When I was five
I had my first crush.
His name was Mike Tatum
And he was in his fifties.
I made him promise me
That he'd wait till I was twenty five
And then he'd marry me.
Of course he didn't.
But I forgave him...
Eventually.
When I was fifteen
I was assaulted
And shamed
By a church deacon.
Took me thirty five years
Before I had the courage
To tell anyone.
My mother chalked up my
Rebellious teenage years
To rock and roll music.
When I was twenty five
And married for the first time
I had just had my second baby
And thought my life was perfect
Ignoring the gaping holes
In my heart and soul.
If I could just be a
Better wife
Better lover
Better mother
Better housekeeper
Everything would be
Better.
When I was thirty five
I met my Knight in Shining Armor
After shedding my second
Alcoholic abusive husband
Like a virus
Or a diseased cocoon.
A flaming, carnivorous, strangulating
Panic attack inducing
Cocoon.
When I was forty five
I held tight to my husband
(the Good One)
And my small son
As we bobbed and spun
And were dunked and dragged
Under the waters of cancer
Over and over again
Feathers without anchors
Fireflies without lights
But refusing to let go
Of each other.
And now I'm fifty five
And all I can say is
"Gimme my senior discount, dammit.
I'm old and by god,
I've earned it."
IHOP, here I come.
photo
photo by Sheri Dixon
Showing posts with label getting old. Show all posts
Showing posts with label getting old. Show all posts
Monday, August 18, 2014
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
I Always Thought Wisdom Would Come With Less Tylenol
"That's quite an accomplishment for someone of your age".
On the other side of the looking glass, that would've been a bigger compliment- back when I was a child and had done something considered beyond my years. But this was recently, when I passed my certification test to become a Certified Veterinary Practice Manager- a pretty grueling task.
"That's quite an accomplishment for someone of your age", said a former employer who had been one of my four required references to even apply to sit for the exam.
Because I'm all old now.
At 54, I'm all old now and had never been to college and one of the requirements had also been 18 college hours of business courses. So I signed up for the courses at the community college in the next town over. Five of them were online, but one was in person.
The first night of class I texted Ward. "If I add up the ages of all the other students here, it'll still be less than my age."
I was older than the teacher. Not by much, but still.
I will admit that having gray hair and bifocals has its advantages.
Young men will reach up and get something from a top shelf at the store or offer to lift heavy sacks out of my cart at the car and it's a lot less stressful to know it's not because they are looking for an opening to ask me out but because I remind them of their mom (or grandmother).
When dealing with difficult people at work, it's much less intimidating and confrontational that I look pretty harmless; like I should have fresh-baked still-warm cookies in my pocket.
And I can generally out-maneuver most anyone in any sort of debate- auto repair, work meeting, political discussion...because yanno. I'm old and stuff and they never expect any opposition, much less expertise out of me.
I am a little disappointed in gravity.
I would think that here in the 'non-science-believing' zone of the US, gravity would've been kinder to me just because I accept its existence. Why is everything on me pointed down now? And I swear I'm shorter than I used to be.
I used to worry about appearance. I know it didn't show, but I did to a certain extent.
I polished my nails and wore makeup and pantyhose- even shoes with heels on occasion.
At some point in the last few years, though, I've stopped worrying about how my parts look and just became grateful that they still work.
I've become accustomed to aching most everywhere most every day and weather the days mostly without the aid of Tylenol. At night I sleep with Ward up against my back, Fizzgig up against my tummy, and a heating pad on my side to warm all the aches. I don't sleep very well for some reason- keep dreaming I'm wedged somewhere and can't get out. Then I wake up needing to pee and realize that I really can't get out, and when you need to pee is NOT the time to have to PUSH against a 15 pound dog who weighs roughly 75 pounds when unconscious.
My hair is graying, my parts are all sagging and squishy, my eyes need bifocals, my hip hurts constantly and clicks when I walk, and my ankle that got caught up in a dog chain 11 years ago will never ever be strong again, but yanno what?
I'm OK with all of it.
So I don't look 25 anymore. I'm NOT 25 anymore and wouldn't be 25 again for anything- that was a horrible time in my life filled with instability, lack of self-confidence and angst.
Don't like how I look? Don't look.
Don't like what I have to say? Tough.
Ward's first wife 'had a lot of work done' in an attempt to look young(er). When he and I became a couple 20 years ago, I told him, "I'm going to get old. I will do my best not to get fat or smell bad, but other than that there WILL be gray hair and wrinkles, so if that's not OK, you just need to know that now."
I'm 20 pounds overweight, but not fat (by East Texas standards, anyway), my hair is gray and I've got wrinkles. My one expensive indulgence is French perfume so I'm pretty sure I don't smell bad and Ward is still here.
That's all that matters.
On the other side of the looking glass, that would've been a bigger compliment- back when I was a child and had done something considered beyond my years. But this was recently, when I passed my certification test to become a Certified Veterinary Practice Manager- a pretty grueling task.
"That's quite an accomplishment for someone of your age", said a former employer who had been one of my four required references to even apply to sit for the exam.
Because I'm all old now.
At 54, I'm all old now and had never been to college and one of the requirements had also been 18 college hours of business courses. So I signed up for the courses at the community college in the next town over. Five of them were online, but one was in person.
The first night of class I texted Ward. "If I add up the ages of all the other students here, it'll still be less than my age."
I was older than the teacher. Not by much, but still.
I will admit that having gray hair and bifocals has its advantages.
Young men will reach up and get something from a top shelf at the store or offer to lift heavy sacks out of my cart at the car and it's a lot less stressful to know it's not because they are looking for an opening to ask me out but because I remind them of their mom (or grandmother).
When dealing with difficult people at work, it's much less intimidating and confrontational that I look pretty harmless; like I should have fresh-baked still-warm cookies in my pocket.
And I can generally out-maneuver most anyone in any sort of debate- auto repair, work meeting, political discussion...because yanno. I'm old and stuff and they never expect any opposition, much less expertise out of me.
I am a little disappointed in gravity.
I would think that here in the 'non-science-believing' zone of the US, gravity would've been kinder to me just because I accept its existence. Why is everything on me pointed down now? And I swear I'm shorter than I used to be.
I used to worry about appearance. I know it didn't show, but I did to a certain extent.
I polished my nails and wore makeup and pantyhose- even shoes with heels on occasion.
At some point in the last few years, though, I've stopped worrying about how my parts look and just became grateful that they still work.
I've become accustomed to aching most everywhere most every day and weather the days mostly without the aid of Tylenol. At night I sleep with Ward up against my back, Fizzgig up against my tummy, and a heating pad on my side to warm all the aches. I don't sleep very well for some reason- keep dreaming I'm wedged somewhere and can't get out. Then I wake up needing to pee and realize that I really can't get out, and when you need to pee is NOT the time to have to PUSH against a 15 pound dog who weighs roughly 75 pounds when unconscious.
My hair is graying, my parts are all sagging and squishy, my eyes need bifocals, my hip hurts constantly and clicks when I walk, and my ankle that got caught up in a dog chain 11 years ago will never ever be strong again, but yanno what?
I'm OK with all of it.
So I don't look 25 anymore. I'm NOT 25 anymore and wouldn't be 25 again for anything- that was a horrible time in my life filled with instability, lack of self-confidence and angst.
Don't like how I look? Don't look.
Don't like what I have to say? Tough.
Ward's first wife 'had a lot of work done' in an attempt to look young(er). When he and I became a couple 20 years ago, I told him, "I'm going to get old. I will do my best not to get fat or smell bad, but other than that there WILL be gray hair and wrinkles, so if that's not OK, you just need to know that now."
I'm 20 pounds overweight, but not fat (by East Texas standards, anyway), my hair is gray and I've got wrinkles. My one expensive indulgence is French perfume so I'm pretty sure I don't smell bad and Ward is still here.
That's all that matters.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
When Every Day is a New Day
Most every morning, I see him walking from his cabin to his mom's house.
It's not stalking if you're in my yard, and both little houses are less than 100 feet from our cabin.
Every morning Joe walks over to his mom's house, her morning medications in hand and ready for coffee and conversation.
I love Edna. I've loved her from the moment I met her almost exactly 2 years ago. She was only 91 then.
She was small and frail and in a hospital bed in a hospital. She had read my book, "CancerDance- a love story" (the first version) because Joe had given it to her to define for her this family he was now part of.
I walked in the room and she looked up at me, and in her eyes I saw relief. "Everything will be OK- Sheri's here" they seemed to say.
I had known from the minute Joe said, "Mom fell down and is in the hospital" that her next move would be onto our place. She'd been living alone and I knew those days were probably over for her unless there were special circumstances.
So we put the special circumstances in place.
She had enough in her bank account to purchase a little modular home- a tiny modular home that was nevertheless as big and about 10 times better constructed than the apartment she'd been living in...the apartment that cost her her entire social security check plus some of her savings every month with nothing included- no utilities, no services, no meals...nothing.
She paid cash, hooked up to our well and septic and got herself an account with the phone company and electric company.
We promised her she'd never be alone overnight, since she was an urban dweller and our rural location made her squidgy.
I try to visit her every other day and when Joe and I are out running errands for more than a few hours either Ward or Alec check on her.
At night when I go to bed I turn on the baby monitor that sits one end on the top of her fridge and the other end on our headboard. I turn it off when I hear her little dog dancing around in the morning.
Once a week I take her to get her hair done and we generally go out for lunch afterwards.
But the bulk of Edna-care falls on Joe's big ol' shoulders.
When Edna declared that she needed help and that Joe needed to move to Oklahoma City to help her, he panicked.
When Edna moved into his cabin for a 'visit' to see if she liked Texas and declared 2 weeks later that Joe's little cabin was just fine for her and he could stay living in his camper permanently, he hyperventilated.
When Edna finally moved into her own little house, he was relieved. And horrified. Because she was here. Right here. Forever.
When Edna moved here she was sharp as a tack, in all ways. And Joe was the one she poked.
For some reason, I'm the one she thinks can do no wrong, and Joe can do very little right. It's only funny about half the time now.
Last summer, Edna came down with pneumonia and was hospitalized for a few days. They wanted to keep her longer but she checked herself out against medical advice and three days later was sitting at her kitchen table eating pizza and drinking a beer.
She seemed a little more physically feeble after that.
About 6 months ago, she was sitting down on the end of her bed, misgauged where her butt should land (shut up- we've all done it) and slid off the bed and onto the floor- cutting her forehead on the dresser and bruising herself up pretty good.
Of course, she refused to go to the doctor, much less the hospital.
She used to tell me about her crazy dreams- where people she knows are long dead or relatives still alive come to visit her- but she knew they were dreams. Because she was awake most of the day, most days.
Now she spends a lot of time sleeping and dreaming and sort of drifts in and out of what we see as reality.
She's been getting more and more confused about days and times and thinks her little dog is sometimes a little boy who can't talk or eat correctly...because he doesn't have fingers.
Joe never knows how many places will be set at the table for dinner, because she's cooking for 'everyone'. Sometimes it's 2. Sometimes it's 8.
She'll be 94 in September. She refuses to go to the doctor. Says she's fine. Old, but fine. She told me the other day, "I have aches and pains and I'm getting forgetful, but you know? I still do pretty much what I want to do. Most people my age are dead".
How can you argue with that?
The one thing I hate, personally hate, is that she is forgetting her son.
She'll be talking to him...about him.
He said something about his upcoming birthday and she asked when it was. He told her and she said, "Oh! My son's birthday is that same day!"
When he offers to go to the store for her, she tells him no thanks- she'll wait for her son to go- he's so good at it.
He tries to tell her that HE'S her son and it only makes her angry. She doesn't know who he is, but she knows darn well that he's not her son.
When I'm talking to her she refers to her son...and that other guy. The one who lives out behind her son's house.
Joe asked me why she never forgets who *I* am. I avoided what would normally be my smartass obvious answer- that she loves me better, because it really does bother him...a lot. And I understand why.
I told him that she's living more in the past now than the present, reminded him that she never knew me as looking other than how I do right now, that he left home when he was 17 and except for visits of a few days never went back. Has he looked in the mirror lately? When he walks into her house he's not her 17 year old son...he's a 71 year old man.
While he understands it, it's still difficult.
While I understand her confusion and wanderings, it takes a lot of patience to have a sustained visit with her.
And I'm not her daughter.
Every morning he takes her her pills and has coffee. Every afternoon he has dinner with her. Every evening he takes her her pills. And generally checks on her in between.
And it's a total crap shoot whether he'll be her son, or 'that other guy'. Sometimes they switch places during the visit.
Joe's packing up his camper as I type. He's headed to Montana for a month- something he didn't get to do last year because Edna had just come out of the hospital.
I give him a ton of shit about it- about needing to run up north to shoot and hunt because obviously there are NO GUNS or DEER in Texas, but I understand. I do.
Now more than ever.
And even though I usually never disagree with Edna unless its a life or death situation (like insisting she go to the hospital...with PNEUMONIA) I firmly but kindly tell her yes- her son does need to go up north and he's not abandoning her and the rest of the family will step in and do what he does for her and he'll be back in a few weeks.
Because a month is too long, but a few weeks is acceptable.
Being the caretaker for a child is exhausting, but you know that child will grow up and fly away as they should.
Being the caretaker for someone who's been ill or had surgery can be daunting, but most of the time they recover and re-take their place as another able adult in the family unit who can then care for others as needed.
I cannot imagine my own mother not knowing who I am. Cannot imagine my mother looking directly at me and denying that I belong to her. Cannot imagine watching the woman I remember as being strong and capable and sharp as a tack decline bit by bit, day by day.
He said the other day, "Every day's a new day- I never know who I'll be or what she'll come up with".
I know the next month will give me just a small dose of what Joe does every day right under our noses as we run our own lives.
Amazingly, when we were gone for 10 days, Joe did all the running of the farm- everything Ward, Alec AND I do, plus cared for his mother.
I just wanna tell him to have a wonderful, relaxing time.
Joey- you are appreciated, you are loved, and you are doing a tremendous job caring for your mother.
Be careful, darlin'- have fun and come home safe.
It's not stalking if you're in my yard, and both little houses are less than 100 feet from our cabin.
Every morning Joe walks over to his mom's house, her morning medications in hand and ready for coffee and conversation.
I love Edna. I've loved her from the moment I met her almost exactly 2 years ago. She was only 91 then.
She was small and frail and in a hospital bed in a hospital. She had read my book, "CancerDance- a love story" (the first version) because Joe had given it to her to define for her this family he was now part of.
I walked in the room and she looked up at me, and in her eyes I saw relief. "Everything will be OK- Sheri's here" they seemed to say.
I had known from the minute Joe said, "Mom fell down and is in the hospital" that her next move would be onto our place. She'd been living alone and I knew those days were probably over for her unless there were special circumstances.
So we put the special circumstances in place.
She had enough in her bank account to purchase a little modular home- a tiny modular home that was nevertheless as big and about 10 times better constructed than the apartment she'd been living in...the apartment that cost her her entire social security check plus some of her savings every month with nothing included- no utilities, no services, no meals...nothing.
She paid cash, hooked up to our well and septic and got herself an account with the phone company and electric company.
We promised her she'd never be alone overnight, since she was an urban dweller and our rural location made her squidgy.
I try to visit her every other day and when Joe and I are out running errands for more than a few hours either Ward or Alec check on her.
At night when I go to bed I turn on the baby monitor that sits one end on the top of her fridge and the other end on our headboard. I turn it off when I hear her little dog dancing around in the morning.
Once a week I take her to get her hair done and we generally go out for lunch afterwards.
But the bulk of Edna-care falls on Joe's big ol' shoulders.
When Edna declared that she needed help and that Joe needed to move to Oklahoma City to help her, he panicked.
When Edna moved into his cabin for a 'visit' to see if she liked Texas and declared 2 weeks later that Joe's little cabin was just fine for her and he could stay living in his camper permanently, he hyperventilated.
When Edna finally moved into her own little house, he was relieved. And horrified. Because she was here. Right here. Forever.
When Edna moved here she was sharp as a tack, in all ways. And Joe was the one she poked.
For some reason, I'm the one she thinks can do no wrong, and Joe can do very little right. It's only funny about half the time now.
Last summer, Edna came down with pneumonia and was hospitalized for a few days. They wanted to keep her longer but she checked herself out against medical advice and three days later was sitting at her kitchen table eating pizza and drinking a beer.
She seemed a little more physically feeble after that.
About 6 months ago, she was sitting down on the end of her bed, misgauged where her butt should land (shut up- we've all done it) and slid off the bed and onto the floor- cutting her forehead on the dresser and bruising herself up pretty good.
Of course, she refused to go to the doctor, much less the hospital.
She used to tell me about her crazy dreams- where people she knows are long dead or relatives still alive come to visit her- but she knew they were dreams. Because she was awake most of the day, most days.
Now she spends a lot of time sleeping and dreaming and sort of drifts in and out of what we see as reality.
She's been getting more and more confused about days and times and thinks her little dog is sometimes a little boy who can't talk or eat correctly...because he doesn't have fingers.
Joe never knows how many places will be set at the table for dinner, because she's cooking for 'everyone'. Sometimes it's 2. Sometimes it's 8.
She'll be 94 in September. She refuses to go to the doctor. Says she's fine. Old, but fine. She told me the other day, "I have aches and pains and I'm getting forgetful, but you know? I still do pretty much what I want to do. Most people my age are dead".
How can you argue with that?
The one thing I hate, personally hate, is that she is forgetting her son.
She'll be talking to him...about him.
He said something about his upcoming birthday and she asked when it was. He told her and she said, "Oh! My son's birthday is that same day!"
When he offers to go to the store for her, she tells him no thanks- she'll wait for her son to go- he's so good at it.
He tries to tell her that HE'S her son and it only makes her angry. She doesn't know who he is, but she knows darn well that he's not her son.
When I'm talking to her she refers to her son...and that other guy. The one who lives out behind her son's house.
Joe asked me why she never forgets who *I* am. I avoided what would normally be my smartass obvious answer- that she loves me better, because it really does bother him...a lot. And I understand why.
I told him that she's living more in the past now than the present, reminded him that she never knew me as looking other than how I do right now, that he left home when he was 17 and except for visits of a few days never went back. Has he looked in the mirror lately? When he walks into her house he's not her 17 year old son...he's a 71 year old man.
While he understands it, it's still difficult.
While I understand her confusion and wanderings, it takes a lot of patience to have a sustained visit with her.
And I'm not her daughter.
Every morning he takes her her pills and has coffee. Every afternoon he has dinner with her. Every evening he takes her her pills. And generally checks on her in between.
And it's a total crap shoot whether he'll be her son, or 'that other guy'. Sometimes they switch places during the visit.
Joe's packing up his camper as I type. He's headed to Montana for a month- something he didn't get to do last year because Edna had just come out of the hospital.
I give him a ton of shit about it- about needing to run up north to shoot and hunt because obviously there are NO GUNS or DEER in Texas, but I understand. I do.
Now more than ever.
And even though I usually never disagree with Edna unless its a life or death situation (like insisting she go to the hospital...with PNEUMONIA) I firmly but kindly tell her yes- her son does need to go up north and he's not abandoning her and the rest of the family will step in and do what he does for her and he'll be back in a few weeks.
Because a month is too long, but a few weeks is acceptable.
Being the caretaker for a child is exhausting, but you know that child will grow up and fly away as they should.
Being the caretaker for someone who's been ill or had surgery can be daunting, but most of the time they recover and re-take their place as another able adult in the family unit who can then care for others as needed.
I cannot imagine my own mother not knowing who I am. Cannot imagine my mother looking directly at me and denying that I belong to her. Cannot imagine watching the woman I remember as being strong and capable and sharp as a tack decline bit by bit, day by day.
He said the other day, "Every day's a new day- I never know who I'll be or what she'll come up with".
I know the next month will give me just a small dose of what Joe does every day right under our noses as we run our own lives.
Amazingly, when we were gone for 10 days, Joe did all the running of the farm- everything Ward, Alec AND I do, plus cared for his mother.
I just wanna tell him to have a wonderful, relaxing time.
Joey- you are appreciated, you are loved, and you are doing a tremendous job caring for your mother.
Be careful, darlin'- have fun and come home safe.
Monday, September 17, 2012
How Did "Morning" Become Triage?
The Edna Alarm went off at about 6:30 today.
It goes off every morning anywhere from 5:30 till about 7am and sounds like this-
*pitty pat pitty pat pitty pat shuffle shuffle shuffle*
"Good morning, sweeties! How's momma's babies? Time to go outside!"
*door opens. sound of coffee being made*
That's when I turn it off and know everything's ok.
That's when I do my morning inventory on myself.
I realized this morning that the following routine used to be something I'd do after an unexpected physical event- like falling off of a ladder, or through a hole in the porch, or being dragged by a horse. Who could've foreseen that someday just the act of getting out of the damn bed would require triage???
Lying in bed, I go over how everything seems to be working in idle and before I try 'drive'.
Headache? Not today. I hate when I wake up with a headache. I hate most of all when the headache actually wakes me up.
Teeth? So far so good- all accounted for and in place. If I've had troublesome dreams I know it even if I don't remember them because my crown will hurt like the dickens after being clenched on all night.
Chest? Pretty good today. If I sleep on my side, I'm ok. If I've slept on my back, I'll wake up with a chest feeling like someone's been pushing on it all night long.
Hands? Generally the hands do alright till I try to yanno, grasp anything with them and the arthritis kicks in.
Arms and legs? Stiff. Sore. Not moving very quickly. Getting out of bed requires several positions, each mimicking the Tin Man from Wizard of Oz and each held for a sec until I'm sure I'm not gonna...tip over.
Bladder? That's why I'm getting up.
I can make it to the bathroom without my glasses, but not much more. I need both levels of the bi-focals to see much of anything.
Coffee. I need coffee.
I remember a time when I could leap out of bed in one graceful motion and literally attack the day before hitting the ground.
Feeling just the tiniest bit sorry for myself and frustrated with this aging shell that's appeared where my fire-and-bullet-proof armor used to be, I think of Edna.
93 year old Edna, who does her own cooking, cleaning, gardening, laundry and gets up every day without whining even though she's 40- as in four decades, years older than I am.
Sighing, I look at the dogs and say, "Good morning, sweeties! How's momma's babies? Time to go outside!"
And I shuffle off to make coffee...
It goes off every morning anywhere from 5:30 till about 7am and sounds like this-
*pitty pat pitty pat pitty pat shuffle shuffle shuffle*
"Good morning, sweeties! How's momma's babies? Time to go outside!"
*door opens. sound of coffee being made*
That's when I turn it off and know everything's ok.
That's when I do my morning inventory on myself.
I realized this morning that the following routine used to be something I'd do after an unexpected physical event- like falling off of a ladder, or through a hole in the porch, or being dragged by a horse. Who could've foreseen that someday just the act of getting out of the damn bed would require triage???
Lying in bed, I go over how everything seems to be working in idle and before I try 'drive'.
Headache? Not today. I hate when I wake up with a headache. I hate most of all when the headache actually wakes me up.
Teeth? So far so good- all accounted for and in place. If I've had troublesome dreams I know it even if I don't remember them because my crown will hurt like the dickens after being clenched on all night.
Chest? Pretty good today. If I sleep on my side, I'm ok. If I've slept on my back, I'll wake up with a chest feeling like someone's been pushing on it all night long.
Hands? Generally the hands do alright till I try to yanno, grasp anything with them and the arthritis kicks in.
Arms and legs? Stiff. Sore. Not moving very quickly. Getting out of bed requires several positions, each mimicking the Tin Man from Wizard of Oz and each held for a sec until I'm sure I'm not gonna...tip over.
Bladder? That's why I'm getting up.
I can make it to the bathroom without my glasses, but not much more. I need both levels of the bi-focals to see much of anything.
Coffee. I need coffee.
I remember a time when I could leap out of bed in one graceful motion and literally attack the day before hitting the ground.
Feeling just the tiniest bit sorry for myself and frustrated with this aging shell that's appeared where my fire-and-bullet-proof armor used to be, I think of Edna.
93 year old Edna, who does her own cooking, cleaning, gardening, laundry and gets up every day without whining even though she's 40- as in four decades, years older than I am.
Sighing, I look at the dogs and say, "Good morning, sweeties! How's momma's babies? Time to go outside!"
And I shuffle off to make coffee...
Monday, February 6, 2012
I'll Sit Down When I'm Good and Ready. OK- I'm Good and Ready.
Sunday is the only day of the week that doesn't belong to anyone but myself.
It's the only day I have to accomplish the many many things I need and want to do around this place, which means that by the end of my "day of rest" I'm exhausted.
That's OK, though. I start with a list and as I check each thing off I feel lighter and happier. Sometimes inside projects, sometimes outside projects, sometimes a little of both, I always end up with cooking and baking.
Cooking and baking are calming, grounding, visceral, a link to the past and literally feeding the future- there's something about a home cooked meal that can't be duplicated or equaled by scraping stuff out of a box or a can.
By the time I'm done cooking and baking the pain that starts in my right heel (my daughter the marathon runner says it's facia-something-itis) around lunch time and extends up the back of my leg during my various projects is sending shooting pains into my lower back. That's when I know it's time to sit down.
I'm not a spring chicken anymore. I won't go so far as to say I'm an old biddy (yet), but if I were in the meat case at the grocery store I would be unceremoniously bagged for stewing and not artfully arranged in a fryer tray to show off my legs, thighs and...WINGS- what did you THINK I was gonna say???
When I get up out of bed to pee in the middle of the night I can't straighten up at first, ditto in the morning on my way to the coffee pot. I look down at my hands and wonder why I'm wearing old lady skin gloves. I don't have double chins (yet)but maybe they would help hide the turkey neck I seem to have developed.
But it's fine. Really. This body has sprouted 3 children and weathered over half a century- of course it's gonna have a few dents and scratches.
So I tend to my projects and cross them off the list, trying not to notice that the list gets longer instead of shorter with every Sunday.
I cook and bake and delight in using fresh ordinary ingredients to make food for my family that's delicious and healthy for them.
Yesterday I made apple dumplings for the first time. None of the boys had had them before, which was great since they then had no idea of whether or not I'd done them correctly. Although most of the things I cook end up tasting just fine-to-scrumptious, one of the most often heard sentences at our dining table is "Oh yes- it IS supposed to look like that".
So I made the dumplings and they were easy and only mildly time consuming. Then I sat the hell down, which is what Ward is always telling me to do.
He's a wise man, with the patience of a saint and I seriously don't deserve him.
He loves anything apple- apple pie, apple cake...and I made these with him in mind.
Because yanno, he puts up with me day in and day out- it's the least I could do...
The Least I Could Do Apple Dumplings
Make the pastry-
3c baking mix (I use Pioneer)
1c (2 sticks) butter, softened
1/2c sour cream plus milk enough to make into a soft dough
Mix the baking mix, butter and sour cream and just enough milk to make a soft dough.
Knead till it holds together on a floured surface, then roll out into an 8 X 12 inch rectangle. Starting at a short end, fold into 3 sections. Turn 90 degrees and do it again. And again. Chill in refrigerator while preparing the innards.
Innards-
3 medium apples
1 8 oz package of cream cheese
Peel apples and cut into thirds, discarding seeds and cores. Cut cream cheese into 9 equal parts.
Divide dough into 9 equal parts and roll each into a 6 inch square. Place apple third and a cream cheese chunk in center of the square and bring up corners to wrap it, pinching at the top. Place dumplings in a buttered 13 X 9 inch baking dish and preheat oven to 350.
Make Sauce-
In a small saucepan stir together 1 cup orange juice, 1 stick of butter and 1/2 cup water. boil and stir till reduced just a bit and pour over dumplings.
Sprinkle dumplings with 3 tbsp of sugar mixed with 1 tsp cinnamon and bake for about 30 minutes or till done.
Serve warm. Receive hugs and smiles.
*the boys- Ward, Alec and Joe had never had them before and rated them 3 thumbs up each. Edna had had them before and said they were "much better than OK" and she's VERY particular about food.
It's the only day I have to accomplish the many many things I need and want to do around this place, which means that by the end of my "day of rest" I'm exhausted.
That's OK, though. I start with a list and as I check each thing off I feel lighter and happier. Sometimes inside projects, sometimes outside projects, sometimes a little of both, I always end up with cooking and baking.
Cooking and baking are calming, grounding, visceral, a link to the past and literally feeding the future- there's something about a home cooked meal that can't be duplicated or equaled by scraping stuff out of a box or a can.
By the time I'm done cooking and baking the pain that starts in my right heel (my daughter the marathon runner says it's facia-something-itis) around lunch time and extends up the back of my leg during my various projects is sending shooting pains into my lower back. That's when I know it's time to sit down.
I'm not a spring chicken anymore. I won't go so far as to say I'm an old biddy (yet), but if I were in the meat case at the grocery store I would be unceremoniously bagged for stewing and not artfully arranged in a fryer tray to show off my legs, thighs and...WINGS- what did you THINK I was gonna say???
When I get up out of bed to pee in the middle of the night I can't straighten up at first, ditto in the morning on my way to the coffee pot. I look down at my hands and wonder why I'm wearing old lady skin gloves. I don't have double chins (yet)but maybe they would help hide the turkey neck I seem to have developed.
But it's fine. Really. This body has sprouted 3 children and weathered over half a century- of course it's gonna have a few dents and scratches.
So I tend to my projects and cross them off the list, trying not to notice that the list gets longer instead of shorter with every Sunday.
I cook and bake and delight in using fresh ordinary ingredients to make food for my family that's delicious and healthy for them.
Yesterday I made apple dumplings for the first time. None of the boys had had them before, which was great since they then had no idea of whether or not I'd done them correctly. Although most of the things I cook end up tasting just fine-to-scrumptious, one of the most often heard sentences at our dining table is "Oh yes- it IS supposed to look like that".
So I made the dumplings and they were easy and only mildly time consuming. Then I sat the hell down, which is what Ward is always telling me to do.
He's a wise man, with the patience of a saint and I seriously don't deserve him.
He loves anything apple- apple pie, apple cake...and I made these with him in mind.
Because yanno, he puts up with me day in and day out- it's the least I could do...
The Least I Could Do Apple Dumplings
Make the pastry-
3c baking mix (I use Pioneer)
1c (2 sticks) butter, softened
1/2c sour cream plus milk enough to make into a soft dough
Mix the baking mix, butter and sour cream and just enough milk to make a soft dough.
Knead till it holds together on a floured surface, then roll out into an 8 X 12 inch rectangle. Starting at a short end, fold into 3 sections. Turn 90 degrees and do it again. And again. Chill in refrigerator while preparing the innards.
Innards-
3 medium apples
1 8 oz package of cream cheese
Peel apples and cut into thirds, discarding seeds and cores. Cut cream cheese into 9 equal parts.
Divide dough into 9 equal parts and roll each into a 6 inch square. Place apple third and a cream cheese chunk in center of the square and bring up corners to wrap it, pinching at the top. Place dumplings in a buttered 13 X 9 inch baking dish and preheat oven to 350.
Make Sauce-
In a small saucepan stir together 1 cup orange juice, 1 stick of butter and 1/2 cup water. boil and stir till reduced just a bit and pour over dumplings.
Sprinkle dumplings with 3 tbsp of sugar mixed with 1 tsp cinnamon and bake for about 30 minutes or till done.
Serve warm. Receive hugs and smiles.
*the boys- Ward, Alec and Joe had never had them before and rated them 3 thumbs up each. Edna had had them before and said they were "much better than OK" and she's VERY particular about food.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
"I'm Sorry- They Don't Make Replacement Parts For That Model Anymore"
I'm 51 years old.
I've got streaks of gray hair, smile lines around my eyes and mouth, frown lines between my eyebrows, and some sort of weird turkey neck thing going on between my chin and collarbone.
I've been fighting the last 10 pounds of babyfat since having my last baby...almost 11 years ago.
Nothing on my person could be described as "perky" anymore, and somewhere along the line my upper arm muscles sank and are now mere jelly swaying in a dismaying arm-skin-hammock.
Eight years ago I had surgery to tuck up or remove everything and anything that could drop out of me, because gravity is NOT my friend and it all had.
Not. A pretty. Sight.
In the morning, I used to just "get up" all of a piece and now every individual limb needs to think about it first, then acts grudgingly after careful consideration.
One part at a time.
Things like stamina, endurance, and the ability to get worked up over anything less than an absolute and verifiable catastrophe have become fading memories and for the most part it's alright- Life is All About Change.
I've taken everything with as much grace as an ol' pear-shaped hippiechick can muster and actually was very comfortable with the obvious aging of the body I was dealt this time around
Until
One evening three summers ago we came home from work and running errands, did the chores, made supper and sat down to an easy but mouth-watering dinner of tacos.
I was hungry.
I took the first bite.
Delicious- tender beef, mixed lettuces, grated cheese, sour cream, onions, taco shells still warm and crunchy without being tough...
Hmmm.
What's this?
*Ptooie*
And I was looking at my own tooth in my hand.
Nothing so far in my entire life made me as aware of the aging (also known as "deterioration") of my mortal corpse as looking at a piece of it in my hand.
Staring at my tooth, all I could think was "This is it- the beginning of the end. One by one my parts will fall off and/or out and soon I'll just be a pile of random debris swept into a corner".
That was over three years ago.
I have a crown where that tooth was and my tongue is ALMOST used to its being there.
Even though I've come to terms with the loss of my tooth, I now take a few moments each morning before rising to do a quick inventory as each limb grumbles into motion.
Just to be sure everything's still, yanno, attached.
I've got streaks of gray hair, smile lines around my eyes and mouth, frown lines between my eyebrows, and some sort of weird turkey neck thing going on between my chin and collarbone.
I've been fighting the last 10 pounds of babyfat since having my last baby...almost 11 years ago.
Nothing on my person could be described as "perky" anymore, and somewhere along the line my upper arm muscles sank and are now mere jelly swaying in a dismaying arm-skin-hammock.
Eight years ago I had surgery to tuck up or remove everything and anything that could drop out of me, because gravity is NOT my friend and it all had.
Not. A pretty. Sight.
In the morning, I used to just "get up" all of a piece and now every individual limb needs to think about it first, then acts grudgingly after careful consideration.
One part at a time.
Things like stamina, endurance, and the ability to get worked up over anything less than an absolute and verifiable catastrophe have become fading memories and for the most part it's alright- Life is All About Change.
I've taken everything with as much grace as an ol' pear-shaped hippiechick can muster and actually was very comfortable with the obvious aging of the body I was dealt this time around
Until
One evening three summers ago we came home from work and running errands, did the chores, made supper and sat down to an easy but mouth-watering dinner of tacos.
I was hungry.
I took the first bite.
Delicious- tender beef, mixed lettuces, grated cheese, sour cream, onions, taco shells still warm and crunchy without being tough...
Hmmm.
What's this?
*Ptooie*
And I was looking at my own tooth in my hand.
Nothing so far in my entire life made me as aware of the aging (also known as "deterioration") of my mortal corpse as looking at a piece of it in my hand.
Staring at my tooth, all I could think was "This is it- the beginning of the end. One by one my parts will fall off and/or out and soon I'll just be a pile of random debris swept into a corner".
That was over three years ago.
I have a crown where that tooth was and my tongue is ALMOST used to its being there.
Even though I've come to terms with the loss of my tooth, I now take a few moments each morning before rising to do a quick inventory as each limb grumbles into motion.
Just to be sure everything's still, yanno, attached.
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