and frame. Meg did the rest. It's a one-of-a-kind gift. Shari doesn't need something else to put on her walls, but I thought this was special. (Apparently, so did many of the family members who were in attendance....looking and looking at it, searching for their names. Thank God we didn't leave anyone out, including an unborn child!)
Yesterday, I went to Shari's workplace with her for a short errand that she needed to run, then we met her husband for lunch at Hooters. There, I got to see my brother-in-law's dementia-related obsessive behavior first-hand. Too much to go into here. Suffice it to say that he just gushed about the food, the service, the manager, and his own propensity to leave big tips. I left for home from there so that I could be home before dark and not leave the cat alone another day.
My car performed magnificently. Not sure how much longer that will happen. My bro-in-law was on good behavior, so there was no tension (that I could see). I got home in good time and in fine shape, and found the cat in her hiding place, so all was well.
Christmas this year seemed "iffy" at first to me, but turned out nicely. I came home tired but happy!
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Angels!
If you have ever had to supervise the work of others, you will understand what a joy it is to find someone who does things that need to be done without being told. I have been blessed with one of those. I'm no supervisor, but I DO have a family friend who has helped me immeasurably and needs no direction from me.
James Nash, thank you. Simply, thank you. :)
James Nash, thank you. Simply, thank you. :)
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Christmas Foreplay
'Twas the week before Christmas,
And all through the home,
The spirit was missing,
Wherever I roam.
(My apologies to Clement C. Moore!)
Every year, there are a number of things that all come together to create what we know as "the Christmas spirit". We decorate our homes; make a big deal of putting up the Christmas tree as a family activity; make gift lists; Christmas shop; go to parties; bake cookies and make candy; wrap presents; threaten our small children that Santa won't come if they don't behave; watch Christmas classic movies on television; plan for our family traditions; and wait/hope for the weather to cooperate with our travel plans and expectations of whatever kind of weather we expect for the season. In short, we exhaust ourselves for a month out of the year in the name of the Christmas spirit. I call it Christmas foreplay. If any of the requirements are missing, we have trouble getting in the mood. Kind of like sex, you know? And the climax, of course, happens on the day of December 25th, when it is all over. Bang! Done. Only the garbage men who pick up all of the wrappings and packaging get the dregs when it's over.
This year represents my 66th Christmas. I've had one or two in southern California, one in Florida, one in Japan, and all of the rest in Illinois and Indiana with my family as it was in any given year. Some were great. Some were good. Some were, let's just say, experiences where new traditions had to be created. Sometimes, it is difficult to get into the spirit because some of the foreplay is missing. This year is one of those. Yes, it is cold enough. Yes, there is plenty of snow on the ground. (I'm sorry...seeing Christmas lights decorating palm trees in Florida just seemed a bit incongruous to me.) I've shopped and cooked and gotten crazy...but...my family won't be here, nor will I be with them.
My daughter and family are going to Florida to be with my son-in-law's Russian parents and Megan's father and stepmother for Christmas. I was invited to go, too....but...when the invitation was originally given, I didn't feel welcome by the circumstances (long story)...and when the welcome mat came out for real, I had already committed to another situation. I don't regret that they are going because I think the grandchildren will love going to Disney World and soaking in the sunshine. I also believe that the adults being visited will enjoy (and be exhausted by) the visit. What I DO regret is that my happy little dreamy expectations of the perfect Christmas will be different...again...this year. (I fear that has changed permanently. I just have to decide for myself if I'm going to take part in it.)
So, what part of foreplay is missing? For years, Meg and I--and whatever other parts of the family were living here at the moment--went to the 11 PM candlelight service at my church on Christmas Eve, then came home to a midnight breakfast and opening our stockings, leaving the gifts for morning. The Christmas Eve services at my church are absolutely gorgeous, with exquisite music and dimmed lighting and candles held on high at the end. Uplifting! I haven't been able to attend that service since my grandchildren started living with their father. (That is, I couldn't attend if I wanted to be with them.)
This year, no one will be here at Christmas. Oh, Meg and the family will be here for a few hours on the 19th, on their way to FL. I will be in IL with my sister's family for the holiday. I did put up the Christmas tree yesterday, wondering why...but I didn't want to feel like the Scrooge that I thought my mother was being when she decided just to put up a tiny little hint of a tree on a table when her kids grew up and started their own traditions. (Putting up the tree alone is sacrilege in my house. No fun to do it alone!) I have done maybe a quarter of the house decorating that I normally would--which is okay because my house is tiny.
Perhaps it's my age and inability to get around well, but I just haven't had enough foreplay to get in the mood. I lack the Christmas spirit this year. Mercifully, it hasn't affected my shopping. (Got that done in record time!)
But here is the reality of it all: as the Grinch found out, Christmas will happen with or without all of the trappings. It's in our hearts and can't be stopped. If I were in a concentration camp being tortured by enemies, Christmas would still be Christmas...in my heart. Many years ago, when I was in high school, I got into an altercation at the Christmas dinner table with my brother-in-law over his nagging treatment of his small daughter. I left the table in a huff and went up to my bedroom because I had dared to breech family protocol with retaliation to his angry words. Awhile later, my grandfather came up to my room to say, "Don't let this ruin your Christmas." My response to him was, "Oh, Popo...nothing can spoil Christmas!" I meant it then, and I mean it now. The foreplay may not be there while the expectations are, but the day isn't about us. It is a day to celebrate the birth of a man who changed the world forever, and if we are so wrapped up in the foreplay, we don't get it. Strip away the layers and get back to the "reason for the season".
That's what I'm trying to do!
And all through the home,
The spirit was missing,
Wherever I roam.
(My apologies to Clement C. Moore!)
Every year, there are a number of things that all come together to create what we know as "the Christmas spirit". We decorate our homes; make a big deal of putting up the Christmas tree as a family activity; make gift lists; Christmas shop; go to parties; bake cookies and make candy; wrap presents; threaten our small children that Santa won't come if they don't behave; watch Christmas classic movies on television; plan for our family traditions; and wait/hope for the weather to cooperate with our travel plans and expectations of whatever kind of weather we expect for the season. In short, we exhaust ourselves for a month out of the year in the name of the Christmas spirit. I call it Christmas foreplay. If any of the requirements are missing, we have trouble getting in the mood. Kind of like sex, you know? And the climax, of course, happens on the day of December 25th, when it is all over. Bang! Done. Only the garbage men who pick up all of the wrappings and packaging get the dregs when it's over.
This year represents my 66th Christmas. I've had one or two in southern California, one in Florida, one in Japan, and all of the rest in Illinois and Indiana with my family as it was in any given year. Some were great. Some were good. Some were, let's just say, experiences where new traditions had to be created. Sometimes, it is difficult to get into the spirit because some of the foreplay is missing. This year is one of those. Yes, it is cold enough. Yes, there is plenty of snow on the ground. (I'm sorry...seeing Christmas lights decorating palm trees in Florida just seemed a bit incongruous to me.) I've shopped and cooked and gotten crazy...but...my family won't be here, nor will I be with them.
My daughter and family are going to Florida to be with my son-in-law's Russian parents and Megan's father and stepmother for Christmas. I was invited to go, too....but...when the invitation was originally given, I didn't feel welcome by the circumstances (long story)...and when the welcome mat came out for real, I had already committed to another situation. I don't regret that they are going because I think the grandchildren will love going to Disney World and soaking in the sunshine. I also believe that the adults being visited will enjoy (and be exhausted by) the visit. What I DO regret is that my happy little dreamy expectations of the perfect Christmas will be different...again...this year. (I fear that has changed permanently. I just have to decide for myself if I'm going to take part in it.)
So, what part of foreplay is missing? For years, Meg and I--and whatever other parts of the family were living here at the moment--went to the 11 PM candlelight service at my church on Christmas Eve, then came home to a midnight breakfast and opening our stockings, leaving the gifts for morning. The Christmas Eve services at my church are absolutely gorgeous, with exquisite music and dimmed lighting and candles held on high at the end. Uplifting! I haven't been able to attend that service since my grandchildren started living with their father. (That is, I couldn't attend if I wanted to be with them.)
This year, no one will be here at Christmas. Oh, Meg and the family will be here for a few hours on the 19th, on their way to FL. I will be in IL with my sister's family for the holiday. I did put up the Christmas tree yesterday, wondering why...but I didn't want to feel like the Scrooge that I thought my mother was being when she decided just to put up a tiny little hint of a tree on a table when her kids grew up and started their own traditions. (Putting up the tree alone is sacrilege in my house. No fun to do it alone!) I have done maybe a quarter of the house decorating that I normally would--which is okay because my house is tiny.
Perhaps it's my age and inability to get around well, but I just haven't had enough foreplay to get in the mood. I lack the Christmas spirit this year. Mercifully, it hasn't affected my shopping. (Got that done in record time!)
But here is the reality of it all: as the Grinch found out, Christmas will happen with or without all of the trappings. It's in our hearts and can't be stopped. If I were in a concentration camp being tortured by enemies, Christmas would still be Christmas...in my heart. Many years ago, when I was in high school, I got into an altercation at the Christmas dinner table with my brother-in-law over his nagging treatment of his small daughter. I left the table in a huff and went up to my bedroom because I had dared to breech family protocol with retaliation to his angry words. Awhile later, my grandfather came up to my room to say, "Don't let this ruin your Christmas." My response to him was, "Oh, Popo...nothing can spoil Christmas!" I meant it then, and I mean it now. The foreplay may not be there while the expectations are, but the day isn't about us. It is a day to celebrate the birth of a man who changed the world forever, and if we are so wrapped up in the foreplay, we don't get it. Strip away the layers and get back to the "reason for the season".
That's what I'm trying to do!
Sunday, December 15, 2013
Mission of Mercy
My daughter Megan, her husband Denis, and the two grandchildren have been planning a trip to Florida for the holidays for many months. Denis's Russian parents fell in love with Florida when they visited last winter--more specifically Vero Beach, which is where Megan's father and stepmother live. In fact, when they decided to vacation in the US again this winter, they decided to go ONLY to Florida...not to the Midwest where the family is. If Megan and Denis wanted to see them, they would have to visit Florida. (Not a bad idea, I guess.) It has long been The Plan for Luda and Sergey to immigrate to the US...but now the elder Shchepetovs have decided that they prefer the warmer climes. Which is okay, I guess, except that they really don't speak English well, would need jobs to support themselves, and there is no large settlement of Russian-speaking immigrants in Florida like there is in the northern suburbs of Chicago where Megan and Denis live. Luda and Sergey have not experienced either the Midwest OR Florida during summer, so they really don't have a good picture of what either place is like during that season. I'm not sure that they totally get what they are asking for...
They were offered to stay in a sort of "loaner" trailer home in the same court where Meg's father is. They arrived last week, with Joe and Sharon (Megan's paternal parents) meeting them at the airport and supplying them with the trailer--which meant cleaning and stocking it some before they got there. The McNarys also made arrangements for a rental car for the Russian guests, which turned into a bit of a fiasco, but 'twas done. (So much for their ability to be independent in America!) Megan and Denis planned to drive straight through to be there late in the day this next Friday. All plans had been made accordingly.
Okay...so...Meg's father (Joe) had a bout with gall stones that took him to the ER one night this past week. Then he came down with a stomach bug...then ended up back in the hospital with gall stones AND kidney stones a day or two later. (I might not have those in the right order.) The hospital admitted him, but since he wasn't being a very "patient" patient, they discharged him to go home, same evening. Needless to say, he's been feeling pretty punk and just barely on his feet. Meantime, just yesterday, his wife came down with the stomach bug that had her in the bathroom every 15 minutes. (Are you following me, so far?)
Last evening, Luda (Denis's mother) decided that she needed medical attention. She had developed a blind spot in one eye. Apparently she at first thought she had just gotten some lotion in her eye, but the blind spot kept getting bigger as the day wore on, so a trip to the ER was required, and Joe was required to drive them because Sergey had been drinking. When I heard about it, it was already after 9:00 PM EST. Joe reported that Sergey wasn't wearing many clothes (no one is quite sure what that meant) and that he hadn't taken his BP meds...complications, I'm sure.
Hospitals have their own language, and that language doesn't translate well to people who don't speak it--even people who speak English. For those who don't, it can be disastrous. In short order, Joe called to have Denis translate over the phone--from his mother to the hospital personnel to Joe, and back again. Then the issue of insurance came up. Sergey didn't want the hospital to do any procedures until he had permission from his Russian insurance carrier...so suddenly, Meg and Denis are trying to put International Minutes on the phone they shipped to FL for his parents to use. From my vantage point on Instant Messenger with Meg, it sounded like an absolute circus!
Luda was given a CT scan. I assume they were looking for a stroke or brain bleed. That came back clear. Then they transferred her to a hospital by ambulance 20 miles away. It was determined that she has a partially-detached retina in the affected eye and will need surgery. But...true to my experience with the ruptured brain aneurysm AND the heart attack, it is never a good idea to have a medical emergency on the weekend. They eventually released Luda to go home but she has to return tomorrow...probably for surgery. But not before Joe took Sergey home for more clothes and his meds.
I stayed up with Meg on a vigil of sorts, just to know what was going on, but along about 2:30 AM, I decided I needed to hit the sack. She left me an email somewhere along about 4-something-AM (IL time) to say that the decision had been made for Denis to fly down today. It needed to be, if only for him be be Chief Translator. Still, it leaves Meg to make the rest of the trip plans alone. We're working on that. Plans are changing to make it a bit easier...
There are lessons to be learned from this. Lots of them. I won't list them now because they should be obvious to anyone who has ever been away from home when tragedy hits. Denis has just landed in Orlando as I typed this. Godspeed, Deniska! Your family will follow in a few days! Take care of your mama!
They were offered to stay in a sort of "loaner" trailer home in the same court where Meg's father is. They arrived last week, with Joe and Sharon (Megan's paternal parents) meeting them at the airport and supplying them with the trailer--which meant cleaning and stocking it some before they got there. The McNarys also made arrangements for a rental car for the Russian guests, which turned into a bit of a fiasco, but 'twas done. (So much for their ability to be independent in America!) Megan and Denis planned to drive straight through to be there late in the day this next Friday. All plans had been made accordingly.
Okay...so...Meg's father (Joe) had a bout with gall stones that took him to the ER one night this past week. Then he came down with a stomach bug...then ended up back in the hospital with gall stones AND kidney stones a day or two later. (I might not have those in the right order.) The hospital admitted him, but since he wasn't being a very "patient" patient, they discharged him to go home, same evening. Needless to say, he's been feeling pretty punk and just barely on his feet. Meantime, just yesterday, his wife came down with the stomach bug that had her in the bathroom every 15 minutes. (Are you following me, so far?)
Last evening, Luda (Denis's mother) decided that she needed medical attention. She had developed a blind spot in one eye. Apparently she at first thought she had just gotten some lotion in her eye, but the blind spot kept getting bigger as the day wore on, so a trip to the ER was required, and Joe was required to drive them because Sergey had been drinking. When I heard about it, it was already after 9:00 PM EST. Joe reported that Sergey wasn't wearing many clothes (no one is quite sure what that meant) and that he hadn't taken his BP meds...complications, I'm sure.
Hospitals have their own language, and that language doesn't translate well to people who don't speak it--even people who speak English. For those who don't, it can be disastrous. In short order, Joe called to have Denis translate over the phone--from his mother to the hospital personnel to Joe, and back again. Then the issue of insurance came up. Sergey didn't want the hospital to do any procedures until he had permission from his Russian insurance carrier...so suddenly, Meg and Denis are trying to put International Minutes on the phone they shipped to FL for his parents to use. From my vantage point on Instant Messenger with Meg, it sounded like an absolute circus!
Luda was given a CT scan. I assume they were looking for a stroke or brain bleed. That came back clear. Then they transferred her to a hospital by ambulance 20 miles away. It was determined that she has a partially-detached retina in the affected eye and will need surgery. But...true to my experience with the ruptured brain aneurysm AND the heart attack, it is never a good idea to have a medical emergency on the weekend. They eventually released Luda to go home but she has to return tomorrow...probably for surgery. But not before Joe took Sergey home for more clothes and his meds.
I stayed up with Meg on a vigil of sorts, just to know what was going on, but along about 2:30 AM, I decided I needed to hit the sack. She left me an email somewhere along about 4-something-AM (IL time) to say that the decision had been made for Denis to fly down today. It needed to be, if only for him be be Chief Translator. Still, it leaves Meg to make the rest of the trip plans alone. We're working on that. Plans are changing to make it a bit easier...
There are lessons to be learned from this. Lots of them. I won't list them now because they should be obvious to anyone who has ever been away from home when tragedy hits. Denis has just landed in Orlando as I typed this. Godspeed, Deniska! Your family will follow in a few days! Take care of your mama!
Saturday, December 14, 2013
That's Where My Money Goes...
October turned out to be an expensive month for me, with a furnace repair that I hadn't budgeted for and my car insurance premium due. So much for the discretionary income for that month.
Then came November, with a trip up to north of Chicago to be with my family for Thanksgiving...and that visit carried over a week into December. Two different months; two different pay dates. Plus, thanks to an inheritance of sorts and the generosity of my sister, I came into a little extra money that I saw was going to help me get through Christmas! I was able to get the oil changed in my car and do what was necessary to do justice to my trip up north, plus do a tad more than usual for gift-giving, etc.
My Christmas shopping is now done. I'm back to having to watch the pennies. So where did my money go??
#1. My grandson Ryan's birthday is in November. I had sent him a little something for his 10th b-day but felt that I still needed to get him a little something more. Ever the crafty one, he is totally aware that grandparents (are supposed to) spoil their grandchildren. He takes advantage of that. He has a friend who has a cool pair of purple Nike shoes, and Ryan had an eye for those. Kind of a keeping-up-with-the-Joneses thing. Thus, he and I made a run to a Nike outlet store in the Gurnee Mills shopping center, hoping to find them. We looked and looked, called Mom for a clue what they were labeled, asked for assistance--all to no avail. But he did find another pair of Nikes that he liked, so we got those. $75. I know, I know....$75 for a pair of shoes that he will tear up and outgrow in short order...but...but...he's my only grandson, ya know? His custodial parents would never buy those for him, but Grandma would!
#2. A former student of mine and her husband and family have become good friends of mine. They have helped me out immeasurably, and I have tried to be sympathetic to the fact that they are raising four kids on disability pay. Thus, when I found out that they were out of TP and other essentials, I contributed a chunk just to help them along. Truth be known, I don't have enough money to repay them for all they have done for me!
#3. My son-in-law had seen ads on TV for IHOP's new crepe cakes. He wanted to go there, so I decided to treat us all to a meal out. (They don't eat out often.) We had a friendly server and enjoyed our meal. Money well spent!
#4. Another one of my former students has a cat that had five kittens. Cute as they can be. (I keep up with her on Facebook.) Then, one by one, the kittens began to die. After three were gone and the remaining two seemed lethargic, a number of people were suggesting that she take them to a veterinarian, but she didn't comment, and I knew why. She doesn't even have health insurance for herself! No way could this mother of two who is also taking college classes justify taking kittens to a vet without knowing what expenses could be incurred. Well...I couldn't sit back and let those kittens die without medical attention, so I volunteered to pay for it. She took me up on it! She called around to various vet offices and found the cheapest one (that gave her a deal--thanks, Tonya!) and I met her there. Thankfully, the problem seemed to be nutritional. I opted for some kitty-antibiotics, just to be safe. The total bill was less than $70. But the kittens are doing better!
#5. Christmas shopping. My family is going to Florida for the holiday this year, so my shopping has been limited. I will only get a few hours with them before they depart, and they are mostly getting cash from me for the vacation. Still, the money is about run out. I still have to have food for the rest of the month, and gas for a trip to my sister's and back for the holiday. I'm fairly happy with what I have gotten. Stocking stuffers, plus one gift per person to open and an envelope with $$.
So here's the deal: had I NOT spent all of that money, I would have more in my own larder, but I wouldn't be any happier. When my favorite uncle's wife died, I asked him what he had learned about life, and he said, "If you have enough money to spend $5, spend $5! Enjoy life while you can!" I am older now but I do understand what he meant. It gives me pleasure to help others with what God has given me. I try not to be stupid about it, but if I saved two kittens from dying, a family from not having the necessities of life...if I have some thoughtful gifts for my family and friends and pleased my son-in-law and grandson...my life is the richer. God provides.
(And just to prove my point, the whole time I've been writing this, the husband of my former student/friend has been out snow-blowing my driveway and walk, plus salting and cleaning off my car. What a blessing!)
Then came November, with a trip up to north of Chicago to be with my family for Thanksgiving...and that visit carried over a week into December. Two different months; two different pay dates. Plus, thanks to an inheritance of sorts and the generosity of my sister, I came into a little extra money that I saw was going to help me get through Christmas! I was able to get the oil changed in my car and do what was necessary to do justice to my trip up north, plus do a tad more than usual for gift-giving, etc.
My Christmas shopping is now done. I'm back to having to watch the pennies. So where did my money go??
#1. My grandson Ryan's birthday is in November. I had sent him a little something for his 10th b-day but felt that I still needed to get him a little something more. Ever the crafty one, he is totally aware that grandparents (are supposed to) spoil their grandchildren. He takes advantage of that. He has a friend who has a cool pair of purple Nike shoes, and Ryan had an eye for those. Kind of a keeping-up-with-the-Joneses thing. Thus, he and I made a run to a Nike outlet store in the Gurnee Mills shopping center, hoping to find them. We looked and looked, called Mom for a clue what they were labeled, asked for assistance--all to no avail. But he did find another pair of Nikes that he liked, so we got those. $75. I know, I know....$75 for a pair of shoes that he will tear up and outgrow in short order...but...but...he's my only grandson, ya know? His custodial parents would never buy those for him, but Grandma would!
#2. A former student of mine and her husband and family have become good friends of mine. They have helped me out immeasurably, and I have tried to be sympathetic to the fact that they are raising four kids on disability pay. Thus, when I found out that they were out of TP and other essentials, I contributed a chunk just to help them along. Truth be known, I don't have enough money to repay them for all they have done for me!
#3. My son-in-law had seen ads on TV for IHOP's new crepe cakes. He wanted to go there, so I decided to treat us all to a meal out. (They don't eat out often.) We had a friendly server and enjoyed our meal. Money well spent!
#4. Another one of my former students has a cat that had five kittens. Cute as they can be. (I keep up with her on Facebook.) Then, one by one, the kittens began to die. After three were gone and the remaining two seemed lethargic, a number of people were suggesting that she take them to a veterinarian, but she didn't comment, and I knew why. She doesn't even have health insurance for herself! No way could this mother of two who is also taking college classes justify taking kittens to a vet without knowing what expenses could be incurred. Well...I couldn't sit back and let those kittens die without medical attention, so I volunteered to pay for it. She took me up on it! She called around to various vet offices and found the cheapest one (that gave her a deal--thanks, Tonya!) and I met her there. Thankfully, the problem seemed to be nutritional. I opted for some kitty-antibiotics, just to be safe. The total bill was less than $70. But the kittens are doing better!
#5. Christmas shopping. My family is going to Florida for the holiday this year, so my shopping has been limited. I will only get a few hours with them before they depart, and they are mostly getting cash from me for the vacation. Still, the money is about run out. I still have to have food for the rest of the month, and gas for a trip to my sister's and back for the holiday. I'm fairly happy with what I have gotten. Stocking stuffers, plus one gift per person to open and an envelope with $$.
So here's the deal: had I NOT spent all of that money, I would have more in my own larder, but I wouldn't be any happier. When my favorite uncle's wife died, I asked him what he had learned about life, and he said, "If you have enough money to spend $5, spend $5! Enjoy life while you can!" I am older now but I do understand what he meant. It gives me pleasure to help others with what God has given me. I try not to be stupid about it, but if I saved two kittens from dying, a family from not having the necessities of life...if I have some thoughtful gifts for my family and friends and pleased my son-in-law and grandson...my life is the richer. God provides.
(And just to prove my point, the whole time I've been writing this, the husband of my former student/friend has been out snow-blowing my driveway and walk, plus salting and cleaning off my car. What a blessing!)
Friday, December 13, 2013
What Sisterhood Means to Me
I started this blog entry before my sister's birthday, which was December 7th, but never finished it for a lot of reasons....so here goes.
My sister Shari was the family's first-born. She was also the first grandchild for our Armstrong grandparents. (The Covill grandparents both died before Shari was old enough to know them.) Then came Barbara, the sister that tragically died when Shari was 4 or 5. Then came me right after Barbara. None of us will ever know if/how that affected our relationship.
My sister was my leader. She took me to experiences I probably shouldn't have had because she was the brave one and I was the follower. As she grew and changed, I grew and changed with her...but not always in the same way. I can remember several times when she got sideways with Mom over an issue or two, and I told myself that, when I got to be her age, I wasn't going to do that. (Wanting a bra is the one that sticks in my mind the most.) And since I was the Goody-Two-Shoes, there were a couple of times when she got in some major trouble because I tattled on her. In retrospect, I felt bad about that, but not at the time. Oh well!
Truth be known, I admired my sister. She was pretty. She had lots of boyfriends and a nice figure. I wanted to look just like her! It just never happened....and so it was. In our stages of development, she was beyond me and I couldn't be what she was. I think there was an unspoken competition that neither of us ever recognized back then...and now no longer matters!
Except for one remaining aunt, Shari and I are all that is left of our immediate family. If I read our relationship correctly, we both feel like the sole inhabitants of a very small island. No one else knows what we endured...what we learned...as kids. No one else gets what we are made of, and wouldn't even if we tried to explain it. We aren't keeping it secret. It's just that the younger generation doesn't care so much, as if it didn't apply to them (although there will come a time when they figure it out for themselves, as Shari and I did).
My sister lives in central Illinois. I live in central Indiana. Still, we are in email contact almost daily. From that, I know that I can tell her anything and she will not judge me. I hope she also understands that I am here to listen to her, even though I'm not there every day to prop her up in her day-to-day issues with her husband with dementia. As kids, we fought endlessly. As senior citizens, we are happy to have each other. Somewhere in between, we grew up and life happened. I am thankful for that.
And I am thankful that my sister is still in my life. I love her to pieces. Guess there isn't much more to say about that!
My sister Shari was the family's first-born. She was also the first grandchild for our Armstrong grandparents. (The Covill grandparents both died before Shari was old enough to know them.) Then came Barbara, the sister that tragically died when Shari was 4 or 5. Then came me right after Barbara. None of us will ever know if/how that affected our relationship.
My sister was my leader. She took me to experiences I probably shouldn't have had because she was the brave one and I was the follower. As she grew and changed, I grew and changed with her...but not always in the same way. I can remember several times when she got sideways with Mom over an issue or two, and I told myself that, when I got to be her age, I wasn't going to do that. (Wanting a bra is the one that sticks in my mind the most.) And since I was the Goody-Two-Shoes, there were a couple of times when she got in some major trouble because I tattled on her. In retrospect, I felt bad about that, but not at the time. Oh well!
Truth be known, I admired my sister. She was pretty. She had lots of boyfriends and a nice figure. I wanted to look just like her! It just never happened....and so it was. In our stages of development, she was beyond me and I couldn't be what she was. I think there was an unspoken competition that neither of us ever recognized back then...and now no longer matters!
Except for one remaining aunt, Shari and I are all that is left of our immediate family. If I read our relationship correctly, we both feel like the sole inhabitants of a very small island. No one else knows what we endured...what we learned...as kids. No one else gets what we are made of, and wouldn't even if we tried to explain it. We aren't keeping it secret. It's just that the younger generation doesn't care so much, as if it didn't apply to them (although there will come a time when they figure it out for themselves, as Shari and I did).
My sister lives in central Illinois. I live in central Indiana. Still, we are in email contact almost daily. From that, I know that I can tell her anything and she will not judge me. I hope she also understands that I am here to listen to her, even though I'm not there every day to prop her up in her day-to-day issues with her husband with dementia. As kids, we fought endlessly. As senior citizens, we are happy to have each other. Somewhere in between, we grew up and life happened. I am thankful for that.
And I am thankful that my sister is still in my life. I love her to pieces. Guess there isn't much more to say about that!
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
We'll Have Weather, Whether or Not!
I've always found it somewhat pointless to complain about the weather because there really isn't anything that can be done about it. Most of the time, I just hope for the best--especially in the winter. Many winters, the snowy weather doesn't come until after Christmas, and the Arctic cold blasts don't happen until January. That, to me, is normal. It makes for a normal length for the season. Normal. I like normal.
This season has me worried. We--several Midwestern states--already have had measerable snowfall and single-digit temperatures in November. BEFORE Thanksgiving. This does not bode well for the rest of the season. It is barely December and not even officially winter yet, but the forecast has big snow and more single-digit-close-to-zero temperatures within the week. Suffice it to say, unless things change drastically, it's going to be a LONG winter.
In my situation, I try to stay stocked up on the things that I will need. My neighbor generally snow-plows a path up my drive and to my door. The grocery store isn't far down the road. I won't starve...but I do look forward to longer daylight. It's coming! It's coming!
This season has me worried. We--several Midwestern states--already have had measerable snowfall and single-digit temperatures in November. BEFORE Thanksgiving. This does not bode well for the rest of the season. It is barely December and not even officially winter yet, but the forecast has big snow and more single-digit-close-to-zero temperatures within the week. Suffice it to say, unless things change drastically, it's going to be a LONG winter.
In my situation, I try to stay stocked up on the things that I will need. My neighbor generally snow-plows a path up my drive and to my door. The grocery store isn't far down the road. I won't starve...but I do look forward to longer daylight. It's coming! It's coming!
Fifty Years
November 22, 1963.
Fifty years ago. I will never forget the day. The world was so very different then, yet somehow seems the same.
It was a Friday. I was a junior at Oak Park-River Forest High School in the western suburbs of Chicago. I had a date to a school dance the next night, so Mom and I were going shopping after school to buy a new dress for me to wear. I looked forward to all of that, but had to get through the school day first.
After lunch that day, I was sitting in Homeroom with the rest of Mr. Walwark's homeroom group. Homeroom was the place to go for announcements, to get your edition of the school newspaper once a week, study, or whatever. Homeroom was only 18 minutes long, so some of us just visited. Nothing special. But then one of the Spanish teachers came in the room and whispered in Mr. Walwark's ear, then both of them went out into the hall. I thought that was a bit strange. It was equally strange when Mr. Walwark returned to the room and told us that there had been reports that President Kennedy had been shot. I gasped out loud, "You're kidding!" He responded only with, "I wish I were."
There were no other details to be had. In those days, there were no classroom televisions, and my school didn't even have a public address system. Instead, there were telephones in each room that connected with the office. We, as students, were essentially cut off from what was going on outside the school walls--and would be until we could get home.
There were no cell phones in those days, and no Internet. Computers were only a faint glimpse on the horizon of the future; however, transistor radios were all the rage then. They were small and portable. They were also forbidden at school, although some students had them in their lockers. At the end of homeroom, a few students could be seen flumbling with them at their lockers, trying to get a signal to find out what news there was, but we all went to our next class devoid of information. Our school was so large that it was impossible to know which students had even heard the initial report. You can bet that the passing period was quite somber. We rushed to class.
My next class was English with Mr. Anderson. Normally a jolly fellow, Mr. Anderson wasn't smiling when we got there. We were scheduled for a test. I just wondered how well I could do on it with the worry about the fate of our nation on my mind, but I endeavored to do my best. Then, in the middle of the period (around 1:00 PM), the hallway bell mysteriously rang. I figured it was a signal of sorts and begged Mr. Anderson to call the office to find out. He humored me but there was nothing on his face to indicate anything other than what the office supposedly said: the bell had been a mistake. Please disregard.
After English, I think I had one more class, although I simply don't remember it--then the mile walk home. By this time, the news was everywhere: President John F. Kennedy was dead. Shot and killed by a sniper in Dallas, Texas, and a suspect had been arrested. The high school had decided to hold the dance the next night anyway. (Our dances always had live bands. If the dance had been canceled, the band would also have to be canceled, and it would have been difficult to get the word out to all of the ticket-holders without major problems.) Thus, Mom and I, with our hearts not in it, went shopping after supper for the new dress.
That day, the United States of America was plunged into deep shock and mourning, similar to what happened to us on September 11, 2001. People stayed home and were glued to their televisions. Downtown Oak Park was devoid of shoppers, except for Mom and me, and the store clerks that were, like the rest of the country, huddled around a TV or two that had been set up in store aisles. There was a pall over everything. We quickly picked out an acceptable outfit for the dance, then hustled home where we, too, could be close to the television.
We watched every horrid detail as it all unfolded over the next few days. The assassination of the accused assassin. The President lying in state in the Capitol; the President in the cathedral in Washington; the President's coffin placed on a caisson and carried through the streets of Washington on its way to Arlington National Cemetery. Military escorts. Military band playing dirges as they marched forward. Th riderless horse. Drum cadences that are forever burned in my memory. Watching the First Lady in all her dignity dressed in widow's "weeds", with her young children by her side, with the youngest saluting his father's casket as it moved past him. And we wept, my mother and I. My father had a second job at a milling plant and so was off making money. My sister was off raising her young family. My brother played on the floor near Mom and I, too young to really understand what was going on. I don't remember the Saturday dance at all...
Sunday, the churches were full. We sat around reading newspapers and watching TV. A channel that we were not watching accidentally broadcast, live, the shooting of Lee Harvey Oswald, the man arrested for the assassination of the president, by a sleazy nightclub owner who had weaseled his way into the crowd as Oswald was being transferred from one location to another. The event was flashed onto the channel that we were watching as breaking news. My mother, who never swore, said, "Well, I'll be damned!" I just figured that we were good to be rid of him--that he just got what was coming to him--but Mom said, "No! Now we'll never know." And she was right. To this day, the conspiracy theorists among us continue to conjecture who REALLY killed the President, doubting all of the intelligence that was gathered and the whole federal commission that was assigned to investigate. But we will never know for sure...
Everything was closed on the day of the president's funeral (Monday)--declared a National Day of Mourning--so we watched every event and cried unashamedly. I hardly remember the Saturday dance at all...
The nation's flags were at half staff for a month, a sad reminder of the tragedy of November 22nd. The rest of the world mourned with us, but...young as I was...I took it quite hard. I had participated in a mock election in social studies class three years before, and Kennedy was my man. I was a Civil Rights sympathizer and a believer that America is the greatest country on earth...yet we kill our presidents. (And others just a few years later.) It shook my faith in us, and still does. It's one thing to be attacked by terrorists from the outside but quite another to be attacked by our own. It took me a long time to get over the yhorrible events of that day and after.
I still have the Chicago Tribune from that day. It is folded and yellowed but still a testament to that day, so long ago....
Fifty years ago. I will never forget the day. The world was so very different then, yet somehow seems the same.
It was a Friday. I was a junior at Oak Park-River Forest High School in the western suburbs of Chicago. I had a date to a school dance the next night, so Mom and I were going shopping after school to buy a new dress for me to wear. I looked forward to all of that, but had to get through the school day first.
After lunch that day, I was sitting in Homeroom with the rest of Mr. Walwark's homeroom group. Homeroom was the place to go for announcements, to get your edition of the school newspaper once a week, study, or whatever. Homeroom was only 18 minutes long, so some of us just visited. Nothing special. But then one of the Spanish teachers came in the room and whispered in Mr. Walwark's ear, then both of them went out into the hall. I thought that was a bit strange. It was equally strange when Mr. Walwark returned to the room and told us that there had been reports that President Kennedy had been shot. I gasped out loud, "You're kidding!" He responded only with, "I wish I were."
There were no other details to be had. In those days, there were no classroom televisions, and my school didn't even have a public address system. Instead, there were telephones in each room that connected with the office. We, as students, were essentially cut off from what was going on outside the school walls--and would be until we could get home.
There were no cell phones in those days, and no Internet. Computers were only a faint glimpse on the horizon of the future; however, transistor radios were all the rage then. They were small and portable. They were also forbidden at school, although some students had them in their lockers. At the end of homeroom, a few students could be seen flumbling with them at their lockers, trying to get a signal to find out what news there was, but we all went to our next class devoid of information. Our school was so large that it was impossible to know which students had even heard the initial report. You can bet that the passing period was quite somber. We rushed to class.
My next class was English with Mr. Anderson. Normally a jolly fellow, Mr. Anderson wasn't smiling when we got there. We were scheduled for a test. I just wondered how well I could do on it with the worry about the fate of our nation on my mind, but I endeavored to do my best. Then, in the middle of the period (around 1:00 PM), the hallway bell mysteriously rang. I figured it was a signal of sorts and begged Mr. Anderson to call the office to find out. He humored me but there was nothing on his face to indicate anything other than what the office supposedly said: the bell had been a mistake. Please disregard.
After English, I think I had one more class, although I simply don't remember it--then the mile walk home. By this time, the news was everywhere: President John F. Kennedy was dead. Shot and killed by a sniper in Dallas, Texas, and a suspect had been arrested. The high school had decided to hold the dance the next night anyway. (Our dances always had live bands. If the dance had been canceled, the band would also have to be canceled, and it would have been difficult to get the word out to all of the ticket-holders without major problems.) Thus, Mom and I, with our hearts not in it, went shopping after supper for the new dress.
That day, the United States of America was plunged into deep shock and mourning, similar to what happened to us on September 11, 2001. People stayed home and were glued to their televisions. Downtown Oak Park was devoid of shoppers, except for Mom and me, and the store clerks that were, like the rest of the country, huddled around a TV or two that had been set up in store aisles. There was a pall over everything. We quickly picked out an acceptable outfit for the dance, then hustled home where we, too, could be close to the television.
We watched every horrid detail as it all unfolded over the next few days. The assassination of the accused assassin. The President lying in state in the Capitol; the President in the cathedral in Washington; the President's coffin placed on a caisson and carried through the streets of Washington on its way to Arlington National Cemetery. Military escorts. Military band playing dirges as they marched forward. Th riderless horse. Drum cadences that are forever burned in my memory. Watching the First Lady in all her dignity dressed in widow's "weeds", with her young children by her side, with the youngest saluting his father's casket as it moved past him. And we wept, my mother and I. My father had a second job at a milling plant and so was off making money. My sister was off raising her young family. My brother played on the floor near Mom and I, too young to really understand what was going on. I don't remember the Saturday dance at all...
Sunday, the churches were full. We sat around reading newspapers and watching TV. A channel that we were not watching accidentally broadcast, live, the shooting of Lee Harvey Oswald, the man arrested for the assassination of the president, by a sleazy nightclub owner who had weaseled his way into the crowd as Oswald was being transferred from one location to another. The event was flashed onto the channel that we were watching as breaking news. My mother, who never swore, said, "Well, I'll be damned!" I just figured that we were good to be rid of him--that he just got what was coming to him--but Mom said, "No! Now we'll never know." And she was right. To this day, the conspiracy theorists among us continue to conjecture who REALLY killed the President, doubting all of the intelligence that was gathered and the whole federal commission that was assigned to investigate. But we will never know for sure...
Everything was closed on the day of the president's funeral (Monday)--declared a National Day of Mourning--so we watched every event and cried unashamedly. I hardly remember the Saturday dance at all...
The nation's flags were at half staff for a month, a sad reminder of the tragedy of November 22nd. The rest of the world mourned with us, but...young as I was...I took it quite hard. I had participated in a mock election in social studies class three years before, and Kennedy was my man. I was a Civil Rights sympathizer and a believer that America is the greatest country on earth...yet we kill our presidents. (And others just a few years later.) It shook my faith in us, and still does. It's one thing to be attacked by terrorists from the outside but quite another to be attacked by our own. It took me a long time to get over the yhorrible events of that day and after.
I still have the Chicago Tribune from that day. It is folded and yellowed but still a testament to that day, so long ago....
Saturday, November 9, 2013
It's Just Another Day!
The holidays are coming, and with those come the memories of holidays past, many of which are rooted in childhood. Thanksgiving, for instance, is so much a part of our social consciousness that traditional meals of turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy, etc., are offered for free for the poor, the homeless, and the lonely--just so they won't miss out. I'm not sure society understands that the food that goes into our bellies cannot replace family connections, but at least our hearts are in the right place.
Christmas is even worse. We just can't stand the notion of our loved ones being alone on Christmas! But it happens, sometimes. The first Christmas after my divorce, my ex somewhat demanded that our daughter be with him and his family on Christmas Day. We had already planned to drive to IL to be with my father for the day, but Meg was already suffering from feeling disjointed from her McNary family, so I changed plans and delivered her to Greencastle--a 30-mile one-way trip-- early in the day. It was my decision to treat myself to a crab leg dinner somewhere that day, in her absence. Never having been on my own for Christmas before, I did not understand that there are NO restaurants of consequence open on December 25th! I ate a hot dog at home. Along about 3:00 PM, my daughter called and asked me to come pick her up. When I said I thought her father was supposed to bring her home, she said, "I thought so, too, but they left for Florida at noon." So much for that!
What I learned from that day was that the celebration of the birth of Jesus needs no calendar date. One does not need to be surrounded by family or eat special food--or even exchange gifts. The hot dog I ate that day was enough, and even though I was angry that my daughter had felt misled and rejected, she still came home to me. And guess what? The next day was December 26th--just another day. I survived unscathed.
I have been invited to go to Florida with my daughter and family this Christmas. I would love to, but circumstances--many of them--just don't feel right to me I've already told my sister that I will be with her for the holiday. Haven't been with them for Christmas at least since my grandchildren were born. In an attempt at a guilt trip, I think, Megan asked me if this were to be my last Christmas on earth, would I rather spend it with my demented brother-in-law, or with her and my grandchildren? That's not the point. I'm not given my "druthers" whether this is my last Christmas or not. If it were, my choice would be to have everyone here, on MY turf, to attend beautiful Christmas Eve services at my church and observe traditions that were changed so many years ago to meet everyone else's needs. As the only single person in the family constellation, I get pushed around a lot. I also get included a lot.
This year, my daughter and grandchildren will spend the holiday in Florida with Denis's parents from Russia, and her father/stepmother. I'm sure they will have a great time! I will spend it with my sister and her family, and we will have a good time, too. And if I die between this Christmas and next, so what? I have endeavored to live my life with no regrets. Christmas will come again. It's just another day!
Christmas is even worse. We just can't stand the notion of our loved ones being alone on Christmas! But it happens, sometimes. The first Christmas after my divorce, my ex somewhat demanded that our daughter be with him and his family on Christmas Day. We had already planned to drive to IL to be with my father for the day, but Meg was already suffering from feeling disjointed from her McNary family, so I changed plans and delivered her to Greencastle--a 30-mile one-way trip-- early in the day. It was my decision to treat myself to a crab leg dinner somewhere that day, in her absence. Never having been on my own for Christmas before, I did not understand that there are NO restaurants of consequence open on December 25th! I ate a hot dog at home. Along about 3:00 PM, my daughter called and asked me to come pick her up. When I said I thought her father was supposed to bring her home, she said, "I thought so, too, but they left for Florida at noon." So much for that!
What I learned from that day was that the celebration of the birth of Jesus needs no calendar date. One does not need to be surrounded by family or eat special food--or even exchange gifts. The hot dog I ate that day was enough, and even though I was angry that my daughter had felt misled and rejected, she still came home to me. And guess what? The next day was December 26th--just another day. I survived unscathed.
I have been invited to go to Florida with my daughter and family this Christmas. I would love to, but circumstances--many of them--just don't feel right to me I've already told my sister that I will be with her for the holiday. Haven't been with them for Christmas at least since my grandchildren were born. In an attempt at a guilt trip, I think, Megan asked me if this were to be my last Christmas on earth, would I rather spend it with my demented brother-in-law, or with her and my grandchildren? That's not the point. I'm not given my "druthers" whether this is my last Christmas or not. If it were, my choice would be to have everyone here, on MY turf, to attend beautiful Christmas Eve services at my church and observe traditions that were changed so many years ago to meet everyone else's needs. As the only single person in the family constellation, I get pushed around a lot. I also get included a lot.
This year, my daughter and grandchildren will spend the holiday in Florida with Denis's parents from Russia, and her father/stepmother. I'm sure they will have a great time! I will spend it with my sister and her family, and we will have a good time, too. And if I die between this Christmas and next, so what? I have endeavored to live my life with no regrets. Christmas will come again. It's just another day!
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Funerals I Have Known
If you don't like to think about sad things, don't read this post. Today, I am talking about funerals.
Funerals are a fact of life. If you have managed, so far in your life, to avoid funerals of close family, God bless you. All of us in my generation, however, are not so fortunate. It happens to everyone as the ancestors die off. We hate to think about it, but it is inevitable. There are no survivors. Sooner or later, all living organisms die. Paying our respects to the dearly departed becomes an obligation more for the living than for the dead. Laying a relative to rest with dignity is a quest that gives us peace with the passing.
This week, my sister and family are experiencing the funeral of her daughter's father-in-law--a man who was loved by many. It has brought back so many memories to me...so many funerals. Many of my memories are bittersweet. It's an exquisite pain. A funeral is generally one of the only times when one can weep unashamedly and not be criticized. I usually tell mourners, "This is as bad as it gets. It will get better." But what do I know? Still, some of the funeral memories last forever. They are important!
The first close family funeral that I experienced was Aunt Sally's. (I think I was in 8th grade.) She was my mother's sister-in-law; her beloved brother's wife. She died young of pancreatic cancer, with a husband (my Uncle Bud) and two teenager daughters surviving. It had been a long fight. She died in Maryland and was shipped back to Illinois for burial in our family's favorite cemetery. We all gathered at my grandparents' farm awaiting my uncle's arrival by car. My grandmother--Uncle Bud's mother--was wheelchair bound and had been for years. As Uncle Bud's car came up the lane, we pushed Baba (our name for "grandma") into the middle of the living room to greet him. When he came in the door, she threw up her arms to her son. He rushed over to her, fell on his knees, put his head in her lap, and they both wept. The rest of us stood off to the side and wept, too. The moment was too personal to interrupt. I will never, ever forget that.
At the funeral home visitation, I stuck close by Uncle Bud to re-introduce him to the people from his childhood who were paying their respects. He appreciated it because he had been through such hell in Aunt Sally's illness that he couldn't have remembered them all.
After the funeral, my sister and I followed the car that held my mother and her sister--Uncle Bud's sisters. We pulled up behind them at the homestead, but they didn't exit the car. We watched Mom's shoulders heave, wondering if she had been overcome by grief. We found out later that her tears were of gratitude. "I'm so proud of my family!" I was gratified.
The next close family funeral was my grandmother's. (I was in my 20s and was divorced.) We called her Baba. She had been in a wheelchair for 15 years after a benign tumor on her spine had done permanent damage to her legs. My family drove down to their place regularly to assist with her care, trying to prevent pressure sores, etc. Baba was pretty badly diabetic by then, and developed pernicious anemia. She would fall into a coma. They would give her a blood transfusion, and she would come around...but eventually, one of her feet became gangrenous (due to diabetes)--a circumstance that her doctors and the family determined not to correct. She was 83. She told my mother to let her go. I knew she was desperately ill and ready for death, but I had an awful time giving her to God.
At her visitation, I was cordial and appreciative of the people who came to pay their respects to my beloved grandmother, who was a respected member of the farm community where they lived. But when it came time for that one last pass by the casket at the end of the evening, I dissolved. "I will miss her so!!"
The time of her funeral was early February and bitter cold. At the end of the ceremony, when it was time to move on, my grandfather (Popo to us) actually had to be led away from the gravesite. He sobbed, "I don't want to leave her here!" God bless the man. He had lived out his vow, "until death do us part"...but he didn't want it to be over, even then.
Popo's funeral was next, 11 years after Baba's. (1985) He was 89 years old. He had a bowel blockage. None of the doctors wanted to do surgery on him because of his advanced age, but he was in such pain that there was no choice. He never emerged from the anesthesia. In a coma for a week or more, he remained alive but unresponsive while his family stood watch.
The night my Popo died, he was in a hospital in my town. His two daughters and spouses had gone out, finally, for a dinner celebration of my parents' anniversary--something they had put off because of his condition. When the hospital nurse couldn't reach my mother, she called me. I called my mother where I knew they were, then headed out to the hospital.
When I arrived, the nurse said, "When I called you, I was going to tell you that Mr. Armstrong had expired, but he seems to have rallied a bit." Of course he did! He was waiting for family to be there! Ten minutes after I arrived, the monitors keeping track of his heart and blood pressure went down and down, until there was nothing left. The priest came in. We said a prayer over my grandfather's body. All I could think of was "Well done, thou good and faithful servant." I felt so honored to be the one chosen to be there for my grandfather's last breath, even though he was totally unresponsive. No one could possibly understand how important that very pale old man on those very white sheets was to a whole family. I was at the elevator to greet his daughters when they arrived. I looked at them and said, "He is gone. He went peacefully." I felt my mother slump in my arms, in gratitude and relief. We all wept for a few seconds, then went in to see him. I had asked the nurse to remove all of his tubes so his daughters could see him naturally, and it worked. My mother, who had been so faithful to her parents' care for so very many years, said, "Oh...that's not so bad."
Popo's funeral had a Masonic bent, led by a family member who fumbled his way through the ceremony. I didn't care. This man would go to Heaven whether the Masons could manage it or not!
My mother's funeral was next, scarely a year later. Now this was a tough one. I can't even go into too many details because her death was so sudden and so deeply felt that I just went numb. She had had a stroke about four weeks before. Was on the rehab floor of the hospital in Streator, IL. It was Thanksgiving time. My ex and I had been fighting, so he had gone to Indiana to be with his family while I had stayed in IL to be with my family. My brother had just left for home to the Chicago area. My sister was on her way home from Missouri after supporting her daughter after the birth of her second child. The bottom fell out, and suddenly Mom was dead. There were only Dad and I, and my 7-year-old daughter to go home to the farmhouse at midnight and wonder what to do next. I made the awful phone calls and tried to console my father. It would be hours before anyone could arrive...my husband, my sister and husband, my brother... It was the longest few hours of my life. The rest is a blur.
On the day of Mom's funeral, one of the funeral directors was in the parking lot at his establishment when we pulled up. One of the Elias brothers. I remember putting my head on his shoulder, saying "I don't think I can do this." His response? "Yes, you can." It was such an Armstrong Woman thing to say that I knew I not only could do it, I had to.
I remember nothing else about Mom's funeral except turning away from the gravesite at the end of the service into the arms of my father-in-law who had tears streaming down his face. I scarcely even knew my in-laws were there. They didn't really know my parents. They had driven the four hours to Illinois from Greencastle, Indiana, and wouldn't even stay for the dinner after the services. All of this just for me. God bless Artie McNary. He may never have known how much it meant to me to see his tears for my pain, but I will never forget it.
My father died in my sister's care in Illinois. The story is complicated. Suffice it to say that my sister and her husband sacrificed quite a lot to be there for Dad. He was in good hands. I think my greatest satisfaction at my father's passing was that we, as a family, had fulfilled a concern that I knew had to be the last thought on my mother's mind as she died: that someone would take care of Dad.
When our brother passed, suddenly, at age 52, it was a huge thing. With our grandparents and parents gone, Doug wanted to preserve the family farm as a monument to family, I guess. He thought he had an ally in our sister, who was the administrator of the farm property...but the whole thing became unwieldy. Over a number of years, the other partners in the farm--my sister, me, and our two cousins--outnumbered him and decided to sell the property to our farmer of many years. Doug was incensed. He divorced his sisters completely.
Doug had never married. He had a child that had been given up for adoption at birth many years before. He was living in a long-term arrangement with a woman who was ONLY a roommate. He would have nothing to do with my sister or me. And then he dropped dead in a store in River Forest, IL, near where he lived. I got an email from police there, asking if I was his sister. (To this day, I don't know how they found me, but they did.) In short order, my sister and I were given the task of burying the brother who had refused to talk to us for at least five years. We scrambled. Shari and I did our dead-level best to bury our brother with dignity and the military honors to which he was entitled. It wasn't easy. We had no access to his records. We did what we could, but I think it was good.
There have been other funerals, of course. I just hope we understand that funerals aren't for the dead, but for the living. Do what you want to do in celebration of the life that is gone. The memories will last forever....
Funerals are a fact of life. If you have managed, so far in your life, to avoid funerals of close family, God bless you. All of us in my generation, however, are not so fortunate. It happens to everyone as the ancestors die off. We hate to think about it, but it is inevitable. There are no survivors. Sooner or later, all living organisms die. Paying our respects to the dearly departed becomes an obligation more for the living than for the dead. Laying a relative to rest with dignity is a quest that gives us peace with the passing.
This week, my sister and family are experiencing the funeral of her daughter's father-in-law--a man who was loved by many. It has brought back so many memories to me...so many funerals. Many of my memories are bittersweet. It's an exquisite pain. A funeral is generally one of the only times when one can weep unashamedly and not be criticized. I usually tell mourners, "This is as bad as it gets. It will get better." But what do I know? Still, some of the funeral memories last forever. They are important!
The first close family funeral that I experienced was Aunt Sally's. (I think I was in 8th grade.) She was my mother's sister-in-law; her beloved brother's wife. She died young of pancreatic cancer, with a husband (my Uncle Bud) and two teenager daughters surviving. It had been a long fight. She died in Maryland and was shipped back to Illinois for burial in our family's favorite cemetery. We all gathered at my grandparents' farm awaiting my uncle's arrival by car. My grandmother--Uncle Bud's mother--was wheelchair bound and had been for years. As Uncle Bud's car came up the lane, we pushed Baba (our name for "grandma") into the middle of the living room to greet him. When he came in the door, she threw up her arms to her son. He rushed over to her, fell on his knees, put his head in her lap, and they both wept. The rest of us stood off to the side and wept, too. The moment was too personal to interrupt. I will never, ever forget that.
At the funeral home visitation, I stuck close by Uncle Bud to re-introduce him to the people from his childhood who were paying their respects. He appreciated it because he had been through such hell in Aunt Sally's illness that he couldn't have remembered them all.
After the funeral, my sister and I followed the car that held my mother and her sister--Uncle Bud's sisters. We pulled up behind them at the homestead, but they didn't exit the car. We watched Mom's shoulders heave, wondering if she had been overcome by grief. We found out later that her tears were of gratitude. "I'm so proud of my family!" I was gratified.
The next close family funeral was my grandmother's. (I was in my 20s and was divorced.) We called her Baba. She had been in a wheelchair for 15 years after a benign tumor on her spine had done permanent damage to her legs. My family drove down to their place regularly to assist with her care, trying to prevent pressure sores, etc. Baba was pretty badly diabetic by then, and developed pernicious anemia. She would fall into a coma. They would give her a blood transfusion, and she would come around...but eventually, one of her feet became gangrenous (due to diabetes)--a circumstance that her doctors and the family determined not to correct. She was 83. She told my mother to let her go. I knew she was desperately ill and ready for death, but I had an awful time giving her to God.
At her visitation, I was cordial and appreciative of the people who came to pay their respects to my beloved grandmother, who was a respected member of the farm community where they lived. But when it came time for that one last pass by the casket at the end of the evening, I dissolved. "I will miss her so!!"
The time of her funeral was early February and bitter cold. At the end of the ceremony, when it was time to move on, my grandfather (Popo to us) actually had to be led away from the gravesite. He sobbed, "I don't want to leave her here!" God bless the man. He had lived out his vow, "until death do us part"...but he didn't want it to be over, even then.
Popo's funeral was next, 11 years after Baba's. (1985) He was 89 years old. He had a bowel blockage. None of the doctors wanted to do surgery on him because of his advanced age, but he was in such pain that there was no choice. He never emerged from the anesthesia. In a coma for a week or more, he remained alive but unresponsive while his family stood watch.
The night my Popo died, he was in a hospital in my town. His two daughters and spouses had gone out, finally, for a dinner celebration of my parents' anniversary--something they had put off because of his condition. When the hospital nurse couldn't reach my mother, she called me. I called my mother where I knew they were, then headed out to the hospital.
When I arrived, the nurse said, "When I called you, I was going to tell you that Mr. Armstrong had expired, but he seems to have rallied a bit." Of course he did! He was waiting for family to be there! Ten minutes after I arrived, the monitors keeping track of his heart and blood pressure went down and down, until there was nothing left. The priest came in. We said a prayer over my grandfather's body. All I could think of was "Well done, thou good and faithful servant." I felt so honored to be the one chosen to be there for my grandfather's last breath, even though he was totally unresponsive. No one could possibly understand how important that very pale old man on those very white sheets was to a whole family. I was at the elevator to greet his daughters when they arrived. I looked at them and said, "He is gone. He went peacefully." I felt my mother slump in my arms, in gratitude and relief. We all wept for a few seconds, then went in to see him. I had asked the nurse to remove all of his tubes so his daughters could see him naturally, and it worked. My mother, who had been so faithful to her parents' care for so very many years, said, "Oh...that's not so bad."
Popo's funeral had a Masonic bent, led by a family member who fumbled his way through the ceremony. I didn't care. This man would go to Heaven whether the Masons could manage it or not!
My mother's funeral was next, scarely a year later. Now this was a tough one. I can't even go into too many details because her death was so sudden and so deeply felt that I just went numb. She had had a stroke about four weeks before. Was on the rehab floor of the hospital in Streator, IL. It was Thanksgiving time. My ex and I had been fighting, so he had gone to Indiana to be with his family while I had stayed in IL to be with my family. My brother had just left for home to the Chicago area. My sister was on her way home from Missouri after supporting her daughter after the birth of her second child. The bottom fell out, and suddenly Mom was dead. There were only Dad and I, and my 7-year-old daughter to go home to the farmhouse at midnight and wonder what to do next. I made the awful phone calls and tried to console my father. It would be hours before anyone could arrive...my husband, my sister and husband, my brother... It was the longest few hours of my life. The rest is a blur.
On the day of Mom's funeral, one of the funeral directors was in the parking lot at his establishment when we pulled up. One of the Elias brothers. I remember putting my head on his shoulder, saying "I don't think I can do this." His response? "Yes, you can." It was such an Armstrong Woman thing to say that I knew I not only could do it, I had to.
I remember nothing else about Mom's funeral except turning away from the gravesite at the end of the service into the arms of my father-in-law who had tears streaming down his face. I scarcely even knew my in-laws were there. They didn't really know my parents. They had driven the four hours to Illinois from Greencastle, Indiana, and wouldn't even stay for the dinner after the services. All of this just for me. God bless Artie McNary. He may never have known how much it meant to me to see his tears for my pain, but I will never forget it.
My father died in my sister's care in Illinois. The story is complicated. Suffice it to say that my sister and her husband sacrificed quite a lot to be there for Dad. He was in good hands. I think my greatest satisfaction at my father's passing was that we, as a family, had fulfilled a concern that I knew had to be the last thought on my mother's mind as she died: that someone would take care of Dad.
When our brother passed, suddenly, at age 52, it was a huge thing. With our grandparents and parents gone, Doug wanted to preserve the family farm as a monument to family, I guess. He thought he had an ally in our sister, who was the administrator of the farm property...but the whole thing became unwieldy. Over a number of years, the other partners in the farm--my sister, me, and our two cousins--outnumbered him and decided to sell the property to our farmer of many years. Doug was incensed. He divorced his sisters completely.
Doug had never married. He had a child that had been given up for adoption at birth many years before. He was living in a long-term arrangement with a woman who was ONLY a roommate. He would have nothing to do with my sister or me. And then he dropped dead in a store in River Forest, IL, near where he lived. I got an email from police there, asking if I was his sister. (To this day, I don't know how they found me, but they did.) In short order, my sister and I were given the task of burying the brother who had refused to talk to us for at least five years. We scrambled. Shari and I did our dead-level best to bury our brother with dignity and the military honors to which he was entitled. It wasn't easy. We had no access to his records. We did what we could, but I think it was good.
There have been other funerals, of course. I just hope we understand that funerals aren't for the dead, but for the living. Do what you want to do in celebration of the life that is gone. The memories will last forever....
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire
With every Dr. Phil show comes his admonition that participants "just be honest". His reasoning is that "you can't change what you don't acknowledge". And so it is. If you don't admit to a lie, you can't fix what lies beneath it.
Children lie to save their skins from punishment. Adults do, too, but they mask it by saying that they are/were trying not to hurt your feelings. Bull! If someone lies to you about something, you can rest assured that they are only trying to save their own butts from whatever you would do if you had known the truth. In short, people who lie to you are robbing you of your opportunity to make your life's decisions based on the truth.
After a zillion years of teaching kids, I learned not to give them the opportunity to lie. Instead of asking "Did you do this?", the reasonable thing to do is to state a fact and assume that you already know the truth. In short order, the facts will show up. It's a skill that comes with experience. God bless my grandson, Ryan. He tries to lie, but the expression on his face gives him away every stinkin' time. He needs to take lessons from his mother. She's a champ in the lying department! (Wink at Megan!)
Speaking of Ryan, he used to have a warped sense of truth, and maybe this is more common that I know. If you said something would happen, but it didn't (for whatever reason) you lied. He didn't understand intent. Maybe still doesn't. God bless my little guy. He is learning...
I like to think of myself as an honest person, but there are exceptions. Other people's perception of the truth has a lot to do with how truthful one can be. I keep trying!!
Children lie to save their skins from punishment. Adults do, too, but they mask it by saying that they are/were trying not to hurt your feelings. Bull! If someone lies to you about something, you can rest assured that they are only trying to save their own butts from whatever you would do if you had known the truth. In short, people who lie to you are robbing you of your opportunity to make your life's decisions based on the truth.
After a zillion years of teaching kids, I learned not to give them the opportunity to lie. Instead of asking "Did you do this?", the reasonable thing to do is to state a fact and assume that you already know the truth. In short order, the facts will show up. It's a skill that comes with experience. God bless my grandson, Ryan. He tries to lie, but the expression on his face gives him away every stinkin' time. He needs to take lessons from his mother. She's a champ in the lying department! (Wink at Megan!)
Speaking of Ryan, he used to have a warped sense of truth, and maybe this is more common that I know. If you said something would happen, but it didn't (for whatever reason) you lied. He didn't understand intent. Maybe still doesn't. God bless my little guy. He is learning...
I like to think of myself as an honest person, but there are exceptions. Other people's perception of the truth has a lot to do with how truthful one can be. I keep trying!!
Sunday, October 27, 2013
The Test
While browsing through Facebook this morning, I happened on this post made by a former student of mine--a 30ish young mother who has undergone a bone marrow transplant due to contracting non-hodgekins lymphoma. (She is currently cancer free.) Her words:
I hate cancer. It is such an ugly disease. Not only physically. it also causes you to question your strength, your courage, your beliefs. It breaks you down to practically nothing. You are left wondering if it is Karma? or fate? Or God's will? But, then you can't help but think that any real God would not do such a thing. No real God would put people through such torment and pain. And Why is... it that some of us make it? And some don't? We all fight. We all give everything that we have to come out the other side. I don't know the answer to most of these questions. But, I do believe in God. I do believe that some of us are destined to fight these battles and unfortunately, some of us are destined to lose them. I am so grateful, blessed and fortunate to be one of the lucky ones. I don't know God's plan, but I know that giving me a second chance was part of it. I will do everything I can to make the best of it. For me, my family, my God and all the beautiful warriors that can't do it for themselves!!!! God bless everyone EVER effected by the ugly "C"!!
Certainly, Ashley asks the right questions. They are the ones that we all ask whenever something bad happens to people who don't deserve it--usually us. Where is God when all of these awful things occur? I've mulled this over in my feeble brain for decades. I think it's a test--not a test from God, but a test to provide us with answers about ourselves, sometimes before the questions even come up.
We human beings are short-sighted and selfish animals. We live for ourselves, for today, with rarely a thought to how bad things can get. If we live long enough, divorce happens. Car accidents happen. Disease and infirmity happen. It is part of the human experience, but who do we blame? God? Yes, sometimes.
Consider my sister. She and her husband of well over 50 years married young, had their family young, and have lived a full life. They have traveled all over the world. They've had boats and snowmobiles and party friends. They are people of means, with their Corvettes and beautiful home, complete with swimming pool, and just about every amenity that one could ask for. I have often been envious of the "pretties" that they have. But now, her husband has Fronto-Temporal Dementia with Primary Aphasia--meaning that his memory is going and he forgets words, etc. His emotions are affected. These people should be living the Life of Riley, but every day is a challenge that defies reason. And every day, it gets a little worse. Her husband is terrified but tyrannical. She is trapped by his ailment but willing to stay by him every step of the way. It isn't right. It isn't fair. But it is.
My own life is a mirror of some of this. I married a man that I knew was a cheater, but I married him anyway. I believed things would be different with me in the picture. (How blind can one be??) Thirteen years later, I was in a divorce that has affected the rest of my life. By ignoring the facts, I created my own fate. Whose fault is that? My life after that has been The Test. God didn't do this--I did.
The Test is this: Where does your faith lie? Do you believe that God controls everything and "lets" bad things happen to you because you need to be punished? Or do you believe that you have free will to make your own decisions, and that your decisions determine what happens to you? And what about the things you didn't ask for but happened--the heart attack, the ruptured brain aneurysm, and all of the other occurrences that happen when you aren't paying attention? You can ask and you can struggle with it, but the result is that believing in a power greater than ourselves is only lip service to a deity that rules the cosmos. So you stubbed your toe and broke it. No gripe, right? But when your heart started acting up, you began to beseech God for intervention.
Pray without ceasing, but do not believe for a second that God has forsaken you when things don't work out your way. That's part of The Test. Believe...or don't. Just don't blame the Almighty for things that go awry with the main scheme of things. Blessings!
Consider my sister. She and her husband of well over 50 years married young, had their family young, and have lived a full life. They have traveled all over the world. They've had boats and snowmobiles and party friends. They are people of means, with their Corvettes and beautiful home, complete with swimming pool, and just about every amenity that one could ask for. I have often been envious of the "pretties" that they have. But now, her husband has Fronto-Temporal Dementia with Primary Aphasia--meaning that his memory is going and he forgets words, etc. His emotions are affected. These people should be living the Life of Riley, but every day is a challenge that defies reason. And every day, it gets a little worse. Her husband is terrified but tyrannical. She is trapped by his ailment but willing to stay by him every step of the way. It isn't right. It isn't fair. But it is.
My own life is a mirror of some of this. I married a man that I knew was a cheater, but I married him anyway. I believed things would be different with me in the picture. (How blind can one be??) Thirteen years later, I was in a divorce that has affected the rest of my life. By ignoring the facts, I created my own fate. Whose fault is that? My life after that has been The Test. God didn't do this--I did.
The Test is this: Where does your faith lie? Do you believe that God controls everything and "lets" bad things happen to you because you need to be punished? Or do you believe that you have free will to make your own decisions, and that your decisions determine what happens to you? And what about the things you didn't ask for but happened--the heart attack, the ruptured brain aneurysm, and all of the other occurrences that happen when you aren't paying attention? You can ask and you can struggle with it, but the result is that believing in a power greater than ourselves is only lip service to a deity that rules the cosmos. So you stubbed your toe and broke it. No gripe, right? But when your heart started acting up, you began to beseech God for intervention.
Pray without ceasing, but do not believe for a second that God has forsaken you when things don't work out your way. That's part of The Test. Believe...or don't. Just don't blame the Almighty for things that go awry with the main scheme of things. Blessings!
Friday, October 18, 2013
He Did It!
My son-in-law, Denis Sergeyovitch Shchepetov, is now officially a real American citizen! They were able to get pictures via cell phone, and so 'tis a done deal. I couldn't be happier for Denis--and for what I have seen in the pictures, he is happy enough all by himself! After the ceremonies, they drove to a steak house in Kenosha, WI, where they celebrated with the foods and spirits of his choice, then went home full of steak and full of joy.
Congratulations, Deniska! You earned it!
Congratulations, Deniska! You earned it!
Thursday, October 17, 2013
"Graduation" Day
As I type, I am awaiting word from my daughter that her husband is officially an American citizen. They left for downtown Chicago a few hours ago for a ceremony that was to begin at 2:00, IN time...at a federal building that doesn't allow cameras. (What a crock!)
What really bums me out is that I have been planning for this day for months. I intended to be there to witness his taking the oath. I intended to have a party for him, although I wasn't sure where or how that would take place since he was/is ambivalent about that. (I even bought a bunch of red, white, and blue plates, napkins, and decorations back prior to the Fourth of July, just because I knew they wouldn't be available later.) Unfortunately, they didn't have word of the actual date until Sunday when they got home from here...which only gave four days' notice. It seemed too much for me to drive up there just now, and unlikely that a party would take place. I cry about it because I feel like I have let Denis down, but I hope not.
This has been Denis's dream for a long time--his goal. I'm not sure for how long, but I tease him about wanting to be an American because he longed to have all of the things that spoiled American children have. If you ask him, he will say that he wanted to come to America for the burgers. Still, the US is lucky to have him. The young man has four US patents to his name: two for Microsoft and two for Google/Motorola Mobility. Not too shabby!
Then there is the family factor. He makes my daughter happy and takes care of both her and my grandchildren. (A pretty tall order!) And me, to some extent. Plus his own parents in Russia. I don't know how to "love" him. To be honest, I didn't have much of a chance to get to know Denis before he became my son-in-law. Megan kept him to herself, away from her children and me, then went away with him to California at a critical time. I can reach him with meat and sweets, but those are consumables, and sometimes he is dieting. I keep trying to find ways to let him know how much I appreciate him. He's hard to read, in that regard...
I've been planning and practicing my Facebook announcement for months--the one that I intend to post the instant I hear that Denis is an official American. He did it all on his own, with my daughter's help, every step of the way. And my FB announcement may or may not mean anything to him. Still, it reminds me of how my parents must have felt when I graduated from college.
My parents paid for my college education. I worked part-time to help with expenses, but I was pretty slack about it. Mom and Dad paid for tuition and books, and gave me a monthly allowance. Back in those days, it was pretty rare for students to take out loans because the age of majority was 21. (Nowadays, it is rare for students to graduate without big-time loans hanging over their heads.) After the graduation ceremonies--with not a single picture taken of the event-- my father stuck out his hand to shake mine and said, "Congratulations. I have done everything I can do for you now. The future is up to you." I was a little shocked. It seemed like something of a good-bye. And it was. It was a good-bye to my childhood and his/their hope that I would take over from there...and I did. And I knew, in retrospect, that my father had planned for that moment for weeks, if not months. That's just the way he was.
So...still awaiting word on Denis's situation...I will congratulate him publicly and let him know how very proud I am of him...and hope it is enough. I love you, Denis, and thank God for you every day. God bless you this day and always--and God bless America!
What really bums me out is that I have been planning for this day for months. I intended to be there to witness his taking the oath. I intended to have a party for him, although I wasn't sure where or how that would take place since he was/is ambivalent about that. (I even bought a bunch of red, white, and blue plates, napkins, and decorations back prior to the Fourth of July, just because I knew they wouldn't be available later.) Unfortunately, they didn't have word of the actual date until Sunday when they got home from here...which only gave four days' notice. It seemed too much for me to drive up there just now, and unlikely that a party would take place. I cry about it because I feel like I have let Denis down, but I hope not.
This has been Denis's dream for a long time--his goal. I'm not sure for how long, but I tease him about wanting to be an American because he longed to have all of the things that spoiled American children have. If you ask him, he will say that he wanted to come to America for the burgers. Still, the US is lucky to have him. The young man has four US patents to his name: two for Microsoft and two for Google/Motorola Mobility. Not too shabby!
Then there is the family factor. He makes my daughter happy and takes care of both her and my grandchildren. (A pretty tall order!) And me, to some extent. Plus his own parents in Russia. I don't know how to "love" him. To be honest, I didn't have much of a chance to get to know Denis before he became my son-in-law. Megan kept him to herself, away from her children and me, then went away with him to California at a critical time. I can reach him with meat and sweets, but those are consumables, and sometimes he is dieting. I keep trying to find ways to let him know how much I appreciate him. He's hard to read, in that regard...
I've been planning and practicing my Facebook announcement for months--the one that I intend to post the instant I hear that Denis is an official American. He did it all on his own, with my daughter's help, every step of the way. And my FB announcement may or may not mean anything to him. Still, it reminds me of how my parents must have felt when I graduated from college.
My parents paid for my college education. I worked part-time to help with expenses, but I was pretty slack about it. Mom and Dad paid for tuition and books, and gave me a monthly allowance. Back in those days, it was pretty rare for students to take out loans because the age of majority was 21. (Nowadays, it is rare for students to graduate without big-time loans hanging over their heads.) After the graduation ceremonies--with not a single picture taken of the event-- my father stuck out his hand to shake mine and said, "Congratulations. I have done everything I can do for you now. The future is up to you." I was a little shocked. It seemed like something of a good-bye. And it was. It was a good-bye to my childhood and his/their hope that I would take over from there...and I did. And I knew, in retrospect, that my father had planned for that moment for weeks, if not months. That's just the way he was.
So...still awaiting word on Denis's situation...I will congratulate him publicly and let him know how very proud I am of him...and hope it is enough. I love you, Denis, and thank God for you every day. God bless you this day and always--and God bless America!
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Fall-ish Things
I was talking to my daughter on the phone on October 8th, after she and her husband had trekked to downtown Chicago for his Naturalization personal interview and oral citizenship test. We normally just talk online, but I figured there would be too much to talk about to have to type it all, so I called. Denis passed his test with flying colors and was told that he would be contacted by mail to inform him of when his Oath Ceremony would take place. Just before we hung up, Meg said, "Oh...while I have you on the phone, we are planning to come down this weekend for a visit. Will you be around?"
That's a joke, right? Where else would I be? The grandchildren would have a 4-day weekend, due to some school function and Columbus Day. This was a Tuesday. I began to shift gears in my mind, figuring that they would all be down on Friday. The next day--Wednesday--I learned that they would be here Thursday night. Instead of a gear shift, I needed to fire up the after-burners! The family would have to leave on Sunday morning because the grandchildren had a soccer game in Illinois late that afternoon, and Denis had a work meeting on Monday. Our weekend would be crunched into Friday and Saturday.
Understand that the house was still messed up from when I left for Meg's in early August. The bathroom had had some work done in it and was still torn up; my bedroom was a total disaster area from the previous Christmas mess. The kitchen and bathroom floors were filthy. I needed to pick up and clean up and shop for groceries, etc. Thank God for my helper, James! He came over to assist. Mowed the lawn. Replaced a dripping faucet in the main bathroom. Washed the bathroom and kitchen floors. Vacuumed the carpets. Carted some things to storage for me. Whew! And by the time my family arrived (2:00 AM Friday early morn), the house still wasn't ready but was a whole lot better than it was!
Many times, when the family comes, we hem and haw over what to do...what restaurant to go to...blah, blah. Denis and Meg like to travel and see things. And Central Indiana is definitely a great place to be for that in October, providing the weather cooperates...which it was supposed to do. Thus, we had made a decision to go to Nashville, IN, on Friday...and do some covered bridge things on Saturday. (Some of that was planned around a tentative play date for Ryan with his local buddy, Jack. That fell through, but we didn't know it would.)
On Friday, due to time zone differences with the kids, we set out later than necessary for Nashville. It was a gorgeous day, and the drive to Nashville, even when the trees were only just beginning to turn colors, is a lovely one. We took my rollator (a walker on wheels with a built-in seat) and off we went. Found a decent place to park and set off for the main drag. After one shop, we went to The Nashville House for "linner". I have to say this: The Nashville House is touted for its fried biscuits and its (limited) country menu, but I've never been impressed. The food was good, but not $17.95 per person good, when only one of the children qualified for a child's rate!! I experienced one of my "things" whereby I got too full too fast, got breathless, and decided that I needed to go back to the car and let the family go on at their own pace. (I had brought a Sudoku puzzle book just for this purpose--just in case.) And that's what we did. At the end of their tour, they sent Ryan back to me to ask if I wanted to join them for ice cream, within sight just down the street...and again to ask if I wanted to join them for a horse-drawn carriage ride. By now it was long after dark. There are a lot of details in between. Suffice it to say that we took the enjoyable carriage ride, then drove home. Were back by 9:00 and eventually found ourselves on the patio trying to break open a geode that Meg had purchased. (No go. It wasn't hollow!)
Saturday, again a late start and again a beautiful day. My grandson and I stayed home, by choice, while Megan, Denis, and Robin headed out for Bridgeton, IN. Bridgeton is an itty-bitty town in the heart of covered bridge territory, truly off the beaten path. Its main claim to fame is a very long covered bridge over some falls--a bridge that was torched by arson a few years back and had to be rebuilt--but the town cashes in on the Covered Bridge Festival hoopla by having craft and food booths lining the streets. Ryan spent his entire day in his room on his computer, Skyping and playing an online game with a friend from home, happy as a little clam. I spent my day trying to pick up the kitchen and prepare a decent meal for the family when they eventually came home. Heh heh...they ran into a traffic jam trying to get out of Bridgeton, so our supper was late....but judging by the pictures that Meg posted, they enjoyed their day. I love that!!
I am absolutely delighted that the weekend went as well as it did. Wish it could have been longer. They all departed about 11 AM, Indiana time, on Sunday and were at the soccer fields on time. My only big regret is that our schedule conflicted with the other grandparents' schedule, and we were not able to meet up. :(
Just today, I finished up the Saturday dishes. (Don't ask!) Tomorrow, my son-in-law takes the oath to become an American citizen...and I won't be there. I'm not very happy about this. I had such plans and such hopes. I am so very proud of that young man!! This has been his dream for many years. Can't wait!
That's a joke, right? Where else would I be? The grandchildren would have a 4-day weekend, due to some school function and Columbus Day. This was a Tuesday. I began to shift gears in my mind, figuring that they would all be down on Friday. The next day--Wednesday--I learned that they would be here Thursday night. Instead of a gear shift, I needed to fire up the after-burners! The family would have to leave on Sunday morning because the grandchildren had a soccer game in Illinois late that afternoon, and Denis had a work meeting on Monday. Our weekend would be crunched into Friday and Saturday.
Understand that the house was still messed up from when I left for Meg's in early August. The bathroom had had some work done in it and was still torn up; my bedroom was a total disaster area from the previous Christmas mess. The kitchen and bathroom floors were filthy. I needed to pick up and clean up and shop for groceries, etc. Thank God for my helper, James! He came over to assist. Mowed the lawn. Replaced a dripping faucet in the main bathroom. Washed the bathroom and kitchen floors. Vacuumed the carpets. Carted some things to storage for me. Whew! And by the time my family arrived (2:00 AM Friday early morn), the house still wasn't ready but was a whole lot better than it was!
Many times, when the family comes, we hem and haw over what to do...what restaurant to go to...blah, blah. Denis and Meg like to travel and see things. And Central Indiana is definitely a great place to be for that in October, providing the weather cooperates...which it was supposed to do. Thus, we had made a decision to go to Nashville, IN, on Friday...and do some covered bridge things on Saturday. (Some of that was planned around a tentative play date for Ryan with his local buddy, Jack. That fell through, but we didn't know it would.)
On Friday, due to time zone differences with the kids, we set out later than necessary for Nashville. It was a gorgeous day, and the drive to Nashville, even when the trees were only just beginning to turn colors, is a lovely one. We took my rollator (a walker on wheels with a built-in seat) and off we went. Found a decent place to park and set off for the main drag. After one shop, we went to The Nashville House for "linner". I have to say this: The Nashville House is touted for its fried biscuits and its (limited) country menu, but I've never been impressed. The food was good, but not $17.95 per person good, when only one of the children qualified for a child's rate!! I experienced one of my "things" whereby I got too full too fast, got breathless, and decided that I needed to go back to the car and let the family go on at their own pace. (I had brought a Sudoku puzzle book just for this purpose--just in case.) And that's what we did. At the end of their tour, they sent Ryan back to me to ask if I wanted to join them for ice cream, within sight just down the street...and again to ask if I wanted to join them for a horse-drawn carriage ride. By now it was long after dark. There are a lot of details in between. Suffice it to say that we took the enjoyable carriage ride, then drove home. Were back by 9:00 and eventually found ourselves on the patio trying to break open a geode that Meg had purchased. (No go. It wasn't hollow!)
Saturday, again a late start and again a beautiful day. My grandson and I stayed home, by choice, while Megan, Denis, and Robin headed out for Bridgeton, IN. Bridgeton is an itty-bitty town in the heart of covered bridge territory, truly off the beaten path. Its main claim to fame is a very long covered bridge over some falls--a bridge that was torched by arson a few years back and had to be rebuilt--but the town cashes in on the Covered Bridge Festival hoopla by having craft and food booths lining the streets. Ryan spent his entire day in his room on his computer, Skyping and playing an online game with a friend from home, happy as a little clam. I spent my day trying to pick up the kitchen and prepare a decent meal for the family when they eventually came home. Heh heh...they ran into a traffic jam trying to get out of Bridgeton, so our supper was late....but judging by the pictures that Meg posted, they enjoyed their day. I love that!!
I am absolutely delighted that the weekend went as well as it did. Wish it could have been longer. They all departed about 11 AM, Indiana time, on Sunday and were at the soccer fields on time. My only big regret is that our schedule conflicted with the other grandparents' schedule, and we were not able to meet up. :(
Just today, I finished up the Saturday dishes. (Don't ask!) Tomorrow, my son-in-law takes the oath to become an American citizen...and I won't be there. I'm not very happy about this. I had such plans and such hopes. I am so very proud of that young man!! This has been his dream for many years. Can't wait!
Sunday, October 6, 2013
The Dreaded Drawer
You know the drawer I am talking about. The one in your kitchen that holds all of the junk. Don't even try to tell me that you don't have one because I know better! You might call it the catch-all drawer or the junk drawer. I just call it The Drawer.
My drawer is very important. It is the biggest drawer in the kitchen, twice as wide as all of the others. I thought it was the perfect place to hold all of the phone books and instruction manuals for appliances, etc. (Yes, I am probably one of the few people left in America that still uses phone books!) And so it began. In the 21 years that I've lived in this house-on-a-slab, lots of things have gone into that drawer, but nothing ever comes out.
The last time I attempted to clean out and organize The Drawer, I emptied it. Had the contents all over the kitchen table, trying to sort things to figure out what was what and what should go where, when I got frustrated, threw up my hands, piled it all right back in the drawer and closed it. And that was that! I can't remember any previous times when I was successful, although there surely must have been some. I mean, The Drawer could still be closed if I held things down. No problem, right?
For the past few months, I've noticed that The Drawer wasn't operating smoothly. There is a metal rail on the bottom and a wheel that runs inside the rail to keep the drawer from falling forward when opened. I figured something was up with that, but I'd worry about it later.
Today was "later". This morning, in an effort to keep moving and trying to be productive, I decided to tackle some small spaces that needed to be cleaned off. I started with the stuff piled on top of the dryer. That little task--long needed--only took five minutes. Wow! I'm on a roll! Then I pulled out The Drawer to put some new phone books in, and it flopped forward. Oops! Time to do something about that.
Oh, what treasures abound! Dowel rods used to hold the windows up. Two locks--one, the fancy kind that Meg used on her storage unit. Some extra oil lamp wicks. (Kept finding more and more of those. I think the final total was ten.) Instructions for small appliances and things that have been long gone--like the grandchildren's booster seats and a doll that swims. Electrical switches and wall plates. A couple of phone cables. Several Scotch tape dispensers. Lots of little screws and nails and other electrical notions--like the basketball chain that hung from the ceiling fan in Ryan's room. (That would be the fan that we took down when we gave him a loft bed years ago.) A squeegee. Some hooks and pins and electrical adaptors. Three votive candles in tins with lids. Oh, yes...and the phone books. The list goes on--most of it just the flotsam and jetsam of life that has me scratching my head. "What did THIS go to??"
Thus, I have spent a lot of time on The Drawer today. When I am done, most things will have been thrown away or repatriated to other places in the house where they can actually be found when needed. I did locate a screw to replace the one that had come out of the under-drawer wheel thingie, so The Drawer is repaired.
Normally, I would feel a sense of accomplishment with this little project--a fete accomplit. Problem is, when all is finished, The Drawer will be closed and the kitchen will look exactly the way it did when I started. No one will be able to see how I spent my day. Not that anyone is ever here to see how I spend my time...but somehow, it seems unfair!
I also clipped my fingernails today. Does that count?
My drawer is very important. It is the biggest drawer in the kitchen, twice as wide as all of the others. I thought it was the perfect place to hold all of the phone books and instruction manuals for appliances, etc. (Yes, I am probably one of the few people left in America that still uses phone books!) And so it began. In the 21 years that I've lived in this house-on-a-slab, lots of things have gone into that drawer, but nothing ever comes out.
The last time I attempted to clean out and organize The Drawer, I emptied it. Had the contents all over the kitchen table, trying to sort things to figure out what was what and what should go where, when I got frustrated, threw up my hands, piled it all right back in the drawer and closed it. And that was that! I can't remember any previous times when I was successful, although there surely must have been some. I mean, The Drawer could still be closed if I held things down. No problem, right?
For the past few months, I've noticed that The Drawer wasn't operating smoothly. There is a metal rail on the bottom and a wheel that runs inside the rail to keep the drawer from falling forward when opened. I figured something was up with that, but I'd worry about it later.
Today was "later". This morning, in an effort to keep moving and trying to be productive, I decided to tackle some small spaces that needed to be cleaned off. I started with the stuff piled on top of the dryer. That little task--long needed--only took five minutes. Wow! I'm on a roll! Then I pulled out The Drawer to put some new phone books in, and it flopped forward. Oops! Time to do something about that.
Oh, what treasures abound! Dowel rods used to hold the windows up. Two locks--one, the fancy kind that Meg used on her storage unit. Some extra oil lamp wicks. (Kept finding more and more of those. I think the final total was ten.) Instructions for small appliances and things that have been long gone--like the grandchildren's booster seats and a doll that swims. Electrical switches and wall plates. A couple of phone cables. Several Scotch tape dispensers. Lots of little screws and nails and other electrical notions--like the basketball chain that hung from the ceiling fan in Ryan's room. (That would be the fan that we took down when we gave him a loft bed years ago.) A squeegee. Some hooks and pins and electrical adaptors. Three votive candles in tins with lids. Oh, yes...and the phone books. The list goes on--most of it just the flotsam and jetsam of life that has me scratching my head. "What did THIS go to??"
Thus, I have spent a lot of time on The Drawer today. When I am done, most things will have been thrown away or repatriated to other places in the house where they can actually be found when needed. I did locate a screw to replace the one that had come out of the under-drawer wheel thingie, so The Drawer is repaired.
Normally, I would feel a sense of accomplishment with this little project--a fete accomplit. Problem is, when all is finished, The Drawer will be closed and the kitchen will look exactly the way it did when I started. No one will be able to see how I spent my day. Not that anyone is ever here to see how I spend my time...but somehow, it seems unfair!
I also clipped my fingernails today. Does that count?
Saturday, October 5, 2013
A Veggie (and Cheese) Tale
I was talking to the fellow that takes care of my yard yesterday. We were discussing how his daughter and my granddaughter--both the same age--have suddenly decided that they no longer like certain foods that they used to love. And my brain-gears began to grind. Is this a result in a change of taste, or peer pressure? Have they had some unfortunate experience that has caused this reversal? I got to thinking about my own food likes and dislikes through the years but have yet to come up with a satisfactory answer.
I think I have mentioned before that I was raised in a family that had no limits to what they would eat. Or at least that's the way my mother was. I have been unable to think of a single thing that she wouldn't eat. Not one. Dad was a bit more discriminating, but only minorly so, since he was often hungry as a kid. As a child, I was always suspicious of the meat my mom put on the table, but even more so if she said, "That's beef; you eat it!" or "That's pork; you eat it!" Yeah...beef heart, beef tongue, beef kidney, etc.--all things I didn't want, not because they didn't taste good, but because of the texture--and sometimes the appearance. Not to mention that they came from parts of the animal that somehow seemed less appetizing to me. (I grew up loving liver and onions, however. Still do! Just don't even get me started on my former husband's penchant for pork brain sandwiches!)
Except for when we lived in Hawaii, California, and Japan, we always had a vegetable garden. My dad was the driving force in that. The garden at the family farm was HUGE. Dad ordered seeds from the Burpee Company every February and made sure that the ground was tilled and ready to plant the early vegetables by March. Dad tilled, planted, and weeded. Mom picked and processed the finished product, with assistance from anyone who happened to be around at any given moment. When my grandmother was still alive, we took the green beans to her in her wheelchair on the patio. She stemmed and snapped, and the process was on! And we were "organic" before organic was cool!
There were many, many times in the summer when the entire meal on the table was home grown, except for the meat and dairy. Bibb and romaine lettuce salads, sliced tomatoes with cottage cheese (or just plain), creamed new-potatoes-and-peas, corn on the cob, sometimes mashed potatoes, always green beans (which didn't need to be seasoned because Mom always put a big ol' blob of butter on top), red and white radishes, asparagus (OMG, the asparagus!). It was all there. I'm sorry to admit that I didn't appreciate it all. Tomatoes were just vegetables to me. My parents used to talk about how much better home grown 'maters were than "store bought", but I didn't understand it until I became a homemaker on my own.
And what happened when I did become a homemaker on my own? I had gardens. I had learned from my dad about what to plant, when. One year in Pontiac, IL, I grew tomatoes that were so big and juicy that my father was jealous because his weren't quite as good. (I loved that!) And over a lot of years, I came to notice the difference between cooking with commercially canned tomatoes and home canned. There is no comparison! Now, having lost my garden for many years due to divorce, etc., I go to the grocery and pay premium prices for inferior veggies. They call what they sell "zucchini"? HA! They look more like puny little cucumbers. We had big zucchinis to burn. In fact, my father would give them away! Asparagus is a high-ticket veggie because it is hard to grow. (I didn't really care for it when it was on our table for free! Crave it now!) The stuff the stores sell as tomatoes just don't cut it. They are pretty, for sure....but they have no flavor and are hard in texture. And so it goes. I didn't understand back then. I sure do now!
And now, let's add cheese to the mix. My parents always had cheeses with weird names in the refrigerator: gouda, bleu, munster, swiss, romano, limburger, etc....and some of it smelled horrific. I wouldn't touch it. The only cheeses that counted to me back then were American, American, and American. Mom usually kept a block of Kraft American, which my daughter grew up on...and, of course, a block of Velveeta, which isn't really cheese at all but "cheese food"--whatever that means. Now that I am grown up but live alone, I simply can't afford all of the scrumptious cheeses, although I have come to love them all!
So...what happens? Do we love something, then disavow it, then love it again? Do tastes change or just our tolerance for it? Do people influence us by forcing things beyond our suspicions? Is it magic or mystery? I wish I knew. I just know that I was spoiled by good food back when I was a child and didn't have the knowledge to appreciate it all. I get it now, Mom and Dad!
I think I have mentioned before that I was raised in a family that had no limits to what they would eat. Or at least that's the way my mother was. I have been unable to think of a single thing that she wouldn't eat. Not one. Dad was a bit more discriminating, but only minorly so, since he was often hungry as a kid. As a child, I was always suspicious of the meat my mom put on the table, but even more so if she said, "That's beef; you eat it!" or "That's pork; you eat it!" Yeah...beef heart, beef tongue, beef kidney, etc.--all things I didn't want, not because they didn't taste good, but because of the texture--and sometimes the appearance. Not to mention that they came from parts of the animal that somehow seemed less appetizing to me. (I grew up loving liver and onions, however. Still do! Just don't even get me started on my former husband's penchant for pork brain sandwiches!)
Except for when we lived in Hawaii, California, and Japan, we always had a vegetable garden. My dad was the driving force in that. The garden at the family farm was HUGE. Dad ordered seeds from the Burpee Company every February and made sure that the ground was tilled and ready to plant the early vegetables by March. Dad tilled, planted, and weeded. Mom picked and processed the finished product, with assistance from anyone who happened to be around at any given moment. When my grandmother was still alive, we took the green beans to her in her wheelchair on the patio. She stemmed and snapped, and the process was on! And we were "organic" before organic was cool!
There were many, many times in the summer when the entire meal on the table was home grown, except for the meat and dairy. Bibb and romaine lettuce salads, sliced tomatoes with cottage cheese (or just plain), creamed new-potatoes-and-peas, corn on the cob, sometimes mashed potatoes, always green beans (which didn't need to be seasoned because Mom always put a big ol' blob of butter on top), red and white radishes, asparagus (OMG, the asparagus!). It was all there. I'm sorry to admit that I didn't appreciate it all. Tomatoes were just vegetables to me. My parents used to talk about how much better home grown 'maters were than "store bought", but I didn't understand it until I became a homemaker on my own.
And what happened when I did become a homemaker on my own? I had gardens. I had learned from my dad about what to plant, when. One year in Pontiac, IL, I grew tomatoes that were so big and juicy that my father was jealous because his weren't quite as good. (I loved that!) And over a lot of years, I came to notice the difference between cooking with commercially canned tomatoes and home canned. There is no comparison! Now, having lost my garden for many years due to divorce, etc., I go to the grocery and pay premium prices for inferior veggies. They call what they sell "zucchini"? HA! They look more like puny little cucumbers. We had big zucchinis to burn. In fact, my father would give them away! Asparagus is a high-ticket veggie because it is hard to grow. (I didn't really care for it when it was on our table for free! Crave it now!) The stuff the stores sell as tomatoes just don't cut it. They are pretty, for sure....but they have no flavor and are hard in texture. And so it goes. I didn't understand back then. I sure do now!
And now, let's add cheese to the mix. My parents always had cheeses with weird names in the refrigerator: gouda, bleu, munster, swiss, romano, limburger, etc....and some of it smelled horrific. I wouldn't touch it. The only cheeses that counted to me back then were American, American, and American. Mom usually kept a block of Kraft American, which my daughter grew up on...and, of course, a block of Velveeta, which isn't really cheese at all but "cheese food"--whatever that means. Now that I am grown up but live alone, I simply can't afford all of the scrumptious cheeses, although I have come to love them all!
So...what happens? Do we love something, then disavow it, then love it again? Do tastes change or just our tolerance for it? Do people influence us by forcing things beyond our suspicions? Is it magic or mystery? I wish I knew. I just know that I was spoiled by good food back when I was a child and didn't have the knowledge to appreciate it all. I get it now, Mom and Dad!
Friday, October 4, 2013
A Sense of Entitlement
The only thing my father demanded of the world around him was respect. It was a lesson I learned from watching him and being around him. I don't think I was ever prouder as a kid than when my father informed a drunk man on an airport transport bus to please stop cursing because "there are young ladies present". He meant my sister and I. She was 16 and I was 10, on our way to the Seattle, WA, airport for our very first flight, unaccompanied, home to Illinois after living in Japan. The dude shut down his language, and I figured out that I was worthy of respect because my daddy said so.
Back when my brother was a teen, he was in possession of a spray paint can and discovered that if he lit the paint as it was sprayed, it made a torch, of sorts. He was messing with it in a public park in Oak Park, IL--and got arrested. The media reported his arrest as "torch-wielding youth", blah, blah. When Doug's court date came up, Dad went with him as the case was heard. After the arresting officer testified and before sentence, Dad was asked if he had any questions of the officer. He did. "At any time, was my son disrespectful to you?" Answer: "No." Honestly, I think my brother could have robbed a Brink's truck, but as long as he showed respect to the people who nabbed him, Dad would have been okay with that. (Doug got probation.)
Some of my favorite Dr. Phil shows deal with "moochers"--usually adult children of parents who let them live at home and pay their bills without getting anything in return. Often, I fairly scream at the TV. The "children" involved almost always exhibit a sense of entitlement: " I didn't ask to be born. You owe me because you love me." They feel entitled to have what they have when they want it because they can. I laugh. But really, it's not funny. This sort of thing is epidemic in America!
I am old now. My daddy isn't here to tell me how things should be. I taught teenagers and pre-teens for 40 years and have put my share of disrespect in the holster of the job, but I'm retired. No one speaks disrespectfully to me now but my daughter. Whaaat?? Why is this? It happens at least once each visit--and it floors me. I guess I feel that I am entitled--have earned the right to be treated with respect. I am the one who has always been there for her. And I am 100% sure that the reason she feels comfortable enough to talk back to me is that we are close. She doesn't talk to her father this way, even though he deserves it more than I. I am the chosen one.
In one encounter, my daughter was frustrated. (Not a good thing.) She opened up the freezer door in her kitchen and a pizza fell out. She threw it back in, which started an avalanche of a couple of other things to fall out. She snarled and threw them all back in and slammed the door of the refrigerator, at which point, I watched the very expensive Nikon camera perched on top rock back and forth. Fortunately, it didn't fall to the floor. Instinctively, I yelled, "Not a good idea, Meg!" She immediately went off on me. I had no right to treat her like a child (even though she was behaving like one)--and so it went. And so it has gone several other times. Somehow, she always assumes the worst of me. Her sense of entitlement battles mine.
Does this child of mine not understand that I have no choice but to respect her decisions? Does she think that everything I say is measured against what she thinks or feels? Does she think I'm going to blow her cover? I don't know. What I do know is that society in general is fraught with a sense of entitlement--you owe me because the current standard is more than I can provide for myself. I think we are due for an implosion. The Greatest Generation worked their buns off to provide for the Baby Boomers. The Baby Boomers struggled to provide what they could, but it was less than the Greatest Generation could. And now what do we have? I'm still trying to figure it out.
I don't need things that the rest of the world feels entitled to. I don't even need respect, really, except from the people I love and give to, unselfishly. Am I entitled to that? I think so. If others don't, then I need not be around them. The world sure is different than when my dad ruled it. I wish we had some of that back....
Back when my brother was a teen, he was in possession of a spray paint can and discovered that if he lit the paint as it was sprayed, it made a torch, of sorts. He was messing with it in a public park in Oak Park, IL--and got arrested. The media reported his arrest as "torch-wielding youth", blah, blah. When Doug's court date came up, Dad went with him as the case was heard. After the arresting officer testified and before sentence, Dad was asked if he had any questions of the officer. He did. "At any time, was my son disrespectful to you?" Answer: "No." Honestly, I think my brother could have robbed a Brink's truck, but as long as he showed respect to the people who nabbed him, Dad would have been okay with that. (Doug got probation.)
Some of my favorite Dr. Phil shows deal with "moochers"--usually adult children of parents who let them live at home and pay their bills without getting anything in return. Often, I fairly scream at the TV. The "children" involved almost always exhibit a sense of entitlement: " I didn't ask to be born. You owe me because you love me." They feel entitled to have what they have when they want it because they can. I laugh. But really, it's not funny. This sort of thing is epidemic in America!
I am old now. My daddy isn't here to tell me how things should be. I taught teenagers and pre-teens for 40 years and have put my share of disrespect in the holster of the job, but I'm retired. No one speaks disrespectfully to me now but my daughter. Whaaat?? Why is this? It happens at least once each visit--and it floors me. I guess I feel that I am entitled--have earned the right to be treated with respect. I am the one who has always been there for her. And I am 100% sure that the reason she feels comfortable enough to talk back to me is that we are close. She doesn't talk to her father this way, even though he deserves it more than I. I am the chosen one.
In one encounter, my daughter was frustrated. (Not a good thing.) She opened up the freezer door in her kitchen and a pizza fell out. She threw it back in, which started an avalanche of a couple of other things to fall out. She snarled and threw them all back in and slammed the door of the refrigerator, at which point, I watched the very expensive Nikon camera perched on top rock back and forth. Fortunately, it didn't fall to the floor. Instinctively, I yelled, "Not a good idea, Meg!" She immediately went off on me. I had no right to treat her like a child (even though she was behaving like one)--and so it went. And so it has gone several other times. Somehow, she always assumes the worst of me. Her sense of entitlement battles mine.
Does this child of mine not understand that I have no choice but to respect her decisions? Does she think that everything I say is measured against what she thinks or feels? Does she think I'm going to blow her cover? I don't know. What I do know is that society in general is fraught with a sense of entitlement--you owe me because the current standard is more than I can provide for myself. I think we are due for an implosion. The Greatest Generation worked their buns off to provide for the Baby Boomers. The Baby Boomers struggled to provide what they could, but it was less than the Greatest Generation could. And now what do we have? I'm still trying to figure it out.
I don't need things that the rest of the world feels entitled to. I don't even need respect, really, except from the people I love and give to, unselfishly. Am I entitled to that? I think so. If others don't, then I need not be around them. The world sure is different than when my dad ruled it. I wish we had some of that back....
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Faith
Pay attention. There will be a quiz at the end of this post. :)
On the wall of my living room, there hangs an Amish print called "Five Happy Quilters" which primitively shows five girls/women dancing in a circle around two quilts hanging on a clothesline, with a house and horse-and-buggy in the background. The caption is: "None live so pleasantly as those who live by faith". I believe that or I wouldn't have it on my wall--except that I think I was more attracted by the colors of the print than by the message when I bought it.
I have always had faith in God. I just didn't understand, early on, that my faith would sometimes be challenged. One of my favorite ministers through the years gave an illustration in a sermon once that struck a chord with me. He told of a man who fell off a cliff and was hanging on to a branch that stopped his fall. The man cried to God for help and heard a clear voice claiming to be God, telling him that he would be saved if he had faith. The frightened man wasn't so sure. "How do I know that you are God?" he asked. The voice answered, "Let go!"
There are times in life when one has no choice but to let go and put oneself in the hands of people that he/she does not know or trust. My brain aneurysm and heart attack are testament to that. My life was saved by people who did not even know me. How much faith did I put in that? How much faith did I have when the crises were over and I had survived??
I have a relatively young Facebook friend who is the son of a Salvation Army officer (minister). He suffers from uncontrolled epilepsy and is frequently posting despondent messages about himself. But he has a gift. He has a camera and an eye for pictures...some of which are absolutely stunning. I took the trouble to write to a a couple of sources that would be happy to have his pictures for their publications, but when I wrote to him and suggested that he needed to copyright and submit them, he told me no....that his success had to be totally up to God...that he was relying on God to discover his talents...that he would not promote his pictures. In short, the sources had to come to him, not the other way around. So, who's wrong? Him for believing that opportunities will just fall in his lap, inspired by God...or me, for believing that he needs to take control of what God has already given him? Is this about faith?
Most of us have faith that the sun will come up in the morning because it always does. We have faith that we will wake up in the morning, although not all of us do. Sometimes, our faith is rewarded with the desired outcome; sometimes it isn't. So what is the purpose of being faithful? What do we gain by hanging on to what we believe when there isn't always a positive response?
Faith means believing in something that we cannot see or prove by empirical means. Do you believe? Do you have faith? Where does that take you in your life? I think the delightful little print hanging on my wall is a reminder that I need to be more faithful and submit to (and be grateful for) whatever God has in store for me....and hope that I've been worthy enough to receive it.
Quiz: Are you?
On the wall of my living room, there hangs an Amish print called "Five Happy Quilters" which primitively shows five girls/women dancing in a circle around two quilts hanging on a clothesline, with a house and horse-and-buggy in the background. The caption is: "None live so pleasantly as those who live by faith". I believe that or I wouldn't have it on my wall--except that I think I was more attracted by the colors of the print than by the message when I bought it.
I have always had faith in God. I just didn't understand, early on, that my faith would sometimes be challenged. One of my favorite ministers through the years gave an illustration in a sermon once that struck a chord with me. He told of a man who fell off a cliff and was hanging on to a branch that stopped his fall. The man cried to God for help and heard a clear voice claiming to be God, telling him that he would be saved if he had faith. The frightened man wasn't so sure. "How do I know that you are God?" he asked. The voice answered, "Let go!"
There are times in life when one has no choice but to let go and put oneself in the hands of people that he/she does not know or trust. My brain aneurysm and heart attack are testament to that. My life was saved by people who did not even know me. How much faith did I put in that? How much faith did I have when the crises were over and I had survived??
I have a relatively young Facebook friend who is the son of a Salvation Army officer (minister). He suffers from uncontrolled epilepsy and is frequently posting despondent messages about himself. But he has a gift. He has a camera and an eye for pictures...some of which are absolutely stunning. I took the trouble to write to a a couple of sources that would be happy to have his pictures for their publications, but when I wrote to him and suggested that he needed to copyright and submit them, he told me no....that his success had to be totally up to God...that he was relying on God to discover his talents...that he would not promote his pictures. In short, the sources had to come to him, not the other way around. So, who's wrong? Him for believing that opportunities will just fall in his lap, inspired by God...or me, for believing that he needs to take control of what God has already given him? Is this about faith?
Most of us have faith that the sun will come up in the morning because it always does. We have faith that we will wake up in the morning, although not all of us do. Sometimes, our faith is rewarded with the desired outcome; sometimes it isn't. So what is the purpose of being faithful? What do we gain by hanging on to what we believe when there isn't always a positive response?
Faith means believing in something that we cannot see or prove by empirical means. Do you believe? Do you have faith? Where does that take you in your life? I think the delightful little print hanging on my wall is a reminder that I need to be more faithful and submit to (and be grateful for) whatever God has in store for me....and hope that I've been worthy enough to receive it.
Quiz: Are you?
Saturday, September 21, 2013
R.I.P. Jiminy
When I got up before dawn this morning to use the bathroom, in the glow from the TV I could see a black spot on the floor. I turned on the light, and there he was: my little cricket friend from two days ago lying belly-up on the floor, quite dead. Oh, Jiminy! I hardly knew ye!
No small specimen, he. He was a healthy size. My understanding is that crickets eat about anything, so, with all of the crud on the floor in my house, I'm pretty sure he didn't starve to death. Not sure what the life expectancy of a cricket is, but it did start my brain to wondering what killed him.
I'll never know, of course....or care...but it does remind me of other occasions somewhat like it.
Back in 1980, my ex and I moved to Pontiac, IL, where he was to take over the principalship of the junior high school. I don't remember a house search--only that we settled on an old brick farmhouse in the country just outside of town to rent. The living space was all on one level, but it had a full basement and a walk-in attic. There was also a "dumb-waiter" from the kitchen to the basement--a pulley-driven platform that, in the old days, would take home-canned goods from upstairs to downstairs without a zillion human trips. We had many encounters with country vermin in that house.
Megan had her second birthday there in March. I put the remains of her birthday cake in a Tupperware cake holder in the dumb-waiter for safe keeping. The next day, as she sat in her high chair, I opened the dumb-waiter to get her a piece of cake, and out jumped a mouse! He had been gnawing on the Tupperware in hopes of getting to the cake. Megan saw it and said, "A buggy!" I said, "No...a mousey!" I chased the thing onto the inside back porch and squished it between some boxes stored there, hoping beyond hope that I had killed it. (Yeah, right.)
That afternoon, when Joe got home from school, I saw the mouse run out from under the door of Megan's room to the bathroom. I asked my big, strong husband to do something about it. He stood up, sniffed a bit and hiked up his britches, then went into the bathroom and shut the door. What happened after that was nothing short of cartoonish. I heard banging and knocking and it seemed as though the bathroom walls were pulsating in and out as the fight ensued. Finally--FINALLY--I heard the toilet flush and Joe emerged. He came out victorious over the mouse, but not before the mouse had run up his leg!
All that spring and summer, we fought crickets and mice and spiders and other critters in the house....and outside, too. I had a vegetable garden there. I complained that something was eating off my newly-planted tomato plants. Then I heard KA-POW! Joe used his shotgun to eliminate the culprit--a ground squirrel. About that same time, I was working in the garden with my 2-year-old playing nearby when I noticed a rat sitting under the propane tank. It was not flopped over looking dead, but it was just sitting there, no matter how close I got, and I worried. Was it sick from eating rat poison in the outbuildings? Was it rabid? Would it hurt my child? Was it even alive? I was alone at the time but determined that I could not just fold up and go inside without taking care of the problem. I found a shovel and beat the silly thing to death. (Honestly, it didn't move, so I'm not totally certain it was even alive to begin with, but I have to tell you that it was really difficult for me to beat on what I thought was a living thing, even if it was really, really sick. I have no trouble killing bugs, but other critters get to me.) I was traumatized!!
I thought I was the only one frustrated by having the outside in the house all the time. But one day, as I was going up the attic stairs for something, I found a dead mouse halfway up the stairs. I wondered what caused it to die there. When I posed the question to my husband, he said, "The crickets and spiders probably beat it to death!" I got the message.
What really cooked things for me was when the basement toilet in that house ran, unnoticed, for many hours. It drained the well below the level of the water pump, and the pump burned out. We went out to check on the well. The only thing that covered it was a small v-shaped roof (with shingles) and chicken wire around the sides. Visible down inside, among unknown other things, were a string mop-head and the plastic rings that hold a 6-pack of cans together. Whaaat?? And we've been drinking this water????? The landlady was not particularly pleased to have to replace the pump, but we were done with the whole place. We found a house in town to rent--a much better choice. We were only in the farmhouse for, maybe, 18 months. It had been an adventure, but I was glad when it was over.
Back to Jiminy. I didn't kill this one. His blood is not on my hands...and may the god of insects have mercy on his shiny black little soul. Oh...and good riddance!
No small specimen, he. He was a healthy size. My understanding is that crickets eat about anything, so, with all of the crud on the floor in my house, I'm pretty sure he didn't starve to death. Not sure what the life expectancy of a cricket is, but it did start my brain to wondering what killed him.
I'll never know, of course....or care...but it does remind me of other occasions somewhat like it.
Back in 1980, my ex and I moved to Pontiac, IL, where he was to take over the principalship of the junior high school. I don't remember a house search--only that we settled on an old brick farmhouse in the country just outside of town to rent. The living space was all on one level, but it had a full basement and a walk-in attic. There was also a "dumb-waiter" from the kitchen to the basement--a pulley-driven platform that, in the old days, would take home-canned goods from upstairs to downstairs without a zillion human trips. We had many encounters with country vermin in that house.
Megan had her second birthday there in March. I put the remains of her birthday cake in a Tupperware cake holder in the dumb-waiter for safe keeping. The next day, as she sat in her high chair, I opened the dumb-waiter to get her a piece of cake, and out jumped a mouse! He had been gnawing on the Tupperware in hopes of getting to the cake. Megan saw it and said, "A buggy!" I said, "No...a mousey!" I chased the thing onto the inside back porch and squished it between some boxes stored there, hoping beyond hope that I had killed it. (Yeah, right.)
That afternoon, when Joe got home from school, I saw the mouse run out from under the door of Megan's room to the bathroom. I asked my big, strong husband to do something about it. He stood up, sniffed a bit and hiked up his britches, then went into the bathroom and shut the door. What happened after that was nothing short of cartoonish. I heard banging and knocking and it seemed as though the bathroom walls were pulsating in and out as the fight ensued. Finally--FINALLY--I heard the toilet flush and Joe emerged. He came out victorious over the mouse, but not before the mouse had run up his leg!
All that spring and summer, we fought crickets and mice and spiders and other critters in the house....and outside, too. I had a vegetable garden there. I complained that something was eating off my newly-planted tomato plants. Then I heard KA-POW!
I thought I was the only one frustrated by having the outside in the house all the time. But one day, as I was going up the attic stairs for something, I found a dead mouse halfway up the stairs. I wondered what caused it to die there. When I posed the question to my husband, he said, "The crickets and spiders probably beat it to death!" I got the message.
What really cooked things for me was when the basement toilet in that house ran, unnoticed, for many hours. It drained the well below the level of the water pump, and the pump burned out. We went out to check on the well. The only thing that covered it was a small v-shaped roof (with shingles) and chicken wire around the sides. Visible down inside, among unknown other things, were a string mop-head and the plastic rings that hold a 6-pack of cans together. Whaaat?? And we've been drinking this water????? The landlady was not particularly pleased to have to replace the pump, but we were done with the whole place. We found a house in town to rent--a much better choice. We were only in the farmhouse for, maybe, 18 months. It had been an adventure, but I was glad when it was over.
Back to Jiminy. I didn't kill this one. His blood is not on my hands...and may the god of insects have mercy on his shiny black little soul. Oh...and good riddance!
Friday, September 20, 2013
Consequences
I'm pretty sure that when Indianapolis Metropolitcan Police Officer Rod Bradway put on his body armor and uniform yesterday to head out to his overnight shift, he didn't have a thought about not coming home. But he didn't. He was shot and killed by a man who was attacking a woman in an apartment. It's a big deal in Indy. That's all the news is about today--and rightly so.
All of the info isn't out yet. Suffice it to say that the other police with him were able to return fire, and the perpetrator was also killed. The "perp" had a record, but mostly just for drug charges. He wasn't known as a violent killer, but that's what he became. So here I am, wondering just what goes on in the mind of someone committing a violent act? Often, we just don't know because the criminal dies with the act. Suicide by Police? If the man wanted to die, he could have taken care of that without killing a policeman.
My good friend Dr. Phil frequently asks people he is trying to help what they predict the results will be if they continue to behave a certain way. Interesting thought! When people are misbehaving, are they actually thinking about the consequences of what they are doing? Do they truly believe they won't get caught? Or, if they get caught, do they expect to be forgiven? If what they have done to others were visited upon them, would/could they be willing to get back what they gave out? I wish I knew!
John Wilkes Booth, Abraham Lincoln's assassin, was a Southern sympathizer and imagined himself to be a saviour of the nation when he killed the President. Imagine his shock and surprise to find himself being hunted down like a dog (and eventually killed). Most "perps" just throw themselves into the court system and hope for better treatment than they gave their victims. I actually have a tiny little bit of respect for Timothy McVeigh and John Mohammad who denied appeals and let the system exact its punishment quickly.
I'm not 100% sure that people who commit these acts are crazy. Some clearly are, like the dude who kidnapped and kept Kaycee Dugard for ten years...or the one who kidnapped and kept Elizabeth Smart. Some know they are but do nothing about it, like the dude who kidnapped and kept three women for at least that long, then told the court he wasn't a "monster"--just sick--and hanged himself in his jail cell. Others believe that the people they killed, tortured, whatever, deserved to die and that they were justified--and any innocent parties that were affected were just "collateral damage". Are the rest just the result of their raising??? Do we blame the parents? And who else??
Sometimes, these performers of evil deeds just behave like cornered animals. You hear that a lot about dogs that attack people--they were "just doing what Nature programmed them to do". So, is that it? Are we homo sapiens nothing more than the rest of animalia, and nothing higher-functioning can be expected of us? It would seem so. And it makes me very, very sad.
All of the info isn't out yet. Suffice it to say that the other police with him were able to return fire, and the perpetrator was also killed. The "perp" had a record, but mostly just for drug charges. He wasn't known as a violent killer, but that's what he became. So here I am, wondering just what goes on in the mind of someone committing a violent act? Often, we just don't know because the criminal dies with the act. Suicide by Police? If the man wanted to die, he could have taken care of that without killing a policeman.
My good friend Dr. Phil frequently asks people he is trying to help what they predict the results will be if they continue to behave a certain way. Interesting thought! When people are misbehaving, are they actually thinking about the consequences of what they are doing? Do they truly believe they won't get caught? Or, if they get caught, do they expect to be forgiven? If what they have done to others were visited upon them, would/could they be willing to get back what they gave out? I wish I knew!
John Wilkes Booth, Abraham Lincoln's assassin, was a Southern sympathizer and imagined himself to be a saviour of the nation when he killed the President. Imagine his shock and surprise to find himself being hunted down like a dog (and eventually killed). Most "perps" just throw themselves into the court system and hope for better treatment than they gave their victims. I actually have a tiny little bit of respect for Timothy McVeigh and John Mohammad who denied appeals and let the system exact its punishment quickly.
I'm not 100% sure that people who commit these acts are crazy. Some clearly are, like the dude who kidnapped and kept Kaycee Dugard for ten years...or the one who kidnapped and kept Elizabeth Smart. Some know they are but do nothing about it, like the dude who kidnapped and kept three women for at least that long, then told the court he wasn't a "monster"--just sick--and hanged himself in his jail cell. Others believe that the people they killed, tortured, whatever, deserved to die and that they were justified--and any innocent parties that were affected were just "collateral damage". Are the rest just the result of their raising??? Do we blame the parents? And who else??
Sometimes, these performers of evil deeds just behave like cornered animals. You hear that a lot about dogs that attack people--they were "just doing what Nature programmed them to do". So, is that it? Are we homo sapiens nothing more than the rest of animalia, and nothing higher-functioning can be expected of us? It would seem so. And it makes me very, very sad.
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Jeeminy Creeckit!
I know, I know....my brain is weird. I think in associations which doesn't happen to other people, so I accept that I'm off the chart.
While watching TV tonight, I heard a cricket chirping. At first, I thought it was on the show, but an ad came on and the chirping continued. I muted the TV and the chirping amazingly stopped. AHA! This is familiar to me! When i was a kid visiting my grandparents in their garage-turned-farmhouse, floor bugs were the norm, and crickets (big and small) were common visitors in the house. I could hear them and would go after them, but the minute I honed in on the location, the chirping would stop. I hated that because it meant that I would have to deal with them all night as I had to sleep on the hide-a-bed in the living room. I don't remember complaining much because it would have done no good. The sleeping arrangements were the sleeping arrangements, and the farm was the farm. There was no such thing as being bug-free....although in my years in my house-on-a-slab, I have tried to stay as un-buggy as possible.
There are always spiders, of course. Plus, each year I have had to put up with big black ants for a few weeks. One year, I had an infestation of earwigs that drove me crazy, but never since. I've never had to deal with crickets, but they seem to be more obvious on the patio...and now one in the house??
Jiminy? Is that you???
While watching TV tonight, I heard a cricket chirping. At first, I thought it was on the show, but an ad came on and the chirping continued. I muted the TV and the chirping amazingly stopped. AHA! This is familiar to me! When i was a kid visiting my grandparents in their garage-turned-farmhouse, floor bugs were the norm, and crickets (big and small) were common visitors in the house. I could hear them and would go after them, but the minute I honed in on the location, the chirping would stop. I hated that because it meant that I would have to deal with them all night as I had to sleep on the hide-a-bed in the living room. I don't remember complaining much because it would have done no good. The sleeping arrangements were the sleeping arrangements, and the farm was the farm. There was no such thing as being bug-free....although in my years in my house-on-a-slab, I have tried to stay as un-buggy as possible.
There are always spiders, of course. Plus, each year I have had to put up with big black ants for a few weeks. One year, I had an infestation of earwigs that drove me crazy, but never since. I've never had to deal with crickets, but they seem to be more obvious on the patio...and now one in the house??
Jiminy? Is that you???
Sunday, September 15, 2013
Falling in Luv
Before church this morning, I was looking for something to adorn my outfit. Once upon a time, I had a ton of costume jewelry that soon became mixed with my daughter's and was eventually relegated to a box in the storage closet. I dragged that out. OMG! What memories I found in that box!
One treasure was a pin...an ISU pin. Illinois State University, with a little chain off to the side with "69" on it--my graduation year. Just a deoration, right? Wrong!! That tiny little pin represented hopes for the future--giddy little female things. And now it lives in a box out of sight.
The ISU that I attended from 1965-69 had no sororities or fraternities. It was one of the things that attracted me, aside from the fact that both of my parents attended there, and my father graduated in 1941 and is now in their Football Hall of Fame. I lived in a dorm that made the residents of our floor our own little sorority of sorts.
There was a hierarchy of love. If you were dating someone, great. After that, however, were the "milestones" of intention. If you got an ISU lavalier from your BF, that meant you were going steady. Getting "pinned" (with the pin that I mentioned above), you were pre-engaged. Engagement, of course, required a diamond ring. And each level of commitment required a candlelight ceremony on the dorm floor.
Lots of candlelight ceremonies occurred on Sunday evenings after gals returned from weekends at home, etc. We were called together to sit in a circle on the floor and wonder with amazement who was the lucky gal to be lavaliered/pinned/engaged. A lit candle was passed around until it reached the right person who then blew out the candle. We would all shriek and be happy for her. Whoop-de-doo!
In my old age now, I wonder how many of those candlelight ceremonies resulted in marriage...and how many of those marriages lasted. The pin that I got from my BF back then is now in a box in storage. I did get a diamond ring out of the relationship but I eventually gave it back when I figured out that I was just caught up in the moment and that marrying him would have been a huge mistake. I made other huge mistakes in my life thereafter. Thankfully, that wasn't one of them!
I'm so very glad that we aren't always held responsible for stupidity in our 20s. At that age, people think they know everything about themselves and life. HA!!
I'm not going to throw the pin away. Guess my daughter will have to figure out what to do with it after I'm gone....or maybe I should offer it up for someone to buy? We'll see!
One treasure was a pin...an ISU pin. Illinois State University, with a little chain off to the side with "69" on it--my graduation year. Just a deoration, right? Wrong!! That tiny little pin represented hopes for the future--giddy little female things. And now it lives in a box out of sight.
The ISU that I attended from 1965-69 had no sororities or fraternities. It was one of the things that attracted me, aside from the fact that both of my parents attended there, and my father graduated in 1941 and is now in their Football Hall of Fame. I lived in a dorm that made the residents of our floor our own little sorority of sorts.
There was a hierarchy of love. If you were dating someone, great. After that, however, were the "milestones" of intention. If you got an ISU lavalier from your BF, that meant you were going steady. Getting "pinned" (with the pin that I mentioned above), you were pre-engaged. Engagement, of course, required a diamond ring. And each level of commitment required a candlelight ceremony on the dorm floor.
Lots of candlelight ceremonies occurred on Sunday evenings after gals returned from weekends at home, etc. We were called together to sit in a circle on the floor and wonder with amazement who was the lucky gal to be lavaliered/pinned/engaged. A lit candle was passed around until it reached the right person who then blew out the candle. We would all shriek and be happy for her. Whoop-de-doo!
In my old age now, I wonder how many of those candlelight ceremonies resulted in marriage...and how many of those marriages lasted. The pin that I got from my BF back then is now in a box in storage. I did get a diamond ring out of the relationship but I eventually gave it back when I figured out that I was just caught up in the moment and that marrying him would have been a huge mistake. I made other huge mistakes in my life thereafter. Thankfully, that wasn't one of them!
I'm so very glad that we aren't always held responsible for stupidity in our 20s. At that age, people think they know everything about themselves and life. HA!!
I'm not going to throw the pin away. Guess my daughter will have to figure out what to do with it after I'm gone....or maybe I should offer it up for someone to buy? We'll see!
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