Monday, December 22, 2014
Peace on a Winter's Night--and Day
Have the oven on and haven't made the fruitbread going in it yet. Wasteful. What a big footprint I have at time, even allowing for big feet.
I wanted to blog again before Christmas Day, however.
It has been a better than usual season, and I think making the breads is a part. I had bought a dozen red sacks to give my breads in, and am startled I have only two left. I don't know how good others think they are, but they satisfied my tastebuds, and I didn't do it for reaction. I realize I did it as a positive action for me. I have 2-3 more to make and I'm done. AND I kept a loaf of the banana bread for breakfasts and snacks last week, a loaf of the cranberry nut the week before. Have a third earmarked for Christmas morning. That, some ham and a fresh mandarin orange will make a fine breakfast. Leaves room for the Feast yet to come.
Poor Brody still has his cone and two new staples in the top of his incision because I let him run around the house too much. He is feeling SO fine, and he has to stay in the bathroom except for potty breaks and food. He is whining a bit, which pains me, too. Next vet visit Dec. 39. I am not optimistic. This morning, the 30-pound dog pulled the leash completely out of my hand to chase some birds on the lawn.
But all the gifts are wrapped and dispersed. My home is back in order--except for all the baking stuff staying out in the kitchen. One dish to make ahead tomorrow, then a chocolate pie on Christmas Eve Teenage granddaughter is making her most excellent cherry pie NOT using pie filling, but real cherries. It is so very good--a little tart, and the whipping cream or ice cream is just an added note, not overwhelming sweetness. If we even bother adding it.
I've been observing and participating more fully this year. I do believe we have a huge effort made by stores to get us away from family, even on Thanksgiving Day, and go shopping. Well, except I know families that enjoy shopping together. I don't think starting "the shopping season" after Halloween pays off. I think shopping more around the whole year makes more sense, but I apparently don't have a lot of herd mentality.
Actually, I like persons well. It's people in large quantities I am not fond of. I don't think it used to be better; it wasn't. The one thing I miss that was better was less pressure--or I perceived less--to stop and breathe every now and then. Oh, we can still do it, but it is harder. More pulls away from relaxed family times, though many have them. More manufactured food to eat to save you time to do more manufactured fun someone wants you to pay to do. Honey, that stuff without the preservatives just purely tastes better, even if you do have to eat it up fast because unlike Twinkies, it gets stale.
And if you live anywhere you can go out ant actually see a starry night, it is peaceful, smells good, and beats any house decorations around. Many don't have that option any more. Our perpetual lighting and huge cities hide the actual world and its peace from us.
Christmas is a cultural holiday celebrated and enjoyed by persons of all faiths and none at all. It is a religious occasion as part of the holiday for some. Despite the songs, it is seldom magical, and though happy, often not joyous. It brings out generosity in people, and that's a good thing for everyone. Humans are hardwired to get a bigger kick out of giving than in the getting--or most of us are.
This year, it has been a journey to peace, one of the greatest gifts the holiday can bring. It has been my journey. I have spewed and snarled and kicked less and less at this season than in so many, many years. I have made my peace, at least for now. I may have to do it all over again next year, but at least this year, I know how.
Maybe I'll write a book.
I write, of course to be read, but that is for my own pleasure, too. Whether you celebrate Winter Solstice, and I have some friends who do, or any other holiday, I hope you have happiness and peace. Above all, peace.
Sunday, December 7, 2014
Just an ol' dog and a trip to the vet
Brody, my half-Corgi male 4-year-old dog, had a fairly serious surgery Monday, and it has been a learning week.
He was born with a fairly small opening in the abdomen which became large enough for a little gut to pooch through about a month ago, so he had the hernia surgery he needed on Monday. Fortunately, I've had him on a slight diet in expectation of this and he was down from 29 to 27 pounds, which helps when you're stretching flesh to cover formerly open territory.
He was supposed to be crated. If they make crates with doors for handicapped persons, the vet didn't know about it, and I turned out to be unable to secure the door, letting him stagger out. So he's spent the week in a 5x5 foot bathroom. First night he cried in the middle of the night and got more meds. He was hurting. For the next two days he endured with these sad eyes that asked me repeatedly why I was doing this to him. He has a neck cone too, of course. Thursday he finally barked once and Friday he wagged his tail and charged to the end of the leash. His eyes sparkle again. He's feeling much better that he really is, and now he's getting pushy about confinement. Fortunately, he's not a whiner or barker indoors.
Actually, the bathroom has worked well for his personality, because he has a deep need for touch, ear rubs and back rubs. The crate would have allowed much less of that. I have learned more about his sweetness, and despite his Corgi abilities, his generally poor thinking skills. I have been glad for solitude as I have relieved my impatience at times with language I hope my granddaughters never hear me say. At least, not in such quantity.
Pills have meant a lot of peanut butter-covered tramadol, antibiotic, and such. Gracie has been somewhat upset with all his largess, never mind that he has to stay in the bathroom. She has cuddled more with me for whatever reason, opportunity being one. Brody doesn't always share his owner well.
I notice I've been more tired--yes, a little more work, but I think it's knowing the dog was actually hurting for a few days. I have friends who have recently lost family members, are in severe pain awaiting surgery themselves, or dealing with their own difficult survival. Don't think I've mentioned dog's surgery to most people I know. In the scheme of things, it's rather minor. It matters to me, and that's enough.
I was thinking about that this week. It's part of the fabric of my current reality, and as such, worth my attention. I've gotten quite a bit done anyway the last few days--he's found out how to sleep on that cone, and the medicine means he sleeps deeply. I type, or cook, or do a number of things, and he is content for now to sleep nearby. Gracie sprawls nearby as well, and at time the floor is littered with Dead Dogs Sleeping, usually just where I need to go next.
Stitches come out next Thursday--don't know how long he retains the cone, or the leash to keep him from dashing around the yard. I do love to watch these two play chase at top speed when both are in good shape. And that time will be here soon.
Funny old routines that make up our daily lives and fill the shape of them with action and feelings. After decades of living, sometimes we are doing something that seems quite solitary to anyone watching, but has years of familiarity and memories attached to what we do. I think this is the real stuff of our days, often the meaning we find as we drift away to sleep.
It has been a good day. I hope that new loaf of fruit bread turns out as good as it smells. Nuts, cranberry sauce and orange marmalade with cinnamon and nutmeg.
Not necessarily to the dog's taste, but they would try it, given the chance. Their day has been good as well. They're both softly snoring. Day is done.
He was born with a fairly small opening in the abdomen which became large enough for a little gut to pooch through about a month ago, so he had the hernia surgery he needed on Monday. Fortunately, I've had him on a slight diet in expectation of this and he was down from 29 to 27 pounds, which helps when you're stretching flesh to cover formerly open territory.
He was supposed to be crated. If they make crates with doors for handicapped persons, the vet didn't know about it, and I turned out to be unable to secure the door, letting him stagger out. So he's spent the week in a 5x5 foot bathroom. First night he cried in the middle of the night and got more meds. He was hurting. For the next two days he endured with these sad eyes that asked me repeatedly why I was doing this to him. He has a neck cone too, of course. Thursday he finally barked once and Friday he wagged his tail and charged to the end of the leash. His eyes sparkle again. He's feeling much better that he really is, and now he's getting pushy about confinement. Fortunately, he's not a whiner or barker indoors.
Actually, the bathroom has worked well for his personality, because he has a deep need for touch, ear rubs and back rubs. The crate would have allowed much less of that. I have learned more about his sweetness, and despite his Corgi abilities, his generally poor thinking skills. I have been glad for solitude as I have relieved my impatience at times with language I hope my granddaughters never hear me say. At least, not in such quantity.
Pills have meant a lot of peanut butter-covered tramadol, antibiotic, and such. Gracie has been somewhat upset with all his largess, never mind that he has to stay in the bathroom. She has cuddled more with me for whatever reason, opportunity being one. Brody doesn't always share his owner well.
I notice I've been more tired--yes, a little more work, but I think it's knowing the dog was actually hurting for a few days. I have friends who have recently lost family members, are in severe pain awaiting surgery themselves, or dealing with their own difficult survival. Don't think I've mentioned dog's surgery to most people I know. In the scheme of things, it's rather minor. It matters to me, and that's enough.
I was thinking about that this week. It's part of the fabric of my current reality, and as such, worth my attention. I've gotten quite a bit done anyway the last few days--he's found out how to sleep on that cone, and the medicine means he sleeps deeply. I type, or cook, or do a number of things, and he is content for now to sleep nearby. Gracie sprawls nearby as well, and at time the floor is littered with Dead Dogs Sleeping, usually just where I need to go next.
Stitches come out next Thursday--don't know how long he retains the cone, or the leash to keep him from dashing around the yard. I do love to watch these two play chase at top speed when both are in good shape. And that time will be here soon.
Funny old routines that make up our daily lives and fill the shape of them with action and feelings. After decades of living, sometimes we are doing something that seems quite solitary to anyone watching, but has years of familiarity and memories attached to what we do. I think this is the real stuff of our days, often the meaning we find as we drift away to sleep.
It has been a good day. I hope that new loaf of fruit bread turns out as good as it smells. Nuts, cranberry sauce and orange marmalade with cinnamon and nutmeg.
Not necessarily to the dog's taste, but they would try it, given the chance. Their day has been good as well. They're both softly snoring. Day is done.
Thursday, November 13, 2014
When a new freezer just cries out for sustenance
Mother started me baking by standing me on a kitchen chair, wearing one of her aprons, and sifting flour for a cake. Back then, flour was sifted three times before mixing and baking. Mother covered the table with newspaper to catch the plops and clouds of flour I made with my vigorous turning of the handle of the sifter. I still have a sifter, and an egg beater. I still use them to cook.
I used to love to cook, and especially to bake. I have done little of either in recent years. So it is with trepidation I have decided to make a number of the old fruit breads I used to make and give for gifts. I like gifts like that--the receiver feels no obligation back, and usually is pleased. Surely habits from many years will kick in.
There's a story to the decision. Like so many things it starts with something Bad and segues into something Good.
A few weeks ago, the old freezer I had loaded to the gills died--still trying, so its' little light was on. But it was dead, and completely warm inside as I discovered when I finally smelled Something and lifted the lid. Dead, deader, deadest. Putrifying. My daughter-in-law, recovering from surgery, helped me more than she should have, and so did my 12-year-old granddaughter, who gagged but never threw up through all. We sacked and taped the bags closed and filled one tall square garbage can and one fairly large,but shorter, round can. Older son, when he got off work, re-bagged the lot in contractor's bags in an attempt to curb the smell. The cans stayed by my garage until the night before pickup. This was pretty warm weather, and the packing happened on Saturday. I took the cans to the road on Tuesday night. Ugh! horrific smell. Slight breeze from the north. I cleaned up and left for a meeting.
When I came back, a honking big truck with several lights was in the street, a couple other pickup trucks, and several people were standing around in small groups. I parked the car and headed for the door. My neighbor came running over to tell me she had called Atmos Power Company for a bad gas leak--it must be really bad because the smell was so strong. But the professionals couldn't find it. Everyone agreed it was an urgent situation.
I told her I didn't think it was a gas leak but my putrifying meat in the cans. Rotting meat and the rotten egg smell they add to natural gas smell pretty similar.
"Are you sure?" she asked.
"Pretty sure," I answered. "Go tell them about my garbage cans."
The discarded freezer was still stashed on the side with its' door propped open.
Ten minutes later they had all left, and I don't think anyone even checked to make sure it was the sundry beef (I will mourn those beautiful roasts I got at a price I may never see again), two turkeys, a ham, and various chicken parts.
So the poor garbage men came--I need to do something nice for them at Christmas--and the empty freezer was hauled away. And I started shopping the internet for a replacement. I found it last weekend--an upright Fridgidaire frost-free. It was delivered and put into place on Tuesday. It is very large and very empty. And I used to make those breads, freeze the same day they came out of the oven, and give at Christmas. Plenty of time. Wish I still had my old recipe for banana bread. It was so old, the oil it called for was bacon grease. It made light, moist bread that could be sliced in quarter-inch slices. I made a test loaf of a recipe on the internet and it wasn't too bad. Very moist, flavorful, but I'd like a little more flavor.
So--I'm baking. I forgot the sour cream for the chocolate bread recipe I found. I hope that's a winner. I'm thinking of sneaking some instant coffee granules into the cocoa when I mix it. Forgot the orange juice for the cranberry nut bread, and after two stores, finally found some mincemeat for a couple loaves of mincemeat bread with orange zest. I'll add nuts and cranberries and hope it turns out similar to an old favorite. Have everything for the pear bread with lemon zest. That's a good one, too. Pumpkin bread? Eh. Most people will make their own, I think.
A couple of mincemeat loaves? Well, each loaf takes two cups of mincemeat, which is really fruits cooked with cinnamon, nutmeg and allspice. It used to be used for pies. Each $6 jar probably has about two cups. (The 20-something clerk at one grocery said carefully, "I've never heard of minced meat." Ah, well.)
I may not ever be able to get it, or afford to get it again unless I make the stuff. Which I could.
But that's another year.
I used to love to cook, and especially to bake. I have done little of either in recent years. So it is with trepidation I have decided to make a number of the old fruit breads I used to make and give for gifts. I like gifts like that--the receiver feels no obligation back, and usually is pleased. Surely habits from many years will kick in.
There's a story to the decision. Like so many things it starts with something Bad and segues into something Good.
A few weeks ago, the old freezer I had loaded to the gills died--still trying, so its' little light was on. But it was dead, and completely warm inside as I discovered when I finally smelled Something and lifted the lid. Dead, deader, deadest. Putrifying. My daughter-in-law, recovering from surgery, helped me more than she should have, and so did my 12-year-old granddaughter, who gagged but never threw up through all. We sacked and taped the bags closed and filled one tall square garbage can and one fairly large,but shorter, round can. Older son, when he got off work, re-bagged the lot in contractor's bags in an attempt to curb the smell. The cans stayed by my garage until the night before pickup. This was pretty warm weather, and the packing happened on Saturday. I took the cans to the road on Tuesday night. Ugh! horrific smell. Slight breeze from the north. I cleaned up and left for a meeting.
When I came back, a honking big truck with several lights was in the street, a couple other pickup trucks, and several people were standing around in small groups. I parked the car and headed for the door. My neighbor came running over to tell me she had called Atmos Power Company for a bad gas leak--it must be really bad because the smell was so strong. But the professionals couldn't find it. Everyone agreed it was an urgent situation.
I told her I didn't think it was a gas leak but my putrifying meat in the cans. Rotting meat and the rotten egg smell they add to natural gas smell pretty similar.
"Are you sure?" she asked.
"Pretty sure," I answered. "Go tell them about my garbage cans."
The discarded freezer was still stashed on the side with its' door propped open.
Ten minutes later they had all left, and I don't think anyone even checked to make sure it was the sundry beef (I will mourn those beautiful roasts I got at a price I may never see again), two turkeys, a ham, and various chicken parts.
So the poor garbage men came--I need to do something nice for them at Christmas--and the empty freezer was hauled away. And I started shopping the internet for a replacement. I found it last weekend--an upright Fridgidaire frost-free. It was delivered and put into place on Tuesday. It is very large and very empty. And I used to make those breads, freeze the same day they came out of the oven, and give at Christmas. Plenty of time. Wish I still had my old recipe for banana bread. It was so old, the oil it called for was bacon grease. It made light, moist bread that could be sliced in quarter-inch slices. I made a test loaf of a recipe on the internet and it wasn't too bad. Very moist, flavorful, but I'd like a little more flavor.
So--I'm baking. I forgot the sour cream for the chocolate bread recipe I found. I hope that's a winner. I'm thinking of sneaking some instant coffee granules into the cocoa when I mix it. Forgot the orange juice for the cranberry nut bread, and after two stores, finally found some mincemeat for a couple loaves of mincemeat bread with orange zest. I'll add nuts and cranberries and hope it turns out similar to an old favorite. Have everything for the pear bread with lemon zest. That's a good one, too. Pumpkin bread? Eh. Most people will make their own, I think.
A couple of mincemeat loaves? Well, each loaf takes two cups of mincemeat, which is really fruits cooked with cinnamon, nutmeg and allspice. It used to be used for pies. Each $6 jar probably has about two cups. (The 20-something clerk at one grocery said carefully, "I've never heard of minced meat." Ah, well.)
I may not ever be able to get it, or afford to get it again unless I make the stuff. Which I could.
But that's another year.
Thursday, November 6, 2014
Coping with more and more Christmas hucksterism
Last Saturday, Nov. 1, an area car dealership advertised an Event with refeshments, fun, fun, fun, and a visit from Santa.
Even the kids I know were surprised.
The Christmas trees have been in the stores, all decorated, since September.
But even before the last polling place closed on Nov. 4, the Christmas ads were starting. I wish I didn't let this continuous annoyance depress me, but it kinda does.
Poor Thanksgiving. Only in the grocery stores is it even mentioned, and I LIKE Thanksgiving. Good food with people I like. Good talk and laughter. Then everyone goes home and you can take a nap. Or (shudder) go shopping. It is such a freedom holiday, overall. Well, for me, anyway.
And I think the stretching of the season all started with artificial Christmas trees. Flameproof, fairly realistic, artificial Christmas trees with cooler, perpetual little lights all over them. Not one string, or two, or even three. Little lights ALL over, jostling the ornaments for a place on the branches.
The trees had to be invented and brought into the marketplace. No way could every home have a fresh Christmas tree, although a fair number still do. And the prices are, well, pricy. They may have been cut a month before, and the shelf-life expires with a tinkling of browning needles on the floor. But they smell so good. AND a formerly live tree won't make it to Christmas Day if you put it up too early.
The Christmases of my childhood sported freshcut trees from the nearby mountains. Our tree went up Dec. 15 or later, and the shopping didn't start much before then. No television either, grasshopper. (That always convinces children I am really, really old.) How naïve we were, not to market the holiday for all it is worth but instead, take leisure time during the holidays for those remembered cookies, candies, and even grandma's fruit cake. Funny about that. Hear tell times were more prosperous then, and college graduates could always find a job. Better than dreaming of sugar plums. (I don't think I have ever seen one, much less tasted it.)
Artificial Christmas trees in most of the homes I know where children live go up after the meal on Thanksgiving Day. We have a local radio station that plays nothing but Christmas songs for the month of December, and I believe they now include November. So many find them cheery and fun. After the 20th playing of "Holly Jolly Christmas"(and no one in the Southwest has holly), I go postal. It doesn't have to be in one day. Over a week would be plenty.
I don't mind the lights on houses because they are pretty. Also,with any luck for the neighbors, silent. I am a big fan of the silent enjoyment of Christmas. Seldom heard today.
And it all started with artificial Christmas trees.
I can't get away from the ads entirely--I have to listen to the news, although public television has quite a good news program. I have 3-4 programs I watch now, with their approximately 20 minutes of the hour in ads. I have shopping to do, and as usual, nothing advertised is what I am getting. This year I have to go online, because it's not on sale in the stores, either. As usual, gifts for my adult sons confound and puzzle me.
I don't begrudge shopping for my family, and I actually enjoy it close to Christmas--like the week before. But the constant hype and jolliness is wearing.
In my neck of the plains, I am known as "The Grinch."
Still, even I have one of those pesky trees.
This is my annual rant. It comes earlier each year.
When I see lighted artificial trees for sale on my birthday in August, I may start a movement.
For now, Christmas, once a lovely holiday, is my least favorite of the year. But enough for now.
I have to go shopping for myself.
I always buy a book I really, really want to read about now, put it in the closet, and start it sometime on Christmas Day. When I had children at home, it was a way of unwinding after the busy day. After the divorce, with the children gone for the day, it was my celebration for myself. It still is. I think it takes more self-control not to open it early now than it used to.
It just sits there, calling my name.
And it isn't even fattening.
Even the kids I know were surprised.
The Christmas trees have been in the stores, all decorated, since September.
But even before the last polling place closed on Nov. 4, the Christmas ads were starting. I wish I didn't let this continuous annoyance depress me, but it kinda does.
Poor Thanksgiving. Only in the grocery stores is it even mentioned, and I LIKE Thanksgiving. Good food with people I like. Good talk and laughter. Then everyone goes home and you can take a nap. Or (shudder) go shopping. It is such a freedom holiday, overall. Well, for me, anyway.
And I think the stretching of the season all started with artificial Christmas trees. Flameproof, fairly realistic, artificial Christmas trees with cooler, perpetual little lights all over them. Not one string, or two, or even three. Little lights ALL over, jostling the ornaments for a place on the branches.
The trees had to be invented and brought into the marketplace. No way could every home have a fresh Christmas tree, although a fair number still do. And the prices are, well, pricy. They may have been cut a month before, and the shelf-life expires with a tinkling of browning needles on the floor. But they smell so good. AND a formerly live tree won't make it to Christmas Day if you put it up too early.
The Christmases of my childhood sported freshcut trees from the nearby mountains. Our tree went up Dec. 15 or later, and the shopping didn't start much before then. No television either, grasshopper. (That always convinces children I am really, really old.) How naïve we were, not to market the holiday for all it is worth but instead, take leisure time during the holidays for those remembered cookies, candies, and even grandma's fruit cake. Funny about that. Hear tell times were more prosperous then, and college graduates could always find a job. Better than dreaming of sugar plums. (I don't think I have ever seen one, much less tasted it.)
Artificial Christmas trees in most of the homes I know where children live go up after the meal on Thanksgiving Day. We have a local radio station that plays nothing but Christmas songs for the month of December, and I believe they now include November. So many find them cheery and fun. After the 20th playing of "Holly Jolly Christmas"(and no one in the Southwest has holly), I go postal. It doesn't have to be in one day. Over a week would be plenty.
I don't mind the lights on houses because they are pretty. Also,with any luck for the neighbors, silent. I am a big fan of the silent enjoyment of Christmas. Seldom heard today.
And it all started with artificial Christmas trees.
I can't get away from the ads entirely--I have to listen to the news, although public television has quite a good news program. I have 3-4 programs I watch now, with their approximately 20 minutes of the hour in ads. I have shopping to do, and as usual, nothing advertised is what I am getting. This year I have to go online, because it's not on sale in the stores, either. As usual, gifts for my adult sons confound and puzzle me.
I don't begrudge shopping for my family, and I actually enjoy it close to Christmas--like the week before. But the constant hype and jolliness is wearing.
In my neck of the plains, I am known as "The Grinch."
Still, even I have one of those pesky trees.
This is my annual rant. It comes earlier each year.
When I see lighted artificial trees for sale on my birthday in August, I may start a movement.
For now, Christmas, once a lovely holiday, is my least favorite of the year. But enough for now.
I have to go shopping for myself.
I always buy a book I really, really want to read about now, put it in the closet, and start it sometime on Christmas Day. When I had children at home, it was a way of unwinding after the busy day. After the divorce, with the children gone for the day, it was my celebration for myself. It still is. I think it takes more self-control not to open it early now than it used to.
It just sits there, calling my name.
And it isn't even fattening.
Thursday, October 30, 2014
Finding quality of life in being cozy
Cozy: giving a feeling of comfort, warmth and relaxation.
It is one of my favorite feelings.
It is 52 at 9 o'clock this morning, and 71 in the house.
Last night, my last thought before I drifted off to sleep was how cozy I felt, and how good that was.
I had washed all the bedding, added a new fleece blanket on top, just enough to be able to snuggle.
And it was good. The pillows were soft and plumped, the sheets smooth, the covers surrounding me with a soft layer of comfort.
A nice cool bed with the lightest of cover is welcome in the summer, but it is not cozy. Nope.
I love the springs and falls here, when days are in the 70's or no more than low 80's. The nights can get into the 40s, and there you go. Cozy.
As I grow older, comfort has become an important component of what I do. I never was much of a shopper and never a fashionista. I don't seek for a fashionable house and am frustrated when items I want, like curtains and bath mats, come only in the fashionable colors, not the ones I want. Can color be part of making a cozy home? I think so.
Cataracts are constraining my movement abroad these days. I have always been one to hop in the car and go, a habit from growing up in New Mexico. Now I sedately stay within about a 30-mile radius. I hope that will change post-surgery, whenever that will be. Hopefully this spring, which is the soonest I can see the doctor again.
For now, however, there are gardens I have sped by before to explore, my own home to concentrate on, little art galleries to discover, and such a plethora of new restaurants I never will get around to all of them. I have chafed at the restrictions. I have indeed let it dull my pleasure at what is within my reach.
But last night I was cozy, and I went to sleep happy and woke up the same way.
I intend to continue that way.
I can deliberately create a cozy environment.
And happiness is a choice.
It is one of my favorite feelings.
It is 52 at 9 o'clock this morning, and 71 in the house.
Last night, my last thought before I drifted off to sleep was how cozy I felt, and how good that was.
I had washed all the bedding, added a new fleece blanket on top, just enough to be able to snuggle.
And it was good. The pillows were soft and plumped, the sheets smooth, the covers surrounding me with a soft layer of comfort.
A nice cool bed with the lightest of cover is welcome in the summer, but it is not cozy. Nope.
I love the springs and falls here, when days are in the 70's or no more than low 80's. The nights can get into the 40s, and there you go. Cozy.
As I grow older, comfort has become an important component of what I do. I never was much of a shopper and never a fashionista. I don't seek for a fashionable house and am frustrated when items I want, like curtains and bath mats, come only in the fashionable colors, not the ones I want. Can color be part of making a cozy home? I think so.
Cataracts are constraining my movement abroad these days. I have always been one to hop in the car and go, a habit from growing up in New Mexico. Now I sedately stay within about a 30-mile radius. I hope that will change post-surgery, whenever that will be. Hopefully this spring, which is the soonest I can see the doctor again.
For now, however, there are gardens I have sped by before to explore, my own home to concentrate on, little art galleries to discover, and such a plethora of new restaurants I never will get around to all of them. I have chafed at the restrictions. I have indeed let it dull my pleasure at what is within my reach.
But last night I was cozy, and I went to sleep happy and woke up the same way.
I intend to continue that way.
I can deliberately create a cozy environment.
And happiness is a choice.
Sunday, October 12, 2014
ReLiving Near-Death Experiences on OU-UT Weekend
When I was 18, I experienced my first OU-UT weekend.
To say I was naïve would be like saying raw turnips generally aren't appetizers.
I joined a sorority as my parents said I must. Either Thursday or Friday Before the Big Weekend,
the sorority social director told me she had a blind date for me. He wasn't very tall, she warned, and I would need dressy flat-heeled shoes I
didn't have.
On Saturday,noonish, I set out for a shoe store, and finally found one, probably 3-4 miles from campus. As a greenhorn, I knew nothing about buses, so I bought the damn shoes and walked back. All told, maybe 6 miles. I missed supper and we didn't store snacks. I showered quickly, curled my hair, put on my dress, hose, and (not) heels.
I don't think I was any more impressed than he was. Whatever. I figured surely, at a party, I would get something to eat.
Boy, was I disappointed. I guess Chex Mix or the derivative might have been trendy It certainly was cheap and all that was offered besides mixed drinks so strong I wanted to throw up. So I ate the mix, asked for a Coke or two, danced when I could and smiled.
Then we hit college curfew time, so my date and I and his friend and his date walked back to his car. He walked funny.
Did I mention I had never seen anyone drunk before? I began to pay deep attention. And this was before seat belts were invented. Besides which, I was hungry and I hadn't had a very good time.
As we drove north on Central Expressway, I will always swear he began to edge over the line into the car just ahead. I thought he was going to kill us. I screamed bloody murder, grabbed the steering wheel and jerked it to the right. We slid past the other car.
He yelled at me, asked what I was doing. He drove very well to my dorm, and walked me to the door.
We never spoke again, and the social chairman never called me again.
He probably still thinks I was an hysteric. I still think I saved all our lives.
I wonder which of us was right, If I were wrong, I wouldn't be here to wonder,though, would I?
To say I was naïve would be like saying raw turnips generally aren't appetizers.
I joined a sorority as my parents said I must. Either Thursday or Friday Before the Big Weekend,
the sorority social director told me she had a blind date for me. He wasn't very tall, she warned, and I would need dressy flat-heeled shoes I
didn't have.
On Saturday,noonish, I set out for a shoe store, and finally found one, probably 3-4 miles from campus. As a greenhorn, I knew nothing about buses, so I bought the damn shoes and walked back. All told, maybe 6 miles. I missed supper and we didn't store snacks. I showered quickly, curled my hair, put on my dress, hose, and (not) heels.
I don't think I was any more impressed than he was. Whatever. I figured surely, at a party, I would get something to eat.
Boy, was I disappointed. I guess Chex Mix or the derivative might have been trendy It certainly was cheap and all that was offered besides mixed drinks so strong I wanted to throw up. So I ate the mix, asked for a Coke or two, danced when I could and smiled.
Then we hit college curfew time, so my date and I and his friend and his date walked back to his car. He walked funny.
Did I mention I had never seen anyone drunk before? I began to pay deep attention. And this was before seat belts were invented. Besides which, I was hungry and I hadn't had a very good time.
As we drove north on Central Expressway, I will always swear he began to edge over the line into the car just ahead. I thought he was going to kill us. I screamed bloody murder, grabbed the steering wheel and jerked it to the right. We slid past the other car.
He yelled at me, asked what I was doing. He drove very well to my dorm, and walked me to the door.
We never spoke again, and the social chairman never called me again.
He probably still thinks I was an hysteric. I still think I saved all our lives.
I wonder which of us was right, If I were wrong, I wouldn't be here to wonder,though, would I?
Monday, October 6, 2014
A Lifetime in a Conversation
I took my dogs to the vet today to have nails clipped and distemper shots. While I was waiting, a young man came in for serious service. He had good control of his voice, but it dropped when he said "my dog."
"How may I help you?" the receptionist began.
The young man said, "I've come to have my dog put down."
Matter-of-fact. It wasn't easy.
"I'm sorry to hear that," vet tech receptionist said. "How old is he?"
"He's 19. He's my dog. I'm 20. He..." he couldn't say more. Then he did.
"My whole life, he's been there."
He smiled, he tried to, and he smiled.
"what breed?" she asked.
"Lab retriever. Yellow lab."
"What are the symptoms? Is he eating, drinking? can he move?"
"He can eat and drink all right, he can move around after I lift him up in the morning and help him get around. Then he can move a little. he still pees outside. He hurts."
"Would you like to talk to the vet, have an exam first, to see if there's anything we can do?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I would like that. Last weekend I took him with me to Texarkana to hunt ducks. He sat with me in the blind." The young man smiled."I wouldn't let him get the ducks, but he wanted to. I kept him right by me."
Labs don't live that long, usually. A lot of care and love went into that dog's life.
And I won't forget what he said: "He's 19 and I am 20--he's always been my dog."
"How may I help you?" the receptionist began.
The young man said, "I've come to have my dog put down."
Matter-of-fact. It wasn't easy.
"I'm sorry to hear that," vet tech receptionist said. "How old is he?"
"He's 19. He's my dog. I'm 20. He..." he couldn't say more. Then he did.
"My whole life, he's been there."
He smiled, he tried to, and he smiled.
"what breed?" she asked.
"Lab retriever. Yellow lab."
"What are the symptoms? Is he eating, drinking? can he move?"
"He can eat and drink all right, he can move around after I lift him up in the morning and help him get around. Then he can move a little. he still pees outside. He hurts."
"Would you like to talk to the vet, have an exam first, to see if there's anything we can do?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I would like that. Last weekend I took him with me to Texarkana to hunt ducks. He sat with me in the blind." The young man smiled."I wouldn't let him get the ducks, but he wanted to. I kept him right by me."
Labs don't live that long, usually. A lot of care and love went into that dog's life.
And I won't forget what he said: "He's 19 and I am 20--he's always been my dog."
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