Okay, we're more than one-third of the way through the year, and I'm just now writing my second post of the year (at least for Life in the Left-Hand Lane). No excuses, just that life happens.
We're half-way through May, which, here in Florida, means only a few weeks until the start of hurricane season. Next week, NOAA is scheduled to announce this year's hurricane outlook. With any luck, it won't be too hectic.
The Tampa Bay area of Florida has had numerous close calls over the years, but very few direct hits. There was the 1921 Tampa Bay hurricane (otherwise known as the 1921 Tarpon Springs hurricane) that hit Tarpon Springs on October 25, 1921 as a Category 3 hurricane. According to Wikipedia, "It was the first major hurricane to make landfall in the Tampa Bay area since the hurricane of 1848 and the last to date."
There's also an article from The New York Times (September 27, 2022; "A Major Hurricane Has Not Hit Tampa for Over 100 Years") that states, "The 1921 storm, the most destructive to hit the Tampa area since 1848, was so powerful that it wrecked coastal structures for miles and smashed ships against docks after pulling them off their moorings. Most of the eight deaths attributed to the storm were drownings caused by extra water pushed toward shore, the Weather Service said in a 2013 video."
In 2004, my neighbors and I had four close calls with hurricanes over six weekends to deal with ("4 hurricanes in 6 weeks? It happened to one state in 2004."). Fortunately, the Tampa Bay area was spared - again.
Years ago, I had heard that there were forces protecting the Tampa Bay area from storms, left over from ancient Native American blessings. According to WFLA (the NBC affiliate in Tampa), "Local legend has it that mounds built by the Tocobaga tribe hundreds of years ago, protected the area from major storms for centuries. ...Some locals claim the tribe blessed the mounds for protection from hurricanes and other hazards, but we have yet to confirm the validity of their story." ("Are supernatural forces protecting Tampa Bay from hurricanes? Probably not.") It's as good an explanation as any; maybe not exactly scientific, but it does make one wonder every time we have a near miss that decides at the last minute to head elsewhere.
Several years ago, Hurricane Irma passed close to Tampa Bay. It wasn't a direct hit, fortunately, but it did get plenty of attention. Pinellas County's bus system, Pinellas Suncoast Transit Authority (PSTA) had buses halted for a couple of days, as well as their paratransit system for disabled people. Cabs were next to impossible to get hold of, since many people (including, I suppose, cab drivers) left the area for higher ground. It was a crazy time.
We had family staying with us at the time (my daughter and grand-). My daughter (M.H.) wanted to head out of the area, but as we listened to newscasts, we realized that that was not the best idea: the traffic on the I-275, as well as other roads, was horrendous; gas stations were running out of gas from so many motorists fleeing the area. I had visions of them stranded on the side of the road, out of gas, miles from the nearest exit (with gas stations). Not a good scenario.
Then there's the fact that hurricanes have a tendency to change course. To paraphrase Yogi Berra, when tracking a hurricane, It ain't over 'til it hits.
Since M.H. and G.H. were staying with us, and we have a huge oak tree in our front yard, with a semi-rotten branch directly over the driveway, we decided to find a parking garage for their car. Finding one in downtown St. Pete at the reasonable rate of $20 for the duration of the storm, M.H. and G.H. headed out to park their car. I'd managed to get one of the neighbors to drive me to the parking garage to then pick the two up. (This same neighbor just happened to have enough plywood to board up our windows, since he no longer needed them. Talk about help!)
My grand- (G.H.) was hoping to get at least something memorable from Irma. Having lived in Rhode Island for much of his life, G.H. had had snow days from school, but had never experienced a hurricane.
"Maybe we'll get to be without power for a while," he said. He also hoped for some minor damage; nothing life-threatening, mind you, but something exciting to report to his cousins and other grandma up north.
I was working at the local newspaper at the time, and, as the storm approached, discovered that most of us would be getting paid days off until it was deemed safe to come back in. (Paid days off, of course, are almost always a nice thing!) M.H. was also getting paid time off, as well as my son, M.
The night Irma approached, we had grown tired of the non-stop hurricane updates on T.V., and ended up putting a movie on the blu-ray player. There are times when movies can be a blessed distraction; this was one of those times.
The movie ended right around midnight. We popped the movie from the blu-ray player, turned that and the T.V., and, a minute later, lost power.
"Wow, cool!" G.H. said. "I wonder how long the power'll be off!"
"Who knows," was the response.
Slowly, everyone drifted off to their rooms, since obviously, there wasn't much we could do in the dark. I think we may have left the dining room light switch on, so that if the power came back on during the night, there's be no guessing. I do know that the front and back porch lights were left on. (More on that in a minute.)
The next morning, I managed to wake up before anyone else was awake. I did notice a sliver of daylight between one of the boards over my windows and the frame, so I figured it was okay to get up. I dashed in to take a shower, and discovered that we still had some warm water in the water heater. Yay! (I've never been a fan of cold showers.)
Then, to the kitchen. Of course, the coffee maker wasn't working; the power was still off.
But wait...still some hot water in the water heater. Using a clean mug, I managed to dump enough hot water through the coffee filter to end up with a pot of coffee, which M.H. found amazing when she wandered into the kitchen a few minutes later.
We spend the morning cleaning up yard debris from the large tree. The neighbors, of course, were all doing the same thing, all of us mentioning that, all things considered, was nothing to worry about. No one's house was damaged in our neighborhood, and only a couple of families had sections of fence knocked over.
After several hours, G.H. asked when the power would come back on, as he was so over not having power. Cell phones can't be charged up; neither can game systems. No T.V., no ice for sodas...Well, you get the idea.
At one point, M.H. wanted to pick up her car, so the neighbor drove us to the garage to pick it up. The neighbor and I took a little more time getting back to the house than M.H. did, as we were trying to see if any convenience store had anything to eat that didn't require power. Alas, it was not to be, and we headed home.
As we pulled into the driveway, I told the neighbor, "Geez, I guess I forgot to turn off the porch light this morning," then realized what I'd just said. The neighbor had power, too. In fact, the power came on just as we pulled into the driveway. All up and down the street, we could hear neighbors cheering the return of the lights.
For the record, G.H. did get to tell his other grandma about surviving the hurricane.
Okay, fast forward to 2022, and a close call with Hurricane Ian.
Several days before Ian, one of my sons, J., wandered out of his room and asked if the lights in the living room had flickered.
"Nope."
He guessed maybe the light in his room was about to go out.
But then, literally half the house went dark. No kitchen lights, no lights in the utility room, etc, but the rest of the house stayed lit.
I called Duke Energy, which figured out that the underground cable supplying 220 voltage to the house had shorted out.
Fortunately, they were able to get someone with a generator out (it was almost 11 at night), and get us up and running, with the promise of replacing the underground cable that week.
But before anyone could come out to replace the cable, Hurricane Ian came close to us. Thank goodness, it wasn't a direct hit. That said, about half the neighborhood ended up in the dark. Most people had their power back on in 24 hours or so.
Us? We lost power Wednesday, and didn't get it back on until Saturday night. The texts I kept getting from Duke Energy assured us we'd have power on "no later than midnight, Saturday."
Over the next couple of days, I kept calling, hoping that they'd be able to get us hooked back up sooner. I ended up having to throw out the food in our refrigerator and freezer. M.H. stopped by several times with fresh coffee. (Yay.)
Finally, at 9:30 P.M. Saturday, I began to wonder if we'd actually have power that evening. It was hot in the house (no power meant no A.C.). We were all a little grumpy.
Around 10:15, M. went to bed. I figured I'd stay up a little later.
As I got ready to shut the living room curtains, I saw A POWER TRUCK in front of our house, getting ready to get our power back on.
I explained to the workers about the underground cable. After checking the transformer out back, they acknowledge that it was, indeed, the cable that was a problem.
"The bad news is we don't have that kind of cable on our truck," one of the men told me. "The good news is that we do have it at the staging area, 30 minutes away."
"So, you will be able to get it tonight?" I asked.
Yes, half an hour to get to where the cable was, half an hour back, no problem. The cable was replaced (above ground, as it was dark out), and we had power by 11:43 P.M. Saturday night: seventeen minutes to spare before the midnight deadline.
Last year, Hurricane Idalia danced around, threatening the area, but leaving us alone.
I hope we don't have to deal with a hurricane that starts with an I. The darn things just don't play fair.
And no, I don't figure on moving any time soon. No matter where ya live, it's always something...
Wednesday, May 15, 2024
Tuesday, March 5, 2024
Going to the Florida Antiquarian Book Fair
No Longer M.I.A.
I know, I know...I've been Missing in Action for a while. I meant to post on and off last year (and, actually, since In Praise of Libraries, posted in August of 2022). But somehow, time sort-of slipped away, and it was another week, another month...Yeah, like that never happens, right?
So, last year here was crazy, ending with a family member's trip to the E.R. on Christmas Eve afternoon, which was a Sunday. We got there at 3:00 PM, I had to go searching for a 24-hour pharmacy around 6:30 (since most pharmacies close here at six on Sunday, and would not reopen until Tuesday), he came home after 8:00 PM. Yeah, that was fun. Suffice it to say, quite of bit of last year was along the same fun roller coaster ride.
So, fast forward to now. This past Saturday, my son M. and I went to the Florida Antiquarian Book Fair. We try to go every year, usually on Saturday. It's held from Friday through Sunday; Friday's hours are mostly late afternoon and early evening, and Sundays just don't work for us. So Saturdays are it.
Coliseum
As far as I know, it's always been held at the St. Petersburg, Florida's Coliseum. If you've ever been there, especially inside, you probably know that it's kind-of cool in an off-beat sort-of way. It also made it into the movie Cocoon (the scene where the old couples are dancing). If you've never been there, the strands of lights hanging from the ceiling (which are seen in the movie) are there year 'round.
This year's book fair, showing the lights and some of the crowd
Coliseum, from the 2015 Antiquarian Book Fair, showing the lights
This year, after paying for our tickets just inside and going into the main room, we drifted toward the left. Two bookstores that show there every year are among our favorites: Glover's Bookery from Lexington, Kentucky, and Lighthouse Books, now located in Dade City, Florida (formerly from St. Petersburg).
It seems that every year, M. finds several old editions of different sci fi magazines at Glover's, and tries to decide which ones to get; this year, he snagged two Astounding Magazines, one from 1936, the other from 1938. (Yeah, he goes for that sort of stuff.) I helped him find the boxes of pulp magazines and read off a few covers until he found what he wanted.
Next, we drifted towards Lighthouse Books. We used to stop by the store periodically when it was still located in St. Pete. The pictures of the new Dade City store looks like it was a good move for Michael, the owner. M. and I both got a chance to talk with Michael for a few minutes, and he acknowledged that he and the store are doing well in their new location. (Hint: If you're ever in Dade City, Florida, check out Lighthouse Books. Good people, good vibes, etc.
Glover's Bookery's stall. The crates with the pulp magazines where M. found the Astounding Magazines are directly under the picture of Ernest Hemingway.
The entrance to Lighthouse Books' stall, taken from Glover's Bookery. Lighthouse Books' owner, Michael, can be partially seen through the crate slats holding Hemingway up.
M. and I wandered around on our own for a while before meeting back up at the food court. After a snack, and hitting up the restroom (an art deco-ish room), we wandered a little more before our ride showed up.
While I didn't buy any books this year, I have in the past. But all told, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.
Back in Time Books
Other shots
I know, I know...I've been Missing in Action for a while. I meant to post on and off last year (and, actually, since In Praise of Libraries, posted in August of 2022). But somehow, time sort-of slipped away, and it was another week, another month...Yeah, like that never happens, right?
So, last year here was crazy, ending with a family member's trip to the E.R. on Christmas Eve afternoon, which was a Sunday. We got there at 3:00 PM, I had to go searching for a 24-hour pharmacy around 6:30 (since most pharmacies close here at six on Sunday, and would not reopen until Tuesday), he came home after 8:00 PM. Yeah, that was fun. Suffice it to say, quite of bit of last year was along the same fun roller coaster ride.
So, fast forward to now. This past Saturday, my son M. and I went to the Florida Antiquarian Book Fair. We try to go every year, usually on Saturday. It's held from Friday through Sunday; Friday's hours are mostly late afternoon and early evening, and Sundays just don't work for us. So Saturdays are it.
Coliseum
As far as I know, it's always been held at the St. Petersburg, Florida's Coliseum. If you've ever been there, especially inside, you probably know that it's kind-of cool in an off-beat sort-of way. It also made it into the movie Cocoon (the scene where the old couples are dancing). If you've never been there, the strands of lights hanging from the ceiling (which are seen in the movie) are there year 'round.
This year's book fair, showing the lights and some of the crowd
Coliseum, from the 2015 Antiquarian Book Fair, showing the lights
This year, after paying for our tickets just inside and going into the main room, we drifted toward the left. Two bookstores that show there every year are among our favorites: Glover's Bookery from Lexington, Kentucky, and Lighthouse Books, now located in Dade City, Florida (formerly from St. Petersburg).
It seems that every year, M. finds several old editions of different sci fi magazines at Glover's, and tries to decide which ones to get; this year, he snagged two Astounding Magazines, one from 1936, the other from 1938. (Yeah, he goes for that sort of stuff.) I helped him find the boxes of pulp magazines and read off a few covers until he found what he wanted.
Next, we drifted towards Lighthouse Books. We used to stop by the store periodically when it was still located in St. Pete. The pictures of the new Dade City store looks like it was a good move for Michael, the owner. M. and I both got a chance to talk with Michael for a few minutes, and he acknowledged that he and the store are doing well in their new location. (Hint: If you're ever in Dade City, Florida, check out Lighthouse Books. Good people, good vibes, etc.
Glover's Bookery's stall. The crates with the pulp magazines where M. found the Astounding Magazines are directly under the picture of Ernest Hemingway.
The entrance to Lighthouse Books' stall, taken from Glover's Bookery. Lighthouse Books' owner, Michael, can be partially seen through the crate slats holding Hemingway up.
M. and I wandered around on our own for a while before meeting back up at the food court. After a snack, and hitting up the restroom (an art deco-ish room), we wandered a little more before our ride showed up.
While I didn't buy any books this year, I have in the past. But all told, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.
Back in Time Books
Other shots
Monday, August 29, 2022
In Praise of Libraries
I have had an affinity for libraries ever since I can remember. There's something special, an almost reverance, about them, in a happy, chaotic way.
My first memories of libraries were from elemenary school in New York (state, not city). Every week, we had certain days for different activities: art, music, and the library. On library day, we had 30 to 45 minutes to look through the books and choose one or two to bring home for the next week. Just think: being a child who has an adult telling us when to get up, what to eat, when to go to bed, but being able to pick our own book to enjoy for the next week or two. Is that great? You bet it is!
I'm sure that there was a public library in Yorktown, where I lived during my elementary school years, but I really don't remember it. But I do remember the school library fondly, devouring book after book.
The summer after fraduating elementary school, we moved to a small town in Connecticut, tucked in the northeast corner. It was an older two story house on two acres of land, and with a library within walking distance. The old library building now houses a local historical museum, with a larger library in another part of town, no longer within walking distance of our old house, at least judging from what I've found online.
When we lived in Thompson, my sister and I would head for the library, sometimes with our younger brother in tow.
During the school year, there was plenty of time spent in the research room, doing homework, looking up stuff for reports, and more.
Summertime, though, the library held events for kids, making reading fun, with parties and prizes, depending on how many books we had read over the summer. It was not uncommon for groups of kids comparing notes on which books were worth a read.
The only down side of the library, at the time (mid- to late-1960s) was that the library closed at noon on Saturdays, and didn't reopen until Monday morning. Dad and I would run errands Saturday mornings. Usually, around 11:15, I'd start asking the time, and Dad knew what I wanted, and would try to hurry. I'm not sure how often we'd get home by 11:45, and I'd run as fast as my legs would carry me to get to the library, find a book or two, and check them out before the noon closing.
After three years, we moved to the next town over, and discovered the Woodstock library. The only bad thing was that it wasn't in walking distance.
Fast forward to Florida. The city I now live in (with part of my family) has upgraded their public library at least four or five times since I moved here.
During one upgrade, when my kids were young, our lives were undergoing some upheavals. The one constant that we looked forward to was our weekly trips to the library. Every Wednesday, we'd head out after dinner, and hang out there until its 8:30 closing, then swing through McDonald's for ice cream cones.
It was during this upgrade that I discovered Gloria Naylor's The Women of Brewster Place, along with several other goodies, while the kids made their own reading memories.
During another renovation, this one from the late 1990s to the beginning of 2001, the library building underwent a total overhaul. But, of course, the city leaders knew that they didn't want to deprive the citizens of a library; books, staff, everything and everyone were temporarily moved to the lower level of a nearby mall. During this shift, with stacks of fiction, non-fiction, children's books, and research areas all jumbled around, everyone searching for their favorite books, it was impossible not to stumble across new books and authors we might have otherwise overlooked.
It was during one of these mall-library trips that I discovered Anne Lamott's amazing and wonderful book Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith. Until then, I'd never heard of Anne Lamott; now, I've got the better part of a shelf full of her books.
Note: Traveling Mercies is followed by Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith and Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith. These are filled with essays by a left-wing Christian writer; her writings are totally relatable.
One of my sons and I still try to get to the library at least once a week, where we pick up a couple of books, movies on DVD and blue-ray, CDS, and more. We both have great memories of libraries, and are making more great library memories.
But why, exactly, are libraries so important? Sure, you can borrow books, and in many libraries now, movies, audio books, music CDs, and more, thus saving you money. I've heard that some libraries even have a line at the end of the reciept for when the books are due back that reads, "You saved (this much money) borrowing materials this year."
But there's so much more...so many reasons libraries are important. In her book Grace (Eventually), Anne Lamott has a piece titled "Steinbeck Country." In this piece, she mentions that California's governor at the time had planned to close several public libraries in Salinas. This, of course, did not set well with the reading (and writing) public; the protests helped pursuade the higher-ups to keep the libraries open.
Many libraries have after-school programs for kids so that they have a safe place to hang out, and even get help with homework. This is especially important for kids whose parents work and who worry about kids heading home to an empty house.
There are computers with internet; this is useful for those who can't afford a computer (including those who can't afford to get a computer fixed), and who need to go online for job searches, online classes, or to simply keep in touch via email.
Another plus is a variety of informal classes to enrich the community. The local library where I live - the Barbara S. Ponce Public Library, in Pinellas Park, Florida - offers American Sign Language classes, as well as an upcoming financial wellness class, reading time for kids, afternoon movies, computer classes, and more.
During tax season, AARP has tax preparers helping people file their taxes free of charge at several of the libraries in Pinellas County, Florida; I imagine they offer this service at other libraries, too.
There are plenty of homeless people in the area; the library offers a safe, air conditioned place to hang out during the day, where they have access to computers (job searches, housing searches, etc).
Sure, there are books one can borrow at the library. But it is so much more. A town without a library is not a place I would want to live.
My first memories of libraries were from elemenary school in New York (state, not city). Every week, we had certain days for different activities: art, music, and the library. On library day, we had 30 to 45 minutes to look through the books and choose one or two to bring home for the next week. Just think: being a child who has an adult telling us when to get up, what to eat, when to go to bed, but being able to pick our own book to enjoy for the next week or two. Is that great? You bet it is!
I'm sure that there was a public library in Yorktown, where I lived during my elementary school years, but I really don't remember it. But I do remember the school library fondly, devouring book after book.
The summer after fraduating elementary school, we moved to a small town in Connecticut, tucked in the northeast corner. It was an older two story house on two acres of land, and with a library within walking distance. The old library building now houses a local historical museum, with a larger library in another part of town, no longer within walking distance of our old house, at least judging from what I've found online.
When we lived in Thompson, my sister and I would head for the library, sometimes with our younger brother in tow.
During the school year, there was plenty of time spent in the research room, doing homework, looking up stuff for reports, and more.
Summertime, though, the library held events for kids, making reading fun, with parties and prizes, depending on how many books we had read over the summer. It was not uncommon for groups of kids comparing notes on which books were worth a read.
The only down side of the library, at the time (mid- to late-1960s) was that the library closed at noon on Saturdays, and didn't reopen until Monday morning. Dad and I would run errands Saturday mornings. Usually, around 11:15, I'd start asking the time, and Dad knew what I wanted, and would try to hurry. I'm not sure how often we'd get home by 11:45, and I'd run as fast as my legs would carry me to get to the library, find a book or two, and check them out before the noon closing.
After three years, we moved to the next town over, and discovered the Woodstock library. The only bad thing was that it wasn't in walking distance.
Fast forward to Florida. The city I now live in (with part of my family) has upgraded their public library at least four or five times since I moved here.
During one upgrade, when my kids were young, our lives were undergoing some upheavals. The one constant that we looked forward to was our weekly trips to the library. Every Wednesday, we'd head out after dinner, and hang out there until its 8:30 closing, then swing through McDonald's for ice cream cones.
It was during this upgrade that I discovered Gloria Naylor's The Women of Brewster Place, along with several other goodies, while the kids made their own reading memories.
During another renovation, this one from the late 1990s to the beginning of 2001, the library building underwent a total overhaul. But, of course, the city leaders knew that they didn't want to deprive the citizens of a library; books, staff, everything and everyone were temporarily moved to the lower level of a nearby mall. During this shift, with stacks of fiction, non-fiction, children's books, and research areas all jumbled around, everyone searching for their favorite books, it was impossible not to stumble across new books and authors we might have otherwise overlooked.
It was during one of these mall-library trips that I discovered Anne Lamott's amazing and wonderful book Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith. Until then, I'd never heard of Anne Lamott; now, I've got the better part of a shelf full of her books.
Note: Traveling Mercies is followed by Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith and Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith. These are filled with essays by a left-wing Christian writer; her writings are totally relatable.
One of my sons and I still try to get to the library at least once a week, where we pick up a couple of books, movies on DVD and blue-ray, CDS, and more. We both have great memories of libraries, and are making more great library memories.
But why, exactly, are libraries so important? Sure, you can borrow books, and in many libraries now, movies, audio books, music CDs, and more, thus saving you money. I've heard that some libraries even have a line at the end of the reciept for when the books are due back that reads, "You saved (this much money) borrowing materials this year."
But there's so much more...so many reasons libraries are important. In her book Grace (Eventually), Anne Lamott has a piece titled "Steinbeck Country." In this piece, she mentions that California's governor at the time had planned to close several public libraries in Salinas. This, of course, did not set well with the reading (and writing) public; the protests helped pursuade the higher-ups to keep the libraries open.
Many libraries have after-school programs for kids so that they have a safe place to hang out, and even get help with homework. This is especially important for kids whose parents work and who worry about kids heading home to an empty house.
There are computers with internet; this is useful for those who can't afford a computer (including those who can't afford to get a computer fixed), and who need to go online for job searches, online classes, or to simply keep in touch via email.
Another plus is a variety of informal classes to enrich the community. The local library where I live - the Barbara S. Ponce Public Library, in Pinellas Park, Florida - offers American Sign Language classes, as well as an upcoming financial wellness class, reading time for kids, afternoon movies, computer classes, and more.
During tax season, AARP has tax preparers helping people file their taxes free of charge at several of the libraries in Pinellas County, Florida; I imagine they offer this service at other libraries, too.
There are plenty of homeless people in the area; the library offers a safe, air conditioned place to hang out during the day, where they have access to computers (job searches, housing searches, etc).
Sure, there are books one can borrow at the library. But it is so much more. A town without a library is not a place I would want to live.
Wednesday, July 13, 2022
Karma Kitty - Rest in Peace
It's been a rough couple of months. First, I managed to fall, fracturing a vertebrae. While that has pretty much healed, we ended up losing Karma Kitty.
But first, let me back up just a little.
"Hey, I've found the perfect cat for you." My friend Kevin told me this while I was in his cab. I'd met him back when we both drove cab, years ago.
"I already have a cat," I reminded him.
But our old black cat, E.B. White, was fading fast. She had been sick for a while, and was in the middle of quite a few family members who died over a two-year period.
E.B. White
"But you need the kitten," Kevin insisted. He'd even named the kitten Karma.
(To cut this part of the story short, you can read about Karma, Drexie, Osha and E.B. here. The entire part of when Kevin delivered Karma is especially good for a laugh.)
Kevin
Anyway, fast forward to the present. Karma Kitty and Drexie Calabash were a month apart in age, and had both recently turned 15 years old. According to a chart I'd seen, that qualifies them as geriatric cats, as in "forget the numbers, they're very, very old." They were both showing their age, Karma more so than Drexie.
Up until the last year or so, Karma had been twice Drexie's size, starting when they were kittens. When we adopted Drexie, a month after Kevin brought us Karma, he spent the day whooping up on her. This was his house, he'd been here first, how dare she invade his territory. I kept them separated as much as possible.
The next day, I called our vets' office in tears, sure I was going to have to bring Drexie back. Fortunately, the vet tech who answered the phone had quite a menagerie of pets.
"Not to worry," she said over the phone. "I go through this every time I bring a new cat into the house."
She added that it might take up to two weeks for them to work it out, but that it would all be okay.
That afternoon, it did get worked out. Karma went to beat up Drexie again, only this time, she was tired of him being a bully. She reared up on her back legs, as only a tiny kitten can, wrapped her front legs around his head, and rolled onto her side. Of course, Karma had no choice but to roll over, too, at which point, Drexie started kicking his face and head hard with her back paws while biting his ears.
It took Karma a minute to work his way loose, and he backed up, eyeing the smaller cat. Then, on for a second attack, and Drexie did the same thing! By the third round of "I'll-whoop-your-butt-oh-no-you-won't," Karma backed up, eyed Drexie, and decided she could stay.
It took another few days for them to decide to be friends, but after that, they were basically inseparable.
At his heaviest, Karm weighed 12-pounds and change, while Drexie hovered just above six pounds. After a bout of cystitis, when he had to go on a special (read: expensive) diet, he did lose a couple of pounds, but not much. He was still muscular, and was still twice Drexie's size.
Karma Kitty
"I can haz tuna?!" - photo by J. Goff
Drexie
Someone's in the kitchen with Drexie...
I've written about these two time and time again over the years. They've kept life interesting, to put it mildly.
But several months ago, maybe a little longer, Karma really started going down hill. I'd taken Drexie in, as she had some minor aging problems going on. The meds seemed to help, but it did make her gain a little weight. I'd also noticed, during this time, that Karma was losing weight, so I brought him in to see Dr. E. While all the vets who share the office are fantastic (trust me, if you're in Pinellas County, FL and need a vet, leave a comment, and I'll let you know the animal hospital), Dr. E. and Dr. G. got the least amount of static from Karm. At this point, though, I did have to give Karma something to keep his anxiety down a little (i.e. got him zonked out).
Yes, he had lost weight; it turns out, he was having kidney issues, and had to go onto another (more expensive) food, as well as meds.
His weight held (sort-of) for a while, but soon, the weight dropped more and more. When he was seen on June 14, he was below six pounds.
We figured the end was coming sooner or later...
Then, on Thursday, June 23, he really got worse. He didn't want to eat, went to drink some water, then had trouble walking. His front end seemed to be functioning, but his back legs were wobbling like a drunk who'd had way too much to drink. He also threw up the water.
I called the vets' office. Dr. G. could see Karma around noon...
I made sure Karma got tons of snuggles over the next hour or so before bringing him in. Turns out, he'd lost another half-a-pound in just nine days. He was also a little dehydrated, and had developed a heart murmer, which made giving him fluids at the vets' office a little dicey.
After talking with the vet, we decided it would be best for Karma to be put to sleep. Left alone to die on his own, it was probably not more than a couple of days, at most, during which time, he'd be in pain.
I stayed with Karma while he was given a sedative, then cuddled him and told him how much we all loved him, including Drexie. After a few minutes, he recieved another shot, and drifted off.
I must have gone through most of a box of tissues during this time. This was our mini-panther, our Karma.
We had him cremated by himself, so that we now have his ashes in a box in our living room. We also have a paw print, along with some of his fur in a clear bag. (We used to call him our velvet panther.)
The next day, the vets' office sent a small floral arrangement, with a card, something very appreciated. Karma was family.
Drexie obviously misses her big brother, as does everyone else in the house.
Rest in peace, Karma. You were a sweet-heart.
But first, let me back up just a little.
"Hey, I've found the perfect cat for you." My friend Kevin told me this while I was in his cab. I'd met him back when we both drove cab, years ago.
"I already have a cat," I reminded him.
But our old black cat, E.B. White, was fading fast. She had been sick for a while, and was in the middle of quite a few family members who died over a two-year period.
E.B. White
"But you need the kitten," Kevin insisted. He'd even named the kitten Karma.
(To cut this part of the story short, you can read about Karma, Drexie, Osha and E.B. here. The entire part of when Kevin delivered Karma is especially good for a laugh.)
Kevin
Anyway, fast forward to the present. Karma Kitty and Drexie Calabash were a month apart in age, and had both recently turned 15 years old. According to a chart I'd seen, that qualifies them as geriatric cats, as in "forget the numbers, they're very, very old." They were both showing their age, Karma more so than Drexie.
Up until the last year or so, Karma had been twice Drexie's size, starting when they were kittens. When we adopted Drexie, a month after Kevin brought us Karma, he spent the day whooping up on her. This was his house, he'd been here first, how dare she invade his territory. I kept them separated as much as possible.
The next day, I called our vets' office in tears, sure I was going to have to bring Drexie back. Fortunately, the vet tech who answered the phone had quite a menagerie of pets.
"Not to worry," she said over the phone. "I go through this every time I bring a new cat into the house."
She added that it might take up to two weeks for them to work it out, but that it would all be okay.
That afternoon, it did get worked out. Karma went to beat up Drexie again, only this time, she was tired of him being a bully. She reared up on her back legs, as only a tiny kitten can, wrapped her front legs around his head, and rolled onto her side. Of course, Karma had no choice but to roll over, too, at which point, Drexie started kicking his face and head hard with her back paws while biting his ears.
It took Karma a minute to work his way loose, and he backed up, eyeing the smaller cat. Then, on for a second attack, and Drexie did the same thing! By the third round of "I'll-whoop-your-butt-oh-no-you-won't," Karma backed up, eyed Drexie, and decided she could stay.
It took another few days for them to decide to be friends, but after that, they were basically inseparable.
At his heaviest, Karm weighed 12-pounds and change, while Drexie hovered just above six pounds. After a bout of cystitis, when he had to go on a special (read: expensive) diet, he did lose a couple of pounds, but not much. He was still muscular, and was still twice Drexie's size.
Karma Kitty
"I can haz tuna?!" - photo by J. Goff
Drexie
Someone's in the kitchen with Drexie...
I've written about these two time and time again over the years. They've kept life interesting, to put it mildly.
But several months ago, maybe a little longer, Karma really started going down hill. I'd taken Drexie in, as she had some minor aging problems going on. The meds seemed to help, but it did make her gain a little weight. I'd also noticed, during this time, that Karma was losing weight, so I brought him in to see Dr. E. While all the vets who share the office are fantastic (trust me, if you're in Pinellas County, FL and need a vet, leave a comment, and I'll let you know the animal hospital), Dr. E. and Dr. G. got the least amount of static from Karm. At this point, though, I did have to give Karma something to keep his anxiety down a little (i.e. got him zonked out).
Yes, he had lost weight; it turns out, he was having kidney issues, and had to go onto another (more expensive) food, as well as meds.
His weight held (sort-of) for a while, but soon, the weight dropped more and more. When he was seen on June 14, he was below six pounds.
We figured the end was coming sooner or later...
Then, on Thursday, June 23, he really got worse. He didn't want to eat, went to drink some water, then had trouble walking. His front end seemed to be functioning, but his back legs were wobbling like a drunk who'd had way too much to drink. He also threw up the water.
I called the vets' office. Dr. G. could see Karma around noon...
I made sure Karma got tons of snuggles over the next hour or so before bringing him in. Turns out, he'd lost another half-a-pound in just nine days. He was also a little dehydrated, and had developed a heart murmer, which made giving him fluids at the vets' office a little dicey.
After talking with the vet, we decided it would be best for Karma to be put to sleep. Left alone to die on his own, it was probably not more than a couple of days, at most, during which time, he'd be in pain.
I stayed with Karma while he was given a sedative, then cuddled him and told him how much we all loved him, including Drexie. After a few minutes, he recieved another shot, and drifted off.
I must have gone through most of a box of tissues during this time. This was our mini-panther, our Karma.
We had him cremated by himself, so that we now have his ashes in a box in our living room. We also have a paw print, along with some of his fur in a clear bag. (We used to call him our velvet panther.)
The next day, the vets' office sent a small floral arrangement, with a card, something very appreciated. Karma was family.
Drexie obviously misses her big brother, as does everyone else in the house.
Rest in peace, Karma. You were a sweet-heart.
Wednesday, June 15, 2022
Life Goes On, Somewhat Crazily
I realize I've been M.I.A. since last August. Even then, I didn't post much last year; from the looks of things, there were four (!) posts all of last year.
Of course, getting started here again has been interesting, to say the least. Anyone who's a writer (or artist of any sort) can related that too much time off makes it a little difficult to get motivated to head off in a forward direction.
But what the heck, I'm back.
Several weeks ago, I came so close to cutting my hair short (at least, short for me). The last time I had a major hair cut was for a job I'd landed, back in 1980. I can already hear at least one or two people thinking, Yikes! No need to tell me that was a long dang time ago.
The job I'd landed was working for a local fire department. The department had hired eight of us (if I remember correctly), including two women. (This is where your's truly fits in.) There was only one other department in our county, here on the west coast of Florida, that had a female firefighter; she'd been on the job less than a year.
I had already started off, near the end of 1979, as a volunteer with Pinellas Park Fire Department, shortly after the department had hired a new chief, so I had a somewhat vague idea of what to look forward to.
The department Jane and I were hired on at seemed okay with the length of my hair. I'd start off my shift with my hair in a braid. If we had a fire, and needed to wear our bunker gear, it was no big deal to grab the end of the braid, put said braid on top of my head, put my helmet on, and immediately, no hair showed.
However, when we started at the local fire academy, the then-head of the academy made it clear that I had to have my hair cut above my shirt collar. After all, that was how short the men had to have their hair. While our chief went to bat for me, I still had to get it cut short. Problem was, having it that short, I couldn't braid it and keep all the hair from sticking out from under the helmet.
At that point, I vowed never to cut my hair again, until I was good and ready.
So why was I thinking of cutting it recently? Well...Six weeks ago, I slipped and fell, landing hard on my back. Instant excruciating pain.
Silly me. Once I was able to move, and actually talk (I'd spent several minutes babbling, leaving my sons thinking I'd had a stroke), I got up and decided to take a shower. I was sure I'd simply pulled a few muscles in my back.
An hour or two later, though, when the pain showed no sign of subsiding, I agreed to go to a local free-standing ER to get it checked out. As it turned out, I'd fractured one of my vertibrae! No wonder it hurt!
Several hours later, after a room opened up in the main hospital (several miles away, with an in-house ER), I was transferred by ambulance and taken straight up to the assigned room, where I spent the weekend. While there, I ended up with an MRI lasting about half-an-hour (never a fun thing for someone who's claustrophobic). Fortunately, it turned out okay, still a fracture, but without further complications.
Two days later, I got to come home. But for six weeks, I've been stuck wearing a dang back brace. The first coupld of days, my hair kept getting caught in the brace; it was then that I seriously thought about cutting my hair shoulder-length. I didn't, though, and I'm now glad I didn't.
It's only a few more days until I get another X-ray to see if the back has healed enough to do without the back brace. Siiiiigh...
Also, to throw in some more fun, our two cats are now 15 years old, and starting to really show their age. Karma is showing it a little harder than is sister, Drexie, is. But either way, Karma and Drexie are getting up there.
At one time, Karma had topped off at 12-pounds and change; he's now down to 5.8 pounds, and has the beginnings of kidney issues, while Drexi, who used to be 6-pounds, is a little closer to 7 pounds now. They both seem to sleep more these days. Karma is also showing some signs of slowing down, and not able to jump as well as he used to.
Anyone who has had cats (or dogs, or any other pets) and who've gotten seriously attached to the pets knows how bitter-sweet it can be, watching the decline, knowing it's simply a matter of time when the pets are no longer around. That's what we're looking at with Karma and Drexie. I know we'll all be basket-cases when their time comes. But in the meantime, they'll get all the love, cuddles, and treats we can give them.
One last word: love your family, even the pets.
Karma Kitty
Drexie Calabash
Of course, getting started here again has been interesting, to say the least. Anyone who's a writer (or artist of any sort) can related that too much time off makes it a little difficult to get motivated to head off in a forward direction.
But what the heck, I'm back.
Several weeks ago, I came so close to cutting my hair short (at least, short for me). The last time I had a major hair cut was for a job I'd landed, back in 1980. I can already hear at least one or two people thinking, Yikes! No need to tell me that was a long dang time ago.
The job I'd landed was working for a local fire department. The department had hired eight of us (if I remember correctly), including two women. (This is where your's truly fits in.) There was only one other department in our county, here on the west coast of Florida, that had a female firefighter; she'd been on the job less than a year.
I had already started off, near the end of 1979, as a volunteer with Pinellas Park Fire Department, shortly after the department had hired a new chief, so I had a somewhat vague idea of what to look forward to.
The department Jane and I were hired on at seemed okay with the length of my hair. I'd start off my shift with my hair in a braid. If we had a fire, and needed to wear our bunker gear, it was no big deal to grab the end of the braid, put said braid on top of my head, put my helmet on, and immediately, no hair showed.
However, when we started at the local fire academy, the then-head of the academy made it clear that I had to have my hair cut above my shirt collar. After all, that was how short the men had to have their hair. While our chief went to bat for me, I still had to get it cut short. Problem was, having it that short, I couldn't braid it and keep all the hair from sticking out from under the helmet.
At that point, I vowed never to cut my hair again, until I was good and ready.
So why was I thinking of cutting it recently? Well...Six weeks ago, I slipped and fell, landing hard on my back. Instant excruciating pain.
Silly me. Once I was able to move, and actually talk (I'd spent several minutes babbling, leaving my sons thinking I'd had a stroke), I got up and decided to take a shower. I was sure I'd simply pulled a few muscles in my back.
An hour or two later, though, when the pain showed no sign of subsiding, I agreed to go to a local free-standing ER to get it checked out. As it turned out, I'd fractured one of my vertibrae! No wonder it hurt!
Several hours later, after a room opened up in the main hospital (several miles away, with an in-house ER), I was transferred by ambulance and taken straight up to the assigned room, where I spent the weekend. While there, I ended up with an MRI lasting about half-an-hour (never a fun thing for someone who's claustrophobic). Fortunately, it turned out okay, still a fracture, but without further complications.
Two days later, I got to come home. But for six weeks, I've been stuck wearing a dang back brace. The first coupld of days, my hair kept getting caught in the brace; it was then that I seriously thought about cutting my hair shoulder-length. I didn't, though, and I'm now glad I didn't.
It's only a few more days until I get another X-ray to see if the back has healed enough to do without the back brace. Siiiiigh...
Also, to throw in some more fun, our two cats are now 15 years old, and starting to really show their age. Karma is showing it a little harder than is sister, Drexie, is. But either way, Karma and Drexie are getting up there.
At one time, Karma had topped off at 12-pounds and change; he's now down to 5.8 pounds, and has the beginnings of kidney issues, while Drexi, who used to be 6-pounds, is a little closer to 7 pounds now. They both seem to sleep more these days. Karma is also showing some signs of slowing down, and not able to jump as well as he used to.
Anyone who has had cats (or dogs, or any other pets) and who've gotten seriously attached to the pets knows how bitter-sweet it can be, watching the decline, knowing it's simply a matter of time when the pets are no longer around. That's what we're looking at with Karma and Drexie. I know we'll all be basket-cases when their time comes. But in the meantime, they'll get all the love, cuddles, and treats we can give them.
One last word: love your family, even the pets.
Karma Kitty
Drexie Calabash
Friday, August 27, 2021
Scammers, or Didn't I have that tattoo that said "Gullible" removed?
Since so many scammers are calling again, I'm reposting this gem that I originally posted on Monday, January 14, 2013. You can also check out For Anyone Needing a Smile - and a Lesson Dealing with Scammers. Enjoy!
I just love people who try to scam others.
Please reread that last line with the touch of sarcasm that I wrote it with. Heck, forget the touch of sarcasm; try a smack upside the head of it.
The Idiot squad is at it again. They called me this morning.
Note: Be forewarned, and don't be taken in by these, ah-hem, jerks, idiots, etc. If Microsoft, Apple, or any other computer-related group needs to touch base with you, I can assure you, it won't be because they detect a virus on your computer from a remote location. True, there is a way for a legitimate technician (such as someone really, really, really with Microsoft or Apple) to trouble-shoot from a remote location. But that comes only after you have called them with a problem, not the other way around.
These particular scammers are the phone equivalent to seeing two or three people walking down the street, looking like they've just crawled out of the sewer system. As one person walks up your driveway to knock on your door, the other one or two are knocking on your neighbors' doors. You open the door to hear, "Hello, Ma'am (or Sir), I'm the head of Ford Motor Company and I'm here to tell you that your Crown Vic has a major problem. The driveshaft is about to fall out, as is the engine." Meanwhile, his cohorts are telling your neighbors that they're with Toyota and Chevy; when they get down the street, they'll be with VW, Cadillac, and...Well, you get the idea. You wouldn't fall for the scam that way, and you shouldn't fall for it if someone calls saying that they've detected a virus on your PC. (Memorize this and the previous paragraph; if you fall for it, don't say I didn't warn you!) End of Note
Anyway, my phone rang and when I picked up, I had to say "hi" twice (the second time in my I'm-really-not-in-the-mood-for-B.S. voice).
"Yes," said a heavily accented voice, "this is the Windows computer company. Is this the owner/operator for the computer system?"
Hmmm...my scam detection alert system started buzzing, along my resident inner super-hero; I've dubbed her Her Royal Snarkiness.
"Yes," I answer in my most insincere sweet voice. "What do you want?"
"I am here calling you to..."
"Wait, wait, where, exactly, is here?"
"Excuse me?"
"Yes, you said you are here calling me. Where, exactly, is here?"
"Oh, yes. I am on the phone calling you from Microsoft computer company to tell you that our operating systems have detected a virus on your computer."
"Okay, so if your system is that intelligent that it can tell you that, it can also tell you where I am and who I am, right?"
A pause, before he goes on with, "You are there, and you are the owner/operator of that computer system." Oooh, what a quick learner! But not quick enough. He goes on, "So, your computer has a virus on it..."
"Which computer would that be?" I ask, in all my sweet snarkiness.
"Your computer!" comes the gleeful reply.
"My computer? Why, sir, I have five computers! Which one is the virus on?" This was a blatant exaggeration, since I have a laptop and a couple of desk tops.
I hear a gasp before he recovers. "Why, it looks like all of them have viruses!"
"Really? I wasn't aware that you would be so concerned with a virus on my five Macs!"
Now there's a longer pause before he asks, "Macs?"
"Yes, you know. Macs. They're made by Apple."
Dang, I hate when the line goes dead. Must've been a virus...
I just love people who try to scam others.
Please reread that last line with the touch of sarcasm that I wrote it with. Heck, forget the touch of sarcasm; try a smack upside the head of it.
The Idiot squad is at it again. They called me this morning.
Note: Be forewarned, and don't be taken in by these, ah-hem, jerks, idiots, etc. If Microsoft, Apple, or any other computer-related group needs to touch base with you, I can assure you, it won't be because they detect a virus on your computer from a remote location. True, there is a way for a legitimate technician (such as someone really, really, really with Microsoft or Apple) to trouble-shoot from a remote location. But that comes only after you have called them with a problem, not the other way around.
These particular scammers are the phone equivalent to seeing two or three people walking down the street, looking like they've just crawled out of the sewer system. As one person walks up your driveway to knock on your door, the other one or two are knocking on your neighbors' doors. You open the door to hear, "Hello, Ma'am (or Sir), I'm the head of Ford Motor Company and I'm here to tell you that your Crown Vic has a major problem. The driveshaft is about to fall out, as is the engine." Meanwhile, his cohorts are telling your neighbors that they're with Toyota and Chevy; when they get down the street, they'll be with VW, Cadillac, and...Well, you get the idea. You wouldn't fall for the scam that way, and you shouldn't fall for it if someone calls saying that they've detected a virus on your PC. (Memorize this and the previous paragraph; if you fall for it, don't say I didn't warn you!) End of Note
Anyway, my phone rang and when I picked up, I had to say "hi" twice (the second time in my I'm-really-not-in-the-mood-for-B.S. voice).
"Yes," said a heavily accented voice, "this is the Windows computer company. Is this the owner/operator for the computer system?"
Hmmm...my scam detection alert system started buzzing, along my resident inner super-hero; I've dubbed her Her Royal Snarkiness.
"Yes," I answer in my most insincere sweet voice. "What do you want?"
"I am here calling you to..."
"Wait, wait, where, exactly, is here?"
"Excuse me?"
"Yes, you said you are here calling me. Where, exactly, is here?"
"Oh, yes. I am on the phone calling you from Microsoft computer company to tell you that our operating systems have detected a virus on your computer."
"Okay, so if your system is that intelligent that it can tell you that, it can also tell you where I am and who I am, right?"
A pause, before he goes on with, "You are there, and you are the owner/operator of that computer system." Oooh, what a quick learner! But not quick enough. He goes on, "So, your computer has a virus on it..."
"Which computer would that be?" I ask, in all my sweet snarkiness.
"Your computer!" comes the gleeful reply.
"My computer? Why, sir, I have five computers! Which one is the virus on?" This was a blatant exaggeration, since I have a laptop and a couple of desk tops.
I hear a gasp before he recovers. "Why, it looks like all of them have viruses!"
"Really? I wasn't aware that you would be so concerned with a virus on my five Macs!"
Now there's a longer pause before he asks, "Macs?"
"Yes, you know. Macs. They're made by Apple."
Dang, I hate when the line goes dead. Must've been a virus...
Wednesday, August 18, 2021
Comfort Food
I was looking over some of my older posts, and decided to revive Comfort Food, a post from Tuesday, September 13, 2016. It reminded me of all the comfort food from over the years, as well as family members, many of whom have passed away over the years. A few times have been updated for today. Example: the original post noted my Dad had died nine years ago; it's now fourteen years, which coesn't seem possible. I've also added a few photos. Enjoy.
I just finished off a bowl of butterscotch pudding. Actually, it was a double-serving of the stuff, but since two helpings were in one bowl, it only counts as one - at least, in my mind.
It was the kind of pudding that you cook, poured out in powder form into the milk, then stirred while it heats. I hate the instant stuff. My younger two love the instant chocolate pudding, and while I love chocolate, I can't handle the instant stuff. It never seems to set up exactly right. Plus, there's no film on top like the cooked pudding gets.
The butterscotch pudding was still warm, even though I'd let it cool for maybe ten minutes in the 'fridge, but it had gotten that film across the top. I know some people don't like the film (namely, the aforementioned younger two), but I do. It's part of what I liked about the stuff when I was growing up.
Why a post about butterscotch pudding? Why not? Especially when one is writing about comfort food.
Dad
Dad passed away nine years ago, in July, 2007. He'd known he was dying, and so did we. It was his fourth bout of cancer - first breast cancer (yes, men can and do get breast cancer), then prostate, then colon cancer, and finally, another round of prostate cancer. It was the second bout that took Dad. He'd beat it the first time - as well as the other two battles with cancer.
He and my step-mom Phyllis came to visit in April 2005. They'd planned to come in March, but ended up spending the month cleaning up a cellar after the water pipes had burst.
Dad and Phyllis
When they arrived, they spent close to a week, taking us out for dinner. We knew it would probably be the last time we saw Dad: the first night here, he told us that he'd gotten the prognosis that he had two years, at most. He lasted two years and change.
One afternoon while Dad and Phyl were here, they brought me to the nearby Publix for some shopping. Dad's never liked shopping; he'll decide what he wants or needs, hit the store, sprint around grabbing what stuff he'd planned to get, then head out. Left to my own devices, I'm the same way. In, sprint, get what I need, occasionally slow down to say hi to a friend or chat with one of the people fixing free food samples for shoppers ("Would you like some...today? The makings are on sale this week..."), dance around those taking their darn....sweet....time in front of whatever I'm trying to buy ("Excuse me...Excuse me...Excuse me..." Oh, heck, use the boarding house reach), then head on out.
But this time, Dad and Phyllis found their way to the pudding and gelatin aisle. I passed by as they were looking through the different flavors. I had a hunch Dad was looking for either butterscotch pudding (both of our favorite) or pistachio, his second favorite. I'll occasionally (read: once a year or so) eat pistachio pudding, mainly because it reminds me of Dad. I like it, too, but nowhere near as much as butterscotch. And yes, the pistachio has to be the cooked stuff, not instant.
I went past the other end of the pudding aisle a few minutes later, and saw that Dad and Phyl were still there. I found that a little odd (sprint, grab stuff, head for check-out), but let it slide. They were in a new store for them. Maybe they discovered some new flavor? Who knows, I thought.
But ten minutes later, when I was ready to leave and had been hunting for Dad and Phyllis, I found them still in the pudding aisle, checking out all the boxes.
"What's up?" I asked, coming up to them.
"Your dad's looking for butterscotch pudding," Phyllis informed me. "It has to be the cooked stuff."
"All they have is the instant kind," Dad added. "They have instant and cooked pudding in every other flavor, but none of the cooked butterscotch!"
A glance through the packages of both brands that Publix carried confirmed this. There was chocolate (instant and cooked), pistachio (instant and cooked), vanilla, tapioca, lemon - all instant and cooked. And butterscotch - which only came in instant.
"We haven't been able to find the cooked variety up in New York, either," Dad informed me.
Phyllis nodded. "It's true. We've tried getting it everywhere. No one seems to sell it anymore."
Butterscotch pudding - the cooked kind - was our favorite! It held memories for us. Like the time Mom flew to Florida for a week and Dad picked up enough butterscotch pudding to sink a battleship. There might have been a package or two left when Mom got back, but not much more.
I went in search of someone who worked at the store, and asked him about it. "Let me get the manager," he said.
A minute later, a manager arrived, only to inform us that they hadn't been able to get the stuff, but that he would personally try to find some somewhere for us. "But it might take a few weeks," he said.
This became a challenge for me. Dad was dying, darn it, and if he wanted the cooked version of butterscotch pudding, by God, I was going to find some!
Maybe two months after Dad and Phyl got back to New York, I found six lonely boxes of the cooked version on the shelves and bought all six, then shipped them up to Dad. A week later, I was in another store (not Publix, but another chain) and discovered that they had boxes and boxes of butterscotch pudding - the kinds you cook! I loaded up, then shipped these out the next day.
After that, once a month or so, I'd pick up a few more boxes at the store I'd located them at...until one day, more than a year after Dad and Phyllis had been here, less than a year before he died, Publix started carrying the stuff.
There are other foods that I've considered comfort food for years most of which have stories that go with them. (These stories I'll try to keep short.)
My grandmother - Mom's Mom - made a fantastic Oven Pot Roast, which I have posted in my original cooking blog, Confessions of a Foodie; the post was from January 19, 2013. Everyone in our family loved it.
One Sunday when my older three kids were young, I used Grandma's recipe to bake up her Oven Pot Roast. It smelled fantastic; by dinner time, everyone was definitely ready to eat.
I had figured, since I'd used a 4-pound chuck roast, that we'd have half of it that night, and the rest the next day for sandwiches and, finally, hash for dinner. Great idea - except that my oldest, who had two hollow legs, finished it off during the night.
Years later, when my ex- and I had split up, I was helping him find an apartment. At one complex (one that had an efficiency for rent), we stopped by the office manager's apartment so we could go to the nearby efficiency. Darned if his wife wasn't cooking a pot roast, the scent of which reminded my ex- and me of Grandma's pot roast. That clinched the deal on the efficiency! (Yes, he rented it.)
Grandma also specialized in her homemade oatmeal and peanut butter cookies, which she always seemed to have on hand, and which, when I was growing up, she'd always bring to our house when she visited, regaling my brother, sister and me of her childhood.
My other grandma had a recipe for her quick Mac and Cheese that she used to fix for my dad and his brother Don when they were kids. It is incredibly simple (macaroni and Cheese Whiz), and kid-friendly.
Then there's the Chocolate Cream Pie.
Greg, at 10
I had a boyfriend, Tom, who loved Chocolate Cream Pie; it was his all time favorite. Shortly after my family moved from Connecticut back to New York, Tom came for a weekend visit. He was planning to fly back Sunday night. But before he left, Mom insisted on fixing a large Sunday dinner in the early afternoon. Of course, I had to fix the chocolate cream pie, right? I mean, it was my boyfriend's favorite! And how difficult could it be? Pie crust (I'd use my great grandmother's recipe), chocolate pudding, and whipped cream. Easy enough, right?
Wrong! Somehow, I managed to get the pie crust to taste like undercooked pizza crust (while burning the outer edges of it!), I burned the chocolate pudding, and the whipped cream got whipped half-way to butter!!! Yeah, it was memorable!
When it came time to serve dessert, the pie was cut into six slices, and everyone got one. But one bite...I couldn't finish my piece. Neither could Tom, nor my sister, Mom, Dad...the only one who could eat it was my kid brother. At 10, he would eat anything that didn't eat him first.
"If anyone doesn't want their pie, I'll eat it!" he announced. Immediately, five plates got pushed toward him.
About this time, the phone rang; it was one of my sister's friends. Dad - who'd answered the phone - was laughing so hard about the pie - yes, it was that bad! - that he couldn't talk, and handed the phone to me. I was laughing hard, and handed the phone to my sister. The phone made the rounds, until it was finally handed to my brother.
"Yeah, I'll tell her to call you," he told our sister's friend. "But I don't know what they're all laughing about. Robin made a pie for her boyfriend - and it's great! And you know the best part? I get to eat the whole thing!"
For years afterward, whenever Dad would come to visit, he'd inform me, "I don't care what you cook, just don't make that Chocolate Cream Pie!"
I guess we all have comfort foods, and stories about food. Yes, I've got more food stories, but they can wait for another time.
In the meantime, anyone up for a good Chocolate Cream Pie?
Note: Check out my e-cookbook, Off the Wall Cooking.
I just finished off a bowl of butterscotch pudding. Actually, it was a double-serving of the stuff, but since two helpings were in one bowl, it only counts as one - at least, in my mind.
It was the kind of pudding that you cook, poured out in powder form into the milk, then stirred while it heats. I hate the instant stuff. My younger two love the instant chocolate pudding, and while I love chocolate, I can't handle the instant stuff. It never seems to set up exactly right. Plus, there's no film on top like the cooked pudding gets.
The butterscotch pudding was still warm, even though I'd let it cool for maybe ten minutes in the 'fridge, but it had gotten that film across the top. I know some people don't like the film (namely, the aforementioned younger two), but I do. It's part of what I liked about the stuff when I was growing up.
Why a post about butterscotch pudding? Why not? Especially when one is writing about comfort food.
Dad
Dad passed away nine years ago, in July, 2007. He'd known he was dying, and so did we. It was his fourth bout of cancer - first breast cancer (yes, men can and do get breast cancer), then prostate, then colon cancer, and finally, another round of prostate cancer. It was the second bout that took Dad. He'd beat it the first time - as well as the other two battles with cancer.
He and my step-mom Phyllis came to visit in April 2005. They'd planned to come in March, but ended up spending the month cleaning up a cellar after the water pipes had burst.
Dad and Phyllis
When they arrived, they spent close to a week, taking us out for dinner. We knew it would probably be the last time we saw Dad: the first night here, he told us that he'd gotten the prognosis that he had two years, at most. He lasted two years and change.
One afternoon while Dad and Phyl were here, they brought me to the nearby Publix for some shopping. Dad's never liked shopping; he'll decide what he wants or needs, hit the store, sprint around grabbing what stuff he'd planned to get, then head out. Left to my own devices, I'm the same way. In, sprint, get what I need, occasionally slow down to say hi to a friend or chat with one of the people fixing free food samples for shoppers ("Would you like some...today? The makings are on sale this week..."), dance around those taking their darn....sweet....time in front of whatever I'm trying to buy ("Excuse me...Excuse me...Excuse me..." Oh, heck, use the boarding house reach), then head on out.
But this time, Dad and Phyllis found their way to the pudding and gelatin aisle. I passed by as they were looking through the different flavors. I had a hunch Dad was looking for either butterscotch pudding (both of our favorite) or pistachio, his second favorite. I'll occasionally (read: once a year or so) eat pistachio pudding, mainly because it reminds me of Dad. I like it, too, but nowhere near as much as butterscotch. And yes, the pistachio has to be the cooked stuff, not instant.
I went past the other end of the pudding aisle a few minutes later, and saw that Dad and Phyl were still there. I found that a little odd (sprint, grab stuff, head for check-out), but let it slide. They were in a new store for them. Maybe they discovered some new flavor? Who knows, I thought.
But ten minutes later, when I was ready to leave and had been hunting for Dad and Phyllis, I found them still in the pudding aisle, checking out all the boxes.
"What's up?" I asked, coming up to them.
"Your dad's looking for butterscotch pudding," Phyllis informed me. "It has to be the cooked stuff."
"All they have is the instant kind," Dad added. "They have instant and cooked pudding in every other flavor, but none of the cooked butterscotch!"
A glance through the packages of both brands that Publix carried confirmed this. There was chocolate (instant and cooked), pistachio (instant and cooked), vanilla, tapioca, lemon - all instant and cooked. And butterscotch - which only came in instant.
"We haven't been able to find the cooked variety up in New York, either," Dad informed me.
Phyllis nodded. "It's true. We've tried getting it everywhere. No one seems to sell it anymore."
Butterscotch pudding - the cooked kind - was our favorite! It held memories for us. Like the time Mom flew to Florida for a week and Dad picked up enough butterscotch pudding to sink a battleship. There might have been a package or two left when Mom got back, but not much more.
I went in search of someone who worked at the store, and asked him about it. "Let me get the manager," he said.
A minute later, a manager arrived, only to inform us that they hadn't been able to get the stuff, but that he would personally try to find some somewhere for us. "But it might take a few weeks," he said.
This became a challenge for me. Dad was dying, darn it, and if he wanted the cooked version of butterscotch pudding, by God, I was going to find some!
Maybe two months after Dad and Phyl got back to New York, I found six lonely boxes of the cooked version on the shelves and bought all six, then shipped them up to Dad. A week later, I was in another store (not Publix, but another chain) and discovered that they had boxes and boxes of butterscotch pudding - the kinds you cook! I loaded up, then shipped these out the next day.
After that, once a month or so, I'd pick up a few more boxes at the store I'd located them at...until one day, more than a year after Dad and Phyllis had been here, less than a year before he died, Publix started carrying the stuff.
There are other foods that I've considered comfort food for years most of which have stories that go with them. (These stories I'll try to keep short.)
My grandmother - Mom's Mom - made a fantastic Oven Pot Roast, which I have posted in my original cooking blog, Confessions of a Foodie; the post was from January 19, 2013. Everyone in our family loved it.
One Sunday when my older three kids were young, I used Grandma's recipe to bake up her Oven Pot Roast. It smelled fantastic; by dinner time, everyone was definitely ready to eat.
I had figured, since I'd used a 4-pound chuck roast, that we'd have half of it that night, and the rest the next day for sandwiches and, finally, hash for dinner. Great idea - except that my oldest, who had two hollow legs, finished it off during the night.
Years later, when my ex- and I had split up, I was helping him find an apartment. At one complex (one that had an efficiency for rent), we stopped by the office manager's apartment so we could go to the nearby efficiency. Darned if his wife wasn't cooking a pot roast, the scent of which reminded my ex- and me of Grandma's pot roast. That clinched the deal on the efficiency! (Yes, he rented it.)
Grandma also specialized in her homemade oatmeal and peanut butter cookies, which she always seemed to have on hand, and which, when I was growing up, she'd always bring to our house when she visited, regaling my brother, sister and me of her childhood.
My other grandma had a recipe for her quick Mac and Cheese that she used to fix for my dad and his brother Don when they were kids. It is incredibly simple (macaroni and Cheese Whiz), and kid-friendly.
Then there's the Chocolate Cream Pie.
Greg, at 10
I had a boyfriend, Tom, who loved Chocolate Cream Pie; it was his all time favorite. Shortly after my family moved from Connecticut back to New York, Tom came for a weekend visit. He was planning to fly back Sunday night. But before he left, Mom insisted on fixing a large Sunday dinner in the early afternoon. Of course, I had to fix the chocolate cream pie, right? I mean, it was my boyfriend's favorite! And how difficult could it be? Pie crust (I'd use my great grandmother's recipe), chocolate pudding, and whipped cream. Easy enough, right?
Wrong! Somehow, I managed to get the pie crust to taste like undercooked pizza crust (while burning the outer edges of it!), I burned the chocolate pudding, and the whipped cream got whipped half-way to butter!!! Yeah, it was memorable!
When it came time to serve dessert, the pie was cut into six slices, and everyone got one. But one bite...I couldn't finish my piece. Neither could Tom, nor my sister, Mom, Dad...the only one who could eat it was my kid brother. At 10, he would eat anything that didn't eat him first.
"If anyone doesn't want their pie, I'll eat it!" he announced. Immediately, five plates got pushed toward him.
About this time, the phone rang; it was one of my sister's friends. Dad - who'd answered the phone - was laughing so hard about the pie - yes, it was that bad! - that he couldn't talk, and handed the phone to me. I was laughing hard, and handed the phone to my sister. The phone made the rounds, until it was finally handed to my brother.
"Yeah, I'll tell her to call you," he told our sister's friend. "But I don't know what they're all laughing about. Robin made a pie for her boyfriend - and it's great! And you know the best part? I get to eat the whole thing!"
For years afterward, whenever Dad would come to visit, he'd inform me, "I don't care what you cook, just don't make that Chocolate Cream Pie!"
I guess we all have comfort foods, and stories about food. Yes, I've got more food stories, but they can wait for another time.
In the meantime, anyone up for a good Chocolate Cream Pie?
Note: Check out my e-cookbook, Off the Wall Cooking.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)