Monday, December 16, 2013
Friday, December 13, 2013
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Kind Gestures — Writing, Calling Cards and Greeting's
I asked the clerk why her register was prompted to verify ID for Epson salt sales. She replied that people are using it to get high. As an afterthought the clerk asked for my ID, I believe that she thought she might get in trouble now for not asking. I pulled it out and handed it over. She says Happy Birthday grinning and continues on.
The guy in the next aisle hears her and contributes "Happy Birthday, is this a milestone?"
"They're all milestones now." I replied.
Another gentleman behind me chuckled and said "Happy Birthday."
I thanked them all and thought how sincere they seemed. I think it's because we all relate to a birthday's significance, a special day – inclusive of everyone. And a nice change from the "Paper or plastic?" or "Have a nice day" greetings.
Birthdays — I prefer to have them pass stealthily, like two ships in the night. Or do I? Why do I post my birth date to Facebook, minus the year of course? Am I leaving an inconspicuous s-elfie...elf on the shelf…find me claim me — because secretly, I don't want to pass into obscurity? Do I yearn for the childhood clarification of the daisy? He loves me....She loves me not.
No, not really. For me, it is a yearning to keep an increasingly distant world closer. There are still people who like to wish glad tidings, Happy Birthday's and Thank You's —and I am one of them. And receiving is not so bad either. It's like getting a mailbox full of cards...or a bag full of Valentines. Subtle reminders that we can still reach out to each other in ways that are socially acceptable.
I thought of the social media delivery system of the 1800's. The calling card— personal ephemera brought tp the home of the intended with a request to visit at some time.
It was highly unlikely that you would see the person that particular day. As a gesture to show that you thought of them, you left a calling card stating that you hoped to visit in person sometime. A steward would answer the door, retrieve your card and place it in a dish near the entry way.
The recipient would then go through her/his cards at their leisure, sending a courier to respond with one of their own cards if they accepted the invitation. If not, no reply was given. The cards were ornate and represented the style and likes of the giver, much like the business card today.
Fast forward a century or so, now with the tip of our finger, we can poke someone, post someone or poach someone from anywhere around the globe.
My phone vibrates on the counter. It's a calling card from the ya ya's. "Let's meet at sunrise tomorrow at IOP in pajamas with chairs and toddy's to start the day!" I send my courier back with a tap. "Yes!"
When the clock buzzed at 5 a.m., I gathered the necessities; Thermos, fuzzy slippers, monkey pajamas, Gremlin big eared hat. Ten minutes later I was quietly giving phone directions to the beautiful, lost, dysfunctional, blind ass ya ya's as they missed the exit three times. Long Point Road? Westvaco? North Charleston? Wth? Their excuse, We saw the road name and exit, but it didn't say north or south. And —I know we've been there before, but it was daylight.
We still made it to Isle of Palms for the sunrise with time to spare, a better morning I can't remember. We laughed, drank breakfast and relished the gifts of companionship — the likes of which make you glad you have birthdays.
I was back home before Don even knew I was gone. The smell of bacon and pancakes lured him into the kitchen. Sleepy eyes handed me the most beautiful handwritten card I have ever received. I am going to share a line because it was so profoundly encouraging —Who we are, why we are and how totally important this day is.
"Before time, God set you in motion to be born on this day in 1958, and nothing in life has ever been the same —nor will it ever be, for eternity."
That may very well be the most beautiful thing that has ever been uttered to me.
On my way out of the door that evening I opened my mailbox. I pulled out two letters. One is a birthday card from my NC friend that has not missed my birthday for 26 years. Her cards are always a source of joy – albeit grounded with a few good digs on our ~endurance~
Now let's see what this other is.....Oh....my AARP card...seriously?
After a wonderful dinner and play. I came home fluffed the pillows and crawled into bed with my Kindle. Don peeps in to see me squinting as I typed out ~Thank You~ cards to the birthday wishes in my mailbox and on my Facebook page.
Knowing I was about to let the Kindle flop over and fall asleep, Don tried to guide it out of my hands..."No, I am almost finished. I wanted to personally thank every person who took the time out of their day to wish me a Happy Birthday!" Yeah...birthdays are good.
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
JFK, 50 Years Later, The Southern Connection
Although I wasn't quite five years old, I remember watching it unfold on a black and white TV in a Chicago brownstone. My mother and a neighbor were crying, I really didn't know what was going on, but I cried too. I felt much better later that night, because Little Joe on Bonanza didn't seem to be too upset about it.
I am sure everyone can recite JFK's " Ask not ...." speech phrase. Even though he had many brilliant speeches, I have always been moved more that his actions were a reflection of his works. i.e., his steadfast leadership during the Cuban Missile Crisis. I had read historical accounts of the 14 day nail biter, but Don's emphatic word verbatim recall of every single documentary he has watched on the subject have ~learned~ me the most.
The crisis was a 14 day nuclear dare — standoff near Cuba with Russia that could have obliterated the entire eastern seaboard. Kennedy, although missiles in place and targets in sight, remained coolheaded even when an American U-2 plane was shot down. The world breathed a huge sigh of relief when negotiations between America and Moscow were reached.
The standoff formally ended at 6:45 pm EST on November 20, 1962. The tense negotiations between the United States and the Soviet Union pointed out the necessity of a quick, clear and direct communication between Washington and Moscow. As a result, a direct telephone link between the leaders of the two countries was established. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cuban_missile_crisis
My friend and I, a navy vet, were messaging back and forth late in the evening, recounting our memories of JFK, his death and legacy. She told me "Long ago and far away, when I was a senior in high school in Bergenfield, NJ--just across the Hudson River from Manhattan, the Cuban missile crisis was happening. So many of my classmates were scared that the missiles would hit New York City, and possibly us as well. I thought the world of John Kennedy, and had complete faith in him--he was one of those presidents that you could say the man made the presidency, rather than the presidency made the man."
In response I tapped out this story;
"I went to Patriots Point in Charleston this past summer to do a story on the USS-Yorktown. For reasons I told her, but didn't type out here, the story fell through.
As I normally do when rejected (before toddy time) I searched for food. I stepped into line at the snack bar. They have meals on the Yorktown, but I needed a quick fix. An old guy stood behind me in prideful vet regalia.
I turned and told him that they served meals in the mess hall on the Yorktown. He smiled and told that he had seen enough mess halls to last a lifetime.
We got to talking about my failed story somehow and he said "I have one for you. Short and sweet. I was stationed on (??????) naval ship near the Bay of Pigs during Cuban Missile Crisis. It was a very stressful time for us, we were grateful to leave. When it was over we high tailed it back to the US and ported at (??????)”
I am juggling a hot dog, guzzler, notebook and pocketbook now as he eases up to the window to place his order. Ketchup is threatening to drip from the end of my unnaturally swollen steamed frank, but he has my attention so I lean on the snack bar and wait for him to continue.
"Well, we had leave and my buddies got drunk in Washington, DC and didn't want to go with me early on a Sunday morning to find a church. So, I went by myself.
I climbed the steps of an Irish Catholic church. No one was there, it was very early but the doors were open and candles gleaming. When I walked in, a tall gentleman got up off his knees slowly and turned to leave. I walked up the (?????) altar to light a candle. As we started to pass each other, he stuck out his hand. It was JFK! He thanked me for all I've done for my country and I thanked him for all that he does and we parted. I told my buddies when I got back to the ship when they finally woke up, damn drunks never believed it."
The vet and I talked for a few minutes while I woofed down the dog and I thanked him for the story and his service and we went our separate ways.
So, I click send and the message goes to NC to my friend. I piddled around the house the next morning, kicking myself for not writing down the facts — Church? Ship? Port name? to write his story up when I hear the beep that a message came in on my computer.
My friend responds, "Never trust an old sailor"
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
Stuffing outside? Stuffing Inside...Cross the Turkey Legs? Tie them?
Some read —no onion— no celery, no salad dressing, substitute sweet pickle relish...
All are little clues to our family's likes and dislikes. Some of the likes have waned over the years while some of the dislikes are tolerated now.
So, it's said that our taste buds change every seven years. Well— every seven years since I was 12, mine still say hell no to a particular dish. A deep south dish that may even be a delicacy now. Who would have thought pig belly and Scrapple would be served as delicacies‘? Anyway, my throw up a little in my mouth dish is Rutabagas’ and Pig Tails Perlous. A one pot combo of curly pig tails and bega's amidst a steaming bed of rice.
Seriously doesn't a rutabaga sound like something that you'd grab a stick to fight off?
We probably all have a bad food memory. Even the most adventurous foodie will throw their hands in the air, tighten their lips like a vise and shudder when offered their offender again.
Then — there are those dishes that require counseling to get over. I don't know the story and I won't press, but Corned Beef and Cabbage has been introduced every seven years for the duration of our marriage, always resulting with the push it around the plate while feigning fullness act. I retired it officially last year when Don literally prayed out loud "Lord, if you see fit, will you please banish Corned Beef and Cabbage from this earth."
Sometimes we can work through those early palate scars. As is the case with Don's favorite ~Not So Red Meatloaf~ closely followed by the other favorite ~Not So Red Rice.~ Apparently his mother was heavy on the Heinz. A prodigal of the 50's one pot dinner, his mother's meatloaf recipe mirrored every cook's on the block — 3 day old bread, eggs, a little hamburger and a bottle of ketchup with more squirted on top.
Let me tell you how it was in the good ole days. No, I didn't walk ten miles to school in five feet of snow in the one pair of shoes but — in my early days – there was one meal cooked and you either liked it or you asked to be excused with beef liver secretly cupped in your hand to throw out the back door to the dog.
There were 13 years between myself and my baby brother. Times had relaxed somewhat, but my siblings and I still shook our heads in disbelief when his request of washing the red off of his Spagettio's was honored. Not to mention his hot dog skin getting peeled off.
Our taste and little idiosyncrasies are spared the public most of the time, Thank God.
So, it's said that our taste buds change every seven years. Well— every seven years since I was 12, mine still say hell no to a particular dish. A deep south dish that may even be a delicacy now. Who would have thought pig belly and Scrapple would be served as delicacies‘? Anyway, my throw up a little in my mouth dish is Rutabagas’ and Pig Tails Perlous. A one pot combo of curly pig tails and bega's amidst a steaming bed of rice.
Seriously doesn't a rutabaga sound like something that you'd grab a stick to fight off?
We probably all have a bad food memory. Even the most adventurous foodie will throw their hands in the air, tighten their lips like a vise and shudder when offered their offender again.
Then — there are those dishes that require counseling to get over. I don't know the story and I won't press, but Corned Beef and Cabbage has been introduced every seven years for the duration of our marriage, always resulting with the push it around the plate while feigning fullness act. I retired it officially last year when Don literally prayed out loud "Lord, if you see fit, will you please banish Corned Beef and Cabbage from this earth."
Sometimes we can work through those early palate scars. As is the case with Don's favorite ~Not So Red Meatloaf~ closely followed by the other favorite ~Not So Red Rice.~ Apparently his mother was heavy on the Heinz. A prodigal of the 50's one pot dinner, his mother's meatloaf recipe mirrored every cook's on the block — 3 day old bread, eggs, a little hamburger and a bottle of ketchup with more squirted on top.
Let me tell you how it was in the good ole days. No, I didn't walk ten miles to school in five feet of snow in the one pair of shoes but — in my early days – there was one meal cooked and you either liked it or you asked to be excused with beef liver secretly cupped in your hand to throw out the back door to the dog.
There were 13 years between myself and my baby brother. Times had relaxed somewhat, but my siblings and I still shook our heads in disbelief when his request of washing the red off of his Spagettio's was honored. Not to mention his hot dog skin getting peeled off.
Our taste and little idiosyncrasies are spared the public most of the time, Thank God.
Myself, I am the precise food surgeon. For example —Ravioli. I lift the Ravioli from the pan with a slotted spoon so that I don't get a lot of juice — then for the next half hour– with only the tongs of the fork, I surgically remove the top off of each ravioli and eat it. next the square of mystery meat and finally the bottom Ravioli shell. Lasagna can be a eating marathon. I am also a vocal eater the one that sounds like Meg Ryan in "Harry Met Sally" over dinner.
Sometimes our little food peculiarities are habitually inherited. i.e., My sister and I like to roll up fresh loaf bread in our hands into small balls of dough and eat them. Our grandmother did the same thing.
Don, he is a sleep walking forager. He has no memories later of what he ate most of the time. I can't count the times I have checked him for a heart beat after finding the alarming orange striped ~Cheetos~ pillow at daybreak.
Our oldest daughter could sniff out an onion in a manure factory. She ate like a bird, the other three kids loved her at dinner because she could pass off what she didn't want most discreetly.
Our oldest son had a broad base of food likes, like his daddy. But if he didn't like it? He could cause quite a standoff at the table. May I be excused? ...No... May I be excused? No.....May I be excused? Yesssssss! Go!!!
Our youngest son and daughter, as it usually goes were the food guppies. Our youngest son's logic if he didn't particularly care for the meal line up was to kill it with ketchup. And our youngest daughter was usually the last at at the table to see if anything else would come her way. Hence the nickname her grand-daddy gave her "Billy Goat."
On Thanksgiving, there was always a dish that was most favored by each. I can see each of their faces as they stand over their favorite fork in hand and ready for the Amen.
Sometimes our little food peculiarities are habitually inherited. i.e., My sister and I like to roll up fresh loaf bread in our hands into small balls of dough and eat them. Our grandmother did the same thing.
Don, he is a sleep walking forager. He has no memories later of what he ate most of the time. I can't count the times I have checked him for a heart beat after finding the alarming orange striped ~Cheetos~ pillow at daybreak.
Our oldest daughter could sniff out an onion in a manure factory. She ate like a bird, the other three kids loved her at dinner because she could pass off what she didn't want most discreetly.
Our oldest son had a broad base of food likes, like his daddy. But if he didn't like it? He could cause quite a standoff at the table. May I be excused? ...No... May I be excused? No.....May I be excused? Yesssssss! Go!!!
Our youngest son and daughter, as it usually goes were the food guppies. Our youngest son's logic if he didn't particularly care for the meal line up was to kill it with ketchup. And our youngest daughter was usually the last at at the table to see if anything else would come her way. Hence the nickname her grand-daddy gave her "Billy Goat."
On Thanksgiving, there was always a dish that was most favored by each. I can see each of their faces as they stand over their favorite fork in hand and ready for the Amen.
Turkey/Giblet Gravy
Oyster Dressing
Green Bean Casserole
Baked Macaroni and Cheese Pie
Baked Ham
Green Bean Casserole
Baked Macaroni and Cheese Pie
Baked Ham
Deviled Eggs
Cherry Cheesecake
Cranberry Sauce
Cherry Cheesecake
Cranberry Sauce
Pumpkin Pie
Whether they make it to our table or share their traditions elsewhere, their dish is always part of the menu lineup.
I put the cards back in the recipe box. Whether you gather with friends or stay at home, look over your food choices at the Thanksgiving table and you'll see a cook who tried to make something special for everyone. Bless the cook, or cooks.
Whether they make it to our table or share their traditions elsewhere, their dish is always part of the menu lineup.
I put the cards back in the recipe box. Whether you gather with friends or stay at home, look over your food choices at the Thanksgiving table and you'll see a cook who tried to make something special for everyone. Bless the cook, or cooks.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Friday, November 8, 2013
Getting Hyped For The Holidays!
It's the first week of November. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't started a Thanksgiving dinner shopping list. The radio station announced this morning that it's going to play continuous Christmas music on iheart (by consumer choice) for any listeners that want to get a jump on the holiday. I'm tempted, (for a chuckle and to see what they would play) to call and request Thanksgiving music. I nixed the idea, mostly because I am grateful they gave me the choice to opt out of the forced 8 weeks of Christmas music. I'm a little burnt out, the ice cream truck in my neighborhood has been playing ~Here comes Santa Claus~ since July.
I don't really want to get on the bandwagon of the early bird bashers. The holiday's mean something different to all of us and bless their hearts if they want to get the glitter and tinsel out at Halloween, that's fine with me. The truth is that I can hardly contain my own self, it's on like Calgon on December 1st for me. A personal choice....there's really nothing appealing about dusting ornaments on my Christmas tree. I will admit to peeking in closets early and searching for the ~first~ decorations,one being a fruit cake doorstop. And I'll admit to sniffing the essential oils to conjure up a batch of Christmas soap.
But for now, I am excited about Thanksgiving and all of our family's simple steadfast traditions. The grocery store shopping for that magnificent meal, Wishbone wishes, Don's surprise side dish, leftovers and my personal favorite— The Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade! There are no expectations other than showing up with an empty stomach to share good food with family, friends and hopefully a few new friends, passerby's or strangers. Yep, let the mat at the door mean what it says. Welcome.
I will spend the next 3 weeks in this season. The one that holds the memories of a refrigerator brimming with kid art...paper plates painted with five finger turkey's and stick pilgrims. And every day of this season I will be thankful that it's those memories that remain. Not the hurts and differences. Isn't that similar to Thanksgiving's true origins? Putting down the rifles..the tomahawks and opening the fort doors?
Over the next few weeks, my cabinets will fill, the refrigerator will groan and the grocery list will get longer. I just added another dish this morning, I'm going to try a (new for me) southern Thanksgiving recipe, Oyster Pie!
Happy Thanksgiving Season everyone! Let me share my favorite Thanksgiving song with you!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=64RuZZxpUaQ
Monday, October 28, 2013
Spring Forward, Fall Back...
September 22 may have been the Equinox first day of fall, the factual season change. But my actual season awakening begins when nature prods my body to respond to what it is offering, in this case the first cold (ish) fall morning in the lowcountry this year!
Snowy prodded me to the coffee pot, her cold wet nose on my heel. No, she doesn't drink coffee, but the sooner I get that first cup in me...the quicker she gets her bowl filled. When the percolator started gurgling I shivered and moseyed over to the thermostat, 62 brisk degrees inside! I zipped open the patio blinds to check out the budding sunrise. Glorious!
Opening the door, I put my bare toes onto the cool concrete and that was it. Within minutes I was standing near the marsh watching that ball of fire climb slowly over the Wando River. I wanted to run into the glowing magnificent sphere as if it had a form that I could embrace. Not tangible, but —a little leprechaun think never hurt anyone.
While the sun inched upward I did some pensive posturing (try not to picture that) recalling past mornings similar to this one, not dictated by a date on the calendar. I had my own ~Fall Back~ if you will.
There was the crisp morning on a winding road in NC when I pulled the car over just to hear the colored leaves skip across the asphalt and over the edge of a guard railed cliff.
And another when I left my drive in NC to buy eggs on a cool, blue skied mountain morning during peak leaf change season. My windshield became a slideshow of Bob Ross painting's around every bend. I ended up 1 1/2 hours away on the Blue Ridge Parkway in Virginia. And if it weren't for seeing Nancy's Candy Factory in Meadows of Dan Virginia, I'd of probably continued on. I bought chocolate's and headed back down the mountain and home...without the eggs.
And then an all time favorite, ~My Rock~ at Hanging Rock Park. No, it wasn't all mine, squatter's rights. I spied it from the bottom of a waterfall gorge one day and worked my way back up to it. Park guidance signs sent most hikers' to the right on a forged beaten path to the falls. To the left– a big brown sign read ~Warning, serious injury or death could occur beyond this point!~
I threaded around the sign and gate through the woods. The path grass lay flat from the occasional cruise of a park ranger 4-wheeler. Begalite's clung to my jeans. Beg-a-lite, a Southern euphemism for a type of plant seed that sticks to your clothes as you walk through tall grasses, a hitchhiker.
About a mile into the dense forest I could hear the sound of water spilling from the mountain onto forged rocks far below. And then there it was, just like that.... the woods ended and a nature carved catwalk rock jutted 12 feet out into the blue horizon just below the tree tops. I walked to the end of the overhanging rock, lay down flat and put my face to it's cold surface. The falls slid off of the mountain to my left and could be loud or quiet, depending on the amount of rainfall in the recent weeks. I watched the water rush 120 feet down the mountain rocks to pool below in it's basin surrounded by mounds of colorful just beyond peak leaves. I knew it was fall.
More recently, (another trip to the grocery store) a cool breeze through my open car window and blue skies magically turned my blinker to the left on Hwy 41 instead of the right. A dense patch of angel oaks and an old fence caught my eye to the left and I whipped around and pulled into the sandy drive. I ended up in a crumbling pre-Revolutionary church yard and cemetery. It was waaaay cool! Stay tuned, that story is coming soon.
Season's change in un-expected places, hidden in plain view. Each season has it's own mysteries and wonders. Wonder's that I didn't get to this season (like checking out that overgrown path where I saw a man emerge with his fishing pole or slipping in to a gated proposed Charleston County Park) will have to wait for a nature nudged morning in the spring.
All in all, the untamed volatile state of the universe that rejects our time and date stamps both excites me and humbles me and I sure hope it stays that way.
The Factual: Daylight Savings Time.
Daylight Savings time is a change in the standard time with the purpose of getting better use of the daylight by having the sun rise one hour later in the morning and set one hour later in the evening. DST was first initiated by Germany on May 1, 1916 during World War I in an effort to conserve fuel. US followed sporadically in 1918 giving states the opt in or out and has tweaked the DST system periodically since then.
Exceptions to the Daylight Savings initiative are Arizona, excluding the Navajo Nation, which does observe daylight saving time, Hawaii and the overseas territories of Puerto Rico, American Samoa, Guam, Northern Mariana Islands, and the United States Virgin Islands.
The Actual: Sunday night on November 2nd, I will set that clock back an hour, but— Monday morning my body is going to know it and I will be up coffee in hand at 4:30 am instead of 5:30. And for a full month, I will say "Oh my gosh, it's only 6:30 p.m!" To which Don will reply "But, it's really 7:30."
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
It's Halloween Ghouls and Boo's
Well, maybe I can just look for a few things in this closet. Within minutes the quest bed and floor were covered with pumpkins, ghost, ravens, spider webs and gooey eyeballs.
Within an hour a spooky spread adorned the kitchen table. A few last touches (like setting up the antique sepia toned photo's of non-smiling relatives) and I was headed to the store for batteries. It didn't take Don long to get in the swing either. While I was headed out the door, he says." Get some of those lighting pumpkins and cobwebs for the tree and something scary for they yard."
When I walked into the grocery store the ladies at Starbucks were handing out samples. Pumpkin Spice Latte's, my official start of fall festivities. Chocolate covered cherries initiate my Christmas kickoff. I inhaled the latte first and wiped the whipped cream off of my nose. Aaaahh, Let the memories begin.
I love everything about October. The cool mornings and evenings, chicken stews, oyster roast's, candy corn. The Charleston leaf change season. Ok...that's stretching it a bit.
Then there's the Coastal Carolina Fair! October 1st through November 10th. Woo Hoo..There is nothing like stepping out of my car onto the rutted dirt parking lot to the wafting aromas of cotton candy, candy apples and elephant ears.
I close my eyes and I'm there already! Early arriver's pass by me leaving with tired children. A daddy maneuvers’ the crowd with a huge stuffed bear on his head (that he won for $50)
As I get closer the lights and sounds intensify – The kiddie park bumper park music blends with the thumping of the Scrambler music, riders squeal while being tossed about on their rides. Cows bleat and chickens squawk at the AG barnyards. The Ferris Wheel lights hypnotize me while strobe lights to the left and right of me beckon to come throw my money away. As I exited through the flashing arch, I glanced back for a final look as the music fades. The empty field that became an adrenaline fueled night will be gone within days for another year.
But, all is well. Because ...Halloween memories come next. And to clarify –Yes, this is how it works with me, little mini bytes of memories as I cruise the aisles of the grocery store.
I see the kids in their many costumes. Memories of my own, a Casper sweaty face from a real rubber mask in the 60's, going from brownstone to brownstone in Chicago yelling Trick or Treat, old pillow cases brimming with goodies and.....the disappearing candy. I know there were at least ten Snicker bars in my bag when I went to bed.
I almost laughed out loud on the toothpaste aisle when I remembered the kids muttering under their breath when they trick or treated a dentist's house and received toothbrushes.
What is your favorite Halloween memory? Think for a minute.Was it that big zero bar in your bucket? Was it the coolest costume ever? Did the magic end when your mask laid by your bed?
There is still some magic left. Living in the south where boo hags, haints and hags are respected with mustard seed , upturned broom handles, bottle tree's and haint blue ceilings. One needn't travel far for inspiration. But, if nothing else trips the trigger...try the Pumpkin Spice Latte'
Seriously, share your fave Halloween memory.
Friday, October 4, 2013
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
Monday, September 30, 2013
The Humbling Hives and Handicap Cart
Quinoa! Well Hell's Bell's – should have known. I am allergic to several grains — Whole wheat, granola, some combo's of niacin, malt. No Colt 45's for me. Wth? Anyway, I took two Benadryl and scratched myself most of the morning.
Mid afternoon I'm on my way to CVS to get more Benadryl. I'm just cruising along and talking to my daughter on the phone when my throat started closing up.
"Gotta let you go sweetie." I said, trying not to alarm her. I needed to save my last few breaths to grunt out "Food Allergy!" at an unwitting CVS employee in the consultation line.
The startled pharmacist replied, "Get to hospital now."
Well, have I ever told you guys that I'm cheaper than dirt? Yup, my throat is closing and my heart is pounding — but da'-yumm can I save a buck or two here?
I call my Doc while driving to ER. Same forced (don't know how many breaths) I have left convo "Food allergy, hives, throat closing – Can I come by and get a shot?"
"Nope, go to hospital or urgent care, might have to trach you for asphyxiation." they tell me.
I pulled into Urgent Care, I was in the back pretty quick. A few minutes later, a steroid shot in the hip and my throat opens immediately. That's disturbing in itself. But thank God I can breathe and I'm on the road to recovery.
I didn't call to tell Don about the episode until I left. I didn't want to disturb him, he was on the way to a friends house to pick up a farm table she gave me. But — I did have the text ready for the doc to hit send if I started flopping like a fish in his office.
Next morning —The alarm went off and I jumped off bed..uh oh...no legs. I could barely move and have an 8:30 a.m. quote to give. I figured coffee, the rest on the drive and an Ibuprofen would have me moving in no time.
I'm about halfway to the clients door when my left leg gave totally out. "Improvise Renae." I told myself.
I pulled out the cell phone – faked receiving a call (talk and all) and performed an award winning mock acting job of searching for a signal with hand in the air. This gave me a few extra seconds between step dragging across the yard.
When I finished the bid, I called Urgent Care. "Hey, I had a shot yesterday and today I can't walk." They called in a pain killer that sounded romantic to Publix. I'm in to alternative medicine, no scripts for me unless absolutely necessary—but he tells me I will be able to move again and then I can get to my regular physician.
The 20 steps to the front door of Publix was an obstacle/endurance course that required zig zag jaunts to objects for stability and rest. i.e. garbage cans, bike racks and vehicle rear veiw mirrors. My version of a slow mo Harlem shuffle.
I got to the entrance and there was this motorized contraption with a basket basking in the sunlight of the foyer. I waited for customers to file by while I tried to read the operating instructions on it's panel. I gingerly touched the levers. Oh hell, first time for everything. I climbed aboard.
I cruise through the store in the handicap cart avoiding free standing displays, Banana's and pyramidal mounds of oranges and apples. I kept my head down and my eyes averted. Everyone is looking at me, why am I getting so much attention? I wondered.
Then it dawned on me that I am half the age of most people that drive carts. And then it dawned on me that I can't say that anymore because they would have to be a centenarian to be twice my age now.
"What happened to you?" pharmacy assistant asked.
"Who knows...allergy one day.. can't walk the next." I replied
"Where'd you get the shot?" she asked
"In the hip." I answered
"Did they rub it out?" she asked
"Nope" I replied.
The busy pharmacist comes over and hands me a print out of high dose Prednisone side effects
Naturally under rare, he has highlighted Steroid-Induced Osteoporosis. It could be worse, another side effect was Avascular Necrosis aka bone death. When I got back into the handicap cart, I bumped the reverse handle....again. I red faced beeped myself backwards and to the closest register.
The manager (my age) comes to my aid. "Can I help you out with these ma'am?" he asked nicely.
"No thank you..SIR..." Admittedly a bit catty, I replied.
"No, I insist." He continues.
"Ok..let's make a deal. You can help me if YOU drive the cart back in." I told him.
He laughs and agrees. We have a nice little talk in the period of time that the .003 mph handicap cart moved to the car. True to his word, he commandeered the cart when I threw my bags into the seat.
I smiled as the handicap cart disappeared into the automatic doors.
An unexpected emotion surged through me, I put my head on the wheel of the car and shed a few tears of humbleness. Pride is really not an admirable trait. We robs others of the joy that they receive by helping us.
I love to help others but the tide turned that day and I was on the receiving end. I hid the happy sounding pain killers under the seat of my car, put the car in reverse and started backing out.
I had a momentary start..as I recalled the back up beeper on the handicap cart. Aww hell Rome wasn't built in a day.
Monday, September 16, 2013
Coyote Wiley vs Curious George
I jiggled the mouse the next morning. Oh no! Windows closed down my computer to install ~Important~ updates. Blog is gone. I just got up and left the computer. It pretty much summed up the week I was trying to close out.
As for the blog... In the words of Donna Summer...I don't think that I can take it 'cause it took so long to bake it / And I'll never have that recipe again, oh, no.
But...I will try.
I knew that I had overbooked myself last week. It was going to be a miracle — Moses proportion, to get done what was on my plate this week. As it usually does if I have a big day planned, my internal problem solving alarm clock rang early. Two consecutive mornings at 3 a.m. exactly. Uh oh...this is NOT going to be good. My reasoning skills among others evaporate with lack of sleep.
I closed my eyes and tried to go back to sleep while my brain mentally planned the course of the day out. I glared at the clock, it's 4 a.m and Don is faring much better than me, obvious by his nasal baritone.
4:58 -4:59- 5:00 a.m.... I watch the minutes tick off on the bedside table and cut the alarm off seconds before it would have sounded.
Minutes later I am at the kitchen sink trying to figure out the sequence of putting my percolator (which i have had for ten years) together. I glanced up and out of the window and noticed a shadow pacing the pond. The quacking little Aflac ducks were swimming to the silhouette on the bank across the pond as fast as they could.
As stated in the Miley Cyrus/Duck story last week, the domesticated aviary community beside my pond is castrated, docile and oblivious to fear. To the ducks, dogs are friends who usually accompany their owners bringing buckets of cracked corn, bags of bread and as we have witnessed.. mom's dinner out of the pockets of Tween boys.
Only, this morning....there are no owners bearing gifts and the dog is a coyote.
The ducks were within 20 feet of the bank when I realized that I must intervene. I glanced down..pink Curious George pajama's. Oh hell, no time to change.
I flew out of the patio door in as much blind naiveté as the ducks. I waved my arms furiously while shouting to the coyote as I headed toward it. Great, now the ducks are coming to me. I glanced back at my house, realizing that there is as much distance between me and the coyote and me and the back door... and to boot — I am now standing between a hungry coyote and it's breakfast.
The coyote is much bigger than he looked from my window and damn healthy looking too. He is not pacing anymore or backing down for that matter.
I cannot believe that I am outside in my pajama's staring down a coyote. Don is in bed, hell so is the neighborhood.
I tried to remember National Geographic channels advice on encountering wildlife? The hair stood up on my arms.
Do I continue the stare down? Make myself appear larger? Lay down and wet myself? I forget.
The coyote lowers it's head and gives me a good look over as if questioning whether he could take me. For once I am glad I am still toting around the extra five Christmas pounds.
He gave me this steely eyed stare and then sauntered off into the wood line. Daylight edged over the trees and a neighbor across the pond waves a thumbs up at me. I feel a little guilty because I really don't think I ~wanted~ to save the duck —maybe I just didn't want to see it die in front of me. I mean this is really what happens behind the scenes in the brush, at dawn, at dusk and while we sleep anyway isn't it?
Don and I talked about the intervention over coffee. We both agreed that nature would and has indeed taken care of itself without us for a long time. In the normal course of things, maybe one duck would die... but the next one would know the difference between a coyote and a dog and wouldn't go near the bank when one came up. True, but...these poor ducks are nature neutered. It may have been easier to close the blinds if I had not watched them rely on the hands of the community to carve out an existence.
I told a friend later about the morning's wildlife adventure.
"I don't remember coyotes, bears and aardvarks in the coastal peninsula when we were growing up." I told her.
She doubled over. When she could talk, she told me "We don't have Aardvarks..we have Armadillo's."
"Ok...those too."
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Miley Cyrus Don't Break My Heart, My Twerky Jerky Heart
I have a large pond just feet from my patio. What should be a relaxing time watching nature and wildlife has turned into a man-made fiasco right in front of my eyes.
It started about 6 weeks ago. A white duck that looks exactly like the Aflac duck has landed into a gag of Canada geese and adapted an identity crisis. He has a particular favorite pack of seven that he hangs with. They respect him, they love him and they let him guide them (seriously) all over that pond during the day.
But, when night falls they fly to their sleeping quarters and guess who stays in the pond by himself?
Nature knows itself. If it quacks like a duck and acts like a duck..you know the rest. But NO!, let's not let nature work it out the way it has since creation. In come the saviors, that's right us...humans. The duck can't possibly live on it's own could it? Let's rent a duck for a friend! So now I get to witness a duck release program.
That's right, a little Aflack duck is dropped off to be his friend. Someone to play with during the day and the evenings when the geese fly away. Something just doesn't feel right about it.
But, Mr. Aflac seems to love his new little white duck. They swim side by side all over the pond and he stopped his incessant honking for the geese to come back. For three days they brought the little duck to the pond. Mr. Aflac was sooooo happy!
And then today. No release. He quacked and quacked and walked to the area where they would bring his friend and then sat ever so quietly and with his head tucked. He didn’t' resume his call for the geese, my first time to witness depressed duck behavior! Don't get me wrong, I am sure the big hearted people who released the duck had good intentions.
The snowball effect is evident in the behavior of the geese and breakdown of the eco system of the pond. I watch the flock being fed pounds of food every day, each thinking they are solely keeping them alive. I have personally seen 4-5 quart sized buckets of cracked corn fed to them every day by one sweet neighbor, the next comes with her empty ice cream quart container and feeds them unknowing they have just eaten and yet another bucket in the afternoon and all of this is in addition to numerous bags of old bread.
You can hardly see the pond water for the muck because what they would naturally eat turns to algae. This flock of geese has crapped enough to put a hole in the ozone layer over my house.
First there were 7 geese. Last week there were over 50. Flyovers have left us grumbling as we get into our cars in the morning. Goose poop is no joke. Driveways are littered with excrement and feathers. Flocks of black birds have descended to eat the leftovers and caw incessantly. And let’s don’t forget, it is a pond. People fish , they lose their line and tackle. I have seen two geese with lures attached to their webbing.
I pulled my blinds and headed to the computer with my coffee. I can only bear to watch the geese in the morning now when they glide across the new blue horizon and touch down in the pond. Everything beyond that point is orchestrated.
I wiggled my mouse to wake up my computer. Miley Cyrus was all over the headlines. After hours of reviews and remarks, I fell prey to this headline. Miley shocks the world with her twerking performance on VMA. It took ten minutes for me to get the nerve to do a Google search on twerking. Afterwards I silently prayed that my computer would never be confiscated and it found on my search drive.
I took a walk with Snowy and realized I couldn't look up at the clear blue skies to enjoy the morning for avoiding the geese poop on the ground. We created the problem ourselves, so should we put on a shocked face when the source fed in excess creates poop? Immediately Miley Cyrus popped into my mind. Miley Cyrus, what went wrong here. Let's go back a few years. 2006 to be exact. Hannah Montanna.
No, let's go back a little farther and show our innate ability to actually breed the illness. Billy Ray Cyrus...Achy Breaky Heart. A mullet to remember. ~Don't break my heart my achy breaky heart~ Lord, I still cringe when I hear the song and every man I know that had a mullet is trying to forget about it.
We opened our wallets and drove that ridiculous song to damn near an anthem in the US. We made a rich man out of Billy Ray Cyrus from Flatwoods, Kentucky. I have absolutely nothing against wealth, but I like to think I know the difference between a fad and talent.
But darnit, I did it again. When my granddaughters were little, I bought them Miley Cyrus clothes, pens, pocket books, accessories and bookbags. I have twinges of guilt about that today.
Now I stick with classic character gifts, i.e. My LIttle Kitty, Spiderman. Their true worth doesn't come from what others think about them, the cheers of the crowd, clothes, make up, money. And…. you don't get that nasty taste in your mouth when you open a closet to the leftover lunchboxes and junk from the Brittany, Lindsay and Miley era.
My poor duck is on skid row. Because we thought it was pretty, we fed it and we told it we would provide love and then we took it away. The Canada geese may not fly away this winter. Why should they. Maybe we could open our garages to keep them warm as well as feed them. Hmmm...I see similarities here.
Excess, Billy Ray Cyrus cancelled a last minute interview with Piers Morgan to defend Miley Cyrus. I could understand that, whew that’s a hard act for a daddy to follow. Or maybe there is a duet in the wings.... Don't twerk my heart, my twerky jerky heart.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Back to School 70's Style
Enter...Music. I was browsing through Spotify looking for new stuff, realizing a few minutes in that this would be comparable to a whale picking out one fish for dinner in a sea of swarming krill.
I landed on the vast, but recognizable category of the 70's. For the next hour, I sang every word to every song. Ahhh.. the 70's, that hangover decade following the 60's Hippie peace and love, sleep in and smoke out era.
It's all well and good that we were a decade behind because country girls didn't make very good hippies.
First, not enough people knew what it was to be a hippie in our little town, so you couldn't really rebel because no one knew what you were doing anyway.
Second, There were only two channels that came in through the ~antenna~ at my house, one for the news and the other for Gunsmoke or Hee Haw. Happy Rain was the closest thing to a hippie around there.
Oh, we gave it a shot. We colored peace signs on our book covers and wore bell bottoms, hip huggers and halter tops to the dismay of the church ladies.
We thought we were ~Far Out~ and knew it all, then a stray would move to town from Californi or somewhere off and show us something that we were missing. Maybe recite some Poe.
I started thinking about how stress free school clothes shopping was for our parents. The guys usually got two new pair of Levi's, which they scrubbed up as soon as they could to get the new blue out, a new pair of sneaks, no need for shirts, they wore their coveted concert shirts until they were threadbare.
Us girls were happy with some new clogs, earrings and belts to accessorize the embroidered jeans we had been working on all summer. If our jeans were beyond repair, we made blue jean pocketbooks out of them. Basically, the style was to not look like you were wearing anything new.
Maxi's, mini's, embroidered and painted jeans, chevron shirts and dresses, floppy hats, bell bottoms, hip huggers, sizzler dresses (oh my) and clogs rounded out the apparel.
We didn't need to re-hash our summer vacations or camps with friends because our summers were always spent together. I am going to guess that our generation coined the phrase ~Hanging Out~
And hang out we did...In parks, by the river banks, floating the Edisto, fishing in gator ponds until it got to hot to fish and then peeling off clothes and swimming when we could see the gator on the other side of pond.
We drowned ourselves in baby oil and iodine and lay on shiny aluminum blankets to tan...eeek! For thrills we'd get hold of some Boone's Farm Strawberry Wine and play cow pattie bingo or cruise the town limit signs.
I crank the volume on the Spotify 70's radio station, Seals & Croft singing ~Summer Breeze~
No, I don't think I would go so far as to call the 70's ~The Good Ole Days~ but judging from the pinched faces of the parents I have seen in retail stores with grumpy kids and long list in hand. They weren't all that bad.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
SCDMV The New Whinery
Several more people rounded the corner and filed in behind me. We exchanged the sympathetic ~What are you going to do smile and shrug ~ as they came in. The woman right behind me decided to use her time to phone a friend, oblivious to the large ~Please silence cell phones~ signs on the wall. And to boot, she is talking loudly. I tried to tune her out, but she was grating.
After listening to her whine session about her suffering for ten minutes, I pulled out my phone to text Don. ~14 people in front of me, line's not moving, ugh~
I slip my phone back into purse. The lady is still going on and on. It started with DMV, then their employees, onto the state of SC, Immigration laws and then the Mexican people standing in line taking up her American space.
Just when I thought I couldn't take it anymore, her phone a friend bowed out of the convo. So...what does she do? Yup..dials another friend and starts the same garb over. I was considering trading places with people behind her just to get out of earshot.
Is complaining contagious? Why did I send a text to Don? To let him know I was suffering? Lord help me if my weak mind and body think standing in line is suffering.
I am alive, I am not standing in line in a third world country for a potato or handful of rice. I am standing in line to turn in tags on a vehicle that died..so that I could have another vehicle that wouldn't die and when I left this line, I was going to go to Chick Fil A to get an ice cream cone.
What else have I complained about? Traffic, grocery store clerks, food at restaurant? I looked around at the pinched faces in line. Does everyone feel the same. Is complaining pervasive? Another lady has sympathized with the lady behind me and they are edging to the window to glare at the counter workers. Others are rolling their eyes. Are we all angry?
Can I find an oasis in the pity desert? Ahh..there's one. A mother with a son going to get his driving test. His face shows anticipation as he jingles car keys. Mom is nervously beaming.
Another lady is reading a book in line, yet another goes through her coupons.
I can go with that, make use of my time. Once it's gone it's gone, whether I am standing in a line at DMV or a concert. I know several people who would give a pinky finger to trade their real woes for my mundane suffering right now.
As if an answer to my resolve and dissipation of angst. A triage DMV employee came out to the front and started working the line. She takes my tag and tells me to leave. I heard a hmmphhh behind me from mad DMV #16, too bitter to see that she is now #15.
When I walked out of the door of the DMV, I felt somewhat lighter. Changing my outlook on the situation put a little spring in my step.
I climbed into the car, cut the A/C on, cranked the radio and picked up my list to cross off DMV.
Next on list... call cable company...Awww hell, that was short lived. But, Rome wasn't built in a day.
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Moving Day and She/it Happens
The clamor of the week had me leaving notes everywhere and I still missed two friends birthdays. I perpetually felt like I was forgetting to do something.
The data usage on our phones was almost over limit, so Don and I were conversing as speed talkers. We had no internet and limited phone service. The earliest install date for internet was 12 days out.
Then.... the car decided to die. There's a point in a cars' life when I feel they are not worthy of further servicing. Mine reached that a year ago. It was truly a fair weather car, moody as all get out. The wiper motor on the passenger side quit working months ago. It failed slowy causing the timing of the sweep to be off, which had the blades literally fighting in mid air during a torrential rain while I was crossing the Daniel Island bridge. Wiper motors $200.00! So, I quit driving in the rain.
Shortly afterwards, it would only change gear speeds on cool days. Car menopause. Finally at any given moment..it would max out in first gear at a top speed of 20 mph.
At this point, let's just say that I didn't affectionately call her the "Old girl" anymore. As if she/it sensed it, she gave up the ghost on the hottest day of the year, humidity levels were at 140%. I have a carload of things to take to new place in the move. It was the beginning of evening traffic on 17 North. She/it hiccupped... her way of saying she wasn't going to drive. I pulled into the Laser car wash and let it cool off. I decided to use the oval car wash drive as a speed test before pulling out, like a seasoned short tract driver I punched it and took a few left turns. After a few laps, it caught second gear and I pulled out onto the highway and then with a slew of traffic behind me and in the middle lane of Hwy 17..nothing. She/it and I limped into a retail parking lot. I waited for a tow truck with my leg stuck out the door, fanning myself with an unopened bill.
I kept feeling like I forgot to do something else. I pondered my various list while I pulled the under wire out of my bra that has decided to poke through at this inopportune moment as well.
Don picked me up before the tow truck came. I was just about ripe by this time. Hotter than Hannah, if you will. I could hardly wait for a shower. When we walked in, Don cut on the faucet to rinse out something. I heard the spit of air..and I remembered what I hadn't done! Transfer the water to our name when we moved. I made a few desperate calls at 5 P.M. to see what I cold do..Nothing. Wait until tomorrow. Unless we have a plumbers tool. Hell we didn't know what that was , but we were outside on the ground removing a man hole cover to see if we had anything to resemble it. Nope.
Resolve settled in. I had two back tanks of clean toilet water that I could boil for a bird bath, and ice cubes for tomorrow mornings coffee. I was feeling a little cocky about my survival skills and learned a fast lesson on what not to do when your water is cut off....Don't eat a soft ripened SC peach. Another bird bath.
Up at the crack of dawn, I melted the ice cubes for coffee and watched the clock tick until the water utility office opened. I get Eric on the line, same guy from last night. What are the odds? "Eric, what's the ETA on the field worker this morning?" Eric told me that it could be anytime between 8 and 5 today. I called back at lunch and got Eric again. Really?????
“Mrs. Brabham, we will have someone there as soon as they are in the area." he says kindly. "Thanks Eric." I reply sheepishly.
2 o'clock I called back. Yes..that's right. Eric again!! I tried to disguise my voice, obviously a fail because Eric says "Hello Mrs. Brabham." while laughing.
"Eric, all of my ice has melted. I know..I know...but, I'm just saying.....don't you have a CB radio.. (Lord help me, CB radio? I can't take it back now) so you could call him?" I plead.
He laughs again. "It won't be long now. Hold on." he says. One hour later..all the faucets spit and hiss and I am counting minutes to a shower and ready to cook. With a clean kitchen, shower and full stomach I pull the cork from a bottle of wine.
There are days when I allow the wine to breathe, and there are days that I consider the pop of the cork breath enough.
Monday, July 15, 2013
This Freedom Thing, It's Complicated
It was Tuesday the week of July 4th, I was downtown on Cannon Street sitting under a brilliant unfurled USA flag. As I watched the stripes snapping in the southern breeze, I thought of the significance of Old Glory and all that was on it. I imagined it with holes ripped from artillery fire, stained in blood. Are we any closer to the freedom it represented when crafted over 300 years ago? The news headlines of the week suggest not. Travon trial, Paula Deen and a ruling on gay rights.
I realized I didn't know where our flag was. What if I don't find it? Am I perceived as unpatriotic?
Is silence an opinion? Quite possibly the loudest and most misunderstood. What do I personally feel about Paula, Travon, Gay marriage? I wave a freedom flag with a closed mouth. It's complicated, I'm confused with the conflicting double speak of most issues.
I watch the world tilt slowy..uber crawling toward some embryonic beginning that I wouldn't classify as change yet.
Confused parents give "reveal" parties to let family and friends know what sex their unborn child is. 18 years later they may "reveal" they were wrong. Gay parents hurt when their sons and daughters are ostracized by society and subjected to hate, gay children hurt because they don't want to disappoint their family.
Families still wring their hands in angst at reunions and weddings knowing the contemptuous views of their matriarch and patriarchs concerning interracial marriages. Do we excuse their archaic views by claiming them to be pre-determined by their formulative years? Do we silently pray that our children choose the route of less pain? Did the slave mother hold her newborn baby girl and pray that would be so beautiful that the plantation owner would fall in love with her and move her to the big house or does she pray that her baby girl is so ugly that she won't be looked upon and taken from her? And which is right? Who am i to say, a white southern girl? It's ludicrous for me to state that I understand the plight of the African American, the gay man or woman.
So, let's say that we could wipe the slate clean and start over. Could the remedy be as simple as teaching and practicing unprejudiced love to our children from the beginning. Emphatically.. Yes! Simple? No! Complicated because another family will NOT teach their children those values and it will be their hate that kills goodness. i.e, Jesus, Martin Luther King, John F. Kennedy, Bobby Kennedy, John Lennon, Dietrich Bonhoeffer.
So, do I sit quietly on the porch and watch the parade go by? Is it safer to keep my opinion to myself, to silence the strike of these keys right now? Oh... Yes! Ole black water keep on rolling, Mississippi moon wont you keep on shining on me.
But, the world doesn't change with safe. I think of John Mayer's song "Waiting on the world to change." Maybe we shouldn't wait, maybe the hope of change isn't in drawing lines in the sand, maybe it's by erasing them. Maybe it's by allowing each grain of sand to fall where it's creator destined it should be.
We will never be truly free until we unilaterally accept the rights of each other to choose our own freedoms without imposing them on others. I don't have to march in a parade, hold a protest sign or buy a bumper sticker. I simply treat you as I would any member of our human race. Silence is not weakness. Speeches, parades, concerts are all aftermath of what should begin in the quiet recesses of the heart. Usually beginning with truth.
Thursday, June 27, 2013
A Bug's Life...Lesson
I walked out of my door to find a pre-historic era bug upturned on the concrete path to my door. My first thought was "Omg, what the hell kind of bug is that?" My second thought was that I would literally rip my own skin off if that thing had landed on me. I eased up on it only because of it's precarious condition. Not the dreaded Palmetto Bug, this bug was huge, thick, dark brown with a shell that looked crunchy and hard. It was two inches long with antennas as long as it's body. Beetles on Botox?
Bugs make me do weird things, temporary turrets syndrome at church picnics, erratic driving and to the horror of my kids... pulling my shirt over my head at a baseball game when a June beetle flew into my neckline.
Too big to smash, I walked away. I had a brief tug of guilt for not up righting it. But, as the world turns... I swear the same bug I save will be the one that causes me to wreck on the interstate by coming out from under a seat. So, on with my day. I will let nature take care of itself. I mean it wasn't like I turned it over. It would eventually die of it's weird predicament.
I swear I couldn't get that bug out of my head. When I got home six hours later, I could see that the bug was still there as I walked up the path. It was still, it's antennas not moving.
Ok, I will just go inside now and surely a bird will swoop down soon and this drama will be over. Another pang of guilt, now I wanted it to be gone, because it reminded me that I did nothing to help it, I let it die.
I peeked out the door about an hour later. Still there. Ok, I will sweep it into the yard where the birds can see their dinner. I whisked it with the broom, it landed upright and it's antennas started twitching! I felt a small leap of joy. I guess 7+ hours on it's back left him a little wobbly, but it started inching it's way to the edge of the concrete. I shut the door quickly before that bird that I had been silently beckoning all day would swoop down and change the moral of this story.
I felt weirdly happy that the bug didn't die and that somehow I could change the course of nature and myself by simply offering a hand/broom out to a struggling bug.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Fear No Weasel
Don has been creative as a weasel in winning me over to his likes. e.g, Accidentally getting hot sauce on my lasagna, the wrong cut with the pizza cutter equals a tad of anchovies, The fan logically became acceptable white noise as it drowned out the TV when I went to bed first and then the latest, the crickets... They came in stealthily one night after I went to bed. I heard them several times through my dream fog and thought that a chirper was sitting on the window sill. When I woke the next morning I realized the chirping and was dronefully repetitive and coming from an app on Don’s Iphone and not the windowsill.
So after 25 years, Don has yet to convert me on beans with ketchup and scary movies. He picks out the movies, mostly because I will scroll through the movie list for an hour, A to Z to find one. He does a good job most of the time. 9 out of 10 choices get a Siskell and Ebert-less thumbs up. But, I believe it is his mission to find the end all movie that will turn me into zombie loving, blood sucking, fear seeking adrenaline junkie that occasionally and accidentally shouts the F bomb at the TV. So, every now and then a blacklisted movie will slip into the house in the guise of a misrepresented presentation that would go something like this.
Me: "What kind of movie did you rent Don?
Don: "It's a mystery"
Me: "Not scary?"
Don: "No, just eerie."
If I don't trust his shifty pose or non-committal gaze, I will further ask what the review says. To which his reply would be "Oh the usual, some violence, 13 or older with adult supervision." A few have left him on the couch alone with a whole bowl of popcorn for himself, while I entertained myself in another room.
He seems to have realized he has used the same terminology for 25 years and needs to be more creative. Christmas was a good example. When I asked him what we were going to watch this year, He answered simply "A western." Well, he didn't actually lie. But Christmas Day...Django?????
Me a grown woman, sat with my fingers laced over my eyes and fingers in ears. I looked around the theater at the wide eyes of other women, duped as well. When we got home, I didn't know whether I had seen the worst or best movie ever. I wasn't sure whether to take a shower, read the Bible or take a drink. I had to watch I Love Lucy re-runs to go to sleep.
Well, obviously enough time had passed since Christmas and it was time for the bandit to strike again. But, he stooped to new lows.
While getting drinks and a snack together I asked the usual. "What kind of movie did you find?"
He replied. "You will like this one. It's a romance, girlie movie." I plop on the couch as the movie begins. The screen rolled the movie title "Warm Bodies" as a blue skinned, bloody mouthed zombie lumbered through an apocalyptic airport.
I give Don the eye, he throws popcorn into his mouth and says "Watch it, you'll see"
I just shake my head in disbelief. Girlie movie. I believe I have as healthy an affection as the next person for dead people. But, when I open my eyes, I want them gone. If not, I want a cache of silver bullets, garlic and wooden crosses. I just can't grasp the moaning and stumbling incessantly throughout the eternity and there is nothing sexy about pointy teeth and blue skin.
Saying that, somewhere after the young, possibly once good looking zombie ate the heart of the alive girls boyfriend and started having feelings for her, I busted out laughing.
I enjoyed the movie more than I thought, but mostly because of Don's tenacity to sneak one in. After all these years it's nice to know there are a few surprises left. I might even put a dot of ketchup on my beans this week.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Sixteen Candles
Would she still want to hang out with me when she was 16?
- When she was 3, she put her shoes on when I pulled into the yard with a confident cock eyed stare at her mama that said "I'm going with grandma, just sayin."
- When she was 5, we took a stroll one evening, Abby saw the dark cascading line of the mountains at sunset on the horizon. She wanted to walk to them. I explained that we couldn't make it that far. To which she replied "You sit down and rest Grandma, I will pick you up on the way back."
- When she was 7, On a drop in visit. "Grandma can I stay the night tonight?" she asked. "Sweetheart you didn't bring any clothes" I replied. "That's OK, I can wear a towel."
- When she was 10, "Grandma I want you to be my roommate when I go to college."
- When she was 11, "I don't want to go trick or treating. I want to stay with Grandma and Paw Paw." She just never grasped the whole trick or treating thing. She's the only trick or treater I know that rang a doorbell and asked to use their bathroom, much to our chagrin.
- When she was 12, I was bringing the girls home for a Slip & Slide party/cookout when a quick thunderstorm came up. Abby was frightened by the thunder. The conversation between the girls and their friends went like this. "Abby, it's ok it's natural, God makes storms." her younger sister Alana chided. "I don't like natural." Abby replied, sinking down into the seat when as a clap of thunder rolled. "Abby don't you want to see God?" her sister asked. "Yes, but not today." Abby replied.
- When she was 14, she would text me, Grandma, u awake? I miss u. luv u
- When she was 16.......My daughter called from NC and told me Abby wanted to spend her sixteenth with us. She brought two friends. During the fun teen time of the weekend, I realized we hadn't really been alone. I had a brief moment of sadness, quickly broken by peals of laughter from teen girls. On the last night of their visit, we were driving away from Towne Centre when they saw a shop they wanted to go into. I pulled into the lot and begged out of going in. I rolled the window down and settled in for a good little wait. Minutes after going into the store, Abby came back out by herself and climbed into the truck with me. She said she had a little stomach ache. Or did she? We sat and talked about life's dilemmas, I offered a little sage advice and we shared some giggles. When the friends walked out of the store. We glanced at them laughing and coming to us. We looked back at each other. Time froze briefly, I knew our bond was deepened in those few moments. I thought to myself later.. My life isn't a measurement of years or months or even days. It is a collection of moments and what we choose to do with each.
I can still see her clomping down the hall with my heels on, her mouth garishly painted outside of the lines with my L’Oreal #502. Although she has physically grown into those big girl shoes, she has a few little girl hoorahs left. As I pondered whether she was too mature for her age, I walked in on them emptying her huge ~Sweet Sixteen~ balloon that Paw Paw proudly wrestled through the store to purchase, they squealed "Hey Grandma" like hobbits and the worry is gone.
Abby, there are shut boxes beckoning to be opened, closed doors as well. Keyholes are portals. Mistakes are imminent and risk's are recommended. Never let money or lack of it determine your happiness. Look for life's magic in the moments, the bubbles, the raindrops, the fallen feathers, equip yourself with the ability to see what's real and the audacity to imagine what's not.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Flat Tires For Stress
Karma, when am I going to learn. As I was walking out of house last week, I noticed a flat tire on the truck. There is no such thing as -just a flat- on the this truck, I cringed. The tires on the big truck are costly. Visions of a month's worth of ramen noodle dinners floated through my head.
Don is out of town, so what should I do? Memories of my last tire escapade came back. One morning years ago, I thought my front tire on the mommy wagon looked a little low. I pulled into a gas station and fed the air pump machine. How hard could it be? I figured you filled them until they were round and didn't have a crease on the ground. I got to work and offered to take a large delivery to a company in the back of the wagon.
When I pulled out highway, I thought I had been bombed. Two tires exploded and left me sitting on the road. Someone from work came and offed the important delivery and I was towed to a gas station for two new tires. The other tires luckily didn't detonate before the workers released air.
Nope, I won't be fixing this big boy. I bought a can of fix-a-flat and emptied it into the tire. It didn't inflate enough to get it to a tire shop. I flagged down a community maintenance worker on a golf cart. He sent over another guy with an air tank to pump it enough to get to shop.
I pulled into Gerald's Tire shop and walked up to counter. They greeted me much like the cheesy commercials. I am thinking big bucks and having to cut back on chocolate consumption, so I am not so cheerful right now. Actually, downright cynical, I think to myself yeah you get paid to talk like that, no one is that cheerful at work.
The counter clerk tells me that it will take about an hour or a little more. Well, it's not like I can go anywhere. I have a flat tire. So, I plop into a chair. I was determined not to sit on the bench outside and become the subject of pity of the passerby's.
I spied a magazine rack and went and scarfed up my faves. Charleston Magazine, Garden and Gun and Towne and Country. That should do me.
Listening to the banter between the counter clerks and other workers that walked back and forth through the shop, I realized they really don't hate their jobs and they were actually having fun. They interacted a lot with the customers waiting.
I leafed through the magazine and felt my shoulders falling down a bit and just kind of settled in. I slid my feet out of my shoes and rested them on top, took a few swigs of water and started reading. I picked up the Charleston Magazine, surprised to find one that I didn't remember the cover. I was half way through when I saw Chef Brett McGee on a full page spread for the Oak Restaurant. Well, when did he go back to the Oak? Then an article on favorite ice cream flavors of Charleston's chefs. Mike Lata, you sure are looking good, I pulled the magazine up to my face to inspect closer. Dang, I think he's had work done.
Then it dawned on me. I flipped the magazine back to the cover. Spring 2009! I laughed out loud. About 15 minutes into the wait, a lady walked in with an overnight bag. They told her that the work will take quite a little while, she smiled undaunted and replied "That's fine." She sat on the outside bench and started pulling out yarn and needles, a bottle of water and commenced to work on her craft.
I looked around the shop. No one seemed harried, checked their watches or paced impatiently. I had memories of the men that used to sit on benches outside the gas stations, burning barrels and shade trees. They may be on to something.
After three magazines, one bottle of water and a half hour of Food Network and 5 M&M's out of the vending machine for a quarter.... they called my name.
"Ma'am we patched your tire, there's no charge." I thanked him sincerely grateful and left feeling better than I did after morning coffee, who knew.
By the way, ladies. I did figure out why all of the ladies sat outside. 2 hours in a tire shop does not a sweet cologne make.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Fishin Tales, Heads and Cats
Jerking the lawn chair out, I swat at the webs with the broom. Next, my tackle box. I take it out and pet it's handle. Oh my, should I open it now? Pandora's box, I look out at the bright blue skies and hesitate with my fingers on it's clasp. What will this do to my precisely planned day?
I clicked open the clasp, too late now. Neatly binned neon glowing worms, translucent crickets, minnows and spinners, line, lead sinkers, corks, bottle caps and faded fishing licenses, all reminders of creek/river and oceans' of days past. I close the lid quickly when I feel the urge climb in me. "Soon" I promise the clam shelled box.
Not many people are brave enough to endure fishing trips with me, Don included. He is fine as long as we have a lot of space. I have snagged on darn near everything you can imagine - trees, sunken logs, turtles, eels, myself and midgets. Yes-you heard right. I don't make this stuff up, it just happens.
I knew at an early age that my fishing life was going to be interesting. My first trip was with a friend and her grandmother when I was 9. I was on what I think was the Gippy Plantation in Moncks Corner. It was a reedy inlet off of the Cooper River across from Mepkin Abbey. Anyway..I no sooner got a worm in the water than my pole doubled. When I pulled it up. My prize? A fish head, minus the body. The remainder of the fish that stared blankly up at me was caught by a larger fish. I was scarred, but curious. The tug on the line that day, that thing beneath the deep that little ole me with some type of worm finesse almost landed, had me hooked for life.
I am excitable. Never tamed. No fisherman wants me in their boat, unless it's big. I don't have to tell fish stories. They are always big. They are as much about what happens out of the water as they are what happened on the water. Here are a couple of excursions.
The Catfish Story. One Saturday morning years ago, Don and I packed the car, kids, cooler, rods and reels and tackle boxes. We headed for the soupy yellow waters of the Yadkin River. The Yadkin is known for it's big Catfish and I had just the thing for them, a shiny brand new rod and reel. I cast in, sat for a bit and then remembered I left something in the car. While climbing the steep banks of the river a fish hit my line. I turned and tried to run back down the hill, too late. The fish had taken off into the deep, dragging my new rod and reel with it. I was speechless, Don wasn't. "You know you have to brace that rod with something." Now I am grumpy. I sat on the bank and watched the kids gathering tadpoles. One felt sorry for me and let me use their Spiderman Zebco 202 for a bit. A little later Don went to the store and left me his rod to fish with. He didn't pull out good before I got a big bite. After I set the hook the rod bowed. I pulled and pulled and couldn't believe what came up! Don's fish, which snagged on my new rod and reel and still had my fish on the end of it's line! Woo Hoo!
Exhausted when we pulled into our drive, sweaty children covered in red clay and tired parents clamored from the car, leaving fishing rods hanging out the cracked windows of the car. After showers and naps we decided to go get something to eat. I froze in my tracks when I walked out onto the steps to leave, unable to process what I was seeing. Blood curdling Tween screams brought me back, there was a cat spinning in the air two feet off the ground with a hook in his mouth! I guess he got a whiff of the remnants of bait left on the hook and jumped up for a bite. We took the stray cat, rod and all to the emergency vet. They removed the hook, gave us the rod and reel back and charged us $200. Now we have a new cat. Ugly as sin itself, we named him Gremlin. Hence, I caught my third ~Cat~ of the day.
The Midget Story. Gliding along a calm NC lake for the christening of our pontoon boat. I was in heaven! My favorite thing on the boat at the moment was the fish finder. Don explained it to me, "It beeps if fish are beneath us and shows their location, quantity and size."
After a little cruising, Don pulled the pontoon up to the dock. He jumped onto the dock and headed across the parking lot to his truck to get something. I am now the "Skipper" of the boat! Well, the fish finder went off, beeping like crazy. I sauntered over to look. OMG, it was displaying a huge frigging fish at the back of the boat. I scurry to the back of the boat, the line we had been trolling from the back of the boat is bowing.
Heart racing, I pick up the rod. I can't even budge whatever is on the other end. Then... all hell broke loose under the edge of the boat. Banging, thrashing foamy waters.... and just as quick as it started, it stopped. Like that quiet moment in a scary movie, where you think calm is restored I took a What the hell just happened? breath. Then.... the climatic moment, like a righted buoy a bald little head shot out of the water gasping for air. A midget surfaced in a small kayak! Jesus help me, I have caught a midget! Wild eyes looked up at me. I didn't see a line hooked to him, it was then I realized that he wasn't on my line, Thank God, just the kayak. The midget caught his breath as he helped my unwind and untangle the line around the front of his kayak. He told me that he was a novice kayak-er and wanted to practice rolling his kayak in shallow water, he didn't realize he had slipped under the pontoon. He floated off as Don returned to the boat. And weirdly quick, the world was normal again.
Yes, fishing is always an adventure for me. I do everything wrong. I talk, sing, drink, eat, laugh and still somehow catch fish and "other things." But the truth is..it's never really about the fish is it?
Another day soon I promise the tackle box as I put it back into the closet. I can hardly wait.
I only used the term midget for lack of clarity in sentence. The favored termed for midget is little people, which would have had to been little person, which I would have had to explain...like I am doing now.
Friday, May 3, 2013
Rules of Engagement
I am an observer of earth and its inhabitants. While watching people I picking up on subtle nuances and body language, an astute survival skill. I know when body language suggest you move along... ex.. disingenuous smiles, lack of eye contact, key jingling, repetitive phrases "text me", "call me"
I need to see you to ~read~ you.
Text example
Me: "What do you want for dinner?"
Don: "Whatever"
Me: "Whatever like...you are going to do what you want anyway or Whatever you like sweetheart or Whatever I don't really care. I mean really...is it Whatever :) or Whatever?" Because one of these will determine the mood I am in for dinner now :)
Anyway, for fear of the jingling keys and repetitive phrases of rejection, I found that I wasn't engaging as well. Oh, I could put it all out there in writing and social media, but the majority of my daily conversations collectively sounded like a Macaw. "Hello, goodbye, have a good day, have a good night, call me..text me."
While on my coffee high one morning I vowed to engage myself in conversation with whomever came in my path that day. It was a rather flippant decision, resembling others I make (and break) before 9 a.m. ex...no carbs today, drink water, exercise, pray more, drink less wine tonight.
Well, true to form. I got behind from the beginning, maybe I should nix the vow. Walking to the car, I blew out a flip flop. I drove to Waves store to buy a cheap pair. While in the parking lot my phone rang , I found myself preparing a few one liners to get off of the phone. Realizing my faux pas, I opened the car door, leaned back in the seat and had a 40 minute conversation in the parking lot. I have a trucker tan on my left arm to prove it.
The owner of Waves looked up quizzically as I step-dragged instead of flip flopped past him. He quickly resumed hustling stock to the floor like he was expecting a rush. I dropped my new flip flops on the counter as he came up from his boxes. I remembered the vow. Noticing his fervor in putting up stock and crushing boxes I hesitated at first but continued "That sure is a lot of stock to put up, you need to schedule help on the days that truck comes in."
He hesitates too. Maybe a flippant answer..take her money and get the heck back to the stock. But no, while crushing a box he decides to engage back. "If I let someone come in and do the work for me then I wouldn't be able to keep the girls happy with this physique" he answered in syrupy European laced English. I laughed. "So, how's that going for you? I asked.
"Well, not so good, I was in Miami...the girls ...they think I don't have how you say....the whole package. New York, the same thing and then before I knew it they must have all moved here too. It's too easy these days, it's all about appearances."
I shook my head. "I know people who have been hurt deeply and are alone now." I can't believe I just said that to a complete stranger."
"Tell them don't give up, but being alone is better than being in a shallow relationship." He says while putting my change in my hand.
He heads back to his piles of boxes. I turn around and go back to ask his name. "Daniel, and what is yours?" I tell him my name and goodbye again. Walking out Daniel called out to me and I turned. He tossed me a box of salt water taffy.
I was still grinning when I slid into the car but within seconds I felt behind again. I rushed into the grocery store and tried my best not to make eye contact with the newspaper solicitor. "Free paper" he rings out. "No" I answered and tried to move on. A Pepsi vendor had me temporarily stuck in place. I am considering a grocery store cart trick jump over the pallet jack of carbonation that would make Tony Hawk proud. The crier cried on "Well, why don't you sign up for the free groceries while you are waiting" My eyes plead with him to leave me alone. "Just sign up, worth a shot" I don't want to, but realized that once again, it was an opportunity to show that I had some patience left with mankind and maybe it with me. We ended up talking for 30 minutes. Everything from how he met his wife to where he moved here from to how he lost his business and ended up here. As I left him, I think he felt lighter.
I am now at that point where, whatever needed to be done so urgently today, was just not going happen. As I was leaning over the fresh meat counter, the lady next to me lifts her sunglasses to exclaim. "Oh my gosh...look at the price on this stuff!" At this point, I just laughed. I realized that I was not manipulating this day, it was shaping me. Ok, let's see what happens. I spent another half hour in the grocery store while I engaged with one of the most interesting characters that I have had the pleasure to meet in a long time. I was literally bent over slapping my legs in laughter at this lady. Our meat counter engagement ended with us swapping biz cards and hopefully meeting again.
I mulled over the morning on the way home. Unfruitful in the measurement of a checked off list, but a treasure in participation. And you just can't tweet a day like that.
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