DON'T IT TURN MY BROWN EYES BLUE?

Since the time of the Pilgrims, New England has been steeped in many traditions. One of these traditions came to mind this morning as I prepared a pot of Boston baked beans to go in the oven for a traditional Saturday evening "supper." My grandmother also came to mind as I prepared my beans because she always told us that she put bluing in her beans. For those of you who don't know what bluing is/was used for; it was to get white clothes white. I guess before bleach was around people used bluing. Of course, my grandmother didn't actually add bluing to her baked beans, but she told us she did so "we all would fart a blue streak!" As I stood there, I lovingly smiled as I remembered my Nana.

As a child we would sing this ditty and giggle:

Beans, beans, the musical fruit
The more you eat, the more you toot
The more you toot, the better you feel.
Then you're ready for  another meal...

What exactly is it about a fart that makes it so funny? And so embarassing?

I looked up bluing and found this additional use for it and got even more tickled and thought maybe my grandmother did add a drop or two of bluing in her beans since our bloodline is descendants to the Salem witches. Of all the people who were accused, imprisoned, tried and executed for witchcraft, I am directly related to over 40 of those people. I've been doing genealogy research for almost 30 years and have done a couple DNA tests. It's truly amazing what you find out when you start digging...

Obviously, my grandmother had her own method of cleansing a house of evil spirits.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING TO THOSE FAR AND NEAR

I don't remember any one particular Thanksgiving while I was growing up.  It's more an accumulation of all of them rolled up into one pleasant memory that makes me smile. The song "over the river and through the woods to Grandmother's house we go" definitely was the theme of the day for my family.  Yes, over the Penobscot River and through Brewer to the picturesque countryside of Holden was the route to my grandmother's house where a feast always awaited us.  Sometimes winter had already begun and the landscape was delicately draped with snow.  My brothers and I were always filled with anticipation of the exquisite meal we would eat and the days ahead that led to the grand finale, Christmas. 

My Nana's house was filled with delicious holiday aromas from the pumpkin and apple pies.  My guilty pleasure was the suet pudding soaked with hard sauce.  The dessert was so rich and flavorful, I could only eat a small serving even though I always wanted more.  The hard sauce was spiked with a splash or two of my grandfather's whisky so I felt all grown up eating it. Cinnamon and other spices masked the smell of the turkey roasting in the oven and the medley of garden-grown vegetables on the stove. Native-grown McIntosh apples would fill the apple pies and sweeten the day as their flavor mingled with the vanilla ice cream slowing melting atop the warm pie.  Their aroma is so distinctive that I could always tell if they were being sold in a store and now whenever I smell them, I'm instantly transported back to autumn in Maine when the orchards are bustling with business. 

There with her colorful bib apron on, Nana was the captain of her kitchen and always busy making sure everyone present was thoroughly sated. As she baked the pies, she always baked one pumpkin pie just for herself and she would eat it while preparing the rest of the Thanksgiving dinner. She rarely used a recipe, yet everything she made was baked to perfection. Her culinary expertise was strictly from instinct and the experience she had mastered many years before made her like some legendary figure from a Norman Rockwell illustration in my mind.

My choice from the turkey was always the wings, but when my Great Aunt Leah, one of my grandmother's sisters dined with us, I had to share the wings because they were her favorite as well. I never minded and to this day whenever I eat poultry, I always announce out loud that this one is for Aunt Leah as I eat one wing for me and one wing for her.  I know she'd like it that she's still remembered and included in all our holiday meals. Nana piled our plates beyond capacity, but no matter how much we ate, everyone always had room for a little dessert and then a little nap before going home. Nana always told me that my eyes were bigger than my stomach.  I suppose she was right, but on holidays even a child can have a hollow leg and be a bottomless pit. 

As the table was cleared and the food put away, my brothers and I did the dishes while the adults went into the living room to take a much needed breather. Nana always saved the paper tablecloth so I could cut out the turkeys and other Thanksgiving pictures printed on the tablecloth.  By the time I was done cutting, it was late in the afternoon and time to return home back through the woods and over the river to Walter Street we would go, but each time I went to Nana's house before I would leave, I always made sure I signed her guest book she kept on the desk in the corner of her living room. Doing that always made me feel as special as the others who had been guests in her house.  I'm sure the thought never crossed her mind to tell me not to do that because it was only for guests.  After all, I was her only granddaughter and I'm sure she indulged me in many, many ways.

*Repost from April 4, 2019

DRIPPING ON MY KEYBOARD

I first became aware of my grandparent's disappointment of me when I was a teenager. It was deserved, but it still hurt when my grandfather told me his dog was better than me. I had done some horrible things and yes, I had deserved scorn, but I didn't deserve cruelty.  Now, as an adult I look back on that part of my life and I wonder why no one stepped up and saw that I was in crisis. I was struggling. Jesus, I had my first overdose back then. Was it so hard to figure out I had some serious problems? I'm not excusing my behavior because I was incorrigible. I hurt many people and I'm deeply ashamed of that and always will be.

Whenever I would go "home" to Maine I always spent one day visiting my deceased relatives.  My brothers always thought this was rather morbid of me, but it never struck me that way.  I ways grabbed some lunch at a fast food place and ate lunch with my father, grandfather, grandmother and aunt.  They were all buried next to each other in the same cemetery.  On one such visit, I had had an emotional awakening the entire time I was in Maine.  My feelings were raw and I needed to vent so sitting there in front of my father and grandparents who were all non-participating entities in my life growing up I blasted them with everything I had.  I'm glad I was alone because if anyone had been in earshot, they would have thought I was crazy.  My final words to my father were, "Carl Goggins, are you listening to me?" Of course, he wasn't!  He had been dead for over 30 years at that time.  My words fell on deaf ears and my tears fell on stone marker bearing his name.

My next stop was to visit my mother's parents. My heart was so heavy because I knew what a disappointment I had been to them and I had just come from having "words" with my father.  I wish I had been able to say I'm sorry to them while they were still alive.  I wish they had known the turmoil I felt inside me growing up.  I wish they knew the panic I felt.  I wish they knew that I felt I had nowhere to go and no one to talk to and how trapped I felt.  I had to keep everything inside and for a child that's a huge burden.  Eventually it's going to erupt and it did erupt.  When it did, all everyone saw was a kid acting bad and not one person questioned why I was acting that way.  I don't think anyone cared or wanted to know because no one wanted to take any responsibility.

I pulled into the small cemetery where my grandparents are buried and got out of the car.  But instead of going to their grave, I stopped dead in my tracks. On top of their headstone was a huge roll of duct tape.  There wasn't a soul in the small cemetery and why would someone leave a roll of duct tape on my grandparents headstone?  I started laughing because I have a "thing" about duct tape and I took it as my father's answer that he was listening to me. I took the roll and sat down with my grandparents and told them I was sorry for being a disappointment to them and I wept.  It hurt to say that.  It hurts to admit that I hurt so many people that I loved and I wasn't able to tell them I was sorry while they were alive.

Now, let me fast forward to the present day...my mother is 92.  I love her dearly, but we've had a what I'll call a "ruffled" relationship my entire life.  It's never been smooth.  I'm her only daughter, but I've always wondered things like why she never sat me down at a certain age and showed me how to put make up on or how to style my hair, etc. when she herself dressed to the nines and looked like a model whenever she left the house. The other day I sat down in hopes that with the time we have left together that I might try to mend our relationship somewhat and make it smoother by offering an apology.  It was so difficult for me to hand her the olive branch, but I did it. I told her that I was so sorry that I wasn't the daughter that she needed and wanted me to be.  I told her that I really wanted us to enjoy what time we had left together and that I didn't want us to keep butting our heads together all the time (that's a story for another day.) I said I didn't want to be a disappointment to her any longer. My mother sat there without any reaction whatsoever while I wept and said nothing. She said nothing. She said nothing and she has said nothing about it since. End of discussion.

I can't even begin to describe the emotions that have flooded through me lately. I feel as though she continually punishes me for things I did long ago. I know karma is a bitch, but when is enough enough? When have you paid your dues? When are you truly forgiven? I can't help, but feel that my mother's silence is her way of being cruel because at 92 she's limited in what she can actually do now. I mean she can't whack the hell out of me with a hairbrush or a wooden spoon. Oh, I guess she could try, but I'm a little faster than her. I really hate to say that I think it's her way of being cruel  because I do love her. Jesus Christ! Now, I'm crying again! And I have to go find some meme to fit this stupid ass whiny post. Blah! Blah! Blah! Oh Mildred! Dry it up! Go get a Kleenex! You're dripping all over the keyboard!

By the way, I still have that huge roll of duct tape my father gave me and I use it quite often.  Each time I use it, I think of him and I actually thank him. The last time was to tape a hole worn in the fingers of my favorite pair of gardening gloves. Don't say "get a new pair!"  I've looked and they don't make that exact same pair and that's the pair I want so when I wear a hole in the fingers...duct tape it is! Thank you, Carl Goggins!

Can I get an Amen up in here?

Addendum: written 10/23/2022 Sunday morning - My mother passed away almost six months after I wrote this blog post on 6/1/2020. Although I'm much better now grieving has been a difficult process and finding purpose in life after being a caregiver for two elderly parents for the better part of two decades of my life has been challenging. When the options are limitless, how does one choose what to do?

ROSALIE

The focus of my last few decades has been primarily towards caring for my elderly parents. My father (actually my step-father, but he was the father I never had growing up, so he got a promotion a long time ago to being referred to as my "father") passed away in 2008 leaving a huge crater in many people's lives. Around that time was when the aliens came and abducted my mother and she began what I called her Empty Pod Stage (EPS). 

The doctors said she had Alzheimer's. I disagreed. I was right. They were wrong, but it took many years to coax her back into the land of the living. She obviously had some kind of breakdown. So many things happened in rapid succession that I think it overloaded her brain. It all started with her having breast cancer. She never reacted like anyone else being told they had cancer. She reacted more like she was told she had a fart crosswise and all she had to do is take a double dose of Gas-X to get some relief. Her reaction was almost eerie. Then there was the Category 4...almost a 5 hurricane that hit us directly. She totally lost it and wanted to be taken to the hospital. I'm sorry, but ambulances don't run in 150 mph winds. In fact, nothing runs in that kind of wind storm. 

She also had her driving privileges taken away from her and that hit her hard. In fact, that hit her harder than having cancer. That made her mad, but having cancer didn't! I never understood that one. I was relieved when they took her license because my mother had to be one of the worst driver's on the road. For 25 years before they took her license, I wouldn't ride with her if she was behind the wheel. If we went anywhere, I drove. In all honesty, she really was an accident waiting to happen. It probably was a blessing she didn't learn to drive until she was 30 something years old. 

Then there was decline of my father's health (cardiac and kidneys) which led to his demise. I suppose a person can only take so much before their mind goes into survival mode. That's when the aliens came and rescued my mother leaving behind just an empty pod that looked like her. I took good care of that pod for almost 10 years and then one day, the aliens returned. My mother came home. She started painting again and reading again and doing all the things she used to love to do just like it was only yesterday. She really didn't have any memories of that time period that stood out in her mind when I questioned her about it. 

What was almost 10 years to me and the rest of the family was at most a few days for her. In all that time she never mentioned my father or his dying. In fact, she did little talking about anything unless I really prodded her into it. Trust me, I tried everything....doctors, therapists, drugs, taking trips "home" to Maine, etc, etc. and NOTHING worked. Time was what she needed, so time was what I gave her. She even fell and broke her hip during the EPS. Now, that was a tricky situation to get her through physical therapy and up walking again, but with determination on my side, she did it and returned home from having surgery and then a 6 week stay in rehab. I know I'm luckier than most people. My mother has been around a very long time. She turned 92 on her last birthday in February.  

On October 24th my mother fell and broke her other hip. 

While she was in the hospital, I kept most people updated about her progress via text or on Facebook. It was easier than to having to repeat the same things 50 times in a row. The only people I actually talked to during this time period other than my children and a few friends were my brothers.

My final update about my mother was written and posted on December 3rd:

This afternoon my mother passed away. While I have to admit that I am relieved that her pain and suffering is finally over, my heart is broken. The sorrow that consumed both my daughter and I as we looked down upon my mother was overwhelming and as I finally walked down that long hallway away from Covenant Care Hospice at West Florida Hospital it took every ounce of strength I had to put one foot in front of the other and leave my mother behind forever.

I can't begin to express the sorrow I feel and how my heart is broken in a million pieces after watching my mother develop pneumonia and A-fib, have a pulmonary embolism, get sepsis from an UTI and lose the ability to swallow and have to have a feeding tube surgical placed in her stomach for nutrition. Basically, she went from being a healthy 92 year old on October 24th to being placed in hospice on December 2nd to dying on December 3rd. 

I'm a grown woman, yet I feel like an orphaned child. I walk around my house and feel her presence everywhere, yet she's gone. I'm okay one minute and I'm crying like a baby the next. I don't even know if that's what I'm suppose to do. I keep asking myself, "What am I suppose to do with myself now?"  I never gave this day any thought. I never thought about me in the grand scheme of things. My focus was always on other people...always on my step-father and on my mother. Thinking about myself now feels so foreign. I'm overwhelmed. I'm sad and I just want to feel like I have a purpose. I just want to feel  something other than feeling this horrible sadness.

This photo was taken not long after my mother was first admitted to the hospital. It's nice to see that she was still capable of smiling here.

At this point I think I had accepted my mother's fate...

When she was moved to hospice, I covered her with the afghan her mother had made for her. I wanted her to feel close to her mother. For some reason, I felt that was important. She always kept this afghan folded at the end of her bed. Her mother, my grandmother passed away in 1974. 

The Definition of Confusion (Thank You, Mother)

Reposted from 3/15/2010 edited:

When my children were still quite young and in school, they used to visit their grandparents on school holidays. I would drive halfway to Pensacola to meet my mother and place my children in her care. The first few days always felt like utter bliss and then the house gradually became a mausoleum. By the time I would pick up my children, I was more than ready to have them come home again. I welcomed that deafening chaos and unruly banter that came with three children.

My mother was always rather rigid while I was growing up and had a very democratic way of handling punishment. If the guilty party didn't confess the first time when my brothers and I were asked who did something, we all suffered the consequences. As I grew older and eventually became a parent myself, the woman who raised me seemed to change. She got soft in her old age! Had I broken her spirit? Possibly! But each time my children would rave on about the fun-loving person who they perceived their grandmother to be, I knew it wasn't the same person who raised me. My mother was proof that aliens do exist! They has abducted my mother and left in her place a female Captain Kangaroo or would it date me too much if I said Shari Lewis and Lambchop? Ask anyone from my old neighborhood! They knew my mother was a force to be reckoned with. Her voice alone could raise the dead. 

Each time my children would go for a visit, it took weeks before I could straighten them out. My mother waited on them hand and foot and made them do NOTHING but fun things while they visited her. When they came home sassy and quite lazy, I would want to pull my hair out. One time while driving home, my children seemed quite mesmerized by a joke book one of them had gotten while in Pensacola. One of their visiting rituals was for her to take them (her angelic grandchildren) to Hawsey's, a used bookstore and let them each purchase a large paper bag full of books to read. All three of my children loved to read so going to Hawsey's was always a fun thing to do.

Since they were quiet on our trip home and this was an oddity for them, I tried to engage them in conversation only to be told they were busy reading jokes. That explained the occasional chuckle I heard from the backseat. I asked them to read me aloud some of the jokes. My youngest child, Matthew spoke up and said he would read one. Although he was only 7 at the time, his reading skills were quite advanced for someone his age. As Matthew read, I almost drove off the road.

Whats' the definition of "confusion"?

Twenty blind lesbians in a fish market!

WTF? Now, with glee they started reading more jokes from the book as fast as they could until I could gather my thoughts and ask them where they got the book. In unison they told me...HAWSEY'S! And of course I asked if  their grandmother let them buy that book? Well, I was told she never screened the books that they bought, so the book titled Truly Tasteless Jokes was easily purchased by my son, Daniel (age 9).

Then they all went on to start reciting the dirty little ditties my mother had taught them. It was then I knew she had truly lost her mind or maybe the rules that apply to being a parent were different from those that apply to being a grandparent. It definitely was a gotcha moment lovingly given to me by my mother. To this day, my mother just smiles innocently when this story is told. What I want to know is why she never taught my brothers and me these ditties when we were kids or why my grandmother never taught them to us? Geez! I feel cheated! 

An example of one of the my mother's ditties:

A flock of birds

Chocked full of turds

Flew over my father's castle

They stretched their necks

And shit a peck

Then closed up their assholes.

Gratitude statement: I'm thankful I don't live in a castle near a fish market.