SOLSC 2022 #29 - Touring Hickory Flats

 

It is March 2022 and time for the

 15th Annual Slice of Life Story Challenge  

Every single day, for all thirty-one days of March,

writers will share stories.

Thank you, Two Writing Teachers, for creating this supportive community 

of teacher-writers!

With the phone on speaker, my brother-in-law's southern drawl filled the car as he shared the directions he remembered - 

"From there, you go down a big ol' hill; at the bottom, on the opposite side of the road from a pasture, there's a big Sycamore tree. We lived right up the road from this bend..."

Yesterday, I spent time typing up notes I had taken on a very special driving tour with my husband and in-laws. When we were in Georgia in February for my sister-in-law's funeral, my husband Tony and his two remaining sisters decided to drive around and visit the places that they had lived as children. They called their brother up on speaker phone, so that he might help them find their way around. I went along as the "scribe," bringing my trusty notebook and pen. I tried not to interrupt their conversation, and to write down every tidbit I heard them sharing. I knew this was an all-too-rare opportunity to capture family history.  

Tony is second youngest in a family of 13 children; the sister-in-law that died was the baby of the family (and it doesn't seem right for the youngest to die before others, does it?). One of the first thoughts I had when she died, in the midst of all the grief, was that we had just lost a lot of family history. The baby sister was the one who kept tabs on everybody and everything that had happened through the years. She truly treasured her family.

Their father worked as a preacher, a cabinet maker, and a tenant farmer, which meant that the family was uprooted many times, moving to new locations in the state. A number of years were spent in the vicinity of Hickory Flats, which was near to where we were staying. (It's amazing to think how much population has grown in this area - Hickory Flats was considered 'the boonies' when my husband and his siblings were growing up, but is now considered the outer environs of Atlanta.)

Now, there are only four living siblings, of the original 13 - Tony, an older brother, and two older sisters. It was a very special day to drive around and hear their reminiscing. It was also fun to type up all the notes from this grand tour and share them with everyone. Tony and his sibs are making edits, adding details, and sharing new stories to the ones I captured - there is a touch of healing in this memory-writing. 

The book is cooked

 

First came dog-eared pages, noting recipes I used over and over. Then came scribbles and annotations on varied pages, as I adjusted ingredients for our likes and dislikes. I crammed pages with recipe clippings from our newspaper, which offered competing ideas for deliciousness. I hand wrote favorites from family and friends inside the front and back covers and on the blank space of end pages.

Yes, this simple, paperback cookbook became quite beloved over time, 
received as a wedding gift some 34 years ago, and 
slowly morphing into my cooking bible, 
the one place I stored every recipe that mattered. 

I knew our relationship was ending when I went to put it away and a third of the back cover remained glued to the I-didn't-know-it-was-wet counter. 

I have to say goodbye to this cookbook, don't I? 

How can I do this, with all this history and family lore within?

One recent evening, its spine split in two. 

Even so, 

I and it 

trudged on, 

with me gently handling its two parts whenever I need a favorite recipe - 

not a pretty look, for a cookbook.

Do I have trouble letting things go?

I flip through these broken pages and I am time traveling - 

the tried and true recipes that I fed my family through the years,

oh my, remember the disaster vegetable loaf that I made in the early weeks of our marriage? oh how we laughed when it was a soup not a loaf, and then we melted cheese on chips and called it dinner that night; I never dared make that recipe again ... what did I do wrong?

oh yum, the turkey chili that has long been a go-to staple on a cold winter night...

oh and here's the lentil soup that I brought to so many staff lunches...

on and on and on

Do I have trouble letting things go?

Yes, I guess I do.

Thankfully, I shared this dilemma with my youngest son, who just so happens to work in a bookstore. I explained that I had not been able to find another copy, that it perhaps was out of print. 

After I indulged a wee bit of teasing about "high carbohydrate eating" being such a retro thing, no longer consider healthy, he did some investigating and 

now,

lucky me, 

he found me a new copy!! Woohoo!

Yes, I immediately got my pen out and started copying all my annotations and recipes into the new book.

Score one for nostalgia!

___________________

It's Tuesday and I am participating in the

 Slice of Life.  

Thank you, Two Writing Teachers, for nurturing teacher-writers!

Archeological dig

All this time at home has freed us to see what needs fixing, what needs changing, and what we can cull. Being retired is an added bonus - because we have the time to follow through. 

The past day or so, we've been tinkering with a small, narrow closet - adding and painting new shelving, adjusting some coat hooks. One set of coat hooks was set up for when our children were about three feet tall - and they have never been changed since that time, rendering them basically useless (unless you are partial to the look of floor debris clinging to the bottom of your adult coat). The shelves in the closet are (were!) - sadly - simply a series of stackable plastic bins, hastily set in place as a temporary solution right after we remodeled 30 years ago. These bins were immediately filled and overflowing with the stuff of daily living, and the original idea of adding 'real' shelves long forgotten - until now, that is. 

This closet is located right next to our side entrance, our main door to the house from the driveway; thus, these bins were the depository of all those things one takes off and gets rid off as soon as they enter the house. Coupled with a door that closes, hiding the ugly truth from regular eyes, this location became a treasure trove of forgotten artifacts. 

I set about emptying the bins themselves - what's in there? what can I toss? what belongs elsewhere? - while Tony began sawing boards for the shelving. There was so much forgotten junk in these shelves! Ugh! Suffice to say, I threw more things away than I saved; I had a small pile of donations. Lots of paper trash. (There is always so much stray paper in this house.) I was surprised by the "singles" - three separate gloves, each from a different pair, no match anywhere around; one single flip flop from a teenager (in other words, at least ten years old); one slipper...where are their matches? where did they go? why is it here and not the bedroom? I also found a pair of children's gloves. Itty bitty hands. No, they are not my grandchildren's. 

Here's a fun new chapter to this storytelling: I decided to wash this small find for future use by said grandchildren, when - I kid you not - only one small glove made it OUT of the dryer. What? Two gloves are washed and dried but only one comes out? Where did the match go? Do gloves have feelings? It's as if they cried out - 'what, you ignore me for 20 years and expect me to hang around now!?'

Sifting through the debris of this one little closet has sent me on a rampage through the house, culling, tossing, weeding, and organizing. I even spent some time in that truly forgotten space - our attic, opening up bins and clearing out clutter. It is amazing what time can do for these stored memories - yes, there are many things that I still love and want to keep, but there is a whole subset of extraneous, much less meaningful stuff with which I am easily able to part. I am excited for our trash pickup this week! 

Isn't it wild, though, how you can hold a piece of paper - say, a handwritten note, or an old ticket to a concert, or a child's drawing, and instantaneously be transported back in time - seeing where you were, hearing certain songs, remembering how you felt? 

We often joke that it's been thirty-plus years of deferred maintenance on our home...truth is, these years have flown by. Now, in this quiet 'stuck at home' interlude of the pandemic, we can finally focus. It's almost like being on an archeological dig, right? (Yay! I am traveling!) 

----

I wrote this post for Slice of Life.  All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, on Tuesdays. Thank you, Two Writing Teachers!

Time passes

 

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life.  
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, 
on Tuesdays.

                                                        Thank you, Two Writing Teachers!

Look at our front yard tree, an Autumn Purple Ash. Just like its name implies, it is October and it is "purpling," the tips of its leaves changing color. The leaves will become deeper and deeper in color in the next week or two, and, if I am lucky, I will see the entire tree enshrouded in purple before all the leaves fall to the ground. We planted this tree some 25 years ago or so, and there have only been a handful of times that I have been lucky like this. Some years, a hard rain or wind will lift all the leaves off before they reach their purple peak, and that's always a strange sensation to know it's another year before the chance will come again. Many years - honestly, MOST years - I've been simply too busy to notice...backing down my driveway, heading to school in the opposite direction from the tree, returning home from teaching after dark. It makes me sad to think how many times I ignored that tree. I think if I had a 'do over,' I would go out of my way to see the tree. I would add one block to my drive, beginning my day by turning and driving in front of my house, and soaking in the "autumn-ness" of that tree before heading off to work. I guess that's another lesson from the pandemic, yes? The varied rhythms of plants and trees during the different seasons are beautiful to observe. 

There are moments in life when I am bursting with a very similar, transitory feeling, much like the tree. Do you experience this? Happy, near perfect moments, where you feel rich, deep, expansive love coupled with the awareness of it being fleeting, it is passing, it is momentary. This is certainly true around celebrations and big milestones, or even when traveling - all times when I am engaged in something significant that is also, by its very nature, passing or temporary. I am thinking more of small moments where I have felt both present and - strangely - nostalgic, such as:

- my oldest son, maybe four or five years old, sitting at the table with me as I worked, practicing writing his name over and over...how he'd write almost a mirror image of his name, backwards and wobbly letters, and how I thought those letters were just perfect and shouldn't ever have to change, but I knew they would...

- laying next to my youngest son when he was about ten years old, reading to him at bedtime, and knowing at any moment, one day very soon, he would no longer need me next to him at bedtime, none of my boys would ever need this anymore...

- listening to my middle son share a funny story from his teaching day, that first year of his teaching, when he still lived at home, and laughing so hard, while simultaneously aware that soon he wouldn't be coming in our house door at the end of the day...

- Tony and I enjoying a hike together, wandering along on a winding path uphill through the woods, having to watch our step very carefully, wondering if we over-extended our abilities...

- my Dad saying "I love you" in his final days, and me wondering, would I hear him say this again...

There are even much lighter moments where I have the same sensation - say, two bites from the end of a most-delicious pizza!

This sensation is at once sweet and wistful. It is the very temporariness of the time - the 'going,' the departing - that adds so much richness to what I feel. I suppose time and experience lead me to this feeling. I've lived long enough to have gained some wisdom from living...I've experienced something so similar before, I 'connect the dots,' I see where it leads, where the moment is headed. It's as if I am in two places at once, present and future, loving and missing. 

Actually, I don't suppose it is simply happy or positive moments that lead to this rich reflection. I can think of negative moments that proved to be, at once, "the writing on the wall" - a foreshadowing of the need to do something quite different, a new path, even, a way out. However, I choose to focus on the happy.

Am I just describing melancholy?

Can one have melancholy about a pizza?

These days, I am almost in sensory overload from these type moments with my granddaughter ("Frog"), knowing full well that this two year old child will be gone in a flash...and watching her laugh with delight

 

as she shakes rainwater from flowering mums, 

as she squeals "Again! Again!," when we roll her stroller  under weeping willow branches that brush her head, or 

as she sits on the side of the road and rubs the leaf of a lamb's ear plant because it is so soft. 

Yes, being around Frog is to be in a whirlwind of these moments, "we're having, we may never have again."

In my house growing up, my Mom would frequently toss out a favorite expression from her high school Latin classes: "tempus fugit" - time passes. Life is change. That was her closing argument, her way of telling each of us to get over something, or to deal with something. "Tempus fugit." What makes me chuckle now is she changed the expression over time. When she was elderly with dementia, she inadvertently inserted an 's' on the end of the original Latin, and would exclaim, over and over "Tempus fugits!" in the midst of most any conversation. Makes me chuckle every time I think of it, and now I often exclaim the same thing, in my house.

Time passes.

Tempus fugits!

Apr12Poetry - I Am From

I'm trying something new, taking a risk this month - participating in
#VerseLove with Sarah Donovan,
hoping to write poetry every day this April.







Today's challenge is to write an "I am From" poem, following a provided template. I am familiar with this fun poem style; my school often uses this as an icebreaker for staff at the outset of a new teaching year. These poems are a great way to get to know others.

A couple lines from each poem written for the challenge will be added to a collaborative poem.


I Am From

I am from dolls,
Sears and Roebuck, and
Pontiac station wagon with woodgrain paneling.
I am from Navy base housing,
hard-working, strong, and the smell of cigars.
I am from fresh tomatoes in August,
grown at the side of the house.
I'm from praying the rosary and dogmatic,
from Alice and Ted.
I from the silent treatment and rough-housing.
From 'blessed are the peacemakers," and "don't be so sensitive."
I'm from Massachusetts and Irish,
canned brown bread, and frozen dinners.
From summer days outside, and neighborhood games of capture the flag.
I'm from Mom's laying down, she doesn't feel well.
So many memories packed in shoeboxes,
on the shelf above Dad's tool bench in the garage,
if not already thrown out from an earlier move.

Apr9Poetry - Go out into it

I'm trying something new, taking a risk this month - participating in
#VerseLove with Sarah Donovan,
hoping to write poetry every day this April.







Today's poetry inspiration was suggested by the author Jennifer Jacobson:

As a writer of fiction, I’ve long believed in the power of what Pam Houston calls glimmers or what Lynda Berry calls aliveness: objects or snatches of memory that seem to have more staying power . . . perhaps an electrical charge.

Poet, Marie Howe, asks her students to write down ten observations of the actual world. She doesn’t want observations embellished with meaning, but pure descriptions that lead the mind to new ways of seeing. A keyhole if you will. This is harder than it seems.

I spent the day taking notes on things...just trying to pay more attention to the world around me. This intention, in and of itself, seemed like the perfect remedy for this umpteenth day of this pandemic, shelter-in-place, trapped. Trapped but looking and paying attention! Quite fun, really! 

Go Out Into It

Today,
I ran into the early morning rain,

in pajamas and bare feet,

to grab the newspaper, 

before it was soaked.

I jumped back inside

soggy,

cold,

giddy, and

awake.

As a child,

I loved a soaking rain,

water coursing

down the street.

We'd run outside with

plywood scraps from the shed,

and surf the gutters.

I was also

terrified of thunder.

Loud booms

sent me under my bed,

child's pose,

arms wrapped around my head,

seeking refuge.

In what ways am I still a child?

Why have I

mostly

forfeited the play?

Why have I

mostly

kept the fear?

Today,
after the rain,

the wind has raged,

lashing at the awnings,

tumbling the trash cans,

slamming the fence gate.

When it screeched like a tea kettle,

I jumped and

turned to see who was there,

alert.

This wind is the stuff 

of my fears.

It isn't going anywhere.

Not any time soon.

We may not be halfway to calm.

Throw open the door

and go out

into

it.

SOL20 Slice #24: Moving

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life Story Challenge (SOL20).  
All participants are sharing stories about moments in their lives, writing 
 every day for the month of March 2020.
Thank you, Two Writing Teachers!

Early one morning, this enormous, long truck pulled up in front of our flat little duplex on the naval base in South Carolina, and four big, muscled men climbed out. They came into our home and started moving all our things. They wore jeans and white t-shirts. They were loud, and moved quickly and purposefully. One man had long hair, pulled back in a ponytail. One man had a beard and a pack of cigarettes rolled up in his sleeve. Their relaxed, somewhat disheveled look was so different from the Navy men that were my entire world until then.

I was five years old when they turned my world upside down. They moved all the big things first, the sofa, the headboards, the dining room table. They worked in pairs and alone, lifting furniture around the bend in the hallway, down the small front steps, and loading them into the back of the truck. One man dropped the end of a dresser he was moving, and it landed on his foot. He let out a loud "DAMN!," to which my Dad snapped - "Knock it off! There's kids around here!"

Everything was going. There were cardboard boxes everywhere, so many boxes, and they were packed up quickly, folded closed, and taped shut. The long-haired mover grabbed a doll from the floor of my bedroom, and threw it into a box he was packing. I cried "No!" and grabbed the doll in a tight hug, just before the box was closed. He smiled and began speaking to me like Donald Duck, with an "Ah, Phooey!" Dad overheard him and said, "Get to work, there's lots to do."

Now vigilant, I ran and quickly grabbed my beloved blanket from the foot of my bed. I clutched these two treasures, the blanket and the doll. I watched in wide-eyed wonder the rapid work around me. Everything was changing, everything was falling apart. These men worked all day, sweat glistening on their faces and soaking their clothes. Dad gave them cold bottles of Coke. In the end, they slammed the door of the truck closed, locked it, shook my Dad's hand, and drove away. With everything. These men just showed up and packed our stuff and ignored my protests.

I remember,
the truck came, and
everything went.

Dad promised that I would see it all again, another day. Soon. He assured me that this would be fun, that new and exciting things awaited, after our move.

All that was left was the station wagon, and it was stuffed to the brim with so many suitcases, bags, pillows, and treasures, plus five children, ages 0-10, Dad and Mom, and my blanket and my doll. These last two never left my arms. We drove up the coast, miles and miles of road. Dad and Mom drank coffee from thermoses and we ate sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, with chips. I didn't know where we were headed. I was along for the ride.

We made another home, in Connecticut. It was different in so many ways; rather than that small, flat home on the military base, we moved to a big old Victorian fixer-upper with three floors, a cellar, and a leaky, steep roof, "off-base," in town. Those first few days, we slept on the floor of the empty house, waiting for our things, watching for the truck.

Finally, it arrived, more or less. There was a small rip in the back of the sofa, a new scratch on the dining room table. Several boxes were already open, with a mish-mash of contents. I remember Dad laughing at a packed ashtray, with his cigar ashes still in it, carefully wrapped in sheets of newsprint, and he asked, "Now, what was the point of that?"

There were some things that never made it north. One box of our belongings was entirely gone, and other boxes had been picked through, with select things taken.

I had my blanket and my doll, though.

These days of dramatic change and loss are not unlike that time way back when. 
I don't know where I'm headed.
I don't know what comes next.
I am that little girl who is
abruptly,
surprisingly
moved,
to a new,
mysterious, and,
hope beyond hope,
possibly magical
place.

I've always been able to see next as better, to see hope in the future.

What do I love that's been put away in a moving box, for some unforeseeable time?
What's in a moving box that I may not see again? 
What's gone forever?
What moving boxes fill me with hope? 

What's been put away that I would go the extra mile to find?
What is the blanket and the doll that I am holding onto tightly, right now? 

What soothes me, in this in-between time?

SOL20 Slice #22: Here's to you, Dad

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life Story Challenge (SOL20).  
All participants are sharing stories about moments in their lives, writing 
 every day for the month of March 2020.
Thank you, Two Writing Teachers!

I visit my 90 year old father regularly, and had a trip planned for the end of this week, along with two of my brothers - we were all excited to get together, and see him. Obviously, the trip is cancelled. Here I am, isolated in my home in Maryland, and Dad is isolated in his nursing home in Maine. He's very much on my mind. My oldest brother lives just a mile from the home, but that proximity isn't an advantage these days - the nursing home is closed to all visitors, as the staff tries its very best to keep out coronavirus. It is very hard, but we are just letting Dad be, trusting the nursing staff that he is doing well and that he enjoys the daily routine. He's hard of hearing, with limited vision, and the beginnings of dementia...to try to do a phone call or set up a Skype visit is incomprehensible to him; it leaves him confused and agitated. At their suggestion, we're trying to be content with simply reaching out to the nursing staff regularly, and hearing about how he is doing.

I have no doubt that Dad is doing better with this time apart than we are. He has the advantage of time being very whimsical.

On the last day of my most recent visit, I found him sitting quietly in his room in his wheelchair. I sensed he was brooding, and I bent down to give him a light kiss on his forehead, with a gentle, "Hi, Dad." He said, "What do you think Mom will do? She has to meet with the psychiatrist before she gets out, and she is refusing to do so."
Ah, time traveling.
I played right along, although Mom died a year and a half ago - "She doesn't much like to talk to psychiatrists, right?"
Him, "Oh no."
I fished for memories. "How many different hospitals has she been in? There was northern Virginia, and Charleston. Was she ever in the hospital in New Hampshire?"
Him, "I don't remember."
Me, again, softly, desiring so much more - "Did she ever talk to you about her mental issues?"
Him, "Oh, no way,  no way!" and then he just slipped into a quiet fog.

We sat quietly together in the silence.

After a few minutes, he announced - "Let's see what everybody's up to, " and wheeled himself over to the dining area and right up in the center of everyone. His new pals. I join in the fun. To sit alongside these folks in the nursing home is to travel in myriad directions, not unlike a preschool classroom, where some are present, others have wandered in their minds to someplace altogether different, and others seem to have one foot in both places. Everyone feels what they feel very strongly, right then and there, and there's an insistent undercurrent of 'hey! why don't you take care of this!! Yes, just like preschool. My biggest takeaway, the one that warms my heart during this time of isolation: Dad's happy these days. He is accepting of his lot in life, and seems to be more or less at peace with the nursing home.

Amusingly, he is very attracted to this sharp-tongued, acerbic, crusty gal who seems to not take any nonsense from him or anyone on staff. She spews sarcasm and random complaints and wonderings. When I said goodbye to him, he was seated right next to her, wheelchair to wheelchair, holding her hand. Is her edgy way, her cold, distant manner, reminiscent of Mom? Or does he like that she is feisty, with some life in her, that jumps out and sparkles, just like him? I hope she is making him chuckle.

An invaluable gift of this time of isolation is the recognition, once again, that I am not in control. I am passing through, doing the best I can, with what I've been given, with hopes for more, and goals of my own. The reality is: us. We are so interconnected, dependent on one another. We need each other. We move forward together. We trust. Dad's figured this out in these last few years. I'm seeing it now, too. This, with some deep cleansing breaths, leads to a sense of floating, a softening, and acceptance.

SOL20 Slice #21: Taking a Trip

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life Story Challenge (SOL20).  
All participants are sharing stories about moments in their lives, writing 
 every day for the month of March 2020.
Thank you, Two Writing Teachers!

I just went on an unplanned, unscheduled trip and had so much fun. I visited several far away places, though isolated within the confines of my house. It's Saturday, and I have declared to myself that this weekend day must feel different than the preceding five days of virtual teaching and confinement: I will dabble in drawing. I will get out my drawing pencils and sketch a bit. I haven't done this in ages. This coronavirus gives me the gift of time, to pursue a hobby. 

My pastel drawing of my house

This desire was instigated by one of my preschoolers, during a Facetime call yesterday, who asked - What's that picture, Ms. Ingram?

I had forgotten that you can see 'everything' during a phone call like this! Thankfully, it was simply a picture I had drawn many years ago.

Oh, that - it's my house.

Your house?

Preschoolers don't entirely understand this virtual thing we are doing these days. I heard the incredulity in her voice - as if she wondered how I could possibly have any picture on my wall that she hadn't already seen. In all likelihood, she imagined me holed up in the school classroom, while only she was away at home.

Years ago, we moved as a family to Little Rock, Arkansas, due to a temporary assignment through my husband's work. Two years and temporary meant that I substitute-taught (oh, this was hard!), and - for sanity - I indulged myself in a 'drawing with pastels' class at the Arkansas Arts Center. I loved this class so much, that I signed up for the same class over and over again, several semesters in a row, connecting with the same fabulous teacher (Endia Gomez) and community of artists. One drawing I did was the one my preschool friend noticed - I missed my home in Maryland so much during that time in Arkansas, that I literally drew it.

So, thanks, preschool friend, for reminding me that I could take this time, in this new wilderness, to work daily on some favorite, forgotten pastimes. Hey, I could try to draw Frog! (My grandchild's nickname.) I am missing her! I don't know the first thing about drawing real people. I can draw a cartoon or two. What was the name of that amazing artist that did huge, poster-size pencil portraits of people's faces? He taught at the University of Arkansas in Little Rock? He was my art teacher's professor. He spoke with us, we were able to see an extraordinary exhibit of his work? The drawings were so detailed and finely done, they looked like large-scale black and white photographs - until you got very, very close and could see the pencil strokes. Oh, those were amazing! 

I wandered a bit on the internet, trying to find him. Then I headed to the cabinet where I store my journals, to find the ones from 2004-2006...yes, I went down a rabbit hole...

Now, fully two hours have gone by, and I never could find that artist's name. He is so clear in my heart and mind, but I cannot get the name. I have come up empty-handed, and I still haven't taken out my drawing tools, but, geez, I just had fun! I traveled in my mind, and there's something to be said for that, right?

I think I'll get in touch with my pastels teacher! Something else to pursue during these endless days ahead, right?

Happy Saturday, Slicers! Day 9 in isolation.

Scents of time

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life.  
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, 
on Tuesdays.
Thank you, Two Writing Teachers!

Morning routine on autopilot - I opened the bottle of moisturizer and squirted a couple drops on my hands, rubbing my hands together, and then rubbed the cream onto my face. Oh. My. Goodness. I am immediately back in time, more than forty years ago, teenage me, in my grandmother's house. There we are, the two of us, in her bathroom and she is showing me how to put on makeup. Oil of Olay lotion is the first step, before foundation...I spent a couple weeks with her, the summer after my grandfather died...just the two of us, together, day in and day out.

Isn't it weird that a simple smell can take you back in time?

I have used this face lotion for years and years, because my grandmother recommended it, and because I'm a pretty simple person really - I just need a face lotion, and don't need to debate it much. Might as well use the lotion that my grandmother recommended years ago! 

I wondered, what was different this time? Why did I immediately think of Grammy, instead of staying in my early morning fog? I looked at the bottle - ah..."normal skin." I have for years and years been buying the "sensitive skin/fragrance free" version. I goofed and bought the normal skin version. 

There must be a perfume in the normal version.

What a fun mistake...I can see her, my Dad's mother...dressed impeccably, makeup on, hair beautifully styled and colored. I admired her energy, her self-care, her exercise and diet. She was meticulous about maintaining her weight, keeping the same size as when she was a teenager. I loved that she worked full-time, a saleswoman in a carpet store...so different than my own mother, who was mentally ill, and never had a job or hobby or outside interest.

She was SO different than my mother. 

This may be her greatest gift to me, allowing me to see another model of a woman - and therefore allowing me to imagine finding my own way, which, ultimately, has touches of both her and Mom, with sprinkles of unique thrown in. 

She tried so hard to 'feminize' me. 

That day, in her bathroom, she showed me blush, mascara, eye liner, lipstick, tweezers, nail polish...on and on, the lesson went. We talked and laughed and primped and posed in the mirror. 

She was so surprised that I wasn't "doing my face" every day, but that just wasn't my thing.

I wonder if Grammy would like 'old me'? 

I liked things plain and simple and still do. Back then, I loved wearing cut-off shorts and my brother's hand-me-down shirts; she tried to 'soften' me, suggesting dresses and skirts.

I still prefer pants and shorts.

I never wear lipstick.

I loved how much she loved me - her granddaughter. 

SOL19 Slice#24 Really me?

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life Story Challenge (SOL19)
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, every day for the month of March 2019.

A big thank you to Two Writing Teachers for providing this unique opportunity
for teacher-writers to share and reflect.

We finally got around to adding new insulation plus a simple flooring to our attic crawlspace. Such a boring expense, and yet, of course, an important one for this old house of ours. In order to do the work, we had to empty the attic of all its treasures. We've been going through these boxes, sorting and culling. Having lived in this house for 30 plus years, going through boxes is not unlike unearthing a time capsule. I am astounded at what we kept, what we "treasured." Honestly, I've had to pause with some boxes, to recall if these were really mine at all - their insides seem so foreign. 

I found - for example - three boxes of old clothing that my boys had worn when they were young, in a box labeled "quilt scraps." I am not a quilter. I have never made a quilt. I am the recipient of an extraordinary scrap quilt made by my late mother-in-law, for my husband when he went away to college. Did I imagine that I might do the same for my children? Did I imagine this once? Was this really me? 

The other big surprise was my Russian textbooks and notebooks - once upon a time, I took notes in Russian?! I wrote pages and pages in Russian? I majored in Russian in college and continued to find ways to speak and use the language in graduate school and for a few years thereafter. I visited what was then the Soviet Union, and became quite fluent during my summer there. Then, life happened differently - here I am looking back 30 years on my Russian studies, a fabulously full life with many joys but little or no Russian. Truly, this is a case of use it or lose it. I've lost it. Except for the handwriting, I would not have known those old Russian notes were mine. What was I thinking by saving them?

A friend suggests that I get the app Duolingo, and see if my Russian comes back. Hmm. This seems more plausible than quilting!

Strange to think what time does. 

SOL19 Slice #4: About that ice cream cone

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life Story Challenge (SOL19)
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, every day for the month of March 2019.

After I ate the peas, I refused to eat another bite. Every fiber of my four year old self protested. I stared down at my dinner plate: six small chunks of Spam and a scoop of mashed potatoes glared back at me. Dad insisted, "Young lady, eat your dinner, not another word." Five slow, agonizing swallows of the tiny meat bites plus one lucky slip of the fork, which sent one flying to the floor, and the Spam was gone. The mashed potatoes loomed like an enormous white and crusty mountain. My eyes bulged in horror. There was no way I was eating that.

Dad's voice broke into my protest - "You are going to miss out on dessert, if this keeps up, young lady."

I began to whine. Being the only girl, and a young one at that, I received a little more slack for whining than my brothers. "I don't want to eat the po - ta - TOES! I don't like po - ta - TOES!" 

Truth be told, my brothers hadn't eaten their peas. I had eaten all my peas. I liked peas. Why was I being forced to eat everything?

My older brother (7) taunted me, "You're such a baby!!" Dad silenced him with just one look.

So began the stare-down between me and the mashed potatoes. Neither budged, though the scoop of potatoes loomed larger and larger. Mom got up to clear everyone else's plates. "Listen to your father and eat those potatoes."

Dad got up right behind her, to get the ice cream and cones, and grabbed my plate with the untouched potatoes as he went. "Okay, that's it. Time's up. You're done. No dessert for you."

I dissolved into tears, big sobs. Ice cream for everyone but me?

I overheard a happy tittering in the kitchen, Mom and Dad, a laugh, and then Dad came out of the kitchen - "I changed my mind! Second chance, Lady Jane - here's an ice cream cone for you." And with that he presented me with a big vanilla cone - of mashed potatoes.

I looked up expectantly, reached toward the mockery of a cone, and there was an immediate melding of my sobs of shock, disappointment, and hurt with raucous, teasing laughter from everyone else in the family.

This story is family lore that has been repeated throughout the years, and considered a great joke by everyone in the family.

Except me.