[Here’s a much-requested Valentine repeat post. Enjoy.]
Tie o’ the Day is content to hang in the background, while Mom stars in this morning’s pix. These are evidence of Mom’s alluring ways. Dad was born into a beekeeping family, and bees were his thing. He was crazy for bees from the minute he could toddle. Based on that fact, I have no doubt Dad thought the photo of Mom dressed up in beekeeper attire was the sexiest of these two pictures. Mom does have nice legs though.
Dad’s family lived in Delta. Mom was from Oak City, a small town about 15 miles away. In Oak City, at that time, the kids went to school there until high school, then the Oak City-ites rode the bus to Delta High School every day. Mom and Dad didn’t know each other until that came to pass.
But they had sort of met once before high school. One summer day, Dad and his pals happened to be at the Oak City swimming pool when Mom was there with her friends. Mom was standing by the edge of the pool when Dad walked by and rudely pushed her in.
Mom was ticked off, turned to her gal pals, and said, “Ignernt Delta boys!”
Dad smiled, turned to his friends, and said, “I’m gonna marry that girl.”
Bow Tie o’ the Day and I spent some time at Farmington Health Center this morning. My dermatologist wrote me prescription to get a set of lung x-rays. In trying to diagnose my mysterious skin rash, my doc’s thinking it could be related to a weird thing in one of my lungs that showed up in all the CT scans I had leading up to my pancreas surgery. Based on what I understand from reading the radiologist’s findings about my x-rays today, my lungs appear to be healthy and probably not involved with the rash on my torso. Of course, the dermatologist will have the last word about the whole thing at my next appointment.
In my whole life, I have never had any trouble breathing, that’s for sure. I’ve never had pneumonia, or bronchitis, or asthma, or a collapsed lung. I can huff and puff with the meanest of bigly bad wolves. But based on my half dozen CT scans over the last year, one of my lungs has what looks to be a little patch of scar tissue where the lung is stuck to itself. I’m pretty sure I know where it came from, and I blame Bob Lyman—my kidhood neighbor from across the street. I don’t remember how it all came to pass, but when I was almost 8—and about to be baptized—Bob (who was 10) and I were playing in his backyard. Somehow I had lifted a pack of smokes from a carton in a family member’s fridge, and Bob was determined to assist me in smoking my first cigarette. I wanted to have the experience of smoking at least one cigarette in my life, so I could know what it was like. Moreover, it was very important to me that I smoke it before I was baptized, so the sin of smoking (and stealing) could be cleansed from my soul immediately upon completion of my baptism. I had thought out the whole thing, and I had decided it was a perfectly efficient and reasonable way to proceed with committing this sin.
Anyhoo… Bob found some matches in his garage, and he lit up first—carefully explaining and demonstrating exactly what I should do in order to smoke correctly. I practiced various ways to hold the cigarette in my fingers, and how to pose to look cool while sinning in this manner. Finally, I lit the match, then lit my cigarette—sucking in as hard as I could. I did it, step by step, exactly how Bob instructed me. Except. Except he didn’t tell me to not swallow all the smoke I sucked in. I think I figured you took the smoke in and it effortlessly just kind of made its way out of your mouth and nose while you talked. That’s how it had always looked to me when I observed smokers. Clearly, my powers of observation were not very developed when I was 7.
Well, I started coughing and choking and writhing around on the grass in Bob Lyman’s back yard, while Bob rushed around the corner of the house to get the hose. He turned the water on full-blast. He heroically stuck the hose in my mouth—hellbent on saving my life. I don’t know which felt worse: the smoke or the water. I am convinced this is how I likely scarred up a wee spot on my lung. Heck, it might have been the tip of the hose itself that did the damage to my lung, because I swear Bob stuck that green hose down my throat all the way into my stomach. I remember rolling on the ground for what felt like forever. The coughing and choking gradually lessened as I slowly made my way to the edge of Bob’s front lawn. I told him he didn’t need to follow me home because I had no idea what punishment awaited me, and I didn’t want him pulled into the brouhaha I was certain was going to be coming in my direction. I wanted to be baptized right then and there, but that was not to be. When I felt like I had pulled myself out of the state of discombobulation I had gotten myself into, I slinked across the road to the sidewalk in front of my house. I was trying not to throw up, and I was hoping I didn’t smell as stinky as I knew I did. I was also sopping wet from the hose, which I hoped no one would notice.
I tried to act casual when I opened the front door and nonchalantly strolled in. Dad was in his chair reading The Salt Lake Tribune, and Mom was cooking in the kitchen. I said my howdies to them, then I sprawled out on the living room carpet in front of the television. My head was throbbing and I soon fell asleep, coughing intermittently as I slept, I’m sure. When I woke up a few hours later, I was still oh-so miserable and I told Mom and Dad I was going to bed early. I remember it was still light outside.
Mom and Dad just let me go to my room. No questions, no punishment. Between my ashtray odor, and my coughing, and the grim expression on my face from the moment I came in the house, I have no doubt they pieced together the gist of what I had put myself through. I imagine they figured my transgression had rightly turned against me, and it was punishment enough to make a lasting point. They never said a word to me about that day. My parents knew that in my case, most of the time “less is more” was the best method to effectively parent me. I was a fast learner. My baptism couldn’t come soon enough for me and the soggy cigarette smoke polluting my spritely spirit. 🚬
I tied on a neon-hued Tie o’ the Day to change the furnace filters this afternoon. And after that was done, I sat my butt down at my desk in the loft. My intent was to make my regular call to check on Mom. I am always excited to talk to Mom, especially if I find her to be having an especially clear-ish mind. No matter her state of mind, she remains ever playful and interested in whatever, whatever.
I initially intended to call Mom yesterday, but I found myself unable to go ahead and make the call. And today, the call didn’t happen either. I was paralyzed. You see, I do not exaggerate when I say that almost every time I call Mom, I have to deliver the news of another death of someone significant in her life. At 91, she is outliving so many of her people—friends, family, and close acquaintances. It’s her own fault this is constantly occurring: she made it her life’s mission to know and care about so many people. They, in turn, have cared for her. When I finally call her this time, I must relay the news of two more people passing from her life. She will be the first to tell you that her life has been rich with good folks—so it’s sad when they pass on.
I could choose to not tell Mom about dreadful things at this point in her life, but I wouldn’t want to risk her overhearing snippets of sad news and have it not make sense to her. I’d rather be able to explain the information and answer her questions, sometimes over and over again—even if she will likely forget the news and then need help being reminded about it at a later date. Her best friend, Peggy, passed away around 4 years ago, and Mom will still ask me sometimes about what happened to her “Pegetha.”
As time passes, Mom needs more and more reminding about her own life. With a little help, she can often at least temporarily reconnect with the gist of whatever she’s trying to access in her brain. Still, occasionally—like yesterday and today—I can’t rustle up the soul-strength to make a call to her to deliver not-good news. I can’t rise to the task sometimes. I do always feel incredibly guilty about postponing any phone call to Mom, however. But all I can do about it right now is hope I’m stronger than I was yesterday and today, when I attempt to place the call to Mom again tomorrow. ☎️ 📞 📱
One day last week, we headed to Delta to spend some time with Mom at Millard Care and Rehab. For the trip, I donned my Santa-hatted scottie dog Bow Tie o’ the Day. I wore a Christmas-camo Face Mask o’ the Day as well.
Mom was in fine form while we were there. Her humor remains intact, as does her feistiness. The details of her stories change or sometimes get completely lost, but the gist of each story still comes through loud and clear. She is, as always, a ball of fun and generosity. As Suzanne and Skitter and I were leaving her, we walked Mom to the care center’s beauty shop, so she could get her hair done. I mask-kissed Mom and told her I loved her, and I thanked her for everything. I thanked her for my whole life. As I turned to leave her, she said to me, “You’re a good daughter.” And, like the smart-ass she taught me to be, I said, “Well, I’ve always tried to stay out of jail for you as much as I could.” She winked at me and she thanked me for that. We left each other laugh-crying—just as it should be.
[Yesterday, I re-posted a photo of Mom slicing her cheese bread. I told about the importance of cheese bread at our family holiday meals. Today, here’s a second re-post of the recipe.]
Five red Bow Ties o’ the Day are proud to provide a recipe we think you’ll find tasty. It’s cheesy and bready. Who could find fault with that?
Actually, I really can’t call this a “recipe.” Mom’s recipes ranged from easy-peasy to intricate and near-impossible. This is a simple one. Three ingredients are all you need. You’ll also need an oven.
1 loaf of French bread. 1 stick or 1/2 stick of butter. And one jar of Kraft Old English Spread.
Lay a sheet of foil across a cookie sheet. You do not want to have to clean baked-on cheese off your cookie sheet. Use the foil.
Hand-mix the cheese spread and butter together until it’s creamy. Mom generally uses the whole stick of butter, although I’ve seen her use just half a stick. I always use just the half.
With a bread knife, skin ALL the crust off the French bread. Ditch the crust.
Cover the bottom of the skinned loaf with the cheese/butter spread, then place it on the foil-covered cookie sheet. Continue to cover the sides and top of the loaf with the cheese/butter spread. Spread the spread as evenly as you can. Since the size of French bread loaves vary, you might or might not use the entire amount of spread. Plus, you’ll definitely want to experiment with how thick you like your cheese spread layer to be. If you want a thin layer of the cheese/butter mixture on the entire loaf, you’ll probably have enough to cover two loaves.
Bake for 10-ish minutes, at 350 degrees. Ovens vary, you know. Experiment with how crusty—if at all—you like the top of your cheese bread to be. The more you experiment with the variables, the more cheese bread you’ll “have to” eat.🤤
I recommend you slice the cheese bread (an electric knife works best) while it’s still hot. And put it on the table hot. But it’s still yummy when it has cooled off.
As any good cook knows, even with an easy recipe the taste is in the details. Mom’s excellent cooking was the result of tweaking good recipes to make them better, as well as her knack for timing. Still, she cooked primarily by sight, smell, and taste. Measuring ingredients wasn’t much of a concern to her. She guesstimated a lot. That’s what makes it difficult to pin down her actual recipes.
If someone wanted a recipe, she’d give them one. She’d also invite them to come to the house to watch her make what they were asking about. Her complicated candy-type creations are especially almost impossible to re-create, even if you watched her make it and tried to write everything down. She was always changing the way she did it or adding a new twist or a different ingredient. And, of course, exact measurements were not always Mom’s way.
Oh. About the potato chips and Diet Coke in the photo. Those food staples are for you to snack on while you make the cheese bread. Substitute a bottle of wine for the Diet Coke, if you are so inclined. Chocolate is also allowed.
[This is a re-post from 2019, offered for your re-enjoyment. I’ve had a request for Mom’s cheese bread recipe again. I will re-post her recipe in the next TIE O’ THE DAY installment.]
Entwined hearts Bow Tie o’ the Day is perfect for Mom. I have been told she’s having an extremely tough time missing Dad recently. Even though he’s gone, their love lives. It’s a time/space continuum thing.
This photo was taken almost 20 years ago. I think Mom is in the kitchen at the Palomar. Most likely, this was a Thanksgiving bash. Check out Mom’s attack face. She is darn well gonna conquer those two loaves of cheese bread. And note the oven burns on the back of Mom’s hand. You’ve heard of rug burn. Well, this is cheese bread burn. She burned her hands on the oven coils every time she made cheese bread. Every time, I tell you. Mom never met an oven glove she’d use. She was strictly a dishtowel gal.
In our house, the electric knife was used for cutting only two things: carving turkey and slicing cheese bread. It was basically used only on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. And then the gadget was immediately put back in its little 70’s original box, and into the kitchen cupboard where Mom and Dad kept the checkbook. The knife laid in its skinny box all alone for 362 days a year. Poor thing. I should have put a bow tie in with it for company.
Mom’s cheese bread is a sacred food. Many of you have had the privilege of tasting Mom’s confections over the years, and you know she was an excellent all-around cook. But Mom’s cheese bread was something she made almost exclusively for family holiday dinners. It was a rare gem. And it was the key food item of those dinners. Dinner did not happen without the cheese bread. Kinds of salads changed. Different versions of potatoes joined the basic mashed potatoes. You’d think the turkey would be the star of these feasts, but it was always about the cheese bread.
And it was war. The most desired slices of cheese bread are the ends, where the cheese-to-bread ratio is the highest. If you managed to score one of the ends, it was only because you managed to steal one before someone else stole it.
At some point after dinner, there was what I’ll refer to as The Tri-Annual Battle Over the Tinfoil On Which the Cheese bread Was Cooked. The tinfoil cheese was like the cherry on top. It was like the prize in the cereal box. The foil was covered in baked-on, cheese bread drippings. Dad usually won that war. And then he would sit at the head of the table, picking carmelized blobs of cheese off the tinfoil—obnoxiously, so we couldn’t help but watch it happen. And we drooled through the torture of witnessing him gorge himself on the results of our defeat.
I have made this cheese bread for parties and dinners and potlucks in three states in this U.S. of A., and I can attest to its lusciousness. A couple of enemies became my friends because of this cheese bread. Its power knows no bounds. 🧀 🥖
I finally got to give Mom her birthday hugs, a few days after her actual birthaversary. Mom loves sunflowers, and I was able to find a snazzy Shirt Full o’ Sunflowers to wear for her. It only made sense for me to wear my bees Face Mask o’ the Day with it. In honor of Mom’s fun belief that she is a witch with always-sharpened broom, I donned my flying witches Tie o’ the Day. Mom also liked my pig earrings and my chicken Sloggers shoes, which I chose just for her. She’s such a farm girl.
I managed to find a soft batch of marshmallow Circus Peanuts, which is one of Mom’s fave store-bought treats. We opted to stick a birthday candle in one, so we could sing to Mom. She blew it out like a pro, despite her oxygen difficulties. Of course, she’s had 91 years of practice at blowing out birthday candles.
Mom was more “with it” and energetic than she has been recently. Even Skitter noticed it. Suzanne and I had a wonderful few hours of conversation with the old dame. I was so pleased with Mom’s improvement, and I give credit to the fine cast o’ folks at Millard Care and Rehab. They look out for Mom like she’s family, and it shows.
I often say that Mom was my first blessing, and it is still true. My gratitude for having Mom runneth over—still and always.
Striped Bow Tie o’ the Day and I are aware that growing older can sometimes be jolting. More often than not, growing older means making a series of unanticipated small adjustments. Take closed captioning, for example. You know it’s a service that lives somewhere there in your television’s settings, but you never think about it. You go decades without ever contemplating turning the CC setting to ON. Think about how many televisions you’ve owned in your adult life, and then think about how many of them you turned on the CC for. I’m guessing most of you folks have never used that service. A few of you older ladies and gentlemen might admit that the CC on your current tv gets some use. I certainly never imagined I’d be using CC, but now I freely admit that I always have the CC setting on, and CC it’s on all 3 of our tv’s. It’s a godsend for me. But using it happened sort of by accident. And it’s just another thing in my life that is all Mom’s fault.
A few years ago, each time Mom would stay with us, we noticed we had to consistently crank up the tv volume in order for her to hear what was happening on screen. Adding to the noise pollution in the living room was the fact that Mom and I were always having a conversation over the tv sound. One evening Mom was sitting on the couch and Suzanne and I were siting on the love seat watching who-knows-what on the turned-way-up tv. Mom and I were loudly chatting/yelling up a storm about some relative or other, and I turned to say/yell something to Suzanne. OMGolly! Suzanne’s face was frozen by all the Mom/me/TV noise. She was pale and petrified. She was afraid to move. I quickly diagnosed her problem. I got really close to Suzanne’s ear and calmly said, “Run for the stairs. Go up to the bedroom and close the door. Don’t come down until Mom’s asleep and there is no noise except her snoring.” That’s when I knew something had to be done. Mom wouldn’t consider getting hearing aids. So I found the CC setting, and turned it to ON whenever Mom visited. I still had to yell slightly to talk to Mom, but I didn’t have to out-yell the too-loud tv, so Suzanne’s ears didn’t get injured enough to make her catatonic anymore.
As my own hearing sputtered with age, and after one of Mom’s later visits with us, I left the CC setting to ON for a week or so. I found I liked it. We’ve had it on for years now. Between my hearing aids and the closed captioning, the tv volume is able to be in a normal range. I tell you this long story of CC because—for some unknown reason—for the past two weeks, the CC on my tv is discombobulated on one of its lines. In between working properly, it gives basically the same wrong “translation” over and over, no matter what is said on the tv: “Hmm, 1 des0erate need.” It does it on every channel, no matter what I’m watching. At first, I thought, “Oh, goody! It’s a secret code for me to figure out.” Then it just got annoying.
And so I’m griping. I’m not griping about being old enough to find comfort in the joys of closed captioning. I’m griping that this service I never dreamed I would ever need is not working. I made the adjustment of letting myself come to count on it, and recently I can’t. It gives me a headache to go back and forth between the correctly captioned words and then the stoopid “Hmm, 1 des0erate need.” I’ve had to jack up the tv sound again. I’m sure it’s a temporary thing, and CC will be back to normal soon. But until then, every once in a while, I swear I can hear my own voice in my own head turn very crotchety and spoiled and dramatic, and say, “They need to fix this right this minute. Don’t they realize how many of us old farts depend on CC? This is not fair.” Yeah, cuz malfunctioning closed captioning is the bigliest problem in the whole wide world right now.📺🤓
A funny thing happened on the way to see Mom on her 91st birthday yesterday. Well, I guess it wasn’t a funny thing, and we never really got on our way. The car was packed with birthday stuff and Skitter’s bed, but my stoopid Cranky Hanky Panky decided it wasn’t in the mood to drive 300 miles in one day—not for me, not for Mom, not for any reason. I’ve argued with my stoopid pancreas often over the last two decades, and I can usually talk it into cooperating at least a little bit when it’s truly important. But not yesterday. Nope. I couldn’t wrestle my panky into compliance in any way, shape, or form. I even stooped so low as to promise my Cranky Hanky Panky I wouldn’t make it go through its surgery next month, if it would just be nice enough to lay low so we could visit Mom on her birthday. My stoopid pancreas knew I was lying. So I guess it’s not so stoopid after all. It got all the attention yesterday. And I didn’t get to go to Deltaville for Mom’s bigly day.
I have heard Mom had a bunch of guests drop by. I’ve heard she had a wonderful time. BT/Mercedes sent me this photo of Mom enjoying herself. I’m trying not to feel bad about not getting to be there, but I do. As soon as I can get my stoopid pancreas in gear, I’m taking a second 91st birthday to her.🎂🎈🎁
I have no clue why I felt like wearing my St. Louis wood Bow Tie o’ the Day, but I don’t have time to figure it out right now. Tomorrow is Mom’s 91st birthday, and Miss Tiffany squeezed me into her salon schedule so I could get a fresh hairscut. I wouldn’t want to disappoint Mom, who expects such things of me and my hairs.
