A Eulogy

Last week I went to the funeral of my late husband’s last surviving brother. He was 92. There were 16 years between them, my husband being the baby of the family. Howard, the brother and the oldest, was more like a father to my Jim than a sibling. Jim loved to tell of spontaneous fishing trips, secret candy bars, and surreptitiously-given dollar bills that passed between them as he was growing up. I grew up as an only child so I never knew the deep roots of the sibling bond, making Jim’s and Howard’s relationship of a particular interest to me, almost something foreign. The sibling relationship has to be life’s longest-lasting relationship, longer even than our ties to our parents or our spouses.

I’m positive Jim would say Howard was one of his best teachers, a staunch protector, and a stand-in caretaker, all leading to an indestructible closeness later in life. Howard and Jim grew up in Beckley, West Virginia, with six other siblings. Their father built houses for a local coal company and their mother, like most others, was a stay-at-home mom. When Howard and his family moved away, the second oldest brother, Jack, stepped in to fill the vacancy, but the bond was never quite as deep as that between Jim and Howard. Even though most direct interaction between them ceased, Howard’s existence mattered just the same.

I met Jim when he was in the Air Force stationed in Dover, Delaware, my home State. We married in 1963 and lived as a family in Delaware for sixteen years. After my mom died in 1975, we talked off and on about moving to Florida where Howard and his family had lived for several years, and finally, in 1979, we followed Howard to Gainesville. I had met Howard a few times at family reunions and funerals, but most of my knowledge came second-hand through Jim. I had little to fear ahead of our move because I knew we had a protector paving our way, and that is exactly how things turned out. All of our moving questions passed through Howard first, and we took his advice seriously.

After we were settled in Gainesville, Howard and Betty became our first best friends. We went to church together, socialized together, and each family lent a hand whenever the other needed help. In the beginning that was somewhat one-sided, but soon the playing field leveled out, and we were on an equal footing with each other.

As I sat at the funeral last week, I thought of all we had shared, the card games, the Christmases, the family dinners, the church excursions, the fishing trips, the rides to Cedar Key for dinners, the pizza night get-togethers at Godfathers, the doctors’ appointments, the Gator games, the horseshoe pitching contests, the blueberry picking, and just sitting around, drinking coffee and talking, such wonderful times in retrospect, but such ordinary times as they were happening.

As my eyes rested on the casket, I thought of all these things and of their early lives in West Virginia. What had they dreamed of doing with their adult lives? Had they turned out as they had hoped? We all have our own memories, but we seldom think of the hopes and dreams of our loved ones during their younger years. I remember Jim once saying he had wanted to be an engineer and live in Brazil. Where did that come from? I wonder what Howard dreamed of? Somehow, sometimes we forget our dreams when we reach that magic age of adulthood with all its pull and push. But in the end, it’s best to be satisfied, cherish our memories and make some more if time allows. Although Howard and Betty moved to Winter Haven several years ago to be near their children, it’s like I said earlier, just their existence mattered most.

From a Model T to a Ferrari

I know you’ve heard that saying that getting old is not for sissies. I’m finding out every day how true that is. It seems that one health complaint will improve as another one takes its place.

Earlier this year, I noticed some pain in my hand and wrist when I tried to take notes or write out checks. I decided it was just another form of my arthritis and went on about my business thinking it would soon go away on its own. It didn’t. It persisted and very gradually grew more painful until it hurt to use my right hand for every day things like combing hair and brushing teeth. By then, I had researched through Google and decided it must be a combination of carpal tunnel and arthritis, but what to do, so many conflicting opinions and treatments. Wear a wrist brace at night, but, no, wrist braces don’t help. Do these exercises, but they can make it worse. One contrary blast after another, and still I had no definitive diagnosis.

My next doctor’s appointment is November 20^th, and I am determined to wait until then. But what should I do in the meantime, when it is continually giving me more and more trouble. I did what I usually do, adapt. I tried using my left hand for more things although I have found out I am definitely not ambidextrous. Writing with my left hand is out of the question, illegible even to me.

Then, another impossible task popped up that I hadn’t expected. I like to make veggie chili with canned black beans, pintos and tomatoes. I grabbed my manual can opener, which isn’t a wimpy one but very heavy-duty, one I’ve used for many years. 

I crunched it onto the can and tried to turn the hefty black handle. I found it impossible to do. It moved not even a centimeter, and my wrist was screaming at me to stop. I turned the whole setup around and proceeded at a snail’s pace with my left hand, and, finally, I completed the task many minutes later. Well, I thought to myself, at least I know how to take care of this problem. At this point, my online-research of electric can openers began.

I had no idea how many kinds there were, from hand-held battery-operated ones to the free-standing electric ones with knife sharpeners, bottle openers and even plastic bag openers. I remembered having an electric can opener in my younger days and thought of my distaste of the grimy gooey mess that ultimately formed on the rotating cutting wheel. Certainly, time and ingenuity had made improvements to this problem. And, yes, as my fingers did the walking, I found several with removable cutting heads that would rinse clean under running water. That’s what I wanted so now on to price and availability. And as you might expect, the dreaded Walmart won the contest.

I say “dreaded” because I try to avoid going to Walmart. Walking miles from the parking lot to get to the small-appliance section, rubbing elbows with thousands of sneezers and coughers, steering a wobbling, misaligned shopping cart, and waiting in a check-out line until my legs needed shaving were not my idea of a happy shopping experience. But I wanted that can opener, and Walmart had it for $19.96.

So on Saturday next, I drove the few miles to my closest Walmart store. I was not disappointed, I did walk miles, I rubbed elbows with coughers and sneezers, and I drove a wobbly cart. But I had no trouble finding the prize, and when I made my way back to the long check-out lines, I decided to use the self-service check-outs. Several were standing empty, just waiting for me. With only one item I was out the door in record time while grass was growing under everyone else’s feet. And when I got to my truck, a nice couple with what looked like a two-year old, asked to take my cart back to the store. They promptly settled little Mikey in the shopping cart seat as I sweetly smiled, “Thank you!”

Back at home I unboxed my opener and positioned it on the counter near the sink where the cleaning would be handy. Mopsy, my kitty, rubbed against my leg, and I thought why not, let’s try it out on a can of tuna. So that’s what I did. That can opener has to be the Ferrari of can openers, easy to start, quiet as a mouse, no sloshing or dripping, and automatically stopping while still holding the can like a champ. I am a happy camper, going from a Model T manual opener to an electric Ferrari with hardly any effort. So, take that carpal tunnel! One thing outsmarted at least.

Blueberries

I don’t know about you, but I love blueberries. I eat them every morning on cereal no matter the kind or brand. Blueberries make it better. I eat them in pancakes with a quick blueberry syrup made in the microwave. I eat them in smoothies with blueberry yogurt and almond milk. I eat them in quick breads with pecans or walnuts. I toss them on salads no matter what else is in it, and pie? Well, yummy, but not so much anymore. Too many calories.

When we first moved to Florida in 1978, I was introduced to blueberry bushes at Hainesworth Farms by Jim’s brother and sister-in-law. They had been picking a few times before and raved about how delicious they were. Sometime in May blueberries ripened, and we got a phone call to join them on a Saturday morning. As we drove the back roads northeast of Gainesville, we caught up on family news and looked forward to picking several pounds of the luscious fruit. The farm handed out family recipe cards for all kinds of blueberry concoctions and even sold young blueberry plants. We stored bags of them in our freezer. Then, Jim’s and our relatives’ interest waned. After all, it is a hot sweaty job. But my love of blueberries never diminished. So I found a new partner.

Picking blueberries with Aunt Fanny was a real adventure I never wanted to miss. Toward the end of May or the first of June I could expect to get a phone call letting me know local blueberries at a certain farm were ripe and abundant, and would I want to be picked up around 8 tomorrow morning? Absolutely! We traveled to Monteocha Farms, to Lake Santa Fe, to Earlton, and many others that I have forgotten the names of.

Aunt Fanny usually had a couple of other ladies with her, but she always kept the front passenger seat reserved for me. Containers were stowed in her car trunk as well as ropes or belts to loop through the handles of the farm’s supplied buckets and then tied or buckled around our waists, leaving our hands free for picking. Once we arrived at our destination, the owner directed us to the next in line picking spot, always in the hot sun and getting hotter by the minute.

Fanny with her straw hat and long sleeves was a fast picker, outpacing me two to one, but I didn’t pay much attention, just enjoying the company and munching a few berries as I picked, making sure they were good and sweet, which they always were. Like the others I started picking at chest level, but if I didn’t want to be admonished, I eventually had to bend and reach for the berries, picking the bush clean of ripe berries before advancing on to the next bush up the row. Sometimes the bushes might be next to a pine forest and depending on the sun, some shade might come my way, but this was unusual, and within a short period of time, I and the others were hot and sweaty. We dare not take a break because the sun was advancing in the sky, and soon, remaining in the field would be unbearable. At some point, upon agreement, we would have to be satisfied with what we had picked, grab up our filled buckets, and return to weigh and pay.

I never picked blueberries with a group that Aunt Fanny was not part of. When she passed away, I bought bags of berries already picked from a farm near Newberry named Maid Marian’s. Of course, they had been cooled, and I never got that warm juicy flavor of the ones fresh from the bush. Not picking with others was just a sentimental thing. Aunt Fanny was a good friend, and I always think of her when the blueberries are ripe.

I am thinking about blueberries today because this year’s stash is dwindling. The berries I am eating this morning were shipped from New Jersey. I buy most of my blueberries at Publix now, and bags stored in my freezer barely last until year’s end. Then I must go to the frozen bags of fruit at the end of the ice cream isle. But blueberries are blueberries and I love them any old way! Here are a few of those old recipes.

How I Learned to Dance

It was 1956 and I was in the 6th grade.

The cafeteria at my school probably looked a lot like yours, a big rectangular room with many folding tables and chairs. Two open archways permitted entry into the food serving area, a sort of hallway with a large steamy kitchen in the back. Two tray-sliding lines converged at the middle where two cash registers rang up the tally. One line of students snaked in from the classroom hallway while the other actually formed inside the seating area. Huge windows looked out onto a parking lot with a drive-through/waiting area for the buses. The entire cafeteria was probably a metal building attached to the main school at some later period in time because if I looked up, I could see the steel beams supporting the roof. The actual school was one of those old two-story red brick monstrosities with names like Woodrow Wilson or Booker T. Washington although mine was named after the town, Harrington.

The food servers, who may have been preparers as well, always had red, sweaty faces, black hairnets, and names like Hazel. To me they were scary, trying to shove food at me and telling me what I should eat. I don't remember a lot of the cuisine, but I could always count on fish on Fridays. I don't ever remember eating it.

Just like at your school certain groups always sat together. This particular day while eating lunch someone in my group had a eureka moment.

"This would be a great place to dance if the tables were shoved back." My friend, Nancy, looked around for approval.

"I've got a portable record player I could bring in," someone else said.

Then, several of us chimed in with names of 45's we could bring. It was the beginning of the Elvis era and rock 'n roll. Hound Dog, Heartbreak Hotel, Blueberry Hill, and Long Tall Sally were making history.

All that was left to do was get permission. Somehow, I was unanimously elected for the job. I went straight to the top, Principal Feagin.

Now, Principal Feagin was not that fond of any of us, and he had a good reason. I had heard through the grapevine some practical joker in my class recently had called a funeral home in the middle of the night with the news that Mr. Feagin had died and would they please send a hearse to pick up the body. The next day someone, whose name shall remain anonymous, wished they were dead, and it wasn' t Principal Feagin.

Before the bell rang ending our lunch period, I went to the office to speak to Mrs. Burgess, Mr. Feagin's secretary. I figured I would need an appointment for something so important.

She looked up as I opened the door. "What can I do for you?"

"I need to make an appointment to see Principal Feagin," The words stumbled out rapidly as I was beginning to lose my nerve.

"And what do you need to see the Principal about?" She seemed to stare right through me as her dimples deepened and her eyes twinkled.

"Some friends and I would like to play some music in the cafeteria during the last half of our lunch period." And then I had my own eureka moment. "You know music is supposed to aid digestion." I'm not sure where that came from, but I thought it would be hard to argue against. We could sneak the dancing in on our own.

"Well, it just so happens the Principal is free right now. Come on, we'll go ask."

I gulped and followed her through to an office I, luckily, had never seen before. Mr. Feagin looked up as Mrs. Burgess opened the door. I had seen our principal throughout the school lots of times, but had never spoken directly to him. In the hallways he was this tall, thin, bald man with glasses who always wore a suit. And over the loud speaker in the morning, he never sounded like he had gotten up on the right side of the bed. This day was no different except he was sitting behind his desk and looked a little shorter. His left eyebrow raised when my tongue decided not to work. I couldn't tell whether it was a scowl or his natural demeanor.

Somehow I must have gotten the words out but for the life of me I cannot remember one syllable of that conversation. The next thing I knew Mrs. Burgess was ushering me out and congratulating me on my fine speech.

To everyone's surprise, Principal Feagin did give us his permission, and the very next day at lunch time, with each others' help, we all learned to dance to Elvis's "Blue Suede Shoes" and "You Ain't Nothin' But a Hounddog".

And now, almost 63 years later, here I am, reminiscing about the jitterbug, the twist, the stroll, the cha-cha-cha, and even old Principal Feagin.

Trash or Treasure?

Do you keep old birthday and holiday cards and letters you’ve received in the past, hang onto them as memorabilia? Or do you throw them away once you’ve read them and maybe answered with a card or letter of your own? I’ve always kept many of mine that I have received through the years, especially ones that make me smile or press my happy button. In fact, I put them in big baskets that I call my happy baskets. It used to be one basket, but that one overran itself some time ago. Some cards I’ve thought about framing because they are so beautiful, but I’ve never followed through, yet. The short, or sometimes long, messages inside keep me from sending them to the trash. I have a few that are over forty years old. I wish I had ones I received growing up, but back then I didn’t realize that they might be important to me later on.

And I keep the ones that mark special dates like wedding, birth and graduation announcements. Every once in a while I enjoy going back through them, reading and remembering. Of course, there are some funny audio birthday cards. I remember one to my husband on Father’s Day of a man on a mower with actual sounds of the mower when you opened it up, and another of a man snoring...you can guess what that sounds like. Sadly, some of those have lost their audio and stay mute when I open them. I’m not sure why that is. That makes me smile, too. Could there be a tiny little battery inside?

I like to keep all those from each person or family together, oldest to newest if I can, and as I look through them, I can see a record of the past unfolding. As I read, I remember things to go along with their written words, and memories of other times come back to me like a movie reel rolling. What are even dearer to me are the signatures of those who have passed on, a little piece of immortality.

I even keep those holiday cards with newsletters from family and friends, mainly because they always include photos and record a history of the writer’s past year’s escapades, although they usually only tell the good stuff. I heard once they were called brag letters so I could never bring myself to write one. I could never think of anything to brag about anyway. Once I thought of making something up, but I quickly came to my senses when I realized how easily my lies would be found out. I never was good at poker, and my children couldn’t keep a secret if their lives depended on it. But the newsletters are still keepers.

I like the real letters best, though, especially ones from my relatives when they would write with particular news. Some aren’t dated, and I play a game with myself trying to pick the year before I look at the dated stamp on the envelope. Sometimes I’m surprised by how far off I am. And letters from friends are so handy when you need to remember what someone’s son or daughter does for a living. I can never remember that stuff.

Now, it’s an unusual day for me to get a letter or card through the snail mail, and I miss that. Personal mail makes me feel special, to know that someone took time from their day to pick out a card or write a letter, find a stamp, address an envelope and put that into a mailbox. And postcards, now I really feel special if someone sends me a postcard. That means they interrupted their fun to do all that addressing and stamp-finding. Postcards I never throw away. There’s something about having a physical thing in hand. It means so much more to me than an electronic message, or even a phone call.

Writing Blocks & Overcoming Them

I’ve been writing my memoir for many years now and, as I’ve heard others say after working on it for a long amount of time, “I’m getting pretty sick of it.” I read what I’ve written over and over, making corrections, adding new thoughts and stories and memories, rearranging things so they make more sense, and at night I dream about the past, sometimes remembering something new for another story. But now I’ve reached a stumbling point, writer’s block to be specific, and that little voice in my head is asking why am I knocking myself out to do this? What is the point anyway?

So, I thought it would give me some new incentive if I could determine why writing about my past is important. Here are a few things I found from some research on the web:

• Out of six billion people on earth each person’s life story is unique and important to someone. How many times have you thought to yourself, if only I had asked so and so about that? Sad to say, this is a normal occurrence at a funeral or later. Don’t let it be your funeral. A memoir is a chance to set the record straight as you remember it.

• Writing memoir is a challenging mental activity. Who out there writing one wouldn’t agree with this? There is a myriad of help and writing prompts to be found on the internet. Answering intimate questions about one’s past and writing them down may lead to some clarity and can give today’s life new meaning.

• Relive the most profound moments of your life, put the reader in your shoes, and gift yourself immortality. Many authors have ended up feeling their memoir was their most important writing and that it became their legacy regardless of how many other books they had written.

• Your life has been enriched by the achievements and heritage of your ancestors. A memoir gives you the opportunity to pass this on. In written form, your life is documented, allowing others, perhaps generations later, to know you. That’s pretty empowering.

All of these things are good reasons, but in the end my memoir is my baby, and if I don’t love the process of writing about my past, not much is going to get done, and what does get written is not going to be very good or interesting to anyone else. Memoir is like writing about anything. There has to be a passion for it. So how do I get back the passion for writing my memoir?

One thing I know for certain, writing does clarify things and sharing that writing gives me a sense of self-worth. I share my stories in my blog and through a life history group of which I’m a member and, most importantly, through my writing critique group. Passion comes from many things but encouragement is a biggie with me, and I get that with my pod buddies. There’s something magical about sharing your life with others and when members of my group ask questions or say yeah, I remember doing that, or they want to hear more of a particular story, something deep in my soul just dances. And then I am passionate to write more.

In a way I started writing my life story long before I knew anything about a critique group. I’ve always kept a journal, diary if you prefer. I loved writing and I loved rereading what I had written. It brought me closer to me somehow, reading the journey of my life. I always caught myself saying I had forgotten about that as I read through.

Memoir is my favorite genre to read. I can’t get enough of hearing about other people’s lives. The book lying on my nightstand today is by Harry Crews, A Childhood, and as I read, I’m right there with him in that little Georgia town growing up in the Depression. I’m nosy but shy about asking personal questions. In memoir my questions are answered before I think of them.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that many things stir my passion for writing my own memoir and when I get a “block”, I have to remember to do those things to get me going again. Just writing this post is making me anxious to pull up “mybook.doc”, read a little and write a little, while the passion is flaming. I hope some of these suggestions will help you through a block because your story is important to you, to others, and to me.

Thinking About Blueberries

Picking blueberries with Aunt Fanny was an adventure I never wanted to miss. Toward the end of May or the first of June, I could expect to get a phone call letting me know local blueberries at a certain farm were ripe and abundant, and would I want to be picked up around 8 tomorrow morning? Absolutely!

Aunt Fanny usually had a couple of other ladies with her, but she always kept the front passenger seat reserved for me. Containers were stowed in her car trunk as well as ropes or belts to loop through the handles of the farm’s supplied buckets, and then they were tied or buckled around our waists, leaving our hands free for picking. Once we arrived at our destination the owner directed us to the next in line picking spot, always in the hot sun and getting hotter by the minute.

Fanny was a fast picker, outpacing me two to one, but I didn’t pay much attention, just enjoyed the company and munched a few berries as I picked, making sure they were good and sweet, which they always were. Like the others I started picking at chest level, but if I didn’t want to be admonished, I eventually had to bend and reach for the berries, picking the bush clean of ripe berries before advancing on to the next bush up the row. Sometimes the bushes might be next to a pine forest and depending on the sun, some shade might come my way, but this was unusual, and within a short period of time, I and the others were hot and sweaty. We dare not take a break because the sun was advancing in the sky, and soon, remaining in the field would be unbearable. At some point, upon agreement, we’d have to be satisfied with what we had picked, grab up our filled buckets, and return to weigh and pay.

I never picked blueberries with a group that Aunt Fanny was not part of. After she passed away, I always bought bags of berries already picked. Of course, they had been cooled and I never got that warm juicy flavor of the ones fresh from the bush. Not picking with others was just a sentimental thing. Aunt Fanny was a good friend and had a special place in my heart. I always think of her when the blueberries are ripe.

The Chaperone by Laura Moriarty
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I thoroughly enjoyed this well-written book set in the early 1900s and focusing on social topics of the times, topics we continue to relate to today. I checked it out because later this week I will be watching the movie (of the same title) at the Hipp Cinema in Gainesville, Florida. I hope the movie is as good as the book!

View all my reviews

More than enough...

We have more of them than we use, but when we need one, it’s always someplace else. So we buy another rather than feel guilty. And some of us could be considered hoarders of them. I’m talking about tote bags, those reusable bags that replace the hated plastic bag and that so many times we forget to carry into stores when we go shopping.

Did you know the original tote bag began life as an ice carrier, then, it was re-invented in 1944 and continues to be sold today as L.L. Bean’s Boat Bag? Now it’s called a Boat and Tote and comes in different colors, sizes, and prices.

Some of my tote bags were free, many were gifts or carried gifts, and most of them could stand a good wash since I have my favorites that I tend to use all the time. Some are heavy duty and some are pretty shoddy, but instead of throwing those away, I always think I may need them sometime and stash them on the ever-growing piles in the remote area of a closet or in the storage area in my truck or whatever area might be handy when it’s served its purpose. Some have handles that are too long, and I tell myself, “Oh, I can easily shorten that.” But do I ever get around to it? No. Yet it stays in the pile. Why would I get rid of something so worthwhile? Something that makes me appear to be socially aware.

The top of the pile.

If I don’t have a tote with me when I need one, I buy a tote so none of my totes are extra nice or pretty…except for that lovely library tote my grand daughter gave me one Christmas, the one with handles so long it drags the ground when I carry it filled with books. Yes, yes, I’m going to shorten those handles, honestly.

And some totes can be the ugliest totes imaginable, but would I throw one away? Never! It seems blasphemous somehow, and how good does a tote have to be if I paid nothing for it? I think of all the sea life that might die of plastic bags if I throw away a tote that one day I might need to use. I can’t bring myself to do it.

I have even made totes, as in sewing on my sewing machine, an item in my home with which I’m not terribly familiar. But when I select the YouTube app on my laptop and type in “easy tote bags to make”, there are so many videos to watch, one always sucks me in. After all, I’m saving a dollar, right? They’re not that easy for a non-sewer like me to make, and mine always seem to turn out twisted and warped. But I keep those, too, and feel somewhat proud of myself, contributing as I am to the saving of the environment.

And there are ways to use totes that send them on their way to bigger and better purposes. I have loaded a few with clothing for Goodwill and left them, bag and all. And pretty ones, think T.J. Maxx, or cute ones like Trader Joe’s, make great gift bags. Of course, ones I give away, I wash if possible, throwing into the washer a few of the ones I keep, too. Some of them I learned the hard way not to dry in the dryer, but even air-drying, they never look quite as good as they did before. And canvas ones really need ironing, and I’m going to do that, someday. At least they’re clean.

Best of all, I’ve discovered how to never be without a tote bag. Yes, I bought another one. While browsing in Book Gallery West next to the Millhopper Publix, I found this full size tote bag rolled up into a tiny ball and fastened with a snap tie. It takes up hardly any room at all in my purse so now I am never toteless. My only problem is that maybe I should have bought two.

Twitter Party for #CSSRunningforGood

Hope you will join the chat session on Twitter! My story is titled, "Aunt Fanny."

What to do with that one old banana?

I made some darn delicious banana muffins this afternoon! I had this poor little, almost black banana lying in the fridge, I'm sure you know the kind, so I posed the question to Google, who answered with the following easy one banana muffin recipe:

 Ingredients for 9-10 banana muffins (preheat oven at 350 degrees)

1/4 cup melted butter
1 mashed banana
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1/3 cup light brown sugar
1 tablespoon milk (mine was almond)
1 beaten egg
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/8 teaspoon salt
1 cup all-purpose flour

I melted the butter in a bowl in the microwave and let it cool some, then added the mashed banana, the two sugars, the milk, and the egg, and stirred them all together. Into that mixture, I dumped the rest of the ingredients and stirred it well. I dropped 2 heaping tablespoons into each of 10 paper cupcake holders, and baked them for 23 minutes.

Let them cool completely (if you can) before you try to take off the paper or you will lose a lot of your cupcake.

 I went back to Google and added up all the calories for each ingredient ending with a total of 1500, which divided by 10 cupcakes gave each one a caloric total of 150...not too bad considering how good they are.

I'm really looking forward to having (another) one with a cup of green tea later on this evening. Lots of other things could be added in but I had nothing else handy...walnuts, chocolate chips, craisins. And they are so good as is!

Writing News

So excited I had to share. My story titled "Aunt Fanny" will be in Chicken Soup for the Soul's next book due out on June 4th. You can preorder it on Amazon. Here is the cover...

The Blind Leading the Blind

My husband was a West Virginian and hunting was a popular sport especially in the fall during deer season. He always said he liked to hunt, but he enjoyed being in the woods and out in nature more than the act of hunting. After we married, we lived in Delaware for fifteen years. Hunting there was similar to West Virginia except for the mountainous terrain. Delaware is flat as a fritter unless you’re near the northern border with Pennsylvania. We lived in the middle of the State. The similar parts of hunting were the deer, white-tailed, grayish-brown in the fall, long noses with white throats, average size between 150-300 pounds, and possessing an uncanny sense of smell.

Jim had several buddies who hunted with him but the one time he shot a deer, our young son was along for the adventure. After field stripping the animal, it had to be tagged and registered at the nearest wildlife office. After dark on the way there, they were in a minor traffic accident, luckily sustaining no injuries or damages except to the deer tag which was held in the deer’s ear by a huge safety pin. It was completely torn out. Since it was Jim’s first, he had the head saved for immortality by a taxidermist. The ripped ear always led to a re-telling of all the circumstances leading up to it.

When we moved to Florida in 1978, we were busy building our house and had few thoughts of hunting or fishing. Fishing was my favorite pastime. The Gainesville area boasts many streams and lakes, but alligators shone a red light on these possibilities so when our thoughts did turn to fishing, the towns of Cedar Key, Crystal River or Suwannee were our destinations. Because of the distance, we determined to be satisfied with reservations on guided boats, and this worked well.

But during the first fall after we were settled in our new home, Jim’s thoughts turned again to hunting. We knew nothing about how to hunt in Florida, but our Bronson relatives touted it to be the best. Jim went hunting with them one time. He never saw a deer, but he did see two rattlers which really dampened his spirit for tramping through the pine forests of Levy County. And traveling in trucks with dogs was not particularly appealing to him either. We didn’t give up. We decided to look for a wooded place of our own. Where would be better than next to a wildlife refuge? We found the perfect spot near Fanning Springs, a few acres for sale that abutted the Andrews Wildlife Management Area. The realtor set a date for the showing.

Joel gave us directions and soon we were bumping down old Old Fanning Road, a limerock base at that time. On the left it paralleled railroad tracks, an electric line, and several old upright concrete survey markers. On the right side of the road, lanes, trails, and wooden signs indicated residences somewhere behind the jungle of trees and vines that crept up to the scraped edge of sand. Large and small potholes slowed our forward motion to 20 M.P.H. Finally, we saw the sign, NW 166^th Place. The entrance and exit were separated by a huge pine tree, and unlike what we expected from the nice green highway street sign, the road in was little more than two sandy ruts with a grass-covered centerline. We were to drive all the way to the end of the “street” until we saw a Jim King Realty sign on the right. Our forward motion slowed to 5 M.P.H.

We had plenty of time to look around but not a whole lot to look at. On the right we noticed a hand-painted wooden sign nailed to a tree, Wheele’s Hideaway with a trail leading somewhere but no sign of human habitation. Encouraged by the electric line snaking through the trees on our right, we crept on. Sometimes the path became two, one going right, one going left, in order to miss gigantic trees. This was a road of convenience to wildlife and man. At the end we saw a barbed wire fence, the realtor’s sign on the right and a pile of oyster shells on the left, remnants of a possible picnic we thought. From numerous turn-arounds, an actual cul-de-sac had been formed. On the other side of the fence line we spotted some black and white cows and remembered the map showing a farm with the wildlife preserve running along the back edge of the property.

We parked near the sign hesitating to pull into any part of the overgrown trail. We could see oaks, hickories, magnolias, and of course pines plastered against the bluest of blue skies. Jim rolled down his window and the air smelled of heat. It was late August. Some of the trees were unknown to us, dwarfed and bent, not thriving due to the amount of undergrowth. We spotted mockingbirds, hawks and vultures. The screeching sounds of the hawks and the sight before us made us feel like we were in the Amazon Jungle.

But we were not daunted by how remote it was. That was what we wanted, and we bought the property. Jim already had a tractor so we started looking around for a bushhog to clear a path. This was not a problem either. We quickly found a used one and got both tractor and bushhog to the site. Then we discovered the real world of jungle clearing, not quite as much fun as we anticipated. And, in the meantime, we had seen some small deer running about and decided there was no way we would be killing those cute little things.

But the woods were quiet, they smelled great, and they were away from it all. We decided to go ahead, cut a path, and build a tree blind where we would sit and relax while watching the wildlife below.

The first problem was tree roots. There is a metal pin that connects the bushhog hitch to the tractor, and since tree roots are slightly immovable, when the “hog” got stuck on one, the pin snapped. Very soon, we were on a first-name basis with the tractor supply dealer in Trenton.

My job was to walk behind the bushhog at a little distance and clear the path of large sticks. You would think this was a pretty easy and safe job. The first problem is the noise and I soon found out the second problem. City slickers that we were, I did not know yellow jackets nested in holes in the ground. I never heard a buzz. Those stinging monsters were all over me before I knew what was happening. Of course, I ran which turned out to be the best thing I could have done. I jumped into the truck and slammed the door. Jim didn’t even miss me – for awhile – until he turned around and looked. We quit early that day. When I got home and counted, I had about thirty stings.

When we went back to continue our clearing, I decided to make some grapevine wreaths. After all, millions were hanging from the trees, free for the taking. I had my pruners handy and began yanking them down. What fun. I had two huge, beautiful wreaths intertwined with Spanish moss when my arms started itching a little, but I didn’t pay too much attention. After we got back home, I laid down for a nap. I was pooped. I woke up scratching. Chiggers. The medicine does not work. Showers and time is the only cure.

We didn’t give up though. We wanted to watch those wild animals. I’ll bet they were watching us and laughing their butts off.

Our next misadventure involved a squirrel hunter. I am just assuming he, or she, was a squirrel hunter, we never saw the person. But we did hear the whiz of the buckshot as it traveled just above our heads while we sat enjoying our lunch. We both ran for the truck that time. I guess somebody else thought it was good for hunting too.

After seeing snakes, turtles, a huge hornets’ nest on the side of a hickory, and almost running the tractor into a natural sink, we finally got our path cut and a tree blind built. We used it a few times but the only wildlife we saw was a mother sow and her piglets. They took their darn sweet time passing below our tree and finally getting far enough away for both us to dash to the truck. Oh, and I forgot to mention, never eat in a tree blind. Ants can find a dropped bread crumb from miles away. 

Doing Without and Loving It

            I’ve not had cable television since I can’t remember when. Let me just say it’s been a long time. I grew fed up with Cox continually raising their rates, and I was even more upset when I thought about how I was paying to watch commercials. The real turning point came when my family room television died, and I was faced with buying a new one. The overwhelming answer was “No way.”

            Now, all my viewing is mostly free, monetarily and commercially, using my pc monitor or laptop, and I’ve never regretted pulling the plug, literally. Although some of my viewing is historical, that is watching a program that has already aired live, many are available as they are happening through YouTube and other sites. Congressional hearings are always live on YouTube if you’re into that. Our local news stations are live, and PBS evening news is published live stream as it occurs. Most are archived to watch when you have the time and inclination.

            I can read the paper online (incognito mode) if I feel the need of more news, and I can “Google” news to keep abreast of everything happening in the world. It’s actually much faster than television where I was continuously flipping channels to find what I wanted.

            For entertainment, I’ve become very creative. Old movies, British TV series, which I love, and how-to videos proliferate YouTube. If you can imagine it, it’s there. Someone has already posted the video. Would you like to make donuts from biscuits, a grocery bag from a pillowcase, or how about paint a pot of lavender in watercolors? All are available at the tap of a finger. I find myself watching things I had no idea I might be interested in. Got a plumbing problem or want to learn the best way to grow herbs inside? Search on YouTube. You will find an appropriate video…or ten. For any problem you have, there is a video for it on YouTube.

            I have been entertained by concert pianists, wowed by travelogues to foreign places, and even watched as Insight landed on Mars. YouTube is full of documentaries on interesting subjects and biographies of famous people. You pick, you choose.

            When I’m bored with the free stuff, there’s always Netflix and Hulu for less than $10 a month, or I can watch findtv.net and pay as I go. Then, there’s Amazon Prime which includes a lot more than television and movies, and even my donation to WUFT comes with Passport privileges to PBS programs like Masterpiece, which I love.

            If you’re into books, silly question, there’s a website you may not have heard of, C-Span Book TV, which is all about authors, books, and more. Check it out. It is unique.

            And I must admit I have read so many more books since aborting television, usually two per week, which I mainly download from our library through the e-books media site onto my Kindle Fire. I only read at night a couple of hours or so accompanied by a soothing cup of hot chocolate, so much better than television. There are several sites to read classics online, classic reader, page by page books, American literature, and archive.org will let you listen, all of these are free to use. Gutenberg.org is another gem.

            I am confident there are many more sites out there that I am yet to find. After all it is the world-wide-web. So, if anyone asks if I miss television, my resounding answer is no, not at all! In fact, I have benefited 100% by pulling out that plug!

The Gift

      

            It was the mid 1950s and I had a birthday coming up. Usually I received board games or puzzles or books, but this year the twelfth of November was on a Saturday, and Mommy woke me early.
            “Get up and get dressed, Connie. We’re going to Milford to do some shopping.”
            Trips in our pale blue Ford Coupe were rare occasions and had to be important. I suspected a birthday present was in the works and slipped into some school clothes faster than on any school day. Milford was five times as far away as Harrington, our closest town, and had lots more places to shop, so my imagination and anticipation soared. Mommy slid in behind the wheel ignoring my thousand questions.
            At the main traffic light in Milford we turned right and pulled into a curbside parking spot in front of an unfamiliar store, a pet store. I conjured up a mental image of kittens and puppies of all colors and sizes licking, climbing and jumping on me standing at the center of their attention. Mommy tapped on my window and beckoned me to come on, putting a temporary end to my fantasies.
            Inside the store Mommy walked right up to the counter like she was best friends with the sales clerk. I hung back, overwhelmed by all the activity around me. I saw not only cats and dogs, but parrots, guinea pigs, white mice, and other things I had no names for. An array of snakes and a beautiful aquarium with the most colorful fish in the world wreaked havoc with my imagination.
            Mommy walked toward me carrying…a shoebox with holes in it?
            “Don’t worry. You’ll like it,” she said with a smile as she handed it to me. I held it out in front of me as she opened the door to go outside.
            She followed me to the car, opened my door, and told me to wait and not to open the box which was now resting on my knees. I could feel something moving around in there, but decided I should do as she said. It could be anything, even a snake, but I couldn’t imagine my mom getting me a snake.
            Soon she was back outside carrying a cage and a couple more bags. The secret was out; and I had a good idea about what was in the box. It took all my self-control not to pop up that lid. The ride home was interminable, and the occupant of the box was quiet as the proverbial mouse.

           Finally back home, I helped carry in the packages and set up the stand with the birdcage and all its accessories. I don’t remember how I decided on Petie’s name, it just came to me natural-like. When Mommy said I could open the box, she showed me how to extend my index finger in front of Petie’s feet, and he hopped right on. We were buddies from the start. I carried him up to his cage, guided my hand inside and he jumped onto one of the side wires. He hung there and looked at me for several minutes, sizing me up. I guess I passed the parakeet test because he quickly decided to ignore me and jumped into his water dish splashing most of the liquid onto the clean paper Mommy had just put in the bottom of his cage.

            In the months and years to come, Petie filled in for the siblings I never had. When I came home from school each day, he and I watched Bandstand together. I could tell he liked it as much as I did. He would sway from side to side and move his little head up and down keeping time to the music. It seemed no time before he was saying, “Pretty bird, pretty boy,” and giving me that sexy whistle boys covertly make to flatter pretty girls. He was a fast learner.
            At night I covered his cage with a soft, flowery towel so he would know it was bedtime. Once I peeked in and there he stood on his swing, eyes closed. Another time I looked and he was standing on one leg with the other tucked up under him. I thought he really must get exhausted having to stand up all the time. When the sun came up and light filtered through his cover, he woke me up by ringing his toy bell and giving me that sexy whistle. If I dawdled at removing the towel, his little head feathers would rise up showing his displeasure with my lazy attitude. He had his own special morning treat, then, he bathed in his water bowl and preened in front of his mirror while I had my breakfast.
            I never tired of Petie’s entertaining antics and often opened his cage door so he could fly around inside the house. He would light on the curtain rods and, like royalty, survey his domain. If I tapped my shoulder, he would land there and nibble on my ear, making funny little clicking noises deep down in his throat.
            I’ll always remember those happy years growing up with Petie, but life continues on for little girls. I graduated high school and went away to college, and in my self-centered teenage world I did not give much thought to the effect my absence would have on Petie. When it was time to come home for Thanksgiving break, Mommy had bad news. Petie’s appetite had dwindled to the vanishing point during the months I was gone and he had died a couple days before. She waited until I got home to tell me.
            I sobbed and sobbed and felt Petie’s loss as much as if he had been my real-life brother. Together, Mommy and I dug a small hole in our backyard beside a tall pine tree. I lay Petie inside his flowered towel and wrapped him up with his mirror and bell and a special treat just in case he got hungry.
            Thanksgiving was a sad holiday at our home that year, but in time the sad memories faded, and I remembered all the joy Petie had brought into my life, always singing when I came in the door from school, waiting for me to turn on Bandstand.

Petie

Visiting the Horses

A couple of weekends ago my daughter came for a surprise visit, and we decided to drive to Mill Creek Horse Farm and see the rescued and retired horses. It is a short drive and after exiting the Interstate and 441 in Alachua, it turns scenic.

My daughter volunteered at the farm a few times when she was younger and always enjoyed interacting with the various breeds in their senior years though some were not in very good health. On the Farm’s website, carrots were advertised as the entry fee, and we had picked up a huge bagful at Publix, large and small ones.

 We were surprised when we arrived at the farm to see a huge crowd of single people and families who had come to spend their Saturday petting, talking to, and feeding elderly horses. Cars were parked all along the entrance driveway and the parking lot overflowed with family vehicles spilling out laughing and rambunctious little ones. There was a festival atmosphere.

 On our way in we had noticed three forlorn-looking horses standing at the rails of a fenced paddock, one with a fitted mask over its eyes, so we made it our priority to walk back to see them as soon as we had parked, thinking they had very few visitors. They were gentle and seemed to know we had carrots although their teeth allowed them to eat only the baby ones. The plaque on their fence told us they had been there a long time. We lingered awhile petting and talking to them then moved on into the farm and the crowds.

 There was a sort of entry point where you could make a donation if you wanted to, buy t-shirts and calendars advertising the farm and its horses, or pick up some carrots or sliced apples if you forgot to bring some. We followed the sandy path appropriately called the “Mane Concourse” that led between the many different fenced pastures. Plaques adorned the board fencing with information about all the horses in that particular field. Each one had its own story.

Rainy was the first elder we met. She was a white quarter-horse mare that was found abandoned and luckily rescued by police. After two months of rehab on a ranch in South Florida, she came to Mill Creek to live out her final years, never to be worked or ridden again. She was attentive and loved carrots. Her information told us she had an old injury to one of her hind legs.

 We meandered on, pausing to pet, talk, and feed any horses waiting patiently at their fence line. The pastures were still a lovely green. We noticed covered hay feeders and water containers scattered about. Motorized carts passed us carrying volunteers going or coming from whatever work they were assigned for the day.

Even though the parking area was filled with vehicles, the sanctuary’s 335 acres quickly thinned out the crowd of visitors, and with 140 horses in residence, everyone leisurely roamed around and interacted with the animals. We crisscrossed the sandy lane from fence line to fence line, visiting and feeding the eager participants, occasionally chatting with the other animal lovers.

We stopped to read about Ginny, a 14-year old mare, who had been a dressage horse. She was following us along the fence enthusiastically, switching her tail, nodding her head across the top board, almost speaking to say she wanted a carrot. She seemed a little feisty so my daughter carefully gave her the longest carrots, which she ate quickly. As we turned to go on, Ginny suddenly bumped against Erica’s arm, maybe thinking her red shirt was another carrot. Erica got this “what happened” look on her face and pushed up her sleeve to see blood pouring from a bite shaped just like Ginny’s mouth.

It was a shock at first because all the other horses were so gentle, eating the baby carrots from the palm of her hand. Luckily I had a pack of tissues and some Hand Sanitizer. Erica poured that over the bite to some wincing and held the tissues tightly to stop the bleeding.

A couple other visitors looked in disbelief and offered help. One directed us toward a barn and said someone there would give us a Band-Aid, which unfortunately I did not have. We told that person that Ginny was aggressive and should be moved to an inaccessible pasture until she learned better manners, and she agreed that she would have someone do that. We felt the very small children would be at risk of injury, maybe even some of the big children like us.

 So that sort of put a damper on our day at the horse retirement farm, and after getting the Band-Aid, we made our way back to the car. Erica insisted she felt fine and we continued on to High Springs for a late lunch and a visit to some of the many craft and antique shops on Main Street. When she returned home and took off the Band-Aid, it was still bleeding so she poured some peroxide over it and re-bandaged it. It still hasn’t completely healed as of last night, but it is improving.

 The lesson we learned was that just because an animal is old, it remains an animal and cannot be trusted to do what you think it should do. From now on, we’ll keep this in mind and act accordingly.