Making memories, one day at a time…..

I haven’t written in a while. Truth be known, life just wouldn’t allow room for it. I miss it when I can’t fill a page or two on my blog. It’s been part of my life for nearly a decade now, and I’ve become accustomed to leaving a few words on the page for people kind enough to stop by and read them.

Two weeks ago, my son got married. Not only did I gain a new, and extraordinarily lovely new daughter-in-law, but she brought into our expanding band of ne’er do wells, three children to add to my list at Christmas time. Most exciting. The wedding was beautiful. It was held outside in their lovely, and very spacious back yard, witnessed by a hundred or so of their close friends and family. Vows were exchanged under the three hundred year old oak tree dominating the side yard, and was presided over by the bride’s father who holds down a side gig as a minister. Done and done. Another chapter opens up in our family history. Interesting how life at times seems to write itself.

I drove down and back to the Bay Area solo. This was not in the least a hardship for me. There is something so exhilarating about careening down the highway on a beautiful day, music playing, and the window slightly ajar to allow the breeze in to catch up your hair. As I’ve said many times, I think I was born to be a wanderer. Perhaps in a former life I was part of a nomadic band of souls who moved from place to place making their home wherever they found themselves on any given day. Even now, with my beautiful little house to keep me safe and warm, the thought of moving on slips into my thoughts now and again.

My feet hit the ground running once the wedding was complete. Back in my own territory, before I could draw a single deep relaxing breath, I was reminded I had signed up to attend my first play in twenty years with my friend, Richard the day after I arrived home. The play, based on the planes forced to land unexpectedly in Newfoundland when 9/11 was taking place, was very entertaining and quite funny considering the subject matter. It was performed in front of a packed house. Our seats were located pretty much in the center seats in the middle rows of the lower tier. Richard and I didn’t get dressed as if we were attending the coronation, but we did make an effort to look as though we hadn’t rolled out of bed five minutes before we’d arrived at the performing arts center. This was not true of fifty percent of the people occupying the remaining seats. There was a time when women dragged out their glitter and bling for a night at the theater, but honestly I don’t think people find an occasion to get dressed up much anymore. Do they even have a market for nylons these days? I really don’t know. Back in my grandmother’s day getting dressed for an evening out was a production. Nylons weren’t free flowing back in her day. They were attached by clips to girdles. Horrible inventions those. It was like wrapping a rubber band around a round of soft cheese, everything loose and gooey relocated either above or below the band itself like a muffin top on steroids. I guess the current answer to girdles might be Spandex without the clips. Then after you’d gotten yourself fully assembled, you had to pull on gloves and a hat before leaving the house. I fear my grandmother would be confused at how casual we have become these days. The other day I saw a young girl walking into a high school campus. She was wearing Daisy Duke shorts, fishnet hose, and a shirt so tight I felt perhaps she might be going to shed it the summer rather than throw it in the laundry bin when she got home. The most impressive part of “the look” however was the makeup. I hope she gets it at a bulk rate. The eyelashes covering her upper lids, if fanned, could have cooled a dozen people simulanteously on a hot day. Had I gone to school dressed like that when I was her age they wouldn’t even have let me on campus. Things change, we have to change with them. I remember my mother being appalled when I showed up in bell bottom pants and a fringed jacket. Each generation brings their own style to the table, generally to the chagrin of the one preceding it. I wonder if Amazon has fishnets in my size?

There really aren’t many dress up venues left. I can hardly remember the last time I saw a man in a suit, other than at my son’s wedding, and then only on the participants. Most of the attendees were semi-casual, with some in jeans and a shirt.

Vegas used to be a place where men took in a show suit and tie in place, but that too is long past. The last time I went to a show on the strip was in the 90’s. Sigfried and Roy were appearing. It was a sold out show, and we were packed into the showroom tighter than olives in a jar. The man sitting next to me was sporting well-loved flip flops on his feet. On his person, he wore cargo shorts accessorized by a tee shirt that read, “Honorary Member of the Las Vegas Drinking Team”.  I remember him specifically because he was sucking up beer as though there might be a shortage of the lager about to occur at any moment. After each generous gulp, he would then belch loudly and go “AHHHHHH” as if a signal to his stomach to make room for the next installment.

At any rate, dressed or not, the audience seemed to appreciate the theater production along with us, so it was a nice evening in spite of how tired I had felt when it began. Thankfully, the earlier scenario I had in my mind picturing me, head thrown back snoring like a drunken sailor, drool oozing down the side of my chin, never materialized, so for now my image remains untarnished.

The play behind me, the next thing written on my calendar was “VACATION”. Yay! Richard arrived after work last Saturday, towing his fifth wheel and his boat, to take me on an adventure in Plumas County on Lake Davis. Fun and more fun. I have camped many times in my life. I am beyond the “Let’s put up a tent, toss a blanket on the ground, and throw me on top of it” stage for sure. Been there, done that. Anyone who tells you they enjoy sleeping on a rocky expanse of real estate is either a liar or intoxicated. There is no other option. Even when I was a kid, I ended up walking like a ninety year old arthritic man after a night of roughing it in the woods. No way now, and no how. Over the years I’ve come to accept I like my creature comforts. As it is I don’t sleep well in my lovely comfortable bed, lying on a floor of rocks surely isn’t going to improve the situation.

So, for today I am off to work. I will fill you in on my Lake Plumas adventures in the next installment. Happy weekend to you!!

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For the moment…..

This past weekend had some sad notes in it, along with some really melodious ones. Watching my mother’s decline is a difficult vigil. This month she will add another candle to her cake, and those of us who treasure her, are happy to be celebrating the momentous event with her. Each day, each visit, becomes more precious as the hours tick by on the clock. I try to imprint sounds, touches, and memories into my mental scrap book to pull up somewhere when I no longer have her with me. Enjoying a nice visit with her on Saturday, I came home feeling a bit melancholy. Dale has been gone since late October, and I’m still settling into the rythms of my new life without him. Some days are more difficult than others. I stopped on the way home to browse through Home Goods, my happy place. I didn’t need anything in particular. Sometimes, I just like looking at all the beautiful things on their shelves. Usually, I manage to find a little something something I didn’t really need.

While at my mother’s I placed an order for some supplies needed for her care to be delivered from Costco to her residence. Costco is about five miles from where she lives and about thirty from where I do. Instacart will deliver from the store without a membership card. I let mine lapse this year. I love shopping at the big box store but I end up tossing half of what I buy because everything is packaged in such large quantities. Continuing my unbroken string of stupid is as stupid does activities, I arrived home about three hours later to find my mother’s Costco order waiting for me on my doorstep. Seems someone forgot to change the delivery address when placing the order. This means another trip back to my mother’s to deliver the goodies. Sigh.

Opening the door at my house and gathering my mother’s order, I found Boo, the Queen of Cats, lurking behind the door wearing her “where have you been” face. The cat has a strict internal clock, and when I miss the treat deadline for the afternoon the retribution is swift and mighty. First, she gives me the stink eye oozing with disdain, and then she sits with her back facing me until the treats are dispensed. Cats, as they say, be crazy, or do they make us think we are? Words to think about.

As much as I enjoy a good day in the stores, retail therapy isn’t the best choice for filling the void after someone passes away. However, shopping is something I enjoy, and sometimes Susie’s just gotta do it. Truth is, I was trained by the best. My mother, when able, was a consummate shopper. Can’t tell you how many times growing up, my closet floor was lined with bags from well known retail merchants waiting to be integrated into the household. The integration process was always done with the utmost stealth, so as not to alert my stepfather any new additions had been taken on board. When he spotted her wearing an outfit he didn’t recognize, I can still hear him saying, “Mary, is that dress new”? Mother, naturally pretending to be highly affronted by the inference, would reply “I can’t believe you’re asking me that. I wore it to Patty’s party on Saturday night”! Was I in the room, I would get the wink telling me to keep my usually loose lips sealed, and the game was afoot. My stepfather, not wishing to be accused of not being properly attentive to his wife, would then nod as if having a sudden clear recollection of the event in question and mother in the dress. He would then say, “oh yes, very nice”. Uh-huh. I believe these days this practice is referred to as “gaslighting”. Basically, it is when you make another person think they are crazy for imagining things actually going on. Mother really got in on the ground floor on that one.

Also, on the way home, I stopped at several stores in search of a pair of black pants or possibly a dress. My wardrobe has dwindled down to jeans and shorts. Sunday, I had plans to go to the symphony with a friend, and neither were going to be appropriate for the occasion. I had gone to listen to the same symphony a month ago and noticed people were a little more conservatively dressed than is the norm for this area. That being said, I felt I’d better step up to the occasion. When first asked if I’d be interested in going to see classical symphony, I have to admit, my instincts were to decline. Then I thought of my “why not” theme for this year. Not considering myself a fan of classical music, I was curious to see what this was all about. So glad I did. I loved, loved, loved the whole experience. After the first symphony, I found myself excited to be doing so once again. Had I not stepped outside of my own perceptions, I would have missed out on two wonderful afternoons filled with the most beautifully performed music, and hopefully more to come down the road. Yay.

Have to say, I don’t know who is designing women’s clothes of late but can’t imagine where they are drawing their ideas from. Browsing through the dresses, they seemed to break down into two categories. One would include cotton peasant style fabrics with flouncy sleeves and bibbed fronts. I call these the “Laura Ingalls Wilder Collection”. For those of you who watched Little House on the Prairie you will get the reference here. The second set, in more flowing nylon fabrics with cabbage roses dancing across the bodice or vibrant prints, I refer to as “Nana’s Parlor Collection”. One of the patterns I’m pretty sure I recognized from my piano teachers loveseat. Awful. When you are small framed such as I am, pulling one of these on makes you look like a six year old trying to pull off your mother’s clothes. I don’t think they could possibly be flattering no matter what your build.

The pants on the racks I found interesting as well. To begin with, they all seem short for some reason. I am 5′ 5″ tall, not exactly ready to be recruited by the Knicks, but every time I pull on a pair of pants lately I feel like I’m fully prepared for high water. Should the flood gates open, if wearing those pants I can continue on my way without taking on a drop of water. If they are not short, they look as if they’ve been attacked by a crazed tailor brandishing a pair of sharp scissors. My granddaughter has a pair so shredded she’d be more covered if wearing a pair of shorts. You pay more apparently for holey pants than those fully intact, and you don’t get hems on the bottom either. I came home with nothing more than I left the house with, except for a slight headache. The good news is, if they keep putting out clothes like this I’ll be in better financial shape.

This has been a hectic and most chaotic couple of weeks. The heart monitor they attached to me last week at my cardiologist’s office, as I mentioned in my previous blog fell off when I got home and had to be reattached. After being part of my body for six days and needing to be retaped, it turned out I was allergic to the super tape used to keep it in place so is now resting in a UPS return envelope waiting to be returned to the mother ship. Can’t say I’m sad to see it go. The device brought more stress with it honestly, then I need in my life right now.

So, back on track for the moment, I forge on. Hump day is upon us and we have already stepped into March. Whew. Trying hard to concentrate on the moment in time I am living. If I get too far beyond today it sometimes feels as if I’m stepping out on the ledge with nothing but empty space below me. Had to turn off the news this morning. Climate change, the Ukranian crisis, all too much to take in in one gulp.

Find your grateful space, your happy place, even if it’s browsing the shelves at Home Goods. Sometimes you simply have to feed your spirit in whatever way suits you for the moment you are in.

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Light as a feather….

My life is so upside down at the moment, all I need is to slap some sliced pineapple dotted with a few maraschino cherries on it and call it good. The phone rings incessantly. Dale is a well loved man. It is a tribute to him that so many people care about his well being and wish him well. He is playing a good defensive game, with all of us at the sidelines as his cheerleaders, but eventually, not withstanding a miracle, the cancer will most likely be the victorious opponent. Meanwhile, we support him in any way we can, and try to make each day as memorable as possible to carry us when we no longer have him to create new memories. All in all, a very melancholy, sometime joyous, and totally exhausting rite of passage.

I wonder often, as I have been in this same position twice in three years, why some humans have to suffer before moving on. Why when our time is done here on earth, we couldn’t simply drift out in a poof of glistening, fragrant, smoke evaporating seamlessly into the hereafter. “What is the purpose of the pain?”, I ask before going to bed each night, but as yet I have received no answer.

Today was the first day of fall actually feeling like the season had arrived. The sky is slightly overcast, with gray clouds block the sun at regular intervals suggesting the storm predicted to be on it’s way. According to the weatherman, the expected rainfall is not by way of a blockbuster, providing torrential downpours, but rather a trickle as opposed to a a steady flow. As dry as we are here on the west coast any precipitation at all is a cause for celebration at this point, so we’ll take it. Bring it on I say.

As I’ve said ad nauseam at this point, I live in a very small house. It is a sweet, and seductively cozy house, but was I to describe it, certainly spacious would never be an adjective I’d employ. Built in the 1930’s, there is no garage. I downsized considerably when moving here after selling my house. That being said, even with sluffing off a lot of household possessions, I still had more than I had room for. To avoid paying additional monies out every month for storage, my son-in-law built me a storage shed in the back yard to store my overflow in. Needless to say, I have filled that area up quite nicely. There are two things I really miss in this house when comparing it to my previous. First, as I said, a garage, and I also miss my large capacity side by side refrigerator. Yesterday at Costco I spied one the size of Rhode Island. This monster was equipped with enough room top and bottom to store a whole human should the need arise. Let’s face it, it is getting towards Halloween, and one never knows when such a situation might come up. For a mere $3,100, I could have had that puppy delivered. For a moment, just a blissful moment, I teetered on the brink of contemplating ownership of that bad boy, before gathering my senses and better judgement together and deciding to leave the store without regret. Driving the route towards my house, I kept imagining the glorious abandon of having ample room to store leftovers without having to generate a flow chart and make unfortunate decisions about what container was to be saved, and which ones fate was to be written at the bottom of my kitchen trash bin. When I came home, I rearranged my small freezer for the fourteenth time in two days and reminded myself to find my grateful space and remain in it until I got over it. Still there.

Aside from turning the thermostat from cool to heat, it is also time to switch out my closet from summer clothes to warmer wear. This, I have to say, is a project I detest. “Susie, old girl”, I told myself as I schlepped one plastic bin after another back and forth from the shed to the house, “you have wayyyyyyy too may clothes”. I do love clothes. Can’t lie. I blame my mother for this. If she was standing here and I said that, she wouldn’t even defend the statement. Always, my mother was a fashion plate. Never did I see her disheveled or unkempt. He outfits were coordinated from the tips of her earlobes all the way down to the glistening shine on the nails on her toes. Her hair was styled weekly, and remained in that style until the following week when it was washed and styled again, and cut and colored as needed. My mother’s hair has always been a bit of a “thing” in our family. Literally, it was something to be admired and revered. As if an entity unto itself, we weren’t allowed to touch it or get it wet. Once, at a summer party, my mother accidentally backed into the deep end of my daughter’s pool disappearing under water. When she arose from the dark abyss like Phoenix from the ashes, her “do” was dripping limply in her face. We were all so shocked to see her like that, and yes a bit terrified, nobody moved to help her for a minute until she suggested someone needed to do so. That, shall we say, literally doused that evening’s plans and an emergency appointment had to be secured at the local salon the following day to repair the damage. I see you shaking your heads. Every family has it’s thing that places that seed of dread when mentioned, ours just happens to be my mother’s coiffure. What can I say?

nClothes came in a close second to hair. Mother had work clothes, play clothes, evening clothes, spring clothes, summer clothes, fall clothes, winter clothes, and shoes, oh, the shoes. Once, I counted sixty-five pairs in her closet. That was her all time record as far as I know. They were excellent quality, the lady had taste, and my stepfather I’m sure probably had no idea what the price tag of this stiletto collection actually amounted to. When hats were fashionable, the top of her closet was lined with colorful hat boxes. Inside could be found all manner of head wear, some of the small pillbox variety that perched on top of your head, others larger and covering more cranial space, some had veils, others without, and each was purchased with an outfit hanging somewhere in her closet. When she was gone at work, I would sometimes open the closet door and model some of the lovely creations inside in front of her full length mirror. Later when grown, she told me she knew I was doing this because I never put them back the way she might have, but she thought it was sweet so allowed me to continue. Whew, dodged a bullet there.

Since work is no longer a place I go to every day my work clothes have been donated or handed down to friends, and my closet mainly consists these days of play clothes. I have stacks of jeans, shorts, sweaters, blouses, tee shirts and sweatshirts. It’s rare these days I get dressed up. Where am I going? The Queen hasn’t stopped by for tea in years. People at the market, at least up here in our area, sometimes show up to shop in there pajamas, so a dress code is really not in play around here. It’s not like my social life has been abuzz with activity over the past five years. When Rick and I had the restaurant, I had a whole closet of dresses. We were in the restaurant most nights, so had to look like we were somewhat professional. Those too have disappeared in a bin somewhere with only a few stragglers left in reserve for weddings, funerals, or the occasional big night out.

I remember when I was little I had to get “dressed up” for church. My feet were held in check in the dreaded Mary Janes. Bunnies or ducks adored my ankles on the fold of my crisp white socks, and a hat was sometimes tied under my chin for good measure. Being more of a tomboy than a girlie girl, for me this was tantamount to being tied to a chair and given Chinese water torture. My grandmother never attended church in anything but a dress or a suit. Always there was a hat, usually with a veil pulled over her forehead, to accompany her outfit. A pair of gloves was either in her purse or covering her hands, and over her shoulder, in the winter months at least, was draped her fox stole. I never warmed up to that particular garment, largely because the foxes used to create it were still attached to it. To me it always looked frightening and smelled a little gamey, but to ladies of the time it was quite the deal. Each generation has their nuances, I’m glad that one didn’t slop over on ours down the road.

At any rate, I have managed to switch the closet. Sooooo glad that job is behind me. I took all the extra junk from the shed I didn’t need, and piled it into my car and went to the dump to dispose of it. What a fragrant and messy place that must be to work. All that aroma in one place sort of gets my stomach to turning. I’m not good with strong smells. Even those stores in the mall dedicated to fragrant soaps, perfumes, scented candles, and the like, make me feel like revisiting my lunch. I’ve always known I wouldn’t be the ideal candidate for nursing school or a nursery attendant. I remember when changing my own children’s diapers I had to use one hand, reserving the other one for plugging my nostrils. Ah well, each of us has different things in our makeup to contend with, that is mine.

At least I’m feeling so much lighter for now until, of course, I get new junk to replace that which I threw away. For today, however, I feel light as a feather, at least when it comes to possessions. At this crossroad in my world, I will take the highs when and where I can get therm.

Have a lovely fall day!! Talk soon.

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