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“Tomatoes and oregano make it Italian; wine and tarragon make it French. Sour cream makes it Russian; lemon and cinnamon make it Greek. Soy sauce makes it Chinese; garlic makes it good.”

October 19, 2015

Today is cold, in the mid 40’s. The sun is back to playing peek-a-boo. Outside isn’t all that inviting so I guess I’ll hunker down for another day or two. I’m not completely rid of the plague as I still have a voice better suited for an obscene phone call than a regular conversation. My cough didn’t wake me up last night, but it is still hanging in there. My friend is bringing me bread, cookies and a lemon donut from Dunkin’ Donuts. I’m a happy woman, albeit sick but still happy.

When I was a kid, I don’t remember missing much school. I don’t think I was really sick enough all that often. A cold was nothing. It meant bundling a bit better with a new layer or two. We walked to school on even the coldest days. I remember my cheeks turned red and raw from the wind. We’d walk backwards away from the wind when it was the strongest and the coldest. School was a refuge where we could defrost and de-layer. I don’t think we really ever complained much. That was just the way it was. We all walked to school back then despite the weather.

I used to like soup on a cold day. My mother would fill the thermos from my lunch box, add some saltines, and maybe a half of a sandwich and some dessert. Usually it was tomato soup because I could drink it instead of needing a spoon. Bologna was the most popular meat for sandwiches. We always had tuna fish on Fridays when we couldn’t eat meat. My mother added mayonnaise, chopped celery and lettuce so the tuna fish wasn’t half bad. It was always on white bread. We never had any other kind of bread. I think I was a teenager before I found out bread came in many colors and flavors.

Back when we were kids our dinners were meat, potatoes, usually mashed, and a vegetable. We had bland palates. We were seldom introduced to any foreign foods though we did count spaghetti as Italian. My friends and I now eat all sorts of foods from a variety of countries. I know it was Ghana which first introduced me to really foreign foods like African, Indian and Middle Eastern. They opened the flood gates. Now I’m willing to try almost anything though I balk at insects, household pets and rodents.

Categories: Musings
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“I’ll just tell you what I remember because memory is as close as I’ve gotten to building my own time machine.”

May 29, 2015

I looked up perfect day in the dictionary and found a picture of today. The morning is cool, the sun bright, the sky the darkest of blues and the leaves on the trees sport the look of newness which comes in spring. Both the sky and the leaves are so lovely you’d think they were painted from a palette filled with the brightest colors.

Mostly I never think about making memories. They just sort of stick and now and then something brings one out, and I am flooded with a forgotten memory. I suspect my memory drawers are overflowing because I only get snippets of that memory before it all comes back. I remember getting on the bus to high school and I remember the smell of the bus. On the route was a huge hill, and we went down it on the way to school. We took a left at the end of the hill and a bit further on was a corner store and a few houses which looked alike. On the left side of the road was a beautiful house seemingly out-of-place as all the other houses lack the stateliness of this one house, but as we rode further into Winchester beyond the downtown, all the houses were beautiful and huge. The last thing I remember of that trip I took every day was a stop where Liz got on.

We used to visit my aunt the nun once a year in Connecticut. I have several single pictures, memories, of those visits. Every time we went we’d stop on the Connecticut Turnpike at a brick rest stop. My mother would check us all to make sure we were clean, our hair was combed and our clothes were neat. I remember sitting in the visitors’ living room. We whispered because the convent seemed to engender whispering. A nun always brought us cookies and something to drink. She never made any sound. My aunt didn’t know what to do with us so a tour of her school was a part of the visit. I remember the smell of chalk.

I remember standing outside my room in Winneba, Ghana at the start of training. My room was on the second floor, and from there I could see the rusted tin on all the roofs and the greens of the trees and bushes. If I close my eyes, that scene still comes back to me.

Not all my memories are happy ones, none of us are that lucky. I think the saddest of my memories have their own drawers. Those memories come unbidden at times and bring with them the pain and the sorrow. They remind me that life is a farrago, a mix, a jumble of feelings.

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“Think what a better world it would be if we all, the whole world, had cookies and milk about three o’clock every afternoon and then lay down on our blankets for a nap.”

October 19, 2013

Last night Morpheus grabbed hold, and I slept for twelve hours. My mother would have said I needed it, and I agree. I woke up not feeling up to par (another one of my mother’s sayings) so I’ll just sort of wait around and see what happens. The TV is filled with aliens and monsters so I’ll have plenty of entertainment.

I can hear leaf blowers and mowers, the sounds of Saturday. I went out on the deck and the air smells fresh, of cut grass and fall flowers. There is a morning chill I expect will be gone by afternoon.

I do have a couple of errands today and laundry to wash. I don’t feel like doing either, but I did finish the last of my bread for toast this morning, and I’m out of cheese, two good reasons to get out and refill the larder.

My mother shopped every Friday evening. My father drove her to the supermarket as she didn’t drive, but he never went shopping with her. When they got home, we all helped to unload the trunk. It was filled with paper grocery bags. The next few days were bountiful as  cookies and snacks were back in the house though some snacks were untouchables as they were for lunches. Oreos were always a standard. They were everyone’s favorite cookie, even the dog’s. My sisters used to feed him the sides once they’d eaten the middle. He sat right by them on the steps while they snacked. He knew what was coming. My mother always warned us to go slowly because once the cookies were gone, that was it until the next shopping day. We were kids: slowly wasn’t in our vocabulary.

We used to pop corn on the stove in a pan with a lid. It was less expensive than Jiffy Pop, but it took more attention and constant shaking of the pan or the popcorn would burn. My father made the best popcorn. He never burned a single kernel. My mother would melt butter and put it on the top then mix the popcorn around to spread the butter. She then sprinkle a bit of salt. The popcorn was served in a huge bowl. In my mind’s eye, I see a green bowl, but I’m not sure as my mother also had a set of white bowls with tulips, and that set also had a large bowl. When I was shopping with my mother once, we found a set just like it at an antique store and I bought the set. It sits on my fridge and holds all sort of memories.

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“Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!”

February 14, 2012

Before Valentine’s Day, we’d spend one art class making our valentine boxes out of shoe boxes brought from home. We’d use crayons and construction paper and, for those of us lacking any creative talent, our imaginations. Boxes were covered in paper then decorated with red hearts and a few flowers. We’d make slits in the tops of the boxes so all the valentines we expected would fit inside. In those days, the valentines were small, made from light cardboard, and they had silly sayings on the front. The backs were empty so we could sign our names. They even came with envelopes we addressed with our classmates’ names. My mother would buy a few boxes of the valentines, and we’d sit at the kitchen table and write them out then put them in the box to carry them to school. They never went into the school bag. They were too precious. The boxes were carried by hand with great reverence.

During the day we  had to keep the boxes under our desks. That was the worst as the day went so slowly, and we could see each others’ boxes just sitting there while we wasted our time on arithmetic and English and whatever else was forced into our heads. I doubt we learned anything. We were clock watching, just waiting and biding our time until the party.

All of us brought something for the party: sugar cookies in the shapes of hearts, cupcakes with red frosting or bags of conversation hearts which said Be Mine or True Love or I’m Yours. None of us ever believed the sentiments. We just ate the candy.

The party was always the last part of the day. Away went the books and on our desks came the boxes. We’d take out our valentines and students, called by rows, would walk around and put an envelope in someone’s box. Sitting at my desk, I’d hold my breath hoping I’d get a valentine or two or several.

Once everyone was finished, the party began in earnest. We’d get to chat and eat and open our valentines. I remember hoping for one from my latest crush and being thrilled when I got it. When school ended, we’d walk home talking the whole way about the party and showing off our valentines.

We carried our boxes home with even more reverence than we had carried them that morning. The valentines inside were special.

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“November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.”

November 5, 2011

I just noticed I hadn’t turned the October calendar page over yet. Maybe it was a subconscious attempt on my part to keep the coming winter at bay. I can’t believe it is already turn the clocks back night. I used to rejoice at the added hour of sleep, but now I don’t care. My VCR remote doesn’t seem to work despite the new batteries so it will be off an hour until fall. That will drive me crazy.

The sun was shining when I woke up but has since disappeared. I spent the morning putting Halloween away and putting up Thanksgiving which is the reason for the lateness of this posting. I made multiple trips up and down the cellar stairs. For Christmas, Skip, my factotum, will be called into service.

Today is perfect for a sci-fi movie day. There is nothing I have to do so lounging on the couch watching bad movies sounds wonderful. I’m hoping for cheesy special effects, screaming women and tall heroes.

I miss the smell of leaves burning and the sight of my father wearing his red jacket and standing with his rake by the fire. The other night I could smell a fire burning from someone’s chimney, and to me it is one of the most wonderful of all smells. Winter is the stark season when the world is gray and lifeless, but it is the season with the most memorable of smells.

A house filled with the aroma of baking starts the season. All Thanksgiving morning the smell of turkey fills the kitchen. The dog and the cats never walk by the oven without sniffing the air. I never walk by without stealing a bit of the crusted end of the stuffing. The windows are steamed from the baking and cooking of all the traditional foods which have graced our tables since childhood.

I always think of Thanksgiving as pies and Christmas as cookies. Thanksgiving isn’t Thanksgiving without pumpkin pie. My mother also made blueberry and lemon meringue; the last is not a usual Thanksgiving pie but it was a family favorite so my mother obliged. After Thanksgiving will begin the marathon of baking for Christmas. My mouth waters at the thought of sugar cookies fresh from the oven.

I figure I can handle the drab winter because I know what’s coming.

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“It is the middle of December. The nights are longer, the weather is colder, winter comes.”

December 18, 2010

I have learned so much since the surgery I figured I’d share as none of my hard earned knowledge should ever go to waste. At first, as I was lying on the couch moaning periodically, I thought about a pamphlet or a novelette but decided my blog will have to do as the other choices seemed just too complicated. We’ll have to call this blog entry “If you find yourself, sick, disabled or otherwise incapacitated, read this.”

Just in case you’re handed a walker and sent on your way, I have a few walker helps and hints. A walker most decidedly has its advantages but getting around a house furnished for two feet makes it difficult. My walker has gotten caught on chairs, the legs of tables, a laundry bag, the butcher block and a couple of open doors. Right away I learned to close one arm of the walker so I could get around those spots. Of course, the directions tell you never to do that. I, always the rebel, did it anyway, and it worked and I was able to maneuver. A couple of times I had to wash some lounge pants as my laundry bag was filled. The walker was a great substitute for a clothes line. It also serves as an ottoman if the need rises. Right now, mine is a linen closet adjunct holding a quilt.

The worst part of being a bit disabled is getting to the bathroom. I wished I could plan my trips ahead of time. I figured an e-mail saying get up because in five minutes you’ll have to go to the bathroom wouldn’t take much and seems quite thoughtful. No, that never happens, and I ran though I don’t think using a walker can really be called running. A few times I breathed a sigh of relief at crossing the finish line just in time. Now, I stop at the bathroom on the way to the kitchen whether I need to or not. That’s my version of an e-mail.

Always have a straw which can be bent. The advantage is obvious. The disadvantages are wet and uncomfortable.

One of those grab things is a must. I used it constantly. It seemed everything I wanted was at the wrong end of the table or maybe I was. I’m not quite sure which. I used it to grab and slide stuff. Anything which fell on the floor would have stayed there without my grabber. Using it to tease people, though, is not a good idea.

Get into bed (the couch in my case) before the dog. Mine likes to be comfy and takes and arranges most of the covers in her quest. When I’m first in bed, she just has to make do.

Keep cookies handy. Sweets are one of the best remedies. I swear aches went away when I ate a star sugar cookie frosted in light purple, but I’m not sure the shape or color matters. It’s the magic of the cookie.

Today is the best day I’ve had so far. They started me on a new medication, and it seems to be working. I haven’t used my walker this morning and I’m still fine. Earlier, I was given a gift of wonder. I walked from the kitchen with my cup of coffee without dragging along my walker and no drops of coffee poker dotted the floor.

Last night I fell asleep really early with the TV, lights and computer on. I was even still wearing my glasses. I think it was a Hallmark movie which put me out. When I woke up it was a round 1 am. That was a long nap for me so I looked around for something to do. I chose a TV program with lots of blood and gore, grabbed a cup of coffee, took my pills and started a jigsaw puzzle. I was up for hours. It was almost light when I fell back to sleep. A phone call woke me around noon.

The pains are less, and I seldom yelp. I don’t seem to need the walker though I do limp a bit. I even went out on the deck a little while ago so I could do a weather report. It’s not so pretty a day, but I don’t care. I will appreciate all of today. I’m hoping for a parade later!

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