Category: Mothers

In the Gloaming (1877)

Surprisingly, my summer project is a heavy-duty wool cardigan by Caitlin Hunter, of Boyland Knits, aptly named “Gloam”. In the gloaming means the twilight hours just after sunset. “In the gloaming” has always been my favorite time of day, whether it be a summer, winter, spring, or fall evening.

There was a time in my life, I would say, probably the decades between 20 and 60 years when I felt unquenchable yearning at this time of day, for what I do not know. I couldn’t tell if I had to go out of the house or if I needed to stay in. There was a restlessness about it… as if I was missing out on something. I sometimes would at least need to be out on the porch as darkness overcame the gloaming.

Thank goodness I don’t feel the same about the gloaming anymore. But still, this is my favorite time of day heavy with nostalgia and longing and memories of days gone by. So when I found the sweater named the “Gloam” it just seemed right that I would knit it. The style was right, as well.

The garment has an Asian appearance to it like a kimono, with an open front and wide medium-length sleeves, and a cropped body. The yarn I’m using is of DK weight of Highland woolen spun of New England, Harrisville, in a deep charcoal colorway. Across the front and back is a large textured section of 72 rows.

Some would not consider this summer knitting, and neither do I but it is what it is. I’m having a lovely time working on it but it’s not something I take outside with me. That’s okay, because as I’ve grown older, sitting outside in the heat is not one of my pleasures. As August approaches, I might have to switch to sock or hat knitting, but I’d love to have this sweater to wrap up in come Fall.

Maybe I’ll need to take it outside to work on in the gloaming as the heat of the day subsides.

My cousin Gail, after reading my blog post, brought up that the word “gloaming” reminded her of my mom. Now I might understand why I loved it so:

Mom played the piano and sang a lot as we were growing up. We had sheet music in the piano bench and Mom would sing and play all kinds of music, from pop, ballads, jazz, blues, and more. Now I know why that word stirs up such emotion in me. I now remember that Mom sang, “In the Gloamingʻ.

Thank you Gail for stirring my memory. Follow the link below to hear this beautiful but sad song.

In the Gloaming (1877)

https://share.google/GkiEYPfcG82dN6YuW

My Little Scamp

Once upon a time, I had a little scamp. He was lovely. He was the palist of hue yet turned brown as a berry in the summer sun. His eyes were bright and crystal blue. His hair stood on end and was near translucent, so white it was. He was round and soft and yet full of vim and vinegar but smelled of sugar cookies.

We named him Jesse, and as soon as he could move about, he had no fear. I chased him about the house and the yard until he wore himself out. He fell asleep wherever he stood or sat. He might be standing on the couch looking out the window at the sea, and just there, his little knees would bend, and there he slept, little body pressed against the back of the couch. He might fall asleep with his face in a plate of pancakes and syrup. I might find him under a table soundly sleeping. There was no need to coax him into nap time. His little body could move no more.

You might say he was a born adventurer. Once he could crawl and then walk, he was off. Since we lived on an island overlooking the Puget Sound on a 200 ft. cliff, one needed to keep a close eye on this little scamp. Did I ever lose him? Well, one time, I thought I did.

This small little scamp knew what he wanted, and though sweet as honey, he could never accept the word no. When he was still no more than two feet tall, in protest, he would cast himself backward against whatever hard surface with ear splitting and excruciating wailing. I often wondered how this beautiful boy could make such a racket and cause such chaos.

What joy and worry my little scamp caused. Once, while leaving a meeting, I walked out into the busy parking lot. People and their children were milling about. Cars were backing out to leave. I assumed that Jack had Jesse with him. I was not paying attention to my children as I was bidding others goodbye. Across the lot, I saw Jack with our daughter, but I didn’t see Jesse. He was not holding on to Jesse’s hand. Suddenly, I began to panic.

I was frantically looking for him. I called to Jack to ask where he last saw Jesse. I didn’t wait for his answer as I ran wildly around the parking lot. No one said a word as I dashed about, calling his name. I suddenly stopped, realizing that I had Jesse sitting placidly on my left hip, his big blue eyes saying, “Here I am, Mommy.” It was just like someone looking for their lost glasses that were sitting solidly on top of their head, so accustomed was I to this child in my arms.

What madness it is to have a little scamp of one’s own.

And thus began a life of tears and of stitches and broken bones.

Unsolved Mystery of the Heart

Just recently, I found the answer to a mystery  I had given up on resolving many years before. I mostly didn’t even know that I was still looking, but the search was hidden away in my heart to emerge only occasionally.  

There were few things of value that I even cared about because Mom left so little behind. But there were a few of precious value to the heart only. Nothing she ever owned was embued with monetary value.

But there was one mystery to solve, known only to me as, “The  Missing Heart.” I would have found the answer if I had known to ask the right people. Why did the loss of this small charm occur to me again? Oh, yes, I remember! My niece, Sharon, was going through her mother’s (my sister’s) jewelry and came upon a bracelet she didn’t recognize, and neither did I.

I asked if among her things, had she come upon a small silver and marcasite heart with a mother of pearl inset? At first, I couldn’t remember the stones, so it was hard to describe. Her first answer was, “No”,  she said,  but she would keep an eye out for it.

I looked online to see if I could at least find something similar to help her identify it. Why did I even care, you might ask. Because, as a small child,  like all curious children will,  I loved to look in my mother’s jewelry boxes and in her top drawer to see her linen hankies and soft gloves of silk, cotton and leather, small veils of soft netting, hat pins, hair barretts and other small pieces and mementos.

On top of her dresser, among the crystal bowls, was her hair brush, a handheld mirror, and containers of face and body powder and fancy glass bottles of perfume and fragrant lotions.

There, also sat my favorite music box. It was a small wooden piano with just enough room to hold a few small pieces of jewelry.

The music box

Mom’s dresser was always dusty with the powders she used liberally. Her favorite perfume was Tweed. The fragrance is strong, with the tiniest bit of floral notes to keep it feminine, but mostly, it is dark, moody and earthy, woody, and resinous. Perfect for Mom, but not for a small child or even a teenager. I was never tempted to use it, but it smelled spectacular on my loving yet stoic mother.

But, back to the heart.

I sent my nephews and neices online images of similar items. Sharon said she would continue to look.  She said she would also ask the other girls. My sister had three girls and four boys that she left behind way too early. She also said that there was a story that went with that heart, if the one I was looking for was one that she remembered. I didn’t remember any such story.

Not long after, another of Kristi’s three daughters, Shauna, sent a message with a photo of the heart. “Is this the one you’ve been looking for, Auntie?” she wrote. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

There it was! She explained that her mother had given it to her, before she passed away, to wear at her wedding. Sarah, one of the three daughters, now had it to wear at her upcoming wedding.

She went on to explain the story behind the heart, a story I had never heard: It was a gift from Mom’s first love. If that’s true, why hadn’t I heard it?

I should have been happy just to know that it was still in the family… but. I wasn’t. I was hurt, confused, and frustrated. When did Mom give that to Kristi? Not known to lie nor even to be secretive, could Kristi and Mom have  kept this gift giving a secret? When did this even take place?

I couldn’t be upset with the girls, and of what use is it now for me to be angry with Mom  and Kristi, now that they passed on years ago. I decided to sit with the feeling. I couldn’t shake it anyway.

Now, after a couple of weeks, I guess I’m happy that the heart is in safe and loving hands. Somethings I’ll never know, like when or why Mom decided to give the heart to Kristi. We were and are a close and loving family. I know also that Mom and Kristi hadn’t between them, an ounce of secretive intent.

Each of the girls wore the necklace at their wedding, and if I had it, it would have been enjoyed and cherished by only me.

“I beg you to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.”

–Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet (1929)

Mom’s Bandage Scissors

Today I had an injury that required bandaging. I went to get Mom’s first aid kit, even though all that’s left are various bandages and tape, but…

The most treasured of all is her bandage scissors. These date back to her nursing days, perhaps sometime in the 1940s. They were used all through her nursing career and our childhood and now, up to today.

When she passed in 2010, the first aid kit became mine. These scissors are nearly 80 years old and they are as sharp and useful as they ever were.

They remind me of my mom’s hands. They were always ultra clean and soft as a baby’s bottom. With those hands she scrubbed our scrapes and cuts without mercy. Then she would bandage us up with such love that we soon quit our crying.

Always present were Mom’s bandage scissors whenever needed. Today I was thankful for them once again. I’m sure they’ll endure another 100 years.

A Cat to Accompany Death

Mom and I had moved 3 times between the years 2002 and 2010.

Our first move was moving her out of senior housing into a house with me. She was 81 and in good health but not eating as well as she should (too many Hungryman dinners) and it was getting harder for her to clean the floors.

I had just returned from Santa Monica, California to take up a permanent position. It was perfect timing for Mom to live with me. However, this wasn’t the first time, as she had lived with me, my husband and children for a decade already.

But changes in our lives had necessitated Mom moving into senior housing for a time. Jack and I moved into a tiny duplex on our own while our children transitioned out of the house.

As soon as I moved from California back to Oregon, I moved Mom in with me. In the first house that we moved into, we had abundant gardens, which we took full advantage of. We spent every day that wasn’t stormy or too cold, out in the yard. Mom had been skillfully using a walker for a few years at this point, and managed quite easily.

However, there were steps going up to the path to the front steps of the porch. There were steps going down from the back door into the back garden. There were steps going down into the basement. Mom loved to do the laundry and so it was necessary for her to descend those dark stairs. I soon decided that I would take over the laundry chores. I couldn’t though deny Mom the privilege of going in and out of the house at will, though it was a constant worry.

It was in this house that Mom saw me through surgery and eight months of chemotherapy. She took over all of the household chores and my care. I was supposed to die but I didn’t. We lived on together.

Five years later we moved into a beautiful little 3 bedroom ranch and again, with large gardens and beautiful plantings front and back. Thankfully, this had absolutely no stairs for her to climb or descend. But, in two years it was necessary for us to move once again.

Fortunately, I found a house with an identical lay out without stairs so that Mom could spend her time out in the yard tending to the plants and just enjoying the outdoors. We had a large outdoor patio where I hung fushias and begonias from the rafters and filled the space with hostas and ferns. I bought a large Asian pot and filled it with water and goldfish and lotus.

We were happy in this house and I hoped we wouldn’t have to move again. Mom was quite near her church and the bus came directly to our door to pick her up to take her anywhere she wanted to go. We lived in the neighborhood where she had raised us. We were home.

One day, shortly after we moved in, a beautiful and talkative mixed breed cat that looked much like a siamese, came strolling up the street and walked straight into the house, just as though she’d been there before. I think she had found home.

She found it comfortable, sleeping on the corner of Mom’s bed in Mom’s bedroom or sitting at her feet or walking back and forth so that Mom could pet her and gently pull her tail. Mom would give her food and water and they would spend the day together as I worked. I knew they were close but at that time I didn’t realize just how close they had become.

The cat we called Mama, as I did for many of the cats that I had in my life. If Mom were gone and it was just me at home, Mama didn’t pay much attention to me except to lay close if I were sitting on the couch or in a chair. She might follow me outside to sit on the patio furniture if I happened to sit for a while.

I could tell that the cat was only trying to figure out where Mom had gone. One day, Mom went to the hospital where she stayed for two weeks. When she came home, it was to wait for the inevitable.

We situated the hospital bed in front of the large window where Mom could see the goings on in the neighborhood. She, and her constant companion, watched for the mailman, the newspaper delivery, and the many visitors who came with cookies, cakes and kisses.

Mama sat with Mom day in and day out and reluctantly jumped off the bed only when we changed the bedding. Then came the day when Mom cut the cord that tied her to this world. Family and friends came to say their last goodbyes. I didn’t notice if Mama was around or hiding safely but out of sight.

When everyone was gone, my sister, my daughter and I (and Mama) were the only ones in the house with Mom as she took her last breath. Mama sat quietly on the hospital bed, against the window beside the front door, as Mom’s body was carried out into the wee hours of the night.

Just two days after Mom’s passing, the hospital bed had been removed by the hospice folks. Later in the day, I saw Mama in Mom’s bedroom, laying on the end of her bed. I hadn’t been paying much attention to her as I had much to attend to. I laid my hand on her soft body expecting a reaction but she was cold and stiff. Mama had died.

I think Mama had come to accompany Mom on her journey out of this world. Now her work was over and it was time for her to rest, as well. You were never my cat, Mama, but I loved you, too. Thank you for walking with Mom as she passed on. We won’t ever forget you for accompaning life and then death.

The Beginning of the End ~ A Nurse to the End

It was January 21, 2010. I woke at 4:34 AM thinking that it’s still too early to get up for work. But then I realized that Mom was calling me. She tells me that she can’t breathe and can no longer function. I knew this day was coming but I wasn’t ready for her to go yet.

She tells me to call the Portland Clinic, and I do. Her long time physician, Dr. Craven, is not on call. The doctor on-call calls back after 20 minutes.

When I explained what is happening and I tell him that she wants to go to the hospital in an ambulance. He says to call 911. I do.

I sit beside Mom, holding her hand, helpless. In the meantime, I call Kristi and Steve to tell them what is happening.

First, a fire truck arrives, lights flashing, lighting up our small street. Four large men, dressed in blue, crowded into Mom’s bedroom with their cases of equipment and tools hanging from their belts. I stand aside.

Mom had advanced directives not to code but in violation of her own predetermined decisions, she tells them she wants help breathing. She tells them in full sentences, everything they need to know while she’s struggling to breathe. They take her vitals. I stand silent knowing instinctively who’s in charge.

Then, the ambulance arrives. More men squeeze into Mom’s, what seems now to be a, very tiny bedroom, each carrying more equipment. Mom reiterates everything to the EMTs that she just told the other guys.

Quickly, they wrap her up in her blankets like a sausage and two guys grab handfuls of the blankets from the top and carry her into the living room where they put her on a gurney. Then they wheeled her out to the ambulance.

Two guys are in back with Mom and I climb in front with the driver. Mom continues to tell them what they need to know. She struggles to breathe until they use a c-pap to blow large quantities of oxygen into her lungs. She can no longer talk. I can’t believe she’s been talking through this whole ordeal.

After the EMTs get an IV started, we take off across the St. Johns bridge. Once we get across and onto Hwy. 30, the lights and sirens are turned on, as Matt tells the driver to step on it. I can’t see Mom and I can’t hear her. This is not how I want it to end.

In the emergency room, the nurses and doctors get to work putting who knows what in the IV.

Before looking, the doctor shows me the chest x-ray along with an old x-ray from 2005. Her lungs are hazy and her heart is large. There is fluid around the lungs, a sign of congestive heart failure. It’s something she’s had for 10 years. He says she probably won’t live long.

Mom is breathing with the help of oxygen and the doctor wants to keep her in the hospital. When she’s stable they move her to a private room. Here she stays for a couple of weeks.

Mom was in her element. This very hospital is where she spent 40 years as a career nurse. She seemed to have recovered from the emergency. For those two weeks, I visit her daily while friends and family stream in and out. Many visitors were physicians and co-workers who stopped to tell stories of working with her, or under her supervision and nurses who were once students who she had mentored.

I learned more about her professional life in those weeks than I ever knew before. I knew she was a VIP, but I didn’t know how respected and loved she was.

Mom talked about going into a home when she leaves the hospital. She swore up and down that she wanted to. We had already gone over and over this. I didn’t believe her. “No! Mom. Absolutely not. You can stay home, this is where you’ll stay.”

Kristi and I decided to acquiesce and went to look at a few small care homes just to satisfy Mom. Though Mom and I had lived together for nearly 20 years, she kept insisting that she did not want to burden me. After visiting, we were more convinced than ever that she wasn’t going into a home.

How would we manage to go to see her if she weren’t at home with me? It was enough just to go to work and back again, run errands, cook dinner, shop, etc., without having to drive across town to visit Mom. And I knew Mom didn’t really want that, she just didn’t want to put me out.

For the next four months, Mom sits or lies in a hospital bed situated in the living room directly in front of the windows. From here she can see what passes in front of the house. She can also see her many visitors arriving.

I took family medical leave until hospice care came in to relieve me five days a week so that I could return to work. And Kristi drove hundreds of miles every weekend to help out.

Mom lost all strength in her legs but every other function worked perfectly well. That meant that she needed assistance to maintain her hygiene. Though these were not chores I relished, I did them with love. Unlike Mom, I had no inclination to nurse but I would not abandon her. She had seen me through polio and cancer. This was the least I could do.

Mom and I had dinner together every evening and she filled me in on her day with the caretakers. Apparently, she enjoyed their companionship and had many stories to tell.

Just as any good nurse would, she was keeping her own chart: recorded type and time of medication administration, size and frequency of BMs and urine output, blood pressure, heart rate, temperature, etc.

I served Mom in bed, while I sat not far away at the dining room table. Soon after finishing her dinner each evening, she was ready for dessert, which I was to bring, post haste. Eventually, I had to gently tell her that I wasn’t her nurse’s aid and that once I had finished my dinner, I would bring dessert. She understood immediately and was quite apologetic.

Though I helped her with her toilet each evening, I also had to tell her that I wasn’t going to estimate her output in size and quantity. She was sorely disappointed but did not utter one disgruntled word. Eventually, I also asked her to either give up charting or trust me to bring her meds on time. It was annoying to be reminded constantly that in 20 minutes it would be time for such and such. She got it. She kept her chart, but kept silent about it.

If one didn’t know why she was in bed, one wouldn’t know that this beautiful lady was just months, then weeks, then days away from death. Nightly, I would mix a dry, dirty martini, Beefeater Gin only please, with 3 green olives or 3 cocktail onions for her and something wonderful for me. Then we would chat and watch Jeapardy and Wheel of Fortune and whatever else was on that we wanted to watch. Mom was a very sociable and gracious companion.

Mostly during the day, while I was at work, Mom would entertain friends or family who came to visit. I don’t believe she had one boring day. If she had a quiet day, Mom would read, do crossword puzzles, read the newspapers and watch the news. The living room filled with cards and flowers.

As we knew would happen, the day came for her passing. She called me in the early morning hours. It was May but not yet light out. I turned on a dim light and I sat with her on her bed and took her soft hand, as she asked me to help her “get off of this”, as she motioned with her hand, touching her chest from where her heart was, out into the air. I asked her what she meant but she would just make the same hand gesture and repeat the same words. I offered suggestions such as, a road, a path, or a trail. But with each suggestion she would say, “no smaller”.

Mom was very calm. I so wanted to understand what it was that she wanted me to do. How can I help her to “get off of this” if I don’t know what “this” is? I knew she was ready to die because we had talked about this at infinitium. But she was worried about leaving me alone. She wanted me to be loved by someone and to be cared for.

I finally remembered something I had learned many years before. It was that our soul is connected to eternity with a golden thread. When I said, Mom, is it a thread?” She suddenly relaxed. I told her that I couldn’t cut it for her but that she was free to go, that I would be fine, and that I loved her more than she would ever know and I knew how much she loved me. I have no idea if she understood when I said a thread, except that it seemed to satisfy her. Maybe I had finally mentioned something that was actually small enough.

We sat there until the sun came up. This morning there were no ablutions, no coffee, no breakfast. She really didn’t want anything. I don’t even remember what we said to one another but I know we spoke soft words.

Mom had everything in order and didn’t need to ask me for anything. Besides the family and close friends I knew who to call. Family began to show up as did her friends to say goodbye. For a good part of the day she would speak to people as they would come and go. But as the day wore on she spoke less and began to spend her time, her final hours, with her eyes closed. When one would speak to her she would make a soft sound as if to say I know you’re there.

Slowly people went away having said their goodbyes. This left Hannah, Kristi and I alone with her to accompany her as she passed away. The hospice nurse that showed up towards the end of the day, stayed to pronounce her death and to sign the appropriate papers. She melted into the background and was hardly noticeable. She told us that as a person dies their last sense to go is their hearing and encouraged us speak to her.

We sat on her bed, touching her. We told her that we loved her and that we would miss her but that it was also okay for her to go, she didn’t need to hold on. She was so relaxed and her face softened with a pink glow and her wrinkles seemed to disappear. Soon we had no more words and all we could do was hum and sing without words. Mom almost imperceptibly took her last breath. It took us some time before we could move away from her. By this time, it was nearing midnight.

Mom had donated her body to the OHSU Body Donation Program. While we waited for them to come for her, we sat talking and looking at this beautiful body that had belonged to someone that had served so many and would be remembered for her love, intelligence and so much more.

But right up until her dying day, Mom was in charge. Two things that I will always remember is hearing Dad say, “Norma, you’re not in charge here at home.” Second, was numerous people saying they’d never heard her say a bad word about anyone. Now that’s a legacy!

Swallowing My Tooth, Go Carts and BB Guns

When I was a kid, we were living in Eugene in Fox Hollow on Spencer’s Butte. We lived nextdoor to the Rice family. Dad and Mom became friends with Ray and Myrna Rice and we kids got close to Cathy, Charlie, Cheryl, Janet and I don’t remember the names of the other kids, but I think there were about 4 or 5 of them.

The oldest kid was a boy and he didn’t care much for us. I remember that I had a great straw hat that I treasured and a solid crush on the boy. One time he put that straw hat over a pile of dog poop and stepped on it. That was the end of my straw hat, though I tried to clean it with a strong stream of water from the hose. Mom made me throw it away. And that was the end of the crush I had on him.

Even though we were only going to be in Eugene for a couple of years while my dad tried to find job satisfaction at Acme Fast Freight, he never got happy and so I remember tensions were high. But we were tight and held together.

Mom went straight to work at Sacred Heart Hospital. Being a nurse who trained at the University of Minnesota, she could get a job in a minute and deep at heart she was a nurse. She loved her job no matter where she lived.

We only stayed in Fox Hollow for the 1st part of those 2 years but boy they were fun times. For one, it was rural and we had moved from St. Johns, which was a small community in the larger city of Portland. We had the run of the place. Just up the road was a roller rink where we went as often as was allowed.

Steve often would put Kristi on his handlebars and they would go up to the road above our house and ride down the mountain as fast as he could peddle. As far as I was concerned they were dare devils and I dare not attempt a ride down the mountain… especially not with Steve. He was ridiculously fearless.

He was in high school, maybe freshman and sophomore years and Kristi was probably in 5th or 6th grade… eleven years old maybe. She was nothing but fun and carelessness. Her hair would fly and her big blue eyes looked wild. She was as fearless as Steven.

Steve was ingenious and loved to invent something out of nothing. He built a “go cart” out of scrap wood and some wagon tires. We didn’t need a motor since the house was at the bottom of a steep descent down from the road. That was our raceway.

We’d push the heavy cart up the driveway, turn it around, hop on and go. I don’t remember much of a steering mechanism. I remember ropes or something attached to what you might call something to steer with, it was more like, lean to the left, lean to the right and hope that once you zoomed through the carport, you wouldn’t crash into the roof supports and you’d try to miss the clothes line pole centered between the support beams. Most of the time we made it.

The house was a long way from the road, so we picked up alot of speed. And brakes? There were none. By the time we came by the house, barely passing through the carport safely, we’d be sailing at top speed. We’d, pass the house, continuing on across the property until we crossed a dirt road and smashed and crashed into a fence on the other side. The fence stopped the go cart so suddenly, your whole body jerked and shuddered to a halt nearly giving us whiplash.

A huge oak tree, perfect for climbing, awaited certain unlucky kids who were not as adept as we were at missing it. But there was something more sinister than the oak tree standing there. The fence was covered in poison ivy.

I remember Steve covered in the poison ivy rash, all red and scabby, with an uncontrollable itch and whitish pink from calamine lotion. Out of us three kids, Steve was the only one who got the dreaded infection. But that vine covered fence didn’t stop us from continuing to ride our go cart down the hill and into the fence.

The old oak tree was my safe haven. I called it the girl’s tree and boys were not allowed to climb it. If they tried to I’d scream at the top of my lungs and kick at them until they left me alone.

During this time, Steve had a beloved bb gun. One afternoon, he reluctantly acquiesced to teach me to shoot it. He held it up, barrel pointing to the sky. He growled at me to not pull the trigger until he said to, threatening me with sudden death if I made a wrong move. I promised I wouldn’t. He dropped some bbs down the barrel and lowered it horizontally with his thumb over the end so they wouldn’t roll out.

For some reason at that moment, without warning, I pulled the trigger embedding the first bb into his thumb. He pulled the gun out of my hand and started yelling and pushed me. I started yelling too, screaming, “Please don’t tell Mom. Please don’t tell Dad.” He never did because they probably would have taken the gun away from him if they knew he was letting me shoot it. That was not the first or the last time that we kept secrets from Mom and Dad.

Well, back to the Rice family. They liked to go camping and fishing as much as we did. What I remember most is that Myrna would make these big fat melt-in -your-mouth cinnamon rolls to take along. Though I loved the swimming and the fishing, the campfires and roasting marshmallows and sleeping in a canvas tent, in canvas and flannel sleeping bags, the cinnamon rolls are what I remember most about camping with the Rice’s.

One summer evening I was over at the Rice’s house. To get there, there was a path between our houses. We went back-and-forth enough that we could walk that path or run that path or cartwheel on that path blindfolded. It was about the distance of two city blocks. It was partially dirt and grass. When it rained the dirt parts had big puddles and mud but in the summer there were just dips and high spots making it all the more fun to ride our bicycles over. There was a boulder near the end closest to our house. The large stone was the size of a hassock for a comfy living room armchair.

When I got to their house, it was almost sunset. They were making homemade taffy. Myrna cooked the taffy and when it was cool enough, the kids pulled and pulled it until it was shiny and smooth. We couldn’t resist eating it at the same time. Once Myrna said we had pulled enough, we cut it with scissors into bite size pieces and wrapped it in wax paper squares and twisted the ends to keep it from sticking together and to keep it fresh.

I was having a wonderful time laughing and talking and getting all sticky. I was popping bits of taffy into my mouth, the candy sticking to my teeth. Suddenly, I realized that a tooth, one of my molars, got stuck in taffy and pulled it right out of my gums and I had swallowed it. Immediately, I began to cry.

I ran from the house into the darkened yard. I should have been able to transverse that path with ease, but no. As I ran my eyes were filled with tears and I was afraid something terrible would happen to me since I had swallowed my tooth.

I was running wildly and at top speed. On any other night, I would have reached home in a minute or two. But when I got to the boulder, my toe hit it and my momentum launched my body over the boulder and into the grass headlong, adding insult to injury.

I was dazed. I was worried. Mom was still too far away. Eventually, I was able to get up and make my way to the house with bloodied knees and bloodied hands. And on top of that I had swallowed a tooth. I couldn’t imagine what would happen now. Would I die?

My mom, who first of all is a nurse and second of all is a stoic and third of all is a loving and caring mother, took me to the bathroom where the cleansing and disinfecting took place. No tiny stone or bits of sand or mud was left in my poor knees and hands and they were soon disinfected with mecurichrome and bandaged. No tears or crying for mercy stopped her from making sure that these injuries would heal properly.

It took a bit for her to understand that I was trying to say that not only did I have bodily injuries but I had swallowed my tooth along with a piece of taffy. I’m sure now that mom hid her smile at how distraught I was. She knew that that tooth would be quickly excreted along with everything else I had eaten.

But Mom being Mom, she held me tightly in her arms and comforted me and explained that I had nothing to worry about. I knew that the best place for me to be was in my mother’s arms. Once she assured me that this was not a life-or-death situation, I calmed quickly. This was just one of the many times that my mom picked me up, cleaned me up and took care of whatever injuries I suffered be they injuries to the heart or injuries to the body. She knew just what to say and just what to do.

Tortilla Españole for Mother’s Day Brunch Instead

We planned on going to the beach today. It’s going to be 95ﾟ here in Portland and 87ﾟ on the coast.

Why would we decide to go to the beach this weekend in particular, I don’t know? Being 3rd generation Portland resident I know what going out to the beach from Portland to any of the beaches on the Pacific coast looks like.

It means that on the 1st hot day of Spring, it will be most assuredly bumper to bumper traffic on both highway 26 and 30. If there’s an accident it will surely make a 90 minute trip and push it into 3 or 4 hours.

When it’s a sunny and warm day in springtime after a long, dark and wet Winter, everyone will be heading to the beach. Well, not everyone but a lot of people. On top of that, its Mother’s Day weekend.

So we decided to stay home. There will be plenty of time for us to go to the beach when it’s not going to be a major holiday.

Also I’m born and raised in the Pacific Northwest. We’re not used to hot and sunny days on the coast. We’re used to waking up to a thick fog or mist hanging on the Coast Range and burning off… maybe, later in the day. In the summer we bring sweatshirts to the beach and long pants to change into after we venture out into the ice cold Pacific Ocean. Even putting your toes in this water can cause them to turn blue, as well as your lips.

So because we didn’t want to fight traffic, we stayed home. Jesse came over, Hannah bought groceries and Jesse put his chef talent to work on a Spanish tortilla. As you see from the photos, it was a beautiful sight to behold and a marvelous gastronomical experience.

Jesse, with his extraordinary knife skills, cut potatoes to bake partially in the oven and broccoli to par boil and onions to caramelize. These ingredients were layered in a cast iron skillet. Then he mixed eggs and almond milk and all sorts of herbs and spices to pour over the layered mixture. While we’re all waiting, he cooked the bacon and the sausages in the oven.

It was well worth the wait. Since Jesse is a chef you can’t say that breakfast would have been better in a restaurant. We had our own restaurant type brunch right here at home.

I love being with the family: my two children who are here in Portland minus Tracy who is in Phoenix and my 2 grandchildren. And to my surprise they ordered me a new pair of Birkenstock sandals.

I don’t think we missed out going to the beach at all. No one was the least bit disappointed.

We ate all but one slice of the tortilla but I’ve noticed, when I looked in the refrigerator, that that one piece is disappearing bite by bite.

Mother’s Day Daisies 2023

For my wedding day,

I carried the lovely garden variety daisy,

All dressed in white.

They’ve always been a favorite.

But the exuberant Gerber daisy,

Leaves nothing to be desired.

Color riot.

Beautiful bouquet of Gerber Daisies.

The Old Wringer Washer

Mom did laundry in an old wringer washing machine all the time I was growing up. She used a crooked stick to take the clean laundry out of the tub to push the clothes into the wringer.

Once clean, she hung our clothes out to dry. In the winter, she hung them to dry in the basement next to the giant oil furnace that had arms like a giant spider that led to every vent in the house.

Mom never asked for help with the laundry. Do you think that the memories of when she was a kid, Uncle John got his arm stuck in the wringer and tore his forearm skin clean off, kept her from wanting us to help?

Once I was in high school, a Fred Meyers was built with an attached laundro-mat a few blocks from home. Then, and only then, did she ask for help with the laundry.

She never had a washer and dryer until her and Dad sold the house and moved to an apartment complex in Beaverton in the 70s. Even then, it wan’t her washer and dryer.

After Dad died and she retired, she moved in with us when she turned 62. The first thing she bought was a brand new Sears & Roebuck washer and dryer.

Mom lived with me until she passed away at 89 years old and I never did another load of clothes until she passed away.