Apple Butter at Grandma's

The last time I saw my grandmother alive was twenty one years ago. No longer the sturdy red haired woman I knew. She was now rail thin, sitting slumped on her sofa watching Young and the Restless. Her once perfectly combed hair was now twisting this way and that upon her head, briefly reminding me of one of those troll dolls with the brightly colored hair that stood on end. A stroke had left this once outspoken woman barely able to speak an intelligible word. I wept inside. 

Twenty one years ago I was eighteen. Today I am thirty nine. 

But, this morning, I was ten and she was as strong as ever and telling me stories over breakfast. I moved the buttermilk biscuits that I had generously smeared with the homemade apple butter my friend Steph gave me for Christmas to the side of my plate. I wanted to save them for last. I wanted to savor them. I wanted to remember.

I watched the melting butter run down the sides of my biscuit as I finished my eggs and sipped my coffee. Finally, I was ready. It seemed as I took the first bite that I was transported back to that little country kitchen. I felt the tingle of cinnamon as the smooth puree of apples silked its way across my tongue. I was ten. I had homemade biscuits and her homemade apple butter. I had my mug of milk, just enough coffee added to make me feel like one of the grown ups as I ate my breakfast. My legs dangled over the side of my chair swinging cheerily in response to the sunshine glittering through her lace curtains, mocking the curls of cigarette smoke that snaked through the beams of light.

I closed my eyes, recalling her voice as she told one of her tall tales. Her boisterous laugh as I ooed and ahhed at her yarns. How we were certainly related to anyone named Hayes in the encyclopedia, that Jesse James was some long lost cousin, that we were all descendants of greatness. No, we weren't always rednecks and drunkards. And, while our own lives were unremarkable, we had tales to tell of glories that were never really ours.

This morning I was ten. This morning was indescribable joy. All because someone gave me apple butter for Christmas.

I Don't Know Why I Remember ~ A writing prompt

Here are the instructions:

Writing Exercise from The Making of a Story:  A Norton Guide to Creative Writing

Goal:  To pinpoint some previously unexplored material that remains “hot” for you in some important emotional way.

What to do: 

1.       Scan back over your life and think of things that have stuck in your mind, but for no obvious reason.  (No births or deaths, or other “important” moments, please. Go for the small ones.)

2.       Render them precisely on the page using concrete details, beginning each one with the phrase, “I don’t know why I remember.”

3.       Don’t try to explain why they stuck with you, or interpret the meaning of them. Just put your reader there.

I don’t know why I remember him so clearly. I remember the deep lines set firmly around brown eyes, the whites both blood shot and jaundiced, assuring me that, most likely, any money he acquired was spent on liquor. The leathery black skin of his face was framed by the M shape of his receding hariline and the peppered gray stubble along his jaw that centered chapped lips the color of bruised plums, all together making it seem as if the rows of perfect white teeth were somehow out of place.

 Regardless of the season he wore navy blue coveralls blackened with the grime of the city streets and gooey with the stench of unwashed body and stale urine; the odor an independently tangible presence that clung to the air around him. They were of the insulated sort, the coveralls, like one might see on a mechanic. Only his face and hands were left exposed and the coveralls had zippered pockets here and there. Over his arms and legs, one on each of the upper and lower portions of his extremities, were t-shirts wrapped and tied like tourniquets with their frayed ends swaying to and fro as he moved. Their purpose was perplexing, at best, and yet one was left with the assurance that the various shirts were somehow as necessary to him as the unseasonable coveralls he insisted upon wearing.

A homeless Katrina evacuee who often sat quietly on the corner near the smoking area, watching with anticipation those who passed by in hopes they would leave the still smoldering remains of their cigarettes for him to pick up. Sometimes, from his position perched on the stoop, he would violently wave his arms in a style much like martial arts. Making those little sounds often heard from little boys playing, the expelling of air between the upper teeth and lower lip.

Pfft, pfft, pfft.

Some days, if he was lucid enough, he would gingerly approach, his jaundiced eyes averted, and mumble his desire for a whole cigarette.  Again, if lucid enough, he might even tell you his name, or that he was a Katrina evacuee, or that he was the administrator of a space station and only waiting for them to retrieve him.

It's been so long since he last held court on our little corner of the street. Other faces of other shiftless sorts, who are unable, both by choice or uncontrollable circumstance, have since come and gone. Their faces are blurred by the passing of days and years.

But his face, I remember.

A New Friend, An Old Hurt

I said I would most likely never share any portion of this part of my story. However, something pulled it to mind the other day and I just started typing. Within an hour I had this little memory transformed into print.

For those of you who have experienced domestic abuse, you know it's one of those hurts that never really goes away. While what I experienced with Michael was mild on the abuse scale, it was still incredibly painful and stressful. I didn't stay in the relationship long enough for things to progress to the level they could have. It only lasted about 5 months, but it was long enough for me to be pushed, have my hair pulled, be knocked into walls, to be pinned in a car and told I couldn't leave until I agreed to his demands, to be accused of ridiculous things that never happened, and to find myself in a constant state of checking my every move to make sure I wasn't doing anything that would get his attention.

Even after moving so far away, for months I would check and recheck doors and windows when I was home alone and kept the porch lights on 24/7 so I could see outside whenever I heard a noise. The odd thing about that is, he had no idea where I lived and probably wasn't smart enough to figure it out. But, most fear, in its most overwhelming state, usually has no logic in it at all.

This piece is one of the first of many instances I remember in the early days of my friendship with Don, the man who twelve years after this would become my husband. This was one of the things that cemented our friendship and established the unwavering trust I have in him.

The shrill bell-like sound worked a path through her senses that shouted her anxiety into a tangible presence within the room. A single lamp burned in the corner over the phone, serving only to cast further illumination on the dread she felt. Eyes closed, she took a deep breath, trying to prepare herself for what she knew would come when she answered.

“Do you want me to answer it?” he asked.

She hesitated, not wanting to face the man who was calling. She’d worked so hard to remove him from her life, moving almost five hours away to return to her home state, hoping the distance would be enough to keep him away. As her thoughts wandered to what she knew awaited her on the other end of the line, she couldn’t help but find her wounded spirit leaning towards the temptation to allow her friend to rescue her from her former abuser.

“I don’t know,” she replied.

 “You could always just let it ring.”

“No,” she said, “he’ll just keep calling.” Arms folded, she trembled slightly, and felt her heart slam wildly against her ribs as if it were mocking her need for ‘fight or flight’.

“Then let me answer.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” she sighed.  “I don’t think I’ve had enough beer to help me do this today.”

He smiled – that smile that only he could give, the smile that had melted her broken heart just a few short weeks ago. Knowing that anything he said would be ok as long as it spared her from talking to him herself, she didn’t even bother to stay in the room and follow the conversation. She heard just enough as she made her way down the hall to her bedroom.

“Hello?...It doesn’t matter who I am….Whatever man, just leave her alone….She doesn’t want to talk to you…..Go to hell, Michael.”

She climbed into bed shivering, from anxiety more than cold, and wrapped the covers tightly around her, as if the action would somehow hide her from the waking nightmare Michael had brought upon her world. Then, thinking she would sleep alone tonight and no one would know, she let the tears come in silence.

She felt him standing in the doorway before she saw or heard him. She pulled the covers more securely over her head in a feeble attempt to hide the vulnerability of her tears, and closed her eyes more tightly as if the action would somehow will him away before she sniffed or sobbed and gave way to what she felt was weakness.

Michael had taught her that. She had never allowed him to see her cry. She had never backed down, even in her most desperate and painful moments. Weakness would only give affirmation to his need for control.

In silence, he made his way to the bed and lay behind her on top of the comforter. Without a word, her new friend placed his arm around her and pulled her close. At first she tensed, her breaths coming faster, an alert to her anxiety. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She wasn’t supposed to feel safe this close to a male peer. This should hurt. She should be scared.

Then, with solid reassurance, he gently smoothed her hair from her face in a way that willed her to relax. And, as her breathing slowed, the tears fell again.

It would be the last time, for many years to come, that there would be a need for him to hold her while she cried herself to sleep. Michael never called again and, that night, the path to healing cleared.

A Goat Named Lucy(fer)

As many of you know, I milk goats and feed chickens for the neighbors when they’re out of town. Usually, it goes without incident and I have the option of keeping the day’s milk and eggs for my trouble. Lately though, I’ve chosen not to keep the spoils—but that’s not really the point here.

Lucy used to be the easy one. She likes to eat. That means she doesn’t have a problem in the world with hopping up on that stanchion to be milked. Until this weekend when she was suddenly overtaken by whatever demons overtake milk goats when they don’t want to be milked.

I had tethered Carmella and she was patiently waiting for Lucy to cooperate so that she too could be milked and have an opportunity to eat. But Lucy had other plans.

It took half an hour to finally lure Lucy up onto the stanchion and she continued to be a pain in my nether regions. Three times she kicked the milk pail over and I had to start over again. Finally, I decided to tether her foot so she couldn’t kick. Her response? She managed to get her head out of the stanchion and just jumped down, kicking the milk pail into my lap on her way down.

I was so frustrated at this point that I took away her food and just put her out into the other gated area. I figured if she wanted to be that way, she just wouldn’t get grain for that morning. Don’t milk? Then you don’t get grain. She was left to graze for the day.

Carmella was my ever cooperative sweetheart, as usual. She hopped up there on her own, let me lock her in, and stayed completely still for the duration of the milking. I didn’t tether her foot because she’s so good about standing there without incident. I was almost done, with a full pail of milk, when a possessed chicken decided to jump up into Carmella’s face and scare her half to death. The result? She kicked her foot and it landed square in the milk pail. Another batch of milk that I had to pour out on the ground.

And that was just Saturday. Sunday was worse. Way worse.

This time, they were both acting weird. It took me ten minutes in awful heat and humidity to catch Carmella so that I could even attempt to worry about Lucy. (Thank goodness all the goats wear collars or I never would have caught her.)

So, there’s Carmella, tethered and patiently waiting for Lucy to cooperate (again) so that she could have her turn for milking and eating. But Lucy was seriously not going to be caught this time. After forty-five minutes of attempting to lure with food, begging, pleading, praying, crying, sighing, nearly giving up, and then crying again, we were at a stand-off. She stood there looking at me, challenging me, and laughing at me while waterfalls of sweat and tears rolled off my body.

Then, I hear the gate at the far end of the yard squeak open and turn to see my super hero husband headed down to check on me. He came in the yard to help. It took us another 20 minutes to catch the demon goat and then she still wouldn’t get on the stanchion. It finally took Don picking her up and putting her on there for me. Then he held her leg so she couldn’t kick or get down and I got a full pail of milk.

On to Carmella. The easy one. Right?

Not this day. She wasn’t getting up there either. In fact, when I led her to the stanchion, she just completely buckled her legs and tried to go to the ground. Again, Don just picked up the darn goat and put her up there so I could milk. Full pail. No problems. But, she wouldn’t eat. She just stood there completely traumatized while I handled my business…err….her business….or….Well, you know….the business at hand.

Now I hate goats. Now I’m not sure I want to be a good neighbor anymore and tend the animals while they’re out of town.

Goats are evil and I think I understand why some people eat them.
But, I'm sure I'll milk them again. Because I really don't hate them. They just hurt my feelings for a minute.

A Night On the Black River

She remembered like it was just yesterday, the cool feel of smooth stones under her bare feet, the sound of tree frogs, the dancing reflection of the stars and the sharp slash of moonlight cutting through the trees and dancing along the rippled surface of the Black River. The condensation from a can of Budweiser trickled along her wrist as she leaned against the back of her truck, looking into the abyss of eyes the color of rich dark chocolate.

It was unusual for there to be no one else there. It was a quiet comparison to typical nights on the river bank when the younger crowd would gather around a fire and have a few beers in the late night hours of summer.

He had a smile that could melt the heart and soul of any bitter old shrew if he were only to turn it on them. But, he wasn’t smiling now, and she wasn’t a bitter old shrew. Instead, he looked at her with something like regret. Probably not so much because of what he was saying, he knew he was doing the right thing, but because he knew what he was saying was hurting her.

She always knew it wouldn’t ever be anything other than what it was. But now he was saying it, and it just hurt so much. The words, with the effect of a dulled blade, scratched and tore at her fragile heart. But, she wouldn’t cry, not as much as a single tear would fall and clue him to the screams of her breaking heart.

What was it with those ridiculous words? That terrible cliché about the friendship being too important to muck it up with romantic notions rang shrilly in her head. She nodded and smiled. She said it was okay. She said she understood.

But, she knew she would go home tonight and cry herself to sleep. And, she knew that somehow, when she saw him again tomorrow, she would suck it up and pretend all was right with the world. That again, they would sit on the banks of the Black River, drinking a Budweiser and listening to the tree frogs, and he would never know how much she hurt for him.

So she lied. She soothed his ego and told him not to worry, that she was fine. She ran barefoot across the river rocks, faking laughter and beckoning him to follow her in for a late night swim. Because he was her best friend, and that friendship was just too important to muck it up with her romantic notions.

I Know Your Secret

Tick Tick Tick

I looked up, impatient at the slow progression of the hands around the clock. It was the one class where the teacher assigned seating. Mrs. Roberts with her bone straight hair and wardrobe straight out of a 1970’s resale shop.

Assigned seats didn’t gel with my desire to hide in the back of the class, away from prying eyes that might see all I had to hide. As Mrs. Roberts droned about dangling participles and sentence diagrams, I looked around the room at my peers.

Stacey Fisher with her little upturned nose. I wonder how much of that is natural slant and how much of that is just because it makes it easier for her to look down at everyone. She might pretend to be the perfect little cheerleader but I know the truth.

She thought I didn’t see her that night as she hid in the back seat of that car parked in front of Paul Wisner’s house. No one hangs out in a car in front of Paul Wisner’s house unless they’re waiting on someone to come out with a dime bag. I laughed to myself and wondered what her perfect momma and the local First Perfect Church would think of that if I chose to tell. I wonder too, if her neck ever hurts from holding her chin up like that all the time. Bitch.

And what about Jenny? I wonder what her secrets are. Her mousy brown hair, dotted with bits of white. Only once did I ever get close enough to her to realize those tiny white bits were just the split ends. She has acne, her clothes are always dirty, and she never speaks to anyone. In fact, I can’t even recall who her friends are. Every day she walks around, looking like it’s the last day of her life. Weirdo.

Bobby Mason, that greasy haired jerk who moved here in the fifth grade. He’s always so angry, pushing people out of his way, shoving kids out of their chairs. I remember my friend Derek telling me about all the bruises he always sees across Bobby’s back while changing in gym class. What are his secrets? What in the world does he have to be so pissed about all the time anyway? Loser.

Tick Tick Tick

 Jake Carlisle. How many holes does a person need in his face anyway? I heard his kid brother died in some freak gun accident and Jake was the only other person there. I bet he had something to do with it. I mean, look at him. How can you believe any different of someone who looks like that. What do you want to bet that’s his secret? Freak.

Susan Gates. There’s one for you. I don’t even know how the heck she fits in the chair. She used to have this stupid speech impediment. Some weird kind of lisp thing that made her sound like her tongue was too big for her mouth. The other kids would always make fun of her. She’d sit alone in the cafeteria unwrapping twinkies with those pudgy little sausage fingers. I thought I saw her crying afterwards once. I’m not sure. There’s no way someone like her could have any secrets. Cow.

I mean, yeah sure, I might sound a little judgmental. But hey, it’s not like I’m sharing my thoughts with the rest of the world, you know. What am I hurting if I keep my thoughts to myself?

Tick Tick Tick

At least they can’t see my secret. If I can help it they never will. It’s not like I’m going to be telling anyone, that’s for sure. I mean, if they knew, they might think I’m not so different than them or something; they might start thinking they’re as normal as I am.

Finally, the bell! Maybe I can get out of here before someone reads my mind.

As I approach my locker I see the tiny folded note taped to the front. I bet it’s from Lindsay. Maybe she wants to hang out after school. I juggle my books to free my hands and open the little square of paper. Inside I see four little words; four words that forever change the world as I know it.

I know your secret.

Chicken Heads, Birthaversaries, D loves my gumbo and writer's block...

There’s nothing in the world that infuriates me more than to see able bodied adults with children who are unemployed and living off of my tax dollars; tax dollars that will not be available to support me when I retire after working for 30 years – tax dollars that I gladly paid because I knew that one day I’d basically get them back in the form of Medicare and Social Security.

There they are, those lazy and selfish folks, all excited about the first of the month with their food stamps and welfare checks, punching in their status updates on facebook by using their iPhone. But their grubby little kids are doing without and wearing hand me down clothes. I’m so mad I could spit nails.

I could, if I wanted to, sit at home and draw a check every month based on the status of my health. But, I don’t. I want more than what a disability check would afford me every month. I want my children to have more than what a disability check would afford them every month.

Does anyone remember that song “Chicken Head” or, what’s that other one? Oh…”First of the Month”… Yeah, that’s kind of what I’m thinking here….

*deep breath* moving on…

Don and I completely enjoyed our anniversary/his birthday. Yeah, same day...cool huh?

 You know what we did? Pretty much, we did a whole lot of nothing. We were tired Friday night so we stopped at a Walgreens and bought a deck of cards. Then, we went back to the house where we were staying and sat in the middle of the bed playing rummy.

For the record, he completely sucks at rummy. Even when he went out, I won.  Just sayin’….

Around midnight we decided we’d go out to have a cigarette. I was only wearing a t-shirt, so I wrapped a small throw around my waist and out to the front porch we went. No problem right?

Wrong! Someone managed to lock the front door!

In the middle of the night, in Hot Springs, I am sitting on a front porch in a strange neighborhood across from Oaklawn, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and a throw that barely managed to cover my wide load. The keys were in the house and the truck was locked. All communication devices were in the house. I looked at my husband and contemplated tossing the throw and tackling him in the yard for locking us out; But it was cold, as in the wind chill was closer to 35, and I wasn’t about to come out from under that blanket. Besides, his skinny butt can outrun my not skinny butt.

Instead, while he went around the house looking for a window that wasn’t painted shut, I sat on the porch and waited. Well, most of the time I sat there and waited. When a car came down the street I’d wrap that throw around tight and run to hide behind a bush at the corner of the house. I was also contemplating whether or not to go across the street and ask Shirley Q. Liquor if I could use her phone to have someone come get me.

Finally, I hear a thud, immediately followed by a couple of softer thumps from inside the house.  Which later, I would find out that Don apparently didn’t know the bed in front of the window in the back bedroom was only a slightly blown up air mattress.  There was no cushion for his bony behind to land on when he propelled himself four feet off the ground and into an open window.

I’d have paid to watch that…

I completely enjoyed spending time with my oldest boy last night. It was even better when he called me out to the porch alone so we could talk about some more important things going on in his life. I’ve missed that part of our relationship. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen it.

I’ll have to lure him over with my homemade gumbo more often.

Hmmm…what else…

For weeks now I’ve been staring at the cursor flashing on my Tressie story and haven’t been able to write a single line. I have the beginning and I have the end; I just can’t seem to pull the middle together. I’m at a loss and I’m beginning to get frustrated. I don’t have the patience to sit around and wait for the proverbial light bulb to go on. I have notes, and notes, and even more notes and I can’t manage to mold them into something that makes sense.

Anyone want pages of notes and a word document to finish writing a story?

You can't have my pride -- Red Writing Hood Prompt

Red Writing Hood Prompt

Someone has stolen something from you (or your character). Something of tremendous value. What will you do to get it back? Or will you give up?

Write a post - fiction or non - and tell us about it. Word limit is 600.

 

It hurt. Oh God, it hurt. Again I allowed him to tear from me my hopes and dreams – to steal my heart and trample on it while I watched.

This time would be different. This time I had something he couldn’t take from me. I had pride, confidence and strength. This time, unlike the first, I knew how to defend myself. I had taken every lesson from the first time and built it into something employable, and something deadly.

I knew how to be angry.

I knew how to take my pride back.

Patient and quiet I watched from my corner like a lioness evaluating her prey, the slight hint of a smile at the corners of my mouth.

He had just come back from my mother’s where he had to explain to our son why he was such a loser. He eyed me nervously as to and fro he walked, gathering his things and taking them to his truck. Through the thin curl of smoke at the end of my Marlboro I watched and planned my move.

One box left, it’s time. I put out my cigarette, turned the lock on the bedroom door, and stood poised, door still open, until I heard him making his way back down the hall.

Let him think I’m leaving the room. Let him feel like he’s going to get out without a scene. You deserve this moment. HE deserves this moment.  He lies. He cheats. He steals. You’re about to take it back, girl.

Don’t take your eyes off of him. Make the first one count. He’s almost here. You can do this. You NEED to do this.

He’s in…

Back still to him, I shut the door.

‘Now what’, he said, with a mixture of annoyance and anxiety.

Now what? Thanks, you cretin, for fueling my ire only seconds before I smash your face.

‘Now what?’ I ask, as I make my way to stand in front of him. ‘Now what, is that I have just one more thing for you before you go.’

Did you see that? He just rolled his eyes. Get close girl. You’ve only got one shot at this -- make it count. The bastard is bigger and stronger.

Tightly clenching my fist, I turn as if to walk away. Then, with all the strength of my body I swing. Fist still closed I backhand him right in the mouth and watch him fall backwards into the corner of the bookshelf.

‘That was for me!’ I shout as I poise for the next blow. I paused for him to regain his footing. I was going to fight fair.

Wham! Another shot to the face.

‘That was for my children!’

Wham!

‘That was for Faith and Amie!’

‘That’s enough,’ he said, grabbing my arms.

‘You deserve that and more,’ I sneered.

He let go.

A mistake, thinking I was done.

Wham!

He grabbed my arms. ‘I said enough.’

Relax. Wait.

He let go.

Wham!

The moron is a slow learner.

 ‘Damn you!’ I screamed.

I hit him until I couldn’t anymore, dodging his attempts to grab my arms.

His fists were balled at his sides. He was prepared to hit me back. I dared him.

Wham! I hit him again.

I smiled, noting the blood on his lip and his now puffy eye.

‘Thanks,’ I smiled.

‘Thanks?’

‘Yeah, I just had ten years of therapy in minutes, you’re still loser and you’re not getting out the door with my pride. So, thanks. And..uh…have the new girlfriend put some ice on that eye. Gonna be a good one.'

Why I chose Sapphire Dragonflies....

Since I’ve been dragging everyone who reads my blog to travel the darker path I’ve been on the last 2 weeks, I thought I’d try and lighten things up a little today. For all of you who’ve been content to travel with me, I thank you. For those who were hesitant, I’m thinking of you today and hope this post will re-engage you. It won’t necessarily be sunshine and roses, but it certainly won’t be dark.

I’ve been asked why I chose the name Sapphire Dragonflies for my blog. I’m going to do the best I can to explain that to you today.

I’ll start with the sapphire part since it’s easy.

I’ve always loved sapphires. The special meaning, however, came when my husband presented me with my engagement ring. Knowing that I wouldn’t want the traditional diamond that everyone else had, he chose one with a sapphire. He said that it matched the blue of my eyes. He said we aren’t traditional and the ring shouldn’t be either.

Every day I look at that ring and I still love it just as much as I did the day he put it on my finger. It reminds me that he loves me enough to want to set me apart from every other woman out there -- that he thought I should have a ring that was as unique as he views me to be and that he values me enough to put that much thought into something as simple as a ring.

Dragonflies are a little more complicated. I’ve always been fascinated by them. It wasn’t until later in my life that they would take on more special meaning.

For those of you who don’t know, my mother has carved a career for herself out of ministering and providing services to bereaved women who have suffered a pregnancy loss. There’s a story behind how the dragonfly came to represent the program that she created and implemented at the hospital where she works. It is a story that only she should tell, and perhaps she’ll write it for us soon so I can share it with you.   (waves at mom --  hint, hint)

The dragonfly spends the majority of its life immature, living in its nymph stage. It’s only for the purpose of breeding that it enters the mature adult state. In just the few short months that it lives as an adult it manages to do everything. In that, I find a bigger picture. I think it represents, in a way similar to butterflies, the knowledge of waiting until you’re ready to get out and experience life and then doing it with vivacity.

In that way, they represent to me freedom and the ability to live in the moment.

Additionally, there is a lot of myth and lore surrounding dragonflies. In some cultures they are believed to carry the souls of the dead to the afterlife. I often wondered at how it was that they came to be associated with such a thing. And then, there was an experience that concreted that belief in my heart…

In July of last year we lost a woman who I came to call my aunt. I’ve known her since I was 7 years old. Iva was my mother’s best friend and her daughter, Sara, was my best friend.  As a child Iva was my other mom. She paddled my butt, she hugged me, she chastised me and she praised me. She was so strong and she had brown eyes that sparkled like there were hundreds of tiny fairy lights in them when she smiled at me. Then she got sick…

taken just about 2 months before we lost her...

Iva was being hospiced at home, slipping away in the end stages of liver cancer. I sat cuddled with Sara on another bed in the room, sorting through pictures taken of Iva throughout her life. Then, her breathing changed and we knew the time was near for her to go.  The decision was made that everyone except her children was to leave the room.  This was their time; to spend the last few moments alone with their mother and say goodbye.

I sat outside, pulling a chair into a shady spot to avoid the unbearable heat of an Arkansas summer. I popped the top on my diet coke, lit a cigarette and prepared myself to wait.

There they were-- what seemed to be a hundred dragonflies, moving neither left nor right, as if suspended by string, hovering just outside her bedroom window. All of them, frozen in time like they were waiting for something. They waited and they waited…

I watched.

Eventually someone came outside and said it was done. I made my way back into the house and through the rooms to where the rest of the family was. It broke my heart to see Sara lying there with her momma and sobbing.

I found it difficult to stay in the room more than a few minutes. There were so many people at the house that day. The heat of summer, and bodies crammed into such a tight space, only seemed to increase the thickness of the suffocating grief that was surrounding us.

So, I made my way outside to watch the dragonflies. Those fascinating creatures who symbolized growth, rebirth and vitality to me…

Those fascinating creatures, who when I stepped off the porch to look for them, were gone. Not a single one in sight. They had carried her away and were no longer needed.

I spent the rest of the summer in awe of dragonflies. I chased them everywhere, camera in hand, hoping to find the perfect dragonfly shot but, they always managed to buzz away by the time I could get my camera ready.

Then, one day, this dragonfly seemed perfectly content to pose for a picture.  This sapphire dragonfly, edged in hues of green, lighted gently in front of where I sat as if to say, “Here I am.”

There's hope in dragonflies. All you have to do is look....

Well, that was fun....sort of. Well, not really.

Lately, several of you have taken the time to let me know you’re reading the blog and how much you enjoy it. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it! I love to hear your thoughts and comments because they encourage me to write and share more with you all. So, please…Keep. Them. Coming.

Hmm, what’s new this week?

Some of my gluten free finds are not so impressive. I really had a taste for spaghetti and was seriously let down.  The rice pasta was….ummm…..different? No…ummm….hmmm….it was….disgusting, chewy and mushy, bizarre, bland, gross….Yeah, that about covers it.

My first problem came with the instructions. They said, bring water to a boil and add the pasta. When water returns to a boil, about 5-7 minutes, remove and drain pasta. Do not overcook.

Sounds pretty straightforward, don’t it? Well, let me tell ya, IT AIN’T! I put the pasta in the boiling water and immediately the water began to take on this milky appearance. But that’s fine. I figured I could deal with that. So, I kept right on with the instructions and stood there stirring with my handy dandy wooden spoon. After about 5 minutes the water began to boil and had become so milky that I couldn’t even see the noodles anymore. I fished around in the water and managed to grab up a noodle to test for doneness.

I closed my eyes. I prayed. I crinkled up my nose. I bit off a piece. Crunch? What? They’re not done? But it said don’t overcook. *momentary panic* Surely this wasn’t their interpretation of done. *deep breath* Ok, well I’ve still got a minute and a half before we’re at 7 minutes. I’ll just wait.

7 minutes: they’re still not done. I wait again.

I stirred. I sighed. I rolled my eyes and looked at the ceiling. I chanted to myself, “If they’re not done, they can’t be over cooked. If they’re not done, they can’t be over cooked.”

Then I paused to listen to the weather, and a tennis ball came flying from the hallway into the living room, followed by a 60 pound, leggy, 7 month old boxer in a full run, followed by a giggling and screaming nine year old, who was supposed to be at the table eating his “not weird” spaghetti, also in a full run. Ball, dog and kid slid across my living room floor. I yelled. “It’s dinner time! WHY. ARE. YOU. PLAYING. WITH. THE. DOG???”

They both proceeded to look at me like I’d lost my mind. However, Iva did go her merry way to play with Sky and Jack made his way to the table. Then I remembered my weird spaghetti….

I went to the kitchen to drain it. It had been 10 minutes. I wasn’t even going to bother to test for doneness. In all fairness to the rice pasta manufacturer, it was most certainly overcooked. It was mushy and bland, and even the Italian sausage I had used with the sauce didn’t help that. Not to mention that as I drained the so called pasta Don gave me an “are-you-seriously-going-to-eat-that” look.

I’m quite certain that my next “spaghetti” experience will be done with spaghetti squash or polenta. Rice spaghetti is not spaghetti. It’s weirdness… on a plate and covered with sauce. Period. Anything that can be both chewy and mushy at the same time cannot be normal.

What’s that you say? Spaghetti squash and polenta aren’t spaghetti either? Well, you know what? At least they’re normal and I can count on them to be good and consistent, and they’ll never look like genetically mutated wiggly worms floating around in marinara. So there….*sticks out tongue for emphasis*

The Gumbo Story

*singing* Come and listen to a story ‘bout a man named Neil..

Please don’t tell me I’m a dork. I know this. Thanks…

So, how did I come by that gumbo recipe? It started with my eldest child. My dear sweet boy….How much sweeter can you get than 265 pounds of man child cuddled under a Hello Kitty Blanket?

My dear sweet boy who loved to play football and was good at it… I miss those days.

So, being the ultimate high school football fan that I am, I registered for a local message board to keep up with what folks were saying about our town's pride. Oh my goodness, these boys were good that year. They went on later to be the district champs and had a fairly decent run in the playoffs. My boy even got an all state nomination.  *sigh*

Ok…gumbo.  Sorry.

A big rival game was coming up. Our boys were playing the conference team to beat. Those Wildcats give our boys a run for their money every year and we were playing in wildcat territory this time. But, this time was different. Our boys were undefeated in conference play. And so began the banter on the message board.

This team truly has some of the classiest fans I’ve ever encountered. They are all a pleasure to interact with. In the midst of the banter I was reminded of something my grandmother was said to do with her children who didn’t behave on long car rides. She was brilliantly evil. She would give the offender a cookie.

A cookie? Really? Read on. I assure you she wasn’t rewarding bad behavior.

The problem was offenders weren’t allowed to eat their cookie. Instead they had to hold it in their mouth while sitting on their hands for an indefinite period of time. Brilliant isn’t it?

Then WildcatDad got cute with me. I told him I was bringing cookies for him and that every time our team scored he had to put one in his mouth and hold it until the next score. He said, “I like Oreos.”

Alright then, Mr. Smarty-pants . Prior to leaving town for the game I stopped at the local grocery and bought a package of Oreos. When we arrived at the field I marched my behind over to the homeside and walked right up to WildcatDad. We exchanged pleasantries and chatted for a minute and then I handed hi m the Oreos and he laughed.

Then, do you know what that precious man and his wife did? He reached over between them and they handed me a container, still warm and wrapped in foil, along with a spoon. It was gumbo he told me. He brought extra knowing I would be coming over to say hello.

I was so grateful for the gumbo. I had just been rescued from soggy nachos and cold hamburgers from the concession stand. Then I opened it up and started eating. It was brilliant and still steamy hot from his efforts to keep it warm for me.

This alone would have been one of the best football memories I ever had. However, our boys went on to win that game. I went out on the field afterward and watched those kids cry with pride and relief over their accomplishment. The gravity of that win was everything to them. It was the moment when all their hard work paid off and they had pretty much just sealed the conference championship.

I went home and emailed WCD and told him how wonderful the gumbo was and then asked for the recipe. Without hesitation he sent it and without hesitation I marched my tail to the grocery store for the ingredients.

Our coaches got wind of the story and asked me to make it for the linemen’s next meeting.  I was happy to oblige. I made a huge pot and a ton of rice. I still don’t know how I managed to get it over to Coach’s house without spilling any.

Those boys ate every last bite and fought over the last bits in the pot.

And then mothers called me or stopped me at games and asked me for the recipe.

With exception of a few I played dumb. J Occasionally, boys D played ball with will hear I’m home making gumbo and ask to come over for dinner.

I’m always glad to make it and it gives me an opportunity to think fondly on that football year and my message board friends.  Over the last couple of years  I have refined the recipe that WCD shared with me.  I make it for people I love and until now have been pretty guarded with the recipe.  Now I’ve shared it with you.  Hope you like it.

A Look At Past Relationships

What do you feel when you look back at past relationships? Are you still angry or hurt? Do you find yourself stomping around thinking, “I’d like to punch that jerk-face right in the schnoz?”

Let me tell ya – I’ve been involved with some of the worst kind of jerk-faces. But, you know what? I’m thankful. Yeah, you read that right – thankful. Every one of those jack-wagons taught me something and has my heartfelt gratitude.

Jack-wagon:  I’d love to know who coined that expression. It’s my new favorite ever since seeing “J” imitate that commercial.

"Maybe we should chug on over to mamby pamby land where maybe we can find some self confidence for you, you jack wagon!" (Geico commercial asking does a former drill sergeant make a good therapist?)

Oh, sorry…back on topic…

Every one of those jack-wagons (giggle) … (clears throat and tries to keep a straight face) (ha ha…I said “jack-wagon”) …every one of them taught me to be a stronger and better me. They taught me my limits. They contributed to my journey of discovering what I’m worth. They taught me that I don’t deserve every negative thing that comes my way.

Through high school I didn’t date. Oh sure, I had a few so-called boyfriends; but really, nothing special. I would like to say here (though I doubt any of these guys will read this blog post) that I certainly hope none of you past relationships who happen to read this will take offense to anything I have to say about you. What was then is not what is now.

MW -- My first long term relationship came about a year after high school. We were together two years. Honestly, I think my involvement with him just came from seeing all my other friends with someone and taking the first thing that came along. We had such a rocky relationship. We were both pretty young and really stupid. The one thing we got right was “D”. *sigh* I miss that kid but that’s another post.

He gave me “D” and because of that I learned to look past myself at how my actions affect another person. I learned to be less self absorbed. Notice here I said less… I was still somewhat self absorbed. I was 19 when D was born. For any of you who remember being that age you are painfully aware that I still had a ways to go… I was such a shrew.

We split when D was two. Sometimes I think the aftermath of the breakup was worse than the relationship itself. I was never fair to him. I don’t think I really loved him. I think I just wanted someone to love me. Wow, when I put it in print like that it sounds so terrible. What a crappy thing for me to do to him.

I’m sorry. I’m glad you finally found the right girl for you and I’m glad that we’ve been able to build a friendship in order to benefit D. I love your wife. You did good. J

BJ – There are so many things to say about this guy. We only dated briefly but I ended up with one of the first real friendships I would ever have and we maintained that friendship the entire time I lived in Misery…oh, umm, I mean Missouri. It was the first time I ever experienced real love – the kind that meant something. He held my hand through so many things and I still smile when I think of him. He showed me what it meant to be a true friend and he taught me that you can’t make someone love you back.

IR – Oh my goodness! This guy… *laugh*. I don’t know if I can actually call this a relationship. It was more like an….ummm…involvement? It wasn’t traditional, that’s for sure. At any rate, he taught me to live in the moment. He taught me not to take life so seriously. He taught me to laugh with everything I had. He could be a jerk sometimes but what made that ok was the fact that he was up front about it. He never claimed to be anything other than what he was. Now days when I refer to him as a jack-wagon, it’s with fondness.

He hurt me…but only for a minute. I knew better and ignored the reality. I’m glad I didn’t do any permanent damage when I pegged him in the head with that full beer can.

Michael – I’m not going to go too far into this one. He was abusive and I’m glad it’s over. I hope you understand if I’m not willing to relive details of this story.

Here’s what he taught me – He taught me to stand up for myself. He taught me that if you don’t let people know how to treat you then you have no business complaining when they walk all over you. He taught me that being alone was much better than being involved with a jack-wagon.  (giggle…I said jack-wagon again) He taught me not to ignore the warning signs when presented with a loser. He taught me that baby blue eyes and a pretty smile don’t make a good relationship. He taught me that love doesn’t hurt the object of its affection. He taught me that the most dangerous things are often wrapped in the prettiest packages.

Don came next – But, for obvious reasons, we’ll skip over that one for now. See previous blog post “How I Met My Husband”…  ----> here

RS – Believe it or not, this one doesn’t hurt anymore. I’m not even mad. Sometimes I wish I could say I never married him though. He hurt me twice but he gave me J.

He taught me that leopards don’t change their spots. A relationship that didn’t work the first time is probably not going to work when revisited. Like my good friend Brian says, “If you put spoiled milk back in the fridge and go back for it a week later, it’s still going to be spoiled when you pull it back out.” He taught me that when someone loves you they don’t put you on a shelf to take down when they have time for you or need you. He taught me that love sticks around when things get tough. He taught me to recognize the expressions of a liar.

EH – This one still makes me roll my eyes a little. He wasn’t a jack-wagon (giggle, I said jack-wagon). He was passive, indecisive and unsure of himself. He made it easy for me to walk all over him. That’s really all I can say. He taught me that I need a man who is stronger than me. He showed me how exhausting it can be to date a woman…*giggle*. Sorry there fella…It really was a lot like dating a woman.

Don – never a jack-wagon (giggle). Not in a real sense -- although he does have his moments. He’s taught me how comfortable and easy love is when it’s real. He’s taught me to share my life with another person. He’s taught me compromise. He’s taught me what it means to really be happy with someone. He’s taught me that love is something you do, not something you say. He’s taught me to smile from the inside. He’s taught me that love understands and appreciates the imperfections of its object. He’s taught me that when you really love someone you can be mad at them and still think, feel and say, “I love you”.

I could go on and on with this one; but, you all know that he makes me a big blob of mush. Can you believe that the one year anniversary is only 4 months away?

Ok, I’m signing off before you all start gagging…

My Grandma Geri

Geraldine Elizabeth Hayes – 10 Aug 1935-2 Jan 1995

I’m sentimental this week, I guess. I’ve found myself thinking of relatives who have passed and things I remember about them; things that made them special to me. Who knows, maybe it’s the flea market trip or related to the crying spells I’ve had lately. Maybe it’s because I’ve been so down and remembering the way she pampered me is comforting. I really don’t know. All the same, I remember.

What a funny lady she was. As a child I loved to stay at her house. She let me do all the things little girls love to do. Each time I spent the night with her there was a routine. Just before bedtime was a bubble bath. She had an endless supply of that Avon pink bubble bath and I was allowed to use as much as I liked. I would soak and play in the tub and sometimes she would come in and wash my hair. When I was done I was usually given one of her nightgowns. She had the best nightgowns; they were soft and pretty and smelled like downy fabric softener.

Usually, while waiting for my hair to dry, we would sit in the living room and play cards at the coffee table. She cheated. Really, she did. The rules constantly changed and she always won. I knew what she was up to but would never have said so.

I also remember watching The Young and the Restless with her during the day, the time she danced on the back of the couch and nearly killed me when I brought a little garden snake into the house to show her, sitting outside and snapping green beans and hulling peas, and bacon, eggs and homemade biscuits for breakfast every morning. I remember she let me drink coffee too.

We didn’t have much contact towards the end of her life. The last time I saw her alive broke my heart. Always a stocky and heavyset woman she couldn’t have weighed much more than 100 lbs that last time I had contact with her. Her body damaged by a stroke, she seemed to have lost the vitality that always drew me to her.

She’s thought of often. I have a beautiful cast iron chicken fryer that belonged to her. I’ve mentioned it before. It’s coated in lovely turquoise enamel on the outside. It’s my prize kitchen possession and I use it a lot. It’s not just for frying chicken.

I also have her mother’s ring. When I visited with my Aunt Kathy a while back she got it out and gave it to me. I found myself in one of those rare misty eyed moments then. It is so nice to have something that was special to her. I don’t wear it every day but, when I feel like I need a little luck or an extra someone to watch over me, I wear it.

I think, on many levels, Aunt Kathy and I understood each other. She was the only daughter and for many years I would be the only granddaughter. Anyone who knew my Grandma  Geri knew how much she loved little girls.

Grandma Geri was a red head and had the personality to go with it. She was outspoken and loud. She told the best stories for curious little minds such as mine. Yet, for all the things harsh about her, she had a softness that I always felt like she reserved just for me.

In spite of any complaint someone might have had about her, in spite of the mistakes that separated us later in her life and in spite of what anyone else might have thought, I loved her and she was mine and to this day she still makes me smile.

I got mad at Young and the Restless and got published...lol

http://soaptownusa.com/kittyscolonnade29Nov.html  <-----this is the link to the page.

I read this column every week. I love what Ms. Kitty has to say about Y&R every week. She's spot on. I've watched this show since I was a very little girl. It was something I did every day with my grandmother. I don't recall ever NOT being a Y&R viewer.  The show has gone down hill since William Bell died. The rest of this post speaks for itself. I was just tickled to be published somewhere. As for Y&R, they didn't respond to my email but, I didn't really expect them to either.

Ms. Kitty…I just have to say how much I enjoy reading your column each week. I gave it some thought this morning and feel that all of us who are disappointed should be sharing our thoughts with Y&R. Not that they care. If they did they would be making the appropriate changes. But, I sent my letter anyway and I wondered how flooded with complaints they would have to be to listen. Here's what I sent them...

I'm just wondering, do the writers of this show ever read any of the message boards dedicated to Y&R? Not just the one on this site, but the ones on other sites as well?

I would have to say they don't. If they did they would realize how disgusted most Y&R fans are. They would realize that viewers are bailing in droves. They would know what we expect to see when we tune in to this show.

For as long as I can remember Y&R has topped the ratings. I expect over the next year or so to see that decline. All viewers I've encountered, including myself, are completely disheartened with this show.

The men and women on this show have become bed hopping (dumpster hopping? glassy floor hopping?) sluts. *cough* Sharon *cough* There's no romance because couples are having rough sex in odd places with people they hardly know. There are no sacred relationships. Legacy characters are being tossed for newbies and cameo appearances. Stories are plot driven rather than character driven. Story lines are dropped without resolution. The writers take too many liberties with character history and simply re-write history when they don't know what else to do. The slow build for story lines has disappeared.

You insult our intelligence on a daily basis. You are clearly out of touch with the fantasy we're looking for.

We're no longer given time to invest in a story or relationship.

Why bother? We roll our eyes at story lines and fast forward through scenes with Lily, Cane, Sharon, Nick, Victor, Daisy, Adam etc. We watch only to see the one sacred relationship...Michael and Lauren. Then, lo and behold, the rumor is that relationship is about to be busted up too.

It's disgusting to think of what the current writers see as entertaining. Clearly, they are out of touch with the viewing public. I know they're out of touch with what I've always believed to be the heart of Y&R. So much so that I no longer record the show or watch on my days off. I have limited myself to reading online updates...and only if I feel like being mocked that day.

Your biggest loss was Bill Bell and I think he must surely be rolling over in his grave at what you've done to this show. After 25 years of being a Y&R fan I do believe I'm done. As for your writers and the remaining member of the Bell family...you should be ashamed of yourselves.

If you want to keep your audience you have to give them what they're looking for. We want suspense, we want romance, we want fantasy relationships, we want legacy characters who are multi-dimensional, we want lasting relationships with real problems, we want stories we can invest in. We want our Y&R back.  Erica T.If every one of us who has had enough took a few minutes to write a letter like Erica’s, pointing out the things that have driven us away, maybe TIIC would listen…because it certainly doesn’t appear they hear our pleas when published on the Internet. I am especially in agreement with the statement about having or intelligence insulted on a daily basis. That’s exactly how I feel.

Erica…you can’t see me, but I’m giving you a standing ovation.  

Thanksgiving leftovers, Barbies, kitchen strikes, football and prayers

The Thanksgiving gluttony is over. Hallelujah! Now, what to do with those leftovers? Thankfully, I didn’t over cook this year like I usually do. I kept the menu small and simple. As a result, I had just enough leftovers to make a couple of meals with.

For leftover turkey I made turkey salad. I diced up a couple of cups worth of turkey and added 1 stalk of chopped celery, one handful of dried cranberries, one diced apple, a few chopped pecans and about ½ cup of mayonnaise. I lightly salted and peppered it.  Then I made little sandwiches with the leftover bread from dinner. It was great and I didn’t feel like I was eating leftovers.

I also used leftover dressing with leftover turkey and gravy. I cut up about 2 cups of turkey and placed it in the bottom of a small casserole dish. Then I topped the turkey with leftover dressing and covered with foil. I baked it at 350 degrees for about 30 minutes. I served this topped with the gravy. For sides I made a green vegetable and used the remaining bread dough I had to make fresh parker house rolls.

For leftover mashed potatoes I handed “J” a large bowl and a fork. I had him mix in ¼ cup of cheddar cheese, a sprinkle of garlic powder, ¼ cup of milk, crumbled bacon and ¼ cup of softened butter. I put this in a casserole dish, covered it and baked at 350 degrees for about 20 minutes. I served this with fried pork chops.

There were no leftover Brussels sprouts. I told you they were good!

Friday night was a good night. We hung out with my lifelong friend Sara and her family. Sara let me make chicken scaloppini for her family. I was tickled to death when even the kids loved it and cleaned their plates. Then we played cards and talked about women who should learn to pluck their eyebrows and about silly things we did when we were kids.

For the record, I still insist that all Barbie dolls are built exactly the same and there was no reason whatsoever that Golden Dream Barbie’s pants should have ripped when I put them on Pink and Pretty Barbie. It’s been 29 years and that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. *sticks tongue out at Sara*

 Golden Dream Barbie...1981

Pink and Pretty Barbie 1982

The remaining pie was finished off Saturday night. Don brought me more pecans because he wanted another pecan pie. The pecan pie was amazing. It was blissful. It was beautiful. It was the most perfect pecan pie I’d ever tasted. Then….then….I topped it with the whiskey maple cream sauce. I can’t even describe how good it was. There just aren’t words to describe “better than perfect”. It was so good it was sinful.

In the past four days I have spent so much time in the kitchen and washed so many dishes that I’m pretty sure I won’t be having any new recipes for at least a week. I don’t care to see the kitchen again. In fact, I’m letting the crock pot do my cooking today. They’ll get roast beef tonight. Tomorrow, and possibly the rest of the week, they’ll be lucky to get bologna sandwiches and red kool-aid. I’m on strike.

This was a fantastic football weekend! The Saints won. The Hogs beat LSU! AND! AND! AND! …. For the first time EVER little J insisted on watching football all weekend, and knew what the heck was going on, and kept up with the score, and loved it! 

*happy dance* I’ve created a football fan!!!!!   Yipee!!!

Speaking of football…There are a couple of football players that I’m just sick to death of.  These are supposed to be “men” (used lightly) that our little boys look up to. They are viewed as role models. Most of them are pretty good guys.

However, you also have guys like Michael Vick who is a completely disgusting life form. I don’t care how good he is on the field. He’s abhorrent enough off the field that I feel that off the field is exactly where he should stay. Why does the NFL keep singing this sub-human being’s praises? Send him back to prison where he belongs. Better yet, inflict upon him some of the abuses he inflicted on those dogs.

Or, let’s talk about the Tennessee Titan’s cornerback, Cortland Finnegan. He’s another disgusting life form. He is currently ranked the sixth dirtiest player in the NFL. He has openly stated it is his goal to be THE dirtiest player in the NFL. Read this: http://sports.yahoo.com/nfl/blog/shutdown_corner/post/Texans-coach-gives-Andre-Johnson-a-game-ball-de?urn=nfl-289983  and then watch the video and decide for yourself.

Now there’s something to be proud of, huh?

What kind of raising did these idiots have? Who taught them that this was acceptable behavior? Where are their mothers? I’d like to have a word with them.

In other news… Don is trying to bid on a big job. It would be just the boost we need to get the business moving along. I can’t provide any more detail than that. We’re just asking that you please pray on that for us.

That’s all I’ve got today. I hope I wasn’t disappointing. I have surrounded myself in a drama free zone. It’s paying off. However, it can be a little boring sometimes. Sorry.