Category: Mom

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The Dame

I often mention that I have had a lifelong love affair with words. They fascinate me. One-syllable words have no less charm than lengthier five-syllable words. They all matter. As I began to compose this post, the word “delightful” came to mind. It’s not a word I regularly use, although nothing is wrong with it. I simply don’t inhabit the world of feelings I would describe as “delightful.” But I can only describe yesterday as utterly delightful. Suzanne and Skitter and I trekked to Delta to spend some time with Big Helen, who seems to have shrunk just a bit more each time I hug her.

I wore my new honeycomb golf shirt, and Mom recognized what it was immediately. Dad was the beekeeper in the family, but Mom lived the bee life right beside him every step of the way. She knew a full comb of honey was not only delicious, but it bought school clothes and made car payments. We wished Mom a happy 74th Anniversary, and she wondered why Dad had to leave her. I reminded her he’s waiting, probably impatiently, for her to meet up with him when she decides she’s ready.

Mom wore her royal purple housecoat, and kept showing us how her ring matched it. She was so surprised at the fact that she matched. She knows it’s a rare thing. She and I share a penchant for mismatching in ways that make sense only to us. To match is nothing short of a miraculous oversight. For me, matching is also somewhat painful to my sensibilities. Mom can blithely relish it when it happens. I mentioned to Mom how the royal appearance of her purple housecoat and purple ring stone would surely capture the attention of every person who sees them, she said, “Well, I’ll just start to bow to them all.” And then she thought a minute, and said, “No. I’ll make the people bow to me.” That’s my mother, in a nutshell.

I took the pictures of Mom’s hands because her hands are amazing. Think about how many pints of peaches and pears those hands have bottled. I can’t begin to count the quilts her hands made over the decades. Potato salads, batches of toffee, pans of candied popcorn. And batches of cookies as far as the mind’s taste buds can remember. As I examined her hands yesterday, Mom said they looked “curdled.” It was an elegant and poetic description. Mom has a gift for language too.

As we escorted Mom to lunch, Terry—one of Mom’s fave nurses—passed us in the hall. We chatted briefly. And suddenly, Terry started dancing, and then she got Mom dancing along. I can’t explain how it happened, but it did. Terry then went on her way, and Suzanne and Skitter and I continued walking Mom to her lunch table. As we left Mom, I couldn’t get her happy dancing out of my mind. Mom not only dances at Millard Care and Rehab, but she never dances alone.

BTW I wore my Wonder Woman socks to visit Mom, my own personal Wonder Woman. The Minions Bow Tie o’ the Day is a trip.

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Two More Plumbing Anecdotes

[This is another repeat about plumbing from July 2020. It’s mid-afternoon and I’m still tinkering with the troublesome garbage disposal.]

I’ve got a bigly jumbo butterfly Bow Tie o’ the Day for y’all this morning. I will definitely remove my Face Mask o’ the Day before drinking from my infamous potty cup. I just had to fit this toilet cup in my selfie, since the post’s topic is plumbing.

In my last post, I mentioned the plumber had been to the house last week to conquer a few issues. But I forgot to tell you about two groovy things that happened during the plumber’s time here. At some point the plumber said to me, “My hearing aid battery is about out of juice, so if you need to get my attention, you’ll need to yell.” Of course, I am a wearer o’ hearing aids myself, so I yelled, “312 batteries?” And he said in astonishment, “Yes!” So I handed him a 312 hearing aid battery from my stash. Hearing accomplished. I did not present him with a bill for my services.

My favorite moment was when he came downstairs to do his paperwork—tablet work, really. He promptly said, “With all the ties and sewing machines I’m seeing around the house, I’m betting you make ties for a living.” I explained to him that the sewing machines belonged to the crafty, sew-y Suzanne and had nothing whatsoever to do with me. And by the time I finished regaling the man with my quirky love for ties and bow ties, and how I have a tblog so I can show off my neckwear and tell stories—well, the plumber was shell-shocked, to say the least. He stood all amazed. But I enjoyed it. I always love instances when I can go into my what-do-you-know-about-bow-ties-and-would-you-like-to -know-more pitch.

My all-time fave experience with a plumbing problem and the plumber who fixed it occurred a decade ago. We still lived in Ogden at the time, but also had the Delta house. I was at my desk in Ogden when I got a call from someone at the Delta City office. Apparently, the outside water at my Delta house had sprung a very leaky leak underground, and my water meter was racking up the gallons at full speed—lickety-split enough that my water usage had caught the attention of an astute water-watcher in the city office. I was 175 miles away from Delta at the time. What to do?

I herded the dogs into my car, and off we hauled to Delta. In the car, I immediately called a Delta plumber, of course. I had his number already in my phone, because the Delta house was an old house, and plumbing problems had occurred previously. I got his voicemail. I left a message: “Hey, Kelly. I know you’re busy, but Delta City called me and said I have a major outside leak at my place—possibly inside,too—but I’m not in town right now. Could you please go over to my place and check it out ASAP? I’ll be there in 3 hours. Mom has a key to my house, so I’ll call her now and have her unlock my doors. Feel free to go in and out as you need to. Go ahead and do whatever you think needs to be done.” I was only slightly worried on my drive from Ogden to Delta. I was confident the problem would be properly dealt with. When I finally pulled up to the Delta house that day, my yard was torn up and gutted where the pipes were. The plumbing crew was already hard at work fixing my water problem. The leaky water situation was under control.

Mom was at my waterlogged-grass house, too. She was sitting like usual—like a queen—on my front porch in her wild socks, supervising the plumbing crew’s work and promising them a batch of her homemade cookies for their help. I immediately noticed she also had her usual huge, fountain Pepsi-with-mostly-ice from Cardwell clutched in her arthritic right hand. Mom clasped her drink so tightly it looked like a prosthetic that would forever be attached to her real hand. And wouldn’t she love to have a Pepsi-with-mostly-ice permanently attached to her paw, if it could be made a reality! Mom is so cool. Cool learns its cool-osity from Mom. I love her, and I love my small town.

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Oh, Just Playing With My Face

My wood ‘Merican flag Bow Tie o’ the Day and I gathered up a bunch o’ stuff I don’t need anymore, boxed it up, and put it in the pile I’m going to drop off at Deseret Industries later this week. I had four televisions turned-on throughout our house, so I could watch the January 6 hearing without having to miss a minute of it—while I slaved away at a miscellany of tedious-but-necessary household chores. Up and down the stairs, I trod all day. Poor Skitter followed me up and down religiously at first, but she soon figured out I wasn’t going to light in any single place for an extended period of time, for a while anyway. She split the difference and finally stretched out on the bottom stair, so she was on my mind no matter where I was, because I had to work very hard not to step on her as I made my ascents and descents on the stairs. She looked comfy there, so I didn’t want to bother her by shooing her somewhere else. Yes, Skitter is spoiled. And yes, I’m responsible for it. But it didn’t hurt me one bit to simply step over her doggie body on the stair. Stepping over her even seemed to work out a leg muscle or three that I don’t normally use, so that’s a plus.

I mention the 1/6 hearings only to say that they have reminded me of how weird I have always been. I was a political junkie long before I studied political science. One of my first memories of anything political has to do with the Watergate hearings in 1973, beginning near the end of my 3rd Grade school year. I begged to stay home from school to watch the hearings. But my 10-year-old self wasn’t allowed to do that. I had to settle for watching the missed hearings’ highlights on the evening news, from the mouth of Walter Cronkite himself. (That was kinda cool too, actually, now that I think of it.)

To my young political wonk delight, the hearings were still going on after school let out that year. I don’t remember how often they were held, or when exactly they ended. It felt like they proceeded through the whole summer. When the Watergate hearings were being broadcast, they were on the 3 major tv channels we all received. Yup, only 3. If the hearings were being televised, I was in front of the tv watching and taking notes on the living room floor. It did no good for anyone to make me turn the channel, cuz the hearings were on all of them. (I never counted PBS and BYU as real channels, because I don’t remember us watching anything on either one, except BYU football and BYU basketball.)

Every day, Mom would say to me, “It’s summer. It’s a beautiful day. Why aren’t you out on your bike?” I had no answer except to tell her that I was having fun doing what I was doing. And I really was enjoying myself. Kids continually came to the door, asking if I wanted to play. My answer, if a Watergate hearing was on the tube, was always NOPE. What kid watches the Watergate hearings when she could be riding her bike out to the reservoir to bum boat rides? See what a weird child I was? See why my parents could never quite figure me out? Or figure out quite what to do with me? All I knew about my politics habit was that I was fascinated by the dramatics, rituals, and legalities of this thing called politics.

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Have I Ever Mentioned How Much I Love My Mother?

Mom and Skitter entertain the troops.
Mom’s loves to wear earrings and eat KFC coleslaw.
Mom was full of stories and political opinions Saturday.
Mom just had to show Skitter her box of jewelry.
Skitter sits all amazed.
Mom’s got Skitter, a bag of Swedish Fish, and a new phone. Yay!

Wood Bow Tie o’ the Day joined us for a Saturday jaunt to visit Queen Helen of Delta. We loaded up the car with Swedish Fish and KFC coleslaw, two of Mom’s fave edibles. Our mission was to deliver Mom a new-fangled flip phone to replace her old-fangled flip phone which had ceased to do its one job, which is to keep Mom connected to her begats and her pals. She seemed pleased with the new phone because it functions exactly like the one it’s replacing. Mom has made it very clear to me that she does not want a smarter phone because, at nearly 92, she does not want to have to learn one more damn thing (her swear word, not mine). Mom fell in love with the goldfish-in-a-bag earrings I was wearing, and I fell in love with her blue crystal earrings. I don’t recall seeing them before, but they are the color of her dreamy blue eyes. Note to self: Steal Mom’s ice-blue earrings on next visit.

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Two Bigly Topics

Topic #1: Lent. Lent ends today. I failed in my efforts to abstain from junky food—particularly sweets. More than once, I failed. In an effort to be transparent, I’ll repent and write about my indiscretions later.

Topic #2: Mom. My bees-and-honeycomb Tie o’ the Day is pleased to inform y’all that Mom—the Mistress of Dad’s Bee yards for decades—can breathe more easily again, and she’s back safely in her pad at Millard Care and Rehab. She’s glad to be home finally, and hopes she won’t be making a return to the hospital, ever. She says it’s a nice hospital, but she also says NO THANKS to being a patient there again. She prefers her own room at the care center. I vote for that, too.

So Mom is once again where she belongs, and we siblings can again contend with Mom’s stealthy and regular routine of accidentally touching buttons on her phone that shut it off, and then we can’t get in touch with her. That causes us to get on our group text to ask who talked to Mom last and how was she, and which one of us is gonna call the care center to ask some kindly employee to hunt down Mom and turn on her phone, so we can all try to call her at once to make sure she’s in good shape and good spirits, and then we’ll jump back on the group text to update each other about how she is and what she said. We’ll report to each other that Mom’s hanging in there. (It’s 10 o’ clock, do you know where your mother is?)

Mercedes/BT and Ron and I occasionally report and compare the length of our phone conversations with Mom. If she chats with one of us for less than 2 minutes, that means she’s on her way to BINGO or crafts or a musical program some community group has brought into the care center. We’re always happy she’s got new things to see and outside townspeople to converse with. I don’t call Mom as often as Mercedes/BT and Ron check-in with her, because my conversations with Mom tend to be lengthy, no matter what time of the day or night I dial her number. Our conversations go on and on, and on some more. I think Mercedes/BT holds the top ten records for shortest calls with Mom, with some clocking in at around 30 seconds. It’s just one example of how we siblings have our individual styles when we’re each doing the very same thing: calling Mom to check on her. 📞

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Lunch With Mom At The Hospital

Mom is as fragile as she is tough. She’s needed a little extra care the past few days, so she’s been getting some rest at the hospital, next door from Millard Care and Rehab. We kids have all been doing our best to bother her in small doses by spending time with her there, which is just as she seems to like it. She got shrimp with her salad at lunch on this day, and you’d have thought it was Christmas at Rockefeller Center. That’s another bigly lesson Mom has consistently taught us: it doesn’t take much to be happy—if you wanna be happy.

BTW For this visit with Mom, I wore some of my animal-print accessories: pink Bow Tie o’ the Day, brown Sloggers, and orange print face mask (not shown), so Mom would be inspired to reach down into her deep animal instincts to get well and get back to her digs at the care center soon. I threw on my Bernie socks just cuz he’s old and still thriving. Bernie’s always good for a laugh.

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I’m Irritated, But….

So remember that new Ford Maverick truck I ordered on November 30? It still isn’t here. I did get an email from Ford over the weekend, in which they said they’re sorry for the delay and they haven’t forgotten my order. They said they’re still waiting for some parts they need in order to configure the truck precisely to my specifications. And again, Ford apologized for the delay. Blah, blah, blah.

Listen: I believe a vehicle is for getting people from one place to another. I’d rather spend my money for things other than automobiles. I don’t usually have a specific brand or model of vehicle in mind when I’m shopping for a new ride. My Isuzu Hombre is 24 years old, and my Pontiac Vibe will be 15 in a few months. They both still get me where I need to go. But when I saw the Ford Maverick—a true compact truck, built on a car platform for a smoother ride—I fell in love with it. I could buy a different automobile that’s available immediately, but I want a Maverick. I baby my vehicles, so they last forever. It’s entirely possible that my Maverick will last me long enough to be the last vehicle I ever buy—so I want what I want.

It’s been nearly four months since I custom-ordered my truck, and I find myself getting annoyed it’s not here yet. When I get riled up about it, I try to remind myself that in the scheme of things, this “problem” is not much of a problem at all. And then I feel foolish for getting upset about such a minor inconvenience. My old jalopy vehicles still get the job done. I’m no worse off than I was on the morning of November 30th.

It makes me consider the current gas prices. I don’t want to be paying over $4 for a gallon of gas, but gas prices go up, and down, and back again all the time, for all kinds of stupid reasons that only end up making the rich richer. Everything uses fuel, so then the price of everything goes up, too. G-r-r-r-r-! But think about wonders in the world: the pandemic is getting under control; I’ve got somebody who adores me; my feisty mother is still alive; my kids are making their ways successfully through life; and—most importantly—I’m not pregnant or in jail 🤣. Why should I be a Grumpy Bear?

My life is not perfect, it is blessed from all directions. I have always worked hard, and that has further generated blessings for me. Waiting a long time for a new truck and for criminally high gas prices to fall—heck, those aren’t real problems of eternal consequence. They are annoying irritations that come with standing upright on the planet. I recommend we all check our priorities before we spend our days griping around and blowing hot air at every turn. I certainly want my Maverick, and I want to be able to afford to fill it with gas without selling one of my inner organs on the black market. But what I most want—and I bet you do, too—is to not let things which are out of our control fester inside of us to the point of stealing our very real, very important joy in all things fantastic. 🎢 🎡 🏖 Dude, we’re alive!

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A Long Time Ago, In A Far Away Galaxy In 1964…

Well, I’m having a delightful day so far, even though I have mostly busied myself with doing laundry and tidying up the Tie Room. I decided to forego the maple doughnut I was going to buy to celebrate myself this morning. I’m saving my Lent-breaking taste-buds for birthday dessert tonight at dinner with Suzanne. So it’s just been me and Skitter and this polka dot Tie o’ the Day.

Before Suzanne went to work this morning, she sang me a very high-pitched and wobbly version of “Happy Birthday.” It was faux operatic and just the kind of thing which brings me maximum joy. After Suzanne warbled the first couple of lines, Skitter did something she has never done since she’s been living in our home: she howled right along with Suzanne’s singing until the warbling finally ended. It was as if they’d been practicing together for weeks. I so wish I had been recording the hilarious duet. Now, I can heretofore refer to Suzanne’s singing of “Happy Birthday” as howl-inducing. Indeed, before the ditty was over, I was howling along with the song too. I can already see the howl-along becoming a new family birthday tradition.

I called Mom for my birthday, too. I do it every time I officially grow a year older. Today, I thanked her for giving birth to me at 4:10 A.M. on this date, 58 years ago. She was a bit stunned to think her baby is that close to being 60—as am I. I still feel like her baby, no matter how old I get. She told me she was 88. I gently reminded her she’s 91, to which she said, “Helfry! I guess I am old enough to have a baby as old as you.” (This is where I remind y’all that the word “helfry”—pronounced like the word “belfry,” as in “bats in the belfry”—is one of Mom’s cleaned-up, made-up swear words. I had the word tattooed on my back over a decade ago, in her honor.) Mom and I had a lengthy, laughter-filled phone chat, and she seemed to have a lot of pep today. I hope she remembers my call. But if she doesn’t, I’ll remember it for her. I love my tiny Big Helen. She was my first blessing. I’m her old baby, and I’m forever proud to belong to her.❣️

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Ready. Set. Don’t Eat That.

Lent has begun, and I’ve decided to give up sweets and junk food in general. For the next 40* days, I am giving up ice cream, licorice, cereal, birthday cake-flavored Hershey’s kisses, peach gummies, crackers, potato chips, pretzels, and all other junk edibles of this ilk. I am even giving up my Freedent gum, which contains sugar. It is the one and only chewing gum that does not stick to my dentures, and it makes me particularly sad to ignore it. (If I get lonesome for doing some chewing during Lent, I suppose I will have to take up chewing tobacco.🤢)

I am taking this Lenten sacrifice seriously. It will be a true challenge for me because I am more of a snacker or grazer, not a 3-meals-a-day eater. During Lent, my whole food routine must change. If I discover I like the eating change, I suppose I will make it my new normal way of eating. That is something I cannot imagine, but I am big on being reasonable: if the result of my not eating junky food is that I feel better, I will likely follow the logic of it and decide to eat differently for the duration of my life. Right now, the idea that it is best to drop the junky food is only theoretical. I “know” the way I eat could be healthier, but experiencing a more healthy diet firsthand will make it personally clear and logical.

I do not look forward to these 40* days of Lent. It will be tough. I will need distractions. And I’m sure I will ask myself at some point in every day why I’m giving up anything for Lent at all, especially since I am not Catholic. But I like a challenge, and I like the idea of sacrificing something in order to grow as a person—even to treat my own body with more discipline and more respect.

So that’s the plan. But I know it’s possible I might fold tomorrow and eat a bowl of ice cream. The result of that would be a feeling of abject failure, and I do not need to feel like a failure. Ain’t nobody got time for that. I am indeed in charge of my success or failure in this matter. If I don’t succeed in sticking to the challenge for 40* days, it will be completely my fault.

And here’s a secret: I must admit that I am fully aware success in this endeavor will be possible for me to achieve only because Mom doesn’t cook her magnificent treats anymore. If Mom were still creating her yummy confections, I would not have even tried to give up sweets. Such a sacrifice would not have even occurred to me to attempt. I would have been setting myself up for sure failure. But I can do this now that Big Helen has retired from cooking. I think I can. I think I can. 🍧🍨🍦🍰🍭🍬🍫🍿🍩🍪

BTW If you don’t understand why 40 is followed by an asterisk, be sure to read yesterday’s TIE O’ THE DAY post for the explanation.