I knew it was going to be one of those days.
When I wandered down the hall this morning, still half-asleep, my plan was to start the coffee maker, hit the bathroom, then have a large cup of coffee while watching/listening to The Today Show. Simple enough, right?
My daughter, M.H., had bought me a new coffee maker for my birthday. It was greatly needed and appreciated, as the old coffee maker was nearing the end of a messy death. Let's just say that boiling water in a tea kettle, then slowly pouring it through the coffee filter and hoping that the heating element under the coffee pot just doesn't quite cut it. The old coffee maker was six years old, quite a bit longer than most of my previous ones had lasted.
The new one is bright red and works well...as long as I remember to do things correctly.
This morning, I got up, filled the pot up in the sink, poured water into the maker, put the pot in the dish drain (The dish drain? you ask; yes, the dish drain; I'd wanted to dry off the bottom of the glass pot before putting onto the heating element, and didn't have a dry towel around.), then ground the coffee beans, put them in the filter, plugged in the maker, turned it on, and headed down the hall. (I hear what you're thinking: You didn't say anything about getting the pot out of the dish drain. Yeah, I know.)
So, I'm down the hall, getting ready to brush my teeth (morning breath; yuck!), when I hear my youngest utter an expletive, followed by, "Hey, Mom, the coffee!"
I hurried out to find coffee all over the place. The filter had filled to the top, then overflowed. (The top of the pot presses against the bottom of the filter area, which releases the coffee into the pot. But one must remember to put the pot where it belongs - which is not necessarily in the dish drain.)
Good thing I'd planned to do some laundry today, since I used up a few dish towels cleaning up. The second pot went a little smoother...
My family has a few coffee stories, as well as stories dealing with being a little klutzy. So, here goes.
M.H., B. and G. moved here from Rhode Island, where coffee is the state drink. In most places, schools offer kids a choice of regular or chocolate milk (or have in the past); Rhode Island kids get a third choice: coffee flavored. Even M.H. says I drink too much coffee.
True coffee story: My dad loved coffee every bit as much as I do, which is no doubt where I picked up my love of it. Mom was (and still is) more of a tea drinker, and I tend to drink a lot of that, too. But Dad and coffee...
Whenever Mom's parents came to visit for the weekend, there was usually one night reserved for hitting up a nice restaurant. Sometimes they'd bring us kids along, other times, it was just the adults. But the complaint was always the same: "John and the coffee."
See, it went like this: After being seated and handed menus, the waiter or waitress would ask what everyone was drinking. Dad, Mom, and Grandparents would all get coffee. Mom and her parents would nurse that one lone coffee through much of dinner, with occasional sips of water. That one coffee a piece created all sorts of havoc: Mom, Grandma and Grandpa all knew that sleep would be evasive that evening.
Dad, on the other hand, had a cup of coffee with the menu, another helping with the appetizer, a third and forth with dinner, another with dessert, and, finally, a last one after dessert. Wired for sound, right? Wrong! When everyone got home from the restaurant, Dad would sit, yawning, in the living room with everyone else, trying to make small talk. Invariably, though, within half an hour, he'd be upstairs, sound asleep, the coffee having had no effect on him. Mom and her parents, though, would be awake until at least 1 or 2 a.m. from their one cup of coffee!
Note: Anyone having been in the University of South Florida St. Petersburg's Florida Studies program knows that no matter how many words are added to the phrase True Story know where the phrase comes from. I hope Gary Mormino is enjoying his retirement!
Another true coffee story: When I was still driving cabs, I got a call to take someone to Tampa International Airport. Before picking the person up, I grabbed a large coffee and Boston cream donut from a nearby Dunkin' Donuts. After dropping the man off at T.I.A., I decided to swing through the Ybor City section of Tampa, since I had a friend who lived there.
I drove along the main thoroughfare (7th Avenue), but didn't see her. So, I stopped at the coffee place that was on 7th Avenue, went inside and got a large hot mochacchino. According to the person serving this up, it was an espresso, dumped into a large cup (so there were maybe several servings of espresso in there), with chocolate added to the mix, and topped with whipped cream. I'll go with that description. Drank it down, then got a large iced mochacchino to go. Got to the cab, started to leave, and Voila!, saw my friend. I honked, she waved, I did a U-turn and chug-a-lugged my iced caffeine rush before getting out of the car.
We hugged, then went back into the same coffee place to talk over - you guessed it - large hot mochacchinos. The server raised an eyebrow as he served us, no doubt wondering how sleep deprived I'd been - or would be. This time, we each added a large brownie (one for friend, one for me). The things had to be 2 inches on each side and 2 inches high, then topped with chocolate syrup, whipped cream, a scoop of ice cream, more chocolate syrup, and topped with a cherry. (As Paula Deen might admonish, we have to get our fruits and veggies in somewhere!)
Then, as we got ready to leave, I grabbed another large iced mochacchino to go. Fortunately, there'd been a shift change, so it was a different person handing it over.
By the time I got back to the Pinellas side of the Howard Franklin Bridge (a.k.a. the Frankenstein), I decided I'd best get a plain old large coffee from Dunkin' Donuts before pulling onto the nearest cab stand, where two other drivers were sitting, talking, while waiting for calls. (One of the two was my friend Kevin.)
"Hey, Robin, how's it going?" the other driver asked. And I was off and speed-talking.
"Well, seeIgotthiscallthatwenttoTIAandthenIwenttoYborandIgotsomecoffeeand..."
Kevin and the other driver's eye kind-of widened. About the time one of them got a call, though, I'd hit the caffeine wall. Anyone familiar with vinyl might know about 33s and 45s; there are those of us who remember seeing 78s and 16s. Let's just say that at first, I must've sounded like a 33 being played at the speed 45 or 78 (think Alvin and the Chipmunks), then, after hitting the wall, sounding more like a 78 played at 33 or 16...
"Wow, I think you'd better steer away from the coffee for a day or two," Kevin offered as he drove off for his next call. He might've been right.
Another coffee story: By the time Dad had married my step-mom, I'd started sending pans of fudge as one of my Christmas presents to Dad and P. They both kept an eye out for the package: Dad was ready, willing and able to finish most of the pan of fudge with a pot of coffee, while P. was prone to dole the fudge out a piece or two at a time. (Does that coffee-and-chocolate thing sound familiar?) I'd inevitably get a call from Dad the day the package came, when I'd hear which way it had gone.
True (tea) story: My mother, whose maternal grandparents immigrated from England, was more of a tea person than Dad was. If there was cause for celebration, fix tea; if someone needed cheering up, fix tea; if someone felt a little under the weather, fix tea; if...well, you get the idea. I can't begin to count the number of times I'd be home sick and would be given a cup of tea and toast.
One rainy afternoon, Mom's mom came to visit. She lived maybe a fifteen minute ride from us and would frequently bring homemade oatmeal or peanut butter cookies.
This particular rainy day, I was home sick; I was definitely on the mend, but, since it was rainy, Mom had decided to keep me home, while sending my sister A. to school.
While Mom stood watching out the door for A. to get home, Grandma poured both of us another cup of tea, pushed the plate of cookies toward me, and told me about her one brush with fame:
When she was eight years old, she and her parents lived in Denver. Half-way through the school year, Grandma's teacher informed the class that the following week, she'd bring a friend of her's to class; her friend was none other than Buffalo Bill Cody.
The day before Buffalo Bill was to come to class, Grandma stayed after school to tell her teacher the news: she had found out that morning that her parents were moving the family back to New York; they were leaving by train the next morning. Grandma was heart-broken: she loved her teacher, who apparently very caring with the children, and she was going to miss meeting Buffalo Bill Cody.
At 6 the next morning, Grandma sat on the train as her parents handed the porter their luggage. She was lost in her thoughts when she heard a familiar voice say her name as a hand touched her shoulder.
"Lillian," her teacher said. "I have a very special person who said he wanted to meet my student who was leaving for New York."
Grandma turned to see her teacher, who had gotten up extra early to see her on the train. Beside her teacher was none other than Buffalo Bill Cody himself!
I went back to school the next day. And while I've met many people over the years, some famous, some almost famous, most just ordinary people, I still feel that tea will cure an upset stomach (especially if it's with toast or cookies), that coffee is wonderful, and that both are tied to an occasional quirky story.
At 2 in the afternoon, I wonder if it's okay to put on another pot of coffee...
Monday, December 31, 2012
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Reading
I love to read. Always have. I blame my parents, in a good way. Between bedtime stories, watching both Mom and Dad reading a wide variety of books in their spare time, and receiving books for birthdays, Christmases, and just because, I learned that books were to be explored and enjoyed. A person can learn a lot from books.
It was on one website that I frequent that I learned about another cool site called Goodreads . Maybe you've heard of it. Or not. But on Goodreads, a reader can keep track of books she or he has read, is currently reading, wants to read (oops, must add the Narnia series!), learn about what others are reading, what others feel are must reads and what can be passed on. One can connect with friends on the site and get emails when books (and comments on these books) are added to friends' lists.
At the moment, I'm reading several books, a habit I got into as a kid during summer vacation. Getting home after the last day of school, I'd grab a stack of five books, read the first chapter of the first book, stick in on the bottom of the stack, read the next book's first chapter, then the next book...You get the idea. When I'd finish one book, it would go back on the bookshelf, another stuck into its place, and the reading would go on. By mid-summer, I might be on chapter one in one book, chapter ten in another, five in the third...Drove my mother crazy.
"How do you keep all the stories separate?" she'd ask. Just do, I'd tell her. She'd wander off, sighing, happy, I'm sure, that at least I was reading.
"I wouldn't worry about it," my grandmother told her when she relayed it during one of Grandma's visits. "I used to that all the time." Then, as an afterthought, she added, "I still do." If it was good enough for Grandma...
Two of the books I'm currently working on are Seasons of Real Florida, by Jeff Klinkenberg, and Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake, by Anna Quindlen. Both are interesting reads, similar in some ways, way different in others
Klinkenberg's Seasons..., as with his other books, is a collection of his columns first published in the Tampa Bay Times (formerly the St. Petersburg Times). He introduces the reader to all sorts of interesting characters and Florida locales. His writing makes the reader think that Klink has the perfect job: wander the state, meet cool people, see cool places, and then write about them. Jeff, if you ever decide to retire, please put in a good word for me at the Times!
Quindlen's Lots of Candles... is also a collection of short essays. (She wrote for the New York Times for several years; several of her non-fiction books are collections of some of these essays.) Her essays tend toward her observations on life.
In one of the essays in Lots of Candles..., she mentions being a control freak, to the point of having a local anesthetic when having a hysterectomy. The surgeon, knowing a control freak when she saw one, told Quindlen that she would not be allowed to talk while the surgery was going on. I really had to laugh while reading Quinlen's description of being a control freak, as I've been there. I, too, tend to be a bit of a control freak, as well as a bit of a slob.
An aside: When Paul was alive, he played Felix Unger to my Oscar Madison; we used to joke that if anyone ever did a remake of The Odd Couple using a married couple, we'd be perfect. While I'm not enough of a slob to be on an episode of Hoarders, it's only because I am a control freak. And maybe the two apparent opposites feed into each other: I can never keep my home as neat as my mom used to, or as neat as I'd love to, so why bother? But then the control-freak-ness kicks in and...
There have been times when I've been in my friend Kevin's cab and told him that I wanted to go somewhere, then proceeded to tell him exactly how to get there. Kev will usually give me a look and ask who I think is doing the driving. If I mention wanting to be in control, he'll tell me that I'm simply neurotic. Nothing like having someone know you too well...
Kevin reads a lot, too; over the years, I've noticed numerous books in his cab. (Cab driving does give one down time between calls.) He's recommended several books, and I've told him about several, even handing him a copy of Elie Wiesel's Night, a book he devoured in a day or two before passing it on. (It was an extra copy and I'd told him to pass it along.)
Paul was a reader, too, liking a variety of books from Tom Clancy and mysteries to short stories. But there were several times when I'd buy a book for myself, put it on the table, then not be able to find it later. "Oh, I started reading it," Paul would say. "You really need to read this: it's great!"
We'd discuss books, what we were reading, what stood out in the book, what inspired us for a variety of reasons...
It's a rainy Saturday, the last weekend in the out-going year. I intend to do some house-cleaning (it's that control-freak thing), but I also intend to get royally lost in a couple of books. Will I read about more quirky Floridians? More Quindlen musings? AWOL on the Appalachian Trail on my Kindle? Who knows...maybe all three. It'll drive Mom nuts, but at least she'll take comfort knowing I'm reading!
It was on one website that I frequent that I learned about another cool site called Goodreads . Maybe you've heard of it. Or not. But on Goodreads, a reader can keep track of books she or he has read, is currently reading, wants to read (oops, must add the Narnia series!), learn about what others are reading, what others feel are must reads and what can be passed on. One can connect with friends on the site and get emails when books (and comments on these books) are added to friends' lists.
At the moment, I'm reading several books, a habit I got into as a kid during summer vacation. Getting home after the last day of school, I'd grab a stack of five books, read the first chapter of the first book, stick in on the bottom of the stack, read the next book's first chapter, then the next book...You get the idea. When I'd finish one book, it would go back on the bookshelf, another stuck into its place, and the reading would go on. By mid-summer, I might be on chapter one in one book, chapter ten in another, five in the third...Drove my mother crazy.
"How do you keep all the stories separate?" she'd ask. Just do, I'd tell her. She'd wander off, sighing, happy, I'm sure, that at least I was reading.
"I wouldn't worry about it," my grandmother told her when she relayed it during one of Grandma's visits. "I used to that all the time." Then, as an afterthought, she added, "I still do." If it was good enough for Grandma...
Two of the books I'm currently working on are Seasons of Real Florida, by Jeff Klinkenberg, and Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake, by Anna Quindlen. Both are interesting reads, similar in some ways, way different in others
Klinkenberg's Seasons..., as with his other books, is a collection of his columns first published in the Tampa Bay Times (formerly the St. Petersburg Times). He introduces the reader to all sorts of interesting characters and Florida locales. His writing makes the reader think that Klink has the perfect job: wander the state, meet cool people, see cool places, and then write about them. Jeff, if you ever decide to retire, please put in a good word for me at the Times!
Quindlen's Lots of Candles... is also a collection of short essays. (She wrote for the New York Times for several years; several of her non-fiction books are collections of some of these essays.) Her essays tend toward her observations on life.
In one of the essays in Lots of Candles..., she mentions being a control freak, to the point of having a local anesthetic when having a hysterectomy. The surgeon, knowing a control freak when she saw one, told Quindlen that she would not be allowed to talk while the surgery was going on. I really had to laugh while reading Quinlen's description of being a control freak, as I've been there. I, too, tend to be a bit of a control freak, as well as a bit of a slob.
An aside: When Paul was alive, he played Felix Unger to my Oscar Madison; we used to joke that if anyone ever did a remake of The Odd Couple using a married couple, we'd be perfect. While I'm not enough of a slob to be on an episode of Hoarders, it's only because I am a control freak. And maybe the two apparent opposites feed into each other: I can never keep my home as neat as my mom used to, or as neat as I'd love to, so why bother? But then the control-freak-ness kicks in and...
There have been times when I've been in my friend Kevin's cab and told him that I wanted to go somewhere, then proceeded to tell him exactly how to get there. Kev will usually give me a look and ask who I think is doing the driving. If I mention wanting to be in control, he'll tell me that I'm simply neurotic. Nothing like having someone know you too well...
Kevin reads a lot, too; over the years, I've noticed numerous books in his cab. (Cab driving does give one down time between calls.) He's recommended several books, and I've told him about several, even handing him a copy of Elie Wiesel's Night, a book he devoured in a day or two before passing it on. (It was an extra copy and I'd told him to pass it along.)
Paul was a reader, too, liking a variety of books from Tom Clancy and mysteries to short stories. But there were several times when I'd buy a book for myself, put it on the table, then not be able to find it later. "Oh, I started reading it," Paul would say. "You really need to read this: it's great!"
We'd discuss books, what we were reading, what stood out in the book, what inspired us for a variety of reasons...
It's a rainy Saturday, the last weekend in the out-going year. I intend to do some house-cleaning (it's that control-freak thing), but I also intend to get royally lost in a couple of books. Will I read about more quirky Floridians? More Quindlen musings? AWOL on the Appalachian Trail on my Kindle? Who knows...maybe all three. It'll drive Mom nuts, but at least she'll take comfort knowing I'm reading!
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Christmas Day
Yesterday was Christmas, and I'm okay with that. That might seem like a strange thing to say; how could anyone not be okay with Christmas? (If you've spent your life celebrating Hanukkah instead, or any other winter holidays, I'm not trying to disrespect you; I'm simply writing where I'm coming from and my point of reference. I'd love to read your writings on the subject.)
But being okay with Christmas: You have no idea how long it took me to be able to say that. Sure, as a kid, especially if you've grown up in a middle-class family, as I did, Christmas was great. What wasn't there to love: First off, there were the presents, the extended family, the food, the lights, the whole ambience of Christmas. We may have had two trees, since I do remember seeing a decorated tree in a corner of the living room by our corner windows, and the big tree - the one where we'd find the presents - downstairs in the playroom.
Most years, it seems, we'd go to both sets of grandparents' places, usually one a day or two before Christmas, the other either on Christmas Day for dinner, or a set would come over for Christmas. Both of my parents had one sibling who lived in close proximity so that whichever set didn't have Christmas dinner with us would have a place to go. All very good.
Of course, these days, with family frequently spread across the country, this is a little more difficult. Thank goodness for phones, though it's still not quite the same. Maybe in some respects, that's not always a bad thing; we all have our weird holiday stories.
But then, life changed, evolved. When we moved to Connecticut, it seemed that one year, both sets of grandparents came one year for Christmas, along with my mom's father's brother and his wife. Uncle George and Aunt Elsie were what could be classified as characters, a nice way of saying eccentric, or at least on friendly terms with it. Of course, I'm not really sure if both sets of grandparents came at once, or if my memory is simply condensing several holidays together. Either way, it wouldn't have been more than one Christmas. I do remember standing around the piano in what my mother called the music room, my mother playing Christmas tunes and hymns Christmas Eve and Christmas night, Broadway show tunes the next evening, while everyone stood around, singing.
(An aside that has nothing to do with Christmas: Off the music room was the downstairs bathroom; that almost deserves its own post: the previous owners painted the entire room in various shades of purple and lavender, including a purple sink and toilet. My mother named the room the purple potty, and the name stuck; forty-plus years later, the term still resonates.)
There were more moves: From Thompson to Woodstock, Connecticut, to Pittsford, New York just outside Rochester, and finally to Florida. There are plenty more holiday memories, mostly good.
When I married my ex, my parents weren't exactly thrilled; somehow, I doubt that it was simply his blue-collar roots. But that's neither here nor there. We did have some pleasant memories, interspersed among the rough spots, and we did have four offspring who I'm proud of more often then not; they're finally at that age when we can have semi-intelligent conversations. My second husband was also a blue-collar man with middle-class roots and enough patience to put up with an out-spoken extravert. He and I had good memories, including holidays.
This year, things have been tight, financially. We'd hoped that, since M.H., B., and G. now live nearby, we'd be able to see them for Christmas, as they'd had holidays for the past 15 or so years with family in Rhode Island. But life happens: their car died an unhappy death after they'd moved into their apartment nearby (but still requiring two bus routes, which, on the holiday schedule, is interesting, meaning a much shorter day), they now have a scooter to get around on (really pretty much a one-person deal, even if it does have pegs for a second person to put his or her feet), and M.H. had to work yesterday from shortly after noon until a little after 6. Finances didn't include cab fare to and from either way. You know the old joke that goes "How do you make God laugh? Tell Him your plans"? That's what happened to our first extended family Christmas in years. I could have copped an attitude, but it wouldn't have helped any.
Added to the fun was that our toilet, which has been acting up - but doing better the past few weeks - decided to act up on Christmas Eve day. This year, of course, it fell on a Monday, which means that a lot of places were giving workers a rare four-day weekend. I hated having to call the landlord about it, but also didn't relish the thought of a holiday with a backed-up commode. I'm funny about stuff like that. (And I'm sure you've already inserted something else into that stuff spot.)
The people coming out to fix it arrived just as I was heading out to meet M. at the bus; he had gone out to pick up last minute stuff from the store that we really needed for Christmas dinner and needed help carrying it all home from the bus stop. But J. was here, so that was cool; he could keep Drexie and Karma from making a break for it whenever the door was open.
As M. and I figured out who would carry what from the bus stop, we heard someone shout, "Hey, Robin!" I looked around in time to see Sandy V., J.'s day care lady from years ago. She lives within a mile or two from our place, but somehow, our lives have gotten so crazy that only occasionally see each other, and almost exclusively when we bump into each other. Usually, it's at the nearby Publix when we're shopping.
But she was out for a run in the misty weather. We quickly got caught up on each others' lives. She's married, has three kids, her daughters are now older than she was when we first met, her son older than most of my kids were when we met. Is it really possible that that much time has passed?
After we said our good-byes, Sandy off toward home, M. and I toward our place, I called J. and told him who we'd seen. Then I asked if the people working on the toilet were still there. No, he informed me; they'd plunged it, got it flushing, and left.
It worked fine the rest of the day. Good enough. Then, yesterday morning, I got up, went into the bathroom before starting the coffee and getting to work cooking, and sure enough, the toilet backed up. I plunged it once or twice, but wasn't thrilled.
Several hours later, after I did one load of laundry (when I'm baking and making holiday meals, I go through a ton of dish towels), I heard M. yell that he needed some bath towels NOW from the bathroom. Yup, you guessed it: there was a definite over-flow problem.
After we cleaned up a little and I started another load of laundry (thank goodness for the extra-hot setting on the washer), I called the landlord. When the property manager called back, she sounded as unhappy to be talking to me as I was. Don't get me wrong, she's a nice enough person, and I'm sure that if we were to meet under other circumstances, there's a chance we might talk over coffee. It's doubtful we'd ever be close best buddies - no BFFs here - but she's a nice enough person. But who wants to have to make or receive a call like that on Christmas? If there's one time of year when most of us want our family time, our please leave me alone unless you're calling to wish me a happy holiday time, it's Christmas.
She said it would be taken care of today, not to flush the commode, etc. This was the scenario we'd both hoped to avoid.
(For the record, she's already mentioned this morning that it will be taken care of today. We both were a little more, well, not okay with the situation, but at least not growling over it; at this point, that's an improvement.)
I finished the preliminary baking - two loaves of pumpkin bread, two pumpkin pies, and a cranberry-raisin pie - before starting the stuffing and turkey. Usually, I bake an apple pie, pouring apple cider into it for extra yumminess (yes, that's the technical term: yumminess), but we were a little short on cash this year. But M. and I decided that a cranberry-raisin pie would be a suitable stand-in. Twice in the past, I tried baking all three kinds of pie for holidays, but have since decided that that was a little much. Once I got the turkey into the oven, I washed a few dishes, had a cup of hot tea, then put my shoes on.
Years ago, when I'd already quit driving cab, and Paul was driving for what he knew was his last holiday season driving cab, I'd taken a walk through the nearby park. This particular park is less than a block away; I can see the back entrance to it from my front porch. It has a playground, horse trails through the woods (there are plenty of stables in close proximity), rings for horse shows, and a rec center which doubles as a local voting precinct. Usually, through most of the year, I walk along one of the horse paths along the edge of the park on my way to other paths during my morning walks/runs. But the Thanksgiving before Paul retired, I'd put the turkey in the oven, watched the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade on TV (something my maternal grandmother got me into the habit of doing; it still somehow connects me to her), then went through a walk on the horse trails through the woods. It took close to an hour to walk to the end of the trail and back (or, at least, as far as I'd planned to go). I loved taking the walk enough that I did it again on Christmas. (I've been known to walk it on Easter Sunday, too.)
Since then, I've missed a couple of holidays; Christmas, 2004, it rained; Thanksgiving, 2010, I was still sore and nowhere near up for a walk after a fall from a ladder at roof level onto a cement driveway (something like that takes a bit of a recovery, trust me on that), this past Thanksgiving, M. and I went to M.H., B. and G.'s apartment, and so on. Occasionally, I think, This'll probably be the last time I do this for whatever reason; but almost without fail, the next holiday, I'm back out there. It gives me an excuse to walk a different trail, to see the changes since the last time I walked it, and to just let my mind wander along with my feet. One year, I saw a peacock walking parallel to the path. Several years, M. and J. joined me for the walk.
Quick story: the city put lights along the horse path. The path tends to get dark by late afternoon; the lights turn on automatically, making it easier to see the path. They're tall, with an opaque orb at the top. They remind M. of C. S. Lewis's Narnia series. One year, M. walked with me on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and the following Easter; each time, he'd spend the entire walk telling me about Narnia, discussing whether I should read the books in chronological order or in the order that Lewis had written them. Narnia and the lights in the park are now one of M.'s and my inside jokes. Every holiday, I remind myself that I really want to read the Narnia series - it's one of those books or series I've told myself everyone needs to read, or, at least, I need/want to. And then life gets busy, crazily busy, and Narnia slips my mind, at least until the next holiday walk.
Yesterday, I walked the trail alone, noticing changes: how a stand of trees that I'd enjoyed was slowly disappearing - a stand of off-white trees with slightly peeling bark, trees that stood huddled together like a lost tribe; the newer houses near the park and how the older new houses - ones that were built in the past six or seven years but are older than the newer new houses; the changes to the stable next to the park; in general, letting my mind wander.
Heading back down the trail, a woman riding a horse approached. Usually, by this point in my holiday walk, I've seen maybe half-a-dozen horse-and-riders in several groups; this time, I was beginning to think I wouldn't see any.
"Beautiful day, isn't it?" the rider called, and I agreed. We both wish each other Merry Christmas. Then, as if on cue, the horse nodded, whinnied, and veered a few steps toward me. I'd been around horses as a kid, so it didn't startle me. The woman steered the horse back to its original course.
"Sorry," she told me. "He's just looking for treats." I smiled, and made a mental note to bring carrot pieces on my next holiday walk - after which, I'll start the Narnia series.
By the time I got home, I was in a better mood, one where I could handle stinky bathrooms.
And, in spite of having to work, M.H. apparently had a decent enough Christmas, too.
We still have next year to look forward to.
Note: The path below used to walk through the stand of trees mentioned near the end of this post; enough of the trees have either died or been cleared by the city that the path is no longer there.
But being okay with Christmas: You have no idea how long it took me to be able to say that. Sure, as a kid, especially if you've grown up in a middle-class family, as I did, Christmas was great. What wasn't there to love: First off, there were the presents, the extended family, the food, the lights, the whole ambience of Christmas. We may have had two trees, since I do remember seeing a decorated tree in a corner of the living room by our corner windows, and the big tree - the one where we'd find the presents - downstairs in the playroom.
Most years, it seems, we'd go to both sets of grandparents' places, usually one a day or two before Christmas, the other either on Christmas Day for dinner, or a set would come over for Christmas. Both of my parents had one sibling who lived in close proximity so that whichever set didn't have Christmas dinner with us would have a place to go. All very good.
Of course, these days, with family frequently spread across the country, this is a little more difficult. Thank goodness for phones, though it's still not quite the same. Maybe in some respects, that's not always a bad thing; we all have our weird holiday stories.
But then, life changed, evolved. When we moved to Connecticut, it seemed that one year, both sets of grandparents came one year for Christmas, along with my mom's father's brother and his wife. Uncle George and Aunt Elsie were what could be classified as characters, a nice way of saying eccentric, or at least on friendly terms with it. Of course, I'm not really sure if both sets of grandparents came at once, or if my memory is simply condensing several holidays together. Either way, it wouldn't have been more than one Christmas. I do remember standing around the piano in what my mother called the music room, my mother playing Christmas tunes and hymns Christmas Eve and Christmas night, Broadway show tunes the next evening, while everyone stood around, singing.
(An aside that has nothing to do with Christmas: Off the music room was the downstairs bathroom; that almost deserves its own post: the previous owners painted the entire room in various shades of purple and lavender, including a purple sink and toilet. My mother named the room the purple potty, and the name stuck; forty-plus years later, the term still resonates.)
There were more moves: From Thompson to Woodstock, Connecticut, to Pittsford, New York just outside Rochester, and finally to Florida. There are plenty more holiday memories, mostly good.
When I married my ex, my parents weren't exactly thrilled; somehow, I doubt that it was simply his blue-collar roots. But that's neither here nor there. We did have some pleasant memories, interspersed among the rough spots, and we did have four offspring who I'm proud of more often then not; they're finally at that age when we can have semi-intelligent conversations. My second husband was also a blue-collar man with middle-class roots and enough patience to put up with an out-spoken extravert. He and I had good memories, including holidays.
This year, things have been tight, financially. We'd hoped that, since M.H., B., and G. now live nearby, we'd be able to see them for Christmas, as they'd had holidays for the past 15 or so years with family in Rhode Island. But life happens: their car died an unhappy death after they'd moved into their apartment nearby (but still requiring two bus routes, which, on the holiday schedule, is interesting, meaning a much shorter day), they now have a scooter to get around on (really pretty much a one-person deal, even if it does have pegs for a second person to put his or her feet), and M.H. had to work yesterday from shortly after noon until a little after 6. Finances didn't include cab fare to and from either way. You know the old joke that goes "How do you make God laugh? Tell Him your plans"? That's what happened to our first extended family Christmas in years. I could have copped an attitude, but it wouldn't have helped any.
Added to the fun was that our toilet, which has been acting up - but doing better the past few weeks - decided to act up on Christmas Eve day. This year, of course, it fell on a Monday, which means that a lot of places were giving workers a rare four-day weekend. I hated having to call the landlord about it, but also didn't relish the thought of a holiday with a backed-up commode. I'm funny about stuff like that. (And I'm sure you've already inserted something else into that stuff spot.)
The people coming out to fix it arrived just as I was heading out to meet M. at the bus; he had gone out to pick up last minute stuff from the store that we really needed for Christmas dinner and needed help carrying it all home from the bus stop. But J. was here, so that was cool; he could keep Drexie and Karma from making a break for it whenever the door was open.
As M. and I figured out who would carry what from the bus stop, we heard someone shout, "Hey, Robin!" I looked around in time to see Sandy V., J.'s day care lady from years ago. She lives within a mile or two from our place, but somehow, our lives have gotten so crazy that only occasionally see each other, and almost exclusively when we bump into each other. Usually, it's at the nearby Publix when we're shopping.
But she was out for a run in the misty weather. We quickly got caught up on each others' lives. She's married, has three kids, her daughters are now older than she was when we first met, her son older than most of my kids were when we met. Is it really possible that that much time has passed?
After we said our good-byes, Sandy off toward home, M. and I toward our place, I called J. and told him who we'd seen. Then I asked if the people working on the toilet were still there. No, he informed me; they'd plunged it, got it flushing, and left.
It worked fine the rest of the day. Good enough. Then, yesterday morning, I got up, went into the bathroom before starting the coffee and getting to work cooking, and sure enough, the toilet backed up. I plunged it once or twice, but wasn't thrilled.
Several hours later, after I did one load of laundry (when I'm baking and making holiday meals, I go through a ton of dish towels), I heard M. yell that he needed some bath towels NOW from the bathroom. Yup, you guessed it: there was a definite over-flow problem.
After we cleaned up a little and I started another load of laundry (thank goodness for the extra-hot setting on the washer), I called the landlord. When the property manager called back, she sounded as unhappy to be talking to me as I was. Don't get me wrong, she's a nice enough person, and I'm sure that if we were to meet under other circumstances, there's a chance we might talk over coffee. It's doubtful we'd ever be close best buddies - no BFFs here - but she's a nice enough person. But who wants to have to make or receive a call like that on Christmas? If there's one time of year when most of us want our family time, our please leave me alone unless you're calling to wish me a happy holiday time, it's Christmas.
She said it would be taken care of today, not to flush the commode, etc. This was the scenario we'd both hoped to avoid.
(For the record, she's already mentioned this morning that it will be taken care of today. We both were a little more, well, not okay with the situation, but at least not growling over it; at this point, that's an improvement.)
I finished the preliminary baking - two loaves of pumpkin bread, two pumpkin pies, and a cranberry-raisin pie - before starting the stuffing and turkey. Usually, I bake an apple pie, pouring apple cider into it for extra yumminess (yes, that's the technical term: yumminess), but we were a little short on cash this year. But M. and I decided that a cranberry-raisin pie would be a suitable stand-in. Twice in the past, I tried baking all three kinds of pie for holidays, but have since decided that that was a little much. Once I got the turkey into the oven, I washed a few dishes, had a cup of hot tea, then put my shoes on.
Years ago, when I'd already quit driving cab, and Paul was driving for what he knew was his last holiday season driving cab, I'd taken a walk through the nearby park. This particular park is less than a block away; I can see the back entrance to it from my front porch. It has a playground, horse trails through the woods (there are plenty of stables in close proximity), rings for horse shows, and a rec center which doubles as a local voting precinct. Usually, through most of the year, I walk along one of the horse paths along the edge of the park on my way to other paths during my morning walks/runs. But the Thanksgiving before Paul retired, I'd put the turkey in the oven, watched the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade on TV (something my maternal grandmother got me into the habit of doing; it still somehow connects me to her), then went through a walk on the horse trails through the woods. It took close to an hour to walk to the end of the trail and back (or, at least, as far as I'd planned to go). I loved taking the walk enough that I did it again on Christmas. (I've been known to walk it on Easter Sunday, too.)
Since then, I've missed a couple of holidays; Christmas, 2004, it rained; Thanksgiving, 2010, I was still sore and nowhere near up for a walk after a fall from a ladder at roof level onto a cement driveway (something like that takes a bit of a recovery, trust me on that), this past Thanksgiving, M. and I went to M.H., B. and G.'s apartment, and so on. Occasionally, I think, This'll probably be the last time I do this for whatever reason; but almost without fail, the next holiday, I'm back out there. It gives me an excuse to walk a different trail, to see the changes since the last time I walked it, and to just let my mind wander along with my feet. One year, I saw a peacock walking parallel to the path. Several years, M. and J. joined me for the walk.
Quick story: the city put lights along the horse path. The path tends to get dark by late afternoon; the lights turn on automatically, making it easier to see the path. They're tall, with an opaque orb at the top. They remind M. of C. S. Lewis's Narnia series. One year, M. walked with me on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and the following Easter; each time, he'd spend the entire walk telling me about Narnia, discussing whether I should read the books in chronological order or in the order that Lewis had written them. Narnia and the lights in the park are now one of M.'s and my inside jokes. Every holiday, I remind myself that I really want to read the Narnia series - it's one of those books or series I've told myself everyone needs to read, or, at least, I need/want to. And then life gets busy, crazily busy, and Narnia slips my mind, at least until the next holiday walk.
Yesterday, I walked the trail alone, noticing changes: how a stand of trees that I'd enjoyed was slowly disappearing - a stand of off-white trees with slightly peeling bark, trees that stood huddled together like a lost tribe; the newer houses near the park and how the older new houses - ones that were built in the past six or seven years but are older than the newer new houses; the changes to the stable next to the park; in general, letting my mind wander.
Heading back down the trail, a woman riding a horse approached. Usually, by this point in my holiday walk, I've seen maybe half-a-dozen horse-and-riders in several groups; this time, I was beginning to think I wouldn't see any.
"Beautiful day, isn't it?" the rider called, and I agreed. We both wish each other Merry Christmas. Then, as if on cue, the horse nodded, whinnied, and veered a few steps toward me. I'd been around horses as a kid, so it didn't startle me. The woman steered the horse back to its original course.
"Sorry," she told me. "He's just looking for treats." I smiled, and made a mental note to bring carrot pieces on my next holiday walk - after which, I'll start the Narnia series.
By the time I got home, I was in a better mood, one where I could handle stinky bathrooms.
And, in spite of having to work, M.H. apparently had a decent enough Christmas, too.
We still have next year to look forward to.
Note: The path below used to walk through the stand of trees mentioned near the end of this post; enough of the trees have either died or been cleared by the city that the path is no longer there.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Birthday wishes and children
My daughter came over today; she spent a couple of hours here. I'd called and asked her to come over, since I had a birthday card for her.
I can distinctly remember the day she was born. I'd been told that I wouldn't be able to have any kids after her older brother; there were times when they were growing up when I'm sure they both would have preferred being only children; instead, they were joined by two younger brothers. I tell M.H. that she's my favorite daughter; it helps, if you're going to be the favorite daughter, to be the only daughter. (For the record, she's married to my favorite son-in-law; he has informed me that I'm his favorite mother-in-law. I also have a favorite oldest son, a favorite middle son, and a favorite youngest son.)
Several days before M.H. was born, her father and I put up our Christmas tree and decorated it. The night before she was born, I'd peeled several oranges. I was making homemade orange spice tea to give out for Christmas presents, and it called for the peels of three or four oranges; these were cut into strips, then baked for several minutes, then cut up further and mixed with loose tea, whole cloves, stick cinnamon, and several other things I no longer remember.
After baking the peels, I decided to go to bed; the cloves, cinnamon, et al could be assembled the next morning, then packed to send out.
But M.H. had other plans. Sometime during the night, I woke my then hubby up; he called my mother so she could come take care of J.A., after which, we'd head for the hospital. When Mom showed up, I was puttering around the kitchen, putting the tea kettle onto the stove so I could fix her a cup of tea (obviously not the spice tea, since it would have to wait an extra day to be assembled). She came in, checked to make sure J.A. was asleep (he was), then asked how far apart the contractions were.
"About five minutes apart," was the answer. The hospital was a good half-hour's drive away; five minutes apart meant things were beginning to speed up a little.
"What are you waiting for?" she demanded. I thought it was obvious; she'd always taught me that when someone came over to your home, you fixed that person a cup of tea! The water was almost to a boil, and..."If I want a cup of tea at three a.m., I can fix myself!" she scolded. "Now GO, before you end up having that baby in the car!"
As she pushed me out the door, hubby pulled my arm. "Let's go!"
M.H. was born several hours later. As with most babies, she looked a little like an elfish prize fighter, but a beautiful one. Ask most parents, their newborns are the most beautiful babies in the world.
Two asides here: When M.H. gave birth to G., sometime during the night, B. called from the hospital and left a message on our voice mail. "Hey, Grandma," the message started; you could hear the emotion in B.'s voice. "G.'s here. She's beautiful." When I visited a few weeks later, the man who swore nobody had better come up with any nicknames for G. already had two or three for his little girl.
The second one is from when I was born. Dads were not yet allowed in the delivery room, and Dad didn't have much experience with newborns. He figured I'd look like a two or three month old right from the start, all pink and clean and advertisement-cute. After Mom got back to her room, Dad came in to see her.
"Did you stop by the nursery and see Robin?" mom asked. Dad nodded solemnly. "Well, what do you think? Isn't she beautiful?"
Dad struggled to find the right words. He'd never seen a newborn before. Finally, he managed to spit out the truth, in a round-about way: "I'm sure she'll have a nice personality."
Fortunately, Mom forgave the remark, Dad realized newborns are beautiful in their own way, and things got better. (I hope my personality is at least passable.)
But back to M.H.: She seemed very alert and happy (i.e., she wasn't a screamer), she had a tuft of red hair, and the nurses ooohed and aaahed over her.
That evening, after dinner, hubby and I sat and watched TV, me in the bed, holding M.H., he on the chair nearby. After he left, I watched one of our favorite shows while he watched the same from home ("Starsky and Hutch"). I managed to keep M.H. with me until 10 that night; she slept most of the time she was with me. I only half-watched the TV; I was busy counting tiny fingers and toes, looking at her red hair, remembering how tiny newborns are.
We went home the next day morning, a change from when her brother was born, when we nearly had to stay in the hospital three days (he was four hours shy of the 48 hours of age that babies were required to be before being released). That afternoon, I managed to finish putting the tea together, then let hubby take the presents to the post office to send out.
Now, years later, M.H.'s taller than I am. Fortunately, she's also more organized than I am. She's a mom, wife, sister, sister-in-law, artist...a lot. She does them all well...
Happy Birthday, kiddo.
I can distinctly remember the day she was born. I'd been told that I wouldn't be able to have any kids after her older brother; there were times when they were growing up when I'm sure they both would have preferred being only children; instead, they were joined by two younger brothers. I tell M.H. that she's my favorite daughter; it helps, if you're going to be the favorite daughter, to be the only daughter. (For the record, she's married to my favorite son-in-law; he has informed me that I'm his favorite mother-in-law. I also have a favorite oldest son, a favorite middle son, and a favorite youngest son.)
Several days before M.H. was born, her father and I put up our Christmas tree and decorated it. The night before she was born, I'd peeled several oranges. I was making homemade orange spice tea to give out for Christmas presents, and it called for the peels of three or four oranges; these were cut into strips, then baked for several minutes, then cut up further and mixed with loose tea, whole cloves, stick cinnamon, and several other things I no longer remember.
After baking the peels, I decided to go to bed; the cloves, cinnamon, et al could be assembled the next morning, then packed to send out.
But M.H. had other plans. Sometime during the night, I woke my then hubby up; he called my mother so she could come take care of J.A., after which, we'd head for the hospital. When Mom showed up, I was puttering around the kitchen, putting the tea kettle onto the stove so I could fix her a cup of tea (obviously not the spice tea, since it would have to wait an extra day to be assembled). She came in, checked to make sure J.A. was asleep (he was), then asked how far apart the contractions were.
"About five minutes apart," was the answer. The hospital was a good half-hour's drive away; five minutes apart meant things were beginning to speed up a little.
"What are you waiting for?" she demanded. I thought it was obvious; she'd always taught me that when someone came over to your home, you fixed that person a cup of tea! The water was almost to a boil, and..."If I want a cup of tea at three a.m., I can fix myself!" she scolded. "Now GO, before you end up having that baby in the car!"
As she pushed me out the door, hubby pulled my arm. "Let's go!"
M.H. was born several hours later. As with most babies, she looked a little like an elfish prize fighter, but a beautiful one. Ask most parents, their newborns are the most beautiful babies in the world.
Two asides here: When M.H. gave birth to G., sometime during the night, B. called from the hospital and left a message on our voice mail. "Hey, Grandma," the message started; you could hear the emotion in B.'s voice. "G.'s here. She's beautiful." When I visited a few weeks later, the man who swore nobody had better come up with any nicknames for G. already had two or three for his little girl.
The second one is from when I was born. Dads were not yet allowed in the delivery room, and Dad didn't have much experience with newborns. He figured I'd look like a two or three month old right from the start, all pink and clean and advertisement-cute. After Mom got back to her room, Dad came in to see her.
"Did you stop by the nursery and see Robin?" mom asked. Dad nodded solemnly. "Well, what do you think? Isn't she beautiful?"
Dad struggled to find the right words. He'd never seen a newborn before. Finally, he managed to spit out the truth, in a round-about way: "I'm sure she'll have a nice personality."
Fortunately, Mom forgave the remark, Dad realized newborns are beautiful in their own way, and things got better. (I hope my personality is at least passable.)
But back to M.H.: She seemed very alert and happy (i.e., she wasn't a screamer), she had a tuft of red hair, and the nurses ooohed and aaahed over her.
That evening, after dinner, hubby and I sat and watched TV, me in the bed, holding M.H., he on the chair nearby. After he left, I watched one of our favorite shows while he watched the same from home ("Starsky and Hutch"). I managed to keep M.H. with me until 10 that night; she slept most of the time she was with me. I only half-watched the TV; I was busy counting tiny fingers and toes, looking at her red hair, remembering how tiny newborns are.
We went home the next day morning, a change from when her brother was born, when we nearly had to stay in the hospital three days (he was four hours shy of the 48 hours of age that babies were required to be before being released). That afternoon, I managed to finish putting the tea together, then let hubby take the presents to the post office to send out.
Now, years later, M.H.'s taller than I am. Fortunately, she's also more organized than I am. She's a mom, wife, sister, sister-in-law, artist...a lot. She does them all well...
Happy Birthday, kiddo.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Newtown, Connecticut
On Friday December 14, there was another school shooting, this time in Newtown, Connecticut. News reports say that it is the worst school shooting in history; other reports write that it's the second worst. Either way, twenty-eight people are dead, twenty of them, children.
This is horrifically sad...and crazy. When will this stop?
I know that there are people who say that "guns don't kill people, people kill people." This may be true; people do kill others. And I know that the N.R.A. wants to protect Americans' right to own guns. But really, who the hell needs a semi-automatic .223-caliber Bushmaster rifle, a weapon that msn.com lists as a "lethal rifle originally designed for use in combat," capable of shooting up to six bullets per second. (See article at http://now.msn.com/sandy-hook-shooting-weapon-was-223-caliber-rifle-designed-for-combat ) Apparently, the shooter took this, and the two handguns, from his mother's house, and killed her before going to the school and killing 26 others, then himself. Democracy is about allowing one to have a different point of view from his or her neighbor, as long as you're not hurting, killing, maiming another, so being a member of the N.R.A. is legally allowed. But, really, if one is a member of the N.R.A., how would one ethically defend the right of John Q. Public to own something designed for modern battle? What's next, allowing nuclear warheads?
Okay, that might be far-fetched, but where do we draw the line? And is one's right to own certain weapons more important than the rights of twenty eight people, including twenty children? I think not.
Back to the school: According to Leslie Gunn, an art teacher for Sandy Hook Elementary School for 17 years, "It was a regular day. It was a beautiful day (before the shooting)." (Taken from the Hartford Courant; see article at http://www.courant.com/news/connecticut/hc-newtown-sandy-hook-school-shooting-20121214,0,5043872.story .)
A regular day. A beautiful day. This is frequently how the day is described before all hell breaks loose, whether an attack like the September 11, 2001 attack, or a school shooting.
As a nation, we grieve for the loss of life, especially when it is on a large scale or involves children. This horrible shooting involved both.
If you have children, hug them. Tell them you love them. Let those around you know you care.
And for those in Newtown, Connecticut, a nation cries with you.
This is horrifically sad...and crazy. When will this stop?
I know that there are people who say that "guns don't kill people, people kill people." This may be true; people do kill others. And I know that the N.R.A. wants to protect Americans' right to own guns. But really, who the hell needs a semi-automatic .223-caliber Bushmaster rifle, a weapon that msn.com lists as a "lethal rifle originally designed for use in combat," capable of shooting up to six bullets per second. (See article at http://now.msn.com/sandy-hook-shooting-weapon-was-223-caliber-rifle-designed-for-combat ) Apparently, the shooter took this, and the two handguns, from his mother's house, and killed her before going to the school and killing 26 others, then himself. Democracy is about allowing one to have a different point of view from his or her neighbor, as long as you're not hurting, killing, maiming another, so being a member of the N.R.A. is legally allowed. But, really, if one is a member of the N.R.A., how would one ethically defend the right of John Q. Public to own something designed for modern battle? What's next, allowing nuclear warheads?
Okay, that might be far-fetched, but where do we draw the line? And is one's right to own certain weapons more important than the rights of twenty eight people, including twenty children? I think not.
Back to the school: According to Leslie Gunn, an art teacher for Sandy Hook Elementary School for 17 years, "It was a regular day. It was a beautiful day (before the shooting)." (Taken from the Hartford Courant; see article at http://www.courant.com/news/connecticut/hc-newtown-sandy-hook-school-shooting-20121214,0,5043872.story .)
A regular day. A beautiful day. This is frequently how the day is described before all hell breaks loose, whether an attack like the September 11, 2001 attack, or a school shooting.
As a nation, we grieve for the loss of life, especially when it is on a large scale or involves children. This horrible shooting involved both.
If you have children, hug them. Tell them you love them. Let those around you know you care.
And for those in Newtown, Connecticut, a nation cries with you.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Christmas parades and other memories
Last night, my younger two sons and I went to our city's annual Christmas parade. Pinellas Park was talking up this year's parade, since it was the fortieth year the event had marched down Park Boulevard.
In earlier years, the parade had been held in the morning, usually the second Saturday in December. Our family, in its various changes, would head out, sometimes picking up breakfast at McD's, sometimes picking up something to eat elsewhere. But within the past fifteen years or so, it was switched from mornings to evenings. Maybe it was so that anyone working during the day could make it to the parade, maybe it was so that the holiday lights could be seen along the route. No matter, though; it's still there.
M., J. and I caught a ride to Publix's parking lot with my friend Kevin so that we could cross Park Boulevard at the light at Forty-ninth Street. We usually stop by the Busy Bee Restaurant, a small mom-and-pop place that Paul and I used to frequent, where I'll grab a coffee to go, then head for the Subway restaurant a block away, where we pick up dinner and watch the parade.
This year, when we went into the Bee, we saw several familiar faces. Kelly had come back to work there. Her sister, Jackie, had worked there for years, and had been one of the familiar faces Paul and I looked forward to seeing. While Kelly hadn't worked there nearly as long as Jackie had, it had become a bit of a let-down not to see her after she'd left. We kidded about how the last time she'd worked there, people kept forgetting her name, simply referring to her as Jackie's sister.
We also saw Roxanne, a regular customer at the Bee who'd managed to become a part-time cashier/hostess/coffee-server and confidante of anyone coming into the restaurant. She was having dinner with her granddaughter, and, while we didn't get much of a chance to talk, it was good seeing her, too.
After paying for my coffee, we headed to our usual parade-watching place. While we didn't stay for the whole parade - something we haven't managed to do for several years, now - we did get a laugh at one point: One of the local high school marching bands went by playing Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer; this was done while trying to maintain formation while a rogue golf cart drove through their ranks the wrong way. Grandma may've gotten run over by a reindeer, but that's nothing like getting run over or under by a rogue wrong-way golf cart.
But as we watched the parade, or at least the first hour or so of it, we did talk about Christmas parade memories. There was the garbage-can-marching-band that marched in the parade three or four years in a row. It had been put together by the company in charge of the city's garbage pick up, used shiny new metal garbage cans as drums and metal lids as cymbals, and was led my a high-stepping, high-energy leader intent on strutting his stuff. I might be mistaken, but I doubt you'll see that in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade!
Another memory: The first Christmas that Paul were together - a month after the Thanksgiving where we both stood each other up (Thanksgiving stories and meals; Wednesday, November 21, 2012) - I'd mentioned that I'd be getting a late start driving that day, since I was taking the kids to the Christmas parade.
What time does it start? Paul wanted to know, as well as where we'd planned to watch the parade. He met us there, with an extra coffee for me, and a couple of donuts from the nearby donut shop. We sat in his cab while the kids walked back and forth, meeting Paul for the first time, showing us strands of beads they'd caught from passing floats and marching groups.
The last Christmas Paul was alive, the parade had moved to its present evening hours. Paul wasn't quite up to going, or maybe he simply liked the thought of having a couple of quiet hours during the boisterous holiday season. Whatever. But he knew we'd be at Subway and asked us to bring him back a salad for dinner.
Of course, there are other Christmas memories that have nothing to do with parades.
The last year I drove for the cab company, I'd transferred to being an employee driver for a variety of reasons. At one point, I drove a van to pick up children for a local preschool for disadvantaged kids; the cab company supplied the van and driver for the school.
The drivers - three or four of us, each with a 12-passanger (or larger) van - would leave the yard around 6 a.m., go to the school, where we would pick up an escort; these were usually full-time teachers at the preschool, and their job on the van was to go to each door and get the child or children, strap them into their car seats, and maintain some semblance of control, while the drivers simply drove. We would deposit kids and teacher/escorts to the school in the morning, then pick them back up in the afternoon, drop the kids off again, then redeposit the escorts back to the school so that they could grab their cars and head home.
Right after Thanksgiving, I noticed Christmas decorations cropping up along the route. Several stand out: on the drive to pick up Jim, the escort assigned to my route, in the early morning, I noticed a huge Christmas star. I had driven along Bay Drive in Largo (East Bay becomes West Bay at one point; I got a little of both) until reaching Clearwater-Largo Road, where I'd turn north. One one point, the road drifts to the left a little as it gently dips, and there was a large stand of trees that drivers would see before following the left-and-dip. It was here that the star was visible, a large metal-and-white-Christmas-lights deal atop a pole. Something about seeing the lit star seemed to make the early-morning-start worth it.
There was another Christmas display that we'd have to pass with the van loaded with kids. It was in Clearwater, put up by a group-that-shall-remain-nameless (anyone familiar with Clearwater and South Fort Harrison Avenue may understand why), and involved a large red velvet Santa's chair. I'd mentioned to Jim-the-escort that someone I knew used to pick up furniture put out by the side of the road on garbage day; it was something my kids and I referred to as Early American Curbside. After that, the kids would point to the large Santa's chair and start asking when we'd be able to pick it up and bring it to the school. After all, what could be cooler than taking turns sitting in Santa's chair on a regular basis, right?
On the ride into school, it was still dark enough to see Christmas lights, and we passed many houses where the owners kept the lights on all night. Of course, by the time we'd head back home with the kids, there'd be more lights on. The kids had a game where whoever saw a decorated home or business first would point and yell, "That's my Christmas!", at which point, no one else could claim that Christmas.
One morning, one little girl, Chelsea, lost out on half-a-dozen or so decorations, and this was with only three kids in the van so far! By the time we pulled up to the forth pick-up, she was in tears; she was never, ever going to be able to lay claim to Christmas lights again! As Jim got out of the van, I spotted a lit tree twinkling from the living room of the next house; I also knew Chelsea couldn't see it from where she sat.
"Chelsea, if you take your seat belt off and come here, I'll show you something."
She shook her head; the rule was that once Jim strapped a child into his or her car seat, that child was to stay strapped in until Jim took that child out. Chelsea might've wanted "her Christmas," but she was no fool: she didn't want to get into trouble for undoing her seatbelt.
"Hey, Jim," I called as he approached the front door where he had to pick up a couple of little boys, "Can I let Chelsea out of her car seat for a minute?"
He turned and called back that it was okay. So, carefully, she hopped out of the car seat and came to stand next to where I was sitting. I pointed to the lit Christmas tree and asked, "Do you see that?"
She looked and, after a second or two, her face lit up and she squealed with delight, "That's my Christmas!"
The rest of the ride went better, with Chelsea telling everyone, "I saw my Christmas!"
There are more memories - my kids, grandkids, in-laws, grandparents, Paul, extended family and friends - but, regardless of your faith or religion, whether you celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah, the Solstice, Kwanzaa, Yule, or any other holiday this season, that pretty much sums it up: it is a season of dark, but also a season of hope, joy, memories...
Enjoy the season, y'all!
In earlier years, the parade had been held in the morning, usually the second Saturday in December. Our family, in its various changes, would head out, sometimes picking up breakfast at McD's, sometimes picking up something to eat elsewhere. But within the past fifteen years or so, it was switched from mornings to evenings. Maybe it was so that anyone working during the day could make it to the parade, maybe it was so that the holiday lights could be seen along the route. No matter, though; it's still there.
M., J. and I caught a ride to Publix's parking lot with my friend Kevin so that we could cross Park Boulevard at the light at Forty-ninth Street. We usually stop by the Busy Bee Restaurant, a small mom-and-pop place that Paul and I used to frequent, where I'll grab a coffee to go, then head for the Subway restaurant a block away, where we pick up dinner and watch the parade.
This year, when we went into the Bee, we saw several familiar faces. Kelly had come back to work there. Her sister, Jackie, had worked there for years, and had been one of the familiar faces Paul and I looked forward to seeing. While Kelly hadn't worked there nearly as long as Jackie had, it had become a bit of a let-down not to see her after she'd left. We kidded about how the last time she'd worked there, people kept forgetting her name, simply referring to her as Jackie's sister.
We also saw Roxanne, a regular customer at the Bee who'd managed to become a part-time cashier/hostess/coffee-server and confidante of anyone coming into the restaurant. She was having dinner with her granddaughter, and, while we didn't get much of a chance to talk, it was good seeing her, too.
After paying for my coffee, we headed to our usual parade-watching place. While we didn't stay for the whole parade - something we haven't managed to do for several years, now - we did get a laugh at one point: One of the local high school marching bands went by playing Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer; this was done while trying to maintain formation while a rogue golf cart drove through their ranks the wrong way. Grandma may've gotten run over by a reindeer, but that's nothing like getting run over or under by a rogue wrong-way golf cart.
But as we watched the parade, or at least the first hour or so of it, we did talk about Christmas parade memories. There was the garbage-can-marching-band that marched in the parade three or four years in a row. It had been put together by the company in charge of the city's garbage pick up, used shiny new metal garbage cans as drums and metal lids as cymbals, and was led my a high-stepping, high-energy leader intent on strutting his stuff. I might be mistaken, but I doubt you'll see that in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade!
Another memory: The first Christmas that Paul were together - a month after the Thanksgiving where we both stood each other up (Thanksgiving stories and meals; Wednesday, November 21, 2012) - I'd mentioned that I'd be getting a late start driving that day, since I was taking the kids to the Christmas parade.
What time does it start? Paul wanted to know, as well as where we'd planned to watch the parade. He met us there, with an extra coffee for me, and a couple of donuts from the nearby donut shop. We sat in his cab while the kids walked back and forth, meeting Paul for the first time, showing us strands of beads they'd caught from passing floats and marching groups.
The last Christmas Paul was alive, the parade had moved to its present evening hours. Paul wasn't quite up to going, or maybe he simply liked the thought of having a couple of quiet hours during the boisterous holiday season. Whatever. But he knew we'd be at Subway and asked us to bring him back a salad for dinner.
Of course, there are other Christmas memories that have nothing to do with parades.
The last year I drove for the cab company, I'd transferred to being an employee driver for a variety of reasons. At one point, I drove a van to pick up children for a local preschool for disadvantaged kids; the cab company supplied the van and driver for the school.
The drivers - three or four of us, each with a 12-passanger (or larger) van - would leave the yard around 6 a.m., go to the school, where we would pick up an escort; these were usually full-time teachers at the preschool, and their job on the van was to go to each door and get the child or children, strap them into their car seats, and maintain some semblance of control, while the drivers simply drove. We would deposit kids and teacher/escorts to the school in the morning, then pick them back up in the afternoon, drop the kids off again, then redeposit the escorts back to the school so that they could grab their cars and head home.
Right after Thanksgiving, I noticed Christmas decorations cropping up along the route. Several stand out: on the drive to pick up Jim, the escort assigned to my route, in the early morning, I noticed a huge Christmas star. I had driven along Bay Drive in Largo (East Bay becomes West Bay at one point; I got a little of both) until reaching Clearwater-Largo Road, where I'd turn north. One one point, the road drifts to the left a little as it gently dips, and there was a large stand of trees that drivers would see before following the left-and-dip. It was here that the star was visible, a large metal-and-white-Christmas-lights deal atop a pole. Something about seeing the lit star seemed to make the early-morning-start worth it.
There was another Christmas display that we'd have to pass with the van loaded with kids. It was in Clearwater, put up by a group-that-shall-remain-nameless (anyone familiar with Clearwater and South Fort Harrison Avenue may understand why), and involved a large red velvet Santa's chair. I'd mentioned to Jim-the-escort that someone I knew used to pick up furniture put out by the side of the road on garbage day; it was something my kids and I referred to as Early American Curbside. After that, the kids would point to the large Santa's chair and start asking when we'd be able to pick it up and bring it to the school. After all, what could be cooler than taking turns sitting in Santa's chair on a regular basis, right?
On the ride into school, it was still dark enough to see Christmas lights, and we passed many houses where the owners kept the lights on all night. Of course, by the time we'd head back home with the kids, there'd be more lights on. The kids had a game where whoever saw a decorated home or business first would point and yell, "That's my Christmas!", at which point, no one else could claim that Christmas.
One morning, one little girl, Chelsea, lost out on half-a-dozen or so decorations, and this was with only three kids in the van so far! By the time we pulled up to the forth pick-up, she was in tears; she was never, ever going to be able to lay claim to Christmas lights again! As Jim got out of the van, I spotted a lit tree twinkling from the living room of the next house; I also knew Chelsea couldn't see it from where she sat.
"Chelsea, if you take your seat belt off and come here, I'll show you something."
She shook her head; the rule was that once Jim strapped a child into his or her car seat, that child was to stay strapped in until Jim took that child out. Chelsea might've wanted "her Christmas," but she was no fool: she didn't want to get into trouble for undoing her seatbelt.
"Hey, Jim," I called as he approached the front door where he had to pick up a couple of little boys, "Can I let Chelsea out of her car seat for a minute?"
He turned and called back that it was okay. So, carefully, she hopped out of the car seat and came to stand next to where I was sitting. I pointed to the lit Christmas tree and asked, "Do you see that?"
She looked and, after a second or two, her face lit up and she squealed with delight, "That's my Christmas!"
The rest of the ride went better, with Chelsea telling everyone, "I saw my Christmas!"
There are more memories - my kids, grandkids, in-laws, grandparents, Paul, extended family and friends - but, regardless of your faith or religion, whether you celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah, the Solstice, Kwanzaa, Yule, or any other holiday this season, that pretty much sums it up: it is a season of dark, but also a season of hope, joy, memories...
Enjoy the season, y'all!
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Karma
So Karma's been acting a little off the past few days. In this case, I'm not talking about the cosmic boomerang effect, where "you reap what you sow." Karma Kitty is our five-year-old black cat. He thinks of himself as a panther masquerading as a cat; it's the whole cattitude thing.
But he hasn't been acting quite himself the past few days. I tried to pinpoint it exactly, and kept hoping that it was my neuroses tip-toeing in through the front door. Karma would run full-tilt through the house mid-morning, playing a rousing game of banking-off-the-walls-and-skid-down-the-halls-sideways-tag with his sister Drexie. They love the game, and have been known to include a sideways sweep of the dining room table when they're in full play mode.
But by noon, he wouldn't want to play. Or drink. He'd eat a little of the crunchy food, look at the litter box, then slink off to sleep where he'd be undisturbed. He also looked like he wasn't feeling up to snuff.
So this morning, I called the vet's office. We've been taking pets to the same veterinarians for a little over twenty years. It's been the same two male vets since we started going there and, over the years, an occasional new vet. I can't say enough good about Pinellas Animal Hospital.
Anyway, I knew I'd have to see about paying them next month, but Karmie was sick now. The crazy jabbering monkey keeping up a neurotic monologue in the back of my mind kept telling me, "Nope, doesn't matter how long you've taken pets there, they'll want money now...You might as well hand the cats over and let someone else have them, someone who's rich." Stupid jabbering monkey neurosis, getting me scared...
But when I called and explained what was going on, you know what they said? "Bring him on in. We'll work something out. We know you're not going anywhere." What a relief!
So, I called someone to bring us to the vet's and arranged for someone else to pick us up for the ride home. And then the fun began.
The pet carrier had been recently cleaned and a nice soft bath towel had been placed inside for Karma to lie on before being brought into the living room with the door open. Sometimes, if I do this a little while before we have to go, Karm will wander in and act like it's his cave. Other times, he realizes that he's going for a trip to the vet's office.
This time, it was the latter...and he was having none of it. It took three of us to corral him and get him into the darn thing. You've heard "It's not the size of the cat in the fight, but the size of the fight in the cat"? He may be a 12-pound-and-change cat, but the fight says panther. By the time we got him in there, we needed the box of bandaids.
Within a few minutes of arriving at the vet's, we were in ushered to an exam room. The new tech asked what was going on, then went to pull Karma out of his carrier.
"You might want to grab some gloves," I warned her. Karma's low-throated yowl and hiss reinforced my warning. After gloving up with elbow-length gloves and taking Karm out, the tech weighed Karm, then had the vet come in. Within minutes, Karma, a.k.a. the Great Hissing Yowler, was in the back room for a few tests, after which, he was deposited back with us while the vet awaited the results.
Karm dove for the carrier, which I'd had the foresight to close. No getting in there until we were ready to leave! He literally ran circles around the carrier, occasionally slapping it with a front paw, trying to find an opening, to no avail. So, the G.H.Y. stalked around the room, yowling and hissing his great displeasure, taking an occasional lunge and swipe at arms, legs, whatever was available.
Finally, at one point, he jumped on top of the pet carrier, and promptly peed. The stuff dripped through to the inside of the carrier. I glanced down, then did a double-take: sure enough, when he jumped off the carrier, I saw that there was blood in his urine...and I freaked! Part of me wanted to take the bath towels we had brought from home and wipe off the carrier, but I knew I wanted the vet to see what had happened.
"Why don't they hurry?" I muttered. "What's taking them so long?" M. kept telling me it was going to be alright, but I wasn't buying it.
Finally, the tech came back in. "It'll just be a few more minutes," she said.
But then I pointed to the bloody mess in the carrier. "He just did that. I'm really worried!"
"I don't blame you," she said. "I'll bring this in the back room and show Dr. G. and then clean it up for you."
After an what seemed like an eternity, I was told that the G.H.Y. had cystitis, which apparently is common in cats, especially as they age, especially if they're male. And the bloodly mess apparently is not unheard of.
After loading him up on fluids, antibiotics and a few other meds, they handed me one very indignant cat and a bag of canned cat food.
"He'll need to be on this for a while," Dr. G. told me.
"How long?" I asked. "Forever?"
"Why don't we play it by ear," he said.
Then, making plans to call on Monday and bring him back next week, I spoke with one of the front office people, a woman who is always asking after "the kitties." "Here's the bill, and when you come in next time, just bring in a couple of checks, with the date that you want us to deposit each in the memo line. You know we'll work with you!"
We're home now, Karma loves his new food, used the litter box, and is now resting on the couch.
I might take a little longer to recouperate...
But he hasn't been acting quite himself the past few days. I tried to pinpoint it exactly, and kept hoping that it was my neuroses tip-toeing in through the front door. Karma would run full-tilt through the house mid-morning, playing a rousing game of banking-off-the-walls-and-skid-down-the-halls-sideways-tag with his sister Drexie. They love the game, and have been known to include a sideways sweep of the dining room table when they're in full play mode.
But by noon, he wouldn't want to play. Or drink. He'd eat a little of the crunchy food, look at the litter box, then slink off to sleep where he'd be undisturbed. He also looked like he wasn't feeling up to snuff.
So this morning, I called the vet's office. We've been taking pets to the same veterinarians for a little over twenty years. It's been the same two male vets since we started going there and, over the years, an occasional new vet. I can't say enough good about Pinellas Animal Hospital.
Anyway, I knew I'd have to see about paying them next month, but Karmie was sick now. The crazy jabbering monkey keeping up a neurotic monologue in the back of my mind kept telling me, "Nope, doesn't matter how long you've taken pets there, they'll want money now...You might as well hand the cats over and let someone else have them, someone who's rich." Stupid jabbering monkey neurosis, getting me scared...
But when I called and explained what was going on, you know what they said? "Bring him on in. We'll work something out. We know you're not going anywhere." What a relief!
So, I called someone to bring us to the vet's and arranged for someone else to pick us up for the ride home. And then the fun began.
The pet carrier had been recently cleaned and a nice soft bath towel had been placed inside for Karma to lie on before being brought into the living room with the door open. Sometimes, if I do this a little while before we have to go, Karm will wander in and act like it's his cave. Other times, he realizes that he's going for a trip to the vet's office.
This time, it was the latter...and he was having none of it. It took three of us to corral him and get him into the darn thing. You've heard "It's not the size of the cat in the fight, but the size of the fight in the cat"? He may be a 12-pound-and-change cat, but the fight says panther. By the time we got him in there, we needed the box of bandaids.
Within a few minutes of arriving at the vet's, we were in ushered to an exam room. The new tech asked what was going on, then went to pull Karma out of his carrier.
"You might want to grab some gloves," I warned her. Karma's low-throated yowl and hiss reinforced my warning. After gloving up with elbow-length gloves and taking Karm out, the tech weighed Karm, then had the vet come in. Within minutes, Karma, a.k.a. the Great Hissing Yowler, was in the back room for a few tests, after which, he was deposited back with us while the vet awaited the results.
Karm dove for the carrier, which I'd had the foresight to close. No getting in there until we were ready to leave! He literally ran circles around the carrier, occasionally slapping it with a front paw, trying to find an opening, to no avail. So, the G.H.Y. stalked around the room, yowling and hissing his great displeasure, taking an occasional lunge and swipe at arms, legs, whatever was available.
Finally, at one point, he jumped on top of the pet carrier, and promptly peed. The stuff dripped through to the inside of the carrier. I glanced down, then did a double-take: sure enough, when he jumped off the carrier, I saw that there was blood in his urine...and I freaked! Part of me wanted to take the bath towels we had brought from home and wipe off the carrier, but I knew I wanted the vet to see what had happened.
"Why don't they hurry?" I muttered. "What's taking them so long?" M. kept telling me it was going to be alright, but I wasn't buying it.
Finally, the tech came back in. "It'll just be a few more minutes," she said.
But then I pointed to the bloody mess in the carrier. "He just did that. I'm really worried!"
"I don't blame you," she said. "I'll bring this in the back room and show Dr. G. and then clean it up for you."
After an what seemed like an eternity, I was told that the G.H.Y. had cystitis, which apparently is common in cats, especially as they age, especially if they're male. And the bloodly mess apparently is not unheard of.
After loading him up on fluids, antibiotics and a few other meds, they handed me one very indignant cat and a bag of canned cat food.
"He'll need to be on this for a while," Dr. G. told me.
"How long?" I asked. "Forever?"
"Why don't we play it by ear," he said.
Then, making plans to call on Monday and bring him back next week, I spoke with one of the front office people, a woman who is always asking after "the kitties." "Here's the bill, and when you come in next time, just bring in a couple of checks, with the date that you want us to deposit each in the memo line. You know we'll work with you!"
We're home now, Karma loves his new food, used the litter box, and is now resting on the couch.
I might take a little longer to recouperate...
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