Friday, January 30, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
The New Shovel
I had occasion to use my new shovel this morning. We woke to snow on the ground, none falling by the time I got up, 6:20, and not a lot of snow but enough to need removing before I could back the car out at 8:00.
I was not thankful, but, thought I, at least I have a new shovel. I'll make quick work of this snow. I bundled up, put on my gloves, and at
I don’t like the new shovel.
What could be wrong with it? you ask. A shovel is a shovel. Right?
Apparently not. Halfway through the job I leaned it against the garage wall and picked up the old shovel. Even with its torn edge it worked better than the new one. I don't think I imagined it. After all, I was the one pushing the shovels.
Now I have to haul the new shovel over to Lowe’s and ask for my money back. A nuisance. It’s not close, you know. And I’m not sure what I’ll tell them when they ask, “Was there anything wrong with this shovel?”
Monday, January 19, 2009
January
Is it me?
Or is January the longest month?
It has for most of my adult life been the month I feel trapped in, most of my adult life having been here, in Idaho. That means where winter actually happens. Real winter every year is hard on me, a Californian still, where twice in my life we had snow in December, snow that fell for maybe half an hour and melted as it hit the ground. Snow in Santa Monica. It's all we could talk about for a few days.
Here in Idaho winter is real and quite relentlessly annual.
In Boise just now we are all trapped under a dark January cloud; it's called inversion. If you go up to Bogus Basin or some other mountain top, you can be in glorious blue sky. You can look down on the inversion from above it.
But we live down here in the valley. I do.
I know about SAD, Seasonal Affective Disorder, and maybe I have a little of it, because those sunny, blue-sky days cheer me, even if it's cold. I watched the Rose Bowl and loved Pasadena's blue, blue sky. Longing for home? Maybe so.
It isn't the weather entirely, of course, because I am usually free to leave my home, as opposed to being snowbound. It just feels long and cold and like any movement requires much more effort than I can make. Days are short, nights long. Lots of thinking and remembering at night. Lots of feeling stuck. Besides, it's Wayne. He died in January. And I can't help what anyone says about "his time" and "better places" and being happy anyway, which I often am, his death is hard to bear.
Do we have inversions in February? You'd think I would remember, but I don't. Well, even if the weather gets inverted, I'm always glad to get on with the year, so to speak, and move into February. Move away from this month.
Or is January the longest month?
It has for most of my adult life been the month I feel trapped in, most of my adult life having been here, in Idaho. That means where winter actually happens. Real winter every year is hard on me, a Californian still, where twice in my life we had snow in December, snow that fell for maybe half an hour and melted as it hit the ground. Snow in Santa Monica. It's all we could talk about for a few days.
Here in Idaho winter is real and quite relentlessly annual.
In Boise just now we are all trapped under a dark January cloud; it's called inversion. If you go up to Bogus Basin or some other mountain top, you can be in glorious blue sky. You can look down on the inversion from above it.
But we live down here in the valley. I do.
I know about SAD, Seasonal Affective Disorder, and maybe I have a little of it, because those sunny, blue-sky days cheer me, even if it's cold. I watched the Rose Bowl and loved Pasadena's blue, blue sky. Longing for home? Maybe so.
It isn't the weather entirely, of course, because I am usually free to leave my home, as opposed to being snowbound. It just feels long and cold and like any movement requires much more effort than I can make. Days are short, nights long. Lots of thinking and remembering at night. Lots of feeling stuck. Besides, it's Wayne. He died in January. And I can't help what anyone says about "his time" and "better places" and being happy anyway, which I often am, his death is hard to bear.
Do we have inversions in February? You'd think I would remember, but I don't. Well, even if the weather gets inverted, I'm always glad to get on with the year, so to speak, and move into February. Move away from this month.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Six Years
Can't sleep.
Don't know why, really, but I turn off my light and put my head on the pillow and every cell in my body wakes up. It's miserable.
Of course, the longer I lie there awake, the more I think about this day, not that it is what woke me. Nothing woke me; I just could not go to sleep.
But this is the day, the 13th. Six years today. And I wondered if I would write about it, about Wayne. Certainly I do not need or intend to go back and go over it again, even though it still seems--and probably always will seem--wrong that he died. Certainly I cannot write all I have learned in these six years--about him or about me or about death. Who wants to read it anyway?
I've been asking myself this question: How long does grief last? I know the answer. It lasts as long as you live. That is to say it will last as long as I live. I think no one can see that I am still grieving. That's good. And I do not weep through my days. But I think of my husband and miss him every day. That's every day.
I miss knowing he'll be home soon, and his particular, or maybe peculiar, kind of wisdom and good sense will help me, help us all in some way. He was a problem solver.
When he worked at Everest & Jennings Wheelchair Mfg. Company he had an accident at work, cut his fingers, messed one of them up pretty bad, had to go the hospital and have it stitched back together, and when it healed, that one finger was a little bit crooked. I can close my eyes and see his hand.
He never read in bed, by the way. Some people do. He didn't. But he read a lot. National Geographic cover to cover; Reader's Digest the same; books of fiction and non. When we took Newsweek, he read that. When we took a newspaper, he read it front to back. He liked to know things.
There's more, of course, and I don't want to forget, even if I do want to live in the present. Know what I mean?
But here is something about grief: I think it is not always sad. I mean, I miss the fun things about him, how he'd fold together the top of his ear and slip his wedding ring over it, and it would stay. I miss his corny jokes that made me laugh, even if I didn't always want him to see he had made me laugh. He made up jokes, you know, and some were really corny. But they were his. I mean no one else would ever think the way he did or say the things he did.
And I remember those probing questions of his, which he would ask unexpectedly, like How long is a Chinaman? or What's the difference between a duck? And who can forget Does it have nuts in it? Or long ago he might talk about the banana in his ear or challenge any of us by saying, "I bet you can't guess what I have in this bag full of oranges." And when I think about all of that, I chuckle and I feel fine.
I hope you all feel fine and smile as you remember him.
It's after two o'clock. I'm going up to bed now. Maybe I'll sleep.
P.S. I was about to turn off this computer when I saw Ann's new post--about her dad and that night she spent with him, the night before he died. Maybe, when you're frightened because your dad's lying there not looking like your dad and you wonder if he might die, you just don't know what to say. But if you are there and you rub his feet and hold his hand and sing to him and make small talk, it matters to him. He'll probably speak about it when you see him next time. I know it matters to me.
Don't know why, really, but I turn off my light and put my head on the pillow and every cell in my body wakes up. It's miserable.
Of course, the longer I lie there awake, the more I think about this day, not that it is what woke me. Nothing woke me; I just could not go to sleep.
But this is the day, the 13th. Six years today. And I wondered if I would write about it, about Wayne. Certainly I do not need or intend to go back and go over it again, even though it still seems--and probably always will seem--wrong that he died. Certainly I cannot write all I have learned in these six years--about him or about me or about death. Who wants to read it anyway?
I've been asking myself this question: How long does grief last? I know the answer. It lasts as long as you live. That is to say it will last as long as I live. I think no one can see that I am still grieving. That's good. And I do not weep through my days. But I think of my husband and miss him every day. That's every day.
I miss knowing he'll be home soon, and his particular, or maybe peculiar, kind of wisdom and good sense will help me, help us all in some way. He was a problem solver.
When he worked at Everest & Jennings Wheelchair Mfg. Company he had an accident at work, cut his fingers, messed one of them up pretty bad, had to go the hospital and have it stitched back together, and when it healed, that one finger was a little bit crooked. I can close my eyes and see his hand.
He never read in bed, by the way. Some people do. He didn't. But he read a lot. National Geographic cover to cover; Reader's Digest the same; books of fiction and non. When we took Newsweek, he read that. When we took a newspaper, he read it front to back. He liked to know things.
There's more, of course, and I don't want to forget, even if I do want to live in the present. Know what I mean?
But here is something about grief: I think it is not always sad. I mean, I miss the fun things about him, how he'd fold together the top of his ear and slip his wedding ring over it, and it would stay. I miss his corny jokes that made me laugh, even if I didn't always want him to see he had made me laugh. He made up jokes, you know, and some were really corny. But they were his. I mean no one else would ever think the way he did or say the things he did.
And I remember those probing questions of his, which he would ask unexpectedly, like How long is a Chinaman? or What's the difference between a duck? And who can forget Does it have nuts in it? Or long ago he might talk about the banana in his ear or challenge any of us by saying, "I bet you can't guess what I have in this bag full of oranges." And when I think about all of that, I chuckle and I feel fine.
I hope you all feel fine and smile as you remember him.
It's after two o'clock. I'm going up to bed now. Maybe I'll sleep.
P.S. I was about to turn off this computer when I saw Ann's new post--about her dad and that night she spent with him, the night before he died. Maybe, when you're frightened because your dad's lying there not looking like your dad and you wonder if he might die, you just don't know what to say. But if you are there and you rub his feet and hold his hand and sing to him and make small talk, it matters to him. He'll probably speak about it when you see him next time. I know it matters to me.
Monday, January 12, 2009
It's Still Winter
I bought a new snow shovel today, no easy accomplishment. I've been looking since just after Christmas, because we ruined my old shovel on that driveway full of ice. That's the shovel Wayne bought maybe ten years ago. I do not know how long a snow shovel should last, but that was some tough ice. Ask Alyce.
Wayne could make quick work of our driveway and front walkway. It takes me a while longer. Thank goodness for friends and neighbors who have helped me this year, the year of our big snows.
Anyway, no one has had snow shovels. Not Home Depot or Zamzow's or Thriftway Lumber or Fred Meyer or Shopko or Walmart. Nobody. But today I went to Lowe's, and they had just received a shipment. I paid their $20, although I thought the price too much. Supply and demand at work, no doubt.
We have no snow now. But it's only January 12; winter is just getting started; surely it will snow again. Not that I really want more snow. Except I would like to try out my new shovel. Once.
Wayne could make quick work of our driveway and front walkway. It takes me a while longer. Thank goodness for friends and neighbors who have helped me this year, the year of our big snows.
Anyway, no one has had snow shovels. Not Home Depot or Zamzow's or Thriftway Lumber or Fred Meyer or Shopko or Walmart. Nobody. But today I went to Lowe's, and they had just received a shipment. I paid their $20, although I thought the price too much. Supply and demand at work, no doubt.
We have no snow now. But it's only January 12; winter is just getting started; surely it will snow again. Not that I really want more snow. Except I would like to try out my new shovel. Once.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Mother/Daughter
Alyce was here for Christmas. At that time she accused me of having too many clocks and too many calendars.
Too many for what?
I don't buy calendars for myself. I don't have to. They just come to me--two in the writing room (one of those my favorite, the Caroline/Peter calendar), one in the kitchen, one in my bedroom, one in my bathroom, one in the laundry room. Honest, I didn't buy any of them.
The clocks. Well, let's see. This computer has a clock, but I don't think she counted it. Clock in the family room, clock on the microwave and clock on the stove. Clock in the dining room, clock in the entry, clock radio in my bedroom, wall clock in my bedroom, night light clock in my bathroom, clock of sorts in the guest room. Six watches. But she doesn't know about them.
So. She may be right, but I can't help it. I own these clocks already. Should I throw one away? Or five? I don't see why I should.
Does she know how many pens and pencils I have?
Today I heard Carrie Fisher say she embarrasses her daughter, and her mother, Debbie Reynolds, embarrassed her, and Debbie Reynolds' mother embarrassed her. You get the idea. My children--I'm talking about my daughters here--haven't told me yet that I embarrass them, well, not exactly. So I wonder if I do.
I can't think it's embarrassing that I have too many clocks. I mean, who else knows?
They do accuse me of things, like the too many clocks and the too many calendars and the too many storage containers small and large--which I have written of elsewhere--and the too cold house. And they do poke occasional fun at me or remind me of things I said and did that are laughable.
I guess this is simply part of the adulthood of my daughters, to be able to say such things to their mother.
I do not remember this kind of exchange with my mother. I know she disapproved of certain things I did--or thought, or wrote. She told me so. "You don't really think that." And I remember thinking that she wanted me to be just like her, to think the way she did, I mean, and I knew that was never going to be. But I never spoke of that to her. Perhaps my criticisms of her, what few there were, remained unspoken. I could not bear to hurt her feelings. She was just too dear.
Not that these comments of my daughters hurt my feelings. You get it. Right?
Too many for what?
I don't buy calendars for myself. I don't have to. They just come to me--two in the writing room (one of those my favorite, the Caroline/Peter calendar), one in the kitchen, one in my bedroom, one in my bathroom, one in the laundry room. Honest, I didn't buy any of them.
The clocks. Well, let's see. This computer has a clock, but I don't think she counted it. Clock in the family room, clock on the microwave and clock on the stove. Clock in the dining room, clock in the entry, clock radio in my bedroom, wall clock in my bedroom, night light clock in my bathroom, clock of sorts in the guest room. Six watches. But she doesn't know about them.
So. She may be right, but I can't help it. I own these clocks already. Should I throw one away? Or five? I don't see why I should.
Does she know how many pens and pencils I have?
Today I heard Carrie Fisher say she embarrasses her daughter, and her mother, Debbie Reynolds, embarrassed her, and Debbie Reynolds' mother embarrassed her. You get the idea. My children--I'm talking about my daughters here--haven't told me yet that I embarrass them, well, not exactly. So I wonder if I do.
I can't think it's embarrassing that I have too many clocks. I mean, who else knows?
They do accuse me of things, like the too many clocks and the too many calendars and the too many storage containers small and large--which I have written of elsewhere--and the too cold house. And they do poke occasional fun at me or remind me of things I said and did that are laughable.
I guess this is simply part of the adulthood of my daughters, to be able to say such things to their mother.
I do not remember this kind of exchange with my mother. I know she disapproved of certain things I did--or thought, or wrote. She told me so. "You don't really think that." And I remember thinking that she wanted me to be just like her, to think the way she did, I mean, and I knew that was never going to be. But I never spoke of that to her. Perhaps my criticisms of her, what few there were, remained unspoken. I could not bear to hurt her feelings. She was just too dear.
Not that these comments of my daughters hurt my feelings. You get it. Right?
Friday, January 2, 2009
Names
Okay, while we're talking about names . . .
Naming is important, I say. Parents have a responsibility to find the name that fits, and they hope the child will like it. We wondered if Lola would like her name. She does. I saw Ann; she seemed too petite for two names, so we just called her Ann. That made her our only child without a middle name, and it also made her mad for a while, but I think she got over it. Andrew has never liked his middle name, Harold, but it was for Harold B Lee and seemed to have stature.
Here are our names.
I am Alyce Carol Brimley. Alyce for my aunt Alice, but my mother spelled it her own way. I am known as Carol. BTW, my sister Janeen is Donna Janeen, Bill is Anthony Wilford, Sterling is Sterling Nelson, and Lucile is Mary Lucile. My parents are Wilford Charles and Lola Samantha Nelson Brimley.
I married Wayne Gordon Schiess. His parents are Charles Golden and Doris Averil Corkum Schiess, his sister is Kate Ellen.
Wayne and I have seven children. They are:
Wayne Charles
Paul Brian
Lola Janeen
Andrew Harold
Richard Joseph
Alyce Lucile
Ann
Here are our grandchildren, and I'm going from memory. Let's see how I do.
Wayne married Paula. Their children: Sarah Jean, Cory Suzanne, and Anna Rae. After their divorce, he married Kimberli Jensen. Their children: Davis Wayne, Noah Stewart, and Logan Cage.
Paul married Natasha Marie Haus. Their children: Peter Golden and Caroline Marie.
Lola married Jeffrey Lynn Scaggs. Their children: Shane Anthony, Patrick Andrew, Bryan Jeffrey, and Clayton Oliver.
Andrew married Michelle Lea Boley. Their children: Jacob Andrew, Aaron Joseph, and Nicholas Paul.
Richard married Sarah Michelle Derbowka. Their children: Penelope Jane and Sarah's daughters, Jasmyne Dawn Carol Bahr and Lena Mekare Bahr. (I had to look up Sarah's girls' middle names.) Richard and Sarah are currently "discussing" a name for the child to be born in June. Update: boy, Axel Brimley Schiess, born June 18, 2009.
Alyce will marry Benjamin Craig Larsen May 1, 2009. Correct me if I'm wrong here about his name.
Ann married Jeremy Darrell Darrington. Their children: Charles Xavier and John Fitzwilliam.
Naming is important, I say. Parents have a responsibility to find the name that fits, and they hope the child will like it. We wondered if Lola would like her name. She does. I saw Ann; she seemed too petite for two names, so we just called her Ann. That made her our only child without a middle name, and it also made her mad for a while, but I think she got over it. Andrew has never liked his middle name, Harold, but it was for Harold B Lee and seemed to have stature.
Here are our names.
I am Alyce Carol Brimley. Alyce for my aunt Alice, but my mother spelled it her own way. I am known as Carol. BTW, my sister Janeen is Donna Janeen, Bill is Anthony Wilford, Sterling is Sterling Nelson, and Lucile is Mary Lucile. My parents are Wilford Charles and Lola Samantha Nelson Brimley.
I married Wayne Gordon Schiess. His parents are Charles Golden and Doris Averil Corkum Schiess, his sister is Kate Ellen.
Wayne and I have seven children. They are:
Wayne Charles
Paul Brian
Lola Janeen
Andrew Harold
Richard Joseph
Alyce Lucile
Ann
Here are our grandchildren, and I'm going from memory. Let's see how I do.
Wayne married Paula. Their children: Sarah Jean, Cory Suzanne, and Anna Rae. After their divorce, he married Kimberli Jensen. Their children: Davis Wayne, Noah Stewart, and Logan Cage.
Paul married Natasha Marie Haus. Their children: Peter Golden and Caroline Marie.
Lola married Jeffrey Lynn Scaggs. Their children: Shane Anthony, Patrick Andrew, Bryan Jeffrey, and Clayton Oliver.
Andrew married Michelle Lea Boley. Their children: Jacob Andrew, Aaron Joseph, and Nicholas Paul.
Richard married Sarah Michelle Derbowka. Their children: Penelope Jane and Sarah's daughters, Jasmyne Dawn Carol Bahr and Lena Mekare Bahr. (I had to look up Sarah's girls' middle names.) Richard and Sarah are currently "discussing" a name for the child to be born in June. Update: boy, Axel Brimley Schiess, born June 18, 2009.
Alyce will marry Benjamin Craig Larsen May 1, 2009. Correct me if I'm wrong here about his name.
Ann married Jeremy Darrell Darrington. Their children: Charles Xavier and John Fitzwilliam.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
