Yesteday was Thanksgiving. I think of it as Paul's and my holiday, of a variety of reasons, some of which I posted several years ago (has it really been nine years? hmmm...). It had to do with my inviting him to Thanksgiving dinner, us both unintentionally standing the other up, joking the following year about having to get married to get a turkey dinner, only to have it be turkey bologna (the person whose benefit we did that for didn't buy what we were saying), then getting four turkeys the Thanksgiving after he died.
There are so many memories when it comes to holidays. But then, that goes along with life in general. Holidays, though, seem to be a condensed version of life, in that everyone who's able to gets together, rather than the occasional one-on-one.
I had originally thought of getting up at five yesterday morning, but then set the alarm for six. (Five a.m. is just too obscene a time to get up, especially to jump right into holiday cooking.) By the time I had the second set of pies in the oven (apple; the first two were pumpkin, which came after baking pumpkin bread), the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade was on. My sons and I watched/listened while they dealt with computers and I worked on the day's dinner.
M. had mentioned that it'd be great to watch the original Miracle on 34th Street right after the parade. We watch it every year, usually in the weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas. But I had given him a copy of it last year for Christmas, and he really wanted to watch it after the parade. No problem.
Part of me had wanted to go for a walk after the parade was over. It has been part of my holiday ritual for years, not only on Thanksgiving, but also Christmas and Easter. I've made mention of the walk several times over the years: near the end of a December 2012 post, a post from this past April, dealing with an Easter walk. This second one had me a little down, as I really didn't want to see how much more of the wooded area had been destroyed. On the other hand, the subtle changes are sometimes good, and usually interesting. But then, I also wasn't sure when my daughter and granddaughter would be here. I knew when I'd told them dinner would be close to ready, but I didn't want to leave, in case they came early, and wanted to do something else, like, say going to the beach, as we did last year.
But in the end, I didn't go for a walk. I might, sometime this weekend.
M.H. and G. arrived shortly before five. Dinner still had a little ways to go (not long, but enough...) and while stuff was cooking, G. and I talked while she helped peel potatoes and M.H. worked on homework for school. (She's back in college while working, something I'd done years earlier.)
When dinner was finally ready, everyone ate too much (what else is new, right?), and we talked, and basically had an enjoyable time.
After dinner, as I started clearing the table, M.H. started doing the dishes. At first, I thought she was only going to do a few, but the next thing I knew, the only thing left was the roaster pan, which was left to soak in the sink. Everything else had been cleaned!
After my daughter and granddaughter left, I thought about the first Thanksgiving they were back in Florida. So much has changed over the years.
No matter the holiday, there are always memories for all of us, I thought, as I got out the boxes of Christmas cards to start addressing (another tradition - starting the cards on Thanksgiving evening). Hope your day was good...
Showing posts with label Paul. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Paul. Show all posts
Friday, November 29, 2019
Wednesday, October 9, 2019
The More Things Change...
I've been doing a bit of thinking lately about how much things change, and not just the little things, either. October does that for me, puts me in a reminiscent-type frame of mind.
As far as the big/little things are, what might be a little thing to one person can be a big thing for someone else. If you don't see someone for a while, it might (or might not) be a big thing. But if that person has died, it's definitely a much bigger thing for that person, and his or her family. I'm thinking my friend Kevin. While I hadn't seen or spoken with him in several years, and while it might have been a small thing in the grand scheme of the world, it was still sort-of a big thing for us (my family and me), and definitely a much bigger thing for him and what's left of his family.
There were reasons we hadn't spoken for a while, but that's neither here nor there. I figured we had known each other for several decades. He's also the very last person I knew from when we both drove cab whom I had had even the slightest contact with, so with his death, it's like an entire chapter of my life is closed.
My sons and I have lived in the same house in what seems like forever. While some of the neighbors are the same ones who lived in the neighborhood when we moved in, the majority have moved. I can point to a house, and remember that the guy who drove a race car on the local circuit and worked on the car on weekends lived there, then sold the house to S. and C., who had their twins while they lived there, who then sold it to B., who...Well, you get the idea. And while some of the change, no matter how minor, is understandable and do-able, some of it can be almost disconcerting.
I used to walk/run for years. It's easy enough exercise: you put on your shorts and a t-shirt, sneakers, and head out the door, work up a sweat, then come home and get on with your day. I even blogged about it for a while.
I'm trying to get back into it, though I haven't done it near as much as I used to. When one hasn't exercised for a while, it takes time to ease back into.
For a while, my walks included bringing Osha along. (I've posted about Osha here in the past, including "A Tail of Two Cats (and a Dog and another Cat.") She was a sweetheart; it was tough when she passed.
Osha
When I wasn't walking Osha, I'd pass by a nearby stable and house on maybe 10 acres or so of land. For a while, there were quite a few horses stabled there. Then, slowly, the numbers dwindled until there was only one horse, a graying old mare named Smoky.
She would frequently be grazing in the middle of one field. One morning, I brought along a carrot, and managed to get her to come over to the fence, where she received the carrot for her troubles.
"Don't forget to bring a carrot for the horse," Paul would tell me when I'd start lacing up the sneakers. It even got to the point where Paul would ask if we had carrots whenever we'd go to the store.
Finally, the stable started filling up with horses, which made the scenery nicer during my run. (Smoky was still the only horse who got carrots, though.)
Maybe two years ago, I noticed there were no longer any horses at the stable. Smoky had died, according to one of the old men who worked at the stable. And then, the house started looking rough. The city bought it when the renter could no longer afford it, and the owner couldn't sell it. The house got demolished and slowly, the stable started falling apart. It was a little disheartening.
Another change, though I've posted it here once or twice: Paul has passed, as have numerous family members.
Paul
A friend rented our spare room for a short while, years before he quit driving cab, before his health took a dive. Family members were here, then moved; jobs, gotten and lost; scenery changes.
Thank goodness for memories...
As far as the big/little things are, what might be a little thing to one person can be a big thing for someone else. If you don't see someone for a while, it might (or might not) be a big thing. But if that person has died, it's definitely a much bigger thing for that person, and his or her family. I'm thinking my friend Kevin. While I hadn't seen or spoken with him in several years, and while it might have been a small thing in the grand scheme of the world, it was still sort-of a big thing for us (my family and me), and definitely a much bigger thing for him and what's left of his family.
There were reasons we hadn't spoken for a while, but that's neither here nor there. I figured we had known each other for several decades. He's also the very last person I knew from when we both drove cab whom I had had even the slightest contact with, so with his death, it's like an entire chapter of my life is closed.
My sons and I have lived in the same house in what seems like forever. While some of the neighbors are the same ones who lived in the neighborhood when we moved in, the majority have moved. I can point to a house, and remember that the guy who drove a race car on the local circuit and worked on the car on weekends lived there, then sold the house to S. and C., who had their twins while they lived there, who then sold it to B., who...Well, you get the idea. And while some of the change, no matter how minor, is understandable and do-able, some of it can be almost disconcerting.
I used to walk/run for years. It's easy enough exercise: you put on your shorts and a t-shirt, sneakers, and head out the door, work up a sweat, then come home and get on with your day. I even blogged about it for a while.
I'm trying to get back into it, though I haven't done it near as much as I used to. When one hasn't exercised for a while, it takes time to ease back into.
For a while, my walks included bringing Osha along. (I've posted about Osha here in the past, including "A Tail of Two Cats (and a Dog and another Cat.") She was a sweetheart; it was tough when she passed.
Osha
When I wasn't walking Osha, I'd pass by a nearby stable and house on maybe 10 acres or so of land. For a while, there were quite a few horses stabled there. Then, slowly, the numbers dwindled until there was only one horse, a graying old mare named Smoky.
She would frequently be grazing in the middle of one field. One morning, I brought along a carrot, and managed to get her to come over to the fence, where she received the carrot for her troubles.
"Don't forget to bring a carrot for the horse," Paul would tell me when I'd start lacing up the sneakers. It even got to the point where Paul would ask if we had carrots whenever we'd go to the store.
Finally, the stable started filling up with horses, which made the scenery nicer during my run. (Smoky was still the only horse who got carrots, though.)
Maybe two years ago, I noticed there were no longer any horses at the stable. Smoky had died, according to one of the old men who worked at the stable. And then, the house started looking rough. The city bought it when the renter could no longer afford it, and the owner couldn't sell it. The house got demolished and slowly, the stable started falling apart. It was a little disheartening.
Another change, though I've posted it here once or twice: Paul has passed, as have numerous family members.
Paul
A friend rented our spare room for a short while, years before he quit driving cab, before his health took a dive. Family members were here, then moved; jobs, gotten and lost; scenery changes.
Thank goodness for memories...
Saturday, October 24, 2015
October Can Be a Little Tricky...
October has been a little rough the past few years.
Mind you, it hasn't been that way. But if you've read most of the posts in this blog, one from exactly three years ago (October 24, 2012; "Octobers Haven't Always Been Rough..."), you might remember that Octobers have been a little dicey over the past few years.
I still like October, for the most part: My birthday falls in October, as does Halloween; the weather starts to cool off a little (even in Florida - or maybe it just feels that way, since the heavy humidity of summer is gone); the holidays are right around the corner. Also, the local Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure happens at the beginning of the month, which is almost always a positive event, held with a party-ish flair. Good stuff.
But then there's the flip side: Nine years ago today, my late husband died. He's thought he'd never marry again after losing his previous wife to breast cancer. (This partly figures into why I started walking/running the first year the Tampa Bay Race for the Cure was held; that year, it was in April, with the subsequent races being held in October. Also, my dad - yes, my dad - was a breast cancer survivor, later losing his life to prostate cancer.) I had also sworn that I'd never get married. As I used to tell Kevin the cabbie, "If Mr. Right ever shows up, he'll have a heck of a time getting my attention!"
But when I first met Paul, I had a strange feeling we'd be seeing a lot more of each other. We married a little more than two years later. And then he died. We'd been married 3 weeks shy of our ninth anniversary. October 3 of this year, I'd officially been widowed exactly as long as we'd been married. That kind-of does a slight number on one's equilibrium.
Paul at Sawgrass Lake Park
So I took this month one day at a time. It was still a bit of a roller coaster month. On the third, my daughter, M.H., drove me to do the Race for the Cure. This year, it was held at night - not the best time of day for me (my night vision isn't the best). It was the first race since having a fairly major medical issue this past spring. On the way there, M.H. stated that she'd wait for me. Then, seeing the festivities, she decided to participate; I think she enjoyed it as much as I did, even if I did run out of steam before we crossed the finish line.
The next day, we went to Pinot's Palette in St. Petersburg (Fla). That day's class was a bit Van Gogh, with the Tardis from Dr. Who. Several hours later, we left with our paintings. Did we have a good time? Ooooh, yeah. Very relaxing, a lot of fun, and something to add a little color to our walls.
Today, we went drove to the University of South Florida St. Pete (USFSP), where the Tampa Bay Times Festival of Reading was being held. Only stayed for a little while, took some photos (which will be posted later), then came home. It was a much needed break and diversion.
One more week until October is over - along with passing out candy on Halloween. It may be do-able.
Mind you, it hasn't been that way. But if you've read most of the posts in this blog, one from exactly three years ago (October 24, 2012; "Octobers Haven't Always Been Rough..."), you might remember that Octobers have been a little dicey over the past few years.
I still like October, for the most part: My birthday falls in October, as does Halloween; the weather starts to cool off a little (even in Florida - or maybe it just feels that way, since the heavy humidity of summer is gone); the holidays are right around the corner. Also, the local Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure happens at the beginning of the month, which is almost always a positive event, held with a party-ish flair. Good stuff.
But then there's the flip side: Nine years ago today, my late husband died. He's thought he'd never marry again after losing his previous wife to breast cancer. (This partly figures into why I started walking/running the first year the Tampa Bay Race for the Cure was held; that year, it was in April, with the subsequent races being held in October. Also, my dad - yes, my dad - was a breast cancer survivor, later losing his life to prostate cancer.) I had also sworn that I'd never get married. As I used to tell Kevin the cabbie, "If Mr. Right ever shows up, he'll have a heck of a time getting my attention!"
But when I first met Paul, I had a strange feeling we'd be seeing a lot more of each other. We married a little more than two years later. And then he died. We'd been married 3 weeks shy of our ninth anniversary. October 3 of this year, I'd officially been widowed exactly as long as we'd been married. That kind-of does a slight number on one's equilibrium.
Paul at Sawgrass Lake Park
So I took this month one day at a time. It was still a bit of a roller coaster month. On the third, my daughter, M.H., drove me to do the Race for the Cure. This year, it was held at night - not the best time of day for me (my night vision isn't the best). It was the first race since having a fairly major medical issue this past spring. On the way there, M.H. stated that she'd wait for me. Then, seeing the festivities, she decided to participate; I think she enjoyed it as much as I did, even if I did run out of steam before we crossed the finish line.
The next day, we went to Pinot's Palette in St. Petersburg (Fla). That day's class was a bit Van Gogh, with the Tardis from Dr. Who. Several hours later, we left with our paintings. Did we have a good time? Ooooh, yeah. Very relaxing, a lot of fun, and something to add a little color to our walls.
Today, we went drove to the University of South Florida St. Pete (USFSP), where the Tampa Bay Times Festival of Reading was being held. Only stayed for a little while, took some photos (which will be posted later), then came home. It was a much needed break and diversion.
One more week until October is over - along with passing out candy on Halloween. It may be do-able.
Friday, November 1, 2013
Halloween, or Someone Save Me From All This Chocolate!
I'm glad that October is over. I wish October was still here. I know that may sound a little strange, but there are times when most of us feel that way, the wanting time to fly while standing still.
October had been one of my favorite months since forever for a variety of reasons: it is the first full fall month; my birthday is in October, as are my granddaughter's and my youngest niece's; Halloween is in October, which with its passing kicks the holiday season into gear; the weather cools, the days shorten. What's not to like? And yet, it's the same month when my late husband, Paul, died. So the ambivalence is understandable.
Last night, I sat on the front porch, waiting for trick-or-treaters. The first couple of kids showed up shortly after we'd finished dinner. After handing a couple of candy bars, I grabbed the bowl of candy and headed for the porch.
It took a little while for more kids to arrive. While I waited, I watched the kids playing across the street. Apparently, a bunch of parents had decided it would be more fun for everyone - adults, kids - if several families' worth of parents brought all the kids around trick-or-treating. There were times when several families in our last neighborhood did that when my kids were young enough to go out collecting candy. Parents would catch up for a good hour or two in the relaxed way that most of us usually didn't have time for in our hurried lives while our kids had a blast.
As a few more parents wandered into the neighbors' house, as their kids played in the front yard. It was kind-of a peaceful thing, waiting on the porch to see who'd show up, seeing the kids running around the yard across the street as they shrieked in anticipation of Halloween! and all it entails.
Slowly, the sky above their house changed color. There was one brilliantly deep-but-bright blue streak showing behind the branches of the huge oak in their yard; between the blue and the horizon were several shades of orange and red, ranging from pastel orange, through a shade best described as that of a Creamsicle, through red-orange on to deep red. Soon, the colors shifted so that the sky almost looked bruised. That streak of brilliant blue remained until just before the families across the street headed out at dark.
The first place the group headed was directly across the street to see what goodies I was passing out.
"Hey, Robin," our neighbor, H.G., said. "How's it going?"
"Okay," I told her. "How about you?"
"Not bad," she smiled.
The group wandered off, heading south, no doubt hitting up other houses throughout the neighborhood.
Later, the lady next door called over. She, too, was out on her porch, passing out candy. "Any idea what's going on at the park?" R. asked. The back entrance to one of the city's larger parks is only a few houses away from us. It's close enough that it takes me all of a minute to get there. We could see the lights on at the park. While the city's website had mentioned a family-style Halloween gathering at a large field near the city's main fire station, replete with candy for the kids, I'd seen nothing about anything going on at our neighborhood park.
For the next couple of hours, R. and I passed out candy, getting a kick out of different groups of trick-or-treaters, commenting back and forth between bursts of vampires and princesses.
At one point, my son M. mentioned that someone had called but he hadn't gotten to the phone in time. After dialing voicemail, I listened as an automated voice reminded me of my doctor's appointment on Monday. It was funny in that 1) the doctor's office had called around noon to reschedule the appointment to next month, and 2) it was probably 8:00 p.m. while I was outside, passing out Halloween candy. Definitely one of those That's the crazy part of automation for you moments. Then, not five minutes later, the phone rang again. It was a fund-raiser, seeing if I'd donate to..."Nope, not now," I told the fund-raiser.
"But it's for a good cause!" he told me.
"Put me on your Do Not Call list," I said, then hung up as another group came up the sidewalk.
Finally, candy gone, R. called out her good-night and I called back. I watched as the group across the street wandered home. And finally, I wandered in, turning off the front porch light.
This morning, I noticed that H.G. had posted pictures of the kids trading candy on the living room floor. The years my kids did that - "I'll trade you all my Snickers for you Now-And-Laters!" "Okay!" - were years ago. And my sister and brother and me doing that are but a dream.
But as long as there are kids who love candy and dressing up, and parents willing to take their kids around, and neighbors willing to see what kind of cool costumes the kids are wearing while passing out candy, Halloween will remain part of our culture.
I'll still think of it as the beginning of the holiday season.
October had been one of my favorite months since forever for a variety of reasons: it is the first full fall month; my birthday is in October, as are my granddaughter's and my youngest niece's; Halloween is in October, which with its passing kicks the holiday season into gear; the weather cools, the days shorten. What's not to like? And yet, it's the same month when my late husband, Paul, died. So the ambivalence is understandable.
Last night, I sat on the front porch, waiting for trick-or-treaters. The first couple of kids showed up shortly after we'd finished dinner. After handing a couple of candy bars, I grabbed the bowl of candy and headed for the porch.
It took a little while for more kids to arrive. While I waited, I watched the kids playing across the street. Apparently, a bunch of parents had decided it would be more fun for everyone - adults, kids - if several families' worth of parents brought all the kids around trick-or-treating. There were times when several families in our last neighborhood did that when my kids were young enough to go out collecting candy. Parents would catch up for a good hour or two in the relaxed way that most of us usually didn't have time for in our hurried lives while our kids had a blast.
As a few more parents wandered into the neighbors' house, as their kids played in the front yard. It was kind-of a peaceful thing, waiting on the porch to see who'd show up, seeing the kids running around the yard across the street as they shrieked in anticipation of Halloween! and all it entails.
Slowly, the sky above their house changed color. There was one brilliantly deep-but-bright blue streak showing behind the branches of the huge oak in their yard; between the blue and the horizon were several shades of orange and red, ranging from pastel orange, through a shade best described as that of a Creamsicle, through red-orange on to deep red. Soon, the colors shifted so that the sky almost looked bruised. That streak of brilliant blue remained until just before the families across the street headed out at dark.
The first place the group headed was directly across the street to see what goodies I was passing out.
"Hey, Robin," our neighbor, H.G., said. "How's it going?"
"Okay," I told her. "How about you?"
"Not bad," she smiled.
The group wandered off, heading south, no doubt hitting up other houses throughout the neighborhood.
Later, the lady next door called over. She, too, was out on her porch, passing out candy. "Any idea what's going on at the park?" R. asked. The back entrance to one of the city's larger parks is only a few houses away from us. It's close enough that it takes me all of a minute to get there. We could see the lights on at the park. While the city's website had mentioned a family-style Halloween gathering at a large field near the city's main fire station, replete with candy for the kids, I'd seen nothing about anything going on at our neighborhood park.
For the next couple of hours, R. and I passed out candy, getting a kick out of different groups of trick-or-treaters, commenting back and forth between bursts of vampires and princesses.
At one point, my son M. mentioned that someone had called but he hadn't gotten to the phone in time. After dialing voicemail, I listened as an automated voice reminded me of my doctor's appointment on Monday. It was funny in that 1) the doctor's office had called around noon to reschedule the appointment to next month, and 2) it was probably 8:00 p.m. while I was outside, passing out Halloween candy. Definitely one of those That's the crazy part of automation for you moments. Then, not five minutes later, the phone rang again. It was a fund-raiser, seeing if I'd donate to..."Nope, not now," I told the fund-raiser.
"But it's for a good cause!" he told me.
"Put me on your Do Not Call list," I said, then hung up as another group came up the sidewalk.
Finally, candy gone, R. called out her good-night and I called back. I watched as the group across the street wandered home. And finally, I wandered in, turning off the front porch light.
This morning, I noticed that H.G. had posted pictures of the kids trading candy on the living room floor. The years my kids did that - "I'll trade you all my Snickers for you Now-And-Laters!" "Okay!" - were years ago. And my sister and brother and me doing that are but a dream.
But as long as there are kids who love candy and dressing up, and parents willing to take their kids around, and neighbors willing to see what kind of cool costumes the kids are wearing while passing out candy, Halloween will remain part of our culture.
I'll still think of it as the beginning of the holiday season.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Another Saturday, spent goofing off
It's Saturday afternoon, an absolutely gorgeous day, and yet, it's happened again: I got absolutely nothing of consequence done around the house.
It never seems to fail. I get to the end of the week and part-way through Friday, I make note of all the cleaning I want to get done around the house over the weekend. This usually starts on Friday, since that's when I try to clean the bathroom, change sheets, do a ton of laundry, and by the time I get that much done, it's like Okay, I might as well get a start on cleaning.
Realistically, there are two problems with this whole cleaning-the-house-on-Friday-and-Saturday train of thought: my organizational skills, and getting overwhelmed.
First off, I'm not exactly organized. Disorganized would be a more appropriate assessment of my skills. Granted, I'm nowhere near being in the running to end up on A&E's Hoarders, and I'm more organized than I used to be. Most of the dining room table top can be seen and used (it's brown; just push those two or three books over there), no one is going to trip over stuff on the way from the front door through the house (don't look over into that corner, though), and the kitchen floor and counters are scrubbed on a semi-regular basis. But let's just say that I'm as organized as I am graceful.
Quick anecdote: When Paul was alive - a man who'd been a Marine, and was organized enough to prove it - we were the perfect Odd Couple: We may not have been as far apart as Felix and Oscar, but those who saw us in action, especially at home, were sometimes willing to point out that if ever someone did a remake of Neil Simon's comedy with a male and female couple, we might have a shot. I'd come home, place something on the table.
"Is that where that goes?" Paul would ask.
"No," I'd answer. "I'll put it away later." Then I'd get ready to fix both of us some ice tea.
"How about putting it away now," he'd insist. At this point, I'd sigh, roll my eyes ("Oh, can it!" he'd tell me) and head back to the dining room table to put whatever away. We were definitely yin and yang.
Then there's the whole getting overwhelmed aspect of this plan. The house needs to be tidied. So, I'm make a list, which invariably will read, "1. Clean Table. 2. Living/dining room. 3. kitchen..." and so on throughout the house. Nothing specific, such as thinking, "This weekend, I'll tackle the living room, next weekend, the kitchen..." and then breaking it down to manageable tasks: Vacuum. Dust. Organize bookshelves. Nope, gonna clean that sucker stem-to-stern,-top-to-bottom...
By now, it's time to fix another cup of coffee and read the paper while getting myself psyched up. After all, I'll have to put the paper in the recycling bin while cleaning...And the next thing I know, it's Saturday afternoon.
I do have a perfectly good reason for not getting everything done today. M. and J. both decided to get either a touch of the flu or a very bad cold. J. got it first, and for a day or two, sounded like he was going to hock up a lung. Then M. got it. I should be thankful that they didn't sound like Harvey Fierstein this time. Last year, they both ended up with whatever they're getting over, but with a touch of laryngitis that caused them both to sound like the actor/playwright. Especially M. One evening, I came down the hall to start dinner, and could have sworn they were listening to Mrs. Doubtfire: he kept repeating one of Fierstein's lines when he's talking on the phone with his mother ("B*!%h. Not you, Ma, the dog.") and sounding exactly like him. It was funny the first couple of times. Let's just say that I was glad when his voice went back to normal.
But this time, they managed to spread the joy and germs to me. While they'd been walking around feeling pretty stinky and thinking (at least the first day) that the ER might not be bad, then starting to recover, I spiked a fever and got hit harder. Yes, I know, I'm years and years older than they are, and the older we get, the harder it hits us, the longer it takes, et cetera. But considering that I was taking antibiotics for a bacterial ear infection while fighting off this nasty virus (which, of course, as a virus sits there and laughs long and loud at antibiotics) left me feeling like doo-doo. I spent two days napping more than not before pulling a Lazarus and starting to walk around and doing things - like washing the dishes.
Today, my daughter M.H. stopped by, dropped off a couple of things, then headed home to get ready for work. I put the stuff away, ate the second container of soup she'd dropped off a couple of days ago, looked through an Avon book that my rep had dropped off (if anyone in mid-county needs Avon, let me know; I'll pass your number along to her), and basically vegged out.
Now, as I wait for M. to get home from work with a bottle of ginger ale that he's picked up, I can look around at the house and know a few things: There's always next weekend. I needed the recovery day. I managed to update my blog. And much as I love a certain actor/playwright, I don't sound like Harvey Fierstein; his voice sounds much better on him than it would on a middle-aged woman.
It never seems to fail. I get to the end of the week and part-way through Friday, I make note of all the cleaning I want to get done around the house over the weekend. This usually starts on Friday, since that's when I try to clean the bathroom, change sheets, do a ton of laundry, and by the time I get that much done, it's like Okay, I might as well get a start on cleaning.
Realistically, there are two problems with this whole cleaning-the-house-on-Friday-and-Saturday train of thought: my organizational skills, and getting overwhelmed.
First off, I'm not exactly organized. Disorganized would be a more appropriate assessment of my skills. Granted, I'm nowhere near being in the running to end up on A&E's Hoarders, and I'm more organized than I used to be. Most of the dining room table top can be seen and used (it's brown; just push those two or three books over there), no one is going to trip over stuff on the way from the front door through the house (don't look over into that corner, though), and the kitchen floor and counters are scrubbed on a semi-regular basis. But let's just say that I'm as organized as I am graceful.
Quick anecdote: When Paul was alive - a man who'd been a Marine, and was organized enough to prove it - we were the perfect Odd Couple: We may not have been as far apart as Felix and Oscar, but those who saw us in action, especially at home, were sometimes willing to point out that if ever someone did a remake of Neil Simon's comedy with a male and female couple, we might have a shot. I'd come home, place something on the table.
"Is that where that goes?" Paul would ask.
"No," I'd answer. "I'll put it away later." Then I'd get ready to fix both of us some ice tea.
"How about putting it away now," he'd insist. At this point, I'd sigh, roll my eyes ("Oh, can it!" he'd tell me) and head back to the dining room table to put whatever away. We were definitely yin and yang.
Then there's the whole getting overwhelmed aspect of this plan. The house needs to be tidied. So, I'm make a list, which invariably will read, "1. Clean Table. 2. Living/dining room. 3. kitchen..." and so on throughout the house. Nothing specific, such as thinking, "This weekend, I'll tackle the living room, next weekend, the kitchen..." and then breaking it down to manageable tasks: Vacuum. Dust. Organize bookshelves. Nope, gonna clean that sucker stem-to-stern,-top-to-bottom...
By now, it's time to fix another cup of coffee and read the paper while getting myself psyched up. After all, I'll have to put the paper in the recycling bin while cleaning...And the next thing I know, it's Saturday afternoon.
I do have a perfectly good reason for not getting everything done today. M. and J. both decided to get either a touch of the flu or a very bad cold. J. got it first, and for a day or two, sounded like he was going to hock up a lung. Then M. got it. I should be thankful that they didn't sound like Harvey Fierstein this time. Last year, they both ended up with whatever they're getting over, but with a touch of laryngitis that caused them both to sound like the actor/playwright. Especially M. One evening, I came down the hall to start dinner, and could have sworn they were listening to Mrs. Doubtfire: he kept repeating one of Fierstein's lines when he's talking on the phone with his mother ("B*!%h. Not you, Ma, the dog.") and sounding exactly like him. It was funny the first couple of times. Let's just say that I was glad when his voice went back to normal.
But this time, they managed to spread the joy and germs to me. While they'd been walking around feeling pretty stinky and thinking (at least the first day) that the ER might not be bad, then starting to recover, I spiked a fever and got hit harder. Yes, I know, I'm years and years older than they are, and the older we get, the harder it hits us, the longer it takes, et cetera. But considering that I was taking antibiotics for a bacterial ear infection while fighting off this nasty virus (which, of course, as a virus sits there and laughs long and loud at antibiotics) left me feeling like doo-doo. I spent two days napping more than not before pulling a Lazarus and starting to walk around and doing things - like washing the dishes.
Today, my daughter M.H. stopped by, dropped off a couple of things, then headed home to get ready for work. I put the stuff away, ate the second container of soup she'd dropped off a couple of days ago, looked through an Avon book that my rep had dropped off (if anyone in mid-county needs Avon, let me know; I'll pass your number along to her), and basically vegged out.
Now, as I wait for M. to get home from work with a bottle of ginger ale that he's picked up, I can look around at the house and know a few things: There's always next weekend. I needed the recovery day. I managed to update my blog. And much as I love a certain actor/playwright, I don't sound like Harvey Fierstein; his voice sounds much better on him than it would on a middle-aged woman.
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, November 21, 2012
Thanksgiving stories and meals
Whether you're a Christian, Jewish, Muslim, B'nai, atheist, chances are you have holiday memories. Most of us have them, and, if we've been exceptionally lucky, most of those holiday memories are good.
A few of mine deal with having my grandparents on either side coming to our house, opening presents (at Christmas), and large meals involving turkeys and/or ham, depending on which set of grandparents were coming over. In one house, when we lived in Connecticut, there was a music room (it was a large Colonial house), where we'd all gather to sing holiday music while Mom played the piano. Very Norman Rockwell-esque.
Now, I'm sure that things weren't always wonderful - someone would have too much to drink, this relative wasn't talking with that one - but we tend to forget those less-than-stellar memories, or, if we remember them, gloss them over into something bordering on amusing.
Once I moved out on my own, the memories changed. Better? Just different. There was the first Thanksgiving that my ex- and I spent together without going to either set of paretns' homes. Although I'd fixed mashed potatoes before, the potatoes that year never quite cooked enough to mash, yet somehow managed to burn. Thank goodness, the cooking skills improved...
There are several Thanksgivings that stand out...
My ex- used to tell me that cooking a large holiday meal was a waste of time and energy; his mom used to settle on meatloaf and a dozen deviled eggs. "How about meatloaf?" he'd ask.
For Thanksgiving? Christmas? I'd think. It was what we might have for Sunday dinner, not holidays.
"I'd be happy with just a dozen deviled eggs."
Deviled eggs ended up on the menu, but they accompanied the turkey, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, rutabags, peas-with-pearl-onions, and pies; they weren't the main dish.
Yet every year, we'd hear that "I'd be happy with just a dozen deviled eggs."
After we split up, I invited him for a holiday meal. When he showed up, I handed him - yup, you guessed it - a plate with a dozen deviled eggs.
"But I smell turkey and apple pie!"
Aren't you the one who said...? Finally, I let him off the hook; yes, he'd get the turkey, et al, if he didn't mind sharing the eggs, The eggs may've been hard-boiled, but that didn't mean I had to be.
Later, after my ex- passed away too young, I met my future second husband. Thanksgiving was coming, and I invited him for dinner, as well as one or two other co-workers (we drove for a local cab company at the time), and several relatives.
The deal was that Paul would stop by around 4:00. Around quarter til, I realized I'd forgotten something at the store and told my oldest son that I was running out to pick it up; would he please keep an eye out for an older gentleman who, I hoped, would be stopping by?
"Sure, not a problem."
I left J.A. chopping up the rutabaga in the kitchen.
But Paul drove by while I was out, didn't see my cab, and kept going. I heard dispatch talk to him once while I was heading back to the house, but didn't tell dispatch to tell Paul to stop by; I figured he simply would. And the driver I really didn't care about did show up, after we'd eaten, and I'd dropped J.A. back at home in the Ybor section of Tampa.
The next morning, when I went to cash out, Marsha - one of the cashiers - asked, "What's this I hear about you standing someone up?" That's when I learned that Paul had driven by while I was out; he thought I'd stood him up, while I thought he stood me up.
I offered to bring him some turkey, but by that time, it was too late. He also wouldn't come for Christmas dinner.
By the next year, we were married. We kidded that it was funny that we had to get married to insure that he get a home-cooked Thanksgiving dinner. We also planned how things would go when we cashed out the next day.
Friday morning, as we wandered into the office and saw that Marsha wasn't busy, we started in.
"You promised that if we got married, I could have a turkey dinner," Paul said loudly. "Instead, you handed me a stupid bologna sandwich!"
"It was turkey bologna!" I shot back.
"Can it, you two!" Marsha said. "I'm not buying it!" Busted!
Years later, Paul died in October, three weeks shy of our anniversary.
The first week in November, when I went grocery shopping, I picked up a turkey. I wasn't sure I was up to Thanksgiving, but I figured my sons deserved a dinner (and one with more than a dozen deviled eggs). Besides, Thanksgiving had been Paul's and my holiday.
A few days later, a friend - who happened to be my oldest son's mother-in-law - called from Tennesse. "A friend of mine is going to be calling you in a little while. Her name is C___, and when she calls, just accept what she's doing and thank her."
Sure enough, C___ called maybe fifteen minutes after I got off the phone with Linda. "Just wanted to let you know I found out from J.A. which Publix you shop at, so I ordered a complete Thanksgiving dinner for you and the boys. Comes with corn bread stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, green beans, an apple pie and a pumpkin pie. It's already paid for so you can't say no. Just pick it up after 3:00 p.m. the day before Thanksgiving."
After hanging up, I got to thinking. The turkey I'd already bought would stay frozen until Christmas.
A few days later, I was on the phone when J. informed me that the next door neighbors were walking up the sidewalk pulling their year-old twins in a wagon.
That's nice, I said.
"They're carrying a large box," J. said. I was curious, but stayed on the phone. "They're coming up to the house!"
That got my attention, so I cut the phone call short and went to the door. Turns out, we were being handed a third turkey and all the trimmings! After thanking the neighbors, I set about putting the extra turkey and trimmings away.
Then, about three hours later, another neighbor came by with her mom...who was handing us - you guessed it - turkey number four!
Now the freezer needed to be repacked to accomodate three frozen turkeys (the one to be picked up the day before would be pre-cooked).
The next morning, I called my friend Kevin so I could head to the store. On the way there, I told him about the four turkeys. He kept giving me these weird sideways glances.
Finally, as we waited at a traffic light, he informed me, "I'm glad you told me about this now instead of later." Turned out the $5 I was about to hand him for the ride to the store would have been enough to allow him to buy a complete turkey dinner from Publix, to be picked up the day before Thanksgiving.
"No, please don't," I told him. I also told him that, while I really appreciated the gesture, five turkeys were definitely a little much.
I'm sure Paul was looking down at this, smiling, and thinking that it sure beat a bologna sandwich and deviled eggs...
A few of mine deal with having my grandparents on either side coming to our house, opening presents (at Christmas), and large meals involving turkeys and/or ham, depending on which set of grandparents were coming over. In one house, when we lived in Connecticut, there was a music room (it was a large Colonial house), where we'd all gather to sing holiday music while Mom played the piano. Very Norman Rockwell-esque.
Now, I'm sure that things weren't always wonderful - someone would have too much to drink, this relative wasn't talking with that one - but we tend to forget those less-than-stellar memories, or, if we remember them, gloss them over into something bordering on amusing.
Once I moved out on my own, the memories changed. Better? Just different. There was the first Thanksgiving that my ex- and I spent together without going to either set of paretns' homes. Although I'd fixed mashed potatoes before, the potatoes that year never quite cooked enough to mash, yet somehow managed to burn. Thank goodness, the cooking skills improved...
There are several Thanksgivings that stand out...
My ex- used to tell me that cooking a large holiday meal was a waste of time and energy; his mom used to settle on meatloaf and a dozen deviled eggs. "How about meatloaf?" he'd ask.
For Thanksgiving? Christmas? I'd think. It was what we might have for Sunday dinner, not holidays.
"I'd be happy with just a dozen deviled eggs."
Deviled eggs ended up on the menu, but they accompanied the turkey, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, rutabags, peas-with-pearl-onions, and pies; they weren't the main dish.
Yet every year, we'd hear that "I'd be happy with just a dozen deviled eggs."
After we split up, I invited him for a holiday meal. When he showed up, I handed him - yup, you guessed it - a plate with a dozen deviled eggs.
"But I smell turkey and apple pie!"
Aren't you the one who said...? Finally, I let him off the hook; yes, he'd get the turkey, et al, if he didn't mind sharing the eggs, The eggs may've been hard-boiled, but that didn't mean I had to be.
Later, after my ex- passed away too young, I met my future second husband. Thanksgiving was coming, and I invited him for dinner, as well as one or two other co-workers (we drove for a local cab company at the time), and several relatives.
The deal was that Paul would stop by around 4:00. Around quarter til, I realized I'd forgotten something at the store and told my oldest son that I was running out to pick it up; would he please keep an eye out for an older gentleman who, I hoped, would be stopping by?
"Sure, not a problem."
I left J.A. chopping up the rutabaga in the kitchen.
But Paul drove by while I was out, didn't see my cab, and kept going. I heard dispatch talk to him once while I was heading back to the house, but didn't tell dispatch to tell Paul to stop by; I figured he simply would. And the driver I really didn't care about did show up, after we'd eaten, and I'd dropped J.A. back at home in the Ybor section of Tampa.
The next morning, when I went to cash out, Marsha - one of the cashiers - asked, "What's this I hear about you standing someone up?" That's when I learned that Paul had driven by while I was out; he thought I'd stood him up, while I thought he stood me up.
I offered to bring him some turkey, but by that time, it was too late. He also wouldn't come for Christmas dinner.
By the next year, we were married. We kidded that it was funny that we had to get married to insure that he get a home-cooked Thanksgiving dinner. We also planned how things would go when we cashed out the next day.
Friday morning, as we wandered into the office and saw that Marsha wasn't busy, we started in.
"You promised that if we got married, I could have a turkey dinner," Paul said loudly. "Instead, you handed me a stupid bologna sandwich!"
"It was turkey bologna!" I shot back.
"Can it, you two!" Marsha said. "I'm not buying it!" Busted!
Years later, Paul died in October, three weeks shy of our anniversary.
The first week in November, when I went grocery shopping, I picked up a turkey. I wasn't sure I was up to Thanksgiving, but I figured my sons deserved a dinner (and one with more than a dozen deviled eggs). Besides, Thanksgiving had been Paul's and my holiday.
A few days later, a friend - who happened to be my oldest son's mother-in-law - called from Tennesse. "A friend of mine is going to be calling you in a little while. Her name is C___, and when she calls, just accept what she's doing and thank her."
Sure enough, C___ called maybe fifteen minutes after I got off the phone with Linda. "Just wanted to let you know I found out from J.A. which Publix you shop at, so I ordered a complete Thanksgiving dinner for you and the boys. Comes with corn bread stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, green beans, an apple pie and a pumpkin pie. It's already paid for so you can't say no. Just pick it up after 3:00 p.m. the day before Thanksgiving."
After hanging up, I got to thinking. The turkey I'd already bought would stay frozen until Christmas.
A few days later, I was on the phone when J. informed me that the next door neighbors were walking up the sidewalk pulling their year-old twins in a wagon.
That's nice, I said.
"They're carrying a large box," J. said. I was curious, but stayed on the phone. "They're coming up to the house!"
That got my attention, so I cut the phone call short and went to the door. Turns out, we were being handed a third turkey and all the trimmings! After thanking the neighbors, I set about putting the extra turkey and trimmings away.
Then, about three hours later, another neighbor came by with her mom...who was handing us - you guessed it - turkey number four!
Now the freezer needed to be repacked to accomodate three frozen turkeys (the one to be picked up the day before would be pre-cooked).
The next morning, I called my friend Kevin so I could head to the store. On the way there, I told him about the four turkeys. He kept giving me these weird sideways glances.
Finally, as we waited at a traffic light, he informed me, "I'm glad you told me about this now instead of later." Turned out the $5 I was about to hand him for the ride to the store would have been enough to allow him to buy a complete turkey dinner from Publix, to be picked up the day before Thanksgiving.
"No, please don't," I told him. I also told him that, while I really appreciated the gesture, five turkeys were definitely a little much.
I'm sure Paul was looking down at this, smiling, and thinking that it sure beat a bologna sandwich and deviled eggs...
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