Every year at Christmas I make peanut brittle and fudge and licorice caramels and sometimes toffee and Yum-yums (a family recipe thing). Occasionally Christmas cookies.
Not this year.
Why? Not sure. Too tired, maybe. Don't need all that sugar and neither do my kids and their kids. Probably.
I suppose if folks want that stuff they can make it.
I am making Yum-yums. And I think that's all. Not sure anyone will notice the difference. We'll see.
What do you think?
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
Saturday, December 20, 2014
Soup’s In
I don’t like green bean casserole. It tastes fake. Cream of
Mushroom soup, I believe, is the—what shall I say?—glue that holds the dish
together. “Possibilities.” Read the word as if you’re singing it, as heard in
a fairly recent Campbell Soup commercial about same dish.
Possibilities because there is so much you can do with Cream
of Mushroom soup. Just go to the Campbell Soup website, which I did, and you’ll
see what I mean. You can make
Beef & Mushroom Dijon
Creamy Vegetables in Pastry
2-Step Garlic Pork Chops
Chicken Fajitas—but tell me why you would use C of M soup in
chicken fajitas
Chicken and Broccoli Alfredo
Chicken and Broccoli Alfredo for a Crowd
Company Buffet Layered Salad, not yet rated, (all recipes
are rated with stars, one to five, but I can’t find out who does the rating)
Swiss Vegetable Medley—a five-star meal—and thirty some
others,not to mention, because they weren’t on the list, the two
casseroles I thought the soup was invented for: Tuna Casserole with Rice and
Tuna Casserole with Noodles.
These are recipes I found by entering Cream of Mushroom soup without
specifying what I wanted to use it with, like beans, peas, eggs, cheese, ham,
pork, etc., which means hundreds of recipes are out there ready for you to dump
your can of soup into.
I have wondered, and long before today, if anyone eats Cream of Mushroom soup. You know,
just as soup. I found no information about that.
Of course, Campbell makes other soups that work well in
recipes—Cream of Celery, my mother-in-law’s tuna casserole soup—Cream of Chicken,
Cream of Chicken with Rice, Cream of Broccoli. Etc., etc., etc. But my guess is
that C of M is the main mixer.
It’s true, I write with some disdain but must confess I have
cooked with C of M soup. In the 1970s and 80s it seemed that was what a mother
did, many a mother. She opened a can of soup, added it to other ingredients, cooked
it or baked it, and set it before her family, who were supposed to be grateful
and glad. Just take a look at the folks in the green bean casserole commercial.
They are happy, delighted, in fact, at the prospect of eating the C of M soup-augmented
beans topped with “savory, crunchy French fried onions.” You may already know that
green bean casserole has become, for some, a Christmas dinner tradition, and I
believe the commercial is designed to help us understand that we don’t have to
wait for Christmas to enjoy this dish of disguised vegetables.
I used to take some pride in declaring I have never made it,
never served it. That’s because someone else made it and served it to me. Once.
But my son asked me to make it not long ago and bring to Thanksgiving dinner.
So I did. He likes it, and I like him. But he now makes it, and I am glad.
I also take pride in declaring my use of C of M soup was minimal by comparison with friends I knew. But, yes, I did make beef Stroganoff and a Swiss Steak or two during the many years when my family gathered for dinner, and I made plenty of tuna casserole. My children—all grown and now eating meals they have prepared and calling me to ask how to get a picky child to eat—delight in telling me they always hated the tuna casserole. So I like to recommend it for their picky eaters. In my defense I say their dad loved tuna casserole, and I made it for him. Also in my defense I say I could remind them they ate plenty of Doritos casserole, which had not only Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom but also Cream of Chicken soup in it. Double whammy.
I know there are other brands of soup, but I mention only Campbell’s because I
remember being warned not to use any other brand of soup, like the brands with
the super market labels. Things just won’t turn out as good, I was told. Pretty
much the same soup, as far as I can tell. Apparently the label makes the
difference.
Speaking of labels, I don’t think we were reading them
carefully in those days. We were less aware and assumed the stuff we bought in
cans was okay to use, okay to eat. Besides, we could afford a can of soup.
Today we’re a label-reading culture, and a quick glance at those soups alarms
us. Mostly it’s the salt. In one ½-cup serving of C of M soup, for example, you
get 870 milligrams of sodium. That’s 2175 per can. Not good. Besides, I think
if you’re actually going to eat a serving of C of M soup—like if you’re really
hungry and it’s all you have in your pantry—you’ll probably eat more than ½ a
cup, so you’ll be salted for the day pretty much.
Campbell Company has heard the outcry for healthier soups.
They now make versions whose labels boast “less sodium.” I note they do not say
“low” sodium, and I see it as a marketing strategy more than a real concern for
our arteries and blood pressure. These “less sodium” soups and Campbell’s “healthy” soups cost more than
their regular soups. Of course.
I don’t cook with soup at all anymore, and I eat canned soup
rarely now. I’m not a child and can live quite happily without the noodles in
the chicken noodle soup, which, I am told, seem to have decreased in number
noticeably over the years. (I don’t like to think of someone counting noodles at
the Campbell Soup cannery. Terrible job.) And I’m not cooking for a big family
anymore, at least not regularly, and when I do cook for them, I try to do it
without a can of soup.
Once in a great while I’ll have some tomato soup from a can,
but not often, and when I’ve opened the can and heated the stuff and had a bowl
of it, I know I won’t want it again for a long, long time.
By the way, I never liked tomato soup cake. Sounds gross,
doesn’t it. I only made it once, about twenty-five years ago, because my best
friend gave me the recipe for it and said the cake was great. I never told her
how I felt about it. We were friends, after all. I wonder if they have a Cream
of Mushroom soup cake. Hope not. Anyway, if you like the sound of tomato soup cake, I can
give you the recipe.
Sunday, November 30, 2014
Pickled Pigs' Feet
Something I haven't thought about for many years. Until a couple of months ago, when I saw jars of same in the "Hispanic" foods section of the market. (Grocery store to you, market to me.)
And so now, of course, I want some. I haven't bought any, because the jars are big. But I'm thinking about it.
It's my dad. He liked pickled pigs' feet, and he said, as he said many times, "Try it. It's good. You'll like it." Or words similar. Often he said, "It's good for you." But I don't know if he could have said that about pigs' feet. Anyway, I tried it, and I liked it.
Not like tongue. Yuck. Still have a hard time with that, not that you could find tongue at any meat counter I've seen lately.
Oysters. I wouldn't dream of eating one then. My mother always said Daddy liked to eat them raw so they could crawl down his throat. Crawl, I think, was the wrong word. Slide would have been more like it. But she said crawl, and it sounded right to me, the little girl who also never dreamed that when she grew up she would like oysters. Raw, even.
I don't know if any of the other kids, my siblings, liked pickled pigs' feet. I mean, it sounds like something you're not supposed to eat--the feet of pigs. And I wonder if they, the feet of pigs, would be as good today as I would want them to be.
Know what I mean?
Oh Daddy. I may have to find out.
And so now, of course, I want some. I haven't bought any, because the jars are big. But I'm thinking about it.
It's my dad. He liked pickled pigs' feet, and he said, as he said many times, "Try it. It's good. You'll like it." Or words similar. Often he said, "It's good for you." But I don't know if he could have said that about pigs' feet. Anyway, I tried it, and I liked it.
Not like tongue. Yuck. Still have a hard time with that, not that you could find tongue at any meat counter I've seen lately.
Oysters. I wouldn't dream of eating one then. My mother always said Daddy liked to eat them raw so they could crawl down his throat. Crawl, I think, was the wrong word. Slide would have been more like it. But she said crawl, and it sounded right to me, the little girl who also never dreamed that when she grew up she would like oysters. Raw, even.
I don't know if any of the other kids, my siblings, liked pickled pigs' feet. I mean, it sounds like something you're not supposed to eat--the feet of pigs. And I wonder if they, the feet of pigs, would be as good today as I would want them to be.
Know what I mean?
Oh Daddy. I may have to find out.
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
It's About Death. Sorry.
In the world of the university there are distances. For instance, there is a notable and noticeable distance between a full professor--one who has been chair of the department, let's say, who is a world recognized scholar on George Eliot, much published and quoted, etc., etc.--and a part-time adjunct instructor. Yes, I taught for more than 15 years, but I was considered part-time all that time. Which tells you which of the two I have mentioned I am.
And while we share the same first name, such a commonality does not shorten the distance between us. Not in academia, as some folks like to call it. Not on your life.
And while formerly I have called the wind The Great Equalizer because of how it makes us all look alike, I now know the truth.
Death is The Great Equalizer. That truth was underscored for me recently.
The full professor has had that unhappy experience now. The one where her husband dies and she is suddenly something she never wanted to be. A widow.
Last Saturday she and I happened to be washing our hands next to each other in the restroom during intermission of the Boise Philharmonic concert.
Me: Hello, Carol.
Carol M: (Surprised, of course. I mean, it's the bathroom after all.) Oh, hello.
Me: How are you? How do you like being a widow? (Yes, I really said that, but the tone of my voice and the look on my face made it a legitimate and not unkind question. Trust me.)
CM: Oh, it's hard.
I have to say that she does not look good.
CM: I think I'm starting to be, to know what to do, or how to just live with it.
It has been 5 1/2 months since Lonnie died. He was 81 and had been ill for a while
Me: Not the way you planned it.
CM: No.
Me: Soon after I became a widow someone told me, "You never get over it."
CM: No. You don't.
By now we were moving out of the restroom. She was behind me.
CM: We were close. (It was like a protest against death and a wish that we could talk about it for another minute--before returning for the rest of the concert.)
Me: (Feeling sad for her. Wishing I could help.) I know you were. (Holding my fingers together) You were like this.
CM: Yes.
Me: Besides, he was fun.
CM: Yes, he was very fun.
See what I mean? No distance between us. Sorry that she is suffering. Sorry.
Fully aware, though, that death often brings people together.
And while we share the same first name, such a commonality does not shorten the distance between us. Not in academia, as some folks like to call it. Not on your life.
And while formerly I have called the wind The Great Equalizer because of how it makes us all look alike, I now know the truth.
Death is The Great Equalizer. That truth was underscored for me recently.
The full professor has had that unhappy experience now. The one where her husband dies and she is suddenly something she never wanted to be. A widow.
Last Saturday she and I happened to be washing our hands next to each other in the restroom during intermission of the Boise Philharmonic concert.
Me: Hello, Carol.
Carol M: (Surprised, of course. I mean, it's the bathroom after all.) Oh, hello.
Me: How are you? How do you like being a widow? (Yes, I really said that, but the tone of my voice and the look on my face made it a legitimate and not unkind question. Trust me.)
CM: Oh, it's hard.
I have to say that she does not look good.
CM: I think I'm starting to be, to know what to do, or how to just live with it.
It has been 5 1/2 months since Lonnie died. He was 81 and had been ill for a while
Me: Not the way you planned it.
CM: No.
Me: Soon after I became a widow someone told me, "You never get over it."
CM: No. You don't.
By now we were moving out of the restroom. She was behind me.
CM: We were close. (It was like a protest against death and a wish that we could talk about it for another minute--before returning for the rest of the concert.)
Me: (Feeling sad for her. Wishing I could help.) I know you were. (Holding my fingers together) You were like this.
CM: Yes.
Me: Besides, he was fun.
CM: Yes, he was very fun.
See what I mean? No distance between us. Sorry that she is suffering. Sorry.
Fully aware, though, that death often brings people together.
Thursday, October 30, 2014
A Good Day
It's Ann's birthday, too. She's not a baby, but she's my baby, my youngest. Born on her grandpa Brimley's birthday. She did see him a few months after her birth, but, of course, she wouldn't remember that.
My mother died a month or so before Ann was born. I always said she saw my mother before she came down, and at that meeting my mother told Ann, "You go down and be a peace maker in that family." Not that we were at war. But any family has its times of conflict and needs peace. I also always thought that Ann did bring a spirit of peace and love to us.
No longer a baby, no longer a child, four children of her own, doing very well at that hard, hard job of being a mother. And it is hard--unless you have a nanny, I guess.
I hope she has a good day, a happy day. And, as much as she loves those kids, a few minutes away from them today would be a good thing for everyone. But I'm not in charge.
Happy, happy birthday Ann.
My mother died a month or so before Ann was born. I always said she saw my mother before she came down, and at that meeting my mother told Ann, "You go down and be a peace maker in that family." Not that we were at war. But any family has its times of conflict and needs peace. I also always thought that Ann did bring a spirit of peace and love to us.
No longer a baby, no longer a child, four children of her own, doing very well at that hard, hard job of being a mother. And it is hard--unless you have a nanny, I guess.
I hope she has a good day, a happy day. And, as much as she loves those kids, a few minutes away from them today would be a good thing for everyone. But I'm not in charge.
Happy, happy birthday Ann.
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
It's just the widow again
Don't you wonder if Wayne has seen his little great granddaughter? I do.
Well, I wonder a lot of things, like where he is and what he is doing. I can't think that he and my parents are just sitting down somewhere.
My brother Sterling says he believes our parents have been resurrected. I simply do not know. Of course, we all want to know, but we don't want to have to die to find out. We all wish one of them would come back and tell us.
I always say, death is the hardest thing, the hardest part of life. Don't be telling me I shouldn't say that. It is just hard.
I have a new friend who is a recent widow, not quite a year. She is grieving. But anyone whose loved one has died is grieving, 11 months or 11 years.
Here I say again, I am not unhappy; I am happy. But I am also sad.
Well, I wonder a lot of things, like where he is and what he is doing. I can't think that he and my parents are just sitting down somewhere.
My brother Sterling says he believes our parents have been resurrected. I simply do not know. Of course, we all want to know, but we don't want to have to die to find out. We all wish one of them would come back and tell us.
I always say, death is the hardest thing, the hardest part of life. Don't be telling me I shouldn't say that. It is just hard.
I have a new friend who is a recent widow, not quite a year. She is grieving. But anyone whose loved one has died is grieving, 11 months or 11 years.
Here I say again, I am not unhappy; I am happy. But I am also sad.
Friday, October 17, 2014
News
I have entered the realm of greatness, ggma. That's me.
Emmy Rae Gilmore, born at noon in Memphis, Tennessee, October 16, 2014, 7lbs 5oz.
I have seen pictures. Beautiful baby. Really. Beautiful mom and dad, Cory and Sean.
Happy.
Emmy Rae Gilmore, born at noon in Memphis, Tennessee, October 16, 2014, 7lbs 5oz.
I have seen pictures. Beautiful baby. Really. Beautiful mom and dad, Cory and Sean.
Happy.
Friday, October 3, 2014
In the Soup
For two days I have been cooking, making butternut squash soup. Yesterday's was a little too spicy, so I made today's without any heat (jalapeno heat). When I serve the soup, like at our next family dinner, I'll mix the two. They will be just right.
I have 10 pints of it in my freezer. It's really good soup.
Not a soup I ever made when my kids were in our home or when Wayne was living, so I don't know if they will like it or if he would have. He liked pumpkin pie. There is a connection, you know.
It's a lot of work to make. The worst part being peeling and cutting into small cubes a large butternut squash. The peeling doesn't seem to want to come off, or/and I need a better peeler.
Today I remembered Costco, and I went there, bought a package of already peeled and cut butternut squash. Oh joy!
Anyway, it's done for this Fall.
Addendum: So Saturday I still had one more big butternut squash. Now I'm finished. Now I have 15 pints. Good for me.
I have 10 pints of it in my freezer. It's really good soup.
Not a soup I ever made when my kids were in our home or when Wayne was living, so I don't know if they will like it or if he would have. He liked pumpkin pie. There is a connection, you know.
It's a lot of work to make. The worst part being peeling and cutting into small cubes a large butternut squash. The peeling doesn't seem to want to come off, or/and I need a better peeler.
Today I remembered Costco, and I went there, bought a package of already peeled and cut butternut squash. Oh joy!
Anyway, it's done for this Fall.
Addendum: So Saturday I still had one more big butternut squash. Now I'm finished. Now I have 15 pints. Good for me.
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
What?!
Yesterday I went to rehearsal for the Boise Choristers. I guess I'll sing with them again. They called and asked me to, although I don't think they need me. Not the point of this post.
After rehearsal a couple of women and I were chatting. One said to me, "I understand your brother died."
After rehearsal a couple of women and I were chatting. One said to me, "I understand your brother died."
A bit startling (that's an understatement; I was stunned
and confused), especially since I tried for two days to call him--without
success. I tried three different numbers. None worked. Even my other brother couldn't get the right number.And one wonders why and how to get the right number.
I had to respond to her, so I stuttered, "I don't think so."
The other woman, no doubt seeing the look on my face, said to me, "Well, you would know."
Not necessarily. But I didn't say it out loud. Didn't want to go into all that.
What I said was, "He had a birthday last Saturday."
The first woman said, "Oh yes. That was what I read about him."
Relief.
I didn't lecture her about the need for careful reading, especially if you're going to tell the news abroad.
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
Up In the Night
Last night, around 3:30 a.m., a fire engine pulled up in front of Pecoras' house and stayed about an hour. Yes, I was awake. Besides, a fire engine is a big, noisy, vehicle, and the firemen left the engine running. This is not the real issue here, except to note that I was up and witness to it.
I saw two firemen go into the house. I do not know what was the matter. I do know that Ken is failing in health, and Shirley is concerned. I do not know if the problem was with the house or with someone in it.
Shirley is in her 80s, a slight, slender woman who is absolutely the strongest, fittest octogenarian I have ever known. She does everything. All yard work--and it's a big yard--all snow shoveling and blowing. And everything inside the house that needs to be done.
She takes her daily walk in the evenings, possibly after she has seen that Ken is in bed. Ken used to do a lot, but he does no more. This year, he has hardly come out of the house.
So, of course, my mind would go to him.
I heard the fire engine leave but did not see if they took Ken with them. I will go over and ask Shirley if all is well. You can't tell by looking at the house, you know.
I'll give her another hour or so.
I saw two firemen go into the house. I do not know what was the matter. I do know that Ken is failing in health, and Shirley is concerned. I do not know if the problem was with the house or with someone in it.
Shirley is in her 80s, a slight, slender woman who is absolutely the strongest, fittest octogenarian I have ever known. She does everything. All yard work--and it's a big yard--all snow shoveling and blowing. And everything inside the house that needs to be done.
She takes her daily walk in the evenings, possibly after she has seen that Ken is in bed. Ken used to do a lot, but he does no more. This year, he has hardly come out of the house.
So, of course, my mind would go to him.
I heard the fire engine leave but did not see if they took Ken with them. I will go over and ask Shirley if all is well. You can't tell by looking at the house, you know.
I'll give her another hour or so.
* * *
I didn't wait an hour.
No one answers the door. I went over and told my neighbor Dave about last night. They and Pecoras have been neighbors many years. He did not see or hear the fire engine. No sirens, of course.
Dave and George were in the Pecora home last Saturday to give Ken a blessing.
After I spoke to Dave, he looked in the garage window. Shirley's car is gone. He looked in the front window. Ken is not lying on the couch. Dave will call the hospital and find out what he can. He will let me know.
I thought last night there will be a funeral soon. But maybe that's just how I think.
I thought last night there will be a funeral soon. But maybe that's just how I think.
* * *
Update:
Ken fell out of bed in the middle of the night. Shirley called the fire department for help. It required three men to lift Ken. The ambulance came last night and took Ken to the ER. He is low on sodium and potassium. They will keep him overnight. Shirley will stay with him.
Sunday update:
Ken has been in ICU, is now in a regular room, is responding well and looking better. So says my neighbor, Dave.
Monday: Ken is now at Elk's Rehab. I will not keep updating.
Sunday update:
Ken has been in ICU, is now in a regular room, is responding well and looking better. So says my neighbor, Dave.
Monday: Ken is now at Elk's Rehab. I will not keep updating.
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
The Silly Widow or Maybe Just Too Sentimental
Every now and then I come across something of Wayne's. Like the Seminary notebook, a seminary teacher's notebook. It's old and of no use. The loose-leaf binder is in perfect condition, but it's red and has words and pictures imprinted on the front to tell what it is. It's of no value to me, and there is no reason I should keep it, but it's very hard for me to throw it away.
Or the other two plain black binders. I don't even know if school kids use binders anymore. These binders won't hold an iPad or even a cell phone, only papers, so probably not.
There are other things. I mean, I know that I have kept certain things, but I forget about them. You know?
Just yesterday I saw again Wayne's pillow. King size. And I have not ever in more than 11 years removed the pillow case to wash it. That's on purpose. I know it's silly to keep it. I don't use the pillow, and I haven't held it up to my nose for years. I suppose you know why I used to put it up to my nose.
I'm pretty sure I'll keep the pillow just as it is. Can't make myself get rid of it.
Or the other two plain black binders. I don't even know if school kids use binders anymore. These binders won't hold an iPad or even a cell phone, only papers, so probably not.
There are other things. I mean, I know that I have kept certain things, but I forget about them. You know?
Just yesterday I saw again Wayne's pillow. King size. And I have not ever in more than 11 years removed the pillow case to wash it. That's on purpose. I know it's silly to keep it. I don't use the pillow, and I haven't held it up to my nose for years. I suppose you know why I used to put it up to my nose.
I'm pretty sure I'll keep the pillow just as it is. Can't make myself get rid of it.
Saturday, September 6, 2014
Here's a Start
I am Alyce Carol Brimley Schiess, and I am a Mormon.
That means I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. But for me being a Mormon means more than the church I attend.
For me, a Mormon is who I am every day.
It also means I am a follower of Jesus Christ. I acknowledge my many imperfections. Still, I say I am a disciple of Jesus Christ, and I strive to treat others with respect and kindness, as Jesus taught.
And again, I am a Mormon, by heritage and by choice.
That means I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. But for me being a Mormon means more than the church I attend.
For me, a Mormon is who I am every day.
It also means I am a follower of Jesus Christ. I acknowledge my many imperfections. Still, I say I am a disciple of Jesus Christ, and I strive to treat others with respect and kindness, as Jesus taught.
And again, I am a Mormon, by heritage and by choice.
Friday, August 29, 2014
In the Greenwood Circle/Monte Vista neighborhood
I walked around my neighborhood this morning, chatted with the guy who has the diesel truck, 1996 Ford. I had thought he had that truck when they built their house, about a year after we built ours. But he said he had a Dodge then, I think. Not important, I know. But I hear his diesel truck in the mornings and thought I had heard it all these twenty-some years.
I am not sure if they had/have two daughters or two daughters and a son. I met their family when they had just moved in. You know, being a friendly neighbor. Twenty years has likely taken any and all of their children out of the house now. I told him I liked his house, the new paint, the colors. He said he has to re-roof, get rid of the cedar shakes and said he'd have to ask the name of my roofer. I told him, Scott Myers.
And I told him I hear his diesel truck in the mornings. Two things I didn't tell him. 1. I don't hear it every morning any more. Maybe he's retired or just doesn't go in to work every day. Or maybe I'm gone or whatever. 2. The sound of the truck does not disturb me. I find it comforting. You know, the comfort we find in things staying the same.
Yesterday a man and a woman were power washing the empty house behind me, and so I wonder: Are they the owners come to make the house suitable for renters? Are they painters? Or are they renting it now, soon to be moving in?
The house next door to that one, the house on the corner, has a new owner, about a year now. I learned this morning that her name is Julie. Apparently, she lives there alone. She has had a sun roof/deck built on the back of the house. I introduced myself to her when she was moving in. Maybe I need to stop by again. Maybe.
And the turquoise and white house has folks in it, as I've mentioned before.
I suppose anyone in a neighborhood like mine would be concerned about who buys into it, who moves in. When I was young, very young, I did not understand such things. I do now. This is a good neighborhood, kind people, helpful. And, as my painters noticed, it's quiet back in here. Who wouldn't want it to stay that way?
I am not sure if they had/have two daughters or two daughters and a son. I met their family when they had just moved in. You know, being a friendly neighbor. Twenty years has likely taken any and all of their children out of the house now. I told him I liked his house, the new paint, the colors. He said he has to re-roof, get rid of the cedar shakes and said he'd have to ask the name of my roofer. I told him, Scott Myers.
And I told him I hear his diesel truck in the mornings. Two things I didn't tell him. 1. I don't hear it every morning any more. Maybe he's retired or just doesn't go in to work every day. Or maybe I'm gone or whatever. 2. The sound of the truck does not disturb me. I find it comforting. You know, the comfort we find in things staying the same.
Yesterday a man and a woman were power washing the empty house behind me, and so I wonder: Are they the owners come to make the house suitable for renters? Are they painters? Or are they renting it now, soon to be moving in?
The house next door to that one, the house on the corner, has a new owner, about a year now. I learned this morning that her name is Julie. Apparently, she lives there alone. She has had a sun roof/deck built on the back of the house. I introduced myself to her when she was moving in. Maybe I need to stop by again. Maybe.
And the turquoise and white house has folks in it, as I've mentioned before.
I suppose anyone in a neighborhood like mine would be concerned about who buys into it, who moves in. When I was young, very young, I did not understand such things. I do now. This is a good neighborhood, kind people, helpful. And, as my painters noticed, it's quiet back in here. Who wouldn't want it to stay that way?
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
Just giving thanks
This is a good house in a good neighborhood.
I mention it because the painters have been here--Friday, Saturday, Monday, Tuesday, which is today, and I hope they can finish today. They have told me they like the house, well Ed did, and they have remarked on how quiet it is back in this little place where I live.
My house looks good. New roof, new paint. Things repaired and kept up. I think Wayne should be proud, if such things matter at all anymore.
I think we're all pretty independent in the neighborhood, and yet I can count on help from at least three of my neighbors. And I know they're honest, good people.
The house is too big for me, say others, and perhaps I might agree, but I own it. And it's a good house.
So far, I'm staying.
I mention it because the painters have been here--Friday, Saturday, Monday, Tuesday, which is today, and I hope they can finish today. They have told me they like the house, well Ed did, and they have remarked on how quiet it is back in this little place where I live.
My house looks good. New roof, new paint. Things repaired and kept up. I think Wayne should be proud, if such things matter at all anymore.
I think we're all pretty independent in the neighborhood, and yet I can count on help from at least three of my neighbors. And I know they're honest, good people.
The house is too big for me, say others, and perhaps I might agree, but I own it. And it's a good house.
So far, I'm staying.
Saturday, August 2, 2014
Out of the past
About a year after Wayne died I bought long-term care insurance. The reason: I was scared, and I knew for sure that anything can happen. I have since wished I did not buy it but haven't had the guts to cancel it.
It provides $100 per day to whoever is caring for me, if and when such care becomes necessary, which I hope is never. So I have been paying a whopping premium every year for 10 years.
The guy who sold it to me was Blaine Grow. The company was GE, but the policy is now held by Genworth Financial.
Last week I got a note from Blaine, and his business card was stuck in the note. But in large handwriting was a note from Carolyn Baum Buttorf, telling me my benefit has increased and explaining how to access that benefit and assuring me that Blaine or she can help if I need. Then she includes a personal note of good wishes to me and my family.
So. She is affiliated with Genworth Financial and/or Blaine.
We knew her--and her husband, Mark--in Caldwell. She is tall and, I suppose, a go-getter. She served a mission and then came home to wait for Mark to finish his mission. I don't know where he served or where he was from or where they met (probably on the mission), but they married and have one son.
She was in choirs I directed, where her alto voice was . . . nevermind.
There.
It provides $100 per day to whoever is caring for me, if and when such care becomes necessary, which I hope is never. So I have been paying a whopping premium every year for 10 years.
The guy who sold it to me was Blaine Grow. The company was GE, but the policy is now held by Genworth Financial.
Last week I got a note from Blaine, and his business card was stuck in the note. But in large handwriting was a note from Carolyn Baum Buttorf, telling me my benefit has increased and explaining how to access that benefit and assuring me that Blaine or she can help if I need. Then she includes a personal note of good wishes to me and my family.
So. She is affiliated with Genworth Financial and/or Blaine.
We knew her--and her husband, Mark--in Caldwell. She is tall and, I suppose, a go-getter. She served a mission and then came home to wait for Mark to finish his mission. I don't know where he served or where he was from or where they met (probably on the mission), but they married and have one son.
She was in choirs I directed, where her alto voice was . . . nevermind.
There.
Friday, July 18, 2014
Wars and Rumors of Wars
The
"separatists" in Ukraine, those who are pro-Russia and want to be
part of Russia and who are being supplied weapons, including anti-aircraft
missiles by Russia, used one of those radar directed missiles to shoot down a Malaysian
airliner yesterday.
It was five miles up, flying from Amsterdam to Kuala Lumpur. It exploded in the air and fell, spreading its parts and body parts of passengers and crew over many miles on the ground. All 298 aboard killed.
And what do we do about it? Nothing so far. I am against doing nothing,
although I don't know what we ought to do.
I suppose there is still a tiny bit of doubt about whether or not they did it, used Russian-supplied missiles. From what I've heard and read, seems clear to me they did it.
Then there's Israel and the Gaza Strip conflict, which is a euphemism for war.
Not to mention Iraq and Afghanistan. Supposedly, the elections in Afghanistan indicate a stable government/country. Suicide bomber there yesterday killed 40.
As I said, wars and rumors of wars.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
Utah Power & Light
My mother owned Utah Power & Light stock. When she died that stock came to us, her five children. I was happy to get it, except for the circumstances, and when the dividends came each quarter, I was grateful. We could use the money.
I don't remember how much money it was, more than $100, I think. We needed whatever it was.
I believe all my siblings sold their stock, but I still have mine. It isn't Utah Power & Light, or Bonneville Power, who bought the company. It isn't PacificCorp, who bought Bonneville Power or Scottish Power, who bought PacificCorp. It is Iberdrola, a company in Spain, who bought Scottish Power.
Each change brought a decrease in the amount of the dividend, and now, because the company is based in Spain, I pay foreign tax. I don't like paying taxes to my own government. How do you think I feel about paying Spain?
And here's the thing, it's good that I don't still have the kind of need for the money that we used to have. Yesterday the second quarter dividend came. I cashed the check today, $7.73.
The bank teller said, "Well, it will buy you lunch."
I said, "Maybe."
So my 60 shares are just about worthless, but I keep it because it was Mama's. And I will keep it until the day comes when I have to pay Iberdrola.
I wonder if that could happen.
I don't remember how much money it was, more than $100, I think. We needed whatever it was.
I believe all my siblings sold their stock, but I still have mine. It isn't Utah Power & Light, or Bonneville Power, who bought the company. It isn't PacificCorp, who bought Bonneville Power or Scottish Power, who bought PacificCorp. It is Iberdrola, a company in Spain, who bought Scottish Power.
Each change brought a decrease in the amount of the dividend, and now, because the company is based in Spain, I pay foreign tax. I don't like paying taxes to my own government. How do you think I feel about paying Spain?
And here's the thing, it's good that I don't still have the kind of need for the money that we used to have. Yesterday the second quarter dividend came. I cashed the check today, $7.73.
The bank teller said, "Well, it will buy you lunch."
I said, "Maybe."
So my 60 shares are just about worthless, but I keep it because it was Mama's. And I will keep it until the day comes when I have to pay Iberdrola.
I wonder if that could happen.
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
A Reminder
We had chickens.There is no egg better than those eggs.
We had goats, which meant most of our children knew how to milk a goat. We drank the milk and made cheese and wonderful ice cream with it.
We raised our own beef a time or three.
We had a big garden. We knew about growing peas and Swiss chard and corn and tomatoes and peppers and melons, and we ate well.
We had fruit trees and a raspberry patch. Homemade jams and syrups.
We had two wood-burning stoves, and my boys know how to chop wood because of it.
These were adventures in living on our own. Yes, it was in the city, but we had a 1/2 acre of land. And that land got used, all right.
Our children can thank their dad for it. And their mom. I hope they never forget it.
We had goats, which meant most of our children knew how to milk a goat. We drank the milk and made cheese and wonderful ice cream with it.
We raised our own beef a time or three.
We had a big garden. We knew about growing peas and Swiss chard and corn and tomatoes and peppers and melons, and we ate well.
We had fruit trees and a raspberry patch. Homemade jams and syrups.
We had two wood-burning stoves, and my boys know how to chop wood because of it.
These were adventures in living on our own. Yes, it was in the city, but we had a 1/2 acre of land. And that land got used, all right.
Our children can thank their dad for it. And their mom. I hope they never forget it.
Friday, July 4, 2014
Family Tradition
Every 4th of July all the Schiesses in Southern California met at Uncle Joe's in the San Fernando Valley. It was a tradition long before I knew Wayne, but after we began dating, I went, too. Joe and Margaret had a pool, which was a big drawing card. Their house was small, but it sat on a lot of land. They had no children--and there's a story behind that. Maybe next time I'll tell it.
Those celebrations were fun. We played in the pool and ate and talked. Maybe somebody played ball. I don't remember. I think there was mostly a lot of sitting. I do remember one 4th that Wayne's good friend Phil Cardon came and brought Ruth Taylor. They later married.
I met Schiess people. Uncle George and Aunt Evelyn and Aunt Katie. Wayne's cousin Ron and his kids. I already knew Orville and Dorothy, because Orville Schiess was my dad's ward clerk. Their kids Pete and Lyle. Bud and Winnie I also knew already and their son John.
After Wayne and I were married we went over. At least once. I was responsible for potato salad for all. I had never made it before, but I had watched my mother make it, so I figured I could do it. I did, but it sure took a long time. I felt a lot of pressure for it to be good. All those women were good cooks.
Those celebrations were fun. We played in the pool and ate and talked. Maybe somebody played ball. I don't remember. I think there was mostly a lot of sitting. I do remember one 4th that Wayne's good friend Phil Cardon came and brought Ruth Taylor. They later married.
I met Schiess people. Uncle George and Aunt Evelyn and Aunt Katie. Wayne's cousin Ron and his kids. I already knew Orville and Dorothy, because Orville Schiess was my dad's ward clerk. Their kids Pete and Lyle. Bud and Winnie I also knew already and their son John.
After Wayne and I were married we went over. At least once. I was responsible for potato salad for all. I had never made it before, but I had watched my mother make it, so I figured I could do it. I did, but it sure took a long time. I felt a lot of pressure for it to be good. All those women were good cooks.
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
David DeCorsi
Such a beautiful young man. Wayne was his seminary teacher, and I was his voice teacher for a while. David lived in Kuna, but now he doesn't live in Idaho. He is in his late fifties by now.
I see his mother most Wednesday mornings in the temple. She is 80-something. I have spoken to her a few times about David, but she doesn't remember that or me. Today I asked her about him, where he lives. She told me and then said, "He called last night. He just found out he has cancer. Again." I felt very bad and told her so.
I inquired about it. The cancer is in his kidneys. I do not know what the prognosis is, but she didn't look or sound very hopeful.
She turned to take a drink from the fountain, and I said, "David is such a beautiful boy."
"How do you know him?" she asked. I told her again that Wayne was his seminary teacher. She looked at my name tag and said, "Oh, yes."
My thought all afternoon was this: I wonder if Wayne knows. He would be sad.
I do not know if he can know, and I do not know if he would be sad, given where he is at this time, seeing a larger picture than I am seeing.
I see his mother most Wednesday mornings in the temple. She is 80-something. I have spoken to her a few times about David, but she doesn't remember that or me. Today I asked her about him, where he lives. She told me and then said, "He called last night. He just found out he has cancer. Again." I felt very bad and told her so.
I inquired about it. The cancer is in his kidneys. I do not know what the prognosis is, but she didn't look or sound very hopeful.
She turned to take a drink from the fountain, and I said, "David is such a beautiful boy."
"How do you know him?" she asked. I told her again that Wayne was his seminary teacher. She looked at my name tag and said, "Oh, yes."
My thought all afternoon was this: I wonder if Wayne knows. He would be sad.
I do not know if he can know, and I do not know if he would be sad, given where he is at this time, seeing a larger picture than I am seeing.
Friday, June 27, 2014
Just the way it is
Yes, it's true. I think about my husband every day. Every day.
Surprised?
Sometimes I just miss him. Yesterday I grumbled at him because I had to grab a big spider with a kleenex and smish it and get it to the toilet. So unpleasant. His job, you know.
Sometimes I'm in tears. Sometimes laughing at some silly thing he said or did. Sometimes remembering things from very long ago, like playing checkers in our little basement apartment in Provo. He would get mad if I beat him. Or how we laughed as we listened to our Bill Cosby record or the Smothers Brothers. Same place. Before children.
Sometimes I think he didn't know what he had. I'm talking about me. And sometimes I think I didn't know what I had. I mean him.
Surprised?
Sometimes I just miss him. Yesterday I grumbled at him because I had to grab a big spider with a kleenex and smish it and get it to the toilet. So unpleasant. His job, you know.
Sometimes I'm in tears. Sometimes laughing at some silly thing he said or did. Sometimes remembering things from very long ago, like playing checkers in our little basement apartment in Provo. He would get mad if I beat him. Or how we laughed as we listened to our Bill Cosby record or the Smothers Brothers. Same place. Before children.
Sometimes I think he didn't know what he had. I'm talking about me. And sometimes I think I didn't know what I had. I mean him.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
To Think About
Yesterday I read this poem to my son. It's one I wrote not long ago. At first, I thought I wouldn't ever show it to him or read it to him. I thought it might offend him or elicit strong denials. It did neither. We talked about it and he made no denial. We said a lot of things. A good conversation.
Of course, a poem is brief, a capsule. Enough said. Here it is.
Of course, a poem is brief, a capsule. Enough said. Here it is.
First Child
Carol Schiess
Fifty-one years old and
not quite over the shock
of learning you were not
the whole world
to your parents.
For two years you were
exactly that. Then
one quiet April day
changed everything for you.
Suddenly, you were
one of two,
now a part of
their world,
a treasured part,
but you did not
seem to know that.
Eventually, you were
one among . . .
only one,
you poor boy,
among seven,
which seven became, yes,
their whole world.
It has been a bitter pill
and I do not know
when
you will actually
swallow all of it.
I try to understand,
my son, my dear son, but
I was never first,
you know.
The fourth child
always has to share.
Thursday, June 19, 2014
Small
Wayne liked prunes.
I like prunes, too.
Everyone knows Sunsweet Prunes are the best.
Wayne said they are not the best. He preferred Del Monte prunes.
Recently I had prunes at Janeen's house. Kirkland prunes (Costco brand) and they were good. I came home and bought prunes at Fred Meyer, their brand. They were very good. Then a week or so ago I bought Sunsweet because they were on sale. I mean, it's prunes. How could they go wrong? I mean, prunes are their business.
But Wayne was right. These Sunsweet prunes are not as good. They're harder, for one thing, and haven't the rich flavor of the others.
So, if I ever finish the box of Sunsweet prunes, I'm going back to Fred Meyer.
I like prunes, too.
Everyone knows Sunsweet Prunes are the best.
Wayne said they are not the best. He preferred Del Monte prunes.
Recently I had prunes at Janeen's house. Kirkland prunes (Costco brand) and they were good. I came home and bought prunes at Fred Meyer, their brand. They were very good. Then a week or so ago I bought Sunsweet because they were on sale. I mean, it's prunes. How could they go wrong? I mean, prunes are their business.
But Wayne was right. These Sunsweet prunes are not as good. They're harder, for one thing, and haven't the rich flavor of the others.
So, if I ever finish the box of Sunsweet prunes, I'm going back to Fred Meyer.
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Just Thinking
The essay I'm working on says, among other things, that we can never really know another person.
My neighbor comes close to putting the lie to that statement. If we had enough time, she would tell me everything. I already know more than I think necessary. But for her it is needful to tell.
I will add that she knows little about me. Really. That's my choice, after all, and underscores the truth of my statement.
We don't know other people, partly because they don't let us.
So there.
My neighbor comes close to putting the lie to that statement. If we had enough time, she would tell me everything. I already know more than I think necessary. But for her it is needful to tell.
I will add that she knows little about me. Really. That's my choice, after all, and underscores the truth of my statement.
We don't know other people, partly because they don't let us.
So there.
Friday, June 6, 2014
The Widow's Morning
Tim was just here. From
Orkin. You know, to spray around the perimeter of the house and keep me bug and
spider free, mostly. Too bad they don't have a snake spray.
Anyway, when I answered
the door I had a handful of blueberries. Tim said, "Oh, blueberries. They're
good for you. My wife eats them all the time. She's a health nut. She makes my
life miserable. She won't let me eat chicken with the skin on."
I said, "Good for
her."
He said, "Blueberries
are . . ." and here he struggled to find the word, couldn't find it, and
finally came up with something like anti-toxic. "They kill the
toxins," he concluded.
I said, "Yes."
Because I couldn't think of the word either.
Tim went about his
business of spraying, and I believe he was thorough. While he was spraying I
thought of the word, anti-oxidant. When he rang the doorbell again to give me
the bill, I said, "It's anti-oxidant." He looked puzzled. "The
blueberries," I said. "They're anti-oxidants."
He still looked puzzled, then said, "They kill the
toxins."
We chatted about the "big slab of concrete" and the marks on the wall near my front door, marks of finch poop. I said, "I've tried to wash it off, but I'm having my house painted." He said, "I used to do that, too." I offered him some blueberries. "No, thanks. I'm good," he said. And "have a nice day."
I had learned something
about Tim last night when he called. Twice he called. First to tell me he was
coming and to ask if I lived on South Greenwood Circle or East Greenwood
Circle, because the address card they gave him showed both. I told him to ignore the
south and east and just turn off Boise Avenue onto Greenwood Circle. And did he
know what time he would be here?
He said he'd figure out
his schedule and call me back in 30 minutes.
An hour and a half later
he called back. He'd be here at 9 and he had lost my address.
So what I learned is that
he is methodical, dependable, and not as quick as some people.
What I learned today is
that he is methodical and dependable and that I like him.
Now, back to the
anti-oxidant blueberries. When I told Tim blueberries are anti-oxidant, I saw
the word spelled in my mind--that's weird, isn't it?--but what I saw was anti-occident, which surprised me and confused me a little, because I knew that was not right. It also made me think of Occidental
College and Occidental Life Insurance Company.
Weird. I wonder how often we see the words we say spelled in our minds.
Well, anyway, my house is sprayed and my bread is baking. So there.
Monday, June 2, 2014
A bit of philosophy, mine, and a memory
Our 52nd anniversary yesterday.
Who ever thinks of being old enough to write such words? I mean, when you're young, you're young and have no reason or context to imagine being old.
I can remember much about being young, and getting old was never part of my daily imaginings. Even if we saw our elders daily, we did not live their lives. Besides, young people are so much wrapped up in their own lives, their own world, that they have a hard time seeing out, if they ever try. I confess that is true of me in my youth.
About yesterday.
I drove home from Utah and had 4 hours and 40 minutes to myself. I listened to a lot of Bach, but even so my head had plenty of time to think, to remember, to wish Wayne were with me. More than once I spoke to him--you know--and wished he were here to clarify the memory of some incident or outing with our children.
Like what exactly we did on the occasion of our picnic the day we drove up to go tubing and found not enough snow. We ended up at a picnic site on the Payette River, bundled up and hooded. Eating was probably secondary to staying warm, but I suppose the kids had a good time.
We took two cars, of course, his little Subaru, I think, and my huge, heavy Chrysler station wagon. We decided to explore two separate areas, so he went one way and I went another.
That's the time we, in my car, nearly plunged over the side and down into the canyon and water below. The road, if you can call it that, came to an end, suddenly. I hit the brakes and held down the pedal, but the car just kept sliding. I never knew what made it finally stop. Just stop. Right at the edge. Or, actually, a little bit over it with one wheel.
Scared. Terrified. I backed up with great care and we met up, drove down to the river, and had our picnic as if nothing had happened. He was in a different car, and I'd like to hear today what he thought about this whole thing.
Fifty-two years hold a lot of memory. Of course, Wayne was here with us for only forty of those years. You knew that.
Who ever thinks of being old enough to write such words? I mean, when you're young, you're young and have no reason or context to imagine being old.
I can remember much about being young, and getting old was never part of my daily imaginings. Even if we saw our elders daily, we did not live their lives. Besides, young people are so much wrapped up in their own lives, their own world, that they have a hard time seeing out, if they ever try. I confess that is true of me in my youth.
About yesterday.
I drove home from Utah and had 4 hours and 40 minutes to myself. I listened to a lot of Bach, but even so my head had plenty of time to think, to remember, to wish Wayne were with me. More than once I spoke to him--you know--and wished he were here to clarify the memory of some incident or outing with our children.
Like what exactly we did on the occasion of our picnic the day we drove up to go tubing and found not enough snow. We ended up at a picnic site on the Payette River, bundled up and hooded. Eating was probably secondary to staying warm, but I suppose the kids had a good time.
We took two cars, of course, his little Subaru, I think, and my huge, heavy Chrysler station wagon. We decided to explore two separate areas, so he went one way and I went another.
That's the time we, in my car, nearly plunged over the side and down into the canyon and water below. The road, if you can call it that, came to an end, suddenly. I hit the brakes and held down the pedal, but the car just kept sliding. I never knew what made it finally stop. Just stop. Right at the edge. Or, actually, a little bit over it with one wheel.
Scared. Terrified. I backed up with great care and we met up, drove down to the river, and had our picnic as if nothing had happened. He was in a different car, and I'd like to hear today what he thought about this whole thing.
Fifty-two years hold a lot of memory. Of course, Wayne was here with us for only forty of those years. You knew that.
Monday, May 26, 2014
Memorial Day
It's Monday. Not really
Memorial Day, but Memorial Day. I guess it doesn't matter, because it is a
man-designated "holiday" in the first place. Holiday means holy day,
you know, and so it seems to me an oxymoron to call a man-decided-upon day holy. I know there are flaws in my thinking here.
By the way, I remember my mother speaking of the day as Decoration Day. That was its name formerly
By the way, I remember my mother speaking of the day as Decoration Day. That was its name formerly
So the actual day is not the thing to focus on. It's a day for
remembering the soldiers (originally Civil War soldiers) who have given up
their lives for this country. It's an easy-to-say phrase: "they gave their
lives." And I think we too often say it with no thought of what it means
or the great sadness that can come from the death of even one person.
Lucile took her roses and
went up to the cemetery and placed the roses on the head stone of our mother
and father. They are both long dead but not soldiers in this country's
military. Perhaps I can call them soldiers in the forever battle of goodness over
whatever its opposite is, or are. Are because there are many forms and faces of
evil and many degrees of it.
Lucile sent a picture of
the grave via cellphone text. What an age we live in. The age of immediacy, of
everything right now, of people not knowing how to be patient or that they
ought to be.
I did not go to Wayne's
grave today, and I do not know if anyone in the family did. I have felt guilty
about it, but it doesn't mean I don't love him.
Saturday, May 24, 2014
Okay, so I'm preaching again
Surely I am not the only person who thinks we ought to write our experiences. Certainly the ones important enough to us that we tell them.
But when I suggest to someone, say my sister or someone like that--who am I kidding? it is my sister--"you should write that," the only response I get is negative. A moan or an excuse or a report of something else that must be done. Like folding laundry or wiping off the kitchen counter (I just made up those excuses, but they
are typical). Like time is too precious to sit for fifteen minutes and write it.
Write it.
It's not that hard.
IT'S NOT THAT HARD.
P.S. It's later now, 9 p.m. Obviously preaching and badgering pay off. My sister has written what I asked her to write, and I have put it in my journal. I do not feel smug about this, but I am satisfied.
But when I suggest to someone, say my sister or someone like that--who am I kidding? it is my sister--"you should write that," the only response I get is negative. A moan or an excuse or a report of something else that must be done. Like folding laundry or wiping off the kitchen counter (I just made up those excuses, but they
are typical). Like time is too precious to sit for fifteen minutes and write it.
Write it.
It's not that hard.
IT'S NOT THAT HARD.
P.S. It's later now, 9 p.m. Obviously preaching and badgering pay off. My sister has written what I asked her to write, and I have put it in my journal. I do not feel smug about this, but I am satisfied.
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Post post
The day has passed. We gathered and ate and talked and laughed. My roast, which I cooked according to about ten recipes (all pretty much the same), did not get done, so I cooked it some more. Then it got done and was really good. What a relief.
Here's who came: Lola, Shane, Patrick, Clayton, Andrew, Aaron, Nick, Paul, Tasha, Caroline. And Wayne in spirit.
Tasha brought lovely baked yellow Yukon potatoes and gluten free brownies. Lola brought a delicious broccoli salad, Shane mussels on the half-shell, Patrick mushroom hors d'oeuvres. Andrew a favorite of his--green bean casserole. And we had trimmings and sauces.
Oh yeah. I had about three dozen rolls--store bought and white, sorry--which I forgot to put out where people would know to grab one. That's kind of normal. But then I remembered, and they got eaten or carried home to someone's house.
And Lola brought ginger snaps and spice drops in honor of her dad.
I cannot remember all the jokes we told. I know there was some piano banging and still quite a bit of running around and up and down in the house, even though the children are growing up. Four legs dangled for a while between the balusters from the upstairs over the side--is that clear?--and there were basement adventures. Those boys entertain Caroline, and she loves them.
We also spoke to our Pennsylvania people, Alyce and Ann.
This reads like a report. And so it is. It seems impolite and unfinished to leave the event unreported upon.
Then there's this. I love my family. I know, I've said it before.
Here's who came: Lola, Shane, Patrick, Clayton, Andrew, Aaron, Nick, Paul, Tasha, Caroline. And Wayne in spirit.
Tasha brought lovely baked yellow Yukon potatoes and gluten free brownies. Lola brought a delicious broccoli salad, Shane mussels on the half-shell, Patrick mushroom hors d'oeuvres. Andrew a favorite of his--green bean casserole. And we had trimmings and sauces.
Oh yeah. I had about three dozen rolls--store bought and white, sorry--which I forgot to put out where people would know to grab one. That's kind of normal. But then I remembered, and they got eaten or carried home to someone's house.
And Lola brought ginger snaps and spice drops in honor of her dad.
I cannot remember all the jokes we told. I know there was some piano banging and still quite a bit of running around and up and down in the house, even though the children are growing up. Four legs dangled for a while between the balusters from the upstairs over the side--is that clear?--and there were basement adventures. Those boys entertain Caroline, and she loves them.
We also spoke to our Pennsylvania people, Alyce and Ann.
This reads like a report. And so it is. It seems impolite and unfinished to leave the event unreported upon.
Then there's this. I love my family. I know, I've said it before.
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Re: May 18, Revised
Wayne's birthday coming up. Sunday. Usually I go out to the cemetery, but not this time. We'll have our family dinner here to celebrate and just be together.
I always liked the day. Always, because it is my brother Sterling's birthday, and I always loved him. But I liked the day better after meeting Wayne.
It's my brother-in-law Eric's birthday, too. (I probably mention Sterling and Eric here every year. Oh well.) It's a happy day. But now, of course, it's touched with that deep sadness and the sense that something is not quite right, someone is missing. And, of course, that's true. The important person is missing.
It's true, what Sarah Westergard told me not long after Wayne died. I didn't know her, though I know her now. Her husband had died a few years earlier, maybe six years. So when we were introduced it was not simply, "Meet my friend Carol Schiess." The big fact of my husband's recent death came along with my name, so that she may not have heard my name to remember it.
Anyway, that's when Sarah said, "You never get over it." Not happy to meet you; not sorry; not anything but "You never get over it."
So we may shed a tear or two Sunday because no one has gotten over it in these 11 years and four months. But we'll also have a happy time together. We'll eat. And we'll talk about him and laugh because, you may know, he was funny.
I always liked the day. Always, because it is my brother Sterling's birthday, and I always loved him. But I liked the day better after meeting Wayne.
It's my brother-in-law Eric's birthday, too. (I probably mention Sterling and Eric here every year. Oh well.) It's a happy day. But now, of course, it's touched with that deep sadness and the sense that something is not quite right, someone is missing. And, of course, that's true. The important person is missing.
It's true, what Sarah Westergard told me not long after Wayne died. I didn't know her, though I know her now. Her husband had died a few years earlier, maybe six years. So when we were introduced it was not simply, "Meet my friend Carol Schiess." The big fact of my husband's recent death came along with my name, so that she may not have heard my name to remember it.
Anyway, that's when Sarah said, "You never get over it." Not happy to meet you; not sorry; not anything but "You never get over it."
So we may shed a tear or two Sunday because no one has gotten over it in these 11 years and four months. But we'll also have a happy time together. We'll eat. And we'll talk about him and laugh because, you may know, he was funny.
Monday, May 12, 2014
Things happen when I go out of town. No kidding.
While I was gone to Utah recently, a GFI (?) switch in the garage popped out. This caused everything electrical in the garage, and also the ground lanterns on the outside of the west garage wall, to stop working.
Such a thing is not good. Worse is that no one knew it happened.
All anyone knew--anyone being Lola--was that something was wrong with the freezer. Tuesday, April 29, she texted me that my old freezer had finally died. And it looked to her like almost everything in it would be lost, unsalvageable.
Distressing news. I could replace the food, and I knew that some of it should be thrown out anyway because of its age, but I began to wonder what a person does with a big upright freezer that is kaputz. When Andrew called a day or two later, he said he thought the garbage guys would pick it up. He would look into that.
Meanwhile, Lola said she would empty the freezer Wednesday night and get the stuff out for the trash pickup Thursday morning. Wow, I thought, that's a big job, and I told her so. She said not so big.
I thought, "Sure saves me from a nasty job when I get home."
I don't quite remember when she told me the fridge in the garage had also stopped working.
Hmmm. Maybe the freezer didn't die. Maybe the power went out.
But when she checked the circuit breakers and found none tripped, we had a real puzzle. How could this be?
I called the sprinkler guy and told him my mower guy had reset the sprinkler controls and I asked if that could cause a power failure. No way. It uses only about 1 amp, he said. He mentioned a GFI switch. Was there one on the outlet where the two appliances were plugged in?
No.
But then I remembered the one on the east wall of the garage. It had popped out once before, mysteriously, and caused a similar problem in the garage. That time I asked my neighbor for help. He headed me toward that switch and all was fixed.
So I told Lola to go across the garage, see if that switch was out and, if so, push it in. She did. It was. And pushing it in fixed everything. I texted Andrew not to worry. Happy ending.
Except that the food in the freezer and the fridge was spoiled. I told Lola to throw it all out or to use her judgment about it. She did and left the now-empty freezer unplugged so all the accumulated ice would thaw.
When I got home, May 3) all I had to do was wipe out the freezer. Now it's like new. And that means empty.
But here's something--and it may be why I write this in the first place. It's about the box of Mrs Cavanaugh's chocolates my mother gave me in 1979, not long before she died, the last thing she gave me in her life. I was never able to eat it or throw it out. I told Lola to throw it out. That would save me having to do the hard thing.
But when I got home I discovered that she had kept it, saved it from its own death.
I hardly knew what to think, but I must admit to feeling some relief when I discovered it. Purely sentimental, maybe silly. But there you go.
Such a thing is not good. Worse is that no one knew it happened.
All anyone knew--anyone being Lola--was that something was wrong with the freezer. Tuesday, April 29, she texted me that my old freezer had finally died. And it looked to her like almost everything in it would be lost, unsalvageable.
Distressing news. I could replace the food, and I knew that some of it should be thrown out anyway because of its age, but I began to wonder what a person does with a big upright freezer that is kaputz. When Andrew called a day or two later, he said he thought the garbage guys would pick it up. He would look into that.
Meanwhile, Lola said she would empty the freezer Wednesday night and get the stuff out for the trash pickup Thursday morning. Wow, I thought, that's a big job, and I told her so. She said not so big.
I thought, "Sure saves me from a nasty job when I get home."
I don't quite remember when she told me the fridge in the garage had also stopped working.
Hmmm. Maybe the freezer didn't die. Maybe the power went out.
But when she checked the circuit breakers and found none tripped, we had a real puzzle. How could this be?
I called the sprinkler guy and told him my mower guy had reset the sprinkler controls and I asked if that could cause a power failure. No way. It uses only about 1 amp, he said. He mentioned a GFI switch. Was there one on the outlet where the two appliances were plugged in?
No.
But then I remembered the one on the east wall of the garage. It had popped out once before, mysteriously, and caused a similar problem in the garage. That time I asked my neighbor for help. He headed me toward that switch and all was fixed.
So I told Lola to go across the garage, see if that switch was out and, if so, push it in. She did. It was. And pushing it in fixed everything. I texted Andrew not to worry. Happy ending.
Except that the food in the freezer and the fridge was spoiled. I told Lola to throw it all out or to use her judgment about it. She did and left the now-empty freezer unplugged so all the accumulated ice would thaw.
When I got home, May 3) all I had to do was wipe out the freezer. Now it's like new. And that means empty.
But here's something--and it may be why I write this in the first place. It's about the box of Mrs Cavanaugh's chocolates my mother gave me in 1979, not long before she died, the last thing she gave me in her life. I was never able to eat it or throw it out. I told Lola to throw it out. That would save me having to do the hard thing.
But when I got home I discovered that she had kept it, saved it from its own death.
I hardly knew what to think, but I must admit to feeling some relief when I discovered it. Purely sentimental, maybe silly. But there you go.
Friday, May 9, 2014
The Story, Part 3
Then there was the missionary (in Alabama) who, with his companion, was driving to a meeting. He saw a woman walking along the sidewalk and felt impressed to stop and speak to her.
But he didn't want to be late to the meeting, so he kept driving.
Another prompting to stop and speak to the woman. So he pulled in to a nearby gas station, got out of the car, and told his companion, "We're going to check the air pressure in our tires until she gets here."
When the woman got to where they were, the missionary said, "Hello, ma'am."
She said, "Don't talk to me. Get away from me." She was shouting, as you might have guessed.
He said, "Have a nice day."
She said, "I don't want to hear that from you. Get away from me."
Back in the car, the companion said something like, "That was useless. Why did you stop and talk to her?"
"I don't know why, except that I was prompted to."
"But it didn't do any good."
"I know, but when I came on my mission I promised the Lord that I would obey every prompting, no matter what, no matter how it turned out. I want the Lord to trust me."
Richard Holzapfel read this account to us from a letter the missionary sent to him, the mission president. Then Brother Holzapfel mentioned a statement by Brigham Young. I think these are the exact words. We need to be righteous, even in the dark.
But he didn't want to be late to the meeting, so he kept driving.
Another prompting to stop and speak to the woman. So he pulled in to a nearby gas station, got out of the car, and told his companion, "We're going to check the air pressure in our tires until she gets here."
When the woman got to where they were, the missionary said, "Hello, ma'am."
She said, "Don't talk to me. Get away from me." She was shouting, as you might have guessed.
He said, "Have a nice day."
She said, "I don't want to hear that from you. Get away from me."
Back in the car, the companion said something like, "That was useless. Why did you stop and talk to her?"
"I don't know why, except that I was prompted to."
"But it didn't do any good."
"I know, but when I came on my mission I promised the Lord that I would obey every prompting, no matter what, no matter how it turned out. I want the Lord to trust me."
Richard Holzapfel read this account to us from a letter the missionary sent to him, the mission president. Then Brother Holzapfel mentioned a statement by Brigham Young. I think these are the exact words. We need to be righteous, even in the dark.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
The Story, Part 2
At this year's Women's Conference, each class had two presenters. Presenting with Richard Holzapfel was Melissa Heath, a recent widow and member of BYU faculty. If you judged her by today's fashion standards, she would fail. Her hair was plain and unstyled, her clothing also plain and well-worn. She was plump. Some might call her a bit dowdy.
But you can't tell by looking. She was a woman with knowledge, experience (she works with children, helping their emotional problems with bibliotherapy--books), and an important message for us. If I worried about her being paired with such a powerful, articulate man, I needn't have. As soon as she opened her mouth I knew she would tell me something worth hearing.
Her message centered on the idea that we must be sure of the information we gather for use in our lives, and we must be sure of the source of information or even what we think is inspiration. Satan is a counterfeiter, she reminded us, but the Holy Ghost is a sure guide.
One story concerned her husband and an eye problem he had. He complained of severe, sharp pains that seemed to come from inside the eye. They became unbearable, so, after a week or two, the Heaths went to an ophthalmologist. Before they went, Melissa decided to look online for information on eye ailments. After a lot of looking, she settled on an ailment that seemed to fit the symptoms her husband described. She was excited to have that knowledge.
Armed with her newly gained information--and obviously dying the share it with the doctor--she accompanied her husband to the eye exam. After the dr asked many questions, most of which she answered for her husband, because, as she said, "He doesn't always get the details right," Melissa spoke up and told the dr she had figured out what was troubling her husband's eye. "I'm sure it's (whatever name she said)." The dr whirled around to face her and asked, "Where did you get that information?" She answered, "From the internet."
"And how much did you pay for that information?" asked the dr.
"Nothing," she responded.
"That is exactly what it is worth."
Turns out, Melissa was wrong in her diagnosis. She did not have enough or the right kind of information. And she didn't know its source.
For what it's worth to you.
But you can't tell by looking. She was a woman with knowledge, experience (she works with children, helping their emotional problems with bibliotherapy--books), and an important message for us. If I worried about her being paired with such a powerful, articulate man, I needn't have. As soon as she opened her mouth I knew she would tell me something worth hearing.
Her message centered on the idea that we must be sure of the information we gather for use in our lives, and we must be sure of the source of information or even what we think is inspiration. Satan is a counterfeiter, she reminded us, but the Holy Ghost is a sure guide.
One story concerned her husband and an eye problem he had. He complained of severe, sharp pains that seemed to come from inside the eye. They became unbearable, so, after a week or two, the Heaths went to an ophthalmologist. Before they went, Melissa decided to look online for information on eye ailments. After a lot of looking, she settled on an ailment that seemed to fit the symptoms her husband described. She was excited to have that knowledge.
Armed with her newly gained information--and obviously dying the share it with the doctor--she accompanied her husband to the eye exam. After the dr asked many questions, most of which she answered for her husband, because, as she said, "He doesn't always get the details right," Melissa spoke up and told the dr she had figured out what was troubling her husband's eye. "I'm sure it's (whatever name she said)." The dr whirled around to face her and asked, "Where did you get that information?" She answered, "From the internet."
"And how much did you pay for that information?" asked the dr.
"Nothing," she responded.
"That is exactly what it is worth."
Turns out, Melissa was wrong in her diagnosis. She did not have enough or the right kind of information. And she didn't know its source.
For what it's worth to you.
Monday, May 5, 2014
The Story, Part 1
Psalm 84:11 For the Lord is a sun and shield: the Lord will give grace and glory. No good thing will he withhold from them that walk uprightly.
This year's theme for BYU Women's Conference
So we heard a lot about grace, something we haven't heard a lot about until recently. Friday morning's class was on the Holy Ghost and Grace.
Richard Holzapfel spoke of the experience he and his wife had recently as he served as mission president of the Birmingham, Alabama mission. In the south, especially Alabama and Mississippi, Mormons are spoken of as "the devil," or, at best, a cult. And they are spoken of in this way often, regularly, from the pulpit and the radio and television.
In 2012, when it became clear that a Mormon--Mitt Romney--would be the Republican candidate for president, those people, who always vote Republican, were more than a little upset. The devil running for president. So Brother Holzapfel and the mission received many inquiries and many other kinds of mail and phone calls, not all good.
I remind you here that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is officially neutral politically. But certainly many Mormons voted for Romney, and the southerners didn't know of the Church's neutral position. And so on.
Richard Holzapfel is a very positive, energetic, and intelligent man. He seems unflappable, and he consistently instructed his missionaries to know the scriptures and to always be kind in their encounters with people. And, by the way, to always say Sir or Ma'am in speaking to the people. That is the custom in the south, and it is iron-clad.
At one point during the political campaign, Brother Holzapfel received an assignment from Salt Lake to appear for an interview on a radio talk show to answer questions about Romney and the Mormon Church and to clarify the Church's position on the matter. The talk show was widely heard, and its very popular host was openly anti-Mormon. They warned Holzapfel that he would no doubt ask "hard" questions.
To me that meant possibly nasty questions.
The interview was to last 30 minutes, but it ended up being two hours long.
The first hour went very well. The smiling host was friendly and polite, seemed genuinely interested in all that Brother Holzapfel was saying in response to his questions. Then they had a five-minute break before continuing. Brother Holzapfel said he could see a change in the face of the host, and he knew that during this next segment the man would not be so friendly. He didn't know exactly what was coming but knew it would be difficult.
The first question was something like this: "Now, President Holzapfel (mission president, remember), be honest. You're an intelligent man. You have a PhD from a well-known university in California; you're a university professor. How can a man like you believe that silly story about those "gold plates" and a young boy translating them?"
I thought: the perfect way to put him on the defense, not a happy place to be. And I wondered what on earth he could say.
But here is his answer. "Well, I have never seen the tablets of stone written upon by the finger of the Lord, but I still believe."
That was it. So simple, so perfect. The man was stunned. No more hard questions. Everything was very cordial and positive after that.
When the Church department that had asked Holzapfel to go on the show called him after the program, they were also stunned. "That was the perfect answer. How did you think of it?"
"It was the Holy Ghost," he said.
The Spirit of God giving grace, the very words to say.
This year's theme for BYU Women's Conference
So we heard a lot about grace, something we haven't heard a lot about until recently. Friday morning's class was on the Holy Ghost and Grace.
Richard Holzapfel spoke of the experience he and his wife had recently as he served as mission president of the Birmingham, Alabama mission. In the south, especially Alabama and Mississippi, Mormons are spoken of as "the devil," or, at best, a cult. And they are spoken of in this way often, regularly, from the pulpit and the radio and television.
In 2012, when it became clear that a Mormon--Mitt Romney--would be the Republican candidate for president, those people, who always vote Republican, were more than a little upset. The devil running for president. So Brother Holzapfel and the mission received many inquiries and many other kinds of mail and phone calls, not all good.
I remind you here that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is officially neutral politically. But certainly many Mormons voted for Romney, and the southerners didn't know of the Church's neutral position. And so on.
Richard Holzapfel is a very positive, energetic, and intelligent man. He seems unflappable, and he consistently instructed his missionaries to know the scriptures and to always be kind in their encounters with people. And, by the way, to always say Sir or Ma'am in speaking to the people. That is the custom in the south, and it is iron-clad.
At one point during the political campaign, Brother Holzapfel received an assignment from Salt Lake to appear for an interview on a radio talk show to answer questions about Romney and the Mormon Church and to clarify the Church's position on the matter. The talk show was widely heard, and its very popular host was openly anti-Mormon. They warned Holzapfel that he would no doubt ask "hard" questions.
To me that meant possibly nasty questions.
The interview was to last 30 minutes, but it ended up being two hours long.
The first hour went very well. The smiling host was friendly and polite, seemed genuinely interested in all that Brother Holzapfel was saying in response to his questions. Then they had a five-minute break before continuing. Brother Holzapfel said he could see a change in the face of the host, and he knew that during this next segment the man would not be so friendly. He didn't know exactly what was coming but knew it would be difficult.
The first question was something like this: "Now, President Holzapfel (mission president, remember), be honest. You're an intelligent man. You have a PhD from a well-known university in California; you're a university professor. How can a man like you believe that silly story about those "gold plates" and a young boy translating them?"
I thought: the perfect way to put him on the defense, not a happy place to be. And I wondered what on earth he could say.
But here is his answer. "Well, I have never seen the tablets of stone written upon by the finger of the Lord, but I still believe."
That was it. So simple, so perfect. The man was stunned. No more hard questions. Everything was very cordial and positive after that.
When the Church department that had asked Holzapfel to go on the show called him after the program, they were also stunned. "That was the perfect answer. How did you think of it?"
"It was the Holy Ghost," he said.
The Spirit of God giving grace, the very words to say.
Saturday, May 3, 2014
He said it's the Holy Ghost
Don't let me forget that when I've had some rest, led the singing in Sacrament meeting, and taught my class tomorrow, I want to write about Melissa Heath and Richard Holzapfel and their class yesterday.
Like you care.
But I do. So I want to remember.
Like you care.
But I do. So I want to remember.
Saturday, April 19, 2014
Just a little thing, right?
Last week I called Prudential, checking on my policy, the death benefit, the beneficiaries, etc. So I needed to update the list of my beneficiaries because only three were listed. The little man sent me a form.
On the form, my name appears as policy holder. The last name is spelled correctly. The beneficiaries listed do not enjoy the luxury of that. I mean, I do not enjoy the luxury of having their names spelled correctly. So I will call again and tell the little guy that a) I'd like to blot out the names and start anew; b) the form does not have enough spaces to include all my children/beneficiaries.
Of course, I'd also like to ask how such a thing happens--you spell my last name correctly and misspell my children's last name. Same name, you know. But I won't ask.
On the form, my name appears as policy holder. The last name is spelled correctly. The beneficiaries listed do not enjoy the luxury of that. I mean, I do not enjoy the luxury of having their names spelled correctly. So I will call again and tell the little guy that a) I'd like to blot out the names and start anew; b) the form does not have enough spaces to include all my children/beneficiaries.
Of course, I'd also like to ask how such a thing happens--you spell my last name correctly and misspell my children's last name. Same name, you know. But I won't ask.
Saturday, April 12, 2014
Part 3
I believe we chose to come
here, be born, live, come to earth. Likely we knew something of our purpose,
maybe something about the people we would live with--maybe--and I'm pretty sure
we knew we would have to be tested. I wonder if we chose our tests. I've never
thought about that part, actually.
If Joyce chose her test,
she must have known she'd have to be strong. Perhaps she knew her family, those
who would love her most, would also need to be strong. Even if she did not
choose her test, what she encountered and endured for the last five years asked
a lot of her. It took from her her knowledge of things and people and all she
had done and been, which was considerable and impressive.
Her test is over. I say she passed, and it seems to me her family also passed. I don't know for sure, because I'm an outsider looking in. But I judge it to be so from what I saw and heard from her children yesterday at her funeral. They were happy, proud of her, proud of their dad and his care of her, relieved that she has been released.
Probably some hard days lie ahead for them, but the happy part is that no one will have to look back with regret.
Hallelujah!
Part 2
My Good Friend
Carol Schiess, 2013
She could play the piano.
She could sing and write,
make a joke, laugh.
She could cry, finish a
sentence,
put her arms around me,
swim, run, hike twenty miles,
walk to a place
and come back.
She could sew, quilt,
call a friend on the phone,
be happy. She could cook,
bottle grape juice, make jam,
grumble at her husband,
do math in her head,
play a game, know
the news of the world,
have an opinion, vote,
drive a car,
speak of her children
by name.
I can see her,
see the two of us
standing at her sink,
cleaning raspberries,
or we are out together
hunting asparagus or
singing for people, or laughing,
talking about our children,
or I'm just listening
as she plays something,
a Brahms Rhapsody perhaps.
But this was before.
I do not know if
she remembers, if she
still has a mind's eye or
what she might see there.
I know there is no
singing in the house,
and her piano is a large
piece of furniture
she no longer sits down to.
This is a different kind
of loneliness--
for her, for everyone
who loves her--
because she is here,
we can see her, stand
next to her--not
like my mother
when she died.
People have told me,
"Your friend is not lonely.
It's just you, your loss.
Really. She's fine,
oblivious, in fact,
living in her own
happy world." But
that cannot be right.
Have they seen her face?
No, this is not about
me. It's about my friend,
what she has lost,
oh, what she has lost.
If it were about me,
I would say how
sad I am, say
I miss her, might
even say I still
miss my mother
after thirty-five years,
but she died
only once.
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