Every Star is a Fool

In 1969, everybody was a star. Sly and the Family Stone. Three years later, everybody played the fool. The Main Ingredient. Playing the fool is a rule with no exceptions, they said. And added, they weren’t lyin. Both songs are about love. Lots of those around in the 60’s and 70’s.

More of the lyrics from Everybody Is A Star, are:

“I love you for who you are,

Not the one you feel you need to be.”

In contrast, Everybody Plays The Fool, offers a different view:

“Falling in love is such an easy thing to do.

And there’s no guarantee that the one you love is gonna love you.”

The songs were simple. Love isn’t. I think they were on to something, though. “It may be factual. May be cruel” but every star is a fool.

“Sometimes”

Sweet

My mother probably doesn’t remember this. At the young age of eleven, I knew it was selfish and silly. But I did it anyway.

It was close to Christmas, and we’d been learning in school about different traditions around the world. I think it was Holland where children would leave their wooden shoes by the door. St. Nicholas filled the shoes with candy in the dark of night.

I told my mom. And Chris and I left our worn shoes by the door. To be honest I wasn’t expecting anything. Money was tight enough without adding another layer to the holiday. And it was very short notice.

To my delight and surprise there was a little bag of candy in each of our shoes in the morning. The candy was sweet. My mom was sweeter for indulging us. My memory, the sweetest.

Screenshot. Can’t give credit. The link doesn’t work.

Single-Handed

It’s the beginning of December and it seems everyone has their Christmas tree already. Pictures of family outings getting trees share my Instagram feed with families lighting Hanukkah candles. 

My son put his tree up over the weekend. He mentioned that it’s a little crooked. I said, “Ours is always a little crooked.” And he said, “Yeah, but it’s a little easier when you have two people. One to hold the tree straight.”

Yes, that’s true, I thought. And then I thought of my brother. He used to buy a tree, drag it home because he didn’t drive, and put it up single handedly. Literally. He only had use of one arm. I don’t think any of us really thought of all the challenges he had until after he passed away. At least I didn’t. A few years ago, my mother broke her wrist. She said, “I never thought about Michael getting dressed with one hand. It’s not easy. Buttoning my shirt was really hard. And frustrating.”

But dragging a tree home from the lot, putting it up, getting out and putting up his decorations exhausts me just thinking about it. Also, tinsel was a must. I don’t know where he got it. They stopped selling it almost everywhere years ago.

Laying tinsel on a tree is tedious if you do it right. And fun if you don’t. One is the delicate rain of icicles, the other a blizzard of silver. My brother went with the single-handed silver blizzard.

Topper

Once when my mother-in-law visited, I told her about a great cranberry scone recipe I found and had been baking. I was thinking she’d like them, and I should bake a batch while she was here.

But before I told her of my idea, she responded by telling me that when she was in Ireland she had fresh baked scones every morning for breakfast.

My mother-in-law is a topper. My husband’s a topper and my older son is a topper. No matter what you say you had or did, they had it or did it better.

I must admit I’d rather be in Ireland enjoying scones by a woman who probably made them all her life. There was no competition there. I was topped.

However, my enthusiasm to bake scones vanished with her remark. 

Thanks-giving

The day was gray and bitter with intermittent freezing rain. It was 1977 and Thanksgiving was a week away. Rob and our two-year-old son, both sick with colds, were huddled on the bedroom floor beneath a blanket fort. The fort was amply furnished with books, toys, pillows and tissues. A short safe distance away the radiating bright orange glow sticks of a small electric heater stood sentry.

I’d tucked all the money we had in the world in the front pocket of my jeans. One twenty dollar bill and two tens. Hopping into the old Fiat, I took off to accomplish two errands.  Behind the front seat lay one leather boot with a broken zipper. A week before, I’d taken it to a shoe repair shop to see if I could get it fixed in time for Thanksgiving. The wizened gentleman, hair a tussle, and smeary duct-taped eyeglasses resting half way down the bridge of his nose, harrumphed out a “Nope, can’t fix it.” Then added “but if you take it to a luggage shop, they should be able to do it.”  He pushed his glasses up toward his eyes. Noticing the quizzical look on my face, he added, “There’s a shop in the next town.” I didn’t respond. “Here, I’ll draw you a map,” he said.

We only lived there a couple of months. I barely knew the town I was in, let alone the next town and I needed to be careful with gas. Money was tight back then. So, I combined the grocery shopping with the boot repair. My new plan was to drop the boot off at the luggage shop and pick it up in a week when we would have a few more dollars.  I could wear them for Christmas instead of Thanksgiving. Then off to the supermarket to stretch forty dollars into a week’s provisions.

Even through the haze and rain I found the shop without a problem with a great parking spot across the street. I waited for the traffic to slow and darted to the shop with boot in hand. The bell of the door startled two middle-aged men conversing at a counter – brothers I thought, and owners.

I recounted my problem and the shoe repairman’s recommendation. The older brother reached out and took the boot. He looked at it for a few seconds and disappeared into a back room. It was toasty warm inside. The floor to ceiling shelves were chock full of every size bag and suitcase in shades ranging from beige to darkest brown. I breathed in the heavy scent of leather and glanced back to the younger brother. I thought I should say something but before I could, the older one returned with a scissor, a needle and thread. “Let me show you this in case it ever happens again.” he offered. He slit the bottom of the zipper carefully and then a few quick stitches in the right place and voila! His brother watched with pride. I was amazed! But also nervous. I wasn’t planning on paying for a repair. I was hoping to leave it there and pick it up. But before I even asked how much he said, “Eh, just give me seventy-five cents.”

What a wonderful, unexpected joy on an otherwise gloomy morning. God is so good, I thought.

Forty dollars was certainly better than nothing but not enough for a week’s worth of groceries.  We were out of everything that day, including non-food items like shampoo, dish detergent and diapers. But now it was thirty-nine twenty five. Impossible! Still I was hopeful and happy.

I said a quick prayer of thanks and turned the key in the ignition. I put the car in drive and stepped on the gas pedal. It went to the floor and stayed there. The car didn’t move. Neither did I. I sat stunned wondering what to do. I loved that old Fiat when it was working but it almost never was.

This was a real problem. I didn’t even know where I was. Even if I could call Rob and explain it, how would he get there? We didn’t have another car. Besides, he and the baby were sick. They couldn’t go out in that weather. We didn’t know anyone close by. There was no one to call.

I bowed my head and prayed, telling the Lord I had no idea what to do and asked for wisdom. As I lifted my head my eyes were drawn to a small sign on the side of the luggage store building. All around it was the gray gloom of a rainy day, but the sign itself was lit with a crack of sunlight.  It read “Foreign Car Repair” – underneath a small arrow pointing to the back.

I hurried across and behind the building to an open garage with a small office attached.  I approached a slender man with thick dark hair wrenching something under the hood of an olive green compact car and described my problem.  He popped his head up and said, ”Give me the keys.” Without hesitation, I tossed my keys to this stranger. A few minutes later he drove the Fiat up his driveway and parked it behind the green car fitting just the front inside the garage, out of the rain.

He jumped out and cheerfully exclaimed, “It’s just the accelerator cable! It’s busted.” He headed for the back wall where his shelves of parts and tools hung. While he was perusing his inventory, I stood shivering and wondering how much it would cost and how I would pay for it. Would I have to leave the car there? Could this, like the boot, be a small miracle? Would the cost be $39.25? I didn’t know what I would do for food but at least I could get home.

He ducked into the office for a minute and emerged with a metal coat hanger and a wire cutter.  Still cheerful, he said, “I don’t have the part, sorry. I’ll have to order it. In the meantime, I’m going to make you a cable out of this hanger.” He continued, “The part will take a week or two to come in and this fix should last you that long, even longer, really.”

It took him about fifteen minutes of cutting and twisting the hanger. He was very proud of his design and wanted me to see it. Then he said, “Jump in, try it out.” It worked perfectly as I backed out of the garage.

I got out, thanked him and asked how much. He said, “No charge, just promise me you’ll come back when the part is in.”

Of course I promised! As I drove away, thanking God with so much joy in my soul, more and more cracks of sunshine began to emerge.

I don’t remember what I bought at the store. I do know we didn’t starve that week which was a miracle that repeated itself many times back then. And when I got home there were two smiling faces to greet me.

Turkey Day

Thanksgiving will be just me and him. This happened once before.  I don’t remember the reason back then but this year it’s Covid.

That one other time we opted for chicken instead of turkey since it was only the two of us. I called my mom and she asked how the holiday went. I told her and she said when she was young, they always had chicken for Thanksgiving.

If we hadn’t been without our usual family around the table, I never would have known that. A warm connection to the past filled my soul and now that we will have one of those holidays again, that warm connected feeling is back. Because we’ll probably have chicken. Or maybe pizza.

For the past fifteen years or so, our son makes the turkey, the stuffing and the gravy. We make the side dishes. Rob bakes a pumpkin pie using a Martha Stewart recipe and sometimes I bake an apple pie using no recipe. I learned that from my mother. 

I can’t say I learned it really. She rarely used recipes, or patterns or any other guide to cook, bake, or create art. She’s very talented. My not using a recipe is hit or miss. For some reason my mother’s originality was always a hit. She doesn’t cook anymore.

She didn’t cook much when I was growing up. Probably because she had nothing to cook. But she always managed a wonderful holiday meal. Mostly wonderful. I do remember the “cranberry sauce” she slid out of a can and sliced. I liked it but it’s not food. I had no idea what real cranberry sauce was supposed to be until I started to read cookbooks after I got married. What a revelation!

I make it now with fresh organic cranberries, dehydrated cane sugar and a couple other ingredients. But I have to admit my favorite recipe is one that reminds me of the taste of the jiggly canned burgundy gel I remember from when I was young.

Quiet holidays are nice now and then. Especially Thanksgiving. Time to reflect on all there is to be thankful for. 

Mondayne

It’s Monday again. It’s supposed to come around every long week but sneaks up on you every seven days.  It has nothing going for it. The beginning of the workweek for insane lottery ticket buyers who won’t quit their jobs if they win that half billion dollar jackpot. And for the semi-sane lottery ticket buyers who see a win as an end to the Mondayne.

It’s the day after a wisp of a weekend crammed with shopping, and chores, and games, and catching up, and if you’re lucky, a nap. If you couldn’t fit in a nap, there’s always Monday, the tranquilizer of days. Even my dog snores louder on Mondays.

The first day of the week should have a good self-image. It’s a beginning, fresh start, a new day. But no, “Rainy Days and Mondays” always get someone down. And for someone else, “Monday, Monday, can’t trust that day.”  Adding that “every other day of the week is fine.” 

That’s why people want a four day workweek. It’s not that they want to work less. Americans are always rooting for the underdog.  Monday has been Mondayne long enough. It’s time for Tuesday to step up to the plate. I don’t think anyone has a problem with Tuesday. It can take the hits for a while.

Out of Nowhere

When a train goes off track, it’s an immediate disaster. When people do it, it’s a slow ride until it seems out of nowhere, there it is. Disaster! It’s so easy to eat the wrong foods, drink the wrong drinks, and put everything good for us off for some future day.

A train running on its track is an effortless, smooth run in the right direction. For most people, living off track is an effortless, smooth run, albeit in the wrong direction. But only when you’re young. As we age, the wrong direction seems more apparent as the obstacles and disasters appear. Out of nowhere!

The knees go, the back goes, the heart slows, the brain lapses.

I was on a zoom call last night with people my age. One called in from a hospital room. Another mentioned an upcoming chemo appointment. And one other talked about a complicated upcoming surgery that insurance may not pay for.

It’s lunchtime as I write this, so I paused to fill a small fiesta ware cup with coffee, and a handmade mini bowl with potato chips. On my way out of the kitchen, I walked right past a bowl of grapes but stopped to break off just a square of a Milkboy swiss chocolate candy bar.  My food pyramid is a little askew. Coffee, salt, and chocolate comprise most of the bottom section.

Other people’s off-track causational distress seems to have affected me very little as I sit comfortably on the couch in my elasticized yoga pants with no intention of doing yoga.

I’m fully aware, but somehow not bothered by knowing I could easily crash like my friends on the call. Like smokers, I pretend to be an exception. 

Despite my heart, liver, kidneys, and brain yelling, “Disaster ahead!”, I feel totally satisfied after my delightful lunch. Well, maybe I need a fresh cup of coffee. And possibly a nap.

Not Going Too Deep

My father’s mother was an orphan, a hypochondriac, and an alcoholic. My mother’s mother was a rebel, a creative, and a lover of life. Except for being an orphan, I don’t know if those descriptions are true. Those are my thoughts based on the little I know about them. I wish I’d known them both.

My paternal grandmother died when I was around four years old. I remember seeing her once. She was lying in bed in a very small cabin. My father and mother were sitting in chairs beside her. I ran in once and was told to go play outside. When you’re four, everything seems much larger than it is. But that cabin was tiny, even to my young eyes. Her bed was on one side against the wall. Against the opposite wall was a kind of kitchenette. I only remember seeing a sink and counter, but I imagine there had to be at least a hotplate and maybe a small refrigerator. I think there was a little bathroom beyond that room. The head of her twin sized bed was against a back wall of the front room. I remember a fat crucifix hanging on that wall, over her head. It was fat because it opened like a box. Inside was a small candle, a little vial of oil, and I don’t know what else, to be used when giving last rites. I’d seen one of those before. Maybe we had one at our house. I don’t remember anything else hanging on the walls or anything of color. There were no pictures or knickknacks. It was dark inside.

Outside the cabin, the sun was shining, and the grass was soft and tall. But again, I was four. A couple of old pictures reveal my perception of very tall willowy grass differed from reality. A river ran behind the cabin. I remember seeing it but not going back there. Those were the days when you could let your kids play outside and not be too worried about them.  My sister was two. I suppose my older brothers were keeping an eye on us. My grandmother died shortly after that visit.

She had a sad life. I don’t blame her for drinking too much or for always thinking she had some serious illness. She coped not just with alcohol, but with fantasy.  She didn’t just imagine she was sick. She lived in a guarded world of fact mixed with fiction. A trait somehow handed down to my father, embellishing the lives I suppose they thought weren’t good enough.

My maternal grandmother died when my mother was seven. It was Halloween. The costume she made for my mother hung on the back of her door all day as people hurried in and out of my grandmother’s bedroom.  She died, along with the baby, giving birth pre-maturely.

My grandmother’s father owned three homes on one property. He lived in one of the big houses with my grandmother’s sister. My grandparents lived in the small home in the back. When my grandmother found out she was going to have her third baby, her father traded homes with her. My mom said her mother went to work fixing up the house.  And my mom believes that the paint she was using on the walls may have been toxic with lead, causing her mother’s untimely death.

I said my grandmother was a rebel. I think that because she married my olive skinned Spanish grandfather at a time and place where clearly, she should have married an Irish Catholic.  She struck me as a woman who just did what she wanted to do. Local customs and norms didn’t necessarily apply. She bought a sewing machine, a ringer washer, and a fur coat – all luxuries at the time.  She went to the city every Saturday with her girlfriends to shop.

She was creative. She made clothes and curtains (and Halloween costumes), and other things to decorate her home.  There was a player piano in the house. My mother’s not sure if it was there before they moved in, but it was a lot of fun even though for a long time there were only a couple rolls of music. 

My father took after his mother, and I believe my mother took after hers. Although I don’t think my mom was much of a rebel, she has always had a streak of independence. And she’s always been artistic, creative, and a lot of fun.

Like every family on earth, I have deep roots. Like many families on earth, I can’t trace them easily. At least not with personal knowledge. I don’t know a tremendous amount about my grandfathers either, but I’m not going to go there. It’s enough to know that I could be somewhat of an imaginative hypochondriac, rebel, creative, lover of life, with a propensity toward alcohol consumption.

Unknown

My sex at birth is unknown. That’s what it says on my latest blood results. I’m also non-Hispanic. Just a few years ago the case was made for accuracy in sex, age, race, and weight in medical tests so a patient could be treated properly.

I recently saw a cousin whose parents and grandparents on both sides were Irish. She is around five feet tall and weighs about ninety pounds. So of course, her size needs to be considered in any health treatments.  But I wonder with all the advances in medical science if it’s important to know that she is at least third generation Irish. Do the Irish, or people from that area of Europe, have a propensity toward any health issues, whether good or bad, that should be considered?

I don’t know but non-Hispanic white seems a broad category. Also, “sex unknown” seems like they could’ve asked me. 

Actually, neither of these descriptions bother me since I’m not a fan of the medical industry in general. It’s changed quite a bit in my lifetime, certainly not all bad.  I go for an annual to make sure I don’t have anything serious.  But doctors often don’t know their patients. People move around a lot and doctors book every fifteen minutes, so their offices are revolving doors of a little chit-chat, computer keys clicking, and “go get these tests.”

They don’t treat your symptoms. They only treat (or not) based on test results. Some treatments are worse than the malady. Consequently, many people self-medicate. I think doctors often have their hands tied by insurance and government regulations, so I don’t think they’re to blame for their revolving door practices. However, it would be nice to see a good old-fashioned, practical doctor.

The cousin I mentioned had a check-up shortly before I saw her. Her doctor said she needed sodium and prescribed three pretzels a day. I’d go to that doctor if I lived near her. But I wasn’t planning on discussing the medical profession. I took a rather long detour. I really wanted to talk about sex unknown.

It brought my thoughts back to being pregnant with my older son. I had morning sickness twenty-four hours a day. I couldn’t stand up without being nauseous.  People said eat crackers. That didn’t work. “Eat them first thing in the morning,” someone said. And someone else said, “No, you have to eat them before you even get out of bed.” After trying every conceivable cracker cure without success, I stopped. I didn’t eat another cracker for at least twenty five years.

When I hit five and a half months, I woke up in the middle of the night and started talking to Rob, apparently incoherently. He looked frightened and said, “We’re going to the hospital right now!”  I didn’t know why. I felt fine but I agreed. I didn’t realize I was delirious. When we got to the car, the crisp early December air snapped me out of it. I still felt fine and not sure why we were going to the hospital.

At the emergency room, my temperature was 103. They admitted me. I was given a bed in the maternity ward and hooked up to an I.V. of some sort of anti-biotic. After a couple of days, I was good to go home.

A woman I’d not seen before came in to clean the room. She noticed me gathering my few things and knew I was leaving. “What did you have?” she asked cheerfully. “They didn’t know.” I answered. A look of shock and horror quickly replaced her cheerful expression and I realized what she was thinking. Sex unknown? Species unknown?  At five and a half months, I had the belly. I was in the maternity ward. These suggested a baby, not an illness. I burst out laughing.

She stared, still with that shock/horror look but with a glare that said, “You’re a monster!”

I managed through my laughter to let her know I didn’t have a baby. Still pregnant. She regained her composure, but the shock was too much for her. She fled the room on some fabricated pretense, no doubt to hunt down whoever was in charge of putting psychos in the maternity ward.