Grace Is My Name

The house we bought has a pool… at least it will be a pool after we clean it up and have it repaired. That is our goal for March and April

I can already envision coming home and sliding into it at the end of a long frustrating day. I imagine cook-outs with grandchildren jumping and screaming and laughing out loud as they play like seals. I imagine moonlight swims with the man I love as the deer walk through the yard softly snuffling their greetings at us and the night birds sing. 

I love to swim, my husband loves to swim, the grandchildren love to swim, and their parents love to swim. It was inevitable that eventually, if I ever had the money and the time we would have a pool. I am planning on many, many glorious days spent sunning (yes I know it is bad for you and have the scars to prove it) with my SPF 1000 on, lazily floating around like bit of flotsam, dipping and diving and frolicking about. Heaven is a backyard pool.

As far back as I can remember the act of going to the swimming pool has been synonymous with good times. My sisters used to take us to the swimming pool in Fort Leavenworth. We had patches sewn on our swimsuits that said FLOOM which allowed us entry, a magical pass that let us into summer and youth whenever we wanted to go. The pool was huge; the water was deep and was always full of handsome young men showing off for the teenaged daughters of the commanding officers. I didn’t understand nor care about the clumsy rituals of pubescent mating. I just got to be by myself in a blue and white world with the sounds of laughter coming to me, distorted by the water as I swum about until I was starved and sun drunk.

When we lived in Belgium we would go the pool in Zaventem. It had both an outdoor and indoor pool. Most of the young people sat outside around the water, more flirting and sunning and diving. For this reason I always swam inside, alone, floating in the quiet, the echo of small children crying and mothers shushing and old women murmuring as they stood in the water not moving but enjoying the company just the same. There were always one or two old men, scrawny, chicken necked, serious, doing the breast stroke up and down and up and down the pool, taking up a center lane and wrecking any cross pool swimming I chose to try to do.

I learned how to do a perfect dive here, I learned to back dive here. I learned how to stand on my hands in the moving water and do somersaults front and back, strings of them over and over until I was dizzy and out of breath.  I certified for a life guard’s badge here, for the fun of it. I had no intention of ever actually being one. Too much drama, too much exposure to the crowds of people I was so uncomfortable with. 

The one time I was convinced to go with friends I didn’t know what to do. I listened to their prattle, followed them outside as they strutted their newly formed stuff and felt utterly uncomfortable and more alone than I ever had. I did my share of flirting, strutting and ogling, just not here, not at the water covered by next to nothing, not in my quiet wavy place. My body was perfect in the water, I was free and limber and graceful. Outside the water I was awkward, had huge heavy embarrassing breasts and couldn't see where I was going. No contest, I always went alone after that.

We lived in a condo complex when my children were babies. I would load up the playpen and cooler and floaties and towels and bottles and toys and, making two or three trips cart the whole kit and caboodle to the pool every day it wasn't raining. I put the brightest ugliest floaties on my kids so I would be able to see them and they wouldn't drown. I splished and splashed with them, teaching them to dog paddle, to not be afraid to jump in, to go under, to hold their breath. Remembering my concave gut after hours of swimming when I was a kid I always had apples and Kool-Aid and crackers which they would scarf down and head right back into the water. They were nut brown, strong, thin, and oh so social. 

They played with their friends by the hour. Other kids came and went but we stayed, all day, every day. On mornings when we woke up and it was raining we all were grumpy, nothing was better than those free hours together yet separate and happy. Sometimes cousins would come and I had a few minutes of peace while my brother threw them all up in the air and chased them through the water like a shark.,

One time I jumped in and saved a little boy from drowning. He was autistic, hated being touched and easily frightened. A neighbor had decided that taking him into the deep end was all he needed to see what fun it could be. Unfortunately, she had passed the point of no return, her feet no longer anywhere near the bottom when she let go of his legs and touched his face in a loving gesture. He screamed and started swinging at her. She was completely taken by surprise and they both were going under and quickly. I had been talking to a friend and we heard a strange noise, weird hollering that made no sense. We both realized at once what had happened and jumped in, me going for the kid and her for the poor drowning lady. As I scooped him up he thrashed and screamed, clawing at my face until he finally latched onto my hair, a safe hold with no skin to skin contact. His trunks fell off in the struggle and this terrified him even more. We had the attention of the entire pool community now. I finally got him to release me from his death grip, latched his little stiff arms onto the ladder and swam into the deep to get his trunks back for him. As we struggled in the water to get them on he wouldn’t look at me, his legs stiff as boards, realizing that I was helping I guess, but not being able to deal with the nearness. I heaved myself out and took the next thirty minutes convincing him to let go of the ladder and touch me so I could help him out. His mother finally appeared out of nowhere, yelled at me, yelled at him and took her cranky bib-butted self back home where, it turned out, she had stolen a half hour to be with her boyfriend who had a slight problem with her kid not being a perfect normal little boy.

Other than those few times the days of summer run together for me in a haze of Coppertone and Kool-Aid until a tornado took away my roof, my clothes and sadly my lazy hazy summer days.

I went years without a pool before finally buying a house in a neighborhood that had one. I loved it, my husband hated it because there were rules and regulations and he has an issue with them in general. The kids had little children and somehow all of those years of letting them be children didn’t transfer and they were terrified of letting the kids get near the water or out of their sight for a second. I reminded them of our good times but still they balked. 

Except for the few times I managed to go by myself and be sun glutted I did not enjoy it. I was back out in the open, exposed in my swimsuit, now with an awkward body and big heavy breasts and not being able to see anything. If others were there I avoided it. It was not all in all a pleasant experience. In a few years as the grandchildren got a bit older and their paranoid parents let them go a little bit some fun times were had but we were already on the hunt for a new place

.

In the end we found this house, surrounded by nothing with a pool of our own.  I look out at the board covered hole in the ground now and I can’t wait to be deep in the wavy blue and white world where grace is my name.

Loose In The Kitchen Again...

I have had a great weekend, surrounded by my kids and grand kids, sons-in-law and darling husband o' mine. The weather has been perfect, the laughs roll freely, the kids run and shout and play and fight and whisper and hug and have a wondrous cousin time together. I went on a cooking binge, which is good for all of us. I tried a bunch of new stuff but had one unmitigated total success. (Okay, more than one but I am not one to brag... seriously) My grand daughter told me she liked this dessert better than birthday cake. How could that absolutely not make a granny who bakes happier than a pig in....  stuff that is gross and slimy and might be unmentionable.

Anyway. With such rave reviews I thought I would share this one. This is really rich, almost brownie like so don't make it and have no one around to help lighten the calorie load.  I mixed up several recipes. This wasn't done on purpose, I had the recipe up on a computer in the other room and had to keep interrupting the kids and their games to check it. About halfway through I realized I had three recipes going. Sigh. The only thing I would do differently is maybe add a bit of baking powder to lighten it up. Oh, and maybe add a cup or so of chopped walnuts or pecans if the kids weren't here, too. What is it with kids and chunks? Other than that it is perfect.

1 cup (2 sticks)  butter or combination of margarine and butter
1 1/2 cup sugar (2 cups if you use tart apples)

Cream these two together

1 tsp vanilla extract
a good shake of cinnamon if desired (hay I am winging it here, I forget some things on occasion and I am terrible at measuring stuff too.)
3 eggs

Beat until blended. Don't over beat as this causes an emulsion between the eggs and butter.

2 heaping tablespoons Hershey's cocoa powder. I was cooking in a  perfect storm of kids, football, and walk by tasters so honestly I may have added a bit more. I am not sure so we will stick with two.
2 cups +-  of grated apples. 

I used red delicious. The original recipe had chunks of green apples and 2 cups of sugar but A). I had red delicious in abundance and B.) I was serving this to kids and chunks would have freaked them out and C). I like having the apple all through the cake and it was my kitchen so I could do what I wanted (insert stomping foot and protruding tongue here followed by nanny nanny boo boo).

1/2 cup water
1 tsp Baking soda
2 1/4 cup all purpose flour

Beat until well blended, making sure to scrape the sides and bottom of bowl 

roughly 3/4  cup chocolate chips. I used store brand semi sweet.

Mix well.

This goes in a well greased and floured Bundt pan at 325 for 60 to 70 minutes. I have a dark pan and a teeny electric oven, and it took 70.

It is super rich, freaking delicious and has fiber so you can sort of justify it. :) Enjoy!

Poetry of Public Transportation

My work week inspires me (insert maniacal laughter of civil servant after Holiday break) and I prove once again poesy in not my forte!

Seven tired people, riding on a van. Six of them are ladies, one of them a man. Ages vary widely as do race and creed. We are all brought together by our transportation need.

One has lost their license, one can’t see for shit. One has to share with wifey because his own car was hit. One’s afraid of traffic, one can’t drive at night, one is only interested in  the latest octagon ring fight

We doze, we nod, we snore and fart, we read, we chat all in our cart. There is anger, prattle, happy talk. Phone calls, messages, long necks like stalks.

Coffee, soda, water too, tea and red bull and orange juice splash, most are wearing breakfasts masks. Eggs and biscuits, beans and grits, butter, jelly, chicken bits, poptarts, croissants, strudel too, all the frozen stuff they make for you.

We sigh we heave we move our butts…. Work again work again -- oh shut up

Romanticizing...

My house is old. It is not Victorian old, or 1920’s old, which may have lent it some class, it is just old. Built in 1978 it clings valiantly to a steep hill, facing upwards as if looking where it had been and hanging on by sheer will power.

I love so much about it. It is surrounded by tall trees. Oaks, poplars and maples surround the property creating a cozy green hued nest. Flowering bushes have been strategically placed over the years to try to create some kind of permanent screen between me and the closest neighbors under the canopy. In the spring a riot of fuchsia and violet ring the back while white dogwoods and stunning pink Japanese magnolia blossoms adorn the front. In the summer hundreds of lilies and iris and Asiatics flower along the borders inviting hummingbirds and butterflies to stop and stay awhile. 

The ivy and honeysuckle wage war against my trees and I fight them every year. Ripping out their tenacious vines, pulling them off of my trees and away from my house, cursing them at the same time I breathe deeply of their scents and marvel at their beauty.  The fall is heady with roses and gardenias, the Indian summer days of a Georgian autumn making their aromas heavy and permeating. Birds and squirrels fight for the best nesting spots, both of them crowded in due to the disappearing forest in this now busy corridor. I have an overabundance of both, the racket they make is ridiculous sometimes, the squirrels pelting my house with acorns and the birds singing on the porch rails.

The house has huge windows in every room, a lovely fireplace and is cozy and welcoming…to a point…

My kitchen is hideous, smaller than the walk in closet of most new houses being built. Counter top and cabinets seem to have been forgotten entirely during the design and construction and just tossed into a dark corner as an afterthought. When I first moved in it had the original green and gold linoleum and blue and gold wallpaper. I shudder at the thought. When I move an appliance now and see the linoleum I stifle a scream at the reminder of what it once was.

The bathrooms are ridiculously small and all three bedrooms are the same size. The closets are tiny, 2x6, and had lost their doors long before I claimed them as my own. The living and dining room combo (how easily being here allows me to slip into the 70’s vernacular!) does not have a single wall without doors or windows or fireplace and so arranging furniture is always will it fit, not will it look nice.

All of these things worked for me for years because it was close enough to walk to stores and banks and bus stops. My children walked to school which allowed them to participate in activities that this car-less mother could never say yes to before moving here. They hated the walk, hated the schools, hated the neighborhoods because they were contrary children who did not realize that while far from perfect this house allowed us to live a much more normal life. As they grew up and out and made their own way the house did not become too big and empty, it became Mom’s House. I babysat when I could, I entertained in my beautiful backyard, I joined a gym I could walk to and visited the newly built library and settled into a lovely existence. I laughed when I heard the term empty-nester, wondering what in the world did we do all of this for if it isn't to see the children fly away?  

T(hanksgiving) Minus 2, 2012

The Tuesday before Thanksgiving dawns cloudy and dim. The leaves take forever to drift from the top of the trees, landing with a ridiculously soft thud on the leaf-brother covered ground. Sometimes they don't even make it, being caught half ways down by a log jam on a forked branch and making drifts of fall colors form a canopy lower than the natural arc of limb against sky. The birds are somnolent, no rustling, no joyous song of rebirth on this new day, just an occasional muted peep from some low slung russet and golden leaf shrouded bush.

My house is quiet as a tomb and almost as dark. Broad porches block the first and last sun of the day, which is fine when it is so bright ones eyes pour water like Niagara Falls, not so good on a dark and somber November morn when one is trying to track down their motivation.

Where the hell did I leave it? It took me so long to develop it in the first place. Having grown up in a family of tradition I was happy to just ride along and eat my mom's turkey and cornbread stuffing. We would arrive 'en masse' around noon or one, Pyrex casserole dishes in hand, dressed nicely though not formally. The cousins would collide and explode out of the house into the yard with footballs and pets and bicycles. Their meeting, their seeing each other was like a nuclear reaction, 4 kids sounding like 8 and moving about so that they seemed to be number much higher. Parents sighed in relief, watched them run for a minute and then nestled into the kitchen or living room, drink in hand and relaxed for the first time probably in weeks. For the next few hours the kids were entertained, we were surrounded by people we didn't have to prove a damn thing to and life was good and as it should be.

Conversation went from the kids to work, from funny books and movies to politics (people weren't so rabid then and rational discussions were still possible). From gossip (bless his/ her heart), to the food and back to the kids again.

Being a Holiday we often had brothers and sisters from out of state with their wives and husbands and children in tow. Random cousins of my parents and once or twice semi-strangers that had no place to go for the day. Everyone seemed to be welcome and sometimes the characters were a great source of entertainment, not just the year they were there but for years after. 'Remember when' was the favorite way to start conversation once we moved to the table and more than once we all fell out into laughter so deep our ribs hurt after.

My dad took it on it on himself that day to clear the table and do the dishes. He is a depression era baby and cannot leave anything on his plate or anyone else's for that matter. We would hoot and holler and tease him about being the human garbage disposal while he scowled and said it was just to be nice, to help my mother, which, regardless of the reasoning behind it, it did.

Swollen with food and warmed by wine or whiskey we would retire to the living room to watch a new movie with the kids or to play games, Trivial Pursuit being a favorite. The laughter continued, the love flowed and the night wore on into its deepest hour.

We would straggle out, kids filthy and exhausted, parents sated and sleepy and wend our way home, another year in the books. They were all perfect Thanksgivings.

My mother passed in 2004 and with her went those magical Holidays, the love and warmth and bonhomie we all cherished. I have tried and tried to re-create it but it is impossible. I don't know what magic she wielded that allowed us all to forget feuds and heartache and poverty and loneliness and envy and greed and fear and sadness that day.  I know I for one felt safe with her, always, she was the one that took care of business, took care of me and slayed my bogey-men, at least in my mind, but what was she to the others? Why can't we retrieve that special feeling she seemed to endow without meaning too. without any effort apparently at all?

I love my family to death, all of them even when I want to slap the bejeezes out of them. That may not be a politically correct expression of love but it is a true one. I want them to surround me, to let go and relax and forget all of the petty things that haunt us everyday. To let me help them carry the burdens of love and hate and fear and sadness at least for that short while so they can know again the feeling that comes only from family loving family, together.

Just thinking about those days restores me, sitting at the right hand of my mother on that day for years and years and years while she smiled and laughed and blushed and basked in the lives she had created and maintained and nurtured to adulthood out of sheer force of will. I am ready to roll up my sleeves, to bake, to roast and broil and boil and frost. I am ready to wipe down walls and sweep walkways and get out the kids movies and games for the adults, to uncork a bottle and toast the good Lord for all the bounty in my life. I will do so for myself, for my children and for anyone else that wants to grace my table.

My blast from the (hardly) past! "Thanksgiving" My favorite Holiday!

Seed Pearls, Swine's Ears: Thanksgiving: Thanksgiving is one holiday that is uniquely American. It is so ingrained in our culture that, even though the story of pilgrims and Indians...

Living the Van Gogh Life

I was sitting out on the front porch yesterday evening with my husband. He was pointing out beautiful birds in our yard which I was pretending to see.  Red birds, blue birds, buntings and starlings and thrush moved from pine to feeder to oak to bath and back to feeder again. I could see the motion when they moved from one place to the other. The titmouse has a way of fluttering its wings when it moves about that I can hear from 50 feet away. It is like a humming bird and I love it. I could see the huge lazy shadow of the buzzards riding the Indian summer heat over our heads. I just couldn’t see the birds, or the feeders for that matter.

I looked out over our yard and I realized my landscapes have become those of Van Gogh. Beautiful colors, swirls and whorls and dots that represent definable shapes but have no strict definition. No red birds or blue birds or thrush darting about, no flowers or chipmunks or squirrels are enjoying the evening as we are. I hear a vehicle roll by at 250 feet but couldn’t tell you anything about it. I can’t see even the motion any more at that distance.

 

I love Van Gogh; this is not a terrible state to be in. I do worry about what comes next though in this interminable process of losing my vision.

I used to know my family by the way they walked, turned their head, held their shoulders or moved their hands. No more. I have to be within ten feet of them now to be sure they are who I think they are. This frightens me on two levels. One, and this is the big one, I do not want to NOT be able to see the faces of those I love. These people are why I am here! If I lose them I will feel adrift and frightened. The second, which is really still the first but seen from a different angle is that I can’t see! I already can no longer ride a bike alone. I move faster than I can decipher obstacles like trees, curbs and psychotic killers. I am now afraid to walk alone because I no longer see well enough to see anything approaching, like dogs with foaming mouths and rabid foxes and psychotic killers. You can interpret this two ways… either I am just a scaredy-cat or I read the news and know that there are indeed rabid foxes, vicious dogs and psychotic killers whether one lives in a metro area or the heart of the country as I now do. With my track record for one in a million happenstances, (tornados, pregnant while taking the pill with my tubes tied, etc.), I choose to avoid them whenever I can.

For now I enjoy the hell out of my impressionist’s yard (people pay hundreds of millions to hang a slice on their wall. I LIVE it baby). The fluid lines and melting edges and glorious colors titillate and soothe by degree. The morning I wake up in a five year olds watercolor, splotches of color running together into browns, lines obliterated and subject up for anyone’s guess will be a sad day for me, I think, maybe not. I will have color and light and God willing my lovely and loved seeing-eye-people to help me navigate it.

Vincent Van Gogh (Duh!)

Night and birds by John Scott's Photography (my hubby, in my front yard.)