A Euphoric Dog-Jog

Old Dog was 17 years old. She was weak and palsied. And one leg was wizening up at a rate that was almost visible. She was stone deaf but had learned to respond to body language. We would beacon her with one hand or hold a palm out for her to stay and she understood all that very well. Her last couple of months she mostly slept. She ate little but seemed to not be in pain as she never whimpered or appeared restless.

Often in the last few weeks, I would have to lift her into an upright position and support her for a few steps before she was able to commence movement.

I felt the time had come so I said to Hub, “There is nothing for it, but to take her to the vet and have her put to sleep.”

Hub shook his head in disagreement and I could not understand as I knew we both wanted the same thing. For her end to be painless, and as humane as it could possibly be. So I just had to ask why he was not in agreement.

And that is when he told me the most surprising thing. Of all the magic ‘devices’ that make up a physical body – sight, touch, smell, emotions, etc., there is one too often overlooked. And it is the thing the brain does at the moment of death.

Hub was talking about the bright light, the warmth, the comfort, the peace, that comes at the very end. And although Hub (I think) holds no great faith in a paradise with harps and streets of gold, he is confident that at the moment of transition, our physiological bodies go into a transitioning mode that is as delightful as a sweet afternoon in the sun.

And his fear was, if Old Dog, was put down, shall I say, for lack of a better word, artificially, he feared that that loyal dog, so absolutely deserving of all good things, would miss the grand moment of euphoria, prior to that transition into --- nothingness, I guess.

I was amazed at this confession, but in pondering it I could not help but think that perhaps it was a notion with some worth. Many scientists are absolutely convinced that synapses in our brains do in fact deliver the magical euphoric visions that people with near-death experiences testify to.

But thankfully, if it be true, Old Dog was given that vision. She was given the bright light to guide her, the warmth and comfort of that light, and the peace it gives as well, because there she was one morning, asleep on the floor by the bed, and sometime during the night, she had followed the guide master sent to take her over to the other side.

We are sad because she has been with us daily for so long, life is not the same. But, at the same time, we are relieved that her exit was seamless for her.

And I am so much less sad, in believing what Hub told me, and thinking that her final dog-jog, was more than a well-lit, peaceful, warm, and comforting stroll. That it was, in fact, euphoric.

Budgeting That Which Needs to Be

It has pretty much always seemed to me that life is a long stretch with plenty of time to lolly-gag and putter aimlessly about. And procrastination isn’t a crime as long as it causes no inconvenience to others. Always there are tomorrows, so many tomorrows, endless tomorrows.

And how did I come to this conviction? Easy enough. My sixteenth birthday may have happened in sixteen Gregorian Calendar years, but to me it seemed more like sixty years. Likewise the ten days proceeding Christmas on the Gregorian Calendar are actually more like fifty-four. High school Graduation didn’t happen for about forty-four years, and first job took forever, and marriage took forever, and career advancements took forever.

So of course I had to conclude after all that, that life is more a waiting game, than anything else. Everything is in slow mo, and so with so little time actually usurped by necessity, there is much time to burn.

But eventually all things ripen and as my elderly time of life approached, rather quickly, I must say, compared to my other milestones, I came to a puzzling alter-realization that not only is time sparse, but it moves at breakneck speed.

And so that is when I realized as well that I must move from my haphazard way of reckless burning of that irreversible duration that flows in synchronization with clock and calendar, to a stringent budgeting of time. That is, if I expect to realize any of my outstanding wishes, hopes, dreams, and endeavors. Or even, if I have any intention of completing the half-finished quilts and crafts in my basement storeroom.

Now if one takes the time to find out, there are a whole lot of things seniors should concentrate on. Though it seemed to me, in that which the experts advocated, I found very little scope or understanding of my own particular character, life, and situation. For example, I am the iconic symbol for how to bumble through half a century of living without planning or organization. And so now, what is step 1?

Critical and fundamental is this first step – to “set goals” and “get well-organized” (?).

And from thence, one must speedily get documents in order. Then examine investments and work out solid money plans. And also of critical importance, one must document ‘their wishes’ in some new context that falls outside of my long-understood, and your long-understood original meaning.

Are not “wishes” heartfelt longings? Not in this instance. They are called ‘wishes’ but even the simplest-minded can see that in this context there is some new cast of meaning that falls way outside of the realm of hopes, desires, endeavors, and…heartfelt longings. That is rather perplexing.

And what perplexes me even more is now, with more than a half-century of living-experience under my belt, of a sudden, I now find friendly-advice coming at me from every quarter (not just from the hardware store).

And not only that, when my advisors realize I have not faithfully, and diligently attended to the matters I have stated above, I find my reputation besmirched for side-stepping these ‘important issues’ in favor of doing other unrelated things. Like writing, blogging, crocheting, reading, and knitting.

But if I may digress—I need to tell you that gratefully, despite the nasty criticisms from outside advisors, I don’t have any of my kids sending me planning guides for ‘my wishes/longings’—or other unmentionables such as track-shoes, or exercise equipment, which is damn considerate of them. I don’t mind telling the world that if they did, I would be greatly offended.

But now, returning to our original topic, it seems to me that this is not a time to budget my meager monies, or a time to plan and organize papers, or a time to make wish lists –of a kind I fail to understand. How practical is that? The practical thing is to budget time, cause like I said before—I have too many projects to finish to ignore the compression of time.

And so, I have no time for fantastical ‘wish lists’. Instead, on a restrained budget of time I sit and knit and listen to the clock rampaging off the minutes.

But that is not to say that all that outside advice doesn’t cause painful guilt about whether this is the seasonable and profitable thing for me to do. Especially when I consider that the child’s socks I am knitting can be easily purchased ready-made for about $1.20.

I’m supposed to be on a budget and here I am running all my time-statistics into the red by doing such a stupid, impractical thing. Especially since I haven’t even contemplated the more important task of my ‘wish list’.

I see you nodding your head in agreement. You do agree, do you not?

But wait, not so fast. I have one more thing to tell you.

Last weekend, I had my two-year-old grandson stay with me for three days. When he came he had on the little woolly green socks I knit for him at Christmas time. He wore them on the first day. He wore them on the second day. And so on the third day, when I was helping him get dressed, I said, “Oh my goodness. You need some clean socks.”

I reached into his little overnight bag and got him a lovely pair of store-bought blue socks and slipped them on his little feet. (Amazingly at the age of two, Grandson already knows basic colors).

“Blue socks, no good! I don’t like blue socks!

And with that, he ripped them from his feet and adamantly stated. “Green socks good. I wear green socks!”

So now, say what you will, say what you may, about me being occupied in a tight budget of time on what is really important –getting papers in order, wish lists, etc. etc.

I am doing the most significant and important stuff I have to do despite tight timelines. I am in my chair, rocking, and knitting little woolly socks, while the clock ticks away at warp speed as freely as it pleases it to do.

I am engaged in the most worthy of occupations that fulfill wishes/longings (in a context that I understand), of a grandma and her precious little grandson.

What Do You Do With Wonder and Awe?

What do you do with wonder and awe? How do you release the inner tension it creates? How to you ease the reverence, respect, dread, and weakness of heart that grips the soul in a gridlock of conflicting feelings of sadness and joy?

I have this sense of awe and wonder when I see my grandkids coming up the walk. But thankfully it is easing by throwing my arms around them and their gentle kisses on my cheek.

I have this sense when Hub gives me an unexpectedly card or bouquet, and I ease it with a blend of smiles and tears, mutual joy, and his hovering presence. I have this sense when my double peony blooms, but it eases as the blossom over-ripes. And so, for such situations, there is a way of escape.

And that be all good and well, but the tension and tight grip of awe and wonder is not so easily resolved in other situations. There are many for which there is no release.

I remember when Hub and I went on vacation one fall. I remember seeing snow-capped purple mountains shoed with golden russet trees bordering a glistening turquoise lake in west coast country. I remember how it was and how the tension of wonder and awe gripped my heart and mind and soul. So tight that it was racking, throbbing, and tormenting.

I feel the agony and ecstasy of that tension again, when I recall the loveliness of it all. But there was no way to release the tension when it hit.

I recall at the time when Hub and I stopped at the edge of those emerald waters how driven I felt to fling myself on the grass, and pound my fists on the soil, and kiss the ground, and weep. All of which I could not do, must not do, as such a reaction would inflict Hub with an even greater torment and tension—over the well-being of my mind and health.

But there just has to be a way to release the tension of wonder and awe. It comes upon me with a gentle wash that ever increases in temperature and duration till I feel scalded, but yet there is no escape. No release—from the joy coupled with dread. I almost hate it. It leaves me in spasms of sadness and gladness interchanging at breakneck speed—like a Drop of Doom roller-coaster ride.
____

Now it’s been years, close to eons, since last I read “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” I read it again last night. I wept with sorrow, then cried with joy, as I did that first time I read it as a child—the line that I love, that breaks me so into pieces is that gentle, sweet, most lovely line— “and when I awoke, it rained.”

And now, from that reading, this morning and through the night, I have been racked with the painful conflict of heart-sorrow and head-joy. And rather than abating, the tension of wonder and awe goes on and on. I am as close to the brink of frenzied hilarity as I am to the brink of a grand and copious wash of tears.

The tension is as like to a dead albatross around my neck as anything can be. In fact, I think this poem mirrors the tension of awe and wonder and in doing that, only increases my awe-and-wonder tension. God, I almost wish I had a toothache or a pulsing migraine to distract me from the absolute beauty and total horror of that poem that I so recently read.

But how can I find release? Hug the book. That isn’t going to work.
Kiss the page. That isn’t going to work.
Erase the poem—can’t do that either.
It is emblazoned with permanence in my mind.

I want and I need to be free of this tension. It is hampering me. It is crippling me. It is tormenting me. But how, pray how, can it be done?

Maybe if I read the poem three more times. Do you think?

The Ways of the Elderly 2.

WAY II

The first elder realization came about two years ago. That awful day I woke up to find, when I gazed at my mirror reflection, that my smooth and delicate ear lobes had suddenly transformed into monster blobs—without cause. There was no malady, no infection, no chaffing, no heavy embroidery on my pillowcase, in fact no exacerbation of any kind.

But nevertheless, I had seen earlobes like this before. Oh yes, now I remember. They flagged the drooping heads of so many of the dreary souls I had once seen at a rest home. That’s where I had seen them.

I was so—not pleased. This new outgrowth was in no way comparable to the slow, creeping pace of outgrowth in my 13th year, and 14th year, and 15th year, that finally, finally, in my 16th year, resulted in sweet, flattering, and lovely swollen breasts. The ear-lobe-happening was a quick-take in no way comparable to that tardy breast transformation.

With the ear-lobe thing, there was no wait. I hadn’t yet reached any point of expectation and already it happened. I went to bed with delicate ears one night and woke up with Dumbo ears the next morning. Egad!

But as awful as it is/was, I am truly glad that I did not in my youth, wear those great honking ring-implants in my ears that I now see some young people wearing. What will become of them, when they reach “Way II” of their senior years and their earlobes explode?

But, all that aside, within “Way II”, the education has only just begun. Cause yesterday, just yesterday, I took a peek in the mirror to see if I was okay for the dreaded trip to town and guess what?

Now my nose has exploded. It is no longer the angular delicate silhouette it has always been. No longer the reserved profile of a perfect balance within the spectrum of once-large-eyes, no somewhat reduced, and once-full-lips, now somewhat reduced, and once-full-face, now somewhat reduced.

Yeh, you guessed it. Now I have this gawd-awful nose, that obviously happens as one ages, whether one avoids alcohol, steroids, cabbage, jumbo onions, or boils lexicons with cosines and drinks the reckoning warm without sugar.

And, so now, the conclusion formed within the context of these latest circumstances is that within “Way III”, or should I say a week or two, I will find a great honking coarse black hair growing out of this bulbous nose with all good will and dedication.

NEXT POST: — we continue on our way — to WAY III.

Happy & Content

We just can’t come to a solid conclusion about what ‘happy and content’ is, can we? We look for it in other lives, adjacent to our own. We look for it within, and look for it without. We probably even Google it. And still don’t know what the real answer is.

But as for me, I’ve lived enough years I should be able to find, somewhere in my past, a day ruled by happiness and contentment in all forms, facets, designs, and configurations.

And so I say to myself, ‘It must have been the day when I was no more than nine or ten years old, when amidst all the faded and worn apparel in my clothes cupboard, my friend from the city loaned me her very best dress for the day. A lacy navy and white dress with a stiff airy crinoline that billowed out from my waist like a large cloud.’

And it just so happens, that was the same day I was sporting a new flattering haircut that made my hair shine and glisten without split ends. A magical trim that made my hair fall into place exactly how I wanted it to.

And that was the same day, with a distinctive and emerging confidence inspired by the beautiful dress, that I excelled beyond all my classmates in scholastic endeavors.

And that was the same day when my mother handed me those new red shoes from the Eaton’s catalogue (that took forever to come), that I’m sure were of the best leather because they never pinched or rubbed or felt too hot or too cold.

And that was the same day, when that little guy who I thought was so cute, finally noticed me. That was the day he hid in the playground behind trees, and tossed pine-cones at me shyly and discretely, and in a most gentle way, to get my attention.

So now, let me see, if that is true happiness and contentment, how do I fare if I reconstruct that day now?

A beautiful navy and white dress is still guaranteed to make me feel good. Maybe a more mature and sober style, but, still beautiful. Beautiful because I favor those colors best and they are colors that make me happy.

And a glossy mane of shining hair, behaving and settling into a flattering look, yes, that would be really good too. Particularly because my hair is now rather dry, dull, and colorless.

And to impress a group with some highly rated intelligence – coming from what I swear is an ‘Alzheimic’ mind, — that would be good too. Especially, if such intelligence, could somehow get splashed onto this blog.

And really comfortable shoes that make my tired old feet want to run and skip rather than bumble along – that would be a happy thing. And with a navy and white dress – red, of course!

And now, before this final bit of reconstruction, let me make it very clear that I am not flirtatious. And I will not allow you to accuse me of the indignity of flirtation at my age. But still, you know, to make the reconstruction complete I will need to have some old fellow, with remnants of the good-looker he once was, discretely tossing pine cones at me from shadowed recesses in the park to attract my attention. That would be good too. I might belong to Hub, but still it would be nice to know my navy dress, my red shoes, my shiny hair, and my expressions of intellect are appreciated.

Gee, I think I nailed it… the ‘happy and content’ thing. Cause no matter how I look at it, seems that is about as close as I can hope to come to that which might be still attainable in present time and space.

And for anyone, who Googled ‘happy and content’ and as a result fell into this trap…. Sorry, there’s no world cruise here… No grand riches… No great fame. Just some simple reminiscing and fanciful reconstruction, of a special time that served up a generous portion of H & C.
____

Watch out! Better duck or get your red shoes on and run with fluffy skirts billowing. Cause here comes another pine-cone!

What a Wonderful World!

My greatest wonder in life has nothing to do with the mechanics of anything. That is Hub’s department.

What I find wondrous is nature, and life, hopes and dreams. But having lived in the same house with the same man for more than thirty years, beyond a new bend in Hub’s sense of humor, what new could I possibly find to wonder at in my home environment? The mechanics of material things change, which doesn’t impress me, but little else. Still, even at that, unexpected situations arise that tap into my emotions and leave me quite awe-stuck.

Take this morning, for instance.

Hub is in a funk and I am beginning to worry about it. He’s bored. He eats too much and sleeps too much. Seems restless and unable to focus on anything.

Added to that, the weather remains nasty, which doesn’t help. And so I am beginning to fear if the weather doesn’t turn, Hub may not turn either. Back to his normal happy and carefree self.

Still I do my best to try and cheer him, but all to no avail. So there remains little left for me to do except to remain quietly supportive and at the same time more attentive to Hub’s conversations in hopes of finding an opportunity to assist him, in some unexpected way, back to his normal good humor.

And so, for these reasons, I am immediately alert, when Hub says to me at the breakfast table this morning, “Do you know the words to this song?”

I perk up my ears and wait for him to hum a bit of the melody, but all I hear coming from his side of the table is a deep muffled rumble like a slipper tumbling in a clothes dryer. His lips are ever so slightly parted in a duplication of Mona-Lisa’s famous smile, and I can tell he is deeply concentrating while exhaling a soft sound, so I go to his side of the table and bend over and listen. An uncommon thing for me to do, because normally Hub talks and sings, so very loud.

As I bend near his face, I hear a rumbling hum that seems to be coming from inside one of the table legs rather than from him. I bend closer and peer into his eyes and see a look of such intense concentration. A look that leads me to think Hub may have quietly slipped out-of-body. It is a glazed look that tells me he has moved somewhere else—leaving me feeling quite alone. He is not immediately behind his eyes, as he should be. Normally I feel an intimate adjacency to the person behind the eyes, but when I look at him, it is like looking through 140X Binoculars across a great expanse. He seems so very far away.

But, despite that, if I am to render normality here, I must pay attention. I must listen and try to identify the song. And so I listen very carefully to muffled modulations of oblique sound that have spacing and rhythm that is vaguely familiar.

But the tune? There isn’t any. And that sets me wondering what is going on, because Hub, like most people, always attempts to jar my memory with bits of the melody when he wants to remember an old song.

This morning there is no tune. The sound is more like a liturgical chant. There is no melody. But that is not the full extent of the weirdness of the situation. What is even weirder is the sound I hear is, in no way, representative of Hub’s voice. Not his sad voice, his happy voice, his normal voice, or even his silly voice.

It is not Hub’s familiar voice I am hearing. It is another tone, another pitch, another pronunciation, another shade, another frequency. It is simply not Hub’s voice. But yet, there is something strangely familiar in this never-before-seen-or-heard rendition. The pulses of the sound are scattered but not random.

And now I begin to verge on a kind of panic with the dragging and quickening of bass-toned exhales and inhales, and again, I say, without melody. And furthermore, the sound is incredibly soft, because it is as if Hub is forcing from somewhere deep inside a sound outside of his own voice range.

I don’t know what is happening here but my inner gut tells me it must be way more serious than a high fever, a blood clot, or an aneurysm. And the eyes though still and unblinking, remain fixed on me in an imploring stare. Across the huge expanse I referred to earlier.

And then, by God, it suddenly hits me. I know the song! I know the song!

Not from the nature of it, but the mechanics of it. Hub was amazed I did it. But I was far more amazed at how ‘The Lord of the Mechanics of Everything’ (that would be Hub) packaged the clues to a musical piece into nothing more than the mechanics of the piece.

Now that I understand the virtual impossibility of what he was doing, of course his eyes veiled over with such intense concentration. It’s pretty close to miraculous when someone can deliver a memory of a song with little more than vibrations of E.S.P. accompanied by a rhythmic percussion of nothing more than the sound of a slipper tumbling about in a clothes dryer.

Now Hub can carry a tune. He knows if it is right or wrong. But as he told me later, he had completely forgotten the tune. He had forgotten the words as well. He had forgotten the name of the song, and he had forgotten the artist. But what he hadn’t forgotten was that the song was a happy song. That is the memory that led to the twisted Mona-Lisa-smile. And he hadn’t forgotten the timber of the singer’s voice or the rhythm of the song.

Now Hub is not an impersonator in any way, shape, or form. But the voice I heard, that was not Hub’s, but yet was vaguely familiar, was the deep voice, magical and dream-shaped, of Louis Armstrong.

And the song Hub needed to remember was “What a Wonderful World.”
____

Isn’t that totally delightful? When Hub wants that desperately, and needs that desperately to recall a song to sing this early in the morning, and that particularly happy song is the song he wants to sing, my heart is lifted and I know all is well. The weather has cleared despite the dreary skies outside the window, and I know Hub’s funk has flown.

Hub is out in his shop right now singing at the top of his lungs, in tune, and in his own voice with impeccable phrasing…

“I see fields of green, red roses too…”

The Person of Integrity I am

So the person of integrity that I am, (with my inbred and inborn ethics of honesty and morality), could procrastinate no longer. So, I finally took out the purchases I made for Christmas and spread them on the bed. No, the grand-kids are not likely to cost and calculate and count their gifts, but still the person of integrity I am, knows that the value of the gifts they each receive must seem fair and equal.

My gifts versus my brother’s gifts didn’t always do so when I was a kid. And the person of integrity I am, remains to this very day hurt and offended by it. I remember like it was yesterday – him, my brother that is, with his gleaming toy saxophone, tooting around the house. And me, on the other hand, silently trying to cope with feelings of painful disparity when I discovered my gift was a pair of long and heavy fleece bloomers. (Not that I didn’t seriously need them.)

So with that remembrance in mind, and of course, being the person of integrity I am, I arranged and rearranged books and toys for my own kith and kin until all seemed equalized and in one accord.

Now when shopping becomes a frustrated business, when my limbs tire, and bones ache from the cold, I do what I have always done. I give up in a way, and then just fill the blank spaces on my list with my favorite things – those chocolates that I love, those caramels that make me drool, or decadent butter cookies that go so nicely with a cup of tea.

And so now, while I’m wrapping gifts, there in front of me in the center of the table are the caramels I so very much adore, that I had bought to fill one last small space on my list. And while I’m wrapping other stuff, I’m wondering if the receiver of those will value and appreciate them the way I do. And while I’m wrapping other stuff, I’m wondering why that box of caramels has no clear wrap on it, but maybe it never did to start with. And then the person of integrity that I am takes a closer look and sees the box is actually open. The closure, nothing more than a circular spot of glue, has separated.

Well, I suppose that’s good. I will be able to take a peek to see how many are in there. Sometimes things like that are a bloody shame when you open a large box and come face to face with ten or less, chintzy little morsels. Then the person of integrity that I am decides I should taste one – you know, to see if they are fresh, soft, and chewy as they should be.

They are perfect but now it looks like there are not really as many in that box as I would have liked there to be. And how can I re-close that box so that it will not look tampered with? The person of integrity I am knows full well, very well, that one cannot give a gift that is incomplete, open, or anything less than new, fresh, and sterling.

So the person of integrity fights with conscience and propriety in the matter until it seems nothing else will lighten my concerns and give me that little boost of endorphins I need to rise above the confusion except one more caramel. So while I search for a glue stick to re-close the box, I eat another.

That’s okay because the person of integrity I am knows I did not eat it because I fell into temptation. I am too much a person of integrity for that to ever happen. The whole business is nothing more than facing a practical matter in a practical way.

Now the person of integrity that I am reviews the checks and balances of my equalization list and realizes that it is falling into disarray. I review value (i.e. costs) of each child’s gifts. I review collective numbers of each child’s gifts. I review joy or amusement equivalencies of each child’s gifts. And because those two caramels I ate were so exceptionally good, giving them to one, and not all, will cause disparity similar to the disparity between a golden saxophone and a pair of bloomers. And so the person of integrity that I am, chokes them down. It is the only way to avoid inequality and disparity.

Now I’m looking at those boxes of chocolates. I wonder if they are fresh? Are any discolored? They could be – it happens sometimes. I wonder if the person of integrity that I am would be doing the right thing to give someone chocolates that might be discolored?

Somehow, I don’t think so.
___________

And now, being the person of integrity that I am, I want to wish you all a VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS! With equal warmth, equal sincerity, equal emphasis, and equal amusement and joy.

Possessed or Dispossessed?

Are the elderly possessed or dispossessed? Beats me. I have no idea. But Hub was one, (or perhaps the other), about a month ago when he put skids under an old decrepit wooden granary, and hauled it from the neighbor’s field into our yard.

And once it was there, the debate was endless about what it was going to be used for. But that didn’t delay Hub from immediately rain-proofing the thing with metal roofing.

And that didn’t stall the building of interior walls and a ceiling. Nor the installation of two lovely windows in the walls and one long narrow window in the door. But still, we had no idea what we would use it for.

And perhaps that is why he chose to do all he could do without cost. So rather than buy paint, he pulled all the partially full cans of old paint from the basement and mixed them up and painted the thing. Outside walls white, inside walls, what Youngest Daughter claims is very much ‘in’ at the moment—‘trendy green’.

And still, through all this, the debate continued about what the ‘new shed’ was for. Meanwhile Hub installed electrical wiring and completely insulated the walls and ceiling.

It was beginning to take on the appearance of a colonial cabin, but still no one was clear what the purpose was.

Now I have never been one to support useless work. And often, in my mind, that is what this whole effort seemed to be. But I did support it, though it had no mandate or goal that I could understand. I had to support it because while the puppies lounged in happy contentment in the new ‘shed’, Hub worked away amongst them whistling and singing like a happy lark. Day after day he puttered away.

Occasionally the kids would come for a look and have a peek in the chicken house, bunkhouse, cabin, tea house, soup kitchen, whatever…? But when eldest daughter took a peek, she said she had just the thing for Hub’s project. A few days later she delivered a load of heavy rusty chunks of twisted iron and filthy porcelain on the back of a truck.

It was the remnants of a wood-burning stove but she was the first to admit that it would be more reasonable to haul it to the scrap yard than try and fix it. There were pieces missing from the firebox and every speck of iron was layered with rust. Some resourceful soul had pulled the copper liner out of the reservoir most likely to sell for cash. The rest of it was completely encased in debris of every description – cow manure, mud, soot, damp straw – you name it, it was there.

But Hub unloaded that crap in his granary and now he was busier than ever. From early morning to late at night he was out in his granary working away, working away. Most days he didn’t even come in for coffee or lunch. Most days I heard heavy pounding in the garage and saw the flash of his welder more often than I have ever seen it any time in the past.

But soon that ceased and I saw Hub take the old futon from the basement out to his granary and then a couple of nights ago, he insisted I must come for the evening. That the fire was lit, and the place quite comfortable.

I took some coffee, sliced homemade bread, and butter and away we went to the granary. Hub had a radio out there with Christmas Carols playing. The futon was folded up into a comfortable chesterfield (that’s where the puppies were dozing), and under the big window, he had a table and a few chairs. Furnishings were incomplete but it still looked cozy.

And what did we do out there?

We listened to Christmas carols on an old radio. And we sought the exact place for the teakettle on the stove where it would hum along. And we made toast right on the top of the stove, (which I love, have always loved – quick-singed toast that is hot but so soft in the middle), and found some kind of weird joy in the ambiance of it all.

There is still work to be done in the ‘tea house’, but the stove is finished and gives a coziness that is downright joyful.

The kids are truly anxious to come for tea and biscuits fresh from the oven of the old wood-burning stove. All my children are uniquely different, but even the really uptown of the three is anxious for that treat – although she insists I must make cheese biscuits, not just ordinary ones.

Awww and Awe

Easter was such a special time with all my grandchildren here. All four of them. Left me feeling warm and happy. Left me feeling life is truly special. Left me saying “Aww” and feeling ‘awe’.

The ‘Aww’ comes when I hold and look at my new grandson. Born at 28 weeks. Scared all of us half to death. But he came out wailing like babies are supposed to. And now he is six pounds and two months old, loves to show off how he can hold his own bottle and so cute, cuddly, and sweet. Amazingly he never cries as long as everyone responds to the ‘look’—that would be the tribal look that every one of our tribe members are so capable of when things are unsatisfactory.

Knitted brows, scrunched up forehead, eyes reflecting a composite of disgust and disappointment. He gives the ‘look’ then waits patiently for clean pants, a warm bottle, or a change of position. Then if nothing happens, he fusses and fumes, and moves his little hands to his face and squeezes his brows to intensify the look. Reluctant to cry when the look is generally sufficient.



And then there is my older grandson. What a character he is. He values friendships that are honest and just. So when his pre-school teacher told him about Jesus being God’s son and dying on the cross at Easter and rising again, in grandson’s practical mind, that was too much. I think he took it to be a joke but didn’t tell me so.

What he did tell me is that Jesus is God’s son. This was the part that he was able to relate to. The father and son connection. (Silly adults. Don’t realize that a five-year-old has no context for stories about death and resurrection and something called ‘sin’. That they can only interpret that part of a story that they have a context for.)

So after being told the Easter story, Grandson wrote a letter to Jesus and insisted his mom mail it to God, so they, meaning he and Jesus, could become friends. The letter said, “Dear Jesus. I like you very much. Can we be friends?”

Grandson wants to form a friendship so that he can eventually invite Jesus and his father over to our place. That’s how it works. And then when that happens, God and Grandpa can pull him and his new friend, Jesus, on the sled behind the quad and see which one goes faster. Grandpa can’t go as fast as Grandson would like cause Grandma complains.

God is a father, like his own father, and God has a son, just like him. As a father, however, God is very old so he is probably more like Grandpa than Grandson’s own father.

Everyone thinks God is bigger and better than his Grandpa, but Grandson spurns that suggestion. One needs to find out. How fast will God drive the quad with no one daring to complain about how fast he goes? It’s gonna be pretty hard for him to beat flying across the deep snow instead of sliding on it like happens when Grandpa gets in behind the house where Grandma cannot see them.

But I digress. What I really want to tell you more so than this trivia is how excited I am about Grandson’s yen to write stories. He told me he knew some magic. And the magic he explained to me is that he knows all his letters. And with those letters, he told me, he can make ALL words.

And with words, he told me, he can write sentences that say anything he wants to say.

“Did you know,” he asks, with his eyes so big and excited, “that I can do that if you help me spell the words? That’s all you need to do and I can explain anything, tell you anything.”

He runs to get a paper and pencil. “Now you help me,” he says, “and I will write a story.”

He writes me a funny little story about sleigh-riding with Grandpa. About him falling off the sleigh, his sister falling off the sleigh, and Grandpa falling off the quad. That last part was not true, but it was necessary to prevent anyone in the story looking more than, or less than, another.

And then in our conversation of rather simple words, I am stunned to hear him say something about ‘flexible’ as if it was a word he uses every day.

I didn’t realize it, at the time, but I guess Grandpa explained to him that the tow rope behind the quad had to be fixed rather than ‘flexible’ to avoid the sleigh from dog-tracking or slipping under the quad or side-ways into an icy snow-bank.

So just to be silly, I say to him, “ ‘Flexible’ is a pretty big word. Makes me think of another big word. The word is ‘inexplicable’. Do you know what that means?”

“What?” he asks, with head tipped and eyes intent on my face.

“It means,” I said, “something that cannot be explained. That words cannot be found to tell it.”

I had no idea the little storyteller-wordsmith would be so crushed by this bit of information. He gave me the tribal look of disappointment.

“I don’t like that word,” he said. “I don’t like it at all. Me? I can tell anything unless it is a secret. Like for your birthday or for Christmas. There is a way to tell everything. You just have to use the right words.”

And so, I say ‘Aww’ when I look at my new Grandbaby and feel an equal sense of awe at the elder Grandson’s incredible wisdom.

_________

Later, I heard Grandson tell his Mom. “Know what, Mom? If something is ‘inexplicable’, you can’t explain it. That’s what that word means. You can’t, but I can!”

A Refurbished Relationship - Conclusion

HUB RETURNS

When Hub finally came home he looked humbled (maybe, if my guess is correct, even a little frightened). He gave me a little stuffed animal with a sheepish grin. Obviously the little boy within was wounded and shocked by my tirade, but the ego of the old man, was absolutely flattered. Surprised, astonished, and very much pleased by the positive validation that he remains after so many, many years, so ultra-important to an old woman.

.....

FINAL THOUGHTS

In all this there is convolution. The most complex convolutions link faith and fear. And my convolution is this.

It is certainly true that cell-phones make us feel in control and radically alleviate concern when we are separated from each other. But at the same time, that positive effect may have a negative side. With every new confidence we lose the sweet softness that once precluded it.

Do you remember how often on the beach we used to go over to our children and touch their arms, forehead, hair, and give their hat a tug and speak to them with gentle concern about staying in the sun too long? That’s what we used to do – a whole lot of touching a whole lot of stroking. But with Sun-block lotions, we now sit on the beach and ignore the children at play, without concern.

Likewise, with nursery monitors, as parents there is no longer the need to stroke, touch, and check on babies with the comforting tap of footsteps in the hall, a touch on the face, and the comforting smell of our presence in the room.

A cell-phone gives us a similar confidence. Quick-time electronic access insidiously closes down the emotions that used to fire synapses in the brain of loneliness and concern that in turn fired warm and fuzzy neurological impulses.

So is it possible that cell-phones give a confidence that permit us to inadvertently disregard how touched we are by relationships and how cherished they are? I never realized before today that a simple gizmo, (ie. cell phone) could so deeply affect, and toughen up, otherwise tender thoughts.

We now have the power of omnipotence that can manifest all things. With cell-phones, there remains no need to cling to the traditional mind transmissions of past generations. In the pre-cell era, rather than voice-mail, we used internal supplication in situations of isolation and fear.

Fear, like the concern in my story, forced us to find something within ourselves that propped up faith. A surprising thing, since we swore we were ‘without faith’. But suddenly here comes faith rushing in. Encompassing any and all unseen forces of heaven and earth to stand guard and protect cherished ones.

With no other way to cope we used to pull aside ‘the atheist’ within and demand he do his part in the effort to remedy our fears by pretending we had faith until faith was realized. So with that thought, is it at all reasonable to conclude that cell-phones have contributed in an inauspicious way to the death of God and spiritualism?

I really don’t know, but one thing I definitely do know. I can’t tell Hub this story.

It would only further enhance his status around here and goodness knows he’s had enough stroking with the passion of my tirade and tears. Any more this week and he will NEVER take his cell phone with him again as long as we both shall live. The little boy might have been quite frightened, but the old man was way too flattered.

And where does Old Dog fit in? She was the tool of unseen forces to give new appreciation and meaning to an existence that was getting a little too old hat, and a little too mundane, bordering, it would seem to me, on that level of familiarity that can, without obvious symptoms, breed injurious contempt.

It strikes me that if Hub had his cell phone, this day would have differed from no other. There would have been no worry or turmoil and our relationship would not have got the soul searching and deep-polishing it got today. But without that ready electronic access, we both got a shake-up. A nasty bit to go through for me, but edifying to my heart, soul, and relationship.

....

Of these things I am certain because after yesterday’s vexations, this morning dawned new and different. I looked at Hub across the table. Asked him how he slept. He told me the coffee was so good. He poured me a fresh cup. And we lingered over coffee with happy smiles. I ruffled his hair. He rubbed my shoulders. We laughed at nothing. And we engaged with refreshed delight in each other’s chatter and presence.

Naked Truths About Christmas

I’m gonna’ tell you how it is. Today is probably my last entry before Christmas. I have to gather my wits about me for a supper tonight for some of the young people in the neighborhood and our traditional after-dinner game of Balderdash.

We eat and then we play the game and laugh till we cry. Last year one of the player’s had a rutted theme. Wasn’t too long before we knew his definition of every word would be the one that described a woman’s prehistoric, fictional or early Victorian undergarment. “infandous” – the chastity belt that didn’t work, “pegomancy” – a corset worn in medieval times that latched with pegs and leather loops, and “sebum” – the first pair of crotchless panties. Wonder what his theme will be this year.

First surprise Yule-callers came by the other night and we celebrated the season with chocolate rice crisp squares, short bread and spice cookies, coffee, and my tree still rolled up in plastic in the middle of the entry just off the kitchen. Yep, there was the tree in all its glory. Down for the first round but blinking lights gaily as I had just plugged it in for the initial light-testing. And hard by a 3-gallon bucket of decorations spilled on the floor beside it allowing a fairly wide-panned view of a regurgitation-like mess of apples, ribbons, glass balls, and garlands blinking with refractory amusement in the glow of the lights of the downed tree. But long ago, I have realized, surprise callers have to take you the way they find you, which leads to the next night.

Last night more callers, right after supper. But now my tree was up and fully dressed. Couldn’t say the same for Hub. He was in the bath and I was downstairs when the knock came to the door. I knew he had no clothes with him in the bathroom. I was rushing to fill the washing machine so I could run upstairs and answer the door when I heard Hub answer it.

But then, when I came upstairs, a lady friend was standing inside on the door-mat and Hub was wedged on the tuther-side of the open door. Still I could readily see his upper half through the window in the door and what I saw was wet hair and no shirt. The lower part of the door hid the rest of him. “Don’t look,” he said to the visitor, as he talked to her through the window. “I’m not decent.”

The visitor bent over and began removing her boots. The door moaned a bit as Hub gently pushed it away from him a bit in order to escape. And you know what she did?

She stood up and looked. I mean really looked. I’m thinking that Hub is naked, and I’m thinking what kind of person would not turn their head and say, “let me know when I can look”? But no, this person is just looking.

Suddenly she roared with startled laughter. “My God, you aren’t dressed. I thought you were just joking,” as Hub made a mad dash for the bedroom – shirtless, shoeless, beltless, but with long white thermal underwear on his lower half.

I had to say—I just had to say, “Why did you look? Where is your sense of modesty and respect? What kind of woman are you? A little too curious for your own good, it seems to me!”

“Honestly, Roberta, I thought he was just kidding. Nobody answers the door in their long johns with no clothes on.”

“Take note,” I said with a chill in my voice, “some do. And when someone tells you they aren’t decent, the respectful thing to do, the kosher thing to do, is keep your back turned until you are given permission to look.”

After this sarcastic game of pitch and catch, we are cast back under the special spell of the Season and we laugh heartily and I promise her I will never let her ever forget what kind of woman she is – looking with such curiosity if given the chance!

Another neighbor delivered a lovely card and stopped for coffee. She noticed my card display particularly the gilded one from my scrap-booking friend. “I’m so disappointed,” she said. “I haven’t got one single glittery card this year and I love glittery cards.”

The disappointment rang in my ears like a mornful toll of bells so yesterday, although I had bedding to wash, floors to vac, and tidying up that still needed doing, instead I sat down and made her the glittery-est card I have ever made in my entire life. Very simple, but it's not about the complexity, it's about the glitter...


So now, with all this nonsense going on, I’m not as near ready for our Christmas celebration on Christmas Day-eve (to fit everyone’s agenda), that I should be. Oh Lord, don’t let me forget to thaw out the big bird in plenty of time. And I must get the pies baked on the 22nd this year, cause we want them fresh but the big ole bird will be monopolizing the oven come the 23rd.

I have to admit, I fret about it all way too much. About making every Christmas the best Christmas my children and grandchildren ever had. I’ve been doing that for thirty years. You’d think I’d eventually stop the painful anxiety cause every Christmas in its own unique way is as much or more than I hoped it would be.

So to you, all my dear beloved friends in Blogland, have a Very Merry Christmas, unique and special in its own way.

P.S. And for those of you that are into pristine, untouched, totally organic, here's a special Xmas card for you...

...an organic snow-woman with no supportive undergarments though the Barbie dolls would all run and hide with shame if she were compressed into Victoria Secret attire.

The Simple View

Today, a non-CNN moment of instruction and provocative thought from the minority class of Young Children that are never granted air time.

Boy Twin wants the practical things of life to make better sense. And so from him comes this observation:

“Why do we say ‘Febuary’ and ‘Wensday’ and then spell them as ‘feb-roo-airy” and “wed-nez-day’? It’s just not right!”

….

Then Twin Girl leaves a big envelope addressed to Hub stuck in our door. Inside is a carefully drawn chart on a large piece of red construction paper. This is what it says:

CHORE CHART

I was nice to my neighbors.
I was nice to my dogs.
I called my neighbors to come for a walk.
I didn’t bother my neighbors.

[And at the bottom] TOTAL CHECKS: ______ (for each day)

Hub and I laugh. What a delightful task list?

______
As adults we are quite unaware of the nonsense things that frustrate children to an extent equal to that of adults. Things like the spelling outcry above that leaves Boy Twin wondering, ‘What is this world coming to?’

…but yet, on a lighter note, without academia, Girl Twin has the instructional wisdom to know how to make a dreary day so much better.

As for me, I’d like to stay and chat, but Hub and I have chores to do.

Follow the Yellow Brick Road

Why do people do it? What makes elderly people pack up a few goods and all the memories in their home community and dash off to places unknown? To areas where seniors are known to congregate? Particularly the west coast? And don’t you tell me it’s for the climate either – as bad as dry freezing cold is for stiff and arthritic joints, all that moisture has to be a whole lot worse.

I never did understand it. But I am older now so closer to a state of understanding (maybe?). The most obvious thing I can put my finger on is a perception of a change in identity that none of us welcome with open arms. A feeling of deteriorating physical beauty – wrinkled skin, gray hair, a limp, or a much slowed walking pace – and thus a wish to escape before the changes are too obvious. The only way to preserve the identity of what we once were is to get away before any one really notices.

But as for me, I’m staying. I find that an amazing number of people older than I still remember how lively and curious I was as a child. Others remember when I worked here and when I worked there. Others (a mighty few), remember even more unique things – a conversation we once had, a meal we once shared, a laugh, or a cup of tea. Some remember better than me how I looked when I had rich brown hair and a long ponytail. Hub certainly does. And of course some remember the mistakes I made, but I remember them a whole lot better.

That’s comforting. But what is even more comforting about my home community is the loyalty my neighbors have always shown me and still do. It’s as sweet as mothering comfort to know how readily they will come to my aid, if aid is needed.

Sure I hate to hear the things I hear now. Remarks like, “Roberta is looking pretty peaked, don’t you think?” “She’s certainly aging fast.” I would like to be smug enough to say I don’t take these things into account, but I do. But instead of packing up and dashing away to parts unknown, I just disassociate more. Stay more out of sight. And so I only make the dreaded trip to town on odd, and sparse days, when I am particularly well rested and feeling a little more energetic than usual. Pleasant days, that for a brief moment, allow my wrinkled skin to look reasonably ruddy, and a day when sunshine casts sky-lights on my gray hair so that it looks like enviable[?] silver gloss.

Old, but vain, you might say. I prefer to think ‘not’ but at the same time maybe I am wrong. Maybe it is vanity that applies in indirect ways to all of us – whether we stay, or whether we leave.

Bottom line for me is I am going to stay, if for no other reason, because of the great fun and amusement Hub and I find in the company of kids. Particularly in the close companionship of the twins next door and the pleasant thrill my grandchildren get from sleeping in the same room, playing in the same yard, eating in the same kitchen, as Mom did when she was little. These kids love everything about this place and they make us laugh and that would be the sad thing missing if we moved to a distant or modern villa for retirees.

Who can deny that the gaiety of children is certainly the most effective anti-dote for the drudgery and disparity of old age? The ‘Comedy Channel’ is so often nothing more than remakes of the same old joke. With children every hilarious antic is fresh and new and original. It doesn’t get any better than that.

I didn’t get a picture yesterday but I certainly wish I had. Girl Twin asks Hub, “What do you want me to do?” Hub replies “Follow the Yellow Brick Road, follow the Yellow Brick road.” And with that cue to start, Hub and Girl Twin skip down a trail of solidly blanketed golden leaves singing loudly “We’re off to see the wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Oz”.

Hub is too funny leaping with such wildly exaggerated steps, arms loosely raised, and flipping his head of sparse hair while singing in a simulated high-pitched, yet child-like, squeaky operatic voice. Ditto for Girl Twin. And here comes Twin Boy and I behind singing as loud as we can in falsetto, “Because, because, because, because – Because of the wonderful things he does!" All our troop barely able to sing for laughing.

So, as I’ve already said, Hub and I wish to stay put, but if anyone had seen us, for certain, we would have been packed up in short order by some charitable-minded community citizen or physician and moved to some other locale.

So, it goes without saying, if we intend to stay put, maybe we need to be just a bit more careful. Old people, despite allowances for their eccentricities and peculiarities, are nonetheless expected to be slightly more demure, and a bit more mature, than we tend to be.

To sum this all up, the nicest part of it all is later, after dinner, Hub and I sit in the livingroom and relax. The old hip is aching, the stomach is unsettled, the back spasm is still there, the heartburn is back, feet are swollen, but still we smile and smile because it was such a funny day. Hub asks with a grin, “What are you grinning about?” and I don’t even answer. We just laugh some more.

Pig Latin Pulses

This short one-Act play is your mind bender for today. See if you can decode the pig latin phrases, do the math, think of more potato uses, and maybe tell me about the days in your youth when pig latin was your special way of communicating with your friends.

ACT I

[Hub and Roberta and the little twins from next door are sitting at the kitchen table after walking the dogs. Earlier Hub and Roberta picked all the potatoes.]

Hub: Woman, why do you always insist on planting so many potatoes?

Roberta: I want to make sure we won’t run out.

Hub: If we do, you can buy some. At the store, at the farmer’s market, at a neighbors.

Roberta: I don’t want to do that, it is too inconvenient. And they never taste the same. Rocks in the bags, tasteless, and smutty spots everywhere.

Hub: But look at all those potatoes. Did you do the math?

Roberta: Y—e—h. Three small pails per week, 36 weeks, 4 potato meals per week, 120 potato hills, averaging ¾ small pail per hill –oh, never mind – I did the math! And anyway, I need extra potatoes for days when I have company, for perogies, for potato bread, for soups, french fries, potato salads, and seed potatoes for next year. So, don’t even suggest it. There are NOT too many potatoes.

Hub: I suppose you’re right. We’ll also need some for Christmas decorations, dog toys, carved stamps for printing letters or logos on envelopes, dried potato heads, potato guns, for heartburn, and for batteries for my potato clock.

Little Twin Girl [with a broad smile]: ee-tay, ee-hay, ee-tay, ee-hay!

(She and her brother have been practicing their Pig Latin while we are on dog walks. And pretty much everything she says is in that dialect.)

______

I roared with laughter at that bit. But that is not all. I’m still laughing about Twin Boy’s antics when we were out walking the puppies. He tried to topple a dead tree and when it eventually came loose and he saw it was going to topple across the trail, he yelled:…. “imber-Tay!”

And to our astonishment, even though Hub’s attempts at Pig Latin are impossible to decode, and completely dyslectic, he scrambled out of the way with the rest of us. The twins told him they were “oud-pray” of his “a-way-om-cay-ish-lay-ent-may!”

Hub said when they left, “It’s too bad that the twins’ arents-pay and isters-say on’t-day owe-nay ow-hay uch-may un-fay ee-thay ins-tway are-way.”

I laughed and nodded.

Battling Wits

I laugh. Hub is always battling wits with the little twins from next door that love to come to walk the dogs with us. After our walks they usually stop in for a visit and some juice. Yesterday I had fresh cookies so they had cookies as well.

Now Girl-twin doesn’t eat raisins, never has. So, although she asked if the cookies had raisins in, Hub didn’t think they did, so he said “No, just chocolate chips.”

So twin-girl took two cookies and immediately said “Ewww. These cookies have raisins in them."

Of course she badgered Hub for telling her there were no raisins in those cookies. But in the end she ate them while slowly and cautiously extracting every raisin. Two cookies and out of those two cookies, an unbelievable 15 raisins. Now there she sat across from Hub with a messy pile of cookie crumbs and 15 raisins on the table.

And that’s when the sparring of wits began. “I’ll give you two dollars if you eat those raisins,” Hub said. Of course, Girl-twin said eating 15 raisins was certainly worth more than two dollars. So then some serious negotiating began. They went from one dollar up to ten dollars and then back again. Finally girl-twin upped the ante by agreeing to eat the 15 raisins in front of her plus another cookie for an agreed on fee of three dollars.

And so then the debate began that in this ‘survival test’ of raisin eating whether she should eat them one at a time, two at time, or three at a time. Hub said it was her choice so she decided to eat them two at a time.

She asked if she could be permitted to swallow without chewing and Hub said she must chew them. So she put two raisins in her mouth, made an awful face, and chewed them gingerly and swallowed them. Hub said that wouldn’t do. That she must smile and look like she really enjoyed them and say “Yum, Yum.” So she grimaced a smile and said “Yum, Yum.”

Next two raisins, here comes that face again. “Wait, wait, wait,” Hub yells, “get on your pleasant face. Yum, Yum, Yum.” And again with more too-doo than anyone could imagine, with much grimacing and painful pulling of her face from sad to glad and mutters of “yum, yum,” twin girl continued.

It was a long process with much banter about her doing it the proper way and in the meantime I laughed and laughed. Half-way through twin-girl begged for a drink to wash down the nasty taste, and of course Hub got her one while shaking his finger at her yet again because of the flash of I’m-going-to-be-sick look on her face.

Occasionally she turned her back to Hub and heaved her shoulders as if silently retching and of course he responded by saying, “Oh, we’ll certainly have none of that or the deal is off.”

Eventually through much process, delay, and resetting of her countenance, interspersed with a less-than-convincing "Yum-yum", the raisins and the extra cookie were all down the hatch and Hub handed her the money. She told him it was the hardest bit of cash she ever worked for.

And then, as she pocketed her money, her face lit up like morning sunshine, and she laughed and laughed. “Guess what, Mr. Smith, I’ve always eaten raisins. I’ve always loved raisins. I can eat a whole bag of raisins without even blinking!”

I knew that wasn’t true, that she really does hate raisins. But I didn’t say a word. Hub, on the other hand, believed her. Felt ‘taken’.

I laughed some more. Not sure who won this round.

Meet D.O.G.

I want you to meet D.O.G.


I am so excited today about showing you this picture that I can hardly take the time to write this. The big dog in this picture is Dough-Gee. His Christian name is “D.O.G” but it is pronounced with a slur, Dee-oh-Gee, that ends up sounding like ‘Dough-Gee.’ Dog’s mother was a basset and I think his father was a Rottweiler. Despite his overly long body and stocky crocked legs, Dog is so special because he has a sweet and mild nature that still continually astounds us.

Hub and I were shocked when Dog brought this little fellow in through the dog door early one morning. We could not imagine that anyone abandoned him but that must have been the case because after advertising and calling others in the neighborhood in order to find his owner we were finally forced to give up. But thankfully, through a local animal rescue group, Dog’s little friend was quickly adopted into a loving home. I have heard reports since then and his new owners love him to death, the way Hub and I love our Dough-Gee Dog.

The Evil Eye

Now you know I’m uneasy about my upcoming eye surgery and so I appreciate the kind people who have given support. My neighbor is one of those kind people. To the extent, that last week, when her Mother came for a visit, she called me up and put her Mother on the phone to give me her cataract surgery testimonial.

Truth is, I really didn’t want to discuss it, but what could I say? ‘Cause you see I was doing pretty well up to this point. With only a few weeks to go, I found that circumventing thoughts into other channels was the best way to escape my fear. So I kept my mind firmly planted in the crease of refusing-to-think-about-it. With pre-opt conditions (dental and physical health check behind me), thankfully there is no reason to return to thinking about it, until the scheduled day of surgery.

I know the neighbor had the best of intentions when she put her Mother on the phone. And her Mother, though she doesn’t know me from Adam, was more than a little flattered to tell me the ‘really important stuff’ that she was quite certain I didn’t know. Things I would never think of (which as I said previously, is okay with me).

So she told me what was ‘really, really important’. That for six weeks or more after surgery I must not sew, knit, crochet, read, watch TV, or use the computer. That’s when the darkness began closing in and my present life of watching CNN while playing computer games, reading blogs, and writing blog posts flashed before me.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Just wait a minute here. This is a lot to digest. This goes way beyond my fear and anxious foreboding. Now I am really upset. Isn’t that what I do each day? Is there anything she missed? Seems like not. And that rapidly scrolling thought of all those things in my current life? That’s not a good thing either.

So I was close to tears when I got off the phone and turned to Hub.
“Oh my God, Hub, do you know what I have to do for six weeks or more after surgery?”

“What?” he said, with bewilderment, no doubt thinking it must be some undignified, ghastly, painful routine. And if that’s what he was thinking, he was right.

“For six weeks or more all I can do is sweep or mop floors, vacuum, iron, do laundry, shovel snow, re-organize cupboards or closets, bath the dog, clean the basement. How depressing is THAT???”

And you know what Hub did? That man who I thought would always be there for me?

He said, “Good! Very Good! And when are they going to do your other eye?”

One Last Christmas Card

When I was a child, I took all that you told me and built a fantasy village. In the snobby part of town are castles. The castles of Cinderella and her Prince, Scrooge’s elaborate dwelling, and the home of the wicked Queen (who thinks she is fairest of them all), with more mirror tiles than West Edmonton Mall.

Nursery rhyme characters live in the middle-class part of town. Jack Sprat and his plump wife are only a hop down the street from Jack be Nimble. Mother Goose runs a kind of animal drop-in center on the corner next to the Woman on social assistance overrun with children whose house was built by a shoemaker with raw hides rather than wood. The residents in this part of town worry little about street lighting as they are forced to retire early. Every night Bill Winkie runs up and down the streets in dressing-gown-drag demanding that they all go to bed.

There are parks as well. The park where the Queen and a bunch of flimsy and foolish cards gather often to play Croquet. And where rabbits in vests scurry about checking their watches while vision impaired mice fumble and feel their way around. The swans in the pond are so beautiful. But always with them I see an ugly duck with a tuff of hair fluffed across it’s head that is as close a copy to Donald Trump’s as Rosie’s is. (Oops, shouldn’t have done that but I just couldn’t resist.)

But across the tracks, there is another part of town where things are pretty dire. This is where you will find the Lamplighter, and the Little Match Girl, and the hollow gaunt faces of Tiny Tim and his family. But there is still a beauty to that slum part of town. Characterized by the street lamps. In winter as shadows gather and snowflakes fall, the old Lamp Lighter limps down those streets and with a long torch lights each lamp. Magically, the falling snow flakes catch the reflection of each tiny light and surround them with great globes of orange-yellow warmth and color. And therein is the beauty.

Why am I telling you all this? Because you need to understand it to know how thrilled I was to find that ED (eldest daughter) gave me something connected to my fantasy village for Christmas. I never told her. I don’t know how she knew. But she gave me a tall old-fashioned street lamp with three globes with Baroque tops and curved supports under those globes mounted on a tall ornate pillar.

Our old-fashioned house has extra-high ceilings in the livingroom so Christmas Day Hub stood it up there and turned on the lights. I looked at it and slipped from reality into an old-fashioned Christmas card where carolers with fur muffs and large music sheets stood in falling snow under a street lamp singing “Joy to the World”. I began to wonder if I really wanted it mounted by a sidewalk outside.

And then a few days later, the little twins came over from next door to walk the dogs. They stood for some time admiring the street light. Boy twin is always thinking. Always creating in his mind another collage. And always those collages are a thing of beauty with mechanical intrigue.

Suddenly, he grabbed at my sleeve. “It’s beautiful, Roberta,” he said. "Let’s use it to make a Christmas float. Let’s mount it on big truck flat-deck with a battery pack. And then with the lamps burning, we’ll get Mr. Smith to drive us through town while we bunch around the lamp and sing Christmas carols.”

Well you could have knocked me over with a feather. Sometimes I swear, though not blood related, that boy and I have uncanny imaginative connections. Obviously when he gazed at that street lamp he skipped off to that same imaginary village that I love to frolic in.

So now we’re off to a New Year in a few short hours. We’ll be leaving all the old stuff behind but don’t forget to pack your imagination. I’m no ‘snake-oil saleman’ when I tell you that a vivid imagination is the wondrous salve that so quickly heals the dreary wounds of everyday life. So pack it up and take it along. In the meantime...

HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE! (hugs, all 'round)

No Obligation

My Christmas will be chaotic no more. Thanks to wise words from (YD) Youngest Daughter. I’ll tell you later what she told me.

But the chaos? You know all about it. Even within tight-knit families there is a high level of diplomacy involved in choosing the right gifts and communicating plans for the Christmas venue.

So like everyone else I fret a great deal about Christmas. We have taken early traditions, modified them, remolded them, and shook them up to find the right mix for us. My childhood Christmases were all the relatives gathered together Christmas Eve after a huge supper. Then out came the accordion, the mandolin, the sax, the mouth organ, the song books, and for the younger ones the tambourine, some kitchen spoons and metal pots. Or a comb and piece of tissue paper. Then we played and sang our hearts out.

Now that doesn’t work for our own family because although we have a couple of guitars and some of us like that kind of thing, there are the one’s that don’t. And any hope the non-musicians might have for a joyful Christmas is ruined by the raucous behavior of the rest of us with our sour notes and clashing pots and spoons. So we scrapped that.

Then, for a few years we did the high-end gift exchanges until we all felt a credit-card pain that literally wiped out any joy until mid-July. Then we exchanged names for a few years but somehow that too began to lose favor. Eventually we let the pendulum swing the other way. No gifts for anyone except the grand-kids. This too, seemed a bit unfair and bleak for the ones with no children. So somehow we have drifted back to a gift exchange of a simpler kind.

This year I promised not to let it all get me down. But how could it not? Hating shopping the way I do. Hating the dreaded trip to town the way I do. And the kids are all doing well enough that it is really difficult to find that special gift that will be both useful and appreciated. Furthermore, this year I was bound to Hub’s agenda because until I get eye surgery I am unable to drive. So although there were a few mornings where I was motivated to go shopping, Hub’s motivation didn’t come until late afternoon and by then mine had packed up and left.

So rather than taking my early morning motivation into town, I took it downstairs to my treasure room of cloth scraps, lace, leather, and string. I’m always happy here. It’s more fun than any mall. And soon I came back upstairs with a selection of Christmas gift materials. I made double fleece mitts for the boys out of some lovely faun-colored material and decorated them with blanket stitch around the cuffs. I used an excess piece of flannelette originally bought for a baby quilt to make a soft pale blue nightgown profuse with lace trim for Middle Daughter. Granddaughter had no night wear in her bag last time she stayed here so I gave her an old thread-bare cotton one to wear that was in my stash. She said it was beautiful, that she felt like an angel in it. So I pulled out some new cotton from my stash and using the old rag nightgown as a pattern made her a new angel-gown.

When I wrapped the gifts, I supplemented the boy’s mitts with boxes of chocolates. The girl’s gifts with small bath kits. Simple gifts all.

Then Christmas day came. The three girls and their hubby’s streamed in the front door with boxes and boxes of gifts. Huge boxes that they struggled with to push them through the door frame. The tree was soon buried with only the top half visible. I watched in bewilderment and with a sinking heart. Feeling scared, sad, inadequate, guilty – you name it, I was feeling it. And what I was feeling was not good.

As soon as the last package was precariously balanced on top of all the rest, I said to YD, “YD, why did you do this? Why did any of you do this? You all make me feel so obligated.”

YD’s reply was quick. “Obligated, why should you be? Did you shirk on dinner? Are we getting store-bought buns or canned cranberries? What did you do with dinner to make you feel obligated?”

I immediately swapped miserable feelings of obligation for a wonderful feeling of peace and joy. I DID NOT shirk on dinner. The buns were homemade. The pumpkin pie filling and cranberry sauce did not come out of a tin. I made the extra stuffing that is always in high demand. I had an impressive array of cookies, sweets, and dainties. And the Ceasar dressing was home made as well. The house was prepared as if the Queen, herself, was coming for dinner.

No obligation to be felt. I did my share and they did theirs.

The Matador

It’s bloody ridiculous how often we get sucked into the values and beliefs of the throngs. For quite a few years now, I’ve been following along, believing that ‘Christmas is for children’. But oh no, it’s not. Four-year-old grandson didn’t have one more iota of fun this year than I had and this is why.

YD (youngest daughter) bought me a gift that I immediately christened ‘The Matador’. She helped me take the Matador out of his box, turned him on and immediately he began sweeping strides on the floor while waving a little broom flag to first one side and then the other. And so, it seemed appropriate to call him "The Matador".

Matador is a performer. He roams about a room pacing out the arena. Setting a context. Getting a feel for it. And then he just gets busy. Matador is a robot vacuum cleaner.

How fascinating is that? How funny is that? How cute is that? So while grandson roared around Christmas guests with his remote control truck, I was close behind, roaming about with the Matador. Grandson was a little envious when his truck got stuck between chair legs, but Matador just backed his way expertly out of tough situations. Meanwhile, Hub was getting annoyed. He wanted me to sit down and socialize and let Matador mix and mingle on his own. But of course I couldn’t do that. Some fool would probably let him fall down the stairs, and I wasn’t going to let that happen.

As I followed him around I even had an urge to stage a smash up derby with Grandson’s new remote Big Wheels but thought better of it. I’m quite certain Matador would have come out on top in that contest. I did hear him tauntingly whisper to Big Wheels as he sailed by the truck that was stuck between a chair and the wall. “Ah, quit whining. Just suck it up!”

I loved watching Matador do his thing. Without hesitation he went from rug to lino and back to rug. While in the kitchen, he shifted down and mounted the thick mat in front of the door and cleaned it thoroughly. Mischievous, he is though. Didn’t he just scoot under the low cupboard in the kitchen and thoroughly clean that small space that is so awkward for me to clean? It wasn’t till later that we found out while playing under there, he had secretly unplugged the coffee pot and the water dispenser.

Later, I took him to the master bedroom. The bedskirts? No problem. He just sailed under the bed and roamed around until every single dust bunny was gone. I told him to be sure and do behind the dresser and left. Later I came back to check on his progress. I could barely hear him. His voice seemed muffled. I looked under the bedskirts. He was not there. I checked other small spaces, but he was not there. Panic was rising in my throat when I discovered him in the corner, behind the dresser, sweeping crevices with his little flag broom and sucking up the debris. I was so impressed. How much better is this than the hernia-effort it takes me to move the dresser and the annoyance of having to fold myself into a twisted pretzel in order to vacuum under those bloody beds?

I moved him to the next bedroom. Told him to clean that room too. But when I came back a few minutes later to check, he was gone! Dissolved into thin air. No purring motor. No little broom waving ‘I’m over here’.

So now everyone scrambled to search for Matador. And where did we find him? Under the bed, in another room at the far end of the house practicing for a smash-up derby performance with one of Grandson’s old fire trucks from another day that was waylaid there.

Hub is not as thrilled as I am. I heard him complaining on the phone the other day that he can’t even watch the Lone Star Channel anymore. Always there’s Matador buzzing around his feet with me following along. Criss-crossing in front of the screen. Laughing and chatting gaily with Matador.