Want to know the news from Meg's? There is none...or maybe a lot. I came up last Saturday...weather good, traffic light, no accident or construction slow-downs. I was speeding just to keep up with the flow and arrived in just under four hours. Not bad!
My grandchildren were here for their spring break. The weather did NOT cooperate. It's basically been cold all week...but no one complained. We celebrated my daughter's birthday with good food and lemon bars (instead of cake...her choice). We celebrated my daughter and son-in-law's fourth anniversary by sending them off on their own to a restaurant of their choosing...on me. We played "Curses"--a game that kept everyone happy and hopping. We played video games, watched movies, read books, went to parks, shopped, got new glasses for Robin, and generally just did what needed to be done.
For reasons known only to God, I was too sleepy all day to be functional. I tried to doze a time or two, but nothing helped. When everyone left to take the children home, I did get in a nap. I've been fine ever since. I don't get it. It's not like I've been running the Olympics...
I did get to tour the new house that Meg and Den are buying. It is not 100% a done deal but does appear that it will all go through. The house is a good choice. I think it's a nice fit for the family...
Hitting the sack for the night. I sure hope spring is finally showing up. I'm ready!!
Monday, March 31, 2014
Thursday, March 20, 2014
Buried in the "Liberry"
My friend and co-grandmother, Judy, and I comprise a committee of two to work on church history. We both are members of the Plainfield United Methodist Church, and we both volunteered to do a video-taped history of some events of the church. WE aren't the subjects of the video; instead, we are seeking the remembrances of some of the oldest church members, to grab their memories while they are still with us. We settled on the Fish Fry as our first focus.
PUMC has put on a fish fry every summer since about 1945. It has grown and grown through the years. Judy and I decided that it was a good place to start in asking our older members to dredge up their memories. Today, we went to the Plainfield Public Library to find whatever we could about the earliest fish fries in order to launch conversations about them. The librarian had already pulled a file for us with things from the church, plus big bound books of local newsblabs with gossip and ads. We had to search the pages for what we were looking for.
Journalism now just isn't the same as it used to be. My daughter and I have discovered, for example, that old-time obituaries gave the graphic details of why/how a person died and how the community received the news. Not so now. Old news articles were replete with gossip and conjecture. It can be quite entertaining! Today, for example, I saw a short news blurb with the title, "Indiana Penal Heads Entertained Here". I read it out loud. Judy's face got red as she giggled. The librarian came over to see it. Hey...I didn't write it! Not my fault!
In our research, we discovered that what we thought was a fish fry connected to a Saddle Club event wasn't part of the Methodist Church's offerings. It probably took us 30 minutes or more to figure out that the Christian Church had a fish fry...and so did the Methodist Church. Once we determined that there were TWO, it was easier to sort things out. A couple of the news articles listed things like how much food was sold--so many sandwiches, so many pounds of potatoes, etc...and it was interesting to read.
But there was one story that caught my eye. A fellow who had worked a Methodist fish fry in the early years commented that his wife was to donate dessert cakes. The first one she baked fell apart when she tried to "ice it down". The second one had a "sink hole" in the middle. In disgust, she called the church and told the woman on the other end of the phone that she would not be donating anything. After a short pause, the woman on the other end said, "Would you like to try a pie, dear?" What tickled me about it was that it apparently became a stock answer in his family every time there was a failure of some sort. "Would you like to try a pie, dear?" It would have been the same in my family. I could relate!
When Judy and I first went into the Genealogy and Local History Room at the library, we were the only ones there besides the gal at the desk. A bit later, another woman came in who was waiting for a student to arrive so she could administer a test. We tried to be quiet, but the gal confessed that she was enjoying hearing us talk about stuff. We came up with about 12 pages to have copied at 10-cents apiece, but the gal at the desk called it even because, as she copied stuff for us, she made a second copy for the file and considered it research in her behalf. Judy also found an article that contained the birth announcement for her baby brother and her cousin, born just hours apart, in one of the books. She had that copied for her family, for free!
With all of our talk about the fish fry, I got hungry for fish. When I left the library, I drove to McD's and got a fish filet sandwich, then went on to do a little shopping. Everything I did today, however, only reminded me of how bad off I am, physically. Here in my little house-on-a-slab, I am protected. Everything is on one level and I don't have to travel far to get what I need. I stand awhile and sit awhile and lie down awhile when I am alone, but out in public it becomes obvious that I'm not in a good way at all. Scary.
I'll be heading up to Meg's on Saturday. Wish me luck!
PUMC has put on a fish fry every summer since about 1945. It has grown and grown through the years. Judy and I decided that it was a good place to start in asking our older members to dredge up their memories. Today, we went to the Plainfield Public Library to find whatever we could about the earliest fish fries in order to launch conversations about them. The librarian had already pulled a file for us with things from the church, plus big bound books of local newsblabs with gossip and ads. We had to search the pages for what we were looking for.
Journalism now just isn't the same as it used to be. My daughter and I have discovered, for example, that old-time obituaries gave the graphic details of why/how a person died and how the community received the news. Not so now. Old news articles were replete with gossip and conjecture. It can be quite entertaining! Today, for example, I saw a short news blurb with the title, "Indiana Penal Heads Entertained Here". I read it out loud. Judy's face got red as she giggled. The librarian came over to see it. Hey...I didn't write it! Not my fault!
In our research, we discovered that what we thought was a fish fry connected to a Saddle Club event wasn't part of the Methodist Church's offerings. It probably took us 30 minutes or more to figure out that the Christian Church had a fish fry...and so did the Methodist Church. Once we determined that there were TWO, it was easier to sort things out. A couple of the news articles listed things like how much food was sold--so many sandwiches, so many pounds of potatoes, etc...and it was interesting to read.
But there was one story that caught my eye. A fellow who had worked a Methodist fish fry in the early years commented that his wife was to donate dessert cakes. The first one she baked fell apart when she tried to "ice it down". The second one had a "sink hole" in the middle. In disgust, she called the church and told the woman on the other end of the phone that she would not be donating anything. After a short pause, the woman on the other end said, "Would you like to try a pie, dear?" What tickled me about it was that it apparently became a stock answer in his family every time there was a failure of some sort. "Would you like to try a pie, dear?" It would have been the same in my family. I could relate!
When Judy and I first went into the Genealogy and Local History Room at the library, we were the only ones there besides the gal at the desk. A bit later, another woman came in who was waiting for a student to arrive so she could administer a test. We tried to be quiet, but the gal confessed that she was enjoying hearing us talk about stuff. We came up with about 12 pages to have copied at 10-cents apiece, but the gal at the desk called it even because, as she copied stuff for us, she made a second copy for the file and considered it research in her behalf. Judy also found an article that contained the birth announcement for her baby brother and her cousin, born just hours apart, in one of the books. She had that copied for her family, for free!
With all of our talk about the fish fry, I got hungry for fish. When I left the library, I drove to McD's and got a fish filet sandwich, then went on to do a little shopping. Everything I did today, however, only reminded me of how bad off I am, physically. Here in my little house-on-a-slab, I am protected. Everything is on one level and I don't have to travel far to get what I need. I stand awhile and sit awhile and lie down awhile when I am alone, but out in public it becomes obvious that I'm not in a good way at all. Scary.
I'll be heading up to Meg's on Saturday. Wish me luck!
Monday, March 17, 2014
My "Breaking News" Rant
There are three earth-shattering news stories going on in Indiana this morning:
Jim Irsay (owner of the Indianapolis Colts) has been arrested for DUI and possession of a controlled substance;
Governor Pence has signed a bill making it legal for alcohol to be sold at the Indiana State Fair;
Gary Bettenhausen, veteran race car driver and starter in 21 Indy 500 races has died.
The first two stories are big headlines all over the media and the Internet. The last one I had to search for. I'm biased, perhaps, but that just seems wrong to me.
First of all, Jim Irsay, while a public figure, is nothing more than a business man. He's a rich business man, for sure....but he is not in a position of setting an example for anyone. No kid looks up to him saying, "I want to be just like Jim Irsay when I grow up." Irsay has, in the past, admitted to substance abuse and has been in rehab. These things are subject to relapse. It isn't at all surprising that he should be caught with his hand in the cookie jar again. When he gets out of jail today, he will have a high-powered lawyer by his side. Reporters will shove microphones in his direction, and he'll either dodge them or will admit that he's "sick", made a "mistake", and will get "help". Again. I suppose it's even possible that the NFL could slap him with a fine or two, but I'm not certain if franchise owners get that kind of treatment. Even if he does jail time for this, it won't amount to much. And all will be over until the next time.
As for the bill to sell alcohol at the Indiana State Fair, welcome to the 21st Century, Indiana! In the whole USA, only Indiana and one of the Carolinas banned alcohol from state fair sales. Reading reader commentaries at the end of the online news stories about it, Hoosiers are convinced that selling booze will ruin the "family friendly" atmosphere of the fair. I think not! First of all, it will be priced so high that only a person with a lot of cash could afford enough to get roaring drunk. The law only makes it legal to sell there; it's up to the State Fair Board to decide whether they actually will or not. Much ado about nothing! In Illinois, there are beer tents at the state fair, with live entertainment. Drinkers are carded at the entrance to the tent and given a wristband in order to buy alcohol, and I don't think carry-outs are permitted. Thus, drinking is contained in certain areas. Guess what, Indiana? You can do the same!
But here's what really unnerves me about the "breaking news" of the day. Why did I have to search to find the news about Gary Bettenhausen?? Gary was part of a well-respected racing family dynasty. I went to every Indy 500 race for probably 20 years, with Gary B. racing in them. I have a T-shirt with his autograph on it because I gave it to his wife to have him sign. How did I do that??
His wife was a secretary at my school in Monrovia, IN, for many years. Wavelyn Bettenhausen had a reputation for having a rough/gruff demeanor, but she was a real softy in the middle. I have several Wave Bettenhausen stories. Here is my favorite one:
I was recently divorced and a relatively new teacher at Hall Elementary School in the boonies outside of Monrovia, IN, where Wavelyn was secretary. (I also lived in a new community and didn't have many friends yet.) I had students who would BEG not to have to take anything to the office because they were scared of Mrs. B. She was always curt with the kids. I would tell them that her bark was worse than her bite, but they weren't always convinced.
Just a couple of blocks from school on my way in one morning, something went wrong with my car's alternator, and a belt started slipping and melted, emitting smoke and a smell of burnt rubber. I limped to the parking lot and reported in, terrified of how I was going to afford to have it all fixed and how I was going to figure it all out from inside a classroom in time for me to get home that afternoon. Free time for teachers at the elementary level is very limited, so I had virtually no opportunities to use a phone, and didn't know where to start, anyway! Not too long into the morning, Wave called me to the office when I was down at that end of the building. She had been on the phone for me, unasked. She said she found a local shop that would tow my car, fix the problems, and have the car back by the end of the day--for $200. I left the keys with her and went back to my classroom, grateful that my buggy would get fixed but still not knowing how I was going to pay for it. I never said a word to Wave about that. It was too embarrassing to admit that I didn't have $200 until payday.
After the students left at day's end, here came Wave down the hall, calling me out of my classroom. Understand that Wavelyn was rarely ever seen outside of the office, so I didn't know what was going on. She handed me an envelope, saying "You don't have to say a thing. Just pay me back when you can." Then she turned and walked back up the hall toward the office. Inside the envelope were two $100-bills. I was floored! This woman hardly knew me, but she had really, really gone out of her way to help me out that day! I went to the parking lot and got in my waiting (fixed) car, drove to the auto shop to pay the bill, and went home as if nothing at all had happened. You'd better bet that I had $200 in a thank-you card for Mrs. B. the very next payday, with an undying soft spot in my heart for that woman!
I retired from teaching almost five years ago. Wave just retired at the end of last school year (although I hear she is still helping out at school.) And now, her husband has died...and I don't know what personal hell she has had to go through in his illness (whatever it was). I never met Gary Bettenhausen, but I sure know his wife...and somehow, it just doesn't seem fair that his passing should be buried in the news somewhere when State Fair alcohol and Jim Irsay's latest misadventures are front page news. Makes me sick, actually...
Jim Irsay (owner of the Indianapolis Colts) has been arrested for DUI and possession of a controlled substance;
Governor Pence has signed a bill making it legal for alcohol to be sold at the Indiana State Fair;
Gary Bettenhausen, veteran race car driver and starter in 21 Indy 500 races has died.
The first two stories are big headlines all over the media and the Internet. The last one I had to search for. I'm biased, perhaps, but that just seems wrong to me.
First of all, Jim Irsay, while a public figure, is nothing more than a business man. He's a rich business man, for sure....but he is not in a position of setting an example for anyone. No kid looks up to him saying, "I want to be just like Jim Irsay when I grow up." Irsay has, in the past, admitted to substance abuse and has been in rehab. These things are subject to relapse. It isn't at all surprising that he should be caught with his hand in the cookie jar again. When he gets out of jail today, he will have a high-powered lawyer by his side. Reporters will shove microphones in his direction, and he'll either dodge them or will admit that he's "sick", made a "mistake", and will get "help". Again. I suppose it's even possible that the NFL could slap him with a fine or two, but I'm not certain if franchise owners get that kind of treatment. Even if he does jail time for this, it won't amount to much. And all will be over until the next time.
As for the bill to sell alcohol at the Indiana State Fair, welcome to the 21st Century, Indiana! In the whole USA, only Indiana and one of the Carolinas banned alcohol from state fair sales. Reading reader commentaries at the end of the online news stories about it, Hoosiers are convinced that selling booze will ruin the "family friendly" atmosphere of the fair. I think not! First of all, it will be priced so high that only a person with a lot of cash could afford enough to get roaring drunk. The law only makes it legal to sell there; it's up to the State Fair Board to decide whether they actually will or not. Much ado about nothing! In Illinois, there are beer tents at the state fair, with live entertainment. Drinkers are carded at the entrance to the tent and given a wristband in order to buy alcohol, and I don't think carry-outs are permitted. Thus, drinking is contained in certain areas. Guess what, Indiana? You can do the same!
But here's what really unnerves me about the "breaking news" of the day. Why did I have to search to find the news about Gary Bettenhausen?? Gary was part of a well-respected racing family dynasty. I went to every Indy 500 race for probably 20 years, with Gary B. racing in them. I have a T-shirt with his autograph on it because I gave it to his wife to have him sign. How did I do that??
His wife was a secretary at my school in Monrovia, IN, for many years. Wavelyn Bettenhausen had a reputation for having a rough/gruff demeanor, but she was a real softy in the middle. I have several Wave Bettenhausen stories. Here is my favorite one:
I was recently divorced and a relatively new teacher at Hall Elementary School in the boonies outside of Monrovia, IN, where Wavelyn was secretary. (I also lived in a new community and didn't have many friends yet.) I had students who would BEG not to have to take anything to the office because they were scared of Mrs. B. She was always curt with the kids. I would tell them that her bark was worse than her bite, but they weren't always convinced.
Just a couple of blocks from school on my way in one morning, something went wrong with my car's alternator, and a belt started slipping and melted, emitting smoke and a smell of burnt rubber. I limped to the parking lot and reported in, terrified of how I was going to afford to have it all fixed and how I was going to figure it all out from inside a classroom in time for me to get home that afternoon. Free time for teachers at the elementary level is very limited, so I had virtually no opportunities to use a phone, and didn't know where to start, anyway! Not too long into the morning, Wave called me to the office when I was down at that end of the building. She had been on the phone for me, unasked. She said she found a local shop that would tow my car, fix the problems, and have the car back by the end of the day--for $200. I left the keys with her and went back to my classroom, grateful that my buggy would get fixed but still not knowing how I was going to pay for it. I never said a word to Wave about that. It was too embarrassing to admit that I didn't have $200 until payday.
After the students left at day's end, here came Wave down the hall, calling me out of my classroom. Understand that Wavelyn was rarely ever seen outside of the office, so I didn't know what was going on. She handed me an envelope, saying "You don't have to say a thing. Just pay me back when you can." Then she turned and walked back up the hall toward the office. Inside the envelope were two $100-bills. I was floored! This woman hardly knew me, but she had really, really gone out of her way to help me out that day! I went to the parking lot and got in my waiting (fixed) car, drove to the auto shop to pay the bill, and went home as if nothing at all had happened. You'd better bet that I had $200 in a thank-you card for Mrs. B. the very next payday, with an undying soft spot in my heart for that woman!
I retired from teaching almost five years ago. Wave just retired at the end of last school year (although I hear she is still helping out at school.) And now, her husband has died...and I don't know what personal hell she has had to go through in his illness (whatever it was). I never met Gary Bettenhausen, but I sure know his wife...and somehow, it just doesn't seem fair that his passing should be buried in the news somewhere when State Fair alcohol and Jim Irsay's latest misadventures are front page news. Makes me sick, actually...
For Want of a Nail
For want of a nail, the shoe was lost;
For want of a shoe, the horse was lost;
For want of a horse, the rider was lost;
And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.
~Benjamin Franklin
(Ol' Ben didn't write that. He just quoted his own version of the proverb, and I have quoted him.)
I will again apologize for the way my brain works. I think in associations, bringing lessons and learning together in my brain because I find that it helps me (and others) see in ever-increasing circles of understanding. When I was still teaching, I used examples in life to bring a theme in literature home. Some of my students appreciated it; some were totally frustrated that I would interrupt their comprehension with details. Still others actually learned what I was trying to impart: that there is no point in studying literature if it can't be applied to our experiences or stretch our horizons beyond the comfortable.
So, what launched the horse-shoe nail proverb in my head? A garbage bag.
Friday is garbage collection day on Walton Drive. I'd missed the last couple of weeks of collection, so I was very happy with myself when I got the cans out to the curb before the trash truck came this week. I was on such a mission to get the full bags out of the house that I didn't take the time to put clean/empty ones in the various receptacles inside. I'll take care of this first, then do the other later. How many times do I tell myself those very words, but "later" only comes when it's forced on me?? Let me just skip to the punchline: there is a rotting head of lettuce on my counter right now because I STILL haven't put a bag in the trash can! (The lettuce was already bad enough to remove from the refrigerator but never made it past the counter BECAUSE OF NO BAG IN THE CAN.)
Okay...so I'm bad, but I'm betting that I'm not alone in this. Take this little quiz. If you answer yes to any of the questions, you belong in my club.
1. Are there dirty dishes in your sink because the clean ones haven't been unloaded from the dishwasher yet?
2. Have you left clean (wet) clothes in the washing machine longer than advisable because the dryer wasn't unloaded yet?
3. Have you removed clean clothes from the dryer, only to dump them on the couch and let them wrinkle because you didn't take care of them properly by the next time you needed to use the dryer?
4. Have you seen food (popcorn, potato chips, Cheerios--fill in the blank) spilled on the floor but didn't pick it up until someone stepped on it and made a zillion tiny pieces being tracked all over the house, out of what was originally just one piece?
Are you having an "Aha Moment"? You know you are!
Invariably, when I finally get around to doing some small task that I've put off for awhile, I am amazed at 1) what a short time it takes to accomplish, and 2) what a huge difference it makes in the way I feel or the way things look. Why didn't I do it earlier?? I have no clue!
The lesson here is that one thing depends on another. An avalanche starts as a snowflake. Do it NOW or face the consequences later.
For want of a nail......
For want of a shoe, the horse was lost;
For want of a horse, the rider was lost;
And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.
~Benjamin Franklin
(Ol' Ben didn't write that. He just quoted his own version of the proverb, and I have quoted him.)
I will again apologize for the way my brain works. I think in associations, bringing lessons and learning together in my brain because I find that it helps me (and others) see in ever-increasing circles of understanding. When I was still teaching, I used examples in life to bring a theme in literature home. Some of my students appreciated it; some were totally frustrated that I would interrupt their comprehension with details. Still others actually learned what I was trying to impart: that there is no point in studying literature if it can't be applied to our experiences or stretch our horizons beyond the comfortable.
So, what launched the horse-shoe nail proverb in my head? A garbage bag.
Friday is garbage collection day on Walton Drive. I'd missed the last couple of weeks of collection, so I was very happy with myself when I got the cans out to the curb before the trash truck came this week. I was on such a mission to get the full bags out of the house that I didn't take the time to put clean/empty ones in the various receptacles inside. I'll take care of this first, then do the other later. How many times do I tell myself those very words, but "later" only comes when it's forced on me?? Let me just skip to the punchline: there is a rotting head of lettuce on my counter right now because I STILL haven't put a bag in the trash can! (The lettuce was already bad enough to remove from the refrigerator but never made it past the counter BECAUSE OF NO BAG IN THE CAN.)
Okay...so I'm bad, but I'm betting that I'm not alone in this. Take this little quiz. If you answer yes to any of the questions, you belong in my club.
1. Are there dirty dishes in your sink because the clean ones haven't been unloaded from the dishwasher yet?
2. Have you left clean (wet) clothes in the washing machine longer than advisable because the dryer wasn't unloaded yet?
3. Have you removed clean clothes from the dryer, only to dump them on the couch and let them wrinkle because you didn't take care of them properly by the next time you needed to use the dryer?
4. Have you seen food (popcorn, potato chips, Cheerios--fill in the blank) spilled on the floor but didn't pick it up until someone stepped on it and made a zillion tiny pieces being tracked all over the house, out of what was originally just one piece?
Are you having an "Aha Moment"? You know you are!
Invariably, when I finally get around to doing some small task that I've put off for awhile, I am amazed at 1) what a short time it takes to accomplish, and 2) what a huge difference it makes in the way I feel or the way things look. Why didn't I do it earlier?? I have no clue!
The lesson here is that one thing depends on another. An avalanche starts as a snowflake. Do it NOW or face the consequences later.
For want of a nail......
Saturday, March 15, 2014
Sundowning, Peggy Style
There is a psycho-neural event in the lives of people with dementia called "sundowning". It is a period toward the end of the day when sufferers exhibit signs of agitation and anxiety, and the only reason I know this application of the word is due to the fact that my sister is the primary caregiver to her husband who has, at the very least, Fronto Temporal Dementia (FTD). They have been told that his condition could be the forerunner to full-blown Alzheimer's, but it hasn't happened yet. (Doesn't matter. The end result is the same.) Roger is fully aware of what he calls his "brain condition". He is terrified of it, and I think angry about it. For someone who has been in control of things all his life, it's tough to admit that he can't even remember what foods he likes or what special occasions are all about. Yet, every month, he slips a little bit more into memory loss--and it affects his emotions. He has become more and more childlike, and not always in a nice way. He is under the care of specialists who can only assess where he is without the ability to stop it.
My sister (Shari) reports on "sundowning" events with Roger to me on a regular basis. The so-called experts seem to think that it has something to do with circadian body rhythms, changing daylight hours, etc. I have my own theories because, quite frankly, I have a Peggy Version of sundowning, and I don't have dementia. Yet.
I believe that scientists have identified a condition called Seasonal Depressive Disorder, caused by the lack of sunshine during the winter months for some. I'm one of those. I do everything I can to open the blinds, turn on bright lights, expose myself to illumination every chance I get in the winter months. (This winter has been especially bad.) Still, I find myself slipping in the evenings. Here are my thoughts. Scientists, take note!
1. Bad things happen in the dark. Children are born with a natural fear at night. Put in our own beds, away from the hugs and safety of our parents then, it is the one time of day--no matter what--that we are alone and faced with fright over things that could "go bump in the night". I sleep with the TV on and a fan for white noise. I've lived alone for a lot of years and have never been afraid--except since my heart attack when I came to understand that things can go wrong in an instant. My daughter and sister are both four hours away. I'm not comfortable calling friends and neighbors in the middle of the night--especially if they use cell phones. Who knows if they will even wake up when the phones are on charge?? If something happens in the daytime, the world is alive and awake. After dark? Not so sure.
2. Think about it: by the end of the day, regardless of what you were doing, you are tired and ready for bed. I spend my days doing, basically, nothing...but I can still sleep. I don't care how young or old you are, fatigue takes over, whether you accept it or not. How many times have you said--or heard someone else say--that you should "sleep on it" when a problem works on you? Humans aren't designed to function well all the live-long day. Sometimes at sundown, we are just tired!
I'm not willing to start new projects late in the day because I know I'm not fresh. When I finally give up and go to bed, I pray that the troubles of the day and fears of the night to come will fade away. So far, so good. But rest assured, it is sundowning! I believe we all have it to some degree when we get older. There comes a time in every average day for me that I am just all in. I have to lie down whether it's bedtime or not. I may not fall asleep, but I know that just the act of changing positions for awhile helps to relieve my stresses.
I don't have answers. I just wish life weren't so doggone full of questions!
My sister (Shari) reports on "sundowning" events with Roger to me on a regular basis. The so-called experts seem to think that it has something to do with circadian body rhythms, changing daylight hours, etc. I have my own theories because, quite frankly, I have a Peggy Version of sundowning, and I don't have dementia. Yet.
I believe that scientists have identified a condition called Seasonal Depressive Disorder, caused by the lack of sunshine during the winter months for some. I'm one of those. I do everything I can to open the blinds, turn on bright lights, expose myself to illumination every chance I get in the winter months. (This winter has been especially bad.) Still, I find myself slipping in the evenings. Here are my thoughts. Scientists, take note!
1. Bad things happen in the dark. Children are born with a natural fear at night. Put in our own beds, away from the hugs and safety of our parents then, it is the one time of day--no matter what--that we are alone and faced with fright over things that could "go bump in the night". I sleep with the TV on and a fan for white noise. I've lived alone for a lot of years and have never been afraid--except since my heart attack when I came to understand that things can go wrong in an instant. My daughter and sister are both four hours away. I'm not comfortable calling friends and neighbors in the middle of the night--especially if they use cell phones. Who knows if they will even wake up when the phones are on charge?? If something happens in the daytime, the world is alive and awake. After dark? Not so sure.
2. Think about it: by the end of the day, regardless of what you were doing, you are tired and ready for bed. I spend my days doing, basically, nothing...but I can still sleep. I don't care how young or old you are, fatigue takes over, whether you accept it or not. How many times have you said--or heard someone else say--that you should "sleep on it" when a problem works on you? Humans aren't designed to function well all the live-long day. Sometimes at sundown, we are just tired!
I'm not willing to start new projects late in the day because I know I'm not fresh. When I finally give up and go to bed, I pray that the troubles of the day and fears of the night to come will fade away. So far, so good. But rest assured, it is sundowning! I believe we all have it to some degree when we get older. There comes a time in every average day for me that I am just all in. I have to lie down whether it's bedtime or not. I may not fall asleep, but I know that just the act of changing positions for awhile helps to relieve my stresses.
I don't have answers. I just wish life weren't so doggone full of questions!
Friday, March 14, 2014
Street Drama
Who says nothing ever happens on Walton Drive in Plainfield, IN?
Yesterday afternoon, I was sitting at the computer when I saw a police van--a K-9 unit without the canine--park in front of my house. The policeman went across the street to talk to Good Neighbor Fred. It is not unusual for Fred to call the police. If there is a car illegally parked or abandoned or without valid plates, he will call. (It is to my advantage to have a neighbor like this!)
A few minutes later, a car pulled up behind the police car. I recognized the people as folks from my church--licensed animal rehabilitators--but still didn't know what was going on. The two guys crawled up on the hood of their vehicle, waiting for something. Hmmmm....
The next time I looked out, there was a raccoon standing in the middle of the street, looking quite sick. The plot thickened.
For a minute or two, there seemed to be a "Mexican standoff". No one was doing anything. And then another vehicle drove up--an SUV. The driver brought out an animal carrier from his vehicle, then had a catch pole in his hands. In very short order, and with absolutely no resistance from the raccoon, he had the 'coon caught and put safely into the carrier. I clapped loudly. So loudly that the guy heard, looked at me, and grinned. Then off they all went.
I called Fred. His wife called me back a bit later. Turns out that the raccoon had been in MY yard first, near the fence, then had meandered across the street and into their back yard. Sharon thought it might be hungry so she threw some bread out to it but the critter didn't touch it. She called police who apparently called others, and the whole thing transpired. A raccoon out in mid-day, unresponsive to food and not fighting capture, is a sick animal. I have no idea the fate of the critter after that. I'm just happy that it was caught without incident.
As the World Turns on Walton Drive!
Yesterday afternoon, I was sitting at the computer when I saw a police van--a K-9 unit without the canine--park in front of my house. The policeman went across the street to talk to Good Neighbor Fred. It is not unusual for Fred to call the police. If there is a car illegally parked or abandoned or without valid plates, he will call. (It is to my advantage to have a neighbor like this!)
A few minutes later, a car pulled up behind the police car. I recognized the people as folks from my church--licensed animal rehabilitators--but still didn't know what was going on. The two guys crawled up on the hood of their vehicle, waiting for something. Hmmmm....
The next time I looked out, there was a raccoon standing in the middle of the street, looking quite sick. The plot thickened.
For a minute or two, there seemed to be a "Mexican standoff". No one was doing anything. And then another vehicle drove up--an SUV. The driver brought out an animal carrier from his vehicle, then had a catch pole in his hands. In very short order, and with absolutely no resistance from the raccoon, he had the 'coon caught and put safely into the carrier. I clapped loudly. So loudly that the guy heard, looked at me, and grinned. Then off they all went.
I called Fred. His wife called me back a bit later. Turns out that the raccoon had been in MY yard first, near the fence, then had meandered across the street and into their back yard. Sharon thought it might be hungry so she threw some bread out to it but the critter didn't touch it. She called police who apparently called others, and the whole thing transpired. A raccoon out in mid-day, unresponsive to food and not fighting capture, is a sick animal. I have no idea the fate of the critter after that. I'm just happy that it was caught without incident.
As the World Turns on Walton Drive!
Gilding the Lily
My mother used an expression that was, for the first few years of my life, unknown to me: gilding the lily. It isn't an idiom, per se, but rather a mash-up of a quote from Shakespeare. In order to understand it, you first have to know that "gilding" something means decorating it with gold leaf, and that a "lily" is a beautiful white flower. Thus, gilding the lily is a reference to the unnecessary effort of trying to improve on something that is already perfect.
The first time Mom used the expression on me, I was in the process of putting butter AND gravy on my mashed potatoes. (Thanks, Mom. I think of those words every single time I adorn my taters that way ever since...and I've done it MANY times!) Mom pointed out that she had already put butter in the potatoes, but I wanted more. I also wanted gravy. I wasn't forbidden to have both; she just thought it was unnecessary. (And thinking back to Mom's mashed potatoes, I realize she was right!)
My daughter has discovered the same principle with her husband. She married a native of Russia, where rich sauces and gravies and sweet toppings help to cover up poorer cuts of meat or bland foods. Full-fat sour cream to Russians is like ketchup to Americans; and ketchup to Russians--especially if it is mixed with hot sauce, in my son-in-law's case--is desirable on just about everything. My family didn't eat particularly high-on-the-hog when I was a kid, but my father (who grew up hungry) knew his cuts of beef and made sure we had the good stuff on special occasions. He liked his steak rare, and he made sure it was grilled just the way he liked it when we had it. No self-respecting Covill would DARE put ketchup or anything else but a little garlic on a sirloin or a filet! It's okay to put that stuff on lesser cuts of meat, but steak? Never!
And Meg (my daughter) learned that from me. You don't gild the lily with good steaks...so you can imagine her dismay when Denis brings out sauces to garnish the meat she has already carefully seasoned, or when her Russian in-laws came for a visit and took the good steaks that Meg had been hoarding for a cookout, slathered them in mayonnaise and cheese, and put them in the oven to bake into oblivion. It isn't that the dish turned out badly that was so worrisome--just that it wasn't the yummy grilled steak that she had envisioned as the fate of the meat. 'Twas like alchemy in reverse: trying to turn something made of gold into a different metal altogether. Gilding the lily isn't always a good thing.
Which brings me to my final point about lily-gilding. I was raised in a family led by members of the Greatest Generation. (I was a Baby Boomer.) There were standards for acceptable female looks and behavior that were, seemingly inviolable. Wearing make-up, nylons (which you can't find anymore), high heels, and leg-shaving were reserved as rites of passage when a girl-child graduated from 8th grade. Not permitted before that! Pierced ears were for Latinas (certainly not for sweet little white girls). And tattoos? HA! First of all, tattoos were expressly forbidden in the Bible; secondly, the only people who sported tattoos were Hell's Angels bikers and sailors who got drunk and stupid while on leave.
Along about my senior year in high school, white girls were getting their ears pierced. My best friend Kristie did. I didn't have the guts to ask to get pierced ears because I was afraid to buck the system, but I did secretly like the way they looked. Little tiny pearls or little tiny sparklies seemingly suspended in the center of the earlobe entranced me. I held out for four more years until, finally, in my senior year of college, I let Kristie pierce my ears. She used ice cubes to numb the lobes, then used a big needle with a piece of potato behind the lobe to prevent stabbing me in the neck. My piercings didn't bleed or cause me any problems whatsoever, and I was very happy to discover that wearing pierced earrings didn't hurt the way wearing clip-ons did. That wasn't gilding the lily. That was progress! (Interestingly, my mother got her own ears pierced when she was in her 60s. Who'd a-thunk it?) In time, I got one ear double-pierced--very brave for a simple gal like me! But nothing else.
For thirty years or so, pierced ears were the only acceptable piercings; then, suddenly, the world was awash with piercings: belly-buttons, tongues, lips, noses, eyebrows, nipples, genitals--you name it. I didn't think the visible piercings enhanced anyone's appearance, and I totally believed that the ones that weren't visible could only be for promiscuity purposes. (I still think that.) Then came tattoos.
Honest to God, I don't get it. Young folks are hell-bent to permanently "decorate" their skin with slogans and pictures and ink that means something to them now...but what about 20 years from now? Skin is a marvelous organ, but it ages. It wrinkles and sags and gets scarred from cuts and burns--plus, when one gets to be my age, it gets filled with moles and skin tags and age spots that are plentiful. Even if "George" tattooed in the middle of a heart on one's arm is still the love of one's life in 20 years, why muddy up beautiful skin so young in life??
I see gals wearing shorts who have tattoos that just look like blue blobs on their legs. Heck, I have so many spider veins on my lower legs now that all I want to do is keep them covered. There was a gal at Meg's church in Muncie, IN, years ago that had a large butterfly tattoo all across the upper part of her back, from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. In order for that adornment to show, she had to wear backless clothes all year long. Backless? In Indiana? In winter?
I'm not saying that tattoos are bad. I'm just saying that they are unnecessary. Many of my friends and family members--good people all--wear tattoos. Most are proud of them; a few have regrets. Some just accept that what they did when they did it is done and over. I merely suggest that getting a tattoo for whatever reason is merely an attempt to improve on what we already have in terms of beauty. Gilding the lily.
I think of my precious grandchildren--physically perfect and beautiful in every way--and how they will soon begin to look at themselves in comparison with their peers and the plastic version of beauty that the media puts forth. To be honest, I would love them gay or straight, smart or challenged, talented or bumbling, introvert or extrovert, tattooed or white-skinned. I just want them to be happy in their lives and satisfied with what God has given them. We can't improve on "the beauty of the lilies" by adorning them with anything man-made. Robin and Ryan are the lilies of my life!
I realize that I'm old-fashioned, but not too much. If our society keeps thinking that gilding the lilies of life is necessary for happiness, so be it. I'm just glad that I never had to fight that demon beyond putting butter and gravy on my mashed potatoes. I think I must have lived a sheltered life.
The first time Mom used the expression on me, I was in the process of putting butter AND gravy on my mashed potatoes. (Thanks, Mom. I think of those words every single time I adorn my taters that way ever since...and I've done it MANY times!) Mom pointed out that she had already put butter in the potatoes, but I wanted more. I also wanted gravy. I wasn't forbidden to have both; she just thought it was unnecessary. (And thinking back to Mom's mashed potatoes, I realize she was right!)
My daughter has discovered the same principle with her husband. She married a native of Russia, where rich sauces and gravies and sweet toppings help to cover up poorer cuts of meat or bland foods. Full-fat sour cream to Russians is like ketchup to Americans; and ketchup to Russians--especially if it is mixed with hot sauce, in my son-in-law's case--is desirable on just about everything. My family didn't eat particularly high-on-the-hog when I was a kid, but my father (who grew up hungry) knew his cuts of beef and made sure we had the good stuff on special occasions. He liked his steak rare, and he made sure it was grilled just the way he liked it when we had it. No self-respecting Covill would DARE put ketchup or anything else but a little garlic on a sirloin or a filet! It's okay to put that stuff on lesser cuts of meat, but steak? Never!
And Meg (my daughter) learned that from me. You don't gild the lily with good steaks...so you can imagine her dismay when Denis brings out sauces to garnish the meat she has already carefully seasoned, or when her Russian in-laws came for a visit and took the good steaks that Meg had been hoarding for a cookout, slathered them in mayonnaise and cheese, and put them in the oven to bake into oblivion. It isn't that the dish turned out badly that was so worrisome--just that it wasn't the yummy grilled steak that she had envisioned as the fate of the meat. 'Twas like alchemy in reverse: trying to turn something made of gold into a different metal altogether. Gilding the lily isn't always a good thing.
Which brings me to my final point about lily-gilding. I was raised in a family led by members of the Greatest Generation. (I was a Baby Boomer.) There were standards for acceptable female looks and behavior that were, seemingly inviolable. Wearing make-up, nylons (which you can't find anymore), high heels, and leg-shaving were reserved as rites of passage when a girl-child graduated from 8th grade. Not permitted before that! Pierced ears were for Latinas (certainly not for sweet little white girls). And tattoos? HA! First of all, tattoos were expressly forbidden in the Bible; secondly, the only people who sported tattoos were Hell's Angels bikers and sailors who got drunk and stupid while on leave.
Along about my senior year in high school, white girls were getting their ears pierced. My best friend Kristie did. I didn't have the guts to ask to get pierced ears because I was afraid to buck the system, but I did secretly like the way they looked. Little tiny pearls or little tiny sparklies seemingly suspended in the center of the earlobe entranced me. I held out for four more years until, finally, in my senior year of college, I let Kristie pierce my ears. She used ice cubes to numb the lobes, then used a big needle with a piece of potato behind the lobe to prevent stabbing me in the neck. My piercings didn't bleed or cause me any problems whatsoever, and I was very happy to discover that wearing pierced earrings didn't hurt the way wearing clip-ons did. That wasn't gilding the lily. That was progress! (Interestingly, my mother got her own ears pierced when she was in her 60s. Who'd a-thunk it?) In time, I got one ear double-pierced--very brave for a simple gal like me! But nothing else.
For thirty years or so, pierced ears were the only acceptable piercings; then, suddenly, the world was awash with piercings: belly-buttons, tongues, lips, noses, eyebrows, nipples, genitals--you name it. I didn't think the visible piercings enhanced anyone's appearance, and I totally believed that the ones that weren't visible could only be for promiscuity purposes. (I still think that.) Then came tattoos.
Honest to God, I don't get it. Young folks are hell-bent to permanently "decorate" their skin with slogans and pictures and ink that means something to them now...but what about 20 years from now? Skin is a marvelous organ, but it ages. It wrinkles and sags and gets scarred from cuts and burns--plus, when one gets to be my age, it gets filled with moles and skin tags and age spots that are plentiful. Even if "George" tattooed in the middle of a heart on one's arm is still the love of one's life in 20 years, why muddy up beautiful skin so young in life??
I see gals wearing shorts who have tattoos that just look like blue blobs on their legs. Heck, I have so many spider veins on my lower legs now that all I want to do is keep them covered. There was a gal at Meg's church in Muncie, IN, years ago that had a large butterfly tattoo all across the upper part of her back, from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. In order for that adornment to show, she had to wear backless clothes all year long. Backless? In Indiana? In winter?
I'm not saying that tattoos are bad. I'm just saying that they are unnecessary. Many of my friends and family members--good people all--wear tattoos. Most are proud of them; a few have regrets. Some just accept that what they did when they did it is done and over. I merely suggest that getting a tattoo for whatever reason is merely an attempt to improve on what we already have in terms of beauty. Gilding the lily.
I think of my precious grandchildren--physically perfect and beautiful in every way--and how they will soon begin to look at themselves in comparison with their peers and the plastic version of beauty that the media puts forth. To be honest, I would love them gay or straight, smart or challenged, talented or bumbling, introvert or extrovert, tattooed or white-skinned. I just want them to be happy in their lives and satisfied with what God has given them. We can't improve on "the beauty of the lilies" by adorning them with anything man-made. Robin and Ryan are the lilies of my life!
I realize that I'm old-fashioned, but not too much. If our society keeps thinking that gilding the lilies of life is necessary for happiness, so be it. I'm just glad that I never had to fight that demon beyond putting butter and gravy on my mashed potatoes. I think I must have lived a sheltered life.
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
Estimated Bill??????
I opened my gas bill the other day. $12.04. For a whole month. On it was the note: "Due to extreme weather conditions, we were unable to read some customer meters in January. Your bill may be estimated for this period. Due to the colder than normal weather driving energy usage higher, the estimate may be low. If you have an estimated read, any shortfall in billed usage will be reflected on your next bill with an actual read posted to your account We apologize for this inconvenience."
This was not an estimated bill! All they were charging was the delivery fee, with no approximation of the therms I used. Last month's bill was $130. This month's use has to be at least that. If I paid only the $12.04, next month I would be hit with a bill well over $300, even if the weather is good! I paid them $132.04 today, online, knowing that I can't change the weather, but I CAN somewhat control the bills.
I guess I should be grateful that they weren't charging me for therms they couldn't prove that I'd used, but people like me can't afford surprises. When they say the bill is "estimated", they need to mean it!
This was not an estimated bill! All they were charging was the delivery fee, with no approximation of the therms I used. Last month's bill was $130. This month's use has to be at least that. If I paid only the $12.04, next month I would be hit with a bill well over $300, even if the weather is good! I paid them $132.04 today, online, knowing that I can't change the weather, but I CAN somewhat control the bills.
I guess I should be grateful that they weren't charging me for therms they couldn't prove that I'd used, but people like me can't afford surprises. When they say the bill is "estimated", they need to mean it!
The Smeller's the Feller
I was pouring out the better part of four gallons of old milk today. When the milk expires, I just buy more and often don't take the unused old stuff out of the fridge until it gets in my way. Well, the four gallons got in my way, so I poured them down the drain after leaving them on the table for a few days until I could get to them. No problem.
I haven't had a sense of smell for many years. Thus, pouring out spoiled milk didn't bother me, but it isn't always an advantage.
Why can't I smell? I blame it on a zillion years of smoking and almost as many years of chronic sinus problems. Since 1985, I have had three CT scans on my head--two for sinus problems and one for a ruptured brain aneurysm--and all three showed all of my sinuses totally clogged. I've doctored and doctored...many rounds of antibiotics, several rounds of steroid sprays, two sets of tubes in one ear...and nothing ever helped for long. I gave up and decided just to live with it.
There are advantages and disadvantages to being smell-less. For example, pouring the spoiled milk down the drain today didn't impact me in any way. But at the same time, I can't use my nose to determine if there is spoiled food in the fridge or if the milk is on the edge of going south.
Disadvantages: I can't smell smoke. If my house were on fire, I would have to rely on the smoke detectors to alert me. (Also couldn't detect cigarette smoke in the school bathrooms to catch kids.) Can't smell a natural gas leak. Can't smell the wonderful cooking aromas of garlic or onions to whet my appetite. Can't enjoy the fragrance of flowers or candles or perfume. Can't smell newly-mown grass. Can't smell my own odor. (We won't go into that!) Can't smell if others (or I) pass gas. (See this post's title. I can never be "the feller" because I can't smell it! Maybe that's an advantage more than a disadvantage!)
Advantages: I can follow anyone into the bathroom without repercussions from his/her visit. I can tolerate anyone's overuse of personal fragrances. I can go to candle parties and not be drawn in by the wonderful smells. That's about it.
They say that a large part of taste has to do with smell. If that's the case, I'm lucky in that I can still taste food, but wonder how much better things would taste if I could actually smell them. I don't need to know. I over-eat as it is!
I don't like not being able to smell things, but I don't miss it day-to-day. There are too many other things to worry about. Once in every blue moon, I'll sniff a certain way and a smell will come to me, so it isn't lost entirely. Just mostly! I'm the feller with no smeller. It wasn't me that did it!
I haven't had a sense of smell for many years. Thus, pouring out spoiled milk didn't bother me, but it isn't always an advantage.
Why can't I smell? I blame it on a zillion years of smoking and almost as many years of chronic sinus problems. Since 1985, I have had three CT scans on my head--two for sinus problems and one for a ruptured brain aneurysm--and all three showed all of my sinuses totally clogged. I've doctored and doctored...many rounds of antibiotics, several rounds of steroid sprays, two sets of tubes in one ear...and nothing ever helped for long. I gave up and decided just to live with it.
There are advantages and disadvantages to being smell-less. For example, pouring the spoiled milk down the drain today didn't impact me in any way. But at the same time, I can't use my nose to determine if there is spoiled food in the fridge or if the milk is on the edge of going south.
Disadvantages: I can't smell smoke. If my house were on fire, I would have to rely on the smoke detectors to alert me. (Also couldn't detect cigarette smoke in the school bathrooms to catch kids.) Can't smell a natural gas leak. Can't smell the wonderful cooking aromas of garlic or onions to whet my appetite. Can't enjoy the fragrance of flowers or candles or perfume. Can't smell newly-mown grass. Can't smell my own odor. (We won't go into that!) Can't smell if others (or I) pass gas. (See this post's title. I can never be "the feller" because I can't smell it! Maybe that's an advantage more than a disadvantage!)
Advantages: I can follow anyone into the bathroom without repercussions from his/her visit. I can tolerate anyone's overuse of personal fragrances. I can go to candle parties and not be drawn in by the wonderful smells. That's about it.
They say that a large part of taste has to do with smell. If that's the case, I'm lucky in that I can still taste food, but wonder how much better things would taste if I could actually smell them. I don't need to know. I over-eat as it is!
I don't like not being able to smell things, but I don't miss it day-to-day. There are too many other things to worry about. Once in every blue moon, I'll sniff a certain way and a smell will come to me, so it isn't lost entirely. Just mostly! I'm the feller with no smeller. It wasn't me that did it!
Saturday, March 8, 2014
Practicality and Making Do
People with means can have what they want when they want it. The rest of us have to live with deferred gratification, saving for what we want so we can have it later, or trying to find a way to make what we already have work out to some degree of satisfaction. Lordy, lordy! 'Tis the story of my life! Once in awhile, you will find people who seem not to have means because they live humbly, but beneath the surface, you find out that they are rich--maybe BECAUSE they have lived humbly? Inherited wealth? Who knows?
In any case, I have never had much by way of means. Most of the time, I had enough to pay the bills. Most of the time, there wasn't enough money left at the end of the month to save anything. I did the best I could...but...I also had needs for my daughter, my house, and me. I learned to make do.
I come by this honestly. My mother, God bless her, never had much to work with. As a Navy wife in the beginning, she didn't have furnishings to call her own until we actually bought a house in Danville, IL (and were in it for a whopping 2 1/2 years). She bought a couch, a chair, and a recliner. The couch and chair were upholstered in a loop pile fabric that wears like iron but is quite ugly. These were a hunter green. When I was in second grade, Mom told me to be nice to that couch because someday I would be entertaining my boyfriends on it. I thought she was joking. She wasn't. When I was in high school, we still had that couch, except Mom had painted it brown. She had read somewhere that you could paint fabrics...so she did...but she didn't use a fabric paint. She used latex wall paint! That sucker dried rough and hard--so hard that you could run a pair of nylons if you rubbed up against it. So hard that it required a throw to make it sit-able. But she didn't throw it out. The chair, she endeavored to reupholster herself in gold brocade. She found out that upholstering isn't as easy as it looked. She did "okay" with that...but it never was the same.
Years later, after she and Dad retired to the family farm, Mom asked Dad for permission to buy a couple of chairs. (By now, the old couch and chair were finally gone.) She went out and purchased two of the ugliest recliners on the planet! They were on sale. They had means. She could have had anything she wanted, but she wasn't raised that way, and so she bought matching recliners upholstered in a brown woven tweed fabric that was as unattractive as it was impractical. Thereafter, I often joked (although never in her presence) that Mom's decorating tastes were all in her mouth! She was making do, trying to make the dollars stretch, as she always had.
That's how I was raised. I made a lot of life choices based on bad information that left me without much by way of means to have what I wanted. I learned to make do with what I had. Some people have told me that I put things together well, but I get itchy, like everyone else, to have new things.
When I bought my little house-on-a-slab in 1992, I was aware that improvements were needed. There was no dishwasher and no room for one without changing things. The kitchen cabinets were custom built-ins, painted blue, with one door missing. The counter tops were the traditional white-with-gold-and-mica-flecks that had been in every rental home I had ever lived in. Cheap. Ugly. I hated the kitchen. I also hated the main bathroom. I spent a long time trying to figure out what I could change that I could accept on my small budget.
Thankfully, I found ways to do just that. It worked for me because I am used to making do...but...if I try to sell this place, I'm up against it. I'm thinking that the only people who would buy my house are people who either don't have money or people who want to flip houses. This little house has been my home for 22 years. I've made lots of improvements, only a few of which would produce a gain at sales time. What is acceptable to me in my old age isn't necessarily in tune with what others want in a home. Now that I live on a small pension and Social Security, any big-ticket changes are out of the question. :(
Making do isn't always good. I have prided myself on doing the best I can with what I have been given all my life...but it might not be what others want. I'm not selling yet, but I am aware that life is short and the end is coming. Gives me pause!
It's worth mentioning that my daughter and husband have means but live in a higher-rent area north of Chicago. They have tentatively bought a house of their very own. They could have afforded a lot of homes in the area with all of the perks that people seem to want, but they weighed the costs of all of that and went for a more modest place for a monthly savings of about $500 a month. Don't know about you, but I can think of a lot of things to do with that kind of money not spent on a house! I think my daughter has inherited some of my "make do" genes!
In any case, I have never had much by way of means. Most of the time, I had enough to pay the bills. Most of the time, there wasn't enough money left at the end of the month to save anything. I did the best I could...but...I also had needs for my daughter, my house, and me. I learned to make do.
I come by this honestly. My mother, God bless her, never had much to work with. As a Navy wife in the beginning, she didn't have furnishings to call her own until we actually bought a house in Danville, IL (and were in it for a whopping 2 1/2 years). She bought a couch, a chair, and a recliner. The couch and chair were upholstered in a loop pile fabric that wears like iron but is quite ugly. These were a hunter green. When I was in second grade, Mom told me to be nice to that couch because someday I would be entertaining my boyfriends on it. I thought she was joking. She wasn't. When I was in high school, we still had that couch, except Mom had painted it brown. She had read somewhere that you could paint fabrics...so she did...but she didn't use a fabric paint. She used latex wall paint! That sucker dried rough and hard--so hard that you could run a pair of nylons if you rubbed up against it. So hard that it required a throw to make it sit-able. But she didn't throw it out. The chair, she endeavored to reupholster herself in gold brocade. She found out that upholstering isn't as easy as it looked. She did "okay" with that...but it never was the same.
Years later, after she and Dad retired to the family farm, Mom asked Dad for permission to buy a couple of chairs. (By now, the old couch and chair were finally gone.) She went out and purchased two of the ugliest recliners on the planet! They were on sale. They had means. She could have had anything she wanted, but she wasn't raised that way, and so she bought matching recliners upholstered in a brown woven tweed fabric that was as unattractive as it was impractical. Thereafter, I often joked (although never in her presence) that Mom's decorating tastes were all in her mouth! She was making do, trying to make the dollars stretch, as she always had.
That's how I was raised. I made a lot of life choices based on bad information that left me without much by way of means to have what I wanted. I learned to make do with what I had. Some people have told me that I put things together well, but I get itchy, like everyone else, to have new things.
When I bought my little house-on-a-slab in 1992, I was aware that improvements were needed. There was no dishwasher and no room for one without changing things. The kitchen cabinets were custom built-ins, painted blue, with one door missing. The counter tops were the traditional white-with-gold-and-mica-flecks that had been in every rental home I had ever lived in. Cheap. Ugly. I hated the kitchen. I also hated the main bathroom. I spent a long time trying to figure out what I could change that I could accept on my small budget.
Thankfully, I found ways to do just that. It worked for me because I am used to making do...but...if I try to sell this place, I'm up against it. I'm thinking that the only people who would buy my house are people who either don't have money or people who want to flip houses. This little house has been my home for 22 years. I've made lots of improvements, only a few of which would produce a gain at sales time. What is acceptable to me in my old age isn't necessarily in tune with what others want in a home. Now that I live on a small pension and Social Security, any big-ticket changes are out of the question. :(
Making do isn't always good. I have prided myself on doing the best I can with what I have been given all my life...but it might not be what others want. I'm not selling yet, but I am aware that life is short and the end is coming. Gives me pause!
It's worth mentioning that my daughter and husband have means but live in a higher-rent area north of Chicago. They have tentatively bought a house of their very own. They could have afforded a lot of homes in the area with all of the perks that people seem to want, but they weighed the costs of all of that and went for a more modest place for a monthly savings of about $500 a month. Don't know about you, but I can think of a lot of things to do with that kind of money not spent on a house! I think my daughter has inherited some of my "make do" genes!
Monday, March 3, 2014
Sailing, Sailing
While I'm strolling down memory lane about my visits to Hawaii (see previous post), I might as well go back and recall other things about my four Pacific Ocean voyages a la the US Navy--to Hawaii and back, and to Japan and back. I think we were probably on board ship a week to Hawaii, and ten days to Japan.
Random thoughts and memories:
1. The first ten years of my existence were spent as a Navy Brat. Life was all about ships and duty stations. Dad was an officer, so we were considered somewhat privileged in the hierarchy of military life, but we were also expected to behave in a way that was worthy of Dad's rank. It was all about respect. Non-military kids had "ceilings" and "bathrooms" and regular non-military clothing. We had "bulkheads" and "heads" and "civies". That's just the way it was. On at least two occasions, we were invited as a family to eat at the Captain's Table. You'd better bet we were threatened to be good!
2. Along the walls in the passageways of the ship were mounted small wooden racks that contained bags. Everything on board a Navy ship is labeled, of course, and these racks said, "Emesia bags. Take one." I had to have my mother explain to me what an "emesia bag" was--vomit bags for seasickness. Ewww....
3. Meals were announced on the PA system, preceded by three tones on what sounded like a xylophone (like the three-toned NBC sound on TV), and were only served during certain times. Meals were served family style, by stewards--mostly Filipino--and I remember being impressed that they could bring me just about anything I asked for to drink, even though we were on board a ship. Several of the stewards--especially on the first voyage--seemed to know my dad's likes and dislikes. We were treated quite well by the wait staff!
4. Drinks were served in plastic tumblers to lessen breakage in the event of rough seas. We experienced a few occasions when things slid down the table a bit, but we never had anything go totally over. Spillage was normal.
5. The rooms, euphemistically called "staterooms" were strictly military fare. The doors were metal and could be sealed, but there was a 4"-5" threshold that had to be stepped over. (This was to keep several inches of accidental water contained in that one room.) Just inside the door to the right were some metal lockers. To the left were some overhead metal cabinets, under which was a metal desk and chair. Beyond those were the bunks, lining the walls of the room--two tiers high on each side--with drawers at the bottom for storage. At the far end of the room was a porthole (window), and lining the floor under that were cubby holes that contained life preservers. (The Navy called them "Mae Wests" due to the fact that they bulked up at the breast line...like the buxom movie star of the same name.) To the right, between the lockers and the bunks, was a very small bathroom--the Head--which consisted of a toilet, a sink, and a shower. The bathroom door was also sealable with a high threshold.
6. Ships--at least military ships--have a limited supply of fresh water, most of which needs to be conserved for drinking, food prep, etc. Thus, showers were self-limiting, equipped with a valve that shut them off after only a minute or so. My dad taught me that the custom for showering on board ship was to run the shower to get wet. When it turned off, you could soap up, then turn it on again to rinse off. No standing underneath hot running water for long! (I don't think my daughter or granddaughter would survive!)
7. Not long after getting underway out to sea, there comes a time when all vestiges of land disappear. There are no longer any landmarks; no street signs. No trees or grass. Nothing but the vast expanse of water in every direction. I confess that, on each of my four voyages, I experienced a fleeting moment of panic when I realized that we were then at the mercy of the sea. It didn't last more than a few seconds, but it was there. (The only other time I experienced that feeling was when I was spelunking with my then-husband, finding myself inside primitive caves with the only light being what we had brought with us. Again, thankfully, the anxiety left me as quickly as it came.)
8. It was not unusual for us to stand on deck and witness flying fish jumping through the waves. Even more common was the sight of porpoises swimming alongside the ship. Signs of life were most welcome!
9. The trip to Japan involved crossing the International Date Line (180th Meridian). Unbeknownst to young me, this--because of a large number of dependents who had never crossed the Date Line before (pollywogs)--was a big deal. It involved initiation into The Domain of the Golden Dragon, ruled by King Neptune. We were to cross on August 8, 1957, on the USNS Sultan. My father somehow got elected to be King Neptune that day (because he was a senior officer??), and I was largely left out. It seems that the female teenagers on board, because of their vulnerability to teasing, were the targets of the initiation. (I was only 10.) My initiation consisted only of having to wear a shirt backwards and wearing a painted-on mustache. My sister, however--the teenage daughter of King Neptune--was given a type-written summons to King Neptune's court. Her offense was playing Elvis Presley records in the Royal Palace. Her sentence was to have her hair shampooed in green worms (noodles in food coloring). She said it took forever to wash it all out! I was also fascinated by some other punishments. One gal was put on deck, with no mirrors, to have her precious long hair cut. The ship's barber had saved clippings to drop on her shoulders and lap as he pretended to cut off her hair. She freaked out. Another was blindfolded and ordered to walk barefoot on broken glass (actually broken egg shells on deck). There was some s hairy-chested sailor walking around naked except for a huge diaper, bonnet, and a large baby bottle hung around his neck--the Royal Baby, I guess. I just thought it was all in great fun but, because I was so young, was not allowed in the festivities. I had to hear about it from the participants later. We were issued colorful certificates verifying that we had been initiated. I still have mine.
10. Crossing the Date Line was confusing. Every couple of days, we were advised by PA to change our clocks, having passed yet another time zone...but at some point, time catches up with itself, and it becomes a different day. PLEASE don't make me look this up because I forget which trip was which, but going one way, when we crossed the Date Line, we skipped a day. Went from, say, Thursday one day to Saturday the next. The other way, we had two of the same day in a row. One day was Tuesday, and the next day was Tuesday. World travel at its finest!
11. On our way to Hawaii (early 50s) we were a family of four. No problem with the number of stateroom bunks. On the way to Japan (late 50s), however, we were a family of five. Things were a bit crowded. On the Japan trip, my sister (who was 15 on the way east and 16 on the way back) was given a stateroom with other women. (On the trip back to the States, her roommate was another teen.) There were empty staterooms and virtually no trouble they could get into on the high seas. I just was jealous because SHE was being treated as an adult, and I--equally mature in my 10-year-old estimation--was still being treated as a kid. Hmph! Understand that there were no TVs on board. (We hadn't seen a TV show or heard American music since the year before.) If I'd had my own room, I wouldn't have been happy...but Shari loved it...or so I thought. She has reminded me that the trip back had such rough seas that she was desperately seasick. All she wanted was fresh air, but the doors to the outside decks had been chained off because waves were washing over them. I guess she tried to scoot under the chains a time or two but was caught and sent back inside. Poor Shari!
12. In my last post, I mentioned the Asiatic Flu which was ravaging the world's population at the time. My 4-year-old brother was suffering from it on our trip back from Japan. One night, he leaned over the side of his lower bunk and up-chucked on the floor. We were experiencing rough seas. You haven't lived until you have watched a pool of vomit slide around with the roll, pitch, and yaw of a ship. Yuck!
13. Valentine's Day happened during our trip back to the States from Japan. I felt bad that I had no Valentines to give to my family....so...just like what my granddaughter would do now, I sat on my top bunk and cut up a comic book to make my own. I had some origami papers to use, found some pictures in the comic that I liked, and tried to put them together. I didn't have any glue, so I used tiny pieces of chewing gum to affix the pictures to the paper, then wrote some verses of my own. On Valentine's Day, my mother complimented me on my resourcefulness and how she would never have thought to do something like that. I felt so special!
14. While we were overseas, home was "The States". My very young brother called it "the stakes"...so that's what it became. "Back in The Stakes" became the basis of many conversations.
15. I should mention that, after spending a week or ten days aboard a rocking-and-rolling vessel, putting feet on dry land doesn't change the motion sensation for at least a day. The term "sea legs" has a reason for existence! Things that are plumb, like chains hanging from porthole windows, seem to be tilted until you realize that the chain is straight, but YOU are off-kilter!
16. When we docked in Yokohama Harbor, teams of Japanese "stevedores" showed up to haul our luggage off the ship. They were chattering to each other in Japanese, and I thought it was the funniest thing I had ever heard. Such gibberish! I soon lost all scorn for that, realizing that I was a guest in their country. I gained nothing but total respect for the Japanese people, in spite of everything that happened in WWII. It changed my thinking and my life.
I'm sure I have forgotten a few memories here, many of which aren't significant to anyone but me; however, these things all helped to form the me that I am today. In some respects, I missed certain parts of normal American childhood because of my military upbringing, and I was affected by that all my life. But in other respects, I understand how very blessed I was by virtue of experiences and perceptions that other Americans will never have. I can handle that!
Random thoughts and memories:
1. The first ten years of my existence were spent as a Navy Brat. Life was all about ships and duty stations. Dad was an officer, so we were considered somewhat privileged in the hierarchy of military life, but we were also expected to behave in a way that was worthy of Dad's rank. It was all about respect. Non-military kids had "ceilings" and "bathrooms" and regular non-military clothing. We had "bulkheads" and "heads" and "civies". That's just the way it was. On at least two occasions, we were invited as a family to eat at the Captain's Table. You'd better bet we were threatened to be good!
2. Along the walls in the passageways of the ship were mounted small wooden racks that contained bags. Everything on board a Navy ship is labeled, of course, and these racks said, "Emesia bags. Take one." I had to have my mother explain to me what an "emesia bag" was--vomit bags for seasickness. Ewww....
3. Meals were announced on the PA system, preceded by three tones on what sounded like a xylophone (like the three-toned NBC sound on TV), and were only served during certain times. Meals were served family style, by stewards--mostly Filipino--and I remember being impressed that they could bring me just about anything I asked for to drink, even though we were on board a ship. Several of the stewards--especially on the first voyage--seemed to know my dad's likes and dislikes. We were treated quite well by the wait staff!
4. Drinks were served in plastic tumblers to lessen breakage in the event of rough seas. We experienced a few occasions when things slid down the table a bit, but we never had anything go totally over. Spillage was normal.
5. The rooms, euphemistically called "staterooms" were strictly military fare. The doors were metal and could be sealed, but there was a 4"-5" threshold that had to be stepped over. (This was to keep several inches of accidental water contained in that one room.) Just inside the door to the right were some metal lockers. To the left were some overhead metal cabinets, under which was a metal desk and chair. Beyond those were the bunks, lining the walls of the room--two tiers high on each side--with drawers at the bottom for storage. At the far end of the room was a porthole (window), and lining the floor under that were cubby holes that contained life preservers. (The Navy called them "Mae Wests" due to the fact that they bulked up at the breast line...like the buxom movie star of the same name.) To the right, between the lockers and the bunks, was a very small bathroom--the Head--which consisted of a toilet, a sink, and a shower. The bathroom door was also sealable with a high threshold.
6. Ships--at least military ships--have a limited supply of fresh water, most of which needs to be conserved for drinking, food prep, etc. Thus, showers were self-limiting, equipped with a valve that shut them off after only a minute or so. My dad taught me that the custom for showering on board ship was to run the shower to get wet. When it turned off, you could soap up, then turn it on again to rinse off. No standing underneath hot running water for long! (I don't think my daughter or granddaughter would survive!)
7. Not long after getting underway out to sea, there comes a time when all vestiges of land disappear. There are no longer any landmarks; no street signs. No trees or grass. Nothing but the vast expanse of water in every direction. I confess that, on each of my four voyages, I experienced a fleeting moment of panic when I realized that we were then at the mercy of the sea. It didn't last more than a few seconds, but it was there. (The only other time I experienced that feeling was when I was spelunking with my then-husband, finding myself inside primitive caves with the only light being what we had brought with us. Again, thankfully, the anxiety left me as quickly as it came.)
8. It was not unusual for us to stand on deck and witness flying fish jumping through the waves. Even more common was the sight of porpoises swimming alongside the ship. Signs of life were most welcome!
9. The trip to Japan involved crossing the International Date Line (180th Meridian). Unbeknownst to young me, this--because of a large number of dependents who had never crossed the Date Line before (pollywogs)--was a big deal. It involved initiation into The Domain of the Golden Dragon, ruled by King Neptune. We were to cross on August 8, 1957, on the USNS Sultan. My father somehow got elected to be King Neptune that day (because he was a senior officer??), and I was largely left out. It seems that the female teenagers on board, because of their vulnerability to teasing, were the targets of the initiation. (I was only 10.) My initiation consisted only of having to wear a shirt backwards and wearing a painted-on mustache. My sister, however--the teenage daughter of King Neptune--was given a type-written summons to King Neptune's court. Her offense was playing Elvis Presley records in the Royal Palace. Her sentence was to have her hair shampooed in green worms (noodles in food coloring). She said it took forever to wash it all out! I was also fascinated by some other punishments. One gal was put on deck, with no mirrors, to have her precious long hair cut. The ship's barber had saved clippings to drop on her shoulders and lap as he pretended to cut off her hair. She freaked out. Another was blindfolded and ordered to walk barefoot on broken glass (actually broken egg shells on deck). There was some s hairy-chested sailor walking around naked except for a huge diaper, bonnet, and a large baby bottle hung around his neck--the Royal Baby, I guess. I just thought it was all in great fun but, because I was so young, was not allowed in the festivities. I had to hear about it from the participants later. We were issued colorful certificates verifying that we had been initiated. I still have mine.
10. Crossing the Date Line was confusing. Every couple of days, we were advised by PA to change our clocks, having passed yet another time zone...but at some point, time catches up with itself, and it becomes a different day. PLEASE don't make me look this up because I forget which trip was which, but going one way, when we crossed the Date Line, we skipped a day. Went from, say, Thursday one day to Saturday the next. The other way, we had two of the same day in a row. One day was Tuesday, and the next day was Tuesday. World travel at its finest!
11. On our way to Hawaii (early 50s) we were a family of four. No problem with the number of stateroom bunks. On the way to Japan (late 50s), however, we were a family of five. Things were a bit crowded. On the Japan trip, my sister (who was 15 on the way east and 16 on the way back) was given a stateroom with other women. (On the trip back to the States, her roommate was another teen.) There were empty staterooms and virtually no trouble they could get into on the high seas. I just was jealous because SHE was being treated as an adult, and I--equally mature in my 10-year-old estimation--was still being treated as a kid. Hmph! Understand that there were no TVs on board. (We hadn't seen a TV show or heard American music since the year before.) If I'd had my own room, I wouldn't have been happy...but Shari loved it...or so I thought. She has reminded me that the trip back had such rough seas that she was desperately seasick. All she wanted was fresh air, but the doors to the outside decks had been chained off because waves were washing over them. I guess she tried to scoot under the chains a time or two but was caught and sent back inside. Poor Shari!
12. In my last post, I mentioned the Asiatic Flu which was ravaging the world's population at the time. My 4-year-old brother was suffering from it on our trip back from Japan. One night, he leaned over the side of his lower bunk and up-chucked on the floor. We were experiencing rough seas. You haven't lived until you have watched a pool of vomit slide around with the roll, pitch, and yaw of a ship. Yuck!
13. Valentine's Day happened during our trip back to the States from Japan. I felt bad that I had no Valentines to give to my family....so...just like what my granddaughter would do now, I sat on my top bunk and cut up a comic book to make my own. I had some origami papers to use, found some pictures in the comic that I liked, and tried to put them together. I didn't have any glue, so I used tiny pieces of chewing gum to affix the pictures to the paper, then wrote some verses of my own. On Valentine's Day, my mother complimented me on my resourcefulness and how she would never have thought to do something like that. I felt so special!
14. While we were overseas, home was "The States". My very young brother called it "the stakes"...so that's what it became. "Back in The Stakes" became the basis of many conversations.
15. I should mention that, after spending a week or ten days aboard a rocking-and-rolling vessel, putting feet on dry land doesn't change the motion sensation for at least a day. The term "sea legs" has a reason for existence! Things that are plumb, like chains hanging from porthole windows, seem to be tilted until you realize that the chain is straight, but YOU are off-kilter!
16. When we docked in Yokohama Harbor, teams of Japanese "stevedores" showed up to haul our luggage off the ship. They were chattering to each other in Japanese, and I thought it was the funniest thing I had ever heard. Such gibberish! I soon lost all scorn for that, realizing that I was a guest in their country. I gained nothing but total respect for the Japanese people, in spite of everything that happened in WWII. It changed my thinking and my life.
I'm sure I have forgotten a few memories here, many of which aren't significant to anyone but me; however, these things all helped to form the me that I am today. In some respects, I missed certain parts of normal American childhood because of my military upbringing, and I was affected by that all my life. But in other respects, I understand how very blessed I was by virtue of experiences and perceptions that other Americans will never have. I can handle that!
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Thinking of Hawaii
Looking out on the cold and snowy world that is Indiana right now, my mind wanders to warmer climes. One of those is a glorious place called Hawaii. I'm going to write about it. If you don't want to read it, move on!
I've been to Hawaii twice as a Navy dependent. The first time was circa 1951 or so, for three months while my dad's ship, the USS Henrico (APA 45) was put in dry dock for repairs in Pearl Harbor. I was probably 5-years-old then, but I do have memories. The second time was a one-day stopover in 1957, on our way to Dad's duty station in Japan. I was 10 that time. These are my random memories of those visits.
1. Both times, we traveled by Navy ship. There were other dependents on board both times but few amenities for civilian "guests". (I don't remember any other children on board on the first trip.) In other words, we weren't exactly on the Carnival Cruise Lines! There were no swimming pools, deck chairs, shuffleboard, or anything else entertaining...and especially nothing for kids. Everything was painted battleship gray and labeled in white stencils. There was the engine hum and always the smell of diesel around the ship.
2. The first trip out, we left from Coronado, CA, where Dad was already stationed. The second trip, we left from San Francisco, CA, after traveling cross country from Illinois where Dad had been stationed. That second trip, our way out to sea was past Alcatraz Island (which was still a prison in those days) and under the Golden Gate Bridge. I was impressed! Both times, we observed our car being loaded into the ship's hold by crane. We would have wheels when we got to where we were going.
3. (The rest of these comments will apply to the first visit, unless otherwise mentioned.) Pulling away from the dock was preceded by several blasts of the ship's horn...and then we could feel the ship moving. Shortly after getting under way, there was the required Life Boat Drill. Everyone was assigned a life boat station on deck. When the alarm was blown and the unending PA announcement "This is a drill; This is a drill," came through, all hands were to dig out their life preservers and present themselves on deck at their LB stations with preservers on. The preservers were big and bulky and heavy, covered in khaki canvas that smelled like old canvas, and we had to stand at our stations until the drill was declared over. In my young, impatient mind, it went on forever.
4. There was a young bachelor lieutenant on board named Pruitt. I developed a bit of a crush on him. He told me that if I would learn a hula dance while we were in Hawaii and perform it for him on our trip home, he would buy me a doll. I didn't forget that. (I think I was 5.)
5. When we finally approached the islands, we could see them but were stopped dead in the water outside of the harbor. Huh? Why weren't we just steaming on in? I didn't know it then, but many harbors (and especially Pearl) had obstacles that ships' captains/navigators would not know of, so we had to wait until a pilot was brought out to the ship by tugboat to guide the ship in. Each time, there were at least two, maybe three, tugboats that towed us slowly past the obstacles, directed by the pilot. One of the obstacles was the USS Arizona which was sunk on Pearl Harbor Day ten or so years before and was still only a sunken wreck (no memorial). I do recall my mother mentioning it as sacred "ground" as we were towed past--that many American sailors were buried down there.
6. Once tied up at dock, there was a greeting party: a troup of Hawaiian dancers--hula girls! We were on deck watching those when we were also greeted by leis put around our necks. Leis made of real flowers! It was so festive and so welcoming. Fantastic! Somewhere there is a picture of my mother, sister, and I at that moment....
7. When we finally debarked, we got in a taxi that took us to our motel, the Pua Leilani. (I'm going to misspell some of these words because I don't totally remember them. I was pretty young.) The motel was surrounded by beautiful exotic flowers and shrubbery, but the taxi ride there had us terrified! The driver darted in and out of traffic like a madman. We were so grateful to arrive at our motel safely!
8. I don't remember how long we stayed at the Pua Leilani housing. I don't think more than a day or two. We soon moved to an apartment building--the Ala Moana, I think--right across the street from the Alawai Canal. Our apartment was on the second floor. I remember nothing about the interior of that apartment except my mother having me taste fresh pineapple in the kitchen, saying that it was the real thing!
9. My sister needed to be enrolled in school. I remember going shopping for school supplies for her, one item of which was a blindfold for an afternoon nap. Shari was probably in 5th or 6th grade. I thought nap time was only for Kindergartners, not understanding that many countries in warmer climates have siesta time in the afternoon. I think Shari resented it.
10. Coconut trees were everywhere. Once in awhile, Shari would pick one up off the ground and bring it home for my father to crack open, and the instant he showed up outside with a hammer, a number of other American kids would show up with coconuts for him to break for them, too. Coconuts have an outer husk and an inner shell that one has to get through before the milk and meat can be reached. Not an easy task!
11. The area around the apartments had plants that we called Elephant Ears. The lore among the children was that they were poisonous. I remember one event when a child supposedly decided to bite on a leaf of one of the plants and was immediately met with a burning mouth. True or not, I don't know...but I remember that I felt awed.
12. Our apartment was on the second floor of the complex. Outside the front door was a cement walkway with a low cinder block wall for a rail. One day, a sudden rain squall occurred. One of the neighbors made a dash to the street to shut his car windows, and Dad hurriedly went out on the walkway to yell at him to shut our car's windows, too...when he slipped on the wet balcony and smashed the instep of his foot on the cinder blocks, making a nasty gash. This required a trip to the doctor. Because of the location of the cut, the doctor decided not to stitch it but to immobilize it with a small cast to keep it from re-opening with every step. That evening, Dad went into shock...was vomiting, etc. (don't know if alcohol was involved), but before the night was over, Dad had cut off the still-wet cast. Mom was frustrated, but Dad was not about to be fettered like that. Somewhere, there is a picture of my father sitting on a blanket on Waikiki Beach with a bandaged foot. I guess it healed...
13. As earlier mentioned, our apartment complex was right across the street from the Alawai Canal. There were small motorboats moored all along the dock. I used to play there, all by myself. Some days, I played with little black crabs. Other days, I pulled out little clear jellyfish and messed with them as if they were mud pies. (I have no clue why I was never stung, unless these were a stingless variety.) Mom always said that there were baricudas in those waters. I believed that baricudas were people-eaters, so I never wanted to be IN the water...just NEAR it. I also enjoyed getting on the decks of the boats moored there, just to play. (I would have killed my own kid had she done that!)
We knew none of the boat owners, nor did I have permission to be on their boats. And no one ever caught me, except Mom.
One day, the parents had some afternoon function to go to. Shari was to babysit me. She had a girlfriend over, with our parents' permission. The last thing my mother said to us was, "Stay away from the canal and the boats!" We vowed faithfully that we would. So, of course, the first place we headed when they left was the canal and the boats. Shari and her friend were pretending to ballroom dance on the deck of a boat, while I stood watching. I got elbowed, and into the drink I went, scraping my back on the side of the boat on my way down. I didn't know how to swim. I grabbed the anchor rope and was quickly pulled out of the water so the baricudas wouldn't get me! Shari and friend rushed me up to the apartment, put me in the bathtub to get me all washed off, then put me in my pajamas to be ready for bed as we all swore to secrecy. The only problem with the whole scenario was that when the parents got home, it was only 4:00 PM! There I was, bathed, pajama'ed and ready for bed, but it wasn't even close to dark yet! I showed my mother the scrape on my back with some lame excuse for how it happened, but if the parents suspected anything, they never let on.. I think Shari and I were in our 20s or 30s before we confessed to that caper. It was one of the FEW times that we didn't get caught!
14. While in Honolulu, we often frequented Waikiki Beach as well as Fort De Russy Beach (an Army/military location). One time at Fort De Russy, my sister came out of the water screaming that something had stung her on the leg. The lifeguard determined that she had been stung by a Portuguese Man of War...a particularly venomous form of jellyfish often found in those waters. He applied an orange liquid that he had in a gallon jug, and all was well. Scary!
15. We never island-hopped, but we did explore the island of Hawaii a bit. The most identifiable feature of the island is Diamond Head Crater...an extinct volcano. That can be seen from almost anywhere in Honolulu. We ventured into the mountains once or twice. We went to the Blow Hole, which is a hole in the volcanic rock near the ocean's edge. When the waves come in just right, water spews through the hole like a geyser. Another spot was the Pali, a cliff where legend has it that some warrior king was pinned during a skirmish. He jumped off to commit suicide but was blown back up by the winds. (I learned the difference between leeward and windward sides of the islands on those days.) On one such excursion, we drove past pineapple and sugar cane fields. Dad stopped the car, broke off a cane so we could suck the sugary syrup out of it, just for the experience. I'm sure it wasn't something he was supposed to do, and I worried about that...but there aren't too many kids who can say that they sucked on a sugar cane in rural Hawaii!
16. We went to one luau where I was exposed to a traditional Hawaiian dish: poi. It was awful!
17. Halloween happened while we were in Hawaii. Shari and I had satin Chinese pajamas that Dad had brought to us from Hong Kong. Those became our costumes. We worked the apartment complexes alone, she and I. (No parents came along in those days!)
18. As we were getting short on time before leaving Hawaii for the US, I reminded my mother that I needed to learn a hula for Lt. Pruitt. Somewhere, somehow, she found someone to teach me the "Little Brown Gal". Shari and I already had muu-muus and grass skirts. I was all set! Behind the scenes, Mom had to remind Lt. Pruitt of his promise of three months before. On board on the way home, I performed my hula dance, and Lt. Pruitt gave me a little stuffed doll--a Hawaiian girl in a little grass skirt. How fitting! I never forgot that. (Wish I still had that doll, but it was lost in all of our other Navy travels. Mom didn't keep much because of our constant moving.)
19. On the second trip to Hawaii, we were only on a one-day stopover on our way further westward to Japan. The family spent the entire afternoon at Ft. De Russy Beach. I'm not sure what we were thinking. There was no such thing as sunblock in those days, and suntan lotion was only supposed to enhance a tan, but I don't remember a single application of anything to protect my skin. That day, I got the worst sunburn of my life! I spent the entire rest of the trip to Japan wearing a sundress that tied at the shoulders, only because I couldn't stand anything else touching my skin. My back and shoulders blistered and peeled. I was miserable.
20. On the trip home from Japan (in February of 1958, which has nothing to do with this blog about Hawaii), the world had been hit with something known then as the Asiatic Flu. I had it. My brother had it, and I think my mother had just gotten over it when we departed for the US. It was nasty. High fevers, susceptible to relapse. People all over the world were dying from it. Our ship, in order to keep the dependents amused, was showing movies nightly. One was Invasion of the Body Snatchers. It had everyone spooked. And then, just one night out of port in the US, it became known that a dependent wife, mother of four, had died of the flu on board. That put a pall on everything. I was sure, when my sister and I were put on a plane for Illinois less than 48 hours later, that I would never see my parents again. Thank God, it didn't happen that way, but it certainly taught me a little about the brevity of life.
Enough about Hawaii. How 'bout if we just bring a little bit of Hawaii to Indiana now? I'm ready!
Please note the comments below this post. I took it from something my sister sent me and posted it. Although it says "Peggy says", it is actually "Shari says". Do read it, if you are interested. Some of what she says was not part of my memory but hers, but it sure does put things in perspective!
I've been to Hawaii twice as a Navy dependent. The first time was circa 1951 or so, for three months while my dad's ship, the USS Henrico (APA 45) was put in dry dock for repairs in Pearl Harbor. I was probably 5-years-old then, but I do have memories. The second time was a one-day stopover in 1957, on our way to Dad's duty station in Japan. I was 10 that time. These are my random memories of those visits.
1. Both times, we traveled by Navy ship. There were other dependents on board both times but few amenities for civilian "guests". (I don't remember any other children on board on the first trip.) In other words, we weren't exactly on the Carnival Cruise Lines! There were no swimming pools, deck chairs, shuffleboard, or anything else entertaining...and especially nothing for kids. Everything was painted battleship gray and labeled in white stencils. There was the engine hum and always the smell of diesel around the ship.
2. The first trip out, we left from Coronado, CA, where Dad was already stationed. The second trip, we left from San Francisco, CA, after traveling cross country from Illinois where Dad had been stationed. That second trip, our way out to sea was past Alcatraz Island (which was still a prison in those days) and under the Golden Gate Bridge. I was impressed! Both times, we observed our car being loaded into the ship's hold by crane. We would have wheels when we got to where we were going.
3. (The rest of these comments will apply to the first visit, unless otherwise mentioned.) Pulling away from the dock was preceded by several blasts of the ship's horn...and then we could feel the ship moving. Shortly after getting under way, there was the required Life Boat Drill. Everyone was assigned a life boat station on deck. When the alarm was blown and the unending PA announcement "This is a drill; This is a drill," came through, all hands were to dig out their life preservers and present themselves on deck at their LB stations with preservers on. The preservers were big and bulky and heavy, covered in khaki canvas that smelled like old canvas, and we had to stand at our stations until the drill was declared over. In my young, impatient mind, it went on forever.
4. There was a young bachelor lieutenant on board named Pruitt. I developed a bit of a crush on him. He told me that if I would learn a hula dance while we were in Hawaii and perform it for him on our trip home, he would buy me a doll. I didn't forget that. (I think I was 5.)
5. When we finally approached the islands, we could see them but were stopped dead in the water outside of the harbor. Huh? Why weren't we just steaming on in? I didn't know it then, but many harbors (and especially Pearl) had obstacles that ships' captains/navigators would not know of, so we had to wait until a pilot was brought out to the ship by tugboat to guide the ship in. Each time, there were at least two, maybe three, tugboats that towed us slowly past the obstacles, directed by the pilot. One of the obstacles was the USS Arizona which was sunk on Pearl Harbor Day ten or so years before and was still only a sunken wreck (no memorial). I do recall my mother mentioning it as sacred "ground" as we were towed past--that many American sailors were buried down there.
6. Once tied up at dock, there was a greeting party: a troup of Hawaiian dancers--hula girls! We were on deck watching those when we were also greeted by leis put around our necks. Leis made of real flowers! It was so festive and so welcoming. Fantastic! Somewhere there is a picture of my mother, sister, and I at that moment....
7. When we finally debarked, we got in a taxi that took us to our motel, the Pua Leilani. (I'm going to misspell some of these words because I don't totally remember them. I was pretty young.) The motel was surrounded by beautiful exotic flowers and shrubbery, but the taxi ride there had us terrified! The driver darted in and out of traffic like a madman. We were so grateful to arrive at our motel safely!
8. I don't remember how long we stayed at the Pua Leilani housing. I don't think more than a day or two. We soon moved to an apartment building--the Ala Moana, I think--right across the street from the Alawai Canal. Our apartment was on the second floor. I remember nothing about the interior of that apartment except my mother having me taste fresh pineapple in the kitchen, saying that it was the real thing!
9. My sister needed to be enrolled in school. I remember going shopping for school supplies for her, one item of which was a blindfold for an afternoon nap. Shari was probably in 5th or 6th grade. I thought nap time was only for Kindergartners, not understanding that many countries in warmer climates have siesta time in the afternoon. I think Shari resented it.
10. Coconut trees were everywhere. Once in awhile, Shari would pick one up off the ground and bring it home for my father to crack open, and the instant he showed up outside with a hammer, a number of other American kids would show up with coconuts for him to break for them, too. Coconuts have an outer husk and an inner shell that one has to get through before the milk and meat can be reached. Not an easy task!
11. The area around the apartments had plants that we called Elephant Ears. The lore among the children was that they were poisonous. I remember one event when a child supposedly decided to bite on a leaf of one of the plants and was immediately met with a burning mouth. True or not, I don't know...but I remember that I felt awed.
12. Our apartment was on the second floor of the complex. Outside the front door was a cement walkway with a low cinder block wall for a rail. One day, a sudden rain squall occurred. One of the neighbors made a dash to the street to shut his car windows, and Dad hurriedly went out on the walkway to yell at him to shut our car's windows, too...when he slipped on the wet balcony and smashed the instep of his foot on the cinder blocks, making a nasty gash. This required a trip to the doctor. Because of the location of the cut, the doctor decided not to stitch it but to immobilize it with a small cast to keep it from re-opening with every step. That evening, Dad went into shock...was vomiting, etc. (don't know if alcohol was involved), but before the night was over, Dad had cut off the still-wet cast. Mom was frustrated, but Dad was not about to be fettered like that. Somewhere, there is a picture of my father sitting on a blanket on Waikiki Beach with a bandaged foot. I guess it healed...
13. As earlier mentioned, our apartment complex was right across the street from the Alawai Canal. There were small motorboats moored all along the dock. I used to play there, all by myself. Some days, I played with little black crabs. Other days, I pulled out little clear jellyfish and messed with them as if they were mud pies. (I have no clue why I was never stung, unless these were a stingless variety.) Mom always said that there were baricudas in those waters. I believed that baricudas were people-eaters, so I never wanted to be IN the water...just NEAR it. I also enjoyed getting on the decks of the boats moored there, just to play. (I would have killed my own kid had she done that!)
We knew none of the boat owners, nor did I have permission to be on their boats. And no one ever caught me, except Mom.
One day, the parents had some afternoon function to go to. Shari was to babysit me. She had a girlfriend over, with our parents' permission. The last thing my mother said to us was, "Stay away from the canal and the boats!" We vowed faithfully that we would. So, of course, the first place we headed when they left was the canal and the boats. Shari and her friend were pretending to ballroom dance on the deck of a boat, while I stood watching. I got elbowed, and into the drink I went, scraping my back on the side of the boat on my way down. I didn't know how to swim. I grabbed the anchor rope and was quickly pulled out of the water so the baricudas wouldn't get me! Shari and friend rushed me up to the apartment, put me in the bathtub to get me all washed off, then put me in my pajamas to be ready for bed as we all swore to secrecy. The only problem with the whole scenario was that when the parents got home, it was only 4:00 PM! There I was, bathed, pajama'ed and ready for bed, but it wasn't even close to dark yet! I showed my mother the scrape on my back with some lame excuse for how it happened, but if the parents suspected anything, they never let on.. I think Shari and I were in our 20s or 30s before we confessed to that caper. It was one of the FEW times that we didn't get caught!
14. While in Honolulu, we often frequented Waikiki Beach as well as Fort De Russy Beach (an Army/military location). One time at Fort De Russy, my sister came out of the water screaming that something had stung her on the leg. The lifeguard determined that she had been stung by a Portuguese Man of War...a particularly venomous form of jellyfish often found in those waters. He applied an orange liquid that he had in a gallon jug, and all was well. Scary!
15. We never island-hopped, but we did explore the island of Hawaii a bit. The most identifiable feature of the island is Diamond Head Crater...an extinct volcano. That can be seen from almost anywhere in Honolulu. We ventured into the mountains once or twice. We went to the Blow Hole, which is a hole in the volcanic rock near the ocean's edge. When the waves come in just right, water spews through the hole like a geyser. Another spot was the Pali, a cliff where legend has it that some warrior king was pinned during a skirmish. He jumped off to commit suicide but was blown back up by the winds. (I learned the difference between leeward and windward sides of the islands on those days.) On one such excursion, we drove past pineapple and sugar cane fields. Dad stopped the car, broke off a cane so we could suck the sugary syrup out of it, just for the experience. I'm sure it wasn't something he was supposed to do, and I worried about that...but there aren't too many kids who can say that they sucked on a sugar cane in rural Hawaii!
16. We went to one luau where I was exposed to a traditional Hawaiian dish: poi. It was awful!
17. Halloween happened while we were in Hawaii. Shari and I had satin Chinese pajamas that Dad had brought to us from Hong Kong. Those became our costumes. We worked the apartment complexes alone, she and I. (No parents came along in those days!)
18. As we were getting short on time before leaving Hawaii for the US, I reminded my mother that I needed to learn a hula for Lt. Pruitt. Somewhere, somehow, she found someone to teach me the "Little Brown Gal". Shari and I already had muu-muus and grass skirts. I was all set! Behind the scenes, Mom had to remind Lt. Pruitt of his promise of three months before. On board on the way home, I performed my hula dance, and Lt. Pruitt gave me a little stuffed doll--a Hawaiian girl in a little grass skirt. How fitting! I never forgot that. (Wish I still had that doll, but it was lost in all of our other Navy travels. Mom didn't keep much because of our constant moving.)
19. On the second trip to Hawaii, we were only on a one-day stopover on our way further westward to Japan. The family spent the entire afternoon at Ft. De Russy Beach. I'm not sure what we were thinking. There was no such thing as sunblock in those days, and suntan lotion was only supposed to enhance a tan, but I don't remember a single application of anything to protect my skin. That day, I got the worst sunburn of my life! I spent the entire rest of the trip to Japan wearing a sundress that tied at the shoulders, only because I couldn't stand anything else touching my skin. My back and shoulders blistered and peeled. I was miserable.
20. On the trip home from Japan (in February of 1958, which has nothing to do with this blog about Hawaii), the world had been hit with something known then as the Asiatic Flu. I had it. My brother had it, and I think my mother had just gotten over it when we departed for the US. It was nasty. High fevers, susceptible to relapse. People all over the world were dying from it. Our ship, in order to keep the dependents amused, was showing movies nightly. One was Invasion of the Body Snatchers. It had everyone spooked. And then, just one night out of port in the US, it became known that a dependent wife, mother of four, had died of the flu on board. That put a pall on everything. I was sure, when my sister and I were put on a plane for Illinois less than 48 hours later, that I would never see my parents again. Thank God, it didn't happen that way, but it certainly taught me a little about the brevity of life.
Enough about Hawaii. How 'bout if we just bring a little bit of Hawaii to Indiana now? I'm ready!
Please note the comments below this post. I took it from something my sister sent me and posted it. Although it says "Peggy says", it is actually "Shari says". Do read it, if you are interested. Some of what she says was not part of my memory but hers, but it sure does put things in perspective!
Cooking Disasters
(I'm not drinking...honest. I can't explain why these things come to my brain, or what launches the compulsion to write about them!)
Every married woman has Young Bride stories of times when she ventured to fix a meal for her husband, and it just didn't turn out as expected. Some of my kitchen disasters were when I was a young bride, but several came after I was a seasoned cook (no pun intended).
Disaster #1:
I've already written about the time that I accidentally bought self-rising flour and made homemade shortcakes with it. The cakes were too salty to eat. The mistake wasn't because I bought the flour by accident as much as it was due to the fact that I had no idea what self-rising flour was/is. Had to throw out both the shortcakes and the bag of flour.
#2:
My first attempt at making gravy. Ha! I had watched my mother many times and knew that I had to make a roux with flour in the meat juices, then stir like crazy with a fork when I added liquids. I just never knew how much flour to add, or how much milk...or even how long to stir. I knew the process, just not the whys. That first time, I had a lot of nice meat drippings, so I started adding flour. And flour. And more flour. I added flour until the juices seemed to be the consistency of the gravy I wanted, then I started pouring in the milk and stirring like crazy to prevent--horror of horrors--the flour "dumplings" that occur if you don't stir furiously enough. (Lumpy gravy was the sign of an inattentive cook and was a no-no in my family.) As I poured in the milk and stirred, the "gravy" just got thicker and thicker, so I poured in more and more milk...and stirred and stirred and stirred. When it finally looked okay, I knew it was done. The result? My gravy tasted like wallpaper paste with a little beef flavoring! That day, I learned--among other things--that the cook can add the milk with the heat off, which means it will thicken slower...and it doesn't take that much flour to make the roux. AND, forty or more years later, I learned about the whisk. (What a wonderful little tool the whisk is! To my knowledge, my mother never even owned or used one.) No more lumpy gravy, no matter when the milk is added!
#3.
I discovered early on in housekeeping that cut-up chicken is more expensive than whole fryers. I was pinching pennies in those days, so I wanted to buy whole chickens to fry, but I had no clue how to cut them up. I asked my mother for help. She showed me how to cut up the chicken into wings, legs, thighs, breasts and a back. Two of each (except for the back), right? Mom made it look easy. A really sharp knife helped. At home, on my own for the first time, I started cutting away. Nothing went quite the way that it had when my mother was doing it. When it all was fried, except for the obvious legs and wings, I couldn't tell a breast from a back from a thigh. We had to dig in to check the color of the meat to know which was which! I tried maybe one more time; thereafter, I decided just to pay the extra few cents per pound to purchase cut-up chicken. Problem solved!
#4.
My then-husband had some strange tastes in food--mostly meat. He would eat steak tartar, which is raw beef. And he liked brains. Brains?????? Somewhat early in our marriage, he purchased some pork brains and wanted me to cook them for him for breakfast. I had never cooked brains before, or even watched anyone else do it, so I had no idea where to start. He told me that I needed to roll them in corn meal, or something like that, and fry them. Okay...I could do that...but how to tell when they are done?? I did my duty as a wife, but I have to tell you that handling brains was repulsive to me. I have no clue how they turned out because I wouldn't eat brains unless my very life depended on it, but I did have the courage to tell my husband that if he wanted to stay married to me for very long, he would not ask me to do that again. I don't believe he ever did again, thank God!
#5.
Again, my husband's tastes. Joe liked oysters. I didn't. He would eat them raw and in turkey stuffing, but also liked oyster stew. Once, he was fixing himself some oyster stew and had some raw oysters sitting in a pan of milk on the stove. He made a point of telling me that the milk should never boil because it would "curl the oysters' ears". I was just happy not to be a part of the process! Then I came along to put a pot of water on the stove to boil, but turned on the wrong burner. The milk with the oysters in it boiled! I felt like a total failure, but it was merely a mistake. In my family, we would have eaten the results anyway, but he threw it all out, which made me feel worse. The very next time he wanted oyster stew, he asked me to do it. He had it all prepared. All I had to do was cook it. I turned on the electric burner but wasn't attentive enough to catch it before it, once more, boiled the milk and curled the oysters' ears. Again!! I swear it wasn't intentional, but it sure didn't look good!
I'm sure there are more cooking disasters...desserts that didn't turn out and meals that weren't timed properly...but my brain is now fried. At least I know how they feel in hand!
Every married woman has Young Bride stories of times when she ventured to fix a meal for her husband, and it just didn't turn out as expected. Some of my kitchen disasters were when I was a young bride, but several came after I was a seasoned cook (no pun intended).
Disaster #1:
I've already written about the time that I accidentally bought self-rising flour and made homemade shortcakes with it. The cakes were too salty to eat. The mistake wasn't because I bought the flour by accident as much as it was due to the fact that I had no idea what self-rising flour was/is. Had to throw out both the shortcakes and the bag of flour.
#2:
My first attempt at making gravy. Ha! I had watched my mother many times and knew that I had to make a roux with flour in the meat juices, then stir like crazy with a fork when I added liquids. I just never knew how much flour to add, or how much milk...or even how long to stir. I knew the process, just not the whys. That first time, I had a lot of nice meat drippings, so I started adding flour. And flour. And more flour. I added flour until the juices seemed to be the consistency of the gravy I wanted, then I started pouring in the milk and stirring like crazy to prevent--horror of horrors--the flour "dumplings" that occur if you don't stir furiously enough. (Lumpy gravy was the sign of an inattentive cook and was a no-no in my family.) As I poured in the milk and stirred, the "gravy" just got thicker and thicker, so I poured in more and more milk...and stirred and stirred and stirred. When it finally looked okay, I knew it was done. The result? My gravy tasted like wallpaper paste with a little beef flavoring! That day, I learned--among other things--that the cook can add the milk with the heat off, which means it will thicken slower...and it doesn't take that much flour to make the roux. AND, forty or more years later, I learned about the whisk. (What a wonderful little tool the whisk is! To my knowledge, my mother never even owned or used one.) No more lumpy gravy, no matter when the milk is added!
#3.
I discovered early on in housekeeping that cut-up chicken is more expensive than whole fryers. I was pinching pennies in those days, so I wanted to buy whole chickens to fry, but I had no clue how to cut them up. I asked my mother for help. She showed me how to cut up the chicken into wings, legs, thighs, breasts and a back. Two of each (except for the back), right? Mom made it look easy. A really sharp knife helped. At home, on my own for the first time, I started cutting away. Nothing went quite the way that it had when my mother was doing it. When it all was fried, except for the obvious legs and wings, I couldn't tell a breast from a back from a thigh. We had to dig in to check the color of the meat to know which was which! I tried maybe one more time; thereafter, I decided just to pay the extra few cents per pound to purchase cut-up chicken. Problem solved!
#4.
My then-husband had some strange tastes in food--mostly meat. He would eat steak tartar, which is raw beef. And he liked brains. Brains?????? Somewhat early in our marriage, he purchased some pork brains and wanted me to cook them for him for breakfast. I had never cooked brains before, or even watched anyone else do it, so I had no idea where to start. He told me that I needed to roll them in corn meal, or something like that, and fry them. Okay...I could do that...but how to tell when they are done?? I did my duty as a wife, but I have to tell you that handling brains was repulsive to me. I have no clue how they turned out because I wouldn't eat brains unless my very life depended on it, but I did have the courage to tell my husband that if he wanted to stay married to me for very long, he would not ask me to do that again. I don't believe he ever did again, thank God!
#5.
Again, my husband's tastes. Joe liked oysters. I didn't. He would eat them raw and in turkey stuffing, but also liked oyster stew. Once, he was fixing himself some oyster stew and had some raw oysters sitting in a pan of milk on the stove. He made a point of telling me that the milk should never boil because it would "curl the oysters' ears". I was just happy not to be a part of the process! Then I came along to put a pot of water on the stove to boil, but turned on the wrong burner. The milk with the oysters in it boiled! I felt like a total failure, but it was merely a mistake. In my family, we would have eaten the results anyway, but he threw it all out, which made me feel worse. The very next time he wanted oyster stew, he asked me to do it. He had it all prepared. All I had to do was cook it. I turned on the electric burner but wasn't attentive enough to catch it before it, once more, boiled the milk and curled the oysters' ears. Again!! I swear it wasn't intentional, but it sure didn't look good!
I'm sure there are more cooking disasters...desserts that didn't turn out and meals that weren't timed properly...but my brain is now fried. At least I know how they feel in hand!
Saturday, March 1, 2014
If Winter Comes, Can Spring Be Far Behind??
My apologies to Percy Bysshe Shelley for stealing today's blog title from his poem, Ode to the West Wind. Ol' Percy probably doesn't mind. He's been dead for a very long time. I don't think any of his stuff is copyrighted!
Okay...so here it is March 1st. Most years by this time, I have already seen the season's first robin, the days have warmed into the 40s, I've seen/heard migrating sandhill cranes aloft, and the daylight hours are noticeably longer. This year? Not so much. I have heard one very small group of cranes and have begun to notice the daylight changes, but we are still in the deep freeze with a big snowfall expected tonight and much of tomorrow. I wouldn't mind so much except that this winter started in October with cold temps and a first snow...and it never really stopped. Had the season begun when it is "normal" to do so, this one wouldn't be so bad.
I used to enjoy winter. As a younger, more adventurous woman, armed with a snowmobile suit and felt-lined snowmobile boots, I could be outside for hours and hours and just roll with it. Now, as an old woman with major back problems, I'm totally dependent on others to do my yard work and snow removal for me...and I don't like it very much. (I am, however, very grateful for the dependable help I have right now!!) Thus, when this winter's snow after snow after snow have hit, I have made sure that I was stocked with enough supplies to keep me snug inside. I was HOPING that this would all come to an end by Valentine's Day...but noooooo....
The outdoor thermometer currently reads over 50 degrees, but we are under a winter storm warning with the prognostication of 5"-8" of snow, more or less, for tonight and tomorrow. A day or two ago, our temperatures were in the single-digit range. Okay. All winter long, I have been in self-induced home detention. Except for occasional short trips to the grocery store, I haven't left the homestead. Last Monday was the first time in months that I ventured out for a social occasion--a luncheon with a radio friend of mine. It was nice, and a teaser. More to come? Apparently, not yet.
My childhood sweetheart, Jim, was born and raised in northern Wisconsin--a place where it got so cold that they would keep a lit light bulb in the engine compartment of their car at night to keep the battery warm enough to start the car in the mornings. All of his post-college-degree years, he has been a professor at Auburn University in Alabama where it is warm all year round. Interestingly, he misses the cold and snow of his childhood winters and dislikes the heat/humidity of his adopted state's summers. I get it. When I was a kid, my family lived in the San Diego area of southern California. At Christmas, we missed the snow so much that we drove into the mountains to find some and have a snowball fight. This year, however, I think I have been cured of the longing for snow and cold. I'm done! I'm ready for spring! It can't come fast enough!!
Last year, we had a longer-than-usual onset of spring also. It was snowing on my daughter's birthday (March 25th). I was HOPING that this year would be different, but--so far, at least--the weather pattern doesn't show adequate signs of backing off. I'm trying not to whine about it because there is nothing to be done, but there is only so much an old lady can take.
So here it is: ENOUGH ALREADY! I CAN'T BE POETIC ABOUT THIS NONSENSE ANYMORE! IF SPRING DOESN'T COME SOON, YOU CAN VISIT ME AT THE PSYCH WARD AT THE LOCAL HOSPITAL. CABIN FEVER...HAHAHAHAHAH! THEY'RE COMING TO TAKE ME AWAY!!!!
Have a nice day. :)
Okay...so here it is March 1st. Most years by this time, I have already seen the season's first robin, the days have warmed into the 40s, I've seen/heard migrating sandhill cranes aloft, and the daylight hours are noticeably longer. This year? Not so much. I have heard one very small group of cranes and have begun to notice the daylight changes, but we are still in the deep freeze with a big snowfall expected tonight and much of tomorrow. I wouldn't mind so much except that this winter started in October with cold temps and a first snow...and it never really stopped. Had the season begun when it is "normal" to do so, this one wouldn't be so bad.
I used to enjoy winter. As a younger, more adventurous woman, armed with a snowmobile suit and felt-lined snowmobile boots, I could be outside for hours and hours and just roll with it. Now, as an old woman with major back problems, I'm totally dependent on others to do my yard work and snow removal for me...and I don't like it very much. (I am, however, very grateful for the dependable help I have right now!!) Thus, when this winter's snow after snow after snow have hit, I have made sure that I was stocked with enough supplies to keep me snug inside. I was HOPING that this would all come to an end by Valentine's Day...but noooooo....
The outdoor thermometer currently reads over 50 degrees, but we are under a winter storm warning with the prognostication of 5"-8" of snow, more or less, for tonight and tomorrow. A day or two ago, our temperatures were in the single-digit range. Okay. All winter long, I have been in self-induced home detention. Except for occasional short trips to the grocery store, I haven't left the homestead. Last Monday was the first time in months that I ventured out for a social occasion--a luncheon with a radio friend of mine. It was nice, and a teaser. More to come? Apparently, not yet.
My childhood sweetheart, Jim, was born and raised in northern Wisconsin--a place where it got so cold that they would keep a lit light bulb in the engine compartment of their car at night to keep the battery warm enough to start the car in the mornings. All of his post-college-degree years, he has been a professor at Auburn University in Alabama where it is warm all year round. Interestingly, he misses the cold and snow of his childhood winters and dislikes the heat/humidity of his adopted state's summers. I get it. When I was a kid, my family lived in the San Diego area of southern California. At Christmas, we missed the snow so much that we drove into the mountains to find some and have a snowball fight. This year, however, I think I have been cured of the longing for snow and cold. I'm done! I'm ready for spring! It can't come fast enough!!
Last year, we had a longer-than-usual onset of spring also. It was snowing on my daughter's birthday (March 25th). I was HOPING that this year would be different, but--so far, at least--the weather pattern doesn't show adequate signs of backing off. I'm trying not to whine about it because there is nothing to be done, but there is only so much an old lady can take.
So here it is: ENOUGH ALREADY! I CAN'T BE POETIC ABOUT THIS NONSENSE ANYMORE! IF SPRING DOESN'T COME SOON, YOU CAN VISIT ME AT THE PSYCH WARD AT THE LOCAL HOSPITAL. CABIN FEVER...HAHAHAHAHAH! THEY'RE COMING TO TAKE ME AWAY!!!!
Have a nice day. :)