My husband tends to get up hours before I do; so he has usually had plenty of time to store up the ideas that he wants to share with me, by the time I come out of the bedroom. I've learned over time that I ought to spend a few minutes stretching in bed after I awaken, then go brush my teeth and wash my face, take my meds, and in other ways get ready to face my day before I leave the master suite. Otherwise I am bombarded with news and my enthusiastic husband before I even get my first cup of tea. This way, I'm at least awake enough to focus on most of what is tumbling from him in one massively compressed jumble of words and thoughts.
I know how my parents felt when faced with teenaged me. So sorry to have sprung that on you guys. So sorry.
But, I'm also humongously grateful for my husband's unfettered joy. He makes me smile and there is a certain contagion that excitement brings about. His joyous "I've been up for hours and look how productive I've been" happiness makes me feel more lively and more likely to also be productive with my own day.
It's an adventure, stepping out of the bedroom most days. Now that my husband's been retired from full time employment for almost a year, he's enjoying his own time in ways that cannot always be fathomed, nor predicted the night before. For instance, one morning last month, I came to the breakfast table to find that surrounding my plate of pancakes {pancakes, guys, PANCAKES waiting for me at my place; amazeballs, right?} were all sorts of things my husband found that morning when he was in town, getting eggs for my pancakes. There were flowers, carnations, one of my favorites. A huge bag of chocolate peanut butter cups, several bags of pistachios, a bunch of bananas, an I Love You card, a jar of honey, a few boxes of tea, a box of colored pencils, and a few puzzle books. Awesome! I am so loved and spoiled, I know. I appreciate his appreciation.
There's been mornings I have walked into a freshly mopped house; mornings when the aroma of cooking food curled around my nostrils and hummed me awake; mornings when incense filled my head with tropical relaxation; mornings when the common bathroom's contents {except the bathtub} were in my living room because "things needed a good cleaning"; and mornings when the front door was propped open to admit some fresh air and I'd poke my head out to find my husband resting on the front swing, with all three dogs clustered around him in their small harem style, adoring him.
I am learning to really love my mornings, with my husband.
On The Needles: turquoise and chocolate brown striped throw, done in stockinette and garter stitches, as one piece with concentric square pattern. {{it rests on a yellow and white "scrambled egg" blanket from my childhood; pretty sure we have a few pix of my brother wrapped up in it when he was about ten and not feeling too well}}
Last fall, I dug out all my crochet, knit, and loom projects in progress that had been piling up over the previous few years. Some of them, I decided to rip out {sometimes called "frogging" because you rip~it, rip~it, rip~it} and reuse the yarn. Some squares, hexes, arcs, and eyes are actually pieces of other larger works that have been shelved and so may be salvaged to continue these quiltghans {crocheted afghans made to resemble traditional quilts such as double~ring pattern {sometimes referred to a the wedding ring or double wedding ring} or grandmother's country garden}.
So that was my intention, to finish all the projects in progress or to rip them out, so the yarn could be reused. I realized that life would continue and that people would be making requests, babies would be born, and other gift giving occasions would occur. So I knew that I would end up starting and finishing other new works that would be done while finishing some of these older projects.
close up of center square
Sometimes, I would probably be able to find a suitable older unfinished project that I could finish and give as the gift that would fulfill the occasion's intent. But usually not, since most of the items that I knit or crochet are done specifically with that person in mind, so baby blankets are made with their parents' request for color scheme or design taken into consideration. Most couples have certain tastes and a brown and turquoise striped throw might not suit her 80's retro floral Laura Ashley print overstuffed couch. I've got coral and cream for that.
So, how then did I end up with so many unfinished projects from years back? In part, because I was learning new techniques and wanted to do something constructive while learning; so I was making a wide scarf using that stitch or combination. In part, because I was going to be traveling and needed something light and small, like a cotton shawl. In part because I was making lapghans for charity for this or that group and I was able to donate thirteen, but these two were not completed in enough time to make that deadline. Their loss is someone else's gain. Maybe. Probably. Ok, definitely, IF I finish that throw in time for this birthday or that event.
more detail
Currently, while I am knitting two other baby blankets that were requested for April; I'm finishing this chocolate and turquoise striped afghan. I unearthed it last night, because I wanted to have it completed for an impromptu gift possibility. Because who doesn't like to receive something that says, "I appreciate you" when it's not normally a gift giving time?
I was pleasantly surprised myself, when I realized that not only was I able to pick up where I left off and follow the item's pattern {I very rarely do written patterns, counting on the item itself to point me in the right direction~~if I can't remember what I had envisioned the completed item to be}, but I was also able to add twenty rows last night while watching "The Deerhunter" with Jerry. True, it is a three hour movie, the 1978 multi~Oscar winning film stars Robert De Niro, Christopher Walken, Meryl Streep, and others. But I think the main thing was that I remembered how long it took me to do the first part of this afghan and sometimes, knowing how much I've grown in various ways allows me to not feel like I've become stunted in growth.
When I was a child, a few of my teachers would say things like "let's all put on our thinking caps". The first young man who told us to do this actually went thru the motions of buckling on a helmet; movements which we students aped with enthusiasm, because most of us still loved school and adored our teachers. Since I moved around some, there would be times when I would be ahead of the rest of my class in certain subjects and I'd get a smidgen bored. I remember our math instructor for both fifth and sixth grade was fond of saying this and every time, I'd imagine what my thinking cap would look like, if it were a real thing.
First, I thought of the leather helmets the old time football players wore. But then, that seemed like it would block ideas instead of encourage the thinking process. Then I thought of the smooth plastic looking helmets that had white chin straps that I'd seen kids that had seizures wear...I quickly discarded that notion, because those helmets seemed to be a dangerous idea, especially since I had seizures myself and knew that the back edge on that could cut right into your neck and do some real damage. Then I thought of more complex sorts of headgear, like that worn by scientists in my brother's comic books and on the back cover of the sci~fi novels he read. But those seemed very top~heavy and I wasn't sure my neck could hold my eight pound head and a rig like that up. So that was not going to be my thinking cap design. During the 80s, the movies brought Back to the Future to us and Tron, where we saw contraptions like this. Personally, I associated this style with ambulatory EEGs and thought it probably came the closest to being a thinking cap; but it didn't produce and encourage thought. It recorded brain activity and not even very well, it seemed to me; the print out was wavy lines on graph paper versus a clear depiction of which area of the brain was stimulated at what time when you had what thoughts. Still, it was a great deal better than most of the ones I had thought of so far, including the metal caps that would end thought...like those found on the electric chair.
Then life happened and about ten years ago, these thinking caps started to surface, knit usually. That actually did appeal to me, and probably would have been one of my first choices for my thinking cap, had I seen it when I was ten, or twenty, or even thirty {I was a PhD student at that time, I so would have worn it for inspiration...instead, I wore my psuedo~intellectual hat of tan corduroy for the days when I felt decidedly stupid...let the others wear jackets with corduroy elbow patches to beef up their appearance of smarts, I had a thinking cap; no one knew it was a thinking cap, no one but me.}
Several days ago, Umberto Eco died. He's not my favorite author; in fact, he doesn't even make my preferred authors' list. However, Eco is an acquaintance's absolute favorite author, she adores him and his writing style and enthusiastically called the readers among us to devour and discuss ALL of his work. My response was:
Debra Wolfno. i'll support your reading him, your right to consider him one of your favorite writers of all time, and am willing to hear why {or read why} you have afforded him that honor; but i personally find his writing to be too full of tangents and pretentious leaps to willingly read any {let alone all} of his stuff....shudder. Even my mother, who loved the movie "The Name of the Rose" found the book to be overly wrought with tedious, ostentatious bravado to be worth finishing. Several years later, I thought perhaps my tastes had matured enough to tackle "Foucault's Pendulum" ~~ I was grievously mistaken. Even writing this comment, about his writing, finds me taking on despicable airs in his fashion....ugh.
Please give me a reason to like him and his writing and I will certainly give it a shot.
To which she immediately rose to the challenge and suggested several titles, essays, and admirable qualities of Eco's.
*sigh*
So, I've given the ole thinking cap a good dusting, spit shining it to a sparkly polish, and will be donning it tomorrow when I stop by the local public library to collect some of these writings. I do imagine I'll have the facial expression this cat sports; but then again, attitude debra, if you mean to give this a fair shake, you must suspend the attitude. Look for an update later this week regarding this mission.
A few weeks back, my husband was about to place an order for three books, two of which were Thorne Smith titles. When he mentioned this, I thought, "aha! Smith! Books!" and it triggered a series of other thoughts that I won't discuss here but that did eventually lead to Alexander McCall Smith, the rather prolific author who seemingly knows no boundaries of genre. McCall Smith's most well known series is most likely the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency, which currently has seventeen titles and is going strong. At the moment, I'm reading The Kalahari Typing School for Men, a lovely idea Mma Makutsi has for a business venture that is her own, with minimal overhead, and lots of students. My husband ordered me 44 titles of McCall Smith's, including the rest of this series. He's amazing, sigh, my husband is. He spoils me so.
Years ago, I'd listened to an audio of McCall Smith's The Finer Points of Sausage Dogs, which is the second in the Professor Doctor Moritz~Maria von Igelfeld series. The good Professor Doctor is a somewhat silly, yet troubled, man who manages to get himself into some rather sticky situations and then goes on to make them worse by being unable to concede that he has made a mistake, perhaps misspoken, and surely is not qualified to do whatever it is that he has taken on. I'm rather looking forward to reading this myself, instead of listening to it while I crochet endless granny squares that were both brightly colorful and not my tastes. But first, I'll read Portuguese Verbs, because I like to read books in series in the order which the author either intended or published them...sometimes that is the same order, but not always.
I do not have all McCall Smith's series, since I've not collected all the children's books. But I do have those titles in The Sunday Philosophy Club. The first book of the series is pictured to the left. I don't want to get all the characters from all the series confused in my mind, but this will probably be the next series I tackle after the Ladies'. Sometimes, this series is called Isabel Dalhousie books, named after the protagonist. I do recall listening to some thing with a little boy named Bertie, who wore pink denims but whose politically correct mother insisted that they were not pink at all. I did not realize when I checked the audio out from our local public library that it was actually part of the 44 Scotland Street series. I'll wait awhile to get into this series, since there are so many to titles to read before I can even approach this.
Then I came across yet another McCall Smith series, Corduroy Mansions. I'd not heard, nor seen, these prior to a few weeks back. It too does appear to be a location specific driven series that focuses on the set of characters living in that particular place. It's not a children's series, though the cover might appear to be so.
The very first book of Alexander McCall Smith's I'd listened to years ago was The Girl Who Married a Lion and Other Tales from Africa. It would become my favorite of his. I do like his Precious series, a children's series set in Botswana, featuring the main character of his The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency, Mma Precious Ramotse, when she was a child herself. I do plan to get the rest of the children's books, but for now, I am satisfied with what I do have. That also includes several of his stand~alone novels, like the Forever Girl and Emma: A Modern Retelling.
Extremely long time readers will remember that about ten years ago, the State of Alabama sued me and I won, all by my lil ole lonesome, going against several attorneys' advice. I actually was able to prove that the State of Alabama owed me, but that I was willing to waive that, if they would drop the ridiculous case they thought they had. Should they want to move forward with it, then they would not only fail to prove that I owe them, but they would actually end up paying me. The case was dropped, ohpsie; and I received a very nice apology, which is filed in the appropriate place, under T for taxes.
Since I have been married, we've been having a tax service prepare and file our income tax forms and returns. I didn't want to mess with taxes preparations and also knew that I was not up to deal with the headaches and hassles of this exemption, that retirement, the other thing, and so forth. Usually, I have some sort of idea how all of it will play out and then feel the satisfaction of confirmation.
However, yesterday, I realized while we were sitting at the office that I'd not done my usual preparations; so quickly pulled out an envelop and flexed my memory a fair bit, pulling together figures that we'd gotten together last summer for this agency and that one over there, regarding my mother~in~law's health expenses, for the first half of the year. Also, my husband retired from his second career last spring, and started another part time job last fall, and there were some additional medical expenses for me that weren't usual, and so forth. I was also tired, a bit frazzled, and the baby was tired, so my husband and I were taking turns walking her to help her relax and go to sleep.
The first thing that went wrong was that my driver's license was expired, since last November. Ohps, but luckily I had another valid picture form of ID, my military card. Then a whole slew of things happened, some of them twice, that shouldn't have happened and some things that should have happened didn't. And our tax person said, "gosh, I'm glad you're sitting down cuz you owe a bit under ten thousand dollars." My breath stopped for a few moments until I remembered that inhaling is NOT always frowned upon.
Then it sounded sort of like this, "aheeeeeckah."
It woke the baby who began to cry along with me.
But we then discovered where some of the multiple mistakes were and within 45 minutes, the forms were corrected and looked to be very similar in overall appearance to our past years' tax returns. WHEW!! Glad, oh so glad, that we caught those before the final version was accepted.
However, I had a HUGE headache when I got home, and felt dizzy and stressed thru the rest of the evening; my confidence was a bit shaken and taxes are not something to be taken lightly. Last night, I experienced several sleep paralysis episodes and scared my husband horribly with tea~kettle screams that start quietly hissing and gradually build into shrieks. Oh so much fun, yeah?
Early this afternoon, I was standing in the overcrowded DMV waiting for their software to go back online. I'd already paid, the receipt was already in hand, however, they were not able to take my picture because that's when everything crashed. For the entire state of Mississippi, in all the DMV offices, for about half an hour. Half an hour doesn't seem like a long time, until you're not feeling so great and the office is full of not so happy campers who are seemingly staring at you because YOU somehow gummed up the works. What? Do the cameras break when they take your picture too?
Rationally, I knew it didn't have a damn thing to do with me; but irrationally, I thought about every time that I have ever been to the DMV's here in Mississippi for myself and how something major goes wrong every time...like the time they changed the format of the drivers' licenses and somehow they couldn't get the printer to line up the card with the info and printed me six licenses before one came out sorta lined up right. It looked so fake but they were tired of fooling with it, so just gave it to me and said that if I had any problems, just have the officer call them. However, two days later, I removed my license from my wallet and the lamination peeled off and so I had to go get another anyway.
Eventually, we were moving along again and I double checked my license to be sure that all was well {one time, they didn't type in my entire address and it just read "Highway 12 West" with no house number}. The weight was off, but I didn't care that it read one hundred pounds less than I weigh. Considering that this license is good for eight years, there is a chance that the weight noted will be correct at some point. Or not. I don't think that matters as much as getting my address right and having a picture on there.
A few years ago, I tried beet kvass for the first time. It was in a small sample size, less than a shot. I wanted more, immediately, because it was so tasty. It's a salty, slightly sour, fermented drink with a lil fizz made of beets, whey, water, and salt.
Last year, I drank all of the bottle I bought in one big gulp. And still my body screamed for more. It was that good.
This last week, I was over at a friend's house, having lunch. We had a little beet kvass and I asked her about how she became interested and what the history of the drink is, then we moved on to how to make it. She shared one of the basic recipes and when my husband went to the store, I asked him to pick up a couple few beets. And some yogurt, because that's what I was going to use to drain off the whey that I would need.
For days, I kept pouring off a smidge of whey from the yogurt and then I contacted my fermenting friend and asked her about draining the yogurt and she suggested thin cloth or thick cheese cloth. So I dumped the yogurt into a clean hanky and suspended it from a hanger over a bowl to catch the whey. I was so excited to be able to make the beet kvass that I emptied a full cup of whey instead of a mere quarter cup over the beets and salt. oohps.
That's ok, tho.
So I had a few bites of the creamiest, thickest, mildest, yogurty cheese ever. It was yummy and extremely rich. Can't wait to try the beet kvass!
Alexander McCall Smith is a rather prolific writer, who loves Africa, particularly southern African countries and cultures. McCall Smith has related some of the oral folk tales of the region in written format, and I do think he performs his own readings of his work for the audio versions for Recorded Books. He's also written multiple series, most have elements of humor. He makes his homes in Scotland as well as Botswana. In addition, McCall Smith is a medical and legal profession and has written texts in both fields.
One of his ongoing series is The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency, set in Botswana, featuring Mma Precious Ramotswe. When I first heard of this series, I actually listened to an audio book of some title further in the series, because the description on the back of the CD case didn't say that it was part of a series. I was crafting, most likely crochet, while listening to it; and one of the first things that stood out to me was the slower pace, the more contemplative and reflective nature of the principle characters, and I felt I could breathe freer, more easily. I began to listen more closely, and to not multitask, but to be more deliberate in my own movements. I enjoyed the audio book more thoroughly than I'd thought possible.
The characters did something often that made little sense to me at the time, but upon reflection makes much sense. They drank lots of hot tea, even in the intense heat. I drink lots of hot tea, but I also drink lots of cooler tea. However, it makes sense to drink hot liquids in intense heat. When you drink iced drinks in the summer, you create more of a temperature disparity between your core body heat and the heat of the environment around you. This can make the day's heat feel intolerable to you. However, drinking hot liquid keeps your inner core temperature warm as well and you won't mind the day's heat as much. Try it sometime and see what you think.
I was curious too, about this bush tea they drank so frequently. Since I had just began to drink rooibos, or red tea, I was very pleasantly surprised to discover that this red tea, or rooibos, was the same sort of tea that the author probably had his characters drinking. Rooibos is very popular in southern Africa; which would make sense, since that is where Botswana is.
Recently, I found the first five books in the series for sale at the First Monday sale, at our local public library for three dollars. I've been mooching the others from BookMooch, and have the first eight now. Last week, I began to read the first book and enjoyed it immensely. I've been reading more about Botswana, and other nearby countries; because I am curious about the culture ~~ the language, the food, the customs, their attitudes regarding family, women, men, elderly, marriage, education, etc. Their traditions within the arts, the animals and insects that are common and part of daily life, their homes and clothing are very different from ours and each of those things help to shape their thinking and way of life.
By opening this one book, I've opened a whole new world that didn't previously exist for me. This is the beauty of reading, the wonders of learning, and the absolute coolness of thirst. If you've not read these and would like to, your public library might carry them. If not, they can probably borrow them from another library for you. Check it out!
I think it is because lots of people anticipate Christmas so much that they rush winter~themed things, like decorations, holiday parties, and consuming baked goods. So many, it seems like winter started the day after Thanksgiving, thus cutting autumn short a month and adding an extra earlier month to winter.
Dudes, winter starts just days before Christmas. So we are just NOW approaching mid~winter with Punxustawney Phil popping his head out to the crowds and decreeing that either way, we still have the second half of the season to plow thru {some more literally than others}. Spring will get here when it gets here, in the meantime, enjoy what time there is left of winter, instead of wishing your lives away.
It seems that for me, most every summer, there is ONE really big event, and several other events of various sizes and importance. Last summer, two HUGE events took place in July for us, family reunions of sorts. That's not counting all the other events thru out the year.
To some extent, I feel like staying home and not doing major traveling this year; or at least not this winter, spring, or summer. Perhaps this autumn, we'll see. In part, to recover from the last several years, which have had both scheduled and unscheduled big events. Death is seldom scheduled, nor is it usually tidy. And then there is the various surgeries and other happenings. Rest and restorations seems to be vital at this time
Another reason that I want to hold off on traveling is because we have a few events already scheduled for this summer, that I really need to be right here, at home, in Starkville, Mississippi. I have guests coming. I would be a very poor host indeed if I were to leave home when they are due to arrive, don't you think?
Now, long time readers might remember that I do have a childhood friend from Catawissa, Pennsylvania, where I grew up; she and her family come to visit us every four years and we go to visit them every four years, so it comes to every two years, we are either coming or going. This year, they are coming here. Not sure if their kids are coming this time, as the oldest is graduating high school and the younger is not so found of it here, or anywhere, really, that doesn't include his own bedroom with the tv, gaming consoles, internet, and rest of the set up that is in his home there. The international community of one of his massive online role playing something or other would notice his absence and perhaps perish. He has his routines and I can understand. Besides, adults, ew. Parents, ew, shudder. Adult friends of parents, *retching*, ew, shudder.
Also this summer, there is the Crew. The crew is a group of girls that I've known since ten or twelve. To some extent, most of us have kept in contact with each other, in some way. Some of the contact is rather sporadic, and honestly, I think the last time I was in contact with one person was most likely twenty years ago when we both became newly fledged Southerners. I had relocated to Valdosta, Georgia to work on my Master's and she had moved to New Bern, North Carolina to teach, meeting and marrying the love of her life and settling in, planting roots, and raising children of her own. She doesn't FaceBook, might not eMail, doesn't seem to answer her phone, so I sent a letter. A very loooong letter to her.
In the autumn of 2014, I finally joined FaceBook. I reconnected with many of my highschool and VoTech graduating classes, since that was our 25th reunion. That's when I found two other members of the crew, one of whom is located in Wisconsin and has been for years, since she became a librarian. The other was one of my best friends for many years and has lived in Virginia for quite some time. Her youngest is about to graduate high school and for some reason, this knocked me on my ass and because it all of a sudden really settled in how old we have become, how much life has occurred for each of us that the others of us have not been a part of, and how fragile our time can be {just two months later, my mother would be dead and suddenly, I realized that I am no longer a child, not even an adult one; but a full fledged adult and not entirely successfully adulting most days at all}; I thought, I would love to actually get together with the rest of the crew and catch up, do some remembering sure, but get to know these people who were once some of the most important people to me, who now are not quite complete strangers to me, but have had families, work, travels, adventures, concerns, interests, etc that are completely new to me.
And then a fourth member of that group of girls my mom called "the Crew" joined FaceBook as well. She is the only one of us to stay in Pennsylvania, though not in the same area we grew up. Still a few hours from our childhood homes is a hell of a lot closer than a few hundred, or in my case, a thousand miles. So that's five of us.
The six person is the one person most of us have kept in contact with over the years. Tho she does not FaceBook either, she does eMail, and at times, can be reached via phone and also snail~mail. She may at least get those messages, even if it takes her awhile to respond, she does keep informed at least. She lives in Ohio and has since graduating college. We see each other from time to time, talk with each other more often, and eMail more frequently than that. I know that if I really needed her, she'd be there. So I'd sent her eMail in autumn 2014 as well.
Of the six of us, there are at least four of us, and possible all six, who will gather at my home here in Mississippi. Just us "girls", without spouses and kids, for a weekend, a week, or however long they should decide to stay. My husband's five adult children did all have their own rooms, after all, and their mom had a room stocked with material, yarn, and other crafting supplies. So four of our rooms are guest bedrooms. And it would be fairly easy to temporarily convert another to a fifth. So we'd have enough room for all six of us, without stacking ourselves like cord wood, or sprawling sleeping bags on the floor, as we had lots of times in our teen years.
So that's to be the major Summer Shindig for 2016. A reunion of good friends that haven't seen each other in years. I've been brainstorming and planning, we'll probably have roast a pig, catch some sites, but mostly visit with each other. I'm very excited.
There are times when I want so badly to share something with my mom, like the fact that all this time, my lady parts have had a spread cape. It's only now, that I've had a hysterectomy, that I knew that. She would have found that hysterical, as do I {pun intended}.
Last week, I had my uterus, cervix, and Fallopian tubes removed. We left my ovaries, like so many cannoli and took the guns of the matter. I'm fine, walking within an hour of surgery, admittedly with assistance.
I have vague memories of me insisting on using the toilet and NOT the bedpan {at 275 pounds, can you blame me? I find balancing challenging enough, let alone when I'm under the influence of anesthesia. Besides, once I broke myself of the habit of voiding supine as an infant, I never could do so again}. So last Monday, I remember having tremendous relief upon the toilet, in the company of two nurses and being absolutely delighted with myself. I crowed, "yes! Best Poop Ever!" to which the nurses said, "hang on there, loopy; let's get ya cleaned up before you return to bed".
Back to the womanly cape thing. The reason I did not realize this until this past week is because very few illustrations are accurate, and the only reason I did realize this when I did was because I watched several laparoscopic hysterectomies on youtube. I saw all the connective tissue and thought, "wow, I never realized that was there." I mean, it totally makes sense, else how would all your parts stay in relative place?
That and the fact that when I asked if my ovaries would be movable, migrating nuggets that I could play with and chase around my body, repositioning them as huge nipples; my doc replied, "no" after a round of laughing that surprised her as much as it did me, "no, they are attached in a fashion". I knew better than to ask if I could have my uterus, cervix, and tubes upon removal; because they like, my wisdom teeth, thyroid, and kidney stones, are considered hazardous waste and the hospital must dispose of them appropriately. This means that not only do I not get to see them myself, but I also don't get to terrorize and disgust future generations as my grandmother did when she would whip out her jar of gallstones and rattle them around while describing to my ten year old self that these were inside her, in a small pouch that was only as big as her hand {which she would then demonstrate by emptying the jar's contents of gravel~like lumps into her cupped palm}.
And you ask why it is that I can speak of such things in a fairly public format as my hysterectomy? pft. I learnt that nothing is too sacred to discuss when I was yet at the knee of grammy. Just wait til I start whipping up my shirt to point out surgical scars, cuz that ought to be exciting for you and me both.
Over the holidays, somewhere between Thanksgiving and Christmas, my daughter in law and I were talking about our strengths and I mentioned that I really don't like the term that goes with that, as in "strengths and weaknesses". Mostly because those things, areas, etc are NOT weaknesses; they are just not outstanding strengths of mine. I do have weaknesses, I do have strengths, and I do have some non~weaknesses that are non~strengths.
Is it any wonder we have so many folks who feel they live from one extreme to the other? We have such clearly delineated dichotomies in our language, and not many neutral areas for the ordinary norms, those areas we do not hate but do not love, those activities that we do not excel at but do not fail at either. It's awkward to speak of these things, our language itself doesn't seem to be structured in that way. Our culture doesn't seem to value not having strengths that are not weaknesses either.
I remember when I was perhaps 13, and I was chatting with a friend of mine on the telephone. I asked if she ever noticed that the magazines didn't show an example of how to apply eyeshadow if you had normally spaced eyes that were not too large or too wide or a nose that was too narrow or too low or eyebrows that were not too high or too thick/thin/long/short. What if those things are all normal, average features and you just want to learn how to apply eyeshadow? My friend laughed and said that those people do not exist and if they do, they would not need advice, they'd already know how to do those things. Already she had bought into the idea that we all are flawed in some grievous manner and need to use illusions to distract onlookers from our too wide/narrow/fat/thin features.
So this idea of some middle ground, some acceptable average that is neither this or that, a third option that exists between the dichotomy of extremes; that moderate range where in actuality most of us do exist in many ways doesn't seem to be an option in our language. What would YOU call a non~strength that is not a weakness either, but still exists? That thing that isn't a deficiency but really isn't outstandingly great either?
I know I have strengths and this other category of not~strengths that aren't weaknesses. I have some weaknesses, sure. These are the things I would like to improve on. For instance, I'd like to have better self control around food. I'd like to have more commitment toward exercise and the gym. I'd like to make healthier choices. And I think I am improving in those areas. Then there is a vast area of things that I do well, not great and not poorly; just ordinary. And then I do have strengths, tho sometimes {like now} I am at a loss for what they are {they are there, tho, I know}.
Did you see what I just did there? I was able to list weaknesses, sure. Focusing on the narrowest part of what makes me, me. That vast array of stuffs that does make up me, I just skimmed right over. Chances are YOU do too.
Words are very important to me, and if I cannot even think of the words to label something, the concrete form of thinking about that nebulous thing, then how can I focus on it?
What are YOUR suggestions for how you think of these things?
I can really empathize with my friends and family who experience heightened anxiety. Perhaps my own experiences will help others, in some way. Sometimes, folks just need something they can relate to.
While I was listening to a friend the other day talk about the paralyzing anxiety she feels at times when she is least expecting it, I was reminded of the horrible anxiety and panic attacks that I suffered from throughout most of my life. I've not felt it quite so much nor quite so often within these past few years, to that degree. But starting in my midTeen years and lasting to my early forties, anxiety and panic lurked, loomed, seized me, and basically made my life pretty unpredictable.
Anxiety, fear, panic; those can be good preservation skills, protecting you from danger. But when that anxiety begins to escalate and spin out of control, when it affects your ability to function; then it is passed the "pay attention" stage and can be debilitating.
My first experience with unbidden, unstoppable, out of my control panic that seemed to come completely out of the blue happened on my first day of tenth grade at a new school. I was fairly sensitive as a child, but as an adolescent, I would become volatile at times and by the time I in neared sixteen, explosive rage would consume me. I generally had pretty good control of it, that I wouldn't lash out and hit or scream others was remarkable because I certainly felt like it an amazing amount of time. I think that not investigating those feelings in a safe place or way led to some other problems like overwhelming panic that implodes with little to no warning.
I totally freaked and lost my shit, on the school bus, at the end of the day. It was alarming to me, to all the other students on the bus, and to my bus driver. The level of the noise that triggered it was so bad that my bus driver pulled the bus over and parked on the side of the road. Since the driver decided to assert and establish her domain on the bus by telling us that she would not move the bus until we all quieted down, the students' noise escalated, and I could feel myself getting dizzy, short of breath, sweating, and so I tried to get off the bus. The bus driver blocked the way and I lost my shit. Was it handled well? No. But the thing is, it was only a matter of time before the anxiety got the best of me. If it wasn't that day, that incident, that bus driver, then it would have been some day, some incident, some body.
The next day, I could not make myself get back on the bus. It felt horrible that I was having this reaction and I was miserable. I went home, crying, and woke my father with my panicked sobs. His reaction was to ask me if I wanted to be like my crazy aunt, who everybody knew was a hypochondriac, and that I best get control of myself right.NOW.
Over the next few years, I became hypersensitive to everything. Sensory overload made me feel like I was aware of every.single.thing. Every detail of every nanosecond bombarded me. That's when I became aware that time is taffy, stretching and shrinking, but mostly streeeeetching.
In my twenties, shopping became a nightmare. Too many options and choices would overwhelm me to the point I would flee and return to my apartment, shaken and feeling cowardly and bewildered. In my thirties, I would awake in the grips of a physical panic attack, blood racing, mind revving, nerves jangling, unable to catch my breath.
That was an especially horrifying and frustrating time. It was frustrating for me because I couldn't figure it out. It was also frustrating because counselors would say that I must be worried about something and it was my mental state that brought about the physical state. In actuality, I tried to explain but was often dismissed, it was my physical state that brought about the mental anxiety to match the physical anxiety. Regardless of the chicken or the egg, I wanted it to end, or at least to understand it so that I could somehow figure out what to do to get thru it.
The secret? Sometimes the only way out is thru. I am not the first to have said that, but it certainly seems to be the case for panic attacks. I had begun to fear the fear itself. I would panic because I was panicking and that never seems to end well. So instead of trying to stop it, get off the train barreling down the track; I'd reassure myself that this is not going to kill me and most everything that can happen during this moment is fixable. I also learned not to care quite so much about not embarrassing others who were with me when it happened, because it's not about them, and they are the ones choosing to be embarrassed by something they have no control or ownership of.
For a time, thru my thirties, I took medication that was specifically aimed at reducing anxiety and panic. I still do, tho the medication that I take now is not quite as strongly sedating. I don't like that drugged feeling and that would actually cause me to be more anxious rather than less so. I also stay away from highly addicted medications that are for acute panic attacks, like Xanax. The thing with that is that the effect escalates quickly, peaks, and then drops just as suddenly. Which then means that folks are more likely to feel they need it more often and that can be not only habit forming, but ineffective, and not the best way to cope with shit.
I also was receiving counseling. Still do, most for maintenance and reality checks. I've a complex set of disorders that require lots of self monitoring, which I manage pretty well. But sometimes I need to make sure that something was an appropriate reaction or just to check in and have a more objective observation than my own. I'm in my own head, so I can't exactly get out of it in quite the same way that someone who is outside of me can, ya know?
I learned a ton of coping skills that work for ME, because just like my experience with any one drug is going to be mine and not necessarily everyone else's, some coping mechanisms work for me that won't work quite as well for others. And I learned what my triggers were more likely to be, so that I could prevent a building of anxiety by avoiding those triggers or limiting my exposure to them.
Sleep became a hugely important issue and diet and exercise also factor in as well. Do I still get anxious? Yes, of course. Some anxiety is normal and to be without it means that I would be dulled and affectless which is not desirable at all.
The thing about this sort of anxiety that becomes panic is that it can happen for NO discernible reason what so ever. That's the thing that most people don't seem to understand. Chances are that you aren't choosing to panic, you aren't choosing to be anxious. And it becomes extremely frustrating for you and those around you. Your spouse might be completely puzzled and not get that if you could control this, you would. Oh you so would.
I understand their confusion, because I felt that way too. As a child, I had been raised to value logic and reason above intuition or feelings. I was constantly told in a myriad of ways that being sensitive was a bad thing and that I needed to toughen up. So I often ignored those things about myself, until they became so explosively overwhelming that they demanded my attention. So I would ridicule myself in an attempt to make myself listen to reason and stop all that nonsense, what am I crying about anyway? It's just noise, it's just a crowd, it's just this and that, it's only ...
But the truth is, sometimes, enough is enough is enough and this is just too much. So the next time you're handed a straw, it might be enough to break your back. So if you feel this approaching, sure, do what you can do to head it off. But you might also be to the point where there is no building up, there is no approaching to sense; because you go from calm to being panicked in a nanosecond, much like a vehicle that goes from a stand still to 120 in one minute. You're not meant to move so fast, and that can wear you out and break you down.
Being balanced in many ways allows me to function and flourish. Find your balance range, in your ways. It took me a looooooooooooong time, with more than a few setbacks, and lots of assistance to get to where I am now. Your journey does not need to be nearly so long. Resources are available, you can do this. I have the utmost confidence in you.
Earlier, when I was writing the close to sixty holiday cards or thank you cards or condolences cards, I was thinking a lot about how our autumn has been, how are Decembers have been, how the winter season is for me personally, and how the past few years have been in general.
I also thought about cards that I love, which are usually blank inside. One of my favorites became one of my mom's favorites. It reminded her of me, as a little girl. I had a coat much like this, and I used to twirl about in the falling snow. Mom felt the card should be called, "Christmas in Shohola", because that was the name of the tiny town in PA we lived near when I was about nine or so.
Let me share my take on winter and why I don't usually experience the depressed side of bipolar at a time when most people are struggling with melancholy. Traditionally, winter is a time when the earth is dormant, trees are bare, most plants wither and die off, the harvest of both animal and vegetation is past, and life slows down for humans too. Animals slumber and hibernate, passing time in deep sleep, their systems slowed to a point that allows them to live on their reserves, fats stored in their bodies.
It really is only within the more contemporary times that human's in developed countries continue with the same hustle and bustle as the rest of the year; in the past, we slowed our activity too. Winter was a time to repair or replace tools and implements that we used throughout the rest of the year; a time for us to stay indoors as much as possible, out of the elements, focusing on activities that we may have put off until we would be more dormant too.
I grew up in Pennsylvania, where winters are cold and snow is the norm. January marked the midyear for academic schedules. Holiday rush was over, Thanksgiving and Christmas travel was behind us, and snow days could be counted on.
So when winter comes now, those months of January, February, and March, I expect to slow down. I look forward to the time to rest, the time to allow my brain to breathe and my body to repair from all the damage stress has worn. I know that the days will grow longer, yes, but so slowly that the dark seems to settle early in the day, late afternoon or early evening. Dark signals me that it is time to rest, to slow, to sleep. Coldness creeps in, and you may find me layered in short sleeves, long sleeves, jackets, or thermals.
I expect to be quieter, more reflective, less likely to schedule myself with lots of commitments and obligations. Perhaps because I do expect an ebb in the pace of my life, I am less likely to fight the shift into stillness. I seek the deep slumber that my body craves, not because I am depressed, but because this to me is the natural cycle that fits.
Not everyone has these options, I know. But, I do. So I take advantage of the ability to breathe, to be calm and still, to rest, to surround myself with peace and pleasantness. To be.
Happy birthday to my father, the first man of my life. Yesterday, he completed his 69th year, having been born in 1946. Dad, I hope your 70th year is frabjous, you deserve to enjoy each moment.
Also yesterday morning, my mother~in~law, Carolyn, died. We'd been expecting this, so most of us had the time to be somewhat prepared. She'd been home with us since last Tuesday. There was such a hurry up and wait, start and stop, quiet calm and chaotic fervor all through the week that all of us are now slightly stunned, sorta tired, and a lil absent brained.
So it was a great idea to have written the obituary beforehand. She had prearranged her funeral just months after her husband had died in October 1991. There were only a few details to see too. Welch's Funeral Home has an online book of memories and they've used the obit as I've written it. It's slightly unconventional in form, but lives start with birth and end with death; and it's not about whether the readers need to all the details of the services immediately, it's about Carolyn and her life.
Here it is:
Minnie “Carolyn” Wolf, nee Sanders
On Tuesday 5th March 1935, a
baby girl was born to Grover and Jenny Sanders {nee Hunt} here in the
Starkville area. She was named after Jenny's twin sister, Minnie;
but everyone would call the little girl “Carolyn”. An only
child, Carolyn grew up on her parent's small diary farm, just west of
Longview. She attended school near what is now known as the Longview
Opry. In the 1940s, area schools consolidated and Carolyn finished
her high school years at what is now the Greensboro Center.
Carolyn married Fred Wolf and moved to
Macon, Mississippi. Their son, Jerry, was born in 1955. Daughter
Barbara was born in 1957, completing their family. In 1960, they
moved to McKee Street in Starkville and Carolyn lived there for over
thirty years.
Over the years, Carolyn greeted seven
grandchilden, five are Jerry's children and two are Barbara's. Along
with welcoming future generations, Carolyn had to bid goodbye to some
of the most important people in her life. In October 1991, her
husband Fred died due to lung cancer at the early age of 56. This
changed her life in a myriad of ways that she did not fathom at the
time.
In 1998, Carolyn moved back to the
homestead where she grew up, so that she could take care of her aging
parents. Her son had retired from the military and returned with his
family to the Longview area as well. Soon, Carolyn's daughter moved
back to the homestead and rejoined the rest of the family. So
Carolyn was able to be present for her mother and father, as well as
her adult children and their children.
In 2003, Carolyn's father, Grover “Big
Daddy” Sanders, died. Just two years later, Carolyn's mother, Mama
Jenny, died as well. Grover was 98 and Jenny was 97. These losses
were devastating for the entire family, Carolyn most of all.
As Carolyn's own health worsened, she
became focused on how much she missed Fred, and her loving parents
who were pillars throughout seventy years of her life. She loves her
family, as it has expanded over the years. Carolyn is now eighty,
with two children, seven grandchildren, thirteen great grandchildren,
and her first great great grandchild is on the way.
On Tuesday 15 December, Carolyn died at
home, surrounded by the soothing, peaceful love of her family. Now,
Carolyn has gone to rejoin her Fred, Big Daddy, and Mama Jenny.
Visitation, followed by the services will be held at Welch's Funeral
Home, beginning at 11a on Thursday 17 December. Carolyn will be
interred at Pleasant Ridge Baptist Church's cemetery, next to Fred,
near her parents. She will be missed.
It's been a few weeks, but they have not been unnoteworthy. Mid~December is upon us and we're barreling to the end of the year rather quickly. In many ways, it doesn't feel like December, certainly not as far as the weather is concerned anyway. At seventy degrees outdoors and oh so much warmer indoors {we were using the oven as well as forgetting to turn off the heaters}, I felt as tho these past few days were a lil too unseasonable for my taste. The ACs been on for the last several days. I hope it's the hurrah for the year.
But in other ways, this December feels appropriately dreary and mournful. Jerry's first wife had died ten years ago ten days ago; and that's when we learned that Jerry's mother failed her partial barium test {this measures and gauges the swallow reaction to the various thicknesses of fluids}. At first, Jerry felt that this was bad timing in general {not that he was saying that his mother could have picked at better time, she couldn't have, because she didn't choose to stop swallowing, ya know?}. But I felt a bit differently and when I explained to him my perspective, he thought that made some sense.
Last year, my mother died on December fifth; and lots of folks said about it being so hard for the holidays for those of us mourning her death. I felt differently. I felt like December is an entirely appropriate time for death to occur, because it is when the natural world in the northern hemisphere is lying dormant, having "died" for the year. I felt like the dreary weather of damp, cool days and foggy nights was in keeping with my frame of mind. I felt like it was suitable that the world around me was a reflection of my inner world. It felt like it would have been wrong for June's warmth and sunniness and laughter and happiness to be when Mom died, so to me, it felt super appropriate that my mom died in December.
So this year, with the combination of two important women's deaths and another impending death of a woman who is loved by us both; what would be a better time for death to occur? Dying is the process of death, and death is a necessary part of life. Lots of folks tend to forget that death is inevitable and tend to prolong someone's misery well past the end of any meaningful quality of life for that person, so that that person is just existing for some one else's peace of mind or benefit. That's pretty selfish, especially when that is NOT your own life but someone else's life you are messing about with.
Jerry's mother is dying. We brought her home, to a calm loving environment where we can see to her comfort and focus on seeing that her wishes are respected and carried out. We know that not everyone agrees with her do not resuscitate orders or her advanced directive that specifies her wishes.
We are also aware that many folks really are not very well educated on the process of dying and how smart the body is. There is a reason that the body ceases swallowing when it does, and that is because the systems are shutting down so that stress is minimized. Swallowing is associated with taking nutrition and processing that food and liquid is demanding, it puts a huge burden on the body and incorporates everything from the mouth to the anus. All the stages of digestion, producing acids to breakdown food, and extracting the nutrients, and using them where they are needed and storing them, and eliminating the waste involves a huge expenditure of energy the body doesn't have the ability to produce because various systems are either malfunctioning, shutting down, or shifting into another stage due to the dying process.
If you feed someone who cannot swallow, you run the very high risk that they will aspirate that liquid or food into their lungs and that sets up infection, fever, and other demands the body is not capable of addressing at such a time. You are putting that person thru great discomfort, pain, and anxiety in order for YOU to feel better about providing nourishment. Feeding tubes are perhaps appropriate at certain times, but not so when a person is dying and in the end stages of life. Again, the demands you are placing upon the body are enormous.
Carolyn is not capable of sustaining a feeding tube. A few years ago, her aging body's inner tissues were slow to heal and infection would easily set in when she had an internal bleed such as a scratch on her esophageal sphincter during an endoscopy. That scratch which was not a tear or leak, but a relatively minor scrape resulted in a two week hospital stay due to the slow healing time and the infection that developed. A feeding tube that is inserted into her stomach via an incision in her trunk is more likely to be a greater danger, involving completely unnecessary stresses and demands on her body.
There are many other things that can be addressed, but the absolute bottom line is that Carolyn expressed her wishes to an attorney who drew up her advanced directive, and also discussed those wishes and concerns with several others, including my husband {her son} and myself {I was her caregiver for a few years}. I urge YOU to discuss your own wishes with your loved ones, and be sure to clearly state your wishes in a living will or advanced directive. Encourage your loved ones to do the same. It eases the decision making process for you and your loved ones when that time comes, as it does for us all.
A few weeks ago, before this development with Carolyn, but after her health was already in swift decline, a distant family member had voiced to Jerry that he should make sure that I didn't arrange Carolyn's funeral, because "after all Debra didn't even have a funeral for her own mother". I will do exactly the same thing for Carolyn as I did for my mom: RESPECT THEIR WISHES.
My mother did not want the obituary, the viewing, the memorial service, the casket, the headstone, the burial, etc. She opted for cremation, and counted on us to notify whom we wished, in whatever way we wanted to. So that's what I did.
Carolyn prearranged most of her funeral details in 1992, months after her husband had died. More recently, she discussed with me often what suit she wanted to wear, how she wanted to be arranged, that she wanted a viewing, memorial service in the funeral home, and a graveside service. She discussed so many details that I have very little doubt that for her these things are of great importance. So I will be sure that I do those things that she wants when the time comes.
In the meantime, we see that Carolyn is as comfortable as she can be. She is bathed, lotioned, powdered, and her linens changed so that she has fresh sheets and night gowns next to her thin skin. She is given appropriate medication via appropriate methods, so that her anxiety and pain are addressed. She is soothed and comforted, with familiar music that she prefers, temperature that is not extreme, light that is not harsh, darkness that is restful, and a limit to any commotion that might be taxing and stressful for her. Sometimes we talk to her, she doesn't respond verbally and sometimes doesn't do so at all~~but the auditory system is one of the very last things to shut down, because it is a receptive skill and not requiring a response. Sometimes we give her quiet because that is what she seems to prefer at times, especially when deeply asleep.
So our main priority at this point is to see to her comfort. Hospice is involved, so we can ask any questions, express any concerns, and seek assurances and advice. We got this; we love her and feel that she deserves our love right through to the end.
AGAIN: I urge YOU to discuss your own wishes with your loved ones, and be sure to clearly state your wishes in a living will or advanced directive. Encourage your loved ones to do the same. It eases the decision making process for you and your loved ones when that time comes, as it does for us all.
Several years ago, and by "several" I mean "twenty", I was a thousand miles from home, having just moved to Valdosta, Georgia and started working on a grad degree, and had a four day weekend which included Thanksgiving Thursday, Black Friday, and just the normal weekend of Saturday and Sunday. It was my first Thanksgiving away from home, well, at that distance, and also my first Thanksgiving in the South, so it was with bittersweet mixed feelings I headed down into North Florida to be a guest at my friend Spencer's house.
South Georgia and North Florida should be its own state. Folks have more in common with each other than they do the other folks in their own states. I mean, Atlanta folks disdain the folks in South Georgia and the folks in South Georgia, well, they don't really care too much for those folks up North. And by "North", I mean "North Georgia". But they tend to like North Florida folks, who feel sorta the same way.
Florida is one of the few states I know where the further south you go, the more northern you are. I'm not exactly sure what they'd call a state that would break off just south of Tifton, Georgia and run all the way to say, Gainesville, Florida, or maybe a county south of that yet. I'm thinking something like Spanish Moss, perhaps. Probably not tho.
I was glad to be going to Spence's, for a few reasons, one being that he was a friendly guy, and nice, and sorta funny, and sweet and kind too. Two, I was glad to be there because I was missing my own family and didn't think that I really wanted to spend the holiday alone. Turns out that was an incorrect assumption on my part and was later glad to get back to my efficiency where I could be alone, but not lonely. But had I not gone, I probably would have been very lonely, thinking that I should have gone. But we'll never know for sure, now, will we?
No. Third reason, I was interested to see how Thanksgivings would differ, between the North and the South. When I'd arrived to Valdosta, Georgia in September of 1995, it was vastly different from northeastern Pennsylvania. In just about all the ways that you'd imagine yes, but in case you aren't familiar with Catawissa, PA or Valdosta, let me tell you about a few.
It was warm in PA, when I left. Short sleeve weather, sure. But summer was over and school had started, and autumn was well on its way. As I headed south, it was like traveling back in time; the year reversed and summer came back and all of a sudden I was in the sweltering heat of a muggy July day. Later I'd find other ways the "traveling back in time" metaphor and simile applied.
It was late when I checked into a hotel in Tifton and had I realized how close to Valdosta I was, I probably would have kept going. Distances are measured differently when your in the hills and mountains of PA, miles mean nothing, it's all about how long it's going to take you to get from here to there. But in the flat south, miles and time are about the same, so a distance of thirty miles takes roughly thirty minutes.
Not that Valdosta is thirty miles down the road from Tifton. It's forty~five. So less than an hour of driving time would have gotten me exactly to where I was going, even though I'd only been to the apartment, where I was renting a room from a corrections officer named Kim. We won't discuss that.
If I had just driven straight through tho, I would have been in the dark. Because I'd been on the road, driving from Catawissa, PA for over fifteen hours by then and even tho it was September and before the time change, it was dark when I pulled off the interstate in Tifton and found a hotel. Probably because I'd eaten supper that evening in Cracker Barrel, probably in southern Virginia. Because I considered Cracker Barrel to be uniquely southern and at that time, it was. Now, there is a Cracker Barrel in Buckhorn, PA, just about ten or fifteen minutes from Catawissa.
So if I had driven straight through, directly to Valdosta, it'd have been in the dark and I'd have missed those first southern impressions I gathered in the morning when I got back on the road, in Tifton. It was a good thing that I did spend a few hours sleeping, for a couple of reasons. But let's not get into that now. The main thing that I noticed was that it was like there was a chalkline snapped right across Tifton. Everything north of there looked more or less familiar, but south of Tifton, all of sudden I noticed big changes.
Sand, instead of dirt. And when I did see dirt, it was red clay. Lots of odd plants and bugs. Ya know, kinda tropical. And the heat and humidity was the sort that I would eventually come to know as normal, altho I never quite got used to it. My car, a 1986 Ford Escort, two door, hatchback, with extensive repair work, but not extensive enough to unite the several different paint jobs from several different vehicles after it was totaled out a few years before that, but the frame wasn't bent and the axles weren't twisted, so dad and I went to Harry's You Pull It and replaced some parts, had no air conditioner. The car was grey with red stripes and accessories, before the elderly gent plowed into it. And it was grey with a red left front fender, afterward. But it ran and that's the main thing.
No air conditioner in the south is like having no heater in Alaska. You pretty much need one. So it got really hot, really fast, even tho it was early in the day and I was driving down the interstate with my windows open. Breathing sand, bugs, and heat.
In addition to the topographical differences {it was flat and sandy}, the vegetation {Spanish Moss, Live Oaks, Pecan trees, and way more}, the insect life, and animals {alligators, armadillos, and koala bears ~~ no koala bears, but just checking to see if you were still with me, this getting long and I haven't even gotten to Alice's Restaurant by Arlo Guthrie, stick with me kid, we're going places}; I was to find the food was oh so much different. I'd no idea there were so many types of beans and peas.
Southern cookin' is good, tasty. Lots of new things for me to try, with all you can eat buffets everywhere, and lots of stuff fried, deep fried, pan fried, battered, coated with crumbs, and sauces, gravies, and sugars were entirely different. I got to the south, weighing about 130 and standing about 5'7". Twenty years later, I'm tipping the scales at 290 and I've shrunk to about 5'4" or so. Southern cookin' will do that to ya.
So Thanksgiving that year, just about ten weeks after I'd arrived in the South, I was going to have dinner with a southern family, eating southern cookin'. And by "dinner", I mean "the meal you eat at noon". I was looking forward to it.
First off, I overdressed. In a group of folks who were wearing shorts and t~shirts, I alone was wearing slacks and a turtleneck. Good thing there was air conditioning in this house.
My First Southern Thanksgiving meal is mostly forgotten, tho I do remember having rutabaga for the first time ever, and I'm pretty sure there were collard greens and black eyed peas, probably some cornbread. Sweet potato casserole is ubiquitous in the south, so I'm sure there was some there then, at Spencer's.
These were God Fearing folks, I was not. They were more godly perhaps then your typical southern family, which is a pretty godly bunch typically. Spence's father was a preacher. Being a preacher in the south has its own identity, that's why there are Southern Baptists and not just baptists. Southern has its own version of nearly everything. In many ways, that's a good thing.
I'm just saying that it was a bit confusing for me to sit down for Thanksgiving dinner at the table, with food that The Missus spent days preparing, only to see her husband scoop up his plate and silver ware after giving a blessing for the food, friends {me}, fellowship, and something else I didn't quite catch {I figured it out later}, and head into the living room to watch the football game, the Florida Seminoles versus someone. By "watch", I mean "participate in, with loud and frequent curses aimed at the referees, coaches, players, and opposing team's fans". Turns out the extra something in the Thanksgiving dinner prayer was a command to god to bless the Seminoles. And I was a bit uncomfortable with the idea of a preacher being so loud with the "are you shittin' me"s, the "goddamn"s, and the "getcher head outta yer ass"s.
It was good meal; the food was wonderful, I enjoyed my visit with Spence and The Missus, and was glad to have been invited. Southern hospitality is a wonderful thing, you should try it. Experience it and see if you don't start practicing it. I did. Still do.
But I was also glad to thank them and leave, get in my ragtag 1986 Ford Escort with its dings and scratches and head to my own efficiency. At first, when I got "home", I enjoyed the quiet. I took a shower and changed from my sweaty turtleneck and slacks into cooler shorts and a comfortable T. But then the quiet got to be loud. You know how loud quiet can be. Especially to someone who is used to music, constant music, I was 25, music was a must.
So I turned on the radio and there, on my favorite classic rock station, was Alice's Restaurant. All eighteen and some minutes. I sat down in my folding chair, I was a grad student, these are the things that you furnish your apartment with...a radio and a folding chair. And I listened to Arlo strumming and telling his story.
Now, it wasn't the first time I'd heard Alice's Restaurant {which wasn't really about Alice, or her restaurant, which it wasn't her restaurant anyway}. No, I remember hearing it several times throughout my childhood, because my parents were hippies of a sort and if we happened to catch it, it was usually Thanksgiving, and we usually listened, gathering around the kitchen table, while it played on the radio from another room, sometimes my parents' bedroom {Shohola, PA} or the living room {most of the other seven or eight other places I'd lived as a child}. I didn't understand it all, I didn't understand lots of stuff when I was a kid of ten or so. But I had the warm fuzzies from being with my family, my folks laughing along with the recorded audience, while this dude with a sing~song nasal sliding voice plucked strings of his guitar and others' compassion as well.
So when I heard the tale again, all those years ago, when I was a young adult, a thousand miles from home; I listened and remembered feeling close to family, the warm fuzzies of nostalgia, and listened and understood the story, probably for the first time. Since then I catch it when I can. For a few years, a local radio station would play it several times throughout the day, on Thanksgiving Thursday. But I hadn't heard it recently until earlier today.
It made me think all sorts of thoughts, the way you do, thinking thousands of things in just a few minutes. It's amazing how eighteen minutes can take you back forty years or more, and bring you right back to where you were all along. How the world has changed, but still stayed the same in so many ways. How faces change, how those near and dear remain so only in your heart, no longer alive anywhere but your mind. How happy you can be, with the way you are now and who you were and who you are are still essentially the same, but better. How you wish the world would be better, the best it can be, the best YOU know it can be.
I'd written a bit about attempting to learn "R" and then move from that into some of the online free courses involving data analysis using R. And commented about a week later that it was not going well. I sent off an eMail detailing my attempts to retrieve data files to the instructor of this archived exploration course, a remedial introduction to R; he's a professor in Sweden who happens to love all things R~related. I hadn't heard anything from him, but I am not surprised. There are a multitude of possible reasons he hasn't responded to my plea for assistance, by explaining what I might be doing wrong.
Then came SSsssssinusssss Sssurgery. Mucking about in R didn't seem to be a priority during the first week of recovery, since my brain was not functioning at its best and I'd already been having issssssuess with R. But then today, I decided to give it another whirl.
I'd downloaded "Data for the Life Sciences" textbook and started to read through the preface, which is prior to the forward, which is before the introduction. Good thing I did; although most folks skip all that ~~ THIS is exactly why I do not. There is a reason authors, editors, and publishers include these things; generally there is information included in there that is not explained elsewhere ~~ like what sorts of knowledge you should already have and if you do not have them, then where to find them and become familiar with them.
In this case, since this textbook is meant to be used for a specific online course, it has helpful hyperlinks that connect you to those resources, along with directions in what to do once you get to that site, what and how to download, and other suggestions. So I added the RStudio, rTools, and an assortment of packages {data sets} to what I'd already downloaded a few weeks ago.
One of those tools is "swirl". It comes with all sorts of lessons on how to do this and that AND the other thing in R. It's step by step format, offers encouragement {"excellent job!"}, correction {"not exactly what I was looking for; try this instead..."}, and examples of what else you might want to try. It's just my speed at the moment and I think this will nicely dove tail what some of the other instructional videos cover. So I'm back in R. sorta.
Of course I am biased and think that Sophie is cute and adorable. But she is. It's no secret that I am not particularly skilled with a camera and taking wonderfully composed pictures, showcasing my subject as its best. So when I try to capture the cuteness, the result is often not what I intended.
This picture was somewhat successful. I did manage to show that Sophie uses the pillows to prop her head up, because that's what pillows are for. She sees us doing that, so surely, that's what you're supposed to do. And she does that really well.
I did wait til she closed her eyes and laid her head back down. Altho I also ended up with a multitude of shots of her eyes slit open, her mouth open in a huge yawn, her head perked up as she watched me watching her. Thankfully, it's digital and I'm not wasting film, as I might have done in the past.
But I failed to show that the rest of her body is stretched out on the sheet covering the couch cushions. I didn't photo those minutes of her pulling the tail end of the blanket down off the back of the couch, then tunneling under the pile of disarrayed soft throw, and arranging herself just right. I didn't show that she heaved a deep sigh, as she snuggled her shoulders into the pillows, the blanket draped over the lower part of her body, her feet and tail tip sticking out from under the blanket.
I did not manage to show that she is copying my ritual of teasing out a portion of the top sheet from under the pile of sleeping dogs, pushing my pillows into the right places, tucking one just under my neck, as I lie on my side, my foot hanging off the edge of the mattress, exposed to the cooler air because it's too warm under the cover, but some cover is needed...then heaving a sigh and closing my eyes when I'm all arranged, just right.
For years, I considered my mother's birthday to be the kick~off for my holiday season. Her birthday was October 25th. She died last December and as this October progressed from start to middle to now, I wondered if I would still consider this the start to my holidays. The answer is: probably not always; but for right now, yeah. Perhaps not even next year, but for this year, yes.
This year has been a year of firsts, in many ways. When a loved one dies, it's their absence that is the most noticeable, especially within that first year of death; at least that is how I felt much of this year. I'm still saying good bye, still grieving, still adjusting to traditions that now don't include mom's physical presence.
In my family, we'd often call the birthday person and sing "happy birthday" to them over the phone. Sometimes we'd do that on a recording, if they were out. Sometimes we'd get the other folks who might be visiting us to join in. One year, I kept the recording of my mom, dad, and brother singing happy birthday to me over my voice~mail for the entire year; because listening to them sing to me made me smile and feel loved. It felt strange not to be picking out a birthday card or to be calling mom today. I'll miss going to Red Lobster to treat each other, once for her birthday in October and once for my birthday in November. We didn't go last year, either; because we wanted to wait til she was feeling better.
Even tho I knew that today might be tricky, difficult, that I might laugh over memories and then start crying because they were memories; it was a better day than I'd hoped. Several folks really made that possible for me. Thank you, I appreciate you so very much. Also, I knew mom would have wanted me to not dwell on things; tho I knew she'd definitely understand my tears too.
Mom never really made a big deal over her birthday, it's a day, just a day, she'd say. But I could count on a telephone call at about 4:55pm my time, on November 16th, from mom; because that's when I was born. So even tho mom didn't consider October 25th to be all that important, I did. As I said earlier, to me, mom's birthday marked the beginning of the holidays.
Why? Well, there's mom's birthday, then Halloween {which in my hometown meant a big parade, costumes, candy, bands {including bagpipes}, trick or treating, bean soup, and hot chocolate...for the past six years, it's been my wedding anniversary, which means that it's the most special day of the year for me}, then a few weeks later is my birthday, and then a week or so later is Thanksgiving {which in my family was THE holiday, bigger and more meaningful to my family than even christmas}.
That's the first half of the holiday season to me. Last year, during that time, my mother's heart was faltering and her health was failing. She was dying, tho we didn't realize that for sure at that time.
She died December fifth.
So last year, during the second half of the holiday season, which includes my father's birthday on December 15th, christmas/yule, and welcoming the new year; I was just so hugely relieved that mom was no longer dying. I was so glad that she didn't linger for an incredibly long period of time, struggling to breathe, being miserable while prolonging her existence. I was relieved that she was done dying. One of her favorite characters in one of her favorite movies, Sipsy in Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe, said, "a true lady always knows when it is time to go."
This holiday season most likely will be a lil more teary and tense for me, in some ways. Because I miss her. I miss her lots. I feel her absence in so many ways, so deeply.
Calavera, a sugar skull often seen during the celebrations of El Dia de los Muetos
In other ways, I think I will enjoy this holiday season
in ways that I haven't in several years past. There will be less stress overall this year, because I made time and cleared my schedule of commitments and obligations earlier this autumn. I have the ability to sit with my grief if I need to, without feeling guilty because I "should" be doing this, that, or the other thing. I also have awareness, so I can monitor myself to make sure that I'm in an ok space/place overall.
My husband is so supportive, usually; but even moreso now. He's able to be here with me, with a bit less stress himself {he retired in the spring from his second career}. He misses my mom too, having loved her and her ways, even when she told him, "ya watch weird shit, Jerry, ya watch weird shit."
This year, there is a new grandbaby whose mom, sister, and nan/aunt decorated pumpkins over this weekend. I see this baby often and get to sing, "I'm gonna get the baby, I'm gonna get the baby" in a joyous, yet bragging, way to my husband {even tho when I get the baby, he does too, silly me}. She'll be spending her first thanksgiving with us, bringing her mom too {wink}. This tiny creature just blows me away and makes me think of all sorts of things; some deeper ponderings {like at what point do we stop being so pleased with just being and start to have criteria that must be met in order to be happy} and some not so deep~~like what color will her hair be?
We have plans to see the majority of the family at some point over the next few months. But also plans to relax with each other, as Jerry watches football and I finish a few knitted projects. These holidays, we have plans, but we also have enough flexibility to adjust and take things as they come.
After all, 'tis the season; no rush, we've got time to enjoy the days ahead.
It's an adventure, stepping out of the bedroom most days. Now that my husband's been retired from full time employment for almost a year, he's enjoying his own time in ways that cannot always be fathomed, nor predicted the night before. For instance, one morning last month, I came to the breakfast table to find that surrounding my plate of pancakes {pancakes, guys, PANCAKES waiting for me at my place; amazeballs, right?} were all sorts of things my husband found that morning when he was in town, getting eggs for my pancakes. There were flowers, carnations, one of my favorites. A huge bag of chocolate peanut butter cups, several bags of pistachios, a bunch of bananas, an I Love You card, a jar of honey, a few boxes of tea, a box of colored pencils, and a few puzzle books. Awesome! I am so loved and spoiled, I know. I appreciate his appreciation.
