Margaritaville: The Christmas Report

The tree, complete with my mom's crocheted snowflakes

Front hallway lights and unintentional selfie

The Christmas lights went up late this year due to the sore throat and cold. It was a joy to be feeling well enough to snare a tree and pull down the boxes of lights and get to work. I was feeling the satisfaction of the season as I stepped down the ladder, admiring the last string of lights atop the armoire in the dining room, when what to my wondering eyes should appear...well, pretty much nothing. When I opened my eyes, I was on the floor next to an overturned dining room chair with the ladder on top of me.

My friend Pete was here, a few feet away in the kitchen, baking cookies. I explained as quickly as I could that I hadn't hit my head, that I hadn't fallen from the top of the ladder, but simply missed the last step and probably would have managed to keep my balance if I hadn't collided with the chair. In those first moments I felt worse for him than for myself, having tended to a few emergencies with my mom during the years she lived here and knowing all too well those initial moments of pure panic and  the awful scenario of spending the holiday in the ER. 

I was lucky enough to forgo the sleigh ride to the hospital, but I've got some bruised ribs and a sore tailbone. And I'm sort of thankful for the reminder of how life can change in an instant. I know that. We all do. And I suppose it's good to forget it now and then and just be caught up in those times of joyful ease, but we also need to know that it can all come crashing down.

And so here I am this Christmas Day, thinking of my mom and hoping she's having a good Christmas in Iowa, thinking of Dan as I struggle for a good deep breath since the site of my injured ribs is exactly where his incision was from his lung cancer surgery, and last night I told the story of my dad and our family rituals protecting us from  Christmas tree danger. We love the distant, the dead, the living, and the light, and the darkness.

And speaking of light and darkness, I happened to catch this from my bedroom window as it streaked past.  

O star of wonder, star of night,
Star with royal beauty bright,

Guide us to thy perfect Light.

Of course, I didn't think of that at all at first. I thought the worst--plane on fire, alien attack, end of the world. That's the way I am. And I wish you a very Merry Christmas. 

Merry Christmas from Our House to You and Yours

Our tree with handmade snowflakes crocheted by my mom

I've just unloaded bags of groceries from my car for the second day in a row.

This evening daughter M will arrive.

Tomorrow I will bake gluten-free lemon bars and a flourless chocolate cake. I will stencil a powdered sugar snowflake on top and serve the cake with coconut gelatto and/or lemon sorbet for Christmas dessert. You can of course take the road more traveled and have it with vanilla ice cream instead.

Tomorrow evening daughter C and her multi-talented husband N will arrive. On Christmas this husband will make a ham. Friends will arrive bearing delicious things to eat with the aforementioned ham. We will eat and talk and laugh uproariously because that's what we do with these friends. We will drink punch (and the punch will have a very fancy ice-ring in it if all goes well.) And we'll drink champagne, and other stuff, and lots of water because that's healthy. 

Wishing you uproarious laughter and good health. I think one leads to the other.

Fabulously festive  ice ring waiting in my freezer

Birds, Bullshit, Sunshine, and Santa

It's a beautiful day full of birds and sunshine here in Pillville. The buffleheads are buffle-ing. the hummingbirds are hummering. My mother's bruises are transforming from purple to green. She's busily pinning out her snowflakes and starching them.

Bufflehead ducks wintering here from the far north

Hummingbird at our kitchen window

The one-armed snowflake maker at work

I see the same look of concentration here in Vermeer's famous painting The Lacemaker

And me? In just a bit the nurse who does the intake for the caregiving agency will arrive. Better than Santa and his eight tiny reindeer, if you ask me. I spent all morning trying to log into my mom's credit union accounts--let's just shorten that story and let me say that experience made big banks look really, really good. It took weeks for one of credit unions to really fess up that the problem was on their end. They had to add my i.p. address so I could log on. Whaaaat? And the other lost the Power of Attorney paperwork and would not speak to me since my mom could not understand the person on the phone who was hell-bent on verifying her identity. Oops. I didn't make the story short, did I? But I feel better now. Thanks.

And I'd like to feel even better, so let me just remind the great Interwebs and everyone out there that here under the GREATEST HEALTHCARE SYSTEM IN THE WORLD (cough, cough)  Medicare does not cover dental work, eye glasses, hearing aids, or custodial care. I feel fabulous now. Thanks.

My antidote to that bullshit is going to be Christmas lights. Everywhere.

Crocheting is Good for the Brain

My mother crochets. Over the last few years she's crocheted dozens of doilies and dresser scarves. She's crocheted tablecloths that would make your Thanksgiving dinner look like you'd been transported to Downton Abbey. Before I went to France for my study abroad semester 30 years ago, she crocheted me a purse that I wish I still had. It was circular and had rings of color like a target. I thought the 70s orange and brown color scheme looked smashing with my orange raincoat. In some over-enthusiastic closet purge, I must have gotten rid of it. Maybe there's a retro hippie chick toting it somewhere in L.A., thrilled with her vintage find. Maybe not.

In the past few years, it's been snowflakes that my mother has taken a liking to. This past Christmas I told her my tree could use a few more. Whoa. 

The picture at the bottom of the post is what she's done since then--and that does not include the ziplock bag of a dozen or so more still waiting to be starched. She's making them for other people too. This trip to the east coast that we're on is not just a birthday trip, it's a snowflake distributing mission.

We carefully packed her book "101 Snowflakes" in her carry-on. After our flight was delayed, cancelled, and then subsequently re-scheduled due to the lightning strike at the BWI control tower, my brain was in a rather fried state itself. I think I put the book in her seatback pocket....and I think that is where it remained after we deplaned. Maybe not. 

But we can't find it. Also lost is her toothbrush, some underwear, and a gorgeous pair of earrings. Traveling at 89 is a challenge. We spent the first night at my brother's house, then my cousin's place for three nights, and now we're back at my brother's. In addition to our carry-on bags we brought four empty suitcases and stuffed them with all kinds of treasures that she left in Maryland when she moved to California a year ago. Among them a crocheted bedspread that I can't wait to unfurl across my bed. Anything could be anywhere. Or maybe not.

This is not the first time the book has been lost. A couple of years ago I figured I would simply snap one up for her on Amazon. But it's out of print and was being sold for over a hundred bucks. I considered buying it anyhow and not telling her what I'd paid for it, but she found her copy. Yesterday I filled out a lost and found report with Southwest Airlines. But this morning I went to Amazon and found the book for twenty dollars. I bought it. It should arrive at my house before we do. I think my cousin is right when he says that it's the crocheting that's keeping my mom's brain healthy. 

Fearful Symmetry

In a weird symmetry both the Someone and the man who loves me have been very sick with the flu. I would not know of the Someone's condition, of course, if it weren't for the fact that I have contacted him a half-dozen times asking him to please get a new court order to formalize the lowered alimony he began paying in January. He has invoked his illness as an excuse. A good excuse, as excuses go, but making a phone call is probably not going to spike a fever. Then again, I've become physically ill by having to root through a box of divorce papers.

I haven't seen the man who loves me for a month. Like many who've caught the flu this year, he's had a relapse and sounds positively awful.

Meanwhile, here in Margaritaville, the days tick by in their own symmetry. When I come downstairs in the morning, my mom is already up. She's opened the curtains, and fed the cat, and is standing in her spot at the kitchen island looking out at the water. I go to the gym, and when I come back, she's still there in her p.j.s drinking her re-warmed coffee. We talk. We read the paper. We talk about the paper. I eat my breakfast. She goes to her room to crochet and read, and I go up to my room to read and write. I come down for tea. She has her lunch. I have mine. She re-warms the last of her coffee. Off we go again to our separate retreats.

At five, the ancient cat meows for her special ancient cat milk. My mom gives the cat her "cocktail," and  pours her martini. I begin to prep for dinner and maybe race off to the store. Seven--we eat. She does the dishes. I put away the food and wipe down the counters. I brush the ancient cat while she takes a last scroll through the news on the iPad. She says good-night. I say good-night.

I read. The New Yorker. Jack Gilbert's poems. One of the many books from my MFA colleagues. Prairie Schooner. Missouri Review. The pages from my writing group. And sometimes I blog. When I hear the beep of my mom's oxygen machine turning on, I sink deeper into the reading or the writing. At my desk in the dark, I look out at the shining black water and marvel at rings radiating across the surface. Sometimes I open my window and listen for the heron's croak or the deep gasp of a sea lion as it comes to the surface. I take a deep breath, too.

Report from Pillville: the Podiatrist, the Cardiologist and Miracle Ear Part V, etc. etc.

The Podiatrist:
Doctor+ power tools-general anesthesia=thank god, I'm sitting down on a chair that has arms because I began to sway. My mom was a trooper, though. Corns removed on the outside and inside of little toes. Toenail fungus ground into near oblivion. Plus, I acquainted her with some spiffy new shoes from Arcopedico. I discovered what a miracle these shoes were for my backaches when I was walking to and from the train before I left the City of Angels. They're easy on the toes, too. Mom has the blue ones and the hot pink ones. I now have three colors--hot pink, orange, and green. The red ones are tempting....don't worry I can stop at any time. Uh, but what I really need is a pair of Arcopedico sandals...in some nice colors.

The Cardiologist/the carotid artery and an echocardiogram of the heart:
"I've never had any tests like those before," she said.
"Are you sure? You have a pacemaker.....wouldn't they perform these tests before installing a box in your chest?"
Hmmm. Who knows? Maybe it's one of those past memory fragments that's just fallen away. In any event, now we await the results--the doctor will call if there's anything scary to report.

Miracle Ear:
5 appointments=1 working hearing aid. The only thing good I have to say about Miracle Ear at this point is that the technician who has been taking care of my mom and the her receptionist are the sweetest. There's a little hug fest every time we say good-bye. Really, these are nice, nice people. The hearing aid tech had tears in her eyes on the last visit when she had to break the news that one of the new hearing aids arrived not working. Hellooooo people, can you hear me? Floss, wear sunscreen, and take care of your ears. Hey, you with the ear buds and the music so loud that I can dance to it, turn it the fuck down.

The New Medication (Namenda): 
So far, so good. I've been watching and waiting. Yesterday, I heard a little freakout outside the laundry room (smoking area #2.) It was the first thing in the morning and I rushed downstairs, half gym clothes/half pajamas, to check it out. She had a ball of lint in her hand the size of a mouse. It startled her. But the same thing has been happening on the patio with spiders all along. She's always had a big reaction to things that scare her. I swear I can still see her and hear her screaming in our kitchen as she fashioned a dish towel into a sling the day my brother broke both the bones in his arm 45 years ago. Blood is even worse. I won't churn those waters. And the morning shortly after my high school graduation when she figured out I was pregnant? Oh, if I ever self-publish my book, you can read about it.
I asked her at dinner last night if she noticed feeling any different from the new drug. She shook her head. "Not at all," she said. But the only thing she was really feeling right then was the gin.
The real trouble is that whenever I want to think of the name of this drug...uh, I can't remember it. I got it now though....Amend+Namasté.

Bone Density and the Density of the Demeanor in Doctors' Office Staff:
Call to office #1: Hello again, you little bitch, I'm not asking for your first-born child, I'm just asking if you could ever-so-kindly double check to see if there is a bone density scan in my mom's records that maybe didn't get sent to her new doctor.
Call to office #2: Oh, hi, gosh thanks for calling me back so fast, wow, yes, please fax the scan to my mom's new doc. Oh, and you have some of the doctor's notes and you want to fax those, too? You have a nice afternoon, too.

The Calendar:
There's some white space in front of us. I told her last night that the only thing we have on the calendar for the rest of October and November is an appointment at Miracle Ear. Of course, that could morph into a series of follow-ups, but maybe not. "You might need to start going out to do other stuff," I said. "Fun stuff." She likes staying home, she said. Watching the birds, and the boats. Crocheting. And she has a stack of books that the man who loves me gave her for her birthday.
And yes, she should see a gastroenterologist. The Beano has been an utter failure. Flatulence and poor hearing is a comically cruel combo. My son laughs about it---says it's an awesome  way to proceed with life--giving up that bit of self-conscious propriety. He's got a point, but I'm not signing on to that yet. Farting just doesn't match up with those cute pink shoes.

"It'll be alright!" my mother said as she leapt from her narcoleptic stupor into fully awake mode. There's often a line of dialogue at these transitions from one state of consciousness to another. We were sitting on the couch last evening watching the Democratic convention when my mom snapped into her "deep sleep" mode. Our attention spans were waning. We wanted Barack, but there was Jill. And Joe. And John Kerry. Cocktails were in mid-stream, and the cheese and crackers were wearing off. We wanted dinner--but what did we want more? The president--or our avocado and chicken sausage quesadillas? Mom went out for a smoke now that she was awake again. "Shut up," she yelled into Joe Biden's face as she passed by the TV on her way back inside. More congenially, she told me that all the speeches were too long. We couldn't wait for Obama and sat down at the table.

My political heart needed a pacemaker today when I heard all the fact-checking reports on NPR. Can't the facts be checked before the speeches--at least for the Democrats so they look better than the Republicans?

My mother's other political proclamation of the evening: "We don't do enough for our veterans!" She told me about the suicides in the neighborhood where she lived before coming to live with me. Hanging. Shooting. "They need help," she said, "and they don't get it soon enough." She told me about her brother after he returned from being a tail gunner in World War II. " He shook so bad, he couldn't hold a half-cup of coffee without spilling it," she said. "And he drank a lot. But the military helped him." My uncle's therapy included crocheting. He made  a lot of crocheted lace tablecloths. By the time I knew him, he was alright.

I want Obama to be re-elected. That's my version of alright.

Searching for a rare book--Do you have it?

The New Year is always piled high with resolutions and good intentions, right?

My mother decided that she would mend her pack-rat ways and neaten up her room. Somehow while going through her piles of papers, she zigged when she should have zagged and threw out her beloved crochet book, 101 Snowflakes. "Well, let's just order you another one," I said when she called to tell me what she'd done. I logged onto Amazon and gasped. Two copies were available--both used--one for $109.00 and the other for $145.00. Later that day I checked the used book stores in my neighborhood. No luck. Meanwhile, I've purchased a couple of pamphlets from Ravelry.com with a dozen snowflake patterns and mailed them off to her. But what I'd really like is to replace her lost book for her at a reasonable price. It's a crochet book, after all, not a Gutenberg Bible.

My mother spends a lot of time crocheting snowflakes. I received a huge new one from her this year. She crocheted a bunch for my son and his family to get their collection started. Several other friends and other family members got some, too. She works on them off and on throughout the year, taking breaks to read. Her favorite books are the Maisie Dobbs mysteries and anything by Elmore Leonard. I think both the reading and the crocheting are good for her brain. I sometimes wonder if I would have the patience to  work my way through the intricacies  of a snowflake pattern. Probably not.

So in the interest of my mom's brain health, is there anyone out there with a bunch of craft books languishing in a dusty stack than might hold a thin magazine-like book called, 101 Snowflakes? The cover looks like the photo above. If so, please contact me. You can leave a comment here or send me an email. I'm sure my mom will crochet you some snowflakes in thanks. And if you ever meet her, she'll make you a martini, too.

Here are some of my snowflakes. Most people hang them on their Christmas tree. I like to hang mine in my windows.