Tick, tock...You are getting sleeeeeepy....

Though we can't speak, Brian's been sending me photos while he's in desert training, and I've been forwarding them to my facebook account. The sentiments that his photos "make it real" to a lot of people inspire me to post them here also. Anything we can do to heighten awareness that thousands of families are facing what we do not hear enough about in the news, these days, I think, is worthwhile.

Ours are still in Iraq and Afghanistan. They still train for year-long tours.

I speculate that they're doing sleep deprivation training. This one came with the message "Me, sleepy."


And the message on this one: "Our little baby 2nd lieutenant, sleeping."

I don't think I've ever been this tired.

Have you ever been tired enough to sleep sitting or standing up? Tell us, these guys will enjoy your answers.

Cleaning House and Taking Names

Sunday evening, 10 pm. I am so exhausted.

Sunday evening 10 pm. I am so relieved.

Last Thursday I had a 20-yard dumpster delivered to my mother's house. I have spent the last 3 days cleaning holy hell out of her home.


I have been sorting through 50 years of her life: 40 years of her marriage to our father, my own and my sister's childhood, and 30 years of a daycare business—and 10 years of dementia—all packed into a small, 3-BR ranch.

It was my job to decide what must go and what must stay, with a primary goal of restoring order and safety to her home.

It was not a job for the meek. My mother, always sentimental, developed a hoarding disorder in her later years. Her home was was littered with blatant signs of her oncoming dementia. As she always catered to 2-year olds, it was sometimes difficult to sort out what, in her home, might have had a legitimate purpose (a small tin with cherry pits, for children to plant), and what, in my mind, absolutely no sense:

Socks & diaper pins.

No matter; I have been a tornado in my mothers home for the last 3 days. I have emptied rooms that were stacked to the ceiling. I have sorted, tossed, and saved.

I have mopped floors, washed walls, scrubbed furniture, stripped beds, dusted cobwebs, moved furniture, and laundered countless bedclothes.

All of this with one thing foremost, in my mind:

I did not want to undo my mother with the changes I made in her home. I needed to pitch acres of stuff with minimal upset; her home should have, essentially, the same look and feel as it did Thursday afternoon, before I began.

The most unsettling aspect of the cleanup was tearing out white carpets that left the original dark brown tiles underneath. Clint helped me with the carpet removal, and with shopping for bright rugs to splash about, to absorb some of the shock.

Most furniture is returned to its original spot. Shelves, cleaned out, are still filled with her belongings, which leaves room to put comfort items out where she can see them: Stuffed animals on her headboard. She loves them.

I think I did a damned good job this weekend. I feel infinitely relieved that things are in order. Or, falling into order. I have some more rooms to work on, and Clint's son and friends are tackling the jungle that used to be the back yard.

Now that we're working on it, I realize what a tremendous amount of guilt I've felt that her home and yard have gotten to their current state.

But I also know that she has resisted all of our attempts to set these things straight in years past; she was unwilling to let us step in and move or toss Dad's stuff, Dad's space. Anything set right was restored to its chaotic state, broken lamps brought in from the garbage, and placed back into the corner from which we had carried them.

I sucked at tough love with my kid, and I suck at it with my Mom.

I was waiting for her permission, and she finally gave it to me.

We both feel better.

At least, I do.

I really hope she does.

House Update

It's official. Kind of. Well, we think so...we're back. We're here. We aren't done; we aren't anywhere close to done, but we spent our first night in the country casa last night. We stayed on the property a few weeks ago, for Clint's birthday, but the only available bedroom was still a bit overcome with construction equipment, so we slept in the camper that night, so we don't count that.

We've puttered and organized, and we've decided that it's time: We have a stove and a refrigerator. We have living room, dining room, bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom. We are here.

We still have lots of dust, bare lightbulbs, boxes everywhere, cardboard over the floor to protect the tile, and doors and windows with no trim. But even on night 2 we've figured out fast that it is MUCH easier to work here until 7 0r 8, and be HOME when we are done.


We celebrated last night with a simple, but fantastic dinner, tossed together from what few ingredients we have in the kitchen. A steak on the grill, a simple salad, and a last minute bouquet of wildflowers in a fancy vase. (Pronounce that vahs, will you?)



On Day 2, we made it really official:

We brought the cat home. She acclimated for a few hours, and when it was finally time for me to put my feet up, decided to earn her keep: She caught the mystery mouse that's been leaving evidence of it's existence around the house.

And she brought the writhing thing right to my feet. Clint was in the shower at the time, but he had no doubt that something exciting was going on in the living room. I was standing on the couch within nanoseconds (yes, I was), making this face, and the accompanying sounds that you imagine here:


Lucky for me, the mouse got away, which may make for an interesting Night #3 at the country casa. I'm keeping my shoes on.

We look forward to keeping you posted.

That's All I Got: #1

I've been thinking: How does one, overextended, maintain a blog? Solution du jour: Mini-Posts. ta-DUHhhhhh: A photo, a line, leave a brief message at the beep.

*beep*

I took this one Friday night, in St. Louis. We were a party of 7 at Jennifer and Bill's house this weekend, and on Friday night sat out under a romantic gazebo on the most gorgeous deck, just decorated, as a their wedding gift, by what must have been a master gardener. This deck is paradise, and family, friends, good beer, tree frogs, and locusts didn't hurt the atmosphere one bit.

Until that locust tried to fly into our hair.

Christmas in July

For sale, in an Antique Mall in St. Louis, MO:


Is this not the creepiest thing you've ever seen?

Boo!

$700, and he's all yours.

Sweet Dreams.

Perspective

I list myself, in my profile, as an insomniac. Not so much these days, I need to update that profile.

On those rare occasions that I can't sleep, anymore, I just imagine complaining to these guys:



Then I shut myself the hell up and go to sleep.

Someplace, Somewhere, U.S.A.

Clint and I were traveling down a country highway recently, when we zoomed by this place at 55 mph. Click to enlarge the photo, and see why I made him turn around so that we could check it!


A lot of character here, not to mention a photo op in every corner. The walk up to the front door was paved with with roofing shingles.


A closer look at the front door:


We walked up to that door to find that the establishment was closed. Oh, nooooo! We can't go into this great junky little place? We peeked into the windows for a few minutes, and were heading back down the shingle-walk when the proprietor of the store came screeching into the gravel.

I figure that I can tell you where we were, or I can tell you what happened next, but I just wouldn't feel right telling you both. It would be a matter of national junk store security.

Here's the nice lady that owned the nice store that hurried up to meet us, out of breath and explaining that she had just driven down to the corner, to her house, to grab the newspaper.

She got to the door, turned around and gave me and Clint the once over. After scrutinizing us for a few seconds, she said "Ok, since it's just you two..." she proceeded to reach into a junkpile, grab this bricklayer's trowel, and after one more glance our way...


...break into her own store, saying "Come on in, let me know if there's anything I can help you with!"

That's kind of the whole story. After that, she parked herself behind the counter with her newspaper, happy to let us have a heyday poking around, trying on hats, and taking as many photos as we wanted to. We were there for well over an hour, bid our goodbyes, and hit the road with dozens of photos. Here are just a few highlights.

The end.

4th of July through One Soldier's Mother's Eyes

Happy 4th of July everyone.

This one a poignant one for me, as Brian & Co. left in the middle of the night Thursday, to Fort Irwin, CA, for desert training. They are gearing up for their next deployment, in October.

The first time he was deployed, as any long-time readers will know, I tried to prepare myself. I spent some hours analyzing and trying to factor out my own irrational fears, and coming to grips, basically, with The Serenity Prayer.

I don't know that any of it did any good. I fell apart periodically. And I kept it together most of the time, but sure as hell not on my own—THAT took my own army of supporters willing to pick me up and hold me up, on tougher days. The birth of Toys for Troops and all it brought into my life was a lovely distraction that made me feel as if I really could do more than nothing.

I didn't do this alone before, and I won't do it alone this time. Still, I remain, a bit, in denial. I KNOW my son is heading to Iraq, but instead of preparing myself, this time I try not to think about it.

This first photo, then, that he sent me on Wednesday hit me like a ton of bricks. This is real, mama, better start getting that through your silly little head.

We can communicate little right now, so I assumed these were photos of his company, waiting to take off for Fort Irwin.


I managed to compose myself, as he and his buddies sent me more, at my request.



There they go.



Hours later, settled in. There's Steven Moore (Steebmo) poking his head around the pole. Steebmo and Brian credit one another for making it home alive last time. Steven was the gunner on my son's bradley, and their stories are hair-raising. For saving my son's life, I will always love him. I don't even care that he partied too hard upon his homecoming and threw up in one of my pillowcases. That's how much I love him—there are very few people that could get away with that, you know.


Standish and Jolley. This one spent Thanksgiving in my house also. He has a distinct, joyous laugh that I can always recognize in the background when I talk to Brian. He laughs, and I say "Tell Standish hey."




And we're caught up, to this morning. I sent Brian a text, asking for one more pic, before I posted this entry. This one came in, with his caption:

"The view out the back of my brad."

He sent me another note, saying that 5 guys were watching a movie in that bradley, on a 7-inch screen. Being Mumsy, I asked him for a photo of that too:


And, ummm...since I'm the boss of Standish, I told HIM to take a picture of Brian for me. Brian sent me this one, then, with the caption:

"My cracker."

It's Independence Day. I'm embarrassed to admit that this was a day that once used to be, to me, more about picnics and fireworks, and a day off from work, and less about why were celebrating, and who we had to thank for it.

Brian and his comrades continue to make me strive to be a better person.

This is just one more aspect of how my son has changed my life.

Sweet Talkin' at 14

I've mentioned here, before, that Clint and I have a bit of history that predates our current relationship—back to kindergarten or thereabouts. In 1977, we were 14 years old, and buddies, stopping to chat when we rode by one another's houses on our bikes, or hanging out in my dad's garage. I'll admit to having had a bit of a crush on him. I'll also admit to being terribly shy. Crush or no crush, I turned down his invitation to a movie once because I didn't have money, and wasn't sure he intended to treat. God forbid I should just ask him!

He had a pet name for me (ok, it was more of a nickname than a pet name, but this is my story): "Goggles Pizano." Adoring Making fun of my glasses, he chose the name based on a Fred Flintstone cartoon.

Me, circa 1977.

And, Goggles, circa 1977:

It is 30 years later. We were busy Saturday, cleaning up the the country casa, and in the midst of our tidying, I found his 1977 yearbook.

I, being the girl that I am, knew what he wrote in my '77 yearbook. So romantic, he, at 14:

He called me Goggles! Tee hee.

I had no idea what I might have written in his. Jackpot on Saturday when I happened across it!

OMGawwwwwwd. I was UBER-excited to flip through this book, and find out what precious thing I most certainly must have written to him, thirty two (32!!) years ago. We will carry it in our hearts, embroider it on our pillowcases, engrave it on our tombstones, this most-certain sacred sentiment.

I'm not kidding, that's where I was, mentally, on Saturday afternoon, when I flipped through his copy of our '77 year book, and read this:

...


...


...


keep scrolling, it will be worth it...


...


...



...


::Cough::

Ahem.

I'm absolutely sure that was meant to be flirtatious! I blame Clint for not realizing that what I meant by "you're an idiot" was "take me to the dollar movie, big boy."

Men just don't know how to communicate.

In the Meantime: Toys for Troops Marches On

I wanted to break in here to let you know that although you haven't heard a lot about Toys for Troops, we are still forging ahead.

We slowed down in the last few months as most of the troops on our list came home. I happily remove names of those that are safe in their family's arms, and start sniffing out names and addresses of guys and gals that have replaced them, in Iraq and Afghanistan.

In addition, we are laundering beanies. Our initial call for beanie babies left me so inundated with donations that a kind neighbor of the country casa let us store thousands of them in his farm shed until we got caught up on those in my garage.



We hauled them back out a month ago, and though they're in good shape, they're musty and dusty, and we're laundering all of them before we ship.

Super-secret TFT code: "W" means "these are Washed!"

So, little by little, we are gearing up for our 3rd year of operations at Toys for Troops. There is no shortage of things to do, or soldiers to support. Last week I received a letter from a central Illinois soldier, "Major M.," who is currently serving in Iraq. It read, in part,

We conduct operations in nearby towns and small villages about every 2 to 4 days and in the short time I have been here, I have noticed a common trend amongst the children[...] They very rarely have any kind of toys or stuffed animals. [...] As a father of two small children under 5 and one more on the way in August, it saddens me that most of these children don't have any toys or stuffed animals...I am asking for any help you could give to help these children here.

I had a box in the mail the next day, and sent 2 more the day after that.

I also received another letter this week from a military mom, asking me to add the son of a family friend to our mailing list. He is

"stationed in Afghanistan with about 15 other guys, they're training Afghani soldiers, and eating Afghan fod...which is apparently why he asked his dad for "anything in a can, pop tarts, food!"

In addition, we shipped 4 boxes of beanies to soldiers aboard the USS Halyburton, for them to toss to children on the pier at their future homecoming (date of which can not be revealed).

We keep busy, but that isn't all I wanted to share with you.

What is most important about this update, and what continues to amaze me is this: I received the names of 27 soldiers this week that wanted beanies or could use a care package or a letter from home. I put out a shout out with that fact on Facebook, and enough people stepped forward that there was a care package heading out to each of those names...in 2 hours' time. Cookies and letters were mailed that same day!

I have always told the soldiers on our mailing list that people here want to do something to help out, and that all we need is a little direction: A name, an address will usually do it. I will be proud to be able to send them yet another letter telling them about the great 2-hour accomplishment, and that "we mean it, now! Give us your name and tell us what you need!"

There are soldiers out there busting their asses in desert heat, missing their families, and checking empty mailboxes.

We can't have that.

I have names. I have addresses. I have suggestions.

ljstewart@gmail.com

Hit me up. I'll help you help.

Levity, Provided By Mama

I took Mom out shopping yesterday afternoon, intent on finding some cool summer clothes for her. She had me in stitches from the start, when we walked into Sears, and she broke into hysterical giggles. Having no idea what set her off, she took me back to a headless mannequin, modeling a men's suit. "Poor thing," she said, and started giggling all over.

After picking out a few cool house dresses for her, I asked her if she'd like some slippers to wear with them. The look on her face was priceless when she exclaimed, "FLIPPERS?!! It was then my turn for hysterical giggling; the idea of Mom slapping around the house in a duster and a pair of blue flippers still undoes me.

The best line of the afternoon was yet to come, when we were trying on some cheapie slip-on shoes for her to wear around the house. She often mixes any two black shoes she can find. I thought maybe if we go for bright red, she'd be less likely to end up wearing two different shoes.

I slipped these on her, and asked her what she thought:



She gave 'em a walk around, sat down and hemmed and hawed, and finally replied,

"I remember something. I'm out of peppermints."

Clarification, Reassurance, Gratitude

I've been meaning to tell you all that I'm in a better state of mind, than I was when the last post was written. My little brain rebooted itself after a day or two, and I have direction, on a few issues.

On Mom's House: Insurance check has been cut. Assistance in cleaning Mom's house—all of it—out has been hired, by someone I can trust to lurk through her belongings with me. Garbage will be pitched, the good loot will be sold at a garage sale, and the sentimental and necessary stuff will find an organized space.

On Mom's Condition: I do need to share with you that my mother isn't walking around the house bonking into walls. Although her condition does deteriorate, she can carry on a conversation, express desire to go shopping, see her sister, get out of the house. She still reads the newspaper every day, and loves giving me the weather report. She giggles when I call her the Weather Lady, and ask her if it's going to rain. Though working a few extra hours a day with her wears me out sometime, she's a great lady, and she deserves those hours.

On Alzheimer's: I am pursuing Alzheimer's support group, and assistance from local senior services.

On Teri: I talk to her every day, and she says she's "feeling pretty good." Pain patches have left her feeling better, and surgery a few weeks ago prevents her constant vomiting. She's eating better, albeit has to skip the steak dinner. She has friends and family galore in her house every day. I take Mom to see her a couple times a week.

And, because so many of you are worried about me: I AM taking care of myself, although I sometimes wonder what you want me to do, when you tell me to do that. For the record, here's what I do, for myself:

• Sleep early. Though I claim insomnia, my kneejerk response to stress is sleep. One Advil PM keeps me sleeping so soundly that I do not wake during the night, and am rested in the morning.
• I have a glass of wine. Or I do not dare, and stick to water and club soda. On those toughity-tough days, I don't go near alcohol.
• I roll with my emotions, and when I have a minute, I do whatever the hell I want. Last week, housework was NOT it. Having my house undone usually grates on me, but I decided it was worth the tradeoff.
• I get pedicures. I'm fascinated at how little pink toenails lift my spirits. I think "that's pretty darned shallow" and then I think "who the hell cares?"
• I accept invititations. I appreciate that lunch or dinner out, or the offer to meet for coffee or a beer. Mostly, I appreciate your willingness to listen to me talk...and talk and talk. I'm surprised at what all I can blurp out in a long lunch.
• I turn down invitations. If I'm busy, can't make it or, just don't feel like it, I won't be there, and I don't feel bad, and I'm not apologizing. I appreciate your trusting me on this, understanding that things are hectic, and not taking my rejection personally or lecturing me about it.
• I silence my mind. I strive to simplify, and yet to be more decisive, so that I can make fewer decisions. If I cannot decide what to cook for dinner, I decide just not to cook at all. Problem solved.
• If I want to, I cry.
• If I want to, I laugh.
• I buy myself flowers, call my sister whenever I want to, drop in on friends, call Clint at work as much as I feel like it.

Those are a few of the things I'm doing. I'll keep them up or toss them out as I feel that they work or they do not. In the meantime, I appreciate your cards, your flowers, your messages.

Some of you have expressed that you feel that you make such small gestures. My response to this is that there is no gesture that you can make that will make all of this crap right. In times this tough, for me, for my sister, for anyone rattling down a rocky road, there can only be small gestures.

I appreciate yours immensely.

Not Blogging Today

Today's blog will be postponed, because I don't know where to start. I've been soul searching and trying to get my head straight, and my plan was to tell you all about that this evening, after picking up Mom's meds and working at her house for a little while.

My sweet mother's condition deteriorates. I stress myself out sometimes by wondering if I don't enable some of that deterioration. Is that even possible? Remember when I talked her into Meals on Wheels? They bring her such a large lunch that she eats it for both lunch and dinner. She no longer heats up an evening meal in the microwave; we removed this simple daily chore from her repetoire and it is gone. It is gone, and it isn't coming back. Did I do that?

I usually arrive to find her in two different shoes, both on the wrong feet, undies on askew (leg hole around her waist), and in general, I look around for some other surprise. Oh surprise me, Mom, surprise me!

In addition to Alzheimer's, she has a hoarding disorder. I will spend hours cleaning up her bedroom, only to find it once again covered in...stuff. Clothes and blankets and books are piled high, and she crawls in and sleeps amongst it.

On top of this, she hasn't been letting her doggie out often enough, and I am now in the midst of packing up more stuff so that we can tear out the carpets. I spend a couple hours a day cleaning, packing, and tossing Sucrets tins full of rubber bands, thousands of return address labels, fast-food salt packets, and empty boxes.

I was over this evening, puttering and talking to Brian on the phone when I wandered down the hallway to analyze the stuff I'd have to deal with in the spare bedroom. I opened the door to find this:

SURPRISE!!!

That hangy-down stuff is insulation, and there on the floor is the ceiling. What Brian heard, while we spoke on the phone was "blah de blah, blah blah blOHMIGOD OHMIGOD OHMIGOD!"

I don't know what happened here, I have no idea even when it happened. Clint's at work, Mom's puttering around wearing one tennis shoe and one slipper, my sister's family is taking care of my sister, and I was quite simply, numb.

I closed the door, picked up my keys, told Mom that I loved her and that I'd be back tomorrow. I've been staring at the walls for most of the evening. Oh, I try to think, every now and then, but my mind seems to just scream "don't want!" and shuts itself back off.

Anyway, all that happened, and I can't think, so I won't be blogging today, because I'm going to sleep now, k?

Frenzy, Fleas, and Fancy Gap

Schedule, most days:

7:00 a.m - 3:00 p.m.: Work for a living

3:00 p.m. - 5:00 p.m.: Work at Mom's house

5:00 p.m. - 7:00 p.m. Work at country casa

7:00 p.m. - 7 :00 a.m.: Grocery shop, cook dinner, do dishes, clean kitchen, clean bathrooms, vacuum house, do laundry, mow yard, pay bills, do Mom's laundry, pay Mom's bills, catch a little TV, write a little bit, catch up with friends and family. Oh, and sleep.

Last week, toss in Mom's stupid dog getting stupid fleas, and about 15 stupid hours of stupid shopping for stupid flea killing stuff for dog, mom, mom's house, and executing all of that stupid flea stuff. What stupid timing for stupid fleas to stupid invade the stupid dog.

Aw, he's a cute stupid dog.

Anyway, I don't have time to write. Maybe Wednesday.

In the meantime, here's a couple photos we grabbed on our trip, while driving through Fancy Gap, North Carolina.

We were quite amused with the name "Fancy Gap" and I made it clear to Clint that if I spotted "Fancy Gap Gynecology" there were no circumstances in which he could not hit the brakes and turn around for the photo op. Alas, no FG/OB/GYN, but I spotted this place on the way, and told Clint that we had to pull over for photos on the way back.



There are more photos here: Leonard's Market Gallery.

It was kind of a scary place. One sign said they'd be back at noon, but who knew if it was a legitimate sign or just a sign. Meanwhile, hard rock blasted from a radio inside, and no one seemed to notice our sneaking about with the camera.

That is all. I'll try to catch you Wednesday, k? Oh, and sorry about the raunchy gap jokes, but hey, Clint and I invariably morph into Beavis and Butthead after being on the road for 12 hours. And, it's just funny.

You're right...

...talking makes me feel better. Time constraints prevent me from elaborating for now, but thank you. Thank you for your emails, phone calls, facebook messages, and phone numbers.

And for those of you that were downtown tonight, those of you that scooted your chairs out and crossed rooms, sidewalks, and streets to catch me for a hug...thank you for bothering.

Catch ya later.

Off kilter

I'm not sure what to say, next.

This is the first minute I've had alone since Teri got her news last week. As I said, we were on the road, heading to a family gathering, when she told me that her doctors had just left the room.

I had a great time in North Carolina with Clint's family and their friends. We meandered on the trip there and back, did some photography, met some people. I returned to work to train a coworker in InDesign, which involves talking and instructing for 8 hours a day. I'm sure she is sick of the sound of my voice. After work, I do chores at Mom's house, take her to see Teri, give her a bath, give her dog a bath.

Repeat Wednesday.

Repeat Thursday.

I move through everything that must be done. These things, they are not entirely unenjoyable. Friends and family are fun. Coworkers are pleasant. Teri's in good spirits. Clint is...Clint (constant and wonderful).

And yet, when asked how I am, this week, I answer "I am not ok." I have never been so "not ok" in my life, and I've never felt so unapologetic for it. I cry in-between acts: on my lunch break, and when I'm driving down the road. I talk to Clint and cry at the dinner table.

Tuesday afternoon I had to get out of my workplace, after repeating the word "hospice" too many times upon my return. I drove to Di's house with the intention of having a good cry and a cold diet coke. I approached her driveway to have inform me, over the phone, that she was in Michigan.

I sat on her porch, and went about the cry anyway. I looked up to find a neighbor crossing the yard, asking "Honey, are you ok?" I told her "No. I am not ok. I came over here to have a diet coke with Diane, and she's not here."

"AND," I threw in as an afterthought, "my sister has cancer."

"Awwwwwww, did you just find out?" she asked me. It was a question that sent me back into uncontrollable sobbing, all the while observing that I had the handkerchief that I had bought for Clint to carry at Jennifer's wedding in my hand. How did this happen? I don't know, but it's nice, a handkerchief, for crying.

I returned to work, wiped out. Exhausted, I was, that afternoon, when an un-named for now television producer phoned me, asked if he could have a sample of my writing, and inquired about my possible interest in script writing for a future show.


It was a phone call that might normally make me say something stupid, but I was, simply, spent. I was tired, and in turn, calm and smooth. I told him about breaking up with someone in high school after getting a high-maintenance, Farah-esque haircut, and opting to do my hair through lunch period, thus letting a boy think I no longer liked him. Yep. That's what I talked about. I'm sure glad I didn't say anything stupid.

So.

Up-down, up-down. How do I sound like I'm doing? I've lost 7 lbs in 7 days. The mere thought of a certain diner breakfast we had on the way home makes me want to toss my cookies; the only thing I want to eat is watermelon. Watermelon is so watery and clean and not-greasy.

I feel bouncy and unsure, but I've decided not to worry about what I should or should not be writing here. I've decided not to apologize. I'll be back when I'm ready...30 minutes or 8 weeks from now. I'll be fine, or I'll be a mess. I'll be what I am at that point.

Hold my hand. Bring me watermelon. Pray for us.

Not doin' so hot.

Clint and I hit the road for North Carolina last week, and a day into our trip got the news that all options to treat my sister's cancer have been exhausted: Her care has been turned over, primarily, to Hospice.

I wrote, this afternoon. Wrote, and wrote about the last 5 days.

And then I deleted it all.

How many words does it take to say, after all,

"I am buckled."

Flesor's Candy Kitchen

Saturday afternoon, Lisa, of Champaign Taste, and I set out to roam the countryside, make a few stops, for country lunch, country groceries, and old-timey soda fountain beverages. Our last stop of the day was Flesor's Candy Kitchen, in Tuscola, IL, a restaurant/ice cream parlor/candy store that's been handed down from generation to generation since 1901.

We were on a mission to try their homemade ginger ale. While we watched and chatted with the girl making our drinks, the owner, Devon, stepped over and told us exactly how she makes her ginger syrup. I always appreciate when people aren't suspiciously protective of their craft. Devon could probably tell that we'd get in the car and drive 30 miles to have a fresh ginger ale prepared for us before we'd ever bother to steal her recipe.

They don't skimp on the ginger syrup:

Add ice & soda water:


Mix it good, and it's best with a lemon slice, we were told.


Delicious! Sweet and gingery, and very refreshing.

As we sipped our homemade ales, we watched the creation of ice cream sodas for a couple sitting next to us. These sodas are the real deal; unfortunately I didn't get a photo of the mountain of whipped cream that topped this one off.

The website menu reads:

Made with homemade, hand-dipped vanilla ice cream and topped with whipped cream and a cherry. Ours is the soda all grandmothers and grandfathers remember. Banana, Butterscotch, Caramel, Chocolate, Maple Walnut, Pineapple, Strawberry, Vanilla, Cherry, Lemon, Lime, Marshmallow. Black Cows, too!

While we sat snapping our photos, Devon offered, "if you want to have some fun taking photos, come on back into the candy kitchen!" Really? We can come into the candy kitchen? Yeah! We were like a couple of...bloggers in a candy shop!!

Fudge, fudge fudge!

And coconut peanut brittle:


All of which, along with a lot of other tasties, can be purchased at the candy counter:


While Lisa and I returned to our beverages and continued to take photos, Devon snuck back and handed us a bag of coconut brittle. We snacked on it while we made our other choices.

I've written here that I'm not much of a chocolate lover, but I did buy some dark chocolate coconut clusters that were amazing, and I don't exaggerate when I say that I will never pass through Tuscola again without stopping at Flessor's.

If you get an afternoon to yourself sometime, and you'd like to do a little time-traveling, jaunt on over to Flesor's for an authentic soda shop experience. Your kids will enjoy the history lesson, and your parents the nostalgia. Not to mention the ice cream.