:Family Matters

The lilacs are blooming. A living testimony of will over weather shown by their survival even though Spring’s warm temperatures lured them out with her early promise of warmth and then heartlessly turned her back on the new growth that answered her siren call and sent below freezing temperatures the very next week. Our neighbor, who has a back yard of carefully tended fruit trees, tells me that the freeze got the apricots and most of the cherries but she hopes that the apples and peaches will still produce some fruit.

We have asparagus in our garden and have harvested two servings, which while it doesn’t sound like much, is double the amount we got last year. MGH tells me that this is his favorite vegetable and so he has really appreciated the ‘taste’ our five plants have given him. At this rate, we will never get fat from what we are able to grow—which is probably a good thing as all it takes for either of us to put on the pounds these days is to walk into a room where there is the teeniest ‘smell’ of food. Sigh. Which reminds me, just today in the Sunday paper I read an article about how adding only two pounds a year, which doesn’t sound like a lot, can start to add up as the years roll on. Well, tell me about it, as if I didn’t know that—I mean all it takes is my staring at a closet full of clothes I keep because I was once able to wear them and hope to be able to wear them again once I have shed a few of said pounds, to know that I have acquired a more portly figure in the last ten years.

Speaking of asparagus and spring reminds me that Mother was a great scavenger always on the watch for delicacies that she could harvest for our table. The fact that they were free, if one didn’t count labor, which she didn’t, just added to the pleasure of her finds. The road side is where she used to glean the asparagus that we ate in the spring. It was not at all uncommon for her sharp eye to spot asparagus shoots sprouting up over the early grass of spring along the fence line that bordered our farm next to Highway 2. I can remember being totally mortified in only the way that a teenager can be, I mean what would people think when they saw her walking slowly, head down, and then bending over to retrieve what it was she was so carefully hunting. She had absolutely no qualms about stopping the car alongside the road in order to gather a few handfuls of these succulent spears that would then appear on our dinner table that evening which I might add were totally unappreciated by the children in the family.

I can remember how excited she was to discover hazelnuts the first fall we were on the farm. It seems like this required climbing through/over a fence of some kind in order to reach the bushes and she did involve her children in this project. The fact that the harvesting was just the first step in the process never deterred her. After all she had her ‘girls’ whom she taught how to remove the green hulls and in the process learn not to be afraid of getting their hands dirty as most things wash off and what doesn’t eventually fades. It seems like we had a black walnut tree that grew right next to the garage and we harvested these nuts as well but it died several years after we moved to the farm and so we lost that treat in our cookies and fudge. Here I might add that black walnuts have a unique flavor that gives that delicious fillip’ that causes ones taste buds to wake and say, “how delightful”. They are also quite expensive to buy which is why I don’t, although come to think of it, I don’t know that I have even seen any for sale since I left the farm, so price is a moot point but if I were to find any I am sure that is why I wouldn’t buy them.

Mother also was a great mushroom hunter. It didn’t take her long to become addicted to searching for Morel mushrooms which pop up in the spring when the temperature climbs enough to warm the soil and provide just the right conditions needed for these fungi to thrive. The great state of Iowa has an enviable record for growing these toothsome treats which require a sixth sense to know when to begin looking for them as it takes just the right combination of warmth and moisture that will cause them to ‘pop’ into their growth cycle which sadly is short and so puts even more pressure on those intrepid souls who seek them. She used to roam the home farm as well as the Johnson place across the road, which was purchased about the time I left for BYU (I could be wrong on the date and if so I am sure my sisters will correct me, so I will just let the date stand until further light and knowledge is directed my way.) There might have been other places as well but I wouldn’t know as she kept the secret of where she found them until the day she died although there is a rumor in the family that she did show Darlene. (Lest you think that mother was a little ‘batty’ where this subject was concerned you have to understand that she was not alone. Those who follow the pursuit of the Great Morel are dedicated and devious traveling alone with their collection sacks to spots known only to them (but quite often next to trees where they nestle in last fall’s covering of dried leaves—at least that is how mother explained it to me. She said that they particularly like elm trees but that was before Dutch elm disease nearly wiped out those trees from the landscape. The fact that they can still be found is a testament to the tremendous recuperative powers of nature in adapting to changing conditions. The fact, that where they grow, is still a closely kept secret also tells you something about human nature as well.

Did you know that you can order them for about thirty dollars a pound on the internet? (This fact came to my attention after I googled Morel, which you can do as well if you want to see an actual picture of this mushroom with its pointy shape and convoluted folds go to: http://www.thegreatmorel.com/growingtips.html

The real reward, for all mother’s zeal, was in the eating. She had several different ways that she prepared her mushrooms but I liked it best when she would carefully melt a generous amount of butter in the cast iron frying pan where she would place the morels after they had been dipped into beaten eggs and coated with flour then gently fried until they were a golden brown. Yum, yum.

Come to think of it, I haven’t had any morels since I left home and that is now forty-six years ago. Ah, but the memory remains. . . .

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Evelyn I. has been my visiting teaching partner for the last ten years. We live on the same street where our homes are separated by, the house in the middle, which is what we have come to call the home that sits between us. I suppose it came by this name after it became a rental unit a few years ago and has had a succession of occupants whose names somehow never seem to become known to us because we have never, sad to say, gotten closer to them than the occasional wave and a plate of cookies taken over to welcome them into the neighborhood. That isn’t what I really meant to tell you about but sort of came out of nowhere, in my rambling way I seem to get side tracked into details that really don’t have a lot of relevance to anything which is why I am glad the delete button is so easy to use.

To be a visiting teacher is a choice experience as we share with our assigned sisters each month, (we have four) in our church family, a short spiritual message along with a generous helping of ‘visiting’ and leave with a reminder that we are always there for them if they have a need for help. Over the years this most often translates into warm meals when a new baby arrives or sickness strikes. Sometimes there is a need for a ride to the doctors or help with house/yard work or child care in an emergency or helping with a move but mostly it is providing a listening ear. This results in choice friendships being formed and a closeness developed that all too often is lacking in the multi-tasking hurry/scurry world we live in. Not that Evelyn and I have that problem so much anymore as we both live in Retirement Homes which allows us a little more leisure then we had when our children were still at home. Even so, we shake our heads together and wonder how time can fly by so quickly as the days/years of our lives melt into each other with increasing rapidity. I tell her that it is going so fast for me that I wonder why I even bother to take down the Christmas tree anymore to which she agrees with a laugh.

As a case in point, MGH pointed out to me the other day that it has been over eleven years since he had a massive heart attack and his life was saved by quick action on the part of his doctor with the latest medication then a life-flight to LDS Hospital in Salt Lake City where quintuple by-pass surgery was performed. At the time I remember asking what kind of life expectancy this surgery provided and was told that most could expect at least an additional ten years. I remember thinking that sounded okay as the potential was there for him to reach seventy-seven years of age which seemed, at that time, to be a comforting long distance away. But now here we are and he is seventy-nine and I think, “no, no—that went by too fast and wasn’t nearly long enough”.

Do you think it’s just my imagination?” asked Evelyn. Does time seem to be racing by for you too?” This isn’t the first time this topic has come up but my reply is always that the closer we get to the end of our allotted span of years the more we realize that our time here will not last forever as the buffer of age disappears and like the sand in an hour glass that seems to pick up speed as the last grains approach the bottom so it appears to us that time is moving faster as our ‘end’ approaches.

Why do we cling so desperately to this life when we know that leaving returns us to a joyful reunion with those who have gone ahead? I suppose it is because it is only natural to want to stay “until the fat lady sings”. We want to be here to watch and enjoy our grandchildren as they grow and to be privileged to see the generation after that enter the scene is a beautiful boon as well. We want to see what new and wondrous things will be developed by science. We want to be here to give advice and guidance culled from the experience we have gained over the years that might make the way easier for those coming behind us. We want to be part of this physical world with all its dreams/ hopes/ challenges. We like it here and having gotten used to ‘things as they are’ we don’t want to leave which, I suppose is one of the reasons our physical bodies eventually fail us—a sometimes not so gentle reminder that this life isn’t forever and that all must eventually make way so the generations to come might have their ‘turn’ on earth.

When mother passed away at the age of forty-eight it was a time of deep reflection for me. It was then that I came to realize that the veil between this life and the next is often very thin and particularly so, I have found, with the birth of a child or the death of a loved one. I had the most interesting experience at this time which I will share with you which I must preface with this explanation. Mother’s battle with leukemia resulted in her looks undergoing a profound change. I can remember going to visit her in the hospital in Iowa City and passing by her room when I looked in and did not recognize the woman lying in the bed. It was only after going down the hall and not finding her that MGH and I returned to the room whose number we had been given and upon going in found, to my horror, that this woman, who I did not recognize, was indeed my mother. This was to be the last time I was to see her alive on this earth as she passed away soon after on May 17, 1965.

Not too long after her death I can remember lying down for a nap on my bed upstairs in the old farm house we were renting in Onawa, Iowa. I had a dream and in the dream I could see mother sitting at a small dark wood desk engrossed in some kind of paper work. The room she was in was beautifully decorated in blue with a silver design scrolled on the walls—quite similar to the sealing rooms in the Manti temple. She appeared to be in her mid 30’s with her beautiful dark hair gently waving around her face down to her shoulders. Her body was that of a woman in the prime of life with no signs of the illness remaining that had ended her earthly life. I must add here that the extra weight she had added as she got older and which caused her such grief was gone. She glowed with radiant good health. When I saw her my natural inclination was to speak with her and so I began to move in her direction. As soon as I did I found myself immediately awake.

I believe that I was privileged to see her as she exists on the other side. This was a great comfort to me as I knew then that all was well with her and that she no longer suffered. I also knew from this that when we go to the other side we will be restored to our ‘prime’ that all defects or injuries which we might have struggled with here on earth will be removed. I don’t believe that mother knew that I was there as she did not give any sign or acknowledgement of my presence. I do believe that she lingered close to the veil for a number of years to keep track of her daughters whom she had had to leave at such an early age. I don’t mean to imply that she became a ghost hovering about but rather that she was allowed to check in on us every so often to ease her mother’s heart about our welfare.

I did not have the same kind of feeling about Dad. I think he hit the ground running when he died and with great eagerness began the work that he was assigned to do. I am not saying that he did not care about his daughters because I know that he did deeply and that he never gave up worrying about our welfare but by the time he died we were all well on our way to middle age and beyond and as he had been chained by his physical body for several years to a life that no longer had much meaning—he was eager to go.

Do you who are younger feel like time is going faster than it used to? If it is do you think it a good or bad thing? If it seems like all is as it was and time is the same today as it was yesterday I have two words for you, ‘just wait.’

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Barb says, “looks, like Darlene.”

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A big thanks to Barbara for forwarding Dad’s partial history which he wrote in 1980. One of the stories he tells is about how he nearly drowned as a young boy. His account leaves him staring up through the water as the current is drawing him deeper and deeper into the vortex of the whirlpool that formed under the tree that they used as a diving board and which the older boys knew to stay away from. Then there is a missing page and we never get to hear how the story ended although we know that he survived because, among other things, my sisters and I are here.

I can remember hearing him tell this story but am not quite sure about some of the details. Not wanting to put something out as the gospel truth when that may not be the case and realizing that things that are written tend to have ‘shelf life’ long after the writer has put pen to paper and that once those privy to the actual fact have left this vale of tears there is no one left to say,

“Wait a minute—that’s not how it happened at all”,

I try to be as accurate as age and memory allow me. That being said, when Barbara called me yesterday, ah those free cell phone minutes—how did we survive before them?, I was able to question her about what she recalled. Not that that did me any good for alas, she was no help at all, so I will put down what I remember and if Darlene or Kathy want to weigh in on the subject I wish/hope that they will.

Mouth to mouth resuscitation has not always been with us which fact is probably not known to those of the younger generation but only to we old moss backs who were alive back then, but in the late 50’s we were all encouraged to learn how to do this procedure much as CPR is encouraged now. It was known as the breath of life and studies of the time indicated that lives could be saved if administered promptly. I can remember this being the topic of conversation at dinner one day and Dad gave us one of his slightly sardonic looks accompanied by a shake of the head that seemed to conjure up his amusement at the whole idea. He then told us the story of his near drowning and this is the part I am not quite sure of but it seems to me that the way he described being revived was by his being put face down over a barrel and then pounding on his back which allowed/encouraged the fluid that had collected in his lungs to drain out. Crude, but effective he admitted, as he told us that the next thing he remembered was struggling to get air into his lungs after finding himself out of the water and lying on the ground the older boys having obviously discovered him in time to rescue him. (Or it could be that they just flopped him on his stomach there on the bank of the Verde River and started pounding on his back to get the swallowed water out—personally, I like the barrel version best. . . .)

Along the same line I can remember him telling us that he learned to swim (he says in his history that “he learned to swim under the watchful eye of his mother” which I am sure was the case most of the time but I can also remember him telling us that he learned how after being tossed into the water by the older boys and told to get back to the bank on his own which he apparently did after some wild splashing and much swallowing of water. Such was the rough and tumble world he grew up in which might explain why he thought the way to teach me to ride a horse was to say,

“You take charge of the horse or the horse will take charge of you”, and then left me to it.

Another one of his homilies was,

“You can’t let yourself be buffaloed”. This was the advice I can remember him giving me when I was learning to drive and he would tell me that I needed to be more aggressive in making left turns and such like. It meant that you needed to know what you wanted to do and not be afraid to go for it even if others didn’t agree with you.

Barbara told me that Dad often told her,

“If there is a harder way to do something, you will find it”.

To which she added her agreement with his assessment but then tempered it with a final,

“He never did show me how to do things. He just left me to figure it out on my own so I don’t know why he was so surprised with the result. I mean if a 600 pound heifer bolted from the herd and came charging toward me and Dad would shout at me to do something about it why was he surprised when I got out of the way?”

I think that while Dad loved his daughters dearly he never did quite figure out that they might look at things from a more feminine standpoint. Dad tells about playing football which is a sport he loved until his dying day. A love, I might add which he did not bequeath to me. I always thought the game appeared to be quite similar to ‘dog pile’ which is what we children used to do when playing and someone fell down. The ‘fallen’ was considered fair game by all except the child who would soon be on the bottom after every one piled on them upon hearing “dog pile” called out. Hmm, upon writing this I realized that this wasn’t exactly very feminine was it, so perhaps it wasn’t the best example I could think of to make my point. I will add in my defense that it was not my favorite thing to do but is something I remember from my younger days in Mesa when there was a mixed group of boys and girls who played together in our neighborhood.

While we were talking on Saturday Barbara asked me if I thought that Darlene looked like Grandmother Gano. She was basing this on a picture that she and Kathy had come across while at Lucille’s one year when Lucille had graciously allowed them to go through the picture albums that she has in her possession. She then e-mailed the picture to me and I was quite intrigued with the resemblance that I saw to Dad’s mother. This quite surprised me as I always thought Darlene favored mother in her appearance. I would be interested to get your thoughts on this and so am going to forward the picture on to you. Isn’t family history fun?

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Our across the road neighbor has gone to a great deal of effort to plant bulbs and flowers. This means I can enjoy the result without needing to do any work myself which seems to me to be the perfect win-win situation. What he gets to enjoy in return when he looks at our landscaping are zillions of yellow dandelions which are quite pretty for a few days which even I, in my most discouraged moments, must admit. As I have always enjoyed dandelion bouquets presented to me enthusiastically by small children who manage to find beauty in even the most humble of things I accept it as my lot in life to have a lawn that allows them to do this and try to ignore the downside which is that our lawn is rapidly becoming more one than the other.

I recently told you how the deer had come down and eaten his tulips and how disgusted he was. Well, now I can tell you the rest of the story—or at least how this whole thing is playing out as it appears it is going to turn into a classical man against beast type thing which, as this has been going on ever since Eve took that fateful bite and then persuaded Adam that he wouldn’t enjoy life nearly as much without her by his side and had him take a bite as well, shouldn’t surprise anyone. The consequence of course was that their landlord kicked them out for breaking the terms of their lease which was really a pretty good one all things considered and they had to start working to put food on the table.

Since, I am sure, I have piqued your interest I will not hold you in suspense any longer and will give you the details.

Me, as I go to the mailbox, to the neighbor who has given me a wave of recognition,

“I see that the deer didn’t get all your tulips”,

I say this because I have noticed a lone pink tulip amidst the daffodils. His response is,

“It’s the pepper. Deer don’t like black pepper.”

Which fact I have duly added to my collection of odd bits I continue to gather in the hope that should the occasion occur when I have a need I will be able to retrieve it from where it rests which is doubtful as I can rarely find what I need when its right in front of me so why should my mind be any different? As I usually can’t, I wonder why I bother but them I remind myself that hope springs eternal and perhaps, just perhaps, sometime, I will.

For your information and also because it adds a bit of symmetry as well, salt will kill snails and slugs. I feel it my duty to add a cautionary note–this must be done when small grandchildren cannot see you as they like to hunt for the snails and will protest quite loudly if they catch on to what you are doing. Salt will also kill plants as well as snails which means you must weigh your decision carefully or find plants that can survive the salting. (Actually, I find this works quite well with my houseplants. Any living plant in my home is there because it is a survivor.)

Because life presents such difficult choices and as at my age I really can’t handle anything difficult—well let’s just say, I prefer not too—I am seriously considering putting down plastic and covering it with bark and calling that good enough. I even suggested a variation on this theme to MGH when, after turning on the water to the sprinkling system, the control box wouldn’t ‘boot’ up and tell the sprinklers to turn on. Says, I,
“Maybe this would be a good time to follow our neighbor’s example and pull the lawn out and just cover the front yard with rocks”.

MGH replied with some asperity that that was no magic answer as said neighbor can often be seen wending his lonely way over his rocks with a spray bottle full of bleach to ‘zap’ any weed brave enough to show it’s head. The real reason said neighbor went the route he did is that he is allergic to grass—but given the politically correct times we live in one can point to him as an example of how to have an attractive non-green yard which is being highly touted by those who wish to see us return to nature rather than nurture as the ‘right’ way to live. As for me and my house it looks like we will have grass for the foreseeable future.

Speaking of growing things, last week I bought a few plants to set out in the hopes that they might survive the poor conditions that exist on our side of a mountain bit of land which holds our home. As near as I can tell the ratio of rocks to soil is about 4 to 1 which led to the early settlers of St George to opine.

“On Sunday when we go to church to lengthen out our faces they tell us that the Virgin Ditch is broke in 50 places. Mesquite, soap root, prickly pears and briars—St George will be a place that all of us admires.”

It was 70 degrees which was plenty warm enough to rile me up to an excess of enthusiasm for gardening—well, at least gardening as I know it for I well realize that my gardening and MGH’s are hardly in the same ball park— as mine might more accurately be called ‘puttering’ while he actually generates results. I had gone to Home Depot to return some ceramic tile and replace it with different shapes (this is part of our ongoing saga of restoring our basement bath room to a fully functioning facility. This particular project dates back to when MGH got everything put together the first time with the exception of tile around the window that overlooks the bathtub. The tile is needed because the water from the shower lands on the window ledge and while not very much lands there at any given time over the years it has been enough to cause the wood to start to swell and crack and, um—you get the idea. Having inquired ‘within’ at several places and finding that real professionals charge $300.00 just to set up their equipment I decided that I could, ‘do it myself’ which is what my two year olds used to tell me. The fact that I don’t know what I am doing has rarely stopped me in the past and apparently not having learned what I needed, I seem doomed to repeat the experience as is being proved once more by the situation I find myself in. This has led me to seek the help of MGH, even though his body gave up physical activity years ago. Once more he is coming to my rescue just like Adam did for Eve. . . .

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April 8, 2007

We love being surprised in our Retirement Home. Our regular routine takes up a good 99.9% of our time so when something out of the ordinary happens it wakes us from our usually somnolent posture and provides us with something to talk about for days. Such an event occurred this Friday past when a white van pulled up into our drive way just as I had opened the garage door in preparation to run a few errands. As this effectively blocked my leaving I decided that I best delay my exit for a few minutes and find out what was needed. (My worst fear was that it would be the Jehovah’s Witnesses out doing their thing which was a little dismaying as they had been here just the week before and I being unfailingly polite as befits anyone raised in the Gano Home would perforce feel obligated to listen to their message at least until they got to the part where they offered me their literature which I usually counter by offering them mine (the Book of Mormon) which I have found results in a rapid departure.

I deduced this not to be so when a young woman (anyone under the age of forty looks young to me these days) wearing casual clothing got out and asked if I was Joanne? I owned up to that fact and replied “yes”. She then said, “I have something for you.” Whereupon she reached back into her vehicle and brought forth a beautiful clear vase full of lovely tulip blossoms of different colors tied with a pink bow. I had a thousand questions for her but as she was already on her way before I could ask even one I was left alone with my thoughts. It was obvious she had a schedule to keep and lacked the time required for me to form said thoughts into words.

Having always been somewhat curious by nature I find myself very frustrated if I can’t get the answers I want as quickly as the need makes itself known which is why I quite often read the end of a book before the middle just to make sure everything is going to come out okay. So there I was feeling said need quite keenly when I spied a small card discretely tucked between the blossoms which I presumed might answer the most pressing question for me–that being. “Who would send us flowers?” (In my experience flowers at our age and condition of life are for the sick or the dead). How delightful then, to find out that they had been sent by Brooks and Nancy to wish us a Happy Easter! Thanks guys, you made our day!

Speaking of tulips, that’s just what I was doing a couple of Sunday’s ago when I was walking home from choir practice and walked past the neighbor who lives across the street from us. He was out working in his yard and so I said “Hi” and complemented him on the beautiful daffodils that were so jauntily waving their yellow heads at me. I think it pleased him that I had noticed but then he told me that he had nary a tulip this year. “Why?” I asked, somewhat surprised as that wasn’t the case last year when they were really quite lovely. He replied, “The darn deer like them. They eat all the green right down to the bulb. There won’t be a single flower this year.”

While surprised that deer liked tulip greens I wasn’t surprised that they had been in the area as I had seen droppings in our back yard where they ventured to see if we had anything tasty for them to nibble on. Having polished off our willow tree several years ago they found little to their liking and left us for greener pastures which must have included the neighbor’s tulips. I was telling this to Sherman the other day and he said that he had gone out to his car to retrieve some piece of equipment in the early morning not too long ago and could hear deer over in the next door neighbor’s yard chomping away on the willow tree by the fence. When the noise of Sherman opening the car door alerted them to his presence they froze where they were and then after a few seconds bolted past him. He said it was a little scary as he didn’t know if they were going to bother to avoid him or just run him down. He said he counted four deer.

I think that this all took place on the same night as I saw signs of their presence in our yard only the one time. (Being the wife of the Great Indian Scout which is MGH’s alter ego, I know how to read signs of deer in back yard. This is skill gained only from long practice and was once highly desired especially if one has read many Western’s, which I have, so I know’um much on this subject.)

There is a pretty good sized herd of deer up in the mountain behind us. Sherman and Brooks, when they were living at home while attending SUU, used to hike up that way every so often to see if they could locate the herd. Then, with the sheer exuberance of youth they would try to catch one, which they never did (I don’t think that they even came close or if they did they didn’t tell me about it—but then, how often do kids tell their parents what really happened? In my experience, if they ever do, it will be years later and then with much shaking of heads over the sheer stupidity of their actions).

These deer come down at night and manage to take out a few cars now and again. They do this by standing in the middle of Main Street where unsuspecting drivers are so surprised at seeing them that they forget to brake and the result is as Sancho Panza so succulently put it in Man of La Mancha, “Whether the stone hits the pitcher, or the pitcher hits the stone, it’s going to be bad for the pitcher.” Either way, life goes on, or it doesn’t depending on who hits whom. . . .

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April 1, 2007

Ah dear reader, I am afraid that I did the unforgivable—I presented you with an oxymoron last week. I declared that MGH never changed his mind after once making it up and then I proceeded to tell you how he had done just that in the matter of using a pancake mix as opposed to making this family favorite from scratch as was once his want. One of you took the time to point this anomaly out and asked, rather plaintively, if we had also taken to using store bought syrup. This has weighed heavily on my mind in the intervening week and the thought has come to me that I must take, as is sometimes quite quaintly said, “the bull by the tail” and address this issue lest your faith in MGH’s infallibility fail.

Let your mind be at ease. We still make our syrup using the recipe that Miss Grace Randall, home economics teacher extraordinaire, gave her students, from her personal collection, when she taught at Keosauqua High School. This was long enough ago that I no longer remember the exact measurements but I do still recall keenly how carefully we leveled and packed to make sure we had just the right proportions required for perfection. Time and haste have had their way with me so if you were to ask me for the exact amounts I would have to refer you to one of my sisters who were also students of hers and I am sure much better organized then I and therefore could lay their hands on this treasured bit of Americana without experiencing the great trauma it would cause me. That being said this is what we do now, we just dump in white sugar, then half as much brown sugar and cover it with water and start it simmering until enough of the water cooks off enough to make a syrup of the desired consistency—yum. Well at least that is what is supposed to happen.

Sometimes there isn’t quite enough syrup left when we need it, which we discover when we open the refrigerator and find the syrup bottle with such a niggardly amount that one wonders why it was saved in the first place. This causes panic to set in as we pry the bottle from the spot it has managed to stick it’s self to and the horrifying realization hits that the amount will not suffice for our mornings need. This causes the adrenaline to start pumping which results in our springing into action to remedy the situation even though we know it will be in vain as the bacon is already fried and the pancakes are browning on the griddle.

“When the going gets tough—the tough get going” could be our family motto. Who, among you, would vote for “hang tough” as the most frequently given bit of advice, to someone who is struggling, by their dad and if given a nickel for every time would now be a wealthy person? Therefore, being the tough/flexible family that we are we know we can handle ‘thin’ syrup and still survive. With that knowledge, and after taking several deep breaths to calm ourselves down from all this excitement as life in a Retirement Home ill equips us for such unexpected challenges, we continue on.

Now, is where the interesting part comes as we finish breakfast and go about our business leaving the pot of ‘syrup’ simmering on the stove. MGH thinks that I am watching the ‘pot’ and I think that he is and therein lays our fatal error for that means that neither of us is. Let me tell you right now that I know for a fact that a non-watched pot full of syrup will eventually turn to such a chewy consistency that it guarantees a trip to the dentist to replace the fillings that have been extracted if one should sample the result. The other alternative is a product so hard that the simplest way to handle it is to simply throw the pan away and buy a new one along with the bottle of store syrup you purchase at the same time. Experience has taught me that most syrup can be salvaged if water is added to it along with a return to low heat and with careful monitoring I can truthfully say that all’s well that ends well especially if one likes their syrup with a slightly ‘dark’ flavor.

From this you can see that life at home is still as you remember it from your childhood. There is a little poem from the poet Robert Browning that pretty well sums up how I feel about your father still being with us. I have always thought of him as being an anchor whose strength holds our family together and makes all right with the world for us. The poem is Pippa Passes. It goes like this:

The year’s at the spring, And day’s at the morn; Morning’s at seven’ The hill-side’s dew pearled; The lark’s on the wing; The snail’s on the thorn; God’s in his Heaven-All’s right with the world.

‘Nuff with the serious stuff and on to important things such as the fact that the magnolia was gloriously beautiful for two whole days until the wind came up last week and then it snowed and the temperature dropped to 20 degrees which caused it to drop all its brave finery. Nature hates a vacuum and so the dandelions have sprung into action with their bright yellow heads sprinkled across our lawn where they too will bask in the sun light until they morph into airy white puffs that soon drift away to the neighbor’s—to add color over there whether they want it or not. Some things never change do they.

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March 25, 2007

It has been a tradition in our family for many years for MGH (MyGoodHusband) to fix breakfast on Saturday morning. Not just any breakfast, mind you, but the kind that gives nutritionists heart failure just thinking about. Pancakes are always included although he has gone from making them from scratch to buying a mix. This change came about after a trip to the Minnesota boundary waters with the Scouts from our ward in Sun Prairie Wisconsin, who did a taste test on all kinds of instant mixes and this one, since all you have to do is add water which was important as everything they would eat had to be carried in with them, won hands down. I shall not name this mix (mainly for fear of not being able to spell it correctly) but it has my seal of approval as well, and greatly simplifies the whole process.

Now, in order to appreciate this fully, you need to understand that MGH, once he has his mind made up, is absolutely unbending and while he is fairly open to experimentation on the front end of a decision I have found over the almost 46 years that we have been married that it is a waste of time to try and convince him otherwise once he has decided on something. This is not all bad as it allows our family to know that in a world run amok with moral relativism we can always depend on MGH to hold fast to what he believes in which keeps our family firmly anchored in reality.

For me, personally, this means that while there are many flavors of ice cream in the freezer at the store all I need to know, if I wish to please MGH, which I do, is that strawberry will always delight him as that is what he long ago decided was his favorite flavor although he will eat vanilla as well. I also know that if I never serve beets, in any form as well as ‘white stuff’, which is what our children, when they were little, used to call Miracle Whip, my marriage will be a happier one. Butter is on the ‘list’ of good things as are eggs, bacon and orange juice. Please don’t think that I am complaining about his likes and dislikes as knowing them allows me to go immediately to the right aisle in the grocery store to find what is needed which saves me time and on the plus side takes away all the annoying choices that might other wise strain my brain.

These breakfasts have always been a special treat for the whole family and still are—we just don’t feed as many as we used to. Since Brooks and Nancy moved to Michigan we have had Robyn come share this time with us. Some one put a bee in her bonnet, probably one her of her sisters, that she needed to check up on the parents ‘to make sure they were okay’. She has done this faithfully on Sunday after church for the last several years. This visit was made possible by a move into her own apartment which is located about a block away from us. Robyn, who is very like her father in this regard, never lets anything stop her from doing her duty. She is as regular as clockwork in her appearance on our doorstep Saturday mornings, which we switched her to last year as this allowed me to have my Sunday afternoon nap which is sacred to me just ask MGH. I refuse to feel guilty as this is a habit I acquired while growing up in a home where both my parents sat the example. Mother not so much until her bout with tuberculosis required her to get plenty of ‘resting’ time. Still, I can remember as a little girl how they both enjoyed their Sunday naps between church meetings.

Robyn always has a cheerful greeting for us and promptly begins to regale us with the events that have occurred in her week. Her enthusiasm for life is unflagging and we enjoy her accounts of what ‘Niki’, her parakeet has been up to or how many file tabs she has sorted and bagged at work that week—I think she is up to 32 in two hours, as well as the other triumphs and joys that go into making up her life. This weekly event was made a little more interesting a few weeks ago when she started shouting at me (as MGH is now hard of hearing he didn’t notice any difference other then that he could hear her better).

“HI, MOM, HOW ARE YOU DOING?”

Startled at the volume, I focused on her more closely and asked why she was talking so loud.

“I HAVE TO IN ORDER TO HEAR MYSELF”, was her reply.
Worried that something serious might be affecting her hearing I asked her if she had thought about going to see the doctor to which she replied,

“YES, I AM GOING NEXT WEEK AS SOON AS I CAN GET AN APPOINTMENT.”

The next Saturday when she came for her visit she was once again speaking in a normal manner.

“You must have made it to the doctor. What did he say was the matter?” I asked her.

“He told me that I had wax plugs in both my ears and that that is what was keeping me from hearing myself. Once he cleaned them out I could hear just fine.”

Such is life in our Retirement Home where little things become big and big things become little—it just depends on your perspective.

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