There Are Places I Remember...

We used to live on a dirt road that you had to turn off a dirt road that you had to turn off a dirt road again to get to our house. There were hundreds of acres surrounding us, with only one house that we couldn't see and a partially built garage apartment that we had to strain to see, and to which no one ever came.

There were over 600 acres for our dogs and Husband to romp around in.

Although the trip to town logged in at just over five miles, it took close to a half hour to get there because of the roads.

Anytime we had company, they would get out of their cars with a wild look in their eye, appearing somewhat disheveled. They would slam their car door (which now had new rattles) and exclaim, "Why in the $#@! did you build a house way out here?"

We now live on a paved road. Although the distance to town is the same, it takes about twelve minutes to get there. I would venture to say there are over one hundred houses on our road alone, although, thankfully, we can't see any of them but one.

We haven't moved out, civilization has moved in.

I hate cars zooming by at all hours. I hate that our dog can't even go in the  yard by herself. I hate that I can't go on the front porch in my gown-tail. I hate not having all this to ourselves.

I love no more dust from the road. I love getting to town quickly.

I obviously have a love/hate relationship going on here that I can't seem to resolve.

Maybe I need to see somebody.

Kitchens

It seems to me that many memories of my childhood - and perhaps yours - are somehow wrapped up in food and the place where it was cooked.

My great-grandmother's kitchen was a big sunny place (in my mind, anyway). The window over the sink looked out over a pasture, a creek, and then the woods, climbing up the mountain. It was dominated by a huge wood cook stove, which she used to cook wonderful meals all her life. Papa finally purchased an electric stove, but she didn't much like it. She did cook on it in the summer when it got so hot no one could stand the heat coming from that behemoth in the corner.

I've tried to recall  the kitchen in the house we lived in until I was seven. All I really remember is that you walked through it to get to the really cool screened in back porch that looked out over the top of the back of my grandfather's grocery store. Mother ironed out there in the summer while I played with all my toys, never worrying about making a mess.

I remember when it rained my parents  having to put buckets and pans out everywhere because the roof leaked like a sieve. I can recall squinting my eyes and looking at the single light bulb that hung from the ceiling, and how dreamy it looked as water gathered and then dripped from the fixture the bulb sat in.

May I take a moment to say: Yikes!

There is a picture taken in that kitchen that I've seen more than once. It's of me in my Easter finery standing in front of my daddy, who is sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. That table is so small it is now the table I use at my bedside, covered in a tablecloth to hide it's identity.

I looked pleased as punch, he looks horribly hung over.

The kitchen in the house I was finished being raised in was in the house my father's parents moved from at retirement to move to the country.

It was an odd shaped room, because part of it had been partitioned off to carve out a bathroom. There was a transom window above the refrigerator, which sat in a little cubby by itself. There was a full size window to the side of the sink, looking out into the backyard. The cabinets, what there was of them, was a mismatched bunch of vagrants.

The first kitchen I had as a married 'woman' (I use that term loosely, I was eighteen) wasn't really a kitchen, just part of the living room. The sink and the refrigerator were on the back porch. It was a hoot having to tote dirty dishes from our table to the back porch to wash them, and durn cold in the winter, I imagine.

I can only imagine the cold, because we couldn't tolerate the many problems that house had, including the shower leaking onto the bedroom carpet every single day. The smell became unbearable, and no one would fix it. So, after three months of marital bliss in that house, which ended in October,(the time, not the bliss - the loss of that came later)  we moved.

I'm in kitchen number nine of my adult life. I hope it's the last one. I designed this kitchen, and I love it. I have been able to upgrade over the years, to make it more like I wanted it to start with, twenty-six years ago. The only thing left to complete my wishes is new flooring, and that will happen soon enough.

It's just the right width, it's long with a big bay window to tuck the kitchen table in, so we can watch all the wild life goings on every day, and  many a meal has been stopped to do just that. I have a walk- in pantry that I love.

But the thing I love the most is it is filled with family, good times, and lots of love.

It even gets cooked in sometimes!

Ya'll will have to come sit a spell at the table. I'll feed you something.

We might even see a bear in the rose garden.

It happens.

Fox Trot

We've had a fox suddenly appear at our house. He is mostly grey, with some red on him. I guess he comes from a bi-racial marriage.

Daughter was throwing out scraps from the second story porch and happened to look down before doing so, and there he was, munching on apple peels. We all watched him from above, as he kept looking back into the woods, as though being called back. But the appeal of the apple peels was too much, and he came right back to continue munching until they were all gone. 

He has now done that several times. Sometimes we see him, sometimes we don't. 

The other day I looked out the bay window in the kitchen and there he was at the edge of the wood eating popcorn we'd thrown out for the crows. He also munched on french fries and one peanutbutter cracker. 

In a little while, Daughter saw him trotting up the road like a little dog, and we've seen him do that once more. 

It's not like he's tame, exactly, and he doesn't look sick at all - in fact, I think he's putting on weight - no surprise there, considering what he is eating. 

It thrills me to see him, as I've only caught glimpses of fox in my life. Once I was coming home and saw something run across the road into the grass on the other side. At first I thought cat, then no, too dog-like. So I stopped when I got even with the place I'd seen them run to, and up popped two fox kits. They were red, with the beautiful black stockings. They looked at me, then began tumbling about with one another, unconcerned about my car. It was delightful.

On the other hand, our visiting fox concerns me, too. I don't want someone to kill him thinking he's rabid, or just for sport. 

I don't want someone to try to get close to him and get attacked, either. He's little - smaller than our cats - but I bet he's got some sharp teeth.

We have been warned because of the news reporting the fox coming out of the woods and biting two kindergartners on the playground last week, somewhere in the metro area. I'm willing to bet that fox is rabid. 

Daughter has named our fox George Clooney, who played the voice of a fox in the movie, "Fantastic Mr. Fox".

Me? I'm just hoping he keeps the bear run off.

Rambling Prose

Just a few random thoughts:

If we have our own homes in Heaven, on the New Earth, I wonder what mine will look like. I love my little house now. Of course, if I'd had more money, it would have been bigger, but the changes would not have been huge.

I guess I would like the same house, only clean all the time.

We got babies! The Eastern Blue Birds  have finally busted from their shells, and are chirping like mad. It's keeping Mama and Papa very, very busy. They look exhausted.

My mother is reading my book, "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree" again. I was flattered. But then she told me she'd run out of anything else to read...

I got a perm today. My 'real' hair is so straight you could plumb a house with it. It is also very fine. So without  a perm it sticks to my head like a cap. If you are Daughter's age, that's attractive. If you are my age, it is sad.

So right now I look like a demented fuzzball and smell strange and damp. But it will get better, I promise.(I hear you ask, well, how could it get any worse? I know, right?)

Why is some joker calling me two or three times a day, letting it ring three times and hanging up? If you answer before then, there is no one there. The caller i.d. says, "Out of Area". Duh. I figure it's a computer calling me, raising prank phone calls to a new height. But if it just happens to be you, knock it off, will ya?

Two of my favorite authors are Stephen King and Jodi Picoult. Both of them have made a grave error, though. I've gone on their websites and let them know, too. I'm sure they were overwhelmed with thankfulness. Both of them have had southern characters in a book, and both of those characters have said something to the effect of, "Ya'll just don't understand." Now this is said when it is a one on one conversation. Makes me grit my teeth. I explained very politely that the word ya'll (or y'all) is used only when speaking to two or more, not when addressing one person.

I bet I get a thank you note from both of them. ADDED NOTE: Jodi Picoult did respond to me. She said she didn't do her due diligent research on Southern speak. I thanked her for responding. I appreciate it!
But you'd think with all the money they spend on researching their books - nuclear physics, courtroom scenes, aliens, hospital procedures, etc., they could spend a quarter and call somebody down here and ask a simple question.

I would never attempt to have a character from New Jersey or Maine or any Yankee place in one of my books without an OFFICIAL consultant.

Sunday I was sitting in church and crossed my legs. I noticed the sole of  my shoe didn't look like the shoes I thought I had on. I put my foot back down on the floor, slid off my shoe....and discovered I had on my bedroom shoes. Now, to give me credit, they look like dockers on top. And that's the shoes I thought I had on. Funny thing is, as I was looking at my shoes, I noticed Husband's feet. His socks were not only different colors, they were each a different pattern.

Well, I guess that's all for now. The phone is ringing. I'm sure it's Out of Area again.

Stop it, okay?

Walking by the River and Remembering When

Walking by the river this morning, appreciating God's beauty, and trying to take my mind elsewhere so I could walk without concentrating on the pain it causes me, I started to reflect about how things used to be.

I am fairly leggy, and physical activity always came easy. I loved basketball and played some in grammar school. I'm not exactly that graceful, but the ability to move without effort was there.

I remember once, in my twenties, I went with a friend to an aerobics class. She had been going for about a month. I joined them, and after it was over, the instructor came up to welcome me, and asked how  long I  had been doing all the exercises she had put us through. I explained I had never done it, I was just with my friend. She 'bout spazzed!

"If I'd known that, I would have  never let you do so much! You won't be able to move tomorrow. Are you all right?"

I assured her I was fine.

I wasn't sore the next day either.

Same for horseback riding. My goal as a child was to own a horse, which of course hasn't happened yet. But the first time I had the opportunity to ride, I did, all day long. I loved it. The horse even jumped a small fence, which scared everyone to death but me and the horse.

I wasn't sore, even a little bit.

And when I was twenty-nine I started doing Jane Fonda's "Secret to Killing People" exercise video and within three months, honey I was fit.

But I've never really liked formal exercise, it bores me. I was born with a book in my hand, not a desire to get out there and run. I live inside my head, not with  my body, as some do.

So mostly, I have walked (or not) and stayed home and read books.

But before I fell, I had started feeling guilty about my laziness and knowing I wasn't getting any younger. I didn't have a desire to become a slave to exercise in an attempt to keep looking  younger than my real age, like Christie Brinkley.

I use her because we are within days of each others age.

Funny story: About a year or so before I retired (at age 49), we had to start wearing identification badges. The pictures were worse than your typical driver's license, if you can imagine. And we all  hated wearing them. It was silly. We all knew each other. It was kinda like wearing one to Sunday  Dinner at your Granny's house so your cousins could see it and know who you were - just in case you had changed any from last Sunday. But the center was abiding by some silly rule.

Well, my picture was worse than bad, so I taped a tiny picture of Christie Brinkley's face over mine on my badge.

Would you believe it took three weeks for anybody to notice? Let me tell you, it says a lot more about the folks I worked with than it does about my resemblance to Ms. Brinkley.

Anyway, of course, I took all this ease of exercising my body for granted.

I feel a little spark of anger when well meaning people encourage me: "Oh, just keep at it, it will get easier." and other similar remarks.

The sad fact is for me, it won't get easier. The nerve damage doesn't 'get over it' like muscle soreness. In fact, the more you irritate them (like by walking), the louder they scream.

Don't get me wrong. I know it could be a lot worse. At least I can walk, I can feel. And I'm grateful. There's a lot for me to enjoy  on my walks, and I truly do.

But don't you dare come  up to me and ask, "Wanna race?"

I still have a mean right cross.

In Search Of....

Husband sometimes takes an inordinate amount of time to get ready to go somewhere.

Yesterday, it was getting ready to go to the dump.

Don't ask.

However; one of the things that stalled him out for this trip was the loss of my car keys. (Does that sound familiar? No? Read previous blogs.)

"Lock yourself in when I leave." Husband hollers from the foyer.

"Okay. Where did you put my keys?" We'd driven my car earlier to go to our walking place.

"They are on your nightstand!" Husband said triumphantly.

"Nope."

"The dresser?"

"Nope. Not on the desk or your nightstand either."

"I guess I left them in my dirty pants."

"Nope."

"Okay, I'll look down here."

Minutes pass. I hear him coming up the stairs.

"They aren't down there. Are you sure they aren't in my dirty pants?"

"Yes. Maybe you left them in your sweat pants."

I hear him in the closet looking in the pockets of his dirty pants anyway. He comes back in the bedroom and takes his sweat pants off the hook and feels around on them.

"They aren't in here." He glances out the window. His face brightens. "Oh! I bet I laid them on the truck along with my work gloves."

And down he goes.

Minutes pass. I hear him come back in, then the sound of him trudging up the stairs.

"No, they weren't there." Shaking his head, he put his hand to his shirt pocket to retrieve his sunglasses.

And there were the keys.

Well, that's all the news that is the news for now.

Ta Ta!

It Only Takes One (or Two)

I'm talking about fleas.

My cats and dog have never had fleas. Molly is eight years old, so that tells you how nice it has been. We have always used the stuff between her shoulder blades that you apply once a month, and we've never had a problem.

We never treated the cats, because they don't go outside, and we figured if Molly, who is the only pet who goes outdoors, was treated, we were safe.

And that was the case, until a few months ago, when Molly had a vet visit.

She'd been home a few hours, when Daughter noticed a 'bug' crawling on Molly's face. It was a flea! Apparently she'd picked it up at the vets.

Not that I'm blaming the vets, they can't control what animals have on 'em when they are in the waiting room. I wish they had a flea alert alarm that would go off, but  no.

Anyway, we got the flea off and killed that little sucker, (pun intended) and looked Molly over pretty good and found two more, killed them, and thought that was that.

And it seemed so....until the cats started scratching. Eli was impossible to find anything on him, as he has three layers of fur. Lily looked clean. Mimi is a tortie, so who could see a flea? And Frost, well, he growled and bit, but we held him down. And found fleas galore.

I won't repeat the word I said, but it was reminiscent of my grandmother's choice of words when she was extremely frustrated. See previous blog.

It has entailed an exhausting adventure of taking four (count 'em, four) cats to the vet to have a bath, because the stuff we used from Lowe's worked not at all. But it had to be washed off them completely in order for the stuff that does work to be put on them. Three of the four cats had to be sedated to be bathed. So we had three drunk cats and one somewhat paranoid cat for several  hours.

They sure did sleep well that night, though.

We don't have fleas here anymore. The vet has a lot more money than he had last week.

We are broke, the cats are serene, and the vet is rich.

And all it took was one flea - or two.