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.
I thought maybe I should shop for a new outfit to wear to visit Mom on her birthday this weekend. My first high-style shopping started exactly where it always does: I consulted with VOGUE magazine. That’s where I discovered this toasty number. You’ll note that the sweater’s neck is so high that I won’t even need to wear a separate Face Mask o’ the Day. When she sees me wearing this, Mom will be surprised only by the fact I’m wearing heels. 👠
Bow Tie o’ the Day and I just returned home from 6 hours of escorting Rowan from his apartment to his dentist, and back to his apartment again. He had his teeth cleaned and 2 cavities filled. It was a long day. As far as I’m concerned, the only thing more mind-numbing than a trip to the dentist is somebody else’s trip to the dentist. I am nearly comatose. But I did want to check in today and say “howdy” to y’all. 😩
Bow Ties o’ the Day send a hearty MERRY BIRTHDAY! to the first-born of the Ron and Helen Wright clan: my sister, Betty. She is more commonly known to her friends and family as BT or Bett. I call her Mercedes. She is not just my blood sibling. We are also linked by a fascination with words and what words can accomplish. We understand their power to elucidate complexities and to inspire change. We share the belief that words are real tools that can be wielded as compassionate embraces or as destructive weaponry. We both read like there’s no tomorrow. We both write. We take notes on everything we see, read, or do. We study as if there’s going to be a quiz. And there is, in fact, a quiz. It’s called life, and it happens every day we’re alive. The words we read and write and say—and the actions the words make happen—will determine if we pass. Mercedes is at the top of her class, as per usual. She aces the bigly test every day.
BTW For those of you who don’t know, Mercedes is the bride in the photo. I’m the wee beast. My Sister Who Wishes To Remain Nameless (SWWTRN) completes our sisters trio.
Nope. Mom never goes anywhere without a housecoat. She still has one hanging here in our front closet, as is probably the case at BT/Mercedes’ and Ron’s homes, too. Her nightgown and housecoat will be here—hanging right where they’ve hung for the last decade—for Mom in case she’s ever able to visit for a sleepover again. She is always welcome here, even though Millard Care and Rehab is the place she needs to be.
In Mom’s nearly 91 years, she has been a part of a slew of amazing stories, which she has never tired of telling us kids about. I’ve been thinking I should share some of the more obscure knee-slappers with you. I was going to start with the tale of what happened one night with Mom, her sister, Rosalie, and Rosalie’s husband, Boyd. But, upon further thought, I’m probably not allowed to tell that one, no matter how amusing it was. So then I decided to tell you the one about the camper Dad built and about the many members of the Delta 2nd Ward who borrowed it. But I’m forbidden from telling you that story, too. So then I decided to tell you the story of how Mom bought a dark, long-haired wig in Provo, just to freak out Dad. But, again, I can’t tell that tale to y’all either, now that I think of it. Nor can I tell you the story of Mom and Dad and the bee yard with an electric fence. That story is not for those readers who are faint of heart or could expire due to excessive laughter—because TIE O’ THE DAY doesn’t carry life insurance for its readers.
I will try to think of some of Mom’s tamer true tales.
Last September, when Mom turned 90, Millard Care and Rehab was on pandemic lockdown, so we celebrated from outside her window. It was not the grand party she deserved, but I think she got the idea that we adore her and are grateful to call her ours. She also got a bazillion birthday cards from family, friends, and a few TIE O’ THE DAY readers she has never met. I thank y’all for that. Well, it’s that time o’ year again—and it’s that pandemic again. The latest news I’ve heard is that the care center is off-limits to visitors, as of a few days ago, because a resident has tested positive for COVID-19. I’m hoping that somehow we’ll be able to see and hug Mom—not just through a window—for her 91st birthday, on September 26. But just in case we’re not allowed in, I’m putting her birthday card and present in the mail. Likewise, if you’d like to send Mom a birthday greeting this week, you know she’d love it. Here’s her address: Helen A. Wright, Millard Care and Rehab, Room #104, Delta, UT 84624
[This is a re-post from 2018. I miss Dad. I miss kissing the top of his head.]
Bow Tie o’ the Day displays a host of animal tracks. And Shirt o’ the Day shows my own style o’ track-makers. We’re both looking ahead to the upcoming Fall critter seasons.
I hail from a hunting-obsessed home. In our house, the first day of the deer hunt was a bigger deal than Christmas morning, and I am not exaggerating. It’s an undisputed fact.
I knew how to reload perfectly weighted bullets at my dad’s bullet press before I had even been baptized. I fished. I killed pheasants, rabbits, and allegedly a deer. But I haven’t been a hunter since I was 16. I have nothing against ethical hunting. It just isn’t in me to do it. The thrill is gone, as they say.
But every Fall brings back amazing memories of trailing behind Dad– mighty hunter extraordinaire– on opening day of the deer hunt. When I see hunters getting themselves ready for their various Fall hunts, I can’t help but think about my Dad’s knowledge of– and enthusiasm for– hunting. I see folks buying orange and/or camo clothing this time of year. I know they’re re-loading bullets or buying ammo. They are target shooting to sight-in their scopes. In fact, I can already hear the “practice” gunshots in the hills above our house. Of course, I can’t see or hear all the hunting preparations going on around me, but it’s enough to just know it’s going on. Just knowing the hunts are happening makes me feel Dad’s presence near me.
When I was a kid, a friend once asked me if Dad was as mean as he looked. I started laughing, and then I started snort-laughing. Dad was a big guy. He had a huge presence. But he was a soft-hearted jokester. And despite his stature, he was a gentle man. And a gentleman.
As an adult, I finally figured out why someone could think Dad was mean. I was once accused of looking mean myself, so I pondered the topic. I stared in the mirror and tried on some different faces until I got back to my regular face, and there it was. I could finally see it. In fact, it was in every face I pulled, to some extent. But it was most prominent in my regular face. My face was Dad’s face, and I saw that we have the same serious-looking forehead lines and the same look-right-through-you eyes. Both characteristics are there in almost every face I can muster. (They are present even in my baby photos. And in his as well.) I see the clenched, focused lines even in my silly faces. When I surveyed a bunch of photos of Dad, even when he smiled, the forehead lines and knowing eyes were there. Those serious, focused forehead lines, together with our x-ray eyes, can be mistaken for meanness at times, I suppose. I don’t see “mean” in our faces. I see “serious” and “focus” and “I know who you are” and some “don’t mess with the people I love” in our faces.
Dad and I probably missed our career callings. If we look so intimidating, we probably should have been bouncers in a bar. Or Beyonce’s bodyguards. Or UFC fighters. Or Mafia enforcers. 🍺 🥊 🔫 We coulda been somebody!
