Pumpkin Picking

Yesterday I broke my own rule about not doing fall activities when it's hot out. But I wanted to go pumpkin picking and Halloween is two weeks away. Good grief, why is it still 80 degrees out? Anywho, the other complicating factor is the field we like to go to is not open on Saturdays for religious reasons and typically Saturday is our only opportunity for adventure. But because my ex and I flip-flopped days again this past weekend, we met my sister, her son, and our dad in the field moments after they opened.

My son and his grandpa hunting for the perfect pumpkins. Photo taken by my sister.

We gathered many pumpkins from the field before heading to the corn maze. By that time it was hot and sunny and I was fading fast (still sick, whine, whine). After spending several years trying to escape the corn maze Little Man and I headed for home while the others waited for a hay ride. Maybe we can finally do that next year! Although I've seen pictures of other pumpkin patches that offer wheelbarrows, so maybe we need to consider picking elsewhere. It might make it easier for us old folks.

I was so exhausted after the heat and the maze that I slept for an hour and a half while my son was napping! I am really over feeling like crap.

I love how pumpkins look on the front steps. This is probably the last year I can get away with not carving jack o'lanterns.

Thanksgiving Dishes

I'm fairly traditional when it comes to Thanksgiving dishes. I focus on filling my plate with mashed potatoes, stuffing, squash, sweet potatoes, and green bean casserole. If there are brussels sprouts on the table, they most definitely need to be on my plate.

I usually have a couple small pieces of turkey but mainly to appease the masses. I could really do without it. I skip the gravy altogether. I have no interest in anything with marshmallows or jello mixed with fruit (why is this even a thing?).

My family is famous for cranberry sauce. Growing up my favorite part of Thanksgiving was shoving fruit into the meat grinder as my sister cranked the arm. It's mesmerizing to watch the fruit, especially the apples, get pulled into the auger. I never actually enjoyed the finished product though. I much prefer cranberry sauce from a can. It's best when you push it out of the can, keeping the tube shape intact, and then cut fat slices. Yum!

What are your favorite/least favorite dishes at Thanksgiving dinner?

Christmas 2013 Recap

There were a few changes to our traditional Christmas activities this year, but many remain intact and perhaps new ones were developing to take the place of the ones being left in the past. For example, I am confident that the friends holiday feast will become an annual event, as it was so thoroughly enjoyed by all of us.

One change to this year's festivities was how we celebrated Christmas Eve. Traditionally, my husband's paternal uncle and aunt have hosted a large family party with a dollar gift exchange and a spectacularly decadent dessert. However, after retiring this year they opted to spend their holiday in Arizona with two of their sons and their grandchildren (and who could begrudge them that?). So my husband's parents decided to invite a smaller group of family members over for a big fried fish dinner from our local fish frying establishment. We marveled at the enormous tree (11-12 feet) and joked about how they were going to have to saw it into pieces to get it back outside. We played the dollar gift game, of which I am decidedly NOT a fan. I can play along though and intentionally "forgot" the cheap crap at their house when we left. Ha!

On Christmas morning we drove back over to his family's house to watch the kids open their gifts from Santa. His parents share a house with his sister and her husband and their four kids, who somehow managed to wait until we arrived at 8:00AM before tearing into their piles of presents. The opening was accomplished with typical swiftness and before long we were heading back home to shower and prepare for the next part of the day.

Shortly after 11:00AM we made our way to my parents' house. My step-mom is undergoing yet another round of chemo and is too weak to stand around the kitchen preparing a big meal, so my husband had volunteered to pitch in (love that man). My father had done all the grocery shopping and went a little hog-wild buying ludicrous amounts of food. For the first time ever we didn't even come close to finishing the shrimp cocktail and I didn't even bother opening four of the fancy cheeses he bought. We also elected to skip the brussel sprouts and the bacon wrapped scallops. Cooking and cleaning up are always more of a challenge in someone else's kitchen and not something I'm super comfortable with (probably because I wouldn't want anyone doing much of either in my kitchen). Naturally the best part of the whole day was watching my three year old nephew take delight in handing out and opening presents. So cute! So smart! So funny! Not that I'm biased or anything.

We still have another round of celebrations to look forward to when my mom and her husband come to visit at New Year's. There will be more presents and more eating and best of all- the visiting. Hopefully, I will have kicked this stupid cold to the curb by then.

I do hope that however everyone celebrated their holidays they were full of happiness and good cheer.

My Relationship With Food

At this time of year over-eating is a pretty common occurrence. In fact, it's celebrated and enjoyed. Think of the typical Thanksgiving spread and the marathon cookie baking sessions. It's as good a time as any to think about your relationship with food.

I don't have an eating disorder, but I also don't have the healthiest relationship with food. I am convinced it stems from childhood, when I was not allowed to make decisions about when and what I ate. Under my father's rule, if it was on your plate or in your glass it must be consumed. Dinners consisted of a meat, a green vegetable, a starch, and a tall glass of milk. These dinners were prepared and plated by my step-mother and you ate every morsel whether you liked it or not and regardless of whether you still had room in your stomach.

Eating was not something we did because our bodies indicated hunger. Eating was done at meal times and "appropriate" snack times (i.e., after school). To this day, I still struggle to recognize signs of hunger. I still eat meals at traditional mealtimes. I get grumpy when dinner takes place at a later hour (I am so not cosmopolitan), especially when we go out to dinner. I tend to over-eat when we go out because I want to be sure to get our money's worth. I hate feeling like I've swallowed a bowling ball, but I still have trouble stopping when I should.

Even at Thanksgiving if we took food, we were expected to eat every speck on our plate. I can remember the dread I felt when I realized as I was eating that I'd taken too much (again). As soon as I slowed down I could feel my father's eyes upon me. I didn't want to let him down. I didn't want to be like my cousin who would load her plate sky-high and then only eat maybe a third of its contents. (Never mind that she was probably actually enjoying her meal and her holiday, while I was miserable.) If and when I gave in and left food on my plate, my father would take it from me and finish whatever was left, even though he'd eaten a full plate himself. He couldn't stand the idea of his children being as wasteful and irresponsible as he considered my poor cousin to be.

Now I greatly dislike Thanksgiving and find all family meals to be stressful on some level. I've gotten better about leaving food on my plate. I even get a little rush sometimes when I make the decision to leave food uneaten. I try really hard to take our dinner leftovers for lunch at work so food doesn't go completely to waste, but some things don't keep well. I'm learning to accept that it is OK to order seafood or a salad and only eat what I want and not force myself to eat the whole thing. I'm still getting my money's worth by enjoying the meal and the experience. Nothing would be gained by forcing myself to keep eating.

But no matter how much progress I make, sometimes as I shovel another forkful down my gullet I'll glance over at my husband. One look at the expression on my face and he'll remind me to stop. Just stop. Put the fork down.

(Note: I feel obligated to mention that my parents had nothing but the best intentions. They certainly did not mean to create an environment where I developed unhealthy eating habits.)

Low Maintenance

This was originally posted on June 24, 2012 on Cowbird when I was trying that website on for size. I found we didn't make a good match and only posted a handful of "stories" there. I may share more of them here. Or not.

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We sat around the hotel room, killing time before the start of the wedding ceremony. My fiancé attempted a nap in the one upholstered chair, while his father lay on the bed. I sat in the desk chair halfheartedly reading tweets on my Smartphone and providing occasional feedback to my future mother-in-law as she got ready. She curled her hair and applied make-up after we decided on the best shade of eye shadow to coordinate with her dress. When she was finally done in the bathroom her husband indicated it was now my turn.

I glanced at the clock. It was well before I would’ve started to get ready on my own, but I shrugged and stood up. My fiancé snorted, and as I walked towards the bathroom I heard him tell his dad to watch the clock.

In the bathroom I shed my tank top and shorts, slipped the purple and black dress over my head, and tugged it into place. Then I picked up my clothes and exited the bathroom.

“Told you,” my fiancé said to his dad, who stared at me.

“You’re done?” He asked, astonished. I just smiled and slipped my feet into my heels.

Soft and Worn

When I was a kid I slept in my dad's old t-shirts. They were faded and worn thin and super soft (and usually stained). But the best part about them was they smelled like my dad. This was especially important to me after he left my mom. On the nights we stayed with her I could cuddle close to the smell of him at night and not miss him as much.

I always wondered how he managed to wear out t-shirts, as at that time I was out-growing them before I could wear them out. Then as I got older I had so many tees that the idea of any one of them getting that much wear was impossible to imagine.

But I've finally done it. One of my shirts now looks like Swiss cheese*:

I bought this gray Old Navy pocket tee after watching The Thing Called Love in college. Samantha Mathis' character wears one in the movie and even though I loved the look on her, it didn't work well on me. The t-shirt got relegated to my "comfy clothes" category (the clothes I wear around the house but not out in public). It's still my go-to shirt to pull on when I get home from work. I suppose at some point I will have to give up and let it go. I wonder if my dad felt the same reluctance to part with his old shirts.

*Sorry for the crappy cell phone in the bathroom mirror picture.

Married Life

"How's married life?"

I am constantly being asked this question and I always stumble over the answer. Married life is, in fact, absolutely the same as non-married life was for us. We already lived together (for almost 3 years), so there were no new surprises lurking in dark corners. Day-to-day life has not changed one iota. Which is fine, or else we would not have gotten married (duh!).

Some things have changed though, like my last name. It was a decision I put A LOT of thought into. As is tradition in my family, I did a lot of waffling. I leaned one way, I leaned the other. I asked my now-husband for his opinion: "I don't care, do whatever you want." And so I did. I decided to change my last name for a variety of reasons, all of which are personal and NONE of anyone else's business.

However, apparently lots of folks don't appreciate these boundaries, which in my opinion, should be obvious. Everyone is welcome to their own opinion of course, but I don't need to hear it. The most distressing incident was when my boss yelled at me for having changed my last name. And just so we're clear, I'm NOT exaggerating. She raised her voice and essentially told me I was wrong (and stupid, being the underlying message). The little respect I had for her vanished in that instant.

A complicating factor is that my husband (he needs a nickname, doesn't he?) has a sister with the same first name as me, which was weird enough when we were dating. But now, people are constantly harping on how strange it must be for her to have someone else take her name (never mind the fact that she's been married with her husband's last name for close to 15 years). And they go on and on right in front of me, without any concern for how this makes ME feel. Clearly, I'm still working on developing that thick skin.

Maybe one day I will be able to not let little stuff bother me. And maybe one day I'll finish changing my name with every entity on the planet (Passport Services, I'm looking at you).

In the meantime, I'll just keep marveling at the fact I now have a HUSBAND and am MARRIED. After 36 years of being single, these things take time to get used to.

My parents have green thumbs

These are only a fraction of the many flowering plants in my parents' yard. Every year they plant hundreds of impatiens, in addition to the multitude of perennials. I always admire their gardens but don't like to think about all the weeding they must require. I lucked out the other day when I was over there and found tons of perfectly ripe wild strawberries, including handfuls of blond ones. One more thing to add to the list of "things I want to plant in my yard."

Some of my hostas are in bud and my coral bells are always flowering. One of the geraniums that survived the winter in dormancy in the garage has sent up its first flower of the summer. My lovely farmer's market lilies from last summer are just about to pop. I need to get more of those too; they are so neat and compact, with gorgeous flowers.

FF was prodded into removing the blade from the lawn mower to take to work and sharpen. Hopefully, he can get to it tomorrow because my grass is starting to look a tad shaggy. The blade was so dull that it was pushing the grass over instead of cutting it. Must be all the stumps I've caught with it over the years. Maybe mowing will go faster with it sharpened? One can always hope...

Too much of a good thing

Sometimes I feel sorry for myself. Sad about being alone, even when I know it is my choice. Most of the time, though, I love being alone. Most of the time I am happy that it's just me and the dogs.

It was so nice to come home to a quiet house tonight. There was no one being petty and mean, no one calling me names when they think I'm out of earshot. I may not have a single person that puts me first in this world, but I also don't have a house full of people that put me down.

Sometimes there's nothing wrong with being alone. Nothing at all.

Saturday Reflections

It's been a solitary morning as usual, but I feel it more than normal because my mother and sister are madly cooking and baking at Sis' house, while I am doing my own thing here. Tonight we shall have an early Thanksgiving dinner, and I should probably make my way over there and help with the preparations. But it's never been my thing, and I'm sure I would just get in their way and be bored out of my skull.

I caught up on my week's worth of General Hospital this morning, did two loads of laundry, added that extra blanket to the bed, and submitted several short assignments to the online learning tool we use for classes. Two of my three classes have been cancelled in advance of the upcoming holiday, but I have plenty of long-terms assignments I could be working on. Plus, I have to lead a 45 minute discussion group Monday night on how race, culture, and ethnicity affect learning. Right now, I'm a little heavy on activities and light on content. Maybe I can find some of that Sunday night?

Today is National Adoption Day, and I've been thinking about how much I want children and how I would love to bring a child into my life that needs a home. But considering how hectic my life is now, I know it would be wise to wait until after I get my degree and find a teaching job. Sometimes I get tired of waiting for all of the pieces of the puzzle to fall into place though.

Well, my weekend sucked. How was yours?

Saturday was maddeningly hot. And the humidity was gross, just gross. I spent all day laying on the couch sweating and feeling sorry for myself.

Sunday dawned cooler and delightfully grey. But naturally, I had to work. All day.

By the time I left work, I was feeling irritable and all I wanted to do was relax with my family over dinner.

But that was not to be. They were feeling argumentative. And then as the evening drew to a close, I was forced to take another trunk load of my old crap. It is mine, and I understand it should be my responsibility to deal with it. But the timing frickin' sucks. I have no room for anything, what with the inactive construction project. Plus, it was going on 9:30 at night, I'd worked all day, and I had to work in the morning. I wasn't anxious to have to spend time unloading my car and finding space to stack more boxes.

And my parents wonder why we don't visit more often? Whatev.

Grandmothers

I spent the day in the hammock rereading another Madeleine L'Engle book, The Summer of the Great-Grandmother. When I read it the first time I was moved by her experiences but could not relate to them personally. This time around so much of what she writes about her mother hits home.

And it occurs to me that this is the first summer of my life without my grandmother. We had such good times at my grandparents' house when we were youngsters, playing badminton, running through sprinklers, all the home cooked meals (fresh corn on the cob!). I could go on and on.

I am also forever grateful for the times we shared while she was in the nursing home. The walks we all took, three generations of women, to the gazebo. We peaked at the hidden house, admired the flowers, and took picture after picture. Grandma used to hide from the camera, but she gave up as she reached the end of her life, so we have many pictures of the three of us crowded around her at benches along the paved walkways.

Pictures are what hold my memories together. Thank goodness my family is rarely without a camera or four.

Village Walking

I was feeling a bit bored with my neighborhood walks, but the heat and humidity usually make for too many bugs in the woods. I had some borrowed items that I needed to return to my dad, so I decided to multi-task and walk in Hometown Village.

It worked out better than I could've hoped. When I pulled in the driveway my parents were standing there in their running gear about to set out. They went for a run down towards the school as I headed down towards the river.

I enjoyed the old houses and well-tended gardens, plus the bonus of having a sidewalk. From the bridge I watched a barge squeeze into the lock with only a few feet to spare on either side. I had a near-encounter with an old classmate who still delivers pizza, but fortunately his attention was diverted and I was able to slip past undetected. The dead tree covered in flowering trumpet vine looked exactly the same as it did in the summer of 1993 when I spent many nights walking around town with friends.

Back at the house, my parents and I sat cooling off beneath the ceiling fan while we visited.

My Childhood Home

Now seems like a perfect time for a meme, so when I saw this one at Overwhelmed With Joy and Owlhaven, I decided to give it a whirl. I have a notoriously bad memory, so it may not be as descriptive as theirs. I need to start taking ginkgo or something.

I had one trailer, two houses, and one apartment that could easily be considered childhood homes. A third house came into my life while I was in high school, so that might not qualify. I chose house number one to write about.

My family lived there while I was of the ages two through six. The house itself was in many ways more like a camp than a home. It was on the shores of a small lake, on land owned and operated by the county as a nature center. There was a second house that shared the same driveway, which was used as a camp (I don't think it was winterized?).

There was a dock and a float. In summer the dock would be the perfect place for water snakes to sun themselves. We had five dogs and a barn with chickens and goats and very large rats. Mom would say silly things like, "I'm going out to feed the giraffes and elephants now" when she went out to the barn.

Our kitchen table was in front of the window looking out on the water. Dad would yell "great blue heron" and point out the window. When we turned to look, he'd swipe something off our plates.

Sis and I used to throw the pink jelly beans from our Easter baskets down the stairs into the basement apartment because we didn't like them. We also drew all over our shared bedroom walls with crayon. It was the best place to grow up because we had acres and acres of woods and fields to play in. Talk about a big backyard.

Sis could probably write about the same childhood home in much more detail. Maybe she will? If you decide to write about yours, leave a comment so I know.

Unsolicited Advise

Before you leave home on vacation:

• make sure all of your windows are closed and locked
• make sure all of your doors are locked
• take the window AC unit out of the window
• do not leave car keys in plain sight
• set a light on a timer
• tell your neighbors you'll be out of town
• leave your contact information in case of an emergency

I know some of you are thinking, you must be kidding, who wouldn't know all of this already? But there are still some very trusting (naive?) people in this world. People that are old-fashioned perhaps. People that will probably not make these same mistakes again.

It could've been much worse. The car was not stolen. Nothing was damaged. We won't know the extent of what was taken until my parents return.

But it was scary and invasive and nerve-wracking. It makes me want to rethink some of my habits at my own home.

It makes me sad that there are so many bad people in the world. Or people that would do such bad things. I really hope their fingerprints are on file.

Grammy's Snowdrops

The only thing flowering in my yard so far are a few small and mutant periwinkles, but Grammy's snowdrops are blooming in clusters in the shade by her garage door. I am tempted to dig up a cluster to bring to my new house. I know she would want me to have them to enjoy spring after spring. Once her house is sold, I will miss the peony's, clematis, columbines, and most of all the beautiful rhododendron. I can't transplant them all, but surely a small bit of snowdrops could make themselves at home somewhere in my new yard.

Family Tradition

My grandfather was a brilliant man. He was knowledgeable on many subjects, and was particularly interested in foreign languages. He started teaching my sister and me to speak French at a very early age, writing the words out phonetically in a small spiral 3-ring notebook.

Both of my grandparents would sprinkle into conversation the occasional word or phrase of whatever language they felt was appropriate: French, Italian, Spanish, Japanese, German, you name it, you might have heard it.

They travelled Europe fairly extensively after retiring, bringing us girls back small goodies. We would meet them at the airport back in the days when folks still dressed up to travel. Skirts and ties and smiles all around.

It is with Grandpa in mind especially that I chose the class I am taking this semester: French II. I haven't taken francais since high school, when I excelled at it. It was my favorite subject through the years. But Madame G would be sorely disappointed to discover how little I've retained.

I managed to place into French II by virtue of an on-line exam, but after the first class last night I wonder if that was such a good idea. Verb conjugation may be the sticking point.

But last night in class I could hear Grandpa singing opera and quoting Shakespeare and Grandma's cheerful voice calling from the kitchen.

Christmas Past

I would like to wish everyone who celebrates Christmas a very merry one! And a happy holidays in general.

I originally posted this picture back in May in honor of Mother's Day, but I think it would be appropriate again now.




My first Christmas, 1976.

The Transformation

The transformation continues...

Not only am I living in her house, but I am finding myself filling my grandmother's shoes in a variety of ways. When cleaning out her bedroom, I found a shirt that I actually like and wear frequently. Since she only had a washing machine in the house, I now hang my wet laundry on the clotheslines out back or in the basement. And to top it off, this summer I was forced into getting her old push mower out of retirement. Our lawn was never getting mowed in a timely fashion because of the late hours my fiance works. Since I can't start our gas-powered, self-propelled, mulching mower, out came the electric push mower. I never realized how big the yard was until now.

I won't be wearing that bright pink lipstick or the floral house dresses anytime soon though. I promise.