Shower Day

Today I'm missing my friend.

The crazy thing is that I didn't realize we were friends until last night when we got the phone call telling us she was gone. 

It wasn't like her leaving was a huge surprise, really....she was 91 years old.  

Her body was 91 years old; a rather big affront to her 45 year old heart and mind. She was always sort of bewildered that her bones and skin had the nerve to age when she had so much to do, yet.  How dare nature pull such a dirty trick?! 

She broke her "good arm" after Thanksgiving and had to spend time in the nursing home in Jordan until January. Spending that much time with THOSE OLD PEOPLE just about killed her, then and there. We talked about that time frequently and it occurred to me that she really hadn't spent much time with elderly people! The oldest folks she fraternized with were her kids, who are now in their late 60s. And their kids...who are in their 40s. No wonder the old people got on her nerves...

She checked out of the nursing home the first week of January and that was when I had the privilege and joy of visiting her once or twice a week to help her shower and reach things in high places or accompany her to the forbidden basement to fetch canned goods. We had always had a funny relationship, built on the mutual respect and understanding of two girls raised in the country who married into the same ranching family, decades apart. Now, we had time and a good reason to visit about things we were both interested in, like cooking and ranching and gardening and family. 

And so a friendship grew.

It's such a vulnerable place, needing help with things like showers; especially for a strong, independent woman who still lived alone past 90 years of age...

We talked about how many people she'd taken care of in her lifetime and I tried to remind her that it was just coming back around for her. We also talked about the reality of her going back to that nursing home if she didn't accept a little help. That kept her on the straight and narrow, project-wise, although I always worried that she'd push it just a little too far some days.

But after showers and on the phone arranging the dates and times for such events, we chatted and clucked and laughed. We could tease each other and forget names of people we should know. She'd feed my kids weird cookies that she'd baked with almond/quinoa/rice flours, and questionable produce from the bottom of the crisper drawer, sending them home with funny, odd things she'd dug up from drawers....old pocketbooks and plastic toys. I came home with Prevention magazine and so many stories of the day. Never once did it feel like a "duty" or something I HAD to do. They were golden afternoons that ended with sincere hugs and "I love you"s; promises to see each other next week.  

I tell you this with tears running down my face that yesterday not only did our grandma (for the kids, their great-grandma) leave this old earth, but so did one of my dearest friends. Today was our designated shower day (on a weekend, so she could see the kids), and we are so lost. She died in her garden, in the spring sunshine, at home....right where she wanted to be.  While we're not sad about that...one of our biggest goals was that she could stay home until the end,,,we are already lonesome for her. It's going to be a very long week. It's been a very hard day. 

Grandma Edith taught me so much, but one of the biggest things was that friendship can grow anywhere, anytime, if you're willing to nurture it. (Ever the gardener, wasn't she?!) 

Also...and I'm glad I never had to confess this to her, but....quinoa flour biscotti are really and truly awful. Just use real wheat flour and white sugar. I'll smile every time I see her "modified" recipes in my files.  

The Hundred-Foot Journey

I've found it.
The PERFECT contemporary movie that is NOT produced by BBC.
(At least, I don't think it is...hmmm...)

It's PG, takes place in India and France, is about cooking, finding one's place in the world, applauding both ambition AND contentment. There are small town politics, family politics (don't pretend you don't know what that is, now), a hint at national politics, a whole lot of heart in all of that.
 Did I mention it's mostly set in France and involves cooking?
With Helen Mirrin, of all actresses!

I very rarely love a movie to the core...especially those made after 1965....but I bought this one.
Watch it!
Preferably with an omelette and glass of wine, fresh fruit and cheese close at hand.
If you cannot find it or don't want to purchase it, come to my house and watch it with me!
(Wine and omelette complimentary, of course.)

  

It's a sad state of affairs....

....when flamingos are rustled from the mailbox.

We put new ones down there, but this time they're branded with the OC on the right hip. (I know. I couldn't really find the right hip on the plastic flamingos so I just went for the general area. Flamingo branding is tricky!)

A homemade pie reward will be given for information leading to the swipers of the previous flamingos. 

Easter at the 'fork

It was COLD!

The kids took their coats off for this picture, but I had to hurry up and capture the moment. Maggie was wearing a hat that Grandpa Jasper had found for her, the dress Aunt Bert made specially for her, and new silver shoes that were two sizes too big because I didn't have her to try them on when I bought them and I'm ALWAYS buying her shoes too small.

We're just proud Angus's shirt is tucked in and his jeans don't have holes.

Around 3 p.m. we load up potluck dishes and head over to Susan's Easter party where the kids run amok waiting to gather up the 115-150 plastic eggs she's hidden in her yard.

Meanwhile, we grownups have appetizers and wine/beer, and catch up on each other's lives. Most of these folks I only ever see here at Susan's party, and then only every other year, so I have a lot of news to hear in a short time. 

Here the kids are playing what I think must be their version of Calvin-ball, where the only rule is that you can't play it the same way twice. 

The boys are sitting there trying to figure it out.

It's a girl game, so they're destined to sit there a long, long, LONG time...

I can't stand how dear and smoochable they are!

It could be 20 degrees out, but if there's grass, the boots are coming off!

I don't know whose child that would be....

After a quick bite to eat (on the kids' part), it's off to find eggs!

Susan's son hustled around and made a bonfire for us out of the old Christmas tree...maybe two of them...and we ended the day with wood smoke in our hair, salmon in our tummies, and smiles on our faces.

What a fun Easter!

A Day in the Life in Bigfork

The kids and I loaded up the car with bacon and play clothes, and headed west for Easter.

We haven't been ANYWHERE since last July and our people haven't been here for a visit, so it was high time for a trek.

We just kind of absorbed the neighbors next door as family. Built in cousins, so to speak.

This is baffling to the Farmer, who doesn't even know all his REAL relatives, much less tack on family willy-nilly. 

I grew up this way with the Duttons, so I myself can't understand how one could NOT.

Tricky.

Anyway, here's Angus with one of his very best friends and "cousin"s, Quinn.

They had been waging war on their sisters, although I'm not quite certain the sisters were aware of the onslaught as they were quite busy building fairy houses, themselves.

(Note the armor...the finest plastic available.)

The besieged sisters....

 ...and a sample of their fairy dwellings.

Exquisite!

 In the meantime, the grandparents were burning sticks and other assorted dryish things.

The fire danger is nothing in the Flathead after a soggy spring!

Typical scene from the front step in the afternoon....

Lion, sword, bike, sweatshirt.

Sometimes it snows and then they drag out the board games!

Here we have a rather intense game of Clue.

 I think that's Colonel Mustard....

The kids get more into the drama of the game than actually solving the mystery....

When the storm moves out, we go for walks/rides with the cousins.

It always makes me laugh at how ridiculously picturesque Montana scenes are!

Here they are discussing dead squirrels or something, stunning mountains behind them.

Here's where I run in the mornings.
Seriously.
And this isn't even one of the more remarkable mornings...

Here it is on a frigid morning when the clouds have settled on the mountains like a wispy shawl...

The one rule they hold sacred is the "Ice cream MUST be consumed before bed" rule. 

The ice cream was a little hard this round, needing a hammer to dislodge it from the carton.

It softened with all the caramel and chocolate syrup liberally applied after extraction...

Grandma Celestia obsessively crochets afghans.

We each have our own personal afghan under which to snuggle and read by the fire.

A lot of times, we watch deep, insightful films like Rocky and Bullwinkle.

This is just a lovely moment that I had to include.

Some of us give it up earlier than others...

 Even Houdini takes advantage of the afghans and snuggles!

Spaghetti....Doh!

Sand Springs School, 1978

(L to R) Mary Dutton, Kimberly, Pamela, and Ed Kreider, Teresa Nanini

This picture was taken in September, I think. You can tell because we're all still smiling and it looks like we'd had a little sun.  The winter of 1978 was horrific, even for a second grader like I was in this picture. What I remember most about it, though, is spaghetti.

We had spaghetti for lunch today and as I was putting away leftovers, I thought about that winter and all the spaghetti noodles I had eaten then.
Not spaghetti with sauce....just noodles.
And butter. Sometimes salt and pepper on it.
It was my first taste of "batchelor food", being snowed in with my teacher for at least a week.  Maybe it just FELT like a week, but I'm pretty sure it was. I'm certain it felt much, much longer for her.

There was so much snow and so much wind that the highway was closed, I think. Even if it had not been closed, my parents were spending all their days trying to get the cows fed and had no time to spend transporting me to and from school that week.  My teacher, Miss Nanini, and her German Shepherd, Hobo, lived in a tiny little two room "teacherage" (with a bathroom, too...ooo!) right next to the school. The Kreiders lived just across the highway from the school so they were able to go home without too much effort on their folks' part, but my family lived over 40 miles away and it was flat impossible to get me educated AND the cows fed in that sort of weather.

Staying with your teacher in her house sounds really great when you're eight years old. We were never allowed in her house (she had to have SOME privacy) and always wanted to see her secret lair, her den, where she hung her broom! It turns out, though, that teachers aren't nearly as interesting at home as one imagines them to be. It didn't matter that she didn't have a television...we didn't have one at home, either, and I was a reader even then.  She had an 8 track player and about five Dave and Sugar albums that we played over and over and over and....
To this day, I can sing "Queen of the Silver Dollar" to you from start to finish, never missing a word.
I would bet my moonboots that Miss Nanini can, too.

The little house was wicked cold (I'm sure it had little or no insulation), only about a foot out from the propane heater was warm.  The rest of the house SMELLED like propane, but didn't benefit from the heat.  The only real warmth would have been in the kitchen, had she cooked at all, but alas...
The only thing Miss Nanini could and would cook was spaghetti.  Just the noodles. Topped with the butter and "spices". She was more of an outdoorsy person and I really don't think she'd ever HAD to cook for herself or anyone else. The burden of three squares probably floored her, on top of being responsible for this child 24 hours a day for 5 or 6 days.
So, we ate spaghetti noodles for lunch and supper.
Breakfast was white toast, with butter.
AND jam!

Bless her heart, anyway.
What an experience for everyone!
Looking back, I don't really understand why I didn't stay down the hill at Uncle Joe and Aunt Daisy's house. I'm sure there were good reasons and surely no one anticipated my stay being that extended.

Now, whenever I make spaghetti and have a little bite of the ones I'm putting away, I think of that week and wonder where Miss Nanini ended up.
And if she ever learned to cook anything else.

Lyrical

I'm an obsessive reader, devouring books as some might consume M&M candies. Writing, when it's really good, pulls me up short and causes me to reread passages several times (sometimes aloud) in order to savor the way the words create a thought or scene. 

Do you do this?

It's the same way with songs.

I know they're really poems set to music...that alone is kind of stunning when you think about it because the rhythm and meter has to match, never mind the actual tune. When it all comes together...wow! 

There are lyrics that cause me to play and replay a song, marveling at the writer's ability. 

For instance: 

"We run....come undone, like a string on a sweater that you pull but you know better, but doing what you shouldn't's half the fun..."

(We Run Sugarland)

The song is okay, but that little chunk of the chorus grabs me every time.  

Exactly.

All the strings I've pulled in my life...

Or this from Ian Tyson's song Fifty Years Ago:

"If I could roll back the years, back when I was young and limber, loose as ashes in the wind, had no irons in the fire..."

In the chorus we hear:

"And the sighing of the pines up here near the timberline 

makes me wish I'd done things different, but wishin' don't make it so..."

Youth isn't described any better than "loose as ashes in the wind" in my opinion. 

He also has a song about looking back and realizing certain things in your life (especially relationships) have been "gambled and lost like summer wages".

**If you haven't listened to Ian Tyson, run (don't walk) to the nearest music store and get his album All The Good'uns for a glorious introduction to his songs. Then, after you're hooked, I'd recommend Live at Longview.  You won't regret a penny.

(AND you'll feel like you're riding with my Dad in the pickup, driving a pasture in Montana...)**

Tom T. Hall kills me, as you know.

" 'How old do you think I am?' he asks.

Well, I said I didn't know.

  He said, 'I turned sixty-five about eleven months ago.'

I was sittin' in Miami pourin' blended whiskey down

when this old grey black gentleman was cleanin' up the lounge."

And that's just the tip of it! 

(Another album everyone should own...not borrow, my friends, but OWN IT.)

Pat Green has no end to good lyrics in his music...no end. 

Try Poetry on for size:

(You get the whole song, here...it's THAT GOOD. Hit the link to listen along!)

"Some things I've done make my conscience burn

My very spine shudder and squirm
I only hope that I've learned from my sin
I heard a voice when I was thirteen
Got baptized - washed up clean
But the world has a way, if you know what I mean
To scuff you up again and again

I can't explain a blessed thing
Not a falling star, or a feathered wing
Or how a man in chains has the strength to sing
Just one thing is clear to me
there's always more than what appears to be
And when the light's just right
I swear I see poetry

Now, somebody made every natural thing
From the soul, inside out to saturn's rings
How my baby smiles and how Ray Charles sings
Of course we were created
The clouds make rain, the ocean makes sand
The earth breates fire, and lava makes land
Now that took a mighty hand
And a wild imagination

I can't explain a blessed thing
Not a falling star, or a feathered wing
Or how a man in chains has the strength to sing
Just one thing is clear to me
there's always more than what appears to be
And when the light's just right
I swear I see poetry

The dreams I dreamed came back ten-fold
The friends I have, to the woman I hold
I look down, I'm on streets of gold
After all the mud along the way
And sometimes the big old mystery
Just leans right in on me
And whispers that I'm home and I am free
And I'll take that any day

I can't explain a blessed thing
Not a falling star, or a feathered wing
Or how a man in chains has the strength to sing
Just one thing is clear to me
there's always more than what appears to be
And when the light's just right
I swear I see poetry"

-lyrics by Walt Wilkins

Here's my last one for this post:

"The lakes and pines, they bleed of beauty and grace.

And the rivers, they run wild like an endless race.

The forests soar so tall then they fall to the sea,

as the church bells ring and sing in harmony..."

That, if you can believe it, is a Kid Rock song. 

He's not generally known for his poetic soul (see following picture), but he really nailed it with this one.

The tune is really wonderful and the rest of the lyrics are the same.

I don't think I've ever listened to it just once in a sitting; I always rewind for a second round. 

(There will probably be a second "Lyrical" post, but this is all I have time for today.  Besides, it's going to take you a little while to get over my dad, Tom T Hall and Kid Rock being mentioned in the same post...)