That mother of mine...

Was smart and talented. Salutatorian of her high school class. Went to college. Became an RN. Was a master seamstress. Could create or alter anything that required a needle and a thread.

Worked at the nursing home that her father built. Cared about her patients. Knew her craft. Worked as a nurse for years before retiring, then kept busy sewing or working at the pizza place that brother of mine owned.

She was charismatic. Dynamic. Full of life...friendly, chatty, boisterous—teetering on loud.

But she had her demons. Demons that reared their heads behind closed doors. Demons that played dirty. Demons that never went away. Demons that impacted us all.

But she did the best that she could. Just like we all do when faced with our demons—whatever those demons may be: addiction, depression, heartbreak, illness.

And so it is...in life...there will always be a battle to fight. A small battle. A battle of grand proportion. A battle for a friend or family.

All you can do is the best that you can. Put one foot in front of the other. Have courage. Stay strong. And when the going gets tough, doing the best that you can...will be enough.
​
And that mother of mine...would agree...

This old gal...

Was sitting at the kitchen table, eating some weird casserole she'd had a craving for, when she started to think again about that school lunch kitchen duty.

Wondered if it was a federal or state mandate that students receiving free or reduced lunches were required to work in the school kitchen. Did a little research and fell down a 'school lunch programs from the past' rabbit hole.

According to the National School Lunch Act of 1946, the rules were clear for receiving the state funding, and requiring low-income students to work for their meals was in direct violation of federal law.

However, there was little oversight, so the decision was typically made by the school districts. A national study later revealed that many school boards resented what they deemed 'free handouts' and required kids to work, despite the law.

It's funny...looking back, that mother of mine would often fall apart, cry, say everyone in town looked down on her. Little me didn't feel that way. Scoffed, kind of. Thought, 'No one looks down on you.' But seeing it through these eyes, she probably wasn't wrong.

And it hurts. Not the working in the kitchen thing, but the disappointment in our community. That school board. These were men, most likely all men at that time—businessmen, shop owners, farmers. Community members growing-up-me knew, respected, looked up to.

Can imagine the word 'fair' being throw out. Kind of like it is today. This isn't fair. That's not fair. Free lunch program isn't fair. And funny thing, little me never once thought it wasn't fair she had to work for her meal. Never once thought it wasn't fair she had to buy the groceries with the food stamps because that mother of hers was ashamed.

What's not fair, is others deeming 'what's not fair' based on their own upbringing, their own experiences, their own life, before they've walked in someone else's shoes...

And so it is...in life...open your eyes. Open your hearts. Put on those shoes...and take that walk.
​
And that husband of mine...agrees...

This old gal...

Was in the kitchen making a bedtime snack. Noticed she'd missed a call from that brother of hers—that pizza making brother of hers...

A call from his cell phone, which was odd, because he never uses his cell phone. If he calls, it's always from the pizza place he owns.

Thought, 'this must be serious, maybe an emergency,' so plopped on the bed and called him back. To which, of course, he didn't answer. Played phone tag a bit and then finally connected...

And it was serious—not an emergency—but serious enough, if he being bored can be considered serious. Like, seriously bored...

And so, for the next hour, we chatted. Some might call it gossiped. Talked about this. Talked about that. Our kids. Our grandkids. Who's in the obituaries. The dangers of kids on those motorized scooters.

We laughed about the past—the days of younger-us. Wading in Old Man's Creek. Playing on the banks under the bridge. Friends we grew up with. Friends we have lost.

And so it is...in life. Time zipping by. Miles keeping us from those we love. But something as simple as a phone call—an 'I'm bored and thought I'd give you a call' kind of phone call...is almost as good...as going home...

The only thing missing...is a piece of that delicious pizza of his...
​
And those daughters of mine...would agree...

Little Me...

Was well aware that her divorced, single mother was on food stamps, understood they used ADC for health insurance, and knew they got free or reduced school lunch.

But back in the day—the 1960's day—it wasn't exactly free, because the kids who received it, had to work in the lunchroom kitchen doing dishes.

The school was one of those old two-story brick buildings. The lunchroom in the basement. Or actually WAS the basement. Concrete walls painted gray. A few windows up high near the ceiling. It was dark. Dreary.

Kids dragged their shoulders against the gray side wall up to the serving window at the end, ate their lunch at long, benched tables, and brought their dirty tray to the dish washing area in the corner, where little me would take it and spray it off...

Can't remember details. Did we wear hairnets? Eat lunch before everyone else? Eat after our shift and miss recess?

Did the teacher say, 'Ok, poor kids who have to do dishes to get lunch, you may head to the lunchroom now.' Or did she quietly tap our shoulders to save us the embarrassment.

As if the other kids didn't already know, seeing us stand there in the front of the room, hair up, aprons on, taking trays, the dish washing window around us like a Mona Lisa frame.

Did they make fun of us? Snicker at us behind our backs? Or were they nicer than people are today? Don't remember being ashamed, really. It just was what it was...

But do remember getting to spray those trays with that very best elementary friend of mine. Talking. Laughing. Making the best of it. Because nothing takes away pain more than having a friend.

And a free lunch is a free lunch—even if you DO just eat the roll with the dollop of jelly—because even that is better than nothing...
​
And that friend of mine...would probably agree...

There's a cashier at Walmart...

Who is delightful. Kind. Chatty. Tries to make a connection with everyone who comes through her lane.

Was lucky enough to check out with her the other day. She smiling and laughing while scanning the seemingly endless cans of Fancy Feast.

Got talking about retirement, she asking if no-longer-working-me has found any new hobbies or interests to keep her busy. Blabbed embarrassingly about Retirement Ramblings. About wanting to be a writer. Gave her a Retirement Ramblings sticker. Then followed up with...

'Oh yeah...and I've become obsessed with cats.' Which was no surprise to her given the bag of Beef and Liver Feast she was handing over as we said good-bye...

But would have been a surprise to this old gal even five years ago. This move to River City creating a whole new world for entertainment, for companionship, for love—in the form of something she never expected...

And so today—International Cat Day—cat-obsessed-me celebrates each of her furry feline friends who have come into her life these last few years...

Who have won her heart with their cuddles, purrs, and backyard shows...their head butts, whining, and bites to the toes...who found HER...who chose HER...and because she's known them...SHE'S been changed...for good...
​
And that husband of mine...agrees...

This husband of mine...

Still battling that bug from two weeks ago, made an interesting observation over morning coffee. The conversation going something like this...

Him: 'I think I'll have soup for lunch. Pick up some when we run errands. I like Dinty Moore.'
Her: 'Dinty Moore makes soup?'
Him: 'Beef Stew.'

Which could take an old gal's pondering down an interesting path —the 'Since when is beef stew a soup?' path. But instead, those words—those two words—triggered a flashback of grand proportion: a beef-stew-from-the-past flashback.

Could almost be a trauma response. A trauma response we could refer to as SBSN, or formally known as...School Beef Stew Nightmares.

Elementary school beef stew. Served always on Wednesdays. Alternating with beanie weenies or tomato soup and grilled cheese. The one lunch little me couldn't choke down.

Something about it: the consistency, the smell, those little, pale, shriveled-up soggy peas. The boys would go crazy on beef stew day. Whooping it up. Snarfing it down. Being ridiculous, to be honest.

And it wasn't that little-me was a picky eater. The cheese sandwich with butter, the bright pink ham salad, the vegetable soup out of a can—they'd all be eaten without a complaint.

But that beef stew...Twelve years of THAT beef stew, ruined the thought of beef stew for eternity. The only saving grace—it was always served with a warm homemade bun, and if we were lucky, there'd be a dollop of strawberry jelly on the side...

And so it is...in life...those foods from the past...those foods that haunt our dreams...that blood sausage, creamed salmon, the elementary school beef stew...we've paid our dues...it's ok to say no...
​
And that husband of mine...agrees...

This old gal...

Had a flashback. A flashback to the ghosts of past—and then a sequel to the flashback...

That husband of mine deciding to mow the lawn. Choosing to do so at noon—the hottest time of day. Comes in for a break and gives that beautiful wife of his a kiss—a big old sweaty-all-over-the-face kiss...

And THAT'S when the flashback flashes back...

That mother of mine outside mowing the lawn. Young me inside, doing who knows what. Playing Barbies. Watching TV. It doesn't matter. The mowing sagas always ended the same way...

One of us would come in, huffing and puffing, making sure the little ones of us realized the sacrifice that was just made. How hard it was. How tiring it was. How HOT it was.

And that's when that mowing-mother would lean over Barbie playing (or doing whatever) me and say, 'Feel me.' As in touch my sweaty forehead to see how super hot and overexerted I am...

And so Barbie playing me did—feel her. Tiny little hands tap-tapping the sweaty brow while the insides cringed just a little...

Which takes us to the sequel. The sequel to the Feel Me Flashback. As soon as she was able, young me took her turn mowing. She liked it. The yard was flat. The yard was small. And she could sing. Sing at the top of her voice. She in her own little mowing bubble. The sound of the mower making those show tunes resonate...

And young me didn't just sing songs. She opera-sang songs. Had a unique voice for a child. Sang in her head voice. A little version of Shirley Jones or Julie Andrews. And she belted those tunes—'Climb Every Mountain', 'Til There Was You', 'Oooooklahoma (where the wind comes sweepin' down the plain)—because no one could hear...

Or so she thought...

Walked by a house one day, a half block away or so, and was stopped by a neighbor, who so kindly told her that he loved hearing her sing while she mowed. It filled the whole neighborhood, he said, because the mower makes the sound carry. Did she know that?

No, she did not.

And so it is...in life...Sometimes you get dinner. Sometimes you get a show. But if a singing girl in the neighborhood decides to mow at noon...you just might be lucky enough to get both...
​
And that neighbor of mine...would agree...

This husband and I...

Wrapped up the day watching a lame but rather intense zombie movie...she killing two birds with one stone, mindlessly swiping away at Wordscapes as geriatric walking dead attack their families...he crunching away on a bowl of tasty Frosted Flakes...

The crunching sound suddenly overriding those screams and moans emanating from the tube...decided it was wise to get ready for bed and said so, which triggered a little poking fun at one of us about being an announcer...

The conversation going something like this...

Her...'I'm going to brush my teeth."
He...(chuckling)'And you feel the need to announce it?'
Her...'Yes, I do! I enjoy announcing.
I appreciate announcing. I think we should BOTH be announcers, let each other know what we are doing, as in, 'I'm going outside. I'm going to mow the lawn. I'm going to eat a bedtime snack. I'm going to choose crunchy Frosted Flakes.'

And that was that...until...

The next morning...EARLY the next morning...6:15 a.m. the next morning...one of us springs out of bed...gets dressed...starts coffee...hums a little tune...and the other one of us...

Still cozy under the covers...still thinking there's an hour left before the typical morning wake up time...wonders if she missed something...

An announcement of sorts...is there something special today? Are we going somewhere? Doing something?

And yes, we are...because it's BIX day...the BIX7 race day and one of us planned to watch it on TV...and apparently didn't see the need to say so...

And so it is...in life...to announce or not to announce...THAT is the question...and the answer to that is...

To each their own...
​
And that husband of mine...agrees...

Super Hero Me...

Was sure she could ward it off...tamp it down...knock it out with one immunity system punch...

It sneaking in under the cover of night...the scratchy throat...the ringing ears...tried to pretend it was from something else...old lady snoring...the ceiling fan making the air dry...

But no...it's that virus...that virus that's been attacking that sidekick of mine for a week...that virus that's no Joke(r)...that virus that apparently needs another victim in this household...

A victim who knows exactly how it POWS and WHACKS...a victim who got the play by play with each sick man complaint... a victim who's dreading the what's to come...

But maybe...just maybe...super hero me can win this battle with that super power of hers...optimism...positive vibes...the mind over matter sort of thing...

So let's go team!...antibodies and white blood cells assemble...it's clobbering time...
​
And that husband of mine...agrees...

This husband of mine...

Has been sick all week...knocked down by some head cold virus thing...didn't leave the house for days...was starting to get antsy...super duper antsy...

Suggested we go for a drive...figured why not? What could be the harm?...got into the car...recovering sick man behind the wheel, passenger-me forgot something in the house and got out of the car...

And skinned her knee...not on the grass...not on the sidewalk...but on the glove box...skin remnants on the dashboard...a sore on the knee cap...don't know how it happen... couldn't MAKE it happen if she tried...it was ridiculous...ridiculously idiotic...

Stopped for gas...got out to fill the tank...suddenly felt a sting...a sting and pain and an itch...something(with a stinger) had flown up the backside of the shorts leg...all the way up...and left its mark on the fatty part that's way too fatty and can't be scratched in public...

It was ridiculous...ridiculously funny...

Was chatting with that husband of mine while the gas was filling...he looking for something in the trunk when suddenly gas was shooting everywhere...the auto shut off not shutting off...tried to click it off pulling the nozzle out as gas was squirting, flying, flowing everywhere—drenching the shoes of that man of mine...

It was ridiculous...ridiculously dangerous...

Went home and changed the shoes...headed out again for the drive...taking back roads...peaceful.. serene...put the ridiculousness behind us...when what to our horrified eyes should we see? Cats. Not one. Not two. But three cats...killed on the side of the road...

It was ridiculous...ridiculously mortifying...

And one of us was reminded of a book she used to read...a school book...a children's book...a book about Alexander and his terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day...and thought to herself...

Some days are just like that...
​
And that husband of mine...would agree...