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15 Tuesday Dec 2009

Posted by in Life at Home

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Today my mind flits between two homes.  Neither are mine.

The first, of course, is here in Brazosport.  Spending time amongst familiar surroundings and faces is always good.  Yet, there is something about returning to a place that makes one feel as if they are returning to life from the grave.   It’s a bit chilling to think this way, but I’m not the only one to have these thoughts.  In an email yesterday, a local friend wrote these words — “Rhonda and I just hang our heads and say, “We sure do miss Janell….”.

Perhaps I need to read Thomas Wolfe’s final novel, “You Can’t Go Home Again.”  I anticipate a few gifts waiting in this title, which may speak to where I am in life right now.

And where am I today in life?  I am haunted by that seasonal song  first sung by Bing Crosby  —  “I’ll be Home for Christmas” — realizing for the first time, that this song will never be true for me again.  Home and the hope of new gatherings of family around the fireplace that Mom kept burning bright all died with Mom.

In my mind today are thoughts of Dad and the nursing home where he now lives.  It is Tuesday after all, and every Tuesday afternoon is devoted to spending time with Dad.  I wonder how Daddy is today.  Is he more there than not?  Friends are kind to ask after Daddy’s state of health.  To one friend yesterday, I recall saying that Dad was just a shell of his former self.  And that his shell was really broken and fragile, carried by others from one place to another, to attend to the business of living.

Daddy will never be home again.  And I don’t just mean the home he shared with Mom, but the the here-and-now home of this world.  And these seashells that litter the beach, that we pick up on our long walks with our dogs…these seashells remind me of Daddy.  Some are paper-thin just like Daddy’s skin, a little frayed around the edges.  Rarely do I find a shell left fully intact from its rough and tumble ride on the surf.  Most of the washed up shells on the beach are mere shadows of their former glory.  I pick them up carefully and wash out their sandy remains to take them home with me.  They will become a sacred souvenir to remind me of my time here at the beach.

One unexpected gift of our trip is it will allow me to once again go home for Christmas.  I’ll go bearing gifts of washed up  broken seashells from this eastern sandy shore that so far has been absent of visible sun and blue skies.

It will be to my own home that I go, the one that sits in Mesta Park.  If one doesn’t leave home for long, one can go home again and it will feel and smell like home and nothing much important will have changed.  Except for this one change:  There in Mesta Park, I will become the home to which my family goes to for Christmas.

Peanut Butter Cookies

11 Friday Dec 2009

Posted by in In the Kitchen, Life at Home

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I racked my brain for a particular story that goes with these cookies.  But there’s not one.  Maybe because these cookies have just been an everyday fixture in my life, from those days of earliest childhood.

My first memory of these cookies was preserved while swinging on a backyard swing set, in those long ago days when I still called Shawnee “home.”  I must have been seven or eight at the time.  I had a cookie in one hand and a banana in the other, and even now, I partake in the occasional splurge of having this double childhood delight.

My mom liked these cookies.  They may have been her favorite cookie, though I’m not sure.  This cookie is a multi-generational favorite in our family — from Don’s mother Janice, to my daughter Kate and son-in-law Joe to both of my sons to my niece Abigail to my grandson Jackson.

And while they may not be everyone’s favorite cookie, I don’t know anyone who doesn’t like them.  They stay fresh a long time, which may have accounted for their popularity with the boys.  During college dorm years, I must have made 200 of these cookies a month.  Perhaps I’m coming into my ‘grandma own’, since this is one recipe I can make without need of words on paper.

These cookies became birthday gifts twice this year.  And now they become my gift to you, at least with words.  From my life to yours.

Peanut Butter Cookies

1 cup shortening
1 cup brown sugar
1 cup granulated sugar (plus 4 Tbsp for coating)
1 16 oz jar of Smucker’s Natural Peanut Butter
3 extra-large eggs
2 Tbsp water
2 tsp vanilla
2 tsp baking soda
3 cups flour

Put 4 Tbsp sugar in a bowl and set aside.

In a small bowl, mix eggs, water and vanilla.   In another small bowl, combine flour and baking soda.  In a large bowl, mix first four ingredients until creamy; gradually add egg mixture and mix well; then gradually add dry ingredients and mix well.

Pinch off 2 Tbsp of dough and form into ball.  Roll balls in bowl of reserved sugar.  Using a large salad fork, criss-cross each cookie, pressing it down to flatten.   The cookies will flatten more in baking process.

Bake 10 to 12 minutes in a 375 oven until slightly golden.  Cool on baking sheet.

End Like Clint

02 Wednesday Dec 2009

Posted by in Life at Home

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Gracing the cover of the latest AARP magazine is seventy-nine year old Clint Eastwood.  Like my father, Clint turns 80 next May.  But these men of identical vintage couldn’t be further apart in terms of aging.  One is  still active and vital while the other rests quietly in his Depends, in a recliner protected by a wet-proof quilted liner.  How can this be?

Yesterday’s visit with Daddy was not really a visit.  Jon and I mostly watched Dad sleep or fight off sleep.  Dad could not keep his eyes open nor could he fully partake of his Tuesday ritual highlight of listening to my sister’s voice.  Yesterday, when I handed Daddy the phone, Daddy nodded a couple of times in response to whatever Christi said, but he couldn’t muster up the strength to speak or even listen for very long, sure signs that something more than tiredness was going on with Daddy.

Daddy now floats in and out of bad days and not-so-bad days.  But nothing like a good day has really been part of Daddy’s life since… well, July, maybe.  April?  Before Mom’s stroke?

Watching all of this from his bed, Daddy’s roommate asked when Daddy became ill. Larry’s good question deserved a good answer.  I wish I had one.  But instead, I muddled through the dark tunnel of events in hope that Larry might glean the answer he sought.  Larry seemed satisfied with my sorry attempt, nodding his head in understanding.  All I could do was recite the litany of events that made up Daddy’s last six months of life.  And wish I had a different story to tell.

I also wished I had my camera to capture the final story told between my brother and father yesterday.  But the moment was gone before I could grab my cell phone.  So I’ll do my best to draw a few lines of words, knowing  I’ll never be able to fully color the image these two made, because it was one of those moments that play out without need of words.

It began with Daddy sending us off with his same gentle curled finger goodbye; if Daddy had bells in his hand, his waving motion would send sweet tinkles to flutter in the air.  Soft as butterfly wings in flight, yesterday Daddy’s wave grew tentative; as if  fingers knew that heart was not yet ready to spread its wings and fly solo.  I watched Dad’s fingers still.  Then quickly changing course, Dad’s fingers curled against his palm and loosening his index finger, Dad’s one finger began to wiggle back and forth, summoning  his only son over for a fatherly conference.

Dutifully, and likely with a quick prayer to decipher Dad’s urgent message to come, Jon bent his tall body down to my father and rested his ear near Daddy’s mouth.  Daddy had so little energy, he didn’t have the strength to string  his normal shaky slurred whispers together.  Within a few seconds, Dad relaxed and gave up the battle for words.

Yet.  My brother did not withdraw.  Instead, Jon tenderly cradled Dad’s head against his own with his right hand, and said without words — it’s all right Daddy.  I’m here.  I love you.  And I know that you love me too.  And I wish our time could end differently, but this is who we are and where we are.  And it’s okay.

But it really wasn’t okay.  Jon left with tears in his eyes yesterday.  And I sit writing these few lines with tears in my eyes.  And I wish a better end for you Daddy.  I wish your almost eighty year old life could end like Clint.