The First Year

On the way home from work, I stopped at the Hallmark store in the strip mall. I headed straight for the fag section, because it was Cole's birthday. There's not really a fag section, of course, but there should be. I have often fantasized about all the cards I would make for my own card store. My Fag Section would be chockablock with glittery stereotypes and sassy, inappropriate one-liners. I would never want to leave that section. Other sections would include Celebration: "Congratulations on your raise! Maybe now you'll have money for orthodontia." And Relationships: "I hear you broke up - Good. He was an asshole." And the ever-popular Encouragement Section: "You are beautiful - I don't care what your mother says."  The card I chose for Cole was just the right blend of erectile dysfunction and bowel movement humor. Patricia shares Cole's birthday, so for her I selected a greeting that referenced a vibrating bicycle seat. Perfection times two.

Feeling pleased with myself and smug with my purchases, I exited the store. Someone in the distance was ringing a bell for Salvation Army. But what to my wondering eyes did appear? I stopped in my tracks. Feelings of loss and grief passed through me and took my breath away. It was Hickory Farms. The Hickory Farms store appears in the strip mall for two months each year, selling meats, sweets, and cheeses for the holidays. I shopped there nearly every year for Dad for Christmas. Dad is dead this Christmas. Dad is dead. For Christmas.

Others have warned me of this - of those moments that pop up from nowhere and overwhelm you. The aftershocks of the death of loved ones. The First Year is the hardest, they say: the first Father's Day, the first birthday, the first Christmas without him. And there I was, frozen by fear and welling up with tears on the sidewalk staring at a display of summer sausage and smoked cheddar.

To go from the joy of tacky greeting cards to complete grief in 15 seconds is hard to handle. A freefall. I hustled to the Honda before the sobbing started. Dad's dead at Christmas. Dad's dead at Christmas. My brain repeated this. I heard his voice. I saw him laughing in his chair by the fireplace. I saw him pull his pocket knife out and cut away the ribbon of a Christmas package - always the pocket knife. Usually I can shut it off, pull a mental switch, shove emotions away when they become inconvenient. But this time I let them go. I hoped nobody was watching, and I let them go. The First Year feels like it will never end.

Scram Gives Thanks

They call me Scrammie.  Or Scrammers or Scrambler. Dad calls me Noggin cuz he says I have a giant head. I don't know why he would think that.

Maybe I have grown into my head since I'm not starving any more. When they first brought me inside the house, I was very tired and full of medicine and slept so much that my new mom got worried. When the medicine stopped, I started to explore and find my place in the family.

I've lived here 3 months now. I don't remember anything about my life before this place. I get scratched and tickled all the time! At first I wasn't sure they were going to keep me cuz of all the skitters. I had a lot of spooky stuff in my belly, and even though they gave me special food and I put the skitters in the thing they call "litter," it was touch-and-go for a while. My crippled leg doesn't let me squat real good, so sometimes the skitters overshoot the target. But anyway, my leg will be crippled for always, but my skitters are gone. The lady in the lab coat says my leg is broken at the hip and something about my knee being torn in two. She told mom the leg it will heal a little over time, but at the wrong angles. The lady in the lab coat says she could break it again and make it heal right, but mom says since I am not in pain anymore, we should leave it alone. I am okay being gimp. The only problem is that I can't use my crippled leg to scratch my ear. When I try to scratch, my foot just flops around and scratches the air. That makes me crazy. But I can hop real good!!! I am fast when I chase the laser light, and I have real toys.

The other cat, Moby - he's okay. He is 16 and the lady in the lab coat said I am 4 or 5 years old. Anyway, I told Moby I was sorry for giving him some of my fleas. But the fleas are all fixed now. Mostly Moby ignores me but I try to cuddle sometimes.

Moby and I unite together when it comes to food. We scheme to look pathetic so we can get kibble. We like to get kibble any time we can, and we like to leave crumbs all over the kitchen floor. Moby is also helping me learn how to use the fancy little door cut into the big human door that leads to the litter, but I'm kind of scared of it. Mommy took the flappy thing off, so that helps me be brave. Moby is so fat he can barely squeeze through the little hole.

My favorite places to be are either on dad's side of the bed, or on mom's red reading chair. From the red chair, I can look out the high window at the bird feeders and see into the woods and be so thankful that I am safe inside and not out there in survival mode. I am thankful that I get tickled in places I can't scratch and thankful to be skitter-free. I am thankful for mom and dad. It's a season for thanks. I love it here!

Pantry Purge

I boasted to Food Safety Queen Kathleen that I was spending my Saturday cleaning the pantry. "Why bother?" she said. "You never throw expired food away."

I throw food away. Only when it's rotten. Since I don't believe in "expiration dates," it has to be moldy, rancid, soggy, or bug-infested. Regardless, the pantry was a mess. I can't find anything anymore.

I told Marty, "I have always hated theses wire shelves. I feel like they are going to collapse at any moment. I want real shelves, and maybe some drawers." He said, "That will be my Spring project. I'll start now, on Pinterest." I miss the days when home improvement started at the hardware store.

I decided to begin with the top shelf and work my way to the floor. Here was my first problem. I save plastic containers, just in case. Except just in case is never necessary. I save them from restaurant leftovers, Chinese take out, and grocery store deli items. Our city only recycles plastics #1 and #2. Since these are mostly #5, I just keep them. And they multiply. Saying a guilty prayer for the landfill, I tossed almost all of them.

I started grouping foods so I could put them back in an organized way. In doing this, I realized Marty has been collecting fish fry and hush puppy mixes. He bought a small deep fryer 2 years ago, and experimented with fish for a short period. Marty likes culinary experimentation, but when he experiments, although very tasty, it's usually intense and short-lived. Like the winter we ate nothing but paninis from our new panini maker and haven't eaten a panini since. In addition to the fry mixes, were 3 gallons of re-re-reused cooking oil. "Dump them," he advised, marking an overdue end to the fish fry phase.

I threw away 5 additional foods: (1) miniature marshmallows that over time became 1 giant marshmallow, (2) a small bit of crystallized honey, (3,4) rancid graham cracker and Oreo cookie crumbs. These crumbs were crust ingredients from Marty's cheesecake-making phase. They expired in 2008 and 2004; Marty's cheesecake phase expired in 2003. The last item to hit the trash was 15-year old baking soda. It was open, behind the cheesecake crumbs, and clearly forgotten.

I proudly told Kathleen that I thew away a few expired things (but left out that I was simultaneously making vegetable soup with freezer-burned veggies). She would choose starvation over surviving on the contents of my pantry and freezer for all the "food safety violations" therein. She was happy for me, but distracted with her own problem - hosting a slumber party involving children with a combination of food allergies, lactose intolerance, Celiac's disease, and vegetarianism. She was up to her eyeballs in gummy bears and gluten-free funfetti cake (whatever that is), hoping to make it 24 hours without anyone leading a rebellion or going to the emergency room.

Why do we have so many koozies? Do we need 4 kinds of hot sauce? No one should have this many canned beets. (I entertained the thought of making Kathleen a scrumptious beet cake with 15-year old baking soda and decorative miniature marshmallow amalgamations.) I stacked paper cups and plates, organized cans, lined up boxes, admired home preserves and felt satisfied.  Next, I am going to tackle THE FREEZER!

Parker

As a graduate student, I spent my hot Texas summers as a nanny. For nearly 11 hours a day, 5 days a week, I entertained, disciplined and fed two small girls. As much as possible, we spent time in the backyard. There was no yard, really, just a patio and a small pool landscaped with shady crepe myrtle trees. The scene was encircled by a 6-foot white privacy fence. Suburban Dallas is stitched together with never-ending privacy fences.

The girls were 4 and 8 years old, and relished darting between house, patio and pool totally naked, shouting and splashing and having a great time, as children will do. I kept my bathing suit on, and usually preferred dry land with my Michener novel. I enjoyed time with them in the water as well, but the excessive splashing was often a deterrent.

One day, their dad showed up unannounced around 11:30. "Get dressed, girls, I am taking you to lunch!" The girls squealed with delight and ran into the house for their clothes. I spoke to him. "Hey Jim, I am thinking of doing some skinny dipping myself. Do you mind calling when you head home so I can dress?"  He said, "Why don't I just keep them out until at least 1:00. Does that give you enough alone time?" Yes! Yes indeed!

When he backed down the drive with the girls, I locked the house. I took the cordless phone poolside, and locked both gates of the privacy fence. I positioned the chaise lounge in a place that would not be visible if someone were to peek over the gates. My plan was to swim for half the time, and sunbathe until 1:00. What a great plan!

I love to skinny dip. I can count on one hand how many times I have had the opportunity to do this, and it is SUCH a treat. Hallelujah for privacy fences! I stripped out of my bathing suit and dove into the water. It felt so good, engulfing me in the quiet of the backyard, under the blooming crepe myrtle trees and glorious blue sky. I bobbed and drifted from one end of the pool to the other, feeling buoyant and calm. With my eye on the time, I emerged from the water to lie naked under the sun.

The chaise was warm and my wet body began to dry quickly. I closed my eyes and the heat was therapeutic. I could feel the rays on my belly and ribs, my white skin saying, "Is that SUNSHINE? we never see the SUN!" As I relaxed in total silence, lightly dozing, the sun ducked behind a cloud. I waited a brief minute for the sun to reappear, and then I remembered there were no clouds that day. The sky had been perfectly blue. I opened my eyes, blinded by brightness. Still flat on my back, buck naked, I cupped my right hand into a visor and saw with disbelieving eyes what was blocking my rays.

There was a man on the roof of the house. As I squinted up at him, blinking with confusion from under my hand-visor, he said, "Mrs. Scott?"

WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING!!??

"No," was all I could muster. I sat up and wondered where on God's green earth I left my clothes.

He spoke again. "Hi, my name is Parker. I'm here to spray the trees."

WHERE IS MY GODFORSAKEN TOWEL?

"I knocked at the front door, and the gate is locked, so I thought I would spray them from the roof."

BECAUSE THAT IS LOGICAL.

I fumbled with knotting the towel around me. I think I said something like, "Mrs. Scott never mentioned a tree service. Go ahead."

I stumbled into the house, grabbing the cordless on my way, and locked myself in the bathroom hoping to regain some dignity. It didn't work. I will never regain that dignity, but I did find my clothes there. I dialed my friend Lisa, who could not withhold her delight in my predicament as I told her the story from my hiding place on the floor beside the toilet.

Just before 1:00, fully dressed, I meekly exited the bathroom. I tiptoed through the kitchen. I peeked out to the patio. Nobody there. I crossed to the front of the house, and from the window, did not spy a service truck parked on the street. Parker was gone. I unlocked the house, opened the gates, and settled into the chaise with Michener, adrenaline still racing through me. When Jim and the girls returned, the world seemed in its place. The only clue to my lunch hour was my bathing suit, still in a ball on the cement by the diving board.

State Fair

Every year, Patricia and I go to the NC State Fair in Raleigh. We’ve been doing this for a decade or more. We went on Sunday. It was PACKED!  We kept saying “Why aren’t these people in church?” Last year, Sunday morning was great to avoid the crowds - this is the Baptist Bible Belt after all. This year, pews must have been empty state-wide.

It was also 50 degrees. I was in a long-sleeved tee, a thermal pullover and capri pants. Patricia wore jeans over long johns, a long-sleeved tee, a thermal vest, a fleece pullover, wool socks and a hat. Her vest was battery-heated. I didn't know you could buy battery-heated clothes. “Patricia, we are at the fair, not an overnight trek up Everest.” She responded by spitefully snapping her vest on low.

We always follow the same routine. We park about the same place and follow the same route through the attractions. We know where all the best porta-potties are. Porta-potty visits took an extra 5 minutes this year, for Patricia to navigate all her layers and not electrocute herself.

In all our years to the fair, we have never had a deep fried novelty. No Twinkie, Reese’s cup, Snickers, Oreo. This year we decided to try one. How can we claim to be State Fair Buffs without doing this?  As we passed vendor after vendor, we thought about what we would be trying. I know the Twinkies are popular, but I don’t like regular Twinkies, so a deep fried one had no appeal. I knew I would have to select something chocolately, although deep fried melty chocolate also seems gross to me. I picked the deep fried Snickers thinking the peanuts would save me. Patricia chose the Twinkie.

We each passed $5 to the vendor and admired our purchases. They looked the same. They were dusted in powdered sugar and seemed harmless enough. Then I picked it up. It weighed a ton, and tried to slide off the stick because it was so gooey inside. My first bite was cautious, and my mouth filled with fried dough and sugar. YUM. The second bite was like a hot peanut brownie explosion and dough and sugar. Not that great. Not horrible, but not great. My taste buds were processing this hot mess, and I remembered why I don't like hot brownies.

Patricia shrugged her indifference at her Twinkie, and we both agreed that we don't understand the hype behind these fried items. $5 wasted. Leaving a bite or two in the trash, we wiped our mouths and walked off. Before long, I felt the hot snickers low in my belly, coating my duodenum. It was heavy. As though I drank a gallon of paint. And not the lead-free kind. After a swig of water, the belching started. It wasn't the good kind of playful, musical belching, but the deep, slow juicy kind of belching that moves up your gullet like a lava snake and stops in your sternum, requiring two or three serious fist-on-sternum thumps to urge it up and out. Patricia flicked her vest on medium and I wished for one if it aided digestion. Why was she not soaked with sweat?

We headed into the masses in the midway. Some years we ride something spinny-whirly, but not this year. Not the belching Snickers-Twinkie Duo. Instead we sought out Whack-A-Mole. I win every time, and refer to myself as Whack-A-Mole Champion. I love whacking the crap out of mechanical moles with that ridiculous mallet. I never feel badly for crushing the hopes of my adolescent opponents. Life is tough, kids. Let the middle aged people have their small triumphs.

I chose a Minion for my prize (last year I chose Hello Kitty). We stopped by the pottery tent, always wanting to buy more than we do. We watched a demonstration of a hoverboard, and then entered the Education Building. This building is full of vendors and prizewinning preserves and always the people with political stickers. Nooooo thanks. In the corner is the Caramel Apple Lady. Her wares are dipped/rolled in chocolate and nuts and marshmallows and M&Ms and all sorts of accessories. I was glad my urge to barf had passed, because it is a joy to see all the pretty apples and their ridiculous trappings. We made our purchases, and by way of the botanical gardens, returned to Patricia's car. When we got to my house, we both got out, waddling, complaining about our stiff hips after all those hours of walking. We need orthopedic vehicles on days like this, instead of our efficient two-seaters.

Later, I settled down with a paring knife and my "Nutty Buddy" apple. The trip to the fair is not complete until the apple is gone.

My last task of the evening was to box the Minion and address it to Mom. She had visited over Labor Day weekend and asked me to explain what a Minion was and why they are all the rage. We watched Despicable Me and then she understood a little better. It cost me $3 to win the Minion and $4 to ship it, but I think it was worth it.