(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!
Sunday, March 2, 2014
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. :)
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Pictures
A couple of weeks ago, I ventured to my mailbox and found, in the slush at the end of my driveway, a soggy packet of something. It turned out to be a pack of professional portraits of a child I would deem to be about three months old.
I brought the packet into the house. The pictures were damp, but not all of them were ruined. And there were many in various poses. I spread them out to dry, then started an investigation. Who did the pictures belong to? Could I find the owner? (And how did they come to be in the mess at the end of my driveway??)
One of the poses had the child's name and the date--September 2009. Wow! These weren't recent pictures!
I started my search. Couldn't find a name in the phone book. Put out an inquiry on Facebook. Called the studio that did the pics. No results. Emailed my neighbor across the street who gave me a number out of the phone book (that I had supposedly already looked in)...a last name that matched. Called the number. The people that answered weren't the parents of the child but did seem to know the child and the parent(s) but quick to say that they have "no association with that family". They did, however, give me the name and a cell phone number for the child's mother. Called that number, which went right to voice mail. Left a message. No response. Called a couple of days later. Same result.
So here I am in possession of OLD portraits of an infant who is probably almost 5-years-old by now. I have dried them out and cleaned them off. Threw away a couple that were too damaged to keep. I guess I will put them in an envelope and wait for awhile. How long should I keep them before I determine that it's a lost cause??
How these pictures happened to be in the slush, I probably will never know. My daughter suggested that they could have been in someone's trash and just fell out...but no one lives next to me. I just want to do the right thing. I think I already have.
We'll see, won't we?
I brought the packet into the house. The pictures were damp, but not all of them were ruined. And there were many in various poses. I spread them out to dry, then started an investigation. Who did the pictures belong to? Could I find the owner? (And how did they come to be in the mess at the end of my driveway??)
One of the poses had the child's name and the date--September 2009. Wow! These weren't recent pictures!
I started my search. Couldn't find a name in the phone book. Put out an inquiry on Facebook. Called the studio that did the pics. No results. Emailed my neighbor across the street who gave me a number out of the phone book (that I had supposedly already looked in)...a last name that matched. Called the number. The people that answered weren't the parents of the child but did seem to know the child and the parent(s) but quick to say that they have "no association with that family". They did, however, give me the name and a cell phone number for the child's mother. Called that number, which went right to voice mail. Left a message. No response. Called a couple of days later. Same result.
So here I am in possession of OLD portraits of an infant who is probably almost 5-years-old by now. I have dried them out and cleaned them off. Threw away a couple that were too damaged to keep. I guess I will put them in an envelope and wait for awhile. How long should I keep them before I determine that it's a lost cause??
How these pictures happened to be in the slush, I probably will never know. My daughter suggested that they could have been in someone's trash and just fell out...but no one lives next to me. I just want to do the right thing. I think I already have.
We'll see, won't we?
Hallelujah! (Or Words to That Effect)
Living on a fixed income is always a lesson in manipulation. The whole "fixed income" thing is probably misunderstood. When I was still teaching, my income was a fixed salary that changed according to a salary scale every year. But being on a pension in retirement, and somewhat disabled, is a whole other animal. Before retirement, I made enough that I didn't have to worry about too much, and when my daughter and grandchildren lived with me, our combined incomes stood us in good stead. She paid her way in spades. And then I retired and she and the children moved out.
So here I am, managing on my own. My pension comes in on the first of each month; my Social Security comes in on the second Wednesday of each month. I have it down to a pretty fine science to know what bills to pay out of which pay period, and it usually works, but sometimes things happen that throw things off. This month was one of those.
A couple of weeks ago, on one of my few excursions out, I was backing out of my drive--not even to the end of the drive yet--when I felt the brake pedal go all the way down to the floor. Oops! I crept back up the driveway and decided I wouldn't be going anywhere. I had a Valentine package to send to my daughter/grandchildren and needed to run to the store. Thankfully, my Helper James came to the rescue. He took me to the post office, the grocery...and drove my car (without brakes) to my car repair place of choice. (The story is actually a little more complicated than that, but that's the simplified version.) Because of timing and circumstances, I didn't get the car back for five days, but since I was already stocked with food and necessities, it was okay. The brake bill, plus a couple of other repair things came to $500 of money I had not anticipated. Also unanticipated was a $42 bill for my meds which were previously no charge. (Have to look into that.)
Then, too, because of the whole cold/snow thing, my gas and electric bills were higher than usual. More money that I didn't anticipate having to spend.
And so it goes every month. I pay the mortgage and buy groceries at the beginning of the month. The utilities come out on the middle of the month, and whatever is left is what I live on. Thus, saying that there is "too much month left at the end of the money" is often true. (I suspect it is that way with everyone!)
So here I am...savings depleted due to car repairs and money very, very close to the end of the black category...knowing that I only have two more days to survive until my pension comes through...and suddenly the heavens open and angels sing. Hallelujah! Glory to God in the highest--my federal tax return showed up in my bank account! Saved by Uncle Sam!
Things are not as austere as they sound, but I have to be careful with my funds. For the past two months, I've had to limit my expenditures (which were already limited by the weather) to get by.
But right now, I will live to see another day, financially. Hallelujah!
So here I am, managing on my own. My pension comes in on the first of each month; my Social Security comes in on the second Wednesday of each month. I have it down to a pretty fine science to know what bills to pay out of which pay period, and it usually works, but sometimes things happen that throw things off. This month was one of those.
A couple of weeks ago, on one of my few excursions out, I was backing out of my drive--not even to the end of the drive yet--when I felt the brake pedal go all the way down to the floor. Oops! I crept back up the driveway and decided I wouldn't be going anywhere. I had a Valentine package to send to my daughter/grandchildren and needed to run to the store. Thankfully, my Helper James came to the rescue. He took me to the post office, the grocery...and drove my car (without brakes) to my car repair place of choice. (The story is actually a little more complicated than that, but that's the simplified version.) Because of timing and circumstances, I didn't get the car back for five days, but since I was already stocked with food and necessities, it was okay. The brake bill, plus a couple of other repair things came to $500 of money I had not anticipated. Also unanticipated was a $42 bill for my meds which were previously no charge. (Have to look into that.)
Then, too, because of the whole cold/snow thing, my gas and electric bills were higher than usual. More money that I didn't anticipate having to spend.
And so it goes every month. I pay the mortgage and buy groceries at the beginning of the month. The utilities come out on the middle of the month, and whatever is left is what I live on. Thus, saying that there is "too much month left at the end of the money" is often true. (I suspect it is that way with everyone!)
So here I am...savings depleted due to car repairs and money very, very close to the end of the black category...knowing that I only have two more days to survive until my pension comes through...and suddenly the heavens open and angels sing. Hallelujah! Glory to God in the highest--my federal tax return showed up in my bank account! Saved by Uncle Sam!
Things are not as austere as they sound, but I have to be careful with my funds. For the past two months, I've had to limit my expenditures (which were already limited by the weather) to get by.
But right now, I will live to see another day, financially. Hallelujah!
Monday, February 10, 2014
My Kingdom for a DD214!!
If you are reading this as a military veteran, you'll understand. If not a veteran, I'll explain a little.
My brother, a veteran of the US Navy, died suddenly on the last day of 2005. I've written about this. He had disowned his only next of kin, his sisters, because he was angry with us about selling our family's farm. Yet it was up to his disowned sisters to provide him with a funeral befitting a brother and a veteran. He hadn't spoken to us for years, but we did the very best we could to send him off into the Hereafter with dignity and honor.
As far as we could determine, he wanted to be cremated and have his ashes scattered over the graves of our ancestors in a remote cemetery near Streator, IL. We did that on a perfectly horrible winter-weather day in mid-January of 2006. We would worry about a grave marker later. There was no "grave", although my family had plots in that cemetery reserved for us all. Still, he deserves a marker as a veteran, human being, and brother. The problem, of course, is that we didn't have access to his insurance money. Anything we do/did was "on us".
Well....now it is "later". Seven years later. Way past time to do something about a marker. Doug was a veteran of the US Navy. As such, he is entitled to a free military marker. I'm up for getting one for him...but there are issues. For one thing, the county's Recorder of Deeds office has no record of ownership of the cemetery plots where my parents and sister are buried...with other plots purchased for the rest of the Covill children. Then, too, I didn't know if the cemetery would accept a marker placed on a plot where no body was buried. Oh...and never mind that I don't have the marker yet. That's a huge issue!
I am in receipt of online forms to apply for military markers, but they require a copy of the veteran's DD214. Huh? I don't exactly know what a DD214 is except that if you want something out of the Veteran's Administration, you have to have the DD214, which is issued when a vet retires or is discharged. I clearly remember, when my parents retired in 1976 and were applying for Dad's Navy pension, they couldn't find Dad's DD214. A couple of times on the phone, Mom would yell in jest, "Where's the DD214??!" Obviously, they found it. But finding my brother's is out of the question. Doug wasn't speaking to us at the time that he died, and all of his personal effects, such as they were, were in control of his batty roommate at the time. If she had the DD214, she didn't know it was important...and we didn't think to ask for it even if she did. And she is now out of touch. No possibilities there.
So, here I am poised to get a marker for my bro. I've talked to the cemetery dude. I hope to hear from the funeral home in a return call. I've revisited the VA site to apply for the marker...even sent them an email which has since been returned as undeliverable. I have hoops to jump through without benefit of the DD214 in order to cough up a marker based on the info that I DO have. The ball is rolling. Hope I live long enough to see this project completed! In this age of computers and databases, why do I need a DD214 to validate my bro's service??????
Stay tuned. It has to get better, right?
My brother, a veteran of the US Navy, died suddenly on the last day of 2005. I've written about this. He had disowned his only next of kin, his sisters, because he was angry with us about selling our family's farm. Yet it was up to his disowned sisters to provide him with a funeral befitting a brother and a veteran. He hadn't spoken to us for years, but we did the very best we could to send him off into the Hereafter with dignity and honor.
As far as we could determine, he wanted to be cremated and have his ashes scattered over the graves of our ancestors in a remote cemetery near Streator, IL. We did that on a perfectly horrible winter-weather day in mid-January of 2006. We would worry about a grave marker later. There was no "grave", although my family had plots in that cemetery reserved for us all. Still, he deserves a marker as a veteran, human being, and brother. The problem, of course, is that we didn't have access to his insurance money. Anything we do/did was "on us".
Well....now it is "later". Seven years later. Way past time to do something about a marker. Doug was a veteran of the US Navy. As such, he is entitled to a free military marker. I'm up for getting one for him...but there are issues. For one thing, the county's Recorder of Deeds office has no record of ownership of the cemetery plots where my parents and sister are buried...with other plots purchased for the rest of the Covill children. Then, too, I didn't know if the cemetery would accept a marker placed on a plot where no body was buried. Oh...and never mind that I don't have the marker yet. That's a huge issue!
I am in receipt of online forms to apply for military markers, but they require a copy of the veteran's DD214. Huh? I don't exactly know what a DD214 is except that if you want something out of the Veteran's Administration, you have to have the DD214, which is issued when a vet retires or is discharged. I clearly remember, when my parents retired in 1976 and were applying for Dad's Navy pension, they couldn't find Dad's DD214. A couple of times on the phone, Mom would yell in jest, "Where's the DD214??!" Obviously, they found it. But finding my brother's is out of the question. Doug wasn't speaking to us at the time that he died, and all of his personal effects, such as they were, were in control of his batty roommate at the time. If she had the DD214, she didn't know it was important...and we didn't think to ask for it even if she did. And she is now out of touch. No possibilities there.
So, here I am poised to get a marker for my bro. I've talked to the cemetery dude. I hope to hear from the funeral home in a return call. I've revisited the VA site to apply for the marker...even sent them an email which has since been returned as undeliverable. I have hoops to jump through without benefit of the DD214 in order to cough up a marker based on the info that I DO have. The ball is rolling. Hope I live long enough to see this project completed! In this age of computers and databases, why do I need a DD214 to validate my bro's service??????
Stay tuned. It has to get better, right?
Sunday, February 9, 2014
The History of the World, According to My Aunt
Yes, Mary Nash, I still have an aunt!
(Mary Nash is a pre-teen friend of mine who happened to be at my house when I received a letter from my aunt. She exclaimed, "You still have an aunt???" It was cute!)
And what an aunt she is! The last remaining member of my mother's family--my mother's sister--she is a force to be reckoned with. Aunt Rosie is the last repository of family info. The last possible source of stories that died off with the rest of her kin. Next month, Aunt Ro will be 91. She lives with her only son in a country house near Rutland, IL. Her son never married and has always lived with his parents, except for a stint in the Army during the Vietnam Era. Her husband/his father died quite a number of years ago.
Stubborn? You'd better believe Aunt Ro is stubborn! Every stubborn gene the Armstrong family ever had was deposited in my dear aunt. (Her son is no less so.) I heard stories about how she insisted that Paxton, IL, was north of Chicago, but when a map was produced to show her otherwise, she said the map was wrong! Yeah...THAT kind of stubborn! Over the history of the family, Aunt Ro was always sideways with someone--my mom, my dad, her brother, her sister-in-law, her husband's sister--you name it. No matter the issue, the common denominator was always Aunt Ro. She has to have her villains.
We have all known that about Aunt Ro and have tried to avoid it. I seem to be the least successful in achieving Teflon status. It isn't that I haven't tried, but because I was always closest to the family and was honest, I found myself squarely in the line of fire for blame for whatever the perceived wrong was at the moment. Aunt Ro's son is just two weeks younger than I. We were thrown together a lot as children. To hear Aunt Ro tell the tales, I was the brains and her son was the brawn of every bad escapade that ever happened. We supposedly cracked a crate of eggs all over our grandfather's car. I don't know. I was too young to remember it. But every time I hear the story, it changes a bit.
Back in the mid-90s, some things happened in the family that created some drama. I got blamed. I wasn't the guilty party, but there was no dissuading Aunt Ro. Thereafter, we had very little contact. SAD! Last weekend, I took the bull by the horns and decided to be the hero. I called her. We talked about things that weren't controversial. It was pleasant. I told her that I wanted to stay in touch. She seemed amenable to that but said that her son would probably never get on board with that. (I never did crap to him, so I don't know what his problem is.) And then I got her letter....
In the letter, my aunt gave me clues about how to obtain a military marker for my brother's grave in light of the fact that we don't have his military records. And then she went off on other things that had nothing to do with that...things that have apparently been on her mind. It was her way of telling me off after all these years. All of it, of course, was couched in her perception of being in "the know".
For one whole day, I was stricken and stunned. And angry. The fairness gene in my body desperately wanted to retaliate and defend myself. Then I realized: this is Aunt Rosie. Nothing I can say or do will change her perceptions, so I decided to give it up. I picked up the phone and called her, and I will continue to do so as long as she will answer. The conversation was only long enough to talk about the original issue which is getting a military marker for my brother's grave. It's all good.
Character that she is...revisionist historian that she is...she is still my mother's sister and my last living aunt. And I love her, flaws and all.
(Mary Nash is a pre-teen friend of mine who happened to be at my house when I received a letter from my aunt. She exclaimed, "You still have an aunt???" It was cute!)
And what an aunt she is! The last remaining member of my mother's family--my mother's sister--she is a force to be reckoned with. Aunt Rosie is the last repository of family info. The last possible source of stories that died off with the rest of her kin. Next month, Aunt Ro will be 91. She lives with her only son in a country house near Rutland, IL. Her son never married and has always lived with his parents, except for a stint in the Army during the Vietnam Era. Her husband/his father died quite a number of years ago.
Stubborn? You'd better believe Aunt Ro is stubborn! Every stubborn gene the Armstrong family ever had was deposited in my dear aunt. (Her son is no less so.) I heard stories about how she insisted that Paxton, IL, was north of Chicago, but when a map was produced to show her otherwise, she said the map was wrong! Yeah...THAT kind of stubborn! Over the history of the family, Aunt Ro was always sideways with someone--my mom, my dad, her brother, her sister-in-law, her husband's sister--you name it. No matter the issue, the common denominator was always Aunt Ro. She has to have her villains.
We have all known that about Aunt Ro and have tried to avoid it. I seem to be the least successful in achieving Teflon status. It isn't that I haven't tried, but because I was always closest to the family and was honest, I found myself squarely in the line of fire for blame for whatever the perceived wrong was at the moment. Aunt Ro's son is just two weeks younger than I. We were thrown together a lot as children. To hear Aunt Ro tell the tales, I was the brains and her son was the brawn of every bad escapade that ever happened. We supposedly cracked a crate of eggs all over our grandfather's car. I don't know. I was too young to remember it. But every time I hear the story, it changes a bit.
Back in the mid-90s, some things happened in the family that created some drama. I got blamed. I wasn't the guilty party, but there was no dissuading Aunt Ro. Thereafter, we had very little contact. SAD! Last weekend, I took the bull by the horns and decided to be the hero. I called her. We talked about things that weren't controversial. It was pleasant. I told her that I wanted to stay in touch. She seemed amenable to that but said that her son would probably never get on board with that. (I never did crap to him, so I don't know what his problem is.) And then I got her letter....
In the letter, my aunt gave me clues about how to obtain a military marker for my brother's grave in light of the fact that we don't have his military records. And then she went off on other things that had nothing to do with that...things that have apparently been on her mind. It was her way of telling me off after all these years. All of it, of course, was couched in her perception of being in "the know".
For one whole day, I was stricken and stunned. And angry. The fairness gene in my body desperately wanted to retaliate and defend myself. Then I realized: this is Aunt Rosie. Nothing I can say or do will change her perceptions, so I decided to give it up. I picked up the phone and called her, and I will continue to do so as long as she will answer. The conversation was only long enough to talk about the original issue which is getting a military marker for my brother's grave. It's all good.
Character that she is...revisionist historian that she is...she is still my mother's sister and my last living aunt. And I love her, flaws and all.
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
My Snowed-In Mind
As I sit in my snowed-in little house-on-a-slab, in my snowed-in state of Indiana, my mind wanders. That shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone. What else is there to do when one lives alone? My computer is my window on the world, and my television is the source of the background noise that would otherwise be conversation with another human being. I eat. I sleep. I putter around the house. And the rest of the time, my imagination takes over. At least I don't talk to myself. Yet.
Several times lately, my brain has gone back to the day just before Christmas that my family was here to exchange presents just before they left for their vacation in Florida. Some years, I am totally happy with what I have purchased for everyone. Other years, I'm not. This year was, in my mind, somewhat cut-and-dried. I decided that I would purchase stocking stuffers for everyone, plus one gift to open for each...and the rest would be in cash for their trip. What I got for my grandchildren was, basically, just fluff--impulsive purchases that I thought would please them and/or keep them occupied in the long drive ahead. The cash for the children, however, was to be more than usual. Since they would be going to Disney World, I wanted them to have their own money to spend on souvenirs...so I budgeted $75 apiece for them. Not bad for kids so young (11 and 9), I thought. I never expect children to be excited over a cash gift. It's not something to play with, but I had already asked both grandkids what they wanted for Christmas and got no hints. Nothing. Nada. Even their mother couldn't help with that. So they got what they got.
What I didn't know (and didn't find out until the night they got here) was that Ryan (my grandson) wanted a Play Station 3. "It's all I want for Christmas," he told me. I had to tell him that it was too late to tell me that NOW. He knew. He had apparently been lobbying with his mother and stepfather about that, but they had deemed it too expensive. They were prepared to spend a bunch on the kids' gifts, but not quite that much. I didn't know anything about that.
The family was to leave for Florida the very next day. The other grandparents joined us here for a gift exchange before they departed. It was a whirlwind. Drop off the cat, unwrap presents, make a mess, eat, repack, and leave. Whew!
At gift exchange time, Ryan was sitting next to me. He seemed somewhat unimpressed (although not ungrateful) with the presents that he opened. Then he got to the envelope with his money in it. He exclaimed, "Seventy-five dollars!" And for reasons I didn't understand, I could sense the wheels grinding in his head. I left the room to do some things in the kitchen, thinking that was the end of that.
A few minutes later, Ryan came into the kitchen to tell me that the $75 I gave him had just provided him with his PS-3. In the few moments that I was out of the room, he had negotiated with his mother. If he gave her his $75, he could have his desired present as soon as they got to Florida. He just wanted me to know that my gift had facilitated that for him. He was a happy boy.
I didn't understand the importance of the moment to him. If I had, I might have rejoiced with him more than I did. I hadn't been a party to his pre-Christmas lobbying, nor did I witness the money trade when I was in the kitchen. I hadn't known that the PS-3 was such a big deal for him....but it was. It was only days later that it sank in. He could easily have traded his souvenir money for his PS-3 without saying a word to me, but he came to tell me about it as his way of saying thank you.
Ryan is a boy. I never raised a boy. I helped raise a stepson, but I didn't totally understand Eric, and I don't totally understand Ryan. I only know that he and I have become just a tad closer as he and I get older. He feels things much deeper than any of us comprehend, but because of his behavior sometimes, it doesn't always come through. He and I have had moments of clarity that let me know that we, as a family, haven't always done right by him. I hurt about that. Thankfully, I can believe in his resilience and intelligence, and hope for the best. Ry has expressed several times to me that he knows that grandparents are supposed to spoil their grandchildren. I do my absolute best to live up to that!
So, in the vernacular joke in my family, I "done good" at Christmas. In the long run, it probably means nothing, but my snowed-in mind enjoys revisiting the precious moments. They are so few and far between!
Several times lately, my brain has gone back to the day just before Christmas that my family was here to exchange presents just before they left for their vacation in Florida. Some years, I am totally happy with what I have purchased for everyone. Other years, I'm not. This year was, in my mind, somewhat cut-and-dried. I decided that I would purchase stocking stuffers for everyone, plus one gift to open for each...and the rest would be in cash for their trip. What I got for my grandchildren was, basically, just fluff--impulsive purchases that I thought would please them and/or keep them occupied in the long drive ahead. The cash for the children, however, was to be more than usual. Since they would be going to Disney World, I wanted them to have their own money to spend on souvenirs...so I budgeted $75 apiece for them. Not bad for kids so young (11 and 9), I thought. I never expect children to be excited over a cash gift. It's not something to play with, but I had already asked both grandkids what they wanted for Christmas and got no hints. Nothing. Nada. Even their mother couldn't help with that. So they got what they got.
What I didn't know (and didn't find out until the night they got here) was that Ryan (my grandson) wanted a Play Station 3. "It's all I want for Christmas," he told me. I had to tell him that it was too late to tell me that NOW. He knew. He had apparently been lobbying with his mother and stepfather about that, but they had deemed it too expensive. They were prepared to spend a bunch on the kids' gifts, but not quite that much. I didn't know anything about that.
The family was to leave for Florida the very next day. The other grandparents joined us here for a gift exchange before they departed. It was a whirlwind. Drop off the cat, unwrap presents, make a mess, eat, repack, and leave. Whew!
At gift exchange time, Ryan was sitting next to me. He seemed somewhat unimpressed (although not ungrateful) with the presents that he opened. Then he got to the envelope with his money in it. He exclaimed, "Seventy-five dollars!" And for reasons I didn't understand, I could sense the wheels grinding in his head. I left the room to do some things in the kitchen, thinking that was the end of that.
A few minutes later, Ryan came into the kitchen to tell me that the $75 I gave him had just provided him with his PS-3. In the few moments that I was out of the room, he had negotiated with his mother. If he gave her his $75, he could have his desired present as soon as they got to Florida. He just wanted me to know that my gift had facilitated that for him. He was a happy boy.
I didn't understand the importance of the moment to him. If I had, I might have rejoiced with him more than I did. I hadn't been a party to his pre-Christmas lobbying, nor did I witness the money trade when I was in the kitchen. I hadn't known that the PS-3 was such a big deal for him....but it was. It was only days later that it sank in. He could easily have traded his souvenir money for his PS-3 without saying a word to me, but he came to tell me about it as his way of saying thank you.
Ryan is a boy. I never raised a boy. I helped raise a stepson, but I didn't totally understand Eric, and I don't totally understand Ryan. I only know that he and I have become just a tad closer as he and I get older. He feels things much deeper than any of us comprehend, but because of his behavior sometimes, it doesn't always come through. He and I have had moments of clarity that let me know that we, as a family, haven't always done right by him. I hurt about that. Thankfully, I can believe in his resilience and intelligence, and hope for the best. Ry has expressed several times to me that he knows that grandparents are supposed to spoil their grandchildren. I do my absolute best to live up to that!
So, in the vernacular joke in my family, I "done good" at Christmas. In the long run, it probably means nothing, but my snowed-in mind enjoys revisiting the precious moments. They are so few and far between!
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