personalities

quinkles that make us who we are

A LOVE STORY

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March 12 , 2001, was the day schizophrenia finally won the battle within the mind of my son, and the day my husband died as a result of that lost battle.

I purposefully waited until after that date to write this tribute to my late husband because that is also the day his sister tries to celebrate her birthday.  A hard thing to do, I’m sure, as she has lost her entire family unit (grandpa, grandma, great-aunt, great-uncle, mother, father, and brother) with whom she spent her childhood years until she moved away to college and then marriage.  Thankfully, God has given her a great second family although this year she has also lost a member of that as well:  a wonderful, loving, caring father-in-law.

It has been ten years since my husband died.  It seems like yesterday.  I will write about him this week because he deserves to have things written about him, and I know others miss him as much as I do and are taking note, as I do, of the passing years without him.

James Joseph “Jimmie Joe” was younger than I was; someone I wouldn’t in a million and one years have ever dreamed I would one day marry.  I suppose God had a different plan, or maybe He just took the circumstances James and I started and created something good, as only God can do.

James lived down the street from me.  He was between girlfriends, I suppose, and I was going through a divorce.  He would call and talk for a brief moment or stop and talk if he saw me out, and one day even knocked on my door.  And tell you the truth, I’m still not sure how I finally said I would go out with him.  But those first encounters eventually led to an actual date a few months later… and a marriage a couple of years later.  It was a scandalous affair!  We were the talk of our little town, and didn’t give a rip.  The only thing I cared about and he cared about were our families and how they would handle it, what they would think.  And I have to say, they were great sports even though I’m sure it was difficult to understand.  After all, James and I were polar opposites.

What a beautiful smile!

He loved that hat!

Can you see why anyone could not resist that smile?

Being polar opposites wasn’t enough to stand in the way of fate.  At least that’s what James always said, “You may as well accept it; it’s fate.”  There were lots of things he said, good things from a good man.

Tomorrow we’ll talk about that good man some more.

My Quest To Be Freshly Pressed

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This will come as no surprise to bloggers on wordpress.com, but it may to all my BFFs and homeys.  I have this inane desire to be Freshly Pressed.

Freshly Pressed

It’s been over a month, and I’ve meandered around blog world quite a bit, hitting wordpress.com fairly often, just checking in for the little tidbits they give us to help us be better bloggers: get an interesting read out there, express ourselves, use the tools they hand out freely to our advantage.   I have found great bloggers; really funny, witty, heart-wrenching, insightful, informative, helpful, great people with great blog sites.  Which, of course, has the adverse effect of making me realize how un-all-those-things I am, and that I now want to be more like that.

blogger stories

Nothing at all what I had intended when I set a goal to have a blog.

my most favorite egg and cheese sandwich in the whole world recipe

My goal was to cook delicious food and take pictures of my delicious food on these really cool white plates while laughing and socializing with friends, old and new.  I was gonna be the town socialite; everybody wanting to come and sit a spell and chow down (in the refined verbiage of rural living).

Being the Gemini that I am,  that idea was replaced just about as soon as I thought it with the fact that, no, my appetite was bigger than food.  My blog would have to be about all my appetites (well, some I refuse to discuss on an open forum).

http://www.astrology.com.au/astrology/12-signs-of-the…/gemini.html – Cached

Since I’ve discovered being Freshly Pressed, http://wordpress.com/ my whole take on my blog goal has escalated from “What am I going to talk about tonight?” to “How can I be interesting enough to have creases be Freshly Pressed?”  Click on one of those blogs, and one can see why they’re highlighted and held in high esteem, looking crisp and sharp, savvy and stylish.

me making a decision

Then there’s me.

Hmmmm.  The little country bumpkin looking for just the right words to draw the attention of the Pressers.

What are the key words?

Maybe I should focus more on just one subject instead of a gazillion.  Maybe my visual aids (I learned that in speech class) aren’t inspiring.  I’m too long-winded?  I sound like the nincompoop that I am?  They’re going to make me actually work to achieve it?  (insert Maynard G. Krebs “WORK?” from the old sitcom The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis)

I may just have to settle on being fresh… or pressed… for time, money, fame.

Pick me! Pick me!

My Most Favorite Egg Sandwich In The Whole World

2 eggs (mix with a fork in the pan) fried in a T. of unsalted butter, no salt, better flip once, maybe fold them over some to fit on the bread

2 slices whole wheat bread, butter lightly one side, lay one piece butter side down in the same pan after scooping up the eggs with a pancake turner, then plop the eggs onto the bread

1 slice of cheese, whatever cheese you like, parceled over the top of the eggs, then place the other piece of bread on that, once again lightly buttered

flip to melt the cheese until it’s gooey and oozing out the sides and the bread is all crispy.

serve with an ice-cold Coca-Cola over crushed ice

Finding Life in Old Pictures

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Benny and Brenda across the street from Jim and Lee Caldwell's house.

The last couple of nights I’ve been going through old pictures, less-old pictures, and newer pictures picking out just the right ones for cookbooks I started a year or so ago for my siblings.  In doing that, I can’t help but reminisce, and this photo makes me think about Lee, Mom’s good friend for many, many years. 

Lee lived across the street from us when we were small, she and Jim, her husband, a tall, thin man who loved children.  Lee loves to tell stories about the neighborhood children coming to the house and asking Lee if “Jim could come out and play.”  She would look to him to see if it was a nod or a head shake and respond accordingly.  “Well, for a little while,” or “No, he can’t come out right now.”  The latter response would prompt a frown and the child relating the story to the parent with the addendum that “Lee won’t let Jim come out and play.”  She gets a kick out of telling this story and laughs gleefully.

She also gets a kick out of telling the story about my brother and I coming over to “help” Jim work in the yard.  Benny was six; I was four.  We, as the story goes, (I can’t remember it) were helping with the hard labor of picking up sticks out of the yard.  When it was all said and done, Jim says, “Well, I think that deserves an ice cream cone, don’t you?”  That was back in the day when the town boasted a Dairy Dream, two hardware stores, a dry cleaner, a Five and Dime, three or four clothing stores, a drug store (where we got the most delicious cherry cokes at the counter), a newspaper, at least one car dealership, multiple filling stations, and multiple grocery stores.  Whew!  I know I’m leaving out a bunch of things.  Oh, yeah!  A hospital, a dentist, a bank, the post office; of course, the court house.  And can’t forget the taverns.  There were as many of those as there were churches.  In other words, a real town, a town full of life, a town where people bought and sold from each other, did their living and made their living in the town they lived in. 

But back to that delicious ice cream cone.  It must have been delicious because the next day, Lee says, here comes Benny knocking on the door.  When Jim comes to the door, Benny looks at him and says, “Do you think we better pick up more sticks today?”  And the good man that Jim was, said, “No, I don’t believe we need to today.  But how about we go get an ice cream cone?”

I love that story.  And I love all those good people from my childhood that seem to be disappearing right before my eyes. 

Ms. Lee still lives in the little house you see in the picture, where she has lived for decades.  It looks a little different now with a carport added, a few changes here, a few there.  Go by in the summer and she will be sitting in her swing, ready to regale you with wonderful stories of her youth (The Birger Gang!) or wonderful stories from your youth.

www.carolyar.com/Illinois/Govern/Birger.htm

www.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Birger

♪♪ Where Have All the Services Gone? ♪♪

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My daughter’s computer is becoming acquainted with me, and my patience level is running out.  I admit it’s not as long as it used to be. 

fired up!

The flame burns high quicker than before.  Seems there’s a simmering coal ready to ignite at the least breath of air to fan it imbedded deep in my innermost being.  Where did that come from? 

Beats the heck out of me.  I just know it’s there.  And these people from Frontier are taking big bellows and blowing air on that coal to the point that it’s hot under my collar, really hot.  So to spite them, I called Time Warner to see about getting my service changed. First of all, I couldn’t hear a word she was saying.  It sounded as though she had her hand over the mouthpiece.  When I said for the fourth time I couldn’t hear her at all, could she or he (couldn’t even tell what it was) call me back, all of a sudden it was very clear.  “Is this better?”  grrrrr.  Blankety-blank yes, that’s better.  (don’t worry; just me talking to me at that point.)  My I’ll-show-Frontier attitude dissolved when she said it would be 7 to 14 days for them to come and see if my area was serviceable.  SHUT UP!!!  Then we could talk packages and prices.

So what happened to companies who valued your business and appreciated your loyalty?  Where have all the quality services gone?  Where has any service at all gone? 

My conclusion:  Big companies do not give a rat’s petunia about me or anybody else.  

Mo' money! Mo' money!

They do not care that I have only started my blog and need feedback (of which, by the way, I need more, greedy pig that I am… or insecure blogger).  They do not care that my friends and I get together via facebook and email.  They do not care that I get my news, my weather, my social calendar, or travel my information highway all while sitting in front of my best friend’s little white bright face covered in words and pictures and things I still don’t understand how to use.  They do not care that I need to pay my bills in a timely manner (the last day to pay without a late fee) or that I need to shop for a new dining table and chairs (alas, the story of the splitting table/chairs). 

If Pete Seeger were writing songs now, it would be about services, not flowers.

Lilly

A Quinkle Lift Isn’t The Answer

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Sometimes we just can’t explain what it is that makes us do the things we do.

bookworm

For instance, why have I always loved to read, even encyclopedias? And what makes me procrastinate when I hate doing it? From where does this chameleonism of mine come or my inability to make a decision? Why have I saved magazine recipes for years… and years… and years?

As I look around at family and friends, I wonder about their quinkles as well.  You know, those quirky things that make wrinkles in your personality that you would otherwise not have if it weren’t for the quirks, those things that keep you from being the terrific person you truly are. If only we could have a quinkle lift, then our lives would be made right and whole, and joy and tranquility would abound. A little smoothing out of those deep quinkles that affect our day-to-day progress, such as getting to work on time.

personality colors

But then… what about all that color in our personalities?

Those quinkles are what makes a person vivid, gives depth to our intrinsic differences, stretches our beliefs and endurance capacities.

In my family alone we have a cat quinkle, a fat quinkle, a run-around-in-circles quinkle; a regret quinkle, a forget quinkle, and a can-I-ever-get-it-right quinkle; a drama quinkle, a dilemna quinkle, and a let’s-get-‘er-done-right-now quinkle. As I think on it, we are so quinkled!

drama quinkle

So what kind of quinkles do you and your family have?

Our Little Import

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As I was heading off to bed, my computer yelled at me.  I swear it did.  It’s right across the hall from my bedroom, so I get the sweet glow from its little face after I tuck it in and say goodnight… only tonight I was tired and wasn’t planning on tucking it in for the evening.  But here we sit, looking at each other, good buddies that we are, and it (my computer needs a name) was telling me about all my friends and neighbors and acquaintances, via facebook.

One in particular is the little import to our town.  A few weeks ago, in January, I had seen our little import helping to wash the Christmas off the windows of some of the store fronts along our Main Streets.  We have two:  one-way streets that start on the east side of a grass and gravel mall going north then loop around the courthouse to go back to the south on the west side of the same “mall.”  Daren, my brother-in-law, who comes from the city (at least to we who live in a small, small town) had heard about the mall from his girlfriend at the time, my sis-in-law, and upon his maiden voyage to this little borough, was looking for the mall, planning on doing a little shopping, I guess.  To his amazement, the mall consisted of a bunch of grass and a nice, big, graveled parking area; three large sections to be exact with some beautiful tulip trees lining both sides of the southern section, a bandstand on the grassy northern section, and the parking lot in the middle.

So it was on the east side of the mall, up the street (being north) from the post office, that I noticed Karen cleaning windows.  And I was impressed.  She has come here from another big city (once again in relation to our town) (hardly what a true city dweller would actually call a city though) and has embraced our town and made it her own.  So tonight, my computer was telling me (via facebook) that she had attended a Valentine gathering at one of the local churches.  That girl is all over the place!  Just a few months ago she had dressed up and participated in a play to raise money for a good cause.

She has brought our little community together with a facebook page about our town.  Old and new pictures are posted, community events are listed along with where and when they are to take place, people looking for folks from the past are asking for help in the search, and history of the area is discussed and cherished.  We are actually reaching out and touching… without actually reaching out and touching.  And it’s been good.  Good for our town, and good for me.

My appreciation has grown over the past few months for these servants and lovers of our community.  I could name several, but Karen sticks out in my mind as an import turned homey, a gal that gives and cares.  Thanks, girlfriend.

Nancy and Darla… and babies and diaper bags and…

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Nancy and Darla with their babies

The neighborhood wouldn’t have been complete without the “little sisters.”  That is, Terry’s little sister and my little sister.  You never saw one without the other.  You never saw either without their babies in one arm and their diaper bags thrown over the shoulder of the other arm.

Nancy lived up the hill from us, a block away.  Those two kept that road hot.  I can still see them walking up or down that hill with their “children.”  They would meet in the middle to discuss important “stuff” or just to walk with the other to one of the homes.

As they grew up, they embraced Barbies (along with the babies) and went wild and crazy over the Beatles.  One of them would get a pretend microphone and stand on the bed and pretend to be the Beatles, singing her heart out, “I Want To Hold Your Haa-aa–and,” while the other, standing at the foot of the bed, would squeal and scream and fall down on the floor… just as the girls on the TV did at the Beatles concerts.

Nancy was Catholic; Darla was Southern Baptist.  I’m not sure what kind of Catholic game they played, but I was privy to the Baptist one where Darla would stand and preach to Nancy and sing hymns.  She perfected her preaching when she was raising her children and ordering them to get dressed, clean their rooms, just generally behave…  and she still sings hymns.  I’m thinking that Baptist preaching Darla taught Nancy may have come in handy as Nancy raised her own four children and had to do a little preaching herself.

Thin-And-Fine Is Fine With Me

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My niece, Jill, is hysterically witty and  fun and unique.  She just attracts smileys, fun things out of nowhere.  Sometimes I  sit and reminisce about her and her stories and laugh out loud (LOL) all by myself.

Snow White

She has this little voice, this lilting, melodic, soprano sound —  or maybe it’s just high and squeaky — although after two children and the endless amount of speaking it takes to get them to put their coats away (not counting toys, clothes, food, etc.), the tiny little voice may have deepened.   But the little girl with her Mommy in the department store where Jill worked at the time was enthralled with her… and her voice.  She stood and stared for a long time, listening as Jill talked to the customers, and finally asked, “Are you Snow White?”

hoe

Then there was the co-worker that kept walking by Jill’s desk calling her a “hoe.”  So one day, when Jill had had enough, the girl came by, stood at Jill’s desk, and said, “Hoe.”  Jill looked her in the eye as she finally retorted, “Shovel.”

She also got the Meme hair:  thin and fine.  My mother always complained about her hair and always described it as thin and fine.  When Mom would call the house, my husband would say, “Thin-and-fine’s on the phone.”  So now, with Meme gone, Jill is Thin-And-Fine.

losing it

Or at least she was until the chemo took it, left her head barren and void of any hair at all.  But it couldn’t get her spirit.  Nor could the radiation she had to endure for weeks.  The pain that comes with all the “cure” couldn’t flip her unflappable determination to be well and “kick cancer’s ass” as the flair buttons proclaim.

Last time I talked to her on the phone, she still sounded like Snow White to me, and her facebook page is filled with one-worder witticisms.  Her hair is beginning to grow back, and I can’t wait to see the outcome of the outgrowth!

breast cancer ribbon

http://ww5.komen.org/ (if it doesn’t link, just copy and paste)

flair button

The Queen of The Clan

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My sis, Darla, is now the matriarch of our collective family, as well as her own.  We call her “The Queen,”  “Queenie,” and a few other things we try not to let her hear.  We’ve gotten her queen ornaments, queen jewelry, even tried to get her to put Queenie on her license plates.  Occasionally, she balks at being called The Queen, but I think she secretly tries on homemade crowns when she’s alone… and throws robes across her shoulders.   I’ve not personally seen this, mind you, but she carries herself too regally not to practice.

Mom

The Queen Mother, Jack, Queen Mother-In-Training

Before Mom passed away, Dar had been taking control from our mother for several years.  First came moving the holiday gatherings to my sister’s  house because Mom was too frail to have everybody at her house.  Okay.  That made sense.  Then came deciding when we were all going to meet and who was bringing what.  Okay.  That made sense… it was at her house.  Then came the day she started scolding me for something — I’m sure I wasn’t doing anything at all wrong whatsoever and didn’t need a good scolding for whatever I wasn’t doing wrong — and that’s when I knew.

all innocence

The baby of the family had usurped the rightful matriarch heirs (my older sister and myself) (Ben doesn’t count; he’s a guy and has no say-so anyway) and had thrust the Momma Crown right on her own head!  Her regal tone of voice and regal words of wisdom had lulled us into a state of acceptance without our even realizing it.  We had acceded her rise to the Momma Throne as surely as if we had placed her there ourselves.

But what if we really had placed her there ourselves?  Wasn’t she the one who always knew how to get a job for one of us in need?  Weren’t her words those that were just perfect for comforting, encouraging, advising, even scolding?  Was it not she that was always right there when any of us needed something: a hug, a caretaker, an organizer, a cleaning lady, a mover, a prayer warrior, a lighthouse in all our storms?

And weren’t we the ones that always sought her first?  Her wisdom for our worries; her heart for our concerns; her strong back for our labors; her love for our never-ending petitions.

Yes.  The Queen wears her title well.  Little did she know, we’ve had her in training for decades now.