Hanging In There

 I am married to a worrier. One of our Christmas gifts was a computerized bird feeder; to charge it, you pull a tiny white plug out of the body and shove in the charge cord. Thinking that I was being super careful, I retrieved an empty pill bottle with no label from the bathroom cabinet and put the tiny plug into it for safekeeping. Just now, the worrier came into my office, looked at the bottle and commented that it was worrisome because the plug could be mistaken for a pill and swallowed. After a headshake and a bit of grumbling, I got a sticky label out of my office shelf, wrote on it “Computer plug. Do not eat!”, and stuck the label onto the bottle. I also wrote “Do not Eat” on the bottle cap. The worrier’s comment was “Much better.” Please note that if you wander around rooms in your house picking up stray pill bottles and eating the contents, the worrier will try to ensure your safety.

My mother was also a worrier. In the last winter of her life, she was still at her concerned best, and one of her concerns was that I should wear a hat in winter weather. I confess that I kept a hat on the front seat of my car and I would pull it on as I took the last corner before their street, thus looking defended from the weather as I pulled into the driveway and walked up the walk to the house. Worrying was hard on her, though. My father had the habit of taking a mile walk whenever the roads were clear enough to allow this. My mother had him timed and, if he did not return when she expected him, she immediately imagined terrible accidents that could have befallen him. She always imagined the worst. My father was fairly patient with this, but only to a point. If he wanted to stop on his walk and chat with a neighbour, he did so, even if it made him ‘late’.

Me, I do not worry. Or, mostly I don’t. If a daughter is off hiking solo in the Namibian desert, I love her competence and have a fair amount of confidence that she will manage to survive. If her plane is late, I figure it is weather or the airline botching things up. I confess to feeling that it was a long day as we waited for news that our labouring daughter had -at last- produced the baby. But since I had spent from a Sunday morning to a Monday afternoon producing her, I was not imagining disaster, just slow progress. Our children were raised ‘free range’, if that expression conveys a fair degree of autonomy and calculated risk. I had very little of either and that is, I think, one of the factors that has shaped my own attitude.

That attitude includes, for example, the thought that if you eat something unknown out of a pill bottle sitting on a desk, you deserve to have to find it later. Providing, of course, that you have survived the experience. But, to prevent misunderstanding, I will finish by saying that I love both the worriers dearly, as well as a daughter who checks her purse for her passport five times between home and the airport. That the worry gene skipped a generation with me is something that does not worry me.

'Twas Two Days Before Christmas ...

 

It is the day before Christmas Eve here in Lanark, and the child is nestled all snug in her bed, being still much plagued with the six-hour time difference between here and Brussels. Papa, capless, is reading in the living room since it is not yet the time for him to, tired, retire. And I am in my office, contemplating chaos. (I should still be writing Christmas Cards. Shh.) There are presents still to wrap and label (I think I remember whose electronics are whose), pies and aspic to construct and the table to beautify into its Christmas dress. The tree is the best it can be and has, courtesy of a sale at our local hardware store, a nice new red skirt to go with its bright red lights and all of the coloured balls I could unearth from the boxes of Christmas Stuff.

 Ah, the Chaos of Christmas. Not outside. There all is serene. There are little (not rein)deer out and about, notably a mother with this year’s fawn in tow. They come and check out the feeding station regularly. And we have small birds back at the feeders, after an hiatus of several months when we had blue jays and mourning doves and not much else besides grackles. I have heard the pileated woodpecker twice, quite close, but have not been able to see it.  There is a bit of new fallen snow, but it is supposed to melt over the weekend and I guess I have to hope for that as the Christmas Bird is presently resident on the screened porch in a styrofoam container and if the temperature stays too far below freezing point, I will have to juggle it inside and outside to maintain refrigerator temperature until Monday.

 It is inside, and not just inside the bird, that is still unorganized. I did what I devoutly hope was the last bit of shopping this morning (and all the Christmas clobber was 50% off; got to love that). Speaking of refrigerators, ours is bulging. And on top of that, a neighbour dropped off our order of maple syrup and maple sugar, quite a large box full. The strong and agile daughter has lugged some of the Christmas storage boxes back down to the cellar to await refilling, but there are still three left beside the stairs. And the tablecloth is sitting on the ironing board. The candles for the table are balanced on a bookcase in here, and the lovely Christmas-themed tea towels that have been other years’ gifts are, although ironed, still in the laundry room.

 Well, I have one more day. At least I am not standing beside my mother’s bed in the ICU trying to finish knitting a Christmas gift sweater, with the wool stuffed into one pocket and the instructions back at home. All my nearest and dearest are near and healthy and, in the main, cheerful. And, accordingly, so am I.

 Some of you, blogging friends, are in new situations this Christmas time. One of you, maybe two in fact, are in the Maritimes and, I think, without electricity. Some of you will be anticipating the day with joy and no Big Dinner. Smart, that. One of you, I read, is bugged. Whatever your day brings, I wish you contentment, peace and at least a moment to count your blessings. As I, in spite of whining about the turkey, am counting mine.

On the Runway

 It is afternoon in Lanark Highlands, and I have just attempted to make myself a cup of coffee with my fine, single-cup machine. Unfortunately, I did not put a cup under the spout. When I do not add a cup, the coffee pours into the bottom of the cup stand and this, thank goodness, is detachable. And so. having poured the coffee from the stand into my cup, cleaned the counter and wiped up the floor, I am about to drink the coffee. Once, that is, I have microwaved it to warm it up again.

So goeth life in Lanark, managed by a geriatric brain. My next job is to 1.) find the Christmas cards I stored away last year and 2.) figure out those to whom I am still sending paper cards via snail mail and 3.) write up the Christmas letter that accompanies the cards, both electronic and paper, for those friends whom I only contact a few times a year. After, that is, I get the coffee out of the microwave. I can’t write without a cup of coffee, preferably hot, beside me. It used to be a coffee and a cigarette but those days are long, long gone.

It is now bedtime in Lanark Highlands and the Christmas cards, those I have been able to locate, are piled up on my table. I have also designed and printed a proof of a card, because I did not keep enough over from last year. And I have a draft of the Christmas letter I put in some of the cards as a way of keeping in touch with distant friends.

But it is bedtime. Also, time to wish the Blog and bloggers Merry Christmas, happy Hannukah, or whatever you celebrate, with or without a Roast Beast. If I do not stop this and post the dern thing, I will be sending Easter greetings. 

May your days be merry and bright.

M

December Diary

 It is the seventh of December, and I have just finished an online order for a Christmas gift. For myself. When I pointed this item out to JG in the catalogue, he did not so much as cast an eye over it. ‘Order it for yourself,’ he said. This instruction could mean a) that he has a gift for me already or b) that I am supposed to wrap it when it comes and put it under the tree. So goes our life. Computerized and complicated. The joys of being over eighty and, to an extent, housebound with one another.

I was going to write the dreaded Christmas letter this evening, the one that I fold and insert in the cards that I send, still, in envelopes with stamps on them. But that paragraph was what came up to the top of my mind and I do not think that it is a good opening paragraph for a cheerful and factual account of 2023. Not that my Christmas letter is usually either of those things. The big event of this year was the insertion of my nice new metal knee into my leg. We also had to have some big but dangerous trees cut down close to the house. All of the children and grandchildren are continuing to do what I described them as doing last year. And if I write about what I think of world news and politics, the candles on the bottom corner of the paper will melt.

We had book club this morning but there were only three of us there. COVID, other illnesses of member or member’s spouse, a family death, and other stuff. It’s December, after all. The topic was Children’s Literature and we had one really interesting presentation about, wait for it, ‘bibliotherapy’ with a selection of books for three age groups to illustrate it. (Never mind the melatonin for your tot; read him ‘Goodnight Moon’ several times.) I have to bug this creative member for her book titles. She had a pile of them and since I was sitting beside her, I became sidetracked by reading one. I am supposed to be the club’s recorder, but I have not even done November’s report yet. It is sitting on my desk in pieces. Anyway, we did agree on topics for the next three months. January will be on mysteries since the holiday clatter makes it hard to read seriously. I don’t much enjoy mysteries, but any book is better than none.

Next week is another club and one which I love. We call it ‘Discussion Group’ and our leader, she who thought the idea up, sets us a topic. Not a heavy, do your research sort of topic, though, but something topical or that affects all of us. A lot of medical stuff; we are all old ladies. We have one member who insists we have a cheerful piece to the discussion. And I love that and love her for insisting on it. She is a wonderful and thoughtful person who is dealing sensibly and courageously with a medical condition that would devastate me. She has lost most of her sight. And yet she carries on, even with the book club, using audiobooks and her amazing memory.

And the week after that, the YD will be home. It is devoutly to be hoped that enough of the snow and ice will melt off the trees that the daughters can select their usual Lanark slightly unsightly Christmas tree. And put it up. Then Christmas can come, even if I have not sent a single card.

Mulled Mind

 

A Facebook friend posted this meme: Tell me three things you like about yourself that aren’t ways you serve others. 

I answer these things. It is like popcorn for my brain; can’t stop thinking about it. And so, my answer was: I write well, I read voraciously and all the rest is housework. After I wrote that, I thumped off down the stairs to the laundry room where I dealt with socks, emptied the washer and did some ironing. After I ironed the shirts, I carefully ironed two flat sheets. And, since ironing is not an intellectually challenging activity, I was mulling over my answer as I shoved the steaming iron around.

You see, earlier that day the man in my life had informed me that he had taken his shirt upstairs. It had been a bit damp, he said, but not badly wrinkled. Since aforesaid shirt was one I had hung on the line to air dry before I ironed it (it’s Vyella*), it crossed my mind that I was surely not ironing those shirts to please him. He has said more than once that he is quite happy to wear them as they come out of the dryer. And as for ironing the sheets (and the pillowcases and the dishtowels), no one in the family cares and daughter two has even gone so far as to remark that I must be nuts. Oh, and I iron handkerchiefs. There is an excuse for that, well, two. Germs and the satisfaction of a neat pile in the drawer.

It is, I mulled, obviously my own satisfaction that I am seeking as I make neatly folded stacks of pillowcases or dishtowels. (I also fold the bath towels in three and twice more, so that they will make neat stacks, and I sort them by colour so that the piles match – hand towel beside bath towel.) The way that looks is the way it should be. Or, if I were another friend, The Way It Should Be. That’s how my slightly OCD mother did things. That’s how they are done. The husband should look ironed. The white tee shirts should not be inserted into the washer with the black undershorts lest they exit slightly gray. And, when these things are correctly done, I am satisfied.

But the question is, do I like this about myself? Liking is not satisfaction, exactly. (Mulling, more and more.) The rest of what I use is not tidy. My office cupboard and the desk drawers are A Mess. My drawers for clothing, ditto. These latter used to be tidy. Sorted by season and by colour and in piles separated by spacers, ditto the socks. Now I am just throwing the clothes in anywhere. I keep thinking I will tidy it, but to do so I will have to put a chair in the closet because I can’t stand bent over for more than a few minutes at a time. (That’s a fine excuse, yes indeed. If I had not let the drawers get into a mess, I could put things away in a few minutes and not have to resort to a chair.) So, I am not liking myself here. I am not measuring up to this ridiculous standard I have set myself. 

As I reread this, I found myself snickering. How about 'Tell me a thing about yourself that you find amusing'. 

As for the original answer,  for the writing, well, this is an example. The reading … is how I live and where I have my being.

*Vyella is a trade name for fabric that is 90% cotton and 10% wool. Ironed, it is warm and smooth and luxurious.

December on the Runway.

 We went out for dinner last night and it was blissful. A new team has moved into place in running the hall and they are really making some fine changes. This event was a lasagna and salad main course (and bring some dessert) and it was themed as thanks the workers for plugging through two big dinners – 250 people and up, and that is a lot of potatoes to peel. Not to mention a lot of plates to clean. Some years ago we used to have a Christmas dinner for the hall workers; my recollection is that we sent out for Chinese food, but I am not sure of that. What I am sure of is that Mike, who is both chair and chief cook, with one helper, made the lasagna for 30 or so of us. And had some left over. As JG and I exited, I could hear him saying, plaintively, that everyone should take some home lest he end up eating it all week. Anyway, I got to hang out with the whole gang without the angst, if that makes sense. And I made brownies for my dessert contribution; maple free.

 It is just about time to dig out the Christmas cards and list and boxes of wrapping and tablecloths and all that. Looks as if the Festive Dinner is going to be here, as the best logistics choice. I would be really worrying except that I do have a fine, fine daughter planning to be here over the holiday; I have every intention that she will be the one hauling the turkey in and out of the oven. And if anyone wants ham as well as turkey, that person can go over to the cabin and clean and turn on the stove and lug the meat back and forth. I might exert myself so far as to put cutlery on the table and supervise the gravy. Whom am I kidding? I will be decorating and wrapping and, the daughter being a fine negotiator, making aspic. And buying chocolate. But I am thankful that I have raised two excellent cooks. And acquired a third in the ED’s man, who turns in and cleans the carcass every year.

 Speaking of men, mine is, I think, out in the kitchen planning to make chocolate chip cookies. He has taken an interest in baking lately and has the chocolate chip recipe nailed. The oatmeal raisin recipe is coming, but molasses and ginger cookies did not work out as he had planned on his first attempt. Gosh, I guess there will have to be more tries. Tsk. Actually, tsk it is. Not only the goose is getting fat. I really need to lose some weight and this cookie kick is not helping because I have no willpower and keep helping myself which is not helping …. . I need to stop. The snacking and the sentence. Wait till Grammarly sees that one.

 I will add some pictures of Chris’s beautifully decorated party tables when she posts them. The hall has not looked so good for years; she even has the bulletin boards tamed. And we have all new and much lighter tables for the dinners. But the kitchen floor is still to renovate and that is going to be Horrible. I will report, if I survive.

 Fellow writing nuts, this you will not believe. Grammarly corrected “Whom” to “Who”. And it wants ‘renovate’ in the passive voice. Hmm. That is fair.

Three days old.

 

It is a Sunday night in dark and cold November, and I am waiting for JG to arrive home with pizza for our supper. A bit unusual as I mostly try to put on a fairly formal Sunday Dinner – a more planned and elaborate meal than what would appear during the week. But we had that dinner yesterday, with guests, and I really felt that I could not face Cooking (note the Capital Letter indicating an Heroic Effort) two days in a row. And so, when asked what I had planned for dinner, I plaintively asked for pizza. We have to drive into the village to get it as the delivery service for our pizza does not come this far out into the bush. Or, not normally. Once my ingenious brother-in-law persuaded the guys that run the place to bring a birthday gift of a big pie to JG. It was well, as they say, received.

So was the dinner last night, as far as I could tell. Most of the cake was either consumed or sent home with our guests, and the main course disappeared quickly and thoroughly. JG loves to have people in for dinner. Me, not so much, although he does help out a lot if we do.

Hiatus

It is now Monday night, and I am warm because the two vests that I ordered on line, with more than a bit of trepidation, arrived today and they both fit or are close enough. One quilted ‘puffer’ vest and one plush vest with, I am informed, a telephone pocket. Since JG uses a shirt pocket and the next generation down uses the back pockets of their jeans, I am not really sure about this. As well, phones are supposed to sit on a table or be attached to a wall and not ring during supper time, tell your friends … yeah. That was then, for sure. There is also a thing, I am told, called a butt dial. JG does not need this, because he can make a phone call by mistake with his index finger. As can I. If I do put the phone into this pocket, as well, I will probably forget where it is.

It is the last week in November. It is almost That Time again. You know, the time to figure out what to give all of your loved ones for Christmas. Something that will surprise and delight them, without being too hard on the bank balance. Something different. ‘Is this my shirt’, JG asks me, each Joyous Noel, no matter how cleverly I try to wrap it. Thank goodness for the ED’s significant other, who researches and buys on line for me. That he also carves turkey is an added attraction. Even though he does better at Wordle than I do.

Wednesday

Time does fly when you are having fun. A few years back I had a stent put into my aorta to repair an aneurysm, and each year I am given an appointment to trek into Ottawa an have an ultrasound to check the state of the repair. (Just in passing, I do wonder what would be done if the repair was deteriorating. No, not thinking about that.) The Civic campus. With the parking garage where the Handicapped spaces are always full. Yesterday there was a lineup to get into the garage and so JG dropped me at the front door and drove off to park elsewhere. There was no elsewhere. He got into the line, finally made it into the garage, went right to the top to park (and found there a group of wheelchairs covered in snow) and was just leaving the car when I called him to say that I was all finished and could leave. And it cost him money to get out of the garage. Unfortunately, the ultrasound check is a very specific one and cannot be done locally. I hope the new Civic site will be easier to use.

It is the full moon, either last night or tonight. The Beaver moon, I think. It sets on an acute angle to the right of the front of the house and throws fascinating shadows. At 4:00 am. Sigh.

If I don’t quit babbling and post this, it will be Thursday. Besides, I have to go and bake a pan of brownies to take to a Hall supper tonight.

Mary, get OFF the computer, for goodness sake.

Bye.

Cake

 I have just finished making a birthday cake, with double icing. The events we are celebrating took place in August and September, and we usually try to have a cake party between the two dates. But the owners of the birthdays bogged off to Portugal for a fine trip, and we are only now getting to the celebration.

I make maple icing, mostly. Unless someone insists on chocolate, maple goes with most flavours of cake. And this recipe is both easy to make and easy to spread. I may have posted it before, but it is worth doing again. Cream six tablespoons of butter at room temperature together with six tablespoons of maple syrup, also ideally at room temp or only slightly below. Add two cups of icing sugar, half a cup at a time, in a mixer, beating well. Icing dust will adorn your jeans, so wear old ones. Spread. Chill. Done.

Chilling

A few years back, the ED gave me for Christmas a fine set of decorating bags and spouts in multiple sizes and configurations. This set replaced one that I bought in our first year of marriage, probably almost exactly sixty years ago. (I confess that I have not tossed out the old set because it is still good for some uses and easier to clean than the bag for a very small amount.) My cakes look pretty good, if I do have to compliment myself.

This is very satisfactory because before I found the maple recipe, I spent what seemed like endless hours struggling with a milk-softened icing recipe that did not spread well and ended up full of crumbs and looking crumby. And Jim’s mother’s cakes always looked wonderful, professional and delicious. One year my mother and I struggled with a cake for the ED during sugaring season at the cabin and ended up with a lopsided, although probably edible, mess. Then Mrs. G senior swanned in, and produced one of her gorgeous cakes. My mother and I very quietly hid our effort in the storage room to eat much later. It tasted fine, but Mrs. G’s cakes did too. Sigh. Since I switched to this beaten maple icing, my cakes, although not to Mrs. G’s standard, are acceptable.

And I have made, over the years, a lot of birthday cakes. Especially for the grandkid, whose nut allergy precluded her from a bought cake. One year when she was very young, she said, wistfully, that she would like a cake with roses similar to the ones she saw in the bakery. And Granma rose (sorry) to the occasion and produced flowers that, with a little imagination could be seen to be roses.

Happiness can involve pink icing roses, even small and inferior ones.

Mooning About

With thanks and respect, Beatrix Potter.

 It is 4:49 pm, my screen tells me. And it is almost entirely dark outside. The tree branches are still visible as black silhouettes against a deep blue-black sky. I am going to go out and check for the moon as I think the cloud we had earlier has cleared off. It is, I think, a waxing moon. Will check. Will report.

“The Moon's current phase for today and tonight is a Waxing Gibbous phase. Visible through most of the night sky setting a few hours before sunrise. This phase is when the moon is more than 50% illuminated but not yet a Full Moon. The phase lasts about 7 days with the moon becoming more illuminated each day until the Full Moon.” 

So much of the language around the lunar information is lovely. ‘A gibbous moon’ is what we will have tonight, with high shredded cloud occasionally obscuring it. A ghostly galleon, tossed upon cloudy seas. And ‘wax’ and ‘wane’ are also, for me, lovely words. They go back to the fourteenth century, at least, in written form. ‘Wax’ is from the Old English word, weaxan "to increase, grow". And if you are being poetic, you can use ‘wax’ still to mean ‘increase’, sort of. ‘He waxed eloquent in his description’, for instance.

And then we get modern. ‘Moonshot’ is abrupt and rough on the tongue. ‘Mooning’ someone is not only naughty, it is an ugly way to express dissent. Although it sure beats shooting. ‘Mooning about’ is dismissive, a downplaying of how someone, usually a young someone, is feeling. I am sure there are more, but I am not coming up with any of them. Reminders welcome.

I am feeling somewhat fraught this afternoon as I cleaned the [censored] Keurig coffeepot this morning. One puts a dedicated cleaning liquid through the machine, leaves it to soak and then rinses with nine, count them, nine 16 ounce cups of clean water. This flushing requires one to refill the reservoir several times and, afterwards, remove one's footprints from the floor where the water dripped and was walked in. The floor has not yet been wiped, even though I am.

However I am, as I write this, slurping down a fine cup of hot and tasty coffee. Before I go, again, to see if the moon has climbed high enough to be seen between the trees. 

Grammarly does not, of course, like ‘weaxan’. And the argument over comma placement wages on. 

Laundry Day Chez Me.

I will have to find a clothesline photo later.

 Laundry day today. It is now almost bedtime and I still have one load where I need to hang up the contents of the washer. My own fault for, I suppose, being overly obsessive about sorting. I confess, and I think I have done this before, so I will be brief, to being a bit over the top about how I do laundry. Sorting by both colours and water temperature. Hanging to dry. Ironing, including things like the dish towels. I really mourn being unable, any longer, to tote the baskets of wet laundry out of the basement and around the house to the outside clothesline. The linens smelled better that way. The cotton ironed more easily dried that way. I felt like a Good Person saving electricity that way.

Oh well. I can still obsess about recycling, washing out the containers and taking tops off and all that. And composting. And driving my hybrid car, although we ended up buying it almost by accident. It was the colour and configuration we were after, and when the salesperson said it was a hybrid, we just sort of shrugged and agreed. I love it.

I play games with it: how long can I keep you charging up on this downhill; how long can I keep you using electricity rather than gasoline; how many kilometres of each are on the dashboard data display. And all that. Plus, it has a fine, fine backup camera.

The only downside of this vehicular marvel is that it beeps plaintively at me from time to time for reasons that I cannot always sort out. If there is something behind me when the engine is in reverse, it beeps. Good. If I am too close to something at a certain speed, it beeps. Also good. But JG turns on some kind of gismo that is supposed to keep the steering holding the car in the middle of its lane, and if the tracker loses the outside line, beeps and beeps are heard.

Speaking of beeps, the internet went down this afternoon for no reason we could ascertain and just came back up a short while ago.

And that is my explanation for this really terrible post. Why did you not write it even if the internet was down, I hear you wondering. Well, laundry obsessing. And so we are summed up. And I still have two pairs of jeans and six socks to hang up. Inside. There’s a whole lot of sleet out there.

An Accidental Doze

 There’s another day gone by in which I did not post. And it was not a fun day, in spite of sun and a visit from the ED and her partner with goodies. I could not get myself moving, and when I did move, I hurt. Bad back day, coupled (if I can use that expression for this) with a sore knee day. There were, however, pumpkin spice butter tarts. Maybe my day, in retrospect, was coloured by the evening.

We chose (badly, for sure) to watch the latest episode of ‘The Crown’ to air on Netflix. Yuck. The whole season so far has been panned (I wonder why we use that expression to say the thing is terrible). This episode, in particular, has been criticized. (Hmm, better?) If you are going to watch it, this is a spoiler. The script has Diana’s ghost appearing to the Queen and Prince of Wales. And the boys’ pain is mined to its depths, unfairly, I think. If I were to act on my convictions, mainly that the whole series is in bad taste, I would not have watched it, but, hey, nosiness always wins out, like entropy,

We followed this downer with the first episode of ‘All the Light We Cannot See’. I have had this film praised to me, and I have read, struggling, the book on which it is based. But by the very nature of the story, it is full of pain and angst and nasty people shooting other people dead. Sigh. I am not sure what you would get out of the episode if you had not read the book. JG needed a lot of explication, but he often does. LOTR puts him to sleep, and he wakes up lost. Poor guy. Our taste in what to watch is not the same.

Muttering to myself. I wrote that this morning, and, for some reason, went to sleep IN my office chair, in front of the computer. I am not sure for how long. JG woke me coming in for lunch. After lunch, I zoned out again, this time with my blanket and pillow in my lounge chair. I have just now finished hurling the brownie mix pans into the oven and have until they are finished to finish this.

Yeah, November. A quiet month for sure. Talk about sleeping. Oh dear.