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.

I don't do windows

Yesterday I went shopping.  Talbots was having a 30% off everything sale.  My intention was to try on things so that when the prices get even lower, I’ll know what I want and what sizes I need.  I did try on a bunch of stuff, but I must confess that a few things also came home with me.  There was a cardi that I just couldn’t risk missing.  And a necklace and earrings that I absolutely had to have.  On the plus side, I did return a necklace.   So the damage wasn’t too bad.

Since yesterday was for shopping, today was for cleaning.  I decided since the weather was so nice, it would be a good day to wash the windowsills and all of the Pella windows.  No point in waiting until it’s ridiculously hot and humid.  

The windowsills were a disgrace.  It’s amazing how much dirt accumulates in a year.  Yes, it’s probably been that long since I last washed windows.  It’s not a chore I enjoy and since we have sheers at every window, it’s not as if you can’t ignore the dirt.

I was feeling very proud of myself when I finished.  The water in the scrub bucket was disgusting, so dark and murky that you couldn’t see the bottom of the bucket.  I dumped it out in the toilet and watched as it slowly swirled down and out.   Then I flushed it for good measure.  It seemed to flow a little slowly, but it finally all went out of the bowl. 

At which point I suddenly realized I was missing the old dishrag I’d used to wash the windows.  I frantically stuck my hand as far into the toilet bowl as I could.  No rag.  I retraced my steps into the kitchen, hoping I’d left it on the washer with the microfiber cloths I’d used on the windows.  Or maybe I’d tossed it into the kitchen garbage can with the paper towels I’d also used.   No rag there either.

Left with no other options, I had to face the horrible fact that I’d flushed the stupid thing down the toilet.  I marched out to Dad’s room to tell him the awful news.  “Under the category of no good deed goes unpunished,” I began, “I just flushed the dishrag down the toilet with the dirty water.”  I explained how dark and dirty the water had been and that I hadn’t realized the rag was still in the bucket until it was gone.  “What do we do now?” I asked.

Dad has mellowed a lot in his old age.  He didn’t get upset.  He said the worst that would happen is we’d need to call the plumber.  Then he went and got a wire coat hanger to see if he could fish the rag out of the pipes.  It had already passed beyond that point.  Next, he suggested flushing the toilet a couple of times to see what would happen.  It was fine. 

Dad suggested filling up the bathtub and then opening the drain and letting all that water out while flushing the toilet.  His thought being to force as much water down the pipes as we could to force the rag through the sewer line.  It takes a long time to fill a bathtub up with water.  Dad said I didn’t have to stay and wait for it to fill up.  I could come back in a little while.  The way my day was going, no way was I walking out and leaving the water running without me there to watch it.

Dillon came in and sniffed as if he couldn’t figure out why we suddenly had a pond in the house.  I was a little afraid he might decide to jump in.   Labs love water.  Fortunately, he decided to lie down beside me for a good belly rub.  He pees outside so he had nothing to worry about.  I was thinking that it was a long time until Monday morning and I was going to need to pee multiple times before then.  Which was going to be a problem if that rag stopped up the sewer line.

When the tub was finally full, I opened the drain and flushed my toilet.  Water kept flowing down and out just like it was supposed to.  Then I went and flushed Dad’s toilet.  I kept going back and forth between bathrooms flushing toilets repeatedly until all of the water was out of the tub.  No obvious problem.

So I decided to run the Pure cycle on the washer.  It was about time and that would force more water down the line.  I kept listening for that ominous glug, glug, glug sound that indicates the toilets are about to overflow, but the washer emptied and everything was still fine.

I’m still holding my breath every time I flush, but so far, everything’s still flowing.  I told Dad obviously I should never wash windows.  This would never have happened if I hadn’t washed the windows.  He suggested that perhaps if I washed them more often, so that the water wasn’t as dirty, that might prevent the problem in the future.  I gave him a dirty look.  He said maybe he wasn’t as funny as he thought he was.

I finished the afternoon by battling to the death a spider that has been living in my kitchen window between the window and the storm window.  It took a lot of spider spray.  Then I washed that window too.  Dad said he was glad to see that the dishrag incident hadn’t dampened my enthusiasm for the task.  I pointed out that I was using paper towels only for that window.

I moved on to scrubbing the bathrooms.  The tile around my tub needed cleaning.  Dad had been talking about cleaning the tile in his shower.  He’s responsible for cleaning his own bathroom.  But since it’s Father’s Day and he was so nice about my screw-up, as penance for the dishrag down the toilet, I worked on his shower too. 

I only got 3 walls and most of the floor done before the fumes got the better of me and I had to stop.  It did look better though.  You should have seen the look on Dad’s face when I told him I’d worked on his shower.  He looked like Christmas had come early.

I finished the day by vacuuming and mowing the grass.  Stick a fork in me, I’m done.

Trudging Along

On the way back from breakfast this morning, we passed a turtle crossing the road. "Is that a turtle?" Dad asked in disbelief. "Yep, they're on the move," I replied. "Watch out so you don't run over one."

"It's not like they're racing along," Dad laughed, "what turtles do barely qualifies as moving." "You'd be surprised. The one that was walking up our driveway last week was moving along at a pretty good clip for a turtle," I informed him. 

As we rounded the circle, I saw a second turtle walking up our neighbors' drive. Maybe it's time to lay eggs?

The pictures above are of a turtle that was in our backyard last summer. The two we saw this morning were about the same size.

Beep, Beep, Beep.....

Why do smoke detector batteries only lose their charge in the middle of the night?  Ours started beeping Monday morning about 4 a.m.  It didn’t really register with me at first.  Dillon heard it though.  He went into duck and cover mode and started knocking the shoes off my closet shelves.  That woke me up.  Then I realized that the periodic beeping was coming from the smoke detector.

I wasn’t sure if it was getting ready to sound an alarm or if the batteries were dying.  I got up to go check.  No smoke in the hallway, so obviously the problem was the batteries.  This is a new smoke detector, so I wasn’t familiar with its design.  I didn’t want to replace the battery right then.  I just wanted to remove the battery so that it would shut up and Dillon and I could go back to bed.

The old smoke detector had a hinged top that swung down when pulled to provide access to the battery.  I tried pulling down on this unit.  Nothing moved and the sucker kept beeping.  I tried again.  Still no luck.  I searched for a button of some sort, thinking I had to release a catch to allow the top to swing open.  I couldn’t find anything.  I almost broke a fingernail trying to pry the top loose.

The light was on in Dad’s room and I heard his toilet flush.  He was awake, but he didn’t bother to come out to see what was going on.  I was beginning to think about going in search of a hammer and smashing the stupid thing to pieces.  It wouldn’t be operable after that, but it would be quiet.  Shutting it up so I could go back to bed was the only thing I was interested in at that hour of the morning.

I noticed a notch in the unit, close to the ceiling.  I tried turning the unit, thinking maybe it had to be aligned a certain way in order to open.  The entire unit came free in my hand.  Okay, it was still beeping, but I could always throw it out the back door or put it in the garage where I wouldn’t hear it.  I was making progress.

There was another notch in the unit and that was what I’d been trying to pry open.  Turns out it doesn’t open down, there’s a drawer that slides out which houses the battery.  I’ve never seen one like that before.  I pried the battery out and left the unit on the chest of drawers in the hall.  Dad could replace the battery in the morning.  My work was done.  Dillon and I went back to bed.

When Dad got up that morning, he asked if Dillon and I had a rough night.  I told him about the smoke detector.  He hadn’t heard the beeping, but he had heard Dillon knock the shoes off the wall in the closet.  He didn’t think it necessary to check on us.  Nice to know I can count on him in case of emergency.

When I told him about my difficulty in figuring out how to remove the battery, he said there were probably directions I could have read.  At 4 a.m. in the morning I was supposed to look for the directions?  I slapped a new battery down beside his placemat and told him it was his job to install the battery and replace the detector.  “I’ll get around to it sometime in the next year,” was his reply. 

I shot him a nasty look, but held my tongue.  The smoke detector was back up when I got home that night.  Good thing or I might have had to light a fire under my father.

May I tell her who's calling?

Work got crazy yesterday afternoon.  We were so busy at one point that the only person available to answer the phone was Holly, the third partner.  Instead of ignoring it, she pitched in and took the call.  I heard her ask if she could “tell her who’s calling.”  Then she put the call on hold, turned to me, and announced that it was my neighbor, Dianne. 

I can count on one hand the number of times Dianne has ever called me.  Our communication is usually limited to chats in the yard if we both happen to be out at the same time. She's never called me at work.  It scared me to death.  My first thought was that something had happened to my father.  I was picturing him collapsed in the yard, dead, or in the back of an ambulance headed for the hospital.   

Fortunately, I was wrong on all counts.  Turns out, all Dianne wanted to do was ask if I’d like some vegetables from their garden and what time would be convenient for her to bring them by the house.  I appreciated her generosity, but I really didn’t think garlic, cabbage and snow peas merited a call to the office. 

If we need to ward off any vampires, or mere humans for that matter, we now have more than enough garlic for the job.  When Dad asked what vegetables I wanted from the Farmer’s Market this morning, I suggested anything that would go with garlic.

How does your garden grow?

My neighbor left me room to plant a row of tomatoes in the garden.  Dad brought a variety of sizes and types.  He always buys more than we need and then tells me I don’t have to plant them all.  I planted as many as I had room for.   It's a long row and I had trouble judging whether I was going in a straight line or not, so my row looks like it was planted by a drunken sailor.

I apologized to the elderly gentleman who gardens in that spot and told him I hoped I hadn’t gotten too close to his okra.  He assured me that it was fine.  “If it’s okay with you, I’ll put a little fertilizer around your tomato plants,” he offered.  “I didn’t want to do it without asking you first.”  I assured him that I would very much appreciate his putting fertilizer on my plants. 

“I’ve got a little chicken manure too.  If you don’t mind, I’ll put some of that around the plants too.” “That would be great.  Thank you,” I told him.  Thinking to myself that the only way my tomato plants were going to be exposed to chicken manure was if someone else applied it.

Since I have to combat crawl underneath the electric fence wire to get to my tomato plants, I pretty much leave them to their own devices.  I plant them and harvest them.  Anything else is too much trouble.  But unlike beets, tomatoes are worth the effort.  There’s nothing better than a fresh from the garden tomato.

Beets me

My neighbor, who gardens on the NC Power right-of-way behind our houses, occasionally shares some of his garden’s bounty with us.  On several occasions, he’s offered me beets.  He had a whole row planted and assured me that his family couldn’t possibly eat all of them.  I certainly understood that since I would have no desire to eat beets at every meal.  He invited me to get all I wanted.  I explained, not for the first time, that while I appreciated his offer as far as I'm concerned beets are pickled by Aunt Nelly and come in a jar from the grocery store.

My doorbell rang one evening last week.  There was John with a grocery bag full of beets.  He handed it over saying, “I hope you like beets.  They’ll keep a long time.”  I guess he figured that while I might not be willing to crawl under the electric fence wire to harvest them, I wouldn’t turn them down if he brought them to me.  I thanked him, thinking to myself that he was right, they will last a long time.  They’re the size of baseballs and there were an awful lot of them.

When I told Dad that John had brought us beets, he announced that he likes beets.  Okay.  I started looking for the easiest way to cook them.  I found a recipe for roasting them.  All you have to do is wash them and coat them with a little olive oil, wrap them in aluminum foil and roast them in the oven until tender.  That sounded easy enough.  

I cut them in half since they were so big.  When they came out of the oven, they were fork tender and a beautiful shade of purplish-red.  Dad looked at the beets dubiously, “They’re not sliced,” he said in disbelief.  “I’m not Aunt Nelly,” I snapped.  Why don’t people listen to me when I try to tell them that Aunt Nelly is the source of all beets in my opinion?  Dad kept staring at the beets.  “They’re not sliced,” he repeated.

“There is a knife at your place at the table.  If you’re too lazy to cut up your own beets, then you obviously don’t really want them,” I snarled.  “I don’t think they’re going to be the star of the meal,” he said.  “If you don’t watch the comments, you’re not going to have to worry about how they taste because you’re going to be eating Nabs,” I said, slamming down the next pot.  He finally got the message and cut the commentary while putting half a beet on his plate and trying to figure out what to do with it.

“You have to remove the skin,” I reminded him.  He looked skeptical.  “I’m just saying, I didn’t remove the skin before cooking and I don’t think you eat that part of the beet.  It peels off easily,” I assured him.  He looked pained.  He obviously felt that peeling and cutting qualified as food prep, which is the domain of women.  Tough.  It wasn’t my idea to cook beets to begin with.  I keep trying to tell people that I’M NOT AUNT NELLY.

The beets were fine.  They tasted just like what comes out of the can when you buy plain beets.  That being the case, why on earth does anyone go to all the trouble to plant them, harvest them and cook them?  Since I hate to waste food, I reheated the leftover beets later in the week.  Dad declined to put any on his plate.  I thought they were better the second time around.  They tasted sweeter.  I still don’t think they’re worth the effort, but I might cook them again.  I do have a good supply.

Cockadoodle Doo

Dillon and I have encountered a variety of creatures on our walks along the Canal Trail, but this morning was definitely a first. When we got to the dam, Dillon suddenly went on alert and started pulling hard on the leash, straining to get ahead. I looked up to see what had captured his attention. There was a chicken standing in the path by the fence. A big yellowish-red chicken with a red comb on his head.

 I stopped and kept Dillon from going any closer to the chicken. The chicken just stood there, in the middle of the Trail, apparently unconcerned with either of us, but he was watching us out of one beady eye. Dillon still wanted to forge ahead to make his acquaintance. I kept remembering stories of chickens pecking people who got too close. I didn’t think Dillon would react well to being pecked by a chicken. I knew I wouldn’t.

 I finally convinced Dillon to turn around and head for home. The chicken was still standing in the middle of the Trail. When we got home, I asked Dad how to tell the difference between a chicken and a rooster. He got a confused look on his face which is how many of my conversations with my father begin. After explaining about our chicken sighting and describing the comb on his head and the wattle below his neck, Dad agreed it was a rooster.

 “You confused me when you asked the difference between a chicken and a rooster. Hens and roosters are both chickens,” he informed me. Well, he’s the farm-boy, not me. That’s why I was asking him the question to begin with. Although I will admit that this time he had a legitimate reason to look confused.

 “Did it have spurs?” he asked. “I don’t know. I wasn’t looking at his feet. I was trying to gauge his intentions by the look in his eye,” I replied. Dad laughed. “He probably would have run away if you’d kept approaching,” he assured me. This chicken didn’t look like he was getting ready to run away from anything.

I found the following description at the same webpage where I found the picture.

The Reds are friendly chickens with a good nature. They are very good pets for children, but they can get aggressive when annoyed. Although usually friendly, Rhode Island Red roosters, and sometimes hens, can be quite aggressive towards young children and adults. Most roosters will also attack strangers (humans or animals) if they feel nervous or have never seen the intruder. They are usually friendlier with familiar people, such as those responsible for feeding. Both hens and roosters are known to be aggressive with other chickens, especially in confinement. Rhode Island Red roosters have been known to kill intruding foxes or dogs.

I think I made the right decision not to allow Dillon up close and personal.  Dad just laughed hysterically when I read this description to him.  "Nancy, they're barnyard animals.  People raise them for food.  How vicious can they be?" he choked out.  "I don't plan to find out," I said firmly.

"When people are scared of something, they describe them as 'chicken'.  There's probably a reason for that," he continued, still laughing.  "I don't care.  I don't plan to tangle with a chicken," I said with great dignity.  He walked off, shoulders shaking with laughter.

This is the same man that once told my sister if she remained still, the wasp wouldn't sting her.  She stood still.  The wasp stung her.  I lost faith in my father's ability to gauge the intentions of wild animals at that point.   If we encounter the chicken again, I'm still keeping my distance.  Dad can laugh all he wants.