Let Them Eat Cake

When you're going through the holidays after losing a loved one you may find you are really just going through the motions.  That's been my situation this season, so to find inspiration and Christmas spirit I turned to a great source for a lot of women.  Pinterest.

Nothing says lovin' and promotes healing like something from the oven. At least that's what I told myself.  Pinterest is full of beautiful pictures of cakes, so I perused it's electronic pages for ideas.  I've always loved to cook, but baking...not so much.  There's all that flour and sticky stuff to contend with, isn't there?   And so,  due to my unfamiliarity with baking, I decided to keep it simple.

Next day my shopping excursion was to find the right cake pan; I'm a great believer that equipment is half the battle.   I found a wonderful Nordic Ware  pan that promised to produce two gift box cakes that I could decorate or simply sprinkle with powdered sugar.  Knowing how quickly my enthusiasm can wane that seemed like a good option.

To jazz up the display a wee bit I found a "pin" on how to make plates from peppermint hard candy.  I grabbed four bags of star mints, the ingredients for a drop-dead-delicious chocolate cake (also a Pinterest find) and I headed home.

Once I got into it my cake baking filled the house with delicious smells.  My first effort I used a Christmas tree shaped pan I had bought years ago.  I remembered why it got pushed to the back of the cabinet when I tried to remove the cake, which  produced nothing but delicious chocolate goo. After it cooled I delivered the tasty (but ugly ) reject to near by neighbors who pronounced it delicious in spite of it's unrecognizable shape.  Waste not, want not.

Whipping up another batch of cake, I filled the new gift box cake pan.  As I pushed it into the oven I sent  up a little prayer that this would go better than my first attempt.   It was getting late, and I was running out of hungry neighbors.

While I waited I heated the other oven and started unwrapping mints,

which is the most difficult part of making the candy plates.  I arranged the candy on parchment paper, plopped it onto a cookie sheet, and stuck it into the oven.

  By the time the cakes were done the plates were on cooling racks.  Then it was time for the moment of truth....I flipped the cake pan over and out popped two perfect little gift boxes. I may not know what I'm doing, but I know when it goes right!

It looked to be impossible to ice them, and I thought powdered sugar would be boring, so I simply painted the part of the cake shaped like ribbons with icing, then dusted that with sparkling candy sprinkles!

Once they were decorated and sitting on their colorful candy plates the cakes were really pretty.

So pretty, in fact, that I had to convince my family it was okay to cut them.  At least I like to think it was because they were too pretty to eat.  In truth it may be they were just being cautious because of my lack of baking experience.   Either way they eventually disappeared.

I've always found being busy to be the best way to deal with anything that's bothering me; I guess I have to work through my pain.  We all missed my mom this holiday season, and i know that won't end when the holidays are over.  So....I guess I'll be looking for more projects on Pinterest.   I just hope my neighbors are up to it!!

                                                           Life is Good

Looking for the Past

Today I had a morning “reality check” that started with the search for a wine glass.... 

Last evening we had our annual “Golden Girls” Christmas dinner here at my house.  The (now) three of us had a glass of wine before dinner.   As a surprise, after dinner I had planned a special recognition of this first Christmas get-together without our good friend, Chris Butler. 

As we talked over dinner we remembered last year’s get together where the four of us ate and laughed and had a great time together.  Chris seemed to be emerging from a long spell of illness.  She had put on some weight, looked better than she had in ages, and we all seemed to be in a good place.  We had no idea that she would be gone in just four short months.

Last evenings dinner had a quiet to it that covered a deeper sadness.  After we finished, I announced that we were heading out into the cold to send off a sky lantern to wish Chris a Merry Christmas.  We all bundled up and, after carefully reading the directions, headed for the driveway.  As is usually the case I assumed I had this thing all figured out, and it caused not a little laughter as I tried to light the lantern in the wind without igniting the whole thing.  Finally the fuel pad grabbed the flame and the lantern filled with hot air.  After a few seconds it gracefully lifted up into the black velvet night sky.

It really was a beautiful sight, a heart lifting moment as we sent our Christmas wish skyward.   I was more than a little relieved when the lantern cleared the roof of the house as the wind took the fiery lantern in a north easterly direction.   (Note: check wind direction or don’t try this at home.)

The glowing white orb rose soundlessly as we watched.  Then, quite suddenly, it seemed to stand still in the cold night air.  I was mentally going through reasons this might happen, like some cold air/hot air ratio, when Becky announced, “Uh-oh!  It’s stuck in a tree”.

 

All sentimental thoughts ceased as we watched, horrified and hoping the thing would quickly run out of fuel. (Note:  the fuel lasts a loooong time)  The skeletal fingers of that huge old tree clutched that lantern like a catcher’s mitt at home plate.  I held my breath and squinted in the darkness, hoping not to see any signs of fire on the tree limb; after what seemed like forever it went out.  Demonstrating that it was well worth the price, the thing is still up there this morning to greet me as I took the dog out.

You might think this ruined the moment; in truth it couldn’t have been more perfect.  The three of us went from solemn, to shocked, to laughter in the space of a minute.  It took much longer for me to get the sound of Chris’s laughter out of my head after we went back into the house.  I ended the evening with the feeling that the four of us had once again shared a good laugh…and if it’s possible for Chris to have orchestrated it, she did.

That takes me back to this morning.  After the gals went home last night I got lazy and left the dishes; ‘tomorrow is another day’ type thinking.  This morning I multi-tasked as I sipped a cup of coffee, loaded the dishwasher and filled the sink with things that needed to be done by hand.  I started to wash the wine glasses, and that’s when I noticed one was missing.  Automatically on the hunt, I trailed my way through a couple of rooms before I remembered there wouldn’t be a fourth wine glass to find this morning.

 

The Golden Girls now number three, but there will always be four of us in our hearts.

                                                          Life is Good

The Giving Season

Here we are at the doorstep of another Christmas.  This will be my 68^th, and the first one I’ve ever spent without my mom.  It’s not something I wanted or expected but…it simply is what it is.

As I’ve half-heartedly prepared for the holiday, picking up a gift here and there, I’ve come to think a lot about this being the season of giving and receiving gifts.   The years pass and all those gifts seem to run together.  I remember a small record player when I was eight or nine…a heart shaped pendant from my husband one year…a box containing a baby rattle to announce the upcoming birth of our first grandchild…other than that I can’t specifically remember many gifts.   Where do all those memories go?

I’ve been blessed to have been born into a family of ‘givers’.  I never left my grandmother’s house without what I jokingly called my “care package”.  It was usually comprised of a quart of her home canned green beans (which I reserved for our Thanksgiving table ), and a pint of her delicious jelly made from whatever berries were plentiful the past summer.  She might also tuck in a quilted potholder she’d made, maybe a doily she had crocheted.  There was always something delicious and personal in my package, and I hope I was as appreciative then as I am today for each of those things.

My Mom followed in that tradition.  Sometimes I tried to escape without  taking something home, but I seldom got out the door without some delicious left overs or some small things she’d ordered from TV that she thought I just had to have.  The last two years of her life she was unable to get out and shop; I was first her transportation and, ultimately, her personal shopper.  Still, she’d carefully wash out Styrofoam containers from the meals that were delivered to her.  “These can come in handy for your lunch, you never know when you can use them,” she’d say as she tucked them into a used grocery store bag she had squirrelled away in a drawer.  Even when she had so little, I almost never went home empty handed. 

This will still be a joyous Christmas, because the reason for the celebration hasn’t changed.  I will revisit my blessings, and be thankful for every one of my friends and family around the table this year.  The conspicuously empty chair will remind me how lucky I am that my entire life has been lived in a giving season, and that now it is my turn.  Perhaps I can give the important people in my life the one truly priceless thing that was given to me…the memory of hearts so full they always had something to share. 

Merry Christmas to all…make every day a giving season.

  

The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men......

I have always been in awe of people who ‘plan their work and work their plan’.  I wouldn’t say my life has been a complete accident, but that would be closer to the truth than to say I’ve always had a plan.

Even when I have one my plans just never seem to work out.  As I was thinking about this blog entry it occurred to me I have seldom worked in a job for which I formally applied.   My pattern during my working life was to decide on a job, work on my resume, apply for the job….then end up doing something entirely different for someone who came after me.  Somehow that seems to have gotten me where I am today; retired.

Anyway, as I closed my fifth year as editor at Heart of Ohio Magazine my mother’s health was declining.  I made my plan to retire so I would have more time to spend with and care for her.  At the close of October I would retire, write articles on a free-lance basis and spend more time as caregiver. 

Making the decision wasn’t easy because I’ve enjoyed watching the magazine grow and develop; it may be the most satisfying thing I’ve ever undertaken. Still, I knew I could satisfy my need to write without being in the office.   Mom didn’t have to know exactly why I was stepping away, and I could give her the attention she required as her needs increased.   Sounds like a plan, yes?

As we moved into October we hired my replacement at the magazine.   Adelyn Belsterling and I got to know one another, and I felt comfortable knowing the editor’s job was in good hands. 

My mother has always been a strong willed woman who had to have the last word.  It is a trait I share with her, but she perfected it long before I mastered the technique.  In mid-October she became ill and passed away October 21^st, just ten days before my retirement became official.

Even though my plan had changed I decided to go ahead with this (second) retirement.  I now had my mother’s affairs to take care of, and her house to prepare for sale.   A new plan slowly formed; I would use the winter to empty the house, paint the rooms and prepare it to be put on the market in the spring.  I imagined myself, a mug of hot cocoa beside a chair, going through mom’s papers and pictures; then moving on to drawers and closets.  This sad but necessary task had to be accomplished while I wrestled with this new feeling of being an orphan.   No matter how old you are when your parents die there is a loneliness that cannot be explained…only experienced.

Larry and I spent the days after mom’s death just doing the paperwork such an event produces.  We waded through the funeral…the burial…thank you notes and returning calls…cancelling services and policies and direct withdrawals that were, sadly, no longer necessary.  It is the kind of thing that, for me at least, is always mind numbing and sometimes maddening.  He took the lead and I followed behind making my curmudgeon noises. Finally, we were done.

Sitting in the family room one evening, three weeks to the day after my mother’s death, I was settled in with a late cup of coffee and a movie recorded eons ago.  My deep sign of relaxation caught in my throat when Larry appeared in the doorway, “Get your shoes on, your mom’s house is on fire.”

Racing across town we drew as close to the house as the gathering of fire trucks would allow.  No flames were visible, but the smell of burnt wood and belongings filled the rainy night air.  The fire had started in the back of the small house and it burned, scorched and melted everything in its path.  Firemen in yellow slickers and helmets showed us around the rubble of what had once been my parent's home.  The flashing lights of the trucks created a surreal illumination that revealed the damage in pulsing bursts of light.

My latest plan lay smoldering around me.  No papers to go through…no walls to paint…no drawers or closets to empty.  Instead smoke rose from the black, sodden mess that had been my bedroom as a child and mom's room after dad died.  Now the discussion would be with fire investigators and insurance reps.  It crossed my mind that my mom, a very private person who would not appreciate anyone fussing around in her belongings, may have once again had the final word. 

Mom always worried that I worked too hard, that she demanded too much of my time, and that she was a burden.  Even tho I knew none of that was true, she never would have wanted to put on my shoulders the sad duty of clearing away the remnants of the sixty plus years of life she spent in this house with my dad.  Now the work was done, and everything she would have wanted left untouched was gone.

The wheels of the insurance industry are slowly turning; there will soon be a time when we decide what our next course of action will be with mom’s house.   I refuse to think about it constantly, I refuse to give in to grief….and I refuse to call our next step, whatever it might be, “a plan”.

                                                                     Life is Good  

   

 

       

Welcome Autumn

One afternoon last week I sat in the green porch swing, peeling and slicing pears that my husband had collected from his brother’s orchard.  Their sweet, spicy smell filled the air as the juicy fruit plopped into the large mixing bowl in my lap.  The last few days of summer promised to be sunny, and warm, and brief.

A big, fat bee buzzed around the box of pears as I slowly pushed the swing back and forth.  It was a delightfully quiet moment; my mind drifted back to projects like this, watching my Grandmother on hot summer days in Kentucky.  At this time of year her kitchen counters were filled with canning jars of green beans, jelly, green tomato relish and beets.  Conversation revolved around how many ‘quarts’ she had managed to wring from the baskets of produce.  Telephone lines buzzed with women just like her who discussed how pretty their cans were; their own self-worth somehow wrapped up in the amount of food they put in the root cellar for the coming winter.  My contribution as a child to such work was minimal, but my memory of those days proves I was paying more attention than even I knew. 

The pears, now peeled and sliced and sugared, filled four containers for the freezer.  A taste of summer in a cobbler or pie or muffin will be welcome as the soon-to-come cold winter marches through our landscape.  My little project left me with a feeling of accomplishment. There is satisfaction in completing a task, so often in life it seems nothing is ever really finished.

Back in the porch swing I looked out over the green back yard, watching blue jays gather at the base of my blue bottle tree.  Does the sun glinting on the color of their own feathers attract them?  I wonder….

Sitting there, I poured tea from a bottle over a glass of ice.  The level of the tea rose slowly, covering the ice and approaching the rim of the glass.  Slowly, deliberately, I filled it until the level in the glass reached the level of the quiet feeling I enjoyed.

It occurs to me that contentment does not come in a quick-filling rush, but the slow and quiet trickle that happens over the years.  The fall is a lovely time of year, and a lovely time of life.   My glass is full.

 

Three Little Words

                                                           

                                                             



                                                           

There are three words that, when used together, change everything.   If you think you know which three they are you’d be wrong.   It’s not “I love you”….although those certainly are life changing words.  It isn’t the cheery “please come again” cashiers chirp as you exit a store.   It’s not even the three words that strike fear in every heart, “some assembly required”.  These three words are the real game changers…they are ”the last time”.

The last time is a phrase that carries varying degrees of distress with it.  “The last time I saw my car keys”….uh-oh.  “When was the last time you made a payment?…..hmmm. “I remember the last time your mother stayed for a week”…..oh, yeah.  String them together and these words cause us to turn around and look back.  It's a sneaky phrase, and the worst part is that you often don’t know it’s the last time when it’s in progress.

 

For me 2014 has seen the loss of some very dear and very long time friends.  A couple of the losses were shocking…a couple expected….none was welcome.   As we confront the finality of death we are also left to deal with “the last time”. 

The last time I saw my friend Linda was last February. Larry and I were returning from spending a month in Florida and, just as we had the year before, we stopped in to visit on our way through her town.  We spent a couple of hours together, laughing and remembering old times.  I shared with her my most vivid memory of her when we were young.  I imagine we might have been twelve or thirteen, gathered around one of the many bon fires I was lucky enough to enjoy in her back yard.  We toasted marshmallows on long, sharpened sticks and she sang a Beetles song, “Give me Money” as the fires light played across our faces.  She smiled at the memory, surprised I even remembered those bon fires on the long ago fall evenings.  As I hugged her goodbye I didn’t realize it was for the last time.

My friend Chris and I met two others for dinner once a month to catch up on what was going on in each of our lives.   We grew up together in the old neighborhood, went to school together and stayed in touch for more years than I like to admit.  At dinner she talked about her coming trip to Arizona, it would be a welcome break from the frigid Ohio winter, and we would all catch up with one another in the spring.  We all hugged and raced off into the cold winter evening. It was the last time I ever saw her…if only I had known I’d have taken more time, soaked up more memories.

Going through my Face Book friends list the other evening I realized there several who are now gone.  People with whom I’ve worked over the years…high school classmates…close friends and relatives…gone.  With each one I had a “last time” encounter, even if it was an instant message.  Not even once did I recognize it might be the very last time I saw or connected with this person.

Thirteen years ago today approximately three thousand Americans did not know it would be the last time they saw their family or loved ones.  As those people poured into the towers for what seemed like just another work day, they had no idea their names would go down in history as one of the victims of a heinous act of terrorism.   The scenes of those planes striking the buildings, of people fleeing for their lives as brave police and firemen running toward the chaos, will be with me the rest of my life.  If we learned anything at all from the tragedy it might just be to always be mindful of “the last time”

.

Pray for our country, hold your loved ones close, and celebrate your friendships so that when “the last time” comes you will have left nothing unsaid.

                                                        Remember 9/11/200l   

   

Arm Chair Traveler

Like most people I believe we are living in a world that is experiencing a technology glut.  Too many devices and way too much software to learn about.  Knowing the down side doesn’t keep us from enjoying the upside, however.  Here’s one of the websites I visit often…..

EarthCam.com is dedicated to the voyeur in all of us.  It was founded in 1996 in Hackensack, New Jersey.  Over the years it has expanded by leaps and bounds, a window to the world for anyone with a computer. 

Some years ago I had a device that would scan web cam sites, giving me a ten minute view of any place I chose as long as it was in the system.

The sites from which to choose were fewer in those days, but every morning I would have my coffee as I checked in on Loch Ness in the Scottish Highlands, then the picture might be from atop the Eiffel Tower, the Brooklyn Bridge or the Hollywood sign looking out over the valley. I could travel the world daily without ever putting my coffee cup down!

Today the EarthCam offerings have grown to include hundreds of sites.  Locations range from a Las Vegas wedding chapel shown in real time to a botanical garden in Ferrara, Italy. 

 The Statue of Liberty torch cam

provides a look at all the cameras originating their feeds from the statue. 


In Keystone South Dakota, the cameras are always aimed at Mt. Rushmore, providing us a close up view of the sixty foot high faces of four of our most famous presidents.  It’s no effort at all to find web cams in dozens of countries and, very likely, in places you’ve always wanted to visit.  It’s the next best thing to being there.

 

Several years ago my husband and I were planning a trip to Niagara Falls.  He found a web cam located on the Minolta Towers building, and asked for a room close to the camera's location because the view of the falls was so beautiful.  We ended up in the perfect room to look down on the falls because of that camera.

Some sites are live, some update every few minutes.  You can entertain yourself by watching the action on Bourbon Street, or the inaction of an anonymous home owner’s cat door.   Sometimes I check in to see the conditions on my favorite beach, the white sands of Panama City Beach, Florida.   The site is as eclectic and off beat as the Internet itself.

If you’ve always wanted to see the Aurora Borealis you might want to visit Porjus.eu, or visit Porjus Northern Lights Apartments on Facebook.   Every year my husband goes to Canada fishing, and he’s always told me how fantastic the northern lights are.   I’ve seen them, too, without ever having to bait a hook.   The cameras for Porjus are located in Lapland, Sweden.

Whenever you want to ‘get your British on’ all you need to do is check out Abbyroad.com for 24 hour, real time audio and video of the Abbey Road crossing.  This is the street where the Beatles shot the iconic picture used for their 1969 album cover; the web cam service is provided by Abby Road Recording Studios.

The Internet of chocked full of interesting time wasters, and this is just one of them.  The earth cams are something that I enjoy, but you do need to pay attention when you’re searching these sites.   Some of the things I’ve accidentally stumbled upon would make a world traveling sailor blush.

The Internet has taken us from “Calgon take me away” to “Internet take me anywhere I want to go”.   It’s a great way to travel with absolutely no unpacking…..

                                                                         

                                                          Life is Good  

Spare the Rod

Proverbs 13:24:    He that spareth his rod hateth his son:  but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes.

Having been editor of Heart of Ohio and Pairings Magazines for the last five years I’ve gotten to meet some really interesting people.  Even before Heart I’ve always been fortunate enough to have a job that brought into contact with motivated, talented and sometimes off-beat people…but the magazine contacts have added another dimension that I’ve embraced and enjoyed.

A few weeks ago I conducted an interview with a young man whose religion and lifestyle are totally different from my own.  I came away from our conversation with an enhanced respect and a little better understanding about what it means to be Amish.

Like most people I’ve always been curious about the families I see getting in and out of vans at stores in our area, or those guiding clip-clopping buggies along route 13 as Larry and I head to the lake.  I was honored this man consented to speak with me, and amazed to find him so candid and friendly. 

If you read the upcoming September/October issue of Heart of Ohio Magazine you’ll find my interview and story.  What you won’t find in those pages is this story he shared with me as we sat talking about many things.

As conversations with adults often do, ours drifted to family and raising children.   I asked about Amish teens, and he smiled as we talked about the challenges they present in every culture.   In today’s world where “time out” is the socially acceptable form of punishment I asked if he believed in spanking.  I still believe corporal punishment is warranted in some cases….he agreed with me and told me this story:

 “When I was a boy I had done something totally out of character and definitely something that required punishment.  My Mother, never one to react in anger, said we would discuss this later.  I waited all day, and finally she took me aside for our discussion.  We had a stirring stick she used as a paddle, and she had that with her.  I knew what that meant, and I said, ‘Don’t bother telling me this is going to hurt you more than me, cause it isn’t’.  My Mother looked at me and said, ‘you really don’t know what it means to discipline someone you love, do you?’  With that she gave me the small paddle and said, ‘I will let you discipline me.  I want you to hit me with this, and I know how hard I paddle you, so don’t hold back.’  For a moment I thought I’d lucked out! I took the small paddle, and then I looked at my Mother.  ‘Go ahead, son…’  I couldn’t do it.  I could not strike my Mother.  That was when I understood that disciplining your child is painful and hard, but necessary to the growth of the child.  I’ve never forgotten that.”

His eyes misted as he told me the story.  I was touched as he went on to explain his belief that it is never right to discipline a child out of anger, and how carefully a disciplinary decision must be made.  I shared with him how many times I was forced to go back and apologize to my own children because I had reacted out of anger and/or exhaustion. Patience has never been my strong suit, parenting did nothing to improve that trait.  The young man smiled as he said, “Every parent worth their salt has had to do that.”

If I could go back in time and do it all over again (how many times has that sentence gone through your head?) I would do things differently.  I would try harder to remember that parenting isn’t something allotted to the short amount of time left after a full time job, cooking, dishes, laundry and the myriad of other things that absorb the daylight hours.  I would make the most of ‘bath time-story time-bed time-can I have a glass of water time’ every night.  I would know enough to constantly remind myself how quickly these days will be gone, and I would try to be as good a parent as I think my own children are to my grandchildren.  Hind sight being what it is, I’d have more to work with…remember I was raising children without the benefit of the Dr. Phil show.

The one thing I would not change is the occasional fanny warming.  I believe that children need to have consistent boundaries, they need to know what those boundaries are, and they need to know there will be consequences if they cross them.  I am not condoning physical violence, and I don’t support the people who pummel their children in the grocery aisles or knock them around when they get home.  That isn't discipline, that's abuse.  However, I think there is a time and place for corporal punishment.

Think of a youngsters fanny as a physical "reset button" if you will.  A willful four year old who is intent on breaking the television remote with a coffee mug is told to stop.  Looking at her mother defiantly she says, "no!"., and continues to flail the coffee mug.  A time out is surely in order...but on the way to the designated time out area a smack on the rear end pushes the reset button.  The child is no longer thinking about how determined she is to destroy the remote.  Her concentration has been directed to her derriere and the possibility that there may just be another fanny smack where that one came from. The child knows Mom is fully engaged, paying attention, and not willing to put up with any more of her nonsense....reset!  Not exactly a Dr. Benjamin Spock moment, but his son didn't like him anyway.

What the young Amish man’s story said to me was this:  Here is a man who was raised to honor and obey his parents.  He says he never struck in anger, but disciplined in love.  Years later he tells this story and what it taught him about raising his own children in a voice that rings with the highest regard for his parents.

I know my thinking may be considered old fashioned, and it’s certainly not the popular opinion of today…but look around you at the “time out” generation and explain to me how raising a child that fears nothing and no one has advanced our families or our country. 

I believe today’s adage should be “spare the rod and someday you may need a bigger weapon to defend yourself”.

                                                               Life is Good

If it Ain't Broke....

This past weekend I made a happy discovery as I was cleaning out a cabinet in the spare bedroom.  I discovered an unopened container of body butter, a kind I’d used for a number of years.  Somehow it had been pushed to the back of the cabinet and I had forgotten about it.  After happily showering and slathering it all over myself I went to the Internet to find out how much it costs these days.  Surprise, surprise….they don’t make it any more.

I grew up in the days when there was a thing called ‘brand loyalty’.   Everyone and his brother didn’t make a knock-off version of each product, so if you used Noxzema, you used Noxzema.  Every time you went to the drug store shelf that chunky blue jar would be waiting for you.   It always looked the same….it always smelled the same….and it was in the same doggoned place you expected it to be.   We all knew Noxzema cured acne, stopped itching, soothed sunburn and healed dishpan hands.  It was nothing short of a mentholated miracle, but recently I was disappointed to discover it doesn’t smell the same!  I want to go on record as saying I do not want new and improved...I want old and relateable!

I remember a huge jar of Ponds Cold Cream on the cabinet in my grandmother’s bathroom.  She used it to clean her skin, soften her hands and, my bet would be, it likely eased the squeaks on a few door hinges.  It just seemed to be good for everything. I still recall how silky and cold it always felt, even on the hottest summer days.  Every now and then I would quietly close and lock the bathroom door and twist open the jar to inhale the creamy scent, poking a finger into the gooey stuff.

These things ran through my mind as I researched  the newly discovered jar of my old favorite skin cream on line.   Why don’t things stick around anymore?  In this ‘hurry up and change’ world we live in I think we’ve all come to terms with the fact that it doesn’t pay to get attached to anything.   Find a bra you really like and I guarantee it won’t be there next time you shop your favorite lingerie department.  Victoria’s real “secret” is the invisible expiration date on everything produced for consumers these days.  Why don’t they just stamp “this item will not be available after 00/00/00”?  At least it would give us a chance to warehouse some quantity of a favorite hair spray or skin cream or under garment for future use. 

 

It seems to me that companies spend more on advertising than on production. ‘Our product may not be good enough for the long haul, but if it’s promoted well we can make a profit and get on to the next big advertising campaign before they wise up to us’, seems to be the mantra of big companies these days.  I blame a lot of that mentality on the fact that competition is around every corner.  Make a good product and in six weeks you’ll see a knock off on the pharmacy shelf just below yours at three dollars less.  Wait three months and there will be an end display of “As Seen on TV” products that mimic yours for $9.95.  Finally, another version of your product shows up on a late night television infomercial selling as a ‘buy one get one free, just pay separate shipping and handling’ offer.  It has to be frustrating.

I guess it’s just the way this world works today, but I still miss the simpler times when Ponds Cold Cream, in an un-researched, generic black and white jar, sat atop my grandmother’s dresser.  The world seemed simpler and ever so much more predictable.   Embracing the slogan “nothing is constant but change”, I guess I will just have to stock up next time I find a skin cream I really like.   The trick is to ferret away just enough stuff.  If I multiply the number of bottles (or jars) of skin cream by the number of ‘leg shaving’ years I have left….then divide that by the total days of sunshine predicted for the next ten years I might come up with a workable number. 

That’s my own new and improved formula……..

                                                             Life is Good

The Best of the Mohicans

My husband and I have reached the stage in our marriage where we don’t always exchange gifts for our anniversary.   The behavior that would have sent me into a tailspin thirty years ago, forgetting our anniversary, now passes without much reaction and absolutely no punishment. 

In the early years of our marriage the sin of forgetting our anniversary has been known to be acknowledged with a thank you card.   Inside a heart-felt note, and the bill for whatever I bought to “celebrate” our special day, was my personal way of reminding him it’s probably cheaper to remember than to forget.

 

All that’s behind us now, and it’s not that we don’t acknowledge the date and take a moment to wonder where the years have gone….we do.    But we don’t dig out the traditional list of gifts for anniversaries and try to find something to fit.   Actually, it’s a good thing we don’t, because we just had our 49^th and there is no traditional gift for the 49^th anniversary!  The list goes from the 45^th year (sapphire), to the 50^th (gold) and then on to the 60^th (diamond).   Maybe it’s because not a lot of people make it to those anniversaries, or maybe it’s because you probably don’t need anything by the time you’ve reached these milestones.

Earlier this year I did a story for Heart of Ohio Magazine on The Mohicans, a resort down around Loudonville that has some beautiful cottages, two amazing tree houses and The Grand Barn event center where they hold weddings and other events.    Larry wanted to see the places, so he tagged along.  The whole time I fired questions at our guide for the day, my husband walked around shaking his head and saying “wow”.    He made it clear he was impressed and smitten with the whole property, and it’s not something he usually does.

So….as the date for our anniversary rolled around, I thought about how much he liked the tree houses and decided that would be a great surprise for him.  We would spend a night in the tree house.  He really loved the red one that had been on a TV show after we went to do the interview on site, so that’s the one I chose.

When the date arrived we packed up a few things to take along, stopped at Kentucky Fried Chicken for two dinners (we really have our elegant moments, don’t we?) and headed to The Mohicans.

When we arrived we dropped off our paperwork, got our instructions and headed to the tree house.  It was a chilly evening, but the sun down promised to be spectacular and the woods were newly leafed and aromatic. Climbing the hill with our bags and, most importantly, our extra crispy chicken, we were anxious to get settled in. 

     

Once we got inside we could appreciate looking out into the woods and listening to the….quiet.  The coffee table in the sitting area boasted a bottle of wine and a lavish cheese and fruit plate,

compliments of our three thought kids.  Well, one is thoughtful and the other two are great financial contributors to anything she comes up with; you know who you are.

     

As darkness fell we experienced the deepest, most enveloping silence either of us could ever remember. The velvety darkness wrapped us in an unearthly quiet that was only broken by the occasional rustle of leaves from the floor of the woods below us.   It was wonderful.

When it was time for bed we climbed the ladder into the loft, snuggled into bed and drifted off to sleep.  The comforting quiet and the smell of freshly hewn wood worked like a sleeping pill; morning arrived almost as soon as I closed my eyes.

   

With Friday morning's sun-washed arrival came the challenge of getting back down the ladder.   I have to admit to being height challenged…anything higher than a one inch heel on my shoe will send me into panic mode.  Larry patiently assisted with my decent, and I will forgive him for his comments, derisive laughter

and other general torment by our next anniversary, I’m pretty sure.

Watching the sunrise with a cup of coffee on the deck was amazing, while indoors the sunlight through the stained glass, east-facing window left patterns on the walls that bathed the room with color.









 As I admired the light display I happened to notice a little notebook left for comments. 

Inside I read accounts from other occupants of the little red tree house.  One entry from January described the blissful quiet and the snug feeling of tranquility; every entry spoke of the beauty of that particular season and the wish to return to the embrace of this little house.  Larry and I would second that.

I don’t really have a bucket list, but if spending the night in a tree house had been on my list I’m not sure I’d cross it off….more likely I’d encase it in parenthesis and plan to do it all over again.  It just proves you’re never too old to have a happy childhood.

Thanks to The Mohicans we had a memorable wedding anniversary.  If you Google The Mohicans Treehouse you can see the project for yourself.   It has the Larry and Diana Coon stamp of approval.

                                                                         

                                                          Life is Good

When No One Calls

We’ve all heard the old adage “you learn something new every day”….probably even said it a time or two.   Last night an unexpected phone call taught me a valuable lesson that I will strive to remember from now on.

I crawled into bed early last evening after having one of those days that just seemed to suck the life force from your body.   I was exhausted, so when the phone rang at around ten thirty I’d already been sleeping for about an hour.

The phone is on my husband’s side of the bed, and I listened as he tried to connect with the person on the other end of the line.  His, “hello?….hello?...hello?” went without acknowledgement and he turned to me with a puzzled expression.

“Who is it,” I asked?   I was instantly convinced someone was dead, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know just who that might be.

“I don’t have any idea,” my husband said.  He handed me the telephone.

I listened intently to the conversation going on at the other end; it wasn’t long before I realized I was eavesdropping on someone’s discussion!  I also loudly tried to get their attention, then strained to identify one of the two or three voices as the women talked.   I thought I had it…then decided it couldn’t be that person.   Listening more closely I figured it was another person…but the voice was just not close enough to the phone to be sure.   Who in the world is this?

Finally I stopped trying to figure out “whom” and listened for a second to “what”, and that’s when I realized they were talking about ME!

I am guilty of not taking the high road; I listened for a moment as one woman talked to the others about Heart of Ohio Magazine, which she was obviously showing them.  They must have been in front of a computer, because they went on to visit my (this) blog.  While they were commenting about the article I wrote about the drift wood tree, I finally realized I was listening to one of our neighbors.   It was a relief to figure out who it was….but a total mystery how we came to be connected by telephone.

I only listened a couple of minutes more and, still unable to gain their attention, I hung up.   The conversation I heard was as complimentary as if I’d been sitting in the room giving them no other option.  It was very kind.

After scratching our heads at the mystery of it all, my husband and I settled back down to sleep.  I lay there in the dark for a bit thinking that our neighbors, whom I’ve always considered to be very nice and genuine people, were just as nice when they didn’t know (I) someone was listening as they are when speaking to people face to face.   I have to admit I was a bit uncomfortable wondering if I would fare as well in the same situation. 

I don’t have the slightest idea how we became technically linked last evening.  Maybe it was a call arranged by a higher power, I can’t really say.  I only know what started as an accidental dialing actually became a learning experience.

How easy it is to say unkind things cloaked in the guise of “it’s just my sense of humor”.    It’s easy to slip into the mode of being judgmental and critical and forget that kindness is the better option…..always. 

Think about it for just a second, and be honest with yourself. How would you be perceived if someone overheard you talking to others about them?   I took stock and made a mental note that I want to be able to pass the test presented by an unknown person in the room listening.   All too often the main source of protein in my diet has come from putting my over-sized foot in my mouth.   I’m going to work on that.

Okay, I’m going to work on being a kinder, gentler person….but, just in case you think I’m going to completely lose my sense of humor, hear this:   I am going to mercilessly tease my neighbors about the phone call and enjoy every second of it at our next breakfast meeting.   I have not told them about my eavesdropping experience, but when they read this they’ll know who they are.

It’s great to have good neighbors….it’s also great to realize they’re actually as good as you thought they were.

                                                      Life is Good

  

I Think That I Shall Never See.....

I'm one of those people who has to have a "project" going all the time.  Whether it's writing, painting something, redecorating, refinishing or a sewing project....I generally have something in the works to keep my hands busy.

My latest idea got it's start in a shop in Florida that I always visit when we are in the area.  The whole store is a collection of booths filled with antiques, collectibles and new items that are artfully arranged to distract the shopper from the fact that not one item in the whole place is either necessary or useful.  In other words....it's my favorite shop.

Every year there seems to be a new craft trend in this place; this year was no exception.  It seemed to me the word was passed that the shell to use in 2014 was the oyster shell.  As we browsed the store my sister-in-law, Sue, and I saw oyster shell lamp shades and mirror frames and decorated trays. They filled basket, glass cylinders and bowls.  Personally I didn't find them to be a very attractive shell, but it was evident they met the criteria every artist/crafter looks for; my bet is they are plentiful and cheap.

We had been browsing for a while and, just as we were about to decide there wasn't anything very interesting, we came upon a display that included a driftwood tree.  It was probably three or four feet tall, it sat in the middle of a rustic wooden table.  The "branches" were gnarled wood that had been burnished by wind and water, the base was a wooden stump with the bark still attached.  I liked it immediately and started mentally cataloging the things that would be required to reproduce one like it....I'd found my next project!


Although patience isn't something I'm know for, I knew this was a project that would have to wait till spring.  It seemed to take forever,  but eventually the winter passed and Lake Erie thawed.  We returned to open our lake place only to find that the frenzied water had generously decided to deposit an amazing array of driftwood on the beach.    Sue and I scoured the beaches for a couple of weekends, and finally the pile of driftwood had grown big enough to lay out two trees.   We were fortunate enough to find two big chunks of wood with holes already drilled completely through them that served as the perfect bases.  We bought two copper rods, and proceeded to lay out the trees in the grass.

Luckily we're married to two good sports who own drills.  Sue and I measured and marked the pieces, the fellas drilled them and helped thread them on the rods.  The whole project took about two hours from start to finish, and we are now the proud owners of two driftwood trees.  Hers is about five feet tall, just a little shorter than my seven foot finished product.

I've decided I might like one of these on the deck at home, so I went back to scour the beach for enough pieces to create a much smaller version.

There's something satisfying about making something out of nothing with your own two hands.   The season is off to a good start with leisurely beach combing for sea glass and driftwood.  Who knows what treasures you might find in between those lovely sunrises and spectacular sunsets?  Summer at the lake...
                                                   

                                                   Life is Good



 



 

Have a Good Day

I believe it’s only human nature to think whatever time of life you’re in has got to be the toughest road you’ve ever traveled.  I know I feel that way a lot of the time these days.

For more years than I can remember I have been helping my parents cope with their health problems.  First my dad; the last years of his life were very challenging for him.  Pop dealt with the pain and confusion as well as anyone possibly could, but the last thirteen months of his life were spent in a nursing home that we tried to make as much like home as possible.  He had the care he needed and the companionship he deserved.  There was never a day he didn’t have at least one (and usually more) family member there; I know that made all the difference in the world to him.

The after effects of a major anesthetic left my father with terrifying hallucinations for weeks after his surgery.  For what seemed like forever he saw insects crawling from his pores, and he refused to eat because his mind conjured up an autopsy in progress across the hall from his hospital room.  He was convinced everything they brought him to eat was the product of that awful vision.  We carried his food to him from the outside until that particular horror subsided.    

Now we face my mother’s declining health.  She is physically frail and seems to grow more and more confused as the days go by.  Even the simplest things present a challenge and require repeated explanation.  The past is vivid, the future frightening and the present beyond her understanding much of the time.  

Mom and I have officially switched roles; now I am the one urging her to eat her vegetables and to take a nap.  I am the mean care giver who has removed her from her home and taken away her car.  I dispense her medications and monitor her liquid intake.  In other words, I’m the ‘bad guy’.  It’s a painful role I regret ever having to play.

The challenges we now face with my mother are unrelenting.  Her short term memory and paranoia worsen as the days slip by.   Physically and mentally challenged, she feels stranded and lost and alone.  The deficits in her day to day life seem to be things I cannot replace no matter how hard I try, and the presence of a loving family, while precious to her, still cannot make up for all that she has lost.  She is inconsolable in her unhappiness…and I don’t blame her.

Given the fact that I’m an only child I know it could be much worse.  I am supported by loving children and a husband who, according to my mom, has reached the status of sainthood.  They prop me up when I need it, and Larry serves as the buffer between two strong female wills that  sometimes clash.  We just do it one day at a time.

Watching my parent’s I’ve become increasingly curious about the aging process in the brain.  When I was a young girl I remember my great grandfather sitting on his front porch, fishing pole in hand, as he waited for his brother to arrive to take him to their favorite fishing hole.  I must have been ten or twelve, but I still remember the way my relatives shook their head and mumbled to one another about poor Poppy’s ‘hardening of the arteries’.    In fact his brother had been dead for many years, but if you questioned him the next day he would recount what a gorgeous summer day it had been and about the fish he and his brother caught. 

   

I wondered then, as I wonder now, why that made everyone so sad.  His mind transported him to another time when he was younger, stronger and happy; time he spent with a brother whose company he enjoyed.  This time travel left behind the boredom and depression of being a very old man and restored him to a more active time in his life.  As a child I thought that was a win-win, and nothing I’ve seen since has changed my mind.

The experience I’ve gained from watching and/or caring for loved ones as they’re grown older leaves me with just one question…how do we summon happy hallucinations like my great grandfather experienced?  He is the only person I can remember who actually seemed happy in his deepening dementia.  Was he a happier person to begin with?  Was there a chemical in his brain that bridged the gap to connect him to happy memories instead of forcing him to  live in a horror movie?  Where is that switch…how do we access it?

Maybe it’s just a selfish wish, but if I knew how to resurrect those happy days in my mother’s mind I would do it in a second.  I would welcome the chance to see her waiting for a beloved brother, or her own gentle parents or a good friend, instead of aimlessly walking  around her apartment searching for things she’s convinced have been stolen by a stranger.   How wonderful  if she could smile at the sound of a footstep in the hall that she believes is my dad coming to take her to dinner, instead of seeing her frightened that every noise is the approach of a violent intruder.

Perhaps the most frustrating part is that I know whatever I learn from this experience will probably be lost in my own electrical storm that seems to be dementia.  I likely will be unable to remember how difficult this time has been for me, even though I would do anything to keep from putting my own children through the experience.   My hope is that the mental “trap door” my great grandfather possessed might exist somewhere in a corner of my own mind.   If so, I may someday be a very old woman sitting on the porch waiting for my husband to pick me up so we can head to the lake to enjoy a day of kayaking.

                                               Life is Good   

When the Phone Rings

Have you ever given any thought about how many emotions can be invoked by the sound of a telephone?  I haven't for a long time, if I ever really have at all. 

A few weeks ago I had dinner with a friend who was leaving for an extended stay out of state.  She was looking forward to seeing old friends there, and even more excited about seeing her youngest son marry his long time sweetheart.  I don’t even remember what I said to her as we left the restaurant.    Maybe we joked about her paying the bill next time….I’m sure we complained about the bone chilling cold…perhaps I told her I’d see her at the winter’s end when she got back to town.  As it turns out it will be the last time I ever speak to her; I am saddened that I can’t remember our final words.

When the phone rang last week I looked at the screen and knew it was my husband calling from home.   I assumed it was one of our many ‘stop and pick up’ calls we make so often.  The call was just another run of the mill interruption in a day full of interruptions at the office.  In fact it was my husband delivering the news that my friend was gravely ill, and her sister would like to talk to me.

The face of my friend was in my mind the whole time I spoke with her sister.  It seems she had become ill and had ended up in a far-away emergency room.   Doctors discovered the reason for her illness, a devastating cancer  no other professional had been able to diagnose even though she has been in chronic discomfort for years.  No “patch you up and send you home” illness, this one.  She deteriorated rapidly and was eventually put into the ICU by the weekend. 

This kind and gentle soul is a woman with whom I’ve been friends for over fifty years.   As she lies fighting for her life, thousands of miles away, I wish I could sit by her bed and try to comfort her.  All I can do is pray for her and for her family who is doing just that.

 

Now I am waiting for the phone to ring.   Every single time it does I feel a cold finger run up my spine; it is a call I do not want to receive.  I’ve promised myself this experience will change the way I do things from this time on.  I want the parting words I speak to my friends to be memorable and honest.  From now on I will hug my friends close and say, “You are my friend, and I love you.”    I will say it because I want these to be our last words, spoken in the hope that we will meet again.   More importantly I will say it to honor my dear friend, to whom I can no longer say the words, and hope that she can hear me.

                                                                    Life is Good

Bottoms Up!!

I have recently completed, and survived, the test that strikes fear in the hearts of most men and women…...the colonoscopy.

 

Like everything else in my life, I made the appointment and gave very little thought to it until the day was almost upon me.  I have to say I’ve had this test several times before and knew what to expect.  Monday evening I read through the materials to make sure I was doing what I was supposed to be doing.  I realized I was supposed to have stopped taking aspirin five days ago….scratch that.  I read through the “day-before-lift-off” dietary instructions.  Clear liquid,check…jello,check…coffee with no cream…groan.  Okay…it’s basically one full day of aggravation, but I had a lot of writing to do so I would be able to keep my mind off food, and drink, and comfort.

Opening the bag from the pharmacy I realized the medical “Drain-O”  they give prescribed looked different this time.  I read the directions on the huge white bottle, which did not match the directions on the sheet given to me by my physician.   A call to the druggist (“That’s what they called in…so it’s definitely not our fault”) confirmed that I had the wrong concoction.   Now I knew I’d have to follow the diet sheet tomorrow and get the other stuff called in, picked up and ready to go before six p.m.   That’s actually the “witching hour” when you start to swill the awful stuff that causes your intestines to go into full battle mode.

Tuesday morning I called the doctor’s office to explain my dilemma.  After talking with the nurse (“That’s not what I called in…so it’s definitely not my fault”) she agreed to call in the proper stuff, which I would pick up after work.

After listening to the druggist explain (a.) what was called in,  (b.) how it was interpreted, (c.) what I was given, and (d.) why it’s not the fault of said druggist, said druggist’s staff, anyone who has ever worked in that particular drug chain or any of their relatives, I paid for the nasty stuff and went home.

Now we’re on track.   I have the big white bottle marked off into four parts, one part to be drunk every fifteen minutes until it’s all gone or you pass out.  After you finish that 32 oz assault you need to drink 8 oz. of plain water, and mentally prepare yourself for the next 32 oz sip-fest.

 

At this point the good news is your hunger is completely gone….maybe for the rest of your life.  Drinking the murky, room temperature, slightly thickened liquid took all of my will power.  The taste wass less repugnant than some of the stuff I’d had in the past…but even the “new improved” version of this was like drinking thick swamp water, with a twist of lemon.  The only way I can get through it is to carefully park my mind someplace else, then open my throat and pour it down.

There is a one hour wait between the first bottle of this stuff and the second.  Before I knew it I was mixing the two packets of powder in the big canister, adding room temperature water to the fill line, and shivering as I anticipate drinking 32 more ounces of this stuff.

As I drank the first 8 ounces of the second bottle a deep rumble began.   Somewhere in the center of my body a hot, clawing creature seemed to be looking for an escape route.  Since I knew perfectly well what that route would be, I decided it was time to set up shop in the bathroom.  That’s pretty much where the rest of the evening was spent.  The only thing that made it even remotely bearable was Wi-Fi. 

After what seemed like an endless night, morning arrived. The gut wrenching siege seemed to be over just in time to head to the hospital for the procedure.  I felt like a dried corn husk, but coffee, water, even chewing gum was forbidden.

As I’m wheeled into a procedure suite I spy my trusty physician, whom I’d seen just two days ago at a strings recital.   We chatted about children, grandchildren and husbands before getting down to business. 

As we made small talk, which I was desperate to keep going,  I was acutely aware of the nurses in the room as they prepared some dreadful looking equipment for my procedure.  One nurse wrestled impossibly long tubes, another had hoses slung over her shoulder and other things that might have come straight from the garden shed.   Isn’t that the new and improved pocket hose?  Did you get the second one free by just paying the shipping and handling?

 

Finally I could keep the doctor’s attention on other things no longer.  Right on schedule an IV dripped some cloudy looking stuff into the veins of my right arm.  A quiet, but friendly, nurse repositioned me just as the light switch in my brain clicked off.

A short time later I emerged from my black velvet cocoon to the sound of a chirpy young nurse telling me how wonderfully I’d done.  Not being able to remember any of it (thankfully) I had to take her word for the fact that I may just be an outstanding colonoscopy patient.  She chatted on as the fog began to clear from my head and I said the first thing that popped into my mind, “Can I get a cup of coffee now?”

If I knew where research was being done to simplify and/or improve this necessary test I would support the effort.  Show me where they’re working to come up with a better tasting drink, or a device being that can be contained in a capsule and

downed with coffee, and I will write a check to support the work.   As it is, I likely won’t have to submit to this undignified test again for several years.  I want to go on record as saying I am grateful for the tests that help us stay healthy…no matter how unpleasant they are.   Let’s make a toast to the doctors who perform these on a daily basis.

                             
 This one’s for you, doctor….bottoms up!!! 

                                                          Life is Good