"It Is a Garden Salad."

 

I ran through a Culver's drive-through last week, to pick up lunch for myself and a friend, and the young lady that brought the food to my car announced with great confidence, "Here you go! A cranberry-bleu salad and some onion rings!" 

I stuttered a second before noting "Oh...I ordered a garden salad, but this will be fine."

Without skipping a beat she said "It is a garden salad. I'm practicing memorizing orders. It's not going too well."

I was laughing when I drove off, but the exchange has stayed with me.

Because you know what? 

Get it, girl! 

You didn't get it right this time, but here's what I see in you, young lady:

• Someone who is determined to do a good job.
  
• Someone willing to practice what she's trying to master.
  
• Someone brave enough to take a shot, out-loud, in front of a customer.
• Someone who's immediately accountable for her mistake.
• Someone who can communicate her intentions, and clear up a misunderstanding.
• Someone with spirit and courage, who doesn't let a little mistake shut her down.
  

I'm impressed. Food service is hard, hard work in the best of times, and this isn't the best of times for any restaurant or server. People are impatient and demanding to employees who are doing the best they can in understaffed kitchens and dining rooms. This kid is busting her behind running orders out to a busy parking lot in 90-degree heat and humidity, doing her job and memorizing her little heart out. I hope her bosses realize what they have in her.

I could stand to take a page or two out of her playbook. This girl didn't beat herself up or put herself down; she was just going to try again with the next customer. Instead of calling myself an idiot at my next slip-up or minor failure, I think I'll try to just think of it as a garden-salad moment, and get on with the improvement at hand. 

Do You Know Where You Are Right Now?

My son and his girlfriend Melanie witnessed a horrific accident the other day, one that sent a pickup truck "into the sky" and broke it in half when it landed. Brian told Mel (an Army veteran) to call 911, and rattled off their highway location before running to help the elderly driver that had lost consciousness at 70 mph. Mel gave the authorities their coordinates, and police and ambulance showed up in minutes.*

...

I've driven to and from Chicago twice in the last month, with trips home at night, in the rain, and through miles of construction. There are a few points where the road winds, and reflectors on cones and barricades are dizzying when merged with those on semi-trucks.

Passing one small town after another, I thought to myself, "If I needed to dial 911 right now, I could never give a dispatcher my location. I'm on a 90-mile stretch between Chicago and home. Did I pass Gifford yet, or is that still up ahead?

On a similar note, I drive country roads every day. I know very well how to get from Point A to Point B, but unless I'm on my own road (Cottonwood Road, which is also County Road 1700), I rarely have any idea which county road I am actually on, or where CR 1000 N (for example) turns into CR 1000 S.**

I reflected on this to Brian, amazed that he and Mel were so on top of their location when they called for help; they had been traveling that day, and weren't on a routine route at the time.

He thought nothing of it. After two tours in Iraq, and constant Army training, it's instinctual for him to always know where he is. When he was deployed, they had to know their coordinates; if they were ambushed--and they were--and if they had to call for help—and they did—they needed to tell said help where to show up.

Well, isn't that's smart.

I contemplated then, how often I could recite my exact coordinates as I move about. Even buzzing down familiar roads, I realize, I generally know the names of only the major intersections.

Am I alone? I sent off a note to my friend Jeremy, a former 911 dispatcher, and now an Illinois Conservation Police Officer: Did people ever call in with no idea where they were? How often?

The answer:

"We frequently had people call that had no idea where they were. So we'd ask, where are you coming from, where are you headed? What's the last thing you passed? (cows, business, intersection). A lot of time with the wireless phase II data from the cell towers we could narrow it down."

Oh, that's good. But he went on: Interstate callers would tell them "I am 152 miles from Chicago." Said Jeremy, "They're just reading the bottom of their GPS. Bless their hearts."

And finally, he shared, that people often also didn't know their locations when they were indoors. He would direct them to go find a piece of mail, or run outside and look at the house number.

His advice—outside of just downright knowing where you are: Learn your Google Maps app. In an emergency (assuming you're conscious) you can put a "drop pin" in the map at your present location, and email it to an address a dispatcher provides, or send it directly to a responding officer.

It's funny, we've teased Clint (a firefighter) about his ability to recite an address from a general description. The big green house just past the one school? "That's 1234 Main Street." While it was fun to chock it up to wizardry or OCD in the past, what I've learned this week is that people that protect other people freakin' know where they are. 

...And people like me must make their jobs quite maddening. I resolve to try to stay a bit more alert about where I am, especially on open or unfamiliar roads. At the same time...thank God those protectors are there.

_____

*The gentleman that Brian and Mel helped was conscious and coherent when he left the accident, with few visible injuries. It is believed that he will be ok, if not sore as hell, and that it's a miracle he's alive. I am incredibly proud of both of them for their quick thinking, kindness, and protective spirit. 

**After posting this, I received a text from Jeremy, explaining there is no such thing as a County Road South, or West. A road that runs North-South is CR North, and East-West, CR East. Then he gave me some math about how far away I am from the county line based on the address, but I stopped reading.

6 years

Today marks 6 years since my sister's death, from ovarian cancer. Falling on a holiday weekend, I have awakened each September 4 since in a camper, usually spending an hour or so feeling like I have a weight on my chest, before I can get up and join the rest.

This morning I awoke and decided instead, to focus on the laughter. The old stories that we told, time after time, and the secrets that shared together. I've summoned a few to share:

Go-go boots of Mud: Growing up in the 60s and 70s, as little girls we pined for go-go boots and short-shorts, and blue eye shadow and frosty white-pink lipstick. As we were 7- and 8-years old, our parents did not grant our requests for go-go clothes. 

We improvised with every rainfall. At the base of our front yard, where the neighbors sunk their tires every time they pulled into their driveway, there was a mudpit. My sister and I would run out and sit on the curb, mix rainwater into the soil until it was just the right consistency, and then spread it on our legs, a la go-go boot style. Once we were covered toe-to-knee, we'd get up and dance. 

~~~

For two little girls, I always look back and think that we fought more than two boys every would have. We slapped and pulled hair and tackled one another and rolled around on the floor like crazy cats one minute, but were best friends the very next minute. Teri was extremely protective of me outside of the house, and many was the time some neighborhood boy would taunt or torture me and end up running for his life when Teri stepped in. I can see her running, in my mind, with her arm behind her head, palm open, geared to slap the bully square in the middle of his back. She rarely missed her target.

~~~~

Although we grew out of the catfights in our pre-teen years, we were occasionally still bratty to one another through our teen years. Mostly friends, but with mischievous moments.

She loved jumping out of dark doorways to scare the hell out of me.  To this day I hate to be startled, and avoid "fun" places like haunted houses.

~~~

She teased me mercilessly about my clothes and makeup on high school date nights, knowing full well that while I looked just fine--if not beautiful--that I'd run screaming back into my room to change my clothes if she said "is that what you're wearing tonight?" or worse, "when are you going to start getting ready?"

~~~~

I picked on her occasionally too, and a famous family story is about my picking on her in the back seat of our Suburban on the way to the racetrack. We were 18 and 17 years old at the time--old enough to knock it off--but still I purposefully bothered her. I can't remember what I was doing, even--something likie putting my finger next to her eye and claiming "I'm not touching you!" or tickling her with a piece of grass every time she closed her eyes. Something especially annoying, I know, and she warned me repeatedly to stop.

I did not stop, I just kept messing with her.

She finally, silently, reached behind the seat in the Suburban, grabbed a torque wrench out of an open toolbox, and smacked me in the elbow with it. There was a resounding crack of wrench against bone, and she calmly said "Now are you going to stop?" I writhed in pain and laughter as I screamed "Uncle."   I remember the entire family howling with laughter--once we'd determined there was no broken bone. I deserved that.

~~~~

In our adult years, raising kids and taking care of folks...we had different lives, different interests, but spent hours on the phone, hashing out trials, tribulations, joys, and laughter. 

She phoned me one October and asked what I was doing that night, and I popped off with how busy I was, and I had this to do and that to do, and I really needed to just get off the phone. An hour or so later, I realized that it was her birthday, and she had been calling to see if Brian and I would like to join the family for dinner that night. 

Instead of being hurt, Teri just sat back and smiled, knowing she had an ace-in-the-hole, and that I would figure out, eventually, what I had just done. 

She knew I figured it out when I sent flowers to her office, with a card that said "I hate myself."

~~~~

Until she passed away we shared a bit of wonder, glee, and downright perplexity at a distant family member [Bob] that adored her, but would not speak to me. Even if Teri and I were together, she would be addressed, and I couldn't even make eye contact with [Bob].

Reporting in about [Bob] became a great source of fun for us, Teri calling me to say "I ran into [Bob] and he gave me a big hug and talked my ear off!" and I then, later, would call her and say, "I just stood right behind [Bob] at Farm and Fleet, and he didn't even speak when I said hello."

~~~

Thank you for listening. I hope you enjoyed the stories as much as I have enjoyed revisiting them. Laughing over these memories today has been much more constructive for me than pouting and aching, and if she's reading my blog--she better be reading my blog!!!---I know she'd say, "well, it's about damned time."

To Make or Not to Make

I've noticed, lately, a series of "Why You Should Make Your Bed" articles and speeches, alleging that bed-making is a simple habit that will increase daily productivity. The claim is that it's the first task—and thus, the first accomplishment—of the day, that will set off a chain reaction of tasks through the rest of the day.

Who makes this stuff up?

Why does making my bed have to be my first accomplishment? What if I trade it for putting my coffee cup in the dishwasher? Or hey!  Putting on a bra! I can honestly state that I get less done on days I don't wear a bra. Those are most often snow days and sick days (and Sundays), but the donning of the bra is usually the first sign of getting back down to business.

I imagine a day shot because I didn't pull the covers up before I left the house. An email to my boss: "I'm sorry, but I didn't make my bed this morning. I'm discombobulated. I just need to ... go home and restore my chakras." If a couple of hospital corners put me back in the groove, I'm likely to delve into the possibility of deeper issues.

I'm not saying that I don't ever make my bed, or that I don't feel good when it's all tidied up; I'm simply going to get as much done in a day with or without bouncing a quarter off of it before I leave the house.

To boot, some days I feel like not making my bed is my first act of kindness of the day.

There's a chain reaction I can put some stock into. 

Vintage Nightstands and Creative Property

After years of searching for a set of vintage nightstands, Clint and I hit the road last weekend to Louisville, KY, to buy a pair he found on Craigslist. Yes, we did drive 4 hours to Louisville, because there were 2, count 'em, 2, matching, vintage nightstands, in beautiful shape. We have been on the lookout for these for at least 5 years—vintage nightstands seem to come in 1s, and not 2s.

Once we'd procured our purchase, we wandered Louisville for a while, then drove back towards Nashville, Indiana for the night. On Sunday we leisurely meandered our way home, pulling over or turning around when something caught our eye.

Somewhere in Indiana, something did catch my eye: a spectacular old car—not sure what kind, but think Model T—in front of an antique shop. The owners had covered the car with all kinds of fun stuff. A sink faucet sat atop the radiator. Floorboards are covered with house keys, and the dashboard had old wrenches mounted all over it. There were flower pots and antlers and gears and fan blades—it was a sight to behold!

We browsed inside and out for awhile, and I stopped to take a photo of the car before we took our leave. While I did so, the owner quickly stepped outside and asked me "What are you going to do with your photos? Are they for your own personal use?"

On the spot, I could only think that I'd probably have sent the pic to my son, but that seemed like personal enough use, so I said, "Um, uh yes," whereupon she retreated back inside.

I am still a bit curious at what she thought I might have done with that phone-photo. Print it and make millions, without giving them royalties?

I work in publishing, where pirating and copyright infringement is rampant. I have signed cease-and-desist letters. I have a reasonable understanding of plagiarism, and have spent a fair amount of time trying to decipher the often-blurred lines of intellectual and creative property.

I understand that when we take a photo of an artist's work, we do kind of walk away with something that was theirs. I could  never afford this so I'm going to take a picture of it for free and keep that instead. That's offensive. You shouldn't do that.

Perhaps that's the category this old car fell into, but I still feel like I'm missing something—why on earth would the owners lure you into their shop with this spectacle, and then verbally police the photography? How exhausting for everybody. A better tactic might be a sign reading  "Take a picture with our Jalopy—$1" or even "By God, No Photos!"

In all honesty, I probably would have posted my photo on Facebook, along with the name and address of their business, and I would have encouraged about 700 of my friends to pull over and check it out for themselves. If it were my junky little antique store, I would surely capitalize on my spectacular creation and ask you to tell everybody to come out and see it.

But that's just me. The bottom line is that the owners have their reasons, and I am absolutely not entitled to take any photo I want to.

I respect that.

So.

Here's a photo of my nightstand.*

*Image of this nightstand Copyright 2015, Lori Stewart Weidert. All right reserved. No form of reproduction of this image, including copyrighting or saving of digital image files, or the alteration or  manipulation of this image is authorized unless accompanied by  written permission granting specific usage rights for an agreed-upon fee of a hundred million dollars. This image may not be legally reproduced without prior written authorization from Lori, beyond the screen you are currently viewing. This photo is not freeware. For information regarding commercial or personal use, contact Lori at this blog.

Mama's Secret Recipes—Yours for the Taking

Wandering around the grocery store for a dinner option the other night, I contemplated my pantry, versus my mother's, when we were growing up.

My mother was an enigma in the kitchen: kind of a terrible cook, yet an adventurous one.

Of course she could make a nice salad and bake a chicken or throw a steak into a cast iron skillet. Anything fancier  came from a kit. Chef Boyardee boxed spaghetti dinners—a can of tomato paste and a packet of spice—add water to make sauce, and Italian! Muy Ooo la la!!

She was just never good at choosing two ingredients that went well together. She had a recipe called "chicken and sauerkraut for one." I wonder if she didn't write it that way because "chicken and sauerkraut for four" didn't fly in our household.

On the other hand, she was using cilantro in this berg for years before anyone had ever heard of it. She dragged us into the only Asian store in town, and bought cilantro, and fresh mushrooms—also newfangled—when midwestern fungus-eating hoity-toitys only bought canned. She fixed exotic dishes with tongue. She invented a weird sloppy joe recipe consisting of onion soup and flour.

I ended up walking out of the store thinking we were probably better fed than we ever knew, and we never went hungry, and probably my sister and I were kind of assholes for giving her dishes names like "Garbage Soup."

Honestly, I thunk myself into a bit of shame and chagrin for being such a brat.

Tonight, however, I was flipping through her recipe box and found this:

Jellied Prune Whip: Orange jello, egg white, and a jar of baby prunes.

...

I think I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.

The moral of the story: I wish that my sister was here so we could slap our knees and laugh "we weren't assholes! We were right!"

Honeymoon Notes: Lighthouses, Phobias, and Tennis Shoes

Clint and I are honeymooning in Nag's Head, North Carolina. We're balancing our time with a bit of sightseeing each day, and a lot of crashing on the beach, which happens to be just below our balcony.

Tuesday morning we set off to tour a few lighthouses in the area. "Touring" means "photographing" for me, and "climbing to the tippy-top" for Clint. I came to terms with my fear of heights a few years ago when I thought I wanted to zipline in Cancun. Climbing the stairs made me hyperventilate, so I'm not sure why I thought I wanted to jump off the tower at the top. Lesson learned! I sent Clint off alone to climb these stairs

(Photo credit: Clint Weidert)

To the top of Bodie's Lighthouse:

And promised that I would take this photo:

When we arrived, I noted this sign in the lawn in front of our car:

It was a shortly-trimmed lawn as far as I could see, and I joked on Facebook that it was probably just a great way to keep people off of it.

Still, while Clint joined his tour group, I opted to trek down a surrounding boardwalk to a nearby lookout point, and it wasn't long before I met up with a family admiring this guy:

"It's a black snake," one guy said; "they are so beautiful." Beautiful my ass! I skirted by and used the super-de-dooper zoom on my camera for this shot, and continued down the boardwalk, now scanning left and right, checking the lawn and the boardwalk.

I've never really liked snakes, but I could recognize that for the most part, it was a phobia handed down from my Mother. She had a few childhood stories: A snake fell out of a tree onto her at the San Diego Zoo when she was a kid, and a blue-racer chased after her once as a child. She hated snakes. Truth be told, while they kind of creep me out, I've never really been face-to-face with one to know if I would be terrified or not. 

After meeting that big guy, I confirmed that I was kind of scared of them. The guy that thought they were beautiful served as a bit of a buffer, but he was gone now, and I sure as hell didn't want to encounter another on my own.

I moved on down the boardwalk then, and, after inspecting for snakes, leaned over this rail to see what I could in this freshwater pond.

I spotted a giant crab lumbering about in the muddy bottom, and was busy watching it eat, when a very large woman came trundling up the boardwalk, screaming. "Eeeeee, ohhhhhh!!!" I turned to find her coming right at me, pointing at my feet. I screamed too, then, dancing and moving away from what I assumed was another 5-foot long black snake, when she gushed,

"I just love your shoes!"

Holy Mother of God. I thanked her and set about trying to catch my breath and slow my heartbeat. I had to laugh, later, that I opted out of climbing the stairs to the top of the lighthouse to avoid the very sensations of fear and anxiety that I ended up encountering anyway. 

Phobias are kind of interesting. Even though I have an intellectual understanding that a set of stairs into the sky aren't going to hurt me, the wobbling knees, churning stomach, and vertigo still set in. Even though I know on some level that a snake "is more afraid of me than I am of it." [::coughbullshitcough::] I will scream my head off and dance a jig at the possibility that one is slithering towards me, before I even verify it.

Things I Learned on Day Tuesday of our Honeymoon: 

1. Irrational or not, I *am* afraid of snakes.

2. "Bodie" is pronounced "Body." It has 219 stairs, and two 1,000 watt bulbs (one is a back-up, in the event the other goes out) that is on 2.5 seconds, off for 2.5, on for 2.5, then off for 20 seconds, and every mariner knows that is Bodie-Body's pattern.

3. I have great tennis shoes.

I Always Did Like Valentine's Day

Last February 14, Clint called me at work and asked if I could cut out a little early to meet him at his parent's bank; he needed a witness to sign some trust papers. We were in the middle of a minor snow storm, and leaving--and getting home--early sounded good to me anyway.

I trudged out into it then; the snow was coming down faster than bank maintenance could keep up, so I pulled into a parking lot piled with about 4 inches of snow. I spotted Clint's truck and tried to grab a spot next to him but none were available. I ended up exiting the lot, going back around, parking farther away, and scuffling up to the bank door in snow up to my shins.

As I approached the door, Clint called me over to his truck. "Hey! Come over here and give me a kiss! Remember what happened here 8 years ago?" 

I did remember. I had parked in that space 8 years ago for our class reunion ice breaker, and we were among the few that chatted until the very end. Clint and I grew up together and were close friends in junior high and high school. Well, as close as awkward junior-high kids could be; he was my racing buddy, my friend I invited to come to the track every weekend when Dad raced. My sister and I were allowed one friend each, and he was mine.

We reminisced until Bunny's closed the door at 2 a.m., and Clint chivalrously walked me back to my car, a block away from his own, and kissed me goodnight at my car door.

8 years ago. Our first kiss in the bank parking lot.

This Valentine's Day we stood in the slush and the snow, hugging, while Clint remembered: "Our first kiss. I waited 30 years to do that."

The next thing I knew, still holding my hand, he was down on one knee, getting soaked to the skin, pulling out a ring-sized box he made himself, and from it, this very beautiful ring, and he asked me to marry him. I said yes, of course, and he put that beautiful ring on my finger.

Then he pulled himself up out of the slush, pulled another ring out of his pocket, and said "Since you said yes to that one, you might like this one too."

~~~~~

Clint and I were married last Saturday, September 20, on the deck we designed and built together, at our home. All of our children were with us; Son and Grandson Craig and Will stood up with Clint, Daughter Jen and son Brian were on my side, and our son-in-law Bill became ordained to perform the service. 

We are gleeful, and incredibly blessed to have so many loving friends and family!

WooHoo, ya'll!

Cheers!

P.S. There were no papers to sign at that bank.

Tough Day

I recently made an interesting personal observation: I don't cry much these days. I compare to 5 years ago, when my sister was dying of cancer, my mother was losing her mind with Alzheimer's, but just coherent enough for Teri's illness to be new and shocking to her every day, and my son was preparing to go to Iraq.

I cried a lot then, but oddly enough, still mostly in private. I usually cried in the car. I cried when I drove from home to Mom, then I bucked up and dealt with things. I cried between Mom and Teri's house, then got my shit together. I cried from Teri's to work, where I pulled it together to put in my 8 hours. 

A week from now will mark the 5-year anniversary of Teri's passing. She died on Labor Day Weekend, and, while she is always on my mind, I feel like she's sitting on my soul every year at this time. 5 years. I can't believe it. I reflect on our daily conversations, and how she actually wondered where we would each be after this much time. I often wish I could tell her that it's no easier now than it was on Day 1.

It remains to be seen, however, that all of those terrible circumstances that had me bonking into walls in 2009 don't exist, and life is good, and I laugh now, much more than I cry.

However. 5 years! She's been on my mind, with this "landmark" anniversary. I can hardly believe it.

~~~

This morning I walked into Carle Clinic for a doctor appt., and was directed to a self-check-in. Upon verifying my identity, a screen popped up: Is this still your Emergency Contact? It was Teri. Teri's first and last name. Teri's address, and her phone number and her work phone number, and her relationship to me.

It hit me in the gut. I added Clint as my Emergency Contact. And then there were 2: Clint and Teri. I stood there, and hit the giant red "X" next to Teri's name. I scanned my card, printed my receipt, and went upstairs.

~~~

Perimenopause, my diagnosis is, from one of the nicest Ob-Gyn doctors I have ever met. Exactly what I expected. There is medication for my problem (women can guess, men don't want to hear about it)--BUT. But there must be a "procedure" first. A biopsy. Usually a woman has fair warning, and can take some Tylenol ahead of time, but if I want to get this mess taken care of ASAP, we can do it sooner. Like, now. The biopsy is procedural and routine. It allows the doctors and powers that be to say, "see? Those meds are the right thing to do, because this over here isn't the problem," when the results come back that there isn't a problem.

I opted for the procedure, sans Tylenol prep. It had to be performed twice, but was over quickly, and was only vaguely uncomfortable. The doctor noted, as she sat me up, that she'd like to clone me as a patient, stoic and calm as I was. 

As the sweet nurse agreed with her, out of nowhere I fell into tears. I mean, I. lost. it. The ugly cry. The two of them stood there, stunned. I knew my behavior was a surprise, but the more I tried to compose myself, the harder I cried. 

I finally managed to get out that Teri was still my Emergency Contact, and that I was feeling fragile when I walked in. And then ticking off my family's medical history--all of them essentially gone--when I'm naked but for a sheet, is hard every time I go to the doctor. Followed up by an on-the-spot decision about a medical procedure, and finding the statement "this really is a crazy amount of blood" both vindicating and unnerving--well, I guess I just lost my ability to buck up.

~~~

It's a strange mix: grief and hormones and aging and life's natural progression. While I felt a bit undone this morning, I know that women my age are losing their composure in clinics all over the world, and I'm not the first patient my doctor has ever watched burst into tears. I'm 51 and fabulous, dammit, and all of this is not unexpected. I drove myself home, just fine, in need of an afternoon's sleep, and that was it. 

As tough a morning as it was, in the end, I can only circle back to how this post began: I don't cry much, these days, and I cherish that. One "public" outburst is pish-posh after the seasoned veteran I became in 2009. The pendulum may swing back to tough times some day, but in the meantime, I appreciate where I am right now.

Also, I miss my sister.

Seaweeditee

We are vacationing in Destin, Florida, with a couple dozen of our best friends. Sounds like it would be hectic, but it's not. We're all here and we all do our own thing, and we bump into this family or that at the beach or the pool, but everyone pretty much does their own thing.

When we checked in the clerk at the front desk gave us a list of rules to follow. For instance, balcony lights go off early, because sea turtles are nesting between the months of May and October. The clerk threw in another tidbit:

"It's also manatee season. One may come up and bump you while you're swimming, but don't worry about it. They're just big dumb cows. They're actually nicknamed "sea cows."

My initial response was "Oh, my God, I hope a manatee bumps me!!! That would be AWESOME!"

A few hours later, however, Clint was regaling Steven with the manatee story, and he said "she said they'll bump into you. Like a cat!"

Steven responded, "Yeah, a 1,000 pound cat."

Remember when I thought I wanted to zipline? And I forgot that I hate heights, and signed up anyway? See...I didn't think that through. Actually, I don't think I've ever blogged the photo of me crying while I flew over a canopy of trees in Mexico. It is not a pretty picture, is why.

And so, with Clint and Steven's observations, I realized that if a 1,000 pound cat swam up and bumped me with it's big nose while I was floating in the ocean I'd probably come right up out of the water like a dolphin and make it to shore without ever touching the water.

We've spent the last 4 days, then, floating in around in the gulf, and every time I see this (see lower right, front)...

My head screams "MANATEE!!!" and I backpedal from the big dumb oafs.

Only every single time, it's been a patch of seaweed.

We have thus coined the term "Seaweeditee." "Calm down; it's just a seaweeditee."

Tomorrow morning, we're rising early to jet-ski with...dolphins. At this point in time, I think that I'm going to love (love, love) skimming along next to an entire school of 1,000 pound fish with 18 to 28 conical teeth (thanks, Wikipedia). 

The waterproof camera is charged. I will either post the pictures, or never, ever, post them. 

Wait and see.

Happy Father's Day

I dashed into Casey's this afternoon for a big 'ol fountain soda, and when I came out, there was a car parked next to mine with a cute little kid strapped into the passenger seat. His father wasn't far off, just grabbing a newspaper. 

Said cute little kid--and I mean freaking adorable; TV cute--gave me a wide-eyed look as I turned to open my car door. Just as I began to hop in, his sweet little voice called out "Happy Father's Day!" I turned around to see him leaning toward his window with a beaming smile. I smiled back and said "Thank you! You too!"

My speaking to his child brought the father running, and I could see a look of concern on his face. I knew that look. I could see his thoughts: "What did you just say to my kid?"

I got into my car and paused for a few seconds to settle my soda and put my seat belt on, giving him a second to speak to his son. When I figured I'd given them enough time to straighten it out, I turned to look at them. The father had his forehead on the steering wheel, laughing so hard, and when he turned to make eye contact with me, we both just burst into another round of laughter.

It has been a good day, even though Clint worked all day. I delivered gifts to him from myself and from his daughter. I left a bottle of bubbles at my father-in-law's grave. I was proud proud proud when I found out that my son called Clint to tell him Happy Father's Day. I had a jolly laugh with complete strangers, and witnessed another father in love with his funny kid.

Really, I had a great Father's Day.

Water, Roots, Deep Conversation with a Jalapeno Plant, and Unsolicited Relationship Advise to a Loved One

I've spent a good part of the weekend trying to get a grip on my garden, which has gotten away from me. Sigh. I know. Already.

A couple of weeks ago I purchased more plants, and life got a little chaotic, so they sat, in their flats.  The plants were larger, and the roots sat confined in those little plastic packages. They'd become so compacted and dried that the water I'd sprinkled over the them just sat on top, and would not soak in. 

Yesterday I sat and analyzed them, and came to terms with the fact that I was probably out $40 and had killed 2 flats of marigolds and a couple of jalapeno plants.

I decided I had nothing to lose by trying though, so started the day by pulling the plants out of their tight pants--I mean, their tight plastic containers--and sat them right down into tubs of water. I let them soak their feet for a day. I knew full well I might end with a couple of buckets of mud with dead plants in them, but I gave it a shot.

Here are the peppers, yesterday:

And here they are now, my coffee companions this morning:

I slept in this morning, and now on my second cup of coffee, I sit contemplating how important water is, and how it has the same effects on our human bodies as it does on those little plants, and how I wish someone would bring me some scrambled eggs.

Putting off scrambling my own eggs, then, I sat thinking about the roots of those plants. All squished in in there, taking on the shape of the container they were stuck in, growing and growing into a tight knot, and getting sicker. And once released from it, beginning to reach out and expand, and absorb what it needed to thrive again. 

We really do have a lot in common with a plant, don't we?

I spoke this week with a friend that has just ended a relationship. A relationship with a "partner" that belittled her and made her feel bad about herself, and made her second guess her own good instincts. A "partner" that would turn the tables on her and trip her up and make her feel a little crazy. When you're in that relationship with someone--and look, most of us have been in that relationship with someone--that stuff trickles over, outside of the relationship--into your self-esteem, into your personal life, your job, your hobbies, your dreams, your friends, your family.

Now, entertain me, and let's say we're all plants.

My friend's ex-boyfriend--and this is not a man-bashing exercise, the situation is gender-reversible--is that shitty piece of plastic that those plants came in. That sheath that kept her from expanding her roots and reaching out and absorbing what she needs to thrive. I was there once, 30 years ago, a story for another day, but I still remember how that shitty plastic sheath can actually come to feel like home--you're planted in it, for God's Sake. You come to think you actually need it to survive--it has you convinced that it is the only thing holding you together, and you cannot live without it. You see what it does there, right? It's very sneaky plastic; that plastic is a real sonofabitch.

Note to my darling friend:

You've stepped out of the plastic flat. Be one with my jalapeno plant: Drink lots and lots of water now, and grow and grow and grow. Your reach can be endless. And the next time a piece of plastic asks you out for dinner, run for your life. You don't have to be polite to plastic; you can be downright rude. It really doesn't matter if it thinks you're a bitch, ok? 

If you don't believe me, just ask my marigolds. Marigolds don't lie.

Legacy

Last night we went to dinner with Clint's Uncle John and Aunt Judy. John turned 79 today, and he and Judy are real pistols. I fretted over choosing a restaurant they'd like--they're "older," I thought, so nothing too spicy, nothing too boozy, etc. We settled on a great old bar-restaurant called Crane Alley. The minute we walked in, Judy said "I want a beer!" and John followed suit by ordering a smoked chipotle beer for himself, and told us how much he loved big, loud places. He can't hear well in them, he said, but he loooooooves watching people have fun.

They told us about their wedding in Las Vegas (not the first for either of them), in which they met "the cousins"--an annual gathering of 8. They intended to sneak off after lunch one day, and then return at dinner time and announce they'd gotten married. It was one disaster after another: their intended witness took off before they could whisper their secret plans; Judy's name was misspelled on the license application, then they argued whether she should put that she was divorced or widowed (she was both—divorced once, then widowed from her 2nd husband), and the license had to be redone 3 times, to the chagrin of a grouchy clerk. The courthouse couldn't then dig up a legal witness, so they gave up and ran into a cheesy chapel. They finally got the job done and were then forced to sit through a sales pitch to purchase a video of their wedding. When the movie was put into the VCR player, nothing played: the staff had forgotten to turn on the camera.

John told us also of a story about going to a one-room schoolhouse when he was a young boy, and knocking the two front teeth out of a classmate, when he threw a block at him. He lived, he said, with the guilt of knocking that kid's teeth out, but upon seeing him again when they were adults, the guy had teeth! All of his teeth, and they didn't appear to be dentures! He said he wanted to ask how it could be, but on the other hand, didn't want to bring it up.

I noted, "Maybe you knocked out his baby teeth, that he was going to lose anyway." Uncle John gave me a blank stare, and finally said, "You know. I never thought of that." I'm not sure why we all found that so funny, but we ended up howling, laughing. John could finally let go of knocking someone's front teeth out, after 75 years. What a relief.

***

This was just one evening that we shared with family, in the last 10 days or so. Clint's father, Alan Weidert, passed away in his sleep on May 23. He'd been declining from Parkinson's disease for some time.

We have been busy and stressed, and grieving for him and for each other, but what has been at the forefront of the last 10 days or so is the close circle of friends and family that gathered to hold one another up, and celebrate Alan's life. While we have cried, we have also laughed and laughed and laughed, and that is his legacy.

I want to tell all of the stories I heard, in the last 10 days, and all that we did with the time spent with family and friends that gathered. As I said, we laughed, we cried. We ate, we drank. We went to a few garage sales, and even to an acupuncture clinic together. I may circle back and show the photos and tell the stories, or life, as it is wont to do, may move forward faster than I can write about it.

Time will tell, I guess. I know that if I don't get around to it, I still have another angel keeping track, and laughing along.

Kids Say The Darndest Things

Hot in Cleveland was on tonight, and in one scene, Elka, played by Betty White, is talking to a paramour about the fact that his father recently married. It's funny because they are both elderly, so one imagines his father to be 100 years old. The punchline is that his new "baby brother" has just turned 70, and "kids really do say the darndest things!"

This cute skit reminded me immediately of my Great Grandmother. Ida Bennett, from Humboldt, Illinois (likely not to be found on any old-timey map). Sweet and understated, I always made a point of listening, and memorizing, her laugh--as did I my Grandmother's, and my Mother's laugh. They would get, in their own words, "tickled."

My grandmother spoke often of the girl down the road that helped her out every now and again. Ruby. Ruby would deliver this or that, or come down and pull a few weeds while she chatted. In general, Ruby was just a good kid, in my Grandma's eyes. 

As a pre-teen, I always imagined this wonderful Ruby girl as a beautiful, kind, 16 year old girl. Tantamount to Cinderella or Snow White: so pure of heart, assisting the elderly and taking time to enjoy their company. 

Since Humboldt was a bit away, and we only visited every few months or so, years and years passed before the stars aligned and my path crossed with Ruby's: One her visits coincided with mine. A young teen by then, I was gobstopped to discover: 

Ruby was, like, 50! FIFTY, she wasn't a girl, she was fifty! At least, 50! 

Super old.

That's how I told the story, for years: My Great Grandmother was 90, and she referred to the 50-year-old woman as a girl, and I imagined something else, oh, how funny.

Honestly, now I can't even remember what Ruby looked like; I can only remember that I thought she was 50, and old as dirt.

Now that I am 51, of course....I am convinced she was probably closer to 80.

Fever

After noting, last week, that I haven't gotten a cold this winter, when I have been surrounded by folks with colds and flu, of course I was hit hard yesterday. My throat hurt so much I swear I could feel strep creeping across the back of it like lava. 

Blessed to have sick days, I took off yesterday afternoon, and stayed in bed most of the next 24 hours--save a quick stint to do Mom's taxes--nothing like putting things off until the last minute.

Sore throat, headache, and upset stomach is now a cough and since snot is gross, I won't tell you about the snot. But the garbage can next to my bed is full to the top with tissues.

I also have a fever. At least, in my mind, I have a fever. My body temperature rarely tags up to 97 degrees, and it is often less than 96. Normally, it is, instead of a normal 98.6 degrees, 96.8 degrees. (My temperature is dyslexic.) Therefore, when I get sick and my temperature spikes to 98-something, I declare myself feverish.

 We are constantly advised to listen to our own bodies, but my insistence that, say, a 99-degree temp closer to a 3-degree spike for me than it is the normal .4-degree fever, falls on deaf ears in the doctor's office. Nurses and doctors have a hard-and-fast rule for what constitutes a fever, and it's downright irritating to hear that I don't have one when I feel so lousy. And hot. 

Irritating for one reason: Everyone knows that a fever is proof that you're sick.

No fever, no sympathy.

Well. Shut it. My temperature is 97.6 degrees right now, which is 2 degrees warmer than it was at 3:00 this afternoon. I am burning up, and if I want to feel sorry for myself, I can.

Poor baby.

Universal Laughter

Last night we attended the 70th birthday of Erica, our son-in-law's mother, in St. Louis. Erica is originally from Germany, and there were 3 family members from her hometown that flew in for the party, to join 40 or so more of us in celebration. There were 2 sisters that knew no English, and 1 nephew, who is fluent in both English and German. (These tidbits crucial later in this story.)

First of all, those 3 sisters spent all day Friday preparing authentic German food for this party. You know, you can find good food in a lot of places. You cook good food, you go out for good food, there is abundant good food, if you want it. But THIS food—this homemade rouladen (thinly cut flank steak, filled with I-don't-even-know-what and then rolled up and baked, and this homemade spaetzle, with nectar-of-the-gods brown gravy ladled over it—THIS good food brought us all to our knees.

An amazing meal, that if I had one wish for you, we could get them together to cook again, and you will be there to taste it.

Clint's daughter Jen made the cake(s) and created beautiful flower arrangements, cleverly placing the bouquets in Oktoberfest steins.

We sang happy birthday, passed cake around, and then retired to the deck on a beautiful night, drinking beer and wine, and gathering into a closer, tighter ring as the guests meandered home. By 11:00 or so, it was just close family left, and story time began. By then we were only about a dozen, and, mentioned earlier, most of us English-speakers only, with 2 speaking German, and 2 capable of acting as interpreters.

Everyone kept up at first, but as one story sparked another, they began coming faster and faster, and our interpreters could not keep up. Margo and Kate began telling a story in German, both of them laughing and screaming so hard that they could't get their breath. Our interpreters also began laughing so hard they couldn't interpret, and what do you think the rest of us did? 

The rest of us laughed along so hard that we had tears falling down our cheeks, that's what we did. We couldn't understand a single word, but the laughter was so contagious, and the realization that we didn't understand what was so funny in the first place...oh lord, we just laughed until our guts ached. It got even funnier when Erica tried to explain it all, but began mixing languages: she began telling the entire story in German again.

Laughter is indeed, universal.

That point was brought home when Erica walked right into the screen door, and then 15 minutes later, I did the same dang thing. Germans and Americans alike think that's pretty dang funny. Boy, it's a shocker when you think you're going through a doorway, but you don't, not at all. I hit that door so hard that my wine splashed out, and was all stuck dripping down the screen to make everyone laugh even harder.

Man, it was beautiful evening. Gathering with friends and family, and so much love surrounding everyone that not even a bit of a language barrier couldn't stop us.

Soapbox: More Troll Updates

Ya'll know I filed a police report against an anonymous blog troll that had been harassing and impersonating me for 6 years. The final complaint was filed by four from this community, and backed up with statements by others, local and nationwide. An investigation turned up a 55-year old man—stranger to us all—that works for the Department of Defense. He was arrested, posted bail and is back at work, I understand. I am told by the local victim's advocate that there will be a lot of stalling in the courtroom, and that this will take a year or even years to close.

Each of the victims was issued a "No Contact Order of Protection." One in our group is pushing for that same protection for his wife and daughters, and having a difficult time getting it. Benjamin Beaupre met in a courtroom today with our troll and his attorney. While this part isn't really about me personally, I am tied to it, and so, very interested in the outcome.

The outcome was not so hot: troll's motion to dismiss was granted, but a new date was set for Beaupre to file amended arguments for the order of protections for his family.

I received a copy of the petition that was filed in court yesterday, and thus, some insight on what may be in store for the rest of us. I am amazed at some of the smoke and mirrors. For instance:

Note here how the terminology skipped from Ben's "Online Blog" in #2, to a "public online chatroom" in #4. It is referred to for most of the rest of the petition as an "online chatroom."

Tomato-tomahto, you might say, but a "personal blog" and "an online chatroom" are two entirely different things. Here's how I see it: Say you take your little old self to a restaurant, and there's a filthy loud-mouthed stranger across the room. That would be the public online chatroom in this case, ok? If you don't want to listen to that filthy guy, they you leave the restaurant.

Moving on with my analogy, let's say you wake up one day, and there's a filthy loud-mouthed stranger in your living room. That—for the sake of explaining the difference here—is your personal blog. It's your living room. You can let him hang out there if you want to, and mouth up the place, or you shut him up with your moderation tool. Yes, this imaginary living room has has a moderation tool, like a trap door, or an ejection seat or something, in which you can push a button and make him leave.

But you don't have to leave your living room. You should never ever have to leave your own living room because there's a filthy loudmouthed stranger in it. Because it's your living room!

So, you're all clear now, on the difference between a "Personal Blog" and a "Public Online Chatroom" now, right?

Now, for the sake of more crazy talk, let's say the stranger never really shows himself in your living room, but instead ties a filthy note to a rock and tosses it through your window every Saturday night for years and years. Filthy, racist, sexist, unnerving notes. And let's say your name is...pick a name..let's say your name is ummmm, "Earring." Ok, and then the nasty notes start flying through the house, but now they are signed "Earring Killer."

Also, in this story, notes on rocks through windows are covered by free speech. So, you have no recourse there, rocks and notes are allowed. Even if they weren't allowed, you never ever know who threw the rock, so what do you expect the police to do? In the end, your choices are to move out of your living room altogether, or to just deal with the weekly rock through the window.

You just deal. You don't have to read the note if you don't want to. You can throw the rock back out the window, or you can just unwrap it and save the note. (Always save the note, by the way).

Anyway, back to reality, and the petition that was filed. (This is real now, that living room stuff was for-pretend, ok?) Here's some more text for you, scanned right out of the petition:

So. Did our troll engage in a course of conduct that would cause a reasonable person to fear for his or her safety, or the safety of a third person? That was what was on the table today. Our troll and his lawyer say "No."

No?

One of the women in this case only filed a report because she wanted him to go away and be done with it. She is frightened, and wants just to be left alone. Another has his mugshot posted on her refrigerator in her home, and in her office at work, "so I remember what he looks like, and everyone around me knows to look out for him." Ben is the hypothetical "Earring" in this story. I sleep with pepper spray on my nightstand, and I have a weird mental "plan of escape" in the event that I hear an intruder in my house.

Why? Because anyone that would spend most of their Saturday nights, and many of their Fridays, and a few weekdays, writing and sending you a constant stream of vitriole of murder and rape and genocide and sex and name calling for six years is unhinged, and yes he fucking has conducted himself in a manner that would cause any "reasonable person" to fear for his or her safety.

But alas, it remains (#10): No one forced Benjamin Beaupre to participate—excuse me, write on his own personal Blog. In fact, there is no evidence that he even tried to stop writing on his own personal blog! (See #10 again.)

Lord help us all. There are 6 more pages of this stuff, and even though it's a matter of public record, I asked Beaupre for his blessing to express myself here. Asked and granted. Today's trial was his, and the outcome his disappointment, but ours also. I watch to see what we'll be up against.

I pray the State's Attorney is watching carefully also, and the Judge understands these online nuances and takes them seriously. Currently listed as "electronic" stalking avenues are "text messages or emails." I realize that it's unlikely there will ever be a law that says you can't leave nasty notes in public forums, but seriously, what this guy has done is not a matter of free speech, as his attorney is claiming. Anonymous bullying and harassment really is a a modern-day note-on-a-rock for today's cowards. It is threatening and terrorizing, and the sooner legal boundaries are established against it, the better.

Stuff, and Great Grandma's Homemade Rolls

It is time for me to clean out my mother's house. I've had an "I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine" agreement with a family tenant: Live here for me while I catch my breath, will you? And now that I can breath again, I've been tending to the stuff.

The Stuff.

There is both very little left to tend to, at the same time an overwhelming amount of Stuff. The stuff-stuff: blankets, pillows, knick-knacks, spatulas, spoons, vases, screwdrivers, funnels, bandaids, lamps, step stools, thumbtacks, Dial soap, board games, dog collars...Oh, my God, the stuff.

I am armed with boxes and Hefty bags, and I am begifting, donating, selling, and tossing.

To be honest, I am such a poor waif when I am there. This is the loneliest, heart-achiest thing I have ever had to do. It is all mine. When I say "mine," I mean, my obligation. I hold the gavel: This goes here, this goes there, you get this, you get that. That is overwhelming in itself, but "this" and "that" really mean nothing to me. I already have, after all, spoons and spatulas.

What does me in and sends me home early most days is that I am the last one standing. 

I grew up here. In this house:

• I played countless games of cribbage with my father.
• I danced Henry Mancini's Baby Elephant Dance with my mother, both of us still in our bathrobes.
• My sister and I played  "Extreme Concentration," in which we would spread the deck from one end of the house to another.
• I also pulled her hair, and rolled around screaming and fighting with her like I am sure no 2 little boys ever did, and then afterward crawled into her bed during thunderstorms so (ahem) she wouldn't be scared.

To be tending to this stuff without any of those I grew up with is incredibly draining—at least my sister was supposed to be here, for heck sake! The two of us were supposed to be at each other's throats over all of this stuff! We were supposed to cry and have Jerry-Springer-esque arguments, and then make up over all of this crap—it was to be the natural order!

(Fuck cancer.)

Sigh. It is what it is, you know? While my heart breaks, some days, there are others in which I do nothing but laugh and laugh while I am there. I ran over there today in hopes of digging up something to put my own pencils in, and instead got sidetracked with an old recipe box. As I sort through this "stuff," I do have a mental list of what I hope to find, and today, I hit gold:

The Recipe for my Great Grandmother's Homemade Rolls.

When I was a 10-ish years old, I had the wherewithall—or as is probably more the truth, someone prompted me—to ask my Great Grandmother to show me how she made her homemade rolls. She just made them like I would make an omelet or something: Just get up, move around the kitchen, and make the rolls.

(And thus my typesetting career began...)

There it is, word-for-word, how she taught me. Please note:

1. Tater flakes. I'm sure that's exactly how she said it, "add some tater flakes," and

2.  I remember having to insist on measurements: 1/2 a cup is about how many tater flakes we determined, as did we 1-1/2 cups of warm water.

She drew the line at measuring flour—measuring flour was nonsense. Just enough until it is like...pancake dough (?) And then, after the first rise "Make a well in the flour." She had a giant porcelain pan of flour in the pantry:  The goo went in, you kneaded it around until you had what you wanted—be it bread or noodles—and then you lifted it out and the put the flour back into the pantry.

The remaining instructions were par for the course: "A handful" of salt, and a "lump" of walnutlard. Walnutlard? Walnut lard? Is Walnut a brand? Or is there such a thing walnut lard? And how much is a lump? Does it come in lumps, or does one scoop out a lump?!

In the end, we are to put the whole thing in a "greased bucket" til raised.

On the back of the card, it says "Bake until brown."

Seems I am in for a little experimenting. I don't know, for example, what comes between "greased bucket" and "Homemade rolls to die for."

What I do know is that I'm going to find out, and master, and write it all down, and that these are the treasures I will continue to uncover while I sift through the "stuff." As resistant as I am to muck through it all, gnashing my teeth and crying, I am just as often comforted and laughing with those on the other side, and know that they are with me while I work.

These are hard times. These are hard, and lovely, times.

NaBloPoMo 30: Oh, No, She Di-int!

Mulligan!

Last post tomorrow. I promise.

Because I did have in mind a closing post, but here is what I did today:

• Up at 8 a.m.
• Breakfast
• Deep clean. I mean, deep clean. When is say DEEP clean, I don't mean dusting baseboards. I am talking about getting anal and cleaning the caps on shaving cream lids. 
• Errands: Drop Stuff at Goodwill
• Drop Stuff at storage
• Bring stuff home from storage for the event next weekend
• ***keep in mind all of this involves lifting, so, skip gym***
• Tend to this and that for the event next weekend
• Tend to work stuff
• Grocery shop
• On a whim, because I had nothing else to do, did all of the Christmas decorating. Now it's done.
• Dinner O' Thanksgiving Leftovers
• Movie du jour

Midnight. Time to blog.

I mean, time to play my mulligan.

This is not like yesterday's post, in which I had nothing to say. I have TONS to say tonight; I just recognize that it will take me until well after 2 a.m. to gather the photos and text, and time is what I do not have.

12:10. Brush teeth, wash face, read Buzzfeed until I'm snoring while I'm still sitting up.

End of day.