Dear Citizens,
Today is a special day. My baby sister Janette turns 40. As she was just 10 years old at our wedding, she will always be 10 years old to Andy. A recent conversation:
CitizenB (on the telephone to Mom): Janette's 40th is Wednesday.
Andy (eavesdropping): Janette, the kid who spilled grape juice on the carpet, is 40?
CitizenB: No, Janette, the kid who spilled milk at the dinner table every night of her childhood, is 40.
Andy: You're sure it wasn't grape juice?
CitizenB: Yes. It was milk. Plus if she sat still long enough her eyes would roll back and she would fall asleep in her plate of mashed potatoes.
Janette was full of surprises. First, she was born prematurely and out of state. The family had moved temporarily from Texas to Kansas and from my memory, our dog, Spot, a white fur ball with one spot (possibly his black nose or a smudge of dirt), ran through our mother's legs as she descended the stairs causing the first spill of many to come - her water broke and she was whisked away to hospital at 7 1/2 months.
While Janette was making her early entrance, tornadoes were dropping in and out of clouds (it was May in Kansas) and our not-sold-on-the-whole-idea housekeeper/babysitter Ruby, always wide-eyed looking out the kitchen window, forced us, the existing children ages 8, 6, 4 and 2, to duck and cover in the basement for what seemed like an eternity. Within a few days, we piled into the car and drove to the hospital where we waited for the newest addition to take her place in the back seat.
Back at home, the little bundle was placed on the enormous and hideously itchy Early American sofa for her first official photo - expertly taken with a Polaroid camera from about 40 feet away. She looked like, well, a blanket.
A few highlights:
Except for the relentless spitting up of foul-smelling formula, Janette was an easy baby. I considered myself a miniature junior mother and lugged her around. Hey, I already had Campfire girl and Brownie under my belt at that point and knew how to sew a "sit-upon."
As a toddler, she called every man we encountered in public "Daddy." For a few years, men of all ages, shapes, sizes and ethnicities would flee from us.
Unlike her sister Kellie, she would do anything I asked her to do - like walk to the apartment rental office to retrieve a Mr. Pibb from the vending machine while I watched reruns of "Leave it to Beaver." I like to think I never put her in harm's way and certainly never convinced her that a tadpole from the creek was candy. Kellie fell for that one.
Once she wandered away from our group at the Fort Worth Science and History Museum. At some point between the replica pioneer days classroom and 1800's doctor's office exhibit we lost her. Fortunately, an announcement was made that a little girl "Nona Net Jinkees" - her version of her full name at age 4 - was looking for her family. There was a dramatic reunion at the front desk and then we got to go for ice cream to celebrate not leaving our sister behind with fossils.
As she grew up, it became quite obvious that she was uber-hyperactive. There was a lot of spinning, kicking, standing on her head, dancing, twirling, leg splits, cartwheels, awkward roller skating etc. Not much has changed and this explains why at age 40 she can still fall asleep with her head in a plate. Such skill.
Happy Birthday Janette!
CitizenB
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
My Dinner With Geronimo
Dear Citizens:
As a business traveler, it's not uncommon for cities, airports, hotels, conference rooms, and restaurants to blur together. Not Miami. It's multi-cultural, flavorful, and unexpected no matter how generic you try to make it.
For me, it all starts while boarding a 767 and not the usual DC-10 at DFW airport. There are no self-obsessed men in suits. Not a blackberry in sight. Instead there are vacationers clutching Group 4 boarding passes attempting to board with First Class and Executive Platinum. In my best flight attendant persona, I attempt to assist confused elderly passengers dressed tragically head-to-toe in pastel polyester and struggling with unsuitable carry-on baggage. There's a language barrier. They don't speak Texan even though I assumed "y'all" was universal. Smiling and hand gestures help.
We manage to get on the airplane. I am seated in an emergency exit aisle located next to an off-duty junior pilot. He reminds me of Leonardo DiCaprio in "Catch Me If You Can" and I begin to wonder if like Leo, he's a fraud pretending to be a pilot and whether he can really open the exit door in the event of an emergency.
At some point in the flight I remember to mind my own business and we land in Miami. I'm there to mediate a negligent security case. I immediately notice that the Miami airport has "negligent security" written all over it. Airport employees are few and it takes 55 minutes for the conveyor to shoot out the checked luggage. Not expecting to see my Samsonite ever again I had already said good-bye to my favorite pajamas and broken up with my dressy sandals.
Of course, the glorious weather totally makes up for it. Also I know of no other airport where you can get a Cuban sandwich to go with your cafecito at 8:00 a.m.
I usually stay downtown but mediation takes me south and I stay at the Hotel Indigo in Dadeland. The cab driver, originally from Haiti knows exactly where to go. He drops me at the hotel near a tree chocked full of wild parrots. I count at least 30 and they create a noisy ruckus knocking seed pods, leaves and small limbs from the tree. Several parrots are lined up on the hotel's roof as if on security patrol.
Hotel Indigo, a boutique-y Holiday Inn, promotes itself with Haiku. The Haiku at the front desk states:
"Colorful locales
Refreshingly different
Adventures Await"
There are haiku posted in the room that speak to bathing, the environment, and room service.
Inspired, I decide to compose a haiku about the wild parrots:
The Hotel Parrot
Wild Nesting and Foraging
Complimentary
I have dinner at Fleming Restaurant - A Taste of Denmark. I consider a Danish dish - the Frikadeller Dinner - A Danish meat patty served with sweet and sour red cabbage and a side of champagne cream sauce. I decide to forgo the meat patty and order Japanese-inspired sesame seared tuna. Because it is included in the Sunset menu, I have tiramisu for dessert. This is Miami. You never know what to expect.
The next day proves to be very good for mediation. Passover Seder and impending sundown motivates the mediator and 7 of 8 attorneys to settle the negligent security case in a timely fashion. I assure you that without Seder we would still be there arguing every inconceivable issue. The lone attorney passing Seder invites me for dinner at an outdoor bistro with his wife and their (his) dog, Geronimo.
It turns out that Geronimo is a well-trained German Shepherd. Geronimo is his American name. His German name sounds something like "Gesundheit" We meet. He is a bit aloof but sniffs and licks my hand. A good sign for such a serious dog. One sniff of Geronimo reminds me of my grandfather's garage and hunting dogs. I realize my eyes are closed and I'm 8 years old again. It smells just like Geronimo plus grease and oil.
At the "French Bistro" and still going with "anything goes", I order churrasco - as recommended by the Portuguese waiter and my dinner companions. It is served with all-American peas and carrots. Geronimo keeps a lookout from our table and drinks iced water from a high-tech, portable, fold-out water dish. He also shares the churrasco - without the cilantro-infused olive oil on the side. Geronimo dislikes sauces. I learn my companions' daughter, a Harvard-educated physician, also shuns all condiments. She doesn't eat salad dressing, mustard, jelly, or champagne cream sauce. She prefers basic food - even in salsa-spicy Miami. Go figure.
Geronimo consumes roughly one-half of the table's churrasco and drinks from the portable dish. A strong, silent type, he is as relaxed as possible. He skips dessert of fruit, ice cream, and pigeons. He is trained not to eat pigeons except on command. Impressive.
I head back to my poem-inspired, parrot-squatting hotel and try to sleep despite the wall-size seascape mural in my room. I want to phone the front desk and report that Jellyfish, other blobby sea creatures, and Haiku can cause nightmares. I don't.
The next morning I leave Miami. My work is done.
CitizenB
As a business traveler, it's not uncommon for cities, airports, hotels, conference rooms, and restaurants to blur together. Not Miami. It's multi-cultural, flavorful, and unexpected no matter how generic you try to make it.
For me, it all starts while boarding a 767 and not the usual DC-10 at DFW airport. There are no self-obsessed men in suits. Not a blackberry in sight. Instead there are vacationers clutching Group 4 boarding passes attempting to board with First Class and Executive Platinum. In my best flight attendant persona, I attempt to assist confused elderly passengers dressed tragically head-to-toe in pastel polyester and struggling with unsuitable carry-on baggage. There's a language barrier. They don't speak Texan even though I assumed "y'all" was universal. Smiling and hand gestures help.
We manage to get on the airplane. I am seated in an emergency exit aisle located next to an off-duty junior pilot. He reminds me of Leonardo DiCaprio in "Catch Me If You Can" and I begin to wonder if like Leo, he's a fraud pretending to be a pilot and whether he can really open the exit door in the event of an emergency.
At some point in the flight I remember to mind my own business and we land in Miami. I'm there to mediate a negligent security case. I immediately notice that the Miami airport has "negligent security" written all over it. Airport employees are few and it takes 55 minutes for the conveyor to shoot out the checked luggage. Not expecting to see my Samsonite ever again I had already said good-bye to my favorite pajamas and broken up with my dressy sandals.
Of course, the glorious weather totally makes up for it. Also I know of no other airport where you can get a Cuban sandwich to go with your cafecito at 8:00 a.m.
I usually stay downtown but mediation takes me south and I stay at the Hotel Indigo in Dadeland. The cab driver, originally from Haiti knows exactly where to go. He drops me at the hotel near a tree chocked full of wild parrots. I count at least 30 and they create a noisy ruckus knocking seed pods, leaves and small limbs from the tree. Several parrots are lined up on the hotel's roof as if on security patrol.
Hotel Indigo, a boutique-y Holiday Inn, promotes itself with Haiku. The Haiku at the front desk states:
"Colorful locales
Refreshingly different
Adventures Await"
There are haiku posted in the room that speak to bathing, the environment, and room service.
Inspired, I decide to compose a haiku about the wild parrots:
The Hotel Parrot
Wild Nesting and Foraging
Complimentary
I have dinner at Fleming Restaurant - A Taste of Denmark. I consider a Danish dish - the Frikadeller Dinner - A Danish meat patty served with sweet and sour red cabbage and a side of champagne cream sauce. I decide to forgo the meat patty and order Japanese-inspired sesame seared tuna. Because it is included in the Sunset menu, I have tiramisu for dessert. This is Miami. You never know what to expect.
The next day proves to be very good for mediation. Passover Seder and impending sundown motivates the mediator and 7 of 8 attorneys to settle the negligent security case in a timely fashion. I assure you that without Seder we would still be there arguing every inconceivable issue. The lone attorney passing Seder invites me for dinner at an outdoor bistro with his wife and their (his) dog, Geronimo.
It turns out that Geronimo is a well-trained German Shepherd. Geronimo is his American name. His German name sounds something like "Gesundheit" We meet. He is a bit aloof but sniffs and licks my hand. A good sign for such a serious dog. One sniff of Geronimo reminds me of my grandfather's garage and hunting dogs. I realize my eyes are closed and I'm 8 years old again. It smells just like Geronimo plus grease and oil.
At the "French Bistro" and still going with "anything goes", I order churrasco - as recommended by the Portuguese waiter and my dinner companions. It is served with all-American peas and carrots. Geronimo keeps a lookout from our table and drinks iced water from a high-tech, portable, fold-out water dish. He also shares the churrasco - without the cilantro-infused olive oil on the side. Geronimo dislikes sauces. I learn my companions' daughter, a Harvard-educated physician, also shuns all condiments. She doesn't eat salad dressing, mustard, jelly, or champagne cream sauce. She prefers basic food - even in salsa-spicy Miami. Go figure.
Geronimo consumes roughly one-half of the table's churrasco and drinks from the portable dish. A strong, silent type, he is as relaxed as possible. He skips dessert of fruit, ice cream, and pigeons. He is trained not to eat pigeons except on command. Impressive.
I head back to my poem-inspired, parrot-squatting hotel and try to sleep despite the wall-size seascape mural in my room. I want to phone the front desk and report that Jellyfish, other blobby sea creatures, and Haiku can cause nightmares. I don't.
The next morning I leave Miami. My work is done.
CitizenB
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Candlestick Salad
Today is April Fool's Day and this could explain why a few of my family members got a little silly late this afternoon with e-mail. Much of it started with comments about Mother being a "Tomahawk" from the prior post. This led to a story from my cousin and sister about the time as children they escaped raging flood waters only to be punished by Tomahawk and her evil sister, Aunt Nan (we're still thinking of a nickname...for now, I'll go with "Arrowhead"). They were forced to stay indoors and make an inedible cake from Bisquick. Even the dumbest dog on earth at the time, Bo Bo, wouldn't eat it.
All of this led to the question of whether it was possible to make a cake (not a pancake) from Bisquick and somehow that reminded Aunt Arrowhead about the time she made Candlestick Salad in Home Economics class in the mid-1960s. Here's how it went:
CitizenB: You can make a cake with Bisquick?
Aunt Arrowhead: Sure you can make a cake out of Bisquick. You can make one out of mud too. Tastes about the same. When I was in school I made donuts out of biscuits. I also made a candlestick salad. Take a plate, put a lettuce leaf on it, then a slice of pineapple, stick a banana in the center of the pineapple, whip cream on top of the banana with a cherry on top. Lake Worth High School home economics in action. Sorry, I got carried away with all my cooking expertise.
CitizenB: Curious…was the banana supposed to represent the candlestick?
Aunt Arrowhead: Of course it represented the candlestick. What else?
CItizenB: I don’t know…? I was just trying to get the salad construction and name to match….never heard of a candlestick salad until now. Very good to know. I think I could make it.
Aunt Arrowhead: ... We were only in high school and never thought about things like that. I'm pleased I could teach you something you never knew before. Yes, YOU CAN DO IT.
CitizenB: I guess I was mixing a little World History in with Home Ec. I was visualizing the banana as an ancient Egyptian obelisk (for some reason) and not a candlestick... Thank you for your confidence in me. Let’s pray I can keep the banana erect.
Aunt Arrowhead forwarded a recipe to me but there was no photo. After work, I researched and found the below depiction of Candlestick Salad in all it's glory. Of note, the whipped cream is supposed to represent the melting wax and the cherry the flame. Sigh. I'm sorry but it cracked me up to think about a bunch of 1960's high schoolers trying to make bananas stand up on pineapple rings. Thankfully by the time I hit Home Ec. in the late 1970's, Candlestick Salad had been replaced by a basic Waldorf Salad. Mayonnaise on apples was risque enough for me.
All of this got me wondering about the 1960's and why housewives were obsessed garnishing everything with pineapple and shaping food into weird objects..like candlesticks.
For the five minutes I've been thinking about it, my opinion is that housewives were bored silly, and canned goods and advanced packaged foods opened up new culinary doors and excitement. I decided to take a quick look into my very cool 1967 Better Homes and Gardens "Jiffy Cooking" to see what I could discover. From the book, it's clear housewives were obsessed with the color orange, molded gelatin, glazes, and all things elegant with "an Oriental flair."
Here's a sample of words used to describe various recipes:
Saucy, frosty, royal, zippy, peppy, spiced, lazy day, easy-do, meal-in-a-bowl, instant, hurry, jiffy, easy perfection, creamy, minted, velvet, quicky, time-saving, fruit-glazed, "a la", party, tropical, Hong Kong, fizz and sparkle.
And a list of Menus:
"A Robust Meal for Crisp Evenings" (Skillet Potato Salad with a 14 ounce bologna ring)
"Fit for the King of the Household" (Canadian Bacon Stack-Ups with canned sweet potatoes)
"Treat Your Guests Elegantly" (Pampered Beef Fillets with Royal Mushroom Sauce)
"An Informal Teen-age Record Party" (Tamale Hero Sandwiches and Pickle-Sickles)
"A Light Brunch for the Ladies" (Orange-nut Ring and Berry Parfaits)
"A Main Dish Inspired By Old Mexico" (Taco Salad with Crusty Hard Rolls)
"Be Creative With Convenience Foods" (Yam and Sausage Skillet)
"Three Open-face Salad Sandwiches" (Tuna Tugs, Corned Beef Captains & Chef's Salad in a Roll)
Gosh, I miss the good old days when the only fish we ate was canned tuna (in oil), and we consumed hundreds of 14 ounce bologna rings, saucy sausage links, tins of luncheon meat, and cans of high-sodium Veg-All and Pork-n-Beans. Much like the Candlestick Salad, it was all so elegant!
CitizenB
Monday, March 30, 2009
Adventures in a Small Town
Dear Citizens,
A couple weeks ago my sister and I set off for the small town where our grandmother, 91, now resides in a rest home. From Granny's point of view, she came to live in the rest home under the guise of "28 day rehab" when she was discharged from the hospital after the last of many trip and falls and heart episodes. She was coaxed into going to rehab by the nice-looking young doctor at the clinic. Granny has always been a sucker for handsomeness or men in general. Once in preparation for minor surgery a few years ago and with a dreamy look in her eyes she whispered to me "Doesn't Dr. Cotton look just like Dan Rather?" She has many crushes, including George Strait, Pat Sajak, and John at the Dairy Queen. There's also John's friend, Milton. Granny's conflicted over Milton because "the man's ugly as sin" yet "has the best personality."
You know you've arrived in town, pop. 3000, once you pass the summer sausage-smoked cheese-brittles-fudge shop on the left and the veterinary clinic with the sign "Rattlesnake Vaccine Now Available" on the right. Before you arrive at the town square, you pass the Chicken/Taco Express (75 cents for a large iced tea, and yes, you can order it unsweetened) and The Donut Shop situated in an old gas station with the sign "Long Johns on Special."
You know you've arrived in town when your father (he lives up the hill from The Donut Shop) hits you up for a $30 loan until he can recall the P.I.N. for his new debit card, and presumably to get his fix of iced tea and long johns for the weekend. You also know you've arrived when your uncle (he also lives up the hill and next door to your father) calls your cell phone repeatedly. Anticipating visitors is big in a small town.
At the town square, there's a grocery store, cafe, florist, gift shop, hardware store, gun shop, and dueling pharmacies - on opposite sides of the square. I imagine a real drug war going on there. I've explored a couple of shops and can report that the grocery store smells like bologna and 50% of the produce section is frozen iceberg lettuce the size of bowling balls. The linoleum floor is uneven and crackles. I like that. As for the flower shop it's overflowing with black and red ribbon and silk mums to support the high school. Go Bulldogs. Fortunately, red is my grandmother's favorite color.
After a left turn at the square and out on the highway, there's a local hamburger joint ("sources" report the iced tea costs $1 - a rip off) and an ALCO general merchandise store. I've made many trips to Granny's new home in the past 6 months and have found an abundance of useful things at ALCO: her favorite jelly beans (I'm sure Granny had a crush on Ronald Reagan), Lubriderm, sleeping cap, socks, pillows, Christmas decorations, sweatsuits (the rest home's official uniform) and for me, a current women's magazine. Beware. The magazines at the store on the square are dusty with camouflaged men on the cover.
Now to the rest home. There's good and bad and much resting.
The good:
1. Granny
2. The patio and outdoor area.
3. The large window in her room with a nice view.
4. The Texas-sized lobby and decor.
The bad:
1. The incessant buzzing and beeping noises.
2. An odor in a couple of spots along the corridor.
3. The temperature - it's insanely warm. Tropical without the paradise.
4. The resident who insists on wheeling himself to the lobby in his shower chair.
You must know this is not a retirement center or senior citizen center. It's not that vibrant. No dominoes clicking on the tables. The residents are mostly confined to wheelchairs and need full-time care. In advanced age, they have difficulty communicating with each other. Granny is one of the more spry and social residents but reports she can't see to play bingo. She does engage in wheelchair exercise class and never misses a meal in the dining hall. She's gained a much needed 11 pounds since she arrived.
There's an issue with her vision. We're not sure what she can and cannot see. Example:
Granny: CitizenB, your face is just a blur to me.
CitizenB: Okay, let me try something. Look at me. What am I doing now?
Granny: You're sticking out your tongue at me!
CitizenB: Bingo!
While we're there, I'm compelled to talk to every resident I encounter, including the man in the shower chair. For the record, he's "Becky's Daddy" and loves chicken. And there's the lady with powdered eyeglasses, bless her heart. I also attempt conversation with Granny's roommate Dorothy - not to be confused with Granny's friend from the dining hall Dorothy a/k/a Floozy Dot. Of course, Granny would make friends with the woman in love with a married man and not the woman she argues with over closet space. I don't blame her. There's more mystery with Floozy Dot. Roommate Dorothy has a high pitched, squeaky voice and it's almost as bad as the buzzing and beeping noises. As for the married man, yes, he and his wife live at the center, and as far as Granny knows Floozy Dot's love for him is a secret. She says: "We don't talk about it." I'm sure.
Granny has two sons. As mentioned, both live in town and are single. No sane woman would have them. Granny's not entirely happy because one, my uncle, visits too much, and two, my dad, visits too little. She doesn't want to complain about too many visits, but she lets on that #1 son can get on her nerves. As for #2 son, my dad, she reports that she doesn't know what's wrong with him and if "I had not been there during his birth I wouldn't believe he's mine." Ouch.
#1 son is very social and enjoys chatting up the nursing home aides and women at the Dollar Store. #2 son is anti-social and enjoys dreaming up new craft projects involving feathers, beads, leather, wood and old car parts. #1 son has a beloved cat. #2 son has three dogs - make that two dogs and a wolf-dog. Yes, my father lives with wolves. Before becoming a wolf-owner, he preferred to date women he met at Pow-Wows. One conversation went like this:
Daddy: I'm seeing an ol' girl. (Yes, this is how he communicates.)
CitizenB: What's her name?
Daddy: Feather.
CitizenB: Heather?
Daddy: No, Feather.
CitizenB: What's her real name?
Daddy, chuckling: Brenda (you see, my mom/his first wife's name is Brenda and she has been justly and majorly upset with him for 45 years and will be for all eternity.)
CitizenB: Interesting. I guess in comparison, this would make Mom's native name "Tomahawk."
Getting back to Granny...during our last visit and out of the blue, Granny announced that three nights before she had witnessed a possum in her room. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she pointed to where she saw the little critter before he hid behind the dresser.
CitizenB: Granny, are you sure you saw a possum?
Granny: Yep.
CitizenB: Could it have been a mouse or worse, a rat?
Granny: No, it was a possum.
CitizenB: What did you do?
Granny: Well, I lifted my feet off the floor.
CitizenB: Did you tell someone?
Granny: No. They wouldn't believe me.
A few minutes later, a nurse's aide came into the room and my sister reported the possum sighting. The aide stood silently for a minute and then announced, "Well, let's hope it stays behind the dresser." As a trained investigator and while in search for the vending machine late in the afternoon, I noticed a large door off the dining hall slightly ajar. It led to a patio for employees only providing them a place to cool off and prevent dying of heat stroke. In this rural setting, I suppose it's not impossible for a hungry or confused possum to find his way inside. Also for the record, there's one thing we cannot dispute, blind or not, my country grandmother knows her vermin.
After a full day, my sister and I head back to a different civilization. We try to comprehend everything we heard and witnessed, including the resident who carried on a loud conversation with herself about an event occurring most likely around 1928. We were unaware women cursed so much in 1928.
As we leave town, there's a large cat sitting near the square waving us goodbye. He's a rather strange cat with a solid white body and a black head and neck. Somehow he was assigned the wrong cat's body. Otherwise, he appears to be wearing a ski mask so he could be a bank robber cat. It's too bad Granny wasn't there to make a positive identification. For all we know he could have been a possum.
CitizenB
A couple weeks ago my sister and I set off for the small town where our grandmother, 91, now resides in a rest home. From Granny's point of view, she came to live in the rest home under the guise of "28 day rehab" when she was discharged from the hospital after the last of many trip and falls and heart episodes. She was coaxed into going to rehab by the nice-looking young doctor at the clinic. Granny has always been a sucker for handsomeness or men in general. Once in preparation for minor surgery a few years ago and with a dreamy look in her eyes she whispered to me "Doesn't Dr. Cotton look just like Dan Rather?" She has many crushes, including George Strait, Pat Sajak, and John at the Dairy Queen. There's also John's friend, Milton. Granny's conflicted over Milton because "the man's ugly as sin" yet "has the best personality."
You know you've arrived in town, pop. 3000, once you pass the summer sausage-smoked cheese-brittles-fudge shop on the left and the veterinary clinic with the sign "Rattlesnake Vaccine Now Available" on the right. Before you arrive at the town square, you pass the Chicken/Taco Express (75 cents for a large iced tea, and yes, you can order it unsweetened) and The Donut Shop situated in an old gas station with the sign "Long Johns on Special."
You know you've arrived in town when your father (he lives up the hill from The Donut Shop) hits you up for a $30 loan until he can recall the P.I.N. for his new debit card, and presumably to get his fix of iced tea and long johns for the weekend. You also know you've arrived when your uncle (he also lives up the hill and next door to your father) calls your cell phone repeatedly. Anticipating visitors is big in a small town.
At the town square, there's a grocery store, cafe, florist, gift shop, hardware store, gun shop, and dueling pharmacies - on opposite sides of the square. I imagine a real drug war going on there. I've explored a couple of shops and can report that the grocery store smells like bologna and 50% of the produce section is frozen iceberg lettuce the size of bowling balls. The linoleum floor is uneven and crackles. I like that. As for the flower shop it's overflowing with black and red ribbon and silk mums to support the high school. Go Bulldogs. Fortunately, red is my grandmother's favorite color.
After a left turn at the square and out on the highway, there's a local hamburger joint ("sources" report the iced tea costs $1 - a rip off) and an ALCO general merchandise store. I've made many trips to Granny's new home in the past 6 months and have found an abundance of useful things at ALCO: her favorite jelly beans (I'm sure Granny had a crush on Ronald Reagan), Lubriderm, sleeping cap, socks, pillows, Christmas decorations, sweatsuits (the rest home's official uniform) and for me, a current women's magazine. Beware. The magazines at the store on the square are dusty with camouflaged men on the cover.
Now to the rest home. There's good and bad and much resting.
The good:
1. Granny
2. The patio and outdoor area.
3. The large window in her room with a nice view.
4. The Texas-sized lobby and decor.
The bad:
1. The incessant buzzing and beeping noises.
2. An odor in a couple of spots along the corridor.
3. The temperature - it's insanely warm. Tropical without the paradise.
4. The resident who insists on wheeling himself to the lobby in his shower chair.
You must know this is not a retirement center or senior citizen center. It's not that vibrant. No dominoes clicking on the tables. The residents are mostly confined to wheelchairs and need full-time care. In advanced age, they have difficulty communicating with each other. Granny is one of the more spry and social residents but reports she can't see to play bingo. She does engage in wheelchair exercise class and never misses a meal in the dining hall. She's gained a much needed 11 pounds since she arrived.
There's an issue with her vision. We're not sure what she can and cannot see. Example:
Granny: CitizenB, your face is just a blur to me.
CitizenB: Okay, let me try something. Look at me. What am I doing now?
Granny: You're sticking out your tongue at me!
CitizenB: Bingo!
While we're there, I'm compelled to talk to every resident I encounter, including the man in the shower chair. For the record, he's "Becky's Daddy" and loves chicken. And there's the lady with powdered eyeglasses, bless her heart. I also attempt conversation with Granny's roommate Dorothy - not to be confused with Granny's friend from the dining hall Dorothy a/k/a Floozy Dot. Of course, Granny would make friends with the woman in love with a married man and not the woman she argues with over closet space. I don't blame her. There's more mystery with Floozy Dot. Roommate Dorothy has a high pitched, squeaky voice and it's almost as bad as the buzzing and beeping noises. As for the married man, yes, he and his wife live at the center, and as far as Granny knows Floozy Dot's love for him is a secret. She says: "We don't talk about it." I'm sure.
Granny has two sons. As mentioned, both live in town and are single. No sane woman would have them. Granny's not entirely happy because one, my uncle, visits too much, and two, my dad, visits too little. She doesn't want to complain about too many visits, but she lets on that #1 son can get on her nerves. As for #2 son, my dad, she reports that she doesn't know what's wrong with him and if "I had not been there during his birth I wouldn't believe he's mine." Ouch.
#1 son is very social and enjoys chatting up the nursing home aides and women at the Dollar Store. #2 son is anti-social and enjoys dreaming up new craft projects involving feathers, beads, leather, wood and old car parts. #1 son has a beloved cat. #2 son has three dogs - make that two dogs and a wolf-dog. Yes, my father lives with wolves. Before becoming a wolf-owner, he preferred to date women he met at Pow-Wows. One conversation went like this:
Daddy: I'm seeing an ol' girl. (Yes, this is how he communicates.)
CitizenB: What's her name?
Daddy: Feather.
CitizenB: Heather?
Daddy: No, Feather.
CitizenB: What's her real name?
Daddy, chuckling: Brenda (you see, my mom/his first wife's name is Brenda and she has been justly and majorly upset with him for 45 years and will be for all eternity.)
CitizenB: Interesting. I guess in comparison, this would make Mom's native name "Tomahawk."
Getting back to Granny...during our last visit and out of the blue, Granny announced that three nights before she had witnessed a possum in her room. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she pointed to where she saw the little critter before he hid behind the dresser.
CitizenB: Granny, are you sure you saw a possum?
Granny: Yep.
CitizenB: Could it have been a mouse or worse, a rat?
Granny: No, it was a possum.
CitizenB: What did you do?
Granny: Well, I lifted my feet off the floor.
CitizenB: Did you tell someone?
Granny: No. They wouldn't believe me.
A few minutes later, a nurse's aide came into the room and my sister reported the possum sighting. The aide stood silently for a minute and then announced, "Well, let's hope it stays behind the dresser." As a trained investigator and while in search for the vending machine late in the afternoon, I noticed a large door off the dining hall slightly ajar. It led to a patio for employees only providing them a place to cool off and prevent dying of heat stroke. In this rural setting, I suppose it's not impossible for a hungry or confused possum to find his way inside. Also for the record, there's one thing we cannot dispute, blind or not, my country grandmother knows her vermin.
After a full day, my sister and I head back to a different civilization. We try to comprehend everything we heard and witnessed, including the resident who carried on a loud conversation with herself about an event occurring most likely around 1928. We were unaware women cursed so much in 1928.
As we leave town, there's a large cat sitting near the square waving us goodbye. He's a rather strange cat with a solid white body and a black head and neck. Somehow he was assigned the wrong cat's body. Otherwise, he appears to be wearing a ski mask so he could be a bank robber cat. It's too bad Granny wasn't there to make a positive identification. For all we know he could have been a possum.
CitizenB
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Anger Management
Dear Citizens,
For once, we're united - in anger. Shock, dismay, disbelief, outrage, irritation to the nth degree - just to name a few reactions to the financial crisis. Let's face it - our financial institutions have failed us, excuse me - robbed us. Bailouts, bonuses, derivatives, double-dipping trading partners, falling stocks, foreclosures, securities fraud, unemployment, etc. The list goes on and on. At a minimum, the big cheeses have committed gross negligence. So much for Sarbanes-Oxley and other lessons not learned from Enron.
No man, woman or child is escaping this meltdown. Therefore, anger - large scale anger (the scary kind) - is the only logical conclusion.
The outrage has lead to armed guards stationed in upscale Connecticut neighborhoods where AIG executives live and play golf. It has led to Congress going all atwitter and absolutely nuts - more nuts than usual. If they only had real balls and could ever see the big picture. It has led to John Stewart blasting Jim Cramer and CNBC for playing along with the hedge fund game. Even our comic relief has been invaded by anger.
What to do? I don't believe there are enough anger management books in current publication to go around. Don't you know that Dr. Phil and other Dr. Phil wannabes are going to take full advantage of our misery and publish a few new books in the next 30 days? Just the thought of Dr. Phil pisses me off so I don't see his so-called self-help shtick helping.
Here are a few anger management suggestions:
1. Admit we are angry. Hint, hint President Obama.
2. Take the top 100 financial evil-doers , foreclose on all of their mortgages/sell their houses in The Hamptons and force them to live in public housing for 18 years - in Detroit.
3. Scratch the planned $300M George W. Bush Presidential Center and "Freedom" Institute. Take the tax-deductible donations and build an Early Education Center on 25 acres of SMU land. Enlist Cheney as janitor and George W. as groundskeeper. Cheney deserves to scrub toilets, and we all know how well George W. clears brush. They could learn something from the four-year-olds about how to play well with others and to obey rules.
As for small things you can do to alleviate anger and regain control, try these:
1. Throw darts at photos of geeky insurance executives.
2. Burn tax returns and records (older than 7 years) - yes, I am a rebel.
3. Engage the entire family in meditation including teaching your cat the lotus position.
4. Pretend to be Survivor Man.
5. If all else fails, slam kitchen cabinet doors - it has always worked for my Mother.
Seriously, let's focus on turning a negative into a positive. For starters, we can convert our anger into wind energy or another clean fuel technology. I don't know about you, but when I'm mad, there's a lot of whirling and twirling. This leads me to believe there's a way to channel our adrenaline and eliminate the need for Middle East oil. One crisis fixes another! It's the American Way.
CitizenB
For once, we're united - in anger. Shock, dismay, disbelief, outrage, irritation to the nth degree - just to name a few reactions to the financial crisis. Let's face it - our financial institutions have failed us, excuse me - robbed us. Bailouts, bonuses, derivatives, double-dipping trading partners, falling stocks, foreclosures, securities fraud, unemployment, etc. The list goes on and on. At a minimum, the big cheeses have committed gross negligence. So much for Sarbanes-Oxley and other lessons not learned from Enron.
No man, woman or child is escaping this meltdown. Therefore, anger - large scale anger (the scary kind) - is the only logical conclusion.
The outrage has lead to armed guards stationed in upscale Connecticut neighborhoods where AIG executives live and play golf. It has led to Congress going all atwitter and absolutely nuts - more nuts than usual. If they only had real balls and could ever see the big picture. It has led to John Stewart blasting Jim Cramer and CNBC for playing along with the hedge fund game. Even our comic relief has been invaded by anger.
What to do? I don't believe there are enough anger management books in current publication to go around. Don't you know that Dr. Phil and other Dr. Phil wannabes are going to take full advantage of our misery and publish a few new books in the next 30 days? Just the thought of Dr. Phil pisses me off so I don't see his so-called self-help shtick helping.
Here are a few anger management suggestions:
1. Admit we are angry. Hint, hint President Obama.
2. Take the top 100 financial evil-doers , foreclose on all of their mortgages/sell their houses in The Hamptons and force them to live in public housing for 18 years - in Detroit.
3. Scratch the planned $300M George W. Bush Presidential Center and "Freedom" Institute. Take the tax-deductible donations and build an Early Education Center on 25 acres of SMU land. Enlist Cheney as janitor and George W. as groundskeeper. Cheney deserves to scrub toilets, and we all know how well George W. clears brush. They could learn something from the four-year-olds about how to play well with others and to obey rules.
As for small things you can do to alleviate anger and regain control, try these:
1. Throw darts at photos of geeky insurance executives.
2. Burn tax returns and records (older than 7 years) - yes, I am a rebel.
3. Engage the entire family in meditation including teaching your cat the lotus position.
4. Pretend to be Survivor Man.
5. If all else fails, slam kitchen cabinet doors - it has always worked for my Mother.
Seriously, let's focus on turning a negative into a positive. For starters, we can convert our anger into wind energy or another clean fuel technology. I don't know about you, but when I'm mad, there's a lot of whirling and twirling. This leads me to believe there's a way to channel our adrenaline and eliminate the need for Middle East oil. One crisis fixes another! It's the American Way.
CitizenB
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