So, on Friday afternoon, after my last post, we had to take the dog to be put down. All morning long, the dog followed me around, velcroed to my leg, and just looked sad. Lots of heavy panting and pacing going on, which I know meant pain. I had gone to pick Hootie up from preschool, and afterwards we went to get some grapefruit-sized river rocks from the quarry to surround the new lavender bed I am making in my front yard. The guys were out in the yard pulling up my ivy bed (where the lavender would go) and I went inside to get some water. The dog was lying in a spot entirely atypical for him to lie. He was on his side, legs straight out and floppy, which was also quite unusual since he's been only gingerly getting up and down over the last week. He wasn't panting, he was breathing slowly, and his lip was floppy on the floor. When I came in, he raised up his head a second, then put it back down on the floor. I thought maybe we'd just woken him up, since he's been exhausted, not sleeping well for the last week. I leaned down to give him a bite of my NutriGrain bar, and he didn't even sniff at it. This was the biggest tell-tale sign for me. This dog has ravenously eaten anything and everything I have given him in all 13 years of his life. He just isn't a dog who turns away a bite of food, especially HUMAN food, the Holy Grail and very rarely offered. It was about 3:45pm on a Friday and the thought of going through the weekend and risking the possibility that the dog could die in my house, while I'm alone with my 3 1/2 year old child... that wasn't even remotely okay with me. I can't lift him myself without a lot of effort and strain on my already bad shoulder, and what do you do with a deceased dog on a weekend anyway?! He couldn't even stand up. I knew it was time. So I called the vet, asked them to prepare a room, that I was bringing him up. I had been telling Hootie that Floyd was sick, and wouldn't be with us much longer, so it wasn't a total shock to her when I said she needed to lie down on the floor with him and say her goodbyes to him. She was very sad, crying on him and telling him how much she loved him, how he's been such a good dog and she will really miss him. Then she asked me why he had to die. I said that he is old, and has gotten very sick, and it's not something the doctors can fix anymore. But it is much better for us to help him die and go to heaven rather than let him suffer in pain here on earth until he dies on his own. She asked me about heaven, where it is and what it is. We've said prayers at night for a while now, and we say grace before meals, and she goes to a Christian preschool, so she's heard terms like God, Jesus, heaven, and so forth. But this was her first experience with it right up in her face. I told her that in heaven, Floyd will be able to run through the pasture chasing rabbits and chewing sticks and rawhide. He'll always have a big bowl of food to eat and fresh water to drink, and the energy to run and play all day. She said that would be good for Floyd, but she'll miss him. She wanted to see if she could go visit him, and I had to tell her no, we won't see Floyd until WE go to heaven, when we die. Of course she wanted to know when that's going to be, and I told her nobody ever really knows. But it'll be a long, long, long time from now.
I had to get one of the workers from outside to come lift him from the living room and into the back of my Subaru, and I'm sure he was a little wigged out by me crying the whole time. We drove up, and the staff let us into the room. They brought him in on a stretcher from the back of my car, and Hootie hugged him one last time. The staff of the clinic took her and kept her busy while I sat with him. They gave him an injection that would make him fall asleep first, so that he would not have any experience of the sensation of euthanasia. I held his head in my lap while the injection worked, and he fell asleep. I took off his collar and I said my goodbyes to him and told him he'd been a good dog. Then I left and took Hootie home while they completed the euthanasia. I couldn't sit and watch that part. I just couldn't do that, and Hootie was starting to look and call for me anyway out in the lobby. So I took her home, and went about the process of cleaning up the reminders of the dog. Leashes, dinner bowl, water dish, medicine, brushes, nail trimmers, dog bed.
I look around at night and see where his bed used to be, and I know that I miss him. I am sort of relishing in the fact that my house isn't filthy and full of dog hair. I don't know what to do with that extra 20 minutes a day that I used to spend stick-vacuuming the house of dog fur. :-) But I miss things like him putting his big heavy blonde head on my leg while I paint, or the little sounds he'd make while lying down. We aren't getting another, despite Hootie having asked me several times if we can get a new pet. And she doesn't mean a fish. I know she wants another dog. She'd take a cat, but we can't do cats since we're allergic (me and the husband). So we'll have to just make due with each other and no animal for a while.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Monday, March 26, 2007
Friday, March 23, 2007
Realities of Life
I was rereading my Happiness Is post, noting how... idealistic I sound. Sometimes I think I'm full of shit. Not that anything in there is wrong or something I don't think, broadly speaking, but it doesn't help with the realities of life, as I'm dealing with them.
It's been raining or pissing wetness for the whole week. I've had to wear my hair curly for days on end to avoid the bushy, fuzzy nightmare which is my "straightened" hair in humidity and rain. The back laundry area is a muddy STY, and I'm feeling pretty much DONE with the rain business for a while. And what's in the forecast all weekend while my darling husband is in Seattle? Yeah. Rain.
And the worst of it is that my loyal trusty hound Floyd is on his last legs. He had a seizure the other night, and had I not had dogs with seizures before, I would have been completely freaked out. He's never had one, and he had 3 of them over the course of the night and morning. He's now on 4 different medications and is stuck to me like glue. Poor guy isn't doing so well, and so we've decided when my husband gets back, we're going to have to have him put down. He's 13, he's a lab and has had a happy, long life. The worst of it though? Breaking the news to Hootie. She LOVES her dog, calls him "Boy" and I think will be devastated that he'll be gone from her little life. We've talked at great length and decided that we're not getting another dog right away. I love the dog, I've always had a dog. I'm sad that his time is coming to an end, and I'm saddest for Hootie who will really miss him. But I think I'm going to enjoy having some time where I don't have to care for a dog on top of everything else. My house will be and stay CLEAN for more than 2 hours at a time. I won't have a muddy laundry room. I won't have panting and pacing and barking in the night, waking me to go outside. I won't have chewing, I won't have shedding everywhere. I won't have to pay a kennel to keep him while we go out of town, or worse, take him with and deal with caring for him in someone else's home. I know at some point we'll likely get Hootie another dog. One that doesn't shed and I can pick up myself, and so on and so forth. But I need to take a breath first before I do that.
So now, it's off to get some things ready for the maid to come.
It's been raining or pissing wetness for the whole week. I've had to wear my hair curly for days on end to avoid the bushy, fuzzy nightmare which is my "straightened" hair in humidity and rain. The back laundry area is a muddy STY, and I'm feeling pretty much DONE with the rain business for a while. And what's in the forecast all weekend while my darling husband is in Seattle? Yeah. Rain.
And the worst of it is that my loyal trusty hound Floyd is on his last legs. He had a seizure the other night, and had I not had dogs with seizures before, I would have been completely freaked out. He's never had one, and he had 3 of them over the course of the night and morning. He's now on 4 different medications and is stuck to me like glue. Poor guy isn't doing so well, and so we've decided when my husband gets back, we're going to have to have him put down. He's 13, he's a lab and has had a happy, long life. The worst of it though? Breaking the news to Hootie. She LOVES her dog, calls him "Boy" and I think will be devastated that he'll be gone from her little life. We've talked at great length and decided that we're not getting another dog right away. I love the dog, I've always had a dog. I'm sad that his time is coming to an end, and I'm saddest for Hootie who will really miss him. But I think I'm going to enjoy having some time where I don't have to care for a dog on top of everything else. My house will be and stay CLEAN for more than 2 hours at a time. I won't have a muddy laundry room. I won't have panting and pacing and barking in the night, waking me to go outside. I won't have chewing, I won't have shedding everywhere. I won't have to pay a kennel to keep him while we go out of town, or worse, take him with and deal with caring for him in someone else's home. I know at some point we'll likely get Hootie another dog. One that doesn't shed and I can pick up myself, and so on and so forth. But I need to take a breath first before I do that.
So now, it's off to get some things ready for the maid to come.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Balancing Act
So I have this dilemma.
My Mother (the one who raised me, not the one I'm going to see next week) has invited me and my family to come to Nevada for the holidays this year.
What to do about this?
My gut reaction to this invitation is unfortunately, "No thank you." In short, I do not wish to spend the holidays with them in Nevada. I would rather either spend time with them in Nevada another time of the year, or POSSIBLY spend a holiday with them in Austin. But even that isn't high on my list.
They left Austin two weeks after Hootie was born. They saw her twice as a newborn infant before they left. Once at the hospital, and once when I took her up to their house as they were preparing to pack up and leave. They have not been back to Austin since they moved to Nevada. They claim it is because they cannot afford it. Because they sunk their retirement income into a custom-built, beautiful house in a little golf community north of Las Vegas. They don't play golf. Or gamble. But they like this little town, and they like the lack of state income tax in Nevada. And they felt they had no other choices but to buy a home which continued to increase in price as it was being designed and built. They also have three dogs to board, should they leave town. So evidently, it's a big ordeal to go out of town.
I brought Hootie to their little house once, when she was almost 2. And my Mother saw her at a family funeral in Washington when she was about 9 months old, for a short time. So that's all they have seen of their granddaughter.
After a rather unpleasant exchange about holidays in mid-2005, wherein I explained that we already had made commitments for both Thanksgiving and Christmas that year, my mother tearfully claimed she felt like a bastard stepchild, unimportant and left out, and would I EVER spend holidays with them? I suggested they come to visit between Thanksgiving and Christmas, and we could celebrate a joint holiday and go to festivals and see lights and what-not, but this wasn't received well. If it isn't THE day of the holiday, it isn't worth anything, evidently. I eventually conceded out of pity, and said that the Thanksgiving of 2006, the following year, this past year, was free, and we'd love to have them come visit in Austin. I reiterated my invitation multiple times throughout the year, only to be told they hadn't discussed it yet, and maybe, maybe not. I even reserved the little guesthouse across the street which I manage, in case they decided to come. Throughout the year, whenever I would inquire about it, they blew me off, didn't really respond to my invitation, and of course, did not come.
Further information pertaining to this dilemma resides in my earlier post regarding why I have two mothers, and the state of the relationship with my parents. Holidays with a bipolar individual are not usually easy. My mother's medications are not consistent in their effectiveness, and I've spent many a holiday with her where she's miserable to be around. Sometimes not, but it's a crapshoot. Add to it the fact that there's little to do in this little town in Nevada, and my parents are pretty sedentary, and we haven't got terribly much to discuss as it is. We couldn't find an open playground anywhere in this little town, only the one attached to the school, which was fenced off from the public. My parents have nothing which accommodates a child, and the town has even less, considering it's really a retirement community of sorts. The thought of spending my holiday there doesn't appeal to me personally. If we were to go, it would be solely out of a sense of sadness that these two people are alone in Nevada, with no other children to celebrate the holidays with, and little initiative to make of it something special between the two of them. I realize that this situation is all of their own doing, yet I nevertheless feel sad for them that this is how it is.
As a married woman, I live that life where you go to one spouse's family's house for one of the holidays, and the other family for the next one, being Thanksgiving and Christmas. It rotates around and adjusts when the husband's sister is able to come to Texas and be with us for a specific holiday, so that we can all see her as well. So, when it's time for my family's "turn", I like to go to Washington. I like to see my Mama and sister and her family. Hootie loves to play with her cousins, we get to play in the snow and possibly go skiing, everyone laughs and plays poker and watches football and has a lot of holiday cheer going around. It's FUN. So, to give that up to assuage any sense of guilt or burden of responsibility toward the people who raised me... it just isn't appealing.
Believe me, in having been an only child and having one live in my home, I have put a good deal of thought into how I am going to raise her and treat her, such that she doesn't inherit the same pitfalls of only childhood which I have had over the years. I know that I am "lucky" not to have depression or bipolar disorder, and that I am also very blessed to be a self-sufficient individual. We plan to travel and invite Hootie to join us if she so chooses, during holidays. I think the idea of spending a Christmas with just my husband sounds lovely anyway. But I don't want Hootie to face that same sense of pressure to "entertain" her parents, or to make us feel loved or give us reason for being.
So how did I respond? Well, I told my Mother via email that I appreciated her offer, but we would not be able to come for either Thanksgiving or Christmas. However, if she wanted us to come for one of their birthdays, or in between the holidays, or some other time, we could possibly arrange that. I have yet to hear back, but I'm anticipating another long, unpleasant silent treatment initiated by my ghastly selfishness.
I don't know what I want or expect from this post, other than just to get it out of me. Thanks for reading.
My Mother (the one who raised me, not the one I'm going to see next week) has invited me and my family to come to Nevada for the holidays this year.
What to do about this?
My gut reaction to this invitation is unfortunately, "No thank you." In short, I do not wish to spend the holidays with them in Nevada. I would rather either spend time with them in Nevada another time of the year, or POSSIBLY spend a holiday with them in Austin. But even that isn't high on my list.
They left Austin two weeks after Hootie was born. They saw her twice as a newborn infant before they left. Once at the hospital, and once when I took her up to their house as they were preparing to pack up and leave. They have not been back to Austin since they moved to Nevada. They claim it is because they cannot afford it. Because they sunk their retirement income into a custom-built, beautiful house in a little golf community north of Las Vegas. They don't play golf. Or gamble. But they like this little town, and they like the lack of state income tax in Nevada. And they felt they had no other choices but to buy a home which continued to increase in price as it was being designed and built. They also have three dogs to board, should they leave town. So evidently, it's a big ordeal to go out of town.
I brought Hootie to their little house once, when she was almost 2. And my Mother saw her at a family funeral in Washington when she was about 9 months old, for a short time. So that's all they have seen of their granddaughter.
After a rather unpleasant exchange about holidays in mid-2005, wherein I explained that we already had made commitments for both Thanksgiving and Christmas that year, my mother tearfully claimed she felt like a bastard stepchild, unimportant and left out, and would I EVER spend holidays with them? I suggested they come to visit between Thanksgiving and Christmas, and we could celebrate a joint holiday and go to festivals and see lights and what-not, but this wasn't received well. If it isn't THE day of the holiday, it isn't worth anything, evidently. I eventually conceded out of pity, and said that the Thanksgiving of 2006, the following year, this past year, was free, and we'd love to have them come visit in Austin. I reiterated my invitation multiple times throughout the year, only to be told they hadn't discussed it yet, and maybe, maybe not. I even reserved the little guesthouse across the street which I manage, in case they decided to come. Throughout the year, whenever I would inquire about it, they blew me off, didn't really respond to my invitation, and of course, did not come.
Further information pertaining to this dilemma resides in my earlier post regarding why I have two mothers, and the state of the relationship with my parents. Holidays with a bipolar individual are not usually easy. My mother's medications are not consistent in their effectiveness, and I've spent many a holiday with her where she's miserable to be around. Sometimes not, but it's a crapshoot. Add to it the fact that there's little to do in this little town in Nevada, and my parents are pretty sedentary, and we haven't got terribly much to discuss as it is. We couldn't find an open playground anywhere in this little town, only the one attached to the school, which was fenced off from the public. My parents have nothing which accommodates a child, and the town has even less, considering it's really a retirement community of sorts. The thought of spending my holiday there doesn't appeal to me personally. If we were to go, it would be solely out of a sense of sadness that these two people are alone in Nevada, with no other children to celebrate the holidays with, and little initiative to make of it something special between the two of them. I realize that this situation is all of their own doing, yet I nevertheless feel sad for them that this is how it is.
As a married woman, I live that life where you go to one spouse's family's house for one of the holidays, and the other family for the next one, being Thanksgiving and Christmas. It rotates around and adjusts when the husband's sister is able to come to Texas and be with us for a specific holiday, so that we can all see her as well. So, when it's time for my family's "turn", I like to go to Washington. I like to see my Mama and sister and her family. Hootie loves to play with her cousins, we get to play in the snow and possibly go skiing, everyone laughs and plays poker and watches football and has a lot of holiday cheer going around. It's FUN. So, to give that up to assuage any sense of guilt or burden of responsibility toward the people who raised me... it just isn't appealing.
Believe me, in having been an only child and having one live in my home, I have put a good deal of thought into how I am going to raise her and treat her, such that she doesn't inherit the same pitfalls of only childhood which I have had over the years. I know that I am "lucky" not to have depression or bipolar disorder, and that I am also very blessed to be a self-sufficient individual. We plan to travel and invite Hootie to join us if she so chooses, during holidays. I think the idea of spending a Christmas with just my husband sounds lovely anyway. But I don't want Hootie to face that same sense of pressure to "entertain" her parents, or to make us feel loved or give us reason for being.
So how did I respond? Well, I told my Mother via email that I appreciated her offer, but we would not be able to come for either Thanksgiving or Christmas. However, if she wanted us to come for one of their birthdays, or in between the holidays, or some other time, we could possibly arrange that. I have yet to hear back, but I'm anticipating another long, unpleasant silent treatment initiated by my ghastly selfishness.
I don't know what I want or expect from this post, other than just to get it out of me. Thanks for reading.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
It's A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood
It's stunningly beautiful outside, about 60 degrees and clear and dry. One of the days I dream about all summer when it's 98 and sweltering and humid. We took a lovely walk down on Town Lake this morning and I took a few pictures:
Nothing exciting to report on a Sunday afternoon, just posting pics.
Nothing exciting to report on a Sunday afternoon, just posting pics.
Friday, December 29, 2006
So Yeah, About Christmas.
We've returned from Houston, where we spent Christmas with the husband's delightful family. Let me just say, I know there are a lot of poor, sad women out there who hate their in-laws, especially their mothers-in-law. I would not be one of those people. And she wouldn't be a daughter-in-law hater either. We really had a terrific time with them. The only complaints I can make are that I got extra fattened up by all of the delicious food (for which I have to take some responsibility, making two Dutch apple pies and a shitload of cookies AND the turkey gravy), and our sleeping situation sent the child into another, YES ANOTHER, tailspin. We were in a room with two single beds, and the child was on the floor. Had we ALL wanted to hear her howling in the night, we could have forced her to sleep in what was once her little crib, now turned "toddler bed" in the little room next to the husband's parents' bedroom, but I felt I couldn't really subject everyone to that. So we put her on a palette in our bedroom, on the floor next to my twin bed. Sleeping on a floor never hurt me as a child, so there's no "pity poor Hootie" going on with that situation. The problem was that Hootie was allowed the much-desired sleeping proximity to her mother. Which resulted the last three days in me ending up SHARING my SKINNY LITTLE TWIN BED with her land-grabbing, horizontal-laying butt. MUCH TO HER TOTAL GLEE. So, as is the case when we return home, it was back to the routine. Last night was straight from hell, with the whining and cajoling and the "MOMMY!" (repeat for TWO HOURS, interspersed with other dialogue and requests, some of which were legitimate, some of which were pure 3.5 year old bullshit). We like to say in our household that the child's inner monologue is being broadcast because someone left the mike on in her head. Read on. I don't make this shit up. Our room is adjacent to hers and we're lying there, me reading Buddhism for Mothers and my husband with his laptop on his belly, reading either www.DarkHorizons.com (yes, this gags me out) or maybe some news site or something. She's bellowing "Mommy" ad nauseum, which we are ignoring, since we've already addressed bathroom needs, drink of water needs, please can you adjust my pink blanket so that it is silky side down needs, and I dropped my Glowy Stick needs, I'm NOT KIDDING. Then, a slight pause. Is she giving up? No, there's a mumble (or what SHOULD be inaudible mumbling, but comes out as FULL FLEDGED TALKING), "I don't think Mommy can hear me. Maybe if I say it really LOUD, she'll wake up and come in here to me. Okay. Here I go. 1....2....3..... MOMMY!!!!"
Are you fucking kidding me?
Yep, that is what my child said. Followed up with stuff like, "She's not COMING. Maybe I wasn't loud enough. I'll try it again. 1....2....3....MMMOOOOOMMMMMMYYYYYY!!!" (and other wonderment that this strategy is not, in fact, working). This did go on for two hours. I went to the front bedroom to sleep. I COULD STILL HEAR HER WITH ALL THREE DOORS BETWEEN US CLOSED. AND the computer was on, humming its obnoxious hum.
So, the sleep thing, it begins again, anew, afresh. For the 734th time. Delightful.
But the Christmas and festivities and games and conversation were all terrific. And, much to my own chagrin for having thought otherwise in advance, my daughter enjoyed going to see the Nutcracker Ballet. I personally thought there'd be no way a 3 1/2 year old would even GET the Nutcracker, much less sit for three hours on my lap ENRAPT as I narrated the story for her. But she did. It wasn't even so much as saying that she was well behaved, or that she "did well" or anything, as though her presence was an unfortunate side-deterrent to enjoying the ballet, or as though we had no option but to bring her with, and could we just get through it without a tantrum? She ENJOYED it, was actively watching it, probably moreso than many others in the audience. Of course she won't remember that when she grows up, but for the time being, for being 3 1/2 years old, she got as much out of a visit to the Nutcracker Ballet as anyone at that stage of life could. And I'm glad that we went, treated by the husband's sister and brother-in-law. It was remarkable.
We also went out to see our friends play in a band. Not a "current" band, mind you. A band that was actually a real band when we were in college in the early 90s. A band which sings songs primarily about food, about strange and wistful relationships, and about broken down cars. All original music. A band whose music is incredibly catchy and Texas Rock. They are called Banana Blender Surprise and their music is fantastic, and they only get together and play a few gigs a year, usually around Christmas, when people gather in Houston to see their family over the holidays. We danced like we were 23 again, and had a terrific time. All these 30-somethings, acting like we know what's up, taking our kids to the family show from 4-6 before tucking them into their beds with their grandparents and going out to rock the house again at 10. We stayed out until 2, drank lots of beer, sweated through our smoke-infested clothes and remembered the good ol days when we'd go every Tuesday night to the Black Cat Lounge and watch them play. FANTASTIC, it was. But, that said, I'm glad I'm going to bed tonight at 10. Wait. That's one minute from now. G'Nite.
Are you fucking kidding me?
Yep, that is what my child said. Followed up with stuff like, "She's not COMING. Maybe I wasn't loud enough. I'll try it again. 1....2....3....MMMOOOOOMMMMMMYYYYYY!!!" (and other wonderment that this strategy is not, in fact, working). This did go on for two hours. I went to the front bedroom to sleep. I COULD STILL HEAR HER WITH ALL THREE DOORS BETWEEN US CLOSED. AND the computer was on, humming its obnoxious hum.
So, the sleep thing, it begins again, anew, afresh. For the 734th time. Delightful.
But the Christmas and festivities and games and conversation were all terrific. And, much to my own chagrin for having thought otherwise in advance, my daughter enjoyed going to see the Nutcracker Ballet. I personally thought there'd be no way a 3 1/2 year old would even GET the Nutcracker, much less sit for three hours on my lap ENRAPT as I narrated the story for her. But she did. It wasn't even so much as saying that she was well behaved, or that she "did well" or anything, as though her presence was an unfortunate side-deterrent to enjoying the ballet, or as though we had no option but to bring her with, and could we just get through it without a tantrum? She ENJOYED it, was actively watching it, probably moreso than many others in the audience. Of course she won't remember that when she grows up, but for the time being, for being 3 1/2 years old, she got as much out of a visit to the Nutcracker Ballet as anyone at that stage of life could. And I'm glad that we went, treated by the husband's sister and brother-in-law. It was remarkable.
We also went out to see our friends play in a band. Not a "current" band, mind you. A band that was actually a real band when we were in college in the early 90s. A band which sings songs primarily about food, about strange and wistful relationships, and about broken down cars. All original music. A band whose music is incredibly catchy and Texas Rock. They are called Banana Blender Surprise and their music is fantastic, and they only get together and play a few gigs a year, usually around Christmas, when people gather in Houston to see their family over the holidays. We danced like we were 23 again, and had a terrific time. All these 30-somethings, acting like we know what's up, taking our kids to the family show from 4-6 before tucking them into their beds with their grandparents and going out to rock the house again at 10. We stayed out until 2, drank lots of beer, sweated through our smoke-infested clothes and remembered the good ol days when we'd go every Tuesday night to the Black Cat Lounge and watch them play. FANTASTIC, it was. But, that said, I'm glad I'm going to bed tonight at 10. Wait. That's one minute from now. G'Nite.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Thank You Gramma Tretsven
In my family, my great grandmother Anna Bank Tretsven is a legend. She died when I was six or seven, while I was living in rural Iowa. I moved to Iowa at age 2, visited California one time, where she (and the rest of my extended family) lived, I think when I was four. I really don't have any memories of Gramma T herself but BOY do I know stories about her and her husband, Grampa T. But he's another story for another post.
Gramma T was the quintessential Grandma. A bit chubby, especially through the bosom, white short curly hair and glasses, a wide smile. Someone you buried yourself in when you scraped your knee or broke your heart. She had a breakfast nook with a built-in seat, and in the storage compartment below the seat were always brown paper sacks from the grocery, and an assortment of craftsy stuff (popsicle sticks, string, pom poms, pop bottle lids, markers, crayons, decals, and so on) to use to make masks on a dreary Saturday afternoon. Her four daughters and their families lived within this same block of property, onto which my great grandfather built little houses for each of them, and the connecting back yard was a playground for my mother, Mama, and their other 8 cousins. They would all run in and out of each others homes, with basically four mothers and a grandmother to keep them all in line. And, best of all, the most amazing stuff came out of her kitchen. I think her heritage was Danish, and Grampa T's was Norwegian. So many of the things the cooked had that flair - Ebelskiver (ball-shaped pancakes cooked in a special pan), pebber nooder (spice cookies at Christmas), rosettes (dainty fragile fried cookies dusted in powdered sugar), and so on. In any case, most all of us still know how to say the Norwegian grace before meals, and a few silly little ditties and songs associated with children. And Christmas. What we call "New Harvey Yuligan" (not spelled even REMOTELY correctly, I don't speak Norwegian or Danish) is a family tradition as well. If you can't sing New Harvey, you have to learn it and sing it BY YOURSELF in front of the entire family. A common family greeting at Christmas time is just "New Harvey", rather than "Merry Christmas!"
Gramma T was the one who could cook anything, and it was all traditional home-style cooking. Old fashioned everything. My Mama (not my birth mother) inherited her recipe box, which I raided with a new stack of recipe cards, painstakingly copying down recipes a few visits ago when I was up to visit Mama in Washington. I kinda wish I had the box itself though, with Gramma T's cards in it, as they have splots and smears of grease, spices, butter, and so on, from being on the counter when these dishes were prepared, hundreds of times over the years. I'm sure my Mama looks at them, with her handwriting, and gets a little frog in her throat thinking of her grandma making these things for her, from these very cards.
When I grew up, my mother did speak of some of the family traditions, and I knew a little about Gramma and Grampa T, but I learned the bulk of it from my Mama, once she came into my life. I certainly didn't learn anything about cooking Gramma T style from my mother, but have learned as much as I can since. My first great lesson was The Pie Shell. Evidently this isn't exactly the easiest thing to do and do well. My sister has gone through her share of attempts, cursing all the while, and I have had to do the same. The first time I tried making one, the air was BLUE with cursing, it cracked in about 5 places, wouldn't hold together and looked like crap. When I did finally piece it together in the pie dish, it was too thick, like a brick. The second time I tried to make it, I added too much water and it was hard as a rock, and not flaky at all, and tasted like I imagine homemade play doh to taste. The third time, I worked on getting it the right consistency, but subsequently have either gotten it too thick or too thin, and it just hasn't been easy or flaked just right. Most of the time, I feel Gramma T's little angel spirit staring over my shoulder, trying to calm me down and give me tips on what to do. "Don't TOUCH the dough, honey." "The water needs to be ICE cold, sweetheart." Or "Roll it from the center out, get the center nice and thin, not so much on the outsides!" Sometimes my own frustration gets the better of me and I haven't been able to listen to her.
At Thanksgiving, my Mama was here. She and I have been working to use a lot more whole wheat flour in our cooking, as it is healthier. But of course, that means I can't bake a bloody THING like my Gramma T, so I will make exceptions. As we learned, after trying the pie crust with whole wheat flour, it comes out like CRAP. I could even hear her saying, "Oh honey, you can't USE that for your pie shell. It won't stick together, and it won't taste good! You mark my words!" And she was right. It was a rock, tasted like cardboard, and I had to chunk out the entire first attempt while trying to roll it out in total vain. You aren't supposed to touch it with your hands, and if you do, it gets overly hard and won't roll out anyway, which is what happened. It fell apart, wasn't wet enough, required more water than the recipe calls for, and probably more shortening as well. So I just had to chunk it and start over. I finally made one that "worked" but it didn't really work. It was a dog.
So this Christmas, I was asked to make the Dutch apple pies for Christmas dinner tomorrow. I went back to the regular flour, I cut in the shortening first, then added the water slowly. It came together like a CHAMP. I just knew she was sitting on my shoulder, helping me put just the right amounts in, telling me when to stop with the pastry blender. And my Mama was on the other shoulder, going, "yep, that's right, Matilda, a little more rolling on the middle...". They look AWESOME. I am excited to taste them tomorrow.
I want Hootie to grow up remembering how GOOD her Mama's this and that always tasted, and I want her to be at her boyfriend's parents' house eating dinner one day, and she'll say to that mother, "My Mama makes THE BEST PIE, Ma'am!" and I'll just know it. I will feel that sentiment from wherever I am, and wherever she is, I'll know she's talking about me. I want to be that person like Gramma T, where she'll remember my hugs, and my songs at bedtime, the way I cook her favorite things for her when she feels tiny, and always iron her pillowcases and spray them with lavender spray every Monday morning when I change the bed linens, how I put out new little dishtowels every other day with embroidered or vintage patterns on them, how I do up her hair in pretty little styles, and play with her dollies and toys with her. I want her to always feel cozy about me, and when she's sick, she'll come home to me to get well. When she feels all sad and blue, she'll want to come be with me to cheer her up and help her feel better. She'll go away to college and long to come home for my pot roast or my pasta dishes, or my lasagna, or apple crisp. Or better yet, she'll want Gramma T's apple cookies, or nut bread, or her Moosie's dishes that I have learned to make. So every time I do something that Gramma T would have done, whether it be something taught to me by my Mama or something I know I have inherited from my family, I say a little thank you to Gramma T, though I didn't know her, for having been such a great pillar for our family to learn from.
Gramma T was the quintessential Grandma. A bit chubby, especially through the bosom, white short curly hair and glasses, a wide smile. Someone you buried yourself in when you scraped your knee or broke your heart. She had a breakfast nook with a built-in seat, and in the storage compartment below the seat were always brown paper sacks from the grocery, and an assortment of craftsy stuff (popsicle sticks, string, pom poms, pop bottle lids, markers, crayons, decals, and so on) to use to make masks on a dreary Saturday afternoon. Her four daughters and their families lived within this same block of property, onto which my great grandfather built little houses for each of them, and the connecting back yard was a playground for my mother, Mama, and their other 8 cousins. They would all run in and out of each others homes, with basically four mothers and a grandmother to keep them all in line. And, best of all, the most amazing stuff came out of her kitchen. I think her heritage was Danish, and Grampa T's was Norwegian. So many of the things the cooked had that flair - Ebelskiver (ball-shaped pancakes cooked in a special pan), pebber nooder (spice cookies at Christmas), rosettes (dainty fragile fried cookies dusted in powdered sugar), and so on. In any case, most all of us still know how to say the Norwegian grace before meals, and a few silly little ditties and songs associated with children. And Christmas. What we call "New Harvey Yuligan" (not spelled even REMOTELY correctly, I don't speak Norwegian or Danish) is a family tradition as well. If you can't sing New Harvey, you have to learn it and sing it BY YOURSELF in front of the entire family. A common family greeting at Christmas time is just "New Harvey", rather than "Merry Christmas!"
Gramma T was the one who could cook anything, and it was all traditional home-style cooking. Old fashioned everything. My Mama (not my birth mother) inherited her recipe box, which I raided with a new stack of recipe cards, painstakingly copying down recipes a few visits ago when I was up to visit Mama in Washington. I kinda wish I had the box itself though, with Gramma T's cards in it, as they have splots and smears of grease, spices, butter, and so on, from being on the counter when these dishes were prepared, hundreds of times over the years. I'm sure my Mama looks at them, with her handwriting, and gets a little frog in her throat thinking of her grandma making these things for her, from these very cards.
When I grew up, my mother did speak of some of the family traditions, and I knew a little about Gramma and Grampa T, but I learned the bulk of it from my Mama, once she came into my life. I certainly didn't learn anything about cooking Gramma T style from my mother, but have learned as much as I can since. My first great lesson was The Pie Shell. Evidently this isn't exactly the easiest thing to do and do well. My sister has gone through her share of attempts, cursing all the while, and I have had to do the same. The first time I tried making one, the air was BLUE with cursing, it cracked in about 5 places, wouldn't hold together and looked like crap. When I did finally piece it together in the pie dish, it was too thick, like a brick. The second time I tried to make it, I added too much water and it was hard as a rock, and not flaky at all, and tasted like I imagine homemade play doh to taste. The third time, I worked on getting it the right consistency, but subsequently have either gotten it too thick or too thin, and it just hasn't been easy or flaked just right. Most of the time, I feel Gramma T's little angel spirit staring over my shoulder, trying to calm me down and give me tips on what to do. "Don't TOUCH the dough, honey." "The water needs to be ICE cold, sweetheart." Or "Roll it from the center out, get the center nice and thin, not so much on the outsides!" Sometimes my own frustration gets the better of me and I haven't been able to listen to her.
At Thanksgiving, my Mama was here. She and I have been working to use a lot more whole wheat flour in our cooking, as it is healthier. But of course, that means I can't bake a bloody THING like my Gramma T, so I will make exceptions. As we learned, after trying the pie crust with whole wheat flour, it comes out like CRAP. I could even hear her saying, "Oh honey, you can't USE that for your pie shell. It won't stick together, and it won't taste good! You mark my words!" And she was right. It was a rock, tasted like cardboard, and I had to chunk out the entire first attempt while trying to roll it out in total vain. You aren't supposed to touch it with your hands, and if you do, it gets overly hard and won't roll out anyway, which is what happened. It fell apart, wasn't wet enough, required more water than the recipe calls for, and probably more shortening as well. So I just had to chunk it and start over. I finally made one that "worked" but it didn't really work. It was a dog.
So this Christmas, I was asked to make the Dutch apple pies for Christmas dinner tomorrow. I went back to the regular flour, I cut in the shortening first, then added the water slowly. It came together like a CHAMP. I just knew she was sitting on my shoulder, helping me put just the right amounts in, telling me when to stop with the pastry blender. And my Mama was on the other shoulder, going, "yep, that's right, Matilda, a little more rolling on the middle...". They look AWESOME. I am excited to taste them tomorrow.
I want Hootie to grow up remembering how GOOD her Mama's this and that always tasted, and I want her to be at her boyfriend's parents' house eating dinner one day, and she'll say to that mother, "My Mama makes THE BEST PIE, Ma'am!" and I'll just know it. I will feel that sentiment from wherever I am, and wherever she is, I'll know she's talking about me. I want to be that person like Gramma T, where she'll remember my hugs, and my songs at bedtime, the way I cook her favorite things for her when she feels tiny, and always iron her pillowcases and spray them with lavender spray every Monday morning when I change the bed linens, how I put out new little dishtowels every other day with embroidered or vintage patterns on them, how I do up her hair in pretty little styles, and play with her dollies and toys with her. I want her to always feel cozy about me, and when she's sick, she'll come home to me to get well. When she feels all sad and blue, she'll want to come be with me to cheer her up and help her feel better. She'll go away to college and long to come home for my pot roast or my pasta dishes, or my lasagna, or apple crisp. Or better yet, she'll want Gramma T's apple cookies, or nut bread, or her Moosie's dishes that I have learned to make. So every time I do something that Gramma T would have done, whether it be something taught to me by my Mama or something I know I have inherited from my family, I say a little thank you to Gramma T, though I didn't know her, for having been such a great pillar for our family to learn from.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Heavy Heart
My Mama left today, after having spent the last two weeks with me. Excuse me, I need to blow my nose. I've been leaking fluids - tears, nose funk - since she left. I don't full-on cry much anymore, but I rarely escape a goodbye without leaking fluid. It used to be much worse, I used to just SOB, which let me tell you, ain't a pretty sight. You know those women who cry so gracefully and beautifully? The ones whose faces are serene as the tears roll quietly down their beautiful snowy white cheeks? Who can continue to breathe through their beautiful noses while this whole silent tear business is going on? They are the same people who wear a size zero, the same people whose hair is beautiful no matter how humid it is. Yeah, that's not me. When I cry, my face kinda twists all up, I get furrowed brow and quivery lip and BIG FAT EYELIDS and a swollen, red nose. I do not cry pretty. So it's probably good that I don't full-on do that often with the airport goodbyes anymore. I can just see the airport security guy telling me that all this fluid is definitely more than 3oz, and I can't bring that on the plane. I'd have to check myself in the cargo section.
But my heart is always wet-beach-towel-heavy. There's a part of me that feels like a child, all warm and fuzzy and cared-for, that feels like everything is right with the world when my Mama is around. She does shit for me my husband would NEVER do. She irons my ironable things (this is a big list, skip to end of parenthesis if you aren't anal like me - tablecloths, doilies (shut up, YES, I have doilies), runners, tea towels/dish towels, pillowcases, the tops of my embroidered sheets, duvet covers, little girls frilly and not so frilly dresses, my tops/blouses/skirts). She makes sure we always have fresh limes because come 3:30 Wednesday through Sunday, ain't the bar open yet? It's time for a Cuba Libra! She makes her little guest quarters seem like a slice of her little heaven, even though it's my guest room in my own home. It's hers, when she's here. It's cozy waking up in the morning and knowing she's in the other room, waiting until 8 (yep, she's a spoiled rotten slacker) to bring her coffee in bed and warm up a decadent cinnamon roll for her. Watching the joy she gets out of stopping at Tamale House #3, which Does Not Sell Tamales, buying her two guacamole crispy tacos for less than $2. Hearing her subtly direct me in her Mom Tone with cooking, cleaning, laundry, occasionally child-rearing, with her little bits of wisdom (which I am free to take or leave, because it IS MY HOUSE, after all, but generally I take them). And then knowing she's gone to sleep in my home as early as my daughter, because her RA takes a lot out of her, and she needs about 10-12 hours of sleep each night with 3 potty breaks. I grow so accustomed to the little bright spots when she's here, the conversation, the swinging on the porch, the extra set of eyeballs to keep an eye on Hootie (read: keep her from breaking shit or killing herself) when I'm getting things done I hardly get a chance to do when she's not here. And when she's gone, even though it's been all of about 30 minutes and she is still sitting at the Austin airport, probably having just boarded the plane, my heart feels so heavy. It's like it takes extra energy just to continue shoving hemoglobin through its arteries, contracting and expanding. Then I get used to that feeling like a constant drip of water in the middle of my forehead, coming from a rusty pipe under which I'm strapped to a board for my torture, and start to not notice it so much anymore. Visits cannot go on forever, and eventually we all go back to living our lives, she in her town, with my sister and family and her friends, and I in my town, with my husband and daughter and friends. I know that I will see her soon, that after Christmas, mid-January, we'll go back up to the Pacific Northwest and help her recover from another surgery. In the FOG. That is so thick you can't see your mailbox across the street, let alone Five Mile. And it'll be colder than a whore's heart, 10 degrees colder than anywhere else in the town, and with 3 extra feet of snow. But I miss her nonetheless.
And so does Hootie. We love you, Moosie!
But my heart is always wet-beach-towel-heavy. There's a part of me that feels like a child, all warm and fuzzy and cared-for, that feels like everything is right with the world when my Mama is around. She does shit for me my husband would NEVER do. She irons my ironable things (this is a big list, skip to end of parenthesis if you aren't anal like me - tablecloths, doilies (shut up, YES, I have doilies), runners, tea towels/dish towels, pillowcases, the tops of my embroidered sheets, duvet covers, little girls frilly and not so frilly dresses, my tops/blouses/skirts). She makes sure we always have fresh limes because come 3:30 Wednesday through Sunday, ain't the bar open yet? It's time for a Cuba Libra! She makes her little guest quarters seem like a slice of her little heaven, even though it's my guest room in my own home. It's hers, when she's here. It's cozy waking up in the morning and knowing she's in the other room, waiting until 8 (yep, she's a spoiled rotten slacker) to bring her coffee in bed and warm up a decadent cinnamon roll for her. Watching the joy she gets out of stopping at Tamale House #3, which Does Not Sell Tamales, buying her two guacamole crispy tacos for less than $2. Hearing her subtly direct me in her Mom Tone with cooking, cleaning, laundry, occasionally child-rearing, with her little bits of wisdom (which I am free to take or leave, because it IS MY HOUSE, after all, but generally I take them). And then knowing she's gone to sleep in my home as early as my daughter, because her RA takes a lot out of her, and she needs about 10-12 hours of sleep each night with 3 potty breaks. I grow so accustomed to the little bright spots when she's here, the conversation, the swinging on the porch, the extra set of eyeballs to keep an eye on Hootie (read: keep her from breaking shit or killing herself) when I'm getting things done I hardly get a chance to do when she's not here. And when she's gone, even though it's been all of about 30 minutes and she is still sitting at the Austin airport, probably having just boarded the plane, my heart feels so heavy. It's like it takes extra energy just to continue shoving hemoglobin through its arteries, contracting and expanding. Then I get used to that feeling like a constant drip of water in the middle of my forehead, coming from a rusty pipe under which I'm strapped to a board for my torture, and start to not notice it so much anymore. Visits cannot go on forever, and eventually we all go back to living our lives, she in her town, with my sister and family and her friends, and I in my town, with my husband and daughter and friends. I know that I will see her soon, that after Christmas, mid-January, we'll go back up to the Pacific Northwest and help her recover from another surgery. In the FOG. That is so thick you can't see your mailbox across the street, let alone Five Mile. And it'll be colder than a whore's heart, 10 degrees colder than anywhere else in the town, and with 3 extra feet of snow. But I miss her nonetheless.
And so does Hootie. We love you, Moosie!
Saturday, October 28, 2006
What a Moment!
I've been neglectful of my blog recently because I have been again out of town, in the Pacific Northwest, on a mission. I have come without child, and return again tomorrow. The purpose of the visit was twofold. First, my Mama turned 60, so I went to surprise her for her day. Second, my sister in law is having a party at her new house in Seattle for Halloween. The Husband had to come up for business reasons, so I wrangled a little visit myself for the weekend. The party is tonight.
The best, however, was surprising my Mama. She has had her knickers in a twist about her birthday for about the last year. Somehow, turning 60 hit a few panic buttons for her, and made her feel old. Between her doctors telling her along the way that due to her disease she'd never see 60, and knowing that people who work in hospitals characterize anyone over 60 as "elderly", she's been subconsciously battling the concept of BEING old. Like death is right around the corner for her. The truth is, with the disease she has, death could very well be right around the corner. But probably no moreso than it has been for the last 5-10 years. The truth also is that she could live to be 70 or better, it all depends on fate. She could die of something completely different than rheumatoid arthritis or its complications. I could get hit by a car or my plane could go down tomorrow. We never know. The best we can do is to enjoy each day, and not obsess on how we can outfox the Grim Reaper.
So anyway, Mama was having a hard time. She had been working on herself to pull out of it, had been feeling like it would be alright, but told eveyrone she wanted to do nothing special for her birthday, no dinners or visits or presents or anything. She just wanted to pretend it was any other day, and get on with it. But the day before the birthday, she was entirely fit to be tied. Just all in a dither, couldn't figure out what to do or not do, thought about going out of town just to get out of town and be doing something somewhere else instead of sitting and WAITING for her birthday to come and go. This was the day I was to arrive. My sister and I hadn't told her a word about me coming, and were lying enough to get kicked straight to some ring of pergatory if not hell, in order to create a plausible theory for where I was and what I was doing. We talk at least once a day if not more, so avoiding her was tricky. I got to Dallas and heard she wanted to go out of town, so I told her she couldn't, as her gift was being delivered to her house between 5 and 8 that night. She wanted me to see about having it delivered some other time, or having someone else sit and wait for it instead. I told her that it had to be her at home, and that I ask so little of her, couldn't she just be there this once? The knife slid silently into her heart and turned 90 degrees, as she realized it was true, I didn't ask much. So she promised to be home.
My sister picked me up from the airport like a trooper, and drove me over to Mom's house. We saw her, in her yard, at 5:30 pm and freaked out. WHAT IS SHE DOING IN HER YARD?!? She's NEVER in her yard at this hour! We whipped the van around and went the other way, until the coast was clear. Whew! She went inside. I got out of the van and casually walked up the street to the house, and called on my cell phone. "Hey Ma. What's going on? Whatcha doin?" She said she'd just come in from getting the mail, what was I doing? I said I was just hanging out, catching a bit of fresh air. And by the way, I had confirmation that her present had been delivered, just outside her garage door. Could she go look? I was walking up the driveway. She opened the door from her house to her garage, and claimed nothing was there. I said, "No, not INSIDE the garage. OUTSIDE. Look outside." She looked through the windows in the garage door and saw my toothy grinning face staring back at her. "WHAT THE FUCK? Is that YOU?!?!" I said "none other, Mama." She came FLYING out of the front door of her house, grabbed me and hugged and kissed me about 50 times. My sister parked the car, waving madly, and we got the boys and my stuff out of the van and into the house. She was so happy, to have her girls there with her.
For her birthday, she got coffee in bed, a little bit of shopping, a Dick's burger for lunch, and dinner out at Anthony's, a wonderful seafood restaurant. Then, a trip to an old historic hotel for a cocktail after dinner, and posing for a ton of opulent pictures in the lobby. Never once was she sad, anxious, or upset about her birthday. It dissolved as she appreciated what she does have in her life, and how much she is loved by her girls.
The best, however, was surprising my Mama. She has had her knickers in a twist about her birthday for about the last year. Somehow, turning 60 hit a few panic buttons for her, and made her feel old. Between her doctors telling her along the way that due to her disease she'd never see 60, and knowing that people who work in hospitals characterize anyone over 60 as "elderly", she's been subconsciously battling the concept of BEING old. Like death is right around the corner for her. The truth is, with the disease she has, death could very well be right around the corner. But probably no moreso than it has been for the last 5-10 years. The truth also is that she could live to be 70 or better, it all depends on fate. She could die of something completely different than rheumatoid arthritis or its complications. I could get hit by a car or my plane could go down tomorrow. We never know. The best we can do is to enjoy each day, and not obsess on how we can outfox the Grim Reaper.
So anyway, Mama was having a hard time. She had been working on herself to pull out of it, had been feeling like it would be alright, but told eveyrone she wanted to do nothing special for her birthday, no dinners or visits or presents or anything. She just wanted to pretend it was any other day, and get on with it. But the day before the birthday, she was entirely fit to be tied. Just all in a dither, couldn't figure out what to do or not do, thought about going out of town just to get out of town and be doing something somewhere else instead of sitting and WAITING for her birthday to come and go. This was the day I was to arrive. My sister and I hadn't told her a word about me coming, and were lying enough to get kicked straight to some ring of pergatory if not hell, in order to create a plausible theory for where I was and what I was doing. We talk at least once a day if not more, so avoiding her was tricky. I got to Dallas and heard she wanted to go out of town, so I told her she couldn't, as her gift was being delivered to her house between 5 and 8 that night. She wanted me to see about having it delivered some other time, or having someone else sit and wait for it instead. I told her that it had to be her at home, and that I ask so little of her, couldn't she just be there this once? The knife slid silently into her heart and turned 90 degrees, as she realized it was true, I didn't ask much. So she promised to be home.
My sister picked me up from the airport like a trooper, and drove me over to Mom's house. We saw her, in her yard, at 5:30 pm and freaked out. WHAT IS SHE DOING IN HER YARD?!? She's NEVER in her yard at this hour! We whipped the van around and went the other way, until the coast was clear. Whew! She went inside. I got out of the van and casually walked up the street to the house, and called on my cell phone. "Hey Ma. What's going on? Whatcha doin?" She said she'd just come in from getting the mail, what was I doing? I said I was just hanging out, catching a bit of fresh air. And by the way, I had confirmation that her present had been delivered, just outside her garage door. Could she go look? I was walking up the driveway. She opened the door from her house to her garage, and claimed nothing was there. I said, "No, not INSIDE the garage. OUTSIDE. Look outside." She looked through the windows in the garage door and saw my toothy grinning face staring back at her. "WHAT THE FUCK? Is that YOU?!?!" I said "none other, Mama." She came FLYING out of the front door of her house, grabbed me and hugged and kissed me about 50 times. My sister parked the car, waving madly, and we got the boys and my stuff out of the van and into the house. She was so happy, to have her girls there with her.
For her birthday, she got coffee in bed, a little bit of shopping, a Dick's burger for lunch, and dinner out at Anthony's, a wonderful seafood restaurant. Then, a trip to an old historic hotel for a cocktail after dinner, and posing for a ton of opulent pictures in the lobby. Never once was she sad, anxious, or upset about her birthday. It dissolved as she appreciated what she does have in her life, and how much she is loved by her girls.
Our mother is beautiful, she is strong, she has conviction and isn't afraid to tell you about it. She's graceful, loving, and giving. She has friends who love and cherish her, daughters who would die for her, and grandchildren who think she has hung the moon. Who cares which birthday it is?
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