Got up early yesterday. Vacuumed, tidied the kitchen, mowed the lawn. I made dinner for Dave who is suffering from L4 and 5 lumbar indignities. I picked Helen up from work. Together Helen and I went to a prison to share in a Friday Night Worship Service known as "Revival". The campus is large and requires a quarter mile walk to and from the building where the service is held.
The service was energizing and uplifting. Approximately 250 men in attendance. We chatted as we walked back to get our ID's and return to our cars. I drove Helen to her home. I pulled into our driveway and entered home.
Dave and I exchanged stories of how our evening went. I helped put the house in order for night time. I closed windows, lowered blinds, locked doors and set the alarm. Jamas, teeth brushed, pills taken. Read a little of my electronic book. Fell sound asleep after only a page or two.
Morning came. And, then . . I was very old. Joints creak, eyelids are heavy, there are things to be done. Perhaps they can wait until tomorrow?
A basket of gloves for the family. Notification of new blogs obtained when you sign up at the right.
Saturday, May 23, 2015
Friday, May 22, 2015
You See . . . It Was Memorial Day.
When I was very young, my family would pack into an automobile and travel to River Falls WI or to Medford MN. It was a long trip for us, 5 siblings, 2 parents, and picnic baskets and blankets and dishes also shovels and rakes. I only remember a few years when Dad was the driver. Often the trips were taken with Uncle Jim and Aunt Augusta or Uncle Doug and Aunt Millie. Sometimes, Auntie Evalyn rode with us to River Falls. It was a full car. There were no seat belts, and people "stacked" to get everyone in. If the weather was cold we were all very warm. If the weather was hot, we rolled down all the windows and were buffeted by the wind and still very hot.
There was no bickering. It wasn't allowed. There was some poking, pinching, tickling and squirming, but not much because that might lead to bickering and that was not allowed. I know I often slept most of the way in the safest place there could be -- on my mother's lap.
Once we were at the destination, we were terribly grateful to pile out of the car. Those at the bottom of the stacks took longer to stand up and walk because their legs were asleep. There was much giggling as wobbly limbs tried to unfold and come back to life. The men, Dad, Uncle, and my brother would unload the car where the ladies, Mom, Aunt and eldest sister, Dorothy directed.
The women put on hats for shade and began pulling weeds, raking away winter dried grass and leaves. They moved from spot to spot. There was some tsking over the condition of the place and a few tears shed here and there. The younger kids were allowed to move pretty freely in play being warned to "watch where you put your feet". The older kids were busy spreading blankets, laying out the dishes and taking the jars we brought along to the pump to get water.
The men chatted quietly in the shade until the women were done. Then the men walked carefully along looking for "repair work" needed. The shovels were put to use digging up some sod here and there, maybe straightening a stone. Sometimes it was actually necessary to level the ground and replace a stone that had turned over. In that case a couple of the more muscled women would pitch in and help. The baskets of food had been in the trunk of the car, but the precious baskets of flowers were on someone's lap for the whole trip. Now they were brought from where they had been staying fresh in the shade. Plants were carefully divided, spread evenly around and water was brought in pails from the pump.
We all came together and washed up. I was always careful to wash really good at the pump to avoid Mom, any of my sisters or one of my aunts giving me a spit bath. If you've never had one you don't know what you missed and that's a good thing. One of those ladies with eyesight of an eagle would spot something I missed and grab a handkerchief from a pocket, spit on it and commence scrubbing. I would have struggled, but the first move on their part was to grab me by my chin and hang on for dear life. There was no escape.
The picnic was festive. We enjoyed the view, ate chicken or sandwiches, had salads and even some early berries, and dessert. There was always much to choose from in the dessert baskets. Cake, pie, cookies, homemade doughnuts. Oh, I wish I hadn't remembered the doughnuts. I want one now!
After lunch, the conversations began. It was good to just let them forget you were present by being quiet and still so they would keep talking. Remember when Amelia thought no one was looking and would hike her skirts to straighten a stocking because Ernest was where he could see? Chuckles all round. Where is her son now? I heard he was in Korea. Pause. Egie (pronounced Eeejee) . . . at the name, alone, everyone would laugh. Right over there is where Egie thought he saw the headless horseman and it was Gus cutting through here on his way home. Remember when he took his date to the drug store and bought himself a malt? He told her it was pretty good and she should buy herself one too. Lots of laughter. How about the Buskovik boys? Did they both die in the war? Yes. One left a widow and some kids, don't remember how many. Right over that hill is where I was riding my bike and the handlebars came off and I went ass over teakettle. There's a bluff not too far from here where Ted almost went over the edge one winter sledding. I couldn't save the sled but I caught him by the seat of his pants just before he went over. Smiles, twinkles, remember when we put him in the manure spreader and sent him from the hayloft out over the wires. It went too far and dropped him right in the manure pile. Laughter until Dad had to wipe tears from his eyes; tears of laughter followed by real tears because he missed Ted so.
Soon the reminiscing was over and the men would pick up their shovels and walk through the area policing any spaces that had not been tended. The ladies would weed those spots that were forgotten. Occasionally, they would stand close together, arms entwined and mourn someone's child. Usually one of the women would go back and dig up a plant or two from each spot they had just planted them and bring them here to carefully replant and re-water.
You see, it was Memorial Day. Families took care of the graves of loved ones and loved ones that belonged to someone else who had also passed this life or moved away. Much time and thought went into preparation for the day. The cemetery came to beautiful life as gravesites were cleaned, flowers were planted, shrubs were pruned back, and memories were relived. There were tears, there was laughter, there was food, and love.
There was usually enough food to gather at the blankets one more time for more to eat and more to remember. By this time, the men were having a game of "catch" and the older girls were playing tag or picking wildflowers along the edge of the cemetery. I would rest my head in Mom's lap and listen to the ladies remembering their mothers and grandmothers and school friends. Soon the fresh air and exercise and soft voices would lull me to sleep.
I didn't understand the special grace they gave to those who had died in WWI or the more recent WWII. Korea was an ominous name from far away. Communism was a new word in my vocabulary and was a thought I pushed far away out of mind-sight. It frightened me. To think that men and boys would actually have to die to keep it at bay was something my young mind couldn't comprehend.
When I woke, there were those times when we could afford the little U.S. flags and I was allowed to put one at each designated grave for the man who helped to keep our country safe. When the last flag was set, we would look over our little family plot and there would be silence. Someone would say, "It's been a nice day. Everything looks so nice." While the others were picking up the blankets and tools and dishes, I would wander the graves taking in all the names of the grandparents I had never met, great aunts and uncles that were only names. I would wonder about those who had earned a little flag. Back in the crowded car we would head for home. Someone would usually hand me a little paper poppy they had gotten for donating. I would snuggle close to Mom and play with my flower.
How many more "conflicts" (such a nice euphemism for war) have come and gone since then? How many more men have given their lives and their health and their sanity to protect a country that allows us to live as we do? Whether you believe in war or not, it is a reality, it has happened, is happening. Those men and now, women too, who believe they are doing what they must deserve our gratitude. Dave, my Dave, served in Viet Nam. He came back whole but not the same. He came back healthy, healthy until the things of war affected his current health. He is alive and we are together. We know someone who will never leave prison because he left his sanity in the tunnels of Viet Nam. His flashbacks cause him to be unsafe around others. We know of those, some close friends, who did not come back. We love someone dearly who was part of recovery for Black Hawk Down and during the Gulf War of Desert Storm. He has mind pictures none of us would want to see.
It is Memorial Day. Remember those who served, serve, or gave all. Remember family and that you are who you are because you are part of that family. Remember you live in a country where you may think stupidity reigns but in reality is still better than any other country you could try. Celebrate those who went before and honor the flag that flies proudly because of them.
There was no bickering. It wasn't allowed. There was some poking, pinching, tickling and squirming, but not much because that might lead to bickering and that was not allowed. I know I often slept most of the way in the safest place there could be -- on my mother's lap.
Once we were at the destination, we were terribly grateful to pile out of the car. Those at the bottom of the stacks took longer to stand up and walk because their legs were asleep. There was much giggling as wobbly limbs tried to unfold and come back to life. The men, Dad, Uncle, and my brother would unload the car where the ladies, Mom, Aunt and eldest sister, Dorothy directed.
The women put on hats for shade and began pulling weeds, raking away winter dried grass and leaves. They moved from spot to spot. There was some tsking over the condition of the place and a few tears shed here and there. The younger kids were allowed to move pretty freely in play being warned to "watch where you put your feet". The older kids were busy spreading blankets, laying out the dishes and taking the jars we brought along to the pump to get water.
The men chatted quietly in the shade until the women were done. Then the men walked carefully along looking for "repair work" needed. The shovels were put to use digging up some sod here and there, maybe straightening a stone. Sometimes it was actually necessary to level the ground and replace a stone that had turned over. In that case a couple of the more muscled women would pitch in and help. The baskets of food had been in the trunk of the car, but the precious baskets of flowers were on someone's lap for the whole trip. Now they were brought from where they had been staying fresh in the shade. Plants were carefully divided, spread evenly around and water was brought in pails from the pump.
We all came together and washed up. I was always careful to wash really good at the pump to avoid Mom, any of my sisters or one of my aunts giving me a spit bath. If you've never had one you don't know what you missed and that's a good thing. One of those ladies with eyesight of an eagle would spot something I missed and grab a handkerchief from a pocket, spit on it and commence scrubbing. I would have struggled, but the first move on their part was to grab me by my chin and hang on for dear life. There was no escape.
The picnic was festive. We enjoyed the view, ate chicken or sandwiches, had salads and even some early berries, and dessert. There was always much to choose from in the dessert baskets. Cake, pie, cookies, homemade doughnuts. Oh, I wish I hadn't remembered the doughnuts. I want one now!
After lunch, the conversations began. It was good to just let them forget you were present by being quiet and still so they would keep talking. Remember when Amelia thought no one was looking and would hike her skirts to straighten a stocking because Ernest was where he could see? Chuckles all round. Where is her son now? I heard he was in Korea. Pause. Egie (pronounced Eeejee) . . . at the name, alone, everyone would laugh. Right over there is where Egie thought he saw the headless horseman and it was Gus cutting through here on his way home. Remember when he took his date to the drug store and bought himself a malt? He told her it was pretty good and she should buy herself one too. Lots of laughter. How about the Buskovik boys? Did they both die in the war? Yes. One left a widow and some kids, don't remember how many. Right over that hill is where I was riding my bike and the handlebars came off and I went ass over teakettle. There's a bluff not too far from here where Ted almost went over the edge one winter sledding. I couldn't save the sled but I caught him by the seat of his pants just before he went over. Smiles, twinkles, remember when we put him in the manure spreader and sent him from the hayloft out over the wires. It went too far and dropped him right in the manure pile. Laughter until Dad had to wipe tears from his eyes; tears of laughter followed by real tears because he missed Ted so.
Soon the reminiscing was over and the men would pick up their shovels and walk through the area policing any spaces that had not been tended. The ladies would weed those spots that were forgotten. Occasionally, they would stand close together, arms entwined and mourn someone's child. Usually one of the women would go back and dig up a plant or two from each spot they had just planted them and bring them here to carefully replant and re-water.
You see, it was Memorial Day. Families took care of the graves of loved ones and loved ones that belonged to someone else who had also passed this life or moved away. Much time and thought went into preparation for the day. The cemetery came to beautiful life as gravesites were cleaned, flowers were planted, shrubs were pruned back, and memories were relived. There were tears, there was laughter, there was food, and love.
There was usually enough food to gather at the blankets one more time for more to eat and more to remember. By this time, the men were having a game of "catch" and the older girls were playing tag or picking wildflowers along the edge of the cemetery. I would rest my head in Mom's lap and listen to the ladies remembering their mothers and grandmothers and school friends. Soon the fresh air and exercise and soft voices would lull me to sleep.
I didn't understand the special grace they gave to those who had died in WWI or the more recent WWII. Korea was an ominous name from far away. Communism was a new word in my vocabulary and was a thought I pushed far away out of mind-sight. It frightened me. To think that men and boys would actually have to die to keep it at bay was something my young mind couldn't comprehend.
When I woke, there were those times when we could afford the little U.S. flags and I was allowed to put one at each designated grave for the man who helped to keep our country safe. When the last flag was set, we would look over our little family plot and there would be silence. Someone would say, "It's been a nice day. Everything looks so nice." While the others were picking up the blankets and tools and dishes, I would wander the graves taking in all the names of the grandparents I had never met, great aunts and uncles that were only names. I would wonder about those who had earned a little flag. Back in the crowded car we would head for home. Someone would usually hand me a little paper poppy they had gotten for donating. I would snuggle close to Mom and play with my flower.
How many more "conflicts" (such a nice euphemism for war) have come and gone since then? How many more men have given their lives and their health and their sanity to protect a country that allows us to live as we do? Whether you believe in war or not, it is a reality, it has happened, is happening. Those men and now, women too, who believe they are doing what they must deserve our gratitude. Dave, my Dave, served in Viet Nam. He came back whole but not the same. He came back healthy, healthy until the things of war affected his current health. He is alive and we are together. We know someone who will never leave prison because he left his sanity in the tunnels of Viet Nam. His flashbacks cause him to be unsafe around others. We know of those, some close friends, who did not come back. We love someone dearly who was part of recovery for Black Hawk Down and during the Gulf War of Desert Storm. He has mind pictures none of us would want to see.
It is Memorial Day. Remember those who served, serve, or gave all. Remember family and that you are who you are because you are part of that family. Remember you live in a country where you may think stupidity reigns but in reality is still better than any other country you could try. Celebrate those who went before and honor the flag that flies proudly because of them.
Friday, May 8, 2015
I Thought I Just Finished That!!!
Reach! Higher! Bend and stretch; further! Side step, two step, ball, slide, ball! Plea, en pointe, glissade, and spin! Heft and lift and shove and pull. What would you guess; Pilates, Yoga, Ballet? Nope!
Never ending, always there, for-the-love-of-Mike, housework!!!!
I remember a conversation, half in jest, but with some serious tone to it between Mom and Dad. He was pre-retirement so maybe 60-63. She being four years younger was 56-59. Don't think I am discounting the hard life they both shared nor the good things Dad did. Mom never worked outside the home and even in the modern era of the late 50's when this conversation took place housework was manual labor with a capital M and L. Anyway, they were discussing the fact that it would be nice to return to farm living. We siblings were listening and enjoying the conversation. Dad finally said he would maybe look into a small farm near where we lived for retirement. I think it was my sister, Dot, who dared to ask how he thought he could handle the heavy work. His reply? "Well, Mom's still pretty fit, she could do it!" I think everyone but Mom laughed.
Today, we have things to make housework easy. Easy by comparison to laundry by hand or with a wringer washer (look it up if you don't remember it), dryers vs. clotheslines, vacuums vs. brooms, Swifter Mops vs. bucket and string mop. You get the picture. I don't know about you, but Mary Poppins never shows up here so the sheets and blankets pop off the bead and head for the laundry. Nor, I'll tell ya true, do clean ones fly from nowhere to land snug and smooth on the bed. That chore is still done with grunt work. It is a ponder for me that the shortest person in the family with the shortest wing span is the only one who can fold just-washed King-sized sheets without dragging them on the floor!
While the vacuum does a lovely job on carpets and gets the cobwebs and Dave vacuums for special occasions, it does not do well on bare floors except for a quick fix. I have a little kitchen vac that is lovely for the messes I make on the floor while cooking or baking and if it breaks I'll sacrifice shampoo to replace the kitchen vac. A clean kitchen floor is still really only achieved by a broom or dust-mop first and then a good old fashioned sponge mop next. Even better for real clean is if one can still at least quarterly get down on hands and knees with a good scrub brush for the tight places.
Dusting sounds easy and there are cute little handle things with changeable fluffy items that get the dust. Really? There are places where only a conscientious dance macabre can clean the dust and leave surfaces shining. Reach, balance, en pointe, bend. Nothing in the modern idea of dusting leaves everything clean, shining, and fresh like a rag with furniture polish. Knick-knacks and bric-a-brac still have to be hand washed to bring back the brightness.
Rugs are now called carpets and don't have to be hung on a line and beaten with what looks like something Jack would have found at the top of the beanstalk to whip the giant's eggs (ostrich sized, of course). But scatter rugs suck into a vacuum and, by consequence, must be shaken vigorously. I still hang mine on a deck railing to air in the sunshine a bit.
Loading the dishwasher can be hard on the back. A pile of plates going into the cupboard can be heavy (clean and jerk 101). Some of my heaviest cooking utensils are in the bottom of the cupboards because that's where they fit. (Use your knees, not your back.) Much of housework takes flexibility in arms and shoulders. If something is hurting, the chore is harder.
I'm not whining nor complaining. I'm just saying don't sell short the person that keeps the house tidy and the home looking like a home. In many homes today, that is not necessarily Mom. Dad's are sometimes the stay-at-home grunt. (Some are not appreciated for folding the laundry because it's not the same way the other would do it.) Some of our younger set have learned to share the duties -- most seem to think that is only for housework and the sharing is not equal concerning the yard work. If both are working away from home, it should all be shared.
I approve of Dad spending more time with his kids. Both parent and child benefits. I like watching men interact with their kids in ways the men never connected when I was young. Dave would take his turns with our kids, did his share of feeding and diaper changing. He put a lot of energy in trying to
be a good Dad. Recently I've noticed more and more that Dad is the one with a baby (in arms, in tummy or back pack) and a toddler or two and the diaper bag while Mom strolls along looking unconcerned and unruffled like Dads used to look. What? She can't even carry the diaper bag? More and more it is not Mom who leaves the Sunday Service, but Dad, with a wiggly tot. Seems like the stress hasn't been equaled out but completely shifted to the other sex.
God gave us work to do even before the fall. He planned that we would be busy and profit from our labor. He arranged that both sexes had abilities and strengths for certain things and that we could be a help to each other in the hard stretches. He never planned that we should squabble over who's efforts gain more. Teamwork was a plan. Delight in accomplishment after a task well done is a reward. My friend Patrick wrote a book on work and attitude toward work that pointed out God's desire for us to enjoy our work. Wake in the morning and do what it takes plus more to provide for need, go to sleep and sleep from being tired and satisfied with the day.
Do I ever have control of my attitude toward my work? Once in a while, I get it right. Do I ever sin in my frustration because I am the only one in a group who is still working while the rest are sitting by? Oh, my stars! Yes.
Why this post you may be wondering? Because I needed to put down some words to stop feeling hard-used because housework is never, I repeat, never finished. Empty the dishwasher and fill it right back up. Make the bed and delight in the smooth covers and the "foo-foo pillows" on it; one night's tossing and turning will cause it to look slightly "used" until the next time fresh sheets are put on. Laundry. I no longer follow Mom's strict "wash on Monday, Iron on Tuesday, Clean on Wednesday, Bake on Thursday, Tidy on Friday for possible guests on Saturday, Entertain on Saturday, and Church on Sunday". However, I rarely finish laundry without having something pulled off a hanger or out of a folded pile before the last piece of laundry is put away. Fig leaves might have been the answer -- pick a new one every morning, the old ones would decay.
Never ending, always there, for-the-love-of-Mike, housework!!!!
I remember a conversation, half in jest, but with some serious tone to it between Mom and Dad. He was pre-retirement so maybe 60-63. She being four years younger was 56-59. Don't think I am discounting the hard life they both shared nor the good things Dad did. Mom never worked outside the home and even in the modern era of the late 50's when this conversation took place housework was manual labor with a capital M and L. Anyway, they were discussing the fact that it would be nice to return to farm living. We siblings were listening and enjoying the conversation. Dad finally said he would maybe look into a small farm near where we lived for retirement. I think it was my sister, Dot, who dared to ask how he thought he could handle the heavy work. His reply? "Well, Mom's still pretty fit, she could do it!" I think everyone but Mom laughed.
Today, we have things to make housework easy. Easy by comparison to laundry by hand or with a wringer washer (look it up if you don't remember it), dryers vs. clotheslines, vacuums vs. brooms, Swifter Mops vs. bucket and string mop. You get the picture. I don't know about you, but Mary Poppins never shows up here so the sheets and blankets pop off the bead and head for the laundry. Nor, I'll tell ya true, do clean ones fly from nowhere to land snug and smooth on the bed. That chore is still done with grunt work. It is a ponder for me that the shortest person in the family with the shortest wing span is the only one who can fold just-washed King-sized sheets without dragging them on the floor!
While the vacuum does a lovely job on carpets and gets the cobwebs and Dave vacuums for special occasions, it does not do well on bare floors except for a quick fix. I have a little kitchen vac that is lovely for the messes I make on the floor while cooking or baking and if it breaks I'll sacrifice shampoo to replace the kitchen vac. A clean kitchen floor is still really only achieved by a broom or dust-mop first and then a good old fashioned sponge mop next. Even better for real clean is if one can still at least quarterly get down on hands and knees with a good scrub brush for the tight places.
Dusting sounds easy and there are cute little handle things with changeable fluffy items that get the dust. Really? There are places where only a conscientious dance macabre can clean the dust and leave surfaces shining. Reach, balance, en pointe, bend. Nothing in the modern idea of dusting leaves everything clean, shining, and fresh like a rag with furniture polish. Knick-knacks and bric-a-brac still have to be hand washed to bring back the brightness.
Rugs are now called carpets and don't have to be hung on a line and beaten with what looks like something Jack would have found at the top of the beanstalk to whip the giant's eggs (ostrich sized, of course). But scatter rugs suck into a vacuum and, by consequence, must be shaken vigorously. I still hang mine on a deck railing to air in the sunshine a bit.
Loading the dishwasher can be hard on the back. A pile of plates going into the cupboard can be heavy (clean and jerk 101). Some of my heaviest cooking utensils are in the bottom of the cupboards because that's where they fit. (Use your knees, not your back.) Much of housework takes flexibility in arms and shoulders. If something is hurting, the chore is harder.
I'm not whining nor complaining. I'm just saying don't sell short the person that keeps the house tidy and the home looking like a home. In many homes today, that is not necessarily Mom. Dad's are sometimes the stay-at-home grunt. (Some are not appreciated for folding the laundry because it's not the same way the other would do it.) Some of our younger set have learned to share the duties -- most seem to think that is only for housework and the sharing is not equal concerning the yard work. If both are working away from home, it should all be shared.
I approve of Dad spending more time with his kids. Both parent and child benefits. I like watching men interact with their kids in ways the men never connected when I was young. Dave would take his turns with our kids, did his share of feeding and diaper changing. He put a lot of energy in trying to
be a good Dad. Recently I've noticed more and more that Dad is the one with a baby (in arms, in tummy or back pack) and a toddler or two and the diaper bag while Mom strolls along looking unconcerned and unruffled like Dads used to look. What? She can't even carry the diaper bag? More and more it is not Mom who leaves the Sunday Service, but Dad, with a wiggly tot. Seems like the stress hasn't been equaled out but completely shifted to the other sex.
God gave us work to do even before the fall. He planned that we would be busy and profit from our labor. He arranged that both sexes had abilities and strengths for certain things and that we could be a help to each other in the hard stretches. He never planned that we should squabble over who's efforts gain more. Teamwork was a plan. Delight in accomplishment after a task well done is a reward. My friend Patrick wrote a book on work and attitude toward work that pointed out God's desire for us to enjoy our work. Wake in the morning and do what it takes plus more to provide for need, go to sleep and sleep from being tired and satisfied with the day.
Do I ever have control of my attitude toward my work? Once in a while, I get it right. Do I ever sin in my frustration because I am the only one in a group who is still working while the rest are sitting by? Oh, my stars! Yes.
Why this post you may be wondering? Because I needed to put down some words to stop feeling hard-used because housework is never, I repeat, never finished. Empty the dishwasher and fill it right back up. Make the bed and delight in the smooth covers and the "foo-foo pillows" on it; one night's tossing and turning will cause it to look slightly "used" until the next time fresh sheets are put on. Laundry. I no longer follow Mom's strict "wash on Monday, Iron on Tuesday, Clean on Wednesday, Bake on Thursday, Tidy on Friday for possible guests on Saturday, Entertain on Saturday, and Church on Sunday". However, I rarely finish laundry without having something pulled off a hanger or out of a folded pile before the last piece of laundry is put away. Fig leaves might have been the answer -- pick a new one every morning, the old ones would decay.
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