Living not Existing

Yesterday we celebrated our first grandchild's first birthday. Cupcakes instead of ye olde traditional cake. Much easier to inhale. Obligatory photos of him covered in cake and frosting. Everyone oooohhing and awwing as he sat there covered in sugar and beaming. All laughing when the boy had to be hosed down with the garden hose to remove all the detrius from his body. Families talking about life in their own homes. Enjoying our backyard and one another.
It was later when the boy when down for the night and I watched him on the bed my husband made for our own children. I was reminded what it meant to really open a door and to see what is on the other side. As I watched, I knew my folks weren't far away. They were watching too.
But I am here. And that is a very good thing. Even on days when I am tired and bitchy. The kids are driving me nuts and George wants time with me and I don't have it right then, it is good. I just have to sit and watch the boy sleeping. All is right with the world.

Dining out

George and I took my father's dining room suite to my sister. It had been my grandmother's (my mother's mother) forever. As long as any of my sisters could remember.
Anyway, my next oldest sister said it could fit in her house and there was a need and we wanted the space in our garage back.
A van was procurred and off we left early this morning. The set was delivered. The set was erected and even lunch eaten at the table.
Sounds pretty easy, huh?
No. Not really.
They weren't into putting things together. George is very good at it. Not being a very tall or big individual makes him think things through a little differently. Do something more efficiently. So what was to be a stop and go kind of thing became a 3 hour affair.
Anyway it is done. I had put it off. Thinking someone else would take care of it. Take the iniative. Same with a few other things from dad's estate. No one is taking that iniative.
I am having to do it and I wonder why. I get mad at the feeling of responsibility of it.
There are just times when I want to be irresponsible and let someone else to do the work. I know that isn't going to happen. That is probably what my dad was betting on. He knew. Had confidence that I would take care of things when I did not want to the most.
I suppose I should feel flattered and loved.
Hmmmm. Give me a few days on that one.

Ostriches

Our local paper published and article with an obviously anti-semitic slant. The publishers/editors have been called out on it. The blame has been shifted back and forth and ignorance of such a thing espoused loudly.
No apologies have been made.
I don't think they will be offered. I truly believe that some of the individuals involved, primarily (in my belief) the managing editor, feel they did nothing wrong and in fact, did something very right. It is appalling.
Has no one learned from the past?
Does anyone care?
Anyone?

Of the heart

A woman I have known for 25 years has developed heart "issues". She is willing to take some medicine, do walking and try reducing stress in her life. Doctors feel surgery would be a very good thing. However, when she got to a heart hospital they had put her at the end of the list for surgeries that day. Sally thought about it and said no. She got up and left.
She just left.
I asked her about that decision. Sally said there were no guarantees that things would be better. She wanted more time to consider and to do it her way. So, that is what Sally is doing.
Considering. Taking time. Walking. Reducing stress.
When the surgery takes place, and it probably will at some point in the future to be at Sally's determination, she will be ready.
Her timeline. Not a physician's.

I have to admit to admiring that decision. Sally might die because of putting her surgery off. But she is making the decision of how to live her life.

We all want that for ourselves. Our choices. Scary they may be, at least we have a say.

Flu

Our middle child went home from school this morning before it ever started. The quintessential flu case. H1N1 if ever there was one. I have offered cosmic apologies to those individuals she came in to contact with in fear they have become infected. More students went home after her.
It is here. The official flue season and swine flu is the big suspect.
So I wonder what has infected the editors of the Great Bend Tribune. That can be the only reason for the latest salvo for bigotry.

Loving to cook

My mom was not the world's greatest cook. I am serious about this. It bears repeating. She was not a great cook. In her younger years she could bake a pretty good pie. But that kind of went by the wayside when she started getting sick.
Mom would go through phases in which she cooked the same thing alot. Alot.
My oldest sister said she went through tuna casserole phase and to this day she is none to thrilled by even the sound of that meal.
My next oldest sister was caught in the scalloped potato phase. She eats those rarely now. Having had more than her fill growing up.
I got the goulash phase. My husband really likes the stuff. Kids at school and even the staff will eat on goulash days.
Me? I would rather have wisdom teeth pulled and a dry socket develop. Thank you very much.
I sometimes wonder how many phases I go through with food.
When I was pregnant with our middle child, I remember asking George if he would like carrots for a change. George's reply was something like "how about we not have carrots for a change?"
There have been times of lots of chicken. Not because it is cheaper, but because I like it so. Same with anything with cheese. I think we all became a bit constipated once with all the cheese in our diet.
So what is the current gastonomic phase in our house? Hmmm. It could be anything right now. I am in a cooking mood and just about anything could be cooking. Got any ideas?

Hotel Living

We stayed in a hotel for 3 nights and days. It was not the most pleasant of hotel stays due to several mishaps on the part of management and housekeeping, but the time away was delightful in itself.
My husband and I were able to spend time with adults. Have conversation with adults. Eat when we wanted to and only what we wanted to.
Wonderful.
But that isn't why I am writing.
I got a recipe. A bread recipe. For crossaints and a cakelike dish made out of them. A taste of heaven on earth.
However, it is the story behind the bread that is what has me writing. The bread/cake is called "Brenda's Bread". The dish was already being made by the B&B we were visiting when Steve and Brenda came to visit for a while. Brenda was in stage 4 cancer and she was not responding well to the chemo and needed a break. They came north for trip to get away and stayed in Dodge City for 4 days.
Brenda was looking pretty bleak when she got there. After 4 days she looked markedly better. Steve and Brenda credited the good hosts and the marvelous bread. She is still alive and is in fact in remission.
Another woman that was visiting this weekend was there for the poetry get together. Same as George and I. She in her daily life works with a Hospice. Marilyn related her life working with hospice and what it continues to do for those in need dealing with the end of life.
Yet another recently lost her father.

I came away realizing I needed to be there this weekend for a reason. These people had something to tell me. I had something I needed to hear. Believe it or not it did not mean dealing with death. It meant everything in dealing with life. Listening to all the stories, told me I was ok. The grief for my dad is ok and getting better. I am getting better.
Hurting for him is ok and feeling good and wishing I could tell him is ok too.
I don't need to feel guilty about it.
Everything is going to be ok.

Dodge City

George and I are listening to poetry this weekend. A gathering of poets from all over the country. Pretty cool when you think about it. Reassures one's soul that poetry is not dead, nor is it dying.
It is interesting to note though, that high school English teachers, when it comes to the poetry cycle, only want to cover the "classics". Frost, Whitman, Dickens, Hughes and maybe Angelou (for color, forgive the intended pun). Alot of teachers turn a blind eye to what is really out there. So much more than rhyme. So much more than luv poems and how no one understands me poems.
That poetry can spur action of all types. Look at Lorca! It is there. All around.
Hip hop, rap.
Indie Alternative.
It is there. We just have to look.

French movies

George and I are trying to increase the foreign and/or independent movie showings in the area. We show a movie that ordinarily would not appear in the area at the Arts Center the second Wednesday of every month. I do the normal picking of the movie, going through the different cinema festivals, comparing some of the winners and select what I think would be intriguing.

So tonight's movie was not a winner. Looked like a winner on Amazon. Had glowing reviews. Won a somthing or other at Cannes. It was French. It had some documentary overtones. Subtitles! Oooohhh!

What the hell do the French know? If I offended the French or someone related to the French, I am sorry. But, really, this was boring. About a teacher in an inner city French school. And not a very good teacher at that.

I should have known better.

Thing is, next month's film is about an Iranian woman and food. Again glowing reviews. Maybe I should serve Iranian food at the same time. That way the focus will be on food and guessing what is what. Less focus will be on the movie. If it is a bust, maybe no one will notice

It could happen. I am a really good cook. I know nothing about Iranian food, but that has never stopped me before.

Maybe I better have a backup plan and movie just in case.

Waiting for....

I went to pick up my oldest daughter out at the college this evening. I had stayed at the house a little longer than I should have to finish watching a movie, which I still not get to see the last 5 minutes. I also believe in going the speed limit, preferring to arrive in one piece.
As I pulled onto the campus, 2 minutes late by the clock in the car, guilt and memory came back to me.
The memory was one of when the oldest was 2 (maybe younger) and I ran late at work thereby running late in picking her up. I remember feeling so bad in being late. Not something I could have avoided, but nonetheless guilty at having kept her waiting.
I felt that again tonight.
The girl is 21. Not 2.
But I felt guilty.
When I went to pick her up at the sitter years ago, I promised her I would try my best not to keep her waiting. It wasn't something you did to someone you loved.
In reading this, I remember all the times my mother kept us waiting. How my next oldest sister has issues with promptness as well. And our oldest daughter? She is always late. Always keeping others waiting.
Ironic, huh?

My House

I am needing to change for fall. Of course, if it were fall I would need to change for winter. I need the physical doing of change. This comes upon me. This restlessness with my house. Maybe with myself. I really don't want to go quite that deep right now.
I love my house. While it is small (really small), it holds us warmly and safely. We are content here. Throw in the fact that it is paid for and it makes for a pretty good deal all the way around.
But I need to change.
The colors of fall are some of my favorite. The air holds a different scent. Sitting in the pergola without bugs flying around. Looking up at stars taking on a sharper quality in crisper, cooler air....
But I need to change. I need to regain my house from children, and wind and life as it has been happening over the past few months. Changing out the seasons helps me do that.
The change in me will come as well. I need to quiet my soul so I can hear again. Fall helps.
That is the real change needed. Listening again. To what my heart, my body and my soul are really saying. When I start listening, the peace will come.
It always does.

Missing

My husband has children from his first marriage. They were adults when he divorced and for a number of reasons, he has not had contact with any of them for approximately 18 years. He has made his life with the here and now. We have a good marriage and George is a good father.
A couple of months ago, he heard from one of his sons. George got a phone call completely out of the blue.
"Hi, Dad."
Until that point, George had kept the separation from the kids of his first marriage in nice, albeit a little messy compartment. Only opened on occasion. He never stopped loving them. Allowed them their reasoning for not being in contact with his life.
"I just wanted to talk with you. I was asked why I hadn't been in contact and couldn't give a reason>"
George floated with that response and that call. There have been some emails and another call. He is waiting again.
Now he has the address of another son. He wants to reach out to him as well.
I have always wanted George to have contact with his kids. He is a good man and a good father to our kids. Those first have missed out.

But.
But I want my kids to not feel second best. I don't want them to feel like they have been supplanted. So we talk. We make sure.

His kids missed out by their choice. Our kids will not.

Stella and Marguerita Pizza

A friend wrote me and said that Stella Artois and margarita pizza go together rather well. I know the name of the pizza goes under a different spelling, but it was the concept that was humorous.
I just came from shopping with my children. Two teens and a 21 year old. Shopping was fine. Arduous for the 14 year old boy. He was made to try on clothes. We did not attempt shoes. Neither of us were up for it. The girls on the other hand could have done this all day. Would have if George and I hadn't said we were leaving them if they didn't get in the car now. I don't think it was an idle threat.
My husband and I then hit a wine emporium for our semi-annual in to the new/different. If we can get it there, we can get it anywhere that can order. A system that works very well for us.
We had a wonderful time.
Then it was time for food. And argument. The boy felt he was getting picked on and ended up in frustrated tears. Did not help he had not slept much the night before. The girls wanted something different and not fast food. George was up for KFC or Dillons chicken.
I picked a local brew pub/bistro. I was driving. All got to eat what they wanted. From something different to chicken.
Life was better.
Next time it will just be George and I. I can do one of those expeditions twice a year. No more.
We will hit the wine emporium first.

In response to

I work at a school.  For the very most part, I like my job.  Garner a great deal of satisfaction from it.  Yesterday I was not so sure.  It has taken me a day to put some perspective on it.
On Tuesday, September 8, the President of the United States is speaking to all kids in school.  Talking about staying in school.  Staying away from drugs.  Taking personal responsibilty.  You know, "communist" ideals.  At least that is what some parents are concerned about.  They don't want their children being brainwashed by the black man. By the democrat. 
I am appalled and angry by their thinking and actions.  Or rather their willingness to be mislead down a narrow path of lies and ugliness. 
I thouight better of some of these parents. 
They consider themselves "Christians". 
I am not seeing it.  If that is the way their brand of Christianity works, then we are all in very sad shape indeed.
What was even more maddening, was one of the administrators actually considered not allowing the
President to be shown.  To bow to these individuals for fear they would make a scene.  My response was to say "Let them".  It is a bluff to be called and to show their ignorance and hatred and bigotry for what it is.  For everyone to see a bit of themselves in it.  To educate ourselves against the racism and fearmongering. 
Bring it on.

Pergolas

About 4 or 5 years ago George wanted to build something in our backyard.  A pergola.  What the hell was that ?
I didn't like going in the backyard.  It was hot in the summer, cold in the winter and there were bugs.  And I might sweat.  Thoiught that was bad idea all the way around.
Anyway, the kids were growing way beyond the delapidated playhouse and the dangerous swingset that needed to be sold for scrap.  I agreed to whatever design George wanted to come up with.  The  catch was that I had to help (feel free to add a very heavy sigh at this point.  I certainly did.).  He designed.  He bought the material (money I could have found other uses for) and we began to build and stain and rebuild and restain. 
The result was our pergola.  Think square gazebo.  That year the garden was really green and producing.  The mosquitos were being eaten by the Mississippi Kites and the weather was exceptional. 
We began eating out there when the weather permitted.  George and I escaped to the pergola frequently with a glass of wine in tow.  The dogs could run and know they were being watched and adored.  The kids could come and go.  It was wonderful and has been ever since.
Tonight, we had 6 around the table in the pergola.  The kids were laughing.  The dogs were circling in hopes of food. 
I don't know the origin of the word "pergola".  I think in my lifetime it has come to mean peace and home all rolled into one.
Thank you George.

Coming Up From Behind

You know, when you move you see all the shit you have been avoiding for a long time.  Under the big appliances, in the corners, under the couch.  Dust Bunnies that would  give the "Dirty Thirties" a run for their money.  Grease that you thought you had taken care of and you know that kitchen was clean just last week.
Well, we moved our oldest daughter and grandson in with us.  Most of the stuff went in storage.  Some went with the significant other while the work on themselves and the rest came here.  Not much room left, but we will make do. 
It was the cleaning the house up afterwards.  My daughter wanted to avoid it, pretty much like we all do.  Thing is, it had piled up in a few places and Cait had to face the fact.  It was an ugly one. 
As we drove away from dumpster number 3 in the dark, and as she was staring forward, Cait said, "I am sure I will feel better in a feng shuey way in the morning."  My reply was simple.  "Can we not do this shit again?"
I have had 2 aspirin to take care of the lower back ache from moving a huge ass blanket chest and a recliner formerly belonging to my father.  An heirloom if ever there was one.  That along with the Lincoln in the driveway.  I am drinking my second glass of cab for the evening and am contemplating bed. 
I am not going to look too closely at my corners or my kitchen.  I am sure as hell not going to look under the couch or big appliances.  Those bunnies have become mutant rabbits by now and they scare me more than a little.
I am not going to deal with that particular shit right now.

Moving in

Our daughter and grandson are moving in with us for a time.  Economics and practicality deem it necessary.  It will be tight in our little house.  But, it will only be for a time and I always believe these events to be opportunitues to grow.  Not that it had been in the plans mind you.  It forces me to readjust my thinking.  I have to include a baby in the mix.  And a 21 year old.  I need to make sure she is parenting the boy.  Not me.  I need to make sure she is an adult and not allow both of us to regress to when she was 16.  That is a path of ugliness I don't want to follow.
George will have to readjust his thinking as well.  He likes having the house to himself.  That won't be the case.  The boy will be underfoot and Cait will be wanting to be in the middle of things as well.
Our son, who is 14, will want to disappear at the slightest sign of someone getting upset with the world.  An "OH God!  This could be bad!  Danger, Will Robinson"  kind of thing.  Our middle child just looks, shakes her head and chuckles.  She is the one living in a nice world. 
I wish I could join her sometime.