This day

It's May 18. Wayne would be/is 77 today.
I guess it is terribly inaccurate to say  is. So be it.

I went to the cemetery yesterday, I suppose to get it done. I mean no disrespect, and I do like the spot we chose for him--and me when I die, which I don't want to do, especially because I know how far down that coffin is. But I do not feel his presence there. Perhaps if I stayed for hours I would.

I left a red rose and a rose-colored carnation in a very humble vase. They are in the corner on his headstone.

What is this about?

Just that he is my husband. I have moved on, so to speak, but I am not "over" it, his death. And by now I may be able to accept that he is "better off." That's been a hard one, although that is what people insist and say.

And I do not consider myself single, which means I do not go to the singles dinners and firesides and so on, no matter how often I'm "invited" or "encouraged" to go or told I really should go because they're so much fun and "so and so" always goes. Like that should matter.

One more time: I'm not single. I'm married. He's just not here. Enough said? I suppose so.

Did I mention I miss him?

A Thought

We believe in life. This life, the life before and a life after with the people we love here also loving us there. 

I believe in that. I count on it. And I hear myself say from time to time it had better be true, all of it. That's what I said when Wayne died, pretty sure I said it when my mother died. I want to see them again, and my dad. 

After all, what good is living if it only just ends in nothing?

The Widow's Plea

My daughter Alyce has one child, the miracle baby, Saxby. He is one outstanding guy.

She also has many friends. One of them has established a web site, gofundme.com/BigBrotherSaxby. Its aims are simple: raise money/make Saxby a big brother.

Give the site a look. Donate, if you can.

Thanks,
Alyce's mom

P.S. Today is the wedding anniversary of Saxby's great grandparents, Wilford and Lola Brimley, my mother and father. It would be 83 years.

From me

Children can bring you joy.
They can also break your heart.
Probably you knew that already.

There Is Light in 2015

I'm not sure how to write this. Someone who reads it will think it ridiculous. I can't help that.

It's about the line of nine lanterns along the outer wall of the garage at the front of the house. Between the wall and along the concrete walkway that leads to the front door is a two-foot space. When we first built the house, we had flowers there against that wall. I had zinnias and marigolds and columbine that climbed high on the wall. I liked the color and the evidence the flowers gave that I actually cared about flowers and about the outside of my house. This lasted about three years.

The neighbor across the street had a cat. The cat would come over, dig in the dirt and use my flower area as a toilet. The digging was bad enough, but the smell was awful. I wasn't happy. I sprayed stuff that was supposed to deter animals, and I poured Clorox around the area. Nothing worked. So I gave up on having flowers. Wayne covered the ground with plastic and gravel and installed the lanterns.

It was a good thing, although after the neighbor moved and took the cat with them, I wanted to tear out the lanterns and plant something alive again. But I didn't do it. I got so I counted on the lanterns to come on every night--as the timer bid them to do--and go off in the morning. It was automatic, a nice line of small lights every night. Wayne set the timer. If a light occasionally burned out, I replaced it with the tiny bulbs I bought at Home Depot.

When Wayne died, my first thoughts were not of the lanterns. But I did still count on their light.

I figured out how to set the timer--I'm not helpless. But this summer something happened. I don't know what. The lights stopped coming on. I fiddled with the timer, thought I had it fixed, but no. A time or two the lanterns would come on as they should, but not always. A few times they came on in the morning and went off at night. Not hard to fix, you would think. But over a period of several weeks, nothing seemed to work automatically. I would manually turn the lights on in the evening and off next morning. Sometimes I didn't want to bother with it. So the place was just dark. And I was very frustrated.

Then one night a few weeks ago the lights came on at around 7 o'clock. They went off again at 7 the next morning. A fluke, I thought. I hadn't turned them on or off, and I hadn't touched the timer in more than a week, so I figured it was some little happy accident. Next night at 7, the lights came on, off in the morning. Hmmm. Well, it can't last. But it has. Those lanterns come on every night at 7 and go off every morning at 7. I still check every night, just to make sure, and because I enjoy what seems to me a small miracle. Maybe even a tiny miracle.

And that's the part someone will find ridiculous, but I say, "Think what you want." For my part, I believe Wayne stopped by and fixed the thing. For me he did that. I can get rational and say it couldn't be, not possible, and I certainly don't know how such a thing could happen, but still, I believe it. They were his lights, and I was pretty unhappy that I couldn't make them work. So he fixed them. Why not?

And what will I say if they stop working? I don't know. I'll deal with that if it happens.  In the meantime, I'll tell those Rake-up Boise folks who are coming in two weeks, bless them, not to touch my lanterns.

Humbled Today

We take too much for granted.

I speak for myself. I take too much for granted without pausing to give thanks.

I hereby offer humble thanks for my life, my parents, my health, my family, my home, my church, my Savior, where I live, my country, my heritage, all blessings that are mine that I have never really had to think about because they have been mine.

I give thanks.

And so on

A long time silent here.

That does not mean anything except that I haven't written.

As to my widowly feelings. It's still the pits being a widow. I don't recommend it.

I still love my husband, miss him, would like to see him up there at his sink, shaving, or just lounging in the family room, his chair tipped back, a nice little fire going.

And so on. It's not news.

Our son, Richard Joseph

Joseph for Joseph Fielding Smith.

Today is Richard's birthday. He's 42 today. Oh my goodness.

Richard: good heart, very good heart; bright mind and sharp intellect; artistic and clever; a keeper of the law; a natural teacher; a funny guy; a good father, who loves his children and has high hopes for them; faithful to what he knows and believes; and a good husband.

The memory is a wonderful thing. Just sitting here I can see Richard--hugging the knitted puppy I made for him; skateboarding, with a shock of orange hair; acting in Picnic; crying when his dog got hit by the school bus; practicing the guitar; being a perpetual idealist, no matter what. And so much more.

Richard loves his dad, and I'm sure he misses him. Wherever he is, Richard, he is please with your life and your goodness.

Me, too.

Change is good. I hope.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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 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.

*     *     *

 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. 

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.

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.