Born in Arizona, been living in Pacific Northwest area for 19 years. Writing is therapy; to look at life in perspective... get out of my head and on the page in front of me for a better view. Live with my husband, a son "on the spectrum and two rambunctious Norwegian Elk hound pups.
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Take a stroll down a “crumb filled” memory lane with me.
Crossword clue snagged poignant memories: number twenty-seven down asked for a word that meant “gently add, as egg whites to batter”.
Correct answer, FOLD, conjured up a Sponge cake, baked from scratch during one of our summer visits at Dad’s Spartan home, after our parents divorced.
My first attempt at a “made from scratch”, a Sponge cake recipe, found in the good old Betty Crocker cookbook.
I’d measured, sifted, and was ready to assemble the wet and dry ingredients, which I’d then pour into the aluminum tunnel type pan. Its tall, deep sides would accommodate the expansion of the fluffy potion and support the end result.
Separated egg whites were beaten into stiff peaks, per the recipe, using a manual whisk.
But then, with equal vigor…I beat the results, into the bowl, with remaining batter, erasing any benefit of the airy mixture’s ability to add height to the end result.
The carefully scraped contents of my bowl went into the pan, and slid onto the bottom rack the preheated oven. I’d removed the other racks to make plenty of room for the expanded end result.
The timer went off and I peered into the oven. The expectation, to see the contents swelled up to the top, disappointed greatly. The cake hadn’t risen beyond the point of the batter line when I’d filled the pan.
The resulting product lived up to its name, indeed a very sponge like cake. “Tough and chewy” would be a charitable description.
Dad ate it without comment, and managed to swallow a second slice for good measure.
Acquiring culinary skills takes time. Most chefs will admit to a few food failures in their early years. Trial and error taught me better than any of my home economics schooling.
Economics of the times meant waste was a sin. Family finances didn’t afford the luxury of tossing the less than perfect results down the disposal. We ate our mistakes.
My younger sister’s first attempt at baking garnered similar support from Dad.
She’d cracked open his old stained copy of Dad’s copy of “Betty Crocker” and paged over to the section marked COOKIES.
Her selection: the Oatmeal cookie recipe. Somehow a breeze or maybe an unseen nudge caused the page to turn to the next recipe…Peanut butter press cookies. Lizzie soldiered on, not realizing the error.
The “new” recipe had, of course different portions of flour, liquid, that were incorporated into the bowl with the first few ingredients of the previous page’s recipe-
Results I remember- the oatmeal bits were a bit dry… but Dad thought they were “tasty.”
Liz recalls he embellished the rather crunchy hunks with a liberal dose of Peanut butter and chewed with gusto.
Whatever the effort, our father praised the result.
Dad never let on that our work was at best only edible, when washed down with a large glass of milk.
Happy Father’s Day to all the Dads out there who’ve “swallowed” their kids culinary efforts, without complaint.
I consulted the little Hallmark booklet, given free with each and every purchase by the stationery store. Hallmark’s pamphlets listed gift suggestions, by the month, the birthstones, flowers, and other paraphernalia. This particular booklet’s pages included a list of appropriate items for wedding anniversary gifts.
Aided by this resource, I decided on an awesome gift for my grandparents on their fiftieth wedding anniversary. A mash-up of first and fiftieth anniversary gifts, inspired by card games from the past…toilet paper. Not just the standard issue, that wouldn’t do. But fifty packages of toilet paper and it had to be gold colored toilet paper, well that fit the bill.
A little history: my grandparents survived the Great Depression with frugal habits. Items like fancy soaps or embossed four-ply toilet paper were considered luxury items and not in the household budget of practical Midwestern farmers.
Grandpa eked out a living on rented farmland, and Grandma sold the hand churned butter from the dairy herd she tended.
Future years yielded a proud day when Grandpa held title on the fields he plowed, and the cattle in the barn were their own livestock. Grandma’s collection of wooden butter paddles decorated the kitchen wall of the modest brick home they built on their property.
Social activities were low-cost affairs. Folks played horse shoes, pulled taffy, and played cards. Hors d’oeuvres were catered in the kitchens of farm wives. Attendees brought the card table and chairs required to have seats for the games.
As a small child I was allowed to watch the foursomes in my grandparent’s living room. Later, matured in my card skills, I was allowed to sit in for a round when one of the players needed a break. Euchre was the preferred game. Contract Bridge and other fancy card play were eschewed by the down to earth farm folk.
Prizes were awarded at the end of the evening’s festivities, but frugality still reigned and a nicely wrapped package of toilet paper came into play as a gag prize.
My grandparents and their peers dwelled in the after-the-kids-left-home phase of life. They could certainly afford the luxury of soft cotton squares rolled around a cardboard spindle replaced the thin paper pages torn from the sears and roebuck catalogues.
Scented bath soap came from the grocery store where much easier on the skin than rough cut bars, made in batches from lye and ash.
Toilet paper prizes were wrapped in fancy gift paper, tied with pretty ribbons and presented with great ceremony to the table with the highest score. Even though they knew what the elaborately wrapped packaged contained, the winners fussed over their prizes.
Observing this ritual over the years planted the seeds in my teenage mind—
The perfect gift for my Grandparents on their Golden Anniversary would be a box filled with 50 packages of gold colored luxury brand toilet paper.
A big party was planned, and I knew many of their card playing friends would be at this celebration. I hoped they’d appreciate the humor as much as I did.
What I didn’t figure on was how to find the necessary quantity of toilet paper and gold colors. My dad, my partner in crime, gave me some sage advice. He suggested that I scale the project back to fifty rolls, rather than fifty packages of fancy toilet tissue.
We lived in a middle-sized Midwestern town so had several grocery stores. Dad thought my idea was a fun joke on his parents, so he agreed to help me procure the product for our prize present.
My parental partner in crime drove me from store to store, as we depleted the shelves of golden hued bathroom tissue. Still a few rolls short of the desired fifty, we made do with some fancy gold filigree designed paper on a white background.
One of the stores had just unpacked a case of goods and the box was big enough to hold the fifty rolls that completed our gift.
“Took three packages of gift wrap, a whole roll of scotch tape, and a large spool of ribbon to wrap up our present,” I whispered to a cousin as she marveled at the huge gift box.
We arrived at the party carting our large box. Placed with grand ceremony on the table beside the cake and punch bowl, it dwarfed the other gifts and cards.
On pins and needles I waited for the moment my grandparents opened our present. I think Dad was as anxious as I to see the expressions on my grandparents’ faces when they opened enormous gold papered box.
The gift had its expected effect. Grandma and Grandpa both had big smiles on their faces. They each hoisted a roll and posed for photographs their golden paper booty.
One of the party guests, a regular attendee at my grandparents’ card parties hooted with glee. “Well, I guess I know what to expect for prizes at Euchre parties, and for quite some time!”
We are in Chelan, Washington… Nick has performances with one of his dear friends from the Washington State School for the Blind, Mac Potts.
A simple car ride became a long struggle, as the 3 hour trip ( per Google Maps) lasted over 5 hours. Unexpected delays due to construction, horrendous traffic jams on the I-5, necessitated a detour the scenic route, via Stevens Pass.
Needless to say, we arrived a tad behind schedule, and the motel further complicated our lodging situation. By the time we juggled rooms to get an ADA friendly one… It was almost time to go to his first engagement.
I phoned a local spot, thinking I’d make a quick pass at the highly rated burger place on the main drag in Chelan.
Local and quick were “relative terms”…most all the local eateries are located on Main Street, wedged in between the souvenir shops, winery tasting rooms and other retail places.
Did I mention that it’s high tourist season there?
We’ve ever been to Chelan before. A simple trip to pick up a meal became a logistical nightmare. I drove around the block twice, to find a handicap spot and hobble over to the restaurant location, accross the street, on my walking sticks. My only option to pick up our to go order.
Silly me… when I phoned to place my “to go” order thought I was going to go through the drive up window.
In their favor, the young man at the counter took pity on me and did walk me back out to my car, carrying the food containers, down the block from his establishment. I couldn’t manage my walking sticks and the boxes of food at the same time.
I get Nick situated in the car, with his food. We’re driving to arrive at the gig on time. I made the suggestion he eat his french fries first because the burger was a bit drippy, and he could save that for when we parked the car and unloaded gear rather than getting his clothes for the gig soiled with the juices from his burger.
I glanced over and noticed he’s noteating his food. I repeated my instruction for him to eat the french fries. His response was, I can’t! In the 42 years, I’ve lived with my kid, I never realized the hierarchy of his eating food.
His stepmother, Alice, trained him to eat the entrée first, so that he wouldn’t fill his stomach up with the extras. Ditto his drink .Nick wasn’t allowed to have so much is a sip until he had finished his main entrée. Wow!
Mark, his father died almost 25 years ago. Stepmother Alice is long gone and hasn’t been a part of his life since his dad passed. Yet she still exerts more influence on this 42 year old man than me, his mother, sitting right there in the car with him , go figure.
Next day…
More adventures with Baker and his autism stuff- I can’t make this stuff up!
We got into pool/jacuzzi at the motel where we’re staying. Nick wanted to stay in the Jacuzzi while I enjoyed the cool pool adjacent to the tub. I asked him to stay put until I could guide him out, when he was ready to join me in the big pool.
Did he listen to me? Heck no!
Instead he scooted over and got himself caught/sucked into the return slot, located on the side of the tub. He now has a 6“ x 8“ Hicky from the suction on his right butt cheek!
Scared him good too. He feared it was somehow gonna suck them into water trap on the system.
Returned to the room- Nick’s showered and drying off. The next thing I see, is my son with his head angled into the sink. An attempt to run water into his right ear, which he believed to be clogged with ear wax!
We will be visiting his Ear Nose and Throat doc as soon as we arrive home!
Kathy
Kathy Gail Passage– Looking for the humor in life situations
Hubby’s still outsmarted by dogs, ten plus years of chasing after the furry escape artists and they still get the best of him!
Hubby or “Tool Man” as we fondly describe him to folks when sharing tales of his various projects…has been spending many hours renovating the area which exists beneath the deck which travels the entire length of the house. It faces the descending wetlands that encompass the lower end of our ½ acre lot.
He announced last year, after almost ten years of constant vacuuming and hours of testing out carpet stain removal products- that he intended to renovate the “dog area”.
His plan was to eliminate the majority of dirt tracked into the home on the paws of our pets. This involved the delivery of a mountainous pile of gravel delivered to our driveway just as the fall rains kicked in, by the way.
Pea sized gravel and about $800 worth of shade tolerant plants called Japanese Spurge, were eventually installed and through a series of stages that involved sectioning off major areas of the “doggie area”. This part wasn’t a total problem as it concentrated the area where the pooches could poop, and necessitated a frequent clearing of said substances to avoid tracking this unpleasant residue onto the carpet when they bound through the clear vinyl door of the entry and trod on the carpet of the recreation room.
As with many of the projects Hubby has executed over the almost 40 years of our marriage, this one morphed to include an additions:
* Expansion of the wooden deck outside the doorway of the dog’s area.
* Creation of a “shade garden” at the end that abutted our new neighbor’s back yard.
*Renovation (tear down the existing) Hog Wire fence, originally installed during the summer of 2016 when Hubby was in between employers. He’d noticed the fence line had migrated toward the wetlands, and decided an additional improvement would be to reinforce the fence by anchoring it to a large block of cement to prevent further movement.
Many steps of the project left gaps in the fence lines, which provided opportunities for our dogs to escape… visit the neighbors and chase after the rabbits that have populated our community in increasing numbers over the years.
Today’s escape was a replay or rather a mash-up of two of my older posts involving previous incidents recovering canine escapees and the trials of our fire alarm systems.
We were awakened by the shrill shrieks of the unit needing a new battery at 7:00AM.
Nervous Elkhounds expressed their discomfort by pouncing on and off our beds, racing up and down the stairs, announcing the obvious. If they could talk they’d scream “Change those Batteries… NOW!”
Shaking with anxiety our canines were soon joined by our son Nick. His autism makes the tweets unbearable. He voiced what the dogs were unable to express
“Ray! Get the ladder and fix that battery.”
The ladder to which he referred was the “Little Giant” folding step ladder that daunts all who attempt to extend the device to its full 17 foot length to reach the alarm mounted on the ceiling, 20 feet in the air.
This one smoke alarm is the ONLY reason we still have this ladder, a necessary evil.
Hubby hated it the moment he set eyes on it.
Our fearless Tool Man prefers to balance on a chair, a small kitchen stool, or use our ancient aluminum step ladder. A reject, left behind when a neighbor moved, one that would totally flunk any OSHA tests.
Today was the second time he’d needed to mount this multi-stepped behemoth to exchange the tired 7-volt for a new one. He swore it was “Just a few years ago” that he’d had to scale up to this height. He cursed the “rip-off” on the life of these alkaline bombs… Shocked upon examination of the exhausted battery- “It expired in 2020!”
Meanwhile the dogs powered through the flimsy plastic barriers erected to protect that shade garden that Hubby had yet to complete.
Déjà vu: I’d spotted the dogs in our neighbor’s yard darting back and forth between the sand box and plastic tricycles. They ignored my please to come back and bolted out the other end , unfenced due to the neighbor’s yard project… and ran up the street.
We’d managed to corral the pups, and Hubby uttered aloud “How the heck did they get through that fence?”
Anxious to demonstrate, their paws flew down the stairs and they dashed through the now gaping hole in the erected structure Hubby was so sure would be impregnable… the chase was on a second time.
Finally secured by a closed doggie door, Hubby was hard at work reclosing his now trampled Shade Garden.
Hard not to laugh as I remind Hubby of the incident where our newly homed pooches jumped over the fencing that had kept our old arthritic Elkhound, Jaeger , secure in the dog area for the remainder of his years at this new home.
My son Nicholas makes most of his income entertaining. He plays piano and accompanies himself. An amazing repitorie is one of the reasons Nick is so popular with his senior audiences. He knows “their songs”. He is rarely stumped if a member of the audience requests a song. Having a virtualy unlimited roster of tunes parked in his brain, ready to call up and execute on a moments notice is remarkable. I believe this is one of the benefits of his autism, along with perfect pitch and a memory that vivals any search engine.
“Nothings quicker than Nick!” A phrase I heard often from classmates who’d frequently ask Nick for details on various pieces of music, rather than try to “look it up” on the internet.
This summer I am standing in for Nick’s usual support person named Tommy. He’s a great guy and taking Nick out to perform is one of his “day jobs”, but his true passion is his musical career. He’s a drummer . During the summer Tommy is on tour with his band.
Your’s truly is driving my son, Nick to his monthly engagements at various venues. Many of these are at Senior Assisted Living facilities. I sit by his side while he sings and plays piano for his audience.
Nick’s way of introducing a song is mostly spot on- he incorporates a theme for his set of selections, in an appropriate manner. Most of the time…but sometimes his logic works differently, the whole process of sharing information makes sense to him, of course… but the rest of us, well let’s say it can present challenges.
One quirky bit- his refusal to announce the actual name of the piece of music he’s performing, before he starts playing. I have endeavored to change his behavoir, but to date have been unsuccessful.
If I happen to be in attendance at one of his senior/assisted living gigs, I’ve been known to shout out the title when he pauses. He doesn’t get mad at me. He just chuckles, like sons tend to do when their moms do something they don’t exactly like.
Bottom line- my interventions don’t change his behavior or method of announcing at all.
It’s like he wants his audience to guess. I keep reminding him that many of his audiences are comprised of seniors who would love the hint> They want to know … rather than be confused for the first stanza, and hopefully recognize the piece by name when he starts on the chorus.
Sometimes when his thought process takes a turn away from what most of us would consider the norm… His introduction results can border on being hilarious.
Take a recent performance of Peggy Lee’s iconic song “Fever”.
This was part of his “summer set “for July.
Nick tends to work up a group of songs each month, a set program that he can play at each of the locations, without too much adjustment. Makes sense to me. Rather than come up with 15 or 20 entirely different playlists, the repetition helps him time his performance to keep within the 55 minutes he’s allocated.
So summertime means hot weather, and sweat, and feeling, hot hot hot! Nick decided that “Fever” fit his theme. Instead of introducing it as the “fever of love”, he opined that “This is how summer makes him feel.” His phrasing was spot on, right up to the point where he announced- “ This song is about the F word. “
Jaw dropping silence, and shock filled the faces of many in the audience. I must note that being blind, Nick could not see that reaction. He simply carried on performing this song.
Dealing with my son in a congenial manner means I must pick my battles, and this clearly was not the hill I needed to die upon. Smiles soon returned to the faces in the audience as they heard the bars of the chorus and recognized an old favorite.
When we returned to the car, I proceeded to explain that using term, “the F word “was not to be repeated. He was mystified. The song starts with the letter “F”, so what was my problem? A lengthy discussion about other meanings of the F word ensued.
His response was a typical outburst of “Oh! Oh! Oh!” Followed by lots of arguments about why he should still be able to use this description. Logic would not easily win the day in this particular situation. After much prodding on my part, he conceeded.
The description of “Fever” at Nick’s next performance included a lengithier description of the song’s content, which he described as Peggy Lee’s , “Iconic tune.”
But…True to form, he still didn’t announce the actual name of the song.
So my dryer has malfunctioned. I’m hanging my clothes out to dry. Of course there’s a lot to the story of how this happened. I posted a few pictures of my creative sun drying process on Facebook. My umbrella on the deck doubled as a rack to suspend my laundry to be dried. Worked pretty well when temperatures were at all time high.
Seattle was experiencing “higher than normal” summer temperatures. At 100° just about anything takes little time to dry.
My pillows, old-fashioned eiderdown, occasionally need laundering. I’m not one to run things that my face and head will rest on to the local dry cleaner. I prefer to run one pillow at a time through the washer and air dry to as much extent as possible and fluff in clothes dryer to finish off the process.
I’ve had these pillows for a while. Ahem. OK they are practically family heirlooms…but I’d chaperoned these babies through the process many times. Once too often, apparently.
As I strolled through the house I smelling something burning. Our neighbors often cook a batch of ribs or brisket in their smoker. No signs of life in that direction, and no cooking meat smells grabbed my nose.
A walk back into my own kitchen, toward the laundry room yielded the acrid smell of burnt chicken.
I yanked open the dryer door. Greeted to a site I had a hard time processing, I stopped dead in my tracks. My entire dryer was filled with feathers and down, some of which had apparently come in contact with the heating element.
I began the arduous process of capturing all those little tiny pieces of fluff in a queen size pillow to fill a 33 gallon heavy duty black plastic trash bag.
For a brief moment my mind traveled to a visual scenario; one that involved a special machine, in a factory… cramming goose down into a thick fabric pillowcase. Wow, how could they possibly get all of this fluff into that small pillow case?
Machines to the resque? Feathers and down clogged my small Dyson unit in no time. A search of the garage yielded a Shop Vac, which seemed a better option.
At this point my hubby strolled through, sniffed, and asked “What’s that smell?”
“Burnt down pillow,” I gasped. “Fabric disintegrated in the dryer.”
By this point I’d wrangled most of the volume in a trash bag, tightly closed and placed into the garbage receptacle in the garage. He looked at the few remaining feathers floating around and assessed the situation as “this doesn’t seem too bad.”
I began to laugh.
Breathless, I mimed how full the dryer had been, and my struggle to capture what was behind the grate that might ignite against those heat coils.
The family’s nickname for my husband at home is Tool Man. He is always willing to tackle any task, the more complex the better. Soon he was perched on a stool, stretched into the bowels of the clothes dryer.
“Why do you want to get in to this section?”
He knows the answer-I’m a clean freak. A disassembled appliance presents an opportunity – to clean all those crooks and crannies I can’t normally reach when the unit is operational.
Certain that tufts of down lurked beyond the reach of my trusty Dyson; I vacuumed and blasted the area with my handy Data Vac electric duster. But the flash light revealed feathers that still clung to the heat element.
Certain that future loads of laundry would smell like burnt bird feathers, I insisted on gaining access.
“What about the possibility of future fire?”
He looked down from the stool, “Oh I think it will be fine.”
“Nope.”
My desire to make sure that I had cleaned out every last bit, wore him down. I insisted that he help me wrestle the back plate off.
When it didn’t come loose so that I had free access to the heating element, I said “what about these three screws?”
Fatal words that echo in my head were followed by a sickening clunk as he loosened the third screw.
The dryer drum locked, wouldn’t budge, and not even an inch. Oh great. I said “now we’re going to have to go and take off the back of the dryer to fix this problem.
Not how my husband had wanted to spend the rest of his afternoon, most assured.
Hubby sighed and went to get his tool box. I called after him…“Whatever you do don’t open that garbage bag in the dumpster.”
Our Frigidaire model doesn’t come apart from the back. YouTube videos were not particularly helpful. At this point my Tool Man actually suggested we call an appliance repair person.
It was a hot day and he was ready for a cold beer.
I dashed to the phone…
Sadly, the highly praised local one-man appliance repair operation in our little city, appeared to be on vacation. No answering service and his phone’s message box was full.
Undaunted I consulted the greater Seattle area internet listings for reliable appliance repair, found a sophisticated outfit that allowed me to book my appointment for repair online, and promised to show up as early as 8 AM the next morning. Perfect! A text message of confirmation appeared on my smart phone.
Of course the “window of time between 8 AM and 11 AM evaporated. I needed to leave for an appointment. Sure enough the repair guy pulled into the drive as I backed away. Hubby was happy to host the fellow and escorted him to the laundry room. He wanted to watch, possibly offer some suggestions too, of course.
A second text arrived to my phone; hubby had sent the repairman packing.
Twelve years ago we spent $699 on this dryer, and it was going to cost almost $500, possibly more to be repaired.
I had to agree with his logic of nixing the repair, but it meant he’d doubled down and decided to fix it himself. The helpful young man pointed him to a couple of YouTube videos that showed exactly how to disassemble the dryer.
I took a deep breath, booked a lane in the pool at our club. I planned to stay out of the way as much as possible. Hubby took off a day from work to devote his full attention to the project. An hour later, the removal of the dryer’s drum upheld my theory.
Feathers lurked…
While many loads of laundry dried out under the umbrella on our deck, we finally were able to reassemble all the parts and pieces.
“What’s this?”
A large flat disk, clearly belonged in the back of the drum…there it was- behind the door.
The proverbial screw left over after one has reassembled the machine…Except this wasn’t a spare piece of hardware, this looks pretty important.
Hubby sighed. He had so much practice at this point, hauling the drum in and out of the frame. “I can do it in my sleep.”
Finally all things assembled, including some makeshift machine screws that stuck out maybe just a tad longer than they should have, but we turned on the dryer and heat came out.
“Yay!”
But wait… what’s that noise? Horrible sounds; bangs, thumps and the rotation of the drum yielded screeching scratching noises.
Undaunted, hubby again hoisted out the dryer drum. He tried filing off the ends of those screws that obviously were sticking out too far, reassembled the whole unit and tried it again. Screechy sounds still filled the air.
“What are these tiny pieces of wire?” I spied tiny bits of brittle wire that now littered the bottom of the dryer cavity. I’d just vacuumed up all the dust and dirt and the extra down that was floating around in here, these little pieces of wire were not present when I did that task.
“Where did they come from?”
Hubby noticed a few a little gaps in the wires of the heating element, but dismissed my concerns saying the majority were intact. He sounded confident- “Should still heat up.”
Fortunately there was an ace hardware, just down the street. Not only did they sell the machine screws we needed, plus… they stock hubby’s favorite brand of cold beer.
Reassembled once again with the correct hardware in place, a flip of the switch yielded no more scraping noise, just the quiet rotation of our dryer.
Elated, I grabbed my latest load of laundry and tossed three fairly wet towels into the dryer. Fingers crossed, I flipped the switch. I heard a good sound- hum of the drum turning. I went outside to pick berries. Thirty minutes later I noticed the dryer had quit running. I open the door and found my three still wet towels clumped together in the bottom. They were cold. No warmth at all came out to greet me at all when I restarted the unit.
Those little tiny pieces of wire apparently represented some major gaps in the heating element coils. No connections, ergo no heat. My handy husband created a shorter circuit, bypassing the broken section, and once again declared the dryer “fixed.”
A flip of the switch yielded no heat whatsoever coming out, so now we were back at the YouTube video looking at the part numbers for the heating element.
The novelty of hanging clothes out on the sun umbrella has lost its charm.
My back and shoulders hurt.
UPS is scheduled to deliver the heating element… sometime next week.
Hearing is apparently a bit over rated when it comes to enjoying music.
My son Nicholas entertains members of assisted living communitities as a way to make income. He has an encyclopedic repitoire, his brain full of tunes sure to please folks of all ages. Rarely does an audience member stump him with a request for a “favorite tune”.
At a recent performance, an apparently “hearing impaired” woman in the audience strove to enjoy Nick Baker’s recent performance, in her own way.
Nick’s support person Tommy related this to me, and I had to share.
The lady was seated fairly close to the piano, and Tommy observed her touching the side of the instrument. She rested her cup of punch, so that it touched the piano. She explained to Tommy she could “feel” the music in this manner.
As Nick continued to play, she caught on to the fact that Nick could not see her.
She inquired of Tommy “Is Nick blind?” She’d not seen him enter the room . Not observed him using his long white cane- a dead give away which signaled his lack of sight.
“Yes.” Tommy exchanged a smile with her and she continued to observe and listen, in her own way, to the performance.
She in no way disturbed Nick as he played; in fact I’m sure he was unaware of her activities at least until conversation with Tommy ensued.
I love that a “deaf” woman found a way to enjoy the performance of a “blind” man.
This is so wonderful and demonstrates our human capacity to reach out and enjoy life, no matter what obstacles might be in the way.
Last year our flower bed provided much joy. This year, not so much.
Spring time brings flowers to view, bulbs planted the previous fall or some that are residents from years past, struggle free out of the ground to provide the beauty and scents we enjoy.
Due to an abundant and possibly over- enthusiastic application of bedding materials, this years’ bounty was greatly diminished. This is my humble opinion, but I offer evidence and readers may draw their own conclusions.
My husband and resident gardener has been overly focused on the flower bed he built last year. It is a testament to his skills as a bricklayer and garden designer- a showcase for floral displays during the spring, summer and even the fall season.
Hubby consulted several on-line nursery sites. Eventually he shopped, with list in hand, of what he considered to be the optimum for his display of spring bulbs. Last year we had a plethora of pink, lavender, purple, and a variety of yellow shades, which all sprang from the ground, in proper succession to greet the spring sun.
This year, the population in this planter has dwindled, much to my hubby‘s consternation. The missing tulips/daffodils/hyacinths are a constant topic of conversation in recent weeks. He even found a photograph that we took of last year‘s fabulous floral display.
He’d sent this photo to his mom to cheer her up in her last days, and it was still resident in his phone’s text records, undeleted.
He strolled into the kitchen waving his Android under my nose. His screen displayed the photograph and he wanted an explanation for the lack of blossoms this year.
“Look here. See this purple one (he indicated a Hyacinth) in the corner of the bed? It’s not there this year.” He went on to enumerate the quantities of Daffodils, and true enough the numbers were diminished when compared to the pictorial records.
I did agree with his assessment. There was a distinct difference in the displays I’d proudly posted on my Facebook page last April, and the paltry collection emerging out to greet the sun this year.
When I went outside to gather information, I could see some tiny green sprouts doing their best to poke up through a pretty hefty layer of chips.
I pulled my husband out front to show him the evidence, and voiced my conclusion that maybe his application of chips was a bit heavy-handed last fall.
He of course is not willing to take on the blame. His mumbled excuses mentioned squirrels that might’ve dug up his bulbs and serve them as an entrée for their lunches. Or possibly the resident mole that frequents our front yard, maybe that critter was the culprit?
I reminded him about the 10 yards plus of wood chips, those free deliveries that he adores, and that a good deal of them wound up pilled into the empty space in this planter last fall.
I offer these photos in evidence… the pile of chips delivered this fall.
PMS(And it’s not the medical one)
This shows the struggling tulip stems’ attempts to emerge from under the chips. What I’ll call an “overly enthusiastic application” of bedding materials.
A flurry of COVID cleaning unearthed this essay. So old the paper it was written on is yellow and brittle. I remember executing this document shortly after my arrival in Seattle in 1995. Evokes memories. Decided to clean it up a bit and post. Hopefully changed names enough to protect family’s privacy, with out taking away from the content .
November 1995.
This is to say goodbye to the place that was my home for almost seventeen years. Events took place for me, major life events within those walls and in that yard. I need to acknowledge that history.
My first husband and I moved into this house when our oldest son was just two years old. We lost a dear pet cat, a Burmese named Trouble not long after moving there. His partner, a silver point Siamese named Charlie lasted for many years.
Our yard was very full of memories and the soil within the walls contained the bodies of family pets-cats, rabbits, even the afterbirth from my second son, birthed at this home, is buried under the grapefruit tree.
Son number two, came into the world on the floor of our master bathroom. My midwife had indulged my request for “one last pee” and events took a rapid turn. She had to drag me off the commode, and I didn’t make it back to the carefully prepared “birth bed” arranged in the corner of my bedroom. My husband and oldest son, aged four, perched on his wooden stool, wedged themselves in the doorway and watched over my shoulder as the midwife knelt on the bathroom rug and caught our baby.
A switch in partners happened. Husband number two was open to midwife attended birth, just not at our home. This being his first experience, I agreed to a quick trip to the hospital, and shortly after our son arrived, we returned home.
All three of the boys have grown; they’ve spent a good portion of their lives in this house.
Major events, resulting in changes that impacted my life occurred within those walls.
I found out that my beautiful baby boy was blind. I’d experienced a perfect pregnancy, a beautiful birth, all planned out with the expectation that this would guarantee great results.
I learned to except that I couldn’t control much at all.
My role, I learned, is to witness his journey through life, maybe open a few doors for him. He continues to grow into a wonderful person, fills our lives with much joy and music.
Even though he stayed behind in Phoenix with his dad for a while, I know he is still with me and will always be a part of me, no matter what physical distance separates us.
I learned I couldn’t control my first spouse’s drinking or make him the good husband or father that I wanted him to be. He had to experience major tragedy and loss to set him on his path to sobriety. I had to live through the shock of a man’s death, taking my babies out in the middle of the night to get their father out of jail, and cope with my husband being in jail. I realized what the marriage was lacking when his physical absence made it obvious to me that he hadn’t been there for a very long time anyway.
My family members’ experiences occurred in part at that house. My mom, brother and sister, all lived within the walls, at different times.
My Mom, moved in. Prompted by her grief, the loss of her father, and the push pull of the life with her last husband, she needed a safe spot to process the emotional upheaval and doubts on this final relationship.
My sister and her then boyfriend, stayed a bit, on their way to what they thought was a commitment. Cash saved up, they moved into their future and moved out to begin a life in their new condo.
My brother, a teenager being shuffled about as Mom and newest hubby were sorting out their relationship, crashed in our spare bedroom. He came back again from an overseas missionary stint, for another short stay.
A friend, recently divorced, and her small son too shelter in a spare bedroom and became part of our lives, as they coped with the changes in theirs.
Lots of shocks and painful events: I discovered that my oldest son had been molested, by trusted family members next door. He in turn acted out more of the same toward his own brothers as well as our friends’ children.
Wondering about trusted neighbors, I felt betrayed and angry, I’d somehow exposed my children to harm. I again found that control was elusive and slipped through my fingers.
Lots of loves; and making love, in those rooms, on the soft grass in our backyard, some so brief, others forged a path, affected change and awareness that are with me still. Opportunities to see what I was- what I am, and where I want to go with this life. Buckets of tears of joy and sorrow were soaked up by the carpets in those rooms and the upholstery on the furnishings.
Celebrations; birth, marriage, love, and anniversaries, our house became the family reception hall for several weddings including my second.
Friends gathered, for fun, celebrate events, and to make plans. La Leche League existed and grew for many years within its walls. Babies and moms, meetings, groups planned for a meeting, and discussions after those meetings. Friends showed up-to grow with, grieve with, and rejoice with as well.
Growth happened from the vegetables and roses to babies that grew too big to fit through the doors without stooping. Trees grew from twigs to Jungle Jim’s, to climb into, and fall for him as well.
Husband number two became a homeowner and caretaker there. He made over the yard, the garden, improved the house to make it his home. He grew into a husband and a father there too. He gained a wife and children and lost a father during his stay there.
Businesses were planted, hatched, grown, and nurtured into existence. Struggled with, and lost sleep over too. Hamburger empires were designed and planned hopefully to still continue. People filled our home and were e a part of my life; their relationships went way beyond the job they were there to do at the time.
I felt so rushed to leave- our move out delayed due to moving company snafu, frantic packing and fleeing for our lives.
I never stopped to say a proper goodbye. To remember all these events and acknowledge this part of my life that has passed on and into a whole new phase.
Leaving behind, letting go, and moving forward. Hoping the seeds planted and nourished in that home , transplanted to the Pacific Northwest, will carry us and continue to grow in whatever direction we have chosen for this life and the lessons we still need to experience.
Kathy Gail Passage– Looking for the humor in life situations
Grace Prats prayed as she sifted the tainted contents of the “Gay Powder Puff Design” box of Coty Fragrant Face powder. She needed Divine Intervention to endow the flour sifter from her kitchen with magical properties that would transform this substance back to its original state. A miracle was required to restore the gossamer lightness and caressing texture to the face powder in the beautiful pink box.
“Not perfect, but close enough,” she sighed and carefully closed the box. No trace of powder showed on its exterior. To Grace’s eye Mary’s beautifully decorated container looked pristine. Gasping for breath, with each creak of the wooden stairs, she placed back on the dressing table and backed out of her sister’s room.
Aunt Mary was the terror of her siblings and extended family. She had quite the temper. Woe to those who crossed in her path when she was in a mood.
Urination is the recurring theme of this tale.
Family lore has it that my grandmother failed her efforts to toilet train her two year old twin boys.
“They’re almost two years old!” Aunt Mary decided “Enough was enough.” She took over the task, employing a “rat-tailed comb” which incited such fear that the boys scrambled to get on the chamber pot. Even if their pants were still up, they peed in that porcelain bowl. The boys perfected the technique in record time. Grace, no longer plagued with extra wash loads of their soiled underwear, was relieved.
My mother and her cousin were only 3 months apart in age. Grace Prats loved her niece as if she was her own. “I even nursed her and Dode at the same time” she’d say with a sly wink.
Her youngest sister’s child grew up with Grace’s brood of five while the child’s mother, Evelyn, worked at her beauty salon.
Great Depression times meant sacrifices. The family “made do” and shared resources.
Most members, siblings and their families lived with their mother, my great grandmother, Grace Blacklock. My Aunt Pat’s family being the exception, as her father was a well to do business man. Her mother’s salon was successful enough to support their more upscale home. Pat, too young to attend school, spent her days with her cousins, on the farm .Evelyn styled and curled the hair of the Akron’s well to do women.
Clothing was often provided to my grandmother’s children via the generosity of her sister’s thriving beauty shop. Grace appreciated the gifts of various garments, especially expensive winter wear.
The kids on the other hand, well… they were kids. Dode and Pat took their brand new snow pants and draped them over the bedroom lamp to make the room dark enough to play hide and seek.
Midway through the game, the room filled with smoke from smoldering snow pants. Heat from the lamp set the fabric aflame. Much to their embarrassment, the two girls had to wear patched and repaired apparel that winter. Not a happy memory for my grandmother.
Some pranks did make her chuckle- Grace remembered fondly the time the two girls decided to sample the family dog’s milk! Their golden haired Collie named Lady was a wonderful and patient mother to her pups and the kids as well. Lady seemed ambivalent to little girls who cuddled in with her puppies and stole a swig from her teats.
But, their most recent incident caused great consternation.
Coty’s Fragrant Face Powder. The box purchased at the cosmetics counter at O’Neill’s department store downtown, for one whole dollar, quite an extravagant luxury. Advertisements claimed this substance to be the preferred choice of the world’s smartest woman. My grandmother certainly counted her older sister as a member of that posh sounding group. Aunt Mary worked full time and had no children of her own. Her complexion glowed with a porcelain finish provided by Coty’s silky product.
The girls were frightened but equally fascinated by their Aunt Mary. While she worked they’d sneak into her room, paw through the fancy lingerie in the top draw of her bureau, and preen into the hand mirror that rested on her dressing table.
On that particular afternoon, their attention fell on a beautifully decorated pink box. They untied the thin satin ribbon and pulled off the lid. A puff of dust filled their noses and they began to sneeze. Fearing discovery the two grabbed the box and scrambled under Mary’s bed. The big four posted sat off the floor high enough for two little girls to fit beneath. They held their breath and listened, but no footsteps the wooden stairs. They heard Grace humming as she worked in the kitchen. “Whew.”
“To this day” says my Aunt Pat, “I don’t know what compelled us.” She continued the tale of how both she and my mom peed into the box of powder. After executing this feat the fits of giggles attracted the attention of Grace. She wasted no time investigating her sister’s room and found the girls attempting to put the lid back on the container, now filled with defiled beauty product.
Horror filled my grandmother’s face as she discovered her daughter and niece’s prank. Whatever possessed these two little girls? They were always getting into trouble. She shook her head to hide a smile; “What one didn’t think of, the other did.”
My grandmother feared her sister’s wrath. Mary would hit the ceiling, and her infamous comb would tan the hinnies of two little girls, if she discovered her fancy face powder in its current state.
Fortunately the beautiful fluffy pink applicator still sat on the dresser, and had escaped their ministrations. Grace spread out the powder on a linen tea towel to dry. Next she sprayed the mixture with the Eau de Toilet from Mary’s dresser, hoping to mask any unpleasant lingering smell. When the powder was dry again, she carefully pressed the freshly scented talc through her flour sifter.
Satisfied with the results she gingerly spooned the contents back into the fancy box decorated with powder puffs, replaced the fluffy applicator and closed the lid and retied the ribbon. Whispering a prayer, she placed the powder box back in its place of prominence on her sister’s dresser.
Both of the girls knew, even without my grandmother threatening them, to keep silent about the incident.
My Pat reports that my grandmother’s efforts passed muster. A quiet calm reined the household that evening. Aunt Mary’s arrival home and subsequent visit to her room went by without comment. Dinner conversation contained the usual pleasantries and no mentions of any misdeed discovered by the owner of the rat –tail comb.
Aunt Mary never knew about the new and improved ingredient added to her facial regime.
Note for my family- this is a chapter from a book of FICTION, so some of the details may not be entirely accurate, but according to Aunt Pat, the story is true.
by 
