The best laid plans

I thought I was so prepared.  I started prepping for Thanksgiving dinner two weeks in advance.  I cooked pans of cornbread and biscuits for the dressing.  I bought a huge collard plant and spent most of the Sunday afternoon before Thanksgiving cooking it.  I made one last stop at the grocery store on my way home from work Wednesday afternoon; we got off at 12.  I was ready.

When I got home, I cooked sweet potatoes, and prepared the sweet potato praline casserole so all I’d have to do was pop it in the oven with the dressing on Thanksgiving after the turkey was done.  I made the congealed salad and crumbled all of those biscuits and cornbread for the dressing.  I carefully read the tag on the turkey and calculated when I’d need to put it in the oven so that Thanksgiving dinner would be on the table at noon.

Thanksgiving morning, Dillon and I went for a walk.  I came home, put the turkey in the oven, and started watching the Macy’s parade.  The turkey was done by 10:30.  I was ahead of schedule!  I chopped the onion for the dressing and went to the spice cabinet for the celery seed.  Mom always swore that celery seed was the key to the dressing.  She said you should shake and shake until you thought you’d added enough, and then shake some more.  Her dressing was always wonderful. 

My carefully choreographed morning came to a grinding halt when I couldn’t find the bottle of celery seed in the cabinet.  I went through the cabinet twice, thinking I’d just overlooked it the first time.  Then I started frantically taking spice jars out of the cabinet instead of just pushing them around, certain that I’d find the celery seed.  I remembered buying a new bottle last year.  The only bottle of celery seed I could find was a jar with the date 2000 written in Mom’s handwriting.  Oh, dear!  That’s not actually what I said, but I’m trying to keep the story PG rated.

I grabbed my purse and headed for the door.  Dad looked up in surprise, but I didn’t stop to tell him where I was going.  Time was slipping away and I could be to the grocery store and back by the time I repeated everything until he understood what I was saying.  I was only planning to be gone 5 minutes.  The best laid plans.  There was only an empty hole on the store shelf where the celery seed should have been.  Okay, I’d have to go to the other Food Lion.

I dashed into the second Food Lion and found myself staring at another empty hole on the shelf where the celery seed was supposed to be.  Another woman was also staring intently at the shelf.  “I can’t believe they’re out of celery seed on Thanksgiving!” I said, disgusted.  “That’s what my mother sent me to get,” she replied.  “Well, they’re out of it at the store on the Avenue too,” I informed her.  “My mother is just going to have to use something else.  I’m not going anywhere else,” she assured me.  Good luck with that, I thought.  Most cooks aren’t big on messing with their dressing recipe.  Especially not at Thanksgiving. 

I headed for the next grocery store.  Where I was once again met with an empty hole on the shelf where the celery seed should have been.  There was a man staring at shelf in bemusement.  “I hope you’re not looking for what I’m looking for,” he told me.  “I’m looking for celery seed and there’s not a bottle in this damn town,” I said.  “There’s no paprika either,” he said sadly.  I left him still staring at the shelf.

By that time I was beginning to panic.  I don’t know how to make dressing without celery seed.  I wound up going to all 5 grocery stores in this town, plus Walmart, Big Lots, Dollar Tree and Walgreens.  There was not a single bottle of celery seed to be found in this town.  My back up plan was to serve Stove Top stuffing.  Not really an acceptable alternative, but no way was I messing up my biscuits and cornbread by trying to substitute or omit.  I’d just freeze them for Christmas.

In desperation, I called my cousin, Janet.  When I asked if she had any celery seed, she said yes.  Hope began to blossom.  “Do you have enough to share?” I asked, crossing my fingers.  “Yes,” she said, sounding a bit hesitant.  “Are you sure?” I asked.  “Yes,” she said again, still sounding doubtful.  It must have been the desperation in my voice that made her sound unsure.  It turns out, she doesn’t use celery seed in her dressing, so I guess my frantic demand for celery seed sounded a bit crazy.  She met me at the door with the precious bottle of celery seed. 

I’d been gone an hour.  It was almost noon.  I’m sure Dad was wondering what on earth I was doing.  As soon as I got home, I dashed into the kitchen and started adding celery seed to the bowl of crumbled biscuits and cornbread I’d left on the counter.  Dad went to the cabinet for the plates to put on the table.  Surely, he realized we were not going to be eating on time.  “It’ll be at least an hour,” I informed him.  Then I told him of my search.  “Whenever you’re ready is fine,” he assured me.  “Everything will work out.”  “It wouldn’t have without celery seed for the dressing,” I said.  Dressing is the most important part of Thanksgiving dinner.

As soon as I popped the dressing into the oven, I e-mailed Food Lion to let them know what I thought of their inventory control.  “Your mother would have been proud,” Dad informed me, laughing.  If a company made the mistake of having an 800 number, they were going to hear from my mother if they didn’t perform up to her expectations.  Thanksgiving is all about family and food.  We had both.

Weekend at Bernie’s

I feel very strongly about the importance of voting.  Especially if I know you’ll be voting for my candidate.  Fortunately, for the sake of a peaceful household, Dad and I share the same political views.  I tried to get him to take advantage of early voting.  Not only for the sake of convenience, but just in case he died before Election Day. 

I know, the votes of dead people aren’t supposed to be counted.  But the odds were that no one would bother to match up death certificates to early ballots.  It promised to be a close race and every vote would make a difference.

Dad didn’t want to vote early.  He wanted to vote on Election Day.  His appointment at the VA hospital in Richmond was scheduled for Election Day, but since it wasn’t until 1 p.m., he planned to vote first and then head for Richmond.  That being the case, I was surprised when he still wasn’t up when Dillon and I returned from our walk.

Whenever he isn’t up by the usual time, I always think the worst.  This time I was going to be really pissed if he’d died overnight without having voted.  I was quite relieved to open his bedroom door and see that he was still breathing.  I shook him awake and went to take a shower.

I told him later that it was a good thing he’d still been among the living because if he was dead, I was planning on strapping him into a wheelchair, rolling him to the poles, and “helping him” vote.  It was going to be Election Day at Bernie’s.  Dad just laughed.

I voted during my lunch hour.  The ladies manning the poles informed me that my father had already voted.  When I told them my plan, they laughed nervously exclaiming, “You wouldn’t!”  “You didn’t!”  “I would and I did,” I assured them.

Dad left a note on the kitchen counter for me.  “I voted.  Won’t need wheelchair.”  I told him that night that the next time he went to vote, the poll workers would probably insist on taking his pulse before they gave him a ballot.  It’s good that he still has a sense of humor.

Loves dogs, hates leaves

I’m beginning to seriously consider handing over the leaf raking to someone else, at Dad’s expense of course.  Two Sundays ago, I cranked up the lawnmower to mulch the leaves in the backyard.  I hate to rake, so last fall I just kept mowing over the leaves and it worked for the most part.

Dad had already done his part; I mean that sarcastically, by raking the two small squares of sod he put down last summer.  I refuse to touch them because he asked me if I’d raise the lawnmower setting when I did those two areas so as not to stress his grass.  My answer was that I’d simply stay away from his precious sod and I haven’t reconsidered my position. 

Of course, he didn’t take the leaves he raked to the curb or the power line right of way.  He simply left the piles for me to deal with.  Exactly the way he treats all of his dirty dishes.  Therefore, there were a couple of areas where the leaves were so deep that I couldn’t see if one of Dillon’s tennis balls was nestled among them.  Until I hit it and heard the clunking noise.  I just kept mowing, thinking that the worst that would happen is I’d need to buy Dillon another ball.

I was wrong.  The worst that would happen was a trip to the emergency vet in Wilson after I spied Dillon chewing on the remains of the tennis ball.  He was in the act of trying to swallow.  I took the mangled ball away from him and calculated that there was less than half the ball there.  I immediately began searching unsuccessfully for the rest.  I kicked leaves, I peered intently at the ground, I asked Dillon why on earth he’d want to eat a tennis ball to begin with.

Then I started worrying that if he had eaten the ball, it probably wouldn’t come out as easily as it had gone down.  Stories of dogs that had died due to intestinal blockages started running through my brain.  I did a quick internet search that said within 30 minutes to 2 hours of ingestion, there was a chance that inducing vomiting would bring the foreign object back up.  Unfortunately, if the pieces were too big, there was a risk that the dog would choke.  I called the emergency vet’s office and they confirmed that was the case. 

Time for a road trip.  I loaded Dillon into the car and headed for Wilson.  It’s about 45 minutes away via I-95.  Dillon doesn’t particularly like to ride in the car and he has a tendency to get carsick.  Around town, he lies quietly in the back seat.  He started out that way, but a few miles down I-95, he thought that perhaps he’d prefer the front passenger seat. 

I wasn’t crazy about the balancing act he was performing which placed his butt perilously close to the gear shift.  It got worse however when he tried to climb behind me in the driver’s seat.  I was driving 75 miles an hour down a busy interstate, trying to persuade him to get out of my seat, and thinking that if he threw up on me, I’d probably crash, we’d both die, and it wouldn’t matter whether or not he’d eaten a tennis ball.

Dillon finally returned to the back seat and we made it to Wilson.  The vet took x-rays, which revealed the raw peanuts complete with hulls that Dillon had raided from Dad’s stash in the garage before we left.  The results were inconclusive as to whether or not he’d eaten the missing part of the tennis ball.  They induced vomiting, but no tennis ball pieces came up with the peanuts. 

Thankfully, Dillon is fine.  The money I spent on the vet bill could have paid a lawn service to rake all of my leaves for the rest of leaf season.  Not wanting to repeat the same mistake, this Sunday I decided I’d rake the yard. 

I grabbed my gardening gloves off the porch table and started putting them on as I walked down the yard to where I planned to begin.  I suddenly felt a sharp pain in the pinky finger of my right hand.  I quickly pulled the glove off and dropped both gloves to the ground.  A yellow jacket exited the left hand glove as I dropped it.  The right hand glove was still buzzing.  I kicked at it a couple of times to confirm that a bee was still inside it. 

Then I went into the house to ask Dad where his reacher tool was.  No way was I touching those gloves with my bare hands and I needed to move them to rake the yard.  Which I still planned to do despite my throbbing finger.  Dad wanted to know what on earth I had been doing kicking at the ground.  I explained the situation and he looked at me like I was crazy.  Then he headed for the basement to get the reacher.

While in the basement, he asked if I needed another pair of gloves.  I said yes.  He handed me a pair of gloves that were lying on the brick partition.  “Your mother used these when she was working in the yard.”  I took them from him, dropped them on the cement floor, and stomped on them a couple of times. 

“What are you doing?” he asked incredulously.  “I’m making sure that any insects inside them are dead before I put my hands in them,” I replied.  “They’ve just been lying there for a couple of years,” he said as if I had lost my mind.  “Well, my gloves had just been lying on the table for a couple of weeks,” I answered.

I got the yard raked without further injury.  But I really think that after my experiences the last two Sundays, someone is trying to send me a sign that I should leave the raking to the professionals.

Heading in the right direction

Dad made it to the VA hospital and back.  He only got lost once.  At least, that’s all he admitted to.  I had printed out the directions from the hospital’s website.  Unfortunately, there was some type of roadwork going on and a detour was involved.  Since Dad has a lousy sense of direction, I was surprised that he still managed to get there, but apparently, the building was tall enough that he could see it. 

He even got lucky in that the audiology department was located right inside the main entrance.  He got an appointment for Election Day.  He didn’t even have to argue with the woman, which disappointed him.  He looks forward to matching his wits against the opposition and had his arguments all lined up.

Naturally, I didn’t find out any of this until I got home from work that evening.  Dad has a cell phone, but I’m not sure he knows how to use it.  When I answered a call at work that morning, all I heard was heavy breathing and rustling noises.  I said “hello” several times and got no response.  I finally hung up.  “That was probably my father,” I told the other women in the office.  I was mostly joking because I doubt he knows my work phone number.

Cindy, the office manager, asked me later if I’d heard from Dad.  “No, and I won’t because he won’t use the telephone,” I replied.  “I took it as a good sign that there were no messages on the answering machine when I went home for lunch.  At least that means that emergency personnel aren’t trying to locate me.”  I wasn’t entirely kidding. 

Driving home that evening, I just kept repeating over and over in my head, “Please let him be there.  Please let him be there….”  I can’t tell you how relieved I was to turn the curve and see his car parked in the drive.  He regularly frustrates the hell out of me, but as I told him that morning, “We’d miss you if you didn’t come back.” 

I added that last sentiment almost as an afterthought.  I spent more time reminding him to watch out for other cars.  If he had an accident and left us homeless, I was never going to forgive him.  “Maybe I should take Dillon with me,” he commented, as if Dillon could fill the role of backseat driver that Mom had performed for so many years.  “Forget it.  If I’m going to be homeless, I at least want my dog,” I said.

My next assignment is to find out what time the polls open on Election Day.  I tried to get him to take advantage of early voting, but he’s determined to cast his ballot on Election Day.  His appointment isn’t until 1 p.m. so it shouldn’t be a problem.  The election is supposed to be close, and Dad and I are both yellow dog Democrats, so I want his vote counted.

Soup's on

I made a big pot of Mom’s homemade vegetable soup over the weekend.  I thought it would be nice to have some for lunch on Monday.  I knew that if I left it up to Dad, he’d sit in his chair, waiting for me to come home for lunch and heat up the soup for both of us.  There was no reason he couldn’t heat it up and have it ready when I got home for a change.  

I knew portion size would be an issue, so I went ahead and filled zip lock bags with enough soup for two people.  All he had to do was dump the contents of the bag into a pot and heat.  Simple.

I explained my plan to him the night before.  I assured him that I’d made the process as idiot-proof as possible.  “Do I have to take the soup out of the bag or can I just dump the bag into the pot?” he queried.  “I was giving you credit for having some common sense,” I assured him when I reminded him that he did have to pour the soup out of the baggie prior to heating.  He knew that, he was just trying to be a smart-ass.

The next morning, he wanted to know what time he should begin heating the soup.  I come home for lunch at the same time every day.  “Heating soup isn’t rocket science,” I told him.  I knew if I didn’t give him a time, it would become an issue.  “Start heating it about 5 minutes to 12.”  Everything is such a production when my father’s involved.

When I got home for lunch, the soup was boiling.  Mom liked her soup so hot it would scald your tongue.  Not me.  I put an ice cube in my bowl when Dad wasn’t looking.  It was nice to have lunch ready when I arrived.

Not wanting to press my luck, I didn’t ask for a repeat performance today.  So I was surprised to come home and find Dad dipping up a bowl of soup.  He’d raided the pantry and found a can of Campbell’s tomato soup.  He was only planning to feed himself, but since he never eats more than 1 bowl, that seemed a waste.  I asked if he was planning to have seconds.  He assured me that he wasn’t.  I decided I’d eat the rest of the soup in the pot. 

I poured it into a bowl and it only filled the bowl halfway.  “Did you add a can of liquid to the soup?” I asked.  “I only added about ¾ of a can of liquid,” he replied.  Dad doesn’t understand ratios.  He figures if he only wants a certain amount of soup, he’s wasting resources by adding more liquid than he’ll eat.  I can’t convince him that the amount of liquid affects the taste and particularly the salt content.

A grilled cheese sandwich was definitely in order if I was going to get a meal out of that pitiful bowl of soup.  I had almost finished cooking my sandwich when Dad came back into the kitchen, bowl in hand.  He looked at the soup I’d put in a bowl for myself.  “Were you going to eat that?” he asked.  What did he think I was planning to do? 

“You said you didn’t want it,” I answered.  “Well, I didn’t realize that one bowl wasn’t going to fill me up,” he said pitifully.  “You can have it,” I told him.  “Won’t that mess up your lunch?” he asked.  Yes, but what else was I supposed to do?  “No, I’ll just eat the sandwich,” which I would never have fixed if I hadn’t been planning to eat the tomato soup, I assured him.

He took the bowl of soup back to the table.  After a couple of spoonfuls, he said maybe he should have left well enough alone and only eaten the first bowl.  “Well now that we’ve managed to dirty two bowls just so you could have soup, you’d better eat it,” I snapped.  Not to mention that he’d used separate spoons to heat and eat.  You can tell he never washes a dish because he doesn’t care how many he dirties.  By this time, I was definitely annoyed.

He went on to complain about his frustrating morning trying to telephone the VA hospital about his appointment for hearing aids.  They’re incredibly backlogged and Dad is not a patient person.  He’s about decided to drive to Richmond, find the VA hospital, and check on things in person.  He figures he’s going to get lost, so going in advance to get the lay of the land isn’t such a bad idea.

His next topic of conversation was last night’s Presidential debate.  He knows I don’t watch the debates.  I know who I’m voting for and I don’t enjoy listening to the posturing.  Still, Dad had to give me his expert analysis.  

When he concluded, I suggested that before he went to the VA hospital, he should probably take advantage of early voting.  “That way if you’re never heard from again at least your vote will count,” I assured him.

He burst out laughing, looked at Dillon, and complained that he knew where he stood.

Sunday rambling

Those people who say you should eat slowly and savor every bite don’t live with my dog.  How am I supposed to enjoy my pie when Dillon is sitting in front of me, salivating to the point that drool is dripping from his mouth, waiting for me to finish so he can lick the plate?  He must really like lemon pie because I don’t think I’ve ever seen him drool that much before. 

I’m still on soft foods, so I skipped the bacon again this morning.  Dad didn’t order any either and instead of reliving last week’s argument, I made him stop at Food Lion on the way home so I could buy a bag of Beggin’ Strips.  I absolutely could not go home empty handed.  Dillon would never forgive me.  He looks forward to his weekly piece of bacon and lets me know by barking from the time the car stops in the driveway until I get in the house.

I decided I’d take a chance that the commercial that showed the dog in a frenzy for bacon when it was actually Beggin’ Strips wasn’t false advertising.  Dillon’s tail kept wagging and he didn’t spit it out.  It did take a bit more chewing than real bacon, but he didn’t seem overly disappointed.

I played the autoharp to accompany the Family Choir at church this morning.  Luckily, Jane let me bring it home earlier in the week so I could practice.  There were more chords in this song than last time I played.  When I started practicing on Monday, Dillon got up and left the room.  He didn’t come back until I quit playing.  I have to admit, it sounded pretty bad.  I’d have left too if someone else had been playing. 

At first, I thought the autoharp must be out of tune.   I quickly realized the fault was mine.  I wasn’t pressing the buttons down hard enough and I wasn’t holding the pick at the proper angle.  After practicing every night this week, I finally improved enough that Dillon would stay in the room with me. 

Dad stood over me one evening and wanted to know if the autoharp would be louder when I played in church.  “I hope to God not,” I told him.  I shared my stories with Jane and the choir and urged them to sing loudly.   I didn’t hit any wrong chords, and no one covered their ears, so I guess it sounded okay.

You’d think from my recent blog posts, which are becoming few and far between, that I was a really active church-goer.  Truth be told, I only go when Jane asks me to participate in some way.  The new minister addressed attendance during the sermon this morning.  I like him very much, but I think he’s counting heads and taking names.  Being one of the few members under the age of 70 makes it harder to remain inconspicuous.   He’s already told me once that he missed me the previous Sunday.   I’m beginning to think I should take that as a threat instead of a compliment.

Bringing home the bacon

I had a root canal two weeks ago. The endodontist does it as a two-part procedure. I went in for the second part this morning. I’ve had root canals before and they’ve all been accomplished in one visit. I prefer that method. This two-part procedure reminds me of the old joke about the man who didn’t want to hurt his dog, so he cut his tail off a little at a time. It just prolongs the suffering in my opinion.

Their office resembles a house from the outside. The back walls of the exam rooms are mostly glass and look out onto a yard that’s filled with bird feeders and a bird bath. I’m sure it’s intended to be restful and calming. Unfortunately, if you’re there in the morning, the sun is right in your eyes. This morning, I was in a different room than I was on prior visits. The dental hygienist handed me a pair of sunglasses. I guess that’s less expensive than investing in a set of blinds?

The first thing they do before they begin is take your blood pressure. This morning the hygienist kept pumping and pumping. I don’t know what she was thinking, but she about cut off my circulation. I’ve never had anyone pump the cuff up that tight. All of a sudden, she realized what she was doing and started letting the air out and apologizing profusely.

“I’ve never pumped it that tight on anyone before,” she said. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” “I thought we were going for the tourniquet method,” I replied, hoping that was going to be the only snafu of the procedure. I swear I pray more in the dentist’s chair than I do in church on Sunday.

After the first part of the procedure, the endodontist had warned me to be careful and try not to chew on the side of my mouth that he’d been working on. The final step is to have a crown put on and until then there’s the possibility of breaking the tooth. I made sure to cook soft foods like pasta and soups. When Dad and I went to breakfast on Sunday, I skipped the bacon I usually order. Eggs and grits are soft and posed no danger.

Dad ordered scrambled eggs and toast. “He wants bacon too,” I informed the waitress. “I don’t want any bacon,” Dad said. “He wants bacon,” I assured her. “I don’t want any bacon,” Dad repeated. “Bacon comes with the order and you have to get the bacon,” I told him. “But I don’t want bacon,” he said yet again.

“Dillon expects me to bring him a piece of bacon. I don’t care if you eat the rest of it or not, but there has to be a piece of bacon to take home to Dillon,” I said very firmly. Dad shook his head in disgust, but quit arguing. When his order arrived and he’d given me a piece of bacon for Dillon, I noticed he ate a couple of pieces himself. I don’t know if he decided he wanted it after all or he just couldn’t stand the thought of paying for something and not eating it.

Frightfully fun

I'm enjoying my new Halloween wreath. It was super simple to make. I found the purple and black wreath and witches hat garland at Michael's. The spiders are from the $1 bins at Target. I wound up with 1 too many for the wreath, so the extra spider found a home on the light fixture in the entry hall.

This isn't my Halloween outfit, although I will admit when I first put it on I couldn't quite decide whether it was inspired pattern matching or if I resembled a clown fish. Maybe I've been reading too many fashion blogs, but I decided to go for it. It's bright and fun and I felt good wearing it. The skirt was on clearance at Target. They still had plenty left. I guess the bright stripes scared most people away. I bought the scarf at a super reduced price from Talbot's about a month ago. I like how they work together.

I bought this boucle skirt at Target earlier this week. It fits great and will be perfect for this winter. At $26.99 it's a bargain. I'm a huge fan of Target. It's too bad the closest store is 45 minutes away.

Smile for the camera

The church is putting together a new pictorial membership directory.  They have a professional photography company come in and take the pictures.  You receive a free directory and one free picture and of course, they try to sell you a photo package while you’re there.  I wound up in the handbell choir because Jane was going through the last membership directory and cold calling likely suspects.  Since I consider that a fortuitous event, I decided I should take the time to get my picture taken for this year’s directory. 

Plus, I’m not sure you get a copy of the directory if you’re not in it and I really need one so I can do a better job of remembering people’s names.  It gets embarrassing when they have to keep reintroducing themselves.  The new minister made a plea for everyone to get their picture taken so that he could use it to help him learn everyone’s names.  He assured the congregation that he’d pray for us when he came to our picture.  Anyone who reads my blog regularly knows that my soul needs all the help it can get.

I had my picture taken on my way home from work today.  The proofs the photographer showed me were the worst looking collection of pictures I’ve had taken since the same photographer took my picture for the last directory.  If I really believed I looked like that, I’d slit my wrists.  I know I’m not the most photogenic person in the world, but I’ve had plenty of amateur photos taken that are way better than the ones they took tonight.  I considered asking if I could pay them not to put the photo in the directory.  The photographer must have agreed because while he ran though the packages and the photos, he didn’t put much effort into trying to sell me any.

I told Dad if I happened to die before he did, he was definitely not to use the church directory photo in my obituary.  He looked startled, but then burst out laughing.  “If it’s as bad as you say, it would be just the right picture to use.  People would take one look at it and say, ‘Well it’s no wonder she went now.’”   I have to hand it to him, that was a pretty funny line.  Maybe it was worth the public humiliation.

   

Third time's a charm

I definitely left my mark at last week’s church service.  I used to think that Jane asked me to play outside of regular bell choir because she knew she could count on me.  I’m beginning to think it’s her personal outreach effort to get me to attend services more often.  It’s definitely not because I’m especially talented.  If I entertained even a vague, unspoken thought that my ability might be the reason, I put that to rest last Sunday.

Jane asked me the week before if I’d be available to play a really simple bell accompaniment to a piece the choir was going to perform.  It was so simple, she didn’t even ask me to practice beforehand.  All I had to do was turn up a little early to run through it one time with the choir.  Okay.  And since I was going to be there anyway, she asked if I’d toll the hour to begin the service.  No problem, I’d done that before.

Except last time I apparently tolled too quickly.  She instructed me to mentally repeat “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” between each toll.  I could do that, but I’d have to use my fingers to keep count.  I’d only have one hand free, but when I reached my thumb for the third time, that would be eleven.  

When I explained my system to Jane, she looked alarmed.  I think she pictured me holding my hand up for everyone to see.  I planned to keep it firmly at my side, hidden in the folds of my skirt.  No one would know what I was doing.

The hour is tolled when Jane finishes playing the prelude.  Last time I tolled the hour, I was in the choir loft so it was easy to see when she was finished.  This time, I was supposed to be at the front of the church.  I took the bell to the pew with me and prepared to stand and ring when Jane quit playing. 

Past experience has told me that the congregation gets antsy if the service runs past 12 noon.  Getting out late means that all the best tables are taken at the local restaurants by parishioners whose pastors aren’t as long-winded.  That being the case, I figured it was important to begin promptly.  

Jane paused, I stood, and prepared to begin tolling.  I accidentally banged the bell into the back of the pew in front of me when I got up.  I hope that no one else noticed, but I think there was a nick in the wood that maybe wasn’t there before. Oops.

I rang the first time, and Jane began playing again.  The prelude was listed in the bulletin as three pieces, but I had no idea when one ended and the other began.  I’d thought she was finished.  My watch said 11.  I stopped and waited.  The music stopped.  I rang.  The music started again.  Oh, dear.  This was getting embarrassing.

I leaned down to the choir, seated in the front pew, and said obviously I shouldn’t be tolling the hour because I didn’t know when to start.  One of the choir members told me that Jane would turn and look down when she was finished.  That would have been nice to know earlier. 

Jane finally stopped playing and turned.  I rang the bell 11 times, mentally saying “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” between each toll.  While I was tolling, the choir filed to the front for our first hymn.  Since I’d decided to stand in the side aisle to toll the hour instead of at the front of the church, I practically hit one choir member in the head as he walked past. 

I finished tolling the hour and went to take my place at the bell table.  Since I’d jumped the gun with the tolling, I waited for the choir to start before I rang the first note.  I actually didn’t start until the second note, just to be on the safe side.  We finished together and I was relieved to take my seat and hopefully vanish back into obscurity for the remainder of the hour.

During the meet and greet portion of the service, one of the men in the choir shook my hand and remarked kindly that I’d had a little trouble getting starting that morning.  I assured him that one thing playing bells had taught me was humility.   He laughed.  The choir member next to him said that I’d rung the wrong number of times.  I froze.  I was sure I’d counted correctly. 

“You’d already rung the bell twice.  You only had to ring it 9 more times,” he informed me.  “If I’d done that, everyone would have thought that not only did I not know when to begin, I also don’t know how to count,” I replied.  Thankfully, no one else commented on my mistakes and I didn’t see Jane after the service.

The next day at bell practice, Jane was introducing our newest ringer.  It was the first man from the choir.  When she got to me, he said my name in greeting.  “You know me.  I’m the one who can’t start on time,” I laughed. 

 “You can’t start on time?” Jane repeated, confused.  I told her my mistakes from the day before.  She hadn’t even noticed.  I should have kept my mouth shut.  Confession is for Catholics.

Failure is not an option

We had our first bell practice of the fall last night.  We take summers off and start back practicing Christmas music in September.  The minimum number of ringers for a bell choir is usually 8.  We have 2 bell choirs at our church.  The Monday group, which I play with, is smaller and where new ringers start out.  We’re down to 6 ringers, so Jane is getting creative with the arrangements.  Creative for her means mass confusion for us.

At times, it would be helpful if we had as many arms as one of those Hindu gods.  I’m used to playing 2 bells simultaneously in my dominant hand.  So I can play 3 bells at a time without too much of a strain.  Until you start adding sharps and flats, which means playing extra bells.  

Switching bells throughout a piece is a challenge.  I can manage it if I only have to do it with my 1-bell hand.  I haven’t quite figured out how to make it work with my 2-bell hand.  Getting the grip right when picking them back up is crucial because if you don’t hold them at the correct angles they won’t sound at the right times.

Although I’m the only one consistently playing with 2 bells in one hand, the other ladies all play multiple bells.  The last song we rehearsed found several of us with additional orphan bells, bells that only play a note or two in a few measures of a piece. This time the orphan bells were also in different clefts from our regular, primary bells.  Having to read both treble and bass clefts at the same time is hard. Usually a ringer plays bells in only one cleft, which is much easier. 

The piece is going to be fun.  It features a narrator as well as bell ringers and in some places, the bells are the voices of the characters in the story, sort of like Tinkerbelle.  The basic tune is one that will be familiar to everyone.  We usually comfort ourselves by assuring each other that the congregation won’t know what the piece is supposed to sound like, so they’ll be unaware of our mistakes.  This time they’ll definitely know if we ring a wrong note or miss a note.  It will be blindingly, horrifyingly obvious.

Last night we made many mistakes.  Which is to be expected on the first run through.  We were juggling bells like crazy and trying to figure out how to make it work.  One member of the group is particularly vocal when she’s trying to work out a difficult section.  She’s an excellent bell player, but it just wasn’t clicking for her last night.  We were all struggling. 

Jane assured her that if it was going to be too hard, we’d make some changes and figure something out.  Worst case, we’d drop that piece from our playlist.  The ringer quickly informed her that was not an option.  “We can’t tell people that we can’t play Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star!” she said indignantly. 

That would be humiliating.  Although that’s not the title of this piece, and the arrangement is more complicated than that, it is basically Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.   And it kicked our butts last night.  

We now have plenty of incentive to practice very, very hard.  Maybe if we master Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star by Christmas, we can play Chopsticks for Easter.

  

Creepy critters

I spent Saturday taking down all of the stars and stripes decorations that have been up since Memorial Day.  Pumpkins, skeletons and bats are now the order of the day.  It felt odd decorating for fall when the temperature was still hot and extremely humid.  The weatherman promised it would change for Sunday and it did.  Now we have gloriously cooler weather.  The kind of weather that makes you want to leave the windows open at night.

When I opened the windows Sunday morning, I noticed that the sills were dirty.  They were covered with lots of little black specks.  I thought it was dirt.  Upon closer examination, I realized there were spiders living in the windows and it dawned on me that those little black specks weren’t dirt, but spider poop.  Yuck!  That’s just rude.

I only realized this year that spiders poop.  I don’t why I thought they could eat all those insects and not have to eliminate, but it just never occurred to me that they pooped in my windowsills.  I always thought that was just good old dirt.  I found it beyond disgusting yesterday to scrub out those windowsills.  I used a rag, but I still ended up with my hands in spider poop.  I may be decorating for a creepy effect, but that was way too realistically creepy for my taste.

On a more pleasant note, I added a couple of lighted grapevine cats to my Halloween decorations this year.  I found them at Big Lots.  The one in the hall has an arched back and orange lights through his body and tail.  For some reason, probably cost, there are no lights on his legs.  I found that strange, but he’s still cute. 

(Mine was only $20 at Big Lots. The exact same cat is at Pier 1 for $39.99.)

The one in my study has a purple boa around its neck, glowing green eyes, and purplish/fuchsia colored lights on the body. Yes, I do realize it would be more appropriate in the room of a 12-year old.  It may not be sophisticated or tasteful, but it is fun.  And I deserved it after cleaning up spider poop.

(This is the cat in my study except mine is purple, not orange.  It looks more like a cat in person, maybe because one of the ears on this cat looks like it's been broken.) 

I'm definitely no Mother Maybelle

Jane, our music director at church, e-mailed me early last week to ask if I’d ever played the autoharp.  “It’s really easy,” she assured me.  The solo she’d planned for Sunday’s service had fallen through and she was searching for something different to perform during the offertory.  I vaguely recalled having played the autoharp sometime in my youth, probably waaaay back in elementary school.  If Jane was game, so was I.  We scheduled practice for Tuesday.

The song only had 4 chords, C,G,D and A7.  That meant I only had to memorize the position of 4 buttons.  I won’t tell you the mnemonic I used to remember the order, but it involved taking the Lord’s name in vain.  Dad just shook his head when I made the mistake of sharing it with him.

I played the hymn through three times and Jane pronounced me ready for Sunday.  I felt pretty good about things until I came home and googled how to play the autoharp.  I thought I’d pick up some helpful tips.  Instead, I discovered that I was definitely playing the autoharp for dummies version of the hymn.  No wonder it had seemed so easy.

Jane had assured me that since it was Labor Day weekend, there probably wouldn’t be many worshipers in attendance.  I wasn’t sure whether I should be reassured or insulted.  Then she e-mailed me that instead of playing in the choir loft, which is in the rear of the church and where no one would be able to see me, we were going to perform in front of the congregation.  I was going to be accompanying the choir and one choir member was just back from knee surgery and unable to climb the steep steps to the loft. 

Jane wanted to know if it would bother me to be in front.  I assured her that I was fine playing wherever she wanted me to be.  I don’t get that nervous performing in front of our congregation any more.  They’re mainly old and remarkably warm and appreciative of our efforts, regardless of mistakes.

Dad and I had breakfast at Oscar’s as usual Sunday morning.  I told Edith that I was going to be playing the autoharp at the 11 o’clock service.  “Today?” Dad asked.  “You’re playing today?”  “I told you I was playing the autoharp.  Remember I practiced Tuesday night?”  “But I didn’t realize you were playing today,” he replied.  I guess he’s so used to us practicing for months before we play bells that he couldn’t believe I was playing after only 1 practice.  Neither could I.

When we got back home, he wanted to know if this would be the only time I’d play the autoharp.  “Probably,” I replied, “but I guess it depends on how it goes.”  I didn’t ask why he wanted to know, but I figured maybe he wasn’t keen to go to church.  I had to be there at 10:30 to do a brief rehearsal with the choir.  Jane had also asked if I’d ring the bell to toll the hour and begin the service.  We did that from the choir loft, so I saw Dad walk in and sit down. 

It was communion Sunday.  Dad has never liked communion Sunday.  Even when we attended church regularly growing up, we usually skipped communion Sunday.  After I played the autoharp, without missing a note, I went and sat with Dad.  When it came time to go up and take communion, he stood back and let me go ahead. 

I took my piece of bread, dipped it in the chalice of grape juice and walked back down the aisle.  When we got back to our pew, Dad held out a good size piece of bread.  “I don’t know why they thought I wanted half the loaf,” he complained.  “Maybe they thought you looked malnourished,” I laughed. 

They had given him an awfully big piece.  Normally each parishioner is given a small piece of bread, about the size of half your finger.  Dad’s piece was more like the size of your palm.  I’m sure it was just a result of the way that piece tore off, but he was not happy.  I don’t know if he actually dipped any of it into the grape juice and ate it or if he just carried the hunk back to the pew.  I swear I think he put the uneaten hunk into the hymnal rack.  And Jane was worried that playing the autoharp in front of people would embarrass me.  

Keep a song in your heart

Our local PBS station airs The Lawrence Welk Show every Saturday night at 7 p.m.  I've started watching it.  In fact, I look forward to it.  I spent years laughing at my mother for watching Lawrence Welk.  I suffered through it growing up when visiting Granny, who never missed a show.  Now I watch it because it reminds me of them.

Tastes just like chicken

Friday is usually pizza night at our house.  Dad’s not a big fan, but not having to cook on Friday is a treat for me.  Yesterday, I was lucky enough to get off work early.  Sometimes in the summer, Tom gets the urge to start the weekend early and I guess he feels guilty leaving us all at the office so we all get to leave early.  I put my time to good use and hit the grocery store, which is on the other side of town from the pizza place.

I didn’t want to go back out after taking the groceries home.  I decided it would be nice to cook supper when I wasn’t in a huge rush for a change.  It’s not unusual for me to walk in the door, turn on the oven, and start mixing batter for cornbread before I even change clothes.

I fixed pork chops in mustard sauce.  Earlier in the week, I’d made chicken cacciatore and the recipe was still sitting on the counter.  Dad must have seen it because after he’d practically finished his pork chop, he asked if it was chicken cacciatore.  “That’s a pork chop,” I said in disbelief.  “We had chicken cacciatore earlier in the week.”  He just shook his head.  I don’t know why I worry about what I’m going to cook. 

Today we had chicken with mushrooms in a creamy sauce.  After Dad had eaten a few bites, I looked across the table and told him, “That’s chicken, in case you were wondering.”  “Not a pork chop today, huh?” he laughed.

I made egg salad for supper.  Dad and Dillon both love egg salad.  The Yankees are playing baseball, so I told Dad he was welcome to take his out to his room and eat in front of the tv.  I even opened the door for him since both his hands were full.  “I’ll probably fall flat on my face,” he groused.  There are 3 steps down from the kitchen into the garage.  “Please don’t.  You’d break my glass,” I warned him.  My courtesy only extends so far.

“I baked a chocolate cake this afternoon.  It’s on the bottom shelf in the refrigerator,” I told Dad before he exited to watch the baseball game.  “Well, thank you,” he said in pleased surprise.  “It’s to share,” I continued.  He looked puzzled.  “I’m just warning you that you won’t be eating it alone.  It’s for both of us.”  “I don’t know about that,” he answered. 

“Be thankful for what you’ve got,” I cautioned him.  “I could have just not told you it was something you could eat and kept it all for myself.”  “What do you think about that, Dillon?” he asked, shaking his head.  Dillon was busy licking the egg salad bowl, thankful for what he had.  Dillon always appreciates whatever food I put in front of him.  Dad could learn a lot from my dog.

Some assembly required

In Baltimore, Dad had an old office chair that we sometimes used at the dining room table.  It had arms and it swiveled so it was perfect for older adults with limited strength in their arms.  First, it was for Granny, then for Mom.  The chair didn’t get included in the things Dad brought to NC.  Perhaps he thought he’d never be the one to need it?

He was wrong.  He’s now the one who grabs hold of the table to pull himself up or lower himself into the chair.  I remember being scolded as a child for putting my elbows on the table or pressing down on the table leaf.  Dad said the table wasn’t meant to take my weight.  At the time, I’m sure I weighed less than he does now.  After watching him pull on the table for months, I decided the issue needed to be addressed.  I like my table and have no desire to have to try and glue the legs back on after he wrenches on it one time too many.

I finally asked if he’d brought the office chair with him.  I was 99% certain he hadn’t, but wanted to confirm the fact.  No, he’d given it away or sold it at auction, for pennies on the dollar I’m sure, to avoid paying to move it.  Which would have cost less than buying a new one that won’t be nearly as well-built and sturdy.

I suggested he needed to start looking for a new one.  He looked confused.  When I pointed out that he was using the table to get up and down, he claimed he hadn’t been aware he was doing that.  I thought he might be able to find an old office chair at the auctions he goes to.  Instead, he brought one from Staples.

Naturally, it was delivered in a box, some assembly required.  He’d already started working on it before I got home.  He was muttering that it wasn’t that easy to assemble, big surprise, and swearing that one of the bolt holes was installed at an angle which made it impossible to secure the back of the chair.  No matter what he’s trying to assemble, Dad always claims a part is missing or defective.  It’s usually his brain that isn’t functioning properly, not the equipment.

The back of the chair was bolted to the arms and the seat.  So there was up upper and lower bolt on each side.  He had screwed in the upper bolt first.  The lower bolt wasn’t going in easily.  I was instructed to push down on the top of the chair back.  He claimed I was pushing forward not down.  I finally pointed out that with the top bolt already screwed in, pushing down wasn’t going to accomplish anything.  There was no way to move the cushion down; the bottom could only slide forward or backward, not up or down.  He couldn’t seem to wrap his head around that concept.

I suggested putting the chair on its side instead of trying to work with it upright.  He looked skeptical, but finally conceded we could try it that way.  We made better progress after that and finally got it done in time for supper.  It was like sitting across from the chairman of the board.  He’d brought a high-backed chair that would be right at home at the head of a conference table.

I came home the next day to discover that he wanted me to help him load the table in the car.  He’d been back to Staples and found a chair with a lower back that he liked better.  It was being delivered the next day.  “I suppose we’ll have to assemble that one too?” I asked.  “It won’t be nearly as hard,” he assured me.  Right.

Putting the original chair back in the car involved moving my car out of the garage and getting the chair through the door and down the steps.  I wanted to carry it down sideways so we’d both have an arm to hold onto, Dad insisted it go out facing forward so we had to grab onto the cushion and back.  Leave it to him to do everything the hard way.  We still managed to get it loaded up and get back inside before the thunderstorm hit. 

The second chair presented its own challenges, but we did get it assembled.  It’s an improvement over the first.  It sits better and the low back is less of an obstruction.  For some reason, the arms wiggle a bit.  Dad claims it’s not a result of the way he installed them.  I can’t believe it’s supposed to be like that, but as long as it doesn’t impair his ability to get up and down, it doesn’t matter to me.

I pointed out that after all of this experience, he could apply at Staples to assemble their office furniture.  He informed me that they will assemble the chairs but it costs $8.  It would have been money well spent in my opinion.  Of course, I still don’t understand why he didn’t simply bring the chair they already had with him when he moved.  Our brains just don’t function on the same wavelength.

We have the Olympic spirit

As I understand it, in ancient times when the Olympic Games were held, conflicts between competing city/states were suspended during the competition.  The Olympics have provided a similar respite for Dad and me.  We’ve found a topic of conversation that doesn’t involve disagreement, beyond our fascination with different sports. 

Dad doesn’t understand why there is an equestrian competition and no baseball.  Equestrian makes more sense to me than rhythmic gymnastics.  There were chariot races in the Ancient Olympics.  I seriously doubt the original Olympians would have considered dancing around with ribbons and hoops to be a sport.  I’m sure it all boils down to money and politics in one way or another, which sports are more universally popular and will attract the largest audience and have the strongest sponsors.  Am I the only one who wonders what happens to the athletes from countries like Russia and North Korea and China when they don't win a medal?

I’ve thoroughly enjoyed watching this summer’s Olympic games.  I’m not interested in every sport, and I find tallying the medals won by country annoying and counter to the true spirit of the games, but I’ve found plenty to cheer about.  Although I haven’t missed a nightly broadcast, I enjoy the daytime broadcasts of the non-marquee sports the most.  

During the dog days of summer, it’s refreshing to watch the action taking place in the cool blue water of the pool.  I’m a big fan of the aquatic part of the competition.  Although I do think they could add a little bit more fabric to the men’s swimsuits.

Week two features more of the track and field events.  Not nearly as enjoyable in my opinion.  Maybe because there are less team sports and more individual competitions?  Maybe because for me, running is not soothing to watch.  Instead of cool, blue pools, the action takes place on the hot, red track, and many runners seem to have gigantic egos and more than a touch of attitude.  

You just can’t beat Missy Franklin if you’re looking for an Olympic role model.  She smiles, she wins, and she seems so genuinely thrilled to be there.  I’m still loving the men’s water polo.  Dad stayed up late last night to watch Michael Phelps swim his last race.  My theory was if you’ve seen him win already, and with his medal count you’re bound to have seen him race by now, one last swim wasn’t worth losing sleep over. 

As I write this, I was watching men’s field hockey, Australia playing Great Britain.  Dad stuck his head in the room to tell me that water polo is on the other channel and “much more interesting than that.”  “It’s women’s water polo, isn’t it?” I asked.  “Yes, but I think a couple of them almost drowned a few minutes ago.”  Okay, the competition may be just as intense, but the men look better in their suits.  I changed the channel anyway.  He also admitted that before the water polo, he’d watched the horses jump and found it very interesting.  You never know whether you’ll like a sport until you give it a chance.

If I had to choose my favorite event so far, it would definitely be the synchronized diving.  As someone who could medal in a belly flop competition, I find divers remarkable to begin with.  When you add matching every movement to that of your partner, it goes beyond remarkable into the range of incredible.  The human mermaids, in the form of women’s synchronized swimming, are pretty remarkable too, but all that makeup is distracting.

I’ll be sorry when the Olympics are over.  Then Dad’s main topic of conversation will return to Yankee’s baseball.  I understand completely why baseball is not an Olympic sport.  

Pruning

There’s one thing for which I can always count on my father.  If there’s something growing in the backyard that I particularly like, he’s going to chop it down, pull it up, or poison it.  And then, he’s going to profess surprise when I go ballistic.  It never fails.  I have threatened to lock up every sharp object we own to prevent future butchery, of either the plants or my father.  Because if he destroys the view out my kitchen window one more time, I’m not going to be responsible for my actions.

Before picture taken in 2010.  The honeysuckle was at least twice as big this year.

There is a beautiful red honeysuckle bush planted along the back fence.  It was a glorious waterfall of red blooms, cascading down in full view of my kitchen window.  The butterflies, hummingbirds, and I all loved it.  Unfortunately, my father did not.  He pruned it to within an inch of its life, leaving not a single bloom visible from my kitchen window. 

 After picture.  There were blooms going all the way to the ground.

Mom used to say that Dad and I were going to have to learn to communicate.  So I told Dad that I was not happy with his pruning, hoping that would prevent future butchery.   Mom was wrong about the communication.  Because after the discussion began, and Dad explained his reasoning, I literally saw red, although not along my back fence.

It turns out, he butchered my honeysuckle because it was growing in the wrong place.  He suggested I search online to find somewhere locally that sold honeysuckle and we’d plant another bush in a spot where it wasn’t in the way.  When I asked him to explain how the back fence could possibly be the wrong place, he told me that the honeysuckle was growing too close to his antique cultivator.  The same cultivator that is slowly disintegrating into a jumble of rotten wood with protruding nails that are a hazard I have to contend with every time I mow the grass. 

You'll notice in the picture that the cultivator has a front wheel and handles.  It was designed to be pushed down rows in a field.  Wouldn't it have been easier to simply push the cultivator away from the honeysuckle, and preferably out of view of my kitchen window, as opposed to cutting down the honeysuckle and then proposing to go to all the trouble of digging another hole to plant a new bush somewhere else in the yard?

The honeysuckle wasn’t touching the cultivator and would only have improved the view if it had completely engulfed the rotten thing.  Instead, I’m left with a view of bare brown vines and an antique cultivator that looks as if it was abandoned along the fence to rot.  I informed Dad that I didn’t need another honeysuckle plant.  I liked the one I had right where it was.  Where I could see it out my kitchen window while I was washing the dishes.  Something he would know nothing about since he’s never washed a single dish.  I pretty much shouted the last part.  That was the end of the “discussion.” 

The bad news for Dad is that every time I look out the kitchen window and see that butchered honeysuckle, I get mad all over again.  When I mowed the grass, which takes twice as long because I have to navigate the obstacle course of things he’s planted, I got even madder.  He puts stakes around his favorite plants to make sure I don’t come too close with the lawnmower.  Yet he thinks nothing of chopping mine to pieces. 

If I bang that cultivator with the lawnmower a couple of times, he’s not going to have to worry about the honeysuckle harming it.  In the meantime, I retaliated by cooking new recipes with strange ingredients every day last week.

Water polo is my new favorite sport

The pool is a beautiful blue, the competition is intense, the men look great in their suits, and the commentators are my favorite ice hockey broadcasters.  I’m hooked.  Dad just shook his head.  “What about gymnastics?” he asked.  “I’m not interested in watching little girls contort their bodies,” I answered.  “Well, what about the men?” he asked.  “Boring unless they fall off and their costumes look effeminate,” I replied.  “What about basketball?”  “Overpaid professional athletes and Coach K.  No, thank you.” 

“Some of the track and field is interesting,” he kept trying.  I won’t argue that point, but the scenery isn’t nearly as good.  I enjoy the diving and the rowing.  I like the swimming too, but watching someone just swim from one end of the pool to the other without anyone trying to drown them isn’t as exciting as a sport where the competitors may need stitches mid-match.  Before you think I’m simply bloodthirsty, I don’t enjoy watching boxing, judo, taekwondo, or wrestling.   

Dad tried to convince me that I should give badminton and table tennis a try.   I’m willing because I find the non-marquee sports the most interesting, but those matches are generally broadcast on weekdays.  So is the next water polo match, but I’m planning to tape that.  

I'm enjoying the Summer Olympics.  Watching them always brings back good memories of Granny.  She loved the Summer Olympics and particularly enjoyed the swimming, diving and gymnastics.  

Don't tell me where it hurts

As soon as the doctor’s office opened this morning, I called to see if I could schedule an appointment for Dad.  He didn’t say anything about it this morning, but I figured he’d get around to it right about the time I was ready to head to work.  I was pleased to get an appointment for today at 11 a.m.  I went to find Dad to give him the good news.

He made a face at me.  Apparently, today at 11 a.m. wasn’t what he had in mind.  “I don’t care if it hurts or not.  You have an appointment at 11 a.m. and you’re going,” I told him, then turned on my heel and went back inside, fuming.  He’s the one who said he was going “to let” me make him an appointment on Monday.  I guess since he hadn’t given me the instruction this morning, he was annoyed.  Tough. If you wake me up in the middle of the night, you’re going to the doctor. 

At lunch, he announced that, “the good doctor essentially told me to go away and stop wasting his time.”  “That’s what I wanted to tell you Saturday night,” I replied.  “He couldn’t find anything wrong,” Dad continued. “Well, now if you drop dead in the middle of the night, I’ve done my duty and made you go to the doctor,” I said.  Dad just shook his head.  “He doesn’t think I’m in any danger of dropping dead,” he assured me.  “That could be up for debate if you wake me up in the middle of the night again,” I assured him.

“It must have been a something that bit me,” Dad mused.  “If something had bitten you there would be a mark,” I said.  “Well then what the devil caused the pain?” he snapped.  “I don’t know.  I’m not a doctor.  That’s why I made you the appointment,” I answered, feeling vindicated.

For the record, if I thought a  mole was bleeding or hanging by a thread, I’d first check and notice that there was no blood on my white sheets.  Then I’d try to use my nice big hand mirror to look at my back before waking someone else up in the middle of the night and then arguing with them about what they saw.  Why can’t men do that?

Say what?

On the way to breakfast this morning, Dad informed me that the switch on his right hearing aid hadn’t been working exactly right for a while.  Now it isn’t working at all.  So his hearing aid is on all the time.  Which means the batteries will run down really quickly.  I don’t know what this is going to mean in the long run.  I do know that it’s difficult enough carrying on a conversation with him when his hearing aids are working.

Case in point.  I had Dad stop at the grocery store on the way home so I could pick up a few necessities.  We were almost out of eggs since I baked him a cake yesterday for his strawberries.  I’m about to run out of chocolate chip pumpkin bread and the recipe calls for 4 eggs.  I only had 3 left. I believe every day is better with a little chocolate, so why not start the day off right.

We also needed milk.  Dad starts his day with cereal.  And no, I don’t feel a bit bad about that.  Luckily, we still had a little milk left because the Food Lion on the Avenue apparently doesn’t sell much milk.  Last time I tried to buy milk there, the expiration date was almost upon us and that was the case again today.  I’ll have to make another trip to a different grocery store to find fresher milk.

I was complaining about that to Dad.  “You didn’t like the cantaloupe?” he asked.  “What cantaloupe?” I replied.  “You said you didn’t buy cantaloupe because of the expiration date,” he answered.  “I didn’t say I didn’t buy cantaloupe.  I said I didn’t like the expiration date on the milk.”  “Well all I heard was expiration date,” he said.  “Cantaloupes don’t have expiration dates,” I said.  Carrying on a conversation with my father is always an adventure.

I feel your pain

I went to bed at 9 o’clock last night.  I was tired.  Dillon was huddled in the bathroom sheltering from the thunderstorm.  There was no chance he was going outside for his last bathroom trip of the day.  I considered staying up another hour, waiting for the storm to pass, but decided to heck with it.  He could either hold it all night, wake me up later, or have an accident.  I needed my sleep.

As it turns out, it wasn’t Dillon who woke me up later.  At 12:15 a.m., I woke to the hall light shining in my eyes and the sound of my father’s voice demanding, “Nancy, I need some help.”  Apparently, he didn’t get the memo that my day’s duties end with the evening meal.

He claimed it felt like one of the moles on his back was torn and “hanging by a thread.”  It felt like someone was stabbing him with a knife.  I was supposed to examine his back and apply a bandaid.  I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.  No blood, no torn flesh, nothing.  He didn’t believe me.  There had to be something.  There wasn’t.  He kept arguing with me that if I’d just look, I’d surely see it.  I can’t see what isn’t there.

I had to follow him into the bathroom and hold a mirror so he could look.  Only he went about it backwards and since it was the middle of the night, I didn’t realize that he was never going to be able to see anything the way he was going about it.  He finally told me to just put a bandaid over the spot where it hurt.  “Maybe then I’ll at least be able to turn over in bed.”  I just wanted to get back to my own bed.

Dillon has heard the commotion and come in, tail wagging, eyes bright, ready to join the party.  I took advantage of the opportunity to take him out for a bathroom trip then went back to bed.  Of course, I was wide awake by that time.

This morning Dad informed me that the bandaid at least meant he’d been able to sleep, but the pain was still there.  You know, since he spends the majority of his day sitting in a chair and taking the occasional nap, I really am not overly concerned with how he sleeps at night.  But since I apparently don’t get to sleep if he doesn’t, it’s in my best interest if he does.

“You notice I’m not wearing suspenders today.” I hadn’t, but kept that fact to myself.  “And I’m not wearing an undershirt either.”  Okay, whatever.  “Tomorrow if it still hurts, I’m going to let you call the doctor for me.”  I loved his use of the phrase, “let you”.  As if, I live to serve.  Which we all know, I don’t.  God didn’t bless me with the caregiving gene, a fact you would think my father would have accepted by now.

Trying to make a doctor’s appointment means wading through the automated system, leaving a message, and then waiting for a call back.  I probably won’t be around when the call is returned, and Dad won’t answer the phone, so I’ll be playing an annoying game of phone tag while he grows more and more impatient.  He could go to the doctor’s office and make the appointment himself.  It’s not like they’re located out of town or he’s bedridden. 

And of course, if they do any cutting, I’ll be forced back into Nurse Nancy mode.  Dad’s not the only one who needs help.

An unexpected surprise

When I got home from work tonight, there was a brown paper bag on the kitchen island.  I reached in and pulled out a round sandwich wrapped in white paper with No C/S written in blue.  There were two more sandwiches in the bag.  “What’s this?” I asked Dad.  He went to Littleton this afternoon, for some reason he wasn’t inclined to share, and picked up BBQ sandwiches for supper.  He even remembered to bring me two.  What a wonderful, unexpected surprise.  I actually feel like I can breathe.

Anger management

It seems like I spend some part of every day mad at my father.  I need to find a way to get past the resentment, but damn I hate being assigned the role of unpaid servant.   Just because I’m female doesn’t mean I like meal planning and grocery shopping and cooking.  And it never ends.  There’s always another meal to fix or clean up after and another day when I have to make sure there are bananas and milk for breakfast and bread for sandwiches and all of the ingredients on hand for whatever we’re having for dinner that night. 

It annoys the hell out of me to come home from work and have to rush to get dinner ready while he just sits in his chair and reads, making absolutely no effort to help.  He waits until I’m ready to put it on the table to come into the kitchen and get the plates.  That puts him right in my way. 

While it was so extremely hot, I tried to plan meals that wouldn’t heat up the kitchen.  That meant no baked cornbread.  I finally fixed a pan last week and Dad made a point of saying how good it was with the vegetables.  I told him that was nice, but when the temperature went back up, there would be no more cornbread.  He just said again how good the cornbread was, looking hopeful.  Tough.  I’m not sweltering just because he wants cornbread.

As if fixing regular meals isn’t enough, he bought a bushel and a half of peas last week.  He picked them up Monday night.  They were shelled, but that meant I had to do something with them.  It took me two nights, cooking 3 huge pots of peas each night, to get them all done.  I had to stay up late for them to finish cooking.  Then I had to measure them out into freezer bags. 

When I finally finished, I politely instructed him not to ever again bring home that much produce on a weeknight.  “I’d have helped, but I don’t know how,” was the response I got.  He may not know how to cook peas, but he could have helped wash and pick through them.  Or he could have measured them out into the bags.  He could have helped clean up the kitchen.  The thought never crossed his mind.

Since he won’t answer the telephone, I relay his phone messages.  A friend that he roomed with before he got married left a message on the answering machine this week that he had called to check on Dad.  I gave Dad the message.  Just out of curiosity, I asked him this morning if he’d written Bush a note in response.  “No,” was the surprised response. “Well you should,” I instructed.  “Just because you can’t hear doesn’t meant you get a free pass.   Since you won’t call him, and I’m not going to, you need to write him.” 

Being old and hard of hearing doesn’t give him a get out of jail free card.  Dad is way too quick to say “I can’t” when the truth of the matter is he just doesn’t want to.  I don’t care if he is old.  I still expect him to take responsibility for doing what he’s able to do, not just what he wants to do.  As he used to like to tell me when I was a teenager, “Life isn’t fair.”  So suck it up and pull your share of the load.

I just wasn't made to live with another human being.  I get along much better with my dog.  Dillon helps me clean up the kitchen and he never minds doing the dishes.

Le Tour de France

I’ve been watching the daily tv coverage of the race.  I don’t understand the sport of competitive cycling, but that doesn’t really matter.  I just watch for the scenery.  I love seeing the chateaus and French villages.  They say the French, especially the Parisians, don’t like Americans.  That may be true, but I find their country fascinating.  

We did it

Most of the choir was going to be away this morning, which left Jane scrambling to work out the music for this morning’s church service.  She e-mailed me a couple of weeks ago and asked if I’d be available to play a bell duet with Cheryl while she accompanied us on the piano.  I guess Jane’s a glutton for punishment or maybe everyone else turned her down first.  I love playing the bells, and miss it when we go on hiatus for the summer, so I was happy to say yes.

For a seemingly simple hymn, it proved to be surprisingly difficult.  Both Cheryl and I played 3 bells individually and shared a 4^th.  If you do the math, you quickly realize that means that you have more bells than you do hands.  You have to figure out which bells to put down when and which hand you need to hold them in.  It’s a little like juggling.  Only you’re not supposed to throw the bells, which I found myself doing a couple of times in practice when I fumbled switching hands.

Despite several practices, we still hadn’t been able to play it properly all the way through.  I guess God was smiling on us this morning because while our last minute rehearsal prior to the service was still far from perfect, we nailed it when we performed for the congregation.  I was so proud and very relieved.  When there are 8 ringers, it’s easy to pretend that someone else made the mistake when a bell is rung at the wrong time.  When there are only two of you playing, there’s no place to hide.

Is that any way to treat company?

Dad’s brother called on Wednesday to ask if Dad would be home on Friday.  He wanted to come visit.  I told him as far as I knew, Dad would be here.  Dad doesn’t inform me of his plans in advance.  Uncle Thomas then asked if he should bring a sledgehammer to get in.  He came one time without giving us advance notice and he couldn’t get Dad to answer the door.  Ever since that experience, he’s called first. 

The good news is that not only puts Dad on alert, it gives me time to straighten up the house if I’m so inclined.  Luckily, I’d just vacuumed Wednesday, although the way Dillon’s shedding, an hour later you wouldn’t have known I’d bothered.  I gave the bathroom a quick cleaning and left it at that.  I wasn’t in the mood to dust.

Speaking of dust, the last two times Uncle Thomas has come, he’s probably had to blow the dust out of the glasses he’s chosen to drink from.  Dad hasn’t offered to serve and Uncle Thomas has an uncanny knack for picking the glasses that I normally never use.  I told Dad that this time he should be a good host, get out of that damn chair, and offer them a beverage instead of just sitting there and pointing at the cabinet where the glasses are stored. 

“He’s younger than me.  He’s in better shape to serve himself,” Dad announced.  “You’re older.  You’re supposed to be setting a good example,” I countered.  Dad’s 86.  Uncle Thomas is 85.  It’s not as if either of them are spring chickens.  I don’t know if Dad followed my orders took my advice, but there were no dirty glasses on the counter when I got home.  

A heated exchange

I haven’t managed to work blogging into my new schedule.  Mornings are for getting in Dillon’s walk and then spending a half hour enjoying my coffee and reading my favorite blogs before heading to work.  When I get home in the evening, my brain is tired and I have to juggle preparing an evening meal, getting in my exercise routine and then washing the day’s dishes and cleaning up the kitchen.  After which, I’m done.

In anticipation of the heat wave, I planned to mow the grass on Tuesday, which was predicted to be the coolest day of the week.  When I went to work, Dad was sitting in his chair reading.  When I got home from work, Dad was sitting in his chair reading.  I assumed he’d been there all day and was annoyed that he hadn’t bothered to pick up the pine cones in the front yard since he knew I was going to mow.  I didn’t say anything, just fixed a quick supper of fried cube steak and reheated fresh vegetables I’d cooked on Sunday.

When Dad finished eating, he commented, “That cow didn’t want to give up.”  His way of saying he’d found the meat tough.  I didn’t appreciate the critique.  He asked if that cut of meat was called beef steak.  I didn’t think it mattered if he knew what it was called since I know for a fact he’s not going to start shopping for or preparing meals.  “It’s cube steak,” I answered shortly. 

“You’re going to mow the grass, aren’t you?” he asked next.  “Yes, and I noticed you didn’t pick up the pine cones.”  “I’ll see if I still have the energy.  I washed windows today.”  Excuse me, I just washed windows two weeks ago.  “What windows did you wash?” I asked.  “The ones in my bedroom,” he answered. 

“I washed those windows the other day,” I reminded him.  “You washed the windowsills,” he said shortly.  “No, I washed the windowsills and the windows,” I said, exasperated.  “Did you think all of that bird poop on your back window just magically disappeared?”  He didn’t say anything, just walked off.

The one thing I didn’t do when I was washing the windows was get down all the cobwebs on the outside frame.  I figured he could do that easily enough and I was tired.  Since he still saw cobwebs, he apparently assumed I hadn’t washed the windows.  Which I took as unspoken criticism and annoyed the hell out of me.  On top of which, I don’t like the idea that he’s getting into those kind of projects when I’m not around to call 911.

The next morning, he started out the front door with a stepstool in his hand.  “What are you doing?” I asked.  “I’m going to blow off the sidewalk and wash the front door,” he said shortly, obviously still annoyed from our conversation the previous night.  Fine, I was still peeved as well.  He wanted to know why I was asking.  “Because I don’t like you climbing up on things when I’m not around,” I replied.  He looked disgusted and kept going. 

He’s the one who’s always saying that he’s not so steady on his feet these days and how he gets so worn out.  Of course, that’s when he’s making a play for sympathy as opposed to when he wants to do something.  Then he’s annoyed that I don’t think he’s capable of or should be taking on a particular project.

When I came home from work that night, he wasn’t in the house.  I finally found him on a ladder outside the window of his room in the garage.  Needless to say, he complained of being worn out and informed me he wasn’t very hungry.  “Did you need me for something?” he asked.  “No, I just wanted to make sure you weren’t collapsed on the ground somewhere,” I said in disgust.  Why does he wait until the hottest week of the year to take on these projects?

Thursday morning, he informed me that he was going to work on the dining room window.  I had only washed that windowsill because moving the end table and glassware to get to the window was going to be too much trouble.  “Have you looked at that window?” he asked.  “It’s covered in cobwebs and so dirty you can barely see through it.”  

“So?  There are sheers covering the window and it’s not as if we look through it anyway.”  “It’s a good thing we don’t because we wouldn’t be able to see out,” he replied.  “Well then the burglars can’t see in to scope out the house, can they?” I answered.  That’s the only window on the front of the house that’s actually on ground level, so I considered that fact to be a benefit.

“I’ll probably be making a mistake, but I’m going to take the screen out to clean it,” he informed me.  That’s the only full-size screen we still use.  We replaced all the others with half screens because the full-size ones are so difficult to get in and out.  I envisioned coming home that night to temps in the high 90’s and hearing, “Nancy, I need you to help me get the screen back in.”  

I decided to issue a warning.  “If you get it out, you’d better be able to get it back in.  I don’t want to come home tonight and hear you start, ‘Nancy….’ asking me to help you with the screen because the answer is going to be ‘hell no’.” 

I decided maybe a stronger warning was called for.  It’s amazing to me how such a smart man can be so deliberately obtuse.  At this point, Dad is perfectly capable of looking out for himself.  But if he persists in projects like this, he’s going to get himself into trouble one day.  And if he winds up needing personal care, he’s going to have to look elsewhere.  I’ve made it as clear as I know how that I’m not planning on providing personal care.  If I’d wanted to be a nurse, I’d have gone to nursing school. 

I looked him in the eye, reminded him of that fact, and finished by adding, “If you wind up needing personal care, I’ll put you in a nursing home so fast it’ll make your head spin.”  All I probably accomplished was to make him mad, but he can’t say I didn’t warn him.  I don’t know what he did about the screen, but it was in the window when I came home that night.

Friday morning, they were predicting temps of over 100 degrees.  He came out of his bedroom wearing his work shirt again.  “You’re wearing your work shirt.  Please tell me you’re not planning on doing anything outside today.”  “All I’m going to do is put things back in place in the dining room.  And good morning to you too,” he replied.

This morning, he’s gone to an auction.  It’s inside, but he’s complained before about how hot the building can be.  I tried to get him to drink a glass of water or lemonade before he left.  “You need to drink more liquids.  You’re going to be getting in and out of a hot car and your body isn’t as accurate at telling you when you’re thirsty,” I reminded him.  “You know how you’re always telling me that your taste buds don’t work like they used to?  Well, neither does your thirst mechanism.”    

He just gave me one of those looks.  He only likes to acknowledge that his body doesn’t work like it used to when he’s looking for sympathy.  Otherwise, he acts insulted when I try to point it out.  Old people can be so damn stubborn.