Dinner last night was a success, although I didn’t eat much having worked myself into somewhat of a tizzy over a series of small annoyances: the kitchen was hot, the pizza dough unusually difficult to throw, and of course, these new meds. Rick heard my huffing and puffing all the way into the living room and rushed in, his white knight armor gleaming, offering, no, insisting on lending a hand. At first, I was resistant, as I am to almost everything that involves accepting ‘help’, but he’s learned through the years to ignore me and push on. I’m glad he did !
The new recipe I tried, the A.O.K. for diabetics Classic French Salad Dressing was really good. Mostly I ate salad, so I gave it a real run for its money.
Today is another story. Rich is in the doctor’s office getting his quarterly labs for diabetes, Morgan, our granddaughter is at work, Charlie, her significant other is at work, Fig, our ever faithful dog, and Loki, our comedic kitty, are guarding the fort.
Morgan and Charlie rent our walk-out basement apartment. They work and attend college full time as well. Morgan is a Chemistry major and Charlie is working toward Computer Science. They’re both smart young people, and a joy to hang around with.
As for me, well, I’m sitting in the car writing this blog. Rich has already telephoned once with questions concerning signing the new confidentiality agreement that we have to sign every six months or so.
Nope! He’s called twice, this time with a medication question.
This isn’t something I didn’t expect; paperwork is generally my territory; Rich hates to do it. But I’ve spent so much time with doctors lately; I couldn’t make myself go inside. I came along for a free meal; we’re headed to breakfast at a favorite Mom and Pop diner when he’s finished. Once he clears the paperwork and medication review, he’ll be fine on his own.
It’s starting to rain, and the wind is picking up. A murder of crow just descended in the trees around the car. They sound like old men complaining. I shouldn’t have said that, it must have been offensive; two of them just pooped on the hood .
It’s the end of the day now; thank goodness we accomplished everything on the errand list. Tonight is fish night. We chose Cod from the small fresh seafood department in a local Kroger, and I’m getting ready to dig through a couple of cookbooks for a new recipe. But before I go, I’d like to channel a little of Aunt Bea’s rather devious sense of humor by sharing a childhood story.
We moved around a lot when I was growing up. From first grade through twelfth, I attended twenty-two different schools. In 1964 I was fifteen, entering the ninth grade at a new school for the second time in a semester. Times were tough back then; Mom came up with all sorts of artsy ideas in hopes of earning money to supplement Dad’s paycheck.
At the time of this particular move, Mom was melting old brown glass beer bottles and selling them to restaurants as ashtrays. It was amazing how many BBQ joints there were in the new area, and all of them seemed to want Mom’s ashtrays. She made agreements with the owners of these places to supply her with all their empties once a week. Literally thousands came in in a months’ time. Mom stored them in a shed in the back yard until it was time to wash and dry them, and melt them in her kiln.
We were fairly new in town when the Methodist preacher dropped by to introduce himself. Dad was mowing the front yard. He knew Mom was washing about 300 beer bottles in the back yard. Reverend Reed wanted to meet Mother. Dad, having a dry sense of humor, led the preacher to the back yard, where from a distance they could see Mom sitting in the middle of a small mountain of empty beer bottles. The preacher looked shocked. He raised his eyebrows and looked at Dad who replied with a straight face, “Yeah, Pastor, the little lady has quite a problem, as you can see.”
Dad didn’t tell Mom what he had done until the preacher was gone.
The next week our family joined the Methodist church. Mom never missed a Sunday and never uttered a word in her defense each time Reverend Reed would take her hand in his and say, “Claire, I certainly hope you are feeling better.”
One Saturday afternoon in downtown Sweeny, Texas, the good preacher was having lunch at the local BBQ joint when he absentmindedly tossed the paper off his straw into a melted beer bottle ashtray; that’s when he knew what a Stinker my dad could be, and what a good sport Mother had been.
Play nice kids!