This is not a poem; it's just the easiest way for me to think tonight.
One car, four young people, two nights ago.
An on-ramp to the interstate. A sharp curve. A heavy foot on the accelerator.
"We're going too fast," a girl in the backseat said.
And then the hatchback, never built for speed, rolled. Rolled so hard and fast that it took down a highway light pole.
Two young men in the front seat, neither wearing a seat belt.
The driver was ejected through the windshield. He lives, paralyzed and still comatose.
The passenger, known for his moves on the football field and his good humor, ends up in the back seat.
Except there is no back seat. There is no car—just a flattened, inverted, compressed mass of mangled metal and glass. He was killed instantly.
A stranger, an angel, appears and calls 911.
Rescue crews arrive.
In what was once the back seat, the girls wore their seat belts. It takes 30 minutes to cut the first girl out of the car. She has a broken tibia and other, hopefully minor, injuries.
It takes more than two hours to extricate my granddaughter. She has two broken legs (femurs), four broken ribs, a shoulder injury, and many cuts and bruises.
An EMT said it was the worst accident he'd ever seen.
All in a split second.
All in a reckless, irreversible, life-altering split second.
When Princess Diana died, someone wrote an essay I wish I'd saved. It was about women in vehicles driven by men, and how we seem to be hard-wired to relinquish control in that situation. It talked about how Diana, one of the most powerful women in the world, sat unbelted in the Mercedes that killed her, and how even though they traveled at seriously excessive speed, she never spoke up, never demanded that the driver slow down, never ordered him to stop. Do we trust men to take care of us? Is that it? Do we see automobiles as male territory, a place for us to recede into the background (literally)?
I can remember feeling that way. I can remember being incapable of speaking up, of criticizing the driver, of not wanting to risk......I don't know what I thought I risked, or why I didn't know what I risked by remaining silent. But that was a long time ago.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Miss Margaret Cobb
If you're on Facebook with me, you know that most mornings I post one of my dad's photos from the 1940s. Some of them were taken at various work-related functions. Today I scanned one of his negatives and and found a picture of Miss Cobb, the geologist who was so kind to me after my mother died (I was nine). She's the woman on the left, in sensible shoes. No fancy hair, no glamour, but a highly educated woman of great warmth.
I wrote about Miss Cobb here. I don't ever remember seeing a picture of her. When I saw this one today, I instantly remembered the softness of her hands and the softness of her voice.
Sunday, August 07, 2011
Versed (midazolam): Avoid This Drug!
I was first given Versed (Ver sed') years ago in New York, for an extremely painful GYN procedure for which the physician needed me to be awake. Versed doesn't relieve pain; it erases the memory of pain. I awoke to find my shins scraped and bleeding. I asked the doctor about it, and he said, "That's from when you tried to get away." I was left with nightmares in which I screamed curses. Versed erases the memory of pain, but only on a superficial level.
Versed is an incredibly popular drug among doctors and hospitals. It's not hard to see why......we can't complain about what we can't remember. They call it a sedative, and it does sedate some people. But it has quite the opposite effect on others. Although I hated what happened to me in that New York hospital, and had a deep distrust of the drug as a result, I was given it several times in the ensuing years for surgical procedures (they administer it prior to the anesthesia) and once for an endoscopy. I've known people (including my gastroenterologist) who underwent their endoscopies without medication. I asked one man what it was like, and he said, "Your experience was the same as mine. The only difference is you can't remember it."
I discovered there was a lot I couldn't remember. The older I got, the more Versed affected my short-term memory. It eventually came back, but it took longer each time. When I had minor surgery in January, I told the anesthesiologist I didn't need to be sedated before the anesthesia. He made a note on my chart and left. Seconds later, a nurse shot something into my IV. I asked her what it was, and she said "Versed."
Four months later, I was scheduled for two cataract operations. I was told I needed to be awake but immobilized for the surgery, so they would use Versed. We discussed this, and they said Versed was the only option. They would use the absolute smallest amount, and assured me it would not cause problems. I'm a proactive (read "annoying") patient, but in this case I didn't know of an alternative to the highly-recommended eye surgeon, and I thought they'd probably use much less Versed than I'd had previously.
I think they did use less, because I can remember both procedures. But in the week between them my memory was impaired, and after the second one it got dramatically worse. On the fifth day after the second surgery, I went to a party. The next day, I could remember the gist of a number of conversations, but not the people I spoke with. My word retrieval wasn't very good, and my thought retrieval was worse. And scarier.
That's not all that was scary. My mental state underwent a dramatic change. I became depressed in the morning and anxious at night. My heart would pound, and I had trouble breathing. This was not at all like me. It was terribly frightening. I wondered if it had anything to do with whatever tick-borne infection I've been fighting.
It lasted about a month, and then gradually improved and disappeared. I was doing the dishes one night when I remembered that some time back I'd seen "agitation" given as a possible side effect of Versed. I dried my hands and went to the computer. There I found every symptom I'd experienced during that awful month—all described by people telling Versed horror stories.
And these stories were truly horrifying. I got off easy, it turns out. Some people talked about side effects that never went away. One woman wrote about her husband, perfectly normal and well-grounded when he went to the hospital for minor surgery, now committed to a locked psych ward.
Ask A Patient has page after page of these stories. Other sites are dedicated to warning people about the dangers of Versed. Just Google Versed horror stories, Versed side effects, or Versedbusters and see what you get. There's a lot of first-person accounts out there, and I can only imagine how many others go unreported. If a side effect (especially this kind of side effect) occurs more than a week after a drug is given, a great many people will never make the connection.
I found several comments suggesting that many medical professionals won't allow the drug to be used on themselves. They're not the only ones. I will never allow it to be used on me again. Actually, I hope I can steer clear of all procedures, surgical and otherwise. I read of people being given Versed despite their orders to the contrary. Remembering that nurse shooting it into my IV, I believe it. Consider this to be my public service announcement. Maybe we need a catchy slogan. How about "Keep Versed Out of Your Head"?
Versed is an incredibly popular drug among doctors and hospitals. It's not hard to see why......we can't complain about what we can't remember. They call it a sedative, and it does sedate some people. But it has quite the opposite effect on others. Although I hated what happened to me in that New York hospital, and had a deep distrust of the drug as a result, I was given it several times in the ensuing years for surgical procedures (they administer it prior to the anesthesia) and once for an endoscopy. I've known people (including my gastroenterologist) who underwent their endoscopies without medication. I asked one man what it was like, and he said, "Your experience was the same as mine. The only difference is you can't remember it."
I discovered there was a lot I couldn't remember. The older I got, the more Versed affected my short-term memory. It eventually came back, but it took longer each time. When I had minor surgery in January, I told the anesthesiologist I didn't need to be sedated before the anesthesia. He made a note on my chart and left. Seconds later, a nurse shot something into my IV. I asked her what it was, and she said "Versed."
Four months later, I was scheduled for two cataract operations. I was told I needed to be awake but immobilized for the surgery, so they would use Versed. We discussed this, and they said Versed was the only option. They would use the absolute smallest amount, and assured me it would not cause problems. I'm a proactive (read "annoying") patient, but in this case I didn't know of an alternative to the highly-recommended eye surgeon, and I thought they'd probably use much less Versed than I'd had previously.
I think they did use less, because I can remember both procedures. But in the week between them my memory was impaired, and after the second one it got dramatically worse. On the fifth day after the second surgery, I went to a party. The next day, I could remember the gist of a number of conversations, but not the people I spoke with. My word retrieval wasn't very good, and my thought retrieval was worse. And scarier.
That's not all that was scary. My mental state underwent a dramatic change. I became depressed in the morning and anxious at night. My heart would pound, and I had trouble breathing. This was not at all like me. It was terribly frightening. I wondered if it had anything to do with whatever tick-borne infection I've been fighting.
It lasted about a month, and then gradually improved and disappeared. I was doing the dishes one night when I remembered that some time back I'd seen "agitation" given as a possible side effect of Versed. I dried my hands and went to the computer. There I found every symptom I'd experienced during that awful month—all described by people telling Versed horror stories.
And these stories were truly horrifying. I got off easy, it turns out. Some people talked about side effects that never went away. One woman wrote about her husband, perfectly normal and well-grounded when he went to the hospital for minor surgery, now committed to a locked psych ward.
Ask A Patient has page after page of these stories. Other sites are dedicated to warning people about the dangers of Versed. Just Google Versed horror stories, Versed side effects, or Versedbusters and see what you get. There's a lot of first-person accounts out there, and I can only imagine how many others go unreported. If a side effect (especially this kind of side effect) occurs more than a week after a drug is given, a great many people will never make the connection.
I found several comments suggesting that many medical professionals won't allow the drug to be used on themselves. They're not the only ones. I will never allow it to be used on me again. Actually, I hope I can steer clear of all procedures, surgical and otherwise. I read of people being given Versed despite their orders to the contrary. Remembering that nurse shooting it into my IV, I believe it. Consider this to be my public service announcement. Maybe we need a catchy slogan. How about "Keep Versed Out of Your Head"?
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Footfalls
He used to walk the property at dusk;
now I do, too—not because he did,
but because I understand why. He
walked around the barnyard, observing,
checking things that mattered: his horses
in their stalls, a piece of siding missing
from the barn, the size of the hay supply,
water levels in the horses’ tanks, old tractor
in its bay, the horse trailer, the trucks.
I walk the front yard, seeing what is there:
the rose transplanted yesterday, another
planted days before, progress of the weeds,
soil softened by chipmunks, entrance
of the first iris buds, a bumblebee at rest,
the youngest cat stalking blades of grass
in the last light, unwilling to let the day go.
now I do, too—not because he did,
but because I understand why. He
walked around the barnyard, observing,
checking things that mattered: his horses
in their stalls, a piece of siding missing
from the barn, the size of the hay supply,
water levels in the horses’ tanks, old tractor
in its bay, the horse trailer, the trucks.
I walk the front yard, seeing what is there:
the rose transplanted yesterday, another
planted days before, progress of the weeds,
soil softened by chipmunks, entrance
of the first iris buds, a bumblebee at rest,
the youngest cat stalking blades of grass
in the last light, unwilling to let the day go.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
STiMuLaTioN: WHaT's iT DoiNg to US?
Every once in awhile one of the Top 40 hits of the 1950s or early 60s runs through my head, and the same thought always comes to me: The songs that we sang and danced to back then would never make it on the current charts. How would today's teens react to lyrics as benign as these?
If you're fond of sand dunes and salty air,
quaint little villages here and there.....
For that matter, how would they react to "The Singing Rage, Miss Patti Page"? Compared to Patti Page, Susan Boyle practically approaches Lady Gaga status.
Okay, if you're significantly younger than I you probably have no idea who or what I'm talking about (except for the Lady Gaga part). But that's okay; you'll get my point in a minute.
The thing is, either humans have come to (inexplicably?) crave constant stimulation, or the marketing gods have decided that we do. "Special effects" aren't special anymore; it's hard to imagine any kind of action film without them. In a good movie, something has to explode, someone has to disrobe, and/or 50 F-bombs must be dropped. Don't get me wrong.....I enjoy those movies (except for the violent ones). But I wonder why we as a society are no longer able to enjoy Deanna Durbin.
Oh, and about violence....Back when my kids were little, violence in film was relatively new. Children were studied as they watched what passed for violence in those days. Those who were used to it watched without reaction. But those who hadn't been exposed to violence cringed and twitched as people on the screen were mown down, etc. Who is cringing and twitching today (besides me)?
Winding roads that seem to beckon you,
miles of green beneath a sky of blue.
Church bells chimin' on a Sunday morn
remind you of the town where you were born.
I won't even get started on TV, especially "reality" TV.
But let's talk about lipstick. Those marketing gods control consumer products to a large degree. Ever since I acquired pen pals from Russia in the 1980s, the "Buy me! Buy me!" culture has bothered me somewhat. Advertising is everywhere, and our shelves are so packed with products. The ability to choose is a wonderful thing, but do we really need so many choices? Or do their sheer numbers eventually reach a saturation point and become a negative factor?
I admit to being fond of lipstick. When I get home I can't wait to take it off, but when I'm out I love to wear it—and yes, I love choices. I have a little white wicker basket filled with lipsticks. But I would say only three or four are my top favorites. The cosmetic companies don't seem to care about favorites, especially old favorites. They care about New!! and Exciting!!! and Hot!!!! I hear women complain about it all the time......cosmetic lines change regularly, and their favorite lipsticks, eye shadows, and even shampoos simply disappear so the company can bring out something with a hotter sounding name.
I know. All this makes me sound old. But not nearly as old as that Patti Page song:
If you like the taste of a lobster stew
served by a window with an ocean view,
you're sure to fall in love with Old Cape Cod.
If you're fond of sand dunes and salty air,
quaint little villages here and there.....
For that matter, how would they react to "The Singing Rage, Miss Patti Page"? Compared to Patti Page, Susan Boyle practically approaches Lady Gaga status.
Okay, if you're significantly younger than I you probably have no idea who or what I'm talking about (except for the Lady Gaga part). But that's okay; you'll get my point in a minute.
The thing is, either humans have come to (inexplicably?) crave constant stimulation, or the marketing gods have decided that we do. "Special effects" aren't special anymore; it's hard to imagine any kind of action film without them. In a good movie, something has to explode, someone has to disrobe, and/or 50 F-bombs must be dropped. Don't get me wrong.....I enjoy those movies (except for the violent ones). But I wonder why we as a society are no longer able to enjoy Deanna Durbin.
Oh, and about violence....Back when my kids were little, violence in film was relatively new. Children were studied as they watched what passed for violence in those days. Those who were used to it watched without reaction. But those who hadn't been exposed to violence cringed and twitched as people on the screen were mown down, etc. Who is cringing and twitching today (besides me)?
Winding roads that seem to beckon you,
miles of green beneath a sky of blue.
Church bells chimin' on a Sunday morn
remind you of the town where you were born.
I won't even get started on TV, especially "reality" TV.
But let's talk about lipstick. Those marketing gods control consumer products to a large degree. Ever since I acquired pen pals from Russia in the 1980s, the "Buy me! Buy me!" culture has bothered me somewhat. Advertising is everywhere, and our shelves are so packed with products. The ability to choose is a wonderful thing, but do we really need so many choices? Or do their sheer numbers eventually reach a saturation point and become a negative factor?
I admit to being fond of lipstick. When I get home I can't wait to take it off, but when I'm out I love to wear it—and yes, I love choices. I have a little white wicker basket filled with lipsticks. But I would say only three or four are my top favorites. The cosmetic companies don't seem to care about favorites, especially old favorites. They care about New!! and Exciting!!! and Hot!!!! I hear women complain about it all the time......cosmetic lines change regularly, and their favorite lipsticks, eye shadows, and even shampoos simply disappear so the company can bring out something with a hotter sounding name.
I know. All this makes me sound old. But not nearly as old as that Patti Page song:
If you like the taste of a lobster stew
served by a window with an ocean view,
you're sure to fall in love with Old Cape Cod.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Oh, BABY!!!
I'm so happy to announce that last Wednesday (July 6) my son and his wife welcomed their baby boy to the world. His name is Joseph (Joey?), and he weighed 7 lbs., 8 oz. (same as his Aunt Gillian) and looked instantly beautiful. I took these pictures when he was 10 hours old.
I had a talk with him today, and promised him lots of birds (I believe I said "bordies") to look at with me and ham radio lessons from his daddy. He promised me to be a limitless source of joy.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Mama Gato y La Leche
A few weeks ago a very thin female cat showed up on the property looking for food and love. My son and daughter-in-law noticed right away that she was a nursing mother, and began feeding her. ("Nursing mothers need food and water!") I was happy to see my teachings from when I was a La Leche League Leader come around again like this. So we've been feeding the cat, who weighs so little that I've been calling her Feather. (My son and DIL call her Bones, which doesn't quite do it for me.)
Yesterday I finally found her kittens—in the ice house. I found two dark tabbies yesterday, and an orange one today. I have two cats, Annie and Pogo, and that's enough for now. I can't afford more vet bills. But a neighbor offered to help get the mother spayed, and if that happens my only reservation about bringing her inside is her dangerous habit of walking under my feet. I can just see myself falling down the stairs.......
Anyway, here we go again. Animals have been finding us for decades, and while I can no longer afford to rescue them all, I'll do what I can. And if I'm lucky I'll find some others who have room for a kitten in their lives. Crystal.....? :-)
PS: Spanish-speaking readers, please forgive my casually translated post title. I remember way too little Spanish from high school.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
This gravestone had me in tears.
After posting more than 700 pictures on FindAGrave, you'd think I'd be used to cemetery things. But this gravestone for twins, photographed yesterday, really got to me.
Born in 1849, Charles Trowbridge Pierson and his twin sister, Mary Ann.....the boy dying at age 7 weeks, and then his sister one month later. One hundred and fifty-plus years later, we grieve with their parents.
Born in 1849, Charles Trowbridge Pierson and his twin sister, Mary Ann.....the boy dying at age 7 weeks, and then his sister one month later. One hundred and fifty-plus years later, we grieve with their parents.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
From my journals.......1979 (November and December)
November 1: A nice, unusually quiet LLL meeting. The next series will be rather a circus—during the daytime at my house. We have three single mothers in our group now.
November 7: I'm reading The Mother's Almanac, and getting inspired to let the girls do more in the kitchen with me. It's one of the things I very much looked forward to, but found little fun in actual practice. I hate to admit it about myself, but the mess that kids make in cooking, the patience required while they take so long about it, and the sometimes less-than-perfect results were enough to make it a nerve-wracking experience for me. However, in my constant efforts to change my ways, I am trying again—this time with a conscious effort to develop a more patient and accepting attitude.
December contains only entries about Joey's nursing strike. He was 14 months old, and went from being a wonderfully enthusiastic nurser to adamantly refusing to have any part of it, even in his sleep. He cried all the time, but refused to be comforted. It was a hard time for everyone in the family, and was never resolved. I don't want to revisit it, so this will wind up 1979. I hope I developed that "more patient and accepting attitude" about my daughters in the kitchen......
November 7: I'm reading The Mother's Almanac, and getting inspired to let the girls do more in the kitchen with me. It's one of the things I very much looked forward to, but found little fun in actual practice. I hate to admit it about myself, but the mess that kids make in cooking, the patience required while they take so long about it, and the sometimes less-than-perfect results were enough to make it a nerve-wracking experience for me. However, in my constant efforts to change my ways, I am trying again—this time with a conscious effort to develop a more patient and accepting attitude.
December contains only entries about Joey's nursing strike. He was 14 months old, and went from being a wonderfully enthusiastic nurser to adamantly refusing to have any part of it, even in his sleep. He cried all the time, but refused to be comforted. It was a hard time for everyone in the family, and was never resolved. I don't want to revisit it, so this will wind up 1979. I hope I developed that "more patient and accepting attitude" about my daughters in the kitchen......
Friday, May 20, 2011
From my journals.......1979 (October)
October 4: Today I learned that Suzanne somehow thought "cutting a tooth" meant breaking a tooth. I obtained a new sitter to stay here with the girls while Joey and I went to my L3 meeting. Diane is a very religious girl, appearing super straight. She was visibly shocked when she asked how many teeth our baby had, and Suzanne replied, "They're all broken."
October 6: A wonderful day! We all drove down to Ambler (2.5 hours), where I gave my workshop on vegetarian cooking and using tofu at LLL's Area Conference. It went so perfectly, and was so enjoyable, that all my previous fears seem silly. The 30 people who attended were very enthusiastic and receptive to the foods I brought (soybean sandwich spread, tofu eggless salad and tofu cheesecake) and said they couldn't wait to get home to try them out on their families. The evaluations they fill out were so good I could have written them myself!
October 8: This must be my week! First my success at Ambler, and now the best possible visit to Suzanne's school. Her teacher couldn't say enough about how well Zannie is doing in school. She spoke of how Suzanne "zipped through" all the reading levels (1-5) and how she's doing the math beautifully, too. Naturally, I was thrilled to find that Suzanne's teacher fully appreciates my brilliant little daughter.
October 25: Joey is one year old today! We were prepared for the speed with which his first year would fly by, but it was still a shock. Joe is in NJ as usual today, so we will all celebrate on Saturday. He offered to drive home tonight, but I urged him not to. Such a very long drive, and Joey doesn't know when his actual birth date is.
October 27: Joey's birthday celebration. I made a honey cake ("Natural Baby Food Cookbook") with broiled peanut butter icing ("Mother's in the Kitchen"), and we took a movie of Joey climbing onto the dining table to get it. Joe brought home a giant sneaker ride-around toy.
October 31: At 8:00 a.m., Suzanne was on the school bus, and Gillian watching Captain Kangaroo. I picked Joey up and we got in bed to nurse. For me, a cozy, delicious feeling to be snuggled under the covers with my baby on a grey morning. But for Joey, what a pleasure it must be to drift in and out of sleep, doing one of the things he loves best. The smile he gave me when we switched sides was one of sheer delight and contentment—half-closed eyes, milky mouth and all.
October 6: A wonderful day! We all drove down to Ambler (2.5 hours), where I gave my workshop on vegetarian cooking and using tofu at LLL's Area Conference. It went so perfectly, and was so enjoyable, that all my previous fears seem silly. The 30 people who attended were very enthusiastic and receptive to the foods I brought (soybean sandwich spread, tofu eggless salad and tofu cheesecake) and said they couldn't wait to get home to try them out on their families. The evaluations they fill out were so good I could have written them myself!
October 8: This must be my week! First my success at Ambler, and now the best possible visit to Suzanne's school. Her teacher couldn't say enough about how well Zannie is doing in school. She spoke of how Suzanne "zipped through" all the reading levels (1-5) and how she's doing the math beautifully, too. Naturally, I was thrilled to find that Suzanne's teacher fully appreciates my brilliant little daughter.
October 25: Joey is one year old today! We were prepared for the speed with which his first year would fly by, but it was still a shock. Joe is in NJ as usual today, so we will all celebrate on Saturday. He offered to drive home tonight, but I urged him not to. Such a very long drive, and Joey doesn't know when his actual birth date is.
October 27: Joey's birthday celebration. I made a honey cake ("Natural Baby Food Cookbook") with broiled peanut butter icing ("Mother's in the Kitchen"), and we took a movie of Joey climbing onto the dining table to get it. Joe brought home a giant sneaker ride-around toy.
October 31: At 8:00 a.m., Suzanne was on the school bus, and Gillian watching Captain Kangaroo. I picked Joey up and we got in bed to nurse. For me, a cozy, delicious feeling to be snuggled under the covers with my baby on a grey morning. But for Joey, what a pleasure it must be to drift in and out of sleep, doing one of the things he loves best. The smile he gave me when we switched sides was one of sheer delight and contentment—half-closed eyes, milky mouth and all.
Monday, May 16, 2011
From my journals........1979 (September)
September 19: Joey fell out of my bed in the middle of the ight. He's had a stuffy nose and has had trouble sleeping, so I took him into my bed. I think what happened was that I fell asleep but he didn't, and he scooted over to the other side of the bed and fell of. His head hit the bare wood floor, and we both cried.
September 20: Joey recovered from his fall out of bed sufficiently to fall out of his feeding table—again!
September 22: Joe home for another two days. We are all hugely looking forward to mid-December, when he will leave NJ and stay home full time, working on his tofu project. Being alone here with the kids five days a week is especially hard in the winter months. The snowstorms lose a lot of their charm when I worry about being able to get out of the house in an emergency—such as one of the girls' ear infections.
September 24: Suzanne (who just turned six) came home from school today and announced she is in love with a schoolmate named Brian. "I ran after him at recess and caught him and kissed him!" (On the shoulder, she says.) She says she's going to marry him when she grows up, but she hasn't told him yet (and she doesn't know his last name).
I asked he why she fell in love with Brian—is he smaft? "Yes, he's almost as smart as I am." Is he a nice person? "Yes......also, he was wearing a yellow jacket, and yellow's my favorite color!"
Suzanne is utterly beautiful, and I hope whomever she does marry deserves her.
(See Suzanne's wedding picture, above, taken February 5, 2011.)
Friday, May 13, 2011
From my journals........1979 (August)
August 3: A depressing day at the dentist. First, there was my appointment. The dentist spent quite a bit of time discussing my attitude—whether or not I was fully prepared for the work ahead. Not a good sign. Then came the pedodontist, and the shocking news that Suzanne has 5 cavities! Gillian has none as yet, fortunately.
August 5: Sometimes I think I must be manic-depressive. I go through (brief) periods of feeling like I can handle anything and everything, then find myself completely overwhelmed and in a real panic about all my undone chores, feeling inadequate about the messy house, my weight problem, the demanding garden, you name it.
August 6: When I finished feeding Joey some cottage cheese and wheat germ, we looked at each other and he smiled and I smiled . . . and smiled and smiled . . . then I began to laugh and then he laughed his beautiful baby laugh, so full of delight—and we shared yet another happy moment to remember.
August 15: My parents arrived today for a one-week visit. They're staying at a motel five miles away. I haven't seen my father in two years, and he looks terrific. The kids were so thrilled to see their grandparents. Joey took one look at his Grandma and held out his arms. Gillian couldn't have remembered her"Pop-Pops" but gave him her best hug immediately, as did Suzanne.
August 24: Took the kids to a drive-in movie last night . . . an experience! We saw "Star Wars," and it was a treat mainly for Zannie. Gillian couldn't get absorbed in it, and Joey alternately cried from sleepiness and climbed all over me and whatever else I let him get to.
August 26: Nora in town for the weekend, and she stopped to spend the afternoon here. Tian came ovoer, too. We did one of our famous "fill-ins" and had our usual laughs. Very much like old times, except for once I didn't make anything exotic to eat.
August 5: Sometimes I think I must be manic-depressive. I go through (brief) periods of feeling like I can handle anything and everything, then find myself completely overwhelmed and in a real panic about all my undone chores, feeling inadequate about the messy house, my weight problem, the demanding garden, you name it.
August 6: When I finished feeding Joey some cottage cheese and wheat germ, we looked at each other and he smiled and I smiled . . . and smiled and smiled . . . then I began to laugh and then he laughed his beautiful baby laugh, so full of delight—and we shared yet another happy moment to remember.
August 15: My parents arrived today for a one-week visit. They're staying at a motel five miles away. I haven't seen my father in two years, and he looks terrific. The kids were so thrilled to see their grandparents. Joey took one look at his Grandma and held out his arms. Gillian couldn't have remembered her"Pop-Pops" but gave him her best hug immediately, as did Suzanne.
August 24: Took the kids to a drive-in movie last night . . . an experience! We saw "Star Wars," and it was a treat mainly for Zannie. Gillian couldn't get absorbed in it, and Joey alternately cried from sleepiness and climbed all over me and whatever else I let him get to.
August 26: Nora in town for the weekend, and she stopped to spend the afternoon here. Tian came ovoer, too. We did one of our famous "fill-ins" and had our usual laughs. Very much like old times, except for once I didn't make anything exotic to eat.
Saturday, May 07, 2011
Taking a short break from diaries......
........because I've been thinking about something.
A baby shower for my daughter-in-law was held last week, and one of my gifts to my expected grandchild was this small hooked rug—actually, a wall hanging. I belong to an active rug hooking group online, but I don't know even one other rug hooker in real life. I learned how to do it from a book 30 years ago, and I'm still learning from books and the Internet.
When I tell people other than my friends that these mats are made from recycled wool (old clothing I find at the Salvation Army), the reaction isn't always positive. Some think it's great that one can make "something from nothing," but I've caught a flicker of what might be distaste on a couple of faces. (For the record, everything goes into the washing machine first.) And when I add that I like to dye the wool myself, I can tell more than a few wonder why anyone would want to spend their time in this way. (After all, I could be watching reality TV.)
Compared to the women (and men) who began this craft, my efforts take little time. I order my hooks, linen backing, and dyes from online vendors, and for this rug I bought the bright colored wool for the turtle online, too. When I decided to treat myself to a lap frame this year, I did the transaction via email. My rug binding tape comes to me through eBay. This rug was my original design except for the turtle, which was a free online quilt pattern.
The first hooked rugs, made in the early 19th century, often used burlap feed bags for backing. But even much later, the process was primitive for some. I recently read about a woman who described hooking rugs in the first decades of the 20th century. She gathered her best woolens (mostly from underwear) for two years before she had enough to start a rug. She set up a big floor frame in her farmhouse kitchen and sewed the burlap to it. Beside her at the frame was a wooden cradle; she rocked her infant daughter as she hooked her rugs by the light of a kerosene lamp. She dyed some of her wool with onion skins and goldenrod.
Lately I've been posting some of my journal entries here. Most of them were written with ball-point pens in red, hardbound Daily Reminder books. Later I started a computer journal, plus many of the letters I've written over the years—journal entries of sorts—are saved on my hard drive. Consider these entries from diaries kept by women on the Oregon and California trails in the mid-1800's:
I didn't write in my diary yesterday. I hate to miss a day, but I just couldn't do it yesterday. It was dark by the time we found a place to camp and both George (her husband) and I were too tired to build a fire to melt the ink.
and
The color of the ink in my journal will be changing all the time from now on. I thought I brought enough ink for the entire journey, but have completely run out. From now on I''m going to pick berries and squeeze the juice out of them and use it for ink. The color of my writing will depend on the kind of berries I'm able to find.
When some early diarists ran out of paper, they wrote vertically over the same sheet they'd already covered horizontally. All these women, most of whom were raising children, went to such lengths to tell us about our country's past.
So this is what I've been thinking about: the resourcefulness of women and the documented history of their passion to create something beautiful and to leave something of themselves behind. They inspire me to write more regularly in my current journal. And to keep hooking, rug after rug.
Thursday, May 05, 2011
From my journals.......1979 (July)
I thought it would be fun to illustrate some of these entries. I think this picture of Suzanne and Gillian might be a little older than 1979, but it's close enough. I also think I may have posted it before, but I don't know how to do a blog search for photos.
July 2: Nora and I said tearful goodbyes today. I will miss her a great deal; we talk to each other a lot and see each other at least once a week.
(I must have been busy in the garden for the next few weeks.)
July 21: For several months Joe and I have been thinking seriously about starting a soy dairy, producing tofu, as a new business for Joe to operate close to home. Today an exciting thing happened: We received in the mail notice of a four-day conference on tofu and soyfoods production, to take place next week in Massachusetts! What perfect timing. I wish I could go, too, but the dogs must be fed and the kids aren't the right ages for a conference. I hope we can make this new business a reality.
July 23: Today I gave the girls a stern speech about not playing with their clothing in their dresser drawers—no throwing clothing on the floor, no rummaging around in the clothing drawers, etc. "Do you understand?" I finished. "Yes," said the girls—Gillian piping, "I understand!" Later, I overheard her asking Suzanne, "What's clothing?"
July 30: Joe came home from the soyfoods conference loaded down with books, paper, and ideas—and full of enthusiasm. We are ready to GO!!
Monday, May 02, 2011
From my journals.......1979 (June)
June 8: Dinner at R's house. Met her boyfriend. Still in shock over the fact that she is having a relationship with this kid. Gross lack of sophistication, not the slightest bit mature for his age (23). I can't relate.
June 12: Nora over for dinner. She really loves my cooking—I call her the Locust. Tonight I made an Oriental style dish with hamburger, tofu, and vegetables (featuring our fabulous fresh spinach). For dessert, strawberries from the garden, along with oatmeal-walnut bars. After dinner we sang and sang—Nora playing the guitar and me the Autoharp and piano. We all got to bed late, but had much fun. Not many weeks until Nora leaves.
June 13: Did another radio show on breastfeeding, my third, this time with Peggy. It was great fun, and we got across lots of good information.
June 22: Made an appointment to get my hair layered (!!) next week. I am convinced I'm in need of a change—the long, long hair I've had since my teens is no longer flattering—but my hair has always been my security blanket, and I'll probably go into a depression!
June 30: Loulee's wedding day. We left the house at 5:30 a.m. and got home 22 hours later, exhausted. I enjoyed myself, though—the kids received such an enormous amount of approval that it was marvelous fun just being their mother. I got a fair amount of approval myself, and felt really loved.
June 12: Nora over for dinner. She really loves my cooking—I call her the Locust. Tonight I made an Oriental style dish with hamburger, tofu, and vegetables (featuring our fabulous fresh spinach). For dessert, strawberries from the garden, along with oatmeal-walnut bars. After dinner we sang and sang—Nora playing the guitar and me the Autoharp and piano. We all got to bed late, but had much fun. Not many weeks until Nora leaves.
June 13: Did another radio show on breastfeeding, my third, this time with Peggy. It was great fun, and we got across lots of good information.
June 22: Made an appointment to get my hair layered (!!) next week. I am convinced I'm in need of a change—the long, long hair I've had since my teens is no longer flattering—but my hair has always been my security blanket, and I'll probably go into a depression!
June 30: Loulee's wedding day. We left the house at 5:30 a.m. and got home 22 hours later, exhausted. I enjoyed myself, though—the kids received such an enormous amount of approval that it was marvelous fun just being their mother. I got a fair amount of approval myself, and felt really loved.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
From my journals.......1979 (May)
With several explanations.......
May 1: Took breakfast over to the Jacksons this morning—my waffle iron, a pitcher of waffle batter, butter, and syrup. They're moving back to Oklahoma (Zannie says "Uncle Homa")* tomorrow. We said sad goobyes; it is unlikely that we will see each other again. We've become so close, and I will miss them greatly.
* Zannie actually said it with an o at the end, not an a, but I don't want to attract any more spam to this blog than it already gets.
May 2: Joey's six-month checkup. Nora tried to give me a hard time about his slow weight gain, but I am not concerned. He is beautiful—healthy and happy. At least he was happy until he got his shot.
May 9: A hot day in town. Had Joey's picture taken at K-Mart—a free offer—our first experience with that sort of photography. Stood on line with "Dr. D's mothers" for 45 minutes. A lesson in learning to keep my mouth shut.*
*Dr. D. delivered many of the babies in town at that time. He dispensed some really wretched advice to new mothers, among other things.
May 10: Spent most of the day preparing for Tian and Nora's afternoon visit. They were supposed to pick up my grain mill, but Nora's dogs ran away so she didn't go shopping. I made lots of raw vegetables with curry dip, cold asparagus soup, and zucchini bread. We drank white wine. Fun seeing my friends as usual, particular fun singing with them, but strangely glad to see them leave. Missing Joe.....glad he's coming home tomorrow.*
*He worked out of state during the week.
May 14: A bat came down the chimney again. I hate these experiences.
May 18: I spread out a blanket on the grass for Joey and the girls, thinking he might be amused by his sisters while I gardened nearby. And I guess he was, until Zannie rubbed perfume on his face.
May 31: Comforting a baby can be a lovely thing. While I nursed Joey in the tub, I let the girls soap my back and pour water on us.
May 1: Took breakfast over to the Jacksons this morning—my waffle iron, a pitcher of waffle batter, butter, and syrup. They're moving back to Oklahoma (Zannie says "Uncle Homa")* tomorrow. We said sad goobyes; it is unlikely that we will see each other again. We've become so close, and I will miss them greatly.
* Zannie actually said it with an o at the end, not an a, but I don't want to attract any more spam to this blog than it already gets.
May 2: Joey's six-month checkup. Nora tried to give me a hard time about his slow weight gain, but I am not concerned. He is beautiful—healthy and happy. At least he was happy until he got his shot.
May 9: A hot day in town. Had Joey's picture taken at K-Mart—a free offer—our first experience with that sort of photography. Stood on line with "Dr. D's mothers" for 45 minutes. A lesson in learning to keep my mouth shut.*
*Dr. D. delivered many of the babies in town at that time. He dispensed some really wretched advice to new mothers, among other things.
May 10: Spent most of the day preparing for Tian and Nora's afternoon visit. They were supposed to pick up my grain mill, but Nora's dogs ran away so she didn't go shopping. I made lots of raw vegetables with curry dip, cold asparagus soup, and zucchini bread. We drank white wine. Fun seeing my friends as usual, particular fun singing with them, but strangely glad to see them leave. Missing Joe.....glad he's coming home tomorrow.*
*He worked out of state during the week.
May 14: A bat came down the chimney again. I hate these experiences.
May 18: I spread out a blanket on the grass for Joey and the girls, thinking he might be amused by his sisters while I gardened nearby. And I guess he was, until Zannie rubbed perfume on his face.
May 31: Comforting a baby can be a lovely thing. While I nursed Joey in the tub, I let the girls soap my back and pour water on us.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
From my journals........1979 (the rest of April)
April 15: Read an article about the tofu business, and thinking it might be ideal as a venture for Joe and me.
April 16: The Jacksons are getting married on Wednesday. (Joe said, "To whom?")
April 18: Peggy and Lisa gave a talk on breastfeeding at the CEA film night this evening. Joey and I were supposed to be the "model" nursing couple, sitting in front of the room to shoe the audience how it's done. Joey was not what you'd call cooperative—he bit me, turned away, and cried!
April 19: My birthday, and I planned a nice celebration. Left the girls with Patty at her house and met Tian at Nora's house at 4:30. We drank a hot wine punch, ate dinner, and laughed and laughed. We also cried a little—when Nora read aloud a letter I had written her, listing the things I'd miss when she moved away. Nora gave us lovely birthday presents: a poncho for Tian and a painted tray for me, both from Mexico. Tian and I gave each other "appropriate handmade birthday cards." We all had lots of fun.
April 20: Joe and I are excited about the possibility of going into the tofu manufacturing business. I have great enthusiasm for the product!
April 22: Attended a party this afternoon for the Jacksons, who will be moving at the end of the month. At first I felt slightly out of place with all that counterculture, but a wide variety of people came, and we all had fun.
April 24: Started work on cleaning our bedroom. What a lousy housekeeper I am.
April 25: Jill, making believe she is Nora: "Dr. Nora will fix your foot as soon as she goes to the potty."
April 16: The Jacksons are getting married on Wednesday. (Joe said, "To whom?")
April 18: Peggy and Lisa gave a talk on breastfeeding at the CEA film night this evening. Joey and I were supposed to be the "model" nursing couple, sitting in front of the room to shoe the audience how it's done. Joey was not what you'd call cooperative—he bit me, turned away, and cried!
April 19: My birthday, and I planned a nice celebration. Left the girls with Patty at her house and met Tian at Nora's house at 4:30. We drank a hot wine punch, ate dinner, and laughed and laughed. We also cried a little—when Nora read aloud a letter I had written her, listing the things I'd miss when she moved away. Nora gave us lovely birthday presents: a poncho for Tian and a painted tray for me, both from Mexico. Tian and I gave each other "appropriate handmade birthday cards." We all had lots of fun.
April 20: Joe and I are excited about the possibility of going into the tofu manufacturing business. I have great enthusiasm for the product!
April 22: Attended a party this afternoon for the Jacksons, who will be moving at the end of the month. At first I felt slightly out of place with all that counterculture, but a wide variety of people came, and we all had fun.
April 24: Started work on cleaning our bedroom. What a lousy housekeeper I am.
April 25: Jill, making believe she is Nora: "Dr. Nora will fix your foot as soon as she goes to the potty."
Thursday, April 21, 2011
From my journals.......1979 (early April)
April 6: I can't believe how long it's been since I wrote in this diary. So much for my good intentions! The star of the show around here these days is Joey (almost 6 months old). He is such a wonderful smiler—he makes everyone feel special. I think he's been ready for solids for a couple of weeks now.....he's reached the point where he opens his mouth at the approach of just about anything.
April 7: Joey's first taste of solid food: a dab of mashed banana. I think Joe and I were more excited than the baby. Joey didn't exactly reject the banana, but he looked totally confused and not terribly thrilled.
April 9: An ice/snow storm, just when we thought spring was here to stay.
April 10: Jill (age 3) likes to make believe she is Nora (our friend and pediatrician). "I am Nora. I am going to give you a shot. There will be great pain. And, it is going to hurt!" Later, she looks in my ear and announces it is a little red. I tell her it doesn't hurt, and wonder why it is red. Jill replies, "There is a dead animal in it."
April 11: (A friend) tells me her past has caught up with her, and her life is in ruins. I have no idea what she means, but it's upsetting.
April 14: 10:30 p.m. I just finished putting together tomorrow's Easter baskets: art gum eraser, glue stick, and notepad for Suzanne; green eraser, notepad, and package of rubber bands for Gillian. Plus they both got peanut butter/sesame butter dandies that I made tonight. We colored 21 eggs this afternoon, and the girls are looking forward to hunting for them in the morning. Joe and I can't hide the eggs tonight for fear that Poppy (the dog) will eat them.
April will be continued.........
April 7: Joey's first taste of solid food: a dab of mashed banana. I think Joe and I were more excited than the baby. Joey didn't exactly reject the banana, but he looked totally confused and not terribly thrilled.
April 9: An ice/snow storm, just when we thought spring was here to stay.
April 10: Jill (age 3) likes to make believe she is Nora (our friend and pediatrician). "I am Nora. I am going to give you a shot. There will be great pain. And, it is going to hurt!" Later, she looks in my ear and announces it is a little red. I tell her it doesn't hurt, and wonder why it is red. Jill replies, "There is a dead animal in it."
April 11: (A friend) tells me her past has caught up with her, and her life is in ruins. I have no idea what she means, but it's upsetting.
April 14: 10:30 p.m. I just finished putting together tomorrow's Easter baskets: art gum eraser, glue stick, and notepad for Suzanne; green eraser, notepad, and package of rubber bands for Gillian. Plus they both got peanut butter/sesame butter dandies that I made tonight. We colored 21 eggs this afternoon, and the girls are looking forward to hunting for them in the morning. Joe and I can't hide the eggs tonight for fear that Poppy (the dog) will eat them.
April will be continued.........
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
From my journals.......1979 (February-March)
February 2: Today Suzanne (age 5) brought home two little Valentine heart candies—the kind with writing on them. She said they were from Brian at Kindergarten, and breathlessly asked me to read them to her. One said, "no use" and the other said, "goodbye." Obviously, Brian can't read.
February 3:
Zannie: "A girl at school today she she was ugly, but I told her she was pretty."
Me: "That was nice of you. I wonder why she thought she was ugly."
Zannie: "Maybe she doesn't like her hair."
Jill (3): "Maybe she doesn't like dog food."
February 28: Suzanne gets her expletives mixed up. The other day she said to Joey (4 months old), "You're such a beautiful little brother.........for crissake!"
Apparently nothing happened in March.
February 3:
Zannie: "A girl at school today she she was ugly, but I told her she was pretty."
Me: "That was nice of you. I wonder why she thought she was ugly."
Zannie: "Maybe she doesn't like her hair."
Jill (3): "Maybe she doesn't like dog food."
February 28: Suzanne gets her expletives mixed up. The other day she said to Joey (4 months old), "You're such a beautiful little brother.........for crissake!"
Apparently nothing happened in March.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
From my journals.........1979 (January)
January 1: It is clear my housebound period is beginning. Ice is thick on our road.
January 4: LLL meeting at my house today, at 10:00 a.m. Eight women attended, along with three babies, five toddlers, and my three. Afterward, Tian and Nora stayed for lunch. Nora brought black beans, Tian brought salad, and I made rice and dessert. We had a happy afternoon.
January 11: Gillian, irrelevant as ever......
Zannie: "Mommy, how do you spell telephone? How do you spell Grandma? How do you spell lamp?"
Jill: "How do you spell rolling man?"
January 13: Suzanne turned on Joey's musical Winnie-the-Poo toy, his musical mobile, his musical cradle gym, and their musical "radio," and said to me, "Now Joey has a band!"
January 15: A nice thing happened today. My mother-in-law decided I worked so hard taking care of the kids that I deserved a television set better than the 12" black & white I've always had. She told me to pick out any model I wanted, so I chose a 17" Sony color with push-button tuning. I'm really excited—just what I needed on these dismal winter days!
January 18: Our new television set is here! The color is fabulous, and such a sharp contrast to the non-colors of winter outside. A golf program from Phoenix showed bright blue sky, green grass, and waving palm trees. The window right next to the set showed snow, snow, and more snow.
January 25: A call today from a Latvian woman who lost her dog. I mistook her for Nancy, who often calls me from Harvard with a phony accent to ask crazy breastfeeding questions. Oh, dear......
January 30: I made a special heart-shaped molded salad for their lunch, and then they stuffed most of a roll of toilet paper down the toilet.
January 4: LLL meeting at my house today, at 10:00 a.m. Eight women attended, along with three babies, five toddlers, and my three. Afterward, Tian and Nora stayed for lunch. Nora brought black beans, Tian brought salad, and I made rice and dessert. We had a happy afternoon.
January 11: Gillian, irrelevant as ever......
Zannie: "Mommy, how do you spell telephone? How do you spell Grandma? How do you spell lamp?"
Jill: "How do you spell rolling man?"
January 13: Suzanne turned on Joey's musical Winnie-the-Poo toy, his musical mobile, his musical cradle gym, and their musical "radio," and said to me, "Now Joey has a band!"
January 15: A nice thing happened today. My mother-in-law decided I worked so hard taking care of the kids that I deserved a television set better than the 12" black & white I've always had. She told me to pick out any model I wanted, so I chose a 17" Sony color with push-button tuning. I'm really excited—just what I needed on these dismal winter days!
January 18: Our new television set is here! The color is fabulous, and such a sharp contrast to the non-colors of winter outside. A golf program from Phoenix showed bright blue sky, green grass, and waving palm trees. The window right next to the set showed snow, snow, and more snow.
January 25: A call today from a Latvian woman who lost her dog. I mistook her for Nancy, who often calls me from Harvard with a phony accent to ask crazy breastfeeding questions. Oh, dear......
January 30: I made a special heart-shaped molded salad for their lunch, and then they stuffed most of a roll of toilet paper down the toilet.
Monday, April 04, 2011
From my journals........1952 (age 8 to 9)
January 1: Yesterday we went to a New Years Eve house party at Ronnie's house. We left at 9:30 in the night time. But I didn't stay long. I was the only "kid" there. I played the piano there. We had refreshments. I took some home when I went home to bed. I didn't get up on 12 o'clock to ring the bells. Happy New Year!
January 4: Today My Mother took down the tree. I was sad when we threw it out the window. I broke off a little branch for me. Then I went back to school. I fell asleep so fast. I went to the doctor's with my Father in the night.
(I have no idea what that means. I'm envisioning my father and me sneaking out in the dead of night to rendezvous with the doctor. Oh, and in the city everyone threw their Christmas tree out the window for disposal.)
January 5: I played with sick Carolyn today. We played Monopoly. I went to the store with my Father. We spent $16.00.
January 11: Well, today is Friday. I love Friday. I watch "Mama" a T.V. program. And "Man Against Crime."
January 14: Nothing wonderful happened.
January 20: I thought
February 20: Today the doctor is coming. For I have an ear abses. And I have to go to the hospital to get my adnoyds out.
October 18: Carolyn had her party today because it was Saturday. My Mother and father went to Lucky's and got lost on the way home. They drove 150 miles and my mother got carsick. I went to Carolyn's party. When they came back we (the girls at the party) thought that my mother was with my father and when he came in to Carolyn's house we all started to sing "Happy Birthday" because it was my Mother's birthday today. My Father said, "It's not my birthday!" We all laughed. But later my mother came down and then we sang "Happy Birthday" all over again but this time to the right person. "Happy Birthday" Mommy!
January 4: Today My Mother took down the tree. I was sad when we threw it out the window. I broke off a little branch for me. Then I went back to school. I fell asleep so fast. I went to the doctor's with my Father in the night.
(I have no idea what that means. I'm envisioning my father and me sneaking out in the dead of night to rendezvous with the doctor. Oh, and in the city everyone threw their Christmas tree out the window for disposal.)
January 5: I played with sick Carolyn today. We played Monopoly. I went to the store with my Father. We spent $16.00.
January 11: Well, today is Friday. I love Friday. I watch "Mama" a T.V. program. And "Man Against Crime."
January 14: Nothing wonderful happened.
January 20: I thought
February 20: Today the doctor is coming. For I have an ear abses. And I have to go to the hospital to get my adnoyds out.
October 18: Carolyn had her party today because it was Saturday. My Mother and father went to Lucky's and got lost on the way home. They drove 150 miles and my mother got carsick. I went to Carolyn's party. When they came back we (the girls at the party) thought that my mother was with my father and when he came in to Carolyn's house we all started to sing "Happy Birthday" because it was my Mother's birthday today. My Father said, "It's not my birthday!" We all laughed. But later my mother came down and then we sang "Happy Birthday" all over again but this time to the right person. "Happy Birthday" Mommy!
Sunday, March 27, 2011
From my journals.........1976
March 17: Suzanne and I sing "Close to You" at bedtime, our heads together.
May 25: B and T arrived yesterday and had planned to stay through at least this morning, but left as quickly as they could at 7:00 a.m., refusing even to eat breakfast here. Their sudden departure had to do with a bat that appeared in the house last evening.
July 24: N and J arrived at 1:00 a.m. to spend the following day with us. We had fun water skiing. J was very quiet....hard to tell if she had a good time or not. I got the giggles when Joe kept sinking me on skis.
October 4: Flew to Arizona today for a visit with Mom and Harold. I have lost 36 lbs. so far,and will try not to gain on vacation.
October 18: Flew from Phoenix to Daytona with the kids. Florida feels beyond damp. I could swear the walls are dripping.
November 4: Home yesterday from our month's trip: two weeks in Arizona with Mom and Harold and two weeks in Florida with my parents. Gained 2 lbs. in Carefree, and 5 in Florida.
November 27: Cooked a small turkey, had dinner, and went out to accompany Joe while he posted the property. While we were out, Thistle—one week post-surgery—pulled the turkey off the counter and ate the whole thing!
May 25: B and T arrived yesterday and had planned to stay through at least this morning, but left as quickly as they could at 7:00 a.m., refusing even to eat breakfast here. Their sudden departure had to do with a bat that appeared in the house last evening.
July 24: N and J arrived at 1:00 a.m. to spend the following day with us. We had fun water skiing. J was very quiet....hard to tell if she had a good time or not. I got the giggles when Joe kept sinking me on skis.
October 4: Flew to Arizona today for a visit with Mom and Harold. I have lost 36 lbs. so far,and will try not to gain on vacation.
October 18: Flew from Phoenix to Daytona with the kids. Florida feels beyond damp. I could swear the walls are dripping.
November 4: Home yesterday from our month's trip: two weeks in Arizona with Mom and Harold and two weeks in Florida with my parents. Gained 2 lbs. in Carefree, and 5 in Florida.
November 27: Cooked a small turkey, had dinner, and went out to accompany Joe while he posted the property. While we were out, Thistle—one week post-surgery—pulled the turkey off the counter and ate the whole thing!
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
From my journals.........1975
January 3: I long to hear a conversation that is over my head. Joe is great to talk with, but he isn't here all that often. I get so tired of talking about the demise of Blue Stamps, the weather, and what's on sale at the Banner Market. I'd love a good food talk! This area seems saturated with Hamburger Helper users.
February 7: Today we went to look at an old farm. Joe had seen the ad while I was in Florida, and call the realtor to inquire about seeing it. Then when I got home I saw another ad for the same property, was intrigued by it, and called the realtor myself.
We wanted to fall in love with the place, and at first that appeared doubtful; the siding is truly tacky, and the paint needs freshening. Joe, especially, was put off by our first view of the outside. But we started smiling once inside, and our hearts really warmed when we toured the property: 30 acres, wooded and open, all rolling, all beautiful.
February 8: We are buying the old farm!!
May 8: Lunch at Nino's with Mom and Harold. I told Mom I was scheduled for a pregnancy test on Monday, and was pleased with her happy reaction.
June 11: The baby is a nice firm round mound, fun to feel each morning.
August 15: A newspaper item pasted on the page......Thunder was a beautiful German Shepherd who loved his family with all his heart. Dr. and Mrs. Joseph Jaffer treasured the relationship they had with him during his three years of life. Thunder cared deeply for his humans, so when he was killed recently his family remembered the many dogs and puppies being sheltered at the Humane Society and sent a generous contribution. The Society makes good use of memorials such as this . . . and we think Thunder must be pleased.
November 24: Our first Lamaze class. We are the only repeaters in a group of seven couples, and the beginners hung on our every word. Joe asked me later how I liked being a star.
November 27: A nice Thanksgiving, as usual. Despite my misgivings, I managed to put together a respectable holiday dinner, complete with 19 lb. turkey. We had cornbread-sausage stuffing, our own homegrown buttercup squash, and Joe's favorite creamed celery. Also Heavenly Pumpkin Pie with ice cream.
December 25: Merry "Crimpas!" as (2-year-old) Suzanne calls it. Her face was full of wonderment as she spied the Christmas tree this morning, and she breathed "Wow!"—and then said, "Very nice!"
December 26: Gillian Campbell Jaffer was born today!!
(The last two entries are the condensed versions.) :-)
February 7: Today we went to look at an old farm. Joe had seen the ad while I was in Florida, and call the realtor to inquire about seeing it. Then when I got home I saw another ad for the same property, was intrigued by it, and called the realtor myself.
We wanted to fall in love with the place, and at first that appeared doubtful; the siding is truly tacky, and the paint needs freshening. Joe, especially, was put off by our first view of the outside. But we started smiling once inside, and our hearts really warmed when we toured the property: 30 acres, wooded and open, all rolling, all beautiful.
February 8: We are buying the old farm!!
May 8: Lunch at Nino's with Mom and Harold. I told Mom I was scheduled for a pregnancy test on Monday, and was pleased with her happy reaction.
June 11: The baby is a nice firm round mound, fun to feel each morning.
August 15: A newspaper item pasted on the page......Thunder was a beautiful German Shepherd who loved his family with all his heart. Dr. and Mrs. Joseph Jaffer treasured the relationship they had with him during his three years of life. Thunder cared deeply for his humans, so when he was killed recently his family remembered the many dogs and puppies being sheltered at the Humane Society and sent a generous contribution. The Society makes good use of memorials such as this . . . and we think Thunder must be pleased.
November 24: Our first Lamaze class. We are the only repeaters in a group of seven couples, and the beginners hung on our every word. Joe asked me later how I liked being a star.
November 27: A nice Thanksgiving, as usual. Despite my misgivings, I managed to put together a respectable holiday dinner, complete with 19 lb. turkey. We had cornbread-sausage stuffing, our own homegrown buttercup squash, and Joe's favorite creamed celery. Also Heavenly Pumpkin Pie with ice cream.
December 25: Merry "Crimpas!" as (2-year-old) Suzanne calls it. Her face was full of wonderment as she spied the Christmas tree this morning, and she breathed "Wow!"—and then said, "Very nice!"
December 26: Gillian Campbell Jaffer was born today!!
(The last two entries are the condensed versions.) :-)
Monday, March 21, 2011
From my journals.........1956-58
January 1956: You know, when I'm 17 years old, and I look back and read this, I'll think I was silly when I was 13, but right now I'm very serious.
March 1957: Today a funny thing happened. Ingi came home from the store at about 5 o'clock. She told me that Paul had just left the A&P.
April 1957: Nothing fascinates me like the boy I can fascinate.
June 1957: I have a lovely crush on Charlie. I probably wrote about how I met him, but I love to tell it, so I'll review.
July 1957: Boys I have had fun with at Sag Harbor, July: Bobby & Dick, Bob, John, Dave, also another John (B.) & Richie & Jim. And Gail.
September 1957: Teddy kissed me for the 6th time.
December 1957: I have the strangest feeling that I'm in love, but I don't know with whom.
October 1958: Gave my father my report card, and I'm not allowed out.....ever!!!
March 1957: Today a funny thing happened. Ingi came home from the store at about 5 o'clock. She told me that Paul had just left the A&P.
April 1957: Nothing fascinates me like the boy I can fascinate.
June 1957: I have a lovely crush on Charlie. I probably wrote about how I met him, but I love to tell it, so I'll review.
July 1957: Boys I have had fun with at Sag Harbor, July: Bobby & Dick, Bob, John, Dave, also another John (B.) & Richie & Jim. And Gail.
September 1957: Teddy kissed me for the 6th time.
December 1957: I have the strangest feeling that I'm in love, but I don't know with whom.
October 1958: Gave my father my report card, and I'm not allowed out.....ever!!!
Sunday, March 13, 2011
The Blessing of Journaling
Thanks to journals I've kept over the years, I know much more than I ever could have remembered without them. As you can probably tell from my blog, I haven't been the most faithful journaler—and I wish I'd done better. It got worse with the advent of email, online forums, and social networking, and now it's to the point where the majority of my journal entries are copied and pasted from emails to close friends. But those entries will still be able to jog my memory someday.
This weekend I ran across my gardening journal from 1982-84. Like a lot of journals started by a lot of people, this one petered out after a while. But I was interested to read several of the entries.
In 1983 I put the following in the freezer: 14 quarts of spinach, 53 quarts of broccoli, 11 heads of cauliflower, 10 pints of peas, 30 quarts of green beans, 2 quarts of cherries, 6 quarts of peaches, 5 quarts of corn, 25 quarts of tomatoes, 1 quart of Swiss chard, and 33 quarts of applesauce.
That same year, I planted 10 different Asiatic lilies. I also wrote at length about my nicotiana, poppies, day lilies, veronica, statice, balsam, delphiniums, monardas, strawflowers (I said the strawflowers looked "troubled"), tall dahlias, dwarf dahlias, zinnias, hollyhocks, herbs, coreopsis, anchusa, Futura impatiens (whatever happened to that variety, anyway?), gaillardia, tithonia, and wallflowers. The following year I got much more heavily into perennials.
Oh, and I mention that my children were 10, 8, and 5 years old? And that I sewed a lot of their clothes? And cooked three meals a day (from scratch) every day? I'm exhausted just reading this.
But the best thing I learned from reading the journal concerned a good deed I did for an elderly flower gardener. Here's the entry:
Last year I planted a few of my leftovers for Mrs. Reynolds, whose heart condition had prevented her from growing any new flowers. I brought over nicotiana, marigolds, and delphiniums, and planted them in her garden. This year I started some seeds especially for her: "Inca" marigolds, "Kablouna" calendulas, and "Domino" dwarf nicotianas.
I didn't know much about Mrs. Reynolds' family back then. I didn't know, for instance, that she had a one-year-old great-granddaughter who would grow up to marry my son.
This weekend I ran across my gardening journal from 1982-84. Like a lot of journals started by a lot of people, this one petered out after a while. But I was interested to read several of the entries.
In 1983 I put the following in the freezer: 14 quarts of spinach, 53 quarts of broccoli, 11 heads of cauliflower, 10 pints of peas, 30 quarts of green beans, 2 quarts of cherries, 6 quarts of peaches, 5 quarts of corn, 25 quarts of tomatoes, 1 quart of Swiss chard, and 33 quarts of applesauce.
That same year, I planted 10 different Asiatic lilies. I also wrote at length about my nicotiana, poppies, day lilies, veronica, statice, balsam, delphiniums, monardas, strawflowers (I said the strawflowers looked "troubled"), tall dahlias, dwarf dahlias, zinnias, hollyhocks, herbs, coreopsis, anchusa, Futura impatiens (whatever happened to that variety, anyway?), gaillardia, tithonia, and wallflowers. The following year I got much more heavily into perennials.
Oh, and I mention that my children were 10, 8, and 5 years old? And that I sewed a lot of their clothes? And cooked three meals a day (from scratch) every day? I'm exhausted just reading this.
But the best thing I learned from reading the journal concerned a good deed I did for an elderly flower gardener. Here's the entry:
Last year I planted a few of my leftovers for Mrs. Reynolds, whose heart condition had prevented her from growing any new flowers. I brought over nicotiana, marigolds, and delphiniums, and planted them in her garden. This year I started some seeds especially for her: "Inca" marigolds, "Kablouna" calendulas, and "Domino" dwarf nicotianas.
I didn't know much about Mrs. Reynolds' family back then. I didn't know, for instance, that she had a one-year-old great-granddaughter who would grow up to marry my son.
Tuesday, March 08, 2011
From my dad's camera(s)
I've been scanning a lot of my father's negatives, and thought I'd share some of the results with you. I've said it before: Thank heavens for my dad and his fine cameras. Most people my age don't have family photographs like this.
My cousin Terry (the wonderful gardener who died in 2008) and her handsome father, Eddie.
Me, learning to walk (with a little help and cheering on from my parents). The woman facing away from the camera is our lovely cousin Ruth. The picture was taken at her home.
My mom. I've posted more glamorous shots of her on this blog, but she loved to laugh and could be very funny.
I've also mentioned my uber-creative cousin Barbara, who paints, sews, and has designed toys. Here she is being creative with her mother's clothespins. Her dad was overseas, fighting WWII, and those are diapers on the line, folks.
My mom and I are on the right, with her sister Elsie and Elsie's daughter Barbara on the left.
Like I said, most people don't have family photographs like this.
My cousin Terry (the wonderful gardener who died in 2008) and her handsome father, Eddie.
Me, learning to walk (with a little help and cheering on from my parents). The woman facing away from the camera is our lovely cousin Ruth. The picture was taken at her home.
My mom. I've posted more glamorous shots of her on this blog, but she loved to laugh and could be very funny.
I've also mentioned my uber-creative cousin Barbara, who paints, sews, and has designed toys. Here she is being creative with her mother's clothespins. Her dad was overseas, fighting WWII, and those are diapers on the line, folks.
My mom and I are on the right, with her sister Elsie and Elsie's daughter Barbara on the left.
Like I said, most people don't have family photographs like this.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Baby, Baby.......
He had been at Hershey Medical Center for a week, transfused and under lights, getting his bilirubin count down. We had visited, but he had been out of my arms for a week. And although at 8 lbs., 6 oz. he was by far the largest baby in the Neonatal Intensive Care unit, it is torture to see your child blindfolded, with electrodes pasted all over him. And heartbreaking to know it was torture for him, too. This was the baby who cried in his cradle but quieted instantly when he was laid beside me. The one who matched his breathing to mine as we slept.
So when he was discharged and we picked him up, I, who gave talks on the importance of seat belts and child safety, removed him from his car seat to nurse. I should tell you now that I lucked out; the drive was without incident. The sun set on our long drive home. The sky filled with gold and purple, Neil Diamond sang, "I Am, I Said" on the radio, and my baby nursed on.
That's always been a vivid memory, the baby so real when I think about it. How long do babies last? Everyone advises us to savor the first year because it goes by so quickly. It's true, and after the first baby we know all too well how true it is, and yet the second one's first year flies by just as quickly as the first. Our infants disappear, just as our two-year-olds will turn three, and our eight-year-olds will turn nine, and our twelve-year-olds will become teenagers.
Most of the time we're not aware of the loss. We're too busy trying to keep up with the changes, for one thing. We just naturally accept each metamorphosis. And I'm happy to be able to report that it does even out after a while; thirty-seven is just not that much different from thirty-six. :-)
But I recalled that sunset tonight, and Neil Diamond's song, and that gorgeous baby snuggled into me, and I wondered if perhaps the baby felt more real today than he should, considering that his own baby will be born this year. It's time for another metamorphosis of sorts, a time to welcome the new. And believe me, the new will be most welcome.
I just realized that almost exactly a year ago I wrote this. What is it about late February and nursing baby memories? Perhaps I have had enough of the cold.
So when he was discharged and we picked him up, I, who gave talks on the importance of seat belts and child safety, removed him from his car seat to nurse. I should tell you now that I lucked out; the drive was without incident. The sun set on our long drive home. The sky filled with gold and purple, Neil Diamond sang, "I Am, I Said" on the radio, and my baby nursed on.
That's always been a vivid memory, the baby so real when I think about it. How long do babies last? Everyone advises us to savor the first year because it goes by so quickly. It's true, and after the first baby we know all too well how true it is, and yet the second one's first year flies by just as quickly as the first. Our infants disappear, just as our two-year-olds will turn three, and our eight-year-olds will turn nine, and our twelve-year-olds will become teenagers.
Most of the time we're not aware of the loss. We're too busy trying to keep up with the changes, for one thing. We just naturally accept each metamorphosis. And I'm happy to be able to report that it does even out after a while; thirty-seven is just not that much different from thirty-six. :-)
But I recalled that sunset tonight, and Neil Diamond's song, and that gorgeous baby snuggled into me, and I wondered if perhaps the baby felt more real today than he should, considering that his own baby will be born this year. It's time for another metamorphosis of sorts, a time to welcome the new. And believe me, the new will be most welcome.
I just realized that almost exactly a year ago I wrote this. What is it about late February and nursing baby memories? Perhaps I have had enough of the cold.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Art and Soul
A close friend is running a series of independent art films at the local library, and thought I might be interested. That's a reasonable assumption; I'm active in the arts community, and I'm originally from New York. You'd be amazed (or maybe you wouldn't) at how many people assume all city dwellers have intellectual leanings. My friend knows me better than that, but apparently not as well as she thought. I have no interest in independent art films, especially ones that require me to read subtitles.
It wasn't always this way. Growing up, I was drawn to foreign film festivals. New York is a great place for film, including Lincoln Center, where I worked. I read some pretty heavy stuff, too, including a lot of plays. Camus' "Caligula" was a favorite—don't ask me why. I read it on the subway. But somewhere along the line, things changed. Today, instead of Sartre I'd rather read Robert B. Parker. (The rhyme is unintentional. Sort of.) And my taste in movies is, well, light.
So at the library a group of about a dozen watches a movie and then discusses it. This week's movie is said to be "fraught with love, passion, despair and religious animosity." Somehow, this doesn't sound light. The word "fraught" alone gives it away.
No doubt the group will spend some time on symbolism. Even back in my Lincoln Center days, I wasn't crazy about symbols. I rarely seemed to get them right. In college, symbols could put me in a bad mood. I remember giving an oral interpretation of a poem by Emily Dickinson, a poet who—at least according to the experts—made liberal use of symbols. When I finished my presentation, the professor told me I was wrong. "How do you know?" I said to her. "Emily's dead. It's possible that I'm wrong, but it's also possible the 'experts' are wrong."
If I'm going to sit in a group and talk about something, I'd rather discuss firewood. Firewood is relevant to my life, especially right now, when I've gone through my stash of the perfectly dry stuff and am dipping in to the pile that can best be described as "seasoned but somewhat wet." I could share what I know about firewood, which isn't much, but could possibly help someone less experienced than I. And undoubtedly I would find others in the group who could give me advice to improve my woodstove and my heating bill.
Sure, I'd like to talk about movies. But my contributions would go something like this: "Didn't you love the line where Steve Carell goes, 'All of this may be premature. We don't even know if you can bowl.'"? And, "My favorite scene was where they all get trapped in the blues club, and aren't allowed to leave until they sing the blues." That would be a fun discussion. We would laugh a lot. It's hard to laugh when you're discussing despair.
Maybe the difference between the youthful, intellectual me and the mature, silly me is that in between the two I lived through love, passion, and despair. Not religious animosity, though. There are advantages to not attaching oneself to a particular religion. And thank God for that.
It wasn't always this way. Growing up, I was drawn to foreign film festivals. New York is a great place for film, including Lincoln Center, where I worked. I read some pretty heavy stuff, too, including a lot of plays. Camus' "Caligula" was a favorite—don't ask me why. I read it on the subway. But somewhere along the line, things changed. Today, instead of Sartre I'd rather read Robert B. Parker. (The rhyme is unintentional. Sort of.) And my taste in movies is, well, light.
So at the library a group of about a dozen watches a movie and then discusses it. This week's movie is said to be "fraught with love, passion, despair and religious animosity." Somehow, this doesn't sound light. The word "fraught" alone gives it away.
No doubt the group will spend some time on symbolism. Even back in my Lincoln Center days, I wasn't crazy about symbols. I rarely seemed to get them right. In college, symbols could put me in a bad mood. I remember giving an oral interpretation of a poem by Emily Dickinson, a poet who—at least according to the experts—made liberal use of symbols. When I finished my presentation, the professor told me I was wrong. "How do you know?" I said to her. "Emily's dead. It's possible that I'm wrong, but it's also possible the 'experts' are wrong."
If I'm going to sit in a group and talk about something, I'd rather discuss firewood. Firewood is relevant to my life, especially right now, when I've gone through my stash of the perfectly dry stuff and am dipping in to the pile that can best be described as "seasoned but somewhat wet." I could share what I know about firewood, which isn't much, but could possibly help someone less experienced than I. And undoubtedly I would find others in the group who could give me advice to improve my woodstove and my heating bill.
Sure, I'd like to talk about movies. But my contributions would go something like this: "Didn't you love the line where Steve Carell goes, 'All of this may be premature. We don't even know if you can bowl.'"? And, "My favorite scene was where they all get trapped in the blues club, and aren't allowed to leave until they sing the blues." That would be a fun discussion. We would laugh a lot. It's hard to laugh when you're discussing despair.
Maybe the difference between the youthful, intellectual me and the mature, silly me is that in between the two I lived through love, passion, and despair. Not religious animosity, though. There are advantages to not attaching oneself to a particular religion. And thank God for that.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
College Students (way back) Then and Now
I remember the first college literary journal I ever saw. One of my friends brought it to me from Kenyon College. I was in high school. I opened it up to a poem about being drunk and thinking you were Jesus Christ. It was one of the milder poems.
I thought about that journal today when I opened up The Poets of the Future, a college literary anthology from 1917-1918.
"The stars are close tonight,/ Thoughts in the book of time; / Yet veiled unto my sight / The page sublime," a Dartmouth student wrote.
An Amherst gentleman said what he had to say in six lines: "Philosophy! A game, no more; yet such / As dwarfs all other games to nothingness, / That plays with aeons in its daring touch, / With stars for pawns, infinity to span. / Philosophy! A game for gods, no less, / That leaves man beaten, but a greater man."
Women were represented, of course, too. Here are a few lines from a somewhat self-absorbed Connecticut College student: "When clouds pass over the moon, / A thousand lurking shadows leer, / A thousand black-faced shadows peer, / From behind the trees and beside the wall and across the snow, / At me."
How did we change so much in 100 years? These poems are presumably what the students wanted to write. They were deservedly proud of them. I can't imagine one of these poems being accepted in one of today's college-sponsored literary journals. The language, the subjects........and I'm not even getting into the poems in this book that are so wildly politically incorrect that my eyes just skimmed the words in discomfort.
Well, that change--the change involving political correctness--I can understand. I witnessed the evolution of that sort of thing. But how did flowery, romantic language, once held in high esteem, reach a point of such disfavor? We don't have to go back 100 years, actually. Consider the lyrics of the hit songs of the 1950s. Could today's teens possibly embrace "Love is a Many Splendored Thing.....it's the April rose that only grows in the early spring" (1955)?
Or "Love and Marriage, love and marriage, go together like a horse and carriage" (1955)? Or how about "When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, That's Amore" (1953)? There are better examples—I know this because the thought occurs to me often when I hear music from this period. It just doesn't seem within the realm of possibility that today's kids could find anything to relate to in those songs. Why is that? We're still human beings, with the same feelings, aren't we? Or are we evolving as a species more rapidly than I can comprehend?
I used to observe car-crazy young males and wonder what boys their age did in all those generations before the automobile was invented. I suppose the answer to that is they all lusted after bigger and faster horses.
By the way, guess which Yale University student is on p. 82.......Stephen Vincent Benet. "Poets of the Future" indeed.
I thought about that journal today when I opened up The Poets of the Future, a college literary anthology from 1917-1918.
"The stars are close tonight,/ Thoughts in the book of time; / Yet veiled unto my sight / The page sublime," a Dartmouth student wrote.
An Amherst gentleman said what he had to say in six lines: "Philosophy! A game, no more; yet such / As dwarfs all other games to nothingness, / That plays with aeons in its daring touch, / With stars for pawns, infinity to span. / Philosophy! A game for gods, no less, / That leaves man beaten, but a greater man."
Women were represented, of course, too. Here are a few lines from a somewhat self-absorbed Connecticut College student: "When clouds pass over the moon, / A thousand lurking shadows leer, / A thousand black-faced shadows peer, / From behind the trees and beside the wall and across the snow, / At me."
How did we change so much in 100 years? These poems are presumably what the students wanted to write. They were deservedly proud of them. I can't imagine one of these poems being accepted in one of today's college-sponsored literary journals. The language, the subjects........and I'm not even getting into the poems in this book that are so wildly politically incorrect that my eyes just skimmed the words in discomfort.
Well, that change--the change involving political correctness--I can understand. I witnessed the evolution of that sort of thing. But how did flowery, romantic language, once held in high esteem, reach a point of such disfavor? We don't have to go back 100 years, actually. Consider the lyrics of the hit songs of the 1950s. Could today's teens possibly embrace "Love is a Many Splendored Thing.....it's the April rose that only grows in the early spring" (1955)?
Or "Love and Marriage, love and marriage, go together like a horse and carriage" (1955)? Or how about "When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, That's Amore" (1953)? There are better examples—I know this because the thought occurs to me often when I hear music from this period. It just doesn't seem within the realm of possibility that today's kids could find anything to relate to in those songs. Why is that? We're still human beings, with the same feelings, aren't we? Or are we evolving as a species more rapidly than I can comprehend?
I used to observe car-crazy young males and wonder what boys their age did in all those generations before the automobile was invented. I suppose the answer to that is they all lusted after bigger and faster horses.
By the way, guess which Yale University student is on p. 82.......Stephen Vincent Benet. "Poets of the Future" indeed.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Another of My Medical Rants
I had a minor surgical procedure done on an outpatient basis yesterday. I had discussed anesthesia with my doctor, and agreed that they would use propofol. I've responded well to this in the past. I've been given Valium as a sedative before hospital procedures, but asked that they not administer it this time. I said I was fine, not anxious, and didn't need a sedative. I told him "I don't like altered states." The anesthesiologist said, "Okay, no Valium."
A few minutes later the nurse shot something into the port in my hand. "What's that?" I asked, and she said, "Versed." If there's one drug I have very strong feelings about, it's Versed. I hate it!! It's primarily a memory eraser, which I suppose explains why so many doctors and hospitals love it. The nurse said it's also a sedative, which is true. But I had already explained that I didn't need a sedative. Should I have said instead, "I don't want Valium, Versed, or any other benzodiazepine or tranquilizer"? Maybe I should have added, "I don't even want a martini!"
I was calm before the Versed, but seriously pissed off after. I didn't take it out on the nurses, who were all friendly and chatty, but I felt like a trapped animal. I knew I was going to remember what was happening only up to a certain point, after which it would be as though it never happened. Sure enough, when they wheeled me into the operating room and the nurses started asking me about the best position for my arthritic knees, I could feel myself slowly disappearing. I have a garbled memory of the beginning of that conversation, and then it's as though a black curtain descended on everything.
I've had Versed before. The first time it was given to me for a very painful procedure, and I woke up to find my shins skinned. "That's from when you tried to get away," the doctor said. I have no memory of the procedure, but my subconscious remembered: I had dreams where I was screaming.
The last time I had Versed, it took an uncomfortably long time for my memory to get back to normal. I've read that the older you are, the tougher it is to shake off the effects. I absolutely did not want to take it again.
Propofol is already a memory eraser. How much of my memory did they want erased, for heaven's sake?
I guess this is a warning. If there's something you don't want to swallow, breathe or take intravenously, be general as well as specific, and cover all your bases. With any luck, they might listen to you.
A few minutes later the nurse shot something into the port in my hand. "What's that?" I asked, and she said, "Versed." If there's one drug I have very strong feelings about, it's Versed. I hate it!! It's primarily a memory eraser, which I suppose explains why so many doctors and hospitals love it. The nurse said it's also a sedative, which is true. But I had already explained that I didn't need a sedative. Should I have said instead, "I don't want Valium, Versed, or any other benzodiazepine or tranquilizer"? Maybe I should have added, "I don't even want a martini!"
I was calm before the Versed, but seriously pissed off after. I didn't take it out on the nurses, who were all friendly and chatty, but I felt like a trapped animal. I knew I was going to remember what was happening only up to a certain point, after which it would be as though it never happened. Sure enough, when they wheeled me into the operating room and the nurses started asking me about the best position for my arthritic knees, I could feel myself slowly disappearing. I have a garbled memory of the beginning of that conversation, and then it's as though a black curtain descended on everything.
I've had Versed before. The first time it was given to me for a very painful procedure, and I woke up to find my shins skinned. "That's from when you tried to get away," the doctor said. I have no memory of the procedure, but my subconscious remembered: I had dreams where I was screaming.
The last time I had Versed, it took an uncomfortably long time for my memory to get back to normal. I've read that the older you are, the tougher it is to shake off the effects. I absolutely did not want to take it again.
Propofol is already a memory eraser. How much of my memory did they want erased, for heaven's sake?
I guess this is a warning. If there's something you don't want to swallow, breathe or take intravenously, be general as well as specific, and cover all your bases. With any luck, they might listen to you.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Eating Medicinally. Again.
"You eat medicinally!" a distant co-worker announced ten years ago, with the inflection of a scientist making an important but distasteful discovery.
He was right. I ate for the most basic of reasons: to fuel my body and improve my health. And, once I got past the carb cravings, I enjoyed eating that way. I liked my thinner self. I liked the way we can detect the sweetness in so many foods when we don't allow sugar to confuse our taste buds. Most of all, I liked knowing I was foiling the nasty combination of predispositions I'd inherited.
My family has a strong history of diabetes and heart disease. My paternal grandfather died of a heart attack at 61. My maternal grandmother died of a heart attack at 46. My theory—and I'll never be able to prove it—is that she had a tendency toward high triglycerides, and the German desserts she loved to bake were her undoing. I have the triglyceride problem, which can be a serious heart risk for women, and the only way to keep it in check is to severely limit carbohydrate consumption. They didn't know this, of course, in my grandmother's day.
I inherited something else, too: my dad's unusual fat-clearing (or, more accurately, fat retaining) gene. Well, I don't know if there's a specific gene for this, but it's the way I've always thought of it. Here's the story.
My father was 40 when I was born. He and my mom had met on the tennis courts, and he remained actively athletic until he was practically crippled by angina. This happened when I was quite young. I remember that he couldn't walk up a subway ramp without stopping to put a nitroglycerin tablet under his tongue. Any kind of exercise was out of the question. Back then nobody heard of cholesterol, but my dad's doctor was ahead of his time. He said saturated fat was the culprit, and advised my dad to give it up. All of it. No more cheese. No more ice cream, hot dogs, or juicy hamburgers. No more sausage. No more eggs. No more butter.
So he did. I grew up in a saturated-fat-free home, where polyunsaturated and cholesterol were household words. My dad stopped having angina pain, and was able to quit the nitroglycerin. He was able to start playing tennis again. He bought himself a bicycle, too. Over the years he found he could eat eggs without a problem. But if he ate fatty meat, or butter (this would usually happen at a restaurant), he would be in trouble the next day. Several times the resulting heart pains were strong enough to land him in the hospital.
For years he was told that it doesn't work like that. Cholesterol builds up gradually in the arteries; ingesting saturated fat doesn't clog them instantly. But in some people it can. A research study proved this a few years ago, but I had my own proof earlier than that.
It was about 20 years ago.....a cardiologist was preparing to perform a test in which my blood would be drawn and shaken in a test tube. When he shook the blood, he was appalled to find fat floating in it. He said he'd never seen anything like it. (And I think I just lost my more delicate readers.)
So. Whatever we want to call my father's odd fat metabolism, I share it. For that reason, and for the triglyceride issue, about 15 years ago I began eating medicinally. I got very strict with my diet, giving up saturated fats for one side of the family, and most carbohydrates for the other. It worked well for a good decade.
But at some point I started easing up on it. I was good about the fats, but I began allowing bread "if the restaurant is good and the bread is warm." Pasta once in a while. Some "whole grains," because they sound so healthy. That type of thing. But never, ever any sugar. And never ever any butter. Until the week before this Christmas.
My granddaughter and I had gotten together to bake cookies. I don't know what possessed me to taste them, but I did. I had just a few, but with cookies it doesn't take much. Cookies have got to be one of the most deliciously unhealthy things going. I had joked that our baking efforts were supporting the butter industry. And now some of that butter was coursing through my veins.
The next day I was standing in front of my washing machine, calmly folding laundry, when I experienced what felt like a dead-serious angina pain, traveling down the left side of my neck and into my chest. It was brief, but scary as hell. I've had little twinges where the arteries join the heart, but never anything like that. Being Harry's daughter, my first thought was, What did I eat? It took me a few minutes to remember the cookies of the day before. And then I remembered the goat cheese, of all things, from the day before that. Yes, I ate some of the goat cheese that a restaurant served with my lunch salad. I never do, but I did that day. Call it temporary insanity created by the merging of the Christmas season and my last day at work.
It was clear what had happened, and it was clear what I had to do. That day, three days before Christmas, I started eating medicinally. Again. As for all the foods I've had to turn down since then, I'll leave that to your imagination.
He was right. I ate for the most basic of reasons: to fuel my body and improve my health. And, once I got past the carb cravings, I enjoyed eating that way. I liked my thinner self. I liked the way we can detect the sweetness in so many foods when we don't allow sugar to confuse our taste buds. Most of all, I liked knowing I was foiling the nasty combination of predispositions I'd inherited.
My family has a strong history of diabetes and heart disease. My paternal grandfather died of a heart attack at 61. My maternal grandmother died of a heart attack at 46. My theory—and I'll never be able to prove it—is that she had a tendency toward high triglycerides, and the German desserts she loved to bake were her undoing. I have the triglyceride problem, which can be a serious heart risk for women, and the only way to keep it in check is to severely limit carbohydrate consumption. They didn't know this, of course, in my grandmother's day.
I inherited something else, too: my dad's unusual fat-clearing (or, more accurately, fat retaining) gene. Well, I don't know if there's a specific gene for this, but it's the way I've always thought of it. Here's the story.
My father was 40 when I was born. He and my mom had met on the tennis courts, and he remained actively athletic until he was practically crippled by angina. This happened when I was quite young. I remember that he couldn't walk up a subway ramp without stopping to put a nitroglycerin tablet under his tongue. Any kind of exercise was out of the question. Back then nobody heard of cholesterol, but my dad's doctor was ahead of his time. He said saturated fat was the culprit, and advised my dad to give it up. All of it. No more cheese. No more ice cream, hot dogs, or juicy hamburgers. No more sausage. No more eggs. No more butter.
So he did. I grew up in a saturated-fat-free home, where polyunsaturated and cholesterol were household words. My dad stopped having angina pain, and was able to quit the nitroglycerin. He was able to start playing tennis again. He bought himself a bicycle, too. Over the years he found he could eat eggs without a problem. But if he ate fatty meat, or butter (this would usually happen at a restaurant), he would be in trouble the next day. Several times the resulting heart pains were strong enough to land him in the hospital.
For years he was told that it doesn't work like that. Cholesterol builds up gradually in the arteries; ingesting saturated fat doesn't clog them instantly. But in some people it can. A research study proved this a few years ago, but I had my own proof earlier than that.
It was about 20 years ago.....a cardiologist was preparing to perform a test in which my blood would be drawn and shaken in a test tube. When he shook the blood, he was appalled to find fat floating in it. He said he'd never seen anything like it. (And I think I just lost my more delicate readers.)
So. Whatever we want to call my father's odd fat metabolism, I share it. For that reason, and for the triglyceride issue, about 15 years ago I began eating medicinally. I got very strict with my diet, giving up saturated fats for one side of the family, and most carbohydrates for the other. It worked well for a good decade.
But at some point I started easing up on it. I was good about the fats, but I began allowing bread "if the restaurant is good and the bread is warm." Pasta once in a while. Some "whole grains," because they sound so healthy. That type of thing. But never, ever any sugar. And never ever any butter. Until the week before this Christmas.
My granddaughter and I had gotten together to bake cookies. I don't know what possessed me to taste them, but I did. I had just a few, but with cookies it doesn't take much. Cookies have got to be one of the most deliciously unhealthy things going. I had joked that our baking efforts were supporting the butter industry. And now some of that butter was coursing through my veins.
The next day I was standing in front of my washing machine, calmly folding laundry, when I experienced what felt like a dead-serious angina pain, traveling down the left side of my neck and into my chest. It was brief, but scary as hell. I've had little twinges where the arteries join the heart, but never anything like that. Being Harry's daughter, my first thought was, What did I eat? It took me a few minutes to remember the cookies of the day before. And then I remembered the goat cheese, of all things, from the day before that. Yes, I ate some of the goat cheese that a restaurant served with my lunch salad. I never do, but I did that day. Call it temporary insanity created by the merging of the Christmas season and my last day at work.
It was clear what had happened, and it was clear what I had to do. That day, three days before Christmas, I started eating medicinally. Again. As for all the foods I've had to turn down since then, I'll leave that to your imagination.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Christmas Eve makes me think of cookies......
.......and this year all my cookie recipes came from the Internet. I often get recipes online, and I look for ones that have lots of stars in their reviews. I don't know why I do that, because so many of the positive reviews are written by people who made so many changes to the original recipe that the review ends up being useless.
Consider this 5-star review of a recipe for bran muffins--regular old plain (but yummy) bran muffins. I'm shaking my head. :-)
I omitted the sugar and the raisins to form a batter that I could then half. One for a savory and one for a banana chocolate chip nut muffin. For the savory I added finely chopped boiled brocoli 1 1/2 cups, added 1/4 cup dried onion flakes, finely chopped sun dried tomatoes, 1 tbsp feta cheese, 1 tbsp romano, 4 tbsp shredded cheddar, and oregano. This is now one of my favorite breakfasts on the go. For the sweet I added 1 mashed banana 1/4 cup dark mini chocolate chips, 2 tbsp maple syrup, 1/2 cup combined chopped walnuts, almonds and sunflower seeds.
Merry Christmas, everyone!! Here's wishing you a year filled with fun and good health—and not a speck of broccoli in your bran muffins.
Consider this 5-star review of a recipe for bran muffins--regular old plain (but yummy) bran muffins. I'm shaking my head. :-)
I omitted the sugar and the raisins to form a batter that I could then half. One for a savory and one for a banana chocolate chip nut muffin. For the savory I added finely chopped boiled brocoli 1 1/2 cups, added 1/4 cup dried onion flakes, finely chopped sun dried tomatoes, 1 tbsp feta cheese, 1 tbsp romano, 4 tbsp shredded cheddar, and oregano. This is now one of my favorite breakfasts on the go. For the sweet I added 1 mashed banana 1/4 cup dark mini chocolate chips, 2 tbsp maple syrup, 1/2 cup combined chopped walnuts, almonds and sunflower seeds.
Merry Christmas, everyone!! Here's wishing you a year filled with fun and good health—and not a speck of broccoli in your bran muffins.
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
This Time Six Years Ago.........
It's December, and we all know what that means. Rather than write about shopping, wrapping, mailing, decorating, and baking (which is all I can think about this month), I'm sharing something I ran across this morning. I wrote it at the end of my 2004 Christmas letter:
As I write this, two guys from my gas company are attempting to convert the new range from natural gas to LP. They’ve been attempting this for about two hours now. When they arrived they took one look at the stove and said they didn't have the right tool. It sounded like they needed some special screwdriver bit, so I got out the set I'd bought myself a couple of months ago and asked if one of those would do. One would.
But there were other obstacles, and the guy in charge opened the owner's manual to do his research…until I discovered that he was reading the one for the microwave. Now I'm sitting here writing to you, and they're hunched over the stove, saying things like, "If you lose that, we're dead." and "Now which one goes in here?" and "Oh, boy, do I hate engineering!" and "Which one is the big one?" and “We lost 30 minutes because you didn’t listen to me when I said I was right!” and “How’re we gonna figure this out?” and the worst: "I'm gonna stick a piece of paper in here" "I dunno...I don't like the idea of paper in the gas burner." It’s a remarkably good rendition of the Three Stooges, minus one.
A sense of humor is a great blessing.
As I write this, two guys from my gas company are attempting to convert the new range from natural gas to LP. They’ve been attempting this for about two hours now. When they arrived they took one look at the stove and said they didn't have the right tool. It sounded like they needed some special screwdriver bit, so I got out the set I'd bought myself a couple of months ago and asked if one of those would do. One would.
But there were other obstacles, and the guy in charge opened the owner's manual to do his research…until I discovered that he was reading the one for the microwave. Now I'm sitting here writing to you, and they're hunched over the stove, saying things like, "If you lose that, we're dead." and "Now which one goes in here?" and "Oh, boy, do I hate engineering!" and "Which one is the big one?" and “We lost 30 minutes because you didn’t listen to me when I said I was right!” and “How’re we gonna figure this out?” and the worst: "I'm gonna stick a piece of paper in here" "I dunno...I don't like the idea of paper in the gas burner." It’s a remarkably good rendition of the Three Stooges, minus one.
A sense of humor is a great blessing.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
These Are My "After" Pictures
I actually took these pictures an hour before a small party I gave last week, but I call them my "after" pictures because it took years to get my house to this point.
I'm not showing you any "before" pictures. At some point I realized that the state of my house almost always reflected the state of my mind. If that's true—and I think it is—my mind was in complete disarray for a long time. That's not hard to believe.
Adding to the emotional issues was The Remodel. Even the happiest people report difficulty surviving a remodel. The decisions! The intrusion! The mess! Although I have to say the mess didn't bother me. I already had a mess. I viewed the remodel as a way out of the mess. And it was. But for over a year we moved stuff from one room to another, clearing areas to be worked on, while I tried to keep the cats from escaping out doors that were left open for the contractor and his crew to go back and forth.
When it was all done I was still left with a living room full of things that didn't belong there, some of them rather large—like the bed that belonged in the guest room upstairs. I was also missing a few things. I had paid a furniture-maker in advance for the pieces I ordered. He delivered some, but not all, and was never heard from again.
It took a long time to sort through everything and put together a decent living space. My lack of decorating confidence certainly didn't help, and I don't know whether it's harder or easier to have to make all the decisions alone. (Shell White paint? Petal White? White Swan? Mirror here? Mirror too high? Too low? Eeek!) As I've said so many times, thank heavens for the Internet. In this case, thank heavens for the home forums at GardenWeb. I didn't always agree with the decorating, kitchen-designing mavens, but seeing photos of their homes, and reading their discussions, helped me clarify my thinking.
This year clutter started building up. Nothing like years past, but it was one more indication that I needed to do some evaluating. After a lot of thought I realized that the job I've held for two years was dragging me down. Not the job itself, which is pleasant and not demanding, but the isolation of being the only staff member present at night—and the nasty, mountainous, circuitous 45-minute drive home in the dark. I realized I had to move on, and I needed more contact with people.
So I took what felt like two bold steps: I gave notice at work, and I sent an invitation to a dozen or so friends, inviting them to come sing with me at my piano. This is something Jill and I used to organize at Christmas, but I hadn't hosted it—or done any other kind of entertaining—in over a decade. It turned out so well. It gave me the push I needed to get the house in shape for visitors, and the gathering itself was great fun.
Ah, chaos. I don't miss it. I have no doubt it will come creeping back to one degree or another, but I'm on guard and I have a plan. Starting in January or February, friends here to play games. And another songfest in spring, before I give up housekeeping once again to turn my attention to the garden.
Oh, okay.....here's one during-the-party pic. My kitchen is not yellow, BTW. (Not that I have anything against yellow kitchens!)
Sunday, November 07, 2010
So much traffic on those airwaves........
.......but we can't see it. My son can hear a lot of it, though. This weekend he talked to people in Greenland, Spain, Saudi Arabia, Belgium, Italy, South Africa, Svalbard (in the Arctic, off Norway), the Canary Islands, Germany, Scotland, Cuba, Romania, Austria, and Greece. Gotta love ham radio!
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Thanks for the Push.
I went through my blog the other day, reading over many of the old posts, and found a number of comments urging me to exhibit my photos. Thanks to your encouragement, and that of other friends, I began showing my camera work last year, doing two exhibits. This year I've had three. The one running now opened on Friday, and we had a great time at the reception.
The show is at a beautiful shop selling amber jewelry from Poland (and online, too), by the way.
Oh, and check out the way they hung the oil-on-water pictures (and Lizzie's eye)!
My sincere thanks to those who urged me to "put it out there." (In a manner of speaking.)
Monday, October 11, 2010
The Elopers Have Been Partying!!
The bride's family threw a party (I guess we can call it a wedding reception) Saturday night for the beautiful couple who dared to elope in August. It was a wonderful gathering—and now I can officially think of my son as a Married Man. (Yikes!)
Thursday, October 07, 2010
Annie has been organizing!
This is Annie. It hasn't been easy persuading her and her son Pogo to be indoors full-time (after all, they started out in my neighbor's barn), but we've been doing pretty well since spring.
Maybe Annie's been a little bored in the house. Or perhaps she has strong organizational instincts. But whatever the reason, she has been on a mission that good housekeepers (and others, like me) can appreciate. She has searched the house for Wolfy's leftover dog toys and carted them one by one upstairs, depositing them outside my bedroom door. Wolfy was a big dog, and some of these toys seem awfully heavy and/or awkward for a small cat, but Annie managed somehow. Then a few days later she gathered up all the cat toys and set them together just inside the front door.
With her mission accomplished, I figured she could use something new to occupy her, so yesterday I bought one of those laser lights for cats ($4 at Walmart). What a big success!! I can see both my cats are going to be well exercised (for a change).
Now if only someone could interest me in running back and forth and around in circles after a laser light.....
Monday, October 04, 2010
Fifteen two, four, six.........
If that title means anything at all to you, you've played cribbage. My dad was taught to play cribbage by a hospital roommate many decades ago, and that was the start of countless games between the two of us. We loved our cribbage games so much that one year I bought him a giant cribbage board, four feet long. Because he lived in Florida, mud-daubing wasps filled up all the holes. But I cleaned them out, and I still have the board somewhere. I should find it and hang it up.
This week I discovered online cribbage, playing against the computer. Believe me, it is not as much fun as playing with Harry. But I was surprised at how quickly the game came back to me, considering it's probably been close to 20 years since I've played. And I learned something else. There's a certain lingo attached to cribbage, and after I played a few rounds with the computer I began to remember it. It felt good to speak it aloud.
"See one, play one."
"Fifteen four is all I score."
I don't know why cards are so much fun. How we found hilarity in sitting at a table staring at them and adding up points, I have no idea. But we did. The banter was fast and funny, our laughter frequent.
My dad loved playing cards. If we had a group, we played knock rummy. If it was just the two of us, we played cribbage, honeymoon bridge, or some variation on rummy. And you had to play for money with my father. Not a lot of money, but some coins had to exchange hands at the end of the evening. Said coins usually ended up in his hand.
My daughter Jill was the only one of my kids to inherit the card gene. She and I played several different games, but it is our hilarious double-solitaire battles I remember best. No money was involved, but you'd think we were playing for megabucks the way our hands slammed those cards down to beat the other to the center. Like her grandfather, she usually beat me.
Playing against a computer really can't compare. No matter how many qualities one tries to attribute to one's opponent, it's just a hunk of metal. And the charming British accent of the recorded scorekeeper fails to save the experience from being so quiet. Maybe this is why I find myself saying out loud all those expressions my dad taught me so long ago.
"Fifteen two is all I do."
This week I discovered online cribbage, playing against the computer. Believe me, it is not as much fun as playing with Harry. But I was surprised at how quickly the game came back to me, considering it's probably been close to 20 years since I've played. And I learned something else. There's a certain lingo attached to cribbage, and after I played a few rounds with the computer I began to remember it. It felt good to speak it aloud.
"See one, play one."
"Fifteen four is all I score."
I don't know why cards are so much fun. How we found hilarity in sitting at a table staring at them and adding up points, I have no idea. But we did. The banter was fast and funny, our laughter frequent.
My dad loved playing cards. If we had a group, we played knock rummy. If it was just the two of us, we played cribbage, honeymoon bridge, or some variation on rummy. And you had to play for money with my father. Not a lot of money, but some coins had to exchange hands at the end of the evening. Said coins usually ended up in his hand.
My daughter Jill was the only one of my kids to inherit the card gene. She and I played several different games, but it is our hilarious double-solitaire battles I remember best. No money was involved, but you'd think we were playing for megabucks the way our hands slammed those cards down to beat the other to the center. Like her grandfather, she usually beat me.
Playing against a computer really can't compare. No matter how many qualities one tries to attribute to one's opponent, it's just a hunk of metal. And the charming British accent of the recorded scorekeeper fails to save the experience from being so quiet. Maybe this is why I find myself saying out loud all those expressions my dad taught me so long ago.
"Fifteen two is all I do."
Saturday, September 04, 2010
Old Stones, Old Lives
I've been spending a lot of time in old cemeteries, photographing gravestones as a volunteer for FindAGrave. I went to this one, in the photograph, yesterday. Here I found a stone that read George, son of Charles and Mary Daniels, born Mar. 25, 1845
DROWNED
in the Narrows of Lackawaxen on Friday the 11th day of October 1861 his body was found in the Delaware River at Cars Rock on Sunday Oct. the 20, 1861. Aged 16 years, 7 mo. & 14 days.
I couldn't read all of the bottom inscription, but I made out the following, and I think we understand, without words, the rest.
From the beautiful world tis lived for parents and children
. . . . . to part . . . .
O may we meet . . . .
Where parting shall be no more
I have long accepted, if not exactly embraced, the premise that we live until we fulfill whatever it is we're supposed to accomplish on this earth, but the more trips I make to old cemeteries, the harder it is to hang on to that concept. In the 19th Century, so many died so young. Childbirth back then was risky business; you see the evidence of that on the gravestones of all the young wives. And the children! An epidemic would sweep through an area and take a good percentage of the young with it.
Some of the tales told on the gravestones are heartbreaking, like the family who, in 1878, lost a son named Earley, not quite two years old, on May 24; a nine-year-old daughter, Ann, on May 28; and on June 4 little Samuel who had turned four nine days earlier. Then, seven years later, they lost two-and-a-half-year-old Dessie.
The parents of George, above, might have breathed a little easier having gotten their son to the ripe old age of 16—until the unthinkable happened, and he drowned.
I remind myself that the 19th Century doesn't have a monopoly on tragedy. Those multiple deaths could be happening right now in other parts of the world. And it was unthinkable when a friend's son (and good friend of my daughter Gillian's) drowned in Lake Champlain two years ago—on the same day he was his sister's Man of Honor at her wedding.
I guess it's not for us to know what purpose anyone's life might have served, or be serving still. We can only assume that Samuel and Dessie and the rest got it right. And hope that in the end we will have gotten it right, too.
Wednesday, September 01, 2010
What do you make of coincidence?
I often say I don't believe in coincidence. That is, when two things happen, seemingly coincidentally, I usually attribute some sort of significance to it. There's a message in there somewhere.
Well, I haven't figured out the most recent message I received, but it was impossible not to notice it.
At work yesterday I filled a request to send out a number of books. One of them was Gangrene and Glory, a history of medical care during the Civil War. I thought that sounded interesting, and although I had no time to sit down with it, I opened the book at random before I scanned the bar code. It opened to an account of General Stonewall Jackson, mortally wounded, being examined by his physician, Dr. Hunter McGuire.
It was rather fascinating, but I didn't have time to read on. So I scanned the book and packed it up with the others. Then I got my salad out of the fridge and grabbed a copy of The New Yorker to read while I ate.
I opened the magazine, and the first thing I read was a letter to the editor by the great-great grandson of Dr. Hunter McGuire. The letter was about the death of General Stonewall Jackson.
How often do I think of Stonewall Jackson? Do I ever think about Stonewall Jackson?
I do now.
Well, I haven't figured out the most recent message I received, but it was impossible not to notice it.
At work yesterday I filled a request to send out a number of books. One of them was Gangrene and Glory, a history of medical care during the Civil War. I thought that sounded interesting, and although I had no time to sit down with it, I opened the book at random before I scanned the bar code. It opened to an account of General Stonewall Jackson, mortally wounded, being examined by his physician, Dr. Hunter McGuire.
It was rather fascinating, but I didn't have time to read on. So I scanned the book and packed it up with the others. Then I got my salad out of the fridge and grabbed a copy of The New Yorker to read while I ate.
I opened the magazine, and the first thing I read was a letter to the editor by the great-great grandson of Dr. Hunter McGuire. The letter was about the death of General Stonewall Jackson.
How often do I think of Stonewall Jackson? Do I ever think about Stonewall Jackson?
I do now.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Eleven In¢hes!
A lot of considerate folks have been leaving comments on my blog concerning peni$ enlargement. Perhaps this explains the size of the beans I've been harvesting this year.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Bean Excitement!
Over the years I've devised some pretty feeble methods of growing pole beans. I guess the most memorable was my Rube Goldberg-like nest of tomato cages, which had to be tethered to the house and a radio tower. Last year's effort, a curtain of beans, was prettier, but the yield was almost non-existent.
This year I have nailed it (almost literally)!! Checking out a message thread entitled "Show Me Your Trellis" on GardenWeb, I saw the bean support of my dreams: a 16-ft. cattle panel (I had never heard of a cattle panel) bent to make an 8-ft. tall arch. The base was secured with posts driven into the ground. The whole thing cost less than $35. The bean arch met all my criteria for the perfect support; it was homemade, easy, permanent, and cheap. I was in love.
I borrowed my son's pick-up and set out in search of a cattle panel, which turned out to be surprisingly easy to find. It was only slightly more difficult to persuade my son to set it up for me. ("Homemade" and "easy" are relative terms.) Once he did, I planted my beans: Kentucky Wonders, which my family has always loved, and Fortex, which the bean people on GardenWeb rave about all the time.
It was exciting to see the seedlings emerge, and even more fun when they got tall enough to start climbing. I can walk under the arch, and I'm so looking forward to reaching up to pick handfuls of beans.
I chose the terrace to set it up because (so far) deer don't walk there. Apparently a woodchuck does, though . . . the lettuce I planted in a big bin got eaten the other night. Also growing in containers on the terrace are cucumbers and beets. Oh, and two containers of pole beans, which are climbing up my son's radio tower. When I thinned the plants growing by the arch, I couldn't bear to throw away those thinnings. They had tried so hard to produce their beautiful, strong root systems. (Can you tell I anthropomorphize everything?)
This year I have nailed it (almost literally)!! Checking out a message thread entitled "Show Me Your Trellis" on GardenWeb, I saw the bean support of my dreams: a 16-ft. cattle panel (I had never heard of a cattle panel) bent to make an 8-ft. tall arch. The base was secured with posts driven into the ground. The whole thing cost less than $35. The bean arch met all my criteria for the perfect support; it was homemade, easy, permanent, and cheap. I was in love.
I borrowed my son's pick-up and set out in search of a cattle panel, which turned out to be surprisingly easy to find. It was only slightly more difficult to persuade my son to set it up for me. ("Homemade" and "easy" are relative terms.) Once he did, I planted my beans: Kentucky Wonders, which my family has always loved, and Fortex, which the bean people on GardenWeb rave about all the time.
It was exciting to see the seedlings emerge, and even more fun when they got tall enough to start climbing. I can walk under the arch, and I'm so looking forward to reaching up to pick handfuls of beans.
I chose the terrace to set it up because (so far) deer don't walk there. Apparently a woodchuck does, though . . . the lettuce I planted in a big bin got eaten the other night. Also growing in containers on the terrace are cucumbers and beets. Oh, and two containers of pole beans, which are climbing up my son's radio tower. When I thinned the plants growing by the arch, I couldn't bear to throw away those thinnings. They had tried so hard to produce their beautiful, strong root systems. (Can you tell I anthropomorphize everything?)
Friday, August 13, 2010
Intentionally Bad Poem
This morning I was reminded of a poem I wrote for a Bad Poetry challenge issued by my online writing group a number of years ago. Whenever I run across it, I still laugh.
To My Soulmate
When I saw you walk into the room
Well it wasn’t the room I was in or anything
But it was like through the hallway, you know,
That I saw you,
And I knew.
I just knew.
My heart it like opened.
And you walked in.
Just like how you walked into the room.
Not the room I was in,
But the other room.
To My Soulmate
When I saw you walk into the room
Well it wasn’t the room I was in or anything
But it was like through the hallway, you know,
That I saw you,
And I knew.
I just knew.
My heart it like opened.
And you walked in.
Just like how you walked into the room.
Not the room I was in,
But the other room.
Saturday, August 07, 2010
Blacker-Than-Black Humor
One day a couple of years ago I called the veterinarian's office:
Hello, I’m calling to inquire about cremation options . . .
Aha! Amazingly, you’ve got the right person. I do the cremations. I don’t usually answer the phone, but the girls aren't at the desk (where do you suppose they could be? it's not lunch time) and I was standing nearby, filling out some forms, so here I am.
Oh. Well, perhaps you can give me some information. I have two elderly dogs . . .
You know, I have two Afghan hounds, Liberace and Barbra. They were from the same litter, and they are both 12 years old. But one of them acts much younger than the other. It's really amazing to watch. Like the other day Liberace . . .
Right. My dogs are 13 and 15, and I was wondering . . .
I’m sure if you’re calling about two dogs you love, you’ll want their ashes back.
Well, yes, that’s what I was . . .
Then you won’t want the Group Cremation. That’s with . . . a group. I offer what I call a Semi-Private cremation, with one dog at the back of the chamber and one in front. It’s not guaranteed to be “pure,” if you know what I mean. Depends a lot on the size of the dog. How much do your dogs weigh?
Um . . . they’re fairly large—about 65 to 70 pounds.
Hmmm…….yes, I think you’ll want to go with the Private Cremation. For that, we charge $195 . . . no, $160 . . . no, $140.
Okay. Well, thank you very much. I’ll be . . .
I also want to offer you something else. I don't offer this to just anyone, mostly because most people don’t want it, but you have a nice voice and maybe you will. If you like, I’ll be glad to show you the equipment and the process, start to finish. How does that sound?
No!! I mean, no, thanks. Add me to the list of people who turn down your offer, but thanks anyway.
Well, I’m in this business because I feel I’m doing something for the pets. I wouldn’t stay in this job if I felt otherwise. I’m sensitive to it, you know what I mean? I want you to know you’re doing the right thing for your dogs. I don’t know if you have any loved ones who have been cremated . . .
Um . . . yes?
Well, I’ve seen crematoriums for humans that aren’t up to my standards.
Mmmm.
I heard that a local funeral home is going to be offering pet cremation. I was going to call them about offering my services, but I don’t know if they even have an oven yet . . .
I really have to go. Thanks so much for the information.
Alrighty then. I hope we don’t see you any time soon! (chuckle, chuckle)
Hello, I’m calling to inquire about cremation options . . .
Aha! Amazingly, you’ve got the right person. I do the cremations. I don’t usually answer the phone, but the girls aren't at the desk (where do you suppose they could be? it's not lunch time) and I was standing nearby, filling out some forms, so here I am.
Oh. Well, perhaps you can give me some information. I have two elderly dogs . . .
You know, I have two Afghan hounds, Liberace and Barbra. They were from the same litter, and they are both 12 years old. But one of them acts much younger than the other. It's really amazing to watch. Like the other day Liberace . . .
Right. My dogs are 13 and 15, and I was wondering . . .
I’m sure if you’re calling about two dogs you love, you’ll want their ashes back.
Well, yes, that’s what I was . . .
Then you won’t want the Group Cremation. That’s with . . . a group. I offer what I call a Semi-Private cremation, with one dog at the back of the chamber and one in front. It’s not guaranteed to be “pure,” if you know what I mean. Depends a lot on the size of the dog. How much do your dogs weigh?
Um . . . they’re fairly large—about 65 to 70 pounds.
Hmmm…….yes, I think you’ll want to go with the Private Cremation. For that, we charge $195 . . . no, $160 . . . no, $140.
Okay. Well, thank you very much. I’ll be . . .
I also want to offer you something else. I don't offer this to just anyone, mostly because most people don’t want it, but you have a nice voice and maybe you will. If you like, I’ll be glad to show you the equipment and the process, start to finish. How does that sound?
No!! I mean, no, thanks. Add me to the list of people who turn down your offer, but thanks anyway.
Well, I’m in this business because I feel I’m doing something for the pets. I wouldn’t stay in this job if I felt otherwise. I’m sensitive to it, you know what I mean? I want you to know you’re doing the right thing for your dogs. I don’t know if you have any loved ones who have been cremated . . .
Um . . . yes?
Well, I’ve seen crematoriums for humans that aren’t up to my standards.
Mmmm.
I heard that a local funeral home is going to be offering pet cremation. I was going to call them about offering my services, but I don’t know if they even have an oven yet . . .
I really have to go. Thanks so much for the information.
Alrighty then. I hope we don’t see you any time soon! (chuckle, chuckle)
Thursday, July 29, 2010
A Light Upstairs
A lot of people who live in my area go to bed early. I know this because I drive home from work in the dark every night, and I see a lot of dark houses. They could be empty, I suppose, but I don't think we have that many weekenders—or at least not that many weekenders who don't put their house lights on a timer.
If I'm very tired, the dark houses have a certain appeal . . . I envision everyone asleep, no one needing to do anything or be anywhere. They're all in what my mother called "Bunkyland." They went to Bunkyland, and I've got my foot on the gas pedal and my hands on the wheel. My eyes strain to see deer at the edges of the dark, winding road.
The occasional house is all lit up. I'm convinced these are happy homes. Nothing bad can happen in all that golden light. Don't tell me the lights are on because someone's being chased through the house with a baseball bat. I just know the family members are moving from room to room, offering food to one another, sharing a joke, perhaps singing a song. These are the Irish and Italian families I idealized in my youth, the ones who spent all their time with their arms draped over each other's shoulders, singing, laughing, and eating. That was my made-up version of a perfect life: singing, laughing, and eating. I guess it still is.
But the houses I'm most drawn to on my late drive home are the ones with a single light upstairs. Only one person is still awake, and he or she will soon turn off the light. Once again, it's the yellow light that pulls me in; blue lights from TV screens don't count.
Although the shades are drawn, I can tell you what those rooms look like. They are sparsely furnished, with very little in the way of decoration, but they invite sleep. A braided oval rug lies at the side of the bed. The bedclothes are always white, and the beds are always soft. The occupant may be reading in bed, or seated at a small desk, perhaps writing a letter in the fashion of Rebecca de Winter, but at night, and in far more modest surroundings.
As I get closer to home, the percentage of dark houses rises. The hour is later, of course, but also I am surrounded by farmers who get up very early in the morning. For a while I was leaving my house dark as well, using a flashlight to walk from the car to the porch and into the house. I was unwilling to face the receiving line of moths that always show up this time of year in the presence of light. But after a home invasion took place on my road last month, I've been leaving both porch lights on plus a lamp in the living room.
One of these nights, when I've closed things up and only my bedside lamp is lit, I'm going to slip down the stairs and out the door. I'll navigate the porch steps, pass the old well and the flower beds, and walk out to the road. From my position in front of the house I'll look up at the yellow glow of my bedroom window with its drawn shade and tell myself the light is mine to do with as I wish. What I will probably wish is to turn it off and go to sleep.
My sheets aren't white, by the way. But my bed is soft.
If I'm very tired, the dark houses have a certain appeal . . . I envision everyone asleep, no one needing to do anything or be anywhere. They're all in what my mother called "Bunkyland." They went to Bunkyland, and I've got my foot on the gas pedal and my hands on the wheel. My eyes strain to see deer at the edges of the dark, winding road.
The occasional house is all lit up. I'm convinced these are happy homes. Nothing bad can happen in all that golden light. Don't tell me the lights are on because someone's being chased through the house with a baseball bat. I just know the family members are moving from room to room, offering food to one another, sharing a joke, perhaps singing a song. These are the Irish and Italian families I idealized in my youth, the ones who spent all their time with their arms draped over each other's shoulders, singing, laughing, and eating. That was my made-up version of a perfect life: singing, laughing, and eating. I guess it still is.
But the houses I'm most drawn to on my late drive home are the ones with a single light upstairs. Only one person is still awake, and he or she will soon turn off the light. Once again, it's the yellow light that pulls me in; blue lights from TV screens don't count.
Although the shades are drawn, I can tell you what those rooms look like. They are sparsely furnished, with very little in the way of decoration, but they invite sleep. A braided oval rug lies at the side of the bed. The bedclothes are always white, and the beds are always soft. The occupant may be reading in bed, or seated at a small desk, perhaps writing a letter in the fashion of Rebecca de Winter, but at night, and in far more modest surroundings.
As I get closer to home, the percentage of dark houses rises. The hour is later, of course, but also I am surrounded by farmers who get up very early in the morning. For a while I was leaving my house dark as well, using a flashlight to walk from the car to the porch and into the house. I was unwilling to face the receiving line of moths that always show up this time of year in the presence of light. But after a home invasion took place on my road last month, I've been leaving both porch lights on plus a lamp in the living room.
One of these nights, when I've closed things up and only my bedside lamp is lit, I'm going to slip down the stairs and out the door. I'll navigate the porch steps, pass the old well and the flower beds, and walk out to the road. From my position in front of the house I'll look up at the yellow glow of my bedroom window with its drawn shade and tell myself the light is mine to do with as I wish. What I will probably wish is to turn it off and go to sleep.
My sheets aren't white, by the way. But my bed is soft.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
What do I do with my car?
This evening I was reading a delightful blog having to do, more or less, with parking spaces, and thinking I haven't worried about where to park my car since I left NYC years ago. Then I realized I have a parking issue coming up next month.
I'm having an in-and-out minor surgical procedure done, and it's the in and the out that's presenting a problem. I have to be there at 6:00 a.m. I live an hour from the hospital, and no way will I ask someone to drive me in at that hour. Why I've been asked to come in so early is beyond me. I think the surgery is scheduled for 10:00. What do they plan to do with me for four hours? Maybe it's a clinical trial . . . maybe they want to find out how long it takes my back to start hurting on their new gurney. Maybe they want to see how low my blood sugar can go. Or maybe things are a little slow early in the morning, and I'm their entertainment.
Anyway, I'm arriving in my own car, and I'll park it at the hospital. But I can't leave it there. Nor can I leave under my own steam. The hospital won't discharge a surgical patient, even when it's minor surgery, without a designated driver. The driver has to show up in the flesh; you can't try to pull the old "My driver's waiting outside with the engine running" flim-flam.
So Lizzie will probably come and get me, and we'll go home in her car, and . . . well, you see my problem. I'm thinking this is one of those things that someone under 20 could solve in no time. Lizzie is 19. My current plan is to put it in her lap and forget about it for now. Maybe I'll start thinking about it next month. I didn't agree with everything Scarlett O'Hara did, but sometimes the girl made sense.
I'm having an in-and-out minor surgical procedure done, and it's the in and the out that's presenting a problem. I have to be there at 6:00 a.m. I live an hour from the hospital, and no way will I ask someone to drive me in at that hour. Why I've been asked to come in so early is beyond me. I think the surgery is scheduled for 10:00. What do they plan to do with me for four hours? Maybe it's a clinical trial . . . maybe they want to find out how long it takes my back to start hurting on their new gurney. Maybe they want to see how low my blood sugar can go. Or maybe things are a little slow early in the morning, and I'm their entertainment.
Anyway, I'm arriving in my own car, and I'll park it at the hospital. But I can't leave it there. Nor can I leave under my own steam. The hospital won't discharge a surgical patient, even when it's minor surgery, without a designated driver. The driver has to show up in the flesh; you can't try to pull the old "My driver's waiting outside with the engine running" flim-flam.
So Lizzie will probably come and get me, and we'll go home in her car, and . . . well, you see my problem. I'm thinking this is one of those things that someone under 20 could solve in no time. Lizzie is 19. My current plan is to put it in her lap and forget about it for now. Maybe I'll start thinking about it next month. I didn't agree with everything Scarlett O'Hara did, but sometimes the girl made sense.
Monday, July 19, 2010
The Sign in the Old Well
Sorry if my title sounds like a Nancy Drew book. Maybe that's why I like it . . . Nancy was my constant companion when I was little, and when Gillian was in first grade her teacher would let her read Nancy Drew books at the back of the classroom while the rest of the class had their first reading lessons.
I wrote the following in 2004:
For the past three years—more than three years, actually—I hadn’t the heart to do any gardening. Gardening was such a shared activity in our family. Even if all hands didn’t pitch in, there was a shared spirit, a mutual appreciation for the blue blaze of a delphinium in the sun, or a bowl mounded high with tiny perfect yellow crookneck squash. Joe taught me how to grow a garden, and Jill and I put our heads together over the seed catalogs every year. Then I was the one left to do everything, and for a long time I did nothing.
Jill loved that I planted our old well with flowers every spring. The well is a round opening about two feet in diameter, surrounded by a slab of rock. Filled with flowers, it was always a bright spot under the Winesap apple tree in front of the porch. When I stopped planting it, weeds took over quickly. It depressed me to look at it, but there it was, in sight whenever I left the house, and when I came back.
Last year a plant I recognized sprung up at the far edge of the slab. It came literally out of nowhere, as I hadn’t planted one like it in more than a dozen years, and never in that area. I mowed around the single plant, and it grew and bloomed. At the end of the season it fell over onto the well, seeding it. This spring, the well was transformed. Gone were all the weeds. In their place was a profusion of blue and white flowers: forget-me-nots. They were so clearly from Jill. She would never have to ask me not to forget her. Instead, I think she was saying, Don’t forget the joy we once took in this. You can still love growing things. We can still love them together.
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In the six years since I wrote the above, the forget-me-nots have proliferated, showing up all over the property. I took this picture of the well last month. One of my favorite sights a couple of years ago was about 100 feet down the road, where a ring of forget-me-nots encircled a sweet-rocket plant.
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