I can’t seem to stop taking photos of my Mother’s Day flowers. Hand delivered by my son last weekend. They are the hardiest roses I have ever received.
Perhaps, also, the most delicate. I am drawn to the detail. The subtle coloring. The mysterious greenery that is not baby’s breath.
My eyes constantly drift over to their spot on the table across the room.
A few days later, I am at it again…
I also note how they are aging…gracefully. I refuse to throw any out, even as they lose their perfect delicacy. Their perfect color. Edges growing a bit more discolored every day.
Is beauty only in the new and fresh?…or can we also see beauty here…in the natural curling at the edges…petals darkening…greenery fading.
As the short life cycle draws to a close.
And when her biographer says of an Italian woman poet, “during some years her Muse was intermitted,” we do not wonder at the fact when he casually mentions her ten children.
Anna Garlin Spencer
HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY
especially to all you mean mothers out there…
Adorning a wall in my former home was the following calligraphy print I bought at a local craft fair in the early 1990’s.
It appealed to me with its logic, simplicity and just plain common sense…
Calligraphy by Jean Drolet
In 1993 I was inspired to write a story about a day in my life as a mean mother. I dusted it off for this blog post (who knew?…).
~~~
CONFESSIONS OF A MEAN MOTHER 1993
There are two kinds of mothers in this world: Nice Mothers (all the other mothers in town) and Mean Mothers (me). At least that’s what I’m told by my 11 year old daughter; my first born, my pride and joy, my reason for campaigning against Ronald Reagan.
She is right. I am a Mean Mother – married to an equally Mean Father. I have explained that we owe our success to Mean School. Where else would we learn how to set up “chore charts” directing her to strip and make beds (for starters) and our 5 year old son to set the table and fold socks? Where else would we learn about bedtimes earlier than all the other kids in town? And how to set an allowance that is less than the mortgage payment?
I often hear about Nice Mothers.
All the Nice Mothers let their kids stay up late and wait on them 24 hours a day. Children lucky enough to have Nice Mothers can also eat candy and chips all day long. My daughter has many friends who have no chores and watch whatever they want on TV.
“Their mothers let them,” she declares (fathers aren’t usually given credit for this). This surprises me because I think I’ve seen a few of these mothers at Mean School.
My daughter demands proof about Mean School. My son usually accepts these things at face value; but she, being older and wiser, is suspicious.
The subject came up again one recent evening.
Daughter: “Mom, can I watch TV?”
Me: “Have you finished your homework?”
Dtr: “I’ll finish it after ‘Rocky and Bullwinkle’ is over”
Me: “Now is better.” “Remember Mean School Rule #66: ‘Children must finish all homework before viewing TV.'”
Dtr: “Mom, would you just stop with this stuff about Mean School?” It’s SO ridiculous!”
Me: “Well…don’t you think I am mean? Aren’t I doing a good job?”
“Mommmmm.” She rolls her eyes. A practically perfect eye roll.
She hates to lose an argument. “There Is No Such Thing As Mean School.” She pauses for effect. “Like, where is it?”
“Only learning-to-be-mean parents know,” I admit.
Hands on hips…”I still don’t believe you!”
I turn to my husband who is sitting on the couch with our son reading The Cat in the Hat. “Don’t you think it should be obvious that we’re going to Mean School? We insist they write Thank You notes for goodness sake! And what about the no-candy-for-snacks rule? Now that’sreal proof.”
He looks up at me, right eyebrow raised. “Well, I don’t understand why she doesn’t believe us. Maybe we should take extra classes.”
“That’s IT!” “We’re not mean enough!”
She stamps her foot. “You guys are just fooling me. I don’t care what you say. There’s no such thing and I know it!”
Our son, eager to end the discussion, defends our position.
“You’re just a butt-head,” he comments to his sister.
Ignoring him, she crosses her arms and tries again: “And anyway you aren’t that mean…..”
What?
My husband and I look at each other in astonishment.
“All that work! All those rules! All those lists!”
“And especially all those classes…for nothing?”
“We’ll just have to try harder, that’s all,” he admits.
I nod my head in agreement as our daughter flops down in a chair with a loud sigh and another eye roll.
“Well, kids,” I promise, “Dad and I are going to do the best we can to use what we learn in Mean School no matter what other parents let their kids do. After all, we have our position in the community to think of. Remember the family motto: if your friend jumps off a bridge, will you do it too?”
Our son laughs. “Yeah, right.”
Our daughter moans. “Oh forget it.”
We, as mean as ever, continue… “Please go pick up your rooms – we can’t see the floor anymore.”
~~~
[I am happy to report we were able to boost enrollment at Mean School by recommending it to several friends. Whose children also grew up to be fine upstanding citizens with great senses of humor]
This post inspired by V.J.’s Weekly challenge #47: In-Between
This week, I need your inspiration – where do you go in the in-between? How do you survive it? Or maybe the in-between is ripe with gifts?
~~~
We will call you when the all the lab tests come back… Pathology could take a while…
You’ll have to wait for the results.
Waiting
Watching
Worrying
Wanting
What If
When Will
What Now
What Then
Why
When
Where
Waiting
The monkey mind churns.
Stealing today’s minutes in-between.
Poof.
Gone.
Helpless jumble of thoughts line up unbidden Bumping into each other Scrambling gibberish Is it five minutes or five hours I can’t stand another secondof….
Turn It Off
Short circuit the loop of lunacy.
Plug in
Three minutes of song.
Shut frantic tired eyes
One-Two.
One-Two-Three-Four.
Volume up.
Way up.
Melodies seep past fear laced neurons
Soothing the gray matter of terror
A foot tapping rhythm takes over…
Three minutes of happy.
Bell & Howell movie projector Purchased 1983 400 ft & 50 ft reels of film
One of my favorite memories as a child was home movie night.
When my grandparents would visit. And the 8mm movie projector was hauled out with great fanfare and set up in the living room on a card table. The screen slid out of its long narrow tattered cardboard box. Metal supports positioned on the carpeted floor. Screen unrolled and hooked tight.
My family would gather & find seats. Kids usually cross legged on the floor. Waited for my father or grandfather to get the film threaded properly. It seemed there was always an issue. Nothing was automatic. The damn film got stuck. Wait a minute. I’ll have to trim it. Okay here we go.
Finally, the window shades were pulled down. Lights out. The room illuminated only by the projector bulb.
Then magic happened. Flickering images of the “old days” appeared on the screen. My parents in their early twenties. My grandparents mugging for the camera – much too young to be my grandparents…but there they were! My sisters, brother and I as babies. Toddlers. Christmas mornings. Easter baskets. Birthday parties.
My siblings and I…fascinated. Eyes glued to the screen.
The only sound…the humming projector. Interspersed with the whirring and clicking of rewinding and changing each 3 minute long reel. With no audio….
The original silent home movie. 8mm and later – Super 8mm.
I was forever hooked. My mouth hung open in disbelief at the power of this machine to go back in time. Or so it seemed. Even without sound, it was better than television. When I reached high school age, I was honored to be the one who set up home movie night. Learning to thread the film into the projector. Trimming when necessary.
It was perfectly natural to continue this obsession when I became a mom.
First with a super 8mm movie camera. I had to control myself. Three minutes went by fast. Film sent to Kodak for processing wasn’t cheap. In 1983 we added the movie projector – and a screen – to watch the movies of our baby daughter. Six years later, our son. Christmas. Easter. Birthday parties. Watching a storm. Running in the backyard. At the beach….
We eventually graduated to a camcorder. Next a digital movie camera. Then a phone.
I preserved the home movies of my childhood by having them transferred to videotape in the 1990’s. I held my breath until I got them back in the mail from the video conversion company. Which had first spliced the movies onto over a dozen 400 foot reels. Safely returned along with the videotapes. Which we later added music to. And duplicated for my family members.
Decades later, when the tapes began to disintegrate, I digitized them on my computer.
Grateful for more technology to keep memories alive.
I still have the movie reels. The projector. Just in case. Trusting what I can hold in my hand. No offense to thumb drives, platter drives, solid state drives…phones…and clouds everywhere.
Below is a snippet of a (silent) 3 minute movie I took of my daughter, who is narrating what she sees out the open window.
Hurricane Gloria – September 1985.
Transferred from 8mm movie film to videotape to a M4v digital file.
Old technology saved by the new.
This post inspired by V.J.’s Weekly Challenge #46: Response
For this week’s challenge, I thought it might be interesting to create a post in response to someone else’s work. This might be a poem in response to an image, or an image in response to a poem. It might be an imagined dialogue, or a response that demonstrates how the other has inspired you. As always, be creative, and remember to create a link to the original piece.
~~~
Pat at 2squarewriting posted “The Art of Letting Go – Moving On Without Losing Everyone You Know” on April 4, 2019.
My response…
It’s okay to
wrap up the
indignation and despair
for what was real
but really wasn’t
grateful to know
the difference
from years grown up
tethered to an illusion
of close connections
Bread…the often maligned staff of life. A slice of evil carbs. The heaven-sent envelope for melted cheese.
I didn’t give it much thought on a personal level until 10 years ago. When I was diagnosed with celiac disease. And reluctantly began my adventures into the murky depths of the gluten-free diet.
Full disclosure: I worked my entire professional life as a registered dietitian, so I knew what celiac disease was. And what a gluten-free diet was. My least favorite diet to teach someone about. Challenging to say the least.
It was not without great irony, that I embarked upon this new personal life chapter.
Returning to the subject of bread…
“Back in the day” as we baby boomers say, gluten-free (GF) bread was akin to extra thick cardboard…at best. Available only by mail order. Or at a lonely booth at the annual dietetics convention. Samples piled high as dietitians rushed past the company table. Towards the latest low fat potato chips on display further down the crowded aisle.
GF bread was oh so very dry. Like chewing on a rug pad. Sandy when crumbled. Taste? A junior high science experiment gone wrong.
When I was diagnosed in 2009, a hopeful light had started to appear at the end of the gluten-free diet tunnel. A few companies were starting to manufacture decent gluten-free mixes, cookies, cakes…and some breads. The marketing strategy was not so much aimed at those of us with celiac disease (we are only 1% of the US population), but for those with gluten intolerance as well.
However, the real economic driver for the cascade of GF foods on the grocery store shelves? The tidal wave of consumers who believe a gluten-free diet is a healthier diet overall (it isn’t, don’t get me started…).
All the attention is fine with me though. I benefit from more choices that actually taste…almost as good…as their “real” counterparts.
I tried making GF bread from a mix the old fashioned way. Letting it rise and all of that. There were a number of disasters until I found a mix that turned out okay…
…but the texture? meh… Taste? better than a GF loaf off the shelf. Still way too much work.
In 2011 my 2 adult children took pity on me and gifted me a bread machine at Christmas. Along with several bags of GF bread mix.
“It’s easy Mom. Just put it all in the machine and push the gluten free setting button!”
They were well acquainted with my aversion for recipes with more than 6 ingredients and a few steps.
They were right. It was easy. The bread tasted even better. And did I say it was easy?
The magic bread mix plus bread machine did equal a quality loaf of gluten-free bread. Not quite like the old days of hearty wheat and bran bread, but a definite improvement…
No more cardboard bread. The taste and texture acceptable. But still not…well…normal.
However…since I pride myself on reading directions – no matter what they are for – I also studied the recipe book that came with the bread machine.
I found a gluten-free bread recipe listing:
5different flours plus 9 other ingredients
and 15 steps…
…I thought maybe I could make an even better GF bread. Worth the time to assemble. With so…many…ingredients. And the bread machine…
My curiosity got the better of me. As often happens.
I tweaked the recipe with:
1. What I had learned since my diagnosis (which includes: forget all you ever knew about baking bread)
2. Old Food Science class info nuggets pried from my memory bank circa 1976 (science is science after all).
3. Let’s try somehow to increase the fiber so eating white bread doesn’t feel so wrong.
It worked.
Excellent tasting gluten-free bread.
Which I know I have a photo of somewhere.
And when I find it, I will add it to this post!
One thing for sure: samples would go fast at the convention….
one letter UP ~ diary 2.0 