We had a long summer this year. The heat, as we know it, stayed until the beginning of November. With the October fires, some of the worst we have had, the Santa Ana winds blowing the ash and smoke, and the 90 degree heat wave the atmosphere was anything but pleasant and the air was heavy and dark.
Los Angeles area residents were told not to use any electrical appliances, such as washing machines, vacuums, dryers, air conditioning, and to ration all water usage. Long Beach has been on a water conservation program for over a year. The city council even encourages residents to ’report your neighbor’. I haven’t seen any suggestions that we talk to a neighbor. The local paper repeatedly says, “pick up the phone and report the violator to the city.” The city wants us to send the water police knocking on our neighbor’s doors. Depending on the misuse the water police can leave a ticket with a hefty fine. It sounds like a nasty opportunity to get revenge on the neighbor with the barking dog.
I fast got overheated with the weather, the fires, and the city. When my doctor asked me how I was handling the heat I answered that all I wanted to do was get out of this chair and run around naked in my backyard. I was being plagued with heat rash. Her sympathy extended to a prescription for an ointment and an “everyone I have seen today has heat rash” and a chuckle.
November finally arrived and brought with it some welcome fall weather. I’ll admit that I’m a spoiled native Californian. We don’t have, as John says, “real weather”. But I have lived my whole life with California’s non-weather and I suffer when it deviates from it‘s normal course. We are now waiting a northern storm. It is supposed to hit tonight. We desperately need the rain, but the powers are mourning the possibilities of mudslides. As for me, I’m happy once again. I’m cold, but I can deal with cold sitting in this movable chair. I can layer the clothes and still look stylish. I can put on several pairs of socks and still look presentable. I can throw the ointment away. The cold doesn’t cover me with a rash.
There is only one little problem, John. He claims that he was doing it for me, but I have serious doubts about his motive.
“I woke up chilly this morning. I turned on the heater. I have the house all warmed up for you. Come into the kitchen. It’s much warmer in there.”
My son and grandson get up at dawn on Saturday mornings to go to an English Pub to watch British football, or what is better known here as soccer, with a group of their friends. They were just getting home as John was finishing his tale of a toasty house.
My son walked in the door and before any of us could ask who won the soccer game I heard, “Who turned on the air conditioning?" “It‘s colder then hell in here.”
It may have seemed toasty to John, but he’s from the other coast where they have snowstorms and temperatures that fall way down on the thermometer. Anything above 40 is warm to him.
He now claims that we all over-reacted. “It was just a bit of cool air. In Buffalo it gets below 0.”
Cool air! My son’s nose was covered with icicles.
This little ‘good deed’ of John’s is very ironic. We couldn’t use the air conditioning when we were in a heat wave and the air was smoky and ashy, but it gets turned on when the temperature is in the low 40’s.
My granddaughter hasn’t had her tonsils removed as of yet. She had dozens of school reasons that she couldn’t take the time to get it done this past summer. She is now so sick the doctor is trying to get the surgery set up for Christmas vacation. He says it has become an emergency thing now. We got a letter from the school that she is ahead of her class and on course to graduate so she doesn’t have any school excuses left.
I think she has finally decided that the time has arrived. She is tired of being sick all the time, my son is tired of having to run home and take her to the doctor, I am tired of being a non-Jewish grandmother that has to make chicken soup all the time, and my grandson is tired of having to run her errands.
John must be tried of her being sick too. She came out of her bedroom barely able to talk to ask, “who decided to turn on the air conditioning?” “The vent is right over my bed and I was freezing with that icy air blowing on me.”
Merry Christmas from John.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Sunday, November 30, 2008
The Stirred Pot
The phone rang at 9:00 a.m. just as I knew it would. I was trying to get the turkey in the oven before Scott called. He’s accustomed to doing the cooking himself and he is very, very particular about how, and for how long things should be prepared and readied for eating. But, and it’s a very big but, he has a gentle, giving heart and I knew that he would feel he should volunteer to help me in the kitchen. And he did!
It wasn’t cast in stone, but I had told everyone that dinner would be served sometime around 2:00 p.m. My family likes to eat early so they will have enough time to recover from the meal and eat again before they head to bed sated and satisfied. If truth be told, my grandson ate three times before he finally gave it up and groaned his way to his bedroom. This family of mine ‘loves’ turkey.
Scott generally spends the day with his daughter and her family, but she had been dealing with family illness all week and needed a day of rest and so it was decided. Scott would take us up on the invitation we issue every year. Our little group was very pleased.
He arrived about an hour after the phone call and instantly grabbed a spoon and started stirring whatever it was that I had on the stove. As we worked and chatted the idle members of the crew drifted through the kitchen inhaling aromas and complaining of eminent starvation. It was a fun way to cook a fancy meal for a special day.
My granddaughter believes that holiday meals absolutely have to have a blueberry pie. No one had made or even ordered one for her. Drama was building! How could we have done such a dastardly thing as to forget HER pie? About that time my son announced that he had to go out for a bit and she immediately had a brilliant solution to her pie problem. She would help him with whatever he had to do and he would help her find a blueberry pie-selling vendor. He didn’t look particularly excited, but she certainly did. The drama had turned to hope.
When they returned she walked into the house with a pie box in her hands and a smile on her face. Her father walked into the house with a sober face and something on his mind, until he saw Scott at the stove. Then he laughed so loud you could have heard it next door. “Well Scott, you finally found someone that would let you stir a pot on the stove. Good for you!” Then Scott and I joined in his laughter. To everyone else that didn’t understand our laughter we told this little story.
As I’ve told you before Scott is programmed to do the cooking. God bless him, he can’t see a pot on the stove or a human in the kitchen without grabbing a spoon or an oven door and making himself a part of the what is going on.
As I’ve also told you before, my mother was a fantastic cook. She never used a recipe or a measuring tool. She just knew what went with what and how much. The magic she performed in the kitchen is legendary. She had one rule set in concrete. Never touch anything in her kitchen when she was cooking unless you were invited, and she rarely invited.
We had warned Scott, we had cautioned him because we knew how he was when there was a meal being prepared; “Stay out of mom’s kitchen.” He had thrown caution to the wind once or twice before and been nicely told to disappear. My son and I would laugh and Scott would shrug his shoulders and drop whatever he had in his hand and head out the nearest exit real quickly. It got to be a giggle moment between the three of us.
Until! Mom was busy in the kitchen preparing one of her wonderful meals when we walked in the front door. My son and I knew better, we stopped walking short of the kitchen, but not Scott. Just like he had never been warned his legs kept moving. They walked him straight into the kitchen. He greeted my mother, walked over to the big spoon, grabbed it and instantly started stirring the pot on the stove. My son and I looked at one another. Scott was either very brave or very slow. He had just walked straight into the mouth of the lion. My mother turned to look at him. She watched him for half a minute and then the woman that I had never heard utter a four letter word in my life grabbed her wooden spoon, raised it into the air and said, “Will you get the hell out of my kitchen?” Scott had never heard her utter anything like that before either. He looked like a trapped mouse for a minute while he frantically tried to find the quickest route out.
My son was shocked that Scott had taken it upon himself to touch grandma’s simmering pot, and shocked that his grandmother seemed to be simmering too; “I‘ve never heard grandma use language like that." I was shocked because my mother was never intentionally cruel; “I tried to warn you Scott.” Scott was shocked because in his eagerness and naivety he truly believed; “I was only trying to help.”
It was my quiet father, with a sweet smile on his face that brought all of us back to sanity. He understood and wasn‘t particularly shocked. He had been married to her since he was in his early 20’s. He put his arm around Scott, calmed any hurt feelings, and reminded us all that that one little four-letter word was miniscule compared to the wonder of the feast that she would put on the table. That put the smile back on all our faces.
It was that little story that my son told his children. Now that I am a cooking grandmother I can understand my mother’s slip. She hadn’t intended to be cruel. She had intended to stress the importance of her words. Scott never again entered my mother’s kitchen when she was cooking. It was a lesson hard learned, but it was a memory that brought laughter to all our throats while Scott stirred the pot that was simmering on the stove and said, “I was only trying to help.”
And when the meal was served and we all sat at the table and held hands as my grandson gave the blessing I started to cry and said, “Dear God, please tell my mother how very much we miss her wonderful cooking. I’m not even up to standing in her shadow. None of us has eaten a piece of apple pie since she left us and I let Scott stir a pot on the stove.”
We had a wonderful day. I hope you did too.
This is not the memory that I had intended to share with you, but when I sat down here it just came tumbling out. My mother wasn’t perfect, but she was my best friend. I miss her so very much.
Happy Holidays, Pennie/Sandra
It wasn’t cast in stone, but I had told everyone that dinner would be served sometime around 2:00 p.m. My family likes to eat early so they will have enough time to recover from the meal and eat again before they head to bed sated and satisfied. If truth be told, my grandson ate three times before he finally gave it up and groaned his way to his bedroom. This family of mine ‘loves’ turkey.
Scott generally spends the day with his daughter and her family, but she had been dealing with family illness all week and needed a day of rest and so it was decided. Scott would take us up on the invitation we issue every year. Our little group was very pleased.
He arrived about an hour after the phone call and instantly grabbed a spoon and started stirring whatever it was that I had on the stove. As we worked and chatted the idle members of the crew drifted through the kitchen inhaling aromas and complaining of eminent starvation. It was a fun way to cook a fancy meal for a special day.
My granddaughter believes that holiday meals absolutely have to have a blueberry pie. No one had made or even ordered one for her. Drama was building! How could we have done such a dastardly thing as to forget HER pie? About that time my son announced that he had to go out for a bit and she immediately had a brilliant solution to her pie problem. She would help him with whatever he had to do and he would help her find a blueberry pie-selling vendor. He didn’t look particularly excited, but she certainly did. The drama had turned to hope.
When they returned she walked into the house with a pie box in her hands and a smile on her face. Her father walked into the house with a sober face and something on his mind, until he saw Scott at the stove. Then he laughed so loud you could have heard it next door. “Well Scott, you finally found someone that would let you stir a pot on the stove. Good for you!” Then Scott and I joined in his laughter. To everyone else that didn’t understand our laughter we told this little story.
As I’ve told you before Scott is programmed to do the cooking. God bless him, he can’t see a pot on the stove or a human in the kitchen without grabbing a spoon or an oven door and making himself a part of the what is going on.
As I’ve also told you before, my mother was a fantastic cook. She never used a recipe or a measuring tool. She just knew what went with what and how much. The magic she performed in the kitchen is legendary. She had one rule set in concrete. Never touch anything in her kitchen when she was cooking unless you were invited, and she rarely invited.
We had warned Scott, we had cautioned him because we knew how he was when there was a meal being prepared; “Stay out of mom’s kitchen.” He had thrown caution to the wind once or twice before and been nicely told to disappear. My son and I would laugh and Scott would shrug his shoulders and drop whatever he had in his hand and head out the nearest exit real quickly. It got to be a giggle moment between the three of us.
Until! Mom was busy in the kitchen preparing one of her wonderful meals when we walked in the front door. My son and I knew better, we stopped walking short of the kitchen, but not Scott. Just like he had never been warned his legs kept moving. They walked him straight into the kitchen. He greeted my mother, walked over to the big spoon, grabbed it and instantly started stirring the pot on the stove. My son and I looked at one another. Scott was either very brave or very slow. He had just walked straight into the mouth of the lion. My mother turned to look at him. She watched him for half a minute and then the woman that I had never heard utter a four letter word in my life grabbed her wooden spoon, raised it into the air and said, “Will you get the hell out of my kitchen?” Scott had never heard her utter anything like that before either. He looked like a trapped mouse for a minute while he frantically tried to find the quickest route out.
My son was shocked that Scott had taken it upon himself to touch grandma’s simmering pot, and shocked that his grandmother seemed to be simmering too; “I‘ve never heard grandma use language like that." I was shocked because my mother was never intentionally cruel; “I tried to warn you Scott.” Scott was shocked because in his eagerness and naivety he truly believed; “I was only trying to help.”
It was my quiet father, with a sweet smile on his face that brought all of us back to sanity. He understood and wasn‘t particularly shocked. He had been married to her since he was in his early 20’s. He put his arm around Scott, calmed any hurt feelings, and reminded us all that that one little four-letter word was miniscule compared to the wonder of the feast that she would put on the table. That put the smile back on all our faces.
It was that little story that my son told his children. Now that I am a cooking grandmother I can understand my mother’s slip. She hadn’t intended to be cruel. She had intended to stress the importance of her words. Scott never again entered my mother’s kitchen when she was cooking. It was a lesson hard learned, but it was a memory that brought laughter to all our throats while Scott stirred the pot that was simmering on the stove and said, “I was only trying to help.”
And when the meal was served and we all sat at the table and held hands as my grandson gave the blessing I started to cry and said, “Dear God, please tell my mother how very much we miss her wonderful cooking. I’m not even up to standing in her shadow. None of us has eaten a piece of apple pie since she left us and I let Scott stir a pot on the stove.”
We had a wonderful day. I hope you did too.
This is not the memory that I had intended to share with you, but when I sat down here it just came tumbling out. My mother wasn’t perfect, but she was my best friend. I miss her so very much.
Happy Holidays, Pennie/Sandra
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
I'm Thankful It Wasn't Me
If things don't start improving I'm gonna become paranoid and think Blogger doesn't want me and my words. This is the second time that I have tried to write this memory and couldn't. I tried all day to be able to write a Thanksgiving entry. Nothing I did worked. I decided I didn't know HOW to write an entry in Blogger, but that didn't make a lot of sense. I had done it once before, albeit with soot and ash falling all over me but I was successful. I know very little about this new world and how to function in it, but I did manage to get my words printed.
The problem turned out to be a broken keyboard not a broken Pennie, which pleased me no end. But the day has disappeared and I have to go fix dinner for the gang which does not please me no end. I no longer have the time to write the entry that was swirling around in my head. Aw well, there'll be another day .......
I wanted to wish everyone a happy Thanksgiving and thank Lynn for giving me the Marie Antoinette Award. Lynn really honored me. I haven't been around much lately and I feel a bit isolated with my ignorance of the workings of Blogger. How very lovely to open an e-mail and read that she had chosen me as one of the journals to receive the award. What a wonderful boost that gave me Lynn, thank you so very much.
I don't know exactly how to put the logo and link on my blog, but tomorrow when everyone else is napping off their full bellies I will try to sneak down here and learn. I would have done it today if circumstances had allowed.
I hope you all have a wonderful day tomorrow. We are just going to have a quiet family day. I love those days!
Love, Pennie/Sandra
The problem turned out to be a broken keyboard not a broken Pennie, which pleased me no end. But the day has disappeared and I have to go fix dinner for the gang which does not please me no end. I no longer have the time to write the entry that was swirling around in my head. Aw well, there'll be another day .......
I wanted to wish everyone a happy Thanksgiving and thank Lynn for giving me the Marie Antoinette Award. Lynn really honored me. I haven't been around much lately and I feel a bit isolated with my ignorance of the workings of Blogger. How very lovely to open an e-mail and read that she had chosen me as one of the journals to receive the award. What a wonderful boost that gave me Lynn, thank you so very much.
I don't know exactly how to put the logo and link on my blog, but tomorrow when everyone else is napping off their full bellies I will try to sneak down here and learn. I would have done it today if circumstances had allowed.
I hope you all have a wonderful day tomorrow. We are just going to have a quiet family day. I love those days!
Love, Pennie/Sandra
Saturday, November 15, 2008
I sat down here to write a memory, but I am not going to be able to sit here for very long. Once again Southern California is on fire... Our computer is adjacent to the patio door. We have to keep the door open because it is also very hot (92 degrees in mid November) and the Santa Ana winds are dancing around causing havoc. As I sit here punching this keyboard ash is building on the desk, my lap, and my hands. I am sitting in a sea of black bits.
We are no fire danger, but the wind has brought us the smoke and the air is causing headaches, nausea, and the overall yuks. The beagle always goes where I go and when I sit at the computer he usually goes under my legs and naps until I am through. It is so hot he is laying halfway out the door trying to find a cool spot for his belly on the concrete of the patio. My beautiful gold and white dog is covered in black bits, but he seems totally unaware. He is napping and snoring to boot.
I feel dirty with soot and ash. I need to go wash my hands and face. I will come back with the memory I want to write when the air clears. Talk Later! Pennie
Friday, November 7, 2008
Adjustment
I needed to marshal all the resources I had to come to some sort of an adjustment to this new life that I am leading. I have had my freedom, my independence, my lifetime belief that I can do anything I want to do, and some of my internal joy tinkered with. I can no longer get in my car and go to the beach if I am heart sick, confused, or worried. I can no longer grab the beagle and disappear if I need to be gone for a bit of peace and quiet. I can no longer decide for myself where I will go and what I will do without consulting others. This has been the hardest adjustment I have ever had to accomplish. It has taken time, tears, laughter, gratitude, and love to be able to feel like the me that was me before the brain bleed.
But I think I have done it! I think I have achieved a sense of acceptance and calm. I think my smile means that I am really smiling again and I think I can once again share myself with my journal and my journal friends. Leave it to me to decide that my adjustment is adjusted about the same time that AOL decides to dump us. Now I’m stuck with another adjustment!
I tried over and over again to get my journal transferred. I begged my son, I harangued John, I cornered my granddaughter, I hit keys on this keyboard and I cussed at the mouse. Nothing worked. I was so frustrated that I started printing everything I had written so it wouldn’t be erased forever. Our printer was working like crazy for two days when the wizard, my grandson, came and stood beside me, put his arm around my shoulders and asked me what the heck I was so busy printing. He learned very quickly that he should have, as my son said, “Just kept walking.”
But God bless him he stayed and listened to my tale and said that he would do it for me. He stayed up most of the night, but the next morning he presented me with my very own Blogger site and on that site was everything I had ever written. Aren’t grandsons wonderful? And isn’t it wonderful that they know everything about computers. So here I am, but now I have to learn how to be here and what to do now that I am here. I hope my personal adjustment button still works. I’ve really given it an overload this past year.
Other than my personal anxiety about what is left of my dignity the biggest thing in my life has been the election. John, being a retired political journalist, watched every television program that tracked the movements and decisions of his candidate of choice, and then he would watch every television program that tracked the movements and decisions of his opponent. To round all that information out he would then go to another room and turn on his radio and repeat the process. If it was said John heard it. And so did everyone else in the house.
It’s not as if any of us were pulling for an opposing candidate. It was a collective choice. The problem was that was the only noise that vibrated throughout the rooms of this house. At one point my son brought something home that I love to eat and stood on the other side of the room and said that the only way he was going to let me have one of my favorites foods was if I could talk John into giving him 20 minutes of political free quiet. It took some talking on my part and some moaning and groaning on John’s part, but I finally talked him into reading one of his political history books instead of turning on the television/radio. So while John read about politics in the past I got to eat what my son brought me in the nice and quiet now.
Want to know what my son brought me? It was beef tongue. I love it. My mother served it a lot when we were growing up and I learned to love it with mustard. I am the only one in the house that will eat it so I knew that I would eventually get what he was bartering with, but it was fun badgering John to turn the politics off for a bit. The peace and quiet just made the tongue that more delectable.
And then there was election night. Everything in the house that roared was turned on. I have never seen John more nervous. If anyone in the house asked how our candidate was doing he would yell, “Not Yet!” Then he sat on the edge of his chair and detailed exactly when he would know who the winner was, and under his breath he would whisper one more state, one more state, one more state. When all of a sudden the phone rang.
It was Scott. He and I had debated all during the campaign. He tended toward the candidate that was the opposite of mine. We had long discussions about the pros and cons. He was calling to congratulate me on choosing the winning man. The problem was my candidate hadn’t yet won. He was just a tad bit early. In the background he could hear John saying, “Not yet, not yet.” Scott and I both giggled at John’s intensity, and said that we would talk in the morning.
In the meantime, my son wandered into the room and asked who had been on the phone and when I said that Scott had called to say that he was happy for me that Obama had won. My son answered, “Well, if that cracker says he won then he really must have won.” Scott laughed so hard when he heard that I thought he was going to choke.
In the background we could hear John yelling, “That’s it, that’s it, he won! he won!” And all of a sudden all of Johns nervous tension drained out of him and he sat back to enjoy the rest of the coverage.
The secret that Scott had kept from everyone but me was that that cracker from Georgia had voted for Obama too. It was a very interesting election. I oh so wish that my parents were alive. They were so intense about their political choices. I would love to know how they would have felt about this election and the change that has occurred in America.
But if my son thinks that John’s political viewing was over he had a big surprise coming. Now John has to listen to what everyone on television and radio says about Obama ... his win, and his movements. Life goes on for a retired political journalist.
It’s lovely feeling like I have the internal fortitude to adjust AND write again. Now I have to spend some time learning about Blogger and how to personalize my journal and connect with all of my friends. When my grandson first transferred my journal it felt so lonely. Then one morning I went to my journal and there were names and faces that I recognized. Neighbors had found me. It wasn’t lonely at all. It was just new.
I’m off to learn the new. Wish me luck, Pennie
But I think I have done it! I think I have achieved a sense of acceptance and calm. I think my smile means that I am really smiling again and I think I can once again share myself with my journal and my journal friends. Leave it to me to decide that my adjustment is adjusted about the same time that AOL decides to dump us. Now I’m stuck with another adjustment!
I tried over and over again to get my journal transferred. I begged my son, I harangued John, I cornered my granddaughter, I hit keys on this keyboard and I cussed at the mouse. Nothing worked. I was so frustrated that I started printing everything I had written so it wouldn’t be erased forever. Our printer was working like crazy for two days when the wizard, my grandson, came and stood beside me, put his arm around my shoulders and asked me what the heck I was so busy printing. He learned very quickly that he should have, as my son said, “Just kept walking.”
But God bless him he stayed and listened to my tale and said that he would do it for me. He stayed up most of the night, but the next morning he presented me with my very own Blogger site and on that site was everything I had ever written. Aren’t grandsons wonderful? And isn’t it wonderful that they know everything about computers. So here I am, but now I have to learn how to be here and what to do now that I am here. I hope my personal adjustment button still works. I’ve really given it an overload this past year.
Other than my personal anxiety about what is left of my dignity the biggest thing in my life has been the election. John, being a retired political journalist, watched every television program that tracked the movements and decisions of his candidate of choice, and then he would watch every television program that tracked the movements and decisions of his opponent. To round all that information out he would then go to another room and turn on his radio and repeat the process. If it was said John heard it. And so did everyone else in the house.
It’s not as if any of us were pulling for an opposing candidate. It was a collective choice. The problem was that was the only noise that vibrated throughout the rooms of this house. At one point my son brought something home that I love to eat and stood on the other side of the room and said that the only way he was going to let me have one of my favorites foods was if I could talk John into giving him 20 minutes of political free quiet. It took some talking on my part and some moaning and groaning on John’s part, but I finally talked him into reading one of his political history books instead of turning on the television/radio. So while John read about politics in the past I got to eat what my son brought me in the nice and quiet now.
Want to know what my son brought me? It was beef tongue. I love it. My mother served it a lot when we were growing up and I learned to love it with mustard. I am the only one in the house that will eat it so I knew that I would eventually get what he was bartering with, but it was fun badgering John to turn the politics off for a bit. The peace and quiet just made the tongue that more delectable.
And then there was election night. Everything in the house that roared was turned on. I have never seen John more nervous. If anyone in the house asked how our candidate was doing he would yell, “Not Yet!” Then he sat on the edge of his chair and detailed exactly when he would know who the winner was, and under his breath he would whisper one more state, one more state, one more state. When all of a sudden the phone rang.
It was Scott. He and I had debated all during the campaign. He tended toward the candidate that was the opposite of mine. We had long discussions about the pros and cons. He was calling to congratulate me on choosing the winning man. The problem was my candidate hadn’t yet won. He was just a tad bit early. In the background he could hear John saying, “Not yet, not yet.” Scott and I both giggled at John’s intensity, and said that we would talk in the morning.
In the meantime, my son wandered into the room and asked who had been on the phone and when I said that Scott had called to say that he was happy for me that Obama had won. My son answered, “Well, if that cracker says he won then he really must have won.” Scott laughed so hard when he heard that I thought he was going to choke.
In the background we could hear John yelling, “That’s it, that’s it, he won! he won!” And all of a sudden all of Johns nervous tension drained out of him and he sat back to enjoy the rest of the coverage.
The secret that Scott had kept from everyone but me was that that cracker from Georgia had voted for Obama too. It was a very interesting election. I oh so wish that my parents were alive. They were so intense about their political choices. I would love to know how they would have felt about this election and the change that has occurred in America.
But if my son thinks that John’s political viewing was over he had a big surprise coming. Now John has to listen to what everyone on television and radio says about Obama ... his win, and his movements. Life goes on for a retired political journalist.
It’s lovely feeling like I have the internal fortitude to adjust AND write again. Now I have to spend some time learning about Blogger and how to personalize my journal and connect with all of my friends. When my grandson first transferred my journal it felt so lonely. Then one morning I went to my journal and there were names and faces that I recognized. Neighbors had found me. It wasn’t lonely at all. It was just new.
I’m off to learn the new. Wish me luck, Pennie
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Round Robin with the Drama Queens
I can hear the great aunts and my grandmother, their sister, bouncing around in my head admonishing me “that is not the way a lady expresses herself”, but sometimes (most times) what they deemed ‘lady like’ and what actually expressed my feelings were in direct conflict. They would approve of me saying, “I dislike this” while the Pennie inside me aches to yell “I hate this, I hate this”. So please forgive me my dear lady ones, but I’m going to do it my way ... I hate this!
Oops, I have a brain blip and for just a bit I am going to digress for a quick memory that has the aunts in my head clicking their tongues. One afternoon when I was a teenager my grandmother was spending the day at our house, and I was in the kitchen doing something I can’t quite remember. What I do remember is becoming frustrated with whatever I was doing and throwing my hands in the air and yelling “Crap”. A few minutes later I heard my grandmother’s voice calling that she would like to talk to me for a few minutes. When I went and sat down beside her she very quietly, and sweetly in her teachers voice said, “Pennie, do you know what crap means? It means fecal matter. Pennie, ladies never refer to fecal matter. I’m surprised that I need to remind you of such a thing.” I accepted her reprimand and went into the bedroom where my mother and I held hands and tried very hard not to laugh. Such are the wonderful memories I have of my very proper schoolteacher grandmother. I hope that she doesn’t know that I am known to occasionally use the word ‘Shit’.
Sorry about the interruption of the flow of thought, but that memory was having a field day in my feeble brain and I had to get it down and out. Now on to what ‘I hate’.
I hate having to once again say I am sorry that I have not been writing, but I have been sick. It seems as if the last two years all I write about is “Hey, guess what I’m sick again.” This particular sickness or should I say continuing sickness is not my fault. I lay all the blame on the breathing, coughing mob of 'drama queens' that hang out at my house and hug and kiss me regardless of their physical condition. Of course some of the blame lies at my feet because I kiss and hug them back. 'Drama Queens' need love too!
One morning, not long ago, my granddaughter came to my room and said, “Pennie, I don’t feel good.” She went to school anyway. She came home from school with a throat so sore she could hardly swallow, an obvious fever, and a nasty cough. That night her father took her to the doctor. She came home from that visit with a bag of medication and a diagnosis of strep throat. The following week I developed one of the nastiest coughs that I have ever had. It felt like the cough went into a spasm that would only stop when I was totally winded and gasping. Also my hearing became fogged and my ears ached. Scott took me to the doctor. I told the doctor my granddaughter had been sick and decided to share it with me. I came home from that visit with a bag full of medication, two ear infections, and a huge jug of cough medicine for the nastiest cough. The doctor said things like, “it is really going around”, and “you are on your way to walking pneumonia”.
My granddaughter got well and went back to school. I stayed in bed and took my medicine. When my medication was finished and I was compiling a cute ’super Tuesday’ entry I wanted to write on my journal; my granddaughter came to me and said, “Pennie, I don’t feel good.” I called my son on his cell at work and said, “You’re going to have to take her to the doctor again tonight. She has another sore throat and is feverish. My son sighed and said, “What time is the appointment?” She came home from the appointment with a bag of medication, strep throat, and flu symptons. A week later my cough was back and my ears hurt again. Scott took me to the doctor. The doctor walked into the room where I sat waiting for her and said, “let me guess your granddaughter is sick again.” We both laughed as she stuck lights in my ears, and a stethoscope on my chest. Once again I came home with a bag of medication and a huge jug of cough medicine, but this time she said she was going to give me a stronger antibiotic. Again I was back in bed and my granddaughter was back in school.
A week or so later I heard her walking toward my room one morning and I crossed my fingers and whispered, “Please don’t say “Pennie I don’t feel good”, but that is exactly what she said. “Pennie I don’t feel good.” The third time! I didn’t even bother with thought. I just reached over and called her doctors office then called my son’s cell at work. This time his response was more then a sigh. “That girl is ALWAYS sick. What time is her appointment?” He had had a particularly exhausting weekend and he was walking and talking weary. He sounded like he needed a doctor himself. But fathers do what fathers have to do and he packed her up and once again took her to the doctor.
In the meantime, I was thinking blue thoughts. Three times, three fricken times. This probably meant that the cough from hell was coming back and the ears that ached would visit again. I was getting sick and tired of being sick and tired. AND then it dawned on me. I was still on antibiotics from round number two. Maybe just maybe round three wont get me. Antibiotics and eardrops should be able to fight off whatever ugly thing is making her constantly sick. Every morning when I take that pill I’m grateful my doctor gave me a stronger and longer dose this time. My fingers are crossed and I say a little prayer every time I swallow one of those pills. I may get out of this one without joining the drama queens. They are on spring break this week and every one of them is spending the week home in bed. They may be the group everyone wants to belong to, but I’m handing in my resignation. I don’t want membership any more.
My granddaughter came home from the last doctor’s visit with a diagnosis that she has forgotten the name of. “I think it begins with a ’T’, but it’s not tonsillitis”, she informed me. But she did say that the doctor says she has to have her tonsils removed. Her tonsils are the reason that she keeps getting it over and over. The tonsils must go. The doctor wanted to send her to the Ear, Nose, and Throat doctor this week, but she says she doesn’t want to spend her spring break in bed with a sore throat. Would someone explain that to me. She IS sick in bed with a sore throat and ... a big bag of medication. 'Drama Queens'!
In the meantime I shudder. A tonsillectomy at 16 sounds horrible. A past girlfriend of my sons that I became a very good friend with called me last night. After she listened to me groan about the prospect of the tonsillectomy she told me how awful it was when her two daughters, that are a bit older then my granddaughter, had theirs removed last year. “It was horrible; it was just horrible”, were the words I remember the most, but she also added, “They haven’t been sick since!” Aw, that is something to look forward to. What will the 'drama queens' pass around then. Let’s hope it’s not something I can catch.
I’ll keep you informed (if this antibiotic keeps me well).
Love, Pennie
Rain and Tornados
H. L. Mencken is often referred to as one of America’s greatest writers. I was reading a paragraph attributed to him when I ran across this sentence, “Doing more with less is what writing is all about.”. What a great thought. My less has become more, more or less. That sentence made a big impact on my thoughts about writing. My world may have become much smaller (less), but maybe by sitting here at this keyboard I can write it bigger (more). Interesting!
I had a doctor’s appointment this past Tuesday. The day was bright and sunny. Scott and I had looked forward to the Tuesday visit because the big farmers market is on Tuesday mornings. We planned to go to the market, have lunch at the deli, hit the bread store and work in the doctors visit. I was really looking forward to having a nice day when the phone rang and the doctors office informed me that she wasn’t going to be available. They re-scheduled me for Wednesday.
I woke up Wednesday to a bit of a gloomy day. Rain had been predicted, but rain had been predicted for Tuesday too and it had been a lovely day so I didn’t put much stock in the Weather Channel’s prediction. I did wear a heavy sweater over my long dress, but that is as far as I went with the ‘rain expected’ report. After all, this is Long Beach and we seldom if ever get the rain the rest of the state gets. And it didn’t rain until Scott started the car’s engine. We moaned a bit, but decided that it probably wasn’t raining in Torrance where the doctor’s office is. But the further we went the harder the rain fell. By the time that we pulled into the parking area it was raining as hard as it ever rains here in So. Cal. In fact it was raining so hard Scott put one of his jackets on the ground to prevent me from having to step in a big puddle. I thought his gesture was sweet and old fashioned, but let me tell you what he did for me when we were leaving the doctor’s office. He parked my wheelchair under the walkway roof and went to go his car. He intended to park at the edge of the walkway thereby limiting my exposure to the falling water. But you know what they say about the good intentions of mice and men. He got the car parked in the closest possible place and ran over and started pushing my wheelchair into the rain. All of a sudden my long dress got caught in the left wheel of the chair. With Scott hurriedly pushing the chair the dress became completely entangled. It was so tangled up in the wheel it pulled all of the buttons open, from the neck to the hem, and because the dress was attached to me at the shoulders it also pulled me. So as I screamed, “Stop! Stop!” I was being pulled into a doubled over position and I would have gone head over tail into the gutter if Scott hadn’t grabbed me by the neck of my sweater. I sat in one of the hardest rain storms I have ever seen uncovered from the waist down, doubled over, and my head stuck almost between my knees. I had to stay that way while the two of us tried to get the wheel to release my dress. I didn’t look around to see if anyone saw the undressed lady sitting in the rain in her wheelchair, but I can testify that not a soul came anywhere near us or offered us help. They were probably hiding in their dry cars laughing their heads off at the naked lady and her knight in soaking armor. I was so wet that you could have wrung me out like a dishrag BUT I wasn’t hurt .. unless you take into account my dignity and pride.
Early last evening I took a pain pill for the muscle cramps in my legs and as I do every once in a while I fell asleep. I woke up wondering why the lights were on all over the house until I realized it was nighttime. John had the television on and was playing with the channel turner when he apparently decided there wasn’t anything he wanted to watch and disappeared into another room. I didn’t give that much thought until I heard the beep, beep, beep of an emergency warning coming from the television. All of a sudden the warning came across the bottom of the screen telling all those that lived in Long Beach and a few surrounding cities that a tornado was eminent. I had no idea where John was but I knew that my granddaughter was in the living room so I called her. I knew that no one would believe me when I yelled tornado so I wanted her as a back up. I should have known better. She’s a 16 year old drama queen, I’m a disabled grandmother that needs a wheelchair. Not the best combination in a time of pending disaster. About the time that she came in my room to see what I was yelling about they were scrolling survival directions across the screen. We were supposed to go to the basement. This is So. Cal! There isn’t a basement to be had in the whole state. But the disaster direction writer had thought of that and advised us to find a ditch to lie in if a basement wasn’t available. That wasn’t going to work either. The closest thing that we have to a ditch is the gutter in the front of the house and by the time that she got my wheelchair and me out to the gutter and got me out of the chair and into the gutter the tornado would be here and gone. While I was enjoying the oddity of a tornado warning in California she was getting more and more frightened. The poor thing wanted someone big and strong to protect her so she went and woke up her father who said, “Oh go to bed they don’t have tornados in Long Beach.” and rolled over and went back to sleep. So she went in and tried to wake up her older brother who said, “You and grandma aren’t allowed to watch any more TV. You’re both nuts.” and rolled over and went back to sleep. She came back to my room with tears in her eyes and fear all over he face. She then made the decision that if she was frightened all her friends should be frightened too so she called all of them and woke them up. In the meantime John wandered back to see what all the commotion was about. Now John is not what a drama queen in shock needs to comfort her. He is shaky and pushes a walker. He would need someone to help get him to the gutter too. When John saw the fear he told her to calm down then looked at me and said “I‘ll stay here with you“.
I answered, “You’re not willing to try to save me, but you’re willing to die with me?” to which John repeated, “I’ll stay here with you.”
In the meantime the clock showed that it was 10:00 p.m. and that the disaster time frame was over so my granddaughter hugged me and went to bed mumbling about the brother of one of her friends that she woke up calling her and his sister idiots because ’California doesn’t have tornados’. She wished someone had told the weather man that.
For someone with a very restricted life I have had two days full of adventure, one of them wet and the other one full of hot air.
The beagle just came and asked to go outside so I better close this before it starts raining again. The beagle hates water and I don’t want him to have to hold it until the storm clouds pass.
God bless.
Love, Pennie
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