More Than Poetry

More Than Poetry
The back of the picture reads, to the most beautiful girl in the school, world, universe. I will love you forever. The flip side captures the face of a young man with sad eyes and only a hint of a smile. His shaggy, long hair is at odds with the suit and tie he is wearing. The memory of a young man with impossibly long legs and his best girl, temporarily smoothes my wrinkles into a smile. It was 1979, the beginning.
I am the most beautiful girl in the universe… or at least I was. The young man in the photo first talked of marriage while we sat together on the front lawn of our high school shortly before graduation. I said no. Plans to go to California to become a dancer or an actress or both would conflict with an early marriage. He had plans to join the army. Moving from base to base makes it impossible to answer a simple get to know you question with an equally simple answer. “Where are you from?” The answer is complicated if you have never lived anywhere for more than a year, “ I was born in Kansas, then moved to Georgia, then Okinawa …” I knew this because I was born in Kansas, then moved to Georgia, then Okinawa and six more moves before I was ten. I had already lived the life of an Army brat; I was not going to be the wife of a soldier. There was no doubt I loved my dad, but it was a desperate kind of clinging love. If I was good and obedient he would love me and come home. It was an odd notion with no known origin.


My mother was the constant, raising me in my father’s absences during the Vietnam War. She loved with abandon, unconditionally; her love filled a little girl’s heart with sunshine and butterflies. I guess it is the way of children and memories, and a sign of the times back then. Some things are too hard to examine and the sources of memories can be too fleeting to recapture. My parent’s life together ended in divorce. It was then that my dreams of true love began. They were filled with yearning, desiring, happiness and no fear. Love should be two people cleaving to each other in a big wide world. No clinging.
One year later, the young man had not joined the army; he gave me a ring instead. I said yes and we planned a life together. A detailed promise was extracted from him. No divorce, no reason for a divorce, never, not ever. He looked so kind and said with the gentlest voice ever, “never.” He was noble; I had already begun to fall into desperation. Determined to hold on tight to him and his promise I was unaware of falling into my old ways. How could I know? My actions were not obvious to anyone especially me. Just the opposite in fact, it was my suggestion to our pastor to include the scripture of a man leaving his family to cleave unto his wife, so beautiful, so poetic. For me it meant, come what may, we have each other.
The years passed and our family grew. He loved me through the birth of our three daughters; he loved me when I went back to school; he loved me when I traveled to faraway places without him. He loved me when I grew fat, when I grew skinny and when I grew fat again. He loved me when my hair sprung out after the requisite 80’s perm; he loved me with straight hair; he loved me when my hair was maroonish red, and when my hair turned gray. He loved me when I was happy and when I was mad. He loved me in sickness and in health.
We turned 40. Over the next few years we would become familiar with biopsies that were benign, hypertension, diabetes, depression, anxiety and panic attacks. We moved, changed jobs, and we became grandparents. I managed our lives firmly planted in the notion, do it right and love will be yours. It was working, or so it seemed. We had stared down over twenty years of life and survived still married to each other. We were not merely married, but happy with each other, enjoying life, still in love. Cooking, well, mostly eating was one of our favorite things to do together. Still wanting to share this joy I steadily replaced a certain southern grand dame of Savannah restaurant fame’s cookbooks with more healthy cookbooks with a lot of ‘no’ sprinkled on the covers. No salt, no fat, no sugar. Making sure we were compliant with doctor’s orders was the plan. Some would say I nagged, I preferred guided. Caught in the grip of loving my husband, I plowed right in, sure of the new plan. I had no idea how contradictory I had made our lives. I forgot about that long ago girl who wanted to live the poetry of love.
In February, nearly thirty years after pledging to cleave unto each other, our world changed. My husband’s mental health hit an all time low. After declaring suicidal thoughts to his doctor he disappeared on foot. Three hours became a limitless time on the clock. Phone calls were made, police came and went, and everyone we knew searched. The time bounced from fast forward frantic to slow motion distortion. He was finally located safe but in a state of utter despair. The next few months of intense therapy and some medication strategies stabilized his feelings. He has become more content, the bad days retreating into his memory. I remain painfully aware of the fragile nature of health. In a recent discussion with our doctor, I actually asked for the right recipe to ensure my husband’s safety and health. I was still clutching that magic conditional love that would keep him coming home. My doctor’s not so encouraging words were spoken after a moment of shock flashed across his otherwise stoic face. He said, “Mental illness is like any other illness, it is sometimes fatal in spite of our best efforts.” I needed comfort, not gloom and doom. Recalling the doctor’s words my lungs lurched into body betrayal mode: no air in, no air out. My feelings ran the gamut from fear, anger, sorrow, helplessness, to overwhelming love and gratitude. Months passed and as is the nature of time, some things eased. I began to remember my youthful yearning for an uncommon love found in verse.
I looked up to Cleave in the dictionary. My thought was to renew my vow, to use it somehow as encouragement. What I read surprised me. Two meanings: the first, to chop or break apart; the other is to stick fast or adhere. Not what I was expecting. So I looked up to Cling. After the expected adhere, stick or hold on my eyes moved on to these words: embrace, hang on to, retain, keep, cherish. Well, well, I get it, finally. I had it then, I have it now. The poetry of love is not in the words used to describe it but in the actions it requires to hold on. The heights and the depths of our life together have been entirely marked by embracing and letting go. There are no guarantees, no conditions. Love is in the living, we embrace it and cherish it and sometimes all we do is hang on. A woman shall leave her family and cling to her husband, not pretty prose, but a balm for my heart.
I am standing here looking at the photo of my husband taken during our senior year of high school. It’s yellowed with the passage of more than thirty years. He still thinks I am the most beautiful girl in the universe and I still think he has impossibly long legs. I will love him forever.

Pie, Pie I Love Pie!

We are Pie people more than cake people. Don't get me wrong we do love homemade yellow cake with milk chocolate icing, but not birthday cake or wedding cake or red velvet cake. Especially not red velvet cake. Yuck! My grandmother's coconut cake was great and her butter cake was really really great but the gift belonging to those recipes seems to have vanished when she went to live with the angels who sprinkled her with angel dust in her last days. But pies and cobblers are where our hearts live and beat.
Thanksgiving is the perfect holiday for us...it features pie. It's when the rest of the world recognizes pie for it's greatness. I'm not sure what dessert goes with New Year's but Valentine's day is a definite cake day, chocolate with pink icing. Easter is coconut cake, oh yea, that's a good one, as I mentioned coconut cake is good. Coconut cake after it's been in the freezer for a month...that is the best! Such good memories for me. Independance day we love as cherry, blueberry and apple pie take center stage!My mama spices up other special summer days with her peach cobbler. I don't think Halloween gets its own dessert just candy. And Christmas is cake, fruit cake to be specific, ummmmm not too good. So July 4th and Thanksgiving us pie lovers live it up!
I used to be the pie maker and they were good, but I have passed the pie pans to my duaghter and she is awesome! Yesterday I mentioned that we don't really mess with Thanksgiving menus. We like the tradition and that applies to the desserts too,with one exception. In my years of being the pie maker we finished our feasts with Pumpkin and Pecan pies and an occasional Sweet Potato pie. But since my middle daughter has taken over the pie making she has added Coconut pie. Her Coconut pie is the best, bar none, in the world! It is so good that her sister, my youngest daughter, shunned a wedding cake for her October Wedding in favor of Coconut pie and Pumpkin pie made by middle daughter.
We may add a crustless pumpkin pie this year for certain health considerations but I will be looking forward to Coconut Pie. Rumor has it that the health conscious are considering just a sliver of middle daughter's Pumpkin and Coconut pies!

Traditions

Thanksgiving is on everyone’s mind. Television programming features regular reminders that it’s green bean casserole time again! Magazines are full of glossy pictures featuring a golden bird and side dishes that make even a full stomach rumble with hunger. My family and I pour over these magazines on the hunt for clever ways to set the table, crafts for the kids and other tid bits that will make our day together special.
I always pay special attention to the varied ways to prepare the feast day standards such as sweet potatoes, dressings, and salads. I do this not because I plan on surprising my family with sweet potato cranberry spiced soufflé or walnut stuffing with golden raisins and pimento, but to laugh at the weirdoes who would dare mess with tradition! Every year I am amazed at the myriad of ways to prepare Thanksgiving Dinner. Who are these people? I may live a sheltered life, but I have really never met anyone who doesn’t make the same thing year after year. How could you betray the memory of your grandmother by not making her cornbread dressing on Thanksgiving?
Oh sure we talk about it, we speculate on making things low calorie, more modern or even accommodating a new son-in-law’s possible Thanksgiving traditions. We even carried out a few flirtations with the new. There was the year we were all watching our weight so we made mashed cauliflower instead of mashed potatoes, it fooled no one and it was never repeated. Another year we went to a step-parent’s house and had an entire meal of new. That day has been recorded in family lore as the worst Thanksgiving ever. The evil step-mother tried to impress with a fancy affair, no turkey, just goose. Goose stuffed with dates, sausage and some unidentified gray stuff…best guess was mushrooms. Least I mis-lead you, we do indeed experiment, love new recipes and try all sorts of craziness found in the pages of Martha Stewart. We have enjoyed many meals of “recipe firsts.” Some of them even becoming part of our regular repertoire of dinner fare. We do not however mess with Thanksgiving!
We may add a son in law family favorite to make them feel like part of the family, we may invite someone to bring their Thanksgiving specialty but we do not mess with the perfection that has become our Thanksgiving Day feast.
Original Menu in bold, additions in italics:
Roasted Turkey, we have to have this because we love it and we need the juices to make the dressing.
Deep Fried Turkey, Deep fryers became the rage about ten years ago and the boys in the family thought the idea of frying a turkey ranked in the supreme category. We did love it, but as previously stated we could not do away with the Roasted Turkey.
Grilled Turkey Breast: due to a constant shortage of left over white mean, again the men wanted to man up and use fire to cook the bird. Results were delicious, it was a keeper.
Giblet Gravy: a southern tradition
Smooth Gravy: a son in law addition
Cornbread Dressing: Handed down for at least 4 generations, it’s not going anywhere! * note at least one son- in –law grew up eating stuffing. It is not on the menu, never has been never will be, it’s gross.
Mashed Potatoes: duh!
Sweet Potato Souffle: Handed down for 4 generations, even people who don’t eat sweet potatoes eat this and love it
Green Bean Casserole: This is a testament to a much beloved son in law, he loves it, and no one else does. Two generations have now made this so that said son in law will have a smile on his face!
Green Stuff: Otherwise known as Watergate salad. We are thinking about adding Pink stuff this year in honor of the newest son in law in the family.
Relish Tray: duh!
Maybe tomorrow we will address the desserts!

Ants are Mean part 2

Ants Are Mean

I had to waste the afternoon of a perfectly lovely warm late fall afternoon sleeping! Don't get me wrong some days I long for a lazy nap while fresh ocean breezes cover me better than the softest sheets. But not today.
Today was a gift, a throw back to summer with just enough coolness in the air to harken the colder days of winter ahead. It is what I call a threshold day, one step behind finds the summer fun, one step forward lands you in the excitment of winter holidays.
Looking forward to spending the day outside, I wrestled my grandson from P.J.'s to clothes, to shower, back into clothes, back into clothes, and back into clothes. Yes, I believe the count is right, dressing him 4 times in less than 45 minutes. The first time he insisted on wearing dirty clothes, I gave in, anything to get him dressed and outside. I jumped in the shower, he undressed and jumped in the shower. Dressing number two involved me insisting on him wearing clean underwear. We struggled, he won. Naked again, he agreed to wear clean underwear if he could wear them backwards. I agreed, what do I care if he has a wedgie all day? Backward clean underwear with dirty clothes on top. I could agree to that, I just wanted to get outside. On our way outside a collision with a water glass led to the fourth and final wardrobe choice, clean shirt, dirty pants, backwards but clean underwear, no shoes. Perhaps I should have taken it as a sign that we should not venture outside.
Today's mission several games of red light, green light and collecting fall leaves. Our cherry tree floats the most vibrant leaves onto our lawn. Colors range from burnished browns to sunny yellows. There are pumpkin and green leaves and golden oranges. Almost every color you could think of except red. I have asked my grandson to bring me yellow leaves, then brown, then orange...he says what about red? Looking around we find no reds. He looks up and spies the flaming red trees lining the back of our neighbor's yard. Barefoot and armed with an array of leaves we head over to ask if we may harvest a few of the red leaves lying about in such plenty. Our neighbors love my grandson and eagerly offer for him to take bushels and bushels of leaves. We thank them and tell them a few will do.
My grandson is happily picking up leaves and I see that the most vibrant reds have fallen close to the trunk of the tree. I venture in and am stooped over mindlessly calling out, "look at this one, oh look at this one," when something else red appears to be under the tree. Ants!
My left bare foot is covered in fire ants, stinging and biting or whatever it is that they do. In just a few short moments they have swarmed my foot and the bottom of my pants. Trying to remain cool and keep my grandson away, I scream and spastically begin brushing them off my foot and pants. No one likes fire ants and as it turns out I am allergic to the little freaks of nature.
Two antihistimines, and two ibuprofens later, I'm on the couch with a foot that looks like a float in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. I have hives covering my entire body and my fingers are almost too swollen to hold anything. My eyes are heavy from the antihistimine. My daughter has come to retrieve my grandson and I drifted off not to awaken for two hours! The door bell was ringing or perhaps I would be sleeping still. God does indeed work in mysterious ways. It was the "bug man" at the door. I had forgetten about our quarterly pest control visit. I explained my plight, to which he responded, "Ants are mean." Yep, ants are mean!

Smiling in the Sun

Who says dogs don't smile? Mine does. Miss Holy Moses knows about gratitude too. She is grateful for warm sunshine, cool grass and few bugs to snap at. You can tell by the smile on her face. I'd like to sit here all day with her but I need to do a few things that will make me and my family more grateful on Thanksgiving next week. Like cleaning out the sticky goo that has formed on the bottom of my refrigerator from the bottle of wine that spilled in there a month ago...
Nah, I'm back sitting in the sun with Moses I just got a glass of wine instead. Maybe tomorrow!

Hi, I'm Kay and I'm a Flowerholic...

I am not making fun of people with addictions recovering or not. I am saying that I am one of you. I can not stop buying flowers and plants. I'm sure this seems funny but really it's true. Let me put in perspective the scope of my addiction. I have a yard that is about the size of a postage stamp, granted at the time we bought the house, the realtor boasted that it was one of the largest most regular lots in the neighborhood. To give you an accurate size, I'd say our house and yard take up about the same amount of space as your average McDonald's with parking lot. Not a play park McDonald's, just the plain restaurant with a drive through and enough space to park maybe 2o cars. Do you get it? I can't give you measurements, cause I don't know them and am no good at guesstimating. It's small, it takes us less than an hour to mow the lawn. Our house is about 1900 sq ft. including garage. Now that you have the size in your mind let me tell you I have managed to put in a total of 14 flower beds, 39 pots, 3 fruit trees, 4 rose bushes, and 1 twisted willow tree. And I want more!!! It started innocently enough. We put in a side fence to keep our little dog from running the neighborhood biting people. Our then nasty homeowner's association declared our fence ugly and wanted us to take it down as we were lowering property values in the neighborhood. This is another story. We declined to take down our fence but did agree to plant some things around it to camoflage it. So it began. We bought four pampass grasses, and one climbing rose. In just one short growing season these managed to completely cover the fence. Success! Sadly, our little dog died and we no longer needed the fence. However, since I am an evil, vindictive person I did not want to take the fence down, instead we bought an above ground pool and put it in the fence area. I bought some large and small flower pots and embellished the pool with lovely potted plants. We had our own little pool oasis! Sadly, our pool was destroyed in some 80mph winds. Still I did not feel enough compassion for our homeowner's association to take down the fence. Instead my daughter and I embarked on the most glorious garden ever. With wip in hand we made boyfriend build us five raised garden boxes. We made our own garden dirt and studied many gardening books. In the end we decided on companion planting and container gardening. We spent the next few weeks buying and planting tomatoes, onions, peppers of all kinds, marigolds, zinnias, lavender, parsley, thyme, basil, lemon balm, rosemary, garlic, mint, spearmint, sunflowers, vincas, and creeping jasmine. In the pots we planted mandevilla vine, hybrid geraniums, assorted sedums, hens and chicks, moss roses, a banana tree, coleus, more vincas, some white flower things and some blue flower things. In addition to all of this we encouraged the growth of a wild passion flower vine and planted another rose bush outside the fence area. We kept telling ourselves that when we finished this "side yard" garden we would stop and just enjoy it. We would spend a few early morning hours a few times a week tending it and then be ready to go to the beach for the rest of the day. We moved here after all to worship the beach not to work hard in the yard. Our obsession with the "side yard" garden continued. We even asked for suggestions from friends and family for names for the garden. It was such a special place that we couldn't keep calling it the "side yard" garden. We created art just for the garden, we bought garden stepping stones, made spider webs from beads, used discarded items for garden ornaments and had husband rig up a fancy watering system. We have toyed with calling it many things including, "Where the Wild Things Grow," and "The Pot Field." No name as of yet has been determined. This flurry of activity was not enough for me however. Like the true addict that I am, I realized that I couldn't stop with the side yard. I must improve the existing flower beds and patios. I have added, pruned, dug up, transplanted and gotten more dirt under my finger nails in the last month than most people get in a life time. I think that most people would say enough. It looks nice, it will grow and mature, all good things will come in time. But not me. I look at the garden and see more possibilities. I can not go grocery shopping without stopping in the garden center for more ideas and a flower or two. I work at an actual job two days a week. Between my home and my work are two garden centers. I stop most days on my way home and come home with on average four more plants. I can't stop. I am surrounded by enablers, husband loves flowers. Plus husband has mentality of more is more. If you like peanut butter and are out of peanut butter, you should go to store immediately to buy peanut butter, not one jar, but two, maybe four jars, so that you never run out of peanut butter, when you get down to one jar, maybe two, you buy more peanut butter... Daughter has same addiction as me and encourages co-dependancy. Grandson likes to periodically step on, pick or otherwise destroy flowers, requiring purchase of more flowers to replace them. Next door neighbors have equally beautiful gardens, must keep up with the neighbors. Homeowners association has rules about where you can grow vegetables in your yard, must continue to piss off homowner's association by just skirting inside the rules. So you see, my addiction. I have forgone all sense of sensibility. I have only been to the beach twice this spring. I have not spent any money on cute new summer clothes or shoes. I have not spent any money on grandchildren. I have neglected friends. I haven't bathed my dogs or treated them for fleas yet this spring. My bedroom hasn't been vacuumed in a week. I go to sleep thinking of one more hanging basket. Tonight when I pulled into my driveway, I smiled. My little patch of earth is beautiful. It brings happiness to me and my family. I am going to the beach tomorrow. I am having breakfast and dinner with friends. Who knows, I might even go shopping the next day for the grandbabies.