Floridawoman

Jordan

The Jordan River is deep and wide.

Except in Jordan, New York, where the Skaneateles Creek is responsible for the town’s founding.

Reportedly, settlers in the early 1800s spied the creek, and thought it looked like the Jordan River. And it could have– in reality, the Jordan River is not deep and wide, but shallow and narrow. But, anyway, the town I grew up in was named Jordan. During the 1800s it was a busy place and they made beautiful salt-glazed pottery.

My favorite Jordan Jug in the Historical Museum in downtown Jordan

The Creek affected my family because in 1812 an early settler built a grist mill on it. The power of water in The Creek was used to grind grains into meal for cows and flour. The White Mill, as it’s called, is still the oldest building in Jordan, and my parents, Lyman and Sally Wilcox, owned it from 1956 to 1978.

In my memory, the food for the cows was called grist, and in The Mill’s basement there was a big pit filled with raw molasses. The original grind stones were abandoned nearby, which added to the lure. Molasses, you might ask? Cows love it, and it’s added to their feed as a special treat. It smelled good down there, even if it was scary.

My mom worked in the tiny barely heated office and dad and “the men” worked outside– and heavy work it was, hauling around bags of grain and feed, loading them on and off of trucks. My parents business was called Wilcox G.L.F and later Wilcox Agway-Feed and Farm Supply. The address was and still is 27 S Main Street, although the Wheelers now own it.

Over the years, our family lived in three different houses in Jordan, two rentals and a ranch house on Hamilton Road, which overlooked a working farm. One Valentines Day the farmer across the way spread out a manure heart in the snow.

What else about Jordan? I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention The Erie Canal, opened from New York to Buffalo in 1825. The Canal crossed over The Creek in the center of town by stone aqueduct. It was Jordan’s heyday, and the town never really recovered after The Erie Canal gave way to the bigger Barge Canal in 1918. The whole town is now on the Register of Historic Places.

There is much history to learn about the Erie Canal in upstate New York, but mainly school kids learned the song “Fifteen Miles on the Erie Canal”, featuring such lyrics as “low bridge everybody down.”

I first moved to Jordan when I was 10 and there was a stoplight in the center of town. Soon, it was replaced by a blinking light. The Erie Canal is now a lovely park and Skaneateles creek runs through the center of it.

There have been many other businesses beside The White Mill in Jordan, and over the years they came and went, mostly went. One big all-town event remains, The Jordan Fall Festival, which raises funds for the community pool. Everybody works and everybody eats, plays games and has fun. And in the summer they enjoy the pool.

Now, fast forward about fifteen years of my life — after college I edited The Jordan Leader and other newspapers in the area, and moved to Washington, DC, in 1972. I worked many jobs, married, and had two children. I visited my parents in 1979 with their first grandchild–named Jordan — an unusual name at the time.

Jordan is now grown and lives in Vermont in an even smaller place than Jordan. He has two sons of his own named Jasper and Shiloh. Jordan’s younger sister, Hope, lives in California in another small town.

Hope loves to travel and once went to the country of Jordan to visit the ruins at Petra. She tells the story of trying to get back to Amman to catch a plane, with complicating factors such as a guide who had other ideas and a beleaguered donkey which she had to ride if she wanted to get to the airport on time.

When she arrived in Florida, where we now live, she reeked of donkey and clutched a beautiful bag embroidered with “Jordan” on the front. We were very happy to see her, and we still have the bag proudly displayed in our living room.

I’m sure there are many stories in many small towns, but not everyone can name a child after their hometown. And the river in “Michael Rowed the Boat Ashore” was the Jordan.

Tomatoes Rule

Tomatoes are in the Deadly Nightshade family of plants. People a long time ago considered tomatoes bad for their health, but no more. In the United States they are the most common garden plant.

Count me in as a common gardener, as tomatoes are the only edible I grow, other than herbs. I have tried to grow tomatoes for years, with varying success. This year my efforts were so successful we are rolling in tomatoes.

I purchased, at a nearby box store, a variety called Purple Cherokee. I liked the name and thought they would be yummy small-sized fruits. One the way home I stopped for lunch and had to carry the plant with me since it was too hot to leave in the car. The folks in the restaurant did not ask, but it they had I was ready to say it was my emotional support plant.

When I got home I transferred my new tomato plant to a large container filled with potting soil and some Styrofoam pieces for drainage, and set the whole operation on the south side of the house.

I should also mention, early on, that in Florida one grows tomatoes in winter, Seriously, I bought my plant in December.

I located it next to my hose and purchased appropriate fertilizer to use every week. I watered it EVERY DAY.

It grew and blossomed and produced fruit. It was not the small variety I expected, nor was it the perfect Big Boy tomato of my husband’s youth. The fruit was big, red, green and purple. Some of these tomatoes were striped and had large cracks near the stem. I ripened those inside.

Meanwhile I looked up Cherokee and found it was a heirloom variety, and was much loved. All the colors were natural and one site said the tomato color might resemble a “wound.”

Some wound. They were delicious. Most juicy. Just plain exquisite. And the plant produced for weeks. It grew so big my cages and tying-up efforts were in vain. The main stabilizing post tilted almost horizontal from the weight of the fruits, stems and leaves. When I turned on the hose I had to look close and feel around for the faucet because it was hidden by the gigantic plant.

We enjoyed our first harvest on Valentine’s Day and still hav fresh tomatoes in May . Neighbors and friends were happy recipients. I wish I could share some with you, my readers. No luck there, but here’s my advice: Buy a tomato plant and fertilize it weekly and water it every day. That much I’ve learned. And remember Purple Cherokee. It’s the best.

Family Time is Precious

They came from far and away. Our family visited last month: From Vermont, via plane, son Jordan, his wife Julie, and the kids, Jasper, 8, and Shiloh, 3. Daughter Hope, who lives in the Bay area, had a long flight with stops. We live in Fort Myers.

Before they arrived we stocked up. First off, fresh salsa from the farm market. The Vermonters inhale it. It might be hard to get in Vermont.
Hope requires avocados and sourdough bread, which I bake. Shiloh likes squares (Life Cereal). His brother Jasper loves any kind of exotic fruit. All the adults drink coffee with half and half. And sparkling water, hop water, and sometimes Jai Alai.
The two meals we all love and agree on are waffles and mac and cheese. We have a double-sided waffle maker and the sides are butter, berries, yogurt, maple syrup and bacon. As Tom Hanks said in The Ladykillers, “We must have Waffles.”
We like our mac and cheese made with cheddar and this time we added broccoli and nobody noticed. They were hungry after long flights.

A wonderful benefit of living in this family is everyone likes to cook and doesn’t mind going to the store. Consequently, we ate well and the fridge was packed from top to bottom.
Other than eating, we played games, hit the train at Lakes Park and went to the beach several times. And we rode bikes every day. Florida’s flat.

Moxie, our little dog, who is mostly Boston Terrier, had a ball. Literally. Her thing in life is playing ball, although her skills often lack the “drop it” part. We can’t play outdoors anymore because she goes in the lake after iguanas (dog + lake = possible gator). So, we invented “hall ball”. The ball is thrown down the hall to the laundry room, which is full of various obstacles, but serviceable. Moxie runs after it with great delight, especially if the squeaker is still left in the ball.
The kids loved playing with her and she would nose the ball to them so they could throw it down the hall. It was semi-exhausting for all concerned, a benefit.

Games we played included Word Fever which includes narration from a virtual Game Master. He takes care of everything from “explaining the rules to asking the questions and keeping score” (batteries required). For instance, The Game Master’s voice asks players to name something everybody loves beginning with the letter H. Players press their buttons and offer an answer. The quicker they do, the higher their score. Shiloh particularly liked pressing the buttons and listening to the Game Master’s comments.
Some of us were just glad to think of a word that began with H.

The second game is called Poetry for Neanderthals. This game includes an inflatable stick. It’s like charades with words. A prompt card offers a phrase such as “voicemail,” and the player who is “it” must use one syllable words to get others to say it. You get the bumped with the stick when a multiple syllable word pops out of your mouth. Neanderthals are beloved in out family because we are descendants via DNA, but it’s still a difficult game. Except the stick part.

The family group, not including the grandparents, also played mini-golf and pickle ball, a Florida requirement.

The beach was fine but chilly, and for some reason Jordan, Hope and Shiloh went in the Gulf. The water was in the 60ties, but they were determined and joyful.
Meanwhile, on the beach, we built things with sand and driftwood and carried sea water to a potential moat engineered by Shiloh.

We also watched birds and had an an evening campfire. There were elephant noises, biking again and singing along to Moana as well as several viewings of Trash Truck.

Nowadays, Moxie the dog sits by the door hoping some child will come and play. My husband and I know how precious it is to have any time with family. And we throw the ball down the hall for Moxie every day.

Quilting 101

I have learned to quilt.

First of all, I never thought I’d be typing such a sentence. I do not sew. A sewing machine was at hand to mend things and once I made some simple curtains. That’s it.
And then I met a quilter, who moved next door. “Oh,” I burbled, “ Your quilts are so beautiful. I wish I could make one.” She said she’d teach me.

Initially, I said no because I envisioned an enormous frame on which you quilted previously-joined squares of material together along with an insulating layer and backing fabric. I knew my arthritic hands could barely hold a needle much less poke it through a “sandwich” (quilt talk) of three fabrics.

A Longarm machine (some people add on a room to accommodate it)

Enter a person called a longarmer.
It’s usually a she, and she owns and operates a huge and expensive machine called a longarm quilting machine. The machine and its operator can a quilt a sandwich like magic. You select a pattern (there are thousands to choose from), and pick a thread color and in a few days or weeks you pick your work up, quilted. There’s a computer involved, as well as a skilled operator, and of course, there’s money, but people like me benefit. Hugely.
The first quilt I made was called a Four Patch.
My kind neighbor-mentor guided me, and believe it—she had to start with a total beginner. I bought a sewing machine at COSTCO, fell in love with some gorgeous fabrics and set out.

My neighbor coached me every step of the way. I stitched blocks of fabric—little blocks into bigger blocks, and then into strips. Unbeknown to me, that’s how quilts are made. In strips.
After I’d labored away on my squares and learned the intricacies of ripping out stitches, which is a very important skill, we put all the square patches I had sewed up on her felt design wall to see how it looked. It looked pretty bad. My beautiful fabrics all mushed together in great confusion. I was speechless, but after a minute of contemplation she came up with a solution.
“Sashing,” she said, “we need sashing.” And so she taught me sashing, which is a method that makes each block stand out by surrounding it with another material, like black, forming a frame. That quilt now hangs in our living room. It’s called “Under the Sea.” Each square is like peeking into an aquarium.

Since then, I have made a double-sided king quilt with a pattern called a “A One Block Wonder,” a queen-sized quilt called “The Sun The Moon and the Stars,” and a farm and alphabet quilt for our two grandsons. Plus, a holiday quilt featuring birds.

My son and daughter-in-law are getting a king-sized quilt which I think it is my best effort yet. A Log Cabin design made of solid-color fabrics. It came as a kit—they send you the pattern and the material and you cut, sew and press for a long time before it’s finished. And then you pick batting and a backing fabric and head for the fabulous LONGARM MACHINE.

Quilting has taught me so many new things—about fabric, about thread, about following instructions, and most important—about paying attention to small things. Like sewing in a strait line.
I also realized that I get distracted by words. “ Don’t listen to podcasts,” my friend suggested, so I tried classical music. Much better result.
May I continue to learn new things.
And here’s to patient, talented neighbors —thank-you, Lee, I couldn’t have done it without your help and support.

Garlic on a Toothpick

My father, who lived only 70 years, and has been dead for 34, always made our family salad. It was called tossed salad back in the day and he learned to make it from an Italian gentleman who owned a restaurant my parents liked. Dad’s special salad was always garnished with a clove of garlic on toothpick—no one ate it, save one looney uncle— but it was there. The knife and the classic wooden bowl were also rubbed with garlic. My dad, whose name was Lyman, also made his own dressing, which began with salt and pepper, applied directly to the lettuce, which was then tossed. Next came two tablespoons of oil and a tablespoon of cider vinegar and further tossing. Dad was famous for his salad and at potlucks it was always requested. I’m quite sure not everyone believed he made it. Lots of dads cook now, but in the Sixties most dads didn’t.
Looking back, I’d say my parents shared household chores more than most families did. My younger sister was disabled and required a lot of care, and my mom and dad both worked at the business they owned. They often got home late and we ate late.
Salad was the first thing I ever made all by myself. I could put potatoes in the oven and perform other simple tasks, but one night ( I was around 8) I took on a salad. It was a work of art. I garnished the iceberg (we always used iceberg lettuce) with carrots, celery, onion, tomato and the piece de resistance maraschino cherries and Velveta cheese cubes. A work of art, I thought.
My parents and I ate it. But they mentioned that the cherries were for Manhattans, and probably didn’t go in salad. Truthfully, I thought the whole thing tasted rotten.

But to this day I eat a salad nearly every lunchtime. Minus cherries. And there’s no Velveta.
Much later I became a salad girl, but I’ve already blogged about that. (See my blog “My Salad Days.” https://wp.me/p3cJ8X-xz
What I’ve been revisiting in my mind lately is my dad’s legacy. Because of him I expected that the man I married would share the housekeeping chores, not leave them all to me. Consequently, I wed a man who does his own laundry. We taught the kids to do their own too as soon as they could reach the machine. John, my husband of 50 years, specializes in Dad’s Wacky Cake and he can make a mean ice cream or banana cream with his Yonanas machine. (Cake recipe found easily online as is the Yonanas machine.)

John can also cook for himself if I’m away. Truthfully, as we have gotten older we both eschew cooking.
Our son, who lived in California for some time, taught me to bake sourdough bread in the Tartine manner. I love it. Miraculously, our son and his wife are a much better cooks than I ever even imagined I could be. And, their child rearing and chores are split as much as possible.

We have two grandchildren — boys– and they were introduced to the kitchen early, handling knives and mixing and stirring like pros. The six year old creates edible recipes—minus maraschinos—and cooks his own hot breakfasts.
Our daughter, who became a serious vegetarian in her teens, also creates delicious meals and has taught kids in her California school the beauty of growing kale and eating it as chips.
Ironically, I’m now violently allergic to garlic, so I don’t keep any in the house.
But I’ve always liked Elaine on Seinfeld ( https://youtu.be/fomWuV-BtbI?si=ZQjSQTGk7dwsxBt- ) because of the Big Salad.
I know my dad would be proud.

It’s Time

It’s time to write about the hurricane. It was named Ian. pronounced “E-an.”
Ian was blowing up our side of the Gulf of Mexico. Forecasters said it was headed toward Tampa. Then it wasn’t. My husband, John, and I wanted to evacuate, but the specter of traffic jams and our inability to find a place discouraged us. We are not the kind of people who can just throw our pets in a car and head for the hills without a plan. There are no hills in this part of Florida. And we did not have a plan.

After paying him a large sum, a nice man put up our storm shutters, and we sat in the dark. (For those of you who do not know, storm shutters are corrugated aluminum shields that are screwed on over windows and doors.)

Neighbors helping us take shutters down.

The next day, Wednesday, Ian came barreling toward us for real. We had flashlights, food and water. Our phones maintained the texting feature. Our children in Vermont and California were having a fit and tried to find a place we could go. Our daughter found a place in Kissimmee but it was too late and too far.

Bike helmets are good protection, so we donned some and went to the only windowless closet in the house, just big enough for two and a dog. I jettisoned stuff on the floor, and we made ourselves quasi-comfy. Power was out. The cat was hiding elsewhere.

Ian came on full force around 11 am on September 28. We had a battery radio in the closet for a number of hours. It was comforting to know other people were around, broadcasting. Eventually, the radio kicked off. The station flooded, wiping out its power.

Without the radio, the wind sounds in our little closet were deafening. Like a freight train. Like a tornado, which we had experienced in Kansas. But this wind never let up, it just kept howling. And howling. The eye was supposed to come through at some point, but we never felt or heard it. The house shook.

After seven hours, I said to myself, “If this doesn’t stop soon, I WILL go crazy.” At that point, I was laying on the closet floor with the dog, helmet off, ears covered with my arms to block the noise.

John, who was patrolling the house, reported that someone had just texted that there was water in the neighborhood —in the street and up to the porch steps. Indeed, when we opened the interior door to the garage, the kitty litter was floating and bumping into other garage things, which were also floating. Both cars were still parked where we left them. In don’t-let-the-water-come-inside-the-house mode, we used duct tape to seal off the cat door (which led to the garage) and began rolling up towels, which we thought might help. How silly.

The water rose to the second of three steps. The official name of such water is surge. In previous hurricanes we’d heard about storm surge, but it failed to materialize, making fools of us all. This time, salt water came roaring down the road from the Gulf of Mexico, about two and a half miles south of our house. Later, we discovered dead fish in our yard. Water-born and debris came close, but it didn’t come into the house.

We lost a car, stuff in the garage, huge tree limbs and foliage, plus many of my favorite plants and smaller trees in the yard. The pool cage took a hit and the dock was upended and unmoored. Our mailbox was down the street in someone else’s yard.

We were lucky, many others around us—specifically anyone with a low-lying house or mobile home lost everything.

When it was finally over, neighbors helped us remove our shutters. Daylight felt tenuous for some reason. But, the tin roof held. No one was injured. Our 21-year-old cat was mightily upset, but our vet, who lost her entire office, came to the house to ease his pain and put him to rest.

We made mistakes, but it could have been much, much worse. Life is a roll of the dice. But this year we are making a plan. And we are leaving if there is anything in the Gulf coming our way.

Covid Comes To Roost

Covid. I remember the day well. March 12, 2020. I was in a parking lot on Sanibel Island preparing to learn all the bus routes necessary for conducting a house tour for about 600 visitors. The tour, scheduled for March 15 was an annual event for a charity I was evolved with; co-ordinating multiple buses touring multiple houses was to be my job. An hour into the runthrough, everything was cancelled. From then on, nobody went anywhere unless they really had to.

I bet you can remember such a day as well. The day Covid came home to roost in our lives.

So let’s take stock of what has happened in the years since. For me, not much. I did not write. I read and watched TV. Ate and drank. Cheered up some when The Guy who Used to Be President was removed. Grieved when the Capitol was breached. Spent a lot of time with my husband. Became co-president of the charity that sponsored the house tour that wasn’t. Masked up. Went almost nowhere. Worried about my husband or I getting Covid. Worried about our adult children and grandchildren getting Covid. Ate and drank some more. Gardened. Read many books. Rode my bike. Napped to make the days go faster. Turned 75. Gave thanks that I was retired and didn’t have to worry about a job.

An easy and privileged life, I know. But I search for meaning.

My question: What new about myself did I learn from the resulting years of full-on COVID?

Because my days are generally boring, I have developed a morning routine. I eat the same things. Drink green tea and diet Dr. Pepper. Read The New York Times online, do the Mini-Crossword, Tiles and Spelling Bee. And then Wordle, that’s a new addition. After that, I read The Washington Post. It’s quiet, the dog and husband are in bed. I feed the cat. The sun comes up. I never had a serious routine before.

I obsessively make lists. The obsessive part is new. Scores of lists created during Covid are all floating around, piled in various places. Some I understand, but others I have no clue about–books? movies? podcasts? things to do? quotes to remember? Phone numbers? Quilting instructions? God forbid, recipes? I can’t throw them out. Maybe I’ll remember what they are later. (Side note: I read in The New York Times to avoid memory loss, you should memorize things like lists. I’m giving it a whirl. Should be fun, but already I can’t remember what today’s Wordle was.)

I like chats. Little conversations that bring clarity to the idea that we are all part of the same human family. Because of chats, I never choose self-serve. Mask up.

I do not need to shop for amusement. My favorite stores, mainly local thrift stores, contain bargains and things that could lead to temporary happiness but I don’t care. I know that soon enough my stuff may end up in a similar display. I may be a little depressed.

Zoom is good, but not good enough. It is inclusive, which is nice, but it’s hard to have after-or before-chats when you’re on a grid screen. Also you look terrible.

Media-wise, I discovered podcasts. Loved one I just listened to, a RadioLab entitled “Humpbacks and Killer Whales.” It’s about the unknown. Bring it on.

From my non-profit co-presidency, I learned I do not like, nor am I good at speaking to a group extemporaneously, either on Zoom or in person. I’m working at keeping quiet and listening. That’s something.

I had to look up how to spell extemporaneously. I think my spelling sucks more than it used to.

One last thing I learned about myself. I am an alcoholic. Saying/writing the words is hard. Forsaking wine is worse. I’m working on it.

Before

Once upon a time, I won a contest and took our whole family to New York for a two day stay. The kids were 21 and 16.
I grew up near Syracuse, considered way, way upstate. New York was THE CITY. You went there to buy clothes and eat.
In my own family, my husband and I went to New York on business, usually for the day, flying in from our home in Washington. Back in the day, DC had no decent pizza, deli, or even breadsticks . Consequently, in New York we ate and brought food back.
It was 2000, we drove to The City, parked the car and decamped to the Marriott adjacent to the World Trade Center. I think you know where I’m going with this…but wait. Because of all the memories of 9/11 this year, I’ve been thinking about our trip. It was memorable because our family had never done anything like it before.
We went to Katz’s, took a Circle Tour around Manhattan, saw a Broadway show, Times Square, and the American Museum of Natural History/Planetarium. We also took a cab.
I had repeatedly warned the kids that we were not going to take any cabs. We used the subway or buses. But when we left Katz’s on Saturday night, we were bursting at the seams and had leftovers in bags. It was dark and we were far from the subway. A cab was hailed. My husband, brave soul, took the front and the other three of us were in the back. The driver floored it, but only in between traffic lights, which seemed to be every block. I grabbed my daughter’s hand and held tight, wondering how much longer we had to endure being hurtled forward and then whiplashed to a stop. We got to the hotel and exited looking like the shaken out-of-town tourists we were. The kids, for once, admitted I was right. It was the ride of a lifetime—better, they said, than anything they had ever experienced at King’s Dominion Amusement Park. They didn’t want to repeat the experience any time soon, they said. Once was enough.
Since we were so close to the World Trade Center and the Towers, we toured Sunday morning. It was a lazy morning in June, and we had none of the the bustle and hum of thousands of office workers. The lobby of the World Trade Center seemed nearly empty. I was skeptical at first because of the elevators. But, I remember reasoning to myself, “This building has already been car bombed. I’m sure it’s extra safe.” We shot to the top floor, walked around in the enclosed windowed space, and found that you could, by escalator, actually go out on the roof. Again, I was skeptical, but moms need to be brave.
I can only say that it was a transcendent hour. The breath-taking beauty of the view, of Central Park, the Statue of Liberty, of so many landmarks, of the horizon, and what flew below (birds and a blimp) was stunning. The silence moved me to tears. We were above anything that made noise. It was really, really quiet with only about five other humans in attendance. It was mountain-top quiet–meaningful because of what was below and all around you. No sound but the wind. I knew it was a gift. We were together and we all felt the same “Wow.”
In retrospect, it was a once-is-enough trip. The four of us together, in The City, on the roof of a World Trade Center Tower. It was more than enough for a lifetime. And it was Before.

Dear Kathy,

I’ve been thinking of you since you left us last week. Somehow, friends who die are still with me. And I write them letters, because that’s the way I do it.
More than any other person I’ve ever known, I can say that you loved what you loved. I mean it. Capital letters.

Most, you loved your husband, Bill ( an exceptional man) fiercely and devotedly. He loved you to distraction too, and it showed every time we saw you together. I will never forget your story of 9/11. Bill was at the Library of Congress and you were at the Old Executive Office Building next to the White House. Evacuation was ordered. Washington was in chaos. Phones were not working. Traffic was beyond snarled. Planes were said to be approaching to finish the job started in New York. You, in your motorized wheelchair, went to the corner where Bill always picked you up. And waited, knowing that your battery would eventually fail. I can’t imagine how you remained calm for the two hours it took, but I know you did. Because you knew Bill would come.

Next, you loved your friends. You had them from childhood. From college, from church, from work, from your neighborhood, and others I didn’t even know about. Some of us let old friendships fade, but not you. You cherished your friends and we knew it. You cared what happened to us. Life events were marked, large and small.
Notes, flowers, pep talks, phone calls and surprise offers like a ticket to Hamilton came our way. Our dinner discussion group, begun in the 1990s survives to this day. You kept us together, you and your fantastic organizational skills.

Speaking of which, your skills as an organizer and doer led you to some fantastic jobs, but you never bragged or dropped names. You were a “Government Girl”, just as you wished, way back in Kenosha. You worked until you couldn’t do it anymore, and reluctantly gave it up. In your last job, John Podesta hired you as his first and only employee when he founded the Center for American Progress. When you left there were 150 employees, many more now, and I bet they are using some of the systems you put in place.

What else did you love? Flowers, books, music, theater, art and cooking. Perhaps not in that order, but you did care for them all passionately, and found time for them. I like to think flowers were our special thing, and I loved your responses to my photos of orchids and other plants that grow in Florida.

Looking back, I see I have forgotten something. You loved life, until it became, for you, unlivable. Bill’s death was a blow. So were worsening symptoms of your muscular dystrophy. In your 70 years, it led you from difficulty with stairs and walking, to a cane to a motorized wheel chair and finally the need for 24/hour caregivers. And then, two months ago, you moved to assisted living, which barely met your needs. Throughout your life, until Bill’s passing and your need for constant care, you remained upbeat. Treasuring what was to be treasured in your apartment and the world beyond.
For each of us, life is bitter and sweet, dreadful and wonderful, filled with sorrow and joy, but you—your path was preordained. You faced that knowledge with incredible courage and good humor. And in the end, you wished for peace, called in Hospice and told us not to call or visit. It wasn’t because you didn’t love us, it was because you did.
Thanks for being my friend, Kathy.

Your legacy of love remains.

May peace be upon you.

March 11, 2021

Turkeys I have known

During the holidays, I always think of turkeys. First of all, the wild ones are wandering about, even here in Florida. More on that in my next post.

Second, people, including me, cook store- bought turkeys for major Thanksgiving and Christmas meals. Therein lies a story.

My first job, as a small town newspaper editor, included a turkey bonus at Thanksgiving and Christmas. This was a big deal. You just arrived at the supermarket, selected a turkey and told the clerk to charge it to Brown Newspapers, giving your name and other details.

Of course, I had to have a Plainville Turkey. It was the best to be had, fresh and grown to maturity on the lush pastures of upstate New York. There was even a restaurant on the farm, which I had been to many times. As I recall, you could look out the windows and see hundreds of white turkeys on the green grass, but maybe that’s just my imagination. I was thrilled with my turkey bonus and so were my parents. Everyone was so proud.

Plainville turkeys also star in a rather major stumble in my life as a parent. Our kids were about four and nine and we were visiting my folks. For fun, my dad suggested a trip to the farm. Sure enough there were turkeys galore. In fact, workers were rounding them up and moving them across the road, holding up traffic. It should be noted that big fat white domestic turkeys must be moved very slowly and carefully. “Where are they going?” our son asked. My dad answered something about the big plant on the other side of the road. “Why, what happens there ?” he persisted. You can imagine the rest of the conversation…when the truth was revealed the kids were upset and horrified. Our daughter, who had vegetarian leanings even as a young child became one. Our son will only eat heritage-bred turkey if he knows the farmer who raised it personally. It’s all for the good.

Of course, there were also turkey adventures before we had children. We lived in Washington, DC, and one of the places we shopped was a smallish grocery store in NW, Magruder’s by name. It was a challenge to shop there-limited parking, small isles and chatty clienentele. But the vegetables and meat, fish and poultry were reliably fresh. And, at certain times, they sold–from upstate New York–Plainville turkeys! Magruder’s the week before Thanksgiving was a special type of hell. Fresh turkeys came in about the day before. You had to have a chit to get one. The chit was for a turkey of an approximate poundage, say 15-20 lbs. The butcher and several helpers would come out of the back, through a swinging door, hold up a turkey and yell its poundage. Whereupon, shoppers, who were in a scrum, would clamor for it, depending on the poundage of their chit. What could possibly go wrong? These were highly prized turkeys and you had to fight for them. I went one year and sent my unsuspecting husband the next. When he returned he threatened divorce if he ever had to go again. He may have been serious.

And then there was the Thanksgiving we had to break in to a friend’s house in order to get our turkey, which was stored in her refrigerator. I don’t remember what happened to the key she gave us, but breaking glass was involved in obtaining that stupid turkey. I don’t think it was even from Plainville.

Truth be told, I don’t even like turkey. I prefer bacon. But then, I would not have tales to tell about all the turkeys I have known.